Most sincerely, I am yet uncertain of where this is going. It grew by itself and took shape within my mind before I could even process its first intentions. It made me sketch and it made me dribble; soon enough I had a plot bunny, a chapter written and a whole universe nesting into my imagination. I can't quite describe what the story is meant to unfold later on, so I'll refrain from trying any further and just allow myself to say it's about Holmes - little Holmes, actually. And what I believe (in my own interpretation, obviously) to have shaped his childhood. There will be original characters all along, for very little we know about Holmes' past, really; recreating it all would invariably require some making up of my own. But I strongly hope all such characters are acceptable and believable from the start.
I won't put up any serious warnings for now, though I would like to say it addresses depression, psychological disorders and sheer loneliness quite a bit. It's not precisely angsty, I think (or hope - and I could be wrong, wouldn't be surprised if I were), but not a happy romance, that's for sure.
Also, it's canon based, although it's still merely a personal interpretation. Don't take it too seriously and please do not be offended if the image I try to create is not the very same you would (or the great Sherlockians would, for that matter). It is not my intention.
Last but not least: English is not my first language and, for so, I am bound to make mistakes (although I dread it so very much). Yet I have a very deep admiration for the English Grammar and I do try my best to never offend its rules. If there's any typo or poorly built sentence at sight, please let me know. I'd like to improve, as much as I possibly can. I had not yet allowed myself to publicly post any of my Sherlock Holmes fanfiction, so this is a scary moment of self-confrontation and I want to make the best of it.
I
Strong and cold, so very cold, were those little hands wrapped around her finger. Bold and demanding, they were. Somehow scarily masterful, for such a tiny pair. Filled with both dread and a striking amount of loneliness - after being robbed of their warm, gentle nest, and forced into a gigantic space of cold nothingness. Bitter air flooding its lungs, blinding lights burning its tiny eyelids. How could it not scream and weep in despair? Clenching its small fists tightly and clinging to any sort of human warmth that came into its reach.
No clue did it have of the dread that overtook that slender finger and its entire body frame as one of said desperate little hands circled round it. Nothing yet could it see of the shaken expression, the quivering lips, the widening hazel eyes staring at the tiny creature that cried so soundly on her arms. Not the first time it was that she had held such a small fruit of her own blood. Seven years before she had done the very same. But then, those widening hazel eyes had fallen on broad, rather round little shoulders and bulky, rather lazy little hands.
None of that bold strength of grasp or that bony pair of arms - no, neither of those were familiar. Never could she have expected that tiny, thin and frail little thing that was now begging for her motherly care. What a frightening sight it was; such a helpless baby. Strong and masterful, but so very helpless in its confusion. So very awkward and helpless in its confusion.
A heavy and harsh-skinned hand suddenly fell upon her shoulder and it was all she could do to quickly untangle from the frightening grasp of the baby and wipe those pathetic streaks of tears that forced their way down her cheekbones. How pitiful! Crying like a little girl, scared to the bones for something so small and harmless. Yet she could not help herself. Her teeth were grinding, but still she could not help herself. Something nameless and overbearing was flooding her loins, was clouding her senses. Weak, it was. So very weak, succumbing to such an emotional disorder. That was not she. No, it couldn't possibly be she. Not the self-composed, rational mind of a woman that stood so tall for her pride and dignity.
No failed attempt at smiling she made - of what use would it be? Such a pointless lie. No. Emotionless she remained, majestically sat on the mattress, despite the red, swollen eyes and the unmistakable stains of shredded tears. Not once did she turn to face the tall figure whose hand was still weighting her down. She was already certain of what she would find on that distant, self-absorbed face of a man. And she could not take it. Not quite yet.
"I will ask for the nurse," the grave, rather stern, male voice echoed for a little while on her ears. Nothing did she say in return - merely nodding and wiping her hand once more against wet cheeks. Persistent were those tears, no matter how harshly she loathed them and loathed them. For a long while still they'd keep on rolling down, against both will and necessity. But no one round that pitiful image of a woman would dare utter a word about it. Not again would they take such dangerous risk.
As soon as the helpless thing was carried off of her arms, an enormous strike of relief overtook her senses. A few more drops of salty tears would make their way down her chin, but soon enough her eyes would finally turn dry. Dry and composed, just as it should be.
The few remainings of those twenty-four hours went by torturously slow. And not an inch did she move from where she sat, majestic still, face towards the large windows. The sun rolled down behind the rooftops and the sky changed from blue to pink to red to purple - until it faded colourless and the black shadows covered the entire city, making room only for the little star drops and the misty shine of the moon. All this she watched safely from behind the glass, from among her sheets - away from the frightening living creature she had so desperately handed to the nurse. Every now and then an intruder would inquire about her health, would ask if they could be of any assistance. Harshly she would send them away, one by one. Solitude - it was presently the only medicine for the illness that was slowly consuming her usually strong self. Now what a pathetic broken thing she had manifested into. It was unbearable.
Down fell her eyelids, pressing tightly against each other as two very cold womanly hands dove into her mass of hair. A beautiful, thick, black mass, it was. The most exquisite feminine streaks of hair: delicate and strong, soft and plentiful - what a pride it brought, such magnificent hair. And what a perfect match for her features. Not a particularly beautiful complexion, really; yet somehow the bony chin, the perfectly shaped lips and the soft drops of pink on her cheeks couldn't possibly go without the rather harsh nose, the heavy brow line and the arresting little hazel eyes underneath them - constantly distant, eternally unreachable. A strange mix of delicacy and determination. Precisely like her hair.
But where had such pride gone? How could it abandon her on such desperate a moment? How dare it leave and not even apologise, making her weak and mournful - again! It was not acceptable. Not for that helpless little thing of a baby. She could still recall, seven years earlier, those ridiculous medical words that shook her ground. "I am afraid she might be facing some sort of postpartum depression, sir." Depression! How dare he - depression! She was not a weak-minded creature like those pitiful women - no! She was not one to succumb to emotions - never! She merely didn't want to touch the thing - to touch that tiny, wrinkled little thing that was crying and crying and driving her out of her mind. She did not hate it. She would not even hurt it. And she was not crying herself - she wasn't! Those weren't her hands shaking! Her hands were steady and beautiful and determined. How dare he say otherwise!
Yet she could shout and protest all she wanted, he'd merely stare at her, eyes full of something utterly painful to acknowledge. Something violently offensive to her pride, something kind of nature but enraging all the same: something close to pity.
How ashamed she had felt. How terribly ashamed she had felt. She the successful, the aspiring, the strong-willed had failed as a mother. Never would she bear such weakness. Never would she oblige to what said doctor prescribed her. And every dawn she would force herself to enter its room and face its little cradle - so small and so tender a cradle. She'd take the bulky creature into her arms and not once would she admit to tremble. But no more than a few minutes could she stand it - before the terror took hold of everything. Then to the open arms of the nurse it would go and out the door ran the mother. Longing for solitude, eager to forget.
What a blow it had been to find out it would happen again. After painfully dealing with that little burden for seven long years - silently keeping her distance, secretly avoiding all contact - it would happen again. Another baby would fall upon her arms and what could she do but pretend to embrace it? What could she do but fake indifference? What could she do but silently wait and strongly restrain her tears? Dry and composed, always.
All gone to waste. Those long-suffering eight months of labor - no conditions she had to bear the ninth; and when the baby came at last, to cease the torture of anticipation, it brought along the very same terror, the very same shivers, the very same weakness from seven years before. Worse still - it brought an anxiety even stronger. There was something quite amiss about this cold-handed baby. She knew for certain, she had no doubts - something was not quite right.
...
Once she reopened her eyes, there was an orange flame lighting the room. A single candlestick silently placed upon the bedstead. She had seen no one and had heard no voices. Yet the candle was lit and its fiery glimmer brightened her miserable eyes. "All the better," she thought. For it was solitude she wanted - the only medicine for the illness that was slowly consuming her usually strong self.
"I shall keep my distance," she silently uttered to the empty space, crossing her delicate hands on her lap. "I shall keep my distance and I shall not touch it anymore. I shall not see it anymore. It will be safe on the hands of the nursery maids and I needn't interfere. I needn't torture myself no more. For I cannot stand to fall weak and helpless over so little a thing twice. I don't deserve such shame. And it does not deserve such burden."
So it was set. And so it was made. For the frail, bony, helpless little thing was bound to grow without a mother - Sherlock Holmes was bound to know what loneliness actually meant.