Over Christmas break, I suddenly found myself properly inspired to finally write my long-planned story about Sherlock Holmes's eldest daughter, Violet. I was several chapters into the story when a great tragedy occurred; my flash drive broke. It is permanently broken, taking with it not only all of my papers and assignments from my first three semesters of college, but all of my stories as well—including Violet's story. Needless to say, I was very distraught and rather depressed at the loss. I lost all motivation to write. I wrote this story as an exercise; I knew that if I started to write again, I would regain my motivation to write Violet's story (again). My plan worked, and I am currently rewriting her story, which will be posted… eventually.
Anyway, this story is just a glimpse into the life of Sherlock Holmes at three different points of his life; when he is a bachelor at 30, a young father at 34, and finally an old man at 60. It's short and sappy, but I'm posting it anyway.
Leaves
Sherlock remembered the first time that he had seen a person jump into a pile of leaves.
It was during that November so many years ago, so long ago that it seemed an eternity, when he was trapped in the future, staying in the house of Miss Sian Fairfax.
He had woken up late one bright and sunny Saturday. When he ventured out of his room, the immense and total silence of the house immediately told him that Sian was not about; for just one woman, Sian usually made quite a good deal of noise in the house, be it her voice carrying conversations with herself, any of the atrocious melodies of what Sian considered to be music, or even just the patter of her footsteps.
He made his way to the kitchen, looking for a note that would explain her whereabouts; it was then that a flash of gold caught his eye. He glanced out the window. Ah, so Sian was outside. He paused to watch her.
Even alone outside on a November morning (well, afternoon, by the time Sherlock had arisen), Sian seemed perpetually cheerful. She was dressed casually, as if prepared to do work, and yet her long golden hair was unbound, and flashing in the autumn sunlight. Sherlock noticed a long rake in her hands, and it was then he realized the large pile of leaves by her feet, in front of the swing set that Sian had purchased for her nieces. The pile of leaves was quite large, coming up well beyond her knees, and Sherlock watched as Sian inspected the pile, like an artist admiring her handiwork. She conscientiously kicked a few more loose leaves into the pile, set her rake aside, and, strangely enough, sat down on a swing. Sherlock watched curiously as she carefully pumped her legs, and after a minute of swinging, leapt from her seat, and landing squarely into the pile of leaves. Sherlock leaned closer towards the window, concerned, but Sian appeared to be fine—and what's more, she was laughing.
What is this tomfoolery about? Sherlock wondered. He hastily pulled on his jacket and went outside, where Sian was still lying in the pile of leaves, laughing as giddily as a child.
"What the devil are you doing?" he demanded when he reached her side.
"Oh, hi, Sherlock," she said breezily, uncaring that he had caught her in an uncomfortably childish situation. She clambered to her feet, brushing the dried leaves from the knees of her trousers. There was an orange leaf stuck in her hair, but Sian didn't notice. She smiled.
"Have you come to join me?" she asked.
"What precisely are you doing?" Sherlock inquired politely.
"Jumping in the leaves," Sian said, as if the answer had been obvious. Which it had been, Sherlock supposed, but he still remained clueless as to the reasoning behind it.
"But why?" he asked.
"Why?" Sian repeated, dumbfounded. "Because it's fall. Because there are leaves on the ground. Because I always do."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, bemused.
"Oh, come on. Don't tell me that you've never jumped into a pile of leaves before."
"I don't believe I've ever indulged in that particular pastime, no."
"You," Sian said, as prophetically as a sage, "must have been the most boring child on the face of the planet."
"I was not a boring child!" Sherlock started to protest, but then he stopped; his interestingness as a child was beside the point at the moment, after all.
"Come on, then," Sian urged, taking Sherlock by the hands. She led him towards the pile. "Jump in."
"I will not. This is a silly thing for adults to be doing." Sian rolled her eyes at him.
"Suit yourself," she said. "But mark my words; one day, I will get you to jump in a pile of leaves."
"I seriously doubt that," Sherlock said dryly.
---
Little did they realize at the time, but it would be many years later before Sian's words rang true.
It was another sunny and bright November Saturday, either four years later or 118 years before, and again, Sherlock Holmes stood staring out a window. This time, however, he was observing a Mrs. Holmes—as opposed to a Miss Fairfax—and this time, he was spying through the window of the morning room of Holmes Manor in Yorkshire, as opposed to Sian's kitchen window of 705 Long Meadow Avenue in New London. And of course, most significantly, this time, Sherlock was watching Sian playing with their children. He watched intently as Sian covered Jack, Violet, and little Olivia with the dry leaves. Even through the closed window, Sherlock could hear their giddy giggling. He smiled.
"What are you doing, Sherlock?" Sherlock turned around and saw his elder brothers approaching him.
"Good morning is the usual greeting," Sherlock observed dryly.
"Indeed, it would have been, had you arisen in the morning," his eldest brother, Sherrinford, said. "I believe a good afternoon would be more appropriate."
"Mm-hmm," Sherlock said absently, returning his gaze out the window.
"What the devil is going on outside that is so deuced fascinating?" Mycroft demanded, looking outside. His voice softened. "Oh, it's Sian." He paused. "What on earth is she doing?"
"Playing in the leaves."
"I can see that quite clearly, but the question remains as to why."
Sherlock shrugged. "I'm not quite sure. She says it's fun."
"I see," Sherrinford said, clearly not seeing at all.
The three men continued watching Sian, who was now tossing Jack and Violet into the pile of leaves. Timid Olivia seemed fearful of the prospect of being thrown, and so Sian wrapped her arms around the girl and let herself fall sideways into the leaves, taking Olivia with her.
"She used to play with us that way, once," Mycroft said, reminiscing.
"Yes, back when she was our aunt," Sherrinford agreed softly. Sherlock glared at his brothers.
"I don't think I like you two talking about your memories of Sian from before I was born," he said tersely.
"No worries, little brother," Sherrinford said cheerfully, slapping him on the shoulder. "She also played with us the first two weeks after your birth."
Before Sherlock could retort, Sian caught sight of the three brothers in the window. She grinned and waved grandly at her audience. Abashed to be discovered, the men waved warily back. She beckoned them outside, mouthing the words "Come out here." With collective sighs and shrugs, Sherlock, Sherrinford, and Mycroft trooped outside.
When they got outside, Sian was sitting in the middle of the leaf pile, with Olivia sitting on her lap, as regal as a queen. The twins were on either side of her, with Jack crunching the dry leaves in his tiny fists, and Violet throwing the leaves in the air like confetti.
"Hello, gentlemen," Sian greeted the brothers smugly. Jack and Violet looked up from their handiwork, and abruptly abandoned what they were doing when they caught sight of their father.
"Daddy!" they shrieked with one voice, running up to their father and each latching on to one of his legs.
Sherrinford and Mycroft stifled their laughter. As much as they doted on and adored their little nieces and nephew, it still amused them to no end when they heard the children call their stoic younger brother "daddy." It was even funnier than when Sian called him "dear," although not quite as funny as when she called him "handsome."
Sherlock might have given his brothers a spiteful glare, if he hadn't been to busy looking adoringly at his children. The tableau made more than one man's heart pang; the tender, parental gaze reminded Sherrinford of long ago, when his mother would look upon her children with that same affection, and it made Mycroft wonder wistfully what his life could have been like, had he chosen a more domestic route.
"So, Sherlock, are you going to play with your children and jump in the leaves?" Sian asked saucily.
"I, uh—" Sherlock started to protest, but he was quickly interrupted.
"Yes, Daddy! Jump in leaves!" Jack said.
"Please, Daddy?" Violet begged.
Even Olivia, still in her mother's lap, called out with a "daddy, daddy!"
"Go ahead, Daddy," Sherrinford said mischievously.
"Yes, Daddy," Mycroft snickered. "Go and play in the leaves."
Sherlock managed to give his brothers a glare before he gave into his children's pleading. "Very well," he said. Jack and Violet cheered, and Sian jumped up from the pile of leaves, cradling Olivia in her arms.
Sighing resignedly, Sherlock ran a few paces before leaping into the leaves. He landed squarely in the pile, causing leaves to fly into the air and rain down onto his thrilled toddlers.
"Again, Daddy! Again!" Violet commanded, hanging onto his arm. Sherlock laughed breathlessly.
"I think that's quite enough for one day," he said, tousling her loose black hair.
Sian sauntered over to the leaf pile. Her cheeks were red, and Sherlock couldn't be sure if it was from the brisk fall air, or because she was laughing so hard at him. Possibly both. Probably the latter.
"I told you that was fun!" Sian said merrily, unceremoniously plopping Olivia down in Sherlock's lap.
"Yes, you did," Sherlock murmured, absently kissing Olivia's downy blonde hair.
"And wasn't it?" Sian asked, her eyes bright as she leaned down to meet his eyes. In one swift moment, he grabbed Sian's wrists and pulled her down into the leaf pile with him; now they were sitting nose to nose.
"I think I could learn to enjoy it."
---
That day had ended with baby Olivia in his lap; today, he had Olivia's baby in his lap. Little Edmund looked intently across the yard, surveying his older cousins and siblings from the safe domain of his grandfather's lap. Sherlock looked down fondly at Edmund, and then followed his gaze. Across the yard, he could see Juliet and Henry—Violet's children—Thomas, Geoffrey, and Penelope—Jack's children—and Charlotte and Grace—Olivia's elder two children—playing together in a giant pile of leaves, with their Aunt Anna keeping a sharp and watchful eye on them.
It seemed to Sherlock like it was just yesterday when Anna was just a little girl herself, a whirlwind of brown braids and freckles, but now she was a woman of twenty. Her auntly affection and enthusiasm reminded Sherlock of Sian, long ago, when she herself had been the young and fun aunt to her nieces.
Beyond the leaf pile, Sherlock could see his elder children, standing and talking to each other, all while pretending not to have eyes only for their own children. Sherlock smiled. There was Violet, talking animatedly to Olivia and Jack's wife Amy, and beyond them, Jack was discussing politics with his sisters' husbands, Tybalt and Reginald.
Sherlock felt a hand on his knee. He glanced up as Sian sat down beside him on the bench. Her once-golden hair was now streaked with silver, wrinkles were making a permanent appearance on her face, and she was a bit stouter than she had been in her youth; but to Sherlock, his wife was as lovely as ever.
Sian smiled at her husband, and claimed baby Edmund for herself.
"Well, Sherlock, what do you think?" she asked. "We'll have been married for thirty years come January."
"It's difficult to believe," he mused. "Nearly half of my life has been spent with you."
"And what a thirty years."
"Indeed. Not even including every single case I've taken, there's the fact that you've been kidnapped, and I thought that you left me—"
"And we've had four beautiful children," Sian interjected, not wishing to dwell on unhappy memories, but instead remember the cheerful times.
"Yes," Sherlock agreed, sadly. "And they've all gone and grown up now."
"But they're all successful. We have a doctor, a detective, a teacher, and an aspiring writer."
"I've given away two of my daughters, and had to watch another poor man give his daughter away to my son. And how much longer before Anna leaves us, too?" Sian shot Sherlock a questioning gaze. He shook his head sadly. "Have you even noticed how William Hargreaves is around her?" he demanded. "This time next year, he'll have asked me for her hand, I guarantee it."
"You act as if you're upset with how everything's turned out," Sian said, almost harshly. "It's everything we've ever wanted for our children. They're loved, happy, and successful."
"I know," Sherlock said. "But sometimes, when I look over everything that's been, I can't believe it all happened so quickly."
Sian's heart softened at this.
"I know," she said softly, laying a hand on his arm. "It seems like just yesterday when we had four little children running about the house. But now, we have four grown children, plus Ty and Reginald and Amy, and eight little grandchildren playing in the leaves, and I can't imagine being happier."
"It seems like quite a harvest we've had," Sherlock said, looking over at the children again. Sian followed his gaze, and smiled.
"Remember the first time I got you to jump in the leaves?" Sian asked, smiling fondly at the memory. Sherlock glanced over at his wife.
"Yes, and it was only a few years after I vehemently swore that I'd never do anything so foolish," he agreed with a grin.
When Sherlock turned his gaze back to his grandchildren, they were all running over to the bench where he and Sian were sitting with Edmund.
"Grandpa?" Thomas, the eldest grandchild, approached his grandparents, with his younger cousins behind him.
"Yes, Tom?"
"Would you come and play in the leaves with us, Grandpa?" Tom asked.
"Please?" echoed six other little voices behind him.
From across the yard, Sherlock's children could perfectly hear what was transpiring.
'Yes, go ahead, Grandpa," Jack called saucily, sounding suspiciously like Sherrinford and Mycroft had, years ago, when a similar request had been made to "daddy." "Go and play in the leaves."
"Why didn't you ask Grandma?" Sherlock asked the child seriously.
"She's holding Edmund," Tom said, quite matter-of-factly.
"I see. Well," Sherlock looked over at Sian. She raised her brows at him, Edmund gurgled, and he smiled. "Why not?" Sherlock said, and he allowed them to grab his hands and lead him across the yard, where once again, he found himself playing in the leaves with children.
Sherlock knew that, thirty-five years ago, he would have never imagined himself where he was. As a young man, he had always imagined his old age with a peaceful, lonely retirement, tucked away somewhere in obscurity; perhaps even taking on a simple job, such as beekeeping, for example, just to occupy his time. Instead, he found himself gathered with his family at Holmes Manor, where Jack was now occupying the ancestral home, playing with young grandchildren. He was still dabbling in detective work, he hadn't yet given up his lodgings at Baker Street, he felt he had to constantly fight off Anna's suitors, and there was never a moment of silence to be had. And, although this life was far from what he had once imagined, Sherlock was happy.
He looked back over his shoulder, and saw Sian, standing next to the bench with little Edmund in her arms. It was approaching evening time, and the setting sun's rays make Sian's hair flash like gold. She grinned and saluted him, with a glimpse of her old humor. Sherlock smiled. Yes, he was very happy with his life, and he wouldn't give it up for the world.