Epilogue

The next week was a living hell for John. The doctor was sure, that after talking about the things they both had avoided to talk about, Sherlock would be able to slowly recover from the traumatic events.

How could he have been so wrong? The detective was getting worse day by day, triggered by his supressed memories and there were a lot of them, John recognised lately. Sherlock was partially living in another world, reliving very bad moments of his past. It was something that worried John. He had to stop this but he knew, that Sherlock wouldn't trust anyone other than him.

John decided not to tell Mycroft. This was something private and the blogger had the feeling it wasn't right to betray the detective. Not after all that happened. Since the incident on the rooftop, Mycroft had stayed away, giving both men time to come to terms with the latest events.

Right now, Sherlock was hiding behind the stairs, softly whimpering. John had enough. The triggers were coming more frequently now and from what the blogger could determine, the detective's life literally must have been a living hell. Slowly, he sat down on the stairs, sighing.

"Hey Sherlock. It's me, John."

"Leave me alone. I did nothing wrong."

"I know. I'm not here to hurt you. I just want to help."

"No one can help me. They are coming to get me."

"Who? Who is coming to get you?"

"The kids. They want to hurt me again," Sherlock whispered.

"Where are you right now?"

"I'm hiding under the stairs. I don't want to get beaten again."

"Hey, I'm here and as long as I'm here, no one is going to hurt you, understand?"

There was silence for a while and suddenly the old familiar voice of the detective was back. "John? Why am I under the stairs?"

The blogger sighed. It was always the same ritual. Suddenly, old memories appeared and as fast as they appeared, they faded. It was like the man in front of John Watson was developing a second personality and John was reaching his limits.

"You had another episode," the doctor replied calmly.

"Another one? God, I'm sorry. How old was I this time?"

"From the whimpering I would say ten years," the blogger informed.

"We still have twenty years to relive," the detective mumbled.

"No."

"No?"

"We have to solve this problem differently. Sherlock, there is so much unsaid and I think it's time you dig deeper and find the one, tragic event that is responsible for your triggers."

"And how do you think I get there?"

"I don't know yet, but I will figure something out," John offered.

"I don't think it's a good idea. There's so much coming up, I don't want you to hear all of it."

John stood there, shaking his head in disbelieve, "I have the feeling you already told me your whole life by accident."

The detective looked at him confused, "Did I?"

"Yes, you did. Now why don't you go to bed while I turn off the lights? It's already 1AM in the morning and it's time I get some sleep. Don't do anything dumb, you hear me?"

Sherlock didn't argue. He was too exhausted from the permanent triggers which were filling most of his day now. He knew too well, that it had to stop and the best part of it: he already knew how. The problem was, he wasn't ready for it. He really wasn't. On the other hand, he knew that there was no escape any longer. If he wanted his old life back, he needed to go to his mind palace, digging very deep. When he let himself sink into the soft mattress of John's former bed, he let out a deep breath and started to enter his mind palace…

There were a lot of doors in his mind palace. Every door was representing one year of life. He had saved every year, every month and every week. If he would open one of these doors, he would be able to reconstruct a whole year of his life. He was walking around, finally reaching the year 2000, when he was fifteen years old. Sherlock entered the door and when he entered the next room, everything was black. It was the only room with no light and Sherlock had a reason to avoid it. He stepped in front of the door 'September', took a deep breath and entered. September was a very disturbing room. The walls were plastered with blood spatters all over. September 2000 had only one door and there was something written on it 'never forget'. He had avoided this door for twenty-two years now and he was sure he would never be ready for this. But he had to. Today was the day to face his inner demons. If he wanted his own life back, he needed to face his past.

He tried to prepare himself and when he felt ready, he opened the door and entered.

There he was, fifteen years old and in school. They had once again bullied him, teachers learned to look away when it happened. It seemed it was easier to blame one innocent child for the other's behaviour than the other way round. He found himself sitting on a bench at school, eating his sandwich, when a ball directly hit his face. His lunch fell on the ground and he grabbed his bloody nose.

"Hey freak, you've lost your dinner. Why don't you bend down and eat it like a dog?" It was Peter Antonietti, the school leader. He was known for his brutal attacks on students, but no one ever cared.

"I'm not hungry anymore and by the way, I'm not a dog," he replied.

"Of course, you are. Look at you. Now bend down and eat your lunch!"

"I will not. Now leave me alone!"

"Come on you freak. On your knees, right now." Peter wasn't giving up and when Sherlock decided to leave the scene, he was brutally slammed on the ground and his face pressed in the sandwich.

"You're not going anywhere, until you eat your lunch."

Young Sherlock was able to free himself, his face smeared with blood and marmalade, which he tried to clean up himself with his hand.

Peter Antonietti grinned. Sherlock knew this face far too well and before he could do anything, his arm was broken. He tried to supress the scream, which escaped his lips, not wanting to give this disgusting child any attention. Thankfully, Peter was satisfied enough and left him alone for good. Holding his right arm, Sherlock tumbled back to his classroom, bloody, hurt and hungry.

He was able to shut out the massive pain which was radiating through his right arm, forcing himself to write on. When school was over and he came home, his brother was the first to discover something was wrong again. Mycroft had been home from university earlier and when he found out about the broken arm, he wasn't amused.

"You have to defend yourself, brother mine. This can't go on forever," he said, while sitting with his younger brother in the hospital waiting zone.

"What am I supposed to do? It's not only him. It's the whole class against me."

"Make it stop Sherlock. It has to come to an end. This child needs a lesson."

"He has bullied me for three years now. How am I supposed to end it after such a long time?"

"Show him, that you're the smarter one," Mycroft whispered, not knowing that this sentence would soon lead to disaster.

One week later, Sherlock was bullied again by Peter, this time the whole class watching.

"Come on you Freak. It's time to leave!"

"Where should I go?"

"I don't know, maybe upstairs?" Peter turned around to face the others. "What do you think? Should the Freak and I go upstairs?"

Everyone applauded.

"Must be nice coming home with only two old grandparents sitting in front of the TV," Sherlock finally broke the silence.

"What?"

"Look at your shoes. They aren't trendy, but mostly made in the 70s. So, I guess, those are shoes from your grandfather, when he was your age. Your parents died in a car accident, that's the reason you are keeping the VW logo in your bag. The logo is distorted, so I assume a frontal crash. You were forced to live with your grandparents. Unfortunately, your grandmother is sitting in a wheelchair. How do I know? Well, the insides of your hands are showing a high amount of calluses. Mostly from grabbing the handles of a wheelchair, rolling your grandmother around the nearby park so she would get fresh air. Your grandfather doesn't have much of a pension, so they put their own childhood clothes on you. And if you want to know, how I know through the school uniform, I can smell it. Never mind. You are letting your anger and frustration over your life out on others. Because they are living a modern life and that's something you will never have. Going to the cinema, playing soccer or riding a bike. What a boring life you are facing."

He wished he had never done it. How could it end like this? Sherlock was standing there, watching himself as a young boy, standing on the school's rooftop together with Peter Antonietti. Both kids were looking down. All of their classmates looking up at them.

Peter faced Sherlock. "Now, what shall we do with this Freak?" he asked, the question also reaching the rest of the class. All together they were now forming a circle, screaming in enthusiasm, "Jump! Jump! Jump!"

Antonietti looked at Sherlock. "You heard them Freak. It's time for you to jump."

"I won't. I'm not ready to kill myself," young Sherlock replied.

"Of course, you are. You heard the class. Your time is over. Don't you hear them?"

"That's insane. I did nothing wrong."

"You were born. That was your first mistake. I'm always asking myself, how your mother could decide to raise a Freak."

"Keep my mother out of this!" Sherlock now screamed. "At least I have a mother who cares about me!"

"Your mother hates you. No one loves a Freak," Peter laughed.

"That's not true. She loves both of us, my brother and me," Sherlock countered.

"Oh yes, your brother. What was his name? Fatcroft?"

"He isn't fat anymore."

"He's ugly and gay. Everyone can see that. What about you? Gay, too? Maybe we should kiss right here in front of the class," Antonietti said and forced Sherlock's face into his hands.

"No, let me go!" Sherlock tried to free himself from the grip, but to no avail. Peter was stronger than him and he didn't stand a chance.

Downstairs, the other teenagers were still standing in a circle, all trying to get a good look at the scene above them.

From upstairs, Sherlock could hear the class yelling, "Kiss, kiss, kiss…"

It was a matter of seconds, when it happened. Peter was trying to kiss him. He hated getting touched, so all he did was try to get away from the threat. While he tried to get free, both of the teenagers never realized how close they were to falling. It was just one unlucky move. One move that would change his life forever. He had tried to get Peter away from his face, when the teenager stepped one step back too far and lost his balance. Sherlock reacted in less than a second, trying to catch the boy before he fell, but missed him. He could hear the whole class screaming, as the body shattered on the ground. While the teachers were alarmed by the sudden screams, Sherlock stood on the rooftop, his world had totally shut down. Downstairs he could hear the shocked hisses of the teachers. One teacher, Mrs. Harriet was sobbing, Mr. Harold the English teacher, crying. And when the school director saw what had happened, he asked the others about it.

One girl was moving her index finger towards the boy on the rooftop. "It was him! Sherlock Holmes killed Peter Antonietti! He killed him!"

It was the beginning of a nightmare for Sherlock. Every night he saw the boy falling. Every night he awoke from his own screams. He was a murderer. He had killed Peter Antonietti. And while reporters never care about feelings, he was titled as 'London's evil child'. His parents were too shocked to do anything. It was Mycroft who tried to help the traumatised boy, who was forced to leave school after the accident. He did know that he wasn't to blame, but he was declared guilty by the people around him. The next few months, Sherlock had wished he had killed himself, too. People were sending him letters, where he was begged to go away. On one occasion, people stood in front of their house in London with a big white banner, the words 'get away from here Freak!' all too visible from his window.

When the pressure and inner pain started to get out of control, Sherlock ran away from home. No one knew where he had gone, his family desperately trying to find him. It was again Mycroft, who never gave up and finally had a very good idea of where his brother had gone to. And when he entered the old factory, which was now a home for junkies, he spotted his brother at the end of a corner. Both knew that they couldn't go home, so Mycroft stayed with Sherlock, while Sherlock was trying to shake things off cold turkey. It was one of the saddest moments Mycroft ever had with his brother…"

When Sherlock returned from his mind palace, he found himself in tears. Had he really cried? Slowly he sat himself up in bed and looked around. His eyes came to a halt on his left wrist, where the scar from his suicide attempt was still visible. After he was able to go home, people were still mad at him and there was one day, when Sherlock really believed he had to end his own life, so the people would be satisfied. After securing camera footage from the rooftop of the school, it was clear that he wasn't to blame but people still were not satisfied.

The detective looked at his watch. It was 3:43 in the morning as he tried to get through the emotional trauma. He had locked this all away for a very long time, hoping it would never reach the surface but it did. Should he tell John about it? Maybe he would see him as a murderer, too? But it was an accident, he told himself, trying to get rid of the pictures which were filling his mind right now. He needed something else to focus on. Since he was already fully awake, he decided to revisit Sherrinford one more time, trying to figure out what was beyond the fourth floor.

He brought himself back to the big prison, rebuilding every corner of the building. The advantage of his mind palace was the fact, that he could switch from room to room, not needing to walk all the metres. Sherlock started in his old cell. He had found a secret room there and of course secret places. But something was missing. Just a little detail, maybe. His mind had told him, that he was missing something important and so he had to look again. "What am I missing?" he asked himself. Something was screaming at him, but he didn't get it. He walked outside the cell, staring at it. There was a plate right next to the door. The plate had his prisoner number on it. 191519. Sherlock once again looked at the plate and then he saw what he had missed. His number wasn't a coincidence. If he turned the numbers to letters, he got SOS. Someone had been sending messages. Sherlock tried to remember where he had seen numbers. One of the five men Moriarty had kept prisoner had the cell number 851216. If he turned those numbers into letters, he got the word 'help'. Did he really miss something? It couldn't be. But there it was, more and more words were turning up. When he was brought to room 451208, where Moriarty again tried to kill him, the numbers represented the word 'death'. How could he have missed all of this? He needed to figure out what was lying after the fourth floor at the underground prison. Moriarty had tried to keep something from him, but whatever it was, Moriarty never showed him. Now the detective was standing in front of the mysterious elevator, waiting for the doors to open.

"If I was you, I wouldn't go up there."

Sherlock spun around to see who was talking to him. He never saw this person before or maybe he hadn't realized.

"Sorry?" he asked irritated.

"I wouldn't go up there. It's dangerous," the man who looked like a janitor warned him.

"What's up there?" the detective wanted to know.

"No one knows. It's a secret. All I heard is that it's dangerous to go there."

Sherlock returned from his mind palace, totally irritated. He grabbed his coat from the wall and headed outside.

"Now where the fuck do you think you are going?" John's voice was piercing into his back.

"John, I thought you were sleeping."

"How am I supposed to sleep when you're screaming about?"

"I will explain later. Now I've got to go."

The blogger grabbed his shoulder, holding him back. "You're not going anywhere. At least not without me. By the way, where ARE you going? It's 4 AM."

"I'm going to see my brother. I think he will be pleased to see me," Sherlock replied with a sarcastic tone in his voice.

The blogger already feared trouble, so he decided to join his friend.

When the cab finally reached the big house, where Mycroft lived, Sherlock jumped out of the car and decided to ring his brother out of bed. The older Holmes surprisingly opened the door before his brother had the opportunity to terrorize him. "I knew you were coming Sherlock," he smiled and asked them in.

When they sat down at the big table, Mycroft politely asked if someone needed a cup of tea.

Both men shook their heads.

"So, what brings you to me this early?"

Mycroft leaned himself on the wall, grinning. Now Sherlock stood up from his chair and walked directly to his brother. Without a warning, his fist met his older brother's face. Surprised, Mycroft looked at him. "Now what was that for?"

"You know exactly what for," Sherlock replied with no emotion in his voice.

"Oh, I guess it's about John Watson again, right?" Mycroft teased while rubbing his sore face.

"You deserve this. I was suffering, my past triggering me constantly, do you think that's what I needed?"

"You are very unkind, Sherlock. Look at you. You got Moriarty. Everyone sees you as a hero again."

"You wanted him alive. Maybe this was some kind of punishment for me?"

"No, it wasn't. It was an accident, brother mine. Maybe if the lightning hadn't happened, Moriarty would have shot you."

"Then why did you lie to me?"

"When did I lie to you?"

"Tell me about the fifth floor of the underground prison."

Now Mycroft's face lost all colour. "The fifth floor? What fifth floor?"

"The one you knew existed! I want answers, now!"

John Watson was sitting at the desk, not understanding what the two men were talking about.

"How did you find out?" Mycroft asked astounded.

"The cell numbers. I had been wondering all the time, why they weren't in order. Then I realized that some numbers didn't fit the row and when I returned to my Mind Palace, I finally discovered that those numbers were hidden messages. SOS, Help, Death… I discovered some more: Trapped, Scared… Need I say more?"

Now Mycroft sighed deeply, staring at Sherlock, who was trembling in anger.

"There is something, I didn't tell you, yes. Sherlock, Dr. Watson? I've been lying to you both. I knew what was on the fifth floor, but I needed you two to keep Moriarty occupied so he would leave Sherrinford. You shot him, brother mine. That was a very good reaction."

"How so," the detective wanted to know.

"He needed to leave Sherrinford to get a doctor."

"Wait, Sherrinford has a lot of doctors…" now John interrupted.

"Tell me, Dr. Watson. When you entered the clinic, how many doctors did you see?

John looked at him with wide eyes. "The team that came to our rescue was your team!"

Mycroft nodded, "Yes, indeed. I had been watching Moriarty for a long time. I needed to be prepared when my brother would finally find out about Eurus. I was aware of the danger my brother was in and so I had to make sure, that a team of highly trained doctors and paramedics would be at the scene."

"Now I'm getting it. Your team was able to walk everywhere without being interrupted. So, they knew what was on the fifth floor," the blogger now realized.

"Very clever Dr. Watson. Yes, that was the plan. While Sherlock was trying to fight Moriarty, my team was sneaking around."

"You betrayed your own brother," John stated.

"No, I didn't. My brother was chasing Moriarty while I was searching the building."

"It doesn't matter why or how. All I want to know is: what has the fifth floor to do with the hidden words," Sherlock sighed.

"Here's the deal Sherlock. You and John sleep a few more hours and we will meet again at 10AM. You want answers, you will get them. I won't keep them from you."

"Sounds like a plan to me," John whispered to Sherlock.

"I hope he has a very good reason for all of this," the detective hissed and prepared himself to leave.

When John and Sherlock later sat in the kitchen, enjoying their first round of coffee, the blogger seemed surprised.

"You're very calm today," he discovered.

Sherlock stayed silent for a few more seconds, than replied, "I was visiting my past that night."

Now John was curious. "You did?"

Sherlock nodded.

"You want to talk about it?"

"I'm not sure, how to start," the detective whispered, his voice trembling.

"Maybe you just start at the beginning," John offered and that was the moment, when Sherlock revealed one of the most tragic moments of his past.

When he had finished his story, John sat there, staring at his coffee. He couldn't look up at his best friend now. Too many emotions hit him at the same time.

"See, I knew it. You are blaming me, too. That's the reason you can't even look me in the eye," Sherlock whispered disappointed and raised from his chair.

"Wait, where are you going?"

"Sleeping room. I need some time on my own."

"No, Sherlock wait. It isn't what you think it is. I'm not blaming you. It's more the opposite. I… I'm shocked about that. I mean, you were only a teenager and you had to experience so much pain. How… How could you hold on for such a long time?"

The detective stared at him, kind of surprised and then showed the doctor his wrist. "I tried to escape, but as always my brother was faster and found me before it was too late."

"Now I understand why he's constantly worrying about you," the blogger now understood.

"I am a murderer. I killed Peter by pushing him."

"No Sherlock. That's not true. It was an accident."

"Maybe it was, but the guilt will never fade. I buried the memory away, hoping it would never reach the surface again but it did. The scene on the rooftop reopened a deep wound."

"Hey, it's okay to be desperate. And you don't have to be ashamed of yourself. It was an accident and I don't blame you for this."

Sherlock sighed, "It's not easy being me. Believe me."

John unwillingly smiled, "I know that, Sherlock. That's the reason I'm here."

"You have no idea how glad I am to have this one good friend."

"You're forgetting one thing Sherlock. I was lonely, too."

A few hours later, Mycroft greeted them again and John had the feeling that the older Holmes was kind of nervous.

When they were standing at the long table again, Mycroft asked the two men to wait for him.

Mycroft left the room and Sherlock and John stood there, totally bored.

"I can't wait for what the big surprise is," John whispered.

"I guess, it won't surprise me at all," the detective whispered.

Both men giggled and when the door opened again, Mycroft was joined by a little boy.

Sherlock and John first stared at the little boy, then at the older Holmes. A questioning look formed on their faces.

"Gentlemen, may I introduce you? This is Kiyan."

Sherlock stared at the young boy, not knowing what to say.

"You remember the name?"

"He's Moriarty's and our sister's child," the detective said totally speechless.

John Watson stared at both men, not knowing what to say.

"It's so nice to finally meet you, Uncle Sherlock. Mycroft has told me a lot about you," the young man said friendly.

"I… I don't know what to say," Sherlock was irritated and John kind of liked it.

"Maybe you can get closer, so Kiyan can feel your face," Mycroft offered.

And now Sherlock understood. This little ten-year old boy was blind.

"Don't be scared. I was born this way."

The detective stepped closer and Kiyan touched Sherlock's face. He started to giggle. "From what I can feel, he's smaller than you Uncle Mycroft. And he's thinner. He has a lot more hair and his skin is softer."

"Kiyan is Arabic and means 'existence'," Sherlock whispered.

Mycroft smiled in a way John and Sherlock never saw before.

"Kiyan, why don't you go upstairs and leave me with your uncle alone for a moment?" the older Holmes asked.

"Sure, Uncle Mycroft," the boy replied and stepped out of the room.

When the three men were now alone, John was confused. "Why is he such a kind kid? I mean, he's the result of Eurus and Moriarty… We would assume him to be evil."

"Kiyan is a very intelligent young boy. He was aware of his parent's behaviour and he had decided not to be like them," Mycroft informed.

"What had Kiyan to do with Sherrinford?" Sherlock was curious.

Now the older Holmes took a deep breath, than started to fill in the missing pieces.

"Kiyan was partly living with me. No one knew that for a very long time, not even you Sherlock. When we found out that Eurus was expecting a child by Moriarty, we needed to be prepared for the outcome. Thankfully, Moriarty wasn't really interested in the boy for a very long time and even Eurus wasn't able to care for this child, or let's say she wouldn't cope with the fact that the boy was blind. So, after a short time it was decided that I would take care of this child and I did as best as I could. I told Kiyan about his parents and we visited his mother regularly.

Then, four months ago, Kiyan disappeared and no one knew, where the boy was. We searched everywhere, but no word on the boy. He was missing. As I told you, I had a team of medics inside Sherrinford and it turned out to be a good idea. One of my team saw Moriarty with the boy and now we at least knew where Kiyan was. The problem: We didn't know where he was kept. He was just seen once and then never again. Everyone was keeping eyes open, but there was no child.

One of the paramedics informed me that some of the cell numbers had changed through the night. I went to see it on my own and it was true. Numbers had changed, leaving me with the words you found. It turned out that Kiyan was able to escape from time to time, hearing things he wasn't supposed to hear. And while he's blind, his hearing is even more sensitive than ours. Kiyan knew that the room on the fourth floor meant death, so he changed some numbers trying to warn you. Unfortunately, Moriarty was faster and caught you."

Sherlock was staring to the ground, his mind racing.

"From what you have told me, I assume the fifth floor was where Moriarty was keeping Kiyan. That's the reason no one was allowed there."

"Exactly. When I saw the messages, it was clear that Kiyan was calling for help, I just didn't know where to find him. When you shot Moriarty in the shoulder, he didn't look for a hospital."

"Instead, he returned to Sherrinford. Moriarty had a flat on the fifth floor and so he and Kiyan were living together for a short time. And when Moriarty showed up injured, it was Kiyan who called for help."

"Exactly. Kiyan knew the code for the elevator, so when the medics were needed, there was no danger to anyone, because our little nephew had already disabled the security system. By the way we already checked Moriarty's room. Nothing interesting there."

"So, the medics rescued Kiyan, right?" John Watson asked.

"Yes, indeed Dr. Watson. He's glad to be back with me again."

Sherlock was walking up and down the room, when he suddenly shot up, mouth wide open, running out of the room and up the stairs.

"Seems you have triggered something in him," John smiled.

"My brother is a brilliant mind, Dr. Watson. Never underestimate him."

"By the way, now that he's not here right now: He talked to me."

"Talked? About what?"

"The incident. When he was fifteen years old. He told me what happened."

Mycroft sighed, "I was hoping he wouldn't be triggered again. I was worried that this day would come and I feared it. It was hell for both of us. First the thing with Victor and then Antonietti. My brother was always blamed for everything, but wasn't able to convince people that he did nothing wrong. Peter Antonietti got what he deserved. It wasn't Sherlock who stepped on the roof. It was Antonietti dragging him upstairs."

"Sherlock is very vulnerable right now. He remembers every detail of it."

"If you want my advice, Dr. Watson: Persuade him to go on vacation. My brother needs a time out and I'm sure he will recover. But for this he has to get out of London."

"A vacation? With Sherlock? This would never work out. Sherlock can't relax for a second," John replied.

"Believe me, he can. Just make him go somewhere else and you will see what I mean." The older Holmes gave him a warm smile.

"What is Sherlock doing upstairs?" the blogger wondered.

"I don't know, but I'm sure whatever it is, neither of them will tell us."

While Sherlock was sitting with Kiyan in his room, he just stared at the boy for a few minutes without saying a word. "I guess you are still surprised to meet me after ten years," the boy tried to break the silence and looked pensively at Sherlock.

"Uncle Mycroft informed me a few months ago about you, but I was too busy to ask any further."

"I didn't mind, but I see you have a question. Your breathing tells me that you're very excited about something and you are sweating. You weren't a few minutes ago," Kiyan replied.

"There is something I need to know and all I ask you is to be honest with me," Sherlock began.

"Sure. What do you want to know Uncle Sherlock?"

"When you were at Sherrinford, did you ever have contact with anyone from the cell?"

"Only one person spoke to me frequently. His name was Hawi. A very nice man. Sounded a little older."

"Kiyan? Did this man give you something?"

"No, not really. But he said some weird things to me before he disappeared."

"What kind of things?"

"It was 'Ufunguo wa mamlaka umefichwa ndani ya moyo wa mtu mwema.'"

Sherlock looked up at Kiyan, both translating the sentence, "The key to power lies hidden in the good heart."

"He said this very often and when we met the last time, he said to me: 'penda, ishi na uhisi'. Love, live and feel." And this was the moment Sherlock realized that the key, everyone was so desperately searching for was never existent, at least not in the way everyone thought it would be.

Sherlock stared at the little boy, finally understanding the whole puzzle. Without a word he stood up, hugged Kiyan and decided to join the others again.

When Mycroft and John looked at him curious, he just smiled at them and said, "We can go now John. There's nothing else we can do here."

And when the two men left the house, they left a totally irritated Mycroft Holmes leaning on the chimney.

While John and Sherlock sat in the cab, the detective had a smile all over his face. And when he decided to visit Jim and Tim's mother, the doctor got even more confused.

"What are we doing here, Sherlock?" the blogger asked, while standing in front of the woman's grave. There was fresh earth on the grave, indicating that something was buried here just a few weeks ago.

"I'm glad they respected my wish to bury them together," Sherlock whispered.

"He was a bad man. He didn't deserve anything," the blogger replied.

"Sometimes we have to see what's unseen," the detective defended himself.

"I don't understand, but I'm sure you know what you are talking about."

"He wasn't always the bad guy. People made him that way and Tim only followed him because he had finally found biological family. All they wanted was to meet their mother, which sadly never happened."

Sherlock bent down and patted the fresh earth on the grave and when he stood up, he looked at John with a smile. "Let's go home, shall we?"

"Oh god, yes," the blogger nodded and both returned to the cab.

When they were riding again, John looked at Sherlock, who was still smiling satisfied.

"Are you going to tell me what makes you so happy?"

And Sherlock's smile grew wider. "I found the key John. I found the new keeper of the biggest server…"

The end

I want to say thanks to all the people reading, correcting and liking my story. It took me a lot of time to write it, but I hope I was able to entertain some of you. For all of you, who are a little confused about the key at the end: The next story will give a very good explanation to that. Debby

My season 5 with new cases will start soon, just check my profile for any story updates.