Once he knew it was safe, Sherlock stepped silently into the kitchen. A glass lay shattered on the floor, wine sprayed across the marble tile and on the bottom 's favorite novel also lay on the floor, beginning to soak up the red wetness. Everything else in the room remained undisturbed—perfect, actually, as always. Dishes away, counters smooth, no food left out. Besides the wineglass, the only indication something had occurred was the folded, quietly weeping figure of Victoria Pembroke Holmes. Even she left a great deal to the imagination; her hair and makeup were always arranged with such care, and she wore long sleeves constantly. Underneath those sleeves, however, one would find wan yellow bruises contrasted with angry indigo ones. Sherlock knew. He had seen them plenty of times.
Stooping down to pick up the book, Sherlock approached Mummy. Just before his outstretched fingers reached her dress, her sobs stopped. Her hands came away from her face to touch his.
"Oh, my book. Thank you, Brilliance."
She said it slightly absentmindedly, as though she were still under some sort of spell. When she turned to look at him, though, the spell broke and she smiled, making the black streaks on her face meander.
"Brilliance."
She always called Sherlock that.
To many, Mummy was not the friendliest woman; she tended to be brusque and somewhat blunt in her observations of others. She did not participate in the neighborhood ladies' gossip, but if she did, she would be the only source those silly women would ever need. Mummy could discern anything about anyone. Suffice to say, she remained aloof. Sherlock was the only person she showed any particular warmth to. It made him feel special.
"Daddy…" Sherlock began, but then thought better of it. They both knew what had happened, what need was there to say it out loud?
The softness in Mummy's eyes burned away into stony resolution. "Yes. Quite. Now, Brilliance, help me tidy up this mess. Mycroft is sure to bring home some study friends, and we wouldn't want them seeing this, now would we?"
Though they both knew Mycroft would do no such thing, Sherlock nodded and started to pick up the fragmented glass. He initially took care not to cut himself on the sharp edges, but his mind slipped inevitably into the sanctuary of his mind.
Most kids his age—seven and a half years—would be just naïve enough to believe their home lives were what everyone else lived, too. A child with Sherlock's background might believe all fathers beat their wives. But Sherlock knew children in families where parents tolerated, if not loved, each other. Still, everyone had secrets they hid, skeletons in their closets. Especially if Mummy was any indicator. Underneath her immaculately coiffed and poised exterior, she was an injured woman with little self-confidence. Maybe if people saw the truth, they'd change it…
"Brilliance, dear. Sherlock. You need to let go of the glass. You are bleeding."
Sherlock looked down at his fist. Blood dribbled between his fingers.