Gunshot. Pain. Darkness.
Sherlock felt lost in his own mind as Magnussen's office turned into a blur. He could hear faint beeping sounds and he strongly felt the urge to open his eyes, only to feel that he was completely paralyzed. He tried to move his hands and reach out for something… anything.
He felt something cold against his fingers and he wrapped his hand around it. A knob.
As he turned it to open, a bright room welcomed him. He tried to look around and saw the familiar white walls, a small chemistry set placed at the study desk and the pirate posters. He was in his room. His room when he was just a 9 year old boy.
He turned to see himself, reflected in the mirror against the wall with his blazing blue eyes and dark curly hair, his face not lined with hardness but rather almost round and flushed. He felt the innocence and the youthfulness fill him in and he was completely back in time.
He was looking at the room with full intensity, almost forgetting the pain of the gunshot. This was a memory he would almost like to get lost in forever. The memory that shaped who he was.
The house was quiet as usual with Mr. and Mrs. Holmes at the marketplace and Mycroft in his own room, his nose stuck in a book. Sherlock wanted to go and knock on his door right now and ask him to play 'Deduction' but he knew what Mycroft would say: "You always lose, Sherlock. What's the use?"
So instead of trying to get his brother's attention, he sat by the windowsill and tried to deduce something about the people walking down the streets. He did this everyday, as a way to pass time and hearing how his parents talk about the neighborhood during dinner made him confirm that he was getting better and better at trying to figure people out. Whenever he would try to tell Mycroft, his brother would just roll his eyes at him and walk away.
The only one he can talk to about his observations was Redbeard.
The Irish setter was a gift from his parents one Christmas, when he was about six. Mycroft told him not to name the dog but he did anyway.
"Caring for something will make you regret it when you lose it. Sentiment is an unhealthy thing." he heard his brother say. Sherlock just shrugged and carried the puppy to his room.
As Sherlock grew, it was Redbeard he turned to.
At one point, Sherlock heard that a bookstore attendant two blocks away discovered that there are ripped pages in some of the books he was selling. Sherlock, being curious as ever, went over to the bookstore and started some sleuthing. After seeing the books with ripped pages and walking around the block, he figured the baker was the "ripper." Of course, he was right.
On his way home, he felt ecstatic. This was his first case, he believed, and he felt that this is just the beginning of something more. Something he wanted to be directed towards.
He saw Mycroft sitting by the fireplace, reading a book titled "British Government and the Constitution." Sherlock sat in front of him, shuffling his coat off excitedly as he started to relay the 'ripper' case.
Mycroft put his book down and looked at Sherlock, his eyebrows raised. Sherlock grinned, his blue eyes shining as he told Mycroft his story. When he finished, he asked, "Well? What do you think? I'm getting better, aren't I?"
Mycroft laughed, almost dropping his book. "A set of ripped books and the baker. Maybe your dog would find this more amusing. Why don't you go tell him?"
Sherlock's eyes fell to the floor, his fists balled up in his sides. "Why do you have to be so mean, brother? What did I ever do to you? You think you're all smart with your books and having those blokes follow you around in school! You don't even consider them your friends!"
Mycroft stood up, towering over his brother, shaking his head. "I don;t need friends, Sherlock. I need people who will help me become someone. You mention having friends, yet you yourself don't have any! Only that dog!"
Sherlock felt tears rush down his cheeks. "People do not understand me. You do. We understand things the same way, Mycroft. Why can't you be my friend?"
Mycroft picked his book up and started walking away. "You are a child, Sherlock. And you will never be the smart one. You're a stupid boy with stupid observations."
And with that, Sherlock was alone. Even with the fireplace crackling at his side, the room felt colder than ever.
Tears continued to stain his face. He heard a bark and saw Redbeard running excitedly towards him. Sherlock embraced the dog and felt its presence fill the hole Mycroft put in his heart.
"You are all that I have, Redbeard. We will protect each other, okay?" he whispered.
Sherlock never talked as much to Mycroft ever since and that went fine for both of them. Sherlock started to think of Mycroft as a tyrant.
One day, Redbeard went missing. Sherlock was in pieces. He tried to look for his dog but the worrying and the despair made him unfocused and disoriented. His tears made his vision blurry that he cannot look for clues extensively which caused him immense frustration. At last, at the end of the day, he saw Redbeard lying on the street, three blocks away, almost fighting for air.
"I wasn't fast enough! A car ran over him and… there was nothing I can do!" said the fruit vendor, patting Sherlock by the shoulder. Sherlock was sprawled over the cold pavement, clutching the Irish setter in his small arms, a cry escaping his lips.
"Please call a cab. I'll have my parents pay you for the fare but please just get me a cab!" he shouted. The vendor ran inside the shop and went a few moments later to wait with young Sherlock.
"'Least I can do for your dog there, son. Take this." the vendor said, handing him money for the cab fare.
At the vet, his parents and Mycroft found Sherlock with eyes tear-stained, with the animal doctor by his side, shaking his head.
"They're putting him down. There's nothing they can do." he told his parents as soon as the vet left to prepare for Redbeard's euthanasia.
"Then maybe you should say goodbye now, dear." his mother whispered pulling him in an embrace.
When it was finally over, Sherlock asked if he can bury his friend in their yard and the vet nodded.
As Sherlock stood over Redbeard's final resting place, he felt Mycroft by his side.
"You're right, you know." Sherlock muttered. His brother raised an eyebrow, somehow confused.
Sherlock looked straight ahead, his eyes as blue as the ocean during a storm. "Caring for him made me overlook the details. I… I was so distracted by my emotions that I failed to save him. You are right. Sentiment is toxic."
As rain started to fall from the sky, Sherlock turned away from Mycroft and Redbeard's grave and walked towards his room. He locked himself up and got the dirt off his fingers and placed it under his microscope.
The sound of raindrops started to fade in the background and Sherlock swore that night that he will no longer be distracted by his emotions. Sentiment is some sort of poison that will make him lose track of what is important. And he started to believe that being alone is everything that he will ever have.