A/N: Well... I don't think I can ever do justice to this poem... but this was my first attempt at a Sherlock Fanfiction and I wrote it because after reading this poem in Military History in school, I couldn't get the idea out of my head. So please, try to enjoy it and feel free to leave feedback.

I knew a simple soldier boy

Who grinned at life in empty joy,

Slept soundly through the lonesome dark,

And whistled early with the lark.

In winter trenches, cowed and glum,

With crumps and lice and lack of rum,

He put a bullet through his brain,

No one spoke of him again.

You smug-faced crowd with kindling eyes

Who cheer when soldier lads march by,

Sneak home and pray you'll never know

The hell where youth and laughter go.

(Suicide in the Trenches – Siegfried Sassoon)

"When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, You see the battlefield." – Mycroft Holmes (Sherlock – A Study in Pink)

"Sherlock!"

A dark curly-haired boy, about the age of seven, looked up from his game, blue eyes wide as he turned to look at me.

I lifted a hand and waved, smiling as my little brother's eyes widened. He turned back to his friend, said something then dropped the stick he'd been using as a sword, and bounded across the field to my side.

"Mycroft! Did you come to play with me and Paul?"

I looked past Sherlock and smiled at Sherlock's friend, who still stood at the other end of the field, a stick held loosely in his hand. He had sandy blonde hair and green eyes. The boy looked absolutely exhausted.

Returning my gaze to Sherlock I shook my head, "No, I came to retrieve you for dinner."

Sherlock's face fell and I sighed internally, "Would you like to invite Paul over?"

My brother's face lit up and immediately he turned to race back across the field, shouting to the other child before he even hit the half way point of the field. I waited patiently, twirling my umbrella, as I watched Paul and Sherlock talk to each other for a minute before Sherlock returned with Paul tagging along behind, his head lowered.

"Hello Paul." I said, offering a smile.

Dull green eyes flickered up to meet my gaze for a second before the boy looked away. I frowned, up close, he was a wreck. His hair was knotted and matted with dirk. His eyes lacked the bright glow that Sherlock's had and his skin was bruised in places, yellow and blue. Before I had a chance to comment on his appearance, he spoke, his voice timid and quiet.

"Thanks for the invitation Mycroft, but I have to go. See you, Sherlock."

Sherlock, unaware of his friend's appearance, gave him a quick hug and said good-bye before turning to me and grinning. I took his hand in mine as we started back towards home, our conversation quiet and friendly.

"So that's your best friend?" I asked, shaking Sherlock's hand a bit and looking down.

"Yes!" Sherlock exclaimed with a smile almost as big as his face.

I grinned, the world was pure bliss when Sherlock smiled.

"What were you two playing?"

"We weren't playing, Mycroft! We were training!" Sherlock exclaimed with a hint of exasperation, as though this was the simplest thing in the world to deduce.

"Oh really?"

"Yes!"

"Training to do what?"

"Be pirates!"

That nearly stopped me in my tracks. I frowned. A pirate? Really? That was what my little brother wanted to be? My brilliant little brother who could outsmart an adult, wanted to be a pirate. Surely he didn't, it was the most unbelievable thing I'd heard all day.

"Why would you train to be a pirate?"

"Paul and I are going to be the best pirates in the world one day!"

I drew a deep breath and closed my eyes, rubbing the bridge of my nose. My brother was going to be the death of me, piracy wasn't even legal anymore. Still, there was nothing better in the world than seeing Sherlock smile.

"I'm sure you will."

I stood in the doorway to Sherlock's room, leaning slightly against the frame. Sherlock's eyes were closed and his breathing was even as he turned slightly in his sleep. I watched the rise and fall of his chest, allowing the steady rhythm of his breathing calm me. The world was bliss when Sherlock smiled, but there was nothing more calming then watching him sleep.

The innocence of his young age showed fully while he slept. His boyish face relaxed of all emotion, curly strands of hair fluttering lightly over his face as the fan overhead stirred the air in the room. When he got too cold, he'd bury down underneath the covers, curling up in such a way that only the top of his head poked out from underneath the sheets, and when he got too hot, he'd kick everything off his bed and sprawl out, arms and legs dangling off the sides of his bed.

I watched Sherlock for a few more minutes, smiling at the sleeping angel until exhaustion began to weigh down my eyelids. I retreated back to my own room, satisfied that Sherlock was safe and would sleep through the night.

"Myyyyyyycroft!"

I groaned and rolled over, blinking open a bleary eye to find Sherlock's face hovering just a few inches above my own. I frowned, being awakened by a whine at…, I turned my head to check the clock, 3:20 in the morning, had not been on my list of things to do and was not amusing or cute, even if it was Sherlock. I let out a sigh and rubbed my eyes with one hand, using the other to push myself to a sitting position.

"Do you know what time it is Sherlock?" I yawned.

He sat back on his heels and shook his head, blue eyes bright, "Nope! But you're awake now so let's do something!"

I stifled another yawn and shook my head, "I shouldn't be awake and neither should you. Go back to bed."

Sherlock's smile dissolved as he crossed his arms in front of his chest, his face threatening to explode into a full on pout, "I don't want to! It's boring."

I opened my mouth to tell Sherlock to stop being childish, but I lost the words on the tip of my tongue. I couldn't just send my little brother away. I'd never be able to do that. With a sigh I pulled back and sheets and scooted over to the left side of the bed.

"If it's so boring being in your own room then stay here with me for a few hours. I'll you to the field later after breakfast."

Sherlock's face broke into a grin and he scrambled into my bed, immediately curling up against my side, like a puppy begging for attention. I slipped the covers over him and laid back, resting my hand on top of his head and stroking his soft, dark hair. Neither one of us spoke and Sherlock's breathing gradually grew deeper and evened out as he slipped back into sleep. I stopped stroking him and checked the clock again.

3:40

I could probably manage another couple hours of sleep.

Child Found Beaten To Death

We never made it to the park. I made breakfast for myself and Sherlock before sitting down and turning on the telly. I immediately wished I hadn't. I always watched the news while eating breakfast and today was no different, except for the top story.

The top story had me wishing I was still in bed, dreaming. A picture of a small sandy-haired boy with green eyes was the first thing to grace the television this morning. His name was written underneath, Paul. No last name, just Paul. The picture disappeared and as the anchor began to talk, a clip of an arrest was played, the story scrolling underneath.

Paul, age 7, beaten to death by own father. Suspected alcohol involvement.

I quickly turned the telly off and turned to look for Sherlock. He was standing at the top of a flight of stairs, blue eyes wide, toast hanging forgotten from his mouth.

"Sherlock," I said, putting my breakfast aside and standing up.

Blue eyes, dark with emotion shifted to meet mine. The question I was afraid to ask died in the back of my throat and the frozen tears in my brother's eyes shattered my heart in an instant. I was frozen in place as I stared helplessly at my brother. Swallowing bile that was burning the back of my throat, I took a step towards Sherlock and watched as the tears began to flow.

"Sherlock." I repeated, searching his face desperately for something, I didn't know what.

Cloudy blue eyes, blinded by tears, struggled to meet mine as Sherlock stiffened. A battle raged in Sherlock's mind and I knew it, he was frozen as though trying to decide what to do. I took another step towards the stairs, forcing myself to move. I was going to grab hold of my younger brother and never let go.

I never did. When my foot hit the first stair, Sherlock made up his mind. With a stifled cry, Sherlock tore down the stairs and raced from the house before my numbed mind and body could react. When I heard the door slam, I snapped out of my dazed state and turned, bolting after Sherlock, adrenaline pumping through my veins.

"SHERLOCK!" I yelled, racing after my brother.

London was no place for a child to run about alone in and when I reached the end of the street, that sunk in. The road split and it was then, I realized I didn't have a clue which way Sherlock and had gone. My mind went into overdrive as panic set in. The world around me spun and blurred as I took off blindly down one road, stumbling through the streets of London, fighting the urge to throw up.

I don't know how long I looked nor did I care. I just wanted to find Sherlock. Eventually, I found my way back to the house, exhaustion making it hard to move. I hadn't found my brother. He was still out there somewhere, maybe in danger, maybe hungry. I didn't know, I just wanted him in my arms. I wanted to wrap him in a hug and refuse to let go.

I collapsed once inside the house and immediately rid my stomach of bile, coughing up pain as I curled myself into a ball on the ground. Sherlock was lost somewhere in London and I didn't have the energy to keep looking. He was defenseless and anything could happen. Something might have already happened. I should have reacted more quickly, caught him, soothed him, refused to let go. I hadn't done any of those things. Instead I'd been frozen in shock, unable to move and now all I had was myself to blame for Sherlock's disappearance.

I sat on the ground inside the house for hours, anxious fingers pulling through my hair. I couldn't cry anymore, I couldn't throw up. I could only sit and wait and pray that Sherlock would find his way back home in one piece.

When I heard the door open and close, I didn't believe it. When I heard the soft footsteps and the desperate attempts to stop crying, I didn't believe it. When I looked up into the face of my younger brother, watching tears pour from his eyes like waterfalls, I didn't believe it. I only dared to allow myself to believe that my brother really was home when he rushed into my open arms and began to bawl openly into my chest. Then I believed. I wrapped my arms tight around the small shaking frame on my lap and uttered soft sounds, burying my face in his hair.

"It's my fault!" Sherlock cried, his hands curling into little fists, wrinkling my shirt.

"No no. Shh… Sherlock, it's not your fault…" I'd been upset before, but hearing my little brother's broken cries, and hearing the guilt in his voice when he spoke sent another wave of grief through me. I was helpless. I knew nothing I said would help and yet I kept talking, whispering things to Sherlock as he cried his heart out.

"I should have seen!" He insisted, burying his face in my chest and hic-cupping loudly as he struggled to breathe and cry.

"You couldn't have seen."

"He looked horrible. I remember. He looked absolutely horrible, he always did and I never asked. Never bothered to think about why!"

I tried to say something. I couldn't.

"I co-could tell. I didn't tell an-nyone. I didn't say anything. It's my f-f-fault!"

We sat for hours on the floor, I rocking back and forth, soothing Sherlock, rubbing circles on his back. He spent the time crying. Eventually the tears stopped falling. Now I just held Sherlock tightly as he continued to hic-cup with the occasional dry sob. Weariness was taking over, Sherlock's grip on me was loosening and I could tell he struggled to hold on. I sat there with him while he drifted to sleep, still blaming himself.

When he was completely asleep, I somehow managed to stand and carry Sherlock to his bed. I pulled off his shoes and socks before tucking him in and brushing hair out of his tear stained face. I had resolved to go get some sleep but I never made it to my own room. I sat at the end of Sherlock's bed, watching over him as he slept until weariness overtook me and I allowed myself to slip into unconsciousness next to him on the ground.

Six months. I watched Sherlock fight for six months. In six months, I never saw him crack a smile. His once bright eyes had dimmed and Sherlock had stopped eating. He threw himself into studying, retaining some of the information he studied and deleting other bits. He barely talked and when he did, he continued to blame himself. He was almost constantly sick and demanded the attention of others.

It had taken six months but I finally made up my mind. There was one way to fix this and although I hadn't wanted to, I now found myself, in front of Sherlock's door. It was the only solution. What I was prepared to tell my little brother could either help or hurt him more, but I had no other option. Either way, I would lose Sherlock.

I slowly pushed the door open to find Sherlock sitting on his bed, dead eyes staring blankly at the wall. I closed the door behind me and sat on the edge of the bed. Sherlock acknowledged my presence by turning ever so slightly, indicating I was free to be there and to talk.

"Sherlock," I started after taking a deep breath, "Look at me."

He did. He blinked and turned his head to look fully at me. What had once been big beautiful blue eyes were now grey. There was no life behind them. Nothing was going on inside of Sherlock's head, his brain was dead and his body was following.

"It wasn't your fault."

Sherlock didn't respond and I continued to talk.

"You need to let it go. All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

Still no response.

"If you do nothing else, please, for me, think about that. All lives end and there isn't anything you can do about it. If you continue to care for Paul, even though he is dead and nothing can change that, you will inevitably kill yourself. Caring is the biggest disadvantage. You can NOT care."

I swallowed against the pain that tore through my heart and made me want to cry out that it was okay to grieve. I swallowed against the pain that was choking me, making it nearly impossible to talk.

Sherlock still didn't respond and I stood up, turning to the door. I could say nothing else. I could only encourage my sweet little brother to let go of the humanity that I so adored in him. The humanity I had long ago let go of so I could more effectively take care of Sherlock. My hand was on the door when I heard his voice.

"Mycroft."

I turned to look at Sherlock. The faintest spark of life lit his eyes and I felt just the tiniest glimmer of hope.

"I don't want to be a pirate anymore."

Sherlock turned away as I opened the door and left, a war of emotions raging inside of me. Sherlock was going to be okay. He would live, he would survive… but he was dead. The moment life sparked back into his eyes, the little brother I had taken care of for eight years was dead. It had been suicide, but I handed him the loaded gun. He had stopped caring.

"I want to be a detective."

I swallowed and closed the door.

Sherlock was smiling again. The smiles were all empty and I felt the pain behind each one as I watched Sherlock attempt to mingle with the other children in his class. Three months earlier he had taken my advice and stopped caring, now he continued on with life, playing the game, because that's all it was, a game.

I watched as once again, Sherlock did what both fascinated and irritated those around him. I watched him observe. I watched him notice every little thing, not just seeing what was around him, but noticing and deducing the meanings of things then blurting them out without thought for anyone else.

Not that he always deduced things about people, they just happened to be his favorite targets. Someone would lay out a series of facts in a story and Sherlock would launch into a deduction. Adults and children alike would go wide eyed. I watched from afar, barely containing rage as I watched. Sherlock showed no emotion to those who asked him to deduce things. They didn't matter and the deductions didn't matter. He only deduced because that was what would appease the crowd. When the crowd was appeased, they would eventually leave Sherlock alone.

To them it was a magic trick, but to Sherlock it was life. If he wasn't deducing for the other kids his age, or impressing the adults in his life, he was thinking. Always thinking about a problem, becoming bored easily. Even when he had a deduction to do for a crowd, Sherlock was bored. It didn't matter how many people he pleased, he couldn't care less about them.

Every time someone asked for a deduction, Sherlock would oblige with an eye roll and a fast spoken explanation. Every time, his expression of indifference would shimmer for just a second, and he'd allow the pain inside to surface before stuffing it back down. No one ever noticed. No one but me. The deductions were a way to cope. They helped him distance himself but at the same time they cut deeper into his hidden heart, tearing open old wounds.

No one bothered to notice. Sherlock and his ability were just a magic trick, a form of entertainment for snotty nosed brats and ignorant adults. Sherlock had cut me from his life. He no longer cared for me, like he no longer cared for anything, but still I watched from afar, trying my best to protect the little piece of my brother that was buried deep in the rubble of what had once been Sherlock's heart.

I turned away from Sherlock and the throng of people, clamoring for his attention to do a deduction. Laughter rang out from the many voices and I closed my eyes willing it away. I tipped my head back and looked to the sky, tears falling down my face as the sounds faded into the background.

I quietly whispered the end of an old poem to myself, willing away all the changes to my brother since that day, so long ago now.

"Sneak home and pray you'll never know… The hell where youth and laughter go."

A/N: There all done. I do sincerely hope you enjoyed it, it was fun to write... and it ate up my time for working on my final paper for my Lit Theme's class Oh well.

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes is originally Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's character and I have only borrowed him. I also do not own the poem "Suicide In The Trenches" It is a poem from World War One by Siegfried Sassoon.

Please feel free to leave a review thingy. I do appreciate feedback when I write... especially when I write with characters I have never tried before...

Kit Out.