AN: Wow – I am so, so, very sorry about the ridiculous lapse in updates. I'll be amazed if there are any readers out there who are still interested in this. God I need to be more consistent in my writing. In my defense I recently started watching SPN and Sam, Cas and Dean have taken over my brain...

I own nothing

John never bothered imagining Sherlock as a child. He'd tried once, when something was said by Mycroft about him wanting to be a pirate, but somehow he couldn't correlate the six foot of sass he knew to a curly headed child whirling a plastic sword about.

He'd simply given up on it after a few moments and decided that Sherlock is just one of those people who seem to have sprung from the ground, full-grown. Ridiculous of course, he's a doctor and he knows this, but it doesn't help his mind create a picture of a seven year old Sherlock.

Now he realizes though, looking at the photographs that he wouldn't have gotten it right anyway, even if he had managed some successful visualization. If he'd imagined Sherlock as a child it simply would've been a miniature version of the one he knew. A haughty and serious child with piercing eyes and impeccable clothes. Not so.

The first photo in the album is one of Sherlock when he appears to be about three years old. He's dressed in a bright blue outfit with a ridiculous looking puppy on the front. His head is covered with erratic dark curls and he's laughing as he sits on the floor of what appears to be the library, surrounded by a book with its pages ripped out. He has a bunch of pages crushed in a tiny fist and appears to be waving them about in pride.

"Taken by my mother when I was three and a half." Sherlock narrates, as John bursts into a chuckle.

"Did you disagree with the author or something?" John asks with a fond smile.

Sherlock snorts and says "I don't recall why I destroyed the book. I don't even comprehend why mummy thought it necessary to photograph me. It was on her books I believe; I'm surprised she didn't scold me instead."

John just shakes his head and says "Maybe she didn't want to discourage your curiosity?"

Sherlock flips the page and says "It's irrelevant." In a tone that suggests it's the end of the conversation. John realizes he's still a tad sensitive on the issue of mummy, probably feeling a chip in his armor after telling John about her. So John lets it pass.

They flip through Sherlock's early years at a fairly quick pace. Sherlock narrates with what he deems relevant information. His age at the time, who took the photo and such. Often John has to press for the actual story behind the picture. It was a bit like pulling teeth, but worth every moment.

When they reached a picture of Sherlock's seventh Halloween John nearly fell on his arse, he was laughing so hard. "I - Oh god -you - you were a policeman?!" he manages through his hysterics.

And yes, he was. The picture shows Sherlock dressed in black with a plastic hat, proudly displaying a fake badge and attempting to look intimidating. Or at least that what's John assumed, either that or he'd eaten something sour. Or maybe Mycroft was behind the camera.

Sherlock purses his lips slightly in distaste and flips the page without a word. "No, no. Hang on." John says, trying to wrestle the album from his hand "We're taking that home. I wanna show it to Lestrade."

Sherlock wrenches it from his grip and warns with vitriol "Do so and it will be your murder that they investigate next"

John laughs at the death glare he receives, but relents, though he's unable to resist adding "So you actually respected the Met once? Actually admired them? The things you learn about a bloke..."

Sherlock snorts and retorts "I was young and naive." With a petulant edge to his voice.

John grins and inquires "Where you a pirate one year as well?" grabbing for the album again to search for evidence of it.

Sherlock yanks it forcibly back and says "Yes. When I was nine. And no, there aren't any pictures because mummy's camera was broken. Thank god for technological failures."

John fixes him with a dubious expression and says "I don't believe you. I'd bet anything there's a picture of it somewhere in there."

"No there isn't. If I was going to lie to you about it I simply would've denied ever dressing as a pirate. I don't deceive people unless it's necessary." Sherlock argues, flipping decisively to the next page.

John snorts at that and has a retort on the tip of his tongue about Sherlock being full of it when he sees the next picture, which renders him silent.

It's a photo of a nine year old Sherlock asleep on a carpeted floor, a small pile of books beside him and a large tabby cat curled up on his chest. What stills John's tongue though is the look of utter contentment on Sherlock's face and the way he has one arm draped possessively over the feline on his stomach.

Sherlock's eyes linger briefly on the picture and John swears a small smile quirks the edge of his mouth for a brief moment, as if recalling a fond memory. It's not an expression John sees often on Sherlock.

When he regains the power of speech he murmurs "I never knew you had a cat." John expects sarcastic retort, something along the lines of "You never asked" or " Why would such information be relevant to you?"

However it must be a bit of his past he doesn't mind sharing because instead Sherlock says "His name was Francis. I named him after Francis Camp, a pathologist who worked on the case of the serial killer, John Christie."

John snorts and mutters "Pleasant" but Sherlock pays no attention to it. His head is tilted and he's studying the picture as if trying to connect more data to it.

"I found him on day when I was out in the back area of the garden. He was filthy, covered in mud and had numerous scrapes, I assume he'd been in a fight shortly before. I was studying basic first aid at the time so I took him in as my first patient." Sherlock explains.

John suspects that the first aid was only part of the reason Sherlock took pity on the cat. He finds it more likely that young Sherlock saw the cat as a chance for a friend, as many children do when it comes to pets. But he says nothing and letting his silence prompt Sherlock to share more.

"Mummy seemed thrilled when I brought him in. We'd never had pets before but I discovered she's very fond of cats. She told me that he was my responsibility and gave me the first aid kit. I took him up to my room and cleaned him up as best I could. Within a few weeks he was healed, had gained weight and was following me around like a dog."

John grins and says "You made yourself a friend, then?" He's imaging the large tabby trailing Sherlock through the house, or curling up next to him in the library, sharing ice-cream, the sort of things most kids do with their pets.

"Friend?" Sherlock questions rhetorically "Not quite. He could be rather troublesome at times. Had the vexing habit of trying to lay on my paper when I was writing and he was constantly knocking my beakers off the table and ruined at least a dozen slides a month by trying to turn them into toys." Sherlock explains with exasperation, but there's a barely contained hint of fondness to his tone as he speaks.

"Yeah well I had a dog once that ripped apart my entire comic book collection so consider yourself lucky" John retorts with a chuckle.

Sherlock spears John with a side glance that speaks of his distaste at the idea of a comic book collection, but he says nothing on the matter. Instead he says "Lucky for Francis he was a proficient hunter. He often brought me specimens to dissect. Frog, mice and the occasion pigeon. Rather useful."

John isn't sure if he should cringe at Sherlock's childhood activities or laugh at the unusual relationship he had with the tabby. Instead he rolls his eyes at Sherlock's pretense of dispassion towards the cat and says "You loved that cat, didn't you? Specimens or not you'd never have gotten rid of him"

Sherlock shrugs neutrally, but doesn't protest, which John takes as agreement. "So what happened to him" John asks after a moment of silence.

Sherlock flipped the page before answering coolly "Run over by a car two years after that picture was taken. He was killed instantly."

John swears under his breath and mutters "Oh, Christ..." He's seen enough road kill to know the sort of affect it must've had on child, even Sherlock.

But Sherlock refuses to let him pursue that matter, already moving on into his early teen years, which are filled with pictures of him holding various academic wards while wearing various bored expressions.

The album ends abruptly with a picture of Sherlock and Mycroft in the garden, dressed in formal wear and smiling coldly at the camera. It's obvious they're displeased with the physical closeness of the other and John wonders how mummy managed to talk them into that particular picture.

"Mycroft's birthday" Sherlock mutters dismissively, before snapping the album shut. "And then, as you know, I ran off to Uni."

John was about to say something, though he's not sure what exactly, just something to break the odd tension that has slowly built as he's explored Sherlock's past, but he doesn't get a chance.

Sherlock's phone rings sharply and Sherlock practically leaps from the bed, snatching it from his pocket, saying "Lestrade" with something akin to relief in his voice.

"Barely gone two days and you already require my assistance?" Sherlock says in lieu of a greeting.

John doesn't need to hear the response from the other end of the line to know that it's something equally acerbic. Knowing Sherlock will be distracted for a bit he decides to catch up on a bit of sleep and stretches out on the bed with a soft sigh.

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KP