Please ignore any out of character-ness since I think that what happened to him (in this story) made him how he was, and John sort of sorted him out when they met... so yes he is very out of character, but please ignore this and (hopefully) enjoy the story anyway. :)
Sherlock's Coat
December 24th
"Ok I give up!" John said suddenly, throwing his hands in the air and huffing loudly through his nose. Sherlock looked at him perplexed and frowned.
"I beg your pardon John?" he asked, his voice confused. John glowered at him, his eyes resting on the offending object on the chair that his flatmate was sitting on.
"Your sodding coat! I searched and searched for a new one for you for Christmas, that one seems so old and worn and yet I CANNOT find it anywhere, I had to get you that scarf in the end... honestly where on earth did you get it from?" he all but screamed, attracting the attention of several other diners in the restaurant. He gave them apologetic looks before turning his attention back to was holding the coat in his arms as one would hold a baby, his fingers tracing over a worn, yellowed name tag on the collar, a small but sad smile on his face.
December 1986. Sherlock is 10.
He's walking in the snow, with his beloved grandfather. His small gloved hands are entwined with his grandfathers leather clad ones. He breaks forward, his hands outstretched, twirling in the snowdrift, the flakes settling in his curly jet black hair. He laughs in a joyous way, his voice young and immature and wonderfully peaceful, showing perfectly the wonder of youth. People are stopping and smiling, pointing at the young boy, who is spinning around in his own little world, like a figurine in a snow globe.
His grandfather laughs, the wrinkles of his eyes crinkling and his perfectly trimmed black moustache rising with his lips. He is a good looking man even though he is already in his late 50's,some of the elderly women in the park are looking at him appreciatively, but he only has eyes for his young grandson. Sherlock turns a massive smile on his face and runs at his grandfather, arms outstretched.
He catches him in his arms, the snowy pair now both twirling in the drift, their eyes twinkling and his grandfathers long blue coat swirling, protectively around them. The two collapse to the soft ground, their bodies sinking into the snow, wetting their backs.
"Let's go home and see your grandma" the elderly man says his voice deep and throaty, the chuckle from before still apparent. The little boy squeals, jumping to his feet and runs away shouting 'grandma, grandma' over and over again. The man gets up slightly slower than the little boy, shouting after him and picking him up, tucking him under his arm once more.
April 3rd is 12. Mycroft is 16.
Sherlock is knocking on his grandfather's house. He is carrying everything he owns in 3 small suitcases. Tears are welling in his eyes; he's brushing them away with the rough wool of his new coat. The door opens and his grandfather appears, darkness filtering from the corridor behind him. His eyes are as red as the boy he is facing and fresh tears are still filtering down his cheeks.
"My dear boy..." the man whispers gathering the now openly crying boy into his arms. Sherlock howls in his grandfathers arms, the loss of his mother and father so very recent.
In the sitting room, Mycroft sits with his grandmother, a beautiful woman with ice white hair. She is sobbing into her son's wedding picture, crying the names Benedict and Alexandria, over and over. Mycroft could hear his now little brother, now orphaned as he was screaming over his grandmothers sobs. Mycroft swore then and there to protect him.
April 3rd 1987. Sherlock is 13. Mycroft is 17.
Sherlock tutted as he saw Mycroft standing waiting for him at the school gate. He assumed that his school had called the house after the school bully had pinned the skinny, short lad against the locker doors, biting down on his shoulder in a sadistic and cruel manner.
"Mr Johnson, call you Mycroft? You always where his favourite, even when you dropped out to pursue a job in politics... bloody stupid move he said it was, you had the brain for so muc-" "Grandma overdosed on her anti-depressants, Sherlock" Mycroft interjected. Sherlock's mouth fell open and his eyes widened, the grey rings becoming massive.
"T-today... was it- it-on purpose?" he stammered. Mycroft merely nodded.
"The doctors think so ,Sherlock" he whispered, the words falling against fuzzy hearing. Sherlock leant against his brother to steady his shaking knees, he bent his head to hide the tears that were streaming down his face. He fails unsuccessfully.
"LOOK! The freaks crying!" a boy jeered from the sideline. Sherlock span, wiping the tears away with his hand, a look of bloody murder on his face. His ran at the boy, his hand balling into a fist.
It was then that Sherlock death his first punch. It smashed into the boy's lower jaw. The boy howled and had passed out when the second punch hit him squarely on the nose. It was also they day that Sherlock got thrown out of his first school.
Sherlock is 19.
Sherlock is leaning against the wall of a building, smoking away. His hands are shaking, his brow furrowed. He can hear someone screaming his name in the distance.
He failed his exams. He had seen the envelope before the others had gotten home. Without even bothering to open it he had streaked from the room and bought yet another packet of Marlborough Lights.
"Oh thank-" a voice came from beside him. Sherlock looked into the worn face of his grandfather, red and panting from running all around the estate.. He placed his hands on his knees and looked up at his now lankier grandson. At 19 he was closing in on 5"10 and unbelievably still seemed to be growing. He frowned at him.
"You shouldn't be smoking those, my boy. It's bad for you." He muttered. Sherlock smirked at him, taking a particularly long drag on the cigarette.
"And smoking a pipe is?" he replied sarcastically, but stamping the cigarette out on the floor anyway. His grandfather leant on the wall beside him as two girls around Sherlock's age walked past.
They started giggling taking in Sherlock's brooding, dark looks and tall frame. One smiled at him and his lips quirked into a small smile automatically. She blushed looking away from. His grandfather was watching the display. He elbowed him as the two girls rounded the corner.
"Nice to see you've got some of me in you after all son... always a hit with the ladies I was" he said smoothing out his white moustache. Sherlock chuckled deeply, a sound coming deep from within his stomach.
"Urgh...Way too much information" he said, shaking his head. He regarded his grandfather with deep grey eyes.
He grandfather interjected placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. Sherlock notes he suddenly looks very old. His hair is nearly white, including his moustache only a few spatters of the original black remaining. The same grey eyes look back at him.
"You look so much like your father ,Sherlock..." he whispered, his eyes roaming over the boys features, his height, his curly mop of black hair, the prominent cheekbones and the eyes. The eyes that three generations of Holmes men had shared. Sherlock smiled, his eyes seeking out the girls waiting at the bus stop. They were looking over at him and the one who smiled at him was biting her lip at him.
"Go" his grandfather whispered. Sherlock drew himself up to his full height, straightening his jacket and placing a warm hand on the man's shoulder. The man stayed leaning against the wall for a moment, before looking at the envelope in his pocket. He thought of the virtual death warrant, that it contained, the conformation of his cancer, and he thanked his lucky stars that Sherlock hadn't opened it.
Sherlock is 20. Mycroft is 25.
Sherlock is at university. A girl is laying beside him, snoring gently, her two affected by the drugs that they had taken the night before. There is a hammering in his head and a voice calling his name. Sherlock takes another drag on his cigarette, his eyes opening and the irises widening until they consumed the grey rings around them. The hammering is continuing. His eyes focus on the door, of which the handle is shaking. The hammering is NOT in his head apparently.
Shrugging on tracksuit bottoms and a cotton top, he heaved himself to his feet, the cigarette dangling precariously from his lips. The girl stirred and sat up; running a hand through her already messed up hair. Sherlock turned and surveyed her. He'd picked her up in a bar the night previously, her brassy blonde hair an obvious sign that she did not go to his university, the garish shade of red lipstick that was still smeared partly around Sherlock's mouth an obvious sign that she'd be easy. And he'd been right. Within about 10 minutes of seeing her in the bar, they been pressed against the wall of the bar, her tearing at his shirt and biting his lip. The girl yawned stretching like a cat.
"If you don't mind mate I've got a girl in here, if you get my drift" he drawled through the door. The girl giggled , biting her lip and heaving herself further up the bed, the cover slipping slightly off her revealing naked flesh. Sherlock tilted his head at her and smiled predator like at her. The person at the door continued to hammer.
"Sherlock! Answer the door! It's Mycroft!" the voice screamed. Sherlock stiffened, shaking off his university demeanour and reverting back to his 'home' personality. He peered through a gap in the door, his brother stared back at his dark eyed.
"Hows the diet-" he started as Mycroft pushed himself into the room, bumping Sherlock in the nose as the door swung open. The girl looked at the two brothers interested.
"Oh- is this how it's going to go? I'm up for that." she said in her thick cockney accent. The elder Holmes stared her down and she shrunk backwards from his gaze. He cocked an eyebrow at his little brother.
"Another one of your experiments?" he said sarcastically, motioning to a Petri dish lying behind Sherlock, but both of them knowing to whom he was referring. The 'experiment' continued to look at them blankly.
"You may want to go now- Sandy wasn't it? This may get ugly" he hissed looking down at his brother. Mycroft frowned up at him.
"You've grown agai-" "Well no shit, Mycroft" Sherlock interjected. They continued to glower at each other, the two of them locked at the eyes. Mycroft looked at him pointedly. He knew immediately that something was wrong and if this was the way that Mycroft was sensing to get the girl out of the flat as soon as he could, he would go along with it. Sure enough the girl was dressed and out of the flat within 5 minutes.
Sherlock chuckled as the door slammed quickly and the girls footsteps hurried away.
"Thank you for that Mycroft. I was beginning to think she was going to stay, you must come around more often" he said, pouring himself a glass of mouthwash. Mycroft sat precariously on the single seat in the room, looking pointedly at the cigarette butts, ends of joints and most worryingly needles and popped pill canisters spread around the room. Sherlock emerged from the bathroom, running a hand over his head, shaking it attempting to clear it. He reached for yet another cigarette, placing it in his mouth and lighting it. He chucked the lighter on the bedside table and flopped down on his bed, sprawling unattractively, one hand behind his head and the other holding the cigarette. He blowed upwards creating perfect smoke rings in the air. Mycroft remained silent, staring at the floor. Sherlock groaned in impatience.
"Ok what happened Mycroft" he muttered sitting up and facing his brother. Mycroft placed his head in his hands and wailed a noise that Sherlock had not heard him before. He repeated the question, this time much more urgent.
"Its Grandfather- he- he- died last night- I'm sorry- I tried- to get hold of you" Mycroft stammered, his voice wobbling with emotion. Sherlock froze on the spot, cigarette halfway up to his mouth, his eyes locked on the door.
"How" he whispered. Mycroft looked up at his little brother before crossing the distance between them in a single stride. He sat on the bed beside him.
"Lung Cancer" he whispered, placing a comforting arm around him. Sherlock dropped his cigarette and Mycroft quickly stamped it out.
"I- I didn't even know" "I didn't either" Mycroft finished, rubbing his arm reassuringly. Sherlock put his head in his hands.
"Were the final remaining Holmes's... all rests on us now" Mycroft said, his voice wavering .Sherlock snorted from below him. He looked up at him with one single grey eye, an eyebrow cocked.
"Can you honestly see me having kids?" he said. Mycroft snorted himself, throwing his head back laughing. Sherlock elbowed him in the ribs.
"Oi, it wasn't that funny!" he said chuckling himself. It took 10 full minutes for the laughter to stop and the tears to begin again. It would take over10 years for the brothers to have another moment like this, something both of them realised and regretted yet allowed it to pass un-noticed.
March 2006. Sherlock is just 30. Mycroft is 35.
"Ironic little buggers... had to arrive on my sodding birthday" Sherlock announced as he entered the hospital maternity ward. His brother smiled at him and raised his eyebrows.
"There's Holmes alright" they said simultaneously, before smiling at each other. There was an awkward silence. Sherlock patted him on the shoulder, only escalating the awkwardness.
"And how were you spending your birthday my little brother. I hope not holed up in some crack den" he said completely seriously. Sherlock glowered at him, rolling his eyes.
"Oh not this again Mycroft" he muttered. Mycroft span and faced him, taking his eyes from the room containing the infants to place his hands on his brothers shoulder.
"Yes this again Sherlock! You think I enjoy seeing you nearly kill yourself every few months, I've had so many bloody practice runs bringing you down this hospital to get your stomach pumped when you've accidently overdosed, the nurses actually asked me why I wasn't going to emergency today, at the birth of my children! You remember our conversation ten years ago? Excluding these two, we are the last Holmes's... It's my job to look after yo-" "NO MYCROFT!" Sherlock all but screamed, causing a few of the waiting men to look up their paled and sweaty faces wrinkled in confusion.
"It is not your job to look after me... I can take care of myself! And no-one can influence me otherwise... you know I thought this would be different getting to meet my niece and nephew. I thought wrong" he hissed turning his back on his brother. Mycroft shook his head.
"You still smoke Sherlock?" he taunted cruelly. Sherlock faltered, thinking of his Grandfathers pale lifeless body, the moustache perfectly trimmed and groomed but no light behind his eyes and no warmth in his heart. Sherlock had had to close his own grandfather eyes. He hadn't touched a cigarette since. He felt the patch beneath his white shirt.
"Uncalled for Mycroft" he whispered, just loud enough for the man to hear before stalking from the hospital.
1 HOUR LATER.
Sherlock crashed through the door to his apartment, slamming it angrily. His bloody brother. Always looking down on him. With his perfect family, now completed with twins, a boy and a girl... perfect. He stomped up the stairs, ignoring the complaints of the woman in the flat beside him.
Clutching onto his 'purchase' with a vice like grip, the fumbled with his keys, swearing under his breath as his sweaty fingers slipped sending the keys sprawling to the floor, he bent unattractively, ignoring the wolf whistles from passing women at his raised arse. He didn't care. Even if he didn't pick his keys up. He would get the needle from his pocket and do the 'procedure' then and there. Eventually the door swung open, the door crashing against the wall in his haste. He slams the door shut, his craving nagging away at him but something piques his interest.
A package. The thing that the door had slammed against, propped against the wall .It was wrapped in navy paper, with a grey ribbon wrapped around it. A small piece of paper was tucked underneath it. Sherlock dropped his bag on the counter and reached for the package with shaking hands, he had quite a few enemies already by this point in his life. The package flipped and folded in his hands. Clothing.
He frowned reaching for the label. It simply said, "Happy Birthday Sherlock" in a writing that was somehow familiar. He carefully took the parcel apart and a secondary parcel and a plain white card, fell out. Placing the parcel on the side he opened the card. His heart caught in his throat as he read the words.
AS PER REQUESTED IN THE LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT OF ARCHIBALD WILLIAM HOLMES
I leave to my youngest grandson Sherlock Archibald Holmes, my coat, to be given to him as per instructed on his 30th birthday. I know he always loved this coat, and I would prefer it was given to someone who would treasure it. And I leave also to him this message, to be opened only by him on at the time of this packages arrival.
Sherlock, my boy .I apologise for not seeing you on your 30th birthday. Unless I do in fact survive until then and this whole thing has been a waste of time, although in light of recent circumstances that seems rather unlikely. I also hope you forgive me for not leaving you anything else of more substantial value, and for not mentioning you in the original will. I thought this was more apt, what with both our dramatic sides. Which come to think of it is probably why we both fell in love with this coat... It does have a rather dramatic nature to it. I'll miss you, my boy. Take care of yourself.
Archie Holmes.
p.s. I've left some things in the pocket for you.
Dated 20th December 1994.
Sherlock's eyes glistened. He held the card to his chest. It was dated two days before he died. He sniffed, trying to hold back the tears that were still streaming down his face. With that he snatched the package from its place on the table, grabbing the coat with it and headed into his flat.
John stared opened mouthed as Sherlock finished his story, the coat still cradled in his lap, his eyes glistening with the memories that were coming back to the surface.
"Wow..." John whispered mesmerised. Sherlock jolted himself from his haze and peered at the other man.
"Did-did... you take them?" John pressed. Sherlock shook his head.
"No they went down the toilet, that was my third and final attempt to get clean, I haven't touched drugs since. Mycroft and Lestrade helped me through it" he said raising his eyebrows as he spoke. He motioned for the check, taking his eyes off John's.
"Wow..." John whispered again.
"You know you've said that 6 times in one hour?" Sherlock muttered trying to diffuse the emotional state that the two of them were in. He gave his card over and waited tapping his fingers against his wooden table. John was muttering under his breath. Sherlock looked around the room, taking in the gaudy Christmas decorations, trees, other diners, lights, waitresses, anything to take his eyes off John.
"What did he leave you in the pocket?" John said suddenly loudly. A couple of women who had been listening with interest leaned in slightly to hear the answer. Sherlock smiled and reached into the coat that was now draped over his shoulders. He pulled out his leather gloves (the importance of them finally making sense) and eventually pulled out a battered old wallet. He held it tenderly, a soft warm smile on his face.
"It was his wallet... He gave it to my father when he turned 18, took it back after his death and at 30, I received it. It apparently stems back 6 generations in our family. Look at the pictures inside it." He said pointing at it with his head. John flipped it open, his eyes widening.
"Is that-" he whispered, his hand flying to his mouth. Sherlock stood and leant over John's shoulder, smiling.
"Yep... that's my father. Benedict Holmes, my mother Alexandria, Mycroft, my grandfather and on his lap... that's me... My grandmother took the picture." He finished, pointing out each individual person as he said it. John continued to gape.
"You look so much like your father Sherlock... and-and your grandfather!" he gasped.
"I know...Strong family genes I suspect." He replied shrugging. John smiled at the photo blinking.
"There's more behind that one... a family tradition. Each person who owns it puts in a photo of who they care the most about, I hope you're not offended that I keep you behind my family pho- ARE YOU OK?" Sherlock gasped as John choked on the final dreg of water he was drinking.
"-I'M IN THERE? OH SHERLOCK!" he cried jumping up and embracing the man, his arm encircling the others waste. Sherlock placed his head on his shoulder, placing a wet kiss on his cheek and ignoring the stares they were getting.
"Well who else was I going to put, you idiot" he mused kindly. John gasped looking over his shoulder.
"Sherlock... it's snowing" he said his voice all full of wonder. Sherlock let go and span, looking out the window. Sure enough in the cold winters evening, small snowdrifts were beginning to fall. John grasped their items from the table and dragged Sherlock outside, his breath causing small puffs of steam to appear in the cold air. Sherlock smiled, his hand entwining with Johns.
He thought about his grandfather's crinkled face, those grey but warm eyes, that moustache. He looked down at the man beside, with his beautiful smile lighting up his face, those warm eyes. John looked up at him.
"Merry Christmas Sherlock" he whispered, leaning upwards to peck the taller man on the lips. Sherlock smiled, his eyes closing, the snow resting in both their hair and on their cheeks.
"You too" he replied, pulling the coat around the two of them trapping John against his body, forcing them to deepen the kiss, he could feel the label pressing against his neck. The worn yellow label that still bore his grandfathers name.
John seemed to sense this and pulled away, resting his head against Sherlock's warm chest.
"You've raised a great man here Archie" he muttered, looking upwards. Sherlock felt himself smile as he pulled John back upwards to meet his lips again.
YES YES! I am aware I used Benedict's name as his fathers name! But seriously 'Benedict Holmes' what a name! Like Archibald William Holmes (Oh I am in love with that name). This idea came from a friend asking where Sherlock got his coat from, meaning where did the production team get the coat from but of course I went... hmmmm... where did Sherlock (the character) get that coat from... And I thought maybe a pass me down, and this just developed... It was written in one day VERY quickly so please ignore any typo's :/ There will be more Christmassy Sherlock fics from me, I'm just inspired at the moment, as you can probably tell from the sudden surge in fics, probably aided by watching Martin (i.e Watson) in films such as Love Actually and Nativity!... I love this holiday! And there should be some normal fics coming as well (meaning angsty ¬¬) and some more chapters in some of my many multi-chapter fics :) woah I'm a busy bee...