Wow, I mean, wow.
I didn't realize there would be such a response for the first chapter. Thank you very much, lovelies and keep the reviews coming. They really do help.
This chapter is a bit shorter (work, life, bleh) but I hope it is enjoyable. I'll be getting into the case for this story very soon as well as taking a stab at writing from Sherlock's POV. We'll see how that goes. :)
As always, I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.
Much love and many thanks
Oh and… JANUARY 19th equals Season 3 here in the US! WOO HOO!
Okay, now I'm done….
Chapter 2: Mood Swings
A short while later, I'm in the kitchen cutting a few pancakes into tiny bits for Hamish, who is eagerly waiting for his breakfast while tugging at my pant leg. Sherlock is in the living room, facing out the window and completely locked away in his mind. He hasn't uttered a word to me sense we came out of the bedroom. Is he mad at me? No, I don't think so. I think he's just upset with this whole nightmare situation and, in truth, as am I.
The flat was filled with the sound of Sherlock's sweet violin. A simple, melodic tune that's neither happy nor sad; it's just beautiful. I always love to hear him play. I've watched him while he's writing his own compositions or playing some of his favorite songs and there is an honest look of joy on his face. I remember the first time I heard him play; so smooth and so comforting. I was blown away by his skill, but then again Sherlock is always just full of surprises.
To be honest, I think music is the only real release Sherlock gets from the world. His brain is always working a million miles a minute trying to solve a case for Lestrade and things like, but when he's playing his music Sherlock puts all of that on hold. The only other time I've known him to set the work aside is when he's with Hamish and I; who would've guessed that Sherlock Holmes would choose a wife and child over solving crimes.
"There you are, sweetheart," I say, handing Hamish his paper plate of pancake bits, "Be careful with it now."
"I will." He replies, "Sit with Dad?"
"Hamish, what's the rule about eating in the living room?"
"But, Mummy. Music!"
A proud smile grows across my face as I look at my son's pleading eyes. He loves to watch Sherlock play; there's something about Sherlock gliding that bow across those strings that makes Hamish so mesmerized. Maybe one day, he'll want to be a musician. He has already asked me if he can have a violin just like Sherlock, but of course he's far too young.
Giving in to those adorable eyes of his, I kneel down to his level and place his plastic blue fork on his plate: "Just be careful not to spill," I say and my son's face immediately lights up.
In the blink of an eye, Hamish rushes to the living room, clutching onto the plate for dear life. I stand up and watch as he plops down at his usual spot at Sherlock's feet. Sherlock pauses his playing for a moment and looks down at his son.
"Hello there," I hear him say, "does your mother know that you're eating out here?"
"Mhm," Hamish replies, "she say it oh-tay as long I don't spill."
"Ah, I see and what is the reason you've decided to have breakfast out here instead of at the table?"
"Music, Daddy. I like your music. I like to watch."
"Well, you can't really watch properly from down there now can you. Hold onto your plate, young man."
I lean in kitchen archway and fold my arms across my chest as I happily watch my husband lift Hamish up into his arms then set him down atop the desk beside the window. Sherlock then picks up his violin and resumes playing while Hamish just looks on in awe. The sweet sound fills the flat once more and, for now, nothing seems to be wrong. Everything is as it should be.
Realizing my own hunger, I grab myself a plate of food then take a seat at the counter to continue watching my boys. As the song comes to an end, Sherlock strikes the final chord, gracefully lowers the instrument to his side then playfully bows for his son. Our son giddily claps, nearly knocking over his plate.
"Boo-tea-full." He mumbles through a mouth full of food.
"Chew your food, Hamish," Sherlock says, putting the violin away, "It's horrible manners to talk with your mouth full."
Hamish nods then takes an exaggerated swallow: "Oh-tay, I done." He declares rather proudly, "Now, up Dad. Please?"
A smirk grows across Sherlock's face and he scoops the eager toddler up into his arms. Hamish nuzzles his little head onto his father's shoulder while Sherlock gently rocks him back and forth in his arms. A warm smile grows across my face and I just watch them walk around the living room together, talking in hushed tones and sharing little secrets with one another. I catch attention to the small grunts Sherlock makes as he adjusts his hold on his son; it seems almost as if he's not strong enough to hold Hamish, which is likely. Sherlock's strength isn't what it used to be, especially after getting little amount of sleep last night.
"You're getting too big for me to hold you like this," Sherlock says, balancing Hamish on his boney hip, "It would seem your growing up too fast."
"No, you silly." Hamish replies with a giggle, "I still small. I only tree."
"You are three that's right," Sherlock agrees, walking over to the fireplace and examining his prized skull, "You turned three just a few days ago."
"Mhm," Hamish says with a nod, "Jawn came. He say I big too."
"John says that you're big? Hmm, well you were a rather large newborn if I remember correctly."
"You member?"
"Yes, I remember when you were born."
"Why?"
That's his favorite question. Most of the time it's Sherlock's least favorite word but, of course, because it's Hamish, he'll find a way to answer him.
"Because it was a very important moment for me and your mother." Sherlock replies, "People remember tend to always remember very important things such as that."
"Why?"
"Because its special to them."
Hamish furrows his little forehead in confusion for a bit then looks back at Sherlock: "I not remember dat."
"Of course, you don't remember," Sherlock replies with a chuckle, "Even if you could, young man, you wouldn't remember me being there."
"Why?"
"Well…" Sherlock pauses for a moment and I can't help but giggle to myself. Normally, if it were anyone else asking why, Sherlock would give some elaborate explanation about how a child's cognitive memory doesn't take affect until they are at least 4 years old, but sense it is his son, he settles with: "I looked very different that day, Hamish."
"Why?" our son asks again.
"Because that was a long time ago," Sherlock replies, "I was…different." His gaze then turns toward the mirror above the mantelpiece and I can see him slip deep into his mind palace. He's thinking about that time: the time in which he was dead to the world and was missing so much.
Sherlock was supposed to be dead during my pregnancy but he managed to sneak away from hunting down Moriarty's men to be in the delivery room. He was disguised as nurse with black-rimmed glasses and blonde hair; he really looked nothing like his regular self. I remember talking to him, holding his hand during the delivery and him comforting me the whole time, however, when it was done he was gone in the blink of an eye.
Sherlock has told me that he fell into deep depression after leaving the hospital. He said that he couldn't take the thought of being without his family any longer and thus drank himself to sleep that night. It's hard to think of Sherlock sinking that low, that's just not who he is. Then again, that three-year absence changed my husband even to the point where I sometimes don't really know him anymore. It's scary and hard to deal with, but we make it by.
We're going to be okay.
Won't we?
"Daddy, you doing it again." Hamish says, playfully poking Sherlock's cheek, "Hello?"
"Hmm? Oh, yes, sorry." Sherlock replies, blinking his eyes and coming back to reality, "I was just thinking for a moment. Apologizes, Hamish."
"It oh-tay," Hamish giggles, placing a kiss on his father's cheek, "I love you, Daddy."
"I love you too, young man." He replies, kissing his son's forehead, "Yes, I love you very much."
Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock finally sees me at the counter and I simply smile back at him. There's still a bit of tension between us, but neither of us wants to address it…well, I certainly don't. But that tension is quickly set aside as he gazes at me with the softest expression. My heart is suddenly all a flutter and I can feel my cheeks turn a shade of pink.
He always does this to me; he's the only one who can.
Sherlock then walks over to me and kisses the top of my head: "I love you as well, my darling." He whispers into my hair, "Truly."
"I know you do," I whisper, taking one of his hands into mine, "You're such a big softie."
"Softie?" Sherlock asks, looking at me like I'm a madwoman, "What on Earth is that suppose to mean?"
"It means that you're sentimental." I explain with a laugh, "It's not an insult."
"Sentimental? Me?" he asks, taking a seat beside me, "You do, of course, realize whom you are speaking too."
"Yes, I do." I reply, playfully nudging his arm, "and I think that despite this lean, mean, thinking machine façade you put on, Sherlock Holmes, you are a sentimental man."
"Only around you." He whispers, kissing my cheek, "Don't tell John."
I chuckle slightly then rest my head on his shoulder. Sherlock then wraps an arm around my shoulders and pulls me in close so he can rest his head atop mine. I close my eyes and just take in this moment; we don't have quiet moments like this anymore: moments when it's as if nothing in the world could break us apart. The moments when our world feels as if it's back to normal…whatever that may be.
Suddenly, there is a loud knock at the downstairs door, breaking the overall feel of the room. I open my eyes and lift my head; who could that be? More importantly why did they have to come by right now?
"That'll be John." Sherlock says, answering my unspoken questions, "This is the usual time he stops by to start Mother Henning me with all that medicine and so-called therapeutic advice."
"Don't make it sound like torture, Sherlock, he's doing his job as your doctor." I counter point, sitting up straight, "John just wants to make sure your health gets back to normal."
"God knows that venture is a lost cause," he mutters under his breath. I give off a heavy sigh and move away from him. I hate it when he says things like that; Sherlock may not care about his 'transport', but I do.
When Sherlock started falling ill because his detox, I went straight to John for help. I was so afraid that I was going to loose my husband to either the illness or the depression; It was unbearable to watch him lie in bed, moaning and twitching like that. John, being the loyal and amazing friend that he is, has been the best help I could have ever asked for: given Sherlock the proper medication, let me know and showing me what I can do in the process of my husband's recovery. Without John, I honestly don't know where we'd be now.
He also helped with Sherlock's nightmares. John is the only one my husband has told about what exactly it is that he dreams about. I don't take it personal; as I've always known, I may be Sherlock Holmes' wife, but I could never be his John Watson. John was the one to suggest that Sherlock may be suffering from Post Traumatic Stress Disorder; that's what the medication is more for now rather than the withdrawal. Even though Sherlock had told me of his hard times during his three-year absence, I foolishly never thought that that could be the reason behind his nightmares. I guess that's what makes John the professional and not me.
"Jawn here? I get it! I get it!" Hamish squeals, fidgeting in his father's hold, "Please, Daddy?"
"Alright, but please be very careful." Sherlock warns, setting Hamish down, "Stay against the wall."
"Oh-tay." And in the blink of an eye, Hamish is scurrying out of the kitchen and toward the staircase. The protective mother side of me kicking in, I start to get up but Sherlock gently pushes me to sit back down.
"Let him be," he says, pulling me back to sit in his lap, "He'll be alright."
"You say that now, but what if he falls." I protest, attempting to break free, "You know how excited he gets. What if he trips? Then we'll…" Sherlock suddenly crashes his lips against my own in a passionate kiss and it stops my sentence short. It takes me a few moments to realize what's happening but when I do, I return the gesture. He hasn't kissed me like this in, well, in forever! This is completely different then the man who was in the bedroom.
"Well," I breathe out when we break, "that…that was…unexpected."
"But enjoyable?" Sherlock teases, stealing another kiss on my cheek.
"Are you trying to get me to forgive you for that little comment you made about your health?"
"…Is it working?"
"No."
"Then I'll just have to keep trying, won't I?" Sherlock chuckles at himself and then nuzzles his forehead against mine: "What are you going to be doing for the rest of the day?" he asks in a soft voice.
"Um, I'm probably going to clean this place up," I reply, taken back by his uncharacteristic sweetness right now, "Why? What did you have in mind?"
A sly smile grows across his lips and there is sort of sparkle in his eyes: "I do believe I've taught you some skill in the science of deduction, my darling," he coos, slowly moving his hands up and under the back of my shirt, "Think."
Sherlock places a trail of kisses along the side of my neck and a chill runs up my spine. Really? He wants to? Right now? Okay, he has to be sleep deprived. That's the only explanation I can think of for this weird behavior.
"Sherlock," I say, slowly pulling away and standing up, "What…what are you doing?"
"Loving you," he replies rather matter of factly as he stands as well, "isn't it obvious?"
"Well, yes, but…is now really the time?"
Sherlock furrows his brow in confusion: "Is there something your not telling me?" he asks, "To be quite honest, darling, you're hard to read at the moment."
"Well, I…I don't know," I stutter, "I just feel like-"
"You're still upset with me." Sherlock interrupts in his signature way, "Ah, now I see. Obvious."
"No, I didn't say that, love." I say, "I'm not upset."
"Don't lie to me, Elfie." He says, sounding frustrated and annoyed, "That's what you were getting at."
"No, I wasn't."
"Yes, you were. You're still upset about last night and won't drop it until we have a discussion about it, which is frankly a huge waste of time."
"Sherlock, who said anything about last night?"
"You didn't have to; I know it's still on your mind. I'm not an idiot, Elfie Marie, nor do I appreciate being treated as such."
"Sher-"
"Am I interrupting a domestic?"
Both my husband and I turn our attention to the familiar (and always welcoming) voice of John Watson who is standing in archway with Hamish propped on his left hip. He looks the same as ever, but of course with that lovely addition of a moustache (I would've thought Mary would've made him shave that off by now). A huge relief comes over me; maybe John can talk Sherlock out of this random meltdown.
"Jawn here!" Hamish happily declares before sticking his thumb in his mouth.
"Yes, and at the right moment," Sherlock says with a sort of icy sting to his voice, "I have a headache."
"God forbid the world's only consulting detective gets a headache," John teases with a roll of his eyes, "I thought you could at least treat that yourself with out my help."
Sherlock just rolls his eyes and storms toward the living room. John looks at me and mouths 'Is everything okay?' I reply with a dismissive shake my head as I run a hand through my greasy hair. And I thought today was going to be one of his good days.
Already realizing that Sherlock is having one of his moments, John sets Hamish down and cautiously walks toward his best friend: "Seriously, Sherlock, how are you feeling today? Is everything okay?"
"Honestly, John, you just walked in the door. Spare me a few moments of your unnecessary mollycoddling!" Sherlock snaps, flaring his arms about, "I am fine! Can't you and Elfie see that I am perfectly fine? One bad night does not mean that I am going insane or getting back into drugs! I'm not insane! I am perfectly fine so just leave me the hell alone! Both of you!"
With that, Sherlock storms off down to the hall. The bedroom door slams shut and I immediately let out a heavy sigh that I wasn't aware I had been holding in. I can't take much more of this: the constant mood swings, the shouting, the anger. That's not my Sherlock and all I want is to get him back.
"Mummy," Hamish whimpers, griping onto my legs. I look down at him and my heart starts to break at the sight of those sea foam eyes filling up with tears.
"Oh sweat heart," I coo, scooping the little boy up into my arms, "It's okay. Don't cry, honey. Daddy's alright." Hamish sniffles quietly as he cuddles up as close to me as he can. I place a kiss on the top of messy mop of curls and then finally look at John; "You…you didn't need to see that." I manage to say in the strongest voice I can muster at the moment.
"No, no, I did." John says, keeping his eyes focused on hall, "The nightmares are back in full force than?"
"Yes, but last night was the worst," I reply, "The cold sweats, the shaking, all of it…John, is-Please tell me there is something you can do."
He finally looks at me and sighs: "You know that I'll always try."
A weak smile grows across my face and I wrap my free arm around him for a hug: "That's all I can ask of you, John."
