Chapter 1: Sixteen
Sherlock Holmes did not like birthdays. He did not have the patience for them; they were simply an excuse for people to obsess over themselves for a day. It is no miracle and is it something to frivol over, that you survived another year, nor should it be treated so. It is simply an excuse for a party, which, unfortunately, Sherlock's mother is very fond of.
Apparently, sixteen is a very important year. Displeased with his requests for books and some rather expensive lab equipment (it was a ridiculous notion, celebrating a birthday, but not one he pretended not to benefit from), Mother had decided to throw him a party and, since Sherlock did not keep friends, all of the most dubiously boring people in his lineage would be dredged from the bottom of the metaphoric familial barrel. The Holmes clan was a large and respected one, his great-grandfather having been the Duke of somewhere-or-another, and it was going to be a disgustingly extravagant, terribly dull, and incredibly annoying show of grandeur and idiocy. Sherlock was forced to come home from boarding school for the weekend, since the party would be at the Holmes Estate, and he would, apparently, need all that time to put on a suit and prepare to make loathsome small talk with one of his ancient aunts.
Presently, he was perched in his bedroom window, a fairly malnourished looking, gangly youth with a mass of unruly, rather annoying black curls that he has tried (and failed) to tame, watching his brother, Mycroft, guide guests inside. They would be milling around in the main hall, and they would exclaim that it has been two long, even though January the eighteenth is barely after Christmas, and Sherlock was not at all looking forward to seeing them. He fidgeted with the noose of his Windsor not, trying to get comfortable in the tuxedo he was being forced to wear. It wasn't that he didn't like dress-clothes- he wore a pair of trousers and a shirt nearly every day- but it was the starched formality of the occasion that made his neck itch and his skin crawl. He had silk in places one should never have silk, and he was not at all pleased with this situation.
"Sherlock, Mummy wants you downstairs," came the call from the door. Mycroft, somehow magically coming from one side of the house to the other in less than two minutes. Ever since Mycroft, seven years Sherlock's senior, had gone to university, he had become ever more contemptuous and posh than before. He had arranged half of this party, and Sherlock had made one too many comments about fabric swatches, and had been seated for dinner between the Uncles Jeremy. Jeremy Holmes, his father's brother, was a bald, fat man with far too many opinions and not enough facts. Jeremy Winchester, his mother's brother, was much the same, save for the fringe of blonde scruff that almost passed as half a head of hair. He would be listening to them argue as he tried to force the food down.
And, as he made his way downstairs, Sherlock new he must have seemed so spoiled to anyone else, but he just had so little patience for these ordinary, silly little people that it was painful to be around them sometimes. Maybe, just maybe, he could stay up here for the whole party, and no one would even notice.
An hour and a half later, he wished he had.
The Uncles Jeremy had finished their food, and where debating some sort of crime book they'd both read. Sherlock would have wandered off, but that would have meant more questions of "How is school going" and nodding while elderly relatives told him he'd "Grown up so fast." From what Sherlock could gather, this ridiculously simple novel was one of the most interesting conversations happening in the room.
"Will they conclude it in the next book, then?"
"Of course. Milton will catch the killer, and we'll finally find out that it was Ms. Stone."
"Of course it wasn't Ms. Stone, a woman couldn't have given a wound like that. It had to be Daryl."
"But it couldn't have been Daryl, he was in-"
Sherlock let out a sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. For as apparently upstanding citizens of Britain both these men were, they seemed perfectly idiotic. He sat back in his seat, running through all he knew about the book. Both Daryl and Ms. Stone had alibis that checked out clean, but Mr. Denier didn't, and while he was the one who called in the body (why call in your own murder?), he could have been simply putting them off of the scent…
"You're both wrong," he stated, exasperated, and the Uncles Jeremy paused, looking up at Sherlock in surprise, as those were the first words that he had spoken to either of them since their greetings. He continued in the same low monotone, "Mr. Denier, the victim's husband, is the murderer. He had motive- the insurance money, the affair he was having with Ms. Stone- a murder weapon- the gun he kept- and an alibi- he called in the murder when he got back from doing the shopping. Why would he call in his own murder? To put them off the scent. Very simple."
The Uncles Jeremy were silent for a moment, and Sherlock thought that maybe he had shut them up when-
"What affair with Ms. Stone?"
"You said she had feelings for him? Well, they were returned, obviously."
"That isn't obvious, I can't see that at all. Have you even read these books."
"Of course you see," Sherlock snapped, loosing patience quickly, "You just don't observe."
"Well, I think that's complete-"
"Sherlock."
The high-pitched call came from just inches behind the boy in question, and he jumped, knowing exactly whom the voice belonged to, and what that meant for him. He was not supposed to make others feel stupid just because he was smarter than them, that was her lesson every time. He rarely took heed of it, but she shared it with him just the same, along with a proper scolding and a rather frightening look. Mother was not a very intimidating woman most of the time, but her steel-grey eyes could work evil magic when she wanted them to.
"Sherlock, may I have a word with you?"
She had several words, not so much with, but for Sherlock, none of them pleasant and none of them flattering, but he scoffed them off, ignoring the blatant insults. She just wanted him to be liked, and he did not care for being liked, so their rivalry would continue.
He wound up, somehow, making his way out of a side door, through the kitchen, out into the back of the estate, where no party-goers would wander and he would not run into any relatives. He wanted to be alone more than anything right now, alone with his thoughts, and he climbed onto a low hanging branch of one of the trees along the path, abandoning his shoes and coat on the bench below and curling against the trunk, hidden by a shadow of leaves, save for one foot handing below.
He was alone, gloriously alone, for a few moments, but quickly interrupted when-
"Not enjoying your party?"
Sherlock nearly tumbled off of his precarious perch, searching for the source of the voice. A higher boy's voice, with an Irish lilt just dancing on the edge. What he saw was a round-faced boy about his age in a black vest and a bow-tie, a faint smile in his dark eyes.
"Shouldn't you be taking care of the guests?" Sherlock asked, not entirely nastily.
"On a bit of a break, actually, we get ten minute moments of rest every once in a while," the boy answered, pulling himself up beside the taller boy, "I'm Dick, you must be Sherlock- Cigarette? Go ahead, lighters right here- the birthday boy. You don't seem to be very excited about it, though."
Dick's voice flirted with mocking and seriousness, not committing to either one as he puffed on his cigarette. Sherlock had picked up smoking in the dorm-filthy habit, he should really quit- and found the practice helped him deal with the family stress. It was ridiculous, every time he came home, people were so glad to see him, and, in a way, this was how Mycroft was better than the others; he was never happy to see Sherlock when they were both home at the same time.
"Not my cup of tea, I suppose, these parties," he said simply, seeing the both of them lit up in half-orange cigarette light that faded and glowed, pulsating, "I'm not a fan of… people."
Dick snorted, and Sherlock regretted his words instantly. People didn't like hearing about your distaste for socializing; it made them feel unwelcome. Another lesson from Mother. However, Sherlock was surprised to see the natural smile on Dick's face.
"I hear you on that," he said, "That's why I'm glad I don't live with my family. Too much talking, not enough time to do… I don't know, anything worth while."
"Exactly! Oh, I suppose I'm keeping you, you have a rather short break, don't you?"
"No, not at all, I have at least five more minutes. Chat a while, you seem as if you could use from marginally-above-idiotic conversation."
Sherlock looked over at Dick, who was smiling and looking out from the tree branch, though he could not see very far, and decided it would not be such a terrible idea to stay.
Either that, or face the Uncles Jeremy and their Battle of the Predictable and Poorly Written "Mystery" Novels.
They talked for much more than five minutes. They talked about how neither of them really enjoyed television or films, but they both enjoyed reading. Dick liked theatre, which Sherlock didn't have a taste for, but they found more common ground in science. Sherlock told him about the death of that swimmer a while about, the Powers boy, and how he didn't quite think it was an accident, and Dick pointed out that they had no proof either way.
"But that's right clever of you," he said eyes still wandering around the lawn, "Right clever of you…"
Twenty minutes later, Sherlock was pointed out constellations, having taken a recent fascination with astronomy.
"Is that the Big Dipper or the Little Dipper?"
"Big dipper, I'm sure of it. The Little Dipper is a much different angle."
"Are you sure?"
"Of course I am."
"Sherlock? Is that you over there?"
Sherlock and Dick stubbed their cigarettes and slipped off the branch quickly, both already blushing at just how much trouble they were going to be in.
"Do you not have a job to attend to, Mr. Brooks?" Mycroft asked, looking down his nose at the boy.
"Yes, sir, sorry, sir," Dick answered, not looked have as abashed as Sherlock.
"And, Sherlock, do you not have guests to attend to?"
Sherlock simply nodded, and Mycroft's indignant scoff was enough to tell them to get back to their places. Mycroft had a tendency of ruining everything.
"Posh bitch," Dick muttered, and Sherlock was surprised by the laugh that rose in his throat. "It was nice to meet you, Sherlock," he said with a smile, and Sherlock nodded.
"The same to you," was his obligatory answer, and, as he turned away, he felt a little less alone than he had before.
A little less like he was the only person in the world who wasn't a raging moron.