There was once a small boy alone on a street corner. His curly dark hair bounced as he glanced back to make sure no one was following him. The street was empty. Of course it was. It was four o'clock in the morning. No one but he was awake.
The boy began walking. In the dark, half-dawn before the sun fully rises, the boy nearly tripped over two papers lying in front of a lady's house. She had been gone for three nights, then. The paper hadn't yet been delivered for this morning. Judging by the neat, well-watered front garden, the boy deduced she would probably be back sometime that day. And he kept walking.
For, you see, this boy had a secret that he guarded above all else. However, he suspected that his brother knew something. That was why he was going to move the secret. He turned the street corner and then froze. There were footsteps behind him that he knew quite well. He turned.
"What are you doing here, Mycroft?" he asked sullenly.
His brother, by a few years the elder, raised his chin. "This is the fourth morning in a row you've left the house. I'm concerned about you."
"I thought you were asleep. All right, how did you figure it out?"
"You were dressed when I got up."
"Oh, all right then," the boy replied, irritated. "But you can't follow me.: He turned around again and kept walking, hoping Mycroft would give up. He should have known better.
"Or what?" His brother took a few paces after him. "I know what you're hiding. Actually, it's fairly obvious. And if mummy and daddy knew, they'd be cross."
In desperation, the boy whirled around again and stared into the eyes of his slightly taller sibling. "I know, I know, you mustn't tell them, please, you mustn't."
"Or what?" Mycroft repeated.
The boy narrowed his light blue-green eyes in determination. "I'll run away. You know I would."
His brother sighed. "No, you won't, cos you'd never make it. You're just too stupid."
"I'm not stupid!"
"'Course you are, you're just a stupid little boy. Come home with me, and I won't tell. Just come back with me." And Mycroft put his hand out, inviting his younger brother to take it, to come home, to forget the secret and it would never be found out.
The boy hesitated. He stared at his brother's hand, trembling with indecision. Then he thought about his secret, and it felt like his heart would burst with the pain of it, with the agony of the emotions his brother always warned against, and he made his decision. "No!" he cried, and he ran away from his brother, towards his secret.
His brother stood, crestfallen, then turned and walked slowly home.
Two minutes later, the boy stood, breathing hard, in the entryway of an alley. That was where his secret lived. He bent over and patted his hands against his knees. A wet brown nose poked out of a cardboard box, followed by the velvety head and floppy ears of a hound. The boy smiled at the sight of his precious secret. "C'mere, boy! Good boy! It's okay, come here!" The beautiful russet dog trotted out of the box and ran to the boy.
The boy dropped to his knees and rumpled the dog's silky ears. "C'mon, boy, we're leaving. They won't let me keep you if they knew, so we have to go, boy." He stood up and motioned for the dog to follow him. He turned and jogged out of the alley with the dog close behind. He hesitated at the street corner. Should he turn left or go straight across the quiet street? Straight, he decided. Without any clear idea of where he was going, he just kept heading straight, and the dog remained right at his heels.
Except—suddenly, the boy stopped. The dog was no longer following him, but had turned around and was trotting in the opposite direction. The dog was going back home.
The boy cried out and started running after the dog. "No, no, boy, you mustn't go that way, come back, come back!" But the dog was much faster than the boy with his short legs, and the dog just wouldn't stop running.
The boy started to cry. He didn't know what to do: the dog wouldn't follow him to run away, and he knew if he took the dog to his house, his parents would take him away and he'd never see his precious secret again. He pressed his face into his hands.
Then, he heard the squeal of car brakes. He lifted his face just in time to see the car slam into his dog, and the driver slow for a second, then drive away as fast as possible, and the boy screamed as he saw the limp body of his best friend lying in the road. Time seemed to slow, but somehow the boy found himself kneeling next to the dog, sobbing and shaking him.
"Wake up! Please, boy, wake up!" the boy cried. The dog tried to lift his head, but fell back down. "Help!" the boy screamed. "Help, someone, please!" He looked around at the empty street and raised his voice. "HELP!"
Two hours later…
The boy sat on the floor in the corner of the veterinary hospital. He refused all offers of speech from his parents or his brother, instead just keeping his face buried in his arms. When he heard the door to the room where they had taken the dog open, he sprang to his feet. A man in a white coat was walking towards him.
"Is he going to be all right?" the boy asked desperately. He noticed the shoes the man was wearing. They were expensive. He hoped his parents didn't have to pay too much money for the dog's treatment to attribute to the man's wages.
The man bit his lip. "Your dog is alive," he said finally. "But he is in a lot of pain. It may be kinder—"
"No!"
But the man finished his sentence anyway. "—to put him down."
"No, no you can't!" the boy protested. "You can't kill him! No!"
The man looked very sad, but resigned, as if he had to do this a lot. "I'm sorry, son, but it's the best option."
"Death is never the best option," the boy said back.
The man seemed lost for words. "Well—" he started, but he was cut short by Mycroft, the boy's brother, walking up to them.
"Sherlock?" he said, addressing his little brother. "What's going on?"
Sherlock (for that was the boy's name) gazed at his brother with big, scared eyes. "They want to kill him," he whispered.
"It's probably for the best. After all, you'd never be able to keep him, anyway. And he is in pain."
The boy wavered. The thought of his dog's trusting brown eyes was unbearable. But he looked up at the man who had come through the door, and he nodded. Once. It was enough. The man gave him an encouraging, grateful smile, patting him on the shoulder gently. He turned and started back through the door.
"Wait!" Sherlock said, unable to let go. "Can I see him first? Please?"
The man turned his head. "Of course," he replied.
Sherlock stroked the dog's soft head. The dog was lying on his side on a white table. "Hey," he tried to say cheerfully. He knew that dogs could perceive human emotion, often better than people could. He couldn't let his dog know he was scared. He cleared his throat. "Hey, boy. How're you doing?" Stupid, he said to himself. It's not like he knows what I'm saying, it's not like he could answer me. But he didn't stop talking. "Hey, you know what, boy? I think I should give you a name. How about that? Is it time, do you think?" His voice quivered. "I'm sorry. I'm really, really sorry, boy. This is all my fault. But…it'll be too late if I wait much longer." A couple of tears slipped down his cheek. His face crumpled and he couldn't hold back a sob.
The dog whined a little, exerting immense effort to raise his head slightly and lick the tears off his boy's face. Sherlock gasped a small, pained laugh. "Thanks, boy. So, what sort of name do you want?" The dog nuzzled his chin. "You want to be a pirate? Remember, that's what we wanted, huh? We'd run to the ocean, far, far away, we'd steal a ship. We were going to sail together on the high seas. We'd have loads of adventures. Remember that?" The boy thought for a minute. "Not Blackbeard. That won't work, cos you're red. Oh, I know! Redbeard. That's it. You're going to be Redbeard. Okay?" As if in response, newly named Redbeard whimpered a contented sigh and placed his head back onto the hard table.
The veterinary doctor, the man with the white coat and expensive shoes, poked his head into the room apologetically. "I'm sorry, son, it's probably time now."
Sherlock glanced up at him. "Okay." He tried to sound calm.
The man came into the room all the way. He had a syringe in his hand. "You might not want to stay for this," he suggested gently.
"I do, please," Sherlock responded firmly. He looked at the syringe. "Is that what you're killing him with?"
The man winced. "Yes. I'm sorry."
"Will it hurt him?"
He looked relieved at a question he could answer honestly that might give the boy some comfort. "No, your dog won't feel a thing. It'll be like falling asleep, I promise."
"Redbeard. His name's Redbeard. Not just dog," Sherlock said quietly. He looked into the man's eyes with piercing intensity, shockingly intelligent for a boy his age. "Do it." Without saying another word, the man stepped forward again, standing right next to Sherlock, who kept one hand on Redbeard's head and placed one on his side.
The man slipped the syringe needle into Redbeard's neck. The lovely red dog slowly went limp, his brown eyes dimming before sliding shut for the last time. Sherlock, shaking, took his hands off his dog. More tears threatening to fall from his bright blue-green eyes, he turned and ran out of the sterile white room, unable to bear the sight of his beloved friend so lifeless.
In the large room outside, his parents were holding a whispered conference, his brother standing near the door, waiting. Sherlock went straight for Mycroft…and punched him in the face. "It's your fault!" he shouted. Then he rushed out the door, sobbing, into the cool early morning English air. He ran, for two miles he ran, until he reached the alley where his secret had once been stashed. Collapsing, exhausted, next to the cardboard box where Redbeard had slept, he pulled an old blanket out of the box and wrapped himself in it.
Shivering, crying, rocking back and forth, Sherlock realized that he would never be able to spend his life on the seas that moved constantly, like his mind, with the only one he had ever found who didn't judge him or alienate him, forever. And the more he thought, he decided that it hadn't been Mycroft's fault, nor even his own fault, nor his parents'. And though it wasn't the driver's fault, either, not really, they should have stayed. They should not have just driven away. Sherlock cursed himself for not remembering their license number.
He promised to himself that no one would ever, ever get away with killing someone, ever again, if he had anything to do with it. That was his job, now and forever.
That was the moment when Sherlock Holmes became the detective.
My first Sherlock fanfic, so...what did you think? I know everyone has their own theories and opinions on what happened to Redbeard exactly. Well, this is mine. Thank you so much for reading! I love you all.