Sorry

I mean that truly. Sorry to all of you; every single reader from those who have stuck by this story from is beginning way back to those only just joining it now. Really I love every single one of you. I just can't do this anymore.

And that sounds like I'm ending a relationship… :s

The thing is I write because I really enjoy it but for a while now Season's in the sun has been a chore. I hate writing it and to be honest the only reason I have been updating is you lot. But forcing myself to write something isn't really working out anymore, the chapters are getting shorter, I can't seem to get anywhere plot wise and I'm just ending up with chapters I really hate.

I thought it might be that I'm finding Rocking Around the Christmas Tree really hard and I tried writing something else but I couldn't do it. I'm not trying to boast but writing is one of the things that comes easily to me but I really can't write anything.

I'm thinking now that maybe the problem is it's been way too long since I've read a Sherlock Holmes story (I leant my complete Sherlock Holmes book to a friend almost a year ago now) and so maybe once I start reading them again I'll remember why I love Sherlock Holmes and be inspired to take up the pen again. I really hope so.

Until then I'm going to have to say goodbye. I'll miss this fandom and I'll miss you. I feel so bad for quitting this, but I really have hit a dead end.

Seriously every person who reviewed, favourite, alerted, every person who read, thank you. You really did/do make my day and I will miss you. I hope to see you again soon.

Thank you also if you have read this far into this long authors note. XD

To say I'm sorry and to hopefully in some way convey my love to you all I'm about to write you a drabble. I found out somewhere that Victorian schooling usually started at 10 (I'm fairly sure it was 10 -I've dragged this fact up to the surface from the depths of my memory so it may have got a little distorted on the way, also I'm not sure whether the education act that made schooling available to everyone not just the rich changed this starting age or not, but for the purposes of this fiction the starting age of a Victorian school is 10)

Incidentally I also don't know if Victorian schools had half terms. For the purposes of this fiction they did.

"But where are you going?" whined Sherlock.

Mycroft looked down at his younger brother. He often wondered what his brother would do should Sherlock lose the ability to whine; it would certainly make Mycroft like his sibling more. Furthermore Mycroft had lost count of the amount of times he had explained this to the three year old; he couldn't believe how little Sherlock retained. It made Mycroft wonder why Sherlock bothered asking questions at all; surely if one couldn't remember the answers to questions seemingly mere seconds after the answer had been given it made the act of asking a question a bit redundant. Of course logic was wasted on the three year old.

"I'm going to school."

"What's school Mycroft?"

"It's where you go to learn things."

"What sort of things?" Sherlock's voice was nasally and irritating and, as usual, reminded Mycroft of the beginnings of a headache.

"How should I know? I haven't been yet!" Mycroft snapped running out of patience. His brother had been following him all day. While Sherlock usually spent time in Mycroft's company today Sherlock had been Mycroft's shadow, although unlike a shadow Sherlock could whine and complain and ask questions. It made Mycroft glad that tomorrow he would leave for boarding school. No more Sherlock asking him a relentless stream of questions. No more Sherlock following him. No more Sherlock playing with and breaking Mycroft's things. No more Sherlock at all.

"Why do you have to go?" Sherlock asked disturbing the silence Mycroft had been enjoying.

"To get an education." Mycroft replied dully hoping that a lack of enthusiasm might deter his sibling.

"Why?" Sherlock asked not at all perturbed by Mycroft's enthusiasm.

"Because."

"Will I have to go?" Would Sherlock never run out of questions?

"Yes." Mycroft answered tonelessly. His mind kept wandering, thinking about what life without Sherlock might be like.

"When?"

"When you're older." Mycroft forced himself to focus on the knowledge that this time tomorrow he would be free from the curiosity of the three year old.

"Is that when I'll see you again?"

"Huh?"

"Shouldn't say 'huh'" Sherlock quipped looking up at his brother with big admonishing eyes.

"Never mind that, what do you mean?" Sherlock sighed as though he couldn't believe his brother was being so stupid.

"Mother and father said you were going to school and that you were staying there so wouldn't be living with us anymore. So, will I see you again when I go to school?"

"I'm coming back Sherlock."

"Huh?"

"Shouldn't say 'huh' Sherlock." Mycroft teased.

"Never mind that," the three year old replied mockingly, leaving Mycroft surprised at the three year old's sudden, unexpected display of sharpness.

"I'll come home Sherlock. In October sometime. And then at Christmas. And then again in February probably."

"So it's not goodbye for ever?" Sherlock asked sounding hopeful.

"No Sherlock, it's not goodbye forever." There was a brief pause and then Sherlock looked up at Mycroft with big eyes.

"I'm glad."

Ironically I actually quite enjoyed writing this…

Thank you for being such lovely readers.

Goodbye. xxx