Mr Holmes
Summary: Mr Holmes loves his sons. He might not understand them, but he loves them.
Notes: I wrote this ages ago, at work, but for some reason I never posted it.
Mr Holmes would always think of it as some rare form of postpartum depression that had his wife call their youngest son Sherlock, but he had to admit that it matched Mycroft well. As beautiful and sentimental the gesture had been to name their firstborn after his wife’s maiden name, the reality of burdening a child with an odd name wasn’t something they had considered. They had been young, back then. Idealistic, and just a little crazy. That was the excuse for Mycroft. The excuse for Sherlock? Well, he couldn’t really find one, but, again, it matched Mycroft well.
The strange names also matched the strange bearers. And Mr Holmes meant “strange” in the best possible way, because he loved his sons. They were the light of his life, his pride and joy, and all those other things he had believed to be romanticised nonsense until he had children of his own. They were strange, though, there was no use denying it. But they were strange in the most remarkable ways.
He didn’t look it now, Mr Holmes, but when he’d been young, when he had met his future wife the genius, he had been a footballer. Quite a good one at that. When he had thought about children - as much as men in their 20’s thought about children - he had imagined buying them (boys and girls alike) their first football, taking them to their first game, perhaps coaching their team… but that hadn’t really happen. He’d done the first two with Mycroft; he had bought a football, he had dragged the poor boy to a game. He didn’t need his wife to tell him that the boy had no interest in sports, and instead he had started to spend his weekends at museums.
He had tried to get Sherlock interested in Mycroft old, forgotten football later, with the same result. He still had the football. It was deflated, in the back of a closet, and his wife wanted him to get rid of it. There was no reason to keep it, he could admit that, still he couldn’t make himself throw it away.
A lot of the times during the years, Mr Holmes felt like smacking his oldest son over the head with a rolled up newspaper. He ratted out his younger brother more often than one could count. At the same time, it was often good that he did. Sherlock was hoarding painkillers, he was growing cannabis, he was stealing alcohol from the liquor cabinet. But was it really necessary for them to know that he underlined things in books, that he sneaked out the window at full moon, or that he caught frogs and dissected them? Perhaps it was. After watching a lot of crime shows on the telly, Mr Holmes now knew that apparently the dissecting of small animals was an early sign of a psychotic serial killer. Sherlock wasn’t like that, though. He was a nice, if strange and troubled boy. He wouldn’t kill anyone just because he was interested in frog anatomy.
More than once during the boys’ teenage years, Mr Holmes had thanked his blessed luck that they at least were boys and not girls. As strange as they were, his beloved sons, they were still boys, and becoming a man forced you to understand a little about what it was like being a teenage boy. A teenaged boy’s body was still a teenaged boy’s body, even if the mind of said boy couldn’t be match by any adult human being.
He knew Mycroft was gay before Mycroft did. It struck him as odd, because his then fourteen year old boy was so insightful when it came to almost everything else. They’d had the talk of the mechanics of reproductive sex with him a long time ago, when they had first started to try to siblings. (Then again three years later when said sibling was finally on its way.) When Mr Holmes looked at his fourteen year old son, it occurred to him that they probably hadn’t done a good enough job showing certain kinds of human diversity. At that time Mycroft’s sole focus had been mathematics - to his mother’s joy - so Mr Holmes had slipped him a book about the code breakers at Hut 8, hoping that he’d discover Alan Turing. He realised a little too late that that poor man’s destiny probably wasn’t the best introduction to the gay world.
Mycroft never came out to them. Not really. But at Christmas 1988, when for some reason World AIDS Day had been brought up, he told them that they didn’t have to worry about him, because he was always safe. It was a relief to hear, because they had worried about what he had been up to in London. They never said it was okay to bring a boy home, but they thought he knew that. He had a tendency to just know things, their oldest son.
Sherlock was a different nut to crack. Careful to not make the same mistake with him as they had Mycroft, Mr Holmes very early on introduced both homosexuality and bisexuality as a normal part of human sexuality. Sherlock seemed… if not uninterested in the topic per see, so at least not invested in it. Sherlock never came out to them either, but then neither of his parents knew if there was anything for him to come out about. At Christmas one year, Sherlock brought home a man and a woman. Mr Holmes didn’t quite understand, but his youngest son had people now, and that was all he had ever wanted for him.
The evening Mycroft called to tell them that Sherlock had overdosed on heroin and was in a coma should have been the worst moment of parenthood. It really should have. It was worse than the years Sherlock was off doing god-knows-what down on the continent, but it wasn’t even remotely as bad as when Mycroft called to inform them that Sherlock was on life support after having been shot. The worst thing about that call hadn’t been that, though. No, it had been Mycroft’s vocalised plea for them to come to London. Since the age of twelve, Mycroft hadn’t actually asked them for anything. For the first time in over thirty years, their eldest son said he needed them. It was by far the scariest thing parenthood had ever brought. So far.
When he learned that Sherlock had killed a man, executed him in front of witnesses claiming he’d shouted “Merry Christmas” as he pulled the trigger, Mr Holmes had recalled all those dissected frogs. No one knew about the frogs, or the birds, or the rabbits, except he, his wife and Mycroft. He was sure no one would look at Sherlock’s childhood and say he was a murderer from the start.
It turned out, thanks to Mycroft, no one would look at Sherlock and think he was a murderer at all. Mr Holmes might not understand how he managed that, or anything that really happened in his children’s lives. But they understood each other, and they didn’t seem all that unhappy being different in the ways they were, with their strange names and amazing intellect. That was, truly, the best thing Mr Holmes could ever had hope for.
Notes: I wrote this ages ago, at work, but for some reason I never posted it.
Mr Holmes would always think of it as some rare form of postpartum depression that had his wife call their youngest son Sherlock, but he had to admit that it matched Mycroft well. As beautiful and sentimental the gesture had been to name their firstborn after his wife’s maiden name, the reality of burdening a child with an odd name wasn’t something they had considered. They had been young, back then. Idealistic, and just a little crazy. That was the excuse for Mycroft. The excuse for Sherlock? Well, he couldn’t really find one, but, again, it matched Mycroft well.
The strange names also matched the strange bearers. And Mr Holmes meant “strange” in the best possible way, because he loved his sons. They were the light of his life, his pride and joy, and all those other things he had believed to be romanticised nonsense until he had children of his own. They were strange, though, there was no use denying it. But they were strange in the most remarkable ways.
He didn’t look it now, Mr Holmes, but when he’d been young, when he had met his future wife the genius, he had been a footballer. Quite a good one at that. When he had thought about children - as much as men in their 20’s thought about children - he had imagined buying them (boys and girls alike) their first football, taking them to their first game, perhaps coaching their team… but that hadn’t really happen. He’d done the first two with Mycroft; he had bought a football, he had dragged the poor boy to a game. He didn’t need his wife to tell him that the boy had no interest in sports, and instead he had started to spend his weekends at museums.
He had tried to get Sherlock interested in Mycroft old, forgotten football later, with the same result. He still had the football. It was deflated, in the back of a closet, and his wife wanted him to get rid of it. There was no reason to keep it, he could admit that, still he couldn’t make himself throw it away.
A lot of the times during the years, Mr Holmes felt like smacking his oldest son over the head with a rolled up newspaper. He ratted out his younger brother more often than one could count. At the same time, it was often good that he did. Sherlock was hoarding painkillers, he was growing cannabis, he was stealing alcohol from the liquor cabinet. But was it really necessary for them to know that he underlined things in books, that he sneaked out the window at full moon, or that he caught frogs and dissected them? Perhaps it was. After watching a lot of crime shows on the telly, Mr Holmes now knew that apparently the dissecting of small animals was an early sign of a psychotic serial killer. Sherlock wasn’t like that, though. He was a nice, if strange and troubled boy. He wouldn’t kill anyone just because he was interested in frog anatomy.
More than once during the boys’ teenage years, Mr Holmes had thanked his blessed luck that they at least were boys and not girls. As strange as they were, his beloved sons, they were still boys, and becoming a man forced you to understand a little about what it was like being a teenage boy. A teenaged boy’s body was still a teenaged boy’s body, even if the mind of said boy couldn’t be match by any adult human being.
He knew Mycroft was gay before Mycroft did. It struck him as odd, because his then fourteen year old boy was so insightful when it came to almost everything else. They’d had the talk of the mechanics of reproductive sex with him a long time ago, when they had first started to try to siblings. (Then again three years later when said sibling was finally on its way.) When Mr Holmes looked at his fourteen year old son, it occurred to him that they probably hadn’t done a good enough job showing certain kinds of human diversity. At that time Mycroft’s sole focus had been mathematics - to his mother’s joy - so Mr Holmes had slipped him a book about the code breakers at Hut 8, hoping that he’d discover Alan Turing. He realised a little too late that that poor man’s destiny probably wasn’t the best introduction to the gay world.
Mycroft never came out to them. Not really. But at Christmas 1988, when for some reason World AIDS Day had been brought up, he told them that they didn’t have to worry about him, because he was always safe. It was a relief to hear, because they had worried about what he had been up to in London. They never said it was okay to bring a boy home, but they thought he knew that. He had a tendency to just know things, their oldest son.
Sherlock was a different nut to crack. Careful to not make the same mistake with him as they had Mycroft, Mr Holmes very early on introduced both homosexuality and bisexuality as a normal part of human sexuality. Sherlock seemed… if not uninterested in the topic per see, so at least not invested in it. Sherlock never came out to them either, but then neither of his parents knew if there was anything for him to come out about. At Christmas one year, Sherlock brought home a man and a woman. Mr Holmes didn’t quite understand, but his youngest son had people now, and that was all he had ever wanted for him.
The evening Mycroft called to tell them that Sherlock had overdosed on heroin and was in a coma should have been the worst moment of parenthood. It really should have. It was worse than the years Sherlock was off doing god-knows-what down on the continent, but it wasn’t even remotely as bad as when Mycroft called to inform them that Sherlock was on life support after having been shot. The worst thing about that call hadn’t been that, though. No, it had been Mycroft’s vocalised plea for them to come to London. Since the age of twelve, Mycroft hadn’t actually asked them for anything. For the first time in over thirty years, their eldest son said he needed them. It was by far the scariest thing parenthood had ever brought. So far.
When he learned that Sherlock had killed a man, executed him in front of witnesses claiming he’d shouted “Merry Christmas” as he pulled the trigger, Mr Holmes had recalled all those dissected frogs. No one knew about the frogs, or the birds, or the rabbits, except he, his wife and Mycroft. He was sure no one would look at Sherlock’s childhood and say he was a murderer from the start.
It turned out, thanks to Mycroft, no one would look at Sherlock and think he was a murderer at all. Mr Holmes might not understand how he managed that, or anything that really happened in his children’s lives. But they understood each other, and they didn’t seem all that unhappy being different in the ways they were, with their strange names and amazing intellect. That was, truly, the best thing Mr Holmes could ever had hope for.