"Redbeard was the name of an emperor" Mycroft said in a tone of vague reproach, without taking his eyes from the paragraph that is reading.
His mother scolds him with a look full of warning.
Sherlock doesn't care him, continuing to smooth the tawny coat of the dog. "Redbeard is a pirate."
English Cocker Spaniel. A breed of hunting dog and retriever, originally selected for hunting woodcock. Good swimmer, suitable to work in the swamp. A dog from birth respectable, good-looking, stylish and elegant. And his brother, his stupid younger brother, wants to make it ...
"A dog pirate" Mycroft tells. An expression of disbelief makes its way into his eyes, pushes him to look at the parents seeking for support that never comes.
The inventiveness of a child is creative ability in any way you look at it, his father tried to explain to him countless times, to no avail. It is not lack of intelligence, but the forerunner of a genius who is finding the road, is choosing how to manifest himself, according to his time. ("Sherlock has all the time to learn, Myc. All the time in the world.")
"There are police dogs" his father interjects meekly. "Redbeard will be the first pirate dog in the history of piracy."
"The only" Sherlock corrects him.
Mycroft observes them with resignation. Returns to his book.
Sherlock is six years old. He show off in front of the mirror that is in the room of his parents. Makes faces, grinds his teeth, torches eyes - only one is visible and the other not to be back after straightening the black patch pirate who had moved.
He makes plans to build blockhouses above the oak tree that grows in the courtyard of the cottage; hides old treasures below the hawthorn bushes and mulberry's shrubs.
He is a pirate and knows that pirate it is a noun derived from the Latin, which in turn has ancient origins. It comes from the Greek word 'πειράομαι' and means 'give it a try, try an assault'.
Sherlock decided to assault the world, leaving the boarding.
The attempt dies on the day which his second captain, lieutenant and admiral and only other member of the crew ("For the moment" says impatiently to his mother. "Soon I will have a real crew. It will require a medical board and a navigator and a sniper and-" "A cook" his mother interrupts him, brandishing the ladle with which she is about to turn the soup simmering on the stove. "Don't forget a cook. You don't want to stay on an empty stomach in the high seas, during a period of calm. Don't get anywhere with an empty stomach.") is hit by a car.
"Now you realize, do you, Sherlock?"
There was a funeral service. His father has celebrated it and his mother has prepared a small buffet of canapés with salmon and bought a wreath of flowers.
His father tells him how it was Mycroft to plan and arrange everything. ("Your brother loves you, Sherlock. Vigil on you even when it seems to you that he doesn't. Loving someone is a full-time job. There are no holidays or breaks.")
"Caring is not an advantage."
Sherlock rubs his eyes. Avoids his gaze.
There is something dignified and proud in the pain of this tall child with dark curls that tries not to mourn the death of his best friend.
And it was a dog. Think about how it would be if - Mycroft lets him deduct the following.
The first deduction is also the most painful. Gradually will hurt less? Mycroft cannot assure him. It may seem cruel, but from him Sherlock will never get anything that is not the reality. It will hurt, it is true, but still less than it did the bubble of this first and only illusion bursting. The only concession of his imagination.
Sherlock has thirteen years. He is undisciplined, a protester.
And he is in punishment. The word makes him grimace with disgust. The humiliation of the punishment, degrading in itself, is not enough. Now there is also the mortification of a scolding, a yet another of the lengthy procession that preceded it and avant-garde of many other, Sherlock has the daunting security, that follow in the future.
It is one of the few non-unknowns of his life: to know that always, always, he will be rebuked because he doesn't feel or hear or see in the right way, trivial, appropriate.
Sherlock observes, perceives. The rest does not interest him. Should he pretend? ("It is not mingle, dear brother, nor flatten themselves. Camouflage is an ancient form of defense. In our case it is of type emsleyan.")
His father is a quiet man with the appearance of a pensioner, brown eyes that look at him with affection, palpable behind a pair of pince-nez. "People are not created out of nothing. Even the feelings and the bonds, you know. You can simulate them, of course" he stresses, with the inflection that means 'and you know something about that, young mister.'
"Nothing is created."
"What did you say?"
"Nothing is created, nothing is destroyed, everything is transformed" Sherlock says in a tone of clarification.
His father rubs his chin thoughtfully. "I guess it can also be applied in different spheres of everyday life" agrees with benevolent indulgence. "But remember this mine, Sherlock: just as in any chemical reaction you cannot create elements from scratch, so you cannot create people, just having the chance to meet the right ones."
"I do not care to meet the people." Why should I?
His father gives him a pat on the shoulder, makes him a wink. "When you will meet the right person, Sherly, when it will happens, you will change your opinion."
Sherlock was not going to figure it out. For many years he has tried not to do it. Instead, he carefully avoided approaching the discovery that would unlock the mystery of that maxim.
People are not a mystery, they have never been for him. People become their stories, he always thought, and read the words written on their skin, in their eyes is automatic, instinctive.
John was not the beginning, but it was a start. It was a choice.
With the advent of John Watson in his life there was a subtle but noticeable change in his registry to relate to people. No, not the people in general, but rather to his knowledge. Knowledge as Mrs. Hudson, Inspector Lestrade and yes, even her, Molly Hooper.
Sherlock has not created any of them, but had the good fortune to meet them and when it happened, his opinion has not changed: it split up.
Now, he looks forward to the day when one of the two parties will prevail.
AN:
The dialogue between Sherlock and his mother sounds very ... One Piece, right?
Slightly exhausted from the course of the days, I enjoyed the first day of the rest of what will be many others. One week, for the love of accuracy :)
I hope to complete the writings that I have pending during this timeframe. If I didn't have to do it, here I take this opportunity to wish you a Happy Easter.
A big hug to everyone!
Ps: I really, truly hope that this second attempt to write in English (I'm Italian) wasn't a disaster. I ask forgiveness for any mistakes.
P.p.s.: Nothing is created, nothing is destroyed, everything is transformed.
Parmenide and Antoine-Laurent Lavoisier