A/N: I feel compelled to tell you a few things or you'll think I'm totally crazy. Anyway, I started writing this when I visited my grandmother about a month ago. Sherlock's grandmother is based on mine and most of the things she does or says my grandmother did or said. So, yeah, I didn't make any of this up.
Also, I'm not happy with how I wrote Sherlock's mother, but if she were any different, this story wouldn't work. Actually, I always imagined her to be like Victoria (Helen Mirren) from Red.
Sherlock was not the least bit tired, of course. He was hardly ever tired; in fact, he could go several days without sleeping, which was, to be honest, a fairly unhealthy habit. But he would use any excuse he could to prolong his not having to talk to his grandmother, even if this meant to pretend that he was sleeping for several hours.
Surprisingly, his suitcase was already up in his room, a comfortable large chamber in the west wing of the mansion that had its own fireplace and its own balcony. Over the fireplace hung a painting that looked ancient when actually it was not – it depicted his late father, riding a horse, accompanied by his three beagles (what was it with his family and dogs?) In front of the fireplace, there was an old carpet made of fur that his mother had found at an antiques market a couple of years ago. And on the other side of the room, there stood a gigantic four-poster bed in which three to four people could have slept quite comfortably.
Sherlock ignored the freshly made bed, striding right past it to his suitcase. He opened it and started rummaging around. He finally found the book he had been looking for – the second part of a series about criminology and the achievements in this field – and he sat down in an old leather armchair in front of the fireplace, intending to spend at least the next five hours reading. Everything was better than having to listen to his grandmother's stories about money.
Another thing he did not like about coming to Scotland was that there was no internet here. His mother mistrusted this "modern nonsense", as she called it. So Sherlock was not able to work on this blog he had started writing fairly recently, about deduction and how the smallest details, no matter how insignificant they appear to be at first, could be the vital key to the solution of the problem one was facing. This bothered and annoyed him.
But even though Sherlock really tried, he was not able to hide from his family forever. He had to leave his room eventually to go down to have dinner, even though he needed food as little as he needed sleep. But his mother insisted on him joining them, even though he hardly ever touched his plate. So as Sherlock entered the dining room, he was fully prepared to face his grandmother, and her obnoxious little dog. But his mother sat alone at the dinner table.
"How was your nap, dear?" she asked as he entered the room.
"I'm not five years old anymore, Mummy," Sherlock replied while taking a seat. "I never nap."
As soon as he was seated, two servants rushed into the room, serving them the first of several courses. None of the inhabitants of Holmes Manor had to do anything on their own. There was a servant for everything. Sherlock had never gotten used to having someone around, doing everything for him. But he also somehow relied on that.
Sherlock's mother decided to change the subject. "We have a new cook, you know," she said while covering her lap with a napkin. "He used to work for a restaurant in Glasgow. He was one of the best there, but he decided to come and work for us."
Sherlock didn't say anything. He only picked up his fork and started to pick at his food.
"So, how are things in London?" his mother made another try at conversation.
"Fine," Sherlock replied. "The people at university are all idiots, naturally, but I'm coping."
"Sherlock!" his mother exclaimed. "I'm sure that they're not all idiots. You must have a couple of friends, at least. And I doubt that they're idiots when they're friends with you."
"No, I don't have any friends," was Sherlock's answer. "Why should I be friends with people who only ever worry about parties and girlfriends and boyfriends and about university and how they should manage not to fail this course or that course. Dull."
Sherlock's mother sighed, but did not give up. "But you must have a girlfriend by now?" she said, sounding hopefully.
Sherlock looked at the wall opposite his seat, which was, to a large part, covered by a painting of some kind of hunting dog.
"That's not really my area," he finally sad, and went on before his mother could interrupt him. "A girlfriend is just an unnecessary distraction. People tend to build their lives around their love lives when it should be the other way around. I myself have no use for that."
For the rest of the first course, Sherlock and his mother remained silent. Still, the woman tried to engage her son in a conversation.
"We have new neighbours," she informed him over the second course.
Sherlock made a non-committal sound, which encouraged his mother to continue with her story. But his thoughts started to wander; he did not really listen to what the new neighbours did or who they were.
"Yes, a family from Ireland," Sherlock's mother went on. "They bought the house down the road about two months ago, you know, the one Mrs Stoner built in the 50s. The small house next to the little pond."
"Yes, Mummy, I know," Sherlock said. "I spent nearly all my holidays here; I know which house you are talking about."
"Anyway," his mother continued as if Sherlock had never interrupted her, "they made their money with biological vegetables or something like that. I don't know a lot about these things. They also have two dogs, two beautiful Border Collies, but I'm not particularly fond of them. Once we invited them to dinner, our neighbours, I mean, and they brought the dogs along with them. It was a horrible evening, I can tell you. The first thing the dogs did was to jump on the expensive settee in the living room downstairs and because it had been raining that day, the dogs were dirty and muddy and … Anyway, we had to buy new furniture. But your grandmother loves the dog, as you can imagine."
Sherlock made "hm", not really paying attention to the story about the Border Collies.
"Now, where was I?" Sherlock's mother took a sip from her wine glass. "Our neighbours are really wonderful people otherwise. They are friendly and attentive. I think, they're incredibly likeable, even though they are not as wealthy as our other friends."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but his mother did not notice.
"We have a lot in common. We're over at their place all the time. Well, I am. Vicky only ever comes with me when there's a one hundred per cent certainty that the dogs are there as well. I would rather they'd come to our house more often, because we have more room here, but their house is really comfortable as well. You have to meet them! I'm going to invite them to dinner one of these days. They have a son; he is about your age. I believe he's studying in Edinburgh. Medicine or something."
Sherlock's thoughts were interrupted by the servants who brought the next course. His mother continued talking and eating and drinking simultaneously.
"But enough about us," she said. "How's university? Are you going to graduate soon?"
Even Sherlock, who never had been good at understanding other people's emotions and thoughts, heard something like accusation in her voice.
"Yes, Mummy," he answered, picking up his glass for the first time this evening and taking a sip. "I hope to graduate right after Christmas. I think I'm setting a new university record with this."
"Well, your university doesn't have a high standard then," his mother remarked. "Mycroft graduated within two years, if you remember."
Sherlock ignored that last remark, just as he had ignored all the food.
"Mummy," he said, already bored by this dinner and this conversation, "I think I'm going to go to bed early tonight. I'm still rather tired-"
"But you can't, my dear, you can't," his mother said. "You have to watch telly with us later. Vicky will be disappointed if you don't."
Sherlock hated watching telly; it was boring and mundane, filled with shows about people who led boring lives and boring people who couldn't act. But he knew that he could not refuse, because his grandmother would insist on him attending this daily event, even though she would not take any notice of him if he was there, but if he was not, she would send a servant to his room and let him knock on his door until he would come down.
At eight o'clock, Sherlock found himself in front of the TV in the upstairs living room, hiding behind his computer, typing away, while his mother and his grandmother were watching the evening news.
"Put your typewriter thingy away, boy!" his grandmother snarled, glaring at him. "The children today are so badly brought up, aren't they, Helen?"
Sherlock did not listen to his grandmother. He put his feet up on the footstool, so that his legs were angled, and continued his typing.
"Put. Your. Computer. Away. Boy," Victoria repeated.
Sherlock sighed, shut his laptop and put it on the sofa next to him. Now he was forced to watch the news, a programme about events that happened far away, about words and images that jammed his mind and made it harder for him to remember the stuff that mattered. At the moment there was a report about an earthquake in some far away country in Asia.
In this report, they were showing ruined houses and streets. Then they interviewed a woman – she was crying and sobbed, "You know, we can rebuild the houses. The only thing we can't bring back is the people."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed inwardly, when they talked about how many people had died in the earthquake and how many were still missing. Then they showed the helpers and how the people stood together to rebuild their towns and houses.
Victoria had her own opinion on that topic. "They always talk about all the people who died. I don't understand it. Why do they always talk about people? Whether it is an earthquake or a hurricane or a tsunami, all you ever hear is how many people have died. But they never talk about the animals. Just as if they were not important. Why do they never tell us about the animals? They just don't matter, do they? Everything was better in the old days."
Sherlock cleared his throat to retort something, but a new report was on, about same-sex marriage and if same-sex couples should be allowed to adopt children. Victoria immediately started bickering about this, her second favourite topic after animals and animal rights.
Sherlock saw something out of the corner of his eye, something brown and grey that waddled into the room. The dog sat down in front of the sofa, and looked at Sherlock in an inquisitive way, as if it waited for the answers to all of life's unanswerable questions.
"Boy!" Victoria shouted. "Move your computer! The dog wants to sit there. Can't you see that?"
Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed in and out before he picked up his laptop and put it on the coffee table. Then he said: "Dogs which are allowed to sit on the sofa are more likely to attack their owners and other people, because they never learn where the boundaries are."
While the dog jumped onto the sofa (not very gracefully due to its weight), Victoria glared at Sherlock again.
"What do you know about dogs, boy?" she snarled. "You know nothing! Your brother Mycroft, on the other hand – he's very considerate. He loves dogs. When he came to visit us last month, my little baby followed him everywhere. And he always played with her and gave her treats and took her on long walks. I can't expect that from you, can I, boy?"
"Look," Sherlock said, even though he could see his mother on the other side of the sofa, slightly shaking her head. "I'm 23; I would really appreciate it if you could stop calling me boy. There is no reason why you should talk to me as if I was still a five-year-old."
"There is every reason in the world!" Victoria exclaimed, frightening the dog, which jumped off the sofa again, curling up in front of the TV. "You have not achieved anything in your life so far, anything that would justify me treating you like an equal. Do something to earn my respect first, boy. Take your brother Mycroft, for example-"
There were so many things Sherlock wanted to say to his grandmother; his head nearly exploded. But he simply could not. He did not want to upset his mother. And he knew that she would be upset if he said only half the things that were on his mind.
Instead, he stood up, and picked up his computer. "I'm really sorry, but I think I need to go to bed now." And with that he left the living room, accompanied by the barking of that wretched dog.
Still, he could hear Victoria, because she had to raise her voice over the noise. "That boy has no manners, no manners at all. I don't blame you, of course, my dear. It's all those people he meets at university. They are bad company."
Sherlock walked along the corridor, already thinking about that book he was reading at the moment, when he came past his grandmother's room. The door stood ajar and he could not resist the urge to have a look inside. When he was little, this room had been off limits to everyone but the staff. He did not doubt that this was still the case, which made this intrusion into his grandmother's privacy even more exciting.
The room was similar to his own. It had a balcony and an enormous four-poster bed and a fireplace, which was the only source of light. The mantelpiece was occupied by seven urns and next to each urn was a picture of a different dog. Sherlock huffed when he saw this. He would not want to share his room with the ashes of seven dead dogs. And then his look wandered above the mantelpiece.
The space above the fireplace was occupied by a portrait. It showed Victoria, and Sherlock was surprised by its accurate depiction of his grandmother. She was sitting on a little sofa, surrounded by three lap dogs. She was wearing a long, black dress that resembled a tunic. Her straight, grey hair just about covered her ears. In one hand she was holding a red rose, on her other hand sat a blackbird – the family symbols. The painter had done a great job with her eyes, though. They were cold and hard and merciless; Sherlock knew that look all too well. She never had looked at him differently.
Sherlock was so occupied with staring at the painting that he did not notice the door opening. Only when someone cleared their throat, he jumped, like a little boy who had been caught while stealing candy from the kitchen.
"Can I help you, sir?" the intruder asked.
Sherlock cleared his throat as well. "No, thank you," he said. "I was just about to leave."
The servant opened the door wider and stepped aside. As Sherlock scurried past the servant, who had burst in on him, and out the door into the corridor, he caught a scent that faintly reminded him of tea.
