John picked up a rock from the ground and held it between his fingers, feeling its soft surface. He angled himself to the left and threw the rock into the river, trying to make it skip. He failed completely. He frowned, annoyed, but he was not one to give up, so he picked another stone, a bit flatter, and tried again.

He had been trying to do this for two days. Ever since his parents had gotten here, carrying him and his sister for a three month vacation – which seemed like an eternity away from his best friend Mike – John had spent most of his time exploring the place. His sister seemed to have made 'annoy my younger brother' a hobby, so John tried to stay out of her way as much as possible. His parents, going from party to party, were as busy as ever, just in a different village.

Luckily, the small village by the sea was a refuge for John; there were no kids around, but there was plenty of room to play. The beach was not off bounds just as long as he promised not to go swim all by himself, and where his new temporary house was settled, John had seen one car alone passing by on the street, so he could play football all by himself without the risk or fear of being run over.

He had no clue what had been his parent's idea, bringing him here when there were no kids to play with, but John knew that it had also been his parents' excuse to start introducing his adolescent sister to their relations. So Harriet would accompany his parents – and she had no choice in that – whilst John could stay and play at their summer house.

John had explored the house on the first day, but there was not much to see. Three floors; four rooms, a living room and a kitchen, as well as a library, filled with old, thick volumes that John had no desire to read. Apart from that there was only the attic, and John was too scared to look in it. The first time he had gone up the stairs and peeked through the lock, a noise - that John later realized must have been the wood stairs creaking – was enough to put him on the run down the stairs and straight outside the house. So he had never ventured going up there again.

He chose yet another stone from the ground; he was not going to give up that easily. He positioned himself and flicked it, watching with disappointment as it sunk right into the water.

"You're doing it wrong."

The voice sounded from behind him and John turned around, startled. Facing him was a boy around his age, thin and tall, with dark hair and pale skin. His green eyes observed John with amusement and he had his hands inside the pockets of his shorts. John shrugged.

"I can't do better than this."

The other boy gazed at him for a while longer and then took a step forward. He then searched on the ground and after a moment chose the perfect stone. He placed himself beside John and then he lowered his legs a bit and positioned his body slightly askew. He threw the stone and it skipped five times on the surface of the water before finally giving in to gravity and sinking, disappearing under the sea. He looked at John. John smiled.

"That was awesome!"

The enthusiasm on John's voice made the other boy smile in surprise.

"I'm John."

John extended an open hand in front of him and the other boy looked at it, before finally shaking it with reluctance.

"What's your name, then?" John asked, the first one to remove his hand from the other boy's.

"Sherlock," the other boy answered. "Sherlock Holmes."

John laughed.

"That's a funny name. Never heard it before."

"Can't say the same about yours," the other boy said, a bit defensive.

"I suppose not," John answered and laughed, a laughter so genuine Sherlock smiled back instinctively. "I don't know what I am doing wrong."

John picked up yet another stone and once again threw it at the sea. The stone, as all the others before, sunk right down. When he looked at the other boy again, Sherlock was inspecting the stones on the ground.

"This is a good one," he said, passing a stone to John. "You have to lower yourself a little, bend your knees. Then bend your body to the side and don't throw the stone into the water, try to make it fly above it."

John looked at the flat stone Sherlock had given him and then did as told. He threw the stone and it skipped twice before sinking.

"WOW!" John turned to Sherlock, a huge smile spread on his face. "It works!"

"Of course it works," Sherlock answered with a bit of arrogance "The flat stone generates lift in the same manner as a flying disc, by pushing water down as it moves across the water at an angle. Throwing it at an angle of about 20° between the stone and the water's surface is the best way to do it."

When Sherlock finished his explanation he looked at John with reluctance, knowing what was coming. He put his hands in his pockets and started to pace away, low head.

"Wait!" John said, taking a few steps to shorten the distance between the two.

The boy stopped, turning around.

"Why are you leaving?"

Sherlock seemed confused with the question.

"People don't usually enjoy my explanations."

"Why not?" John asked. As Sherlock didn't answer he added "I think it was fantastic."

Sherlock's little heart skipped a beat, and he smiled a little.

"Do you live here?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head.

"No. My parents decided to come here on vacations. It's my grandfather's cottage and it's empty on the summer months, so we have travelled here, my parents, my brother and I. But there is no one around and my brother…"

Sherlock simply shook his head and didn't bother finish the sentence.

"My sister is annoying, too. And my parents have a lot of parties to attend to. I though we were the only ones here, I haven't seen anyone around."

"We arrived yesterday," Sherlock explained.

"We can play together now, then," John suggested, happy with the perspective.

"Do you want to help me solve a case?" Sherlock asked.

He retrieved a big magnifying glass from his back pocket and showed it to John.

"That's brilliant!" John said, getting closer. "It's like you're a detective!"

Sherlock smiled timidly.

"A pirate detective."

John laughed.

"And what are we going to investigate, then?"

Sherlock looked like he was telling a secret.

"My grandfather's cottage has some beehives. He takes care of them during the year and my parents are in charge of them for now. But someone tore one of the beehives apart and we don't know yet who or what. So I am looking for clues," he gazed upon John for a second. "It may be dangerous."

John's eyes opened with interest.

"Aren't you afraid of the bees?"

"Of course not." Sherlock said. "Bees are important. They are responsible for most of the pollination of our food, and we need food to live. It was estimated that if bees die we have four years of life on earth. That's how important they are."

John was in awe at Sherlock's knowledge. He nodded.

"Let's go then."

Sherlock smiled one more time, then he put a very serious face and he started to pace along the beach, looking here and there at the ground with his magnifying glass.

The day before Sherlock had been dragged by his brother into his parents' car. He didn't want to be as upset as he was, since there was really not a strong reason for him to want to stay in London for the summer vacations. After all, he had no friends, no one to spend his summer time with, but somehow his own house's library seemed like a better place to wail the hours and days away than a distant house on the beach, surrounded by bees and little else. As a way to prepare himself for what was about to come, Sherlock had read all he could find about bees and beehives; he had lots of knowledge but his parents had made quite clear that the beehives were off bounds for him: it was an important part of the house and a treasure to his grandfather, so he was forbidden to go near them, lest he did something wrong. So these vacations presented themselves as a typical nightmare. Plus, he would have to deal with his brother alone, who was using these vacations to study as much as possible. Mycroft had political ambitions and was getting involved into politics very early. That couldn't interest Sherlock the least so it was a blessing his brother was always so busy and didn't bother him as much.

Sherlock was now sitting by the window; his mother had made him keep all his things away the day before, whilst he complained that there was no use keeping things in drawers if in less than three months they would be going back to London, but he had had no other choice but to do what his mother had told him, so now his room was tidy and looked more like home than before. His pirate books – that he had insisted should be carried with him anywhere, specially for this sort of vacations, which seemed so promisingly lonely – were standing on a shelf over his bed and the world globe on the night stand was also a lamp. On the other night stand there was a pirate hat, his magnifying glass and an empty pipe that used to belong to his grandfather. Sherlock used to pace from one side of the room to the other with it tight between his teeth. It made Sherlock feel like a grown up.

There was a boy walking along the beach, stopping occasionally and skipping stones; this he could see by looking out of the window. The beach was not far away but the boy was merely a blob in the distance. Sherlock could tell he should be more or less his age, his parents were doctors and he had an older sister that should be as annoying as Mycroft.

"Ah, the promise of friendship."

Sherlock jumped in his chair. Mycroft was standing by the door, observing Sherlock.

"Go away, Mycroft," Sherlock demanded.

If there was one thing he really hated about his brother was the fact that he despised Sherlock's attempts at friendship. To Mycroft other children – and people in general - were just too stupid; they were also stupid in Sherlock's view, but Mycroft chose not to have friends whilst Sherlock ended up losing any chance of friendship as soon as he made a clever remark. Sherlock realized eventually that he would not be able to make any friends because, in all honesty, he just couldn't stop making the remarks, pissing off everyone around him. That used to bother Sherlock quite a bit – he had no one to spend time with during school breaks, no one to talk excitedly about his new discoveries – but eventually he grew used to it and he made a mission of proving himself clever at any step. If other children didn't like his genius mind it was their fault, not his. Sherlock was not going to change his ways to please anyone.

Mycroft paced inside his brother's room and leaned against the wall, by the window, crossing his arms. He stared a Sherlock, who was still sitting on his chair. The boy on the beach had now started to skip stones more insistently, failing miserably.

"He is doing it all wrong," Mycroft pointed out, following Sherlock's gaze. "He needs a flat stone so it can work on the water's surface, pushing the water down like a flying disc, and he is not even throwing the stone at an angle. A 20° angle would be optimal," Mycroft stared back at his brother, pausing. "I'm going for a walk with mum and dad; they want to buy some interesting books for this house's library. Grandpa left little else but bee books and flower books and mother realized it was a mistake to rely on his judgment to fill a library. Mum also wants to visit a garden on the neighboring city to buy some plants, but it's a bit far, so dad and I are keeping her company. She wants to know if you'd like to come along."

Sherlock shook his head.

"No. I'm staying."

Mycroft grinned. He straightened himself up and then pointed outside, in the direction of the beach.

"Goldfish, they all are," he said. Sherlock raised his head to face his brother. "If you want to make friends with goldfish you have to pretend to be a goldfish yourself."

And without making it clearer, he messed up Sherlock's hair with one hand and left the room.

Sherlock heard as his parents' car drove away, and then got up. He looked around the room, and then he made a decision. He picked up the magnifying glass and put it inside his pocket and left the house, in the direction of the beach.

Goldfish, he thought. How hard could it be?

"There's another one here!"

John shouted from across the dune and Sherlock, who had kneeled down on the sand, stood up quickly.

In order to investigate the infamous case of the attacked beehive, they had gone back together to Sherlock's grandfather's cottage and had analyzed the terrain. Sherlock was furious that his parents hadn't been more careful when checking what had happened to the beehive and now the place was filled with their footprints; he could distinguish each one perfectly. His mother's small feet, his father's, and then Mycroft's. Nevertheless, there was still a faint footprint that did not belong to a human, and that was what he and John were now following. The traces of those footprints would disappear from time to time to show up again a bit further.

Sherlock approached John and looked at the footprint. He kneeled down again, magnifying glass in hand. These were more prominent.

"Yes."

Sherlock was talking to himself and John observed, amused. Sherlock seemed, at first glance, cocky and arrogant and a bit of a know-it-all, but for some reason John liked him. There was something interesting and mysterious about him and the grown up way Sherlock seemed to be taking this investigation whilst including John in it made him feel important, and John enjoyed that feeling very much. Sherlock got up with a resolute look on his face.

"Just as I thought! It's a Cocker Spaniel! Red fur, still young."

"How can you tell?"

Before they had begun their search – in which Sherlock was all attentive and focused – Sherlock had spilled all his deductions about John: his parents' work, his sister's annoying ways, the house where he lived back home and the one here. John had been astounded about how spot on Sherlock's deductions had been, but when asked for an explanation Sherlock had merely smiled and changed the subject. John did not understand how Sherlock could know all that just by looking at him, but he quickly realized Sherlock didn't answer many questions. Now it seemed almost impossible that Sherlock could know that the prints next to the beehive, that they had followed up to the beach and were now still following, belonged to a red-furred Cocker Spaniel. John was still staring at Sherlock, waiting for an explanation. This time, however, Sherlock acquiesced.

"Here," he said, pointing at the sand. It was the first time they found such clean-cut paw prints. "Look at the distance between the front paws and the back paws, plus the size of the paw itself. I have a small file on the study of dogs, their physicality and different types of fur, and this can only belong to a Cocker Spaniel," the speech was pompous and John smiled, but Sherlock didn't notice. "Then there's the fur I collected at my place and here too, and it's brownish red. So we are looking for a brownish red furred Cocker Spaniel."

Sherlock faced John, who was now smiling without even disguising it.

"You have a file on dogs?"

Sherlock nodded.

"On cats too. And mice. And insects."

John nodded.

"Let's see where the paw prints take us, then. There's more over there."

They walked together, side by side, avoiding ruining the evidence on the sand and following where it was leading. The paw prints ended where a tree was standing. Sherlock and John looked up at the same time.

On a high branch, face bloated and stung by quite a lot of bees, was a puppy, brownish-red fur, Cocker Spaniel and somehow, with a very scared expression on his face.

"Oh, what an idiot!"

Sherlock touched the trunk of the tree instinctively and then put his magnifying glass back in his pocket. They had found the culprit for the torn apart beehive: a pup that had a strange lover for climbing stuff and beehives.

"Now he can't come down," Sherlock deduced, going around the tree and tracing with a hand the place where the puppy had began his ascension to the upper branches of the tree, becoming then unable to come back down.

John approached the tree as well.

"I'll go and get him."

Sherlock didn't have time to warn John about how dangerous that might be; not just because of the climb in itself but because the puppy, young and hurt, could attack John. John was already halfway up the tree, fearless and determined. Sherlock was actually happy John had volunteered to save the puppy as he was not a very big fan of climbing stuff.

The puppy whined when John picked him up but it did not try to bite. As if sensing some good old heart in John he trusted him completely. John tucked the dog between his arm and body and began to descend the tree, watching every step. Very soon he was back on lower ground, with the puppy in his arms. Sherlock approached him and petted the dog.

"He is quite hurt," he pointed out, worried. "We need to take him to a vet."

"My parents aren't home," John informed. "They left with my sister to a party."

"Mine left as well," Sherlock realized. He was silent for a moment. "I have a few animal books at the cottage, maybe they can help us. He still has the stings on his face."

John nodded.

"Let's go then. Maybe we can save him."

They knew the word 'saving' was an exaggeration, but once again it made them feel important, so they both went with it.

Sherlock searched amongst the books whilst John sat by the secretary, having placed the puppy on top of the old oak table.

"Ah!" Sherlock's voice sounded joyful. "Found it. I knew there had to be any useful book in the house."

It was not a book directed to puppies, but Sherlock realized that the 'removing stings from people's skin' chapter would have to work on an animal as well.

He left the book opened on the section that interested him and then went looking for the tools he needed in the kitchen. In an old fashioned first-aid box he found what he was looking for. His grandfather was a 'better safe than sorry' kind of man. Sherlock placed the tools next to John and then grabbed the first one he needed, tweezers. He vacillated. He was afraid to hurt the puppy, afraid to crave the stings ever further in. Afraid he might not be good enough at it. John noticed Sherlock's reticence and asked. "May I do it? I'd like to do it."

It was a relieve to Sherlock, and they both knew why John was doing that, but they would not talk about it. John picked the tweezers and then he began talking to the puppy in a soothing voice. The puppy whined again but, somehow, despite of how much that should be hurting him, he allowed John to remove each sting, one by one. When he was finished, the dog, still lying on top of the table, dragged himself forward and nuzzled John on the arm. It flinched, because its face still hurt and then, placing its head on John's arm, it fell asleep.

John and Sherlock exchanged a glance and smiled. They had saved a puppy and solved their first case together.

"Redbeard." Sherlock said, with reverence.

John arched his eyebrows.

"For his name," Sherlock explained.

John understood and then looked at the puppy, patting the top of its head.

"Redbeard," he voiced Sherlock's suggestion. "I like it."

Redbeard opened one eye and barked, as if in agreement. John and Sherlock laughed.

They spent the whole afternoon looking at Redbeard sleeping on an improvised bed Sherlock had arranged – made with is favourite blanket – and playing games whilst Sherlock explained to John the various ways to distinguish bees from wasps, and how he planned to have his parents accepting Redbeard as part of the family. Not once did John doubt Sherlock would get his way.

A week later John and Sherlock were sitting side by side at the beach, a completely healed Redbeard – who had been taken to the vet by Sherlock's parents on the day it had been found, for safety – next to them, and a picnic basket by their feet. Inside it was a loaf of bread John had helped Sherlock's mother make and the first honeycomb that Sherlock, after insisting with his reluctant father, had helped collect.

It was a full summer for both of them and when they had to part ways by the end of it, with each other's addresses and a promise of constant letters – Sherlock's should include pictures of Redbeard – they knew they had made a friend for life.

Sherlock, sitting inside his parents' car, looked smugly at Mycroft, when there was no longer use in waving goodbye to John, as he couldn't see him anymore, and Mycroft chuckled, knowing the reason for that expression.

"I don't need friends, Sherlock."

Sherlock stared at his brother.

"How would you know?"

Without waiting for an answer Sherlock stared outside the window, contemplating the school year ahead. John was far away from him and yet, he had never felt so comforted with an absence.

The exchange of letters continued for a long time until one was lost in the mail, and the friendship ended abruptly. One day, quite a few years later, whilst researching at St. Bart's, Sherlock raised his head to see a figure walking in the lab, brought along by Mike Stamford. His heart skipped a beat when he saw John. John did not recognize him, but somehow he felt drawn to Sherlock immediately, wondering why the name sounded so familiar.

This was not a new beginning, but a continuation of their story from where they had left off. And Sherlock would not let John slip away this time.