Chapter Three

Lost in the de-frag routine, Sherlock stumbled on an odd memory. Out of place; how did it lose the directory tag? He looked at it from the outside, reluctant to open it. Why was it in declarative memory when it belonged to the directory that was part of the hidden file structure in long term memory? It needed to be restored to the correct location.

He re-assigned the correct tag. Nothing happened. It didn't move.

ERROR CODE 22 0x16 ERROR_BAD_COMMAND

That made no sense. He knew the command was a good one. He should know- he'd worked on the tagging for that whole directory years ago. The protocols were very tight, the password encrypted and the path undetectable. It was a hidden file, one so deep in Long Term Memory that he never even accessed it when doing a full system scan. What the hell was it doing in the broad daylight of current run time?

Cautiously, he approached it. From the outside, he could detect no malware. Something must have been corrupted. Something in the file wrapper must have created a string of code that made it accessible again. He sighed. Nothing for it but to go in and clean it up from the inside. He opened the file, and remembered…

…the first day of term. The Bradby House Matron had taken one look at his sling and then Mrs Walters took her aside and probably told her everything she knew. Fortunately, that was far from everything. He had been shepherded upstairs by Wallace. The chauffeur deposited his trunk, while the gamekeeper looked around Sherlock's new room. He sat on the edge of the bed and tuned the man's comments out. A single room. Sherlock had hated the fact that he had to share a room as a Shell, and for half of his second year, too. As a fifth former, he would no longer have to share. Good. Even so, the sooner I am out of here the better. He was looking forward to just one thing this week- the one-to-one session that every returning boy got, the one where he would tell the House Master that he intended to sit his A levels the week after his sixteenth birthday. He would not be returning in September next year. Like a prisoner facing a parole hearing, he both anticipated and dreaded that meeting. What if he says 'no'?

The idea of being trapped for another year, or even two, was too much to bear. He'd run if he had to. But, he couldn't tell anyone about that. I'll end up locked away again. Father would just love the excuse. He had to get through this term. Let his wrist and hand heal, take the exams and plot his escape.

Mrs Walters reappeared. "Now Sherlock, are you really sure? It's not too late. If you want to sit out a term and let yourself heal, it will be alright. I'm just not sure you're ready to come back so soon."

He realised he needed to say something. If he didn't talk, they'd make decisions for him. He couldn't bear that thought, so willed his mouth into action. "I'm fine, Mrs Walters. The school work is just what I need to get my mind onto…other things. Don't worry."

Now it was Frank Wallace's turn. The ginger-haired man gave him a sceptical stare. "I don't believe you, laddie. You're far from fine. And we do worry. But, if this is part of you getting back to what you should be, then I'll go along with it. On one condition- if it gets to be all too much, you're to call and let me take you home."

He just closed his eyes. The man had said 'home', as if home was somewhere he wanted to be. On his map of home there was now a black hole, a hole with burned crisp edges right where the stable used to be. It had already been demolished, thanks to his father's instructions to the estate manager. The three remaining horses- his father's, his mother's ancient mare, and the hunter that Mycroft rode when he was chatting up the local gentry- they'd been moved to one of the estate farms.

"Sherlock?" The gamekeeper's Scottish accent reminded him that he'd been asked a question that needed to be answered. He was so tired of having to satisfy other people. Keep them content that he wasn't cracking up or in need of more medication, more therapy, more scrutiny. All he wanted to do was to scream, "Leave me ALONE!" But what came out was the more practiced reassurance that he knew they needed to hear. "I'm OK. You can stop fussing. Now go on. I've got things to do."

As soon as they left, he had a few hours of peace. Around him he heard the sounds of boys returning, the thump of trunks, the raucous shrieks of laughter, friends greeting each other, summer stories being exchanged, the exuberance of youth spilling down the corridors. It all sounded so horribly false to him. In desperation, he put in the earphones of his Walkman and opened his trunk. He could unpack later. Right now he knew he needed to stop thinking. He found the CD he was looking for: the Fantasia and Fugue, for organ in G minor ("The Great"), BWV 542, sometimes referred to as the Prelude, incorrectly in his view. He couldn't bear to listen to violin music anymore. He'd left his instrument at home; it made him too distressed to think he couldn't play this term. That made him think about why he couldn't play and that led him in directions he just must not go. He turned the volume up. He forced himself to picture the score in his mind, and lost himself in the mathematical precision of Bach's masterpiece.

Ten minutes into the recording, someone touched his shoulder. Without thinking, he flinched away from the hand and threw himself out of reach. No! Don't hit me again!

His violent movement sideways pulled one earphone out and then he hit the wall with his left elbow, sending a shockwave of pain into his broken wrist and fingers that made him cry out. He opened his eyes in utter panic to see the equally shocked eyes of Mrs Richards, the House Matron. "Sherlock, oh my God, I didn't mean to startle you! It's just you weren't hearing me because you had your earphones on. Are you alright?"

He gasped and caught his breath. Not now. Can't panic now; she'll send me away. He got his breathing under control. "I'm alright. Sorry, you scared me."

…Having sorted the corrupted file code from the inside, Sherlock could still feel the pain in his wrist- a phantom memory? No, he vaguely remembered that the pain was new. It just reminded him of the old. He re-tagged the memory, and sent it back to the basement section of the hard disk's Long Term Memory. Deleting the pathfinder code for that memory, he continued his system scan for wayward fragments.

oOo

Esther remembered her conversation with the school doctor. It had been short. She looked at Mycroft who was waiting not quite patiently across from her. The utter silence of the Diogenes Club felt oppressive. She resumed. "I spoke to the School Doctor on the phone. After the routine check, Sherlock was told by the Bradby Matron to go to the medical centre, but he didn't go, went to class instead. They didn't catch on until the next day, when she walked him over and turned him over to the School nurse. I'm sorry, I can't remember the name of the doctor- but you clearly have found his name. When I spoke to him over the phone, he said that he'd done a physical examination. Sherlock was borderline underweight for his height, but he was more concerned about his state of mind. He'd wanted to book Sherlock an appointment with the consultant who came in weekly to provide psychiatric support. But Sherlock told him that I was responsible for his care in that area. I told him that I'd been working with him for four years, and that I'd already been to see him. He sounded relieved, because he said that Sherlock had made it very clear he did not want to see another doctor. He had his schedule of weekly sessions with the London Hand and Wrist Unit, and that was all he wanted at this stage."

Mycroft's expression hardened. "So, he washed his hands of Sherlock."

"Don't be too hard on him, Mycroft. He knew that Sherlock's injury was being seen to by one of the best consultants in the UK, and that his psychological health was being looked after by someone who had been working with Sherlock for four years. If I had been in his position, I would have come to the same conclusion. In any case, Mycroft, the man is dead. No point in pursuing that line of enquiry. I left clear instructions with the school nurse, provided written notes for the three Stanmore doctors who attended the school, and spoke at length with the House Matron. They were to watch him carefully and contact me if there was either further deterioration or no improvement. If there was not a marked improvement within seven days, they were to call me and I would have put him on an SSRI."

She lifted her chin to show she wasn't intimidated by the implication that she'd let Sherlock down. "That call from the school was never made, so I can only assume that he did get his act together. Losing the horse and coping with the physical injury were no doubt challenging, but I had no reason to believe that he didn't manage to do so. Your brother is remarkably tough minded."

"Did you ask to see the hospital discharge notes?" It was a pointed question, and she felt the threat in its sharpness.

"No, why should I? I was not his primary care physician. I assumed it would have been sent to the family's GP and then onto the school with the details of the medication and physical therapy programme for his wrist. I was more worried about possible consequences- such as depression. And I left very detailed notes for his support network on what to do if the depression did not abate or if it worsened. His mental health was my priority."

Esther was now getting increasingly annoyed. What isn't he telling me? What the HELL is in that file? But before she could give voice to her thoughts, Mycroft moved on.

"Very well, Doctor Cohen, you have explained what happened on the first occasion. You spoke to him again in November, after our father's funeral. Tell me what happened on that occasion."

"It was the House Matron again. Oh God, I've forgotten her name, too."

"Mrs Richards."

Damn him and his memory. She snapped, "I am looking forward to seeing how you cope with old age and short term memory issues, Mycroft. I hope I live long enough to see you forgetful." That comment was not rewarded by even the slightest reaction in his gaze. She sighed.

"Right. Mrs Richards telephoned me to say that Sherlock had returned to school after three days away to attend his father's funeral. This was not the first time I had heard of your father's death- of course, I read it in the newspaper. On the day I read the announcement, I phoned the school to try to contact Sherlock, to see how he was taking the news, only to be told he was at the Estate. I rang Mrs Walters, who told me that you were home and taking care of things. So, I let it go. If he wanted to talk, Sherlock had my number. If you wanted me to see him, you had my number. Given how little time the two of you had spent together in the previous two years, I thought it best to leave you two to it."

Did that sound a little defensive? Yes, Esther decided it probably did. But, damn it, if he's not going to tell me what I was supposed to have missed, then he deserves it.

"And yet, you did meet him when he returned to school. Why?"

"The Matron was worried by Sherlock's lack of grief. She didn't know about their real relationship. She just assumed that he would be upset by the death of his remaining parent. I agreed to see him, in part to protect him from being poked at too much by the school. And, I will admit, I wanted to see how he was getting on, whether the depression I saw seven weeks before might be returning."

"Was it?" Again, the bluntness of Mycroft's tone irritated her.

"Not at all, but it had been replaced by something else. A sort of …restlessness. Agitation. That I could understand. You have to remember that in Sherlock's eyes even though he had never got on with his father, it would be very disconcerting to have his Father gone. You know very well how he had reacted in the past to death. People on the Spectrum get used to having figures around them, even people they don't like. Sherlock had come to rely on his father's disliking him, his neglect. It was a constant in his life that would be missed. You have to understand that in the limited 'social geography' of someone who is autistic any change can be upsetting. Oddly enough, Richard's disaffection for Sherlock was tangible, and a kind of anchor in its own right. Amidst Sherlock's feelings of loss though, he was also almost elated. He said he felt liberated. Free from his father's judgement, as if a great cloud had lifted. I took that as a great step forward, it was a mature realisation."

"Looking back on the session, I was impressed by a number of things. First of all, he was talking, I mean really talking about things he didn't normally have any interest in discussing. There was more engagement on an intellectual and emotional basis than I'd ever had with him before then. He was more self-aware. He was not depressed. It was strange. As if his father's death made him grow up overnight, and he was taking more responsibility for who and what he was- both the neuro-typical and atypical aspects of his character. Becoming more comfortable with himself. I was hugely impressed, I will admit. Whatever else, in the previous seven weeks, he'd sorted the depression out and made substantial progress."

Mycroft looked surprised and then slightly sceptical. "I saw very little of that in the three days we were together."

Esther's response was almost instantaneous. "That surprises you? I am not at all surprised. Why on earth would he open up to you? He had not seen you in more than a year. It might not have felt like it to you, but in the life of an adolescent, a year is an enormous amount of time. You have to realise, too, that your father's death affected you differently than it affected your brother. You will have been dealing with your own grief, as well as the all the hassle of becoming head of family- relatives, solicitors, finances, and your father's businesses- not to mention the actual funeral and memorial service. I'm surprised you even managed to speak to Sherlock at all."

She got a tiny nod of acknowledgement from the elder Holmes. She continued, "One thing your brother did say to me when I met with him, something that you may not have understood at the time. Your father's death made him much more dependent on you. He didn't like that, not one little bit. I got that message loud and clear. When your father died, you ceased to be a protector of him against his father, and became instead the sole authority figure. Remember, Mycroft, Sherlock at fifteen would be going through the rebellion/attachment ambivalence that every teenager goes through- and the issue of your guardianship of him was raised. He wanted to know exactly when he would come of legal age and be responsible for taking his own decisions. He knew, he'd done enough research to know that there might be issues, and he wanted to know what you could do to him. I told him he needed to talk to the family solicitor about those matters."

That gave Mycroft pause for thought. He drew his hands together in his lap, then looked down at them as if wondering how he had lost control of his movements for a moment. He returned them to the arms of the chair, clearly annoyed at their betrayal of his defensiveness.

She smiled. The movement restored something of her equilibrium. She didn't feel quite as threatened as she had earlier in their conversation. "So, Mycroft, are you going to finally show me what's in that file, and what both of us failed to pick up back then?"

Author's note: If you want Sherlock's POV and then Mycroft's POV on these events, go find Ex Files, Chapters Excruciate and Exhume.