The umbrella
One day, I met an individual possessing an illustrious intelligence and acumen. This person assured me that all humans have a vulnerability—a pressure point—that could easily be wielded against them. Something they would die for, intending to protect at any cost. And that, even a guy like me, unfortunately, would not be spared from this paradigm. — Well, what would my pressure point be? I asked him. The man adjusted his glasses meticulously and stared at me for a few moments, seeming to read the bowels of my mind. Finally, he said, “Hmm… Someone who constantly occupies your mind, filling you with worries. You feel responsible for protecting her, but this person doesn't... Oh, she doesn't like you! Perhaps,” he said with that dull cynical smile, “a drugged, childish, irresponsible little brother who sees him not as an ally but an archenemy. This is your pressure point, your weakness. As I recalled Mr. Charles Augustus Magnussen, there I was, getting into one of my cars, carrying an unconscious body with me. I held it firmly so that it wouldn't fall over abruptly, and after placing my umbrella on one of the seats, I placed it on the back seat of the car. — What's the address, Mr. Mycroft Holmes? — The driver turned around, questioning me, and at that moment, I could see his questioning gaze directed at the fainting man in the back seat: pale, cold, dirty and giving off an unpleasant odor from the car. “221B Baker Street,” I replied.
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~❤~ “All parents damage their children. It cannot be helped. Youth, like pristine glass, absorbs the prints of it handlers. Some parents s...
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