Chapter 4
The bedroom was quiet, only the gentle breathing of the three men to break the silence. Mycroft was sitting in the corner of the room his long legs stretched out in front of him, crossed over at the ankles. Sherlock had flopped over sideways his head now resting on his brother's chest, his eyes shut and his face expressionless as he slept. He looked exhausted, his entire body slack, his breathing shallow and calm, so unlike the panicked gasps it had been mere minutes before. John was still kneeling on the floor in front of his friend, confusion and fear swimming in his mind. He didn't know what had happened, it wasn't something he had ever seen or heard of before. Whatever it was worried him though, just the thought of Sherlock sitting on the floor in his trance with that look of utter terror on his face sent shivers down his spine. It was Mycroft who finally broke the silence.
"John," he asked, not speaking much quieter than normal despite the fact his brother was asleep on his lap. "I need you to help me carry him to the sofa, his bed's not exactly suitable for sleeping in now, is it?"
John glanced to his left, looking unnecessarily at the slumped mattress and the broken wood that had one been Sherlock's large bed. Then his thoughts returned to his sleeping friend, still curled up against the chest of his brother. John knew how much of a light sleeper his friend was so moving him seamed a stupid idea, really, considering he had just fallen asleep. He also knew how easily panicked people could become after they were suddenly moved in their sleep if they awoke, and after Sherlock had had such a traumatic timeā¦.
"We shouldn't move him," he said in his normally stern yet reasonable doctor's voice. He could tell Mycroft was staring at him but he continued anyway, promising he would not be intimidated by the elder Holmes brother. "He could easily awake and panic and I don't want him hurting himself further. He will have enough problems with his wrist any-"
"John, he won't wake," Interrupted Mycroft, obviously impatient with John's medical comments.
At this John glanced up at the elder Holmes brother, wondering what he could have meant by the comment. He obviously knew something that John didn't. And by the way he had reacted when he had first seen his brother made John sure that this had happened before, probably many times too. Eventually he nodded, knowing in all honesty that Mycroft would be right and Sherlock would not wake.
Reluctantly, John shuffled forwards so that he was kneeling right beside Mycroft and, on the count of three, lifted Sherlock's upper body so that the elder Holmes son could kneel up, holding his brother under the arm pits and raising him into a semi-sitting position. John couldn't help but think that he looked like an oversized rag doll, his chin dropping down onto his chest, his body slumped and his arms trailing on the floor beside him. The right one was still awkwardly positioned but thankfully no bones were protruding through the skin. John thought for a second then bent back down and gently lifted the injured arm and rested it on the detective's lap.
"Thank you, John," Said Mycroft, his bold voice sounding even stronger in the near-silent room. John nodded in reply but said nothing, simply bending down and positioning himself beside Sherlock's knees, getting ready to lift. With another quiet count of 'three, two, one' the two men staggered to their feet, the lanky detective held between them.
Carrying Sherlock from his bedroom to the livingroom was harder than John had originally thought considering the detective hardly ate and they were going very far anyway, although, the fact that Sherlock had destroyed his room did not help. As they turned into the doorway of the lounge the detective's injured arm had fallen from his lap and ended swinging beneath his limp body as they walked. It did complicate things as they had lowered him onto the long sofa, trying desperately not to trap the limb beneath him.
Eventually Sherlock was lying on the sofa with his head on a pillow and his left arm resting on his stomach. Mycroft had helped to move the coffee table next to the sofa, leaving the papers and empty tea-stained mugs on the floor, so Sherlock's right arm could be propped up on a cushion on the coffee table to keep it out of harm's way. John was kneeling next to the sofa examining the limb thoroughly whilst Mycroft sat in John's chair with his laptop perched on his legs. John felt his anger in Mycroft rise; did he even care about his brother at all?
With a huff of annoyance John turned back to his friend who was still lying unconscious on the sofa. He had already taken Sherlock's pulse and was pleased to find it strong and regular and his breathing had returned to a much more natural rhythm. The right hand concerned him greatly and he knew he needed to straighten the bones but was reluctant to do it whilst Sherlock was asleep. The circulation appeared to be fine in his fingers anyway; John would just have to monitor that carefully to make sure it stayed that way.
John sat down on the floor, leaning back against the sofa. He wanted to stay near Sherlock and, anyway, Mycroft was sitting in his chair. It was then he noticed how tired and hungry he was. He had been at the surgery all that day and he hadn't had dinner yet, not that it was high on his list of priorities; he was too worried to eat. None of what had happened made any sense either. What had scared Sherlock so much about hospitals and what had happened to him in his bedroom? It was obvious Mycroft knew what had happened, so why wouldn't he tell?
"John, what has sherlock told you about his childhood?" Asked Mycroft suddenly, making John wonder if he and Sherlock could actually read minds.
"Um, nothing really. We don't really talk about that kind of stuff," Mumbled John, slightly embarresed by the fact he knew nothing about his friend's past, bar the fact that drugs had somehow been involved.
"No, but I'm sure he knows a lot more about you than you realise."
"Probably. Where is this going?" asked John, slightly confused by Mycroft's continuous comments.
"It's time you were told, we don't want any more upsets, do we now?" Said Mycroft, a smirk spreading across his face. John felt his hands ball into fists then forced himself to relax; he was beginning to see why Sherlock didn't get on with his brother.
Mycroft looked back at the laptop perched on his lap, clicked a few times and then turned in around so that John could see the screen from his seat on the floor.
On the laptop screen was a photograph of a tiny baby with a mess of curly brown fluff on his head. He had alabaster skin and his silver eyes sparkled as he stared at the camera or, more likely, the person holding the camera. He was wearing a plain white baby grow as he lay in an expensive looking Moses basket. John had no experience with babies but could tell that the child in the photo could only have been a week or so old.
"Is that?" he asked, glancing up at Mycroft in surprise.
"Yes, Sherlock William Holmes, two weeks old exactly,"
The picture on the computer screen changed, now showing a one-year Sherlock standing in a garden. He had a wooden sward in one hand and his other was balled up into a fist, rubbing at his closed eyes. He looked tired, ready for a nap, but there was a faint smile on his pink lips.
"He looks so happy," sighed John, forgetting his embarrassment from sitting on the floor whilst having a conversation with the 'British Government'.
"I know," said Mycroft, a hint of sadness in his normally cold tone. He clicked again and the photo changed.
The next six of pictures were similar to the first, showing a happy Sherlock in various stages of his young childhood. The last picture, and John's favourite, was one of Sherlock when he was six. He was wearing his school uniform: little grey shorts with long grey socks, a white shirt, a navy, yellow and green striped tie, a navy jumper and a green woollen blazer on top. He was holding a tiny violin in one hand and a bow to match in the other and he was grinning widely, his hair flopping into his eyes. He was missing a tooth but John thought it looked cute and added to the childish innocence in the picture.
"That's the last photo to be taken before Sherlock started Prepatory School," Said Mycroft, a strange hint of regret in his voice.
John glanced up, wondering what the elder Holmes brother had meant by that comment.
"He changed after that, about the second week into his first term. He became quieter, subdued, stopped playing his violin as much. After half term he stopped talking, just sat in his room all day, reading. Other times he would go to his Mind Palace, he could stay there for hours, even days," explained Mycroft, shutting his laptop with a snap. "Has Sherlock ever spoken to you about his Mind Palace?"
"No," John admitted, feeling even more embarrassed as it was revealed how little he knew about his friend.
"Sherlock's Mind Palace is the filing system in his brain, where he stores everything from knowledge to his memories," explained Mycroft, "I don't really know much about it, Sherlock never would tell," he confessed, sighing slightly.
"I think he sorted his memories there, though," he added after a moment's silence. "He hid the unpleasant ones, the painful ones especially. He locked them away so they couldn't bother him again,"
"His memories?" asked John, raising his eyebrows as images of memory bubbles and filing cabinets filled his mind's eye.
"Hmm, yes," Muttered Mycroft approvingly. "Sherlock created himself a haven, a place to escape to in his mind, away from all the torment at school. He used to go there when the world became too much. It left his body in a trance-like state, no brain to control it,"
"So, today? That was his Mind Palace?" asked John slowly, still trying to make sense of what had happened.
"Mmm, not quite," admitted Mycroft, his eyebrows knitting together slightly, "I think that was where he tried to go, but something went wrong and the memories he had locked away were freed,"
John thought for a moment, about the minutes before Sherlock had ran to his room, the moments when John had first examined his broken wrist. "It was to do with his wrist, wasn't it?" asked John quietly. "He panicked when I tried to take him to the hospital,"
"Yes, John, I believe so," said Mycroft grimly, "You see, when Sherlock was seven he broke his wrist. It was the same one. We tried to take him to the hospital but he panicked, much like what he did tonight. The X-Ray showed his arm had been twisted behind his back but he had said nothing. I'm sure you have seen the scars where they pinned the bone, John. I think that what happened tonight reminded him too much of that first break and the memory freed itself, pulling the others with it."
There was more silence, both John and Mycroft considering what had been said. This time it was John who broke the silence, asking the question that had been swirling in his brain since Mycroft had first mentioned it.
"So what did happen, when he first broke it?" he asked reluctantly, mentally preparing himself for the worst.
"Nobody knows," admitted Mycroft eventually, the regret obvious in his normally icy tone. He closed his eyes, letting his head droop, his face a mixture of sadness and despair and, for the first time since he had met the elder Holmes brother, John found himself believing that Mycroft actually cared for his baby brother.
