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For all his (many) faults, the person that Sherlock admired most was his brother. After Beatrice’s death, and Mother’s institutionalization, Father started traveling more for work.
Which left Mycroft to care for Sherlock. His brother was rational. He was a quick thinker, who took great care to be present for Sherlock when their parents couldn’t be.
Sherlock learned to observe the world around him from watching Mycroft. He knew how to handle any situation, and how to make things make sense.
When he couldn’t talk to Father, Sherlock knew that he could go to Mycroft for anything. His dear brother would always be able to help.
For all his many (many) faults, the person that Sherlock admired most was his brother. For better or worse.
He decided it was this same idolization that made it hurt so much. It seemed that Mycroft had no similar pride in what Sherlock accomplished. Every turn and twist resulted in the same. Judgement. Frustration. No sympathy for his plight.
In many ways, Sherlock could see their father reflected in his brother. Mycroft was cunning. He kept his cards close to his chest, and didn’t share until he decided it was relevant.
Mycroft knew how to play the role he was assigned. And Sherlock hated him for it.
After everything. After Mother was rescued from that awful asylum. After they learned Bea was still alive. (It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault after all.) After Father died. After they became a family again,
Sherlock saw in his sister many of the same things he admired in Mycroft. She was quick witted and cunning. Her cards were close to her chest, and she trusted no one fully. Beatrice somehow could read a room quicker than Mycroft, and almost faster than Sherlock.
But she was also cruel in a way that Mycroft could never be.
In a way that Sherlock chose not to be.
Mycroft was patient and understanding. Mycroft was safe. And Sherlock loved him for it. He was cunning. And Sherlock resented him. He planned and schemed without consulting anyone else. And Sherlock didn’t know how to feel anymore.
Beatrice was unyielding and still warming up. Sherlock still needed to learn who his sister really was. The little girl who died tragically young. The cunning mastermind who helped Silas run his criminal business. The young woman who was confused, hurt, and betrayed by her parents. Sherlock didn’t know if he should—or if he even could—trust her.
Sherlock looked at his siblings and frowned. They had a way of moving through the world that he just didn’t comprehend.
He wanted to trust Beatrice was turning over a new leaf.
He looked up to Mycroft more than anyone.
Yet he wasn’t sure if he could ever forgive either of them.
Such a strange dichotomy.