“That night, I had an awful nightmare,” Sherlock continued, very much lost in his own memory. “Mummy was terribly upset with Mycroft for telling me all about what happened on the frontlines. Thought I was too young.”
“How old were you?”
“Six,” Sherlock answered. “Mycroft never repeated the story the same way again. He changed it so while it was still about The Great War, The East Wind now searched for the unworthy – me – to take them from the Earth. I used to tell Mycroft that since he was the one who was always in trouble with Mummy surely he would be the one the East Wind would take, but I didn’t know enough about the art of storytelling to tell the story my way until after Mycroft had left for university and was too old for stories.
“My brother had lots of other stories. I was a terrible sleeper even when I was a kid so Mycroft would tell me stories when I couldn’t sleep. About pirates and knights, Romans and Saxons, dragons and spies and more.”
John blinked. He was stunned at the revelation, lost for words.
“I wager Mycroft would never admit to it,” Sherlock continued, his words twined with both bitterness and yearning. “Sentiment, he’d say in that disapproving tone of his. But these stories, the books Amelia Kipling writes, they’re like a window to my childhood. The tales she weaves, the characterisations of her protagonists and villains, her foreshadowing and clever wordplays. They’re just … like a memory.”
“You’re smitten,” John finally managed to say and he couldn’t repress a grin, ignoring the scowl Sherlock threw at him. “Have you ever met the author?”
“Amelia Kipling is a recluse, doesn’t do book signings, readings or any sort of publicity. What is known about her are mostly rumours,” Sherlock answered. “Her reticence for public appearances is one of the reasons she insists on the run of special editions. But to answer your question, John, no, I’ve never met her.”
“Ah, but you don’t need to meet her?” John declared. “You could deduce her!”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s not that simple, John, you know that,” he chastised. “And there is very little to be going on with Amelia Kipling. She seems rather inscrutable. Obviously the visual style and presentation of her books, both specials and mass markets, mean she’s someone who considers the external veneer, the outward form, to be important but not at the expense of the content, the story. She appreciates elegance, quality and good materials, again evident from the format and elegance of the books.
FILL PART 2D: For Will, I Dedicate To You (Sherlock, John POV)
“How old were you?”
“Six,” Sherlock answered. “Mycroft never repeated the story the same way again. He changed it so while it was still about The Great War, The East Wind now searched for the unworthy – me – to take them from the Earth. I used to tell Mycroft that since he was the one who was always in trouble with Mummy surely he would be the one the East Wind would take, but I didn’t know enough about the art of storytelling to tell the story my way until after Mycroft had left for university and was too old for stories.
“My brother had lots of other stories. I was a terrible sleeper even when I was a kid so Mycroft would tell me stories when I couldn’t sleep. About pirates and knights, Romans and Saxons, dragons and spies and more.”
John blinked. He was stunned at the revelation, lost for words.
“I wager Mycroft would never admit to it,” Sherlock continued, his words twined with both bitterness and yearning. “Sentiment, he’d say in that disapproving tone of his. But these stories, the books Amelia Kipling writes, they’re like a window to my childhood. The tales she weaves, the characterisations of her protagonists and villains, her foreshadowing and clever wordplays. They’re just … like a memory.”
“You’re smitten,” John finally managed to say and he couldn’t repress a grin, ignoring the scowl Sherlock threw at him. “Have you ever met the author?”
“Amelia Kipling is a recluse, doesn’t do book signings, readings or any sort of publicity. What is known about her are mostly rumours,” Sherlock answered. “Her reticence for public appearances is one of the reasons she insists on the run of special editions. But to answer your question, John, no, I’ve never met her.”
“Ah, but you don’t need to meet her?” John declared. “You could deduce her!”
Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It’s not that simple, John, you know that,” he chastised. “And there is very little to be going on with Amelia Kipling. She seems rather inscrutable. Obviously the visual style and presentation of her books, both specials and mass markets, mean she’s someone who considers the external veneer, the outward form, to be important but not at the expense of the content, the story. She appreciates elegance, quality and good materials, again evident from the format and elegance of the books.