OMG FIC WHAT IS THIS
I know I say I'm not much of a writer, but every now and then I get the urge. shkinkmeme is a great opportunity for people like me to dip their proverbial toes in the proverbial sea of scribing. Bonus points to the person who gets the musical title reference.
Title: Atom Heart Brother
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (Strand verse)
Pairing: S/W in the background, but mostly gen.
Rating: PG
A/N: Written for a prompt: "Moriarty is Watson's brother." WIP. Also, the longest thing I've ever managed to write. Thank you to the guys at the Meme chat for help/betaing. ILU <3
Blood, as the say, is thicker than water, and the stains it leaves are hard to wear off.
While during our life together it has always been Mr Sherlock Holmes who is the more secretive of the two of us, there are certain facts pertaining to my family which I have managed to keep hidden even from him.
In my previous account of "The Sign Of The Four", I allowed Holmes to deduce some of my family matters from a watch I had inherited from my older brother, Henry. While his deductions were accurate on the whole, what he failed to deduce was that Henry was not my only brother, for my father had sired a child out of wedlock long before he met my mother. This bastard son of his had been born and raised in the country in the outskirts of Belfast. I don't know if my mother knew of my father's sordid past, but the child - my brother - knew of my father's second family. While on the whole an illicit affair, my father stayed with his lover and their child until the boy's late teens. It is during that time that he met my mother, an honourable lady with an upper-class background, and set up a family with her. Whether this cruel act of abandonment had any influence on the man my brother would grow up to be, there's no knowing, but a part of me always felt irrationally guilty for robbing him of his father. Perhaps that is why I was so adamant at contacting him when I found out about the truth.
I was 18 myself and on my way to Medical School when I learned about my father's youthful indiscretions. Partly out of pity, partly out of curiosity, I sought out to contact my step-brother. It proved to be an easy task, for after my mother's death, I found a copy of his birth certificate in my father’s old trunk in our attic. A name like James Moriarty is not hard to locate in a city like Belfast.
While my first few letters to him did not elicit a response, a few weeks after I had given up on contacting my step-brother, he chose to seek me out. It was a late autumn afternoon and I had been studying for an exam in my dorm when I received word that there was a gentleman to see me. Surprised, I went to the common area where a tall, thin man was waiting by the window, flipping through a medical book on the sill.
I should note that Moriarty- James and I have barely a note of resemblance between us. He had much more in common with Henry than me, appearance-wise, a fact with sent my brother into rage when I informed him of it. James is tall - indeed, almost as tall as my dear friend Holmes - and slenderly built, with the sort of natural elegance and poise that men who know what they want in world, and know how to get it, own. He was in his early thirties when we first met, yet already his dark hair formed a slightly receding widow's peak. With piercing green eyes, a straight Irish nose, a sharp chin and an intelligent manner, he made a striking impression on my young self. And while we talked that evening, I could see a lot of my father in him, both in his looks and his manners. Stern and well-educated, and in possession of something I now recognise as a bit of a deviant streak. If I had known then what I know now, perhaps I could have saved myself a world of trouble.
Despite our complicated family background, James and I immediately became rather good friends. He was a sort of a mentor to me, visiting me after I had estranged myself from the rest of my family and encouraging me when I felt my studies were getting too demanding. I suspected later that there was something insincere about his actions, that perhaps he was manipulating me so I'd be more useful to him later. I doubt he would answer me honestly if I asked, and I fear an affirmative answer might break what little piece of my heart he still owns. Blood, as the say, is thicker than water, and the stains it leaves are hard to wear off.
James Moriarty supported me through Medical School and showed interest in not only my studies but my hobbies, too. In all respects he was like the big brother Henry had failed to be to me, and I daresay that made me more vulnerable to him and blind to his darker traits - for looking back now, I realise there were times when his mask slipped and there was something intimidating lurking beneath. But back then I was too happy to have a family member who cared, who asked me to read my writings to them, who inquired after my exam results and attended my rugby matches.
It was only after I joined the Army that we started drifting apart. Even before that I had started noticing that my kindly brother was not all that he had seemed to be. He had a short temper and while his anger was rarely directed at me, I often saw it flare for the oddest of reasons. He did not like to deal with other people's stupidity - another trait in him that reminds me of my dear friend - and he was prone to impatience if things did not go according to his plans. He also started hinting at some "Grand Plans" he had for us but with the sort of moral implications that I found myself increasingly uncomfortable in his company. I believe that as I got older, he felt safer in showing his truer nature to me, strong in his belief that I was so enamoured in my new big brother that it would not matter. But I was bothered by his odd un-provoked bursts of temper and so, as macabre as it sounds, it was something of a relief to have an excuse to get away from him to the Army.
While James and I did write to each other during my deployment, the letters grew more and more infrequent as time passed on. And when I finally reached London in ill health, no kin left and hardly a pittance to my name, the idea of asking James for helped felt like I would only be asking for more trouble. I felt guilty for abandoning my brother like that after all the support he had given me, but rumours had reached my ears which were less than flattering to him.
Title: Atom Heart Brother
Fandom: Sherlock Holmes (Strand verse)
Pairing: S/W in the background, but mostly gen.
Rating: PG
A/N: Written for a prompt: "Moriarty is Watson's brother." WIP. Also, the longest thing I've ever managed to write. Thank you to the guys at the Meme chat for help/betaing. ILU <3
Blood, as the say, is thicker than water, and the stains it leaves are hard to wear off.
While during our life together it has always been Mr Sherlock Holmes who is the more secretive of the two of us, there are certain facts pertaining to my family which I have managed to keep hidden even from him.
In my previous account of "The Sign Of The Four", I allowed Holmes to deduce some of my family matters from a watch I had inherited from my older brother, Henry. While his deductions were accurate on the whole, what he failed to deduce was that Henry was not my only brother, for my father had sired a child out of wedlock long before he met my mother. This bastard son of his had been born and raised in the country in the outskirts of Belfast. I don't know if my mother knew of my father's sordid past, but the child - my brother - knew of my father's second family. While on the whole an illicit affair, my father stayed with his lover and their child until the boy's late teens. It is during that time that he met my mother, an honourable lady with an upper-class background, and set up a family with her. Whether this cruel act of abandonment had any influence on the man my brother would grow up to be, there's no knowing, but a part of me always felt irrationally guilty for robbing him of his father. Perhaps that is why I was so adamant at contacting him when I found out about the truth.
I was 18 myself and on my way to Medical School when I learned about my father's youthful indiscretions. Partly out of pity, partly out of curiosity, I sought out to contact my step-brother. It proved to be an easy task, for after my mother's death, I found a copy of his birth certificate in my father’s old trunk in our attic. A name like James Moriarty is not hard to locate in a city like Belfast.
While my first few letters to him did not elicit a response, a few weeks after I had given up on contacting my step-brother, he chose to seek me out. It was a late autumn afternoon and I had been studying for an exam in my dorm when I received word that there was a gentleman to see me. Surprised, I went to the common area where a tall, thin man was waiting by the window, flipping through a medical book on the sill.
I should note that Moriarty- James and I have barely a note of resemblance between us. He had much more in common with Henry than me, appearance-wise, a fact with sent my brother into rage when I informed him of it. James is tall - indeed, almost as tall as my dear friend Holmes - and slenderly built, with the sort of natural elegance and poise that men who know what they want in world, and know how to get it, own. He was in his early thirties when we first met, yet already his dark hair formed a slightly receding widow's peak. With piercing green eyes, a straight Irish nose, a sharp chin and an intelligent manner, he made a striking impression on my young self. And while we talked that evening, I could see a lot of my father in him, both in his looks and his manners. Stern and well-educated, and in possession of something I now recognise as a bit of a deviant streak. If I had known then what I know now, perhaps I could have saved myself a world of trouble.
Despite our complicated family background, James and I immediately became rather good friends. He was a sort of a mentor to me, visiting me after I had estranged myself from the rest of my family and encouraging me when I felt my studies were getting too demanding. I suspected later that there was something insincere about his actions, that perhaps he was manipulating me so I'd be more useful to him later. I doubt he would answer me honestly if I asked, and I fear an affirmative answer might break what little piece of my heart he still owns. Blood, as the say, is thicker than water, and the stains it leaves are hard to wear off.
James Moriarty supported me through Medical School and showed interest in not only my studies but my hobbies, too. In all respects he was like the big brother Henry had failed to be to me, and I daresay that made me more vulnerable to him and blind to his darker traits - for looking back now, I realise there were times when his mask slipped and there was something intimidating lurking beneath. But back then I was too happy to have a family member who cared, who asked me to read my writings to them, who inquired after my exam results and attended my rugby matches.
It was only after I joined the Army that we started drifting apart. Even before that I had started noticing that my kindly brother was not all that he had seemed to be. He had a short temper and while his anger was rarely directed at me, I often saw it flare for the oddest of reasons. He did not like to deal with other people's stupidity - another trait in him that reminds me of my dear friend - and he was prone to impatience if things did not go according to his plans. He also started hinting at some "Grand Plans" he had for us but with the sort of moral implications that I found myself increasingly uncomfortable in his company. I believe that as I got older, he felt safer in showing his truer nature to me, strong in his belief that I was so enamoured in my new big brother that it would not matter. But I was bothered by his odd un-provoked bursts of temper and so, as macabre as it sounds, it was something of a relief to have an excuse to get away from him to the Army.
While James and I did write to each other during my deployment, the letters grew more and more infrequent as time passed on. And when I finally reached London in ill health, no kin left and hardly a pittance to my name, the idea of asking James for helped felt like I would only be asking for more trouble. I felt guilty for abandoning my brother like that after all the support he had given me, but rumours had reached my ears which were less than flattering to him.