Prompt: Burned by Hot Chocolate
From: cjnwriter
...
From a tender age, both my brother Mycroft- my senior by seven years- and myself, were recognised to be intellectual beyond our infant years.
We were quick to master mathematics, English and foreign languages before we reached double digits. In addition, I had learned to play the violin to such an extent that my parents wasted no opportunity to show how talented I was. We were also more mature than our less intelligent peers, and even our teachers, governesses and nannies.
However, I recall that from roughly eight years of age, I had chanced on a sense of humour and a talent for pulling off mischievous stunts on our teachers- and Mycroft, of course.
For I ask that question only philosophical younger children can understand; what is childhood without pranking one's elder sibling?
I remember one such prank which now to this day has Mycroft ever distrustful of my admittedly poor hosting skills.
And no, dear reader- I can assure you I did not attempt to poison my brother- although I could do so to a degree which is not fatal, but enough to cause some psychological trauma.
No, no, that will never do. Lazy and interfering he may be, but Queen and country need Mycroft to keep political relations between Great Britain and other countries from stretching breaking point. In addition, he does make for a convenient 'key' should I ever end up in jail.
But I digress. I must not repeat any literary blunders that my dear Watson does so often in his woeful attempts to recount our adventures.
...
I was eight years old when Mycroft ruined an experiment I was conducting.
I was investigating whether frog's blood would react with sodium sulphate and phosphorus iodide when my father came marching into my room, Nanny sobbing and wringing her hands behind him.
"Yes, Father?" I asked, trying to be polite as I was taught, even though I wanted to be left alone to work on my experiment.
"Sherlock, it's not becoming of you to be mucking about with filthy toad blood! You are being raised to become a sophisticated, intelligent young man with a future in Oxford University- and here you are idling away your time on this!"
"You're wrong, Father," I informed him, snippily- a poor choice, for I merely received a sharp clip on the head.
"And give me one reason why doing...this, is not a waste of your time, son?" He asked me, icily.
"It's frog's blood I'm using, not toad's," I answered, defiantly. "And for the record"-
"And nothing! Why couldn't you be more like your brother?" He grunted. "At least he knows better than to dirty his hands like a biologist! Now clear this mess up, Sherlock, or else you'll have your ears boxed!"
Eyes burning, I began to tidy away the experiment, scooping up the dead frog into a small box and swiftly disposing of the corpse with a mournful air. My chemistry set was immediately confiscated- including my dissection scalpel.
Mycroft smirked at me with an air of brotherly superiority as I screamed and tried to cling to Father's legs to prevent my prized chemistry set being taken away,
In response to this cruel and unjust turn of events, I defiantly emptied the vial of frog's blood into the begonia plants, once my tears had dried.
...
Laying on my bed that night, melancholy that I could not experiment for at least two weeks, I wondered how I could wreak havoc on Mycroft for ruining my plans to run experiments.
Worse still, I was off school for winter and I had little to do but read and play violin. That alone did not sound appealing in the slightest; although enjoyable enough, there was only so much of certain pastimes I could stand due to my intellectual prowess.
I immediately decided to play a prank on Mycroft in revenge for turning me in to Nanny; like I was some mere delinquent!
I regretted pouring the frog's blood into the begonias; it could have made a wonderful weapon. But I decided that I would have to be subtler than that.
...
Some days later, I was out with Mycroft and Mother for the 'winter markets' for some Christmas shopping. I normally despise such events, as the people there do not understand my precocious and curious nature, and they regard me as a 'freak'.
Well, I just think they were being stupid. Most people still are- except Watson. And Mrs. Hudson. They understand me just a bit better than everyone else.
This year, however, there was a new stall I did not recollect seeing last year. It was filled with strange vegetables of varying colours- reds, yellows and greens. They were long and thin, like writing chalks. Mycroft and Mother hurried on past it, whilst I remained behind, looking at the vegetables.
"You buy chili pepper?" Asked the man. He was not from England. I deduced he was from a poor district in India due to his style and state of dress; he was unmarried due to his unkempt beard and clothing; he had no family; he was escaping India for something here in Britain- but I was uncertain what that would be.
"You buy chili pepper?" He asked again, in frightfully poor English.
Overcome with curiosity, I nodded and fished out a half crown. I paid, and took a small handful. But before I could eat one, he gave me a warning cough.
"Careful! Pepper hot! Boy eat, tongue go burn!" He said, pointing to the 'chili peppers.'
Realising I had wasted my money, I was about to ask for it back when I saw Mycroft, talking to Mother further up at a stall selling baked goods, and an idea struck.
"You mean, if someone ate these, it would burn?" I asked.
"Yes. Not forever- just hot for minutes."
"Thank you," I said, and I rushed off, stuffing the peppers in my pocket. I had a plan formulating in my head to pay brother dear out for wreaking destruction on my plans.
...
Once back home, our fingers frozen and our toes nearly numb from ploughing through the thick snows of London, Cook made tea for my mother, and some hot cocoa for Mycroft and I.
We accepted our mugs gratefully, and we each blew on our mugs before taking a sip.
At once, Mycroft's eyes widened as though realising he had been poisoned.
He dropped his mug of hot cocoa on the floor, screamed at how his tongue was on fire, and in an ungraceful manner befitting a fifteen-year-old of his maturity, started running around the room like a headless chicken, trying to find some source of water to douse the burning on his tongue.
He tripped over the Persian rug, he nearly knocked Nanny into an Imperial Chinese vase, he stumbled over his feet like a mindless pigeon and he even shouted an Italian curse when he stubbed his toe on a kitchen chair.
During all this, I howled with laughter in my chair- I laughed so much, I nearly dropped my mug of hot cocoa on the floor too, and I had tears pouring down my burning cheeks.
Amidst Mycroft's spilled cocoa, I could see my choice weapon, now drenched in chocolate- cut up chili peppers.
...
See, I did not poison Mycroft!
After all, what was the use in poisoning him? As I said before, this country needs him. Our Gracious Queen needs him.
And most importantly, I need him.
Blast this display of brotherly sentiment! I beg of you; do not, and I mean do not repeat that to Watson- or, Heaven forbid; Mycroft.
Now, good night.