Breakfast at the Holmes' house that morning was a gloomy affair. Sherlock pushed his food around his plate, weighed down by the knowledge of what he would have to do later that day. John nursed a cup of coffee, checking his phone constantly - Mrs Hudson had called earlier to tell him that Rosie had an upset stomach. Mr and Mrs Holmes tried to indulge them in conversation, and while John tried to be polite and friendly, they could still sense the grey cloud gathering over him. They decided to focus their energy on interrogating Mycroft instead.
"I wish you would tell us more about what's happening in your life, Mikey." Mr Holmes said.
"My name is Mycroft."
"We know that, you dolt." Mrs Holmes said, filling up his plate with a third helping of bacon. "We named you."
"Mother, no more! I'll gain weight again."
"You've barely eaten anything, sweetheart."
John's phone rang, and he excused himself, almost knocking over the coffee in his hurry. Sherlock took the chance to escape the table and follow him into the adjoining room.
"That was Mrs Hudson." John said, nearly biting his nails. "Rosie isn't any better."
"You could go back home, you know."
"What? No, I'm fine." John said, but as he kept glancing at his phone every few seconds, it wasn't very convincing. "It's probably nothing. Babies' stomachs get upset all the time. All part of the process."
"John, you're clearly itching to get back to Rosie. Go on, I'll be fine."
"Are you sure? This isn't just any crime scene. I know it's a big deal for you. Will you be okay dealing with Xavier Trevor alone?"
"I won't be alone. I have Mycroft. Not that he's a big consolation, but - he'll have to do."
"Well -" John glanced at his phone again. "Okay, then. Promise me you'll take care, and call me if you need anything or if stuff gets too dangerous."
"I won't let you miss your daily fix of danger, I promise. I'll even tell you every single fiddly detail so that you can write about it in your public love letter."
"My blog is not a public love letter." John said indignantly. "I'll leave right away, then - just let me apologize to your parents for ruining their morning."
"What are you on about? You haven't ruined it at all. You've given them a chance to grill Mycroft. It's been glorious."
Since neither Sherlock nor Mycroft had the patience to sit still and wait for the afternoon, they set off for Xavier Trevor's house right after breakfast. The nurse greeted them, looking worn-out and stressed.
"He's just gone off to sleep." she said.
"Not a problem." Mycroft said, sitting down on the sofa like he owned the house. "We have all the time in the world. We'll take your statement till he wakes up."
"Don't hold back. We're not with the police, not exactly." Sherlock added, sitting down beside him.
She cast a nervous glance at them, then took her place on a wicker chair directly opposite.
"I take it that you live here permanently. Where were you on the night of the break-in?" Sherlock asked.
"Out. I had a night off, so this young intern Steven was filling in for me. I usually don't like leaving Mr Trevor alone, especially not with Steven - he's quite irresponsible. But...well… it was a special occasion. My best friend's birthday."
"When did you come back?"
"At around 1 AM, I guess. We were supposed to spend the night at her house, but she got called away for some family emergency. I could've stayed at her apartment alone but I realized, too late, that I didn't have the keys. So I came back here to pick up the spare set, and I found Mr Trevor alone and nearly in hysterics. There was that giant 1 on the door, the windows were all wide open, and he was blabbering something about Victor, so I put two and two together and called the police."
"Where was Steven?"
"Oh, he turned up shortly after the police did. Dead drunk." she said, her disgust evident. "He ditched Mr Trevor a while after I left and went out partying. Turns out it's something he does quite regularly when he's filling in for me. Needless to say, I fired him."
"Could we talk to him?"
"Yes, but you won't get anything out of him. He doesn't even remember whether he left the main door unlocked or not. All he told me was that he made plans for a party that night, but then I asked him to fill in and he desperately needed the money, so he decided to turn up. He left only a few minutes after I did. His exact words were 'all that old cog does is snore and drool, he doesn't need me'."
"What did the police do?" Sherlock asked.
"They were baffled. All they did was make a mighty mess of the living room. Then this one here - er, Microsoft Homes? - turned up and sent them all away."
"It's Mycroft Holmes." Mycroft said, with as much dignity as he could muster.
The nurse wasn't listening. A noise from the bedroom had distracted her, and she got up, motioning them to follow her. She went in first, and they waited outside for a few minutes before she reappeared at the door.
"He's woken up earlier than usual." she said. "Now, if he's in a good mood, I'll let you talk. Otherwise - it's pointless, come back later. Go wait in the garden, I'll just wheel him out."
The two brothers tramped out into the unkempt garden. Sherlock drew patterns in the mud with his foot, while Mycroft warily watched him out of the corner of his eye.
"Quit staring, Microsoft." he snapped.
"I'm not staring. Do you remember what you have to do?"
Sherlock mumbled something under his breath.
"What was that?" asked Mycroft.
"Yes. Tell him we found his son's remains in a well a few days ago, and don't mention Eurus. Keep her hidden for another couple of decades until we're all dead and decaying."
"You're angry with me."
"You kept me in the dark for years. How would you feel if you were in my place?"
Mycroft took a deep breath, willing himself to stay calm. "Sherlock Holmes, look at me." he said forcefully. "Has it never occurred to you that she's still putting up an act? Five years of plotting and scheming for what - a hug? A few violin duets once a month?"
This got Sherlock's attention. He'd always had an uneasy feeling where Eurus was concerned, and he'd put it down to guilt, but now he was starting to wonder if it was something else. Something more like frustration at a puzzle he couldn't solve...
Mycroft didn't wait for him to answer. "I know what you're thinking, brother mine - she just wants to be 'loved'. Familial affection can mean a lot to people like John Watson - and to you, apparently - but do not fool yourself into thinking that it means a fig to her. Or to your old friend Moriarty. Do you think he would've stepped down from his throne of crime if his mother hugged him and asked him to?"
Sherlock shook his head, feeling too chastised to speak. Just like old times, he thought.
"Our sister is every bit as bad as him. The only difference between them is the environment they had to flourish in."
He stopped talking abruptly as the nurse wheeled Xavier Trevor out and towards them. He seemed much calmer today, loosely pinching the yarn between his fingers instead of twisting it forcefully. He almost beamed at them, but the smile didn't quite reach his eyes.
"Sorry about yesterday, boys." he said. "The arthritis really gets to me sometimes. And then, of course, there's the business with Victor…"
He trailed off, staring into the distance. They let him sit in silence for a few minutes, then the nurse lightly patted his shoulder.
"Ah. Yes. Where was I? Did you find out what was going on here last night?"
"Someone disguised as Victor broke in to give you a scare." Mycroft explained. "We don't know why."
"So where's my son?"
Mycroft nudged Sherlock, who felt like there was something lodged at the back of his throat. He swallowed and knelt down so that he was at face level with Mr Trevor.
"The thing about that." he started, but Mr Trevor was looking at him so intently that he lost his nerve. Behind him, Mycroft tapped his foot impatiently. He took another deep breath and continued, trying to speak as slowly as possible. "I'm sorry, Mr Trevor, but your son is dead."
Mr Trevor took a few seconds to process this. "What?"
"He's dead." Sherlock repeated. "He's been dead for years. We found his bones at the bottom of a well near Musgrave Hall. He must've fallen in somehow."
"His...his bones? How do you know-"
"We had plenty of medical tests done." Mycroft cut in. "They're his bones all right."
Mr Trevor leaned back in the wheelchair and closed his eyes. "I don't believe you." he said firmly, and a solitary tear rolled down his cheek. "I know he's still alive. He has to be."
Sherlock felt, for the first time, a fissure of rage. Eurus had no right to take someone else's child away like this. John was right; nothing justified cold-blooded murder.
"I'm very sorry, Mr Trevor." he said. "But it's the truth. If it would help you, we could hold a proper funeral. Mycroft will bear the full cost."
Mycroft raised an eyebrow but didn't argue.
For a long time, Xavier Trevor just stared at his hands. Then he raised his head and nodded.
"I believe you." he said. "My wife and I chased a phantom for far too long. I'll need to see the bones, but I believe you. I don't want another funeral."
He refused to speak after that. The nurse nodded morosely at them, then wheeled him back in. Sherlock let his posture relax for a minute, feeling strangely relieved. He turned around and started down the dirt path to the gate. He would go to his parents' for lunch and then go home, he decided.
"Sherlock." Mycroft called, something missing from his normally authoritative voice.
Sherlock ignored him. Maybe he could get his father to pack up one of his home remedies for Rosie's stomach. John probably would've reached by now; he should text to find out about her.
"Sherlock!"
"What?"
"It's mummy. She's in the hospital. Heart attack."
John dashed up the stairs, trying not to leave too many dirty footprints. There was a proper downpour outside, and he'd stepped out of the cab smack into a mud puddle. It was a miracle they'd let him into the hospital, really. They almost hadn't, but then he'd mentioned Mycroft Holmes and the doors opened almost magically.
He caught sight of the Holmes family at the end of the corridor. Mr Holmes was reading a magazine, but his hands shook so badly that it was clear he was only trying to appear calm for his sons. Mycroft was pacing up and down, constantly barking orders into his phone, no doubt calling for the best doctors in the country. Sherlock was huddled in a chair, knees to his chest, coat wrapped protectively around himself.
John slid into the seat next to him. "Hey. Got your text. How is she?"
"We don't know. Still in the operating room. Why are you dripping?"
"It's raining."
"Oh." Sherlock said vaguely. "Is it?"
John nudged him, and he finally looked up, lips pursed with worry. They held eye contact for a heartbeat, then John pulled him into a hug, stroking his hair comfortingly.
"She'll be fine, you know. She's a robust, healthy woman, and it's only her first heart attack."
Sherlock just mumbled something inaudible into his shoulder and held on tighter, ignoring the water from his soggy jumper. John let him stay. He couldn't have extricated himself from that octopus grip even if he wanted to. Sherlock finally nodded and pulled away, then had second thoughts and wrapped John in his coat with him.
"How's Rosie?"
"Perfectly fine. She ate a funny banana, that's all. Don't worry about her."
"What's in the bag?"
"Food and extra clothes. Here, have a sandwich."
Sherlock took a bite, nodded his thanks and went back to staring at the clock. Mr Holmes took one, too, but Mycroft gave John such a glare that he hastily crammed the sandwich back into its box. He didn't particularly blame Mycroft for being so touchy; his family was the one thing he actually cared about, after all.
The waiting was the worst part. Time seemed to drag on at half its normal speed, and he could only imagine what it must be like for Sherlock, who was a generally impatient man. John had spent enough time in hospital rooms to know that staring at a clock didn't help, but he didn't have the heart to say anything to Sherlock. He settled for massaging Sherlock's hands instead; his muscles were wound tighter than steel.
The doctor came out a while later to tell them that Mrs Holmes was out of the operating room but still critical. John knew that face; it was the "I don't know anything for sure but I also don't want to get your hopes up in case she dies" face, the one he'd never quite learnt how to use. After all, he was used to being a doctor in the thick of battle. Everything was instantaneous. You died or lived; things rarely hung in limbo the way they did here.
He leaned back in the chair, stretched out his legs, and prepared himself for a long wait.