Author's Notice:

Here we have Sherlock's origin. Coupled with John's origin story, in this fiction you will see more familiar faces rather than original characters, though of course there's a bunch thrown in. This work will have a lot of ups and downs, mostly internal battles rather than outwardly physical ones. Again, these are a collection of one-shots that will be uploaded in no particular order. Just bits and pieces, memories of Sherlock's past, and how he became the man he is in 'Heretic'. I took a lot of liberties with history, internal affairs, etc… So please don't go over everything with a fine toothed comb. Also, the format at least for this chapter is regular third person, and they aren't addressed by their last name. I've only wrote this particular chapter that way because Mycroft was in it, and I didn't want it becoming too confusing since they have the same last name. However, the other chapters added will go back to usual Military format. Thank you for reading!

"...the Inquisition merely performs the duty of its office. To further fear them is redundant, to hate them, heretical. Those more sensible will place responsibility with those who forced their hands..."

— Captain Gabriel Angelos of the Blood Ravens Space Marine Chapter

"Sherlock Holmes - Witch Hunter"

'Acolyte'

"Sherlock, the matter has become more pressing. You don't have time now to decide, I will decide for you." Mycroft, for all his power and competence couldn't get his younger sibling to submit to his will. This was not the first time Sherlock had been summoned to sit before him, but it definitely was going to be the last time.

"You could try."

"Sherlock."

Sherlock quirked a brow, he knew that tone, Mycroft was indeed on his last thread of patience. Good. Perhaps he'd dismiss him again, concede as usual, and they could both be on their way. "I have no interest in the Inquisition." He said, for the millionth time, rolling his eyes and slouching a little further in the great winged back chair in front of Mycroft's desk.

Mycroft pursed his lips, looking over at his sibling above steepled fingers, "The Inquisition has interest in you."

Sherlock scoffed.

"You know what that means, Sherlock," He said, his tone thunderous like a pressing storm, "They will come for you. If you do not gain control of that mind of yours, they will take you, board you on one of those black ships and even I won't be able to save you."

"Who says I'll want to be saved?" Sherlock said, at ease in his chair, though inwardly he was protesting. Death was not something he feared, but death wasn't what awaited him if he were to be captured. Sure, he would be killed, but not quickly.

"Renounce that arrogance of yours," Mycroft said, exasperated, they had this same conversation so many times now he could almost mime it all himself. But, that was the problem, they couldn't keep doing this, actions needed to be made. Any longer, and Sherlock would be truly lost. "This is serious."

Sherlock closed his eyes and frowned, hating that he was born how he was. His psychic ability mixed with his already turbulent mind meant he was definitely on the watch list of the Inquisition. If he didn't master complete control of himself, if he didn't relent to being trained by a seasoned member of the class, the moment he slipped up, he would be deported to Terra and slaughtered to the God-Emperor. "I can control myself."

"For how long?"

Sherlock didn't answer.

"You know exactly what is going to happen." Mycroft said, staring at his brother, but Sherlock still wasn't looking at him; with his eyes closed like that he looked almost serene, but he could see the tension that kept his body rigid in that chair. Sherlock was afraid, even if he wouldn't admit it. "Your mind will fold in on itself, your abilities are growing and changing with each passing day. You need someone to guide you through this. You managed so far, Sherlock, but that was a miracle in itself."

"I don't believe in miracles." Sherlock said, finally opening his blue-grey eyes to Mycroft, staring hard at the other man. It had been a struggle, getting to this stage, and he could only admit to himself that things were progressing faster than he anticipated.

"I have assigned a tutor for you." Mycroft said, pushing the small stack of papers to the edge of his desk.

"I haven't agreed."

"I told you, you no longer have a choice."

"I refuse."

"He's going to be here in just a matter of minutes." Mycroft said, "I've only acquired him because I called in a favor. Acolytes are not supposed to be assigned, they are to be chosen, do you understand?"

Sherlock reluctantly sat forward and took the documents, scanning the text. He did understand the hierarchy of the Imperium, he just didn't care about it. Had he been born like his brother, mentally stable and psychically inept, he wouldn't have to deal with any of this at all. To become an Inquisitor wasn't a simple process. It mostly came down to connections, to whom favors were owed, or if you were strong enough to be of significance. Most acolytes started as vigilantes, doing the bidding of lower branches of government, and eventually would be noticed by an actual Inquisitor. If that Inquisitor decided to become a sponsor to an acolyte then they obtained the official title and were recognized by that particular branch their sponsor hailed from. Too many rules, regulations, and trifling social manners to ever appeal to Sherlock; but now it appeared he didn't have the option of outright refusing. He could no longer do this on his own, and he was actually quite lucky to have someone as influential as Mycroft in his life; without him, Sherlock would have been pegged as a rogue and killed long before now. Of course, he'd never admit this to Mycroft.

"I'm aware of the process." Sherlock said, leafing through the pages. Victor Trevor; a common name, from a common homeworld. He was barely a full fledged member of the Hereticus branch, but had enough weight to obtain his own acolyte if he so chose. At least they had that in common, neither of them had a choice about being pushed together. They'd just have to endure. According to the document he was ten years Sherlock's senior.

Mycroft watched Sherlock closely, not taking offense to his abrasive nature, knowing that was the only acknowledgment of his hardship he was going to get out of his brother. "Do try and be on your best behavior."

Sherlock didn't even acknowledge that with a glance, continuing through the documents, scanning the text and learning all he could about his new sponsor. Tedious. He wondered if this was even worth it at all; most days he saw it as a challenge, thrilled by it, and other days he was pressed under the thumb of his mind screaming for release. He could take solace in the fact that he had made it farther than many before him; that he hadn't yet given up, and he hadn't yet lost control. But, he could also admit, that this was becoming stronger than he could handle, and sometimes he felt as if his skull was splitting open, and the only way to abate the tension was to let it all burst out of him, consume him, and combust everyone within reach. He hadn't slept more than four hours at a time, and he was sure Mycroft had noticed. He wouldn't be pushing this sponsor on him, if his brother wasn't aware by now just how close he was to slipping past the point of redemption.

There was a knock at the door and Mycroft got up from his desk, the heavy scrape of the chair pulling Sherlock out of his thoughts. His brother approached the large black door and opened it wide to reveal a man that was Sherlock's height, he had a slim build but a softness to him Sherlock lacked. "We've been expecting you." Mycroft gestured towards Sherlock, but his brother hadn't been decent enough to get out of his chair, even as they approached.

"You must be Sherlock Holmes." Victor said, extending a hand towards the sitting man.

"Obviously." Sherlock snorted, he ignored Mycroft's look of chastising, but did finally rise from his chair and shake the hand of his sponsor. His grip was firm, but his skin was cold; Sherlock looked Victor over, the man was rather plain. He was dressed in black, varying shades and fabric blends; heavy trousers, buttoned up long-sleeved top, combat boots laced over his shins. The long coat he wore was weighted down, he had a variety of objects hidden on his person; most of which Sherlock couldn't discern. His sandy brown hair fell just past the tops of his ears, unkempt, his blue eyes were kind; he didn't have the tension to him that Sherlock would expect from a man in his line of work. Though, he was relatively young, and according to his records, he hadn't been in many direct combat situations. The only thing that really stood out about this ordinary man was how mute his mind was, Sherlock couldn't feel him at all. Sherlock wasn't used to being unable to probe a mind, even now he could feel Mycroft's, and if he sharpened the point on his ability he could pierce right through the thin barrier of resistance and syphon everything his brother was thinking, feeling, his very self could be pinned down, dissected. Then again, Sherlock had rarely been in contact with another psyker, and never one of the Inquisition.

As if Victor could sense the turbulence of Sherlock, he offered a slight smile, "I have business in a nearby sector. I don't mean to be brisk, but you will need to come with me, if you would indeed like to be my acolyte."

Sherlock hadn't been aware he had a choice; but he supposed he did. He could always refuse, and wait for the wolves to devour him. He narrowed his eyes and inhaled a sharp breath, "Of course. Lead the way." He gestured, nearly mocking.

If Victor noticed the mockery, he didn't say anything about it. Despite having the highest authority in the room, he fretted over being impolite, it was clear from his stiffened posture, and the way he looked from Sherlock to Mycroft. "It was a pleasure, Mycroft." He nodded his head to him and started towards the door, his long coat sweeping behind him. He opened the door, paused, waited for Sherlock to join him.

Sherlock felt trepidation, hesitating just a second long enough for Mycroft to soften his gaze and cause Sherlock to sneer. He was not afraid. Despite what Mycroft obviously thought; but this was sudden, completely out of his comfort zone, to follow rules, to put his very life in the hands of a man he met for a total of five minutes.

"Be sure to send reports of your progress." Mycroft said stiffly, standing neatly by his desk.

That was as close as his brother would come to asking him to write; to keep in touch. Sherlock flicked his gaze coldly over Mycroft, "It's mandatory, isn't it?" He said, since he wouldn't be the one recording anything; Victor would be writing the official reports, everything Sherlock did from this point on would be in government records. The records would pass Mycroft's desk for approval; and from there his brother would know every intimate detail of what went on in his head, and how his life would be progressing. It felt unsavory, invasive, but there was nothing to be done about it now.

"Please, Sherlock." Victor called, though his tone wasn't impatient; more indulgent, as if Sherlock were a child.

In the eyes of the Inquisitor, perhaps he seemed to be; his mental powers in their infancy, unruly, needing a firm hand to guide and form the potential growing there. Sherlock sniffed, turning away from his brother and starting for the door with a swift gait. He didn't waste time on saying goodbye; even if it may be the last time he ever saw Mycroft.