The amount of conversations hubby and I had on Sherlock's trauma…lol. I so wanted this to reflect a realistic view of recovering. He deals with a lot of clients that have gone through not so nice things. Trauma doesn't go away but what you do learn is how to manage it. (His words of wisdom, not mine.) I thought long and hard about this story – I wanted it to be fun but also an element of growth. Hench the mixture of angst, mystery and drama/humour. As you guessed – Redbeard will feature. And I'm hoping you will bear with me through Sherlock's ups and downs as he continues to grow. And the lion is coming along in a few chapters. ?ￂﾠ

I'm excited about what is coming and hoping you will enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing it. Thanks to everyone for who is commenting. You make it worth it.

Chapter 6

September

"Oliver, please. No." Sherlock's breathing hitched. He was curled around himself, body impossible tight as the nightmare continued. Molly had woken. Switched on the light. They still occurred but a lot less frequently as he worked through his trauma with Giles. She wondered if they would ever be free of them. If there would be a time where a full night sleep would last for a week or more without any interruptions.

"Sherlock." She was gentle. Took a hold of his hand that was clenched tight. He whimpered. "No…"

"Sherlock. Hey, you're safe. Come on. Time to wake up."

It took some coaxing from her before the nightmare released its hold and he came awake sluggishly. Blinked and there was a brief frown before he focused on her. His hand opened, pulled hers close to himself and held on to her while he breathed through the memories that seemed to surge.

"You're safe, Sherlock." She crooned softly. She placed her other hand on his cheek. Then behind his neck and pulled him into herself. Held him until she felt the tension and anxiety bleed from him. "Tea?" she asked.

"I'll make it," he said. "Sorry…" it was said so softly, it almost escaped her notice. He was sitting, swinging his feet to get off the bed but she pulled him back. There had been times that he'd struggle to step from his nightmares back into reality. He didn't meet her gaze, his own still hooded. She put her hand over his heart and pulled his right hand to her own chest. Pressed it to her breast and held it there.

"Sherlock. I'm real, okay." And then she moved his hand down to her tummy where life was growing. "And this is real."

His breathing hitched. He wiped his eyes, his face and then dragged his fingers through his hair. "It's real?" he questioned. Took a deeper breath. His hand felt the warmth of her skin. The bulge beneath his fingers was a small hump but it fitted in his hand. She nodded. "It's real."

"Okay." He whispered. Focused on her, his gaze intent. Searching. "Oliver seemed real. Did we escape?"

"Sherlock, are you awake?" she asked.

"I don't…" he started to say. Turned his head from her and then he was away again. But his hand stayed on her tummy where their baby was growing. She waited patiently. This wasn't the first time that they had dealt with his nightmares. Or hers. He shifted. Blinked and then she noticed comprehension dawn.

"Molly?"

"I'm here, Sherlock. You're safe. Just a bad dream, okay."

He brought his other hand up and covered hers that was still on his chest.

"Do you remember sitting outside by the well?"

She smiled. Not the first time he mentioned it. For some reason it grounded him, especially on his off days when Oliver's ghost was just too real and too close. At least those days seem to stretch now. The good days far outnumber the bad ones. A concerted effort on his part to work with Giles to move forward.

"It was cold." She jested softly.

"You birthed hope." Sherlock said. "Right here." He patted her hand that was still on his chest. "You made me believe again."

He paused. Took the measure of her. "I'm okay," he said. Gave her a soft smile. Leaned down to her stomach. "Your mommy is amazing. I can't wait for you to meet her." Looked up at her and then leaned in and gave her a soft, chaste kiss. Forehead against hers. "Tea?"

"That would be great, thanks."

He nodded. Left her alone in the bedroom. Only then did she allow herself a soft sigh. Hand on her own stomach as she felt the butterfly flutter of a kick. She suppressed the tears that wanted to form. Knew it would upset Sherlock more if he saw them.

"About the nightmares?"

"It will take time, Molly. You experienced immense trauma for almost five months. That is not a short period of time. It won't go away just because you will it."

"It's just hard. Sometimes, Sherlock doesn't wake up fully. It's as if he's in this twilight zone, hovering between the present and the past. Where he thinks we're still with Oliver. It's …difficult bringing him back."

"You're doing a good job, Molly. The fact that he is willing to confront what has happened is opening scabs he'd covered. There are bound to be memories that will surface only with his nightmares. It's his body's way of making sense."

"Okay."

"Molly. You're doing good. Now, have you written some more in your diary?"

Sherlock entered their room, the tray in his hand with a pot and two cups. A lemon sliced and ready on a little side plate. Made their tea and sat cross legged on the bed.

"Do you remember the nightmare?" she asked softly, while she took a sip of her tea.

"It's not a pleasant memory," he replied. "I uhm…" He paused, seeming to contemplate his next words. "Molly, he was there when they …"

His hand shook and he carefully placed the cup back on the saucer. Put it on the tray that was on their bed. Even now he couldn't bring himself to say the words to her.

"What time is it?" he asked, deliberately stepping away from discussion of his nightmare.

"4:20 am." She said. Concern for him deepened. "Sherlock? Are you okay?"

"Mmmh."

She gave him a look. He seemed to whither beneath her stare. "No. I'll speak to Giles later. You go back to sleep. I have some thinking to do for a case."

She knew that was the best she would get from him for now. He was still reluctant to share some of the things he'd experienced with Oliver with her. She never pressed him. Never asked about those three days. And the times at the bothy when Oliver would drop him off, bruised and barely aware of who or where he was. She trusted him enough to know that when he is ready, he'll share.

"Okay," she said. Gave him her finished cup. Slid down and gathered the duvet and blankets around herself. He came back after he had left with the tray. Gave her a kiss on her forehead. Told her to sleep and then he switched off the light and closed the door behind him.

She could hear him in the living room. Moving softly. The tinge of his violin and she knew he would be sitting in his chair, fingers soft on the strings while he went inside his mind palace.

She drifted off. And then sleep came.

Molly went to work and John came down. Made toast and tea for both of them and then left for the clinic shortly after. And still he stayed in his seat. Thinking. Of Oliver. And the closed doors. And the current case. He pointedly ignored Redbeard. That was a memory he just wasn't prepared to unearth if he could help it. It could stay buried in the back of the file cabinet he had placed it in Oliver's room in his mind palace. Buried underneath other memories and as inaccessible as he could make it.

All of Oliver and the closed doors and the current case were dancing around his head, the thread thin but something was there. Pulling on his subconscious and he growled in frustration when it just didn't want to connect. The link was ever elusive and teasing; a gossamer thread visible just in the corner of his eye.

It was 10 am when he finally emerged and realised that he needed the toilet and that he was thirsty. He took care of business and then made himself some tea. Picked up his phone while he took a sip and scrolled through his contacts.

He didn't really want to but he had told Molly that he'd do it. He phoned Giles.

"Hey, it's me." He said by way of greeting.

"My day is open, Sherlock." Giles said.

"I'll be there in thirty minutes."

It took a little more than that in the end but he was finally seated in the room, his eyes focused on the books. The leather cover of Dumas was his focal point.

"I had another nightmare last night." He said. "I woke up and it was a bit disorientating." He said, swallowing his initial words past the lump of fear in his throat. Oliver had seemed so real this morning. "I honestly believed at that moment I was back with Oliver and that there had been no rescue. That Molly and I… that we're stuck in a time loop and we'll never get out of it."

"What helped?" Giles asked.

"Molly. She just knew..." He paused. Closed his eyes but still Oliver's hand seemed to ghost across his back. Maddingly circles that didn't seem to end. He clenched his left hand and opened his eyes and focused. His shoulder hurt again and he pulled his arm closer to his own body. Massaged it with his right hand. He could see the faded gold lettering of the words. The worn leather of the book. Giles shifted and he startled; he watched as the other man rose. Made his way over to the bookcase and a hand unerringly went to the right book. Took it out and brought it over to him and placed it in his lap.

"Sherlock," Giles said, crouching down beside his chair. A very non-threatening, vulnerable position but allowing Sherlock to stop his own spiralling thoughts from going into full blown disassociation. "I want you to focus on this book and the cover. Feel the leather beneath your fingertips. Search for the flaws. See the way the leather has cracked along the spine. See the faded words on the cover. Open the book if you want. Feel the texture of the pages between your fingers. Read the words if you want. Can you do that?"

He frowned. "I don't understand."

"Indulge me." Giles said. Rose smoothly and sat down in his own chair. Leaned back and waited.

He brought all his senses to play. Looked at the book on his lap and picked it up. Noticed the stain in the top right-hand corner of the book.

Someone used the book as a coaster at one time.

Stretch marks along the back, tiny spindly cracks that meandered its way along the middle of the spine. Evidence of a much-loved book.

Read over and over. Probably sat on the bedside table.

He smelled the book. The aroma of long faded men's cologne and spices. The very very faint lingering of the tea that was spilled and created a stain on the last few pages of the book. Pages dogeared and fingerprint smudges on some pages. A name printed on the front page in block letters, faded to a light blue, barely negligible. He tilted the book and with the light he can make out Giles Hurst. Opened to the first chapter.

-On the 24th of February, 1815, the look-out at Notre-Dame de la Garde signalled the three-master, the Pharaon from Smyrna, Trieste, and Naples. As usual, a pilot put off immediately, and rounding the-

His fingers glided between the well-worn pages. Closed the book. Looked up and met Giles' eyes. Nodded his understanding. His anxiety almost completely gone. The thoughts that had spiralled, neatly back where they belong. His mind palace clear. The files ordered. His hand stayed on the book, allowing it to ground him and he closed his eyes. Leaned his head back.

"It's always the same nightmare. Just variations of it." He started slowly. Tasting the words and its impact on his transport. His mind. He focused on the feel of the leather beneath his hand. A story. He needed to tell this story. It was important. He had a sudden insight. That it was time to let it go.

"This was a test."

"Just so."

"And…"

"We failed."

"Excellent. Do you get that it's about trust? A lesson you still must learn. Because once I deem you trustworthy, things will get better."

He could feel the tenor of Oliver's voice in his ear. It vibrated in his body and even though he knew it wasn't true, it felt like he was on that couch again. Oliver's body beneath him. The sound of Oliver's heartbeat beneath his ear, the drone and vibrato of his voice. The hand carding through his hair, and then making lazy circles on his back, bring false comfort. The warning hand between his shoulder blades when he failed to answer Oliver's questions.

"Sherlock. The book," Giles gently coached. His hand caressed the worn leather. Felt the dip where the letters were embossed. Oliver's presence faded a little.

"He made me tell him about Molly." He managed to say, words struggling in a mouth dry with fear. "About who she is and what she means to me. I wasn't strong enough to resist him in the end." He said with shame. A false guilt at his own perceived failure but it didn't make the feeling any less real. He opened his eyes and zoomed in on the stain of the book. A Rorschach test all on its own. "Oliver kept telling me after that that Molly and I had a life with him. That once we are trustworthy, things will get better." He looked up from the book. "Sometimes in my nightmares, we are still with Oliver. Only, we're not at the bothy anymore. We're in the estate in Norway. Wearing Oliver's clothes and eating his food and Molly is pregnant." He faded at that point. Swallowed, his fingers tightening on the book and the feel of the leather smooth in his hand. He pulled the book to his chest. Hugged it tight to his chest in a desperate attempt to self-sooth and not let his emotions get the better of him.

"Our child is born and Oliver is pleased. Because he knows that we will never leave him. Not while our child is with him. And we're trapped in his cycle of abuse. Doing everything so he wouldn't hurt…" he couldn't go on. He stopped. Blinked against tears and curled forward. Rested his forehead on his knees. Breathed through the panic that wanted to take hold of his transport.

"Sherlock. Focus. You're safe. Listen to my voice. Box Breathe with me. …That's it. Embrace the calm. You're safe. Oliver is dead. He's not here. Feel the book. The pages read. The leather worn. Do you feel it, Sherlock?"

He sat up finally. Wiped his face. "Sorry…" he mumbled. Not sure why. Giles had seen him pour out his heart at what had been done. Had watched him storm around the room in anger. Had watched him as tears coursed down his cheeks and he sobbed. And still he apologised for any outward sign of his anguish. As if he wasn't allowed that luxury.

"What does the book tell you?"

For a moment he struggled to switch. From where he was a moment ago and the lingering feel of Oliver and his words to the here and now. It was a little disconcerting but then the familiarity of his deductive skill he had blew away the last remnants of the nightmare. Wisps in the smoke, dissipating into thin air.

"Sentimental. Well read. Probably memorised. Some resonance with one the characters. A shared experience? Or feeling or empathy…still has value after all these years. Why else have it in your bookcase in between all the psychology treatises and textbooks."

Giles nodded. "You can have it, Sherlock."

"What?"

"A gift."

Sherlock shook his head. "No. I can't. This has value to you. Meaning."

"That is true. Tell me Sherlock. What do you remember about this book."

He gave a small wistful smile. A memory again surfacing of his brother's voice, reading to him in the dead of night when he was little and he couldn't sleep. When his active mind just couldn't find rest. The drone of Mycroft's voice calming. A white noise to the chaos in his head.

Before Redbeard…

"My brother used to read this to me." He said. "When I couldn't sleep." He paused. "I wanted to be a pirate. My brother thought to educate me by reading this book."

"I see." Giles was silent for a moment. "Do you remember what the book ends with?"

"l'humaine sagesse était tout entière dans ces deux mots: attendre et espérer!" Sherlock recited in French. "All human wisdom is contained in these two words, 'Wait and Hope!"

"Do you see?" Giles asked, why I reread the book as a child. Even now."

Sherlock was silent. Felt the words out in his mind. Threw it onto the whiteboard spread out in his mind palace. Shifted them around. Enjoyed the feel of them. And then understanding came. It was a breath of fresh air over the staleness of Oliver's nightmare. He remembered the well and sitting outside in the cold with Molly's hand on his chest. Birthing hope that night and helping him fan the flames when his own had seemed impossibly lost. When despair had been at its deepest and he had wondered how he was going to survive Oliver. His body hurting. His mind shattered. And her hope had pulled him back from the precipice into light. He remembered the colours of that morning as the sun rose. Painting the sky and breathing further hope inside him. The words he just spoke became life inside him. Breathing and tasting the hope that this too shall pass. That Oliver was dead. Buried and gone. And his memory will fade with time. He needed to wait. To understand that the healing process will take time. But he'll get there in the end.

"Thank you." He breathed. He stood. Placed the book back in the bookcase. His hand lingered on the back of the spine. He turned to Giles who stood by his chair. "It belongs here." He said simply. Nodded at Giles and left.

"This concludes the official inquiry into the activities of Oliver Harbinger, who was terminated under green light authorisation in his estate in Norway by a specialist in the assault team to extract Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper. And the further investigation into his known associates and the activities of Lords Marsden, Edwards, Cavendish and Michaels. The report and recommendation will be filed under the Secrecy act of 1991 and be locked for 5 years after which the record will be destroyed. Any objections?"

There were none, as Mycroft has known it be so. Standard procedure in this case.

"It has been found that Mycroft Holmes has acted in good conscience and without prejudice in regard to the handling of matters pertaining to Oliver. Oliver had vast resources available to him and has circumvented the legal system for the last 10 years. Other findings include him having been responsible for the kidnapping and murder of 25 men, the kidnapping and illegal incarceration of Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes, the stupefying, drugging, brutalisation, and rape by proxy of Sherlock Holmes, the systematic physical and mental abuse of Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes. Without the intervention of Mycroft Holmes, this man would still be alive to terrorise those he had kidnapped and unrelentingly orchestrating his crimes with malevolence.

As to the man previously known as Lord Marsden, who was killed in a single prop aeroplane crash, this inquiry's findings confirm him utilising blackmail to pressure Mycroft Holmes to give up the codes to a security meeting under threat of death to his brother. Evidence corroborates his participation in conspiracy and circumventing the highest moral and ethic codes pertaining to his office in the house of Lords. He is posthumously stripped of his title of Lord and any entitlements afforded to him, his family, and descendants to such title is rescinded with immediate effect.

As to Lord Edwards, who was killed in a single prop aeroplane crash, it is the finding of this inquiry…"

And so it continued. His actions cleared. The further protection of his brother and Molly assured. His freedom to continue to do what is best for England and the Home Office. After two hours, he walked out of that stuffy room in MI6, finally relieved that the saga of Oliver and the four lords was officially completed and closed.

He knew that the reality of Oliver still haunted his brother and Molly. He was aware of the nightmares. Sherlock still struggled with triggers. There were good and bad days but he seemed to be moving forward. He didn't begrudge them their happiness at all. Wanted to protect them as much as he could. He would do all that was in his power to make sure that they would have a life. That Oliver wouldn't steal more from them that he already had.

He entered his office. Antea was waiting for him.

"Any further movement?" he asked.

"None."

"Mmmm. Vexing." He sat down. Fingers tented beneath his chin. He looked up when a tentative knock on his door sounded. Anthea got up and opened the door. Signed and then took a package from the internal courier.

"It's addressed to you." She said, and handed him the package. He turned it over in his hands. Inspected it but there was nothing worth mentioning. It was a brown paper covered small box about the size of a tissue box. He took his letter opener, pulled it through the paper and opened the box.

Inside was a memory stick. Similar to the one that Murray had shown him a month ago. He dropped the package onto his desk, pushed it away from him.

"Sir?"

"Leave me." He pushed his chair away. Stared at the box and the innocuous memory stick nestled inside. When he finally moved forward and reached for the box, his hand was trembling.

The curious case of the missing actor Richard Brook

By Kitty Reilley

Richard Brook was an up-and-coming young children's actor. He had left work one day and never returned. His neighbours said that he was quiet. Never a problem and soft spoken. He did have a close acquaintance that occasionally would stay the night.

"He never had wild parties, like you know some actors are wont to do." Mrs Harris of 25B said, upon investigation.

"He was always prepared to help out," Mr Smith of 23A said. "A very nice, charming young man."

What would it take for the Met to finally investigate why an upstanding citizen of London would wake up one day, go missing and never warrant much more than a fleeting investigation. During the same time that Richard Brook went missing on his way home, Sherlock Holmes was mysteriously rescued after having been missing for almost 5 months. One wonders if there is a connection. What a children's actor and a consulting detective would have in common. Why would every effort be expanded by Mycroft Holmes and the home office to find his own missing brother, not above using the resources of his office while a lonely constable is assigned the file of Richard Brook.

Maybe it's true that some citizens are worth more. That the laws don't apply to everyone the same way. You, our dear reader, should remember the curious case when Sherlock Holmes was declared dead and then found alive, all within the space of one week after he got admitted to hospital on a suspected drug overdose. Yet, Richard Brook's file still sits on the desk of the same lowly constabulary officer at the bottom of the pile.

Should we ask the question: If you were to go missing tomorrow whether you would warrant a home office investigation until you're found or whether you'll sit at the bottom of a pile of files on some constable's desk.

Let us never forget that we all have the potential to be Richard Brook. Missing. Forgotten. Lost.

Unless your brother is Mycroft Holmes.