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Stress Fractures

by J Baillier

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CHAPTER 6/11 - Privacy

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Chapter summary: The will is read and Sherlock wonders about some ducks..

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One of Mycroft's colleagues, a barrister, has been named as the executor of his will. We meet at Mycroft's home in Knightsbridge for the reading of it. It's an immense flat in one of the area's ubiquituous white nondescript Victorian townhouses.

The barrister is late so we have some time on our hands. Sherlock and his parents go upstairs to Mycroft's study to seek out whatever important papers they can find in order to sort them out. I remain downstairs, just content to wander around since I've neer been there before.

The place feels large and troublesome for someone who lives alone. Deducing from some remarks Sherlock has made, Mycroft has enjoyed occasional nightly company but he's never been in a long-term relationship.

The place seems almost sterile in a way. Everything is spotless. There are artworks and vases carefully arranged onto side tables. Vases of fresh flowers adorn the grand staircase. There is a lot of marble, oak and brass.

I walk into the sitting room, flop down onto the stiff sofa and open the singular drawer the coffee table has. I feel slightly apprehensive for snooping but all of these things will soon be packed away by someone other than their owner anyway.

There's a thick wad of photographs in there along with a stack of coloured papers.

Some of these I've already seen when Sherlock's mother showed me her album. Apart from childhood photos there are images of Mycroft at university, of a young woman I can't recognize and shots of someone's funeral. The last one in the pile is a photo of all the Holmes children, posing at a photographer's studio. Two toddlers with black hair, and behind them, arms around them, Mycroft as a bright little boy of around ten years old.

The coloured papers beneath are children's drawings. A smiling sun, some fishes, a horse, a dead bird with crosses for eyes.

The drawings are all signed by W.S.S. Holmes. Sherlock.

I put the papers and the photos back, feeling like an intruder.

The barrister arrives and we gather in the dining room to hear the will.

Mycroft's Knightsbridge home will go to his parents. Some money will go to selected charities but the majority of his liquid assets have been addressed to Sherlock.

I find myself drawing in a breath when the barrister reads out loud the amount. It's a substantial sum. The will states states that the money is to go to Sherlock to enable him to continue in his chosen vocation regardless of whether it proved lucrative in the future. It's hard to interpret what's going on his Sherlock's head while the barrister reads the will out loud. His expression mostly stays impassive, as though he's not able to decide what to make of this all. At times looks slightly suspicious, like he's expecting a curveball. This is Mycroft Holmes we're talking about, after all.

After all the assets have been announced I assume that will be the end of it. I am taken aback when the barrister passes me an envelope addressed to me.

"Mr Holmes left explicit instructions that I was to ensure that this was not to be opened by anyone else than you, Dr Watson."

I inspect the envelope. It's made out of thick, creamy paper. Looks like very expensive stationery.

I glance at the barrister. "Did Mycroft - Mr Holmes leave any word on whether I am allowed to share the contents with others?"

"None as such. I assume he has left that to your discretion."

Sherlock watches me carefully from where he's standing leaning onto a column at the edge of the room. He's frowning slightly, arms crossed.

I return to attention to the envelope and tear the edge off. It contains a white card with just one phrase on it, and a slip of paper with an internet address and a password.

'Look after him,' the card reads, nothing else. Not even a signature.

I dig my phone out from my pocket. Sherlock inches closer. I enter the address into my phone's web browser while Sherlock steps closer to hovers over my shoulder.

It doesn't take me long to realize it's a web interface to some sort of surveillance software. I enter the password and a map appears with a blinking dot on it. It only takes a moment to realize it's showing the location we are all sharing at the moment.

Realization dawns. The dot is someone's phone.

Three guesses as to whose.

This is how Mycroft has been able to find him, always.

Sherlock blows a gasket. Which isn't surprising, really. We've always known Mycroft has kept an eye on him but it's got to be different, seeing concrete proof of the man's level of intrusion into Sherlock's life.

There's a screaming match between him and Mrs Holmes. Mr Holmes looks like he's getting a headache.

After cursing his brother to the seventh circle of hell so loud the neighbours probably catch a most of it, Sherlock announces that that he'd rather burn the money in a glorious bonfire on Trafalgar Square than accept a single penny. He then storms out.

I watch Sherlock stride towards Kensington Gardens from the bay window with Mrs Holmes by my side.

"Mycroft was always supportive of this detective business of his. We were worried and sceptical at first, but Mycroft seemed to think this could make him happy," Violet Holmes muses and I nod politely.

I wish Sherlock could see the whole thing from that angle, too. I get it, he feels like Mycroft is trying to run his life even from beyond the grave, but still.

I lean my knuckles onto the window sill. Sherlock has turned a corner and I can no longer be seen.

I'm battling a sense of helplessness creeping in, wanting to grasp at straws. I turn to his mother who's picking an errand strand from her cardigan, looking thoughtful. "The violin. What else?"

Mrs Holmes raises her eyebrows as she meets my gaze. "What do you mean?"

I don't know how to articulate this without reminding her, again, of what she has lost. But I need to.

When it all went to hell after Sherrinford, what did you do?

When you thought you were going to lose Sherlock to this thing, too, what did you do?

I open my mouth to rephrase, but luckily Sherlock has inherited a large chunk of his deductive powers from his mother and I don't have to say anything more until Violet Holmes speaks.

"We sent him away for school. William was convinced it was a bad idea but Mycroft seemed to be liking it at Harrow and I felt it could be a chance to start over for him. Carve a place for himself somewhere that didn't remind him of Sherrinford all the time."

"I assume it worked, then?"

Violet Holmes bites her lip. "In some ways, yes. He discovered natural sciences and buried himself in schoolwork. That went on for years until he dropped out of Oxford."

I let out a hollow laugh. "Yeah, he told me he'd surpassed his professors academically and decided there was nothing more academic life could offer."

I glance at Violet, expecting her to be amused but instead she looks slightly alarmed. "John, I only know bits and pieces from what I've managed to squeeze out of Mycroft through the years, but that is most decidedly not the reason."

I feel slightly awkward discussing these things without Sherlock present, but it's not like I've had much success in coaxing him to share facts about his past. And I realize I'm of my at wit's end here, really.

Mrs Holmes looks me in the eye and straightens her spine. "Sherlock didn't have friends, so to speak. He only had the one during his Oxford years - Victor, his best friend. And Sherlock apparently made the mistake of falling in love with him."

My mouth is dry.

This feels criminal, discussing Sherlock's romantic history with his mother of all people, but I still urge Violet to continue. "What- happened?"

"To put it mildly, it was not reciprocated. He was severely humiliated publicly by Victor and other classmates. He dropped out and we didn't hear from him for two years. Mycroft managed to keep tabs on him, somehow. We assumed it was Mycroft who got him a job with the police and that gave him an incentive to clean up his act."

To my knowledge it had been a lucky accident, meeting Lestrade and getting involved with the Yard, nothing to do with Mycroft at all. But that's hardly relevant now.

Is this the reason Mycroft tried to hammer his Iceman's credo of sentiment being a terrible thing into Sherlock's thinking? Had it been an attempt at damage control?

Violet Holmes follows me to Baker Street after the will reading. I think she wants to spend some time with her son before they return to Surrey. When we enter the flat I'm relieved to find Sherlock at his microscope in the kitchen.

I make tea for myself and Mrs Holmes and we take over the armchairs.

After awhile Sherlock gives up on trying to focus on what he's doing, because he keeps getting distracted by our talking. At least that's what he tells us. The words 'inane chatter' are used. His anger seems to have dissipated to some extent. He looks worn-down. A little sad, even.

Maybe some of this anger is indeed just that, sadness. I did witness him enjoy himself in the company of his brother at times.

After some goading Sherlock agrees to actually spend some time with his mother.

Mrs Holmes is a fan of musicals and since Sherlock volunteers no other entertainment options, she makes him watch Moulin Rouge on BBC3 with her.

I should've taped his reactions.

Sherlock renames the film 'Sentiment - The Musical, now with tuberculosis and bad fiscal decisions'.

While the film plays, Mrs Holmes tries to convince Sherlock to accept the inheritance. He clearly doesn't want to talk about it.

In light of all that I have now learned, Sherlock has got to be the strongest person I've ever known. He's also definitely the most stubborn.

The next morning, I ambush Sherlock while he's shaving. During cases he rarely eats or sleeps but London's criminal cases will never catch him with a five-o'clock shadow.

After showering, he always opens the door so the steam won't clog up the bathroom mirror. I think he likes bathing. Or maybe it just somehow helps his thinking. I'm regularly gifted with the sight of a stark naked Sherlock running around the flat when a sudden epiphany makes him momentarily forgot what he was doing in the bathroom. He usually runs to the sitting room to do some research on my laptop because he can't be arsed to dig out his own. I usually fetch his pants and drop them next to him on the sofa. He usually ignores my efforts.

He's very observant about the world. I'm observant about him. I know he sometimes borrows my shampoo when he's run out of his own and hasn't bothered to get more. He uses at least three sorts of products on his hair and prefers a traditional razor to an electric one.

At present he's standing in front of the bathroo mirror, draped in a towel, applying some sort of lotion to his face. I doubt his father has taught him this elaborate-for-a-bloke morning routine. Maybe he picked it up at some posh public boarding school.

I lean onto the doorframe, arms crossed.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

I try to be brief and to the point. "You should reconsider about the inheritance."

"None of your business, John."

"It is sort of my business, if it affects your ability to share the rent. This could enable you to not worry about money when selecting cases."

"I don't worry about money."

"I know. I do that for you."

He pauses brushing his hair and measures me up with a weary glance. "I'm aware that I have let certain things go lax in my personal affairs. It shan't be a problem in the future."

"Going to start filing your own taxes and all, then?" I've always suspected that Mycroft has taken care of that for him, too. Sherlock uses bills as coasters and coasters as acid experiment material.

The following Saturday it's my day off from the surgery and luckily Lestrade comes calling with a case to keep us occupied. Sherlock runs himself to the ground trying to solve it, but there's not enough puzzle pieces to go on yet. Noone is in danger so there's no actual deadline to this thing, but Sherlock has never been a poster child for patience anyway.

I wonder what he was like as a child. Mycroft was probably one of those kids who would happily wait for the marshmallow in order to get two. Sherlock would probably grab the first one and demand a second right away.

We return home as the sun is setting. Sherlock is frustrated while I am mostly just exhausted.

I kick off my shoes and take over the couch. Idly flipping the channels, I decide on a nature documentary. I need something meditative to wind my brain down.

Sherlock darts between the kitchen and his bedroom in his dressing gown, absent-mindedly checking on some of his experiments and firing off a bunch emails.

I want to - need to - talk to him about the inheritance again, but tonight I just can't be bothered. I need some rest.

The tv program, which I'm not even really watching, is nearing its end when Sherlock finally stops his faffing about and parks his bottom on the seat cushion next to me.

The program is about some birds living on the Farne islands off the coast of Northumberland. Eiders, I think these birds are called. The females do all the work breeding-wise while the males stay out in the open sea, spending their lives alone.

Sherlock is watching the program with a strangely intense concentration.

"I didn't know you were so into sea-ducks," I joke and he shushes me with an indignant expression.

We watch the rest of the program in silence. While the credits roll, I look at Sherlock. He looks like he's gone into his Mind Palace.

In a moment, he opens his mouth and regards me with a curious expression. "Why would they do that?"

"Why would who do what?"

"The eiders. If they could stay with their partners, why would they choose to live alone?"

I'm baffled. "I have no idea."

"If they had someone out there waiting for them, why wouldn't they stay? If they knew how to function with others socially, why would they choose loneliness? Why would anyone?"

He looks so sad. Who is he referring to, really? Himself and his 'married to my work' self-imposed celibacy? Or Mycroft, who has enough social skills but also plenty enough cold calculation to avoid the sentiment both of them so malign.

"They're just birds, Sherlock," I offer.

He rises and disappears into his bedroom. I stay on the sofa, none the wiser.