Hi, N. Cornello here :D
Previously known as WainGuy and I decided to change it...
Well, got sucked into this fandom quite willingly and I regret nothing *laughs* If anything I am allowing this new obsession to grow and flourish. I should be studying for an exam but alas I wanted this up tonight and upload it I shall! Hence the reason you are reading this *smiles*
I hope they aren't too out of character but this is an Alternate Universe (God bless, I love Au's, they are so much fun) so vioa~la~!
I hope you enjoy this story and I'd love to hear your opinion about it
Disclaimer: No profit, no money so am still broke. This is done purely for pleasure and fun!
Summary: Not always cold, not always indifferent. He once had a heart, he once cared; but to what outcome? Emotions lent him no more than what he had, and crippled him far more than he would expect. Emotions were nothing but a disadvantage. He did not need to feel. He did not want to feel.
Warning(s): Induces sadness maybe? Why don't you tell me? So I can warn the others *wink*
No Grief for the Dead
When you hold your child, someone you made with love, for the first time, something inside you changes, a spark ignites. You have been you for all your life but when you cradle that small person against your chest, wrapped in nothing but a thick blanket, a new person emerges. This person who will do whatever it takes to protect this tiny miracle and give the world to make them happy. In that span of twenty seconds, nothing is more important or more beautiful than her. She has you wrapped around her tiny finger, no effort needed at all. She is a miracle; more importantly she is your miracle.
He stared at her, his daughter, her face rosy pink and fast asleep, wrapped in a pink blanket. He stared, hands cradling her small, fragile body. He could finally hold her, after knowing for eight months and two weeks, he could hold his child and watch her without the need of machines and grainy film.
The emotions welling up in his chest were overwhelming. It continued to build up, washing and drowning him. A hand cupped his cheek and gently forced him to look away from the bundle of pink. Piercing blue eyes looked into kind green eyes, a smile on her gentle, tired face. Her thumb stroked his damp cheeks, soothing him in his storm, making it bearable.
"It's alright, luv. She's not going anywhere. We'll be there for her," she said, her eyes fixed on him.
He clutched her hand, tears pouring down his pale cheeks, his shoulders trembling. "What…" he cleared his throat. "What if she doesn't like me? What if I can't be the person she needs me to be? What if I fail?"
She shook her head fondly; she leaned forward and hugged him, pressing a kiss on his forehead. "She'll learn to love you, just like I did. And you'll be the father she needs, I'm sure of it and I'll be there to help you. We won't fail, luv."
He wrapped an arm around his wife, the other curled around their daughter and he whispered, "I… Thank you, Claire."
"Mycroft, what is it, dear brother?" Sherlock asked, his hands typing away on his laptop.
Mycroft sat down across his younger brother; his umbrella left at the door (due to the rules of the house) and placed the file on the coffee table. Sherlock stopped his typing, looked at the file before he glanced up at him. He took the file and flipped through it, his eyes flicking over the words before he snapped it shut and flung it back at the table, sighing.
"I won't do it Mycroft. Cases like this aren't my area of expertise and, anyway, these type of situations tend to get rather messy with a very bad ending."
"They are willing to pay a large sum."
"I don't need the money. We're doing fine on our own. Hire one of your men; I'm sure they would love to take something like this."
"They specifically asked for your help."
"So tell them I didn't accept. I choose which cases I take and theirs is one that I am not going to take."
Mycroft frowned. This was a high profile case and they wanted Sherlock's sharp eye for detail to get to the root of the problem. Why did he have to be so stubborn?
"Elizabeth's birthday is coming up."
Sherlock immediately straightened up, he leaned forward, his hand cupping his chin, eyes narrowed.
"What does this have to do with your case?"
Defensive but Mycroft had his attention.
"Should you take this case, you can take Elizabeth and Claire with you. You can celebrate her birthday there and have a small vacation with your family."
"A working vacation?" Sherlock frowned thoughtfully; however Mycroft could see the gears twirling in that complex mind of his. "Why not? It'll be a change of pace for Claire; you know how London can be dreadfully stifling at times. Also Beth has never been to the country much, won't this be such an adventure for her? Looking at things she hasn't seen, she'll be fascinated!" Sherlock mulled over the idea, turning it around a few times, examining the different aspects of it, but Mycroft could tell from his expression that the idea was slowly appearing more appealing by the second.
"Let me discuss this with Claire," Sherlock stood up and walked into the kitchen where Claire was tending to dinner. Mycroft waited, arms crossed and in thought. Surely the wife would be happy, possibly overjoyed, at the thought of going on holiday and spend time away from busy London.
There was soft talking, a moment of silence, and a quiet sigh before Sherlock came back, his hand messing his dark locks and said, "She says we'll agree if you make the arrangements and how are we getting there?"
"By train and consider the arrangements done. I'll inform you the date you are leaving."
Mycroft stood up, nodded at his younger brother and gathered his umbrella as he walked out the door. If only he knew what a disaster this would turn out to be he would have never given Sherlock the job.
"Daddy!"
Sherlock spun around as a small bundle of blonde, curly tresses attached herself around his leg. He smiled and ruffled his daughter's hair. "Excited are we?"
Pale blue eyes blinked up at him, a grin on her lips as she nodded. "Yeah! We're gonna ride on a train! We're gonna see horses and cows and many, many other stuff!"
Sherlock chuckled as he picked her up and swung her onto his shoulders, her small hands clinging onto his curly hair. "Oh? Are you sure we're just going to see cows and horses?"
She giggled as they walked towards Claire who was looking at them with amusement. "'Course we are! I love cows and horses so we're gonna see them when we're on the train!"
"More than your Dragon, Beth?"
She snorted and shook her head, "No I love him much, much more! I love him this much," she stretched her arms out.
Sherlock kissed Claire on the cheek and they walked onto the train, looking for their compartment. Elizabeth kept up the chatter of cows and horses and dragons ("My dragon's special! He doesn't fly away from me and he keeps me safe at night! And because you gave him to me.") until they arrived.
They made themselves comfortable. Claire taking pictures and short clips of Beth and her father as they played. She smiled, this holiday was going to be so much fun; the adventure, exploring the town with their bundle of joy dancing between them, exciting announcements in the near future.
The train left at 12 o'clock sharp and Beth scrambled onto the seat, her face and hands pressed against the window, looking at the scenery and shouting in excitement when she spotted cows and horses and sheep. Sherlock leaned back, reading his book while Claire would entertain Beth and go back to reading the travel brochures.
Halfway through the journey Sherlock felt a warm hand grip his sleeve, tugging at it and he looked away from his book to meet eyes that look so much like his own. Underneath her arm was her orange Dragon, Sir Martin, and in her other hand was her favourite storybook; what she wanted was quite obvious even to the most stupid moron out there.
He scooted over and said, "Give it here then and make yourself comfortable."
She squealed with joy and clambered onto his lap while giving him the book. She snuggled herself against him, her head tucked underneath his chin, her dragon cradled against her chest. Sherlock smiled, winking at Claire before flipping to his little girl's favourite story, Rain Babies.
He read to her, the words spoken softly, rumbling in his chest, as he told the tale with Elizabeth resting on his chest, warm and comfortable, as she listened to the story, her eyes slowly drifting close as the tale continued. It was all beautiful, perfect even.
Sherlock stopped reading, hugging his slumbering daughter and smiled at his wife of seven years. This was his paradise, his family.
It was peaceful, the sound of the train trekking over the rails as they made their way to their destination.
But they never made it.
There was a loud explosion, shocking everything and everyone on board, causing the train to sway dangerously. Sherlock held Beth against him with one hand, the other gripping the bench. She woke up, her face washed white with fear, shock and confusion splashed across her young features as she was jarred from the realm of dreams. Claire was just as white, her face a mask of terror.
Sherlock steadied himself quickly and handed Beth to her mother and he told them, "Stay put. Don't get out of this room. I'll be right back."
Beth cried out and Claire held onto her, Sherlock paused at the door and studied them for a moment and he said, "I love you both and I'll come back, I promise."
He clicked the door shut, keeping his expression perfectly smooth. His mind, however, was sprinting ahead as he made his way quickly towards the source of the outburst. An explosion hinted at several possibilities, and his mind ran through the list. One thing was for sure, an explosion meant a target, and a perpetrator. It meant a mission, a possible assassination, failure or success yet to be determined. To figure out the perpetrator, he needed to find the target. The target.
Or it could be a terrorist attack. Terrorist making a statement to the British government—
Another explosion rocked the train violently, causing it to sway hazardously, the sound and effects rippling throughout the speeding train. Sherlock was thrown against the hard wall of the hall, slamming into the door with enough force to make blotches of colour dance across his vision, making his mind dazed and breaking his train of thought.
Beth. Claire. Beth and Claire. He had to get to them now.
He pushed himself off the wall, stumbling and slamming against the couch doors as he scrambled back to his own compartment. The train continued to sway perilously as it ran over the tracks, not slowing down at all. Maybe the conductor hit his head when the first explosion sounded.
Suddenly it lurched, throwing him off balance and causing him to smash against the floor, his head hitting it with a loud thud. His vision blurred, sound drained away and the world exploded around him.
He woke to chaos; it was all loud, a multitude of sounds shrieking and screaming… It was all so disorientating. He looked around him, twisted metal, shattered glass, torn carpet and seats, it was a complete wreck.
He hauled himself up, ignoring the new aches and bleeding gashes that plagued his body. He had to find them. He had to make sure they were okay. He shakily walked forward, his leg twinging in pain every few steps but he pressed on; he had to find them, he had to get to them!
Where are they? Where are they, his mind screamed. For the first time in Sherlock's life, he came to a complete blank. Nothing, there was nothing he could do, nothing that would help him. No, his mind shouted again. It refused to give up so quickly. It was not an option, giving up was not a possibility. He squared his shoulders and cleared his mind. Pushing all emotions away, he left his soul to reason.
The floor was on his left and he was standing on a piece of wall that was attached to the carriage door, the door itself gone, so the train was on its side. He looked up and the door was hanging from its hinges, clothes and bags scattered, an elderly woman was hugging her unconscious husband, sobbing and asking him to wake. Blood was pooling around the elderly man's skull, sticking to her old, trembling hands as she cradled his head.
Further down, there were more people, some dead, other unconscious and few awake and delirious. The place was torn up, clothes, toys, glass, metal all tangled together. He stumbled onwards, holding onto the tears that littered the roof's carpeted wall. He passed families, couples and siblings; most lying there in the wreck, their skin bleeding and bones broken.
He needed to find them! Where were they? Where were Claire and Beth? Were they injured? Did they stay where he asked them to? Why was it taking so long for him to find them?
He felt reasons giving way to emotions again, and his resolve began to break once more. Flashes of Beth and Claire's faces cut their way into his thoughts; his hand began to tremble, his knees felt ready to buckle, his frame slouched against the wall. His hands gripped onto the worn carpet littered with splinters as his eyes threatened to reveal his bursting emotions. Why couldn't he find them?
He took a deep breath and hissed, his ribs were bruised, and he pushed himself off the roof wall and continued on, searching, looking, for any clue as to where he had left them.
Finally – finally! – after what felt like an eternity, he found something. It was Claire's purse, lovingly worn leather, and dark brown with a stain on the bottom left corner, splayed out on the floor, against a compartment door.
He blinked, coming to a halt. This was the place. This was where he had left them. He lurched forward and kicked the doors opened. He froze, eyes staring at the pandemonium that lay inside.
Their luggage must've opened during the crash because clothes and other necessities were strewn all over the place, shards of glass embedded into the seats and then there they were, nestled against each other, lying on the fragmented window.
In his mind, in Sherlock's mind, peace had no other image than the one before him. Mother and child embraced, amidst the ruins, left no other thought. Two realities crashed on Sherlock; they looked beautiful, like two perfect angels carved in stone. Claire's fair beauty, one that caught his eye a long time ago; was replicated in Beth, their daughter. That was one reality. However, equally pressing was the second reality, the second thought that twisted in Sherlock's mind. In that very moment, with the image fresh in his mind, he knew he lost the two most important people in his life.
He hesitantly dropped into the carriage, easing his way down and made his slowly made his way towards them. They just lay there, wrapped in each other's arms. He settled down beside them and, with a trembling hand, touched Claire's cheek. There was warmth but it was rapidly fading, slipping away as time slithered by.
His cheeks were lined with wet tears as he gathered his girls in his arms, pressing his lips against their cooling foreheads. They were gone… His two beautiful girls were gone.
More tears trickled onto his pale cheeks; he didn't even get to say goodbye. He sobbed, rocking back and forth, back and forth. I am so sorry, so very sorry, I'm so sorry I wasn't there for you at the very end.
Forgive me…
It could have been hours or days or months or years, time did not matter to him. They were gone, both of them, they had been savagely ripped away from him. He felt completely numb after hours of grieving. He had had plans… plans that would never come to achievement because they were part of those wonderful plans and now they were dead, never to open their eyes and express their love for the world to see. They were gone, that was it.
Their heat had departed from their lifeless bodies long ago, soft flesh had hardened. He had stopped rocking a long time ago as well, his hand threaded through their blonde curls.
Voices. There were voices, loud and noisy and distracting. They were calling out, their voices strong and stable, searching through the disaster that was once a train. Rescuers? He huffed, tuning them out. They were too late, much too late for some anyway.
He was exhausted, physically and emotionally; his heart aching with every beat. He sighed, his eyes drifting close. The rescuers could rescue him if they found him worth rescuing; it didn't matter. Not now anyway.
The vase shattered against the wall, glass shattered, water splattered and the flower arrangement exploded. Mycroft flinched, wide eyed. This was not a reaction he was expecting.
"Get out! Get out, get out, get out!" Sherlock yelled; eyes dark and face pale.
He picked up the water jug beside him and flung it at him, his voice rising as he continued to yell, the machines going haywire as he accused and flung objects him.
"If I hadn't taken your stupid assignment," crash, thud, bam, "we wouldn't have been in the accident! They would still be here," the machines screamed and whined, "They wouldn't be in the morgue lying on a cold slab of metal! They would still be breathing and warm and laughing and alive! It's your bloody fault!"
Mycroft could only stare at his tearful younger brother as he chucked whatever his pale hands could reach at him. He knew that his sister-in-law and niece were dead but he never would have thought Sherlock, composed, calm Sherlock, would react like this.
"Sherlock—"
"NO! I will not listen to you, dear brother," he spat, venom dripping off his words, "get out! Just get out!"
The door opened and nurses and Sherlock's doctor rushed in and someone pulled him out of the room. His brother continued to curse him, his voice warped with grief and anger and so much hate.
Mycroft shook the firm hand off his arm and walked out of the hospital. He had funeral arrangements to plan.
It was a sunny day, completely cloudless and bright and happy and oh so horrible. It was such a cheery day that it seemed as though the world was happy to see them buried.
Claire Olivia Ferguson and Elizabeth Fae Ferguson were buried; their white names a stark contrast against the black, polished stone. Side by side, together in death as they were in their final moments.
He stared at them, eyes icy and distant. They had left him, going where he could not follow. They were cold and dead while he was suffering and breathing.
No more, no more relationships, no more emotions. They were a disadvantage; they crippled him, leaving him unable to think clearly.
He brushed his gloved fingers against the cold marble stone and left. They had departed and there was no use mourning the dead.
End