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"Unit measurements. Hours? Minutes? Seconds? Milli-seconds? No. Years."

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Pounding of footsteps echoed in a narrow hallway, the cabbie driver dropped off the resident and his companion. Although, the cabbie wasn't quite sure if they were together. The moment the tall framed gentleman with the strange hat hurried out of the cab. The other fellow followed behind with a few words that could sting a bumblebee. On the front door, there were gold metal numbers nailed into the black door.

221 B.

"Sherlock," the fellow followed behind said, "What the hell was that back there?"

Sherlock threw the ridiculous deerstalker hat towards the three windows on the small flat. A small table accumulated with newspaper clippings, notes with key words and circles, and lonely teacup sat by the middle window. He continued to take off his heavy coat and placed it on the wooden hanger. Sherlock straightened his dark-purple flannel shirt. His collar button was open and his shoulders leveled out.

He then progressed to his microscope on his kitchen table. Scraps of paper coated all surfaces of the kitchen, and even on the fireplace that was located on the left side of the flat. Handwritten formulas and experiments drawn and inked the papers. Sherlock placed his hands on the small wheels and looked through the lens; he made no eye-contact with the other gentleman, who waited impatiently for Sherlock's reply.

"I solved the case."

"You solved the case? You shattered a family," the fellow stated, "Sherlock. Not solved!"

"On the contrary," Sherlock said. "Telling the facts helped me conclude that Mrs. Bleu did in fact poison her husband for the intention of greed. Quite boring. The daughter wouldn't stop coming in - pestering me while I was attending other investigations. I ended it quickly."

The gentleman ran his hand through his dirty blonde hair. He let out a sigh, his chest and shoulders sauntered.

Sherlock glanced up from his lens. The gentleman's posture and physical sound hinted something was amiss. The fellow rubbed his right eye trying to pretend Sherlock had listen to him.

"I did good," Sherlock stated. "John."

"No. You didn't. Not good."

"Oh."

For years now, during Sherlock and John's quite interesting friendship, John would remind Sherlock when he was being an ass. Even the unusual events of becoming flat mates with the help of Stamford (John's college friend), John learned Sherlock's personality. Sherlock needed a roommate and Stamford brought John to meet him at his work: a morgue. Sherlock questioned him "Afghanistan or Iraq," on the spot, and John surprised by the statement without him asking a question, he preceded to do what normal human beings would ask, "What?"

Now, after years of solving crimes together like Study in Pink, The Blind Banker, The Hounds of Baskerville, and many more, which John wrote about in his Blog and titled these cases himself (Sherlock disapproved the names - thought them plain and uncreative), Sherlock acknowledged these hints and reminders often but when his focus attentively towards his experiments and theories he didn't notice.

"Yeah," John dismissed the correction. He stomped into the kitchen, his caramel heel shoes scuffled on the floor.

His hands accompanied in his suit pockets. His jaw locked and his eyes stared at the papers.

"I'm heading out," John said.

"Uh-huh."

John rolled his eyes and then he walked through the hallway and down the stairs to leave, not before he slammed the front door. He knew those details Sherlock overlooked but either way John wanted to exert his frustration.

An older woman lived in the lower flat and she heard the stomps coming down the stairs. She wore a purple and pink floral dress, she watched as John called another cab. She brought her pointer finger to her lips. She climbed the stairs and without knocking on the door, she opened and went inside Sherlock's flat.

"What's the matter with John?" she inquired. Sherlock didn't look up from his microscope. The woman started to pick up papers on the small table and took the lonely teacup into the kitchen.

"Nothing of a sort," Sherlock asked.

"He slammed the door and ran out to get a cabbie before I could greet him," she said. Her delicate hands cleaned the white china teacup. The water ran cold and then warmed up.

"Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said. "I would like another cup of tea."

"I'm your landlord not your housekeeper," she said, even though she already planned on brewing a pot of tea.

Mrs. Hudson waited attentively on the water to boil and tea bag filled the cup. She poured the water overtop and the stream hit her wrinkled face. She walked over with the saucer and cup cautiously. She positioned the cup on kitchen table next to the microscope. Sherlock neither acknowledged nor said anything to her. Mrs. Hudson gently smiled at the man who helped her get a divorce and put her ex-husband in jail. She left the flat the same way she came in. Quiet and smooth, Mrs. Hudson closed the door and no sound echoed in the hallway.

She grinned.

I'm going to text John, she thought, just to double check that he's alright.

For an elderly woman, she understood technology and it's easiest ways of communication. She giggled to herself as she couldn't wait for John's perspective of the story.

However, in the flat, the design experiment engrossed Sherlock's attention. The forgotten mint tea's heat escaped into the air. He never repositioned. His arms stuck on the kitchen table. His clear blue eyes lit up from the light on the bottom of the microscope. A knife stabbed on the fireplace counter and old wounds of past slashes decorated the mahogany mantel. He ignored his sleep deprivation symptoms. Heavy eyelids, slow thought process - which of course his thought process to begin with was higher than others - and tickling sensation in the tips of his fingers.

Time passed without Sherlock's notice. Water droplet dripped from the faucet. His ears noticed when his brain rotated around the substances and how each was affected by temperature and time. The water hitting against the metal surface of the sink.

Sherlock tilted his head. To get up. Turn it off. It seemed a nuisance, but that droplet echoed in his ear. He couldn't focus on his work. Almost like how Anderson blabbered. Anything that he spoke, it destroyed any intelligence in the entire street.

Sherlock shot up and checked the right and left handles. All were in perfect position, the droplet stopped. The faucet reflected his silhouette. He dismissed it and focused back on his experiment.

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A six year old boy ran through the long grass towards a small lake. The cattails encircled the edges of the lake. Ripples began from dragon flies, tadpoles, and other small creatures unseen with the naked eye. A short, ginger dog ran ahead of the young boy; its pink tongue hung out the corner of its mouth. He turned his head towards his master and playfully barked at him.

"I'm coming, Red-Beard!" the boy shouted.

He held a book in one hand and in the other a pirate hat. He stomped into the muddy land, his black laced shoes coated with plant life and soil. His brown curly hair bounced about as he continued towards the watery edge.

"There!" he said, pointing his finger towards the shallow waters.

"That's where the treasure shall be!"

His imagination built the scene similar to his book! In his right hand, Treasure Island written by Robert Stevenson grasped and the wrinkled pages wanted freedom as the breeze moved them. His great companion was on his heel that panted for more air. The boy chuckled as he made his way to the east side of the lake. A log protruded out into the lake and green moss thrived there.

The boy added a bit into his speech, "Rrrrgh! There it be!"

His small finger pointed towards the log. Red-Beard panted happily with his pink tongue sticking out. The summer days continued to increase in temperature while energy deceased; however, the boy contained all the energy. Red-Beard walked towards the log that was on land and laid down.

Getting out of character, the boy placed his hands on his hips.

"Is this the time to be resting?" he asked, "Come on, Red-Beard. We're trying to retrieve the treasure."

The ginger dog didn't move.

The boy shook his curly head.

"Fine," he said. "I'll get it myself."

He placed his book down next to Red-Beard; he entrusted it to him. He headed towards the log, the ridgy trunk had an enormous circumference. The boy seemed to hesitate forward but he stuck out his tongue. He was not intimidated by this Aceraceae. He stuck his right black shoe out stepping onto the trunk. He held his arms out from his sides. Balance was key!

His gradual movements worked steady as he strived to achieve his goal.

Red-Beard's ears perked up and gazed off into the horizontal distance. His mouth was closed and no longer towards his master. His fur covered a mud from the in between land and grainy shore of the lake. His small black nose twitched in the air as the wind brought the scent to him. His muscles relaxed and his heavy panting continued.

The boy on the other hand kept tittering back and forth, but he did not fall off the log. His chest rise and fall with anticipation. A hole was in the log; he knew that's where the treasure would be! The boy's weight caused the log to bob in the water.

He leaned his head over to look into the hole.

"Sherlock!" a voice shouted at him. "What are you doing?!"

The boy turned quickly and in doing so he lost his balance. Therefore, he fell into the water. The cool muggy water greeted and surrounded him. His curly hair waved in the water and he broke the surface. His feet could almost touch the lake's ground.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock yelled back. His pants and shirts soaked with cool water on his sun warmed skin. "Why did you do that?"

"I wanted a reaction."

Sherlock squinted his eyes at his older brother. He swam to the shore and proceeded to glare at his brother. Mycroft seemed content with his hands in his khaki pockets. He wore a white Oxford-button collar shirt, all the buttons in proper position and in a straight line.

"You got one," Sherlock replied. His curly hair flat on his forehead. "You happy?"

"Thrilled," Mycroft said with a grin. His hands went behind his back now. Mycroft's shoulders leveled out and his chest upright almost as if he was ready to teach Sherlock a lesson.

Sherlock squeezed the end of his pants to ring the water out.

"You forgot something," Mycroft declared, poking at Sherlock verbally. He nodded his head towards the water. Sherlock's pirate hat floated in the muddy lake water. There was no current; therefore, the hat swayed side to side in a gentle motion.

"Well, aren't you the best," Sherlock sassed back. He went into the lake to retrieve the hat.

Red-Beard greeted Mycroft. His ginger fur carried the sand and mud over towards Mycroft. Sherlock's companion tried to give Mycroft kisses, his tongue grew longer and reached Mycroft's face. In defense, Mycroft pushed Red-Beard away. The sheer idea of having spit on his hands, arms, face, and anywhere else gave Mycroft chills.

Sherlock grabbed the soaked pirate and placed it on his head. Water spilled down his cheeks and blinded his eye sight. He huffed and walked back to Mycroft, which he was too occupied in dodging Red-Beard.

"Will you keep him down?" he hissed. His left arm flailing about from Red-Beard's tongue.

"He has a name," Sherlock countered. He took his shoes off and his toes touched the gentle ground.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft said. Red-Beard almost gotten his face.

"Say his name," Sherlock said, "Nicely."

"Red-Beard," Mycroft finally said, "Stop!"

Red-Beard's ears flipped towards the back and moved down. He stopped doing his greeting. Sherlock smooched his lips together.

"That wasn't kind."

"It's a dog."

"What did I say about calling Red-Beard it?" Sherlock countered.

Mycroft said nothing. Sherlock leaned down and rubbed behind Red-Beard's ear. He gave him acknowledgments and praises to counter Mycroft's negativity. Red-Beard's mouth opened and panted again displaying his canine teeth and a smile. "Good boy," Sherlock whispered to him.

"Are you done?"

"Never," Sherlock replied back sassily.

His patted Red-Beard's back once more and then asked the general question.

"What are you doing here?"

"Haven't you guessed?" Mycroft asked. "I thought you would have used your skills I've taught you."

"Annoyance as always. You are wearing the same clothes as before. Mom and Dad?"

"Yes, you're getting better. Mum and Dad want you to come home."

"Why?" Sherlock asked, "I just arrived."

"Mum and Dad don't believe an eight year old should be alone."

Sherlock held a look of recognition.

"Oh," he said, "You don't want to be here. Mum and Dad made you come so I won't be by myself."

Mycroft genuinely smiled. Few people in the world could unfrozen his unemotional appearance.

"Correct."

"I don't want to go back-"

"How about playing a game?" Mycroft enticed.

Sherlock stopped talking. He contemplated his options. The off chance that he could convince Mycroft to stay later and help explore the lost treasure was slim, but his main passion. Or he could discover a new pleasure in a game. He lightly smiled to himself. The idea of something new surprised him. Mycroft always suggested boring and predictable notations but this ... this wasn't predictable.

"What kind of game?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft turned and started to walk through the tall grass away from Sherlock.

Red-Beard titled his head towards Sherlock. His gaze directed towards his older brother and then back on Sherlock.

Sherlock bit his bottom lip.

Mycroft was heading towards the horizontal. No answer to his question.

That open ended question held endless amount of possibilities.

"Wait!" Sherlock took off running with Red-Beard at his heels and barking happily.

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Sherlock didn't hear the knocking, the warm calls of Mrs. Hudson, the short to the point statements of John, and the tea pot brewing at all. His curly head laid next to the microscope, an indent formed on his forehead. John leaned against the kitchen counter with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

"Unbelievable," John stated. In all the years, Sherlock and him shared the flat, John hasn't seen Sherlock fallen asleep outside his room. "Must have been exhausted."

"Well, he works diligently on the cases - oh look, he didn't even drink his tea," Mrs. Hudson said. She let out a soft huff and grabbed the saucer.

Her fingernails grazed the ceramic. Sherlock shot up from his sleeping position.

His whole body "awakened." His nostrils flared out when he took a deep breath in. Then his electrons ran rapid recalling his dreams. The lake, pirate hat, Red-Beard, and younger version of Mycroft. Interesting ... but unimportant. He ignored the longer pacing of his heartbeats. Also he detested the fact the palm of his hands started to sweat. Instead, he held his focus on identifying Mrs. Hudson and John in the room. He already knew how they came in. Both had keys. Both held looks of concern with their body language (fussed eyebrows, frowns, and etc.) Boring. Simply boring.

"What's the matter?" Sherlock huffed. His shoulders and spine sore from leaning down on the kitchen table.

"Nothing," John declared before Mrs. Hudson could answer. "We called your name three times-"

"Why are people comfortable with the number three?" Sherlock spoke over top of John.

"And you didn't answer," John said. He was unfazed by the rudeness of Sherlock's answer. John's arms still crossed his chest. "You never sleep outside of your bed."

"What does this have to do with my bed arrangements?"

"It's not you." 

John waited for Sherlock's reply. Although John knew his intelligence was by no meaning superior to Sherlock's. He was insightful. He learned from Sherlock's explanations on physical details and underlying meanings behind every motivation and choices.

Mrs. Hudson kept quiet. She observed the between the two gentlemen. Her delicate hand gripped the saucer anticipating Sherlock's response.

Sherlock shook his head. His clear blue eyes focused on the experiment and no more with John's gaze.

John lifted his hands up and he sniffled. He pretended he never said his comment.

"Any takers?" John asked, pulling up a chair and sat across from Sherlock.

This was the pattern. The familiarity. Yes! Sherlock shook his head.

"Not yet, but there soon will be."

Mrs. Hudson attentively back to her tea pot. Once she gave the lads tea, she will walk back downstairs. However, Sherlock drove on to find a new "hit" and new experience with the help of his friend. John lightly grinned although he knew there was something hidden within Sherlock.

Even though, Sherlock perhaps won't ever reveal all to anyone.

There will always be a new case.

The game is on.

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Author's Note: I hope you enjoyed this short piece! I wrote this for my digital writing class this semester. I had fun writing about the back story of Sherlock and Red-Beard.

BornToWrite47