"Life began, perhaps accidentally. I was small for my age, deathly small, and upon my birth had to be tended for months before I was strong enough to complete the normal functions of a baby boy. My mother cared for me as any mother might care for an invalid, up to the point where she had to be cared for herself. I don't remember her face, Doctor. I don't remember her voice. She died before I was old enough to remember, before I was old enough to gauge my own perception on the woman who might have cherished me through the whole of my cold, desolate existence. Though like a weed I grew, feeding and festering through the cracks of a London sidewalk, hidden within the walls of my parent's estate. We were not rich by means of inheritance, no our last name had meant nothing before the mine had opened. My father was a business man, and under him worked hundreds of men trained only in the art of steel forging. It was a hard business, one with no room for remorse, and before long my father forgot what it meant to have pity...to have feelings of any kind. My first memory of the man, the one which sticks out so vividly in my mind when asked to recollect...was when he fired a man for having suffered an injury. The poor creature got his hand crushed between rocks in the mine, and in recompense for his suffering he was sent away from the mines without a penny of compensation, forced to seek work as an invalid and a cripple. I remember this so vividly, I remember standing silently in the doorway and watching as the man hobbled away. "Serves him right," my father dared say, "for his clumsiness." I remember feeling remorse, sympathy too strong for a child of my age. I remember wondering if my father really was a villain, or if I was the strange one for feeling an ounce of pity. I questioned myself and my morality...as if feeling remorse for strangers was a defect. My father cared not for the fate of his workers; he cared not for the humanity of each one. He never saw behind the ash streaked faces, he never looked beyond the strained and broken bodies that crawled from the mines every day. He saw in each one of them merely a set of hands, and in those hands the tools that would surely make him rich. My father cared not for people, only for his own reputation, only for his own accumulating wealth. He cared not for the two sons which were set in his care, the two sons which were being trained from birth to take upon the same views of the world. I was never taught to nourish, to cherish, or to love. I was taught to be harsh and cruel, to fight the world and all of its inhabitants, as if I was going to someday find myself alone. I was taught mathematics, finance, and figures. Never emotions, hospitality, or affection. Thankfully what my father failed to compensate for was my brother's influence over me, my older brother who had spent more time with my mother than ever I had a chance to. Mycroft was his name, seven years my elder, and thus had more years within the world to experience its delights. He knew the love of nature, the love of people. It was Mycroft who taught me the ways of the world, Mycroft who saw me through my schooling and attempted to make me more of a human than my father would have it. He attempted to put life into the thing he saw growing before him, he attempted to soften the stone heart that was forming inside of my chest; he tried to help it to beat... I set the stage on my seventeenth birthday, oh most certainly the tenth that my father had promptly forgotten about. It was then that my life changed from the mundane to the extravagant, it was then that I was given leave of my dreadful home to search a more permanent state of mind, a more changeable complexion, and a more wavering heart. It was within the library that I often longed, seeking refuge from my father's icy domain next to the large and blazing hearth, surrounded by books which held more interesting tales than the reality that was presented before me. The volumes were my greatest love, and throughout those seventeen years I must have read them all twice, at least those which interested me. My father's section of literature occupied an admittedly small portion of the massive room, and those books were ones I would never dare to touch, volumes so boring and analytical that it would displace the years of adventure and fantasy I had been so accustomed to. My father never bothered to entertain himself with things that would not advance his career, and so his literature contained of nothing more than books on metal, and on industry. Books with more numbers than pictures, and not a hero or princess to be heard of. It was a terrible pass time to read of things so dry, and so that night I had reclined over the sofa with a story of romance, a book of Shakespeare that taught my heart through careful steps how to find the good in another person, and accustomed me to the life I might be able to lead once I broke free from the shackles that bound me to the mundane. I dared dream of love, even though there was a part within me that assured it was a long ways away, that finding the right person in this terrible world of ash and smoke would be quite the impossible dream. Though to couple with my doubt, there was an equal sense of determination. I knew my life depended on getting out of this hellish place, of escaping into the world where the flowers bloomed fully, and the sunshine was able to reach through the thin white clouds and touch the ground below. Here the sky was full of smoke, a layer so thick that you'd expect to see the stars through the dense clouds, billowing and choking all that was beautiful in this world.
"I rather expected to find you here." Mycroft interrupted, tearing my attention from the words which were so familiar to me that I ought to just read on without looking down. This book had always been one of my favorites, and the lines were to me as familiar as would be closest friends.
"Nowhere else to be, Mycroft." I debated, folding my legs up to my chest and watching as my brother approached the fire. He was dressed in his usual suit and tie, holding his delicate hands over the flames and staring rather remorsefully into the ash that was accumulating in our hearth. I watched him for a moment, wondering what his purpose in interrupting me might have been.
"How does it feel then, to be so old?" Mycroft asked at last, of course making reference to the significance of the seemingly ordinary day. I paused, reflecting back on the years wasted before my birthday, and surely looking forward to many other years spent in the same stagnation. All in all, a simple change in age proved to be no different. Today was spent just as yesterday had been, and tomorrow would be a repeat once more. I was not a year older; I was a mere day older. And there was nothing truly fantastic about that at all.
"Rather the same as always." I admitted with a simple shrug. My brother chuckled, nodding his head as if he knew the feeling all too exactly. At last he removed himself from the fire, deciding that he ought to turn his attention to the creature he had come to visit. He sat beside me on the couch, where my legs might have gone had I extended them any farther outwards. Perhaps Mycroft didn't care much for my comfort, or perhaps he didn't care to have my feet on his knees should comfort demand it.
"I bet you're wondering where your present is?" he presumed.
"I haven't expected a gift in years, Mycroft. This year is no different." I debated. My brother merely chuckled, shrugging his shoulders as if he happened to know a little bit more on the subject then I did. I dare let myself hope, perhaps there had been some collusion after all?
"Well Sherlock, you ought to thank me for my persuasive nature. I got the old beast to budge, and to sacrifice some of his pocketbook on your behalf." Mycroft muttered, sitting up a little bit straighter in his self-proclaimed pride.
"Oh yes? What have you bought for me then?" I wondered a bit anxiously, closing my book to assure that he now had my full attention.
"Not bought, Sherlock dear. Invested. Invested in you." Mycroft muttered with a curious little smile.
"You certainly have my attention." I admitted quietly, my heart beating in frantic anticipation. His words were curious, however they were beginning to take the form of something I had dreamed of for a long time, something I dared not hope too much for, lest I find myself ultimately disappointed.
"It's hard for me to say this, hard for me to give you up so easily. But Sherlock, I have convinced our father to send you to university." Mycroft announced at last.
"I knew it!" I exclaimed, throwing the book to the ground and flinging my arms around my brother's neck in a quick and rather painful contortion. "Mycroft, I knew my prayers would be answered!"
"Now Sherlock, keep such passion behind a stiff shield. Don't let father see you so excited, or else he might change his mind entirely." Mycroft warned, allowing my embrace to last a moment longer before he at last fought me away from his shoulders. I settled back into my position on the couch, sat up against the armrest with such excitement in my eyes, such ecstasy in my heart. I was escaping, oh this was more than a promise of education, this was a promise of freedom.

And freedom it was, Doctor. Freedom beyond anything I could have ever imagined. Now my father was quite rich in his own circles, though we had neither the titles nor the influence to find my place in the more prestigious universities of the day. This did not bother me at all; the mere promise of escaping the house was enough to make even the most pitiful institutions look like kingdoms. I found myself suddenly in the midst of young men, all intellectual, wealthy, and beautiful. I found myself in a world of blue skies and soft winds, fit into the same uniform as my peers and dedicated not to the workings of the steam engine, but instead to the more complicated sciences that my father cared not to learn, nor ever to teach. I learned of chemistry, of the elements that make up the world which holds us and surrounds us. I learned of physics, and the motions and laws which propel all which move, and all who fall. In mathematics I learned far beyond the simple calculations, I learned of numbers with no end, and of complex formulas which are presented to solve just the simplest of problems in the world of numbers. Digits upon digits, all with no meanings but what was assigned to them...meaningless little scribbles divulged from the natural world and given life by our pens, life by our patterns. I loved the sciences, and don't doubt that I was gifted in their ways very early on. My professors were very impressed with my progress, my peers envious of the ease in which I learned and excelled. Though they were not my joy, they were not my found passion. No, university was when I discovered a love for things more human than people ever could be. University was when I found a love for emotions, and for feelings. Words, Doctor...poetry. The poetry found me before I could seek it out, and when I say it was rather thrown to me I really am not exaggerating. Many people speak of revelations hitting them, and so it was ironic when the first poetry book I ever owned hit me on the head as I walked about through the courtyard. It was a light volume, paperbound and weightless, and so the damage inflicted really was minimal. It was perhaps that surprise that weighted upon me the most, as I was not often accustomed to getting hit in the head with anything, even something as light as a simple book.
"Oh...oh my sincerest apologies." Came a voice from above, and before long I found myself face to face with a boy singing from the branch of the oldest oak tree on campus, his fingers clinging to the ancient wood as he slid down to the ground to face me.
"Have you a habit of throwing your books at passerby?" I demanded, snatching the thing from where it lay in the dirt by my feet and holding it rather threateningly in my hands, as if I had no intention of handing it back without explanation. The boy stood almost proudly before me, rubbing his hands from the bark that clung to them before running his fingers almost experimentally through his front most blonde curls. He was dressed the part of a student, though in such a haphazard way that he would surely be scolded by any staff who may have encountered him. His cardigan was slung over his shoulders and tied like a cape around his neck, and his tie was undone and hanging loosely from his collar at odd lengths, so that one end sat right up close to his chin and the other hung down to nearly his navel. He had a very mischievous look to him, as if he was reading me just as closely as I was him, and seeing in me some possibility of opportunity. Perhaps he sought friendship, or perhaps he was looking for new playthings. Either way I obviously sparked his interest, for he didn't seem to care much for the book which I now held clenched in my fist.
"No, not usually a good way to make friends. Though I do admit, a simple slip of the fingers seems to have done me well." He admitted at last, smirking in his playful way before holding out a hand. I hastened to hand him his book, though he withdrew his hand almost immediately when he saw my act of good faith.
"Not so quick there, you haven't even introduced yourself." The boy debated, holding out his hand again with the obvious intention of shaking. I nodded, my cheeks blushing up in the embarrassment of social failures, and at last clenching my hand within his own. He seemed satisfied, smiling at me as at last our fingers fell away.
"Sherlock Holmes." I muttered quickly, realizing at last that he was probably waiting for something to call me.
"Tobias Gregson. An honor." The boy returned, and his words sounded honestly sincere. I wasn't very much accustomed to being appreciated, certainly not on this campus at least. It wasn't as if I differed in any way from the other boys, in fact I seemed to be like them in most ways. The only problem was, they seemed to be born and raised with some ounce of social skills. I, on the other hand, might have well been raised a hermit. It was taking me a while to get used to small talk, and to the little compliments which were sure to elongate a friendship. In fact I hadn't a friend in the world, until at last fate would have me positioned under the exact tree that this fool might have been perched.
"Yes um, good to meet you as well." I muttered. I looked down upon the book, noticing regretfully that there was a bit of mud stained upon the white, plain looking cover.
"Within the Realms of Possibility, by Victor Trevor." Tobias explained. "It's a rather ironic title, really, for he only describes the impossible."
"It's not something from the curriculum, is it?" I clarified curiously. It had no sort of figures to be seen, and was far too small to hold any lengths of novel. It was a curious book, so small in my hand that I couldn't see how one could sit down with it and remain entertained. It would certainly take me a mere fifteen minutes to flip through these meager pages.
"Of course it's not in the curriculum. They don't want to teach us poetry these days, Holmes. They want to teach us numbers, and sciences. People are so opposed to emotion that they'd rather collectively decide that it didn't exist." Gregson insisted. "It's poetry."
"Poetry." I muttered. I've heard the word before, even looked through a handful of poems and sonnets that I could find amongst the novels hidden away in the library. Though I had never understood the art, never appreciated it to the correct extent. I almost scoffed at the book, almost handed it back with as much interest as I might have had for any of the other things scattered upon the ground, the sticks and rocks hidden along in the mud. Thankfully Gregson noticed my disinterest, and in his stubborn ways decided he wanted to change one of his single minded classmates into something of more complex emotion. Thankfully he had a mission to distort me from my one dimension into multiples, and by not allowing that book back he managed to change my whole life.
"You should keep it, Holmes. I've read it a million times, I could certainly part with it for a week or so." the boy assured.
"A week? What, do you think me illiterate?" I scoffed. "There's not enough pages in this thing to last me an hour!"
"Silly boy." Tobias chuckled. "You don't read poetry to read it; you read it to understand it. And to feel it. Some of those poems are a long time coming, and some I have still yet to understand. I see the words, yes? I know the message. I've just not lived as much as he."
"You have an interesting perspective." I muttered. "But I assure you, I'll have it back as soon as tomorrow."
"Holmes, I beg you keep it for the week. Return it to me when we can discuss, return it to me when you find the one that speaks to you. It'll make you more interesting." Gregson entreated.
"Interesting? Gregson, you insult me." I snarled. Though he was right, in some extent. I wasn't ever interesting, no more than one of my father's machines in those first weeks.
"Perhaps I do. Though within every boring soul is certainly the capability to bloom." The boy assured, beaming that smile that I grew so used to in the coming days. Beaming that smile that I might be able to trace in the stars, had I ever concentrated hard enough.