S.Holmes: Sebastian's Revenge

((The title is a reference to the Donnie Darko sequel 'S.Darko'))

Sam rolled out of bed and hit the floor with a thud. She instantly regretted stealing Mycroft's bottle of liquor. An incomprehensible sound escaped her lips. If Ty were there he probably would have compared the sound to a dying elephant. With her ear pressed to the wooden floor, she could hear John banging around in the kitchen below.
"Three. Two. One." Samantha whispered, her tongue heavy and numb.
Right on cue, John yelled, "Sam! Breakfast!"

John padded from the bottom of the stairwell back through 221b's living room and into the kitchen after calling up to Sam that breakfast was ready.

He made another load of coffee to go with the cooked breakfast and put a mug in Sam's place and one at his own at the other end of the table. There would be words with Sam about filching her Uncle's bottle of whisky. He sat himself down and sighed as he raised his mug to his lips.

Sam crawled to her dresser and used the drawer handles to drag herself upright. Moaning, she pressed the heel of her hand into her eye. "Do you have coffee?" She shouted. The floor beneath her appeared to move and swirl like a turbulent ocean.

Mycroft shook his head when he observed the missing bottle. How she thought he wouldn't know, he had no clue. He would need to have words with the girl. He had honestly thought she had more sense. A flicker of guilt ran through him that he hadn't noticed sooner. She might have ended up in hospital, or worse. He only hoped she was alright, and not passed out on someone's floor, or...he shuddered...in someone's bed. He hoped that she had taken it to imbibe in moderation. That did not change the fact that she was still underage though.

John, my apologies but it seems your surrogate daughter has made off with a bottle of my best brandy. I really thought she had more sense. I suggest there is some underlying problem. I saw this with my brother, I do not intend my neice to go the same way. MH

Mycroft sent the text, hoping John would have the good sense to sort her out. She was too young for this. His heart turned cold, wondering if he was seeing history repeating itself. Reminding himself to get a lockable cabinet for his alcohol, Mycroft made himself ready for the day ahead, hoping he would hear from John that she was indeed fine, if an epic hangover could be referred to in that way. If indeed there was a hangover.

John always had coffee. The house ran on coffee, and tea, same as it had done when he and Sherlock had shared the flat before Sam had arrived. His phone bleeped and he put his mug of coffee down.

He could guess who it was. He was surprised not to have had a message last night but assumed Mycroft had been busy late into the night and had only just discovered he was a bottle short. He got to his feet and checked the sausages under the grill then pattered in his socks to the stairwell. “I'm not shouting again.” he warned and about turned on his heel to get his phone from the desk.

Nice one Mycroft, John thought reading the text. Apologies my arse. Surrogate, ha! Who did he think had sat through every school play and parent-teacher meetings. He took the phone back to his seat to type.

Sherlock's daughter and my daughter is fine. There's no 'underlying problem' for you to worry about. JW

"I'm not shouting again!" John yelled up the steps.

Samantha found this slightly amusing seeing that he'd betrayed himself by shouting that very sentence.
"Coming," She tried to yell back, but instead a strangled gargling noise was emitted from her throat.
Sam fumbled for the doorknob, eyes squeezed shut, and wobbled out to the stairs.
This was going to be a bit difficult.
She put one foot on the top step.
It swayed like a rope bridge and the step flew out from under her.

In short, Samantha fell down the stairs.

For a split second, she envisioned herself as a tumbleweed like in the old Wild West movies. That is, until she reached the bottom of the stairs and fell on her face.
"Ouch." She growled into the floor.

Despite her awkward position, she could smell something wonderful in the kitchen. Now if only she could stand...

John dropped his phone on the kitchen table when he heard Sam coming tumbling down the stairs. “Bloody hell.” he found her face down grumbling at the floor. “Sam.” he added dismayed.

“Hup you get” he stuck his hand out to help her to pull herself up. “Your dad...” he took the weight leaning back a little. “Is going to go mad.” he meant Sherlock.

He wasn't exactly happy himself as he watched her wobble into the kitchen and plonk onto the chair. “Have you and Ty had a row or something to go and get plastered like that?” he asked bringing her mug of coffee into her reach. He wanted to know why she had helped herself to Mycroft's booze.

Sam stared into the churning depths of her mug.
The words John had just said were still processing.
Sherlock.
Right.

"Sort of hard for him to be mad if he's dead," She remarked flatly, bringing the cup to her mouth.
The hot liquid burned her tongue, but at this point she really didn't care.

"And yeah. Caught him with some blonde." Sam growled, tugging on a strand of curly black hair that hung limply against her forehead. She caught a glimpse of her reflection in the brown liquid before her. God, she thought, I look like hell.
Dark circles hung beneath her green eyes. Unless the hangover was playing mind tricks again, she was quite sure she was two shades paler than normal. However it was hard to tell by the brown-toned coffee-reflection staring back.
One thing was for certain - she was definitely still slightly drunk.

John wasn't really in the mood for debating the subject of the genius that was Sam's father and his best friend. Not after last night, not with a scathing text from her Uncle Mycroft and then seeing her eating the floor and looking like something the cat had dragged in.

He got the bacon, sausage, tomatoes and mushrooms onto two plates and offered Sam her breakfast. “See if you can eat something.” he suggested. “Love, you're clever, you've got brains, please don't behave like an idiot, it doesn't suit you.” He put his hand on her shoulder and gave it a little squeeze and sat down for his own breakfast. He hadn't thought about it but hearing himself it was the sort of thing her father would have said but with softer edges.

John was tucking into his food and waited to see if Sam would expand on what 'Caught him with some blonde' meant.

Sam stabbed at her food half heartedly with a fork.

As much as she appreciated John's kind words, the word 'idiot' stung a little.

The tomatoes on her plate in front of her somehow reminded her of eyeballs. Visualizing them as such wasn't helping her appetite.
She could never manage to eat much when she had a hangover.
Her stomach was heaving at the sight of it, even though it smelled delicious. John was, after all, a hell of a cook.

"He keeps mucking about," Samantha mumbled, piercing a piece of the bacon.

She lifted it to her mouth and nibbled at the corner of it. She could practically taste the bile rising in her throat.

"Pressed her against the bloody wall and full on snogged her." Sam snarled with more energy in her voice.
She shoved the bacon in her mouth and chewed methodically, ignoring her body's objection to the food.
"Right in front of me," She added, waving her now bare fork around.

John could never lose sight of the fact that Sam was his friend's daughter especially with the fork waving around. John's patience paid off as she decided to elaborate on her argument with Tyler so he listened.

“Nearly a year now is it you've been friends? A bit more than friends. The fact that he did it right in front of you should tell you something. If you won't tell him how you feel about him then how's he going to know? By behaving like an arse and seeing if you get jealous. Mm?” John asked.

“If you don't like him let him go, but getting wrecked over it and how you're waving your fork around like you're conducting a ruddy...orchestra, suggests you don't want to do that, I think.”

Samantha grinned and stood up in order to irritate John further by prancing around directing the instruments she now saw in her mind's eye. And now the violins! Cello! Xylophone!
John shook his head and laughed.
The caffeine was finally setting in, the effects of the alcohol slowly wearing off.
"Now the choir!" Sam ordered, brandishing the fork. She gestured to John and quirked an eyebrow and waited for him to react. Sing, she thought. She knew he could.

(( [Only admins are allowed to see this link] Oh No ))

"Xylophone, with violins, oh nooo." John laughed watching Sam conducting her imaginary orchestra. He knew what she was asking him to do. He often sang to her quietly when she was little.

He groaned good naturedly and took a breath in.
"Don't do love, don't do friends. I'm only after success. Don't need a relationship. I'll never soften my grip."

He had to stand up to continue and put in a few gestures for emphasis, wanting Sam to join in.

"Don't want cash, don't want card. Want it fast, want it hard. Don't need money, don't need fame I just want to make a change
I just wanna change I just wanna change I just wanna change I just wanna change I just wanna change.

I know exactly what I want and who I want to be I know exactly why I walk and talk like a machine I'm now becoming my own self-fulfilled prophecy Oh, oh no, oh no, oh no, oh

One track mind, one track heart If I fail, I'll fall apart Maybe it is all a test 'cause I feel like I'm the worst So I always act like I'm the best
If you are not very careful Your possessions will possess you TV taught me how to feel Now real life has no appeal.
It has no appeal It has no appeal It has no appeal It has no appeal It has no appeal"

He couldn't keep going. "Oh, dear" he stood giggling and pulled her in for a cuddle. "Oi, watch what you're doing with the fork!"

Mycroft could hear the singing as he walked up the stairs to 221b. No wonder Mrs Hudson had been the one to open the door. With that noise there was no way anybody could have heard his knocking. He had decided to call rather than telephone. There was no guarantee that John would answer after all. He opened the door and watched as John cavorted about singing the...whatever it was, Sam watching gleefully. As the doctor pulled his surrogate daughter into a hug, Mycroft could not resist a slow clap of his gloved hands. He was marginally satisfied by their shocked looks and smiled, knowing it did not reach his eyes.

"Well done, John. The X-factor notwithstanding, you might have a hit on your hands. You, young lady, have some explaining to do. I was worried sick."

Sam pulled away from John and wiped the emotion from her face. Slowly, methodically, she crossed the room and stood toe to toe with Mycroft. "You? Worried?" She snorted, staring up at him with cold, blank eyes. "More like concerned - about the paperwork in the event of my death." Sam emphasised the word 'death' with icy precision. It was in these moments, Samantha took on the character of her father more than ever. Like Mycroft had, she didnt allow the smile that she now wore to reach her eyes. "I dont need to explain anything," She hissed. With a bitter laugh, she turned away, walking quietly back to the table.
The funny thing was, she was still in her pajamas. But her serious tone seemed to override this.

The lighter atmosphere of 221B rather got shattered when John suddenly realised that Mycroft, as starched as his immaculate shirts, had paid an unexpected visit and was standing in the partition. He let Sam detach herself from him and while he stood trying to think of something polite to say she had squared up to her Uncle. Just like her father she resented Mycroft's well meant concern and it was pointless trying to convince her that kicking against it only made Mycroft worse.

"Have a seat, I'll make some tea." Unless you'd prefer blood John managed a joyless smile before flipping the switch on the kettle.

Mycroft, as was his wont, ruthlessly hid his smile. She was so like her father it was uncanny, thankfully without much of her mother in her, unless you counted the boundless assertiveness she carried around with her all the time. He admired her ability to do exactly what her father could, carry off anger and indignation while still wearing her pajamas.

"Samantha, you wound me. You stole from me. Moreover, you stole a whole bottle of some very expensive and very strong alcohol, the consumption of which might have lead to your hospitalisation at the very least. Your body mass is not up to processing the volume of alcohol contained in that bottle. Do you doubt that I was worried at the possible outcome? I can only offer your surrogate father my grievous apologies for not noticing the theft sooner." Mycroft sighed. "There is now a lock on the cabinet door. In future if you wish for a drink, then I suggest you ask me, and subject to permission from your guardian, you can have one. One, mind you, no more. Denying you completely might be detremental, allowing you a modicum of the stuff will mean it won't damage you." Mycroft halted and his voice dropped to a murmur. When he spoke again it was almost...sad.

"I saw what that substance, and certain others, did to my brother." His voice took on an adge of steely determination. "I am not having you go the same way, my girl. I am your tutor, both John and Sherlock accepted me as such. What happens to you while you are in my care, when I am in loco parentis, is my responsibility." Mycroft watched his neice as she flung herself into a chair. "Never presume to think that I don't care about you. Dare I say it, though, John is the one to stop you, not I. Nothing I can say will have enough impact on you. You are bright, lovely, infinitely clever and a joy to teach, when you are behaving yourself. So please, don't throw it all away." Mycroft nodded to John. "My apologies. This will not happen again. I will understand if you consider withdrawing permission for me to teach her in the light of this event."

John willingly heard Mycroft out because he never doubted that the man cared about his niece. Mycroft's words were as close as he ever came to acknowledging that John was Samantha's parent and John appreciated that it was only due to Mycroft's generosity that he was in a privileged position to be able to remain in Baker Street and look after Sam in a stable, familiar environment without trying to juggle work and parenthood.

The doctor brought Mycroft a cup of tea and set it down for him. “It was unusual circumstances and not your fault. I've no intention of withdrawing permission for you teach her what I can't, it's what Sam needs and what Sherlock would want. I wouldn't dream of interfering with you spending time with Sam either.”

John turned to Sam. “You know the score Sam, you are allowed a drink but abusing the stuff and stealing is not on.” his tone was mild but firm reiterating what Mycroft had said. “I think you owe your uncle an apology.”

Samantha sat with her arms crossed, refusing to speak. The abuse of the substance was more than justified. What it all boiled down to was teenage hormones and chemicals in the brain produced by the emotion called 'love'.
She looked down at her jigsaw puzzle pattern pajama bottoms, studying how the pieces interlocked.
Sam literally bit down on her tongue, trying hard not to say anything. Her words were often sharp and had a mind of their own, wounding others with their bitterness. She wasnt entirely sure why she was this way.
Sam speculated her personality was born from the loneliness of being 'different'. Growing up, her best friends were imaginary and the pigeons were her pets.
Mycroft often referred to it as the 'Holmes Curse' - jokingly, of course.
In a way, though, he was right.
She released her tongue from between her teeth.
Licking her lips, Sam spoke, "I dont owe him a single bloody word."
She refused to look towards Mycroft. In her eyes, he was invisible.

"Very well, allow me to observe," Mycroft said, dispassionately. "You experienced a distressing event, something you wanted to forget so you sought oblivion in the bottom of a bottle. How unoriginal. I honestly thought you were more creative. Maybe I have misjudged you." He sipped his tea. "Thank you, John," he said mildly. "This is a worthy restorative. I suggest you try to find out the cause of her distress but I also advise you not to try to find solutions, just listen to her." Mycroft turned his attention back to Sam. "Puberty is a bore, is it not, Neice? Maybe you have forgotten, but I was once a teenager myself. Thatcherite Britain never knew what hit it."

Mycroft allowed himself a smile. Nobody in the room would believe it if he divulged the things he had indulged in when he was the same age. Younger by seven years, Sherlock hadn't known the half of it and hadn't been able to deduce it either which maddened him considerably at the time. Thankfully, Mycroft had been clever enough never to have allowed himself to be caught.

"We have all been in your position, Samantha. Each generation believes itself to be the inventor of sex, drugs and questionable music. Allow me to be a little creative on your behalf then. I suggest you take some time to think about your actions, consider the wider ramifications, ask yourself how important this all is to you, then write me a two thousand word essay defending your actions and informing me, with reasoned argument, why you do not owe me an apology. You can, of course, email it to me." Mycroft stood and smiled at John. "Thank you for the tea. Most welcome. I am sincerely glad she didn't come to harm. Samantha, do not think about contacting me again until that essay is in my inbox. Good day."

The door slammed shut. Samantha flinched involuntarily. Mycroft seemed to turn every little incident into a huge ordeal with school work attached. Scowling, she searched the room for her biological father's violin. No doubt Mrs. Hudson had moved it again during one of her mad cleaning sprees. The landlady was getting quite old now and couldnt remember where they kept their things anymore. Sam grunted in frustration and flung the Union Jack pillow across the room, narrowly missing John who was watching her from the couch. Amusement turned up the corners of his mouth, but his eyes still echoed dissapointment.
"Where'd she put it?" Sam howled, tossing files onto the coffee table.
Turning, the smooth, familiar polished wood surface of the violin caught her eye. "Finally."
Samantha drug it out from behind a cardboard box and retrieved her bow from the mantle. John was drumming his fingertips against his mug, still silent. Sam balanced the violin on her shoulder, the bow hovering inches from the string.
"Cat got your tongue?"

He felt Mycroft's timing was anything but good as her uncle gave Sam a drubbing. He might be perfectly correct, he in fact was, but Mycroft's somewhat confrontational way of dealing with things with Sam was like baiting a bull with a red rag. It could have been worse though John thought, returning to the sofa, as Mycroft concluded the discussion and saw himself out.

John, his fingertips fidgeting on his mug betraying his emotions, stopped himself from reaching out and catching the Union Jack cushion as it flew in his direction. He was very disappointed with Tyler behaving like a child as well but he was resisting interfering there. The violin coming out had often meant that Sherlock was about to spend some time thinking and if Sam was going to do that or if she was just shutting him out he could think of better things to do than sit about for an hour or two being ignored. He sat and waited in silence to see if Sam began playing.

((What Sam is playing - minus the dubstep [Only admins are allowed to see this link]

Sam slowly slid the bow across the strings, wincing as the violin screamed in protest. She had been neglecting it, but she hadn't thought it would sound like that.
"Fuck" She swore under her breath.
Samantha flinched when she realized she'd spoken aloud. Her eyes darted towards John, but he appeared unperturbed. Shrugging, Sam pressed the bow against the strings once more. Slowly, carefully, the notes squeaked out. Miraculously, the more she played the better it sounded. She knew she ought to put rosin on it before the bow began to fray, but she was too lazy to find it in the cluttered flat. She wasn't even sure what she was playing.
Then, faster, the notes spilled out of the instrument and she realized it was a piece by Lindsey Stirling.
Her foot tapped out the beats that only she could hear. The music was hers and hers alone.
Closing her eyes, Sam stopped thinking.
Time froze around her and all that was real was the violin singing in her arms.
Her problems and worries slipped away on silent wings.
She remembered suddenly the time when Mycroft first taught her to play the violin....
You have to be firm, but light. No, you're doing it wrong. Yes, like that...good.

She reached the climax of the song, playing faster and faster to the point where it almost sounded like a fiddle if not for the long grace moments when the notes slowed down.
Then, it was over. Sam stood, shivering from exertion.
John looked up at her with a mixture of pride and awe.
Grinning, Sam put the violin into the empty case at her feet. Nothing like a little music in the morning to make yourself feel better.
Straightening up, she dashed past John. Climbing up the stairs, she called back over her shoulder, "I'm going to get dressed!"

(( Nice, I'll have to learn that one ))

John was contemplating the best course of action when Sam slipped the bow across the strings. The bow had ended up on the mantelpiece, Mrs H's haphazard tidying up, of course. Sam hadn't bothered to look for the rosin as a result. He half smiled and let her frustrated imprecation pass this time.

Sherlock swayed gently when playing but Sam had a different energy about her, every bit as expressive and, dare he say it, emotion laden, but Sam's was different in it's colours. Sometimes a bright electric blue or the transparent gold colour of honey. It was the only way he could describe it as 'having colours' and he didn't want to move. He just wanted to listen and feel and forget some things for a short while. My brilliant, lovely girl.

His brilliant lovely girl finished playing, grinned and sped off upstairs. John got up and looked out of the window and wiped the wetness from his eyes. Having sudden inspiration he went back to the sofa and pulled the cushions about and felt along the back. His strong fingers found the little box with the block of rosin inside and prised it out. He smirked and set it down in the violin case then finished his tea and headed into the kitchen to clear the plates and start on the washing up.

Sam rifled through her dresser. She wanted to look her absolute best before seeing Ty. Not that John would know that she was going to his flat. Smiling mischievously, she tugged on a purple sweater and a pair of jeans. Ty had no idea what was coming. Hell hath no wrath like a woman scorned!
"Teach the bastard a lesson." She muttered under her breath.
Where was it?
Samantha flung open her closet door and rummaged around inside.
Cardigan? No. Ugly Christmas sweater from John? Definitely not. Ah. There it is!
She pulled out the long black coat that smelled of nicotine and a cocktail of other drugs. It had been Sherlock's once upon a time, but now it was hers.

"Sam? Sam, where are you?" John wandered around the flat, searching for the elusive seven year old. He really shouldn't have left her alone for that long.
"Sam!" He shouted, dashing up the stairs. His leg twinged with pain, but he ignored it. He paused at the top to catch his breath. In between each ragged inhalation, he heard Sam's gentle snoring.
Frowning, he walked towards Sherlock's old room. "Samantha?" He pushed the door open to see her curled up on the floor beneath Sherlock's old coat, fast asleep. Her mane of black curls hung in her face. If John didn't know any better, she almost looked like a miniature version of Sherlock. Samantha, awakened by the door squeaking open, rubbed the sleep from her eyes.
"Daddy?"
John crouched down beside her and picked her up, coat and all into his arms.

Samantha smiled fondly at the memory, her nose buried in the depths of the coat. The Coat. It had always been considered sacred to her family - both John's side and Sherlock's. There was something about it that when she wore it, it made her the equivalent of every adult in the room. There are no words to describe how much she loved that.
Humming another piece by Stirling, she tied her red scarf around her neck and headed back downstairs. John was in the kitchen crashing around like always. Quietly, she crept past him and down to the front door.
"Later Dad," Samantha whispered, pulling open the door and stepping out into the London morning....

((Hope you don't mind me godmoding a bit with John and the flashback ))