A/N: Season 3 was so beautiful, so terrible, and so brilliant that I can't even speak about it. ALL HAIL Sherlock. Anyway, the first fanfic inspiration I had was to write about Redbeard and Little Sherlock. I was inspired to write second person by reading fabulous fics by irnan.
I own nothing but feels and heartache.
The sputter of the motor sounds in the driveway, and you dash downstairs.
A hand tousles your hair when you reach the bottom. You shrug away. Where is the click, click, click, and padding of his paws against the tiles?
Father and Mummy and Mycroft have melted into the shadows—upstairs? Outside? You do not know, or want to know.
Where is the soft steady panting of his breath?
Redbeard was sick. But doctors make people better. A dog is simpler than a person. They are a less developed species, surely. Mummy took Redbeard to the doctor.
Where is the happy swish of his tail?
"Sherlock." The word breaks through to your ears. A sound, but not the one you want to hear.
You turn and look at Mummy, and you know, then, even though you don't understand. Her eyes are creased and wet at the corners and her lips are forming words you don't want to hear and where is Redbeard?
She goes, after that. You run outside to the graveled drive, stop looking and focus on hearing. You call and clap your hands and listen…listen…listen.
You don't know until long after that they watched you from behind the curtains, sad eyes and blind faces.
You'll never understand why they left you alone in the emptiness.
Later—much later—the concept of "well-meaning" will be filed away in an ugly room in the Mind Palace. Perhaps if you had looked back at the windows you would have seen it on their faces.
But right now you're not looking, you're listening.
No pad of paws or joyful bark. No Redbeard.
All you hear is silence.