Nestled in the bright South East English countryside of Calne, Wiltshire, Mr and Mrs Waltz had been living a peaceful life alongside a meadow. Occasionally, Sherlock followed the trail through the fields that would take him to a shooting range. He hoped now that Victor was of age he could come with in the future. Neighbours accustomed to Wiltshire’s years of unflappable silence often gossiped about the family and the noises coming from the Waltz's manor house. Of course, they would always be silent whenever they held their shooting event, which Mrs Waltz would organise. Although not officially married by the church, it was his wife’s perfect excuse to get to know the neighbours and do some gossiping of her own while she was at it. He gathered in the afternoons outside on the veranda for a cup of tea with his wife to talk about the gossip and news. Although, he preferred coffee to take with his toast instead. 

One drowsy morning next to a bed on the second floor, a table stood strong and upon it he placed a curious book wrapped in a red ribbon with a number at its centre: the number “0”. Beside the book, an unlit oil lamp rested, metal and cold in anticipation of the evening, and the garden stretched through the window for acres into a blissfully bright horizon. Down the front path, Mrs Waltz walked back home. Sherlock thought back to a meadow from years past; his woman dancing on the fields of splendid colours the way it had been when they first moved to Wiltshire some fifteen years ago. 

Sometime later, in front of the manor house, Sherlock laid with his face, palms and toes down, keeping his trembling muscles and back straight, extending his arms straight to push his entire body up and down one last time to finish his daily routine. 

“Those old bones will break if you’re not careful,” said Mrs Waltz, arriving down the narrow dirt road. 

“We’re not that old.” Sherlock got up, sweeping his dark, curly hair back from his face. “Besides, it’ll be the death of me if my boy can do more pushups than I can,” Sherlock replied. 

Irene placed her hands on his waist and went for a kiss. Sherlock stood stoic, his gaze focused elsewhere in the distance. 

“Here comes the post,” Mrs Waltz said, as a man walked down the main road toward the house. “I’ll be inside,” she added as she stepped into the house. 

“Ah! Sherlock, you’re looking youthful. Have your paper here.” The old man smiled as he handed over the paper. Sherlock knew he meant business, but who wouldn’t melt into that joyful smile. He wore one of his many masks and smiled back, handing a tuppence coin to him in exchange. 

“How is your Mrs Waltz?” said the old man, placing the coin in his purse. 

“She is quite well,” he said, moving back into the house. 

He went into the dining room and sat at the head seat of the large, mahogany table that stood in the centre of the room. Comfortable again, he began flicking through his newspaper. Inside, Sherlock found a black-andwhite photograph. It captured a group of men horrified by some sort of disturbance. 

“Another shoot-out in London?” Mrs Waltz’s voice said. “Nowhere is safe anymore. I fear the worst is yet to come.” She rested an elbow on the brick chimney at the end of the table. 

“Not that we’re aware of,” Sherlock countered without looking up. 

Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Isn’t it time we tell him about us?” 

The newspaper now rested over the table, and his attention directed itself to his wife. She sat next to him and placed a hand over his. 

“Our son will not be a Veil, Irene. I promise,” he said in a swift stern tone. 

A door slammed upstairs. On the staircase, a voice came down, “I’m not ailing, father.” Sherlock folded the newspaper, glanced at his wife, and looked back toward Victor.

His sixteen-year-old son appeared before him. Sun-kissed like his mother. Victor was tall for his age, with sharp features and a serious manner about him, much like his father. His pride and joy; not that he would ever admit out loud. His hair may have resembled that of Sherlock had it not been for his recent shaving quite close to his scalp; something Sherlock didn’t agree on but admitted that instead made him seem stronger and sterner than usual. 

Victor wore a black uniform, buttoned over a white, high-collared undershirt. On his left shoulder, the symbol of his school sewn; a crimson mockingbird upon a blue shield. 

Sherlock stood up and cleared his throat. 

“Of course,” he said as he placed both hands on his son’s shoulders. 

“Everything is fine.” He stared at his wife and they shared a visual mutual understanding before he turned around and left the room in a rush.