Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It had been half a year since that curious incident with Ms Mary Sutherland, and Holmes had not yet told me of that which caused his strange fit. I assumed I would never hear it and, save for the rare letter from the lady herself, I almost forgot about the whole affair until today. I am not sure what brought it upon him to share about his past. Perhaps it was the heavy rain, which I found brought with it times of self-reflection, coupled with the lack of crime.

I was sitting by the fireplace, reading the latest edition of the Evening News Standard. There were articles about political elections, royal weddings, and everything else that could not spark even the slightest bit of interest in my friend.

Holmes stood by the window in the utmost agitation, his foot rapidly tapping the floor beneath him and his long fingers drumming the window sill. I was about to put my newspaper down in annoyance when he spun around, a piercing look in his eyes. “Watson, you are always so open about your past. I feel in comparison I am wanting.”

I could not hide my look of surprise at this admission so uncharacteristic of Holmes. “I share because I want to. I ask of nothing in return.”

“Still, I believe I should repay you. Besides, there hasn’t been much crime lately, as I am sure you are well aware,” he motioned towards the forgotten newspaper. “And instead of falling into one of my moods, I feel it is only proper that you should hear an explanation for my actions towards Ms Sutherland.”

He smiled at my raised eyebrows; I thought he had already moved on from the matter. “It was an utter embarrassment towards the standards I place upon myself. I only hope, through telling you of these events, you may learn how one’s circumstances can sour the mind of even the most trained thinker.”

“I should be glad to hear it.”

“Good.” He made his way to the chair beside me, frivolously flapping his coattails up to sit. His fixture on the crackling fire, though, betrayed his anxiety.

“I have not told you of my family, save for the existence of my brother Mycroft, and there is good reason for that. I was never very close to them—I was not encouraged to much. Still, there was that instinctive love and desire for approval that nearly all children feel towards their parents, and it is sad to say that this was not met with much response on their behalf.

“My mother was most devoted to my father, which overshadowed her sense of duty towards her children, but was unfortunately not met in turn. My father always found some excuse to leave the house and was seldom affectionate. I believe that my mother took this as a testament to her shortcomings as a wife which only doubled her efforts to gain his approval. But the more my mother showed her strong regard for him, the more my father would pull away. His reserved nature grew uncomfortable at her ceaseless need for attention. This, as you can imagine, created an awkward tension that I noticed whenever I returned home for the summer holiday. It was not entirely surprising, therefore, to discover my father’s disloyalty.

“I often stayed up reading and writing, so I quickly became aware of the late-night excursions my father started taking, and I easily determined that whatever he was doing was less than admirable. Peering through my window, I would see him leave and, a few hours later, come back in a drunken stupor and a guilty air about him. Moreover, the next day I would catch a faint smell of perfume from him that was unlike any my mother wore and sometimes found strands of long, blonde hair—also unlike that of my mother—on his suit or near the entryway.

“This continued for several weeks. Even though I was not overly fond of my mother, my sense of justice was strong even then, and I wished to put my deductive skills to use, so one night I decided to follow him, which led me to a bar on the outskirts of town.

“Upon entering, I was hit with the dizzying stench of alcohol and bile. It was crowded with the more unfortunate souls who were shunned by the rest of the town. Those who sought to practice their sins away from the other townsfolk also resided there, including, to my dismay, my father.

“Sitting down in a dark corner, I scanned the bar to find him. He was in the corner in the passionate embrace of a blonde woman, decidedly not my mother. I pushed my way out of the bar, filled with the utmost fury, and ran home as fast as my legs could carry me.

“I rushed through the doors and into my parents’ room.

“‘Mother,’ I cried, shaking her awake. ‘Father is gone!’

“‘What? Where is he?’ She asked

“‘I saw him go to a bar. He was with another woman.’ I answered.

“My mother’s face grew pale, but suspicion was in her eyes, so I added, ‘Let’s go to the sitting room and wait for him.’

“And so we did, anticipation and fear hovering around us. Finally, at about one o’clock, my father clumsily opened the door and staggered into the living room, disheveled but satisfied.

“‘Miriam? Sherlock? What are you doing awake?’ My father asked.

“‘The same can be asked of you,’ my mother answered.

“‘I could not sleep tonight, so I thought I’d take a stroll outside.’

“‘That is not true, Father. You have followed this routine for months.’

“His face twisted into one of contempt, and he growled, ‘Do not lie, boy.’

“‘I am not, Father.’

“‘Whatever the case, why do you come home in such a state?’ My mother added, rushing over to look at him. She gasped, ‘Whose hair is this?’

“He gave no answer.

“We stood in silence for a moment. My mother was turned away from me, so I could not see her expression. Would she leave him as he so deserved? Realize how her devotion meant nothing to him? I knew her decision would change my family forever.

“She turned toward me, venom in her voice. ‘You lying rat. Do not tell lies about your father. Go to bed.’

“I was astonished by my mother’s reaction. What I thought was undeniable proof of my father’s guilt was not enough to dissuade my mother.

“‘What do you mean? What about the hair?’ I asked.

“‘Clearly it is the maid’s. It must have gotten on him.’

“‘That cannot be. This strand of hair here is much thinner than the maid’s.’

“They both laughed. ‘Do you expect me to believe that? How about you pluck some off of the maid and show us? Or perhaps you already did–how shameful,’ my mother sneered.

“Hot with anger and shame, I stormed up to my room.

“The house became much colder after that. While I already did not seek the presence of my parents, at this point I avoided them entirely, and I fell into one of my darkest depressions, rarely eating or getting out of bed. It was agony, Watson. I did not expect such a change in my mother. While neglectful, I had never known her to be cruel. But I suppose some will go to any lengths to preserve their precious delusions,” Holmes spat.

He began furiously drumming his fingers on the armchair. I would have encouraged him to go on, but I felt that would create even more hesitation with him, so I patiently sat, waiting for him to regain the courage to continue.

I pondered his words in the silence that followed. He never spoke of his family save for his brother, and even then he did not say much about him, save the occasional remark about his “monotonous” work or whatever tip he provided for a case. I never thought much of the matter—I did not wish to probe into Holmes’s past if he was not willing to speak of it—but now that he had, I could not help but wonder how much pain lied behind that proud mask.

After a few minutes of silence, I endeavored to look upon my friend when my heart froze. Holmes’s eyes bore into the heart of the fire, furious tears running down his face.

“Holmes,” I breathed, barely audible. “We can stop, if this is too much.”

“No,” he said through gritted teeth. “You must give me a moment to compose myself.”

Half an hour passed. I had never seen him in such a state, and I was frightened. Yet a deep care for him overshadowed it. I reached over, feebly taking Holmes’s hand into my own. He accepted the gesture, squeezing it.

“I was luckily about to leave for university,” he continued, pulling his hand away, “So I didn’t have to deal too much with their presence.” He rested his chin on his palm, the familiar steely look returning to his features. “I had to promise them that, if they sent me to university, I would never talk to them again. I agreed.”

“If you upset them so much, why were they still willing to pay for university?” I asked, blinking the dampness from my eyes.

Holmes glanced at me. “I believe that they were worried about causing a scandal in the town. It would not look good for them to have their loose son skulking about, spreading nasty rumors about them. They likely saw it as some sort of bribery.”

He went on, “Other students would occasionally return home to visit their parents on holidays, but, obviously, I did not have that ability, nor did I care to. However, the decent sum from my parents allowed me to rent a flat outside of school.”

I waited in anticipation for him to continue. I was curious about his university life and wanted to learn more about what led him to take on this profession.

Assuming he needed some encouragement, I asked, “Anything else?”

“No.”

“Ah.” Holmes was never good with ending stories.

There was another awkward silence, with me somewhat disappointed at such a dud of a conclusion, before I was startled by the sound of Holmes’s hand tapping the nearby desk. He took no notice, sighing, “I fear I shared more than I meant to. I suppose you will alter your future accounts about how I’m ‘lacking in sympathy,’ am I correct?”

“Of course not, Holmes. The public doesn’t need to know every detail of your life. My stories are meant for entertainment, but,” I added, seeing Holmes ready himself for another critique about the “objectivity” of my work, “I will not humiliate you just for the amusement of others.”

He did not seem entirely satisfied, but relaxed back into his chair.

“It was naive of you to think anything good could come of you telling your mother, but you had the best intentions. And imagine your life had this never happened. You might have never become a detective.”

“I am aware.”

Ignoring the curt response, I asked, “I know it’s not in your nature, Holmes, but is there any way you could see them again and make amends?”

“My father is dead and my mother is in hospice care; Mycroft has informed me that her cognitive abilities are severely diminished. Besides, I have no need to. This chat was well enough for me.”

I hummed in acknowledgement. “Well, nonetheless, it takes great strength to admit to one’s faults, even more so to share them with a friend,” I continued, staring hard at Holmes. His gaze met mine only briefly before shooting back to the comfort of the fire.

I breathed in deeply, closing my eyes. He had already revealed much of himself, more than I had ever heard before and clearly more than he expected to, so I thought it wise not to push him further.

Warmth swelled in my chest; that he should place me in his confidence on so private a matter I knew was no small thing. It was extremely likely that, besides his brother, I was the first person he told of this and, indeed, perhaps the only person who has witnessed such a display of emotion from a man who was otherwise the embodiment of composure and logic.

Opening my eyes, I found Holmes by the window, staring out at the heavy downpour. Seeing his blank, worn face stirred some anxiety in me. Perhaps I should have stopped him sooner, I thought. He might never want to look me in the eyes again.

“I think I will play some violin,” he said, grabbing the instrument on his desk and breaking me out of my thoughts. He looked at me, his features softening somewhat. “You may listen.”

He played Bach’s Sonata No. 3 in C Major. I smiled to myself in recognition; it was a favorite between the both of us at a concert we went to a few months back. As a man loathe to expressing his feelings directly, Holmes’s way of showing his care for me was through his careful attention to my interests. For instance, he might remember my enjoyment of a certain pastry, and, weeks later, I would return to our flat to find a box filled with them on my bed. In this case, I understood that he wanted to assure me that everything was alright.

Holmes swayed with the music while I gently rocked my head along to its sweeping array of emotions. Eventually I found myself drifting away into the sweet realm of sleep, and as I dosed off I wondered what the future might hold for us after today. Whether he chose to acknowledge what happened or not, I knew that I would accept his decision and that my love for him would remain the same.

A curious incident happened one morning a few weeks after our talk. I walked out of my room, finding Holmes putting on a coat. “Ah, Watson, I was just about to run some errands. I’ll be back in an hour.” As he turned, I noticed a flicker of anxiety across his features.

I walked towards the window to watch him leave when I noticed a piece of paper by Holmes’s desk. Assuming it was a letter to Lestrade about a new case, I glanced it over. To my surprise, it was addressed to Ms Mary Sutherland.

When he returned, neither of us spoke of the matter. He folded the paper neatly and placed it into an envelope.

This letter laid on Holmes’s desk for a few days afterward, until one day it disappeared. Whether he sent the letter or merely tossed it I am not completely sure, but I noticed around this time that Ms Sutherland began writing more frequently.