John gripped the steering wheel tightly, glancing at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye. For some strange reason, he had rejected the car Mycroft had sent for them and decided to borrow Mrs Hudson's Aston Martin instead. John, too concerned to bother arguing about it, wouldn't let him drive. So there they were, speeding down a lonely road at three in the night in utter silence.

"'You are next'. That's our complete message. Should we be scared?" John asked.

Sherlock ignored him, still looking out of the window, so he just continued driving. They eventually pulled up next to a small cottage. John recognized Mycroft's car parked outside, but there was a surprising absence of police cars. As expected, there was a big red 1 on the door, but he barely had time to process it before Sherlock flung the door open. The hall and living room were empty, but John could hear voices from the adjoining room. He reached out to knock, but Sherlock grabbed his arm.

"Can you stay out here?" Sherlock asked.

"Sure. You'll be fine?"

"Yes." He took a moment to compose himself. "There are some things that have to be done alone."

John nodded and sat down on the sofa. Sherlock gave him a small smile, then gripped the door handle tightly, steeling himself. The voices in the bedroom ceased as soon as he entered. Mycroft was sitting next to the bed, an unmistakable edge to his usually bored expression. There was an empty wheelchair next to him. A woman Sherlock assumed was a nurse pottered about in the corner, mixing a concoction of some kind. An elderly man sat on the bed, twisting a piece of yarn around his fingers.

"Mr Trevor, you remember Sherlock, my brother." Mycroft said.

Xavier Trevor clearly didn't care for Mycroft's politeness. He grew agitated, twisting the yarn around his fingers more tightly.

"Introductions can wait." he said snappishly. "I want to know - have you found my son?"

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft, confused. An almost undetectable shake of the head convinced him of it; Victor's death was still a secret. He was still officially missing.

"Have we - no. Not yet."

"Well, I'll tell you something." Xavier said, leaning forward dramatically. "I've found him. That's right. I saw him tonight. He peeked in at my door, my little boy, and beckoned to me."

"Mr Trevor," Mycroft started, "Even if your son were still alive, he would be a grown man. This little boy- "

"Do you know what my wife said to me on her deathbed?" Xavier demanded. "She took my hand and looked me in the eye, and she said, 'when you find him, make sure you tell him there wasn't a single day I didn't think of him. Not a single damn day I didn't regret letting him go to Musgrave Hall. And if I find him up there in heaven - and I'm not saying that I will, because he's alive, he's out there, I know it - I'll do the same for you.' "

Sherlock felt something in his heart twist painfully.

"It's time for you to sleep, Mr Trevor." the nurse said. She ushered them out of the room and lowered her voice. "He's no good when he gets like this. Come back tomorrow afternoon." They heard him grumble something unintelligible before she shut the door.

John rose to meet them, cocking an eyebrow inquisitively. Sherlock just shook his head, and the three men trooped out into the unkempt lawn.

"Where's the police?" John asked.

"Mycroft sent them away. The footprints on the mud path -"

"If we're coming back tomorrow afternoon," Mycroft interrupted, "There's really no logic to you two driving all the way back home and then here again. Mummy and Daddy live barely ten minutes away. I'm sure they'll be glad to have us."

Sherlock groaned. "Us? Will I have to spend the night under the same roof as you?"

"Unfortunately, yes, brother mine. Look at the positives. There won't be an extra room left, and Doctor Watson can share yours. If he wants to, that is."

John scoffed. "Of course I want to. Find your own ride home, Mycroft."

Sherlock's room was unsurprisingly impersonal, save for the army doctor currently sprawled across his bed. There was a double bed, a study table pushed into a corner, an office chair. A bookshelf with some rather fascinating tomes. A wardrobe filled with miscellaneous tools and trinkets.

Sherlock was downstairs, talking to his parents, who had noticed how tired John was and sent him up directly. John wanted to stay awake and ask Sherlock about the Trevors, make sure he was okay, but despite his best efforts, he was slowly drifting off. He'd already started dreaming up indistinct shapes and faces when Sherlock's voice woke him up.

"They mostly use it as a guest bedroom." he was saying.

"Hmm?"

"By the time my parents bought this house, I had already left for college. I only spent holidays here, so it's not strictly my room. They call it that for sentimental value."

Sherlock sat down in the office chair and swivelled it around, munching on an apple. It was the first time John had seen him eat voluntarily in a few days.

"How'd it go with Xavier Trevor?" John asked.

"He thought he saw Victor. He thinks Victor's still missing."

"Mycroft hasn't told him yet?"

"No. It's hardly something we can explain very easily. 'Hello, my genius sister killed your son because I wouldn't play with her.'"

"Not easy." John agreed. "You could just tell him Victor tripped and fell down the well. Actually, Mycroft could easily have told him by now."

"No. He wants me to do it. Seems to think it'll give me something called closure."

"Do you need that?" John asked hesitantly. "Closure?"

"Do you want the truth, John?" he blurted out. "I don't grieve for Victor. I can't. Yes, he was my best friend, but I didn't even remember him for a major part of my life. I remember him now, but very dully, like one of those James Bond movies you always make me watch."

John got up and plucked the apple core from his hands, discarding it and leaning by the desk. Far enough to give Sherlock his personal space, but close enough to provide comfort, if needed.

"What's wrong, then?" he asked softly. "I've been watching you since Mycroft called. Haven't seen you this tense since Sherrinford."

"Eurus is the problem. Humans can do despicable things, I know, but she's family. I have to stand by her, but sometimes - I look at everything she's done. Like Victor's disappearance - it still haunts his parents."

"You don't have to stand by her."

"Yes, I do. She's ill."

John just sighed tiredly. "I've seen mental illness, and that's not really it. Psychosis, maybe, but - locking her up in complete isolation is not how you treat it. She's in there because she's too dangerous - and too clever. But we've had this conversation a thousand times, you know."

"Yes, we have. Go to sleep, John. We'll talk tomorrow."

"Tomorrow." he agreed.

Sherlock tiptoed halfway down the stairs and sat down. He'd found a slinky in his room, and he now let it bounce down the stairs, fascinated. There was something strangely elegant about its movement and balance, the orderly arrangement of its rings, the way it righted itself at the bottom of the stairs instead of rolling away chaotically. A door above him opened, and Mycroft's irritated face poked out.

"What's making that noise?"

Sherlock shrugged and got up to retrieve the slinky. By the time it had cascaded down the steps a second time, Mycroft was sitting beside him.

"Is Doctor Watson asleep?" he asked.

"Yes."

"How easy it must be for him." Mycroft mused. "To be able to rest at will. To turn his brain off whenever he wants."

Another door opened, and their mother peeped up at them from the bottom of the stairs, half-frowning, half-smiling.

"What mischief are you boys up to? Can't sleep?" she asked. They both shrugged again, and she moved off to the kitchen, muttering something about warm milk.

"Will Eurus ever be well enough?" Sherlock asked, when their mother was out of earshot.

"It's not a question of well enough. She's just too dangerous. I don't know what delusion of brotherly love you're blundering under, brother mine, but I happen to remember that she had to be physically restrained from killing you. She's far too unstable."

Sherlock stared at his feet gloomily.

"We'll have to tell Mr Trevor, you know." he finally said. "He's spent all these years waiting for his son. If we give him closure, at least he'll stop looking and start focusing on moving on. It can make a huge difference - knowing someone's out there versus knowing they're not coming back."

It was at times like these that Mycroft really comprehended the differences between them. He may be smarter than Sherlock, but at the end of the day, Sherlock had what mattered: the humanity that anchored him.

My brother has the brain of a scientist or a philosopher, he had once said to John, yet he elects to be a detective. What might we deduce about his heart?

He knew the answer to that now. Only that he has one. He solves people's mysteries for them because his was unsolved for so long.

"You have to do it, Sherlock."

"Why me?"

"Just take care not to mention Eurus. Tell him we found Victor's remains in the well, but we don't quite know how they ended up there; anything else is purely conjecture."

"Why can't you do that?"

"Because you need it, Sherlock. It'll give you a sense of finality. If you don't do it, no one else will, and he'll go to his grave still searching for his son."

"Fine." Sherlock muttered, as their mother appeared at the bottom of the stairs, two steaming cups of hot chocolate in hand. "I'll do it."

She handed each of them a cup. Mycroft took a sip of his, trying not to feel too nostalgic at the taste of his favourite childhood drink, from before Victor disappeared. Family trips to the beach. Wrestling matches. Baking on rainy days. Kid Sherlock, bubbly and enthusiastic, so far removed from the serious man he was now…

"I'm going to take this to my room." he said. "Goodnight, Mummy, Sherlock."

They bid Mycroft goodnight, and their mother took his place beside Sherlock. Sherlock knew she wanted to ask him a thousand questions - make sure he was eating enough, sleeping well, keeping his house clean, not accidentally ingesting any noxious fumes - but she seemed to sense his mood and let him drink in silence.

"How's Rosie?" she finally asked.

"She's good. She can walk. Talks a little, just disjointed words, mostly."

"And how's John holding up with all the...you know?"

"He's significantly better now. He still misses her, obviously, but I suppose he's…"

"Moving on?"

Sherlock caught her eye and ducked his head, blushing slightly, embarrassed.

"I suppose us sharing a room gave it away." he said.

"I'm your mother, Sherlock. You couldn't hide it from me if you tried. I look at you two, and I know you'd follow each other to the ends of the Earth."

Sherlock drained his cup, feeling strangely free now that his mother knew. He'd never officially come out of the closet, and didn't feel like he needed to. I am who I am, he'd always thought, no hiding. From the small smile on his mother's face, he knew that she approved, and whatever little bit of self-doubt he'd fostered dissolved.

"Are you two still dancing around your feelings, or is there something concrete?" she asked.

"Concrete. Has been for over a month now."

She squeezed his hand. "Well, I'm glad I can attend at least one son's wedding before I die. No pressure."

To: Sherlock Holmes, John Watson
From: Noel Evans

Thank you both so much for your lovely emails!

For the longest time, I thought of you two as intangible beings, just words on a blog post somewhere. I have since realized that you are real men with hearts of gold, and you've touched me in ways you can't possibly imagine. Thank you for pulling me out of that pond and for the steady correspondence you kept up since then.

I've been seeing the therapist Doctor Watson recommended, and it's working out beautifully. I convinced mom to visit her a few times, too, to help undo all those years of abuse. It's a slow, bumpy path to recovery, but we're both getting there, one tiny step at a time.

Again, thank you. Thank you for reminding me that there is hope even when everything seems gray.