[Sherlock BBC] {Fic} The Night Journey 17:31-33
Title: Cycle 1/Round 3: Other Characters
Series: thegameison_sh
Genre/Warnings: Drama, Angst, death of a minor character.
Rating: R.
Characters: Mummy. Mentions of Sherlock, Mycroft, Moriarty and John.
Word Count: 733
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine, and this is fiction purely written for entertainment purposes and no monetary gain is attained from it.
I have committed many sins in my lifetime. All of the cardinal ones I covered before I had cleared the gates of my university, and I have broken all of the commandments, save one.
I've worn the scarlet letter of Adultery on my breast for twenty seven years. It was a temptation I had continually fought against, and I fell finally to it seventeen years into my marriage not because I was weak, or that the temptation became too much, but because the weight of my want was far greater, and far more exciting, than any personal glory I might have felt at resisting. My error lay in assuming that Sherringford would not find out.
Fool, was I, to think I could keep hidden a secret in a house built upon exposing them. It took my husband barely four months to find us out, and even then I suspect he waited three and a half of those for me to confess before he made his move.
I imagine that it might not have been so bad, when he finally did confront me, if he hadn't entered our bedroom while we were fucking. More fool, I, for not noticing the physical clues he had left that morning. I should have known he would be returning home early. It was obvious. But I was blinded by the feel of my lover inside of me, so did not notice Sherringford's slender silhouette in the open doorway. Did not see him approach over the tutor's shoulder, above where my nails dug in, where they clutched and scratched. Nor did I notice the small, dark shadow in the corner by the wardrobe, not until my lover had fled, and I at last looked up from the floor, could manage my shaking hands to wipe the blood from my eyes and see him, little Sherlock, pale face branded with the blood of my shame and eyes deadened by the results of it.
We had damaged him irrevocably that day, in ways neither or us could anticipate nor ever hope to repair. And when Sherringford took his own life three months later, any chance of reconciliation was lost.
I disappeared out of necessity for half a year. A holiday, I told my sons, I needed to put my mind into order. It was a lie, of course, and though Mycroft may have suspected something, he was away at boarding school and though his spy network was rather well developed even then, they could not follow me to where I was going.
I left Sherlock in the hands of my mother. I knew she would care for him well.
When I returned I set to repairing what could be repaired, and waxing over what couldn't. We made it work, for a time, with shadows, lies, and fabricated honesty. Oh, we each of us eventually knew the truth of things, but we would never admit it aloud. While it stayed hidden and secret we could remain idle. Speaking it would force us to act upon it, and none of us were ready at that point.
Until now. Until tonight.
It started with Dr. Watson. And it takes me a second glimpse of his eyes to know (for he is a far, far better actor that either of my sons) the same horrors that dull Sherlock's eyes writhe behind his own. And I understand now why it is this man, and this man alone, that has turned my middle son's attention to its finest point. Has given him both a weakness and an unforeseen strength. Sherlock has found his anti, his mirror-image, his like-ness. That Moriarty, (and how he came to know to use that name... how he came to know the damage it would cause...) can bandy about his psychosis like a battle sigil all he likes, but I will never buy into his belief that he is anything like my son. My son who was not born this way, was not made this way. My son who chose to be this way, because he saw with his own eyes what became of people who cared too much, who loved too deeply, and controlled themselves too little.
In the next hospital room over there is a man cuffed to his bed. His survival is slim.
I have broken all of the commandments save the sixth. And I will break that one tonight.
Series: thegameison_sh
Genre/Warnings: Drama, Angst, death of a minor character.
Rating: R.
Characters: Mummy. Mentions of Sherlock, Mycroft, Moriarty and John.
Word Count: 733
Disclaimer: Characters are not mine, and this is fiction purely written for entertainment purposes and no monetary gain is attained from it.
I have committed many sins in my lifetime. All of the cardinal ones I covered before I had cleared the gates of my university, and I have broken all of the commandments, save one.
I've worn the scarlet letter of Adultery on my breast for twenty seven years. It was a temptation I had continually fought against, and I fell finally to it seventeen years into my marriage not because I was weak, or that the temptation became too much, but because the weight of my want was far greater, and far more exciting, than any personal glory I might have felt at resisting. My error lay in assuming that Sherringford would not find out.
Fool, was I, to think I could keep hidden a secret in a house built upon exposing them. It took my husband barely four months to find us out, and even then I suspect he waited three and a half of those for me to confess before he made his move.
I imagine that it might not have been so bad, when he finally did confront me, if he hadn't entered our bedroom while we were fucking. More fool, I, for not noticing the physical clues he had left that morning. I should have known he would be returning home early. It was obvious. But I was blinded by the feel of my lover inside of me, so did not notice Sherringford's slender silhouette in the open doorway. Did not see him approach over the tutor's shoulder, above where my nails dug in, where they clutched and scratched. Nor did I notice the small, dark shadow in the corner by the wardrobe, not until my lover had fled, and I at last looked up from the floor, could manage my shaking hands to wipe the blood from my eyes and see him, little Sherlock, pale face branded with the blood of my shame and eyes deadened by the results of it.
We had damaged him irrevocably that day, in ways neither or us could anticipate nor ever hope to repair. And when Sherringford took his own life three months later, any chance of reconciliation was lost.
I disappeared out of necessity for half a year. A holiday, I told my sons, I needed to put my mind into order. It was a lie, of course, and though Mycroft may have suspected something, he was away at boarding school and though his spy network was rather well developed even then, they could not follow me to where I was going.
I left Sherlock in the hands of my mother. I knew she would care for him well.
When I returned I set to repairing what could be repaired, and waxing over what couldn't. We made it work, for a time, with shadows, lies, and fabricated honesty. Oh, we each of us eventually knew the truth of things, but we would never admit it aloud. While it stayed hidden and secret we could remain idle. Speaking it would force us to act upon it, and none of us were ready at that point.
Until now. Until tonight.
It started with Dr. Watson. And it takes me a second glimpse of his eyes to know (for he is a far, far better actor that either of my sons) the same horrors that dull Sherlock's eyes writhe behind his own. And I understand now why it is this man, and this man alone, that has turned my middle son's attention to its finest point. Has given him both a weakness and an unforeseen strength. Sherlock has found his anti, his mirror-image, his like-ness. That Moriarty, (and how he came to know to use that name... how he came to know the damage it would cause...) can bandy about his psychosis like a battle sigil all he likes, but I will never buy into his belief that he is anything like my son. My son who was not born this way, was not made this way. My son who chose to be this way, because he saw with his own eyes what became of people who cared too much, who loved too deeply, and controlled themselves too little.
In the next hospital room over there is a man cuffed to his bed. His survival is slim.
I have broken all of the commandments save the sixth. And I will break that one tonight.