John's touch is every bit as tender as always, his fingers moving with caution like he's treating a severed leg instead of a scratch. In spite of that, Sherlock chews on the inside of his cheek because it really does hurt quite a lot, but he knows it's not serious and he refuses to let John know that even a fraction of those tears had actually been real. He stays still and silent while John stops the bleeding, removes the grit with a pair of tweezers, covers it with a cream, and then wraps a bandage around his leg. He takes his time with each step, every inch of his focus squarely on Sherlock, until at last he steps back with satisfied look.
"Now if I let you go are you going to hurt yourself again?" he asks with a wry smile, like he already knows what the answer will be.
"It was necessary," Sherlock says impatiently, bracing his hands against the edge of the counter. He's more than ready to jump down but John catches him under the arms, lowering him slowly and safely to the ground before turning away to wash his hands. Sherlock frowns at his back and tests his leg gingerly, realizing that, though the wound stings when he puts weight on it, it will hold. Good. "Go distract her. I'm going to take a look at her bedroom."
"God," says John and he shakes his head. He clearly wants to say something but refrains, which is just as well because Sherlock wouldn't listen anyway. They separate at the door and Sherlock ventures deeper into the house while John goes out to the kitchen. The layout is fairly straightforward and it's not hard to find his way to Eugenia's bedroom. The door has been shut, but it's not locked (she's trusting, then, at least when it comes to her child) and he closes it behind him once he's in.
There's not a lot of furniture and what there is looks old and well worn. One thing immediately stands out as being so obvious that even John would notice: no man lives here. Or has visited recently, even, he can tell by the way that Eugenia's bed is only partially made. The rest of the house is fastidiously neat, so she's not expecting anyone to see the interior of this room. He moves swiftly across the room to her dresser. A quick perusal of the top drawer reveals underwear, knickers and bras that have seen better days. In the very back, balled up and shoved against the corner and covered by everything else, is a satin pair in a shiny pink. Interesting.
The drawer below yields jumpers and sweats and nothing of interest, same for the drawer beneath. Her clothing is all dreadfully boring, worse even then John's old cable-knit oatmeal jumper but hiding no other secrets. He looks for all of the normal hiding places: beneath the desk, in her closet, under the bed and the mattress, but frustratingly yields nothing. He sits back on his heels and folds his hands together thoughtfully. Everyone has secrets but perhaps her bedroom is not where Eugenia keeps them, even though it's the one part of the house she deems able to be messy. The question, then, is where?
As he gets to his feet, his eyes land on her night table and the picture frames, one of them now face down half on top of a pair of reading glasses. He examines them briefly - one a picture of Amy, one of an older woman who looks a good deal like Eugenia, and one is a picture of Eugenia and a man with a strong resemblance to, and who may possibly be, a young Godfrey Norton: the picture quality is too poor to tell for certain. He makes note of the down-turned frame's exact placement before he picks that one up. He sucks in a sharp breath, eyes widening slightly. This changes everything.
"Sherrinford!"
Hearing John's voice is a jolt. Sherlock sets the frame down carefully and strides over to the door. Before he can reach up to open it, it does, revealing John, who looks harried. "We've got to go," he says, "Eugenia's got visitors and I think one of them might have recognized me."
"I've found what I needed anyway," says Sherlock, stepping out into the hall and closing the door. It's not technically true but he has discovered enough to know that this case warrants a much closer look than he originally anticipated. He follows John down the hall, mind whirling, and is completely unprepared to find a familiar face waiting for them with Eugenia by the front door. Sherlock stops cold and, for one of the few times in his life, is honestly speechless.
"Found him," John says with a weak grin, shooting a puzzled look at Sherlock. "Thanks for your help."
"No problem," Eugenia says politely, casting a less than subtle glance at the front door. She clearly wants them to leave.
"Come on," says John when Sherlock fails to move and Sherlock, finally, steps forward, following him out the door. John lets out a breath of relief. "God I was beginning to think we wouldn't make it out of there. What did you find in her bedroom? Sherlock? Sherlock, what's wrong?" He stops walking and turns, starts to crouch down and then hesitates.
"That," Sherlock says numbly, "was my mother."
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