Chapter 2: The monster

The lab had analyzed the substance that had caused the disturbing effect on Sherlock. It was in the small bag he had sniffed at the crime scene. Sherlock, who had already been coming down with a cold and was tired from lack of sleep, had had no defense against it. It was the same drug that had driven the professor into the abandoned building to commit suicide haunted by his nightmares. The drug was already out of Sherlock's system and wouldn't leave any permanent side effects.

Sherlock was discharged the next day, accepting Lestrade's offer to take him back to Baker Street. During the drive both kept silent. Lestrade didn't ask any questions. Neither about John, nor about the scar on Sherlock's neck that he had seen the first time in the hospital nor about any details on the person who had hurt him so badly. He was surprised Sherlock got in his car in the first place. But he assumed that John has asked him to take up on this kind of offer.

After Lestrade had closed the door to 221B behind him, he let out a heavy sigh. He asked himself what would happen next. There had been many witnesses to Sherlock's episode. Of course he could try to keep everyone from talking but one day a word would slip out and Lestrade didn't want anything similar to this to ever happen again. He would never forget the fear or the tears in the detective's eyes. There had been nothing left of the self-confident and strong man that could bring down criminals with just a look.

As Lestrade was thinking a black car stopped in front of him. A young woman got out, a phone in her hands. She kept her eyes fixed on the screen. "Mr. Holmes would like to have a talk with you." She told him, getting back into the car and waiting for him to follow. Lestrade wasn't in the mood for Mycroft Holmes' mind games or another empty factory. But he knew if he got inside the car he could find a few answers to his many questions.

The drive was short and didn't end in an old factory but at a normal house, one for richer people but nothing scary or screaming power like the last time. The woman stayed in the car and Lestrade climbed out and took the last steps to the front door. Before he got the chance to knock, the door opened and the man himself stood in front of him. Mycroft Holmes hadn't aged in the three years since their last meeting. But he looked tired and very sad. He let Lestrade follow him into a living room, offering tea and sitting down on a sofa. Lestrade took the sofa on the other side.

How to start this kind of conversation? With an innocent question? A joke? Or just wait till the other party started talking. The latter happened. Mycroft looked at him. "How is my brother?" Lestrade had a few answers in his head and decided for the truth. "Better than yesterday, but it was disturbing and I don't know what would have happened if you hadn't given me John Watson's number?" "You have questions? Ask!" Mycroft replied.

"Who was it?" Lestrade simply asked. Mycroft leaned back, holding his tea cup tightly in his hands. "I will tell you a story about a monster and a hero. About a victim and someone who missed it all. I can tell you what the investigation results were and the little bit John Watson told me. Sherlock has never talked about it to anyone except to John. He didn't speak for a long time after it happened and I think he has locked most of it away somewhere in his mind palace."

And with this Mycroft began to tell him the story:

"When I turned fifteen, I received an offer to join the government as a trainee for a special position. I had to leave my home, my family, my friends and everything I had known up to that day behind. I wasn't allowed to have contact with anyone in the course of the following three years. My brother was eight years old and I thought he was safe at home with our parents. A few months after I had left, my mother died. She had had an accident and from what I could figure out later, my father had a mental breakdown just a week after the funeral. He blamed Sherlock for the death of his wife and locked him in the cellar, a chain around his neck that has left a scar that will never fade. He beat and starved him to a dangerous level. For the following two years Sherlock was down there in the dark alone, except for the times my father would come down to hurt him, calling him things like monster, murderer or freak. My father had never understood our ability to read people and he feared it. Because Sherlock had been home schooled the years before, no one missed him. My father shut out the rest of the existing world and did nothing else than try to destroy my brother."

Mycroft looked out the window, his thoughts far away in the past, wishing he could change what had happened. But after years of wishing it he knew he couldn't change what had happened. The past was past and no one could change it. His eyes moved back to Lestrade and he could see the horror the beginning of the story had left. But it would get even worse.

"My father left him down there for more than two years. My brother lost more than two years of his short life. He stole his childhood and took so much more things from Sherlock. I can't even count them and he will never get them back.

In the summer Sherlock turned eleven John Watson was on vacation in a hotel near our house. One evening in a pub he heard about the haunted house, our house, and about the screams that could sometimes be heard. John, who was a twenty year old medicine student, couldn't resist and broke into our house. He found Sherlock there but got into a bit of trouble. My father must have caught him and for the remaining time till I arrived back home, he kept both of them down in the cellar.

John told me that my father hurt him too, but always made sure Sherlock got more of anything he did. In the end Sherlock was in a much worse state than John and both had a connection only they could understand.

The day my training was over I got the message of my mother's death. I went home as fast as I could to find Sherlock scared to death. He was pressing down his hand on a gunshot wound on John's shoulder, which was bleeding out, still chained to the wall. Next to them was the dead body of my father with a broken neck.

Later in the hospital John gave a statement, Sherlock wasn't able to talk. He told about the captivity, the things my father did to them and how it had ended when he had come down with the gun pointing it at Sherlock and shooting. John was able cover him with his body with the result of getting shot himself in the shoulder. Still able to move he attacked my father and broke his neck. He was an old man and had not much fight left in him. Unfortunately nothing a kid could have gone against.

John said noting more about it, expecting to be punished for killing someone. Sherlock was badly traumatized and only John's presence could make it better.

I had come home from a job where I had trained how to make my country a safer place for my family. What I found was my mother had died; my father had nearly killed my little brother and died himself while trying. I found nothing but a destroyed home."

Mycroft had finished and sat there with closed eyes. Still not back in the present. Lestrade thought about the story that he had just told him. He still didn't know what exactly had happened but as a police officer you had enough imagination in this area to understand what must have happened. And another thing was clear: the man that had hurt Sherlock was no longer in this world.

Both men stayed silent for a long time. Until Lestrade stood up and walked to the door, facing his back to Mycroft he said: "What happened wasn't your fault. You tried to make a better future for your family." With that he left the room. A black car was waiting in front of the house to bring him back to his destination.

Mycroft only moved when the car was out of sight and covered his eyes whit his shaking hands. Not really crying but hiding the emotions that crushed down on him again.