New Fic: Finding a House 1/?
Title: Finding a House 1/?
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: None
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes owned by ACD, Sherlock created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss, House MD created by David Shore.
Summary: Sequel to “A House and a Holmes”. So how did that photograph come about? The story of what happened when Sherlock went to look for his father.
Warnings: Some mild swearing and one use of the ‘f’ word. Crossover with House MD.
Author Note: For those of you who are House aficionados the main part of this story is set somewhere around 1998 less than a year before House’s leg infarction. For Sherlock fans I’ve made him 31 at the time of “A Study in Pink”, which would make him about 19 in 1998.
Obviously I have had to play around a little with House’s background, but that’s fanfic for you. There is also not a huge amount of info about House’s life before his leg infarction so I’ve presumed some stuff and made up the rest. See notes at the end.
Thanks to trillsabells for the beta, questions, discussion and watching of various House stuff.
*-*-*
Sherlock’s memories from his early childhood were rather eclectic. He remembered piano music, the smell of disinfectant, and Madame Curie the pet cat. He remembered his mother, with her dark hair, delicate features and pretty smile. He remembered his brother, always so much older, bigger and more annoying than him. He remembered his father, at least he thought he remembered his father, but memory was a strange thing that could not always be trusted.
At best he had only hazy memories of his father. He remembered him as a tall, slim man, with brown hair, blue eyes and a scowl. It took him longer than he would have liked to separate his real memories from his dreams or youthful imaginings, and it was only after he had done so that he realised just how little he actually remembered.
The brown hair was easy - they all had brown hair, although his darkened considerably over the years.
The blue eyes was again obvious - they all had blue eyes, although he did remember his father’s as being a little darker than his but also very, very blue. They were the sorts of eyes that were difficult to forget.
The scowl was practically a given - he couldn’t remember a time when his father hadn’t been scowling, or at least a time when he had actually been smiling. No, that wasn’t true. There had been that time when Mycroft had done something at school, something bad but at the same time utterly brilliant, and on hearing about it his father had smiled. It had been an odd sight and for years Sherlock thought he had imagined it, but it fitted with all the other real memories, so it must have been true.
He remembered being told off, he remembered being easily found out if he was lying or hiding something, and he remembered being told to be better than all the other people, because everyone else was an idiot, and it was his job to rise above all that and use his brain.
Then he remembered his father not being there any more.
He remembered asking Mycroft where father was, but Mycroft didn’t tell him. He could have asked mother but he got the impression it wasn’t a question she wanted to answer. She seemed so angry all the time, not at them - and he could tell the difference - but just simply angry.
He talked to his skull instead.
It had been a present for his fifth birthday. He remembered getting all the usual sorts of presents - clothes, books, a new watch. Dull, he remembers a dismissive voice say. Then he was handed another present, a box wrapped in the most ghastly paper he had ever seen, but that hardly mattered because on opening it he found a real human skull.
His mother had not been amused. Mycroft had looked on with an expression of envy. His father had merely defended himself with brisk, short sentences before disappearing into his office.
Sherlock had adored the skull. It was even better than the Rubik’s Cube he’d gotten the previous year.
Just a couple of weeks later his father had disappeared again, this time for good, and it would be fourteen years before he saw him again.
Sherlock wondered what sort of exchange that had been - his father for a skull.
*-*-*
His father had gone to America.
Years later Sherlock learnt a version of the truth that included phrases such as ‘national security’, ‘personal protection’ and ‘pissing off the wrong people’. In truth he cared little for the real reason, only the outcome mattered and the outcome had included a near complete change in identity, history and culture.
Mycroft had always maintained they were better off without their father. That was easy for Mycroft to say, he’d been twelve when they’d been abandoned. He had at least known their father. It took Sherlock longer than he would have anticipated to realise that the age difference meant that Mycroft was in fact speaking from experience and not out of reassurance. That was the problem with emotions, they tended to cloud your judgement and it wasn’t easy realising that your absent father had probably been a bit of a bastard.
They survived, lived and grew up without him. Mycroft tried to step into the empty shoes much to Sherlock’s distaste - having an absent father was one thing, having an annoying brother trying to fill that role was completely another. Their mother worked hard to be both parents, something her sons respected her for although they didn’t always make her life easy.
Sherlock got to eighteen before the issue of his father became, well… an issue.
It had started at school, when phrases such as ‘piss off’ and ‘you freak’ begun to include, ‘fuck off’ and ‘you bastard’.
That got him thinking because no matter how many times he corrected them with a disinterested, ‘Actually you’ll find my parents were married at the time of my birth’ - something he was smug about since Mycroft couldn’t say the same thing - he couldn’t stop the nagging thought that they were somehow right, that they knew something that he didn’t, and with a mind like his that was a disturbing notion.
So he set about finding out what he could. He started with what he knew, what he thought he knew and what he suspected he wasn’t being told. He separated the real memories from the made up ones, utilising Mycroft’s memories for his own end. He drew together all the facts, his father’s name, his occupation, his age and his history, then he began to search.
He had already known that his parents had had Mycroft when they were very young, too young. He hadn’t been planned. Teenagers don’t plan that sort of thing.
They married within a year of Mycroft’s birth, the grandparents having seen to that. His mother went on to study mathematics as she always was supposed to, his father medicine.
Seven years after Mycroft’s birth he was born. Five years later his father vanished for good.
It took a lot of foot work, deep searching and awkward questions during which Mycroft kept advising him to drop it, before he finally located the man he believed to be his father - well, biological sperm donor and provider of pet skull, anything else was a bit of a stretch considering the lack of role the man had played in his life.
The facts were all there, although they didn’t all add up, quite literally in the case of his age. It seemed that his father had taken advantage of being able to create a new identity by de-aging himself by four years. Well, if he was going to create a whole new past, background and even accent, he might as well get something good out of it. This had thrown Sherlock for a brief moment although the realisation had brought a wry smile to his face. The military background was also a stroke of genius and a good explanation as to why he didn’t have any roots or real history.
His search took him to America. New Jersey to be precise. He told nobody and took time out from University to do it. It wasn’t as if it mattered, he had done that term’s work already and no-one was going to miss him, and if they did notice he was gone they would be more likely to celebrate than be concerned.
The flight was long and boring. He tried to sleep but his mind was moving too fast. He had so many questions: Why did you really leave? Why are there no photographs? Why am I the way I am? Why a skull? Do you think about us at all?
He paid a fortune to catch a taxi - no, this was the States, so a cab - from Newark to the place where his so called father lived. It was early, or late, it was hard to tell, and he was wired and jet lagged so he didn’t care which it was. All he cared about was facing the man who had the answers that had been driving him crazy for so much of his life.
The neighbourhood looked nice, in an American New England sort of way, not that he really paid much attention to it. He just went up to the front door and started to bang.
There was no response so he banged again. And again.
Eventually a light came on and he heard movement.
The door opened and he was face to face with the man he hadn’t seen in fourteen years.
The door slammed in his face.
*-*-*
Part Two
*-*-*
A/N - I know that House currently lives in a flat, but I’m running on the assumption that at some point he was living in a house. I could be wrong, but hey, it’s my story. ;)
Author: jupiter_ash
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: None
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes owned by ACD, Sherlock created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss, House MD created by David Shore.
Summary: Sequel to “A House and a Holmes”. So how did that photograph come about? The story of what happened when Sherlock went to look for his father.
Warnings: Some mild swearing and one use of the ‘f’ word. Crossover with House MD.
Author Note: For those of you who are House aficionados the main part of this story is set somewhere around 1998 less than a year before House’s leg infarction. For Sherlock fans I’ve made him 31 at the time of “A Study in Pink”, which would make him about 19 in 1998.
Obviously I have had to play around a little with House’s background, but that’s fanfic for you. There is also not a huge amount of info about House’s life before his leg infarction so I’ve presumed some stuff and made up the rest. See notes at the end.
Thanks to trillsabells for the beta, questions, discussion and watching of various House stuff.
*-*-*
Sherlock’s memories from his early childhood were rather eclectic. He remembered piano music, the smell of disinfectant, and Madame Curie the pet cat. He remembered his mother, with her dark hair, delicate features and pretty smile. He remembered his brother, always so much older, bigger and more annoying than him. He remembered his father, at least he thought he remembered his father, but memory was a strange thing that could not always be trusted.
At best he had only hazy memories of his father. He remembered him as a tall, slim man, with brown hair, blue eyes and a scowl. It took him longer than he would have liked to separate his real memories from his dreams or youthful imaginings, and it was only after he had done so that he realised just how little he actually remembered.
The brown hair was easy - they all had brown hair, although his darkened considerably over the years.
The blue eyes was again obvious - they all had blue eyes, although he did remember his father’s as being a little darker than his but also very, very blue. They were the sorts of eyes that were difficult to forget.
The scowl was practically a given - he couldn’t remember a time when his father hadn’t been scowling, or at least a time when he had actually been smiling. No, that wasn’t true. There had been that time when Mycroft had done something at school, something bad but at the same time utterly brilliant, and on hearing about it his father had smiled. It had been an odd sight and for years Sherlock thought he had imagined it, but it fitted with all the other real memories, so it must have been true.
He remembered being told off, he remembered being easily found out if he was lying or hiding something, and he remembered being told to be better than all the other people, because everyone else was an idiot, and it was his job to rise above all that and use his brain.
Then he remembered his father not being there any more.
He remembered asking Mycroft where father was, but Mycroft didn’t tell him. He could have asked mother but he got the impression it wasn’t a question she wanted to answer. She seemed so angry all the time, not at them - and he could tell the difference - but just simply angry.
He talked to his skull instead.
It had been a present for his fifth birthday. He remembered getting all the usual sorts of presents - clothes, books, a new watch. Dull, he remembers a dismissive voice say. Then he was handed another present, a box wrapped in the most ghastly paper he had ever seen, but that hardly mattered because on opening it he found a real human skull.
His mother had not been amused. Mycroft had looked on with an expression of envy. His father had merely defended himself with brisk, short sentences before disappearing into his office.
Sherlock had adored the skull. It was even better than the Rubik’s Cube he’d gotten the previous year.
Just a couple of weeks later his father had disappeared again, this time for good, and it would be fourteen years before he saw him again.
Sherlock wondered what sort of exchange that had been - his father for a skull.
*-*-*
His father had gone to America.
Years later Sherlock learnt a version of the truth that included phrases such as ‘national security’, ‘personal protection’ and ‘pissing off the wrong people’. In truth he cared little for the real reason, only the outcome mattered and the outcome had included a near complete change in identity, history and culture.
Mycroft had always maintained they were better off without their father. That was easy for Mycroft to say, he’d been twelve when they’d been abandoned. He had at least known their father. It took Sherlock longer than he would have anticipated to realise that the age difference meant that Mycroft was in fact speaking from experience and not out of reassurance. That was the problem with emotions, they tended to cloud your judgement and it wasn’t easy realising that your absent father had probably been a bit of a bastard.
They survived, lived and grew up without him. Mycroft tried to step into the empty shoes much to Sherlock’s distaste - having an absent father was one thing, having an annoying brother trying to fill that role was completely another. Their mother worked hard to be both parents, something her sons respected her for although they didn’t always make her life easy.
Sherlock got to eighteen before the issue of his father became, well… an issue.
It had started at school, when phrases such as ‘piss off’ and ‘you freak’ begun to include, ‘fuck off’ and ‘you bastard’.
That got him thinking because no matter how many times he corrected them with a disinterested, ‘Actually you’ll find my parents were married at the time of my birth’ - something he was smug about since Mycroft couldn’t say the same thing - he couldn’t stop the nagging thought that they were somehow right, that they knew something that he didn’t, and with a mind like his that was a disturbing notion.
So he set about finding out what he could. He started with what he knew, what he thought he knew and what he suspected he wasn’t being told. He separated the real memories from the made up ones, utilising Mycroft’s memories for his own end. He drew together all the facts, his father’s name, his occupation, his age and his history, then he began to search.
He had already known that his parents had had Mycroft when they were very young, too young. He hadn’t been planned. Teenagers don’t plan that sort of thing.
They married within a year of Mycroft’s birth, the grandparents having seen to that. His mother went on to study mathematics as she always was supposed to, his father medicine.
Seven years after Mycroft’s birth he was born. Five years later his father vanished for good.
It took a lot of foot work, deep searching and awkward questions during which Mycroft kept advising him to drop it, before he finally located the man he believed to be his father - well, biological sperm donor and provider of pet skull, anything else was a bit of a stretch considering the lack of role the man had played in his life.
The facts were all there, although they didn’t all add up, quite literally in the case of his age. It seemed that his father had taken advantage of being able to create a new identity by de-aging himself by four years. Well, if he was going to create a whole new past, background and even accent, he might as well get something good out of it. This had thrown Sherlock for a brief moment although the realisation had brought a wry smile to his face. The military background was also a stroke of genius and a good explanation as to why he didn’t have any roots or real history.
His search took him to America. New Jersey to be precise. He told nobody and took time out from University to do it. It wasn’t as if it mattered, he had done that term’s work already and no-one was going to miss him, and if they did notice he was gone they would be more likely to celebrate than be concerned.
The flight was long and boring. He tried to sleep but his mind was moving too fast. He had so many questions: Why did you really leave? Why are there no photographs? Why am I the way I am? Why a skull? Do you think about us at all?
He paid a fortune to catch a taxi - no, this was the States, so a cab - from Newark to the place where his so called father lived. It was early, or late, it was hard to tell, and he was wired and jet lagged so he didn’t care which it was. All he cared about was facing the man who had the answers that had been driving him crazy for so much of his life.
The neighbourhood looked nice, in an American New England sort of way, not that he really paid much attention to it. He just went up to the front door and started to bang.
There was no response so he banged again. And again.
Eventually a light came on and he heard movement.
The door opened and he was face to face with the man he hadn’t seen in fourteen years.
The door slammed in his face.
*-*-*
Part Two
*-*-*
A/N - I know that House currently lives in a flat, but I’m running on the assumption that at some point he was living in a house. I could be wrong, but hey, it’s my story. ;)