THE ANDERSON HOLMES SERIE

The Writing Koala

Summary : Anderson seems to just be Sherlock's scapegoat. Few are those who know that Anderson is actually Mummy Holmes, Mycroft's husband, who Sherlock turn up to whenever he is feeling down.

I

"How we met."

Anderson has always been a dreamer and has always wished to live a plain simple life.

It doesn't look as such when he is at work, but he is actually living the life he's always dreamt of – even if it is with one of the most complicated man of the world.

When he comes home, his husband never really there but always aware of him being back, he will always find his eldest – twins named Isenham and Ingham because yes, it is customary to name Holmes children with old-fashioned names – dutifully working at their homework while the little two year old Baptistine would be building a castle and organizing strategy to invade the neighbouring kingdom - the latter having been built the day prior.

She had certainly got the genius gene of the Holmes family.

But Anderson didn't mind so much really. Indeed, even if Sherlock was being a rightful jerk with him most of the time, Anderson never forgot why he was doing it. And it was alright with him, as long as he would never hesitate to call him when he needed help.

Anderson hadn't become Mummy Holmes for nothing.

-0-

He had found this young man in a back alley. He was sprawled against the far wall and choking on his own vomit. Anderson had not hesitated though, because even if the boy – and he was a boy really, a skinny 20 years old or so – would perhaps be already dead by the time he reached him, he couldn't just turn his head away and keep walking.

And he gritted his teeth as two middle aged women caught sight of the boy at the same time as he did, and kept walking without so much as a glance back.

Sometimes, Anderson wanted to perform autopsies on live people. He let himself fall onto the floor just beside the boy and quickly lay him on his side while fumbling for his phone.

The boy was alive and Anderson began talking softly to him. He was holding him through his seizure at the same time and couldn't help running a comforting hand through his incredibly thick black locks.

He spoke quickly and professionally to the Medic he got on the phone and hang up afterward.

The boy had stopped seizing and Anderson just had to make sure he didn't die on him. He laid him back on the floor and slapped lightly his thin and white cheek. But the boy was unconscious so Anderson couldn't do much else than wipe vomit and tears off the boy's face with his handkerchief.

"Well, look at you now, all clean." He said and surprisingly the boy shook a little and opened blue-grey eyes on him.

He whimpered and tried to curl on himself so Anderson helped him sit and took his back against his own chest. "It's alright, the ambulance is on his way. Why don't you tell me your name." He said. The boy shuddered again and his head fell farther on Anderson's shoulder. That way, he could see the fluttering eyelashes, white nose and lips of the boy.

"Freak." He said. And Anderson raised his eyebrows and tightened his arms around the far too skinny waist.

"Well, that's actually not really a name, you know. I am sure your parent didn't have such a sick sense of humour."

The boy – Freak – tensed and whimpered again as a wave of dizziness certainly washed over him.

"Little Monster. But I prefer Freak." The shaking voice said, and tears were running on the boy's cheeks.

Anderson frowned deeply and breathed in relief when he heard the sound of the ambulance nearing them.

"Well, then, your mother certainly don't deserve to be called a mother. You seem quite well to me."

"No. No, I am not. I am a freak." He said. And then, he looked up at Anderson and began to tell him his wall day in three or four quick glances and frowns.

Then medics were there, and he was being whiled away from a rather shaken Anderson.

However, the man stood up quickly when he really realised the boy wasn't there anymore and ran to the ambulance, jumping in with the boy and telling dubious Medics that he was a doctor and a friend.

He then slipped his hand in one of the boy's long one and squeezed. "I am sure you've got a real name, can you tell it to me?"

An anxious frown appeared on his face and he pinched his lips. "I like Freak, I chose it." He muttered. "Ok, then. Do you have anyone to contact other than your Mother?" Anderson asked in a gently voice.

"Why did you stop doing autopsies? Being a forensic is boring compared to dissecting bodies."

Anderson smiled and nodded. 'I know. But I like being somewhere else than in a Morgue. I still do some autopsies, though. You're interested in anatomy?"

"I am interesting in every kind of experiments," the boy answered.

"Well, that's good. So anyone to contact?" Anderson said again. The boy's eyes filled with tears and his hands gripped Anderson's tightly.

"My brother. Mycroft Holmes. But I don't think he likes me very much anymore so maybe he won't care."

"Alright then, I'll make sure he is called and we'll see. Go to sleep now, you seem exhausted."

Freak nodded but held Anderson's gaze some more. He licked his lips and swallowed. "Tomorrow or wherever I wake up, I'll be mean to you. I'll be insulting and telling you all kind of terrible stuff about your boring life and your lack of money to keep your flat and your dying father and all that – I'll be horrible to you,' he whispered quickly, his eyes filled with fears and shame.

Anderson smiled and nodded. "Well, I have a bad temper, so I may react harshly for some things, but I'll keep in mind that it's just to protect yourself."

The boy's face fell a little. "It's not." And Anderson nodded and smiled again and then the boy fell into a deep, restless sleep.

-0-

Mycroft Holmes wasn't that hard to find. Actually, Anderson didn't have to go farther than the hospital Hall to find him. The man – early thirties, three pieces suit, umbrella - - Tired eyes, worried, desperate? – was already waiting for them when they came in. Anderson stayed behind while the boy was whiled away.

The man approached him quickly and extended his hand. "Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother. How is he?" He asked in an urgent tone.

Anderson took the offered hand and his eyes wandered on the door through which Sherlock – so his name was Sherlock then – had disappeared.

"He is alive, and he'll live. He is very very depressed though, calls himself Freak because he chose it, and this kind of thing. I am still not sure he is relieved not to be dead." He explained.

Mycroft Holmes's face closed and he sighed heavily. "The last time he wasn't." He said in a whisper. And gone was the perfectly well-mannered man, here was a shaken and desperate brother.

"I am sorry." Anderson said. "Have you tried detox, or therapy?" He asked. Mycroft looked up at him and Anderson was suddenly caught in the bluest eyes he'd seen in a long time. They were different from Sherlock's, more like a drop of water of a blue lagoon.

He cleared his throat and nodded when Mycroft answered that yes, he had tried everything but that therapy with Sherlock always ended with the therapist needing a therapy themself and Sherlock disappearing into thin air.

He hadn't stayed in detox more than 3 hours and a half.

"Ok, and have you try to take care of it on your own?" Anderson then asked. The man arched one eyebrow and frowned. "How do you mean?"

"Well, sometimes, in this kind of situation, what addicted people really need is to be taken care of by their family. Of course, they'll deny it, and fight, and yell – they will threaten you to disappear again or to kill themselves and so on…But the truth is they won't do it. Not all of them of course, but I can tell that Sherlock is one of them."

"You mean that I should be taking care of the detoxification of my brother myself?" Mycroft said. "With the help of a doctor or a nurse, yes. He asked for you…" Mycroft's eyes widened and he took a step back. And what a strange family they seemed to form.

"When I asked him who to contact, he told me about you, but he also told me that you wouldn't like him very much anymore and that you certainly wouldn't care."

At that, the man actually had to sit down and he took his head in his hands. "He also told me about his mother calling him 'little Monster'." Anderson said softly sitting beside Mycroft.

The man looked up and his eyes were those of a haunted child. "Yes, yes." He breathed, and Anderson was worried he was going into shock.

"Would you help?" Mycroft whispered.

And again, Anderson fell into Mycroft's desperate and pleading blue eyes and really, how could he say no?

"Ok, I'll do it, but I won't be able to be there at all times, I need a job and…"

"You'll be paid twice as much as your current salary and you'll still have a work when you come back." Mycroft interrupted.

Anderson raised his eyebrows and smiled. "Oh, very well…Then yes, let's go take care of your brother."

-0-

They did. They helped Sherlock a lot and after two months, Sherlock hadn't any drugs in his system anymore.

He was being a stubborn child all the same though.

"You can't just turn your brother's kitchen into a laboratory!" Anderson exclaimed as he watched Sherlock wash a fresh liver – and Anderson didn't even know where he had gotten it (Her name was Molly and she was a student in post-mortem medico-legal expertise at Bart's).

"He barely uses it." Sherlock just answered and he put the organ on the breadboard before taking hand of the meat knife.

"I use it." Anderson said.

"Yes, but as long as you don't take a step forward and finally snog my brother, you don't really live here - So not a valid argument, sorry."

Anderson's cheek burned and he gritted his teeth. "Sherlock." "Face it Anderson, you can't face my brother without little pink bubbles drifting around your head. Oh, and don't worry, he has certainly known it from the first time you two met."

"Yes. I never doubted that he knew, thank you." He said in a rather pathetic voice – which actually sounded quite normal, but he had Sherlock as an interlocutor.

The young man – and he was still very skinny and very pale – raised his head and pinched his lips.

He sighed and put the knife down. "Listen Anderson, my brother has had as much encounter with anyone from the real world than me – meaning, none at all. I have learnt how to interact with normal people because I needed drugs and the only way to find them was to socialize with them, so I did. Mycroft has never had such experience alright? The only other people he had really ever met were politicians or economists, or old magistrates– or our servants. That's about it; he has other people to interact with common men."

"I so appreciate when you're telling me how common we poor people are." Anderson said, sitting up in the high chair at the kitchen-turned-laboratory table.

"I am just telling you the truth. You yourself are not even above the most average person. You are a plain stupid little man among other plain stupid little men."

"Freak, that's quite enough now." Anderson said in a harsh voice. Sherlock tensed a little and his eyes met Anderson's ones.

And that was their thing – whenever Sherlock was insulting or belittling Anderson, the man could use that word to express his annoyance. It had been Sherlock's idea and Anderson had agreed. But the word was rarely uttered in any other form than a tired sigh.

Sherlock didn't say anything though, frowning lightly and biting at his lower lip.

"Fine, whatever – tell me what you're working on." He asked then, knowing that Sherlock wouldn't apologise.

Sherlock smiled a little – the cheeky brat – and raised the knife again. "I am going to cut the liver in two and boil one piece in boiling white wine, while placing the other one in cold white wine."

"What are you trying to accomplish in doing so?" Anderson asked, and it was interesting, really. Sherlock had always crazy ideas, but they weren't bad or anything. Sherlock has a question, he wanted an answer; he had a liver, why wouldn't he do it?

"I want to see if a liver can get cirrhosis without being attached to a living body."

"Ok, try not to cut your finger, Sherlock." Anderson said.

Sherlock stilled again and moved the knife a tiny bit on the left, away for his middle finger. The corner of his lips curled up. "Yes Mummy." He said. Anderson sighed and smiled slightly watching Sherlock finally cut the liver.

"So, what do you think I should do with your brother?" He asked. "Do you know if he is interested?"

Again, Sherlock put the knife down. He breathed heavily and marched to the fridge, extracting some ice cubs from the freezer.

He put them in a box before carefully picking the two liver pieces up and placing them in it. He then put the box back on the last shelf of the fridge.

"Not up to experimenting anymore?"

"I don't want to throw up on a fresh liver and you are asking me for romantic advices regarding my brother and yourself."

"Sherlock, please." Anderson ran his hand through his hair before glaring at Sherlock.

"Oh come on Anderson. I am fine, but you're still living here. Mycroft hasn't even told you that you could go back to work or move out whenever you want. He's found you a job, which is currently filled by temp so you can come and take it – he also got you a flat, not far from here. You could leave Anderson. He knows that, you know that. But you're both fucking waiting for the other to make a move. He knows you want him – god, I am really going to throw up – but he won't come to you because he has absolutely no social skills – "

He eyed Anderson and rolled his eyes.

"Yes, he got use to you as a 'friend' here, but he is interested in more than that but don't want to lose that friendship. He's never had any relationship he actually wanted. So as you're too dumb to see for yourself what my brother is feeling for you, I've told you, and now, you can run to him like a loyal puppy, jump him, and leave me out of it entirely."

Anderson was frozen – in anger or astonishment? – for some time before he managed to smile. He then walked around the table and raised his hand to put it behind his neck. He made Sherlock bend down a little and kissed his forehead.

"Thanks." He said. Sherlock held his arm out and hugged Anderson tightly for one second.

"Well, that the least I can do, Mummy." He said with a smile before stepping back. Anderson rolled his eyes and nodded.

"And that's huge. Thank you, Sherlock."

-0-

At first it was a game.

Well no, at first it was in the throw of cold fever and feverish slumber and delirium tremens.

Mycroft would stay behind, unable to bear seeing, at first, his brother in such a state, almost – really – being the one to bring him the drugs he needed so much to take away his pain.

But Anderson would severely reprimand Mycroft for his thoughts while holding Sherlock against him, running his hand through his hair and singing quiet lullabies in his hears.

One day, Sherlock was shivering and whimpering and clenching and unclenching his fists, sprawled on Anderson whose back was resting on the headboard when he opened his pain-filled eyes.

"Thank you, Mummy." He croaked. Anderson's eyes held Sherlock's gaze for some time and when he was sure Sherlock was recognising him, he smiled.

"You're welcome, Sherlock."

And then, Sherlock smiled a little and went back to sleep.

After that, whenever Sherlock would wake up, he would be calmer and more peaceful than he had been until now. The worst of the withdrawal had come and gone, Mycroft's fear had been tamed and Anderson's worries had been proven wrong.

Sherlock had stayed, fought the pain, the craving and the longing to kill himself and was now capable of eating, showering or even talking.

Not that the latter was necessarily a blessing.

But they had developed a sort of close parenting relationship – Sherlock desperately needed someone to look up at, to not fear, to be close to and show his pain to and cry to and yell at for everything that had been done to him.

Well, Anderson had become just that, and even if he would have preferred being called 'Daddy ' in Sherlock pained confession, he was quite alright with it nonetheless.

And he was also terribly relieved to see each Holmes brothers doing daily better.

He just prayed not to be called 'Mummy' by Mycroft – never ever.

FIN

I

Thank you for reading, feedback are welcome ^_^

The next part should be more about Mycroft and Anderson.