Chapter Forty-Two
When Caro returned to the conservatory looking ashen, Henrique and Sherlock rose to their feet.
'My darling, do come and sit down. You look dreadful,' Henrique exclaimed, offering a hand to his wife.
'I'm alright, Henrique, thank you. But, Sherlock, I think your brother would like to talk to you, dear,' she advised. As he went to pass her, on his way out of the room, she caught hold of his arm.
'I told him about your mother's letter and the photographs of her and Aadi. I think he would like to see them.' Before Sherlock could comment, she went on.
'I found them in the drawer by your bed when I was looking for your phone charger. I'm afraid I took the liberty of bringing them here. They're in the top drawer of my desk.'
He nodded and headed off toward the study. Caro sat down heavily and Henrique squeezed her hand, offering silent sympathy.
'Oh, those poor boys. I do hope I haven't just ruined their lives,' she groaned.
'Caro-mia, whatever happens, those young men know that you only have their best interests at heart.'
'Is that always enough, I wonder?' she replied.
ooOoo
When Sherlock opened the door to Caro's study, Mycroft was standing by the window, looking out at the garden. He turned when he heard his brother enter the room. The two men stood and looked at one another. Mycroft spoke first.
'Sherlock, I don't know what to say.'
'Well, whatever you say, please don't say sorry, 'he replied, with an emphatic hand gesture.
Mycroft smiled.
'You know me far too well, brother. Caro said she gave you a letter and some photos?'
Sherlock walked to the desk and sat in Caro's chair.
'Yes, she did and you have every right to see them.'
Mycroft returned to the sofa and looked at Sherlock, who steepled his fingers under his chin.
'But?' Mycroft prompted. 'I sense a 'but'.'
Sherlock seemed to be struggling to find the right words. Mycroft could do nothing to assist him. He had no idea what battle was going on in his brother's head. He could only wait.
At last, Sherlock found what he was looking for.
'You knew her, before?'
Mycroft nodded.
'Was it really obvious, afterwards, that something had changed?'
Mycroft had to think about that. He had, after all, been only a child, though a perceptive one.
'One day she was just Mummy, as I had always known her and then, suddenly, she was ill. I didn't see her, at all, for weeks and then for more weeks I saw very little of her. And, as you must remember, when you're a child weeks last for ever. But, no, after she was taken ill – which, of course, I now know was not an 'illness' – she was never the same Mummy again.'
Sherlock nodded. Mycroft could see by his brother's rapid eye movement that he was processing that information and filing it in the appropriate place in his internal storage system. Abruptly, and without a further word, he opened the top drawer in the desk, withdrew a large brown envelope and handed it to his brother before sitting back and steepling his fingers again.
Mycroft felt apprehensive, wondering what to expect from this mysterious letter and collection of photos. He decided to read the letter first, reached inside the larger envelope and withdrew the smaller one.
He recognised his mother's handwriting, immediately, and felt a sudden surge of emotion. His mother used to write to him at school, every week. Wherever she was, whatever she was doing, she never missed a week and, sometimes, she would send postcards from exotic places. He had kept all her letters and cards in a box at home but he hadn't looked at them for years. Holding that envelope in his hand transported him back nearly thirty years.
He slid the letter out, unfolded the sheets and began to read.
Sherlock watched his brother's eye movements as he scanned from left to right across the page, again and again. He knew the letter by heart, now, having read it many times and he could tell from Mycroft's facial expressions which part he was reading at any given time. Having read it once, he went back and read it again then sat holding the sheets of paper, looking down, mulling over their contents. Then he folded the pages and returned them to the envelope before taking out the sheaf of photos.
The instant he looked at the top photo he gasped, closed his eyes and pressed the hand holding the photos to his chest. His other hand came up to cover his eyes and Sherlock watched, in alarm, as his stoical brother, the infamous Ice Man, began to leak tears. He was frozen in his seat for several moments then suddenly came out of his shocked stupor. He moved to the sofa and put a tentative hand on Mycroft's shoulder.
Up to this point, Mycroft had seemed so calm, so in control. Even the letter – the thing that had affected Sherlock so much - had been read with barely a flicker. But the merest glimpse of a photograph had been his undoing. It was unnerving to see his big brother so beside himself. It was the wrong way round. It was always Mycroft who was there for him. He wasn't sure he knew how to do the 'being there'.
But feeling his brother shake under his hand overrode his natural reticence. He reached his arm around Mycroft's shoulders and pulled his head into his chest, splaying his long fingers over the crown of his brother's head. Mycroft wrapped an arm around his brother but kept the photos pressed to his heart. Whatever he had seen, in that fleeting glimpse, had struck him to the core. He needed to give vent to that rush of emotion before he could even begin to explain where it came from.
ooOoo
It was quite some time later that Mycroft pushed himself upright and leaned his head against the backrest of the sofa, feeling utterly exhausted. He knew what Sherlock was desperate to know. In a husky voice, he said,
'It was just seeing her again, the real Mummy, the one who kissed me goodbye that day and then disappeared for ever.'
He held up the photo for Sherlock to see. It was the one of the young woman with her head thrown back, laughing, eyes shining. Sherlock had never known this Violet but Mycroft had. Just one look had brought all the pain and loss of a frightened, six year old boy flooding back. Sherlock nodded in realisation and understanding. He could just imagine what effect it would have on William or Freddie if, in the space of a day, the Molly they had known all their lives suddenly vanished and was replaced by a mere shell, a shadow of her former self. They would be bereft.
The brothers sat side by side, looking at the photos together and Mycroft told Sherlock about the two people pictured there, since he had known them both. He had many anecdotes about the fun they'd had, all three of them, together. The couple had fallen in love before Mycroft's eyes but he had been too naïve to know what was happening.
'When one thinks about it, it was a 'no win' situation for me, either way,' Mycroft observed. Sherlock was not sure what he meant by that remark.
'If you had been Aadi's baby, Mummy and you would have left and I would have stayed with Father. He would never have allowed me to see either of you. Because you were Father's son, you both stayed but Mummy was completely different. I actually wish Aadi had been your father. At least you and Mummy would have been happy.'
'Don't!' Sherlock interjected. 'Don't say 'what if'. That way lies madness. This is who we are, this is where we came from. And Mummy would never have been happy separated from you. She might have loved me more but she could never have loved you less.'
Mycroft barked a strange, harsh rasp of a laugh.
'Listen to us, talking about love and happiness. Whoever would have imagined such a thing? How did that happen, Sherlock? What happened to love being a defect found in the losing side?' he asked, rhetorically.
'I suppose we just got lucky,' his brother replied.
Sherlock directed his sibling to the guest cloakroom just down the corridor to douse his face in cooling water and calm the effects of his prolonged bout of weeping. Seeing the past from Mycroft's perspective had been a sobering experience. He had always envied his older brother, often resented his privileged place in the hearts of both their parents. He'd had no concept of how bereaved his brother had felt at the loss of the mother only he had known. Sherlock had so many questions but they couldn't be asked all in one go. There was a lot more talking to be done but not right now.
He went in search of Molly and his boys, feeling a great need to reaffirm his connection to his family, to feel the warmth and security which that connection provided, that had been so lacking for the greater part of his life.
ooOoo
Sherlock accompanied Mycroft to the airport, the next morning, on strict instructions from Molly that he return straight 'home' afterwards and not go off on any madcap adventures. It was the first time he had seen his brother off on a journey since he used to wave tearful goodbyes at the back of a retreating car when Mycroft would go back to school. He even felt a bit like he'd felt, back then. This sharing of the family tragedy had somehow brought them closer together.
They sat opposite each other in the private lounge that Mycroft's diplomatic status guaranteed. In his hand luggage, Mycroft had the package containing the letter and the photos. Sherlock had insisted he take them home to share with Arthur. Molly had already seen them so it was fitting that his brother's partner should see them, too. And Sherlock felt sure that Arthur would know exactly the right words to say to enable Mycroft to begin to come to terms with Caro's revelations.
When the flight was called, the brothers stood up and looked at one another. This was virgin territory for both of them. They were about to commit the ultimate sin – a public display of affection. Casting caution to the wind, they both stepped forward and clasped one another in a warm embrace.
'Do try to keep out of trouble for the remainder of your stay,' Mycroft implored.
'I don't go looking for it. It just seems to find me,' Sherlock replied and then watched as his brother crossed the room and disappeared through the departure door, before turning and making his own way out of the lounge, though the airport and back to Caro's waiting car.
ooOoo
