Chapter Forty-Two

Sherlock went to get up, feeling very exposed lying there with everyone looming over him, but the moment he lifted his head off the floor, he was hit by a wave of dizziness and nausea so let it drop back onto the hard stone flag, with a loud 'thunk' which everyone heard and almost felt.

'Here! Here!' his mother exclaimed, grabbing a cushion off the chair by the Aga and thrusting it at her husband. 'Put this under his head before he does himself a further injury.'

Siger did as he was bid, lifting Sherlock's head with one large hand and slipping the cushion underneath with the other then resting his head on the more forgiving surface.

'We should call a doctor,' Maura insisted. 'He could be seriously ill, with a brain tumour or something.'

'I don't have a brain tumour,' Sherlock mumbled. 'I'm in shock. Elevate my feet…get oxygen to my brain. Cover me with a blanket…keep me warm.'

Well done, said Mind Palace Molly.

'Come on, then! Quickly!' Mummy Holmes ordered. 'Do as he says!'

Siger and Mycroft jumped to it and, between them, managed to manoeuvre the arm chair into a better position and lifted Sherlock's lower legs to rest on the seat, removing his shoes as they did so. At the same time, Mrs Holmes scurried into the next room – the parlour – and came back with the throw from Siger's favourite chair, laying it over Sherlock and tucking it in all round.

'Shouldn't we give him some whisky or something?' Mycroft wondered.

'No,' Sherlock muttered, weakly. 'Nil by mouth. Alcohol is bad for someone in shock. It dilates the capillaries…opens the pores…you lose heat quickly. Very bad.' Even with his feet elevated, he could only manage short utterances before needing to pause and take a few breaths.

The other three adults just looked at one another then Siger shrugged and said,

'It's lucky you were here, my boy, otherwise we wouldn't have had a clue what to do!'

This did at least elicit a wan smile from the patient, then...

'Mycroft, get my coat, put it under me. This damn floor is freezing,' he grumbled, breathily.

Mycroft hurried away and returned with the Belstaff and, between them, he and Siger rolled Sherlock to one side, laid the coat on the floor and rolled him back, onto it. Feeling a great deal more comfortable, despite the hardness of the floor, Sherlock relaxed, visibly.

Maura stood by the kitchen table, wearing a pensive frown. Seeing her youngest son, usually so vibrant and energetic, so suddenly and radically incapacitated had been quite sobering. It was all too reminiscent of seeing him in the hospital after he'd been shot, clinging to life by a thread. Except this time, she knew it wasn't some random criminal with a gun who had done this to him, but that it might have had something to do with her brother.

'What did you mean,' she asked, suddenly, 'when you said…that?' No one was in any doubt as to what she was referring.

Sherlock squinted in her direction then closed his eyes and took a steadying breath before...

'That day you went to the palace…I snuck into Rudi's study…to look for treasure.' He paused to take several breaths then continued. 'But he and Eurus came there. I hid behind the sofa. It was very dusty. He asked if she'd been practicing. I thought he meant her violin. But he didn't. She sang the song, the Ritual.'

There were audible gasps from all three listeners but Sherlock pressed on.

'She sang the first part…then asked what 'succour' meant. She didn't know. He explained it meant 'to care for' then said…'You'll always find succour with me'.'

He paused again. His mouth was so dry.

'Water', he croaked.

'What did you say? Water?' Maura queried. 'Oh, water!' She hurried to the sink and came back with a cup, handing it to Mycroft. 'Sips only, Mycroft, no gulps. He needs to wet his lips.'

Mycroft knelt beside his brother and held the cup while Sherlock took a couple of sips then pushed it away, anxious to continue his story.

'She sang the whole song…five verses. He said she'd done well. He said it was…a puzzle for me to solve. But no clues could be given. He made her promise.'

He reached for the water. Mycroft held the cup to his lips again until Sherlock pushed it away.

'He asked her to explain 'the game'. She said…when Victor came to play…she'd get him to go with her. To hide treasure for me to find. She'd take him to their 'Secret Place'…hers and Rudi's 'Secret Place'. Then I sneezed. Because of the dust.'

More sips of water.

'He sent Eurus away…and locked the door. He dragged me out and…' He paused again, not because of dry lips this time but because the newly recovered memory was so raw. He took several deep breaths and felt more in control. 'He dragged me out…and put his hand round my throat. I couldn't breathe. He asked what I'd heard. I said, just a song, a silly song. He said, if I ever told anyone…what I heard in that room…even one word…he would take me to the lake and…hold me under…until I drowned. Then he let me go. I ran. Back to the sunny room. Pa, you asked me how I got so dirty…'

'I remember!' Siger gasped. 'You were covered in dust.'

Sherlock paused again…a pause that stretched to half a minute.

'Was there anything else?' Mycroft asked.

'Yes. Talk amongst yourselves while I recover.' He breathed a long exhale, then closed his eyes and surrendered to sleep.

The listeners were all stunned into silence. Mr Holmes put the kettle on the Aga to make a pot of tea, taking care to avoid the sleeping body on the floor. Mrs Holmes went back to peeling potatoes, since they all still needed to eat, and Mycroft sat at the kitchen table, rubbing his jaw and waiting for the second shoe to drop…which it did, once his parents joined him at the table for a steaming mug of cha.

'It can't be true, can it?' asked Maura, guardedly.

'Oh, Maura, my darling, I think you know!' Siger choked, reaching out to take his wife's hand in both of his. 'Deep down, in your heart of hearts, I think you know. You just can't bring yourself to face the truth.'

'No, no,' Maura gasped, trying to pull her hand away but he would not let go.

'I understand, I really do!' Siger stood firm. 'He was your world and you loved him, as a brother and a father figure and a friend. But, my dear sweet darling, he used you for his own purposes. He used us all. It was just who he was.'

'No, no,' Maura sobbed but Mycroft could see a hint of doubt creeping into her eyes.

'It's true, Mummy,' he said, taking her other hand in both of his. 'I couldn't see it either but when I was shown all the evidence that Sherlock collected, and listened to Sir Edwin's testimony – he's the man who took over running Eurus after Rudi passed away - I didn't want to believe it but the proof was overwhelming.'

'But…but…why would he do such a thing?' Maura bleated, pitifully. 'Why?'

'Because he was a narcissist, Mummy,' Mycroft replied, pouring as much empathy into his voice as he could muster in an attempt to soften the blow.

'What does that mean?' Maura wailed.

'Narcissism is a mental disorder,' Siger interjected, feeling his wife might take this better coming from him than her least-favourite son. 'Narcissists believe the world revolves around them. They are the single most important person in the world and everyone else's needs, wants and desires are subordinate to their own. They live their lives in pursuit of personal gratification, due to an egotistical admiration of an idealised self-image and a belief that they are infinitely superior, in all their attributes.'

Mycroft was impressed. When had his father become an expert in psychological disorders? Or was he just an expert in 'Rudi'?

Maura, however, gazed at her husband, bewildered. How could he think this of her beloved brother, who had done so much for her and the whole family.

'Think about it, darling,' Siger pressed on. 'Every so-called good deed that Rudi did for anyone, it always had a payback for him. He was calculating. Remember when he lent me the money to renovate Musgrave Hall? I would have preferred to sell the property for redevelopment. It would have brought a good price and we could have bought somewhere like we have now and been mortgage free but Rudi persuaded you that you wanted to live there, saying how wonderful it would be for the children to grow up in such a lovely environment and, yes, it was wonderful, but it was also hard! The house was cold and draughty and cost a fortune to run.'

'So how did he benefit from that?' Maura demanded.

'It left me indebted to him, darling. I owed him money – a lot of money – and he also charged me interest so he made a healthy profit on the deal. But, most important of all, it gave him control over us. We were the poor relations who were forever to be grateful. He was a master manipulator.'

'But you were grateful, weren't you?' she whimpered.

'No, darling, I wasn't,' Siger admitted, for the first time ever. 'I hated being beholden to him when we could have been financially independent all along.'

'But why didn't you say something, if that's how you felt?' she sobbed, tears beginning to dribble down her lined and wrinkled face.

'I tried, my love. Believe me, I tried. But you are a force of nature, you know. When you get an idea in your head there is no budging you,' he smiled, affectionately, softening the sting of his words. 'I just couldn't bear to disappoint you.'

It was almost unbearably painful for Mycroft to witness this confession by his father but, at the same time, it was such a relief to see his mother listening, at last, to a voice other than Rudi's and she was beginning to understand. It would, no doubt, be a long and arduous process to de-programme her, with many stops, starts and pitfalls along the way. She was, after all, Rudi's first victim and, consequently, the most profoundly affected, since she had been exposed for the longest time to his brainwashing techniques.

But she had just taken the first step. His only regret was that Sherlock was not here to witness it…well, here, yes. He looked across at his brother, sleeping soundly on the floor, his sharp facial features softened in repose, his breathing deep and even. Present but in no fit state to witness anything.

ooOoo

When Sherlock awoke, only moderately recovered but at least able to sit up without feeling nauseous, the others had already eaten their chicken casserole supper but Maura had put some aside for him. He managed a few spoonsful, mostly potato, smiling secretly to himself, remembering Molly's porridge oats from the last time he'd suffered from shock. He hoped this wasn't going to become a regular occurrence. For one thing, it was bloody exhausting.

Thinking about Molly was a double-edged sword. On the one hand, the very thought of her caused his heart to swell with joy but, on the other, she wasn't here and he felt her absence like a physical pain. On balance, it was best not to think about her at all.

Sitting at the kitchen table, picking at his food, with a blanket around his shoulders, he was aware that something had happened while he was sleeping. There was a distinct change of atmosphere and a notable shift in the quality of the interactions between the members of his family. He was curious to know why but didn't feel it appropriate to ask outright. He would grill Mycroft on the journey back to London, which he hoped would happen quite soon. He'd spent more than enough time in his parents' house for one day.

He pushed his plate of half-eaten casserole away and looked across the kitchen at Mycroft, who was in deep conversation with their father. His mother was at the sink, washing the supper dishes, but she turned to the sound of Sherlock's chair scraping on the flagstone floor.

'Can we go now?' he asked, standing unsteadily, one hand on the chair back for support.

'Do you think you're fit to travel?' Mycroft asked.

'Of course. I'm fine,' he replied, giving his stock answer to all enquiries about his health. He didn't look fine. But he was damned if he was going to admit it.

'Very well,' Mycroft capitulated. Turning back to their father, he offered his hand to shake. 'I'll be in touch,' he said.

Then he crossed the room to their mother and Sherlock looked on in amazement as they embraced, warmly.

'Bye-bye, Mummy', he said. 'Do take care, both of you.'

He then picked up Sherlock's coat from the back of the arm chair, where it had been tossed after he'd done sleeping on it, and held it open for him to put on. Sherlock eyed his brother with deep suspicion but slipped his arms into the sleeves and began to button it up, against the cold awaiting them outside, while Mycroft disappeared down the hall to call the driver and ask her to bring the car up to the cottage.

He was aware his mother was looking at him in an odd way but he tried to ignore it, turning instead to bid his father farewell.

'Goodbye, Pa,' he said, as they hugged. 'I'll speak to Eurus about what we discussed, see if she's amenable.'

As he made to leave the kitchen, his mother moved to intercept him. She seemed very subdued, not her usual brash, flamboyant self. He looked down at her, coldly, not wishing to engage but then she surprised him.

'Sherlock, I am so sorry about what my brother did to you,' she said, quietly, avoiding his gaze. 'I hope I can find a way to make it up to you.'

He stared at her, nonplussed. He really had missed something, hadn't he! But, until he was briefed about what exactly had occurred during his nap, he wasn't about to commit himself to any sort of reconciliation.

'Thank you for supper, Mummy,' he replied and bent to give her a brief, perfunctory peck on the cheek then turned and followed Mycroft down the corridor to the front door.

The laptop and hard drive and all the paraphernalia that went with them had been packed back inside the tote and was now hooked over Mycroft's shoulder. Sherlock's scarf was still hanging where he'd left it, on the coat hook, so he plucked it up and looped it around his neck.

'Ready?' Mycroft asked, at which he nodded, so his brother opened the door and they left the house, walked up the path and slipped into the back of the staff car through the door held open by the driver. Once everyone was buckled up, the car moved off, its headlights cutting like searchlights through the unlit country lanes.

'So, what did I miss?' Sherlock asked, once they were on their way.

'You did it, brother mine,' Mycroft replied.

'Did what?'

'Achieved the impossible.'

'Why, sometimes I achieved as many as six impossible things before breakfast,' Sherlock retorted, deliberately misquoting Lewis Carroll.

'You convinced her that Rudi was a monster.'

'Really?' Sherlock was surprised but also sceptical. He found it hard to believe that relating this one incident could have brought about such a dramatic change of opinion in such a short space of time.

'Yes, really,' Mycroft confirmed, 'though only time will tell how permanent it is. You know our mother, she can be very pedantic.'

'Quite,' Sherlock huffed and, sliding down in the seat, he folded his arms, closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.

ooOoo

As if on cue, as the staff car turned into Baker Street, Sherlock opened his eyes. By the time it pulled up outside No 221, he was unbuckled and had the canvas tote on his shoulder.

'Do you still need those?' Mycroft asked.

'Yes,' he replied. 'You have the originals.'

Of course, that was true. Mycroft nodded.

'Are you going to be alright on your own?' he asked, concerned that Sherlock was not as well as he was trying to make out.

'Alone it what I have, alone protects me,' Sherlock retorted, glibly, while thinking Not any more.

He opened the door and stepped out onto the pavement, crossed to the front door and inserted his key in the lock, turning to watch as the car pulled out into the late night traffic. The moment the red tail lights disappeared around the next corner, Sherlock removed his key and crossed back to the curb, scanning up and down the road for a vacant cab. As if by magic, one appeared almost immediately and he flagged it down. Stepping inside and flopping onto the back seat, he told the cabbie,

'St Bart's Hospital, by the Ambulance Station,' adding the extra detail because St Bart's was huge and had many entrances. Then he rested his head on the back of the seat and closed his eyes again. He felt completely drained and knew that the emotional trauma of that retrieved memory was to blame. Even though the incident took place over thirty years ago, the memory was now as fresh as if it had been yesterday and he was still that terrified little boy, running from that room in fear of his life but unable to tell anyone about it.

No wonder Rudi vetoed the headteacher's suggestion that Sherlock have counselling, following Victor's disappearance. The man would have been terrified that he might blow the whistle on him. And it explained why Rudi had instructed Mycroft to spy on him, describing him as a 'loose cannon'; and to periodically test him to see if any memories of that day had resurfaced. It wasn't out of concern for his mental health, it was all about covering his own tracks, saving his own skin.

'Here we are, guvnor,' the cabbie announced and Sherlock saw that they had arrived at his destination. He presented his debit card to the pay screen and stepped out of the cab. It was nearly eleven o'clock. Where would Molly be? He decided to try the Mortuary first because it was nearest. Taking the stairs, rather than wait for the ponderous lift, he descended one floor to the basement and pushed through the double swing doors into the domain of the dead.

All was quiet and the lights were dim. As he walked around, looking into all the little alcoves and side rooms, his footsteps echoed from the bare walls. It was patently obvious no one was there, apart from the occupants of the cold store drawers, and they were not receiving visitors at this late hour.

Exiting the Mortuary, he took the lift up three floors to Pathology. This area was well lit and, while it could not be described as a hive of activity, there were a few people around, going about their business. As Sherlock entered the area, a couple looked up, recognised him and said,

'Molly's on her supper break. You'll find her in the canteen.'

Sherlock nodded his thanks and turned on his heels, heading back to the lift, missing the exchange of speculative looks between Molly's co-workers.

ooOoo

Molly was, indeed, on her supper break, in the staff canteen, which was still quite crowded, as the flu epidemic was not letting up just yet. But, having selected her evening repast, she had managed to find an empty table and was halfway through her meal when a nurse and a physiotherapist, both of whom she shared a nodding acquaintance with, approached at the same time, each carrying a loaded tray.

'Is anyone sitting there?' they said, in unison, then laughed at the same time, too.

'No, not at all,' Molly assured them. 'Please, help yourselves,' indicating the two empty chairs.

The women sat down, smiling their gratitude, and began to unpack their trays onto the table top.

'God, it's mad in here, again, isn't it!' the nurse observed.

'Same old same old,' commented the physio. 'It's nice to get a seat, though. I haven't sat down all day except to write up my notes. I thought I was going to have to kill somebody.'

'Oh, I don't think Dr Hooper would thank you for doing that!' the nurse joked. 'I expect she's busy enough!'

The two women laughed and Molly smiled at the dark humour.

'Where are you today?' Molly asked the physio, who could be deployed all over the hospital, not just in Orthopaedics.

'Respiratory, at the moment. I seem to have done nothing but postural drainage all day long,' the physio replied. 'I don't mind if I never see another congested lung as long as I live.'

'I'll drink to that!' the nurse agreed.

'I expect the patients would to,' Molly added, feeling a bit uncomfortable with the tone this conversation was taking on. All the hospital staff were tired and over-worked but at least they had a choice about whether or not to be here. The patients didn't.

There was an awkward silence while her two supper companions wondered whether they had just been quietly told off by the Specialist Registrar from Pathology and the nurse decided that a change of subject was the best option.

'Where's your boyfriend tonight?' she asked Molly.

'Who?' said Molly, wondering if the woman was psychic or something. Or perhaps she was giving off unconscious vibes. Or maybe it was just a stab in the dark.

'Tall, dark and brooding? I saw you in here with him the other night. I was going to come over and say 'hi' but you looked…occupied.

'Oh! You mean Sherlock! He's not my boyfriend. We're just friends.'

Stick to the old line, thought Molly.

'Pretty good friends,' the nurse sniggered.

'Yes, pretty good but still just friends,' Molly assured her, wondering what business it was of hers anyway but not wishing to be rude.

'With benefits?' the physio winked, joining in the 'banter'.

'No,' replied Molly, emphatically, beginning to regret sharing her table with these two. 'Just friends. And colleagues. We work together.' What she and Sherlock did in their free time was nobodies' business but their own and, whatever they got up to in private, they would never behave unprofessionally in the work place.

'Well, I admire your restraint,' the nurse replied, looking unconvinced, and as the other two women exchanged a conspiratorial 'look', Molly began to suspect that she had been specifically targeted by them, rather than just happening to have the only table with empty seats. Actually, as she looked around, she could see quite a few vacant chairs scattered here and there.

'Me too,' the physio agreed. 'If I found myself alone in the Mortuary with him, I wouldn't be able to keep my hands off him! All those examination tables going spare!'

'Oh, those metal tables are a bit cold,' the nurse giggled. 'I'd prefer one of those nice warm wooden benches in Pathology…'

'And would you also prefer to find yourself up before a disciplinary board on a charge of sexual harassment?' Molly surprised them both with the severity of her stare. It was not what they had expected; so out of character for mild-mannered Molly Hooper.

'It was just a joke,' the nurse huffed.

'Inappropriate behaviour towards a colleague is never 'just a joke', nurse. You should know that.'

Molly went back to eating her supper, in silence, ignoring her table companions who both looked extremely put out but remained silent, too. Then, across the expanse of the busy canteen, Molly saw the entrance door open and a familiar figure appeared, backlit by the corridor lights behind him.

'Excuse me,' she said and, quickly stacking her half-empties onto her tray, she stood up and walked towards the exit, feeling two pairs of eyes boring into her back. She paused only to place her tray in the rack for collection by the kitchen staff, then continuing on to where Sherlock was waiting, having spotted her approaching. As she came close enough to see his face, she knew something was wrong and hurried towards him.

'What's happened?' she entreated, scanning him for any obvious physical injuries but finding none.

'I…I…' he stuttered, suddenly beset by the emotions he'd been holding at bay all the way here.

'Come this way,' she instructed, taking his arm and steering him out of the canteen, past the lifts and through the door into the stairwell, where she was fairly certain they would not be disturbed, since no one used the stairs to get to or from the canteen, ever. Pushing him against the wall behind the door, where they would not be seen if anyone were to look through the window, she stood in front of him, holding him by his upper arms, since he looked as though he might keel over at any moment, and she searched his face for clues as to what the problem might be but nothing jumped out.

'What's happened?' she asked again.

'Molly,' he gasped, 'can you please just hold me?' and as he lowered his head to rest on her shoulder, she wrapped her arms around him and did just that.

ooOoo