A/N Hello! Okay, so, I know, late again -_- However, in my defence I have just worked a 7.5 hour shift at work (*bleh*), it's now 1:40am and I have to be up at 6am tomorrow for a 6 hour drive down south :S Which brings me to my next point: I'm off on a surfing holiday this week so please excuse me if my fic is late (*again*) however I will try to get it out still on the Sunday! I'll send the monkeys out with my fic in coded form to be given to my homemade JARVIS type computer to upload it XD It also means that I will not be able to reply to reviews until Friday or Saturday, for which I am really, really, really sorry about D': I will try to answer them as soon as possible!

Third: Thank you SO MUCH to all the people who reviewed, alerted and favourite-d, especially you amazing reviewers! X) You make my day every time I read your reviews and you are held very dear to my heart, sincerely. To theimprobableone: Tell me about it, as you can tell from this author's note, jobs suck -_- I feel like the dude in Indiana Jones 3 who chooses the wrong Holy Grail and gets the life sucked from him -_- (I hope you've seen Indie 3 or else I just sound weird… :S If you haven't seen it, see it, it's great XD) There's more on the father in this chapter too, so I hope you like X) Also, my monkeys probably did harass them, they harass me all the time! *Help me, I'm being held hostage o.O* I need to find a way to train them :/

Anyway, I'm a wee bit nervous about this chapter but, at any rate, I hope you enjoy it!

Disclaimer: After rowing back to the shoreline, I realised that I am not only in London, but am in the gardens of Her Majesty herself! Unfortunately, despite her being a fabulous sport and saying how disappointed she was that Mycroft had not removed Sherlock's blanket altogether while at the palace, I made the mistake of allowing her corgis and the monkeys to meet -_-

God bless the Corgis that fell during the battle, may they ever be remembered and let their spirits be present at my execution, which is due this Sunday, after tea and cake at 12:30pm.

Mycroft would be home soon, not that Sherlock was waiting for it. His brother was at his after school politics class, which meant that he would be home in about an hour or so. If anything, Sherlock felt more anxious about Mycroft coming home because he knew that Mycroft would ask questions about the bruise on his cheek that he had been given by one of the boys in his class who had called him a "freak" again. He knew that Mycroft would want to go speak to the boy, he always did and Sherlock would always have to try and persuade him not to.

Sherlock wished that mother would get home. Mother wouldn't ask questions, she'd know better than to ask, simply to know that Sherlock would sort it out in his own mind and instead she would simply clutch him to her until he told her he was okay, like he always did. However, mother was out at one of those charity dinner things and wasn't going to be home until late meaning that Sherlock was going to have to sit here in his bedroom with a throbbing, quickly purpling eye and, most of all, only his boredom to keep him company.

In a weird way, he sort of missed Mycroft when he wasn't at home. Not badly and not that he would ever admit it, but in some sort of manner, Mycroft's absence was noticeable to Sherlock. The rooms in the house seemed bigger, each creak louder and Sherlock noticed things more, like the smudges on the window that told him that mother had been watching him pick snails in the garden for his experiments, the slight scuffing of the thread on the carpet that said Mycroft had stormed upstairs sometime this week and slammed his door.

Sherlock didn't know if it was a bad thing that Mycroft distracted him from his deductions, people in general did, especially when, like Mycroft, they were trying to keep his attention from searching into things, deducing and making his mind work. He should be annoyed that Mycroft wanted him to play in the living room instead of trying to dissect a beetle in his bedroom but there was that look that Mycroft gave him sometimes that excused it. It was an almost proud look, that Mycroft wasn't just proud of Sherlock for his brains or his intuition, instead, he thought Sherlock was smart regardless of any of that. Sherlock couldn't quite understand that, deduction after all was something Mycroft was good at too and wasn't the whole point of being smart so that you could show other people what they were missing? What was the point of being intelligent if no-one knew it?

Sherlock swung his legs, his bed creaking as his body rocked forward. Bored, he thought. If there was anything Sherlock hated more than the stinging in the bruise on his eye, it was the fact that he was both alone and bored. No-one to conclude information from, nothing to entertain him. Just the creaking of the walls in the house that was too-old, too-broken and too-boring. Sherlock had once convinced himself that if one were to listen close enough, to put their ear to the woodwork they would be able to hear it speak. It was a silly notion, completely irrational but Mycroft had told him that all wood came from trees, which were, after all, living organisms and therefore the logical conclusion to draw would be that they had a language.

Perhaps it was a language all of their own that he couldn't yet understand. If trees could bleed sap when you cut them, surely they could feel? And if they breathed and reproduced and thought enough to sap in nutrients and grow taller to reach the sun, then why would it be so illogical to assume that they could whisper? Maybe that's something I could do, Sherlock thought, I could take a sample and then try to see if I could decipher what it is saying. I could spy on Mycroft, get the walls and floors to tell me where Mycroft's been or what mother is doing or what father is working on-

Sherlock stopped his train of thought, frowning. He knew that father was in the house, somewhere. Father worked from home sometimes, preferring to be surrounded by his collection of war novels and autobiographies of famous political leaders than the "idiots" at Scotland Yard. Sherlock found that to be a little harsh as, from what Sherlock could see, although the people at Scotland Yard were technically idiots, they tried their best with the intelligence they had. Even if that intelligence was limited, Sherlock saw people being arrested on the news all the time and sometimes they even managed to solve one or two of the more difficult cases by themselves without using any deductive methods and instead using profiling and science and detective "legwork" as Mycroft called it when he saw it on the news channel. Sherlock had snorted the milk he was drinking back into his glass at that because imagining Mycroft doing anything more than walking was funny. Mycroft even got out of P.E because he had forged a note from mother and had promised to take away Sherlock's lab equipment if he told her. Sherlock didn't tell but he often mentioned the school running team at dinner, earning a delighted sound from mother and a glare from Mycroft and Father respectively, if for slightly different reasons.

Sherlock didn't know exactly what made him stand up and leave his room. He imagined it was part boredom, part curiosity as to what Father was doing. Sherlock had to be doing something or he felt like his mind would rot with stagnation, a word that Mycroft had been impressed he could use at his age but Sherlock told him it was simple literacy and if he spent more time looking up words than forging notes from mother he wouldn't be saying what a big word "stagnation" was. Sherlock returned home from school that day to find his science kit gone and immediately blamed Mycroft for it. He looked down the hall where he now stood, past the large rug thrown on the floor and the set of ancient looking Chinese drawers on the right to the door towards the end. Mycroft's room. Sherlock almost turned to walk in that direction, feeling like, despite the questions he would be asked, even giving in to having Mycroft comfort him at this point in time would be bearable because the bruise below his eye was beginning to sting like a bee was lodged in it and it was making his eye water uncontrollably as he began to walk down the hall, placing his back to Mycroft's door and moving forwards to where the stairs created a landing on a right angle to the corridor.

"Father?" Sherlock's voice sounded too loud, even in the large space. The house was decorated well enough and mother always kept it nice however it was far too big for the four of them to live in, even when family came to visit and relatives Sherlock had never even heard of came to stay with them. It had been an inheritance from his father's parents and mother had never had the heart to sell it.

"Father?" Sherlock said again, his voice smaller this time. Nobody replied and he felt disappointment rise in his chest. Maybe Father was too busy and didn't want to be disturbed? That would make sense, Father was busy a lot and Sherlock often didn't see him during the day as his father would often remain in his study for the whole day, mixed in with case files and sheets of numbers that Sherlock couldn't understand and books of criminals and lists and receipts and all the other work that Father had to do because it was important. Robert Holmes was an important man after all.

Sherlock crept up to the study door, pleased to see that it was slightly ajar. Distance between door and frame means that Father was definitely the last person to enter here, mother didn't even kiss him goodbye before she left, Sherlock deduced. The thought seemed troubling for a moment, the idea of mother simply walking out of the house without saying goodbye felt odd, like a piece of a jigsaw puzzle that didn't quite fit. He vaguely wondered if he should be worried about it, if Mother and Father were arguing again but, surely, if they were, Mycroft would tell him about it. He shook off the thought, peering into the crack and surveying the study.

The door was open enough for him to be able to sidle gently in and he carefully nudged himself forwards so that he stood just on the precipice of the room, looking in at the silhouette of his father working in the lowlight of the lamp on his desk. Sherlock felt his chest surge with pride. Father, although a relatively thin and wiry man, looked like a leader as he sat, straight-backed, in his leather chair, exhuming confidence as if he breathed it. That was one thing about Father, he was always confidence. Always sure of himself, so convinced that he was right, that everyone else was an idiot simply because they didn't possess the intelligence he had. It was something that Sherlock admired, the surety with which his father held himself was intoxicating, mesmerising to a boy as young as Sherlock.

"Sherlock." Sherlock's heart stopped beating for a split second and it was enough time for panic to flood him as father's authoritative tone filled the room. It filled it in a way that was suffocating, like the whole place was simply waiting for the older Holmes to speak, not daring to contain air or sound or warmth when he spoke.

"Sherlock, what are you doing in here?" Sherlock's mind flitted to everything he could say. I wanted to see if you needed help. Or if you wanted anything. I'm just here to say that Mother and Mycroft will be home soon. I'm lost, it's a big house, the walls said here was where I should go.

"I- my eye hurts," Sherlock said, unable to stop himself. It was understandable. In any of the books Sherlock reads, a small boy, pain radiating from his face and all alone in his room, would go to his father and tell him all about it and that would solve everything, like magic, yet Sherlock could only groan at himself in disgust as he realised what he had said. Why had he told the truth? He sounded weak now, useless.

Robert Holmes did not speak for a long period of time, jotting something down in fountain pen and then typing something up slowly, unhurried. Sherlock heard the clink of ice cubes as he saw his father's arm move, a glass of whiskey or other alcohol no doubt in his grasp. Sherlock felt his stomach drop and he felt wary, mind racing to put together every little piece of information in the room. Father normally drank alcohol while working, it was normal, yet for some reason it still made him feel uneasy. Sherlock knew Father hadn't really meant to hurt him, it had only been once after all but the remembered smell of whiskey, Mycroft yelling at their father, a sudden, screaming pain in his back and the realisation that he was screaming too, rubbing his throat raw with the sound and choking him as it finished, made Sherlock's spine shiver.

"Come here, Sherlock," he heard the older Holmes say suddenly and, putting an instinctive hand to the now swelling black eye, he carefully shuffled forwards, his father's face coming into sight, as pointed and piercing as ever, eyes shooting straight into where Sherlock could feel his soul quake. He stopped, stood in front of the man and he looked up at him, trying to match him stare for stare, to look at him with the same confidence that his father had but eventually he was forced to look away under the punishing gaze. His father gave a huff of derisive laughter and a grunt, turning back to his desk to type something up. Another scribble of fountain pen. One more swig of whiskey before he refilled the glass from a half empty bottle on the side. He's been working all day, Sherlock reasoned.

His father turned back to him.

"Is that it?" Sherlock's arms felt like they were prickling with goose bumps, the tone sounding altogether dangerous and uncaring at the same time. Sherlock didn't know what was worse. At least to be dangerous, one must feel something towards someone in order to make them that way. At least dangerous meant that father felt enough to be angry with him.

"I- I didn't-" Sherlock didn't even know what to say. "I'm sorry" seemed almost appropriate but he felt weak enough as it was, vulnerable and it was the reason why he didn't mention the fact that it had been some kid at school that had hit him.

"Get out." Sherlock blinked, his swollen eye twinging at the action and making it water even more. Sherlock hoped that it wouldn't make him look as if he was crying, especially in front of father.

"Father-" Sherlock jumped when he heard the whiskey glass slam to the table, some of the liquid splashing out of it, onto the floor.

"I am busy, Sherlock. Get out," his father growled and the tone reverberated, the whole room seeming to rumble with it. Sherlock opened his mouth once and then closed it, a mixture of anger, respect and fear intertwining in his head to create a block of silence that momentarily cut off the words he wanted to say from reaching his mouth.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude, Father," Sherlock said, finally, his voice not quite stuttering over the words but nevertheless sounding hesitant.

There was another pause and for a moment Sherlock thought that father had forgotten that he was even there as it was a long while till he spoke again.

"Sherlock, go find your brother, get out of my sight," he said smoothly, nothing but boredom in his tone.

"Mycroft isn't at home, he's-"

"Sherlock, I don't care! For Christ's sake, just get out of my sight Sherlock." Even when cursing, the older Holmes sounded dignified and although the tone was still crackling with fury and danger, it was still slow paced and low, commanding.

Sherlock swallowed hard, his heart beating fast and his stomach twisting with disappointment. Why wouldn't he just listen to him? He looked up at the man that looked so much like him and yet he would never become and it felt almost like an ant looking up at a human, a man looking up at God and wondering why he had yet to answer his prayers.

"I can help," Sherlock choked out. He heard the bones in his father's hand crack as his fist tightened around his pen.

"I thought I told you to leave, Sherlock. If you continue to disobey me, Sherlock, there will be consequences."

Sherlock tensed and quickly hid his face, his other eye springing forward tears and he wasn't sure if it was fear of frustration that made his vision blur so suddenly.

"I can help with your cases," Sherlock said quietly, "I know the ones you're working on, I can see some of the papers. I can help you." Sherlock heard his father laugh and he cringed, his head hanging low as he waited for what he would say.

"And how, precisely, would you manage that, Sherlock?" the older Holmes sneered.

"The same way I helped in that case last month… the one with the cat and the lady," Sherlock said and he felt the words slip from his tongue like a story. It sounded like the title of a book "The Cat and the Lady". Naming the case felt strange but at the same time it reminded him of the detective novels Mycroft had bought him for Christmas last year. He'd read them all, some of them more than once and they all had names like that. The murder in the churchyard. The case of the bottled lily. The shadowed man. They always sounded better when they had a title like that.

He waited and eventually, his father turned and for the first time it felt almost as if he had his attention.

"Okay then, Sherlock, go on. What's the big clue?" Sherlock looked at the desk, the scattered files, staring at the pictures for a short time, reading the files carefully.

"The dressing gown," he said eventually and the deduction spoken out loud sounded like a revelation even to him.

"What about it?"

Sherlock paused and looked at his father and he could see the difference, the sudden change that was all at once thrilling and terrifying. His eyes looked brighter, more interested and zealous than Sherlock had ever seen them, growing more and more interested as Sherlock recounted his findings, discussing that the dressing gown had no holes in it and the sink was blocked and of course, of course that meant that it was the sister who did it. And yet, Father, for all his brains, was looking at him as if it was an epiphany and Sherlock could barely believe it as every passing moment Father looked more and more as if he would any moment congratulate him, scoop him up and tell him he was sorry and it was okay and he was brilliant-

Brilliant. He looked at his father. The emotionless mask, the unfeeling attitude, it all seemed so mystifying and yet, Sherlock could identify with it, that need to be better, that need to be smarter. It wouldn't take much to be like that. People were confusing and Sherlock was already far enough away from them as it was, the only thing holding back being faith. Misguided, misjudged faith in people. That people were essentially good, or tried to be, and that that was more important than intelligence and pride, yet so far he had yet to have proof of it. All he had to show from "faith" was a black eye and a burrowing sense of disappointment in his gut. The only thing standing between him and Father was faith and how strong could faith be? How many people would even care if little Sherlock Holmes stopped hoping for miracles? For people and, most ridiculous of all, awaiting the notion that someone would be stupid enough to care for a person born like he was. Different.

Of course, Mycroft would care, but then, Mycroft always cared. And in any other situation, surely, that should be enough. And yet, it wasn't. Mycroft was his brother and he was there even when he didn't want him but that was just Mycroft being Mycroft, same old worrying Mycroft.

Sherlock looked at his father. All that stopped that pride in his eyes from being permanent was a mistaken sense of loyalty, to an idea that had yet to prove itself even once. All that stood between him and Father accepting him was a thing called "trust" and a lie called "faith".

Sherlock looked up at his father's eyes and matched them stare for stare.

A/N Crummy ending that sounds like a bad horror movie but this chapter posed issues for me -_- With only two characters (one being a young!character and one being an OC… that feels weird calling him an OC, he feels different to an OC to me… :S) it was a little challenging but I hope it wasn't *too* bad, I'm a smidgem worried about this chapter, I dunno if I got it quite right :/ I think there are a few nice deep things in there though so I hope that's enough XD Sorry for the shorter length this time, I know it's still kinda long but the shorter-ness comes from the fact that I didn't really want to say much in this chapter and yet wanted to say loads at the same time, if that makes sense? I only had one message to get across but in lots of different ways :S Meh :/

Anyway, thanks to everyone for reading! Reviews and criticism and tips and anything else are much appreciated but if not, till next time, thanks again!