Lost Without My Uncle

Alright, I've gone easy on you with these first few posts. It's time to pull out the big guns. We're taking a trip down Fandom Feels Lane. Grab your shock blanket. This might hurt...

I lie in the back seat of the car, wearing my dad's old sweater, an orange blanket wrapped around my shoulders. I'm wide awake, but I keep my eyes closed, to avoid conversation.

My uncle sits in the driver's seat, but I know that he keeps looking back at me. I can feel his calculating gaze, trying to deduce what I'm feeling and thinking, but I remain as calm and closed as possible.

I know he knows I'm awake, but he leaves me to my own thoughts, and I silently thank him for the small pleasure.

The car pulls to the side of the road and stops. There's silence for a moment, and then my uncle whispers, "We're here, Harriet."

My eyes fly open, against my will. Fear consumes me, and in a moment of weakness I let a small sob escape. "Please, Uncle Sherlock. Don't make me see it again."

He turns around in the seat, and looks at me sadly. His brown hair is starting to gray, and worry lines have begun to form, but Aunt Molly says he's still as handsome as when he and Dad first met.

I've seen pictures of them from back then. They were a lot younger, and Dad was still living at 221B Baker Street with Uncle Sherlock. He was still living at all.

Uncle Sherlock reaches out and squeezes my hand. "I know, it's hard, Harriet, but the therapist thinks this is best. For both of us." Tears well up in his eyes. "We can do it together, okay?"

A few tears slip down my cheeks. I nod, and we climb out of the car. Hand in hand we walk through the cemetery, both of us lost in our own thoughts. I feel strangely calm, even though I had felt sheer panic only minutes before.

And then we see the grave, and my peace of mind shatters into a million pieces.

My parents have been dead for 10 years, and Uncle Sherlock consistently tries to bring me to their grave, but every time I see it, the pain is as fresh as when I was 6 years old. I fall to my knees, hugging my arms, and wondering why this had to happen to me.

They told me the fire was an accident, but I overhead Uncle Sherlock tell Lestrade that it was a deliberate murder. Everyone tells me it's not my fault, but it doesn't make me feel any better.

Uncle Sherlock drops down beside me. He hugs me closer, and kisses the top of my blonde head. "It doesn't get any easier, does it?"

I shake my head, then slip into his lap, wrap my arms around his neck, and bury my face into his shoulder, just like I did when I was younger.

He holds me close and rests his cheek on my head. I feel his tears drop against my skin, and realise this is as hard for him as it is for me.

I don't know how long we sit here before Uncle Sherlock whispers, "I don't remember it ever being this hard. I'm sorry, Harriet."

"It's not your fault," I mumble against him.

"But it is. I should have done more to help you deal with this; I should be doing more. I've failed you."

I look up at him, and it hits me: Never before has Uncle Sherlock admitted failure. "No," I whisper. "You haven't."

He looks at me with tearful confusion.

"You and Aunt Molly took me in after Mom and Dad died. You've raised me as your own, and taught me so much. You didn't fail me, Uncle Sherlock. You saved me."

His tears fall harder now, but I can tell they are tears of gratitude. "You're so much like John," he says with a sad smile. "Selfless. Wise. Stubborn. And you look so much like him, especially in his sweater."

I rub the material between my fingers. "It's my favorite."

"It was his, too." Uncle Sherlock wipes away the last of tears. "I'm so proud of you, Harriet. I know John and Mary would be, too. You've grown into a beautiful, courageous young lady."

I hug him and whisper in his ear, "Thank you, Uncle Sherlock."

Some minutes later, we leave the cemetery and drive back to 221B. Things are easier now. I feel like I can let go of my pain. And it's all thanks to him.


I'd be lost without my uncle.