Magpie: One is for Sorrow

Chapter Two

By the time George got his breath back, scrambled to his feet and managed to get out the door, Sherlock was already trying the door handles on the second car, a Landrover Discovery, parked in the courtyard. That's when Alex Arthur came around the corner of the end house and called out.

"Holmes. Don't bother." The big ginger man waved a handful of keys. "They're all locked."

Sherlock took several long strides into the single storied carport and picked up a shovel. When he came back across the gravel, Arthur had come close enough that he didn't need to shout.

"I've got a pocket full of distributor caps. Even if you break a window, the cars won't start."

Without a word, Sherlock dropped the shovel and strode away, out of the courtyard and onto the tarmacked driveway.

When the agent started to follow, George called out. "Don't!"

Arthur glanced back, and must have seen Ashley Lewis coming around the corner, so he stopped for a moment. "Got him on the map?" he asked his colleague.

The dark-skinned man nodded, "Sure. Tracker's working fine."

George decided that enough was enough. "Right then, stand down, both of you."

The two looked at him like he was insane.

He sighed. "It will take him at least fifteen minutes to get to the junction with the main road. He's in no shape to walk any faster, or to attempt to run. That's enough time for you to get that damned distributor cap back in your car, unless you intended to frogmarch him back on foot." He tried to control his smirk. "If you were considering that, you should think again. He's perfectly able to stop you, even firing on half his cylinders." He eyed both men before continuing, "In fact, he could take both of you at the same time. Brute force is not an option; it's never been."

The big ginger-haired man looked annoyed for a moment, but then stalked over to the 4x4 and threw open the bonnet.

Lewis eyed him warily. "What's your plan, sir?"

George didn't let his smirk show on his face. The trouble with service people- even Mycroft's- is that obedience to orders is too ingrained for their own good. But, in this case, he was glad for their deference. Sherlock needed time on his own to think things through.

"Come with me." He walked back into the middle house, with Lewis on his heels.

Esther Cohen had used the communicating door from his house to get in, and was now standing in the hallway, looking concerned. She hugged her cashmere twinset tighter as the cold came in through the opened door.

"Are you alright?"

George snorted, "Of course; just caught me by surprise."

Esther gave him a sympathetic smile. "So, you're letting him run? Why?"

Before George could answer, Ingrid and Lidiya came through the door and into the hall. The Swedish nurse's worry was clear on her face. "We were watching next door- on their monitor upstairs. Are you injured?"

"No; of course not. He just wanted to get away. I pushed him too far."

Lewis's tone showed his scepticism. "He assaulted you."

That made George laugh out loud. "If he'd wanted to hurt me, he could have, and you bear the scar as a reminder of that fact."

"You're going to let him walk it off?" The psychiatrist did not try to hide the approving tone from her question.

George nodded. "Yes. He's very volatile at the moment- probably due to the withdrawal symptoms starting. Once the flight impulse eases, he'll start thinking again."

Lewis's face showed his scepticism. "Are you seriously suggesting that he will voluntarily return here? There is nothing in his file history or current behaviour that says that is even a remote possibility." His incredulity was obvious.

In the courtyard, the sound of a car starter motor could be heard. The engine caught and settled down to a duller noise.

George kept his stance relaxed. "We have somewhere between twelve to fifteen minutes to find out if I'm right. Even if he gets to Dovers Green Road, then we've still got another half hour, because that's how long it will take him to walk into Reigate. You know as well as I do that he's not carrying a wallet or any change in his pockets, so a bus can't get him there any faster. Trying to hitch a lift? Not on a Sunday afternoon- traffic's too light. He's most likely on foot until he gets to a phone shop, where he just might blag his way to use their phone, in order to buy another, which is the only way he's going to be able to pay for a train ticket into London."

Lewis's brow furrowed. "All of his accounts have been frozen; his cards have been revoked."

George chuckled. "You think he doesn't have something stashed away on an alias his brother doesn't know about? A guy who moved all over the world without leaving any traceable footprints?"

The agent crossed his arms. "So, what's to stop him stealing a car and just driving out of town?"

George mirrored the stance. "Think about the absurdity of everything that's just been said. We can track him. He wouldn't make it out of town before the police could catch him- if your colleague out there doesn't catch up with him first."

Esther spoke up. "Sherlock won't break into someone else's car just to go on a joy ride that he knows would get him caught. He's not stupid; don't ever underestimate him."

Lewis seemed uneasy that the psychiatrist was backing up Hayter. The agent snapped, "Holmes has spent the last two years breaking the law in dozens of countries; he won't be deterred by a little car theft."

She crossed her arms and glared at the agent. "And you have absolutely no idea about what actually does motivate or deter him, so you'd best stop making stupid assumptions." She was positively bristling at the dark skinned agent.

George intervened. "I suggest that everyone just calm down. Lewis, go get Arthur- there's no need for him to keep the car running. We have time."

Ashley briefly looked at the tablet he was carrying, and then sniffed. He reluctantly handed it over to George and then went outside.

"Right, ladies…" George gestured up the stairs. "Lidiya- can you go get his coat and scarf? They're hanging in the cupboard in the loft room. I didn't want to give him any ideas of early departure by putting them in his room, but I'm regretting that now. He's going to be freezing out there."

Esther sighed.

George looked down at the screen and smiled. He tilted the tablet so Doctor Cohen could see it.

She peered at the map, and the red marker that blinking. "What's that mean?"

Ingrid peered over the shorter woman's shoulder so she could see it, too. She smirked… "Is he a rugby fan?"

Esther looked utterly confused.

George came to her rescue. "Sorry, I forgot you won't know the local area. That marker is his tracker; he's just half way down our private road; it's blinking because he's stationary."

Esther breathed a soft "Oh" and then took a breath. "You think he's stopped; what…for a re-think? But, what does that have to do with rugby?"

"There's a bench, alongside the Reigate Grammar School rugby pitches. The marker shows he's sat down on it."

The petite psychiatrist's was bemused. "Well, he's not watching, that's for sure. He hated rugby at Harrow. He used to say that it was 'a school-sanctioned opportunity' for others to beat him up. He got out of it at every opportunity, developing an alarming series of illnesses just to avoid the possibility of turning up on the pitch in his first year at school. Mind you, when he did actually have to play, he ended up injured, more often than not by being under a pile of boys relishing the opportunity to get even with that tongue of his."

The Swedish nurse spoke up. "So, not much of a team player, then?"

Esther giggled. "No, he hated rugby so much that he took up wrestling to be able to fight his way out of under collapsed scrums. He once admitted to me that the sole redeeming feature of rugby was that it taught him the true value of running away when the odds were overwhelming."

George was beginning to realise how important it was to have Esther on side. The fact that she had known Sherlock for so long added so much more insight than the dry medical files ever could.

The nurse took in Esther's comment. "So, why has he stopped walking? Could it be his injuries are hurting him too much?"

The grey haired doctor shook her head. "He'd ignore the pain. It's logic that's stopped him."

George nodded, and then explained to Ingrid. "I think that he's realised if he's going to get out of this situation, it won't be on an impulsive run down the road. He's going to have to detox, recover physically, and plan his escape- so he can find a way to get an illegal GPS jamming device. That will take some time. He's going to need a phone to do that. So, first thing, remind me to collect everyone's mobile. I've got to pass the numbers to Mycroft."

Esther gave him a cautious, but appreciative look. "You are beginning to get the idea. In my humble opinion, Sherlock's cleverer than Mycroft is, but don't ever tell his brother that I said so. Actually, I think half of the mind games that Mycroft plays with Sherlock are to keep him unaware of that fact, in the hope that he can manage to stay one step ahead of his brother. Sherlock is probably more cunning and certainly more willing to take risks. It will only be a matter of time before he figures a way out of this GPS thing. But, you've always known that, haven't you? Even when using it to convince his brother to let you do this."

He replied dryly, "I'm sure that Mycroft Holmes knows that the tracker just buys us a little time. We have to use the window of opportunity to convince Sherlock that getting better is actually a better way of escaping."

"How long will that window be open?" Ingrid looked worried.

"He's probably already plotting his escape. Detox will delay it, and he might wait until his injuries are healed enough. By my reckoning, and after today's performance, I think we've got no more than three weeks at best, maybe only a fortnight."

He saw the worry in their eyes, and nodded. "Yeah, I know- bit of a challenge."

oOo

Ten minutes later, the blinking spot on the map had still not moved. Stalemate. George was both pleased that he'd been right, but frustrated that Sherlock had not come back.

The two agents were getting restless, and fractious, too. Because of their names, George tried to stop thinking of them as the A Team, but they would not appreciate the joke. The bigger freckled man started muttering to his colleague, but George couldn't catch any words of their exchange.

He made an executive decision. "I'm going alone to pick Sherlock up."

By their reaction, he could tell that Ashley and Alex were not happy with the idea.

"You need back up, sir. What happens if he tries to take the car?" Ashely Lewis was polite, but making his point forcefully.

"Or attacks you again?" added his ginger colleague. He didn't bother to try to sound polite, going straight for a tone that was downright insulting, even a bit manacing.

"He won't." Esther was adamant. "He's not violent."

Lewis looked pointedly down at his own arm, "You could have fooled me."

"Both of you boys stay here- out of sight, next door. You have the tracker, you can see if there is a problem. If you don't like it, well, tough. He's my patient, and I need to do this my way."

When George got in the car and turned the key, he hoped that they would all follow his instructions. The two agents were banished back to the big house. Esther was to withdraw back in his sitting room, and the two nurses were not to be in the middle house by the time he got back. George wanted Sherlock to go into an empty house, of his own accord. It had to be his choice, freely made.

He glanced at the Belstaff, folded on the front passenger seat. George worried that getting chilled would not help Sherlock's physical recovery, but accepted the man's need to leave had probably been more important to his mental health.

George was only half way down the private drive from Hartswood to the main road when he spotted the solitary figure sitting on the bench. He pulled the Discovery onto the verge, and left the engine running to keep it warm inside.

The ground was still frozen hard and crunched beneath his boots as he walked up to the bench. Sherlock was sitting casually, his eyes fixed on the empty playing fields, with their neatly chalked lines and the odd H shaped goal posts. The sun was beginning to dip below the tree line in the distance, and the wind had picked up now.

"You must be half frozen."

George put the coat, scarf and gloves on the bench and then sat down on the other side of the bench. He followed the line of sight of Sherlock's gaze, wondering what the younger man was seeing out there in the empty pitches. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see involuntary shivering, and worried about hypothermia.

"If you relapse with pneumonia, your brother will use it as an excuse to hospitalise you again. Assuming you want to avoid that, I'd put on the coat if I were you."

There was a big sigh, but Sherlock complied, easing himself slowly to his feet before shouldering on the long coat. The scarf and gloves went on, and then the collar was turned up, before he sat back down. His eyes had not once moved off the tree line to look at George. The fading sunlight seemed to make the man's grey eyes glisten. Were they tearing up because of the wind, or emotion? He didn't want to draw any conclusions without knowing more.

He had to start somewhere, and the opening gambit had already presented itself. "What made you stop here?"

No reply.

Maybe Esther's comments about Sherlock and rugby could be turned to his advantage. "The Grammar school runs these playing fields. Next week is a big sevens competition. They'll be out here practicing tomorrow."

That made Sherlock's eyes narrow, so at least he was listening. George tried again. "Maybe you're wondering why not today? It's Sunday."

No response.

"Actually, I don't care why you stopped at this particular spot. I'm more interested in why you stopped, full stop."

"Why does it matter?" There was resignation in his tone.

Because I can use your answer to stop your brother interfering, if it was for the right reason. George decided he couldn't say that. Not yet. He was trying to figure out what to say when Sherlock's sigh interrupted his thoughts.

"I stopped because I realised that I can't remember. That's… strange. Unheard of. I remember everything. I have to delete things manually, make conscious choices to forget the rubbish. The curse of an eidetic memory. But, important things I can always retrieve. Only, I can't remember how I got this wound on my neck." He sounded annoyed, frustrated. His gloved hands were still fumbling a bit with the buttons on his coat.

"I told you what I saw. I have no reason to lie."

That made Sherlock turn his head to look at him. George kept his eyes firmly on the field; no need to up the pressure. He'd already hear undercurrents of anxiety in the man's voice.

"Don't you? All my life medical people have lied to me. Told me in no uncertain terms what their diagnosis was and that all I had to do was follow their stupid instructions, take their drugs, submit to their ridiculous therapies and I would be for ever better." He finished buttoning up his coat. "It's all lies. They always end up blaming me when their potions and rituals fail to make the slightest bit of difference. I was –am- a bad patient."

He huffed and returned to staring at the setting sun, putting his gloved hands deep into his pockets for warmth. "But in all my trials and tribulations, I've never not been able to remember something this important. The drugs can make it hazy, and I have to work at it, but when I do, the memories come back." He gave a dry laugh, and took a hand out of his pocket to gesture at his head- "like a hard drive; nothing's ever really deleted." He looked down at the ridges of mud, hard frozen beneath his shoes. "I don't like not remembering. I've never dissociated before, at least not that I'm aware of."

His use of the psychiatric term made George wince. He filed that observation away as something rather important.

A gust of wind whipped across the field, making Sherlock's wavy hair move across his forehead. He sank down a bit further into his coat. "You asked if I knew when I had gone too far. Well, failing to remember why I would take a knife to my own throat probably qualifies. At least in the past, when I've tried something like that, I was fully aware of what I was doing, and accepted the consequences."

George resurrected the information he'd read last night about Sherlock's three known suicide attempts. "Do you know what dissociation actually is?"

Sherlock snorted. "Tell me, why it is that every medical professional is arrogant enough to assume that I wouldn't do my own research? Of course, the problem is that even when I do, the vast majority of technical neurobiological chemistry research addresses so-called normal people. I'm not like you. No one ever seems to realise that when they trot out their useless drugs or meaningless therapy."

George could have cut the frustration with a knife, it was so thick in Sherlock's words. It made him realise that Sherlock would argue about any proposed treatment from a position of knowledge, rather than dependency. But, if he could engage that intellect in his own treatment, it just might be enough to start him at it.

George decided that Sherlock's annoyance about the memory lapse might give him a way in. "Do you remember what happened at the hospital?"

Silence.

"That was nine days ago. For most of the time since you've been unconscious, sedated."

The only sound was the wind, as the sky darkened.

There was enough light to see a muscle in the younger man's cheek twitch, as George continued, "I don't know about the first time you woke up, but the second time, you spoke with your brother and the third time, you had another psychotic break."

That made Sherlock turn his head sharply, which must have hurt his neck, but he showed no sign of that when his eyes bored into George's. "What happened?"

Now George had to decide how much to tell. It was too early to do anything but err on the side of caution. "You started shouting, panicking, trying to get away from one of the people in the room- that's how you tore out the cannula in your hand. According to you, he was dead, deleted."

Sherlock snorted. "I must have been in a bad way, otherwise I would have known it was useless. I've been trying to delete Mycroft for years; it never works. Dead? Hah! Like a bad penny, he keeps turning up." He returned his gaze back to the treeline across the fields, where the last orange light was now coming through the bare branches.

George filed away the fact that Sherlock had not connected his panic attack to John Watson. Deleted, indeed. "Apparently, a bit more than two weeks ago you had a night terror, woke up shouting in Chinese about being tortured; do you remember that?"

"No. However, I do remember him going on about it in the morning. I just thought it was one of his little games. He likes to do this sort of thing, undermine my faith in my own sanity." Sherlock sighed. "It's usually a precursor of one of his attempts to incarcerate me. That's why I left Baker Street- just to avoid that particular scenario." He gave another involuntary shiver.

George was starting to worry about the cold. He needed to get Sherlock warm, but if he pushed too quickly, he'd provoke a flight response. Step One- keep the patient alive and physically well. No matter what happened to his mental state, if Sherlock persisted in neglectful behaviour, then there was no hope of making progress. He had to get him to take responsibility for his physical state. It would ground him better.

"What are you feeling right now?"

Sherlock's "I'm fine" was an almost instant response.

George shook his head. "No, that's not what I asked. I didn't ask how you are feeling. I want you to describe to me what you are feeling physically, right now."

"Why?" He sounded suspicious.

"Just answer the question. Or are you unable to do so?"

Sherlock sniffed. The sky behind the trees was still tinged pink, but the sun had set. "I'm cold. I don't mind; it helps to numb the pain in my back."

"I'll bet; though all that shivering must pull at the intercostal joint of your eleventh rib. Bit of a bitch for pain, I reckon."

"By definition, I have no control over my parasympathetic nervous system."

That brought a smirk to George's mouth, "Of course, you do. Just come in from the cold. The car is warm, and will stop your shivering. Then we can talk about what next."

"You mean I actually have a choice? I don't think so." He sounded weary and fed-up.

"Within reason."

Sherlock grimaced. "Your definition of reason and mine are different."

"What would make it easier for you to return to the Manor?"

"Why would I want to do that?"

"Because you need somewhere safe to go while you figure out how to solve this problem. What would make the Manor into that for you?"

"Call off the goon squad. Their stupidity offends me."

"I can keep them out of sight."

Sherlock snorted, "I'd prefer it if they were in the next county. But if that's not possible, then let me remove every single one of their spying devices."

George thought about it. The tracker was enough. "Okay- but you'll have to be quick about it. My guess is that in about another couple of hours, you're going to be in full withdrawal, and not really up to it."

Even over the sound of the wind, George could hear a sigh, and a cloud of melancholia seemed to descend on Sherlock. "Been there before. A nuisance, but only temporary."

"How many times?"

Sherlock looked pained. "More than I want to remember right now."

"Then you'll know that right now you need to get food and fluids into your system, before the worst happens. If you end up in hospital again, I can't guarantee that your brother won't revoke our arrangement."

A flicker of what George guessed was curiosity crossed Sherlock's features. "Why you? Why would you get involved?"

He chuckled. "Maybe you were right- just another former Army doctor egotistical enough to think I can make a difference."

As Sherlock got to his feet and headed off towards the car, George heard him mutter under his breath, "Well, good luck with that."