Sherlock story
Forgotten Memories, Chapter 61
A disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to BBC along with the talented writers and amazing Martin Freeman and Benedict Cumberbatch. No money was made. The story however is my original thought, and comes out of my overactive imagination. Other characters introduced are also mine.
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Things to know. 1. Paracetamol is a pain reliever. Tylenol.
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Note: Everyone Sherlock is currently in Spain.
:( Sorry, I meant for this to be up 24 hours ago. But, I gave multiple chapters. Read one a day or all at once, the choice is yours.
**********Warning for those who are sensitive. Read for more information. Those who are not just skip this section and enjoy the story. Contain spoilers. Still there? Okay. Chapter 61 and 62contain flash backs and non-graphic abuse. If this bothers you in any way, read chapters 60 and 64 only. You will still understand the story, I promise. ***************
Make yourself happy either way and enjoy the story.
Lots of Love, Zacha
"Each has his past shut in him like the leaves of a book known to him by heart and his friends can only read the title." ~Virginia Woolf
Memories – Sherlock's Point of View.
Sherlock stayed in his room most of the day. His mother was settling all of his maternal grandmother's property in the Hampshire County. Sherlock at thirteen had learned to stay out of his Father's way. He had tried to stay out of his classmate's way as well. He was a loner, and except for his mother and Mycroft, spoke very little the past year to anyone. Unfortunately, when he did speak, most people paled as he easily spoke of things that were apparently supposed to be secrets.
He was on holiday at home and wanted to just have a peaceful day. His Father told him in a moment of irritation to take his experiments into his room. He moved everything including his microscope that his mother purchased for Christmas. He moved to his desk and sat. He pulled out the lab culture that he had been growing for ten days. He had to use his most congenial voice to convince Mycroft that despite his young age; he was capable of growing cultures without starting the next world plague. After an initial refusal and the proper precautions, he had relented.
He smiled as he prepared a sample to be transferred to a microscope slide. He suddenly stopped smiling and looked around. He was in the relative safety of his own room but felt strange smiling. He knew how much his smiling irritated his Father. His Father never came into his room. Not since he was five. He became nervous. His Father was increasingly and irrationally irritated with him since he had come home for the holidays. His Father seemed to be following him around behaving strangely. Strangely even for him. Also, his Father looked at him oddly.
He looked at the clock. Mycroft had said that he would be visiting for the weekend. He was seeing less and less of him since he got his promotion. He canceled two visits they were to have together. He would not say why. Of course, he knew it was due to his promotion and the elections in Germany. It was supposed to be a big secret but to Sherlock, his brother was sometimes transparent.
Sherlock bit his lips. It was a nervous habit. Mycroft had promised to see him today. He was late. Mycroft was never late. Sherlock remembered how he had even said please. That took a lot of his considerable pride to say the word. Sherlock did not want to be alone with his Father. He did not tell Mycroft this of course. It would have been humiliating. He was thirteen years old and not a child after all. He would come this time.
The slide cracked. He did not notice when his fingers gripped the slide so tightly that he broke it. Sherlock frowned looking down at his hand. Two fingers were painted red. He felt the warm, thick liquid as it ran down his fingers, and gathered its strength to the very tips before abandoning the fingers, and dropping on the floor. He sat there for a moment just looking at it drip. He then came to himself. He threw the sample in the special bin in his room that he was to put all the lab material in. His frown deepened. It was probably a good idea to wash and rinse his cut immediately.
He walked quickly to his attached private bathroom. He washed it and applied two plasters then returned to his bedroom. He was glad that he did not make much of a mess. He put on Bach and smiled as he thought of his mother. He missed her. He thought of calling her again but thought better. She was already grieving over grandmum's death. He would not worry her more. This would play in the background as she read to him as a child. It was strangely comforting. He hummed softly as he knelt on the floor to clean the area. He was careful not to dirty his dress trousers. His Father insisted that he dress before every dinner. He did take off his jacket and drape it across the back of the chair.
He felt a gentle hand on his head and smile. Mycroft came. He stood quickly then turned. His smile left his face, he was instantly confused. The gentle hand on his head had confused him into thinking that that hand belonged to Mycroft. The only other time his Father touched him with gentleness was when he was much younger. It was also when his mother and Mycroft was away. His gentleness quickly turned into a beating. Other than that day, his Father never touched him physically except to inflict discipline as he call it. It always amazed Sherlock how discipline meant pain.
He took a step back before thinking. He thinned his lips and forced himself to be still. What was his Father doing in his room? Did something happen to Mum and he came to tell him. Did he do something wrong. His Father, Kynaston Holmes just stood there looking at his son without saying a word.
"Sir," he finally managed to say.
Sherlock saw his jacket and quickly reached to put it on. His Father's hands reached and lay on top of his hand, stopping him.
"Just his once. Go ahead and leave your jacket off." His Father said easily as he walked around the room.
"Sir, I think that I'll get something to eat. Might I be dismissed please?" Sherlock tried to keep his tone even and the confusion out of his voice. His mind kept going back to the clock. The tick-tick sound seemed unusually loud in his ears. Mycroft. He was supposed to be there. Mycroft always came when he needed him. Why was he not there? Something was wrong. Sherlock's heart rate picked up. He heard his Father speak as if far away.
"Yes, of course," his Father said a little crisply.
Sherlock knew better than to leave without his jacket no matter what his Father said. He quickly picked it up and walked while buttoning. He felt he had to get out of the room. The tap of his dress shoes clicked quickly against the rich brown wooden floor. He ran a shaky hand through his dark curly hair in some hopes of taming it. He wanted to give his Father no reason to stop him. It was a large and spacious room and the walk seemed too long. His hand reached for the doorknob. His Father must have closed the doors. The coolness of the metal against his enclosed hands brought a sense of relief.
It was locked.
The relief left.
Sherlock was perplexed for a second then unlocked the door and again attempted to turn the knob. He felt his Father's hand on the door as he closed it quickly. He did not lock it again however.
"Sherlock, I know that I am hard on you." He put his hand on his shoulders and ran a hand through his hair. He was gentle and tender. This unnerved Sherlock more, he had no frame of reference for it. "I'm proud of your marks in school. First prize." The more he praised him, the more nervous he became. He had always called him a freak because school was not a challenge for him. This always confused him because Mycroft did similarly well. Yet, his Father was proud of Mycroft's intelligence, but put off by Sherlock's intelligence. His father said he was a freak. It was illogical.
"Thank you Sir. Might I go Sir?" Sherlock realized that he was shaking now. It was embarrassing and dangerous. His Father might get angry. He glanced at the clock again. It was definitely time to go. If not, he knew what would happen. He would beat him. His Father would be careful not to hit him in the face, too obvious. He would blame any limping or twisted arms or joints on the McConnell brothers. The McConnell brothers only punched him. They had never broken his arm. That was his Father that did that.
"Yes," His Father said after a long silence. Sherlock again attempted to leave.
"Wait!"
Sherlock recognized the angry tone.
"What is your lab equipment doing in here?" Sherlock glanced back at the corner of his room strangely. His equipment took up quite a bit of space. How could his Father have only now noticed? He was cleaning up a broken slide when he came in. He did not seem upset then.
"Would you like me to move it Sir." He did not want his Father to destroy it.
He looked in his Father's eyes now. Sherlock closed his eyes.
Too late, he thought.
He turned to leave but was suddenly and violently dragged across the floor by the collar of his dress jacket. Sherlock was immediately still. Running would make it worse.
Don't run- Don't scream- Don't hide.
Those were the rules.
He remembered the rules.
His only thought was that he hoped that his suit would not get dirty. He threw him to the floor next to his lab equipment.
"Move it," His Father bellowed, as he grew more irrational by the minute.
Sherlock quickly got a box and with as much dignity as he could muster, he put everything that could fit in that box. He would have to make several trips. Sherlock thought it wise not to point out the fact to his Father that he was the one who told him to move his lab into his bedroom. There was no reasoning with him. He learned that long ago.
"Where are you going," His Father's voice held an amusement.
Sherlock shook now but not only from anger anymore but the ridiculousness of the situation.
"I'm not quite sure Sir." He said with equal parts anger and fear. "You're not being rational at the moment. I don't know what I did wrong."
Sherlock hated himself then. Why couldn't he be more like Mycroft? Everyone loved him. He always said the perfect thing at the perfect time. Why did a part of him always have to fight back? He watched as his Father smashed his microscope and cultures. He begged him to stop, asked him to explain what he did wrong a few times, and then his pride would not allow him to ask again. His Father never gave him mercy. His experiments and pursuit of science was the only thing that made sense in his life. It was just data.
No emotion.
No misunderstanding.
No pain.
It was the only enjoyment that made him feel normal, not a freak. It was being destroyed in front of his eyes.
He saw a crazed look in his Father's eyes. It was cold, calculating, and something new. His father wanted to hurt him. His Father never truly lost control. He only pretended to as an excuse to hit him. Something inside him screamed to get out. He backed slowly toward the door. He had to leave. He broke all the rules that day.
Don't run- Don't scream- Don't hide.
He ran for the door. He shouted at his Father to leave him alone. He would leave the manor and hide somewhere until he could somehow reach Mycroft or his Mum, if he got the chance. When his Father grabbed him he fought, and kicked, and screamed, and pleaded. He refused to before but not now. His pride and decorum did not matter.
Time skipped.
He next remembered pain and blinking looking up from the floor. He heard someone moaning. His head and back hurt. He turned his head and noticed broken pieces of his lab on the floor. He heard his Father ranting about his lab equipment, him thinking he was too smart, and being a freak. He heard his Father speaking as if underwater.
He saw a broken piece of glass on the floor next to him. The sun reflected off the glass and bounced its light to the ceiling.
It was pretty.
His Father's sentences started to make no sense. Still, a few words floated into his cocoon in the back of his young mind. Sherlock recognized that shock was setting in.
Little shit!
No good!
Your fault!
Why do you always provoke me?
Time to make you a man!
Freak!
Bloody - Little – Freak!
In the back of his mind he felt pain. Something hurts he wasn't sure what. The next thing he remembered was being on his bed. His Father's angry face was above him. He heard someone telling his Father to stop. It was strange, the voice sounded like him but he could not be sure.
Don't run- Don't scream- but hide. Maybe hide, just this once. He did hide, in his mind. His Father's angry face faded as one question haunted his retreating mind.
Mycroft.
When was Mycroft going to come?