John had no time to check for a response until they returned the tape and recorder to the Yard and were back at home. Sherlock headed up to his room without a word, which gave him the opportunity to bring out his mobile, unsilence it, and check his messages. One brief response: "Take a walk around six. I will meet you." No initials, but that was Sherlock's trait, not Mycroft's. He wondered what sort of excuse he would use when he left. "Taking a walk" sounded like he was being deceitful (which technically he was).
It turned out that he didn't have to say anything at all, as Sherlock was still sequestered in his room and hadn't left since they had arrived back home. He set out with a vague feeling of unease. While John had a lot of questions, he wasn't sure he wanted to know the answers to many of them. However, he had little time to be lost in thought, as a car pulled up next to him and the window rolled down. "John," said Mycroft. "Lovely to see you. You signed your last message with 'JH'; have you eloped with my brother?"
He opened the door and got in the car. "No. It was a typo. I've had so many things to think about in the last few days that I wasn't paying attention. Where are we going?"
"We are staying right here in this car, which my driver will be driving in no particular pattern while we have a conversation. Now, while I'm sure there are hundreds of things you could want to speak to me about, I think this is one thing in particular. What is that?"
"Sherlock's bee. Why did it get taken away from him?" He had no idea why he said that, of all things, but it worked. Mycroft gave a heavy sigh.
"Ah. His bee. I would ask where you had learned about that, but that is not relevant to the question. That is a very long story, and I hope I can answer your questions." He glanced out the window, and then to his hands in his lap. "That bee is my greatest failure."
John almost wanted to tell him to stop talking. There was a note of anguish in his voice that he'd never heard coming from Mycroft before. Anyway, he doubted he would hear anything other than what he already suspected. He was as surprised as anyone else when he heard himself say, "Go on."
"As you may or may not know, my father passed away when I was nine and Sherlock two. He had been ill for some time beforehand, for what to me seemed like a lifetime. My mother seemed to never recover from his death. Neither of our parents was ever particularly doting or loving, but after the death of our father she became all the more distant. As a result I had to spend much of my spare time looking after my brother. She was home every day, did not work, was easily able to live off the money her family had and my father had accumulated. We had no living family besides our father's mother, who lived in France and thus was not available to us most of the time; our mother was an only child of two only children, both of whom had died before I or my brother was born." He broke his gaze from John to the window again. "Of course when I turned eleven I was sent to the same public school my father attended. I was worried about leaving my brother alone at home – not from any physical dangers, but I was concerned he would be lonely. So I took what pocket money I had saved and bought him that stuffed bee from a store in town."
"Why a bee?" John couldn't help but ask.
"He had always been fascinated with them, and in town there was a store that contained almost every kind of stuffed toy imaginable. I told him every time he saw it he could think of me. At the time, that seemed to make him happy." He shifted his glance again, from the window to his lap. "When I came home from school on the summer holiday, my brother had… changed. Not in any way I could really define. He was quieter. Not as bold, not asking questions, not following me around chattering. I'll admit I didn't notice this myself, not in a conscious way, until I noticed he had a book about insects I had never seen before. I was sure our mother hadn't given it to him, and I asked him where he got it. He told me that he had found it. Obviously this wasn't true, but he got so uneasy when I asked I didn't press him further. But that was what made me notice he had changed."
"Did you tell your mother about this?"
He snorted. "Of course not. She would neither have noticed nor cared, and I knew that. And there was no one else to tell. I was still young enough that I didn't think of the possible explanations." Mycroft looked John briefly in the eye, then went back to staring out the window. "And I went back to school. For several years, until I left school for university, that was the pattern. I would come home on holidays and see my brother. Some of the time he would be gone for long periods of time; he said he was taking a walk. He would do well enough in school, but his teachers said he didn't really pay attention." John was suddenly reminded of Phillip Rodgers. He shivered. "He would show up with items that he claimed he had found. He talked to me, but whenever I tried to ask him about what was going on when I wasn't home, he would clam up."
He turned to look John directly in the eye, as if to make sure he wasn't missing this. "When I left for university, I considered taking Sherlock with me. By now I knew the possible explanations. However, I deliberately refused to make the connection. My reasoning for wanting him to come with me was because I knew he was unhappy at home. Even if everything else in his life was perfect, we both knew that our mother was not concerned with us. She refused my request, however, and since I was not due to inherit any of my father's estate for three years I could not support him without her help." He took a deep breath. "And then when I was twenty-one, I got a call from my brother. All he told me was that his bee had been taken away and he was being sent away to school. He hadn't yet attended boarding school, which was less of a problem than you might think because our town had an excellent day school he could attend. I came home right away. My mother was furious at him. All she told me was that he was 'telling horrible lies' about a neighbor. This neighbor had apparently denied whatever Sherlock had told our mother, and that was enough for her to deem him a liar. I asked what he had said. I asked who the neighbor was. She refused to answer any of my questions. And she had taken away his bee. She burned it." John actually gasped at that, for what reason he didn't know. "I lost my temper at this point and in the row that ensued she told me that the lies were of a…lewd nature. Of course at this point that only made me angrier. I left vowing to never return. I did not. Then our mother died a few months later, and Sherlock decided that this was my fault. If I hadn't upset her she would still be alive. He claimed that losing the bee was unimportant, as he was too old for such a thing."
"Did you ever find out who the neighbor was?" John forced himself to ask.
"No," he said simply. "There were several people who had lived in the immediate area for some time, and several also moved around the time of our mother's death. Sherlock insisted he had no idea what she was talking about. Our relationship has been so strained for so long I have never asked further. That is why that bee is my greatest failure."
"It wasn't your responsibility to protect him from whoever was abusing him. Even if you did figure out who it was, I doubt that any charges would have gone through if Sherlock just denied everything," John said, in an attempt to reassure him.
"Regardless of who was responsible, you can see the effect on him. He really had no friends prior to you. You know about his past drug use and you have seen his neglect of his own well-being. I assume he is trying to bury the past with this case of the serial perpetrator." The car stopped at that point. "We are back at Baker Street now. I hope this conversation has been helpful."
"Thank you for telling me all this," John replied, and hopped out of the car and up all seventeen steps to 221B. There were no lights on in the flat, but when he got inside and flipped the switch, he was surprised to see Sherlock sitting sideways in a chair, violin in his hands.
"I hope your conversation with my brother was enlightening," he said without preamble.
"He…" John tried to think of a delicate way to put it. "He told me about your bee."
"I see."
"You told Moira Aherne that you were telling the truth. Not horrible lies." Why he blurted that out, John did not know.
"Yes, I did."
John wanted desperately to question him further, to see if he wanted to get the story off his chest. But he knew Sherlock wouldn't respond to something like that. "If you ever want to talk about that, I'll be willing to listen." Figuring that he would want to be alone, John headed to his bedroom. He had only taken a few steps before he heard music. The haunting lament of a violin, sad enough to break your heart.
