Again, thank you for the encouragement and for following this story! I hope you enjoy, even if I only update once a week, it's impossible for me to update quicker, I apologize ):

And I always have to thank my amazing beta and britpicker foreverwholocked.

CHAPTER 3

(Twenty-seven years earlier)

Sherrinford was a grey furry cat that Violet Holmes got as a present even before she was exactly a 'Holmes'. Her mother, Emily, used to say that having the feline around would help Violet in the new and empty mansion, while she didn't have any kids to fill the rooms with joy and laughter.

By the time Mycroft was born, Sherrinford would have been the perfect pet for a child. He was full of energy, chasing the birds on the trees of the Holmes' gardens and purring while sitting or laying in his own cushion on the sofa. But Mycroft wasn't the kind of child who would run around after a cat, and the fluffy pet had to wait until little Sherlock Holmes arrived in the family.

Despite his age, Sherrinford did what he could to keep up with the younger Holmes. He would run around after the little curly boy while he collected his plants and insects outside the big house, and the two of them would always be seen together in the library. Sherlock with some thick chemistry volume and Sherrinford purring or sleeping on the boy's lap.

Not rarely, the grey cat would give up his fluffy cushion in the living room to be around Sherlock in his room, curled on his bed. The cat even tried to stick around when Sherlock was learning to play the violin. But he didn't always manage to.

"Sherrinford doesn't like my violin very much," little Sherlock said to his mum on an afternoon, after his violin tutoring.

"His hearing is too sensitive, dear, sometimes it bothers him," Violet answered his little son while walking with him through her favourite garden path.

"I know, I read it in that book about mammals," Sherlock was crouched, searching for a specific species of ants. "But he's old, he should be deaf by now," he said, matter-of-factly.

"Sherlock! You should be happy the poor thing isn't deaf, not the other way around!" Violet reprimanded.

"I know," he said while trapping the poor ants in a jar. "He's a silly cat. I like him," he smiled his biggest smile that lightened his eyes.

Violet smiled back. "I know, love, he likes you very much too."

John was laughing. "You said you liked the cat and called him silly. I was called an idiot the day after we met, I see a pattern."

Sherlock laughed too. "He was a nice a cat. He didn't mind my experiments and was silent most of the time. His only fault was that he didn't like my violin."

John shook his head. "Poor cat, I imagine what was like when you were learning. It must've been hellish!"

"It was not! I've always played quite well."

"Yes, yes, okay. Anyway, I'm starting to like Sherrinford too. He reminds me of myself," John giggled.

"What? Why?"

"He was silent, he ran around after you while you did your mad things, he accepted your experiments, which by the way, I would like best if they were still about plants and bugs. Sherrinford wouldn't like the head in the fridge, I'm sure," John giggled.

"Oh hell, again with the head?!"

"A bloody head, Sherlock! Without any warning! I was looking for something edible!" John shook his head.

"I didn't suggest that you should eat the head! Did I?"

John stopped, dumbfounded. Really, why would anyone argue with Sherlock Holmes? John must be really an idiot. He did the only thing he could. He laughed. And Sherlock joined him.

"All right, I give up! Come on, tell me about how poor Sherrinford ended up in your trunk," John sighed.

(Twenty-six years earlier)

Sherrinford's death wasn't a surprise for the Holmes family. The cat had had a long life and even Sherlock was already expecting it. Maybe his readings about the animal's body and functions had helped him to understand the process of the pet's death. The boy knew Sherrinford was already very old and on the day he died, Sherlock tried not to cry a single tear. He knew Mummy would tell him that it was alright to cry, but he knew it wasn't logical, crying was not going to bring Sherrinford back. Sherlock and Violet Holmes buried the cat on the garden where Sherlock and Sherrinford used to run together.

It wasn't until four years after the cat's death that Sherlock let himself cry. But then he had missed much more. Right after his parent's death and Mycroft's decision that he was going to Harrow, Sherlock let himself remember his memories from his house, his mother and the little Sherrinford. Sherlock was completely alone in the universe, without his parents, his house, his brother and his beloved cat.

Packing his things to leave for Harrow, Sherlock thought of the one thing he could still take with him. Without too much trouble, he unburied and cleaned the skull of his little friend, and packed it with his books and journals. For the endless months and years of boring study and classmates, Sherrinford would always be someone Sherlock could talk to and his skull reminded the boy that life wasn't always so difficult.

"Sentiment," Sherlock said, simply, running his fingers over the small skull.

John sighed. Sometimes he wished it was easier to talk to Sherlock about these sorts of things, but he wasn't the best in it, and Sherlock definitely was even worse. "I think we should put him on the mantle."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. "Why?"

"Well, it's where you put the skull friends, isn't it?"

Sherlock smiled and stood up to place Sherrinford on the mantle. "I hope Mrs. Hudson don't take it."

"I hope you don't put my skull there someday," John snorted.

Sherlock looked at John as if he were contemplating it.

"Oh God, now I'm just giving you ideas!" John stood up. "I'm making more tea, do you want some?"

Sherlock shook his head, but followed John to the kitchen. The doctor put the kettle on and leaned on the counter. Sherlock was arranging some Petri dishes, clearly not doing anything important, just trying to pretend he wasn't in need of John's company.

"So, do you want to talk about your parents?" John asked, already knowing the answer.

"No," Sherlock answered, without looking up. A long moment passed until he spoke again, John was already filing his mug with the hot water. "Not today," Sherlock said with a weak voice and still without looking at John.

"Okay, I understand." And John did, he really did. Sherlock had a lot to think about already, and a lot to organize inside his head; maybe that subject would be too much for him to handle. John tried to slightly change the subject. "So Harrow then. Pretty normal for a posh sod like you. I would have said Eton," John smiled.

Sherlock scowled. "Mycroft went to Eton, he is the posh one. I was the first Holmes in a very long time who didn't go there. I didn't even want to go to boarding school, but after my parents died, Mycroft didn't know what to do with me, and I had to stay within his reach, so he let me choose between Eton and Harrow. They were very proud of having a Holmes amongst their pupils. At least for the first week," he snorted.

"Much trouble at Harrow?" John asked, raising an eyebrow.

Sherlock smiled. "Quite. The Headmaster probably had my brother's number on his speed dial."

"Proud, are we?"

Sherlock shuddered. "I survived."

"Any friends?" John asked, fearing the answer. Not that he could demand anything. He had been a Rugby player, had plenty of friends in school. He couldn't imagine any teenager capable of understanding and dealing with Sherlock.

"No," Sherlock shuddered again. "Those boys were quite tedious."

"Bullies?" John asked, because he couldn't not ask. Yes, 'healer', he didn't bother denying his protectiveness concerning Sherlock. Hero complex, obsession with picking up strays. John had already heard all of them.

Sherlock snorted. "Why? Are you going to hunt them all? You, the captain of the rugby team?"

"Possibly. Who knows?" John smiled. "So, bullies?"

Sherlock shuddered and paced into the living room. "You wouldn't have the time to chase that many."

John felt his stomach sunk. He had expected it, but listening to Sherlock admit such a thing wasn't at all easy for John. He had always been protective with the people he cared about, but with Sherlock he was even more. John wished he had gone to Harrow, he wished he could have been Sherlock's friend from the beginning so he didn't have to spent so many years alone. John was being ridiculous, he knew. But just for a second, he wished he could really chase all the bullies away. "Did they beat you?" John asked, joining Sherlock on the sofa again.

"John, it doesn't matter," Sherlock said, but his expression wasn't as indifferent as he wanted it to be.

"No, it doesn't matter, so tell me. Did. They. Beat. You?" John emphasised each word with the intonation of an angry parent.

"Of course!" Sherlock blurted. "Wouldn't you beat the freakish skinny kid, who was smarter than the teachers and didn't have any parents?" Sherlock snapped.

"No," John mumbled under his breath. "I wouldn't."

"Well. Too bad the Harrow boys weren't all like you, isn't it?"

"Why didn't Mycroft do anything? He could have kidnapped them, or threatened the shit out of those stupid kids. He kidnapped me, after all!" John was angry. He was close to calling Mycroft to ask him why. But suddenly he didn't need to. One glance at Sherlock and knew. "You never told him," he said quietly. "You never told anyone."

Sherlock shrugged. "Why would I tell anyone? It wouldn't make any difference."

"But they hit you!"

"Damn it, John, it doesn't matter!" Sherlock shouted. "I can take care of myself now."

John snorted. "Oh, can you?"

"Yes. And I have a friend who always have my back," his voice softened, and he smiled. "Now, come on, pick something out of that stupid trunk! This conversation is getting so dull, I'm going to start shooting the walls!"

John rolled his eyes. Sherlock Holmes, always the dramatic. "Okay, let's see, then," he said, and the two of them went back to their places on the sofa. John started feeling some items inside the trunk. He picked a small wooden box. "Do you want me to open it?"

Sherlock froze, staring at the box. That simple box was almost causing a short circuit in his Mind Palace. After a moment, he snatched the box from John and opened it.

"It's empty; I don't understand," John said.

Sherlock snorted, sounding a little off. "How could you?" His voice was strained, and he pulled a tiny string on the bottom of the box, revealing a false bottom and the contents of the real one. Inside the box were two shiny needles, a syringe and a bottle with a transparent liquid together with a picture. It wouldn't take a genius to know what that mean.

"Oh, God, I fucking hate your brother!" John snapped, yanking the needles, the syringe and the cocaine from the box.

"John, it's hardly efficient to flush this. I could get my hands on more cocaine if I wanted to, you know," Sherlock said, nonchalantly.

"Not living with me, you couldn't," John said. "I'd be damned if I'd let you anywhere near this!" He shouted, heading to the bathroom to dispose what he had just found.

It was the first time John had been in the presence of Sherlock Holmes and his drug of choice. John knew drug addiction well enough to know that a simple finding like the one that had just happened could destroy months and years of recovery, especially in the state of mind Sherlock was. Maybe the stupid genius would think the drug could be a great help to his confusion. He could even listen to the arguments Sherlock would use on his own head.

'I'll use it just once.' 'I'm not an addict.' 'I'll stop when my brain is functioning properly.' All of them some distortion of the same old lines he had listened from Harry too many damn times.

John didn't know these things only as a doctor, but also from his own experience with gambling and with the way he avoided cards to that very day. He knew as a son and brother of chronic alcoholics, and as a friend who had watched too many of his own brothers in arms destroying their own bodies with alcohol to get through the memories of the war.

John took a deep breath and remembered that very first day in Baker Street when he confronted Lestrade about the drugs bust. John had felt helpless and lost, like he had missed something very important. He didn't like that feeling at all. He was a man of action, he took matters into his own hands, he didn't wait for anybody to tell him anything.

At least he didn't until a certain consulting detective winked at him one afternoon and changed everything. Sherlock always made everybody feel helpless. It was inevitable. Nobody was in his league, it was a fact. But John had never liked it. He didn't like being left behind on crime scenes, or when Sherlock chased criminals by himself. But there was nothing that could make him feel more helpless than the cocaine. John was already too far from Sherlock's mind to risk letting it get in the way. The very thought of that brilliant man finding himself helpless because of chemicals made John shiver. Yes, call him healer if you want, call it hero complex, call it obsession with strays.

John knew better.

John knew exactly why: care.

In the living room, Sherlock wasn't quite conscious of the time John was taking in the loo. If the doctor was worried about the effect of the bottle of cocaine, he would be even more worried if he knew what that photo meant. John, in his hurry to get rid of the drug, didn't even pay attention at the two people smiling – their body language revealing much more than any kiss or hand holding would. At least for someone who knew Sherlock Holmes.

Victor. Victor Trevor.

Oh and I apologize for the shorter chapter, but I wanted to divide the events concerning the finding of the cocaine bottle. Yep, I'm a terrible human being, I'm sorry ): (No, I'm not sorry, I'm just pretending. Call me high-functional sociopath, if you like (;)