Hey guys! Before you start reading, there are some things you should know.

My first Sherlock fanfiction. Hopefully, it goes well.

I've actually been working on this for about a month and a half. I wrote really slowly because I wanted the pace to be nice and steady and the flow to be constant. I also wanted to get every fact right so I researched to the best of my ability.

Constructive criticism of any sort is welcome.

Some little facts here and there were picked up from prompts and headcanons on tumblr.

The grammatical errors (fragments, run-ons, tense changes) are all intentional.

Takes place pre-Reichenbach.

Disclaimer: I do not own BBC Sherlock (if I did, we would be on season 10 by now instead of episode 10) or anything else you recognize. The Happiness Project is an actual book and is written by Gretchen Rubin (published in 2009 but shh we're going to pretend it was published in the 70s).

The residents of Baker Street all knew about that one house. The home of the famous "hat" detective. People whispered, as people tend to do, about the house, the house with the dark, dark green door and a darker past, the house with the brass knocker always slightly, irritatingly askew, the house with the gunshots and sirens at two in the morning, and more frequently, the people in the house.

Well, person, really. Sherlock Holmes. Psychopath, sociopath, g-damn crazy, they said, with his silly little hat and cheekbones sharp enough to cut oneself, with his dark blue scarf and notoriously curly black hair and piercing, greenish-blue eyes that seemed to penetrate way down deep into one's soul. Eyes too pretty to be a psychopath's, some whispered, but they were quickly shushed by those who were convinced of Mr. Sherlock Holmes' mental instability.

People are frighteningly dull and narrow-minded sometimes, you see, and as a result of this plague that feeds on all of humanity, those who dare to show a rainbow of creativity are, on occasion, splattered with beige insults until they melt into boring background of the world. And maybe this was why some people didn't believe in Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Too good to be true, they said. A man who can look at you and know your entire life story in an instant isn't a man at all; he's a machine, a monster, a freak.

So, the people whispered and talked and screamed and shouted, dying to make their voices heard in the abyss, uncomfortable with silence, going around and around in helpless circles in their boring, selfish lives, but most were happy. And meanwhile, Sherlock Holmes watched from above and remembered a time when he was as carefree as they were, for being a genius comes with a price too heavy to bear by oneself.

December 17, 2012

Sherlock: age 35

Sherlock stood at the window, as he so often did, his posture erect, bathrobe hung loosely about his shoulders, pale hands resting on the windowsill. And his eyes, ever-changing eyes that seemed to sparkle even in the cold London fog, scanned the crowd below. He sucked in a small breath of air. "John?" Sherlock said, not taking his eyes off the street.

No response. Turning on his heel, Sherlock scanned the messy flat, from the piles of papers on the floor and documents pinned to the wall to his skull resting on the mantel, his gaze settling on John's empty chair. Mrs. Hudson poked her head into the room. "John's out, dear. Went to do some Christmas shopping with Jeanette, I suppose." Stepping through the doorway, she let out a little groan and said in that exasperated voice, "Oh, Sherlock! The mess you've made!"

Sherlock chose to ignore this comment and stepped forward smartly, taking a seat in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. He drummed his fingertips on the arm of the sofa and sighed, tilting his head back to the ceiling. "Oh, dull."

"You ought to get out, too," said Mrs. Hudson, wrinkling her nose in disgust as she picked up a dirty sock from the carpet. "It'll be good for you to see the city a bit. You can't just sit around all day waiting for a case."

He waved his hand dismissively. "Oh, shut up, Mrs. Hudson. I have absolutely no intention of engaging a supposedly enjoyable holiday that in fact just involves messy dramas whilst gathered with the most insufferable people of all – family." He spat out the last word venomously, like a curse of the utmost potency.

"Now, Sherlock–"

"Get out, Mrs. Hudson."

She complied with a little sigh. "Your mother does have quite a bit to answer for, you know."

Sherlock sighed and tapped out the beginning of Beethoven's Fifth Symphony. Bored, bored, BORED. He scanned the flat helplessly, looking for a remnant of an old case or some cigarettes or some hideous jumper of John's that he could submit to extreme environmental conditions, like fire, for "experimentation" purposes. Or maybe he just really wanted an excuse to burn the disgusting, vomit-green one.

His eyes settled on the table near the sofa, for poking out from underneath a pile of papers was a small piece of red felt…

Springing to his feet, Sherlock crossed the room in a few quick steps and brushed the papers onto the floor.

Oh.

It was a dog. A little stuffed dog the size of his palm with curly red fur and beaded eyes. He made some half-hearted deductions – it was cheap, nothing special, it had been patched up a few times, but the stitches were old. The person who owned this was once careless with it, but now handled it more delicately, which either suggested that they grew older and hence, more responsible, or this was given to them by a now-deceased family member. As the dog didn't cost more than a few pence, it was more likely the latter.

But, the dog… it looked so much like – dare he say it – Redbeard.

A voice that sounded remarkably like Mycroft's spoke in his head: "Oh, for goodness' sake, Sherlock, you're not a child anymore."

"Shut up, Mycroft," he snapped.

He glanced back at the window and swallowed dryly, closing his eyes at last and allowing himself to fall into a memory.

Even as a child, Sherlock Holmes always knew he was different. Well, not always. He grew up in a cultured family – his mother, Violet, radiated a sort of quiet brilliance, and his father, Siger, was reserved and when he smiled, his eyes lit up and crinkled, but his mouth would barely lift at the corners. And his brother…His brother was a genius. The older one, the smarter one, with his smug expression and attitude that grated on Sherlock's nerves like sandpaper. The way he was always so observant, the way his quick eyes darted around the scene before him, the way he'd think rapidly, speak rapidly, always rush and rush while Sherlock struggled to keep up. Sherlock would make a deduction? No matter, Mycroft would explain it in more detail. Sherlock would solve an immensely difficult puzzle? No matter, Mycroft could do it in half the time. His achievements, however small and personal they may be, often downplayed, Sherlock was naturally resentful of his older brother. Humans did react like that, after all – they were always so emotional.

And Sherlock Holmes, at that time when he was human, was blinded by feelings, failed to see how his brother cared, deep inside in a hollow of his soul. How protectively distant Mycroft was, but his clouded eyes focused only on the distance. And because of this, because of living in a family where everyone who really mattered to him believed he was somewhat of an idiot, Sherlock Holmes took the first step to becoming a machine.

At this point, Sherlock almost opened his eyes. He never liked to live in the past, and this was as far enough back as he wished to go. With memories came feelings, and he had felt so much, been hurt so many times, that now he preferred to be numb. Blindly going about the world, in the gray twilight between sleeping and waking. As Mycroft so aptly said, "Caring is not an advantage." And Sherlock agreed.

Well, before he met John, at least. But almost against his will, the little voice in his head whispered to him, "Why not go further?" And before he knew it, his subconscious had made the decision for him and he was hurtling down a black hallway, his memories bolted behind strong metal doors. He lifted a shaking pale hand and set it to the cold, hard steel. The door opened at his touch, and he was swept away…

September 5, 1982

Mycroft: age 12

Sherlock Holmes, at the tender age of five, sauntered easily down the stairs of his two-story red brick house in Manchester. A three-cornered hat slightly askew on his head and a telescope clutched tightly in his small hand, he took his time descending from his room, despite his mother yelling that he was going to be late. He rounded the corner into the kitchen, eliciting a world-weary sigh from his mother. "Sherlock, you are not wearing that ridiculous hat to school."

"It's not ridiculous," he said, crawling onto one of the dining chairs. "It's a pirate captain's hat. It will assert my authority over my classmates."

Violet buried her face in her hands. "You don't need to assert your authority, Sherlock."

"Let him wear it," Mycroft said through a mouthful of cereal. "He might as well make an accurate first impression of a weirdo."

Sherlock scowled, and Violet shushed her older son sharply, glancing helplessly at her husband, who gave a small shrug, clearly fighting the urge to laugh. Letting out another tired sigh, Violet sat down heavily and said, "Okay, you can keep the hat. Now eat your breakfast before the bus comes."

He obediently gobbled down his cereal, grabbed his backpack, and all but ran out the door, trailed reluctantly by Mycroft, who had been appointed to take care of him during the day (even though they both protested strongly that he did not need to be looked after). He hopped up the stairs into the waiting bus (Mycroft promptly moved to the very back) and sat down in the first empty seat he saw, next to a red-headed, freckled boy wearing a dragon t-shirt.

The boy, Matthew Lewis, his backpack read, glanced at him with surprise. "Hi," he said cautiously.

"Hello," Sherlock said, just as apprehensively.

"I'm Matthew," he proclaimed, giving Sherlock a gap-toothed grin. "But my friends call me Matt."

Sherlock nodded in acknowledgement, unsure of why Matt would suddenly choose to announce this obvious fact. Did he not know that his name was clearly written on his backpack?

"What's your name?" he asked Sherlock.

Sherlock frowned, for his name, too, was printed quite legibly on his bright red bag. Perhaps Matt was visually impaired. "Sherlock," he said, choosing not to give his full name, for it might have prompted Matt to call him "William." He hated the name with a vengeance.

"Sherlock's a funny name," Matt said, giggling slightly.

He found nothing humorous about the situation. "No funnier than 'Matthew.'"

The bus rumbled along, shaking its occupants as it drove over bumps and potholes in the road.

"Are you scared?" Matthew asked.

Sherlock sighed. Did all other children enjoy talking aimlessly as much Matthew? He hoped not. "No. What's there to be scared about?"

Matthew leaned closer, as if he was about to confess a deep, dark secret. "My sister says there are mean people who take your lunch away from you. And then they eat it and leave you hungry."

"That hardly seems like a viable threat."

Matthew's forehead crinkled in bemusement, and he mouthed the words slowly, clearly struggling to make sense of them. "I don't get it."

Perhaps Matthew was illiterate. "Viable is defined as 'capable of working successfully; feasible, or realistic.' The phrase 'viable threat' refers to…" He trailed off, noticing that the other boy's eyes had glazed over.

The rest of the ride to school was silent. When the bus pulled up to the front entrance, Matthew turned to Sherlock. "Um… nice meeting you, I guess. You're… really smart."

Sherlock blinked a couple of times. He had not, of course, intended to start this schooling venture without a little bit of prior research. Daily trips to the library and books like The Happiness Project filled his summer days. In one of these books, the author had said that if someone said something somewhat kind about you, the best way to respond was to express gratitude. "Thank you," Sherlock said, his voice wavering uncertainly.

Turning away from the red head, Sherlock hoisted his bag onto his shoulder and stepped down the five stairs onto the pavement. He made his way toward the building, and despite what he'd told Matthew, anxiety was gnawing at him, his stomach twisting further into knots with every step he took towards the school.

The entrance looked like a war zone. Some older children had already entered their classrooms, while others stood to the side, chatting. Many kids his age (and some a few years older) were reluctant to let go of their parents' legs, and he was sure spotted more than a few tearstained faces. Teachers rushed around, their hair disheveled, their clothes rumpled, attempting to deal with parental concerns and distraught children.

Sherlock sighed and found his own way to his class, taking a seat in the second row, closest to the door. Two or three other kids sat at their desks, coloring patiently. The teacher, Mrs. Smith, had blonde hair pulled back into a bun and wore a neat, freshly ironed skirt and blouse. She gave him a wide smile, squeezing between some desks to get over to his.

"Hi, there!" she exclaimed perkily. "What's your name?"

"In the attendance record, it's listed as William Sherlock Scott Holmes, but I prefer to be called Sherlock."

The teacher blinked several times. "Well," she said at long last, "aren't you cute?"

"Thank you," Sherlock replied listlessly. Perhaps that would become his response to everything.

"Since you're a little early, sweetheart, here are some crayons and a nice little book for coloring," Mrs. Smith said, smiling as she handed him the items.

"No, that's okay," Sherlock said. "I prefer to read." He reached into his bag and pulled out his copy of The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. "It's a fantastic satire." He hoped the teacher, being an educational authority, might discuss the book with him, but she only looked confused and turned away.

As the room around him became increasingly crowded, Sherlock delved deeper into his book, simultaneously reading and thinking hard. He knew that friendship was desirable, but he wasn't exactly sure why. He'd met two people today, and neither of them satisfied the "code" for friendship given by all the books he had read over the summer. Neither of them was particularly interesting. Maybe this was friendship – if it was, he didn't understand what all the hype was about. Surprisingly, Sherlock found that he wasn't too bothered by it. Few other children, he reasoned, would have had much prior experience with social interaction, and surely they, too, would recognize that friendship was not a priority.

He flipped the page, and his eyes picked up on a particular sentence. "If [humans] don't keep exercising their lips… their brains start working." Against his will, he smirked a little. It was terribly cynical, but certainly held true for the people he'd met so far.

From the front of the room, the teacher clapped her hands merrily, the smile on her face as fake as the plastic violet that sat primly in its pot on her desk. "Settle down, class!" she chirped. "Now, my name is Mrs. Smith, and I'm so happy to see all of –" She cut herself off, and Sherlock could see in his peripheral vision that she was looking directly at him.

He didn't look up.

"Erm –" she consulted her attendance sheet – "Sherlock, sweetheart?"

Still keeping his eyes fixed on the text in front of him, he said "Yes, Mrs. Smith?"

"Could you, perhaps, put your book away, please?"

"Why?" Sherlock asked; although his face did not betray it, he was genuinely surprised. Was reading not an educational pursuit?

"I'm trying to speak to the class, sweetie." Her voice was strained, clearly revealing her impatience.

"You can keep talking; I can still hear you."

He could practically smell her frustration. "You can't possibly focus on your book and listen to me… honey," she added after a heavy pause.

"But, I can," he said frowning a little, and still refusing to look up. "Please continue. Didn't you have something to say to the class?" He flipped the page, smiling a little when she turned to the children (who were staring at him, mouths agape) with irritation clear in every stiff motion.

By break time, Sherlock Holmes found himself very disappointed in the public school system, despite having only been in the death trap for four hours. The teacher seemed to be very stupid, but it was only later that he realized that she was capable of superior thought; she was simply lowering herself to the children's level. Obviously. He didn't know how it took him so long to figure it out.

This raised an interesting question that Sherlock contemplated as he stood in the queue to go outside. Could he be smarter than other children his age? It certainly seemed so. Despite what he had been told for his whole life, was he more than average? Yes. The realization brought a rush of euphoria, and the feeling that he actually deserved the captain's hat on his head (which had been utterly useless in helping him assert his authority; it had just gotten him a few strange looks here and there).

He had barely stepped outside when six boys and girls from his class approached him, barraging him with questions about how he knew how to read so well and what book he was reading and what it was about and "what was up with the whole pirate thing anyway?"

Sherlock stumbled over his words as he struggled to answer all the questions. "It's the Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy," he said, "and it's about this man who embarks on a thrilling adventure to other planets. I know it seems quite whimsical, but it's a fantastic satire that throws light on many of humanity's prominent flaws –"

They were doing the same thing Matthew had done. Staring at him like they saw him but didn't really see him. "That's nice," one of the boys said absently before leading his friends away.

Sherlock blinked several times, not hurt, but just confused. And frustrated, because he hated being confused. Taking a seat under a nearby tree and unwrapping his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, Sherlock opened his book and began to read.

Maybe, friendship-wise, tomorrow would be better. Because Sherlock really wanted to know what having a friend felt like.

December 22, 1984

Sherlock: age 8

Mycroft: age 15

Sherlock Holmes took his time gathering his belongings from his school desk as the bell dinged loudly, signaling the end of the last day before the Christmas holidays. The classroom exploded into chatter around him, students animatedly discussing their plans for the holidays.

Recently, Sherlock enjoyed reading people. It was funny, really, how much you could find from what someone said, how they acted, how they carried themselves. Everyone at his school was so transparent – a little too transparent. And while he was by no means as good as his brother at reading people, he was determined to be.

So, as the children around him were brimming with feelings, he decided to read some of them. His mind fixed on a girl a couple of desks away from him. Happy smile, a fragment of conversation here, a furrowed brow, a confused look there. The puzzle pieces arranged themselves into a clear mental picture, and Sherlock frowned in concern. She was going to visit her ill grandmother in the hospital. The girl wanted to give her a scarf she'd knitted by herself.

No one Sherlock had ever known had passed away, but this girl clearly cared for her grandmother, who was obviously close to death.

Maybe he'd express his hope and concern to her. Maybe that would help him make a friend.

Sherlock squeezed past a few desks and chatting students and made his way over to the girl, who was meticulously placing each notebook into her bag.

He cleared his throat awkwardly, and she glanced up, surprise evident in her eyes. But it wasn't a good surprise. More like she'd found a moldy lemon in her fridge.

"Um, I just wanted to say… I hope your grandma gets better. Somehow. It may be statistically unlikely."

Her eyes widened. "How did you know about that?"

"I, er –"

"Were you listening to me talking to Stacey?!" she exclaimed.

Sherlock tried desperately to backpedal. "No, no – um…"

"It's right what they say about you!" she yelled. "You're a… a freak!"

The class stared at him, some smirking, some a little confused, but none dissenting. Even the teacher remained in his position at his desk.

Sherlock could do nothing but to grab his bag and leave.

It wasn't as if he was a stranger to all this, he thought as he pushed past the other students to exit the school. Especially in the past year, the word "freak" had popped up in the other kids' vocabulary. He tried to stay optimistic (he still desired to know what friendship felt like) but it was becoming more difficult. It frustrated him, as it had from the first week of kindergarten, that everything came so easily to him, everything but friendship and social interaction. It was a surging, stormy sea of impatience that roared within him. Anything could be done if he put his mind to it – everything, it seemed, but understanding other people.

The winter air was cold and brisk and stung his cheeks. The sky was gray and dull and bleak – not a snowy gray, but the kind that makes it seem like the sun decided to shine a little less bright that morning. Everything was gray: the trees with their skeletal branches stretching up to the dim sky, the underfed grass that grew in scraggly patches here and there on the gray concrete – the disgusting watery slush piled up on the curb to get it out of the way.

Sherlock buried his face further into his red scarf and climbed up the steps into the school bus, where it was uncomfortably hot. Loosening his scarf and unzipping his jacket, Sherlock sat down in the first empty seat he saw. He opened his book – The Diary of Anne Frank – and began to read.

December 25, 1984

Sherlock's eyes snapped open at eight in the morning, a small smile coming to his face as he realized it was Christmas. His family was not religious, nor did they hold enormous, messy gatherings with distant relatives. But, there was something about the idea of Christmas that brought along an infectious delight. Mycroft seemed to be determined to maintain a bored, blasé attitude about all of it, but Sherlock could see the excitement in his eyes.

Jumping out of bed, his bare feet skittering on the cold wood, Sherlock quickly washed up and scampered downstairs, acting exactly his age for once. He rounded the corner into the kitchen, fully aware of the smile of his mother's face and Mycroft's snobbish scoff as a result of his uncharacteristic behavior.

"Your father and I got you something," Violet said.

"I'd certainly hope so," Sherlock remarked dryly.

"I chipped in," Mycroft said through a mouthful of waffles.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, surprised and curious. "What is it?" he asked.

"Finish your breakfast" was the only thing his mother said.

After wolfing down some waffles, Sherlock looked to his parents expectantly. They exchanged an amused glance, and his father left the room, presumably to get his present.

What Sherlock was not expecting was for his father to return with something alive.

A sentient life form.

A puppy, to be specific.

A small, excited ball of energy with reddish-brown fur. He remembered he'd read a book about different dog breeds a couple of weeks ago, and this looked like an Irish Setter.

For a moment, both he and the dog looked at each other with bemusement. Then, an uncontrollable grin broke out across his face and he crouched down on the floor, welcoming the puppy straight into his arms. They were equally excited to see each other, he realized, as it began to lick his face, tail wagging joyfully.

"What are you going to call him, Sherlock?" his father asked.

Sherlock thought about it for a while, and looking around the kitchen for inspiration, his gaze fell upon the pirate's hat he'd left on the table last night. "Blackbeard," he said, "the famous pirate."

Mycroft snorted. "The dog's red, and you're naming it Blackbeard?"

"Redbeard, then," Sherlock said defensively.

There was a moment of silence that was a little awkward. Redbeard barked his appreciation of his new name, drooling all over Sherlock's pajama pants.

Sherlock couldn't help but smile at this adorable, overly affectionate puppy, and wondered if this was what friendship felt like.

January 25, 1985

Sherlock trudged into his house, dropping his dark blue backpack onto the wooden floor. He sighed heavily as he unzipped his coat; it had been a difficult day at school, to say the least. The substitute teacher refused to believe that he already knew how to multiply numbers, and set him extra exercises as a punishment. It wasn't that he minded the extra work – he had it finished in a matter of minutes – but it was the reaction from his classmates that irked him the most. The taunting jeers, the frowns, the hateful words, freak, freak, freak. If it meant knowing what friendship felt like, Sherlock was prepared to be normal, like other kids.

He heard the noise of nails clacking against wood, a swish around a corner, and panting, and a small smile tugged at the corner of this mouth. Redbeard hurtled around the corner, his tongue out and his tail wagging. All but jumping on Sherlock, the puppy proceeded to lick every inch of him he could reach.

The smile on Sherlock's face stretched wider and transformed into a laugh. "Down," he said, chuckling. "Down, boy."

Redbeard reluctantly obeyed, and Sherlock rewarded him with a pat on the head. He'd been training him for the past month, and he was learning surprisingly quickly.

Crouching down to get on Redbeard's level, Sherlock said softly, "Who needs the kids in my class when I've got a friend like you?" He stroked his silky soft fur. Redbeard was unusually quiet, like he knew what Sherlock was thinking. "I know you'll never leave me – at least not any time soon."

Redbeard licked his cheek. Giving a small laugh, Sherlock stood up, grabbed his bag, and headed up the stairs to his room, the puppy following eagerly.

January 30, 1991

Sherlock: age 13

Sherlock slammed the door behind him after yet another exhausting day at school. Freak. Their voices echoed in his brain, ringing in his ears. He threw his backpack on the floor, feeling a sort of hollow heaviness in his heart. Could something be hollow and heavy simultaneously?

Biting his lip, he forced away the feelings, willing himself to become cold and detached, like a block of stone. Willing his trembling fingers to still, willing his shaky breaths to steady, willing his racing heart to slow. It took a while, but the familiar numbness overtook him, and he calmed. Now, Sherlock just felt empty, and for good reason.

He had stopped listening for the sound of Redbeard's thudding paws, excited panting, and swishing tail several months ago. Redbeard had been acting strangely, and he'd taken him to the vet, who offered no solution but to medicate him. Slipping little white pills into his food broke Sherlock's 12 year-old heart, but that was the thing about hearts. They existed, and therefore they could be put out of existence. Redbeard was alive, slowly recovering, but lethargic. He had nonetheless been excited every day when Sherlock visited him in his little doggy bed.

Almost smiling at the thought of seeing his friend after another disappointing day, Sherlock made his way to Redbeard's bed, where the dog lay motionless.

He's just sleeping, Sherlock thought with certainty. He reached out a pale hand to pet his soft red locks, but he still did not move. "Redbeard," he said softly, in an attempt to wake him up. No response. "Redbeard!" A little louder, and still nothing. Panic overtook his mind; his heart took control now, frantically pumping blood to every inch of his body, making him aware of every throb of every vein and the feverish heat that clouded his vision. His mouth moved for him, unable to stop. "Redbeard! Redbeard! Redbeard!" His fingers shook violently as he felt for a pulse – yes, yes, it was there. Faint, but there. He was alive.

Springing to his feet, Sherlock forced his shaking legs to work and ran over to the telephone, dialing his dad's work number. One ring, two rings, three rings… He danced back and forth. Snakes writhed in his stomach. Please pick up, please pick up… His father's gruff voice came through the line. "Hello, this is Siger Holmes –"

"Father," he interrupted, "there's something wrong with Redbeard."

The vet's waiting room was as cold and unwelcoming as a morgue. Gray chairs were arranged in a uniform fashion, and the walls were painted a harsh white. Unsmiling assistants typed on black keyboards, their nails clacking loudly. And Sherlock, his father, and his mother (who had joined the two of them later) stood in an equally harsh operating room.

"There's not another option," the vet said, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. "It's either to put the dog down or to wait it out for him to die on his own."

Sherlock's throat was clogged. God, he hated that feeling. The tightening of your throat and lungs before you cried. He was afraid that if he forced out some words, he would loosen the block in his throat and the tears would fall freely. "I recommend euthanizing him," the vet was saying, not unkindly. "He hasn't got long left anyway, and it's kinder."

His mother placed a hand on his shoulder. "Sherlock, he's your dog. It's your choice."

Standing there, in that room full of adults, Sherlock could only look at Redbeard, lying so vulnerably on the bed. He could obviously see the pain in his big, brown eyes. The dog – no, not "the dog." His friend. The only one who didn't think he was a freak when he made deductions, the only one he felt comfortable with, the only one who really, really mattered to him, even more than his family. How could he kill someone like that? How could he, with a nod of his head, control the life or death of another living thing?

And then, Redbeard looked up and met his eyes, and he swore that he gave a little nod, almost as if saying, "It's okay. I understand. Let me go." The pain returned then, and clouded his eyes as he lay his head down.

He loved Redbeard; that much was apparent. And sometimes, when you love something, you have to set it free. "Okay," he said, the lump in his throat dangerously close to breaking. "I – we – we can put him down." He swallowed, taking a shaky breath.

The vet nodded grimly. "Well, you're going to have to make an appointment –"

"No," Sherlock choked. "I-It has to be now. Please."

The vet's glasses reflected fluorescent lights on the ceiling, obscuring his eyes. "I have an injection prepared, luckily," he said, leaving the room.

Sherlock leaned forward to wrap his arms around Redbeard's warm body. "You're my best friend," he whispered, because he could only whisper around the lump that was making it hard to breathe. "And I will always remember you."

And then the vet came back holding the frightening needle and he said "do you want to step away, son", but Sherlock refused and as the shot entered Redbeard's leg he licked Sherlock's cheek one last time, like a goodbye kiss, before his body went limp and his eyes lost their familiar light.

And his mother's eyes were wet, and so were his father's, but Sherlock didn't cry because he was too numb for tears.

October 3, 1993

Sherlock: age 15

It had been nearly three years since Sherlock Holmes had lost the only living thing that held the most importance in his heart. Now a practiced stoic, his face as calm and unapproachable as harsh white block of stone, he spoke quickly, thought quickly, deduced quickly – there was no time to slow down for everyone else.

Sherlock strode briskly outside, into the gray day. He disagreed with the conception that with autumn came bright, beautiful colors. Everything was dying. How could that be beautiful?

"Hey, freak!" He refused to turn around, but was forced to when a thick hand fell on his shoulder and twisted his arm painfully.

Displaying no discomfort on his face, Sherlock spun on his heel and raised an eyebrow coolly. "Can I help you?"

The boy cracked his knuckles. He was built like a giant slab of meat, every inch of his skin flabby and dough-like. His eyes were small and beaded and could hardly be seen because of the fat on his face. Clues jumped out at Sherlock. Broken home. Poor. Knuckles littered with day-old bruises – frequent fistfights. "Heard you got in trouble with the cops for Carl Powers, freak," he leered.

"You heard incorrectly," Sherlock said. "They did not punish me, only – rather stupidly – refused to listen to my advice."

The boy broke into stupid laughter. "Look at this posh freak!" he screamed to the group of two-dozen students congregated behind him. "Thinks he's so damn clever with his 'deductions.'" He took a step back, holding his arms up as if inviting Sherlock to tackle him. "Go ahead, then. Deduce something about me, if you're so bloody clever."

Sherlock hesitated for a few moments. He didn't want to get involved with such a stupid argument, but pride had always been his weakness… and he did want to prove himself, didn't he? He wanted to prove he was capable of so much more than what people expected of him. "You got into a fistfight yesterday," he blurted, "behind the school, near the pond. Fresh bruises on your knuckles, mud on your shoes that's distinctive and too new to be from previous days. Nicotine-stained fingers – smoking addiction. You have a fondness for your neighborhood cat – there's fur on your trousers. Going by the state of your clothes, I can conclude that you are not middle class or affluent and, therefore, it is not your cat. You had a hamburger for lunch today – slight traces of grease on your fingers and your shirt. Would you like me to continue?"

Silence. No one was impressed – he could tell from their facial expressions. No, more like mildly horrified. The boy himself was shocked; his mouth hung open as if his jaw had detached from the rest of his head. Then, he came to his senses and worked his mouth furiously, trying to articulate his thoughts, his face gradually becoming redder. "You – you freak!" he shouted. "No wonder the police don't want anything to do with you. You're a bloody…" he trailed off as he mentally searched his admittedly small lexicon for the word.

"A psychopath!" someone in the crowd shouted.

Sherlock frowned. Surely that wasn't the case. He wasn't mentally ill, and he certainly wasn't abusive, dangerous, or violent. He sighed, and just walked away, focusing on the slap of his shoes on the gray concrete rather than the howling of the immature children behind him.

His mind raced at a million miles an hour. Was he a psychopath? He'd always classified himself as a genius, but did geniuses refuse to care? Did geniuses cut off their emotions? Maybe he was a psychopath. Did he need to be locked up?

He took off at a run, heading towards the library half a mile away. His heart beat fast and his skin prickled uncomfortably. Meanwhile, the sun hid behind a cloud, reluctant to shine, and everything around him seemed to droop.

He skidded to a stop in front of the building and pushed open the door, retreating into a world of quiet, reverent study. Not wasting any time, he strode into the nonfiction section and picked up every relevant, reputable psychology textbook that caught his eye. He took a seat at a nearby table and cracked open Psychopaths: An Introduction.

He remained immersed for three more hours. Words danced in front of his eyes, the afterimages blurring his vision. Hours of reading about mental illnesses had paid off, because he knew now. He wasn't a psychopath. He was a sociopath: "A person with a personality disorder manifesting itself in extreme antisocial attitudes and a lack of conscience." A high-functioning sociopath, to be specific; that was clear from his Intelligence Quotient.

Methodically, he closed the books and placed them back on the shelf. Sherlock Holmes walked out of the gray library into the gray sun with his gray uniform and gray shoes on the gray concrete and kept in mind – He wasn't a psychopath. He was a high-functioning sociopath. He did his research, after all.

December 17, 2012

Sherlock's greenish-blue eyes flew open as he hurtled back to the present. His head spun as he glanced around him feverishly. Disoriented, he tightened his grip on the plush dog and took a seat in a nearby chair, burying his face in his hands and propping his elbows on his knees. No, no, NO. There was a reason he hadn't delved into the dark, thick jungle of his past, a reason he had repressed those memories deep, deep down. If he was being completely honest with himself, he did not want to see the past because it threw the monster inside him under the spotlight. Nelson Mandela said it best: "There is nothing like returning to a place that remains unchanged to find the ways in which you yourself have altered."

He didn't want to see the ways he'd changed, because he knew that they sure as hell weren't good. And he knew that he'd been hurt too many times, distanced from his brother and his classmates and eventually the only living thing that TRULY appreciated him…

He took a deep breath. In, and out. Mycroft's lessons from when Sherlock was 13 kicked in – "Shut off your heart. Numb your feelings. Emotion only gets in the way of logic." Get a grip, he told himself. Caring is not an advantage.

He could delete the memories. He'd always been able to, but had never chosen to. Just one thought and they'd slip away from him, darting away faster than quicksilver fish swimming downstream, crumbling to dust. He was going to do it. He was going to let go. And when he was on the verge of releasing the memories – for they wanted to leave, yes, they struggled like kites on a windy day; the only thing holding them in place was Sherlock's willpower – when he was on the verge of releasing them, an image popped into his head.

John. His… friend. The noun came into his mind tentatively whenever he thought of John. After all, who was the only one who stuck by him, stuck up for him, didn't think he was a psychopath or a high-functioning sociopath, and agreed to come on every case with him? Wasn't that what friends did? And maybe… if he could have a friend, he wasn't entirely the monster he believed himself to be. It had always been his firm belief that other people could see you better than you could, maybe because you only saw yourself in reflections.

He wasn't sure about anything, except maybe that he wasn't going to let the memories go. He hadn't changed for the better, but his life wasn't finished changing yet. It wasn't good to let your old demons haunt you, but your past experiences were among the few things that could shape you as a person.

A few footsteps sounded on the stairs. The space between the treads and the weight told him it was John. The door creaked open and Sherlock removed his hands from his face, opening his eyes. He glanced down at the stuffed dog clutched in his fingers, and slowly opened his hand, letting it fall softly onto the carpet. The problems of his past were long gone, but the memories would stay with him.

John stood in the doorway, holding one small shopping bag and looking utterly exhausted. "That was a complete snooze," John said, striding in and dropping his keys and wallet on the table. "She didn't get half the stuff she wanted to get and bought pretty much everything that wasn't on the list."

Sherlock had concluded as much, but he let John babble. He stood, crossing over to the window and folded his hands behind his back, looking down at the small crowd of Christmas shoppers and pedestrians milling around on the sidewalk.

"– and I was thinking, 'Jeanette, is your great-aunt really going to use this blender?' After all, the old woman is – hey."

Sherlock turned around. "You know I wasn't listening," he said unabashedly.

John's lips twitched into a quick smile. "I guessed so." He took a seat in his armchair, his eyes focusing on the toy on the carpet. He reached over and picked it up, glancing up at Sherlock. "What's this?"

It was at least half a minute before Sherlock answered. "Just something a client left behind."

John nodded, and placed the dog on the table beside him. He frowned up at Sherlock. "You… alright? You're a bit pale."

Sherlock sucked in some air. "Bored," he decided to say. "There aren't any murders, John!"

"Something will turn up," John said a little absently.

The room fell into a comfortable silence as John began to read one of the many newspapers stacked haphazardly next to him. Sherlock turned back to the window, focusing not on the people below him, but on the sky above. It was the gray area between sunset and twilight, but unlike the muted gray in his memories, this was a sort of soft gray, a gradient color that wasn't this or that, but an in-between. Deep blue high above faded gradually into purple and pink, which descended into orange. A yellow glow illuminated the skyline, like a fire burning far, far away.

He supposed, it could be called beautiful.

Yay! I finally finished it! It was honestly almost all written at very late times (or just very early times depending on how you want to look at it) while everyone else thought I was asleep but nope I was writing this and blasting Fall Out Boy through my headphones.

Hope you enjoyed that, and thanks so much for taking the time to read it. It would mean so much to me if you could leave a quick review (all feedback is appreciated, and if you have an account, I will respond to your review). Have a nice day :)