História That's why I stay (a Holmes child) - Capítulo 3

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Categorias Sherlock
Personagens D.I. Greg Lestrade, Dr. John Watson, Jim Moriarty, Molly Hooper, Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft Holmes, Personagens Originais, Philip Anderson, Sally Donovan, Sherlock Holmes
Tags Johnlock, Mormor, Mystrade, Sherlock's Niece
Visualizações 13
Palavras 2.893
Terminada Não
Gêneros: Ação, Romance e Novela
Avisos: Álcool, Bissexualidade, Estupro, Homossexualidade, Linguagem Imprópria, Pansexualidade, Sexo, Tortura, Violência
Aviso legal
Alguns dos personagens encontrados nesta história e/ou universo não me pertencem, mas são de propriedade intelectual de seus respectivos autores. Os eventuais personagens originais desta história são de minha propriedade intelectual. História sem fins lucrativos criada de fã e para fã sem comprometer a obra original.

Notas do Autor

Please enjoy and say if you like it

Capítulo 3 - The dark and dusty flat

Beside my uncle's flat there's a coffee shop, I wonder how it's like inside, but I would probably never know, uncle Myke would guarantee that. I jump out of the cab after John, and observe the place. It seems nice.

― Are you ok? ― John asks while put his hand back in my shoulder, he is actually worried, watching, really caring about me. I almost smile, wanting to say he shouldn't be worried with me, but I can't, it was only for a day, less of a day, any harm would come from that, it was good having someone else caring for me. Well, besides uncle Myke, he worries about me, constantly. ― You are pale, Sherlock it's only worried, somebody tried to kidnap you.

In the moment he says that Sherlock passes between us, in a hurry to get upstairs. I observe him, felling guilty for making him sad and angry with my company.

― Have you ever heard of me, Mr. Watson? ― I rose my eyes to his, the very beautiful blue was confused with the situation. The answer was no of course. I abrace my body, trying to keep the cold wind of London away, or it was just the fear, the anxiety ― How long do you my uncle?

― Three years now ― he looks to the door, permitting me to observe his profile, he was a handsome man, his expression of confusion it's really cute ― He never said anything about having a niece, a sister. Why?

― Sherlock Holmes doesn't like being my uncle ― I let my head fall, I can't take his eyes looking for mine. The cold wind get itself inside my clothes, but I just accept it, it's fine ― He isn't worried, he just can't bear my presence.

― Because of Mycroft's rules?

I remember that day, the day of the rules, when I last see uncle Sherlock. The same uncle Sherly who use to call me intelligent, talk with my mom into happiness and play the violin for me. My godfather. That day he doesn't even looked at me, he knew it was my fault and didn't want to see me again. And I knew he was going to be just like granny and grandad, just another gost, as dead to me as my mother, at the time just as dead as my voice.

That was the first day of me going under uncle Mycroft's sheets, to afraid to sleep alone, needing to much a hug, but to scared of touching him. In the day after he arrange himself in the bed to give me space to feel safe. The first of the little things he's always doing to make me happy.

— Uncle Mycroft have no fault at this, Mr. Watson, people always think that, but I'm the real guilty. Uncle Sherlock it's the one who knows who I am. ― I force a smile ― May we come in now? I'm cold.

Inside it's dark and dusty, it's an old building, impressively well cared, and it has the sound. I bound my head as far as I can, trying to ignore the memories, keep the violin out. The flash of a bright house, full with that sound, and always with kind hands on mine. I lift my chin and take a deep breath, I had to be strong. Uncle Myke would soon be there.

— So... — he cleans his throat softly, a little bothered ― If he's in such a bad mood, let's first meet a person ― he guides me to a door on the right, without knocking he open it a little and take a look inside ― She is a very special person to Sherlock and me. Mycroft usually it's very inpatient with her.

Not just with her, I want to say, but he is the kind of person that judges my uncle, so I let it be.

― Who? ― I ask instead, while he takes me inside showing me a very nice and clean kitchen, the smell of tea it's so delicious even though there isn't a ketle in the fire, the owner should be such a nice person, but there's no one inside.

— Mrs. Hudson? — John calls, confusion face, I wonder if that it's just he's normal face — Maybe she's out?

In a perfect timing a noise makes us both jump a little, It's someone trying to open the front door, with some difficulty. It was a small and skinny old lady, with dark hair and a sweet face. Just lika a grandma should be.

― Hello, John, glad you're back — she smiles, trying to go through the door with lots of supermarket bags. I step forward to help her ― Oh, hello, and who are you?

― Louise Holmes, ma'am, my pleasure ― Uncle Mycroft would be proud with my politeness. She recognize the last name and analyze the short dark hair and the pale face, linking points ― I'm Sherlock's niece ― the violin upstairs let go a high and protesting note making me bound my head. I see John's eyes rolling while he takes the rest of the bags of her ― even though he isn't very satisfied with that.

— Well, it's a pleasure, dear, but... don't might me please... Who in it's sanity would have a child with Mycroft Holmes?

John walks fast to the kitchen, hidding a smile, maybe he wondered the same when meet me. It was funny for them, but I take a moment to enjoy the Idea. Mycroft Holmes was already all I have, being my father was a simple solution for many of my problems. I would be Louise Holmes like always, but with a lovely (alive) aunt and uncle, maybe my grandparents would still love me. I let scape a little smile.

― Uncle Myke isn't my father, ma'am ― I let the smile go politely wider ― He must be very grateful for that.

We put the bags on the kitchen table, hearing her talking non-stop about how the market was a complete mess. John start to get impatient, he was just like uncle Myke, ordinary subjects were boring for them. But I was different, it was actually boring and pointless, yet the normal and calm life sounded interesting, peaceful.

When she talks about making us tea, John start guiding me upstairs, the violin was silent, and my hands shake again, fearing what I would find up there. The flat was small and not as dark as the first floor, dusty, but brighter. And it was a pure mess. Papers and books were everywhere, even on the old sofa. The shelf, with more books and dust where full organize in no particular order. The only part of the room that show some sense was two couches in the middle, turn to each other, if I was younger I would imagine the two of them talking, talking about how dusty they were.

— Like it? ― John stops right beside me, a weird pride smile on his face. I wonder if I should let go a sarcastic cough, but it's better not ― I know it's a little messy, but it's comfortable. I would show you the kitchen, but I don't think it's safe ― he points to the glass doors on the left ― Dead body or something like that.

I force a smile, the dead body wasn't a problem, but I'm grateful for not having to see uncle Sherlock, he was going to be rude and cold, and wanting or not I was vulnerable to that.

― You know, Mr. Watson, my uncle probably will come straight here after his metting, and he'll probably be furious, so I'll not have time to say goodbye and thank you... ― I give him my hand ― Thanks for saving me, sir.

He grabs my hand and shake it, almost comical.

― It's dr. Watson, Louise, and please call me John ― he pulls my hand, guiding me to the biggest couch and sit me, sitting on the smaller one ― Mycroft has no reason to be angry at you, if you haven't called us, some disgrace could have happened.

― Oh, he knows that, but he'll be angry with the idea that someone almost took me from him ― John opens a sweet smile, as if the idea of a caring Mycroft was curious ― And than he'll be angry with me because I called Sherlock. Angry plus angry and I'm to blame.

― He gets angry with you frequently? It's impossible to me imagine Mycroft as a loving relative, you know?

I feel he's almost worried with me, he was thinking the same of others. Probably believe that uncle Myke was inpatient with me, maybe aggressive. The Ice Man certainly would be cruel with a kid, he could almost justify violence to educate. But they were wrong, he simply wasn't like that, Mycroft Holmes was only reservate in the beginning, after all those years he became somebody lovely in his way, sweet sometimes, hard when needy, but incapable of any cruelty, at least with me.

― He does the best he can, sometime even more... Uncle Myke didn't knew anything about me or any kind of children until I fall in his life, and right after losing my mother ― I ignore the little light in his face in comprehension. I remember those days, Mycroft didn't knew how to talk with me, and I wouldn't answer anyway, I didn't had a voice ― It was a hard time for us.

On that my cellphone start to ring on the backpack "umbrella", Rihanna, because my sense of humor permits that. I stand my hand to take it, already hearing the killing voice on the other side, but John it's faster, taking it first, he narrows a finger to me, asking for silence.

― Mycroft ― I can almost hear the surprise silence on the other side, John's smile get wider, I wonder if he mocks my uncle ― She's fine, nervous, but perfectly ok. She went through a lot, I think you should come here yourself.

John takes the cellphone of the ear, looking at the screen with a playful smile. Uncle Myke turned off I'm his face, as usual, actually.

― Dr. Watson! ― I take my phone out of his hands ― He's going to be worried. Why would you do this?

― He will think twice before get angry with you ― his smile is joyful and I can't not hold mine. Poor uncle Myke ― He's coming, I suppose he went to your school before. We should have warned him.

― Mycroft it's getting slow ― uncle Sherlock opens the glass doors in a strike, a chemical mask on the face and plastic gloves ― He would normally deduce my presence.

I want to say that he was worried and not thinking straight, but Sherlock would mock him. Uncle Myke hated when people laught of him, even he would never admit it. John observes me, waiting, but I was not going to say anything.

Sherlock's presence in the room was heavy, oppressing me, thank Lord ignoring me too. I'm afraid of what he could say, I know he wants to get rid of me, but I don't what to hear him talk something like that. I observe his profile, the tin nose and the cheekbones. He was just like my mother in so many ways, even the curly hair, my hand touch my short hair, it was less curly, less black, but still had some resemble. I wonder how we could have been.

But it was my fault that we weren't anything, and he knew that. My talent of screwing up everything and attract rage set us apart. I took my mother from them, she was the best daughter, the balance between her brothers, impossible not to love. I have taken their pride, and now uncle Myke only have a troublesome kid, my grandparents have to live without their daughter and Sherlock don't have his loved sister.

I face the floor, hating myself, the bile coming up in my throat. I wish uncle Myke come pick me up, I want to go home, have dinner with him, discuss the fact that we need better food, and in the end ask something on the phone. He would simply ignore me and ask chinese food or something like that... I wanted to go home.

― And what do you like to do, Louise? ― John asks, probably noticing my melancholy, ignoring uncle Sherlock.

― Nothing of interesting, Dr. Watson, just study and read ― he looks at Sherlock, comparing us, I know he'll be disappointed, I'm some kind of prion close to Sherlock Holmes ― And play violoncello. It's what I do with most of my time.

— Oh, you play? ― he bound in my direction. I feel that his bigger interesting it's to attract Sherlock's attention, maybe he was the type who believes himself capable of fixing the world — And are you good at it?

— I don't believe I'm good to give this answer, Dr. Watson. Uncle says I have a lot to learn — as in every aspect of my life — and my teacher says that I'm doing fine. Maybe some day I manage to truly get somewhere.

— I will love to be invited for your apresentations — Sherlock let go a dramatic sight, and lock himself back into the kitchen, closing the glass doors behind him — You can call only me, if you prefer not to have such an irritant presence close by. I'm sure I'll be — he makes his voice higher — a better company.

— Dr. Watson — I try to keep my voice stable, be firm, but I can't — my uncle won't like if with keep talking at each other. It's against the rules.

He bounds over to me, looking playful at the glass doors.

— The rules are about Sherlock, not me — he whispers, conspiring — You should come for tea, how about twice a week? Tuesday and Thursday is good for you?

I can keep my mouth shut, he was asking me to break the rules, in many years living with uncle Myke I haven't break any rule, I could, but my uncle would be so disappointed. Yet... He was asking me to visit, a friendly visit. The gentle and funny man, who as my uncle Sherlock's friend wants me to come back. Nobody ever wanted that.

— Sure — I heard my on voice answering — I'll came after school — he relax on the couch, smiling. I realise in a role two things: that I trust him, and that, trusting that stranger, I'm ignoring everything my uncle Myke ever told me — Doctor, you were from the army, right? Here in London?

— Afeganistan, it's already been three years — I realise it's a delicate subject so I don't make any questions. The silence seems to bother him, he clears his throat, looking nervous — And what do you want to do when you're grown, young lady?

— Interpol — I smile, showing my teeth, uncle Mycroft hated to hear that, moaning about law or business — I want the be a psychologist, study human behaviour, find missing people, help.

His surprise amuse me, normally it was the reaction to my answer to that question. His eyes turn to the glass doors, I wonder were his comparing is going, but deeply I don't really want to know. He gives me a surprise smile.

— You seemed to me a more... Office person... — he observes me, I must look so fragile to him — Someone more like..

— Uncle Mycroft — I complete and make my smile larger, agreeing, he wasn't the first who said that. In the government parties, the people who wanted something from my uncle used to say I would be a great politician, they laugh about it, wondering if I would take my uncle's position — Well, yes, but I'm more a person of action, and I wish to work on something I could see how I help people. Uncle Myke save many lives, but he doesn't know the names, faces, I want see, feel, save people, not numbers.

He agrees, seems satisfied with my answer. He bounds again to me, leaning on his knees, again conspiring, but with a proudest voice.

— I'm sure you'll be a great agent, who will save many lives. Just like your uncle Sherlock — I look to the glass doors, something inside me is afraid of what that might mean — The difference is he isn't very attached to the human part of the job — he holds my hand  — That will make you a better agent than he would be.

I don't know what to answer, but I don't get the chance of it, footsteps approach on the stairs.

I feel a smile in my face, I recognise that walk, the umbrella it's on the left side of the body, he is angry. When he's on the door, I feel the green eyes on me, meanfull, upset, estressed, asking for explanations, for a full history, apologies if needed.

The perfect suit, the umbrella and the intensity, it was all I needed. Until that moment I couldn't feel anything, I had to ignore the attempt of kidnapping, the fear... But now he was right there and I could feel everything, anything, I didn't have to worry, he would take care of me.

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