Sherlock Holmes did not deal well with doubt.
He leaned back on the hard seat as the rotors of the helicopter spun at increasingly faster speeds, the corners of the ear-muffs digging into his reddened earlobes as he stared outside. It was cold and rainy and dreary. Much like his inner landscape as he pondered on Mrs Hudson's monologue earlier in the day.
She'd been dusting, frail body moving with nervous energy as always. "Has to work full time just to pay the mortgage and pay the bills and day care. Day care doesn't come cheap nowadays, does it though? He has to drop Rosie first and catch the bus to commute to work and then pick her up after school. You know how much he hates domestic routine? Almost as much as you do!" She waved the mop vaguely. "Run ragged he is. He doesn't listen. I told him marriage will change things. I told him having children will change things. Expects life to carry on the way it was. One cannot go back, you know? He's made his bed, now he has to lie on it."
She bent over the desk to stack the assorted papers. "I think he was hinting at perhaps coming back to 221B. Well, I wasn't about to encourage that. Not without knowing what you wanted!" She nodded firmly. "I just pretended to be even more flustered than usual. He bought it! A bit on the nose, he was too. Smelled a wee bit of alcohol. I hope he has it under control…." She met Sherlock's thoughtful eyes with her own. Her face held no suggestion. Merely a question. For that he was immeasurably grateful.
He leaned his weary head against the glass of the helicopter window and stared blankly outside at the grey monochrome of the sky and pondered. What to do about John Watson?
No. Sherlock Holmes had never dealt well with doubt.
He stepped into the now familiar window-less room with its glass cage within which sat his incarcerated sister. Sister. He was still coming to grips with the term. His shoes crunched and echoed in the silence of the room as he gazed at the seated still figure of Eurus. Beautiful. Haunted. Brilliant. Sister.
She looked up calmly and slowly rose to her feet. He dropped his bag and stood, hands loose by his sides, palms open as he allowed her scrutiny. She stared for a few moments.
Silently she went to the corner to pick up her violin and tucked it under her chin with a flick of her long hair, eyes still locked with his. He took a deep breath and bent down to open the zipper of his bag. Pulled the Stradivarius out. Adjusted the knobs. This room, this time, Eurus's presence had become a sanctuary over the past several visits. No complications. Just brother and sister playing music and communicating through that music and their eyes.
They began to play, swaying with gentle choreography. He closed his eyes- a further concession. Her violin echoed her gratitude as her eyes flicked over his form. Mycroft's sartorial elegance may outshine Sherlock's but he would never be able to usurp the flamboyant air of authority and beauty that Sherlock exhibited so effortlessly.
She frowned. His shoulders were tense, his grip on the bow too tight. His jaw was set and his eyes restless under closed bluish lids. His playing could never match hers but he was usually able to draw the soul out of the music. But not now. Distracted. Tired. Sleep deprived. Undecided. The look sat badly on him. On that singular evening she had spent with him as Faith Smith- even when dishevelled, drugged and tormented he had had resolution on his side.
No, this would not do. She thought for a bit.
"So, do you?" she asked, careful to keep her tone neutral. "Miss him?"
Sherlock's eyes flew open. Her eyebrow flickered in acknowledgement of his surprise. After all it had been months since she had spoken to him using words.
He stopped playing and watched her, eyes narrowed. The question hung between them. Keeping his eyes on her, he lowered the violin slowly, the bow hung low in his other hand. He took a deep breath as his eyes darted over her face. Deciding. Why would you ask me this, Eurus? Can I trust you?
"Trust is a tenuous agreement between two people; one agrees to extend it on the proviso that the other behaves in a mutually agreed upon and predictable manner," she said drily, answering the unasked question she read in his expression.
His jaw clenched with annoyance as he hesitated for a long moment. He put the violin and bow down on his empty bag and then straightened to his full height, hands clasped behind his back, busy brain racing to decipher where Eurus was leading. She placed her violin and bow gently down on the floor and straightened back up. Mirroring his previous posture she stood loose and open, looking back steadily, allowing the side of her mouth to twitch in the spirit of comradeship. Read me, brother mine. I have nothing to hide.
"You are not my therapist." The baritone reverberated in the empty room.
"No. No validation here." She cocked her head slightly. "Sorry."
He snorted softly.
"You are not a priest."
"Sorry, no. No benediction either." Flippant. "What am I, dear brother? Right here, right now?"
His mouth pursed, nostrils flaring at the challenge in her voice.
"What is it that you value above all else in this world, Sherlock?" She egged him on.
"My logical analytical intellect," he answered.
Head inclined slightly, she added, "Unobscured by emotion. Objective."
His eyelids fluttered briefly as he took a sharp breath. "A mirror?"
A trace of pride in her voice as she echoed, "A mirror. Right here. Right now. That's what I am." Gracefully lowering herself on the floor, she tucked her knees beneath her.
"So, do you miss him?"
As though coming to a decision, Sherlock walked up to the far wall and lowered himself to the floor as well. Leaning against the wall, his long legs stretched in front. He tilted his head to the ceiling as he thought.
Eurus waited patiently.
"Yes. He was the only one who saw….." he broke off and sighed.
His fists unclenched, something in him set free at the admission. Still staring at the ceiling, "We exist as innumerable facets on the surface of a crystal. Each person perceives us differently. The accumulation of countless perceptions creates the persona. Not who we are but merely a illusion."
Eurus said, "The perceptions of the one seemingly looking at you is in fact a mirror of how they perceive themselves."
Sherlock took a deep breath. "While what we truly are within stays unseen." He swallowed. "He saw ME."
Eurus stayed still, observing. Sherlock's face looked wistful, troubled as his blank eyes stared at the ceiling. Resigned. No, no, NO.
Black hair fell like a veil over her eyes as Eurus tilted her head forward.
"Let's play a game, Sherlock."
He straightened his head and looked at her, gaze sharp.
"Five words. I give you a name. You give me five words to describe how they perceive you and how you perceive them."
Sherlock snorted. "Word association? I thought you were not my therapist."
"Not the first words that come to mind. Not to unearth rooted subconscious connections. Reflection. Deliberation. The helicopter is not due to leave for another two and half hours. Take your time."
"And what are the rules of this game?"
"Only one. No shields. You show and say exactly what you think."
Sherlock looked down briefly as he considered for a long moment.
Finally he asked, "What would I gain?"
"What could you lose?"
Sherlock's expression softened as he looked at her. Family is all we have in the end, Mycroft Holmes, Mrs Hudson had said a long time ago.
John stays…..This is family…..That's why he stays…. His face hardened.
He looked at Eurus. His game face was on.
"Very well." He jerked his chin up. "I'll play your game."