#mylock

The Mediterranean sun, a brassy orb in a flawless cerulean sky, bakes the sand of Prophet's Beach. The air, thick with the scent of salt and sun-warmed coconut oil, shimmers over the water's surface. Siger Holmes squints, his brow furrowed, as he watches six-year-old Sherlock sprint toward the gentle, lapping waves.

"Sherlock, stop," Siger barks, his voice cutting through the cheerful chatter of French families. The boy skids to a halt, a whirlwind of energy and indignation.

"Yes, Father?" Sherlock's tone is already defensive.

Siger gestures with a dismissive flick of his wrist. "Your trunks. That color. And the towel. It's ridiculous. You look like a confection. A boy your age should have something… sturdier."

Sherlock's chest puffs out, and his face, already sunburned, flushes a deeper crimson. He grips his vibrant pink towel, a perfect match for his swim trunks, like a shield.

"Pink is an interesting color. It's a derivative of magenta, which is a tertiary color with a wavelength between red and blue-violet. It is visually stimulating." His voice, though childish, holds a sharp, analytical edge. "And besides, this is a towel. It's meant for drying."

"Don't be a cheeky boy," Siger snaps, the easygoing vacation veneer cracking. "Go and find your mother. I will not have you in that outfit."

The analytical tone vanishes, replaced by pure, childish fury. Sherlock's lower lip trembles, his words coming out in a rush of indignation. "I like my trunks! You're being silly! It's not a ridiculous color, it’s a good one!"

He turns on his heel and stomps off, his small feet kicking up puffs of golden sand. He makes a beeline for the weathered wooden pier, vanishing into the deep shadows beneath the rickety structure.

Mycroft, a lanky, contemplative twelve-year-old, watches the scene from under the shade of a striped umbrella. He sighs, a sound far too world-weary for his age, and pushes his wire-rimmed glasses up his nose. He knows this particular brand of paternal conflict all too well. He rises and walks toward the pier, his gaze scanning the gaps between the pilings. He finds Sherlock hunched over, silently tracing patterns in the damp sand with a small, pink-enameled bucket. The rhythmic sound of the waves against the shore is the only noise.

Mycroft crouches down, the coarse sand grinding beneath his knees. "I'm sure he didn't mean it, Sherlock."

Sherlock doesn't look up. "He did. He thinks it's silly. He thinks I'm silly."

"He doesn't understand," Mycroft says softly, his voice a calm counterpoint to his brother's simmering anger. "He sees what he thinks a boy should be. You see what a color is. You’re not being silly, you're being observant. And that, I believe, is a great deal more interesting."

Sherlock finally looks up, his green eyes still glistening with unshed tears. He hands Mycroft the pink bucket, an offering of truce. "It’s a good color, isn't it?"