So I finally decided to give this a try. I hope you allow me a few disclaimers as I start:
Firstly, it is my first time to write a story for this fandom. I hope you will forgive any mistakes or OOC moments.
Secondly, I am not a native of the British Isles, and publish my work unbeta-ed. So I am pretty sure there will be some language/tone lapses around. Please do bring them to my attention so I can correct. :)
Lastly (not a disclaimer), I am still learning about all this, so I really welcome feedback and advice. :)
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I hope you enjoy the story! :) Will do my best to post updates quickly.
"John. Pass me the scissors."
Sherlock sighs. John is in one of his moods again. Hadn't he already blown off his steam the past two days? Really, sometimes John could be so tedious.
"The scissors, John." He huffs. "It's in the upper drawer of the second shelf." After half a minute he adds, "Please?" in what is, hopefully, a more polite tone.
"John, honestly," he says, "This is getting ridiculous. Weren't you the one who wanted to work on this stupid model of the solar system anyway? And whatever happened to, 'We're growing up, you need to stop acting so childish'? Who's acting childish now, John?"
Sherlock looks up from his work station, the various odds and ends he and John had gathered from all over (The neighbor's shed, Mr. Cleaver's thrift store, and filched here and there from unsuspecting victims. Nothing too valuable, nothing that would be missed-that was John's only condition.) and peers at the shadow behind the dresser, where he knows John will emerge, looking resigned and contrite. He always feels guilty after hiding from Sherlock for more than a day.
He waits two more minutes, before allowing himself to feel a slight note of panic. "John?"
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i.
Bargaining, his brain perfunctorily supplies. From some Psychology book, perhaps, or one of mummy's so-called "self help."
"I'll even let you place the rings on Saturn," he says, daring to speak up in the hallway outside Father's study. John loved running along this corridor-no big vases or figurines for Sherlock to knock over and get scolded for-Father was a very practical man.
"I'll drink my milk on time tonight," he says in front of the refrigerator, wincing at his pathetic offer. Need to be more persuasive, he thinks. "I'll stop experimenting on the dog." The cook is staring at him strangely. "For a week," he quickly adds. "A month?" he asks again, staring at the sterile whiteness.
ii.
Anger, his subconscious recalls and provides.
"Are you trying to 'teach me a lesson' again, John? Is this your funny little way of making yourself feel important?" If his voice breaks a little, Sherlock either doesn't notice or doesn't care. He keeps shouting at the ceiling. "Bravo, John! I always knew you were the more mature one."
"Best friend." He spits the words out in the most painful way he knows how. Except-painful to whom? "Where's my so-called best friend when I need him?"
iii.
Bargaining, again. Really, Sherlock thinks, he did not expect his own reactions to be so pathetic and predictable that a simple psychology textbook had been able to explain it to him. But even as a part of him wanted to prove it wrong-he was special, John said, not like the others, in a good way-he couldn't help himself as he continued to lash out at the wall, the ceiling, the shadows behind the dressers, the spaces under the shelves.
"I take it back, alright? Are you happy now?" He curls his fingers into fists so hard he can feel his nails digging into his palms. Nerve endings responding to stimuli, reminding his brain that he could still feel. He thought he would always have John to remind him of that. How hateful. "Whatever it was that I said, or I did, I take it back, do you hear me? I take it back!"
iv.
Denial, he thinks afterwards.
v.
Acceptance, Mycroft insists, once he deduces what happened. He is short on patience that day, and cannot spare any for his wayward brother and his caprices. Besides, he just turned eight a week ago, he should know better.
"Really though, Sherlock, it was about time." And that, perhaps, is what hurts most of all.
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Mummy insisted that Mycroft come along with her to meet with Sherlock's doctor. Mummy insisted on a lot of things.
A few years ago, she took him aside and insisted that Mycroft never question Sherlock about John. However, she also insisted that he introduce Sherlock to his other friends from school, to help him diversify, she'd said.
Mummy insisted, as they left the doctor's office, that he never call his little brother a sociopath to his face. And to never bring up John Watson again.
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Sherlock never ends up turning in his science project that term. Saturn and all its rings, the sun, the moon and stars, are sent out with the rubbish in the morning. Cook finds that all the milk cartons have been emptied in the sink. A few more of mummy's vases and china get removed from the hallway and placed in storage for safe-keeping.
A few short weeks after his eighth birthday, Sherlock deletes the solar system.