Sherlock padded quietly down the stairs, looking to his parents in the parlour. It was 10 at night, he was tired and wanted to get some sleep, but his parents were too loud. For the past week, they had been up late every night, arguing. It ended with his mum crying and his dad sleeping in the guest room.

"Dad, it's 10, I'd really like to get some sleep. Can you can you and mum quiet down a bit please?" He asked, a polite Holmesian look accenting his features in the low light of the hall.

His father looked at him apologetically, getting up from his chair to walk towards his son. "Sherlock, I'm so so-" he said, stopping abruptly when there was a loud bang on the front door. "Sherlock. Look at me. Go hide in the closet, don't let anyone see you, and stay quiet. Wait for mummy or I to get you. Understand?" He asked, before bending down to kiss Sherlock on the forehead. There was another band on the door.

"But dad, wh-" Sherlock started, confused and frightened, being pushed by his father into the bottom if the closet. Another bang.

"Ssh, I love you. Just stay hidden and quiet Sherlock." Sherlock heard the door crack, as it was kicked in. Something slid on the wood of the hall table.

"Shut up, and get in the parlour." said a gruff male voice. "And drop your silver while you're at it. Won't be worth anything to you for much longer."

He peered through the slats of the closet, and saw three men walking into the parlour. His father had sat down on the couch, and had is arm protectively around her shoulders.

"I told you gentlemen, we aren't interested in doing business with you. We will pay you to end this harassment, but we won't allow you to invest in our stocks," he told them firmly, his wife starting to shake.

"That's too bad, Mister Holmes, we was really looking forward to doing business with you. Too bad, we coulda made lotsa money," the man said, with a sarcastic tone. Another pulled out a gun, and pulled Mrs Holmes to her knees in front of the couch.

Mr Holmes jumped up, pushing the gun away from his wife. The man shot on reflex, but only hit a photograph on the wall. Mrs Holmes got to her feet, and ran, hearing a second bullet enter her Husband's cranium. The man took aim again, and pulled the trigger, hitting her in the back of the head. The blood sprayed onto the hall closet, some of it even misting through the slats.

Sherlock was a good, honourable young man. He waited for his parents to get him from the closet floor.


AN: So, I was bored, and it was 5 in the morning, and this actually seems like lots of fun to continue. If you have the time or motivation, drop a comment. If you don't want to, that's cool too. This is unbeta'd, mainly because I'm too lazy to ask someone to beta for me. There's Mystrade and Johnlock, plus loads of angst and hurt/comfort coming up soon! Thanks for reading!