Oh dear. You're back for chapter two. All FIVE THOUSAND WORDS OF IT.
Yes...this is very long. The majority of which is a few flashbacks. Little Sherlock is involved...awww
Anyways...please read, review and please do enjoy!
"Sherlock." John called from the upstairs and, at no great surprise, was met with no answer. "We're out of bowl cleaner. Sherlock!" Nothing. John, the good man he was, snapped off his yellow rubber gloves and flicked them into the nearby sink and, though slightly put off, walked down the stairs with no great bone to pick with Sherlock. Well…that was until he happened upon his friend sitting on the sofa with his laptop, staring intently on what he could only assume was his email inbox.
"John. You're better with, er, people, women, whatever, how do I respond to a simple message just saying 'can't wait'? Is there a proper response? Does it not warrant one?" John didn't answer and stood, arms crossed, before Sherlock. With slight desperation in his voice, he urged his friend to answer him once again. "John, did I do something wrong?"
To John, he sounded like a small child, left alone in a shop, desperate to find his mother. "Sherlock." He sighed. "I don't think there's much there to respond to. I'm sure no answer is perfectly fine. We are out of bowl cleaner though…" Sherlock ignored John's later statement and nodded to him, his eyes flicking down to a chair nearby. "You know…I've been cleaning for four days straight and I have not one thing I know about this Charlotte girl except a couple years ago she was pretty and you miss her." John crossed his arms despondently. "Care to enlighten me on the story?"
"Well…" Sherlock said, resting his feet up on the other side of the sofa. "I'm afraid it's a rather long story to be told from beginning to end and, honestly, I'm not sure if it makes sense without starting it from the beginning."
"Well why don't you just start it from the beginning then?" John snapped, his tone stressed and bitter. "It's nearly seven now and I'm sure the flat has been cleaned floor to ceiling…twice. Besides," John smirked. "It's better than watching tele isn't it?"
Sherlock sighed, defeated and, secretly, happy he had this to share with John. "Fine. I'll tell you the story, the whole story." He paused. "But...I won't be going back and explain anything you don't understand. You can get your answers from her. She was always the better story teller anyways…" Sherlock smiled again to himself, igniting the furious strings of John's heart. "Once, a very long time ago, when I was a small child, only eight years old, a new family moved in across the street…"
Audrey Holmes was always aware her son's were….different but even by the family's high standards of abnormality, her youngest son had taken the cake. When most boys his age were off eating dirt or making friends and doing things little boys should do, Sherlock would sit at home, often in the dark, with only a torch in hand and read books whenever he could. Of course, these weren't fantasy books. To him they were just dull. No no, he was reading important works he had found in his father's library. His father, though an intellectual, often favored Mycroft's easy charm and athletic ambitions instead of his much smaller son's dramatic abnormalities. His wife had always had a softer spot in her heart for little Sherlock as it really, most of the time, didn't seem his fault that children, teachers, animals and various electronic devices seemed to have something dead set against him. In eight years he had not made one friend.
Well…that was until today.
"Sherlock dear, look, that's the new family in the neighborhood. They just bought the old Smiths' place and are finally moving in. Isn't that exciting?" Sherlock yawned and silently judged his mothers unwarranted enthusiasm. "Look there's a little girl your age over there, why don't you go say hi?"
Sherlock looked up from his book of ancient texts and arched his left eyebrow knowingly at his mother. "Mummy, you do know what will happen if I even get ten meters away from them." He said, though his tone was knowing and far beyond his years, his voice squeaked like those of all 'normal' little boys his age. "I'm sure that little girl will have already heard I'm a raving lunatic by now and will run, screaming in the other direction." The mother's heart broke for her small son for she knew full well he was absolutely right. Sherlock gave a tiny smirk and became absorbed in his book once again.
To the great surprise of Audrey Holmes, the family she had just mentioned moments before were now walking over to her porch. The man was not all that tall and had shining copper hair while his wife was quite short with dark brown hair and a rose in her cheeks. They were middle aged and seemed to be older than Audrey and her husband yet they seemed so youthful in the look of absolute bliss on their faces.
"Hello." Said the man, his tone warm and happy. Audrey greeted the two and smiled and he began again. "I'm Henry, Henry Waters. This is my wife, Rachel" The woman smiled and mouthed a hello. "And…this our daughter, Charlotte." A girl, small for her age, stepped out from behind her parents and looked squarely at Sherlock. "She's only eight now and, well, I'm afraid we don't quite trust her alone yet so we were wondering, seeing you have a son and all, if you wouldn't mind watching her for just an hour while we get some more things from storage?"
The native woman smiled and stood up from her porch step. "She's always welcome here." She met both of their hands in a handshake. "We're the Holmes'. I'm Audrey and my husband is James, off somewhere with our oldest son, Mycroft. This, right here, is little Sherlock." She said, affectionately ruffling her son's dark, curly locks.
"Not. Little." He huffed quietly, his eyes still glued on his book.
"Thank you so, so much, Audrey." Rachel said and then bent down to her daughter's level. "Dad and I will be back real soon, alright sweetie?" She nodded and hugged her mom and dad and watched them (still confused with the change in driving) pull out onto the street and drive off to where they only knew.
"Lovely to meet you, Charlotte. My what a pretty name." Mrs. Holmes said warmly, hoping Sherlock would take note. The little girl stuck out her hand gracefully and began to speak as if she was an adult herself.
"I'm sorry I couldn't introduce myself, Mrs. Holmes, my parents are always like that." She giggled. "So very nice to meet you both." Sherlock avoided looking at her hoping that if he didn't move she wouldn't see him and would leave him to his peace. Audrey was about to speak again but she heard the kitchen timer ring, calling her to finish the special dinner she was making for Mycroft. The two were shooed into the backyard and, once his mother was out of sight, Sherlock finally started to speak.
"You lot." Sherlock said with slight condescension in his voice. "You sound funny. You must be Americans." Charlotte smiled and nodded. "There's a city in America named Charlotte, you know but I doubt you're from there. You sound like the people from all the shows mummy and daddy watch from…the Northern part of the country?" Charlotte nodded again. "You came from New England just to come to England?" She nodded cheerfully once more. "Strange." He observed. "You came to a place that was old and probably not as good as where you came from. Odd."
"You're name is quite strange." She said not bothered by his comments. "I doubt there are any cities named Sherlock." She gibed. He immediately looked annoyed started to walk away to a place where he could continue reading in peace. She quickly apologized. "I rather like it though. It sounds…oh I don't know, just, you sound like you should be in one of those books from a long time ago. Your name sounds like…history." He was not aware how a name could encompass every point the human race had experienced up until this point but, for once, he didn't care. The girl, much to his surprise, did not hate him.
"Do you like books?" He asked, sounding more enthused than before. She nodded excitedly. "My room is full of books. Would you like to see them?" She nodded again and put out her hand. Sherlock just stared and raised his eyebrow. He did not understand the point of such a gesture.
"You're supposed to take it." She said, laughing to herself. "I'm going to a place I've never been before. I could get lost. But you, I bet you know every little corner of this house, don't you? You need to hold my hand because you're my guide. That's what people do."
Against most every instinct he ever possessed, Sherlock grabbed the girl's hand and realized how much taller he was than her. She was thin but not as thin as he (which, he deduced, made sense figuring that she actually ate of her own will in the past eight years). The two proceeded to spend what seemed like forever in his room looking at books with no pictures which, they had found, were both their favorite kind. All too quickly, dinner was served and Charlotte readily began eating the Shepherd's pie set before her. She thanked her gracious host profusely but stopped to ask Sherlock a question.
"Why aren't you eating?" She had noticed his plate was untouched.
"I don't like eating." He replied, though he thought the answer seemed too simple.
"Well mommy says you should always eat what's put in front of you because some little kid far far away may want that." Before Sherlock could open his mouth, she quickly retorted. "No, you can't send it there. That'd be silly. It'd just get all old and icky." To reasons still unknown to the universe (and much to his mother's delight) Sherlock began to voluntarily eat.
After the Waters' came home and fetched their daughter, little Sherlock gushed to his mummy about how he had finally made a friend and wished her to come over whenever she could. Mycroft would eventually meet her, though he seemed to write her off as some strange little girl who found good company with his very strange little brother, the fifteen year old always seemed to enjoy her being there. Much to the disappointment of Sherlock, the family would fly back every year to visit Charlotte's grandparent's for summer holidays leaving him without a friend for a chunk of the year. To his relief, every year they'd be back once again right before school started up and their friendship continued. This happened regularly up until they were both twelve years old. Then the family was going for summer but, unlike the other times, they wouldn't be coming back.
"Mom says my grampy's really sick so we have to go back and take care of him." Charlotte said, her large blue eyes swelling with tears. Sherlock didn't say anything. He couldn't say anything. He just got very close to her and hugged her very hard and very long. He and his mummy went to the airport with them to wave them goodbye and, while they were walking back to the car, he wanted to cry, he needed to cry but, for some reason, he couldn't.
The next few years were absolute hell for poor Sherlock. He was growing now and changing, as all boys will do and soon he was an awkward preteen and, eventually, an equally awkward teenager. Mycroft was never so gangly and angsty at that age but, then again, he never had much of a reason. Mycroft was an athlete with dashing good looks and charm that made him friends with nearly everyone; Sherlock was the antithesis. His peers constantly picked on him for his size or his strength or his luck with making friends. This was when it started. This is when he started to feel nothing. Despite all of this he was the head of his class every year without fail but Sherlock found now pride and joy in it. Instead he spent most of his time in his room, alone, playing the violin to himself desperately trying to keep his mind healthy. His family tried to help him but they were always just barked at and sent away, often leaving several family members in tears. Sherlock did not care. He did not care about a thing in the world except his mind. He now no longer just felt "nothing" but he didn't feel anything at all.
Audrey, obviously worried that something could go horribly, horribly wrong, brought him to see a psychologist. She was taken aside and was assured that, in a few day's time, she would get a phone call when the results on his analysis were in. While she was desperately waiting for this call, she scarcely left the phone's side. At one point in this stretch of time, she did get a phone call but it was not from anyone knowing anything about Sherlock's condition, well, looking back that was negotiable, but it was the girl who was always welcomed at her home. It was Charlotte, the temporary Holmes.
It was explained to Audrey that, although Henry and Rachel wished to come back, they had to stay, tending their ailing parents. This left poor Charlotte stuck in a home surrounded by death and sadness. They inquired if the Holmes' had a spare bedroom for Charlotte to stay so she could attend school once more in England, a place she loved more than anywhere in the world. The family, of course, accepted the offer and soon after Charlotte turned sixteen, she arrived back to a place she already knew as home.
No one had told Mycroft who was now in his early twenties and just out of university and already making a name for himself in the world. Sherlock wasn't informed either, despite several attempts to tell him through his locked door and never-ending onslaught of strange, sad artists he had found comfort in listening to.
There was a room in the attic of the old family house where a bed, a table, a dresser and a few other things could fit. This became Charlotte's new home. There was plenty of sunlight in the small room (which she, in no doubt, enjoyed more than most) and, quite often, a cool breeze would drift through. Mycroft walked into his kitchen to find the girl there and immediately offered he bring her things upstairs for her. The little girl he had always found interesting was now sixteen and, to him, she was a woman. To her he was no man but a fool. She shooed off the sudden barrage of affection he had for her, leaving him down but most certainly not defeated. Once most of her things were settled in place and her clothes were neatly put away, she lay on the bed, her head resting on her stretching arms and she closed her eyes.
Sherlock, unaware of this, crept upstairs and found her there and froze, unable to believe that she was the same girl he had seen years ago. It did not take him long in the months before someone was coming to stay but never in his wildest dreams did he imagine her there, now a permanent resident in their home. His mind started to throb, wondering if she had received the countless letters he sent her and, if she did, if she read them fondly or if she showed them to her friends, mocking the poor boy from across the pond.
She opened her eyes as he reached the top of the ladder up to her loft and sat up, looking squarely at him, just as the day they first met. He had to blink a few times. It was indeed the same girl he had seen years before but, suddenly, he felt something. He felt terrified and happy and self conscious and curious and hopeless and every other thing to pass through a boy's mind. He started to observe her, hoping he wasn't acting rude just staring but, for a little while, he couldn't help it.
Her skin was clear and smooth and bright white while his was pallid with a few blemishes on his face. Her chestnut curls danced around her while his hair, still wet from taking a shower, stuck to his head. She was short but healthy, in shape but with curves he'd only seen in anatomy text books while he was awkward, gangly and altogether sickly looking. She was the epitome of perfection in his eyes and felt that he must've disappointed her. If she was, she didn't let on.
She stood up from the bed, her dress, cotton, short, and summery settled as she opened out her arms to hug him. He hit her like a ton of bricks, falling into her embrace with such force he thought he might have broken her like a china doll. She brushed a curl out of his face and looked into his eyes, beaming. "You lot, you're all so different." She said, resting her head on his shoulder. He felt his entire body shaking as his arms slipped around her small waist. "I kept every one of your letters, you know. They're all back home in a box with a big 'S' on it." He pulled her closer to him. He was the one ready to break now. "You know, I missed you the most." He swallowed hard. "And this, well, this I missed the most of all." She felt a few tears fall down her face, only then realizing how much she had missed the strange boy from her past and, somehow, she knew he felt the same.
"Charlotte…I…I missed you more than I could ever tell you…" Sherlock trailed off as she stammered backwards. "Oh…oh God. What? What did I do?" A pang of panic swept over his entire body. He felt each of his hairs raise on edge.
"Your…your voice." She said, then laughing to herself. "It's so…deep!" He breathed a sigh of relief as she fell back onto her bed, her long legs flying up in the air and landing with a thud. "Well…c'mon. Get over here! We have about four years to catch up on." She said, patting the bed next to her. With great hesitation, he lied down on the bed and looked over at her.
"Charlotte…you're…so…"
"Different?" She laughed. "I noticed. It's amazing what a few years, a bit of makeup and some clothes can do for a girl."
"…beautiful." He stammered out. She looked over to him and ran two of her fingers down his jawbone. He felt her graze each blemish on his face, filing him with such self loathing he could nearly scream. He touched his face where her fingers ran over it. "I…I'm sorry…I wish I…I wish I could've been better for you…I…" Her eyes met his and she gave him a look telling him to shut his mouth and began to smile. "I mean…I…"
"I'm so happy to see you're doing well." She cooed as she played with a dark curl off the side of his face.
"What constitutes as well over there in America?" He retorted bitterly. He felt his hands fly to his mouth but, before he could correct himself, she sighed and began to speak again.
"Sherlock. You're alive. I've seen more death in the past few months that some see in their lives. You're still breathing and your heart is still beating. You're doing quite well. Two for two actually. Congratulations on that one."
The two went quiet for a few moments. Sherlock kept his eyes transfixed on hers. His hands were still trembling slightly and he felt her slide one of hers onto one of his and hold it tight. A tender touch was something so absolutely alien to Sherlock he didn't know how to react. He could've spent as long as she would let him do this, just be next to her and feel safe but he knew she had to know.
"Charlotte, I." He stopped and swallowed hard. His body started to shake slightly and he looked to be in some sort of pain. He felt her grip tighten and he tightened his in response. He never knew how hard it would be to utter these words. These words had changed his life forever. These words gave those who hated him a reason to. "Charlotte…I…I'm a sociopath." She seemed unphased. "You know what that means, don't you?"
"I'm going to go into psychology, of course I know what it means." She still looked calm.
"Charlotte…I'm dangerous. That's what they told me. I don't have emotion. I can't feel remorse. I…I can't feel. Or I think I can't. I don't know which."
"That's all they said?" She said back knowingly.
"They said something…high functioning…some drabble like that to make me feel better about my eventual lock up in the crazy house."
"What's your IQ again?"
Sherlock paused for a moment. "…It's 200…why?"
"Sherlock. You're fine." It was obvious he didn't believe her. "You're considered a sociopath because you're shy. Very shy. You're also incredibly smart and, as you may well know, the eternal struggle is emotion versus logic. With a mind like yours, you simply don't rationalize logic. You're not going to murder anyone soon…I hope ever actually. You will, however, need to find yourself a healthy outlet for your emotions."
He blinked. He was amazed and it was very hard to amaze Sherlock Holmes. "You know…" He confessed quietly. "I've…I've never kissed before…" He turned an alarming shade of crimson. "You think that that might've hurt me menta…" He didn't finish. His oldest friend, his nearest friend, his dearest friend, his only friend was now latched onto him. He did not have the slightest idea what to do and let the only human being he found comfort in carry on. She pulled away and he remained the same color. "I…" He couldn't think. He didn't know how to process it. He felt the endorphins kick into his brain and, for the first time in four years, he was happy.
In the next few months Charlotte attended the same school Sherlock did and was doing quite well in her classes. People, not surprisingly, tended to adore her. She was often a tutor in the sciences for the other students which, on occasion, meant a few people would come home of the Holmes' to study. Though many didn't understand why she spent any time at all with Sherlock she accepted it and moved on. Luckily for him, most were more afraid to get on her bad side than eager to insult Sherlock.
A boy in their class, Tim, was not a great genius or a star athlete but he was smart and kind enough to earn the position of "friend" from Charlotte; unknown to her, this made Sherlock hate him. One night, Audrey and James went out to attend a benefit for a local university and they wouldn't be home until much later in the night. Tim had come home with Charlotte and Sherlock that night and, much to the distaste of Sherlock, accompanied her up to her room. He sat with his violin and began to play, trying to take his mind off of the so called "tutoring" going on in the room above him. He found it strange when the two didn't come down around dinner time and decided to go upstairs to see them.
To the great misfortune of Sherlock, he walked in on the two snogging and nearly fell down the ladder. Tim gathered his schoolbooks and ran out the front door. Charlotte came down only a few seconds too late before Sherlock had locked himself in his room. She pleaded desperately for him to come out but he was set to stay in there for the remainder of the night. Actually, he anticipated to stay there for the rest of his life.
"And that, John, is Charlotte Waters." Sherlock said with a tone of finality in his voice.
"Sherlock." John said, disappointed in the abrupt end of the story. "There has to be more. You were only sixteen then and there's a picture of you two three years later. I want the rest of it. All of it."
Sherlock sighed and started again.
Due to his constant state of insomnia, Sherlock kept a bottle of sleeping pills by his bed at all times. In these particular circumstances, he planned on sleeping for a much longer time than normal. He placed the full bottle on his desk and took out a piece of paper, the same kind of paper he had used to write the countless letters to Charlotte. He thought back to the day she returned. He was now beginning to wonder if it actually happened or if it was the effect of one of his small romps in various "chemical experiments". He wrote down his final words and waited until three in the morning. He was sure that, by this time, Charlotte had gone up to her bedroom and forgotten that he had existed. His hands shaking, he took of the cap of the bottle and poured out dozens of small capsules. Before he decided to swallow the handful that would bring him, finally, to peace, he quietly unlocked his door. In one's final moments you want to give your family as much curtsey as possible when finding your body. Then, he laid down on his bed, pills in one hand, note in the other and threw his head back, forcing the pills down his throat. He looked at the time and tried to figure the moment he would pass on. He went to sleep. What he didn't anticipate was that, what seemed to be an instant later, he had woken up again.
Charlotte knew enough about Sherlock to never leave him alone after he had apparently felt traumatized. She sat outside his door and waited. She saw the hours tick away on the grandfather clock at the end of the hallway and she heard her dear friend scribble on a piece of paper in the room next to her. At one point, around two, she had gotten up and went into the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. She returned and waited by his door. The scribbling stopped and she sat up, now on edge from the caffeine. She thought she almost her him sob quietly but she was sure she heard his door unlock. Once she had heard him settle into bed, she cracked open the door and gazed in. Being the intelligent young woman she was and keeping the company of Sherlock Holmes made her extraordinarily observant and she noticed, before anything, that the note she heard him write was not on his desk but, in its place, was an emptied bottle of pills.
Her eyes grew wide and she knew what was trying to be done. In an instant she dashed to his bedside and found his pulse and breathed a sigh of relief but one that did not last for long. She ran out to the kitchen and called emergency services in the local town but she feared they would be too late. Panicking and not knowing what to do she closed her eyes, if even for a second, and tried to regain her composure. Her eyes flew open and she thought of only one thing that, she though, may save her best friend's life. When she was younger, her father showed her a movie called The Apartment. It was very old and in black and white and all she really remembered from it was the one thing she figured would be useful. She grabbed a cup, the biggest she could find, and poured the rest of the coffee she had made earlier into it. She rushed into Sherlock's room and sat him up. She slapped him across the face and he opened his eyes, barely conscious. She made him force down the bitter drink until there was no more. Then, for the first time thankful that he barely ate anything at all, she propped him up on her and started to try and walk him around. She did this until a few paramedics came in and, to her great thanks, brought him into what she could only assume was an ambulance. Before she left she called his parents, now sobbing hysterically on the floor and grabbed the note he intended to leave.
She was in the back of the car with him as they desperately tried to save his life. When they assured her he was going to make it at least to the hospital, she started to read the note. She could barely focus but she did see one line that brought her a moment of peace.
"When whomever does find me and reads this note, I would like to assure them of one thing; I have had intentions to do this for nearly four years now but one thing has kept me sane, if you would like to call sane a relative term. I would like you, reader, to thank the only person who dared look beyond my faults and keep my alive. I would like you to thank Charlotte Waters for all she's done and, perhaps someday you too will thank her when she most certainly changes the world."
Charlotte didn't stop crying until the doctors had reassured her that he would be fine and well. He was, however, in a slight coma and would need several IV's of different nutrients and medications to bring him back to his old self. Charlotte, in the two days he was there, did not leave his bedside. A young med student did come into the room and tap her on the back of the shoulder.
"Miss? Excuse me…miss?" She turned around. "Would you like anything? Some water or even a bite to eat? The doctors are worried, miss." She nodded no and sighed deeply. "This sounds strange but, would you like a hug, miss?" She looked him squarely in the eyes, just as she had done to Sherlock all those years ago and nodded yes. She was thankful of the small gesture and the student disappeared once again without even asking a name. That moment, she was sure, would live on in both their memories for a long while.
When Sherlock did wake up, he started to apologize to Charlotte and she apologized to him. They both had concluded, after a few moments, they were both being frivolous and decided, though quite gingerly, to hug one another. She couldn't say anything but, somehow, he did.
"I think you have someone to thank." He said to her quietly. She looked confused and he seemed to feign a laugh. "You found my note, didn't you." She nodded, now seated next to him and gripping his hand. "Well you have to thank Charlotte Waters that I'm alive. I told you someday you'd thank her and, well, you never know if you have just changed the world." Charlotte began a new barrage of tears just as Audrey, James and Mycroft came into the room all with their own tears to dry. Charlotte came up to Mycroft and hugged him as hard as she could, something he felt quite proud of. The two would become quite close in years to come, all stemming from that point in time.
"And," Sherlock began to conclude. "After that she and I were very close for years. Unfortunately, her parents were in a nasty car crash when she was just about to turn twenty and had to return home. Her mother was killed instantly and her father was now severely disabled. She had to take care of him seeing that she was their only child and, as you now know, he has passed away. She managed to make a career of herself despite all of the hardships her life has brought her but, well." He smiled. "Once again, she is indeed coming home."
John looked blankly at Sherlock. "So wait." He looked very confused. "You two…aren't together." Sherlock said or did nothing of indication. "She and Mycroft…?" Still no response. "Sherlock!"
"John, I told you." Sherlock said, smirking behind the now opened newspaper before him. "She's the better storyteller. Ask her. It's just a few days away before you get to meet her.
"But…"
"John." Sherlock laughed. "How's about dinner? My treat. To…thank you."
John looked suspiciously at Sherlock. "Thanks for what…?"
"Well," Sherlock put down his newspaper. "For cleaning. For sharing a flat with me. For helping me solve crimes. For being absolutely brilliant. That's what for." He rose from his seat and put on his blue scarf and long black coat. "Coming?" He questioned, now beaming with a smile.
"What? Oh. Yeah, yeah." John said getting up. Sherlock already left the flat before John could even think. He no longer hated this woman. Well, he tried not to at least but one point wouldn't leave his mind. He brushed it off and put on his coat, now playing back what Sherlock had just said. He knew, this time, he wasn't practicing manners. For the first time since their meeting John knew for a fact Sherlock thought of John what John had thought of him. "Brilliant." He said, locking the door behind him. That dinner was different; Sherlock was at ease and John was positively glowing with happiness. The entire evening and the remainder of the week could be summed up into few words.
Absolutely brilliant.
