A/N: Welp this will be a bit sad. Redbeard comes in about a fourth through the story. It's pretty much how I view Sherlock's childhood and how Redbeard plays a part. I hope you like it to some extent.

My Dearest, My Only, My Redbeard

It goes without saying that Sherlock was a man that never did fit in in this world, so it's only reasonable to assume that it was the same for him as a child. By age seven he was able to solve problems students in high school struggled with, and by ten he could easily take a college entrance exam and make a perfect score. He was an extraordinary child, and he had a gift, not one to be wrapped or held, but one to shine; however, it is far too often that gifted children struggle the most. For as a child, special is synonymous with venomous.

Sherlock Holmes was a naïve child, despite his massive intellect. He could decode any language in less than four minutes, yet he could never learn to decode the heart. By the age of seven, he had come to his first encounter with this.

"She's lying," why was it that his voice always stood out so blatantly?

A few heads turned as a side dish for a glare. Sherlock knew those eyes. Those hateful eyes. The pupils were slightly smaller than usual, a crease between the brows, and strain near the lips. Their neck looked tighter and tense. Their shoulders shook slightly. Clenched fists. They were angry. It wasn't like it was his fault. He was trying to let them know. He never understood when people just looked past all these small details. Mycroft told him it was because "ignorant is bliss."

"She doesn't like your shirt," he elaborated, "She only compliments you to get closer to your boyfriend. He's cheating on you, by the way."

"You're the one that's lying!" the girl accused, getting angrier. She clenched her fists tighter, glaring harder.

Once again, proving his point.

"You're just saying that because you don't have any friends," huffed the other girl. "Maybe you would if you weren't such a freak!"

Ah.

"Freak."

Sherlock was well acquainted with the word. He attended school since it was illegal not to do so, though he did skip classes often without getting into trouble since he was much more trouble if he was in class. It wasn't his fault that his teachers often made mistakes, but did he honestly deserve reprimanding for correcting them? There are people that would take that false fact to heart. Was he not doing them a favor?

Sherlock's childhood fled away from him as if it were a hand that just touched a hot stove. His parents noticed how he became withdrawn, but they were more on the happy side that they would not have to raise something so immature.

He talked to Mycroft less and less often as he grew older, and his older brother may as well have handed him the plaster that he built the wall between them with. Sherlock spent his time in his room, eyes closed, curled up under his blankets. He began to build up fantasies and scenes in his mind. He built a perfect world for himself where he could escape to when things got too unbearable.

His Wonderland was built in the form of a castle—a palace if you may—and he was the only one inside. There was no one to hurt him there, no one to distract him. There was no one to pick at him and make him feel as if he were one more grain of sand on the beach. Sometimes he prayed for a crashing wave.

When Sherlock had turned fourteen, he discovered his father's cigarettes on the counter. He'd known what they were, what their side effects were, and he knew of all the don't-do-drugs campaigns that flew around him as often as there were clouds in the sky. However, curiosity was too much to bear. He took one back to his room.

He turned the small stick over in his hand, smelling it first and putting it between his lips. It tasted of nothing specific. He felt a rush of adrenaline through his veins, knowing there would be hell to pay if his parents walked in on him. Mycroft smoked, he was observant of as much, why couldn't he? This was his logic.

He decided the smell would alert his parents, so instead he opened the window in his bedroom and climbed out, closing it shortly after. He didn't hesitate striking a match and lighting one end. He wasn't sure what to do, so he simple took in a deep breath.

It felt absolutely horrid, like there were snakes slithering down his throat. It burned his insides and he immediately let the breath back out, coughing a few times and glaring at the offending cigarette stick. After he gained back his composure, he felt this sort of aftereffect. He couldn't really describe it.

The cigarette danced between his lips again and fired smoke to his lungs. It felt better than the first time, perhaps his body was getting used to it. Before he realized it, the cigarette was nothing but a small stub. Why had he taken it again? His mind felt numb and he was sluggish. He dropped the remains of the drug and stepped over it as he opened the window and climbed back in.

A week later, Sherlock had started to find the cigarettes comforting in a way nothing else could ever come close to comforting him. They made him forget things he wanted to forget. He would need to learn this skill later… Skill of… Deleting events? That had to be possible.

By the end of the month, Sherlock was hooked on them.

"Freak! Stop trying to be smart! Everyone knows you're not!"

Sherlock only walked faster. Mycroft always did say not to let them get the best of him. Not to let them win over him. But he was always having a difficult time holding himself together.

"Hey, kid, jump out of that window. Or will you just give us some formula of how someone could possibly escape out during math class? Only a freak like you could do that."

Sherlock ignored them. Or tried.

Walk faster, walk faster, walk faster. He swallowed thickly, turning the corner and hurrying into a bathroom stall. It was empty. Between classes. Only two people on this side of the school tended to come in during the break between periods. One only during fourth, and the other was absent. Sixth period, so he was safe.

He sat on the toilet, pulling out a cigarette from his bag. He lit it quickly, popping it into his mouth. He watched the smoke fly high above his head as he puffed out a stream. It looked like music- or what Sherlock assumed music looked like. He leaned his head back, closing his eyes. He took another deep breath, holding it in, feeling the chemicals burn his insides before he let out the smoke.

He sat limply against the seat, feeling empty again. He wondered what it felt not to have thoughts swarming around every minute. What it felt like to truly know the meaning of "Ignorant is bliss." He held the spent cigarette butt against his arm, wincing at the burn. At least he knew he was alive this way. He threw the used drug into the trash can, standing shakily and walking towards the door. Four minutes until someone smelled the smoke. He sprayed on cologne and breath spray.

He left.

Sherlock Holmes was able to keep up this habit for nearly a year before his parents found out.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes!" his mother bellowed and he winced. He knew what was coming; who hides forever?

"Yes?" he answered tiredly.

His mother marched into the room, her face red with anger and her body the image of pure rage and disappointment.

"You know exactly what I'm going to say, you always do. Now why the hell did you take your father's cigarettes?"

Sherlock was never one for lying. "I like them."

It was a terrible answer, however, for his mother only looked more enraged. "They're bad for your health! You could kill yourself like that!"

Sherlock wasn't sure if it was bad or not that the thought didn't bother him. "Father's alive isn't he? Mycroft is alive."

"Don't you dare make this about anyone else! This is about you! You're too young and this is getting out of hand. I've noticed you're grades are dropping. Sherlock Holmes has a C in geography."

"I don't find the point of tests. Why have a piece of paper tell me I'm smart?"

"You will get your bloody act together!" his mother shouted in a voice so loud and sharp it made him wince.

"Who cares?!" Sherlock challenged, lifting his eyes. "I'm alone and I always will be! Who cares what becomes of me? I know Mycroft is fine without me, Father hardly notices me, and don't lie to yourself and tell me you care. If you cared you would—"

Sherlock's voice stopped suddenly. What was he about to say?

If you cared you would show me that you love me. You wouldn't leave me alone.

"I would what?" his mother's voice was softer. She sounded hurt.

Sherlock didn't reply. He pulled his blanket over his head again. I've said too much, just leave already.

"Sherlock?" he felt a hand on his shoulder. He was still as stone.

His mother was in the room for another fifteen minutes, both silent, yet their presence screaming. Then her footsteps clicked away slowly, timidly, sorrowfully. They stopped at the doorframe.

"You still can't have the cigarettes."

The next morning, Sherlock searched everywhere. He could find nothing in his room or his parent's.

Though most school bullying was verbal, some did get physical. Sherlock was not a well-built boy, in fact he was very fragile and small. The smallest hit would easily bruise him, but small was never in the vocabulary of angry teenage boys.

"It isn't as if it's my fault your fancy your girlfriend's brother. Your sexuality is none of my—"

Sherlock was cut off by a fist meeting his jaw.

"You're lying, fag."

Though he may be incredibly smart, he may be incredibly dumb. "You would know wouldn't you?"

Sherlock gasped as he felt another blow knock the wind from his lungs. He fell against a wall that was less than a foot away, but the boy didn't not seem to be finished. He grabbed Sherlock's shoulders and pushed him into the wall again, his head hitting the bricks. Sherlock's body tensed and he closed his eyes, seeming to go into defense mode.

He ran to his Mind Palace and locked the door. No one would get him here.

The floors shook and he fell to the marble tiles. It must be an earthquake. Nothing of any real concern. His body ached—Now a new pain in his shoulder. He must be sleeping in a weird position. That must be the only explanation.

Sherlock gasped, clutching his stomach, his walls starting to fade and he tried desperately to keep them up. He felt on fire and frozen at the same time, needles pinching each inch of his skin and his ribs were squeezing his heart.

He found it difficult to breathe—Oh there it is again. Someone must have opened a window.

The earthquake stopped.

Sherlock took a shuddering breath, blinking a few times and realized the walls caved in.

He was alone, battered, and nearly unconscious in the school courtyard—

Well, not nearly.

"What the hell is this?"

"Language, Sherlock!"

"What the hell is this thing?" his question remained the same.

Sherlock's mother pursed her lips, obvious still sour at his choice of words, however he let it slide. She smiled again.

"You told me you were lonely, so I got you a friend!" she exclaimed.

"I am not lonely, I did not tell you so, and that's an animal. "

"You'll love him. Dogs are great for children!"

"I am not a child, and this thing looks absolutely stupid. Black is sophisticated, white is pure, brown is casual, but red is just silly."

Sherlock's mother pulled another glare at her son. The air was thick with tension; they stood in silence, a duel, for several minutes. It was obvious his mother would not be going anywhere until he accepted the gift.

"Oh all right!" Sherlock groaned and grabbed the dog's collar. "After a week I'm sending it back though," he pledged.

His mother smiled and nodded, her eyes shining, and it made Sherlock's stomach turn. "Remember to give him a name!"

She knew something didn't she? Was it a real dog? Was it something to spy on him? What if it was pre-trained? What if—

Sherlock's train of thought was cut off as he fell flat on his face, the dog running between his legs.

"You vile creature!" Sherlock cursed and his eyes were so hard and cold they could be ice themselves.

The creature looked up with big, black eyes. So "innocent," I'll prove you're truly evil.

Sherlock climbed to his feet again, infuriated and disgusted with the thing that now followed closely behind him. He tried (and failed) to get into his bedroom without the thing, but it happened to squeeze through with him. Sherlock was sure Hell was about to start when the animal ran under his desk.

"You stupid dog, get out of there! I'm testing the correlation between mold and prokaryotes on—" Sherlock stopped midsentence, his eyes wide in alarm as the thing ate something from under the table. "You bloody pest! I still had a week left to observe!"

Sherlock was absolutely livid by now, grabbing a tissue box by his bed and throwing it at the creature. It missed, since Sherlock had such a weak arm, but it was the thought that counts right? Sherlock huffed and turned over, facing the wall, hoping to ban the thing from his mind. He pulled the blankets up to his chin and closed his eyes.

It was the one thing that calmed him. He descended the stairs to—

He was torn from his mind when something big started to get on top of him, and he swore to God if it was the blasted creature he would kill the thing himself.

It was.

Sherlock groaned, trying to push the offending creature off of him, but it wouldn't budge. It sat happily on top of his chest as he tried to ignore it. It was impossible. He was just about to throw something else at it when he looked at the dog's eyes.

They were sad. Lonely. Lost.

"The eyes are the window to the soul," Sherlock whispered softly. The dog made a small whimpering noise. Sherlock felt something melt inside him, but he still kept up his cool appearance. He narrowed his eyes. "Well, fine, sleep here. But don't make habit of it all right?"

The dog didn't seem to respond, but Sherlock swore he saw him nod.

Somehow, sleep came easier.

Sherlock skipped first and third period during the school day since in those periods he had both Donovan and Anderson in them. Separate, they were bearable, but together, that was just hell. It was physically painful watching them try to formulate an answer, take an eternity to get the right one, and then look so bloody proud of themselves.

Sherlock sat in an empty hallway, simply thinking. It was something to occupy himself. He created scenarios in his head and played out things with people who weren't really there. He would never get bored as long as he had his mind—but then what would happen if he ran out of scenarios? Well, that would be a question for the future.

He closed his eyes, feeling the wind rush past him. He wondered if the clothing choice would affect the perceived power of wind. He would test that later.

It had hardly been ten minutes before a door slammed open and laughter rang through the hall. Sherlock's eyes snapped open. Well, it seemed there were more people skipping class today. He convinced himself he wasn't the least bit scared and closed his eyes again. A voice came over the intercom in his Palace. Who gave them jurisdiction?

"Hey, freak, sleeping are you?"

The intruder got no response.

"Could I do anything to you and you wouldn't wake up?"

The tiles cracked as they shook briefly. Just a small tremor. No real earthquake.

He heard laughter again before the furniture started to crumble and the chandeliers clattered. The floor shook.

There was an earthquake.

Like most days Sherlock returned home with new bruises, he planned the time he entered to be at the same time his mother got home from either groceries or something else so that she was busy with something else and unable to notice him. It would only make things worse if she found out.

Sherlock hurried to the bathroom, closing the door quickly. He winced as he saw his face, red in more than four places and a split lip. No wonder he got laughed at while walking home. He might as well painted his face like a clown.

Sherlock did not have much knowledge of the medical field, but he did know how to make the bruises and cuts look almost nonexistent. He cleaned them all first, wiping away any blood or anything that looked dirty. For the bruises he normally borrowed his mother's makeup. He couldn't do much about the cuts.

Just as he was about to take the foundation, he felt something run into his leg (rather forcefully if you asked him) and he was pushed to the ground.

It didn't hurt so much, but he was still angry at whoever tried to kill him. (Well, not kill, Sherlock supposed, but it did sound more dramatic that way.)

The culprit climbed into his lap.

"What are you doing here, stupid dog?" Sherlock shouted, glaring at the animal.

The dog laid in his lap, his head on Sherlock's chest. It was oddly… comforting.

"Hey," Sherlock said quietly, his voice losing its poison. "What are you doing?"

He knew dogs couldn't speak, but he asked nonetheless. The dog rubbed its face on Sherlock's chest and looked up at him with those same sad eyes. He did do a bit of research on keeping a domestic canine, times like these, you were to pet the animal.

"That's what you want, huh? You want me to pet you?"

Sherlock was hesitant, but he stroked from the dog's head down to his back. The dog nuzzled onto his chest again.

Sherlock smiled.

How was doing this comforting to him? Why was his heart so warm? Investigate later. Sherlock continued petting him, scratching behind his ear. The dog looked up at Sherlock at that, his eyes happier and sweeter.

"Hey," Sherlock whispered as if he were telling a secret. "I'm supposed to give you a name, right?"

The dog made a small noise in response.

"All right… How about…" Sherlock glanced over him again, names flooding his mind, but oddly enough, the most stupid name of them all slipped out of his mouth without permission.

"Redbeard?"

Redbeard looked up with happy eyes again and rubbed his head against his chest. He eventually got up, walking around to sit by his side instead, getting under his arm as if it were a tent. Sherlock wanted to laugh. Why did he want to laugh?

"All right, Redbeard."

Sherlock would often return home with bruises, and when he did, Redbeard was always there. After the first few days, Sherlock stopped trying to hide the beatings. Whenever he tried, Redbeard would somehow stop him anyways. Run into his legs, bark until he stopped, distract him. And then he would sit by him.

Sherlock was on his bed, hugging his knees. Days like these, he would have felt alone, empty, gone, but days like these, he had Redbeard. The dog jumped onto his bed, curling up next to him and sitting there. He was just sitting there. How did that make Sherlock feel better?

"Hey, Redbeard," Sherlock smiled and lay next to him, starting to pet his back.

Redbeard made a noise in reply.

"They did it again today," he whispered, not wanting anyone else to hear. "I don't know what I do to deserve it, so I don't know how to eliminate the variable."

He paused as if Redbeard could somehow say something to answer him. Somehow, he felt like he did reply. Just not with words.

"They all call me a freak. Sometimes I think I am."

This made Redbeard sit up suddenly, walking onto Sherlock's chest. It felt very strange, having four little paws on him, but it felt even stranger when he licked his face.

"Hey! What the hell?" he shouted, turning his face away, but somehow he laughed. Why did he laugh? "Redbeard!" he giggled.

Redbeard continued to lick Sherlock's face and Sherlock continued to shout at him to stop. Not that he actually wanted him to, and it was obvious Redbeard knew that, too. How could having someone slobber all of your cheek be a good thing? Nonetheless, Sherlock had felt the happiest in ages. His heart raced and somehow he felt like he was flying, and after years of digging his own cave, it felt like rain in a drought, and he clung to each raindrop.

He found himself hugging Redbeard, still laughing so much that his side hurt, but it was a good kind of hurt. Sherlock didn't know the good kind existed until just then. They ended up staying like that, playing together in the bed in ways Sherlock didn't understand. And when night came, they fell asleep like that: Sherlock under Redbeard with a huge grin.

His mother came in to check on him after he fell asleep. A smile crept onto her face. She quietly left the room, not feeling the need to point out it'd been two months since Sherlock had been given the dog.

"Redbeard!" Sherlock shouted as he returned home. Redbeard came immediately, tail wagging, the image of happiness. His eyes were bright, happy, and friendly. Sherlock knelt down and pet his head, ruffling his fur around the ears and Redbeard returned the action with a few licks.

"Come on, want to go play?" he asked eagerly and darted out the front door again. Redbeard followed.

They spend a half hour just chasing each other. No one had picked the game, it just fabricated somehow. Eventually Sherlock got too tired and fell on the ground, his chest heaving, laughing. Redbeard trotted up and licked his face again. It was an action Sherlock had grown to love, and Redbeard started to do it more and more often.

After a minute or two of rest, Sherlock grabbed something beside him—a littered can—and threw it. Redbeard somehow knew to follow it. Sherlock watched his friend run off and grab the can in his mouth. He turned around, tail wagging, unsure what to do with it now.

"Come here, boy!" Sherlock motioned, a smile stretching out his face so much he felt like it was made of rubber.

Redbeard ran back to him, tackling him back to the ground. Sherlock laughed again. He threw the can again and his dog hopped off of him. Sherlock sat up and watched with fascination as Redbeard came back with the can again. He pet the top of his head.

"What would I do without you?" he asked fondly.

He heard his mother call that dinner was done. Sherlock wasn't hungry, but Redbeard was already running inside. He followed.

He saw his mother smiling at him. That knowing smile.

"What?" he demanded.

"Nothing," she shrugged and walked inside, giving the dog a pat on the head for getting Sherlock to eat the first time for two days.

It had been two years since Sherlock had first met Redbeard, and two years since Sherlock was lonely or sad. He was sixteen now, but it felt like hardly any time had passed. He found himself thinking of Redbeard more often during school, especially when he felt alone and cold. He had a whole wing of his Mind Palace dedicated to Redbeard.

And I suppose that's how he got hurt so badly when everything was ripped away.

He was returning home from school. It was surprising, really. He hadn't gotten badly hurt by bullies for a month. Perhaps he somehow found the variable and unknowingly eliminated it. Either way, he was definitely happier without having to worry about them.

Sherlock walked home from school since his home wasn't too far; it was only a quarter mile. Being so observant, he really should have noticed four boys following him, but he was too excited to see Redbeard again. Home was in sight now, and that was the last thing he saw before tasted grass and dirt.

"Hey freak!" an angry voice shouted. "Remember me?"

Sherlock turned around. He knew the face, but deleted the name. It was the boy that had cheated on standardized tests, had a whole ring of students that came to him to fake scores. Sherlock recently let the cat out of the bag when the boy came to Sherlock to help with a new test. Sherlock was not a cheater, and he would not stand for them. If thing had gone the boy's way, Sherlock may not have stood ever again.

Sherlock closed his eyes, his body tensed, and he waited for the earthquake. A kick to the stomach came first and knocked the breath out of him. His eyes shot open and he gasped for breath. He tried to close his eyes again, but somehow he just couldn't find his way into his Mind Palace. He was going to be awake for the beating.

Sherlock felt fear rip at his heart and a foot found his jaw. Again. Again.

He was gasping for breath, and that's when he realized there were more of them. Things like this slip his mind when oxygen is difficult to come by. He tasted blood and spit it out, but only more flooded his mouth.

Something broke inside of Sherlock. He didn't care of brace himself for the blows. He lay limp on the ground now, welcoming anything that came. His body felt numb.

He hardly registered the voice, "You should have helped me out with the test."

Just as he felt he couldn't stay conscious anymore, he heard another piercing voice.

"Redbeard? Come back! Where are you—" the voice stopped suddenly, then regained itself. "What the hell do you think you're doing to my son?!"

The blows stopped and he heard shouts. He forced his eyes open just when he heard a scream. Redbeard had bitten one of the boys that was just about to kick Sherlock one last time.

"The fucking thing bit me!" the boy shouted and tried to kick the dog off. Redbeard clawed at his pant leg, drawing blood and the boy finally got loose. He limped back to his friend, shouting things Sherlock couldn't recognize.

Redbeard trotted back over, stopping by Sherlock and lying next to him. His head was on Sherlock's battered shoulder.

"Redbeard," Sherlock croaked before he lost consciousness.

Sherlock awoke in a hospital. He blinked several times before finally being able to see his surroundings. His mother sat next to him; her eyes lit up like the fourth of July when she saw him awake.

"Sherlock! Oh thank God you're all right," she sighed and kissed his forehead.

"Of course I am. Where's Redbeard?"

Something flashed in his mother's eyes. "You've been unconscious for four days, of course I'm worried you'd be hurt. You have two broken ribs, a concussion, and a sprained ankle! I have pressed charges, though. The boys have been sent to a different disciplinary school."
"Where's Redbeard?" Sherlock asked again, not caring about anything she had just said.

"You know dogs aren't allowed in hospitals," she smiled a smile that did not reach her eyes.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "You're showing all bodily signs of keeping something from me."

There was a moment of silence before his mother gave a shaky sigh. She bit her lip, not meeting Sherlock's eyes.

"When I pressed charges, they did, too," she said finally.

"What do you mean they pressed charges? What did I ever do to them?"

"Not you…" she trailed off.

Realization dawned on Sherlock. He felt a wave of emotions crash on him all at once. He sat up quickly, not registering the pain. His eyes were wide and panicked.

"What's Redbeard? Show him to me," he shouted, insanity glinting in his eyes.

"Sherlock, he's been put down," his mother said softly. "I'm so sorry. The bite he gave the boy got infected and he's in the hospital. They had to... Put him down."

"You're lying," Sherlock said, looking at nothing. He was lost. "You're lying!"

"It's true, Sherlock, I'm so sorry. We can get you another dog, okay? Would you feel better?"

"I don't want another dog!" Sherlock screamed and his mother looked around worriedly for who heard. "I want Redbeard! Where's—" he choked on his voice as he laid back down.

Sherlock found himself crying for the first time in seven years. Uncontrollable sobs poured from out heart. After having no one and suddenly having someone… he couldn't even finish the thought. His body felt cold and numb.

The cries stopped after two minutes and his heart hardened. He remembered what his older brother had always said to him.

"Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side," he whispered without honestly meaning to.

"Sherlock, don't be like your brother, of course it's okay to—"

That's all Sherlock heard before he left for his Mind Palace. Everything was built off of Redbeard. Three-fourths of the entire thing was his best friend. He ran and ran and ran until he found nothing. Until there were no traces of the thing. He looked around to his library of sciences. That's all that was left now. He turned around and locked the door to the West Wing.

He struck a match.

"Sherlock?" he heard over the intercom.

There was fire.