Bright-eyed Spider
Juleslove3000 (who reviewed 'The Folder') suggested: "You should do a story of Sherlock's childhood and how John has positively influenced Sherlock's adulthood..."
I DO NOT, NOR WILL I EVER, EVER, EVER OWN SHELROCK. This amazing fandom belongs to Doyle, Moffat, Gatiss, and any other Sherlock Holmes-affiliated people in the world. I just like playing around!
This is also my first chapter fanfiction. So bear with me!
Chapter 1: The Spider
Spiders are stomped, smashed, crushed. It was naturally ingrained in many people to kill spiders on sight, which is perhaps why Sherlock likes spiders so much.
He is different, he knows.
It didn't used to be so bad, not when it was just him and mummy and their servants at home. Mycroft was away at school for most of Sherlock's early life, and Sherlock grew up playing with himself. There was a little grove of trees just past the garden (which was full of flowers and things that had no purpose save for feeding the bees) where Sherlock used to go and spend days and days. His mummy never worried; she was quite used to the Holmes' way, and only sighed and made Ms. Bonham, his nanny, go out once or twice a day to bring Sherlock food and fresh clothes and see if he was hurt.
Sherlock built a tree house in an ash tree. He designed it himself, and only had to have a professional come and build it. It had two sprawling stories (for the Holmes estate was quite old and the ash tree was quite enormous) and had a roof over only some parts. Ropes and ladders jutted down through the canopy, which Sherlock could hoist up if he was in a rotten mood with mummy or Ms. Bonham. On the top story there was a workbench with tools and magnifying glasses, and a real telescope (which was his father's old one) and large cases for specimens. There were also a few bookshelves full of books on plants and insects and rocks (they were all high school or college level—Sherlock never had had time for silly children's novels).
The bottom floor was entirely devoted to his whims of fancy.
Some days he wanted to be a police officer and so he would run over to the large box under a branch (so as to not get damaged in a storm) and grab out cheesy policemen suits that anyone could get at a costume store as well as handcuffs, radios, and a little dart-gun. He'd then descend and pretend to chase bad guys, which often ended in a high speed car chase in which the bad guy wrecks himself and Sherlock gets to examine the body. Sherlock had an entire book on anatomy, which he read many times.
Other times he wanted to be an explorer and would grab rope and a small blunt knife and trek around the grove of trees, collecting bugs and plants and running up to the top of the tree to his second floor and spent the next five hours dissecting and cataloguing everything he found. He kept a journal full of observations on bees (which he found quite fascinating) and more journals for plants, and insects. Sometimes he'd fight tigers in India (while reading everything he could about the plant life and animal habitation of India) or he'd go to the far distant planes of Swaziland and discover new animals or lost civilizations.
When Mycroft visited for a whole summer when he was six, Sherlock had decided to be a pirate and ran about with his knife stealing his mummy's jewelry and raiding the pantry. He learned many swearwords, and how to write and read maps. He stole his brother homework more than once and buried it, hiding while his brother tried to find the missing paperwork and shooting him with his dart-gun.
Still other times he wanted to be a detective. This was helped a great deal by his deceased father, who owned a number of scientific instruments (which mummy let him borrow because he always said being a detective is an exact art and he ought to have the proper tools). He'd dress up, putting on his father's old clothes, such as his favorite deer-stalker hat (his father had loved to hunt) and a pipe (which he was never allowed to fill because mummy wouldn't let him.) He'd go around looking for murders or robberies and scoff at policemen (because without him pretending to be one, they were utterly hopeless).
When Sherlock was eight, mummy grew ill and Mycroft came home while Sherlock was in his tree-house. When Sherlock saw his older brother coming near, he rolled up all of his ladders and ropes (though Mycroft was quite rubbish at sports and would never have been able to climb a rope.)
"Sherlock," Mycroft sighed as he came upon the trunk of the tree. "Please do not fool with me now. I have something I need to discuss with you. It is of the utmost importance."
"What?" Sherlock called down irritably while leaning precariously over the edge of his tree house.
"Please come down, Sherlock." Mycroft replied. Even at the age of fifteen, he radiated smugness and superiority. Sherlock resisted the urge to grind his teeth as he climbed down a thick rope.
"Mummy is ill, Sherlock." Mycroft said quietly a little while later as they sat down on a bench in the gardens. The stone bench resided under a sprawling beech tree, and had a fountain of Venus, the Roman goddess of love, standing on her shell.
"I know!" Sherlock interrupted rudely, staring intently at Venus. He didn't need Mycroft to tell him mummy might not make it, which was why Mycroft was here. Sherlock wasn't stupid.
But Sherlock didn't want mummy to die.
"Yes," Mycroft said placidly and he continued; "Mummy and I have been discussing the state of things, and a great deal of money must go to mummy's doctor to afford the medicine she needs. We have decided that dropping several servants would be for the best, and that means—"
"You're sending me to school!" Sherlock interrupted again. He felt horror rising up. School meant other children. School meant he couldn't be free to do as he liked. School meant he'd have to interact with other people. Several years ago he had read some books on school, and had decided it was the worst invention that mankind had come up with.
"We are." Mycroft said. "You start in three weeks."
Sherlock felt his mouth open in protest and he started rising from the bench. Mycroft raised his hand and successfully shushed Sherlock.
"It has already been taken care of, Sherlock." Mycroft said, his tone hard. "Don't argue. Mummy cannot handle it."
After Mycroft left, Sherlock wandered about in shock. He wandered past his mummy's precious daffodils, which were the flowers Sherlock's father courted her with. He wandered through the orchards, the apple trees, the cherry trees, the orange trees . . . He stopped, eyes landing on a web.
It was the web of an Orb-Weaver Spider, or Araneus spp. It was a common spider, with the classical circular web. He had dissected several already, notes on the web shapes and the distinctive features also rested in the simple black journal. Sherlock watched the spider as it moved about the web. The Orb-Weaver Spider is not a venomous spider, though it is one of the most common spiders in the world.
Sherlock felt an ache in his heart. The spider, scuttling on its web looking for stupid bugs, could rebuild its web. Sherlock was about to go among the stupid bugs and he would most likely never be able to rebuild his web.
Stupid wasn't contagious, was it?
The next three weeks past in a blur, which was unusual for Sherlock because he could normally keep track of time very well. But before he knew it he was standing alone outside of his new school.
It was a large, square building, which Sherlock hated on sight. The grounds were quite small compared to his back yard, with only five trees. In a fenced off area there was a simple metal slide, five empty swings, a teeter-totter, and a 'merry-go-round (he sneered at the name—could no one come up with a better one? Well, if one considered puking their last meal up 'merry' . . . Sherlock wondered if he could get a sample of the vomit and find out what that child had last ate.) Children were laughing and running around waiting for the bell, and doing their best (it seemed) to annoy Sherlock by being incredibly boring. Girls nearby were skipping rope, and boys huddle in corners, whispering or tossing a ball casually back and forth. Sherlock wandered over to an oak tree, which had a plastic bench wrapped around it, and sat resolutely down, pulling out "Flora of the British Isles"by A.R., Tutin.
He read, trying to ignore all of the children around him. A few girls tried to converse with him, as well as one or two shy boys, but Sherlock glared at them and each beat a hasty retreat. Finally three boys wandered over to the bench, seemingly oblivious to the glares they were receiving from the bench's only occupant.
"What ch'ya reading?" A boy who seemed to be the leader asked. Sherlock sized him up, having a good eye for deducing people. The boy was nine, almost ten (he had been held back a year, most likely third grade, but it could have been second) he had a fairly rich father who was a drunk and a mother who had run away. He was used to getting what he wanted; and Sherlock would have to wait and see what they wanted from him. His hair was a dusty blonde, his eyes a dull hazel, with plump cheeks and a scowl.
"A book." He replied coolly. While he might be out of touch with what the rest of the human race was doing, he was fairly certain that most eight year olds did not read college level books on flora. He wasn't sure most eight years olds even read past high school level. He wasn't quite sure if he wanted to pick a fight with this idiot yet, and decided to wait.
"Yeah, I can see tha'." The boy sneered. "But what's tuh book about?"
"Plants," Sherlock replied, eye brows rising. "I'm sure even a dullard like you can see the plants on the cover."
The boy's face flushed. "Wha' did ch'ya just say?"
Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in deeply through his nose. "It's 'What did you just say.'"
"Wha'?"
"It's what!" Sherlock snapped. He once again congratulated himself on memorizing the Oxford English dictionary when he was five; clearly it would be easier to get through school when he had mastered the English language while many children were still stuck at pronouncing 'what' correctly.
The boy seemed at a loss of words as he glanced back at his companions, likely hoping to pick up cues on where to go with this conversation. They looked just as lost as he was, so the boy turned back.
"Wha's your name?" He demanded.
"Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock replied. "And yours?"
"Sherlock?" The boy sneered. "What kind of a name is that?"
"An old English one." Sherlock replied at once. "If you're curious, look up the definition yourself. In the meantime, I believe it is polite to, when asking one's name, give yours in return."
"Bobby Olhouser." The boy replied gruffly. "An' I don't like your attitude."
"Congratulations." Sherlock drawled, a tone he had picked up from Mycroft. "You know some three syllable words. Your daddy must be so proud."
As he expected, Bobby's face flushed slightly and his chin rose defiantly.
"Well," Sherlock continued after observing this reaction, "he would if he got his nose out of the alcohol bottle for more than five minutes. Can't be your mum; she's in Surrey. So perhaps you could show off to your father's mistress . . .?"
Sherlock was not expecting the punch that followed his statement, and the only thing that saved him from more blows was the bell. Bobby stormed into the building, and Sherlock realized (not without some glee) that he had made his first enemy. Just like in those stories he had read!
He calmly packed his bags as the other children eyed him wearily. He tucked "Flora of the British Isles" beside an empty journal which he had brought to record his experiments in. While he could no longer make his interesting experiments anymore whenever he felt like it, he could certainly make experiments that might determine the leading cause in stupidity . . .
His glee faded as he realized the teachers had no idea what to do with him. He was clearly beyond his grade and should be taught by a private tutor who could keep up with his intellect, not a public school. He moped in the back of the classroom day in and day out, never answering a single question unless forced to do so. He aced all of his quizzes and tests, and yet forgot everything promptly. His writing and reading abilities were beyond even some of the teachers, and he often reported the teachers whole life story in front of the class (one teacher even got fired, because Sherlock found out she had kidnapped her best friends daughter because said best friend had slept with her husband. He was able to prove it, and the teacher was packing her bags the next day.)
Bobby and his two cronies, Victor and Mark, often tried to best him, but Sherlock (after seeing a karate movie his mother insisted that he watch) was practiced in the martial arts. Bobby gave up after a while, though Victor Trevor seemed to still be interested. Sherlock did not understand why the boy—two years his senior—kept looking at him like that. A mixture of admiration, fear, and . . . something else. Respect? Sherlock didn't know.
Many people gave the opinion he need a more creative outlet, and so Mycroft arranged for Sherlock to study the violin. Sherlock was at first wary, but after hearing his instructor play decided that the violin was an amazing instrument and threw himself into the study, struggling for his child fingers to reach the proper notes.
But Sherlock was like a spider. It was naturally ingrained in many people to kill spiders on sight, and Sherlock's brilliance was what made him a spider. People can't deal with that sort of brilliance, and many times his classmates, teachers, and principles tried to make him normal—or, in other words, dull and stupid.
But spiders always repair the damage to their webs, and Sherlock kept bouncing back.