The first time he had seen him was at the park right around the corner from his house.
Sherlock had been scribbling on his notepad, pictures usually of Redbeard and his adventures on the high seas together. Sometimes he would sneak in a drawing of Mycroft with a moustache and a speech bubble saying very inappropriate words, however he tried to keep that to himself.
That day, he didn't feel like drawing any of his pirate days with Redbeard or rude pictures of his brother. He didn't feel like drawing anything, which rarely happened.
He looked up from his notepad, and did a quick deduction of the passers by. A woman, with dark hair in a bun and a small pooch under her arm was taking a stroll, stopping by every once in a while to admire her surroundings. With a glance of her high heels, Sherlock could tell she had it cleaned regularly, with its shine and the way it squeaked as she walked. Rich probably, or just a lot of shoe varnish. Her dress was green, made of out polyester fabric, with a brooch at her neck. Or was it made out of velvet?
He didn't have a chance to find out, because the woman's vision turned to him. Sherlock hid his face behind his notepad, his cheeks flushed ruby. When he looked up again, the woman was still standing there, her expression of revolt. Nevertheless, she continued walking, but now with a slightly louder clank with her heels and her nose higher in the air.
This had happened numerous times, when Sherlock was caught deducting people. He only wished he was as quick as Mycroft when he did his deductions. Sherlock didn't see his brother very often anymore, since he was busy with his study and had been neglecting Sherlock's every request to play together.
Sherlock didn't see it as a particularly bad thing, as he got the chance to start practicing his art skills once more. But he couldn't deny that every once in a while, he had a rush of yearn and desire to show off how he had memorized every Magna Carta law and all the names of Jupiter's moons. He wouldn't admit it, but he missed him. And oh how much he hated human emotions.
A scream. Right before Sherlock could wake up from his thoughts, he heard a scream. His head jerked towards the source of sound. A boy and a girl, around Sherlock's age. They were near the play area, and the boy had kicked sand into the girl's face. By the look on the boy's face, it was an accident.
The girl had blond, short, curly hair and wore a purple dress, just above her shins. She was rubbing her eyes, face red and wet with tears. She was an only child, Sherlock could tell, as her dress and earrings looked expensive.
The boy had light blond hair and eyes so blue, Sherlock could see it from a distance away. He had to chuckle at the boy's clothing wear. He wore a ridiculous sweater, crème and knitted, with shorts above scabbed, pale knees. He also had a very cute nose, pink and short. Sherlock realized he has tracing his jawline with his fingers on his knee.
Sherlock watched as a redhead girl emerged and knelt down to the blonde girl, her hands on her shoulders, wiping sand off of her face. She turned around and threw angry glances at the boy several times. The boy just held his hands behind his back and stared at his feet, guilty.
The boy's head titled slightly upwards, and before he could look at Sherlock, Sherlock had buried his face in his notepad and waited until he was sure he wasn't looking anymore.
Sherlock came home late that afternoon, or at least later than usual. Glancing at his watch, he rushed down the street until he came a cottage. It was small, barely a suitable home for a family. The garden, however, was an entrance to wonders, several trees with a vine covered floor and sounds of nature. Birds singing, grasshoppers chirping, _.
He stood at the door, his finger on the doorbell, frantically pressing. He still had his notepad under his arm and his pencil between his fingers. Mrs. Holmes swung the door open with one arm, while her other arm was in the air, ready to unleash her anger.
After she had finished, she sighed and gestured inside. Once Sherlock was inside, he could tell that dinner was already served. The smell of Mrs. Holmes' cooking and the sound of cutlery clinking and clattering was coming from the kitchen.
"Once you've cleaned yourself off, you may come and have dinner, young man." Mrs. Holmes said, a trace of annoying in her voice. Sherlock nodded obediently and headed towards his room. It was small and crowed, with walls covered with drawings, some better than others. He put down his notepad and pencil on his bed before heading towards the closet.
Sherlock dressed down and put on clean, new clothes. Grey pants up to his ankles and a blue sweater. They had always been his favourite colors.
"How was your day today, Sher?" Mr. Holmes asked before taking a sip of his soup. Mycroft was also at the dinner table, despite never coming out of his room for eating purposes (or any purposes, really). However, Mrs. Holmes had pestered him into 'family bonding time', in which Mycroft made a rude remark, which lead him to getting a smack on the back of his head.
"It was good, thank you." Sherlock responded, stirring his spoon in his soup, feeling not particularly hungry. His parents nodded, their mouths full of homemade chicken soup. Mycroft starred at his bowl, anxiously waiting to get back to his study.
"And we quite know how Mike's afternoon went, didn't we? Study, study, study!" Mrs. Holmes added, a slight smile across her face.
Mycroft looked up from his bowl, anger in his eyes. "My… name… is… Mycroft. Mother," he said in a hoarse whisper and slammed his spoon on the table, sending everybody back into their chairs. He didn't wait for his family's reaction, because he stood up and exited the kitchen. Several seconds later, a door being slammed was heard.
Mrs. Holmes' face turned red with rage, but Mr. Holmes held her hand, which was placed on the table, next to her bowl. "Leave him, dear. He's under lots of stress," he said. That seemed to somewhat worked, because Mrs. Holmes' face calmed and lost it's red hue, however she continued to act like she was going to snap at any moment.
Sherlock didn't react through this scene. He sat there, straight back and spoon in hand, waiting to be dismissed. When he was, he hurried back to his room, closed the door, and placed his ear against the wall on the left of his door. Next to his, was Mycroft's room. He remembered playing games with his brother between these walls. They would send each other morse codes and laugh at what the other one said.
He wished to play those games once more, to spend weekends with each other's company. He wanted- no! No, he did not miss him. What was he thinking? That sleezeball who continued to neglect him, even avoid making eye contact with him during dinner, did not deserve the his love. Sherlock held back tears, and instead decided to occupy his mind with drawing.
He sat on his bed, notepad on his lap, twirling his pencil with his fingers. He had nothing to draw, he realized after several more moments of silence. He looked at his (very few) options. Drawing Redbeard would just bring back good memories and bad feelings. Drawing Mycroft would just make him cry again.
Sherlock closed the notepad and threw it off his bed before going to sleep.
The next day would be dress up day, where you were allowed to wear something other than your school uniform. Sherlock rummaged through his closet, trying to find an outfit. His mother had asked him if she could help with picking one, but dragging her into it would take a lot more time than it needed. Plus, she was still a bit stirred up with yesterday's dinner.
The Holmes' parents were at church, as they were every Sunday. Mycroft skipped because of obvious reasons, and so did Sherlock because he was never really the religious type. It did feel strange to be left alone in the house with Mycroft. It also sounded strange saying that in Sherlock's mind, because he would have killed to spend time with Mycroft several weeks ago.
After some more rummaging, Sherlock came to a conclusion. Every outfit he had would make him look silly. He did not want to look silly, especially because he wasn't the most likable at school in the first place. He opened the door so it was slightly ajar, and crept out, trying not to alert his sibling in the next room. He crossed the hallway to his parent's room and shut the door behind him very quietly.
Sherlock used to be allowed into his parents' room, however only to discuss his nightmares about how nightmares had no logic thus making it nothing to be afraid of. But now his parents thought he was old enough to stop having nightmares in the middle of the night, but Sherlock knew very well that nightmares never do stop.
He swung open his parents' closet doors, which were wooden, dark and polished. He scanned the clothing items before finding what he needed, shutting the doors closed, and entering his bedroom again. Sherlock laid out the items on his bed.
His father's dark grey coat (coat collars included), his mother's blue scarf, and of course, that ridiculous ear hat with two fronts given to them by who knows who.
Sherlock's mouth formed into a smile as he thought about how many compliments he was going to receive on his outfit and how people would think he was cool. People would think he was cool. The thought sent shivers down his back. Happy shivers of course.
Today was dress up day. Sherlock made sure his parents nor Mycroft saw him leave his room. He was sure he was going to get into trouble if they found out he borrowed clothes from his parents' closet. He walked to school, his head held high and his arms swaying by his side. He had never felt so confident. They lived in a small town, so he passed by without meeting any bystanders on the way.
Sherlock arrived to his first class fashionably late. It was literature, a subject he hardly cared for. When he walked through the doors, everybody's attention turned towards him, as you would assume with anybody coming to class late.
But it was different. It was a different kind of stare that the children gave him. Sherlock choose to see their expressions as surprised and in awe rather than mocking. Nobody talked to him, as per usual, but he could feel stares stabbing him in the back.
The bell rang, and the kids walked out of the classroom. They were not running in excitement as they always had. The moment they left their seats, they paired up with a friend and starting whispering. Sherlock pretended not to hear the snarky remarks.
As he walked to recess in the hallways, a large kid, with boxy shoulders and chopped hair said, 'Sorry sir, today is dress up day, not dress-up-as-your-grandpa day.' Then he muttered 'loser' under his breath before letting out a loud cackle.
Sherlock stopped in his tracks and ran to the nearest boy's bathroom, holding back raging tears which threatened to spill at any moment. He looked himself in one of the stalls, and sat down on the lid of the toilet, his head in his hands. He was quiet for a moment, to check if he could hear breathing, and let out a burst of a cry. Once he started, he couldn't stop.
What was wrong with his outfit? Was his coat too big? Did people dislike ear hats? Or is it just him? How he was such a know-it-all? The way he stares at you like he's opening a gate into your life, your insecurities and secrets? It was all his fault that nobody liked him. That nobody thought he was cool. Tha-
The door was swung open. Sherlock heard footsteps and held his breath. He had read somewhere that the best way to hold one's breath is to sit upright and relaxing every muscle in the body.
The footsteps continued, until they were right in front of Sherlock's stall.
"Hello?" A voice said. The voice was soft, yet strong and serious. Sherlock hesitated to answer, but decided to open the stall door instead. When he did, his heart skipped a beat.
The boy. The sweater-wearing, blue-eyed, cute-nosed boy. He wore a cardigan, green this time, with tan shorts (again) up to his knees. He was adorable. He looked up and down at Sherlock, a smile forming. Sherlock was ready for the insult to come, but it never did.
"Are you crying?" The boy asked, with genuine curiosity. Sherlock didn't want to answer, not even nod a 'yes'. After seconds, the boy walked over to the paper dispenser, and handed some tissue to Sherlock. Sherlock wiped his face, confused yet delighted.
"I like your outfit," the boy said. Sherlock first thought this was a sarcastic comment, but when he looked at the boy's face, there was no trace of cruelty. Sherlock did nothing but stare. "I'm John."