Sorry it's been so long, I'm in the middle of my A level exams (last year of school) so I've been really busy. They don't finish until the 18th of June, then my writing will definitely pick up again, I promise!
Sherlock didn't get out of bed for six days. John tried everything, from bribery to threats to shouting. But Sherlock did not respond, lying on his side, the duvet pulled up to his chin, only his curly hair showing. On the seventh day, he got up. He didn't speak or look at John. He didn't eat. He didn't change his clothes or shower, or shave or brush his hair. He got up just four minutes before he had to leave to make his appointment. John tried to talk to him, he Sherlock ignored all his attempts. He got into a taxi, told the driver the address of the clinic, and rested his head on the window, watching London. He felt awful. He'd hit Mycoft. Over something that finished twenty years ago. He was selfish and stupid and dwelling on unimportant things. There was no reason to keep talking about it, all it did was hurt. And yet he walked inside the clinic, his legs moving automatically as though they knew it would be good for him, and he ended up back in the children's assessment room, slumping down on the beanbag in an incredibly undignified way, opposite Annie in a pink sweater.
"You don't look so good today, Sherlock. What's wrong?"
"I talked to Mycroft. About what he did. I punched him in the face." He didn't look up, not allowing his worry at her judgement to show on his face.
"Good."
"Good? I punched the British Government!" He sounded shocked.
"You hit your brother, just like you were meant to be able to do when you were a child."
"I didn't mean to hit him, it just kind of... Overtook me."
"That's fair. You have repressed these feelings for far, far too long. It's only natural that they would come out all at once, in ways you wouldn't expect."
"But I hit Mycroft!" He said, incredulous that she wasn't getting the significance of his actions. "His nose bled and everything!"
"I'm glad, Sherlock. You don't need to feel bad about it. You certainly don't need to feel guilty about it."
"But..."
"I think we should move on to something else, now, give that some time."
"Okay"
"I have a bit of a confession to make. I researched you. I just typed your name into google."
"Hundreds of people do that." He shrugged.
"I read John's blog. And I found out some information, in passing about your family. I found a photograph of you and Mycroft, when you were quite young. There was a third child, in the picture. It said she was called Katerina."
"I... haven't spoken about Rina in years. Hardly thought about her."
"Who was she?"
"She... She was my sister. Our sister. She was my twin, actually. She died. When I was three. She had cancer. I don't really remember that much about her. Mycroft never speaks about her, it's like she never existed."
"I'm sorry. What are your memories of her?"
"I remember... Feeling lonely when we were separated. Even though that was most of the time. She had a different Nanny, see. She wasn't as clever as Mycroft and I. But she could talk, proper sentences, even though she was only two and the cancer was destroying her brain. She was very pretty. I remember that our mother liked that. She used to spend hours brushing Rina's hair."
"She died when you were three?"
"Yes. And that's when... When it all started with father. He blamed me, you see."
"And that had physical consequences?"
"Yes. When she died... he was so angry with me. It was like he wished I'd been ill instead. I wasn't allowed to go to the funeral, or keep any of her toys. The nanny was sent away, and no one ever talked about her again. Like I said, it was like she never existed. I used to wonder if I'd imagined her. My school thought I'd made her up, my parents never told them about her. They thought I was insane. So I didn't talk to anyone there. In fact, I was pretty much silent until I was seven. Father preferred it. But he punished me for it too." He looked lost in the past, and he jumped when she spoke softly.
"Sherlock- are you alright?"
"I'm fine."
"Have you visited Rina's grave?"
"No. Father refused to tell me where it was. And by the time I was in a fit state to actually go, after I started helping the police, he was sick and old. I never asked Mycroft. He thinks I know, that I've been. If he knew I'd never even bothered to visit her, he'd think I was horrible. How can I accuse him of not being a good brother and then not visit my sister's grave in 23 years?"
"We need to address this warped view of blame, Sherlock. It is perfectly reasonable for you to never have visited. Firstly, you have the very real reason that you don't even know what cemetery it's in, and secondly because she was your twin sister, it is obviously going to be painful for you to go. You are a good person, Sherlock, and a good brother. Remember that. I have a task for you."
"Oh right?"
"I want you to visit your father."
"He's in a home, he doesn't know who I am anymore. It would be a waste of time."
"I don't think it would be. You could ask him some questions. You could see if you think he deserves your forgiveness."
"I can't forgive him. He ruined my childhood. My life."
"I know. But you can only get past that if you speak to him, have a proper conversation, and forgive him for the things he did to you. Forgiving someone doesn't mean that what they did was okay, or that you will be okay straight away. But it means both of you have the chance to be free from all the bad things that have happened."
"I don't want to."
"I'll come with you, if you like?"
"No." Sherlock said, a little more sharply than he had intended. "Sorry, I just don't want you to see him."
"That's fine" she smiled warmly "but make sure you don't do it alone, okay? You could take John, or Mycroft, or Lestrade. Anyone who makes you feel safe and comfortable."
"I'll think about it."
"Well done, Sherlock. That's the end of our session today, unfortunately."
"Okay. Thanks." Sherlock stood up to leave, and got to the door before he turned back to her "I think your oldest son is being bullied by a blonde boy with a ginger cat."
"What?"
"Your left arm has several of his hairs on it, most likely to have got there if he leant on you in the car. Twelve year old boys don't lean on their mothers in cars unless something is really wrong. There are also lighter blonde hairs, and two ginger ones. The right length for a cat but not a boy. You should ask him about it."
"Thank you, Sherlock. See you next Tuesday." She said as he shut the door. She shut her eyes. She hoped dearly that her son wasn't being bullied. But now he'd said it, it made perfect sense. Too bad it had taken a genius to point it out.