Alright guys, I must say I was not expecting that kind of response. I got Sherlock's life here if you guys want to read it. I hope you enjoy it. See ya.
At the age of ten Mycroft Holmes got a new baby brother. The baby was born smaller than other babies. He had thin black hair in groups on top of his head; his eyes were a dull blue and wandered around curiously like any baby's eyes would. His name was Sherlock; Mycroft was sure that his parents couldn't get any worse than his name but they proved him wrong.
Along with being a small baby Sherlock was also a sick baby. He was in the hospital for the first six weeks of his life, with doctors poking and prodding him to find out why his temperature spiked to dangerous temperatures throughout the day.
The first spike happened when Mycroft was holding Sherlock for the first time. He had him in his arms and was staring down in to his ever moving eyes when Sherlock started crying out at the top of his lungs. Mycroft knew that babies cried a lot but he was sure they weren't supposed to get hot when they did. The nurse came over to him and took him from Mycroft and noticed Sherlock's hot skin too.
Mycroft panicked; he thought he hurt his brother despite how illogical the idea was. He couldn't make his brother have a fever with just his touch. Miranda, their mother, was scared also; the only person that seemed to be in control was their father Richard. He was hushing Miranda's questions about what was happening to her baby and occasionally telling Mycroft that it wasn't his fault. Apparently the elder Holmes boy was muttering that he didn't mean to hurt him.
The Holmes family prided themselves on the fact that they were always in control and were highly intelligent; but the day the doctors didn't know what was wrong with Sherlock. When the fevers didn't stop and the infant was constantly overheating and the doctors ordered to keep Sherlock at the hospital. Their control and intelligence were thrown out the window to let in the worry for their new family member.
At the end of six weeks the doctors finally found out what was wrong with Sherlock. They cured it quickly and were getting ready to send him on his way. They were checking over him, making sure that he was all well and no long term damage was done. They found a problem; Sherlock Holmes was blind.
X
Sherlock held on to his mother's hand, they were quickly moving down the sidewalk to get to another store. Sherlock was clutching his walking stick to his chest; he was supposed to be using it but his mum couldn't wait for the seven year old to make his way through the London crowd. He loved it though, running through hundreds of people, feeling Miranda's hand in his own, and the pavement pounding against the soles of his feet, pushed joy through his body.
When they reached the store Miranda stopped, causing Sherlock to stop too. He was in giggles at her side; he wanted to do it again. His mother let go of his hand letting him drop the end of his stick and wandering around next to her. He liked being independent; he wasn't hindered by his disability, he wouldn't let himself be. He was smarter than most kids his age and even a few years older; he could identify anyone by their scent; he wasn't going to let being blind get in his way of becoming smarter than he already was.
"How about a nice tie to go with the suit for the wedding this Saturday," Miranda suggested.
Sherlock wasn't paying attention to her though; he could hear a man in the aisle over talking about how people are being taken from their homes for no apparent reason. Sherlock was no less intrigued by what he was saying; he inched closer towards the clothes rack. He loved a mystery; anything that got his brain racing to find the right answer was better than any present he had ever gotten.
"Sherlock honey," Miranda tried again but her son was lost in his own little world.
The youngest Holmes stepped forward again, forgetting that there might be an obstacle in his way and tripped over a clothes rack. He let out a smothered noise as his arms flapped around his sides. He grabbed at the clothes around him and brought down the rack with him. He groaned as he laid on the ground; something warm was pooling around his head. He sniffed the air and huffed; he hated the smell of coffee.
"What are you doing kid?" the man who was talking earlier yelled.
Miranda scurried over the clothes and on to the other side by Sherlock's head. "Are you okay?" she asked as she picked her son's head out of the coffee.
The man scoffed. "Watch where you're going next time," he snapped. Clearly he wasn't have a good day.
Miranda shot a glare up towards the man about to tell him off but Sherlock spoke up before either of the adults could start a row. "What else do you know about the kidnappings?" he asked. He didn't want to make an even bigger scene so he just skipped straight to the question. He knew his mom would have told him that in fact he couldn't see where he was going, but Sherlock wasn't going to allow her ruin his chance to get information. He knew that people were staring at him; he really didn't care. He wanted the man to tell him.
"Why would a kid like you want to know about that?" the man asked, making Sherlock grow irritated.
Sherlock was helped to his feet by Miranda, they had the rack all straightened out and everything was being taken care of. The boy tried to look the man in the eyes as he said, "I'm interested, that's all."
Miranda yanked on his arm; she didn't want Sherlock to talk with the man anymore; she angry with the both of them. On the way home she berated him. She told him to never talk with strangers; even if it seemed interesting and he was bored. She also told him he needed to be more careful; he couldn't gallivant off to something he thought was interesting. She said that he was a little child and needed to be safe.
X
Sherlock stretched out on the bench waiting for Mycroft to get off the bus. The older Holmes was coming home for the holidays and Sherlock volunteered himself to meet the man. Of course his mother had protests but Rich told her to stop coddling him and let him adventure out on his own. So Sherlock hopped in to the town car and was driven to the bus stop where his brother was going to show up.
The sounds of London going on around him were soothing to listen to when he was trying to relax. Others would think that such a loud city would be more distracting than soothing but Sherlock liked hearing different people's conversations, rating them on a scale of idiotic to semi-interesting. He's never found anything that was interesting enough for him.
The bench shifted under Sherlock and jerked him from his thoughts. He inhaled the scent, the person wasn't Mycroft. Sherlock was going to ignore the other person but he heard them let out a not so subtle cough. "Hi," she said, "I'm Eileen."
Sherlock smiled; he knew that she didn't know he was blind; he made sure that most people didn't. He could have fun with her. "Sherlock," he answered back with a pleasant smile on his face.
"That's a unique name," Eileen told him. She giggled quietly, trying to hide it. "I…uh…saw you across the street sitting here all alone. Thought I would come over here and keep you company while you wait for your bus."
"How considerate of you," Sherlock stated. He was growing bored with the conversation already.
Eileen moved again, closer to Sherlock. Sherlock wasn't comfortable with the close proximity. "So, where are you going?" she asked.
Sherlock got hit by a cloud of perfume; he moved his head over trying to get further away. "Why do you want to know?" he tried his best to sound nice but he wasn't sure if he hit the nail.
"Well," she paused; she needed to think of an answer, "I saw a few busses pass by and was just wondering if you missed yours."
Sherlock reeled back; he didn't hear any busses pass by him. "What time is it?" he asked.
"Twelve," Eileen answered. "When is your bus supposed to come?" She didn't sound so flirty any more.
"Mycroft," Sherlock growled. He heard a deep chuckle from behind him. "You've changed your soap." He frowned, getting angry at himself for not knowing sooner that his brother was nearby.
Eileen turned her head and looked at the tall man who stepped forward. "Dear brother, it's so nice to see you," Mycroft noted. His eyes shifted towards the girl next to him. "Going for the older ladies I see."
Sherlock scoffed. "Hardly, I was trying to pass the time 'til you got here," he explained. "She's the one going for the young boys."
Eileen's eyes bugged out. "You can't be any younger than twenty," she told him. "So you're only a year younger than me."
"Actually," Mycroft stepped him, "he's sixteen." Eileen's face fell; she looked horrified. "Now little brother, I believe we shall be going." He lightly touched Sherlock's shoulder and he stood from his spot on the bench.
Sherlock extended his white cane, which was hiding beneath his leg the whole time, and started walking with Mycroft. "You don't usually come home for the holidays," he stated, "why come now?"
His brother didn't speak for a few moments; Sherlock feared there would be a hesitation in the answer. The hesitation spoke more than whatever Mycroft could say. "I have something to talk about with mum and dad," he told him truthfully.
"Does it have to do with the new law being passed?" asked Sherlock.
Mycroft made sure he didn't hesitate. "Let's get home first," he answered and left it at that.
Sherlock knew he wasn't going to get any more out of his brother. He was silent for a few minutes than spoke up, "You've been eating a lot since you left." He could hear Mycroft let out a low grunt.
X
Sherlock couldn't handle not knowing what was going on. He had every right to be in the dining room with the rest of his family discussing the future problems that would involve him. He moved from his room out to the sitting area and waited before moving closer to the dining room. He leaned against the wall and listened in on the conversation.
"Mycroft he is just a boy," Miranda said to her eldest son. "He's only sixteen; they're not taking children."
Mycroft exhaled slowly, trying to regain composure. "Mummy," he soothed, "you don't know anything about what's really going on. I work behind the scenes I know what's happening. They don't care how old you are, they'll take you."
"What do you suggest us to do?" Rich asked sarcastically. He wasn't happy that his child was telling him what to do. "They're just passing the silly law to scare people Mycroft. You don't even have proof that the government is taking people."
Mycroft clenched his fist trying to remain calm. "Yes I do," he gritted out through his teeth. "All those kidnappings that you read about in the newspaper; do you think the police are so dumb they can't find the perpetrator. The government is paying them off; people are being stolen and there's nothing they can do about it."
"You work in the government," Rich snapped. "If it's as bad as you say it is then why do you still work there?"
"They won't let me leave," Mycroft twitched. "It wasn't this bad when I started; now though, I'm in too far. They know that I know what's going on."
Rich leaned forward with a nasty look on his face. "Why don't they kill you then?" he inquired.
"Richard!" Miranda shrieked.
"Why, so you lose both your sons?" Mycroft shot back.
"Mycroft Timothy Holmes," Miranda scolded, tears were running down her face, "I don't want to talk about this anymore. We are Holmes and we will be civil amongst each other."
Mycroft slammed his hands down on the table making everyone jump. "No mother," he said sharply, "we will not stop talking about this. Just because of our last name doesn't mean we're immune to the world. Sherlock will be taken and you won't have anything to stop it; unless, you let me help."
Richard sat back in his chair, defeat written all over his face. "What do we need to do?" he softly asked.
Sherlock straightened up his back; he wasn't sure what to think about what his brother was doing. He never went against their parents like that; he was always the cool headed one of the two and he just yelled. Sherlock leaned forward again; he wanted to find out what was going to happen.
"Sherlock," Mycroft called out to him.
The younger Holmes smiled slightly and stepped in to the dining room. "What are you going to do?" he asked.
"He doesn't need to be here for this," Miranda said.
"Stop sheltering him from everything mummy," Mycroft told her. He turned to face Sherlock and paused for a moment. He took in a deep breath and started explaining. "I can destroy your file; make any trace of you disappear. It'll be like you never existed."
Richard cut in, "How can you do that without getting caught?"
"I can do it," Mycroft assured him. "I may not have a lot of power but I have enough to make someone not exist. The only thing is you'll never be able to leave the house. Any time someone is here you have to hide."
"So I have to hide for the rest of my life?" Sherlock questioned. It wouldn't be much different from his life already; he was used to staying away from everyone.
"No," he answered. "I have a friend working on a project for me."
"What kind of project?" Rich asked skeptically.
Mycroft let a small smile form. "He's working on eyes, eyes that look human but are robotic. He's a very smart fellow and if he makes them right we'll be able to put them in Sherlock."
Everyone was silent; they couldn't believe what they hear. "So I'll be able to see?" Sherlock piped up.
"Yes," his brother answered back. "You'll be able to see and I can make up a whole different life for you. You'll be safe."
Sherlock knew he was lying; he was sure his parents knew also but if it kept peace at home he was willing to take the false hope. He knew that he couldn't be permanently erased from existence. People talked; someone from his past, maybe even the neighbors, will be persuaded to expose the truth about him. Eventually someone would talk and he would be taken from their home and most likely killed. He knew he couldn't forgo the inevitable.
"When will they be ready?" Sherlock eagerly asked.
"At most, it'll take him a year to finish them," Mycroft explained. "He could have them done sooner if nothing disrupts him."
Richard scoffed. "Stop filling the boy's head with lies," he told him. "I'm all for keeping him out of the public eye but there's no need to give him hope on something that will never happen."
Sherlock didn't care what his father said; he would believe Mycroft 'til he died. If he said he was going to see then Sherlock was going to see. He felt an overwhelming feeling of happiness; tears began falling from his eyes. "Thank you Mycroft," he whispered.
X
Sherlock spent half a year in hiding. He would always lock himself in his room when he heard the loud doorbell ring and on his father's command crawl under his bed and in to the hidden crawl space. He got used to hiding all the time and barely left his room. He lost a lot of weight because he never went down to dinner. Miranda was worried for him; he had a history of serious health problems before and she didn't want them to come back. If they did they couldn't take him to the doctors, it was too risky to leave the house. Too many people were being taken right off the street and no one did anything to help.
She hated the law passed months before. People with deformities were not to be helped under any circumstances; if you do you'll be punished in a way the captor saw fit. She was glad that she got Mycroft's help before everything was too far gone to be stopped. Miranda couldn't believe what England was turning in to. She had a small ray of hope though. Some people were standing up against the new laws and fighting against the idiocy that was ruling over them.
Sherlock listened to his mother whenever she came in to his room and told him all about what was happening in the world outside their home. He would sit there and absorb all the information, calculating the odds of them ever winning against an army. They weren't high; almost nonexistent, but at least there was a chance.
One day Sherlock was alone in the house, practicing his violin. He heard the doorbell ring when he paused at a rest, and tried to remain calm. He wasn't by the door but he knew that people could see him from a window. He tried not to move; he didn't know who was at the door.
"Hey kid," a man yelled. Sherlock swore under his breath; he was seen. "Hey, are you deaf or what? Come open this door."
Sherlock placed his violin gently on the couch next to him and made his way towards the front door. The man was with the government, Sherlock could tell, only people working under the government had the right to demand entrance in to a home. The teenager reached the door and felt around for the handle. He sighed in relief when his hand finely hit it and he was able to open the door. "Hello, I'm Henry Anderson, with the RA, are your parent's home?" the man said, his voice gruff and unemotional.
Sherlock looked up at the angle he figured he had to look to seem like he was looking him in the eyes. "They're just out back," he answered truthfully. He knew lying wasn't going to get him anywhere in the situation. He hoped that it would get Anderson away from him but he could still hear the man breathing and smell the coffee on his breath. Sherlock backed away a little trying to escape the awful smell. "If you just follow the path around the garden then you'll find them."
"It says here on this clipboard that Richard and Miranda Holmes have one son," Anderson continued, ignoring the teenager. "Are you Mycroft Holmes?"
Sherlock had to shove his rising panic but down in to the pit of his stomach. "Yes," he got out past the lump forming in his throat.
Anderson made a disappointed noise and Sherlock knew he didn't get away with the lie. "You see," he said, "I know Mycroft Holmes, and you are definitely not him."
Sherlock did the only rational thing he could think of. He slammed the door in the other man's face and bolted in the other direction. He was lucky he knew where things were in his house, he wouldn't have been able to run away. He heard the door slam open behind him and he increased his speed. He was going too fast and ran in to a chair. He tripped and struggled to get up.
Anderson fired off a shot and missed Sherlock fortunately. He was almost to the teen trying to stand again when he was tackled to the ground. He was able to hold on to his gun. He looked up at his attacker and saw Rich holding him to the ground getting ready to punch him. Anderson raised his gun freezing the man in his actions. "Get off me and I'll let you live," he growled.
Richard held his hands up and stood. "Leave my house," he demanded.
Anderson laughed; he had no right to order him to leave. He was an agent that was holding up the law, and he had a gun to help him. "I can't leave without your son," he told him with a smile. "You are in violation of law 38 section B; all people with deforms must be registered. He is not on the registered list; you are keeping a fugitive in your house."
"Richard, do something," Miranda whispered harshly to her husband.
Sherlock hoisted himself up slowly and Anderson was by him quickly slapping cuffs on to his hand. Sherlock was surprised by the sudden movement and tried to jerk away. An arm was wrapped around his throat securely. "I'll let you two live if you let me take your son," he told them. "I promise nothing will happen to him while in out custody."
Sherlock heard Richard take an intake of breath. "Just let me go," he cut his father off. "We all knew this was going to happen anyway."
"That's a good freak," Anderson said as he started dragging Sherlock away. He could hear his mother's protests and his father running after them when they were already out of the house. He was thrown in to a boot of a car roughly and the lid crashed shut.
As they drove away Sherlock could still hear the hysteric cries from his mother. He knew he didn't have much longer to live; all he could do was wish for a quick and painless death.
X
Sherlock woke up suddenly and tried to pull his hands down but his hands were chained above his head. He was had another dream about dying, and like every other time he woke before the deed was done. He wished for the executioner to call his name so he could finally leave the wicked world behind.
The concrete was cold against his bare skin that wasn't covered by thin boxers making him shiver. His possessions were taken when he was thrown in the cell; the warden believed that deforms didn't have the right to own anything but his underpants. He was in the prison for seven months, sitting on the floor naked, not allowed to leave except to go out to the work yard and do his job.
His job was to move tons of bricks to the other prisoners across the yard. It took him weeks to learn his way around the yard and how to load up the bricks on to his hauler without spilling them. He could hear the overseers laughing at him as he struggled to get around. He was weak from the lack of food and was growing weaker as the days passed. He wasn't sure how they could think he would be able to work on a diet of moldy bread and some type of liquid that wasn't anything he's had before. He would have been able to work better if he was fed better; he would have learned to get past his lack of vision like he always did. But he wasn't strong enough to get past the barrier and failed his job day in and day out. Not that he cared; he rather not get any work done for his enemies.
Sherlock had a cellmate. She was nice and seemed too innocent to be in the jail. Her name was Molly Hooper and she was in for having an extra finger when she was younger. He didn't talk to her much; he would be surprised if she even knew his name, but he knew everything about her.
Molly grew up with her two parents in a nice town that was destroyed by the government when she was taken. The whole town was shielding her against the RA's that kept coming to take her. The military went in with tanks and, in Sherlock's opinion, overreacted and killed the whole town. She watched her parents get killed before being knocked unconscious and taken to the jail.
Molly liked a boy who was taken to a camp Sherlock heard about before. The boy's name was James; he was taken when he was much younger, before the rules started getting passed. She wished that she could tell him that she liked him; she never was able to before he left. She wanted to find him and tell him before she died.
She didn't get to. Her name was called two weeks after she confessed that to Sherlock. Sherlock was jealous; he was there longer than her and she got to leave first, but he was also sad. Molly Hooper was his first friend sort of; she was more the first person to talk to him without caring if he ignored them. He didn't want her to die; she deserved so much better than the life she was given. She deserved to be back in the little town she grew up in surrounded by people who loved her.
Sherlock was alone. All day he thought of ways he could end it. Everything seemed better than the place he was in and he knew he was never going to get out; the only other option was to be buried six feet under.
X
It was Sherlock's seventeenth birthday; he was out in the yard in the freezing cold carrying his bricks from one side to the other. His bony knees were knocking against each other under the extra weight of the bricks on his shoulders. He didn't care that it was his birthday; he didn't care that it was almost a whole year he's been in the jail; he didn't care about anything anymore.
He unloaded his bricks in an already large pile. He stepped forward and somebody grabbed his arm. "Whoa there," a familiar voice said, "you almost walked in to someone's railing." It was Dimmock, someone who always looked out for him.
Sherlock whispered his thanks and continued on with his work. He didn't have a cane to use any more so he relied on the people around him to make sure he didn't walk in to anything. It didn't always work though, a few times he walked in to a board someone was carrying and was out for hours. He counted his steps carefully so he knew when he was at the other brick pile, it took him 123 steps to get from one end to the other; when he reached the pile he dropped to his knees and started loading one brick on top of the other.
He placed his scrawny shoulders under the wooden pegs and lifted his body up. He felt his heart racing in his chest but he disregarded it. He didn't have time to worry about it. '1…2…3,' he counted in his head. He could feel himself swaying from side to side but kept on moving. '12…13…14…15,' he continued.
For a second Sherlock couldn't feel his heart beating anymore. He smiled before falling to the dirty ground. The bricks spilled everywhere and no one even turned to look at him.
Sherlock Holmes was dead.
X
Mycroft was devastated to hear that his brother was caught. He did his best to stop anyone from going to his parent's home; the one day that they did Sherlock had to be taken. He wanted to beat himself up, but he didn't have time for that, he needed to put all his power in to helping Sherlock. He had his friend, Gregory Lestrade, working on the eyes nonstop stop and told him to work quicker. He wanted them ready for when he got Sherlock.
He had a group of men, sworn to secrecy, searching all the jails for his little brother. There were twelve in England that held people who were different, and four of them weren't holding Sherlock, or he was already dead in one of them and his men missed him.
Mycroft felt sick at the idea. He knew it was most likely going to happen but it set a fire deep inside him to do whatever it was to help Sherlock. He stopped Lestrade from working on the eyes and had him design a heart. He never let up on the man until he got it done. Every day he would yell at him to work harder and faster; he wasn't proud of himself but he didn't care.
When the designs were finished Mycroft ordered Lestrade to go back to work on the eyes. The eldest Holmes brother brought the plans to his own work shop and started working on the heart himself. He knew his brother put up barriers around his heart and didn't let anyone in so he was going to respect his wishes and allow no one but himself touch the object.
X
Mycroft was placing a gear in place when a knock was heard from his door. He was almost done with the heart, a few more honest days of work and he would have it working. He dropped his tools and stood from his chair.
Lestrade was standing behind the door with a gloomy look upon his face. "Mycroft, we found Sherlock," he announced. "He died sometime in the last few days; one of the guys caught his face when they were wheeling him to the morgue."
Mycroft stood in silence for a few moments, trying to wrap the information around his head. His little brother was dead; he was prepared for that. "Tell them to act immediately," he ordered. "I want Sherlock's body here as soon as possible."
Greg didn't move; he stared at his friend before signing. "Are you sure the heart will be enough?" he asked. He designed the thing but he was sure the brain could not be revived after death, and if it was there would be heaps of damage done to it.
"Don't worry about that," Mycroft snapped, "just go get him." He pushed the other man out the door and flew back to his desk. He needed to get the heart done quicker than his estimated time. He thought about his brother's brain as he worked; he knew how he could get it going again but there was always the chance of it not working and he wouldn't get anything accomplished.
X
Mycroft didn't know how long it took him to finish the heart; he just remembered that every piece had a place to go and he had to put it there. His door banged open and Lestrade was standing there out of breath. "He's here," he got out before running back to where he just came.
Mycroft stood quickly from his chair pushing it back to the wall. He grabbed the finished heart, the cold metal making his warm fingers sting, and he ran to the makeshift operating room they created. He stopped when he saw his brother's skinny pale body lying on the wooden table. He was staring at the bare chest that wasn't moving, the eyes that were closed. He wished they would open and the last year to be one of the dirty tricks Sherlock always tried to play on him.
He shook himself out of his thoughts and stepped further in to the room. He gently placed the heart on a counter and turned to Lestrade. "We need to start operating immediately," he told him. "We'll start with the eyes, it'll take less time."
Lestrade nodded; he washed his hands and started his work. He was able to get Sherlock's original eyes out without causing damage to the nerves and muscles connecting the eyes to the body.
Mycroft felt sick to his as he stared at the lifeless eyes being discarded to the side. He thought back to the first time he saw the dull blue eyes; he thought he broke his brother then, now he was trying to repair him.
Lestrade had Mycroft hold the fake eyes so he could work on connecting the nerves with the wires hanging off the end. Mycroft was surprised how life like the eyes looked; the irises were even the same color of Sherlock's eyes. He wouldn't have been able to tell the difference if he didn't watch the man make them himself.
Once they were in Mycroft took the scalpel; he was in no way a surgeon but he was going to do his best. He couldn't trust anyone when it came to his brother's health and safety; not even his parents and he learned that the hard way. He placed the scalpel on his chest and pressed down; his hand was shaking as he pulled the blade across the chest. He took in a deep breath and calmed himself down; he needed to be leveled headed if he wanted his brother back.
X
Mycroft strapped a metal band around Sherlock's head; attached to the band were two spark plugs and they were connected to a large electric machine. He was going to pull an old fashion trick that always worked. "Lestrade," he called, "you might want to stand back a bit." He placed his hand on the lever and took in a deep breath.
He shut his eyes and let his memories over flow. His whole life he was distant to everyone; Sherlock was a little different though. He always felt the need to protect his brother; he wanted to make sure he learned everything that he could. He didn't want to think about what could happen if the whole thing went wrong because then he would have failed Sherlock and the brilliant brain that he had would be wasted.
Mycroft snapped his eyes open, glanced at the head of dark curls and pulled the switch. The whole room was dashed in blinding light and electricity was coursing through the air.
There was a loud gasp as Sherlock sat up on the table. His eyes were wide and moving uncontrollably as electricity flowed through his body. His heart was beating faster than it ever did before and he felt as if he was being torn in two. Just as it started the electric shock stopped suddenly and he fell backwards on the table unconscious.
Mycroft's eyes widened with joy. He tore off his protective glasses and ran towards his brother's side. He touched his fingers to his pulse and felt for a strong beat beneath his fingers. "Lestrade!" he yelled when he felt the rapid pulse. He never in his whole life felt more relieved than he did at that moment. All of his worries were washed away, Sherlock was alive and that's all that mattered to him. "We did it!" he hollered. He grabbed Sherlock's hand and squeezed it in his own. "We did it," he repeated in a low whisper.
X
Mycroft stayed by Sherlock's side for days waiting for him to wake up again. He never let go of the bony hand, not even when he fell asleep; the only sleep he got was when his body couldn't take it and made him pass out. He didn't want to leave him just in case something went wrong and he wasn't there to save him like last time.
Sherlock stirred one morning when Mycroft was eating his breakfast. Mycroft dropped his plate squeezed his brother's hand. He watched as Sherlock opened his eyes and stare up at him in confusion. Mycroft looked back down at him; his heart dropping a little. "Do you know who I am?" he asked.
Sherlock snorted. "You look fatter than I thought," he laughed. He sat up slowly and took a look around. Everything was weird to him; he wondered if it was like an infant was looking at the world from new eyes. "What happened to me?" He was going to skip the obvious question on why he could suddenly see.
Mycroft frowned as he sat back down in his chair. "You died in the jail you were put in," he explained. "Some men of mine found you and brought you back here. You have your new eyes as you can already tell and a new heart; your other one gave out on you. It's only logical that you got a new one." Now that Mycroft thought about it he wasn't sure why he really made the heart. Maybe he knew that it would be the first organ to go and the others didn't need to be saved. But he was glad that he did; he had his little brother back.
"Is that why my heart is beating so quickly," Sherlock stated as he lifted a hand to his chest. He could feel it moving inside him.
"I wouldn't say beat," Mycroft said. "The heart isn't a real one, it's a mechanical one. It shifts inside itself to get the blood pumping through your body. But if you prefer beats to shifts then yes, it will beat rapidly till your body gets used to it and then it will slow down to normal pace." Mycroft tried to contain his smile when Sherlock stared at him. His eyes the same blue that they always been were wide; suddenly they changed to a grayish color. "That's interesting," he mumbled quietly.
"So," Sherlock went on not hearing his brother's words, "you give me robotic eyes and a mechanical heart; anything else you want to add to my body?"
Mycroft shook his head. "No," he said softly. "You're safe now, nothing needs to be changed."
Sherlock started laughing again; he was over joyed to be alive again. Mycroft noted that his eyes changed colors again; they were back to the blue. It seemed like his eyes changed with his moods.
X
Sherlock spent months hiding out in Mycroft's house. He was shown what everything looked like; he already knew what all the things were but it was different knowing what something was to actually seeing it.
He got to know Greg, an old school buddy of Mycroft's; he figured he was bright but not as much as him. He liked to accompany the older man to his work shop and observe him as he did things. He would laugh and point out his mistakes whenever they occurred, which was often. Greg would snap at Sherlock and ask what he knew; he was blind all his life.
Sherlock would always retort with, 'You don't need to see to understand Lestrade'. Then he would take over and show him how to do everything right.
But even that was getting boring; he wanted excitement, adventure! Anything to get his new heart pumping; so, he decided to leave. He stayed up late in to the night like usual, waiting for everyone to fall asleep before he walked out of his room. He reached his new trench coat that he found in Mycroft's closet and was about to turn it on when the light came on.
Sherlock paused in his movements before continuing with his eyes closed and taking in a deep breath. "Lestrade," he said calmly as he turned on his heel, "I never expected you to be awake at this hour."
"I would like to say I never expected you to leave," Lestrade started, "but we both know that would be a lie. I understand why you want to leave, but remember you don't have to get involved in this war."
Sherlock flashed him an angry look, his eye turning a blood red. "Of course I do," he almost shouted. "I may not be the most understanding person but I know right from wrong and what has and is happening now is wrong. I have the chance to help stop the stupid government that we let take over. You aren't going to stop me either."
Lestrade stared at him with a resigned look. "Mycroft will be devastated," he told him in a feeble attempt to make him stay. "He just got you back."
Sherlock clenched his fist around the ends of his coat and wrapped it tighter around his body. "Mycroft will understand," he uttered. He turned back around and left without another word.
X
Sherlock was crouched up against a stone wall, his hands stretched out over the small fire he made to keep himself warm. He spent three years living out on the street, taking down any RAs he could find. He was working his way to the higher ups; he wasn't going to stop either, not till he got the leader. He had people all over England helping him track down any information he could get on the man.
He heard a noise at the opening of the alleyway; he quickly doused the fire and tucked himself even further behind the dumpster. He could hear heavy footsteps as a few people walked in the dark. Sherlock blinked his eyes twice and turned on another perk of having robotic eyes, his night vision. He didn't see any weapons in their hands, and they didn't look threatening. They were probably just a bunch of teenagers hanging around after curfew.
Sherlock slowly stood, making sure not to make any noise and slid out from behind the dumpster. His raggedy shoes scraped over the gravel on the ground; Sherlock cringed but didn't stop moving. He made it out of the alley without being noticed by any other the kids and started down the street as casually as he could. He wasn't afraid of being caught; he had his fake identification cards and a good enough excuse on why he was out and about.
He looked around; trying to find something to help him get out of London till morning. He scanned the cars; all of them were locked and would make too much noise if he tried to break in to them. He continued his search until he found a motorcycle.
Sherlock figured it would be easier to hotwire it without making himself stand out. He finished the hotwiring swiftly and climbed on to the bike. It came to life and he was off.
X
Sherlock rode all night; not knowing or caring where he was going. When he finally did stop the road was covered by trees blocking out the afternoon sun. He was out of the city longer than he was expecting but he needed to clear his head.
He shut his eyes listening to the stillness of the forest around him. His tranquility was broken by a loud crack, it sounded as if someone fired off a gun. He looked around, the shooter was close to him at all but he could tell what direction they were shooting from. He was about to start riding again when he heard a heavy object hit the trees above him.
Sherlock looked up at saw a black object laying over the branches. He looked around before hopping off the bike and hurrying over to the tree. He started climbing; when he reached the thing he was surprised.
On top of black feathered wings was a man. He was bleeding from a shoulder wound he must have just gotten from the bullet that was fired. Sherlock quickly took off his coat and his shirt. He ripped up his shirt the best he could and wrapped it around the wound. If the creature was shot then the people who shot him might be looking for him.
Sherlock put his coat back on and hefted the creature over his shoulder. He gripped on to a branch as he tried to get better footing and started to climb down the way he came up. He wasn't going to leave him to die up in the tree; Sherlock would have lost an interesting puzzle if he did that.
I hope that was good enough for you guys. I don't really like it but I want to get it out so back because I've been working on it so long. I'm going to leave the rest to you guys. If you want more please tell me, if you want me to stop writing this and delete it from existence I'll check my schedule. BYE!
