Shame, fear, disappointment, and sadness would plague any father at this point in their teenager son’s life. But Sherlock carried weary shoulders and a stoic face. He could not fathom the cruel reality thrust upon him. His son was a Veil, a true abomination. He could not accept it, but at the behest of his wife he had resolved to write to Headmistress Wolflight of the Darklight Academy, but a week later had still been anxiously awaiting a response. Waltz’s last correspondence with the headmistress had left them utterly confused. Most victims of the unearthly demonic parasite were known to die horrendously at birth. But Victor was a remarkable miracle, so there was a chance that he would survive. According to Wolflight, Victor’s magical potential was beyond normal. 

“I wouldn’t be surprised if you knew about this all along—” Victor blamed him. 

“You said nothing to me,” Sherlock countered before he could finish. An excuse to protect his own failure of not being able to see the signs. Maybe he saw them, but he wanted to ignore them altogether. 

“Tell me he’s alright?” Irene entered the room with panicked enthusiasm. 

“I’m fine, Mother.” His mood soothed at the sight and sound of his mother, who sat beside him on the bed and placed her delicate hands on his cheekbones and forehead. He knew his wife comforted their son too much, and that that was a fight he would not win. So he stayed by the side of the bed quietly. After all, observing was his greatest skill. 

“No signs of fever.” She smiled warmly at Victor, who looked like a child once again, and then she shot a look at her husband before looking at Victor. “Sweetheart, I think it’s time we all talk.” 

Sherlock grumbled something incoherent until it became a comprehensible yet simple “Good.” He reached into his waistcoat for his pipe and a small, leather pouch of tobacco, and prepared a bowl to calm his nerves. 

“Darling, do you remember when we spoke last week?” 

A chill ran up Sherlock’s spine. He wanted to tell his son so many times but didn’t know how and now the time had come. 

“Last week? It didn’t happen again, did it?” Victor snapped at his mother for the first time. 

Feelings of the past, almost too far out of memory, came back to Sherlock. Early childhood memories of his son, and then a few years later. The same unfathomable, terrible feeling. A feeling of time lost. The same outright confusion and abject horror in the furthest reaches of his mind. His son had slept more than he lived. 

Victor dropped his head into his hands as pain slowly returned to the background of his psyche. 

“Victor?” his mother asked, worried. 

“Is happening again,” Victor murmured. 

Sherlock knew this must have terrified him outright, and he felt as though he should’ve said something to his son as they happened. 

Until now, it had been easily ignorable, but it was changing. Doubtlessly getting worse. Sherlock, realising the truth of the perpetual consistency of his condition, had turned red, and unable to contain the discomfort within, his voice snapped at him. 

“You have a disease that we don’t quite understand ourselves. It is not from this world.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed as he took a long drag on his pipe. “You should know that there is a force in this universe that is hidden from most. That force is magic.” Sherlock shot an accusatory glare towards Edward, who, for the first time in Victor’s presence, gave a casual but equally ruthless look back at him, holding them for once as equals against one another. Sherlock quickly returned his gaze to his son. 

“I am a warlock, one who is born with an innate ability to manipulate and channel this so-called Seith. Magic. Your mother, she is mortal. You, my son, are a second-generation warlock; he who is born an offspring of a pure warlock and a mortal.” His tone turned sour and resistant, hoping he wouldn’t have to tell his son of this, and hoping to avoid it all in exchange for a comfortable, normal life. But it would not be the case, and Sherlock silently cursed himself now for trying to contain something that would so obviously blow up in his face, eventually. He spluttered from the smoke. 

“Mortal?” Victor asked. 

“Humans,” Irene, ever the gentle one, answered, putting a hand on their son’s shoulder. “If you’re not in the right health to talk about this now, you can rest first.” 

“No. I want to hear it all now.” Victor looked to his father with a fierce sternness that reminded him much of his own younger self. “Tell me,” Victor demanded with a firmness that could not be ignored. But despite the tense atmosphere of the room, Irene finally gave way to her emotions, and she held him close, weeping. 

“We were so worried about you, we had to call in help. It had been so long, and you didn’t show any signs of waking up soon. We feared the worst, we did.” Victor let his arms stretch around her to comfort her. 

“I’m okay, Mother. I mean it.” But that was an obvious lie. Sherlock noticed the voice was laboured and his breathing wheezed uncomfortably. He considered his son’s feelings, but he may have been not sensitive enough to what was happening. 

“If you feel good tomorrow, we’ll go for a stroll.” He smiled at his son, but something continued to nag at his mind, and he gave a subtle motion to his wife, who took the hint. 

“I shall make us all lunch.” Irene went to kiss her son’s head before moving to the door. “Edward?” she queried.

Edward, who had been distracted tinkering away with the vial of medicine for Victor, jumped up and followed Mrs Waltz out of the bedroom and down the stairs, leaving Sherlock alone with his son. 

Sherlock sucked on his pipe thoughtfully, leaving a long, drawn-out silence between them both. 

His son resented him whenever something important needed to be said between them, Sherlock would always avoid it, or provide one of his famous silences. But it was time to speak to his son. To have a man-to-man conversation. Why can’t he ever just say things normally? Sherlock struggled to understand why he was always so stubborn, and he hated himself for it. This was something that stood around in him the moment he became a father. 

Finally, that deafening silence broke when his father finally found the courage to speak again. 

“Victor. Warlocks—my kin, your kin, and your grandfather’s kin—are not of this world. We are from a world distinct from mortals like your mother.” 

Victor's expression screwed up like he didn’t understand what he was hearing. “Mortal sounds racist. I hate when you always speak unclearly.” He got himself out of bed, stretched his legs down, and opened the curtains to take in the noon sunlight entirely. 

“Mortals are those born without celestial blood. We as warlocks possess a powerful bloodline unlike humans. That’s why our kind calls them mortals.” 

His son had frozen in place, for something outside kept him distracted. 

“Who is that?” asked Victor. 

Sherlock stirred towards the window. A dark figure waited outside; a woman in a black cloak with unkempt, dark hair, that was kept tame under a big, black hat. There was something about her nature that bewitched anyone that set eyes on her. 

He frantically headed to the door. “Don’t come down, unless we call you. Do you understand?” Before Victor even had the chance to object, Sherlock had disappeared out into the hallway and down the stairs.