(Author's Note: I don't own Sherlock Holmes or his world, much credit to all the Artists who've made the BBC version so irresistibly wonderful, and of course to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle for creating them in the first place. Lately I've been fixated on how Sherlock got that little scar along lower lip {in fact, one of my characters finds it downright kissable, in the extreme} and after much thought, I decided on an answer. Hope it works for you, Kind Reader.)

This story is a follow-up to A Lesson in Geography.)

Some Scars Do Heal

Sherlock lay on his back again, Tessa's head resting against his shoulder as she slept. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling as he mused upon their earlier conversation and that note of disappointment in her voice when he'd answered her question about his scar. Such was her intuitive nature that he had to wonder if Tessa already knew in that moment that he wasn't being completely honest with her. Yet she might not realize the truest reason for that; yes, the growing heat between them begged to be served at once, and a lengthy explanation would have been-at the least- inconvenient But more than that, he knew it was his lifetime of keeping secrets that had really prevented him from telling her the real story.

"Someday you'll have to tell me how you got that scar." It wasn't a deep, dark secret at all, but just one of those that he kept close, as he did with so many of his childhood and adolescent memories. They served no purpose in his current pursuits, and as with all such distractions he either stored them away in his mind palace, or simply deleted them. This one had special meaning to him though, and would never be consigned to the rubbish bin.

Sherlock was eight years old, his first year in boarding school. It had been beyond challenging for him, away from his family, tremendous difficulty trying to fit in. Mycroft once told him it was often the jealousy of his exceptional mind, in others his age, which kept his older brother from making friends. Sherlock had tried to adopt that attitude in imitation of the brother he often idolized, but found it made things even worse, the word "snob" being about the kindest the other children had used towards him. That had caused Sherlock to withdraw further from the social world he found himself trapped in, longing for home and familiarity.

Of course, he shone in the classroom, which in turn made him even more likely to be shunned. As young as he was, Sherlock had figured out that if he could just not be such a show-off, answering questions with ease, getting highest marks on tests, there might be a chance of not being constantly excluded. But his temperament was such that he could not, when pressed, deny his abilities, so that all his intentions to not excel so loudly, failed to come to fruition. The teachers adored him for the same reasons his peers despised him.

Naturally, he found refuge in books. It was easier to keep his eyes upon the written page while eating lunch, than participate in awkward conversations in which he might easily socially err and open himself up to further ridicule. Easier to sit reading in his room on a sunny afternoon than pretend the fact that the happy laughter outside his window, of children at play, was never meant to include him.

The library soon became one of his favorite haunts, and the matronly librarian was the kindest adult on the entire staff. She noticed quite quickly his love of adventure tales and was always ready to recommend something he would enjoy, while gradually challenging him with literature beyond his years. She also noticed his decided sweet tooth, and though it would be frowned upon by the Headmaster, would occasionally sneak Sherlock little treats, home-baked goodies or store-bought sweets, although she was always careful not to do so in front of the other children. In time, Sherlock often came afternoons to help her shelve returns, and they would discuss the wonders of the latest tale he was immersed in. He was too young to realize it then, but she even guided him through those conversations, shaping his ability to analyze the style and content of the fictions he enjoyed.

By the time Easter holiday arrived, Sherlock actually felt he was going to miss school, for the library was the closest thing to his own home he'd ever experienced. When he told Mrs. Gwillam how he felt, she told him she had an extra special book for him to read while on holiday, and that she couldn't wait to hear what he thought of it when he returned. He felt very proud when she brought it out for him, a heavy tome that looked extremely serious and scholarly. Ivanhoe by Sir Walter Scott, a title and author impressive enough that it didn't need the illustration of a knight on the cover to make him know he was going to seriously enjoy it.

Once home, Sherlock made his way to his usual place by the hearth with a plan to get as far as possible in the knightly tale as time and quietude would allow. He had not anticipated Mycroft, however. Absorbed in the story, reading hungrily, he didn't hear his brother enter the room. Mycroft stood and watched his little brother for a few minutes, sighed with exaggeration, and positioned himself above Sherlock's left shoulder. "What in god's name are you reading?" he asked, voice dripping with disdain, "And wherever did you get it?"

"Ivanhoe" his younger brother answered, not even looking up; he didn't want to pause a moment from the story. "I got it from the school library. It's a true knight's tale, with jousts and ladies in need of rescuing…" Mycroft snorted derisively, "Well, you shouldn't be reading that romantic rubbish. It'll dull what little brain you have." Without any warning, Mycroft snatched the book from Sherlock's hands, banging the cover closed dramatically. Sherlock looked at him in disbelief, and before he could say a word, Mycroft had crossed to the bookcase.

"We'll just put this here for safe keeping until holiday is over," he said, reaching toward the top shelf easily, "You can return it to the library when you go back to school."

Sherlock had stood up and was glaring at his brother now, hands balled into fists. Mycroft looked at him, then back to the bookcase. "On second thought," he said with a cruel smile, "that's still just a little too easy for you to reach, isn't it?" He took the book in hand again, "This should work much better." Mycroft stepped up onto one of the lower bookcase shelves to boost his reach, and placed the book on top of the case, just inches below the ceiling. He rubbed in hands together as a gesture of finishing the job, saying "You'll thank me someday, little brother. It's a useless waste of time mooning about over some idealized fantasy. There really are much better ways to spend your time." He sauntered from the room, while Sherlock stared up at the top of the bookcase.

Sherlock could feel an unaccustomed fury growing inside him. This wasn't the way family was supposed to behave, was it? Despite the fact that in recent months Mycroft had seemed to treat him less and less like a brother and more and more like a nuisance, Sherlock had still looked up to him, trusting in Mycroft's wisdom, setting store by his opinions. Although there was always an edge of superiority to how Mycroft spoke to him now, Sherlock had truly believed his brother looked out for his best interests, challenging him to thinkbeyond the ordinary, outside the box. But this was downright cruel; something he'd expect from one of the bullies at school.

Sherlock had not yet learned the best way to defeat those bullies was to simply outwit them. The hot flame of anger he was feeling towards Mycroft had now introduced that concept. He strode to the bookcase, his back straight with determination. Two could play that game, he thought, and this was a game he intended to win. He set about to climb the bookcase.

Mycroft had at least 40 centimeters on Sherlock in height, and a much further reach with his longer arm length. That did not daunt the boy; certainly the heroes he'd been reading about wouldn't let such a little thing stand in their way towards a goal. The greatest problem seemed to be the narrow edge of shelf he had to stand on, and that was where he tread most carefully. On the fourth shelf of the bookcase, he could reach the top, but not far enough in to reach the book. He climbed up one more shelf.

Holding tight to the top of the case with his left hand, he reached towards the book with his right. It was only a hairbreadth away, so he rose up onto his toes, teeth gritted, face flushed with effort, grasping, finally gasping in relief as his fingers brushed, then caught, the cover of Ivanhoe. Sherlock felt proud, accomplishing the task much easier than Mycroft would have expected. He couldn't wait to walk into whatever room his brother was in, book in hand, not even glancing Mycroft's way, but planning to make sure his brother saw him holding it, big as life.

He was smiling, thinking of how irritated Mycroft would be, and not focusing fully on his descent. As he lowered his foot to the next shelf, he missed, falling back before he could even think to correct himself. His arms pin wheeling, the book flying free, he landed hard, his head striking the small table beside the reading chair by the bookcase. He lost consciousness immediately, and didn't even feel the book slam into his face, leaving a small gash along his lower lip. His mother came running into the room at the sound, calling his name as she saw him lying there.

Sherlock himself remembered very little about his time in hospital. His parents explained to him later that a bruise on his brain had caused some minor swelling, so he needed to be observed until the doctors were certain there was nothing more serious to follow. The swelling was so minimal, and reduced so quickly, that he was only hospitalized for four nights. Much of that time he was in and out of consciousness; but when partially awake, was aware enough to understand when spoken to and able to answer back and vocalize requests, and even show emotion. Still, to his parents it was a very close call.

When he was finally sent home, it was to bed rest for the remainder of the holiday, with strict instructions for limited physical activity. The novelty of having his meals served to him in bed quickly wore off, and he became easily bored. The only salvation was reading to pass much of the time. To his great satisfaction, Sherlock found Ivanhoe waiting on his bedside table when he got home. He assumed his parents had found it at the site of his fall, and left it there for him to read. It sparked a real feeling of victory in him, for despite the disastrous outcome of his climb, he'd beaten his brother after all. That victory—the first of many in the give-and-take battle his relationship with Mycroft was to become—tasted sweet.

His parents had asked him just what he had been doing climbing the bookcase, when he could have gotten them or even Mycroft to take the book he wanted down from the highest shelf. He pretended he couldn't remember, not to protect his brother, but because he wanted to hold that information for a more opportune time, when it would come in handy to extort something much-needed from Mycroft. Of course they believed him, as the doctors had warned them Sherlock's memory might be spotty at times. From the look on Mycroft's face, Sherlock was certain he wasn't buying the feigned memory loss. The brothers never spoke of the incident again, and Mycroft seemed less cruel for some time afterwards, treating Sherlock with indifference more than anything.

It was several years later—Mycroft had moved on to University, and Sherlock was ensconced in secondary school—when he heard of the events that happened while he lingered in hospital. His mother's cousin had come to visit one long weekend, and he heard them talking over tea, in the kitchen. He hadn't meant to eavesdrop (well, not entirely, but when he heard his name mentioned, of course he couldn't turn a deaf ear), and they were discussing "the Fall" (as his mother had begun to call the incident, as though it was a defining moment in his life). To his great surprise, she told the cousin of her older son's most unusual behavior throughout Sherlock's hospitalization. Mycroft had sat at his brother's bedside for every moment he could during visiting hours; not only that, but he had actually read to him; at times growing hoarse, but insisting on carrying on until he had completed the entire book. "What book was that?" the cousin asked. "The strangest thing," his mother replied. "Certainly not anything Myc would pick to read himself. Ivanhoe." His mother chuckled, "I asked him why he picked it, and he said he thought Sherlock might like it. Even insisted it might be therapeutic. Very odd, that, but probably the sweetest thing I'd ever seen him do for his brother."

Sherlock had been overwhelmed by this new information. All that time, he'd thought he'd beaten his brother, the cost a mere concussion, and gotten the book back. He now realized with surety it had been Mycroft that had left the book on the table in his bedroom. It was a hard pill to swallow in light of the acrimony that had grown between them over the years. He wondered how the knowledge might have changed the course of their relationship. But Sherlock knew with certainty, that to revisit the incident with his brother now would only grow the rift between them, in the face of Mycroft's arrogant pride.

Still, when he looked his face in the mirror, when he caught sight of that scar, there would always be a part of him that treasured it—for in spite of appearances, in spite of their brusque and cutting ways with one another—it would forever remind him that somewhere beneath his haughty affectations, Mycroft valued his brother in ways that most likely would remain unspoken for the span of both their lives. He found he could live with that, and sentimental as it might be, it was not a weakness after all.

Sherlock turned his face to Tessa, still dozing softly against his shoulder. He hadn't given much consideration to his scar in years, let alone the story of how it had come about. He realized he had a host of other quiet secrets, things he'd never confided to anyone for fear of seeming mawkish and soft. Would it be such a bad thing to finally have someone to share them with? It seemed to him that if they continued on the course they were on, it would be only natural for Tessa to become his loving confidant; that he might be willing, even happy, to share his stories with her.

But not yet. This was all still so new to him—not only the physical aspect, but the emotional and, frankly, romantic aspects—and he was playing catch-up as best he could. He'd been relying on Tessa's patience with each step forward he took, in which she'd gladly obliged. For now it was enough to know she cared about the details of his life in ways he'd never anticipated anyone ever would. Thus resolved, Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed deeply, relishing the growing warmth in his chest at the thought of entrusting his secrets in her. He at last allowed the even rhythm of her breathing to help him slip into a light, pleasant sleep. The lazy day held lots of promise, time well spent together; but there was no rush to meet it quite yet, as the sweet lady by his side would most certainly agree.