"The ones that love us never really leave us."

(JK Rowling)

Part Five: Reckonings

Deep within his Mind Palace, Sherlock finds he cannot broach many of its doors. Benedict and Viola are closed to him, as are Seiga, Mrs Hudson, even Lestrade. John Watson can be accessed, as can Molly, but his views of them are hazy, unpredictable, weak. Sherlock's head is aching within his Mind Palace, and he finds himself forgetting whole filing cabinets and desk drawers of information. Sherlock stares into the emptiness and feels a churning from within.

" - drawn him out."

Sherlock looks up from within the Palace, to the top of the parapet where sits his brother, with pernicious information, and he reluctantly decides where his priorities lie.

" - so nice you could join us. Sherlock, I was recounting to Doctor Watson - "

"John."

"To John, how crumbling feet of clay might precipitate a very nasty and public fall from grace."

Sherlock's eyes pop open, allowing his nausea to fade and his aching head to lessen in its intensity.

"We have Pica Industries at a disadvantage?" Mycroft swims into view. Irritating... especially now that he is smiling that smile. He was so proud of that social media smear campaign.

"You know we do. The time is now Sherlock; he has shown himself and everything is as it should be."

Sherlock closes his eyes once more, wondering why a faint beeping emerges into his consciousness when there is no logical explanation for it. He is tired, so tired, but cannot fail to note the slight pressure from a gloved hand across his arm, as rare as henbane, as almost as unwelcome.

"This is more than over, Mycroft."

"I need to believe you."

"Seiga will be safe. Everyone will be safe. His empire is crumbling." He flashes them open, making his brother flinch (always a pleasure) and reluctantly notes how old Mycroft is looking these days. Ageing betrays one's humanity, and Sherlock is almost (yet not quite) ready to attribute a degree of such to his older brother, if not himself.

"You're going to have to trust us with this one, Mycroft." John is standing over his friend, disliking his pallor, his languor, his lethargy, and even places a protective hand across Sherlock's shoulder. "We do this, and it's over. No more governmental fuck-ups, no more IOU`s, no more demands, except for cases involving stuff like lying husbands, bizarre codes or missing budgies. The Criminal masterminds can just … piss off for a bit. What do you say?"

Refined as he ever could be, Mycroft Holmes inclines his head, tightening his grip on his umbrella handle, whilst wondering when he might message their sister-

"Forget about Seiga, bror kära," murmurs Sherlock, from behind his hand as he fights his exhaustion. "I cannot use her."

"Sexist claptrap. She is highly trained-" begins Mycroft.

"-and entirely pregnant," completes his brother, sighing slightly. "Are you without eyes?"

Judging by the slight tremor in the corner of Mycroft's left eye, it would indeed seem that familial bonds are not always so conducive to clarity of mind.

"I'm ready," adds Sherlock.

And he is.

~x~

He hears the slightly hesitant and punctuated notes drifting up the stairs from Mrs Hudson's kitchen: Fur Elise. Ben. Sherlock steps down one, then two stairs, holding tight the bannister as he listens to the familiarly haunting refrain. The change between A minor and E major was clunky, and the ⅜ time was more than dubious, but it was… beautiful. Two more steps and the note falters, then continues, building in confidence until it enters its lighter section in F major… two more steps and Sherlock is near to the kitchen door (slightly ajar), then two more. The notes remain pure and hold him, stationary; eyes prickling and throat tight. The gap in the doorway spills light into the murky hall and Sherlock can see the dark, haphazard curls of his son's perfect head, and the rise and fall of his bow. Beyond, he sees Mrs Hudson, hands clasped rapturously beneath her chin, an adoring smile playing across her lips as her eyes crinkle with pleasure. He knows exactly how she feels at that moment, watching the small, upright, stiff little figure, pale fingers curled tightly around his bow, grey flannel shorts of his school uniform flapping around skinny, gangly legs, shirt tails hanging from his waistband on the left side (like me, thinks Sherlock, my shirt does that even now) and he stands, holding his breath until the last note sounds and Benedict lowers his bow, bowing for his audience. She claps and claps, bringing the boy towards her and embracing his set shoulders, violin, bow and all.

"Bravo, Ben! Bravo my darling! You play so very beautifully. Your daddy will be so proud of you!"

I am! Sherlock is close to weeping as he leans against the newel post, weakened by an untold dread. I am, my beautiful son, I am. I love you, I love you, I love you.

~x~

John Watson still has his key, opening up 221B in the same way as 221B had opened him. His living here with Sherlock Holmes had opened up his life at a point when he had almost completely closed it down. He steps into the hallway, not bothering to remove his outdoor clothes, since they would very soon be leaving for New Brunswick Street, and a meeting that had to end things. They had all worked so hard over the past five weeks. Thanks to the very useful songs chirped forth by Birdy Edwards (who had faked his own death and gone into hiding to escape the clutches of his ex-employer) the die had been cast and a multi-million pound company that had been founded upon the extortion and suffering of others was set on the brink of collapse. Professor Bartholomew Moriarty had not allowed for the singular, Machiavellian and cold-hearted logic of the Holmes brothers, who had left no stone unturned to restore a brilliantly successful business back to the stinking cankerous slurry tank that it really was. Mycroft had arranged for the stolen jade artefacts to be planted in the very innocent (and entirely legal) consignment of South American snuff boxes, allowing the viral heartworm that is the internet to do its worst.

And it really had.

Thus, that very morning, Sherlock had received a hand delivered message inviting them both for 'a nightcap' at the Arts & Philosophy Society with the Professor that evening, to 'talk things over.'

"Civilised," John had remarked.

"Indeed," Sherlock had returned. "Murder by invitation appears more than amenable."

They had both laughed darkly at their situation, but John felt his friend's melancholy weighing heavy and suddenly had wanted nothing more than to take his shoulders, shake him and tell him that they didn't have to do this; that they could get into a cab and go somewhere else - anywhere - until Mycroft had brought in Special Branch, or the SAS, or MI6, or someone to sort the whole thing out.

But he didn't. Because Sherlock was going to have to do it. Because Sherlock needed to do it, whatever the consequences, however much his hands shook and however pallid his complexion.

A sudden cascade of notes breaks the silence, cutting through both the murkiness of an unlit hallway and John's own thoughts as he finds bright relief in a light melody that seems to invite him up the stairs and imbue his dark introspection with a sudden optimistic caste. As he ascends, John identifies the player (Sherlock - the surety and commitment to the piece is swiftly recognisable) and furthermore discerns the sweetly demonic cackle of a young child (Viola), clearly as invested in the music as he is.

Pushing open the sitting room door, John is unable (and unwilling) to dampen down the grin that populates his face at the sight set before him. Molly Hooper stands at the fireplace, wearing what can only be described as a tiara and holding her squealing daughter (also wearing a tiara) who throws forth chubby arms and wriggles with a determination only matched by John's own memory of her father's, when the latter had been tied to a sinking boat's yard arm as the tide was rising (The Yorvil Yachting Ritual - 34,000 hits and counting). Sherlock himself stands before the windows, playing with a serious yet discernable joy as his son films the whole thing on his mother's phone. It is only then that John realises that he is not listening to Tchaikovsky at all, and that Sherlock Holmes has made it his business to learn the violin version of Let It Go from Disney's Frozen in order to make his daughter smile. The family. The unit. Whatever had estranged them in weeks gone by, or whatever happened tonight, this moment was nothing less than perfect.

~x~

Sherlock does not say goodbye to his wife, but merely cards his long, pale fingers through the shining amber of her hair, twisting it lightly, watching the glow from the lamp illuminate its sheen. Letting it fall, he touches her forehead, the tip of her nose and finally, her curved mouth, before touching his own. John feels a heated flush flood his face at being witness to such intimacy, yet it lasts for only seconds before his friend turns away, bundling them both down the stairs and into the waiting cab. Neither of them speak for the entire journey.

~x~