Letters

If Sherlock were truly honest with himself he had not paid an ounce of attention to the meetings Mycroft insisted he go to.

Sitting in the circle, actually listening, made him wish he hadn't bothered.

They started with Cameron this week.

"I ain't got a job, see, and me mates are out. It was just meant to be a laugh and then..." Cameron scratched his nose. "S'pensive stuff," he said, playing for a slight chuckle. "Then me girlfriend says she's pregnant and I gotta get me act together-"

Sherlock tilted his head and pressed his lips together.

"I tried, right, but she ain't been there, she don't know what it's like. She took me boy-"

"My."

Slowly, the faces turned from Cameron to Sherlock, looking baffled.

"What?" Cameron sneered.

"My boy," Sherlock breathed, bored. "Not 'me boy'."

Cameron faltered, clearly lost as to what the problem was. "It's my turn to speak."

"Then speak correctly," Sherlock muttered, turning his head to the ceiling. "It's bad enough listening to you whinge without you using poor grammar to do so."

There was a stunned silence.

"Did you 'ear what he just said?" Cameron demanded of Alan, the group leader.

"We'll hear from you after Cameron, Sherlock," Alan said, watching Sherlock with something that looked like approval.

"Nah," Cameron said, folding his arms. "What's his story then? We ain't heard it. Posh boy sits there every session not saying a word."

Everyone looked at him expectantly.

Fine then.

"My partner shot a man who was attempting to throw our daughter off a roof, was jailed for it, our daughter traumatised. I lost my job, my career and used. My partner ended our relationship, I lost custody of our daughter and now I have to listen to ingrates whine about their problems." Sherlock sighed. "It's a miracle I haven't used again this week."

"You're Sherlock Holmes."

Surprised, Sherlock snapped his gaze to the girl…Jazmin, was it?

"In the news," she added. "Your partner shot that man when no one else could do it. He saved your life."

"He shot a man," Evan said from across the room. "He deserved to be imprisoned."

Sherlock narrowed his gaze at him.

"What, so he should have just let them die?" another, though slightly more intelligent, dullard piped up

As the debate started, Sherlock slowly slumped back against his chair and closed his eyes while Alan attempted to settle the group back down.

How good of them all to debate his life as if they had any idea.

"So…" Alan said slowly once the group quietened. "You used because of the hopeless situation?"

"God no," Sherlock murmured. "I tried to kill myself for that. I used because I was bored."

Silence.

When he opened his eyes, they all looked vaguely uncomfortable.

"I've lost track," Sherlock breathed, looking over at Alan. "Is this the drug support group or the suicide support one?"

"Drugs," Alan said, clearing his throat awkwardly.

"Ah."

They gave him a badge.

One month.

It seemed more mocking than encouraging.

One whole month of staying alive.

Or sober.

One of the two.

Dear Ava,

Sherlock stared at the words as he tapped his pen on the page.

Dear Ava,

I wish you were demanding to come here, forcing Molly to drop you off and never pick you up. I wish your father would break out and we could all run away. I had narrowed it down to a list of three countries, though I do need to check how well your father adjusted to a completely different alphabet when he was stationed in Afghanistan. Alternatively we could travel the world together and I could show you the sights I saw while committing seven counts of murder. None of which I was imprisoned for. There's a lovely spot in Paris where I slid a knife into a man as if he were made of the disgusting soft cheese you scoff down by the bucket load.

Do tell Molly I said to be prompt. I despise waiting for other people.

The empty page mocked him.

Dear Ava,

I miss you. Come home now. I do not care about courts and laws and petty nonsense. You should be at home. I should be at home. Your father should be at home and the world can go hang itself if it dislikes the notion.

Annoyed, he threw the pen at the wall and closed his eyes.

Dear Ava,

I know that you must be confused. I haven't been well and Mycroft is looking after me while I get better. I am starting to improve and hope that we can see each other soon.

I have been told that you are staying with my friend Molly Hooper and her husband to be-

He paused.

He didn't want her to be happy with them. He wanted her to be happy with him. What if she liked it there and didn't want to come back?

But what if he couldn't get her back?

-and I hope that you have been continuing your spellings with them. I will be most displeased if you have forgotten how to spell idiocy after you asked me to teach it to you.

There. That was at least normality, he supposed. Perhaps over time he could start to lie better about it.

I am-

I feel it is essential that you know-

He paused, trying to see the line in his head, refusing to make a mistake on the letter.

Anything he wrote sounded like goodbye.

I will see you soon.

All my-

No. That was a lie. Why did people say 'all my love' to others? And saying 'half of my love' didn't sound right either…

He tapped the pen onto the paper a few times before giving up and just scrawling his name.

Sherlock.

That night he lay in bed and stared at the badge.

What the hell was he meant to do with it?

"Is John still refusing visitors?"

Mycroft looked up and over his paper. "That is not wise," he said slowly.

"Rest assured, Mycroft, my question to you will never be 'do you think my plan is a good idea'. I know your default answer without wasting my breath. Answer the actual question I posed to you."

The paper was placed carefully on the table and folded. "I do not know," Mycroft confessed. "It has been some weeks since I tried."

Oddly, that made Sherlock shift nervously. "He was that adamant?"

Mycroft's jaw ticked. "My brother was on suicide watch for weeks. Tell me when I was meant to be chasing after John Watson and soothing his foul mood."

Dear Sherlock.

I hope your feeling better. Molly said you were very sick and that you were also very sad. Does it mean your not sad anymore? I don't want you to be sad.

I like Molly. She has pretty hair like Mrs Parker and she has to stand on her toes to give Chris a kiss. They are getting married next month and I get to be a bridesmaid. And Molly wants to no if you can come to the wedding. There will be cake and it won't be sad. If you don't feel well I'll look after you.

Love you.

Ava.

p.s. idiocy.

Sherlock read the letter what felt like a hundred times and kept it in his pocket.

Dear Ava,

Your letter made me feel much, much better, you're a lovely writer. Ask Molly to explain the difference between your and you're. She was always the best in her department in regards to grammar.

I will certainly attend the wedding and I most definitely will not be unwell during it. Indeed I am already looking forward to seeing you.

Now, I have a favour to ask of you. A very important one.

I need a letter from you to show your father. As long as you can manage telling him all about what you have been up to and any stories you have that might make him smile.

Sherlock.

PS. Well remembered.

Some days it felt as if Ava's letters were all that kept him sane. The only part of life he looked forward to.

Which was frustrating when she was six years old and was hardly going to spend all day writing to him.

"You need a hobby," Mycroft said gently.

"I had one," Sherlock said, staring at the empty fireplace. Mycroft had cleaned all of them out in some ridiculous paranoid fit. "You disapproved."

Mycroft glared at him. "Pick something sensible then."

The last time he tried to distract himself with a project he had burned through them all at the speed of light. This time he felt almost unsure as he wandered around the library Mycroft kept.

So much choice, yet everything required something Sherlock wasn't sure he had.

Patience.

He hid it from Mycroft.

A tiny potted plant, a seed placed into a small pot and set by his bed. Every night, as he turned off the light he stared at the soil that never seemed to change.

But there were changes. Assuming he wasn't killing the damn thing, life would be starting to unfurl, to reach out roots and chance a stalk towards the light.

Dear Sherlock,

I hope you're feeling better still. I had a cold this week and Molly gave me soup. Have you tried having soup? It helps a bit but I don't like the red soup. It's not nice.

I have started my letter to Daddy. Molly says I should write every day so that Daddy can see what I'm doing. It's going to be very long.

Love

Ava

It occurred to him three days after he got her letter that he had never taught her how to play the violin. He'd intended to, but things had happened and-

An unforgivable slip of the mind.

It was a little after midnight and Sherlock hadn't gone to lie in bed. Instead, he stood, hand barely touching the grain of the table as he stared at the case upon it.

Slowly he circled it, his fingers drawing the faintest sound from the wood as the wind rustled outside.

It felt quiet.

Strange.

It wasn't silent. He knew himself well enough to know that before he'd preferred extremes; noise or no noise. Not the whisperings and simple sounds of life going on.

It seemed like an oddly big step to risk breaking that.

But Ava wanted to learn.

Swallowing, Sherlock opened the case.

A violin; perfectly polished and painfully expensive, even for Mycroft. The weight wasn't yet comfortable or familiar, he thought as he picked it up, but there was something about resting it under his chin that settled him.

He hovered the bow over the strings, hesitating and suddenly unsure what noise would sing from the instrument.

He pulled the bow across the strings.

One single note.

Lowering both the violin and the bow, he stared at them both in his hands.

Then lifted them again, back into position and played Ave Maria.

Hidden in the shadows, Mycroft watched and listened, in his hand a visitor's pass.

Next Chapter: Visitor