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"Ready?" Josh whispered. Sherlock nodded, eyes fixed on the house. Josh pressed a key on his mobile. They waited.

It took a long, silent minute, but his mobile finally buzzed softly with a reply. He read it and grinned.

"Says he's on his way." Stowing his mobile again, Josh clapped Sherlock lightly on the back. "See ya in a bit, Casper."

"Casper?" Sherlock repeated, confused, but Josh had already moved off towards the spot they'd decided he should start from. Who the fuck was Casper?

Oh, well. Couldn't waste brainpower on it. Had a very narrow window in which to slip into the house. He waited with bated breath for the back door to open. As soon as it did, and Frank stepped out, Josh appeared from behind a tree nearby and feigned being out of breath.

"Uncle Frank! H-holy shit, I'm so sorry, fucker's way faster than I thought he'd be."

Frank turned a dubious glare on Josh, but after a tense few seconds seemed to accept his dishevelled appearance as evidence of a fight and subsequent mad chase through the woodland. With an irritated noise the older man moved off towards the treeline, away from the spot where Sherlock was hiding.

"For fuck's sake Josh he's a skinny British kid in Florida, probably passed out in a ditch somewhere and you ran right by him."

Sherlock furrowed his brow, vaguely offended. But then a beat later shrugged to himself instead, because on second thought, yeah, that was fair. Also meant they'd be spending a while combing the underbrush, which would give him more time to find Mrs Hudson, and hopefully give Josh better opportunity to slip Frank's notice doubling back. Against all odds they seemed to be pulling this plan off remarkably well so far.

As soon as Frank was out of sight Sherlock darted out from his hiding spot behind the shed again, then made his way across the garden to a set of tall windows set low enough down the outside wall to where it was a simple matter to slide one up and step inside. Josh claimed to have sabotaged this window's latch intentionally to facilitate a quick exit point from the attic hatch in the laundry room. Inside was, as promised, a small space taken up by laundry machines and shelving. Sherlock was now supposed to navigate to the sitting room, as Josh said Mrs Hudson would most likely be there. If she weren't asleep, anyway. It was after all going on something like three in the morning.

Thankfully Josh's hand-drawn map turned out to be accurate, and Sherlock was able to find the sitting room easily. Could see from the hall that a light was on. Good sign, one hoped.

"Sherlock, dear! Well, goodness, you're a bit early," Mrs Hudson said pleasantly as he poked his head around the doorframe. Despite ostensibly having been looking for the woman she still managed to startle him quite badly, though he did his best to hide the jumpy flinch under a cough. She was sat in an armchair near a large bay window, apparently sorting through a pile of documents and photographs spread out over the coffee table in front of her.

Sherlock approached her warily. Found her lack of surprise vaguely confusing, though honestly he wasn't sure why he continued to be caught off guard by this woman's underreactions.

Mrs Hudson apparently read his thoughts in his expression and smiled indulgently at him. "Oh, I knew you'd be back round soon enough. You'd be too curious after Frank went on about your mum like that."

"It, er… did raise quite a lot of questions," Sherlock conceded. Sherlock tried to sidle close enough to see the documents without losing sight of the hallway entry. Awkward angle, couldn't quite manage. Didn't get a chance to decide on what to do next - Mrs Hudson had plucked up a photograph the moment he came near enough her armchair and, leaning over the arm towards him, waved the thing insistently until he reluctantly accepted it. As he looked down at the picture all thought was driven abruptly from his mind by the sight of his own face staring back at him.

"Goodness, you poor child," Mrs Hudson murmured sadly as she observed his reaction. Presumably his expression had dropped into something approaching stunned confusion. "You've not been told a thing about him, have you?"

Finally Sherlock's brain managed to process details of the image. He realised he wasn't, in fact, staring at his own face. Or not quite, anyway. Hair too light, eyes the wrong colour, differently-shaped ears. But the bone structure and facial expression of bored annoyance were like looking into a warped mirror. It felt very much like the moment of startled confusion he'd had upon recognising his own face in Father's chair in that bizarre dream earlier, though of course this incongruous replica of himself hadn't yet called him an idiot.

It took him far too long to realise a name was printed underneath the headshot, and then finally to read it. Lochlann Faulkner.

Sherlock stared at the neat, typewritten letters, and tried to decide how he felt about his mother having used the pet name 'Lockie' for him as a child.

He felt extremely weird about it, was all he managed to determine, before Mrs Hudson was speaking again.

"What a tremendous bloody idiot that man was," she muttered fondly. She'd picked up another photograph and was regarding it with a wistful smile.

Her sentimental tone was badly at odds with the words, causing Sherlock to glance up with a brief, confused look. Rather than reply, she simply handed him the photo she'd been looking at. This one was a washed-out polaroid, perhaps dating back to the mid-60s, depicting a vaguely familiar young woman alongside Sherlock's uncanny doppelganger. They were stood in front of what he was fairly certain was the Baker Street tube station in the bright sunlight of some summer's day, both of them making ridiculous faces into the camera. Apart from the couple's absurdly 60s fashion sense, and the fact that the man had his arm around his companion's waist in a way that seemed more intimate than Sherlock could imagine being with a woman, he might have been convinced it was a photo of himself.

"A gorgeous idiot, though, mind you," Mrs Hudson went on. "And terrific in bed."

Sherlock blinked. Stared at Mrs Hudson, who just smiled blithely back. Looked back down to the polaroid instead. Realised the woman was her.

"Oh," he said stupidly.

Mrs Hudson put a hand to her mouth, a slight flush to her cheeks. "Sorry, dear. That was a terribly odd thing to say to you, wasn't it?"

Sherlock was mercifully saved the trouble of trying to find a reply by the slamming of a door nearby, followed by heavy footsteps approaching. He barely had time to spin around before his planned escape route back through the laundry room was blocked by a steely-eyed Frank. Josh trailed along behind him, shooting Sherlock a look that seemed equal parts apologetic and terrified.

"See, kid, what'd I tell you? Little trained rat came scurrying back," he growled to Josh.

Really should have bolted for a window, but Frank's choice of insult caused Sherlock's brain to stutter to a stop before he'd got his legs to move. A thousand different explanations for why the man might call him that. Didn't have to mean they'd met before. But a nebulous wisp of recognition made him suspect they very much had. Whether by means of his having sold the man out to Father, or in some other capacity, he couldn't know without going back through the memories and risking becoming trapped in a vortex of childhood trauma again. Even the mere thought was beginning to draw him inexorably towards dissociation like water spiralling around a drain. In an act of desperation he conjured up his stupid imaginary Eric again, let the memory of their fingers intertwining act as a tether to keep from falling in. Didn't know how to feel about the fact that it seemed to be working.

Frank quirked a dark smirk at him and stepped forward, which Sherlock of course matched by stepping back, until he unfortunately hit a wall. Frank closed the remaining distance and pinned him there with a firm grip on one shoulder, thumb ready to hit the brachial pressure point at first hint of provocation. This did not at all help the issue of trying to avoid being sucked into childhood trauma. He froze in place like a spooked deer.

Parsing speech had fallen sharply off his cognitive priority list, so he had no idea what Frank snarled in his face. Instead focussed on the phantom presence of Eric at his side, which thankfully hadn't disappeared, and with that as a lifeline managed to at least claw himself back into remaining aware of his surroundings. Still locked up like a statue, of course, but some things couldn't be helped.

"Frank, unhand that child this instant!" Mrs Hudson's uncharacteristically irate voice broke in.

"He's not a fucking child, Martha."

"Fine, you're right, he's a twenty year-old junkie just barely off a coke habit. Does that sound better to you?" she replied snippily. Sherlock managed to tear his eyes off Frank's face long enough to see her standing beside her armchair with her hands on her hips. "Now take your bloody hand off the boy before he faints, I'll not have him hitting his head on the hardwood."

Frank scowled. Despite having not taken his eyes off Sherlock's face whilst speaking to Mrs Hudson, he seemed to only just now realise the dramatic effect he'd elicited. With a vaguely concerned frown he released Sherlock's shoulder and stepped away with both hands raised in a placating gesture.

"God damn it. Alright, kid, calm down. Didn't mean to spook you that bad."

Sherlock remained pressed against the wall. Tried not to acknowledge how badly he was shivering with adrenaline nor how rapid his breathing still was. The only thing keeping him from making good on Mrs Hudson's worry and cracking his skull on the floor in a dead faint was Not-Eric pressed up against his side, shouting furious insults at Frank. Same as he'd done once in a crowded pub, towards a man much different but no less threatening. Frank couldn't hear any of it, of course, but it still seemed to help. Made him feel less alone.

"Thank you," Mrs Hudson said archly to Frank. Then, to Josh behind him, "Joshua, it's lovely to see you again."

"Uh… you too, Aunty," Josh muttered.

"Can we save the fucking pleasantries?" Frank snapped. He turned a dark glare back on Sherlock, who managed to meet the man's gaze with a glare of his own for a brief few seconds before his brain threatened to overload and he was forced to look away again. Despite how pathetic a display of defiance that was he still felt oddly proud of himself.

"Look, kid," Frank continued in a tone as if he were trying very hard not to sound excessively threatening. Wasn't succeeding in the least. "I thought I knew who sent you, but I've since been informed otherwise. So, as a gesture of goodwill, I'm going to ask you what the fuck you're doing here, and you've got ten seconds to give me a straight answer. If you don't, I go back to being an asshole."

"I'm not doing anything," Sherlock answered immediately. Grimaced for how much of a blatant lie that sounded. Sure enough, the frigid glare Frank gave him in response said in no uncertain terms he'd just fucked up. Panicked a bit. Scrabbled for Eric's hand in the sliding space between reality and the field in his head.

"Really not in the mood for this, kid," Frank growled.

"It's the truth!"

Frank did not appear convinced. "You're the bastard son of Faulkner and Cauchois, spent half your fucking life helping Siger Holmes exterminate my colleagues, and now you happen to show up on my doorstep right when shit starts going sideways. And you're expecting me to call that a coincidence."

Sherlock shrugged helplessly. "Er… yes?"

Frank was predictably not impressed. "Cut the bullshit. Obviously Holmes sent you, just fucking tell me what he wants."

A sharp bolt of confusion gave Sherlock enough confidence to meet Frank's gaze with a baffled, somewhat insulted glare.

"Father didn't send me, he's been dead for months." Belatedly he remembered the text he'd told Josh to send. Rushed to try to explain, so as not to seem even more dishonest, and as he did so the burst of composure melted away again. "T-the text was just to see if you knew who he-"

"Holmes is what?" Frank barked over him. He sounded some mix of alarmed and angry.

Sherlock cut himself off, had a brief moment of internal upheaval trying to reroute his train of thought. "Er… dead."

Frank growled in a way that seemed oddly frantic. "And who the fuck told you that?"

"Um, no one? M-my brother shot him in the face. Right in front of me. So… I mean, I suppose I didn't personally confirm it, but he did seem quite dead."

Apparently incensed by Sherlock's unintentionally flippant tone, Frank stormed forward and grabbed him roughly by the collar. Adrenaline tore through nerves already frayed near to breaking and he made a valiant effort to avoid hyperventilating.

"Don't fucking lie to me!"

"N-not lying," Sherlock mumbled. Screwed his eyes shut against the situation, tried to will his heart to slow down.

"Frank! For the last time take your bloody hands off him!" Mrs Hudson's voice cut in, sounding closer than she'd been before.

Frank mercifully let go of Sherlock's collar and backed away. Sherlock drew a sharp breath he didn't know he'd been holding, snapped his eyes open, then promptly slid straight down the wall as his legs gave out. Resisted the urge to curl up in to a ball for a brief moment, lost that battle very quickly. Couldn't help it - without cocaine his only reliable means to block out enough stimuli to stave off a panic attack was to fold up small as possible and press his face against his knees. That this made him look like a pathetic child was a very distant concern compared to the firestorm beginning to kick up in his head.

Blocking the world out wasn't enough this time, unfortunately. Found himself yanked inwards, directly towards the flames. A hand appeared out of nowhere and grabbed his wrist, dragged him away from the storm, through the veil of leaves into a safe bubble of calm beneath the willow tree. Eric, of course. Or his memory. As soon as they'd made it past the willow boughs Eric turned and grabbed him up into a crushing embrace.

Sherlock let himself be hugged (or let the memory of being hugged play out, he wasn't entirely sure how this worked), but did so with a deeply confused frown.

"Erm… what?" he asked eloquently. Eric drew back with a fondly exasperated look.

"Y'been callin' me up this whole past while tryna keep yerself afloat, ain't ya? Course I'm gonna keep at it even if ya forget to do it on purpose."

"No. I refuse to be this patently insane," Sherlock decided. Tried to extricate himself from the hold Eric still had on his arms, meaning to leave the willow and find a way back out into reality, but Eric held firm.

"Oi, slow down. Ain't gonna be able t'leave just yet."

Sherlock frowned at him. Should reply with some scathing insult, but it was hard to muster up the will to be intentionally cruel. Couldn't bear the thought of hurting him, even if only a copy.

"It's my head, I can leave whenever I like," he objected instead, ignoring how his abstract not-voice came out sounding highly uncertain of that. "Ideally as soon as possible, because I need to get back out and deal with-"

Eric put a finger to his lips to shut him up, shot a meaningful glance through the leaves in an indication Sherlock should follow his gaze. Sherlock obliged. A demonic tornado of fire was tearing through the landscape beyond the willow boughs, leaving a scorched hellscape in its wake. Oh. Well. Alright, then.

"I don't think tryna get yerself out is gonna work until that calms down some," Eric explained as they watched the devastation unfold. "Or, well, I mean it might, I guess. But you'd just come right back in."

"As if you have any better idea how all this works than I do," Sherlock groused. Eric turned away from the firestorm to give him another exasperated look.

"I'm your own fuckin' brain, dumbarse. Just, like… wearin' this bloke's memory or sommat." With a nonplussed shrug he moved off towards the willow's trunk, dragging Sherlock along by one arm. Sat them down next to a small mound of stones covering memories of a dead cat. "He understood yer panic shit better'n you do, though, so I reckon I got about as much of a handle on what's goin' on right now as any part of you ever could."

Sherlock shook his head in vague disbelief for his own madness. "God forbid the real Eric ever finds out I'm doing this."

Not-Eric scoffed. "He's out there doin' th' exact same bleedin' thing with his memories of you."

At Sherlock's dubious look he rolled his eyes, dialled back the confidence a bit. "Alright, fine. Obviously I can't know that. But I'm the mental model you built of 'im, and if I were stuck havin' t'figure out how to get on without you I'd sure as hell be imagining yer voice in me head."

Sherlock huffed a bitter, humourless laugh. "Nobody would want me in their head."

Not-Eric smacked him lightly on the thigh in admonishment.

"Don't be a prat, fuck's sake. Y'know damn well he leant on you much as you on him. He's a terrified wreck right now, out there on his own. Yer ghost in his head goin' on about bees or whatever'll be the only thing keepin' him from breakin' down."

"That seems… incredibly presumptuous to just assume." With a small sigh, Sherlock took not-Eric's hand in his, let memory make the touch seem real. He looked out to the firestorm beginning to die down beyond the leaves and added, quietly, "... I hope his imaginary version of me is kinder to him than I was, at least."

"It ain't," not-Eric assured him. "Kindness weren't what he needed you for."

A lump rose unexpectedly in Sherlock's throat and he swallowed heavily against it. Eric's memory-made-ghost glanced over to him, then briefly rose, shifted, sat down directly in front of him so they were face-to face with their legs bent around each other. Kissed him with the weight of a hundred memories.

"I can't drag him into my life again. Not if it's always going to be like this," Sherlock muttered. He moved his hands to either side of Eric's waist in a loose hug, let their foreheads rest together. Breathed in the faint scent of pot smoke clinging to freckled skin.

"Yeah," not-Eric replied. "Poor bastard would jus' get used as leverage. Or live in terror of you bein' killed. Better to let him just forget."

Sherlock said nothing. Had sort of hoped ghost-Eric might disagree with him, but of course they had the same knowledge. Knew the parade of random danger he constantly found himself in wasn't a lifestyle Eric could survive for long. Hell, Sherlock wasn't sure he was likely to survive it much longer - nearly died a dozen different ways this week, after all. And things didn't seem likely to get much safer.

After a long, silent moment, he reluctantly voiced what they both knew. "I have to go back."

Eric huffed an unhappy sigh, but nodded. He straightened himself back up so their heads weren't pressed together and grabbed Sherlock's face with both hands.

"Look at me," he said softly. And Sherlock did.

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