His Own Heart Laughed
Chapter 2: The Past
The light seemed not to come from any one point. Instead, it permeated from every corner, wall, and window in the room. Sherlock threw his arm over his eyes, as just closing them was not enough to diminish the brightness.
After several moments of his phone blaring its alarm, all noise suddenly cut off. Sherlock hazarded to peek through the crook of his elbow and was relieved to see the light had dimmed considerably. In its stead, though, surrounded by a soft corona of white, was a boy who couldn't have been older than twelve. He stood with a disinterested look on his oh-so-familiar face.
It was his shoes, though, that Sherlock fixated on. Those shoes that had ended up playing not one, but two significant roles in his cases over the years. The white sneakers looked the same as they had two years previously when Jim Moriarty placed them ceremonially on the floor of 221C Baker Street. But now they were on a glowing set of feet
"Carl Powers?" Sherlock asked, "Are you the 'spirit' who is going to save my immortal soul or whatever the goal of this tedious exercise is?"
Carl shrugged a bit sullenly, digging in his pocket and fishing something out. "I guess. Can we get going?"
Nonplussed, Sherlock stared at the schoolboy. "Go… where?"
The spirit took his time unwrapping a bright pink block of gum, shoving it in his mouth and giving it several introductory chomps before he deigned to reply. "Out there," and he pointed through the lounge window.
The light from the small table lamp and the soft glow emanating from Carl made it impossible to see anything but black beyond their faint reflections in the glass.
Sherlock was really quite proud that he remained patient, breathing deeply before saying, "Yes, I gathered that, but where out there?"
Carl's eye roll was impressive, to say the least. "If you'd stop talking and just come with me, you'd find out. Gor, you're going to be an exhausting one, I can already tell."
Sherlock thought this was pretty rich, coming from someone who was currently trying to blow a bubble roughly the size of his own head with his fruity smelling gum. And how a ghost's gum could even emit a scent was something Sherlock would have to puzzle out later.
Deciding he had apparently turned over a new leaf in the patience department, Sherlock stood and walked to the set of hooks hanging by Molly's front door. Donning the banged up leather jacket he'd taken to wearing, he reached for the doorknob when a throat clearing caught his attention.
Carl was ready to go, too. Unfortunately, he was standing at the now-open window, clambering up on to the sill. He accomplished this all while staring expectantly at the older man, and without popping that blasted bubble.
"I've had enough long drops to last me, thanks," Sherlock said. "I'll take the stairs."
The bubble popped loudly. Carl set about licking up all of the gum that had stuck to a wide perimeter around his mouth. "Just take my hand and you'll be fine. Trust me."
"I could point out that I have no reason to trust you, since this the first time we've actually met. Instead I will just remind myself with frequency and alacrity that none of this is real. So lead on, Carl."
The instant Sherlock placed his hand in Carl's, he felt like he was falling, quite a long way and at a great speed. He only hoped he survived the impact when he landed. If he landed, as he was not seeing any bottom to this drop.
"I hope this hallucination doesn't result in me harming myself," Sherlock shouted over the wind, which seemed to be a dull roar all around them as they fell.
Carl only rolled his eyes again.
And then, just as suddenly as the two started their fall, they stopped. Sherlock noted he was still in the same midstride position that he'd been in when he'd reached for the ghost's hand in Molly's flat.
They most certainly were not in her flat anymore, though. Instead, they were in a very familiar sitting room. One Sherlock hadn't been in in many, many years.
Suddenly nervous, he spun round to look accusingly at Carl, but the ghost was too busy playing on a Gameboy to notice the recriminating expression on Sherlock's face.
Before Sherlock could say anything, the door to the room opened, and a lovely woman strode in. She was in her forties, but her hair was still a dark, mink brown with only a few shots of silver noticeable in the light coming from a warm fireplace in the room.
Outside, a quiet snow fell, and the darkening sky cast a blue hue on the fields and hedgerows that made up the landscape beyond the house.
Already, Sherlock knew what day this was. He still spent considerable swaths of time trying to delete it, to no avail.
"Mother…" Sherlock began, surprised that the woman had yet to acknowledge the two strangers standing in her sitting room.
"She can't hear you," Carl muttered, grimacing at something on his Gameboy screen, "Or see you. We're like shadows, or not even that because she'd probably freak out if she saw disembodied human shadows moving about. We're like ghosts," (at this Carl gave an amused snort at his own wittiness).
Sherlock was too busy watching his mother moving about the room (even walking through him once, which was disconcerting, to say the least) to defend her—she was far too sophisticated to "freak out."
He felt a low level of dread as the woman finally spoke.
"Boys, Sig, let's get started," she called out to the house at large.
The sounds of feet hurrying down stairs thundered over their heads and down into the foyer, and two young boys soon entered the room. Following close on their heels was a man to whom Sherlock had not spoken in fifteen years.
Just the sight of Siger Holmes was enough to make Sherlock feel like he was once again his twelve-year-old self, the self who was at the moment pulling out his violin, quietly resining his bow as he listened to his mother and older brother talk.
Sherlock's father sat down in one of the two armchairs in front of the hearth, quirking an impatient brow at his family. Dear old Dad, always in a hurry, Sherlock thought bitterly to himself. Siger and Sherlock had had an argument earlier that afternoon that ended with Sherlock storming off, and clearly Siger was not in the mood to spend much more time in his family's company.
His father finally spoke, drawing the eyes of the others in the room back to him.
"My petal, shall we begin? I'm trying to get some work done before our guests arrive."
Sherlock's mother immediately sat in the other chair and looked expectantly at the young Mycroft and Sherlock.
"What would you like to hear, Mummy?" The then-eighteen-year-old Mycroft queried.
He sat down at an impressive piano, and Sherlock's younger self walked over to stand in front of it, violin already poised on his shoulder as they watched Violet Holmes ponder Mycroft's question.
"Hmm, I am feeling sentimental. Let's hear Vivaldi's 'L'Inverno.'"
The boys glanced at each other, smirking over the fact that they'd practiced only that piece. Mycroft counted aloud, and Sherlock began playing. The piece was easy enough to perform somewhat mindlessly, particularly for two boys who'd been placed in music lessons at a very young age.
It had long been a family tradition for the boys to perform a miniature recital for their parents on Christmas day. This year was no different than the ones before. But Sherlock knew it was very, very different from all years to come.
To their mother's and father's bafflement, the brothers had surpassed any and all of their schoolmates' intelligence, both ranking at genius levels, and they often made a game of deducing what their parents would say or do before the older Holmes and even made up their own minds. While Siger and Violet Vernet Holmes were plenty smart, they often looked at Mycroft and Sherlock and wondered, "Where did you two come from?"
But they'd been raised in an affectionate, if somewhat demanding household. Their father had always been a bit more distant than their rather effusive mother, but he'd still been proud of his sons and their accomplishments even at such a young age.
Which was why his rather impatient sigh mid-movement distracted twelve-year-old Sherlock enough that he stopped playing.
"Is there a problem, Father?"
"Nothing, my boy. Carry on. I'm just distracted with work."
The younger Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he watched his mother reach over and give his father's hand a comforting pat. Even has Mycroft tried to start up where they'd so unceremoniously left off, his little brother seemed to run out of his own patience.
"Really, Father, work? I didn't realize writing letters to another woman, telling her that you're ready to leave us and run off with her was a paid past-time these days. I guess they've been teaching me all of the wrong things at school."
Silence.
Sherlock's mother's smile froze on her face. She was used to the somewhat tactless personality of her younger son, but this was above and beyond anything he'd ever spouted before.
"Siger," Violet turned to her husband, who was staring impassively at Sherlock, "What's he talking about?"
Shaking himself out of whatever stupor he'd been thrown into, Siger managed a weak smile. "I-I'm not sure, my dear. You know how fanciful Sherlock can be, and he's already mad at me. Please, don't believe a word he's saying."
Fanciful was certainly not an adjective ever used to describe Sherlock before this moment, but his mother clearly was hoping she could just nod along with whatever his father said.
Mycroft spoke quickly, "Then that's settled. Sherlock, maybe we should cut our performance short today?"
Sherlock wanted to shout out to his younger self to take the social cues being offered to him and quit talking. Clearly he had sewn the seeds of doubt in Violet Holmes' mind. Couldn't he be satisfied that she was beginning to know; trust that she would eventually make a damning discovery on her own?
Couldn't he have tried for some kindness to his mother?
But the boy was not to be deterred.
"Oh, so I have just imagined the hushed phone conversations, the long business dinners that you are always attending, is that is it, Father? Maybe I'm just imagining the fact that today you reek of hotel soap, even though the only 'trip' you've taken was that two-hour jaunt with the dogs. Whom I found still in their kennels down in the stables, by the way, while you were gone. Then there's the fact that your most recent credit card statements show several purchases at some rather high end jewelry stores, yet the only gifts you gave Mummy today were some new trousers and jumper sets. She's starting to show her age, so it must be time for a newer model. But yes, you're right. I'm just being fanciful."
He set his violin and bow down on the piano with a defiant snap. But the young boy could even see himself that this time he'd gone too far. In his spite over his father's behavior that night, he had, with one deft blow, shattered his mother's comfortable cocoon. As he'd spoken, Sherlock had been sure what he was saying was for the best—he'd showed his father that he wasn't duping anyone and at the same time rescued his mother from a life of ignorant bliss.
"Oh, Sherlock." The look she gave him was eloquent in its misery. The younger Sherlock seemed to come back to himself only then, blinking as he watched his mother stand and quietly leave the room.
"Look what you've done!" his father snarled as he, too, sprang up and ran after Sherlock's mother.
Mycroft sat contemplatively at the piano, neither moving to leave his spot, nor to play anything, though his long fingers stroked the keys. He seemed to debate with himself before he finally spoke to his brother.
"That could have been handled better. She'd have figured it out in her own time, and not as coldly as the way you just put it."
"You knew?" He wheeled around to look at Mycroft accusingly.
"Sherlock, we may outsmart our parents on several levels, but that doesn't mean we are their keepers.
The younger boy jerked himself back to stare impassively at the fire.
"She deserved to know."
"Yes, but she didn't deserve to be treated the way you just treated her. For all our father's faults, she loves him."
The flames danced and spat in the hearth. Shouted voices echoed through the house.
"Then she's a fool."
Sherlock watched as his younger self continued to stare at the fire and Mycroft stood, making his own silent exit.
"That was when you decided once and for all never to waste your time on love, sentiment and affection."
Sherlock started, looking down to Carl, whom he'd all but forgotten. The spirit wasn't looking at him, but instead continued to watch the young boy who remained still as he watched the fire.
"I was coming slowly to the realization that nothing good could ever come of those things, but yes, that was the final nail in the coffin."
Carl finally turned to look at the elder Sherlock. "And your mother, where is she now?"
"She lives over in Lille. She married local man there close to ten years ago."
"And even though she had her heart broken by Siger Holmes, is she happy now?"
"Yes. Or she says she is."
Carl spared one more glance at the lonely boy before holding out his hand to his adult counterpart.
"Come. We still have a lot to see."
Sherlock decided he really disliked Carl's method of travel. Once the strange vertigo ceased, he turned an accusing eye on the ghost but Carl was too busy taking in their surroundings to notice. Curiosity got the better of Sherlock and he peered around, too.
It was a clean but slightly shabby lounge, occupied by a large settee, a couple of smaller chairs, bookshelves, and a cheerfully twinkling tree in the corner. A few vestiges of excitedly torn wrapping paper lingered around the tree, telling Sherlock that it was once again Christmas day, though he couldn't place what year.
Just as he was about to point out that he had no idea whose sitting room they currently occupied, so what point could Carl have in showing him this, he noticed a little girl kneeling at a low table in front of the sofa. She was frowning down at a book, clearly not liking whatever it was she was reading.
Sherlock wandered around to look over her shoulder, still marveling at this strange invisibility. She was reading a book called Fish, and as far as he could see, it just seemed to have pictures and descriptions of various aquaria. Nothing too offensive, there.
The little girl looked up from the book as a balding man entered the room, gingerly carrying two mugs of cocoa. He carefully set one down in front of the girl before seating himself on the sofa.
"Now be sure to blow on that, Molly-Doll. It's quite hot and you don't want a burnt tongue."
Of course, this was Molly Hooper. Sherlock was surprised he'd had to be told. The thick, brown hair on her head was pulled back into plaited pigtails. It was the exact same shade as the little girl's adult version, who'd never been the type to go for dyes or highlights. But even if the hair hadn't confirmed it, he felt he should have known from her brown eyes. She was little for her age even then, but those eyes of hers nearly swallowed the rest of her face.
This version of Molly couldn't have been more than six-years-old, and Sherlock was surprised to find that he was genuinely curious to see what she'd been like as a child.
"Daddy," the little girl spoke for the fist time, still looking with some consternation down on her book. "this book you gave me today. It says in here that a molly is a fish. A really ugly fish. Was I named for a fish?"
Solemnly, he replied, "Yes. You finally know my secret. I was in a pet store when your mummy told me we were going to have you. I decided it would be good luck to name you after the first fish I saw. You're lucky the molly was the one, because you came this close to being called 'Guppy.'"
At her look of abject horror, Molly's father gave a hearty laugh, but stopped when he saw the glare his young daughter was shooting his way. "Surely I've told you why we called you 'Molly?'"
She shook her head.
He held out his arms and she clambered up onto his lap.
"Your mummy wanted a little girl more than anything. She said she would be happy with a boy, and she really would have been. But she wasn't very good at hiding the fact that a baby girl was what she decided she was going to have. When we were out in the shops, I'd see her looking at all the baby clothes, even though we weren't nearly ready to start buying them, and more often than not she could be found looking at little dresses and frilly pink things.
"Then your mum got sick, and we found out you were going to come earlier than we'd expected. She knew she was ill, but that was nothing compared to how excited she was that we were about to meet you. And just before you were born, she turned to me, she smiled, and said, 'Molly. Her name is Molly.'
"And then your cries filled the room, and I was holding you in my arms, and you were our perfect Molly. And even though we lost your mummy that night, she was never anything but happy. She held you and kissed you, and she even sang you a lullaby." He rested his cheek against his daughter's soft hair and murmured, "I know it's hard to see all of your schoolmates with mums of their own, but I want you to know that your mummy loved you enough for an entire lifetime in that short time you two had together."
The little girl sat quietly in her father's lap, weaving her small fingers through his much larger ones.
"Happy Christmas, Daddy."
"Happy Christmas, my sweet girl."
Sherlock could only look on, for some reason feeling an inevitable helplessness that he couldn't quite identify. He started when Carl spoke for the first time.
"He was a hard-working man; he only had GSCE levels, but he worked two jobs so that he could send his daughter to university. His coworkers always commented that it was rare to see a parent as proud of his child as Peter Hooper was of Molly. She could have grown up to be an over-coddled princess, but as you well know, she has never been anything but fastidious, bright, and kind, and she learned that from her father."
Sherlock could only nod, for some reason not trusting his voice.
"Let's go. We have another Christmas with these two to visit."
The sterile smell of a hospital was one that Sherlock usually found comforting (or as comforting as Sherlock Holmes found anything). But as he looked around at a white hallway that some hospital staff had tried to make festive with tinsel and paper snowflakes, he couldn't find that same groundedness that he usually felt when he was in his milieu. Perhaps it was because he had a feeling of premonition over what he was about to see.
A movement out of the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he turned to see an adult Molly walking down the hallway. Sherlock initially thought that this Molly was quite close in age to her real-life counterpart, but he then realized that she was twenty-years-old at most, and the aging was a result of her looking rather haggard. Dark purple rings of exhaustion bruised the skin under her eyes, and her complexion had a grey, ashy pallor to it.
Just as she reached Sherlock, she turned into the room whose door he'd been standing in front of. Carl followed her with Sherlock bringing up the tail end.
The room the entered was a standard NHS hospital room, but all of its beds were empty, save for one.
Peter Hooper was a much-changed man from the last memory. Where he'd previously been robust and hearty, a gaunt, sickly figure took his place. But he still beamed at Molly as she pulled a chair up to his bedside.
"Hello, Sweetheart. Did you get something to eat?"
"Yes, Dad. They had a whole Christmas spread down in the cafeteria."
Sherlock could tell just by looking at her that she had only pushed whatever food she'd gotten around on her plate before throwing it out uneaten.
"Are you sure you couldn't eat something yourself?" she asked
Molly's father shook his head, his breath wheezing a bit at the movement.
"I'm really not hungry. Gasping for a some ice chips, though. I hate to ask since you've only just sat down, but do you think you could get some for me?"
"Of course," she replied, immediately standing and rushing out of the room.
And the change in Peter Hooper was instant. Where a happy smile had been on his face before, a pained look took over his face.
While Sherlock was not given to flights of fancy, he could have sworn that that expression was not the result of physical pain, but rather of acute sadness.
It was just as Molly had said. And that sadness was almost too raw for Sherlock to see. Because he knew that sad look on Peter's face was not borne of self-pity, but rather for the daughter he was going to leave behind. Alone.
Peter fiddled with the blankets that covered him, the frown never wavering.
Sherlock glanced to the window that looked out into the hallway. There, framed by red, glittery tinsel, stood Molly, a cup clutched in her hand as she stared in at her father. She seemed to gather a rallying breath of air, and then she walked back to the door. By the time she reached its frame, her father was once again smiling, a look of true happiness just for seeing his daughter.
She rolled a tray over to his bedside and set the cup down easily within his reach before returning to her own hard, plastic chair.
"What would you like to do, Dad? Shall I read to you? I brought some of those awful spy novels you're so fond of. Or we could watch some telly. There's bound to be something cheesy and Christmassy on."
But even as she spoke, her father was shaking his head.
"I'd rather just talk, if that's alright. Have you gotten the results for your winter exams yet?"
"Yes," she responded, a pleased flush warming her cheeks slightly, "top marks on them all."
"Well, of course you got top marks. What were you expecting? You worked hard enough for them, anything else would have been ridiculous. That busy brain of yours worries too much."
Molly smiled faintly, taking Peter's hand.
"So says the man who raised me that way."
"Ha! I merely encouraged you. How could I know you were a born over-achiever?"
"As they say, Dad, it takes one to know one."
They smiled warmly at each other, Molly running her thumb back and forth over her father's fingers.
Still smiling, but more gently, Peter turned his hands around so that his fingers were laced with his daughter's, he spoke again. "My darling, I think I am probably going to go tonight."
Molly froze, then opened her mouth—whether to deny the inevitable or to beg, Sherlock couldn't tell. But her father continued before she could speak.
"No, no, listen to me, please. I want you to know that I am so proud of you, and I will always be proud of you. And I need to ask something of you. You and I are all each other has had for twenty years now. I know it was lonely sometimes with just your old dad for company. But what makes you beautiful, my Molly, is that your heart is so big. And while I imagine you're in for some lonelier times once I'm gone, I only ask that someday you find someone to love. Who loves you. Because you deserve all the love in the world."
Peter cleared his throat as he looked at his silently weeping daughter.
"I don't have much reason to be sad. I've had such a wonderful life, and I got to see you grow into the smart, beautiful woman that you are. But I have sometimes had the worry that you have a tendency to put your own life on hold to care for me, even before I got sick. And I can only feel relief that maybe this will be a turning point for you.
"You're brave and strong, and so good And anyone who doesn't realize this isn't worth your time. So please promise me that you will let your real life begin soon, that you'll be happy."
Molly was not able to contain the sobbing gasps of air as she wept, as she clutched her father's hand, her knuckles white. "I could be all of those things so much more easily if I had you, Dad. Please, please, don't leave me."
"But that's my point. I won't be leaving you, if you can keep that promise. I'll be that pride you feel for yourself for everything you accomplish, and I'll be that warmth you feel when you fall in love and are happy. That's how I mean to stay with you forever."
Undone, Molly simply lowered her forehead to rest it on the back of Peter's hand, as her tears continued to fall.
Her father stroked his free hand repeatedly over her hair, tirelessly.
Finally, Molly's crying stopped. She took another bracing breath before straightening and giving a watery smile to her father. "Happy Christmas, Daddy."
"Happy Christmas, my sweet girl."
They sat quietly for a long time. Eventually, Peter drifted off into an exhausted sleep, his daughter's hand still in his. His breath was even and deep only briefly before it slowly began to come less frequently. And then, finally, it stopped all together.
Molly didn't weep again. She lifted herself out of her chair and sat on her father's bed, leaning forward to press a kiss to his forehead.
Sherlock became aware of activity around him as a doctor and nurses entered the room. Until that moment, he hadn't even noticed the flat-lining heart monitor that must have alerted them.
Clearly, they had advanced directives from Peter Hooper, as no attempt at resuscitation was made. A time of death was called, and the various machines that surrounded his bed were turned off.
And all the while, Sherlock watched Molly. She looked… empty. It was a keening grief, so palpable for its quietness that he almost couldn't bear to see it. For all of his ranting about sentiment and emotion, Sherlock wanted nothing more than to go to Molly, to offer her some comfort. He walked around the bed to where she stood. He found himself leaning down to place his lips against her temple. But where his mouth should have made contact in a kiss, it just fell through her as if she were made of smoke.
"Sherlock," Carl Powers spoke from the other side of the room, "I think it's time we left here."
"Yes. I… yes, let's go."
Sherlock found himself falling back into Molly's flat. He almost believed he was done with this draining ordeal, but then he saw Carl slouching off down to hall to Molly's room. It was only then that he noticed that certain details of his surroundings were not quite the same—a bookshelf was a few inches away from where it should be, and the books on it were different, too. Little inconsistencies.
Quickly catching up to Carl, Sherlock curiously followed him into the bedroom. A soft glowing lamp on the bedside table cast dark shadows in the corners of the room. Standing in front of her chest of drawers, which held a mirror on top, Molly was working a curling iron through her long hair. She looked at herself somewhat critically as she counted under her breath before releasing her latest curl.
This continued for a bit before she turned off the contraption and began pinning her hair up in an fancy style. Finally, she picked up a silver gift bow that she'd glued onto a clip and pinned it into her hair.
There was something too intimate in watching Molly putting makeup on her face, unaware that she had an audience. Sherlock felt like an intruder, wishing he could be anywhere else.
As soon as the blood-red color was slicked over her lips, Molly walked over to her closet, humming to herself. After she pulled a dress—the dress—out, she allowed the dressing gown that she'd been wearing to drop, leaving her clad only in a bra and knickers.
It was… unsettling.
Noticing that Carl was staring avidly, Sherlock reached over and put his hand over the boy's eyes.
"Hey, I'm older than you!"
"Doesn't matter," Sherlock said.
Carl slapped his hand away, but by that point Molly was already zipping herself into the tight-fitting dress. Once she'd slid her feet into her impossibly high heels, she once again walked over to her mirror.
When Sherlock had seen Molly dressed this way in the flesh, he'd felt that she was like a small girl playing dress-up. Now he only felt deep waves of regret as he watched her frown at her reflection before she took a deep breath, practiced a smile, and then walked out of the room.
Her two shadows followed her into her sitting room, where she was shrugging into a warm coat and gathering up a number of gifts that were scattered with scraps of ribbon and paper. She piled them in a bag and then finally picked up a shiny, red package. She bowed her head as she looked at it, fiddling with the tag, as if she couldn't decide whether to leave it on or not.
She whispered to herself, "Might as well," and carefully placed the package on the top of the gift pile. Squaring her shoulders, she walked to her front door, opened it, and flicked off the overhead light as she left.
Sherlock and Carl were left in the light cast by the small Christmas tree she'd placed by her window.
Sherlock knew where she was going. He only wished that he could stop her. He felt a bit disgusted as he recalled how he'd hurt her. As he remembered the events of that night, her dying father's last request echoed in his head.
He wasn't good like Molly.
He treated her horribly and said all the wrong things.
He most certainly fell in the ranks of the undeserving that Peter Hooper had mentioned.
And yet, she'd chosen him. Why?
"Carl, I… I can't watch any more. I think I'd like to be done now."
"Okay."
A feeling of falling, and Sherlock opened his eyes to find he was lying on Molly's sofa, alone but for the ticking of the clock.
He closed his eyes again, and remembered far too much.
He was startled out of his reverie by the mobile's blaring alarm
Author's Note: Holy long update, Batman! I really hope nobody's eyes glazed over as they read that.
The next chapter shouldn't be as long. At least in theory, considering I'm still trying to figure out how I'm going to do it… *hysterical giggle*
Thank you so much to everyone who reviewed, favorited, and followed. It really means a lot to me!
Once again, sorry for the length!
