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Mycroft's P.O.V.

It had been bad enough, when Anthea texted me to tell me, a young woman had contacted my brother. Claiming to be a journalist, an obvious lie, stating that the Mafia was infiltrating Scotland Yard, an outrageous lie, and then going on to say, she was his daughter, a ludicrous falsehood! Or so I thought. I was as shocked as Sherlock, when the test results came back positive. I knew it had to be true, because of course we double checked. I had not been informed however, that my little brother had send another sample to this Molly Hooper, matching the woman's DNA with that of Watson. Actually quite brilliant, but such should always be expected of him.

So when Anthea called me away from the latest climate conference in Bern, my anger over this interruption was soon pushed aside by that result. And the following revelations made my blood run cold. I took the first plane home, excusing myself from the negotiations (there didn't seem to be any terrorist threat anyways), constantly watching the live feed from our hidden cameras. This young woman, this girl Angela, my niece... She was a walking miracle, worth her weight in government secrets! And so, her, and her family, my brother and his army doctor (I still could not believe it!), were in great danger. If only I had been able to hear, what they were listening to, holding fingers like that! But most was revealed by her following report.

Doctor Watson soon left the discussion, after the revelations, as I had expected. My brother made the needed inquiries, and the girl gave him the information. But she also became emotional. And my brother surprised me, by comforting her. I was at a loss. In all my life, I had seen Sherlock only react this friendly towards one stranger: John Watson! That had already kept me guessing ever since. And now he was being so... sociable, again, to a complete stranger, and a woman no less. I couldn't understand. She even mentioned it herself, and his answer threw me of guard once more. I started to really worry for him. And I was right.

After Angela had told him everything, he went up to Watson's room to talk to him. At first, everything seemed normal, he simply wished to assure himself of the doctors support. But then he had to mention their... strange... relationship. And his friend (it was bad enough to see, that the title was more than just a convenient label to my brother) reacted as I had expected, with hostility and denial. But Sherlock did not take to it well. I cursed at the pilot to make speed, as I had to witness my little brother collapse on the floor, eyes wide, breathing faster and faster, shaking and jerking his hands in spasms, panicking.

And that imbecile of a goldfish had the audacity to accuse my brother of making a scene, using drama to manipulate him. But luckily the doctor in him soon realized, what was happening, and tried to snap him out of it. Meanwhile I watched helplessly, how Sherlock struggled with a brain meltdown. He had had it only once before, and described it as a strange and frightening trance, where he sees, hears, smells and feels a million things at once, but cannot see or sense the people around him. It was back when he was still a child, and had made the mistake of befriending a goldfish. And then it died... I had sworn myself, that I would not let him suffer the same agony ever again. Showed him how to shield himself from feelings. Taught him to distance himself from emotions. But it was all for nothing, I had to realize.

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With dread, I watched on, as Watson tried to reach my brother, sitting on the floor next to his bed, his body trembling, his head flinching to the side. The doctor knelt beside him, one hand on his shoulder, trying to hold his head with the other, and pleaded: "Sherlock, calm down, what is happening? Please, what's going on? Sherlock?? Sherlock!" He finally looked deeply worried at my brother, listening to him huff and mumble the names of capitols, measurements, and prime numbers, without any connection to each other, while crying and shaking. The good doctor started to panic, taking my brother's pulse, presumably going up higher and higher, and seeing the spasms becoming more and more violent. "Oh Sherlock, please, what is wrong with you? Please, snap out of it! Sherlock!", he yelled, and then, apparently out of an impulse, cried: "Angela!! Help!!"

The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

On another angle I saw the young woman running up the stairs in a flash, just to stand in the door, surprised. But then she knelt down next to them, asking Watson: "How did it happen?" The doctor looked at her with questioning eyes and quickly responded: "How? Well... we talked, and... I wanted to leave, but he suddenly dropped to the floor and started shaking! What's happening to him?" She gave him a stern look and repeated: "You wanted to leave? Like, completely? Did you tell him that?", while at the same time taking one of my brother's hands to flick against his fingers, one by one. An interesting method!

Watson watched her, dumbfounded, and answered: "Eh... Well, I said, 'That's it, I'm out', and wanted to... I'm not sure, I just wanted to leave...", he looked uneasy, "Why is that important? Is that, why he's reacting like this? We've had fights before, where one of us would just walk out, usually him! Why this now?" But the girl simply instructed: "Hold him. And tell him, you're here." As much as I hated seeing, let alone admitting it, that kind of gesture just might work out. Watson looked at her with big eyes, but then obeyed, carefully wrapping his arm around Sherlock, who seemed to fight against it at first, but then stopped flailing, though he was still trembling. My niece took his other hand to continue flicking, but pried further: "Is that really all that happened? What were you arguing over?"

I could see Watson shifting his weight embarrassed, still only barely touching my poor brother, when he finally confessed: "Well, it was... He said... It's about, what you said about us." His face turned red and he avoided looking her in the eye. But then this clever girl firmly demanded: "John Hamish Watson, this is an emergency, and your friend needs your help! Anything you know has to be revealed, or we can't help him! Now, what did you talk about, word for word?" She caught his eye and I reckon when he saw the determination in her face, he had to give up, reporting: "He told me, he has feelings for me. And then said, he believes, we got married as a joke to Mycroft.”

I had to admit, that part of their supposed liaison would surly annoy me! "I asked if that's all he sees in me, something to laugh at, and he said, he could have manipulated me, but didn't need to.", the doctor continued, swallowing hard, "I was angry, and he said... he said 'I love you, John', and I couldn't take it anymore, so I wanted to leave!” That coward! "That's all, I swear. And... I really don't want to... Why is he reacting like this, it's not epilepsy, what's happening?", he asked, but the girl still looked at him with a frown and urged: "You have to hug him more! He needs to feel the pressure... He's having something like a mental collapse, his mind can't handle the emotions, so it's throwing all kinds of information at him instead. He had this before, once.”

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I nearly dropped my laptop in alarm. She knew? Why would I have told her? Watson held Sherlock closer, started rubbing his back with one hand, and asked dumbfounded: "What, you mean like some nervous breakdown? And he had it before?” She nodded stating: "I was about three when it happened.” Oh! "You two were arguing,” she reported, "I can't remember about what, but you started to pack a suitcase and Mom thought you were leaving him for good, so he collapsed. I got really scared and tried to get out of my crib to do something. First you tried to help him alone, then you got me and we held him and kept pleading with him to come back.”

She was rubbing my brothers hands now, to warm them. Really, this girl was something else, though it made me a bit nauseous, when she added: "You were repeating how much you love him, and that we're here for him, so he came round. You need to reassure him!” Watson looked at her with dread, but hearing my brother naming every element in the periodic table in quick succession, he seemed to jump over his shadow, and started to mumble: "Look Sherlock, it's okay, I'm here. I'm here, I'm not leaving. You won't lose me, okay?” The girl looked like she wanted to urge him more, but held her tongue. Instead she kept flicking at my brothers fingertips and wrists. And then she started singing a lullaby: "Fear not my brother, for I am here! Keeping you safe, near and dear. No matter how bad the east winds blow. I'll guide the way, that you need to go!”

My eyes grew big and my jaw dropped. This had been our song! One of the few times I had used my superior intellect to form a simple musical tune, to comfort little Sherlock. It's been years... Watson listened surprised, noticing that Sherlock seemed to relax, and asked: "Did that song help him before?” My niece sang the lullaby again, nodding her head. Watson started to gently rock Sherlock's body to the rhythm, with an alert face, as though trying to memorize the words. After the third time he joined in, and my brothers mumbling stopped. His army-doctor hugged him closer and repeated the verse, as the girl calmly explained: "Uncle Mycroft (such a title!) used to sing this to Mom as a child. He changed the word 'brother' to 'darling', when I was born, to sing it to me. I thought, it's the best bet, if you can't get yourself to say the other words.”

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