I am a teddy bear, ten inches tall. I have dark brown fur, paws and muzzle of a lighter shade of brown. I am reasonably fluffy. My nose is black and lovingly polished when it gets too many finger marks on it. My eyes are blue, a shade that matches the ribbon which is tied around my neck and is tied together with a bow. I was a present, you see. I began in a shop; one bear in a row of many but the only one with fur that was brown. Beside me on the shelf was a yellow bear, and beside the yellow bear was a blue one. A kindly woman came into the shop one day, looked at each of us in turn. Under her scrutiny, we all sat to attention and didn't move. When she spoke, her accent was a different one than what I was used to.
"I don't think Mycroft would appreciate the creative licence of you three," she said, addressing my fellow bears, "but you," she turned to me, "will do nicely." She picked me up from the shelf. When we left the shop, she peeled something sticky off my chest. I caught a glimpse of what was written on the sticky thing – €14.99 – before it was scrunched up in her hand and thrown into a nearby bin.
I met my friend soon after, and so it hurts me more than I can say when, after his father has asked him, "But I thought that bear was yours?" my friend simply shrugs.
His gaze drops to the baby – the Sherlock – which is sleeping beside me and is mouthing my tail as it dreams. The soft gums tickle. Mycroft moves me a little further away so that my tail doesn't end up being eaten.
"You like that bear," his father goes on. I would prefer if he used my name, but it's a change from 'thing', which is what I used to be called by him.
"I do," Mycroft is quick to correct. He smiles, but I know him well enough by now and I can see it in his eyes: he's sad. "But…" and his hesitation gives him away, "Sherlock seems to like him better. Besides, I'm too old for a teddy bear now." He pauses. Then, as if to reassure himself, "Seven's too old for bears."
The words sink deep into my stuffed heart and stay there, refusing to budge. I feel betrayed, to put it simply.
Without warning, Mycroft and Father leave. I can hear light snoring from Mummy. There is a tiny chest rising and falling rhythmically beside me. And all I can think is: Who's going to read to me now?
Within a week Mummy, Sherlock and I arrive back at home. The grand staircase is a familiar and welcome sight. Mycroft greets us, Nanny standing beside him. He avoids looking at me. I'm beside the sleeping Sherlock in the pram.
Nanny coos, "Aw, look at 'im!" She turns to Mycroft, "Look!"
Mycroft doesn't, for looking at Sherlock would mean looking at me. "I've seen him," he says. He's still looking sad and I want to give him a hug or do something to cheer him up, but I don't know what to do.
Father follows us in after parking the car. Much to my annoyance, he picks me up by the damaged ear and takes me out of the pram and away from Sherlock. "He doesn't need that dirty thing…" Instantly the baby is alert, lower lip beginning to tremble. Nanny quickly snatches me back from Father's grasp before placing me back beside Sherlock and tucking me in beside him and under the blanket.
He calms down and instead stares at the three grown-ups and Mycroft with bright blue eyes.
And even though he can't read me a story yet, I am beginning to think of Sherlock as a friend. It may be selfish of me to think so, but I know that it will be some time before he is 'too old for bears'. As I was there for Mycroft before him, I will be there for Sherlock.
I am there as he begins to crawl around the kitchen and get in Cook's way. She picks him up off the floor and bounces him up and down with her hands around his waist. "Silly little man!" she says fondly, and sets him down again on the other side of the room with the rest of his toys and me. It isn't long before he bumps into her leg again.
She abandons the stew which is heating on the stove and brings him back over to me. He gurgles in happiness and waves his arms and legs as she carries him. She sits down on his colourful play mat, crosses her legs and sets Sherlock on her lap. He fits snugly and waves his arms in my direction. She miscalculates what he wants and picks up a soft cube with numbers on it. Cook places it into his arms and he says, "Mmmna!" and chucks it to the floor in apparent disgust.
Realisation dawns on her face. "Oh, do you want to play with Teddy?" she asks.
"Mmmna!" says Sherlock, once again waving his arms in the air dramatically. Cook smiles and reaches over to pick me up. I am so far away that she has to drag me over by the paw, but I don't mind too much, for Cook is a kind woman and doesn't mean any harm by it. She comes every Sunday to cook the dinner for the family and do housework which Mummy hasn't been able to do during the week.
Once I've bumped into Cook's legs, she hoists me up and sets me on her lap beside my friend Sherlock. "Mmmna!" he says in happiness and starts to pull at my ear (the one with the extra stitches in it). Cook gently bats his hand away.
"Careful, Sherlock," she warns gently. "You don't want to hurt him, do you?"
In slightly more subdued tones Sherlock replies, "Mmmna."
"Exactly." I notice that he's begun to fiddle with her apron mere seconds before she does. Again, she gently moves his hand away. "How about a story? Would you two like that?" Sherlock doesn't make a sound, so Cook turns to me. "Teddy, would you like a story?" she asks me. She brings two fingers to the base of my neck and makes me nod eagerly. "See, Sherlock? Teddy would love to hear a story!"
At my 'agreement', Sherlock says, "Mmmna," and the argument is settled. Cook reaches over to Sherlock's box of toys and rummages in it for a book. Her hand comes back again with a book that Mycroft used to own and read to me.
She makes sure that we're both comfortable on her lap before opening the book. "Once upon a time…" she begins.
When Mummy wakes up from her nap, Mycroft returns from the garden and Father emerges from his study, they arrive in the dining room to an overcooked stew. I can watch from the open door as they eat. Once I would have wished to be with them, but not now. Sherlock is sleeping beside me, his arm is too short to go around my waist but he's tried his best, and there is no other place I'd rather be.
Author's Note: Thank you so much for the reviews, and also to those who added this story to their favourites or alerts list. It means a lot to Teddy and I to know that you're enjoying the story.