Mother was always like this toward him. Why couldn't she treat him like she treated Mycroft? He pulled his tiny legs to his chest and hid his face in his knees, trying so very hard not to cry as he sat with his back to the sofa, hidden from the rest of the room. He didn't want anyone to see him like this. He wanted to be a big boy like Mycroft.
All he had said was that he thought it would be fun to be a pirate. And Mother went off on him! He was just playing, but Mother hated playing. She hated games and fantasies and nonsense, and he tried very hard to be a good boy and do as he was told. But sometimes it was just so hard. Especially when there was no one else his own age about. He desperately wanted to go to school like all the other boys he'd ever met (which wasn't a very large number, actually), but Mother insisted that he take private lessons at home. She said he was so much smarter than all the other children. School would only slow him down, she said. But he just wanted a friend or two. Mycroft wasn't around nearly as much as Sherlock would have liked.
He was lonely. Father only came by once in a while, and Mother hated him. And Mycroft was busy doing older boy things. Of course Sherlock had his microscope and his books and his drawings and his secret bag of marbles that Mycroft had given him, but what he really wanted was another boy who was like him! Another boy who wanted to be a pirate, or maybe not even a pirate, but another boy that wanted to play too. He tried very hard not to sob, but the sound escaped his little mouth and was barely muffled by his thin legs. It rang out quite loudly.
