A/N: Hi guys! If any of you are still here, you're probably wondering where I've been for all this time! I apologize because I have no true excuse for my absence other than disinterest in continuing to write my other stories. I also apologize for all the messages I received asking me to continue certain stories but never responding and doing just that. Like I said, times have changed and I write more for myself now. I will always love fanfiction though, for it is the website that introduced me to writing stories and I attribute it to my desire to pursue a career in writing.
Anyway, I'm rambling and I'm not quite sure anyone is reading this. This is an idea I thought up the other day that's been nagging me to write. Hopefully it sees the light of day and you all enjoy it even though it is not Harry Potter! Thanks xx
A Holmes Heart
By RosexScorpius4ever
Chapter 1 – Redbeard
It was the summer of 1987. The sun took constant refuge behind the densely clouded sky as though it knew of what was to come. The only sounds were of nature and adolescence.
In the forest ran a boy. He was wiry in build and short for his age. He was still young enough for some innocence to be acceptable. Naivety as well, but that would change in due time.
"Come Redbeard!" he cried, running the length of the river. "We've got deductions to make!"
After him scampered an old dog, auburn in color. The dog was versatile for his age and for the most part, was able to keep up with the boy. Occasionally, he would stop to lap up some water from the river.
The boy, noticing the dog's hesitance in venturing deeper into the forest, halted and got down on his knees.
"Here, Redbeard! Here, boy!" he called, slapping his knees gently. "Come, boy!"
The dog scampered over and began to lovingly lick the boy's face. The boy laughed with glee.
"Good boy, Redbeard. Good boy!"
He continued to pet and stroke the dog, forgetting himself and his desired to reach the heart of the forest. He laughed at the dog's playful antics.
"See, boy? There's nothing wrong with you!" said the boy, adoringly. "Mycroft's just is trying to be a spoilsport. He's –"
"WILLIAM SHERLOCK SCOTT HOLMES!"
The boy grimaced visibly. No one called him by his full name. No one at all. He purposefully referred to himself as Sherlock because it was different, like his brother, who he admired. William was such a drab name anyways. There were plenty of Williams and he was like none of them.
"SHERLOCK!"
He grunted, getting to his feet and brushing off his trousers.
"Come Redbeard, we'd best get back before mummy loses it."
The two companions wandered side-by-side back to the estate. Sherlock occasionally would reach out to stroke him, only to notice that the dog had fallen behind. When this happened he would urge him forward with a slight bump to the rear end.
He was being watched.
Although he could not see his face, Sherlock was aware of his brother's gaze. Mycroft, seven years his senior, was Sherlock's fifteen-year-old brother. Back from boarding school for the holidays, the boy spent most of his time in his room writing "important" letters to "significant people."
Government people, Sherlock had deduced. Why else would his brother spend time on his archaic typewriter, perfecting letters on stationary that he had demanded access to his mother's study for. It was no secret that his brother desired to work for the British Government once he was of age.
Sherlock, on the other hand, went through many phases of what he wished to be, though none of that was consequential at the moment. Mycroft's eyes were still trained on him and Sherlock realized he was the reason mummy had called him back. As to why he was being called back, well he had not gotten so far with his deductions yet.
He walked into the parlor with Redbeard and saw both of his parents standing there. The pair of them wore identical forlorn expressions.
"Where have you been, mister?" demanded his mother.
"The forest," Sherlock answered readily, an eyebrow arched. "I believe that's allowed."
"Don't be smart, young man," his father said. His face was kind but his tone was stern, not an all-together great combination for an authoritative figure.
Sherlock bit his tongue. Mycroft's voice rang in his mind.
Don't be smart, Sherlock. I'm the smart one.
"Yes, father."
He waited for his parents to say something. When his father did not, he simply remained silent and observed his mother instead.
His mother's palms had slight indentations on them, indicating that her nails had been digging into them. She was anxious. Why was she anxious?
He observed her eyes. Exasperation with an under-bearing trace of melancholy. Her eyes drifted to Redbeard. Sherlock's blood ran cold.
"MYCROFT!" he yelled. "WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?"
He knew his brother was in earshot. He was merely behind the wall adjacent to the stairwell, given the shadow that was present on the wooden floor. There was really no need to shout but before his mother could tell him so, Mycroft appeared.
"Not a thing, brother mine," Mycroft drawled, slinking down the staircase. "I merely observed as an unbiased party does."
Sherlock could feel his blood boiling.
"There is nothing wrong with Redbeard!" he said through gritted teeth, trying and failing to maintain a level voice.
"Au contraire, brother mine." Sherlock loathed when Mycroft called him that. "You cannot honestly tell me that he is in top condition."
It was true. Redbeard was growing old but he was not failing in the way Mycroft suggested. Sure, he moved slower than he used to but he still could move. His eyesight might be a bit foggy from all of the cataracts but he could still see. He was no worse for wear than any elderly human.
"He's fine," Sherlock demanded. He knelt down next to the weary dog and put his forehead against the dog's own. Redbeard licked the boy's nose lovingly. "Good boy, Redbeard. See? Fine. He still knows who I am."
"Regardless," his mother said. "It's time, dear."
Time. It seemed to stop for Sherlock in that moment. Time was slowing down and speeding up simultaneously. He needed more of it but he could not move.
"No," Sherlock croaked, very much aware that he was losing control of the situation. If he ever had been in control…
He felt his father's hand on his shoulder and blinked rapidly. He would not… he would not in front of his brother…
Mycroft's eyes were still trained on him. The expressionless mask that he had perfected over the years was in place. To Sherlock though he looked sinister. This was not the brother who taught Sherlock the science of deduction. This was not the brother who taught him how to identify a man's occupation, marital status, and wealth based on his gait.
This was the enemy.
His mortal enemy.
This was the person who thought Sherlock to be an idiot for most of his life. There was not much to go on after all, it's not as though they had friends. This was also the person who convinced Sherlock of his own stupidity for the majority of his life.
This was…
Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock Holmes' mortal enemy.
And Redbeard was the closest thing the young boy had to a friend. The only creature in this world that did not shy away from Sherlock. He was his pressure point. His weak spot. The closest thing Sherlock felt he could love and be loved by in return.
And now he was being taken away from him.
And now he was gone. Gone forever, laid to rest. Sherlock had fought it. He fought it with all that he had. He argued that if they laid Redbeard to rest, he ought to be laid to rest with him. He had a go at Mycroft when his brother told him that he was being illogical. Nothing had worked. Redbeard was gone.
And, in many ways, so was Sherlock.
A/N: I hope you liked it. I'm not sure how I feel about it, to be honest. I think I will make this story a series of one-shots. Feel free to review below with moments that you'd like to see! I already have one other in mind and I could use some perspective. Thanks and regardless of whether you have something you'd like to see, please leave a review!