Emasone- I very much doubt I'll pass my English GCSE to be honest, I can't write an essay to save my life. It's so dull! I don't know how people can survive! Thanks for the lovely review! :D
Hey there reader! Thanks to Blackcurrant Bonbons, Emasone, gumfrog and Aurora Borealia for reviewing the last chapter, you guys are awesome ;D So, this is chapter two, and there's a pinch of slash, just FYI. Oh, and I'm sure you all know about Sherlock being nominated for 4 BAFTAs (Leading Actor, Supporting Actor, Drama Series, the YouTube Audience Award), but I decided to spam the Internet with more news of Sherlock's success again :D I'm going back to school on Tuesday, which sucks, but I'm going to an encore performance of Frankenstein on Friday and to see the Levellers the Friday after that, so it's all good :D I hope you like the chapter, it just didn't seem to work in the way I wanted it to, but you can always tell me if you want it rewritten. Thanks for reading!
The first time Sherlock loved someone, it had been his mother. He never really noticed a point where he had realized this, it had simply grown over time. He wanted so badly to help her, wanted to protect her, his misplaced sense of duty driving him to dependency on his mother's love.
The second time Sherlock loved someone, it had been Mycroft. This had been sudden- Sherlock had grazed his knee when he was nine, and Mycroft had bought him an ice cream. The sudden surge of affection for his brother had been shocking, but he'd learned to ignore that voice in the back of his head that told him that he liked his brother, in favor of tormenting him about his weight problem. At the time, it did not occur to him that this was cruel.
The third time Sherlock loved someone; it had been a boy in his English class. His name was Victor, and he had thick glasses that somehow framed his face nicely, even if the other kids did tease him. He had short ginger hair, and he was the only other boy as unpopular as Sherlock. When Sherlock was fourteen, he worked up the courage to ask Victor to his home. Victor had refused, on the basis that he didn't want to be associated with such a freak. Sherlock had begun to persecute Victor with the other children, and though they thought he was just as much of an anomaly as Victor, they seemed to back off Sherlock. This time, Sherlock had known his behaviour had been vicious and spiteful. He just couldn't bring himself to care.
Sherlock's mother sat down on the end of the bed, stroking his hair. 'How was your day, sweet heart?'
'Fine,' Sherlock mumbled, not looking at her.
She frowned. 'Darling? What's wrong?'
'Nothing, mother. I just don't feel well.'
She tucked him into bed. 'Oh, well, I can fix that.' She tickled him under his chin, and Sherlock giggled. 'Mother! Stop!' He laughed delightedly.
She smiled back at him. 'Time for a story. Now, where were we? Oh yes. The prince had been forced from his burning home,' She gave Sherlock a wicked grin, 'Are you sitting comfortably?'
Sherlock's eyes widened wordlessly, his expression clearly saying 'Really? You're going to say that? Oh mother…'
She smiled, and began to recount her tale. 'His eyes were used to the darkness, and he found his way out of the alley easily. As he turned onto the main street, he saw three men chatting idly to each other. Cursing silently, he slunk into the shadows once more.
'"They say," said the first. "That the King is thinking of war with the Shadow Kingdom."
'"What, because of his son?" said the second. "Nah, he'd have gone when the boy was taken, not now."
'"Yeah, but you forget," said the first. "There's this whole business with the Shadow Princess Leila. She and Prince Magnus have become friends."
'"Friends!" laughed the third. "Just friends? Not bloody likely. He'll have his way with her as soon as he can. Besides, he's betrothed to another. The daughter of an aristocrat- Joanna, or something."
'"The King would never allow a marriage between Prince Magnus and Shadow Princess Leila in any case," said the second. "That's for certain."
'"Hey," said the third. "Who's that over there?" he pointed at the spot where the prince was hidden.
'"There's a boy, hiding!" cried the first.
'"Hey!" yelled the second. "Get out from there!"
'The boy jumped to his feet and began to ran, the three men chasing him closely behind.
'"Get him!" shouted who he thought was the third man, though he could not see due to his determination to escape them. Luckily, his youth gave him the advantage, and the men soon fell back behind him.
'Panting, he slumped against a wall, clutching his broken arm. It was hurting him badly, and he had no idea how he would heal it.
'There was a sudden flash of light, and for one moment the boy thought that the fire had returned somehow, but it was only the light of a lantern.
'"Hello?" came a deep and kind voice from the glow. "Who's there?"
'The boy tried to hide, but there was no more darkness to conceal himself in. Holding his arm steadily, he stood rooted to the spot where he stood.
'"Excuse me, but you look like you need help." The person carrying the lantern was a man, with greying hair and bright eyes. He walked up to where the prince stood, examining his arm. "I'm no doctor," he said kindly, "but it looks like you need some help with that. Come in."
'The prince hesitated, unsure of what to do.
'The man smiled. "I won't hurt you! I just want to help, honestly."
'Nervously, the boy followed the man inside with tentative steps.'
'That seems unlikely,' Sherlock interrupted, glaring at his mother. 'That could have been anyone, it could have been a serial killer for all he knew. Of course he wasn't going to say he would hurt him.'
His mother smiled, in spite of herself. 'He was a trusting boy, that's a good thing.'
Sherlock mumbled something about ignorance and foolishness, but she ignored him. 'The house was warm, oh so warm, with pictures upon the wall and candles lighting the way. The boy found the light entrancing, watching the flames dance and flicker as he stared.
'The man laughed. "Come inside, I need to dress your wounds, and you look as though you haven't eaten a decent meal in, well, ever."
'He sat down on an old, rickety chair in the kitchen, examining the gleaming surfaces. Whilst not big, the house was well cared for by its owner, who was presumably the man he was sat with. The man dabbed at the gash on his forehead with something that stung, and he winced a little at the contact.
'"Don't worry, it'll help, I promise. Now let's take a look at your arm," he said calmly. "It certainly looks worse for wear. What were you doing?"
'"I," the boy mumbled. "My house… Fire- There was fire."
'The man took a bandage from the pile in his arms. "What, the arson attack on that old woman's house up the street? I saw it from my window. I didn't know that anyone lived there anymore, I thought she was dead."
'"She is," he said, still quietly. "I lived there with her."
'"Oh. But now who do you live with?"
'"Just me."
'The man tutted. "That's terrible! You're so young, how could you survive in a place so dark?"
'"I don't know. I've- I've just always been there. For as long as I can remember. I," he struggled to think of a time before the old house. "I think I remember another place, a warm place. Lots of laughing, lots of people. But it was probably a dream. Wishful thinking." He laughed, but there was not a trace of humour in it.
'"Do you have a place where you can stay?" asked the man, in the middle of tying the prince's arm into a sling.
'"No," he said truthfully. "I don't know anyone else."
'The man chuckled. "Then you must stay here with me! I can't possibly allow you to go out into the world on your own."
'"I would be too much trouble, sir," said the boy.
'"Not at all! So polite, not like all the other boys. You would be the perfect heir to my business, you know. My name is Elias Holloway, and I am a tailor."
'"You make clothes?" asked the boy, sipping at a drink that Elias had made him.
'"I make all sorts of things. And I could teach you, if you like. You would have a trade, and would be able to make money of your own, until you find something better. Would you like that?"
'The boy stared at the man for a few moments, trying to analyze whether he trusted him. '"Yes," he said finally. "I would like that very much."
'So Elias gave the boy a room, in the attic at the very top of his house. It was a nice room, the boy decided, very nice indeed. It was warm, and Elias had provided him with many blankets to put on his iron bedstead in case he got cold. There was a little shelf, and he his new possessions on it- an atlas, a small ball, a candle and a box to keep his wages in. He did not own much, but when he worked more he would earn money to buy more.
There was also a small set of drawers, in which he kept his clothes. Elias, as a tailor, had made him a work uniform as well as two or three changes of casual clothes- his treat, he insisted. This had made him feel very important, especially when he considered the rags he had been wearing before. Best of all, there was a window in the roof which he could climb through, and he would often sit on the roof and gaze at the stars. Occasionally, Elias would join him.
'"You see over there?" he pointed at the palace. "That's where the royal family live."
'"Wow," he gasped, staring at the grand opulence of the building. "They must love it there."
'Elias smiled. "Do not mistake wealth for happiness, child. There is a difference."
'"I was poor, and I was not happy."
'Elias grinned again. "That's a good point. But that wasn't because you were poor, it was because you were alone. I myself am poor, and I was quite sad before I met you, but now I have company again. I had a wife, long ago, but she died."
'The prince, never having experienced death except for that of his captor, felt uneasy about what to do. He patted Elias on his arm sympathetically, though he wasn't sure why.
'"Thank you," Elias responded. "But now you have a friend, do you feel happier?"
'The prince thought about it. "Yes," he said. "I do."
'"Well, there you go! But poor Prince Magnus, who lives up in the castle, he is destined to be the next King. And he is not allowed to meet people his own age, only other royals- and we all know how stuck up some people can be."
'The boy giggled. "Yes, yes I do."
'"And the servants all know that too, so even they won't approach him, for fear of him insulting them."
'"How do you know all this?" the prince asked in awe.
'"I have a friend, her name is Esme. She works in the kitchens, and she knows everything that goes on in the palace. He has befriended a girl, around the same age as him, who is a princess of the Shadow Kingdom."
'"So? That's good, isn't it?"
'Elias shook his head gravely. "I'm afraid not. The Shadow Kingdom and our own have been unofficial enemies since the taking of the young prince."
'"There was another prince?" said the boy, unaware of his own place in such matters.
'"Yes. A young boy, stolen five or six years ago." Elias paused, a creeping horror of realisation when he stared at the boy's regal features, his dark hair, his striking eyes.'
'Mother," said Sherlock abruptly. 'Far too personal.'
'Who says I was talking about you? Somebody's getting cocky,' she smiled at him, but Sherlock did not return it, a cold, bitter look ghosted his features.
His mother frowned, before continuing. 'He stared at the child. "How old are you?"
'"Around twelve, I think. Why?"
'Elias's eyes widened. "You were stolen?"
'"Er, I'm not sure." The prince scratched his head and narrowed his eyes, trying to focus his thoughts. "I can only ever remember being in the house. Why?" he asked again, a little more impatiently this time.
'Now Elias, he had a real problem on his hands. He could either tell the King of his suspicions, and face the consequences if he was wrong- the King did not appreciate anyone who raised his hope unnecessarily- or leave the boy here with him, as his apprentice, never knowing what he could be.
'It hurt him to think so, but he knew that somehow he had to help the prince. As much as he longed for the company, as much as he wished for the boy to be there with him, it was his duty to the child to help his on his path. But openly declaring that he had found the lost prince was not a good move- so what could he do?
'Suddenly, an idea came to him, and the faintest of smiles crept onto his lips. "Do you like the palace?"
'The prince nodded. "Oh yes, very much."
'"I could arrange for you to work there, as a servant. Would you like that?"
'The boy smiled. "Yes, I should like that very much. But would you be alright?"
'"I would be fine," he said, with an all too fake smile, the loss of his companion hurting his heart.
'They did not leave immediately, as Elias had to wait for contact with his friend Esme and for an opportunity to employ the child. In that time, Elias had kept his word and employed the prince in his shop, paying him and teaching him to sew. The boy found that he had a talent for it; he could weave and embroider clothing far better than most apprentices in just a week. Soon, Elias had taught him how to make gloves, trousers, even coats, and he began to feel at home again. But time passed all too quickly, and Elias soon heard news from Esme.
'In the middle of the night, Elias shook the boy gently awake.
'"Wake up," he said gently, patting the prince on his shoulder.
'"What?" said the boy, rubbing his sleepy eyes wearily.
'"It's time." They gathered his things into a small bag- his clothes, his wages, his atlas and his ball. Elias turned to him, sadly. "I want you to have this." He held out a shining wooden box.
'Tentatively, the prince took it, turning the metallic lock and discovering a large sewing kit.
'"Oh no," said the boy. "I couldn't. It's yours."
'"And now, it's yours. Just promise me you'll work hard in the palace, do you understand me?"
'The prince nodded, and Elias fastened the buttons on his coat for him before setting off to the palace. They travelled in the shadowy back alleys of the city, not wanting to be seen smuggling a child who could well be the missing prince of the kingdom. After a while, when they reached the palace walls, they heard a high, shrill whistle. Turning around, they saw a small, middle aged lady waiting by the gates, her hair greying like Elias's.
'She smiled brightly at them. "Elias," she said warmly. "It's been too long."
'He lifted his hat up shyly. "I have the boy. He still has a position?"
'"As a kitchen boy, but I dare say that if he works hard, he could move up."
'Elias laughed. "Well, there's no danger of that. He's as bright as a button, this one. Look after him for me, won't you?"
'"Of course." She unlocked the steel gates with a shining silver key she took out of her pocket (they did not ask where she had gotten it from), and the prince went inside. She shut the gates, so Elias and the boy were on opposite sides of the metal barrier.
'"Be good," Elias said sadly.
'"I'll come back and visit! And maybe you can visit me!"
'Elias nodded, knowing that he wouldn't, and that he couldn't. With merely a smile, he turned his back on the two, and walked back into the darkness. The boy watched him until he was out of sight, and for the first time he could remember, he felt like he missed someone.'
His mother noticed that Sherlock had fallen asleep, his knees tucked up around his chest. His dark mane of unruly curls looked truly beautiful next to his pale skin, and she marvelled at how any of the other children could dislike this perfect little boy.
A few years later, Victor had committed suicide, leaving a note saying that 'he couldn't handle the taunts anymore'. Sherlock had not gone to the funeral, after all, it would have been disrespectful. He couldn't think of a point where he had stopped loving Victor- because he had loved him, even once he had rejected his friendship, even as Sherlock psychologically tormented him. It must have ended at some point, he no longer loved his late class mate, but he couldn't place it. After Sherlock lost his innocence, at some point in his childhood, his memories had become a blur of painful, bitter fury. It felt like the same festering, aching hunger that lingered in his husk of a heart, but one he couldn't quite remember.
The next time Sherlock loved someone, it felt both sudden and gradual, like he'd regained his memory. And it had hurt, of course, it had to be painful for it to work properly, those were the rules. His memories of his childhood had come back to him, and they no longer felt like they were happening to someone else, a fictional character that he couldn't empathise with. He had embraced his past self, and his suffering, and it tore him apart as he fell down onto the rocks of his own damn stupidity. But with the biting, burning memories came the glorious, blissful intensity of finding himself in love with John Hamish Watson, the constant he needed in his life. And whilst he tried to stop it, that empty husk of a heart had begun to beat again, no matter what he did to it. He tried to be cruel, he tried to hurt John, but he found himself willingly giving his heart to a man who could so easily crush it in his hands. Because he loved the thrill of the uncertainty, and that was his new drug. Knowing that at any moment, John could destroy him. But for once, he cared whether there was a happy ending.
I only just realized that 'Princess Leila' sounds an awful lot like 'Princess Leia' :S No infringement intended, Star Wars fans. Oh, and I should have probably mentioned earlier, I don't own Sherlock, yada yada. If I did, do you think I'd be here right now? I'd be doing FAR more interesting things with a certain Mr Cumberbatch ;D Thank you for reading!
