Sherlock squirmed in his sheet. His impatience boiled; no matter how much
he kicked or rolled, the only way the blanket would loosen would be if he
cut it open. Which was why he managed to have a pocketknife handy. It was
a bit dull since he had found it in the grass that day on another illegal
venturing out, but soon he had a slit big enough to rip apart. With a loud
tearing sound he slipped out. Auntie was going to have a fit, but he was
too young to care. Sherlock was already tall enough to reach the catch of
his old window, and thanks to Mycroft, who had had the hinges oiled the
night before; it opened with ease and silence. Like a trained acrobat, a
skill all youngsters have until their limbs grow too long to keep track of,
he slid down the ivy vines covering the building's façade. Of course, he
had learned to pick his way out of his room's locked door and therefore
sneak out like he had done earlier that week. But that wasn't as quick and
was certainly risky during the nighttime. It excited him beyond anything
else to be out of the reach of the law, which, at that time, belonged to
his nanny.
He crept catlike to a nearby window. Peering in, he perceived his nanny's quarters, but the woman herself was nowhere in sight. Using the knife he had swiped, Sherlock pushed back the latch. Mycroft would be so pleased with him.
When he had crawled into the room, he lit a candle stump and proceeded to search his nanny's drawers. Sherlock never asked questions when his brother gave him an order, but he was able to puzzle out most of it. Mycroft was looking for their parents.
A sigh arose out of the little boy's throat. He would've been doing the same thing if he could, but he wouldn't know where to start: he admired his brother for that. Someday he would make Mycroft prouder than ever. Maybe then he'd understand.
The eldest Holmes lad had begun with their birth certificates; their parents' names would be there. Naturally, this wasn't enough to satisfy him, and he commissioned Sherlock to find more things belonging to their mother and father; pictures, watches, clothes, anything of the slightest significance needed to be brought to Mycroft. He would look at it for some time, leaving Sherlock to watch his methods freely, and would then return it to the little one to replace in its proper situate. So far Sherlock had brought his brother a battered old watch, a letter, even a tiny trinket, and each in turn was returned with a demand for further things. And who was more likely to have those things than their aunt?
Soon, to his immense relief, he found a photograph. Who would've thought that the woman kept her most prized possessions in her desk drawers? Sherlock would've kept it under that floorboard in his room. Females were so strange. There had to be an easier way to have found it, but at least he had gotten it, right? Sherlock examined the other things in the drawer. There was a long knife, its handle decorated with strange carvings. Under it, a bag of coins, a necklace of gold, a beautifully embroidered pair of gloves, worn with age and use; and, at the very bottom, a Persian slipper. This last item, for some reason, intrigued the little boy, and he reached his hand out for it. The slipper could've fit a child, and its toe curved upward in the Muslim fashion. Curious, he thought, that there was only one slipper, and not two. The boy was just about to put the slipper back reluctantly when a firm grip took his collar from behind.
He crept catlike to a nearby window. Peering in, he perceived his nanny's quarters, but the woman herself was nowhere in sight. Using the knife he had swiped, Sherlock pushed back the latch. Mycroft would be so pleased with him.
When he had crawled into the room, he lit a candle stump and proceeded to search his nanny's drawers. Sherlock never asked questions when his brother gave him an order, but he was able to puzzle out most of it. Mycroft was looking for their parents.
A sigh arose out of the little boy's throat. He would've been doing the same thing if he could, but he wouldn't know where to start: he admired his brother for that. Someday he would make Mycroft prouder than ever. Maybe then he'd understand.
The eldest Holmes lad had begun with their birth certificates; their parents' names would be there. Naturally, this wasn't enough to satisfy him, and he commissioned Sherlock to find more things belonging to their mother and father; pictures, watches, clothes, anything of the slightest significance needed to be brought to Mycroft. He would look at it for some time, leaving Sherlock to watch his methods freely, and would then return it to the little one to replace in its proper situate. So far Sherlock had brought his brother a battered old watch, a letter, even a tiny trinket, and each in turn was returned with a demand for further things. And who was more likely to have those things than their aunt?
Soon, to his immense relief, he found a photograph. Who would've thought that the woman kept her most prized possessions in her desk drawers? Sherlock would've kept it under that floorboard in his room. Females were so strange. There had to be an easier way to have found it, but at least he had gotten it, right? Sherlock examined the other things in the drawer. There was a long knife, its handle decorated with strange carvings. Under it, a bag of coins, a necklace of gold, a beautifully embroidered pair of gloves, worn with age and use; and, at the very bottom, a Persian slipper. This last item, for some reason, intrigued the little boy, and he reached his hand out for it. The slipper could've fit a child, and its toe curved upward in the Muslim fashion. Curious, he thought, that there was only one slipper, and not two. The boy was just about to put the slipper back reluctantly when a firm grip took his collar from behind.