Once upon a time there were two young princes. Each little boy was utterly enamored of their mother, the Queen, and each in their own way tried to win her attention. The elder brother, Mycroft, was the dutiful son, the heir, the one Mummy trusted in his teens to be ambassador and councilor and would one day be a fine king. The younger, Sherlock, played his violin for Mummy and behaved abominably the rest of the time, leaving dissected frogs and sheep's eyeballs in the strangest of crannies in the castle. He would never make a good prince and it was lucky he would not be king, for the kingdom would forever be at war for the unrestrained comments that would fly from his mouth.

Prince Mycroft thought that Mummy loved Prince Sherlock best despite his behavior. She was too tolerant, too lenient, and she smiled too fondly at her beautiful son.

Prince Mycroft became bitter as he grew up and started taking more and more of the responsibility of taking care of the kingdom while Sherlock grew only more dissolute and uncontrollable as he came of age. His brother was clearly mad, a detriment to the future of the kingdom, whispered his closest advisor. After all, what if Mycroft himself died without issue? The kingdom would fall to Sherlock and it would surely disintegrate into a chaotic ruin within a year.

The only way to ensure that this would not happen was to make sure Sherlock perished first.

Preferably soon.

An accident. Everyone would believe an accident, whispered the advisor when he and Prince Mycroft were in closed quarters. Prince Sherlock is careless, he said. No one, not even the Queen, will suspect anything.

And this was true. Sherlock had converted part of the dungeons into a laboratory, where he could experiment in peace far from the living areas of the castle. He often mixed chemicals together just to see the results, and many times, this had resulted in fumes and smoke and in liquids that burned through tabletops.

Therefore, when the accidents started happening, no one really noticed. When two flasks got mixed up and caused a small but smoky explosion, Sherlock just stormed up to his room and hid away until he could stop coughing. He appeared when summoned later, stroppy and disgruntled, upset that he'd made such a stupid miscalculation.

It wasn't until the third time that Sherlock saw the pattern and began to look furtively at those who came and went in the lower parts of the castle.

It also didn't take him long to recognize the expression of disappointment on his brother's face once he was looking for it. The advisor's face held unrestrained glee, knowing that Prince Sherlock knew and could do nothing about it.

Mummy had fallen ill by this time and Sherlock didn't think he could take his suspicions to her. And if she died, Mycroft would become king. At that point, it was likely that the attempts on his life would be more relentless and less discreet. After all, Mummy wouldn't be there to mourn him.

So the night his mother breathed her last, Sherlock left the castle. He stole the clothing and cape of a servant, still finer than commonly worn by the common folk of the kingdom, a bit of bread and cheese, a water skin and a few coins. He wasn't sure where he could go that would be safe, but anywhere else would be safer than the castle.

And this is where our story begins.