Chapter 2: No Room for Regret

NOTES:

I know this has taken ages and I'm sorry. I've had ethical and motivational problems with this story and I'm still not hundred percent happy with this chapter. But I'm tired of fixing it indefinitely so I hope it's enough.

Oh, and I know I said "no Eurus" but she demanded to make an entry and I had to let her, because I needed her to explain certain things. So there's that. But it won't be for long, I promise.

"Take me as I am, take my life

I would give it all, I would sacrifice

Don't tell me it's not worth fighting for

I can't help it, there's nothing I want more

You know it's true:

Everything I do, I do it for you."

Bryan Adams: Everything I do (I do it for you)

Whatever monstrous fire had ignited in Mrs. Holmes' heart when she had left the kitchen, fuelled by the thoughtless words of her guest, it blazed twice as fiercely when she returned there a moment later. It was most untimely, but inextinguishable now that it was flaming.

She marched past her sons, grabbed the wooden cutting board that had been placed on Mycroft's laptop and slammed it on the kitchen counter behind him so hard that the potatoes on it jumped.

No matter how she tried to quench it, the disbelieving look on Mary's face kept burning in her vision. The distance from the sitting room to the kitchen had been too short to stomp it out on the way. Whatever Mary had been thinking behind her expression, it was clear that she wasn't satisfied with the answer. Mrs. Holmes couldn't care less if her guest had seen through her deflecting act or not. The only thing that mattered to her was that the other woman seemed disappointed with her explanation, that she had clearly expected more of her. She thought about young Mary Watson with her belly full of anticipation, still blissfully unaware of what raising a child meant, and felt a familiar mixture of resentment and frustration flare up inside her. What did she know about her life?

Mrs. Holmes grabbed a handful of carrot slices from the worktop and threw them into a copper pot with a clunk. Before continuing, she reached for the glass of punch on the dinner table where she had left it and took a liberal swig out of it.

Her sons, who were still killing time at the table as their mother stormed back into the kitchen, immediately picked up on her foul mood. They observed her silently as she gripped the biggest knife from the knife rack and started chopping up the remaining vegetables with a vengeance. She was so consumed by her own thoughts that she barely even registered their presence in the room. Therefore, she also missed the eyes that were rolled, the knowing looks that were exchanged and the two pairs of steps that quickly led away from the kitchen table and out of the door behind her back.

She also ignored the grey, kind head that popped in through the door a bit later to ask her if she needed help with anything. If her own head gave a negative shake in response to the inquiry, it happened on autopilot and left no trace in her memory. Her brain was too busy processing the unwanted memories that were only adding fuel to the fire.

What did Mary Watson know about the challenges of having two special sons who were too smart and different for their own good?

Chop, chop, clunk. Chop, swig, chop.

What did she know about being forced to replace one's old life with whole new routines and roles to make it all work? What did she know about putting oneself on the shelf indefinitely for the greater good? What did she know about sacrifice and selflessness and decisions that burned one's dreams to the ground? Who was Mary to judge what she had done and decided, the way she had chosen to deal with things? If Mary had been in her shoes, would she have been able to get the most out of the second, different life that had been given to her?

She took in a deep breath through her nose, chiding herself.

Stop it. Mary is not to blame for what you've been through. She doesn't know what it's like. Let her keep her fool's paradise.

She knew it wouldn't last. Everyone was bound to have their own struggles, sooner or later. Life had thrown her enough curve balls during the years to hit it home. Yet it sometimes blindsided her, the jealousy of ordinariness. She envied Mary for being in the spot where she didn't have a clue of what was to come, like an unsuspecting mother-to-be. She could hardly recall what it felt like to have all her dreams and illusions intact, still looking forward to a normal future with the great expectations that only the innocent could hold on to. What it felt like to be someone for whom the not-always-getting-what-you-want was an impossible option. The feeling was so intense that it threatened to engulf her now, with more than a hint of bitterness.

Mrs. Holmes drew in another deep breath, realising she was doing it again.

Don't. Just let it be. You made the decision decades ago. No room for regret now. Remember what you have learned: bitterness only paralyses.

She exhaled and frowned at her own emotions. Surely Mary hadn't meant to make her so worked up by being curious. It was hardly Mary's fault that thinking (let alone talking) about her past still cut her to the quick, especially today. Having Sherlock at home for Christmas after so many years made her even more emotional and sensitive than usual, and her tactless guests had only managed to inflame it.

What did it matter if Mary knew the truth, that she had been an excellent mathematician and an author who had given up her career? As such, it didn't. And yet, that confession was the point of no return, the lid of her personal Pandora's Box, too hot to touch. Because it always led to the heart of the matter: the inflammable question which logically followed.

Why did you give it all up?

It seemed like an innocent question. Quite a simple one, really. The irony was that, essentially, it wasn't about her book or her career at all, it was about everything else. She couldn't give an exhaustive answer without explaining all that – and it would simply be too much to ask. A sore point. A private affair. Too intricate and painful.

Nevertheless, she had often heard the same question over the years, from old colleagues, friends and relatives. Honestly, what was there to say? She could dodge and obfuscate by answering something deliberately vague, like "there are more important things in life than mathematics" or "you'll understand when you become a mother yourself". Or she could resort to the pat answer like her husband and say that she gave it all up for her children. But even that would be an understatement - and not entirely accurate anyway. She gave her head an almost imperceptible shake and smiled ruefully to herself. The truth of the matter was that no one, mother or not, could fully understand the choice she had made, unless they had been in the same boat.

What it meant to put the needs of your child above your own – that was what every parent could easily relate to, up to a point. But when it came to a child with special needs, everything became so much more complicated. Raising a whiz kid like Mycroft and ensuring him an intellectually stimulating environment to realise his full potential would have been challenging enough. But as his little brother turned out to be neuroatypical, with his own set of demands, the challenges had grown exponentially. And then there had been the other one, too.

But if she opened the lid this much to Mary, all the 'whats' and 'whens' and 'whys' would pop out, even more awkward questions would follow and she would have to go into more detail. Before she knew it, she would be going on about meltdowns and miscarriages, sensory challenges and sleepless nights, restrictive repetitive behaviours, irritability, anxiety and antisocial conduct, bullying and vulnerability. Constant screenings, evaluations and hurtful opinions, an endless line of doctors, psychiatrists and other experts, trying to get to the bottom of it all. Useless diets, medications, interventions and alternative treatments which she shuddered to think about even decades later. The long quest for the right diagnosis in the 1980s when the concept of autism spectrum disorder didn't even exist.

The list and the details would go on and on. Ultimately, she would end up divulging more or less Sherlock's whole life story. All the distressing moments and memories of his growing up. And the range of crushing emotions that came with parenting a child with special needs at a time when even the specialists failed to agree on just how special he was.

Mrs. Holmes knew that Sherlock had been the best man at Doctor Watson's wedding and Mary probably had an idea of what he was like, too. But the adult Sherlock had learned to mask his socially challenging features incredibly well and telling her anything more than necessary about his past still felt like a breach of trust. Unless she was prepared to share absolutely everything, it was better not to go there at all.

Those experiences belonged to her and her alone.

Even with skills and connections, climbing up the academic ladder had taken time and effort. Trying to make it as a woman in the male-dominated world of mathematical sciences was tough and child-bearing had consequences. Mrs. Holmes had naturally been aware that staying at home with a baby for a longer period of time would be a seriously limiting career move. That's why she had postponed having children to an older age. In the end, however, it hadn't been an external pressure that changed the course of her career but rather an internal one. And she had keenly felt it from the time she had carried their third child in her womb.

If she had done it for the sake of their first son, the decision to quit would have been exaggerated and unnecessary. Mycroft – flexible and adaptive to the point of being like a chameleon – would have flourished in any care at all. After his birth, she returned to the university and kept on working there for the next seven years. Mathematics was her passion and there was no reason to give it up yet. It had still been possible to juggle a life with a small child, a full-time job and domesticities with her husband's invaluable help.

But all that had changed after Sherlock's birth.

It was funny how certain things were etched into her memory. She could have recited all the mileposts from the first half of that year with a hundred percent accuracy: the first eighteen weeks of paid maternity leave with a newborn and a jealous seven-year-old in tow, begging for more mental stimulation. The determination to get Mycroft evaluated for his IQ and giftedness. All the 'firsts' that took longer than with Sherlock's big brother and the pervading sense that he wasn't responding to her affections like babies were supposed to. She had no time to be concerned about it since it took only twenty-five weeks from Sherlock's birth until she found out she was accidentally, but gratefully, expecting again. She remembered the summer weeks spent in a state of incandescent happiness, despite the almost round-the-clock morning sickness, the stress of preparing a son with a remarkable IQ for his first boarding year at a prep school and taking care of a hypersensitive baby who cried incessantly and hardly ever slept at all. Despite the quiet whispers of worry at the back of her mind, they were her halcyon days.

Over the cool summer, the biggest decision of her life simmered and reached a boiling point. The right to return to work would end twenty-nine weeks after Sherlock's birth and that date was approaching fast. Arrangements had to be made. But the whole idea of returning to the university seemed impossible at that point. It was crystal clear that going back to work while bringing up a fussy baby with another one on the way would be an equation that she couldn't handle. With a heavy heart but a resolute mind, she handed in her letter of resignation at the end of July, thus virtually signing away her career.

The decision to stay at home was entirely her own; she was unaccountable to anyone but herself, not even her own husband. All she wanted from him was understanding, acceptance and support. Gently, he tried to coax her out of it, saying it would be rash and foolish to throw away her beautiful gifts and years of hard work. Had she really thought it through, all the way? He tried to argue that they were in it together and could find another satisfying solution; she should not be the only one to bear the consequences. But there had never been room for argument with his wife and that time was no exception. Once Mrs. Holmes had made up her mind, no one could make her change it. Despite being a mathematician, there was no room for logic if it went against her heart.

So the summer of content ended and the autumn of loss kicked off. A month after Mrs. Holmes had become a stay-at-home mother, her eldest son left home and started his first autumn term in a prep school miles away. She watched him go like the migratory birds, a part of her longing to follow. The new academic term at the university was starting too, but she no longer belonged to that world. She had stepped out of the rat race and onto the dreaded shelf, pulling the blinds down on her old life. She put on a smiley face but in her heart of hearts she was conflicted about the transition. Despite her determination, it took her by surprise how hard and confusing it was to follow through. Some days, it felt like a cul-de-sac, hands up, a surrender. Being at home with her younger son turned out nothing like she had planned. Everything was different with him; expectations of a carefree re-run didn't meet reality. If she was completely honest, she had second thoughts about the whole decision which was already starting to feel like a sacrifice. But how could it be one if she had left of her own free will? Later, these thoughts would earn her a twinge of guilt whenever she looked at her infant son.

To make matters worse, she lost her third child only a fortnight later, a miscarriage at the eleventh week. The months of clarity ended then and there. After that point, everything became muddled, a chaos of survival. Outside, the world kept turning as if nothing were amiss. While struggling at home with Sherlock and her emotions, Mrs. Holmes missed Mycroft's presence more than she could admit. She was devastated by the loss of her baby and still trying to adjust to the loss of her career. It felt like all the bright things in her life were coming down one by one. The winds rarely blew from the east where they lived but that autumn they had been harsh and prevailing. Perhaps the East Wind had plucked the unworthy from the earth and carried it away, like the falling autumn leaves.

Mrs. Holmes wanted to share her loss with Mycroft but didn't know how to break the news to him when he came home for the half-term. How could a seven-year-old (even one with a remarkable IQ) possibly grasp the significance of something that had been nipped in the bud, a sibling that had barely existed at all? She channeled her emotions into tristful bedtime stories and so the fleeting presence of the other one carried over as a cautionary tale, a legend to be in awe of. Mycroft later added the East Wind to his repertoire of horror stories to scare his little brother with. Eurus. The God of Autumn and the East Wind. In her moments of weakness, Mrs. Holmes gave in to thinking that it would have been a beautiful baby name, had the third one been a girl.

From then on, the time for multitasking was over. Her outlook on everything changed. There would be only one goal for Mummy Holmes: to ensure the maximum happiness and safety of her remaining children. Despite the ambivalence and self-doubt, they mattered the most. There was no doubt about that. She focused all her energy on what was left and clung to the one who was the most vulnerable. In Mycroft's absence, Sherlock became the most important thing in her life. His well-being became quintessential in her new everyday routines. And the harder it got, the more it mattered.

Although the miscarriage had undermined the foundation of her earlier decision, there was no room for manoeuvre, no going back to the university now; that ship had already sailed. But it turned out to be a blessing in disguise, because the challenges with Sherlock showed no sign of decreasing. During the following year, the need to stay at home became obvious, even though there wasn't going to be another baby. Meeting Sherlock's needs equalled taking care of several ordinary children. He had been a handful already as a newborn and his sensory sensitivity and other developmental issues only became more prominent with each passing month. It was hard to make any changes to his routines or to find a suitable space for him, without uncontrollable temper tantrums and anxiety. It was almost impossible to make a sound, taste, texture or touch bearable for him. He cried when they fed him, when they dressed him, when they bathed him. He screamed his tiny lungs out especially in the bath, his desperate wails ricocheting off the tiled walls. He only slept when swaddled or in motion and even then woke up from the slightest noise or the same second the motion stopped. Every time they took him with them when they went shopping, it ended in Sherlock lying rigid in the pram, tears avalanching down his shaking face, leading swiftly to a white-knuckle exit.

No one really seemed to understand how exhausting, how profoundly overwhelming it had been. Trying to make it day after day, with the growing intuition that something was just not right with their son. Trying to understand what made him tick, what set him off and why. It wasn't until much later that his symptoms found a proper name. But long before the doctors confirmed her fears, long before the alarming A-word crept into their awareness, she had realised his condition would define, restrict and alter the reality of the whole family.

If she thought about it, she had sensed there was something unusual about him even before he was born. Closer to birth, he had clearly flinched whenever there was a loud noise or even the flash of a camera around her. Back then, she had regarded it as a figment of her imagination, for surely no unborn baby could be that sensitive to outside stimuli. In hindsight, she could tell it was hardly a coincidence.

By the time Sherlock was three years old and showing several social and behavioural symptoms that couldn't pass as normal anymore, Mrs. Holmes was fully convinced that her decision had been right, even without the third pregnancy. Giving up her career had been a heavy choice but now she knew there couldn't have been any other solution.

Until Sherlock's birth, Mrs. Holmes had been complacent enough to think that she was a mathematical genius whose presence was needed or else the faculty would perish. Those delusions had vanished when she met a person who really, absolutely, needed her. His arrival made her realise that the roles of an aspiring scientist and the mother of a special child were mutually exclusive. They both demanded her full focus. Even with all the help in the world, she couldn't be dedicated to them both simultaneously. And between Sherlock and her career, there was no doubt about the winner. Someone else could have left him with a nanny or worse, retreated to the world of science and forgotten about her son. But whatever else she was, Mrs. Holmes was not a coward. Letting someone else take care of things she could handle herself just didn't suit her character.

In the early 1980s, more research on autism was made and things were slowly changing but there were still echoes of the earlier attitudes around. A relatively short time ago the disorder had been seen as the result of improper parenting. Mrs. Holmes was aware that things could have been very different if Sherlock had been born only two decades earlier. She could have been labeled a "refrigerator mother", blamed for cold and distant parenting and deemed interested only in her son's material comfort. In the worst case, they could have taken him away from her. The awful mother's fault was never directly thrown in her face, but the pressure to do better with her son was there. Negative attitudes towards the parents still lingered, could still be sensed between the lines, sometimes. The first paediatrician they had ever taken Sherlock to had belonged to the old school of thought, his attitude bordering on accusatory. They had returned home from the hospital guilt-ridden and more confused than ever.

It was hard to fathom how helpless they had been, at the mercy of the professionals, dependent on their consultation and whatever solutions they suggested. Back in those days, the research on neurological issues was not as ample or easy to find as today. There was no Internet, no Google to pass the information around and help to get educated. Fortunately, they'd had the means and the resources to look for a second or a third opinion when the first didn't sound right, but not all were as lucky or persistent.

The thoughts of am I somehow responsible for his struggling or could I have done something to prevent this were excruciating, nevertheless. Even without direct accusations, Mrs. Holmes had her own doubts about her role as Sherlock's primary caretaker. Being the one to build dependable routines and everyday structures wasn't an easy task for a flake like her. She was hardly the perfect mother. She was impractical, not good at organising. She struggled to stick to the plans. "A scatterbrain", her husband lovingly called her. Without his staunch support and constant reminding, she might not have made it through it all. A chill ran down her spine as she remembered how lonely parenting a child with disabilities had been in those days, how they had to go through all the emotions on their own. The mothers of today with their internet forums and support groups had no idea.

Even without her personal shortcomings, it had seemed to her that it was almost impossible to do the right thing as a parent. No matter what you did, it was bound to cause more harm than good. Too little attention, too much attention. Too much affection or not at all. It was like balancing on a neverending tightrope, the fall almost certainly in the cards. But she had muddled through to the best of her abilities. And what she lacked in terms of practicality, she overcompensated for with her affection. If you asked her, there was no such thing as too much of it. Her younger son might be incapable of ever genuinely returning the sentiment, but she would shower him with affection, no matter what anyone advised.

Even if caring too much earned a rebellion from Mycroft, who later adopted the "caring is not an advantage" slogan against his mother's gushing, awkward emotions.

In effect, Mrs. Holmes had given up her career to ensure her special needs son the best possible care in the world. There was no shame in that. And yet, she hated the fact that it made her look weak, as if she was incapable of doing her job, when in reality she felt she'd had to be twice as strong to cope with her new duties. She hadn't been just a housewife or a homemaker. Taking care of Sherlock's well-being had been her full-time occupation, a 24/7 call. She didn't have to prove her productivity to anyone else, not after all these years.

After his birth, they had been stranded in a strange land without a map or a dictionary. Even basic communication and social interaction had been an effort, as their son was unable to understand their tones or intentions. But the feeling was mutual. During his early childhood, Mrs. Holmes became the-world-to-Sherlock interpreter, illustrating the meanings of expressions, social codes and interaction to help him cope in their world. She turned from mathematics to linguistics in a way, teaching the incomprehensible social semantics to the one who did not speak their language.

Parents were supposed to be the compass for their children, showing them the ways of the world. But how could she do that if her child didn't even see the same reality that she did? As frustrating as it was for her, she tried to turn it around and consider it from his angle. Watching her son struggle with the neurotypical world and its alien sensations, she had decided there would be no bigger mission in her life than to help him make sense of his, in any way she possibly could.

There were times when she feared Sherlock would be lost inside his mind, too inviting compared to the harsh alternative outside. She suspected that he had whole worlds inside his head, huge palaces full of unimaginable rooms. But the first room he had ever inhabited had been inside her and that must count for something, too. Surely she could be a bridge and an intermediary between their worlds, letting her example lead the way. As his mother, she saw herself as the only person who could bridge that gap and lure him out of his head.

Whenever she despaired with him, fatigued by the endless caring and almost succumbing to the thoughts of I wish I didn't have children at all or my life would have been so much easier with only Mycroft, a vision of an alternative flashed before her mind's eye and a tiny voice whispered: It can be arranged. So be careful what you wish for. In those moments, she thought about what had happened to the other one and felt a wave of gratitude wash over her, knowing that in another life, she might have lost Sherlock, too.

Compared to all this, her own wishes and dreams had been inconsequential, her career aspirations irrelevant. No matter what she could have achieved academically, the fatuous mathematical challenges paled in comparison with the struggles of their daily life. Sherlock was her labour of love and his happiness more important than her own. So giving it all up for him was no sacrifice, after all. Perhaps it hadn't been the ideal solution for her, but for him it was - and that was the only thing that mattered, in the end. For Sherlock, she would have done absolutely everything. She loved him more than herself and would always put him first.

So, it was all fine, wasn't it? Although the decision had initially been tinged with bitterness, Mrs. Holmes tried to keep telling herself that giving up her career was not the same as giving up. Yet, she had lost a dream and it hurt, too. Admitting it, even to herself, felt liberating, somehow. She thought back to the burning enthusiasm with which she had embraced the years spent in those circles, thinking (erroneously, obviously) it was something that would always be a part of her life. Back then, she hadn't been prepared for something else to come her way, something so huge and important that it would cast everything else aside. But there it was. Life was funny that way, she supposed. She may have given up the room of her own at the university, forsaking her academic pursuits and losing a bit of herself in the process. But it had been in pursuit of finding room for something more. Because something unexpected had emerged from the ashes of her dreams and she had gained much more than she ever thought possible.

She knew she'd had to go through it all to be where they were today. That's the price I paid for having two geniuses as sons.

If Mrs. Holmes had to go back and do it all again, she would in a heartbeat. From the outset, she had been certain that there would never be a more significant mission in her life and that she would see it through at any cost at all. It made no difference that the object of her mission didn't understand, let alone appreciate what she had done for him over the years. If she asked him, he would probably say that she understood very little, stating a long list of her mistakes and failures as a mother to prove it. But, no child ever came equipped with a handbook, she mused. Especially if the child was more special than others. Children were supposed to outdo their parents and grow up smarter than them, anyway. If her own children regarded her as an idiot for all her efforts, it seemed like a just reward.

For better or for worse, their upbringing could only be described as a lifelong experiment defined by research and intuition or love and exasperation – in other words, by trial and error. She had made it up as they went along, alternating between leading or being led along the way. The ride had been rough but if this was where they ended up, more than thirty years later, she could consider it nothing but success.

Mrs. Holmes had no way of knowing what would have become of her if she'd continued her career and followed her academic dreams, any more than she could imagine what her life would have been like with three children or two ordinary children. But there was one thing she was absolutely sure of.

In the early 1980s the prevalence of autism had been 4 in 10,000. The odds of getting an autistic child, even back then, had been much higher than winning the lottery and yet they had struck lucky in both. But statistical correlations had nothing to do with real life; they lacked the power to explain her experiences in any meaningful way. To her, Sherlock was more like one in a million. But even there, the ratio was wrong, insufficient. For no mathematical equations, percentages or probabilities could account for that special spark of life, that exact string of DNA that had assembled itself into the intricate pieces of the puzzle that was her son. And that, she mused, was why life beat mathematics hands down. That's why she never could have placed it above her son.

After all they had been through, having a happy, high functioning adult son was not a given, nor owing to any secret formula she had devised. Whatever he was, he had made it by himself, by his own hard work. If they had made it through his childhood in one piece, it owed everything to his perseverance against the odds. She had only shown him the way out by being there.

Thinking about the gorgeous, independent creature that her son was today, working in his chosen profession and enjoying what he was able to do, having turned an obsessive interest into an occupation, now surrounded by family and a bunch of friends (Friends! Who would have thought?), she could only say her gamble had paid off. The thought brought a beaming smile to her face.

Proudly, Mrs. Holmes turned to look at her sons, only to realise there was no one there. The whole room was empty. When did everyone leave?

Confused, she stared at the silent kitchen as if it was alien to her. She had been so far away, so wrapped in her thoughts that the world around her had vanished for a while. There were three new pots boiling on the cooker and an almost empty glass of punch in front of her. She had no recollection of filling or emptying any of them. It made her uneasy.

Then she noticed she was still squeezing the life out of the knife in her hand. She let it drop to the worktop and flexed her fingers. They felt quite sore.

She glanced at the clock on the wall – only a few minutes had passed since she'd returned to the room. It felt much longer. Her experience of time seemed to be slowing down. Perhaps Mycroft was right. This day seemed to be dragging on forever.

The Zen of cooking was a curious thing, too. Or was it the punch? She looked longingly at the squishy strawberry sitting in her otherwise empty glass. Good stuff. Whatever she thought of that repulsive "protege" of Sherlock's, she could consider hiring him as the punch master for their next summer party. If thinking of his insensitive comments just now didn't make her feel like punching him in the face instead.

That thought led her back to her younger son. Where was he?

Suddenly, she felt an urgent need to see him and she had a pretty good idea where she might find him, too. Following her hunch, Mrs. Holmes dropped her chores and rushed out of the room once more.

Feedback would be appreciated.