"L-leave me a-alone." muttered Sherlock, backing away from the older boys.
He glanced around frantically.
Where was Mycroft?
He was usually here to walk him home, so this didn't happen.
"W-what's t-t-the m-matter?" mocked their leader, Matthew.
Sherlock kept backing away. Come on, Mycroft, please.
"G-go a-way" why did he have to stutter now?
Suddenly, one of the boys shifted, moving to the side, leaving a tiny gap. Lucky he was tiny.
The boy who had moved must have moved on purpose. What was his name? Johnathan? Johnny? Something like that. It wasn't important.
What was important was how far he could run before his asthma kicked in. God he was so cliché it was painful.
He was almost home when he heard the footsteps behind him come closer.
He honestly couldn't keep running as he staggered up to his garden, he opened the gate, as the boys caught up with him.
With one push, he was sprawled on the floor, panting, his lungs heaving. He scrabbled for his inhaler, getting it half out when a foot landed on the plastic round thing.
He wheezed harder as a hand yanked him upright.
"Keeno." someone spat in his screwed up face, he was thrown to the ground again as they kicked him.
"Re... Red..." he rasped, still trying to breath.
Another foot landed in his side, making him curl up.
He pushed the gate open wider, with his flailing hand.
"H... Here! Bo... Boy. C... Mon Reddie, h-here!" he wheezed.
His vision was going black but he could hear pounding feet.
A dog barked.
He lay on his side, grinning weakly.
There were squeals and yells as the boys ran.
Sherlock reached out and felt around. He grabbed his shattered inhaler. He peered at it through teary eyes. He could still hear them screaming.
The metal air filter was intact. He pushed it into his mouth and gasped.
He wiped his eyes and looked for Redbeard.
He currently had his teeth sunk in the main boys leg.
The boy was whimpering on his front, tears streaming down his face.
"Redbeard, leave."
"Y-your dog is f-fucking mental." the boy's voice cracked on 'mental'
An old lady tottered up the road to the two boys.
"I've called the police and an ambulance." she wheezed. Sherlock wondered if he should offer his inhaler to her.
"Why the police?" whined the boy. Sherlock didn't even know his name. Something like Jim.
"You attacked him." frowned the lady.
"I watched it all."
"You need to take that dog away," shrilled Matthew. "He attacked me!"
"Yes, he acted in his masters defence."
"He's mental!"
There was a wail of sirens just as Mycroft staggered up the path.
"Sherlock? Redbeard?"
Redbeard positioned himself by Sherlock, growling lightly at the arriving police.
"Hello? What's your name?"
A kind-looking police officer sat next to Sherlock, he noticed she crouched away from Redbeard.
"He's Sherlock, I'm his brother Mycroft. Those boys used to pick on him. I should have walked him home but I got let out late..." Mycroft looked on the verge of tears.
The police officer nodded and pulled her radio off her shoulder.
"So the dog bit... Matthew Hearnway?"
Sherlock nodded, still gasping into his inhaler, Mycroft rubbing his back in large soothing circles. Sherlock's free hand was knotted into Redbeard's fur, the dog twisting backwards to lick the tears off his master's face, whining softly at the salty taste.
Sherlock only realised the woman was talking into her radio when he heard the words 'Dangerous... Bit another boy, currently being taken to hospital...' and the most fatal of all: 'Put down.'
"No!" Screamed Sherlock, tugging the spaniel closer to him, "You can't take him away! He was protecting me!"
But officers were already crowding in, seizing Redbeard who was whining and struggling to return to his master, sensing the fear and grief coming off him.
"Please tell your dog to relax and go with them. It will only be worse."
Sherlock's voice cracked as he called out to his best friend. "Down, Red. It's okay. It's Okay."
"We will contact you when he is being put down. Your mother can collect the body. It is not a child's job." the woman spoke in a clipped voice.
They returned to their vans, slamming the doors on Redbeard and screeched away, leaving Sherlock sitting in thr middle of the pavement, tears streaking down his face, with only his brother for comfort.
His brother. Mycroft.
"Where were you?" Sherlock screamed, his throat hurt but he couldn't stop, not even at Mycroft's shocked and hurt face.
"If you walked me home, if you tried to help me a bit more, this wouldn't have happened! What were you doing? Were you being beaten up? Were you?"
Sherlock struggled to his feet, he could feel where bruises would be forming.
"Sherlock. Sir wanted to see me about Cambridge."
For a second, Sherlock's anger was forgotten.
"You got in?"
"Yes."
And it was back.
"You're leaving me? When? Why, Myc? WHY?"
"Sherlock..."
"No. I don't care. Tell Mother Redbeard was taken away. Inform her I will be attending the execution and funeral. I shall be in my room. Do not bother me."
Four days later...
An eleven-year-old boy stood on the wrong side of the hard plastic sheeting separating him from the dog who had mauled another boy savagely. He held a hand up to the clear plastic, watching the dog as it sat panting on the surgery table. The killer hadn't entered yet, leaving the boy time to look the dog over.
It's once glossy coat was dull, it was considerably thinner, it's ribs showing even though it had only been four days.
Before the boy could notice the other differences in his dog a man in surgical overalls and mask, walked up behind the dog, brandishing a needle.
The dog only half turned, making the boy realise how docile the animal was being.
They had drugged him.
Without looking at the heartbroken boy on the other side of the screen, the surgeon plunged he needle and its lethal contents into the skin of the dog's shoulder.
Within seconds, the once lively dog, who had embarked on quests to find long-lost treasures and conquered far away lands, barking at the heels of his master, had been reduced to a bundle of skin and memories.
No light for the eyes.
No life for the bones.
That was the day Sherlock Holmes decided he didn't want to be a pirate.
That was the day Sherlock Holmes decided he hated other humans.
That was the day Mycroft Holmes left his brother, leaving a rift that would never fully heal.
That was the day Sherlock Holmes decided, if no one bothered to fully listen and understand victims stories, he would.
He would not let another Redbeard happen.
"They're putting me down too, boy."
Sorry for mistakes, sorry for overall crappiness sorry for not finishing this a good six months ago.
#I don't like the ending.
#Endings are the saddest part
#I don't like endings
#that was like two fandoms.
There may be more, I'm clearing my OneNote of all the half finished stories.
Fez.