Title: Erasure
Rating: R (see warnings)
Summary: AU John was once a slave, bought to watch over Sherlock in his adolescence. He is drafted into the war, and Sherlock erases him from his memory. Years later, John still remembers that little boy and is determined to make him remember, no matter what the cost.
Warnings: Slavery, basic mistreatment of human-like entities, mentions of quasi-cannibalism, allusions to child abuse, drug use, later sexual situations, monsters.
Other Thoughts: Lots of lycanthropy-like happenstance in this here story. Basically an excuse to write a bitter love story.
Chapter One: The Beginning
There once was a boy and his pet
Bought so his mother would not fret
They played with each other
Cared for one another
Till the pet went to war, and the boy chose to forget
The little blond boy had always been there, a loyal companion who never left his side. As far back as Sherlock could remember, he had been there. His first real memory outside of the haze of snippets from infancy was that of being introduced to his childhood friend. He had been napping, only three and a half years old, in the study, fallen asleep trying to decipher the big books his brother was always reading. Sherlock knew how to read of course, just some the words were large and didn't make much sense.
He had been awoken to his mother and older brother, both as serious as ever. Mycroft may have only been eleven, but he was already just like their Mummy. Between them was a boy, older than Sherlock yet younger than his brother, blond haired and blue eyed. He could be any other child but the thin deep blue mark starting from the back of his hairline, swirling behind his ear and down his neck, disappearing into his ratty shirt said otherwise.
Sherlock had seen the illustrations and listened to the stories Mycroft would read to him when their Mummy was too busy. Even at that age, he was obsessed with idea of the drevin, the tamed beast-humans who in the light of the moons turned into the most interesting of creatures. He'd never seen one before until now, and he could recall being shocked by how small the person was. He had always assumed they were all big scary adults, not nervous wide-eyed children.
"Sherlock, this is your new friend. He will watch you, protect you, and keep you safe. Mycroft's getting older now and will go to school soon, so this one," she put a hand on the boy's shoulders, who flinched at the contact, "will be your companion." Sherlock had stood up at that, going to stand in front of the sheepish boy. He pressed a finger to the newcomer's nose and smiled.
"Oh, what's your name?"
"I-" the boy started, but Mummy tightened her grip on him and stared him down.
"Quiet." She snapped at him. "Its whatever you want it to be, sweetie." She cooed to Sherlock. He considered this, his little mind whirring at all the wonderful possibilities to call his new friend.
"I'll call you Pet. Cause that's what you are. My pet." Sherlock declared proudly. The boy began to frown just a little, but hid it quickly.
"Now Sherlock, surely you can give him a better name." Mycroft pleaded, always encouraging his rambunctious brother to be more proper.
"No. I want him to be Pet." He snapped, and grabbed the boy's hand. "Come on, Pet. Let's go look around the garden." And with that, he dragged the boy out of the study and the house, eager to play with his new drevin. He showed him the garden, the stables, the fountain, the front gate, and even the house before dinner, in which he demanded Pet eat right next to him. Mummy didn't allow him at the table, and Pet had to sit upon the floor next to Sherlock seat, but he was glad all the same.
It took the boy a while, but soon he accepted the name and his new role. Sherlock had been going to meet him in the kitchen to beg for some sweets from the cook when he saw Pet talking to one of the serving girls. He stayed back, watching, thrilled at the secrecy of his position.
"Hullo. And who are you?" She had asked sweetly.
"I'm Sherlock's watcher." He answered, the words having been branded on his tongue by Mummy.
"Oh, and what's your name, love?"
"My name… my name is Pet." He said dutifully, proudly, posture straight and face set in determination. Sherlock had been ecstatic, rushing up to him and embracing him, crying 'you said it! You said it!'. He couldn't have been happier. He dragged his pet to the kitchens were he demanded the cake from the earlier evening, saying his friend needed a reward and to be fattened up.
It wasn't long before Sherlock began to request that no one call Pet his name, except for himself. Pet was his, and no one else's. The staff and his Mummy and Mycroft obliged, naming the boy 'drevin', or 'child', or even 'velfitz', (as that was what kind of drevin he was); anything but 'Pet'. Satisfied, Sherlock continued to call him such, feeling as brilliant as any three and a half year old could.
The two were inseparable, attached at the hip at all times of the day. Sherlock, with his boundless energy, would drag Pet all over the grounds and the mansion, exploring and adventuring as the days passed and they grew older. At night, Pet would sleep with him, curled around him in a protective position, ever patient for Sherlock's nightly wiggling and snuffling. The younger boy used to sleep with Mycroft, but since the elder Holmes had his studies to attend to, Sherlock was more than happy to rest upon his pet.
Sherlock taught his Pet to read; explaining that he was to read Sherlock exciting stories and fairy tales, and when Sherlock gained a tutor at the age of four, he insisted Pet attended his study sessions. Mummy wasn't quite happy with that, and said that the drevin do no schoolwork. Sherlock argued and threw a fit over it, insisting Pet needed to study too. Mummy was adamant, and Mycroft agreed, though his took his brother aside and wiped his angry tears, whispering in his ear that he just needed to be creative. Thus, Sherlock began to tutor Pet in the things he learned.
Sherlock showed him science and mathematics, basic chemistry and history. Pet ate it up, glad to learn, eager for the chance. Any other circumstance, he would never have been taught any of this, but Sherlock's enthusiastic and impatient teachings were better than nothing. He may not have been as brilliant or clever as his younger counterpart, but Pet was dedicated and thorough, and Sherlock more than enjoyed relating the knowledge he had gained each night.
Time passed so easily with Pet around to watch and to laugh with. He loved the days where it was just him and Sherlock, when Mummy and Mycroft were out of the house, and the two could play and adventure. Pet was perfect then; sturdy, reliable, feeding into Sherlock's imagination with the right words. He was never afraid to tell the younger to stop his actions, or to argue with his decisions. They would spend hours just talking about the world, Pet always chatting about the other drevins and where he was from and how they saw the world. Sherlock listened with rapt attention, ever amazed at the mysticism of their culture and powers.
It was terrible when Mummy was around. Pet shut down, tense and anxious, never muttering more than a 'yes ma'am' or a 'no ma'am'. Sometimes, she took him away for an hour or two, and when they got back, Pet wouldn't let him touch him. Sometimes, he would find bruises forming on the other boy's skin, and it would take Pet a day or two to start acting normal again. Sherlock would poke him and whine, asking why he was being quiet and where they would go.
Pet never said, and it took Sherlock another year to figure it out. It made him feel strange. He didn't know if it was anger or sadness but he didn't like it, definitely disliking that Mummy would do such things to his pet. Instead of a pointless confrontation, he buried the feelings when Mummy was around by bothering her, asking as many questions and jabbering as pointlessly as he could to keep her from paying attention to Pet.
Mycroft was better, praising Pet at every chance and encouraging their companionship. He would even defend the poor boy when Mummy found something wrong with his behavior. Pet appreciated it, and looked to awe in the elder Holmes, especially when he slipped the drevin extra nibbles from the kitchens.
"Can't have you wasting away." He told Pet once, with a wink, pressing half a loaf of bread into his shaking hands. "Sherlock would be most put out." Pet offered Sherlock some, but he declined. In fact, Sherlock had stopped eating as much himself, saving half of his meals for Pet, constantly worried that other boy might just fade into the floorboards. Pet's own portions were miniscule compared to Sherlock's, and he hated that. Pet never asked for more, but Sherlock was always slipping him as much as possible behind Mummy's watchful eye.
It continued like that for years, their childhood a series of adventures across the grounds, others just more serious than the fake ones. There was a time when they snuck out of the gates when Sherlock was seven, and went to the small pond just outside of the property. They took a thick board of wood and attempted to sail on it, though it sunk under their combined weight, as Sherlock had insisted the whole way there. Instead, spirits not in the least dampened, they put it half on shore, half in the water, and acted as though their ship had run aground.
"I want to be a pirate." Sherlock had said suddenly, dipping his feet in the water and watching Pet catch small amphibians, at the younger's request.
"We already are." Was his answer.
"No, for real. Sail around the seas, stealing other people's treasure. You could come with. Be a pirate too." He gasped at the thought, daydreaming.
"I don't want to be a pirate." Pet said quietly, giving up on his hunt and sitting next to Sherlock with his chin resting on his knees.
"Oh, well, what do you want to be?" Pet never talked about his future, only gave a sad smile when Sherlock asked.
"I don't know." His voice was quiet.
"Do you want to be a doctor? You always look though Mummy's medical books when we are in the study, and you like fixing me up when I get hurt." Pet was surprised, and amazed. Sherlock felt himself beam. Pet always liked hearing him deduced, liked it when he observed people's life stories in the way they moved or held themselves.
"Yes. I would."
"Well, then you can be a doctor on my ship!" Sherlock declared, and they spent the rest of the afternoon pillaging ships and bandaging the wounded. Pet never mentioned his wish again, but Sherlock never forgot. He made a point to remember everything Pet said or did, keeping it in a small tucked in corner of his brain to think about during his lessons and 'alone study time'.
Life continued, as it does, Sherlock forgetting pirates and becoming enamored at solving mysteries while Pet was growing bigger and taller, small tufts of hair beginning to sprout on his slightly pointed ears. Mummy warned that he would have to leave soon. He was a drevin, after all, and needed training to control his other sides. He would begin his transformations soon, and the first were dangerous and terrible. Pet was to be sent away until he could control them properly. Mummy told Sherlock he was going to preparatory school in just a few weeks anyhow, and shouldn't miss his pet in favor of his classes.
"I don't want you to go." Sherlock had told Pet one week before their departure; Pet going to the camps, and Sherlock to school. "Who's going to listen to me when I deduce someone's history? Who am I going to talk to about my experiments?"
"You'll make new friends, I imagine." Pet said bitterly. He had been grumpy as of late, his adult teeth beginning to grow in and the rage of his instincts boiling just beneath the surface.
"I don't know how." Sherlock had, in fact, only had one friend in his life, and that one had been bought for him. "Come with me."
"I can't, Sherlock. I might hurt you. I won't be able to control myself."
"Then learn to! Learn to, and then come back to me. We'll run away, and you'll be a doctor, and I'll solve mysteries, but we'll be together, okay?" He was begging, crying. Sherlock was only eleven, and could never understand why his pet had to leave him.
"I will." Pet promised, pulling him into a hug without missing a beat. "I will." They stayed like that until the maids called them in for dinner, and for the next six days, they barely let each other go.
Pet left on the sixth night, Sherlock waving him goodbye until the taxi was well out of sight. Mycroft came up to him, attempted to soothe his angry soul, yet Sherlock brushed him off. Instead, he stomped up to his room, and slept alone for the first time in eight years, head on Pet's pillow instead of his.
Years began to pass, but this time, Sherlock wanted them to. The other students hated him, with his quick mouth and observing eyes, how he could make even the robust boy burst into tears with a few well said phrases. The facility disliked him more, for he outwitted all of his teachers and had a knack for filling the chemistry room with noxious gases and spilling acid upon the tables. They couldn't make him leave, for Mummy had invested too much into the school already, and so he was stuck, miserable and bored until the summer months when he would spend hours just by the gates, waiting.
Pet never came back, Mummy always saying he still wasn't ready to whenever Sherlock asked. He knew she was lying, and demanded to go see him, but she merely scoffed and said it was out of the question.
"The dirty little hovel of the camps? Please, who would want to visit those? He was a slave, Sherlock. Find something else to obsess over." This only incensed her son more, imagining his pet stuck in some awful tent with no food or warmth. He knew this wasn't completely so; he had read as much as he could on drevin life. It wasn't much better either. Drevin training camps had little money in them, and even less space.
The shock came when he was eighteen, impatient and bored as ever, the little mysteries around him long since solved. He knew which teacher was shagging who, where all of the funding went that was supposed to go to the arts, and had even solved a long forgotten murder. It was trivial now. Sherlock had happened upon some cocaine after blackmailing some of the other students for it, and it sat neatly in his sock drawer, taunting him. He reached for it often, though the imagined disappointed look on Pet's face kept him from actually using it, but it was there just in case.
Mycroft appeared one night, grim and serious, well into his own political career.
"What do you want?" Sherlock had snapped, trying to glare him out of his room. He had been reading, peacefully, he might add, since one of the teachers threatened that if he left school grounds again, there would be a severe lack of chemistry lab visits in his near future.
"I've come to talk to you about your… your friend." Mycroft began, shifting. Sherlock was on his feet immediately.
"What? Is he coming back?" He was hopeful, delighted, but that washed away with Mycroft's expression. "What's happened? Where is he?"
"He's been drafted, Sherlock." He felt his stomach drop, and his throat tighten. Drevin drafted into the army were run down like dogs, very, very few ever making it back home in one piece. His pet was as good as gone, shot down on the front line like a mutt or used until he dropped dead of exhaustion. "I'm sorry."
"I-" He felt the knot in his throat worsen. He didn't want to believe it, but why would Mycroft come all this way to lie to him? It would've been easier just to say he was dead. Mycroft pulled him close, and held him just for a bit, though Sherlock didn't return the gesture.
That night, when Mycroft left, he caved, taking a dose of the cocaine, and lay half-delirious upon his bed. He allowed himself that one evening, to mourn his friend and to remember as much as he could, tears streaming down his face. In the wee hours of the morning, exhausted and sober, he erased Pet from his mind, let those memories and data fall away into nothingness to be replaced by meaningless things. It was easier than the alternative.
Miles upon miles away, in an arid foreign land, a young man named John Watson fought tooth and nail to earn his rights. To earn his way back to that little, brilliant boy he had promised to find again all those years ago.
Author's Note: New story. Have a vague idea where its going. Would love to hear people's thoughts.