Title: Thicker than Water,
Fandom: Cabin Pressure, Sherlock
Gene: Crossover, Drama, Hurt/Comfort, Kid-fic, Fluff
Character/s: Martin, Sherlock, Mycroft, OCs, (MJN and John show up later)
Rating: PG-13, maybe a PG-15/R in later chapters mentioning drugs...
Summary: Sherlock's favourite brother hasn't always been there, but he's been there when it counts. For that matter, so has Sherlock.
Warnings: Mentions of Drug abuse in later chapter/s
Notes: For a prompt on the kinkmeme. There's at least another two chapters written, with more to come. Thanks to elvendork_lee for betaing!
Sherlock is four years old when he exposes his father’s affair to his mother.
It was an accident, Sherlock hadn’t realised that the details Mycroft had been teaching him to observe weren’t to be stated over the dinner table. All he had done is ask his father why he had a photo of Nanny’s new baby in his wallet with his photo of Mycroft and Sherlock. His father had spluttered and started yelling at him, but Mummy had stood up to defend him and in the resulting confusion Mycroft herded Sherlock to his room. Where he had detailed exactly what Sherlock had done wrong with his observations, and why he should have just waited.
“Knowledge is power, Sherlock. Remember that.”
That night Sherlock plays his violin on the roof in an attempt to escape the yelling.
Sherlock is eight years old when he meets his almost four year old half-brother, Martin Crieff. Martin is ginger haired, has the same blue grey eyes as Sherlock does and upon seeing Sherlock, hides behind his mother’s leg. Sherlock is standing by his father, his hand being held to stop him running off. He doesn’t understand why he has to be here, there’s a far more interesting dead bird under his bed than the scared child before him.
Martin’s mother places a comforting hand on his head, and glares at Sherlock’s father. “Your son, as requested, for one week.”
“Thank you.” Sherringford Holmes says his voice a monotone.
“Why now? You were perfectly happy for Martin to be raised as George’s before.” She suddenly states, clearly trying to delay something.
“I have my reasons. Come here Martin.” Sherringford addresses the child who is just starting to peak around his mother’s leg. At the sound of his name, he darts back behind it.
“Martin, sweetie, you have to go with this man. It’s just for a little while, and then you can come back.” The woman bends down to hug her son, pulling him into her chest. She turns her face to Sherringford. “You’re a bastard, you know Sherry.”
Sherringford just holds out his hand for Martin. A silently crying Martin is handed over.
“Be good for Mr Holmes, Martin. I’ll see you so soon.”
Sherlock looks on in disgust. This is going to be a very long week.
Martin stops crying when the house comes into view. Sherlock, who has been sitting beside him the whole time, sighs in relief. He glances over at his half-brother and is surprised to see him pressing his face against the window.
“Ith that your houthe?” Martin speaks quietly, and with a very obvious lisp. He points at the gardener’s house.
“No, that’s the gardener’s house.” Sherlock snaps, annoyed. “Our house is over there.”
Martin’s eyes open so wide, for a second Sherlock wonders if they’ll pop out. “That’th tho big!” Sherlock just huffs in reply.
For the first two days Sherlock barely sees any sign of his younger brother as he has more interesting things to do. The third day, however, is the day Mummy finally finds the bird under his bed and removes it. While she and father fight again, Sherlock sulks in his room.
“I’m thorry.” A sad voice suddenly whispers from beside his bed. Sherlock rolls over and finds himself face to face with Martin, who has a familiar paper bag in his hands.
“Why? You can’t possibly believe it’s your fault my parents are fighting?”
To Sherlock’s surprise, Martin nods. “It’th alwayth my fault. Thimon thaid tho.”
Thimon? Oh Simon. Another brother? “Simon’s your older brother.”
Martin’s eyes open up wide, awe in his voice as he speaks. “How did you know that? I didn’t tell you. You mutht be really thmart!”
“Hmm. He’s wrong.” With that, Sherlock rolls back over.
“Therlock? Do you want thith?” startled by his own lisped name, Sherlock rolls back over to see Martin holding out the bag. “I thought it would make you happy again.” He is not making eye contact with Sherlock, and when Sherlock doesn’t respond he sadly puts the bag on the bed and walks out.
It suddenly clicks for Sherlock where he has seen the bag before. It is the bag Mummy put his bird in when she threw it out.
He reaches out slowly, and grasps the bag.
Martin leaves soon after that, and Sherlock doesn’t get the chance to…well he’s not sure what he would have done but it may have even been nice.
Martin’s visits are an annual event, and correspond with an increase in Sherlock’s parents fighting.
It doesn’t help that each time he visits, Martin looks more like Sherlock. Martin is clearly going to be shorter than his brother, and he has his mother’s ginger hair but otherwise there are very few differences between the brothers. They are both spitting images of their father, and Mummy hates it.
It is during Martin’s third visit, when he has just turned seven that Mummy’s hatred of Mrs Crieff comes to ahead.
Sherlock is not in the room when the yelling begins, but he arrives in time to see Mummy start to throw the priceless vases. Deducing the situation, he retreats to his room.
Only to be stopped by the sound of crying when he opens his door. Curled up on his bed, is Martin who is crying, and hugging Sherlock’s pillows. He starts at the door opening, and meets Sherlock’s eyes.
“Sorry.” He whispers. He has lost his lisp, but gained nothing in the way of volume. It is clear Martin has none of Sherlock’s intelligence nor is he as interesting and dominating as Mycroft but at least he has stopped pretending to be an aeroplane. Now he carries a stuffed toy of one around, and makes aeroplane noises with it when he thinks no one is looking.
“Why are you crying?”
Martin looked surprised. “I’m not crying.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes and steps closer to the bed. “Your eyes are red and wet, your nose is running, your body language says sad and you’re in my room, hugging my pillows. You are crying.” Sherlock frowns. “Why are you in my room?”
The seven year old looks down. “It’s safe. No one would look for me here.”
The sincerity behind the first statement surprises Sherlock. Martin actually feels safe in his room. “Why are you sad?”
“I’m a bastard.” Martin breaths out. He pauses for a second then suddenly he starts speaking very fast. “Your Mummy said so, and Mycroft told me what it means. And I want to go home, but I can’t because your Daddy said I haveta be here and no one likes me here…”
It is the most Sherlock has ever heard his younger brother say. He is unsure of what to say and simply stands and stares at the upset child. A small part of him wants to hug Martin.
Sherlock slowly leaves the room. He does not tell Martin to leave.
That night, Martin pockets his after dinner chocolate instead of eating it. Sherlock finds it by his breakfast place the next day.