WARNINGS: Death and horribleness – sorry again :/ (maybe it will become happier with time)

And yeah, obviously they're not mine :)

Sherlock

When Sherlock is nine years old, Mycroft leaves home. As a child prodigy (as his teachers insist on calling him) he is immediately offered a place at Cambridge University (though he quickly abandons this in favour of a career in politics).

Sherlock does not go to the train station to wave goodbye to his brother. His mother thinks it is because the two brothers have had an argument.

They have, but not the kind she had supposed. The night before Mycroft's departure Sherlock begs Mycroft to take him away with him, but Mycroft says no. Mycroft is grown-up and mature and practical, and he doesn't need his skinny, curly, socially inept brother blighting his future career prospects.

So Mycroft leaves, and Sherlock refuses to mention him for the best part of a year.

Life goes on. School is tolerable (barely), though home is worse. Of course, Sherlock is always a target for the crude playground bullies, and every now and again he will return home with a fresh bruise or graze. However, his peers mostly ignore him, intimidated by some indefinable superiority that haunted the small, skinny boy, with his pale face and intense, frightening eyes. Sometimes Sherlock thinks he even preferred their hatred and contempt to their indifference.

He quickly realises that he has an insatiable longing for praise and recognition, something that few provide him with. His chemistry teacher is the only member of staff who praises him, and so he excels in her classes. He fails French purposefully because the teacher dislikes him, despite being nearly fluent. He manipulates and he deceives – he can be charming when he wishes, or malevolent if it serves his purposes better.

So utter is his determination to convince the world that he is inhuman, that he begins to believe it himself.

Only when he is curled up in his bed, eyes clenched tight, does he allow himself to crave human contact – warm arms about him, soft fingers tending the grazes on his thin body.

He dreams of darkness, of utter black that sweeps across the sky until the stars are extinguished. He dreams of screaming and screaming, though no one can hear him. He dreams of those gentle arms encircling him, bathing him in their warmth. Those are his favourites, the ones he wishes could continue forever when he wakes in the cold loneliness of his bed to the bleakness of another school day, or, worse, a weekend. But he tries to brush the thoughts away, because he knows he has to be strong, for mother, and because he is Sherlock Holmes and he is a freak, he knows so, and freaks don't feel.

He finds the word "sociopath" in the dictionary, and uses it to impress and frighten his classmates. Soon, he finds the symptoms of it in his father's huge, dusty textbooks, when he sneaks downstairs at night with his torch, because the darkness of his room is too much. He adopts the correct mannerisms – the book becomes his Bible. He knows that to survive he must become a cold, hard shell. He must not care about anyone or anything.

There is one chink in his armour, one gap that he cannot close. His mother is ill more than she is well, nowadays, but he doesn't care, because now he loves her more than oxygen. They play together, in the tangled sunlight of autumn afternoons, when Sherlock places her in her chair and wheels her to the piano. Shapes and colours and orange-crimson leaves move and shift, and she fades until she is as colourless as the house and the old sketches she used to draw. Sherlock remembers her laughter, and imagines it when it doesn't come, even as her dazed fingers slip from the keys as she plays. Father shouts at her and calls her a madwoman, and Sherlock hides beneath his bed and holds his hands over his ears to block out the sound.

John, aged 7

John dreams of pirates and explorers, of dragons and sea-serpents, of heroes and villains, of excitement and triumph. When he dreams, he is the brave adventurer trekking across mountains, or sailing across the sea, or defeating monsters. His dreams are a kaleidoscope of colours that his regular life cannot supply.

When he wakes, he always feels vaguely disappointed. But he doesn't mind that much if his life is rather mundane – after all, he doesn't have anything to compare it with. He is popular at school, and he is good at football. He's reasonably bright and very hard-working, rather than particularly gifted, but his steady, methodical approach and conscientious attitude earns him quiet approval from his teachers.

Sometimes he tries to act out his dreams, balanced on the old, rusty wheelbarrow falling to pieces in the garden. He makes himself a sword (or a gun, it depends where his adventure is taking place) from an old bamboo cane Mum used to use to prop up the sweet peas, and kills the imagined monsters hiding in the tangle of brambles near the falling-apart garden shed. Sometimes, Harry comes and joins in. He likes that. Sometimes she's the captain of the sailing ship, or the head of the tribe of Indians (they smear blackberry juice on their cheeks for war paint), or sometimes she's the villain, and they duel with the bamboo canes.

But then Harry makes new friends, and she doesn't play with John any more, and once when he asks her to play when her friends are there, she laughs and calls him stupid and breaks the bamboo cane in half.

Sherlock

One day, Mummy gets a letter. Mycroft seldom remembers to write to them, and he visits even more rarely, but, despite himself, Sherlock likes to curl up on Mummy's bed and listen to her read them aloud. It makes him feel as though his brother is a little closer to him.

One day, a letter comes, and Mummy doesn't read it aloud. She reads it again, and then again (Sherlock can see her eyes flickering up and down the page), and then turns to Sherlock and tells him to pack a bag. Sherlock is confused, so she bends and whispers to him that Mycroft is coming to get them, and they are going to live with him.

Sherlock is mildly interested, until Mummy leans very close, and tells him that he mustn't tell Father. It is then that Sherlock realises that Father isn't coming with them, and he is almost delirious with happiness. He can forgive Mycroft all his faults, forget the years of being ignored – he wants more than anything to fly into his brother's arms, and stay with him and Mummy.

He packs his bag, secretly. Mummy says that they must get a taxi to the train station on the next day, and that then when they get to London, Mycroft will come to meet them.

When he has finished packing, he hides his suitcase under the bed and goes to help Mummy pack her case. He fingers fumble, and she finds it hard to do up the buckle.

He goes to bed early, his stomach churning. That night, his dreams are terrifying. He imagines that they make it to London, and Mycroft comes to meet the, except that when he holds out his arms to Sherlock, his face changes into Father's. He is laughing and Sherlock tries to run, but he can't, screaming in terror.

When he wakes that morning it is cold and the pale light has filtered only dimly in through the curtains of his room. He goes downstairs, the cold stone unpleasant on his feet. The table is laid for breakfast, with bread and toast and even the remainder big ham that they had for dinner yesterday, with the carving knife ready. He snatches a piece of bread and a glass of water. His heart is thudding hard with excitement. He knows that they have to wait for Father to leave for work, and then they can go. Then they can be free.

He hears the sharp snap of Father's voice, heavy footsteps on the stairs, and then the front door slams shut. Then comes the slow creak of Mummy's door. "Sherlock? Sherlock?" Her voice is quiet, cautious, weak.

He runs upstairs, and hugs her. They can't hug when Father is there, because Father doesn't approve of hugging. Her body is cold and fragile in her nightgown, her face pale and drawn. Her body is so thin and light (like his) that he's afraid she will break.

She kisses his head, and asks him if he has everything ready. He nods. She tells him to get dressed, and when he returns, she has changed – dressed in a pale pink dress she used to wear on evenings out, when she was well enough to go out. She turns back to Sherlock, and he sees that she has opened the safe behind her and Father's bed. She is holding a huge chunk of notes, and a pearl necklace that Sherlock knows used to belong to his grandmother. She puts all of it in the little handbag she has with her. She smiles her tired, wan smile, and asks him if he has packed his violin. He knows there is no need to ask, but nods anyway.

"It's a shame we can't bring the piano," she says, and she laughs feebly at her own joke. Sherlock laughs too, because everything is going to be all right, and they are going to stay with Mycroft, and Father will never hit him again.

She says that the taxi is arriving in an hour, so they have an hour to check they haven't left anything behind. They lug the suitcases down the stairs – Mummy's is too heavy for her and she drops it, and it tumbles loudly to the bottom, but the straps hold firm. Mummy makes it down the stairs and sits down on a chair to rest for a moment. He sits beside her, willing to wait until she is ready.

And then they both here it – the sound of the crunching of gravel on the driveway. For a beautiful moment, Sherlock thinks it is the taxi, come early.

Then he sees the terror on Mummy's face, and realises the truth.

She looks down at the cases at the bottom of the stairs, and then at her old handbag, bulging with money. He knows they are thinking the same thing – there will be no escape, no lying their way out of this, no second chances.

She reaches for the phone and dials a number. Sherlock watches, frozen with terror. She says, "Police, please," and gives the address. She puts the phone down, and her eyes meet Sherlock's. They both know that they can't both make it up the stairs in time, that she's too slow, that if Sherlock tries to help her, neither of them will make it.

"Go," she says, as they hear the crunching of footsteps coming up to the front door. "Go. Now. Don't come out."

He hesitates for a moment. "But…"

"Please. For me."

One more look, and then he runs up the stairs as fast as his legs can carry him. He considers his bedroom, but goes for Mycroft's old room instead, because it's nearer, and there's a vain, panicked hope in his mind that somehow Mycroft will help him. He flings himself under the bed, and lies there, hearing the wheeze of his panicked lungs and the terrible throbbing of his heart.

He doesn't see the moment when the door slams open, and Father strides in. He doesn't see the expression on his face when he sees the suitcases, or the fear that fills Mummy's face.

Not seeing it makes it a thousand times worse.

"What the hell is going on here?" he hears Father ask, and his voice isn't even angry. It is quiet and calm, and terrifying, because when Father is quiet, it means that he's about to be very very angry. Like the calm before the storm, Mummy says.

"Sherlock and I… We were… Only playing a game… He was bored…"

Mummy's voice is frail and trembling, and Sherlock hates himself for not moving, for not daring to move, but he can't, he can't, he can't – Mummy said…

"Where the fuck did you think you were going to go?" Father snarls, the anger rising up in him like a tsunami, and he hears a slap, and a thud, and a weak cry. He wants to go and help, but his legs are shaking so hard that he doesn't think that he could get up. "Did you really think you could leave me?"

He can hear Mummy whispering an answer, but then there is another slap and another cry.

"Tell me the truth!"

Sherlock's heart is beating so hard that he can barely hear the words. He puts his hands over his ears. He can still hear the shouting, but it's muffled, as if he is underwater. He tries to remember the melody of the sonata he and Mother were playing the other day, but the notes slip from his mind.

Father's shouting has increases in volume – a dull blur of noise that his mind tries not to take in.

And then the screaming starts, except it's not in his head this time, it's real. He pushes his hands against his ears so hard that it hurts, trying desperately to block it out, but it goes on and on and on.

And then it stops, and suddenly there is silence, and Sherlock's heart is pounding painfully in his chest, and his breathing seems deafening to his ears.

There is a dull clatter from downstairs, and then he hears footsteps on the stairs. Heavy footsteps, coming for him. He wants to cry, to yell out in terror, but forces himself to keep quiet. That's his only hope now.

Footsteps, and he can see him, from beneath the bed, see his brown shoes on the landing. He can hear his heavy breathing, and the anger in his steps. His steps are slow and cautious. He is hunting, searching out Sherlock like a predator, ready to pounce and rip and tear, like an owl seizing a mouse. Sherlock imagines his eyes, staring, bloodshot, furious.

"Where are you?" he hears his father breathe. "Where are you?"

Please not here, please not here, please not here…

Footsteps, and for a terrifying moment, Sherlock thinks they are coming towards him, towards his hiding place, and he knows that this is it, that this will be the worst beating of his life, that nothing can save him.

Then the brown shoes hesitate, and head towards Sherlock's room. Slow, steady, careful. He hears the door being pushed open. Sherlock's heart rate increases still further, because he knows that if he wants to escape, he has to do so now. He has a few seconds, that's all, before his father realises that he's not under his bed.

On three. One, two…

He rolls out from under Mycroft's bed and leaps across the landing, slamming the door of his room shut and sliding the bolt home before Father knows what has happened. There is still a terrible, desperate hope that they can get away – that they can get in Father's car and drive to the station. Even now, they can still escape.

He runs down the stairs, tripping, stumbling, three at a time. And then he gets to the bottom of the stairs, and stops dead.

He hears Father's snarl, and his mind is begging him to run, but his legs have stopped moving.

For a moment his brain won't work. There is blood, so much blood, soaking into the expensive rug, matted in Mummy's hair, staining her pale pink evening dress. She is slumped on the floor beside the dining table, and her eyes are staring-open, and the knife Father used to cut the ham yesterday is protruding from her stomach, and sticky clots of red drip from the handle.

Sherlock cannot move, cannot speak, cannot think, and then he hears Father cursing and slamming his body into his bedroom door, and knows that it won't be long before the bolt goes.

He runs to Mummy, and tries to pull her with him, but her body is a dead weight and she isn't moving and he can't breathe, and then there is a crash from upstairs as Father breaks through the door.

Author's Note: If you've read any of my other Sherlock stories, you'll know already that I always write the same kind of background for him with regards to his parents and stuff. Call me unoriginal, but that's just what I imagine happened, and it's kind of hard for me to deviate from that :) Hope you... liked it, if such a horrible concept can be liked, and please please please drop me a little review if you have the time – tell me any bits you liked! xxx