As promised, Maynard! Well, I hope this satisfies your curiosity.
A sharp pain in my leg is what finally wakes me up completely. I can remember opening my eyes a few times before; pressure and pain in my right leg; the inside of Mycroft's car, Sherlock looking down at me, worriedly, my head in his lap; my bedroom at home. It's always just moments, less than a second, before the darkness pulls me down again.
I look up to the ceiling of my room for a few moments, expecting to fall asleep again, but apart from having to blink more often than usual, I'm awake.
Then I remember why I woke up and reach down, only to find roughly woven fabric, a white bandage covering most of my right thigh. It hurts, but I'm pretty sure it's not too serious – I wouldn't be lying here otherwise. Besides, I don't feel very stiff, I couldn't be lying in that bed for more than ten hours.
The door opens just as I try to sit up and Sherlock enters. He stops when he sees me nearly sitting, quickly scanning my body with his laser-eyed stare, in which I realise I'm not wearing my jeans any more, and then steps closer.
"How are you feeling?" He asks, but I'm almost sure he knows. The wound is little more than a graze, and he can read me better than I can myself sometimes, so it shouldn't be a problem for him to know, so I ask a question myself.
"What happened? After My came in?" I wipe my face once, feeling a slight sheen of sweat on my lip.
"Mycroft shot Moran in the head, he's dead. But apparently he managed to fire one shot as well, which grazed your leg. Mycroft says you didn't realise, but tried to open the ties on my wrists. Shock and blood loss led to unconsciousness, and after Mycroft freed me, we got you help as soon as we could. The doctor said it isn't a bad wound, so we took you here, despite his protests." Sherlock keeps his voice calm and steady, but in his eyes is a glimmer of excitement, something I'm not sure he realises.
I only nod and slowly get up. It hurts but is manageable, so I put on my pyjama-bottoms and slowly follow Sherlock out the door, limping.
I can't help but feel glad that he didn't mention me nearly twisting his neck.
It's only the next day, when I'm lying in Mycroft's bed with him in the morning, everything still dark, that I remember everything that happened up to the point of me loosing consciousness.
Mycroft's breaths are steady and deep, but somehow I know he's awake, despite the early hour.
"Father started planning the structures of his web long before I was born. But the details were finished when I was about seven." My voice, intentionally kept quiet by me, is still loud in the silence of the room, but I can hear the change in Mycroft's breathing.
"I was eight, nearly nine, when he had recruited most of the threads. Of course, one or two should change, but the first three big ones were there. Smith and Stone, Daunt, Timothy – and Moran.
Things like that, promising organisations, become known in the criminal world quickly. Father had already done brilliant things, so people came, tried to join him.
"Maynard was one of them. He was called differently then, which is why I didn't recognize him before. He was great – strong, charismatic, fast, had many followers, a lot of experience. But he was intelligent, very intelligent, something Father didn't appreciate in that combination. What if Maynard tried to take over? He wasn't as brilliant as Father, but came closer than the others.
So Father turned him down. Told him he didn't fit in with the others he'd chosen. And Maynard left, didn't complain once, just disappeared." Taking a break to calm myself, I wipe my face, ridding it of tears which were still to come. Mycroft was simply waiting, and for a second I felt glad I had chosen to tell him and not Sherlock. Sherlock would've asked, prodded, pressured. Mycroft listens.
"We didn't hear from him for nearly a year. Father continued building his web, trained his associates, trained me.
Margery, Andy and I were walking home one day, I think from the cinema. Father wouldn't let me out often, but he understood my love for movies and games, so now and then I was allowed to go, if Margery and David or Andy came with me. We were walking through the back-alleys, as usual, because it was quicker, not as many people saw us, or rather not so many of his enemies could spot me, and Andy has a scar on his face." Reaching up, I softly draw it on Mycroft's skin, ghosting my fingertips from his left temple, over his eyelid, his nose, and the right end of his mouth, ending on his neck.
"People always stared at him, remembered him, so we walked where less people were interested.
They took us completely by surprise. They knocked all three of us unconscious, but left Margery there, to tell Father what happened.
When I woke up, I was in a room I didn't know, Maynard next to me. He told me he wouldn't harm me, but if I disobeyed, he'd hurt Andy. I couldn't see Andy, and I didn't believe Maynard, so I kicked him." I'm breathing harshly by now, loud in the quiet air, but I can feel a calmness, a numbness sink down unto me - like something's left from the self-induced psychopathy from yesterday.
"I was nine, alone and scared, so I didn't really hurt him. But as soon as he took a step back, Andy started screaming. He must have been in a room next to the one I was in because I could hear him clearly, and he didn't stop screaming for ten seconds.
After that, I believed Maynard. He made me do things for him. He never touched me, never did anything physically bad to me, but whenever I made a mistake, no matter how small, he punished Andy.
About a week after he kidnapped us, he told me to help him shave. I held the blade in my hand, had it so close to his carotid artery, but I couldn't do it.
I had killed before, that wasn't the problem, my first kill was when I was eight. But I knew they'd never stop torturing Andy if I did, and Maynard was already too far in my head – he told me not to try and escape and kill him, so I didn't. I could only wait for Father to find us, which he did after three weeks.
It took me months to tell him, took me months to realise we were free. I didn't go outside for three years, and had therapists, the best of the best, for four years.
I have no idea how they tortured Andy, just as he doesn't know why he was tortured, I couldn't tell him it was my fault.
Maynard had, as I know now, traumatised me deeply, but when we met him again, I couldn't help it. I could hear Andy's screams again, could hear Sherlock screaming, you. He told me he'd keep you, he'd torture you. He told me he wanted to try out whether he could make you scream, after Anthea couldn't."
Mycroft is still silent when I stop, his breathing pattern is different though, shocked, and probably shaken by the mention of Anthea.
Suddenly I can't lie still any more, can't stay close to Mycroft any more, so I get out of the bed as quickly as I can and limp towards the door. I have no idea where to go, my room, the roof, Mycroft's study, anywhere, but I know I need to leave.
Just before I close the door, I turn around and look at Mycroft, who hasn't moved.
"You can tell Sherlock about this, if you want." I say, and my voice breaks, "But I never want to talk about it again."