This chapter was suggested/prompted by, and therefore dedicated to Tamuril2, I hope this is what you're looking for. Thank you for the suggestion.
Sorry for any mistakes.
"I'm sorry, Mummy," Sherlock stammered, his voice weak, as he found himself backed up against the wall to the Watson's sitting room. His mother, who had been invited to a meal that evening, was absolutely furious with the teen who she deemed was her "clumsy offspring" and Sherlock, expectedly, was terrified. Mrs. Watson and John were standing in the kitchen, not quite registering what was happening as Sherlock pressed himself up against the wall, clearly trying to get as far away from his mother as possible.
The poor teen had made the mistake of accidentally bumping into a cabinet that the Watson's kept in their dining room as he was helping to clear the table, the sudden jolt caused the flower-filled vase atop of the wooden cabinet to rock, falling from the top and onto the floor. Whilst the vase remained undamaged, the water had spilled out and the flowers had slipped with them, leaving an orange dust laying in the dirty flower water.
Both Mrs. Watson and her son watched in horror as Sherlock's mother stepped forwards, closing the space between herself and her obviously frightened son, grabbing him roughly by his upper arm and pulling him away from the wall. Mrs. Watson's initial shock at the manhandling of her son's best friend quickly transitioned into a feeling of anger as Mrs. Holmes laid a few short sharp slaps across the back of his thighs in quick succession as though he was a disobedient child in need of punishment.
With tears from his now stinging legs streaming down his cheeks, Sherlock made to crouch down, to follow his mother's orders to clean up the mess, but was stopped as Mrs. Watson stepped forwards.
"No," She stated firmly, gesturing to Sherlock as he looked up at her, "come here." Clearly still scared and expecting further punishment, Sherlock quietly did as he was told, fiddling with his fingers as he bowed his head. To say that he was surprised when Mrs. Watson wrapped an arm around his thin waist and pulled him close to her was an understatement. "I do not agree with hitting children." Mrs. Watson stated, her eyes hard as she regarded Sherlock's 'mummy'. "You are a guest in my home and I do not want any violence here, particularly not towards your own son. What just happened here was an accident, Mae, and did not justify physical punishment."
"My son needs to be taught right from wrong-," Mrs. Holmes began to defend herself, only to be interrupted by an angry Mrs. Watson.
"And how is that working out for you?" She questioned with a raised eyebrow. "Look at him," She pointed to Sherlock with her free hand before placing it gently on his chest, feeling his heart pounding rapidly beneath her touch, "really look at him. You don't have a disciplined son here," she stated, pulling him closer still, until their hips were touching, "you have an anxiety riddled teenager who is petrified that he will not live up to your ridiculous standards. You have this beautiful gift, this wonderful young male, and he is frightened of making the slightest mistake, he's absolutely terrified of failure."
Mrs. Watson couldn't miss the anger blazing in Sherlock's mother's eyes as she continued to try and comfort the poor boy.
"Your son is a genius, Mae. And I would love to know what you're doing to accommodate that. How do you think shoving him into an extravagant manor filled to the brim with antique artefacts and things bought for extortionate prices that the poor boy is scared to touch in case he breaks them is going to help?"
"Sherlock is my son and I shall raise him how I feel necessary." Mrs. Holmes argued as poor Sherlock trembled against Mrs. Watson's side, forcing himself to ignore his oncoming stomach cramps as a sense of nausea rose up, his legs continuing to sting.
"Not in my home you won't." Mrs. Watson stated simply, her grip tightening on the boy in an attempt to calm him. "Sherlock is a wonderful boy and I'd be more than happy to call him my son. You have a remarkable child here and it's not fair that he's constantly on edge to ensure that he doesn't make a mess or a mistake because he's scared of the repercussions. Look at him," She stated against as Sherlock continued to cry, his chest heaving against her hand with his irregular breathing, "he's in a state all because of an accident. He's hurting because he was punished for an accident that could have happened to anybody. John," Mrs. Watson gestured for her son to join them, "take Sherlock upstairs, get him some cold compress for his legs."
"And what exactly do you expect him to learn from that?" Mrs. Holmes questioned as John mimicked his mother's position at Sherlock's other side. "What lesson do you expect to be learned from soothing him?"
"There is no lesson to be learned here." Mrs. Watson stated, watching as Sherlock was guided up the stairs towards John's bedroom. "He doesn't need to learn a lesson. You, on the other hand, do."
"Excuse me?" Mrs. Holmes questioned, affronted.
"Its time that you learn that accidents are just that - accidents." Mrs. Watson stated as she leant against the draining board. "Do you really want your son growing up being scared of making mistakes? Do you want him growing up believing that he has to try and fulfil the idea of being perfect?" Mrs. Watson let out a sigh. "Does having money and showing it off really have to mean that your child's happiness comes second?"
"Sherlock's happiness does not come second."
"Yes, it does." Mrs. Watson nodded, folding her arms across her chest. "When you have a son who is more worried about possibly damaged flooring or damaged vases and photo frames than he is himself when he's injured. That shows me that his priorities are not where they're supposed to be." Mrs. Watson nodded her head in the general direction of the stairs. "Your son is terrified whenever he makes a mistake that he's going to be reprimanded or punished. He's riddled with anxiety and depression and somehow your furnishings and petty arguments come before his feelings. When does it stop, Mae? When do you realise that Sherlock is a very troubled young man?"
"Why would it bother Sherlock? It never bothered Mycroft." Mrs. Holmes attempted to reason, only to have John's mother shake her head at her.
"Sherlock and his brother are two entirely different people and it's unfair of you to compare them. Sherlock is sensitive, Mae, and he has a lot going on in his life." Mrs. Watson explained, knowing that this debate was coming to an end when she turned slightly, her foot turning in the general direction of the door.
"I'm not going to stand here and allow you to tell me how to raise my own son." Mrs. Holmes argued before turning fully and leaving the house without even a thank you for the meal. Mrs. Watson instinctively headed up the stairs to check on the boys, finding Sherlock who had cried himself to sleep resting on his stomach with his hands buried under the pillow and John sitting cross legged on his own bed, reading.
I decided to name Mrs. Holmes Mae, mainly because I love that name.
Thank you for reading.
Please let me know what you think.
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