Sherlock fic - Car
May. 30th, 2011 06:33 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
r_scribblesThis was meant to be much shorter story than it ended up being. Quite quickly knocked up, more an excersize in economical storytelling than anything else. This isn't even my headcanon backstory, either, but a different tale of childhood/teenage woe. A photo of a car forces Sherlock to confront a terrible incident from his past.
Sherlock, Mycroft, John, Sarah, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade & behind-the-scenes Moriarty. No pairings, warnings for suicide, murder & attempted murder of a child.
Car
-x-
There are no pips – only a photo of a car. A Jaguar XJ40, black. The windows are closed but one of the back windows has been smashed. There is graffiti on the car – letters burned into the paint with bleach.
SEE WHAT YOU DID?
-x-
It was for the best. He couldn’t carry on with the way things had been going. He knew that Virginia would agree with him. He murmured words to that effect as he gazed out at the breaking dawn, his fingers tight around the steering wheel. His wife sat, unhearing, her breathing slow and steady, her head slumped on to her shoulder. He heard a low sigh from his son, asleep in the back seat.
He turned his quiet address to the boy. ‘ This isn’t a punishment, please believe me.’
His son mumbled again – a wordless question. He glanced at the boy in the rear view mirror. The boy was frowning, but then he often did that in his sleep. His eyes were still closed. Perhaps he was dreaming.
‘She’d never be able to live with the shame, it’s kinder this way. And you… you’d never survive, on your own. As it is, we just don’t know what to do with you. You’re… you’re not right, and that’s not your fault, but that’s just how it is.’
‘Father…?’
He blinked, and turned to look at his son. The child was sitting up, blearily, taking in his new surroundings. Damn. He should have given him that extra sleeping pill after all. Still – it didn’t matter now. He was a brave boy. Maybe he deserved to meet this with his eyes open.
The boy looked out of the window, saw the grass ahead of them turn to nothing but drop, saw the lighthouse. His eyes widened and he tried the locked car door. ‘What are you doing?’
He sighed. Might as well tell the boy the truth. ‘This is your doing, I’m afraid. I did warn you there would be consequences, but I should have known you’d ignore me. You’re all wrong and… and I’m all wrong. And it’s time to put things right.’
He switched on the ignition, pressed down on the accelerator and released the handbrake.
-x-
The photo of the car is sent again the next day, with more graffiti added.
TELL THEM WHAT YOU DID.
-x-
He drove towards the cliff. His son was panicking, pleading with him to stop. Too little, too late.
His son pounded on the back seat window with his fists, his elbow.
He’d made up his mind. This was the kindest way for all three of them. The boy wasn’t like his brother. He couldn’t look after himself. Even with his parents' care, it wasn’t as if he’d ever grow up to be normal. He didn’t dare to think about what would happen to the boy if he were left an orphan.
‘Stop fighting,’ he told his son. ‘This is for the best.’
They were practically at the drop.
‘I love you, son…’
There was a bang from the back. He looked again in the rear view mirror. His son had managed to pull the steering wheel lock from under the seat and used it to shatter the back seat window.
‘No!’ he cried.
But his son pulled himself out of the broken window and leaped to the ground, crying out as he skidded on his side over the rocks.
He slammed on the brakes. Too little. Too late.
The car went over the cliff.
-x-
A potential case has fallen flat, and he returns home, too consumed with thought about the photo of the car to be too disappointed about the case. He’s torn between trying to work out how the secret of the car was discovered in the first place, and planning what to do about it now.
He should probably tell John. He should probably tell Mycroft.
He doesn’t want to do either.
Mrs Hudson’s flat is quiet and dark. He frowns. Too early for her to be in bed, surely, and this isn’t her cinema night. He goes upstairs and opens the door to his flat.
‘Sherlock,’ says John, ‘stay calm.’
He is standing awkwardly next to Sarah, their bottle of wine unopened, their rented DVD still on the coffee table. Beside Sarah stands Mrs Hudson – dry eyed, doing the best job of masking her terror that she can. Next to her stands Lestrade.
Lestrade. Now that’s just fucking low.
On every forehead reads a single word, written in red marker pen.
CONFESS.
‘We’re OK,’ adds John. ‘It’s just…’
And, suddenly, Mrs Hudson says ‘Five’.
-x-
The WPC took his shoulder. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’
The young man fought back the impulse to flinch away from her touch, to tell her that she had no business feeling sorry for him – no right. Instead, he gave her a courteous, businesslike nod.
‘If I may see my brother, now.’
‘Of course.’
When he saw his brother, the boy’s face was mottled with bruises and latticed with scratches and scrapes from jumping from the car, but set in a resigned, neutral expression. He sat opposite the boy and watched him for a while. There were no tears, no shivers, no shakes.
‘We should deal with the practicalities first,’ he announced. ‘The estate goes to both of us, so you need not move if that’s your wish, although I would advise that you do. The more pressing issue is that of your care. Mother and Father made no provision in their will for what should become of you should you become orphaned.’
Still nothing. He’d wondered if the admission that they were both now orphans at least would bring his brother out of his shell a little.
‘I’ve already contacted my Solicitor regarding making myself your legal guardian until you’re of age. Does that suit you?’
His brother just shrugged.
‘I’ve been thinking of getting myself a flat in London for the university holidays anyway,’ he added. ‘We can sell that old house, and you can live there with me when you’re not at school. We certainly won’t have to worry about money for some time.’ He managed a faint smile. ‘And I daresay there can’t be many 12 year olds who have a bachelor pad in the city.’
‘He killed mother,’ said his brother, quietly. ‘He wanted me to die, too.’
He nodded. ‘He left a letter for me. Apologising, trusting that I would get by on my own… he was having an affair with one of the staff, the old fool. And, inevitably, it was all starting to come apart. You know what he was like. Death before dishonour.’
‘Yes,’ whispered his brother.
‘Likelihood is, the young lady involved was threatening to make it public, or else trying to blackmail him, and he made an executive decision about how to put an end to the whole thing.’
His brother just stared at him.
‘I’ll get to the bottom of it,’ he assured the boy. ‘Don’t you worry.’
And that was, unexpectedly, when the tears came.
He didn’t feel quite right hugging his little brother, but he took his hands as reassuringly as he could.
‘Hush. None of that. It’s going to be all right, Sherlock.’
-x-
‘Four.’ Mrs Hudson’s voice wavers, ever so slightly.
He closes his eyes.
‘No one’s been hurt,’ John assures him.
‘Three.’
‘But somebody will be,’ added Lestrade, ‘he won’t say who.’
Dammit, dammit!
‘Two.’
He opens his eyes again. ‘I killed my parents.’
The four other people in the living room stare at him, silently. There is no further countdown from Mrs Hudson, but clearly, no instructions that they are free to go has come over the earpiece that’s been forced on her, either.
‘I pushed them off a cliff. That is to say, I pushed my father, and pushed him, and pushed him until he elected to throw himself and my mother off a cliff. I escaped. And then, I let somebody else take the blame for making him do it. Everybody thinks I was an innocent party – a victim. I was the only one alive who knew better, until now.’
There is a further pause.
‘He says, “doesn’t it feel better, now, to get that out in the open?”’ says Mrs Hudson, ‘and that he’s sure it’s a weight off your mind, Sherlock.’ She listens. ‘And that, speaking of getting rid of annoying burdens, his delightful ex girlfriend is sitting at a coffee bar in Victoria train station, where she may need some expert assistance getting out of her new coat.’
‘Molly,’ breathes John. ‘Jesus, poor Molly.’
Mrs Hudson holds up a hand, still listening. ‘He says, “the stupid cow certainly knows how to pick them, doesn’t she?”’ She pauses again. ‘And, “that wasn’t a rhetorical question, darling”.’
‘Yes,’ replies Sherlock. ‘She does.’
Mrs Hudson nods – more to herself than to him – and then pulls out the earpiece. She puts it down on a side table which she then grips with a shaky ‘Ooh, dear…’
Lestrade has already turned towards the door, searching his pockets for his phone.
‘Sarah.’ Sherlock points towards Mrs Hudson as he makes to follow Lestrade. ‘Make sure she’s all right. John, you’re with me.’
‘Sherlock,’ says Lestrade, ‘it doesn’t exactly take a great detective to find Victoria station.’
And here’s where it starts. Disappointment, disillusionment. He can see the discomfort in Lestrade’s eyes. He's itching to get away.
Lestrade pauses for a moment. ‘But just so you know – as little as I want to piss in this bugger’s cornflakes, if either you or he are expecting me to bring a double murder charge against you just because your dad was psychotic, you’ve got another thing coming.’
Lestrade turns and leaves, shutting the door behind him.
-x-
After quarter of an hour of scrubbing with soap and water, the pen on John’s forehead is starting to come off.
‘You suppose he expects you to tell Mycroft?’ John asks.
‘He’ll have recorded everything that was said,’ Sherlock replies, still scouring the flat for hidden bugs, clues, mistakes that Moriarty or his men might have left – anything. ‘I expect it will have found its way to my brother’s desk by now.’
‘You didn’t kill them,’ says John.
Sherlock continues to search. ‘Are you suggesting that I feel guilty simply because I survived? Or that my father’s parenting conditioned me to assume the blame for his actions? You know me better than that. I’m no victim. I discovered he was having an affair and I tormented him with the information. I suspected what extremes my father might be capable of, under certain conditions – conditions which I created, not because it was the right thing to do, but because I could. To see what would happen. And, what happened was therefore my responsibility, at least in part.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Twelve.’
‘Jesus, Sherlock. It’s not your fault!’
‘Then, why should Moriarty go to such measures to expose what happened?’
‘To humiliate you,’ replies John, sounding surprised that Sherlock had missed something so obvious. ‘To step up how personal he’s making this campaign of his.’
‘Well. We’ll see about that once Mycroft finds out it was me threatening to make the affair public, not the mistress that I allowed him to blame all those…’ He is interrupted by the ring of his mobile. He takes it from his pocket. ‘Speak of the devil.’ He answers the call. ‘Well?’
‘What interesting enemies you make for yourself, Sherlock,’ comes his brother’s voice. ‘I trust that your landlady’s nerves have recovered.’
‘She’s fine,’ replies Sherlock. ‘And…?’
‘Sherlock, surely you recall the conversation we had, after that incident?’
‘When you assumed his mistress was blackmailing him.’
‘When I told you I’d get to the bottom of it.’
There is a pause. Sherlock doesn’t reply – has no reply, this time.
‘Perhaps,’ adds Mycroft, ‘the next time Mr Moriarty chooses to involve me in your harassment, he should elect to tell me something that I don’t already know.’
Sherlock, Mycroft, John, Sarah, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade & behind-the-scenes Moriarty. No pairings, warnings for suicide, murder & attempted murder of a child.
Car
-x-
There are no pips – only a photo of a car. A Jaguar XJ40, black. The windows are closed but one of the back windows has been smashed. There is graffiti on the car – letters burned into the paint with bleach.
SEE WHAT YOU DID?
-x-
It was for the best. He couldn’t carry on with the way things had been going. He knew that Virginia would agree with him. He murmured words to that effect as he gazed out at the breaking dawn, his fingers tight around the steering wheel. His wife sat, unhearing, her breathing slow and steady, her head slumped on to her shoulder. He heard a low sigh from his son, asleep in the back seat.
He turned his quiet address to the boy. ‘ This isn’t a punishment, please believe me.’
His son mumbled again – a wordless question. He glanced at the boy in the rear view mirror. The boy was frowning, but then he often did that in his sleep. His eyes were still closed. Perhaps he was dreaming.
‘She’d never be able to live with the shame, it’s kinder this way. And you… you’d never survive, on your own. As it is, we just don’t know what to do with you. You’re… you’re not right, and that’s not your fault, but that’s just how it is.’
‘Father…?’
He blinked, and turned to look at his son. The child was sitting up, blearily, taking in his new surroundings. Damn. He should have given him that extra sleeping pill after all. Still – it didn’t matter now. He was a brave boy. Maybe he deserved to meet this with his eyes open.
The boy looked out of the window, saw the grass ahead of them turn to nothing but drop, saw the lighthouse. His eyes widened and he tried the locked car door. ‘What are you doing?’
He sighed. Might as well tell the boy the truth. ‘This is your doing, I’m afraid. I did warn you there would be consequences, but I should have known you’d ignore me. You’re all wrong and… and I’m all wrong. And it’s time to put things right.’
He switched on the ignition, pressed down on the accelerator and released the handbrake.
-x-
The photo of the car is sent again the next day, with more graffiti added.
TELL THEM WHAT YOU DID.
-x-
He drove towards the cliff. His son was panicking, pleading with him to stop. Too little, too late.
His son pounded on the back seat window with his fists, his elbow.
He’d made up his mind. This was the kindest way for all three of them. The boy wasn’t like his brother. He couldn’t look after himself. Even with his parents' care, it wasn’t as if he’d ever grow up to be normal. He didn’t dare to think about what would happen to the boy if he were left an orphan.
‘Stop fighting,’ he told his son. ‘This is for the best.’
They were practically at the drop.
‘I love you, son…’
There was a bang from the back. He looked again in the rear view mirror. His son had managed to pull the steering wheel lock from under the seat and used it to shatter the back seat window.
‘No!’ he cried.
But his son pulled himself out of the broken window and leaped to the ground, crying out as he skidded on his side over the rocks.
He slammed on the brakes. Too little. Too late.
The car went over the cliff.
-x-
A potential case has fallen flat, and he returns home, too consumed with thought about the photo of the car to be too disappointed about the case. He’s torn between trying to work out how the secret of the car was discovered in the first place, and planning what to do about it now.
He should probably tell John. He should probably tell Mycroft.
He doesn’t want to do either.
Mrs Hudson’s flat is quiet and dark. He frowns. Too early for her to be in bed, surely, and this isn’t her cinema night. He goes upstairs and opens the door to his flat.
‘Sherlock,’ says John, ‘stay calm.’
He is standing awkwardly next to Sarah, their bottle of wine unopened, their rented DVD still on the coffee table. Beside Sarah stands Mrs Hudson – dry eyed, doing the best job of masking her terror that she can. Next to her stands Lestrade.
Lestrade. Now that’s just fucking low.
On every forehead reads a single word, written in red marker pen.
CONFESS.
‘We’re OK,’ adds John. ‘It’s just…’
And, suddenly, Mrs Hudson says ‘Five’.
-x-
The WPC took his shoulder. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’
The young man fought back the impulse to flinch away from her touch, to tell her that she had no business feeling sorry for him – no right. Instead, he gave her a courteous, businesslike nod.
‘If I may see my brother, now.’
‘Of course.’
When he saw his brother, the boy’s face was mottled with bruises and latticed with scratches and scrapes from jumping from the car, but set in a resigned, neutral expression. He sat opposite the boy and watched him for a while. There were no tears, no shivers, no shakes.
‘We should deal with the practicalities first,’ he announced. ‘The estate goes to both of us, so you need not move if that’s your wish, although I would advise that you do. The more pressing issue is that of your care. Mother and Father made no provision in their will for what should become of you should you become orphaned.’
Still nothing. He’d wondered if the admission that they were both now orphans at least would bring his brother out of his shell a little.
‘I’ve already contacted my Solicitor regarding making myself your legal guardian until you’re of age. Does that suit you?’
His brother just shrugged.
‘I’ve been thinking of getting myself a flat in London for the university holidays anyway,’ he added. ‘We can sell that old house, and you can live there with me when you’re not at school. We certainly won’t have to worry about money for some time.’ He managed a faint smile. ‘And I daresay there can’t be many 12 year olds who have a bachelor pad in the city.’
‘He killed mother,’ said his brother, quietly. ‘He wanted me to die, too.’
He nodded. ‘He left a letter for me. Apologising, trusting that I would get by on my own… he was having an affair with one of the staff, the old fool. And, inevitably, it was all starting to come apart. You know what he was like. Death before dishonour.’
‘Yes,’ whispered his brother.
‘Likelihood is, the young lady involved was threatening to make it public, or else trying to blackmail him, and he made an executive decision about how to put an end to the whole thing.’
His brother just stared at him.
‘I’ll get to the bottom of it,’ he assured the boy. ‘Don’t you worry.’
And that was, unexpectedly, when the tears came.
He didn’t feel quite right hugging his little brother, but he took his hands as reassuringly as he could.
‘Hush. None of that. It’s going to be all right, Sherlock.’
-x-
‘Four.’ Mrs Hudson’s voice wavers, ever so slightly.
He closes his eyes.
‘No one’s been hurt,’ John assures him.
‘Three.’
‘But somebody will be,’ added Lestrade, ‘he won’t say who.’
Dammit, dammit!
‘Two.’
He opens his eyes again. ‘I killed my parents.’
The four other people in the living room stare at him, silently. There is no further countdown from Mrs Hudson, but clearly, no instructions that they are free to go has come over the earpiece that’s been forced on her, either.
‘I pushed them off a cliff. That is to say, I pushed my father, and pushed him, and pushed him until he elected to throw himself and my mother off a cliff. I escaped. And then, I let somebody else take the blame for making him do it. Everybody thinks I was an innocent party – a victim. I was the only one alive who knew better, until now.’
There is a further pause.
‘He says, “doesn’t it feel better, now, to get that out in the open?”’ says Mrs Hudson, ‘and that he’s sure it’s a weight off your mind, Sherlock.’ She listens. ‘And that, speaking of getting rid of annoying burdens, his delightful ex girlfriend is sitting at a coffee bar in Victoria train station, where she may need some expert assistance getting out of her new coat.’
‘Molly,’ breathes John. ‘Jesus, poor Molly.’
Mrs Hudson holds up a hand, still listening. ‘He says, “the stupid cow certainly knows how to pick them, doesn’t she?”’ She pauses again. ‘And, “that wasn’t a rhetorical question, darling”.’
‘Yes,’ replies Sherlock. ‘She does.’
Mrs Hudson nods – more to herself than to him – and then pulls out the earpiece. She puts it down on a side table which she then grips with a shaky ‘Ooh, dear…’
Lestrade has already turned towards the door, searching his pockets for his phone.
‘Sarah.’ Sherlock points towards Mrs Hudson as he makes to follow Lestrade. ‘Make sure she’s all right. John, you’re with me.’
‘Sherlock,’ says Lestrade, ‘it doesn’t exactly take a great detective to find Victoria station.’
And here’s where it starts. Disappointment, disillusionment. He can see the discomfort in Lestrade’s eyes. He's itching to get away.
Lestrade pauses for a moment. ‘But just so you know – as little as I want to piss in this bugger’s cornflakes, if either you or he are expecting me to bring a double murder charge against you just because your dad was psychotic, you’ve got another thing coming.’
Lestrade turns and leaves, shutting the door behind him.
-x-
After quarter of an hour of scrubbing with soap and water, the pen on John’s forehead is starting to come off.
‘You suppose he expects you to tell Mycroft?’ John asks.
‘He’ll have recorded everything that was said,’ Sherlock replies, still scouring the flat for hidden bugs, clues, mistakes that Moriarty or his men might have left – anything. ‘I expect it will have found its way to my brother’s desk by now.’
‘You didn’t kill them,’ says John.
Sherlock continues to search. ‘Are you suggesting that I feel guilty simply because I survived? Or that my father’s parenting conditioned me to assume the blame for his actions? You know me better than that. I’m no victim. I discovered he was having an affair and I tormented him with the information. I suspected what extremes my father might be capable of, under certain conditions – conditions which I created, not because it was the right thing to do, but because I could. To see what would happen. And, what happened was therefore my responsibility, at least in part.’
‘How old were you?’
‘Twelve.’
‘Jesus, Sherlock. It’s not your fault!’
‘Then, why should Moriarty go to such measures to expose what happened?’
‘To humiliate you,’ replies John, sounding surprised that Sherlock had missed something so obvious. ‘To step up how personal he’s making this campaign of his.’
‘Well. We’ll see about that once Mycroft finds out it was me threatening to make the affair public, not the mistress that I allowed him to blame all those…’ He is interrupted by the ring of his mobile. He takes it from his pocket. ‘Speak of the devil.’ He answers the call. ‘Well?’
‘What interesting enemies you make for yourself, Sherlock,’ comes his brother’s voice. ‘I trust that your landlady’s nerves have recovered.’
‘She’s fine,’ replies Sherlock. ‘And…?’
‘Sherlock, surely you recall the conversation we had, after that incident?’
‘When you assumed his mistress was blackmailing him.’
‘When I told you I’d get to the bottom of it.’
There is a pause. Sherlock doesn’t reply – has no reply, this time.
‘Perhaps,’ adds Mycroft, ‘the next time Mr Moriarty chooses to involve me in your harassment, he should elect to tell me something that I don’t already know.’
