VHunter07 – I'm glad you liked my Watson voice, I do try to make what I write as true to canon as possible (other than the dates and general angst-swamped nature of the thing that is :-P ) I'm glad you like tragedy as there's a LOT more of that to come!

Igiveup – I don't know if this story is going to be slash yet; for the moments it's just friendship but I'll see how it progresses before putting up a warning. Thank you for the advice regarding the reviews- I'm new to this and hadn't realised that I had to enable anonymous reviews. I'm glad you liked the story and hope you continue to enjoy it!

Sanguinary Tears – thank you for reviewing again! Yes, poor Sherlock was quite discomfited by his meeting with his brother- hopefully good old Watson will be able to put him right in the end (even I don't know what's going to happen yet :-P )

Mona – thank you for the lovely review! I'm glad you enjoyed the story and considered it to be 'emotional' rather than 'melodramatic' as I feared it was. I do hope you maintain your good opinion of this story after reading the new chapter!

FormerCircusTeapot – I'm very pleased that you liked the Watson voice and the angst in this story- there's much more of that to come! I like writing and reading about character pasts, it makes the canon seem more three dimensional. Love your name by the way!

liederlady221B – I do hope that you continue to enjoy this story and don't consider it too melodramatic after this chapter. I love Holmes to bits but his demons are always lurking there in canon waiting to be brought to the surface by fanfiction writers :-P

And now, onto the story- WARNING: major shark attack! I do apologise to Doyle's tortured creations…

6th January 1858, Metlock Hall, Devonshire

Sherlock beamed as he saw his governess and started to clap his hands, bouncing up and down in childish delight "you made me a cake!" Matilda's eyes widened in surprise for a moment but she recovered well. "How did you know that?" she questioned kindly, bestowing an indulgent smile on her young charge. The perceptive toddler grinned toothily and knelt down to explain.

"Your cheeks are all red like you've been out in the sun but its snowy so you can't be warm from being outside. You've not been tending to the fire because if you had you'd be all sooty so you must have been leaning over the oven." The small boy sat back on his haunches and steepled his fingers as he always did when pondering, grey eyes lighting up as he formulated yet another deduction "you've also been wearing an apron. The ribbon's messed your hair up and the bottom of your dress is all crinkly from where it rode up when you pulled it off." He examined her again, sharp eyes taking in everything. "And your finger nails!" he exclaimed in delight "you have cake dough under your finger nails!"

Matilda beamed at him "nothing gets past you, does it?" The kindly woman opened her arms to the boy and he accepted her embrace at once. "Happy birthday Locky" she breathed into his un-breeched hair. Sherlock smiled and cuddled closer; he had always been an affectionate child and relished the moments when he was allowed to be; the moments when his father and his cane were absent. Placing him gently back on his feet, the nurse motioned towards a small pile of packages, the boy's entire countenance lit up "for me?" he queried in delight. She nodded her head.

The child rushed to his presents, just as any four year old boy would, but was stopped in his tracks as he heard hurried footsteps heading in the direction of the nursery. Listening carefully he determined the footfalls to belong to his brother Mycroft for they were too athletic for the maids, too short for the butler and too… well, they certainly didn't belong to his father, that was for sure. He was proven to have been correct a moment later when the dark haired head of his brother emerged from the other side of the door. Sherlock grinned at his brother but his expression turned solemn as he registered the older boy's fear.

Mycroft rushed to Matilda whose demeanour had at once become one of concern. "Whatever is the matter?" she questioned worriedly.

"He's here" Mycroft stated breathlessly "he has just returned, practically fell off his horse. He's been drinking again" the disgust in the eleven year old's voice was plain to hear. Sherlock overheard and let out a small whimper he could not restrain; as young as he was he could not fail to know the significance of his brother's words.

"Quickly" Matilda exclaimed as she took hold of Sherlock and made him more presentable, straightening his hair and collar. The boy was visibly trembling with fear as he went to stand next to his brother in regimental fashion; Mycroft squeezed his shoulder but dared do no more as the raucous noises emanating from the corridor indicated their father's immanent arrival. Matilda stood in front of the children she thought of as her own; her face betrayed none of the tumultuous emotions she too was feeling.

William Scott Holmes was a Lieutenant Colonel in the North Devonshire Regiment of Foot and he always wore his insignia with pride as he flayed his youngest child; this selfsame child would now cower in fear at the sight of the crown and pip if he had been allowed to do so. As it was, there was no escape for young Sherlock who presently stood in his nursery, trying desperately to stop his legs from shaking. The Holmes patriarch stood with uniformed legs astride, tapping his riding crop against the palm of his hand in a seemingly superfluous display of dominance given the fact his opponent barely stood past his knees.

Indeed, the officer was a fine specimen of an Englishman; standing at just over six foot, he was a great mass of muscle and sinew, dark hair shining and grey eyes gleaming with unmatched intelligence and cruelty. Those eyes found their twin pair in front of them and, glinting malevolently, they fed off the innocent fear they found there. The whip was smacked forcibly against the oaken floor, causing three innocent souls to jump in fear. "William, come" this brutish man was the only person to address the youngest Holmes by his forename and as such the boy loathed it. Shuddering with fear and as much disgust as one so young could muster, Sherlock took several brave steps forward.

Head slightly bowed to expose thick black locks and tender neck, the boy immediately regretted his decision not to meet his father's gaze. Of course, had grey eyes met grey the self made 'lord of the manor' would have been quick to chastise his child for impertinence, but this bowed posture was a sign of weakness and weakness would not be tolerated. Sherlock heard the blow before he felt it and fell to the floor with a small yelp as his knees gave way under the pressure of the whip. "Get up" the boy did as he was bid, trying to hide his tears but without success, the older Holmes saw the moisture and seized the opportunity to torment the much hated fruit of his loins.

"Why do you cry, boy?" his voice was barely more than a whisper, it need have been no more, the silence in the room was deathly.

"I d-don't know sir." Mycroft winced as his brother stammered and closed his eyes, not willing to see what was to happen yet not able to stop it.

"You don't know?" the army man's low voice held a hint of triumph which he soon acted upon, sending the boy once more to the ground. "Well, child, I shall tell you why you cry. You cry because you are a pitiful and weak child and, as such, are no son of mine. Weakness is a sin. Sins must be punished."

For all of his many failings and vices, no one could accuse William Scott Holmes of not being a man of his word. He had promised the boy punishment and so he delivered it, burning the small pile of packages before his helpless sight; the shadows of the growing flames danced across the harsh angles of the man's face, the reflections in his eyes providing the only suggestion of warmth that would ever be seen there.