So I should be writing my other stories which need finishing plus I have an original piece for NaNoWriMo in the making, but my brain had other ideas and this little thing popped into my head. Not sure how many chapters there will be right now, but yeah I hope y'all like it. Also SherLoki most definitely MUST become a thing because reasons.
-MG
Chapter 1 - a beginning.
In Sherlock Holmes' later life he did not speak of his past. If the topic was brought up, people who knew Sherlock would change the subject in fear of getting hurt, judging by the look in Sherlock's eye, and people who didn't know him would change the topic because they thought he would be upset, judging by the look in his eyes. In actual fact neither was true. Sherlock did not dwell on his past because he had spent much of his adult life trying to shut it out; it would be a waste of all his time and effort. And in any case, what use did it have to him? So he pushed it away, piled other memories on top of it and tried to forget. His work provided an adequate distraction, kept his mind off his past, but without it, during those long days of sickening boredom, the memories would rot his brain.
Sherlock particularly tried to forget his mother. In his early years he was surprisingly close to the woman. She was kind and attentive, despite her anxiety, not to mention she was beautiful, with her dark curls, light blue eyes and deep cupid's bow: everyone could see what Sherlock's father could see in her, though not many saw what she saw in him, though their marriage had always been more about politics than love anyway. Sherlock took after his mother, whereas his brother, Mycroft had taken after their father, inheritting not only his looks but his ambition and determination.
Sherlock's mother had taught him many of the things he knew. Violin for example, but most of all, she had taught him how to be normal. Or as normal as one like Sherlock Holmes could ever be.
"Sherlock, concentrate." she had told him sternly.
"But I don't understand. You don't mind me being cold." a petulant five year old Sherlock had replied.
"Other people will. You have to learn before you go to school. Try again, touch my hand."
And so Sherlock concentrated on forcing all the warmth he could into his skin. Sherlock had always known he was different. The cold weather did not affect him, he could hold ice without it melting and he could go outside in the snow wearing his bathing shorts, whilst Mycroft had to wrap in coats and scarves and layers. There was something wrong with him, though it wasn't until he went to school that he minded.
"Freak!"
Sherlock rolled his eyes at the crowd of boys laughing at him and continued to walk to the his usual tree. He wore only a shirt and trousers, despite the snow covering the ground and floating down from the sky. A few flakes rested on Sherlock's cheekbones and did not melt, giving him the look of a marble statue, even though he was walking briskly. He reached the tree and sat down, opening a large leather bound book. Sherlock was 8 years old. He understood that he was different, though he made no attempt to conform to societies norms. And as predicted, what humanity did not understand, it feared; so Sherlock was labelled "freak". His mother had always told him to roll down his sleeves, wear a coat when it was cold, but he never did as he was told. Not until his mother had died the next summer, anyway.