“Sherlock,” John said in order to get Sherlock’s attention as he played with Redbeard.
After a few moments of wrestling with Redbeard, Sherlock looked up at John, “Yes, John what is it?”
John pointedly looked at Sherlock and asked, “Where do you think we are?”
Sherlock shrugged, “Who cares,” and was about to play with Redbeard again when a figure walking towards them caught his attention. John followed the direction of Sherlock’s glance and gasped inwardly, for coming towards them was none other than Mycroft. Not the sneering, sarcastic, stuffy Mycroft he knew, but a young, carefree unfettered Mycroft. Redbeard broke away from Sherlock and ran to greet Mycroft, jumping on him until Mycroft fell to the ground.
In vain Mycroft rolled to one side and then the other, but could not avoid the slobbery kisses that Redbeard was subjecting him to. “Yuck,” Mycroft said as Redbeard’s tongue licked the outside of his lips. “Sherlock, get your dog off me.”
Sherlock called to Redbeard and as Mycroft watched the dog and Sherlock play, a sense of guilt overcame him. Pushing himself off the ground Mycroft walked over to where Sherlock was rolling on the ground with Redbeard, making dog noises. “Sherlock, Sherlock, SHERLOCK,” Mycroft yelled.
Redbeard sat and looked curiously at Mycroft, moving his head sideways one way then the other, as Sherlock put a protective arm around his neck. “What is it?” Sherlock snapped.
Mycroft looked down at the ground and then back up into Sherlock’s eyes, “Sherlock, I’m sorry.”
Sherlock moved his head to one side like Redbeard, “For what?”
Mycroft scuffed at the grass with his foot, “You know… for chasing… you and Redbeard that day…for if I hadn’t you wouldn’t have fallen in the river and Redbeard wouldn’t have you know…died.”
Sherlock smiled over at Redbeard, “Should we forgive him?” After pretending to listen to the dog’s answer, Sherlock looked up, “We forgive you. Now bugger off so we can play,” and without another word Sherlock jumped up and ran away with Redbeard barking at his heels.
Mycroft and John looked at each other, then back towards Sherlock’s retreating figure. Before they could speak a boy came and stood before them, he smiled as he crooked his finger at John. John bent down as the boy whispered into his ear, “John, get Sherlock or you’ll miss the train.” It was only when he stood up that John looked at the boy’s tennis shoes, he had seen them before, but where? Then his eyes widened, “Carl,...Carl Powers is that you?” The boy nodded solemnly and then pointed in Sherlock’s direction, “Get him, John for the train is coming, hurry.”
John looked over at Mycroft and said, “Come on, help me get Sherlock.”
Mycroft shook his head sadly, “John, it’s always been you and always will be. Sherlock won’t listen to me, so go make haste and bring him. I will be waiting for you both at the station.”
John ran through the grass and marveled how he didn’t need to stop to catch his breath; he had to hurry for he could hear a shrill train whistle in the distance. He ran faster and faster, his legs spinning like the wheels of a locomotive. As he ran John passed a man playing the blues on his guitar, and it was only until he moved away from the man that he heard the words that he was singing,
“There's a slow train coming. It's movin' on down the line
Steel wheels on iron rails
Tonight I'm fixin' to die
Woo, I hope you don't mind pretty mama
Woo-hoo, hope you don't mind if I go
'Cause when the steam from the slow train rises
I ain't gonna see you anymore”
John ran faster, but no matter how much distance he put between himself and the blues musician, John could still hear the words clearly. “Cause when the steam from the slow train rises I ain’t gonna see you anymore.”
