Son of Holmes

Awoken

When he woke up in a bed, he knew something was wrong. He didn't have a bed. Only a mass of blankets to curl up in. Of course he knew it was a bed, because he had felt what his uncle's and cousin's beds felt like when he fixed them up and changed the sheets. Staying absolutely still, as not to attract any attention to himself, he listened.

There was a soft buzz of electricity, and the room smelled like the disinfectant that he used in the kitchen and bathrooms, there was also bright light showing through his eye lids. He suddenly noticed that his arms and chest felt really stiff and fuzzy, and he realized that he wouldn't be able to move them even if he tried. His head also had some sort of pressure on it, as if he had a blindfold on his forehead.

This really confused him. Where was he? Why wasn't he being yelled at to get up and make breakfast? It was a Saturday, if he got his days right, so why didnxt anyone call him. And what were they doing to him? Desiding to risk it, he opened his eyes.

Light immediately assulted his eyes., he forced them closed, despite that if anyone was here, they would notice this change very quickly. He, however, didn't hear anyone react, so he slowly opened his eyes, this time taking it slowly. He was in a white room, the lights above him were glaring, and the electrical buzz was coming from the right of him, from many big machines, almost all of whom were connected to him in some way. He realized that the reason that the reason that he couldn't move his arms or torso was because they were wrapped up tightly. His arms were in casts, and he had bandages all along his chest, and he guessed that this must be what was on his head too.

Looking around the room once again, he noticed a man sitting in a slightly less illuminated corner of the room on one of the chairs to his left. The man made no noise, in fact, the only reason he knew that the man was there was because he could see the man's chest moving. What was most unnerving about the man however, was the steely blue-green eyes that seemed to bore into him, picking him apart, piece by piece untl all of is secrets were revealed. He wore a dark black overcoat, a blue scarf, black trousers and black shoes. He didn't blend in with the wall, now that he thought about it. The man blinked, and sat slightly staighter, as if to ready himself for something difficult.

The three-year-old bit his lip, his many questions on the tip of his tongue, but he remained quiet for fear of being hit or locked up. The man seemed to read his mind, for he said, "You needn't worry about getting hurt here, say whatever you want." After a second of hesitation, the man slowly added, "My name is Sherlock Holmes. What is your name?"

A slightly surprised expression passed over his face. That was a first, normally no-one would ever ask anything of him directly. They'd ordinarily ask is aunt or uncle, and then pass judgments of their own. With a small smile he replied, "My name is Freak. I think it sounds a bit diff 'rent, kinda like yours, sir." His smile turned to a frown though, when he saw that Mr Holmes's face turn absolutely furious and stood up. He felt scared, maybe he wasn't supposed to say that about Mr Holmes's name. Was he going to be hit? He shrunk into the bed he was on and braced himself by closing his eyes.

"No. Don't do that. I'm not going to hurt you."

He slowly opened his eyes, Mr Holmes was pacing the room, but he had a soft smile directed towards him. Feeling slightly comforted, he asked, "Is something wrong?"

"Yes, but don't worry. It isn't your fault." Mr Holmes stopped and glared at the wall, "You see, your name isn't 'Freak'. Your name is Harry, and 'freak' is a very mean word that they shouldn't have called you."

Harry (apparently) was very confused. Was it true that his name wasn't really 'Freak'? It would make sense that his aunt and uncle would do something mean like that, but why wouldn't they call him by his real name? He had always thought it was either that or 'Boy', but he knew that wasn't a real name, so he settled on 'Freak'. But maybe Mr Holmes was tricking him. No, Mr Holmes was one of the first people to ever be nice to him, why would he lie? He wouldn't, Mr Holmes was telling the truth.

"What do you remember last?" Mr Holmes was looking at Harry now, his face a neutral blank. Mr Holmes sat down on the chair closest to the bed.

Harry furrowed his eyebrows in confusion, "Th' last thing I rember was yes' erday."

A flicker of annoyance passed over Mr Holmes's face and he elaborated, "What about yesterday do you remember last?"

Harry nodded to show his understanding, "Yes' erday started like it always does: Aunt P' tunia shouting at me t' make bekfast. After bekfast I did all my chores- picking up Dudley's toys; weeding the garden; cleaning the kitchen. Then I made lunch and I got t' eat at the table! After I cleaned the dishes I was sent t' my cupboard and I spent the day in there reading some of Dudley's new books. When I was let out t' make supper I had finished two of them," Harry was smiling proudly before it turned into a frown.

"I made supper for everyone, and got the chicken done really good. 'Xcept when I brought it t' the table I tripped over Dudley's foot and spilled it all over the floor. Aunt P' tunia and Uncle Vernon started yelling at me t' clean the foor and I did. Uncle Vernon was really mad at me, his face was turning purple. Just when I finished cleaning up, he grabbed my, " he looked at his arms and splayed out his thumbs, making an 'L' shape, "left 'and and threw me at the wall. I landed on my right arm and it made a loud crack sound."

Harry felt like he would cry soon, but he knew that he couldn't stop now, or else Mr Holmes would get upset. He didn't want to upset the first person who was nice to him.

"Uncle Vernon told me I really messed up and that if I wasn't born then I would not have ruined the food. He hit my head really hard, and when I fell onto the floor, I hurt my head on the side of the coffee table. I saw coloured spots and Uncle Vernon told me that I had better thatnot break the table, or else I would of wish that I wasn't born." Harry started to cry, but he kept his voice even, lest Mr Holmes (who was glaring at the floor) notice.

"He kicked me in the stomach, and then when I curled up to save my head and stomach. He told me that I was weaks for crying and he wouldn't stop until I stopped. I don't rember too much after that, because my back was hurting too much. After that I woke up here."

The silence that followed was profound. After a while though, Mr Holmes replied, "Thank you for telling my this. I know it must have been difficult to do."

Harry looked at Mr Holmes. His eyes were shiny. Was he crying? That really confused Harry, why would he cry if he didn't get hurt? Or maybe he did a long time ago and was sad that Harry reminded him about it. That could happen, he guessed. Harry decided to ask.

"Are you okay? Did you have somethin' like this happen t' you?"

Mr Holmes flinched very slightly, but looked mostly surprised. He replied, " How did you know that?"

"Well, you looked sad 'bout what I told you, but you didn't get hurt. So I thought that maybe something like this happened to you and I made you think of sad mem' ries."

Mr Holmes looked impressed, but that wasn't right. Why would he be impressed for noticing something? He really liked Mr Holmes

Harry was about to ask if he would like to be his friend, when a man with an umbrella walked into the room.