Mycroft doesn't have the best way with words. WARNING: distressing content at the end of chapter.
For five days after the interview, Mycroft takes more hours off work and watches his brother like a hawk. He doesn't like what he sees.
The younger Holmes is pale, eyes red and dazed, big bags under them from lack of sleep. His appearance is akin to having been in a fight and lost.
Approaching John Watson, he pulls the man to one side. "Doctor, what can you tell me about my brother's condition?"
John sighs, not looking much better than Sherlock. "I'm afraid that interview about William and Charlotte was the last thing he needed. He had been improving. Now he throws up if I even try to put food near his mouth."
"As you are the medical professional, might I ask what your suggestions are?"
John rubs his face in a mixture of fatigue and frustration. "I don't know, Mycroft. Your brother has been amazing up until this point but now I don't know what to suggest. Having him institutionalised could be a bad idea, but I honestly don't think he should stay here at Baker Street. He's trapped. He needs walks, fresh air and freedom from the hyenas camping out at the end of the street, not this. Do you not have somewhere he and Jack could go that's private? Even if there's no room for me, it doesn't matter. Any doctor could do regular visits."
"I can assure you, Doctor Watson, that whilst I have appreciated your dedication to my brother's recovery, I am concerned about your personal feelings."
John chokes. "My what?"
"Don't think I haven't been watching you. You could jeopardize his recovery."
The doctor recovers quickly. "So could you and Lestrade. Didn't know you had penguin contacts in Antarctica. How is Mrs. Lestrade?"
Mycroft straightens, his entire posture screaming outrage at John's low blow. "Careful where you tread, Doctor Watson. Like you said, any doctor could do your job."
"Shouldn't you let Sherlock decide who he sees and who takes care of him?"
"If my brother had any notion of making good choices, he wouldn't have walked into a trap thirteen years ago. Every choice I make for him now I make in his best interest. I will continue to do so, whether he likes it or not."
John snorts, still trying to keep his voice low. "So what, you're just going to choose everything for him from now on? Decide who treats him, who he sees, what time and when he's allowed out? That's almost as bad as what those monsters did to him! Locking him up for his own safety?"
"There is one difference, Doctor." Mycroft's voice was like ice. "I am his brother. I will not… hurt him."
"Not physically! What if Sherlock refuses, wants to do things on his own? He's not sixteen anymore, Mycroft!"
Mycroft sneers. "I lost my little brother once. I refuse to let that happen again. By any means necessary." He doesn't quite storm away back into the living room.
John takes a moment to recompose himself. He takes a few deep breaths to calm himself, so as not to scare Jack or Sherlock. Little did he or Mycroft know that the man in question had been standing in the corridor heading towards his bedroom, listening to every word they said.
"When I was little, my favourite story was 'Jack and the Beanstalk'. It's about a boy named Jack who climbs up a beanstalk and escapes from giants to help his mother. Have I read you this story?"
Brown eyes peer at him over the top of Sherlock's chair. Jack shakes his head.
John nods, pleased. "It's a good story. Perhaps uncle Mycroft will read it for you." He throws Mycroft a pointed look, and the British Government glares back.
"Ah... Yes..."
A small blur shoots across the space between them and Jack crawls up onto Mycroft's lap before the man can stop him. He hides his face against his uncle's expensive suit.
John holds out the book to him. "Here you go."
"I hope you like the story." Says Sherlock, suddenly entering the room. "Because that's where you got your name from."
All eyes turn to the younger Holmes. "Jack defeated the giants... A part of me hoped he would defeat the Monsters too." Sherlock smiles at his son proudly. "My little hero."
Jack snatches the book. "Thank you," he whispers and pushes his long hair away from his face and switches on the puppy eyes for Mycroft. "Will you read me the book? Please?"
Somehow, he succeeds at making Mycroft soften slightly. "Very well. Pass me the book please."
Jack wiggles around until he's comfy. Mycroft glares until everyone gets the message and leaves. John and Sherlock head to the kitchen.
"John? Do you think I can make my own decisions?"
John starts at the unexpected question. He's reminded of the discussion he and Mycroft had just an hour ago. "Of course. Why do you ask?"
His has his back turned to Sherlock, and doesn't see how the other man trembles. "If I were to go outside, all by myself, do you think I would cope?"
John stops his tea making to consider the question. The prolonged silence makes Sherlock twitchier. "I think," he says eventually, "I think that the world has changed a lot in thirteen years. There's a lot you need to catch up on. A lot you must learn. But I see how you remember things so quickly and in so much detail. I don't doubt you'll navigate fine given some time. I think that in a couple of months, the media and the public will calm down and move on to some other dramatic story and people won't even recognise you. You're going to be fine, Sherlock."
The smile he gives him makes Sherlock's heart flutter. He thinks back to the conversation he heard between Mycroft and John. Whilst Mycroft's statements had left him feeling vulnerable and scared of his brother, he hadn't forgotten the part where Mycroft mentioned that John had feelings for him. His heart flutters excitedly. "John."
John turns to face him, eyes bright, jumper looking as soft as ever, his round face making him the least scary thing he'd ever had to face. Without thinking, Sherlock moves his face towards John's, eyes fixed on the other man's lips.
The doctor leaps back. "Whoa! Sherlock, what are you doing?"
Had he misunderstood the conversation he'd overheard? After everything John had done for him, how else could he say thank you? He'd thought John wanted it…
"I… wanted to say thank you…"
John, still stuck to the fridge he'd backed up against and remembering Mycroft's threats, looks dismayed. "I'm your friend, Sherlock. This is not how friends thank each other. This is a bit not good."
Sherlock feels like the rug has been pulled out from under his feet. Had he misunderstood Mycroft's use of the expression "personal feelings". Because he liked John. A lot. But if John didn't really like him…
John tries to gather himself, blushing and avoiding eye contact. "If you really want to thank me, you can just keep working hard at getting better. That's all. Just keep getting better for your own sake."
Sherlock is drowning in waves of humiliation. "I'm sorry, John."
Both men avoid looking at each other. The silence is heavy with embarrassment.
Mycroft's phone rings.
They head back to the lounge where Mycroft sits as still as a snake ready to strike. Jack glares at his storybook like it's somehow offended him.
"I understand..." Mycroft glances at his brother, who tenses. "I see. I see. Thank you, Detective Inspector. You have been most helpful. Yes. Thank Philip Anderson for me too." He hangs up. "I have to go. Thank you for a very insightful conversation, Jack. I will be back for more."
Jack nods once and runs to play with his toys.
"They have confirmed the cause of death for William and Charlotte. I must go. We can have a funeral in two days. I'll have a suit made for you. Take care of yourselves."
Mycroft leaves the flat. He climbs into his limousine and sits back as they drive past the dwindling number of journalists. Once his car is clear and on its way to Bart's, he grabs his umbrella and stabs holes into the leather seats of the car, fury boiling his blood.
Opposite him, Anthea allows him to vent his frustration. He's done this ever since his brother had been found. Having the car re-upholstered daily was slowly becoming tedious.
They arrive at Bart's and are led straight to the morgue. Doctor Hooper awaits them, smiling nervously.
"Cause of death?" Mycroft cannot be bothered with pleasantries.
"The girl, Charlotte, died from suffocation, like your brother stated. The footage Anderson found today proves it. The boy, William, has a crushed pelvis, like something or someone heavy was on top of him."
Mycroft flinches.
"Anderson only found the camera in the vault... the room today, but Sherlock said the boy was taken away, so all I can tell you is that he also died from suffocation."
Mycroft stares at the autopsy table, where both children's remains are covered with sheets. They may be reconstructed skeletons, but he's glad he doesn't have to see. "Strangled?"
Molly shakes her head, sad. "No. There was too much dirt in the mouth and chest. I'm certain he was buried alive."
The room goes awfully quiet. A high-pitched ringing makes itself known in his ears. Anthea stops typing and makes a quick call. "She sat on him and buried him alive?"
She shakes her head. "I can't prove sexual assault before death, but yes, this does seem likely. I'm so sorry."
Mycroft blinks. "Anthea?"
"Done, sir."
Mycroft nods. "Thank you, Miss Hooper. You have been most helpful."
They leave and head up to Lestrade's office. Upon arrival, Lestrade, Donovan and Anderson are sat in front of a computer screen. In the corner, Mycroft's and Sherlock's parents sit quietly. They've been crying.
Mycroft raises both eyebrows and turns to Anthea. She doesn't raise her eyes from her phone. Guilty as charged.
"Mycroft." His mother comes towards him. She looks shaken. "Mycroft... Detective Lestrade showed us the footage..."
"Anderson figured it out." Lestrade's voice is quiet, too quiet. "That strip light that kept blinking; it was sharing power with a small camera, hidden next to it. We were in Magnussen's bedroom, and Philip switched on the TV. Camera had a direct feed into it. It also recorded everything."
Mycroft walks silently behind the desk to stand behind the members of New Scotland Yard. He stares quietly at the computer screen.
"It'll take thirteen years to watch all of it." murmurs Lestrade.
Mycroft can't stop it. He moves to the bin and throws up, all his hatred and misery trying to leave with it. A small hand rubs his back as his mother tries to comfort him. He wonders why Anthea would have told them to come. Perhaps she knew that visual proof of the ordeal would snap his parents out of their denial.
Someone guides him to a seat and pushes a bottle of water into his hand. He sips it. When he opens his eyes, his parents are sat opposite him.
"She raped my baby." hisses his mother. "She drugged him and forced herself..."
"You already knew that, Mummy. You and father chose to ignore it. And you hurt Sherlock even more in the process. Now you know. I hope you're proud."
They sit in silence for a long time. "I want them to pay." His mother hisses. Sigar grips her hand.
"I know Charles Magnussen, son, and so do you. Even if you jail him, he'll never stop. He's the most perverted bastard out there. We can't let him haunt Sherlock for the rest of his life."
Mycroft opens his mouth, but his mother cuts him off. "I'm a good cook. I'm an excellent mathematician. But I am a terrible mother. When you called to tell me Sherlock had been found, I thought everything could go back to normal. But when you said there was a child... and signs of sexual abuse, I panicked. I should have been there to hold my child when he cried and welcome my grandson, but instead, your father and I convinced ourselves that Sherlock would be the same; the same arrogant teenager, always doing his own thing. When he was missing we never imagined a scenario like this, so we kept up the pretense. We thought he'd never want to keep a child, because our Sherlock would never... But he did. I thought it was Stockholm Syndrome talking or something. But he's stuck to his guns, and so have you. But no matter what, we never should have thought that we could snap him out of it. We were wrong and we will regret it for the rest of our lives. Sherlock is now the type of man who will never abandon his baby. He will succeed where we failed. He will never forgive us or want to talk to us again, I know that. All we can do is rid him of these animals who've ruined his life for so many years."
She takes a sip of her own water and bursts into hysterical tears.
Twenty minutes later they climb into his limousine. As the door shuts, he says, "You congratulated Sherlock for not giving Jack the family name. You should know that there were to other children, William and Charlotte. They're in the morgue."
The rest of the car ride is silent except for Anthea's furious tapping.
The call Anthea made in the morgue pays off 12 hours later. With more calls from Mycroft, bribing, threats, forged signatures and more calls, Mycroft, his assistant and his parents find themselves in a clearing nearly two hundred miles from where Sherlock is, eighteen hours later. It doesn't take long for a van to drive up across the bumpy dirt path. The driver and his passenger, more of Mycroft's men, jump out and open the back doors. A few yards away, another man is operating a digger, rapidly making a deep hole in the ground. The engine switches off when the van doors open.
Two figures, blindfolded, gagged and handcuffed are pulled out. Detective Lestrade jumps out after them.
"If anyone finds out about this, I will have to go on the run."
Mycroft reaches out and takes his hand. His own heart is racing, at the thrill of what he is about to do. "I'll run with you."
Lestrade grins. "You'd better."
The two figures are dragged to their feet end the blindfolds removed. The terrified faces of Mary Morstan and Charles Magnussen stare up at them.
"I must say," says Mycroft, feeling his heart soar at the sheer power he has in his grasp. The power to save his brother. "I must say that I have come up with 457 different ways to kill you. Both. But then you made it easy." He leans into her face, enjoying the confused look in her eyes. "You killed my niece and nephew. Suffocation, I hear. As much as I want to kill you with my bare hands like you did Charlotte, I have decided that there are far more creative ways. I was going to stand here and ask you why you were going to plead Not Guilty, why you were going to blame Sherlock and more importantly, how you were planning on getting away with it, but I know that the more you talk, the better it is for you. So I'm not going to ask. I just wanted to get a good look at you whilst I said goodbye." A pause. "Lestrade."
Anthea grabs Mary and Lestrade grabs Magnussen. They drag the pair kicking and screaming to the edge of the six-foot-deep hole and push them in.
Mycroft and his parents walk to the edge and look down. The severity of the situation seems to have sunk in. Magnussen spits his gag out. "You can't do this! My lawyer will..."
"Think you're dead." finishes Mycroft. "A couple baring the same blood types as you both were in a car that caught fire. Now they're in your cells, a part of the prison that has also happened to catch fire. And my boyfriend charmed the Medical Examiner."
Lestrade grins and waves.
His parents take a slightly longer look at the screaming and scrambling pair before they step back. Then the digger roars to life and scoops up mud and soil. The screaming and pleading get louder. Mycroft stares down at them, the lights from the machines shining down on him, making him appear larger than life in the artificial light. Mary Morstan screams up at him, her eyes mad. They're nothing like Jack's.
As the soil pours down, Mycroft continues to watch. One of them manages to get free of their bonds, but he can't tell who, all that's visible are flailing limbs slowly being buried. His father appears beside him with a shovel. He helps throw more soil down the hole. A strange nothingness fills him. Only a tinge of relief. He wanted to burn them slowly hear them beg. But being buried alive is a horrible death. It certainly looks it. He can only hope little William didn't suffer for too long.
He can't tell Sherlock how his son died. Can't tell him about tonight either. Although, knowing Sherlock, he will probably work it out eventually.
Ten minutes later the hole is filled. Mycroft feels frustration. He wishes he'd put a camera down there just so he could see the looks on their very dead faces. Would it be very wrong of him to dig them up, just so he could beat up the corpses with a whip?
Lestrade stands next to him, calm. He looks better than he has done in weeks.
"You were hoping to make them suffer longer."
Mycroft tilts his head to one side. "It doesn't really matter. I've spent five weeks imagining what I could do to them, but now I know it doesn't matter. Why should it? I have my brother back. I'm the British Government; I'm constantly at war. But I didn't need that in my own family. Seeing my brother at peace will be all I need from this awful period of my life."
They all stand there for a while longer until the van and digger leave. His mother holds his hand. "We won't bother Sherlock unless he asks for us. But should he ask, tell him we love him."
The next day, there's a proper funeral. Sherlock has been fitted with a suit, as has John. Jack is there, but stays back with Mrs. Hudson to give Sherlock some space.
Two small headstones next to each other and two caskets being lowered into the ground.
Mycroft watches as Sherlock cries silently. He knows his brother only half grieved a long time ago. To his right, John stands there, a constant presence. Mycroft knows something must have happened, because the good doctor is stressed. Sherlock also seems hesitant around him.
We're in the outside again. I'm a bit scared, but it's okay, because good people are here. Pa and the Somebody are wearing suits. Pa looks very smart. Even his hair is getting longer. It's getting a bit wavy like mine. Pa told the truth! All that time ago.
We're here because there were other children born out of Strip Light like me, except when they landed, they landed so hard, they bounced back to heaven. But when I came, Pa was ready, so he caught me. I was safe in his arms, and he said 'Hello, Jack!' The Monsters put the others somewhere where Pa couldn't find them, but Lestrade found them, because he's a good guy. I wanted to see them, but Somebody explained that when they were asleep and that must we never ever wake them. I hope they aren't jealous that I got to be with Pa and not them.
The Somebody bought me more books, and Uncle Mycroft promised to read them and not to argue about them this time. Assistant Anthea has told me that the people with cameras are nearby and that they must not ever take my photo or Uncle Mycroft will go to war again. I don't think he'd mind; he seems to enjoy it.
Mrs. Hudson holds my hand and cries. She's sad for the other children. I feel bad because it might have been my fault. I ask Pa, but he gets mad and says 'NO WAY!' and he holds me very tight.
"Why are you crying?" I asked him before we came to the funeral.
"I'm not crying!"
"Yes, you are! You cry on the inside when you stare at wall like you did in hospital."
He held me very tightly for a long time. "I want it all to end."
"What?"
"I want it all to end, Jack. I want to go to sleep and never wake up."
"Like dying?"
He didn't answer. I think Pa is very sad about the other children and it breaks him on the inside.
When the funeral is over, Pa comes to me, and hugs so tightly it hurts. "I love you so much."
I squeeze back, but I'm still very small, so I whisper, "Love you too, Pa."
Pa goes to Uncle Mycroft and they talk quietly. Pa looks terrible.
"Well, I am very glad this is over."
Pa nods very very slowly. Something is wrong, but I don't understand. Perhaps the Somebody should talk to him.
Uncle Mycroft puts his hand on Pa's shoulder. "You have to move on, Sherlock."
Pa goes very still. "Are you telling me what to do Mycroft? These are my emotions and my feelings. Going to lock me up in Baker Street just so you never lose sight of me again?"
Uncle Mycroft actually pulls his evil face at Pa! "I'm never letting you out of my sight again. I will do anything to ensure that. By force if necessary."
"I know you don't think I can make my own decisions. But that doesn't mean you can control me."
"I know you can't make your own decisions." Uncle Mycroft sounds mad now. "If you could, you never would have been kidnapped and two children never would have died."
Pa gasps, but Uncle Mycroft walks away so he doesn't hear.
Bad, sad, eyes, knives, broken!
My deduction makes no sense, and I shake my head. I run to Uncle Mycroft to tell him. The Somebody catches my arm and tells me we must go to the car. I try to tell him that I have an important deduction, but he says I can tell him when we get home. I argue, but he says 'please' which means I have to be good.
Sitting in the car, the deduction gets louder and louder until my Mind Palace Wardrobe explodes! And Eggsnake and School box go flying out. Pa is still crying quietly and looking at him makes it worse. When we get home, the Somebody picks me up and carries me inside. He even carries me up the steps and I look over his shoulder at Pa and I gasp because I don't know what's happening. John sits in his chair with me in his lap. Pa climbs the stairs very slowly.
"Something's wrong." I tell the Somebody.
"What do you mean?"
"Bad, sad, eyes, knives, broken."
"Is that an analysis… erm, I mean, deduction?"
"Yes, something's wrong with Pa. You must fix it; I think Uncle Mycroft made him sad."
John bites his lip. "Your Pa and I had a disagreement."
I gasp. "John! Why? Pa's nice and likes your hugs! Now you hurt him!"
Pa walks past to head to the bathroom. I cover my head and moan because the deduction is loud. Somebody strokes my head and frowns at Pa.
"Sherlock, is everything okay? I didn't want to make you feel... Sherlock?"
The bathroom door closes quietly.
"You're right, Jack, I really upset him. I didn't mean to, but... wait, you said Uncle Mycroft upset him? Maybe he was sad because I wouldn't let him kiss… erm, because of our argument. He probably wanted to talk, and I pushed him away."
I nod. "Fix it, John. Fix it now."
John shrugs. "What should I say?"
I bite my lip.
A couple of minutes later Uncle Mycroft and his assistant come in. "Where is Sherlock?" He opens his work files. "I need to speak with him, I think he's been through my files."
"Bad!" I shout.
"He's been depressed for the past week." says John, not hearing him. "I haven't been the best friend."
"Sad!"
"And he won't look at me..."
"EYES!" I shout. "Eyes, John!"
The Somebody holds my hand. "I don't understand, Jack..."
"Pa said he wanted it all to end. He said he wanted to go to sleep and never wake up." I frown. "Broken!"
John looks afraid. "He said that? Oh, god, I should go talk to him, I've been so caught up with what Mycroft said..."
He gets up but Uncle Mycroft waves him back to his seat and heads to the bathroom himself.
John frowns after him, then at me. "What were you saying about broken?"
I huff. "Bad, Sad, Eyes, Knives, Broken!"
Assistant Anthea drops her phone and goes very sick white. "Oh, god."
I jump as Uncle Mycroft starts screaming. John grabs me and I cover my ears. "Knives" I whisper.
Mycroft knocks at the bathroom door. "Sherlock, everything okay in there? I do apologise if what I said at the funeral hurt you, but I only have your best interests in mind brother, and..." He pushes the door open.
The world crashes to a halt.
For a second, Mycroft can't be sure he isn't imagining things. Water pours over the edge of the bath slowly turning red. Sherlock lays in it, head tipped back, skin unnaturally white. His eyes are closed, but he looks stressed, even asleep. A razor blade, stained crimson, lies on the floor where he dropped it.
Mycroft, for the first time in his life, doesn't understand.
Then Sherlock's body slowly slides until his head disappears underwater and reality hits. Mycroft can hear himself screaming for help, for an ambulance, for John, anything. He runs forward and plunges his arms into cold, bloody water and brings Sherlock back to the surface. He wraps his arms around Sherlock's torso, cradles his head in his hands.
"Sherlock? No, please, Sherlock, I'm sorry... oh God, please, little brother, Sherlock, breathe, breathe for me, please. SHERLOCK? SHERLOCK! Please don't do this to me! PLEASE! SHERLOCK!"