Sherlock fic: 'Reading too much meaning from existence', 1/3.
Title: 'Reading too much meaning from existence', part 1 of 3.
Fandom: the BBC's Sherlock.
Spoilers: set many years pre-canon, with only the tiniest spoilers for 'A Study in Pink'.
Disclaimer: none of the characters you recognise belong to me.
Word count: 2,300 words.
Genre: gen (part 2 will be slash).
Rating: PG-13 for sexual references and disturbing content (part 2 will be NC-17).
Warnings: angst! References to developmental and personality disorders, verbal/emotional child abuse, infidelity, and chronic insomnia. Possibly triggering for anyone who had negative childhood experiences with psychiatrists.
Summary: Attending Oxford is almost a foregone conclusion for Sherlock.
Author's notes: this fic is a Sherlock-focused prequel to my John-POV story Food for thought, but it can be read independently.
I am currently studying at Oxford University, so I couldn't resist the chance to depict Sherlock as a fellow Oxonian! Thanks to jacinthsong for Wadham-picking, and china_shop for stylistic advice. This story is dedicated to the fannish friends I made in Oxford.
***
'Reading too much meaning from existence', part 1
At a fairly early age, it became evident that Sherlock Holmes possessed an incredible talent for reading people and making deductions from his surroundings. Astonishingly intelligent, the boy also came across as coldly unemotional and weirdly detached. He scared children, and unnerved adults.
Mrs. Holmes was proud of her bright younger son, but disturbed by aspects of his behaviour and others' reactions to his strange utterances. Her husband either ignored Sherlock or shouted at him to shut up, to stop being such a freak. Her friends refused to visit when the child was home, after he innocently revealed some of their secrets during a disastrous luncheon party.
So she took her 7-year-old son to the best psychiatrists in London, in the hope of finding a diagnosis (and a cure).
Sherlock sat in one leather armchair after another, his feet never touching the floor. Well-dressed and well-fed men asked him endless questions, their voices carefully modulated to simulate caring. They wanted to know how he perceived the world, how he felt about his family, and whether he thought that other people had emotions. Did he make up stories? Did he ever hurt himself or others, just to see what would happen? Did he experiment on animals? Did he light fires?
Sherlock always answered truthfully; he had not yet learnt how to lie.
Once banished to the waiting area, he would overhear snippets of conversation that he didn't understand, like "lacking empathy", "poor impulse control", "autistic savant", and "sociopathic tendencies". These phrases made Mummy sad; she'd come out of the consulting room in tears, and the two of them would go home in silence.
Each new psychiatrist said similar things, though, and the tension lines on Mummy's face became ever more marked as the months wore on. She began to look at Sherlock the way everyone else did, as though he were frightening and flawed and not-good.
Sherlock was deeply afraid that he would be sent away to a school for naughty boys; his older brother taunted him about the prospect, a cruelty which Mycroft quickly forgot but Sherlock never forgave. Or maybe they'd let him stay at home, but only if he took special pills (like their neighbours' daughter Helena, after she was released from hospital) or wore a straightjacket like the one he'd seen in an old book.
***
To stave off such a fate, young Sherlock tried to modify his problematic behaviours. He stopped arguing with his teachers, and asking them difficult questions. He no longer mocked the other boys for their stupidity, and consequently got into far fewer fights at school.
In order to improve his camouflage as a well-rounded and mentally-balanced child, he finally followed Mummy's suggestion about "developing some normal hobbies, for God's sake, rather than dissecting dead rats in the garage!" Sherlock took swimming lessons and dutifully built up a stamp collection, but learning the violin was the one extracurricular activity he truly enjoyed.
He worked on his reading of social cues, and swotted up on appropriate etiquette. He smiled politely at adult women, and enquired after their family's health; he shook the hands of adult men, without commenting on their profession or their philandering or the half-dozen other things evident from their appearance or mannerisms.
Sherlock couldn't help observing the world around him, and drawing the obvious conclusions. It was just how his mind worked, and he was powerless against the unending inflow of information. Even when he closed his eyes, his other senses continued to hum.
The ambient sounds told him that Mycroft had just left the breakfast table to get ready for school, that Father was displeased by some news item in The Daily Telegraph, and that Mummy had closed a kitchen window to stop the draught. Outside, a pair of hedge sparrows expressed excitement about the hatching of their eggs. Unfortunately for them, one of their 4 chicks was in fact a cuckoo interloper which would soon kill their true offspring. Nature could be so elegantly cruel.
It took an enormous effort of will, but Sherlock stopped revealing what he saw and heard. Staying quiet most of the time seemed to mollify Mummy, and she made no further psychiatrist appointments. Father still complained to her when he thought Sherlock couldn't hear ("it's just creepy the way he watches us, with those big staring eyes"), but he shouted at the boy less often. Fortunately for Sherlock, his time and attention were soon monopolised by the mistress he'd installed in a newly-redecorated flat near St Paul's.
Sherlock never told Mummy about Father's affair; he never told anyone anything, anymore.
The only family member who could draw Sherlock out of his habitual silence was Mycroft. Seven years older than Sherlock, he was indisputably the favourite son: brilliant, handsome, confident, ambitious, and well-mannered, with the ability to adapt chameleon-like to any social setting. Sherlock admired him, but resented him far more.
The brothers sniped viciously at each other, so well-matched that neither could score an outright victory. Their arguments became perforce less frequent when Mycroft went off to university, but Christmas dinners remained fraught.
[By the time they're in their 30s, their fraternal relationship will have become a festering feud. Mycroft will intervene - Sherlock would say "interfere" - in his brother's life, by various nefarious means, although he will claim to be motivated by sincere concern. Sherlock will spit venom at Mycroft when they cross paths, and describe him to his new flatmate John as "the most dangerous man you've ever met."]
***
Attending Oxford is almost a foregone conclusion for Sherlock. His father had read Classics at Magdalen, then followed the well-trodden path into high finance (this was back in the good old days, when a City career required the right accent and antecedents rather than actual financial acumen).
His mother had read English at Somerville (back in the good old days, before that pioneering women's college went co-ed and therefore downhill). Maggie Thatcher was one of Somerville's most famous alumnae; Mummy once had her photo taken with the Iron Lady, when they both attended a college fundraising event.
That picture still stands on the drawing room mantelpiece at Sherlock's family home, beside his parents' wedding photo and Mycroft's graduation portrait. Judging solely by the mantelpiece, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes do not have a younger son.
Mycroft had followed Father to Magdalen, reading PPE. He'd focused on the politics and economics aspects, taking only the minimum requirement of philosophy papers. Even as a young man, Mycroft had wanted to understand the forces and structures underpinning The System (and how to manipulate them to his own ends). The why of the world was rather less important to him than the how.
Sherlock chooses to read chemistry, to Father's ill-concealed disgust. No-one in the family has studied anything so practical for several generations! But Sherlock finds science endlessly enthralling, and reassuring, and will not be swayed.
Sherlock is of a less traditional bent than his parents and brother (although in other ways he is considerably more bent). When he goes up to Oxford to consider the options, he dutifully visits Magdalen and Somerville to please them, but tours several of the more liberal colleges on his own account.
In the end, he puts Wadham down as his first choice and (to his secret relief) is accepted. Though Sherlock doesn't tell his family, the deciding factor is the college's superior support for homosexual students. Awkward fumblings with boys at school have made him fairly sure of his orientation, but having a group of potentially receptive test subjects at college will help to confirm his hypothesis.
***
In some respects, Sherlock fits right in at Oxford. In the hard sciences especially, the university has a long and noble tradition of dedicated, detail-oriented, antisocial and frankly odd people. He can discuss the minutiae of chemical processes with some of his classmates without wanting to tear his hair out at their staggering stupidity. Of course, none of them are quite gifted enough to be his true peers, but they are a damn sight closer than any of his schoolmates had ever been.
Sherlock's marks put him consistently at the top of his year, by far. His brilliance wins him all the prizes on offer, but doesn't win him any friends. However, his willingness to explain things (albeit in a condescending tone) to those lagging behind means he is tolerated, or at least not utterly loathed, by most of his fellow chemists.
The Radcliffe Science Library is conveniently located just up the road from Wadham, and Sherlock spends a great deal of time there. He loves the idea of being immersed in centuries of scientific thought. Even the air in the library feels replete with knowledge, although that may just be the dust particles!
By the end of his second year he has read every book in the RSL's chemistry section, so he starts on biology and physics. A bout of botanical research in third year inspires an apposite simile: his mind is like a succulent plant, sending out tendrils in all directions and greedily soaking up nutrients. Sherlock writes this down in the notebook he carries everywhere but shows to no-one.
The college's own library is impressively well-stocked, and students have 24 hour access. When Sherlock can't sleep, which is quite often, he curls up in one of the library's beanbags and reads all night. He works his way through the anatomy textbooks this way, and dabbles in mathematics for a while. Then he moves on to law and criminology, fields which (to his surprise) turn out to be utterly fascinating.
Sherlock reads until the first beams of morning light cross the lawn and touch Wadham's chapel, making the honey-coloured stone glow. Dawn is usually his cue to return to his room, close the curtains, and go to bed. Sometimes he is lucky, and mental exhaustion will carry him over the edge into sleep; if not, he may stay awake for days.
As his chemistry workload is not at all onerous, Sherlock seeks out extracurricular activities to fill his waking hours. Wandering around Freshers' Fair in Noughth Week had been an overwhelming experience, as student groups of every conceivable kind were represented in the noisy crowded hall. These ranged from "Taruithorn" (comprised of dedicated Tolkien fans) to the Juggling Club (annual highlight: the grudge match against Cambridge), and from Scottish folk-dancing to scuba-diving.
Sherlock tries a few different things that pique his interest, but eventually sticks with the Fencing Club and Chess Club. He had excelled at both activities at school, quickly surpassing the other students and even his instructors. At Oxford he is pleased to discover a few people who can match him, which makes life more interesting.
He considers auditioning for the university's student orchestra, but decides after hearing its first performance that his talents would be utterly wasted therein. He does attend many enjoyable concerts by professional classical musicians; fortunately, the city's two main venues are just yards from his door. Sherlock is banned from playing the violin in his room, after complaints from other residents. Instead, he makes frequent use of the soundproofed college music room late at night.
Sherlock also takes various martial arts classes, as physical exercise can sometimes help with his insomnia. He appreciates the rigorous self-control required by these ancient disciplines, although he finds it extraordinarily difficult to clear his mind. Meditation appears to be the one mental activity that is beyond his grasp...
***
As he works his way through the college library's shelves during first year, Sherlock finds himself avoiding the psychiatry and psychology texts. He even veers off into learning German as a delaying tactic (he does like the language, though; it is pleasingly scientific in its structure).
Whereas his other extracurricular reading projects have been motivated by intellectual curiosity and boredom, matters of the mind are intensely personal (and painful) to Sherlock. He berates himself for this rare display of cowardice. Finally, two weeks into his second year, Sherlock pulls a weighty tome entitled Abnormal Psychology down off the shelf. Sitting alone in the silent library, as the rain beats relentlessly against the windows, Sherlock begins to educate himself about mental and behavioural disorders.
Unsurprisingly, he is drawn above all to the words that had so upset Mummy when he was a child. After an hour's reading about the autism spectrum, he can acknowledge that a label of "high-functioning Asperger's" might have been fairly accurate for his younger self. Would his life have been different if he'd been given a diagnosis and received some kind of special assistance? His childhood might have been easier, even happy.
But perhaps his intellect would have been dulled, like a never-sharpened knife.
Reading about sociopathy (more properly described as "antisocial personality disorder" these days, apparently) is much harder to bear. Many of the symptoms fit - too many for Sherlock's liking. He does not want to think of himself as callous, manipulative, and potentially a danger to others. If he were a sociopath, though, would he be so bothered by the label?
The uncertainty makes his head ache. Sherlock knows where he stands with science, its immutable laws and incontrovertible facts. But psychology is too subjective, too easily twisted and misused. He peruses all the pertinent texts in the library, that night, then shelves both the books and the idea of seeking further psychiatric assistance: he is certain that no good could come of it.
He falls into bed at 7am the next morning, and dreams of leather armchairs.
[It will be many years before he can wear the "sociopath" label with a perverse kind of pride, and even wield the word as a weapon. By then, Sherlock will have cloaked any remaining vulnerabilities in disdain and superiority. He will tell himself that his detractors are just jealous, or afraid of what their tiny minds cannot comprehend. But he will still remember every insult ever hurled at him, and only partly because he finds it extraordinarily difficult to forget anything.]
***
Part 2.
Note: the title of this story comes from one of my favourite songs, 'Lullaby' by James. You can read the haunting and very fitting lyrics here, and download the song here.
Fandom: the BBC's Sherlock.
Spoilers: set many years pre-canon, with only the tiniest spoilers for 'A Study in Pink'.
Disclaimer: none of the characters you recognise belong to me.
Word count: 2,300 words.
Genre: gen (part 2 will be slash).
Rating: PG-13 for sexual references and disturbing content (part 2 will be NC-17).
Warnings: angst! References to developmental and personality disorders, verbal/emotional child abuse, infidelity, and chronic insomnia. Possibly triggering for anyone who had negative childhood experiences with psychiatrists.
Summary: Attending Oxford is almost a foregone conclusion for Sherlock.
Author's notes: this fic is a Sherlock-focused prequel to my John-POV story Food for thought, but it can be read independently.
I am currently studying at Oxford University, so I couldn't resist the chance to depict Sherlock as a fellow Oxonian! Thanks to jacinthsong for Wadham-picking, and china_shop for stylistic advice. This story is dedicated to the fannish friends I made in Oxford.
***
'Reading too much meaning from existence', part 1
At a fairly early age, it became evident that Sherlock Holmes possessed an incredible talent for reading people and making deductions from his surroundings. Astonishingly intelligent, the boy also came across as coldly unemotional and weirdly detached. He scared children, and unnerved adults.
Mrs. Holmes was proud of her bright younger son, but disturbed by aspects of his behaviour and others' reactions to his strange utterances. Her husband either ignored Sherlock or shouted at him to shut up, to stop being such a freak. Her friends refused to visit when the child was home, after he innocently revealed some of their secrets during a disastrous luncheon party.
So she took her 7-year-old son to the best psychiatrists in London, in the hope of finding a diagnosis (and a cure).
Sherlock sat in one leather armchair after another, his feet never touching the floor. Well-dressed and well-fed men asked him endless questions, their voices carefully modulated to simulate caring. They wanted to know how he perceived the world, how he felt about his family, and whether he thought that other people had emotions. Did he make up stories? Did he ever hurt himself or others, just to see what would happen? Did he experiment on animals? Did he light fires?
Sherlock always answered truthfully; he had not yet learnt how to lie.
Once banished to the waiting area, he would overhear snippets of conversation that he didn't understand, like "lacking empathy", "poor impulse control", "autistic savant", and "sociopathic tendencies". These phrases made Mummy sad; she'd come out of the consulting room in tears, and the two of them would go home in silence.
Each new psychiatrist said similar things, though, and the tension lines on Mummy's face became ever more marked as the months wore on. She began to look at Sherlock the way everyone else did, as though he were frightening and flawed and not-good.
Sherlock was deeply afraid that he would be sent away to a school for naughty boys; his older brother taunted him about the prospect, a cruelty which Mycroft quickly forgot but Sherlock never forgave. Or maybe they'd let him stay at home, but only if he took special pills (like their neighbours' daughter Helena, after she was released from hospital) or wore a straightjacket like the one he'd seen in an old book.
***
To stave off such a fate, young Sherlock tried to modify his problematic behaviours. He stopped arguing with his teachers, and asking them difficult questions. He no longer mocked the other boys for their stupidity, and consequently got into far fewer fights at school.
In order to improve his camouflage as a well-rounded and mentally-balanced child, he finally followed Mummy's suggestion about "developing some normal hobbies, for God's sake, rather than dissecting dead rats in the garage!" Sherlock took swimming lessons and dutifully built up a stamp collection, but learning the violin was the one extracurricular activity he truly enjoyed.
He worked on his reading of social cues, and swotted up on appropriate etiquette. He smiled politely at adult women, and enquired after their family's health; he shook the hands of adult men, without commenting on their profession or their philandering or the half-dozen other things evident from their appearance or mannerisms.
Sherlock couldn't help observing the world around him, and drawing the obvious conclusions. It was just how his mind worked, and he was powerless against the unending inflow of information. Even when he closed his eyes, his other senses continued to hum.
The ambient sounds told him that Mycroft had just left the breakfast table to get ready for school, that Father was displeased by some news item in The Daily Telegraph, and that Mummy had closed a kitchen window to stop the draught. Outside, a pair of hedge sparrows expressed excitement about the hatching of their eggs. Unfortunately for them, one of their 4 chicks was in fact a cuckoo interloper which would soon kill their true offspring. Nature could be so elegantly cruel.
It took an enormous effort of will, but Sherlock stopped revealing what he saw and heard. Staying quiet most of the time seemed to mollify Mummy, and she made no further psychiatrist appointments. Father still complained to her when he thought Sherlock couldn't hear ("it's just creepy the way he watches us, with those big staring eyes"), but he shouted at the boy less often. Fortunately for Sherlock, his time and attention were soon monopolised by the mistress he'd installed in a newly-redecorated flat near St Paul's.
Sherlock never told Mummy about Father's affair; he never told anyone anything, anymore.
The only family member who could draw Sherlock out of his habitual silence was Mycroft. Seven years older than Sherlock, he was indisputably the favourite son: brilliant, handsome, confident, ambitious, and well-mannered, with the ability to adapt chameleon-like to any social setting. Sherlock admired him, but resented him far more.
The brothers sniped viciously at each other, so well-matched that neither could score an outright victory. Their arguments became perforce less frequent when Mycroft went off to university, but Christmas dinners remained fraught.
[By the time they're in their 30s, their fraternal relationship will have become a festering feud. Mycroft will intervene - Sherlock would say "interfere" - in his brother's life, by various nefarious means, although he will claim to be motivated by sincere concern. Sherlock will spit venom at Mycroft when they cross paths, and describe him to his new flatmate John as "the most dangerous man you've ever met."]
***
Attending Oxford is almost a foregone conclusion for Sherlock. His father had read Classics at Magdalen, then followed the well-trodden path into high finance (this was back in the good old days, when a City career required the right accent and antecedents rather than actual financial acumen).
His mother had read English at Somerville (back in the good old days, before that pioneering women's college went co-ed and therefore downhill). Maggie Thatcher was one of Somerville's most famous alumnae; Mummy once had her photo taken with the Iron Lady, when they both attended a college fundraising event.
That picture still stands on the drawing room mantelpiece at Sherlock's family home, beside his parents' wedding photo and Mycroft's graduation portrait. Judging solely by the mantelpiece, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes do not have a younger son.
Mycroft had followed Father to Magdalen, reading PPE. He'd focused on the politics and economics aspects, taking only the minimum requirement of philosophy papers. Even as a young man, Mycroft had wanted to understand the forces and structures underpinning The System (and how to manipulate them to his own ends). The why of the world was rather less important to him than the how.
Sherlock chooses to read chemistry, to Father's ill-concealed disgust. No-one in the family has studied anything so practical for several generations! But Sherlock finds science endlessly enthralling, and reassuring, and will not be swayed.
Sherlock is of a less traditional bent than his parents and brother (although in other ways he is considerably more bent). When he goes up to Oxford to consider the options, he dutifully visits Magdalen and Somerville to please them, but tours several of the more liberal colleges on his own account.
In the end, he puts Wadham down as his first choice and (to his secret relief) is accepted. Though Sherlock doesn't tell his family, the deciding factor is the college's superior support for homosexual students. Awkward fumblings with boys at school have made him fairly sure of his orientation, but having a group of potentially receptive test subjects at college will help to confirm his hypothesis.
***
In some respects, Sherlock fits right in at Oxford. In the hard sciences especially, the university has a long and noble tradition of dedicated, detail-oriented, antisocial and frankly odd people. He can discuss the minutiae of chemical processes with some of his classmates without wanting to tear his hair out at their staggering stupidity. Of course, none of them are quite gifted enough to be his true peers, but they are a damn sight closer than any of his schoolmates had ever been.
Sherlock's marks put him consistently at the top of his year, by far. His brilliance wins him all the prizes on offer, but doesn't win him any friends. However, his willingness to explain things (albeit in a condescending tone) to those lagging behind means he is tolerated, or at least not utterly loathed, by most of his fellow chemists.
The Radcliffe Science Library is conveniently located just up the road from Wadham, and Sherlock spends a great deal of time there. He loves the idea of being immersed in centuries of scientific thought. Even the air in the library feels replete with knowledge, although that may just be the dust particles!
By the end of his second year he has read every book in the RSL's chemistry section, so he starts on biology and physics. A bout of botanical research in third year inspires an apposite simile: his mind is like a succulent plant, sending out tendrils in all directions and greedily soaking up nutrients. Sherlock writes this down in the notebook he carries everywhere but shows to no-one.
The college's own library is impressively well-stocked, and students have 24 hour access. When Sherlock can't sleep, which is quite often, he curls up in one of the library's beanbags and reads all night. He works his way through the anatomy textbooks this way, and dabbles in mathematics for a while. Then he moves on to law and criminology, fields which (to his surprise) turn out to be utterly fascinating.
Sherlock reads until the first beams of morning light cross the lawn and touch Wadham's chapel, making the honey-coloured stone glow. Dawn is usually his cue to return to his room, close the curtains, and go to bed. Sometimes he is lucky, and mental exhaustion will carry him over the edge into sleep; if not, he may stay awake for days.
As his chemistry workload is not at all onerous, Sherlock seeks out extracurricular activities to fill his waking hours. Wandering around Freshers' Fair in Noughth Week had been an overwhelming experience, as student groups of every conceivable kind were represented in the noisy crowded hall. These ranged from "Taruithorn" (comprised of dedicated Tolkien fans) to the Juggling Club (annual highlight: the grudge match against Cambridge), and from Scottish folk-dancing to scuba-diving.
Sherlock tries a few different things that pique his interest, but eventually sticks with the Fencing Club and Chess Club. He had excelled at both activities at school, quickly surpassing the other students and even his instructors. At Oxford he is pleased to discover a few people who can match him, which makes life more interesting.
He considers auditioning for the university's student orchestra, but decides after hearing its first performance that his talents would be utterly wasted therein. He does attend many enjoyable concerts by professional classical musicians; fortunately, the city's two main venues are just yards from his door. Sherlock is banned from playing the violin in his room, after complaints from other residents. Instead, he makes frequent use of the soundproofed college music room late at night.
Sherlock also takes various martial arts classes, as physical exercise can sometimes help with his insomnia. He appreciates the rigorous self-control required by these ancient disciplines, although he finds it extraordinarily difficult to clear his mind. Meditation appears to be the one mental activity that is beyond his grasp...
***
As he works his way through the college library's shelves during first year, Sherlock finds himself avoiding the psychiatry and psychology texts. He even veers off into learning German as a delaying tactic (he does like the language, though; it is pleasingly scientific in its structure).
Whereas his other extracurricular reading projects have been motivated by intellectual curiosity and boredom, matters of the mind are intensely personal (and painful) to Sherlock. He berates himself for this rare display of cowardice. Finally, two weeks into his second year, Sherlock pulls a weighty tome entitled Abnormal Psychology down off the shelf. Sitting alone in the silent library, as the rain beats relentlessly against the windows, Sherlock begins to educate himself about mental and behavioural disorders.
Unsurprisingly, he is drawn above all to the words that had so upset Mummy when he was a child. After an hour's reading about the autism spectrum, he can acknowledge that a label of "high-functioning Asperger's" might have been fairly accurate for his younger self. Would his life have been different if he'd been given a diagnosis and received some kind of special assistance? His childhood might have been easier, even happy.
But perhaps his intellect would have been dulled, like a never-sharpened knife.
Reading about sociopathy (more properly described as "antisocial personality disorder" these days, apparently) is much harder to bear. Many of the symptoms fit - too many for Sherlock's liking. He does not want to think of himself as callous, manipulative, and potentially a danger to others. If he were a sociopath, though, would he be so bothered by the label?
The uncertainty makes his head ache. Sherlock knows where he stands with science, its immutable laws and incontrovertible facts. But psychology is too subjective, too easily twisted and misused. He peruses all the pertinent texts in the library, that night, then shelves both the books and the idea of seeking further psychiatric assistance: he is certain that no good could come of it.
He falls into bed at 7am the next morning, and dreams of leather armchairs.
[It will be many years before he can wear the "sociopath" label with a perverse kind of pride, and even wield the word as a weapon. By then, Sherlock will have cloaked any remaining vulnerabilities in disdain and superiority. He will tell himself that his detractors are just jealous, or afraid of what their tiny minds cannot comprehend. But he will still remember every insult ever hurled at him, and only partly because he finds it extraordinarily difficult to forget anything.]
***
Part 2.
Note: the title of this story comes from one of my favourite songs, 'Lullaby' by James. You can read the haunting and very fitting lyrics here, and download the song here.