The day after that awkward encounter, Sherlock had built up the gumption to ask Molly to stay the rest of the week with him at Baker Street. Using whatever different excuses he could think of as sensible; he had convinced her. Or rather, maybe she had already known of his inner desperation to keep her close, but if she had, she was too kind not to have admitted it. Molly is, by the way, the only person who could truly see inside of him, into his deeper wants and needs. Well, all of them except for the one that Sherlock himself hadn't truly caught up his body with his mind to quite yet. The one that tells his heart that he does honestly love her, but his mind isn't quite grasping that memo.
Molly had gone to work that morning, and Sherlock had been busying himself all day, though not with cases. He had gone down and watched over the men in Speedy's carrying on baking, even though Martha wasn't there, the newer ones volunteering to man the register for customers. Acting like everything was alright, like it was just a normal day. The only thing that let off that it wasn't was the constant solemn looks in their eyes as they worked, diligently. Most of them had been young when they had first met her. Teens in need of money, or young adults who were new to London on green cards and just needed work. Kids and men who had grown into the jobs she had bestowed on them as young'uns. They stayed because not only was Mrs. H like a mother to everyone, but she was a very amazing person to work for; their families were just as important as her own. She'd never stiff anybody on anything in regard to the work either. Good pay and benefits, along with her incredible person made the job worth staying for, even after her demise, their true loyalty as a loving tribute to her.
Sherlock nods at them politely and grabs his coffee and scone as a couple of them converse in their native languages. They had agreed to be on better terms with him now, mostly for Mr. H's sake, as they knew she was fond of him even if they hadn't been. However, they clearly have no shame about dissing him in the open when they know he can't retort.
After forcing himself to eat, he paid John and Rosie a visit, then took off to the Diogenes Club. He and Mycroft had arranged his helicopter flight to visit Eurus in Sherrinford for the afternoon, which was good because he had been slacking a bit lately, and figured he owed her an explanation for that, whether she understood the emotions of it or not.
Sherlock arrives at her secure unit and takes the elevator down, violin in hand and phone in his Belstaff pocket; the wi-fi was incredibly good for being so far below sea-level. He had received a myriad of texts in the last few days in regard to condolences from people he hasn't even heard from in years, some since Uni, who had clearly gotten his number off of John's blog or his website (ha! Wishful thinking on that front). The thing is, they all knew how special Martha was to him, and he didn't even know at the time. At least, he didn't acknowledge it.
As the elevator flows down for what seems like an eternity, he can recall his Mum and Dad, and yes, even Martha, sitting there for his Uni graduation cheering as he received his diploma on stage. She had always just...sort of...been there. As a staple. He had never really accounted for her as anything more than his mother's best friend, but when he had come to live in Baker Street, after ensuring her heinous ex's execution, he could read the inner sadness from the horrors she had gone through, all of it dug back up and raw as the day it happened after that trial. Justice had certainly been served, but that wouldn't turn back the clock; wouldn't bring her two sons back to the land of the living. He always knew without making it known that he had John had been 'adopted' by her when they moved in, as her new sons. Not that they could ever replace the ones she lost, but it allowed her to give all the motherly concern and love that she had to two adult men who were each adequately broken in their own ways, and whom on occasion did act like children or teens who needed her guidance (whether they listened or not, as things go with sons).
Sherlock smiles sadly to himself, upset that he should have been able to tell her how much of an impact her existence had meant to him, no matter how out of line he acted at times. Suddenly the elevator doors open, and he steps out.
Uncharacteristically, Eurus is already playing a tune. Not a solemn one per se, but one that sounds vaguely familiar, nonetheless. Furrowing his brow, he steps forward towards the glass and sets his violin case down slowly, watching her play with grace and ease. Quickly delving into the first conscious layer of his mind palace, he tries to identify the tune she is playing and where it had come from. Then it clicks.
"Liebstraum Number 3", he murmurs to himself, watching the performance intently. He recalls how Mrs. H used to play a recording of that song every year on the anniversary of her sons' deaths. She had told him that it was the song that would always calm them when they were upset and she would hold them in her arms, especially the nights that their father would come home distressed and commonly drunk. Somehow, Eurus knew she was deceased, which leads Sherlock to question whether she was taunting his emotional 'context', or genuinely doing something that she would perceive as kind for him.
Once she is finished, she drops her arm/bow to the side and holds her violin to the other side, glancing at him as she sets them on her small table wordlessly.
Sherlock claps gently. "Bravo, that was extraordinaire. Then again, your playing always is." Eurus continues to stare at him emotionlessly, sweeping her long, wavy hair behind her with a quick tilt of her head.
"So...I'm assuming you heard the news. Or if you didn't hear, you read or caught wind of..."
She blinks back at him, unspeaking, the way she has been for nearly a year now. "Uh, yes, Martha Hudson is deceased, and yes, I'm sure you know it upsets me. It's not like I could lie to you, you'd only see past it anyway. She was a dear friend of mine, and of Mum's. It was upsetting. Without meaning to offend you, I often find myself wondering what would upset you. But I already know the answer to that one, don't I, Eurus? As one of my worst adversaries once said, everyone has a pressure point. Someone they'd want to keep safe from harm. Could be a friend, a lover, a parent...or in your case, a brother."
For a split second, he thought he saw a twinkle of expression in her face, but it quickly fades into her steely gaze once again. "I don't know if I will ever quite know your reasons why, but for some reason your pressure point is me. You may have thought I had forgotten the way you acted when I threatened to shoot myself to death nearly a year ago, in memory of the governor, whom you emotionlessly allowed to do the same. But I haven't forgotten. You were frightened. Emotional. Even if only for a moment or two, you were terrified of me taking my life. Now, you could say it was because you wanted to see my reaction to finding out about Redbeard or such, but a person doesn't react that desperately for the future, only for the present. Therefore, you must care about me in one way or the other. And if that is true, am I to believe that you are, in your own special way, sympathetic towards me at the moment because you can imagine myself being dead and how you would, for lack of a better word, feel?"
Again, she stands there, hands at her sides, head tilted, gaze unwavering. "Also dear sister, you may know of the famous adage that claims that the eyes are the windows into the soul. If you believe in souls, that is. In this context, it's really just a peek into inner feelings, and you, dear sister, have eyes that speak a million words a minute even when your mouth won't. I see...loneliness, strength, intimidation, resentfulness, a small spark of sympathy, and wonder. I may not have cracked your code yet, but I will. I'll figure it out, and you will speak again one day."
Eurus rolls her eyes and walks back over to her table, her back turned to him. She picks up her violin and begins to play the tune that Sherlock had played the first time he was here. When she had requested him to "play him". The woman's theme. However, it's not exactly the theme he played, it's softer, a bit more tonal, changed, giving it a sweeter twist than a sexy one. Different, but in a better way, more drawn-out strokes of the bow instead of quick, sharper ones.
Sherlock furrows his brow in confusion but thoroughly enjoys the tune, taking out his violin and doing his best to match her bow strokes, finally getting the hang of the softer version, which becomes almost unrecognizable as 'The Woman's Theme', and simultaneously make his heart swell, as he ends up thinking of Molly. The calm, sweet, tones, the warm flow of the tune, it reminds him of her, which leads him to thinking of "the event" that took place here nearly a year ago, and that truth he can't unsay. A truth that he has said to her twice now, while fully meaning it. Once their duet ends, he takes a deep breath and Eurus gives him a knowing smirk, her eyes narrowing, as if she's reading right from his mind.