Chapter Text
The screaming was everything. It was all that existed now. Darkness, so black that he could not see even the shadowed outline of his brother, enveloped them. Clutching desperately at the place where their hands had been joined only moments before, he realised that he had lost hold of his brother. The last thing that held them together had broken; he had slipped away. He tried to call out to him, but the desperate shout was lost in the terrible, ever-present wailing that surrounded them, swirling them through an abyss of pain. A voice came through the noise, so loud suddenly that it felt like it was bursting his eardrums, causing him to double over in agony, unable to scream or cry out at his torture.
“This will become heaven to you, this which you now call suffering. It will become your release, your escape, preferable to the eternal life that you must live. I call upon the demons of hell to lay this curse upon you two.”
It had been the last line of a chant, the screams melding into one to create the syllables that were spat from the mouth of Satan himself. He imagined he could hear his brother screaming with them, panicked, bewildered, and suffering alone. He tried to push himself into a standing position, to call out again, but the pressure of the voices pushed him down. He fell and landed awkwardly, unable to take in the air he needed so desperately to breathe. The ground shifted beneath him, and he could feel the movement of the screamers.
He wanted to pull away, separate himself from their rotting corpses, the shells that contained their damned souls, but he had not the strength, not the ability to escape, and was drowning in the need for air, the need to live. He tried one last time to call out, but he could not form even the smallest of sounds. It felt as if his very soul was being ripped out, and he was being cast aside, left to die. Too weak to struggle, he closed his eyes against the dark and let himself go, wishing he could die now, before the pain killed him.
Suddenly the screams faded, the writhing carpet of bodies moved away, dumping his useless body. All that was left was the silence, and the dark, and the pain.
Mycroft woke in a cold sweat, shivering, unable to discern if his involuntary muscle spasms were caused by fear or cold. He sat up, panting, staring around his room. Not for the first time, he was grateful that he had taken to sleeping with the light on. It was not dignified, but no-one would know and he much preferred it to the alternative; waking up from the nightmare which haunted him in the dark. The nightmares ended in pitch black, and upon waking he used to believe that the situations in his dreams were continuing. In essence, they were, but the events that followed had already passed and become mere memories. Only the still-potent memory of the curse itself was part of his nightly torture.
He lay back on his pillows, closing his eyes. He was home, and safe, where nothing could get to him or Sherlock. Ignoring that this was because it had already claimed them, he took comfort in the idea that there was no possible way their situation could become any worse. Taking deep, fortifying breaths, he calmed himself, slowing his elated pulse and letting the adrenalin seep out of his veins.
Calm. He told himself. It is just a dream. None of it is happening any more. It’s over now. If only he could believe that. The nightmares were so vivid, so realistic, because he still remembered the events as if they were yesterday.
His eyes snapped open again at the sound of a short, sharp, terrified scream. He was up and running before he even realised what he was doing. Wrenching open one’s bedroom door and skidding along the corridors in bare feet and one’s favourite silk pyjamas is hardly gentlemanly behaviour, but for once, Mycroft didn’t care. By the time he arrived in his little brother’s room, Sherlock had screamed himself awake. The light was on already, and Sherlock hadn’t moved far. He slept with the light on too then, perhaps for the same reason. Mycroft, praying silently that the screaming hadn’t woken mummy, sat on the edge of his brother’s bed. Sherlock was curled in a foetal position, bare skin uncovered and shivering, having kicked his duvet to the floor. He would not wear pyjamas, for some childish reason, and so his pale skin was exposed and the goose-bumps stood high on his normally smooth complexion. Mycroft wrapped his arms around him and held him close, offering his warmth and comfort. Sherlock clung to him tightly, still shivering, tears soaking Mycroft’s chest.
It took a long time for him to regain control. When he finally sat back, his eyes were red and swollen, and he looked furious with himself.
“Weak!” He muttered, frustrated, brushing the last of his tears away with the back of his hand. Mycroft knew better than to comment, and so stood up and went to the en-suite to fetch a flannel. He let it run under the cool water and then wrung it out, shaking the droplets into the sink. He returned to his little brother and pressed the cool material to his forehead. Sherlock put his hand up and took it, holding it in place. “I’ve ruined your pyjamas.” He whispered, keeping his voice low.
Mycroft shook his head, and replied at a similar volume that nobody outside the room would be able to hear, and therefore be disturbed by. “Hardly. It will wash out.”
“You won’t tell mummy?” Despite trying to cover it, Sherlock’s voice trembled with fear. Mycroft undid the buttons and pulled his top off, folding it carefully to hide the wet patch. It was cold in just his silk bottoms, but he didn’t mind.
“There. If I put it in the wash early in the morning, only the servants will see, and they know better than to talk.” Sherlock nodded, and curled tight against his brother’s chest. Mycroft smiled, even though he was suddenly freezing where the flannel touched him. He looped his arm around his brother’s shoulders.
“I didn’t wake you up.” Sherlock whispered. There was no regret in his voice, no tone of questioning. It was a statement.
“I was awake.” Mycroft admitted. Sherlock’s eyes flicked up to his, and he found himself being studied carefully, analysed by a pair of curious little grey eyes.
“You had that nightmare again.”
“Yes.” He didn’t know why he bothered to confirm it, but he needed to say something. Sherlock understood anyway.
“The therapy isn’t working.” His sad, childishly wide eyes were worried. Mycroft smiled.
“No. But it doesn’t matter.” They both knew he was lying, but neither of them commented on it.
Sherlock worked his hand into his brother’s, and squeezed his fingers tightly. “I won’t tell mummy.”
“Thank you.” They were quiet for a while, until Mycroft spoke again, breaking the companiable silence that had built up between them. “Would you like a glass of water?”
“Yes please.” Mycroft smiled and stood up, pulling the duvet back onto the bed and tucking it around his little brother before he could get cold again.
“I’ll be back in a minute.” He whispered, already opening the door. Sherlock nodded, and wriggled under his covers, trying to replace the warmth of his brother’s comforting embrace.
Mycroft stepped quietly through the corridors, not wanting anyone to wake, especially mummy. She disliked that her sons both suffered distressing nightmares, thinking them to be weak and feeble. As her only heirs, she was disappointed that they had known grown into strong, controlling men who could run a household.
Mycroft made it to the kitchen and found a glass to fill with water. He carried the full tumbler carefully back up the steps, not wanting to spill a single drop. Eyes focused on the water, he did not see the shadow at the top of the stairs until it was too late. Only when he was nearly on the landing did he stop, one foot on the last step. He froze.
“Hello Mycroft.” The clearly feminine voice was deceptively soft and calm, giving no clue of the speaker’s true disposition.
“Hello mummy.” He replied, not wanting to speak. He hated the way they were expected to address their mother, the way they were expected to talk to her, as if there was affection in their relationship.
“What are you doing, my son?”
“I am fetching a glass of water mummy. My throat was dry and I could not sleep.”
“Now now Mycroft, it is not like you to be forgetful.” He swallowed thickly, trying to keep calm, unable to think of a response. Keeping his eyes on the floor, he did not dare to look up at her face, which would surely be alight with malice. She made an infuriatingly patronising tutting sound with her tongue, the noise carrying even under her breath, when he did not reply. “What have I told you about telling naughty lies, Mycroft dear? Tell me the truth. Who did you fetch the water for?”
She knew the answer already, he knew, and was only asking so that she could humiliate him further. “Sherlock.” He whispered.
“Mycroft darling, do speak up, you know how I hate it when you mutter so.” She would keep calling him by his name, reasserting her authority and her power over him. Every time she did it he grew angrier, hating it more and more.
He took a deep breath and finally raised his eyes, looking at her, challengingly. “I was fetching a glass of water for Sherlock.” Realising that he was beginning to shake, he hoped that it was a reaction to the cold, not his fear. His mother noticed.
“Mycroft sweetheart, where is your lovely pyjama top that your papa bought for you? Go and get it at once, boy!”
“I was hot, mother. I took it off.”
“Mycroft! Do not disobey me, do not call me mother, and do not lie! You are shivering, Mycroft, go and put your shirt on.”
“I will disobey you because I do not respect you. I will not call you mummy because that is an affectionate term and I do not regard you with sentimentality. And I lie because you would not attempt to understand and be supportive like a mother should if I gave you the true explanation.”
“Mycroft! Do you not speak to me so! Wicked, wicked child, go to your room at once!” She cried, horrified by his disobedience.
“No. I will not go. Sherlock needs me.” Something strange had come over her son which she had seen in him before. His whole stance had changed. He stood with his legs slightly apart, his arms crossed against his chest, his chin held up high with pride and self-respect.
“He does not need you, Mycroft! He is an adult, he can look after himself.” She was scornful, letting herself be led into a petty squabble with her own son.
“He is not an adult! He is a child and he needs care like any child does. If you will not provide that care then I will do it for you, because I will not let my brother down!”
“Mycroft, we have talked about this before. Sherlock is nearly twenty years old, he no longer needs a nanny to care for him!”
“You know that time doesn’t mean the same to us! He may be nineteen in years, but in body and mind he is ten years younger, still the age he was when we were cursed!”
“Mycroft, do not speak it, son, do not mention it...” She was desperate now, moaning in horror, terrified that their secret would be revealed, even though there were only the three of them in this part of the house.
“DO NOT CALL ME THAT!” They both stopped, astounded by his outburst. Mycroft took a deep breath, and when he spoke again, it was with a quiet and dangerous malice he did not know he was capable of. “I will never be your son. I will never call you my mother again. No mother is ashamed of her children. And you are, aren’t you? You didn’t fire the nanny because Sherlock is too old. You fired her because she began to understand that neither of us was growing up, and she began to suspect that we were different. And you can’t cope with that, can you? You can’t cope with the idea that we are different, because in your eyes, different is wrong. It doesn’t matter that we can’t help what we are. It doesn’t matter that we are your own sons. You treat us like slaves, like nothing more than poor children off the street.”
Sherlock had crept out of bed to listen at his door, drawn to eavesdrop by the sound of raised voices in the hallway. He didn’t dare to peek around the door, but hid behind it, pressing his ear up against the wood. He strained desperately to hear what his mother’s reply was, but the hallway had fallen silent. It remained so for several seconds. Sherlock could feel his heart beating, terrified on behalf his brother. Neither of them had ever stood up to their mother like that before, never dared to question her authority, as it had always been enforced with physical damage.
But then there was a loud slapping noise, the kind created by skin against skin. This was shortly followed by a stifled cry of pain and the smash and tinkle of shattering glass. Finally plucking up his courage, Sherlock stuck his head around the door.
Mycroft was leaning up against the landing wall, surrounded by a carpet of glass shards, some glittering with his blood, having sliced his skin as he fell. He was staring at the wall opposite, unseeing, shocked by his mother’s reaction. Her bedroom doorway across the hallway was slammed shut at Sherlock watched. She had left her eldest son to suffer.
Sherlock dashed across the landing and crouched by his brother’s side, careful to avoid the sharp glass that littered the wooden floor. Mycroft’s legs and hands were covered in hundreds of little scratches and scrapes, and his cold, bare feet had shards of glass stuck in them. Sherlock almost gasped in surprise as the skin began to close over the smallest cuts, already stemming the flow of blood. He knew it happened; Mycroft had told him about it, but he’d never seen it before. Then he realised the implications. If Mycroft’s body was healing itself this quickly, the shards of glass in his feet would become trapped there. Quickly, he began to pull them out, smallest first, allowing the cuts to seal over afterwards.
Thankfully, very little glass had actually caught in the skin, and Mycroft was soon free, most of his cuts already healed over. Sherlock watched in fascination as the skin grew to cover the tiny wounds and they faded into skin without a trace. Mycroft blinked and groaned, pulling himself out of his initial shock, and Sherlock was startled into looking at his face for the first time. The bright red, raw area of skin where he had been stuck was already bruising. As he looked on it bemusement, the bruise purpled, and grew, and then within minutes had faded into nothingness.
Mycroft, who had been wincing in pain as the bruise receded, touched his cheek delicately and nodded in a motion almost too small to be noticed, though he did not look pleased. Then he looked down at his newly healed skin and sighed.
“It’s the curse again, Sherlock.” He stated. “Immortality comes at a price, apparently. Not only has it delayed and possibly even completely halted the ageing process, it causes unnaturally quick healing processes as well, which is not an occurrence without pain, may I hasten to add.” He took a deep breath, and looked up at his little brother, eyes shining with barely withheld tears. “Oh, good gracious.” He said, simply. For Mycroft, that was the equivalent of saying an incredibly rude word.