VHunter07- thank you once again for reviewing. I'm glad you liked Watson's devotion to Holmes; I always find their relationship in canon to be exceedingly touching and one of the purest examples of platonic and unconditional love I know of- I hope I manage to capture some of that spirit. As for the imagery, again I'm pleased you liked it; I've become somewhat obsessed with pathetic fallacy of late and put it in wherever I can :-P
Dark-Yukari- aww, yes, Holmes needs hugs! Manly hugging will need to come into this somewhere :-D
Igiveup- indeed, poor Holmes and Watson, I do torture them terribly. Yes, I fear HMS Angsty Story is heading in a Mary-ward direction and where it stops, I'm not quite sure (maybe at the bottom of a water fall but we'll see)
Susicar- I'm glad you like my story and thanks for your compliments regarding my talents as an author, although I think you overrate me- I just like to mess with the minds of my heroes, making me more a sadist than a talented writer :-P
FormerCircusTeapot- here's some more for you passes over gruel and then replaces with story
bakerstreetirregular- no, William Scott Holmes isn't the nicest man in the world, is he? I'm glad you liked my story, especially the angst as there's more to come
I'm very sorry but this is an extremely short post. I'm afraid I've not been well gets violin out but I will have a longer chapter for you when I am able, promise.
12th March 1860, Metlock Hall, Devonshire
Sherlock sat by the bed, his head bowed. He couldn't bring himself to look up at the body of the only mother he had ever known; to see the only light in his dark existence snuffed out would have caused pain too great for one so young to stand. He had, however, been forced to see her as his father brought him in, demanding that he pay his last respects; now he had been left him alone in that terrible room and he could not bear to glimpse death again, even though the presence of it hung in the very air, cloying, suffocating, inescapable.
She had looked so peaceful, the boy had noted in the brief time his horrified eyes had wandered over the immobile shell of his one time protector. He found himself feeling an inexplicable pang of envy that her suffering was over while he was still here in the power of his father; such jealousy tainted his sadness at her loss- after all, how could he feel sad for someone who had gone to heaven? He wondered vaguely if Matilda was up there now, his brow creased into a frown of concentration as he wondered whether she had met his mother.
The six year old's imagination created vivid images of them floating together on a sea of golden tranquillity with angels singing in heart-felt chorus. Young Sherlock's own heart ached with a longing to be with them, to be enfolded in the soft embrace of his nurse and companion and to inhale the scent he knew inexplicably to be his mother's. His breath caught mournfully and his eyes misted over as he realised that his dream could never come true; as his father had told him again and again, bad boys don't go to heaven.
With eyes so clouded over with tears that he could not have seen the body even if he had wanted to, he clambered onto the bed, curling up in a woeful ball against the dead embers of his innocent and carefree childhood. She was cold but even as he shivered he did not care, the depth of his sorrow had rendered him insensible. Yet as the child sobbed bitterly birds outside the drawn curtains continued to whistle their joyful melodies, oblivious to the heart rending laments of the blameless boy inside; their jubilant calls masked the sounds of a heart breaking.
AN having previewed this chapter my dear friend Michelle asked me where baby Watson is when baby Sherlock is in his hour of need… well, at present I can only presume that the 8 year old Watson is playing with toy soldiers and treating worms with colds but that, dear reader, is quite another story