The leaves fell onto the cold autumn ground in the city. Lights flashed as fast motorcars whizzed by, their fumes leaving a not unpleasant, sweet, acrid scent in the air. Sherlock Holmes skipped down the paved streets to his primary school, leaves floated like small graceful birds and the bleak sun glimmered behind opaque clouds. Already the signs of winter had begun to emerge as the sidewalk began to glaze over with frost.

Sherlock's shoes, the black ones with the buckles, were incredibly difficult to walk in, especially with the ice. He slipped and skidded on the glacial surface, his coat receiving the full blast of the battering wind. Already at this time of day the daylight was fading, by home time it would be almost dark, but Sherlock wasn't worried, he knew his mummy would come for him, ready to pick him up and envelop him in her sweet lavender scent.

Sherlock shook his head; he couldn't believe that break was almost finished. Suddenly the school gates were upon him, strong and imposing.

All day Sherlock watched as the daylight dimmed and the world was plunged into darkness once more.

What felt like hours later, they were released, hoards of children flew out through the gates, barging and self confident. Sherlock hung back, making his way reservedly out of the doors; as soon as he had gone they were shut with a definitive thud.

With no warmth outside, Sherlock waited, shadows flitted past him and the stars shone in the sky like iridescent diamonds. Still Sherlock waited, his foot clunking against the wall where he sat. His Mummy did not come. The moonlight shimmered like cats eyes and the trees whispered mournfully in the breeze. Still Mummy did not come. Teacher was gone by now, exited at the front office into her warm car, safe and secure in the knowledge of home. Still Mummy did not come. The first flake of snow fell from the sky, floating down to earth to land on Sherlock's shoulder. Still Mummy did not come.

Finally, Sherlock couldn't wait any longer, a fine layer of champagne powder like snow covered the ground, he had decided he would walk home alone, small fluffs of frost rose from the ground as he jumped down from his wall. His feet made tiny imprints on the pavement as he walked and the wind whistled through his coat sending ripples of fear through him.

Sherlock didn't realise how cold it was till he was almost completely enveloped by snow, more and more crisp flakes floated down from the now stormy sky. Sherlock was remarkably clever for his age, but by now he had begun to get lost in the thick fog surrounding him, and he had very little idea of where he was.

The cold was beginning to hurt, biting at his pale skin like invisible dragons, weaving and winding around him, ensnaring him in their snow fire embrace. Suddenly Sherlock stopped, the wind whipping his coat around his small legs, squinting he saw a figure at the end of the street, walking rather quickly, obviously in some kind of panic then. As the mysterious shape grew closer Sherlock began to pick out some more features, tall, but not remarkably so, dressed well, but flustered…in all honesty he looked a bit like…"Myc?"

Mycroft Holmes was devastated, not that anyone could tell from his face, his gaze was steely and determined, the cold mask he had procured only slipping when he saw the small figure at the bottom of the road, so he had tried to get home. For a second Mycroft felt genuine concern for his brothers safety, for all his protestations, he really did care for his little brother, and he also knew that someday he may be a great asset.

"Sherlock, why are you walking alone, why didn't you wait for me?"

"Mummy didn't come." Sherlock pouted sadly, seeking at least some comfort from his statuesque sibling. Willing his eyes to at least look at him Sherlock tried to stare Mycroft down, a battle which at this stage was an easy win for his older brother.

Lacking the comfort he needed Sherlock shuffled his feet idly in the fluff like substance covering the ground, the snow escaping into his shoes and hurting his already cold feet.

"Sherlock, I don't know how to tell you this..." Mycroft paused, clearly internally debating whether to lie or not. "Mummy was involved in an accident this afternoon, I'm afraid she didn't make it."

Sherlock Holmes looked up, for the first time noticing that his brothers dishevelled appearance had little to do with his own disappearance, or even the death of his mother, no, Mycroft Holmes' schedule had been interrupted; and that is what must have been causing this uncharacteristic change in his behaviour. Coldly Sherlock turned away.

"Ok Mycroft. I understand. Shall we go home now?"

Mycroft Holmes for the first time in his busy life didn't understand. How could his sweet little brother be so uncaring? He supposed it was a shock, after all Sherlock was only seven, he probably didn't really understand what was happening. Mycroft started to speak, only to find his little brother far in front of him, cold, unfeeling determination on his face. Slowly he shook his head, sighing at how much his brother had to learn. Despondently he trudged behind him brushing off the snowy powder which had gathered on his shoulder.

Sherlock strode ahead, not waiting for his brother to catch up; an icy coldness had swept over his whole being causing him to shudder at his own insensitivity. Internally Sherlock Holmes was a wreck, his Mind Palace still in its infantile stages. But externally he was an indifferent mask of somewhere between rage and nothing, the blank expression giving nothing away. After all, he had learned from the best.

Sherlock looked round once at his brother, and felt nothing but a cool breeze drift over him, and so began the glaciations of his once warm and beating heart.