A/N: the story of Sherlock, through snapshots of different years. A lot of this is from my headcanon. My first Sherlock fanfic.
Characters: Sherlock, Mycroft, John, Lestrade
Pairings: None
Rating: T for drug use and the occasional swearing
If I owned Sherlock, we would have season 3 already. Nor do I own Treasure Island, which belongs to Robert Louis Stevenson
Inside My World
He is one, and everyone agrees that there is something wrong with the baby. Beyond screaming, Sherlock hasn't attempted to speak, not even to babble nonsense like Mycroft did as a baby, and mummy is worried. There is talk of doctors and hospitals and whispered words like retarded that Mycroft has to look up in his big Oxford dictionary that was his birthday present, but the elder Holmes boy knows that Sherlock is clever, because Mycroft can see the brain whirring behind those blue eyes. And he understands too the screaming when there is too much noise and too much input, because it is a curse of his own intellect.
So, after endless worrying and tears and despair, Mycroft is the only one who isn't surprised when, a few months after his second birthday, Sherlock walks into the kitchen and asks if he can please have a glass of milk before breakfast, and would Mycroft read to him?
He is five the first time he picks up a violin. He finds it in the attic, hidden behind boxes of photos and ghosts and memories of times he is too young to know but too curious to ignore, and if he hadn't tripped over it and sprained his wrist it is likely that it would have remained there as he sifted through the photos and books and the detritus of ages.
But he trips, and when he sits up with pain crawling up his arm but not tears (never tears – he is a Holmes, and Holmes' don't cry), he sees the box lying there, and he is entranced. There is a layer of dust on the faded leather covering the case, and a family of spiders has taken up residence amongst the scarlet velvet of the interior, but the instrument seems untouched by time, and Sherlock loves it.
Mummy, ever the musician, takes him into town to have it professionally tuned, and when it is returned with new strings and a quality bow, he begins his lessons.
He is seven, and in the corner of the schoolyard he is poring over a chemistry book as thick as his arm that he has checked out from the library on Mycroft's library card. So while the other boys play football or stand around in groups, Sherlock is content to hide behind his mop of black curls and devour all the knowledge that he can, before Mycroft makes him return the book.
As if they aren't rich enough to pay the late-return fee.
Snorting indignantly, Sherlock flips the page and scans the column of text, hoping to finish the chapter before Trevor and his gang get bored of football and turn to their second-favourite sport.
"Hey, look, it's the freak!"
Too late. Sherlock sighs, and takes a note of his page number.
He is nine, and he wants to be a pirate. It's Mycroft's fault really, for letting him read 'Treasure Island', but the sixteen year old doesn't mind; whether they are playing pirates or poring over Mycroft's science homework, having Sherlock is almost like having an equal and, in a world where they are both more intelligent than their teachers, that means a lot.
Because Sherlock's mind needs constant stimulation and, although Mycroft is teaching him how to filter out unimportant information, he still has days when everything is too loud and too confusing and he tears himself to shreds because the constant input of data is driving him crazy. Mycroft finds that numbers help in times like these, and he sits Sherlock down and they count up in prime numbers as high as they can, until their throats are sore and Sherlock is ready to sleep.
And when Mycroft tucks him into bed, he hears Sherlock's whispered plea, and he cradles the boy's head on his knees as he reads to him his favourite book.
"Squire Trelawney, Dr. Livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars..."
A/N: Please Review. Chapter 2 should be up soon.