The bear's name was Watson. He was golden brown and warm and soft. Mummy had brought him back from the Continent when she had been home for a week in the spring. Sherlock had been so happy with his gift, and, since then, he had taken Watson with him everywhere.
Mycroft said that he was being "childish." He thought that, at five, Sherlock was far too old for stuffed bears. Sherlock knew that Mycroft was just jealous. Mummy hadn't brought his big brother anything nearly as grand as Watson. All Mycroft had gotten was a new chess set. No wonder he was jealous. How dull, Sherlock thought, as he clutched his bear to his chest. No one would play chess with Mycroft anymore; he had won every match he had entered since he was six. Sherlock had offered to let Mycroft play with him and Watson, but his older brother had just sighed and asked how he had escaped his governess this time.
Sherlock was always managing to outwit and evade the governesses and tutors assigned with his care. The only one he couldn't manage to sneak away from was his older brother who said that he was far too clever for such idiots to have charge of his upbringing anyway. He said it in an exasperated, scolding tone, but he looked quite proud at the same time, as he led Sherlock by the hand for an impromptu lesson on international politics (conducted in French), which the boy absorbed like a sponge.
Sherlock was very observant and very ready to learn. He had an aptitude for many subjects and used them readily. Mycroft had taught him how to "read" people and his uncanny knack for observation was something that his brother told him would "prove to be quite useful," when he grew up. Sherlock supposed that Mycroft must be right because Mycroft knew everything worth knowing.
Sherlock wanted to be a pirate when was grown. He and Watson would have grand adventures. They would discover new islands and outwit the British navy (who seemed perilously stupid to the young Holmes). Watson would be his first mate and he would be Captain, though he would never be as dull as James Hook or Long John Silver. Mycroft could come along, if he really wanted, but Sherlock felt that Mycroft might not approve of piracy. Perhaps he could be a pirate captain and Mycroft could be a navy admiral and they could play chess together on the high seas. That would be far from boring.
Though he was only five, Sherlock was very good at making observations. He was skilled in the fine art of noticing things. Like the way that Mycroft and father rarely spoke and their tense stances indicated resentment from the former and condescension from the latter, which hinted at a troubled relationship that had long ago gone astray. He saw the way that Mummy was rarely ever home (she was always travelling). When she was back at the manor, he saw the way that Mycroft catered to her every whim, and she gestured vaguely and unappreciatively at him. He noticed the manner in which she would hug Sherlock tightly and bestow lavish presents upon him and kiss him on the forehead and call him, my darling boy, before sending him away with the most recent governess and complaining of a headache before leaving again for her most recent social exploit. He observed Mycroft's faces and the way that he watched Sherlock just as carefully as the young boy watched him, monitoring his reactions. The way Mycroft tried to contain his thoughts from their parents.
People were not very pleasant and their behaviors were quite odd. Sherlock could tell you all sorts of things about his tutors in a manner of seconds, but they often did not take kindly to his comments, neither did the other children on the estate. They could be quite mean to Sherlock when he tried to talk with them, calling him a freak and a spy. He did not like them at all.
Watson, on the other hand, Watson was his very best friend. Watson didn't mind when he made observations about others. He also didn't object to being used in experiments occasionally, not even the one that had cost him his leg (Mycroft had managed to reattach it with hardly a scar). No, Watson was warm and soft and brave (he didn't cry at all when he'd had to be re-stuffed, or when Sherlock dropped him from the terrace). Watson the bear loved tea (Earl Grey only, Sherlock admonished the housekeeper). His favorite food was scones with jam (Raspberry was his favorite). They would have long conversations (Sherlock did most of the talking) in Spanish, French, English, Portuguese, Japanese, Italian, Arabic, and German (which was Watson's native tongue, Mummy had brought him home from Germany, after all), but they would also occasionally speak in a language of their own invention, which no one could decipher. Well, Mycroft probably could, Sherlock conceded. He would discuss it with Watson, perhaps they would let him in on the secret; it would be fun to teach his big brother something, and Mycroft would call him clever and smile at him.
Sherlock took Watson on all his adventures, real and imagined. He kept Watson with him at night especially, when it was dark and quiet. The boy didn't like being alone. Sometimes he would creep out of his bedroom and wander around the house when everyone thought him asleep and he would watch from around corners and behind doors and railings, a quiet pale shadow with his fuzzy companion.
It was on one such night that he watched his father leaving his governess' quarters: clothing rumpled, kissing this woman who was not his mummy, and swaggering away.
"We must be very quiet, Watson," Sherlock had whispered, pressing a finger to his lips for emphasis, "Silence is of the essence." And the two tiptoed back to Sherlock's room.
Nothing came of this for some time because Sherlock did not always reveal the results of his after-hours explorations for fear that someone would force them to come to an end. They wouldn't, of course, actually end, but he would have to put in extra effort in order to go unseen for a time. Dull.
The incident didn't come to light until Sherlock's mummy came home from her trip to New York and was still in her "affectionate" phase. Dandling her baby boy, still small enough to fit his delicate frame in her lap, she petted his dark curls and planted a big red-lip printed kiss on his forehead and praised how well he was progressing in his studies. Mycroft looked as if he were taking full credit for his younger brother as he hovered to the side.
"And has he been eating properly, Mycroft, dear?" She asked.
"Of course, mother," he responded, and Sherlock giggled to watch his elder brother refrain from rolling his eyes at the foolish question.
She turned to look at the small boy on her knees, "And you, my darling, how have you been getting on? Have you had many adventures while I've been gone?"
Sherlock knew that his mother's bouts of affection were short lived and he should make the most of them while he could. One day she wouldn't care about him anymore. She would treat him like she did Mycroft, a vaguely interesting curiosity, who could further her own interests, but was no longer worth active attention. She treated Sherlock like a doll, a precious pet, at least for a few hours when she first came home.
"Watson and I have had many adventures, mummy," Sherlock asserted with a smile as he clutched his friend.
"Oh?"
"We have made many deductions," he nodded.
"And what have you seen, my love?" She asked, hugging him gently.
That was when he told his mummy about everything he had observed over the past month and what it meant and why it was important. He spouted information like a fountain, while his mother smiled, making a mental list of which members of the household ought to be reprimanded. Mycroft gave his little brother a small proud smile that clearly suggested he was pleased with Sherlock's growing gifts.
"…and then I saw father coming out of Ms. Tibalt's room, and Watson and I went back to bed," he concluded.
His mother had gone rigid and her face darkened. Her eyes, which in color and shape mirrored Sherlock's own, were cold as ice. Mycroft had frozen in his chair. He glanced at his mother, who nodded tightly, and Mycroft came over, taking Sherlock by the hand and leading him away with a firm, "Come along."
Sherlock took the proffered hand and left his mother without receiving so much as a kiss goodbye.
"Mummy is upset," the boy said.
"Clearly, Sherlock," the young man responded.
"What will she do?" he asked, genuinely curious. He had seen father in a temper before, but never Mummy.
Mycroft considered him seriously, "What is necessary."
Sherlock absorbed this and nodded seriously. Mycroft nodded back and the two progressed to the library where Mycroft allowed Sherlock and Watson to choose what book they would read together (they had finished The Prince by Machiavelli last week). Watson wanted to read A. A. Milne but, after a brief discussion, Sherlock won the argument and he selected The Art of War, an old favorite. Mycroft seemed pleased with the selection, and they settled down for the next few hours of reading punctuated with probing questions and textual analysis.
When Mycroft took him to his room for bed, the boy allowed Watson to choose the clothes he would lay out for the following morning. His dearest friend selected an oatmeal-colored jumper, the only one amongst the darker colors that dominated Sherlock's wardrobe.
After Sherlock and Watson had climbed into bed, Mycroft had bidden him a solemn "good night," turned off the light, and closed the door.
Sherlock kissed Watson on the nose and wished him sweet dreams, looking forward to an exciting day tomorrow.
When he woke the next morning, however, Sherlock discovered that several things were dramatically different. The first was that Watson was gone. He wasn't in or near the bed. He wasn't anywhere in the room. Sherlock began to panic after tearing everything apart in his frantic search, his eyes growing wild with anxiety. He ran downstairs to find his father sipping coffee in the dining room. Sherlock, who, as an extremely precocious child, was rarely shy, suddenly turned awkward and bashful, as he did whenever his father was around.
"What is it, boy?" the man asked irritably from the table without looking up from his paper.
"I, I—" he stumbled over the words.
"Speak up, boy," Father spat sharply.
Sherlock puffed out his little chest, "Watson is missing."
"What the devil is a Watson?" the man in the suit asked, turning the page without giving Sherlock a whit of attention.
He almost said "my friend" before he opted for "my bear."
"Ah," the man said, taking a sip of coffee without so much as glancing at the small pale boy in his pajamas, "about that. I rather think that you've outgrown him." Sherlock's eyes widened and the man looked up. Sharp cheekbones and nose were paired with an air of condescension that made Sherlock feel small and lost.
"But—"
"It is high time you grew up, boy," He glared at Sherlock, who thought he might cry though he didn't want to show this man his tears.
Sherlock knew that he was dismissed, that his father was punishing him for telling, that the cold man did not love him, and that Watson, his only friend, had been taken as punishment for his indiscretion. He clenched his small jaw and said, "Yes, father," before turning on his heel and fleeing the room.
He ran straight into Mycroft and wrapped his arms around his brother's legs in a death grip. His older brother placed a hand on his head and smoothed the unruly mop of curls before leading the boy away and sitting him down in the study.
"I am sorry, Sherlock," he said softly.
Sherlock sniffled and looked at his brother with tears in his eyes, "He took my Watson."
"I know."
"I want him back."
"That isn't possible, Sherlock," Mycroft seemed truly sorry as he offered the boy a handkerchief.
They sat there until Sherlock ran out of tears and had calmed slightly.
"Sometimes, Sherlock," Mycroft's face grew dark, "caring is not an advantage" Sherlock wondered if his brother had had his own Watson taken away.
"Do you understand?"
"Yes, Mycroft," the boy said and he absorbed this first lesson of the Holmes family with the same attentiveness he did everything else.
AN:
Hello everyone! What did you think? Credit for this story goes to the lovely dancinggnome, whose expansion on a comment Lestrade made in Where You Find It turned into a full-fledged plot bunny in its own right.
This story is part of the You Were My Life universe. If there is enough interest, I will revisit young Sherlock and his rather complicated upbringing. It you get the chance, leave a review. I would love to know what you think.
Much love (and Happy Valentine's Day),
Nic