I was never supposed to happen. I was a product of what my father calls human error. A mistake, if you will. Yet while eighty percent of people are accidents, I never grew up under the belief that both of my parents cared for me in the extreme. Both of my parents, according to the British government, died before I was born. And yet, here I am.
My father, a homosexual detective that actually has a functioning brain, had a bit of a problem. Some may even call it the final problem. Moriarty had created a vast criminal network, something that would require the most careful hand to untangle it all. Simply calling Uncle Mycroft wouldn't cut it this time. Moriarty began his plot soon after, determining that in order to entertain himself, my father had to die.
Clearly, he was not that successful. Otherwise, Casper the Friendly ghost would be recounting this story.
Instead, my father faked his death that day. He never slammed into the pavement. He never bled out, staring uselessly towards the sky. He was alive, the entire time. And his boyfriend, whom he never admits to being smitten with, stared at him dejectedly. Of course, it was natural that my father couldn't tell John Watson that he was alive. Being the blabber mouth he was, John would spoil the secret. But more importantly, he had won over my father's heart. In order to dismantle Moriarty's web, he needed clarity.
Somehow, this included staying with my mother in Miami, Florida. There was a minor case to be taken care of—a psychopath named Dexter—and it seemed logical for him to stay with her. After all, people do enjoy placing the dead together, regardless of whether or not they actually died. He spent a few months down there, learning more and more about Moriarty's network. One day, he went to dinner with her. A few weeks later, before he was due to head off to Belarus, my mother informed him that she was pregnant. At the time, no one had to have known about the dinner. No one would have had to know that my father, a homosexual man, managed to be seduced by…
Well. I don't believe I am legally allowed to say exactly who my mother is. Her website should give enough information to give you an idea if you are really curious. And besides, Dad always claimed that sexuality is largely the descriptor of the relative trend—curiosities can happen.
Anyways, Dad left on his assignment. My mother tended to her business, complaining as her figure became a little more rounded from the pregnancy. It didn't help her bring in anymore clients, I must say. Nine months flew by quickly, with Dad solving cases and untangling the web. Uncle Mycroft arranged for some extra care to be taken for my mother. He seemed to be concerned that another Holmes was going to be entering the world. No doubt, he theorized that I would damage his political reputation by becoming another hopeless druggie. I'm not sure who was more relieved the day that I was born.
Mother handed me over to my father as quickly as she could. It slowed him down a little bit, having to care for a baby while fighting crime. He might have been a little more thorough with the web if it hadn't been for me. What a shame, what a shame that he had a kid and couldn't do the job properly! When I was nearly two years old, my father gave me back to my mother. It was the start of a pattern. I would live with one of my parents until the other tired of me. By the time I was three, I was living with my father again, in his flat at 221B Baker Street. It was a bit of a nasty shock for Uncle John when he found out, but Aunt Mary insisted in covering me in flowers. Neither of them knew about me until after the wedding. It saved me the horror of wearing a dress.
I attended primary school, just the same as everyone else. When I was ten, they finally realized that I was gifted, and placed me into the honors program. Dad still hated having to go to parent teacher conferences, deducing awkward affairs for my amusement. In middle school, I was placed in the advanced math program, narrowly missing out on a spot for science and writing. Dad wasn't all too pleased. It was around then that things started happening to me. I would hear things that never happened. At first, it was a text alert, when a text never came in. Then, it was the sound of a gun, firing in the distance. As it progressed more and more, I realized that I had started to talk to myself.
My first breakdown happened in eighth grade. Dad was out with Uncle John, working a case. Only Mrs. Hudson, who was like a grandmother to me, remained at home. She didn't hear me. No one could have. I had locked myself in my room, curled into a ball, and started to cry. I was terrified that I was going insane, losing my mind. And naturally, there was no one that I could talk to about it. Uncle locked Dad up for doing drugs. Imagine what he would have done to me?
And finally, I made it out of the tiny school. I was sent to the public high school, one little girl in a sea of a thousand others. I managed to pull myself into honors English, advanced math, and advanced science. Dad was feeling a little more pleased with my grades, insisting that I continue band and attempt to learn another language. I was a little bit slow for the taste of him and my uncle, I assume. Yet I didn't care. This year was the best and the worst. I fell in love with a boy, a silly boy with an adorable smile that melted my heart. Dad always said that caring was not an advantage. He warned me not to pursue relationships with other people, especially boys.
I didn't listen to him.
I dated that boy, I gave him my heart. I let him see me, for who I felt that I truly was. But in the end, it wasn't enough for him. I was the freak that could tell who a nameless text came from. Everything I found to be normal was strange to him. So I hid. I became the girl that he wanted, the sympathetic little creature with empathy. I faked having a sex drive for him. At some point, I even believed the lie that I had wrapped my head around, even when he cheated on me. The cheating lasted for months. I pretended not to notice, and when he told me about it, I pretended not to care.
I pretended to be fine, that the gaping hole that formed in my chest wasn't there. I pretended to display the same interest when Dad mentioned a case. I hid inside of the darkness, determined to fool everyone into thinking that I was okay. After all, I had done it before. I never had friends. Why, then, would I feel so hurt if some boy decided that I wasn't good enough for him?
It was only when Dad found me with the scarf pulled taught around my neck that the façade slipped. Previously, no one had been allowed to see me when my emotions got the best of me. I would hide inside of myself until I could go to a space to properly grieve. A place where I could lay out the broken pieces and shove them away, where I would never have to think about them anymore. In hindsight, this was probably one of the worst decisions that I could have made. The darkness had enveloped me, and I was falling quickly. It was so easy, to just let myself fall. It was like going to sleep, everything just vanishing and becoming meaningless. There was no pain that could find me there.
But Dad, of course, found this solution unacceptable. The very next day, he had me sitting in the chair outside of a therapist's, waiting to be seen. Uncle Mycroft had already been informed, and the threat of an institution was held over my head. The therapist diagnosed me with depression and anxiety, though I managed to hide some of the largest problems with my head from her. There was no way that anyone would be allowed to find out about them. I would rather die.
It was a few weeks after the first therapy session that I discovered scissors. The entire theory behind cutting never made much sense to me, until I tried it myself. The body releases positive chemicals to help you feel better when you are injured. Thus, by making an injury, I was now able to better regulate my mood. At first, no blood was even shed, just shallow scrapes. The more I did it however, the deeper the cuts became. Eventually, I know, Dad will find my scissors too.
But at least, he doesn't know my darkest secret.
My name is Jade Holmes. This is my story.