FicWad

Lightning flashed across the dull grey sky in bright, electric flashes, illuminating the otherwise colourless street. Cowering silently under his starry bedcovers, a young Sherlock Holmes wrote in a battered looking leather notebook stolen from his intimidating father`s study. Curled up next to him, enjoying the warmth and company was an aging Red Beard, sniffing at the untouched wax crayons. The soft sound of wax being dragged messily across paper and the dogs soft panting helped to set the little child at ease. He didn’t have any friends, as he so often confided on the cold, uncaring paper. He was too different, too weird.
Brothers are horrible little creatures. Especially older brothers. They really are the worst. What with their “Holier than thou” nonsense, selfishness and love of teasing you relentlessly until tears spill over, just because they are older. As if their age justifies their cruelty in some way. Then again, maybe not all older brothers are like that. Maybe most are protective, loving and act like they actually enjoy having you hanging around them instead of moaning and ordering you around.
Mycroft isn’t one of those kinds of older brothers though.
Mycroft is mean and selfish and stuck up. He is always putting me down, calling me stupid and foolish for only doing what every other little boy my age is supposed to. Like playing in the dirt and reading books about ferocious fire breathing dragons and fearless warriors. He teases me and says I should grow up because real life isn’t like that. He`s only four years older than me and he thinks he knows it all. Maybe he does, I don’t know. He sure thinks he does, that’s for sure. Mother and father are never around all that much, so I think that’s why he does it, because he knows he can get away with it. Or maybe he just likes being the top dog all the time, always the one in control. I don’t know, I`m just a little kid. And not a very bright one at that as he keeps reminding me.
I wish I was smart like he was. His teachers are always praising him, sending home brightly coloured merit certificates and golden stickers for good work. They certainly can`t be for his people skills for he is even worse than I am in that respect. The neighbourhood children don’t come round to play at our house anymore; not after Mycroft made them cry by telling them all sorts of nasty stories he insists were true and calling them babies for not accepting them.
I wish I wasn’t so foolish that he always made fun of me, I wish he loved me. I think he does, in his own way. I wish mother and father were around more often, then maybe he would be my friend. While we`re on the subject, I could really be doing with a few of those too, but nobody ever wants to befriend the weird gangly kid who never uttered a single word.
All I really want is to be clever, like Mycroft. Then maybe mother and father will pay attention to me as well. If they can`t, then I want a friend, just one. Someone who understands, who doesn’t run away because I`m strange.
Never has the terribly overused phrase, “be careful what you wish for,” been more appropriate.
…
“Now, Mycroft, I want you to wait in here with Sherlock while I nip to pick up my medicine. Can you do that?” Nanny Winston asked the ten year old, wondering if this really was such a god idea after all. The elder Holmes boy was well known to be incredibly difficult.
The elder boy grinned sweetly. “Of course, Nanny Winston. I would love to. I`m certain you can trust us alone in a Library for a few minutes. It`s not exactly like they have murderous bears roaming free, now is it?”
The elder woman shook her head, but returned the smile, her weathered face crinkling, periwinkle eyes twinkling. It was clear that she adored the children, difficult or not. She did worry about Sherlock though, he always looked so sad and lonesome.
Sherlock stayed quiet in the background, shuffling his trainer clad feet. Although only recently purchased, they were already scruffy. The white laces were grey, the soles had great big tears in them and the toes were scuffed with mud from playing fetch with Red Beard in the garden.
“Oh Honestly Mycroft, you don’t have to be so sarcastic all the time, dear.” She fondly ruffled the boys head.
He scowled. “I am not a child! Don`t patronise me.”
Ignoring his last comment, Nanny Winston warned them once about sticking together and departed for the chemist across the road from the centuries old building stuffed to the brim with books.
Almost as soon as she was gone, a dark haired young man, with a slightly unnerving grin wandered out casually from behind the bookshelf housing a wide variety of children`s reference books. Beautifully illustrated dictionaries, encyclopaedias, you name it, they had it.
Sherlock noticed the immaculately well-dressed man first as his brother had sauntered off around the corner to ask the traumatised looking librarian if they had anything new in. Like most youngsters, he had a strong thirst for knowledge, but by the tender age of ten, already devoured everything all the way up to GCSE level books. And unlike most other boys his age, he positively loathed silly fantasy books such as Harry Potter.
The man was a little, well odd, for lack of a better word, the curly haired boy noted. Far too overdressed in what appeared to be a very expensive suit, with gleaming shoes polish within an inch of their lives. Neatly trimmed dark hair and expressive, almost smug face, with surprisingly sad looking eyes. Sherlock wasn’t quite sure what to make of him so he ignored him, hoping he would go away, but he never did. He just stayed and watched, taking to leaning casually against the shelves, a disturbing smile appearing and then vanishing as quickly as it had appeared. Everything about him screamed “predator,” right down to the practiced ease with which he carried himself to the cruel glint in his eyes.
Ignoring the rules, Mycroft came running back a bundle of books in his arms, several of which he had only a vague interest in but he thought his brother would like. Seeing the dark haired stranger, and visibly gulping in fear seeing the distinctively hungry look in his eyes, he stopped dead in his tracks.
“Wonderful of you to finally join us, Mycroft Holmes!” The man said with an over dramatic flourish. “And young Sherlock of course, lovely to see you.” His smile wasn’t friendly, nor was it reassuring. Nanny Winston`s repeated “Stranger Danger,” warnings came flooding back to the two of them.
“What do you want?” Mycroft`s voice was cold, as he took a protective stance in front of his younger sibling, much to Sherlock`s surprise.
“Of course, of course! How rude of me!” he frowned. “I am Moriarty, and I have a huge favour to ask of you two boys.” The hungry look was back and his lips wee skimmed back, revealing a set of razor sharp looking teeth.
“Favour? What kind of favour?” Mycroft answered cautiously, while herding Sherlock away slowly.
“What kind of favour you ask? I need you to make a contract with me and become magical boys.”
Mycroft scoffed, his usual smug attitude swiftly returning. Whoever this strange person was and no matter how threatening he may look, he certainly wasn’t capable of harming them in broad daylight in a fairly busy building.
“How old are you? Didn’t you mother tell you magic doesn’t exist? What are you, daft?”
Ignoring his comment completely, Moriarty continued, “It is very simple.” He spoke slowly, as though he thought the children were incapable of understanding even the most basic of sentences. “In return I shall grant you each one wish right now. I will also grant you each a further wish every year you are under contract with me, to keep the deal sweet.”
An evil grin spread across his lips. “Now then, do we have a deal?”