Ch. 1

Sherlock's POV:

I was five when I first saw a real magic trick. My brother Mycroft had accompanied me, just because he could get a certain flavour of ice cream there that he didn't get anywhere in our little village just outside of Lincolnshire. The Great Rambo Circus came near Lincolnshire once a year, and this was the first time I was permitted to go there. As we made our route from our little country house to the park where they usually camped in, Mycroft held on to hand tightly, as if afraid that I would go away somewhere or play truant on him, which I probably would, if he only let go of my hand squashed between his pudgy fingers.

I usually watched magic shows on the black-and-white television, on the kid's channel, on nickelodeon. I would always curl onto the linoleum, declaring that magic was stupid and boring, and that it was just a trick of the eye. Then my mother and my brother would invite me to work out what precisely was the trick that they used. I would flop down on the sofa and watch hard, completely focussed on the magician's fingers and I would think that yes, now he would do a certain action and lo! Behold the science behind the trick. And then, somehow, the trick would escape my eyes, and my mother and Mycroft would laugh identically at my dismay. I would throw an inadequate excuse of having blinked just at the "moment" and look away, while the thought that how he had done that would revolve in the back of my mind, tearing it apart.

Therefore, it was natural that because this was the first time I was getting to see a live magician, I was very excited, to the point where I almost dragged my brother instead of the other way round. On the way, I bought an apple and an orange, wanting to challenge the magician in case he tried that trick where he could make someone's jewellery disappear, only to recover it from inside a fruit or a vegetable of some sorts.

I watched in morbid fascination as the magician took a knitting needle, and slowly inserted it into his palm. Several of the children stifled cries at that, but I was the only one who had a manic smile on my face. The trickster met my eye, and winked at me, mouthing the words, "No blood, see!" Many parents wanted the show to be stopped, and the trickster be banished from the stage, but I gathered enough courage, and shook off my big brother's restraining arm and rushed up the stage, ducking through various people who tried to stop me, but I managed to climb up anyway, and take a closer look at the magician's palm. He did nothing, simply let me examine his palm. Even as a five-year-old, I knew about the constitution of human hand, with all its sinews and bones and muscles and blood vessels.

"Insert it further," I demanded, and the magician acquiesced. Slowly and steadily, he did, and on the other side of his palm, the needle started to poke out through his skin, like a tent supported by one of its poles. I was convinced that maybe because the hole that the needle was making through his skin was so fine that the flesh had somehow been bound in, or maybe he had extraordinary tolerance for pain, or maybe he had used a local anesthesia. Meanwhile, the trickster could see my brain at work on my face, and before he could react, I had taken it out of his palm.

The needle stared back at me, as if laughing at my incredulity. There was not a trace of blood on it! The man was smiling benevolently at me, and Mycroft's distant cries fell on my ear vaguely, "Brother, come away!" But I paid no heed as I ran my little fingers through his palm. There was only a hole, and it was not strictly see-through. I realised that it must be a result of a previous surgery, when he realised my reasoning, and patted my head, "I'll do it again for you."

I reached out into my pocket, and thrust in his palm a handful of coins, but he refused them, and I wondered why.

This time, he showed me an area of his skin which was unblemished, and with a sharp intake of breath, he slowly thrust it inside his palm, wincing in pain but I realised that he was not actually feeling any pain; he was simply feigning it. The result was same as before. Still unconvinced, I reached for him, took it out, and broke it into two halves, believing stupidly that it was flexible.

But he simply reached out for another needle, and the result was same as before.

"How do you do it?" I whispered incredulously, my little body doing nothing to obscure the intelligence which already was obvious in my perfect pronunciation. He did nothing but smile at my innocent face.

"Give me all the money in the world, and maybe I'll consider telling you."

"But will you teach me if I gave you all the money in the world?"

He smiled, "No."

And before I could make any more interesting conversation with this singular man, my brother climbed up the stage and carried me away, with much protesting. The magician was asked to perform something else, lest his show be closed down. He simply bowed, removing his Arabian turban, and returning back to the trick for which I had bought the apple. But I did not bother to see his show anymore. I simply wondered how he did that, how he could not feel the pain. The last resort was left, and I was determined to track this man down and demand him for more answers.

My brother had a friend called Andrea. He called her a friend, but I knew that they were much more. It was one of the reasons why my brother kept his secretary's name "Anthea" later on in his life. Anyway, this Andrea was rather fond of me, and she used to buy me candies and other sweet foodstuffs, even though Mycroft paid most of the bill. For my part, I liked her very much. I planned for her mother, who was a very attractive woman and who approved of Mycroft for some reason I have not been able to understand till this date, to meet this magician man. My own mother never went out of the house, she had a sedentary lifestyle, and therefore, I endeavoured to introduce her as my mother. For a bachelor like him, a woman like Andrea's mother must hold some charm over him. They were chatting, when I burst in, questioning the validity of his trick.

To my surprise, the magician seemed much more interested in me than in her mother, "Yes, little one, what have you to say?"

"I want to perform an X-Ray. On your hand."

Yes, I know. I come across as dreadfully stupid and obsessive. But I was only a five-year-old child, who was keen on disproving everything which created the particular nagging sensation in the back of my mind.

The man looked shocked for a second as he heard 'X-Ray' roll from my little tongue, and I thought that I had got him, "You seem rather too fixated, young man."

"Yes, you must come with me at once and get an X-Ray done," said I solemnly.

He smirked at me, "What will I get?" I swallowed. I had nothing to offer, and my parents and Mycroft would certainly not agree to any sort of settlement. Nevertheless, I stood up proudly, and made the most false promise I had made in my entire life.

"I'll give you one thousand pounds."

To my surprise, he stood up too and studied me for one second. I felt exceedingly foolish for having made such an outlandish offer. Then, abandoning the lady, he clasped his hand in mine, and I had almost thought that he was about to make me sign an indemnity bond. But he did no such thing.

"Where shall I meet you?" he asked, as if he had seriously considered getting an X-Ray done with the needle in his hand. I reasoned that it was the money which had drawn him, but a little voice in me, a voice I did not recognise, a voice that had arisen only when I saw his trick for the first time, told me that he was doing this not just for the money. It was something else, but definitely not money.

"Right here," I nodded seriously, "I shall ask my uncle to send a vehicle for you at about 2, right after your lunch." I had become so invested in that very man that I had learnt up when his shows were being scheduled.

Being the dramatic little boy like I always was, I gathered the attention of the press, wherein I declared that this very man could run a needle through him, and blood would still not leak from his hand, and the media, with always a severe shortage of spicy news, arrived to our humble residence like bees to honey. My mother ran away to the insides of her room at having faced the onslaught of press in only her nightie. I knew that I could make or destroy this man's whole life, and frankly, my father was disturbed to learn that it did not matter to me. Mycroft simply rolled his eyes, and tried to console my father and calm my mother down.

By two o'clock, the press had gathered outside the venue of The Great Rambo Circus, almost every news channel featuring heavily the man who was about to take a X-Ray based on a child's whim. They declared that his name was Houdini (how unimaginative!), and went on and on about his confidence about passing the test. For his part, he calmly got into the vehicle with me and spoke nothing. I, for my part, was slightly bemused at the lack of reaction from him. We rode in silence to the doctor, where I had secured an appointment with the help of Andrea's mother (who catered to every single of my whim). Houdini, as I still call him, began his trick, and the doctor took an X-Ray. And the result which came out was practically unbelievable. The doctor's lab assistant fainted when she saw it, and they joked about burning him for being almost a wizard. I myself stared at this man in awe. The doctor concluded (to the absurd impossibility) that Houdini did not have blood inside of him. There was the evidence, clear on the X-Ray plate that the needle had in fact pierced through his skin, and was now lodged between his bones.

"You owe me a thousand," said he with a cheeky grin. I almost faltered at that, but then he suddenly said, "but I guess you have done that for me already . Thank you."

And with that, he snatched the photograph plate out of my fingers, making a small paper cut as he went away, but I did not notice it as he sauntered outdoors and showed the entire world the proof that he was one of a kind. Somehow, the little wound on my fingers did not bleed. It just grew red around the corners.

But my mind, oh, my mind was filled with millions of ideas and opportunities, as if someone had struck a match in the tiny, not-so-well-kept attic of my little brain, or a tungsten lamp. The idea had completely overtaken me once I saw that how, within a month, Houdini had gone from a simple circus performer to an international star. I was obsessed.

I wanted to be a trickster.

For my part, my life, however young, wasn't smooth. Other boys made fun of my long, unkempt hair because my father had no sense on such things, and Mummy was completely invested in Mycroft's education. No one liked to be friends with me because I was the weird boy who always smelled of farm. I never bothered to put on my clothes in the proper parts of my body, and my classmates made fun of me all the time. I hated wearing clothes because they always ended up smelly and dirty and Mummy gave me a good telling off, pointing to how well-kept Mycroft's clothes were.

But most hurtful was Redbeard.

At that age, children had imaginary friends, and Redbeard was no exception. Mummy tried to make me understand that Redbeard wasn't real, and I kept on insisting quite foolishly that he was. My brother also tried to make me understand that Redbeard wasn't a real creature, but I was convinced that he was. I couldn't understand at that point of time why they couldn't see him, but I only reasoned that it was because he liked, and loved, me. Only me. As selfish as the thought was of keeping my only friend to myself, I couldn't stand Mycroft calling me an idiot all the time.

I knew the first thing I would do upon becoming a trickster. I would prove it to them that Redbeard was real. I would make him appear in front of them.

For those who are familiar with David Blaine the magician, they would recognise that needle trick at once. He actually took an X-Ray and showed it to the world that the needle could pierce through him while leaving nothing but a small, painless hole in his palm. I don't know how he does it, and I was smitten by the performance