Sherlock huffs the beginning of a laugh, just one indignant, darkly amused -- defensive -- contraction of the diaphragm. "Obvious you've never had one if you think that's what they're for."
Which is cruel, perhaps; he can't tell. It's certainly honest. In his mind she's some kind of fortunate if it's true. Given a blank slate, not born into the sort of tangled, awful mess that he was.
Still. Still, that probably bears some elaboration. "No idea where my father is. Don't care to know. He left with the maid when I was seven. Couldn't stand having a freak for a son. Mycroft was bad enough. My brother, Mycroft. Do you know where Moriarty got that extra information about me? The bits he threw in to make his story look legitimate?"
He pauses a moment, mouth set in an unhappy line. "He knew. Mycroft knows plenty about anybody he'd like to. I couldn't escape him if I wanted, but he doesn't give enough of a toss about me not to willingly hand the people who want me dead the ammunition to accomplish it. There's my mother; I suppose she'd have cared once. Doesn't tend to seek me out though. Not in years. I am a disappointment. Brother in politics and all I do is chase madmen around."
There's something in his eyes, a bright conviction, almost fervor. "Family isn't there to care about you. It's there to hurt you, either because they're used to or because they want to. Most murder isn't random, you know. Not strangers at all. Daughters murder their mothers for the insurance money. Husbands murder their wives because they can't stand the nagging a moment longer. I met a woman who poisoned her child slowly, over years, because she enjoyed the sympathy people gave her when the girl suffered. Your poor girl -- family is an excuse to use, and the more you care about someone the more they'll use you. That's how it works."
no subject
Which is cruel, perhaps; he can't tell. It's certainly honest. In his mind she's some kind of fortunate if it's true. Given a blank slate, not born into the sort of tangled, awful mess that he was.
Still. Still, that probably bears some elaboration. "No idea where my father is. Don't care to know. He left with the maid when I was seven. Couldn't stand having a freak for a son. Mycroft was bad enough. My brother, Mycroft. Do you know where Moriarty got that extra information about me? The bits he threw in to make his story look legitimate?"
He pauses a moment, mouth set in an unhappy line. "He knew. Mycroft knows plenty about anybody he'd like to. I couldn't escape him if I wanted, but he doesn't give enough of a toss about me not to willingly hand the people who want me dead the ammunition to accomplish it. There's my mother; I suppose she'd have cared once. Doesn't tend to seek me out though. Not in years. I am a disappointment. Brother in politics and all I do is chase madmen around."
There's something in his eyes, a bright conviction, almost fervor. "Family isn't there to care about you. It's there to hurt you, either because they're used to or because they want to. Most murder isn't random, you know. Not strangers at all. Daughters murder their mothers for the insurance money. Husbands murder their wives because they can't stand the nagging a moment longer. I met a woman who poisoned her child slowly, over years, because she enjoyed the sympathy people gave her when the girl suffered. Your poor girl -- family is an excuse to use, and the more you care about someone the more they'll use you. That's how it works."