Lying is one of the concepts that are falsely and unjustly criticized by the public. It does deserve more acclamation. It is a necessary evil, people say. If it were evil, then how can you explain that people embrace lies with open arms rather than ugly truth?

Sherlock Holmes had learned that a lie could be good from Mycroft Holmes. It was one of the few lessons that he had truly appreciated. His own life experience was a solid proof.

Sherlock was five years old when he learned his first lesson on lies from his brother. In the sitting room full of mummy's well-dressed friends, he started babbling when he caught the name, Jenny, Tim's babysitter – Tim was his archenemy in the neighborhood.

"Mummy. I saw father under the duvet with Jenny on your bed yesterday. "

Everybody's eyes were on the boy. He was pleased at the attention and kept talking.

"Jenny must have been gravely ill. She seemed to have difficulty in breathing… They didn't know I was there. An hour later, she was perfectly fine when I met her in the kitchen… I thought that father must have given her a magic potion. Jenny smelled the same cologne like father's…"

The temperature of the room dropped by 10 degrees at least all of a sudden. Mycroft's hands flew, gagging his brother's mouth. The older son hastily said.

"Sherlock watched an inappropriate movie a few days ago… I'm sorry, mother. He must've dreamed about it."

Ignoring defiant eyes and muffled sounds of the boy, the older Holmes dragged his struggling brother out of the room. Mrs. Holmes got reddened and excused herself to the bathroom. Awkward silence fell in the room with remaining guests avoiding their eyes. Mycroft let go of his brother and hissed slowly when they were out in the garden.

"Sherlock. Listen up. Lies sometimes work better than truth."

"Why?"

The older brother didn't know how to explain that complicate idea. He snapped at the boy.

"It's just so. Don't ask. Go to your room. I'll send something up at dinnertime."

With a long stare at the back of the retreating boy, Mycroft sighed, thinking about many things that he had to teach to assure his little brother's safety.

Sherlock Holmes was nervous. Since last night, no one talked to him: teachers glared at him and students didn't even taunt him for being a freak. He was being summoned to Mr. Hanson's office. The atmosphere was heavy in the room. Mr. Hanson, the Vice Headmaster of the school, gestured the boy to sit down. He was with a stranger, whom the Vice Headmaster introduced as the school's legal counselor.

"You made a quite significant allegation, Mr. Holmes. I need you to state officially what you had said last night."

Sherlock recognized the tone – alert, red alert. Mycroft's voice rang in his ears: Lies sometimes work better than truth. In fear, he looked up the hardened face of the stranger. The man forced a not-so-assuring smile and asked.

"According to the Vice Headmaster, you had alleged that Mr. Edward and an unknown male were…"

Fixing his eyes on his jacket buttons, the boy stuttered in a feeble voice.

"Nothing, Sir. I think I was mistaken. It might have been a girl..."

"You know your words can determine Mr. Edward's fate."

The stranger warned, which was followed by growlings of Mr. Hanson.

"This school was set up to get young brilliant British brains ready for colleges and careers. Those who do not oblige have to leave the school. Mr. Holmes. Boys are educated in perfectly sound environment without distraction of the different gender until they are ready. Even mothers are allowed in the school premise only on the first and last days of the term with an exception that a student requires a significant medical attention. Girls are banned in any case. Intimacy between boys… Jesus Christ... Also, the legal age of consent between…, uhm, is 21. Mr. Edward is still 18. Now you're saying that you saw..."

"No, sir. I was definitely mistaken. It was a girl, tall and short-haired…"

The Vice Headmaster looked much relieved at this. He exchanged eyes with the legal counselor.

This could be handled silently then.

The couselor leaned back on his chair and nodded. Closing his file, Mr. Hanson dismissed the boy.

"Well, then, you can go back to your room, Mr. Holmes. Thank you for your cooperation."

"Thank you, sir."

Walking up the stairs to his dormitory room, Sherlock had to admit it: Mycroft was right. Lies smoothed things out and everybody seemed to like it more when he was untruthful.

It didn't take seconds for the detective to decide - time for his act! His face fell, full of grief. He choked some words out…

"Mr. Hart was my brother. We were both adopted. My brother really wanted to know about his birth mother after our adoptive parents died. Last week, he sounded so excited – he told me that he might be able to trace his birth mother."

Tears stringing from the eyes, he looked away and took out a handkerchief to dab his eyes.

"This Monday, he was found dead, with a knife stuck through his heart… in his flat."

Mrs. Wilkes, who had been in charge of the adoption of the dead man long time ago, gave a look of pity to the young man. The frail lady offered some consolation , and after a few moments of hesitation, she gave the confirmation – the late Mrs. Scot was the birth mother of Mr. Hart. Mrs. Wilkes didn't work for the adoption agency anymore; had a terminal cancer; and didn't care about secretive adoption laws. She wanted to relieve some of the sorrow from this fine young man - if she could've done something good before her last day... He thanked hoarsely and turned around. Mrs. Wilkes didn't see the wide grin on his face.

Sherlock took a train back to London, pondering over Mr. Hart's case. Every piece was fitting together. Mr. Hart was Miss. Scot's half-brother. Back at the Yard, Sherlock Holmes shot out his deductions to the DI and detectives – he had to impress the DI; this was his official second case with the Yarders.

"Mr. Hart's intention was to frame his half-sister, Miss. Scott who worked as a cook in his favorite restaurant. He prepared his death in a rather uncommon manner. He had frozen a block of ice with a butcher knife placed at the center and fell onto the knife blade with his back facing the floor."

Sherlock pointed at one of the autopsy photos.

"Look at the bruises covering the back. Almost all of them were made before death. He must've practiced a lot to aim his fall – without a knife. The flat's heater was turned to maximum. This is May, not the sort of season for extra heating. The increased temperature messed up the TOD. You can't exactly pinpoint the time of death during the long extended weekend – Monday was holiday. Soon the block of ice melted and water evaporated, leaving the knife with Miss. Scott's fingerprints all over and a dead body. This was his own way of revenging for his abandonment…for the late Mrs. Scot had given him up. "

"Slow down, Sherlock. Miss. Scot had reported her knives had been stolen…"

Lestrade said with a questioning look. In exasperation, the young man took a deep breath and added.

"It would've been easy to steal a knife from Miss. Scot's place given that Mr. Hart was her real estate agent. Now, let's move over to the insurance policy. He had bought it from Miss. Scot's friend. Presumably Miss. Scot had known about the policy. She would be the only beneficiary as a half sister if they dig up his family history. Enough motive for a murder. She lives alone and just moved into the area on the recommendation of Mr. Hart. There was no one to verify her alibi over the weekend."

Shaking his head at the dumbness of the ordinary people – because few were busy writing down or nodding at the detective's deduction; most of them were just listening hard to understand, Sherlock Holmes concluded.

"There was no sign of struggle. Mr. Hart is over 200 pounds. Miss. Scott about 100 pounds? He could've overpowered her easily if she had attacked him. This isn't a murder. A suicide."

It was a slam dunk – Sherlock was so sure that the DI would keep on acquiring his consulting service from then on. On his way back to the Holmes manor, he thanked his brother secretly. Ms. Wilkes' confirmation was the key to link every piece of the puzzle.

Lies sometimes work better than truth.

Years passed. Sherlock Holmes moved into his own flat. He became the only consulting detective of the world and took on a lot of cases with the police. So many data needed to be processed. For the efficient operation of his "hard drive", the sleuth rearranged all the data in a place called "mind palace" in his brain. In the center, he built a room for his brother, but the space wasn't enough so he simplified his first lesson from Mycroft more by omitting the word "sometimes". Now the first lesson read,

Lies work better than truth.

Along the way, his perspective of deceit had incorporated more ideas, shaking his feeble sense of lawfulness, if there were any. He filched IDs from Lestrade and his brother because sometimes those IDs were very useful in acquiring necessary and usually inaccessible data. He manipulated Molly Hooper to gain what he needed especially when he wanted a quick lab analysis or a dead body for further testing: it wasn't his fault that Molly had a crush on him. He ignored social norms and etiquettes that boring ordinary people believed to be so important. Some yarders with keen eyes like Sergeant Donavan noticed his complete disregard of protocols or etiquettes and hated the detective more. It didn't bother him at all as long as Lestrade kept him in the loop. Efficiency and accuracy mattered in proving his brain.

His life met a turning point when John Watson moved in. One more person to consider... The data overload in his mind palace got helplessly serious because his new flatmate was a man of mystery. No ordinary person had intrigued the sleuth more than John. Sherlock managed to allocate a room for his new flatmate after deleting much useless information including all the facts about solar system. Also he had to shorten the first lesson from Mycroft.

Now the first lesson read,

Lies work better.

There were two living people in the world that Sherlock Holmes didn't dare to deceive: Mycroft Holmes and John Watson.

Sherlock decided not to lie to his older brother because his brother usually saw through the tricks – the Woman's case was a rare exception only because Sherlock let his sentiment rule in his head, if briefly, thus rendering his older brother blind.

John Watson didn't seem to care about lies, especially if it was to solve a case. The detective had noticed it when he advised John to clean off the gun power in order to avoid a court case. For a man with high moral standard, John obliged without any resistance. To his amusement, the detective saw his flatmate "borrow" some police reports; lie to Connie Prince's brother; and steal a receipt of meat purchase from the inn at Grimpen Village. John played along with the sleuth, pulling his rank when they investigated the Baskerville base. Only once his lies made John upset – when the doctor saw a gigantic glowing hound in the lab. However, the detective was forgiven easily after they solved the 20-year-old murder mystery of Henry Knight's father. Sherlock didn't lie to John: the doctor was an accomplice in the lies - until the fall.

After he met Richard Brook at Kitty Riley's house, he realized that the moment of his greatest stunt had arrived. His disgraceful fall and death were what Brook or rather Moriarty wanted. He decided not to tell his flatmate, the biggest lie ever he had ever made since they started the flat share. However, Sherlock was not worried – this was to save John. The doctor would understand it eventually, but just in case, he left some mysterious words in his last phone call in the hope that his friend would've able to figure them out. Sherlock was so sure that John Watson, out of all the people, would welcome his return.

Sherlock Holmes was wrong. Sherlock had forgotten that John was a man of high moral standard. Truth mattered more than lies to the ex-soldier. The detective had deleted the fact that his blogger would rather jump in front of a bullet rather than helplessly witness his fall. It was his mistake to remember John Watson who used to lie, steal, and act – John's act was only to assist the investigations. Soon after his return, the detective realized how flawed his assumptions had been. John Watson betrayed all of his assumptions - his flatmate was a man of mystery, wasn't he? The doctor refused to interact with the detective. He didn't move back to Baker Street despite Mrs. Hudson's tearful plea. He didn't reply to texts from Sherlock unless it was a matter of significance like Mrs. Hudson's flu. Once Sherlock choked out his apology on the advice from Lestrade. John's reaction was "Apology rejected": the doctor just turned his back and walked away without listening. It dawned on the detective that he had deleted some small words from the first lesson. Mycroft's exact words were lies sometimes work better than truth.

They didn't work for John Watson.

From the author

I researched the Internet and learned that currently the legal age of consent is 16, either homosexual or heterosexual in the UK. The law was revised in the 1990's. This setting is before the revision of the concerned law which had set the legal age of consent for homosexuality 21. If I am wrong, please enlighten me. Thank you.