Sherlock

"What's wrong Nana?" the boy asks softly. Then he looks at the ground and back at Sherrinford and adds, "Are you hurting?"

"Oh Billy," says Sherrinford. "What makes you say that?"

The boy looks again at the ground before he looks up and says, "You aren't wearing clothes. You don't like clothes when you're hurting."

Scarily perceptive child. Are all children this perceptive or is it a family trait? And that name. Sentiment? Sherrinford's or a parent's choice? Because Nana is a term of endearment reserved for grandmothers. Mrs Hudson at some point after Katie's birth was going on how she would like the little one to call her. She revisited the subject enough time for some of it to make through Sherlock's skull between the influx of case relevant information. Although to be fair what did register was Uncle Lock and the sheer shock of hearing that atrocity made him pause for more of Mrs Hudson's babble to make it through. He told her back then that Sherlock was the name his parents had given him and that Watson would have to suffer through making to the end of it when she would start talking.

Strangely enough the prospect of being called Mama for the rest of his life doesn't feel as ridiculous as being called Uncle Lock.

As he ponders that Billy picks up the peignoir from the ground and hands it over to Sherrinford who puts it on. No sooner than it's tide around him… Should he think of Sherrinford as a man or a woman? Because with Mycroft Sherrinford described himself as a brother, not a sister. He looks feminine and his grandson calls him by a name reserved for grandmothers.

A sister or a brother? Which one of them is Sherrinford? Brother he definitely was at some point and with the lingering shadow of yesterday's nightmare about secret, psychopathic sister Sherlock doesn't really feel very comfortable with convincing his mind to think of Sherrinford as a sister, visual input be damned. For the time being, maybe from a greater distance.

As his mind examines the conundrum that's what pronouns he should use to describe his secret and not dead sibling the grandson of said sibling climbs into their lap and wraps his arms very delicately around them.

"Is it your wings?" the boy asks. "Are they hurting?"

What? Into what world he had woken up this morning? Is he still high? He doesn't feel high and the distinct pang in his butt strongly suggests that the events of the last night were real. So is nearly the crushing grip of John's hand on his when he squeezes it.

The memory comes to him in waves. Olfactory first, the distinct smell of roses and vanilla with a hint of cloves. Then comes sensual input, thin, long-fingered hands brushing the hair out of his face. A kiss on his forehead as the hands slide out of his hair and down to his hands to put them together in a praying gesture.

Then comes the voice, gentle and feminine, whispering softly, "Angel of God, my guardian dear, to whom God's love commits me here. Ever this day be at my side, to light, to guard, to rule, to guide. Amen."

In the memory he is whispering with the voice who starts taking form of Grandma Sherlock but his eyes stray from her solemn and kind face to the ajar door. Sherrinford is standing in the gap, placing a finger on his lips as they curl into a smile.

The Grandma Sherlock part of that memory is old, familiar and worn like the t-shirts he wears to bed. It's one of the few memories he has of her. It used to be a conflicting one, especially as he grew up. Because it returned to him whenever he heard his parents talk about Grandma Sherlock and whatever beef she had with clergy. At some point he asked Daddy about it and his memory and Daddy admitted that while Grandma Sherlock never had been particularly religious that particular prayer she taught to all children she took care of.

"She said," said Daddy back then, "that she did so to instil in us the sense of safety and stability. Something which against Mum's best efforts we often found ourselves lacking."

Then comes the realisation. He knew for a long time that beauty was a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences and role models. He figured that one out after a particularly lengthy strop over some clueless cadet. It was a quite handsome cadet, as handsome as he was clueless and his obliviousness put a quite damper on Sherlock's mood for quite a while and made him wonder why he was fixating his attention on people like that in the first place.

And one didn't need to be a genius to realise that the reason why his eyes lingered on army men in particular was because Mummy still smiled fondly and put away whatever she was doing to give Daddy a goodbye kiss before he head off to work. They were like that for decades of marriage until Daddy eventually retired. They still sometimes are but they reverse open displays of affection for when they think that Sherlock or Mycroft aren't looking. But to be fair they both put quite a stink about it because dear Lord your sons are in their thirties would you please stop acting like lovesick teenagers before a trip to bakery.

The realisation that comes to him on the heels of that memory today is how deeply Grandma Sherlock ingrained in him the habit of putting his hands together to think, to for a moment divorce himself from reality and retreat into his mind.

And Sherrinford was there for that. He was the oldest, raised alongside the youngest Vernet relatives, experienced the same sort of upbringing they had. Mummy as a new mother would have deferred to Grandma's experience and habits.

So is it really that surprising that as a grandparent Sherrinford reverts to familiar to him patterns.

It's a soft sob that tears Sherlock from his thoughts. It sounds like Daddy's so he looks his way and finds him slightly hunched in his seat, right hand covering his face and left gripping on Sherlock's hand, which only now registers.

He had to lose quite a big bit of conversation, he realises as he grips Daddy's hand back before he lets go of John's hand and draws Daddy into a hug. He still feels surprised when Daddy lets go and crumbles into Sherlock's arms, much like Sherlock had done yesterday, like a child seeking comfort of a parent.

And he is a parent, of a girl that grew up without him but hadn't condemned him for his absence from her life, a girl that had faith in him to do what he considers best for her little daughter. He would be the parent Josie will grow up knowing as one. Well she will have John to.

Daddy's arms are thinner than they used to be when he was younger but still strong. He was the one whose comfort Sherlock sought. Not that Mummy hadn't been big on hugs, she was but her mind had a habit of wondering and Sherlock could feel that. Daddy was always in the moment, patient and present, understanding but not overbearing.

What he had lost from the conversation between Sherrinford and his grandson?

Is it the grandson thing? Daddy being forced to register that not only they have children but also grandchildren of their own. Sherlock himself has a problem with that on certain level and likely will have for a while. He's thirty-nine and technically a grandfather that never had a chance to experience parenthood. John at his age wasn't even married let alone had a child.

And now aside of two little girls (and there will be two, he'll make damn sure of that) there's a little boy and with that boy comes his parent or parents. Son, his mind supplies, Sherrinford yelled about Mycroft 'what about my son?'. And then there's Mycroft's son.

And that way madness lies and Sherlock knows it.

The only unidentified Adam in the mess that was Serbian mission was Adam Dragović. Dragović, patronymic surname that means son of Drago. Drago in turn is a short from Dragan which in Serbian and Croatian culture means dear or beloved. Nothing which held true when it came to Dragović.

What he had on that one was very little. No photographs, no dossier, not a bloody date of birth even. What he did know that the man was a ghost, a very malicious ghost who every now and again tore through Serbian villages kidnapping children, often slaughtering parents, sometimes leaving them badly disfigured. The lucky children didn't survive the capture, the few that did wound up trafficked east, to Bulgaria, Ukraine or Russia.

Sherlock experienced Dragović brand of hospitality. Sherrinford believed that for his own luck without meeting the man himself. Which at the time annoyed the living daylight out of Sherlock when he had enough strength in him to spare on something other than an internal mantra of 'do not break your cover'.

Like father, like son, he thinks as Daddy draws out from the hug. He sorts himself out, wipes his eyes with handkerchief, old cotton one rather than a tissue, before he clears his nose.

"We can go on," he says.

John presses play and the video resumes and Sherlock determined not lose anything else of the conversation focuses his attention on it.

At first nothing happens aside of a little endearing ritual of Sherrinford finishing his make up with the help from the little boy on his knees. The boy seems pleased with being held in a hug with one arm and handing his Nana whatever he (she) asks for. There isn't really a lot of it left, a couple swipes with a brush on the cheeks, putting on earrings (which Sherlock hadn't noticed in the previous video because they weren't there).

They're so focused in their little happy bubble that at first they don't notice someone else stepping towards them. It's a man and it takes Sherlock nothing but a glance to register familiar similarity to both and with them come deductions.

The man like little Billy has red-brown curls but Billy's, much like Sherlock's around that age, are longish and wild while the man's hair are cut short in an eerily familiar fashion. One that he saw at home so many times that it took him a glance at Mike Stamford's companion to tell that before him stood an army man. It's in the way he holds himself even when he doesn't need to, in his squared shoulders. Brown eyes, no glasses, hardly any wrinkles, mid to late twenties. Fond smile that doesn't really reach his eyes, a twitch of lips, no similarity there, that transfers into a small pinched expression before it disappears again. Active servicemen then, quite likely to inform both parties that he's about to be deployed.

Meanwhile Sherrinford looks up and spots the man in the mirror which in turn makes him turn towards the man.

"Johnny," he greets the man exuberantly. "Oh," follows immediately after.

The man, Johnny nods slowly.

On the screen Sherrinford visibly swallows before he slides Billy from his knees and with a cheerful but lacking sincerity tone he tells, "Go wash your hands Billy and prepare the table. Daddy and I will be with you shortly."

Billy, oblivious to the shift of atmosphere in the room, giggles and calls out, "Kay Nana," before he runs out of the room.

No sooner than right after the door slam after him Sherrinford looks at the man and asks softly, "When and where?"

"Syria," the man, Johnny, answers. "Not soon. Not until late February, early March."

From what Sherlock can see on Sherrinford's face his lips tighten and his brows pull into a frown.

"He had nothing to do with it," Johnny says quickly. "I swear, Mama," he puts a French accent on the word. That earns him a look from Sherrinford that makes him add hastily, "We could tell from September that we will be joining. We would have joined in December if it wasn't for sheer amount of bad luck and family obligations. Thank God for that."

"God has nothing to do with what was happening to your people," replies Sherrinford tetchily. "If he had he would collectively enlighten you that with your skillset you can find better paying employment on our small island."

"If I wanted better pay I would have accepted Uncle Annoys-You-An-Awful-Lot offer and went into secrete services," says Johnny fondly.

"And instead of doing that you went and joined the army like your Grandpa," says Sherrinford with a hint of exasperation as he turns and reaches for his cigarettes. "Thing is Johnny boy, Daddy bounced between Royal Army Educational Corps and Service Corps and he still managed to get himself shot."

"I didn't get shot," quips Johnny.

"Yet," Sherrinford quips back before he lights the cigarette. "Try not to," he adds after taking a long drag and letting it out. "One of these days I'm going to pin that good-for-nothing uncle of yours with something so heavy that he wouldn't be able to hide behind…" conclusion gets drowned in his hand.

Sherlock's trauma is what he most likely says.

"He would have liked you, Johnny," adds Sherrinford after a moment.

That's an understatement, Sherlock observes as he takes a quick look at Daddy who drinks in the sight of the man with rapt attention. Like he did with Daisy. But Johnny unlike Daisy is alive and with added prospect of the army bond. He would not forget about Daisy but he would treasure the grandchild than he can have.

Sherlock can't begrudge him for that. Nor he can muster any sort of resentment towards the man for being alive. It's not his fault that Daisy is dead, he had nothing to do with it. He is just another child, even though he's a grown man, to love, to be proud of and to worry about. Daddy and Mummy deserve that, just like all of the children deserve that. Well, maybe all children aside of Adam and Mycroft. One deserves a bullet in the head and the other in his genitals.

The crash that comes from the screen is sudden and followed by a called out, "Sorry!" as Sherrinford and Johnny turn towards the source of it. Sherrinford with a quick, concerned frown and Johnny with a shout.

"William Sherlock Scott Sigerson!"

That causes a variety reactions. From John it's a soft chuckle while Sherlock huffs in mild irritation. Not that he's really offended because he offered it when he didn't know that little Watson would be a girl. But he also had been on receiving end of that shout to know that it's a mouthful without the added weight of the surname. It's likely the surname that has Daddy cackling so hard that his eyes brighten up.

Meanwhile on the screen Sherrinford hides his face in his hands.

"I'm not hurt!" comes the call from outside the room. "But the fruit bowl is a casualalaty."

"Leave it," Johnny calls out as he turns towards Sherrinford, who mutters something into his hands. "Is it the name again, Mama?"

"It's always the name, Johnny," says Sherrinford as he lowers his hands. "He just started to read and if in few months he will start snooping around newspapers…" he shakes his head. "I swear to God that if I'll hear a single word about becoming defective I will hop on whichever plane will be heading your way just to kick you in the nuts."

"I can hardly imagine The Sun or The Daily Mail pulling the whole of it from the woodwork," replies Johnny with a soft chuckle at the end. "And besides…"

"You could have switched the order," suggest Sherrinford pointedly.

"Emma and I always liked William," says Johnny defensively. "We also wanted to use Mum's surname as a sort of given/surname kind of name and Emma's Nana…" he shrugs. "You know that she always believed that giving a child a name after a famous person is a good luck charm."

"A ringing endorsement from a woman who called her firstborn son Winston and her cat Adolf," retorts Sherrinford.

"A truly ringing endorsement from someone whose original given name sounds like a bad idea in progress," Johnny counters with a cheeky smile.

Both comments have John and Daddy in stitches. Sherlock only smiles at that because it's a freely offered information. Because if Billy's surname is Sigerson it's highly likely that it also is Johnny's and quite likely also Sherrinford's. It's not exactly a typical British name and how many Sigersons can be living in England. And Johnny is an army man and army keeps records. Records mean address and that means a family reunion as soon as they will finish watching the videos.

The video ends a couple of seconds after that.

There are a couple more photographs on the site. All of them showing supposed Rosamunde Marie Vernet in her blonde and pink glory. Sherlock follows through with downloading and decrypting the next one not out of curiosity but rather than need to be thorough. He has had enough revelations already to last him for a couple of days of turning them over from every angle and that's without adding into it the prospect of therapy.

A group therapy even, which he has a feeling would go like a stink bomb at Uncle Lloyd's wedding anniversary.

The next video that loads shows a different room. The camera is mounted high enough to show an island in the middle of a kitchen beyond which is something that appears to look like a sitting-room. In the foreground is Billy, engrossed in a colouring book, with a tip of tongue sticking out of his mouth as he colours with vigour. He looks like he needs a haircut or at the very least a fringe trim.

It implies passing time. Three months at the minimum, maybe more.

Humming coming from the right side of the screen distracts him. It's melodic but wordless, a bit dramatic even. French cabaret maybe? Some sort of tragic love song.

"Can we go to the park later?" asks Billy.

"Of course," says Sherrinford. "I'll just stick this guy into the oven and have a cup of tea and we can go."

There's a little grunting and Sherrinford's butt, blessedly properly dressed, comes briefly into view. It's followed by the usual clatter and clicks that accompany tea making which is followed by a distinctive ping of the upcoming message.

"Billy, why don't you put your book away and play a couple of races with Mario while I will handle the client," says Sherrinford, his voice sounds calm and even but carries a commanding undertone.

With which Billy doesn't negotiate, just looks up at Sherrinford before he closes his book, collects his colouring pencils and hops down on the floor. He runs out of the room just as Sherrinford comes fully into view.

He stands on the right side of the island, left hand gripping the counter. He looks alert, cagy and the part of his mouth that Sherlock can see is pinched. Then Sherlock hears a distinct, very brief click. It sounds eerily familiar but he has trouble placing it. It's not some sort of a panic button, those that he had seen (and poked when he had a chance and knew that he could get away with it) were soundless.

John's fancy gun safe, the realisation comes to him with the sound of opening door and approaching footsteps. It was an unnecessary splurge in an attempt to curtail Sherlock's destructive tendencies by locking up his gun. Arrived a couple of weeks after Sherlock proved to him that the one with more traditional code mechanism was no match for Sherlock. Not that the other one turned out to be a match for a bored genius with the need to shot something and the knowledge how to pull prints from various surfaces. The most challenging part of it was piecing the collected prints together.

He expects someone with ill intent and isn't really surprised when Mycroft steps into the view.

"Is the queen not bowing to you, Myc?" asks Sherrinford icily.

"I can't openly force her to bow, Sherry," replies Mycroft.

"Then perhaps you aren't putting your foot down hard enough," comments Sherrinford, his voice still icy.

"I am," Mycroft denies. "The problem with people like Siobhan is that they are distrustful by nature and as such expect incoming blows. Especially from people like me."

"But not from people she trusts," says Sherrinford slowly. "And they aren't cooperating."

"No," says Mycroft curtly, "they aren't."

"Black pearl?" asks Sherrinford. "That's her doing?"

"I'm surprised that you're even asking," says Mycroft sourly. "You worked with her."

"I insisted on a muzzle when I had," replies Sherrinford grimly. "And I was never foolish enough to take her along for anything that wasn't an empty house robbery."

"After the first one," comments Mycroft.

"After the first one," repeats Sherrinford his voice changing to icy again. "So what's the plan now?"

"Illegal immigrants," replies Mycroft. "Might not be easy getting this one into the country but…" he pauses and clears his throat. "He will get the job done."

"Without the collateral damage?" asks Sherrinford. "Because if I'm right in my assumption…"

"Our brother and the doctor won't come to harm," Mycroft interrupts him. "Provided they won't do anything foolish."

"Is that you admitting that you aren't happy with the queen?" asks Sherrinford suspiciously. "Admitting that you made a mistake even?" he adds pointedly.

"I had," Mycroft admits tersely. "You were right, I should have retired her the moment Sherlock fell off the radar in Serbia. But I didn't believe that it would be easy on the doctor."

The snort that follows that statement is coming from both Sherrinford and John.

"You like him," says Sherrinford flatly.

"He's a disrespectful twat," Mycroft retorts. "But a disrespectful twat that in a year and half had done our brother more good than a couple of decades of therapy. And I would be a fool to dismiss his value as a motivation to get Sherlock to use his talents on less pedestrian kind of work."

"Because infiltrating international crime syndicates in Europe has more glamour than dismantling them on the English soil," deadpans Sherrinford. "You do like him."

"I like getting the job done without kicking a fuss," replies Mycroft. "It's far more easier to convince the doctor to convince Sherlock without spending hours at listening to his voicemail."

"Because that worked like one, maybe two times in the past?" asks Sherrinford pointedly. "You do like him."

"I like a good cake and strong tea, Sherry," Mycroft counters. "People, I find potentially valuable and oftentimes useful. And I happen to know what happened the last time Sherlock made an effort to invite into his living quarters someone else for something other than discussing their problem."

"Pity that this concerned brother wasn't around when I was getting married," retorts Sherrinford. "Oh, wait," he says dramatically, "I've married my good-for-nothing husband on your insistence."

"I apologised for that," replies Mycroft.

"You put me in jail first," says Sherrinford sourly.

"And I'm still sitting on the evidence that would clear him from murdering you," Mycroft points out. "Not that it would matter on the long run," he adds. "He's had a stroke last year, as I'm sure you know."

"Serves him right," Sherrinford says flatly. "Is that all?" he adds suspiciously. "Because we could have that talk on the phone you know. It's very much unlike you to visit without an ulterior motive or a strop. You aren't stroppy now," he adds, "well no more than usual."

Mycroft sighs and looks down at his shoes before he looks up at Sherrinford and says quietly, "I'm here on behalf of BAS."

There's a sharp intake of breath coming from both Daddy and John just as Sherrinford sags against the counter.

"And it befalls on me to inform you that two days ago Captain John Christopher Sigerson had been fatally shot," finishes Mycroft. "I'm sorry Sherry."

"Where?" Sherrinford chokes out but it lacks the hysterical tinge of grief and instead is brimming with something darker.

"It was a headshot," says Mycroft softly.

"I'm not an idiot, Mycroft," says Sherrinford stiffly. "I know what fatally shot means and there's a pretty small number of places in which an armed solider can be shot that might result in an immediate death. That wasn't my question. I asked from where you will be getting his body."

"Syria," replies Mycroft swiftly.

"Remember how Mummy once tried to convince Sherlock when she caught him on a lie that a red dot will appear on his forehead whenever he lies?" asks Sherrinford, the question comes completely out of the blue.

Sherlock has no memory of it so clearly that hadn't worked.

Mycroft frowns at Sherrinford before he says, "Yes?"

"There's the red dot now," says Sherrinford lividly as he raises his right hand.

In his hand there's a gun, automatic one with a laser pointer aimed at Mycroft's forehead.

"Try again, Mycroft," he spits out. "Where is my son? Because he most certainly wasn't in Syria."

"You are…" starts Mycroft but appears to change his mind from placating Sherrinford with being distraught and not in possession of his senses, "not going to shot your brother, are you?"

In response to that there's the click of safety being turned off which is followed by the slight cocking the gun up and the sound of breaking glass behind Mycroft's back. That makes Mycroft flinch as the laser pointer returns to being aimed at his head.

"Next one will be coming at your head," says Sherrinford icily.

"Your grandson is four doors down the corridor," protests Mycroft.

"In his headphones and playing Mario," replies Sherrinford. "And before you will try to appeal to the remains of my reason," he adds sourly, "how I'm now the only guardian he has left I'm going to disabuse you from addressing that notion. I led dangerous enough life to ensure that should anything would happen to me that would prevent me from taking care of him he would be looked after. By the only people I would trust him with."

"You don't exactly have a lot of those kind of people," points out Mycroft.

"I have enough," Sherrinford deadpans. "It might not look like a worthy trade-off at first but I have enough fail-safes in a couple of places to ensure that you won't be remembered fondly. Besides we're living in a civilised country, I will be going to jail and not to the ground or a foreign country. And if your little plaything will try that card I will beat her to death with my own hands. Now try again."

"Sherry," whispers Mycroft and he sounds panicked.

"On count of three I will start shooting," Sherrinford interrupts him. "One."

Mycroft swallows thickly.

"Two."

Mycroft swallows again and as Sherrinford opens his mouth to say 'three' he breaths out, "Brestovik, Kosovo."

There's a long period of silence in which Mycroft is staring at the gun aimed at his head and Sherrinford is standing completely motionless.

"Was it worth it?" he asks finally.

"No," Mycroft breaths out.

What follows it is another shot aimed at a glass cabinet behind Mycroft's head and a snarled, "Get out!"

The screen goes black the moment Mycroft disappears from the view.