If I Say No

Part 1

Sherlock Holmes was fifteen, the height of adolescence. He'd had quite a bit of a growth spurt and had shot up in height, making him even longer and leaner than he'd been before. And he wasn't even done growing yet.

Sherlock always managed to look underfed. Even after stuffing his face and declaring himself full with a burp, Sherlock's cheek and hip bones were prominent and ribs were visible (though, after a meal, they'd only just be visible through the pale skin). Mycroft thought that was positively hateful.

Mycroft Holmes was twenty-two. After being at University, he'd gained some twenty pounds and hadn't been able to shake it. His metabolism was not as good as his little brother's, and as a result, he was…chubby. He had a soft, round belly that peeked over his trousers, while Sherlock's concave stomach would never dream of doing such a thing. Mycroft was on a diet. And this just wouldn't do.

It was mid-May. At the end of August, Sherlock would be attending Cambridge, much to his chagrin. Sherlock hated school, always had, because of his genius-level intellect. Mycroft would be at an internship from mid-September.

Sherlock and Mycroft weren't particularly close. Too far apart in age to play with each other, they grew up in their own separate worlds. As they got older, it was easier for tension to drive a wedge through their relationship, and Mycroft's apparent weight gain hadn't helped.

The boys were home alone tonight. Father had gone off for his weekly poker game, and mummy had some benefit or other to attend, so Sherlock and Mycroft were alone in the mansion, besides their night maid, Anna, who had made them each dinner.

A rich ham, which was by now bone and grizzle, sat on a platter before them. Salad and dinner rolls and little heavenly tarts, cookies, and cakes were on either side of the main course. Mycroft, though hungry, had tried to fill up on salad and only have a little of the ham. He was still munching on the fresh green leaves scattered around his plate. Sherlock, on the other hand, had demolished most of the ham and was still clearing the plate he'd piled high as if he hadn't eaten a decent meal in years, only pausing to turn the page of the novel he was reading.

Mycroft felt nothing but burning hatred, especially as he looked at the decadent miniature chocolate cakes with rich, chocolate icing made only from the best ingredients calling to him from the dessert platter. He was started from his reverie as Sherlock muffled a burp into his hand and leaned back in his chair lazily, a hand on his flat stomach.

"Are you done?" Mycroft asked, his smile venomous and sarcastic.

Sherlock nodded, yawning. "Might turn in early."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Oh? Not been getting proper sleep lately?"

"I was experimenting on some tadpoles I bought at the pet shop. Some of them managed to turn into frogs. I'll let them free tomorrow."

Mycroft chuckled. "You and your frogs, Sherlock."

"I find that I can concentrate better if I don't let outside things like eating or sleeping affect me." Sherlock grinned. "I haven't exactly eaten very much these past couple days. Enlightening as it is, I was starving!"

"I noticed," Mycroft said coolly.

"I see your diet's going well," Sherlock noted, his eyes running up and down his brother. "Let's see…three pounds off, was it? And Dana's broke it off with you?"

Mycroft sighed. "We went our separate ways, Sherlock."

"She broke up with you." Sherlock's eyes were on the tarts. He leaned across the table and picked one up, sinking his teeth eagerly into it. "Mmmm…strawberry. My favorite." He swallowed happily, closing his eyes and licking his lips to erase all traces of the tart from the outside of him before his tongue ventured forward to catch a drop of filling before it leaked out of the tart and ruined his white skinny jeans.

Mycroft scowled. Sherlock loved sweets; both brothers had inherited the sweet tooth trait from their mummy. Mycroft, however, had evidently inherited her pudge, while Sherlock was thin as a rod, like their father. Something…different came over Sherlock when he ate sweets. All other food he devoured almost without tasting, but sweets he relished, ate as slowly as possible, closing his eyes after every bite, taking his time to lick, to examine, to enjoy. And Mycroft, on a diet that was working for him (he had indeed lost three pounds, and expected to lose three more by week's end), absolutely hated Sherlock right now.

Then, he had an idea. "You know, Sherlock, metabolism fades with age."

"Mmm," Sherlock mumbled distractedly, busy sucking the filling out of the tart before tossing the light, flaky pastry into his mouth, chewing while he grabbed another.

"Yes. And if your 'work' is so important to you, well…" Mycroft smirked, knowing how to hit his brother where it hurt, "it wouldn't do to have any sort of fat, now would it?"

Sherlock paused, his mouth open as he was about to indulge in the sweet. He closed it again, drawing his hand away from his mouth. "What do you mean?" He asked slowly, his brow wrinkling as he frowned, indicating deep consideration of Mycroft's statement. Surely he knew by now what Mycroft was implying, but the elder Holmes just had to say it himself.

"Keep eating like that, and you'll get fat."

"Oh, God," Sherlock swallowed in obvious alarm, leaning back in his chair. He put the tart down, abandoning it on his plate, his ice blue eyes wide in panic. Mycroft smirked. Sherlock may have been an independent teen, but his mind was still suggestible. And Sherlock intended to be the greatest detective there ever was. Naturally, the job would require him to be fit and trim, if he were ever to pass the physical for the police force. "Really?" He asked, breathless.

"Oh yes." Mycroft looked idly at his nails. "Metabolism slows down as you age. You might be skin and bones now, Sherlock, but in a few years," he shrugged, "Who knows? You might end up looking like me."

Sherlock scoffed. "Never! That's ridiculous!" But Mycroft deducted a hint of uneasiness in his brother's voice.

"You could go on a diet, you know," Mycroft went on. "Just like me. Nothing too extreme, of course, but you could start watching what you eat. Being conscious of just how much you're eating." He did a little happy dance inside as Sherlock poked at his full stomach with a disappointed frown.

"Bullocks," Sherlock muttered, grabbing his novel and getting up from the table. "I don't need to diet! I'm fine! Mummy says I should be eating more, anyhow. I'm underweight!" He scowled at Mycroft and stomped out of the room. "Just sod off and leave me alone!"

Mycroft just laughed. His plan had worked.

Even after all his protestations that he "didn't need" to diet, Sherlock ate considerably less at mealtimes. Then, he began refusing dessert. Sometimes, he would only push at his food during mealtimes, only nibbling on a bite or two if mummy said something.

By the time Sherlock went off to University, he was the thinnest he'd ever been. White as a sheet with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass, unruly black curly hair a veritable mop on his head, chapped pink lips, and prominent ribs and hipbones gave him the effect of looking either sick or dangerous. His classmates avoided him like the plague.

Because of his extreme malnutrition, Sherlock failed the physical for the official police force. Frustrated, he dropped out of Cambridge and loitered around London doing odd jobs. He was nineteen.

Meanwhile, Mycroft, at twenty-six, had long since abandoned his diet. As a member of Parliament, he went to lavish dinners, ate rich food every day of the week, had a desk job with minimal legwork, and had reawakened his love affair with cake.

The next time the two Holmes brothers met, it would be on far stranger tides.