
Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/972801.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Graphic_Depictions_Of_Violence, Underage
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_-_Fandom, Sherlock_(TV), Sherlock_BBC
  Character:
      Augustus_Moran, Sebastian_Moran, Sebastian_Moran's_Father
  Additional Tags:
      Child_Abuse, Homophobia
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-09-19 Words: 3249
****** The Chair ******
by Nixiesaurus
Summary
     "S-Sir -"
     "Sebastian," the voice, deeper than it usually was, thicker, clogged
     the young master's mind and made his body tremble, "do you know why
     you're here?"
     "Y-Yes, I was - was... I did something - something bad - b-bad, e-
     evil... you s-s-said e-evil...," and his voice broke, cracked, the
     way the wood creaked when the claw pulled the second nail out at the
     jerk of his father's too-strong arm, too-familiar arm. "But I - I
     didn't mean to! I didn't mean to - I just was -"
     "Precisely," Augustus interrupted, pausing for a moment as if
     contemplating what he was doing, before he continued. A third nail,
     another squeak, and Sebastian was starting to seem jittery in the
     chair. Enough so that Augustus sounded irate when he continued, "and
     I warned you a long time ago, that the next time you did something
     bad, there would be consequences. Now, what sort of father would I be
     if I gave you false promises? If I never followed through on
     punishments? Hm? You would lack discipline. You would lack order."
Notes
     This was written to sort of give a glimpse at Sebastian's abusive
     childhood.
     Please keep in mind that this is a very, very dark fic with no happy
     ending, and no notes of resolution. Read at your own discretion; it
     includes child violence, homophobia, and gore.
     The pretense was that Sebastian had been caught in the room of his
     manor with his hand down his pyjama trousers, and it was the last
     straw for his father. The history with Sebastian was that he was like
     any other young boy, and had started showing signs of femininity,
     which his father wouldn't tolerate from a Moran. The beatings had
     begun fairly early, but this was sort of the breaking point for the
     young boy.
     Notes on Characters:
     Sebastian Richard Moran; thirteen, son of wealthy former-Ambassador
     Augustus Moran
     Augustus Moran; undescribed age, homophobic and classist
     Wil; Sebastian's brother, Wilhelm Augustus Moran (older by 2 years).
     Adamina; mentioned is Sebastian's younger sister, mentally
     handicapped due to Augustus' abuse when she was an infant
 

Good wood, no matter how old, will retain its shape, its texture, as long as it
gets treated with some sort of sealant, or stain.  That's how Sebastian knew
that the chair he was sitting in (well, had been shoved in) was   damn   fine
quality.  Probably locally made, by some wrinkled old craftsman who had been
sawing and shaping arbor since he was a child, an apprentice in his dusty
little shop.  The young boy wondered if his father had picked the chair out,
or... no, his mother must have, because the nice seat was situated in the
center of the cellar.  Sir Augustus Moran must not have liked her taste, then
again, he never really did.
 
The cellar itself wasn't somewhere that Sebastian Moran particularly hated, but
it did happen to be the location that Augustus so often picked for his
beatings.  It was secluded, dark.  It was away from the dining room enough for
guests not to hear.  More than a few times, the boy had slept down there, and
well, we know the purpose of cellars, don't we?  Created underground, they're
made for the simple reason of preserving.  Preserving food, wines, jars, meats,
little boys.  For keeping the temperature cold, so without a blanket, Sebastian
got used to low temperatures.  They didn't bother him as much, but... but what
did bother him was - well, Sebastian hated how eerie those mason jars looked in
morning sunlight that cracked through the slim glass towards the ceiling,
glowing a yellow (a bit to the right) and making whatever contents inside
look... sick.  Like sick, with viscera and gelatin and floating objects.  Once,
Sebastian had gone to a fair, and paid ten pence to see a freakshow.  You know
the kind, don't you?  The ones where taxidermy two-headed cows are on wood
platforms, or some three-eyed calf's head that floats in a giant jar?  Yeah. 
Those kind, except he knew the servants had canned these, with picked eggs or -
or vegetables but... never the less, Sebastian couldn't stomach the sight.
 
So the boy stared at them, having been removed from their perch on the wood
shelving on the wall.  Adjusting nervously in the seat, he tried to ignore how
damp the cellar felt, how cold it was under his bare feet, and how it made his
skin feel sticky and heavy... he tried to ignore how tight his face was from
crying, from the drag down here, where Sir Augustus had twisted his arm up and
around, and pulled him down the old stairs, leading him to that chair.  Rubbing
his wet nose with his forearm, the thirteen year-old boy tucked his chin nearly
to his chest and tried to... tried to c-c-calm his breathing... Small hands,
innocent enough, reached to touch the wood of the chair he sat in.  Good wood. 
Th-that... That damn chair with the good wood, where the child's fingertips
brushed over the sealed grain, and he reminded himself that his mother must
have picked the chair... That she must have looked at it and approved of it,
and he envied the chair, envied how it was held with interest or - or approval
and...
 
The jars, lined up on the floor, had been relocated for a specific reason, it
seemed.  Wood, handcrafted shelving, was what held them previously, and young
Sebastian's green eyes squinted in the dim light provided by the thin glass
windows at the top of the walls of the cellar to see just what it was his
father was doing.  And then... then, there was the scrape of the claw, of the
hammer.  The tilt of the tool was heard, when Sir Augustus pulled the first of
four nails out from the shelving; the squeak of metal and wood, that sort of
pop of steel against grain loud in the quiet room.
 
A squeak, and it sucked the air out of the boy with a sharp, hushed gasp.  His
chest sunk down, and he curled back against the chair, as though hiding against
it, as though it could... could make him invisible, could hide him -
 
And that's when S-Sebastian started begging.  That's when his voice left him
sounding weaker than he had any desire for it to... because the unknown, fuck,
that was what made things worse, wasn't it?  The unknown?  And Sir Augustus
kept everything silent, kept his plans quiet.  
 
And that... Jesus, that scared the poor little fellow to death.  Sitting there,
his blond hair fringe a soft wave above his eyebrows, too much like a cherub,
too much l-like a little, innocent cherub, with its wings about to be p-pinned
in a shadowbox and -
 

"S-  Sir   -"
 

"  Sebastian  ," the voice, deeper than it usually was, thicker, clogged the
young master's mind and made his body tremble, "do you know why you're here?"
 

"Y-Yes, I was - was... I did something - something bad - b-bad, e-evil... you
s-s-said e-  evil  ...," and his voice broke, cracked, the way the wood creaked
when the claw pulled the second nail out at the jerk of his father's too-strong
arm, too-familiar arm.  "But I - I didn't mean to!  I didn't mean to - I just
was -"
 

"  Precisely  ," Augustus interrupted, pausing for a moment as if contemplating
what he was doing, before he continued.  A third nail, another squeak, and
Sebastian was starting to seem jittery in the chair.  Enough so that Augustus
sounded irate when he continued, "and I   warned   you a long time ago, that
the next time you did something   bad  , there would be consequences.    Now  ,
what sort of father would I be if I gave you false promises?  If I never
followed through on punishments?  Hm?  You would lack discipline.  You would
lack   order  ."
 
And A-Augustus was tall.  Tall as an oak tree and sturdy as one.  His frame was
broad and his shoulders strong, shoulders Sebastian once sat on and hugged his
- his father's head like - like a loving son, and he choked out a noise, a sort
of sob, brittle and fragile.  The young boy didn't answer that one, but turned
his head and closed his eyes when the squeak from the fourth nail was too loud,
and the slow, guided steps of his father neared him.  Heavy steps, with a
gentle stomp, like a soldier's, and small hands gripped white knuckles on the
arms of the chair, clinging to it like a liferaft, when the child screwed his
eyes shut and sputtered a weak, "S-Sir, I'm s-sorry, I'm sorry -"
 
There was kindness in his voice.  It resonated softly against the cold,
cobblestone walls of the cellar, where it felt warm when the words burned into
Sebastian's eardrums and invaded his mind, settling somewhere between books on
Big Game Hunters and old, wealthy men with tragic stories.  It was a gentle
voice, and the boy seemed calmed enough by it, calm enough to unwind himself
from the tight coil in which he'd drawn his small frame.  His head turned back,
gingerly, to look at his father, who had moved to kneel in front of him.
 
Eyes, a bit more hazel than anything, stared at him with a sort of lingering
pity.  With a sadness, with regret.  Because he didn't want to do it, right? 
Because a father wouldn't want to hurt his son.  It was something that had to
be done, or else Sebastian would grow up to be a criminal, or murderer, or
rapist - a-at least, that's what Sir Augustus said, the last time he'd caught
Sebastian staring too long at the stable boy come to help load bales of hay
into the barn.  In one hand, in one rugged, old hand, Sir Augustus held the
hammer, a sort of tan birch handle, with a weathered iron head.  In his other,
his large fingers curled around the n-nails... nails that he'd drawn from the -
the -
 
 Breathe, Sebastian.
 Breathe.
 Don't hyperventilate.

He hates it when you hyper   -
GASP.
 

Sebastian was sweating, shaking.  His tiny frame seemed so small, like a little
rabbit in front of a wolf, and his father's hand raised up slowly, to touch his
son's cheek.  Four fingers curled around those nails, and Sir Augustus' thumb
grazed the boy's cheek, gently swiping away the tears that saturated his face. 
"  Ssh, ssh  .  There, now," his father's thick voice whispered, "  Ssh. 
 Don't cry.  I'll fix it.  I'll make it so you're not dirty anymore.  I'll
clean you up, Sebastian... and you'll   thank   me.  Years down the road,
you'll thank   me  .  I... know that Adamina watches these princess stories. 
You know she's   sick  , right, son?  You know she isn't well.  That she
watches those princess stories because they're not real, and it's easier for
her to live in a world that isn't real, than to live in ours."
 

It was very apparent, then, why that chair had been moved to to the cellar. 
The legs were uneven, if only by a smidget.  The boy's trembling frame sort of
- sort of shook the chair, causing a rattle on the floor, the imbalanced legs
not quite supporting the child's weight evenly, and Sebastian's voice was
quiet, when he whispered back in a tone barely audible.  "...B-But - wh-why,"
gasp, soft, "can't I - can't I -" and a swallow, his voice shaking as much as
his frame, "why c-can't I have a prince, too?  Like her?  I'm n-not - I'm n-not
si-  sick  , I'm n-not... n-not... I j-just don't - I don't - w-w-" a sob, "w-
want a p-princess, S-sir, I don't..."
 
That sympathetic, gentle look on his father's face faded, but the boy had no
time to absorb the difference in his stare.  How it grew chilly, then frigid,
stoic and - and dead, and Sebastian wanted to speak again, to apologise, to ask
why, why it was wrong, why his father ha-
 
 CRACK.
 
Usually, it was a slap.  Sometimes.  More often than not, it was a crack of
fingers on his face, but this time... this time, Sebastian's head jerked to the
side, his body following to cripple against the left arm of the chair, and his
head was dizzied, vision black and spotty, and a ringing in his right ear. 
Languid, he trembled against the arm of the chair he sat in for support,
feeling the sudden rush of warmth from his small nose, from his lips.  H-He
knew what a punch felt like, but he'd never felt it on his - his face.  It had
always been on his back, or stomach, or side.  Places where Augustus could hide
it from guests.  Green eyes, blinking back to reality, stared down at the floor
below over the cliff of the arm of the chair, watching the blood string from
his nose and lips to the floor, making soft pittering noises.
 
The hit was a good enough distraction, it seemed, as his - as Augustus had
straightened from where he knelt.  From where he stood from his kneel, and the
man reached with his fingers nimble, tucking the hammer under his arm, and
there was a click of his belt.  Oh.  That would do well.  Another belt
beating?  Second one this week, but alright.  That was fine, and Sebastian had
turned his head, just in time to see -
 

No.  No.  No!    The belt was too tight, when Augustus slapped it down over the
young boy's tanned, freckled left arm.  Where the skin dented and bubbled up
around the tight, black leather strap, and Sebastian's blood sprayed in the air
when he sputtered, "S-Sir?!" and squirmed, kicked in his seat, pulling away
from the strap as it was wr-wrapped again, again, again... again...
 
And his face was wet.
 
It was wet, with saline and burgundy, eyes red rimmed and lashes dark, heavy,
and cold.  His heart pounded behind his ears, in his throat, and made it hard
to swallow when he tried to speak, when he started to beg.  When he started to
plead.  
 

"S-Sir?!"   and

"S-Sir, pl-  please  , what -" and
"-what ah - are - wh-what is -" and
he gasped, gasped when he saw the hammer drawn from under the tall man's arm,
when the slide of skin was heard in the grip of it, and Sebastian's bare feet,
cold and numb, kicked at the floor below, jerking and pulling and -
"Please!" and

"  Please, don't!  "
 

B-Because he thought, he thought,   Dad, no, please don't - don't smash my f-
fingers, don't smash my fingers, please -
 
And the voice.  That damn, stable, calm, placid, gentle, loving,
caringtenderwarmunderstandingSOFT VOICE         whispered, "Stay still. 
Staying still can make this all hurt much less."
 
 Still.
 Stay.
 Stay still, stay still, don't move - don't move -
 Daddy, please -
 
And the first nail was drawn between pinched fingers, and Sebastian didn't know
how loud he was gasping.  He wasn't aware of how deep his breaths were jerking
into lungs that were drowning, and blood sprayed with each frezied exhale, each
sob, each huff, teeth grinding and a, "No!" burned across his tongue from a
throat too tight, already growing hoarse from the fast-breathing, from the dry
throat and -
 
Sebastian was a reader.  He loved to escape in books, and he'd read enough ab-
about anatomy to know, to know that Sir Augustus positioned the nail between
the metacarpals, index and middle, in the groove of the skin.  Where the muscle
and tendon webbed between the bone, and the horrified look on Sebastian's face
drew every ounce of colour from it, his pupils the size of needle heads and his
muzzle coated in blood, spit, and tears.  Staring, snot bubbling out of his
nose, leaning away from his arm as though that would help, pleading,
apologising, because the hammer was drawing into the air, and perhaps he wasn't
forming words, anymore, perhaps S-Sir Augustus wouldn't, perhaps he was just
scaring the boy, and Sebastian took one deep breath when he saw the hammer
reach shoulder-height on his father and -
 
The scream.
He wasn't sure it was his own, because it didn't sound human.
 
Tender, small hands are easy to put steel through.  The first smack pierces
skin and interroseus muscle.  The second smack hits the wood.  The third smack
plants the nail in the grain.  The fourth burrows the nail into the wood, and
Sebastian wasn't sure if he was making any sound.  He wasn't sure if he was
breathing.  If he was awake.  A pain rippled up his arm like one he'd never
felt, and his body began to jerk with violent trembles, unable to move his
hand, unable to move his arm, and - and gripping, trying to - he couldn't move
his - his fingers - his -
 
Blood began rolling down the arm, over the handle, sticky between fingers,
melting him, fusing him to the chair.  Burning him there, and his blood made a
lacquer, it sealed the good wood and would pr-preserve it - p-preserve...
 
Shock.
Was he in shock?
 

His body shook as the only sound other than his own - own wheezing breathing
was the sound of the - hah - of the c-cellar door closing at the top of the
stairs, the doorknob turned so that it was a gentle '  click  ' when shut and -
and he - he -
 
He was alone.
 
Perhaps he thought that was it, when the man stooped over him, slowly knelt
down next to the chair, looking at the blood that ran the length of the arm,
gravity pulling it to drip on the cold floor, wasted.  And he tried to breathe,
he tried to focus, he tried to control the way he could only see Sir Augustus
through bubbles of tears, pooled in his eyes and turning his vision to
puddles.  He tried to speak, to apologise, but th-there was a -
 
No!
No, not - not again, not another - a - a second nail pressed down against his
hand, already swelling, already red and bloody, the point between the middle
and ring, and he worked into a frenzy, jerking his body as much as his
restraints would allow, and Sebastian screamed, sobbed.
 
 "SIR -
 SIRPLEASE - 
 PLEASE -
 FATHER -
 FAH -
 FATHER -
 FATH -
 DA-
 DAD-
 DADDY -
 DADDY -

DADDY    -

PLEASE!   "
 
The first hit was a crunch, and his scream was louder, this time.  The man had
hit the bone with the nail, and Sebastian's legs kicked wildly, the chair
rattling and shaking beneath him, and if Augustus told him to sit still, he
didn't hear over his own heaving, his own screaming, his own shrieking and
screeching and howling.  Another smack, and the nail hit the wood.  A third,
and fourth, it anchored, and Sebastian was writhing in the seat, sobbing, his
hair mussed and soaked with sweat already forming on his brow.
 
There was no relapse time.  A third nail was held against the space between the
ring and small, and the boy was retching, heaving, and now it made sense why
Augustus didn't let him have dinner.  The man hated the smell of bile, and
whenever Sebastian had sick on him, it only made the beatings worse.
 
Sebastian was gasping, panting, gasping, panting... 
 
Gasp... ing... 
 
Pant... ing...
 
Green eyes with pupils unfocused, dilated, stared ahead, breaths shallow,
sweating, shivering, pale.  Snot, tears.  Spit ran down his little chin, with
splinters of red sharp and jagged in the clear, runny liquid.
 
But that's when... 
 
When his breathing calmed.  When his eyes went dead.  When the fourth nail, he
didn't feel.  When his lips parted and from them, a red string with the
thickness of yarn blotted from a swollen lip and sprung to his lap, snapped,
and bounced back, broken. 
 
The soft thump of the hammer was heard, propped against the chair, and
Sebastian stared at the small window at the top of the wall, where sunlight
shone in, where the grass was level with the glass and he could see the bright
green blades.  "I'm sorry this had to happen," he heard, as though through a
barrel, a funnel.  Those wet, heavy eyes flickered slowly over to a blurred
image of a man with blond hair, who moved to kneel in front of the boy in the
chair.  Cold hands, wet with blood, cupped Sebastian's cheeks and smeared pink
against his saline cheeks, "But you understand why I had to do it, don't you,
Richie?"  Sir Augustus smiled, though Sebastian didn't see it.  He stared at
that window, eyes dead, dull, his breathing something hollow and soft.
 
B-But... but something in him twisted.  Coiled.  Burned.  It made his jaw lock,
and his teeth grind.  It made the small space next to his nose curl up into a
snarl, and his lip trembled with his words.  "Yes, s-sir," Sebastian hissed
through grit teeth, where his lips were all that moved to form words.  His eyes
heavy, and his tone defiant, the boy stared ahead at the wall, at that
window... until there was... movement in it...
 
A flutter of black and white landed in a flurry, erratic and quick.  A magpie
tapped away at the glass, where the shiny silver handle of it had caught its
eye, and that's where the blond boy focused, a snarl on his lips.
 
He didn't hear Sir Augustus, when the man spoke again, "I'm going to take them
out, now, son.  We'll go upstairs, and Wil will help tend to you."
 
Staring at the magpie, beak scraping the silver handle of the window; he said
nothing, merely growled.  
 
He didn't need a prince to save him.
He needed a king.
Sebastian barely jerked, when the grind of the claw of the hammer gripped the
head of the first, bloody nail, and there was a slide as the steady hands drew
the steel back out, taking bits of skin with it against it's jagged edges.
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