A/N: So sorry you guys for the long wait. I just started up school again a week and a half ago, so my days have consisted of homework and getting back into the school schedule. And then as I was writing this I accidently deleted a full few paragraphs which set me back a bit. But its here now! Yay! Thanks to all of you who favourited and followed this story. I was not expecting it. This is kind of an experiment for me cause this is my first chaptered fanfiction for me to upload and also have to update, so hopefully I will be able to do so to keep you guys reading! But, now, without further ado, chapter two. :) Enjoy! (And let me know what you think).
The next few days consisted of packing, just as their father had requested. Sherlock found himself sitting on his bed, watching as Mary helped pack together all his belongings. Everything went into boxes, minus a few items that would remain with them while everything else went ahead in a big truck. The few remaining items went into small suitcases they were to bring in their own car.
Sherlock had four boxes for his books, two for his clothes, one for all his stuffed animals, a eighth for his notebooks, drawings and art supplies, and finally the last box, resulting in nine total, held his most prized possessions. Mary had allowed him to pack this one on his own, as it contained all the things held most dear to the eight-year-old.
The very first item was his pirate costume: his hat and sword. It took a long argument between him and his mother that he would not bring it in the car, then many protests from Sherlock and a half-convincing debate that still resulted in a 'no'. In the end, it went into the box first.
Piled ontop of that was Sherlock's small marble collection, passed on to him from his older brother. In total there were forty-seven of them, all ranging in different colours, sizes and specimens. He never actually used them to play marbles, seeing as he had no one to play with, but also he rather enjoyed using them for other things. For example, with the next item placed in his box: the homemade slingshot his father had helped him make after Mycroft had explained to him basic physics from the older boy's school textbook. Sherlock would run around in the yard, pockets full of marbles, and slingshot in hand, shooting at a target he had chosen in a tree.
Along with the hat, sword, marbles, and slingshot, Sherlock had his favourite of them all.
The very last of Sherlock's prized possessions, was a blue rubber ball he had found on his way home from school one day. He had been walking along the brick wall, just like every afternoon, occasionally slashing at plants and fake enemies. When he had wandered off the path a bit, trailing through dirt and in between a few trees, he saw something in the mud that caught his eye. It was after bending down to pick it up and wiping it off on his uniform trousers (much to his mum's displeasure), that the young boy had discovered it was a ball. That day he spent the rest of the walk bouncing it along the cement path in front of him, chasing after it when it would come down wrong on a crack, and corralling it carefully with each motion so it wouldn't go bouncing into the street.
It was on Sunday night that Sherlock was still awake in his bed, which would be taken apart and added to the many other things to be loaded into the moving truck. He was leaning against the metal frame, covers pulled up to his stomach. The young boy looked around his dark, empty room. To the left were his shelves, stripped clean of every book, hardbound or paperback. And then the empty space against the wall where the big chair had sat, and in front of it, the boring white floor where a rug had been. On the right was Sherlock's empty closet, looking more mysterious than it had been when previously filled with his hanging clothes. And then a few feet in front of the end of the bed, and against the right wall, remained the big window, with the tree outside of it and the bee hive.
The rest of the room, the space in directly in front of the bed, was completely empty. It used to contain Sherlock's desk and chair, covered in books or papers, his stuffed animals off to the side, and his special box in the drawers that had contained his marbles, slingshot and rubber ball. But now all of it was empty, and Sherlock didn't like it. Not one bit. This was the last night he would ever spend in the bedroom with the window to look out front and the window seat below it.
Sherlock finally gave up on sleeping, shoving the covers off his legs with his hands. He slid his feet off the side of the bed, pushing off with his hands behind him, letting them slowly thump to the hardwood beneath.
On a normal night, Sherlock would have settled in the big chair, choosing one of his many books to read before he was able to fall asleep. But this wasn't a normal night, and both those things were packed away and downstairs. He walked around the end of the bed, going to the other side of the room.
He climbed up to the window seat, kneeling on the cushion, and setting his hands against the glass once again. It was a full moon, and the glossy light shone through the thin branches of the tree, illuminating his face. He looked out of the view that he doubted he would ever see again.
The long paved driveway, stretching out into the street. And at the closer end of it, his father's blue car, parked next to the front steps of the house. And to the left was the tree. Sherlock could just make out the silhouette of the bee hive thanks to the moonlight, but at this time there weren't any of the insects zooming in and out to continue their production of honey. Below the tree was their grassy front yard, a big area with many more trees and a few plants in a garden bed. Sherlock could picture the tree in his head he had often used for target practice with his slingshot, or the stump he would stand on with his pirate hat and sword, claiming his land.
The eight-year-old heaved a sigh. He couldn't believe this was happening, and probably would never except the fact that it was. They were moving, in the morning, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Sherlock spent the rest of the night in the window seat. He eventually changed positions so his back was braced against on of the walls, and from there, he had at some point, fallen asleep.
Sherlock woke up in the morning to the very first lights of dawn streaming across him and the floor of his nearly empty bedroom. He slowly opened his eyes, giving a yawn and a stretch of his arms before sliding off the windowseat cushion, and walking slowly across the room to the door. He placed a hand on the doorknob, pulling it open slowly.
No doubt his mother would still be asleep, it was still quite early. She would be getting up in the next hour or so however. And Mycroft on the other hand probably sleeping as well, if not up and having been so reading or researching some thing or another since before the sun came up over the horizon.
But Sherlock's father would surely already be downstairs, in the sitting room with a paper and his morning tea.
Sherlock decided this was where he would go. The eight-year-old peered his head out the doorway and into the hall, looking first to one of the hall, the side with his parents' bedroom, and then the other, staring at the staircase that led downstairs. He slipped into the hall and slowly crept along the hall, carefull not to step on the spot he knew would creak, and keeping close to the wall where the floor was less likely to make noise.
At the top of the staircase, Sherlock begin his way down, a hand above his head held onto the wood banister and sliding down it slowly as Sherlock took each step down.
The house was deathly silent, except for the clink of a few plates and dishes from the kitchen, where no doubt breakfast was being prepared.
Sherlock reached the bottom step, his hand resting on the spherical piece decorating the end of the banister. He peered around the wood, looking over to the kitchen door that was slightly ajar. From inside the kitchen Mary turned around and saw him, giving the boy a small smile before turning back around and continuing her work at the counters.
Sherlock gave her a small smile back even though she had already turned around. He turned on the stairs, facing the front entrance hall and the stairs. Off to one side a corner was occupied by boxes and a few pieces of furniture covered in protective plastic for the truck ride. Sherlock could pick out each box and tell what was inside, even if they weren't labeled. From a slight corner of fabric sticking out of the third box from the left, Sherlock knew that it contained his mother's blouses. And another one, perfectly square and sagging on top of the box below. That held Mycroft's book collection.
The eight-year-old hopped down from the last step, walking slowly towards the sitting room he had so eagerly run into the afternoon a few days prior. That day seemed so long ago. And the excitement he had held at the time. The adrenaline rushing through his body from his recent pirate adventure.
But not anymore. Not right now. With all the time spent packing, and his things themselves being packed, Sherlock hadn't gotten another chance to run around as Captain Sherlock, Pirate of the Seven Seas.
Sherlock gave a small sigh and continued quietly towards the big double-doors. He reached them, and pushed one open with his hands.
Directly across from him, sat his father, his view covered by the unfolded newspaper he was reading. Sherlock stood in the doorway for a moment, saddened by the empty feeling of the room he had so often visited for a new book or for tea his mother forced him to attend. But now the many bookshelves lacked their books, very much like Sherlock's own upstairs. The three armchairs that also occupied the room still remained, to be loaded into the truck later with everything else.
"Good morning, Sherlock," the man greeted, lowering his paper slowly.
"Hello, Father," Sherlock exchanged, looking over at the man in the chair.
"You all ready, then?" His father asked with a smile, hoping for some enthusiasm towards the move from his son.
"yeah, I guess," the eight-year-old returned, his voice hesitant and regretful towards their soon to be journey.
"Oh, come on. It won't be that bad," His father tried to encourage. Sherlock simply ignored the man, going over to one of the other of three chairs, and climbing into it. He sunk into the cushion, the size of the chair enveloping him compared to his own small body.
Mr. Holmes went back to reading his newspaper, the open pages once again covering his upper body.
Sherlock sat back in his own chair silently, watching the older man. He shifted position so his legs were pulled up to his chest and no longer dangling over the edge. He heaved a small sigh. He had no book to read, the one main use for a chair such as the one now surrounding him.
The eight-year-old let his eyes wander around the room, then he let his feet dangle of the chair seat again. His hand rested on the chair arm, and his fingers subconsciously tapped out a pattern on the fabric, the only other sound being the occasional shuffle of papers as his father turned the pages.
Three hours later, the truck was loaded, their four suitcases had been lined up by the front door, and the entire house echoed under each footstep out of its emptiness.
After having sat silently in the sitting room chair for nearly an hour (Sherlock had attempted to count the seconds), both his mother and older brother had individually come downstairs, entering into the sitting room as well. The family had then breakfasted together, their last meal in this house, on a feast of toast, eggs, and ham, as well as warm tea. During the meal no one spoke or attempted to make conversation, all four of them in some way regretting their plans on leaving.
When they were done the last minute changes were made, loading the final items onto the truck and the fews small things into their car, save for their suitcases.
Sherlock had wandered upstairs again, starting from the top floor and making his way down, visiting each and every room with its completely cleared floors and blank walls. Eventually when he knew that even the suitcases were packed, he headed for the stairs to go back down. There was no way to stall or any excuse to get himself out of this now. One step, slowly at a time, the eight-year-old slumped down the stairs, each step making a soft thump on the wood, and echoing through the house. When he was about halfway down, his mother motioned for him to stop and to hurry down quickly and join both his father and brother who also stood in the entrance hall.
Sherlock stepped forwards to his fathers side, where he was then pulled into a loose side-hug.
"You boys ready?" Mr. Holmes asked, looking between Mycroft and his wife, and Sherlock looking up at him from his side.
Mycroft gave a small last glance to the large staircase. Then with a nod to his father, the eldest Holmes boy turned and left out the door. Mr. Holmes took a breath to ready himself, and then he had to give his other son a nod as well, also giving Sherlock a small push to join his brother in leaving.
When both boys had left the doors for the last time, Mrs. Holmes turned to look back behind her as well.
"Are we doing the right thing?" She asked softly to her husband.
"I never really know," was his reply before she left the house as well, and he followed, stopping once through doorway, to turn, take one last look into the house, then close and lock the door behind him. Mr. Holmes left the front steps and joined his family in their car.
The family piled in, took their last looks at the house, then drove off, the big moving truck in front of them as they followed behind. Sherlock turned around in his seat watching the big house slowly shrink behind him. Only did he sit back normally when his mum tapped his shoulder and motioned for him to turn around again.
The journey was ridden in silence, and Sherlock spent it staring out the window, watching the many land features fly by.
Hours later, when it was well into the afternoon, Sherlock felt himself being nudged awake.
"Sherlock, dear, wake up. Look," Sherlock felt his mother tapping his shoulder. He lifted his head from where it had been rested on her lap, his cheek a little red with a small mark from her skirt. He looked up drearily, his tired eyes finding the window to look out of.
They were in the countryside now. Ginormous fields and trees that went on forever. And the gravel road they were driving on now. Looking behind him again, Sherlock could just barely see through the cloud of dust they were trailing behind him.
The eight-year-old stayed awake for the next half hour as they drove along the road that never ended. Or seemingly never did.
Sherlock was beginning to wonder if they were the only people living out here, there were no other signs of civilization other than the road.
But within a few minutes they drove past a small farmhouse, sitting on it's own in a patch of trees with a wheat field next to it. But Sherlock didn't get a good enough look at it.
He turned to face his father who was driving.
"Who lives in that house?" he asked and his father looked at him through the rearview mirror with furrowed eyebrows.
"What house, son?"
"The one we just drove past. Does anyone live there? Are there children?" Sherlock asked with his child curiosity.
His father shook his head.
"No, I don't think so. I don't think anyone lives there."
Sherlock looked back out the window, wondering if he see another similar house, but he didn't. The farmhouse he had seen looked well kept, save for it's few falling shingles and old roof. But surely someone had to live it in, or it would be rotten and falling to the ground. And the eight-year-old knew his father was aware of that. So why was he being lied to?
Sherlock brushed it off for now. Maybe he would go exploring later.
A/N: Well that's the end of chapter 2. I know they didn't do much, but I felt like it was dragging on. Don't worry, next chapter will be full of adventure and the new house ;) Let me know what you think so far! I love hearing from you guys. And also, as I said before, those of you in the UK let me know if I am saying something wrong or if there's a different word for something from that which I use. Thanks to you all! I'll try and get chapter 3 up sooner than I did this one :)