Humiliation

An argument echoed loudly through Baker Street, but John, used to it by now, just sighed to himself and got the tea ready in the kitchen even though he knew that neither of the men in the living room would touch it. They were too busy sniping at each other, throwing out insults like they were children again, trying to make the other angry. John placed the tea on a tray, took a deep breath, and soldiered on into the living room, clenching the tray tightly in his hands.

“Honestly Sherlock, would you stop throwing a fit like this? It’s just a short, simple case I need you to take off my hands! Helping me won’t bring about the end of the world, will it?” Mycroft spat, his umbrella handle clenched tightly in his hands. Sherlock, sneering, pushed himself out of his chair and got up in Mycroft’s face.

“If it’s so ‘short’ and ‘simple’,” Sherlock bit out, adding air quotes, “then why in the world can’t you do it?” Mycroft took a step back from Sherlock and massaged his temples as John ignored the brothers as best as he could, placing the tray of tea down on the table.

“Because, little Brother, I have better things to be doing at the moment,” Mycroft said, his voice clearly full of restrained emotions, something John could understand well. It was bound to happen sometime, when dealing with Sherlock, and Mycroft had been doing that his whole life.

“Sounds to me like you’re too lazy to get off your fat ass and do it yourself!” Sherlock snapped, bearing his teeth. “Maybe if you stopped thinking about eating so much, then you’d have the time to-” Mycroft cut him off with a sharp jab to the floor with the tip of his umbrella, his face red, his eyebrows drawn together in anger.

“I have had quite enough of your little jokes, Sherlock!” Mycroft bellowed, sending both John and Sherlock into a state of shock. Mycroft nearly never lost his composure, even John knew that, and it was unsettling to see him in the midst of an outburst.

Sherlock opened his mouth, but Mycroft cut him off once again with a sharp jab to the chest with his umbrella handle. “No, I do not permit you to speak at the moment!” Mycroft said, spittle flying out of his mouth. “Since you seem to love embarrassing me so much, how about I take a turn, hmm?” Mycroft said, his eyes bearing into Sherlock, making the man pale and back away from him. John wanted to stop him, but he hated getting between the Holmes brothers when they were like this, so he stood to the side, fingers tapping restlessly against his leg.

“Let’s go all the way back to little teenage Sherlock, shall we?” John saw Sherlock swallow roughly and minutely shake his head, obviously avoiding John’s eyes. “Poor little Sherlock, all alone at school without his big brother to help him. He was so different, with his advanced brain and quick deductions, but he could handle it,” Mycroft said, inching closer and closer to Sherlock in an intimidating way. “Well, he certainly thought he could handle it. Then Victor Trevor came along. Do you him, little Brother?” Sherlock paled even further and nodded slightly, visibly trying to shrink into a tiny ball where he was standing.

“Well, little Sherlock realized something quite quickly: he had feelings for this Trevor kid, and suddenly nothing was okay anymore,” Mycroft said quietly, backing Sherlock into a chair where the detective collapsed, giving in to his urge to curl in on himself. “He was okay with the deduction, the quick thinking, and how it set him apart from his peers. But being gay was just a little too much for him, a little too different. He didn’t need another way to become an outcast, did he?” Mycroft asked, receiving no answer from the ball of detective on the chair.

John felt as though he should step in, but when he opened his mouth to say something, he was cut off by Mycroft saying, “He was scared. He didn’t want to be that kind of different, to be ridiculed in that way by his classmates. So,” Mycroft said, pausing for a moment to sneer, “he did the cowardly thing, and turned to drugs. He hoped they would erase that part of him, or make him forget. They didn’t help in the long run, but for that little bit of time he could forget about his worries and just let go. I bet you didn’t tell the good doctor about Victor, did you? Or the internalized hatred that you felt?” John watched as Sherlock started trembling in his seat, wrapping his arms tightly around his legs. He stepped forward and looked at Mycroft.

“I think that’s quite enough out of you, Mycroft. Leave him alone,” John said, stepping between Sherlock and Mycroft. The man in front of him didn’t listen.

“Why should I stop? He’s a coward, a dishonest man-”

“Mycroft, please-”

“-who doesn’t deserve anything he has, and-”

“Enough, Mycroft!” John shouted, stomping a foot on the ground in anger. At least Mycrift had the decency to look a little ashamed of himself, but his face was still mostly engulfed with hot anger.

“But-” John grabbed him by the front of his stuffed up, starched shirt and pulled him down, bearing his teeth.

“Yes, he makes fun of you. No, you don’t like it. But his insults are small, petty jibes at the food you eat. You can’t- you can’t just go and expose one of the hardest, most traumatic parts of his life like that!” John ranted, tightening his fingers, hoping to God that Mycroft Holmes’ suit would tear under his hands.

“I hardly think-”

“Don’t you dare tell me that it wasn’t traumatic for him! I want you to look close at him, Mycroft, really close,” John said, gesturing to Sherlock, turning to look at the man for himself. Sherlock, who was still curled up in the chair, was shaking with silent sobs. His ears, which were showing slightly through his curls, were red with humiliation. John felt a pang in his chest and turned back to Mycroft, once again clenching his suit jacket tightly. “Are you trying to tell me he isn’t traumatized? You can just get the hell out of here if you’re going to act like this,” John said, shoving Mycroft backwards towards the door. Mycroft stumbled a bit, caught himself, and straightened out his suit before raising his chin slightly and leaving their flat haughtily.

John turned to Sherlock and opened his mouth to say something but was cut off by Sherlock whipping his head up to look at John, his eyes tear-stained, his cheeks red with embarrassment. “I don’t need your pity, John,” Sherlock growled, moving to retreat to his bedroom. John grabbed his sleeve and pulled him close, tucking Sherlock’s head into his chest.

“I won’t give you my pity, Sherlock. But just know that I accept you for who you are, and that includes what you did when you were younger. Okay?” John said quietly, holding his detective tightly as he started sobbing and trembling for the second time that night.