Magpie: One is for Sorrow

Chapter One


Author's Note: This takes place two weeks before the events of the prologue; on the day of the epilogue of Devonshire Squires.


He wasn't sure what woke him, nor the exact moment that his consciousness returned, but his first thought was of Mrs Hudson. Or, more specifically, the scent of her brand of laundry detergent. She used an old fashioned, hypoallergenic non-biological powder- which suited his sensitive nose and skin perfectly. And the sensation was unique, too, because unlike the modern housewife, Mrs Hudson still pressed her sheets. The heat of the iron did something different to the cotton that he could feel; the high thread count meant the fabric was soft and silky against those bits of his skin that weren't dressed in his Derek Rose pyjamas. The inside of his upper arm recognised the unique texture of a fibre woven from beech wood pulp into the softest jersey cloth.

Even before he opened his eyes, he also knew these were his pyjamas and sheets. There was the faintest trace of his cologne, which his half-awake nose promptly fractionated into the head notes of bergamot, the heart aromas of cedar wood, orris and Turkish rose, over the base notes of musk, sandalwood and amber. The complexity of the aroma was part of the pleasure of William Penhaligon's Hammam, a gentleman's cologne dating back to 1872. There was something deeply comforting in the scent, but Sherlock had never understood why it had that effect on him. Caught in that half-awake, half-asleep moment, he remembered the day that his brother had taken him to the little shop on Brook Street, in the summer between his first and second year of university. "Time to grow up, brother mine. If you're not going to dress smartly or cut your hair like a gentleman, you can at least smell like one."

That's when he realised that it had started again- the avatar voices. He sighed, and started shoving Mycroft back into the room of his Mind Palace from whence he'd emerged. [Shut up! I locked you in there for a good reason] He took pleasure in the look of annoyance on his brother's face as he slammed the door and turned the key. But it didn't shut the voice up; that smug tone drifted down the hall after him; "out of sight is not out of mind, Brother mine. I thought you might know that, but then, you are out of your right mind."

He ignored that and started a languorous stretch – and gasped, as the motion set off sharp stabbing pains that ricocheted from the side of his neck to a point between his shoulder blades and then down to the right side of the middle of his back. He stopped, paralyzed by pain mid-stretch, and his eyes snapped open.

The light that flooded in was unexpected; he could tell by the wavelength that it was natural sunlight, and, as his eyes adjusted, that it was early afternoon. His brain woke up enough to register that it was winter sunlight from a northern European location.

But nothing else was familiar.

[Where am I? ]A sudden jolt of anxiety ripped away the last shreds of his dreamy state of mind. Nausea gripped his gut as adrenaline tore through his half asleep body. Like a car going from zero to sixty in less than a second, his heart rate leapt to the point where he thought it might blow apart like some over-stretched engine. [No, no, no- don't panic; not a good time for a panic attack]

For a moment, as he struggled to get his breathing under control, he wondered whether this was another one of the hundreds of different places he'd woken up in while on his mission to take down Moriarty's network. [Stupid- don't be an idiot; that can't possibly be right] Lars Sigurson wouldn't wear these pyjamas, sleep in these sheets, nor would he wear cologne that branded him English without even having to look. [Someone's broken my cover and imprisoned me]

His brain was so slow- but the pain told him that he wasn't getting any pain relieving drugs, so that wasn't the cause of the slowness. Then he recognised the familiar chainsaw rasp on his nerves that said he was coming down from drugs. A horrible sensation- once felt, never forgotten.

[Distract myself- Deduce!]

He very gingerly levered himself up onto an elbow, so he could look around the room. The afternoon sun was coming through three mullioned windows, set into a stone framework. The windows were old. Even from the bed he could see where the leaded lights refracted light with the warp and distortion of crown glass made before 1910. He'd grown up in a house full of such windows, but this was not Parham.

Sherlock looked around the room, which was sparsely furnished, indicative of…what? [Stop thinking; just observe] An upholstered chair- good quality and in a traditional style, but modern repro; it was joined by a chest of drawers and a large wardrobe, both of which looked turn-of-the-century in style. His eye trained to look at antiques as a way of deducing the wealth, status and history of a suspect gathered in the data and concluded that he was in England, in a listed country house, but owned by someone who did not have a great deal of money. Still, it wasn't a hotel, but rather a home, and one that someone had tried to make comfortable. The walls were wood panelled, but instead of being stained brown as would they would have when first built, these had been painted a warm cream colour, which brightened the room. There was an old stone fireplace, with a plain wooden mantelpiece- modern for sure. The light fixtures were recent and the ceiling was newer, too. He knew there would be old timber beams under the plaster, holding up the floor above. From the angle of the sun and the absence of trees or buildings in the view he could see from the bed, he figured he was on an upper floor of a house in a rural setting.

There was a door ajar to the left, and Sherlock could see the gleam of white tiles- an ensuite bathroom, clearly a recent addition. The door to the right of the bed was older- the non-standard width a real give-away of its mid-seventeenth century origin, and it too was open a bit, presumably onto a hall landing [not a prison then?]

He took all of this in within seconds. So, why were his sheets on a bed he'd never slept in before?

Then the bodily sensations resumed control. A piece of him just wanted to curl up in a ball and give in to the pain, and try to escape back into sleep. But a horde of data was now swirling around his head about the room, where he was, and why he was there. He pulled a pillow back over his head, trying to drown out the rattling buzz of drug withdrawal [Stop!] The runaway train of his thoughts ignored that plea. He was somewhere he didn't know, in pain, coming down from drugs.

First things, first. [Get up; find drugs!]

Sherlock considered the various aches and body parts that complained when he sat upright, and pulled the covers aside so he could put his feet onto the carpeted floor. With no memory of how he'd got into the strange room, he started to check his body, to see if it was safe to stand up.

There were dressings over various wounds- the one on his neck demanded the most attention, as his fingers explored very carefully. The bandage was over the jugular vein- but he had no memory of how he'd gotten it. He lifted the back of the black jersey long sleeved shirt of his favourite pyjama top, and let his hand reach under to find a bandage half way up his back, on the right side. The other dressing he found by reaching through the collar down between his shoulder blades. The motion scraped the plaster on the top of his left hand; he looked at it carefully, and then prised up the edge of the adhesive to take a look at the wound. Considering the location of the torn flesh and its state of healing, he deduced that it was from a canulla, and fairly new. [Someone's been pumping me full of drugs, just not the right ones]

The second sight of the bathroom in his peripheral vision triggered a new realisation. His bladder was so full that it actually hurt, and he desperately needed a pee.

It wasn't easy to convince his body and sense of balance to co-operate when he stood up. For a moment, the room spun and his right calf muscle cramped viciously, making him grunt with pain and squeeze his eyes shut, while he stumbled and put his hand back down on the bed. Oddly, that helped him get his balance back, before his bladder demanded right now. He staggered off into the bathroom.

There was no window, but he decided against pulling the cord that would turn on the light, just making do with what came in from the bedroom. He managed to get the seat up just in time before the urine flowed, and wondered why it felt both amazingly good to pee while at the same time smarting a bit as muscles in his back complained. It took a surprisingly long time to finish. After flushing, he shuffled over to the basin to wash his hands and without thinking looked at his reflection in the mirror over the basin. Sherlock watched his eyes in the reflected image narrow in disgust as he took in the amount of scruffy beard stubble- at least two weeks' worth of growth. [I look as horrible as I feel] This wasn't the neatly trimmed effort that he'd worn as Lars; it was patchy and with odd curls and wispy bits, and just the sight of it made his skin crawl.

Down one corridor of his Mind Palace, a smug voice could be heard: "Lost it again, little brother? No memory of your decline and fall? Dossing down with the dregs of London is just so unbecoming."

The thrum of adrenaline, driven by anxiety, resumed in his blood. For a moment, he could hear the whoosh of blood in his carotid artery; his inner ear seemed to have decided to focus on that instead of anything sensible. In a rage, he shouted, "Shut up!" The snarl bounced off the white tiles. His gut twisted, and he tasted bile in the back of his throat.

His ears heard the echo, so he must have said it out loud.

A faint but familiar whisper in his ear- "Hearing voices again? Talking to yourself? Tut, tut- you ARE far gone."

He managed, just, not to shout at Mycroft again. Instead, he closed his eyes, and imagined himself bricking up the corridor that had Mycroft's room in it. Cavity wall, two separate brick courses, with lots of sound insulation stuffed between the two. The bricks flew into place, the mortar setting hard in an instant.

That would do, for a while, anyway. He was sure he'd already done this construction work before and recently, too, but the bastard still kept managing to worm his way out.

He stared in the mirror, trying to control his features so they looked less manic. [Get a grip! I can do this] His self-loathing drove him to open the mirrored cabinet open to see if there was something to deal with how awful he looked. His straight edge was nowhere in evidence, not even a disposable bladed razor. There was, however, an electric shaver, battery powered, which he immediately set to use. While he shaved, his eyes were free to wander and they took in the contents of the shelf over the taps: his brand of deodorant, shampoo and toothpaste, all new and unopened.

He didn't need the mirror to shave, every time he looked it, he felt a rising tide of shame so strong that it made him want to vomit. The whirr of the rotary blades and their pull on his face followed him as he wandered back into the bedroom. On impulse, he opened the wardrobe with his free hand and saw his suit hanging alongside several clean and ironed shirts. There were casual clothes, too. His cashmere dressing gown was on a hook. A glance in the chest of drawers revealed underwear, tee shirts and socks [not indexed properly!] The voice shouted so loud that he had to fight the urge to put the shaver down immediately and replace things correctly in order to shut it up.

He didn't understand why the sight of his socks should make his eyes prick with tears, but it was frightening him. Someone had gone to considerable trouble, and yet he was in a place he did not recognise at all. He had no memory of how he'd got here, either. His anxiety increased, and paranoia took flight.

oOo

In the kitchen downstairs, George heard the toilet flush, then the sound of water running. He had decided against going into Sherlock's room; he wanted it to be a sanctuary, rather than a combat zone. While he listened, that pile of medical files weighed heavily on his mind. Sherlock had been subjected to a life time of failed treatments, not one of which seemed to have made any difference at all. Most of the people he worked with as a PTSD counsellor were very different; so called "normal" servicemen and women who had experienced something traumatic and been changed as a result. With therapy and support, they were able to find their way back to normality; they wanted to get better. They weren't always successful, but they tried.

George had come to an important conclusion overnight- none of that applied to Sherlock. Nothing about Sherlock conformed to anything he'd known, so the rule book would have to be ignored. One thing he was sure of now; Sherlock would only be helped if he agreed to it, and he had never agreed to it before. So, something new was going to be needed.

It was an almost impossible task. Making it interesting wasn't enough. He had to convince Sherlock to accept that avoidance was not possible, but that everything else would be in his control. There would be no set programme, no formulaic approach. No hoops to be jumped through. The option of not engaging was not an option, but everything else would be.

He could hear the creaking floorboards that said the patient had not gone back to bed. He finished the last two pages of the chapter and then got up to put on a new CD, returning to his chair, but re-positioned it so he was facing with his back to the door. Even though it warred with every one of his own military trained instincts, he wanted to give Sherlock total control and no reason to avoid entering.

A short time later, he heard footsteps, in leather shoes, not slippers. Down the stairs, then along the hall to the kitchen, pausing on the threshold, but not entering. George didn't look up from his book.

"Corelli, Sonata Number Two in B-flat major, Opus Five. Is that Manze playing?" The baritone voice that uttered this was flat, without emotion.

Without looking up at the voice's owner, George consulted the CD box. "Yes."

"Who are you?" There was the slightest tinge of suspicion in the young man's tone.

"George Hayter." He still didn't look up, returning to the novel.

"I didn't ask what your name is."

George thought about the question and decided that Sherlock had a point. He put the book down and raised his right hand, extending his index finger so it could be seen from where Sherlock was standing. "It was my fingerprint on Alex Robbs' body."

"Oh… so, you're the medic attending the fights."

As he answered, George risked turning to take a quick glance, but didn't connect; Sherlock's eyes were roaming over the kitchen.

"Not all of them. Missed yours; but, I picked up the pieces with Stuart Bradshaw. He stayed here with me for a week after he was discharged from hospital."

"Who's he?" Sherlock was staring rather intently out the kitchen window, which looked onto the courtyard. Across the gravel, he would be seeing the Hartswood Farm house and the outbuildings.

"You know him as the Cunningham Crusher. Thanks to you, I helped him recover from a crushed vertebra- rather ironic, that. Lucky for him, you knew your anatomy well enough to stop the fight so he didn't get spinal damage. Unlucky for you, you didn't show the same concern about your own injuries as you did with his."

George watched as Sherlock registered this comment. Clean-shaven and fully dressed, the dark blue suit and purple shirt changed his appearance dramatically. Apart from the bandage peeping out of his shirt collar, he looked like his photos in the papers and on the television. A bit thinner, perhaps, but the transformation was startling, from the dreadfully ill man George had seen in the Shootfighter's Gym. He dropped his eyes again before Sherlock could start to feel uncomfortable with the scrutiny.

He stood up and headed for the sink. "Want a cup of tea?" He started to fill the kettle.

"No."

"You should drink something; you're still dehydrated."

"I'm fine."

Hayter snorted. "So says a man who allowed a simple injury to turn into a life-threatening infection, then ended up in hospital, delirious with fever and in desperate need of surgery." He rattled this off, wondering how much of this Sherlock remembered.

Turning off the tap, George continued, "Okay, I will admit that I am impressed at your 'mind-over matter' approach; most people carrying your set of injuries would be hard pressed to crawl out of bed, let alone look as together as you appear to be. But, medical data- well, it doesn't lie. You're a scientist, facts are facts."

Sherlock ignored that completely. "Do you know where my phone is?"

George shook his head, while he filled the kettle. "Why do you want your phone?"

"To call a taxi."

He plugged the kettle in. "You want to leave now. What do you think the odds are of that happening?"

Silence.

George busied himself with the tea- rinsing the pot in hot water from the tap to warm it, putting the three teaspoons of loose leaves in, getting two mugs out, finding the strainer from the drawer. This conversation had headed for confrontation faster than he had thought it would; he'd been counting on Sherlock's physical injuries and drug withdrawal symptoms on being enough to keep him more dependent for a while. He'd underestimated Sherlock's pain threshold, and his ability to sublimate the discomfort to his need to get away. He had been warned- Esther had told him that Sherlock was the master of avoidance as a coping strategy. He decided that he would have to escalate the discussion, to see if Sherlock could come to terms with the arrangement.

"What can you remember of last Friday night?"

Just before the kettle boiled, George switched it off and poured the contents into the pot, slipping the tea cosy over it. When he turned back, Sherlock was still standing in the kitchen doorway, silent.

George let an eyebrow rise. "Something? Anything?"

Sherlock looked away, down at the floor to George's right. "Not much. It's all…rather hazy."

George put the two mugs on the table. "Weak or strong?"

"Weak, no milk, no sugar."

There was the slightest hesitation in that instruction, which George noted. He's changed his normal routine; wonder why?

"Well, it's to be expected, I suppose. You were running a temperature of over 40 degrees, and high on both morphine and cocaine, so the details are likely to be a bit sketchy."

He gave the pot a vigorous swirl, and lifted the quilted cosy off.

Sherlock's brow was furrowed. "I wasn't due to fight, so I don't understand why I am here."

"You picked a fight, with Alex Cunningham- not in the boxing ring, in a treatment room. Does that ring a bell?"

After a moment, Sherlock replied tentatively, "Not a proper fight…I was there to stop him…" Then more firmly, "…the Mozambique connection; I was trying to save the life of Kirwan's informant."

"Morrison is his name. And he's alive, thanks to you. He survived the emergency tracheostomy, and has been spilling the beans to the Metropolitan Police, who told me to tell you that this is, and I quote, 'the biggest shipping scam of the century.'"

Sherlock snorted with derision. "The century's still young; lots of time to push this one into the shade." He shifted his weight; George watched him trying to suppress the involuntary spasm of his abdominal muscles. He poured the weak tea, no milk, no sugar, and pushed the mug towards Sherlock.

"Sit down, before you fall down. You really do need some sugar, or something to eat. Your blood chemistry is all over the place. You're putting a brave face on it, but you must be feeling like shit."

Sherlock stepped into the kitchen to brace himself with a hand on the back of the wooden chair that George had vacated, but he didn't sit down. With his free hand, he picked up the cup and took a big swallow. George filled his own cup with milk and then strained the tea into it.

George resumed. "Do you remember what happened to Cunningham?"

"No."

This was said very quickly, and he wondered about the anxiety that might have driven it. Not knowing could be intensely disconcerting for someone like Holmes, whose self- image depended on the acuity of his memory. A piece of him hated doing this, but George had to push Sherlock to the point of realising his need for help. If those files were anything to go by, just telling him he needed help wouldn't work. He found himself remembering Watson's comment. "He'll find his own way back, if he thinks it's worth it."

So, he poked again at the anxiety. "Can you remember who else was in the room?"

"No," said almost as quickly. Then, "Presumably, you were." This was said in a flat tone devoid of emotion.

George noted Sherlock's inability to recall that John Watson had been there with him. He knew, instinctively, that he had to be totally honest with Sherlock- anything less would be deduced, according to Esther Cohen, and held against him. Beginnings are so hard.

"Nope. I was in the corridor. Close enough to hear what was going on but not in the way. Think harder."

George took his tea and leaned back against the kitchen counter, watching Sherlock trying to figure it out. Two furrows appeared between the younger man's eyebrows. These suddenly vanished and his expression became one of incredulous anger. "Was my brother there?"

"Yes."

"WHY?!" This was shouted in fury.

George registered the emotional lability; Sherlock had gone from numb to outraged in a single moment. He tried to calm things down. "You'd been missing for more than a week- and he figured it was the one place you'd turn up." He decided to press on. "Shall I tell you what happened to Cunningham? You took him apart at the seams; he's alive, but only just. You fractured his skull in three places. And the second two fractures were inflicted when he was already unconscious. Can you remember why you would do that?"

Sherlock looked down, his shoulders shifting a little awkwardly. "He had a knife- I was unarmed; self-defence."

George let his eyebrows show his scepticism. "That might work for the first facture, but not for the other two."

He sniffed. "Diminished responsibility. You said I was delirious with fever."

George nodded. "It might work with a jury, should he bother to prosecute. You'll probably be lucky though- he'll be too busy defending himself and his firm from the criminal prosecution to worry about an assault charge." He poured himself a second cup of tea. "Do you remember the injury that led to your infection?"

"No; it's irrelevant." Flat, devoid of emotion again, as if he couldn't care less.

George was startled by how fast the emotional cycling was; from livid to numb in under a minute. "In the fight with Crusher, he kicked you. Middle right side of your back- dislocated the eleventh rib, and jammed it into your kidney. Must have hurt like hell. Infection set in- both in the joint and the kidney. You used morphine to deal with the pain, when you needed antibiotics instead. And because you are an addict, you decided it was better to leave home and sleep rough to make sure that no one stopped you from using your drug of choice."

Through clenched teeth, Sherlock snapped, "It was for a case."

"You're a chemist, I've been told. So you know that opiate use releases inhibitions, increases impulsiveness and risk taking behaviour, plus it causes a clinically proven rise in aggression. So, getting deeper into the fight club must have felt logical, and had the added benefit of letting loose some of that pent up anger."

"Is this what you say to all of the fighters you bring home to fix up? 'Get out now before you really get hurt?' Life in the City too boring for you that you have to go get a fix of playing omniscient doctor?" The questions were snidely put.

George continued as if he hadn't heard. "Because drug taking and fighting are probably going to attract unwanted attention, you disappear. Quite convincingly, too. No one has a clue where you were."

Sherlock drew an impatient breath. "No one cares. No one should care; it's my business what I do, what I decide is necessary to complete the case. I don't need anyone else to tell me what to do."

"Who were the people getting in the way?"

"Interfering busy bodies who think they know better. People who tell me what they think I should do. People like you."

"I'm not judging you, Sherlock.

"Good." Sherlock drained the tea, and put his cup down firmly on the table. "Right. Thank you for your hospitality, I'll be on my way now." He started towards the phone that was on the kitchen wall.

"That's not going to happen- you're not ready to leave."

"Says who?" There was an undercurrent of menace in the baritone.

"Everyone."

Sherlock drew his hand back from the phone. "Who's everyone?" He didn't turn around to look at Hayter.

"Your brother, Detective Inspector Lestrade. Even your housekeeper, who packed your things for here." George made a calculated decision to leave John Watson out of the mix. Sherlock's mood was too volatile to risk triggering another episode.

"What do they know? None of them has any right to stop me from doing what I want and going where I want."

"Even if that means you end up nearly killing Cunningham, and neglecting yourself to the point where you have to be hospitalised? That sounds to them like you're close to the brink."

"Been talking to Mycroft, have you? That's his usual game- claims I'm unwell and uses it as a way to control me."

George heard the paranoia. "How far does it have to go before you know that you've gone too far? Self- destructive behaviour is one thing, but can you remember how you got that wound on your neck?"

For a moment, that stopped Sherlock, and George watched the confusion take hold. "I…uh, I don't know. In the fight, I suppose."

"No, it happened after Cunningham was unconscious on the floor. You had a psychotic episode, claimed that 'no one would ransom a dead man.' Called it a 'self-fulfilling prophecy' and started to slice through your own jugular vein. Is that far enough for you to realise that you've gone too far?"

"I'm fine!" Sherlock whirled around, his face now flushed with anger. "You said you weren't judging me."

George didn't shift his position, just stayed leaning casually against the counter-top. "I'm not. We are having this conversation because they've asked me to see what I can do to help stop you from going that far."

"It's none of their business, nor yours."

"They're your friends and family."

"I don't have friends." He let his distain drip from the word. "And, as for family, unfortunately, one doesn't get to choose one's brother. I got stuck with one who likes to play God. Well, let's just call this me being Lucifer. I'm happy enough to be cast out of his vision of heaven. Not mine, never was."

Sherlock walked to the kitchen door, anger telegraphed in every stride. He turned just a bit, so his words would carry. "It's not fair- you can be emancipated from your parents, reject offers of friendship, divorce a wife. But a brother? There's nothing short of fratricide." Then, he turned on his heel and left the room.

Now George was in motion, following Sherlock down the hall to the front door.

"I should warn you what is likely to happen if you walk out the door."

Sherlock looked back over his shoulder. "Oh, really? Now you're going to tell me that Mycroft has minions who are listening into this conversation. Well, save your breath. I picked up at least a half dozen cameras and bugs on my way down the stairs." He stopped, and then leaned forward, like some sharp eyed raptor. "And you people wonder why I'm paranoid. Maybe, just maybe, it's because it's warranted."

He stopped and looked up the stairs, before continuing in a louder voice. "And I should warn whoever Mycroft has left behind that I am not in the mood to be stopped. That might have worked before, but I've had two years of playing hard to get with people who are far worse than whatever you might throw at me."

Sherlock reached for the Yale lock latch and the door handle. "You see, they're handicapped; they don't want to hurt me. But I have no such compunctions about them."

George had not wanted to do this, not yet. But Sherlock was leaving him no option. "Yeah, I kind of figured that out while you were still unconscious. That's why I insisted on a game changer."

The door was open, but there was something in George's tone that made Sherlock stop and look back at him.

"That wound in between your shoulder blades? It's a GPS tracker. Under the muscles, tucked in nice and tight to the T5 vertebra. Whatever you do, Sherlock, you won't be able to disappear. It's your safety net."

Without thinking, Sherlock exploded into action. He shoved Hayter hard on the right shoulder whilst sweeping his legs right out from under him. The big man landed hard with a gasp. Then the door was thrown open and Sherlock bolted from the building.