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Mycroft's P.O.V.

It had been torture, listening to the girls story. Not just because, when boiled down to the bare facts, it was rather uninteresting and not very productive to me, and the goldfish's reaction made it even more unbearable. But somehow despite this, her tale was able to invoke very unwanted feelings in me: Guilt, remorse, betrayal, fear, even grief... How did she do it? She spoke of a future that would never be, and that I'd never have to endure, or get to explore. But then again, I also dreaded the point at her story, when she would get to the end, hoping desperately for the simpleminded army doctor, or the wretched landlady to bombard her with enough questions to keep her from revealing any more secrets concerning Sherlock or myself.

I just couldn't bear to see him suffer. I never did. In some way, it was a selfish gesture, when I had taught him to become coldhearted and calculating, seeking only facts, not friends. Because as much as I'd pride myself for not getting emotional above a respectable degree, there was one circumstance, one factor, one person, who could literally bring me to my knees, either in anguish or joy: Sherlock. It had been that way, ever since he had entered this world, I think. I never felt this way toward any other person since, surprisingly perhaps.

If I am even capable of feeling something like love, it would be this feeling I have for my brother. He could annoy me to no end, he could provoke me, anger me, make me desperate, even sad, all to a level I was still comfortable with, but also always walking the line, as if testing to see where, if anywhere, I would break down like these simpleminded cave men we had to share this world with. Less frequently, he would be doing the same into the opposite direction: amuse me, make me proud, hold me in awe, excite me. When he was still younger, those moments had been more numerous than now. I cannot even say, when it turned, as it had lasted until past the incident.

Although, that might be, because he did have trouble to accept the new ways. I had wanted to be there for him. Wanted to be his everything. And at the same time realized, that it could never be enough. And also, it seemed inappropriate. So I needed to shield him from these emotions, above all, from love. I had to make sure he understood and practiced this, so I was a rather unforgiving teacher. Perhaps that was what fueled his despise of me. But it had to be done. After all, as his older brother, there was a likely chance, I would die before him, causing him more hardship, if he was able to feel something towards me. I didn't want that. Maybe subconsciously that was why he was so reckless, so self destructive. Perhaps he couldn't bear the thought of losing me, and wanted to go first. Or it was his anger, his hatred against me, knowing how I felt towards him, that made him this way, hoping I would suffer, once I had to mourn him.

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However, Angela, my niece, the last Holmes that would ever be, brought me back to the current event, raising everyone's attention to focus it on me: "So, believing all female offspring would be evil, Mycroft made sure to let the line die out. He had sterilized himself as soon as he was able to.” Everyone looked baffled at me, but I withstood their gaze, as she kept going: "The reason he didn't make such arrangements for Sherlock, was that he had never shown any particular interest in sex, especially towards females, so he assumed he would never create any offspring.”

My brother didn't even react, much unlike his landlady, which gave me an appalled look, and his army doctor, who furrowed his brows in anger, but turned to Angela asking once more: "I still don't get it! Okay, so historically, all the Holmes are clever but cold, and they think the women are evil, but I mean, women who were smart and could speak for themselves would often be degraded in such times! How would you know this was a legit family trait, and not just slander, and bad coincidences?” I wanted to object, but held back, as my niece gave me a warning eye, before replying: "Sadly, it wasn't just ancient data that gave him reason to believe it.” I kept silent, but nervously scanned from Angela to Sherlock. I knew it was too late to stop her now, and just braced myself for what would truly happen, as she took Sherlock's hands into her bandaged ones.

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Then, Angela started her report: "When I was about three, I asked my Dad to tell me a bedtime story. Usually this was John's job, as he cringed at all the violent details Sherlock would mention during his tales. But I wanted him to tell it this time. He asked what kind I'd like, and I said: 'One that will make you cry.' 'Oh, do you want to cry yourself to sleep tonight?', he asked. I said: 'No, I want you to cry. I never saw you cry. Show me.'” For some reason, even looking at her during her tale, seemed to provoke reactions, emotions, in a way she tried to lead. The way she mimicked my brother when quoting him, gave me shivers.

Looking at Sherlock she continued recollecting: "You... He liked my direct demands, he said it was a natural curiosity children should explore. He was a bit puzzled first, saying: 'But I never cry, I don't need to.' 'Then this is a challenge!', I said. He used that term whenever I didn't want to do something. It got me every time. And it got him too. He kept thinking and then started the story...” I cannot say, what it was, but my niece had a way with words, that would paint a picture in your head, whether you liked it or not! Perhaps it was something she had learned from us. I could see it useful during an interrogation. But it would likely be a helpful tool as a teacher to have, so perhaps that was more likely, I thought, as she began telling the story: "Once upon a time, there were two little boys. One had raven-black hair, the other was ginger-blond. They used to play together on a graveyard. They mostly played pirates, trying to loot the graves.”

It was like a young female version of him was telling his tale, only with more emotion than he'd show naturally. Or not naturally, I recalled frightened, realizing what it was that had raptured me about this girl: she looked the way Sherlock looked as a child, when his feelings were still so much like that of the goldfish! Once you knew, once you could make the connection between them... it was impossible to miss. Angela. Sherlock's daughter! She continued: "But one day, an evil witch arrived at the graveyard. She loved the raven-black boy, but hated the ginger one. So she made a plan to separate them. She lured the ginger boy away from the graveyard, baiting him with a tale of secret treasure. She showed him an abandoned well, hidden in the forest. When the boy leaned in closer, looking for the treasure, she pushed him, so that he fell into the deep darkness. He landed in the murky water, and started to cry for help. But the witch ignored his screams of pain and fear, and just laughed at him, while she hid the well with shrubbery.”

I recalled with pain, how he had looked, how he had told his tall tales to his little friend, way back then. His smile... I had to contain myself to keep my straight face, while listening to her story. Sherlock's story. A bedtime story for his child. Something to make him cry. I so begged, that it wouldn't. Her voice kept us in her grasp: "When she got back home, the raven-black boy was in panic, searching for his friend. He ran all across the graveyard, calling for him.” Sherlock suddenly whispered: "Red Beard” and my blood froze. Angela looked at him, halting her story, but when he just blinked confused, she continued: "But he got no answer. Then the evil witch summoned the east winds, and a great thunderstorm erupted outside, pouring buckets upon buckets of rain onto the land. And the witch laughed, for she knew the little ginger-blond boy would never make it out of the well alive.”

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I noticed that the goldfish were hanging on her lips with anticipation, while I was fighting the uneasy turning of my stomach, fixated on Sherlock's blank stare. My niece straightened herself up, as she again captured our attention, pressing emotions on us with her voice, that I desperately tried to fight: "Had he been a big strong man, he might have been able to climb the slick walls, or swim long enough to be rescued. But he was just a child. The raven-black boy begged the witch to tell him what had happened to him, but she wanted him to herself. So she gave him a riddle, stating that if he solved it, he would be able to save his friend.”, she explained and then recited the words, that I had so hoped had been erased from my little brother's mind decades ago:

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"He's in the well, there is no light

his screams echo into the night

the east wind bends the forest's broom

the answer lies within their tomb!

You call it fear, I call it fun

there still is one more stone to shun

but read the writing on the wall

or lost is he, with soul and all!”

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I could see it working behind my brothers brows, his eyes twitched, and I knew he was furiously searching for answers in the filing system of his mind palace, that I had helped him built. His fortress of solitude, his safe haven, his library of knowledge, to get lost in, when the world around him only held chaos. The way the riddle had been, as Angela agreed: "But what she said made no sense, and the raven-black boy could not find the meaning behind her gibberish. Noone ever found the little boy.”

I could see the goldfish tremble at this revelation, as if they could understand what the words meant! To them it was just a fairy tale! My niece finished recalling her side of the experience: "When I asked my Dad, what happened to the witch, he said, she was burned at the stake for her evil ways. The fire consumed everything, and the last thing the people heard was an agonizing scream of remorse.” That scream! I had to close my eyes for a second. It had kept me awake for nights to come, because I would hear it again whenever Sherlock's night terrors haunted him. And they did so, for much too long. Sometimes I'm frightened to think, that they never truly left him. Maybe that was, why he so detested sleep.

"I was puzzled for a long time.”, Angela brought me back to her tale, "While my Dad told the story, his voice changed in tune, to something I never heard before. And as he ended it, a single tear ran down his cheek. When he tucked me in, he was normal again, and seemed surprised when he felt the wetness. Then he brushed it off and said he won the challenge. He never spoke about it, and I did not ask further. I put it away in my mind. But I never forgot.” I was convinced once more, that she had to be special, like ourselves, for what other toddler would have remembered in such detail a story once told by their parent.

And later go on to analyze it so closely: "I started to ask myself: The witch and the raven-black boy, did they live together? Because he was there, when she got home. And how did he know it was her fault that his friend disappeared? Did she tell him? Why? Maybe she felt remorse. But could not just admit her defeat. So she gave him a riddle instead. Did she make it impossible to solve, so the boy would drown? Then why give hints at all? Torture the boy, if she loved him? That made no sense. What had really happened? Why a graveyard near a forest? If they wanted to be pirates, why not play near water? If she was a witch, why not cast spells? Why use shrubbery? If it was real... How did he know it was a scream of remorse. Was he listening? Did she yell sorry? I tried to solve the riddle too. What if it had to do with the setting? The graveyard, the forest... Why did he mention that a man could have survived. Did she say that? Is that a hint?” All these questions. Some of which still haunted me to this day.

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Then more agony swept over my body, as Sherlock suddenly recalled: "Red Beard! Red Beard! He was my friend! I had a friend!”, he looked around shocked, as he remembered: "I was Black Beard, and he was Red Beard, and we were pirates! I remember!! But, but why? Why, why can't I remember more, what happened? Why, who... who was the witch?” He turned to me, and the look he gave twisted a knife in my gut. But then he switched back to Angela, when she explained in the sweetest, calmest voice I'd ever heard: "Eurus. The east wind. Your mother had such a thing for fancy names. Mycroft... Sherlock... Eurus. She was your little sister.”

Watson whispered overwhelmed: "They have a sister?”, but the young woman slowly shook her head as she explained: "Eurus was jealous of Sherlock's friend. She wanted him to spend time with her instead. So in her psychopathic logic, she got rid of him. They never found out, where and how, and only had her twisted words for it. But Sherlock couldn't handle the loss. And when Eurus saw, what she had done, she killed herself.” "Goodness gracious!”, the old woman hushed, as Angela finished: "She set the family mansion on fire, and died in the flames. She was four years old at the time.” Watson also looked shocked. My brother however was suddenly very still. At first it looked like he was hidden away in his mind palace, and I hoped he might go on to delete what he just heard, the way I had taught him so vigorously. The dreaded landlady had to pry: "But that... such a tragedy, why would he ever forget that?” The doctor tried to assume: "Well, shock and trauma, sometimes they just close off your mind...”, but my unforgiving niece revealed: "It was not the shock. It was Mycroft!”

Everyone looked at me. Everyone except Sherlock, who still stared straight ahead, when she told true: "He could not stand to see his brother in so much agony. So he made sure he would forget. Brain washed him, into erasing all memories of his friend and his sister, and even convincing their parents to never mention anything ever again. Once he was in charge, he even manipulated and destroyed the records of Eurus' birth, their mother's medical history, the other boy's family records, and those of their family estate, so Sherlock would never find any key to remembering his past, not even by accident. Mycroft also trained Sherlock to be cold, distant, isolated in his mind. His 'mind palace', as he'd call it, making it more appealing than the real world, telling him he was above and beyond these mortals, these goldfish, that he was better off without them, and better off with cold facts and logic, than any emotion at all!”

"But he is!”, I yelled, no longer able to contain myself, "I was protecting him! I showed him how to shield himself from all this blasted hope and friendship and love, you silly, stupid monkeys parade around all day long, just to break down in fear and pain and agony, because you grow attached to your fragile, little egos!” I wanted to say more, but then suddenly Sherlock spoke: "Leave, Mycroft.” I turned to him and saw a single tear was making it's way down his cheek, and his hands twitched, wishing to wipe it away, but Angela kept holding onto them. I wanted to ask her again to let him go, to leave him alone, but he then turned to me, looking into my eyes with a face I shall never forget until the day I die, and he repeated, very hushed: "Go away now. Don't come back unless called. Or I will make sure, that you will never see me again!”

Then another tear was dripping out of his eye, but he kept staring into my soul, and I felt his gaze burning me up from the inside. I wanted to say so much then, and could yet not think of a single word. And so, fearing the worst for what consequences he was imagining for my disobedience, I retreated in a masked panic, exiting their apartment, to walk down to the entrance and sit on the steps, hoping he would call me back soon, and let me help him fight the feelings that would surely torture him. But it came different, and I had to suffer in silence and uncertainty, while the goldfish and my niece handled his second melt down in a row, and I prayed that he would not lose his beautiful mind over it.

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