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!

4. Mom?

I almost choke on my tea. My mother? What was my mother doing at ... no, I understand. It's all clear now. Too much so, I would say. My father has always been a vindictive man. I know it. I experienced it firsthand. He wouldn't let her go.

"John," I say, grabbing my coat and starting to tuck in my scarf, "I'm going to Scotland Yard. There are developments in the case of ..." I interrupt myself. I just can't bring myself to finish the sentence "Well, you understand."

"I'd love to come too, Sherlock, but I have to go to the surgery."

"Don't worry" I tell him on my way out.

I call a cab. In a few minutes I arrive at Scotland Yard.

"How are you?" Lestrade asks me as soon as he sees me. It is the question of the day.

"Better" same question. Same answer.

"So" he resumes, professional "This Stephen Brown ... we found a business card of his half-buried by mud. Anderson recognized him."

"Where is he now?"

"We questioned him. He will be tried, of course, but he will certainly be acquitted in self-defense. You said to yourself that the dagger was your father's, right?"

"Right. But if the case is closed, why did you call me here?"

"I just wanted to know how you are," he replies insecurely. He loves me, despite everything I really care about him.

"I told you. I'm better."

"Better doesn't mean good."

"No"

"Mycroft will take care of the funeral, right?"

"Yes"

By now he has figured out how the conversation will go.

"Call me if you need me" he says as I'm already at the door.

"Likewise," I say.

Who needs who? He is the one who needs me! If I needed help, I certainly wouldn't turn to him! Now I just need answers. I know where to find them.

My parents' house is very big but it seems immense to me. I left it several years ago, since I was attending college. I never went back there, Christmas dinners aside.

She saw me through the window and is immediately at the door, ready to greet me. She has no makeup on. In her eyes are the marks of a sleepless night. Her now white hair is disheveled. She is not dressed yet, wearing that red robe of hers that I like so much. She is beautiful.

"Sherlock, darling," she says to me before hugging me.

"Hi Mom," I told her in response to the hug.

No more words are needed. She is my anchor. My salvation. The only woman I can trust. One might think I am a mama's boy. I don't give a damn. She has been the only one who has always stood up for me.

"Can you wait a few minutes for me? I'm going to get dressed."

I do not have time to answer that she has already left. As I wait for her, I look around. The rooms that saw me grow up. Everything in there reminds me of my father. Him and the relationship we had.

"Here I am," she tells me as she comes down the stairs.

Now I recognize her. She is dressed with her usual elegance and is perfectly made up. Under the foundation you can still see that she must not have slept much last night, but she manages to mask it perfectly.

"How are you?" I ask her. For the first time since yesterday it is me asking someone and not the other way around.

"I don't know," she replies, "I really don't know Sherlock."

She is agitated. I can see it. What is she hiding from me in those writhing hands, seeking reassurance from each other? What are those icy eyes hiding? Those eyes she had the goodness to give me. I look so much like her. That's why I know she won't talk. I will have to help her open up. It is not my intention to violate her intimacy in this way, but I need answers. I need to move forward along this road that has opened up before me.

"Were you getting divorced?" I ask her point-blank. I don't know how else to ask her.

She jerks back. Not that she didn't expect such a question from me.

"No," she replies. Will it be true?

"Then how come Dad tried to kill a divorce lawyer?" another snap.

She is now upset. Mycroft hasn't told her everything, apparently. I'll have to do it.

"What are you talking about?" she is honest. She really doesn't know anything.

"Do you know how he died?"

"No."

"They found him in an old abandoned shed. He was killed with his own dagger. The one he had inherited from his grandfather. He was the potential killer. Next to the body they found a business card. Do you know who Stephen Brown is?"

"What? Stephen? Where is he now? What have they done to him?"

"Do you know him?"

"I ..." he hesitates. What is that thing I see in his eyes? Guilt? "Yes. I know him."

Yes, I confirm. It is indeed guilt. I feel he is hiding more from me. She looks away. She knows I can read her inside. She knows I can tell when she's lying. She can't afford to. Not with me. She is as taut as a violin string.

"He'll be tired but he'll get off. Everything proves it was self-defense."

The tension magically disappears. Her shoulders slump and she returns to normal breathing. Will it be appropriate to ask her anything? Even if I did, would she answer me truthfully? Doubts creep slowly into my mind. She notices. I am like an open book to her. She is the only one who understands me.

"I can explain, Sherlock," she tells me with a pained expression.

Does she want to justify herself? Does she want to explain why my father tried to kill him? Not only did he try to kill him, he intentionally lured him into that shed! He must have had a very good reason for doing what he did. Or did she?

"Stephen and I knew each other from our college days. We had not seen each other for years. He has always lived here in England. We lost touch when I moved to France. I didn't know anything more about him until a few months ago."

"You don't mean to tell me that you and he ..." why not? Why not?

"No," she replies, dryly, "We were not lovers, if that's what you were implying."

Perfect. I upset her. She turns around, ostentatiously giving me her back with her arms crossed over her chest. The conversation is over. I no longer know what to say to her. I am weighed down by this wall that is rising between us. I don't want it. Yet there it is. She is defending herself. From me? Why should he defend himself from me? Is she afraid I might find out something? Something that even she doesn't want to admit?

If she first does not want to see the truth, who am I to rub it in her face? I do it with everyone, and yet with her I don't feel like it. I can't. I don't want to disrespect her like this. I am far from finding out the truth, but she has put up this barrier that prevents me from communicating. More questions would be useless. Harmful.

Yet I want the truth. I know she could give it to me.

Here.

Right away.

Now.

Will I then have to advance alone? So many questions run through my mind. As many as the memories that, slowly, surface. Memories that I thought I had buried forever with cocaine. Now I don't need it anymore. I am motivated. I am full of energy. I want to get to the bottom of this.

As far as the law is concerned, the case is closed. Stephen Brown will soon be able to return to separating unhappy couples while my father will lie forever under the bare earth. How melodramatic! I feel sorry for myself.

For me? Is the case closed for me? No, of course not. It has just begun. The game is on! This time, however, I will have to be very careful. I'll have to investigate outside, figure out what led my father to that extreme act. Who is Stephen Brown really? What is his relationship with my mother? I might stalk him. I might try to read his schedule. Question the secretary. I feel the adrenaline rising. I have to act.

There is another case, however, that I will have to follow. Myself. What is happening to me?

So many, too many memories have lined up to try me. I am on the stand. There is no way to escape this. I am afraid. Afraid to remember. Yet there is no alternative. I don't see it, in front of me. I feel that if I let go it would be worse. Everything that happened to me, during my childhood, is beginning to erupt.

For now it is still lapilli and ash. The bad is yet to come. Will I be able to handle it?

"I'm sorry, Mom," I tell her as I approach her. I see that she calms down. She turns gracefully and looks at me with shining eyes.

"Don't worry," she tells me simply.

I sink my face into her shoulder. I need this embrace. My body vibrates. Tension, anger, curiosity, fear. I need to vent.