"No..." Watson's heart broke at the deathly whisper. "No, it's not true... You're lying!"
Mary's hands flew to her mouth as she realised what she had done. "Oh, Peter... I'm so sorry!"
"She's not dead! DON'T LIE!" Eyes blazing, Holmes sprang up from the bed and over to the fireplace, but this time, thank God, Wiggins and Charlie had anticipated him. The Irregulars might not have matched their captain's skill with swords, but there was precious little they didn't know about street fighting! A few crowded moments later, Holmes was flat on the hearth rug, immobilised in a painful arm lock by Wiggins, Charlie pinning his legs.
"Sorry 'bout this, guv'nor!" Wiggins said, in a much too cheerful voice. "We'll let y'up when yer calm down!"
Holmes didn't seem to hear, tears of rage pouring as he struggled. "She's not dead! She didn't die, I wouldn't forget!"
Watson, meanwhile, had been forced to go from helping Mary to intercepting Lestrade, who had burst in a moment after the wrestling match began. "It's all right, Lestrade. I don't think we'll be needing handcuffs."
"Oh, aye?" Lestrade shook his head, looking entirely unconvinced.
"Or a straitjacket," Watson said sternly, not liking the look of repugnance in the Inspector's eyes at all. "He just... wasn't as prepared for this as I meant him to be." He put his arm around Mary as she came up beside him, giving her a forgiving squeeze.
"Allow me, gentlemen." Mycroft had half risen when Holmes had first headed towards the poker, and now moved over to the tangle of limbs on the floor, kneeling beside his brother's head with difficulty. "Bonjour, Pierre," he began in a calm, conversational tone. "Comment es-tu ce matin? C'est quoi tout ce remue-ménage?" 1
Watson stared. Mycroft sounded utterly tranquil, for all the world as if this was merely a French grammar class! But how in the world was this going to help?
Receiving no answer but exhausted sobbing, Mycroft continued undeterred. "Attendez-moi, Pierre. Nous allons revoir la leçon d'hier. Répètez après moi... La plume de ma tante est sur la table." 2
Bizarrely, the soft, measured phrases were having an effect. Holmes had finally stopped writhing, and even seemed to be listening as he gulped for air.
"Le montre de mon frère est derrière le bureau. Le châle de ma grand-mère est dans le jardin." 3
Watson's breath caught as he saw Holmes begin to mouth the words...
"L'oncle de mon singe est au zoo."
And this time, Holmes actually laughed! All right, it was more of a tired, watery giggle, but still...! "Myke! You just said, 'My monkey's uncle is at the zoo!' "
1 Hello, Peter. How are you this morning? What's all this fuss about?
2 Attend to me, Peter. We will review yesterday's lesson. Repeat after me... My aunt's quill is on the table.
3 My brother's watch is behind the desk. My grandmother's shawl is in the garden.
"How did he do that?" Watson gratefully accepted a tumbler of brandy from Lestrade, slumped wearily on the parlour sofa. Mycroft had kindly but firmly directed the pair downstairs, while he and Mary put a drooping, tear-stained Holmes back to bed, the effects of the sleeping draught finally catching up with him. Watson could only hazard a guess as to the cause of the delay – counteracted by an excess of adrenaline, perhaps? He'd never know for certain, because he wasn't going to repeat the experiment, ever again! And he'd been angry with Holmes for his high-handedness!
"Damned if I know!" Lestrade seated himself at the other end of the sofa with a full glass of whiskey. "Who can fathom the mind of a Holmes?"
"Only another Holmes, obviously," Watson muttered. He should never have tried to dig those memories back up, all he'd done was make everything worse for Holmes!
"And what, pray, has heredity to do with it?" Mycroft remarked as he entered, ringing the bell for the maid before sitting down.
"Is he all right?"
"As well as can be expected, given everything that transpired this morning. I left him soundly asleep, with Mary and the boys in attendance. I'm afraid they were all quite insistent."
"You should have called in another doctor..." Watson began bitterly, but was cut off mid-sentence by a stern look from Mycroft.
"You are being far too hard on yourself, John. Sherlock has already made excellent progress, I believe, thanks largely to your own recollection. I could never have imagined..." The older Holmes trailed off, shaking his head in wonder.
"And that's something that puzzles me," Lestrade piped up. "Not that I'm saying I believe any of this, mind you, but... Well, if it's so very easy to forget this... Neverland when you're not there, then how is it that you still remember, Watson? It's obvious your brother Michael doesn't, or Mycroft would've called him in, too!"
Watson nodded, staring down at the glass in his hands. "I made a promise to a friend... a very dear friend, a long time ago... And, God help me, I failed to keep that promise when it mattered most. I was so angry..."
"I gather you mean the funeral. I did see you and Sherlock exchanging some heated words, but I could not hear what was said, and Sherlock refused to discuss it afterwards."
"Sorry, which... which funeral are we talking about?"
"Our parents," Watson whispered. "They'd gone on holiday to Brighton by train. There was a terrible accident..."
"Oh, Lord... How awful!" Lestrade gripped Watson's arm for a moment. "I'm truly sorry, Watson."
"Thank you..." Watson took out his handkerchief and blew his nose. "Michael had refused to attend the funeral, you see, wanted nothing to do with any of it. I was disappointed, naturally, but Peter... Peter was furious. And since Michael wasn't there to shout at, he took it out on me. Looking back now, I'm sure there was much more to it than that... Wendy had died less than a year before... I should have seen it coming, I should've just let him be angry!"
"But in the heat of the moment, you could not."
"No... God forgive me, I can't even remember what I did say! I just remember Peter's face..." Throat tight, Watson gave up the struggle and bowed his head, wiping the tears as they fell.
The other two sat quietly for a minute or two as he struggled to collect himself, then Mycroft tutted and crossed to the bell pull again. Coming back, he placed a kindly hand on the doctor's trembling shoulder and gripped it. "I am truly sorry for the rift between you, John. Had it been in my power to mend it, or in Father's..."
Watson shook his head, looking up to give Mycroft a watery smile. "You did more than I, Mycroft, to my eternal shame. Peter probably wouldn't have been at the funeral, either, if you hadn't gone with him. You were far more of a brother to him than I ever was, when he really needed one... I can never thank you enough."
"If anything, John, it is I who stand in your debt." Mycroft smiled suddenly. "I will not pretend it was not a, er, tempestuous relationship, on occasion... but I nonetheless consider it a very great privilege to have counted Sherlock as family, for however short a time."
Watson frowned. "Hold on, you surely don't think... Look, Mycroft, I can't speak for Holmes's precise state of mind at present... but if you think for a moment that I... Good Lord, man, it was your voice just now that calmed him, it had nothing to do with me!" Holmes probably wouldn't wish for more than one brother, anyhow, once he'd heard the full story.
"Yes, how did you manage that?" Lestrade said brightly, attempting to diffuse the growing awkwardness in the room. "We're dying with curiosity over here, I can tell you!"
"I see." Mycroft resettled into his armchair. "Well, as you and Mary so admirably demonstrated, John, it was clear that Sherlock's memory was being unlocked by the voices of those closest to him... but only in the right circumstances." A sudden frown. "I am not at all certain that I could have achieved this latest result, had he not been in such dire distress... which, sadly, happened far too often while we were at Eton together."
Lestrade stared. "You were at Eton at the same time as Holmes?! In the... what, the sixties? How did that happen to the heir of a country squire?"
"I think Father hoped that spending my final year there before university would help me to acquire a little humility." Mycroft shrugged. "Perhaps he was right."
"Learning how to rub shoulders with the commoners, hm?" Lestrade's grin was affectionate rather than mocking.
"Something of the sort. In any case, yes, Sherlock entered the school the same year as myself. I naturally had little to do with the lower year boys during school hours, but as we were both boarders, he quickly came to my notice – rather forcibly, as I recall..."