Week #39- Christmas
Title: The Greatest Gift
Rating: PG
Characters: L addressing Watari.
Warnings: As much Christmas warm fuzzies as I can squeeze out now.
Word Count: 2,200
Disclaimer: Regognizable characters are the respective property of Ohba/Obata.
Author's Note: This is another of my takes on L's background and is probably going to be one snapshot in a series.
The Greatest Gift
Usually the indication that a child has been playing in the living room book case is books left scattered over the floor or pushed back in end first, spine in, or just left to lie on the shelf. I was a special case of course.
I remember being four-years-old sitting on my own bed in the little cramped room I shared with my two siblings and hearing my father's footsteps in the common area of our trailer stop in front of the book case. He had to have passed that one case at least fifty times a day between getting up, getting ready for work, returning home, and the usual pacing of evening activities.
He must have been looking for something on the shelf because I remember hearing his footsteps stop at the small bookcase and instantly knowing he had noticed something. There was no fear with my father, I assure you; he was a gentle, but firm man. He would never raise a hand or even a voice to any of his children and to us a stiff talking-to was punishment enough and a time-out was reserved for the most severe of offenses.
Dad must have seen one book missing from the shelf where he kept his collection. He was an avid reader and had a deep interest in first editions and old books, though the average person looking at him would only see long hair, a baseball cap, and a biker jacket and take him for an illiterate thug. I think it was in this respect that he was my first teacher in how looks can be deceiving. Dad was more the scrounger type when it came to his collection. He never had more than a few Canadian dollars on him to play with for himself, but his greatest treasures were those ancient editions he could find for literally pennies.
He no doubt noticed one was missing from the shelf; the 1954 hardcover copy of "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes" with just as many notes and references aimed at high school students as there was text. I don't believe that was one of the most prized books in his collection; the 1876 Masonic Bible and the 1933 edition of "A Christmas Carol" were a little more valuable. I believe I saw him reading Sir Doyle's book once and putting it back, but then I believe that was before I even learned how to walk.
Still he no doubt noticed that book missing; that same book that I held open on my bed.
My mother had gotten back from her job as a server at the kitchenette down the street and a brief exchange between them and the sheer fact my brother and sister were either outside or studying at a friend's house lead the logical course to me.
I wasn't exactly surprised when dad entered my room and had already rehearsed how the speech would go in my head about how I should not be playing with his things. Instead he stopped, looked at me and my position over the book, and cocked an eyebrow. He crouched down to my eye level and the disappointed look was already on his face, tempered of course by my age.
"I hope you know that's not a toy," he said.
I just nodded. Children at my age should have been talkative, I was the exact opposite and it worried people; everyone but my father to be exact. That was a conversation I would overhear repeatedly between my parents; my mother always concerned by my lack of communication, my father simply saying I was a thinker.
"I'm reading," I said, or rather mumbled.
He gave a good-natured chuckle. Usually a moment like this between a father and his four-year-old son might be camera worthy or even good for some stories I could be embarrassed with as a teenager.
"You're reading?" he said, tone a bit lighter. I could already tell he wanted to turn this into an educational moment. In any other situation this might result in a copy of any of Dr. Seuss' volumes under the Christmas tree with my name on it.
I simply nodded. I was telling the truth after all. He gradually came to his knees, the sleeves of his work jacket and his freshly washed yet perpetually oil stained hands folded on the bed in front of me.
"Well read a little to me," he said.
Such was naturally easier said than done. The act of reading out loud can be a daunting one to even adults let along four-year-old children. I took a breath, trying not to glance at the bemused expression on his face for fear it would break my concentration.
The tip of my finger dropped on a random paragraph spot. I followed the area to the beginning of the paragraph and started to read, sounding out the words more than three syllables long as my fingertip glided over the words. I tripped over a couple words out of nervousness and natural lack of skill. One paragraph was an achievement; one side of a page was a miracle. I would read through five full pages, my concentration never leaving the words and my resolve iron-clad.
At last I looked up, the usual child-like hope that I made dad proud. At first his reaction made me want to cry.
His jaw hung open, lower lip trembling a little, those gray eyes fixed on me.
This disturbed me to the core. I slammed the book closed and drew back a little. His hands gently grabbed my shoulders and he kissed my cheek almost in apology.
"That was beautiful, Liam," he said, his voice a little breathy as if he was trying to dislodge it from his throat. "Very, very well done, kid."
That was all I remember from that one moment, maybe all I want myself to remember. I do remember that he did not take the book back to the shelf. In fact I recall seeing it still in my room for days before it finally disappeared and returned to that missing slot on the shelf.
A month passed and I decided I wanted to finish the book; there was something about the plot that intrigued me, something about Sherlock and Moriarty that fascinated me more than He-Man or G.I. Joe ever could. I of course know now what it was and I of course know now that I felt the pull of it even when I was that young.
I remember walking to the shelf and the book was not there. I simply shrugged at it then, a little disappointed but all the same.
A week after that it was Christmas morning. I believe I thought more about the bright packages under the small tree than I thought about an old book. I was four after all; I felt the sparse amount of presents and fought over the cookies on the coffee table with my siblings as anyone my age would.
I remember sitting on the floor and sorting through my collection of socks, pajamas, toys with the price tags carefully peeled off. That was when dad in his plaid flannel bathrobe casually reached under the tree for a package for my brother and tossing a larger present to me.
It was not the soft consistency of anything for a child; it fell on the carpet with a hard slap. The shape was oddly rectangular and oddly hard, though it was wrapped up neatly in Christmas lights wrapping with a green bow.
"To: Liam, from: Dad" was all the tag read.
I tore into the package, the wrapping paper flying into the rest of the pile and revealing something very familiar, but something that makes me smile every time I think on it.
I unwrapped the 1954 high school reader hardcover edition of "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes." The exact same one on the shelf, the same one I had read to my father; only now it was in a package with my name on it.
"Aww dad, why did you give him that," my nine-year-old brother said in one of the whiniest tones in the universe.
"Well your brother likes detectives and I thought would give him a family heirloom," dad said.
I remember making eye contact with him, seeing a wink as I caressed the paper binding. I had seen this book every day of my life yet it would become the greatest gift I would ever receive.
Suffice to say I don't need to explain the full significance of that book, Mr. Wammy. You know all too well where that lead.
That book was not the be all and end all, but it was a catalyst. It was also the grandest present I would receive on the last Christmas morning I would ever spend with my whole family. The next year Christmas with mom's empty place was a little harder on all of us.
There was no Christmas the year after, there was no dad the year after and I will not reiterate the horrific circumstances. Though maybe I should say Sir Doyle’s characters might be what sharpened my gaze and lead to five men now serving life sentences of hard labor. That would be an all-too simplistic answer and I had other motivations and influences (such as if dad lived I would still be solving cases though perhaps behind a brass badge and wearing a red uniform on formal occasions, though all speculation of course.)
Regardless, I refuse to call the plastic tree in the cafeteria and a dry turkey dinner of the province's center for children with special needs a Christmas. To your credit, every Christmas I spent in Wammy's House was as warm and homelike as I could hope for.
I am not writing you this to praise the decorum of Wammy's House during the holidays; I write this because I believe a circle has been completed.
As for Sir Doyle's book all but my necessary possessions were lost amid a mass of bureaucratic catastrophe after my father’s murder. I believe I forgot it even existed.
That was until yesterday. I know you will ask me how my first Christmas went with my brother and sister fifteen years after our childhoods were shattered though you will probably be asking more about my two "adorable" nieces. I will spare you the full details now though I will share one anecdote.
My now 24-year-old sister Sharona toasted me like a conquering hero, I was after all the lost sheep for fourteen years though truth be told I was never theirs to find. Regardless, there was a long speech in front of the tree and a lot of uncomfortable shifting on my part. Then history repeated itself again; she stepped out from behind my brother's audaciously decorated tree with a package that I knew what it was the moment I saw it.
The wrapping paper was gold this time and the ribbon an off white and silver.
"To: dearest Liam, From: your family" was written on the tag.
I opened it with a little more mature gusto, though you can imagine what I found.
Sharona said she specifically told a constable who went back into the crime scene we had for a house to find that book and the constable came through. She kept it with her through every move from foster home to foster home, keeping it in storage during her tour of duty in the army, and digging it out of the locker after our reunion this March.
I have it in my hands now and I will show it to you when I return to Winchester.
Watari, I will tell you now I have once again received the greatest gift I will ever receive; a simple item with so much history.
As I said, I will relate other stories when I return. That is all.
L pressed the "send" button, his eyes trailing out the window of the plane and gazed over the Atlantic. The plane would land at Heathrow in five hours and Watari would be waiting with the car.
He shut down the laptop and closed it, putting it back in its case and carefully tucking it under the seat. He then reached into the backpack beside it, feeling the paper cover and thick binding and gently pulling it out
A little mold had formed on the cover that had been wiped off, though it had been kept in relatively good condition. He caressed the binding before gently opening the cover and looking at the title page. A thin finger then slipped to the last pages, opening it to the back cover.
The crude pencil marks had faded as he had anticipated sixteen years ago, though a sensitive eye caught the impression into the back cover made by a child's clumsy handwriting.
The letters "L Lawliet" were written underneath the covers solely by touch as a flashlight would have woken up his siblings. It was his mark, his claim, his legacy.
L gently held the book and smiled, the back of his head resting against the seat as his eyes went back out into the horizon.
Rating: PG
Characters: L addressing Watari.
Warnings: As much Christmas warm fuzzies as I can squeeze out now.
Word Count: 2,200
Disclaimer: Regognizable characters are the respective property of Ohba/Obata.
Author's Note: This is another of my takes on L's background and is probably going to be one snapshot in a series.
The Greatest Gift
Usually the indication that a child has been playing in the living room book case is books left scattered over the floor or pushed back in end first, spine in, or just left to lie on the shelf. I was a special case of course.
I remember being four-years-old sitting on my own bed in the little cramped room I shared with my two siblings and hearing my father's footsteps in the common area of our trailer stop in front of the book case. He had to have passed that one case at least fifty times a day between getting up, getting ready for work, returning home, and the usual pacing of evening activities.
He must have been looking for something on the shelf because I remember hearing his footsteps stop at the small bookcase and instantly knowing he had noticed something. There was no fear with my father, I assure you; he was a gentle, but firm man. He would never raise a hand or even a voice to any of his children and to us a stiff talking-to was punishment enough and a time-out was reserved for the most severe of offenses.
Dad must have seen one book missing from the shelf where he kept his collection. He was an avid reader and had a deep interest in first editions and old books, though the average person looking at him would only see long hair, a baseball cap, and a biker jacket and take him for an illiterate thug. I think it was in this respect that he was my first teacher in how looks can be deceiving. Dad was more the scrounger type when it came to his collection. He never had more than a few Canadian dollars on him to play with for himself, but his greatest treasures were those ancient editions he could find for literally pennies.
He no doubt noticed one was missing from the shelf; the 1954 hardcover copy of "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes" with just as many notes and references aimed at high school students as there was text. I don't believe that was one of the most prized books in his collection; the 1876 Masonic Bible and the 1933 edition of "A Christmas Carol" were a little more valuable. I believe I saw him reading Sir Doyle's book once and putting it back, but then I believe that was before I even learned how to walk.
Still he no doubt noticed that book missing; that same book that I held open on my bed.
My mother had gotten back from her job as a server at the kitchenette down the street and a brief exchange between them and the sheer fact my brother and sister were either outside or studying at a friend's house lead the logical course to me.
I wasn't exactly surprised when dad entered my room and had already rehearsed how the speech would go in my head about how I should not be playing with his things. Instead he stopped, looked at me and my position over the book, and cocked an eyebrow. He crouched down to my eye level and the disappointed look was already on his face, tempered of course by my age.
"I hope you know that's not a toy," he said.
I just nodded. Children at my age should have been talkative, I was the exact opposite and it worried people; everyone but my father to be exact. That was a conversation I would overhear repeatedly between my parents; my mother always concerned by my lack of communication, my father simply saying I was a thinker.
"I'm reading," I said, or rather mumbled.
He gave a good-natured chuckle. Usually a moment like this between a father and his four-year-old son might be camera worthy or even good for some stories I could be embarrassed with as a teenager.
"You're reading?" he said, tone a bit lighter. I could already tell he wanted to turn this into an educational moment. In any other situation this might result in a copy of any of Dr. Seuss' volumes under the Christmas tree with my name on it.
I simply nodded. I was telling the truth after all. He gradually came to his knees, the sleeves of his work jacket and his freshly washed yet perpetually oil stained hands folded on the bed in front of me.
"Well read a little to me," he said.
Such was naturally easier said than done. The act of reading out loud can be a daunting one to even adults let along four-year-old children. I took a breath, trying not to glance at the bemused expression on his face for fear it would break my concentration.
The tip of my finger dropped on a random paragraph spot. I followed the area to the beginning of the paragraph and started to read, sounding out the words more than three syllables long as my fingertip glided over the words. I tripped over a couple words out of nervousness and natural lack of skill. One paragraph was an achievement; one side of a page was a miracle. I would read through five full pages, my concentration never leaving the words and my resolve iron-clad.
At last I looked up, the usual child-like hope that I made dad proud. At first his reaction made me want to cry.
His jaw hung open, lower lip trembling a little, those gray eyes fixed on me.
This disturbed me to the core. I slammed the book closed and drew back a little. His hands gently grabbed my shoulders and he kissed my cheek almost in apology.
"That was beautiful, Liam," he said, his voice a little breathy as if he was trying to dislodge it from his throat. "Very, very well done, kid."
That was all I remember from that one moment, maybe all I want myself to remember. I do remember that he did not take the book back to the shelf. In fact I recall seeing it still in my room for days before it finally disappeared and returned to that missing slot on the shelf.
A month passed and I decided I wanted to finish the book; there was something about the plot that intrigued me, something about Sherlock and Moriarty that fascinated me more than He-Man or G.I. Joe ever could. I of course know now what it was and I of course know now that I felt the pull of it even when I was that young.
I remember walking to the shelf and the book was not there. I simply shrugged at it then, a little disappointed but all the same.
A week after that it was Christmas morning. I believe I thought more about the bright packages under the small tree than I thought about an old book. I was four after all; I felt the sparse amount of presents and fought over the cookies on the coffee table with my siblings as anyone my age would.
I remember sitting on the floor and sorting through my collection of socks, pajamas, toys with the price tags carefully peeled off. That was when dad in his plaid flannel bathrobe casually reached under the tree for a package for my brother and tossing a larger present to me.
It was not the soft consistency of anything for a child; it fell on the carpet with a hard slap. The shape was oddly rectangular and oddly hard, though it was wrapped up neatly in Christmas lights wrapping with a green bow.
"To: Liam, from: Dad" was all the tag read.
I tore into the package, the wrapping paper flying into the rest of the pile and revealing something very familiar, but something that makes me smile every time I think on it.
I unwrapped the 1954 high school reader hardcover edition of "The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes." The exact same one on the shelf, the same one I had read to my father; only now it was in a package with my name on it.
"Aww dad, why did you give him that," my nine-year-old brother said in one of the whiniest tones in the universe.
"Well your brother likes detectives and I thought would give him a family heirloom," dad said.
I remember making eye contact with him, seeing a wink as I caressed the paper binding. I had seen this book every day of my life yet it would become the greatest gift I would ever receive.
Suffice to say I don't need to explain the full significance of that book, Mr. Wammy. You know all too well where that lead.
That book was not the be all and end all, but it was a catalyst. It was also the grandest present I would receive on the last Christmas morning I would ever spend with my whole family. The next year Christmas with mom's empty place was a little harder on all of us.
There was no Christmas the year after, there was no dad the year after and I will not reiterate the horrific circumstances. Though maybe I should say Sir Doyle’s characters might be what sharpened my gaze and lead to five men now serving life sentences of hard labor. That would be an all-too simplistic answer and I had other motivations and influences (such as if dad lived I would still be solving cases though perhaps behind a brass badge and wearing a red uniform on formal occasions, though all speculation of course.)
Regardless, I refuse to call the plastic tree in the cafeteria and a dry turkey dinner of the province's center for children with special needs a Christmas. To your credit, every Christmas I spent in Wammy's House was as warm and homelike as I could hope for.
I am not writing you this to praise the decorum of Wammy's House during the holidays; I write this because I believe a circle has been completed.
As for Sir Doyle's book all but my necessary possessions were lost amid a mass of bureaucratic catastrophe after my father’s murder. I believe I forgot it even existed.
That was until yesterday. I know you will ask me how my first Christmas went with my brother and sister fifteen years after our childhoods were shattered though you will probably be asking more about my two "adorable" nieces. I will spare you the full details now though I will share one anecdote.
My now 24-year-old sister Sharona toasted me like a conquering hero, I was after all the lost sheep for fourteen years though truth be told I was never theirs to find. Regardless, there was a long speech in front of the tree and a lot of uncomfortable shifting on my part. Then history repeated itself again; she stepped out from behind my brother's audaciously decorated tree with a package that I knew what it was the moment I saw it.
The wrapping paper was gold this time and the ribbon an off white and silver.
"To: dearest Liam, From: your family" was written on the tag.
I opened it with a little more mature gusto, though you can imagine what I found.
Sharona said she specifically told a constable who went back into the crime scene we had for a house to find that book and the constable came through. She kept it with her through every move from foster home to foster home, keeping it in storage during her tour of duty in the army, and digging it out of the locker after our reunion this March.
I have it in my hands now and I will show it to you when I return to Winchester.
Watari, I will tell you now I have once again received the greatest gift I will ever receive; a simple item with so much history.
As I said, I will relate other stories when I return. That is all.
L pressed the "send" button, his eyes trailing out the window of the plane and gazed over the Atlantic. The plane would land at Heathrow in five hours and Watari would be waiting with the car.
He shut down the laptop and closed it, putting it back in its case and carefully tucking it under the seat. He then reached into the backpack beside it, feeling the paper cover and thick binding and gently pulling it out
A little mold had formed on the cover that had been wiped off, though it had been kept in relatively good condition. He caressed the binding before gently opening the cover and looking at the title page. A thin finger then slipped to the last pages, opening it to the back cover.
The crude pencil marks had faded as he had anticipated sixteen years ago, though a sensitive eye caught the impression into the back cover made by a child's clumsy handwriting.
The letters "L Lawliet" were written underneath the covers solely by touch as a flashlight would have woken up his siblings. It was his mark, his claim, his legacy.
L gently held the book and smiled, the back of his head resting against the seat as his eyes went back out into the horizon.