earlgreytea68 | Fic Odds & Ends

First things first: All of the drabbles have now been posted for the Lent--Day 23 drabblefest. People had some really great prompts, both Chaosverse and Sherlock, so you should go read and enjoy them!

Second things second:

musecroft prompted "Sherlock at a violin lesson," and I honestly was going to write some quick little one-off about it, and, indeed, I did write some variety of a quick little one-off about it, which is posted below, but what you should know is that something about this quick little one-off wormed its way into my brain and now I find myself 20,000 words into an epic young!Sherlock story. I don't even know how this happened, you guys. Seriously. I spent an entire evening reading about the hundred best prep schools in England so I could decide which one Sherlock would go to. I have three tabs permanently open on my browser: the Eton College Wikipedia entry, a map of Central Eton, and the Eton College "New Boy Guide." WHAT IS MY LIFE. So, anyway, know that once I'm done posting the great deal of Scotch-verse stuff I already have written, there's going to be some sort of sprawling schoolboy saga coming your way, for whatever it's worth.

And, as a quasi-preview of the schoolboy saga, I give you the below fic, which is actually pretty much Scotch-verse compliant and has nothing to do with the schoolboy saga but it's where I kind of fell in love with the idea of writing a young Sherlock. (Please excuse the fact that Sherlock is at Eton at the age of 12. I hadn't done any research yet and didn't know Eton started at 13. Oops! I've fixed that for the schoolboy saga, I promise.)

"Violin Lessons"

Sherlock was always at the top of his List of Things You Really Must Do, No Excuses. Because Sherlock never didn’t make messes, Sherlock had made a mess that Mycroft had to hear about by the time Sherlock had finished eating breakfast. Mycroft’s answerphone was nothing but messages about the things that Sherlock had and hadn’t done, none of which were expected or acceptable and all of which needed his immediate attention.

Mycroft loved Sherlock, but Mycroft dreaded Sherlock’s exuberant mess-making ability. Mycroft lived in fear of someone eventually pointing out that a nineteen-year-old was not really capable of taking care of a twelve-year-old, especially not a twelve-year-old Sherlock, who was basically the equivalent of a stable of twelve-year-olds, all of them having ingested nothing but sugar for three straight days and being given loaded guns with which to play. Mycroft didn’t know what might happen if someone were to discover his secret that he had no bloody idea what he was doing. Some days he wondered if it might be better for Sherlock, having someone in charge of him who wasn’t a university student. But those were only on very bad days. Mycroft was aware, the majority of the time, that no one in the universe could be a better caretaker of the impossible Sherlock Holmes than Mycroft was, no matter how many mistakes Mycroft might make and no matter what Sherlock might say about the matter. In the scheme of things, Mycroft’s stewardship of Sherlock was certainly no worse than the benign neglect of most of the rich, distracted parents of Sherlock’s schoolmates, and maybe even, in some ways, better. Or so Mycroft liked to think.

Sherlock’s violin tutor, currently first on his List of Things You Really Must Do, No Excuses, was probably about to disagree.

The violin tutor’s message had been mostly incomprehensible, except for the part where he was displeased with Sherlock. That had been loud and clear.

He rang the violin tutor back, and the man answered with a brusque, “Hello,” as if he were too busy to answer the phone.

“Mr. Kilkenny,” said Mycroft, smoothly and pleasantly, because that was usually most effective with people who were already being unsmooth and unpleasant, it flustered them further until they grew illogical and could be knocked easily off the board. “It’s Mycroft Holmes.”

“Mr. Holmes,” said Mr. Kilkenny, and Mycroft heard the breath he took to power the complaints he was about to launch into. “Your brother is—”

“A very talented violin player,” Mycroft interrupted, blandly. “Or so you have assured me.”

“He has talent, yes,” Mr. Kilkenny agreed, grudgingly, “but he is rude and—”

“Does he practice?”

“Not what I tell him to practice!” exclaimed Mr. Kilkenny, plainly offended by this. “And then he is rude about it. At our last lesson, he was supposed to have perfected Bach’s ‘Ciacconna.’ Do you know what he perfected instead?”

“I cannot imagine,” said Mycroft.

“‘God Save the Queen.’”

This surprised Mycroft, because it seemed far beneath the level to which Sherlock had advanced. “Really?”

“The Sex Pistols version.”

Mycroft tried not to smile, but he couldn’t help it. “Did he play it well?”

“That’s not the point,” said Mr. Kilkenny.

“Sorry. What was the point?”

“He’s disobedient. And headstrong.”

“You cannot possibly mean my brother, he is the soul of cordiality.”

“I am being serious, Mr. Holmes.”

“And I am being quite serious when I remind you that I pay you very well to deal with him.”

“He says the metronome is tyrannical and ruins the emotion of the music.”

“I imagine the metronome is especially unforgiving when it comes to the music of the Sex Pistols.”

“Do you think this is a joke?”

“Not at all. I never think anything Sherlock does is a joke. He would tell you this is my most annoying trait.”

“I don’t think he takes his violin seriously.”

“That isn’t true,” said Mycroft. Sherlock was an enigma in many ways, but Sherlock loved the violin, it was one of the few things Mycroft was sure he knew about him. Well. Reasonably sure.

“It was irresponsible of you to buy a reckless boy a Stradivarius,” said Mr. Kilkenny.

Mycroft stiffened. “You told me he was unusually talented,” Mycroft pointed out, coldly.

“He is. If he would focus on it.”

“You told me he needed a better violin.”

“He did. I didn’t mean that you should buy him a Stradivarius.”

“I was led to believe that it was the best I could buy for him,” remarked Mycroft. Plus, he had thought it would appeal to Sherlock, the eccentric outrageousness of having a Stradivarius. Mycroft thought, in a way, it was the sort of treasure a pirate would like.

“No one is debating the merits of the violin. It’s a gorgeous violin.”

“Then I don’t see what it is we are discussing.”

“You cannot buy a twelve-year-old a priceless antique! You cannot give it to him for a toy!”

Mycroft recognized that tone. You would know that, if you weren’t a child yourself. “I didn’t give it to him for a toy, I gave it to him to use as a violin.”

“He is using it to play the Sex Pistols. On a Stradivarius.”

Mycroft had no special fondness for the Sex Pistols. He thought that Sherlock didn’t, either. He thought that Sherlock had probably just grown bored with the Bach piece and challenged himself to something completely different and unexpected. That was Sherlock: different and unexpected. Willful and blunt and irreverent and impossible and, undeniably, his responsibility.

“I’ll speak to him,” Mycroft said, on a sigh.

***

When he said he was going to speak to Sherlock, he did not, at first, think that he meant in person, and then he found himself driving to Eton the following day.

The headmaster was surprised to see him and said it was “most unusual, Mycroft.” Mycroft correct him: “Most unusual, Mr. Holmes.” It wouldn’t do for the headmaster to still see Mycroft as the boy who had been there a few short years before, not when he was supposed to be the adult here, and he insisted on the “Mr. Holmes” in the interactions. The headmaster consented to the “Mr. Holmes” and to Sherlock being called out of his classes, and Mycroft met him in his dormitory, where Sherlock flopped on his bed, his riot of dark curls quivering about him with the dramatic movement, and said, “What are you doing here?” in his most imperious tone of voice.

Mycroft leaned against the wall and crossed his legs at his ankles. “I had a conversation with Mr. Kilkenny,” he remarked.

Sherlock flopped even more, which was a feat, since he was starting from a point of having already flopped. “He,” he said, firmly, daring Mycroft to challenge him, “is a wanker.”

“Which is doubtless why Mr. Kilkenny complains that you are rude.”

Sherlock made a dismissive sound. “Don’t be so boring, Mycroft.”

“You can’t say things like that to people.”

“Why can’t I?” pouted Sherlock, and rolled onto his side and propped himself up on his elbow and gave Mycroft the condescending look he’d perfected as a toddler. Just one of Sherlock’s more charming features. “Just because you don’t.”

“You find it your duty in life to be the truth-teller among the Holmes brothers, is that it?” asked Mycroft, dryly.

“You won’t let me be a pirate. Or a sheikh. Or a genie. So I suppose my new calling is to be truth-teller. Only you’re going to forbid me that, too, and then there’ll be nothing for it but to be, I don’t know, a tailor.”

“A tailor?” echoed Mycroft.

“Or something like that.”

“Sherlock Holmes. If you end up ‘something like a tailor,’ I have no doubt that I will end up farming flying pigs.”

“You could never be a farmer,” said Sherlock. “Not even of winged pigs.”

“You could never be a tailor.”

“Well, that settles it,” decided Sherlock, annoyed. “I’m definitely going to be a tailor.”

“Your calling in life is probably to be a madman, and I will spend my life telling you perfectly logical things like ‘You cannot call your violin instructor a wanker’ and ‘You cannot be a genie.’”

“I could be a genie, you just wouldn’t let me do the scientific experiments necessary!”

“Sherlock,” sighed Mycroft. “Did you really call Mr. Kilkenny a wanker?”

“Not to his face. I knew you wouldn’t like it. So there. Even when I try to be like you, I still get in trouble. Conclusion: No point in trying to be like you.” Sherlock flopped back onto his back.

“What exactly did you say to him?”

Sherlock made a sound of pure disgust in the direction of the ceiling. “He persists in telling me about such minutiae, Mycroft. It’s dreadfully boring. I don’t need to know about the fact that they’re painting the hallways next week, as if I didn’t already know from the fact that it’s obvious they’re painting the hallways. He’s always telling me things I already know and don’t need to know even if I didn’t already know them, and that cannot possibly be what you are paying him for, and I told him that.”

“Sherlock,” said Mycroft.

“What? It’s true. Wouldn’t you rather pay him to teach me than tell me about his wife’s grandparents’ summer home in Nice? Which he is clearly hoping to inherit, only he hasn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of that because his wife is shortly going to run off with her aerobics instructor.”

Mycroft ignored all of this. “Mr. Kilkenny says he’s trying to teach you but that you don’t practice as he requests.”

Sherlock waved his hand about. Mycroft could tell he was losing interest in this conversation.

“He says you hate the metronome,” persisted Mycroft.

“Who likes a metronome? Don’t be ridiculous,” said Sherlock.

Mycroft looked at him for a long moment, and then he said, knowing that it must be true, “You’re better at the violin than Mr. Kilkenny is, aren’t you?”

“Of course I am,” Sherlock scoffed.

“You should have told me that.”

“When? I’ve always been better than he is.”

“Then why take the lessons at all? And don’t say because I make you, we both know I never make you do anything, I merely try to make you do things.”

Sherlock regarded the ceiling. “I like playing the violin,” he said, eventually. “I don’t like the metronome, and I don’t like stupid Mr. Kilkenny and his stupid, sodding house in Nice. But I like playing the violin.”

“I’m told you taught yourself how to play a Sex Pistols song,” commented Mycroft.

Sherlock’s posture turned defensive, and he narrowed his eyes in Mycroft’s direction. “What does that matter?”

“It matters to me, because it makes it quite evident to me that you do not need lessons in order to continue playing the violin. You like playing the violin. And you have quite a beautiful violin. So. Unless you’d rather not, you may discontinue further violin lessons and teach yourself whatever you wish to know.”

Sherlock sat up slowly and regarded him as if this were a trick. “What if I keep teaching myself more Sex Pistols songs?”

“Then I would be quite impressed with your determination,” said Mycroft, confident in the fact that Sherlock actually normally preferred classical music and had merely been having a fit and making a point.

“You’re being quite reasonable,” said Sherlock, suspiciously. “You must want something.”

“I want for you to ask me for things that you want instead of throwing fits this way. If you didn’t want to take lessons anymore, you could have just talked to me about it. Instead, you must always choose the most dramatic way of doing anything, and I suspect you are condemning me to a life spent apologizing on your behalf.”

“I always chose the most dramatic way of doing anything? When you came swooping in here and calling me out of class over a minor issue with a violin instructor? You are a terrible hypocrite, Mycroft, and I suspect you are condemning me to a life spent apologizing for being related to you.”

“Shall we accept our mutual life sentences cheerfully?” proposed Mycroft.

“Not,” said Sherlock, flatly but with a gleam in his eye that could almost be something close to affection, “a chance.”

Sometimes, thought Mycroft, smiling across the room at his little brother, he was quite convinced that they would, the two of them, completely conquer the world, each in their own way, and without ever admitting to the other that they were doing it together. He knew his plan for conquering the world, but he couldn’t wait to find out what Sherlock’s was. It was going to be something completely insane and utterly unbearable and painfully Sherlockian and it would frustrate him beyond belief and if Sherlock turned out any other way Mycroft thought he would consider himself to have done something wrong.

“Perhaps you could play this Sex Pistols song of yours for me,” Mycroft suggested, instead of saying anything he was thinking.

“Do you even know the song?” asked Sherlock, skeptically.

“Sherlock,” said Mycroft, with an even smile. “I know everything.”

***

He rang Mr. Kilkenny later that evening.

“Your services as Sherlock’s violin instructor are no longer needed,” he announced to him.

“You cannot be serious,” said Mr. Kilkenny. “After the cheeky, insubordinate, completely unacceptable way he spoke to me and—”

“I’ve talked to him, and we have made a mutual decision that he no longer needs lessons,” Mycroft interrupted.

“You realize,” said Mr. Kilkenny, hotly, “that he will never learn how to behave if you don’t teach him. Do you think you will always be there to clean up his messes for him?”

Mycroft paused and looked out his window and said, evenly, “Yes. I do. Your wife is about to leave you for her aerobics instructor.”

“What?” sputtered Mr. Kilkenny.

“And I thought Sherlock’s rendition of the Sex Pistols was quite good,” Mycroft concluded, and hung up the phone.