Chapter 13: Suffer the little child

My mother was beautiful, but icy. As a small child I had adored her, but I am afraid the feeling was not mutual. A deeply religious woman, she seemed to see sin in everything I did. I remember her birthday, when I was four. I had expended a great deal of time and effort in drawing a picture for her, and printing "Mama, love from Sherlock" upon it. I had then plucked a flower from the garden, and threaded it through a hole in my picture, to make it appear she was holding it. I had proudly presented my masterpiece to her, saying,

"I made you something to say Happy Birthday, Mama." She had wordlessly viewed my offering, then looked at me searchingly, and caught up the hand I held it in.

"Have you just washed your hands, Sherlock?" she asked.

"Yes, Mama!" I answered proudly, having carefully washed my hands, cleaned my nails, and brushed my hair before coming to see her. She frequently rebuked me for slovenliness, so I felt pleased that she had noticed my efforts.

"Then you were dirty before you came to me again, and have sought to conceal it." I felt my heart slowly begin to sink below my stomach. "That is deceitful, Sherlock. Deceit is like lying."

"I-I'm sorry, Mama. I did not mean to be deceitful. I meant to be good."

"What is the Road to Hell paved with?"

"Good intentions, Mama" I whispered, my cheeks aflame.

Mama then turned to look at my carefully crafted gift, and I felt a faint hope rise within me that she would relent, and not punish me for my latest transgression.

"Did you ask the gardener's permission before you took this flower, Sherlock?"

I had frozen, not knowing how to answer, not having expected that I should ask before plucking a flower from my own garden.

"I see from your guilty face that you did not. You stole it, then, although you are too cowardly to confess it aloud. Come with me."

She tossed my card into the fireplace as she passed, and led me from the room. She fetched a piece of cardboard, a pencil and twine from her workroom, then took me to the hallway. She instructed a maid to bring her a tall kitchen stool, and the family Bible. She stood me upon the stool. Upon the cardboard she wrote the words "THEIF" and "LIAR", and she hung it around my neck. She then took the Bible, a massive, lavishly illuminated book that must have weighed close on twenty pounds. She opened it near the back, choosing her page carefully.

"You will start reading at Psalm 101:7. You will continue until I instruct you to stop." She then handed me the mighty tome, as I stood upon the stool. It was enormously heavy, but I knew I must not put it down. I began to read:

"He that worketh deceit shall not dwell within my house, he that telleth lies shall not tarry in my sight..."

I may not have attained my fifth birthday, but my mother stared fixedly at me as I spoke, chastising me when I stumbled over the difficult words. The meaning of the words seemed to hammer into my skull, and I knew not whether to burn with the injustice of it, or to drown in my own guilt.

I had to stay there and continue reading for the rest of the day. By the end of an hour, my arms and back burned with the pain of holding the book and my throat was sore. Mama made the concession of allowing me to balance the book upon a broomstick, to support some of its weight, but of course I still had to hold it steady. We had guests that evening; I was still on my stool when they entered, and my mother, to my overwhelming shame, told them that I had been caught stealing, and lying. My placard felt more of a burden that the Book.

When my father discovered what my "theft" and "lies" had been, he was appalled by my mother's reaction, and I could hear them arguing whilst I still stood upon my stool, my muscles excruciating from the enforced immobility, my voice so hoarse I could barely phonate. My father had come to lift me down (I could not return my arms to my side), and it was one of those rare moments where he held me close and muttered words of comfort to me. Except it was my mother I craved this reaction from, and she did not come. I remember feeling terribly guilty that I had made my parents argue, and that I was a thief and liar.

This was not the only such incident. I can recall so many moments of attempting to gain her approval, and being rebuffed, usually castigated. If ever I cried at this treatment, Mama's disapproval would increase ten-fold, and she would brand me cowardly and weak.

I dreaded meeting our neighbours and they had seen me being punished so many times, I thought they must believe me to be the most abominable child in England.

I must have recited the entire Bible, back to back, at least a dozen times, the passages chosen to both punish and condemn me by my own tongue, the weight of it like lead in my arms. I grew to hate that book, in lieu of hating my mother. Any religious feeling I might have had withered inside me, and I ceased to believe in the words, as a protective mechanism; had I believed all the curses I was forced to heap upon myself truly applicable to me, I believe I should have curled up and died. Other people draw strength and hope from religion, my mother took it away. She did not dwell on the blessings, or the softer, kinder sentiments. Suffer the little children... to me, the words meant that I was a little child, and I suffered.

Mama seldom seemed to direct such behaviour towards Mycroft; with him, she was firm, and cold, but there was no real ire; no strong feelings either way from either party in fact. They left each other be, and Mycroft rarely exerted himself to please her. However, none of my considerable efforts were sufficient to assuage her blighting contempt.

My father rarely intervened; in fact, he stayed away as much as possible, and was highly undependable as an ally. My mother demanded I treat him with respect; even as a tiny child it was clear to me that she did not. The same, hard, look was in her eyes when they fixed upon him as when she fixed upon me, and although she was usually meticulously polite to him, it was with a stony disgust in her voice.

Mycroft told me that, after his birth and before mine, Mama had experienced a miscarriage, a stillbirth and a child who did not survive infancy. I used to wonder if this was what it was that my father and I had done to earn such animosity; he had given her unfit children, and I had had the temerity to live whilst they had died. I had also heard the word "philandering" used, and instinctively felt it was relevant, but at the time, I did not know what it meant.

Had I been left to the tender mercies of my parents, I believe I should have grown up feeling myself to be entirely unloved and unlovable. As it was, I knew I was not far removed from this state, but my parents' servants stopped me from becoming entirely untouchable.

Most of the household was in secret league against my mother. The housemaids would pinch my cheek and the footman tousle my hair and wink at me following a scolding. They would conceal the evidence of my youthful peccadilloes as best they could.

When my chemistry set exploded, showing the room in debris, the staff joined forces to repair the damage, even going so far as to paint the walls and ceiling. Watkins, the butler, himself an amateur chemist, rapidly showed me how to produce acetone from the addition of a hydroxide to an aldehyde, in order to conceal the smell of paint.

Watkins the butler and Mrs Marks the cook were my main solace. Warm, caring, normal, kindly people, they took me under their wings and made my life bearable. I would potter around the kitchen at Mrs Marks feet whenever I could, and she would give me treats, allow me to 'help' her, and always tell me how much my creations had been enjoyed at the servants' table. Sometimes, if I was hurt or upset, she would pick me up and sit me upon her knee, engulfing me in a soft hug. My nurse, chosen for her strict discipline, would never behave like this (I am sorry to say I rejoiced when the dropsy forced her to retire and at four years old I was considered too old to require a replacement).

Watkins had a grave face but twinkling eyes. He liked to make treacle toffee, getting under Mrs Marks feet, and making me giggle with their banter. The toffee was kept in an old tin with a soppy picture of a man and woman in old-fashioned clothes on the lid, and he would proffer it with a wink. I would solemnly select a piece which would weld my jaw shut for ten minutes at a time. He rescued me from trees, helped me with my schoolwork (especially chemistry) and generally offered the praise and compliments my soul craved, so lacking from other directions.

The only servant arrayed on the side of my mother was Drayton, the under-gardener, a stumpy man with carroty hair and deplorably strong arms. If ever she deemed corporal chastisement to be opportune, she would summon him, and he would supply it with a thin birch rod of my mother's providing. His performed this task with an appalling relish, his eyes glittering, his face flushed with concentration, and little flecks of spit at the corners of his mouth. I hated Drayton, but all the other staff were my friends.

I had to keep these relationships secret from my mother, as she did not like me to mix with the 'lower orders'.

"Badly behaved as you are, Sherlock, association with the working classes can only corrupt you further. You are already sufficiently uncouth."

I subsequently came to consider this attitude preposterous, and I think my mother suspected it. My preference for the infamous lower orders seemed to deepen her antipathy. Had she just once smiled at me and praised me, I believe I would have been her willing slave in all things. My idolisation of her lasted longer than might be expected, but, at last, her disdain had the predictable effect: I became indifferent to her when she was absent, and frightened by her when she was present.

By now, I was beginning to utilise some of the iron in my soul that I had inherited from her, but my steely resolution was still incomplete, and, as she stood today in my sick room and glared at me, I felt my shields begin to buckle.

At my moment of impending disintegration, the door opened again, and in walked Professor Rangaford.

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Ugh, I loathe Holmes' horrible mother. I thoroughly enjoyed writing her though – she'd be a great pantomime villain – BOO, HISSS!! The Child is Father of the Man and all that though (Oo, that would be a great title for a fan-fiction – anyone want to borrow it?) and this would explain why Holmes has a "great heart", but represses emotional displays.

Historical note, for any geeks like me who are interested (or may help you understand Mrs Holmes nastiness):

Syphilis is a sexually transmitted disease that was so rampant in Victorian society, its alternative names included the Great Pox and the Venereal Plague. It affected all stratas of society, but was particularly associated with prostitutes and sailors. Obviously those Victorians were not so morally upright as they professed.

In view of the "philandering" and Mrs Holmes lost children, it is worth noting that latent syphilis tends to gradually work its way out of the body over a period of years. Affected women may be asymptomatic, but the infection can pass through the placenta. A classic course is a several year run of miscarriages, premature births, stillbirths or sickly infants. The children are progressively less severely affected over time. The woman may recover, or may develop secondary syphilis years later.

Owing to its associations with promiscuity and insanity, syphilis was a highly stigmatised disease. It is still around today, but it is fully curable if treated with antibiotics.