The Discovery
Silent as the waning day, the two boys trudged resolutely home. They wore the standard school uniforms, the usual dark knickers, ties and jackets with white shirts and socks. One was the elder, a husky child tending towards chubbiness, sandy haired, bespectacled, and ignoring the child behind him. The other, several years younger, sported a unruly mop of dark curls. The clacking of their shoes on the sidewalk seemed to ring unnaturally loud in the calm stillness of an Autumn day. The temperature was cool and no breezes stirred the fallen leaves, strewn along the pathways and streets, being studiously ignored by the elder child and kicked at with impunity by the younger.
"I don't have listen to you, do I?" The older boy asked, his words laced with a hint of sarcasm.
The younger didn't reply, only kicking harder at the leaves, hoping somehow a rock would be buried under them so that he could kick it at that ramrod straight back. The older boy sighed dramatically, rolling his eyes.
They had reached the end of the street, now turning the area into a more rural setting, Hedgerows spread before them showing grass and weed blocked paths angling out towards the smaller farm holdings. A copse of rowan, birch and hawthorn rose up on their left. The elder boy instinctively led the way down the path to the right. As he trudged onwards towards the family home -seeming far enough way over the fields- he became aware that the leaf scuffing younger brother was no longer scuffing leaves and he sighed his relief at the discontinued annoyance. Until he realized that he heard nothing behind him at all.
He stopped, looking back with disgust and could see the younger boy was no longer following him.
"Sherlock? Must you always disobey mummy and not follow me home?" He asked sardonically.
With no reply coming back to him, the older brother dropped and shook his head, shoulders sagging at the horrific burden of having to make sure his younger brother made it home from school. "Sherlock?" He called out. "Follow me this instant or I will tell mummy you've been disobeying me, again."
No reply met his ears. Heaving a sigh, the elder boy began backtracking and followed the pathway leading through the copse of trees.
Disturbed and disrupted leaves showed the trail of the younger boy as he set off through the small expanse of woods which stretched out towards newly mown hay. Before reaching those, a tiny brook trickled down a narrow ditch and through a thick tangle of blackberries and haw which bordered the farmer's fields.
The older brother glanced upwards, noting the darkening grey skies, knowing it was getting on towards suppertime.
"Sherlock, if you make me late for supper... " he threatened when he noticed that the boy had jumped the stream and had pushed his way through the brambles towards an imposing thicket of dark shrubbery. It was then the older boy began noticing a lack of bird song. For that matter it was a little too quiet. The birds should be chattering madly, gorging on the berries of the hawthorn and brambles in preparation for winter.
The elder frowned, approaching what was obviously a clump of traditional English Laurel escaped from the confines and brutal hedge shearing of a formal garden and allowed to grow with wild abandon. Even the weeds thinned a little from the constant shade supplied by the laurel and the boy's mouth moued in distaste at the darkening bower his little brother had obviously pushed his way through.
He spotted him standing at the far edge of the copse where the brambles and hawthorn began to reclaim their space from the all shading laurel.
"I am going to tell mummy everything you have done not to..." The older boy started to say when the younger suddenly turned to look at him, his finger pointing down. Blue eyes were wide with excitement and a tremor seemed to shake the little body. He was smiling.
"Mycroft, look!"
Utterly disgusted with his babysitting duty, Mycroft reached over and took the younger boy by the arm, preparing to drag him the rest of the way home.
"No, Mycroft! Look!" Sherlock jerked his arm loose and pointed.
Mycroft glanced towards what the boy was pointing at in a barely tolerant display of acquiescence before turning on his heel, reaching for Sherlock's arm again. "I've looked, now come with..."
Mycroft stopped, his eyes widening, then he slowly turned and really looked at what his little brother was pointing at.
It wasn't at all bleached out and white like the manuals showed you. It was utterly dark, stained dirty browns, beige's and grey's, covered here and there with dirt, sticks, and leaves, some new, mostly all decayed and turning to compost. Make no mistake about it though, the skull was the most obvious, followed by the jutting rib bones. Clumps of half dried grasses obscured most of the backbones and arms, whilst the pelvis and the legs disappeared into the weeds and scrub.
His swift, analytical, glance quickly dispelled the notion that it was a prank. No, this was a genuine and very real skeleton. Sherlock made to move forward but Mycroft's grip on his arm turned into a painful vice.
"Mycroft!"
"Don't touch it, you fool." Mycroft said. "It obviously a body dump. Who ever he is has been here for some time. We need to go home quickly and tell mum and dad. The police will want this to be preserved. Touch nothing!"
"She." Sherlock said looking back at his brother with absolute certainty in his eyes. There was also a hint of defiance there as well.
"You're mistaken," Mycroft said looking back at the skeleton. "It's probably a man."
"The pelvic bones say otherwise." Sherlock said, folding his arms, challenging the other. "Besides, most wooded crime scenes are where murderers dump female victims. Most crimes are committed against women."
"You don't even know if this is a murder, much less a wo..." Mycroft had edged closer to the bones, looking at the partially buried pelvic bones. "All right, it's a woman, but there's no way to know for sure it's a murder. You've been reading too many Nancy Drew mysteries." Mycroft spat with distaste.
"Then explain the hole on the other side of the skull," The younger boy challenged, looking at his brother with disgust. "And I hate Nancy Drew!"
Mycroft glanced at the skull and looked at Sherlock, shaking his head. "Fine, it's a murder. Can we go home now and tell someone? Supper is going to be late!"
The excitement of discovery opened up young Sherlock's mind and Mycroft never heard the end of his incessant chatter all the way back home.