Chapter 1
The sins of the father
John Watson stared out of the back window of his car, watching as the grey skies decorated the misted glass with icy drops. The heavy clouds made him feel even more enclosed and suffocated by the world around him.
It had been a long and tension filled drive to Mythwater Boarding school, with just himself and his father who had not uttered a single word to him since they had set off. Not that this was unusual behaviour for James Watson. Ever since he was born John had been hated by his father. His mother had died giving birth to him and John's father had channelled all his grief and pain into blaming him.
As a child John grew up knowing only hatred and bitterness, a child who didn't understand why he was resented by his own father, or why he did not have a mother like all the other kids at school. A child who never knew what it was like to be loved by someone unconditionally like a child should.
He did have Harry, but she wasn't around all that often and daddy worshipped the ground she walked on and ensured that she never saw the darkness that lurked behind those blue eyes or the anger which was reserved solely for John once he'd had one too many whiskeys down at the pub.
John shifted in his seat and as he did so he felt rather than saw the piercing glare of his father on him. He kept his eyes straight with a crippling determination, resolute that he was not going to make eye contact with the foul man before him. But James Watson was having none of this and he only strengthened his glare, matching John's determination. He did get it from his father after all.
"What's the matter Johnny boy?" He uttered in a malevolent whisper. "Too scared to look your own father in the eye now?"
John ground his teeth silently, clenching his fists by his side. As a child John had tried countlessly to win the affection of his father, trying desperately to be the perfect son. Just once, he wanted to make his father smile, just once. But over time his hopes of making his father proud of him had contorted into despair and the love he felt towards the man had twisted into a dark loathing.
John used to be afraid of his father. When he towered over him menacingly, when he heard the door slam late at night after a visit to the pub and as he heard his foot-steps gracing the stairs. And john would turn his face into his pillow, hoping to drown out the world and the man who was the embodiment of evil approaching him.
"Don't ignore me now Johnny." His voice had sunk to a very low and smooth whisper now. It was also a tone recognised by John to be his most dangerous. Seeing the school down the road ahead he wondered if it was best to chance it and just jump out of the car, but as his eyes flickered to the locked door on his right his father followed his gaze and let out a low, dark laugh.
"Don't be so stupid as to think that running away will help you in life." He stopped the car and twisted round in his seat, John flinched reflexively, much to the amusement of his father. "If you can take anything from me, take only this; you can never run away from what you've done Johnny. Because no matter how fast you run, your past will always be on your back. It is a part of you. Your demons make you who you are. The sooner you learn to dance with your demons and face what you have done, the better for all of us."
"And by face up to it you mean remove myself from this world like I did mum?" He shot back heatedly, chest heaving. "You know I can't do anything about that. You know I'd give anything to bring her back. Do you not think that I don't wish it was me instead of her every single day of my life? But you know what, I have blamed myself long enough. You may always believe it was my fault. That I killed her. But it was an accident, I was a baby. I had no control over what was happening. But I will say that if it's anyone's fault, if anyone had control of what was happening, it was you." he knew that would hurt. As terrible a man he was, James Watson loved John's mother more than anything. But it was that same love that had caused such hate. He was a mere shell of a man now, the anger had taken over him like a parasite feeding off the last shreds of goodness left within him.
"Get. Out." His father's eyes had suddenly darkened, the smirk on his face had fallen, morphing into a vicious glower.
"Where were you?" John shouted, suddenly feeling empowered by his fathers momentary lapse of control. "Why couldn't you save her?! She was counting on you! She trusted you! She was carrying your baby for Christ's sake! And you know what, you're right – my demons are a part of me, but do you know what else? I am a part of you."
John knew he had gone too far, knew what his father was about to do before he had even raised his fist. His hand hit John's cheek with an almighty force that caused his body to be thrown back into the seat and his head to hit the glass.
"GET. OUT." His father roared, clenching the fist he had used to hurt his son.
John, head pounding, grabbed his case and opened the car door which was now unlocked. He shuffled out with as much grace as he could, trying to remain neutral as he stepped out onto the pavement. He then closed the door slowly and without a backwards glance, began walking towards p school gates, limping slightly but not from physical trauma, no this was a different kind of wound. This was a wound to his soul, awoken by the beating which was a reminder of countless nights spent awake in fear. He swayed now and then from the blurring of his vision and pain pulsing through his veins, which magnified on reaching his heart.
But John Watson was not the type to fall apart under pressure; no, he picked himself up, dusted himself off and carried on.
Leaning against the side of a tree, on the opposite side of the road, Sherlock Holmes; a tall boy with dark curls and large, piercing blue eyes was watching as the mysterious boy hobbled down the road towards the school. Sherlock had seen everything. Heard it all too through the open window in the front seat opposite that foul man who claimed to be a father.
Sherlock wasn't the type of person to experience empathy for many people. But watching the way that the boy had stood up to this man who was obviously a very dangerous piece of work, Sherlock had seen something quite equally admirable and painful at the same time. Leaning away from the tree, eyes never leaving the peculiar boy in front of him he followed him, remaining a fair distance behind, simply observing.
