Thanks for the reviews and follows!
Disclaimer: All the characters belong to ACD, Moffat and Gatiss. Not fair...
Music: Waltz with Bashir - The Haunted Ocean 4 (Max Ritcher)
John, Lestrade and Mycroft entered 221B. None of them would look Sherlock in the eyes. The detective rose from his armchair and walked over to the three men. John looked up and opened his mouth. However, no sound came out. Closing it, the doctor turned to Mycroft and both nodded to each other.
"I am sorry." John closed his arms around Sherlock. Completely confused, the younger man grabbed John's arms and pushed him far enough so he could look at him. "Why are you sorry?". He wished he didn't ask. The smaller man started to cry, tears rolling down his face and falling to the floor. Sherlock felt a lump in his throat. John was a soldier. As a soldier, he learned how to control his emotions, looking strong when he was actually feeling a wreck. Right now, Sherlock made John cry. But then, he noticed. The doctor was crying because of him. Something happened, something which would seriously hurt Sherlock.
"What happened?" The detective let go John's arms and observed the other men. Lestrade approached him, putting a hand on his shoulder, whispering another 'I'm sorry'.
"I'm getting tired of this! WHAT. IS. GOING. ON?!" Sherlock exploded. Due to the sudden shout, from the now silent block of flats was heard the hurried steps of Mrs. Hudson going up the stairs. The old woman opened the door and moved straight ahead to John and Lestrade.
"Off we go, boys. Let's give them some space." She closed the door and led the duo downstairs.
The brothers stood, not talking to each other. Sherlock was shooting intensive and puzzled glares. "Will you tell me now?"
"You should sit again. What I'm going to say will be hard for you to hear." For the first time since he was child, Sherlock saw true sadness cross his brother's eyes. He got desperate. He knew how to calm down John. When John came back from Afghanistan, Sherlock listened to cries and shouts coming from John's bedroom: nightmares. For weeks, he would go there and play a tune, and when it didn't work, he would sing. One night, Sherlock played more than seven different melodies; However, John didn't stop crying. Instinctively, the younger man started to sing an old song Mycroft used to sing to him when he was just a baby. Everything was wrong. It was supposed to be Mycroft who would calm him down. Not Sherlock.
The siblings sat down on the large couch and Mycroft immediately got closer to his baby brother. The elder Holmes start talking. Sherlock did not listen anything he said, filtering everything, when suddenly he heard "He's gone.".
John and Lestrade were quiet on Mrs. Hudson' kitchen. The silence was interrupted by eventual sips of tea from both men. The old lady was long gone, heading to her bedroom, trying to get rid of the sadness she was feeling.
John got up, grabbing his cup. He looked at the dirty ware in the sink and decided to give it a wash. Lestrade went helping him. It occupied them for a while. Until they heard a cry. It was just the start. Screams of agony could be even listened on the street. Objects being broken, shattered in little pieces, giving the impression a tornado was devastating the flat over their heads. The difference was that, instead of a tornado, it was Sherlock. It was the detective who was destroying everything in front of him. He was worse than any kind of hurricane.
Listen to a man crying, feeling like nothing was left, as if someone ripped his hearth, was horrible. Now, being that man Sherlock, the self-proclaimed sociopath, was pure death.
26 Years Ago…
Sherlock was excited. First day at the new school. After being bullied for three years on the previous one, mum and dad finally allowed him to go to a school close where his father worked. They tried their best to find out who had hurt their younger kid, but he never said a word about it. Every time they asked him who did the marks scattered all over his thin body, Sherlock would find a way to dodge the talk. So the conversation was dropped.
The dark haired boy walked to his new classroom. He hoped here his classmates were different. The previous ones and also teachers have been a torment for him. The kids used to grab young Sherlock by his collar and press him against the walls of the showers. One time, the Sports teacher was passing by and saw everything. Sherlock gasped for help, blood running down from his nose and mouth, yet the man didn't stop. In matter of fact, he smiled at the older boys, approving what they were doing.
Nothing happened on the first week. It was a happy week on Holmes mansion. William Holmes, the senior, won the court case against the number one Interpol's most wanted list since the last decade. Éloise Holmes was accepted by Cambridge and would start teaching advanced maths to the last year. Mycroft was allowed to skip to the last year at secondary school with only fifteen years. Sherlock was having the best time in his class. No one had been rude to him. He even made a friend called Victor Trevor.
But like all good things, they end too soon.
The oldest boy on Sherlock's class, Juke, was called to solve a maths problem in front of the class. He was hesitating. The Maths teacher was known for being relentless and could be tremendously severe. Sherlock liked him. He enjoyed seeing that man being able to handle every single thing with hands of steel.
Juke didn't know how to answer. He was the biggest bully of the school, but even he was afraid of the teacher. "Do you know the answer already, Mr. Juke?"
Sweat started to pour from his face. Juke turned and looked down at Mr. Clayton. "No. I'm sorry." He waited for a shout of anger, although it never came. Instead, Juke heard a question. "Does anyone know the correct answer?" A small arm on the back of the class rose slowly. "I do."
"Oh. Come on over then." Mr. Clayton handed Sherlock a piece of chalk. "Show what you know."
"It's quite simple actually." The young boy started writing on board. All the children observed astonished as Sherlock solved the question. What they didn't know was that that was a year 9 exercise. It was impossible for any of them solve it. At least, was supposed to be. Sherlock finished solving the question, adding an "Obviously.".
The class went silent. Kids gaped and the teacher took notes. "Well then, you're allowed going to the playground. If you wish, of course, Mr. Holmes." Mr. Clayton dismissed Sherlock with a wave of hand and the boy did as he was said to. He grabbed his staff and left.
Sherlock had fun. He found different types of insects and captured them, putting them on glass bottles he always carried in his backpack. "I'll examine them when I come home."
A shadow formed over him. Sherlock, who was sat on his legs, looked up and saw Juke and his gang, a maniac light on their eyes. "Well, well… What do we have here? Are those bugs? I love playing with bugs! Girls always scream when they see one. Sissy."
Sherlock ignored him and kept collecting the vermin. 'A ladybug. Perhaps I can give it to mum. She would be pleased.' Lost on his thoughts, the small boy didn't notice one of the bullies' forthcoming and kicking him on his ribs. Sherlock felt all the air leaving his body. When the aggressor stopped, he opened the mouth the most he could to breath and tried to calm down. 'Control. Control. Don't lose track.'
"Tell me Holmes. Were you like this on your previous school? Were you?!" Juke screamed at him, making Sherlock flinch. "Ups. Don't cry, my big baby. What's that? Are you calling daddy? You know he's not coming."
"You're wrong."
The older boys jolted at the deep sound. They turned around and became afflicted when they saw a tall man blocking their way of escape. Sherlock, curled up on the ground, closed his eyes and sighted relieved. When Juke first approached him, he managed to sneak the mobile of his coat pocket and text his father. Right in time.
"I'm just going to ask once. What were you doing to my son?" William lowered his voice while saying son. The friendly man Sherlock knew his father to be was no longer there. Nothing was.
"That…That's your son? I… I didn't… We're leaving." Juke made question to depart, but the grown man gripped his large hand around the leader of the group's neck. The boy squirmed in pain. The others, seeming too afraid to help Juke escaping the man's tight grasp, ran away.
"If I ever find out that any of you laid a finger on my kid again, I swear I'll find you and I'll make you see what hell does look like. Are we understood?" William left Juke fall to the ground with a thump. "ARE. WE. UNDERSTOOD?!" The boy nodded and ran way.
"Sherlock, are you ok?" With a worried voice, Holmes knelt next to his child, putting a hand on his head, rubbing the soft dark curls he loved so much. Receiving a low moan, the father aid is son to get up. Sherlock wiped his eyes, extremely red because of the cry and hugged his dad.
"Don't worry. From now on, this can't get worse."
How wrong William Holmes senior was.
One Year Later…
Mycroft was pushing his father's wheelchair. Sherlock and Éloise walked side by side slowly, behind Mycroft.
Less than one month after William's 'incident' with Sherlock's bullies, he received numerous charges. The parents of the boys resorted to the court and bribed the judge. The senior Holmes was sent to jail accused of stabbing and possible murder of three kids. Only seven months later he was allowed to leave. Mrs. Holmes worked hard with Mycroft to find evidence that he didn't anything he was accused of.
The family was ready to take him home when they were told William was in coma. A group of prisoners set up a trap and he was the main attraction.
Holmes senior stayed in coma for several weeks. During that time, Sherlock left his father's side the less possible. He would go to school twice a week, eat the minimum and sleep an hour or two. Mycroft and Éloise tried their best to change his mind, failing miserably. Guilt. All of this. Guilt.
When his father woke up for the first time, doctors were able to run a small exam to determine if William Holmes had some major injuries. It turned out that it was even worse than they had previously thought of. He had traumatic brain injury. With further exams, the doctor in charge of William, Dr. Lloyd, told Mrs. Holmes the consequences of TBI which were affecting him: loss of mobility, convulsions and loss of memory. Sherlock heard it all.
"How much does he not remember?" The boy addressed to Dr. Lloyd with small voice. Both the adults swallowed hard.
"It's hard to say, little guy." Éloise soundless thanked the doctor.
"HOW MUCH?!" Sherlock yelled, tears not stopping falling down. "I need to know. Please." Mrs. Holmes heart broke in two. Her eight-year-old child, happy, giggling all the time and loved by everyone who knew him for real, was now sobbing.
"Nothing since Mycroft was born."
Years passed by. Every day, Sherlock would wake up and ask his dad if he remembered him. Every day he would receive the same answer – "no".
Mycroft started working on the government, his visits becoming less and less frequent, leaving Mrs. Holmes and Sherlock take care of Mr. Holmes, Éloise giving up on his job to take care of her husband 24 hours per day. Without her salary, she fired all the maids but two. The couple was part of the family, and you never leave family behind. In the future, Mycroft would be the one sustaining the Holmes, but in the first years of job, he could barely sustain himself.
One day, Sherlock gave up. He could not bring his father back. The man standing in front of him was just a shadow of the brilliant man he once was proud of calling 'dad'. He promised himself he would never let anyone hurt him. Sherlock became distant, cold and merciless. If he was the most hated person in the school because of his cleverness, he was now wanted dead by all the people surrounding him. Not that it minded the genius boy. Of course, he still loved his mum, his dad and the two servants left (more like grandparents to him). Sherlock was not sure about Mycroft. Sometimes he just wanted to hug him, feel the warmth irradiated from his body, feel secure. Other times he just wanted to slap his face and burn him to death. Sherlock concluded he wasn't sure how he felt about his brother.
The years kept passing by, Sherlock a grown man now, never forgetting of the father he once used to have and used to love him like no one (apart from his mother). Although he didn't show the feeling as strongly as he used to, Sherlock still cared and loved his dad a lot. Every time he thought of him, he would remember all the good times they spend together, just the two of them. That's why it hurt him so much when Mycroft told him their dad passed away.