FF – Sherlock
Dysfunctional.
Warnings : (Immense) Bending of reality to suit fiction. Also, this fic is as gay as the show was, so warnings for that too. (Also, massive character appreciation prose inside.)
Characters : Mrs Hudson, Sherlock Holmes, Dr. John Watson, Mycroft Holmes, D.I. Lestrade, mentions of Anthea.
Summary : They're a bit dysfunctional as a family, but it works fine.
A/N : Sorry Mama!Holmes. Honestly. And Mama!Watson. Apologies are in order, I reckon. The surprising thing about this is that I had written and planned this before season 2 was released, and, well… I swear, it's like seeing all my suspicions come true.
Before Sherlock and John came along, Mrs Hudson had her place leased to a haughty graduate student who had a habit of turning her nose up at anything she considered beneath her (which basically extended to everything) for a year or so. And before that, it was a young, ambitious business executive who lost all his money playing the stock market and fled the country due to overwhelming debts from loan sharks and banks alike.
Mrs Hudson had never had children of her own, what with all the funny business her husband had going on behind her back during the years of their marriage, and it was a rather private regret of hers whenever Mrs Turner came by bragging about her son. It was thus, not at all ambiguous when she's stricken with vague mother-hen tendencies with every tenant that rents her place, and she honestly can't help but feel a need to pamper them and look after them a little.
Before Sherlock and John, of course, all the others did was turn her away with barely hidden signs of irritation.
It had been a bit of a surprise, though pleasant as it was, when John had wandered down to 221A on an evening offering to take her out for dinner. It had been a night or so after the day which the police had swarmed 221B*, and John had apologised fervently to her that Sherlock was socially-stunted and had absolutely no sense of what proper manners were, and had requested very politely that she shouldn't hold it against him.
It might have been the sherry that left her a little tipsy, but she had laughed and told him that she had had tenants who were much worse than that and went on to ramble quite a bit. John had been appalled, but she thought no more of it.
At least, that was until John started to spend more time with her when he wasn't occupied at the clinic or on a case with Sherlock, by watching crap telly and making dinner for her on occasion, especially on rainy days where the weather had her hip aching.
She had pulled him aside, and told him gently that she honestly, really appreciated what he was doing, but that she really didn't require pity of any sorts. John had smiled wryly and replied that his own mother had died when he was still a child, and has never had the chance to spend time with a mother figure of sorts, and that if she would, very kindly, allow him to continue to do so.
It became a mutual agreement of sorts from then on, but Mrs Hudson did remind him in mirth that he wouldn't be getting a discount on rent, anyhow.
John lost his mother when he was seven. It had been an extremely unfortunate car accident, the result of reckless drunk driving. His father became stricken with grief, but held firm to keep their family going. His sister, Harry, ran away from home when he was seventeen in search of excitement and adventure, and with that, his father lost the will to carry on, slowly consumed with the loss of two family members, turning to alcohol to soothe his sorrow, until he died of heartache the following year.
Without anywhere to turn to, John appealed for a scholarship with the British Army at eighteen and joined medical school upon his graduation at the top of his class.
He knew his father wasn't a violent alcoholic by any means, but it was painful for the both of them when he was sober, because all his father could do was to sob in mourning. Thomas Watson's mind and soul had broken beyond measure, and he had become an absolute shadow of his former self, and if he became happily deluded with an imagination of a whole, healthy and complete family when he was drunk, then it was what John would allow him.
He thought it to be a devil sent joke to have alcohol slowly consuming his entire family when his sister became dependent on it as well after her first fight with Clara.
Weeks after he became invalided from Afghanistan, John wondered with misery if he would be next to fall prey to the snare of alcohol, until he met Sherlock.
Sherlock Holmes was a complete enigma, and in his own strange way, put together the odd pieces that were John Watson, and suddenly, it felt safe. To throw caution into the wind and live to his heart's desire, Sherlock reminded John of what it was like to be alive. He couldn't pinpoint with precision the kind of relationship he had with him, but as far as he was concerned, they both knew that it was stronger than anything they could imagine, and if they couldn't put a label on it, then, well, it wasn't anyone's business but theirs.
John found a mother-of-sorts in Mrs Hudson, but he felt a twin of a kind when he acquainted himself with Inspector Lestrade. They were both men of action, but dulled and mellowed with the harshness of life. It started with exchanging long-suffering looks whilst Sherlock bounded around the crime scene, raging with an epiphany, and their smirks turned to giggles and small talk turned to avid discussions, from football to the war and the terrible bad habits of Sherlock Holmes.
At some point in time, Lestrade invited John to one of the boys' Sunday football matches, and when one of the strikers came down with a cold and there were no reserves left, John jumped into their match and somehow found himself a permanent spot among the officers' team.
John had never been one for bars and pubs, but he didn't want to watch the great match where the titans Liverpool and Manchester United clashed alone (and Sherlock didn't count for football company), so when Lestrade texted him about it, John offered his place for the both of them to enjoy the show.
Sherlock had returned home that day looking almost scandalised that Lestrade had dared to turn up at his place without a case.
Lestrade was twenty-five when he made a career switch from the army to the Metropolitan Police Service. Before his position in the Criminal Investigations Department, he had been a sergeant in the Royal Artillery branch of the army, and deployed during Operational Desert Storm in the British 1st Armoured Division when he was twenty-four.
When the ceasefire was declared on February 28 several of the British troops were sent home, and Lestrade, exhausted by the shock of being on the frontlines, took the first opportunity that appeared to escape the military, and eventually found himself settling down nicely in Criminal Investigations.
Work as a detective has always been overwhelming and immensely demanding, and when his wife left him after their second year of marriage, his own apathy at that surprised himself, and threw himself deeper into his work. His parents had moved to some quiet town in northern Scotland, and sometimes he briefly considers applying for a position as an officer wherever they are. Such contemplations generally last for an hour or so, before he decides that he likes the flurry of the work at the Met too much to want to leave.
He thinks it might be a bit unhealthy for him to be so absorbed into his work, but he tells himself that it's fine if all the work he does is to the benefit of the citizens in London. He has football on Sundays with no urgent cases, and he watches the matches in the afternoons, so within reason, his life is balanced.
He was thirty when he met Sherlock Holmes, and he remembers how Sherlock was then – young, so bright and full of ideas and of such wit and intelligence that Lestrade was embarrassed to even name his own accomplishments, but so angry and confused with the world. He thinks it might have been pity that allowed him to bend the rules a little and close an eye when he caught the boy collapsed in an alleyway, panting and his eyes oddly lifeless, packet of suspicious powder in his pocket notwithstanding. When Sherlock jerked back into consciousness, his eyes were momentarily wide with fear before it was schooled into one of absolute irritation.
Lestrade rolled his eyes them and offered Sherlock a place for the night, and considered it a personal victory when Sherlock stared at him in surprise and accepted the offer.
It was probably impossible for one to meet Sherlock Holmes without meeting the brother Mycroft Holmes, and it was that same night that Lestrade returned home to find Mycroft seated in his living room patiently. Sherlock had scowled at the sight of his brother, ready to let loose a stream of choice words when he intervened quickly, nudging Sherlock towards his bedroom, his hand travelling to his pistol cautiously.
The discussion that followed had been difficult, with Mycroft expressing what he believes to be the best for Sherlock, and Lestrade disagreeing with much of it, while Sherlock shot glares and interruptions at his brother. It dragged on late, until Mycroft made a remark that caused Sherlock to grow red and stomp off noisily into the adjacent room.
An uncomfortable silence had settled between them, and Lestrade shifted on his feet. He was still reasonably young then, having lived only three decades, but there wasn't another time where he could recall himself to feel any older than he had at the moment. Sherlock might be listening in from the other side of the door, and while Mycroft may be Sherlock's older brother, but Lestrade thinks that mediation at that point in time was definitely necessary, because Sherlock looked far too broken for a boy so young, and he asserted precisely what he thought. It was quite like being on the frontline during the war again, because despite the fact that Mycroft couldn't have been much older than himself, the older Holmes was definitely very much more intimidating, but Lestrade refused to back down and stood his ground.
Mycroft had sighed heavily then, before leaving his name card behind and bade him goodnight.
It took him a long time to fall asleep that day, but when he woke up, Sherlock had long gone. He attempted to carry on with his work as usual, but his mind wandered to the eccentric pair of brothers and hoped that the younger boy was alright.
That was, until Sherlock followed him home the next day.
He was admittedly, outraged at first, but undeniably relieved. Sherlock had demanded (quite rudely, in fact) to 'help' Lestrade with his cases, in exchange for a place to stay for a few months or so, until the university semester began. It had led to yet another debacle, with Lestrade making even more discussions with Mycroft while Sherlock sulked in the background, but it was eventually agreed that that would be the best course of action. Sherlock had then smirked in victory, and proceed to solve all of the cases that Lestrade had.
It had been a tiring three months, and Lestrade continued to keep frequent correspondence with Mycroft, until Sherlock left for Cambridge, and even then he felt a pang of sadness at seeing him go. His talks with Mycroft also dwindled down with Sherlock gone, and it was only then in the absence of both brothers did Lestrade begin to consider the situation from Mycroft's viewpoint, and he thinks that maybe he might understand.
He wonders if it was his imagination, but he thinks he might have seen a tint of melancholy in Mycroft's eyes when the department was gathered for an annual meeting with several governmental officers sitting in, Mycroft being one of them. (He confirms with himself there and then that he really doesn't want to know what Mycroft does for a living.)
Sherlock returned to his life again, several years later, like a rather stubborn limpet, and it's quite alright with him, because Sherlock makes a spectacular consultant, and even so, Lestrade suspects that he might have somehow grown to care for the boy like an older brother would.
The good doctor John Watson came along much more recently, and it was amusing how well the two of them had gotten on. John was eventually invited to the Sunday games, inevitable, really, both of them being Liverpool fans, and somehow it had resulted with Lestrade having the occasional dinner at Baker Street with John and Mrs Hudson, and Sherlock whenever John had managed to drag him down. It was nice, really, to have a warm dinner around a table of, well, friends, and it made for a nice break from the cold and bleak nature of criminal investigations.
On one such dinner, Sherlock made a rude remark involving his brother, and Lestrade, quite carelessly, wondered aloud if Mycroft would like to join them, because, really, he doubts that the other would be as fortunate as them.
The looks given to him in response showed it all; Mrs Hudson looked positively ecstatic about having another dinner guest, John thought it was a marvellous idea and made no attempt to hide it, while Sherlock just gaped at him, scandalised. Lestrade thinks it should count as yet another personal victory.
Contrary to belief, Mycroft does not understand many things. Without a doubt, he knows many things, and he understands most of it, but there are many in which he does not. Sometimes, he only understands how, but not why. In certain areas, he doesn't understand both how and why.
He once tried to teach life lessons to Sherlock when he was younger, which must have been silly, attempting to impart knowledge that he did not have. Little wonder then, that Sherlock had stared at him with distaste all over his face. It became easier, after that, to accept that caring and emotions were a weakness.
Regardless of what he says, however, Mycroft wants the best for Sherlock, and he would quite willingly give the world to him, but he doesn't quite know how to show that. He gives him the best things that money can buy, while knowing that Sherlock doesn't care for material goods. He enrols him in the most prestigious school in the world, because that is what Sherlock deserves, despite knowing that Sherlock would hate it in Cambridge. He wants to pamper Sherlock and be capable of being the father, the mother, the brother and the guardian to Sherlock combined, but he doesn't know how.
He wonders sometimes, if their mother had not died so young and their father had not been so cold, would he have learnt how to show empathy? He could only speculate what it's like to be able to wear love so freely and give it without a moment's thought.
He suspects it might not be so possible, because their mother had been cold too, although he tells Sherlock differently. Sherlock thinks that he's being defiant in acting as if their mother never cared, but Mycroft knows that Sherlock may be closer to the truth than he may know.
Mycroft is envious of Lestrade, who is capable of supporting Sherlock in silence, like the brother that Sherlock never asked for, and yet is quietly grateful for. He is envious of Mrs Hudson, who has so much love for everything, and is the mother to the children she doesn't have, and Sherlock accepts that. He is envious of John, who is all of that, and more.
Above all, he is grateful that Sherlock is surrounded by such good people.
(Privately, he does wish that he had such good fortune, but seeing Sherlock being happy is good enough.)
He's of course, rather surprised then, at the invitation to dinner. He's used to being alone – it's how he has lived for decades now. Lestrade's, maybe John's, idea, definitely not Sherlock's, and he's both hesitant and disconcerted with the proposal, but he thinks that if Sherlock could manage it, then surely, why couldn't he?
Except, nothing in the world has ever prepared him for this. He's had diplomatic lunches with the ministers of France and tea with the Queens of both England and Denmark but a gathering this… intimate, for a lack of better words, leaves him very much perturbed and confused.
Lestrade is handing him a bottle of, of all things, beer, and rambling on about that awful attack by Newcastle's Butt last night – Mycroft observes mild euphoria, alcohol content ranging around 0.30 to 0.40, unnatural state of relaxation around Sherlock with largely lowered inhibitions, overtime at Scotland Yard, case involving a locked room murder which was too dull for Sherlock but too complicated for the police – and his train of thought ends when Lestrade puts an arm around him and continues to babble about missing dogs and pigeons in the neighbourhood. Sherlock is smirking at his helplessness from a corner and he sighs in near exasperation as he sips the bitter liquid. If Sherlock could fit in, then, well, why couldn't he?
Sherlock tries. He really does try hard. He knows that he's not trying for himself, because he personally doesn't really care. He knows that he's trying for the sake of others, which in itself is vaguely incredulous, as he tells himself, but it's alright. He tries hard for John's sake, and rarely, for Lestrade. Occasionally for Mrs Hudson, because she's nice and makes tea. Lestrade never makes tea for him, so he stays closer to the bottom. Never for Mycroft.
He knew since he was a child that Mycroft was smarter than him, wittier than him, and in every way imaginable, much more intelligent than him. He also knows Mycroft is a sloth. He doesn't know why Mycroft is so lazy. He's angry that his brother is wasting away his talents, even though Mycroft has already explained that life shouldn't be 'fixed' so quickly, because otherwise human beings will never evolve and learn, but Sherlock thinks he's only making excuses for his laziness, because he knows Mycroft probably has some kind of solution that could solve all the world's problem in a month.
Sherlock also suspects that Mycroft is holding himself back because of Sherlock, because of some crazy, insane older brother theory that Mycroft shouldn't let Sherlock end up cast in his shadow, so he stays in the background and lets Sherlock be that one person whom everybody looks to for answers. And he hates Mycroft for it, because Sherlock wants to be challenged, not coddled like a baby, and it's extremely frustrating, so, no, he would never try for Mycroft's sake, because Mycroft is an arse and it's easier to be angry at Mycroft anyway.
(He hates himself sometimes because he thinks Mycroft could be so perfect, but is not, and it could all be because of him.)
He thinks Lestrade is easy to understand. Except that Lestrade sometimes confuses him. Lestrade is so normal and boring and simple-minded, but he remembers being seventeen, and Lestrade yelling at Mycroft regarding how he ought to be treated. Privately, he still thinks it's a funny scene, because he has ever been the only one who would dare to shout at Mycroft. He tells himself and most people that Lestrade is only nice to him, because without him, Lestrade would be stumped on most cases, but he also knows that Lestrade was doing quite alright even before he met him. (Except that nowadays, Lestrade does exceptionally, because now, he has Sherlock's help.)
Sherlock also knows that Lestrade doesn't say a word about that, but he doesn't understand why. So sometimes he tries. But only sometimes, because Lestrade is still an idiot.
He really doesn't know what to think of John. He can think of plenty of reasons to John's actions, and yet they never manage to explain anything.
John protects him. (Soldier, doctor, careers that both involve protecting – high empathy-altruism level.) John stays with him. (Need for adrenaline. Sherlock provides that.) John laughs with him. (John is, within reason, an intelligent man. Sherlock's humour must appeal to him.)
None of them explain why John accepts Sherlock though, so Sherlock doesn't understand. He thinks John doesn't know either. There probably isn't an explanation for it, no thesis could be written for it, because it's too intangible and too powerful, and there is no answer to this question. For some reason, Sherlock finds that he's quite fine with not understanding, but only just this once, and because he likes John, he tries for John's sake.
He's tried before, in his youth, when he was younger. It didn't work, so he doesn't care, but now John is telling him to try again, so he does. He gives Mrs Hudson a chance, tries to be nice to her, and it works out. He gives Lestrade a chance, speaks less harshly and tries to help him along in observing, and he thinks maybe he might understand what Mycroft meant.
He doesn't want to try for Mycroft, but John tells him to, so he does. Tries his best to understand, and he's a little bit less angry with Mycroft.
John and Lestrade talk about football and war at the dinner table, and how both involve big shots screaming at the pawns to do things on the battlefield without understanding how they really feel, and the look on Mycroft's face was just so priceless that Sherlock snorts into his stew, and Mrs Hudson admonishes him for poor table manners and hands him a serviette.
They're a bit dysfunctional as a family, but it works fine.
A/N :
YESSSSS I'M FINALLY DONE. (After weeks of procrastination, boohoo)
Original A/N was 200+ words long, but I'll save you the misery.
And anyway, it's not canon that Lestrade had ever been in any war. ACD's Lestrade had been an Inspector for twenty years before the start of the Sherlock Holmes series (A Study in Scarlet).
Also, I had to listen to Imperial March and Radetzky March to get the feel of Mycroft, who is really, really difficult to write. I hope none of them are too OOC or anything, I've never attempted so many perspectives in one piece.