Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

he could hear the voices down stairs, the mourners.

he didn't mind. didn't care.

people died everyday, right? and he already lost the one person who mattered to him.

or did he?

He could still remember that chubby face. He could delve into his mind palace- the one he helped him establishing- and think of being there, playing alongside him.

The smell of sea, sand on their hair and hands, with wind ruffling his curls.

The ginger hair, soft under his finger tips, all those freckles on his cheeks that made him look more innocent, younger than he was.

One time he told him they were like stars, a tattoo of andromeda galaxy on his skin.

And he smiled, even when his homework had been stolen earlier in school.

"you look pretty" and he said boys are not pretty, they are handsome.

Then he said handing something was ridiculous for a word and he still thought he was pretty.

He could imagine his voice when he read him pirate tales, he was black beard, with him as yellow beard and Victor as red beard.

He can still remember, but he is afraid that he won't for much longer.

Laying on his old bed in his childhood room, always brought those back. The seaside, Musgrave, the fire…

No-one even knew how the fire started. Why the fire started.

Why he was the only one not to survive.

Why it started when all of them were out, and Eurus was in Victor's place playing hide and seek.

Sherlock never cried.

-never believed.

Mommy never visited his grave, neither father or Eurus. Sherlock was always alone in visiting him.

"William, wont you come down?" Eurus asked.

William. Not sherlock. He stopped responding to the name Mycroft called him after he was not there anymore.

He had gone and changed his name to only William Scott Holmes as soon as he was old enough, what was the point of having a spacial name, a name that Mycroft has chosen for him, when his brother was not there to call him by that name? Why allow these ordinary stupid people to know him by a special awesome name his special awesome brother had chosen for him?

He closed his eyes. His and Eurus relationship was complicated. She was with them until she turned seven, but then whisked away to study more difficult subjects, like astrophysics or molecular biology. They only saw each other on special occasions, like new year, or at the end of each season. she was attending a full boarding school when her age turned two digits-10- By the time she was 20, she had 6 different PhDs and it didn’t stop at that. It was her sort of hubby to gain them.

It had been 5 years since she started working with uncle Rudy, and before that, she had worked two years for him.

She was charming when it suited her, could fake affection or concern or worry.

But never care. The only one capable of that was dead for decades.

 Mommy or father never knew what she did, but sherlock deduced it the first time it was announced.

She was not just an analyzer for the government, nor just a member of PALL, as their uncle was. She actively reprogrammed people.

Neutralized the threats before they became threats.

Had done it with a guy named Moriarty, who had killed some poor guy in a pool and Sherlock solved it- semi solved it- by stating they needed his shows- his sneakers which was never found on the scene of the murder.

And he was her assistant  now.

He wondered why nobody saw the indifferent gleam in her eyes, that she never cared for anybody.

Not their family, not her work, not anything. She was as unfeeling as it was possible, never bothered with distinguishing between good and evil.

Anything was fair as long as it was interesting, as long as it kept her intrigued. She only bothered with niceties, social occasions and interacting with people in general to keep her face, and maybe so she could control them later with the things she learnt from watching them.

To their parents, she was their darling daughter, to her colleagues she was their respected coworker, and to the country she was its savior.

Only sherlock saw her for what she truly was.

A chess player who didn’t see any problem with toying with other people's lives. She would deliberately change the market price of rice in Japan because she could, or she would upstage a scandal because she was bored.

MI6, CIA, KGB , didn’t matter what. As long as there was a game, a chase, a puzzle to solve, she was in.

Worse than a mercenary for hire.

No respect for human lives. No care for doing the right thing.

Just amusement.

She was not even a psychopath, there would be no definition for what she was.

Dark matter maybe?

After solving- semi solving- his first case, the pool case, he had briefly considered becoming a detective.

After she had returned that year from school, with her first ever friend Jim, he knew better.

It was a good  warning as any. Meaning she was observing him even when she wasn’t at home. had not lost the absurd fascination she had with him.

From then  Sherlock was always cautious. Never talked much, never tried anything that could make her interested in him. He perused art, and English literature, chose the most boring things he could to make her lose interest.

She didn’t at first, but through the years, slowly it happened. Nowadays she only played in UK, with the development of internet, she could find her amusement anywhere as long as she had access to it. Dark web was massive and there were tones of red rooms, murder for hire and drugs and illegal acts for her to keep busy.

So it really was him now and even he didn’t, couldn’t understand his sister for who she was.

The only one who saw her for what she truly was, was Mycroft.

And she removed him as soon as she could.

He could still hear Victor, crying.

"it was him!"

"it was him!"

"it was Mycroft!"

And everyone believed him. Because how else Mycroft could found him when there was no clue whatsoever where he had vanished?

"the boy is the eldest, of course it must have been him who lured the younger one"

Sherlock told them the poem Eurus sang, but they only smiled and said it was utter nonsense. He even wrote the detective and told him it was Mycroft who found Victor, had broken his arm getting him from the well, and it was stupid that he put him there, only to save him later.

It didn’t make sense. It was silly and Mykie was anything but silly or stupid.

"it is possible he has a savior complex. Being the oldest child. He could be bipolar- like Dr Jakil and hide. It’s the beginning of his symptoms. He must be a psychopath or at least…"

He hated psychologist after then. They were only interested in saying stupid things and never listened to reason.

Was psychology even a science? In his mind it was a made up one.

What made a human being was its cells, and what made mind was neurons.

What good was talking when nobody listened?

-like no-one listened to him back then?

"Mummy please! It wasn’t me! I swear it wasn’t me!"

He still could hear him begging when those so called psychologists came and stole him away from Sherlock.

He had been in their clutches for months.

And when he came back, he wasn’t himself.

He didn’t smile.

He didn’t read stories.

He didn’t hug Sherlock.

That day the house burned in fire, he had been alone. He had been taking weird looking medicine and he was always sleepy, confused.

He couldn’t have started the fire, could he?

After all these time, Sherlock couldn’t not blame himself. Had he been older, or told them in terms their small brains could understand, maybe he still had his brother .

He still preferred piano to the violin Eurus played. He read fantasy stories to the disgust of his parents and his sister. He never ever took any medicine, nor drugs of any kind.

Drugs was what made Mycroft like that.

-he had a theory, he was both afraid and hopeful it was correct. Afraid because it Eurus had framed Mycroft then, and sneaked away to set the house on fire when her first attempt on removing him from the picture didn’t work, what was she capable of now?

And hopeful, because if  he had seen it, Mycroft certainly had too. He had no argument in his brain capacity. While he was far smarter than ordinary people, Mycroft was a genius.

What made him hope was what Rudy said on the day of his funeral.

"maybe its better for all of us"

It couldn’t be better for Mommy and father, because they used to push their duties on him. Mycroft was the one who helped him read and write and learn music. He had been the one to care for him and even Eurus to some extent. With him gone, they had to do their responsibilities themselves.

It couldn’t be better for Eurus, she couldn’t connect to their parents, or even Sherlock. Everyone was too slow and stupid for her, and she got bored even if she had been the one who had gotten rid of Mycroft because of jealousy.

Because he knew how to talk and behave, but she could get the hang of it. Sherlock, Victor and Rudy all preferred Mycroft company to hers, and that bothered her.

Guess what. By removing him, she had removed the only smart enough person she could talk to and not get bored. She had to rely on Rudy, and Rudy while not smart enough, was manipulative enough to handle her and use her for his agenda.

And certainly not for Sherlock.

He lost his friend- Victor and his family moved out soon after the accident- lost his brother and mentor and everything.

The only one who could have benefitted, was Rudy who could gather Eurus and groom her to be his successor.

And Mycroft, if he was alive.

Because he was removed from his neglectful parents, abusive schoolmates and an evil sister and needy brother.

He could be anyone, somewhere else. Anyone he wanted.

"maybe he can be in peace"

Not rest in peace. He didn’t believe it was a mistake of his.

Not for Mycroft's eulogy.

"William?" Eurus asked again.

"Coming"

 He couldn’t let her know.

He read the card one more time " sorry for your loss " from someone named Micheal Helm from America. Then shredded it and burned it with the remains of a fag.

He didn’t know anyone there, and his name, and the hand writing was just too familiar.

Could it be…

"ouch!" he said as he collided with Jim's back. There were all sort of things scattered on the stairs and floor.

"no need to say sorry William,, its your uncle's funeral after all" he said as he started picking them up, and tidying those files.

 How he hated knowing what he was, and who he was and what he did, and not being able to dispose of him.

He stormed past him, trying to compare the handwriting to the childish sample he had of his brother.

Chapter Text

" What did you say William?"

Sherlock sighed. It was just his luck that every bloody person had gathered in the house after the funeral, and stayed on. Eurus and Moriarty meant to leave days ago, but they were still lurking in the house, making it difficult for sherlock to think about his escape routes. He had to constantly alert , vary of the duo , acting like an imbecilic sod and swim under the radar.

But it was mummy who asked him.

"I want to take a tour, go to India and Pakistan, places that were under Britian's reign and compare the language before and after the fact, compared to nowadays"

In fact, this side project a little bit interested him. He did want to study the colonization effect on their language. He did know that there were more persian words in the language back then, and they were replaced by English ones over the years. The Indian rooted in Sanskrit simply did not exist anymore.

He had planned his escape carefully. It had to be flawless so not to make Eurus or her lapdog Jim suspect a thing. He was considered an expert in both Sanskrit and Latin, and a couple other ancient, dead languages. The department of Languages in some university he didn’t bother with its name – meaning he deleted it- a while ago reached out to him with their big project, comparing languages in colonized countries, alongside the traditions and customs that may have changed.

After receiving the mysterious card from "Micheal Helm" he was on pins and needles to go search for him, that thought that he might be connected to his brother didn’t let him rest in peace for a second.

This was the least bit suspecting plan he came up with. He would linger on India for a month or two, then he could change the path to some terrorist groups, getting caught and then rescued and from there, he could pretend he was a lost American and get to America that way. America because he knew the card – those exact paper texture - was from there without a doubt. He even didn’t dare searching "Helm" online lest Eurus found out. Unfortunately, the handwriting comparison didn’t made any result.

He had to know. He was tired of being alone. Fearing to make any friend, fist because Eurus might get in her head to kill them, and second because it could be one of her minions trying to spy on him.

He was alone.

He was sick and tired of being alone. To pretend to be someone he was not. An ignorant emotional man who didn’t care- didn’t understand that a mass murderer was living with them. Eurus was one, sure, but Jim was too.

And Jim killed for fun. And jim get away with it.

So did Eurus. She should have been placed in a facility ages ago, Moriarty too.

He wanted to stop being alone and afraid.

He could easily fake his death, even if Eurus bothered to check in on him – their mother was a harpy if she wanted to- she would not doubt it.

It would take his best efforts to fool her, but whatever. It was years past its duo.

"I am going on a science tour"

Jim the bastard snorted, and when Mummy glared he gulped and tried to rescue the situation " its just that literature is not considered, how can I tell"

It was an inside joke between them, Jim and Eurus. Making fun of him because he pursued art and literature. He never gave them a hint it bothered him, because it didn’t. he had chosen it just for this reason.

To be underestimated.

"Now Jim, listen.." and here began Mummy's lecture on not to mock your family, literature is as important as science – even if she herself didn’t buy it- et cetera, et cetera. 

Jim bloody fucking Moriarty was NOT his family, even if by nature's damnation he was stuck with Mummy and Eurus and father, this colorful snake was by no means his family.

"that's enough" Eurus had risen.

  Sherlock sometimes doubted if she had reprogrammed their parents too. It was like she was the matriah of the family…

"I have to"

Sherlock had taken the loss of his brother hard. He had stopped talking altogether for months .after that he never said Mycroft's name, and neither did any other. 

Establishing himself as the emotional one.

When he went and visited Mycroft's grave, with Uncle Rudy there were protests. Nobody wanted to go there, and nobody wanted him to visit.

He had asked Rudy then.

"I have to" and he understood. By the knowledge he had now , he considered the possiblity that maybe the man had rescued Mycroft and was feeling guilty over breaking Sherlock with his loss. That he had accepted it, even made the family accept it because of this fact.

Rudy was the one who defended Sherlock's choice for literature " Shakespear was brilliant" and that was that. He made Eurus – who had been whining like a dog that this would ruin her reputation- and his sister – who said literature was not even a major and was a excuse for fools to claim a degree- back down.

"he wants to do it, he gets to do it"

He said the exact same words on that day he got Rudy to take him to Mycroft's grave.

Now Eurus – who was absent on that day- was watching him but not getting what he had uttered.

Mummy on the other hand did.

" oh my boy"

-maybe sherlock felt guilty a little, manipulating them , his mother like that. But needs must. he didn’t know if he faked his death Mummy would take it hard, thinking she had been guilty somehow, but he didn’t care much.

Not knowing was driving him mad.

"just promise to be careful" and she gave her blessing.

Part one, complete.

Chapter Text

Getting to India was no problem, even getting to Pakistan wasn’t a problem. Making himself fall into the trap of some nasty Terrorist supporters there and caught by Pakistan Terrorists wasn’t much of a trouble, really. Sherlock had been playing the role all his life.
The trouble was, getting out of there ; saftly.
“ اپنے گدھے کو حرکت دیں”
- Which sherlock poor grasp on Urdo, meant to get up?
The following kick to his stomach meant it had a hidden “hurry up you muggot” inside too.
He sat up, then checked himself for any serious damage, which thankfully he did not found. Only minor bruises and cuts.
“ناوړه انګلیسی لعنتی ، کاشکې مړه شوی وای”
What in the world? He didn’t have any idea what language that was! He knew they spoke Urdo, English and some Indian, but what the heck?
It didn’t sound like Farsi, or Dari. It had an Arabic word meant helish? God what is this place?
"بیِرار مَ، صبا گا بَلَ شو، اگَ بَل نَشونی، تو رَ بَزور تَی لقَه کَده بَل مونه"
Finally! Dari he knew, wait what?
“oh right brother. We are in Afghanistan”
He was so screwd.
After that, he recived the most brutal beatings he had recived in his life. Although nothing was broken, his body hurt like hell, he curled on himself and breathed through his nose, trying to regin in the pain that grow with every breath.
“stop! Stop! You will kill the English man! They are delicate!you can exchange him for one of yours or get money from his country! He is valuable” and then he started talking fast in Dari. Too fast for him to catch on.
That made them angry.
And they started on the other man, leaving him alone.
When they left, the stranger sat beside him. “ ان مع العسر یسری”
“with every difficulty comes tranquillity eventually” Sherlock said.
“so you read Quran?”
“I speak the language”
“cool, Name’s Ali. Yours?”
Sherlock only narrowed his eyes. he knew these kinds of tricks so well, someone hurts you, another defends you, you will seek companionship and fall for the trap.
“why help me?”
He couldn’t trust this man. This man who knew Arabic, Dari and English. The man who knew manipulation – telling him he was delicate, getting money- helped him out of the blue. Asked his name.
What if he was with Eurus?
“if you wonder why I helped you, it is called humanity. Unbelievable but we do have it. You western people are indeed delicate. I once had one of you farming for a day and he passed out on me. Besides, our religion says we have to help weaker people”
He snorted. Like that was true. Weren’t these guys muslims too?
“don’t look at me like that. In our book, it says that anyone who harms or kill a person unjustly it is like they have harmed or killed all people of earth, and if they saved or helped a person it is like they saved the whole population. These groups are pretending to be muslims, not real ones”
Oh yeah, a prison man preaching him, of all people. This was so classic a trick he was offended.
The man, Ali if it was truly his name, tilted his head. “ the world would have been a different place if they only focused on making themselves better like what our holy book says and not trying to make the world act in accordance to their beliefs.”
He was not falling for this.
“call me whatever you like, Preacher”
The other man snorted, then stayed silent.
It only took him afew days to appreciate not being alone on this hell hole.
“all right English? you can not show disrespect. These people don’t know anything but force and bully”
Ali, his companion who was one day a translator for an American company, told him.
-of course Sherlock doubted he was only a translator, but he kept quiet. If the man was with them, showing his captors he knew was problematic. If he wasn’t with them and had a different agenda like he suspected, he felt better staying out of it-
“they talk Pashto, and Urdo. Most of them are Pakistanians, but guess what? They took Afghanistan, hilarious isn’t it?”
He couldn’t help himself not to laugh. Seriously, what was wrong with people? They took over another country just because they could?
Ali was a little shorter than him with brown eyes and dark hair, he spoke English very good and was a respectful man. He never pushed for more information than Sherlock offered to share. He had been staying in Pakistan so he could get his family – his parents, grandparents and younger siblings- out of the country. The smart man had done that, but he was not lucky himself.
“I wanted to study in America, you know? I had the acceptance and the scholarship too. Just a little faster and I would have been studing now”
Sherlock told him he had studied Literature and his whole face brightened.
“so you know about Rumi and Naser khosro?”
When sherlock told him that yes, he had a wonderful time reading those brilliant works of poetry, Ali smiled warmly.
“what we don’t have in money, we have in literature and culture. You know about the great Budha statue or the Mazar sharif? The Gole Sorkh celebrations?
He admitted he knew little, and Ali told him all about his country.
It was beautiful.
Beyond war and terrorists, beyond power plays and bigotry it was beautiful.
Sherlock groaned as he sat up. They hadn’t bothered to give them water for two days now. In his opinion it was worse than beating.
“ hey there English, you know our time is almost up, don’t you?”
He knew.
“we need a plan”
He arched a brow. Yeah no shit preacher.
“can you feign a seizure? How much you can hold your breath?”
curious and curiouser.