Not A Thing You Get To Choose

Life Is Hard For The Legitamate

The most difficult part of being in the scamming business, for Sherlock at least, was the pure fact that he was legitimate. Now it was hard to believe, sure, that there might be a sorcerer actively practicing magic in the crowded streets of a town that was infamous for hanging sorcerers in town square, and yet he was good enough to convince the idiot townspeople that it wasn't real...none of it. He did minute little tricks, just enough to make the people smile and wonder how he might have managed to pull something like a rabbit out of their very own cap, just enough to make them go on their way with their companions and ponder how that might have been a trick. They'd come up with their theories of course, maybe they'd think it was some sort of illusion, or maybe he had pulled the rabbit out of his sleeve because obviously he could fit a rabbit in his sleeve. The townspeople were ridiculous; they'd only believe that magic was fake if it was presented to them as real. People had been hanged for much lesser offenses; one man a couple of years ago had been spotted mumbling odd things in his own home, and of course the spectator had accused him of sorcery and he was hanged. Now of course Sherlock knew this man to be a legitimate sorcerer, of course he hadn't been in contact with him for many years however those who possessed magic knew of the others, they never interacted for group assembly was much too risky, however they were aware, somehow. Magic was outlawed because it was feared, it was said that those who possess such power could very easily go rouge and overthrow the king, and yes of course they were right, but to persecute all who possessed that power just because of one or two potential radicals was pathetic. It was almost like banning education because some people might start to think up a revolution, it was simply overdramatic and seriously unnecessary. Sherlock was peaceful, he wasn't out to use his power for overthrowing purposes, no he was just using it to make money, for it was the only job qualification he possessed. He wasn't educated other than by his brother, who had taught him enough to get him by, however no business wanted to hire a boy who hadn't even gone through university. He was a deadbeat, that was his formal title, and he did what most all deadbeats did when they were faced with nowhere else to go. He took to the streets, he set up a little tent, and he dressed in a ridiculous feathery hat and obnoxious colors to draw attention to himself. It was begging just in a more formal way, instead of displaying some sort of horrific abnormality he tried to earn the money that was thrown into his little tin, he would perform tricks to please the common folks, he would entertain them, sometimes he would even try to coax them into the tent for some card tricks or fortune telling. Some would just walk by, some would simply watch, and others would drop and penny or two into the hat, the payment for making them smile. It was a meager occupation and of course it brought almost no revenue, but it was enough. Mycroft, Sherlock's brother, was his only living relative and his only accomplice in the world, he was the only one who knew of Sherlock's power and the only one he trusted enough to keep it hushed up. Mycroft worked as a clerk at a shoe maker just down the road, paid minimally and treated quite badly. The Holmes brothers had inherited almost no money, and what their parents did leave behind was stored in the bank for future use, should they ever need a large sum of money in desperate times. Their wages combined were enough to get them by; however the brothers lived in poverty, owning one or two pairs of clothes each and living in a little hut on the edge of town. It was meager but it was enough, Sherlock never found himself upset by his life simply because he knew that he could somehow have it much worse, he could imprisoned for being who he was, that or he could be normal, just like the rest of the people who walked these streets with their shopping baskets. He could have no gifts, no talents, he could be a commoner. At least his magic was enough to let him keep his head high, for he had a secret that made him special, he had something that made him unique. The comfort of being extraordinary wasn't much, but it was enough, enough at least to make him smile when the thought no one was going to notice. Sherlock's little tent was positioned somewhere different every day, sometimes he would pitch it near the market, where usually the most people milled to and fro with their baskets and their pocket change, however sometimes Sherlock would feel ambitious and go towards the rich part of town, where occasionally a man would stroll down and leave him a couple of pounds, simply for the act of turning a goblet of water into wine. That one always impressed the people near the church, and it was usually his Sunday show. The social structure around this town was quite rigid, most men stayed in the class they were born into and most women married as high as they could, otherwise they too would be confined to their heritage. Unfortunately for the Holmes brothers they had been born into the lower class, and neither had the money for the education that might bring them higher in the world. But there were rich people as well, those in politics, literature, philosophy, that lived in marvelous manors near the center of town, always strolling about with their canes and their nice suits, top hats and sneers, oh how Sherlock wished he might be able to live the life of a rich man. However it was impossible, impossible unless one of them made a very generous donation, and even that was ridiculous. No amount of money that could fit in this stupid tin would amount him to anything, and no man would ever be so generous as to donate to his cause. He was stuck, stuck on the side of whatever street he decided to confide himself to for the day, and there was nothing more he could do about it. Whining about his situation only made it more obvious that he was miserable, and so it was all he could do but put a smile on his face, mumble a couple of spells under his breath, and pull yet another rabbit out of yet another man's hat. It was all he could do but thank people as they dropped meager change into the tin that lay by his feet.
"Now come here Miss, come, give me your umbrella." Sherlock said with a large smile, talking loud enough to attract a small crowd from those who milled about the market. A timid young lady stood near the front of the pack, gripping onto a nice lacy parasol with timid gloved hands. Sherlock walked up to her and gave her that dazzling smile that most always wooed women into giving him things, however this one still seemed reluctant.
"Now miss I assure you, it will be returned in perfect health." Sherlock assured, holding out his hand and looking about the crowd of five or six that had gathered to watch him preform. Finally the woman handed the parasol over and Sherlock took it in his hands, spinning and taking his spot near the mouth of his tent for all to see.
"And now, my dear friends, observe." He muttered, holding the umbrella in both of his hands and holding it for the crowd to see. It was very obviously a normal umbrella; all could see that from wherever they stood. Sherlock mumbled a spell under his breath, one he used only if he saw the potential of good money in the crowd, and held the umbrella in his hands once more.
"Ah, my dear you have one stubborn umbrella. Let me see, can you give it a quick tap?" he muttered, frowning and looking upon the crowd once more before walking back towards the woman who had owned the thing. She laughed a little bit to a man that stood by her side, presumably her father by the look of his greying whiskers, and tapped the umbrella rather timidly. Sherlock smiled once more and stepped back, clearing his throat and opening the umbrella as promptly as he could. The crowd gasped, and of course Sherlock could see that the trick had worked. Instead of a white lacy parasol the fabric had transformed into a mural of the scene directly in front of him, immortalizing the look of complete awe on the spectator's faces.
"There we go; you must have the magic touch my dear." Sherlock said with a laugh, twirling the umbrella and mumbling something else, and this time when it finished twirling there was a lovely park scene on the fabric, with many trees and people strolling about. The crowd oohed and awed, and immediately struck up conversations with their companions as how Sherlock might have been able to get such a picture on some stranger's lacy parasol. Well the solution of course was magic, and yet they were all just too blind to notice. They might think he had secret paints, or another canvas that he had managed to stretch over the umbrella when they all had their heads turned, something to that extent. The only thing more amazing than the tricks Sherlock preformed was the theories the townsfolks created in an attempt to justify it. Sherlock sighed with a smile, pulling the umbrella shut once more and reverting it back to its natural shade of white. The crowd clapped as he returned the umbrella untouched back to its original owner, who looked beyond words as she received it thankfully. Sherlock bowed, formally ending his show, and looked down quickly towards the tin that stood at his feet. The crowd clapped, and yet even as he watched them walk away only a couple of them dropped coins into the collection. The girl with the parasol dropped something inside and walked away laughing and chatting with her father, while a couple of the people about her simply walked away, looking pleased yet obviously not pleased enough to be generous. Sherlock stood back with a sigh, taking off his stupid hat for a moment and running his hands stressfully through his curls. Whatever money he had collected today was very obviously not going to be enough; however it was all he could do but keep going. The sun would set quite soon, marking the end of his 'work' day, and yet it he wanted to eat something tonight he would have to put on one or two more shows that might collect enough revenue. He wished there were more rich folks out today, however it was a week day and those who would usually be out on weekends were off at their places of work, earning money rather than giving it away. That umbrella trick was always a fun one, and Sherlock quite enjoyed preforming it, however it was one of the riskiest tricks he displayed. Not many people could diagnose a rational explanation, and tricks that seemed virtually impossible sometimes led the more educated to believe that there might be legitimate magic in play. Usually it was the highest paying trick, and yet today as Sherlock kicked the little can to hear the rattling, it sounded like there wasn't much. He put on one more show that drew a smaller crowd of about three or four; however they seemed to be three or four generous people because when he was finished turning one of the men's monocles into a yoyo they had all dropped some money into the tin. When finally the money had collected Sherlock thanked them all and took the tin in his hands, seeing now that there was a reasonable pile of coins in the bottom. He looked through them and decided that he could most likely buy a loaf of bread and maybe some apples for the morning, and that would be enough to please his brother. However as Sherlock was counting his money he felt someone watching him, and he immediately looked up to see that the circle around his tent was empty. But alas, there was someone watching him, a boy around his age that was standing near the edge of the fruit stand, standing a bit transfixed while the crowds bustled about with their shopping. Sherlock smiled rather timidly at him, wondering why such a boy would be staring at him from all this way, however as soon as he looked back his observer looked away quickly, his white cheeks turning a shade of scarlet as he turned away. Sherlock hummed to himself, deciding that the boy was simply staring off into space and wasn't purposely looking at him, and so he decided to try to cram one more show into the night before his brother came to collect him. Sherlock finished his day by entertaining an old woman and her husband, pulling a small bird out of her basket of shopping and releasing it to go sit upon her husband's top hat. Well that was all well and good until the bird pooped on his head, and needless to say he didn't get nearly as much as he had hoped from that venture. In fact he got nothing except a few nasty comments, and so he was left with whatever he had made from the day's previous shows and decided that it was enough, at least for tonight. As Sherlock was finally taking down his tent his brother appeared from the crowds, wearing his business clothes and looking quite disgruntled, rubbing ink off of his hands and looking into Sherlock's collection tin with that trademark scowl of his.
"Is this it?" Mycroft wondered nervously as Sherlock wrapped the tent poles in the cloth, making a small little portable bundle for him to lug home.
"Well yes of course it is, that's the usual amount." Sherlock snapped, feeling as though his collection wasn't enough for his brother's high expectations.
"I was expecting more, I thought the market looked quite busy tonight." Mycroft admitted.
"Well maybe the crowds weren't as generous as you might expect." Sherlock muttered, putting his tent bundle under his arm and snatching the tin out of his brother's greedy hands. Mycroft frowned; however he made an effort to conceal whatever disappointment he was feeling. It was surprising the spectrum of emotions that stone hearted man could achieve when it came to his brother's well-being, most people who knew him though that he was borderline sociopathic but Sherlock knew that not to be true. His brother was a gentle creature at heart, and despite his overall dislike of the world he always made an effort to make the world just a little bit better for his only family. Mycroft had done the majority of raising Sherlock, for their parents had died of illness when they were both very young. He had a very parental view on his brother, who was seven years younger, and sometimes he adopted an almost motherly role when he noticed that Sherlock was feeling a bit down. Tonight was one of those nights when Mycroft realized that his overall bitterness may be doing nothing but dampening Sherlock's spirits even farther, and so he forced that very odd looking smile onto his face and tried to upturn the mood.
"It will be enough, of course." Mycroft assured, holding his briefcase with some sort of pride as he turned and started his way into the market to search for their potential dinner. Once the sun set most all the food was put on discount, for it was not sold in the day and would certainly spoil overnight. It was now that the brothers did most of their shopping, for usually the money that Sherlock earned was spent the night it was earned, just to feed the two until the next day. Mycroft's paycheck came biweekly, usually on Fridays, and so they usually spent that on home repairs or saved it for larger things, like coats or chairs or anything they might need throughout their days. Somehow they survived on this method, and together they understood that despite their day to day suffering it could certainly be a lot worse. Life was difficult for all, and the sheer task of making it through was enough to satisfy the brothers for now. 

    When morning came Sherlock rose reluctantly, he woken not by the sun but by his brother long before the sun even dared to make its entrance. They had to wake before dawn so as to get to the marketplace early and therefore secure their spot for the day, for the beggars and peddlers were all very eager to get their tents in the spot where they thought they would be seen by the most people. And so it was sometime around four when the brothers awoke, and they sat in darkness with their breakfast, the bread that was left over from the night before, and apples that Sherlock had used his own money to buy. The Holmes household was small, with but a large single room divided off by curtains for privacy. There was a fireplace in the corner and the brothers slept on the opposite sides of the room, what few possessions they owned being kept on wooden shelves next to their beds. The kitchen table was in the middle of the room, sat above a fur carpet which had been their mother's, and around the room were scattered chairs and tables should they ever wish to sit somewhere else or if they were to entertain. The house was enough to get them by simply because they were never home, Sherlock had to work every day in order to sustain the two of them, and if Mycroft wasn't working at the shoemaker's he was helping his brother with his street performances, sometimes being a part of the show and other times simply watching from inside the tent or shaking the collection tin under people's noses as they walked away. Together they sat at the table, pretending like they were satisfied when the last of the food had been eaten, and went about their business to get ready for the day. Sherlock dressed into his performance clothes and yet left his stupid feather hat on his bed to carry out to the streets. It was a degrading thing, horrible to look at yet obnoxious enough to draw the attention of anyone passing by. It was impossible to ignore a man who was shouting and wearing such a thing, and so it was necessary to any street performer. Mycroft donned his business jacket, the same one he wore every day, and combed his hair so that he might give off the impression of being presentable. The brothers looked nothing alike save for their matching scowls, for Sherlock's hair was dark and curly while his brother's was brown and rather flat. Sherlock stood taller than his older brother, yet Mycroft had just a little bit more weight on him, a feat that was astounding considering how little they ate day to day. Sherlock was considered beautiful by all who saw him, and it was no doubt that magic wasn't his only amazing quality. Sherlock bore an aura of beauty that was relevant no matter what social class he was in, with white skin that shone in the sunlight and a facial structure that could rival those of a marble bust. These features were always helpful in getting money from young women who came to his tent, for they were always willing to give a penny in hopes to get something in return. However Sherlock knew not to busy himself with romantic attachments, he was too poor to sustain another mouth to feed and he certainly had nothing but his looks that would please a woman. Besides, all the women that he had come into contact with had done nothing to impress him, it would seem the fairest women of the lands would seem as just another face in the crowd to the poor boy who knew no beauty that could rival his own. Maybe it was something of conceit, or maybe it was just a logical ignorance that protected him from whatever doom love could have on his fate, either way he was immune to Cupid's arrows and was happy to remain so. Mycroft shared the same logic, however instead of being seen as logical he was always looked upon by the townsfolks as being stone hearted and cruel. They thought he didn't marry because he hated everyone that he came into contact with, and in some ways this was true. Mycroft was no more affected by the beauty of some women than Sherlock was, and together they stood their ground against what others might consider beauty simply because they had no interest in the useless feelings of love.