Thank you so much for following this story and for the encouragement.

I've never published a story like this, it's thrilling to know you're waiting. I hope you're not disappointed, and that you enjoy this chapter!

Again, I have to thank my amazing beta and britpicker foreverwholocked for helping me with this. It wouldn't have been possible without her!

CHAPTER 2

(Twenty-eight years earlier)

Little Sherlock stood outside his parents' bedroom. He had the habit of peeking while his mother got ready for the parties their parents organized. He had always liked to see her combing her hair and applying make up. Her smiling gray eyes were even more beautiful in those days.

"Hey, mon fleur." she said, looking at his reflection in the mirror. She was wearing a black satin party dress, delicate high heels and a pearl necklace and earrings. She smiled at her little son. "Having trouble with your tie?"

Little Sherlock nodded and entered the bedroom, sitting on the trunk his mother kept in her bedroom. It was his favourite place to sit; it was where his mother talked to him, hugged him and kissed him every night before he went to bed. Mummy always said it was Grandma's trunk before, and that she was the one who sat on it when she was little. Sherlock always liked that trunk- maybe because he always loved Grandma and Mummy so much.

"What is it, darling? You look upset," she told him, still looking at him from the mirror, with a smile that could easily brighten the whole of Sussex. "I'll finish up here and straighten your tie, okay?"

Sherlock nodded again and stared at his own feet. They didn't quite reach the floor yet. He wasn't exactly a tall child, but he knew he would be tall someday. Father and Mummy were tall, and Mycroft was already quite tall for his age. He supposed one couldn't expect much height from a six-year-old.

Mummy approached him, still smiling and helped him with his little bow tie. Sherlock had always hated ties, and he always told his mother that he would never wear ties when he was a grown up. It was a matter of the greatest importance for him to tell everyone that ties were silly things and that he was always displeased to wear them.

"So... Is this about the party?" she asked, and he nodded. "I know you don't like it, but it's something we have to do, okay? It's for Father's work," she told him, patting his cheek. "I'm sure there will be other children too."

"Mummy!" Little Sherlock made a face. "I don't like children, they're all idiots!"

"Sherlock!" Mummy tried to give him a severe look. She not always managed. The truth was that Mummy was the only one who would understand her son. She knew she should not encourage such behaviour, but what could anyone expect of a child with a brain like his?

"Look, you can always observe the guests, don't you like doing that?" She asked, he nodded. "But don't make people embarrassed, okay?"

"I don't mean to make people angry," he said, looking at her with big wet eyes. "Can't I just stay in my room? I have some plants to catalogue!"

She smiled. Of course her little genius had research to do. "I'm sorry, dear, you can't. But you just have to stay downstairs for a while, I'll stay with you as much as I can, okay?" She smiled at him fondly. She probably knew that Sherlock would do anything for her. Not because she asked, but because he liked being near her as much as he could.

She ruffled his wild dark curls – another trait they both shared – and stood up, pulling him with her gently. "Ready? Let's go, then. Give me a kiss. Now come on, little man."

They left the bedroom hand in hand.

"So, who was the genius, then? Your mother or your father?" John asked.

Sherlock seemed confused. "What?"

"Well, I suppose one of them must have been a genius too. Two people can't produce a Sherlock and a Mycroft out of thin air!"

"Ah," Sherlock scowled, probably at the suggestion that him and Mycroft had something in common. "They were both very intelligent, if that's what you're asking. But Mummy was brilliant, she was a very talented pianist," he smiled fondly.

"And your mother was a musician? Wow. Not what I thought, not what I expected at all," John said seeming genuinely surprised.

"Yes, people must assume the sociopath had a terrible mother," Sherlock answered, coldly. "Well, I did not. She was... understanding."

What Sherlock did not tell John was that he and Mrs. Hudson were the people who reminded him most of his mum, the only people who knew him and tried to respect what he was; they weren't demanding and they didn't make fun of him. Sherlock would not say that to John, but it was true. Sherlock had to wait for nearly thirty years to be able to be himself around someone again. Having John living in Baker Street was the most freeing thing that had ever happened to him since those nights when he would sit on the trunk and talk to his mother about his insects and plants.

"Oi!" John slapped Sherlock's shoulder, snapping Sherlock out of his contemplation. "That was not what I meant, and you know it! I just thought she would have been a scientist, a biochemist, or something. And then there's Mycroft! Mycroft's mother was an artist... Sorry if I was surprised!" John giggled, and Sherlock tried very hard not to laugh with him. He didn't quite manage.

"Yes, when you put it like that... But Mycroft have always been a younger version of my father. Father was a diplomat, that's why we had those insufferable parties and I had to wear ties," he scowled.

"Your father was like Mycroft then? That's unsettling," John snorted. "So, you play the violin because of your mother?"

"You could say that. Her father played the violin, actually. That," Sherlock pointed at his violin with a shy smile, "was his violin. Mycroft and I play the piano, but I always preferred the violin, it's compact and mobile." Like you, John. This Sherlock didn't say.

"So, you are like her." John said, thoughtful.

Sherlock took a deep breath. Sentiment, yes, sentiment. The kind of sentiment which that trunk would probably drown him in. Am I like Mummy? No, I couldn't be. How could I be so charming and sure of myself, how could I be so clever without scaring people off? Not quite like Mummy, no.

"Not quite. But I play the violin because of her, yes. And physically, yes. Wild hair, like she used to say, and pale skin and eyes."

When Sherlock noticed, John was smiling at him oddly. "What?"

"I hope there will be some baby photos in this trunk, because I'd really like to see that!" John laughed. Seeing his friend's outraged expression, John shook his head. "I'm serious, you must have been so cute, all big eyes and curly hair".

Sherlock smiled, surprisingly shy. "If one likes odd eyes, I suppose."

"Odd eyes?" John asked. "Your eyes aren't odd, they are...," he trailed off and Sherlock decided to pay some attention to the tea set, his cheeks a bit flushed. "Your eyes are fine. Do you know what's odd? A head in the fridge. That's odd." John giggled, trying and succeeding in lightening the air between them.

Sherlock joined him gladly. "Well, where was I supposed to put it? Next time I'll put it in your bed!"

John rolled his eyes, but smiled. "Okay, ready to open it?" At Sherlock's nod, John opened the trunk with the key Mycroft had sent in an envelope. "I'll pick something," he said while trying to feel the contents of the trunk without looking. He didn't want to invade the family's privacy and he didn't want to direct Sherlock's stories to those he was most curious to know. But fate was on his side, because the first item was a small wooden sword. "Ah!" John said. "I know about this, your brother told me."

"Don't you and Mycroft have anything better to do on your dates?" Sherlock snapped.

"Aw, don't be jealous of our dates, Sherlock, just because your brother is so lovely," John mocked and Sherlock smiled. "And no, you git, he told me you wanted to be a pirate. He told me this when he gave me those files about Irene," he said, trying very hard not to remember Irene Adler and her strange ways.

"She's not dead, you know," Sherlock blurted, and seemed surprised by his own words. He started to think that his brain was really damaged. "I know you think she's dead and you and Mycroft lied to me to spare my feelings," he said the last word as if they were some sugar-free tea.

"Ah," John said. Of course. Of course he would save her. Who wouldn't save their loved ones? You, John, saved yours the day after you two met. Why didn't you expect that? John tried again very hard not to think about any of this. It wasn't any of his business, really. And if he didn't want Sherlock to meddle in his love life, the least he could do was do the same. Well done, Irene. The one woman who mattered.

"Are you jealous?" Sherlock asked. "You are angry, you're always angry near Irene, or talking about her."

Dear Lord in Heaven. Give John Watson some patience. "I don't like her," John said with a forced calmness. "Never have. But what do I know? I'm just an ordinary bloke." Exactly. John wasn't clever, he wasn't a puzzle, he wasn't Irene, and he wasn't Moriarty. Thank God for that. Shut up, just shut up. "Anyway, pirate then..."

"You are jealous. That's ridiculous," Sherlock said and regretted the moment the words left his mouth. It's not what I meant – that Sherlock didn't say. Are you jealous of her because she liked me and not you, or are you jealous of me? Why would you be jealous of me? - this Sherlock didn't ask either.

"So, pirate...?" John said, handing the wooden sword to Sherlock and trying the control his anger. Yes, it was ridiculous, thank you for your input, genius. What John was thinking? Take deep fucking breaths and soldier up, damn it.

"John-"

"No," John snapped, because, really, one can only embarrass himself for a certain amount of time. "Leave it and tell me about the sword. Did you have a parrot?" John forced a smile. He'd be damned if he was going to let Irene spoil Sherlock's treatment. Once he was recovered he could travel the world looking for her and sod it. Oh, just shut it already.

"I wanted to find treasures and break the rules, why would I have a parrot?" Sherlock asked, confused.

(Thirty-one years earlier)

Mycroft knew normal children at his age were supposed to hate their younger siblings, but he also knew that normal rules didn't fit the Holmes family. The different phases of jealousy, the competition for the mother's attention, the dispute for presents were never part of his relationship with Sherlock.

From the moment the little boy with curly hair and ice-blue eyes started to walk and talk, Mycroft knew he and his brother would have much bigger problems than simple childish feuds.

But the differences didn't make young Mycroft resent his little brother. Even at young age, he knew he was a fortunate child. Mycroft was exactly what he wanted to be. An extraordinarily intelligent child, with straight A's at boarding school and a bright future planned ahead. He had always wanted to be like his dad, and he knew he would be. It was just a matter of time.

This certainty helped him to learn his role as the older brother of young Sherlock Holmes, the child who couldn't understand his own great intelligence.

Mycroft knew what he wanted to be, and he was fortunate for being designed for the exact role he wanted to have. Looking at little Sherlock while he ran up and down the family house, the older sibling was filled with the feeling that maybe the world as it was would never be enough for him. Maybe someday little Sherlock would have to invent his own place in it.

Collecting coins from all over the world always helped Mycroft to maintain his eyes on the future. He would be like his father and have meetings with all the most important people from all the most important countries. Siger Holmes, the head of the Holmes family, never once forgot to bring home the shiniest and most exotic coins he could find around the world.

But even if Mycroft would never say it, little Sherlock was the one who needed the coins the most. They were the perfect treasure to fit the end of the train of clues Mycroft planned for him. It was the perfect game for the siblings: Sherlock would have a puzzle to solve, would have to run up and down the house, and would have a treasure to find. And Mycroft would be saved from the legwork, since he used to leave it for the household to actually place the clues in their right spots.

Mycroft never placed his Christmas gifts for Sherlock under the tree. The little brother would find there only the first clue to find his hidden present, and the older he was, the faster he would get to it. For one of the family Christmases, Mycroft actually found the perfect present.

"Myc! This is a ridiculous clue!" Three-year-old Sherlock whined sitting on the floor, beside the Christmas tree.

"So you know where is it?" Mycroft asked.

"Ovib... Obiu... " Sherlock tried. "Obliv...," he gritted his teeth.

"Obviously?" Mycroft helped.

"Yes, obviously," the little curly boy nodded. "It says 'It's where the pirate sleeps'."

"I see," Mycroft nodded. "And where is it?"

The little boy rolled his eyes, petulantly. "It's in the library! It's where all the pirates from the books are," he said, already turning in his heels.

"Mm-hm," Mycroft let out a dubious sound.

Sherlock stopped abruptly, turning back and narrowing his little eyes in the direction of his brother. "It's not in the library," he said suspiciously.

"Oh, is it not?" Mycroft asked.

"No, you never make any sounds when I find the right place," Sherlock sniffed.

Mycroft smiled a thin smile. People could be surprised by a three-year-old deducting his older brother's behaviour, but other people weren't siblings of Sherlock Holmes. "So where is it then?"

The little boy frowned and placed his hands on his tiny hips. "Pirates live in ships. There aren't ships here," he started.

"Good..." Mycroft nodded, with his mouth full of gingerbreads.

"They sleep in their bed. But nobody here who has a bed is a pirate," Sherlock tried. "Well, I want to be, but I'm not a pirate yet."

"And why is that?" Mycroft asked.

"Because I don't have a sword-," Sherlock paused with shiny big eyes. "It's a sword! And it's in my bed, because I am a pirate! And it's where I sleep," he shouted, already running up the stairs.

Mycroft hid his smile with his cup of tea.

John smiled fondly. "I'll tell you something, and you're not gonna like it. Mycroft actually helped you to find the perfect occupation."

Sherlock sulked. "He did not!"

"He did, you know. I think I like Mycroft better now," John said, uncertain.

"Well, I hope you're very happy together!"

"Stop that, you prat. It was a great gift; it's a nice little sword," John said, examining the toy.

"It was my grandmother's finding, actually. I remember I could smell her house's scent when I tore the wrapping paper, but I never told Mycroft that I knew," Sherlock sighed.

"So, pirate. Was it only because of the puzzles?"

"No, I just wanted to steal my brother's stupid coins," Sherlock giggled and John joined him. "I liked the puzzles, obviously. And pirates didn't have to wear ties. Everybody used ties, Mycroft, Father, the household, I used to hate it."

"You still hate it," John pointed out. "You must have driven the household insane," he shook his head. "I think I've always wanted to be a doctor and a soldier. When I think about it, Mycroft doesn't sound so strange, after all. I always knew what I wanted too. You too, but you had to invent your job, because you're Sherlock Holmes, the brilliant git."

"Mycroft grew up to be a controlling bastard," Sherlock scowled. "And of course you've always wanted to be the hero. Normally the weakest link of a broken home ends up being the addict and the strongest ends up being the hero. You and Harry are pretty obvious."

John didn't miss the hidden meaning of that sentence. Sherlock was an addict. What did that tell about Mycroft? John wouldn't ask. He sighed. "Heroes don't exist." John would never forget those lines.

But you do, Sherlock thought.

"So, let's move on, then. Ready for the next one?" John asked. Sherlock nodded. "Okay, let's see. Oh God, what's this?" John said, feeling something very strange inside the wooden trunk. "Is this a skull?" He asked and pulled the object out of the trunk. "Oh my God! You didn't!" John cried.

"Of course I didn't! He was like a family member!"

"He?" John asked, puzzled.

"Really, John, the family cat, obviously."

"You kept the skeleton of your family cat, Sherlock, that's not obvious," John sighed. "Well, I guess it is for you. So, did you hate him, so you decided to keep his bones to experiment on them?"

Sherlock frowned. "Of course not. I liked him very much. I just wanted to observe. And I only kept his skull, the rest is buried on my family's garden."

"Ah, okay then, what was his name?"

Sherlock grinned. "You're not going to believe me."

John frowned. "Try me."

"Sherrinford," Sherlock answered, trying not to giggle. "He was a very old cat, my mother had him since before marrying my father."

"Jesus Christ. Sherrinford Holmes, is it?" John giggled. "You guys know how to cause an impression, I'll give you that," he shook his head, fondly. "Sherrinford, the older brother of Mycroft and Sherlock."

"Don't be an idiot, he was a cat, he was not my brother. Although, I do like him better than I like Mycroft, despite the fact that he is, in fact, a cat that has been dead for almost thirty years," Sherlock said.