A/N: *warning- angst, abuse, language* Just a one-shot I wrote a few weeks ago. It's the first thing I've posted on here, so let me know what you think. :) I plan on editing it a little more, but wanted to get the uploading done with.
"He's left a mess all over the kitchen again, of course I'm angry!"
"He's just seven, I'll get him to clean it up!"
"And what about the books in the living room? Is he gonna leave those there too?!"
"Father, it's okay, Ill go call him to do so."
"No, he needs to learn to pick up after himself. I won't allow you to run after him every time he does this."
"Yeah, it's the only way he'll learn. How do you propose to teach him? You don't even say 'hello' to him when you come home anymore."
"I will do it however I see fit. Where is he, his room? Outside?"
"Leave him alone, he's a seven-year-old child!"
"I will do what needs to be done!"
"Dont you dare lay a figure on him!"
Sherlock heard the shouting from downstairs. The booming voices echoing on the huge walls, traveling easily up the stairs to the second floor. His father and older brother were fighting again. And this time about himself.
Sherlock had shut himself in his bedroom, and hidden in his darkened closet. No one would come looking for him.
The seven-year-old sat with his back to the wall, knees pulled up to his chest, and head bowed down with his skinny arms around the ends of his black hair. The bottoms of his cotton shirts hung above him, just barely sweeping over his head. Moving back and forth ever so slightly as though in a breeze.
Sherlock didn't dare make a sound.
"You're not his father! You don't know what to do!"
"Yeah, like you're any better at it! At least I care!"
"Who says I dont care!? I've got a lot to worry about right now!"
"What, taking care of us?! You're never even home 'till late!"
He sat there, trying to block out the noise as the yelling got worse, every sound and movement reaching his small ears.
He looked up startled as he heard something shatter, the skin piercing noise leaving a second of delayed silence. A shout then heavy footsteps coming up the stairs. A door slammed.
Sherlock closed his eyes and pretended that he could feel Mycroft's arm around his shoulder. That he could feel his older brother's warm body against his. That he could hear the calm, always comforting voice. Like when he would wake up shouting in the middle of the night, calling out for My. His older brother would come and sit on the edge of his bed.
"Its okay, Sherlock. Easy breaths."
A soft hand with shorter fingers would rub circles on his back, sliding over the creases in his shirt. Rubbing them smooth, running over his spine, loosening his shoulders.
"It's like Hide n' Seek. Just cover your eyes and count to ten. And when you open them again, everything will be okay."
Sherlock took a breath and did so now, hearing the second set of feet running up the stairs in pursuit.
"One." The tiny voice said in a barely audible whisper. His eyes were closed, and his head fell back to lean against the wall behind him. A door was pushed open strongly across the hall. To the little boy, it felt as though the wood had been ripped off it's hinges, the noise heard loudly from his safe spot.
"Two." "Two." Came a second later, the voice shaky, hesitant.
The ticking of the clock from outside the closet was deafening. Constant. Never ending.
"Three." Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. It seemed drowning. Sherlock could focus on it and leave the other sounds behind. Let it take over his little world. Someone said something. It was quiet now, but Sherlock knew that would change within the minute.
"Four." The small boy pulled his legs tighter to his chest, arms wrapped completely around them. His knuckles started to turn white from his grip, but he knew there was no way in hell he would let go. The deeper voice replied, but not softly like the first one had.
"Five." Halfway there. He took a breath he didn't realize he had been holding in. The silence was quickly broken. Someone shouted something and someone else replied equally as loud. The boy squeezed his eyes shut, as though the tightly closed eyelids could somehow drown out the noise. He had lost all concentration on the clock.
"Six" A question was asked from the room across the empty hall. Three single words. It was as clear as though it had been said right in front of him.
"Wheres your brother?"
"Seven." It was breathed out and not even heard by the speaker. Mycroft would easily figure out where the little boy was. Would his father? A response, equally as easy to understand because Sherlock allowed himself to listen.
"I dont know. Outside?"
"Eight." The numbers were getting softer, barely said if said at all. Only two more. Two more and he would come out. Two more and...
"DAMMIT MYCROFT HOLMES! YOURE SUPPOSED TO WATCH HIM! HELL, HE COULD BE LOST IN THE STREETS AND FUCKIN' FREEZING TO DEATH FOR ALL YOU CARE!"
Nine.
It wasn't said. Just mouthed. The boy was no longer able to make his throat form any words. He hadnt wanted this. A tear slipped down his smooth cheek.
"LIKE YOU EVEN GIVE A FUCK! YOU AREN'T EVEN AROUND TO SEE HIM ANYMORE, DAMMIT! EVER SINCE MUM DIED-"
"DON'T YOU DARE BRING YOUR MOTHER INTO THIS!"
Something was hit, the smacking sound traveling all the way to the little boys ears. A moment of hesitation, before the voice had control of itself again.
"Just go find him. I want him in bed. Now." There was a pause. "Don't think we're done with this." Heavy feet rushed back down the stairs, booming as they landed at the bottom. The coat rack shifted and the front door slammed.
Sherlock couldn't hold the rest of the tears in, and they flowed down his face silently, soaking his cheeks and his eyes. He bent his head down to rest his forehead on his knees. Soon the tear stains had transferred to the dark cloth.
Ten.
The head remained bent, and the eyes squeezed shut. When nothing happened, Sherlock began to panic. But it had only been a second of delay
And that was when the door opened then closed gently. When the light could be seen from underneath the crack, drowning out the dark haven of the small closet. When the closet door creaked slowly open.
And there he was, bending down, arms out. The boy uncurled himself and crawled into the welcoming hands. Buried his head in the strong shoulder, tear stained eyes soaking the cloth shirt. Feeling the bigger hand sliding through his curls, sweeping the hair out of his eyes.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock." The calming voice said softly. The longer arms held the younger brother closer. A single tear fell down the older boy's as he rested his chin gently on his younger siblings head of dark curls. The glossy tear slipped over the already forming bruise mark.
"I'm so sorry."