Dinner parties. Oh, how Sherlock hated dinner parties.
All his life Sherlock had attended them. 107 over the span of his 16 years as far as he could calculate. It was always the same. Dull unoriginal choice of orchestrated music, in the extravagant home of some person of political or social importance, filled with stuffy people. Of course his father was one of these persons of political or social importance, so he could always count on having to go.
Sherlock had returned home from after-school orchestra practice when he saw the look on Mycroft's face. Of course, the young man was good at reading people in general, but with his own brother it took but one sideways glance to read anything from where he had been that day to what he had for snack that afternoon. He knew for a fact that face could only mean one thing. Sherlock groaned aloud, "No."
"I'm afraid you must," Mycroft retorted, stowing away his watch into his coat pocket.
Sherlock walked quickly down the hall towards the stairs to his room. Mycroft followed right behind him, as Sherlock knew he would. The git.
"Why does father even insist on making me go," he asked to himself under his breath, as he flung his backpack and violin case onto his bed. Though Mycroft heard him anyway.
"Well, I would imagine..."
"Oh yes that's right, has to keep up appearances. Must show off his beloved happy family to his comrades, makes it easier to stab them in the back when they're distracted by all the merriment, " Sherlock interrupted with a quick sarcastic smile.
"... not quite what I was going to say," Mycroft said in an even tone.
Sherlock scoffed. He knew full well that was the reasoning. He turned his attention to a piece of sheet music his music teacher had given to him today instead, pulling out his nicely polished violin and tuning it. "I'm not going Mycroft."
"Of course you are," his brother stated in a much more assertive tone this time.
Sherlock plucked away at his violin nonchalantly, "Nope, sorry, much too busy. Solo and ensemble is in a week after all. Wouldn't want to get anything below a one, now would we? I'm sure father will understand." He moved across the room to get his extra bow when Mycroft grabbed his arm.
"Now see here little brother," he said in a hushed but urgent voice, as sherlock stared angrily at his floor, "this isn't just a normal dinner party. Father says it's of the utmost importance."
"Aren't they all," growled sherlock bitterly, finally looking at his brother with an intense glare. He and Sherlock hadn't gotten along since they're mother died. They were very young when the tragedy happened, and since they're father was always away, leaving them with the nanny, Mycroft had taken it upon himself to be the parental figure of Sherlocks life. But to Sherlock, Mycroft was still just an insufferable older brother who loved to boss him around like he was still a five year old. Mycroft stared back at Sherlock, unwavering and standing his ground.
"Get dressed. The car will be here in an hour," he said after a moment, turing to leave. He stopped in the door way, "... And don't bother trying to sneak out. I already had the guards stand watch outside your windows after what happened last time." He slammed the door as he left.
Sherlock flopped on his bed with a loud sigh. Guards? Really? What was he? Repunzil trapped in a tower? Though it sure felt like he was trapped... and not just in his big house.
He laid there silently for awhile, his dark curls rested on a soft pillow. He didn't know how long he had been laying there. He just felt like postponing getting ready for as long as possible. Honestly he could care less if he made them late. It was his was of protesting this whole ridiculous affair. Unfortunately, he knew his brother would come by to check up on him and see what he planned to wear. Typical controlling Mycroft. He reminded Sherlock of they're father so much it was sickening. He took a deep breath and reluctantly got up from the comfort of his bed.
By the time they're car showed up Sherlock had barely enough time to grab his phone before Mycroft rushed him out the door. They're father had taken a separate car and had left awhile before they did, so of course Mycroft was pretty peeved. Which Sherlock had to admit, made him feel a little satisfied.
As the car started to roll out they're long driveway Sherlocks mind began to wonder. Here we go again. The wheel turns, nothing is ever new. He took out his phone and checked the time. 7:04. He estimated they'd be at their destination at 7:45 based on the amount of gas and part of the brief phone conversation he had over heard between Mycroft and a person he could only assume was the host of they're party. Too easy, as always. At first these dinner parties had been a way to stretch his abilities. There was always new people to deduce, people all trying to hide something or other. Although, after the 62nd dinner party, it had lost its luster. In addition to this, the older he got, the more people would bother him by trying to make polite conversation. Sherlock had always found small talk pointless. He had tried to scare them away with his deductions, it seemed to work on most of his class mates. Once people think your a freak, they stay away for the most part. Though the plan didn't go quite as he had hoped. He seemed to become infamous at the party, everyone pointing him out and laughing. It was even more annoying them them talking to him. After that, he decided to keep the deductions a minimum. But even with this problem eliminated, he would still be bothered. Adults would try to introduce him to kids his own age, thinking it would be thrilling to find someone of his age group to talk to. Quite the opposite. As much as he didn't get along with the adults, he was even worse with people his own age. Sherlock knew nothing about who was at the top of the charts, or who was sleeping with who, nor did he care. And he told them so... of course it was in his own particular way. Most would just stare at him like he was speaking some unknown language. So Sherlock did what any sulking child would do when they didn't want to be bothered; he hid. Like all parties, there always seemed to be one place where no one would be. Like a bedroom, or a balcony. One time he had even stowed away in a secret room that was hidden behind a library wall. That had been quite an interesting night indeed. He was devising his plan when Mycroft interrupted his thoughts, "I know these parties must be hard for you."
Sherlock was too lost in thought and wasn't sure if his brother had even spoke, "Pardon?"
"With you being... unsociable," Mycroft continued, trying to find the word for someone like Sherlock.
Sherlock was genuinely surprised. His brother never seemed to care about what made Sherlock uncomfortable before this. He didn't know what to say. "It's quite alright," he said almost under his breath, turning his attention back to the window.
"Perhaps if you weren't so hostile--"
"I'm not hostile," Sherlock spat out."... I'm annoyed."
"By the whole human race?" Mycroft replied.
Sherlock ignore him, watching the trees go by. Of course Mycroft wouldn't understand.
"Sherly," Mycroft said, knowing that Sherlock always hated that nickname, "please... try to talk to actually talk to people. It may seem incomprehensible to you, but not everyone is quite as dim-witted and annoying as you would like to believe."
"I doubt it...,"Sherlock thought out lout. Then what Mycroft had said truly sunk in and he sat up straight and looked at his brother, "Why does this bother you so much?"
Mycroft smiled a little as he looked out his window, "Don't sound so surprised Sherly. I may not care about whether or not you want to go to this party, or on a vacation, but I am still your brother."
Sherlock squinted at him. "No...," he said thinking out loud, "no that's not it." Then the answer hit him so hard he was surprised he hadn't thought of it before. Of course! "Mrs. Hudson said something didn't she?"
Mrs. Hudson was they're nanny since childhood. The two brothers were full grown for the most part, but whenever their father would go on his trips he would still have Mrs. Hudson look after them. It seemed silly, yes, but Mrs. Hudson made the best tea the brothers had ever tasted, so they weren't complaining. She also made for good company, and was always kind to Sherlock despite the fact he left human bones all around the house. She had always treated them as her own.
"She may have," Mycroft admitted.
Sherlock sighed with a mixture of annoyance and melancholy. Sweet old Mrs. Hudson. Leave it to her to worry about Sherlocks social life.
"She just wants you to be happy Sherlo--"
"I'm fine Mycroft. Stay out of it. And tell Mrs. Hudson the same." He ended the conversation at that. He didn't want to talk about it anymore. It was completely absurd. Why would he need friends to be happy? He hadn't had any for 16 years, and he was completely fine with it. Friends were a distraction, they slowed you down. Sherlock had know this since he could remember. Can you imagine? Sherlock with a friend? The very thought made him almost chuckle out loud.
They arrived at the house at 7:48. So close, Sherlock thought as he got out of the car. They were greeted by an old butler at the door. They all said good evening as he took they're top layer coat. Then they made they're way into the main hall of the house. It looked like it would have been made in the 1800's at first glance. But with closer examination Sherlock knew this wasn't true. He could smell after sent of fresh paint, tiny bits of wood dust, probably from screwing something in the wall, and everything around them seemed to perfectly brand-new. This house was brand-new in fact. A summer home for a rich family perhaps? It would make sense, everything in the house looked like it was staged, as if the owners thought they wouldn't be there for long. No, no, something wasn't right about that theory. There was something he had over looked, a small important detail... but what, what, what--
"Ah, the Homles boys," a tall older gentleman called them over. They were in the main dinning room. It was quite big, almost the biggest Sherlock had ever seen. The man that had called them over was talking to Mycroft now and the more Sherlock stood there, the more awkward he felt. He decided now was as good a time as any for his plan. It was a dully simple plan, but it worked every time. Mycroft was now defiantly distracted, laughing loudly with older man about the new prime minister, so step one was done. The next part sounded easy enough, move his way though the crowd without being stopped. It was never that easy though.
How are you my lad? Where are you off to? How's your father? How about this whether? Drink? How about this economy? Have you tried these appetizers?
It took him almost twenty minutes to get across the huge dinning room and into the hall again. Oh how he wished he could have just run right past all those people.
The next and final step was also simple enough; find a room, slip inside until it was about time to leave. Most times they only stayed for maybe 3 hours, unless there was some kind of "crisis" his father had to deal with, in which it would take maybe 4 or 5.
He walked around the corner until he found a hall of doors. He jiggled the first handle. Locked. He walked down to the next door. Also locked. He hypothesized that the next door would be locked as well. He was right. Of course, they were all locked. The owners were very privet. They put they're guests in they're big dinning room, where there was less personal things then a sitting room or pallor. He groaned and leaned his back against the wall. Now what? He knew there were no other privet places in this house. There was no way he could stay in that hall, it wasn't that far from the dinning room, and it was fairly out in the open. There was noway he would stand around making small talk for 5 hours either. There was always one thing he could do, although it was very childish... then again, this whole hiding plan was childish. He thought he might as well do it.
So, he headed to the bathroom. In there, although there might be some knocking, no one would dare bother him. It was almost perfect really.
He found his way to the bathroom in minuets, and closed the door behind him. It was a well decorated bathroom, shining marble floor and counter, fine wood trimmings around the mirrors and windows. Sherlock sat on the counter with his back to a wall, facing the white wood door. He checked his phone 8:38. Still a while to wait. He decided to look up somethings for school, maybe even sheet music for a song he wanted to play on his violin.
Sherlock hadn't been in there for more than 15 minuets when he heard the door knob turning.
Oh christ, he forgot to lock the bloody door. There was always something!
Suddenly a blur came running into the bathroom, slamming the the door behind him. Him. It was a boy. Roughly about Sherlock's age. His eyes were closed and he was taking deep breaths like he trying to calm himself from some kind of fit. When he opened them his soft blue eyes met Sherlock's cold grey ones. Sherlock's heart immediately quickened it's pace, though he wasn't quite sure why. They stayed like that for awhile, both startled by the presents of the other.
"Hello," the mysterious boy finally said, loosening his grip on the door handle slowly.
"...Hello...," Sherlock greeted in a almost questioning tone. He wasn't sure what to do or say. One minute he was looking up 25 different types of tobacco ash, the next thing he knew a light-brown-haired boy comes running into his bathroom hideout. One thing was sure though; he was never going to get any peace and quite at this party.