Thank you for stopping by to read my story. For those who have been waiting, my deepest apologies for the long delay. I announced this story at the end of my last big work, "This Doesn't Feel Like Falling" which was longer ago than I like to think about. Anyway, I say that this story is based off of my favorite story, and many of you guessed right. This is my Johnlock take on Beauty and the Beast. I hope you enjoy:


Something More

Prologue: Broken

Sherlock's fingers danced across the black and white keys of the piano and Beethoven's 5th symphony rang out crisp and clear in the morning air. The piano was in tune, the pedals worked, and it shined with a fresh polish. It wasn't a grand piano, just an upright, but the accomplishment made him glow with pride all the same. Mummy had helped him gain access to the supplies and tools he needed to build it. It was meant to be a present to his brother for his eighteenth birthday.

Mummy had been worried about Sherlock hurting himself when he was cutting the wood and installing the wire. Still, after almost ten years of raising her overly precocious offspring, she knew it was better to supervise instead of deny the majority of his projects. Denial only ever resulted in bigger explosions and less access to proper safety equipment.

Mycroft had been incredibly busy lately, getting ready to go to university. Sherlock understood that it would be impractical for his brother to take the piano with him, but it would be ready for him when he chose to visit. Secretly, Sherlock hoped the piano would encourage his brother to visit more often. Music was one of the only things that made his brother smile anymore…

Sherlock looked up when he heard his brother's measured pace coming down the hall and grinned in anticipation. He scrambled off the bench, which he had built to accompany the piano, and waited anxiously for his brother to appear.

Mycroft strode through the doorway with his usual air of imposing authority. He, like Sherlock, was unusually tall, which aided his powers of intimidation. Lately, however, he'd begun wearing immaculately tailored suits which made it look like he could rule the world. If he wanted to, Sherlock was sure that Mycroft could rule the world, but he would always be Sherlock's brother.

The elder Holmes brother strode distractedly about the room while Sherlock's eyes tracked him. He was frowning down at a stack of papers in his hands and muttering to himself. Sherlock decided he must have just come back from fetching the mail. Mycroft had been waiting for something important in the post for several weeks now; he was expecting an acceptance letter from one of the finest business and law programs in the country.

Sherlock fidgeted impatiently, knotting his fingers together behind his back while he waited for his brother to look up and notice his present.

Mycroft stopped suddenly, turned pale, and it was Sherlock's turn to frown. "Mycroft?" he asked softly, taking a step towards his older brother. Mycroft spun suddenly around, causing Sherlock to flinch back. He was squeezing the paper in his hand so tightly it was crumpled, and his face looked murderous. Sherlock took a hesitant step forward and repeated his brother's name.

Mycroft, who didn't seem to hear or see him, started muttering furiously to himself, his breath coming in pants. "This is unacceptable! My marks and recommendations are perfect." He hissed softly in righteous indignation before declaring, to no one in particular, "I will fix this!"

"Did you not get in?" Sherlock asked, concern and sympathy etched on his classic features.

Mycroft glared at him for a moment, seeing him for the first time and spat, "Not yet."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Sherlock asked, stepping close to his brother.

Mycroft's scowl deepened. "I don't have time for your stupid games today, Sherlock. This is important!"

"I'm not talking about games, Mycroft!" Sherlock shouted back, the hurt obvious in his voice. "I can do all sorts of things I'm not supposed to be able to do! I have for years, you know that!"

"This has a lot more at stake than deductions, Sherlock!"

"And I can do a lot more than just observe, Mycroft!" Sherlock retaliated, and then gestured violently at the gift he had worked so hard on. "I built this whole bloody piano on my own! For you I might add; you ungrateful git!"

Mycroft lifted his hands to the sides of his head, and closed his eyes, breathing heavily through his nose. "I don't have time for this Sherlock," he was attempting to speak evenly, but his voice shook with barely contained fury. "I have to fix this!" He gestured violently with the papers in his hand. "Do not even think of disturbing me!" The elder Holmes rounded on his heel and strode for the door.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock cried, rushing after him. "Really I can hel—" Sherlock was thrust violently backwards. He tumbled on the floor and cracked his head against the side of the coffee table. He winced and pressed a hand to the rapidly swelling bump as Mycroft towered over him.

"Leave me alone, Sherlock!" he roared. "Sod you, and sod this stupid piano, too!" As he turned, Mycroft grasped the edge of the piano in one hand, and wrenched his arm away from the wall. Like Sherlock, he was strong, and the movement caused the upright piano to topple to the floor, crushing the bench beneath it. A jarring cord echoed through the house as Mycroft stormed from the living room.

Sherlock stared aghast at the wrecked instrument before him. The frame was slightly crumpled, one leg was completely severed, a handful of lose keys were scattered on the floor around it, and, given the fading echoes of its dissonant notes, several of its wires had snapped. The bench which had accompanied it lay fractured beneath and around it. He did not register the rushing feet until his mother's hands were one him.

"Sherlock!" She gasped, cupping his face and bringing his eyes up to meet her own. They were blue, like his, but of a warmer shade. "Are you injured?"

Sherlock pulled his hand from his head and saw a splash of red. "Just a laceration, I think," he said quietly.

His mother's expression darkened. She was almost never angry, but when she was, she was more fearsome than anyone Sherlock had ever seen, Mycroft included. "Stay here, sweetheart," she said with deceptive softness. "I'm going to fetch the first aid kit." Standing, she rounded on her heel and stormed up the stairs. "MYCROFT CHARLAMANE HOLMES! COME HERE THIS INSTANT!" No one argued with Mummy Holmes when she was in this sort of mood. No one.

Sherlock's eyes slid over to the wreck of a piano. They burned and itched, but he did not cry. Fine. If this was the way things were going to be…fine. He stood, flinching against the pounding pressure in his skull. It hurt, but he was not concussed. He might need stitches…but he could do that himself. Pressing his hand to his head to staunch the bleeding, Sherlock shuffled out of the room.