The Bear who went to War
When Sherlock Holmes was almost two years old, Mycroft Holmes went searching for something. When his mother asked him what exactly he was searching for, Mycroft replied, "It needn't be too big, or too small. It doesn't even have to be very fancy. I'm simply looking for something he'll like." Mycroft was going through his teenage years and just beginning to acquire that sass that teenage boys often have. For Mycroft, though, it was more a cultivated trait than one that had been lying dormant, waiting for teenaged hormones to wake it up.
The "he" that Mycroft had been speaking of was little Sherlock Holmes. Still only a toddler, Sherlock could walk evenly and talk in complete sentences. He would have nothing to do with that "Mama" and "Dada," foolishness that peasants blubbered about. The only thing that made him seem a child was his pale chubby face, outlined by dark, unruly curls. His eyes were bright and piercing like a cat's, which was very unsettling to people when Sherlock was a baby. Sometimes it's hard to believe Sherlock ever was a baby, even for his parents.
The day before Sherlock's birthday, Mycroft found it. The perfect present. It was a stuffed bear, a little large for a two year old, but a good size for a larger child, maybe five or six years old. Mycroft figured that at a young age it is best to receive gifts you can grow into rather than grow out of. The bear was wearing a lovely (if old-fashioned) wool sweater over its shaggy dark blonde fur. Two blue marbles served as its eyes, and its ears and paws were lined with white silk. The jackpot, as far as Sherlock's older brother was concerned, had been hit.
The day little Sherlock Holmes turned two, he opened a box and found the bear inside. He turned to Mycroft, who had presented him with said box. "What's his name?" Sherlock asked. Mycroft abandoned his third slice of birthday cake (Mother had told him to slow down, but that rarely influenced his choices) to answer the question.
"I don't think he has one. Why don't you name him?" In fact, Mycroft knew very well that the original box had said "Huggy the Bear" on it, but he knew Sherlock would not have appreciated such idiocy.
"I think I'll name him John," Sherlock replied, writing the letters J, A, W, and N on the bear's tag in felt tip pen. Mycroft started to correct him, but stopped himself. Sherlock did what he wanted to do and no amount of "No, it goes like this" would change that. In Sherlock's world, the only rules were the ones he made up. However, Sherlock still looked up to his big brother, so when he turned to Mycroft asking, "Do you like it?" Mycroft had to say yes.
Mrs. Holmes gave Mycroft a big smile then, exclaiming, "Oh, darling, what a lovely present for your younger brother!" as she tousled his messy ginger hair.
"Mother," Mycroft whined under his breath, annoyed. But he was happy that she was happy, because that was so rare.
When Sherlock turned three, he hated all of his birthday presents and threw a fit in front of everyone, effectively giving his mother a panic attack. When asked what was wrong, he screeched, "I DON'T WANT ANY MORE PRESENTS, I JUST WANT JAWN! I WANT ALL THESE PEOPLE TO LEAVE SO I CAN GO PLAY!"
And, because Sherlock always gets what he wants, everyone left.
So Sherlock stopped having birthday parties. It was okay with everyone except Mycroft, who missed the cake. Instead of doing trivial things like play nice around the grownups when Mother had friends over, Sherlock and Jawn went on adventures. One of Jawn's ears had long ago fallen off, so Sherlock had made it into an eye patch. Thus, he pictured himself as a swashbuckling pirate and Jawn as a battle-scarred old pirate bear. He laughed at pirates on television who had filthy parrots for companions. He had a bear; did those mangy pirates even know how deadly a bear could be?
Two weeks after Sherlock's seventh birthday, Mycroft got it into his head that Sherlock was getting too old to be playing with Jawn. So, Mycroft being Mycroft, he took Sherlock aside one day and told him, "Sherlock, I'm sorry to have to tell you like this, but Jawn has to go away."
Sherlock was taken aback. "Away? Where?" Mycroft fidgeted a little, waiting for a good idea to come to him. Sherlock could see through most childhood superstitions and stories (Case in point: "Sherlock, don't sit so close to the telly. You'll go blind." "No I won't, they wouldn't allow people to own televisions if the light was strong enough to blind you."). Finally, a slightly crazy story came to mind, and Mycroft ran with it.
"Well, you know there's a war on, right?" he asked Sherlock, knowing the boy knew little to nothing about how wars worked. Sherlock half-nodded in reply, which was enough to allow Mycroft to continue. "Well, they need help in the war and Jawn here is the strongest, loyalest bear around. The government thinks that if Jawn goes to Afghanistan, he could help us win. Then everyone would be happy again."
Sherlock seemed to consider this. Because he had no data to reference, he could not argue with Mycroft's logic. He knew Jawn was as rough and tough as it gets; the rest of it made sense if he continued from there. Sadly, he gave Jawn to Mycroft, who put on his best serious face for the whole affair. Sherlock slumped away before Mycroft, feeling bad, called him back. "He won't be gone forever, you know. He gets to come back when the war is over." All he received was a nod.
Feeling a thousand pounds lighter, Sherlock left the room to play with some of his other toys, the ones who had never before deserved the attention lavished on Jawn. Mycroft threw Jawn in a dumpster. The poor bear was falling apart, nothing more than a dirty scrap of cloth.
And so Sherlock spent his tween years, his teenage years, and even his adult years waiting for Jawn to come back. It wasn't silly because nothing he ever did was silly, although he didn't discuss it with anyone. Other people didn't deserve to know about his feelings. To other people Sherlock was nothing more than a crime-solving machine – unable to be hurt, physically or emotionally, and unable to be thwarted. So far, anyway (Sherlock didn't usually mention the 'so far').
One day while working a case, Sherlock casually mentioned to a colleague that he would like to share his flat with someone. "I need someone to talk at," Sherlock grumbled. "The skull is getting tired of me, I can tell. I think he's going to move out any day now."
Mike Stamford laughed heartily. "Oh, Mr. Holmes, if only you'd show this side of yourself so those yarders," he smiled.
Sherlock clapped Mike on the back. "Perhaps I will," was all he offered.
The rest of the day was boring, and Molly attempted to flirt three and a half times. The half was when she walked over, opened her mouth, blushed, and walked away mumbling, "Never mind…" Sherlock chuckled to himself, thoroughly amused. He found Molly's awkwardness endearing, though he would never ever say that out loud.
Just before Sherlock was about to leave, Mike came back. He had another man with him, whom he introduced as John Watson. Sherlock looked him over quickly; short, tanned, blondish hair, bluish eyes. "Afghanistan or Iraq?" he asked.
The man took a step back, confused. "Sorry?"
"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?"
"Sorry, how did you-"
"Ah! Molly. Coffee, thank you. What happened to the lipstick?" Molly mumbled something and turned away. Sherlock tried to tease her about it, but it came off as an insult and Molly slumped off. Sherlock held back a sigh and continued his conversation with John. "I've got my eye on a nice little place in Central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We meet there tomorrow evening at seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary."
While he was saying this, the only thought in Sherlock's head was that his Jawn had finally come home from the war. Sure, this John was from the wrong war, but that made little difference now, after so many years. Sherlock was determined to keep this John, not to let him slip through his fingers. Otherwise he would have been much more careful before inviting someone to live with him. He did, after all, solve murders for a living.