A/N: Next chapter here, ch. seven up next week. Enjoy! Also, hello hiatus, lovely to see you once again. Stay strong Sherlock Fandom. :)

Mr. And Mrs. Holmes, along with their eldest son, were all seated at the table. Empty plates in front of them. Dishes with steam rising off the tops, and serving spoons placed directly in the middle, were spread among the tabletop where they could easily be reached. Sherlock was motioned to sit down, which he did so. He grabbed his napkin form where it was bundled around his knife, fork and spoon, keeping the metal untensils warm and protected. The eight-year-old spread the napkin cloth across one knee, following the example of his family members, knowing it was how his parents expected him to present himself.

The dishes were filled up silently, plates passed along the table to the end where Mr. Holmes would set a portion on the surface. Until everyone's plate was stocked with the meal pieces, no one said a word.

"So," Sherlock's father started, forking a piece of lettuce and bringing it to his mouth. He chew thoroughly before continuing. "You went outside to explore the back," he prompted. "Tell us what you did,"

Sherlock looked up from his soon-to-be cooling food. He shrugged.

"I just wandered around out back,"

"In the field...?" Sherlock's father clarified, hardly forgetting the boundaries set up from earlier.

The eight-year-old gave a slow nod. He didnt dare look up at over at Mycroft. His father would suspect some bend in the truth. But Sherlock couldn't help but wonder why his brother hadn't turned him over. Mycroft knew perfectly well Sherlock had gone to more than just the back like he was supposed. But also, then again, no one really knew (other than himself, of course) how far Sherlock had actually wandered.

"Well, what did you find? Is it a good area for adventures?" His father continued, pausing as he took another bite sized portion from his plate.

Sherlock stirred the small amount of food around on the white ceramic dishes.

"I suppose. There's nothing much right out back. Just grass," he muttered gloomily.

Suddenly he perked up remembering his continuous, and still remaining unfinished, quest of the new property.

"But, can I go into the forest tomorrow? To explore more of the property?" he pleaded, for yet another time. He had already lost count and it had only been a day.

Sherlock's father set his fork down on the edge of his plate to reply. But he paused as shorter woman entered, adding a small plate of green beans to the array of dishes in front of the Holmes family.

In his fathers hesitation, Sherlock looked up to observe the woman. She was different, new. The eight-year-old, had never seen her before. Atleast not in their own house. He watched her as she came in silently. Setting the plate down, then leaving as Mr. Holmes gave her a very very slight and quiet 'thank you'.

"Perhaps." Mr. Holmes decided, but still hesitant. To Sherlock it didnt matter. He had forgotten his previous question, his curiosity now moved to a different subject. His eyes wandered to the doors leading into the kitchen, now closed again.

"Who was that?" He asked, letting his eyes tell of whom he was speaking. "I've never seen her here before,"

"Sherlock, darling, shes a new cook who we've hired. Now eat your food," his mother pointed to his half eaten plate in front of him.

"Why have we got another one?" He asked slowly, letting his eyes drag themselves back to the plate in front of him. He began eating the food still left on it.

"She lives nearby and needed the work," his mother informed him. "But that's not of importance, alright?"

"Nearby...?" Sherlock trailed off in a mutter.

"Yes." His father said the final word to end the subject of matter. He turned to his oldest son instead. "Now, Mycroft, how's that topic of study of yours coming?"

Mr. Holmes and Mycroft engaged in conversation about yet another book Mycroft was reading, how excellent it was. Or perhaps how he disagreed on one part, the theory entirely wrong in his opinion. Sherlock let their words pass over his head, his focus and care not on them. When his plate was clear he turned his gaze back to the kitchen doors one last time. For some reason he felt he had seen that woman before. But she did look like a lot of women, so it was nothing.

Sherlock looked back to his empty plate, setting his fork and knife across it in the center.

"Can I be excused?" He chimed in softly, but enough for him to be heard by his mother who didnt want to interrupt the talk between the other two.

"May I," she corrected him, resulting in a huffed sigh from the eight-year-old.

"May I be excused?" He repeated.

"Yes," she nodded with a small smile before turning her attention back to listening to what Sherlock's older brother and father were saying.

The youngest Holmes pushed the chair back and stood up, grabbing his plate by the edges carefully. He paused looking back at the rest of his family still talking and not noticing him. He turned back to head to the kitchen doors he had been watching throughout the entire meal. He pushed them open and ventured in the kitchen, the one area he rarely went in except to talk to Mary when he got bored and she knew it.

He was expecting to find it busy. With three people hired to cook in the kitchen now. But he was wrong. Only Mary was present. Mrs. Stephenson who was the other help usually left early only staying in the mornings. Mary was there twenty-four seven. But the new help, was nowhere to be seen.

"Hello, Sherlock. Ah, yes, your plate, thank you," Mary greeted, holding a hand out to take the dish from him. She set it in the sink where a bath of soapy water was contained. In the sink next to it were other dishes and pans to be rinsed off, and on the counter, a drainboard with even more items drying.
"You still against this place, then?" She asked after Sherlocks silent response. The eight-year-old had remained by the doors, taking a position against the wall beside them. He just gave a shrug. Mary turned back tot eh sink to see what she was doing as she rinsed off the collection of soapy dishes.

For a while the only sounds were the running water and the clinking of a few dishes as they were added to the draining board. Then Sherlock spoke up.

"Who is she, the new cook?" He asked, although he knew he shouldn't be doing so. But also, he knew Mary would tell him most anything he wanted to know.

"She lives a couple of miles away," Mary told him. "And looked for work when your family moved in."

"But shes gone," Sherlock pointed out.

"Well, yes. She had to go home. Has a family of her own to take care of."

That was all Mary was going to say and Sherlock could tell she wouldn't say anymore. His parents must have told her not to. It still confused him why. Maybe Mycroft would know. He could try and find the answer from him later.

The silence between Sherlock and Mary continued and that's when Sherlock decided there was no point in staying. He turned to leave for the other doors, the one leading right out of the kitchen and not back into the dining room.

"You headed upstairs?" Mary asked without even having to turn around. Sherlock gave a nod.

"Yes, if anyone is wondering," he told her. Though he doubted anyone would come looking for him. By the time the other members of his family would be done at the table, it would be late, and the eight-year-old would probably have gone to bed. That's how it usually went.

"I'll let them know," Mary promised before Sherlock had left and was out in the entry hall again. He stood there for a movement, turning to see the light from under the dining room door. He could still hear the water running from the kitchen. Everywhere else in the house was silent.

The rest of the evening Sherlock spent up in his room. He didnt take out his drawings again, and he didnt start any new ones either. He did read more of his book, but got bored after a while since it was too dark for him to have an adventure of his own.

Sherlock sat at his desk for a while, staring out into the blackness of the night with only half the moon to give him any light. And then he turned back to his new bedroom, looking around at the strangeness that was no where soon to becoming familiar.

When it was nearing late, Sherlock decided perhaps it he should get ready for bed. He knew his family was still downstairs, but no longer in the dining room. From the familiar closing of his fathers office door, the eight-year-old knew his father had gone in the small room to do some last minute work. His mother he had heard enter the parlor. And since he hadn't heard anyone come upstairs, he assumed that's where his brother was as well.

No one would worry about whether or not Sherlock was asleep. They knew he would choose a reasonable time to do so, even being as young as eight. But honestly, Sherlock didnt blame them. What was there for him to do anyways?

Sherlock stood up from the wooden chair placed at his desk. He went over to the dresser, new to his bedroom not having been there at the old house. The eight-year-old pulled open the top drawer where he remembered seeing Mary place his pyjamas. He pulled out some dark blue plaid ones, and a light blue tshirt to match. Taking off his earlier clothing of shorts and a white button-up shirt, Sherlock let them fall tot he ground at his feet. He replaced them with the flannel bottoms, standing for a moment with his bare chest. But after his hesitation, a chill ran down his spine and he shivered before picking up the tshirt to place over his open skin.

Sherlock picked up the clothes he had just taken off, folding them as neatly as his small hands could manage, before placing them on the wooden dresser top. They hadn't gotten too dirty running around outside earlier. He figured he could just put them on again tomorrow, especially if he planned on going out into the forest once again.

Satisfied with the change in clothing, Sherlock flicked the switch to turn off his bedroom light, before going over to his bed. He crawled into it, lifting the covers up so he could slide his feet under. Then he laid down, sliding his body further into the depths of the warm blankets. Looking around the darkened room, this new position of his bed was strange. But he also like it. Since it was in the far corner, it gave a good sense of the his surroundings, and also a nice position when it came to watching for anything around him.

Sherlock gave a small sigh, pulling the edge for he blanket closer around him, and bringing them all the way up to his chin. He took one last look around the room before rolling onto his side. He feared that he was beginning to like this new place. but he was determined not to let that new feeling take over just yet.

The dark shadows of his chair and desk and dresser filled the few barely lit areas of the room. They stretched out and loomed into the dark. But Sherlock ignored them. The eight-year-old closed his eyes softly and went to sleep for the first time in the new house. When his breathing had slowed to a steady even pace, and his heartbeat pumped softly from within his chest, Sherlock Holmes dreamed.

The great Captain Sherlock stood on the edge of the docks, looking out over the beaut of the ocean. The sun shone down on the deep blue surface, melding together to make a lighter green in some places. It bounced off the unmoving wakes, glistening up from its deep ocean depths. The captain stood there silently to himself, taking a glimpse at the realm he was soon to enter with his crew. It was only as he was approached by his first mate, that the gaze from the captain of the Black Elm was broken.

"Sir, we leave in ten minutes. All the supplies are loaded and the sails have been set." The first mate, going by the name of The Black Bandit, or just Bandit for short, informed his captain.

"Are the crew aboard?" Captain Sherlock responded.

"Aye, Sir."

"Good. Then man your post. We leave in five not ten. Best tell the others before I get there," he warned. And with that the first mate was off again, running down the wooden planks of the dock to the Black Elm ship, no more than a hundred yards away.

Captain Sherlock took one last glance towards the sea. With a grin to himself he was off down the docks after his first mate. Pleased as he made his way down the path, he could already hear the calls of his crew to one another. The commands of higher ranks to lower. A fine crew it was that sailed on the Black Elm. All having worked alongside the captain for many years now. Except for one. He had been picked up just recently as they had made a stop here for last minute stock. The new recruit was a boy, small. He had no name as of yet, simply refered to as 'you boy, there.' Captain Sherlock had faith in him, that's why he had joined. The captain saw something unknown in the boy. But he knew that adding him to the crew would not be a choice he might regret.

Right on time with a minute to spare, Captain Sherlock was walking up the plank from the dock to his ships fine deck.

"Right, ye scalywags. Lets get this ship movin' before the sunrise. At this rate we won't be out of the marina by morn'!" he called out, loud and gruff to all his crew on board. The final members joined the ship, hopping on last minute from untying the ropes that had kept her tethered to the docks. Two men pulled the plank up as the ship set off out in the ocean. Captain Sherlock walked the route to the front of the ship, taking position at the wheel.

They had only sailed for a bare minute when the captains call rang out around the ship.

"Hoist the sails!"

No hesitation as the large canvases were let down, unfolding on its own before rippling in the wind. The large ship sailed slowly at first, heading off in the direction for he horizon. Nothing lay ahead of them, and soon the docks from behind them were just mere memories. The crew sailed on, wind blowing through their scarves and at around their heads, roaring into one ear and out the other of those up high in the rigging.

No one would notice or let alone care about the shop having left. Just another old boat leaving the docks. But Captain Sherlock would show them up one day. He would show the world how the Back Elm was more than just a daily piece to the shared docks. Or he would. One day. Just let them wait.

Hours had past. The sun was beginning to fall across the sky, painting it in shades of red and deep orange. It rang out across the expansive reflections on the water, mimicking those same colours of the sky and the clouds above it. Captain Sherlock was still at the wheel, but there was much to pay attention to, and he had taken to leaning against he device, watching the waves roll by the wooden mass.

One of his crew members came up. Maximian of the Banks of ore. Often times he would cause trouble amount the crew members, and even more so with the captain himself. But Captain Sherlock couldn't take the risk of losing him. When it came to pirating Maximian's brain and easy manipulation of power was was necessary for success.

"This is unprofessional," he mocked in a high, scratchy voice, coming right up to the captain from behind. "It is unprofessional and pointless. You expect us to get anywhere with your childish, youthful reasonings and ideas? These stupid figments of your own imagination you can believe on your own," he repeated with further explanation, giving a short laugh of demotion in the process.

Captain Sherlock only looked back at the crew member, not sure how respond. Should he act weak, letting the member get away with it and letting the Black Elms Captain seem easily defeatable? Let Maximian show how he stood up and against the captains power. Captain Sherlock couldn't have that. But he also couldnt understand or decide which side he was on when it came to Maximian's words.

Sometimes it felt so tiring. The captain would seem to somehow in the distance hear another remark or comment of Maximian's. With his daily chore of commanding and showing these men how to sail and become the best. Sometimes he wondered if Maximian's words were not untrue, if also atleast partially correct.

But this job, this lifestyle had a purpose, right? Not childish or unprofessional. Plenty of men came to the Black Elm for consultance. Regardless most approaches were for work, from the weak, scrawny men who had failed to meet the requirements of other captains from other ships. But no other crew, or boat, let alone captains were quite as fine as thst which sailed from the Black Elm. So clearly, that explained why hat Maximian had said was wrong.

Or was it?

Captain Sherlock would never know unless he went out on his own to search for the answers.

Without warning, the rest of the Black Elm crew joined in the mocking and laughter. The captain turned around quickly to look at them.

"Idiot, why would you choose this way,"

"Being a pirate is stupid. Stop being a child,"

"If you're going to sail the seven seas, atleast do it right, or not at all,"

"Weak, unintelligent. That's what this life brings out of you,"

"No one cares if it's good. Is it realistic? That's what you have to consider."

The crew members crowded around their captain now, wicked grins spread across their faces as they continued their pressured remarks of torment. Captain Sherlock turned quickly in a circle, attempting to keep an eye on each man as they neared closer and closer. Suddenly the scene in front of him was changing. What was going on?

The captain was no longer a captain. No longer a pirate. He was a little boy. The faces in front of him clouded and faded, swirling into new faces, only different because they and lost their pirate features to them. Gone were their scarves and earings, swords and belts. Sherlock stepped back from the faces staring back at him. His family, boys from his school back in the city, relatives, neighbors. They all followed his steps, closing in on him till he had backed into a wall behind him. Not the wooden wall of the forecastle. No. He was not on the Black Elm anymore. Or on any boat. Or anything recognizeable. But then the scene changed again. He was in the same position, being corralled to one area. But when placing a hand behind himself to feel for the wall, that's not what he found. He found empty air, and then his ankles hit something their own height. A step of a staircase. The eight-year-old took no time in turning to scramble up it, not looking behind him, but knowing that the figures of people he knew were following behind. It was only when he reached the top of the two flights that Sherlock realized where he was.

He was in the new house.

And the people of his dream were saying something, taunting him, with the similar words that the pirate from earlier had chanted.

"Grow up, Sherlock,"

"Stop being so childish,"

"Why can't you be more intelligent like your brother and father?"

"Freak, go away,"

"Dont you know what's good for you?"

"Nobody wants to be around a bookworm,"

"Stop being so nosy,"

"Why can't you play normal games? Nobody wants to play pirates,"

Sherlock turned around again, now that he was on the top step. His breathing deepened, sweat rolled down his forehead. Why wouldn't they go away? One of his tiny hands reached don't to grab onto the banister for support. He held on with all he had. The voices kept repeating what they were saying, they clouded his mind. Go away. Why wouldn't they go away?

"Shut up!" The eight-year-old shouted. "Shut up, shut up, shut up!" He removed his hands from the banister only to place them on his ears.

"Nobody likes a kid brother,"

"Mummy and Daddy are angry,"

"They don't want you,"

"You already knew that. Accept it."

Sherlock kept backing away as the people he knew came closer. But the surface under his feet changed. No longer was it the hard wooden floor of his house. And his stairs no longer in front of him. Looking back behind him, Sherlock saw a drop off. A cliff with a waterfall sliding down it yards away. If he backed up anymore he would fall. There was nothing to hold onto. He couldn't go forwards.

"Learn something useful for a change. Stop ranting about pirates or facts no one cares about,"

The eight-year-old's feet shuffled inches back along the dust and dirt beneath him. His ankle hit a rock and he stopped. He paused hearing a small avanlanche of pebbles tumble down over the cliff edge and bouncing off the rock walls into the valley below. He caught himself off balance, but shuffling his feet once more in the space space the cliff edge allowed him.

"Why do you think you moved, Sherlock?"

"They want to seperate you from everyone else,"

"It's all your fault,"

"Why can't you be like everyone else?"

"You aren't smart enough to be a Holmes,"

"Why aren't you good enough?"

"Your family doesn't want you around,"

"Nobody wants you around,"

"They don't want you."

He screamed one final time. "Shut up!" And then with a last step of his feet, he fell backwards off the cliff.