CHAPTER ONE:
He was sent home with a note. A note and bloodied knuckles. Again. The sting of the cracked skin, oozing red where the splinters of the headmaster's yardstick had pulled away flesh, was not the worst part. The second punishment after his parents read yet another note was not the worst part. Not even the disappointment in their eyes. It was their words that hurt most. Eight. Little. Words.
"Why can't you be more like your brother?"
Perhaps just as bad was the brother.
"What did you do this time, stupid?" drawled Mycroft as Sherlock walked into their shared quarters.
Sherlock's face was clear, grim, and rimmed with pain. Mycroft didn't even have to exert his grey cells to deduce that his baby brother had made another mistake. Mycroft had no sympathy for mistakes. Especially mistakes made by relatives that were personally embarrassing to him and potentially harmful in his governmental ambitions.
"Why don't you just stay at Oxford?" Sherlock mumbled angrily, flopping onto his bed and turning away to stare at the peeling wallpaper.
"If you think I'm spending time with you because I wish to, you're delusional. I'm here because mum insisted I come home for Christmas. Then dad called, threatening to revoke my tuition if I had told mum no. I may have had to call her back after that."
"Tuition revoked? Kicked out of Oxford? That would be as terrible for me as it would be for you," Sherlock replied.
A few weeks with his older brother back home was better than his brother becoming a permanent fixture again.
Mycroft coughed then said, "you still haven't answered my question."
What did you do this time, stupid?
"I didn't do my homework because it was pointless. I told a boy at lunch that I would prefer to sit by a cadaver during my meals rather than him; I then was compelled to explain what a cadaver was and he burst into tears. Then I showed the headmaster how he was completely wrong in botany class –if the class went on a nature hike, him leading us, we'd be dead of hemlock poisoning."
"I have no doubt you did not censor that last remark when correcting the headmaster?"
"No. Because it's true."
"Oh, right, I forgot what an honest, virtuous sibling I had. Explains why your knuckles look worse than usual. Listen, Sherlock, I made loads more corrections to the curriculum than you'll ever make, but I never got wrapped for it. I wonder why?"
"Because you're a suck up."
"Because I'm smart and you're not."
Before a brawl could break out, Mrs. Holmes called the boys down to supper. Sherlock wasn't allowed dessert of course, being a felon and all. His piece of cake was given to Mycroft. Sherlock didn't care. He wasn't hungry anyway. He slipped scraps of roast beef to his dog who was sitting under the table. Redbeard, the large Irish Setter, had his furry head in Sherlock's lap and was drooling.
As Redbeard's saliva accumulated, Sherlock wondered if it would look like he wet his trousers when he finally stood up. He found he didn't care about that either. He passed a bit of bread to Redbeard. The dog's tail thwacked happily against something under the table. It must have been Mycroft's leg because around a bite of cake he said,
"Stop it, mutt."
Sherlock shot a glare at his brother for calling Redbeard a mutt. Mycroft didn't seem to notice, or care. Finishing his cake, Mycroft stood, stacking his dishes in the kitchen sink and making sure to pile them largest to smallest.
"Going back up to your room already, Mikey?" Mrs. Holmes asked, obviously upset.
"I have so much homework, from Oxford, you know, mother," Mycroft said as if words had turned to molasses.
"Oh, of course, dear. You must do your work. I'm so proud of my little Mikey-Wikey!" Mrs. Holmes cried, her voice now equally sugar coated.
"For goodness' sake call me Mycroft, that's what's written on the birth certificate," snapped Mycroft, all sugar gone from his voice.
The boys' mother tried not to look downcast as her eldest tromped up the stairs to his room.
"Sherlock…would you like a piece of cake?" asked Mrs. Holmes, never able to truly punish her sons; even when Mr. Holmes' eyes darted dangerously in her direction.
"No," said Sherlock.
Giving him cake because she felt bad. Feeling bad because a pang of guilt about calling Mycroft by his nickname reminded her of her guilt for punishing Sherlock. Even his punishments were overshadowed by Mycroft.
Sherlock went up to the room, grabbed a coat, a scarf, and his skull.
"Where are you going, little prince? Your mind palace?"
Mycroft's spiteful laughter followed Sherlock outside, Redbeard also tailing behind him. Sherlock hastily zipped up his coat and yanked the scarf into a tight knot around his neck. How easy it would be to pull it just a little more tightly…constrict the airflow…break the hyoid bone, crush the trachea…die. Even easier to put it around someone else's neck. Mycroft's thick neck, to be exact.
Sherlock sighed and loosened the scarf. He felt stupid, worthless even, but surely it'd be a waste to leave this earth at a mere ten years of age. No, he couldn't leave before his eleventh birthday at least. He may get a violin! The violin could carry him away on wings of song, instilling in Sherlock the will to live another day. The will to murder died too as Sherlock considered life in prison because of Mycroft. It wasn't worth it. He wouldn't give Mikey's ghost the satisfaction.
Sherlock laid down in the grass of his little backyard, setting the skull beside him. Redbeard snuggled against his master, his warmth negating the stark, winter cold. Mr. and Mrs. Holmes' voices broke through the chill air, begging Sherlock to come back inside. Sherlock lied and said he would after he was done stargazing.
If his parents really knew his mind, they would know he cared nothing for stargazing or galaxies. All needless information. But they wouldn't know his mind. Couldn't. Sherlock had decided not to let anyone see his mind again. Not after Mycroft had invaded his mind palace. He had filled in the cracks Mycroft had created. His mind palace was secure once again. Secure and secret.
Sherlock whispered to his skull and smiled.
"Do you remember when I found you in the graveyard, Scully?"
The skull stared back, blankly.
"Well, I remember. It was a cold day like today. I think you'd been buried a long time, considering what I've read about decomposition. My parents said it was too morbid for me to read, so, I don't have the book anymore and couldn't tell you exactly how long you've been dead. Redbeard dug you out of the dirt. My parents yelled and yelled at him, but then I took you home and hid you. By the time they saw you again they had forgotten about the graveyard incident and I told them I had gotten you from school –you were a prop for a play."
Scully sat.
"I enjoyed being in the school play. I like being the minor character. I get to dress up and no one recognizes me. I don't have to say anything –I can just observe the entire time. The other actors, or better yet, the audience. Maybe one day though I'll get the lead in Hamlet, and then I can get you on stage Scully, and you can observe the people too."
The wind blew through Scully's sockets creating a low whistle.
Suddenly Sherlock, Scully, and Redbeard were bathed in a pool of light pouring from the neighbor's window. The head of a petite, mouse haired, nine year old girl passed in front of the light as she looked out into the night. As quickly as she had appeared she had whisked away. In moments she was climbing over the fence that segregated the yards.
"Hi, Sherlock! I thought I saw you out here," she said.
"Oh, hello, Molly," Sherlock replied.
Molly Hooper plopped down beside Sherlock, picking up Scully and wishing him a good evening as well. Then she wrapped her arms around Redbeard and scratched his ears. Redbeard went limp with pure contentment.
"What are you doing out here?" she inquired.
"Stargazing," he replied.
Molly looked skeptical, especially since Sherlock was on his stomach, but she laid down on her back and gazed at the stars. Sherlock narrowed his grey eyes and slowly shifted onto his back.
"There's Sirius, the dog star," pointed Molly. "It's part of Canis Major," she outlined the constellation with her finger. "You like that one, don't you Redbeard?"
Redbeard wagged his tail.
"So," said Molly when Sherlock remained silent. "How's the knuckles?"
Sherlock flexed his hands, causing the band-aids to expand, and shrugged. "All right."
"Still got the band-aids, I see. I told you Smurfs weren't so bad," Molly smiled. "Better than princess ones at least."
"Yeah, thanks," Sherlock said. He held his tongue instead of commenting on how unrealistic or how silly the little, printed Smurfs really were. Apparently it was crap telly Molly enjoyed on Saturdays. Sherlock didn't watch much television unless he heard words like "robbery, gunpoint," or "murder."
"You're morbid," Molly had told him once.
"You're the one who has frames full of dead butterflies in her room," Sherlock retorted.
"I didn't kill them, my father did. And it's scientific. You're just sick. My butterflies are still beautiful even though their dead, and my father got to unlock all of their secrets in his studies. The aerodynamics of each one's wing structure –how it flies, things like that. You…you don't understand, do you Sherlock?"
"No, I…I don't think I do. Why are butterflies important again?"
Molly had sighed and changed the subject, but she never stopped talking to Sherlock. Sherlock correctly supposed it was because he didn't run away screaming when Molly started talking about science and chemistry and the strange work of her father. Sometimes…sometimes he even listened.
He listened as Molly shrieked for him to focus on the night sky. He just caught a glimpse of the glimmering tail of a comet. He wasn't sure why, but he was glad he had seen it. He and Molly's breath clouded the air and unsaid words clouded their minds. A comet was just a dying star, and both were riveted by it. In one fashion or another, they were fixated on the idea of death.
"What's wrong with us Sherlock?" Molly whispered.
"Nothing. We just want to solve the greatest mystery of all time," he replied steadily.
Molly smiled at him. She patted Scully and Redbeard then got up, brushing herself off. The grass clippings fell away from her like faerie dust. She said she had better get back inside before she got into trouble. Sherlock stayed where he was and gazed up at the stars and galaxies until he could keep his eyes open no longer. A light covering of snow was his blanket that night.
When he woke up his lips were blue. His veins were blue. The sky was blue. Blue. The color of the world if he could have seen it from that dying comet.
The back door of the house creaked open just as Sherlock's eyes did. His mother's voice pierced the silence of the crisp morning air, harsh and worried. A steaming cup of tea was soon in his hand and Sherlock went to sit in the living room by the fireplace. Redbeard shivered loyally beside him. They both knew better than to take up space in the kitchen when Mrs. Holmes was preparing Christmas dinner. Sherlock blew his nose, suppressed his own shivering, and refused to tell anyone he had a fever. He wasn't about to let last night's stint in the cold be turned into an 'I told you so' moment –it had been so much more than that.
Though Mrs. Holmes' meal was, as always, superb –turkey, cranberry sauce, roasted chestnuts, hot cocoa, the usual winter fare –the event itself was cloaked in its usual grey drudgery, performed like a Russian funeral march. They knew it was really best to say little at all or else a row could break out and spoil Christmas completely.
"Sherlock, um," began Mrs. Holmes, "because of the nature of your gift, well, your father and I thought it had best count for both Christmas and your birthday. If they weren't so close together it would be different, but just the one pay check to spend on gifts this time of year, well, you understand dear."
Sherlock nodded. He didn't mind. He didn't get too attached to things anymore. Not after Mycroft had broken his Action Man and it was never replaced or successfully repaired. Sherlock had still played with the decapitated Action Man for a few weeks before gifting it to Redbeard instead.
"Well, Sherlock, it's up to you –do you want to open it now or your birthday?"
"Now should do just as well since I already know what it is. A violin, right?" he said, ripping the paper from the box.
His parents, after seven years experience with Mycroft before he came along, were quite to used to the fact that none of their gifts would be a surprise. They had almost learned not to be disappointed.
Sherlock unlocked the black, wooden case which held his new violin. He undid the latch and the box creaked open. He ran his fingertips over the caramel wood that bore a sunset sheen. It was worn and rough in some places –it had been owned before, obviously. Owned by a forgetful smoker with a missing left pinkie finger. Owned by this person for at least fifty years and played very regularly. Unfortunately this smoker died with a careless heir who had no ear for music. A tone deaf heir with a need for quick cash. All this and more Sherlock deduced from the new violin.
Your mine now, Sherlock thought as he caressed its neck and laid its body on his shoulder. The violin caressed his chin in return and succumbed easily to his bowing though he had never played before outside of his mind palace.
What will they deduce about me from you when I die and leave you to another? Sherlock wondered as he tested some notes. Nothing, I'll bet. No one will be smart enough to, he replied to himself cynically.
The violin only sang and Sherlock forgot about dying and deducing. He forgot his brother and his sore knuckles. He was in a world far from here. A world that wasn't blue from far, far away. A world beyond even the serenity, seclusion, and safety of his mind palace. He was in "violin land."
His father's voice called him out of it.
"You like it then?" his father asked, a smile twitching on his lips.
"Yes," Sherlock replied. "Yes."
His parents saw the tears threatening to well up in their youngest son's eyes and felt it the biggest thank you they had ever received. Mycroft wasn't touched.
"Don't you dare practice while I'm trying to study or sleep, or play anywhere in my proximity. You sound like a dying animal."
A dying animal.
No, my violin and I are better than that, Sherlock thought. We aren't dying. In fact, we are the only ones to know what it truly feels like to be alive.
For once in his life, for the first and last time in his life, Sherlock Holmes did not make a witty comeback. He let his violin do the work and let a perfect, high D trill into the air. A high D so beautiful no one could mistake it for a dying animal, only a songbird of a heavenly realm.
That silenced Mycroft. Though in the week following he made sure to critique Sherlock's amateur skill set. But Sherlock only played louder, deaf to his brother's taunts. Afraid Mycroft might vandalize his precious violin (he had once drawn a moustache on Scully and it had taken Sherlock hours to wash it off) Sherlock stored his violin in a different place each day. He was glad when Christmas break began to draw to a close. Mycroft would be going back to Oxford, and even though Sherlock too would resume classes, he would come home everyday to a violin that he could keep in his bedroom.
It was in the bedroom that Sherlock cracked open his eyes, bleary with sleep. His fever had broken a few days ago and for the first morning since he had caught the cold he could breathe through both nostrils. His grey orbs locked on the calendar beside his bed. With a soft sound like severed silk he tore away yesterday and let it float to the floor. January 6th took yesterday's place.
There was an envelope waiting for him at the breakfast table. Mrs. Holmes was at the stove, Mr. Holmes was setting out plates, and Mycroft was still trying to force himself out of bed.
Another birthday card from Grandma Vernet, Sherlock thought. Upon closer inspection, even the type of envelope was all wrong. In fact, glancing round the table, Sherlock saw the rest of the post and even the morning paper had not yet arrived. Never theorize without all of the facts, Sherlock reprimanded himself.
He picked up the thick envelope adorned with green ink. Here is what is said:
Mr. S. Holmes
729 Montague Street
Soho, London
Upper Bedroom, Bed on the Right
There was no return address. If this wasn't from Grandma Vernet, who was it from? No one thought Sherlock worth the stamp on a birthday card but her. That wasn't true; maybe this singular sender thought him special.
Someone might think me special! thought Sherlock, his pulse quickening.
Aside from the obvious quality of the paper and ink, Sherlock was incapable of making a definitive deduction –something Mycroft had never failed to do since he was five (or so he claimed).
And here I am, ten –no! Eleven now! –years old and still making analytical mistakes! Idiot!
There was no use dawdling. Sherlock slit the envelope with his finger. He winced as the paper sliced his finger in return. He stuck the injured phalange in his mouth. The iron tasting blood ran over his tongue. Quickly the sensation faded and when he drew his finger back from his lips the paper cut had faded away too.
Sherlock yanked the letter from the envelope's grasp.
An elaborate crest bearing the images of lion, eagle, badger, and serpent adorned the top along with these words in a bold script:
HOGWARTS SCHOOL OF WITCHCRAFT AND WIZARDRY
Headmaster: Albus Dumbledore
(Order of Merlin, First Class, Grand Sorc., Chf. Warlock, Supreme Mugwump, International Confed. of Wizards)
The letter itself continued thus:
Dear Mr. Holmes,
We are pleased to inform you that you have been accepted into Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Find enclosed the list of books and equipment you will need for your first year.
Term begins on the first of September. We await your owl by no later than 31 July.
Congratulations again, and happy birthday!
Yours sincerely,
Minerva McGonagall
Deputy Headmistress
"Bloody hell, I'm a wizard!" were the first words out of Sherlock's mouth.
"Sherlock, language!" his mother called over the sizzling bacon.
"What?" Mr. Holmes and Mycroft, who had finally tumbled out of bed, asked.
Mycroft looked disgusted with himself for following the same train of thought as their "boring" father. He blamed his sleepiness and quickly amended his statement to something suitably stinging.
"What, did you win a sweepstakes scam?"
The new statement was cynical enough, but Mycroft could not disguise the lines of concern sprouting from his furrowed brow –concern that something special had just happened to his brother.
"I'm going to s school of witchcraft and wizardry, I think!" Sherlock announced.
His parents snatched the letter from his clammy hands. His mother let the bacon burn. Mycroft took the opportunity to go outside for a secret rendezvous with a cigarette. (Sherlock's nose could distinguish the smoke of a Marlboro on Mycroft's coat apart from the bacon smoke, even if his parents' couldn't.) For the safety of his violin, Sherlock didn't tattle.
Sherlock's parents read the letter several times over before speaking.
"Is this…no, it can't be," breathed his mother.
"Even if it is, he's not going," said Sherlock's father.
"Not going!" cried Sherlock. "But I have to! I have to get out of here!"
"Get out of here?" drawled Mycroft. He was leaning in the doorway. Sherlock could smell the cigarette smoke. "What's wrong with here?"
"Everything!" Sherlock shouted, his pale face turning crimson with fury.
An owl, hitherto unnoticed, hooted. Wherever it had secreted itself before, it was now perched on the back of the chair where Sherlock usually sat at the table.
"How'd it get in here?" cried Mr. Holmes.
"None of the windows are open, I checked last night before bed," said Mycroft, whose o.c.d. was about to run rampant as the owl dropped a feather on the linoleum floor. He looked ready to banish the creature, or perhaps deep fry it and eat the drumsticks.
"It must have brought my letter! Flew down the chimney, by the look of the coal dust on its feathers. Owls are never out in the daytime," Sherlock added.
"Owls are nocturnal? I never would have guessed, Captain Obvious," Mycroft rolled his eyes. "But really? Coming down the chimney like Santa Claus? Grow up, stupid, and be logical for once. It's just a rabid bird who can't tell night from day. Must've gotten trapped in the garage and flew in behind us. I'll go call animal control," Mycroft said.
"You're insufferable!" cried Sherlock. "Can't you read? The letter said they will expect my owl –it's obviously their form of the postal system. And besides, we haven't gone through the garage this morning, and I think we, or at least I, would have noticed an owl in the house if it were here overnight. Speaking of, it must have flown a great distance. Here," Sherlock said, turning to the tawny bird. His cheeks were burning as he gave it a morsel of cold, buttered toast. It chirruped happily and Sherlock felt the flushing in his face go down. This bird was tame. He wasn't crazy. Wizards were real –whenever you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.
Sherlock went to the door and opened it. The owl preened itself, ruffled its feathers, dropping several more on the floor, and took off, whooshing past Sherlock and through the door. Sherlock watched it shrink into the distant, grey sky.