Chapter Thirteen

Sherlock stared at the large bulky envelope in his hand. He felt numb and physically sick, and there was a huge black hollow in his chest that was making it hard to breath but his brain was buzzing like a band saw, firing off in all regions, making coherent thought impossible.

A familiar voice broke through all the turmoil, in the deep recesses of his mind and reminded him to breathe slowly, in through his nose and out through his mouth, and to consciously relax his body, beginning at his feet and working up gradually to his head. He listened to the voice, Molly's voice, and did as he was told. He had not real sense of time passing but, eventually, he had calmed all the chaos but was still left with the numbness.

The fat package felt like a hot coal, burning his fingers. He wanted to open it and find out what it contained but the prospect of that was terrifying. His brain was now replaying memories from his childhood, instance after instance of rebuffs and rebukes and always the same sense of utter confusion, wondering what had he done, how had he offended, how could he make good?

Inside his adult body, he was a child again, filled with an overwhelming hurt and sadness, desperate for love and affection but resigned to living without it. He caught a fleeting image of his mother's face and saw the loathing in her eyes, heard the vitriol in her voice and felt the sharp stab of rejection as she turned her face away, dismissing him.

The chaos was beginning to push against the barriers again. He needed order, he needed data, he needed to fill in the gaps and see the whole picture. He tore open the envelope and tipped out its contents into his hand. There was a sheaf of black and white photographs and an old envelope containing several pieces of folded paper. He put aside the old envelope, pushing it down the side of the chair and turned his attention to the photos.

They showed a man and a woman in various locations. They were clearly candid pictures, taken without the knowledge of the subjects. That would not have been difficult because it was clear for all to see that the people in the photos had eyes only for each other. The photos were of his mother and her lover, Aadi.

He scrutinized each one in turn before moving them to the back of the pack. She looked so young, so fresh-faced, so beautiful but the thing she looked the most was happy and in love. He had never seen this side of his mother, in all the twenty years he knew her before her untimely death. He was reminded, perversely, of Molly. Violet had that open, gentle, caring softness in her eyes and about her mouth. In this shot, her lips were curved up at the corners, there was a warm light in her eyes; in another shot, she was laughing, her head thrown back, her teeth exposed in all their perfection, her eyes shining with mirth.

Walking on a deserted beach, fingers linked, heads inclined together - almost touching but not quite; leaning against a tree, in a leafy woodland, clasped in each other's arms, lost in a passionate kiss; seen through a bedroom window, him lounging on the bed, her standing at the window, arms raised, just about to close the curtains. The man had that aura about him of a person deeply in love. He looked at her as though she were the only other living thing in the world and he would gladly lay down his life for her. Perhaps he had done just that.

Sherlock pushed the pictures back into the envelope and pulled the smaller package out from the side of the chair. He turned it over in his hands, over and over, psyching himself up to take the plunge and take out the folded sheets, wondering what new revelation he would find inside with which to torture his soul. With a metaphorical shake of his shoulders, he snatched the papers out of their hiding place and unfolded them, smoothing them out against his thigh before beginning to read.

ooOoo

From where she sat, on the grass under the tree with Freddie still snoozing beside her, Molly looked toward the house and saw Caro walking across the lawn toward her. Something in the body language of her friend told her the meeting had not been easy. Molly scrambled to her feet and, as Caro approached, reached out a comforting hand toward the other woman.

Caro was visibly upset, close to tears, clutching an A4 envelope which she thrust toward Molly and blurted out,

'Please read this, Molly. I don't think I can speak at the moment.'

'Where is he, Caro? Is he alright? How did he take it?' Molly had to know.

'I don't know, Molly, I just don't know. He gives nothing away. I left him alone with some papers his mother left to me. I do so hope I haven't done more harm than good.' With that, Caro's face crumpled and she began to sob. Molly drew her into a gentle hug and held her until the tears subsided then the two women sat down on the grass and Caro urged Molly, once again, to read the contents of the envelope. She tore it open, extracted the folded papers, opened them out and began to read.

ooOoo

Sherlock read:

Dearest Caro

You are my oldest and, in fact, my only true friend. You have been constant and loyal from the very beginning of our acquaintance. Without your unwavering support, I do not know where I would be. I doubt very much I would even be alive. How foolish of me! The fact that you are reading this means that I am NOT alive. What a surreal moment this is!

I have made a terrible mess of my life, not without the willing assistance of many who really should have known better – my parents, to name but two. But this is not the time or the place to point the finger of blame. This is my confession, my plea for absolution. The rest can beg forgiveness for themselves. They know what they have done.

I have many regrets – far too many to list – but I will take those with me. I do so hate whiney people. Grow a backbone, I say to them! Where is the famous British stiff upper lip? Mine is firmly in place, ever since I nailed it on in that God-awful finishing school in Switzerland. I sometimes think I should have topped myself then and there and saved everyone a lot of bother – me, especially.

I'm rambling now, my dear friend, so I will get to the point.

I know you disapprove of my treatment of my boys. I have seen it in your eyes many times and in the purse of your lips but you have never uttered a word of censure against me. I am in equal parts grateful for your understanding and disappointed that you didn't voice your thoughts. It might have talked some sense into me. But it's too late now.

I have ruined both my sons' lives – one through over-indulgence and the other through criminal neglect. Mycroft is a pompous prat, so like his father that I could cheerfully strangle him, sometimes. Sherlock is a lost soul who has hardened his heart against the whole world. I fear for both their futures.

Caro, dear, you are the only person in the world who knows why I treated my youngest child so cruelly. I had to push him away. If I had not, I swear I might have killed him. He was and is a constant reminder of that dreadful night when I discovered the true nature of the man I call 'husband'. I did it for the boy's own safety. I could not trust myself to be near him.

I wish I could speak to Sherlock, apologise, explain but it's too late for that. The gap between us is too wide, the damage too severe. He hates me, as is his right. But I don't hate him – not any more. I did, for a long time. Just the thought of him made me want to vomit but now, when I look at him, I see myself. He looks like me, he thinks like me, he is a chip off this old block. Mycroft is his father's child in almost every aspect but Sherlock belongs to me.

I will never be able to tell my boys how I really feel about them. That stiff upper lip clamps down whenever I try. But I need to tell someone so, forgive me Caro, my best and only friend, but I am telling you. I love both my boys. I am proud of all their achievements - past, present and future – and I hope I am around to bask in their reflected glory, though I suspect that any glory reflecting off my youngest son will burn me to a crisp.

Your grateful friend

Violet.

Sherlock refolded the pages and pushed them back into the tattered envelope and then returned the whole thing to the larger receptacle to join the sheaf of photos.

He sat on the sofa, hands gripping the arm and the cushion, fighting the rising swell of emotions – so many, all tangled up together, masking their individual natures, making identification impossible. It was a losing battle. The child inside had come to the fore. The tears were already coursing down his cheeks and his chest was heaving. There was nothing he could do. He was lost.

ooOoo

It was going dark outside when Molly called William from the crow's nest of the Jungle Gym and gathered up the now alert Freddie. She walked with Caro through the French windows, into the elegant drawing room and down a corridor into the main kitchen. Like kitchens the world over, it was a warm and friendly place, the heart of the home. The cook was there, preparing the family's evening meal. The boys' noses twitched at the delicious aromas, rising from the pots, pans and oven. They were clearly ready to eat.

'There's plenty to go around, Molly, if you would all like to join us for supper,' Caro offered.

Molly gave a shrug. She was in shock at what she had read in Caro's careful account of the events of Sherlock's conception, gestation and birth. She could only imagine how he must be feeling.

'That will depend on Sherlock. He may not be feeling very sociable. I think I should go and speak to him, see how he is. Would you mind the boys, just for a moment?' she asked.

'I would be delighted. Let me get them a snack before Freddie starts to gnaw the table,' Caro replied.

Molly assured her boys she would be back in a few minutes then went back through the house, following Caro's directions and found the closed door of the study. She tapped lightly on the door and pushed it open. Inside, the room was dark but she could make out the outline of Sherlock's figure, sitting on the sofa over to the right of the full length, floor to ceiling window. As she walked into the room and closed the door, he turned his head toward her, his face in shadow.

Although she could not make out his features in the gloom, she could feel the stress and tension radiating off him like an aura of anxiety. Molly crossed the floor quickly and sat beside him on the sofa, placing her hand over his and gripping it tight. He opened his mouth, as if to speak, but the sound that emerged was a croak.

'She did love me, Molly.'

Reaching out, she cupped his cheek with her hand and felt the sticky residue of long-dried salt water.

'Oh, my poor darling…' she breathed, as he folded at the hip and fell across her knees, clinging to her and heaving with a renewed bout of unrestrained sobbing. She wrapped her arms around him and wept, quietly, in tandem with him.

ooOoo