Promises Series

Promise of Home - What If

The title of this chapter is "What If" by Coldplay.

"Where did you get that?" Sherlock questioned, glaring daggers at the sketchbook and pencil set resting on the couch next to Julia.

"It was in my room. It had my name on it, so I opened it. I think it's from Mycroft."

"Of course it was Mycroft."

"I haven't drawn in a long time," Julia said. "I've never had pencils like these, either."

Sherlock took a closer look at the sketchbook. The stern face of Gavin Lestrade glared back at him. He ran his tongue over his teeth. He picked up the book with one hand. Julia grabbed onto the other side, her eyes wide.

"I'm sorry. Please let me keep it. I won't draw anything else in it, I promise."

"Why wouldn't I let you keep it?"

"You aren't going to throw it away?"

"No, I'm not," Sherlock said slowly. "Be careful, you'll tear the pages."

Julia relaxed her grip but did not remove her hands. "They're not good."

"Nonsense. Can't I look through them and judge them for myself?"

"None of them are any good."

"I don't care. Let me see them."

Julia slowly let go of the book. She brought her legs up to her chest and stared at Sherlock, who took a seat on the arm of his chair. He flipped through the papers silently, starting from the beginning.

A pencil drawing of Mycroft smirked up at him from the first page. Sherlock scoffed. Julia closed her eyes.

"Why did you draw him first?"

"I wanted to get him on paper before I forgot what he looked like."

"Hm. But I'm much better looking."

"I see you every day. I can draw you anytime I like."

"Have you?"

"Would you just look at the rest of them?"

Sherlock spent another moment inspecting Mycroft's smug expression. The resemblance really was uncanny, he thought.

"You did this from memory?"

"Yes."

"The last time you saw Mycroft was over six weeks ago."

"Yeah."

"And you drew this when?"

"Last week. I drew a lot. I was bored."

Sherlock flipped the page and was met by a shyly smiling Molly Hooper. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, and in her eyes there was a laugh waiting to happen. John and Lestrade both glared at him from the next pages. Sherlock saw them and half-smiled. Their expressions were not unfamiliar to him.

He paused when he came to a picture of a man whom he didn't recognize. Yet he knew who he was immediately. It was in the spark of his dark eyes and the curve of his jaw.

"This is your father."

"Yes."

On the next page was a picture of Mary, her face expressionless. Completely devoid of emotion. Sherlock swallowed. Mary had a portrait in Julia's sketchbook, yet he had not seen a single drawing of himself. He almost scoffed at his childish jealousy.

A man with dark eyes and hair stared at him from the next page. His nose was flat, and his eyebrows were thick. There was a long scar from his left cheek to the corner of his mouth. Sherlock had seen that face before, staring up at him vacantly, blood oozing from his neck.