Archive of Our Own

The room smelled of salt air and old wood, an unfamiliar scent that was nothing like their London home.

Sherlock pressed his nose against the window, watching palm fronds sway in the breeze outside. Cordona. It was their new home, Mother had said.

"It's brilliant, isn't it?" Jon appeared at his elbow, bouncing on his toes as he peered out the window. "Look, you can see the sea from here! Sherlock, we can watch the ships come in every single day."

Sherlock grinned. "We could learn to identify them. By their flags and sails. We should keep a journal."

"With drawings!"

"And detailed observations."

"Obviously."

Jon spun on his heel, arms flung wide, nearly knocking into Sherlock in his enthusiasm.

"This is it! I can feel it - this is where all the best stories will begin. We're going to have so many great adventures, Sherlock! I can already imagine it."

"Maybe we'll find pirates," Sherlock agreed, catching Jon's excitement like a flame. "We could explore the caves along the coastline. Mother said there are tide pools with creatures we've never seen."

"And the markets! Did you smell the food when we came through town? It was like nothing in London."

It had barely been an hour in their new home, and yet they were already planning their first expedition down to the docks, Jon turning in a slow circle, arms spread wide as he daydreamed about dressing up as pirates and finding buried treasure, about learning to sail, about all the mysteries waiting to be uncovered. Smiling at his friend's boundless imagination, Sherlock turned back to survey their room properly.

Two trunks sat by the door - his own leather one with his initials stamped in gold, and Jon's smaller canvas one with the frayed handle that he'd tied back together with twine. A wardrobe stood against one wall, a desk beneath the window, a bookshelf waiting to be filled, and there was Sherlock's bed and Jon's was-

"Oh."

There was only one bed. One bed. Just one.

"Jon... where’s your bed?” Sherlock asked, voice small.

Jon paused mid-spin.

"Uhm. Maybe..." Jon ventured, walking slowly around the room as if another bed might materialize from behind the wardrobe. He checked the corner by the window. Peered under the desk - which Sherlock thought was rather ridiculous, it wasn't like a bed would fit under that small desk - and came up empty-handed. "Maybe the movers put it in the wrong room?" Jon tried to smile at Sherlock, but it faltered around the edges.

That made sense, surely, everything was still being unloaded, and mistakes happened... but the idea of someone forgetting Jon stung in a way Sherlock didn’t have words for.

"Maybe." But Sherlock's stomach felt tight. The bed was positioned exactly in the center of the wall, like it had been arranged deliberately. Like this was how it was supposed to be. Like that was all there was supposed to be.

"I'll go ask Mycroft." Sherlock squared his shoulders. "He probably just forgot. There was a lot to organize with the move and Mother being..." He trailed off, not wanting to finish that sentence.

Jon nodded quickly. "Right. Of course. I'm sure he'll be able to fix it before it's time for bed."

Sherlock found Mycroft in the room that he had claimed for his own bedroom, busy directing two men carrying an enormous desk. His brother looked taller than Sherlock remembered, though it had only been a few weeks since they'd left London. His face was serious in a way that made him seem decades older than sixteen, like someone had taken his brother and replaced him with a tired adult wearing Mycroft's face.

"Careful with that corner," Mycroft instructed, not looking up from the letters he was reading. His voice had that clipped, efficient tone he'd adopted since Father died. "Yes, against that wall. Thank you, gentlemen."

The men Mycroft had hired nodded and left, and for a moment Sherlock could hear their heavy footsteps retreating down the hall, the creak of old floorboards, the distant sound of Mother's voice asking someone - perhaps a servant, perhaps no one - if they'd seen her husband.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said once the men had gone. "There's only one bed in our room."

"Your room," Mycroft corrected, still focused on the papers in his hand. "And yes, there is one bed."

"But... but Jon needs a bed too, Mycroft. He can't- he can't sleep on the floor."

Mycroft's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "You have a bed, Sherlock. That's sufficient."

Jon, who had followed Sherlock down the hall, stepped forward. His footsteps made soft sounds on the wooden floor. "Excuse me, Mr. Holmes, I'm sorry if it's a bother but we just-"

But Mycroft was already turning away, examining a crate of books.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock's voice rose as he stamped his foot on the ground, the sharp sound echoing in the sparsely furnished room. "Jon is talking to you!"

"Sherlock." Mycroft's tone was carefully controlled as he looked back to Sherlock. "I have a great deal to manage at the moment. Go and unpack your things. We'll discuss appropriate behavior later."

"But-"

"That's enough."

The finality in Mycroft's voice made Sherlock's protests die in his throat. It was the same tone Father had used when he didn't want to be argued with, the tone that meant the conversation was over whether Sherlock liked it or not.

Jon tugged gently at Sherlock's sleeve. "It's alright, Sherry. He's probably just overwhelmed with the move. Come on, let's go."

But Sherlock saw the way Jon's shoulders curled inward, the faint protectiveness with which he wrapped his arms around himself, like he was trying to take up less space. Like he was trying to make himself smaller, less noticeable, less of a burden. And Sherlock wished he were braver, louder, better at arguing - that he could be someone Mycroft would take seriously instead of dismissing like a child.

Sherlock let himself be led away, but his face burned with indignation. It wasn't alright. Mycroft had looked right through Jon, like he wasn't even there. Like he didn't matter. Like Jon was invisible, or worse - like he was so beneath notice that acknowledging him wasn't even worth the effort.

It was horribly, inexcusably rude!

Back in their room, Jon busied himself with unpacking his trunk while Sherlock unpacked with aggressive precision, folding his clothes with sharp, angry movements and shoving them into the wardrobe perhaps harder than necessary.

"You know, it's not just Mycroft," Jon said quietly after a while. He was holding one of his books, smoothing his hand over the worn cover like it needed comforting. "The servants back in London never seemed to listen to me. The porters at the dock took your luggage but didn't take mine. That woman who gave you a sweet in the market when we arrived didn't give you two, so we had to share."

"They're all being awful," Sherlock agreed fiercely, turning to face his friend. "I don't understand it. You're perfectly polite. You haven't done anything wrong. It's so rude for them all to ignore you like they do!"

Jon managed a wan smile. "Maybe it's because I'm not from a rich family like yours? Maybe people just don't like me?"

"Well," Sherlock sniffed haughtily, crossing his arms, "that's not an excuse for how they act. And that certainly doesn't excuse how mean Mycroft is being. He knows you. He's known you for ages."

"Maybe he's just stressed. Your mother, the move, taking care of everything..."

"That's not a reason to be cruel."

Jon's expression softened. "I know, Sherry. I know."

They fell into silence for a moment, the kind that felt heavy with all the things neither of them really wanted to say. Then Jon held up a wooden horse, carved and painted in bright colors that were starting to chip at the edges. It had been a gift from Sherlock's father, before - well. Before.

"Should I put this on the desk? Or the windowsill?"

"Windowsill. It'll look nice in the sunlight."

They worked in companionable silence for a bit, creating space for Jon's belongings alongside Sherlock's. His fantasy and story books slotted onto the shelf between Sherlock's volumes on astronomy and natural history. His drawing pencils went nearly away in the desk drawer, the colored ones Sherlock had gotten him for his last birthday. His stuffed bear - worn and loved, with one eye hanging by a thread - was placed carefully on the edge of Sherlock's bed.

When they'd finished, the room looked properly shared. Properly theirs. Jon's things mixed with Sherlock's until you couldn't tell where one boy ended and the other began.

Except for the bed.

Sherlock crossed his arms and stared at the bed as the afternoon light slanted golden rays through the window, lighting up the room in warm honey tones. Outside, he could hear birds calling to each other, strange tropical sounds nothing like the pigeons and sparrows of London.

Just one bed. As if nobody had deemed Jon worthy of being considered.

"You can have it," he announced suddenly. "The bed. I'll sleep on the floor until Mycroft stops being ridiculous and gets you your own bed."

"What?" Jon spun around from where he had been peering out the window again, trying to identify the bird making that strange warbling call. "Don't be daft, Sherlock."

"I'm being logical. You need somewhere to sleep. I can use blankets on the floor. It's perfectly-"

"Absolutely not." Jon crossed his arms, mirroring Sherlock's stance. "We're best friends, aren't we?"

"Of course we are Jon, don't be ridiculous, but-"

"Then we share. That's what best friends do." Jon's grin was returning as he skipped over to Sherlock, his eyes bright with excitement, like he'd just solved a wonderful puzzle. "Besides, think about it. If we share, we can talk all night. Tell stories. Make plans. It'll be like camping! An adventure!"

Sherlock hesitated. "You're certain? I really don't mind the floor. I could make it quite comfortable with enough blankets-"

"Positive." Jon flopped down on the bed, testing it with an experimental bounce. The mattress creaked slightly under his weight. "Look, plenty of room for both of us. And when your brother finally stops being stubborn - which he will, because you're very persistent and even more stubborn than him - then I'll get my own bed. But until then?" He patted the space beside him, inviting Sherlock to sit. "This will be brilliant."

Sherlock felt something tight in his chest loosen slightly as he climbed onto the bed beside Jon. Share. Of course. Why hadn’t he thought of it? "We could tell ghost stories."

"Under the blankets with a lamp."

"We'll have to be really quiet or we'll get in trouble. Mycroft doesn't want us to disturb Mother."

"We're excellent at being quiet."

Sherlock gave Jon a flat look. "You're really not."

They both dissolved into giggles at that, and for a moment, the wrongness of the day faded. It was just the two of them, together, making the best of things.

"Tomorrow," Sherlock said firmly, "we'll make Mycroft see sense. We'll be extra good. Polite. Helpful. He'll have no excuse then."

"Exactly." Jon nodded seriously. "He'll have to listen eventually, even if he doesn't like me. He can't ignore me forever."

"He will," Sherlock agreed. Because anything else was unthinkable. "Anyways, nobody could ignore you forever, Jon. You're far too annoying."

Sherlock ducked the pillow that Jon threw at him, catching it and throwing it back with a laugh. It hit Jon square in the face, and they both laughed harder than they had since leaving London, the sound echoing off the unfamiliar walls of their new room, filling it with something that felt like home.

That night, they negotiated the sleeping arrangements with the solemnity of diplomats.

"You should have the side by the window," Sherlock insisted as they stood beside the bed in their nightshirts. "You like watching the stars, and the night sky will be a lot clearer here than back in London."

"But I need the side by the door," Jon countered, already moving toward it. "You know I always say I'll protect you from monsters."

"Hmm," Sherlock considered the conundrum for a moment, tapping his finger against his chin the way he'd seen Mycroft do when puzzling through a problem. "Well, I suppose both can be true. How about we'll alternate sides every night? Evens and odds?"

"That's acceptable."

They shook hands on the deal and climbed under the covers. The bed was smaller than either of their London beds had been, but there was still room enough for two small boys who didn't mind being close.

"See?" Jon whispered. "It's not so bad."

"It's actually quite comfortable."

"Better than sleeping all alone, yeah?"

"Much better."

When they'd settled, Jon propped himself up on one elbow, his face illuminated by the lamp they'd left burning on the nightstand. "Right. Ghost story time. I'll start." He pitched his voice low and spooky, making it warble dramatically. "On a dark and stormy night, in a house much like this one, there was a terrible creature with red eyes and long claws that came into the bedroom and-"

"How did the creature get into the house?" Sherlock interrupted, frowning.

"What?"

"The doors would have certainly been locked. Was it strong enough to break the door down? What kind of damage would that leave? Surely the inhabitants would have heard the noise-"

"Sherry, it's a story-"

"But it should make sense. Maybe the creature was already there from the start. In the walls. That would explain why no one heard it enter. That would explain-"

Jon laughed, pressing his hand over Sherlock's mouth to stop him from talking, his palm warm against Sherlock's lips. "Fine, fine! The creature lived in the walls. Happy?"

Sherlock's eyes crinkled with a smile under Jon's palm, and he nodded, reaching up to pull Jon's hand away.

They wove the story back and forth, Jon providing the dramatic flair and fantasy of a typical ghost story while Sherlock added his logical complications, questioning every impossible element until Jon had to work it into the narrative. The creature couldn't walk through walls, so it used the passages built for the servants. It couldn't appear from nowhere, so there must be hidden entrances and exists for it to use.

They had pulled the blanket over their heads like a tent, and the lamp flickered between them, casting wild shadows on the white fabric. Jon insisted the shadows were the silhouette of the monster standing beside their bed, reaching out with its terrible claws, ready to eat them up. Sherlock studied the shadows critically and explained that actually, based on the angle of the light source and the shape of the shadow, the creature would have to be standing on the windowsill, which was structurally implausible given its described weight.

Jon threw his sock at him.

By the time they'd exhausted their tale and their laughter, both their cheeks hurt from smiling and their voices were hoarse from whispered dramatics.

"We'll show them tomorrow," Jon said eventually, his voice growing softer, sleepier. "They'll have to listen to you. They'll have to see."

"Of course they will," Sherlock murmured, already half-asleep. The unfamiliar sounds of Cordona - chirping cicadas and distant waves crashing against the white beaches - were fading into gentle background noise. Jon's presence beside him was warm and solid, and Sherlock couldn't help but to smile over at his friend.

He didn’t know why sharing a bed mattered so much, only that it did - that lying side by side in the dark felt safe, companionable, like the world that had already taken so much from him couldn’t swallow him whole as long as Jon breathed steadily beside him.

"Goodnight, Jon."

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

Jon's hand found his under the blanket, squeezed once, and let go.

The candle went out.

Mycroft stood in the hallway outside Sherlock's room, hours after the house had gone quiet, the day having already come to it's end.

He'd been avoiding this. Had busied himself with unpacking, with writing correspondence, with checking on their mother (who had asked three times if Father had enjoyed the voyage, if he'd found his study satisfactory, if he'd like tea sent up). Each time, Mycroft had felt his heart sink a little further.

But eventually, he'd run out of excuses not to check on Sherlock.

Mycroft fingertips hovered just above the frame of Sherlock’s door, steadying himself before pushing it open a crack.

Moonlight draped the room in pale silver. His little brother was asleep, curled on his side at the very edge of the mattress. His dark hair fell across his forehead, his face peaceful in a way it hadn't been all day. Six years old and already too clever, too intense, too much like their mother.

Too much like their mother.

The thought stuck in Mycroft's throat like a jagged fish bone, sharp and painful and impossible to swallow.

Mycroft’s breath hitched, though he didn’t know why he expected anything different. Sherlock breathed softly, lashes fluttering against his cheek, hair mussed from sleep. An ordinary child having ordinary dreams. 

But it was the space beside him that held Mycroft captive.

Sherlock had left so much space on the bed. An impossible, unnatural amount of space, as if a whole other person might be lying there beside him. As if the empty expanse of white sheet and blanket was occupied by someone that Mycroft should have been able to see.

Mycroft's hands curled into fists at his sides, fingernails biting into his palms.

Earlier, Sherlock had stood in his study with such earnest indignation. "Jon needs a bed too." And he had not been playing, not pretending the way children do with their imaginary games. It was believing. Sherlock was somehow utterly convinced that this Jon character was real, was present, was being deliberately ignored.

Just like Mother insisted Father was still with them.

Just like Mother set his place at meals, arranged his study exactly as it had been before his death, spoke to empty chairs with perfect conviction.

And Sherlock had looked at him in that horrible way, just like Mother had looked at Mycroft with betrayal and fury when he'd tried - gently, ever so gently - to suggest that Father was gone.

The pattern was repeating. Mycroft could see it with horrible clarity: the absolute certainty, the hurt when others didn't acknowledge the person who wasn't there, the way reality seemed to bend around them until they were living in a world no one else could enter.

He'd watched it happen to Mother over months. The grief after Father's death, the denial, the slow transformation into someone unreachable. She'd stopped seeing what was in front of her and started seeing what she needed to see instead. And now she wandered their new house talking to a ghost, lost somewhere Mycroft couldn't follow.

Was he watching the same thing happen to Sherlock?

His brilliant, strange, wonderful little brother who had looked at him today with such confusion. How had so clearly wanted to press the issue, why won't you acknowledge Jon? Why are you being cruel?

He imagined Sherlock vanishing day by day - choosing the unseen over the real, preferring voices only he heard, faces only he recognized. Imagined fighting the same losing battle he fought with Mother: logic against longing, reality against comfort.

Mycroft could not bear to do it twice.

Mycroft wanted to grab Sherlock and shake him. Wanted to shout that there was no Jon, there was only Sherlock talking to empty air, that he needed to stop before it got worse, before he became like Mother, before Mycroft lost them both and he was left all alone-

But he remembered Mother's face when they'd tried that. The anger. The cold distance that had opened between them, a chasm that couldn't be crossed. She didn't trust him anymore. Didn't believe him anymore. He'd become the enemy, the one who denied her truth. She barely spoke to him now. And when she did, her voice was polite but distant, the way one might speak to a servant or a tradesman. Not like a son. Not like family.

If he pushed Sherlock the same way, would his brother slip away too? Would Sherlock stop trusting him, stop listening to him, stop being his Sherlock?

Mycroft's breath came shallow in his chest. He was sixteen. He was supposed to be studying at university, not managing a household in a foreign land, not caring for a mother who couldn't care for herself, not raising a brother who might be showing signs of the same madness.

He was supposed to have time to be young, to make mistakes that didn't matter, to learn how to be an adult gradually instead of all at once.

He was sixteen and he felt a hundred years old, far too tired for the little he had lived.

Sherlock murmured something in his sleep, shifting slightly. His arm stretched out across that empty space, as if reaching for someone. As if, even in dreams, he believed Jon was there.

How did it start? Mycroft tried to remember. The first time Sherlock had mentioned Jon. It had been after Father died, hadn't it? Or... no, perhaps before? There might have been another boy, once. One of Sherlock's playmates. But that boy had-

The details escaped him. There had been so much chaos after Father's death, during the start of Mother's deterioration. But at some point, Sherlock had started insisting on Jon's presence. Had started speaking to empty spaces. Had started looking hurt when no one else acknowledged the boy who wasn't there.

He wouldn't - perhaps he couldn't - understand that truly nobody else could see Jon.

Just like Mother with Father.

The doctors had said it was grief, delusion, the mind's refusal to accept loss. They'd said Mother needed time, needed rest, needed to be handled carefully. But she'd only grown worse. More certain. More lost.

What if there was no fixing this? What if Sherlock was already too far gone?

What if, at just six years old, he was already too lost within his own mind to come back from whatever place he'd gone?

Mycroft pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes, feeling the hot pressure of tears he absolutely could not shed. He needed to be strong. He was the only capable adult left in this family, even if he didn't feel like one. Even if he felt like a child playing dress-up in his father's clothes, mimicking adult behavior without any real understanding of what he was doing.

He had to protect Sherlock. Had to save him somehow.

But how?

If he indulged the delusion, acknowledged this "Jon," would he make it worse? Would Sherlock sink deeper into his fantasy, until like Mother he couldn't find his way back? But if he refused, if he denied what Sherlock so clearly believed, would he lose his brother's trust? Would Sherlock retreat into himself, into that world where Jon was real and Mycroft was just dismissive and cruel?

There were no good choices. No right answers. Only increasingly terrible options, each one threatening to take Sherlock further away from him.

There was only the sick certainty that whatever had started this, Sherlock couldn't accept it. Wouldn't accept it. He had built an entire person out of his refusal, and now lived in a reality where that person was as solid and present as anything else.

Mycroft moved into the room quietly, carefully. He pulled the blanket up, tucking it around Sherlock's shoulders. His brother didn't wake, just made a small sound and settled deeper into sleep. The gesture was automatic, something left over from when they were younger, when Mycroft had played at being the responsible older brother without actually bearing the weight of it. When it had been a sweet gesture from a caring brother rather than something that left a terrible taste in Mycroft's mouth.

He found himself tucking the blanket over that empty space too, smoothing it down as if-

He stopped. Forced himself to stop.

One bed. One child. One little brother. That was the truth of it. That was reality. That was all there was.

Jon wasn't real.

Sherlock believed otherwise, but belief couldn't make things real. Belief couldn't bring back the dead or make imaginary boys solid. Belief unsupported by reality and logic was just the mind protecting itself from truths too painful to bear. It was a shield against unbearable loss, a wall against grief, a desperate rewriting of what couldn't be faced.

Mycroft understood that impulse. God, how he understood it. Wouldn't it be easier to imagine Father was still with them? To set his place at dinner and pretend he was just running late? To talk about him in the present tense, to ask what he'd like for breakfast, to maintain the comfortable fiction that death was just a temporary absence? Wouldn't it be so much easier than facing the hollow reality of a world without him?

Wouldn't it be easier to imagine they were still a whole family? That Mother was well and Sherlock was fine and Mycroft wasn't being left to drown beneath responsibilities he'd never wanted because Father was there to take that horrible burden?

But someone had to live in reality. Someone had to keep them all afloat. And if Mycroft slipped into comfortable delusions just like Mother and Sherlock had, there would be no one left.

They would all drown together.

So he stood there in the dark of the unfamiliar place that they had decided would become "home", watching his brother sleep, and he felt the devastating weight of impossible choices settling onto his shoulders.

Tomorrow he would try again. He would reason with Sherlock. Make him understand. Find some way to reach him before this got worse, before the fantasy calcified into something permanent that not even Sherlock's sharp wit and endless thirst for logic couldn't free him from.

But even as he thought it, Mycroft remembered Mother's face today. The pleasant smile as she'd asked if Father had enjoyed his breakfast. The complete certainty in her eyes.

And he remembered the doctors' voices, clinical and detached: Sometimes, Mr. Holmes, the mind builds walls to protect itself. And sometimes those walls are too strong to break down from the outside. It might be that only they can free themselves from the world they've created in their mind. All you can do is wait. And hope.

Wait and hope.

As if hope were something Mycroft could afford. As if waiting wouldn't mean watching all he had left slip further away each day.

Sherlock shifted again, that arm still stretched across the emptiness beside him.

"Please," Mycroft whispered to the dark, to Sherlock, to God or fate or whatever cruel force had brought them to this point. "Please, Sherlock. Don't you dare leave me too."

His voice cracked on the last word, and he hated himself for it. Hated the weakness, the sentiment, the desperate plea that wouldn't change anything. Sherlock couldn't hear him. And even if he could, even if Mycroft shook him awake right now and begged him to see reason, would it matter? Could Sherlock choose reality over Jon, even if he wanted to?

No one answered.

The space on the bed beside Sherlock remained empty - achingly, obviously empty - no matter how firmly his brother believed otherwise.

Mycroft pulled the door closed quietly, the latch clicking softly. In the hallway, he could hear Mother's voice drifting from her room, muffled but distinct: "Yes, darling, I quite agree. The house is lovely, isn't it? You chose so well. You always had such wonderful taste."

A pause, as if she were listening to a response.

"Oh, I know. I was worried too, but the boys seem to be settling in nicely. Sherlock chose such a lovely room. I think he'll be happy here."

Another pause.

"Yes, I'm sure he'll make friends before we know it. And besides, he has that nice boy with him, Jon. Such a polite child. I'm glad Sherlock won't be lonely."

Mycroft's stomach turned to ice.

Of course she believed in Jon too. Or at least, she was willing to accept Sherlock's delusion as reality, to fold it into her own fractured version of the world. Two of them now, both living in a place Mycroft couldn't reach, both talking to people who weren't there, both absolutely certain that they were right and everyone else was wrong.

Talking to no one.

Talking to someone who would never answer.

Mycroft leaned against the wall, the plaster cool against his back through his shirt. The house was silent except for Mother's one-sided conversation and the ever-present sound of the sea. 

Mycroft wondered if this madness was contagious. If it spread like sickness through their blood, passed down from mother to child like eye color or skin color. If perhaps he, too, would wake up one day and find himself talking to empty air, believing in things that didn't exist, lost in the same unreachable place where his mother and brother had gone.

Would he would lose himself too, in the end?

Perhaps the Holmes family was simply cursed to retreat from reality, one by one, until there was no one left to remember what was real and what wasn't.

There was so much empty space in this house. In these lives. And only he seemed to see it for what it was: absence, loss, the howling void where people used to be.

It was a miserable thing, the recent course their lives had taken.

But Sherlock and Mother - they'd filled that space with something. With someone. Had refused to accept the emptiness.

The house settled around him, old wood creaking as it adjusted to the cooler night air, palm fronds rustling against windows like whispered secrets. The sound of waves in the distance, eternal and uncaring. And beneath it all, the sound of his mother's voice, talking endlessly to someone who would never respond.

"I think he misses London a bit, but he'll adjust. Children are so resilient, aren't they? Oh, and did you see how Mycroft handled the arrangements with the servants? He's growing up so fast. Too fast, perhaps. He takes on so much, but I know he just wants to make you proud."

Mycroft closed his eyes against the burning sensation behind them.

They weren't real. There were three people, in a house that could easily hold five. 

But there were only three.

Jon wasn't real. Mycroft and Sherlock's father was dead. They weren't in Cordona, it was an impossibility.

But Mycroft seemed to be the only one who could see that.

It just... wasn't fair.