It has been said, 'time heals all wounds.' I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.
~Rose Kennedy
Sherlock
"Can I show you?" asks Sherlock, the exhaustion of a hellish day seeping into his voice.
He doesn't want to see it again, not so soon after… after Daisy's prediction became true. After she died without meeting him and left him her daughter to bring up.
She should have been here with him. She should be the one presenting little Josephine to Daddy, he would love the recognition his poor mother got in the form of her little girl. He would love Daisy too.
She would have loved him. She would have been wary of Mummy for a while. Mummy was an overbearing woman but in a well-meaning way, for most of the time and Daisy would have warmed up to her eventually. But Daddy she would love right away. How could she not? He was Daddy. The calm in the eye of the storm, the actual rational man in the family. Given few minutes to get over the initial shock he would be showing her around the house, showing her his birdhouses and making plans on building a cot for Josie.
It's not going to happen now.
He's not going to see Daisy wrapped into one of Mummy's shawls, seated on this very couch with a mug of tea and Daddy's arm wrapped around her shoulders while he shows her photographs of Sherlock and the absurd stuff he had been up to in his childhood.
He won't have that. Daddy won't have that. And Josie will grow up without a mother. These thoughts choke him and he hides his face in Josie's downy hair. He cannot cry now, he needs to be strong for Daddy's sake for a little while longer and then…
"Sherlock?" Daddy asks. "Are you…?" he hangs his voice.
"I'm fine," Sherlock mutters in Josie's hair. "Just exhausted," he adds, hoping that it's the exhaustion Daddy is hearing in his voice and not held back tears.
With his face still hidden in Josie's hair he can hear Daddy and John shuffling around the room. John is most probably looking for the laptop bag which Sherlock left downstairs in the kitchen just in case he was going to need easy access to Daisy's DVDs.
Then he hears Daddy's footsteps getting closer and the warm weight of Katie leaning against his side is changed to Daddy's and quickly Daddy's right arm wounds around his shoulders. No words, just reassuring touch, pure Daddy.
He smiles into Josie's hair softly.
"Just a quick question," says Daddy finally. "What's her name? Is it a she or did you use little Rosamund's clothes because they were on hand?" he asks curiously.
Sherlock takes a deep breath and raises his head, hoping that there aren't any tears in his eyes.
"Her name is Josephine Daisy," he answers as he looks at Daddy. "And no, we didn't use Rosamund's clothes, we used Katherine's," he adds.
There it is the light shock and a hint of smile that gives way to a frown as he looks down at Katie.
"Long story," he clarifies. "Longer than the one you're going to see and we're definitely going to talk about it later on. For now just accept that Rosamund Mary Watson is Katherine Sherlock Watson."
"Sherlock?" Daddy asks curiously. "I thought…"
"He brought up his great-grandmother," says John as he walks into the room with the laptop bag in hand.
"He should have brought her up in the first place," Daddy says simply. "I take that he regaled you with her life story."
"He did," John confirms. "Sounded formidable."
"She was," Daddy agrees. "Put a fear of God in everyone that crossed her. The Holmeses avoided her like a plague. She was the only person aside of the Queen herself that my father-in-law ever feared and that was saying something. She terrified the living daylight out of my father so much that he decided to drink himself to death rather than deal with her wrath on regular basis. I know that it makes her sound awful but she wasn't," he adds the last sentence sheepishly. "She was one of the warmest and kindest people you would ever meet. Stubborn as an entire herd of mules though."
"Sounds like someone I know," says John fondly as he picks the DVD from the bag.
"Is the TV set to the player?" asks Sherlock.
"It is," Daddy confirms. "I had dinner yesterday with Monty Python," he adds sheepishly.
"Let me guess. You were watching the joke thing again?" asks Sherlock pointedly then he looks at John. "He thinks it's funny for some reason."
"It is," answers John simply as he turns the DVD player on.
"Unless you know German," mutters Sherlock. "The only thing worth watching from the entire thing is the parrot one."
"It's a good one too," Daddy nods. "Maybe the joke is an army thing," he suggests.
"What can possibly be funny in a statement that peace broke out and that was the end of the joke?" asks Sherlock. "Although to give it some justice the Nazi cross one in it is a bit funny."
"Because it's literal," quips John.
He keeps fiddling with the TV until; now familiar room shows up on the screen. The video is on pause until John seats himself on Sherlock's right and presses play. Knowing what's coming next, Sherlock stretches out his left hand to grasp Daddy's right hand.
Rather than on Daisy he concentrates on watching Daddy watching Daisy and he registers the sharp intake of breath when Daisy first appears on the screen. It's followed by another one when Daisy says 'Hi Dad'. Daddy closes his eyes and shakes his head when Daisy brings up the kidnapping.
He tries not to hear the words that come after that. Her scorn at Mycroft. It's deserved but he doesn't want to remember her anger or the resigned certainty in the face of her upcoming death because she was right on that. She was already gone when he watched that video.
She should have come to him, damn it, he thinks as the tears well in his eyes. He lets them fall unrestrained now into Josie's downy hair. Then Josie whimpers 'Mama' and another round of tears fall.
"Sh, hush now," he whispers into her hair. "Mama made sure that you will be looked after," he adds so softly that it's barely audible to his own ears. "She loved you so much…"
Finally, 'Goodbye Dad' comes and it brings another round of tears into his eyes.
Goodbye Dad. Goodbye. That's all you will ever have of me, my final words to you and my daughter. My unearned forgiveness for not being present in my life and a choice to do better with Josie.
'You should have come to me,' he tells her ghost that he can feel lingering in the room.
'I know, I'm sorry,' he hears her answer.
"Sherlock," Daddy whispers as he turns to face him, letting go of his hand. "She is…" he doesn't finish the sentence.
"Had been already dead when I watched the video this morning, I'm sorry, Dad," he answers and another round of fresh tears slip out. "I'm so sorry," he mumbles just a moment before Daddy wraps his right arm around his shoulders and shifts him forward. "I'm sorry," he whispers into his shoulder. "I'm so sorry, Daddy."
He keeps repeating the words through the tears even though he isn't sure what he's apologising for. Daisy's death? There was nothing he could do to prevent that. Not being a better son? Now, that he knows how your child's decisions can hurt he regrets distancing himself from his parents. For allowing the resentment of being sent away to school to fester. For not coming to them when the problems with his left hand didn't go away after that summer they spent going from doctor to doctor. For first illegal pills he took. For morphine. For cocaine. For the year he spent whoring himself on the streets for drugs. For every single overdose that happened after the first one. For worrying about him. For his disappearances and radio silence. For avoiding spending time with them. For not acknowledging that the time they have together is running low and that it had been running low for a very long time.
Daddy is seventy-one now and a retired soldier. Both his parents died before turning forty but Grandma Sherlock lived up until ninety and maybe Daddy has enough of her genes to live just as long. To see him and Mycroft turn grey, to watch Josie grow up. He might even live past Josie's graduation from fifth form. Sixth form even. Maybe even long enough to see her married one day.
He deserves it, Mummy too. They deserve having him make up for all the hurt that he caused them. They deserve being a part of Josie's life, his life. Again.
Josie wiggles out of his lap and he can feel John picking her up. He places her down and then he takes Katie from Daddy's hold.
With both of his arms free Sherlock allows himself to scoot closer to Daddy in order to wrap his arms around him and he lets him do the same. He still keeps mumbling 'I'm sorry' over and over until his voice turns raw and he cannot talk anymore, only cry into Dad's shirt.
Daddy keeps running his hands over his back and keeps whispering softly, "It will be all right Sherlock. Not today, not tomorrow but one day."
He keeps repeating it and other soothing nonsenses until he finally says, "Death of a child is the worst thing that can happen to a parent but time heals all wounds."
It's there. The opening he didn't plan for but it's there just the same. An excuse to address his weird dream and to finally settle what's true and what's false in it.
He pulls away slightly, just far enough to look at Daddy while still remaining in the circle of his arms.
"When?" he asks and he sniffs. "When it stops hurting, Dad?"
Daddy looks at him, with his eyes filled with tears and this hesitant expression on his face.
"Because you know that it does," presses Sherlock. "When does it stop?"
"Never," exhales Daddy softly. "It's just the words that people who never been through it tell to people that have been. Time doesn't heal the wounds of neverness, Sherlock. The wounds remain but in time the mind protecting its sanity covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it's never truly gone; it just hurts less as the time goes by."
"Sherrinford?" says Sherlock softly. "Euros?"
Daddy let's go of him with his left arm to press it against his face and wipe his tears before he lowers it to his knees.
"You remember," he says softly.
"Why I had to remember? Why I just didn't know?" asks Sherlock insistently. "Why?"
"You knew," Daddy sighs heavily. "You knew and it was killing you, Sherlock. Day by day, every day for weeks. Every moment you spent conscious you were screaming yourself raw," he pauses. "One day you just stopped altogether. You stopped screaming, stopped talking, even reacting to any kind of stimuli. You shut yourself in your own head and didn't emerge out of there for a very long time. We didn't know what to do. The psychiatrist that that ruddy bastard got for you didn't know either. I know now that he had no experience with children like you but… We were clutching at straws Sherlock."
"So you just let me forget that they ever existed?" asks Sherlock petulantly.
Daddy sighs again and runs a hand over his face before he says quietly, "It seemed like the best course of action at the time. It didn't feel right but…" he shakes his head. "We were stumped; Sherlock and every psychiatrist we asked for help told us to follow your cues. But how can you follow something that just isn't there?" he sighs heavily. "We were unable to get you out of your head. We were so desperate that we even let Myc try some stuff but you ignored him like you ignored all of us. Maybe," he pauses, "maybe if you had an outlet other than speech that would allow you to communicate with us then..."
"What kind of an outlet?" asks Sherlock.
"Art therapy," sighs Daddy. "You've been subjected to it eventually but before it happened you had to get out of the casts which took months and by then…" he shakes his head. "We were told that it will probably pass but it never had. It was already too late to undo the damage without causing more," he sighs again.
"So you adapted," says Sherlock softly. "You erased them from your lives and somehow convinced the rest of the family to never bring them up in my presence. That had to take a lot of effort."
"Rudy helped with the Holmeses," Daddy snorts softly. "I don't know what kind of threats he implored and I don't particularly care. Myc worked on your younger cousins. The Vernets were a completely different case, not all of them were convinced that it was the best course of action. Like Aunt Cora but I wasn't seeing a lot of her prior to that and you weren't seeing her at all after, so she could pray for your enlightenment to her heart's content and all that would come out of it was that she would spend more time on her knees. Lloyd's first wife was like that too but luckily for us she kept bringing up Sherrinford by his nickname and you kept assuming that she was referring to you."
"Why?" John asks before Sherlock has a chance to do so.
"Because that's when you started going by Sherlock," explains Daddy. "More precisely, that's when you started reacting to Sherlock. We kept trying with Billy or any variations of thereof for months until one day we had to give your full name in your presence and…" he pauses. "After months of silence and lack of direct eye contact seeing a flicker of interest from you," he sighs. "We didn't start with Sherlock immediately but it was the only one that could get any reaction out of you so Sherlock you became."
"Why?" asks Sherlock.
Daddy grimaces and sighs, "It's hard to explain without visual aid."
"You have pictures?" Sherlock breaths out, completely letting go of Daddy. "Squirreled away in a bank vault or something?"
"They were, for a while," Daddy admits with a grimace.
"Oh," he breaths out, "the darkest place is under the candlestick," he mutters. "So where are they?"
Instead of answering Daddy stands up and heads to the study.
Sherlock closes his eyes and whispers, "My Baby's First Year photo album. I can feel it."
"Because they didn't think that you would touch it?" asks John pensively.
"Obviously," snorts Sherlock grimly. "I'm going to find the photographs from it sometime this weekend and you can judge for yourself if watching them would be something you would come back to as an adult. I on the other hand would like to be shot again rather than ever seeing that travesty ever again."
"Don't say that because someone might actually take you on that offer," sighs John before he hands Katie to Sherlock and bends down to pick up Josie from the floor.
For a moment he contemplates switching their places but as soon John has Josie in his arms she cuddles up to him and closes her eyes. Well, there goes more concrete dinner John was hoping for, at least with Josie. He leans against the back of the sofa to look at Katie. Her eyes are still open but she keeps rubbing her face and shuffling closer to his side.
"Bed?" he asks.
"Bed," John agrees as he stands up slowly, trying to not jostle Josie too much.
They put the travel cot in Sherlock's old bedroom only because John didn't want to overstep the boundaries of Mummy's and Daddy's hospitality without asking them. He told Sherlock that he was their son and that it was his parents' home but until stated otherwise he was an uninvited guest who shouldn't bossy himself around the house.
So in order to appease John's worries Sherlock removed his own suitcase from the room and put it in the guest bedroom when John wasn't looking. If John was going to be this sensitive about it he could put him where he wanted to put him.
When they enter the room John pays no attention to Sherlock's missing suitcase and makes a quick work of removing daywear from Josie. She's sleepy but not completely asleep so he changes her into pyjamas after checking if she requires changing. She doesn't.
While John is busy with Josie Sherlock changes Katie into a fresh nappy because she's wet (which is probably the reason why she isn't as sleepy as Josie). Once the fresh nappy is on her he puts her in pyjamas and waits for John to arrange the sleeping bag in a way that would cover them both.
Once done with that John holds sleepy Josie up to him so he can kiss her goodnight before he places her down on her back in the cot. Then Sherlock offers Katie to him to kiss and he puts her down next to Josie. John covers them both with Katie's sleeping bag. Josie is out immediately while Katie tries to fight sleep for a couple more minutes but she finally succumbs to the lure of sleep.
"We will probably have to change Josie during the night," sighs John.
"Probably," Sherlock agrees. "Come on."
"Don't you want to…" John starts.
"No," Sherlock interrupts him knowing what he was going to say.
I can't do this alone, he thinks. I need you to later confirm that you heard exactly what I heard and I don't want to hide things from you. Not anymore.
"Okay," says John.
When they return downstairs Daddy is already there waiting for them with a pot of tea and a huge plate of sandwiches. Next to him lies 'Baby's First Year – Sherlock' photo album, just like Sherlock predicted.
Sherlock ignores the plate of sandwiches but accepts a mug of tea. He doctors it to his liking (Daddy was never big on tea ceremony unless they had guests over) and puts it away to cool down a little. On his right John is helping himself to the pile of sandwiches and he places one on the plate next to Sherlock's tea. He looks at John and nods quickly, he will eat one later, right now he cannot stomach one out of anxiety.
What possibly could be hiding in that album?
Sensing Sherlock's anxiety Daddy swallows a bite of his sandwich and puts the plate away before he picks up the album and places it on Sherlock's knees. Then opens the cover.
There's only one photograph on the first page but it's a big one. Not huge enough to fill the entire page of the album but big enough to leave some space over and under it for scribbles that read:
Billy Sherry Myc
Rosie
He immediately recognises his younger self on the left. He had seen handful solitary photographs of himself from that age. Curly mop of hair, dark brown in colour with auburn hue due to the angle of the light, pirate hat slightly askew on the top of it, with a wooden sword tucked on his side between his belt and his trousers. He's grinning like a fool in the photograph and his right arm is looped around a burlap sack with baby with yellow cap and yellow romper sticking out of it.
"She's supposed to be a bag of gold, isn't she?" asks John.
"She was supposed to be a chest of gold," says Daddy. " Sherlock had her pushchair appropriately decked up but day before that bloody thing decided to break so Sherry hastily put together the bag costume which could be wrapped around her carrier and they dressed her in yellow like they planned."
Sherlock looks at the man and the sight of him nearly takes his breath away. Sherrinford's hair looks exactly like his own. Dark brown with auburn hue and just as curly, fanning around his face. He has a tricorn hat perched on the top of his head and he's dressed into costume of an 18th century naval officer. It's not exactly a historically accurate costume but he doesn't appear to mind. His right arm is wrapped around Sherlock's shoulders and his left is wrapped around Mycroft's.
Sherlock spares a brief glance at Mycroft. He's wearing a grey costume that looks like something a prisoner would wear and his left hand is in handcuffs. He looks less pleased than Sherlock or Sherrinford but he doesn't appear to be completely miserable.
His eyes come back to Sherrinford though because he has seen enough of Mycroft in his life and quite frankly he doesn't want to see him again. Sherrinford has the same straight nose like his own and bright eyes. His jaw is similar to Sherlock's at that age.
"He looks like me," he whispers.
"Yes," Daddy agrees earnestly. "Although if you want to be specific you look like him," he adds. "Mummy used to say that with how alike you two looked you were originally supposed to be twins and that due to your typical contrariness you just decided to be born over thirteen years later."
"That's scientifically impossible," protests Sherlock. "The life expectancy of sperm…"
"I know," chuckles Daddy. "I kept telling her that it was a Vernet thing for ages," he sighs. "Lloyd, the oldest of my younger brothers and Elijah, the second to youngest of them looked like that too even though there was an eleven years age gap between them," he adds for John's benefit. "The older they got the more like twins they looked like."
"Hence it's never twins," John muses at loud.
"What about the names?" asks Sherlock pensively. "Because I get Billy and Mycroft always hated Myc but from where Sherry and Rosie came from?"
"Sherry was named by your mother," answers Daddy. "Our relationship was…"
"If you start going on how hot she was I will scream," Sherlock interrupts him. "Loudly," he adds after a beat.
"Well, she was the hottest girl in the bar," Daddy shrugs. "And she could dance as if she was born to do it and that was before she opened her mouth," he chuckles. "Don't blame me for being completely smitten with her once she had."
"She took one good look at you and told you your life story?" asks John dryly.
"Shut up," mutters Sherlock.
"Not exactly," Daddy snickers. "She asked if the reason why I was nursing my cheapest beer all night was that I was still underage and didn't want to get caught drinking or because I didn't want to spend more money because I was planning to send as much as I could to my grandmother. Turned out that she was eyeing me through better part of the evening. I was seventeen, few weeks shy of turning eighteen and I was hit on by the girl that had it all, the looks, the brain and the moves."
"So you landed in bed and she got pregnant," Sherlock summarizes. "How are you even still breathing?"
"Because she ran away from home as soon as she figured it out and went straight to Grandma Sherlock. You knew Grandma. She and Mummy got along like a house on fire right away. She kept hiding her from the Holmeses until after Sherrinford was born. It was a home birth and his birth certificate was filled on the last day it could have been filled. I just went in there with detailed instructions," answers Daddy.
"Why Sherrinford though?" presses Sherlock.
"Depending on how much liquor you eventually got into her Sherrinford was the Holmes family name. One of the older ones, some sort of great-grandfather or even further than that. Long dead by the time she was born anyway. Alternatively, and that version I was always more inclined to believe, was that she wanted to honour Grandma Sherlock and her husband for taking her in without hesitation by naming him Sherlock Ford. And you know how that worked with you and Grandma Sherlock. Plus, she was never fond of Kenneth which was Ford's first name so she decided to go with this smash of both," explains Daddy. "It eventually appeased both families and everyone was happy about it eventually, except Sherrinford."
"Why?" asks John curiously.
"Poor lad got named Sherrinford Sigerson Holmes Vernet," shrugs Daddy. "He universally hated his names and had very strong negative feelings about being a Holmes. He loved Grandma Sherlock to pieces and spent quite a lot of time complaining that if he had to be a Holmes then he should have a not Holmesian name to go with it. I kept hearing from him: I would be great Sherlock Holmes and you know that, Daddy. Kept getting into fights at school and ignoring teachers until they gave up and started calling him Sherry instead of Sherrinford," he explains with a sigh. "But when you were born and we named you Sherlock he was over the moon, refused to call you anything but Sherlock even though we called you Billy since Grandma opposed the idea. She had to eventually talk him into calling you Billy when it started to confuse you but the effort it took…" he shakes his head. "Well, it was either that or letting you wander around calling yourself Silly so he had to relent eventually."
He hears John chuckle on his right and he can't keep his own lips from twitching. Silly Holmes, that would have gotten problematic in school.
"And Rosie?" he asks.
"When Mummy was about fifth months pregnant with her and we knew that it was going to be a girl she caught the three of you long past your usual bedtime in Sherry's room playing poker," says Daddy. "Never before I saw her so pissed off like back then, she was so mad that I was worried about her blood pressure," he shakes his head. "Told them off for keeping you long past your bedtime and for trying to swindle you out of your pocket money. She was so furious when she noticed that you were playing with pennies. But she calmed down a bit after you told her that you were using them to keep a track of who was winning and that the goal of the game itself was to find out which one of you was going to name your baby sister."
"You didn't have a name of your own by that point?" asks Sherlock curiously. "Or a list of the ones you liked? Isn't that some sort of tradition for expectant parents?"
"We had," chuckles Daddy. "Quite a long list on that and we were still in the process of narrowing it down. It didn't occur to us to ask you about your opinion on the subject, at least not until we would manage to narrow it down to less than twenty names," he sighs. "As it turned out each of you had his own idea how your sister was going to be called and as smart as the three of you were you couldn't narrow it down between yourselves either. Hence poker."
"Did that game factored in her naming?" asks John.
"It had, after Mal calmed down significantly," nods Daddy. "On the stipulation that she gets a right to veto the choice if she won't like it. Sherry and Myc admitted their choices quite eagerly. Myc wanted the baby to be called Victoria and Sherry was hell-bent on Sherlock, told us that Grandma wouldn't rise from the grave to oppose that one and that maybe the third time would be the lucky one."
"It obviously wasn't," says Sherlock simply.
"Because certain someone had wiped the floor with them during officially sanctioned game," chuckles Daddy. "Myc was out by the fifth round and you and Sherry were on warpath."
"Both tried to cheat?" asks John.
"Counted cards. It was an even game until Sherry got overconfident and got fooled by a resigned sigh from him," he clarifies and he gestures at Sherlock. "Sherlock robbed him blind and what was worse was that he refused to give the name he had chosen. The only thing we got out of him until few days before Rosie was born was that it was supposed to be a pirate name."
"Euros was a pirate name?" he asks sceptically.
"According to you Euros literally means the God of East Wind in Greek and in Welsh it means gold which was as pirate as it could get," shrugs Daddy. "What you failed to mention at the time was that Euros in Welsh was typically a male name. But it fit quite nicely with the name Mummy and I settled on. She was named Euros Rosamund, Rosamund after one of Mummy's close friends that died earlier that year in a car crash. But everybody kept calling her Rosie, you tried calling her Euros but after she got very sick you stopped that and decided that once she would be big enough to form her own opinion on the subject she would agree with you that Euros was a better name than a plebeian Rosie."
As Daddy keeps explaining that he turns the page and points at the top photograph on the second page. It's one of Sherlock alone with the baby. He's leaning against the arm of the sofa with a book propped on his legs while his baby sister that's tucked into a soft blue blanket is lying on his stomach.
He looks down at the other two photographs on the page. There's one of Mycroft with the baby, who is awake this time, and propped against Mycroft's right arm as she watches the teddy-bear Mycroft is holding in his other hand with scepticism. Mycroft himself is not looking into camera or at the baby but rather towards his left.
The one at the bottom is that of Sherrinford, Sherry with the baby Eu... Rosie. Euros reminds him too much of the psychopath from his dream. She's just a baby in there and the most devious stuff she could be up to at this age would be soiling her nappy in such manner that it would warrant hosing her down. In the photograph however she's nursing on a bottle while Sherry looks at her with the look of such flooring adoration and devotion that Sherlock's heart squeezes.
"I used to think that we've been blessed," says Daddy softly. "Still do, sometimes," he sighs. "We had three marvellous boys. Every single one of you was phenomenal and unique…" he pauses for a long moment. "But when I go back to that time I try not to think about what came later but of moments like this. There was so much love in that house," he sniffles slightly. "So much love and devotion and adoration, Sherlock. Yes, you argued but what kind of siblings doesn't squabble over big or little stuff. You all universally loved and adored Rosie. Sometimes there were days when Mummy or I could barely hold her for few minutes before either one of you came in to take her away."
Sherlock looks at him and he can see tears running down Daddy's face.
"I'm sorry," he whispers as he wraps his left arm around Daddy's shoulders.
"It wasn't your fault, Sherlock," sighs Daddy. "Their deaths aren't on you. There was nothing you could do to prevent them. Nothing you could do to prevent what happened."
"I'm still sorry," Sherlock sighs.
"Well, I'm sorry that we let you forget about them. We shouldn't have done it," whispers Daddy. "But we lost two children to that fire and for months we've been on the edge of losing the third. There was nothing we wouldn't be willing to do to help you get better."
"The fire. How did it start?" asks Sherlock gently.
"Faulty circuit wire isolation," sighs Daddy. "It was an old house. We tried to keep it in shape but your Uncle Llewellyn, may he rot in hell, refused Mal the access to family funds to fix the wiring. We offered to pay him back in instalments but he flat out refused. So we had to save up for remodelling the electrical installation. We should have moved away as soon as it became evident that we lived on a delayed time bomb but few weeks before that Aunt Gwen's house burned down to the very ground…" he shakes his head.
"And you didn't have this kind of money, neither did the rest of the Vernets," finishes Sherlock.
"Malcolm had something squirreled away but his wife was pregnant again and again with twins and the six of them lived in a tiny two bedroom flat," Daddy mumbles. "I couldn't do that to them. That's why we asked the Holmes for help. Aunt Maple was marrying off her oldest son and she had her expenses. Rudy was Rudy and always walked a fine line between having some cash on him and ending up in jail for debts. Llewellyn was the only one to whom we could turn and who actually had the money."
"But no inclination to share it," snorts Sherlock.
"Instead we had been reminded that we were living in one of the Holmes family properties only because your Grandmother Marged on her deathbed forced him to give Mal one of the family properties for perpetual use," huffs Daddy sourly. "He had a gal to throw the insurance money into our faces after the fire. Mal told him where he could stuff it and I told him what would happen if he will try to contact us again. As if that money could bring them back," he sighs and shakes his head. "Left up to me you would have grown up in a tiny two bedroom flat which the army offered us after Mal and I got married but I didn't want Mal to distance herself from her family…" he shakes his head again.
"It wasn't your fault," Sherlock tells him. "You did your best with what you had, Daddy."
"I could have done better," mutters Daddy. "Or differently," he sighs. "If we took you and Rosie with us. If we stayed at home that weekend. If we gave you and Rosie to the Edwards with Myc…" he shakes his head. "Instead we left you in that house with a nymphomaniac sitter with scruples that didn't want to defile the house. If she didn't have scruples she and her boyfriend would have smelt the smoke right away. If Sherry didn't have a meeting with his thesis advisor that afternoon he would have been home and he too would have smelt the smoke. But he had that meeting and we had to get that stupid bint because he promised that he would be home before dinner."
"Why wasn't he?" asks John gently.
"Got a flat tyre, nasty one," sighs Daddy. "Called the sitter as soon as he knew that he would be running late. When he got there the house was already on fire, he practically rammed into their car and dragged her lover-boy out of it by the collar. Screamed at them that the house was burning down and that he should be calling for fire brigade. Dropped him down within a second and without turning around he ran into the house."
"Why?" asks Sherlock pensively. "If the house was already burning down why would he risk his own life?"
"Oh, Sherlock," Daddy whispers and hides his face in his hands. "How bad we let it go for you to not see it," he mumbles into his hands and he lowers them. "You and Rosie were inside it and there was nothing that would keep him from trying to save you. Which he had."
"At the expense of his own life," mutters Sherlock.
"It was his to give," says Daddy softly. "Sherry loved you all fiercely, Sherlock. Never doubt that. But you…" he pauses. "I only once saw such a deep bond between siblings, with Lloyd and Elijah. Sherry loved Myc but when Myc was born Sherry was only about to turn seven. He loved him dearly and looked after him without being prompted but…" he shrugs. "Myc was always a Holmes, not just in name and blood but also in character while Sherry was…"
"A Vernet?" offers Sherlock.
"More like a Watson," says Daddy and he gives him a quick smile. "He spent his early childhood around Grandma Sherlock. She was the one with whom he spent the most time so it wasn't exactly surprising that she rubbed a lot of her character on him. He spent his formative years being surrounded by my younger siblings and his younger cousins. Babies were babies and Myc as a brother got interesting at the time when he started using full sentences," he smiles again. "But when we had you Sherry was so enthralled by you that for a while we were worrying that he would wind up accidentally knocking up a girl. Luckily for us while he was interested in girls in general he wasn't interested in any in particular. He probably would have been if he didn't devote to you the attention that wasn't devoted to his studies and even that didn't stop him. When Mummy left you in the crib to nap while she was cooking Sherry would usually sneak into your room and take you out of it."
He taps the photograph of young Sherlock with Rosie.
"That's how we used to find you two when you were that small," he adds. "You dozing on him and him reading his books at you, mostly his beloved astronomy books. When you started teething many times during the night I caught him by the telescope with you in his arms. He was insanely devoted to you and you adored him in return. As you grew up you were so in sync with each other that you were finishing each other's sentences. More often than not he was the one to whom you were running for comfort when he was available, he was also the only one that could reason with you when you set your mind on something."
He moves a sheet of paper that's separating the pages. There are three pictures on it. In the top one young Sherlock is held up in Sherry's arms and reaching for an apple on a branch above his head. In the one in the middle they're sitting by the stream or the bank of a river with fishing rods in hands while Sherry is pointing at something that's got to be on the other side of it. The bottom one is of Sherlock seated by Sherry's side with Rosie propped on his left arm and with a bottle in his right hand. Mycroft is hovering over his left shoulder.
"He was your hero and a role model. Myc's too, albeit in a more restrained manner. He cultivated in you the thirst for knowledge and love for riddles. You used to come with the most complicated ones for him to crack and he did the same for you," Daddy continues.
"Who came with the one that started with 'I that am lost, oh who will find me?'" asks Sherlock slowly.
Daddy frowns and scratches his chin, "I think that it was you but that…" he pauses and licks his lips. "It's not something that I heard that year," he sighs. "No, it was earlier. It had to be the year which Sherry lived on campus, you started signing it a few weeks after your birthday whenever Sherry was visiting and stopped shortly before Easter break."
"Why did I stop?" he asks pensively.
"No idea, you just did," sighs Daddy and then frowns.
"What?" presses Sherlock. "You're remembering something."
"Probably nothing helpful," Daddy grimaces. "After Christmas break one of my subordinates came to stay with us for a while. He was using Sherry's room because it was unoccupied for most of the time and Sherry didn't mind sleeping on a rollaway in your room. In fact you strongly argued for having him there. He was going through a very nasty divorce and only needed a room for few weeks because there were high odds that we both would be sent to Falklands but you know how that worked out. You used to call him Captain Nemo because his name was Nicodemus. He left before Easter break in great hurry, claimed later that he got distressing news from his grandmother and that he was resigning from the army as soon as his contract was out…"
Nemo.
Nemo Holmes.
'I had no-one,' Dream Euros's quiet voice with a hint of anger rings in his ears.
"I had no-one," he whispers after her.
"Sherlock?" John and Daddy whisper over each other.
No one will believe you.
If you tell Mummy or Daddy something bad would happen to them.
Come here and I will read to you, Billy.
Be a good boy and sit in my lap.
Oh God.
I … am … lost … help … me … brother … save … my … life … before … my … doom. I … am … lost … without … your … love … save … my … soul … seek … my … room.
Daddy was at work. Mycroft at school. Mummy went shopping. He was in bed suffering from a nasty cold otherwise he would be at school or would have went out with Mummy. As it was he was counting hours until Sherry's arrival because when Sherry was there then he was safe with him. But he wasn't safe back then because he was alone in the house with Nicodemus and he was praying for the man to not come in there.
But he had and he pulled him into his lap like he usually did when he had the chance and started rutting against him. Except this time he didn't have a chance to finish what he started because a pair of strong arms suddenly yanked him out of Nicodemus's grasp and someone was pulling him behind their back.
Sherry. With a bread knife in hand and the fury practically radiating from him. Hissing words at Nicodemus that he couldn't exactly make out.
"I am lost. Help me brother. Save my life before my doom. I am lost without your love. Save me soul, seek my room," he whispers.
He feels Daddy stiffening beside him and then he collapses forwards with his head in his hands and a chocked sob tears out from his throat. That's what completely brings him to the present.
"Daddy?" he whispers as shifts the album into John's lap and tries to pull Daddy upright.
He feels worried. Daddy is seventy-one and in relatively good health but he had enough shocks for one day. Why he had to open his mouth and utter these words.
"Oh, Sherlock," Daddy whispers between sob. "God, how we failed you."
"You didn't fail me," Sherlock objects.
"I let that man into our house," Daddy chokes out.
"Well, Sherry got him out and I made it out without lasting physical damage," he says quickly. "He was probably too scared to try something more physical than rutting."
"He shouldn't have a chance to even do that," Daddy objects. "You know it, Sherlock. How could we not see this happening?" he mumbles.
"Because I didn't let you see this," says Sherlock calmly. "Because he threatened me that something bad will happen to you and Mummy if I told you. His own downfall was not forbidding me from telling Sherry even though I was too mortified to say it outright. I was fine, I'm fine. He didn't break me, Daddy. Sherry saved me."
Again.
"Please tell me more about Sherry," he tries to distract Daddy from thinking about how much he had failed him even though there was nothing he could have done except catching Nicodemus in the act and the man was very careful about it. "What did he study? Did he play an instrument? If he did, what did he play? What school he went to? Did he have friends?"
He keeps asking. He asks about languages Sherry knew. What was his favourite colour, his favourite dish, his favourite holiday.
Daddy finally calms down enough for Sherlock to push a freshly made mug of tea into his hands just as John presents him with another mug.
"Astrology and astrophysics," says Daddy over the rim of his mug. "He also used to be quite fond of geology, it was something you used to share. He had pretty strong grasp on chemistry but it wasn't something he was particularly interested beyond his own field of studies. One of your favourite very lousy weather activities was tinkering with his chemistry set when he was reading," he adds pensively. "Mal used to beg him to keep it age appropriate for you and he kept answering that if he kept it age appropriate you would burn the house down out of boredom," he grimaces at the comment.
"I probably would," Sherlock agrees.
"Sherlock," Daddy sighs. "We need to talk about this."
"There's nothing to talk about on the subject," sighs Sherlock. "It happened. I was mortified when it was happening but Sherry stopped it from happening. For God's sake I didn't even remember it for better part of my life," he adds quickly. "I had no control over what was happening and neither did you or Mummy. If he was like majority of opportunistic paedophiles I got to meet over the years he played the role model citizen very well. He was younger, charismatic and played on your sympathy. That's what people like him do, Daddy."
"But it does explain your control issue," says John pensively. "All of them."
"We're not talking about that either," mutters Sherlock. "It's in the past, it will stay in the past, John. Yes, we will talk about it in therapy but for now please, let's change the subject."
"From where you were getting the money?" asks Daddy quietly. "That year you were…"
Sherlock sighs. There's no getting out of it. Over the years when asked about it he kept lying that he had some money saved when he disappeared and that after he ran out of what he had he got enough from begging on the streets.
Daddy might not be as perceptive as he is but he has an annoying tendency of getting more insightful as the discussion goes and his confidence grows. Right now his confidence might be in tatters but the insight holds true. If Mummy was around Sherlock could use her as a distraction as it is…
Maybe it's for the better, he admits to himself. Airing all of it. No more secrets and skeletons hiding in the closets.
"I used to accept money or drugs in exchange for sexual favours," he states calmly.
He doesn't hear it but he can practically feel John mouthing 'Jesus, Sherlock'.
"And I wasn't picky about quality of clientele or whatever or not they used protection," he adds.
Daddy sighs heavily.
"For the record I remained disgustingly lucky and didn't even get herpes let alone HIV," he clarifies. "Can we agree that we're even on the subject of questionable choices that affect the whole family even though at the time it didn't occur to us to even consider that something could be wrong about making them?" he asks pointedly.
"I guess we can shelve that discussion to a later date for now," says Daddy after a few moments. "Speaking of questionable life choices, how are you two now?" he asks pointedly. "Because you know Mummy."
"Well, if Mummy wants to see her great-granddaughter on regular basis in person and not in photographs then she will have to accept that I'm thirty-bloody-nine years old and more than capable of making decisions that affect me life," Sherlock shrugs. "John and Katie will be living with us at Baker Street, we just need to remodel it a bit to make it more suitable for two single fathers," he adds as he looks at John.
John as expected looks mortified with shame.
"Relax," he tells him. "Mummy will threaten you with suing you for physical assault but she won't follow through with it."
"She should have," mutters John. "You should have."
"We already had this discussion," says Sherlock. "She's my mother but I'm not going to let her dictate how I'm supposed to live my life and with whom I should be friends. I'm thirty-nine, not nine," he huffs.
"Too right," Daddy agrees. "He used all of his patience with Mal dictating every hour of his day during the year we spent living together after he first got out of rehab. Hated every minute of it."
"Well, it gave me some wiggle room after my therapist admitted to her that it would be beneficial to my continued sobriety if she stopped making a chore out of it," shrugs Sherlock.
"She worries," sighs Daddy.
"So does John but the only time he insisted on drug-testing me was after he caught me working undercover in a drug den," retorts Sherlock. "Although if that will give you peace of mind…"
"No, I trust you," replies John. "You won't do this again but if it happens we will get through it. Together," he adds gently.
He cannot stop the warmth that spreads through him after that statement. Mary put them through hell but they emerged on the other side a bit bruised physically and emotionally but it seems that now they're stronger than ever.
"Thank you," he says softly.
"So who was the biggest troublemaker out of all of them?" asks John curiously.
"Not Mycroft," Sherlock chimes in.
"He's right," chuckles Daddy. "Myc was always the little diplomat and an unproblematic child. Which explains why he's making up for it as an adult with stuff like that," he snorts as he points at the TV screen. "But it's hard to point out an evident winner because a lot of stuff Sherlock had been up to was either inspired or consulted with Sherry as it usually turned out later. Although with one of the biggest offenses he came on his own."
"Please, not the wedding dress again," mumbles Sherlock. "I kept hearing about it for ages."
"Sherlock, along with the rest of the kids in the neighbourhood, got invited to a birthday party of some girl Mycroft liked. But because it was a joint party with her younger step-sister it was agreed that the theme would be costumes," says Daddy and Sherlock groans inwardly. "As one can predict with a lot of prepubescent children running around the costumes wouldn't be gore. Just cowboys, policemen, knights, pirates, fairies and princesses with some young wannabe doctors, soldiers, secret agents. Generally nothing scary or gore."
"He means boring," Sherlock chips in.
"It was in the summer. Mal headed to her sister for the weekend. I was at work but Sherry stayed at home. Myc headed over earlier to help set up the party. Sherry was busy with Rosie because we were trying new kinds of food on her and something in her lunch didn't agree with her. So she was a bit sick, cranky and miserable. This was why Sherry didn't really pay attention to Sherlock. They mostly shouted at each other whatever Sherlock was ready or not and that he was heading over when he was ready," Daddy continues.
"Which explains why I filled that memory with some lousy sitter," mutters Sherlock.
"Sherry expected Sherlock to dress up as a pirate so he really didn't pay attention to him which was why Sherlock left the house dressed in Mal's wedding dress," says Daddy. "It was an elaborate lace and tulle thing, a wedding gift from her mother who decided that if her daughter really wanted to marry a penniless soldier then at least she should marry him in a proper wedding dress. She looked marvellous in it," he smiles fondly.
"And Sherlock?" says John with a chuckle.
"I owned that dress," snorts Sherlock.
"Yeah, you did," Daddy snickers. "About an hour and half into the party I get a phone call from the girls' parents asking me to come and pick up my sons. So I threw everything that I was doing, drove back home like a maniac, nearly fell into a ditch by the entrance to their house and the very first thing I see is Mrs Nolan standing on the front step and she's pointing at the opposite ends of the front garden. I look right and see Myc under by the apple tree, he's sporting a bloody nose and a split lip but he looks livid and keeps glaring at the opposite side of the garden where Sherlock is feasting on black currants straight from the bush. He's dressed in Mal's wedding dress, completed with the veil and he looks as if he rolled himself in a pile of hay, sat down in a mud puddle, ran through cow poo and fell into horse shit…"
"Oh God," John chuckles.
"Wait for it," quips Daddy. "Then he turns to me and never mind the currant juice on the dress but his face…" he chuckles and shakes his head. "He helped himself to Mal's lipstick and eye shadow. Most of his face is dusted with green and what isn't green is covered in the red lipstick. He looks at me and goes: 'Hi Dad! They're kicking us out of the costume party because my zombie bride was too good.' And just like that he climbs into the car."
"Then he asks what happened to Mycroft so I tell him that Mycroft tried to drag me out of the party so I chinned him," adds Sherlock. "It escalated from there and we were both kicked out. And Mycroft never forgave me for cock blocking him."
"Well, it's not nice when it happens to you. I know that probably better than Mycroft," snorts John. "Never mind chasing away few actually lousy dates…"
"That were apparently not lousy enough for a shag," Sherlock quips.
"I had needs," John mutters.
"And low standards and self-esteem," adds Sherlock. "You would hit on a woman twenty years your senior if she appeared interested in you. I was doing you a favour."
And myself as well, he doesn't say. I couldn't stand the idea that they held your attention and I didn't.
"And you didn't think about moving away?" asks Daddy curiously.
"Several times in the heat of the argument about it," Johns sighs.
"And now you're moving back in with your daughter?" Daddy keeps prodding. "Knowing that he will probably scare off any potential suitors?"
"Well, he can keep scaring them off to his heart's content because this time I'm actually going to listen," answers John grimly. "Not that I'm actively planning to ever date again," he snorts.
"Every widower says that," muses Daddy. "But after a while men get lonely. It's nothing to be ashamed off."
Sherlock looks at John who's looking at him expectantly. Apparently there's another they need to discuss with Daddy and neither of them fancy explaining what role Mary played in this mess.
Sherlock nods slowly and John sighs and clears his throat.