On Pins And Needles: Her Last Wish
by J. Baillier & 7PercentSolution
Summary:
Many readers of the "On Pins and Needles" series have asked us whether Sherlock ever learns the truth behind Mycroft's intense involvement in his life. This is the answer.
Opening notes:
This story takes place some years after the events of "The Breaking Wheel" and "On the Rack". Being familiar with the prequel in the series, "2007", is also highly advisable before reading this, since it provides the full story of how things came to be this way, particularly regarding Mycroft's role.
Mycroft usually summons them to his office when there's official business, usually something pertaining to The Work. This time, they're standing in Mycroft's library in his home in Belgravia instead.
"Have a seat," the older Holmes prompts. It's less an order, more a polite request, which instantly puts John on guard. Mycroft rarely attempts to charm either of them these days, so this distinction is noteworthy.
Sherlock remains standing, simply crosses his arms. John, beside him, straightens his spine slightly. Prepare for anything.
Mycroft's lips part in an exhalation. He looks nervous, apprehensive, unsure. Bracing for something. John has never seen him like this, and alarms start ringing in his head.
"This day has been a long time coming, although I could never be certain it would arrive," Mycroft declares. His tone lacks its usual cold confidence. To John, he sounds almost... apologetic?
John is confused, but Sherlock is instantly annoyed. "Stop being cryptic and get to the point. Terrorist plot? A spy about to be assassinated? A misplaced pastry?"
"The issue at hand is more of a private nature, and I'd appreciate it if you rose above all your usual pettiness for a moment. What I am about to tell you will be the end of a long silence, a simultaneous fulfilment of a dying wish and a medical necessity. I wouldn't be doing this if it were not for the latter reason. Certainly, the person who made the request had forfeited the right to have her wishes respected. Someone who has done terrible enough deeds should lose most of the human rights others take for granted."
"What are you talking about?"
"Not a 'what', brother mine, but 'who'. The roads we walk have demons beneath, and ours have been waiting for a long time," Mycroft says quietly.
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Oh, now who's being a drama queen?"
John silences him with a glare. It should be obvious to all present that whatever Mycroft Holmes is about to divulge, he does not do this lightly, nor is saying the words out loud easy. Sherlock's habitual impatience with his brother is not making this any more comfortable for Mycroft, and John can sense that he needs to keep Sherlock focused on listening before reacting. Things have been better between the two brothers during the years after Moriarty's demise; working together finally to achieve freedom from such a foe had bought on a truce – as had the events following Sherlock's illness – but they had never buried the hatchet entirely.
"Once, you believed that I was part of a vast conspiracy to contain and control you," Mycroft says.
John thinks the reminder is quite unnecessary and counterproductive to making Sherlock receptive.
"And you made sure that belief was medicated out of me," Sherlock snaps back. It's waspish; bitterness is still an undercurrent in their relationship, no matter what truces have been set in place recently.
John sighs. Through the years, Sherlock has shared with him bits of the events of 2007, but he still has a hunch that there's a lot he doesn't know. He refuses to discuss Mycroft's role in the events much, at least beyond still blaming his brother for things which from John's perspective could not all have been the older Holmes' doing.
Mycroft glances at John as if seeking help.
John shrugs. "Don't look at me. I wasn't there in 2007."
"Some of your paranoia back then was… justified. There is – was – a conspiracy, though the purpose of it was, above all, to protect you. I have been watching you, on the orders of those higher above. You have done nothing to warrant it, but it was decided that erring on the side of caution was absolutely necessary."
"Erring on the side of caution?" Sherlock echoes, tone dripping with venom. "Why? What crime was I suspected of planning to commit?"
"More a case of guilt by association. I will show you the evidence first so that we'll not be stuck on arguing whether this is yet another ploy to mislead you."
"Well, get on with it, then." Sherlock waves a hand to prompt him to present whatever this proof entails.
"This wasn't my choice, Sherlock, but if I were you, I wouldn't be in such a hurry to learn more. If you had the slightest inkling of the significance of the news, you would not be as eager to receive it."
"Stop selling the pig and serve the sausage."
"Once I have said what needs to be said, I hope that you will examine what I have done in the light of my motive, which has always been to protect you and to preserve your freedom. All that I have done, I have done to protect this family and, above all, you, and that has required significant personal sacrifice. It has required misleading you, lying to you, and keeping a significant part of your past hidden."
"That's hardly news, Mycroft," Sherlock scoffs. "There's a lot that doesn't make sense, and I know that there are holes in my memory. Holes you've done nothing to help me fill."
"Until now."
Sherlock shifts slightly closer to John, brushing an arm against his as though seeking backup. Perhaps it's finally sinking in that whatever they are about to learn, will be potentially disturbing.
John says nothing. It is not often Mycroft Holmes admits to what can be read between the lines – that he wants Sherlock not to judge or abandon him because of something that has happened in their past.
"There are traumatic events in our past which you elected to forget, or your mind created placeholders for them. Regrettably, the final wish of a person most involved in this was that those closely guarded secrets be dragged out into the open – a proverbial Pandora's Box to be opened, upon their death. That wish could have been ignored to protect you, even though she no longer poses a threat to you. I no longer believe that learning about her poses a significant risk to your mental health, and the manner of her death raises a physical health issue that cannot be ignored, so I won't lie to you anymore."
Sherlock hitches a hip onto the heavy oak desk in the study and crosses his arms. John is considering the possibilities that could explain what Mycroft is hinting at. Something odd, perhaps a different biological parent who has died? Could one or both of the brothers have been adopted?
Mycroft flips up the lid of his laptop, opens a program and turns the screen so that Sherlock can see.
It's a video. In it, a small child of perhaps five years of age and easily recognisable as Sherlock since John has seen some childhood photographs before is playing in the waterline, bashing the waves lapping at the sand with a stick and a determined expression. Close by, a small girl, roughly his age, stands, nose scrunched up with disapproval, her piercing glare directed at something out of the camera view. In a moment, another small boy, a little taller than Sherlock and with blonde hair, appears in the picture, carrying a round stone he presents to Sherlock. Not Mycroft, John realises. They marvel at the treasure side by side, then dissolve into laughter that can only be seen, not heard. The video looks to John as if it is an old home movie transcribed into a digital format.
Sherlock looks up, and his gaze locks onto his big brother. "What is this?"
"Do you remember any of it?"
"I remember the beach near our old house, yes, but-"
"Do you remember Redbeard?"
"Of course I do. This must've been close to the time he died."
"It might be more accurate to say that this is close to the time he came into being."
Sherlock leans closer to scrutinise the figures moving on the screen. "What are you saying?"
"You used to play pirates with a friend: Redbeard and Yellowbeard. You were Yellowbeard. Mycroft points at the blonde boy who has just walked into the view covered by the camera lens. "This is Redbeard. Victor Trevor. You were best friends."
"But Redbeard was... Redbeard," Sherlock whispers.
Instead of arguing back, Mycroft points to the small girl, now at the edge of the screen, standing motionless in the shallow water, her thin legs sticking out from the wellington boots like beanstalks out of a flower pot.
"This is Eurus Holmes. Your little sister. Our little sister."
"I don't understand. Are you saying Mummy or Father had an affair? And we spent time with the offspring once?"
"No. Eurus is not a half-sibling. She lived with us until she was five years and seven months old. She lived with us until a month after Victor – Redbeard – disappeared."
"Redbeard was hit by a car," Sherlock says quietly, frowning. "Father said that he was hurt so badly that I wouldn't want to see him."
"I know it's difficult to square what you think you remember with this." Mycroft points at the screen. "You wrote yourself a better story. Sherlock; do you remember the one allergy of mine?"
Sherlock is breathing heavily, and John worries he might have a panic attack. Anyone would be deeply unsettled by such a carpet pull about what they remember about their childhood. What they think they remember. He places a palm on Sherlock's bicep.
"Dogs," Sherlock manages. "You had asthma. We had to leave a village fete once because there were too many dogs."
Mycroft nods. "Father was allergic as well."
John steps closer to the screen. He needs to help Sherlock to keep focused, to give him data.
"Why would Sherlock not remember her?" he points at the girl.
"It could never be proven, but it seems quite certain that she was responsible for the disappearance of Victor."
"How?" Sherlock asks, and he sounds calmer, now.
John's lip quirks up. Give Sherlock a mystery and his focus will instantly reorient itself.
"It seems most likely that she led him somewhere and made sure he could not escape, perhaps even hurt him. It's very likely that he died."
"I don't remember that. Did it happen elsewhere?" Sherlock peers at the screen, watching tiny Victor Trevor sitting on his haunches near the waterline.
John, on the other hand, can't get enough of watching the tiny version of Sherlock, now waving around a wooden sword.
"No." Mycroft pauses, draws a breath.
"Why don't I remember it?"
"Sherlock, there was no family dog. No Irish setter by the name of Redbeard. Redbeard was Victor, and he was your very best and only friend, until much later when John came along."
"That's preposterous. Even if I forgot about Victor, how could I forget about a sister?"
Mycroft steps back into the dimmer light in the corner to allow John closer to the screen. "Because of what happened after Victor disappeared. Eurus started a fire in our home, the purpose which was to dispose of- you," he says after a pause. "She attempted murder by arson, and in the process, the family home was destroyed. We moved to Surrey. Eurus was hospitalised and so were you, in your case due to a severe inhalation injury. She went to a psychiatric unit, you to a burns centre, after which you required an extended period of further hospitalisation at Cheltenham. You could not, and would not remember because it was too much, and the inhalation injury also severely affected your memory. Traumatic stress combined with carbon monoxide poisoning together with your neuropsychiatric issues were enough to erase her from your memory. You and Victor had not been friends for long, but long enough for him to have been very, very important to you. You forgot his disappearance because you were trying to protect yourself, and the physical effects of the fire ensured that you were successful." Mycroft is speaking more slowly than usual, and his tone is soft. He also doesn't have a habit of repeating himself patiently likes this.
"I don't accept that. I can't accept that!" Sherlock argues. "It's ridiculous to suggest I'd forget about all that, I wouldn't be able to delete such a thing." He points at the screen. "At that age, I had no idea about a Mind Palace, but I wasn't stupid."
"Intelligence and the ability to regulate memory go hand in hand. The carbon monoxide poisoning did the rest. After the permanence of your selective amnesia was established, a decision had to be made. It was judged too dangerous to inform you of what you had erased from memory. In the new house, there was no evidence of her. Our parents did not speak of her; at least not to you. That was the advice they received from a child psychiatrist; according to her, you were too deeply traumatised by what had happened that trying to jog your memory could prove disastrous. Erasing her existence was possible because Eurus never came home."
"As time went on, those in charge of containing her feared that awareness of her existence might make you wish to communicate with her and that you'd discover a way in which to do that. That you might raise, should I say a racket about her confinement? A decision was made to let you remain in ignorance. You're not the only one, by the way. As far as our parents are concerned, she perished in a fire at a psychiatric facility a few years after the fire at Musgrave Hall. That lie seemed kinder than telling them the truth—that she had callously murdered many in the process of setting that fire.
"A significant part of my work has been designed to keep that status quo from you and our parents. I did not choose this, but it was Uncle Rudy's view that no other option presented itself. This was to stay in the family, and a family member needed to be part of the machine to keep her out of harm's way and others out of her way. When he retired, the burden passed to me. Part of my responsibilities included close monitoring to ensure your… continued ignorance. I worried, when you were at Bethlem Royal, that the problems you were having at that time might cause all of this to the surface. I feared your mental resilience would prove inadequate."
"You thought I'd lose it completely. What a vote of confidence. You think I couldn't handle knowing about my own bloody family!" Sherlock scoffs and turns momentarily to face the wall as though he can't stand the sight of his brother right now.
"You mentioned her in present tense before," John points out.
Mycroft's eyes are downcast. "It will take some getting used to, the fact that she is now… gone. She was alive, up to three days ago. She spent her life confined to an institution reserved for the likes of her. The incurables, the ones too dangerous to be entrusted to the care of the regular HMS Prison Services."
"'Reserved for the likes of her'? What the hell does that mean? Why?" Sherlock is very angry and does not attempt to hide it. "A child is not legally responsible for a crime; arson is not a crime that would keep a person incarcerated for thirty years, and in any case, if she were mentally incompetent to stand trial, she should be in a hospital. It wouldn't need to be to be secure, not Broadmoor for a child who has not been convicted of a felony crime."
Mycroft looks pained at Sherlock's outburst. "You see, this is exactly what was predicted, your sense of moral outrage, your desire to protect her, to seek justice for her. You have always cared too much. To summarise: Eurus is a psychopath. She used her mind to destroy those who have sought to protect her. The thirty-two victims of the fire when she was ten were murdered in cold blood – it was not an escape attempt. She has added to the body count since then. She does not comprehend remorse, and has to be kept locked away."
"So, you are your sister's keeper?" John can't help but blurt this out in disbelief.
"Just as you have felt I have been yours, Sherlock. There were those who worried that you might be harbouring the same tendencies, so you had to be watched, and the proof offered that you were not like her." Mycroft shakes his head sadly. "You're nothing like her. The only person you've ever harmed is yourself. Those who care about you have only been hurt by extension."
John doesn't need Mycroft Holmes to tell him that his significant other is not a sociopath, a bad person, a murderer or a psychopath. Sherlock is the very opposite of all those things. Sherlock is the strongest, most resilient, most amazing person John has ever met – and the most sensitive. He has survived through severe mental health crises, endured the hell of the GBS awake, defeated Moriarty under immense pressure and threat to those dear to him. He loves dogs and sometimes falls asleep in John's arms in the bath. No, John Watson will not listen to anyone telling him what Sherlock is or isn't, especially not a man who treats him like a strange mix of a potential monster and a weak little brother incapable of autonomy.
Sherlock blinks, frozen on the spot where he now stands beside the desk. He looks as though his mind is racing, but the words come out slowly. "So all those years you asked me about Redbeard, you were just…what? Testing me to make sure I didn't remember her? Eurus?" He pronounces the name tentatively, as though trying to gauge whether it is familiar or not. "The sectioning in 2007 – was that because you thought I was remembering?"
"No. You were unwell, terribly so. I failed to realise the path you were headed down until it was too late and you nearly-" he looks away, composes himself. "While I did worry from the start of your sectioning that your past – our past – might complicate your recovery, all I ever wanted was for you to be well again."
"What if you did the opposite? What if there were things... what if things would have been easier, what if they had made a lot more bloody sense back then if I'd known what you're telling me now?" Sherlock asks.
John can't deny the possibility. What if telling Sherlock all this in 2007 would have helped? What if it could have kept things from getting as bad as they did? He doesn't know all the details, but how could it possibly have been so important to keep a secret that it went over everything, including Sherlock's mental health and continued survival.
Suddenly, he can't contain his rising anger anymore. "You bastard," John snarls. "You knew, you let him believe-"
"John," Sherlock calls out quietly.
To John, he sounds completely lost. It's unsurprising: Sherlock must be feeling like everything has been turned upside down. Things he had thought existed only in his head, things people had assured him were the products of a mentally ill mind were- true? John can only guess at the helplessness Sherlock must've felt when his brilliant mind had caught on bits of the truth, but nobody believed him, chalking all of it up to psychotic paranoia instead.
John takes a step towards Mycroft, grabbing him by the arm and turning him to face Sherlock. "And you only have the fucking guts to tell him now, after she dies? You didn't think he was able to make his own decision while he still had a chance to meet her? How dare you deny him…" -"
"Eurus," Sherlock whispers. His fingers curl around John's wrist, making him loosen his grip. Mycroft pulls away, shaking his head again.
"You would have sought her out. We couldn't risk that. She can turn anyone to her side. She can kill people with her mind and her words, she never even has to lay a finger on them."
"That's bullshit," John spits out.
"At fifteen, she convinced a guard to swallow their own tongue, at twenty she persuaded a psychiatrist to murder his wife. There are others, but there is little point in giving you the details. You would have been curious about her despite all that. You would have demanded access. I could not risk her affecting you, turning you, breaking you. You have no grasp of her abilities."
"And now, I never will." Sherlock slumps down into an armchair, pale and defeated.
John comes to stand next to him, a hand on his shoulder as if a physical display of his support could help.
"How did she die?" John demands, and his tone betrays a suspicion of foul play.
"Rare kidney malignancy. Everything happened fast. There was nothing to be done."
John decides that he does not believe the latter statement. He doubts he'll ever believe a single word out of Mycroft's mouth again. "Was she treated?"
"She was operated on and received cytostatic medication. As I said, the course was swift. I assure you that she received the same care she would have otherwise."
Sherlock nods wordlessly. John sits down on the armrest of the chair and gathers Sherlock between his arm and his side, letting his chin fall on top of the curls.
"I am sorry," Mycroft says. "As I said, the tumour was rare, and in many cases, hereditary. She presented at a later age than usual, so a scan should rule out the possibility in her siblings. I have had mine, and one has been arranged for you."
Sherlock frowns. "A what?"
"An MRI."
Sherlock looks at John. "I don't-"
John gives Mycroft a warning glance. "We'll talk about that later."
Sherlock suddenly levers himself out of the chair and returns to the laptop. He scrolls the video back to the start and watches the little girl.
"She was brilliant," Mycroft tells him gently. "Her intelligence easily outstripped both ours and Mother's. She was too brilliant for her emotional maturity at the age of five. She exhibited no remorse, no empathy and put no value on the lives of others – except, perhaps, yours, but her reasons were not benign. You were her favourite person when she was little, in the sense that she thought of you as her own private toy, to be experimented on. One might say she was obsessed with you. Eventually, you became somewhat intimidated by her and avoided her company. When Victor came along, things began escalating."
"That footage could have been forged. Such a thing would be child's play nowadays," Sherlock accuses. "Come, John, we're going. This is some trick of his—"
Mycroft steps between him and the door to intervene. "I'm afraid not. Perhaps this will convince you," he prompts, nodding towards the computer. "Open the icon at the bottom; it's named "song." Sherlock's curiosity gets the better of him, and he clicks on the icon. Soon, another piece of footage is playing; that of a young woman, perhaps in her early twenties, playing the violin alone in a large cell. She hums along to the simplistic, nursery-rhyme melody she's playing, and soon occasional words can be heard.
'- deep down below the old beech tree?
Help succour me now the east winds blow, 16 by 6
brother, and under we go…"
Sherlock looks as though he's seen a ghost. Or, heard one.
John looks at Mycroft, hoping for an explanation.
"I am quite certain Sherlock will recognise this tune. It had come to the surface in 2007 when he'd been playing his violin at the hospital. It was something Eurus kept incessantly singing at him around the time Victor disappeared. Sherlock playing it in 2007 is one of the main reasons why I worried about memories re-surfacing."
Sherlock clicks the video back to its start and hums quietly and wordlessly along with the music.
John can't help glaring daggers at Mycroft. "Would you have told him if there wasn't a health issue involved?"
"I don't deal in the world of what-ifs, John," comes the dismissive reply.
The tune carries on, and Sherlock is glued to the screen like a moth to a flame.
"Without your love he'll be gone before.
Save pity for strangers, show love the door.
My soul seek the shade of my willow's bloom
inside, brother mine, let death make a room-"
John ignores the rest of it, still concentrating his wrath on Mycroft. "What the hell is it if not falling back on what-ifs, if you denied them a chance to know each other until she dies? How can you possibly justify such cruelty on the basis of some theoretical risk you think she posed to Sherlock?"
"As a doctor, you will understandably be tempted to sympathise with a young woman isolated from the world. I do wonder if you will feel the same once you learn all the details of her story."
Sherlock extends a shaky hand to slam closed the lid of the laptop. Then, he simply stands there, eyes downcast. John calls his name, but only gets the shake of Sherlock's head as a reply.
Finally, Sherlock seems to find words. "You wouldn't have wasted that brilliant a mind. You'd have used it – what, for intelligence purposes? Did she play along, out of sheer boredom? I would have. A person might do just about anything to avoid being trapped inside for all eternity while being forced to dance to your bloody tune."
Mycroft's lips thin and his eyes narrow. "You are too quick to assume the worst of me and the best of her. That was always the danger. Yes, there were times when I brought her problems of logic. It was like playing chess with a man-eating tiger. Every move was anticipated, and manipulation was mutual, I can assure you. Dealing with her was always dangerous and rare is the person able to resist her influence. She often gave the wrong information just for the sake of seeing what havoc she could do. People died because of it, and she thought it was always a game."
He clears his throat. "But, as you are wont to say, that was then, this is now. There is a funeral tomorrow. If you wish to attend, you are both welcome and even encouraged to stay the night here to make our departure more private, since Baker Street is watched these days by the paparazzi. A car will arrive to take us to Brize Norton and from there, to Sherrinford."
"Sherrinford? Uncle Rudy's cabin in Scotland? Where I never got to go?" Sherlock accuses.
"Alas, yes and no. Sherrinford is a prison unit in an undisclosed location. It has its own… mortuary system, so to speak. There will be no records of her residence there, and no remains of her can be transported to the mainland. It is extraterritorial and outwith the reach of British law. Her ashes will be scattered to the sea."
John wonders if the cruel irony is understood by the others present: Eurus' modus operandi had been arson. Now, fire will erase all traces of her adult life.
"Do your superiors want me to come to the funeral as a warning, or do you intend locking me up the same way she was?" Sherlock asks.
Mycroft rolls his eyes. "Unjustified paranoia, Sherlock. As for risks, the powers-that-be, who shall not be named here, always feared that Eurus might not have been the only one with a propensity for extreme cruelty. It has been my greatest joy and relief that you have proven time and again that you are capable of greater selflessness, empathy and good than perhaps anyone in this family. The world turned its back on you, but you never gave up on it."
"I remember- things. I can't place them. A melody, those words," Sherlock tells John as though to confirm something.
"That rhyme was something she used to torment you after Victor's disappearance. She let you believe it contained clues, let you believe that you could get him back if you only were clever enough, but neither us could match her in that, which was her undoing. She was lonelier than both of us combined."
"What could you possibly know about that?" Sherlock spits out. "Always the conformist."
"I have conformed, yes, served, sat vigil on a never-ending night. I have been lonely, Sherlock, greatly so, but today, it will have all been worth it."
"Because she's dead?"
"Because she can no longer hurt you."
Mycroft walks to a door that opens to a room with a billiard table. Its surface is covered by stacks of papers, photographs, CDs.
"It's all there. Birth certificate, hospital records, police records, interview tapes, family albums, crime scene photographs. What I could not tell you before, I shall leave you to discover yourself."
A thought occurs to John as he stands at the threshold, ready to follow Sherlock into the room. "What about-"
"The parental unit? As far as they are concerned, she died a long time ago. No need to change that notion. They have mourned and let go. No need to add to their distress by telling them that she grew to be the monster she became."
John slips into the room without prompting, without permission, without being asked. Mycroft looks up and holds up a hand. "You don't have the proper security clearance."
"As though I wouldn't share all the facts with him, anyway," Sherlock reminds him sharply, already by the table and surveying the document piles. "Security clearance or not, he's family."
He picks up the topmost file on one of the piles and scrutinises the name of the author on top. He lifts it up towards Mycroft. "Johnston….I knew it. I knew she was one of yours. You tried to claim that she was only doing you small favour by showing up at the hospital appointment, that you only knew her through some bogus charity-"
John peers closer and recognises the name on what looks like a medical report. Eileen Johnston. It's under a report entitled "Subject Nine and Subject Sigma: A Comparison and Risk Assessment". "What is this?"
"A detailed comparison of the functional imaging, psychiatric assessment and cognitive ability assessment results of two siblings."
"Was the whole research project a fake?" Sherlock asks, and it sounds rhetorical. "Is this what you really wanted, a file you could string me up by if I ever stopped obeying?"
Mycroft is unfazed by his fury. "The project was genuine; only your data was covertly used in this report before your discharge to ensure your freedom. Dr Johnston's expert conclusions were instrumental in the process of setting you free. The fact that you were allowed to disappear off the grid after walking out of Harwich and shunning your Home Care Plan instead of being whisked away to a secure location is thanks to that report, which managed to placate the powers-that-be – to alleviate their fears that on your own you wouldn't pose as big a risk as Eurus. Instead of stringing you up, that file slipped the noose off your neck."
Sherlock slams the file on the table, and leans his palms on the oak surface, shaking his head. John gently lays a hand on his shoulder, and Sherlock briefly reaches up to covers it with his own before picking up another document.
Mycroft retreats a step towards the hallway. "I shall ask tea to be brought up. If you choose to join me for the funeral, departure is at oh eight hundred hours. I have taken the liberty of having two black suits delivered into the guest bedroom on the third floor."
"The dead hardly care what we wear," Sherlock says absent-mindedly, spreading a set of photographs onto the green fabric of the table surface.
John realises that this is now a case – perhaps the most challenging and the most important of Sherlock's entire life. He's chasing his memories, his own misplaced past.
"Funerals are never for the dead," Mycroft says. "They are for those who are left behind to carry on."
– The End –