Tails Galore

WARNING! SPOILERS FOR SERIES 4! DO NOT READ IF YOU HAVEN'T WATCHED!

"I trust you are being discreet with your newfound situation," said Mycroft as he reclined back in John's armchair.

"Of course I am," Sherlock told him. "Otherwise, you wouldn't be asking."

"And you are adapting well?" asked Mycroft.

"Why do you care?" scoffed Sherlock.

"I don't," muttered Mycroft. "But we both know you don't handle change well."

Sherlock's expression flinched slightly as he looked down at the floor. Redbeard…

"So, you've noticed nothing out of the ordinary while getting used to your…transition," stated Mycroft.

"Of course not," Sherlock snapped back, eyes whipping over towards him.

Mycroft only lifted his brows, staring at him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Nothing unexpected."

"Sherlock," Mycroft said, waiting.

Sherlock gave a put-upon sigh. "It was during a practice session with John. There were some flashes of something, probably a childhood memory I repressed." He gave a grimace of disgust at the thought of his childhood.

"Flashes," stated Mycroft.

Sherlock rolled his eyes again. Could he be any more obvious in fishing for information? "Something about funny gravestones, a burning house, a little girl singing, the East Wind—What does it matter?"

Mycroft stared at him for a very long moment before speaking. "Was there anything else?"

"Again, what does it matter?" Sherlock bit off.

Mycroft only blinked, looking away. "It doesn't. Childhood memory." He gave Sherlock a cheeky smile. "Unimportant." He got to his feet. "I must be off. Elections to…well, you don't need to know about that." He collected his coat and umbrella and headed for the door before pausing. He turned back slightly. "Was there anyone else in these memories?"

Sherlock very nearly gave a groan of frustration. "A boy dressed as a pirate. Weren't you leaving?"

Mycroft nodded and turned back to the door, pausing as John made it to the top of the stairs. "John."

"Mycroft," said John, stepping to the side of the landing to let him past. "Leaving so soon?"

Mycroft gave a short, humoring smile and turned, heading down the stairs.

John frowned and entered the sitting room. "Something I said?"

Sherlock was staring through the doorway in a contemplative way. "I'm fairly certain it was something I said. The question is: what?"

Sherlock sped off through the water, dodging as John tried to cut him off. He grinned as he spurred himself on, determined to show his friend up. He managed to loop around John and swerve around a curve in the river, the end almost in sight. Suddenly, he seemed to hit a brick wall; a soft brick wall, but a wall nonetheless.

Sherlock slammed to a stop and ricocheted slightly, and with John so close on his tail, John also bounced off this invisible wall next to him. Sherlock let himself drift as he shook his head to get his bearings. Glancing around, he spotted Molly floating twenty feet away, lazily leaning back against a piling with her hand raised towards them.

Sherlock stared at her. It was the first time he had seen her mermaid form, for Molly had simply said, "Race you," before jumping in and tearing off downriver. Her tail was a goldish orange color, and the same sort of scales formed a halter top that covered her chest like the top of a bathing suit. She was actually quite beautiful.

Molly smiled, silently laughing, before she tilted her head downriver and started off again. Sherlock looked over at John, sharing an amazed look at how fast she was, before they followed.

Once they reached North Sea, they were able to spread out, diving down to the seabed and jumping up through the surface (after making sure no ships were around first). It was only a short time later that they were leaving the English Channel and Celtic Sea behind and entering the Irish Sea, approaching the shore where John had led Sherlock near to show him his moon pool. But instead of leading them towards the underwater entrance, Molly turned and headed out further, diving under the surface.

After a few minutes, Molly turned and motioned to them to wait. She swam further along and around a distant coral reef. A few more minutes of waiting passed before she swam back with another mermaid in tow. This mermaid was in her late fifties or early sixties, and she had the same nose and eyes as Molly.

Molly's mother, Sherlock deduced as Molly motioned to the surface.

The four of them swam up and broke through the surface.

"Mom, this is Sherlock Holmes and John Watson," Molly introduced to the older mermaid. She looked back at the two mermen. "This is my mother Isabella."

"Pleasure to meet you," John told Isabella.

"You, as well," said Isabella. She looked at her daughter. "Molly's told me so much about the two of you. It's helped ease the tension some of the others on the Council have about fraternizing with mermen. Unfortunately, there are still a few of us that harbor the old resentments towards your kind."

John nodded. "Well, thank you for giving us a chance."

Isabella nodded and looked at Sherlock. "Don't be afraid to ask any questions. I've heard you'll have many."

Sherlock glanced at Molly and gave a small smile. "Well, that can come later." He looked back at Isabella. "Best not keep the others waiting." He gave what he hoped was a polite smile.

Isabella nodded. "Follow me."

Molly stepped into the flat at 221B Baker Street. "Sherlock?"

"Ah, Molly," said Sherlock, stepping through the kitchen and into the sitting room. "Good, you're here."

"You said you needed my help?" Molly asked a little shyly.

"Yes, the last time I tried this, I stopped breathing," Sherlock told her, moving to his armchair. "I need you to keep that from happening."

He looked up to see Molly with an uncertain expression on her face.

Sherlock turned to her. "I am not doing drugs."

The tension eased out of Molly's shoulders as she released a relieved breath.

"I am merely going to delve into what are obviously traumatic memories," Sherlock told her as he sat in his armchair. "The last time I did this, John snapped me out of it because I had stopped breathing."

"Then why do you want to do this?" asked Molly.

"Because Mycroft seems to be extraordinarily interested in the fact that I remembered these things," Sherlock responded. "But most importantly, the small glimpses I had showed me memories that I don't remember."

"And John…" began Molly.

"Out of town at the moment," Sherlock responded. "I'm also…" He paused and started again. "Not knowing what I am about to encounter, I would prefer to keep this from him until I know more." His gaze shifted to the floor awkwardly. "He worries too much."

After a moment, footsteps crossed the room, and Molly sat down in John's armchair across from him. "What do you need?"

Sherlock looked up at her, trying to give her a grateful look. "For now…silence."

He closed his eyes and took a breath before delving into his newly freed—albeit carefully monitored—emotional side. He hadn't ventured into those turbulent waters since the day he had first done so, and needless to say, he was nervous.

Suddenly, a burst of images and voices exploded in his mind palace.

"Play with me, Sherlock!"

Old gravestones with strange dates…

"…oh, who will find me?"

His childhood dog Redbeard running next to him…

"…and under we go."

A young girl running along the beach…

"Redbeard!"

"Missing your drowned Redbeard?"

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. He was hyperventilating, and he felt faint. Molly was leaning over him, fingers digging into his shoulders. Sherlock slowed his breathing, leaning forward as Molly knelt in front of him so she could look at him.

"Redbeard…" Sherlock whispered.

"What?" asked Molly.

"I saw Redbeard," Sherlock told her. "My dog when I was a boy. He died when I was seven years old. But…" He frowned.

"What is it?" asked Molly gently.

"I remember someone saying, 'drowned Redbeard.'" He frowned at her. "It doesn't make sense. He died of old age. I remember that. He didn't drown."

Molly frowned with him. "Are you feeling up to doing more?"

Sherlock immediately nodded, intrigued by this mystery. "Yes."

"Go easy," Molly cautioned him.

Sherlock closed his eyes and concentrated. This time, the wave hit him even harder.

"Redbeard!"

"I that am lost—"

"Sherlock!"

"—oh, who will find me—"

A burning house—

"The answer is in the song—"

A child screaming in a small room—

"Sixteen by six, brother—"

"Redbeard!"

"—and under we go—"

"Redbeard!"

"Sherlock, breathe."

Sherlock's focus narrowed in on Molly's voice, the one constant in this feverish chaos.

"It's all right," Molly told him.

The memories eased as he breathed, trying to listen to her.

"You are not alone," Molly told him. "I'm right here."

His mind grasped onto that fact, and he found that it calmed him.

"Take it easy," Molly instructed. "One thing at a time."

Sherlock took another breath and turned his thoughts towards Redbeard.

He ran among gravestones with ridiculous dates on them. "Come on, Redbeard!"

His Irish Setter Redbeard, with a purple bandana tied around his throat, raced around the yard, circling him as he laughed.

"Argh!" he yelled at the dog, brandishing a wooden sword at him. "Get ready to walk the plank, you scurvy dog!"

"Sherlock!"

He looked back at the house, seeing a young girl in pigtails playing in the yard.

"Come play with me, Sherlock!" the girl called.

"Later!" he called back, tearing off into the woods with Redbeard on his heels.

The memory changed. Now, he was sitting at a kitchen table, eating breakfast with his thirteen-year-old brother and the young girl.

"I that am lost, oh, who will find me," the little girl began singing, "deep down below the old beech tree. Help succor me now, the east winds blow. Sixteen by six, brother, and under we go."

"What was that?" Mycroft asked.

"It's how Sherlock is going to find Redbeard," said the girl.

He looked up at her with wide eyes. "Find Redbeard?"

"What do you mean?" asked Mycroft. "Where is he?"

The little girl shrugged. "The answer is in the song."

His eyes widened further as he jumped out of his chair, running out into the yard. "Redbeard!" He ran towards the woods. "Redbeard!"

Sherlock's eyes opened. He was hyperventilating again. "No…"

"Sherlock, breathe," Molly told him. "Breathe."

Sherlock tried to calm his breathing, but it wasn't working. "She killed him… She killed Redbeard…"

"Who?" asked Molly.

Sherlock looked up at her, the name coming instantly to mind as the memories did as well. "Eurus."

"Eurus?" Molly asked for clarification.

"My sister," Sherlock told her, forcing his lungs to draw slow, deep breaths.

Molly's brows rose in shock. "You have a sister?"

"Apparently," he responded. He finally looked her in the eye to see confusion written there. "I rewrote my memories. I had no idea she even existed."

"And she killed your dog?" asked Molly.

Sherlock nodded, placing his head in his hands. "She must have been taken away after she burned down our house."

"She burned down your house?!"

Sherlock looked up at her even wider eyes. "Yes." He breathed out a sigh, noticing that his hands were shaking. "I can't believe I didn't remember her."

"It was probably too much for you to take at that age," Molly told him gently. "And, well…with your mind…"

"I changed it into a better memory," Sherlock muttered.

Molly suddenly rose up onto her knees, hesitantly leaning forward and wrapping her arms around him. Sherlock tensed, uncomfortable with the display of affection. But a feeling deep down longed for the comfort she was offering, and just this once, he gave in to that feeling. He wrapped his arms around Molly, who just held him as the tremors eased from his body.