Eurus's eager smile, upon seeing Sherlock again, was as genuine as he believed she could produce. As much as it he felt flattered to be able to produce that effect on her, he was simultaneously alarmed. What, for someone as unpredictable as Eurus, could have caused her such satisfaction? Sherlock had the gut feeling that he wouldn't like the answer.
"Sister mine," he greeted gently, returning his smile. "You are clever, indeed. You have given me the key to put Big Brother to sleep. Surely you have the key to make him wake?"
He leaned forward, his forehead touching the glass, and said in a low, urgent tone, "You would understand how boring it gets to only watch him sleep. I need some stimulation, urgently. I really don't want to turn to alternative sources."
He hoped his implied threat would work. With Sherlock's history, dabbling in drugs was quite unwise, and would definitely incapacitate him for some time. Eurus, in her own twisted way, cared about his health, if only to have him come visit and play with her.
Eyes shining, Eurus took her violin. She began with a slow, haunting melody, one which was completely unfamiliar to Sherlock. The passion with which she played it gave Sherlock paused. "It's yours, isn't it?" he asked her.
She paused, smiled at him again, and resumed playing. So his guess must have been correct, Sherlock assumed. He listened to the notes carefully. When Eurus finished the melody, with a flourish, he picked up his own instrument.
Line by line, step by step, his little sister taught him the tune. Her eyes turned softer, and her gaze introspective. As if she was remembering a time, long ago, when the miniature version of herself taught Sherlock's miniature counterpart how to play, line by line, step by step. Sherlock's heart gave a little twist at the thought.
After an hour of practice, Sherlock felt himself proficient enough. With a sad little smile, he bade his sister farewell, and promised to be back.
Eurus had suddenly gone blank, as if her essence had slipped out of her body. Shaking his head in sorrow, the detective left.
Emotionally drained, Sherlock waited until the next day to visit his brother.
"Alright, Mycroft, this is getting quite dull," he informed his blank-eyed brother with affected impatience. "So listen carefully, and I'll get you out of there. Goodness, even for someone as lazy as you, it must be getting boring to just lie around like that."
With practiced strokes, he got his instrument to produce the haunting song he had learned the day before. He had a doctor on standby, just in case.
Halfway through the melody, Mycroft's heartbeat quickened. Sherlock suppressed his excitement and continued playing, carefully observing his brother. The changes then came rapidly. A blink of the eye, followed by a slight shift in position.
Then a wrinkle of confusion appeared on Mycroft's brow. He blinked several times more, then suddenly attempted to sit up. When the last notes faded, Mycroft opened his mouth and attempted to speak.
"Don't," Sherlock held up a hand. He quickly called for the doctor, and then poured a cup of water for the patient. Gently, he helped Mycroft sip the cool liquid.
The doctor checked Mycroft over, and then smiled at the man. "I'm glad to meet you, Mr. Holmes," he said, holding out a hand.
Mycroft struggled to do the same, and they shook. "Dr. Paulson," Mycroft said weakly.
"Ah, you've read my name tag," the physician grinned. "A few quick questions, if you don't mind. Can you tell me your full name?"
"Alexander Mycroft Holmes," he answered confidently, if weakly.
"Today's date?"
"That would depend on how long I was out. Judging by the flowers over there," Mycroft grimaced in distaste, "it has been over a week."
"Twelve days," Dr. Paulson supplied.
"Then it's the twenty-first," the patient retorted.
"Good. Would you happen to recall the name of the current Prime Minister?"
"That depends."
"Oh?" said the doctor, confused.
"On whether the Tories went through with their final plan, regarding the bill that Labor had tried to get passed, which might have caused a- but you don't have to know about that, do you?" he finished smugly.
The doctor gave him a perplexed look, while Sherlock sniggered. "Come on, Mycroft, leave the good doctor out of your political games," he admonished, coming to stand at the edge of the hospital bed.
Mycroft turned to him, looking at the younger man sharply. Sharp eyes roved over Sherlock, analyzing and deducing him. Then the eyes widened, and displayed mild puzzlement. "Pardon me," Mycroft Holmes said to his little brother, "but I believe you have the advantage of me."
"Mycroft?" Sherlock asked in alarm.
"That is, indeed, my name," the older man answered. "And who are you?"
John Watson regarded his friend worriedly. When he had recieved Sherlock's text, simply reading Come immediately, he had thought it to be good news.
Sherlock had met him at the entrance to the hospital, and dryly informed him that Mycroft was awake. John had smiled in relief, and was ready to congratulate Sherlock, when the latter had stopped him, by announcing abruptly, "He doesn't know who I am."
John had been concerned, but tried to reassure his friend. "Sometimes, after a trauma, a person may manifest some kind of amnesia, but that's usually temporary, and can be treated-"
"Shut up, John," Sherlock had cut him off harshly, and then sighed. "This... this doesn't look like amnesia. He remembers basically everything- except me."
"That might be because you are associated with the trauma, you know, just like when you- well, you know," John trailed off.
Sherlock sighed, and then shook his head. "I don't know, there's just something strange about this."
"Have you tried talking to him? Maybe that would jolt his memories," John had suggested.
"I did. But for some reason, my presence seemed to... disturb him, and he became very anxious when I spoke. The doctors kicked me out," he finished gloomily.
Sherlock hadn't returned to the hospital for the next three days, on the advice of Mycroft's health care team, who wanted to further assess the patient's condition, and give him a chance to recover.
Sherlock, predictably enough, hadn't slept, or eaten, in all that while. Now John was watching him alternately splayed listlessly on the sofa, or pace in agitation.
"I think you should go visit again," John suggested. "Mycroft might have recovered his memories, at least partially."
Sherlock shrugged listlessly.
"I'm coming with you, this time," John said firmly, expecting immediate protest.
To his surprise, Sherlock merely looked at him thoughtfully. "That's actually a good idea," he said. "Sometimes you actually use some of your scant brain cells."
John rolled his eyes.
"It may prove, or disprove, my theory. Either way, I'll be better informed."
The doctor didn't bother inquiring further. After a phone call to the hospital, the duo were on their way.
"You were here when I woke up," Mycroft stated, after Sherlock had walked into the room.
"Yes, and you didn't know who I am," Sherlock stated, his tone accusatory.
"Was I supposed to?" Mycroft asked in mild puzzlement.
In response, Sherlock pointed to his friend. "Do you know who he is?"
Mycroft looked at the man keenly. "Dr. Watson. I believe we have worked together before. You'll excuse me if I don't recall the exact circumstances," he said politely, although his eyes betrayed a hint of confusion.
Sherlock was quiet for a couple of minutes, his head bowed slightly, and his hands inside the pockets of his Belstaff. "My name is Sherlock Holmes," he spoke up quietly.
"A relation, then?" Mycroft asked blandly, but his fists were clenched, and their was a slight quaver to his voice.
"Brother," Sherlock looked him in the eye.
Mycroft looked startled, and then his expression turned fierce. "I hope you know whom you're trying to mess with," he hissed. "I've never had a brother. Now, get out, before I call security on you."
"Yes, you have! Why are you being so difficult?" Sherlock retorted, his voice rising. "You know, the idiot of the family? The one you always have followed by CCTV's, and try to poke your nose into his every affair? Come on, it can't be that hard to remember!"
Mycroft stared at him, turning pale. "Dr. Watson," he asked faintly. "Is he right?"
John nodded helplessly.
"Impossible! I would have remembered such a thing," the elder Holmes whispered to himself, shaking his head back and forth.
"What about Eurus?" Sherlock asked suddenly.
Mycroft's eyes narrowed exponentially.
"How do you know about Eurus?"
"She's my sister, just like she's yours. You see, I have proof of what I'm claiming. Now, do you still not believe me?" Sherlock gritted out.
Mycroft regarded him in confusion, which quickly turned into agitation. Suddenly, he sat up,and pointed a finger at Sherlock. "You, you're a very experienced liar, but still a liar. Now, GET OUT, AND I NEVER WANT TO SEE YOU HERE AGAIN!"
Mycroft's shouts alerted several staff members, who rushed in and quickly ushered the visitors out. Sherlock could hear Mycroft furiously ranting about the slammer, who tried to trick him, and could hear the soothing voices of the medical staff trying to calm him down.
Mycroft's voice only increase in volume and intensity, until it reached near hysteria. Sherlock waited until he heard his brother's voice slur and then quiet, no doubt the result of heavy tranquilizers.
Sherlock turned away from his friend, so as not to betray the wetness in his eyes.