It has been. A very. Long. Time. Much apologies. I am very busy, but I thought it was about time to give this an update. v_v
"Do you want some coffee, John?" Molly popped her head in John's doorway.
"Hm? Oh, no thanks, Molly." John replied with a smile and continued staring at his laptop's screen. Molly inched into his office and poked at the aloe plant John had brought it. In all truth, it was the only thing bringing life to the old room.
"What are you working on?" Molly asked.
"I'm doing some research."
John hesitated. "Sherlock Holmes."
"Isn't it all there in the files?" Molly pointed.
John sighed and gazed at the stack of papers describing who Mr. Holmes was. "Oh, that? No, it's just a bunch of labels and descriptions thrown together into one giant cocktail of "I don't know" from the previous doctors. If you ask me, they just picked a label that would get them out of treating him and went on their way."
"Doesn't that seem a little careless for so many doctors in a row?"
John shrugged. He wasn't there to find out what went on in the previous psychiatrist's heads. He was there to find out what went on in his patient's heads, and the most interesting to him was Sherlock.
"So," Molly ventured. "What insults did you get?"
"What insults did you get?"
"I don't understand."
"Sherlock. You went to see him, right?"
"Yes…" John eyed Molly suspiciously.
"What insults did he come up with for you?"
"Or did he just tell you your entire life story?"
John cleared his throat. "I don't have the slightest idea what you're talking about."
Molly's eyes narrowed. "Really? So…neither?"
"Um, I guess, neither. What are you talking about?"
Molly scratched her head. "There must be something different about you then. Whenever a new doctor goes to see Sherlock they come out disgruntled and mumble insults back at him. When I've asked what happened, they simply said they hated him and that he deserved to be where he is."
"That's not very professional."
"No, it's not," Molly agreed. "But I managed to get a bit more out of one of the doctors. I don't remember his name, he was in and out of here so quickly, but he told me that Sherlock made grand assumptions about him out of the tiniest detail on his face or a crease in his jacket. The most fascinating thing is that they were all exactly right. And, by the looks of it, a little too personal for their comfort."
John tilted his head and turned his chair towards Molly. "So, what, he just looks at you and knows almost everything?"
"Pretty much, yeah."
"Hm…" John stroked his chin in thought. "Then why didn't he do all of that to me? I mean, he did say I was new and wanted to move up in my career…but that's about it."
"Nothing else?" Molly inquired.
"Well, I don't know then," Molly sighed and leaned up against the desk. "I think it's a gift, really."
"Sherlock's observations. I think they're a gift. He shouldn't be wasting them in solitary."
"A gift…" John murmured, spraying mist on his aloe plant. His eyes lit up. "Wait, wouldn't you say most gifts are apparent in a person when they are a child?"
"I suppose so, yeah. They'd develop it with age, like good drawing or athletic abilities. Why?"
John grabbed his coat and shut his laptop. Molly watched him rush out of his office door. "Hey, where are you going?" she called after him.
"I'm going to learn about his childhood."
"Mr. Mycroft Holmes?" John asked the towering figure in the doorway. John stood on the doormat of the address he had taken from Sherlock's files.
"Yes, and who are you?" Mycroft grunted.
"I'm Dr. John Watson, from the Broadmoor Psychiatric Hospital," he flashed his identification. "I'm here with some questions about your brother, Sherlock." Mycroft rolled his eyes and stepped back, allowing the doctor to enter.
"What's he done now?"
John stepped into the small house. "Nothing. I just have a few questions about his early years."
"What do you want to know?" Mycroft led John into the living room and offered him a chair.
"Well, for starters, what happened on the day your mother passed?" John asked as he sat down.
Mycroft paused. "Would you care for a cuppa?"
"Why yes, thank you," he accepted and waited for Mycroft to return with his tea. John looked around the room. It was all very simple and there was little decorations, hardly anything of sentiment at all. There were, however, pictures. Photos of when Mycroft and Sherlock were children. John picked one up that was on the coffee table next to him and stared at their faces. Little Sherlock still had those thick black curls. Mycroft, stern-faced even back then, was standing over him. It seemed like he was watching over Sherlock, who was playing in the mud.
"Here you are," Mycroft held out a cup of tea.
John hurried to return the picture he had taken and took the tea. "Yes, thank you."
"Something interest you?" Mycroft motioned to the picture he had been staring as he sat in the chair opposite John.
"Oh, sorry, I just find childhood memories fascinating. I am a psychologist after all. I do believe childhood experiences shape the mindset and behavior of a person as they grow older."
Mycroft nodded. "Sherlock used to love getting his hands dirty. He liked to find out why things were the way they were. One time he took apart the tele trying to find out where the pictures were coming from." Mycroft chuckled. "Mother was furious. I remember Sherlock hiding in his room for days after that. He'd just lay on his bed and stare at the ceiling. I tried to get him to come down to the stream for some fishing, but he wouldn't get up. He only told me he was thinking."
"Was this only one occasion?" John asked, after sipping his tea.
"Well, he started to do this more frequently. He despised getting yelled at so he stopped picking objects apart. He focused more on, well, people. He picked the people around him apart. Metaphorically, of course."
"Ah, so that's how he started to read people incredibly?"
"I suppose so, yes," Mycroft nodded. "It started with simple observations. What kind of pet a person had, for example, or if a person was cheating on a test. But it grew very quickly, and because of his talent and ignorant mannerisms, everyone's hatred for him grew, too."
"Did you hate him?" John asked Sherlock's brother. Mycroft laughed dryly.
"How could I hate my own brother? It was him who turned his back on me, not the other way around." Mycroft sighed heavily. "It seems to me, as the only logical explanation, that Sherlock felt so rejected and disapproved of by everyone at school that he turned off his emotions to everyone. I think that he thought everyone was against him, no matter how likely or unlikely it was. I've never been against him. In fact, I'm proud of his talent, even though it used to come back to bite me."
John held back his smile, imagining the sort of arguments that would have ensued between the brothers with Sherlock's skillful deductions. "Sherlock sort of cut himself off from people, then?"
"Did you tried talking to him about it?"
"Of course I did. But after Mother passed away…nothing could turn him around." Mycroft sighed, looking down.
John cleared his throat. "I'm assuming you know about who Sherlock refers to as Moriarty, then?"
Mycroft looked sharply back at John. "Yes. 'Moriarty' is who he thought told him to through himself off the rooftop to save his mother. If you ask me, Sherlock just gave the conscious he locked up a name."
"So you think it's entirely made up?"
Mycroft hesitated. "In a way. But if he still sticks with this story as a grown man…perhaps he's come to believe his own lie? After all, who knows what he talks to himself about in that funny head of his."
John nodded slowly, then stuck got up and offered Mycroft his hand. "Thank you for your time, that's all I'll be needing." Mycroft stood and shook John's hand.
"No problem, Dr. Watson." John headed for the door.
"Oh, there is one thing," Mycroft called before John stepped out of the house.
Mycroft strode to the fireplace and picked up a violin case from beside it. He walked back to the door and handed it to the psychologist. John arched an eyebrow and looked to Mycroft for an explanation.
"That," Mycroft explained. "Is the one thing that could calm Sherlock. He loves to play the violin, and does so splendidly." Mycroft eyed John. "Don't tell him I said that."
"I won't." John assured him.
"He doesn't exactly take kindly to my name. Anyway, if you get a chance, could you possibly slip that in to his confinement chamber and let him play a bit? Sherlock always got incredibly bored, even in the most interesting situations." Mycroft's eyes widened as he rolled them to the side. "I can only imagine how bored he is in there."
"He can't have anything that isn't approved…" John started.
Mycroft stopped him. "Just do your best."
John nodded and took the violin case under his arm. "I'll see what I can do." The psychologist left and marched to the curb, motioning for a cab.
Hope you enjoyed the long-awaited return of this fic c: (again, sorry)