Fic: You've Begun To Feel Like Home (1/?)
Rating: Mature
Pairings: (in later chapters) Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Warnings: mentions of child abuse, drug abuse, character death(s), slash, sexuality issues, religious issues, angst, unrequited love. General warning: this features the Church quite heavily so if you have a problem with that for whatever reason, stay away.
Spoilers: General spoilers for both seasons
Words: ~ 3400 (this part)
Notes:
*Beta'd by the magnificent lady_t_220 whose input to this story actually far exceeds the humble title of 'beta'. Without her knowledge, guidance and all-round awesomeness, this fic would have been a pale shadow of what it is now.
*Title from Look After You by The Fray.
*Chapter titles from hymns (no, really).
*For those who don't like WIPs, be reassured that there are 6 parts finished and beta'd and ready to go. I plan to post almost daily (not including the weekend) and I hope to have finished writing by the time I catch up to myself.
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is everything Father John Watson should probably disapprove of. He's an atheist, a rationalist, an addict, and gay. But none of those things is enough to stop him from being the most fascinating person John's ever met.
****
Part One: One Small Child
Sundays were the busiest day of the week for Father John Watson. Between preparing the wafers and wine, locating and replacing the hymn books and missals, putting out the collection plates, selecting the passages to read, and considering his homily, John barely had a minute to spare until late afternoon. In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, Sundays were John’s favourite day of the week. He liked to be busy, and he liked to feel that he was making a difference, so he always put a lot of effort into Sunday Mass, especially as it was sometimes the only contact he had with some of the parishioners.
John was dedicated to his parish, his first since being ordained. Withyham was a small village nestled in the Sussex Downs and the parish encompassed the village itself as well as a couple of outlying hamlets. It was a small parish and only about thirty people attended the church, but this made it ideal for a new priest to find his feet, especially as its size meant that John wasn’t particularly stretched and was quite contentedly left to work alone. Weddings and funerals were rare, as were baptisms, so John’s life revolved around Sunday Mass, confession, and home visits to the old and sick. It was not a life John would have dreamed of several years ago, but he could not imagine another one now.
John had once dreamed only of becoming a doctor, and he remembered that time with a certain degree of fondness now. However, less than a year out of university, the child abuse case that had fallen across his lap had forced him to reassess some of the choices he had made. The incident had been horrific, and seeing that little girl suffer so intensely before eventually dying from her injuries had left John feeling helpless and miserably lost. He had always found comfort in his faith but as he turned deeper and deeper towards prayer, the Church had become one of the few places where he had found any sort of peace as he struggled to make sense of what he had seen.
John simply hadn’t been able to put the incident behind him, despite the well-meaning advice of older and more experienced doctors. He had found himself becoming distant and distracted, and unable to do his job as he had before - not with that little girl’s face haunting him. He had spent hours praying, searching for an answer, but it had not been enough. Two months later, John had quit his studies and joined a seminary, the peaceful introspection offering a glimpse of the answers he had been so desperately seeking.
The church in Withyham was mostly attended by pensioners, save for one rather proud-looking woman who sat at the front. Her name was Cecily Holmes and she looked to be in her late forties. She was dressed impeccably, dark hair carefully curled and subtle make-up perfectly accentuating her features. Mrs. Holmes was beautiful, but there was a lingering weight in her expression, a sadness that never seemed to go away.
For four weeks, John only spoke to her in passing as she left the church, but finally, one day, she lingered in the doorway until everyone else had gone and John had the opportunity to talk to her at length. She answered his questions in clipped, precise tones and was somewhat intimidating, but John had dealt with far worse during his medical training and he kept his tone polite and pleasant.
He asked after her family and she told him in low tones about the passing of her husband. He had committed suicide only two years before, leaving her to raise their two sons alone. He noted the flush of her skin, and the obvious shame she felt at her husband's act - a shame borne of religious devotion. He said nothing and she spoke briefly of her sons. The elder, Mycroft, was at university, soon to graduate and join the civil service. The younger, Sherlock, was currently at Harrow. The frown that crossed her face when she spoke of her youngest child was gone a moment later but John noted it nonetheless. At the end of the conversation, Mrs. Holmes invited John for tea the following evening and he accepted gladly.
Although his conversation with Mrs. Holmes had given John the impression of a wealthy background, he was unprepared for the size of the house he found himself in the next evening. It was a large old country house, complete with huge stained-glass windows and ancient portraits and tapestries. John, although used to the grandeur of churches and cathedrals, felt uneasy from the beginning of his visit. Coupled with his uneasiness was a strong desire to hide his nervousness from Mrs. Holmes. He could tell she thought him too young for his position - he was only six years older than her eldest son, after all - and it made him all the more eager to earn her respect.
Tea was served in a draughty sitting room and John perched uncomfortably on a small sofa, sipping at his drink as Mrs. Holmes asked his opinion on several controversial topics. It felt like a test, and John had no idea if he was passing or failing as Mrs. Holmes' expression remained unchanged throughout.
As John was finally preparing to take his leave, relieved to be going, the door to the room flew open and a boy - a teenager - stormed in, grey-blue eyes fixed on Mrs. Holmes. He made no acknowledgment of John's presence and instead scowled at the older woman.
"You've hidden it. Where have you hidden it?"
"I've no idea what you mean, Sherlock, dear,” Mrs. Holmes said calmly. “But since you’re here I'd like you to meet our new priest, Father Watson."
The boy, Sherlock, took one quick look at John and swiftly dismissed him, turning back to his mother.
"It's mine. Father left it to me."
"And I'm quite sure he would not approve of you abusing his Stradivarius the way you do."
Sherlock scowled again and then stormed out of the room once more, leaving them in awkward silence.
"I, ah, I thought you said your youngest son was at Harrow?" John asked hesitantly.
Mrs. Holmes sighed and pressed a delicate hand to her temple.
"He is, Father. He's currently on suspension."
"Oh."
Mrs. Holmes sighed again and her gaze drifted towards the window.
"Sherlock is such an angry young man. He has these awful moods...” She trailed off. “He’s so like his father. He misses him terribly."
"I'm sure it must be very hard on you all."
Mrs. Holmes blinked and slowly turned her attention back to John.
"Yes, well. I suppose you had better be heading home, Father. Thank you so much for visiting."
John thanked her and then took his leave, glad to be free of the oppressive place.
****
Mrs. Holmes attended church every week, sitting in the very front row by herself. In the summer two months after John's arrival, a portly young man appeared by her side, evidently her eldest son. The young man shared his mother and younger brother's dark hair, but otherwise it was difficult to see any family resemblance. Where Mrs. Holmes and Sherlock were both tall and slender with sculpted cheekbones and pale eyes, Mycroft Holmes was rounder, and softer, with dark eyes. He had the same proud look as his mother though and when Mrs. Holmes introduced them after the service, John noted that he shared her reserved, polite manner. He would make a very good civil servant.
Father John was invited to dinner later in the week and was treated to a stiff, formal affair with Mrs. Holmes and her eldest. The seat reserved for the younger Holmes remained conspicuously empty, and mother and son both frowned in the direction of the empty place when John asked after Sherlock.
"I'm afraid he's sulking, Father," Mrs. Holmes explained. "And he refuses to eat."
"And to speak, half of the time," Mycroft added with a frown of consternation. "My brother can be quite troublesome, Father, as I'm sure you've heard."
"Most teenagers are," John commented lightly.
"Not all teenagers," Mrs. Holmes replied, smiling at her eldest son.
It was quite clear which of her children she preferred and John couldn't help but wonder if this was as obvious to Sherlock. He knew from personal experience that sibling rivalry could be a poison, slowly eating away at a family. He hadn’t spoken to his sister in years, not since he had joined the Church - it had been, to her, the ultimate betrayal.
"I'm sure Sherlock will grow out of it," John suggested. "Most people have a rebellious phase at some point. I know I wasn't immune to the odd sulk when I was in my teens."
Mrs. Holmes merely gave a hum that may have been agreement, or perhaps a comment on John's background, and Mycroft changed the topic, asking John's opinion of the new Prime Minister.
John was ready to leave not long after dinner and was wondering if it was polite to do so when Mrs. Holmes leaned towards him, pale eyes fixed on his face.
"Could I ask you to do something for me, Father?”
“Of course.”
“Would you talk to Sherlock?" she asked. "I'm so worried about him."
"I can. If you think it might help."
"Heaven knows. There must be a way to get through to that boy, but I haven't found it yet."
John had never seen Mrs. Holmes look so dejected and he quickly said his goodbyes to her and Mycroft before heading for the far end of the house. It was eerily quiet as John walked towards Sherlock's bedroom, but as he approached he could see through the half-open door that Sherlock was sprawled over his bed, legs crossed, violin cradled in his arms.
John tapped his knuckles against the door and Sherlock looked up with a start.
"Can I come in?"
Sherlock said nothing, turning his eyes to the ceiling, and John stepped into the room.
"How are you, Sherlock?"
The boy turned back and fixed his piercing gaze on John for a few seconds, before he gave a bitter laugh.
"This is their latest tactic, is it?"
Sherlock snorted and rolled to his feet, resting his violin on the bed. He moved to the window, staring out onto the rolling green hills of the Downs.
"I'm afraid to disappoint you, Father,” Sherlock said, his tone laced with derision. “But there's nothing you could say that would mean anything to me."
"Nothing at all?" John teased.
Sherlock turned and levelled him with a stony stare.
"No."
"Why's that?" John asked in an easy tone.
“I don’t believe in your God.”
“Fair enough. Doesn’t mean he can’t believe in you.”
Sherlock scoffed and slid into the window seat, drawing his long legs up to his chest.
“I’m not interested in a sermon, or whatever my mother has told you to do to fix me.”
“Do you need to be fixed?” John asked.
“They think I do,” Sherlock said in sullen contempt.
“Why?” John pushed, trying to get the boy to open up.
“Get out, please.”
“Sherlock-”
“Get out.”
John held up his hands in a placating gesture and backed slowly out of the room, pausing at the threshold.
“You know I’m here though? If you ever need to talk to someone.”
“Goodbye, Father,” Sherlock snapped, and John nodded and escaped into the hallway.
****
Father John held confession every Tuesday afternoon and every Tuesday afternoon, he was subjected to the usual litany of day-to-day ‘sins’: one old lady had coveted another’s new fur coat; an even older man had stolen his neighbour’s milk; the village postman admitted to having impure thoughts about the village school’s married headteacher. Nevertheless, it was part of the job that John enjoyed - absolving his flock of their sins, letting them unburden their minds and souls.
One Tuesday afternoon in mid-September, the door to the confessional booth closed and a very familiar voice spoke up from the other side of the screen.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” Sherlock said uncertainly. “It has been... three years since my last confession.”
“Go on, my child.”
Sherlock remained silent for a long time, but eventually his voice carried through the screen once more.
“I have disobeyed my mother and I have... upset her.”
“What happened?” John asked carefully, not wanting to scare the boy away - not when he was opening up.
“I got into a fight at school.”
Sherlock fell silent again and John coaxed him to carry on with a gentle ‘Go on’.
“One of the older boys... He called me a freak.”
John’s heart constricted in his chest but he stayed quiet.
“So, I hit him. And it felt good, so I kept hitting him. But then his friends turned up and... well...”
“Are you alright?” John asked, concern for the boy making him speak up. It wasn’t the normal protocol for a confession, but he didn’t think Sherlock would respond well to the usual routine.
“I’ve got a fractured collarbone and two cracked ribs.”
John winced in sympathy and let out a little sigh.
“I’ve been suspended for four weeks,” Sherlock continued. “My mother’s so angry she’s locked herself in her room. I heard her on the phone to Mycroft last night. They want to send me away, somewhere I can’t cause any trouble.”
As he repeated his mother’s words, John could hear the bitterness in Sherlock’s voice and, underneath that, the fear.
“Your mother worries about you,” John said softly. “She worries because she loves you.”
Sherlock scoffed in reply and John could hear him shifting nervously in his seat.
“Are you going to give me my penance now?” Sherlock asked.
“Do you even remember the Hail Mary?” John asked, amused.
“Of course. I was forced to carry on this ridiculous charade until I was twelve.”
“Well, I’m not sure the ‘ridiculous charade’ of saying Hail Marys will help you anyway,” John countered. “You should apologise to your mother.”
“I’ve tried.”
“You’ll have to keep trying then. She will forgive you.”
He heard Sherlock sigh from the other side of the screen, but then he spoke up with a quiet ‘Thank you’.
“You’re welcome. Go in peace.”
“Thanks be to God,” Sherlock murmured, and a moment later the door of the booth closed behind him, leaving John alone with his thoughts.
****
Autumn turned quickly into a bitterly cold winter and for much of December and January the Downs were covered in a thin layer of snow. By February, John was well and truly fed-up of the cold. The old house that backed onto the church had only a fire for warmth and even that failed to chase away the damp chill most evenings, leaving him huddled under blankets trying to keep warm. It was at times like this when he most missed London and the modern flat he had shared with a fellow medical student by the name of Mike Stamford. He would have given anything for central heating now.
Late one evening, when John was just considering dragging himself from the cold living room to his cold bed, he heard a knocking from the front of the house. Unravelling himself from his blankets, he made his way to the door and opened it to find a shivering and dishevelled Sherlock on his doorstep.
“Sherlock?”
“I’m sorry it’s late,” Sherlock said awkwardly, eyes fixed on the floor.
“What are you doing?” John asked worriedly. “Get in here.”
He pulled the boy into the house and dragged him towards the fireplace, pushing him into the closest chair. He grabbed one of the blankets from his own chair and draped it over Sherlock’s shoulders.
“What’s going on?” he asked, moving to stand in front of the boy. The firelight flickered over red-stained cheeks and even redder eyes.
“I don’t want to go back to that place.”
"Home?"
Sherlock shook his head.
“School?”
Sherlock nodded and drew the blanket around himself.
“They can’t make me go back.”
John didn’t like to point out that his mother could technically do whatever she pleased.
“Why don’t you want to go back?” John asked, moving to his small kitchen and putting the kettle on.
“It’s awful. Everyone is so stupid. And dull.”
John wandered back into the living room and sat back down in his seat.
“Did you get into another fight?”
“What does it matter?” Sherlock snapped defensively. “They’re all idiots anyway. And the staff believe them because they’re normal."
“You’re normal, Sherlock.”
Sherlock laughed, that awful bitter laugh that made him sound so much older than his sixteen years.
“You must be the only one who believes that. Even my own mother, my brother-”
Sherlock cut himself off and stared at the fire, lip caught between his teeth.
“Does your mother know where you are?” John asked.
“She doesn’t care.”
“Of course she does,” John replied, rising to his feet and moving to the phone. “I’m going to call her and tell her you’re safe.”
“Don’t.”
“Sherlock,” John said sternly.
“Oh, fine. Call her. I don’t care.”
The boy crossed his arms across his chest and continued a silent staring match with the fireplace as John called Mrs. Holmes and informed her of the situation.
“It’s getting late now,” John said after he had explained, glancing at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. “He’d best stay here for the night. I’ll make sure he gets home tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you, Father. I’m so sorry about this.”
“Not a problem. Goodnight, Mrs. Holmes.”
“Goodnight.”
John hung up the phone and went through to the kitchen to make tea.
“Have you eaten?” he called to Sherlock.
“I’m fine.”
John rolled his eyes but finished preparing the tea and carried the mugs through into the living room. He handed one of the mugs to Sherlock and settled in his own chair, wrapping his hands around the cup for warmth.
“There’s a spare room,” John said. “It’ll be freezing, but then the whole place is.”
Sherlock didn’t say anything, but the side of his mouth twitched into a smile. Sensing an opportunity, John regarded the boy carefully as he asked: “Tell me about your father?”
Sherlock froze but his expression turned wistful as he stared into the fire.
“He was a scientist. He was brilliant. The cleverest man I’ve ever known. And... and he never looked at me like there was something wrong with me.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you, Sherlock.”
John wasn’t sure if it was his words or the memory of his father, but suddenly the boy was sobbing, hunched in on himself and obviously trying to stop. John placed his mug down and quickly got to his feet, crossing to the other chair and laying a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“It’s okay,” he whispered, coaxing the mug of tea out of Sherlock’s hand and placing it down, before kneeling and drawing the boy’s head against his chest. “It’s alright. Everything’s going to be okay.”
Sherlock let out a choked sob against John’s neck and cold fingers gripped at his shirt. John held him tighter and rocked him gently as the miserable boy cried and cried.
****
Sherlock returned - reluctantly - to Harrow the following week, stayed for Easter, and by the time he returned for the summer John had been offered a place in a new parish in London. John left all his contact details for the boy, hoping he would call if he needed someone to talk to, but he didn’t hear a word from Sherlock in the years that followed.
In time, the memories of Withyham faded as John moved on to new challenges. He became a chaplain for the Army and shipped out to the Balkans, returning from his third tour thoroughly sick of the horrors of war. He moved back to London and found himself working in the parish that included St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, where he had once trained. Some of his old coursemates were still there, Mike Stamford included, and John soon found a home among the patients and their doctors.
****
Part Two: Comfort, Comfort All My People
Pairings: (in later chapters) Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Warnings: mentions of child abuse, drug abuse, character death(s), slash, sexuality issues, religious issues, angst, unrequited love. General warning: this features the Church quite heavily so if you have a problem with that for whatever reason, stay away.
Spoilers: General spoilers for both seasons
Words: ~ 3400 (this part)
Notes:
*Beta'd by the magnificent lady_t_220 whose input to this story actually far exceeds the humble title of 'beta'. Without her knowledge, guidance and all-round awesomeness, this fic would have been a pale shadow of what it is now.
*Title from Look After You by The Fray.
*Chapter titles from hymns (no, really).
*For those who don't like WIPs, be reassured that there are 6 parts finished and beta'd and ready to go. I plan to post almost daily (not including the weekend) and I hope to have finished writing by the time I catch up to myself.
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is everything Father John Watson should probably disapprove of. He's an atheist, a rationalist, an addict, and gay. But none of those things is enough to stop him from being the most fascinating person John's ever met.
****
Part One: One Small Child
Sundays were the busiest day of the week for Father John Watson. Between preparing the wafers and wine, locating and replacing the hymn books and missals, putting out the collection plates, selecting the passages to read, and considering his homily, John barely had a minute to spare until late afternoon. In spite of this, or perhaps because of it, Sundays were John’s favourite day of the week. He liked to be busy, and he liked to feel that he was making a difference, so he always put a lot of effort into Sunday Mass, especially as it was sometimes the only contact he had with some of the parishioners.
John was dedicated to his parish, his first since being ordained. Withyham was a small village nestled in the Sussex Downs and the parish encompassed the village itself as well as a couple of outlying hamlets. It was a small parish and only about thirty people attended the church, but this made it ideal for a new priest to find his feet, especially as its size meant that John wasn’t particularly stretched and was quite contentedly left to work alone. Weddings and funerals were rare, as were baptisms, so John’s life revolved around Sunday Mass, confession, and home visits to the old and sick. It was not a life John would have dreamed of several years ago, but he could not imagine another one now.
John had once dreamed only of becoming a doctor, and he remembered that time with a certain degree of fondness now. However, less than a year out of university, the child abuse case that had fallen across his lap had forced him to reassess some of the choices he had made. The incident had been horrific, and seeing that little girl suffer so intensely before eventually dying from her injuries had left John feeling helpless and miserably lost. He had always found comfort in his faith but as he turned deeper and deeper towards prayer, the Church had become one of the few places where he had found any sort of peace as he struggled to make sense of what he had seen.
John simply hadn’t been able to put the incident behind him, despite the well-meaning advice of older and more experienced doctors. He had found himself becoming distant and distracted, and unable to do his job as he had before - not with that little girl’s face haunting him. He had spent hours praying, searching for an answer, but it had not been enough. Two months later, John had quit his studies and joined a seminary, the peaceful introspection offering a glimpse of the answers he had been so desperately seeking.
The church in Withyham was mostly attended by pensioners, save for one rather proud-looking woman who sat at the front. Her name was Cecily Holmes and she looked to be in her late forties. She was dressed impeccably, dark hair carefully curled and subtle make-up perfectly accentuating her features. Mrs. Holmes was beautiful, but there was a lingering weight in her expression, a sadness that never seemed to go away.
For four weeks, John only spoke to her in passing as she left the church, but finally, one day, she lingered in the doorway until everyone else had gone and John had the opportunity to talk to her at length. She answered his questions in clipped, precise tones and was somewhat intimidating, but John had dealt with far worse during his medical training and he kept his tone polite and pleasant.
He asked after her family and she told him in low tones about the passing of her husband. He had committed suicide only two years before, leaving her to raise their two sons alone. He noted the flush of her skin, and the obvious shame she felt at her husband's act - a shame borne of religious devotion. He said nothing and she spoke briefly of her sons. The elder, Mycroft, was at university, soon to graduate and join the civil service. The younger, Sherlock, was currently at Harrow. The frown that crossed her face when she spoke of her youngest child was gone a moment later but John noted it nonetheless. At the end of the conversation, Mrs. Holmes invited John for tea the following evening and he accepted gladly.
Although his conversation with Mrs. Holmes had given John the impression of a wealthy background, he was unprepared for the size of the house he found himself in the next evening. It was a large old country house, complete with huge stained-glass windows and ancient portraits and tapestries. John, although used to the grandeur of churches and cathedrals, felt uneasy from the beginning of his visit. Coupled with his uneasiness was a strong desire to hide his nervousness from Mrs. Holmes. He could tell she thought him too young for his position - he was only six years older than her eldest son, after all - and it made him all the more eager to earn her respect.
Tea was served in a draughty sitting room and John perched uncomfortably on a small sofa, sipping at his drink as Mrs. Holmes asked his opinion on several controversial topics. It felt like a test, and John had no idea if he was passing or failing as Mrs. Holmes' expression remained unchanged throughout.
As John was finally preparing to take his leave, relieved to be going, the door to the room flew open and a boy - a teenager - stormed in, grey-blue eyes fixed on Mrs. Holmes. He made no acknowledgment of John's presence and instead scowled at the older woman.
"You've hidden it. Where have you hidden it?"
"I've no idea what you mean, Sherlock, dear,” Mrs. Holmes said calmly. “But since you’re here I'd like you to meet our new priest, Father Watson."
The boy, Sherlock, took one quick look at John and swiftly dismissed him, turning back to his mother.
"It's mine. Father left it to me."
"And I'm quite sure he would not approve of you abusing his Stradivarius the way you do."
Sherlock scowled again and then stormed out of the room once more, leaving them in awkward silence.
"I, ah, I thought you said your youngest son was at Harrow?" John asked hesitantly.
Mrs. Holmes sighed and pressed a delicate hand to her temple.
"He is, Father. He's currently on suspension."
"Oh."
Mrs. Holmes sighed again and her gaze drifted towards the window.
"Sherlock is such an angry young man. He has these awful moods...” She trailed off. “He’s so like his father. He misses him terribly."
"I'm sure it must be very hard on you all."
Mrs. Holmes blinked and slowly turned her attention back to John.
"Yes, well. I suppose you had better be heading home, Father. Thank you so much for visiting."
John thanked her and then took his leave, glad to be free of the oppressive place.
****
Mrs. Holmes attended church every week, sitting in the very front row by herself. In the summer two months after John's arrival, a portly young man appeared by her side, evidently her eldest son. The young man shared his mother and younger brother's dark hair, but otherwise it was difficult to see any family resemblance. Where Mrs. Holmes and Sherlock were both tall and slender with sculpted cheekbones and pale eyes, Mycroft Holmes was rounder, and softer, with dark eyes. He had the same proud look as his mother though and when Mrs. Holmes introduced them after the service, John noted that he shared her reserved, polite manner. He would make a very good civil servant.
Father John was invited to dinner later in the week and was treated to a stiff, formal affair with Mrs. Holmes and her eldest. The seat reserved for the younger Holmes remained conspicuously empty, and mother and son both frowned in the direction of the empty place when John asked after Sherlock.
"I'm afraid he's sulking, Father," Mrs. Holmes explained. "And he refuses to eat."
"And to speak, half of the time," Mycroft added with a frown of consternation. "My brother can be quite troublesome, Father, as I'm sure you've heard."
"Most teenagers are," John commented lightly.
"Not all teenagers," Mrs. Holmes replied, smiling at her eldest son.
It was quite clear which of her children she preferred and John couldn't help but wonder if this was as obvious to Sherlock. He knew from personal experience that sibling rivalry could be a poison, slowly eating away at a family. He hadn’t spoken to his sister in years, not since he had joined the Church - it had been, to her, the ultimate betrayal.
"I'm sure Sherlock will grow out of it," John suggested. "Most people have a rebellious phase at some point. I know I wasn't immune to the odd sulk when I was in my teens."
Mrs. Holmes merely gave a hum that may have been agreement, or perhaps a comment on John's background, and Mycroft changed the topic, asking John's opinion of the new Prime Minister.
John was ready to leave not long after dinner and was wondering if it was polite to do so when Mrs. Holmes leaned towards him, pale eyes fixed on his face.
"Could I ask you to do something for me, Father?”
“Of course.”
“Would you talk to Sherlock?" she asked. "I'm so worried about him."
"I can. If you think it might help."
"Heaven knows. There must be a way to get through to that boy, but I haven't found it yet."
John had never seen Mrs. Holmes look so dejected and he quickly said his goodbyes to her and Mycroft before heading for the far end of the house. It was eerily quiet as John walked towards Sherlock's bedroom, but as he approached he could see through the half-open door that Sherlock was sprawled over his bed, legs crossed, violin cradled in his arms.
John tapped his knuckles against the door and Sherlock looked up with a start.
"Can I come in?"
Sherlock said nothing, turning his eyes to the ceiling, and John stepped into the room.
"How are you, Sherlock?"
The boy turned back and fixed his piercing gaze on John for a few seconds, before he gave a bitter laugh.
"This is their latest tactic, is it?"
Sherlock snorted and rolled to his feet, resting his violin on the bed. He moved to the window, staring out onto the rolling green hills of the Downs.
"I'm afraid to disappoint you, Father,” Sherlock said, his tone laced with derision. “But there's nothing you could say that would mean anything to me."
"Nothing at all?" John teased.
Sherlock turned and levelled him with a stony stare.
"No."
"Why's that?" John asked in an easy tone.
“I don’t believe in your God.”
“Fair enough. Doesn’t mean he can’t believe in you.”
Sherlock scoffed and slid into the window seat, drawing his long legs up to his chest.
“I’m not interested in a sermon, or whatever my mother has told you to do to fix me.”
“Do you need to be fixed?” John asked.
“They think I do,” Sherlock said in sullen contempt.
“Why?” John pushed, trying to get the boy to open up.
“Get out, please.”
“Sherlock-”
“Get out.”
John held up his hands in a placating gesture and backed slowly out of the room, pausing at the threshold.
“You know I’m here though? If you ever need to talk to someone.”
“Goodbye, Father,” Sherlock snapped, and John nodded and escaped into the hallway.
****
Father John held confession every Tuesday afternoon and every Tuesday afternoon, he was subjected to the usual litany of day-to-day ‘sins’: one old lady had coveted another’s new fur coat; an even older man had stolen his neighbour’s milk; the village postman admitted to having impure thoughts about the village school’s married headteacher. Nevertheless, it was part of the job that John enjoyed - absolving his flock of their sins, letting them unburden their minds and souls.
One Tuesday afternoon in mid-September, the door to the confessional booth closed and a very familiar voice spoke up from the other side of the screen.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” Sherlock said uncertainly. “It has been... three years since my last confession.”
“Go on, my child.”
Sherlock remained silent for a long time, but eventually his voice carried through the screen once more.
“I have disobeyed my mother and I have... upset her.”
“What happened?” John asked carefully, not wanting to scare the boy away - not when he was opening up.
“I got into a fight at school.”
Sherlock fell silent again and John coaxed him to carry on with a gentle ‘Go on’.
“One of the older boys... He called me a freak.”
John’s heart constricted in his chest but he stayed quiet.
“So, I hit him. And it felt good, so I kept hitting him. But then his friends turned up and... well...”
“Are you alright?” John asked, concern for the boy making him speak up. It wasn’t the normal protocol for a confession, but he didn’t think Sherlock would respond well to the usual routine.
“I’ve got a fractured collarbone and two cracked ribs.”
John winced in sympathy and let out a little sigh.
“I’ve been suspended for four weeks,” Sherlock continued. “My mother’s so angry she’s locked herself in her room. I heard her on the phone to Mycroft last night. They want to send me away, somewhere I can’t cause any trouble.”
As he repeated his mother’s words, John could hear the bitterness in Sherlock’s voice and, underneath that, the fear.
“Your mother worries about you,” John said softly. “She worries because she loves you.”
Sherlock scoffed in reply and John could hear him shifting nervously in his seat.
“Are you going to give me my penance now?” Sherlock asked.
“Do you even remember the Hail Mary?” John asked, amused.
“Of course. I was forced to carry on this ridiculous charade until I was twelve.”
“Well, I’m not sure the ‘ridiculous charade’ of saying Hail Marys will help you anyway,” John countered. “You should apologise to your mother.”
“I’ve tried.”
“You’ll have to keep trying then. She will forgive you.”
He heard Sherlock sigh from the other side of the screen, but then he spoke up with a quiet ‘Thank you’.
“You’re welcome. Go in peace.”
“Thanks be to God,” Sherlock murmured, and a moment later the door of the booth closed behind him, leaving John alone with his thoughts.
****
Autumn turned quickly into a bitterly cold winter and for much of December and January the Downs were covered in a thin layer of snow. By February, John was well and truly fed-up of the cold. The old house that backed onto the church had only a fire for warmth and even that failed to chase away the damp chill most evenings, leaving him huddled under blankets trying to keep warm. It was at times like this when he most missed London and the modern flat he had shared with a fellow medical student by the name of Mike Stamford. He would have given anything for central heating now.
Late one evening, when John was just considering dragging himself from the cold living room to his cold bed, he heard a knocking from the front of the house. Unravelling himself from his blankets, he made his way to the door and opened it to find a shivering and dishevelled Sherlock on his doorstep.
“Sherlock?”
“I’m sorry it’s late,” Sherlock said awkwardly, eyes fixed on the floor.
“What are you doing?” John asked worriedly. “Get in here.”
He pulled the boy into the house and dragged him towards the fireplace, pushing him into the closest chair. He grabbed one of the blankets from his own chair and draped it over Sherlock’s shoulders.
“What’s going on?” he asked, moving to stand in front of the boy. The firelight flickered over red-stained cheeks and even redder eyes.
“I don’t want to go back to that place.”
"Home?"
Sherlock shook his head.
“School?”
Sherlock nodded and drew the blanket around himself.
“They can’t make me go back.”
John didn’t like to point out that his mother could technically do whatever she pleased.
“Why don’t you want to go back?” John asked, moving to his small kitchen and putting the kettle on.
“It’s awful. Everyone is so stupid. And dull.”
John wandered back into the living room and sat back down in his seat.
“Did you get into another fight?”
“What does it matter?” Sherlock snapped defensively. “They’re all idiots anyway. And the staff believe them because they’re normal."
“You’re normal, Sherlock.”
Sherlock laughed, that awful bitter laugh that made him sound so much older than his sixteen years.
“You must be the only one who believes that. Even my own mother, my brother-”
Sherlock cut himself off and stared at the fire, lip caught between his teeth.
“Does your mother know where you are?” John asked.
“She doesn’t care.”
“Of course she does,” John replied, rising to his feet and moving to the phone. “I’m going to call her and tell her you’re safe.”
“Don’t.”
“Sherlock,” John said sternly.
“Oh, fine. Call her. I don’t care.”
The boy crossed his arms across his chest and continued a silent staring match with the fireplace as John called Mrs. Holmes and informed her of the situation.
“It’s getting late now,” John said after he had explained, glancing at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. “He’d best stay here for the night. I’ll make sure he gets home tomorrow morning.”
“Thank you, Father. I’m so sorry about this.”
“Not a problem. Goodnight, Mrs. Holmes.”
“Goodnight.”
John hung up the phone and went through to the kitchen to make tea.
“Have you eaten?” he called to Sherlock.
“I’m fine.”
John rolled his eyes but finished preparing the tea and carried the mugs through into the living room. He handed one of the mugs to Sherlock and settled in his own chair, wrapping his hands around the cup for warmth.
“There’s a spare room,” John said. “It’ll be freezing, but then the whole place is.”
Sherlock didn’t say anything, but the side of his mouth twitched into a smile. Sensing an opportunity, John regarded the boy carefully as he asked: “Tell me about your father?”
Sherlock froze but his expression turned wistful as he stared into the fire.
“He was a scientist. He was brilliant. The cleverest man I’ve ever known. And... and he never looked at me like there was something wrong with me.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you, Sherlock.”
John wasn’t sure if it was his words or the memory of his father, but suddenly the boy was sobbing, hunched in on himself and obviously trying to stop. John placed his mug down and quickly got to his feet, crossing to the other chair and laying a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder.
“It’s okay,” he whispered, coaxing the mug of tea out of Sherlock’s hand and placing it down, before kneeling and drawing the boy’s head against his chest. “It’s alright. Everything’s going to be okay.”
Sherlock let out a choked sob against John’s neck and cold fingers gripped at his shirt. John held him tighter and rocked him gently as the miserable boy cried and cried.
****
Sherlock returned - reluctantly - to Harrow the following week, stayed for Easter, and by the time he returned for the summer John had been offered a place in a new parish in London. John left all his contact details for the boy, hoping he would call if he needed someone to talk to, but he didn’t hear a word from Sherlock in the years that followed.
In time, the memories of Withyham faded as John moved on to new challenges. He became a chaplain for the Army and shipped out to the Balkans, returning from his third tour thoroughly sick of the horrors of war. He moved back to London and found himself working in the parish that included St. Bartholomew’s Hospital, where he had once trained. Some of his old coursemates were still there, Mike Stamford included, and John soon found a home among the patients and their doctors.
****
Part Two: Comfort, Comfort All My People