.
Name: Tina Years: 20 From: Bulgaria Living in: United Kingdom I am a devoted Sherlockian and Benedictian. Law student. Writer. Football is an enormous part of my life. Drama and Theatre addict. Foreign languages lover. Addicted to London. Just a... dream-girl. |
In reply to hundreds and hundreds requests about Sherlock learning how to play violin
Aaaand another fic, dear Yuri! <3 xxx
THIS IS NOT ‘GOODBYE’
John can’t leave me now. He is the only person I can rely on. He is the only thing I can trust. He is the only one. No, no, nope. You can’t leave me, John. Tell me you are joking. Please, John. Tell me this is a nightmare!
But he doesn’t. His dark-blue eyes stare at me apologetically and I swear – I swear, swear, swear – that if I walk out of the room at this very moment, he would cry.
No, John! Don’t do this, stupid John! You can see it too – you don’t want to leave. I don’t want you to leave. No one wants you to leave. Except your dull parents.
‘Are you really going to leave?’
I want to add some ‘me’ at the end of the sentence but I know perfectly well this is going to sound awkward and so out of space. It’s better to preserve my status of ‘an annoying dick’ and my self-esteem high enough. Sentiment is not for me. It’s a chemical defect found on the losing side. I am not a loser. Not yet.
He nods and I feel a whole massive planet – not just a stone – in my throat. I am afraid that if I open my mouth, there would be no sound coming out from it.
‘But… why?’
My voice is weak, barely heard, almost a whisper. John shrugs.
‘Because of my parents. They want to live in the centre, to have stores nearby, theatres, to go to concerts…’
Dull parents, as I said. They can go to those stupid things if they live here. No reason for moving.
I sigh and John responds to me with a quiet cough. He is trying to suppress his tears, I can tell.
Don’t leave me, John…
‘I’m so sorry, Sherlock. We’re leaving in a week. I-…’
But he doesn’t finish. He just shrugs once again and walks out of the room. I curl up (John would say ‘sulk’) in my small sofa. Then jump off it and approach the window. It’s so quiet now – without John. Quiet. Calm. Peaceful. It’s disgustingly hateful.
—-
It was a strange thought of mine, I am sure about that. But Ma and Mycroft kept telling me that the best way to avoid those gloomy and depressing thoughts was to engage in something else rather than my deductions.
What else?
My whole life has been going around deductions, deductions and nothing else but deductions. I thought they were the perfect remedy for boredom and for relaxing but I was wrong. They did not get rid of the pain in my entire body. They did not fill up the hole in my chest. They did not bring my partner back. John was not here; not with me.
Probably, he found another Sherlock. Maybe he solved crimes with another kid. Or eventually, he started taking firing practices before getting to the military school. He deserved all that. I did not deserve him.
So… here I am. Sitting in front of the music teacher’s office. She is an old lady but she is a friend of Mummy and she owes her a lot, since our family took her out of the misery. She is a renowned musician now. She seems… ok. If John was here she would have said she was lovely. No, John is not here. I should not think about him. Never again.
‘What can I do for you, dear?’
Oh, no. Not dear, just not dear. Dear is what Mrs Watson used to call me. No dear.
‘I want to learn to play violin.’
I am trying to be as positive as possible. It is an awfully hard thing to do. Especially right now.
‘Excellent! Come here, dear. Follow me.’
No dear, I said! Grrrr…
‘I want to learn to play this composer.’
Somebody once told me that Paganini has some of the hardest violin concertos. He has all the techniques of a violin virtuoso. I want to be one. I want to be perfect. I can play the hardest composer. Whatever it takes.
‘Fine. This will take a while.’
No, it won’t. It will take just seven days. Exactly seven days – no more, no less.
‘I have one week only.’
She frowns. Stupid teacher. I can’t understand why Mummy is her friend. She is dull.
‘But this is impossible.’
Impossible? I don’t know what this word means!
‘No, it’s not!’
‘But, dear…’
‘I am not dear and it is not impossible! I will learn to play this composer! I will be per-fect! Understood?’
—-
It’s been three days and a half now. I am getting somewhere, I know that. Just the final notes are bothering me. C’mon, Sherlock, you can do this. You can prove them you are born for every job there is in this world.
‘Sherlock, dinner is ready! Oh, for God’s sake, what is this crap?’
‘This. Is. Music.’
‘Doesn’t sound like that. More like shrieks. Anyway, Mummy and I are not going to wait for you a century.’
They sent me to those lessons. Why don’t they understand then?
I put the violin down, grab a blue crayon (John’s crayons – he forgot them in my house while packing) and a piece of paper. I open the door slightly and stick the sign to it. Mycroft will know now.
Go away, My-cr-oft!
Mycroft chuckles.
‘Oh, dear God, Sherlock! You could have said it. Your handwriting is appalling.’
‘Go away, stupid Mycroft!’
—-
Day Seven.
That’s it. Now I’ll show John what a virtuoso I am and he’ll throw all those boxes and packages aside and he will stay here with me. Forever.
‘Look, John! I can play violin!’
He turns to me with red eyes and inquiring look. Deduction: he has cried his eyes out last night.
‘I’ll play it! I’ll do concerts for your parents! There’s no need for you to go anywhere else – in the stupid City centre. They don’t need to leave in order to listen to good music. I am capable of good music too.’
The silence is awkward. I am starting to think this was not the best idea I’ve ever had. John’s red eyes become watery again. No, John. No, John! Don’t cry, John! Don’t…
‘I’m really sorry, Sherlock. I have to go now, it’s getting late.’
No, you don’t have to…
‘I promise you, Sherlock. I’ll listen to you and your violin when I come back…’
You’ll never come back, John. We’ll leave me here: alone and lonely, and you’ll never come back for me.
‘Ok?’
It’s not ok.
John takes the last box full of toys and stupid and unnecessary and ridiculous stuff. He walks out of the room.
‘Goodbye, Sherlock.’
I’ve always been thinking that it would be me who would say those words: ‘Goodbye, John!’ In this stupid Winnie the Pooh book of John’s it was written – I remember – something like that… ‘If you live to be 100, I hope I live 100 minus 1 day, so I never have to live a day without you.’ Now I get the meaning of it. I thought it was all rubbish till now.
I know he’ll not come back. And I want to ask him to. I want to grab him, to hug him, to never let him go. I close my eyes, as to save the memory of this hurtful ‘goodbye’ of his, which seems more like a ‘farewell’ to me. You will always be my friend, John Hamish Watson. Till the very end of my dull days. My best friend. My only friend.
I don’t need this violin. I’ve never needed it. This whole idea was as ridiculous and stupid as I am now. Lonely and forgotten. Useless. Damn you, violin!
I want to throw it away but I will harm it. Mummy has once told me that we should not harm the things we like. And I used to like this dumb violin. Even if it was for a week only. It was my only way to get to John. Unsuccessful, of course.
—-
One year later…
I heard the sound of a violin nearby: I think it was coming from the new neighbours. It’s a girl, I think – I saw her white ribbons once, when she was coming from school. She is good. But I am better.
Shall I…
No, I shan’t. I can’t. This violin was for John only. For John. I can’t play it now, when he’s not here. Though he’ll never come back.
—-
Five years later…
Mummy has put the violin in the lumber room. It’s ok: I don’t need it at all.
The girl with the white ribbons went to New York. She took her violin with her – I saw her departure. It was a cold and snowy December evening but I caught a glimpse of her violin. Hers was more expensive, I presume. But mine was still better and way more beautiful.
Shall I…
No, I shan’t. I was absolutely right. John did not come. I asked Mycroft just yesterday about John and his parents but he shrugged. If Mycroft did not know anything, then no one knew. Or he knew but he did not want to tell me. Either way, John was not here. He’ll never be.
—-
Ten years later…
The music teacher at school wanted every single one of us to show some skills with a musical instrument for the graduation. I refused to play any. But stupid Mycroft and way too proud and crying Mummy told her I can play violin pretty well.
I can’t.
But she still hands me a violin and forces me to join the rest of the class.
Fine. I’ve never said I won’t play violin. I won’t play my violin. I can play all the other violins in the world. But my violin is for John. John who never came back.
—-
Twenty years later…
I am a detective now – just as I promised John. I know from Mycroft that John is an army doctor. So, he kept this promise of his as well. He didn’t do the same thing about another promise of his, though.
—-
Twenty-seven years later…
I gave up. I am 35 now; I can’t go like this forever. In the late hours of the night, when the Yard does not need me and when it’s so awfully peaceful around, I can’t stand like a ghost till the dawn breaks. I get it: I am a freak – I’ve always been. I can’t sleep, can’t eat, can’t breathe properly – all of this is painfully boring. I tried drugs – been a junkie for years. Still thinking over the idea of starting them again. I can’t shoot Mrs Hudson’s wall again – she will kick me out of the flat. And 221B is the only place I know – the only place I can call home. It was her and her husband – who is, thank God, away now – gave it to me as a present. Can’t give it up.
There’s only one thing I can do now – play the violin I brought with myself.
Shall I?
Yes, I shall. Finally. John will never come back – I get it now.
‘Hello.’
I turn my face just to see a short man in a fluffy jumper. He has golden hair and dark-blue eyes, just like the boy I used to know and love 27 years ago. He reminds me of him so much, it makes me open the door of the lumber room and take out the violin and play. Perfect timing, mate.
‘Hello.’
‘I am your new flat-mate. Has Mrs Hudson-…’
I nod in response.
‘Yes, she has mentioned about you. Come. Sit. Although it is a psychosomatic one, it may hurt…’ I smirk. His eyes are widened, ‘It doesn’t, right?’
I point with the violin bow at his leg. He is using a cane.
‘How do y-…’
‘Flatmates should know the worst about each other.’
‘I agree with that.’
‘How do you feel about the violin?’
‘Pardon me?’
‘I play it when I am thinking. Would it bother you?’
‘While you are-… No. No problem at all.’
I smile. He smiles back and sits on the chair I just pointed out. The resemblance is killing me. Can’t be…
I grab the violin. I can play Paganini. The man behind me will most certainly appreciate it.
‘Fine then…’
‘Damn my leg!’
The man exclaims as he pushes his traumatised leg forward. My bow has not even touched the violin strings. Once, 27 years ago, when he broke his leg – this very same leg – John exclaimed ‘Damn my leg!’ with frustration. With the end of my eye – somewhere between my lashes – I can notice the wrinkle of the chubby nose and the dark-blue eyes getting even darker.
John is here. John is finally here. Just as he promised.
‘Wait!’ he interrupts my thoughts, as always, ‘Wait… We don’t know a single thing about each other. The violin is the last thing I-…’
I smirk.
‘I know you are an army doctor – you’ve always wanted to be one – recently invalidated home from Afghanistan. I know you’ve got a sister – precisely five years and four months younger than you, named Harry – who’s concerned about you but you won’t go to her because you don’t approve her – certainly because she is an alcoholic; not because she recently walked out on her civil partner. And I know your therapist thinks your limp is at least partially psychosomatic – quite correctly, I’m afraid, as I’ve already mentioned. Enough to be going on with, don’t you think?’
‘How-…’
John knew. John understood. John was aware of this language and this specific attitude. He remembered it from somewhere.
No.
Light-blue eyes, curly black hair, tall and muscular body, long fingers, and those razor-shaped cheekbones. He knew a boy like this one. But he hasn’t seen him for… 27 years.
I see that John is a bit confused now. Probably he remembers something – no, I am certain he does. I smirk once again and play the initial accords of the violin concerto.
‘The name’s Sherlock Holmes, John. Consulting detective. The only one in the world.’
‘The name has always been Sherlock Holmes,’ was John’s first thought, ‘And he has always been the only one in the world.’
Aaaaand another fic (long time - no see, Yuri ;p). <3
SHOW AND TELL
I hate those stupid kindergarten games. I most sincerely do. Once there was a ‘Hide and Seek’ one. So damn boring – even not being in the kindergarten (I was sick then), I could tell who was hiding where. John was behind the jam shelf – the smacking noise always reveals him. Molly was playing with the bloody red lipstick of our teacher – she is always desperately trying to look pretty (without any success, I have to say) – so, she is in the teachers’ room. Donovan is scrubbing the floors, judging by the constant awful condition of her knees – she is under a bed, then. Whose bed? Anderson’s, of course – they are such good friends! While Anderson is covered by dinosaur toys somewhere around Donovan’s bed. Lestrade is always distracted, playing with the water pistols – he is not interested in the game cause it is ‘not his division’. Jim, however, is always unpredictable. Therefore, incredibly interesting.
‘John, what have you brought for ‘Show and Tell’?’
Seriously? A ‘Show and Tell’ game? You gotta be kidding my superior brain.
Oh, dear God! She is not kidding. Please, someone! Kill me at this very instant.
Please? Anyone?
I hate you.
‘This is my favourite jar of jam.’
You don’t say, John! I’ve tried to break it several times but John hit me so hard in the arm – I think I still have a bruise there. Ouch! Yes, I still do.
I stretch my hand to take Skully with me. After all, it’s the only thing I can relate to – my only precious belonging. My only friend. And I am extremely proud of him. Let me see how you’d react to my perfect friend, Mrs Pink Stupid Teacher!
‘Mine is…’
‘Jim!’
Wait! Did you just interrupt me? Did you just interrupt my genius?
Did I mention that I hate you?
I hate you.
‘Jim, you don’t have anything? At least a toy?’
Jim is pissed off, just like me. I can deduce this by the bored and rather irritated look in his big black eyes. He rolls them and puts his hands behind his back. He clicks nervously his tongue, moves left and right a bit. Frowns, sighs, and finally decides to fold his arms in front of his chest.
‘Toys are sooooooo ordinary. ‘Show and Tell’. Booooring,’ then he leans towards me, ‘But you know how it is, tedious Sherlock. You have an ordinary friend. You’ve got John. Maybe I should get myself one.’
‘Listen, Jimmy, you have to bring something… a toy, for tomorrow. Right?’
Jim nods irksomely, and walks away, murmuring something under his nose. He is right, though. I don’t even consider Skully a toy. He is a friend. John is a friend too. It’s a bit different, I have to admit, but… Oh, well. Doesn’t matter. I had a toy to show. Jim did not. I wonder what he’d show, though. His Bee Gees album – a heirloom from his late father? Or his Westwood tie – a present from his mother for his birthday? Or the stories he writes, under the name of Richard (oh, Gosh, what a silly name!) Brook? Interesting.
—-
I will ssssskin her. I will burn the teacher’s heart out of her. Grrrrrr…
‘Stupid pink lady! I’ll blow you up one day, I swear. Together with the entire doomed kindergarten. But not with Sherlock Holmes in it. No. This won’t be the final blowing up. No, no, no. But it is going to start very soon. The blowing up. Blowing up is just like flying except you are a bit… burned before your frivolous flight, I have to say.’
Doesn’t matter. I hate her so much. I hate kindergarten. I hate everything and everyone.
‘Or maybe poison her?’
Nope. This is dumb. I am not a Roman who wants to poison his Caesar.
This is just getting even more and more ridiculous.
‘Wow, Jim! You don’t have toys! Ehehehehe!’
I hate this Loki guy. I do. I will make him into nice pair of Louboutins and I will give them to Molly as a Christmas gift. I swear.
‘Ehy, Jimmy boy! Ahahah! Are you so poor you don’t have any toys?’
‘I’ll kill you too, Carl Powers.’
I’ll kill every-bloody-one.
‘Oooouch!’
Yes, right. You have to shout because you don’t have any other choice. I would make it the most painful death you’ve ever seen. Slow and torturing death. I like this.
Wait! Carl Powers?
Is he… dead? Like… in advance? No, no! Don’t die now! Don’t leave me before I’ve even had the brilliant opportunity to kill you. Wake up, you damn thing!
Did someone hit him? Who, for Devil’s sake?
‘Heeeello!’
Is this… Is this the new neighbour? The Moran’s boy? Is this him? Wow! He is… tall. Auntie said he is older than me – two and a half years, if I can remember right. Maybe, he tried to hit me but missed – I don’t have any other explanation to his sudden defence.
‘Did you aim wrong?’
‘I never aim wrong,’ he throws another stone. I think – it is at Loki this time. Yes, it is. I can hear his shrill ‘ouch’ in the near distance.
I can’t help but smirk. I like this guy. Did I say I like him? No, I don’t. I am not supposed to like anyone at all. Well…
Ha! But he can be my ordinary thing. He will be the best ‘Show and Tell’ toy to be presented to the pink creature at the kindergarten. She would be proud of me. Not that I care.
‘You work for me now!’
He can’t quite understand what I am saying but he will get it with time. I think that he will fit my criminal profile very well. I needed someone to help me in my mischief. He is the perfect… well, assistant… toy.
—-
Jim is still not here. He will be absent, most probably. No wonder. He got scared. He doesn’t have any normal toys – he has only pistols and grenades, and bombs, and…
‘This is my best toy!’
Wait! He is here! What is… What, the-…
‘Is this the Moran’s boy, Sherlock?’
John, I believe, is as confused as I am.
‘Obvious. Yes, it is, John.’
‘This is not a toy, Jimmy,’ says politely (and God, how I hate her fake polite tone!) the teacher, ‘This is a friend. But it’s ok. He can stay.’
‘Of course he can. And he will. His mother did consent. Doesn’t matter he is older than me, he will stay and he will help me in hating you all and destroying you!’
John shakes off his head, sighing.
Wait! Oh, stupid, stupid me! It was right before my eyes the whole time, and I’ve missed it.
‘John!’
John raises his eyes – an inquiring look on his face. I grab his hand and run towards the teacher, managing to pull her dreadful pink (I bet John will write this situation in his useless diary under the heading of ‘A Study in Pink’ – everything is a ‘study’ for him… or war) dress.
‘Forget about Skully.’
‘Yes, Sherlock. What is it? You have a better suggestion?’
‘I want to show a new toy.’
I push John forward. I’ve never been more proud in my entire seven year-old life.
The teacher walks away, chuckling under her nose.
John is angry, I can tell. I try to make the ‘puppy-eyes face’ but it just doesn’t work. C’mon! What now?
‘It’s ok now, John.’
‘No, it’s not! It’s not ok!’
Little John and his God-knows-coming-where-from rage.
‘Not good?’
‘A lot not good, yeah. I am not a toy, you know.’
‘Who gave you that idea?’
Humming a new melody (hurry up, Sherlock, write it down before you forget it – it’d make a perfect violin sound!), I am trying to walk away from John.
‘Now you’re imitating me, Sherlock Holmes, right?’
Oh, Jim!
‘Go away.’
‘Stupid doofus!’
‘Get away, he said! Didn’t you hear him?’ John is furious. This is definitely not good. The tall blonde Jim’s ‘toy’ is directing a sling with a stone on it at me. I hit him before he does anything at all. John, I can see, is still arguing with Jim. The guard lifts me up and locks me up in the isolation room. Great.
In a second or two the door is opened. The guard throws in John as well. Locks the door behind him.
‘Joining me?’
‘Yeah. Apparently, it’s against the kindergarten law to trip up the Headmaster of the kindergarten.’
I chuckle, trying desperately not to show my amusement to John.
‘Bit awkward, this.’
John nods.
‘Listen, John. What I said… I really meant it. You are not my toy, though. You are my friend. Sometimes I mix up the two.’
‘I know, Sherlock. Though, I prefer the second term. Suits me more, don’t you think?’
He sits next to me, with his little arms pressing his knees towards his chest. We look at each other at the same time and burst out laughing.
Aaaaand another fic… As promised. ;) <3 x
DUST IS WHAT I HAVE. DUST PROTECTS ME.
or…
THE BATH ADVENTURES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES AND JOHN WATSON
I am almost done here. It is probably past ten but I really don’t care. I will do this experiment and then I will feed Mrs Pebble’s cat with the dust I composed entirely by myself, and then I’ll put the cat on fire. Hurray! And then everyone would be proud of me becau-…
‘Come on, Sherlock, you need a bath! Come on!’
‘Stop it!’
No, no, no, no! Not now, stupid Mycroft! The stupidest Mycroft of all the Mycrofts! I don’t want to!
‘I am at the middle of an experiment!’
‘You stink!’
‘Well, thank you, dumb jerk! That’s because of the dust I created entirely on my own.’
I close my eyes. Hey! What about some recognition? Clap-clap? C’mon!
‘I’ll be the mother.’
‘No, I don’t need to take a shower, stupid Mycroft. You know I always win the idiotic bath battles. I deduce you’ve just eaten your third cake for today,’ Mycroft steps back. Ha! Gotcha!
‘How-…’ after a second of hesitation, he grabs my collar again, ‘Never mind, little creature. Let’s go!’
‘I will tell Ma! She will call you a ‘fatty’ once again and you will never see a cake till the end of your miserable and pointless days!’
What are you doing, imbecile? Wait? Are you lifting me? Take me down! Immediately!
‘I insist!’
‘Yeah, yeah. Not today, Sherlock. And we should get rid of all this dust. It’s disgusting.’
‘No, it’s not. You know nothing, you dumb ass! Dust is what I have. Dust protects me.’
Mycroft probably sighs now. My neck starts itching – he has grabbed it too hard. Oh, he doesn’t even touch it… Well, it’s because of the dust experiment then… So, it works! Ha!
‘Noooo! I need this dust, it is evidence!’
‘You don’t say.’
Here we go – the bath is just a step away from us. No, no, no! It’s dangerous in there. I don’t want to.
‘Mycroft, you know the cats don’t like the H2O, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Sherlock. But you are certainly not a… cat.’
I fold my arms and frown. Mycroft, as I can notice, is desperately trying not to laugh.
‘Ok, Sherlock, let’s do it that way – if, after all, you do accept to go in-there today, I would like to make you sure this bath of yours will be quiet nice experience for you.’
‘Really?’
I raise my eyebrows. Not fascinated at all. Mycroft nods with a smile, handing me the towel.
‘You can take a bath on your own. I will be waiting for you outside.’
‘What for?’
‘For you to look pretty and to smell nice, as Mummy says. You know how it always upsets her.’
‘It’s mewho upsets her? Do you think so,.. fatty?’
‘Right, right. Go there. I will wait for you. Just… wash this dust away from your body.’
I grab the towel and unwillingly open the door, murmuring under my nose. I can hear Mycroft chuckling behind my back – silly Mycroft. I hate you so much. You’ll see how much exactly… right after I am finished with this bath thing. Mummy will know everything. She will throw away all your cakes.
I sigh.
‘Bath is boring. And useless. And pointless. And dumb.’
‘Yes, Sherlock, go there.’
‘I was not talking to you, prick!’ I shout. Mycroft continues giggling. Urgggh! ‘If I wash the dust away, I would have to start deducing and experimenting from the very start… And I would never see the cat of Mrs Pebble. Pfff… I was so close this time.’
Wait! We don’t have soaps or shampoos with this fragran-…
John? What, the hell, is he-…
‘Hi, Sherlock!’
I look blankly at him. My towel is all soaked up cause I let it fall upon seeing John. In my bathroom. In my tub. Playing with my Skully.
‘John, I appreciate your… nakedness…’ I cough, ‘But what, for Goodness’s sake, are you doing in my bath?’
‘Oh, yes! Well… my parents forgot to pay the water bills. So we don’t have water in our house now. And it’ll be like this for the next three or four days – you know, there’re holidays now and no one works. Even in the Council.’
‘Right. And why in my bath? Is it a public bath? No, tell me – perhaps I’ve missed something, haven’t I?’
John blushes and tries to cover it with more foam and with the shining skull.
‘Because you are my friend, Sherlock. I thought I-…’
‘I don’t have frrrrriends!’
Silence. John swallows. His dark blue eyes are at first directed judgingly at me, and then he looks away. I can clearly see he is hurt. He hugs Skully tighter than ever.
‘I wonder why…’ he whispers and takes the soap to wash the already perfectly shining skull in his trembling hands.
The silence goes on.
Well, I certainly did not mean that… I do have-… I have John. I wonder what I would ever do if I don’t have him. See – Mycroft forces me to do unpleasant things, Ma always misunderstands my experiments, and Mrs Pebble calls me a psychopath. Molly is always hurt by the things I say. Always. According to Donovan I am a freak. Every time I try to talk enthusiastically to Greg – God, what a stupid name! – Lestrade, about my experiments, he tells me it’s not his division. I don’t listen to Anderson cause he lowers the IQ of the whole kindergarten. Only Jim is quite interesting but when I decided to be an angel for Halloween, he told me that I am a doofus and that I am just an ordinary Sherlock, on the side of the angels. Well, it was interesting being an angel, I have to admit that. I was the angels’ leader. However… I may be on the side of the angels but don’t you think for a second, Jim, that I am one of them.
And then there is John. He always tells me I am amazing, fantastic, extraordinary, perfect… He has already expressed all his astonishment of my brilliance in every way available in the English language. Perhaps he should start learning other languages. Latin, for example. Oh, God…
‘Listen, John…’ I am trying to walk slowly because I really don’t want to slip and to fall down. Finally, I reach the water taps and grab them for a balance, ‘What I’ve just said… I really mean it. I don’t have friends. I’ve just got one.’
John’s eyes lock on mine. He hands me Skully and smiles a bit.
‘No one could be such an annoying and disrespectful dick all the time, Sherlock. That’s why I love you so much.’
Not good. We both are red now. I start coughing. John joins me.
‘Doing an experiment on Mrs Pebble’s cat again?’
I nod. John laughs – his cute chuckling makes my smile go wide while I take off my dusty clothes to join him in the tub.
John throws shampoo water in my eyes. Ouch!
‘Oh, youuuu!’
Wait! It’s not shampoo!
‘John, what’s this?’
John chuckles a bit louder.
‘Chocolate mousse. It was for Mycroft’s cake. But I,’ John puffs up, ‘managed to steal it. Haven’t done it for months.’
‘Enjoyed it?’
‘Oh, God, yes!’
We both start giggling. I stop at some point and just watch him. His small blonde head moves back and forth as his tiny body is making mini waves in the tub.
‘John?’
‘Yes, Sherlock.’
‘The thing… You did…’
‘The stealing?’
‘Yeah. No. Not only. This thing…’
‘Oh! The bath?’
‘Yes,’ I scrub Skully, ‘It’s good.’
‘Thanks God Mrs Pebble can’t see us.’
‘Uh?’
‘You. Taking your clothes off and joining me in your tub. The neighbours might talk.’
‘The neighbours do little else.’
We burst out laughing once again.
‘Sherlock Holmes! Where, the hell, is my mousse?’
I cough and spring out of the tub.
‘I’ll be back in a moment,’ I wink at John while trying to put on the clothes Mycroft handed me before.
When I enter the kitchen, I see him eating another enormous piece of cake.
‘Right, Mycroft. I can’t see the problem here. You are actually eating a cake now!’
‘Yes!’ answers Mycroft with full mouth, ‘But my mousse is gone.’
‘I see. I will deduce this matter later.’
‘Wait! Where are you going?’
I go back to him and look him with the most innocent look possible.
‘Mycroft?’
‘What is it now, Sherlock?’
‘May I have another bath today?’
I can see his eyes widen.
‘Thank you!’
I rush back to the bath and lock the door. John is humming a stupid song under his nose.
‘What are you singing, John?’
‘Wash, wash the kitty! Scrub, scrub the kitty…’
‘Wait! Is this Mrs Pebble’s cat?’
‘Yes, Sherlock.’
‘How-… Oh, John!’
‘Shhh… You can’t put it on fire now but at least you can water-experiment on it.’
John grins as I try to suppress my laughter. We both hear someone talking with Mycroft. Heavy steps.
‘Sherlock, hurry up!’
I have no time to take off my new and clean clothes. Mycroft starts unlocking the door. Both of us can hear Mrs Pebble’s hysterical screams. I look at John and he nods in response, hiding the kitty in the cupboard just near the tub.
‘Ready, John?’
‘Yes, Sherlock.’
‘When I say it, you know what to do, don’t you?’
‘Yes, Sherlock.’
The door is unlocked and we both shout.
‘Vatican Cameos!’
I grab John’s hand as we are both under the water and put my other hand on his mouth, not letting him giggle. Oh, having a bath is the most breathtaking experience in the world!
In the most literal sense possible.
Aaaand the next one! :))
SOFT KITTY
Stupid Mycroft. I would like to say that Mummy is stupid too but I love her way too much to say this. She is not stupid. She is just… Mummy. All mothers are like that. Mrs Watson even slapped John once. And then started crying. No wonder John is so emotional – he has his mother’s genes.
So… I hate Mycroft. He saw me put the neighbour’s cat on fire once again, so he told Ma they need to punish me somehow. The neighbour is mad at me. I believe she even told Ma that she needs to look better after me because I’m getting ‘crazier’ with the years. She told her I’m a psychopath and that I need some friends: to get me out of my boredom and to play with them, just like a normal 7-year-old should. She doesn’t know what a psychopath means, I think. Burning her cat is not a psychopathic symptom.
I’m not a psychopath. I’m a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research, Mrs Pebble.
Just saying. I know you won’t.
And so Mycroft and Mummy told me to stop doing all those stupid things to the poor kittens and to find some other area for experimenting. So I did.
In England there’s no snow. At all. Well, apparently there is some… sometimes. And then all the media, the politicians, the households freak out. For about three inches of snow cover.
So, I’ve spent the night out there, in the snow. Well, ‘snow’ is a bit over-exaggerated, I guess, but still… It was freezing. And Mycroft saw me twice through the window but just smirked at me – like the selfish dork he is – and went back to his warm bed. Disgusting Mycroft.
Well, I admit I’m a bit stubborn sometimes but… only stubbornness gets me through my experiments. Poor you all – you’ll never know what it is like.
Achooo!
I hate sneezing. Ma says it’s the sign of me getting sick but it’s just outrageous. I prefer having a high temperature or coughing, or even nose-bleeding. All of them are dramatic. Sneezing is… for the losers. Snots everywhere. Ew.
Wait! That’s John! He’s here!
C’mon, bed, don’t crack! I don’t want them to hear that I am awake. Silent… Bed, be silent, for God’s sake!
‘Is he sick?’
No, John, I’m… achooo… Not. I’m perfectly fine, John. Really,.. achooo!.. John.
‘Well, we’ve forbidden him to do any experiments on the cat, so he stayed all night in the snow to see how the freezing process works on him.’
Not really. Anyways, I’m still mad at you. You knew it was freezing! You, bloody… awful Mycroft!
‘Don’t worry. It’s not serious. You can see him.’
No, he can’t. He can’t, Mycroft. Tell him I’m dying; I’m dead. I don’t want John to see me like that – he’ll think I’m weak. No.
Crack.
Fine. I’m dead.
Stay motionless, Sherlock. Don’t move. Don’t speak. Don’t breathe. Just lay still.
‘Just keep in mind his talk doesn’t make a lot of sense.’
‘No problem, Mycroft. Thank you for letting me in.’
Crack.
John is in the room – I can feel him. He is standing there, not too far from my bed, still and steady. I can feel his gaze over me. I bet I look like a giant snail right now – sheets all over me.
He approaches the bed. Oh, John! Always smelling so nice – of fresh washing.
‘Sherlock?’
Silence. Should I tell him something? Shall I speak?
‘Sherlock?’
‘Nope. I’m a cat.’
You are officially the dumbest person on this entire – whatever its name is – universe, Sherlock. Accept that.
‘A cat?’
Silence. My talk doesn’t make a lot of sense. That’s my excuse now, I guess.
John comes even closer. I can feel his small fingers touching the linen. He jumps on the bed – his small feet hanging from it.
‘A pretty stubborn kitten, I shall say.’
He chuckles. I hate when he does this cute little laughter of his – like a baby delightfully playing with its stupid plush toy.
He sits on his knees and puts his palm on my waist. The aroma of fresh washing is so sensible now, that I think that I’ll… achoooo! Well, yes, I did it.
An awkward silence around the room. His hand is still on my waist. He pats it, and then starts caressing my whole body. Right. If till now I did not have a relatively high temperature, now I think I’m the next Sahara.
He puts his left hand on my head and his small fingers brush my hair. I can feel he has a bit of a struggle taking them out – Mummy always tells me my curls are too thick. He murmurs something under his nose and decides to leave his fingers there, making a small ‘puff’-noise come out of his mouth.
‘Nyaaa…’
The strangest sound I’ve ever made. Don’t know how this happened. Was it even me?
Silence. John! John, say something! Do something!
Right. He’s probably laughing at me now. I’m the greatest idiot in the world.
John coughs, clearing his throat. He pats me once again with his right hand; his left still stuck into my curls.
‘Soft kitty, warm kitty, little ball of fur! Happy kitty, sleepy kitty…’
‘Purr, purr, purrrrrrrrrrrr…’
He chuckles and repeats the song once again. Right. I’m such darn imbecile right now. Though, I guess Mrs Pebble was right after all – I needed a friend as dumb as I am, in order to feel… well, more human.
Achooo!
‘Sherlock?’
‘Yes, John?’
‘You’re awake, aren’t you?’
‘Yes, John.’
‘Good. That’s good.’
I open my eyes, just to see him blushing. He manages to take his hand out of my hair. Puts his both hands on his knees. Awkward situation, I have to admit that.
‘Sherlock?’
‘Yes, John?’
‘When I have temperature and I’m – you know – sick… Mummy takes all my clothes off and covers me with wet bed sheets.’
‘Why do you say this, John?’
Silence again. He looks at me with the blankest face possible.
‘Are you wearing any pants?’
‘No.’
‘Okay.’
That’s it. He starts chuckling and giggling – and it’s the cutest laughter ever. I can’t help but laugh along with him.
Mycroft enters the room with the biggest frown on his face.
‘I believe everything is ok… Am I right, John?’
John nods, still giggling. I’m dead serious.
Mycroft leaves the room, looking at both of us suspiciously.
‘I’ll come later then – we need to check your temperature, Sherlock.’
John nods instead of me. We both wait for the door to be closed.
‘Sherlock?’
I look from under the sheets.
‘Have you ever done an experiment on a hedgehog?’
‘No, John. Why?’
‘Well, I’ve seen one in our garden today. I can give it to you.’
I nod.
‘But, Sherlock?’
‘Yes, John.’
‘Please, don’t put it on fire. Because then I’ll have to pretend I’m a hedgehog. And it’ll be a pity for you to caress my hair.’
We both burst out giggling.
Oh, John! I forgot about my cold already. You’ll be the best doctor ever, I swear! And probably the best hedgehog. Wouldn’t miss this for the world.
Aaand… another one! <3 :)
LOVE IS CHEMISTRY
I’ve been re-reading this stupid fantasy book for over a week now. That’s outrageous. I totally understand that Mummy doesn’t have enough money to buy us new books every now and then, but how is it that she always buys books for Mycroft and not for me? I mean – they think I’m too young or what? Or too smart for reading? Probably. That’s it. Mycroft is way more stupid than me.
Pfff… I hate these fantasy books of his. I prefer the detective stories – although, they are too predictable and I know the end… on the second page already. Though, this girl who rarely comes to the kindergarten – I believe her mother is not well at all – told me that the detective stories are her favourite ones too. Clever girl. She likes detectives. She once told me she likes me cause I am a real detective. Irene, I think, was here name.
Anyways. Boring. Boring… Booooring.
‘I’m so bored… Nothing interesting here.’
Did I actually say that out loud? Never mind. There’s no one around to hear me. No one cares.
‘Think, Sherlock!’
This Irene girl told me that something about the brain was good; that thinking was appealing. Ah, yes – ‘brainy is the new sexy,’ she said. Well, thank you, I’m brainy all the time. And no one has ever told me I’m… well, sexy.
‘You need some distraction, Sherlock…’
I sigh. No one around; no more detective books to read… Mummy has thrown away all my instruments for future experiments – and that’s just because I’ve put the neighbour’s cat on fire. It was an experiment! Besides, the cat was too old to last even till the next month.
‘Some excitement…’
Even John is not around. His parents took him to their posh villa outside London. He is ok – his family have some money to buy him all the stupid guns and soldier trinkets he wants. Mine don’t. That’s why I’m reading these cheap and idiotic fantasy novels. Blah.
‘I need some satisfaction, definitely. Let’s think… Satisfaction – scientifically speaking – is caused by the dopamine.’
So far so good, Sherlock. Bravo! And now what? Where would you take this dopamine from?
‘If I were an adult… I would try smoking…’
Is it good, actually? Mummy is always coughing when she’s having a cigarette. Though, her lame friends like it – it’s always too cloudy and smoky in the room they have their meetings in.
‘But I can’t smoke… I’m just seven. I’ll try it one day, probably…’
Right. Next option? Drugs?
‘Drugs are expensive and… well, kinda illegal.’
Blah. Not a solution here. Next?
Think, think, think. What do adults actually enjoy? Smoking? Already checked – not working. Drugs neither. Drinking? Well… Mummy drinks occasionally. But she has always been telling Mycroft and me that out Daddy died of cirrhosis, so… it won’t work. Plus, I’ve seen Mummy being first aggressive and then extremely sick at heart, after taking just a sip of whisky. I won’t drink. Ever.
Well… Smoking, drugs, drinking… Sex? Is it sex? I’ve heard one of Mom’s friends complaining about her lack of sex-life with her husband. No idea what’s that all about but Ma and all the other women in the room started ‘aw’-ing at her sympathetically. So, I presume, it’s a big deal not to be satisfied… sexually.
‘Well… I don’t have any clear ideas about sex…’
Nothing. My head is completely empty.
I hate sleeping but I should try it, probably – it’s the only thing that can make the hours till John’s arrival at my house go faster… Right. Just sleep, Sher-…
‘Hi, Sherlock!’
I’ve fallen asleep! It’s 5p.m. already! John is here!
Though… I’m still extremely bored. I want to die. I feel so useless right now – a complete waste of my mother’s uterus.
‘How are you? Are you still bored?’
No, I’m absolutely fine. Well, of course I’m bored! Do something! Humour me!
Silence. Awkward silence.
‘I need do-pa-mine.’
Silence again.
‘Dopamine?’
‘Yes, dopamine. I need it. Didn’t you hear me?’
‘I always hear you when you say you need something but it’s usually a subtext. Are you hungry or something?’
Hungry? Me? Food is bor-… Oh… Oh! Oh, wait! I’ve read somewhere – it must have been in Mummy’s magazines – that dopamine and thus, satisfaction, can be transmitted by a kiss…
‘You seem to have a lot of dopamine, John!’
I stand up and kick the stupid book away. I don’t know what a kiss is but I’ve seen some pictures in the magazine and I’ve seen some of the dull soap operas Ma is watching every single afternoon. They are making an odd ‘mwah’ sound while pressing their lips against each other’s. It’s… It’s not that hard, isn’t? I can try that. I wonder if it’d work, though. But I’m desperate for my dopamine – otherwise, I would die out of boredom, I swear.
‘Give me some dopamine, John! I need some. Get me some. Give me some. Please!’ no answer, ‘Please!’
I’ve never begged in my life. Now I’m doing that. Twice. The Irene girl has mentioned that… I don’t remember what her precise words were, though. Doesn’t matter. I need my dopamine. Now! Hurry up, John!
‘Would you?’
‘Oh, well… How exactly?’
I don’t know how to explain it, really. Just say ‘yes’, please…
‘If you really, really need it, I-…’
Oh, shut up, stupid John!
Aaaaaaah, mwaaaaaaaah! Was it too loud? Wait! Am I still with my lips pressed on his? Is he-… Oh, God, his face is pink! He is blushing! Ohhhh… I feel myself blushing as well! B-… but… my lips are still over his. I quite like that, actually. I can feel my hear bumping – it’ll rip off of my chest. Right. This is then the story of how I die. Goodbye, John.
I stop it. He stares at me. He is not pink any longer – he is tomato red. I wonder how red I am at this precise moment. But at least I’m not dead. Phew. I think my head is spinning around now. Ah… I know what happened – I’ve just taken an over-dose of dopamine. Right. That’s it.
‘Uhm… Sherlock?’
‘Yes, John?’
I cough. Why does my voice sound so… soft?
‘Do you think… May I have my dopamine back now, Sherlock? I feel a bit uneasy…’
‘Is your head spinning, John?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is your heart beating very fast, John?’
‘Yes, Sherlock, it is.’
Mrs Watson enters the room to tell John it’s time to go home. She is watching this stupid telly drama at 6p.m. too.
‘Mummy, what do two people feel when their lips touch?’ John holds up his dark-blue eyes at his mother. She smiles, stroking both our heads. I hate it when someone does this to me. I’m not a pet or anything, for God’s sake! Stop it!
‘They feel their hearts beating really fast, Johnny. And their whole world starts spinning and spinning around – their heads are in something like a blur. Why do you ask?’
‘And why is that?’ John hesitates answering her question.
Silence. John cleared his throat, thinking about an excuse for being that unusually curious.
‘It’s one of Sherlock’s experiments – he is researching the characteristics of dopamine.’
‘Ah, I see. Well, dopamine has nothing to do with a kiss. It’s love.’
I’ve heard this word before but don’t know what exactly it does mean.
‘And love, dear children,’ Mrs Watson takes John’s hand, ‘is chemistry.’
John is looking at me and he sees I’m looking at him too; he tilts his head aside, chuckling a bit. He then stops at the door while Mrs Watson is talking to Ma.
‘Sherlock?’
‘Yes, John?’
‘Promise me that from now on you won’t do any chemistry experiments without me.’
I smile. I can still feel the redness all over my face. I see it on John’s as well.
‘I promise, John. I’ll be lost without my dopamine-provider.’
He chuckles and the door is slammed. I’m alone again. But not bored. No. I think I’m hyper-enthusiastic now. I may even re-read one of Mycroft stories. It’s not such a bad idea, actually.
And another story! :)
More than a Present
Turning seven isn’t fun. At all. The adults still look at you as though you are a baby, and the babies think of you as an adult. And you are neither of them. Somewhere in-between. Which I hate. Being in-between is boring.
Holding my hand with his left one and the umbrella (though it’s perfectly shining outside) with his right, Mycroft enters the kindergarten with the dumbest smile one has ever seen. Mycroft, for God’s sake, it’s my birthday, not yours! I’m not happy on my birthdays because I’m not as mad about Mummy’s cake as you are. But, nevertheless, you can have mine – I believe it’s a chocolate one with some strawberries on it – I’ve seen the leftovers of its glaze on Mummy’s skirt today when she woke me up.
‘Here we are, Sherlock. And have a nice birthday!’
Right. No one knows it is my birthday, actually. Who does even care for such dull things? I’ll just sit here, alone as always, and sing ‘Happy Birthday, Sherlock’ by myself only. Which is dull too.
‘Puah. Birthdays. I don’t want to celebrate my increasing brain failing.’
It’s true. I’ve already sensed it. With every single year my head becomes just a tiny bit larger, but my brain… Oh, my brain becomes so large in a year, that my head can’t bear it sometimes. John told me that is the reason of my frequent headaches.
I can’t sing. Should I try?
‘Happy Birthday to you… Happy Birthday to you…’
Oh, stop it! It’s so false that even I can’t bear my own voice.
Right. Now I’m all alone – no Mummy, no Mycroft, no chocolate-strawberry cake, not even Mummy’s stupid old damsels. No one. Nothing. Boring.
‘Uhm… Sherlock… I need to tell you something.’
Molly. Her parents did probably have a wrangle yesterday – her eyes are always so puffy the morning after such things. Plus, apparently, her mother did not have enough time or nerves to make Molly’s hair look at least… acceptable.
I raise my head and look at her as emotionless as I could possibly be. Interesting. Does she remember it’s my birthday today?
Oh, no, she doesn’t. She starts sniffling, then sobbing.
‘You always tell me such terrible things! Always,’ that’s not right. I’m being honest there. Since when honesty is not tolerated well? ‘Please, stop!’
She turns her back and leaves the room. Alone again.
‘Sod it! I don’t need you on my birthday. You’re useless.’
It’s strange that when I murmur this to myself, I feel an odd pain in the chest.
Five minutes. No one. Ten. No one. Fifteen. Still no one.
That was it. They all hate me and don’t care about my stupid birthday. I want to go home and to lock myself into my Mind Palace. I don’t even want to share my cake with Mycroft – he can take it all for himself.
‘I’ve something special for you, Sherlock!’
Oh, the little Donovan! Her mother has forced her once again to rub the floors at home – her knees are in the well-known terrible condition. That’s the risk of being the eldest of five children. Thanks God it’s only two of us in our family and I am the lucky younger child.
‘Stop being weird! I hate you! You’re a freak!’
She leaves the room, slamming the door behind herself.
I’m not weird. I’m not a freak. Right – hate me as much as you want; I hate you too. But I’m just… not ordinary. You’ll see, Donovan, when we become adults… When my birthday five times seven comes, I’ll be the best detective in the world, and you’ll be just a simple and ordinary person. And your knees will still be in a miserable state.
‘Sherlock!’
Ohhh… This shrill voice is of one person only. Jim. I wonder what he wants. He is always intriguing, though he is bad towards me.
‘Look, I’ve got a present for youuuu!’
Oh, interesting! I can feel the thrill on my fingertips. Someone actually did remember my birthday! Ouch! An apple? In my forehead! Damn you, James-disgusting-Moriarty! My Mummy will have a talk with yours very soon! Again…
‘Ahahahah!’ it’s not funny. It hurt, ‘I owed you one!’
I’ve hit you with a kiwi! It was rotten and it couldn’t even reach your forehead – it splashed on the table in front of you. John was the one who threw an apple at you and hit you right between the eyes. Oh, John – he is always so flawless when it comes to shooting or hitting someone.
Alone. Again. It can’t be like that. Only Jim Moriarty remembered my birthday… and threw an apple at me. I hate my birthdays. I hate my seven years. I hate my life.
‘Sherlock!’
John? Oh, here he is! I wonder what he wants… with this stupid little smile of his.
‘I have a present for your birthday!’
For my birthday? He remembered! Yay!
No, Sherlock, stay calm. He will give you something small and stupid, and useless. Nothing special.
‘Presents are boring, John. Birthdays are boring, John. Leave, John.’
But he doesn’t leave. Leave, John, please. I want to be alone. Alone is what I have. Alone protects me. From… apples being thrown at me.
A… pocket magnifying glass? JOHN!!! Joooohn! I-… I-… You’re amazing! You’re fantastic! I love you!
Nope, Sherlock, stay calm!
‘Oooohhhh… A pocket magnifying glass! Very clever. Awfully clever.’
He stares at me with this stupid little smile of his, again and again. His blue eyes are shining with an expectation. I want to jump from my chair and to hug my bestestest – this word does not even exist in the glossaries, Sherlock! – friend. He remembered my birthday! And he gave me the best present I’ve ever dreamt of!
‘Unfortunately, I can’t use it because it’s use-less!’
I throw it behind myself and as I hear its creaking sound on the floor, I just close my eyes quickly, hoping it’s not broken. This would be devastating. Plus, my explanation of not wanting the present was… incredibly idiotic.
He smiles even wider. He knows me too well. I’m trying to look away – I don’t want him to see I like it. But he starts chuckling. Am I really so predictable?
‘Shut up, prick! I know you like it!’
He takes one of the toys thrown around the room and walks out.
Even the packing is cute. A dark-blue one – my favourite colour.
Magnifying glass? Hey, pocket magnifying glass?
I turn around – it’s laying there. It’s not broken, thanks God. I stretch my hand, touch it, grab it.
‘You’re so beautiful! I will use you every day for the rest of my life!’
I wonder if I’ve just started covering it with kisses or it’s my imagination caressing it. Either way, it’s the best birthday gift ever. The best birthday ever.
‘Sherlock!’
John opens the door and glares at me and my mutual affection with the magnifying glass. Chuckles once again.
‘I’ve just hit Jimmy with an apple. The perfect shot!’
I smile in return. My perfect John. The best John ever.
