"I that am lost, oh, who will find me?..."
John woke with a start, ears pricking.
"Redbeard!" he heard, followed by an anguished, small, "Victor!"
He was stumbling down the hallway and reaching for the knob to the guest room door (Sherlock was staying over until 221B was a little more habitable, a long process but it was coming along) before he could even register it. But as he stepped into the dark room, he hesitated.
"Please, Eurus. Please."
In the faint, filtered moonlight John could see that Sherlock's eyes were still squeezed shut, face shining wetly, and his bedding twisted, more evidence of yet another restless night.
He took a step forward when suddenly Sherlock jolted awake, pulling in erratic, desperate breathes of air, like a man drowning. His hands came up to cover his face as he struggled to compose himself and John slunk, unseen, out of the room as he failed and began to shudder with silent sobs.
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John started speaking as he strode into the subterranean office, "Have you seen him? He hardly sleeps, and that's saying something when its Sherlock."
He took a seat across from the oldest Holmes sibling without waiting for an invitation. "And that's not all. He turned down a good case this afternoon. It was at least a 7."
Mycroft breathed a sigh and leaned back in his seat, steepling his fingers in front of his chin in a perfect reflection of one of his brother's most familiar poses.
"I am aware. I'm the one that sent the Detective Inspector." Of course.
"But you've not seen him yourself?" John already knew the answer.
"He would not appreciate my concern right now. He blames me, to a degree, for what happened." He dropped his hands and looked down, worrying his suit's buttons and adding regretfully. "Its easier for him that way, I suppose."
"You lied to him."
"Sherlock, the bones I found... they're not dogs' bones..."
Mycroft's hands fell to his lap, and he answered stonily. "I told you, he was traumatized."
"That can't justify lying to him about his entire childhood." John was only too aware, with some trepidation which he was careful not to reveal, what deep waters he was wading into.
A long moment passed, and just as he opened his mouth, convinced that he wasn't going to get a response to his accusation-
"We found him once, in the middle of the night, on the grounds in his pajamas. Digging desperately with his bare hands." He spoke softly, gaze turned inward. "We had to carry him back inside."
John shifted in his seat.
"I dug. I dug and dug and dug... and I found nothing. No one."
"That all stopped, of course, when we left Musgrave Hall following the fire, but he was never the same."
Mycroft lifted himself wearily and walked behind John to the small bar where he poured out two drinks, two fingers each, handing one to John, and lifting the other to his own lips before continuing, "When he stopped drawing pictures of the Redbeard we'd all known, who had in all considerations been part of the family, and started drawing pictures of a dog that had never really existed in his stead..." Mycroft smiled sadly over his drink. "...it was a relief. We began to get little pieces back."
John cleared his throat. "Therapy didn't help?"
Mycroft let out a sardonic huff. "Sherlock? Of course not, he was smarter and more stubborn than anyone our parents could find. It didn't take them long to realize what a futility it was for him."
Something hot welled up within him, "So you all just gave up on Sherlock like you gave up on Eurus?"
Mycroft stiffened and if John were anyone else he'd have flinched under the icy look he gave him before walking back behind his desk and seating himself heavily. "What else could anyone do? You weren't there. You can't possibly know."
John shook his head at the wall to his left. He sighed, and leaned forward in his seat. "No, but I'm here now."
Mycroft nodded pensively. "So you are, Dr. Watson. So you are." Their eyes met, both sad and determined. "And that I think will make all the difference... this time."
"Sixteen by six, brother, and under we go..."
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