Sherlock said his first word when he was 11 years old. His family were poor, they didn't have the money to go and get him "fixed" as Sherlock's Mother used to say. They kept him away from society as much as they could. His older brother, Mycroft had to home school Sherlock. The brothers had a particular relationship, mostly because it was just Mycroft talking and Sherlock would either read a book or just looking out the window. Mycroft did love his brother, very much. But when he had won a scholarship to a fancy school in London, he had to move and leave Sherlock with their parents. Sherlock was now alone, 10 years old and heavily abused at home. When Mycroft left it was like the bubble of light and love burst and left darkness behind. Mother locked Sherlock in his (and previously Mycroft's) room. when he got food it didn't stay in his stomach for long before he got kicked or punched in his abdomen, Sherlock still didn't talk or said any words but he made sounds, Sounds that Mycroft still has nightmares of, shrieking and screaming out of pure pain. Sherlock often fainted and woke up a couple of hours later with even more bruises and aches.
One year later.
Mycroft had been gone for a school year and was now home for summer. Sherlock had grasped that Mycroft was coming home when he had listened to Mother as she read a letter from his brother.
Sherlock was, for once, not just sitting in a corner wagging back and forth, he actually did his chores.
By dinner time Mycroft arrived, with a cold welcome from Father and a awkward hug from Mother. Sherlock hesitated, as he stood behind Father, but he couldn't hold himself from feeling the warmth and love for the first time in a very long time. Mycroft laughed as he lifted his little brother up and hugged him. Sherlock was so happy and the smell of Mycroft's coat, it was almost too much, Sherlock had missed his brother's smell. Mother said something about dinner getting cold so they sat at the table; it was the first time in months Sherlock was allowed to eat there. Mycroft told stories about his new school, how impressed the teachers were, his friends, his grades. This made Mother and Father pleased, of course, because soon Mycroft could be making a fortune and spends it on his family.
When Mycroft didn't have any stories left, the silence took over. They hadn't much to talk about and Father was obviously intoxicated with the wine they drank. He commanded that Sherlock would bring the plates to the kitchen and start to dish. Sherlock went up and started to carrying the plates, he went around the table and took Mycroft's last, as he sat nearest the kitchen, and Mycroft smiled at his brother and that made Sherlock giggle, at Fathers disapproval, he shouted to Sherlock to hurry up. Sherlock snapped out of his smiling and started to run to the kitchen, when he felt that his feet lost balance and he fell to the floor. Porcelain plates crashing down on the floor and making terrible noise. It felt like Sherlock was falling forever; when he landed he just laid there and hoped he was dead.
Sherlock were bored, alone and frustrated. He had had a fight with both John and Mycroft about drugs. Mycroft had told John that Sherlock had gone back to heroin again. John went furious and
He went to the bathroom, lay in the bath tub, folded his left sleeve up and pushed the needle in to his vein. Instantly he felt the effects, he dozed off in the amazing feeling of numbness, the fight earlier felt so far away. He woke up after an hour of unconsciousness and still felt frustrated and angry. He rose and saw himself in the mirror. What would John say? He'd probably just run off again, and maybe not come back.
Sherlock felt a stab of guilt in his stomach. His mind came up with more and more terrifying scenarios which all led to Sherlock being alone with no one, not even Mycroft.
He looked around, the syringe was empty and he didn't have anything stashed somewhere. He needed to calm down. He took out the little tinbox from under the sink. He was glad that it still was there. His less expensive drug, he held a razorblade in his hand.
He lay in the bathtub once more and started with tiny cuts that almost didn't draw blood.