The next morning brought a different nurse. Clare her badge declared, friendly, smiling, dark haired to Sarah's blonde, with medication but no breakfast. 'You're not telling me to eat,' he said suspiciously.

'ECT this morning,' she said. 'You can eat when you wake up.'

He couldn't react, couldn't even speak, just rolled over and faced the wall again, pulling the pillow over his head to block out her voice trying to explain what he didn't want to hear..

When she finally left him alone, he sat up in bed and considered his options. The door was locked, he knew this. His room was on the ground floor, but the window when he tried it would only open a few centimetres. After several weeks in bed he didn't rate his chances at running far, but there was no way he was going to go through this without a fight.

The door opened as he was still trying to work out if there was a way to force the window lock. 'I hear you're not keen on your next session of ECT,' came James Harrison's voice.

'Would you be?'

'That wasn't the question.'

'It's a question. Would you have ECT if you were me?'

'Thats two different questions. Would I have ECT if I had your condition? Yes, I would. Would I want to have ECT if I was Sherlock Holmes, and hadn't accepted the fact that I was ill? No, of course not.'

'Then why are you making me have it without even asking me?'

'Because it is the best treatment option for you.'

'And if I refuse?'

James Harrison shook his head. 'Your father has signed the consent for the course of treatment. Your wishes, are irrelevant, I'm afraid.'

Angry tears were gathering in Sherlock's eyes. Men didn't cry, he knew that. He brushed them away and tried to make his malfunctioning brain come up with a plan.

'You're angry.'

'Of course.'

'Why?'

'Because I don't want it!' he yelled. 'I don't want to lose any more memories.'

'You don't want to get better and to get home?'

'Medication can do that, can't it? Besides I am getting better. I'm eating, I'm drinking, I'm talking, I thought that was the deal.'

James Harrison sighed. 'You are midway through a treatment course. Stopping now would be detrimental. Two more treatments to complete the course of six, and the we'll discuss it again.'

'My father has asked for this, hasn't he?' Sherlock said suddenly. 'There's something he doesn't want me to remember. My brother told me. Thats why he's asked for this, don't you see?'

Dr Harrison sighed, 'That, Sherlock, sounds a lot like paranoia to me, and is a symptom of your illness. Your father wants you to get well, as do I. I'm sorry.'

There was a knock on the door, and porters arrived to take him to the treatment room. He fought, of course he did. It took six of them to hold him down in the end, and they had to sedate him to get him onto the treatment table. Then the oxygen mask and the slow creep of the anesthetic up his arm and the he was waking up again in a strange room, head aching, mouth dry, trying desperately to work out where he was, and with tears of frustration sliding down his face, unable even to work out what he was frustrated about.