A/N - I do not own any of the characters, although I wish I did. They are Sir Arthur Connan Doyle's characters.

Chapter 1

He knew he was special.

He came from a long line of powerful and arrogant ancestors but Sherlock Holmes was the first one to be special. It started when David Holmes fell in love with a maid, and agreed to secretly marry her one day so they could run away with each other. Of course the higher class citizens never went lower than higher class. He was forced to take away his pledge and propose to a duchess instead, whom he did not love. It would be unspeakable and full of disgrace to abandon his parents' word, and so his life went on.

The girl, with a broken heart, could no longer watch them live and eventually killed herself. The mother of the poor girl was quite rightly angered. Struck with grief she made a curse upon their family stating that one of their kinds would finally see what it was like to feel abandoned and looked down upon.

She said in an eerie voice that would strike fear into any heart;

"This, a curse upon a little child.

This, the curse from your hand

After finding two of likely mind

Shall monster turn into man"

Of course, many believed the curse to be legend and no more than a myth, but mothers feared to give birth to a monster. They lived in constant terror that they would be subjected to that torment of that child. It made many consider the marriage into the family.

There were babies that were humans and mothers who couldn't help but breathe out the sigh of relief when they saw their sons and daughters in their arms. This made the curse almost fade away. No one talked about it, but muttered it in soft and secret whispers.

It took, 98 years later, for the monster to live.

Thomas and Olivia Holmes had given birth to a son, Mycroft. Seeing that he was no monster, both parents considered having another child, but something felt wrong in this pregnancy.

Olivia went into serious pains that no one could fathom, and they began to worry about losing the baby after all. Tests after tests, the results were that both mother and child were never better. It seemed as if it was just a bad pregnancy.

At night, Thomas and Olivia would talk, about the curse and would discuss if this was something to be prepared for. Thomas had insisted that they will love the child no matter what, as it was their offspring. Olivia tried to believe that it wasn't the curse. After all, some women have a lot of pain when with child. She prayed it wasn't the curse.

Her prayers were not answered, and in the day of her delivery, everyone saw the curse and what affect it had on the baby.

It was a boy. He had colourful eyes, too much colour in fact that it was hard to decipher what the main one was. They seemed to sparkle with innocence like all babies have. He had a fair complexion like his mother and the strong chin of his father. What he inherited the most, was the nose of the curse; a snout.

It looked so foreign upon his face and so out of place that his mother couldn't look at him, couldn't bear to witness the curse's input on her child. She asked doctors if it were possible to get rid of the snout, but there would be complications of the fatal kind – An artery stuck through the snout. It would kill the boy.

Thomas and Mycroft, who was now 6, welcomed the new addition to the family. At first seeing the baby was a shock, as an understatement, but it wasn't until Thomas had seen Mycroft hold the boy without any disgust upon his face that he saw past the curse. They named him Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes had a nice ring to it, and belonged in legends.

One of the doctors had let slip that there was a pig-nosed boy born into the Holmes' family. No one was more interested than two journalists called Anderson and Kitty Riley. They had heard of the curse, as so many had, but initially believed it folklore. They searched high and low for the boy, wanting to grab any evidence of this phenomenon.

After finding the house, 1 year later, they stopped at nothing to get a picture; hiding in cupboards, lurking in the bushes and once getting into his cot at night.

Olivia had spotted Kitty on that night, and forced her out of the house, shouting at the top of her lungs. "Sherlock is not something to be observed. Stay away from this house!" Kitty Riley was fired after her work had heard this, but Anderson never gave up.

Olivia and Thomas made the decision to move house and live just outside of London, away from their routine city life. Home-schooling the children himself, Thomas taught Mycroft, and years later Sherlock; Science, Maths, English, French, German and how to read people using deduction. Sherlock and Mycroft were very intelligent boys and picked everything up fairly well. Sherlock only started to learn these topics when he was 6, but he was most interested in the science of deduction from an early age.

Mycroft hadn't picked it up well and preferred to read into politics and other such things, but Sherlock was different.

He begged his father to teach him when he was seven, and after relentless prodding, his father agreed. At first, Thomas thought that Sherlock would soon get over the idea of reading people, but he hadn't realised that Sherlock would be amazing at it. He had natural observation. Olivia on the other hand found the idea preposterous, and told Sherlock to learn another skill.

It wasn't until Sherlock chanced upon an advertisement on the television, showing a violinist playing in utmost passion, that he decided what other skill to learn to make his mother happy.

After they accepted, the parents went to buy a violin while Sherlock stayed inside, looking out to the closed off world. Sherlock had tried to escape a few times, without success. The house they lived in now was a three story building, the top floor being Sherlock's own room, and a garden. The most obvious fact was the tall, black gates that encircled his prison.

Sherlock knew he was special, but not the special everyone else was.

After gaining his violin, he practised that and deduction non-stop, playing during the day after his mother had told him not to play any other times, and at night would read the history of deducing from his mind when his brain wouldn't stop thinking. It was an isolated life, but better that than being a freak out in that world.

Mycroft and he were very close. Mycroft would play with him when he wanted to, mostly games of pirates and dangerous seas and treasures of gold. Mycroft saw that Sherlock had the imagination to create the games, and him a mere spectator of his brilliance. Had the curse chose anyone else, Sherlock would be awed.

It wasn't until Sherlock had turned eighteen, and Mycroft was rarely at home, did his mother persuade their father to get a partner for Sherlock. They first went for duchesses and dames, but Sherlock had told them that that wasn't his area. What he meant was he didn't want to be tied down to someone and live a pointless life, be trapped in an endless pit of boredom for the rest of the life he would live. His parents took it to find suitors instead. They believed it would take a blue blood to turn Sherlock into a proper man once they had married.

Every time he would show his face, the men would run, frightened by the horrific sight that was him. They were always caught by Dimmock, their helper, and were told to sign an agreement to keep it a secret. Sherlock hated himself, and hated his mother for forcing those feelings of abhorrence upon himself. His mother had not noticed this, and kept the searching for a husband for her son.

She even employed a matchmaker to help her. Mrs. Hudson was an elderly woman with kind brown eyes and a warm smile around her lips. Sherlock loved her immediately, so much in fact that as well as a match maker she had turned into a mother-like figure. More so than the mother he did have.

He was now 21, soon to be 22, and yet he had never lived.

He knew he was special, but not that kind of special.

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Sitting at a poker bar; Jack Stamford, better known as Mike but he preferred Jack, Sally Donavon and John Watson placed their bets. John knew his luck was down but his hands had placed the coins in the middle of the table before his brain could even think.

Sally folded, and leaned back on her brown chair to watch what was about to unfold once Jack had put forth his coins. They kept placing new bets over previous, and John couldn't control himself.

"Read it and weep!" Jack shouted, standing up with his outburst. John looked down at his hand and sighed deeply. He had to get out of here and quickly before he lost all his money. He took a shaky step up and walked out of the building once the game had finished. When he was outside the stars had littered the sky, and he knew he had spent little time in there compared to other times. On occasions he had spent all day and all night, betting away money that he was not sure he actually had. Luckily, no real debt crept up on him, but this just encouraged his behaviour.

Walking, or more limping, back to his flat, he noticed the normal world around him which was different to the one he had known. Explosions and screams whispered through his thoughts, and he had to stop just to breathe them out of him. He always remembered, and could never forget.

When getting inside his flat, he walked over to his bed and sat down heavily on it. His flat was a small army one, which suited him quite fine because he hadn't many possessions and it was easier to clean. He had neither photos nor personality on the walls, it was easier to forget the past that way.

Nothing resembled him, as he looked around his 'home.' How did his life get to this moment? What had he done wrong to deserve this karma?

His phone rang soundly, a loud contrast to the whispering wind that had entered through his window. He looked at it, as if it offended him, and pressed the green button.

"Hello." One word, so simple and yet he knew that the simple matters were going to become more and more of a complex situation, possibly involving his sister.

"Hello, this is Doctor Watson?" A voice asked over the phone. The sound of authority told John that she was a doctor.

"It's Mr Watson, what's happened to her?"

If the doctor was surprised at his question, she obviously didn't show it. "I am afraid to say that Miss Watson has collapsed down the stairs, during a period of being under the influence of alcohol. Her arm has been dislocated, her leg broken and she has major concussion. We were hoping you would be able to come in and talk to her?" Although the last sentence was a question, it felt more like a command. John could never refuse a command. He began to push himself up, trying to find his cane to stand properly, while holding the phone in his other hand.

"I'll be there as soon as I can." He promised, and walked out of his flat.

Holding his hand up for a taxi in a surprisingly clear night in London proved harder than he had initially thought. After a few minutes of waving his arms frantically in the air, no doubt looking absolutely ridiculous, he finally managed to get a taxi. After telling the cab driver the address to the hospital, he relaxed slightly in the back seat. He knew which hospital it would be because whenever Harry became ill she would end up there almost every time. The hospital came rolling into view after a short trip and John got ready to get out.

After paying the cabbie and limping through the doors of the hospital he asked where his sister was and was led to the room on the second floor.

John hung his head, exhaled slowly and heavily. He was debating to go in or not, but after all this time to get here and that fact that she was his sister was swinging the vote to the left – going in to see her.

When walking through the door he saw his sister sitting astride on the bed, swinging one leg while the other was encased in plaster. The opposite arm was also wrapped in a sling adjacent to her chest. She was scowling at the ground, almost as if blaming it for what had happened to her instead of her own addiction.

Her dyed brown hair was shining with grease and was infested in things more commonly found on the ground. She didn't look like the sister he had once known; only an echo of her personality existed. Alcohol had changed everything about her.

"Harry." John sighed, already dreading what was about to come.

"I am so sorry, John. I promise I will, I will, stop." Harry pleaded, facing John as much as she could on the bed before John moved to face her.

"You need help, Harry. I'll help you." This was the most he had said in a sentence to Harry after returning from the war. He always offered to help, which was turned down numerous of times; he was just getting tired of repeating himself.

"No, I don't need help. I'm fi-"

"Don't you dare tell me you're fine! Look at you Harry! Look what your addiction has led you to. You have to stop Harry; you can't carry on like this! Do you see what you're doing to you, to your bloody life, to me? One of these days, Harry, I'm going to get a call saying I've lost you completely. I dread that day, but it's becoming more of a possibility every time you pick up a drink. Don't do that to me!" John closed his eyes and sighed deeply, not looking at Harry for this part, "I can help, so please let me."

Through John's outburst Harry actually listened, which was something she was not particularly good at, but she did this time. It's not as if she ignored the many lectures she received in her life, but she felt so guilty when John used a tone that made her stomach turn. She wanted to stop, but the call of alcohol was too strong for her, whispering to her in the nights and screaming at her during the day. She couldn't resist the temptation of having the liquid burn her throat, but she was going to try. She nodded silently, then realised he wasn't looking and said instead, "Yes."

John, surprised, laughed softly to himself and held her hand. She had never said that so sincerely and with such determination that he smiled brightly. Looking into her eyes he said, "I can't believe just one word has made me really happy."

Harry thought it a little ironic that her younger brother was looking after her, but she was glad of the help. But she couldn't help the nagging question that murmured behind her mind.

"How will I pay for it?" She muttered quickly trying to skip over her poverty. Harry had spent most of her wages on her alcohol, the job that she had no idea how she kept, so only little money was left; the money she was going to use on her rent. John stopped in his tracks of thinking ahead to see the genuine smile grace his sister's face again once he had said the next sentence.

"I'll pay for it." He suggested confidently, "I should have enough to support it. But you have to take it seriously. And if you feel the need to pay me back, you can after your treatment."

"Really? But have you got enough, are you sure you have enough?" John was pretty sure Harry had no idea of his own ridiculous addiction, so he tried to keep the surety in his voice when he began to think about the repercussions of this, but it would definitely be worth it.

"For you, everything."