The expression on his face said it all, and I could read him from the inside out. At first there was a look of humor, as if he assumed I was joking and attempting to scare him with such a worst case scenario. Then this smile faded, or rather that look of good humor, to a more concerned look as realized at last I was serious with such a declaration. And then, once the gravity of such a confession took hold, that ever familiar look of anger over dominated his usually serious expression. I could see it in his eyes, my own failure leading to my demise, or even worse my success leading to an heirless company! His fists clenched, though he seemed in no position to make a move against me. He seemed shell shocked, as if with such a declaration he was left without any words or motions that could counter it. This moment of surprise passed, and before long he found use of his tongue and decided to speak his own opinion.
"That's completely out of the question." He said at last.
"I'm my own person, Mycroft, and I can live as I see fit! I don't need your..."
"Yes you do!" was his immediate response, cutting me off almost as soon as I claimed independence from him. "You do need my approval, Sherlock, because I am your only living relative, your only friend, and the sole supplier of your income! If you chose to purse such an interest, if you chose to abandon any rationality, as well as your family and destiny, then I will be forced to let you face the grave consequences of such mistakes. You will not like where such a lifestyle takes you, that is for sure!"
"I can make an income on my own, and besides, you'll have me sit around this house all day, collecting dust, while my mind searches for meanings beside itself! I'm wasted in this Industrial town, I'm not meant for the factory!" I exclaimed, at last taking my feet with the intentions of making my final departure.
"And who will run it, when I'm gone? Who will maintain the good family name, with you smearing our reputation all over the morning papers?" Mycroft demanded.
"Have children Mycroft, that's where all men get their respective heirs." I insisted, to which Mycroft pulled a face which was far beyond disgust.
"I need not engage in such brutality, not while I have you!" Mycroft insisted.
"Well you don't have me, not anymore. I'm leaving." I announced at last.
"Leaving? To University, of course?" my brother clarified, rather lost in a conversation that was not led by his own speech or his own intentions.
"No, to Victor." I admitted at last. That might have been the last straw, for as soon as I took a step towards the door he thrusted a fist across to either side, making the exit impassable without his direct permission. I stumbled back, though with firm resolution to fight my way out if possible. I knew by now that my presence here would force me into a prisonlike lifestyle, and if I would be send onto university my life would in turn be over. Either way, if I stayed here I would be wasted. I had to leave, one way or another.
"You will not be running to that man, that fiend!" Mycroft demanded. "I know his type, the men who consort with the Devil! So unspeakable are their tasks..."
"They're just artists! They're not Satanists, they're not criminals!" I exclaimed in Victor's defense, finding my brother's accusations to be harshly unfair.
"THEY'RE WORSE! And to think, my baby brother falling within such ranks, defiled, dirtied by their constant touch...no I will not allow it!" Mycroft exclaimed, stamping his foot down on the ground with such force as any motivated man could muster. Though despite his firmness I myself was stubborn, almost as much set in my ways as he.
"I am leaving; I don't care what you have to say about it. My life is a novel just beginning, and the moment I step my foot out this door will be the most exciting chapter of all. I am making a life for myself, Mycroft! I'm not just relying on the family I was born into." I declared at once, to which my brother turned just about white as a sheet. For a moment I could see the contemplation in his eyes, wondering if it would be best to keep me chained somewhere in the basement for lack of a better option. He understood that he could not keep me in this house without such restrains, and it was beginning to dawn on him that I was determined in my flight. And so what was he to do, except let me go?
"If you leave now, you will leave everything behind." Mycroft demanded at once. "You will take nothing but the clothes on your back, and will be cut off entirely from my assistance. None of your inheritance will reach you, and it will be the last time I accept your company. If you walk from me now, Sherlock, you walk from me forever."
"I don't want..." I hesitated, knowing that it was my sentiment that he was playing towards. He knew it would be hard for me to leave him behind, even if he had changed so drastically from the man I had once adored. But my life was moving forward, my destiny was playing out before me! He was nothing but deadweight, and I stayed just to keep our relationship in tact it would be a shattered, trustless thing at best. There would be no purpose to staying, now that my mind was made up. I took a step forward, and Mycroft in turn let his hand fall away from the frame.
"You choose to leave?" my brother wondered, his voice harsh but emotional, as if he was attempting to keep his true misery at bay. He hated to see me leave, and in truth it hurt me to take those steps as well. Though I was prepared for this moment, and just as one would pull a rotted tooth from their mouth, well I too had to take the leap. I had to step away from the library, past my brother who had once loved me, and towards brighter things. I walked slowly, feeling his presence wandering after me like a specter, hoping perhaps to force me into staying by guilt and regret. Though I was determined, and each step I took through that house was more anxious than the next. The door was open to me; the door was mine to leave through! And with each step the memories of my past were fading, each step the photographs scowled and then forgot. Each step was farther and farther away from the life I was never supposed to leave, fallen away from the family who I just so happened to be born into. Good fortune was something entirely different to understanding, and here my family may not be half of what I could make in the worlds that were due to me. The family by blood may not be half as much as by ink. Though despite such realizations I still had the sense to turn, my hand partially towards the door knob before I realized who I was ultimately leaving behind. I looked upstairs once, towards where my bedroom door could partially be seen. And then I looked towards my brother, to where he was standing hopelessly by the stairway banister, clutching to it with weakened hands, as if he was too upset now to keep himself upright.
"Goodbye, Mycroft." I said at last, my last words to him so long as I was concerned. He said nothing in return, perhaps too emotional to process anything that would fit the occasion, and before long he had lost my attention. I turned back to the door, gripped the handle, and from that moment never looked back. The world was calling, and for once in my life I was taking the initiative to answer it. 

I walked to London, what had been an hour's drive turning into about a five hour trek through the looming, eerie darkness. There were only a couple of instances in my entire life where I had felt so vulnerable, the most comparable I think would be hiding in a trench in the war. This walk from my house, from the warm fireside safety, to the cesspools of London that may or may not accept me, well it was like walking a tightrope over a roaring fire. One misstep though the collected mud, one wandering criminal looking for an easy target, well just like that my life could be over. Though I walked on, determined now to get as much distance as I could between myself and that house which seemed to loom just over my shoulder, no matter how far away I thought I had gotten. It was in the darkest hours of the night that the lights of London became visible, and just about that time it had begun to rain. My first inclination was to save the paper in my pockets, each book and page threatened to be damaged beyond repair if ever soaked through by the water. However as I was troubling myself with trying to protect the books I had rather neglected to protect myself, and before long I found that I was covered head to toe in freezing, mid-January rain. The lights were coming closer though at a slower rate, at the moment it looked as though the entire city had a glow around it, a soft orange glow, like a heat lamp in the most desolate, freezing of times. By the time I switched over the muddy roads for a cobbled sidewalk it was about three in the morning, in which I had no choice but to wait out the storm and the night in some corner of the street. Surely my host would not accept me if I came to him at this time of night, in this sort of state. I had no choice but to continue through the city, walking about an hour through the deserted streets, under the lights of lamps which were flickering and struggling as the rain water soaked through the gaps in their glass, dampening the wick and threatening the light to go out. By this time I was shivering, trying to stay under as many awnings and rooves as I could manage to try to keep the rain off of my skin and clothes. However, by now I was properly soaked, creating my own little rain storm as the water dripped down the fabrics of my clothes and off of my hair as my entire body shook. Before long I was in the general neighborhood of Victor's address, I wasn't bold enough to go knocking though I presumed that when I woke it would not be another ten minutes before I could beg for entry and a warm bath. The streets were empty and I felt safe enough to sit down in a doorway, presumably one of a shop that would not open until I was long gone. I could see a row of houses on my right, a couple of shops on my left, and for as long as my eyes could see there was only London. I had made it at least out of my house, at least freed from the constraints of my brother. The outside world was admittedly much tougher already than I had anticipated, much colder than I could have planned for. In my little doorway I was free from the rain, however the longer I sat on the paving stones the bigger the puddle underneath me grew. I was shivering now, hard enough to rattle the window pane on which my forehead leaned. It was the cold that made me shiver, and perhaps more so the shock of leaving behind everything I had once understood. It didn't feel real, quite yet, the fact that I would never be going back to that house again. My brother's face was still fresh in my mind, his voice so recent...would I never meet him again? Was this the last encounter from Holmes to Holmes, brother to brother? My only chance now, for survival, was the company and hospitality of strangers. Of Victor Trevor, a man I knew hardly anything of, a man whose charity was questionable at best. He seemed the sort to accept only people who could serve him a purpose, and at the moment in my frozen, weakened state, well I certainly wasn't going to be doing anything helpful for at least a couple of days. I could only hope that he loved me, or at least cared for me! Just enough to take me in...just until I could get back on my feet. Quite literally. I feel asleep without realizing it, for while that was the main goal of being huddled in this doorway I still felt terribly exposed in an unconscious state. I didn't sleep deeply, and felt as though my dreams were direct projections of the world that was going on around me. I tossed and turned, feeling my mind slowly slipping into delirium, and before long the fever set in. The cold that I had accustomed myself to, the freezing rain that I had never removed from my white, icy skin was beginning to take hold on my health, and before long waking up was not an option. When the sunlight hit I was barely able to open my eyes, shivering in a hypothermic state. The rain had stopped; I didn't hear its echoes any longer, though for the moment I was in no position to contemplate anything. I felt myself falling from my sitting position, my cheek hitting the cold stone beneath, my shivering having ceased and my heartbeat slowing to a dangerous rate. My clothes were stiff and icy, my skin white and bloodless and my surroundings slurred. I saw images of people, carts, life going on all around. No one would help me; no one knew why they should bother! I was just another boy without a home, one of the stupidest of all the helpless on the streets. I could cower all I wanted to, call out for help with what voice I could manage, though they would keep walking by. They wouldn't bother to even look down; they wouldn't care to see the youth dying at their feet. After a while I had given up, finding myself rolled onto my back on the side of the street, basking in the sunshine like a reptile but finding no relief from the wind that was cutting through my helpless attire. If I was any less modest I should have undressed, and if I had any capable understanding or body motion I still might have done it. Though for the moment I was just waiting for death, unable to get to my feet and unable to get the help that I needed. Before long I figured that there were worse ways to die, in fact I hardly felt the cold any longer. The sun was out and shining, I could see the blue sky from where I lay in the cold gutter. It wasn't a bad way to go, alone in the crowds and satisfied with the very last decision you had made. Life had been good to me; there was no reason to assume that death would be any less accommodating. My fingers slipped towards my pocket, with whatever strength I had left in my body I used it to trace the soaking lines of the book stored in my pocket, the seams of possibility, trying to touch upon his genius one last time. My last thoughts would have been of Victor, and perhaps that was how he found me. I could hear his voice, far away from my version of reality, far away in the darkness that was setting heavily over my eyes.
"Sherlock..." it whispered, my name over and over again. I couldn't respond. But then I began to move, I felt my body being lifted up in deadweight, I could feel a heartbeat next to my ear that was much more rapid than my own, and certainly much more capable. I could feel my head bouncing, up and down, light and darkness, until at last the motion awoke sense enough to understand what was happening. He had found me. For a little while I remained cold, sitting in a sunlight room and listening to the ever familiar sound of water. Though there was steam, steam enough to warm my skin, and before long I felt a pair of unfamiliar hands removing my clothes and throwing them aside in a thawing, frozen pile. There was a woman here; I could hear her soft words, creaking with old age, encouraging me to cooperate the best I could. I was sat up miserably on a chair, now naked and quite afraid of my surroundings. There was a bath running, I could hear the water beginning to rise. Before long I was set inside of it, though the transition from the chair to the bath was something I did not fully remember. My only recollection was sinking into the hot water, my numbed skin beginning to burn with the sudden temperature change, my brain coming alive if only to turn right back off...I slipped back into unconsciousness, though this was a much more pleasant state to be in. I was warm, and safe. And for a little while I could hear his voice echoing the back of my head, Victor's voice...come to rescue me. 

I woke up a couple of times throughout my period of unconsciousness, though on all occasions my eyes were the only working part of my body, all else had failed to cooperate with my brain's instructions. What my eyes did see came back to me in a feverish delirium, and my mind could not yet contemplate where I was, what strange bed I was lying in, and who these people were who seemed to wait on me day and night. I recognized Victor; he was the only person whose voice succeeded in calming me down, however that woman still remained a mystery. Very often I could feel her touch; she had very soft fingers that tended to press against my forehead, rearrange my limbs, or attempt to brush the curly tangles that sat unceremoniously at the top of my head. I could not understand her; I did not know where she had come from, though I suspected that if I had been alive this long she must have at least been here to protect me. I understood enough to know that I was vulnerable, at the mercy of each capable human being that chose to speak to me, to loom over me, and to watch me as I slept on in my delirium. One of those people was Victor, and that was half of the reason I began to trust him so determinedly. His hospitality during those days painted him in a much better light than he lived up to be, and his bringing me back from the dead almost made up for his throwing my John Watson back in my place.That fiendish animal, so soft in the early days, so caring. I could remember his voice working its way into my dreams, those vocals that meant so much tome, coupled with the weight of his fingers pressed against my hand. He cared for me; I felt it honestly within his touch and his affection. And when I woke up he was the first one I saw, when at last my body cooperated with the rest of my consciousness, when at last my soul had fitted back into its frame, he was the only witness.