Alone Not Lonely
lalala: Harry went to school with Sherlock's father. At age 14, he disappeared.
Now 20 - 35 years old, Sherlock's father ('Sherrinford'?) is surprised to see
Harry knocking at his door/ teaching Sherlock/ teaching Mycroft/ anything.
Harry's name can be changed to be more old-fashioned... I'd like it if this
was the Victorian-era (or whenever it was) Sherlock, but it's fine if you want
to use the modern version.
Note: so the reader won't be lost, in "The Adventure of the Empty House" Sherlock Holmes says he spent some time as a Norwegian explorer called Sigerson "son of Siger"/son of the victorious; which some have taken to meaning Siger is the father of Sherlock. I take Siger "victor" to be short for a full name of Sigurd "victory's ward/protector". Likewise, Harry may be short for Harold "Army ruler"; but Harold is not the like meaning of Harry "Home ruler", you'll find Harry is a Henri here. So, you have Sigurd Holmes, father of Sherrinford, Mycroft, Sherlock, and Enola Holmes, husband of Eudoria "well gifted" Vernet-Holmes.
*Eudoria and Enola's names comes from Nancy Springer's Enola Holmes Mysteries series, there six books so far. I've only read the first one. Enola is Alone spelt backward.
* Sherrinford is a hypothetical elder brother; his name is taken from early notes as one of those considered by Arthur Conan Doyle for his detective hero. (It is also spelled Sherringford)
I'm not playing any Sherlockian Great Game of genealogy; I'm quite content to let my method to madness be in world mythology.
0o0o0
Theirs was no loveless marriage, quite the opposite if facts were to be told true, Lady Eudoria Vernet-Holmes knew that well enough to be thankful. Lord Sigurd Holmes had loved, and lost, and loved again, and though he might well love Eudoria for many reasons, he was not in love with her. His heart was not hers, and Eudoria could not find fault in her husband was in love with – for Eudoria too, loved the same strange man.
That much they shared, but not the first meeting with their Harry; Henri to Eudoria would always be her brother's friend, a wizard, a playmate and protector. When her brother had died, her father long buried, Eudoria had bullied her brother's son into marrying her to a foreign and far enough away Lord. She had had her way, the only way to keep her soul and body from being sent to a too early grave. Henri had saved her life and seen her to her to-be husband's manor door, boldly knocking upon it in the middle of a rainy night.
Lord Sigurd Holmes had opened the door, and not seen Eudoria, but his Harry.
Eudoria hid a small smug smile beneath her hat as she sat sunning in the yard, her belly growing with the flowers she had seeded only months ago. She took her pride where she could, she – Lady Eudoria Vernet- Holmes had been the sole reason Harry had met his Siger again.
They had been school boys together, Sigurd had told her, as they both watched Harry talk to his people, the Romani, the Gypsy, in a language that was all their own. Neither of them could understand what words Harry might have had with them. Lord Holmes had told Harry to make clear to them, his people, that they were always welcomed here, that Harry's home would be theirs too. At least, Sigurd hoped that Harry would call his home their own.
Harry stayed until the wedding, and when he walked Eudoria down the aisle, she had wished it was Harry she would call husband – and yet, she had seen Sigurd looking at Harry, and knew when her eyes met her to-be-husbands, that he wished he might call Harry his for life.
Eudoria, with Sigurd and Henri often at her sides, would call that wedding "theirs and ours" and not mean merely between husband and wife, in that way did they have a closeness and language all their own.
Eudoria took pride in that after sending the guests away full of wine and feasting, Sigurd had pretended having been drinking more heavily than he had (she had seen him watering that wine all night, and sipping only occasionally) Henri had laughingly helped Eudoria lead him up the stairs to the master bedroom.
"There you are, mistress, your groom I deliver to you." Sigurd had looked at her, eyes half lidded, what might be lust shining in the amber brown depths. She read those eyes clearly, knowing her own eyes gleamed just the same. They might have been looking at each other, but they weren't thinking about bedding each other. Sigurd kept his arm about Harry's shoulders, gripping him tightly to his side – having gotten his school boyhood friend back, he would not soon let him go out of sight.
"Oh, you have, have you Henri? What of my boots and belt? You can't expect my Vernet lady to do that task of undressing a stranger she hardly knows!" There is something wonderfully wicked about redheads, their powers of seduction and other arts had been remarked upon by pages. Sigurd was the cleverest of the lot.
"On the bed with you master and we'll see how long your lordship calls his own wife a stranger!" Henri shoved him onto said bed, playful, green eyes dancing. He went for Sigurd's belt, tugging and wrestling with it while Sigurd watched him with dark eyes.
Harry seemed to realize what he was doing, Sigurd may have pretended to drink – but Henri had been in truth trying to drown feelings he'd rather not have stirring in his body and blood.
"My lord, I…my lady…" Harry is pale and trembling, afraid. He stilled at Eudoria's hands upon him from behind, touching his back and rubbing, playing with his hair, touching tenderly upon his neck. Her eyes met those of the man she would call husband, and there was a silent agreement between the two. They would share this bed, but with Harry to tie them together to it. Neither would ever stray after another, if they had Harry.
"You are to help me with my corsets at once, Henri." Harry looked at Eudoria over his shoulder, with her dark brown hair and grey as sky eyes.
He looked to the lord below him, and when Sigurd nodded firmly, without a doubt that this was right – if not lawful, Harry swallowed and looked to her almost shyly. Eudoria, if she had not been endeared to him before, knew her heart was his after that look.
"As you will, my lady, my lord…" Those words haunted her, made her shiver in dark and sudden desire, even under the warm summer sun.
Eudoria touched her belly, where their child was cradled.
"Must you go?" Lord Sigurd Holmes spoke from the door, and Eudoria turned – cold gripping her heart, but not freezing her, as she turned to see something out of one of her darkest dreams. Henri stood on the other side of the threshold, facing Sigurd, a pack was on his back, and he did not meet Sigud's eyes as he spoke.
"There are things I must do, Siger – things no one else can do, or would if they could, it's my calling to go. I do not want to; you must believe me, my lord." Sigurd sees her in the yard, standing still and silent, and his jaw clenches, tight and sullen.
"Do not call me that, I'm not…not to you, Harry – you, you must see that I see you as my equal in all things." In my marriage, in my life, there are so many things that Sigurd does not say or suggest – he can not, not outside their own manor, their world they must protect and take shelter in when they can. Yet Eudoria sees Sigurd's meanings, his hinting, and knows Harry is not blind to them.
"Siger, I must go – it is not something I want, not something I need, not something you can give me. I must, it…it's in my blood, calling." Harry touches the length of holly at his side, it's a scarred wood, old, something that he has always carried on his person. It marks him for Romani, marks him as one without a family name, rootless in the world, he will only ever be Henri, without a home.
"Harry." Eudoria takes his hand in hers, gripping it tightly.
"What will you name your child?" Eudoria does not hide her feelings behind her words, and her eyes meet and hold Sigurd's – her husband does not protest. The child is hers, is Harry's – but will have Lord Holmes' name. Harry takes a stuttering breath.
"Sherrinford." Harry looks into the distance, his word a whisper upon the wind. In that word is a promise to return. He goes as they watch, alone the gravel path, and once beyond the gate is out of sight.
Sigurd looks to Eudoria, for neither of them know what Sherrinford is, or was, or will be, but they both find it is a fitting name for their first son.
0o0o0
Henri comes back, green eyes like broken blades of grass, bloodied in body and soul, and holds Sherrinford close when Eudoria puts him gently in Harry's lap, not speaking, not daring.
There is something in Harry's eyes that tells her he would sooner flee than sit and face them. It's wild and willful, a hurt beast that no kindness can tame. He has to heal. She listens to her instincts and urges Sigurd to do likewise, they close off the curtains until the manor is as dark and deep feeling as a cave of shadows out of old lore, they keep it still and quiet as they can, sending the servants away on holiday.
Sherrinford alone, their little year old with Harry's bright green eyes and her auburn hair helps Harry when no one else can say anything without him looking lost and hurt. It is perhaps Sherrinford can say nothing at all yet, but he's a clever boy, Sigurd's heir, and lets Harry hold him when no one else can get near Harry for fear of him withdrawing too quickly to save him.
Sherrinford alone soothes him, Henri's healing is slow but steady, and Eudoria dares hope.
It is not until Harry steps into their bedroom and lets them welcome him home properly, that they know he won't go far if he goes again.
0o0o0
Eudoria wakes to Henri's head upon her naval, his eyes are closed, but he is posed, not sleeping – listening. It reminds her of Sherrinford, when Henri had stopped and smiled and said that Sigurd would have his heir. They had not quite believed him, but Eudoria now did not doubt that prophesying trait.
She runs her fingers through her lover's black as night hair, and he opens his eyes to stare upon her, and she feels his wonder, his awe. It is a look a man gets around a woman, tender and possessive, like fire that look – it warms and it burns.
"What are you thinking?" Eudoria asks him, her voice husky, returning his fire for her own.
Harry presses a kiss to where he laid his ear.
"You'll have another son soon." It's a promise, a vow, and Eudoria looks to where Sigurd lays, sprawled across Harry's back.
"What name this time?" Sigurd is content to let Harry have their naming, their making. No son of Eudoria will have Sigurd's red hair, she knows.
"Mycroft." Henri smiles, sincere, hopeful, and the words sound like he says my craft. Croft though is an old word, it means a settlement of a cottage, and so what Harry is really saying is my home. It's a gift that Eudoria and Sigurd reward by kissing Henri until he's breathless and panting and soon moaning.
0o0o0
Henri stays until Mycroft is born, stays until he's toddling around the house at two, a terror to Sherrinford who seems not to know what to do with a little brother. He refuses any attempt of a playtime with Mycroft, and clings to Harry's side as if he knows what his parents do not – that Harry's is being called, again.
Sherrinford has Harry's blood in him, so perhaps it is that exactly, why too that Mycroft is restless and fussy.
Henri tells Eudoria and Sigurd of what he is, what he must do, in the dark in the safety of their bed where no one can see or overhear him. It's the night before he is to leave, he holds them tight to him and whispers of the lords of darkness and magic and wizards and witches, because that's what he is – a wizard.
He tells them of a war they've never heard hinted of, that he is hunted, that he goes to war.
In the early morning, Eudoria wakes and sits beside the widow, she watches as the Romani come with the mist, and leave with Henri before the sun shines.
She doesn't feel the sun's warmth again on her skin for a very long time.
0o0o0
Sherrinford is nine and reading back and forth with seven year old Mycroft, as if it's a game. Sigurd knows that to be an unusual thing for such young boys, to love words so rather than playing and roughhousing on the lawn- but he loves to watch them at it.
Eudoria likes them for their strangeness, she sees Henri in Sherrinford's eyes, in Mycroft's hair, as if they are two pieces of a puzzle that would make another Harry. It hurts to look at them, and wonder where Harry is – if he lives, or died, or remembers them, if he still loves and longs for them, or if they are forgotten.
A man walks to the gate, but at first Eudoria does not notice him – it is Sherrinford who stops reading mid-word, looking up, and though he is supposed to be too young to remember Henri with any clarity, he does.
"Look, Mycroft – that's dada." Sherrinford's voice is soft and hushed, and Henri hears it, so too does Sigurd who sits at Eudoria's side. He sits up, straightens and stares at Henri. Always the boys call Sigurd, Father, and Eudoria they call Mummy or Mum or Mother, but never the baby-talk of Dada or Daddy.
Henri comes to stand at Sigurd's side and offers his hands, as if asking if he was still welcome here. Sigurd stands in a rush of long limbs and hugs Henri close to him, Eudoria takes his hands in hers, aware of Mycroft and Sherrinford having come to join this circle of homecoming.
"Stay, of course, stay." Sigurd says, as if there could not be any doubt about it.
0o0o0
Henri is restless, telling them of villages where wizards and witches are safe, that soon there might no longer be Romani wandering with magic in them. He fears for them, his home, his family, Henri wants them to go away with him to one of those villages, Godric's Hollow or to Spinner's End. Those little villages always have strange names.
Sigurd is well aware that he and Eudoria would not fit into that kind of village, they are not a wizard or a witch – and by being there, Henri may be thought less of. That he bedded a muggle wife and husband and his blood is muddied and muddled. Sigurd says nothing of what he hears beneath the words Henri uses.
"We have made our home here, Harry. As long as you are with us, what harm will come?" Eudoria asks, but Harry has no answer.
There is only fear in his eyes, that they – who he hides in a home he's made his own – will be attacked while he is away, and he could do nothing in the shadows. Only if they come out will they be watched, by wizards and witches, and that is something neither the Lord Holmes nor his Lady wants.
0o0o0
Harry settles when Eudoria grows with child, he teaches Mycroft and Sherrinford to play as most children do, as if it was something that they had to be shown.
"What will you name this one?" Sherrinford asks of Harry, as if he's guessed how his own name and Mycroft's had come to be. It is something Eudoria never told them, and knows Sigurd would not for fear that they, being young and not knowing how to keep a secret would say something unseemly. It is an eerie guess, not merely good.
Harry looks at Sigurd, the man he loves, with his red hair, bright in the sunlight.
"Sherlock." Sigurd's smile is small but pleased.
0o0o0
Sherlock is born with hair like dewy ink, black, but his name is not meant in irony, the boy is bright and quick, he has his mother's light grey eyes. There is something of a hawk in his look, or a predatory cat.
He'll do great deeds, Harry pronounces, that Sigurd never doubts.
Of all Henri's sons by Eudoria, Harry is close the most to Sherlock, and perhaps it is because of that favoritism that Sherlock keeps a disdainful distance from his older brothers, his mother, and his father. Harry is blind to Sherlock's faults.
Harry stays the longest after Sherlock is born, for fifteen years he does not feel a calling. The night he does, at twenty four and feeling like a naughty ten year old; Sherrinford stands on the brink of knocking on the master bedroom door; of begging to be let in. His blood is singing, calling just like Harry's.
"You can not ignore it?" Sigurd asks, soft and pleading. Harry is not young, Sherrinford knows – he has to be perhaps fifty, or sixty. Every time that Harry has gone away – when Mycroft was little he did not come back for years, and when he did…Sherrinford shakes at the thought. Harry's blood calling him can only end in answering it, but in answering it, Harry could very well die.
"Siger, I've been trying, for months. They won't heed." Months? Sherrinford looks to his hands, to his skin and the blood beneath them – he'd only felt the calling for a day, and he was reduced to a child's need to crawl into bed with mother, father and dada.
"Harry, Harry, please, breathe, it's alright, we'll see you through this. It can't go on much longer, love." Sherrinford had never heard his mother plead or beg for anything in her life; it was granted to her, a gift, and her right. It was why Sherrinford found the society he went to school in so strange, beyond these walls, woman were the tools of their fathers, their brothers, their sons.
He could not think of ever treating a woman who would be mother to his children, that he called wife, in such an awful way. He'd learnt better from his birth. Now his mother pleaded for Harry to live though his blood calling him away, to stay. It was cruel of her.
"Please, let me leave, they're killing me." It seemed Harry spoke not to Sigurd or Eudoria, but to Sherrinford. As if he knew his son, his blood was beyond that door. Harry groaned in a pain that was obvious, and Sherrinford remembered that his mother had taken something from Harry long ago, a slender bit of wood he called a wand.
He thinks of seal skins and selkies, of wizards and wands, of oaths that bind. It makes him sick to think that his father, his mother, had done something so simple and evil like that.
Resolute, he turned away from the door, going to Sherlock's door – to Mycroft's rooms; they had to find the wand that their mother had hidden, to save dada.
0o0o0
Sigurd looks in his library for an answer he won't find, as Eudoria keeps Harry company in the garden, Harry looks to the sky and is silent and too still. Sherlock sees it, and hates his mother for it. Can't they – she – see that by keeping him, they are killing him?
She most of all should know.
Sherlock sits beside Harry, tangles and entwines their fingers, silently promising to find what he needs. His blood burns slow and steady; he can't hear the pounding beat of his heart over it.
It takes them three years to find the holly wand in the knot of an oak tree at the edge of the wood that marks the end of the yard.
0o0o0
Harry doesn't speak in any language Sigurd can understand; only his sons speak to Henri, in Romani. Eudoria had given up asking them to tell her what he says. Harry is in so much pain that it can't be anything she would want to hear said.
0o0o0
"Hadesa." Harry murmurs in Eudoria's ear, she's half asleep, but she remembers it, past the panic of finding her bed empty of Harry, of finding her sons gone away with Henri.
Sigurd still searches for an answer, not wanting to face that Harry is gone, is not coming back. That by keeping him back, they'd turned him against them, and that their sons had followed in Harry's footsteps.
Eudoria finds herself with child, and names her only daughter Enola Eudoria Hedasa Holmes.
Alone.
0o0o0
Sigurd dies when Enola is four years old, Eudoria finds her three sons looking back at her across from the newly dug grave.
She banishes from ever setting foot Siger's manor, but she still welcomes the gypsy wagons that come passing by her way. She still hopes that one day she'll see Henri.
0o0o0
Eudoria waits until Enola is fourteen; she hides away the fortune that she's taken as her due from her sons, so that Enola may have a dowry, an inheritance worthy of her as her father's daughter. She teaches her daughter many things, but not to be ruled by another's mind.
On her daughter's birthday, she leaves to find one gypsy.
A daughter should not grow up never knowing her da.
0o0o0
Harry finds her, in the end, and if it isn't happy, it's them. It's love, its pleasure and pain. She learns to speak to him again; Romani tastes like wild roses and wine when she says anything in it. Henri goes to Sigurd's grave with her at his side, and bows his head and weeps. Eudoria knows that Siger died because Harry wasn't there, with them.
She doesn't blame him.
Eudoria only watches when he breaks his wand.
They wait for their children to find them, knowing it won't be long.