I Cannot Feel The Fire

Chapter One - Musgrave House

Sherlock

Musgrave House wasn't really a house. It was more like an academy; a place of learning, quiet and respect. But it wasn't only children who came here to learn. It was babies, forcibly removed from their mothers while they were sleeping. Adults who'd been going since the day they were born, for they hadn't completed their learning yet, and had no where else to go.

It was only the special children that were chosen to go, you couldn't just waltz in. You had to be carefully selected from birth, with the right DNA and genes to be initiated. But when you were chosen, you had no choice but to go. Parent's fought as the men in dark suits took their newly born child away from them, into the mysterious but highly protected Musgrave House. These children were never seen by their parents again, even if they did, by the time they were allowed out of Musgrave's accomodation, they'd be too old to recognise.

Once inside, these children weren't taught Maths, English or science, nothing like that. Their lessons ranged from anything from emotional detachment to reading people and objects like a book - or deduction as it was called by the professers there.

This 'school' was training them to become members of the Elite. One of the highest thought of races of mankind. They were cold, emotionless but brutally clever. A nessecity to police forces and members of the medicinal proffesion. There were very few fully trained members of the Elite, only about ten in the whole world. The rest were still at Musgrave House, people in their thirty's, still not quite done yet.

Mycroft Holmes and his little brother Sherlock were two members of the Elite. Mycroft was the best of the best, smart, powerful, uncaring but understanding of everything. He was part of the British government, no, he was the British government. If he said jump they said how high. Mycroft was forty-two, and had only finished his training two years ago. Sherlock was still in the academy, but well on his way to leaving. He was almost completley trained and at thirty-five, he was the youngest member to be even close to being let go. Once let go he would get a job as a consulting detective to scotland yard, the Detective Inspecter had pretty much placed dibs on him when he found out that he would be leaving the academy soon.

Mycroft of course wanted Sherlock to come into power with the government, like he had. But Sherlock was adamant that his brother would not rule his life like he had done when they were both in the academy.

"Don't you want a position of power? You'll be bored working with them, the ordinary ones." Mycroft had told him just before he left for good.

"No. I don't want any more time with you than necessary. Working with you would be of no enjoyment to me."

"Your not supposed to enjoy yourself, Sherlock. That's what the academy has said all these years."

That was true, but Sherlock had never really listened to the academy once he was past twelve. Whilst Mycroft was the best (in the academy's minds anyway), Sherlock was certinately the quicker learner. He'd learned the lessons taught to the twenty year olds at ten, by the time he was twelve he was a natural, showing no emotions for anyone. The only two people ever to get a response out of him was Mycroft and a youger student named Jim Moriarty. Both knew how to push his buttons, Moriarty especially. Sherlock never thought him a good choice for the academy. He was too reckless, angry and psycotic. He couldn't control his emotions, he couldn't just let them go like Sherlock and Mycroft had been able to. He'd be there for a long time. It was Moriarty who would torment him now that Mycroft had gone. He'd be worse than ever, insufferable in every way, a disease in Sherlock's life that wouldn't be cured until he'd left the care of the academy. Every time he begged to leave, they'd keep him in longer. Telling him that there was still work to be done, he couldn't be ready yet, no one as young as him was ever ready. But he was! He knew he was, he was as sociopathic as the rest of them.

In a way - and Sherlock didn't realise this - he wasn't ready to leave. Sherlock was... different from the rest of the 'students'. No matter what he said, he did feel things. They weren't the normal emotions that people felt, he'd never liked anyone particularly, nor had he felt sad or scared or happy. He was content, a constant state of thinking and seeing. But he got bored, so bored, so easily. It was like a constant battle in his head, always after something to do, but whatever that something was, he completed it so quickly that it seemed like he'd done nothing at all. The only thing that sated his desire for a distraction was the little mysterious that surrounded Musgrave. Students sometimes disappeared, the men in the black coats were only around when a new baby was inducted, where and who were they the rest of the time? When boredom became too much for Sherlock he entertained himself trying to solve these little puzzles. He'd never managed, he'd come close, but whenever the answer was in his grasp new evidence would be discovered that shut it down.

This was how he was entertaining himself now. It was dark at Musgrave House. The country side was always darker before the cities. This was a benefit of the academy. It was surrounded by woods and feilds, great places to walk when bored. Sherlock was outside in one of the many courtyards. Or rather, he was hiding in the shadow of an archway leading into one of the many courtyards. In the still darkness, he could only make out the silhouette of the fountain, the benches and the trees. But he could hear muffled voices, whispering quickly to each other. He craned his neck and squinted, but the two people talking couldn't be seen. They must be on the other side of the fountain, hidden in shadows and behind marble. He knew they were both Black Suits - the cruel men who took the babies away - for he'd followed them from the main hall. He was determined to find out what they were doing, whose orders they were following, for it clearly wasn't the headmasters. That old todger couldn't do anything now a days, he had no authority over anyone in the academy. All Sherlock knew about them was that they were all between forty and fifty, muscular brutes who relied on violence and a tough manner to deal with all situations. The suits hid weapons, guns and blades that were never used to hurt, just to threaten. They were told not to kill then, for these guys looked as though they'd kill anyone without batting an eyelid, whoever they were working for was powerful enough to keep the malicious side of them dormant until told otherwise.

A cool night breeze blew through Sherlock's dark hair and he shivered. He began to grow impatient, he tapped his fingers impatiently on the cool stone arch he was leaning on. "Come on, come on, just a little closer." The muffled voices were getting very slowly louder. It seemed like they'd moved, maybe sat on the bench of the fountain. If they were, it wouldn't be long before...

"Oh, fuck! This is a new suit! It's gonna get soaked." There. The cold spray of the fountain may seem tame at first, but whenever someone sat on it's edge, it was gaurenteed to get you the moment the wind changed. Sherlock smiled, they'd move now, probably closer. Yes, there! He could see them now, ten foot away from him, sat on a small wooden bench under a sycamore tree. He saw a small orange glow, a lighter. Soon after, both men were smoking slowly and infuraitingly silently.

Sherlock frowned, he mentally begged them to hurry, he was wearing nothing but a black shirt and black trousers, he was freezing in the late autumn night.

As if they'd heard his mental reproach, they began talking again.

"He's not going to like it. You know he ain't."

"He's gonna have to. I can't put up with his shit anymore, what does he think we are, dogs?"

Sherlock was listening intently to this conversation. Obviously there would be an uprising of some kind, maybe from this one man who was unhappy or from as many as he could get. The Black Shirts worked as teams usually, they always travelled in more than threes. It was likely that whoever this man was, he wasn't planning on working alone.

"Yeah, that's exactly what he thinks! He treats us like dogs cus that's all we are to him. Dog's on leads. But we can't come off that lead cus he'll be there waiting with a gun. Bad dog's get put down. D'you want that?"

There was silence for a moment, Sherlock had a grin on his face. Finally, something interesting. Who was this man? Who was the owner of the bad dogs? He wanted to find out more, desperately wanted them to slip the name of the man in control. He tapped the arch quicker, tapping his feet too in his impatience.

"No, I don't. But it ain't gonna stop me. This is gonna happen, i'm gonna make it happen. And there's nothing you can say to stop me, I've gotta overthrow him, he's gonna kill us all."

"I'm afraid I can't let that happen." Sherlock heard a faint movement then a gurgling noise that meant the other man was choking, being strangled? No, choking on something... Sherlock heard him hit his head on the tree behind his head, dead. The killer stood up and chuckled slightly.

"Been wanting to do that for a long time." He walked off, blowing the last of his cigarette smoke into the air behind him.

The night fell silent as his footsteps died away. He'd just killed a man, slit his throat and made him choke on his own blood - that seemed the most likely explanation to his death. Sherlock leaned back against the arch, breathing heavily. He was so close to finding out who was in control, so close, and then his source was murdered. How was he supposed to find out more now? This courtyard would be closed for a week so they could investigate his murder, it would take him ages to find another Black Shirt he could follow without being caught.

"Damn it!" He growled, punching the wall opposite him. With a sigh he stalked off down the open corridor and into the builing. The sudden glare of lights made him wince, but luckily the corridor was empty. He walked slowly towards the stairs, almost glad in a way that the murder had happened. That detective inspector would be here tomorrow when someone found the body, he liked him. The inspector always asked for his opinion, always wanted to know what Sherlock thought. It was nice being the center of attention, he would definately work for them without a qualm.

Once back in his room, he flopped onto his bed and toed off his shoes. He began unbuttoning his top, still shivering as his body had not yet regulated the temperature. He stripped until he was in his boxers then crawled under the thick duvet and buried his face in the soft pillow. He shivered a final time before warmth and sleepiness calmed him. He hadn't slept in two days, he welcomed the drowsiness. But he couldn't sleep yet, he just had to think a little while longer...

He knew that normal people would care about the dead man, pity him. Sherlock just wanted to know why he had to die. What was he talking about? Most likely an uprising, but why? Who was in control, why did he treat them badly? He had so many unanswered questions that he feared he'd never get the answer to. He was going to be so bored, trailing around, looking for leads. He didn't even know what kind of leads to look for! But he couldn't leave the academy until this was sorted. He didn't want to, he had an exciting mystery now, a case that he could work on to keep boredom at bay.

Which unfortunately, wasn't very good for him. Becuase when he woke up the next morning, he was beckoned into the headmasters office.

"Mr Scott." Sherlock greeted him with a firm handshake and took to the large leather seat in front of the desk.

"Mr Holmes." The headmaster steepled his fingers under his chin and grinned. His gray beard was too thick, his glasses too square, his ears too big, it was all very distracting. Sherlock forced himself to concentrate on just his voice. "I'm sure your aware that your progress here has been rapid and very succesful. Your our best, as good as Mycroft, in some cases better. We know how desperate you are to leave, god know's you've asked us often enough, so, with my permission, you may leave Musgrave House whenever you wish, with an open invitation to come back and visit whenever you like."

Sherlock froze in the seat. Visit? As in, leave then come back for a temporary amount of time? He stared at the headteacher intently, hoping to find him lying, but his face and hands said he was telling the truth. He was being let go, given permission to join the other ten members of the Elite, ready to leave.

"I can't."

"I'm sorry? I thought this was what you wanted." The head leaned forwards slightly, raising his eyebrow at Sherlock.

"Somethings come up, I can't leave just yet." Sherlock stood up, assuming that he could leave but the head coughed.

"Sherlock. You've found nothing interesting at Murgrave House since you were six. You've been constantly bored. What, could possibly be so entertaining that you now want to stay?"

Sherlock shook his head slightly, "I can't say just yet."

"Look, I know you. Whatever you've found out, it's probably very important. Trivia frustrates you, you've been surrounded by nothing but trivia for years. Whatever this is, I need to know."

Sherlock said nothing, just lifted both his eyebrows. He stared, saying nothing, doing nothing, keeping his face completely neutral. This was a skill he learned from a very young age. If he kept his face clear of everything, then no one could deduce him, he kept himself to himself, which was fine with him.

"Are you going to tell me?"

"I don't think it concerns you. Now, if you don't mind, i'll be staying for a little while longer."

"No. Detective Inspector Lestrade will be here later to pick you up. You are leaving, Sherlock."

"Is he not here already?"

"Should he be?" Ok, so the head didn't know about the murder yet. Well, he was definately going to find out soon. Classes started in half an hour, in thiry minutes students would be flocking the courtyard, investigating and deducing what they believed happened. Of course, all their theory's would be wrong, no one was as good at deduction as Sherlock.

"No, not at all. Goodbye." Sherlock ignored the call of the head as he left, slamming the door behind him. He walked quickly back to his room, gathering his stuff into a duffle bag. He wouldn't leave, he'd just make them think that he had. Lestrade would come for him, but he'd leave a note telling him he'd got the bus into London. He'd believe it, he had no reason not to. And when they found his room empty with clothes missing, they'd assume he was really gone. He'd stay, of course he would, hiding in unused rooms until the mystery was solved, what else could he do? Finally, something in life was interesting to him, something he wanted to do, they were not going to let that slip out of his grasp.

A/N Don't worry, I know this chapter was all Sherlock, but John will be coming into it very soon, It's not all about Sherlock. Promise.

Review Please! :)