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“Myc! Come on Myc!”
Sherlock grabbed his brother’s hand and tried to make him walk faster. Huffing, he strained to force Mycroft to just hurry up - didn’t he know there were all kinds of specimens in there, just waiting to be discovered?!
Mycroft chuckled indulgently and let Sherlock pull him a little. He shifted his bag containing his materials as he watched his baby brother run from case to case, his cheeks pink with excitement. Mycroft was ever so fond of the curious little boy, but he already worried about how his sweet, precocious brother would fit in in the wider world. For now though, he could keep Sherlock occupied and happy, allowing him free reign amongst the taxidermy and skeletons their parents found so distasteful, but fascinated Sherlock’s eager mind. For now, that would be enough.
“Look, look Myc! Over here they’ve got a mushk oxksh! And a blue whale! And leopardsh!”
Sherlock’s voice squeaked out from behind one of the glass cases. Mycroft hummed in agreement and took up his usual place towards the back of the room. He pulled out his sketchpad and pencils, and was soon focused on his latest drawing, occasionally answering Sherlock’s rapid chatter about whatever animal currently captured his attention.
Sherlock’s eyes roamed greedily around the museum. He loved it when he was left to his own devices here; Myc would let him wander til tea-time, maybe longer! He grabbed his notepad from his pocket and studied it carefully. He was taking meticulous notes of his favourite exhibits, trying to draw them too, like Myc did when they came here. Last time he’d been fascinated by a stuffed capuchin monkey, which should be just around…. Aha!
Sherlock trotted happily up to the case and sat down on the floor in front of the monkey. Brow furrowed in concentration, tongue peeking out of the left side of his mouth, he fished out a pencil and picked up where he’d left off.
He was frowning at his paper, wondering why he couldn’t quite get the monkey’s rather comical expression right, when he heard a soft humming. Tilting his head in the direction of the sound, he could make out a light brushing noise too. Abandoning the monkey for now, he got up and tiptoed down the narrow passage between the cabinets holding the exhibits.
Round the corner, something caught his eye. It was a squirrel skeleton! That would make an excellent addition to his sketchbook! Myc only drew the ones with fur, but Sherlock liked the bones better. He liked to see how the arms and legs and ribs and all the furte- no, that’s not right, the vert- ee - bray fitted together so the animal could walk and jump and build a nest and all those things.
Hastily Sherlock ran back to the monkey, grabbed up his pad and pencils and darted back towards the squirrel. He was flicking through his notebook for the right blank page to draw the squirrel on when he bumped face first into a large pair of legs.
“Whoa, whoops!” said a kindly voice. A strong hand wrapped around Sherlock’s arm and pulled him gently to his feet. He scowled and rubbed his bum, the sore spot where he’d fallen smarting a bit. He looked up, ready to launch into a full-on tantrum when yet another glass case captured his interest. Sore bum forgotten, he launched himself forward and pressed his nose to the glass.
What was this?! It was huge! And there were legs, really really long legs, sprouting from the sides of the seemingly tiny body in the middle! It looked like some kind of cross between and crab and a daddy-long-legs!
“That’s a Japanese spider crab,” said the voice. Sherlock glanced at the man standing next to him. The man was wearing a museum uniform and carrying a broom. He had a generous smile and gentle, knowledgeable eyes.
Sherlock was instantly filled with questions.
“How much doesh it weigh, how do you catcsh one, what part of Japan are they from, why-”
The man chuckled. “Slow down, lad, one at a time!” Sherlock took a breath and concentrated his thoughts. The man extended his hand. Sherlock took it, and the man smiled.
“My name’s Arthur,” he said, “I’m one of the caretakers of this treasure trove.” He winked at Sherlock, who beamed back at him, eyes bright with questions. Suddenly remembering his manners, Sherlock gave Arthur’s hand a shake and told him his name.
“Well Sherlock,” Arthur smiled, “what would you like to know about our friend here?”
Listening to his brother’s excited babbling, the caretaker’s patient answers and his gentle laughter, Mycroft smiled to himself, knowing Sherlock couldn’t see. He pondered his finished drawing of the lion for a moment, then licked his pencil and turned to a fresh page. As the afternoon wore on, the sketch grew from a few delicate lines into a small boy with bright, curious eyes and a head of lovely dark curls.
---
The museum even smelled the same, Sherlock thought as he and John walked through the heavy doors and into Sherlock’s childhood. This place held so many memories; amongst the insects and frogs in jars, the gorilla and monkey bones, the stuffed big cats there echoed soft laughter, a fervent desire to know more and the sound of a beloved voice which had kept him company one day.
“I met a friend here once,” Sherlock murmured. John smiled and followed as Sherlock wandered from exhibit to exhibit, quietly telling him facts and stories about the contents of each case. Sherlock’s eyes, always alert and sharp, now held a rare softness that John ached to see. They’d talked a little of their younger days but in imagining the little boy with the endless thirst just to know things, John felt a pang for how lonely Sherlock must’ve been sometimes, growing up. The happiness glowing in his expression now made him all the more beautiful, John thought. More than anything, he wanted that light to stay.
“Excuse me,” John said, walking back through to the receptionist, “but was there a custodian called Arthur here?”
He felt Sherlock join him and the receptionist smiled at them both.
“There was,” she replied, “Such a wonderful man. He’d spend hours reading about all of the creatures in there, just in case someone wanted to know something one day.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said softly. “I met him once. He was…. Patient.”
The old lady laughed. “Yes, he was. It was a very sad day for us when he passed.”
John’s face fell and he turned to Sherlock. “Oh,” gasped the receptionist. “Oh, I thought you knew he’d…” She trailed off.
“Oh love, I’m sorry.” The receptionist watched them a moment, then stood up and reached over the desk to grasp Sherlock’s hand lightly between her own.
“Arthur was a lovely man,” she told him. “He always spoke fondly of a sweet, curious little boy with dark curly hair who peppered him with questions all afternoon one day.”
Sherlock nodded and stepped back, turning his face away. John met the receptionist’s eyes and she gestured for him to follow Sherlock back through to the exhibits. John smiled his thanks, and she sat back down. As John headed back through the doors again he heard her voice.
“We close in 15 minutes, but the sunset through the glass ceiling is quite a sight from bench by the door. Why don’t you stay a little longer to see it?”
“Thank you,” John murmured, and hurried to find Sherlock.
He was standing in front of a giant crab-like thing, staring through the glass. In his reflection, John could see his eyes were bright and shining with private tears. John took Sherlock’s hand. It was trembling slightly. He squeezed it tenderly, and Sherlock squeezed back.
They wandered slowly around the cavernous room once more, barely noticing when the receptionist closed the entrance doors. They sat on the bench, gazing up at the wash of orange, blush and gold of the setting sun. Still hand in hand, Sherlock leaned into John. John closed his eyes and kissed the curls brushing his face as the light faded around them.