The music that Sherlock produced when he was in a good mood was surely a wonderful thing to hear. People in the street would pause for a moment and look pleasantly up at the open window where he was accustomed to stand, surprised and pleased by what they heard. However when the black mood was on him he often made no sound save for a terrible scraping that was enough to drive Mrs Hudson mad or at least out of the house for a considerable length of time.. Today was no exception; the quick resolution of the case had left him empty and unsatisfied. He had been so sure that there was more to the suicide than the police had thought but without any evidence, he could do nothing more. So he retreated to his violin, creating sounds of the feelings that groaned inside him. Sherlock let his mind wander toward John and smiled slightly, he was sure that the case would have confused him entirely. He missed his companion though it gave him an unusual calm to know he was happy and safe. Sherlock hadn't taken any notice of Mrs Hudson as she shouted up to him to keep the racket down, didn't really take much notice of anything until his phoned beeped loudly half an hour later. Sherlock sighed and put his violin back in its case, he knew that he was brooding over nothing but the boredom that had begun to set in was enough to drive him out of his mind. Snatching up his phone, he decided that he would probably phone Lestrade later and see what he had for him. Any case was better than no case. All thoughts of this were swiftly put from his mind however as he looked at his text. For a start, the text was from Mycroft, 'unusual for the man who apparently hates texting under any circumstance!' he thought with a hint of sarcasm. Opening the text Sherlock felt the breath catch in his mouth and old, long forgotten emotions broke through their barriers and attacked the cold mind of the detective. He nearly dropped the phone in shock and moved backward so that he could feel the support of the wall behind him.
Father has been to visit me. Wants my help with a problem he has.
He told me he really wanted to consult you but didn't know how
you would react. We should talk. Phone me when you can
M
Sherlock stood still for a moment and simply breathed, 'don't think' he told himself 'how could this be happening' 'No, no don't think' but this was far easier said than done 'no way. There was no way that man could simply walk back into his life and demand his help'. Anger burnt inside him, growing stronger with every breath. 'And why did Mycroft want to talk, could it be that now, after all these years he has finally deduced something that has lead him to the truth, no don't, don't think.' Sherlock made to move to the sofa but his legs would not carry him and instead sat him down, shaking, on the carpet. Sherlock was a little surprised at his body's reaction but he surmised it must have been the shock and that it would pass. He would then get to the sofa, he reasoned pragmatically, find and use the solution hidden in the inner lining of the sofa and force the memories and emotions back to where he had hidden them for so long.
It seemed like a good plan and gave Sherlock the strength to stand from the ground. Already the anger and hurt had subsided now that he thought only of the cocaine bottle stashed neatly in the furniture. He calmly took up his jack knife from the mantelpiece and pulled the sofa out, away from the wall. Sherlock knelt, knife in hand as he heard the doorbell ring. He paused, listening intently; maybe he would not need the solution after all. The feet on the stairs were not fast, they were even a little hesitant, purposeful though and heavy. It wasn't until the door was beginning to open that Sherlock remembered he had the knife still in his hand. It was this fact and not Sherlock's horrified face that stopped the man in the door from entering. He stood now, looking warily at the knife and not at the man who reeled in front of him, for surely Sherlock Holmes had recoiled in shock as he had seen who was there. Sherlock simply stared for what seemed like an hour before the torrent of emotions suddenly burst their cages and engulfed him. He had moments to retreat to the kitchen and slam the door before he was wreck of a man, trembling all over and forcing back in vain the angry tears that stung his eyes. The fact that his father was probably able to hear his ragged, painful breaths made it even more unbearable. He leant, face first against the door, his whole body pressed so as to prevent an entrance. Sherlock shook his head; eyes closed, and willed the situation to go away completely. He knew he was not strong enough to deal with this. All memories of his child hood swam back through his mind and he shook his head fiercely to rid his mind of them. Then the memories of what that man had done to him came and clouded his vision. The hurt and anger seared through him and it was all he could do not to cry out. He wanted John, knew that he would have been right here beside him, helping him to cope, helping him to remove the man but John was not here, and there was no way to get him here without explaining completely, and right now he felt totally unable to do that. So instead, reaching for his phone he replied to the text he had received earlier.
He's here. Come now, I don't
know what I might do
S.H
Send
Sherlock watched in a semi daze the pictures on the screen that sent for help from the only person who could
Sent
The sound of the beep brought some clarity to the situation. Sherlock stood up straight and adjusted his collar. He took a deep breath and dropping the knife he opened the door quickly and walked back into the room. The man, who had stood so cautiously in the door way, now sat calmly in Sherlock's chair. He glanced up casually as Sherlock entered and gave a small self satisfied smile. Suddenly Sherlock wished he had never left the kitchen.
"Well that's better" said the voice quietly "I find it so hard to talk through solid wood"
"Get out" Sherlock replied, surprising himself at the coolness and calmness of his own voice. He walked over to the doorway and opened it widely, then walked over to where his violin case lay. As he bent to pick it up he heard the familiar sound echo out behind him. Sherlock felt a fresh wave of anger surge through him as he turned to see his father playing his beloved instrument
"Come on now Sherlock" the man said, standing up as he played "I can't possibly go yet, you haven't heard what I have to say"
"Get out" Sherlock repeated, his voice not betraying his emotions for a second. In fact his cold mind flicked expertly over now and he brushed the anger aside with ease. He stepped across to his desk and retrieved his revolver. At the click his father stopped the merry tune he had been playing and paled a little. He put down the instrument and turned to look at his son. Sherlock stood with his arm outstretched, his face was flint, composed. His eyes however flashed with the anger that not even he could see. He was pleased to see that finally he was commanding some sort of respectful attention from his father. "now"
"Sherlock" the man started "don't be a fool" Sherlock almost laughed to see the fear in his father's eyes and began to advance slightly
"How am I the fool" he answered quietly, his eyes fixed on his target "you are the one electing to stay and be shot when you're free to go"
"You're not going to kill me" the man said with an air of finality in his voice "so put down the gun and talk to me"
"I don't want to talk to you" spat Sherlock, his anger sparking once again and he moved forward even further. This last movement seemed to knock the bravado of the older man and he sat now, looking at his son with uncertainty in his eyes. "Give me one reason why I shouldn't kill you" Sherlock asked, almost lightly, eyes fixed rigidly on the man in the chair.
"Well for a start you'd go to jail…" began the man simply
"Self defence" answered Sherlock sharply "besides I have contacts, and it isn't really a mean feat for me to cover it up. Next reason"
"Sherlock" the man in the chair replied, irritated but clearly showing the fear "I'm your father for goodness sake"
"And" Sherlock shouted, his anger bursting through "that never mattered before, did it. Why should it matter now?"
"Look, Sherlock, listen to me…"
"Next reason" Sherlock said coldly "or are you through"
"This is insane"
"Fine, goodbye then Mr Holmes, thanks for popping by"
"Sherlock!"
John's voice rang out, halting the detective's hand. For a moment it was as though someone had thrown a bucket of water over him. He stood shocked and breathless as he realised he had been about to shoot a man. Turning now to John, Sherlock could feel the tremor that ran through his body. It frightened him, scared him how out of control he could be. Even now though, he didn't move, didn't lower the weapon from its target.