Author's Note: The original idea behind this story was inspired by the ever-amazing sevenpercent, enhanced by excessive Google Earth tripping and the song "I follow rivers" by Lykke Li playing in the background. It sort of happens in sevenpercent's universe, borrowing some of the ideas and plot lines from her stories Level Up and Expedition (chapter 29 of the Ex-Files); with the kind permission of the author.
But, I kind of promised my first-born to Skyfullofstars, so this story is my gift for her, too.
Seven and Sky, you wonderful ladies, you are my earth and sky on FF and I wouldn't be here without the two of you. Thank you so much for inspiring me!
I hope this story stands alone, but you might get more out of it if you're familiar with the stories mentioned above.
Disclaimer: I own nothing. If to anyone at all, Sherlock belongs to John…and to ACD/BBC/etc. but you are all aware of that anyway. Obviously. So, on with the story!
Chapter 1: Stepping Stones
If you had happened to take a stroll along the River Mole on that crisp and clear May night, you could have seen a little boy skipping along the river bank. He looked ethereal and other-worldly in the moonlight, with his pale cheeks and the tumbled mess of his dark curls, like some forest fairy on his way to the woods. If you had asked him who he was and what a young boy like him was doing alone by the riverside at such an ungodly hour, he probably would have flinched and looked away, startled by your worried queries and inquisitive eyes, or maybe by the bark of your dog. In fact, the boy might have just spun on his heels and fled into the wind without an answer – being the little runaway that he was. Chances are, you wouldn't have seen him in the first place, since he could have sensed your presence with his hypersensitive hearing long before you spotted him, and hidden from view behind a rock or a tree trunk like some furtive little animal.
But it was the middle of the night in the middle of the fields along the River Mole and there was no one else around for miles. The little boy with the tumbled curls could go about his business in peace.
He had been following rivers for two nights and two days — and would be following for two more until he found what he was looking for. If the little traveller was tired and wayworn, you couldn't tell it by his gait. He was hopping along the moonlit bank with sure and carefree steps, the thrill of freedom speeding up his flight. Looking at him, you couldn't tell he was far away from home, either. You would have taken him for a local kid, following the twists and turns of the winding river with ease, as if he knew them like the lines on his palms. And he did, in a way. He was following the route on a map imprinted on his mind, certain of his way even in the dark.
Now, his eyes strayed towards the wood-clad hills of Box Hill that towered over him to his right, on the north bank of the river. From the topographical marks on his mind map, he knew there was a view point there, a few miles up the hill. This was not his destination, far from it. This was just a detour, a sidetrack that would make his long and arduous journey even longer. But with the faith of a child, he knew it would be worth the extra miles. This was what he had been waiting for since he left home. For two nights, the clouds had followed him like the anxiety circling in his stomach. But tonight, he felt lucky. The sky was clear and the stars were coming out. The sight of Box Hill looming ahead made him shiver in anticipation. The timing could not have been more perfect.
After rounding the bend, the Stepping Stones came into view. They gleamed on the moonlit river like smooth pearls on a necklace, stretching from bank to bank. On his side of the river, there was a huge old box tree, its bark rough and gnarled, guarding the way to the other side. The boy pressed his palm against the tree, gingerly and reverently, as if asking for a permission to pass. He felt the rush of life underneath, flowing in the veins awakened by spring.
Then he lowered his eyes to the stony hexagons on the water in front of him. The river was running high this time of the year and they were almost submerged. The boy skipped over them carefully, not wanting his shoes to get wet. He counted every one of the seventeen steps as he crossed the stream. When he reached the stony platform on the other bank, he lifted his gaze upwards, not able to contain his enthusiasm any longer. Excitedly, he bounded up the slope and disappeared amongst the trees.
When the boy reached the top of the hill, he saw the stony monument of the viewpoint at the end of the path. He walked to it and finally saw the dark and hilly landscape of the North Downs opening up below him, bathed in moonlight. The view stretched from horizon to horizon, as far as the eye could see. The lights of Dorking gleamed down in the distance. He leaned against the brick parapet and stared for a while, utterly mesmerized, taking it all in.
Then he noticed the small flight of steps at the side of the viewpoint and walked down to the foot of the monument. On either side of the round wall, there was a large platform which formed a space big enough for him to hide from view. He chose the one further away from the village lights. He placed his mac on the slab and lay down on it, his back against the cool stone and his gaze directed at the sky.
With a technique he had perfected on his secret nightly strolls at home, he blinked and relaxed his eyes. Staring through rather than at the sky, he focused on not focusing and lay still, holding his breath. After a moment of adjusting, the scene started to shift and change before his eyes. Just like the Magic Eye 3D pictures that showed a hidden image if you concentrated long enough, he was rewarded with a spectacular sight. Over the vast expanse of the open sky, the silvery lines of the stick-figures of the constellations appeared, filling the whole celestial sphere.
For as long as the nine-year-old could remember, he had wanted to become a pirate. The days in the country manor he called home were dull and uneventful, protected from the world outside. But pirates, those free souls — oh what a life of danger and adventure they led! It was everything he dreamed of and ached for.
Becoming a pirate in this day and age was not a very likely scenario (even a child had to admit it), but it didn't hurt to be prepared. Luckily, his older brother was a willing conspirator in helping him acquire the skills a pirate might need. In his efficient way, he planned an extensive Pirate Training Course for his little brother, incorporating things he had learned in Eton over the years.
His fencing lessons were turned into "The Art of Swashbuckling". He bought his little brother a play sword and taught him how to wield it. In his eagerness to learn, the little boy practiced for hours on end. He soon proved to be pirate material indeed, with a very deadly sword hand. He defeated his older brother so many times that this part of the course was quickly passed with flying colours, before he managed to humiliate his less agile teacher completely.
Pirates also needed to read maps, so the older brother buried "treasures" on the manor grounds for the smaller one to find. He drew elaborate treasure hunting maps to locate them, embedded with clues to perfect the puzzles. He taught him how to read the topographical signs and marks on the paper and connect them with the actual places outside. The parts of the puzzle soon clicked into place, as the smaller boy knew the grounds as well as the backs of his hands. It was child's play for him, really: the connections, the quest, the puzzle.
And pirates needed to know the stars well enough to navigate, so a bit of star-gazing was required too. Whenever the big brother came home on his breaks from Eton and there was a clear sky (which was not nearly as often as the little boy wished), they would sneak out of the back door long past bedtime, when it was dark enough. They used to take a walk together to the further grounds of the estate, where they had a better view of the night sky over the open lawns.
The older brother taught the younger how to find the North Star and recognize the shapes and patterns of the constellations above them. Since pirates needed good yarns to spin for the tedious moments onboard between battles, he sprinkled his lessons and observations with the latest exciting stories from Roman and Greek mythology that he had learned so far; tying the fates of the gods and the ancient people to the twinkling stars above.
The little pirate-wannabe was an attentive listener and took great pains to absorb every single drop of information as they flowed from his brother's lips. To satisfy his growing curiosity about the more scientific details of the stars that his big brother was unable to provide, there was nothing the articles on astronomy in the numerous encyclopedias in their home library couldn't fix.
By the time the little boy with the dark curls had finished the whole training course, he was as fluent in Piratology as anyone could wish to be.
Now, on his great adventure-away-from-home, he could finally put his star-gazing skills into use. But it was one thing to catch glimpses of the night sky behind the tree tops on his way here, along the river banks and in the woods – just a promise of something greater. Now that he was finally here, alone on the stony monument on top of Box Hill, he could see the whole sky with nothing to hinder the view and no one to break the spell he was under. Even back at home, watching the stars over the open grounds, there was always the chance that someone would come looking for him and interrupt his nightly pursuits. Here, no one would be able to find him and he was free to do whatever he wanted. Tonight, he could stare to his heart's content. The sky was his canvas and he the painter who traced the silvery lines across it with the brush strokes of his imagination; dot by dot, star by star until the entire celestial show was on display.
There was the mighty hunter Orion chasing after the Seven Sisters; there the terrible monster Hydra, slain by the hero Hercules. And there was Lyra, the beautiful lyre of Orpheus who could charm all living things with his music —if only he could do the same with his violin one day! But his favourite stars were Castor and Pollux, the heavenly twins of the Gemini constellation. The fate of the ancient brothers, transformed into the constellation to keep them together forever, fascinated the little boy. There they were now, sitting side by side in the sky, reminding him of his own brother, as they always did.
While lying alone in the dark playing games with the stars, the little boy experienced the most unusual sensation. Anywhere else, everywhere else, his young mind was in constant motion, providing him with endless background data about every single thing he could sense around him. But tonight, in the face of the heady heights of the universe, even his ever-buzzing brain stilled. It was as if all of his senses focused solely on the scene in front of his eyes, blocking everything else out. The anxiety he usually experienced was lifted and replaced with a quiet kind of peace, enveloping him in its soothing serenity. He was all eyes, only eyes – and this was all he needed.
Wonder-struck, the boy lay still in the blissful silence, watching as his cosmic companions slowly shifted across the night sky. He lost the track of time completely, immersed in his stellar surroundings; simultaneously losing and finding himself in the universe revolving around him.
It was only when the stars started to fade, chased from the sky by the faintest promise of sunrise that the little boy snapped out of his reverie. He sat upright, shook his head and scanned his earthly surroundings with a slightly perplexed look on his face, as if surprised to find himself there. His legs felt numb and his backside was cold from lying on the stony seat of his shelter for hours. But above it all, elevated from the mundane sensations of his defective transport, his spirit soared high and his heart was leaping with joy. Even his wide eyes were still shining, reflecting the light of the stars.
If you had asked him who he was, then and there, the boy would have held his head high and answered boldly: My name is Sherlock Holmes and I have every right and reason to be here. No one can ever take that away from me.
The magic of that night made an indelible impression on the curly-haired little boy. Ever after, the sight of the starry skies would send a frisson of holiness through his soul. It would catapult him back to that childhood moment and make him feel indestructible; an infinitesimal speck of dust on the scale of the universe, yet bold and free and alive, vibrating Life with every cell of his body. The memory would remain and follow him to the end of his days; long after the facts and figures of the solar system itself had been deleted from his hard drive and replaced with new, more useful data.
Author's Note: If you want to know more about why Sherlock ran away, the stories mentioned at the beginning will help. And if you want to know how and when the information about the solar system got deleted, go and read The Periodic Tales, also by sevenpercent!
Thank you for reading! Reviews will be relished – but as I said, this is my first-born, so be gentle, please! :)