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Summary
Insomnia is a gross feeder. It will nourish itself on any kind of thinking, including thinking about not thinking—Clifton Fadiman
Sherlock is nine. It's hard for him to sleep.
No, this is not a Holmes brothers snuggling fic, this is not Mycroft brushing the mop of Sherlock's curly hair as he reads him about the land of Tír na nÓg.
This is a fic aiming to explain Sherlock's lack of sleep and food, his immaculately clean room and the beginnings of his violin all wrapped in one incident. This is a small part of the (probable) struggles of Sherlock's childhood and trying to manage his brain and keep up with it. This is a majorly parent-sibling-child relationship fic and dealing/acceptance of things that cannot be remedied by synthetic alternatives or shortcuts.
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