Hi there,

I´m back with an attempt on a backstory to "The Movements of Bees" - some clues concerning Sherlock´s past and relationship with Mycroft and their father. This is definitely going to be shorter than "Bees", but don´t worry, I do have a sequel to "Bees" in mind!

And, please be aware that since this story deals with Sherlock´s past, it might contain several severe, possibly triggering topics!

Enjoy!

Beta´d by the amazing Impractical Beekeeping! May the hive always be with you :) !

A Daring Escape

It is extraordinary how the mind works. It can conjure up memories and images of the past in a flash, in a moment of blazing clarity which propels the person who remembers back to an earlier life, to instances forgotten or wilfully deleted. Time seems to rewind back to whatever the mind deems necessary to point at that particular moment.

Thus, when Sherlock asks John to use his imagination on what he would be thinking in the last moments of his life, and John replies "Dear God, let me live", the whirlwind of energy which is Sherlock´s mind pauses for a long, painful second.

Because this is exactly what he has found himself silently praying on one particular night years ago, a night he normally does his best to avoid remembering.

It takes all his willpower to reboot his brain, which threatens to lose itself in this memory, and return to the case at hand.

But he knows now that he and John do share an experience, even though the circumstances can´t be more different.

They both know what it means to silently beg for their lives.

"Hey, laddie, fancy a drink on a Friday night? Don´t keep yourself cooped up in this respectable building for too long. You might end up like your brother – stiff and humourless like his umbrella."

The young, blonde man who is leaning in the open door of Sherlock´s small office is sending him a mischievous smile, but Sherlock just shakes his head curtly.

"No thank you, Connor. I´ve still a report to write, and anyway, I do have an appointment to keep", he declines the friendly offer.

Connors smile fades into an expression of serious concern. "Look, you´ve been here for a month and hardly spoken to anyone. It would certainly help to melt the ice if you came along for a pint or two." The Irishman´s eyes twinkle again. "Bet you have a load of Holmes family secrets to tell. Would be most entertaining, I presume," he adds, with a mock posh accent reminiscent of Sherlock´s elder brother.

Sherlock, who has started to return to his computer screen, pauses and frowns at Connor. His colleague has been doing his best in trying to coax him into the company of his fellow-workers, but Sherlock is just not interested. Many years at school and university he has spent in solitude, and has learned to regard casual chats as merely a waste of time. He has lived through too many incidents when people, outraged by his observations, turned on him. Obviously, he is only too adept in missing out on the universal agreement not to ask too many questions and to accept half-truths and lies without further questioning in order to bond with others.

Sherlock has never excelled at hiding his observations, opinions and conclusions, after all. The thrill of collecting the data his ever-observing mind is absorbing permanently and of setting the pieces together to complete an image, is not only far too alluring, it is part of his nature. As much as he might wish he could, he can´t stop the fast-calculating processor in his head and divert to the mundane. Besides, he reasons with himself, he urgently needs a change of scene tonight, to forget the oppressing circumstances he has been forced to accept. He has to put as much space between him and his coworkers as possible. Actually, a change of condition is what he desperately needs.

Absent-mindedly, Sherlock rubs gently at his left wrist. It´s a good thing that Connor is far too trusting a soul to get suspicious at the gesture. Instead, he sighs dramatically, and pushes himself off the doorframe. "Too bad. Guess I can´t convince you to change your mind. Of course you can´t possibly stick around with me when you´ve already decided to grace someone else with your company." He winks." I only hope the lady knows to be grateful for the honour. Lunch on Monday?"

Sherlock nods, more because he is willing Connor to leave than because he is truly interested in his company during lunch break. Even though the Irishman seems to be a decent enough fellow, Sherlock had no desire to engage himself in tedious social interactions and necessities. He barely listens to Connor´s words of goodbye. Instead, he continues to stare blankly at the computer screen, his mind rewinding his father´s latest lecture on talent, duty and gratefulness.

Involuntarily, his fists ball, and he brings his right hand down on the table, hard. Gingerly, he opens his hurting fingers, staring blindly at the calluses there, a reminder that life consists of so much more than his father´s most favoured virtues. His chest tightens and his pulse quickens as he realises that he is trapped, imprisoned within the walls of this unofficial governmental facility, under the tight surveillance of one of Mycroft´s closest friends.

The so-called second chance his family has offered him after his first arrest for possession and three months in rehab does actually feel worse than a life sentence. He is simply smothered by his family´s concern, devoid of any wish to live up to their expectations, especially his father´s. He feels extinct.

Neither the insufferable, dull company nor the sentimental caring of fellow humans can help him to unravel the maze of his complicated self. He has long ago decided to solely rely on himself. This is what protects him best – from his fears, useless hopes and disturbing sentiments. Although they made him promise, he has no inclination to give up the only remedy that converts him into a socially acceptable being. He is not willing to give up using.

His fingers find the switch to shut the device down, and he grabs his coat and scarf and leaves the office swiftly, his fingertips already tingling in anticipation.

Sherlock steps outside the hateful building, and feels instantly lighter, despite the fierce wind which threatens to rip his coat off him. He closes it swiftly and huddles into the familiar warmth of his scarf, feeling more like himself by the second. Contrary to his brother, he tends to feel stifled whenever he stays inside a building too long. He prefers exposing himself to the elements. It´s not only curiosity which lures him into testing his resilience against nature´s whims, it´s his independent spirit which needs the challenge and the accompanying feeling of freedom and space, even in a city like London.

He shakes a cigarette from its package and fumbles for his lighter while he starts walking. The first drag and the fresh winter air contribute to clearing his mind, and he steps forward with a new determination in his stride, disregarding the headache which has been building up for the past hour.

He observes employees bustling from the surrounding buildings towards the nearest tube stations, and already feels detached, like an art connoisseur regarding a tableau of forms and colours enigmatically arranged to blend into each other. It is a rather gloomy painting, as winter has not been kind to London´s citizens so far. Persistent gales from the North Sea have been carrying cold, damp air into the capital for weeks. It has been thoroughly uncomfortable for everybody, the streets freezing and wet, the stores and offices draughty and overheated in the vain attempt to retain a semblance of warmth in the buildings.

Sherlock couldn´t care less, although he would consider snow an improvement, for it dampens maddening hyperactivity of the city. Snow would help him to remember cheerful childhood days spent at his family´s home. It would keep his mind from the fact that he is staying in a metropolis, a spot where one´s profession and income is tremendously overrated. It would divert him from the fact that he does not feel right in his life. And certainly not in the position his father has recommended him into, where he is supposed to conduct research for a secret government project, bullied by a boss with a violent temper and no tolerance for objections.

Sherlock´s independent spirit revolts against instructions he regards as absurd, and he refuses to believe in the significance of these experiments and analyses. To make matters worse, his reports and recommendations seem to simply disappear somewhere within the institution´s communication channels, never leaving an impact on an ongoing investigation. Frequently, he is warned to be patient, to just continue with his tasks without asking too many questions. But he can´t abide staying quiet when he is presented with a puzzle to solve. He wants the whole picture, not only bits and pieces of it.

Even though he has long figured out that those who do socialise successfully with the influential people will be promoted, he can´t be bothered to keep his mouth shut when he knows that he´s right. His talent of annoying his superiors is certain to contribute to shutting him out from any prospect of promotion. He can picture his father´s rage whenever he fails to be polite and engaging, can hear his superior´s voice calling him a failure, the black sheep of the Holmes family.

Which he is, actually, he thinks wryly. To his knowledge, not one of his nearer or farther kin has nurtured a less socially acceptable vice than drinking.

He takes another drag on his cigarette and turns around the next corner, away from the mundane and commonplace, into his very own realm of substantiality and experience.