"William?" A gentle knock and the door opened partially, pale light from the hallway flooded the nearly darkened room. A figure, crumpled face down on the bed, growled, brought an arm up, and buried his face in his elbow, in an effort to block out the offending light. "William... Ah, sorry... Sherlock, is that you?"

"Who else would it be? This is my room." His voice reflected an emotion somewhere between rage and devastation. "The better question is, why are you here?" Sherlock shifted to his side, and drew his knees up to his chest, all the while keeping the crook of his elbow over his eyes. "Well?" He sniffed impatiently.

Cousin Leah stepped into the room. It had been several years since she'd ventured into little Willia... er, Sherlock's room. Gone were most of the toys and all of the childish, brightly colored prints from the walls. In their place were piles of books stacked precariously, the desk was overflowing with what appeared to be a science experiment complete with test tubes and beakers, and a music stand stacked thick with sheet music occupied one corner. A large print of the periodic table of elements was nailed, rather viciously it appeared, to one wall, and another wall was littered with newspaper clippings and other seemingly random scraps of paper. It was all very orderly, after a manner, in a chaotic sort of way.

Clearing her throat, Leah stepped into the room. "I was just... I wanted to see that you're okay. But I can tell..."

"I mistakenly took you for someone with some intelligence," Sherlock snipped. "Obviously I am not okay."

Leah glanced around the room once more. The curtains, she thought she remembered light airy blue at one time, were now heavy and black, drawn closed to keep the outside world precisely there. The mattress on the bed was stripped completely bare, and Sherlock lay curled up on top. And perhaps most telling of all, in the center of the room, piled in a haphazard, tangled mess, were more blankets and pillows than Leah imagined any thirteen year old boy would possibly ever need; a strand of still plugged in fairy lights illuminated the pile from within.

"Obviously." Leah parroted. Sherlock lifted his arm away from his face just enough to glare at his cousin. She fixed him with an oddly familiar, blue green, appraising stare. Caring little for the unsettling sensation of being read down to his core, Sherlock covered his face once more and turned his back to the unwanted intruder. "May I turn on a lamp?"

"No. Allowing you to do so would imply that I intend to continue this conversation, which might lead you to believe I want you here. And I don't." Sherlock grumbled.

"You don't intend to continue the conversation, or you don't want me here?" Leah crossed her arms over her chest.

Sitting up suddenly, Sherlock shouted, "Both!"

"Well, that is unfortunate, because I do intend to continue the conversation, and as shocking as it may be, there is nowhere else I would rather be." Leah smiled sweetly at Sherlock and then turned her attention to the heap of pillows and blankets. She began to systematically stack the pillows and cushions on the desk chair.

"What are you doing? I don't want you to touch that!" Sherlock jumped up from the bed and pulled a pillow from Leah's hand.

"It's not safe to have these fairy lights on while they're tangled in these blankets. You'll catch the house on fire." Leah explained gently. She quickly untangled a fitted sheet from the mess, and thrust it into Sherlock's hands. "Here, make yourself useful."

"I thought you came up here to make me feel better," Sherlock grumbled as he lazily pulled the sheet over his mattress.

"No, I came to make sure you're okay. Not the same thing." Leah smirked and pulled the flat sheet from the pile. "Oh dear God. Really? Have you never done this for yourself? I thought you fancied yourself the cleverest person in the room?" Lead shook her head as she took in the sight of Sherlock struggling with the fitted sheet. She snatched the bedding from him and in a matter of seconds had it stretch into place, and the flat sheet tucked in and smoothed.

"I don't fancy myself the cleverest, I am the cleverest." Sherlock huffed. He picked up a thin quilt, his favorite one, and spread it over the mattress.

Leah laughed outright. "Keep telling yourself that." She shook out the duvet and together they spread it over the bed. "How many of these pillows actually go on your bed?"

"All of them." Sherlock shrugged.

"How do you even sleep like that?" Tossing a pillow at Sherlock's head, Leah laughed.

"I don't… Not much." Scooping up the pile of pillows, Sherlock dropped them all unceremoniously at the head of his bed as Leah folded the remaining blankets. "Too much to think about." Suddenly sullen once more, Sherlock flopped down on the bed and covered his face with a pillow.

Moments later Sherlock's silent contemplation was interrupted by his mattress being jostled. He moved the pillow enough to see Leah finish wrapping the fairy lights on his headboard.

"I always did like these better than a regular lamp anyway." Leah shrugged. "I had fairy lights all over my room when I was little. Budge over some."

Incredulous, Sherlock rolled his eyes and budged over a few inches. "So now you're equating my behavior to that of a six year-old little girl."

"Not at all." Leah sat on the bed, her back against the headboard. She picked up a cushion with a skull and crossbones embroidered on the front of it, and smiled fondly as she hugged it to her chest. She had made that pillow herself, when she was eighteen, and pirate lovingWilliam was five. "I don't think you're behaving childishly at all. I think you're behaving like anyone in the situation would."

Sherlock huffed. "I don't want to respond like everyone else. It's irksome, and incredibly dull."

"And yet, here we are." Leah's voice had gone soft. "Sherlock, I'm sorry. I truly am."

"It's not your fault. It wasn't because of you that I wasn't here." There was tremor in Sherlock's voice. He growled to himself at the show of weakness.

"It's not Myc's fault either, Sherlock." Leah whispered.

His breath hitched and Sherlock flipped the pillow covering his face to his chest. "Yes. It is."

"Sherlo…"

"No, it is his fault. He's the one who decided to move into a new flat last weekend. It's because of him that mummy and father dragged me with them to help him move his worthless belongings. He is the reason I was there instead of here, and…" To Leah's astonishment, her cousin rolled over, wrapped his arms around her, buried his face in her side, and sobbed.

"Oh, William. It was an accident. That's all." Leah couldn't help the fact that her own eyes grew a little misty.

She'd been apprised of the situation by her uncle, and her heart was truly broken for the boy. It was finally the end of the term, and Mycroft had decided to move to a different, more central flat. Mummy had offered to bring the family to help him move his belongings. They would spend the whole weekend at the new flat, and then Mycroft would return home with them for the remainder of his winter break.

Sherlock had begged to bring Redbeard with him. It was bad enough that he had to leave her for so many hours a day when he went to school, it really was unfair, he'd argued, to leave her for an entire weekend. Mummy had disagreed vehemently, and offered to pay the young couple across the street to lodge and care for Redbeard while they were away. The neighbors had agreed immediately, as they had grown quite fond of watching the adventures had by the beautiful red Irish setter and her quirky young master.

They had only just arrived at Mycroft's old flat when the call came. Mitch (what sort of name was Mitch anyway; certainly not the sort of name someone who is trustworthy with beloved pets and best friends/sidekicks would have) had opened the front door to fetch the mail, and Redbeard had bolted from the house like a flash. She had headed directly for home, and Sherlock, paying little mind to the heavy, late afternoon traffic.

Mitch claimed he was fairly certain Redbeard had felt no pain. Sherlock had it in mind to see if Mitch wanted to test the theory.

Mitch offered to bury Redbeard for them, so they wouldn't have to worry with it. Mummy had thanked him for offering, but assured him that they would be returning home immediately to see to the unpleasant task.

Sherlock had crumpled to the floor, and lain there, unresponsive. He had felt very near hysterical, but opted instead to save his tears for the privacy of his own darkened room. He might have actually enjoyed creating a scene loud enough for the neighbors to hear, humiliating Mycroft, and forcing him to feel even the tiniest amount of guilt for his role in this tragedy, but Sherlock knew the only way to get home as quickly as possible, to see with his own eyes, to gather the much needed data he secretly hoped would prove Mitch wrong, was to cooperate with mummy for now.

Mycroft had balked. He argued that he didn't have much left to move, and it would really only take a few hours. Certainly they could wait until they were done. Redbeard was, after all, only a dog.

Only a dog.

Sherlock had seethed. His ability to form a coherent thought knocked temporarily offline. In a rage, he lunged after his brother. Father had stopped him before he landed a blow, but by that time, he had found his ability to speak.

"She was my best friend, Mycroft! She loved me no matter what, and I never loved anyone as much as I loved her. She's the only one I ever cared about." Sherlock nearly spat the venomous words at his brother. His intention was to cause hurt, and he hit his mark. Mycroft, face reflecting the deep wound to his heart, had stormed from the room, and not come back while mummy and Sherlock were still there.

It was agreed upon that mummy and Sherlock would take a cab home, and father would stay to help Mycroft. They would both return home the next day.

The drive home felt as if it lasted an eternity. Sherlock hadn't even made it to the end of Mycroft's street before his resolve cracked, and he had wept into mummy's shoulder. He wept because Redbeard was gone forever. He wept because she really was his best friend. But mostly, he wept because he thought Mycroft, of all people, would have understood the loneliness that had settled in his chest. Instead, Mycroft had been callous and unfeeling.

Mycroft hadn't offered to come home to help bury Redbeard. It was a hateful task Sherlock would never wish on even his worst enemy. And he wouldn't have wanted Mycroft's help, But it would have meant something if he had at least offered.

And when father returned the next afternoon, Mycroft had not come back with him. He had claimed he simply had too much preparation to do in order to be ready to interview for that internship he wanted.

Despite his original anger, Sherlock's heart was broken all over again.

Mycroft promised he would be home for Christmas Eve. He'd even asked mummy to tell Sherlock that he'd bring the cocoa. They hadn't built a fort the two years prior, both feeling they had outgrown the tradition, but it seemed the right thing to do under the circumstances.

Sherlock had carefully constructed the blanket fort, employing a new knot tying technique he was anxious to show off to Mycroft. He'd strung up the fairy lights, and as the evening grew later and later, he'd even changed into his red flannel pyjamas.

When he awoke curled up on the cold floor just next to the fort, where he had decided to wait for Mycroft, Sherlock decided it wasn't worth it to let his heart get broken again. If Mycroft didn't need him, then he didn't need Mycroft.

And he'd never have a pet again either.

Sherlock ventured downstairs on Christmas Day only long enough, at mummy's insistence, to play the piece that was supposed to be a violin and piano duet, something Sherlock had picked for he and Mycroft to play for father. So distracted was he, that Sherlock had actually made two small technical errors while he played. No one but father even recognized the missteps, but it was enough that he had been completely humiliated.

That's when he'd escaped back to his room, and hoped to be spared any other familial interaction.

But Leah couldn't just let it go.

"Sherlock, do you feel as if you've lost both Redbeard andMycroft? Is that what has you so upset?" He sniffed and nodded his head against her side in confirmation. Leah brushed her fingers gently through the boy's messy, curly hair. "Maybe you could…"

"Please, Leah. I don't want to talk anymore. It just hurts too much. And I just don't know. I just… Can't we please…" Sherlock sat up some then, and rested his head on her shoulder.

"Of course, love." Leah wrapped her arm around her cousin's shoulders and brought her hand up to continue petting his soft curls. It was so easy to forget that this 13 year-old with the intellect greater than most grown men was still, at his core, just a child. "For as long as you need."