Sherlock 1. Chapter 1: John

When John H. Watson was seven years old, his home was a sanctuary. It was a modest little house right smack in the middle of a long street of other homes. His mother kept a neat, trimmed garden at the front and nice lacy curtains in the windows. His father kept the lush grass in the yard clipped and made sure it thrived. There was always a familiar car in the smooth black driveway, and the red tiles led up to the same house they always had.

John had lived in the same house his whole life. It was comforting, it was familiar, it was safe. Jokes were shared, stories told, hugs exchanged and kisses placed. Food cooked and people hummed. There was always a comfortable buzz going on that made John feel happy.

When John H. Watson was eight years old, his home balanced between heaven and hell. The peaceful equilibrium of the four people living inside was slowly tipping; the one pushing it over was teenaged Harriet. One day John came home after an exciting day at school to a loud and angry household. As soon as he opened the door he could tell things were not right; the air seemed grey and heated with anger. Mother and Harriet were having a row. Harriet said something awful and Mother had started to cry. The two stopped yelling briefly to notice little John in the doorway. He quickly ran up to his room, locked himself in his closet, and cried loud enough to drown out the action downstairs.

After that, John H. Watson's home quickly turned into a hell hole. The only thing John's parents ever seemed to care about was the clothes Harry wore, how much makeup she put on, why she smelt of alcohol, who were those people she was hanging around with, and how girls were not supposed to kiss other girls. No matter what room John hid himself in, he could always hear the echoes of the others yelling and saying awful things to each other. He took comfort in plugging his ears tightly and telling himself it wasn't true, Harry doesn't hate Mum and Dad, no one's a disgrace to the family, and none of them displeased God.

John H. Watson gravitated around his home, though. He knew of nowhere else to go but there. He voluntarily walked right into the pit and locked himself in there every day, because he wasn't wanted anywhere else. He dreaded being alone and disregarded by his family as they fought with each other. So John rejoiced. He found an old radio in the garage and plugged it in beside his bed. He played the music very loud, loud enough to drown out the commotion downstairs. He often listened to the Beatles because their songs were about loving each other and being happy. John also stayed after school to visit the school's library. Everyday he brought home a stack of books, so once in the privacy of his own bedroom, he could plunge into another story about witches and dragons and brave knights who were loved and respected by all for their noble deeds. He loved losing himself in magical forests and haunted castles and Narnia and Middle Earth and Neverland. He drew pictures of his favourite characters while he belted out the chorus to Hey Jude. He stayed up past his bedtime with a light under the covers, too caught up in an exciting plot to go to sleep. John H. Watson had found a way to cope.

But one day, nine and a half year old John Watson was looking out his bedroom window into the backyard, a horrible churning feeling in his stomach. Mother had been cleaning and found something bad in Harry's room. Father ordered John upstairs and the yelling started again. John obeyed and sat with his elbows on the windowsill, watching the wind blow through the bare trees outside. It had finally dawned upon John Watson that he was, in fact, lonely. Books and music weren't as comforting as they used to be, especially when one had read the whole kid's section at the library and heard every Beatles song over and over. On that cold and wet November day, John felt an unfamiliar pain inside. He longed for someone to come and talk to him, to hug him and smooth his hair; to ask why he looked so sad and why he didn't eat as much as he should be eating. Then he would gladly pour his heart out to aforementioned person about his family and all of his problems. Hell, he wouldn't even mind his mother coming up to nag him to drink his milk or clean his room; anything to reassure John that he had not been completely forgotten. But alas, his parents seemed to be caught up with Harry and Harry seemed to be busy with her own life, leaving no one left for John.

Little John let out a deep sigh, and rested his chin in his hands. He shut his eyes very very tightly and wished as hard as he could, over and over, for a friend. Someone his own age, someone who could relate to his rubbish home life, someone to help take him away from it all. He wished as hard as he could; squeezing his eyes shut so tightly that tears poured out of the corners and down his face.

I need a friend.


	2. Chapter 2: Sherlock

When Sherlock S. Holmes was seven years old, he had come to the fateful decision that everyone around him was an idiot. The first indication was his mother, Grace. She was overly dramatic and self conscious. She spent her days on the couch pitying herself or fawning over French clothing catalogues or artwork to furnish the estate. She was constantly painting her face, fussing over her outfits and wailing over how she needed to loose a few pounds, despite her already bony figure. Why couldn't she just shut up about how she looks and focus on other things? Why couldn't she just grow a spine and think for herself instead of relying on others all the time?

Another indication was his father. The tall, dark, and intimidating man locked himself up in his study all day, claiming to be awfully caught up with his important government work, though it was painfully obvious that he was busy secretly courting his secretary whom he had several affairs with when he was on 'business' trips. It irked Sherlock to think that his father thought he had covered up his tracks well, but Sherlock could point out all the obvious signs. Wasn't he aware that his son(s) could figure it out? Shouldn't he have been more careful, realizing the damage it could do to his family? Well, the man could use all the help that he could. He acted much too assertive around Grace, showering her with expensive gifts and whispering sweet little nothings to her and giving her permission to go anywhere she pleased. Sherlock thought his parents were idiots for not being able to see the signs of their failing marriage, and they were idiots for not knowing how to love each other properly.

Another indication of idiocy was his brother, Mycroft. Mycroft was constantly showing off his fresh new stacks of books that he proudly carried home every day. He flaunted whatever he had learnt in school, in that stupid charismatic and charming way he always did. He even impressed Grace and Father with his impeccable Latin, rolling the letters perfectly and speaking in flowing and poetic phrases. Then he always smiled that stupid smile as Grace and his Father praised and cooed over him, saying things like how smart he was, how proud he made them, and what a respectable and intelligent young man he was becoming. Of course, Sherlock was always there when it happened. Sherlock knew Latin too. He studied from Mycroft's books when he wasn't home.

"Mater, intuemini absolute dilécta hac nocte." Mycroft drawled, and Grace giggled.

"Stultus vacca," Sherlock muttered angrily under his breath, ignoring the sharp glare Mycroft shot him across the dinner table.

The only one in the line of blood who wasn't an idiot was Grandmère. She visited from France every month or two, bustling in through the front foyer with worn bags and cases, stamped with stickers from all around the world. She always gave everyone a big kiss on the cheek in order from oldest to youngest, but little Sherlock could have sworn she saved the biggest one for last. He especially liked Grandmère because she didn't fuss over Mycroft. Of course, she still applauded his intellect and responded with a few quick phrases of Latin, but she did something that no one else seemed to do anymore, and that was pay attention to Sherlock.

Grandmère listened. She sat with Sherlock in the parlor or the library, with a steaming cup of tea, and Sherlock would talk. He'd tell her everything he had taught himself, all the books he read since she last visited, and Grandmère would listen intently, nodding and smiling when applicable. Most importantly, when Sherlock told her about his fascination with the human body and medical science and crime solving, she encouraged him. She didn't sigh like Father, turn pale like Grace, or frown and tut like Mycroft. Grandmère told Sherlock that he was exceptionally smart and if he wanted to poke dead bodies for a living, he could surely do it. Then she'd lean over and kiss his head, slip him a golden wrapped French sweet and trot off. She was Sherlock's favourite person in the world.

When Sherlock S. Holmes was eight years old, he locked himself away in his bedroom. He felt that simply being away from the painfully boring life with the others downstairs relieved a significant amount of stress. He busied himself with drilling into books, learning about the fascinating world of science, history, language, civilization, art, literature, and psychology.

"What were you doing in your room all day, dear?" Grace asked one evening at dinner, pushing her steak around with her dainty fork.

Sherlock replied eagerly. "I was reading about rigor mortis. Did you know that it lasts around 24 hours until the body really starts decomposing?"

"Not at the table, Sherlock." his father groaned, and Mycroft nodded in agreement.

"But it's fascinating, though!" Sherlock tried, but it was no use. Grace claimed to have an onset of a migraine and left the table early, and father went back to the study. Sherlock left Mycroft at the table alone. He'd probably stuff his fat face with everyone's leftovers now that they were gone. With an empty tummy and a gnawing feeling in his chest, Sherlock stomped upstairs and chose a historic biography to read before the tears of pent up frustration set in.

Nearing Sherlock's ninth birthday, he developed a fascination with dead things. It wasn't anything morbid or relating to any unresolved psychological issues; he just found it interesting. He scooped out dead frogs and fish from the pond in his backyard and examined them, tested the facts he learnt about rigor mortis, and identified the internal organs each time until he got them all right without using his book. This, of course, made Grace gasp and turn pale, then burst into tears. His father scolded him for upsetting his mother and gave the usual, "Mycroft would never do such a thing, why can't you be like him?" spiel. And Mycroft delivered the final blow, scolding him for being a pest and tracking mud and fish guts into the house. Sherlock stomped upstairs and plucked a psychology book from his shelf and jumped right in, trying to read through the blur of tears.

On Sherlock's ninth birthday, none of his extended family members could visit. He had no friends other than the neighbor whom he had talked to twice, but she wasn't acquainted enough with the Holmes family to visit. So his parents and brother crowded around Sherlock's seat at the long dining room table and lit the candle on a large red velvet cupcake, and sang to him. Father looked happy as he sang; his baritone voice hit the notes perfectly. Mycroft tried but his voice cracked, and his face went red as he mumbled along. Yet there was still a secret smile there. Even Grace looked happy and youthful, smiling proudly at her youngest son. Sherlock blew out the candle and she kissed him on the cheek, and placed a luxuriously wrapped present in front of him. It was a modest sized box covered with shiny gold paper and a large red bow on top. Sherlock's face lit up as he imagined what could possibly be inside.

Sherlock hadn't gotten a chance to open the present, though. The phone rang promptly, informing the Holmes family that beloved Grandmère had had a stroke and died. The earth's axis tilted and in a trance, Sherlock stood up and walked out of the estate, found the biggest tree in the backyard, climbed as high as he could, sat, and cried. He had never climbed a tree in his life, nor knew what possessed him to do so. But he stayed up until it got dark and started to rain, and he cried so hard that his head throbbed and his stomach growled and his knees were weak and he didn't know how to get down and he was stuck until Mycroft came and helped him down.

Following his ninth birthday, Sherlock was enrolled in boarding school. His parents hastily packed up his belongings and sent him away. Sherlock still had a hollow feeling deep inside, and it remained there for a long time after. As he took the train into this foreign city, he unknowingly walked into a trap of torment. The other boys at the school mocked and teased him, degraded him with mean language and ripped his books and worksheets. Sherlock wound up in the dean's office every other evening. He cried himself to sleep every night in the unwelcoming starchy white sheets of his cot bed. He missed home and wanted to leave this hell hole. He wanted Grandmère back. No one in this world understood him like she did, nor did anyone love him as much as she did. Sherlock wondered if his parents even loved him at all. They wouldn't have sent him away if they did.

Sherlock was struck with a crippling loneliness, though he'd never admit it. He longed for his parent's love, his brother's acceptance, but most importantly, a friend. He ached for one of the other boys his age to include him in a game or a conversation. But whenever they declined his attempt to socialize, Sherlock turned a shade colder inside, slewed a few nasty things about them in front of everyone, and then stalked off. He didn't need anyone. Other people were idiots and thus unimportant to Sherlock. He stopped replying to his family's letters and shut himself off from the world, throwing himself into his studies. He didn't need them. He didn't need anyone. Everyone was mean and stupid and Sherlock was smart, smarter than all of them. He'd probably be even smarter than Mycroft by now. When Sherlock would visit them at Christmas he'd carry in all the thick books he was reading and greet his parents in fluent Latin, then give them a report on his latest study. They'd be so impressed and maybe see how boarding school was destroying him emotionally, and promptly remove him from the program. And if all went well, his wish on his birthday candle would come true and a friend would magically come into his life.

Because above it all, he just needed a friend.


End file.
