"If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life."

Oscar Wilde

Huddled in the corner of the room, a small child sits with his arms thrown tightly round a soft animal made of woolen felt. His cheeks are hot from all the tears and his eyes are shut so tight that it's causing a strange spectre of sundry colored spots to appear in his mind. A mother kneels before him, placing a comforting hand on his shoulders and soothingly rubbing his back.

"Don't cry, love. Wait here and I'll be right back." Her voice is soft and encouraging, but the child can hear the strains she's so desperately trying to hide. He wants to tell her that she's lying, but that he forgives her. Just please don't go into that room. "Wait here; don't move from this spot, you promise?"

He looks up, dropping the animal in favor of reaching for the mother he knows he'll never see again. But his voice is gone when he needs it most while his grasp is so easily untangled from her dress. She stoops down, placing a gentle kiss on his forehead and embracing him. "Your brother will be here for you. He'll make sure you're okay."

It's true, he'd realize years later. Dear brother has always been there. But in that moment it wasn't enough.

"Don't go in there, mother, please." he sobbed into her dress. "Those men are liars! They're thieves, mother, their words are rubbish!" The water falls freely down his cheeks as his mother tries to comfort him.

"My child, my sweet loving child." She picks up the little animal and offers it to her son. He didn't want to take it because damn it all, she wasn't listening! But she was so beautiful, so sure of everything... mothers don't lie.

He hugged the creature close to his chest while his mother lovingly patted his head. She stood, turning away from him, and walked towards the door. The small boy let out an audible sob to which she turned around. He looked at her pleadingly, but all she did was smile and disappear behind the wooden door.

It was the last time he ever saw her face.

The moment she was out of sight, he threw the stuffed animal against the door and screamed into his shirt. Falling to the floor, fists crashing down like boulders, he cursed the woman with all his energy. Those were murderers in the next room and his mother sealed herself off with them despite his warnings! They were threatening her, he knew, because they wanted something that she wouldn't give them; something they could only obtain from her. Why didn't she listen? Why did she go in anyway? She didn't have to prove herself to him, he already loved her.

He did love her.

He dug his nails into the wood and ripped them along the grain. The pain was intolerable as blood made it too slippery to continue. He did it anyway. There was shouting, a man's voice, followed by the collected calm of his mother's. Something had fallen to the floor, and then there were light footsteps moving swiftly toward him.

Here was dear brother, already too late to do anything for their mother. The small child continued cry as his elder sibling gathered him in his arms and held him to his chest like the very animal which had been cast aside. He was shakily reassuring his little brother, asking him if he was alright and if mother was in there. He already knew she was, the words were just formality.

They both flinched as a shot was fired, muffled only by the door between them and the room.

Mycroft screamed; Sherlock memorized their faces.

Mother's didn't lie, that'd be a bad thing to do. If she said she'd be back, then she would.

He'd wait a lifetime just to feel her love again.

He even swore an oath to save all the love he had until she returned to him.

Just as she had promised, so had he.

Holmes' childhood was water I never even attempted to tread because other people have made so many intricate links and what not-- I mean, I honestly don't think that Sherlock Holmes NEEDS a tragic childhood-- but, whatever!