Chapter Text
Sherlock Holmes had never really been what was considered "normal."
He'd learned at a young age that others didn't particularly enjoy having their lives laid out for everyone to see. At the age of 6, after making a classmate cry when he stated that her parents weren't actually her parents, and that they were going to be divorcing soon, his parents and the headmaster of the school had a "talk." Mycroft, who sat outside the office with Sherlock (who still didn't understand what, exactly, he'd done wrong), had told his younger brother that he needed to mind the things he said. He told Sherlock that there was a delicate balance between being insightful, and prying, and that he needed to keep some of the facts he deduced to himself. And, since Mycroft was 13, and probably already knew everything there was to know, the young boy took his advice.
It took him quite a while. The first time he tried to keep himself quiet after noticing something about the cook when he brought the Holmes' supper out, Sherlock had nearly gone blue in the face trying not to say anything. Of course, he blurted it out anyway, because holding his breath was becoming tiresome, not to mention making him lightheaded. Thus, the cook's habit of smoking marijuana while cooking was revealed, and he was fired, which Sherlock thought was a shame; he rather liked his apple pies.
The next day, after remaining resolutely mute at school, Mycroft called Sherlock to the small study beside his bedroom, which the younger Holmes was very glad about, because he loved all the interesting details that his brother unknowingly left about. Mycroft, who had schoolwork to attend to and couldn't be too bothered with his sibling at the moment, opened a drawer in his desk and handed Sherlock a small notebook; "Sherlock's Deductions," it said across the top in Mycroft's neat handwriting. Sherlock had been ecstatic, grabbing the book and racing about the room, resulting in his brother very rudely kicking him out. Sherlock, with his messy 6-year-old penmanship, soon started carrying his gift everywhere. He'd write in it during the day, refusing to let anyone else so much as touch it, and at night, after supper, he'd give it back to Mycroft. It was always on his nightstand the next morning, with small comments and spelling corrections on every page. When he finally filled the last page, he ran to his brother's study, where another was waiting for him. Since he went through the books quite quickly, he began labeling the inside covers with dates, and the outside with chronological numbers. Soon the hidden cupboard in his wardrobe (which he made himself, thank you very much) was filled with the notebooks from Mycroft, all meticulously organized and in order.
The years dragged on, and as Sherlock's handwriting got neater, and Mycroft schedule became busier, the number of corrections and comments in the books grew smaller and smaller. By the time Sherlock was 10, his brother was getting ready to attend some fancy boarding school, and would no longer have time to look over his sibling's deductions. Which was a bit problematic for Sherlock, considering that Mycroft was the only person he showed them too, and without anyone to see them he'd probably begin blurting again. But his older brother had sadly shaken his head, and told Sherlock that he would have to deal with noone being able to see his brilliant (and occasionally rude) comments. The younger finally conceded, albeit reluctantly, and stopped showing his brother his notebooks.
It was this turn of events, perhaps, that caused things to turn out the way they did.
It was nearing April, and a terrible storm thundered across the country. Sherlock had been picking at the food on his plate, pushing it aroun but not really eating anything. His current deduction notebook was in his bedroom, as Mummy had said a year ago that he could no longer bring it to the table. The lights flickered occasionally, causing Sherlock's mother to look around uncertainly, but the boy himself had always enjoyed storms, mostly because of the scientific aspects of it. Thunder boomed, shaking the plates on the table, and the lighting that flashed illuminated the room, allowing Sherlock to fully see what lay in the room's corners. As the storm raged on, the youngest Holmes finished his supper, preparing to make his way upstairs to write down his newest observations. He paused at the base of the steps, listening intently to the thunder, when he heard it; a hard banging on the door from the outside. Thinking perhaps it was one of his new friends (because since he no longer deduced them out loud, the other children quite liked him), Sherlock raced to the door and flung it open, disappointed to see, not a fellow classmate, but an old woman dressed in rags.
He knew then that he should have turned and run up the stairs, to his notebook, because there was just so much information to be collected from the woman in front of him. He knew that if he made it to his book, he wouldn't get in trouble, he wouldn't make a fool of himself, and Mycroft would possibly be proud of him for showing restraint. But it had been such a long time since he'd made a proper deduction out loud, and the words flew out of his mouth like a jet before he could stop them.
"You live on the streets. You used to be a seamstress, going by the fact that the stitches used to keep your clothing together are well done in theory, but the thread is very cheap and wears out easy. That suggests that you've been out on the road for a while, you've run out of all of your quality supplies. The fact you live on the streets at all implies that you've come across hard times, most likely your husband's death. You've a tan line on your finger, from a ring you no longer wear, but you've got the ring on a chain around your neck; I can see the bulge. You come from an old fashioned family, because this is a tradition that is not commonly used anymore." He paused, not even thinking straight as his mind plowed on through what it was seeing. "You're not from around this area, which is why you've stopped at the first house you came to instead of looking for an inn, because they would turn you off straight away. You've come to ask for a place to stay until the storm lets up, but my mother will refuse, as she doesn't allow strangers in the house, especially not ones that look like..." He trailed off, finally realizing that he'd messed up again and may have said something offensive.
He refused to back down though; if he was going to mess up after all these years, he was going to do it properly. "Did I- did I get it all right?" He stared at the old woman, as she finally raised her head, greeting him with eyes of pure silver.
"All wrong, actually," she responded, her voice with a slight Irish accent and a musical lilt. Then her rags fell away, and her face shifted, changing drastically, wrinkles and bags melting away to smooth and flawless skin. She now wore a dress of silver and gold, and a pair of iridescent wings came out behind her, raising her up a mere few inches, but enough that she now loomed over the young boy. She stared at him for a moment, and he briefly wondered if this was what being deduced felt like. "Sherlock Holmes," she stated, her voice quiet, but echoing over the thunder that sounded. She reached a pale hand out to run across his jawline. "You are quite a beautiful child."
Sherlock had heard this before. Adults were constantly commenting on how when he grew up he'd be quite handsome, and girls chased him on the playground quite frequently. When he looked in the mirror, all he saw was a mess of raven curls atop his head, cheekbones that were too prominent, eyelashes that belonged to a girl. He didnt see himself as beautiful, or handsome like he thought Mycroft was. He looked like his mother (who was beautiful, of course, but a woman), but he had his father's eyes; that odd mix of blue and green and silver that confused him to no end. But he personally didnt think his combination of genes was all that appealing.
The erethal woman in front of him continued to speak. "Beautiful," she repeated, "but cold and rude to everyone that is not family."
"No I'm not," Sherlock petulantly interjected, resentful of the woman's words. "I never say anything to anyone, this was one time-"
She shook her head with a smile. "Ah, but that's not true, is it? What about all of your notebooks, hm? Book after book, page after page of mean, cruel deductions. If you hadn't spoken yours to me, you'd have written them down, and that would do nothing to help you grow better, to help you learn to keep harsh words to yourself, not even to a book." She watched him, and Sherlock fought the urge to back away, to call for his family to come help him, because surely this was his imagination. Her silver eyes burned into him and oh how he wanted to run, but he was transfixed at the display in front of him.
She waved her hand in the air, and a single rose appeared, one with many beautiful petals in the deepest shade of red. She kept it suspended in the air as she then waved her hand atop his head, and he scowled at her. "Sherlock Holmes, you have been cursed. I have seen your heart, and it holds no love apart from blood. You are no longer able to write your deductions down, and the filter between your thoughts and your mouth has been removed. You will speak the truth of your mind to those around you, and they will grow to resent you and your harsh words. You must find someone who can love you in this way, and you must love them in return." she shifted her hand, and the rose floated toward him. "The final petal will fall at midnight on your 21st birthday. If you've not found love by then, you will remain this way forever, and no relationships will last, be they professional or otherwise. Learn well, young child, or your life will be a miserable one, and you will die alone." As Sherlock finally took the glowing rose into his hands, the woman backed away slowly, glowing brightly then fading all at once, and then she was gone.
Sherlock, still a bit confused at the whole thing (but not believing a bit of it, despite the clear evidence), came back into the house, staring down at the faintly glowing rose in his hands. Looking so intently at the flower, he didnt realize he'd walked into the part-time gardener until it was too late. "Sorry there, young man," he started, clearly in a rush to get home, and Sherlock's eyes were already scanning his body and clothes, deductions forming at once. "Didn't see you th-"
"You think your wife is having an affair, so you're cheating on her as well. A bit petty, don't you think?" He mentally slapped himself as the man's eyes went wide, then narrowed, and rushed out. Sherlock rushed up the stairs, intent on writing the newest discovery down. But when he reached into his cupboard for his book...
Gone. All of them were gone.
Sherlock reeled backwards, careful not to crush the rose he now held gently in his hands. It was real after all.
The gardener quit the next day.
When Sherlock returned to school, his filter was still gone. All the friends he had made since he'd starting keeping his notebooks at age 6 were now avoiding him, as he'd once again deduced them all within moments of seeing them. They began to pick on him, call him names, poke him with sticks. He learned to stop showing that he cared what they said. One day he retaliated; he punched Victor in the face after one to many prods with a thin branch. Victor had told, of course, and since his father was a member of the school board, Sherlock was expelled. His mother hired tutors, but none of them lasted long, because they all were fuming mad at him within minutes. He learned though, albeit very little as his mind deleted that which he deemed unimportant.
Some time passed and eventually, Mycroft came home, now 18; aware of how much trouble his little brother had caused but not knowing how much it was affecting Sherlock. The younger Holmes only had to look at his older brother to know he was disappointed, and that filled him with sadness and regret as he knew what would come out of his own mouth next.
"You're upset with me because I've been causing trouble," he stated flatly, not bothering to try sounding confident like he usually did. "You're trying to diet, as you think you've gone a bit soft around the middle, but you ate a few biscuits on the way over here. You're wondering-" Sherlock's voice broke as he finished his deduction. "You're wondering where you went wrong with me." Sudden anger flared up in him, making the hair on the nape of his neck stand on end as he glared at his elder brother. "God, this is all your fault!" He shouted, taking off up the stairs as fast as he could. He didn't talk to Mycroft for a very long time.
When he turned 15, he started using drugs. Cocaine was nice; it made his head slow down, made people more likely to forgive his cruel deductions since they knew he was high. He had stopped trying to get people to understand. He'd declared himself a sociopath at age 13, even though rude remarks and Mycroft sad stares did affect him. But he didn't let it show, and he let the drugs do their jobs.
He overdosed at 16, on accident, and an inspector named Something-Lestrade had found him in a back alleyway. He took Sherlock to a hospital, and got ahold of the elder Holmes. When Mycroft arrived, Sherlock was awake, but still a bit high, and he accidentally told his brother about that night during the storm; how the woman had cursed him and given him the magic flower, and that was why he couldn't help himself from pointing out that Mycroft's suit looked a bit tight. His brother thought he was joking, until Sherlock awoke the next morning and said it all again, completely sober.
When he got out of the hospital, he showed Mycroft the flower, which he now kept in his hidden cupboard, where all his notebooks had once been. Upon seeing the glowing rose, Mycroft believed him. He then proceeded to tell Sherlock that, if he kept sober, he'd help find someone to break the curse. The younger agreed, but demanded that he be given something else to occupy his time and mind. Mycroft, in turn, called Lestrade, who agreed to let Sherlock work on a few cold cases.
Going to New Scotland Yard was alright. The cases he was given were ridiculously easy to figure out. Before long he'd met a few other around the office, namely Sally Donovan and Philip Anderson. After he'd correctly deduced their relationship, and their pasts, and the fact that they often snuck off into a supply closer during work, they hated him, calling him names like his elementary friends once had.
Freak.
Loser.
He agreed with them, of course. He wasn't normal. But the words still hurt, because they were true. Sherlock was rude and cruel, and mean in so many ways, a monster in society known for his cutting words and sharp tongue. He'd never find someone to break the curse...
Because who could ever love such a beast?