The weather was nice and balmy, when he had hoped for once for it to be dreary and wet. Perhaps it would have put him in the mood he was trying to achieve. It felt disrespectful, somehow, to be soaking in the sunshine while standing over the grave of his very first friend.
Sherlock Holmes had gone to visit Victor Trevor, for the first time in over thirty years. He had expected something to happen; maybe some kind of breakdown, perhaps some kind of breakthrough, he wasn't sure what. He didn't expect to stand here and feel so empty. There was no geyser of pain erupting, no anger or any type of emotion at all. The emptiness he felt was not a black hole that threatened to suck him in. It was a numbness that spread through him and left him devoid of any ability to connect to the reality he found himself in.
The Trevor's had held a private funeral for close family only. The Holmes' family had sent condolences by letter, not being sure about the propriety of personal ones. It was, after all, a member of their family responsible for the tragedy, no matter that they wouldn't be held personally responsible. Extra sensitivity was required in this case, and it was now up to the Trevor's to reach out, if they so desired. It was two months after the funeral now, and Sherlock had finally come to pay his friend a visit, hoping to confront, connect, and perhaps lay his ghosts to rest.
Since the funeral, there were subtle hints from his friends and family. "Would you have wanted to be there?" John had asked sympathetically on the day of the funeral. "We've given the Trevor's the go ahead," Lestrade delicately mentioned, when the remains had been transferred to the family. Even Molly had had her piece to say, after they had reconciled, of course. "I'm wondering if you had in mind to pay your respects... your friend, I mean...If you want me to come with you, or anything else you need, I'm here for you, Sherlock." He had pecked her on the cheek and thanked her, then reassured her that he was fine, perfectly fine.
Mummy and Dad had brought up the topic with the delicacy of a surgeon taking a scalpel to a patient's brain. "We've sent our condolences to the Trevor's... They got a plot at the churchyard. This is up to you, but if you are ever ready, know that we are there for you in every way," Mummy said. "In every way, son," Dad had added. "Remember that." Mycroft had simply told him, "Whatever you decide to do, I'll be there for you."
The consultant detective had woken up one random day and called his ever-faithful friend. "Today, John. I want to go today." He had woken up that morning and realized that no, things were not the same as before, but that didn't really matter. He was patching his life back together, he had John back, he had other people in his life he cared for deeply, and best of all, he was alive. He could do it.
The result was a bit like pulling your arm back and punching the wall, and then realizing that the wall was nothing but a smokescreen. You brace yourself for pain, then you overshoot and lose your balance. He silently turned around and went to get John, who was waiting outside of the cemetery for him.
"It's not so much the memories, I've gotten back a big portion of that," Sherlock explained later that day, ensconced in his chair at Baker Street. "I just feel disconnected from them. As if it's a movie I'm watching. Look, I don't think we have to do this. You don't have to believe every bloody thing your therapist ever told you. I'm not bottling up, or disassociating, or what have you. It happened a long time ago, I've forgotten about it once, and I suppose I've mostly gotten over it."
"If you say so, Sherlock," John sighed. "I know you're a very convinceing liar, I didn't know you're good enough to convince even yourself." He let the topic drop, and they trooped down to Mrs. Hudson for a complimentary dinner.
Several weeks later, the hostage crisis had occurred, and then been resolved. The day afterwards, Mycroft had formally invited the detective and his partner to his office to tie up some loose ends. They gave their statements and chatted a bit with the rest of the team. Sherlock showed off with his Italian, which was quite decent. Major Di Maggio approached Mycroft and commented, "I can't understand why you haven't recruited these two yet. If your people won't take them, I will." Mycroft wished him good luck in that endeavor, not feeling threatened in the least.
Sherlock insisted that they make reservations for that night to celebrate. John and Mycroft were suspicious of his motives, with good reason. "It's John's birthday," Sherlock insisted. "Not for another three weeks," John protested. "Don't be daft," Sherlock hissed at him. "We can't give up the opportunity to have Mycroft pay for your birthday bash!"
"Oh, and then you won't have to attend my party, because you celebrated already, right?" John lifted an eyebrow. "And you consider this your gift to me, even if you aren't spending a pence?"
Mycroft raised an eyebrow at his brother too. John just shook his head and said, "I'm pretty beat. Let's go to Baker Street and order in. We would be pleased to have you, Mycroft, it was your operation after all."
Mycroft came along somewhat reluctantly, and quickly found himself with an armful of squirming toddler. He held her somewhat stiffly as John and Sherlock washed up, and gave her back to her Dad with barely concealed relief. Sherlock smirked at him. "Ever consider getting one of your own? You would be such a wonderful father. You would implant your child with GPS tracking and install cameras in every inch of her school...And then kidnap all her friends and scare them off."
"I don't need a child, I have a little brother who never grew up. Dr. Watson, I'm sure you'd like to hear all about Sherlock's childhood. Did he ever tell you about the man trap he set up for Father Christmas?"
"That's low of you, Mycroft. You know I have enough material on you, so don't start."
"Not the kind that I have," Mycroft retorted smugly. "I've known you since you've been in nappies."
"And I know who ate an entire birthday cake at midnight, and claimed it wasn't theft because it was for his birthday, and his birthday had already occurred."
"Please don't fight, children," John said wearily. "I'd hate to have to put you both in time out. But seriously, Mycroft, I'd love to hear more. And you can call me John, you know. I'm too knackered for formality now."
Mycroft relished in sharing a few juicy tidbits, which were all firmly denied by the protagonist of his stories. Sherlock didn't take it lying down, and told his own tales, which were slightly less than believable and all highly exaggerated, according to his brother. John discreetly took out his mobile phone and filmed the exchange. It was always good to have some blackmail handy.
"Sherlock and Victor together were two little terrors," Mycroft was saying. "I had a secret stash of goodies, which Mummy and the housekeeper never discovered. Mummy was always stumped about why her attempts at putting me on a diet didn't seem to be working. One day, I retrieved the container, and saw a skull and crossbones had been drawn on it, along with a few threats about drowning me at sea. Shocked, I opened the container, and found myself swarmed by beetles."
"You shrieked like a girl," Sherlock laughed gleefully. "It took us days of hard work to collect the critters, but it was totally worth it."
"Not to worry, I had my revenge," Mycroft smirked. "They claimed an abandoned rowboat near the lake as their pirate ship. I prepared a small surprise for them. I painted it pink with red hearts all over and named it "The Sissy Ship." Then I filled it with dolls and teddies. I caught pictures of them standing next to it, mouths open, and threatened to distribute the pictures at school."
"That was mean," Sherlock complained. "And you were supposed to be a good influence, too."
Mycroft watched Sherlock carefully, hiding his concern beneath his smug smiles and taunting tones. Sherlock appeared to remember most incidents and Mycroft filled in several gaps when he didn't. His little brother seemed to be enjoying himself, alternately laughing and whining at the embarrassing parts. The elder brother nevertheless found it hard to switch off his internal monitoring system, always alert and ready for trouble from the younger one.
It happened when the incident of the treasure hunt was discussed. One minute, Sherlock was laughing at the memory of having set Mycroft off on a hunt for his homework, which the two terrors had held hostage, and the next minute he was holding his head in his hands, and saying, "I don't feel so well."
John gently probed him about his symptoms. Sherlock claimed dizziness and nausea, and then got up and headed to the loo. The sounds of retching was heard shortly afterwards from that direction. John threw a look in Mycroft's direction, and the latter motioned him to go on. The doctor knocked on the bathroom door and asked if everything was alright. "I'll be fine, give me few minutes."
Several minutes later, Sherlock emerged shakily. John guided him to the sofa and bade him to lie down. Mycroft fetched a blanket and covered him gently. "What's going on, Sherlock?" the doctor questioned.
"I remembered. Not remembered, I was there." Sherlock said hoarsely. "I was screaming and screaming and screaming... I was terrified for Victor. I couldn't find him. I imagined him disappearing into a big black hole, screaming for me to save him. I was afraid I was going to disappear next..." Sherlock's voice broke, and to his horror, he felt tears in his eyes. "Was so afraid...I didn't want to disappear..."
"You had a flashback," John said softly. He brought a chair to the sofa and sat down. He began stroking Sherlock's arm. Mycroft took his post on the other side, laying a calming hand on his brother's legs. "We won't let you disappear, Sherlock. We're right here," John whispered soothingly. It felt strange to treat his friend in this manner, but his heart told him it wasn't his friend lying on the sofa. Instead, it was a terrified little boy who had just had the rug pulled from under his feet.
"I begged Mummy and Daddy to help me find Redbeard. They couldn't find him." Sherlock began sobbing at this point. "I begged Eurus to tell me where he was. She just stared at me and told me to listen to her song. I asked her if I was going to disappear too, and she told me, 'Everyone will disappear. You die, and then you disintegrate.' Then she sang... and, and..." Sherlock stopped talking, and took a few deep breaths.
"Mycroft," he said suddenly. "Where were you?" John moved away from Sherlock and let Mycroft approach. "Don't you remember, Sherlock? I was there, right beside you, the entire night. I held you for hours, I tried to reassure you, but you wouldn't calm down."
"I know," Sherlock sniffed. "But you didn't find him. Why didn't you find him, Mycroft? He was lost, and so afraid. You were so big and smart and strong, and you didn't find him for me!"
"That's right, little brother. I couldn't find him, and I'm afraid that deep down, you never forgave me for that."
Sherlock grabbed at Mycroft's arms and dug in his nails. Mycroft patted his curls and told him to take deep breaths. John took his wrist and checked his pulse. "A bit elevated, but nothing to be worried about. Sherlock, I can give you something to calm down if you need it." Sherlock shook his head and sniffed. "I'm fine. I'm sorry for carrying on like this. I'm not sure what happened to me."
"You're not carrying on, Sherlock, you're mourning what you never had a chance to mourn. You're mourning for what you lost that night. You lost a friend, and your innocence, and in a way, you lost your sister too. You're human, Sherlock Holmes, and you're allowed to grieve."
"Why now," Sherlock whispered. " I didn't cry in Musgrave. I didn't cry at cemetery. I don't know what made me break down like this."
"You allowed yourself to feel, brother mine," Mycroft said. "When we were talking, you relaxed your guard and let your emotions take over. You experienced the happiness you felt then, and the affection you had for your friend, and you had no barriers left when you recalled that terrible night."
"In other words, I let sentiment get the better of me," Sherlock said with a touch of bitterness.
Mycroft sighed. "I was wrong, Sherlock. Caring is an advantage. You will get back to yourself only because you have people who care about you. Don't close yourself off again, Sherlock. You have people to hold your hand as you ride out the waves. Don't make the same mistakes I made, little brother."
The British Government and the former army medic watched as the little boy turned grownup closed his eyes and fell asleep.