Author's Note: So, this is my first Sherlock story. I never planned to write a Sherlock story, because you walk a thin line when writing for characters like him and I was afraid I would get his character wrong. I had another story in mind that I had planned to do over the summer, but this idea popped into my head and I loved it. It's far better than the other one, and so I just had to do it, instead. It's also my first crossover fic, btw. For the first few chapters it's just Sherlock, but the Doctor will come in later. It's a look at what Sherlock's childhood might have been like, but with a timey-wimey twist.
If you would, leave a review and let me know what you think. Constructive criticism is always welcome, and has really helped me in the past.
Hope you enjoy :)
Part 1
Sherlock Holmes was just an ordinary little boy.
At seven years old, he did everything you would expect a boy his age to do. His room was generally kept neat and tidy, everything had its place and nothing was left unsorted.
Instead of watching Saturday morning cartoons or going to the arcade, he spent most of his free time at the library absorbing every scrap of knowledge he could get his hands on. He'd started in the children's section, but he'd poured through each and everyone within four days and had since moved on to the adult section, which suited him much better.
He didn't eat very much, even on the rare occasions he was offered sweets. His mind worked better without the distraction of digestion. He didn't sleep very much, either.
He saw things, noticed things that no one else saw. He would point out things that had been missed or overlooked, which shocked and repelled those around him. It was like they were looking through a filter, seeing only half the world, while he was constantly bombarded by overwhelming sensations of sights, smells, and sounds that he had no control over. It was stressful, troublesome, and even frightening most of the time, but there were times when it was so brilliant and wonderful.
He also liked to examine and dissect the dead animals that he found sometimes. The other children would run away, some would scream or cry, but Sherlock was drawn to them, even though his mother strictly forbade him from touching any carcasses he found. He didn't see what the big deal was; animals and humans died all the time, there was no stopping it. And what further harm could he do them now? He might as well study and learn from them. Besides, it wasn't like he was killing them himself. Not that he was entirely opposed to the idea.
He was also very good at solving mysteries and puzzles. It was maddening when he didn't have anything to stimulate or distract his mind. Most children tried to avoid unnecessary thinking, but he craved mental challenges like oxygen.
Actually, Sherlock Holmes wasn't ordinary at all.
On this particular morning, little Sherlock sat on the edge of his bed looking out the one window in his bedroom.
His room was a bit bigger than the average child's room; in fact you probably couldn't tell it was supposed to be a child's room at first glance. There was a dresser on one side and a large bookcase on the other. Resting on the dresser was a large model of a ship that Sherlock had built all by himself, and he was very proud of it.
The walls were painted a stark, uninteresting white, and the floor was hardwood. There was a small bed with an ocean blue blanket and matching pillow, and by it was a closet where his coat and shoes were kept.
The only giveaway that a child lived there was the teddy bear that usually laid on the pillow, waiting for his boy to return and talk about his day. But at that moment, the bear was clutched tightly in Sherlock's arms as he let his thoughts wander and do as they pleased. His eyes were looking out the window, but he wasn't seeing anything outside.
"Sherlock!" he heard a voice call. A fist was pounding on the door, but Sherlock hardly noticed. "Come on down to breakfast, you're going to be late for school!"
Sherlock pretended not to hear and stayed where he was. He was not looking forward to school. The beating on the door lasted another minute or two, then ended with a loud and exasperated sigh. This was followed by the scratching sound of the lock on his door being picked. Still, Sherlock couldn't be bothered to care.
The door flew open, and there stood Mycroft, Sherlock's elder brother by eight years.
Mycroft was about as ordinary as Sherlock was, although he kept it hidden better than his little brother ever did. He mostly kept his deductions to himself, and only used his talent when it was beneficial to him. Unlike Sherlock, he preferred to stay out of the spotlight and work behind the scenes; it was much more effective.
"Mummy's been calling you for ages, didn't you hear? Get downstairs right now before you get a good flogging."
Mycroft also had a habit of "playing mother" as Sherlock called it. He didn't enjoy the job one bit, but who else was going to look out for him? Their mother meant well, but all she did to raise her sons was lay down more and more rules, and the more rules there were, the more Sherlock went out of his way to break them.
Mycroft didn't fully understand his little brother. But he came closer than anyone else.
Grudgingly, Sherlock obeyed, though he did stick his tongue out at his brother as he passed, who only rolled his eyes in response.
The Holmes manor was a true sight to behold. The house wasn't ancient, but had been passed down through several generations. The house itself wasn't large, at least not compared to others like it, but it was large enough that it required at least three maids; none of whom were allowed to speak to the two boys. The house was elegant and magnificent in every way, yet it had a hollow, empty feeling about it. It seemed it would be better suited to ghosts than to living beings, or at least, that's what Sherlock thought of it.
The two boys went down the staircase; Sherlock took them two at a time and made a loud racket, while Mycroft took his time so as to not make any noise. When they reached the bottom, they were met by their stern, uncompromising mother.
"There you are, get to the table and eat something. The bus will be here any moment to pick you up and I won't have you missing it again."
"Yes Mummy," they both replied in unison, even though she'd only been talking to Sherlock.
They all went into the dining room, where one of the maids was finishing setting the table. Breakfast consisted of scrambled eggs, bacon, and buttered toast. They each took their place, with Sherlock and Mycroft sitting across from each other and their mother at the head.
Sherlock was annoyed by the feeling of the shirt he was wearing. It wasn't that it was uncomfortable, but unlike most people, his senses were always on high alert and so sensations were never dulled. Most people would stop feeling the clothes on their body and could even forget they were wearing any, but never Sherlock. The feeling of the chair against his back was also vying for his attention. Every single detail seemed to clamor for his attention whether he wanted it or not, ranging from the amount of light-bulbs in the chandelier, to each individual smell for breakfast, to the color of everyone's socks. It was all very frustrating, and Sherlock was always trying to find ways of distracting his brain. He settled on counting each petal of each flower on the dining room wallpaper. It worked until his mother began speaking.
"Now Mycroft, remember that you have your fencing lesson today at 4:30. Sherlock, your violin lesson will be right after school, so go straight there and don't dilly-dally."
"I'm already better at it than my teacher. I don't see why I should have to go," muttered Sherlock.
His mother gave him a stern look. "While you are quite talented dear, you are hardly good enough to quit your lessons."
"Can't I take fencing instead? Like Mycroft."
"When you're older. You're too young for it now."
"You say that about everything."
Sherlock didn't cower when his mother stood up and slammed her hands on the table, though he did a bit on the inside. "You will not speak back to me again, young man. Bad things happen to bad boys who don't listen to their mother."
"Yes Mummy," said Sherlock. He kept his head down, but curled his fists underneath the table.
"And sit up straight, don't slouch. I won't have a hunchback for a son."
"Yes Mummy," Sherlock repeated as he straightened his spine.
She opened her mouth to speak again, but Sherlock knew what she was going to say and beat her to it. He stabbed his eggs with his fork and took a small bite. He let her win this tiny battle, but he'd never let her win the war. While Mycroft was busy shoveling food into his mouth, she'd be lucky if he ate anything more than that bite of egg for the next three days.
She closed her mouth and sat back in her chair, having calmed down. Without looking, he heard Mycroft release a sigh of relief. He had learned long ago that it was impossible to win an argument with his mother and so it annoyed him when Sherlock tried, which was often. Normally Sherlock would not have conceded so easily and they'd be shouting at each other. But Sherlock wasn't in the mood for that today, and so Mycroft was grateful for the resulting peace, even if it was just the eye of the storm.
Just then, their father descended the stairs, a briefcase in one hand and a phone in the other against his ear. As strict and overbearing as their mother was, their father was the complete opposite. Even though he was married with two children, his one true love was his work. He worked in the British government and was hardly ever home; in fact, it was a surprise to see him there in the dining room that morning at all.
"Will you be eating with us this morning?" asked his mother without looking at him.
"Afraid I can't, I've got a lot of work to do."
"Father, will you be home later?" asked Sherlock, clinging to the hope that maybe he might get some time with his father.
His father ended the call and turned to look at his younger son. A bit impatiently, he asked, "Why? Is there a meeting at school I wasn't told about?"
"No, no, nothing like that," replied Sherlock, a bit sheepishly.
"Then why would I need to be here?"
Sherlock racked his brain for an answer. What did fathers and sons normally do? He'd seen fathers and sons play football and things like that, but that didn't seem very interesting for either of them. He'd never had his father all to himself before, not even when they went on holiday, so he was drawing a blank. In the end he said sheepishly, "So that we could do something together?"
His father assumed a look of pity, as if he were thinking, Is this kid serious? Even if I did have free time, it wouldn't be wasted on a child. I brought this kid into existence, what more does he want from me?
"Sorry son, but I can't. I've got too much work to do. You understand, right?"
"Yeah, I guess," said Sherlock, making sure to keep the disappointment out of his voice.
Angry and upset, Sherlock looked at both of his parents and deduced the hell out of them. His mother wore a long white dress, simple but elegant. She spent most of her time gossiping with her friends, though he knew by the faces she made whenever she spoke of them that she despised every single one.
But no, she wasn't going there today, because her wedding ring was missing from her finger. Not only that, but she was wearing her more expensive perfume, the kind that she wouldn't waste just to impress her friends. Her salt and pepper hair was tied up in a loose bun; normally she'd have it in a tight bun to keep it from coming down in the middle of the day, but she had plans for it to come down later. She would leave that morning with impeccable nails, but would return with black soot underneath them. Her perfume wouldn't be able to completely conceal the smell of black smoke. His conclusion: she was going to visit her lover, the handsome blacksmith who lived a few blocks away.
His father carried a cane and walked with a slight limp in his right leg from an old war wound. Sherlock knew it was faked to gain discharge, because he'd occasionally catch him limping with the wrong leg. His light hair was slicked down, and his nails were also polished. He'd used a tad too much cologne, covering up the usual smell of tobacco. Even though it was not unusual for his father to groom himself this way, he could tell just by his shoes that he would be seeing someone extra special, perhaps the queen herself. His father didn't seem to notice that his wife wasn't wearing her ring, or perhaps he didn't care. Sherlock was tempted to suspect him of infidelity, as well, except for the fact that his father would rather kiss the ground the queen stepped on than kiss even the loveliest of ladies.
If they weren't so keen on keeping up appearances, his parents probably would have been divorced before they cut the wedding cake. Sherlock always saw how much they got on each other's nerves, but stayed together purely out of convenience and to maintain their precious social image. They always made sure to stay out of each other's way, and so while he and Mycroft were being henpecked to death about every tiny mistake they made by their mother, their father couldn't care less what went on in their lives, as long as they didn't end up in jail or doing something to tarnish the family name. Even then he probably wouldn't care.
Sherlock often wondered where he'd gotten his ability to see these things. His father wouldn't notice the house burning down around him, while his mother only noticed things like dirt and bad posture. He wondered if he'd inherited it from one of his ancestors. Or maybe he was the only one with the ability. Maybe he really was an alien, like his classmates believed. Then again, he knew for a fact that Mycroft had it too, even if he did try to hide it, so at least he wasn't the only alien around here.
"I think I just heard the bus arrive, you had better run along, Sherlock," said Mother.
"I don't want to ride the bus," argued Sherlock. "I'm not going."
"Nonsense, you will ride the bus," she replied, more forcefully. "Mycroft dear, walk Sherlock to the bus stop and make sure he gets on. And apologize to the driver ahead of time for any disturbances he may cause."
"Yes, Mummy," said Mycroft with a heavy sigh. He shot Sherlock an annoyed look and said, "Well come on then. Let's go, Sherlock."
Sherlock hopped down from his chair and ran up to his room to grab his backpack and violin case. He ran back downstairs and pulled on his shoes, because he wasn't allowed to wear them in the house. He then followed his older brother out the door.
Before they stepped outside, Mycroft grabbed an umbrella in case of rain. The sky was grey and a chilly breeze blew through their hair. All morning it had been raining off and on, as though the clouds couldn't make up their minds.
The manor was surrounded by red roses. It was springtime, but this year they'd hardly gotten any sunshine. The flower's colors were dimmed by the lack of sunlight.
The two boys walked down the path and down to the wrought iron gate. Mycroft opened it and motioned for Sherlock to go through and get on the bus, but he had other plans.
Sherlock dropped to his knees and covered his face with his hands. He began to wail and cry, and as the driver opened the door to the bus, he said, "Please don't hit me again, Mycroft! I swear I'll be good, honest!"
Mycroft whipped his head around to face him, his expression changing from surprise, to realization, to utter mortification, and to anger, all in the span of a few seconds.
"What's going on here?" demanded the driver.
"I can't tell you, or he'll hurt me again," sobbed Sherlock as tears rolled down his face. "If you decide to punish me, please don't use the belt. Or make me slam the oven door on my ears again."
"What!?" shouted the driver.
"He's trying to kidnap me! I'm so scared, call 999! Don't let him hurt me!"
"Do I need to call your parents?"
"No, no! You've got it all wrong!" said Mycroft as he grabbed Sherlock by the wrist and forced a smile. "Our mum asked me to walk him to the bus, that's all. I would never lay a hand on my dear, sweet little brother. He's such a cutie, isn't he?" The last words were spoken with such an undercurrent of rage that for a moment, Sherlock almost feared for his life.
The driver didn't look convinced. Mycroft then said through gritted teeth, his face a mix of red and purple with rage and embarrassment, "I'll just walk him to school myself, shall I?"
The driver shot him a warning glare, then closed the door and drove off. The tears ceased the instant the bus was gone. Mycroft turned on Sherlock, the tight smile on his face transforming into a terrifying glower.
"If you kill me, the neighbors will see and tattle on you," warned Sherlock with a smirk.
"If there were no witnesses, I'd end you here and now in unspeakable ways," said Mycroft irritably, his face still glowing red from embarrassment. "Come on then, Mummy will turn us into shoes if I don't get you to school on time, and we're already going to be late as it is. What was the point of all that, exactly?"
"I was hoping the driver would call the police and have you arrested. I'm very disappointed that he didn't do anything. If I'd been telling the truth, he'd have just left me to be abused, or even murdered."
"The man knows you well enough to not take you too seriously."
Sherlock held back the retort he'd been about to give. He was glad Mycroft had given in and was walking him to school. Riding the bus was an absolute nightmare. All the loud noises, all the random information, it was like each individual sensation was a needle poking at his brain. Not to mention, he would have to sit on the floor, because no one ever made room for him, and he didn't want to spend the trip with nothing to look at but his fellow student's feet.
Sherlock knew he was stealing valuable time from Mycroft by making him do this. His older brother attended a boarding school a few hours away, but due to a recent fire, he and the other students had been sent home for a few weeks. A few weeks of freedom, and here he was spending it on his little brother.
Then again, as far as Sherlock could tell, Mycroft didn't have a life. He spent a lot of time keeping an eye on Sherlock, and when he wasn't doing that he was busy pandering to those around him, no doubt preparing for his future career. He was shaping up to be just like their father, he thought. So from that perspective, he wasn't really depriving him of anything.
Even though he would never admit it, he enjoyed walking to school with Mycroft. It would give them a chance to play one of Sherlock's favorite games.
"Let's play Eye-Spy," he said eagerly.
"No. Not after what you did to me back there. I'm still battling the urge to strangle you with my bare hands."
"All right fine, I apologize. It won't happen again. Maybe. Just play with me already. Or are you afraid of losing?"
Mycroft rolled his eyes, but a small, genuine smile faintly touched his lips. "I spy with my little eye… a blind person."
Sherlock immediately began scanning the surrounding area with his eyes. He counted twelve people in the near vicinity. He looked first for the obvious signs, such as a seeing-eye dog, or a person wearing sunglasses or using a cane. He didn't see any of these things, so he looked harder. He examined each person closely, until he noticed two men at a hot dog stand. The customer was holding onto the cart, and his head was lowered slightly more than normal. He was talking to the vendor, but he wasn't making any eye contact.
"That guy at the hot dog stand," announced Sherlock proudly. "He's keeping his hand on the stand to keep his bearings, and he's not looking at the vendor while they talk."
"Very good," said Mycroft as they continued on.
"But how did he make it to the stand without a cane or dog to guide him?"
"If you'd been paying attention, you would have noticed that his wife had just gone into the store behind the stand. She was acting as his guide, but she needed to make a quick run into the shop and left her husband by the stand. She might have been his girlfriend, but the glint of gold on her finger suggests that they are married."
"Wow," said Sherlock. "Will I ever be that good?"
"Perhaps, if you work on it, you might become almost as good as me someday."
"Nope, I won't be as good as you are, not ever. I'm going to be loads better," declared Sherlock. "Someday, I'm going to be a detective."
"I thought you wanted to be a pirate."
"I'll be a mystery-solving pirate. I'll sail the seven seas on my ship and solve people's mysteries. And then steal all their gold."
"Well good luck with that," said Mycroft sarcastically.
They continued their game until they reached the school. Mycroft was winning, but Sherlock had him stumped on the last one.
"I give up. Which one was about to be dumped by his girlfriend?"
"That guy in the red sweater who passed by us," said Sherlock proudly. "He was leaving the flower shop, and he smelled like the flowers so he must have been in there for some time. He was trying to pick out a suitable bouquet but gave up. She must be very high maintenance and they had a fight, and he was trying to make it up to her but gave up because she won't accept any peace offerings. Also, his clothes are new but messy and wrinkled. He bought a new wardrobe to try to impress her, but he's not very good at grooming himself. His nails were bitten down to the nub, which means that he knows he's getting dumped and is anxious about it. Personally, if I were him, I'd be dancing with joy."
Mycroft stared down at Sherlock, not knowing what to say. As good as he was at making deductions, he hadn't been that good at his age. Sherlock was already getting better than him at deducing things, and he wasn't sure if that was a good thing, or a bad thing.
"Listen Sherlock. I need to tell you something. Do you know why I play this game with you? It's not for fun, it's for-"
"Save it, Mycroft. I just heard the bell ring, I'm going to be late for class," said Sherlock as he turned and ran for the front door of the school.
"All right then," sighed Mycroft. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do!"
He turned and headed back towards the house, twirling the umbrella as he did. He hoped that Sherlock could make it through the day without getting into trouble, but since it was Sherlock, the problem wasn't him getting into trouble. The problem was how much trouble.