Hello and welcome to the TARDIS (I wish right? But don't we all)! Today I have brought to you a family one-shot concerning Sherlock (but you already know it's Sherlock because why else would you be here? If you typed in 'Sherlock' in the search then you would hopefully know what you're going to get). This is a snippet from his childhood actually based on mine (of course I changed and tweaked a few things, Sherlock isn't my little brother. But if he was I would be a very proud big sister). So from now on since I have failed so far to update any (and probably all) of my stories I will be doing one-shots most of the time and full-on stories here and there. So, enjoy!

The family gathered around the telly, flashes of their past zooming on the screen. The storm raged loudly outside the windows as the rain pelted the glass in golf-ball sized droplets.

They awed, and cooed at the footage of the little ones. The mother, father and the brothers - aged five and thirteen - gathered on the couch while the sisters - nine and twelve- had the one lone chair. The family wishing they were back in the old days. The sisters began crying over the dog that had died seven years before, tears dripped from their eyes as they watched themselves no older than four and six running down a forest trail. "Come on Elllllaa!" they said, singing the last part out. A black lab came into the view of the camera following the two girls on an extendable lead. They laughed as they ran down the path. Thunder cracked outside the window, making the youngest jump and held onto his mother. She chuckled lightly wrapped her arms around him reassuringly.

As the footage came to a close and the family went on to the next, the two girls in the chair hugging each other. The next one came on and this one showed the family at the table, perhaps a few months before. The father was sitting holding the newest born and bouncing the little one on his knee and an older boy by the age of seven sitting on his high-chair laughing at his brother. Classical music played softly in the background and the mother entered with the two little girls in tow. "Mommymommymommymommy!" they sang, one holding a Cinderella doll and the other holding an Ariel one, the scales on her tail shimmering in the light. They went around the table and stood behind the father and watched the brother closely. "Why hib hebf a b-big face?" the one holding the Cinderella doll asked. The mother laughed and picked her up, bouncing the little girl on her knee. "Because they have a small head. And if they have a small head then that makes them look like they have a big face," she explained. Then the two little girls nodded and crawled off of their mother and began talking in what seemed to be a made-up language, laughing and giggling at each.

Lighting struck the ground somewhere thousands of miles away, but it was still clear enough for the boy to see it in the corner of his eye. He really didn't like storms; his brother always said that an evil witch made the storms. That she would turn the wind and whip up the seas to create the rain. That the east-wind was her messenger and it would scoop him up and take him to the witch to be eaten. But his sisters always had a nicer story. That the storm was a giant waking up from his slumber. That when he stretched he breathed out the wind and his long strides from his seabed would make splashes that would travel all over the world creating the rain. That the giant was the one that held up the sky and sun. He was the creator of worlds; the first was his clay made creation when he was a boy. The rest came later.

The film turned off, and the father switched it to another one that was named BVI Trip. They laughed, then the mother made a comment on how the littlest of the boys was found on the last day with a suitcase full of diapers and standing next to the case completely naked. They laughed again. The laughing and the crying went on until the girls started to fall asleep in their chair and the rest of the family on their couch.

The rain got harder, and it sounded like someone was pounding on the windows. One of the little boys - the youngest- was scared. The thunders got louder and louder until it sounded like shouting. He froze. It was shouting something! He could hear it! It was shouting his name! He closed his eyes and surrounded himself with blankets, and just like that the storm was over leaving behind the tormenting memory for the littlest boy.

He opened an eye and climbed out of his cocoon of blankets and slinked over to the girls on the couch, his dark and unruly curls bouncing on his head. He tugged on the sleeve of one of the girls; she blinked the sleep out of her eyes.

"Can I thweep in your woom tanight?" he asked, pleading written all over his face. She laughed and nodded her head. She then shook her younger sister from her slumber and they all went to bed, the little boy in tow. They climbed into the queen bed and placed the fluffy covers over their bodies. They sighed and fell into a peaceful slumber.

"Goof night Angela," the little boy whispered.

"Good night, Sherlock."

You know I really have to say that giving little Sherlock a lisp was my friends idea. But it really does make him all the more cuter! I'm mean aren't little kids with lisps adorable? Also I am in detention and Azkaban a lot (not in actual school) because my friend has taken up the role as Professor Umbridge. She is the scariest person in the whole world right now.