fic: For you I bleed myself dry (1/2)
From a very young age, quite nearly as soon as he is able to walk and talk and understand the world around him, Sherlock knows he’s different from other children his age. All he has to do is look at the world around him and see for himself. Other children don’t have to stay home all day, left to an endless string of tutors and nannies, always within sight of Mummy. Other children don’t have to ask and plead and finally beg a dozen times before being allowed to go outside to play. No, other children get to go to school and have friends and go on trips to the pool and the park and the beach. Other children get to have fun. Sherlock is kept a prisoner in his own home.
Oh, it’s not so bad sometimes. Sometimes, when it’s rainy and gloomy and too damp to go out anyways, Sherlock explores all the little nooks and crannies of his house, the huge, sprawling estate that his parents keep him cooped up in. He finds all sorts of hiding places, the space under the stairs going up to Father’s study, the forgotten hall closet with all the pockets between unused boxes, the attic that everyone seems to have forgotten about above the room that’s been refitted to be his “playroom.” Sherlock seeks out these little spaces, places too small for anyone else to fit, where he can just sit and think and listen to the steady beat of the rain against the house.
On the days he hides away in the attic, Sherlock often likes to bring a book from the library in the west wing of the house (one Mummy takes pains to keep up to date, lest anyone run out of things to read), and he sits by the tiny window and reads by daylight until the sun winks below the horizon. He reads all sorts of things, learns far more than most children his age would even bother to think about, and he’s really very, very clever, teaching himself to read at the age most children are just learning how to walk and talk, not that his parents ever take the time to notice or anything (they’re often much more concerned with his brother, Mycroft). Sherlock reads about everything from beluga whales to black holes to the Roman Empire, taking in anything and everything he can, because the lessons his tutors have him do are so dull and uninteresting and Sherlock wants nothing more to escape, to run away to somewhere where no one will be able to find him and this is the closest he might ever get.
It forms something of a vicious cycle. The more Sherlock learns, the more he wants to explore the wonderful world outside of this estate, and in turn, the more he yearns to escape, while knowing he can’t, the more he reads of far-flung kingdoms and daring explorers and fierce pirates. Sherlock often reads more books in a week than most adults do in a month, or even a year. He builds up an appetite for anything new and fascinating, something that he knows can’t be sated if he is to stay in this one place his whole life.
“Why can’t I go out and play, Mummy?” Sherlock asks one day, when it’s bright and sunny and just begging for an adventure.
Mummy pauses in what she’s doing and places the newspaper down carefully. She smiles softly at Sherlock and pushes a stray curl out of his eyes.
“You’ve got such a big house, Sherlock,” she says reasonably. “Why on earth would you need to go anywhere else?”
“Other kids do,” Sherlock insists.
Mummy frowns. “What other kids, dear?” she asks, slightly less reasonably.
Sherlock shrugs. “I read about it in stories,” he says. “People go on adventures.”
Mummy smiles, but it’s noticeably less soft this time. “Adventures are dangerous, love,” she says. “You could get hurt. Run along now. Miss Hampton will be over for violin soon. Best get ready.”
Sherlock frowns and trudges off like Mummy asked, going to the sitting room and carefully taking his violin out of its case. Violin is, perhaps, the only thing he’s learning that he actually enjoys, though not during his lessons. Lessons are boring, but when they’re over and he peruses the library for yellowed sheets of music people have all but forgotten about, that’s wonderful. He likes to find quiet, private corners of the house where no one goes and plays violin to himself until his fingers hurt.
Sherlock is quiet and complacent for the next couple weeks after this conversation about adventures, which makes Mummy very happy, but he’s certainly not idle. He’s constantly thinking and waiting, patiently, and eventually, Mummy seems to forget about the conversation altogether. Sherlock makes sure to be on his best behavior, and the next time it’s sunny, he asks in his sweetest voice if he could possibly go outside to pick some flowers from the garden because he wants to decorate the house. He watches as a flash of indecision flickers across her face before she agrees, reminding him to stay in her sight. Sherlock promises that he will and eagerly runs outside.
He makes a show of plucking roses and azaleas and poppies for Mummy to see, slowly making his way around the garden, always keeping an eye trained on the window she’s watching him from. When she turns away for a moment to flick through the day’s mail, Sherlock seizes the opportunity. He tucks the flowers carefully into his coat pocket and runs over to a nearby tree, scrambling up as quickly as he can, up and up and up until his hidden completely from view by the generous leaves. He sits himself snugly on a wide branch, his back leaning against the sturdy tree trunk, and he spends hours whistling tunes he’s learned from books at birds and making crowns from tree leaves and the flowers he picked.
It’s not long before Mummy comes rushing outside, calling his name frantically as she searches the entire garden. When she can’t find him, she ducks back into the house and returns some time later with Father in tow, and the two of them continue their search, calling out his name over and over and over again into the calm springtime air. Sherlock weaves some more flowers into his crown of leaves. He doesn’t make a sound now, quietly hiding away, half-hoping that they’ll never find him, because this is the most free he’s felt in a long time, perched high above everything else, completely concealed from sight. He can almost imagine that he’s escaped his home entirely, that he’s left it all behind for good and nothing can reach him now.
Of course, they do find Sherlock eventually; the garden’s only so big, after all. His parents are furious as they pull him indoors and throw aside his carefully woven leaf crowns.
“What’s gotten into you, Sherlock?” Father shouts. “Why would you run off like that? Have you ever thought about how dangerous that could be?”
“Did you even think about your brother?” Mummy adds, just as angrily. “What do you think would have happened to him if you’d just disappeared and he needed you?”
Sherlock presses his lips together and stares at his parents until they’ve spent their store of anger. He waits patiently and blinks calmly at them, because he knows they can’t actually do much more than scream and shout and rant at him. Eventually, Mummy sends Sherlock off to his room with a weary shake of her head and Father gives Sherlock a look that informs him they’re not done talking about this.
Sherlock crawls into his bed and pulls the covers up over his head. He pulls his copy of Through The Looking-Glass out from under his pillow and curls up to read. Several hours later, he hears Mycroft come home from school, and warm cadences of laughter float up the stairs as his parents greet Mycroft and ask him about his day. Sherlock thinks about how his parents never squeal in delight at his own accomplishments (and there have been many, to be sure), how they only bother with him when he steps outside the boundaries that have been set for him.
And it’s then, at the fresh young age of six, that Sherlock understands that so long as he remains in this house, it will always be about his brother.
---
This is the story of what happened with Mycroft:
One of Sherlock’s earliest memories takes place in a hospital. He’s barely three years old and walking down a long, white hallway, his small, chubby hands clinging to his parents’ larger ones. They’re going to visit Mycroft today, his parents tell him, doesn’t that sound great? Sherlock asks if Mycroft will be coming home soon. Sherlock can’t remember a time when Mycroft has lived at home; he’s always at the hospital being checked up on by a variety of doctors and nurses, tubes pumping strange liquids into his body. Mycroft is ten years old, and he has been fighting acute leukemia for years now.
Sherlock’s very excited to see his brother. He hasn’t seen Mycroft in what feels like forever, and every time they go to visit Mycroft, he’s always so nice to Sherlock. Sometimes, he reads Sherlock stories, and other times they play pirates and pretend that Mycroft’s hospital bed is their pirate ship and that if they fall off, they’ll be gobbled up by sea monsters. Mummy always tells Sherlock not to wear Mycroft out, because Mycroft’s physical condition is rather weak, but Mycroft just laughs and tells Sherlock not to worry about it. Sherlock thinks Mycroft is the nicest person he’s ever met.
“Sherlock,” Mummy says to him. “Remember how we told you the doctors have a way to make Mycroft all better?”
Sherlock nods enthusiastically. Mummy smiles and bends to pick Sherlock up.
“The doctors need your help,” Mummy tells him, softly, like she’s confiding some great secret in him. “They’re going to take just a little bit of your bones to give to Mycroft, and you’ll be asleep the whole time and you won’t even feel it.”
“And then Mycroft can come home?” Sherlock asks.
Mummy grins and taps a fingertip to Sherlock’s nose. “And then Mycroft can come home,” she confirms. “How does that sound?”
Sherlock smiles and says that sounds great, and Mummy takes him to a room where the doctors will make him sleepy. By the time he wakes up, Mummy promises, it’ll all be done. The rest of the day is a blur of doctors and nurses and that one moment of terror when he sees the needle the doctors are going to use to inject the anesthesia into his body, but he’s soon unconscious and the next thing he knows, he’s waking up in a hospital bed and Father’s sitting in a chair next to him. He spends a good ten minutes just blinking at the ceiling, his eyes tired and heavy, before he regains enough consciousness to sit up.
Father smiles at Sherlock. “How are you feeling?” he asks.
“Where’s Mummy?” Sherlock asks instead of answering Father’s question. He looks around the room as if Mummy might be hiding somewhere out of sight. “Can I go see Mycroft?”
“Mummy’s just talking to the doctors,” Father says. “They’re going to make Mycroft better soon. We’ll come back in a few days and you can see him, alright?”
Sherlock nods and Father tells him to just relax for a while, because a nurse is going to have to come back and check on him before they’re allowed to leave. Sherlock wonders if Mycroft misses them.
About a week later, they go to visit Mycroft again, and Sherlock is impatient. He runs ahead of his parents down the hallway to where he knows Mycroft’s room is by now. Mummy makes him stop just as they reach Mycroft’s room and she reminds him sternly that Mycroft is still not completely better yet and Sherlock had better be on his best behavior. Sherlock promises, nodding enthusiastically, and Mummy opens the door.
Mycroft looks the same as ever, weary and tired and smiling softly at Sherlock as he rushes over to Mycroft’s bedside. Mycroft pats a spot on the hospital bed and Sherlock scrambles up beside his brother.
“Are you feeling better?” Sherlock asks, and he doesn’t like the way it feels like he’s always talking too loudly around his brother.
Mycroft smiles. “I will be,” he says.
“Promise?” Sherlock asks earnestly. He holds out his pinky finger.
Mycroft hooks his pinky around Sherlock’s and shakes firmly.
“I promise.”
---
By the time Sherlock is thirteen, he’s well aware of everything he’d been oblivious to as a child. He’s already figured out by now why he’s constantly kept under such close tabs, why his parents were so unreasonably upset with him that time he climbed a tree and didn’t come down. He understands why it was so important to be kept safe as a child, why Mummy was always worried about something happening to him. It was never for his own sake, but rather for Mycroft’s. Mycroft needed a bone marrow transplant. Sherlock was born to be the perfect match. Should anything happen to Mycroft again, should his cancer relapse, Sherlock would be needed again. And since that danger will never quite go away, Sherlock will always be on a short leash.
Not that his parents tell him any of this, of course not (they’re actually very discreet with it all, all things considered). Sherlock merely watches and listens and observes, carefully collecting data until he determines what he’s suspected for some time now: that his life is not his own; his life belongs to Mycroft. Sherlock doesn’t doubt that if Mummy ever had to choose between the two of them, Mycroft would win every time. He’s the son they wanted; Sherlock is simply the means of saving him.
Sherlock doesn’t talk to Mycroft as much now. It’s not that he blames Mycroft for anything that’s happened to him, not really anyways, because that would be foolish. But sometimes, watching the way his parents fawn over Mycroft, lavishing him with praise and attention while treating Sherlock with little more than a sort of superficial care, sometimes it’s hard to remember that Mycroft is really quite blameless. And slowly, slowly, Mycroft changes from the wonderful big brother who would tell him stories and play make-believe with him to someone Sherlock tries to avoid at all costs, because each time he sees Mycroft, he’s reminded of the sad truth of it all.
It’s not like Mycroft is any better around Sherlock, though. Even though Mycroft is away most of the year at university, he nonetheless very quickly notices Sherlock’s change in attitude towards him, even though Sherlock tries to hide it. Mycroft is too clever, probably even more so than Sherlock, and he notices everything and Sherlock can tell when Mycroft has figured out what Sherlock has discovered about his situation. Mycroft seems to be able to tell when their childhood fairytale world melts around them and he starts treating Sherlock differently too, more careful around him, forcing kindness that doesn’t come naturally. It’s unpleasant and uncomfortable, and Sherlock takes to ignoring Mycroft altogether instead of trying to face him, because he begins to think that maybe Mycroft doesn’t like him anymore now that he’s not small and manageable and lovable. Maybe Mycroft is no better than their parents.
Sherlock retreats inwards, spending an increasing amount of time either in the library reading everything he can get his hands on or out exploring the area around his house, taking long walks to town and sometimes not returning until very late. His parents put up a fuss every time he stays out too late and he returns home with his shoes all muddy and hair windswept and mussed, but Sherlock hardly even notices them anymore. Sherlock’s too big and feisty and has too many ideas for his parents to keep him in one place by now. He sometimes likes to bring some form of notebook with him on his excursions so he can make sketches of things he finds interesting and jot down things he notices, things he thinks up, things he wishes. After being confined to his house for the better part of his life, being able to go out and actually see the world around him is fascinating. He learns more in a day simply by watching than he did in a week by reading. This is when Sherlock begins to think that maybe, when he can, he’d like to leave this place forever, because now that he’s seen what’s out there, he doesn’t ever want to be trapped again.
---
Sherlock does end up leaving as soon as he can, running far away from his family in hopes of weakening their hold on him. He takes the first opportunity he can, secretly applying for university when his parents aren’t paying attention. He gets accepted to Cambridge and begins packing up his things to leave. He keeps his suitcases hidden in his closet where his parents won’t see, because he’s had conversations with them before about his future, and their vision for him has remained constant: that he will stay at here, isolated and alone, for the rest of his life.
And then, one day, when his parents are distracted by Mycroft coming home to visit over the summer from London, from his big important job with big important people, and his parents are so goddamn pleased about it all, that day Sherlock runs. While his parents are too focused on catching up with Mycroft to pay enough attention to Sherlock, Sherlock hefts his suitcases out of his closet, sticks the credit cards he picked off of Mycroft in his pocket, and calls a cab. He’s already outside waiting by the time the cab arrives at his house, and in a few hours, he’s stepping off the train in Cambridge.
Students have already begun to arrive on campus for the fall term when he arrives, so he’s able to find his dormitory relatively easily and as he sets his things down and takes a look around his room, he lets out a soft sigh. He wonders how long it will be until his parents come storming through the door, ready to drag him back home. He wonders how long it will be before he stops fearing their appearance at every turn, how long it will be until he’s truly free.
As expected, his parents find him within days, probably with a bit of help from Mycroft, who in turn has probably suspected Sherlock’s plans ever since he arrived home for his visit. They don’t stop calling him, don’t give him a moment’s peace, and he doesn’t give them the satisfaction of retaliating. He steadfastly ignores them every time they try to get in contact with him and makes himself scarce when they periodically come to Cambridge to try to talk him into coming home. Sherlock tells himself he’s being brave, but sometimes he’s not so sure. Sometimes he thinks he’s just doing what he’s been doing for his whole life, avoiding problems he doesn’t want to face.
Eventually, though, Sherlock’s parents seem to accept the fact that he’s not going to let them in and they give him more space. Sherlock notices sometimes, strange people watching him, carefully, sometimes jotting things down in notebooks or pretending to be interested in the book they’re reading. They should be nothing out of the ordinary, except for that he notices that these people watch him too closely, are too blatantly trying to look like they’re interested in anything but Sherlock. Sherlock thinks that perhaps all of these people work for Mycroft. He wouldn’t be surprised at all if that were the case.
In any event, whoever these people are, they don’t really bother Sherlock, never approach him, so he ignores them and continues on with his studies. He bounces around for a while, trying to figure out what interests him most, taking classes in Renaissance literature, chemistry, physics, linguistics, calculus, biology, everything he can get his hands on. He learns all he can because he’s not sure what he wants to choose, because now that he actually has the opportunity to make a choice, it overwhelms him.
He winds up majoring in chemistry, because it’s practical and interesting and he gets clearance to do experiments in the labs. He probably doesn’t try as hard as he should in his classes, but that’s really only because he finds the material covered in class rudimentary and dull. The professors he works with love him though, because he’s brilliant and innovative and actually understands well beyond what he needs to for his courses, unlike some of his classmates, who blunder through lessons hoping to absorb perhaps twenty percent of what they’re learning and call it a day. His professors love his ingenuity and his classmates hate how he can tell who’s sleeping with who or who stayed out too late or who just failed an exam with a simple a glance and Sherlock doesn’t give a damn about what anyone thinks.
He picks up his first case purely by chance. He doesn’t even mean to, but someone in his building gets her bike stolen and Sherlock has a free afternoon. Campus security doesn’t think it’s a big enough deal to really look into it and Sherlock is bored and ventures off, successfully retrieving the bike within a few hours. The girl is overjoyed and thanks Sherlock profusely, which Sherlock thinks is unnecessary, and she must tell her friends about it because before he knows it, he’s having people run to him for all sorts of things, stolen backpacks, people suspecting girlfriends or boyfriends of cheating, and an odd one about a missing cat. He becomes known throughout the university as the one to turn to if one has a puzzle one can’t solve.
Sherlock finds that taking on these cases is the only thing that makes his life interesting, even more so than the lab work he does with professors, despite how pedestrian everyone’s problems are, because he actually gets to think. He gets to go out and run about Cambridge and do real, practical work and Sherlock realizes, this is what he likes best. This is what he wants to do for the rest of his life. And for the first time in his life, Sherlock is happy.
---
Sherlock sees Mycroft once and only once while he’s at Cambridge. Sherlock is stopping for coffee after class and Mycroft somehow materializes just outside the coffee shop just as Sherlock is about to leave. Sherlock pauses for half a second before setting a frown on his face and walking out of the coffee shop, turning his coat collar up against the wind. Sherlock walks right past Mycroft and lifts his coffee up to his lips to take a sip. Mycroft easily falls into step with him. He doesn't say anything for quite some time, but Sherlock can feel the way Mycroft is watching him, observing him, too clever for his own good.
“Mummy’s worried, you know,” Mycroft says finally, voice perfectly level as always. “You oughtn’t go running about like this.”
Sherlock scoffs. “She’s not worried about me,” he says, equally coolly. “She’s worried about you.”
Mycroft sighs. “Sherlock,” he says emphatically. “She’s your mother. She cares.”
Sherlock stops to give Mycroft a look, cold and calculating and just a little bit heartbroken.
“She’s not my mother,” Sherlock says, too quietly. “And she’s never cared about me for one day of my life. Stop trying to pretend that things are different than they are.”
Mycroft’s face is impassive. He presses his lips together into a thin line and attempts to stare Sherlock down, and Sherlock just scowls and turns on his heel to leave. He hears Mycroft call after him but he doesn’t stop, just keeps stalking away until Mycroft is far, far behind him.
Mycroft doesn’t come try to find Sherlock again for quite some time. Sherlock likes to think that this is somehow his doing, but mostly he tries not to think about it too much. He has more important things to think about.
---
When Sherlock leaves Cambridge, he graduates with numerous honors and the knowledge that he is perhaps the least liked student in his class. He heads for London because he’s looking for excitement and expects a big city is the most likely place to find some. It brings him closer to Mycroft, but he figures Mycroft would find him no matter what, so London is as good as anywhere. He gets an odd case or two through people he went to Cambridge with, or people they know who have heard about what Sherlock is capable of, but mostly, Sherlock’s life is fairly uneventful. It’s just that it’s a large city and he’s no one. He’s got almost no one coming to him for cases because no one has heard of him yet.
Sherlock finds ways to entertain himself, picking up a drug habit to alleviate the crushing force of boredom. And when sometimes that’s not enough, he looks into stories in the newspaper about disappearances or deaths that look suspicious and does his own investigations because he doesn’t think the police are doing an adequate job. He finds that he does indeed solve cases far faster than the police and derives a sort of strange satisfaction for constantly proving them wrong. Except they never listen to him whenever he calls them up to tell them that something seems odd about certain situations or that what they thought was a simple missing person’s case is actually a kidnapping. They don’t listen to him because he has no sort of official experience in this field; he must really seem like just another amateur with too many crazy theories. They don’t listen and Sherlock eventually gets frustrated with them and goes off on his own. It’s a waste of time trying to get the police to listen to him anyways.
Sherlock meets a man named Gregory Lestrade purely by accident. Or, well, accident is probably a rather flexible term to use in this situation, but in any event, Sherlock is looking into a case involving a house that’s been broken into and a missing child, and he doesn’t time his inspection of the scene of the crime quite well, because just as he’s about ready to leave, the police show up for their own investigation. This usually doesn’t happen since Sherlock is so quick to pick up the relevant bits of information, but as coincidence would have it, this day, he gets caught.
He’s immediately taken in for questioning, because the police all think he’s a bit suspicious even though Sherlock tells them that if they look at the facts, that notion is completely absurd. As usual, they pay no attention to what he has to say. They bring him to the detective inspector’s office, the one whose case Sherlock has intruded on, and Sherlock slumps down in a chair, sullen and impatient.
“Mr. Holmes, is it?” the detective inspector says. The nameplate on his desk reads ‘DI Gregory Lestrade.’ Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes. “You were found at the scene of a crime we’re currently looking into. You should know that for the time being, you’re being considered a suspect.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock bursts out, unable to stay silent any longer. He doesn’t want to waste time on what’s sure to be a long line of unnecessary questioning. “If you look at the facts in front of you, it’s blatantly obvious that it’s irrational for you to consider me to be a suspect.”
Detective Inspector Lestrade frowns at him. “I’m afraid I can’t trust you on that,” he says calmly.
Sherlock sighs. “Look, I was just investigating,” he says. “You know that the missing child was kidnapped, as you should by now seeing as how there are obvious signs of struggle at the crime scene. No other items have been reported as missing. So, obviously, the person who broke in had the sole objective of kidnapping the child. Now tell me, why would someone who has achieved their objective return to the crime scene, knowing that it would be crawling with police officers?”
Lestrade opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out and eventually he shuts his mouth again. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth turns up just a little.
“In any event,” Lestrade says after a beat. “Access to that area is restricted while the investigation is ongoing. I could charge you with tampering with evidence.”
Sherlock gives Lestrade a look. “I didn’t tamper with anything,” he says. “Believe me when I say that I know how important undisturbed evidence is. You can check if you want. I didn’t touch anything; I was merely looking.”
Lestrade sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly getting frustrated with Sherlock. “Alright, listen, despite what my job is, I don’t want to think you’re guilty of anything,” he says. “Since you have no previous criminal record, I’m going to let you go with a warning. But if you’re caught under suspicious circumstances again, I’m going to have no choice but to put you under arrest.”
Sherlock is quiet for a moment and then he tilts his head to one side. “Have you interrogated the gardener yet?” he asks.
Lestrade furrows his eyebrows at Sherlock. “I’m sorry. What?”
“The gardener,” Sherlock repeats, words clipped and precise. “There were skid marks through the flowerbed. You can tell by the pattern that there was some struggle initially, but the child stopped. Now, why would a child who’s being kidnapped stop struggling? Perhaps because they’ve been immobilized in some way, hands tied or something of the sort; most likely because they’ve been knocked unconscious. If you inspect the scene more closely you’ll notice that there is a tool missing from the gardening shed. A small tool, by the looks of it, most likely a trowel, obviously used as a weapon. Kidnappers typically bring their weapons with them, or else know that some form of weapon will already be on site. How would the kidnapper know that such a convenient weapon would be available and how would he be able to take it from the shed, in full view of the house, without being noticed by the child? Obvious. The child is already accustomed to seeing him at the house. Therefore, I suggest you have a nice chat with the gardener. Perhaps you’ll actually get somewhere with this case.”
With that, Sherlock stands and sweeps out of the room, leaving a dumbstruck Lestrade blinking at his back. Just as the door shuts behind him, Sherlock hears Lestrade call out to him, but he just keeps walking. He knows he’s right and he knows Lestrade will be intrigued enough by his analysis of the situation that he’ll go question the gardener. Sherlock also knows that it’ll only be a matter of days before Lestrade comes looking for him, so he sees no point in staying. It’ll just be a waste of time.
---
Lestrade comes to Sherlock’s flat three days later. Sherlock is chain smoking out the window, blowing clouds of smoke out into the London air. When Lestrade knocks on the door, it swings open because Sherlock hasn’t bothered to close it properly. Lestrade hesitates for a moment before stepping into the flat. Sherlock watches him with careful eyes but doesn’t move. There’s a moment of silence, and then Lestrade clears his throat.
“You were right,” he says. When Sherlock doesn’t respond, Lestrade continues, “About the gardener. We looked into it, and you were right about everything. How did you know all of that?”
Sherlock shrugs. “I told you,” he says. “Skid marks. It wasn’t a terribly difficult leap.”
Lestrade gives Sherlock an incredulous and wholly impressed look. “Listen,” he says.
“If you’re going to offer me a job, the answer is going to be no,” Sherlock says, cutting Lestrade off before he can finish his sentence. “I don’t want to work for the Scotland Yard.”
Lestrade furrows his eyebrows. “What? Why not?” he asks, bewildered. “You practically do the same work anyways, and if you worked with us, you’d get paid for the work you do.”
“If I worked with you, I would have a set of rules and regulations hanging over my head at all times,” Sherlock corrects. “I can’t work like that.”
Lestrade’s expression shifts to a sort of confusion. “I’m sure we could work something out,” he says, but he doesn’t sound terribly certain.
“Doubt it,” Sherlock replies, exhaling a lungful of smoke.
Lestrade frowns. Sherlock is being unnecessarily difficult and he knows this, but even so, he’s quite certain that if he were to be officially affiliated with the Scotland Yard in any way, he’d be miserable.
“You’re good, though, better than my guys, at any rate,” Lestrade says. “It’d be a shame to let your detective skills go to waste. Why don’t we keep in touch, and if I happen upon any cases that we can’t take care of and you might find interesting, I’ll give you a call, alright?”
Sherlock shrugs, and after a beat, Lestrade seems to accept that that’s the best he’ll get out of Sherlock. Lestrade leaves with a nod and retreats out the door. After he leaves, Sherlock considers what Lestrade has offered him. A chance to solve crimes without being attached to any sort of governing body. Sherlock grins. A consulting detective. Novel.
---
It’s a Thursday when Sherlock first hears of a certain Mrs. Hudson. He’s coming home after solving a case and finds that the door to his flat is open. There’s no sign of forced entry and when Sherlock pushes the door open and steps cautiously inside, there’s an umbrella leaning against the wall by the door. Sherlock frowns. It’s been a few years since he’s begun working regularly with Lestrade. He’s even picked up a few clients of his own through the website he’s set up. And all this time, he’s been able to avoid Mycroft. He’s almost let himself think that perhaps, he’d be able to evade him for a bit longer, but Sherlock’s known that it would only be a matter of time before Mycroft got tired of just keeping an eye on him and decided to confront him.
Sherlock takes his time removing his coat and hanging it on the hook by the door. He walks unhurriedly into the living room where Mycroft is waiting for him, smiling that sickeningly pleasant smile of his. Sherlock scowls.
“You could just call,” he says, flopping lazily into his favorite armchair.
“And would you have picked up?” Mycroft asks. Sherlock chooses not to reply. Mycroft smiles a little bit wider. “In any event, you needn’t worry. This is far from a social call. I have a job for you.”
“Not interested,” Sherlock replies immediately.
“As a favor,” Mycroft adds emphatically. “For Mummy.”
“Not interested,” Sherlock repeats, words sharper and more spiteful this time.
Mycroft sighs and frowns. He holds out a slim folder to Sherlock. “Would you at least have a look?” he asks. “You may find it interesting.”
“I doubt it,” Sherlock says and makes no move to take the folder.
Mycroft presses his lips together and gives Sherlock a stern look that Sherlock matches with contempt. Most people find this look of Sherlock’s intimidating. Mycroft is not most people.
Sherlock heaves an annoyed sigh and snatches the folder from Mycroft. Mycroft smiles, pleased, and leans back in his chair. Sherlock scans over the file and immediately rolls his eyes. The case is nothing more than a domestic squabble, some woman and her husband having a bit of a tiff. Dull, really. Not worth his time.
“Martha Hudson,” Mycroft tells him. “She’s one of Mummy’s closest friend’s sisters. She’s run into a bit of trouble and was hoping someone would help her out. Mummy thought you’d be just the man, seeing as how you specialize in this field and all.”
“This is a court case, Mycroft,” Sherlock sighs. “You know I don’t like to trouble myself with such petty business.”
Mycroft pulls a weary face. “Your expenses will all be paid for,” he says as if bribing has ever worked on Sherlock before. “All you have to do is accept and you’ll be on a plane to Florida in two hours. If nothing else, it will be something to occupy your time with. I know how easily you bore.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes even though he knows Mycroft is right, because Mycroft is clever, because he’s almost always right, because as much as Sherlock hates to admit it, Mycroft knows Sherlock far too well. Sherlock narrows his eyes at Mycroft and says nothing.
Exactly one hour and forty-five minutes later, Sherlock is on a plane headed to Florida.
---
Martha Hudson turns out to be, surprisingly, one of the most interesting people Sherlock has ever met. She’s in the midst of fighting in a domestic abuse court case against her husband, and Sherlock expects to find some frail, worn down textbook abuse victim but instead finds Mrs. Hudson, who is warm and kind and tuts when she finds out that Sherlock hasn’t slept or eaten properly in three days. She’s not weak or feeble or broken at all; she’s cheerful and optimistic and generous despite it all and Sherlock thinks it’s quite possibly the strongest thing he’s ever seen.
Mrs. Hudson invites him to have tea one day once the trial has ended and her husband has been sentenced to be executed. She smiles warmly at him and talks happily about her plans for he future now that her husband is out of the picture, and all the while Sherlock can’t understand why she’s been so amiable to him when all he’s been during this trip is politely aloof at best. When he finally decides to ask her, she gives him a soft look and pats his arm.
“I don’t think you’re a bad person,” she says. “You may not be very good with people, but I don’t think you’re necessarily as heartless as you think you are either.”
It’s really no wonder that Mrs. Hudson becomes his first friend in, well, perhaps ever.
They keep in touch and two years after they meet, Mrs. Hudson calls him up to inform him that she’s looking to rent out the flat upstairs and she thought he might be interested. He accepts without even asking how much the rent is, because Mycroft will cover it anyways and the Baker Street’s location is preferable to his current location. It’s Mrs. Hudson who suggests that Sherlock find a flatmate because she thinks he’s too lonely, moping around a big, empty flat all day. Sherlock is certain than he’s doing perfectly fine on his own, thank you very much, he doesn’t need anyone else, but he doesn’t dare tell Mrs. Hudson otherwise. And somehow word spreads amongst Mrs. Hudson’s group and the next time Sherlock goes to Bart’s, Mike Stamford cheerily greets him by asking of he’s found himself a flatmate yet. Sherlock blinks, impressed that information has traveled this far this quickly, and replies that no, he hasn’t.
“I imagine that very few people would be able to stand living with me,” he says, because he’s always thought of himself as a solitary creature.
Stamford laughs even though it’s not a joke and he bids Sherlock goodbye, slipping off to teach his early morning class. Sherlock goes to find Molly to see if he can bully his way into the morgue.
---
Later that afternoon, Sherlock meets a certain John Watson for the first time. He’ll never tell John, but he’ll remember details about that day that people might not expect. He’ll remember that he’s thirty-two at the time and it’s a Tuesday. The weatherman (incorrectly) predicted rain this morning. He’s just finished solving a crime involving a murdered woman and her brother and a green ladder. He’ll remember feeling like he’s been alone for so long now that he doesn’t quite know what to do with himself anymore.
He meets John and it’s like he’s been waiting his whole life for this and he’s only just now realizing it, and the first thing he thinks is, Oh, it’s you.
He meets John and the first thing he says is, “Afghanistan or Iraq?” because he’s so awestruck by this revelation that he can’t think of anything to do but do what’s become second nature to him now and deduce everything he can about this man.
on to part two