Chapter 55! Be ready to wait some time for the explanation with Maynard... ;) Just as Sherlock and Mycroft do.

Thanks a lot to my reviewers, they make me very happy and I always have to laugh about yours, ReaderMagnifique;)

"What happened yesterday?" Mycroft asks at breakfast. We are eating slightly later than usual, as I slept longer, probably because of the sedatives. Somehow they had remembered about my high resistance and used strong ones.

It is the first time he asks, and I am grateful for the break I had, but I don't want to answer it now, either. I keep my head down and look at my plate, my hand holding my piece of bread slightly above it. Concentrating on chewing and swallowing the piece I have in my mouth, I contemplate what to say.

Telling them is not an option. I can feel the memories banging on the door of the cage I locked them in so long ago, and the lock is wobbling.

"I had a panic-attack." I know it won't satisfy him, but I still don't know what to do.

"Who is he?" I feel grateful for a moment that he doesn't say his name, even though it doesn't trigger as much. He used to be called differently. Just before I can give him another useless answer though, he specifies, "Who is he to you?"

I feel my walls breaking, so I drop my bread onto my plate and jump up, the legs of the chair scraping on the floor.

"I'm sorry. I -" I lick my lips, trying to find the right words as well as get away soon.

"I met him before. It's – I'm sorry." Feeling his and Sherlock's eyes on my back, I turn around and flee the room.

In less than an hour my knuckles are bruised and bleeding. I concentrate on the little bursts of pain, the continuity and repetitiveness almost evolving into a mantra, pushing me deep into a particular mindset that keeps me safe from my own thoughts.

I used to do this often when I was a kid. Sometimes at daytime, sometimes in the middle of the night. To this day I still have no idea how they knew, as they slept in a completely other part of the house, but most of the time Andy or David joined me. They would just take another punching bag, put it up and start exercising as well. Now and then I would stop after a few minutes and go to the little ring we had in the gym, and we would start fighting, hand to hand combat.

Looking back to it now, it had been dangerous for him. Very dangerous, as I'm not in control in these moments. The only thing I can concentrate on then is the feeling of hitting something, hurting someone. Well, not necessary hurting, but rather fighting. Physical exertion to distract me from what is going on in my head.

Sometimes we would just train next to each other and when I'd calmed down, I'd go upstairs without a comment.

Times like these are like a kick in the gut. It's been more than eighteen months even though it feels like much longer and much less in the same time. I can still see Father's smile, still know how he smells, still know how his voice sounded like.

Andy and David are different. I know how they look and sound and smell like, but there's something missing. Maybe it's because I don't know how they are. Do they still live in the house? For what? What happened to the house? Are they still alive? Do they worry about me?

Nearly a year. Nearly a year since I ran away to Paris and met Sherlock for the second time. A lot has changed since then, I saved their lives many times, so did they for me, so why can't I tell them? Why am I so afraid of letting the words drop from my lips like thick blood?

The memories threaten to come to the foreground of my mind and I focus again on the feeling of my fists hitting the rough material.

Mycroft comes in some minutes later and stands beside me, though with a safety distance, just watching me. I don't acknowledge him, waiting for him to speak first, as he obviously has something to say.

"Are you going to tell us what happened with Maynard?" I surprisingly don't flinch, still too deep in the mental state I have created for myself, but I keep hitting the punching back and wait for a few seconds before I respond.

"No."

He only nods, but I know he wants to ask further.

"Sherlock and I spoke about how to capture him."

This time I turn my head and stop hitting, taken aback.

"You want to capture him?"

"What would you do?"

"What do you think?" My voice is cold and clinical as I say this, and it's true. The day Maynard dies will be a happy one. I guess Sherlock and Mycroft wouldn't be so happy about that opinion, but that is Father's personality shining through.

"We want to question him about Moran's whereabouts. He is one of the best leads we have."

"I guess."

"We have an idea about how to do it, but..."

"But what?"

"The whole plan is without you. You wont come with us, you won't be there when we question him, you won't see him being taken to prison."

I think about that for a moment, and realise that he has given me a perfect way out. Even though seeing Maynard in prison or dead has been one of my dreams since I escaped him so long ago, this way I can just pretend he doesn't exist. He won't be able to make me panic like he did when we tried to kill him, or use me against Sherlock and Mycroft.

I straighten and flex my fingers and wince when my knuckles protest. The pain isn't welcome any more, it's just painful know and distracts me.

Mycroft must have noticed it as well, as he grips my fingers and inspects the broken skin. It isn't bleeding that badly any more, just some sluggish drops, but my fingers are dark red, turning brown, the blood on them already drying.

Without making a comment, he turns around and goes to the little first aid box in the corner, coming back with some bandages, a soft cloth and a disinfecting fluid. His brow furrows slightly in concentration while he is cleaning left hand, bandaging it afterwards and repeating the process on my right.

I just watch him and feel ashamed that I am not able to tell him what happened.