AN:

Gentle reminder that since I started writing this fic waaaay back before series 3 came out, I wrote my head canons unapologetically, like drug of choice and Mummy and Father and so on. And though I like canon!Mummy and Father and Sherlock's actual drug of choice and how the canon of series 3 played, I just didn't want to bother with the revisions. Also, Brit-picked by me in certain areas, but not all. I'm an American Londoner, but I ain't perfect. You understand.

And, a very big thank you to btch_sprinkles on AO3 for not only beta'ing this fic, but encouraging me and being an amazing friend. Love you, soul sister.

Also, if you get my cross-fandom/historical references, I'll give you a prize. :D

Chapter One: In The Beginning

Sherlock remembers what life was like before he met John. He lives alone in a small, one bedroom flat on Montague Street. Once a week, Mycroft sends a cleaning lady over because god forbid Sherlock ever clean up after himself. Sherlock likes his flat because it's close to St Bart's and right across the street from the British Museum. Secretly, he loves the British Museum. Everyone thinks Sherlock hates it because of how crowded it is and how many tourists litter the exhibits. Everyone thinks Sherlock can't filter through the barrage of information that's presented to him.

Cheating on his wife of 13 years

Cancer patient hiding his diagnosis from his children

American pretending to be English

Suffering from manic depression

Alcoholic for at least five years

Teenage girl trying to hide the hickey on her neck

But actually, Sherlock is fully capable of filtering through the information. In fact, he's even able to not notice a thing if that's what he wants. Normally though, Sherlock doesn't do that. He still likes to know what's going on around him.

What people don't seem to realize is that Sherlock's powers of deduction aren't so much an involuntary ability as they are a learned skill. Yes, Sherlock's parents have had his IQ tested and yes, it's very high. Yes, he's much more observant than the average person, and it's not that he can't keep his mouth shut but that he just doesn't see the point of doing so.

Sherlock loves to look at all the ancient exhibits, all the skulls and bones of people who were alive thousands of years ago. He wishes he could deduce them, wishes he could know every minute detail of their primitive lives. What did they like to eat? What streets did they like to walk down the most? Did they like music? Did they know how to read? Who loved them most in the world?

Sometimes, when he's feeling particularly lonely, Sherlock spends all day in the museum. He looks at the royal Egyptian mummies and wonders what it would be like to have his brain liquefied in his head and pulled out through his nose. He looks at the Egyptian sarcophagi of Roman emigrants and wonders what it was about Egypt that made them want to live their lives there instead of Italy. He looks at all the ancient pottery and tools and statues, and wonders how all this history led up to him. He shuffles around the exhibits all day and silently wonders what it would be like to still be him, but an ancient version that prayed to gods and went to festivals and fought in battles and argued politics and married a young woman he didn't know and lived a normal life.

Sherlock's never told anyone about this. Everyone already thinks he's freakish enough. But then, Sherlock doesn't really have any friends to tell this to anyway. He's got his skull, but he doesn't really count, does he?

People are always shocked to learn Sherlock's as young as he is, not even out of his twenties yet. His whole life, people have always assumed he's much older than he is because of the way he looks and the way he dresses and the way he carries himself. Sometimes, Sherlock will even go so far as to reveal his birthday to stunned strangers just to get them to shut up.

"6th January 1981," he'll say, rolling his eyes. "It's always been 6th January 1981."

The last time he had to say this was to an old friend of Mummy's called Frannie. He'd gone round to visit not long after his birthday with Mycroft one Sunday. His mother, never one to pass up bragging about either of her sons, boasted about her baby boy the chemist and how he'd just turned 28 and could you even believe it! Mycroft had laughed into his teacup at Sherlock; he never missed an opportunity to try to embarrass him.

"Yes, my baby brother," Mycroft drawls. "The chemist," he finishes, implying something more as he flashes Frannie that conciliatory grin he flashes everyone.

"And my big brother," Sherlock strains, with an equally implying tone. "The diplomat." They glare at each other for a few moments, like they're trying to stare bullet holes into the other. But their mother swats them affectionately with the newspaper and reminds them that they're brothers and to behave. They both cross their arms, Mycroft to try to hide his body and Sherlock to get his arms to stop aching with cravings.

Mummy pretends not to notice though and instead recounts a story to dear old Frannie about a time when six year old Sherlock flung his plate of roast lamb and carrots at Mycroft for making fun of his haircut. It's one of Mummy's favorites and Sherlock doesn't remember how many times he's heard it now. She's so proud of her sons; the government official and the professional chemist/amateur detective (though you'd never hear Sherlock ever describe himself as an amateur anything). Never mind the fact that one of them is a recovering drug addict and the other a narcissistic misanthrope. As long as you ignore the unpleasant though, the unpleasant will simply fade away.

British sentimentality at it's most high. Keep calm and carry on and all that tripe.

Sherlock remembers filtering for the rest of that conversation, instead sitting in the room marked UNSOLVED MURDER CASES in his mind palace to see if he can resolve anything. He doesn't. It only makes him more annoyed and irritated.

Sherlock remembers the two people he's ever had, what normal people would call, relationships with. At Eton, there'd been a boy he'd liked called David. He'd always been kind to Sherlock and laughed at his jokes about their classmates and never called him "freak." Sherlock supposes David was his best friend only because he was his only friend. But David had been very popular, he had lots of friends and would sneak out of the grounds at night and smoke cigarettes and had lots of girlfriends that lived in town. Sherlock remembers wondering what David was doing even hanging around him at all.

"What, I can't just think you're ace?" Sherlock remembers David asking him one day as he helped Sherlock collect the books that had been smacked out of his hands. Sherlock remembers giving David a funny look, which David laughed at and then ushered Sherlock up to his room to listen to music and make fun of all their instructors.

David and Sherlock stayed friends all throughout school, but Sherlock never did become friends with any of David's. None of them liked him, constantly making fun of Sherlock in front of him and always barking at David why he even bothered with that mental arsehole Sherlock Holmes.

As they got older, Sherlock started to hear the whispers around campus. Poofters, faggots, arse bandits, nancy boys. Sherlock didn't care though, only because David didn't seem to care. They kept on being mates, kept on not caring. They smoked pot together and listened to music together and waxed philosophical about life together. And Sherlock watched David get more and more popular and shag more and more girls and felt more and more jealous, though he couldn't figure out why.

But then one night after David smuggled in some cheap wine for him and Sherlock. This wasn't anything new, but they got pissed and Sherlock was nothing short of surprised when David kissed him on the football pitch. Sherlock remembers he had never felt more nervous than in that moment; inexperience was never something Sherlock dealt with well. He also remembers realizing why he'd been so jealous, as the shape of David's lips formed over his own.

"We don't have to do anything…" David breathed against Sherlock's mouth after a while. Somehow, he'd managed to unbutton Sherlock's shirt and get his trousers halfway off.

"No…I want to," Sherlock whispered before going back to kissing him.

And then David showed him what he'd been missing all that time locked up in the lab with his chemicals or in his room with his music.

But then they lost touch. Sherlock went to Oxford and David to Cambridge. They wrote to each other in the first few months, even took the train to London a couple of times to spend the day together and would end up snogging in Regent's Park. But then life happened, nothing special or momentous in particular, and Sherlock and David simply faded apart.

A few years later at university, there'd been a girl called Samantha. She didn't have many friends either, but she was a genius at chemistry and Sherlock loved talking to her about all their different experiments. One night in the lab, while they'd been working on a difficult project for their class, Samantha had kissed him and he kissed her back. Sherlock remembers being nervous with Samantha too because he'd never been with a woman and was afraid he wouldn't know how to please her. But Samantha had been a willing teacher and Sherlock loved to learn new things.

Sherlock refuses to say what they'd been doing was "dating." It's just so pedestrian. But that's what happened. Sherlock and Samantha kept on with each other for over three years. They even lived together for a little while when Samantha had to move out of her flat because of a horrible row with her flatmate. Sherlock remembers the first time she'd told him she loved him.

He'd made a joke while in the queue and she just said it.

"I love you, Sherlock."

His eyes went wide and he didn't know what to say. He supposed he did love her, if he had to guess. He certainly didn't hate her. Samantha was kind and caring and patient, she never yelled at Sherlock when he annoyed her or when he just wanted to be left alone. He knew he was comfortable with her, but Sherlock's never really thought about what love is though.

"It's ok, Sherlock. You don't have to say anything," Samantha reassured him.

But then Sherlock had discovered that wonderful thing cocaine and he loved how he could stay awake for days and work and not have to eat a single thing. Sure, sometimes he'd scream. Sure, sometimes he'd throw things around. Sure, he wanted sex much more frequently. She tolerated it because she loved him even though it scared her.

But one night, Sherlock had an incredibly vivid hallucination about an old friend of Mummy's and her abusive husband. She'd come round once and a while, and Sherlock was fond of her because she always brought special treats just for him. But Mummy would sometimes shut Sherlock out of the room when Mrs Hudson would come over, and talk in harsh whispers behind closed doors. Mummy nor Mrs Hudson ever knew Sherlock would secretly stand at the door and listen to all the awful things Mr Hudson did to his wife.

So when Sherlock thought he was getting his chance to finally fight back for her, he felt just and righteous. But then he heard Samantha scream, and he realized he was on the verge of becoming the monster that was Mr Hudson. Sherlock begged her to forgive him, cried about how he'd never hurt her. But Samantha couldn't take it anymore. She left Sherlock to save herself. She never looked back.

It only made him want the cocaine more.

"Well, Sherlock?"

Sherlock shuffles around the body, silently taking in and filtering through the data.

"Sherlock, anything, please."

"Inspector, I found traces o- oh God, him again?!"

Sherlock ignores the idiotic CSI, God, what's his name - Petersen, Christiansen, Sorensen. Whatever.

"He contaminates the crime scene, the body, everything! Why do you let him in here to muck everything up?!"

"Mark Breckenridge, aged 37, recently married, worked in aviation from the faint smell of jet fuel. Had an affinity for Nepal, 3 jewelry items and his shirt are all made from fabric found there, that and he's also got a 5 ruppe note and a bus ticket from Kathmandu dated 4 years ago in his wallet."

In the background, Sherlock hears the irritating man yell, "He touched the body?!"

Sherlock continues, "Prone to anxiety disorders judging by the biting of his nails and wrinkles around his lips. He also seems to have adhered to Hinduism, possibly for his wife."

"His wife?" The annoying CSI officer croaks.

"Yes, his wife," Sherlock says, brandishing a picture of the couple at their traditional Hindu ceremony and handing it to Lestrade.

"There's also pamphlets in his pocket, some clean, some marked up with hate speech. This neighborhood is littered with white supremacists, a leading member lives right down the street, I think. You might find it useful to question every man on this street, you're likely to find your murderer quite easily," Sherlock concludes, walking out of the room.

Lestrade, looking impressed, says to Andersen, "That's why I let him in here."

Sherlock hates the country, he always has. He's always loved the bustle of the city, the smell of it, the way the air feels. He likes having lots of people to deduce and figure out. What Sherlock doesn't like are animals. Pigs and cows walking around, loose amongst the people. It's disgusting. And horses, horses are the worst of all. Sherlock's done his best to keep it secret the reason why he hates horses. Only a few people know the reason why, Mycroft being one of them.

Their father had made Mycroft and Sherlock take horse riding lessons when they were boys. He said it would make them fine, upstanding, well rounded gentlemen. Sherlock was always uncomfortable riding the animals because they're bigger than he is and have minds of their own. One day, his horse was being particularly unruly and Sherlock couldn't control him. The horse threw him, and Sherlock fell and broke his arm. He remembers some of the children laughing at him because he was the only one who could never get his horse to yield to him. He remembers Mycroft running to him because he was crying, and Mycroft yelling for someone to get a doctor or a nurse or someone, anyone! Sherlock also remembers pushing Mycroft away nastily because he already looked weak enough in front of the other children and he didn't need his meddling older brother adding to the embarrassment.

Neither one of them has ever brought this up; Sherlock, because it's too embarrassing, and Mycroft, because it's too painful. Sometimes, Mummy will bring it up at dinners or luncheons because she remembers it very differently from the boys. Mummy simply remembers it as the time Sherlock fell and Mycroft took care of him. Neither of them stops her when she tells it because they both know that it means something to her, even if they hate it. For Mummy, it means something special remembering a time when Mycroft showed how much he loved his younger brother and Sherlock showing how much he loved his older brother by accepting that love. But when she tells it, they both have the most strained looks on their faces, and they never comment or add to the story, even if she begs them to. Mummy will never understands it and, the boys will never explain.

"See, I told you! I'll always win, Sherlock."

"No! We're not finished! Give me another one, I'll beat you this time!"

Mycroft lowers himself to stare into the eyes of eight year old Sherlock. Sherlock tries to seem brave by staring back.

"Fine. One last one." Mycroft straightens himself and looks out the window of the sitting room. "Mrs Spencer, across the way," he points lazily.

"Mummy's friend, Mrs Spencer?" Sherlock asks sheepishly.

"Yes, Mummy's friend," Mycroft condescends.

Sherlock sits in his favorite chair and closes his eyes, mentally going over everything he knows about dear, sweet, lovely Mrs Spencer.

Philippa Spencer, born Philippa Courtney, originally from Brighton, birth year 1938, pretends it's 1942. Married George Spencer 1960, 4 children, Georgiana, Eliza, Harriet, and William. Secretly abuses quaaludes, has wanted to divorce Mr Spencer for at least 10 years, owns no property or money, plastic surgery around the eyes and mout-

"Faster, Sherlock, I haven't got all day!"

Sherlock speeds out all he knows about Mrs Spencer and all the things he's deduced, even firing off things he didn't have time to think about. When he's finished, he flashes Mycroft a smug smile, knowing for once he's finally got the best of him. Mycroft crosses the room, once again lowering himself to glare into Sherlock's eyes.

"Don't try to be smart, Sherlock. I'm the smart one," Mycroft hisses. He turns on his heels, hands in his pockets, and makes towards the door.

"What'd I miss?" Sherlock calls after him. "Tell me, what did I miss?!" He says, running after Mycroft, pulling on his arm. Mycroft shakes him off roughly and Sherlock almost falls backwards.

"Oh, just everything of importance," he mutters carelessly as he walks away.

Sherlock never did find out what he missed.

Please R&R! It's good for the soul! Thanks for reading! XX