It was the times that Sherlock had grown to hate more even than school.

They were sat at opposite points of a very long axis, which being ridiculous made the passing of food incredibly difficult and conversation had to be held at bleating pitch in order to be heard, but apparently even the house of The Rt. Hon. Holmes Senior had signed up to the idea. Although, with the exception of Mycroft they all ate very little, so there wasn't very much to pass.

Sherlock picked apathetically at his food, foot tapping impatiently against the floor, longing to run to the door, just run, out and across the pristine lawns, into an ocean of space and away...

His father, upright and gruff in his polished shoes and shiny suit said little as he compulsively pushed his knife and fork together at precisely 6 'o' clock of his plate. Pale, keen eyes looked down the table, unfathomable as he regarded his offspring. He had said nothing in the car, oppressive silence drowning the youngest Holmes as he clutched his roll of instruments as if for a lifeline. His father had his fear, and contempt.

Mrs Holmes was merrily discussing something with Mycroft, twenty-two and preening in his Savile Row silk, talking with the same reserved tones as his father, cool and collected, already middle aged in his ways and turns. Sherlock remembered his crying for Mother and hated him for the pretence of adulthood now, leaving the runt of the litter to the wolves.

'And how is Oxford darling?'

'Oh, it's going perfectly Mother. I've been offered a job down in London after the next term finishes'.

'Oh, that's wonderful Mycroft. We really are so proud of you.'

Mother. She still smelt of violet soap, expensive Parisian eau de parfum and her favourite apricot yoghurt. She still had to brush invisible lint from Sherlock's lapel whenever she waved him off to school again, her mouth trying not to quiver as he failed to hold her goodbye. Idly, he wondered how she'd react if she could see the scars on his arms, crawling across the pale skin of his forearms and up to his shoulders where they blossomed into bruises…

She laughed at an un-funny joke that Mycroft was hap-hazardly spouting into some uninteresting anecdote and he felt a rush of resentment. Her simple laughter offended, shaking a little in her seat, hooting with exuberant gulps of enjoyment and Sherlock felt a rush of anger at her crude bucolic sense of humour, wanting her to be vicious and sophisticated as she was with him and condemning her for her crassness, finding nothing he could possibly want in the woman.

It had come as a shock to find himself several inches taller than her, and she had strained to pat his arm in greeting. He stared uncomprehendingly at her now, fading like the petals of wild roses at fall. He had always thought of her as luminous, vivacious; now the raven locks at her neck were coming uncurled with perspiration, the beloved Russian Red lipstick smudged slightly into the lines gathering at the corner of her mouth, dark shadows creeping under her eyes as age unpicked her.

A voice cut in. Mycroft's, high, pompous with authority.

'I still think Oxford is by far the best choice for you, Sherlock. There's so much to entertain there, and there really are the most solid fellows'.

Attention swivelled back to Sherlock, glaring into his cabbage, curls dancing in disgust. 'We do really need to think about where you're going to end up, sweetie'.

A foregone conclusion. He would be sent where he was told.

The pack muttered their assent, littlest brother feeling pure revulsion in his throat as he turned back to his plate. Rebel, Sherlock. Take the double, the line, the cigarette...

'I was thinking about Cambridge, actually.'

The pack stopped, looked at him in surprise. He smiled inwardly, viciously.