Hello! This is the first chapter of a sort of side-along fic for my other story, Winter In My Heart (shameless plug there, I know). The basic premise is that this is a story that Sherlock's mother read to him. Sounds odd, but hopefully it will work ;D By no means do you have to read that to understand this one, but I've tried to make sure that the themes of this story fit with the themes of the other story... Yeah. OK. I'll shut up now.

Oh! One last thing! You've probably heard about Sherlock being nominated for the BAFTA Audience Choice Award thingy, and it's up against The Killing, Downton Abbey, Miranda, The Only Way Is Essex and Big Fat Gypsy Weddings. I'm kind of taking on a crusade of forcing my friends to vote for Sherlock, and I thought I'd plug it for those who didn't know. Please vote? Please? C'mon, do we really want TOWIE to win? Really? Sherlock would be so upset!

Sherlock had always had a somewhat turbulent relationship when it came to the imaginary. On the one hand, his coldly logical mind rejected the world of wizards and dragons, even at a young age. On the other hand… Something indescribable had drawn him to tales of fantasy. And who wouldn't, with the magical tales his mother told him? And though Sherlock berated himself for it later, he had begun to believe in the power of stories. He had become just like every other seven year old child, blindly accepting the idea that there would always be a happy ending. It would soon be stopped.

He was an inquisitive child, he always had been, his curiosity occasionally lapsing into morbid fascination whenever he found something that held his interest for too long. He spent most of his time alone, away from other people, observing and recording and judging the world that he lived in. He rarely spoke to Mycroft- a seventeen year old boy could hardly be expected to play with a seven year old- but every night, Sherlock's mother would offer to read Mycroft a story with them.

'Mother,' Mycroft said hotly. 'I am far too old for fairy tales.' And with that, he huffily marched away, his long nose held priggishly aloft in the air.

Sherlock and his mother sat in his bedroom, trying to restrain their hysterical giggles.

'We shouldn't laugh,' she gasped.

'We should,' said Sherlock. 'It's his fault if he's going to be so moody. "I am far too old for fairy tales"' Sherlock imitated, screwing his face up into a pretentious sneer, sending his mother into fits of laughter once more.

'Oh Sherlock,' she said, ruffling his dark mess of curls. He frowned playfully. 'What story would you like, hmmm?'

Sherlock's eyes glinted mischievously. 'A new one?'

His mother smiled. 'I did have an idea for a very long story, if you want to hear that. A fairy tale.'

Sherlock scowled, but there was no meaning behind it. He loved her stories. 'I suppose…'

'Alright then." She cleared her throat, before tucking Sherlock into bed. Adopting her best, story telling voice, she began.

'In a kingdom by the sea, there was a kind and loving King, who adored his country and his public dearly. He considered them his family, his friends and his responsibility to look after. The King ran his empire justly and thus gained the trust of his community. His Queen was a simple country girl of humble origins, but one who was bright enough to catch the noble ruler's eye. But their story is for another place and another time, our tale concerns what happened afterwards. They married, and had two sons. One, the eldest, was the most intelligent and most stately boy in the realm, and his parents loved him. He knew every word in the dictionary, he knew about everything there was to know. The other, the youngest, knew everything he thought was necessary. Because what this little boy had was raw genius, waiting to be polished into something brilliant and dazzling. He was a diamond in the rough.'

Sherlock laughed. 'Oh mother'.

'What?'

'Shameless self insertion. You are the Queen, Father is the King and Mycroft and I are the sons. It's obvious.'

She gave him a small half smile, not sure whether to be annoyed that he had criticised her, or proud that he had been smart enough to notice. Smart enough to know what 'self insertion' was, for that matter. 'Do you want to hear the story or not?'

Sherlock shut up rather quickly, managing a quiet 'Yes.'

'Good.' She coughed once again. 'There they lived, in peaceful harmony with all those around them, until one day. The King had decided that, to commemorate the anniversary of their treaty with the Shadow Kingdom, he would hold a huge festival in the streets of the land. There was to be celebration in every street, in every house, with every family, and people rejoiced at the opportunity to be with their ruler and his family. The royal family of the Shadow Kingdom would also join them in their celebrations later that night, when they would arrive at the palace to meet the King and his family. The people from the Shadow Kingdom were of equal dominion to the King, but without union between them there would be uproar in the cities. Luckily, the King was a gentle and kind enough man to rule his domain and guard the relationship between the worlds carefully, so was beloved by all who met him.

'Except for one- one person did not love the King. There was an elderly woman who lived in the darkest area of the kingdom, a place where grown men feared to go. Her house was down a narrow alleyway, and virtually no sunlight reached her where she sat in her bedroom, practising magic with mirrors. Now, what you have to learn about mirrors is that they deceive people, they are tricksters. They make you trust the wrong things, the wrong people, they'll twist your view until all you see is you, if you stare at them for too long. But mirrors have power, and mirrors can be manipulated if you know how.

'Such was the wisdom of the old lady who whispered to mirrors. Because, yes, she was wise, wise indeed, but staring at the mirrors for too long had made her ill. They made her heart grow colder, because there's no warmth in a mirror, only a reflection of warmth. These mirrors drove the old woman mad, until even the bravest and most loyal like the King became her enemies. Every night, she whispered to the mirrors, and they told her secrets about the King.'

His mother noticed that Sherlock seemed a little saddened by that. She smiled at him, her dark eyes agleam even in the relative dusk of the room. 'A mirror is a connection to another mirror, did you know that?'

Sherlock snorted, his tiny arms crossed defiantly. 'Rubbish.'

She grinned. 'Mirrors are all joined, and you can see through them to other rooms, other cities, other worlds, if you know how. The old lady whispered to the mirrors, "Show me the King"'.

She had adopted a strangled, croaky voice for the old woman, and Sherlock giggled. She smiled too. 'And they did, they showed her the King wherever he was, and every night she would watch him, to see what he was planning. One night, the night before the jubilee in fact, she saw the King eating dinner with his family.

'"What's this?" she asked herself.

'The King and his family were happily feasting, and the old woman watched them chat to each other. She saw the brilliance of the family, their perfection; and this perfection turned to resentment and bile in her mouth. The old woman had no children, she had no friends, and worst of all, the sun would not shine on her home. She wanted what they had. She saw the joy that they brought to the King and decided that she wanted to stop it. If she could not have such happiness, no one would.

'She whispered, "Show me the children."

'The two boys were sitting happily together. One was far older than the other, a good ten years. He was around 16, proud and intelligent. But the younger boy, he was still a child, still impressionable, still innocent. Something she could call her own. And then, the old woman decided that she wanted the little boy to be hers.'

Sherlock's mother glanced over at him, checking to see his reaction. People who did not know Sherlock would have thought him unaffected by the story, his face was impassive and calm. However, his mother spotted the light shimmering in his eyes, the slight smirk that the boy put on whenever he was feeling particularly happy.

'Carry on!' he said, half impatiently, half desperately.

'The next day, the family were to be part of the procession in their royal carriage, the roof open so the King could wave to his people. Thousands of joyous people cried out loudly along the parade route, waving flags of brilliant blue and gold, the state's national colours. In fact, everywhere within the King's territory was celebrating- except one passage way. The coach reached the dark and dangerous street where the old woman lived, where no decorations were hung, and no flags were waved.

'"What is the meaning of this?" said the King. "Everyone is to rejoice the anniversary of our pact." He turned to his footman. "Who lives down this street?"

'"No one," said the footman. "Save an elderly beggar woman at the very end, sir."

'"Why does she not celebrate?" asked the Queen.

'"No one dares ask her, your majesty," the footman replied. "She is mad."

'"Mad she may be, but surely she enjoys the merriment?"

'"Apparently not, your grace."

'The King looked gravely at the Queen for a moments. "What can we do to help this poor woman?"

'"Perhaps we could visit her?" she replied. "To let her know that she is welcome?"

'The King nodded, and instructed the guards to steer the chariot down into the alley. Further and further they travelled, onwards down the narrow road, and the light from the rest of the town began to fade. Still, they travelled forwards to the house, until all light faded completely. They could not possibly see where they were.

'"This darkness," said the Queen. "How is this possible? It's the middle of the day!"

'The guards took out their lanterns, but as hard as they tried, they could not get them to light. They were alone in the deep gloom, unable to see.

'For the old woman had lured the King down her alley for a reason, and there she hid, her eyes used to the dusk. She saw the youngest son, sitting next to his mother but near enough for her to take him. She reached out with her wrinkled hands and clamped her long fingers over his mouth, so he could not make a single sound or cry out at all. The little boy struggled as best he could, but the old woman's arms were surprisingly strong and they held him in place tightly. Quickly, she stole the little boy from where he sat in the carriage, and slunk away into the darkness of the path.

The little boy could hear the shrieks of his mother, and tried to call to her, but the old woman's fingers still restricted his voice. She took the little boy away to her house, and chained him up, alone in the dark.'

Sherlock let out a small noise, somewhere between a derisive laugh and a whimper. She had not meant to scare him, she only wanted to keep him interested.

'Are you alright, darling?' she asked him.

'Yes,' he said, quieter now than before. Sherlock would never admit he was scared-likewise he would never admit he was wrong.

She continued. 'Now, you mustn't blame the old lady for what she did, by this point she was quite mad. She cared for the little boy, loved him even, but she did not understand how to look after a child. He had to fend for himself, feed himself with food from her kitchen and learn to adjust to the darkness around him. Once a day, he was allowed to stare out of the window with the old woman, and she would tell him stories about the people who lived in the country.

'"You can't trust them," she would say to the little boy warningly. "The people who live out there are twisted and vicious. They will hurt you if you try and be friendly to them."

'Whilst the little boy never fully warmed to the old lady, he began to fear the outside world as much as he did his own captor, and eventually he began to forget who he was and who his family were.

'His own family did not forget about him, and why he had been taken. His mother, the Queen, became very depressed from the loss of her son. It ate away at her, and eventually all she would do is stay in her room, staring out of the window. The maids often heard her whisper "Come back to me," to the world below her, but she never heard a reply. The empire was left in deep distress by the kidnapping of the young prince, and they set out to find their lost child. Every corner, every inch of the realm was searched for the little boy, but to no avail. In the street where he had disappeared, no one could see an inch in front of their faces. How could they know where he had been taken? The public grew ever desperate, and as despairing and forlorn people often do, they seized upon a chance to blame someone for the prince's disappearance.

'Tension grew between the King and the Shadow Kingdom- after all, the little boy had been stolen in the depths of the dark. The King believed that the Shadows had taken his son from them, and were refusing to give him back. Of course, the denizens of the Shadow Kingdom had no idea what had happened, and thought that the King was trying to start a war between the worlds. Both rulers were wise and noble, so they knew that they must avoid war at all costs- but relations were bitter and restless from then on.

'The little boy knew nothing of this, growing up in the darkness of the house without any contact with the rest of the land. When there is no light in your life, things can often grow cold and detached, and this was the case with our hero. He knew no other people except the old woman he lived with, and she neglected him. Why should he trust others? He had no positive experiences to remember. And so, over the passing of time, the little boy's heart grew cold, and the mirrors laughed, because this was exactly what they wanted.

'And, as the time passed, the old woman died. She was, after all, incredibly old, and her life had been hard. I must reiterate this, you cannot blame the elderly lady, she was not well at all. The young boy, now nine, saw this as his chance to escape. He prised off the old and rusty locks that kept him in place in the house, and ran to the window where he would escape from. He was about to leap from the room, when he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirrors that hung there.

The mirrors did not want the prince to leave, they were certain of that, and they had had plenty of time to distort his mind.

'"Don't leave," they pleaded. "We will miss you!"' Sherlock's mother put on a rattling, breathy voice to give them an eery air of mistrust.

'The prince hesitated, still perched daintily on the window sill.

'"Stay here with us!"

'He turned towards the open sky and the ground below, brimming with people. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, and tried to climb down.

'"They'll reject you!" the mirrors shrieked, stopping the prince in his tracks. "The old woman told you, they will hurt you like they hurt her."

'The little boy clambered back into the room, and picked up one of the mirrors. "I'm sure it can't be that bad."

'"They'll think you're a freak. You are a freak. Look at you!" And as the little boy saw his face in the mirror, it became… something else. It was exactly the same as it had always been, except now- Now, it repulsed him. It felt wrong to look at, like it was disgusting. This distortion was unnerving. Revulsion stung his throat as the boy stood staring at his appearance with fascinating horror. It sickened him to his very core.

'"Who would accept something so very unnatural?" the mirrors cackled. "Except us. We love you. Stay with us."

'Mirrors have sway over us all, they make us believe things that we shouldn't, but to a vulnerable and neglected boy like the prince, he was affected worse than most. He gave one last, lingering look at the outside world, before he bolted the windows shut.

Sherlock's mother glanced at the clock on the bedside table. 'It's getting late,' she said wearily.

'Please!' Sherlock tugged on the hem of her skirt. 'Just a bit longer!'

'Fine,' she sighed. 'And so the years passed, without interest, without excitement. The little boy grew older, and ventured outside only to steal food from the local stalls- he had no way of earning money for himself. He hid from the people, for fear they would beat him, and without any evidence to the contrary, he took this mantra to heart. As he aged, his heart grew colder still, such was the lack of human contact and warmth in his life, until it was barely there at all.

'The area, as I've said, was violent and frightening for the young boy, even when he grew a little older still. Men would hammer on the door of the house, drunk and filled with rage, demanding to be let in. At times like this, the boy- for he was no longer little- would hide in one of the darkest corners of the house, before curling up into a ball and humming a tune to himself.

'Except one night, when the boy was twelve, he was forced to run from the house he had known for half his life. He awoke to the sound of drunken yelling, the laughter of men who had consumed too much beer. He could smell the alcohol from where he slept; it reeked from them, mingling with the stench of dirt and sweat. He could not make out what the men were saying, but he knew that it frightened him. The unintelligible mumbling grew louder and louder, until the little boy saw a sudden burst of light through the cracks in the door.

'You must remember that this boy, this poor neglected child, he did not often see light, only when he was so hungry that he was forced to venture outside. He did not at first realise what the light was, but it hypnotised him from the moment he saw it. The smouldering brightness blazed dazzlingly in the shadows of the house, its shimmering heat drawing the boy inexplicably towards it. He brought his hand up to meet the fierce incandescent glow that was surrounding the door, and pain streaked through his body. In sudden realisation, the boy understood what the light was- it was the burning passion of fire. The flames licked the door, desperately attempting to reach the boy where he stood. Flickering fire had spread to the walls of the house now, tearing at the building and allowing smoke to fill the rooms. Terrified, the boy ran to the window of the bedroom that he had long ago bolted shut, pulling desperately at the locks and chains.

'"Don't leave!" the mirrors screamed. "Don't leave us!"

'The prince was too terrified to hear the voices of the mirrors, finally managing to hurl the windows open. He hastily struggle onto the edge of the window, the blazing heat behind him contrasting with the cool night's air. He braced himself, counted to three, and then leaped from the room.

'The boy landed with a shuddering thud on the ground, rolling as he landed. Pain shot through his limbs, and he heard a horrible snap in his arm. Tears in his eyes, the boy struggled to his feet, staggering down the street and away from the wreckage of his home.'

Sherlock's mother stopped, only now realizing the fear reflected in Sherlock's eyes. 'Oh, I'm sorry darling, I didn't mean to frighten you.'

'I'm not frightened!' Sherlock said indignantly, but he did not look angry when his mother hugged him tightly.

'I won't tell that story again,' she said, softly stroking his hair.

'Please do,' Sherlock said, almost desperately. 'I like it. I want to know how it ends.'

Sherlock never told his mother, but he had had nightmares that night. He could barely remember them now, but he knew there had been fire, and his mother had been screaming. Oddly, the way that his mother had reassuringly hugged him made him feel less inclined to asking her for help. She smelt of flowery perfume and warmth and everything good in the world, and she loved him. Him. The idea of having someone so unfailingly proud of everything he did, it made him want to seem strong. Why, he was never sure. But he knew he could never allow himself to look weak. Not ever.

A/N I finally figured out how to do those line things :D Go me! Did you like it? I'll contiue it if people do, but if they don't I'll take it off. I'm ever so slightly worried that people won't... Care to tell me if my paranoia is justified? Click that blue button below. Go on... You know you want to. Please? *offers John's stripey jumper*