Hello everyone! Before I start I would like to make a small preamble: this story is written in the original Italian and this English translation was made by an artificial intelligence. I hope to be able to correct any mistakes, if not I ask you to be lenient.

Enjoy reading and let me know what you think, readers' opinions always help me to improve my work!

3. Burning coals

I don't remember much of what happened afterwards. It was so confusing ... Mycroft came and hugged me. He wasn't crying. He was never weak.

He supported me with his strong arms. The arms I wished I had had too, to be able to support myself. He carried me home. John still wasn't there so he stayed with me until at least Mrs Hudson came home.

She too stayed with me until John came back. He still doesn't know anything.

Now he is here, in front of me. He looks at me. I have my eyes on him but I don't see him. No one has said anything to him. I will have to. But I am still in shock. I can't form sentences that make sense. My thoughts run fast, as usual, but my body refuses to obey me.

I have been in this state all day. Neither Mycroft nor Mrs Hudson managed to wake me up.

With an immense effort of will, I return to earth. It's something I want to do. I force myself to do it.

'Sherlock,' John whispers to me, 'what happened? Mrs Hudson seemed so worried ...'

I look at him and now I see him. He is worried about me too. Dear John! I make him angry and yet he is always there for me!

'This morning' I begin with difficulty 'This morning I went to examine a corpse'

'Nothing out of the ordinary then' he says getting up from the chair he was sitting on to go to the kitchen. I can hear him fiddling with the kettle to make tea.

'It was my father' I say simply. How am I supposed to say it? There is no other way. I hear the sound of a cup breaking. I look towards the kitchen and see John, stiffened, his hand open. He turns to me. He looks at me. He studies me. He doesn't know what to say to me. I see panic in his eyes.

'Forget it,' I say, 'You don't need to say anything.'

'Did they kill him?' he asks me, trying to ask the questions he would ask me if it were just any corpse. Unfortunately, it is not.

'From the clues I've been able to detect at the scene there must have been a fight' I reply, trying to sound professional 'But I'm pretty sure my father wanted to kill whoever killed him instead'

'How so?' he asks me. Yeah. How come? Who would have wanted to kill my father? Who did he have it in for?

'I don't know.'

I try to get up. I can't. I feel weak. Frustrated. Tired. I feel like crying. I feel like sleeping. I feel like being alone. I need cocaine. I can't inject it now, here, in front of John. He'd despise me. No, worse. He would stop me from doing it.

I try to stand up but my arms refuse to support the weight of my body. I fall back abruptly into the armchair. John immediately comes to my rescue. I was expecting it.

'I'll help you,' he says, grabbing me from under my armpits. "You need sleep," he decides.

Yes, he decides. When he uses that tone there are no saints. I need to sleep or, at least, pretend. He takes me to bed. Normally I would have lain there with my eyes open, still thinking. Not today. I don't have the strength. I just want to sleep.

The cocaine is always there, in my safe, out of my reach. I wonder if I would be able to inject it, under these conditions.

He covers me and leaves the room, not before stopping for a couple of minutes to observe me. What does he feel towards me? Pity?

I close my eyes. I don't want to sleep but I need to. Yet I am afraid. Afraid of reliving that nightmare.

This time, though, I will try to follow that psychologist's advice. Not that I trust her, mind you. It will be an experiment. I hope it doesn't come. I hope to sleep eight hours straight and wake up fresh tomorrow morning.

Mycroft will be in charge of the funeral. I'll just have to ... I can't think about anything anymore. A grey cloud envelops me. I feel that I am about to faint. I feel it clearly. It's not pure surrender to sleep. It is something worse. I quickly fall into oblivion.

They are back in that cradle. The music, above me, continues. The plastic birds are circling and amusing me. How cute they are! Maybe this time I will be able to fall asleep to the sound of this sweet piano? I will try. I close my eyes and try. Useless.

The cries of the two are soon heard.

'How could you!' he shouts 'You bitch!'

'Please' she pleads with him 'Please forgive me!'

'It is too late now!'

'No, please don't! Think of your son!'

'My son? How can you say such a thing?'

'Please! Please!'

So the beatings start. I hear them. The woman can no longer speak. She cries, under those beatings.

Then, with an effort of will, I get up. The cradle disappears.

I walk. I can walk. I am no longer a baby. How old will I be? Six, judging by my stature. I advance towards the door. I open it and I am outside, in the corridor. I start to run towards the screams but they suddenly stop. I stop in the middle of the room, disoriented.

What happens? I try to run back, but a door opens in front of me. I hadn't noticed it.

A man comes out. I recognise him. I feel affection for him. I want to go and hug him.

'Dad!' I shout happily. I ran towards him with open arms. He does not even look at me. He walks past me without noticing my presence. I suffer for it.

'Daddy! Look at me! I am here! Hold me! Take me in your arms!'

He doesn't listen to me. Why am I begging him? I run after him but he goes too fast. I can't do it. I fell.

I wake up.

I am in bed. I struggle to free myself from the sheets that in my agitated sleep have wrapped themselves around my body. I feel like a mummy.

'John?' I call out to him. Will he be home? Please, John! Answer! 'JOHN!'

A beam of light enters my room. John has opened the door and is watching me.

'You all right, Sherlock?'

What an idiotic question! How can everything be alright! I must have a scary face because he immediately comes up to me and hugs me.

'Everything's fine, Sherlock. I'm right here. I'm here.'

I can feel it. He is here. The contact with his arms makes me feel better. I feel something wet running down my cheek. Yet another tear. I can't take any more. For years I haven't cried and it seems now all the tears I've repressed want revenge on me.

'Sherlock, please,' he tells me. He doesn't add anything else. He just wants me to confide in him. I won't. He knows that.

For now, I just sink my face into his chest, trying to calm the sobs that shake my body. My soul.

It's morning. How did it happen? It was so dark before ... The last memory I have is my face pressed against John's jumper, damp with tears. I get up. I'm already dressed because last night I just couldn't bring myself to change. I need a shower.

I wash and put on clean clothes. I look at myself in the mirror. I try to assume the usual indifferent expression. I succeeded. inside, in fact, I am shattered.

I find John in the kitchen. He is eating breakfast.

'How are you today?' he asks me thoughtfully.

'Better,' I reply.

Indeed he is. It is a little better. The dream has continued. I am proceeding down a path of coals. My father's murder was the push that made me take the first step. Now I just have to go on. Ignore the pain and carry on. What will be at the end of the path?

I see that my cup is already full of tea. It is just what I need this morning. I am also hungry. I sit down and start dipping some biscuits. I'm really enjoying this breakfast. John looks at me. He's worried about me, I can tell. I smile at him. I don't want him to be sad.

I hear the phone vibrate above the desk. I jumped up to fetch it. Yes, I'm definitely better. It's Lestrade.

'Sherlock, we've spotted the other man,' he tells me with bated breath. He must have been running a lot these last few hours. That he did it for me?

'Who is he?' I ask in my usual cold, professional voice.

'His name is Stephen Brown. He is a divorce lawyer. We found a name in his diary that may interest you.'

'Tell me.'

'Violet Holmes.'