A/N: I've been trying to write a story based on the song 'Lion's Teeth' by The Mountain Goats for ages now, because it's a brilliant piece of music. But I really didn't want to write a whole lot of lurid violence, which is basically the song's whole premise, so that made things a tad difficult. In the end I settled for this. Partly an explanation for events in Part 5 of Can't Rewind Now, partly Siger being a weirdo, and mostly a lot of tragic teenaged Sherlock angst. So... enjoy, I guess?
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"Keep still, child, for god's sake."
Siger touched his son's shoulder, pressed downwards in a gentle warning to stop fidgeting. The man's expression was doing a fair job of conveying a sense of harried concern. Sherlock reluctantly halted the slight swaying motion he'd habitually fallen into. Forced himself to sit still even though doing so made it feel like ants had taken up residence under his skin. Better to suffer a bit of discomfort now than face reprisal later.
"Well, it looks like the lad took quite the tumble, Mr Holmes," Dr Morris, a personal physician called out to the manor on emergency basis, said as he examined a copy of Sherlock's x-ray from yesterday's hospital trip. "The splint will need to stay for a day or two. After that I'm afraid I'll have to recommend a hard cast."
Sherlock scowled to himself and ducked his head, picking angrily at the gauze-and-bandage wrapping encasing his left wrist. That would put him out of symphony for a few months at least. Wouldn't be able to practise, either, which would lose him his position as concertmaster next year... probably for good, if he were being honest about it. What were the odds he'd be able to pass auditions after a prolonged lack of playing, after all? Let alone make first chair? Fat chance.
Not like he gave a toss, though... one less bloody activity to keep up with. Meant he could focus more on studying. Get into uni early, maybe. Music wasn't important, didn't matter. Nothing did, really.
... he didn't care he didn't care he didn't care.
Above him Siger had set his mouth in a decent approximation of a worried frown. He was definitely getting on well with this whole 'responsible parent' act, wasn't he? Sherlock wondered if he'd just stop bothering once he felt he'd mastered the role.
"And his chances of long-term impairment?" Siger's tone carried a near-perfect mixture of concern and disapproval. He glanced down at his son with a look of mild exasperation, as if to ask 'how do you keep managing to find trouble like this?' As if he didn't bloody well know exactly how Sherlock's wrist had ended up broken. As if yesterday afternoon had simply never happened.
Or perhaps he'd honestly forgotten? Rewritten history to suit him? Could he do that? Sherlock wouldn't put it past the bastard.
Still, though, Sherlock remembered. All too clearly. He met his father's gaze with a faint glare and was relieved to see the man's expression harden into frigid annoyance for a fleeting instant. Still just an act, then. Good.
"Well the lad's still young." Dr Morris leant back in his chair and slipped the x-ray safely into the envelope he'd brought it in. "I'd say with a bit of physical therapy he'll be right as rain." The man punctuated his statement with a friendly wink towards Sherlock, who responded with nothing but a blank stare. Smile and a wink for a broken wrist? Thanks, sir, very helpful. Let's just forget all about the bruised ribs, the faded black eye, the utter silence and stone-faced dispassion from a fourteen year old.
Probably not normal, that. Perhaps something wrong, something worth looking in to. But then he wouldn't, would he, because who cared? Wasn't this man's problem. Wasn't anyone's problem. Sherlock dealt with it all on his own. Always had and always would.
Dr Morris' smile dropped a few notches, confused by Sherlock's lack of response. Beside them Siger huffed out a nigh-imperceptible breath of annoyance and reached out to lightly tap his son on the shoulder. Sherlock startled badly at the contact. A quick glance sidelong revealed the warning on his father's face - keep up the act, glass-sharp eyes said wordlessly, or else.
Reluctantly Sherlock looked back to Dr Morris. What was the appropriate reaction, then...? Smile, he supposed. The forced upturn of his mouth felt painfully fake and hollow but the doctor seemed to accept it regardless, beaming back with a friendly tilt of his head.
After a short pause the man stood up, tucked his manilla envelope into a briefcase, and held out a hand towards the Holmes patriarch.
"Suppose that'll be all, then," he said genially. "Give us a ring if anything seems to be going wrong."
"Much obliged for your prompt assistance," Siger offered politely. He moved away from his son to escort Dr Morris to the hall. The instant the adults' backs were turned on him Sherlock let the false smile drop from his face. Ducked his head and went back to picking at his splint instead, thin body hunched low on his stool. Hated his life. Hated the world. Hated his dad. Hate hate hate. Impotent and useless, this silent storm of loathing, nothing but a buzz of static chasing vengeful little circles round his skull. It wasn't as if he could realistically do anything about the sorry state of his existence, after all. But anger felt better than emptiness so he kept on fuelling the flames til his whole chest grew tight and hot with rage. He was a collapsing star of pointless fury. One day he'd go super-nova and take the whole planet out with him.
Across the room Siger had shut the door on their guest. He stood silent for a brief moment before turning back around, his face now smoothed back into its usual glacial mask. Sherlock eyed him warily. Couldn't recall having done anything egregiously wrong in the last few hours - nothing that would beget severe punishment in any case - but then one could never be sure. Rules often changed without warning; new codes of conduct could spring up overnight, taking him unawares. Only safe course was to always assume he'd cocked up somehow. That way the inevitable failures could never blindside him.
"Well then," Siger remarked casually. Bland, very near sarcastic... clearly didn't intend to elaborate any further. Sherlock sat frozen in the subsequent silence. Sodding hell, what did that mean? 'Well then, you're in a shitload of trouble...? Well then, I'd best just kill you now? Well then, I suppose I'll go have a bath?' No, had to be something awful. Some mistake Sherlock had missed. He clutched his injured wrist tightly enough to be painful and braced himself for imminent disaster.
Distressingly, though, Siger didn't look the least bit annoyed. Instead of speaking again he wandered over to the window, glanced out over the grounds with a slight roll of his shoulder, then looked back to Sherlock with his eyebrows raised. Completely meaningless expression; not the slightest fit to context. Sherlock tried not to respond with a look of confusion but of course his facial muscles shifted of their own accord.
"No?" Siger asked. Mercifully he dropped back into his usual impassive mask. "Still getting the hang of that one, then."
Should just keep quiet, Sherlock determined. Less likely to get himself in trouble. Don't say a word don't say a word don't say-
"What were you trying for?" He grit his teeth against his own traitorous tongue. Goddamn it. Forced the look of frustration off his face - the hell was wrong with him? Why couldn't he ever seem to control what his stupid body did? Bloody christ it was like he was hardwired to subvert himself at every turn.
Well, at least Father didn't look angry. Not that that necessarily meant much. Siger often hid savage fury behind a placid mask.
The man shrugged and waved a hand. "Bland exasperation, I suppose."
"Oh." Sherlock glanced away, then remembered he was supposed to look at people when he spoke to them and dragged his gaze back upwards. Hated meeting anyone directly eye-to-eye - made his stomach flip and his shoulders hunch like a curling hedgehog - so he focused on his father's nose instead. Easier to deal with, less likely to short-circuit his thought processes. "I think you need to move your mouth as well. Erm... sir."
Was this a proper-manners conversation or a get-away-with-being-informal-for-no-discernible-reason conversation? Sherlock had no idea. Better safe than sorry. Siger looked vaguely amused rather than annoyed by the lapse in respect, however, so... informal, then. Apparently.
"So tell me, child." Siger tilted his head a bit and flashed one of his utterly soulless smiles. "Was it worth the price?"
Sherlock knew exactly what the man was referring to (obvious, had to be yesterday's debacle) but for some inscrutable reason his stupid mouth decided to make him look like an idiot instead.
"Was what worth the price?"
Siger snorted very slightly to himself. With deliberate, unhurried ease he reached into the left pocket of his crisp black slacks and drew out a ten pound note. A tangled bolt of raw stabbing emotion shot through Sherlock's chest at the sight - guilt and embarrassment and fright and a creeping sense of self-loathing.
For all Siger's subtle ineptitude when it came to mimicking appropriate reactions he was nevertheless something of a master at reading them on the faces of others, and so caught Sherlock's inner conflict easily. The man's mouth edged upwards in a very slight smirk as he glanced down to study the money in his hand.
"Enough for, what, a single pack?" he asked in a casual voice. Sherlock froze in a flash of terror - oh no oh christ how did he know about the-!? Siger looked back up and met his son's eyes with a (meaningful, this time) lift of one eyebrow. "Really now, child. It's been nearly six months since you picked up your little smoking habit. You can't have honestly thought I wouldn't notice."
Sherlock, mercifully, said nothing. His brain had sputtered out in a mantra of ohshitohshitohshit, leaving him with little room for anything resembling cognition, let alone the concept of speech. Siger raised his other hand to fold the banknote neatly in half and strode calmly over to his rather obviously panicking son. A pause while they stared each other down - cornered anxiety to hollow emptiness - and with absolutely no pomp whatsoever Siger dropped the ten pound note into Sherlock's lap.
"Your mistake was making the decision to steal from me," Siger explained in a bored monotone. "As for the cigarettes themselves, I couldn't care less. Your personal health is your own to destroy as you see fit. However, now that you've proven yourself incapable of exercising self-restraint in regards to your chosen vice, I will be enacting severe reprisal if I find you've resumed the habit within these walls."
Sherlock's heart was thumping faster than a cornered rabbit's - had to be verging on a damned fibrillation by now - but he managed to keep his expression mostly stoic (belied by the ashen pallor of his face, of course, but there was nothing to be done about that). Siger began to hum a sonorous, dirgelike tune to himself and resumed his leisurely stroll toward the room's exit.
"Oh! Yes." Siger stopped as if struck with an afterthought, pausing with his hand on the doorframe. "Your brother's been in touch, I suppose you might care to know. Seems he won't be making it back for the holidays. Just the three of us this year, then, hm? Assuming Violet's in any mood to grace us with her presence."
A disturbing imitation of a smile (to which Sherlock responded by staring wide-eyed like a spooked deer) and then with a flippant parting wave Siger was gone. Headed for his study, by the sound of his footsteps. Still, just to be safe Sherlock remained frozen in place for at least a minute more. Never quite sure if he'd been dismissed to do as he liked or just left to suffocate on his own adrenaline until Siger showed up again to tell him off for having dared to move.
Seconds ticked by, however, and it soon became apparent Sherlock had been granted implicit permission to leave. A maid had glanced into the room, spotted him, and bustled away again. Cleaning staff wouldn't be passing through if Siger had indicated plans to return to this wing any time soon. Shakily Sherlock slid off the stool he'd been perched on and made his way upstairs, ears straining for any sign of his Father. His heart refused to slow down so much as a tick until he'd safely sequestered himself behind the antique skeleton lock of his bedroom door, folded his gangly legs to sit in a curled-up ball in a chair by the desk.
His computer was still on - bulky monitor balanced precariously beside the permanently-open PC tower he'd taken to tinkering around inside whenever he got bored enough to wonder how exactly the thing worked. Mycroft had been the one to get it for him; a birthday present last year, ostensibly for the facilitation of schoolwork. Sherlock had pretended not to care. Then he'd secretly spent a solid week figuring out how to research facts on the internet without alerting his parents to his overuse of the manor's sole cable connection, finally got the whole system working perfectly, and passed every subsequent spare second engrossed with his newfound wealth of knowledge. The entire concept of hacking had proven particularly interesting. Enough so, in fact, that the eventual implications of having an entire worldwide network of secrets to unravel had led him to briefly consider actually thanking Mycroft for his gift like a giddy child with a new toy.
Discarded the notion immediately, of course. Absurd, sentimental, useless. Mycroft would only scoff and tell him to stop being dramatic, like the man always did when Sherlock made the mistake of expressing anything resembling emotion towards him, so what would be the point?
As if reacting to the content of his thoughts the e-mail client on his browser made a sudden, obnoxious bell-chiming noise, a notice popping up in the corner alerting him to a new message from his brother. He frowned into his knees and reluctantly extricated his good arm from the tight ball he'd curled into to click the link to his inbox.
His frown only deepened as he skimmed over the glowing words. Sherlock, terribly sorry, won't be able to make the trip back home this year, Cambridge, government, piles of work, natter natter blah blah blah, excuses upon excuses. Sherlock drew his arm back to his chest and for several long seconds simply sat there glaring venomously at the screen.
A thousand possible replies composed themselves in his brain. Each one rang just as stupid and hollow and useless as the one before it. There was no acceptable way to convey exactly why he needed Mycroft home for the holidays - couldn't bring himself to admit that the protection afforded by his brother's presence was the only thing that could make family gatherings feel halfway safe, didn't want to invite the possibility of Mycroft telling him off for being melodramatic should he attempt to blame Father for the broken wrist, definitely had no intention of mentioning the whole smoking issue nor of getting caught stealing money to sustain the habit...
No, it would be best to just say nothing. Ignore the message. Use the mental space to figure out how best to go about his holidays with as little interaction with his parents as possible whilst resigning himself to another two weeks of borderline-panic whenever he came within ten metres of Father. Wouldn't last forever, he reminded himself - just a fortnight. He'd survive. Then of course he'd be packed off back to school, where he could trade in fear of his father for fear of his classmates instead, which wasn't ideal but also not nearly so bad as home. Because, yes, granted there were loads more arseholes to run from at Eton but at least he was smarter than everyone there, could usually duck out of danger well before getting ganged up on. Nothing like the futile exercise of trying to outwit Siger Holmes in the man's own house.
Didn't matter. Whatever happened in the coming weeks... Sherlock would bloody well handle it. Just had to rely on his wits to keep out of danger like he'd always done. Complaining about his brother's absence wouldn't do anything but make him seem a whingeing, over-dramatic brat, so he simply wouldn't deign to bring the topic up. Clear a plan as any.
He huffed a flat sigh to himself. So it was down to the silent treatment, then. Ignore the message, refuse to acknowledge his brother's existence. Fine. Mycroft deserved it. Sherlock scowled into his knees, then slouched down to press his forehead against them instead in an angry, miserable sulk.
Two seconds hadn't passed before a sudden, savage bolt of fury shot through him, and without really meaning to he'd extracted his good arm again, found the keyboard, hit the 'reply' button on the e-mail client in a mad flurry of indignant clicking. One-handed he laboriously typed out a long, rambling run-on collection of all the worst expletives, swear words, lewd remarks and insults a decade of reading through every single book in the manor's library could possibly dredge up. French, German, Latin... on and on until he'd quite run out of languages to properly express the knot of vicious fire in his chest.
The message stretched out to fill nearly half a page, packed full of random profanity in nearly a dozen different tongues. He hit 'send' in a savage click of the mouse then flopped back into his chair with a furious snarling huff of a noise.
Fuck Mycroft. Him and his sodding work. All this important government bullshit. Sherlock hoped the git got sacked his first day for being too much of a fat whale to squeeze through the office doors. Bastard.
In a fit of pointless rage his gaze dropped to the splint against his stomach; he tried for some asinine reason to clench the fingers of his broken arm into a fist. A shock of white-hot pain raced up the bone like lightning and he immediately gave up on the action. Shit, okay, no... not a good idea. (Why had he even-? Bloody idiot.) The throbbing ache he'd been successfully managing to ignore up til now seemed to worm its way deep into his brain; splintering knives up the entirety of his arm, radiating out to the surrounding muscles and good christ make it stop.
With a grimacing wince he went instinctively for his trouser pocket in search of the thin cardboard box he'd so quickly learnt to rely on. Of course it wasn't there. Sherlock may have been the absolute king of moronic, impulsive, monumentally poor decisions but even he wasn't stupid enough to carry a pack of fags around in the house whilst Father was home. One would have to be actively suicidal to even contemplate such a thing.
Though, really... in terms of self-preservation Sherlock supposed he couldn't very well count himself an exemplar of the concept. Maybe he was suicidal. Or self-destructive at the very least. Nicking ten pounds off Siger had been a pretty sound guarantee of violent retribution, after all, and yet he'd still given it a go. Ended up with the money in the end, too, somehow. So... honestly it hadn't been all bad, had it? Ten quid richer if one arm short. Decent enough odds. Gave him options.
He glanced down as he tugged the tenner out of the trouser pocket he'd stuffed it into, stared at the visage of the Queen smiling serenely up at him. Could go buy a new pack. Just had to sneak out of the house, walk the mile or so to the nearby town, fool the shop boy into selling to him underage like he'd done during summer hols. Idiotically reckless to break more rules so soon after being reprimanded... but, hell, he was in for the long-haul anyways, wasn't he? Better to be murdered with a brain comfortably benumbed by nicotine than try to force himself through both tobacco withdrawal and a bout of extended co-habitation with Siger all in one horrific go. There was really no other plausible way to survive the holiday. Not without Mycroft's company, at least. Not alone.
Twenty minutes (and several harrowingly close calls with creaking stairs) later Sherlock was ducking out the back garden in the safe embrace of mid-afternoon shadows, broken wrist tucked carefully against his abdomen. Keeping to the cover of trees and buildings he jogged quickly for the short stretch of woods which separated his family's grounds from their far-off neighbours. A stolen ten-pound note sat heavy in his pocket, the fake ID he'd forged ages ago tucked up beside it.
Miles away, the inbox of one M. Holmes received an e-mail.
Get fucked, was the entirety of the opening greeting, followed by an impressive litany of insults.
With an exasperated sigh Mycroft deleted the message.
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