He was only three when his father left. Quite unexpectedly. It's not something you're prepared for. He just left, and for a while, Sherlock wasn't sure why. He asked Mycroft once, about a week after his departure. Of course the only reply he received was "You wouldn't understand." Sherlock didn't dare ask his mother. She wasn't herself for the next few months. But after a while, Sherlock knew she would never be herself again. Maybe none of them would would.
His mother began flinching when she saw him, and would snap when he startled her by breaking the lonely silence. That was only the beginning. The older he got, the cruller she was to him. Mycroft would calm her down when she got too bad, but it scarred Sherlock, having lost not one, but both of his parents. He wouldn't talk to any of the other children at school, much less play with them. Naturally they began to resent him, calling him names behind his back, and eventually to his face. One day, when he was seven, he came home, running to his room, crying. There was so much emptiness in him he couldn't bear it any more. Mycroft, who was about fourteen, had come to see what the problem was.
"Stop it now, Sherlock, crying never solved anything, it just waits time." he said sternly.
sherlock stopped crying and looked up at him obediently. Mycroft was all he had, even if he wasn't much.
"Good. That's a start. Now tell me what troubles you, and make it quick and to the point."
"The kids at school." he answered in a quiet but audible voice. Mycroft nodded, understanding immediately , and considered him for a moment.
"You must speak up." he answered simply. Sherlock frowned at this.
"They'll hurt me, Mycroft." he whispered. Mycroft raised his nose.
"Do you believe in brute force over knowledge Sherlock? Because if that is so, you are exactly what they take you for. A tosser." He said coldly.
Sherlock swallowed.
"No, I don't."
"Very well, then. I assume you will put my advice to good use?" asked Mycroft
Sherlock looked down and nodded. Moycroft sat down next to him on his little bed.
"You know, when I find a suitable apartment, and am in a good job, we'll be out of here where she won't bother you.. I promise." he said in a more gentle tone. Sherlock looked up at him with a troubled look.
"Why does mother treat me like this? Why doesn't she act like that toward you?" he demanded.
Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Thought you would've guessed that by now." he retorted. Sherlock continued to stare at him, demanding an answer. Mycroft sighed.
"You look like him. It makes her. . .unsettled." said Mycroft. Sherlock thought this over, and for the first time, he didn't feel sad his father left, he was angry. Angry someone could do something like that to his own family.
"I thought he cared for her." he whispered to his older brother.
"Ah, caring. The second you grow attached to something its ripped away. Its better to detach yourself, Sherlock. Less pain."
As sherlock grew older, he became colder toward people who tried to engage with him. The second he was picked on he would turn on people with a steady and quick stream of words that startled them. It would begin with accusations, then proof of his accusations he seemed to pull from thin air. He would then tie it up nicely with a statement on how dull they were. People began to stay clear of him, and he was fine with it. He preferred it highly. When Sherlock turned eleven and Moycroft eighteen, Mycroft had secured a job. He fulfilled his promise and took sherlock out of the care of his mother. But he was quick to send sherlock to a special school where he would "benefit." Sherlock didn't. He got into trouble on a daily basis for upsetting students. Mycroft made over thirteen trips to the school to talk to him in a time span of about five months.
"Sherlock, you must take this education seriously. You are acting like a child." he would say angrily.
"I'm not the childish one. They can't see what's right before their eyes and somehow it's my fault!" Sherlock snapped back.
"Sherlock, sometimes I don't know what the hell to do with you." muttered Mycroft.
"Don't! You're not my parent, I don't need you. I don't need anyone, you said so yourself."
"So I did. But you do need me in the sense you have nowhere to go. I suggest you think nice and hard about that next time you're in the office for being so careless." He said cooly.
Sherlock never graduated. he lived with Mycroft until he was seventeen. He shifted from place to place, never stable in a job or home. He would work for a short time training for the medical field, but dropped out. When he was twenty-one, He solved his first case. There was a crime on the news about a murder. He looked into it out of boredom and curiosity. He tried talking to the police about his investigation, but they scoffed and turned him away. Fueled by this, he got himself into St. Barts by pretending to be a Pathologist. He needed to get more solid information on the investigation he was doing. He wasn't caught. He didn't even seem to rouse suspicion. So he did it again the next day and the next, until he had a very detailed conclusion. Then, without hesitation, walked right up to the chief inspector himself and presented his case.
"Bloody- who are you? were you put on this case?" Demanded the chief inspector after a look at the papers he was handed along with a long stream of words to quick for him to catch.
"Sherlock Holmes. The case drew my attention. I decided to intervene and set you straight. Lord knows you lot could use all the help you could get." he said stonily
"I. . .How. . ."
"Far too easy to detect someone who is impersonating another. I've made myself a new identification. I'd go into the details but you look quite lost now as it is." said Sherlock with a smirk.
"Shall I escort him out sir?" asked an officer. The inspector looked Sherlock up and down in amazement then considered his papers a second time.
"No. . .no I don't think so." he said looking up. "Confine him until the suspect is arrested."
Sherlock went without protest and awaited the arrival of the murderer in a four-walled room with nothing but a sink, a toilet, and a wicker chair. About five hours later, the chief inspector walked in with an incredulous look on his face.
"The evidence you said would be there . . . was indeed there." He said slowly. "Weapons and all.
"If you or any member of your team thinks I have anything to do with it you are mistaken." said Sherlock quickly but calmly.
"How did you know the place we would most likely find him?" questioned the Inspector.
"I've noticed suspicious activity there lately. I moved into a flat barely a block from the place. For verification you can call-"
"No need. We're letting you go. But . . . what drove you look into it? How did you find all this information?"
"Curiosity. I was quite bored. And, I observed. I didn't stop at what my eyes saw first, I looked deeper, and allowed myself to notice." He answered quickly getting up and walking toward the inspector. The inspector blinked, shook off his lost look, and held out his hand.
"Detective inspector Lestrade. I hope to see more of you."
"You will." said sherlock, walking right past him and down the hall.