"Ultra Infirmitatibus Meis"
Chapter 18
"Hope that lights up the dark tunnel."
"Jesus." John breathed out after hearing what Sherlock had to say. "That's... Christ, Sherlock that's a lot to take in."
The Detective only shrugged, hands deep in his pockets and face mostly covered by his signature scarf.
He and Watson were on a walk in the park, mostly so that Rosie can run around among the fallen leaves.
The girl needs a bit of levity after everything that happened with Eurus.
So, while Sherlock told John everything that happened during his absence, the tiny girl bounced and giggled as little children like her tend to do.
"...what are you going to do now, Sherlock?" Watson asked after a moment of silence.
Sherlock didn't respond, more occupied with watching Rosamund being a carefree youngling.
"What would you have me do, John?" He asked after another minute of silence.
"I don't know… tell the truth?"
Holmes chuckled mirthlessly.
"Tell the truth? Don't be daft, John." He then looked at the blogger, pity in his eyes. "It wouldn't matter. He rewrote his memories, as far as he's concerned we're no longer family. And, even if we were, it wouldn't make a difference. He just..." The Detective sighed. "No longer cares."
Watson bit his lip and looked down at the road peppered by colorful leaves worriedly.
Sure he and Mycroft didn't always see eye to eye, John still had a lot to say about the "kidnappings" and "Big Brother-like monitoring", but that didn't mean he didn't think of him as a friend.
The older man more than earned it, as even his major hiccups in judgement were clearly done out of the desire to protect, and Watson was sure he owes his life to him many times over.
It was rather… disconcerting to hear that, someone who seems to be able to deduce everything about everyone, was unaware he was being lied to about his own past.
"Life is never that simple, John." Came Sherlock's quiet voice, seemingly reading his mind yet again. "Mycroft can always tell when a person is lying, even when they're not quite aware of it themselves."
"Then why didn't he… do anything? If he knew something was fishy… shouldn't he have… pulled some strings and found out the truth?"
Sherlock shrugged, kicking a rock.
"Would you do it, John? If you had this feeling under your skin that both your loved ones and trusted colleagues are lying to you day and night. Would you try to get to the bottom of it?" He then paused, adjusting the scarf around his neck. "Or would you ignore the desire to know the truth, to keep your family from falling apart?"
Watson had no answer to that. He just looked away from his best friend and continued to watch his daughter be a happy little girl.
"Think about this situation from Mycroft's perspective, John." Holmes continued, as if he was afraid of the silence that fell between them. "His past was masterfully constructed by uncle Rudy. Everything he knows, everything he believes in… his moral compass, his deduction powers, his loyalty towards his family and his country… all of this is a cleverly constructed lie to make Mycroft into the perfect tool to serve all parties involved to the best of his ability. And those lies..." Sherlock's hand was shaking, but he was too focused on talking to notice. "Those malicious lies are his core foundation, the very things that made him him. If… if he acknowledged that his entire being is nothing but a fabrication, his mind palace would collapse."
A shiver went down Watson's spine, trying to imagine a Holmes struggling to deal with a serious identity crisis that turns everything he knows upside down, and throws distrust at people and information that he would blindly believe not too long ago.
Even he could tell this would be devastating to someone so devoted to the people that he viewed as his family, and towards the country he swore his life to protect.
"He would end up Catatonic, unable to properly comprehend the scale of the manipulation he was exposed to." Sherlock, looked at the leaf that landed on his shoulder. "And then, once his mind deals with the crisis… he would leave. Disappear." His voice barely a whisper. "On a journey to find the person he was supposed to be."
The leaf flies away with the incoming wind.
"Only to realize that… there is nothing to find." Sherlock follows the lone leaf as if dances in the air. "A wolf who was treated like a cat all his life won't change his ways once he's accepted back into a pack, and neither will a servant change into a Lord once he's told he's part of a royal family." The leaf suddenly drops to the ground, the wind disappearing. "They'll just keep being what they were forced to be."
And then the small leaf gets cramped under Rosie's eager feet.
"Once a slave… always a slave."
The Detective Duo walked through the park following after Rosie, neither of the two talking.
John couldn't find the right words to comfort his best friend, who's facing a truly crazy and difficult family situation.
Sherlock simply had nothing more to say. He's been having a lot of moments like these nowadays...
Moments where even he is left speechless.
...
God it hasn't even been a full month yet, how has his life changed so much in such a short amount of time?
'No.' Sherlock shook his head. 'Not how. Why.'
Why did this happen?
Why didn't anyone stop it?
Why?
Why, why, why?
That's all he wanted to know.
Why?
What hurt most was the fact that, the one person who could have answered that in full… was already dead.
They neared a playground filled with laughing children, the notice they made quickly disposing of the uncomfortable quiet that settled between them.
Rosie squealed in delight and ran over to join the other younglings in their games.
John watched her quickly make friends with the other girls, before he guided the numb Sherlock to the nearest empty bench.
Once they sat down he allowed himself to lean back and calmly keep vigil over his little girl.
When Rosamund laughed and pulled a hesitant Red-haired little boy into the game as well, the good doctor was reminded of Mycroft Holmes.
The man with an considerable amount of power and influence… who's life was devoid of such carefree moments during a time when it should be full of them.
He tried to imagine what a small Mycroft would do if he was suddenly placed in a playground like this by his mother, after spending the previous days studying under Rudy.
A small child version of the elder Holmes brother appeared in the middle of the play-place, looking lost and confused. Simply unable to understand what he's even supposed to do in such a situation.
John's heart clenched, feeling like the poor child has been ridden of his childhood by greedy adults that used him to solve their own problems.
The boy walked around the other kids which, naturally, couldn't see him, John following the movements of the figment of his imagination.
Imaginary Mycroft watched Rosie and some Red-haired boy jump around in the sandbox, and his tiny nose wrinkled in disgust, making the doctor chuckle under his breath.
The unreal boy then moved over to the children on the small merry-go-round, squealing in delight. He tilts his small head, probably wondering why making yourself feel sick makes them so happy.
Blinking in confusion he finally moved over to the swing.
It was the only thing that was empty, as the children playing were not tall enough to get onto it.
John somehow knew this would attract the younger version of Mycroft the most, as it was the most logical toy in the playground.
It was made to create the illusion of flight, something which every kid wishes they could do at some point in their life.
The imagine disappears the moment another child ran through him, leaving the playground one child less.
John blinked, eyes suddenly feeling dry.
Suddenly, a shriek hit his ears from the sandbox.
Immediately both him and Sherlock turned their heads to check what happened.
It was Rosie. Furiously rubbing her eyes where presumably she's been struck with sand by the black haired boy.
The doctor frowned and moved to get up, because such behavior will not be tolerated, especially towards his little princess.
But, before he could do anything, Rosamund started crying and began running in the opposite direction to where he and Sherlock were sitting. The other kids running after her.
"Rosie!" He heard himself call out, hurriedly standing up.
"Couldn't she see us?" Holmes asked, as he started trotting after the small girl and the children pursuing her.
"I don't know! But we need to catch up to her before she-" at that moment he and Sherlock finally managed to squeeze through the high bushes and end up near the park path, where they saw who Rosie ran towards.
"Is that-" Holmes breathed quietly next to him.
"Mycroft?" John finished, gaping himself.
There, in all his suited glory, was the elder Holmes brother.
Surrounded by delegates from other countries, he was explaining some sort of plan to them in Mandarin, while also showing off his beautiful country and allowing the newcomers a chance to stretch their legs after hours spent sitting in an office.
Before they could call out to him, Rosie bolted right for him. Quickly dodging the other delegates and hiding behind him.
John watched as the Iceman blinked and stopped in his tracks, a question on his lips, before he looked up and saw the other children.
Said boys stopped a meter away from him, eyes wide and small bodies trembling.
The sight of someone so big and surrounded with other adults, scared them shirtless.
Mycroft, accurately deducing what was going on, straightened up to his full height, and turned his glare towards the trembling brats.
"Scram." He said in a low voice, eyes narrowed dangerously. "The lot of you."
The boys screamed and began running back to their parents.
John blinked.
Then blinked again.
Mycroft then sighed and turned to Rosie, who was cheerfully sticking her tongue out at the retreating kids.
"There. They're gone now." He said. Voice still low and emotionless. "You can go back to the playground. I doubt they'll bother you again."
But Rosamund just smiled and shook her pretty little head.
"No." She grinned and lifted her hands up. "With uncah Myc! Want to be with uncah Myc!"
Sherlock and John watched, in small amazement, as Mycroft blinks and, after a moment, his eyes soften and he smiles.
He sighs softly and kneels in front of the small girl.
"You know I can't say no to you, Rosie-dear."
The small girl then squealed in delight as he picked her up and placed her on his shoulders, before going back to talking with the delegates as if nothing happened. Voice and face reverting back to their Iceman stage.
"Sherlock..." John breathed out. "Did you see tha-"
"He was back." The Detective said. "For a little while he was himself again." He then looked at John, eyes sparkling with happiness.
"There's still hope."
He kneels before the small girl.
She smiles up at him, eyes bright and filled with love and adoration.
He feels strange.
He feels good.
He feels… warm.
Stop.
He talks to this small human, fascinated with the effect her presence seems to have have on him.
He doesn't remember the last time he felt this way.
What are you doing?
He tells her he cannot deny her anything, and is surprised when he actually means it.
He wants to make her happy.
He wants to keep her safe.
He wants… he wants...
Stop this. You're slipping.
He reaches out to her. Her tiny body warm against his cold skin.
She's… so warm.
He picks her up, placing her upon his shoulders before he stands up again.
Oh Mycroft...
He tries to ignore the girl's father standing near the road.
He tries to ignore Sherlock Holmes right next to him...
He tries to ignore the tiny piece of him that wishes he could have a heart.
Why do you keep doing this to yourself?