A/N I wish that BBC Sherlock would explore a bit more of Sherlock and Mycroft's home life when they were younger- idk, the idea of kid!lock really fascinates me. (Hence the kindergarten au that I'm probably going to write someday, but that's irrelevant to this story, so I'll shut up.)

Thanks to bazingaitsshamy, sevenpercent, total-animal-lover, Natalie Nallareet, johnsarmylady, and Guest

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

XLVIII. Childhood

"What was it like?" John asks one day, absolutely out of the blue. Sherlock looks up, his eyebrows creasing at the unexpected and rather vague inquiry.

"What was what like?"

"Your… childhood. Living with Mycroft, and your parents… you never told me anything about, well, any of that."

And probably for a reason. Just how dull are you? Sighing through his nose, Sherlock glances back towards the book in his hands—a study of the finer aspects of forensic investigation, and an utterly useless tome that he's reading only to try and figure out whether Anderson's constant stupidity is partially owed to actual official procedures—then sets it aside and leans farther back into his chair, gaze drifting upwards.

"Why would you care?"

"I guess I just… wondered. I mean, you know about me and Harry, that we… don't get along particularly well, and it doesn't really look from the outside like you and Mycroft do, either. And what about your parents? Did they appreciate your… talent… or were they like you, too? I suppose they must have been—"

"Stop," Sherlock groans. It's making itself painfully clear that John's had these questions in mind for a while, what with his ability to list them off at such a rapid pace now. He can't target why in the world the doctor would care about such things, let alone why he could possibly think that now would be a good time to go seeking out answers. Sherlock had been content—well, almost content, what with the study in idiocy at hand and companionable silence filling the flat. And now he's being pestered by useless, meddlesome questions.

"Sorry, I just—I was wondering."

"Mycroft and I spent most of our lives tormenting one another. Our parents rarely had time for us, especially our father—I believe I met him twice in my life before his death, which was never explained for us. Our mother was a powerful, respectable woman who didn't think us worth her time and handed us over to a number of nannies. The Holmes household… had no family in it." He speaks the words in a steady, matter-of-fact manner, still staring at the ceiling, which has a damp spot in its corner, quite possibly home to some sort of fungus. "There's nothing to know."

They're both silent, then, before John finally speaks again, his tone quiet and questioning. "What about now? Would you consider this to be a… a family? You, me, Mrs. Hudson… if Mycroft and your mother aren't a family to you, what about us?"

That was most certainly unexpected. Sherlock takes a moment to deliberate, before finally answering in a slow, thoughtful manner. "I… I suppose so. More so than them, at least. It's more… comfortable here."

A faint smile brushes over John's features, and he settles back into his chair, looking much more satisfied.

"Good."