WARNING: DISTRESSING CONTENT
This isn't the first time Sherlock has tried to go. The first time he had been sixteen. The Witch had just told him he was going to be a father. She forces him to touch the baby bump, her eyes wide and insane. She lays on top of him, Her head on his chest like an enamoured lover, whispering about how the baby is going to look like him. When She leaves, he wraps the chain around his own neck. But he believes Mycroft will come. Mycroft will come and make it all go away. So he puts it down and waits. And waits.
And waits.
They've taken William. He waits on his knees in front of the door, waits for Them to bring him back. When They return, his son is not with Them.
He screams and calls Her every foul and filthy word he can think of. He hopes to enrage her enough that she'll beat him to death. She does beat him, but Magnussen makes sure to avoid giving Sherlock the sweet release of death.
He never gets to hold Charlotte.
Maybe losing three children wears Her down, because when Jack is born, he cuts the cord and waits for her to decide the child's fate. He has no attachment to this child, has avoided trying to feel anything during the pregnancy. If she kills it like she killed Charlotte, then this will all be over in a few minutes. If she gives it the same fate as William, then he will be forced to raise the child, to care for it and to create a bond with it. A bond She will exploit. And use to get what She wants. Sherlock decided ten seconds after she announced this pregnancy that he would never love this child.
She stares at the wriggling baby blankly. With each birth there seems to be less emotion. Sherlock reaches for a towel and slowly wraps the child up. He tells her it's a boy. She stares at the baby's face for just a moment longer until her eyes seem to just slide away to look down at the floor instead. Sherlock does not move. He's still in a lot of pain from a beating two days before, and should She decide to vent her frustration, he much rather the baby gets its head bashed in then him.
"It has my eyes." She whispers. Her voice is emotionless. He's not fooled though.
But then she stands, blood still running down her legs and she limps towards the door. Old Magnussen sighs from his spot on the bed and walks after Her, yelling that She was in trouble if She gets blood on the carpet and "you're naked, put your clothes on".
The door shuts and They're gone. The baby cries.
"Shut up." Hisses Sherlock, "Just shut up. She'll want you gone soon, so don't play the victim. I'm not falling for that again."
He cleans up the mess the best he can. When the baby cries, he turns on the TV to full volume and shoves the boy in the wardrobe.
Although Sherlock has decided he will not form a bond with this child, will not allow it to call him Dada, for that was William and only William, he still must provide basic needs. Hygiene, nutrition, clothing. What They bring he gives the child, knowing that if he doesn't She will beat him. When he has finished giving it basic necessities, he puts in the wardrobe where it can cry to its hearts content.
Eight months after the birth, Sherlock is cleaning the floor. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the child crawling across the floor, heading for the bed. He ignores it and continues his chores until he hears the baby make happy sounds, a noise Sherlock isn't used to hearing from this child. He spins around.
The baby sits next to the bed, a soft ball between his legs. William's ball. The only toy Sherlock had been able to keep after They had taken all his belongings away.
"NO!" he shouts. "Do not touch that!"
The baby gasps and starts to cry. Sherlock dashes forward and snatches the ball away from him. If this child thought he could replace…
"NEVER TOUCH THIS! DO YOU HEAR ME? YOU ARE HER CHILD! THOSE ARE HER EYES! You're here because She wants leverage and for that reason alone, I will never want you!
He towers over the child, fists clenched. The baby screams again and suddenly reality slaps Sherlock in the face.
This baby is terrified of him. He's turning into a monster. Was this her plan? To turn him into a cruel being like Her? He starts to shake. He just wanted the mind games to stop, and he's neglected a child. Hell, shouting at a baby probably qualifies as child abuse. A baby who is now screaming at him like he was the devil himself. Sherlock falls to his knees. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry."
He gently picks the baby up and, for the first time outside of feeding, holds it against his chest. The boy's breathing is shaky but slowly calms. Sherlock awkwardly rocks him, until his breathing slows and he falls asleep.
The next day They come in. When she's finished with him, she puts her clothes back on and stops outside the wardrobe. Sherlock watches.
"Do you want to see him?" he asks her. She hasn't made that request yet.
"What did you call him?" she asks instead.
"Nothing," he replies slowly. "I haven't… I thought you would want to…"
"No." Her voice is firm. "I don't want anything to do with him. You give him a name. I don't ever want to see my eyes in this place."
Sherlock's sure it's a ruse. He calls the boy Jack, because it's the most boring and common name he can think of, yet somehow he believes Jack might be able to defeat the giants. Sometimes she will make threats about using Jack if he doesn't obey her, but she never actually carries them out.
It takes him a year to understand what she meant by "I don't want to see my eyes in this place". Seeing Jack's eyes in Room would mean She would be able to picture herself in here. Jack is a mirror She didn't want to have to look at. She demands that They never speak of the boy again and Sherlock slowly learns that he can love this child without fear of losing him.
Until Jack asks for a present for his fifth birthday.
Jack is wrapped up in Rug. Sherlock screams over what is supposedly his son's dead body. The Witch steps forward. "You let my son die?" she hisses.
Sherlock spits in her face. "He was never your son. He's mine, he's always been mine," he cries harder.
Old Magnussen steps forward and shoves him roughly aside. Sherlock watches with wide eyes as They unroll Rug. "Please," he whispers, "please don't make me look at the body. I don't want to remember him like that, you're not allowed to touch him…"
"Shut your mouth, if you know what's good for you. I swear that if you're lying…"
They all fall silent as Jack's arm flops out from under the last layer of Rug. Old Magnussen and the Witch seem surprised by this sudden turn of events. Old Magnussen searches for a pulse in Jack's wrist.
"No pulse," he states quietly and reaches to pull the rest of Rug off Jack's face.
"No," says the Witch. "I don't want to see his face, don't do that."
Of course, She didn't want to see his face. She didn't want to picture herself dead in this tiny, hell hole.
If only She had known that Jack looked nothing like her. Seeing him only would have made her realise what a failure She was.
As They carry Jack away, the Soft Ball rolls out and hits the floor, disappearing under the bed. Sherlock remembers how the ball changed his relationship with his son. How William's memory became special. Now the very ball he'd tried to confiscate had saved his son's life.
"Thank you, William. I love you."
Sherlock overhears Mycroft and John's conversation in the kitchen. His brother's statement that he is unable to make good choices hurt. But his threats of locking him in Baker Street just to keep him safe frightened him even more. Did Mycroft truly believe that he wouldn't be hurting him just because he wasn't physically abusing him? Sherlock was afraid of his brother for the first time since the rescue.
And John. Soft and warm John. He tries to defend Sherlock and Sherlock is certain of his feelings. So he tries to kiss him. This backfires horribly. John says that they're just friends won't look at him anymore. He thinks back to how John was always hugging him and now he's ruined everything. John said he didn't judge him for anything that happened in Room, but that obviously wasn't true. John pities him. He'd rather John blame him for the death of his children. Which he probably did too.
Before the funeral, Mycroft leaves his briefcase by the kitchen table. Sherlock knows his brother is hiding things from him. Inside he finds folders about William and Charlotte. He knows how his daughter died, so he looks at William's. And nearly faints.
He reassures Jack that his dead siblings would never be jealous of him, nor that they would be angry at his chance of living. Telling Jack he wants it all to end, he hopes that somehow his small perceptive child might realise something is wrong. No such luck.
He grieves, or at least he tries to grieve, but he feels like he feels like he's crying for a lot more than his children. He's grieving for his own joke of a life. John stands nearby, trying to be a supportive presence. Sherlock can feel reality collapse around him.
Afterwards, Sherlock hugs Jack and Mycroft tells him to move on. Sherlock wants to tell him to fuck himself. Instead, he tells him he can make his own decisions. But then his brother insists. "I know you can't make your own decisions. If you could, you never would have been kidnapped and two children never would have died."
Shock. He knows his brother is sometimes harsh with words, but-
He means it.
He sees John scoop up Jack and carry him to the car. Did Jack run to John? He must have done. Why would his son want a careless man, a bad decision maker for a father?
Back at the flat, he heads straight to the bathroom. John calls out to him, probably to talk about that disastrous attempt at a kiss. He ignores him.
He shuts the door, but doesn't lock it. He turns the tap and washes his face. Then his eyes land on the razors.
He pauses, the idea of a bit of pain and excitement thrilling him. Just to remind him he's alive. But alive hurts, it hurts so much, and his head swivels until he's staring at the bath.
Picking up the razor, he takes the blades and heads to the bath, putting in the plug and turning on the cold tap. He would turn on the warm tap, but warm, cold, what does it matter? He just needs it all to end.
Should he strip? Yes. He might feel the cold more. He climbs into the filling tub, shivering and sits down quickly.
He doesn't realise he never locked the door.
The blade cuts deep, but Sherlock merely winces.
Three cuts later, he drops the blade and allows himself to float. His eyes start to droop. Good. Good.
Jack will be better off without him. He almost died because he made him play dead. His son could have been killed or recaptured by the Monsters. From the very beginning, he's never treated him properly. Jack is safer with John.
His eyes close.
Rapping at the door. "Sherlock, everything okay in thereI do apologize if what I said at the funeral hurt you..."
"SHERLOCK! SHERLOCK? Please don't do this to me! PLEASE! SHERLOCK! JOHN! JOHN! I need-"
"Mycroft, what.. oh god. Sherlock? SHERLOCK? Oh god, please no, no, no, why!"
"Mycroft, get out! Jack needs you! Anthea, call an ambul-"
"SHERLOCK IT'S ME, IT'S JOHN, PLEASE I'LL DO ANYTHING PLE-"
"Do not let Jack in, do not-"
"I need you to de compressions for me, Anthea, I'll breathe for him-"
Something warm tries to fill Sherlock's lungs. Sherlock floats.
"Oh god, please, Sherlock, I'll do anything, breathe for me, please, please, please..."
"The ambulance is here, you need to let him go John, they need to work on him. You need to let him go."
"Okay, roll him onto the stretcher in three, two,-"
"Let me through, please, he's my friend."
"Oh no. Oh god, no."
"Evil! EVIL! I WANT TO SEE PA! I'LL BITE YOU! I'LL-"
"DO NOT bite the paramedic! John, Jack needs you-"
"Please, Sherlock, hold on, for me, and- and- for Jack, I don't care if you hate me, please, don't leave..."
"He needs me! Let me go with him! Please... Mycroft... Please..."
"I'll... I'll see you soon... Stamford will take care of you. Stay for me, Sherlock. Sherlock? I love you. I should have said it before... Sherlock? I love you."
Sirens. Shouting. Beeping. Then the darkness swallows him.
The evil men in bright suits take Pa and I watch from the window as the ambulance like the one at the hospital that John showed me drives away. But this time, Pa's inside it. I run away to the kitchen and run as fast as I can towards our room. The Somebody is crying loudly and I'm so scared because that means Pa might have bounced to heaven without me. I shut the door and run straight to the wardrobe. It's empty, so I climb in and shut the door and bury my face in Pa's nightgown. It smells of him. I cry.