It had begun rather young, because Sherlock did nothing by half-measures. It was such a shame, all of it, they all would whisper. Sherlock Holmes had such high potential, he could achieve wonders. Your works could be a legend, your legacy to the world you leave behind, you'd be remembered forever, they'd sigh wistfully.

Sherlock on the other hand, could not understand such a concept. What was the point of leaving a mark behind, of proving that you'd lived? His life was owed to the people who loved and cared for him, it wasn't even his own, what were strangers supposed to do with it?

That was around the time he first made a girl cry. He didn't understand what he'd done wrong. He'd been honest, his one redeeming virtue was that he was not a malingerer. They didn't like that either. They didn't like him when he was clever or honest and they especially didn't like him when he imitated normal human behaviour. Staff avoided his eyes, ignoring him and going about their own business like he was a particularly filthy piece of furniture.

Which was why when he fell down, no-one was there to rush and give him kisses and coo that it was going to be alright. He had seen it coming a split second before it happened, a slip of the foot and he was going over the edge. What was exciting was that it was true what they said about time slowing down; what actually happened was that your brain was pushed into hyper drive to find a way out, noticing more details than usual in the same time-span and resulting in feeling that time was running slow.

Sherlock came to himself in a daze; he hadn't hit his head but the rush of sharp mental rush in the small time period of his distressing fall had been disconcerting. His arm was a little weird, a blatant U-shaped lump beyond the elbow; it was fascinating. Sherlock tilted his head, staring in wonder at the weird shape his arm had conformed to. Was it a thing that arms were supposed to do, and Sherlock hadn't been informed of it yet? It was possible, the child rationalised, after all there was much he did not know to the ever-bemoaning agony of his brother.

He stood up, feeling weird and nauseous. He walked slowly on shaky legs, no-one bothered him. In his room, he sat down and stared at his arm. He didn't have the strength to go play, but the words on his book made him feel miserable, so he was confined to lie there, wasting his time.

Somewhere the pain rose and overwhelmed the fuzziness in his brain, quiet and silent at first then slowly rising to a crescendo, drowning out thoughts and horrors, pain was body's way of sounding the alarm, there was something very, very wrong. He started crying, soft and slow, not the sort that a child would typically cry to charm attention his way, he cried like he could never stop because it hurt and he couldn't think.

Time suspended and curled in his dimension, it could have been minutes or hours or days when his brother passed his room and heard his silent heartbreaking sobs.

After that is a bit of a blur; the next thing Sherlock can clearly remember is sitting in the backseat with his brother sitting unusually close, mouth thin and forehead creased in a way that transformed him beyond his very young age of 12.

"What's happened, Mye?"

Mycroft absently smoothed his hair, a rare sign of affection reserved only for when they were alone. "It's alright, 'Lock. Just a broken bone, nothing more." His tone contradicts his words, but Sherlock pays little mind to that. The subtle inflections in tones of people came firmly under the category of SOCIAL INTERACTION and Sherlock is so very lacking in that department.

The pain isn't haunting any more, there are more things to focus on. He very carefully unbuttons his shirt with one hand and slowly but steadily pulls it down and over the U-cut. Even the pain is worth his curiosity.

Curiosity killed the cat…but satisfaction brought it back.

Mycroft eyed him carefully and quickly tugged his hand back when Sherlock tried to gleefully poke it.

He pouted, "Mye, look! It's a clean break. What do you think I broke?"

Mycroft humoured him. "The radius and ulva would be my guess."

Sherlock mouthed the words with unrestrained joy. Mycroft stared in horrified disbelief. He thought about how quickly he'd have time to get away and call on The Centre. They had been working on the assumption that Sherlock only enjoyed experimenting on other people and dead animals (and though he claimed that they were all dead when he'd found them, what sort of kid went around lugging dead bodies and chemistry sets?!). Now, it was obvious that he didn't mind experimenting on himself, either.

No, this changed things. They'd have to baby-proof the entire mansion and keep a guard always close to Sherlock, always. They had kept a firm policy on 'No experimenting on other live people' and 'Always inform human elders when a human dead body is found' (That was a very long, very horrifying story, one that Mycroft had absolutely no intention of ever even thinking about). Sherlock always tried to wiggle out of those rules and search out loopholes (a large part of Mycroft strongly suspected that Sherlock just enjoyed watching them flail around like headless chickens when he pulled his stunts, and that 'experiment' thing was merely a bonus).

But no, Sherlock had finally stumbled upon the biggest loophole of them all. Now, he could just 'experiment' on himself, and not break any rules.

Sherlock was still babbling, and Mycroft felt a headache come on. He couldn't wait to get back to school, which wasn't something most school boys wished for. But then again most boys didn't have Sherlock Holmes as their little brother.

Speaking of, he'd have his parents talk to the staff. It's horrifying enough contemplating how long his little brother had lain there, but it's worse thinking he'd still be crying had he not passed by the room or been away at school. Maybe he'd get Sherlock a gift, Mycroft mused, that'd cheer him right up, especially if he managed to keep it a surprise.

Sherlock loved surprises, something about how rare they were.

"-And, you've gained 2 pounds since we last met—"

Mycroft tuned Sherlock out again. Never mind about those gifts.