If you were to ask Sherlock Holmes about his childhood, he would only change the subject as quickly as you had enquired. I had only asked once- just once. He looked at me, his eyes a mixture of sorrow and regret. I knew straight away that it was another novella that I, John Watson, would never read from Sherlock's past.
I'd always imagined brotherly fights and late night arguments between father and son...I could never have been so wrong. You look at the man's relationship with his brother; it's spiteful. I seldom believe that there is much love between them. Specially with the way Sherlock always is with his feelings- love, specially of the family variety, seemed like a stepping stone Sherlock just couldn't reach. Maybe I had always under-estimated the man?
It was a day after I had enquired about his childhood that Sherlock presented a red leather bound book to me. I, at first, was a little stunned. Was it a gift? No. After studying the book for a few seconds, I had noticed the slight wear of the cover and the pages; it had been used before.
"What can you deduce from that, John?" He asked, his eyes gazing into mine before dropping to the book he had placed in my hands.
"It's been used- stored away for a few years though. There is wear on the leather where it had been stored with other objects... my bet is with other books." I paused, frowning at Sherlock. "What is it?"
"It's a book."
I huff at his bluntness. "I can see that- what kind of book?"
"Why should I waste my breath telling you when you have the hands to open it and the eyes to read?"
I smile and look down, my fingers tapping and almost caressing the leather as I make the decision to open the book. The first page makes it evident to what it is; a diary. Sherlock's diary.
I shuffle in my seat, looking up from the page as my flat mate stares back in the opposite seat, insisting that I read on.
I'd never felt so uncomfortable, yet so privileged to be able to dive into another part of Sherlock's history.