"You must learn some of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure."
Xxx
Sherlock was a precocious seven-year-old, always on the move and after new knowledge. Even though he liked to think of himself as unique or special, he was rather like other children his age, sans his extensive intellect and harsh personality. So, maybe not so much like the other children.
He did go through phases of interests, beginning with his desire to be a world explorer, followed by a pirate, followed by his new fascination with animals. His childhood fondness of the Peter Rabbit stories and watching animal programs on the telly led him to his current hobby of rabbit watching.
He discovered the rabbit family two weeks ago, comfortably burrowed in mother's garden, feasting on carrots, and rhubarb (which his encyclopedia incidentally told him was poisonous for the animals), and whatever else they could get their tiny hands on. He was sure there were three of them— a mummy, a daddy, and a little tyke, who Sherlock had decided to name Peter, after the literary bunny.
So, Sherlock spent his Saturday morning following any movements he found the family making. He held his magnifying glass in one hand, his flip journal in another, and hid behind the fence, watching as Peter exited the burrow, looking around the expanse of the Holmes' land.
Sherlock reckoned the rabbit was no more than six months old. Of course, he was only going off what his animal encyclopedia said, but unfortunately, the book had little information on rabbits.
He rather liked the little rabbit, favoring him over the parents. The mother seemed rather lazy and rarely left the burrow, and the father was always on the move. Peter, however, would make eye contact with Sherlock and stay entranced by the human's presence, allowing Sherlock adequate time to take notes about the species' behavior.
As the tiny rabbit moved past the fence of the Holmes' garden and towards their home, Sherlock watched, fascinated by his tiny hops. He quickly scribbled a few sentences about the movements of the rabbit, admiring his focus and steady determination to move towards what appeared to be a bed of flowers.
Sherlock watched for another few moments, smiling as the rabbit neared the family shed, where his father currently occupied, doing who knows what. However, Sherlock's smile quickly faded as the sound of an engine began, and his father rode out of the shed, mounted on their ride-on lawn mower.
The seven-year-old barely opened his mouth to shout at poor Peter, who hopped along, focused on the flowers, before the machine had gobbled him in and spit him out. Sherlock dropped his journal and magnifying glass, staring at the rather gory scene before him.
Feeling the jerk of the machine, his father shut it off and hopped down, quickly noticing the mess. He made a face of disgust.
"Ugh, pesky little buggers. Now I gotta clean the gears," the man grumbled, rather annoyed, as he walked back into the shed.
Sherlock continued to stare at the mess, unmoving. From the house, Mycroft walked out, wearing his school uniform, even on a Saturday during summer holiday. He looked at Sherlock curiously before walking over.
He stopped beside his younger brother, following where the boy's gaze met the mess on the grass. He shook his head disappointedly before looking back at Sherlock, who now appeared to have tears in his eyes.
"What a shame. Was that the rabbit you had been following around?"
Sherlock offered a weak nod. "I… I tried to warn him but… What will his mummy and daddy think?"
Mycroft rolled his eyes. "They're animals, Sherlock. Their feelings are irrelevant. And everyone dies. What did I tell you about this sort of thing?"
Sherlock looked at the 14-year-old, valuing every word that escaped his lips. "To avoid caring because it only brings you pain in the end," he whispered, his voice soft and sad.
"Precisely. You developed feelings for a rabbit and that rabbit is now dead. You're now sad. Caring makes you weak. Avoid sentiment."
"Sentiment?" the boy asked, unsure of the new word.
"Sentiment. The same as caring. Developing feelings for something. Avoid it at all costs. Don't you want to be better and smarter than all the other children?"
"Yes," was all the younger boy mustered out.
"Exactly. Then don't do anything silly like have a bloody wake. It was a rabbit."
With that, Mycroft offered one final eyeroll and headed back towards the house, his head as usual held rather high. Meanwhile, Mr. Holmes kept himself busy by cleaning the gore from his mower's gears.
Sherlock on the other hand moved towards the flower bed that Peter had been heading to and pulled a handful from the ground. He made sure of Mycroft's absence before moving back towards his mother's garden, and towards the Rabbit family's burrow.
"I'm sorry for your loss," the boy whispered, before setting the flowers down by their entrance.
Sherlock turned and began heading towards his house, his eyes watering at he realized that the rabbits wouldn't know that their son was gone. They would never get to say goodbye.
"Everyone dies," he whispered to himself, a constant reassurance that the rabbit was nothing special.
That no one was special.
Sherlock bolted up in his bed, his body covered in sweat and his hair sticking to his face. He ran a shaky hand through the messy locks, his fingers getting caught in the tangled curls. He then rose to his feet and slid into his dressing gown, before trudging towards the kitchen, his throat uncomfortably dry.
What an awful dream. He, unfortunately, remembered the moment well. At seven-years-old, he had made the mistake of appreciating the company and the presence of another heartbeat, only to have the loss devastate him in the end. Thankfully, unlike the rest of the idiots populating the world, he had learned his lesson in primary school.
As he took desperate sips of water, from a bottle that must have been stocked by Mrs. Hudson, he thought back to Mycroft.
His older brother may irritate the hell out of him, but he was normally right.
Sherlock growled and crushed the now empty bottle. He shut his eyes and took a deep breath, immediately gagging from an awful stench. Upon covering his nose and looking around the dimly lit kitchen, his eyes eventually landed on five rotting human livers scattered across his kitchen counter. He scowled.
What a waste of an experiment.
Sherlock ignored the smelly mess and trudged back to his bedroom, hoping that sleep would clear his unusually muddled mind.
Xxx
Mycroft Holmes studied the curly-haired man across from him, his eyes immediately drawn to the strangely reticent nature of his normally forward brother. Sherlock watched Baker Street from his window, his knees bouncing up and down in distress, his hands firmly wrapped around a fresh cuppa curtesy of Mrs. Hudson.
Given the circumstances, Sherlock's behavior could be attributed to a variety of things. A strained relationship with John, his intense grief following Mary's death, a humbling guilt for her sacrifice, the physical pains of drug withdrawal…
But as Mycroft watched Sherlock sip his tea and stare out the window, his mind clearly on overdrive, he had a clue as to what was distracting his younger brother. He was both relieved and alarmed.
"So. You've had an eventful month. The Yard was thrilled to see you wrap up your two most recent cases, so beautifully done with a bow on top, too."
"The bow was John's idea. Made for a fun photo for the blog."
Mycroft just nodded. "Indeed. And the drugs? My intel followed you to the Docklands and a familiar house."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and finally looked away from the window and towards his brother. "Obviously you know the answer to that considering I'm not high. I wasn't attempting to make a purchase. I was simply doing a personal investigation."
"Of what exactly?"
"Molly suggested that I let my demons control me. So, I wanted to visit a location of my demons and test that theory."
Mycroft sipped his own tea, his eyes locked on his younger brother. "You appear to care quite a bit about what Miss Hooper has to say about you."
"Dr. Hooper," Sherlock quickly corrected.
"Right. My intel also reports that she has entered a relationship with your landlord's nephew. Her first relationship since her failed engagement."
Sherlock tensed in his chair and sipped his tea, his eyes moving back towards the window, the gears in his head beginning to turn again. "Why are you telling me this? I'm aware."
"I just wanted to remind you of the current situation."
Sherlock turned back to Mycroft, narrowing his eyes in the process. "What exactly are you implying, Mycroft? It's unlike you to be so cryptic. You always have oh so much to say."
Mycroft shifted in his seat, bringing his left leg to cover his right, his eyes locked on his younger brother's form. "I'm simply reminding you not to get attached. That's all."
Sherlock let a bitter laugh escape. "Oh, yes, I'm quite aware. Avoid caring. You can't get hurt if you don't care about anything."
"Precisely."
Sherlock scowled and shook his head, already fed up with his brother's visit. "If you're implying that I care for Molly, then you are mistaken," he gazed back towards the window before continuing, "I care for her as I care for John, or Rosie, or for some god-awful reason, you. That is all."
Mycroft watched his brother. "Right. As always, Sherlock, my goal is to protect you. Nothing more."
Sherlock let out another growl from deep in his throat. "Splendid. Is this why you came? To repeat your propaganda like a bloody parrot?"
"You did always want to be a pirate."
The younger man gave his brother a nasty glare. "Alright, Mycroft. Let's enter a hypothetical situation. Play a game. What would occur if I did begin to care?"
"You would get hurt," he replied simply.
"And why is that?"
"For many reasons. You lack the social awareness to ever be in a long-term relationship, have the maturity of a fourteen-year-old boy, have erratic tendencies and an addictive personality, and the list could go on."
Sherlock scowled. "Is that all, brother dearest?"
Mycroft rose to his feet. "No, not at all," he ventured towards the door and slipped into his jacket. "Most of all, you're losing."
That captured Sherlock's attention. "I'm losing?"
"Of course. Love is a game. Caring is losing. But you also have lost her affection and her attention to another man. Therefore, you lost the game."
Sherlock shifted in his chair, his fists unconsciously gripping the leather armrests of the seat. "Right. So how would I win?"
"You follow my advice. Avoid sentiment. But if you must hold the wake, you simply don't give up. You play smart."
With that, Mycroft opened the front door of the flat and turned back to look at his younger brother, who seemed to be yet again lost in his thoughts. He couldn't help but sigh. His original assumption was right.
"Sherlock?"
"What?" The detective practically spat out.
"I know about the flowers. You didn't listen then and I reckon you won't be listening now."
And with that final statement, Mycroft was gone.
Xxx
Molly hadn't seen Sherlock since stopping by Baker Street with his precious livers, almost three weeks ago. John had notified her that he and Sherlock were off to Birmingham to follow a suspect of a case, and she had ended up babysitting Rosie for a weekend, entrusting Mrs. Hudson with the child when the work week started back up. She knew that John and Sherlock were back in London, but apparently still after some psychopath that she frankly didn't want to hear anything about.
She in the meantime had kept busy with work and George. The two of them were doing well, and since George had settled into his new flat and his new job, he had more time to spend with her. In fact, they were already discussing a weekend holiday to take in the next month or so.
Molly was happy. George was sweet, smart, handsome, and most of all, showed no signs of being a sociopath. He was everything she could ever want in a man.
Then why are you always checking your mobile for word from Sherlock? Can you admit out loud that you're bored?
Molly shook her thoughts off and crawled into bed, Toby following her and curling into her side. She opened her night stand drawer and pulled out Pride and Prejudice, deciding to finish her reread that she began on her trip in Scotland.
She made it three pages in before drifting off into a much-needed sleep.
Xxx
"I love you. Most ardently."
He stood in the rain, his dark curls sticking to his damp skin, his eyes pleading with her to understand his struggle. His boots now carried mud to his calves and his normally perfect tail coat swayed in the brutal wind. All the while, his movements continued towards her, his hands practically reaching for her, so close, yet so far away.
"Sherlock…"
"Please do me the honour of accepting my hand."
He reached forward, taking her trembling hand into his own, pressing soft kisses to her knuckles. Molly looked down at her own appearance, startled to find her billowing white gown coated in mud, her half-jacket stuck to her body from the falling drops.
Her eyes traveled back up Sherlock's body, noticing his top hat by his panicking horse, apparently lost in the wind of the environment. Her eyes met his blue orbs, entranced by his desperate façade.
"Sir, I…"
Before her predetermined words could ever escape her lips, he shot forward, immediately planting a desperate kiss on her rosy mouth, his hands moving to grasp the damp material of the dress that hung on her hips. Molly let out a soft cry before running her hands along his stubble and crashing her lips to his.
The two kissed under the pouring rain, their lips moving frantically. Sherlock ran his hands to her front, ripping the laces from her bodice, causing the dress to fall to her hips. Molly let out a surprised cry and quickly pushed away the passionate man.
"We mustn't… We're supposed to fight! I hate you!"
Sherlock just laughed and kissed her again, before dropping his lips to her neck. He let his lips travel to her collarbone, leaving kisses along the way.
"You don't hate me, love."
"You… you ruined, perhaps forever, the happiness of my most beloved sister!"
Sherlock laughed again and continued to kiss down her body, his lips finding her soft breasts. His tongue traced one of her exposed nipples, both erect from the cold of the rainy British evening and his caresses. He gave the nub a taste before looking back at Molly.
"Oh, silly Molly. You are not Elizabeth. You have no sister. We have no script to follow."
Molly shook her head, left out a throaty cry as her other nipple was enveloped in Sherlock's warm mouth. As he sucked on the nub, his eyes trained on the woman in front of him, he began to work on the buttons of his own top coat.
"No… You… I still have reasons to hate you! Your arrogance and conceit, your selfish disdain for the feelings of others—"
Sherlock gave her another harsh kiss and dropped his breeches, fiddling with his under garments to free his hard length. He pulled her trembling bottom lip into his mouth and conquered her tongue, his hands meanwhile busy shoving the skirt of her dress up. He pulled his mouth away and smirked at her.
"Oh, no, love. You don't get to take her words for your yourself. Besides, we have things all backwards. Shouldn't you be confessing to me?"
Molly shivered in the cold, her practically naked body exposed in the rain. However, that didn't stop her from slapping Sherlock across the face. He cursed and grabbed his cheek, quickly directing a glare at the woman.
"Just shut up and fuck me. Assuming I'm not still 'barely tolerable'," she hissed out.
Sherlock smirked and hauled her into his arms, quickly pressing her against the stone wall of the overlook, his hard cock just teasing her entrance.
"Don't put his words in my mouth. I said that your lips and breasts were small." With that, he captured her lips in another harsh kiss and pummeled into her petite body.
Molly cried out and grabbed onto his curly locks, her exposed breasts pressing against the opened cloth of his now soaking wet top. The edges of his top coat brushed against her, a stiff wool that would surely leave marks, but she was in too much pleasure to care.
Sherlock started to fuck her faster, his hands locked on her hips, and his lips nipping all over her face and neck.
"Now you'll have to marry me," he gritted out, "for virtue determines a woman's worth in this era."
Molly gasped and pulled his hair harder, desperate moans continuing to escape her lips. She let out another cry and followed with, "What if I don't want to marry you? What if I rather marry another?"
He captured her lips again and refused to slow down his unrelenting pace.
"Then you'd simply be lying to yourself."
With those final words, Molly let out a scream, her body shaking in the throes of passion, her entire form throbbing in the most sensational feeling to ever take over her, her vision going white—
Molly shot up in her bed, her body covered in sweat and her knickers equally as damp. She grabbed her head and looked around her room, before gazing back down at her bed to find Toby asleep on top of her copy of Pride and Prejudice. She let out a swallow and grabbed the book, quickly tucking it back in her nightstand.
She sighed and laid back, wondering how she let Sherlock corrupt even her most favorite literature. She had told herself that she was moving on. She would be free of her romantic interests in him.
Of course, now she was having regency dreams of being deflowered by an ever-snarky Sherlock, who was equally parts Mr. Darcy as he was himself. He even had the audacity to ruin her favorite scene from the novel. The prat couldn't even stick to script!
She shut her eyes, quickly racking her brain for solutions to the Sherlock problem. He was a problem. This was a problem.
But it didn't matter. Her memories of the two in the throes of passion, his delicious voice and snark and soft lips attacking her body and soul filled her brain.
She had only one solution to her current problem.
And so, she gave in, slipping her shaking hand into her knickers.
She would forget about Sherlock.
But not tonight.
