Sherlock's Beginning

Sherlock didn't grow up in a manor in the countryside, despite everything about him that would suggest so. He was posh, that was for certain, but his family hadn't been snobs; rather the opposite in fact. His family was well-liked in their community and could often be seen helping other families with their problems, whatever their nature. But within the family, it was cold. There was no abuse, as some of the Yard had secretly speculated, but no one in the Holmes family was fond of physical affection.

Sherlock would often spend his holidays alone, wandering around his backyard on two legs as often as four. His insatiable curiosity was spurred on by the special abilities that allowed him to find secrets no one else could. He knew his parents worried about him sometimes (when they remembered), but Mycroft was always there, even when Sherlock didn't want him to be. Mycroft was also a shift, though both the Holmes parents lacked the ability. His form was a raven, and he would often fly low circles in the sky, watching over Sherlock and making sure he never hurt himself too badly. The Holmes parents loved their children, they did, but it was a distant love, a mildly affectionate love. They never hugged their children after a bad dream and told them it was okay, or played with them in the park, encouraging imagination and activity. Perhaps that was the reason why both Mycroft and Sherlock grew up to be the way they did; cold and calculating, and unwilling to let anyone close to them, not because they had a terrible secret they were afraid would be discovered, but because they simply didn't know how.

Their parents realised something had gone wrong when Sherlock refused to change back. He would sit at the table, drinking the milk placed in front of him with small laps, and then retreat to his bedroom where he would curl up on the bed. Mycroft would sometimes go in and scratch his ears before leaving to his own room. After a week with no change from Sherlock, his father cracked. He marched over to where Sherlock was lying and picked him up by the scruff of his neck.

"You are not a cat, boy, despite the fact that you occasionally inhabit one's form, and no son of mine will live out the rest of his days in a house designed for humans when he walks on four legs!"

Sherlock was set down in the backyard and he stared balefully at the back door as it, and then the cat flap installed in it, were locked. He remained there, unmoving, hardly even blinking, for the rest of the night. When his mother opened the back door in the morning, she cried out in shock, forgetting, perhaps, that her son had been banished to the backyard. Her mouth opened and closed as she stared at him.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, and then closed the door again.

Sherlock felt something in his chest tighten and he yowled viciously for as long as he could. When the echoes died down and still no one appeared, he sunk to his stomach and crawled into the grass. He stayed there, curled up for three days, sleeping on and off and barely moving. It was Autumn then, so it was still reasonably warm, which he was thankful for, until the inevitable happened and it rained one night. The first drop of rain hit his fur and he flinched, looking up at the sky with resentful eyes, as if daring it to continue. It did, despite his fearsome glare, and he let out a quiet mewl of desperation before fleeing to shelter. He pressed himself against the back of the house, attempting to squeeze under the short cover that stuck out from the roof. Despite his best efforts, he was soaked within minutes. His fur was heavy with water and covered his eyes. Through the noise of the rain and the wind, he couldn't hear the door open, but he felt it when a warm towel covered his body and he was gently lifted up. He found the energy to lift his head and saw Mycroft eyeing him with concern. He was brought into the house and up to their shared bathroom, where Mycroft filled the bath with warm water. He placed another clean towel and a change of clothes on the toilet seat and then left, the door clicking closed behind him. With a tiny, pitiful cat-sigh, Sherlock jumped onto the lip of the bath and into the water.

Half an hour later, when the water was cold and his fingers and toes were shrivelled, he rose unsteadily on two legs and dried himself off. He held up his clothes and rubbed the fabric of his shirt between two fingers. Was it wrong for it to have become so unfamiliar to him? Despite often despairing of the intelligence of nearly the entire human race, he didn't want to be apart from them, didn't want to be so isolated he could never understand them again. Frowning and trying to ignore the burning behind his eyes, he dressed hurriedly and slipped through the corridor into his own room. A raven stood on the window sill. Sherlock bit his lip.

"Thank you, Mycroft."

The raven cawed and flew off, returning, Sherlock knew, to his brother's room.

When Sherlock went down to breakfast the next morning, the rest of his family were already seated. His father glanced up and smirked, gesturing to the window. It was still raining.

"Not so fun when you don't have anyone to look after you, is it?" he asked rhetorically. Sherlock's mother shushed him, but Sherlock merely returned upstairs without saying a word. "It's a good thing you have a big brother, Sherlock! Otherwise, who knows where you might be!"

It was a sort-of-threat. The kind that vaguely implied something bad would have happened and you'd better watch yourself from now on.

At the table, Mycroft's eyes widened and his fists clenched, as though he could see the future and knew what impact those words would have.

In Sherlock's chest, the first bitter stirrings of resentment started.

A/N:

Aw, poor Mycroft. He was only trying to look out for his little brother, and then his father ruined it all. What a bastard. *ahem*. Anyway, this is the promised childhood fic similar to the one about John. I don't know why I'm bothering to tell you this. I'm assuming you've already read the story, seeing as this is at the bottom. You know what? Ignore me, I am insane and these are my ramblings.

Cheerio,
foxboxtango

P.S Nope, I don't own anything recognisable, unless, of course, you're recognising it from my previous story, in which case, well yes, I do own it. So there. That's right.

All credit goes to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and the BBC, in particular the Moff and Godtiss.