19 July 1986
Sherlock Holmes turned ten today. He was home alone, his parents and brother away in France. Sherlock had chosen not to go, leaving him and a few servants in the Holmes Estate. Sherlock's mum and father wished him happy birthday before they climbed into the cab that would take them to the airport, Mycroft merely smiled at his brother before following.
Sherlock stayed in his bedroom a whole week, emerging once, on the day of his birthday to get a slice of toast. He passed through the dining room, to the kitchen. Taking the slice with him, he left. Walking back into the dining room, he paused. A parcel had appeared on the table. Sherlock raised his eyebrow, and strode up to the package.
There was a tag on it, written on the paper, was his name. Sherlock could tell it was Mycroft's neat scrawl. Sherlock opened the box slowly, carefully. He pulled a simple violin case from the box, and a paper fell out as well. He picked the paper up and read it quickly, a grin on his face.
Happy birthday, little brother.
Sherlock dashed up to his bedroom, and laid the violin case on his bed. Flipping open the case's lid, he looked down at a beautiful violin. He ran his fingers over the wood, breathing lightly. Sherlock delicately lifted it from its spot, and the bow that was nestled next to the violin. Lifting it to his shoulder, he murmured, "Thank you, 'Croft."