Author's note: Thanks to GoSherlocked, katzedecimal and Grizzy for beta-ing, support and kind words. You are the best.
I take the same route we always took when going on summer holidays. I don't know why, but I know that it is vital to take the same route. First to Dover, then taking a ferry to Calais, then passing Belgium and the Netherlands before heading to the north of Germany, where another ferry will take me to the little island where we used to spend our summer holidays. It's a fifteen hour trip, mostly over night.
Leaving London takes quite a while.
I love the city, always did. And whenever I left it for a while (or for two painful years) I was always more than happy to come back. But today, the city I usually love seems to stretch a like a cancer, not willing to let me go, trying to force me back mile by mile that I fight to leave it behind. I know that technically, I have left London already, but the suburbs don't seem to end.
(Had John felt the same when he left? I suspect him to be in Scotland, but am not sure. He has not sent a single sign of life since he left Baker Street.)
After nearly an hour, I have finally passed Sidcup and the houses are slowly replaced by fields and trees. Finally, it feels like my head has enough space to relax a bit.
When I look into the rear view mirror, I see myself sitting on the back seat of daddy's old car, at the age of seven. Mycroft is sitting next to me, age fourteen. I remember that year clearly. Little Me is old enough to know that there is a long journey ahead but young enough to be distracted.
Unfortunately, Mycroft is way too old to enjoy appropriate distractions. "I certainly will not spend my precious time playing Yellow Car," I hear him declaring indignantly.
But little Sherlock wants to play, really really wants to. So I watch him use the most powerful weapon against his big brother. "Only because you are about to lose," he claims, then ignores Mycroft entirely and after a while states, "Yellow car! I am leading by ten to nothing. Starting to play now would be stupid, 'cause you can't win anyway."
I have to smile as I watch Mycroft's young face change from bored to determined. That strategy had always worked, even when he was already secretly ruling half of the world.
I am lost in (fond) memories, so lost that I am a bit surprised when the port of Dover comes into sight already. "Bit not good, getting that distracted when driving," Inner John tells me. He is translucent, an unpleasant reminder of real John who is not here. I will him away and get out of the car to buy a ticket for the ferry.
###
Aboard the ferry I feel the overwhelming urge to go to the rear end to watch the white houses of Dover, to watch England disappear from view.
Instead, I follow the memory image of little ten year old Sherlock to the front. He has never been one to look back. The warm evening breeze ruffles his curls and stings my eyes (for what else could be stinging my eyes?)
Mummy is standing closely behind him, hands firmly on the railing next to his, her chin resting lightly on his head. She literally has his back. It is an intimate moment between the two of them. They talk about the sea birds you can see and the history of the English Channel. Or so it seems.
We are very much alike, Mummy and I. It took me years to realise. We both cannot just say "I love you" like Daddy can. So instead, she lectured me. There was always some kind of physical contact during those lessons, like here on the ferry. And I listened, returning the embrace or leaning into her touch. It really is no wonder I care so much about knowledge.
When the French coast appears, night is already dawning. I leave Mummy and Little Me on the passenger deck and get back into my rental car. In my mind I can still see them leaning against the railing when I drive off the ship.
Adjusting to driving on the wrong side of the street takes me only a moment. I want to look into the rear view mirror and watch Little Me, slowly falling asleep, head resting comfortably on Mycroft's shoulder. Instead, I remember leaving England via Calais three days after jumping off St. Bart's. I cannot help but notice how arrogant I was back then. Thinking I could go and destroy the spider's web within a few months, and then simply come back and confess my newly discovered love to John.
John. Thinking of him hurts terribly. I should probably do what Mrs Hudson had suggested: loathe him for leaving me, loathe him for taking Emmi with him, loathe him for giving up. Instead, I am deeply sorry for him. (As if feeling my own pain isn't enough to bear.) I wonder how he is carrying on.
It is easy to deduce that my parents as well as Mrs Hudson have informed him of my plans to leave England. Still, I wish I could bring myself to text him (at least). I use the next break at a Belgian filling station to stare at my mobile for fifteen minutes before I have to admit that I won't be able to write that text.
###
I leave Belgium in the middle of the night and drive through the Netherlands without stopping.
I don't have many memories of that part of our journeys. A sleepy visit of a Dutch bathroom, a short glance at funny looking Dutch money, one of Mummy's lectures about the history of Europe that always lulled me back to sleep.
When I cross the German border it is not morning yet. I need to have another break. At the roadhouse a few scraps of German conversation wash over me, triggering memories of Mycroft teaching me words and grammar on the back seat, softly so we won't wake up Mummy.
Sooner or later my younger self would fall asleep again, head resting on Mycroft's shoulder. Now that I am watching my memories in the rear view mirror I suddenly realise that this was only possible because Mycroft was sitting in the middle seat of the back row. He always sat down behind the driver's seat when we got into the car. That means that at some point during the journey he always moved closer, just to be ready to provide support.
###
A quick stop at a road house near Hamburg brings back unpleasant memories. The light is just a tad too bright, the tiles just a tad too blue.
Once, there was a rest room very similar to this one somewhere halfway between London and Edinburgh. I sulked all the way and was graciously allowed to go to the toilet alone. I was twenty-three that night and stupid.
For some reason I thought that taking one last shot before rehab was a good idea. I still don't know if it was just a careless miscalculation or really an intended overdose. All I know is that suddenly I was lying on the floor next to the water closet, desperately trying to breathe while my heart went into ventricular fibrillation.
I clearly remember Mycroft coming in, calling for help, shaking me while I was absolutely unable to respond. I also remember that all I could think was that I didn't want to die with Mycroft being the last face I'd see.
What I did not remember until now is the expression on his face that day. My brain has always filled the space by making up an angry or annoyed or bored expression.
But now I am looking at the two of us for the first time of my life. I see the panic in my own eyes. And I see the fear in his. I guess I never allowed myself to see his fear for my life.
For some reason that realisation stings. That, plus one very disturbing thought. One of the few comforts I have regarding Mycroft's death is that at least I was with him when he died. I remember how he clung to me. He had been glad that I was the one to hold him in the end.
If I had died at that rest room fifteen years ago, Mycroft would have known I would have died loathing his presence.
It takes more than half an hour before my eyes are dry enough again to continue my journey.
###
The sun is barely rising when I cross the Kiel channel. The country road we usually took is a highway now, but there are barely any drivers beside me. So I decide to stop on the highest point of the bridge like Daddy always did and get out of the car.
("Leaving your car at a German highway is also a bit not good," the translucent inner John says. I will him away once more.)
There is the promise of a summer day in the early morning air. It will be a beautiful day. The perfect day to arrive at an island in the Northern Sea. But there is more in the air. The promise of a new beginning. The promise of my one and only chance to get myself right again.
When I continue driving north, I am sure that my heart is a little lighter than before.
###
I reach the port of Dagebül about an hour before the next ferry leaves. There is a tourist terminal now, and I am grateful for the chance to get some (German) breakfast. Outside the window, I can see our family eating whatever Mummy had packed, on a blanket on the dyke. They look incredibly close.
###
The ferry is new, but boarding it by car seems strangely familiar. When I get out of the Mini, I am surrounded by happy tourists. German is spoken all around me, sounding harsh but familiar. I know that I will be able to understand it fluently again soon.
The ferry is well attended but not too crowded. Shouldn't there be more passengers this time of year? Only then I realise that summer is almost over. It's mid-August. Summer holidays must be over in most parts of the country. I don't have enough memories to fill the weeks after returning from Mary's torture and yet, time has passed.
Which means that Emmi is seven months old already. She should be able to crawl, commando crawling at least. I try to imagine what she looks like, with more hair and probably a tooth, maybe sitting on her own.
I can't.
I climb up the stairs that take me to the passenger's deck, and a younger version of myself is following, several steps ahead of the rest of the family. He is excited and restless from the long journey, hyperactive and absolutely unable to hold still. Not older than five. His mouth does not stop from babbling, he is bopping up and down while asking one thousand things in a row.
"How long does the ferry take now? Why is it smaller than the ferry at Dover? How many people are aboard? How many more would fit in? Why are there trees in the water? Where are the horse head seals? Why are they called that way when they don't have horse heads? How ..."
I watch his mouth close in surprise when Daddy wordlessly lifts him, throws him over his shoulder and carries him outside (to give Mummy and Mycroft a break, no doubt). I follow them. The new ferry I'm standing on is slightly different from the one I remember, but somehow that does not disturb the memory.
I watch Daddy lower little (smiling) Sherlock to the ground again. "One question at a time," he commands gently, "and you have to wait with the next question until I have answered the one before."
Little me nods enthusiastically, and starts with the most pressing one, "Why are there trees growing in the water?"
Daddy smiles and explains about the North Sea being very shallow here, and about artificial navigation channels and proper markers for the ship captains while I watch the trees pass us by. Little Sherlock keeps firing questions that Daddy keeps answering good-heartedly until the ferry reaches its destination. I watch them until the ferry reaches the port of Amrum.
###
When I leave the ferry, I make a mental list of what has changed (not too much) and what looks still the same. The pier has been modernised, the road is in better shape, but the red houses look just the same. I easily find the way to our house at the end of Wittdün.
When I arrive there, I find the door unlocked. Nobody locks doors here. Something else that seems to be the same. I remember being too excited to rest, driving everybody insane until someone (usually Mycroft or Daddy) would take me to the beach. Well, I am not five any longer. I feel tired, overwhelmed, washed out. I know that there is a freshly-made bed upstairs (very tempting), and a well equipped fridge in the kitchen. Mrs Hudson has seen to that when calling the caretaker of our house. But before I can rest, there is one more thing I have to do.
I climb up the (twenty) steps, ignore my old room and go straight into (what used to be) Mycroft's room. Is our hidden treasure still there? The wooden floor creaks underneath my steps. It looks as if someone has modernized the parquet, but not replaced it. Good. Unfastening the second plank from the left in the third row is not easy, but in the end I am holding it in my hand. And underneath it, there it still is. An old freezer bag. It contains two letters. I take them both out carefully (exhaling, not sure for how long I have held my breath).
I can see Mycroft and me placing them underneath the parquet. "Are you sure they will still be here in twenty years' time?" I hear myself ask concernedly, and watch Mycroft smile.
"Of course they will still be here. The parquet has been renewed two years ago, and the average time of use for parquets is about fifty years." I can see myself being impressed by Mycroft's display of knowledge. He seemed to know everything. If he said the letters would still be there, they would.
Of course he was right. I pocket his letter and carefully open mine. It is addressed to me anyway.
Dear future self,
(it reads,)
Mycroft says it's unlikely that you will be a pirate. So I hope that you are an expert on pirates instead. Or a polar explorer. I also hope that you live on a big estate close to Mummy and Daddy with your three dogs and someone you love.
Future self, many adults are idiots. I doubt that you are one. But just in case, here is some important advice on how to avoid being an idiotic adult.
- Make sure to spend enough time with bare feet.
- Remember why pirates are brilliant.
- Have hot chocolate in a hiding place outside from time to time.
And here is something very very important:
Mycroft is on his way to become an idiotic adult, too. Daddy says that's normal at his age and that I should keep in mind that inside he is still the same. So, dear future self, just in case you forgot: Mycroft is the best big brother in the world. If he behaves idiotic, take him to your secret hiding place and share your next hot chocolate with him. That should help.
Sincerely yours,
William Sherlock Scott Holmes
I have to take a deep breath. (And blink away something that cannot possibly be a tear.) More than ever before do I wish Mycroft were here. There is something painful about thinking that we will never have the opportunity to have that hot chocolate together. It would have been sorely needed.
(I am a bit surprised at how positive my memories of him are. Am I being nostalgic? Or is my brain just giving my soul what it needs right now? I don't know. Don't care. Really.)
Maybe it is time to follow my own advice anyway. I stuff Mycroft's letter into my trouser pocket and go down into the kitchen. There is milk and cocoa and a saucepan and a thermos jug. Sixteen minutes later, I am barefoot and on my way to the beach. The little bench with the wooden table is still there, half-hidden in the dunes. I place the two cups I brought along on the table, fill them both with hot chocolate and give a mental toast to Mycroft.
The view of the beach is fantastic. When I close my eyes I hear sea gulls screaming, the waves hitting the shore, some people laughing in the distance. Underneath my feet there is warm sand. The air is warm, a low wind (it is always windy here) caressing my face. I realise that I have calmed down for what seems to be the first time in weeks. It feels so strange that I need a moment to understand what exactly I am feeling.
Pirates (by the way) were brilliant because as a pirate captain you were allowed to spend your life on the ocean. You robbed mean rich people and never had to go to boring schools with stupid mean children who made fun of you because you were different. You never were alone, for you had a crew. You were always surrounded by other pirates who wanted to be with you, who wanted to serve on your ship. People who would have given their lives for you simply because they believed in you.
Yes, I desperately need the hot chocolate now.
After a few gulps, I feel steady enough to open Mycroft's letter. He refused to show it to me when we were young but he is not here today to open it himself. And so I read:
Dear future self,
Please acknowledge my disappointment if you don't rule the world by now. It does not have to be official. You can rule it from the background. I think that is more efficient anyway.
If you do rule the world, you will have the means to take care for Mummy and Daddy. I expect you to ensure their financial welfare. They don't need to know. You can make it look as if they won the lottery or something.
Always make sure that Sherlock is fine, too. He might be a bit slow, but I love him anyway.
Yes, I wrote that because I knew you would read the letter eventually, little brother! Shame on you. But as you are intruding my private sphere now anyway, you might as well read this:
I know that the last year has been difficult for you, with school and stuff. I hope that the rest of your life will be better, but knowing how mean people can be, I am afraid that life will always be hard for you. Please know that I'll be there for you if you want me to.
Mycroft
When I look up, Inner Mycroft is sitting on the other side of the table, a mug with hot chocolate in his hand. "Coming here was a good idea, Sherlock," he says. "Healing will take time, no doubt, but coming here was an important first step."
I miss him. Terribly. Always will. Just like I miss John and Emmi.
No, not like I miss them. Mycroft is gone for good but John and Emmi are not. They need help, just like me and as far as I see it, I am the only one who can give them that help. So my course is set. I need to get over what Mary did to me. I need to deduce again, and I need to speak. Once that is done, I can fix John.
I remain sitting on the bench until the stars come out.
Author's note: Amrum is lovely. Go, visit it. I wish I could be there more often.