Hey, thank you guys following and reviewing the chapters, it's great to see you liking the story and taking the time the cheer me up! Really, it's quite warming (:

foreverwholocked deserves a medal just because she is the best beta ever.

And, don't forget, go read Saving Sherlock Holmes (on ao3). Sherlock's adolescence here is highly influenced by this work! Do yourself a favor and go read it!

This is the last but one! Let's get to it!

CHAPTER 7

John came back to the living room with two mugs of tea and found Sherlock sat on the same spot, with his knees up, supporting his chin. John was always surprised by how young Sherlock looked when he sat like that. He offered a smile. "I just went to make more tea," and handed Sherlock his mug with far too much sugar for John's taste.

Sherlock nodded, accepting the mug. "I never really lose sight of you, you know."

John didn't know what to make of that at all, so humour would have to do. "Just when you talk to me when I'm not home."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. John could be so obtuse, it was infuriating! "Well, you should be here all the time," he said, impatiently.

John smiled; he couldn't not. For anyone normal that statement would sound just petulant, but one look at Sherlock and he could see that the madman really meant that. "Okay, genius."

"I do not think you're useless," Sherlock said, and now he was just repeating himself. Because John had to understand, he had to observe. Why couldn't he just think? He had to know.

"Sherlock, it's fine," John said, and he didn't miss the repetition, Sherlock seemed really disturbed and John didn't want him to worry.

"No, it's not fine!" Sherlock exclaimed, while tugging at his own hair slightly. "You have to know that. Don't you ever think that again!" And his tone wasn't light. It was more like a command than any sort of declaration. "I know I'd be dead without you by now, I'm not stupid!"

"Okay," John said, because he really didn't know how to answer such an outburst. It wasn't unlike Sherlock to have such a reaction, he was always shouting and being dramatic with his coat swirling around, but that was completely different. He was admitting something important and John suddenly felt a bit overwhelmed by that.

"I would never let anything happen to you," Sherlock said, now quietly, trying to collect himself. "You should know that by now."

John could understand the feeling; it made him feel more comfortable. "Yeah. I'd chase down all of those bullies," and snorted, without worrying to sound ridiculous.

Sherlock smiled – really smiled – at him. "I know."

"Right, so... Can I choose something else from the trunk?" John asked, already opening it and letting his hands feel the items inside. He pulled what he thought was a book, but ended up being something in between an album of photographs and a scrapbook. "Oooh, this is baby Sherlock we have here," he said, giggling at the scowl his friend was making. "What a chubby baby, oh my God! Are you sure this isn't Mycroft?" John asked, mockingly, since the child on the picture could only be his friend, judging by the dark curls.

John could swear Sherlock was going to have face cramps from the grimace he was making, which made everything even more funny for him.

"Oh, for God's sake! That's what babies look like, I don't know why is it so funny," Sherlock huffed.

"The simple idea of you being a baby somewhere in time is funny," John said, trying to suppress his giggles, but not enough to actually succeed.

"That doesn't make any sense. Of course I was a baby."

John just smiled at that. It had always been difficult to John to imagine another time in Sherlock's life, in which he had shown any sign of being undefended. It could sound senseless, but for John it was actually hard to see the powerful force that was Sherlock Holmes now and relate that to a chubby baby, with pale cheeks and drool on his chin. But of course the child in the photograph was the most gorgeous little thing John had ever seen. Of course. Judging by that, he had to accept that his friend, indeed, had been a baby once.

John continued to flick through the photographs on the scrapbook, and noticed that there were notes written around each of one of them. Sherlock had been making observations about the family's traits, observing the changes in his and Mycroft's features, as well as in their parent's.

The Christmas photo, with the family in the exact same spot, appeared over and over again, showing the passage of the years and the changes in each one of the family members. The changes were written aside each one of the photos, in young Sherlock's neat handwriting. John felt sad. It was like the simple testimonial of a child that wasn't at all prepared for the death of his parents. "Experiment?" He asked, because he didn't know how to tell Sherlock he was sorry for his loss.

"Something like that," Sherlock answered, peering at the photos, with his face blank. If John didn't knew better, he would think that Sherlock wasn't at all affected. But he did. "I used to hear my father tell us about the Holmeses and that was the only way I had to make my own observations. I tried to get blood samples, but they said I was too young to examine them. Idiots," Sherlock complained.

"How old were you?"

"Five."

John snorted. "I wonder why!"

"I did examined them when I was ten, though," Sherlock smiled. "I already had a partial lab in the house."

"But who started the collection of Christmas photos for you? I know you're a genius, but you couldn't have started this, since in the first one your mother is still pregnant."

"Tradition. Mummy always liked to make us pose for photographs."

"Your mother really was beautiful," John said, scanning through the album. "You do look like her, you know," he smiled. John was getting used to the softness of Sherlock's eyes when his childhood memories and his mother were the subjects. His friend only nodded, looking thoughtful.

"I really look like her," Sherlock said, quietly, as if it was a new discovery.

"Yes, you do," John said, looking at his friend. "How long has it been since you last saw these?"

"I left them behind when I left Sussex."

"You haven't seen you family's photos for twenty years?" John asked, alarmed. "Do you want me to put it back?"

"No, it's fine," Sherlock asked, and he really meant it. There was something soothing about seeing those photos after so long. Things didn't hurt quite so much, and he could notice what he couldn't notice before. "We look...," he trailed off.

"Happy?" John tried.

"Normal?" Sherlock tried the word on his lips, mesmerized.

"Normal for a posh family with two incredible intelligent and good-looking parents and two geniuses as sons, you mean?" John smiled. "Yeah, you look quite normal."

"Holmes-normal," Sherlock smiled.

"Yes, something like that," John chuckled. "You've never really liked eating, have you? In the second Christmas photo you're still not even one-year-old and you're already too skinny. "

"No, I never have," Sherlock agreed. "But I have you for that now."

John snorted. "Yes, Captain John Watson, the nanny."

"I'm sure Mummy would appreciate it, she was always nagging me to eat," he said, and his tone had something smooth in it and it made John smile. Obviously Sherlock had always been besotted by his mother, and it was undeniably good to hear Sherlock talk about someone with such fondness. John knew that tone, it was one that Sherlock normally saved for Mrs Hudson. He did understand why now.

The sequence of photos ended abruptly with the one from the Christmas of 1987, showing a ten-year-old Sherlock, with his mass of untamed curly hair and the characteristic air of defiance on his face. He was tall for his age – having grown rather drastically after his fifth Christmas, judging by what John could see from the photographs. After this photo, only one more page on the scrapbook was used. In the end of it, a clipping from a local newspaper showed Sherlock and Mycroft at young age in the funeral of their parents – 'deceased on plane crash'. July of 1988.

"This is invasive," John said, without knowing what else to say. The photo showed the two boys – because even if Mycroft could already show all the signs of his omnipotence, that was what he really was – isolated from the other people present at the funeral. A detailed photo showed the mausoleum of the family. A black stone with neat golden letters said simply: Holmes.

Sherlock sighed deeply, running his fingers through the clipping. "Yes. I think that was the day my brother decided he was going to control all the cameras he could," he said simply, and John knew that he was not joking.

John noticed something and went back through the photos he had already seen, flicking through the pages and peeking at the clipping Sherlock had in his hand.

Sherlock smirked. "You've got questions."

"The umbrella. There was never an umbrella before, that's the first photo in which he has his umbrella," John said, frowning and looking at the clipping again. "You have a scarf around your neck. You two look like...," John trailed off, confused. Sherlock smiled thinly, knowing what he was trying to say.

"Us?"

(Twenty-three years earlier)

When Sherlock received the news about the accident that had killed his parents, he went very quiet and didn't speak for days. And the reason why he could, at least, have some days of peace and quiet was because hours before that, Mycroft had had a totally different reaction.

When Mycroft received the news about the accident that killed their parents, the last thing he could think of was of sitting still.

The first one was to find a quiet place with a telephone from where he could call the household and tell them that he would be the one delivering the news to his brother. Yes, he was at Cambridge. No, he didn't give a damn. He wasn't going to let a non-Holmes do his job.

The second one was to call his family's solicitor to talk about Sherlock. All lives end, he knew that much, Father never quite let him forget about it, but at that moment he really wished his parents had left a note warning him that he could end up fighting for an eleven-year-old boy with an enormous trust fund which would attract God knew whichdistant relatives.

Mycroft had always detested legwork, but that day he really didn't know how to sit still. No, he didn't care about the money for now. He knew it was too soon, but he had to know who was left in charge of Sherlock. No, he didn't care if the solicitor was in a meeting, that wasn't the time to make him wait. He didn't care.

Mycroft's fortune was that before dying his Father had taught him to use the tone of voice that made people do what you need them to do when you need them to do it.

After hanging up with the insufferably slow solicitor, and after knowing that, indeed, he was the one in charge of Sherlock, because of course Mummy was never going to trust his precious baby boy to anyone other than Mycroft, he could finally breathe.

When he arrived at his family house with the news, of course Sherlock was already aware that something had happened. He wasn't a Holmes for nothing, and he wasn't Sherlock Holmes for less than being able to deduce that some tragedy had happened. Mycroft could read the disappointment in his strange eyes. If he was alive, the tragedy was about their parents. Mycroft could understand the feeling.

He left his brother to his own devices and violin, he knew better than to try to talk to Sherlock. Why would he do such thing? That was what normal people did – they went to therapy, they spoke their hearts out. Lovely. The Holmes clenched their hands in tight fists, cleared their throats and kept walking. They didn't have the time for meltdowns. Caring was not an advantage. And Mycroft knew that he was about to find the truth behind that motto now that he was responsible for a boy with too much brain and too little of the rest for his own good.

While Sherlock played the violin, Mycroft planned the funeral.

No, nothing big.

Who was that who called to know about the service? Who was 'Auntie Amélie', for Christ's sake? And what do they mean she is coming from Austria and she's asking about Sherlock?

Mycroft went to sleep that night asking himself if he was a bad person for wishing his parents' bodies had just disappeared in the sea. After fidgeting in his bed for a while, he decided he didn't give a damn if he was a bad person, he really wished that.

On the day of the funeral, it rained. Of course it rained because sometimes life really can't be more obvious. But Mycroft wasn't obvious, so of course he didn't plan that. He was so focused on the list of relatives he had on his mind since the day before that he only noticed the sodding rain when he was half way to the car. And of course he didn't have an umbrella. Life wasn't fair. And of course the driver didn't really care if he was soaked when he got in the car and didn't turn on the heating. And Mycroft wouldn't admit that he needed it.

Of course he didn't know where Sherlock was. Of course they had to wait. What was the driver suggesting? That they simply left Sherlock alone in the house on the day of their parents' funeral?

Mycroft knew that that would be his life from then on. Everybody would have something to say to the nineteen-year-old who was still going to University and was now in charge of a child. Everybody would have some lovely advice about how to raise a boy. Of course no one had the faintest idea about how to raise a Holmes boy. But Mycroft knew it was his job – and only his – to find out.

He was trying not to shiver. He was basically an orphan, in charge of an eleven-year-old boy, soaked and miserable. And he didn't quite remember the name of that Great-Uncle who was coming from France. For God's sake, what was his name?

At least he remembered of putting his scarf on his inner pocket. He was going to have something warm and dry to put around his neck at the hateful funeral.

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock finally got in the car.

Mycroft looked up to his brother and he was dry, because he had remembered the umbrella. It took all Mycroft's patience not to knock him on the head with it. Not a single sodding drop on that wild curly hair that remembered Mycroft so much of his mother's that he needed a second to recollect himself.

Sherlock gave him a little nod. Still no words. Mycroft was thankful for that, he wouldn't know what to do with them, anyway. And of course Sherlock didn't put on his tie.

Mycroft could already imagine the look on Cousin Bernadette's face that would say 'Who does he think he is? He can't even make the boy use a proper garment'. He hated them all.

When the car finally parked at the cemetery, Mycroft noticed Sherlock was the one shivering. Maybe he was cold, maybe he was going to be sick. Maybe he was just an orphan on the way of burying his parents.

Before he could open the car's door, Sherlock interjected him, tapping the umbrella on the floor of the car and offering it to him. The rain had stopped, but he took it. Still no words. Thank God for that. He took his dry scarf from his inner pocket and wrapped it around Sherlock's neck.

Nobody would notice Sherlock wasn't wearing his tie.

Nobody would notice Mycroft had forgotten his umbrella.

Everybody would know The Holmes didn't need anyone else.