Warning: Mild swear word in here, but nothing worth a T rating so you're quite safe.
Seven's too old for bears.
The woman smelled of expensive perfume. She had placed me in a carrier bag in the car's front seat so I could only make out a few muted colours from the world outside through the thin plastic. It had been a long journey already and the sky had turned from grey to blue and now to a pale orange. She had the car's radio on but I wasn't listening, just thinking. Bears do a lot of thinking. A song came on that she must have known for she started to sing along to the words; out of tune, but that's not really the point is it?
The car slowed and came to a stop. The sky was a deep red now. The woman I was with picked up my bag by the handles and then reached into the back seat for her brown leather briefcase. She locked the car's door and the briefcase thudded gently against my plastic bag as she walked into what looked like a big house. She set me in my bag down beside the briefcase once in the warmth of the hallway and took off her coat.
She reached down and pulled me out of the bag. She tried pulling my label off but it was a little plastic one and so it didn't budge. She tried nipping it with her teeth but that didn't work either. She sighed and carried me into an office – a big, brown room with two tall windows and lots of books. It was dark, but not dark enough for her to need a light to see. She rooted around in a desk drawer and pulled out a pair of scissors. My label came loose with a satisfying snip.
The woman straightened my ear again and threw the label into the bin beside the desk. She held me up by the waist with both hands so that I was looking into her blue eyes. "We have to have you looking presentable, don't we?" She smoothed down a few more rough patches of fur, polished my nose with her sleeve.
"Mrs Holmes, that you back?" came a voice from the hallway outside, and the light there was switched on.
"Yes, it is," said Mrs Holmes. "Hello, Ness. I'm in the office."
Another woman appeared in the doorway. She was dressed in black with an apron around her waist. She had a round face with a few laughter lines and greying hair. "What're you doing in 'ere? In the dark an' all," she muttered, reaching over to flick on the light. "Oh, that's a nice bear you got there," she said when she saw me. She pottered across the room and pulled the curtain across over the two tall windows. Mrs Holmes watched her. "I was just about to leave for the day, just makin' sure all the curtains are pulled. How was Ireland?"
Mrs Holmes hesitated for a moment. "I delivered the documents." Ness straightened papers on the desk.
"Good. That was the idea, weren't it? I'll be off if you don't mind, Mrs Holmes, it's getting dark and I don't have a torch with me to walk home with. I'll see you in the morning."
Ness was halfway out of the office door before Mrs Holmes called, "Is Mycroft asleep, then?"
"I only tucked 'im in ten minutes ago. He might still be awake but you can never be sure." Then she was gone.
Mrs Holmes turned off the light in the office and quietly walked up the stairs. She stopped outside a door and slowly turned the knob. It was old and creaky and she winced a little at every sound. She gently pushed the door open inch by inch. The beam of light from the hall landed on a bed with a mop of dark ginger hair peeking up from underneath the sheets. "Mycroft?" she whispered, checking if the boy was awake.
There was no reply from under the blankets and Mrs Holmes crept closer. The fact that Mycroft had a long nose was the first thing I noticed about him. Mrs Holmes smiled at his ruffled hair and pushed me into bed beside Mycroft's shoulder. It was nice and warm under the covers. Mrs Holmes bent down and gave Mycroft a light kiss on the forehead and said quietly, "Night-night, Mycroft."
She left as quietly as she came and I listened to Mycroft's breathing as the night's darkness fully settled in and he began to snore.
I'm not seven!
Sherlock held me by the paw as he toddled along the hall. My tail was trailing along the carpet but there was little I could do to complain.
I could hear the voices of Mycroft and a pair of his school friends downstairs. It was Mycroft's eleventh birthday in a couple of days but his friends had come over today because his birthday landed on a Sunday. It suited all parties involved to have the get-together today. We heard the front door close behind them as they went outside, going to play football no doubt.
My friend Sherlock had sneaked off shortly after the two boys had arrived without a word. He always felt nervous around new people and his grip always tightened on my paw. The boys and Mycroft were talking about the birthday cake that Cook was baking before Sherlock left.
Sherlock took me into Mycroft's room (he paid little attention to the idea of another human being's private space at this tender age) and set me on the edge of the bed before trying to scramble up onto the covers himself. He frowned when he found that he couldn't. Mycroft's bed was a tall as a grown-up's. So I was brought back down to ground level, and Sherlock set me against the side of the bed, facing the door. Sherlock sat opposite me with his legs crossed.
He looked at me for a minute before saying, "Do you think Mycroft would let me have some of his cake? I'd like that. A lot. It should have that white, sticky stuff on it. It gets on your fingers and makes them all sticky. And then... and then I could stick paper on you, Teddy, so you look like a sticky pirate with white, sticky stuff. And the cake – that should have those colours on it. Those little balls that get everywhere and are crunchy. I'd like to flick those – that would be funny, Teddy."
I saw movement behind Sherlock; Mycroft was listening through the crack in the door.
"Jam, there should be lots and lots of jam," Sherlock went on, oblivious. "I like jam, do you, Teddy? Bears eat honey I suppose, not jam. But I like jam bestest. There should be jam in the cake. Strawberry or raspberry – or both! Jam is sticky too..."
He waved his arms around in the grip of his youthful enthusiasm.
A few hours after this Mycroft's birthday cake was served to Mycroft, his two friends, Sherlock and I. We sat around the smaller dining table in the kitchen. Cook started off with placing four piece plates in front of the table's occupants. Sherlock frowned at this and mustered up his courage to say simply, "Teddy."
Mycroft failed to hide a small smile. Cook stared blankly at Sherlock for a moment before realising what he meant and so she fetched an extra plate. As she set it down in front of me she ruffled Sherlock's curly hair and he squirmed.
"All right then, boys and... just boys," Cook said, "and Teddy too..." She bustled from the kitchen, only to return moments later with a huge, freshly baked and decorated cake. "...Cake time!"
Much to my surprise and Sherlock's delight, the cake was exactly how Sherlock had described it. It had three tiers, each separated by a layer of jam – I could tell by the colours that they were strawberry and raspberry. On top was snow white icing with hundreds and thousands sprinkled on it.
Cook set the cake down on the table in the centre. By that point Sherlock was practically bouncing in his seat. The cake had been pre-cut but the eleven candles were still lit.
"Make a wish, Mycroft!" said one of his friends eagerly.
"Yeah!" agreed the other.
Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment while everyone else's attention was riveted to the cake. When he opened them he reached across the table and blew out eight of the elven candles in one breath. He looked disgruntled by this and was about to try again when Sherlock finally lost his patience and blew the remaining candles out himself with a massive huff.
He looked pleased with himself. Cook chuckled, serving the birthday boy first, then Mycroft's two friends, Sherlock and finally me.
"Happy birthday, Mycroft," everyone except Sherlock chimed together. Sherlock was too busy stuffing his face to speak.
It didn't escape my notice that Mycroft picked at his cake. Then again, he never did like strawberry jam.
No, you're not – you're bloody eight! That's even worse.
Before you go, you remember things like that; little snippets from your life, things that stuck out for you when times were better. Times have certainly been better for me. Presently I am in a black bin bag, destined for the landfills of Great Britain. I've been here for a good few hours now (it's dark and I haven't been able to count the minutes), ever since Sherlock and Mycroft's Father staggered into Sherlock's room this evening for a 'toy clear-out'. Sherlock protested, of course he did, but it was only half-heartedly. Mycroft wasn't there to watch his back. Sherlock knew about the layer of dust on my head, nose and shoulders just as well as I did. Anyhow, it would have been a lost cause to argue with Father when he smelled of brandy like that.
It's cold in the bin and some of Sherlock's Lego bricks are digging into my side. It smells bad here too. I want out. Some of the dust from my head has migrated to my eye. I can feel it but I can't see it. There's an Action Man in here somewhere, one of Mycroft's which Sherlock broke. But it's so cold. Cold, cold – and black. It's like one of Mycroft's old stories that he used to read to me in the office. I can't remember which one now – was that happiness really so many years ago?
The worst of it all is that when Father grabbed me by the ear, like he always used to do, he tore the stitches holding it in place. Now it's on the floor in Sherlock's room. I'll never get my ear back again.
But I've been lucky up until this point, I suppose. Some bears only have one true friend in their lifetimes. I've had two.
A/N: And the readers, how they sobbed... :) This wins the award for longest chapter – it's my gift to you all for reading along with Teddy's adventures. Thanks very much for the reviews; once I post a new chapter I'm checking my email inbox every five minutes. But it's worth it to hear your kind words and pointers. And is this the end? Well, keep your eyes peeled and there may be more... I mean, I can't just leave Teddy to his fate – can I?