Extended Fanfiction (Sherlock)
By: Colvin
February 21, 2015
Disclosure: I own nothing of the original characters or events from the original Sherlock BBC Television show. Also, information on characters and their relationships with each other may differ with time, even their life span. I'm only writing from the data provided to me from season 1 - season 3.
Some explanation: Alright so this technically is part two of my story. A lot has changed, kinda. Roman is older and changed. By changed I mean he's more intelligent and thinking externally rather than internally. He's all about defiance. I decided to post this early because I couldn't wait! Sadly, my motivation for this story is decreasing... I need your love and support. Please let me know how you like the story. Thank you, enjoy.
Little Summary: It's been over a year now Roman's been in Ashworth Mental Hospital and they're finally letting him go. Roman is a changed person, but is it for the better? How cynical could Roman be? Some flirting, some remembering and some discovering! Roman learns more about him mother even after HER DEATH! How'd she die? Why? What for? What did she leave behind? Mycroft knows all but doesn't tell all. Lastly, mentioned throughout the chapter: hint! Roman has an unsightly addiction and he loves it.
Chapter 10: The Release and The Wealth.
"Mr. Adler."
"Yes?"
"Come with me. You are going home."
Home - the place where one lives permanently, especially as a member of a family or household.
I wasn't confident on how much time had passed since I'd ever been "home". It felt like centuries considering I couldn't remember the feeling, the sound, the smell, the means of home. Arguably, I knew it was actually about two years. Two years since I'd been home back in America with my mother, who was now gone. That was my home. Ever since her death, I couldn't remember a place I really could call home. Such a mortification.
Two years ago, I began an adventure to find my father who was located in the UK. During my transaction to coming to London, England, I was placed with middle aged man who was an unsympathetic, blatant, arrogant prick who harassed me for a month and a half. I manically killed him six months later in some psychotic nervous breakdown. When I came to England, I was placed on a pedestal I knew I'd never be able to live up to. In a six month period I tripled my IQ, discovered I was autistic, and became socially impaired. My father, a man I'd never live up to but forced to facsimile, which was impossible as each human being is not a copy of each other. What would be the purpose of a single soul? Maybe I no longer had one. I unearthed that I was worthless to the Holmes family, and I'd be now out of the picture. I could not meet their expectations, and as time passed, I learned to expect, embrace, and enjoy that I was no longer a puppet, hanging motionlessly from the strings of its master.
In the two year period, I was destroyed, molded, and reborn from a oblivious, ignorant child to a potentially unpredictable and calamitous young adult. I had a true understanding of my standpoint in this world, I was nothing. Nothing less than disgraced waste like rubbish on the side of the road, corrupting a beautiful picture of highway. That highway being the Holmes name. Comprehensive of my ancestral existence. Dead.
I remained in Ashworth Hospital and served my sentence as well behaved as I could be, well tried. During my residency, I undergoed numerous type of testing, treatment, therapy, and medications. Those weren't important anymore since I was going home, correct? I was placed on antidepressants (apparently my serotonin levels were low.) I guess my enthusiastic attitude about being in a asylum wasn't as high as they expected. I was also prescribed heavy formulated sleeping pills because I no longer slept. I felt no need to sleep. I had other things to do. My body could run on four hours of on and off sleep a day. My battle with the sensory deprivation tank played a key role in my inability to sleep. When I tried, all I heard was loud whispers, flowing warm water, and something grabbing me from my attempt to sleep.
In addition, I was placed on a medication to help with my stress levels, letting my emotionally overwhelming, slow, and weekly panic attacks be treated. Strangely, that quickly led to create something more than just queerness and misfortunate inside me. I was hormonally inhuman. Once Doctor Cyril realized the medication was causing my shameless, erotic behaviors I was taken off the it. The problem on the other hand, got worse. The medication permanently made a home within me. Induced or not, I begged, pleaded for this release. My morals were nothing but handfuls of sand slipping through my fingers, I would do anything.
This new dependency was extraordinary. Flowing through my shakened veins, drowning into oceans of stimulation and clemency. I chased this high as often as I could, day or night, morning or night. I urinated for my fix. I became a dispute for the staff, getting many of them fired, resigning, or coming back for more. I played a card to this surrender, while they became addiction to my performance and gambling game. There was no cure, no remedy that could tame me. Nothing existed of equal value but the actual thing. I craved it uncontrollably.
The memories of Mr. Heartly were repressed successfully. I no longer had emotional breakdowns when I thought about the time I took his life. I internally made the decision that taking his life was the best option and necessary. It was immoral, but ultimately good. I was positive that I wasn't his only victim, and if I hadn't done anything to stop him there would be others. I saw myself doing a favor for the world. Exterminating a human whose birth given right to breathe stopped the day I pulled the trigger. Without a proper punishment, other than mental institutionalized treatment, I was never taken to court, tried, or sentenced. By the way Doctor Cyril went about it, I was conditioned to believe it never happened. I was okay with that.
Sometimes though, I wondered what had happened to him. His body. And how Mycroft was able to do it. Letting me get away with the murder of a federal officer. None of it mattered now. Time had passed and I changed. I enjoyed this change. I continued to learn about anything that I found interesting. Rarely, but it did happen when I read deeper into my father's life when granted computer time. I still wanted to meet him sometime. Within two years, I faced every possible demon but him, Sherlock Holmes, the biggest and scariest demon I ever had.
Two years. A month and half with a now dead man. Six months with my uncle and his riches. A year and perhaps a half year in Ashworth Mental Hospital. Damn.
I found myself looking in the mirror.
They were letting me out. I was finally out of Ashworth Hospital. I rehabilitated to them. I was rehabilitated, no reborn to myself. When I looked inside that mirror, I thought of how I looked before I came here: scared, lost, and miserable. Now, I looked intelligent, smug, and quite pompous. Changed inside and out. The boy I was before Ashworth was dead compared to the man I was now. I felt taller, more filled out, my voice felt deeper and carried more meaning. My body language became a game to people, never knowing what I would do next. My mind extended in ways I created. Open-minded.
Surprisingly, yet disappointingly, the sensory deprivation tank did not take my ability to see auras in people away. Doctor Cyril's treatment did not work. I never told him that. No more treatments. Being in here, I invented a new me with an unremovable hint of the past.
I was wearing dress clothes. No more sweatpants, t-shirts, bathrobes, or sweaters. Finally some fabric other than itchy cotton. Black dress shoes, right size of ten. Tan khaki pants, slim fit (just how I like them except not black), a black button up with a navy blue cardigan to go on top of it. A cardigan wasn't something I went for, but I didn't care. I felt human, I wore clothes that expressed meaning, style, and personality. Just how I liked it too before. I ran my hands through my hair, it had gotten long, only gliding past my ear but the curls didn't appear like they normally did. Chemicals and medications dissolved the beauty. Now, my hair, just rugged waves, rolled over my dark brown. The shaggy look was back, mixed with a wavy gentlemen's cut. I felt like my old self, kinda.
"You look good." A voice sweetened me. It was Doctor Cyril.
"Thanks." I straightened myself up.
He was holding a bottle of pills.
"Here. Take these every night before bed."
"What for?"
"Sleeping."
I took the bottle of pills, studied the contents, and then placed it in my pocket.
"Why are you letting me go?"
He stuttered. "T-there is no reason to keep you here."
"I'm socially acceptable?" I laughed sarcastically.
"You can always come back." He smiled.
I was sure I'd never return. My time here was shaping me in the long run, but everything in between was a living hell. I really should just forget about Ashworth.
I pulled on the black overcoat I was given. It was soft, making me feel warm. I fixed it to conform with my body. I didn't remember having clothes like this.
"All set?" Doctor Cyril asked.
I nodded and followed him to front door.
Doctor Cyril opened the door for me, exposing me to the outside world, a world I wasn't welcome to. A world without white walls and itchy jumpers. The cold air rushed inside, spiriting through me. My lungs instantaneously filled with the spiky cold air. It hurt and I loved it. When it hit my face, it burned, I wanted to feel more. I couldn't remember the last time I actually breathed in fresh air. It felt good.
This was a new start for me.
I was pleased by this thought. I was old enough to take care of myself, live my life that way I wanted to. No more cramming learning material, medications, tubes or gonads. I was free to make my own choices and be who I wanted to be. Interesting.
But...I had no where to go.
Reality fell around me. Not being more than five minutes outside, I was already thinking about turning around and going back. I was homeless, jobless, broke, and fresh out of an asylum. Since Mycroft was the one who sent me here because of my deranged mental breakdowns even before the murder of Mr. Heartly, I assumed he wanted nothing to do with me. I was really on my own. Could I conform?
Sherlock - My father.
I was sure I could ask around, get some directions. If Mycroft wasn't going to help me, I was just going to have to help myself. The worse my own father could tell me was that he despised me, that I was a mistake and wanted nothing to do with me. So, nothing I haven't heard before. It was worth a shot.
I took my first steps to a better life. Putting one foot in front of the other. I ate every part of England up. Sinking in my better sensory information. The cold air, race traffic, the breathing buildings, careless people and their gaping auras. I kept to myself, pushing past people. It was the most human life I had been around in a long time. I felt smothered, pushed away, and abused from their action careless.
I hunched down into my coat, walking aimlessly.
I just happened to look up from the ground for a second. In the distance stood Anthea, I knew it was her. Her trademark olive green aura filled up my field of vision. As always, her face was buried in her phone; her beautiful self was leaning against a clear black jaguar. Anthea was dressed in a black, long-sleeve, form fitting dress and heels. She nearly blended in with the car.
I unknowingly walked right up to her. What was I even going to say to her? I had no place in the Holmes family. And definitely no business talking to Anthea.
"Anthea? How is..."
She glanced up from her phone and cut me off. "Mr. Adler. Right on time." I looked at her blankly. "Get in. Mycroft needs to see you."
"What for?"
"Get in." She held the door open, waiting impatiently.
Well it wasn't like I had much else to do. No where to go. I might as well go.
Anthea got in on the other side. We then headed to our destination. She sat there, looking very tempting to touch. She was beautiful. Her lengthy legs were longer than her small, tight black dress. She was attractive in my eyes, even being older than me. But that damn phone she lost herself in made her look ugly and hunched over. It had to go. I needed her attention away from it.
When I looked at Anthea, I wondered what all her sadness was all about. She always put on a good show for Adalynn. I couldn't understand her pain. The pain of having your boss's child, only to never have her call you mommy. She was nothing but a nanny. Did she love Mycroft? To cope with those troubles she buried herself in smart technology.
"How is Adalynn?" I started off.
I did happen to think of Adalynn often when I was in the asylum. She gave a good insight of what it took to be a big brother and someone's friend. Even though she was almost a decade younger than me, I felt at some levels, she understood me. She enjoyed my existence, she loved to be around me, and she made me feel needed. Sleeping was never cold and empty with her beside me. Without me she was lonely, just like I was? So really, how was she? I missed her a lot. Did she miss me?
"Fine." Anthea did not remove her eyes from the phone.
Exasperated, I stared at her. Still she did not move.
"Anthea," I said softly. Reaching for her cell, I took it from her grip, setting it down next to me. She looked at me, offended, but she wasn't going to do anything about it. "How is she?"
She sighed melancholily. "She's fine. Give my mobile back."
"No, I'm talking to you."
"Adalynn is good. She's happy and misses you."
Just what I wanted to hear.
"How are you?" I asked.
"I'm okay."
She of course seemed like she didn't want to talk, but too bad. I did. I stared intently into her blue eyes. She never looked happy. Such waste of such pretty skin.
"You look alluring this evening." I gave her a smile.
I could tell she was holding back a returned smile.
"Thank you, Mr. Adler."
I kept my eyes on hers, giving a mysterious smile. Maybe before we go to Mycroft's, I could make her look beautiful inside and out. She needed to reminded of her beauty and I was sure Mycroft did an awful job of that.
"That dress makes you look divine."
There was her smile. Soft, with straight white teeth... I was getting to her so easily. Her cheeks turned pink.
"Thank you."
Before I could say anything else, the car came to a complete stop.
"Just go up to the house. Have a good evening Mr. Adler," she instructed.
Feeling defeated by the short car travel time, I got out of the car, slunking myself around.
This wasn't Mycroft's house. I stood helplessly in front of an old, empty, and frankly creepy house. I had never seen it before. It wasn't as grand as Mycroft's house, being only two stories tall with a castle style to it rather than a modern English one like Mycroft's. Dead vines wrapped around the old mansion. Dead trees, bushes, shrubs, and grass scattered the platform. A rustic, broken fountain lay at the center of the yard. The cracked, weathered down driveway made a circle around it. Everything about the house was just dead. The dull colors of the sandy brown layout didn't help the beauty either.
It was black on the inside. How could Mycroft be here? There was nothing of human life form here for what seemed to be a long time.
"I don't-" I turned around to tell Anthea my thoughts but it was too late. The jaguar pulled away. I was stuck here.
Hiking to the house I kept my eyes open, browsing for anything that could potentially be a threat. Once I reached the door, I almost turned around and left. This was all too sketchy. Why would Mycroft be in a abandoned house? Letting curiosity get the best of me, I began to reach for the door. Before I could grab the door handle, I felt cold fingers slide inside the neck of my coat and pull me back. I stumbled back, nearly falling on my ass. My eyes scanned to whom may have grabbed me. Mycroft stood there in front of me, a cocky grin on his face, his cheeks red from the temperature.
"Eager aren't we Mr. Adler?"
I straightened myself out. "Eager for what?"
He laughed mockingly and directed me towards a bench to our left.
"Come sit."
I joined him on the aged bench. We did not speak, just gazed out onto the dead surroundings about the house. It was grave to look at because of the early winter. Everything was dying. Just the nature of the seasons.
"Alright?" Mycroft's voice was raspy.
"Fine."
"That's good. Enjoying the outside?"
"It's cold."
Mycroft smugly laughed.
Within a year, he hadn't changed much. Same silver ore, same body language, same contemplating facial expression. Still trying to lose weight. Maybe it hasn't really been a year. Nothing changed. Then again, a year really isn't all that long.
"You know, it was the best for you," he began, looking out into the sky.
I joined him gazing out into the sky, unsure what were actually looking at.
"How'd you do it?"
"Do what?"
"Let me get away with murder."
He seemed uncomfortable in response to my blunt words. He cleared his throat, cocking his head slightly. "Lucky for you, there had been an ironic serial killer patrolling London, killing the tourist. Mr. Heartly's death was untimely; wrong place, wrong time. Nothing that suggested otherwise."
"And the agency?"
"They received the paperwork I sent later that day, making Mr. Heartly's trip to London a bitter farewell."
I could not argue with that. Mycroft successfully pulled off a murder. My murder. I still felt no remorse for what I had done. I could smile right now, but that would be far from appropriate.
"As far as the agency is concerned you are exactly where you need to be. We no longer have to worry about them. You are an English citizen." He gave a smile, nudging his shoulder at me.
I flashed a fake smile, creating a long pause between us. Awkward silence.
Then I dissolved that silence. "That wasn't the first murder you've gotten away with."
My words were threatening. I meant every word. What else did I have to lose? A trip back to Ashworth? That was nothing. I locked my eyes on him.
During my time in Ashworth I often got bored. Always looking for ways to entertain myself, other than using internet privileges and feeding my ongoing addiction. I looked deeper into my mother's murder case. Doctor Cyril was kind enough to give me some of her files. And as I scanned them very carefully, something did not add up. There were no witnesses. No one to say what kind of person my mother was. If she were in any danger. A point blank shot to the back of the head. Execution style. I was deprived of my chance to pledge for my mother's case. They dropped the case as soon as I headed to the UK. Would my testimony have mattered at all?
All of that lead to this very moment.
"It was your mess I cleaned up Mr. Adler," he said sternly.
"You are the one who killed my mother."
"She asked me to Mr. Adler."
Mycroft was now the one telling lies? He wasn't very good at it. I could clearly see through them like glass.
No one just asks to be killed. Especially if have a child back at home. She would have been out of her mind.
"She had a living will," he added.
My confused face froze with the bitter cold air hitting us.
"Living will?"
"A couple years ago, your mother reached out to me. She was diagnosed with a terminal illness."
Terminal Illness - A disease that cannot be cured or adequately treated and that is reasonably expected to result in the death of the patient within a short period of time
"...What kind?"
"Leukemia."
Leukemia - A malignant progressive disease in which the bone marrow and other blood-forming organs produce increased numbers of immature or abnormal leukocytes.
My mother never told me she had leukemia. Nor did she ever show signs of having cancer. She hardly went to the doctor. She was always happy, energetic, and full of life. A perfectly healthy mother at a young age. Then again, I would have been too blind to see her suffering.
Another thing she lied to me about. Of course. Pity.
"Anyways, she was going to die. I offered her to come to England to receive the highest medical treatment possible but she denied it. She thought she deserved it. But Irene didn't want to leave you behind, so she requested, more like begged me to care for you after her death."
So no matter what, I was bound to end up in England with Mycroft. My life had already been written before I had lived it.
"She made one request." He sighed. Fogged mist fell from his mouth as he spoke. "She wanted to die before the cancer got worse. Before you could notice."
A suicide from someone else's hands. Could you still call that murder when someone is legitimately asking for it? Could you still call it suicide when someone else is putting the trigger?
"I kept an eye on you and her both for awhile, and when her cancer began to take a toll on her physical state, I fulfilled her request. Mr. Adler, she did not want you to see her decay."
It made sense in the long run. I wouldn't have wanted to watch my own mother die. Her being murdered and the discovery of her old identity saved a lot of questioning from police.
"My apologies Mr. Adler."
I nodded, staring into the ground, soaking in all the new information. My mother was a criminal, I didn't know. My mother and father saw me as a mistake, I didn't know. My mother had cancer...
"This living will?" I asked, nearly a whisper.
"Well, during your mother's time in England, she had a lot of financial gain. Of course, more than half of it was illegally obtained. The rest is from life insurance policies. Have you ever heard of the saying: 'If you owe the bank a thousand dollars the bank owns you. But when you owe the bank ten thousand dollars you own the bank'?"
"No."
"That's how she seemed to get her money. Loans, debts and secretly saving. Do not worry, I fixed it with the banks. You still are entitled to a massive amount of inheritance." He snorted. "This house you see behind us was her's as well."
That would explain why it looked old, abandoned and dead.
"All of it is yours."
I was taken back with those words. What was mine? The house? The money?
"What is?"
"The money and the house. It's all yours Mr. Adler."
"What am I going to do with..." I couldn't finish.
"Well, I started remodeling inside already. Tomorrow, the decorators will be here. Just let them do their jobs, and by the end of the month the house should be brand new." He patted my knee.
I was still trying to understand all of this. And Mycroft wonders why I have nervous breakdowns. He laid all this information out and threw me to the lions expecting me to know what to do and how to react. My mother had a rather large sum of money just for me. To do what with? I don't know. And this huge, dark, scary house all for myself.
"Don't worry about cost. You have plenty to cover revisions. You will be quite okay for a long time."
I sighed with anxiety. I wasn't sure how to handle this. But I knew how to handle it in the most emotionless way possible. At least I wasn't homeless or broke.
"Mr. Adler, what did you want to be growing up?"
His question was random, completely off topic. I wasn't in the mood for self reflection.
"I don't know. A video game creator."
"And what do you want to be now?"
I actually knew the answer to that. After my arrival to England, I discovered a passion for the human body. How it functioned on a daily basis. How far we actually could actually push ourselves. How little we actually use our senses, having over twenty-five of them. We only had access 10% of our brain. But my greatest interest was the human body after it was no longer in use by its owner. It had far more interesting stories to tell dead than alive. I wasn't sure where this passion came from, but I was obsessed. Reading all the human anatomy books, thanatology studies, and death culture I could get my hands on. Being dissolved in the knowledge of it. Understanding the use of a body after death was fascinating, knowing how one died. Of course the body provided better evidence than the crime scene could have shown. The dead had my attention.
"Mortician."
I couldn't say he looked surprised, but it probably wasn't the answer he was looking for.
"Really?" His face crinkled. "Alright. You aren't going to stay home all day letting your talents go to waste. I've enrolled you into University. You start next semester."
My face probably froze in reaction to Mycroft's words. I wasn't prepared for them in any way. I just got out of a mental institution, and I was well on my way back to normal life like nothing had even happened.
"The least you could do is thank me." He seemed so calm.
"Thank you. But am I-"
"You'll be fine Mr. Adler."
I was just released from Ashworth, a mental hospital, not even twenty-four hours ago and here I was discovering my riches and my future. I was already off to become something of use, not this disappointing self-being.
The familiar silence fell back onto us, holding our tongues. My social strain was stronger than this silence.
"Mycroft, why are people calling me Adler. Legally, that's not my last name."
It seemed like a good time to ask such a question. Ever since I met Mycroft and told him that I prefered Adler, it stuck. Everyone called me by that name. It wasn't even my legal last name: Davis.
"Yes it is."
"What?"
"Once you were admitted to Ashworth I had your last name changed to Adler. Just how you like it."
"Thank you."
I felt like I couldn't breathe for a moment. This was serious. Everything right here, in front of me, was real. I was my own person, going in the right direction of who I needed to be. Roman Adler, a young, wealthy man going to college to become a mortician. I liked the sound of that.
"Since I won't be around much anymore don't be barmy," he said, putting emphasis on barmy. "Curiosity can get the best of a person." He looked at me with cold, dead eyes." You do not have permission to find Sherlock Holmes. If you go so much as the same street as him Mr. Adler, I will forced to take you down."
I gulped at his words. Forced to take you down. I maintained my emotionless face. He couldn't be serious. How would he know? It probably wasn't a good idea to try and find out. I had other things to do anyway. I would be soaking up in riches, no thanks to Sherlock Holmes.
I nodded.
"Lastly, before I depart." He stood adjusting his tan, bulky overcoat. "I've hired you a therapist, to help with your...addiction. I expect better from you Mr. Adler."
"Just because I choose venereal satisfaction over an illegal substance doesn't mean I need rehabilitation."
"Ah, ...well Sherlock was long to be so delinquent."
My escape wasn't anywhere near as lethal as my father's drug of choice. I was in no real danger, my life was filled with more pleasurable experiences than a chasing treadmill workout with no results. I could get this drug at any time, and everyone would be satisfied.
"I don't need a therapist."
His laugh made me twitch with annoyance. He wasn't hearing me out.
"Now, I must be going Mr. Adler. Please do enjoy your new home. Electric, water, and heating have been recently activated, so enjoy. Cheers."
And just like that, before I could say anything else, he was gone. Turning his back on me. Walking away.
I must have sat on that old, rigidity bench for over an hour. Nighttime had fallen before I could notice. Mycroft disappeared like usual into the night. I was left alone outside, in the cold, left to fend for myself. I liked this new idea of being in control. I could do anything now and no one could tell me otherwise. I could go anywhere.
Freedom - the power or right to act, speak, or think as one wants without hindrance or restraint.
Ahh yes, my freedom.
Freedom gave me the opportunity to release on anyone I wanted to. I had yet to feed it today. I was starving, itching, wanting my fix and with this new life. I could feed my addiction anywhere, anytime, anyway I wanted to. Brilliant. Instead of welcoming myself into my home, I choose to feed under the cold night sky.
-End.
Well would you just look at Roman! Moving up in the world! Like it? Let me know! :D Follow and favorite! You know you want to. Have any ideas on Roman's addiction? Oh you'll find out next week: Chapter 11: The Shrink and The Treatment. Roman's therapist finally shows and HOT DAMN there is going to be some smut. But will it last? Find out either this Monday, Thursday, or next Monday, I haven't decided yet! I need your guys' support!