Fare Thee Well

by Samwise221b

Part 3 of my Sherlock/OC series. The mind is a dangerous thing to loose, but loosing those closest to you can be just as hard. Sherlock and Elfie are trying to piece together the life they once had, however, Sherlock's dark past seems to be holding him back. The drugs, the depression, everything. He's lost in his own mind and there doesn't seem to be a way out; None except her.

14. Chapter 14: Cold and Broken

Hello again!

As always thank you for the love and support for this story. Truly, hearing from you guys makes my day.

May2306: I don't mean to rip at your heartstrings but I am glad you are enjoying that much. Sing Mariah as much as you want.

Lady Schmetterling: I love the fact you still use Elflock Xoxo it makes my heart warm :)

Any who, now it's on with the new chapter. As always, I do not own BBC Sherlock or Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's cannon.

Chapter 14: Cold and Broken

Rain pours down in a flurry outside, echoing off the bedroom walls.

Tiny rays of light peak through the cloud cover.

The sky is grey and the air outside as well as in sends shivers up my spine.

Melancholy is a good word to use to describe this morning: melancholy and cold.

I wake up to the sound of booming thunder, feeling only mildly rested. The storm from last night is still blustering outside causing the old house to creak and moan. Stretching my body out, I notice that the spot next to me is empty. Sitting up only a little bit, I look around the room for Sherlock. He is nowhere to be seen and I begin to feel a twinge off worry He only stirred a little again after he had finally fallen asleep from his…episode. It wasn't another nightmare, thankfully, but it was odd. Sherlock woke up, moved his body as close to mine as possible then held me close, lovingly nuzzling his head into the crook of my neck.

"My darling, darling girl," he whispered, placing a soft kiss on my cheek, "I am so, so sorry." He kissed my cheek again, tucked the blankets around me and then I heard the patter of his bare feet against the hardwood floor. I had opened my eyes a little bit to see where he was going but he was already out of the room and out of sight. Was he apologizing for asking for the drugs? Did he even remember having that nightmare? Too tired to think about it all, I had simply fallen back asleep.

Now, deciding to head out and find my husband, I get up from under the covers then head out of the room. As I walk down the hall, I wrap my arms tightly around my body and loose myself in my thoughts. I can't shake the sound of his whines out of my head, how he begged for his drugs, how he said he failed…how lost he really was. I need to figure out what I'm going to do once I find Sherlock. I definitely need to call John; yes, he's all the way in London but he is a doctor and will know exactly what to do in this situation. Maybe I can convince him to come out here and help. No, no he needs to be with Mary. I can't let my domestic issues affect them.

Then there's Hamish. I do thoroughly believe I need to let him know that Sherlock's sick, but how do you explain something like this to a child? He's been away from home for a whole week without really knowing why and now his father's mind is slowly falling apart. Oh God, what am I going to do? Yes, I'll admit it: Sherlock is not only unwell but this trip has opened doors of his past that is affecting his mental state. I think we need to just go home: back to Baker Street and try to solve this mystery there.

I reach the door of Sherlock's childhood bedroom and am about to go in to see if Hamish is up, but the sound of hushed voices stops me:

"Hamish, you don't need to hide under that blanket." I hear Sherlock say; he sounds really weak and absolutely exhausted; did he sleep in here last night? Did he even go back to sleep at all?

"But den they'll find me, Dad! I gots to hide." Hamish cries

"Shh, now it's alright. Come here in my lap and tell me: who will find you, young man?"

"The ones dat make that noise." Hamish sniffles, "Dad, I no like it."

I can't help but smile at this little conversation between them. Hamish has never liked rainstorms; when he was a newborn, I could hardly keep him asleep when a storm was raging outside Baker Street. Then, as he got older, he became convinced that there is something in the sky that makes the thunder so loud. Hamish won't listen when Sherlock and I try to tell him that he's not in danger, but he does calm down. Curious as to how Sherlock will handle this time, I stand behind the door, peak inside through the small crack, and just listen in on their conversation.

"It is only thunder, Hamish," Sherlock replies in a comforting voice, "It can't hurt you."

"Why does it do that?" Hamish asks in a meek voice,

"The rapid expansion of the air surrounding the lighting bolts which are caused by-Sorry, no, that's a tad too difficult for you to understand." Sherlock replies, "Um, well, let's see. The thunder makes that noise because…it rumbles for the same reason the, erm-Huh, this is more difficult then I expected."

"It oh-tay if you no know, Dad."

"I do know, Hamish, give me a chance."

"No, it oh-tay. Jawn says you no know ever ting."

"Well, I can tell you that…Did he?"

"Mhm. He says you smart but you can be slow."

"When did John say that?"

"…I not suppose to say. It secret."

Hamish lets out a giddy laugh along with Sherlock's deep baritone chuckle. I can't help but smile at the sound; it's been far too long since I heard my husband laugh like that. Unfortunately, my smile fades, as his chuckle turns into a small coughing fit. My heart aches to hear that sound and I place my hand on the doorknob to go inside, but Hamish's voice stops me.

"You still no feel good, Dad?" he asks

"No, not really, Hamish." Sherlock replies with a groan, "I'm sorry. What…what are you doing?"

"Lay down, dats what Mummy always says to do when I not feel good." Hamish instructs, "Den she touch my head like dis."

"Thank you, Hamish, love, " Sherlock replies, "I'll just...sleep a bit more."

"You need Mummy," Hamish says with a giggle, "Mummy always make me feel better."

Sherlock chuckles again then lets out a heavy sigh: "She does make everything alright, doesn't she?"

My cheeks turn a bright shade of pink and let out deep sigh. He sounds so lost and defeated. How can I tell him that he doesn't have to be? How can I let Sherlock know that he's going to be okay?

"I go get her." Hamish announces and I hear the patter of his little feet against the hardwood floor, "Don't sleep yet, Daddy, she's right here!" Just then, the door opens and I almost stumble backwards. "'Low Mummy!" Hamish giggles as he stands proudly in the doorway with a big smile on his face, "I known you was there."

"Yes, I can see that." I sheepishly reply, regaining my balance. The room is instantly filled with the sounds of Sherlock's moaning and my gaze immediately goes to him. Sherlock is sitting on the floor with his back up against the footboard of the bed; face completely drained of color, eyes open about halfway and his curls completely a mess. There are some blankets wrapped around him (probably Hamish's attempt at helping) and a pillow propped up against his back. He looks like he hasn't gotten a wink of sleep and it makes my heart ache even more. Perhaps he's sicker then I thought.

"Daddy not feels good." Hamish says, taking my hand into his, "Come. Look." He pulls me into the bedroom and my eyes immediately lock on my husband's. Sherlock looks so sad and ashamed, like a child whose about to be scolded for doing something terribly wrong. With a meek smile, I go to Sherlock's side and kneel down beside him.

"Hey," I whisper, placing my hand on his warm cheek, "Sherlock, are you awake?"

He nods very slowly and then opens his eyes fully: "I'm sorry I left during the night," he says, sounding like every word is too difficult for him to speak, "I…"

"Sherlock, it's fine." I quickly say, "Just tell me what's wrong. Do you need your medicine?" With a weary nod, Sherlock closes his eyes and nuzzles his head against my hand. I place a kiss on his forehead then help him to stand. Once on his feet, Sherlock wraps an arm around my shoulders then sags to side, causing me to hold him upright and keep him as steady as possible.

"'M sorry," he breathes out, eyes still closed as he rolls his head to the side.

"When are you going to stop apologizing for things that are clearly out of your control?" I whisper, kissing his cheek. Sherlock chuckles slightly and I can see a small smile grow across his lips.

"I love you," he whispers, nuzzling his head onto my neck. I place another kiss on his cheek then make my way to the door with him.

"Hamish, sweetheart, can you help me?" I ask our son, who is just staring up at us with worry, "I have to get Daddy back to bed and give him some medicine."

"Oh-tay, I help." Hamish replies, "What do?"

"Just follow us for now, love." I reply and then the three of us make our way down the hall and into the guest bedroom. Once inside, I help Sherlock lie down on the bed and tuck the covers around him. "Hamish, can you watch over Dad for a few moments?" I ask as I lift the eager toddler up onto the bed.

"Mhm," Hamish agrees with a smile. He then crawls up close to Sherlock's face and lays down, staring at him lovingly. Sherlock opens his eyes about halfway and smiles back at Hamish, resting a hand on the toddler's back and rubbing it slightly. I walk over to my suitcase and, discreetly as possible, take out the pill bottle Sherlock gave me the day we left for country. I've been giving one pill to him every morning, just as instructed, but he seemed like he didn't really need it. Today is obviously different.

"Here we are," I say, sitting down on the other side of Sherlock holding out a pill for him to take, "can you sit up for me?" Wearily, Sherlock props himself up on his elbows then pops the pill into his mouth and swallows.

"Thank you," he breathes out, falling back down onto his back. It's quiet between us and for a moment, I thought he had fallen back asleep. "I slept in Hamish's room last night," Sherlock finally says, "Well, on the floor really…and I didn't actually sleep."

"I can tell," I reply, "But why did you leave the bedroom?"

"Dad got rid of my bad dreams," Hamish says, crawling up into my lap, "He had bad dreams too, he said." My eyes lock with Sherlock's and I can feel my heart drop to the pit of my stomach. His sad gaze tells me everything; he remembers asking for the drugs last night. He remembers his nightmare and he's ashamed by it. I don't want him to be embarrassed about it; I want this to be a chance for us to move on. He is sick but he can get better: I know it. He only just has to want too.

I take my husband's hand into mine and gently squeeze it. "I don't like waking up with you not being there," I say in a soft voice, "You had me worried."

"I didn't mean to worry you," he sighs, clearly falling back asleep, "I just couldn't face…not after I had asked for…"

"Sherlock, you weren't yourself." I reply, "Let's just move on from last night, okay?"

"I…I didn't hurt you did I?" he asks meekly, rolling his head to the side

"No, love, you didn't." I reply, "Now, just go to sleep. You know that I'm here for you."

"Mhm," he sighs in reply, "'m just…so…tired." His hold on my hand relaxes and I can tell that he's finally drifted off to sleep. I can't help but wonder about what he really means by 'tired.' Is he tired because he didn't sleep last night or is he tired of being like this? I guess it's just another part of this mystery.

"Mummy," Hamish says, wrapping his arms around my neck, "when we go home?"

"Hopefully soon, sweetheart," I reply, holding him close as I get up off the bed, "I want to go home too, but Daddy has a case to finish up here."

"When he gonna do that?"
"I wish I could tell you, but I really don't know."
"Oh." Hamish furrows his brow in confusion for a moment then looks over at his father. "But Daddy will fix it, he always does." He adds with a smile.
"That's right, love, he does." I agree, kissing his cheek, "Now, come along and let's let daddy get some sleep."

0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0

The afternoon comes around but the storm outside doesn't lighten up. I'm sitting in the living room-its more like a library actually-while Hamish is sitting on Sherlock's old dragon blanket, on the floor, playing with some toys that we'd dug out of Sherlock's old toy chest. I told Violet that Sherlock was unwell and she immediately snapped into 'caring mother mode' without a question. She's been checking on him, getting him some water, things like that. Nothing seems to have changed since he fell asleep, but as Violet enters the room now Sherlock is right behind her. Some color has returned to his face and he looks more rested, but I wouldn't say healthier.

"Daddy's up!" Hamish giggles, dropping what he's doing for just a moment to wave to Sherlock, "Low Daddy. Nice nap?"

"Yes, thank you Hamish," Sherlock replies, giving our son a wink. His tired eyes then meet mine and a sheepish smile grows across his face; "Hello, Elfie."

"Hey," I say, smiling in return, "Good morning, sleeping beauty." He rolls his eyes and makes his way toward me. To my surprise, Sherlock takes my hands into his and brings them to his lips. He then looks at me the way he did all those years ago when we first started dating; its as if Im the most beautiful thing he's ever laid eyes on. "What's this then?" I ask, feeling my cheeks turn a slight shade of pink, "You haven't looked at me like that in a long time."

"And for that I am ashamed," he whispers in reply,

"Sherlock, if this about last night…"

"I don't want to talk about last night." Our eyes immediately lock and I understand what he's really saying. He's ashamed of his actions and wants to move on from what's happened. He just wants to move forward and so do I. "I love you, Elfie Marie.'' He goes on, "I don't think I've conveyed that enough. You and Hamish are my world and I…I can't loose that."

"How poetic," I tease, genuinely smiling at him, "And yet you say you're not sentimental?"

Sherlock smiles as he plops down on the couch beside me. He rests his head in my lap just like he does at home and stretches out his long body. We both look at each other and laugh like we do before sharing a quick kiss on the lips. For a moment there, things to be back to normal.

"You sound like you feel better," I say, starting to rub Sherlock's temples just like he always likes me to.

"I don't, really," he replies with a content sigh, "but I couldn't stay in bed forever, now could I?"

"You could if you were ill which I can very easily see that you are," Violet says, taking a seat in the chair parallel from us, "I think it's this case that's draining you, little one."

"Hardly, Mother," Sherlock scoffs, "I haven't had a break in this case in a whole week. I'm starting to think our friendly vandal was just a hoax."

"Really?" I ask, a little taken back by this statement, "You, Sherlock Holmes, are giving up on a case?"

"I didn't say that," he points out, "this person, who ever he or she may be, obviously wanted me here. However, now that I am here, they have not made their presence known or left any other sign that they are still interested in the money."

"Surely they are just lying low," Violet adds, but Sherlock brushes his hand through the air as if to push the thought aside.

"Even in the most high sakes kidnapping, the criminal will put out a ransom call." He goes on, steepling his hands under his chin in his signature fashion, "Our messenger has made their initial move, but has failed to provide a follow-up. Thus, I conclude, this individual was merely trying to scare you, Mother, and unfortunately went to great lengths to do so."

"Well, if that was their intended goal, they succeeded," Violet states, "But how can you be so sure?"

"She's got a point, Sherlock. That doesn't sound at all like one of your normal conclusion, honey," I say, furrowing my brow in confusion, "Usually, cases like this hold your interest what with all the weird elements and such."

"Maybe this one didn't do that," Sherlock replies, closing his eyes, "Perhaps this wasn't as much of a challenge I thought it was going to be."

"Ah! So you are here for work, I should have guessed it."
Sherlock, Violet and I quickly turn our attention to the sound of Mycroft's voice coming from the living room arch way. Sure enough, the British Government himself is standing there dressed in his normal suit and tie and twirling that umbrella in his hand. How the hell did he get here? I mean sure, this is his mother's home but how did he get inside? Does he have a key? Of course he has a key, he's Mycroft Holmes: man you can get anywhere he pleases.

"Uncle My!" Hamish giggles, getting up and waddling his way over to Mycroft, "Low My!"

"Good afternoon, Hamish." Mycroft says, patting Hamish on the head as the smiling toddler hugs his legs, "Hello to you as well, Elfie." I can only nod and meekly wave hello in reply; I can't really say that I'm happy to see my brother-in-law…then again, I'm never really happy to see him.

"Mickey," Violet says, standing up to greet her eldest son, "you should have called." They exchange cordial kisses on the cheeks and then Violet offers him her chair. Mycroft takes a seat and Hamish runs over to jump up into Sherlock's lap.

"Look, Daddy," he giggles, "it like a party!"

"I wouldn't call it that, Hamish." Sherlock replies, holding the giddy toddler upright in his lap, "This is more like an unwelcomed surprise." Immediately, the Holmes brother's exchange the coldest glares that I have ever seen. "What are you doing here?" Sherlock practically hisses.

"Can't I drop in to wish our mother well?" Mycroft taunts.

"Don't be coy, I'm not in the mood." Sherlock snaps back, but Mycroft is unphased.

"And how are you, Elfie?" he asks me, completely ignoring his brother for the moment, "Keeping well, I hope."

"I, er, I'm okay." I reply, confused as ever.

"Good, that's good to hear." Mycroft says with a small smile, "I must say, I am surprised Sherlock has brought you up here to our 'old stomping grounds' as it were."

"You haven't answered me, Mycroft," Sherlock quickly interrupts, "What. Are. You. Doing. Here."

"I've been informed by one of the staff members over looking the final restorations of the house that my baby brother has been telling locals that he's settling our late father's estate," Mycroft replies, "I knew that couldn't be true seeing that you never cared about Father's estate let alone the house we grew up in. Never the less, since I was on my way up here anyway, I decided I would drop in to see if the rumors were true. Taking a trip down memory lane, brother mine?"

Sherlock quickly stands up from the couch, holding Hamish close to his chest, and storms over to his brother but before he can say anything, Violet places a firm hand on his chest: "I asked Sherlock to come up here with me," she admits, "There was a specific matter I wished for him to look into. He and Elfie and Hamish have been here for a week."

"I know," Mycroft replies, "Doctor Watson has been kind enough to fill me in on all the details of this mystery. Have you identified the vandal, Sherlock?"

"What does it matter to you?" Sherlock snaps, "and why would you ask John about it?"

"Since I am the sole individual in charge of handing Father's estate and selling the manor, I would have liked to have been informed of any act of vandalism on the property." Mycroft replies, "And wither you like it or not, I must be involved in this."

"No, you really mustn't." Sherlock replies, "Just as always, my work has nothing to do with you."

"Sherlock please," Violet says, "We knew that he was going to find out about this sooner rather than later. Your brother is only…"

"Sticking his nose in a matter that has nothing to do with him, just as he always does." Sherlock says, rolling his eyes.

"I'm not getting involved because I wish too, Sherlock," Mycroft says, "I've been involuntarily included."

"Oh is that so?" Sherlock mocks, "And you expect me to believe that?"

"If you don't believe me, ask Doctor Watson."
"What has John got to do with any of this?"

"Hey, Sherlock."

Suddenly, we all turn our heads to see John and Mary standing sheepishly in the archway. My eyes meet Mary's and I quickly embrace my best girlfriend. Rather then being surprised and confused to see them, I'm actually rather relieved they are here. This saves me from making a phone call and, quite frankly, I needed a best friend. John and Mary: the two people who seemed to be fixing all of Sherlock's problems and mine now a days.

"What are you doing here?" I ask, "Shouldn't you be wedding planning?"

"That can wait, Fee. I told John we had to come up here." Mary explains, giving me a friendly squeeze, "We were so worried."
"What for?" I ask, looking her in the eyes, "What's happened?" She bites her lower lip and looks at me with an expression that is mixed with worry and confusion. Something is bothering her and it must be big if it's caused both her and John to come all the way out the country. Okay, now I am really lost. What is going on here?

"Jawn! Mary!" Hamish squeals, wiggling out of his father's hold, "It a real party now."
"Hello, young man," John says, setting down the giant box he's been carrying down and swooping his godson into his arms, "How's the holiday been? Hello again, Violet, sorry about the intrusion."

"It's no trouble at all." Violet replies, sounding just as lost as I am, "I'm sure it is all for a reason."

"John, what the hell are you doing here?" Sherlock asks, walking over so that he and his best friend are face to face. He's not upset, but rather just frustrated. He hates not knowing what's going on and I don't blame him.

"Didn't you get my text this morning?" John asks, adjusting his hold on Hamish.

"No, I've…I've been out of sorts all morning." Sherlock sheepishly replies as he runs a hand through his curls, "But that doesn't matter: why are the two of you here?"
"Dr. Watson and his future bride choose to accompany me after I informed them of the package I received yesterday afternoon," Mycroft answers, raising from the chair, "The contents were…interesting, to say the least."
"You're siding with Mycroft, why?" Sherlock asks, glaring down at John.

"I'm not siding with anyone," John replies, "He called me to see if I knew what this package was. Sherlock, you…I don't know what's going on with your case but this may change things up a bit."

"Okay, alright, enough mystery," I say, rubbing the bridge of my nose in annoyance, "What was this package and what has it got to do with the case?"

"See for yourself," Mycroft adds, motioning his umbrella to the box John had set on the ground earlier, "Sherlock, I do believe you should be the one to open it. It belongs to you, after all."

My husband and I exchange a look of wonder and I can only give him a small nod, assuring him that he should indeed open the box. Sherlock gets down on his knees beside the box then carefully removes the lid. A folded up piece of paper is resting atop what appears to be cases of old cassette tapes. Sherlock removes the paper and I read the typed out note over his shoulder:

Dear Mr. Holmes, the younger,

Welcome back to the past. It seems you've got my previous message so I won't waist any more of your time with that. You know I don't want money, just your attention. You break things, Mr. Holmes, but you're not the only one.

You've got secrets and these have given me quite a bit of light into who you really are. Who knew you could be so easily manipulated? Have a listen to these and visit memory lane. When your done, I'm sure you'll know where to find me.

See you in 4 weeks time.

"Please tell me you know what all that means," John says,

Sherlock doesn't reply. He simply stares at the contents with a furrowed brow for a moment but then stumbles back in a small state of shock. His eyes immediately snap toward Mycroft: "Who had these?" he sneers.

"How should I know? They appeared on my desk yesterday." Mycroft replies, "Your guess is as good as mine, brother dear."

"These…these were supposed to be destroyed," Sherlock stammers, running his hands through his hair, "I was told. No, no, no."

I quickly kneel down beside my extremely distraught husband and place my hands on his slightly shaking shoulders: "Sherlock, what is it?" I ask, "Love, talk to me."

He doesn't say anything. Sherlock just reaches into the box and pulls out one of the tapes. He folds it over in his hands for a few moments and then hands it to me to read. The label, written in a red pen, makes my hear sink to my stomach:

Feb. 7, 1984

Holmes, Sherlock S. Age: 7

Therapy Session #1