Full Summary:
John Watson has never been loved. Orphaned a few months after his birth, he falls into the hands of relatives that see him as no more than a burden. After spending his educative years at Lowood Institution, where he fell in love and learned about grief, he waits for his initiation into the Seminary, and while he waits, he finds a position as a tutor for a young ward at Bakersfield Hall, where he meets Sherlock Holmes, and nothing is ever the same.
It's been over 15 years since Sherlock Holmes was betrayed by his father and his brother Mycroft, condemning him to a lifetime of misery for which he has never forgiven them. Then, on a chanced visit to his estate, he collides with John Watson, his ward's tutor, and Bakersfield Hall no longer feels like a prison.
A retelling of Jane Eyre.
Author's Notes:
First off, I have to explain a few things about this story before anyone takes on the dubious task of reading it. This is a BBCSherlock/Jane Eyre crossover. I can't remember now why my mind made the connection between the two but maybe the further I go into the story the more it will make sense. It just felt the characters paralleled in many ways.
As for my feeble attempts to pay homage to Charlotte Brontë (sounds better than "stealing", of the smash-and-grab variety). I can only hope it'll live up to your standards since it would never live up to hers. I have to warn you though. Sherlock will not enter into the story for a while but when he does he will shake everything up just as the real Mr. Rochester did for Jane. Also, this story will not feature ANY coming out struggles or "Secret Homosexuality" themes to it. Their relationship will be explained further ahead in an interesting way I've never seen employed before but is actually based on reality and has only been stretched to be AUish in that it is no longer practiced in the 1800s' and that's all the hints I'm going to give you guys : ) . Also, and this comment will make much more sense further ahead, A.C. Doyle was a brilliant writer but was shit for keeping people's backgrounds and even names straight but I won't say more until we get further ahead so as not to give anything away. Any location written '-shire' is deliberately written that way because Charlotte Brontë never put down any locations so neither shall I. I wrote the first chapter in Present tense for a reason but I am now even more convinced not to continue doing so for further chapters. It's SO difficult to keep up. Oh, and one last thing. There are going to be LOTS of Johns in this story but it'll be easy to keep up with who is who. You'll see.
Enjoy!
I would like to ask you to observe me, keeping a sharp eye to my faults, looking at them dispassionately and to view me without bias.
I am 10 years of age, born on July 7th 1829. I have blond hair, average facial features, strong chin, boring mouth, deep blue eyes that possess a colour that would not be amiss if you were to stare into deep ocean waters (or so I've been told by Bessie, the maid, for I have never seen the ocean, although, to be fair, neither has she I think). I am not too intelligent, nor bright, nor witty, nor handsome. I am slim from lack of exercise (having no other children about to play with). I am passionate, though that has been affirmed by other quarters, who have thrown that character trait at me time and time again as if it were a fault, which it might very well be, if it is to inhabit the character of a 10 year old child.
I am John Watson and I live in Gateshead Hall, -shire. This is not my home, to be sure. It is the home of my aunt, Mrs. Sarah Reed, in whose hands I was placed, much like the whole of the Reed estate, at the death of my uncle, the Late Mr. Reed. I was told he entrusted me to her safekeeping on his deathbed, a task she has begrudgingly undertaken.
You'll be surprised to hear, following my former statement of having no other children to play with, that the Reeds have three offspring:
John, 16, is a desolate soul who takes no greater pleasure than when causing someone, or something, pain, be it physical or emotional. He is my main tormentor and the reason I am never called by my true given name for there can't be two Johns within one household. Though it would be easy to blame him for the mistreatment I suffer at the hands of my elders, their ill opinion of me brought about by me being blamed for all things wicked that have happened in Gateshead Hall, happenings that were mostly perpetrated by him. Whether it be hand prints on the furniture, dropped objects made to break, stolen items, and at one point, for a while, the death of small critters around the estate: Chickens, small wild birds and even pets belonging to our neighbouring tenants. I say it would be easy to blame all my harsh treatment brought about by the ill opinion these actions laid upon me if I were the perpetrator, but I am not surrounded by the simple minded and my guilt could have easily been explained away by simple investigation if there was such desire in my benefactress to carry out any such investigation. For I can assure you I was quite blameless on almost all accounts except a few broken items which I did at one point or another, through a child's ill care, break, and was made to feel as to have broken an oath made with heaven's seat. I have never been told, not once, what my crime is and was made to suppose my very birth had been the crime I am to pay for.
Eliza, 10, is a plain, spiteful and self-interested girl. Calculating, barren of all sympathy towards others, she would become the perfect hermit; an unfeeling article who does not smile unless it is inspired by her own conniving nature. Avaricious to the last, she sees the world, the things in it and the people inhabiting it, by the degree of comfort and security they can provide her. I am not suggesting that she is incapable of feeling, for she does sometimes falter, but she has made it a mission from a young age to rein in any emotion other than satisfaction, I suppose, because of the weakness she sees in emotion and attachment.
Georgiana, 13, is a lazy, made much of, spoiled kind of girl and the perfect flirt; she would make anyone who is stupid the perfect wife. From early age she aspired to get my attention and devotion, not because she wanted it, for she does not see me in any way her equal or a worthy match of course, but because she felt she deserves devotion, from all boys, and I assume, this will eventually include all men.
Though I give an account of these children in very harsh tones, I would give anything to be allowed to socialize with them at my leisure, for childhood is a very lonely time in a person's life. And yet I am not allowed to do so, for I have an "ardent and passionate soul and stance; a wicked disposition, which might infect the other children and must not be allowed to be transmitted to them." Mrs. Reed demands I shed my intractable character before I am allowed to play with her own children. On most days that is more than acceptable but a great house becomes a coffin after a while when the only kind voice you ever expect to hear is your own, which unfortunately led me to sometimes desire my cousins' company, dull, joyless and sometimes dangerous as that desire might be . For my physical comfort I have my own closet, with a small bed which I have outgrown but dare not complain about and I have access to the nursery when the other children do not use it. My standing in the house is comparable to that of a child to one of the household staff and I was made to feel it keenly, that my presence there was only at the mercy of my aunt and I was made to believe that that fact should compel me to bear any treatment by her hands and the hands of her vile brood.
We gave up on taking a walk on the grounds today, the rain chasing us inside. I followed them all the way to the house for I am to walk at least 10 feet behind them. We all planned to seek our own diversions as soon as we passed the doors, the deafening noise of the rain drops hitting the many glass surfaces facing out, echoing the chatter of our teeth. Georgiana will most likely take herself to her vanity and primp till she becomes too tired and frustrated by trying to eke out whatever beauty she can from herself that isn't already there. Eliza will go to her account books and check, once again, what the total of her earnings are for that week. She takes a pride in earning from the tenants that live closest to Gateshead Hall small sums by selling them the eggs their own chickens have laid but which she has collected. An activity that has been encouraged by my aunt, in both Eliza and her imposed upon tenants. Young master Reed… his choice of activity I could never guess. When causing misery is your favourite pastime, there are infinite avenues for delight and you are never to be bored if you have enough imagination. As to John's imagination, the aforementioned subject is the only one in which he shows any promise. In all others he is dull.
I recognize the mood in which he is in and thought better than to remain within his sight. I take myself to Uncle Reed's library and grab a copy of 'Ornithology in the West Indies', looking forward to be delighted rather more by image than by information. I sit myself down in the larger of the two windows found in that room, which faces the direction of the rain, the wind carrying it on its back to dash it against the glass, the constant pounding serving as a reminder to my earlier disappointment. I enjoy walking, even more so in the company of my cousins because, and I must stress this again, as loathsome as they are in my eyes, my loneliness has made me seek their company in spite of my revulsion and when we walk together it makes it easier for me to imagine I am one of the party. With rich drapery on my right protecting me from all the world that inhabits Gateshead Hall and glass on my left protecting me but not helping me forget of the rain, I sit down to affix my mind on bright colours and the imagined sound of birds I would never see.
And yet I cannot. My mind is elsewhere.
Once you learn to live with fear you can't shake it off for it doesn't leave you, but it also stops interfering with your activities, mainly because all you do or plan to do is shaped around that fear; like a piece of pottery you intend to mould around something else you mean to encase within. So when Young Master Reed made his way into the library with his sisters, I was only surprised he had managed to persuade them to leave their preferred activities to join his, rather than at the fact that I was to be his chosen victim.
His mind is slow so he does not think to check for me in the window seat even though he has found me sitting here often enough. It takes him several minutes before he puts the numbers together and so decides to approach slowly, no doubt to linger my suspense and discomfort. At last he draws the heavy silk and looks down at me:
"THIEF!" he yells, snatching the book from my hands.
"What have I stolen?" I retort in my meekest voice, for I ascertain it to be the best way to placate him.
"You have stolen a book which belongs to me, Jonah." For, I may remind you, I am never to be called John by the inhabitants of Gateshead Hall.
"It belongs to Uncle Reed."
"Not anymore, it does not!"
"How can you speak so coolly of your dear father's death?" I answered, before I spared a moment's thought to what was the content of my statement.
"Insolent child!" and here he strikes me with a blow to the temple so strong, the book's sharp edges draw blood. He smiles triumphantly in an assured manner, convinced my spirit to be too docile to strike back. Yesterday he would have been right but it seems eight years, three months, 20 days and three (for he started to torment me at the age of no more than two) were enough to break into the place true rage resides in me and indeed resides in all of us, no matter how submissive we might be in our everyday bearing. Years of neglect had done their work. Take care to teach your own children from this tale, if you cannot bring them to be caring and empathize with their peers, if you cannot stop them from taking delight in torment and torture, that the line must never be crossed by an oppressor, if he's smart enough to identify it. The line on which, when crossed, we all snap the lock and release blind fury that can tear away flesh with teeth and nails, the fury which has no surface that touches mercy.
I take him by surprise and jump on his chest, both my fists pounding at him all over. I scream and shout calling him a tyrant and comparing him to Caligula, about whom I read and was much scandalized by his inhumanity. His sisters, who were quietly smiling until he struck me, hurry away to fetch Bessie and Mrs. Abbott as soon as I make my attack, while Aunt Reed is called in from the drawing room only at Young Master Reed's scream of pain and not my own after being struck.
In my rage I do not pay heed to much that is being said other than what I can deduce is Aunt Reed's demand that I be put in the dreaded Red Room. I only calm my anger to replace it with horror when I am placed inside and told I'll be restrained to the chair if I don't stop trying to get away from my minders' grasp. Only Bessie shows me any sympathy at my treatment but not for long since she partakes in the opinion of the others that I am of too violent a disposition and of a passionate nature that needs to be tempered and checked. They walk briskly out and as soon as the door is locked behind them I fling myself at the door, poor, terrified creature that I am. I entreat them to show mercy to me as they have never done so before. I remind them of my uncle. I beg. I weep. I grow weaker and weaker in my supplications, knowing that if there is any chance of someone in the house showing me reprieve from the ill treatment I have unjustly, and without a reasonable explanation, been shown, it would have been done years ago by now. I calm and the room grows quiet, the light from the outside fading fast and, no doubt, my fear making the light retreat faster to leave me in darkness. This is the room no one uses. This is where Uncle Reed died and the oath was taken.
The room itself has not one feature in it to cause dread. Not one thing to make it distinguishable from any other room in other house as grand as Gateshead Hall, and yet…
I sit on the bed, my tiny legs dangling without reaching half way to the ground. I look about me slowly, taking in the dimensions of the room again and again, fearing that if I stop checking, the room will get smaller without me noticing. At once a thought comes to my mind, both just and horrifying. Oaths taken in dire conditions, such as a deathbed, could bring celestial wrath on whoever breaks it. What if Uncle Reed's soul should come back to wreak vengeance? What if he were to tear the house apart in his rage, a fury of a spirit, an anger that cannot be contained? As just and comforting as I may find that thought, not in the destruction but of my wrongs triggering such a violent response from the heavens, I am much more horrified by the prospect of being confronted, or even commiserated with and comforted by such an angry apparition.
Light dances, no doubt the moon throwing shadows, but to my eyes they are Uncle Reed come to avenge me. I run into the door insensible and knock myself out. All is Darkness.