A/N: Hello again! It certainly has been a while. But now, with NANO done, the holidays past, and a new year, I am back again with much of the story written. Here is the next installment, sorry its a bit short. I plan on posting a chapter each week for the next two months at least as I already have it all written up till then(I just need to go back and edit each chapter briefly). Enjoy, and see you in a week. :)
Sherlock slowed his pace as he neared the edge of the forest. Now he would have to be careful. Through the few trees, he could see his house. He had to make sure no one saw him coming back across the field, and also had to get rid of all traces of him having gone in the woods in the first place.
Sherlock ducked behind the tree nearest to the field, his hands on the trunk so he could peer around it. He carefully watched the area of grass that seperated him from his destination. Nothing moved. And everything was still. Sherlock decided it was safe to come out, to leave his cover of forest. The eight-year-old stepped into the sunlight of the uncovered grass, looking both ways for no reason, then running quickly across the field. He didnt stop until he was right up at the house, leaning against it to rest.
Sherlock gave a grin to himself as he stood there letting his breathing slow to an even pace. No had had noticed where he had gone. No one had come looking for him either. He pushed himself off of the wall, being careful not to step on the few plants there. He walked through the back garden until he came to the corner of the house, ready to go back inside. He wanted to ask his parents about the boy in the house past the forest, but knew he couldn't without them knowing he had gone there by himself. Also, there was something strange about the way they had told him the house was empty, when really, it wasnt.
Sherlock ran down the pathway along the side of the house, out of excitement. It was only their first day being here, and already he assumed it wouldn't be too bad. As long as there was another boy his age nearby, Sherlock knew he would be happy. He hadn't even met the boy in the jumper, but from watching him play, Sherlock had decided that he would become friends with him anyways.
Sherlock found himself at the front door to his new house. He had to use both hands to reach up and turn the handle, but then he was pushing the door open and returning inside. It was unusually quiet, except for the clinking of utensils and dishes where Mary and another cook would be making supper.
Sherlock went over to the parlor, peering his head in the doorway. It was empty now. The books had all been placed away. And the empty boxes removed. But no sign of his mother or father, save for his fathers pair of glasses set gently on the side table. Sherlock sighed and left. Maybe they were upstairs.
The eight-year-old walked past the kitchen, wondering whether he should ask Mary again where his parents were, but then deciding against it. He turned to go up the staircase, but paused. Maybe his father was in his office.
Sherlock walked slowly and silently over to the closed door that led into his fathers office. He was standing there, about to put a hand up and knock on the wood, when his small ears heard a creak from behind him. Quickly the boy turned to see what it was, his heart skipping a beat, and his lips formed a small "oh" in surprise. Sherlock's shoulders relaxed slightly when he saw who it was.
His older brother was just coming down the wooden stairs, pausing about a few steps from the bottom after seeing Sherlock.
"What are you doing?" Mycroft asked, skeptical of Sherlocks intents.
"I was looking for father," The younger Holmes replied softly, his voice bearing that of innocence.
"He's busy, so you'd best leave him alone," Mycroft advised. "What were you doing outside?" He added curiously, keeping the conversation going. Sherlock shrugged simply in response.
"Exploring, checking things out,"
"I see that you went into the woods," Mycroft added, raising an eyebrow as a sign of waiting for an explanation. "You were supposed to stay only out back,"
"Why should you care, and how would you know?" Sherlock returned, crossing his arms. He tried to keep his voice down so anyone else nearby wouldn't hear. Especially his father who was just inside the door the eight-year-old was standing in front of.
"I saw you through my window, it's not that hard," Mycroft spoke. "What were you doing?" He questioned.
"Nothing, just exploring," Sherlock mumbled. He wouldn't say anything about going to the other house yet. Or about seeing the little boy. Even though the eight-year-old was curious as to why his parents lied to him, he didnt think it safe to bring it up yet that he had gone there anyways.
"I see. Well stay in the back yard, alright. That's where father wants you." Mycroft advised. Sherlock nodded in agreement silently. He stood there looking up at Mycroft, wondering when his older brother would be done talking to him. Sherlock really hated Mycroft having that authority over himself, a privilege Mycroft usually abused to get Sherlock to do what he said.
The two brothers remained silent, equally watching eachother until Mycroft continued the rest of the way down the staircase and left for the parlor to do whatever it was the sixteen-year-old did. Sherlock watched and waited until he had gone, before going his own way up the stairs to his room. He took his time, pausing after each step out of boredom and putting off the inevitable, that once again now at home, he found the place stupid.
Sherlock trudged up the steps finally getting to the top and the second floor of the house. He made his way down the hall, pausing to walk past his parents room, wondering if his mom was in. The door was closed but it was silent. He assumed no one was inside. Instead he continued, and when he came past the spare bedroom, the door was open and he saw his mother arranging the bookshelf with the box of books and a few knickknacks. Mrs. Holmes saw her son and gave a smile, motioning for him to come into the room.
"Did you have fun outside?" She asked as Sherlock came further into the room, just past the doorway. He gave a shrug in response.
"What did you do?" She continued.
"Just played around," Sherlock muttered. He stuck his hands in his trouser pockets out of boredom, and not wanting to be there.
"Find anything exciting?"
Sherlock shook his head no. He was supposed to have only been out back in the field, so he'd better be careful with what he answered. "It's just a grass field," he told her.
"Well I'm sure you'll find something else out there,"
"Maybe," the boy mumbled, though he himself doubted it. Other than the house past the field, where he technically wasnt supposed to go, there was nothing else around. "There's the forest though. Can I explore in there tomorrow?" he asked innocently. He already had, and simply wanted to return to meet the other boy. But his mother didnt need to know about his earlier forbidden adventures.
"Maybe you and your brother can," his mother replied.
"But I don't want to go with a mycroft. He ruins everything," Sherlock protested.
"Well it's a pretty big forest, dear. I'm not sure you should be exploring in there by yourself."
"What if I only go just past the treeline?" Sherlock bargained.
"We'll ask your father later." She told him, placing the final book on one of the shelves. She walked over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder, directing him to the door. "Now why don't you go find a book to read or something else to do until supper," she suggested, leaving him alone in the hallway across from his bedroom, as she made her way back downstairs to the first floor.
The eight-year-old heaved a sigh, walking the few short steps to his bedroom with its closed door. He pushed it open, entering the now fully set up room.
No matter how hard he tried looking at it, the room just wasnt the same as his old bedroom. He didnt think it would ever be.
Sherlock went over to his desk, assessing the blank wooden surface in front of him. His box of notebooks, crayons and papers were on the floor next to him. A four-legged wooden chair was pushed in all the way into the outcrop of the desk. The eight-year-old knelt down on the rough, wooded floor, pulling the folded cardboard flaps out, and lifting up the make-shift cover that had been formed.
He pulled out a stack of blank papers, setting them next to himself on the floor. Then he rummaged through the box, tilting the notebooks up to look underneath. Sifting the papers around, the box of pencils. Finally he came across what he wanted. The new set of coloured crayons he had gotten fairly recently when his others had been worn to stubs. Now he had over thirty-six assorted colours, all with pristine points still to be used. He set that down ontop of his previously made pile of papers.
Finally, Sherlock closed the box back up, not bothering to reconstruct the flap lid, instead simply placing the edged flaps ontop of each other as best he could, hoping they stayed there with little to no effort. He bent over to pick up his paper and crayons, standing up and bringing them over to the desktop. Sherlock pulled the chair out from under the desk climbing up onto it. The eight-year-old kneeled on the smooth platform, now able to rest his elbows completely on the surface in front of him if he wanted to. But he didnt do that. No. In order to draw, he needed to be able to have an excellent view of what he was doing. And now he did.
Sherlock slid the sheets of paper up into the top corner of the desk, slipping the top piece off, and bringing it back so it was directly in front of him. Next he opened the box of crayons, peering into the rows of untouched untensils, debating over which one to damage first. He finally decided, pulling out a darker brown. The eight-year-old leaned forwards, hunched over the desktop, and very lightly placed the crayon tip to his paper. He began to draw.
A half hour later, Sherlock had a collection of three complete drawings, placed off to the side. A fourth was still in progress, spread out neatly in front of him, a blue crayon in hand, with three other similar shades lined up expertly at the top of the page.
The pictures included; a pirate ship, the first drawing he had worked on. A simple treasure map but complete with trails and a large red 'x' in the center. And thirdly, an island set nicely with palm trees and coconuts. Finally, the last drawing depicted a picture of some giant octopus type creature, breaking up through the expanse of ocean water in progress of being drawn now.
Unexpectedly there was a soft knock on Sherlock's bedroom door frame, and his crayon clattered to the desktop as he was turning to see who it was.
Mycroft stood there, arms folded across his chest and waiting to get his younger brothers attention.
"Supper's ready, and mum wants you washed up," he spoke.
Sherlock had an elbow rested on the back of the chair as he sat halfway turned around. He nodded silently, seeing if his brother had anything else to add.
Mycroft gave a nod in the direction of Sherlock's desk, letting his arms fall to his side and slip into his trouser pockets.
"What have you been doing?"
"Drawing," the eight-year-old answered in short response, turning his head to look back at this works of art on the wooded surface.
"I can see that," Mycroft entered the room slowly, coming over to stand next to his brother's chair. "Pirates again?" He questioned, tilting his head slightly to get a better look at the pictures laid out. Sherlock nodded, following his brothers gaze to the papers.
"Do like them?" He asked softly, his voice high and innocent. But he was wary of the answer he might receive.
"They're pretty good. Childish I must say...but art nonetheless, I suppose." Mycroft commented, once again going on about Sherlocks mindset, still infantile, and yet to reach adolescence. Everyone expected more from him at such a young age. Sophistication ran in the family, and he just didnt care about it as much as they did.
"It's not childish," Sherlock protested in a mumble, staring back at his drawings, done in crayon. That wasnt helping his case.
"You're drawing unprofessional figments of your own youthful thoughts," Mycroft explained, motioning with a flat palm to the pages.
"They're not 'unprofessional'. It's a real living," Sherlock countered. "And they aren't... imaginary," he chose a different word of description to better suite his understanding.
"Pirates are only shown in books of fantasy and myth. They're unrealistic."
"They have pirates in 'Tom Sawyer'. And that's not unrealistic. Even mum says so," Sherlock continued,
Mycroft threw his hands up in denial.
"Fine, whatever. Just don't expect it to become a future career," he advised in a low voice. "Anyways, hurry and go wash up. Food's gonna get cold." With that the older Holmes brother left. His heavy footsteps could be heard going all the way down the hall, then finally making their way to the bottom of the stairs.
Sherlock waited until it was silent, and he was for sure on his own, before picking up the half finished drawing directly in front of him. He held it up, letting the minimal light from the window shine through it. It wasnt childish, was it? The eight-year-old sat there for the longest time thinking it over.
Finally, he picked up the other three drawings, shifting them together into one stack and placing his fourth drawing ontop. The last one was supposed to be the kraken. But now looking back on it, Sherlock didnt really think so himself. He sighed, pulling open the top desk drawer stretching across the entire length of the desk. He placed the few drawings inside, letting them slide silently from his palm into the wooden safe haven. Letting them falter before they fell once and forever into the drawer where they would be safe from any and all critesism. Where they would stay, and most likely never be brought out again.
Sherlock collected his crayons back together, arranging them first in his small fingers, before sliding them individually into their box, and then tapping the cardboard lightly to fit them in properly. He set the crayons down on the desktop, sliding them to the top of the desk and finally altering their boxe's position to perfectly correlate with the desk edge. He slid off from the chair, not taking a single look back at the desk, or his box or crayons. Or even the cardboard box still on his floor filled with notebooks and papers and many more materials.
Sherlock pulled his door gently shut behind him as he left his bedroom, trudging back down the new steps, and once again into the dinner room, with it's small doorway leading into it from the kitchen.