*** Chapter 2, Mycroft's Journal continues... ****
So to begin with some background. My father has always held an important post in the government which he is ... was ... rarely at liberty to discuss with us, his family. However, he had always taken time from his busy schedule to spend with each of us and with the family as a whole when possible. Every summer we have taken a trip abroad, each year to some new, exciting location. While we were aware that the trips were not simply family vacations, as my father often had business to conduct, they were still filled with fun and interesting things to do. My mother carefully planned outings to museums and historical sites as well as parks and other fun activities. She always made sure we had such a grand time!
This past summer we visited New York City in the United States of America. I was rather excited as that is further than we had ever traveled before. We spent endless evenings planning our visit to various sites with my mother as usual. Sherlock was of course too young to pay very much attention to the travel books, but Mummy and I discussed the multitude of options in great detail. My father made a point of planning to join us at the American Museum of Natural History on the fourth day of our visit. Time with him was always our first priority because he was always so busy.
The museum itself was not much different from countless other similar museums around the world, but it was nice, with many interesting exhibits and fun things to see and do. Sherlock took it all in at top speed as usual, literally running from one part to another, his high, annoying voice exclaiming over each fresh find. While Mummy expected him to be most excited about the dinosaur exhibit, it was actually the minerals that seemed to catch his attention for the longest period of time. I thought the Hall of Human History was most interesting, and my father agreed with me. The time line was fascinating, showing the progress from ancient man to our current form. And all the people are stuffed and still, easy to study and as such rather agreeable. The most interesting part were the gaps no one has puzzled out how to fill in yet.
When we stepped outside, Sherlock and I argued about which way to proceed. Sherlock wanted to walk, always full of too much energy. I wanted to take a taxi because it would be faster, of course. Father had just lit his pipe to avoid adding to our "discussion" and Mummy, as usual, quietly listened to both of us until we should work it out for ourselves. She hates when we argue but can't bring herself to take sides against either of us, so we do it anyway.
That was when the car drove by. A gun suddenly poked out the window exactly as it pulled even with us. Father noticed it before I did. He stepped in front of us, effectively blocking the bullets from touching anyone by himself. The sound of the gun, the smoke, the car driving off... all these things still haunt my dreams in a blur of perceptions. The blood blossoming on his chest froze my own. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't move. Sherlock was screaming, trying to stop the bleeding with his small hands. I don't remember Mummy calling for help, but she must have done because suddenly she was bringing medics from an ambulance to us. Sherlock's hands were covered in Father's blood as I pulled him off the clearly lifeless body. My mother was crying as if she would never be able to stop, ever. Even as they took his body away and she put her arms around us, her body never stopped shaking with her sobs. I was crying then, too. We spent the next several hours just crying. What else could we do? I know big boys aren't supposed to cry, but I couldn't really seem to stop. I'm getting better at that now.
Sherlock stopped first, perhaps because he is youngest. He sat solemnly (I had to look that word up, but it exactly fits his expression), with hot, flushed cheeks and dry eyes rimmed so red that the silvery irises seemed to take on a ruddy tinge. It gave his face an odd, almost evil look that even now with cool, dry cheeks and clear eyes, he still looks a little haunted. I don't think he's too young at all. I think he remembers every detail as clearly as I do. He plays and explores and annoys as he always has, full of energy and curiosity, but there is that look in his eyes always now. He seems obsessed with details of everything. He told me once that he never wanted to miss something important again. Sometimes I think he forgets to go to sleep as he thinks about his latest puzzles.
Mummy has never quite been the same since then. There is a listlessness to her every movement. There are times, when she thinks no one is looking, that she cries silently even now. I know she tries to keep a brave face for our sakes, Sherlock's and mine. It is scary to think some things can undo even the most constant of adults.
I need a plan. I need to make sure I am never again this helpless. I will make sure no people ever get this close to my family again to do them harm. I will learn who is planning what, know all there is to know about the interactions and politics of adults so never again will I be so surprised, so unprepared to deal with events. People think because I am so young there is nothing I can do or understand. As usual, most people underestimate me.
The writing stopped. The following page was blank. John looked up at Mycroft, who handed him a cup of tea. John took it in one hand and set it negligently on the side table next to the chair. He looked back to Mycroft, large warm eyes meeting cool ones, but for a long silence neither man said anything.
Finally John asked, "Did the night terrors ease?"
Mycroft shrugged eloquently. "Perhaps a little more as time passes," he admitted. John reflected that the many years that had passed since Mycroft was eleven were still not completely effective, and felt a new sorrow for his erstwhile flatmate mingle with others he still refused to contemplate as he realized the pain probably had haunted Sherlock as well. Mycroft continued, "Putting feelings and thoughts into words can focus one's energies into more productive lines."
John glanced at the next empty pages of the journal. "What plans did you make?" he asked, looking back up to meet the eyes of one of the most powerful and intelligent men he'd ever met.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow at John's audacity. "At that age, the promise was all I could think of, but since then I have cultivated relationships, gathered intelligence, and aligned alliances to benefit my family and my country. And I have learned, though I will deny it should you ever repeat it, that even all the preparation, all the knowledge, and all the resources in the world, can not prevent surprising events for which I may be less prepared than I would like." He retrieved the notebook, gazed at it thoughtfully, then replaced it back in the drawer. "But don't give up, John. I know it may not look like it now, but you have options you have not even considered. Writing may help you see them." He raised his elegant eyebrows and asked, "What have you left to lose?"
John drank the tea slowly, a distracted look distancing himself from the room and Mycroft. Finally he put it down and nodded absently as he stood. As he reached the door, he turned back to Mycroft and said, "I'll think about it." He thought a moment and added, "Thank you, Mycroft." Then he left.
Mycroft was gratified to note John's blog had a new entry within the week. It was brief, but it was hopefully a beginning down a path of recovery for the one man in the world who had given Sherlock the key to being truly human.
Author's Note: Thank you, beautybells, for being my beta and encouraging me in my first fanfic attempt. And thank you, dear readers, for taking an interest in my story. I hope you enjoyed it! As always, reviews are loved!