Sherlock took a moment to catch his breath as he looked around the room. Adrenaline pumped through his veins from climbing the wall against the side of the house and jumping through the upstairs window. He was now standing in his old bedroom for the first time in over a year. What used to be his safe haven, his retreat from his father's screaming and Mycroft's teasing, now felt unfamiliar and uncomfortable. He shivered; the room was damp and cool from lack of occupancy.

Glancing at his watch, he realized he had already wasted too much time. He timed this out too perfectly to give up now.

In a whirlwind of movement he made his way around the room, mentally checking off his list of things to grab. A few books, a notebook, and some sheet music made its way into his rucksack. His eyes trailed around the room, looking for his final prize-

There.

Right where he left it.

His violin.

Sherlock approached it carefully, terrified it would vanish from thin air if he got too close. It had been so long since he last played it that he wondered if his fingers would still remember the notes, if the strings still worked. Ever so gently, he picked the instrument up from the stand that held it and plucked a few strings.

He grinned.

There were a few songs he wanted to play, right off the bat, but he knew he couldn't mess around. Instead he grabbed the case, a few extra strings, and stuffed everything carefully into the sack.

He held his breath as he took one last look around the room, knowing it might be the last time he ever saw the place. As his eyes fell on the bed, where he spent so many nights cowering in shame, in fear even, and on the door worn from pounding fists and violent door slams, he knew there could be no regrets.

That was, until his eyes fell on the bookshelf and on the first row of books. There were a few that his mother placed there long ago, but he never bothered to look at them until now. It was simply a set up for a young child, something that went unnoticed as he grew older and tried to forget his past. He knew he shouldn't take any of them now- he was already being risky enough as it was. But he couldn't help but to pick up the first book: a worn copy of Tom Sawyer. He opened to the cover and frowned, noting the comment that it was given to his mother from someone named Ana who lived in Florida. He hadn't the faintest idea who that could be. Sherlock thumbed through the book gently, only stopping when something fell to his feet.

Reaching down, he picked up a faded photograph of a young boy and a woman with strawberry blonde hair. A lump fell in his throat as he realized: me and mum. It had been years since he last saw a picture of him as a child, let alone one with his mother. Family photos seemed to be unheard of past the time he was born, as if he were some regret his parents didn't want to be reminded of.

Suddenly his eyes were burning with moisture and he swiped at them, embarrassed to realize how upset the photo made him. How much he longed for his childhood…for the times when everything was actually okay. Then he looked up and gazed around the empty room. He remembered how hard he worked to get away from this place, and he knew he couldn't linger any longer.

Placing the photo carefully in the book and the book in his rucksack, Sherlock turned, and bolted.


Author's Note: If there's any prompts anyone would like to suggest for this, let me know! I welcome them! Even though this is following a storyline these can still be stand-alone.