The Better Brother (Adlock Fic) Chapter 1
Adlock AU, in which Sherrinford is the middle Holmes brother.
DISCLAIMER: Irene may seem ooc in this, or at least closer to ACD canon in personality than BBC canon.
The funeral was on a rare cloudless Sunday morning.
The wind was crisp and smelled of freshly-mown grass and overturned dirt from the cemetery outside. The candles and incense gave off a smokey, slightly heady aroma that filled the entire church. Sunlight streamed through the stained glass windows, painting the casket and the veritable mountain of flowers beside it with a myriad of colors.
The church was so packed, one almost couldn’t see the casket. Everyone had come to pay their final respects to the beloved novelist, Sherrinford Holmes. The handsome, charismatic weaver of tales who, just three weeks before his untimely death, had been dubbed “a literary genius” by the New York Times, and “this generation’s Ian Fleming” by the Guardian.
The whole absurd tableau was so perfect, it made his brother feel sick.
Sherlock Holmes stood, unseen, in the shadows of the alcove behind the pews. Alone and unnoticed, he blended in with the mourning crowd, as was his intent.
His mother, eyes rimmed red with sorrow etched into every line of her face, had implored him to come today -- to sit with the family in the front pew, to bid one last farewell to his favorite brother. Which, of course, was the reason why he was hiding here in the very back where his family couldn’t see him.
Sherrinford, of all people, would understand.
Sherrinford had always been known to everyone -- even to their parents, though they would never admit it -- as “the better brother”. Always the best at everything he did; Brilliant, precise, athletic, always sharply-dressed, with an irresistible smirk that made every woman -- and more than a few men -- in the vicinity melt with adoration. Sherrinford was the silver-tongued prince, the golden child of the Holmes family.
To Mycroft, five years his senior, and well on his way to becoming the British government by this time, the comparison had less of an effect. But Sherlock, being the youngest and closest to him in age, had always borne the brunt of his older brother’s legacy.
As a child, Sherlock had seen Sherrinford as a shining demi-god who could do no wrong, and worshipful little Sherlock had both treasured the moments when his Apollonian brother had deigned to spend time with him, and aspired to be like him when he grew up. By the time he was a teenager, Sherlock had stopped trying.
Still, there always seemed to be a patina of easy superiority and prestige around his brother that Sherlock could never achieve. And though he and Sherrinford always got along better than he and Mycroft did, it was this yawning gap of expectations and pressure that kept Sherlock away.
Of course, that wasn’t the only reason he’d maintained his distance.
.... And there she was. Sitting in the front pew, between his mother and Mycroft, her face pale and cold, like a marble Madonna.
She had lost weight, Sherlock observed. Her black dress was elegant, immaculate and tailored, but he could see where it hung from her slim frame. Her face was tight and drawn, and the usual clever sharpness in her eyes had been diluted somewhat by sadness and fatigue.
Still she stood erect in front of the casket, unbowed by grief. Something in his chest ached as he watched her, as if it had been hollowed out. It might have been his own grief, it might have been something else. But it came hand-in-hand with the guilt that clawed the pit of his stomach every time he looked at her.
He couldn’t do this. Not today, of all days.
The funeral mass was about to end, and mourners would be spilling out of the church. The pallbearers lifted the casket -- Mycroft, with his wan, apathetic face, and his father, with his hunched, defeated back, at the lead. His mother broke into a fresh bout of weeping, sobbing into her handkerchief. The youngest Holmes brother was notably absent.
Without letting any of them see him, Sherlock slipped soundlessly out of the church. He was craving a cigarette, and he lit one far enough that Mycroft and his mother wouldn’t detect it. He took a deep drag, and let it fill his lungs, as if the cloud of smoke could somehow fill the great gaping hollowness in his chest.
Sherlock watched as the mourners crowded to the newly-dug grave in the family plot. She followed the casket, unspeaking.
He could still remember the first time they met.
It was as though he had been struck by lightning. The moment her eyes had found his and saw through his disguise, recognition sparkling in that translucent gaze, it was as if a current had passed between them.
“Disguise is always a self-portrait...”
She had seen through his disguise within seconds -- the new violinist in the orchestra for the theatre production she was in, replacing the old violinist who had mysteriously gotten “sick”.
“You didn’t poison him, did you?”
He had smiled, the first and last time he ever did in her presence, one corner of his lips quirking upward. “Just a little bit.”
And when she had laughed, a thrilling, delighted sound, he had known in that moment that he was in danger of losing to this woman.
“I knew who you were the moment I saw your watch. Besides, Sherrinford told me you play the violin.”
The mention of his brother had brought home the reason why he had been there in disguise in the first place -- to observe Sherrinford’s new wife. The woman who had secured his brother’s affections in a whirlwind romance, and encroached on their family without any of them knowing.
That had been two years ago.
Today, she stood at his brother’s fresh grave, and he watched her as he always had since that day he met her -- from afar.
He waited until all the others had gone, and the crowd dwindled down to his family. He let his mother glimpse him for a second as she and his father drove away -- just enough to ensure that she wouldn’t bombast him with a diatribe tomorrow for not attending his own brother’s funeral.
Mycroft went next. Just before he left, he stopped a few yards away from the tree Sherlock was leaning against. Sherlock rolled his eyes. Of course.
“Well, it looks like it’s just you and me left, brother mine.”
Sherlock blew a puff of smoke into his face. “Piss off, Mycroft.”
“Charming.” Mycroft pursed his lips into a dour smile, but Sherlock noticed his eyes flick from him to the lone figure standing at the family plot, then back to Sherlock. His only remaining brother wisely said nothing more, merely climbed into the car where his assistant was waiting.
As the black car pulled away, Sherlock discarded his cigarette and crushed it under his foot.
He should go.
This was exactly the sort of situation he was better off staying away from. The reason why he had seen his brother so infrequently in the past couple of years.
Before he could leave, however, he couldn’t resist one last look at her.
She stood silently at his brother’s grave, unmoving. Her face was perfectly still, perfectly composed. Her eyes were distant and glassy. It was almost as if her body was here, but the rest of her had followed Sherrinford wherever he was.
He should go.
Almost against his will, his steps shifted, and his legs carried him closer to her. Closer. Closer. Until he was almost standing behind her. But she remained oblivious of his presence.
He stretched out his hand, fingers just millimeters from her elbow. His usually steady hands trembled slightly. Just before he could touch her, he stopped, remembering whose grave it was they were standing on. He pulled his hand away, but in a quiet voice, he said her name.
“Irene...”
By SorrowsFlower
Yeeeahhh, so... Thoughts?