Sherlock's young years weren't very exciting for an average kid. He did not have any friends during the school, he wasn't interested in girls, he did not play football or did any sport with the other boys, never hung out with them. He spent his time at the Chemistry Facultate, in the labs or the animal house examining. He did not have frequent visitors, only his mother once or twice in a month, or his brother, once in a semester. The others looked at him as at a freak, shouted at him irritating titles when no professors were seen. Mostly he ignored them, he knew they were just children with their small brains in their idiot heads, so he decided not to listen. It was irritating when they cheased him, but when Mycroft arrived, every one of them shut up and fled. Sherlock liked it. He did not liked it was Mycroft who caused that achievement, but honestly, he did not mind till the others were far away. Once he told his brother about it.
'Why they fear you, My?' he asked. Mycroft pulled up his eyebrows.
'Fear me?'
Sherlock nodded.
'Well... I'm elder, and more judicious.' shrugged he. Sherlock frowned.
'I'm judicious too.'
Mycroft chuckled to himself.
'Judicious? You?'
The little one frowned harder.
'Yes, I am!' he shouted irritated.
Mycroft rolled his eyes.
'Yes, little brother.' he let on him. He sighed, and stepped away and cleaned his throat.
'Mother thinks you'd need a little time away from the school.' he began. Sherlock leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands.
'She thinks the college effect you badly. That the others break you.' he turned back to him. 'Is she right, little brother?'
'Right?! How would she be right?!' he waved disparagingly. Mycroft pulled up his eyebrows. Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes.
'I don't care the others. I'm better than them, and they know it. I don't care what they say. They are just idiots.'
'It is possible, little brother, but it seems that mother worries about you. God knows why.' he sighed.
'Then let her. I don't care. Where would she send me anyway? Home?' he laughed. 'Don't be ridiculous.'
Mycroft nodded aggreeing.
'Alright. I'd tell her you don't want to go anywhere, little brother.'
'Why do you call me that?! I'm not little anymore. I'm fourteen.' Sherlock said annoyed. Mycroft looked at him surprised.
'You're little to me, brother.'
'Stop that. I hate it.' Sherlock stated. Mycroft sighed slowly.
'Right. Brother.' he turned away again. 'Now, I have to leave, Sherlock. I hope you'll go on well.'
'I always do.' he threw off.
'Of course you do.' Mycroft smiled affably. 'Well... Goodbye, little brother.'
'My...'
'Oh, yes – brother.' he frowned. 'I hate My, if you please.' he pulled up his eyebrows.
'Do you?' Sherlock did the same. 'Then bye, brother.' he said edgily. Mycroft nodded and exited the room. Sherlock lumped down on the chair grumpily. He hated when his brother had the last word in a quarrel. And he always did, Mycroft was really competent. Sherlock knew it, and it annoyed him deeply. He always knew Mycroft was smarter than the rest, but he thought he was as clever at least. And he had to admit, than his brother got more wise with time, and he remained as nimble as he was. It annoyed him – and spurred him on development. He sprang up and ran to the shelf, and grabbed a book labelled 'Political Sciences' and knocked-up. He began to read it, but after a minuit he got tired of it and threw it away. He sighed and sinked in the sofa and dived down in his mind palace. He learned it for a while, how to store memories forever without take much space on his hard disk. He had to picture it. Photograph and call back when needed. He used Pulborough Residence for it: every room was for another subject, every shelf for an other topic, every file for an other memory. He liked it: he could remember literally everything what he saw or heard once, store them for importance, and recall them when needed. Obviously a method Mycroft didn't know, he smiled to himself. He did not know how much information he could store there, but he gathered everything – it became his hobby, to collect and save information. And it was useful, for learning and answering questions. Partly it was why the others hated him. He knew everything. Of plants, computers, chemical reactions and psychology: such devious subjects which made them mad to think of. And it bore hate of them. The things he could not remember weren't important; they were useless – and that was what the others couldn't take in: things Sherlock didn't know where sometimes so elementary, it made them laugh at him, or make japes, or simply grimace. It didn't matter. He knew the things he wanted to, and it was more than anyone of them knew ever.
However, he was okay with school. He knew about places the others didn't, where he could go away when he was tired of their silly jokes and pecks, or just their exile. He knew corridors and stairs the others had no clue about, and he could come and go unseen, if he wanted. And the most important: he knew how to leave the institute without noticing. Once, on an autumn weekend he decided to take a walk. Downtown London.
He hadn't really cared what Mycroft of his mother would say. He hadn't really thought about it exactly, it just didn't came to his mind at all. He just slipped out of his room (Everett and Roch were going home that weekend, so it wasn't hard to be unnoticed), and out to the botanical garden (there was an other way through the sportcourt, but every weekend pupils were playing cricket or polo, so it was more dangerous to take that way), climbing the wall and out to the road. He knew exactly which direction he should take to reach the city. He didn't have any idea what he wanted to see, it was only a feeling that he had to go there. He had to know the city, he didn't know why. Mycroft was there, yes, but he didn't want to see him – not then. When he was little, Mycroft was the only one whom he cared about, but it wasn't so important after a while. His brother left him alone when he was only nine, and he went to London to study. Sherlock knew it was logical to decide so, but it was hard to accept. He was the only one who understood him, or was capable to understand him at least. Other children, his mother, they were so simple-minded, they've never known why he did what he did or said. They were slow.
That day he decided he didn't want to be with slow people. He wanted to be alone - but he did not wanted to be lonely. He needed to see people, without noticed. And something told him it was only possible in the capital.
He knew several different ways inwards the city, but decided to take the less busy. He knew he could take the tube, but it seemed a bad idea, first. After three miles, it seemed better. His first thought was to follow the Church Road till the Wimbledon Park, then through the King George's Park (he really began to hate the kings), and then cross the river through the Wandsworth Bridge, but in the Wimbledon Park he decided it could be interesting to observe the people on the tube – and, it could be a swifter way inside the city. So he changed direction, and walked plus a mile till the East Putney. He bought a ticket and entered the station: it was strange somehow. He did take the tube before, didn't he? He wasn't sure. Of course, most of the time he was drived by car, but it was impossible that he didn't took the tube before... He felt nervous for a minuit, but then he decided it wasn't important. If it was his first time of taking a tube, what then? He was there to observe, not to complain. He sat down in a chair at the platform. He began to watch the people, and taking notes in his mind. The whole athmosphere is full with nervosity. Cheer people stepping in, aggressives stepping out. Crowd makes people nervous. Familiar. It was the first time he felt something common with people. It made him edgy. He took an Upminster train, and travelled till Westminster. He wasn't sure where to go first, so he decided to take a look on the city, and got up to the Eye. He wasn't sure he was on a ferris-wheel before eighter, but it mattered even less than the tube: he had to see how the city was laid, he had to know the buildings' location, he had to have a map in his mind all of it. Of course he knew the map of London, but it was ever different to see with his own eyes. He spotted alleys, staircases, fire escapes the map didn't show, and saw where constructions, roadblocks, and accidents happened. It was more than a map: it was a new pack of information to store – information of great value, even if it will change in time.
He knew one time he'd come to the city, and live there. He knew if he wanted that, he had to know the place, better than anything. It was strange, he never knew what he wanted to do, only where to do it. It made him crabby to realize it was for Mycroft first. When he was still at home, in Pulborough, he wished they could stay together forever, but now it seemed so stupid, he felt ashamed. Even though, he knew something drew him in this city, and knew Mycroft had to do something with that. Even if it was a childhood feeling, he couldn't shuffle it off – but there where other things, more important than that one, which led him there. The sight, the smells, the people; the always moving crowd, the never sleeping streets. It was what he was looking for for real: happening. In the college it seemed everything was frozen; the time, the people. It was never happening anything. Now it was clear how boring the school was, and he decided he had to do something about it. Even if just on the weekends, but he would come and watch the city. He had to learn, not those stupid books, but observe, and not just molecules binding or parting, but things that happen.
He got off the wheel. He saw what he wanted, and had three more hours till dinner at the King's, so he began to walk around the buildings he chose from above. First of all, the Waterloo Station. He memorized the railway guide, and the location of the perons. Then he took the tube (at least second time in his life), and went to see a hospital on the West Smithfield – a big, old building, with very modern equipment. He read about it in an article a year before, and it made him feel he had to check it, as a possible option for researches. He decided it was worth to have a look at it. He checked every wing from outside, memorized the location of departments, and took the underground for a third time to Covent Garden. He had to see a building he spotted from the Eye, on Long Acre.
As he ascended from the tube, a feeling seized on him; the CCTV-s followed him. First he thought it was just a coincidence, but after two corners, it definitely became a fact. He stopped and turned around, taking a staircase up on a roof, then through the fire escape he descended on the other side of the house. He was on the Neal street, and knew the cameras were still following him. An other skill he had to practice: getting away from plain sights. He wasn't even surprised when he accidentally bumped into Mycroft at the station.
'Well, well, brother, a nice trip through London. Are you looking for something?' he smiled with his polite smile, and Sherlock felt anger rising in him.
'Non of your business.' he threw at him, and walked at the sideline of the peron. Mycroft sighed and walked next to him.
'I fear it is, dear brother, assuming you don't want to involve our mother, which I doubt you would. So, I'm asking again, what are you doing here?'
'Looking around. London is a nice city.' he told cooly.
'Oh it is indeed. However, not for a child of fourteen, alone. You should go back to the College before they notice you've gone. Or should I call them to give you a lift?'
'I get back before anyone would know.' Sherlock hissed, and Mycroft smiled gently.
'Of course you would. But I offer you my car instead of half an hour of travelling, and another one of walking. You would look disastrous at dinner in your uniform.'
'Thank you, brother, I'll be fine.' he smiled back with the same grimace, and stepped to get in the underground car. But Mycroft get his shoulder.
'It wasn't a real offer, Sherlock.' his face turned dark 'Now get up on the street.' Mycroft commanded, and pushed his little brother towards the stairs. Sherlock felt his anger pumping in his mind, but obeyed nonetheless – he didn't want his mother nor the school get to know where he was in the last few hours. He get in the black car and looked out of the window. Mycroft sat next to him.
The first few minutes passed without words, but as they left the city, Mycroft began to speak.
'This little trip of yours – what was it for, indeed?' he asked, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.
'I told you. Non of your business.' Mycroft sighed.
'I don't want to waste my time by tooling around in my car with you every weekend, so please, brother, tell me you won't repeat it without leave.' He sounded more commanding than pleasing. Sherlock hated that.
'Non of your business, as I told.'
'Al right, then I give you a bodyguard who may watch over you every time – just in your own safety, of course. I don't want to picture how you would take a pee, however, but non of my business, as you are so kind to give it prominance.'
Rage take the younger Holmes over.
'Don't you dare, Mycroft!' he shouted, and bounded his hands in fists.
'Then do not force me.' he shrugged. 'Visit me every weekend, if it is necessary, but do not wander along whole London alone, please. It's more dangerous you would know.' he said, and Sherlock saw some real worry in his eyes. He exhaled slowly, and after a minute of staring at him, he nodded.
'Al right. I'll take Thomas with me, and you can be relaxed about my trips.' he offered, but Mycroft didn't seemed to be satisfied. He grimaced, and thought for a minute.
'Al right.' he replied after all, 'I know you'd streek if not this, so be it. You get three hours every Saturday from two to five, and the driver will follow you whereever you go.'
'And not a word to mommy.'
'And that.' Mycroft agreed, and so the conversation was over. And while Sherlock knew that every CCTV would follow him at every Saturday from two to five, he wasn't displeased. After all, getting over cameras was an other skill he had to practice.