Little Soldier
Chapter 1: The boy goes missing
With his four years Sherlock was a highly intelligent child. A genius like his brother. They were often compared to each other but Sherlock didn't mind. He loved his brother and his parents. His home was a place filled with love and he couldn't imagine ever leaving it.
He was even a bit famous as he was already able to speak five different languages fluently, play the violin better than some who had practiced for a decade and he was at the educational level of a secondary school pupil. You could say young Sherlock was using his genius and talent extensively. Currently he was fascinated by the 'magic' behind chemistry. Like he put it. But he was still a child and looking forward to a childhood full of wonders, and discovering the world.
But this was not to be his destiny. Someone else took this choice from him. While on a trip to the city with his family, little Sherlock Holmes vanished. Police and public looked everywhere for months until there were no more clues.
Sherlock Holmes, four years old, was declared 'presumed dead'.
Sherlock was in darkness. It was pitch black and despite his strong will not to show any weakness he could feel small tears running down his cheeks. It was okay to cry, no one would be able to see it in the dark room anyway. He just hopes that someone would come and save him. He wanted to go back to his brother. Why had he let go of his hand? Of course the bookstore had been interesting with so many book for him to read but the place was crowded and Mycroft had told him not to run off, or he would get lost. And he got lost. 'Lost means being in a place and not knowing where this place is or how you can get back to where you came from.' He remembered Mycroft explaining to him.
The thing that really concerned Sherlock was not the dark room or being lost and alone it was the fact that he couldn't remember how he had gotten here. One moment he had been reading a book about chemistry the next he was here. He was missing at least a few hours.
His concentration was losing its strength with time owing to the lack of input to his working brain. He had already touched everything he could reach with his hands. He had found a door with a lock only. There was only a small gap between door and frame, nothing else. No place where to start a break out. Sherlock sat in the corner furthest from the door.
That's where he fell asleep and was woken by the noise of an opening door. Waiting for what would happen, Sherlock staid exactly where he was not uttering any sound and making himself as small as possible. As nothing happened and no sound could be heard from outside his small room Sherlock stood up. His eyes had gotten used to the light again, thanks to what was coming through the door.
Stepping out was like entering a new world. The place looked rustic; the walls seemed to be made of clay and the windows where without glass. Sherlock's eyes found the only other living being in the room, an adult younger than his parents but older than his cousin who was a college student. The man was watching him, only watching, which Sherlock found unsettling.
"Hello Sherlock, nice to meet you. I was looking for you everywhere." The stranger was the first one who had spoken. His voice had an Irish accent. Sherlock couldn't imagine what the man wanted for an answer so he said nothing.
"My name is James Moriarty and you will call me Master or Sir from now on. Understand?" Sherlock though that not talking now was not a good idea as the man seemed to expect an answer from him.
"Why should I?" Sherlock was not as frightened as a child or anyone in that situation should be. He was just himself, cheeky. But his question was also full of curiosity. Who was this man who thought he could do with Sherlock what he wanted?
The answer to his question came fast. The stranger's hand slapped him hard onto his face. Hard enough to throw him to the ground. With the hot pain on his face also the tears came back to Sherlock's shame (Sherlock was a proud child).
"I think that will be enough of an answer for the beginning. I won't allow this kind of behavior. You belong to me now. You are mine and it is alone my decision if you will enjoy your life or have a hard time. So next time think about what you say and how you do it. Do you understand?"
Sherlock, still sitting on the floor, nodded. He had never been treated like that; violence was nothing his parents used when discipline was asked for.
"Good. I am offering you something special here. You will become my student and I will make you into something great. Believe me, when I'm finished with you, you will be perfect for the job I'm thinking of giving you." The man with the Irish accent smiled. It was a smile that made Sherlock's tummy hurt. He was in danger and he felt there wouldn't be any help coming for him soon.