John does a bit of cussing towards the end of this. Well, he would, wouldn't he!

Chapter Forty-Three

Molly and Sherlock were sitting behind the stairwell door, on the landing floor, leaning against the wall, Sherlock with his forearms resting on his knees and his head resting against the wall, taking deep, calming breaths but feeling strangely euphoric – all those endorphins at work, again. And pretty grateful, too, that not only had he had someone he could go to in his hour of need but, also, that he'd not hesitated to go there! And not for the first time. Molly Hooper was definitely his 'go to' person for going to.

They'd stood in the stairwell for quite some time, while Sherlock vented a third of a century's worth of a child's stored up sense of sheer terror. As panic attacks go, this was of Little Big Horn proportions. Molly had never seen a human tremble so violently before. She had seen animals do it – Tom's dog did it every Bonfire Night and New Year's Eve when there were fireworks going off all over the city, or during a storm when thunder and lightning rolled and flashed around the sky – but this was something new to her. She had no idea what had precipitated such an extreme reaction and he was in no condition to explain so she just held him tight and encouraged him to breathe slowly and deeply to get his heart and breathing rate under control and his tense muscles to relax.

She persisted with that until the attack subsided and he was able to provide an explanation…of sorts - I remembered! He did it! Molly chose not to press him for detail; they agreed that he would provide a full and detailed explanation the next day, in a more supportive environment, somewhere he could feel secure.

'I'm so sorry I interrupted your supper break,' he apologised.

'Don't be. I really wasn't enjoying the company. And even if I was…just don't be sorry, OK?'

'And I've made you late back to work.'

'Only five minutes. I'll tell them there was a queue for the Ladies. It won't be a lie. There's always a queue for the Ladies.'

'They know I'm here.'

'They don't need to know why you're here.'

'You have an answer for everything.'

'Almost everything,' she smiled and was relieved to receive a small smile in return.

'Well, I'd better let you go, then.' And he pushed himself up off the floor and offered his hand, which she took and he pulled her up.

'I'm going to take the stairs,' he announced. 'I don't want to scare any of the patients.'

'I'll come with you, for three floors, at least.'

They set off down the stairs, side by side, their arms and hands occasionally brushing, until they reached the Pathology floor.

'This is my stop,' she said, turning to face him, looking searchingly into his eyes. 'Are you going to be alright?' she asked.

'I am now,' he replied and leant forward to give her a chaste peck on the cheek. 'I'll see you tomorrow.'

'I'll text you when I'm awake.'

'Don't work too hard.'

'I'll try not to.'

And they went their separate ways - she through the stairwell doors into the Pathology Department, and he down two more flight of stairs to the street and onwards, to Farringdon Street underground station, where he took the tube to Baker Street.

ooOoo

After a twelve-hour night shift, on top of a day-long sex romp, Molly slept until three o'clock the next afternoon and woke up to a number of texts from Sherlock:

Are you awake yet?

Still not awake?

Please wake up.

Wake up now!

Have you died?

Meeting John. Text me when you get this.

Tuesday was John's half day at the surgery, so it was unsurprising that Sherlock, clearly in need of company, had chosen to go to him when he failed to get a response from her. But, as she texted him back, she had to chuckle at the tale that progression told.

Awake now. Where are you?

The reply came back almost immediately.

On our way to the cake place. C u there, asap.

Molly had a quick shower, dressed and set off to the tea shop on the Marylebone Road, Sherlock's second favourite eatery on that particular street, where they served cakes to die for. She arrived to find two men and a baby tucking into three generous helpings of Devil's Food Cake...well, Rosie was actually wearing most of hers but they all seemed to be enjoying the experience, regardless of the mess. Molly took her place at the table but not before she had whipped out her mobile and snapped a candid pic of the three of them, definitely one for the family album.

'Hi, Molls,' John greeted her. 'Thank God you're here! His Nibs has been driving us nuts, hasn't he, Rosie? He says he's got some earth-shattering news but is refusing to share until we're all together.'

'What are you having?' Sherlock asked Molly, pointedly ignored the jibes. He was becoming immune to them.

'I thought I would go rogue and have the Angel Food Cake, actually,' she mused, perusing the menu, 'and a pot of Darjeeling Oolong tea.'

'Oo-yong!' exclaimed Rosie, who had been too busy applying her Devil's Food Cake face mask to join in the conversation earlier.

The waitress came over and took Molly's order then took one look at Rosie and scurried away, returning moments later with a whole pack of paper napkins which she placed, very conspicuously, in the middle of the table.

'I think that's my cue to do a bit of damage control,' John announced and, shouldering the baby bag, scooped Rosie out of her high chair, from behind – the only safe angle of approach – and carried her off to the loo to clean her up a bit, leaving Sherlock and Molly alone, together.

'Sorry for spamming you,' he mumbled.

'No problem,' she assured him. 'I left my phone charging in the kitchen, so I didn't hear it ping. I'm sorry I slept so late, though.'

He reached under the table to find her hand and briefly plaited his fingers with hers, giving her a small smile that spoke volumes, then resumed eating his cake, all business-like again, as though nothing had passed between them.

When John and Rosie returned, she was a whole lot cleaner and Molly's tea and cake were semi consumed. The waitress had been back to wipe down the highchair and table and all was right with the world. The conversation between the friends flowed easily and was light and agreeable, apart from John's intermittent teasing about the Sherlock's 'news', demanding to know when he was going to 'spill the beans'.

'I'll tell you and Molly everything, both at the same time, once Rosie's gone to bed,' Sherlock insisted.

'Well, it had better be worth waiting for,' John huffed.

Molly tried to catch John's eye to give him the heads up that, whatever Sherlock's news was, it was no joking matter. She knew he would feel bad when the facts were revealed but it seemed he was enjoying the banter too much and was immune to her attempts at telepathic communication.

Once they got back to John's house, Sherlock became notably more introspective and it was clear to Molly that he was steeling himself for the imminent ordeal. While John was busy upstairs, getting Rosie ready for and putting her to bed, Molly sat beside him on the sofa with a hand on his arm, offering passive moral support. When she heard John coming down the stairs, she moved slightly away and folded her hands in her lap.

'Ah, peace at last!' John exclaimed. 'Now, come on, mate, out with it. The suspense is killing me!' and he plopped down in the armchair, rubbing his hands in anticipation.

Sherlock took a deep breath and ruffed his hair with both hands then began:

'That day we went to the Welsborough's house, if you remember, I was rather distracted by those images of Margaret Thatcher…'

'Oh, God, I do remember! It was bloody embarrassing!' John declared.

'At the time, I believed that I was detecting a Moriarty connection but now I know that to be untrue.'

John looked bemused. He didn't understand why his friend was raking up this ancient history. Once a case was solved, Sherlock always moved on to the next without a second thought. He never dwelt on the past.

'What I didn't appreciate at the time was that the images of Thatcher were actually the catalyst which kickstarted the process by which I would begin to retrieve the lost memories of my childhood – lost memories buried so deep, I didn't even know I'd lost them.'

Molly was heartened to see John's expression subtly changing as he began to realise that, whatever they were about to hear, it was going to be pretty profound.

'The memories of that time have returned in dribs and drabs but there was one memory that resolutely refused to be accessed. Whenever I got close to that memory – and it's happened a number of times over the last few months – I experienced it as a dead space, a black hole, in the middle of my brain. A mental no-go area. I came to understand that there was something significant about that black hole and, yesterday at my parents' house, I discovered what it was.

Mycroft and I went there to deal with a family emergency but, having sorted that out, we took the opportunity to bring my mother and father up to speed with Eurus's situation, including how it implicated my mother's brother, Uncle Rudi. My mother did not take the news well. She was in complete denial, in fact, and began to relate fond memories of her brother.

In the course of that trip down Memory Lane, she linked two seemingly random facts – the day she went to the palace to see my uncle decorated by the Queen and his mantra of 'You will always find succour with me.' Those two cues combined were the key that unlocked my most significant suppressed memory – the one where I witnessed my uncle coaching my sister in how to murder my friend, Victor.'

The impact of that bald statement could not be trivialised. Molly felt the shock throughout her entire being and tears erupted spontaneously from her eyes as she choked on a sob. John's face fell, he paled, visibly, and growled a guttural expletive. Sherlock himself was interrupted in the flow of his narrative and dropped his head into his hands, feeling the horror of that encounter afresh, despite the elapsed time since the incident.

The sight of him in such distress over-rode all Molly's cautious reserve and she launched herself at him, throwing her arms around him and pulling his upper body into her lap. And he did not resist. He wrapped an arm around her waist and pressed his face into the soft flesh of her belly, feeling the waves of comforting endorphins wash over him.

John sat rigid in his chair, deeply affected by his friend's anguish but relieved to see Molly providing the solace that Sherlock clearly needed. After a few moments, 'healer mode' clicked in and he got up and went to the kitchen, returning with a glass of cold water. He placed it on the side table, where Sherlock would be able to reach it when he was ready, and, squatting beside the sofa, he put a comforting hand on Sherlock's back and patted him, gently, muttering,

'Let it out, mate; we're here for you.'

ooOoo

With the support and comfort of his friends, Sherlock managed to describe the encounter with Rudi which he had related to Mycroft and his parents but also went on to explain the repercussions of the incident.

'When Victor went missing, just a week later, I knew that Eurus would never divulge where he was because our uncle had made her promise she wouldn't. And, to a five-year-old, a promise like that is an unbreakable vow. I also knew it was my responsibility to solve the puzzle, which is why I tried and tried so hard and for so long and could never give up. I think it's probably why I became a detective in the first place, because I failed to solve that crime. I've been trying to make amends ever since. And, of course, I knew that Rudi had planned the whole thing and groomed Eurus in how to carry out Victor's murder under the guise of a game but I couldn't tell anyone because he had threatened to kill me if I breathed a single word about it. The guilt I felt, knowing that if I had just spoken out and pointed the finger at Uncle Rudi, Victor could have been saved but that I didn't, being too afraid for my own life to do so...well, that was quite unbearable.

Given the degree of psychological trauma that all this inflicted on six-year-old me, it's hardly surprising I suppressed those memories completely. It was the only way to save my sanity. It was a desperate act of self-preservation.

Had I been allowed to access therapy, at the time, perhaps I could have worked through the trauma and gone on to live a normal life. We'll never know. But one thing is certain, I definitely would not have suppressed those memories, I would not have forgotten I had a sister named after the East Wind and I would not have believed that my friend, Victor, was a dog called Redbeard! And maybe, just maybe, I would have allowed myself to enjoy loving relationships with family and friends, rather than cutting myself off from social interaction and trying to subvert my emotions – not very successfully, I have to say.' He accompanied that final comment with wry smile which was returned by his friends.

It was getting late and Molly had another twelve-hour night shift at the hospital. Reluctantly, she took her leave, giving Sherlock a lingering hug and, while John was distracted, fetching her coat from the coat stand, whispering, endearments into his ear, confident that John would not overhear - because she and Sherlock hadn't yet discussed, much less decided, when, how and what details they would share of their new dynamic with their circle of friends. After John helped her on with her coat, she hugged him, too, and implored him to take good care of Sherlock while she was gone.

'Of course, of course,' he assured her, returning the hug, with a reassuring smile. 'I'll insist that he stays here tonight and keep a close eye on him.' John was familiar with the term 'danger night' where Sherlock was concerned and he was determined that his friend was not exposed to the siren call of old habits, as Mycroft might have said. The only 'sweeties' he would be consuming tonight would be the bag of Haribo he'd found down the side of the sofa, no doubt mislaid by Rosie at some point but still edible. He was currently consuming them, quite pensively, one at a time.

Having waved Molly off and closed the front door, John returned to the sitting room, rubbing his hands against the cold from his brief exposure to the evening air. Although it was a week night and he had work in the morning, he felt that the circumstances called for a glass of something so he crossed to the sideboard and took out a bottle of scotch and two tumblers. Pouring a generous tot into each, he returned the bottle to the cupboard and handed one of the glasses to Sherlock, who took it gratefully. Not in shock tonight, so no reason not to accept.

'Well, mate,' John conceded, taking a seat in the arm chair, 'what can I say? I am truly sorry about taking the piss, earlier. Seriously, I could punch myself.'

'No need to resort to self-harm, John,' Sherlock replied, drily. 'I can punch you myself, if you insist.'

'Thanks, mate. I appreciate it,' John replied, with a grin. 'So, what happens now?'

'In what respect?' Sherlock asked.

'Well, your parents, for starters.'

'I'm not sure about my mother. Mycroft seems to think she's beginning to see Rudi for what he was but there's a huge amount of indoctrination to be worked through there. My pa had already seen through Rudi but couldn't bring himself to confront Mummy about it. Maybe now he will feel more empowered.

'And Mycroft?'

'Oh, he's seen the light, absolutely. I think Lady Smallwood had a lot to do with that. She worked with Rudi for years, when they were both young diplomats. She has no illusions where he's concerned.'

'And Eurus?'

Sherlock frowned.

'I need to talk to Eurus in person about that day in Rudi's study. I don't even know if she realises that it was him who put her up to pushing Victor down the well and leaving him there to die. In the CCTV video of her first day at Sherrinford, Rudi blames her and she doesn't throw it back at him, even though she is quite feisty in other ways. She genuinely seems to accept responsibility. That's a testament to how fiendishly manipulative Rudi was. He was quite a piece of work.'

'So, a trip to Edinburgh is on the cards?'

'In deed. Pa wants to see her. And Mummy, too, I expect but it's entirely up to Eurus who she sees and who she doesn't. She's spent her whole life being dictated to. It's only right that she gets to choose for herself, now.'

'I'm sorry I didn't believe you about her.'

'Don't be, John. She scared the wits out of you, on more than one occasion, when she was playing the role of psychopath. But I hope, at some point, you might meet the real Eurus. I think you'll be pleasantly surprised.'

'So, when do you intend to go to Edinburgh?'

'Soon, I hope, but there's something I need to urgently attend to first.' His expression became pinched, prompting John to ask,

'Are you OK, mate?'

'No, not really,' he replied but didn't elaborate.

'Is it something I can help with?' John asked, keen to make amends for his earlier flippancy.

Sherlock took a deep breath and made as if to speak but it was a false start. He did that a few times but John waited patiently, letting him work through the hesitancy in his own time until at last, he got there.

'Last week, I lost two days,' he said.

'What do you mean, 'lost'?' John was confused.

'Just lost, John, wiped clean. I have no memory of those two days.'

John was shocked. He'd heard about this sort of thing, of course. It was, for example, a feature of PTSD – not one he had experienced himself but he knew other ex-soldiers who had. But the thought of his friend, who valued the power of his mind - and his memory, in particular - so highly, this was devastating news. He couldn't even think of anything to say.

'I know I did things during those two days. I have the evidence on my phone – emails and texts and so on – so I was obviously functioning normally, which I know is a relative term for me…' He smiled, diffidently.

'So, do you think this is connected to your childhood memories?' John asked, that being the most likely explanation.

'No, John, I think its connected to something a lot more recent than that.'

'Like what?' John asked.

'I think it may be linked to something that happened during those two years I was away, dismantling Moriarty's network.' Sherlock knew this to be a sore subject with John, which was why he never normally brought it up.

Which was why, in fact, they had really never discussed exactly what he did during those two years. As Molly maintained, John imagined it had been a two-year jolly, an extended vacation road trip with a fun bit of sleuthing thrown in so, at the mention of that time, John frowned.

'What sort of something?' he asked.

Sherlock pursed his lips.

In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought. No time like the present and a host of other equally banal idioms. Eventually, he just came out with it.

'I was imprisoned and tortured, for months, in a dungeon in Serbia.'

'What the fuck?' John gasped.

'I was captured by a Serbian warlord while breaking into his stronghold to steal vital information that I believed he kept there. Obviously, he wasn't happy about it. He wanted to know what I was up to. I was held prisoner for months, which was ironic, really, because this was the final part of my mission and I could have been home so much sooner had I not been caught. Anyway, eventually, Mycroft came and rescued me – it was Eurus who told him where I was. She'd been tracking me via the Internet – because he needed me to crack the underground terror network that was planning the attack on London.'

'So, you came home and got straight down to work, no debrief or anything?' John was horrified.

'Yes, that's about the size of it,' Sherlock replied.

'Well, no wonder you're having blackout! Fuck me, Sherlock!'

'Well, there you are,' Sherlock shrugged.

'But why haven't you told me this until now?' John demanded.

Sherlock shook his head, reluctant to give the real reason. But, since this was a time for truth, he bit the bullet.

'You were so angry, John. You were so pissed off about the whole fake suicide thing that, when we did finally reconcile, I just decided to let sleeping dogs lie. I didn't want to rock the boat any more than necessary and if I come out with any more of these really annoying bloody proverbs, will you please shoot me?'

John had to laugh and it relieved the tension a little. But his expression quickly sobered.

'What form did the torture take? he asked, needing to know the full story now, not just the synopsis.

'Oh, you know, pretty standard stuff…sleep deprivation, sensory overload, poisoning, starvation, beatings, waterboarding, sexual humiliation…that sort of thing.'

John grimaced, picturing it all in his mind's eye. He'd come across victims of torture during his time as an army medic. They were never a pretty sight. And now, imagining his friend in that state, well, it was almost too much for him. He did the only thing he could think of. He stood up, crossed the floor and threw his arms around Sherlock in the biggest bear hug he could muster and just stood there, holding him.

Sherlock tensed, initially, but then relaxed into the hug and accepted it for what it was…a silent but very sincere apology for everything.

When they eventually broke apart and John returned to his seat and his whisky, he asked,

'So, how can I help with your little problem?'

'You can help me find out where I was and what I was doing during those two days,' Sherlock replied. 'But don't tell Molly…not yet.'

'Why ever not?' John exclaimed. 'She'll want to help, won't she?'

'She's already helped me so much, through all of this. And she's incredibly stressed at work, with the flu epidemic and what have you. I just don't want her to feel obliged.'

That seemed like a fair point. Molly did have a habit of taking all the World's problems on her shoulders.

'OK,' John agreed. 'Mum's the word,' suspecting nothing untoward.

'Oh, and by the way,' Sherlock added, 'I think it's good that you're dating again. It doesn't suit you to be alone.'

'Oh, she told you!' John huffed.

'What? Who? Who told me what?' Sherlock retorted.

'Molly. I asked her not to tell you I was dating again.' John was disappointed.

'Molly didn't tell me anything!' Sherlock exclaimed. 'She would never betray a trust! She would take your secret to the grave, if need be; you should know that!'

To be fair, John really did know that. She had, after all, kept Sherlock's secret for two whole years, had she not?

'So how did you know then?'

Sherlock gave a very minor eye roll, then said,

'You really are so transparent, John, I can read you like a book. You're using a new razor...the old one was leaving a lot of bristly stubble...not conducive to comfortable kissing. You're taking extra care when ironing your work shirts, so the lady in question must be a work colleague...or you meet her after work or during your lunchbreaks, which is feasible, I suppose. And you're having your hair cut every four weeks rather than every six, which indicates you're paying more attention to your appearance so you must want to impress someone by regularly showing yourself at your most presentable. And, I see on your wall calendar, you've written 'Dinner with Mary' in next Wednesday's slot so, unless you've started hallucinating again and taken it to the next level of bizarre, you're meeting another lady called Mary for dinner, next Wednesday. How did I do?'

'I've really missed this, you know,' John sighed. 'You've been so distracted with Eurus, you haven't been paying much attention to anything else. Well, welcome back, Sherlock bloody Holmes.'

ooOoo