AN: Hi all :) This is another one that kind of came out of nowhere and surprise me by heading off in a different direction than I had initially thought. It runs on a few assumptions that are clarified at the bottom, can't put them here as they may spoil the story just a smidge.
Summary: Inspired by flashback scenes in S4 'Homecoming.' Just a wider look at the events and feelings surrounding Will's ninth birthday, including an unexpected gift from a mystery source. Family/Hurt-Comfort. Will Z. Rated K. ONE-SHOT with perhaps just a few creative liberties.
A GIFT OF OF MORE THAN WORDS
The day had not been great but that had not surprised Will in the least. No-one at school had remembered it was his birthday even though he never forgot any of theirs. The promised trip to visit his Mom's grave had been shorter than expected and now his Nanna was snoozing on the couch and his Dad was off in Houston. It had started raining just after he got his homework done so even going out into the yard to practice with his new baseball bat was out of the question...not that you could really do that on your own.
When he had unwrapped his present in the morning after breakfast he had tried hard to hide his disappointment. His Dad noticed how quiet he was. "Hey kid, I'm sorry. I know you wanted tickets to go see the game but I gotta work that day." His hand came out to cup the back of Will's head. Will sighed and closed his eyes. Since his Mom had died a pat on the head or squeeze on the shoulder was the most affection his Dad ever showed him, not that that was really any different than before and Will could not quite figure out why his Dad's touch was so important to him now. "But we'll go next year, I promise Son...I'll make the time."
"Sure." Will said quietly but he did not believe him, his Dad always made promises. With that the bus pulled up outside and Will had to go, he was not exactly sorry, he did not want to hear his Dad make any more excuses for once again letting him down.
That had been the morning and now he was sitting in his room and the bat was downstairs, still half wrapped beside the kitchen table where he had left it. He did not even want to bring it up to have a closer look at it. It was not what he had wanted, he already had a perfectly good bat. He had asked for either the game tickets or a new book, he had even given his Dad a list of suggestions, useless as that would be. He knew he would not get a book as his Dad did not believe it was good for him to be sitting in reading all the time, that was probably why he had got him the bat instead, in the hope that he would go outside more. Will did not mind playing sports, in fact he really enjoyed running about and being part of a team. He just liked reading too. He sighed deeply to himself, pushed off the edge of his bed and wandered slowly over to the window. It was still raining.
Deciding to watch the patterns forming on the pane for a while he sat down on the small stool that had always been in his room. "Ouch." he muttered as his butt connected with something hard underneath the thin cushion. Getting up to investigate he found a rectangular box wrapped in paper. It was his favourite shade of blue and wrapped in what struck Will as a very precise and caring way. Carefully he fingered the edge of it wondering if it was even for him, none of his presents had ever been wrapped with this level of care. He bit his lip as he carefully peeled back the folded gift label to read the words inside, he could not help but feel a little bit hopeful that it was actually for him.
'To dearest William.'
That was all it said and Will felt his eyebrows rise slightly. He did not know anyone who called him 'William' and he did not recognise the handwriting. It was tall and scripted, almost old-fashioned and written in gold so that it made it look extra fancy. He smiled slightly at that, it made him feel kind of special. One more time he ran a finger over the smooth and shiny paper before he lifted the gift up. It was heavier than he thought it would be so he turned and sat on the stool taking it onto his knee. He could not help but notice that it was large enough to cover most of his lap when he leaned forward to readjust his position.
With a level of patience that he could only have inherited from his mother Will took his time opening the gift, picking at the top right corner first. The paper was thick and wrapped twice around what he realised was a wooden box. When he finally did get it fully unwrapped he placed the paper on the floor rather than let it drop, he wanted to keep that too. Next he turned his attention to the unusual structure of the gift he had been given. The hard, solid looking, hand-crafted box had a soft sheen and smelt slightly polished but not in a chemical way. Whatever had been used was natural, probably linseed oil, if what he could remember was right. His fingers found the two small silver hinges on one side and the neat latch on the other but before he opened it he could not resist giving the centre of it a quick knock. It echoed in a way that told him, had he not already guessed, that it was not empty, but still he did not know what was inside.
With an excited flutter Will clicked the hook on the latch and opened the lid. He gasped a little bit when he saw that it was a book inside. He shifted on his perch, adjusted his glasses with one hand and with the other he took care that the box did not fall off his knee. The book was clearly very old because it was that deep red colour that he had seen in the restricted section of the library, in the section he was too young to go into yet. He had been allowed in once to do research for a class project and had even been allowed to examine one of the first editions that were behind the glass. He remembered how fascinating it had been to hold something so old in his hands, it was almost like travelling back in time. This book looked similar and had the same golden inlay around the edges, though the gilding, as he had learned it was called, appeared to be less flaky on this book than the library one.
The cover, apart from the inlay was blank so Will gingery lifted it out to read the name on the spine. "A Study In Scarlet." he read aloud and frowned a little. He did not think he had ever heard of it. Curious he turned it back around and slowly opened the sturdy leather-topped cover page and read the title and the full author's name inside. Below the deep black print there was an inscription.
'As promised,
gifted to you without the bawdy cover.
Enjoy the mystery,
A. Conan Doyle, 1887.'
Will blinked, 1887...that was a long time ago and he was not quite sure what 'bawdy' meant but that was easy to look up. He flicked through a few pages and smiled a little to himself, it seemed like the book was in too good a condition to be as old as it said but even if it was not really from 1887 it was still a very cool present. Once again he wondered who could have left it for him. Definitely not his Dad or his Nanna and really, if he was honest, there was no-one else to give him presents. He shrugged, he did not care right now because the promised 'mystery' that lay inside the pages held more draw, he could always think about who gave it to him and why after he finished reading it.
He leaned against the window pane and just as he was about to settle in and read a few of the words here and there when more paper caught his eye in the bottom of the velvet-lined wooden box. Distractedly setting the book aside on the windowsill he took up and opened the unmarked envelope. A handwritten letter was folded up on good quality writing paper, this time address to 'Will' and contained the following:
"Dear Will,
Happy Birthday, I hope you have had a peaceful day.
I gift this to you now because I think you are old enough to understand, also I know your mother would approve. She was a dear friend of mine, a truly caring and sensitive woman with a brave and generous heart. Though you probably do not realise it yet much of her spirit resides within you. It is my wish that you should take warmth from this knowledge, especially today on this your first birthday since she has passed on.
Do not worry so much and try to take some time for yourself. I suggest you to do as the inscription says, as I once did many years ago, and 'enjoy the mystery'. You are an honest boy William and a truth-seeker, much like that of Sherlock in this story, whom you are very soon to meet. And to answer your question, yes this is a genuine, first edition copy, signed by the master himself. Cherish it for it is very dear to me, as are you.
Never allow your curiosity to fade, no matter what path life takes you on. Your intuition is the strength of who you are and it will carry you far, further than you can even begin to imagine.
Trust in yourself, work hard and try to keep happiness in your heart, for that is where the memory of your mother resides and she wished nothing more for you than to be happy in life.
Perhaps it will be that one day the fates would have us meet. Right now I cannot say for sure but in truth I can only hope for such a day.
Until such times...if they come to be, my young friend, I wish you nothing but the sweetest of dreams,
Yours in good faith,
H. xx
P.S. And Will, please try not to think too badly of your father, he cannot always be near you but he loves you dearly, as well you already know."
Will read the letter twice more before he folded if in half along the natural crease, he knew straight away he would read it over and over again, probably every single day for the rest of his life. His heart beat faster in his chest as he pulled it close to him, the person who wrote it knew his mother and clearly knew his father too, though he would never ask him about that. His Dad did not like to talk about his Mom, it made him too sad. Perhaps whoever wrote this was the person who left the flowers on her grave...maybe someday he would find out.
The signature only said 'H'. It really could stand for any name and he did not even know where to begin in trying to figure out who it was. The letter read as if he himself had never met the person but they knew him and his life very well. A little voice inside his head said it had to be a woman, mostly because of the neat wrapping and the ornate writing. He decided he would trust that voice, that was what the letter said he should do and he had no reason to do otherwise. Whomever had given him this book obviously knew what he truly wanted and had said that his Mom would have approved.
Taking a huge amount of heart from that fact Will did not want to waste another second in starting into the story that was waiting in the pages. He hopped off the stool and taking both the letter and the book he dashed over to his bed. Climbing in shoes and all he reached over and turned on his bedside light, it was starting to get dark and he did not want to have to interrupt himself once he got started. He settled himself and taking a deep breath he began to read aloud.
"Chapter one. Mr Sherlock Holmes. In the year 1878 I took my degree of Doctor of Medicine of the University of London..."
END
AN: And so begins Will's love affair with detective work and mystery. I know I took a few liberties with this one but hey, what else is fanfic for? ;)
As I said at the top this one runs on a few assumptions:
1. Will's mother worked for Magnus, that was how she just 'happened' to be there at exactly the right time.
2. Magnus kept a tighter eye in Will than any of us realised, probably borne out of guilt over what happened and possibly amplified by empathy over the loss of her own mother. (That is another assumption, no-one knows what happened to Helen's mother)
and...
3. Probably a little more sinisterly: The creepy, arrogant but annoyingly intuitive Mr Addison was spot on when he said Will was 'tailor made', although Magnus probably did not realise just how much she was directing the boy's life (in this scenario).
Anyhoo. Please, please tell me what you think of this one. A lot of possibilities lie within the grey lines of these character's pasts meaning pretty much anything could be made plausible with just a little imagination...especially with the events of season four and the...um...dual timeline shall we call it.