"Mummy! Mummy!"
Sherlock Holmes ran down the hall, his little feet pounding against the carpeted floor. His round, cheeky face had shiny lines of water streaming down from his eyes, and his mouth was open as he ran.
"Sherlock! Sherlock, come back!"
The boy ran faster, hoping his fat brother would give up chasing him and leave him alone. He wanted to be alone, of all the places: alone was what he had. Alone protected him.
"Sherlock, shut up!" Mycroft was screaming from behind. He waddled after him like an overstuffed penguin, his grubby fists clenched.
"Mummy! Mummy!"
Sherlock could hear his mother cooking downstairs. He passed Eurus on the stairs as he ran. She laughed at him.
"Come and play with me, Sherlock…"
"Not now!" he screamed at his sister, frightening her and sending a tremor through the floor that nearly collapsed her tower of blocks.
Sherlock's mother was in sight. He reached the bottom of the stairs making a beeline for the kitchen.
"Oh mummy!" he cried, running to his mother's arms and sobbing into her flour-dusted apron. In an instant her arms were around his little body and squeezing his head of wild curls.
"Sherlock, dearie…what's the matter?" she asked, holding him to her chest.
"He's being ridiculous, Mother!" Mycroft shouted. He had barely made it down the stairs, and his pudgy hands were molded onto his hips. He glowered at his brother, but looked a little nervous in the presence of his mother.
"No, I'm not! I'm not being ridiculous!" the younger cried violently. "He called me stupid, mummy! Stupid! He said I was a stupid little boy, and that I'm an embarrassment. I hate him! I hate him!" Sherlock screamed, sobbing harder into his mother's apron. The flour was sticking to his glistening face.
"Mycroft!" Mummy scolded, her mouth ajar as she looked at her oldest son. "How dare you speak to your brother that way! What's the matter with you?"
"A number of things, I should imagine, mother. Would you like me to explain them for you?" Mycroft asked, his sarcastic intellect shining through his feelings of intimidation.
"That's quite enough, Mycroft!" she rebuked, massaging Sherlock's head. He was still wailing into her apron.
Mycroft nibbled a fat finger and looked nervously at the floor.
Eurus came down to see what all the commotion was about.
"What's Mycroft done now, Mummy?" she asked, dragging a toy train by a cord. Its wooden wheels were painfully loud against the hard floor.
"Oh, shut up, Eurus," Mycroft snapped, turning to his sister contemptuously. Her eyes widened, but she only stared at him as if "shut up" was the politest thing he could have said.
"Mycroft, hold your tongue!" Mummy scolded, clutching Sherlock closer to herself. "Do you see what you've done to your brother? You've hurt his feelings! Apologize, Mycroft, and apologize now!"
"Feelings are bound to be hurt once in a while, Mummy. You can't expect everyone to apologize whenever they are. Besides, why should I apologize for telling the truth? He is stupid, he is an embarrassment. Isn't it time he knew?"
Mrs. Holmes was enraged at her son, and she was instantly regretting ever having permitting them to be assessed psychiatrically. He had developed quite a big head since he had received his results the week before.
"Mycroft Holmes, not one more word from you! I never asked for your opinion!"
"Well it's about time someone did; or better yet, ask the 'era-defining genius,'" he said, mocking the examiner's remarks about Eurus's mental abilities.
"Eurus is smarter than you, and it's about time you knew that, Mycroft!" Sherlock yelled. His mother tried to shush him, but the boy was unstoppable when his emotions were enraged. "You're such a fat and ugly brother, and I wish you'd never been born!" He made a lunge at his brother, trying to tackle him, but Mycroft only stepped back as Mrs. Holmes restrained Sherlock. Mycroft was laughing now.
"On the sofa, now; both of you! I'm tired of your constant bickering, and we are putting an end to it immediately. Now, Mycroft; on the sofa! Sherlock, go sit with your brother."
"No, don't make me, Mummy!" Sherlock retorted, clinging to his mother desperately.
"Now, Sherlock. Don't make me order you!"
The two Holmes boys went to the sofa and sat upon it. Mycroft sat in one corner, and Sherlock sat in the other, squeezing as much as he could into the side cushions to maximize the distance between him and his brother.
"My boys…" Mrs. Holmes cooed, studying both of them with fatigue addling her already weary eyes. "What shall I ever do with you?"
"There is a boarding school, if that's what you're asking," Mycroft snidely remarked.
"Shut up, Mycroft!" Sherlock sneered, clenching his fists. His little eyes were spitting daggers at his brother.
"Enough! Both of you!" Mrs. Holmes yelled, reaching her maximum number of decibels. "You both are such special, intelligent boys. Have you any idea how much your father and I love you both? You are each of you remarkably intelligent, and there is never a day I regret being your mother."
Sherlock beamed. Mycroft pouted.
Eurus was sailing a toy boat across the Persian rug under the dinner table.
"You are brothers. Do you understand that?" Mrs. Holmes asked, "Brothers. Do you know what that means?"
"It means we were born from the same biological mother and father, each of us possessing different genetic aspects of both," Mycroft drawled, as if he were reciting his answer from a textbook.
"It is so much more than that, Mycroft Holmes!" Mrs. Holmes scolded, her eyes brimming with tears. Sherlock wanted to hug her. Mycroft wanted to go and read.
"Mycroft, you owe your brother a profuse apology. No one in this world is stupid or an embarrassment. Only they can choose to label themselves or accept the label society gives them. Is that understood? You have no right to call your brother stupid or an embarrassment, for he is neither! Sherlock Holmes will do great things, one day. And so will you, Mycroft. And you, Eurus, my darling."
Eurus looked up from her toy boat and stared at her mother. Mrs. Holmes smiled, but the daughter continued to sail her boat further away from the scene.
"Now Mycroft, apologize to your brother."
"Oh what's the use, Mummy?"
"Mycroft!"
"Fine. Sorry, Sherlock."
Mrs. Holmes looked at her youngest son. She nodded encouragingly. "Forgive your brother, Sherlock."
"Why?"
Mrs. Holmes went toward her little boy, holding her hands in his as she came to him. Looking into his funny, heterochromic eyes, she smiled.
"Mycroft is your brother, Sherlock. You do more together than you appreciate, you know. Think about this for me, would you? How would you like it if Mycroft was gone when you woke up tomorrow? How would that make you feel?"
Sherlock's little face grew red.
"I'd like it fine! I wish he was dead! I wish he was never my brother at all!"
"You don't mean that, darling," Mrs. Holmes said, her face growing red in exasperation. Above all else, she did not want discord between her children, and much less unadulterated hate. She looked at Mycroft, who looked unconcerned and bored.
"Yes, I do! I do, I do mean it!" Sherlock asserted, slamming his fists into his legs at each "I do." His eyes were little waterfalls, and his nose was equally moist. He sniffled as he sobbed, rubbing his eyes madly and smearing the substances all over his face.
Sherlock couldn't remember what his mother had said to him next. He couldn't even remember what he had said next. Or what Mycroft might have said next. So the scene just froze. Everyone and everything was like a picture in front of his face, and he reached out to touch it, as though it were only a paused film on a screen.
He grasped at air.
His heart was bleeding. His eyes were blinking back tears he didn't know he had for Mycroft. He opened his mouth to say something to his six-year-old self, but no words came. Only dry, hideous breaths. He started coughing to try and clear out his throat, but it kept clogging up with something like…what was that?
"Evening, brother mine," Mycroft's voice interrupted him from behind. Slowly but surely, the lanky figure was beside him, leaning on its umbrella.
"Did you really mean it…Sherlock? All those many years ago? Did you really wish that I was dead?"
Sherlock's mouth was still and in shock, only staring at this ghost of his brother in horrified silence. There was a moment in which he wanted to spring upon the ghost to hug it, but he knew if he did, this Mycroft…this memory…it would only disappear from his mind's eye.
Mycroft continued, "Because if you did, it seems you've finally gotten your wish. I could be dying somewhere. I might already be dead. Congratulations. I hope I have made you…
"…happy."
Sherlock took a step closer to his brother.
"No…oh God knows, Mycroft. God knows. I don't…I don't…" (his voice started cracking) "want you to die," he croaked, his eyes growing foggy with mist.
"You just…" Sherlock said, his voice growing more desperate. But then, it slowly returned to its deep, baritone command: "You can't. I—I won't let you."
He heaved a sigh, running his hand through his hair as Mycroft simply looked on in silence: staring at his little brother childishly decide that he would not let him die.
"No, Mycroft. You won't die. You can't die."
"Oh, Sherlock," the elder droned, his voice wonderfully condescending as it always was. "I'm not lonely," he said, tapping his umbrella on the floor. As it struck the cold floor, the sound echoed and the scene from their childhood disappeared.
Sherlock looked at his brother's cold, unfeeling eyes and disapproving, bent mouth. Were the eyes sparkling? Just maybe? With the little light that was coming into the room? Was the mouth softening? Perhaps serenity was soothing those scowling lips?
Sound came forth from them. Mycroft spoke.
"But I miss you, brother mine."
The fog returned to Sherlock's eyes. He blinked to push it back, but a couple of drops spilled out without his wanting them to. Mycroft smiled.
"Come home, Sherlock. But, please remember…no flowers at the funeral. My request."
He turned his back upon Sherlock and began to walk away into the blackness of the mind palace.
"Do hurry home, Sherlock," Mycroft called out, swinging his umbrella as he disappeared.
"No!" Sherlock cried, but all the while knowing that he couldn't stop his brother.
"Mycroft, no!" Sherlock screamed again, wiping his face furiously. "Wait! Don't—!"
But he was gone. The blackness had enveloped him, and Sherlock lost sight of his brother dear. He was panting as if he had just finished climbing a mountain, and he furiously, frantically, wiped his wet cheeks.
The floor began to move beneath his feet; the dark room started to turn slowly. Sherlock tried to steady his balance. He toppled over, falling endlessly into a black pit full of emptiness: he searched for Mycroft, but he was nowhere to be seen. He let himself fall. He closed his eyes. He opened the hands he had clenched, and he exhaled.
He could hear Moriarty laughing somewhere from the inside of this black hole. Giggling. "Ordinary, Sherlock…so, so ordinary…"
Sherlock started gasping for air as he continued to fall, senselessly into the darkness.
"You can't save him, Sherlock…not this time. You can't point the gun at yourself…because I've done it for you…" Moriarty droned on. The echoes grew louder, and Sherlock could hear him calling out his name.
"Time to come out, Sherlock! Time to play…" he said, his voice escalating as though he had been singing. "Time to play…" he said again, in the same frightening singsong way.
"Sherlock…daddy wants to play…" he kept on singing.
Sherlock was quite nauseated and dizzy at hearing the sound of his name repeated as if it were a profanity. It just went on echoing within the walls of his troubled head.
"Sherlock…Sherlock…Sherlock!"
Then, without warning, his eyes shot open. The blackness had gone; instead was bright, blinding light shining into his face. He was back at the airport in Reykjavik, the bright sun blazing through the window. Still sitting in his chair, his eyes were on fire with the sunlight streaming through the window.
And he understood why everything was so bright and what had happened to him…because he realized where he had been: the valley of the shadow of death.
He mirrored the traumatized child who awakens from a nightmare. Sweating a bit, his chest rising and falling vigorously: it was all the same. Only when he came out of it, he realized that his brother was still shot. He closed his eyes and settled back into his chair.
Irene was sitting next to him and reading her book. As he opened his eyes and began breathing frantically, she glanced at him.
"You're awake. I wasn't sure you'd come out on time; the plane's boarding," she said, slowly and gently. She put her hand on his, stroking it as she did so. "Are…are you alright?"
"I need to get to Mycroft. I need to see him. I need to see him now."
"I know," she said, as though none of this were news to her. It really wasn't, after all. "Let's go; the plane's boarding. We'll get to the hospital as soon as we land, darling. I've had a call from Lady Smallwood not two minutes ago; he's just been admitted into the hospital and taken into surgery. Should I tell Doctor Watson?"
"Yes, do. John deserves to know."
"Of course," she continued, "I've already told him."
"I knew that."
"That's good. At least we are still on the same page."
He said nothing as she slipped her arm around him. He felt something like a blanket pass over his throbbing insides. For once over the course of the last few days, she was lowering and calming his heart rate. She looked up at him; she didn't smile, but her eyes were still. Still enough to allow him something to observe that wasn't unsure. Her eyes existed: firm, secure, and intoxicating. As long as they did, he had something that wouldn't change.
He remembered his fit of frightened, unaccountable anger before he had slipped into his mind palace. The eyes he was looking into reminded him of it. Shame tickled his stomach.
"I'm sorry, I—" he began.
But she put a finger to his lips to shush him.
"Hush, darling. I know."
He kissed her brow and put an arm around her waist, and together they walked through the gate to board the plane to London…the plane to Mycroft.