The next day brought James Harrison uncharacteristically early, before Sherlock had had time to do much other than struggle into consciousness, take medication and eat his breakfast. The medication had to go, he knew, but he hadn't yet had a chance to work out which ones, or in what order. He needed to do this scientifically, one tablet at a time, work out the effect that each one had on him, so that he knew which ones he could stop taking. Disposal was also going to be an issue. Flushing them down the toilet seemed to be obvious, and were there cameras? He was fairly sure there were cameras in his room, people watching him, although he hadn't yet managed to identify exactly where they were.

For today he contented himself with palming two of the tablets, just to see if he could get away with it. He could. Hiding them in his cheek was also an option, but the way the nurses watched him to check that he swallowed made him think that trying to keep them in his cheek with his tongue would be detected. An hour later he took out the tablets that he had palmed and hidden under his pillow and inspected them. He was starting to feel panicky, but both tablets looked the same. Small white ones. One must be the pericyazine that Clare had talked about, but what was the other? Until he worked out which was which, it was safer to take both, otherwise they might realise what he was doing. He just hoped the cameras wouldn't pick it up. He did a reverse palm technique to swallow them, wary of being seen with them openly. Stupid really, he should have just palmed one. Tomorrow he would know better. Another day of potential freedom lost.

James Harrison had a thick sheaf of paper with him, which he put down on Sherlock's table. 'Depression score,' he said, 'well actually a manic-depression score. I thought we could see where you are on it later, if you're feeling up to it.'

Sherlock shrugged. 'Are you talking to me today?' Dr Harrison asked.

'Do I have a choice?'

'Not if you want to avoid any more ECT, no.'

'Who was that woman yesterday?' Sherlock asked. 'The one with all the lipstick.'

'Gemma Haynes?' So she did have a surname after all. 'She's a clinical psychologist. What did you think of her?'

'She treated me as if I was an idiot.'

Dr Harrison chuckled. 'You were still groggy from the anesthetic, it was a bad time for it really. Maybe you were acting like an idiot.'

'Possibly, but I'm not one, and I don't appreciate being treated like a child either.'

'Fair point, I'll feed that back to her. She's not been with us very long; she's still finding her feet, so be gentle on her.'

So she was new. Interesting. 'Who is she? Do I have to see her?'

'I just told you, she's a clinical psychologist. She's going to do some CBT work with you; cognitive behavioral therapy; both for treatment and to try and give you some strategies to stop the depression from returning once you're well. There's good evidence that its better than medication for preventing recurrence, and as you've already told me that you don't want to be on medication for the rest of your life I would suggest that you work with her.'

'I don't like her. Why can't I just 'work', Sherlock made quotation marks with his fingers to show his contempt for the term, 'with you.'

'Because you're doing psychotherapy with me, thats different. Or rather you're meant to be doing psychotherapy with me. Currently you're just arguing and trying to pump me for information. Besides, its healthier to work with several people, gives you different perpectives.'

'So you can all sit around a table and talk about me, what once, twice a week? What do you call them, case conferences, team meetings?'

'Team meetings twice a week, yes. Then we also have brief handovers with the nursing staff every morning.'

'And what do you say about me?' Really this man was frustratingly difficult to antagonise. People gave away most when you made them angry, Sherlock had discovered. When excessive emotion suppressed their normally logical thought patterns then barriers started to fall and information came out. Dr Harrison however, just wasn't playing ball.

'What do you think that we say about you?'

'That I'm difficult, that I refuse to engage, is that the term?'

Dr Harrison stayed silent.

'Am I right?' Sherlock asked.

'Why are you so bothered by what we think about you? For the record, it is not in your best interest to know what we are saying about you, but we're not here to judge. We wouldn't discuss you in those terms. We might say that you were struggling to engage, certainly, we might say that you were still experiencing significant depressive symptoms, but its interesting that you think that you come across as difficult. Is that something people have said about you before?'

'I don't remember,' then in response to Dr Harrison's expression, 'I think so.'

'Why is that, do you think.'

'I suspect because won't conform to other people's expectations. And because I don't think before I speak.'

'Now you and I both know that isn't true. You do think, you can't stop yourself thinking,thats part of the problem, thats why you've needed such hefty doses of sedation to stop your brain working at a million miles an hour, to give it a chance to rest, to repair.' Hefty doses, interesting.

'So I say hurtful things deliberately?'

'Either that or you say them because you don't realise that they're hurtful.'

Sherlock was silent, considering. 'Think about it,' Dr Harrison said, 'try to remember, and we'll talk about it again in a few days. Because I don't believe that you like hurting people. Setting them off guard, proving you're cleverer than them, yes. I suspect that you can manipulate people very well when you're on form, because of your intelligence, but I think that you do that to gain control of situations in which you would otherwise feel lost.'

'So you don't think that I'm a psychopath?'

'The very fact that you're asking that makes it extremely unlikely. Thats the second time this morning that you've expressed concerns about other people's opinions of you. Psychopaths simply don't care. You do.'

'Sociopath?'

'Possibly, that comes in many forms. I suspect that you're a little lost in social situations. That you're not entirely sure what the rules are or how you're meant to behave, but there are many causes for that. Its too soon to start putting labels on you, Sherlock, and I don't believe that labels are very helpful. People are individuals. What matters is working out how your head works, what has happened in your life to make you end up in here, and using that to help put everything back in order, to get you well.'

'We still haven't agreed that I'm ill.'

'Haven't we? We have agreed that without medication, without treatment you are experiencing anxiety, panic, depression, is that not mental illness?'

'That is one explanation of the facts.'

'Tell me the other.'

'That someone has done this to me, with drugs, to make me like this, to stop me from disclosing information that you have.'

'All right, lets look at that logically. Your symptoms on admission were not consistent with a drug psychosis, and besides, if it had been drugs, the symptoms would have worn off by now.'

'But I'm still being given drugs.'

'Yes, but drugs out of the same packets as all the other inpatients in this institution.'

'Their symptoms could be drug-induced too. Its a possibility.'

'Sherlock, all of them came in here with symptoms which are responding to the drugs exactly as we would predict. The drugs are making them better, the drugs are making you better. No-one is making you ill deliberately. This is not rational, this is paranoia.'

Sherlock considered. The same medication as all the others. Interesting. Could his medication be switched before it was brought to his room? He didn't want to ask, but he needed the information.

'Its the same medication,' James Harrison was saying patiently. How did he know what he was thinking? 'There is no way that anyone could switch it before it gets to you. The nurses looking after you take your drug chart, go to the cupboard, get the tablets out of the pots, put them in the medication pot and bring them in to you. The nurses that you know and are starting to trust. Clare, Sarah, the night staff. Do you honestly believe that they are all in on this? Because thats the only way that you could be being drugged.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'A long acting agent?' he asked, 'Something that could still be in my system?

'You've been here over a month. The only thing that would work that long would be an injectable depot, and there's no sign of that, and besides it would have shown up on the toxicology screen that you had when you came in here.'

'That wouldn't have shown up everything, would it? Only the common stuff. What about something experimental.'

James Harrison sighed. 'Your father had your blood analysed at the MI6 lab, Sherlock. He is not without paranoia either. Nothing came up.'

'The sample could have been tampered with.'

'No it couldn't. It was taken here, witnessed by an MI6 officer, and couriered by him directly to the lab. Your father it seems is not without contacts. Let this go. There is no drug. This is an illness. Why are you finding it so hard to accept that?'

Sherlock shrugged. Filing away in his mind the one possible explanation. That his father could have arranged for the information to be tampered with by MI6, or MI6 could have done it themselves. But why?'

James Harrison was speaking. He had tuned out again. 'What?' he asked.

'I said that it wasn't your father either.'

Sherlock looked at him suspiciously. 'How do you do that?'

'I'm a psychiatrist Sherlock. I'm just following your logical thought process, and your thought processes incidentally are very logical, even now. No-one has poisoned you, no-one drugged you into this state. I have told you that it is simply not possible to cause your symptoms with drugs. The sooner that you accept that, the sooner that you can get well.'

'And if I don't you'll give me more ECT?'

'Not at the moment, no. If you need more, I would prefer it to be your choice, but medication and therapy is a better choice now. The ECT was get you to a point where you could take the medication and engage with the therapy, as you are now.'

'Am I engaging?'

'Yes,' Dr Harrison said with a smile, 'Surprisingly well, actually. It helps that you want to know, that you naturally examine the evidence for and against theories, that is what therapy is all about.'

'Can I have a pen and some paper?' Sherlock asked suddenly. 'So that I can write things down as I remember them? So that I can write down theories?'

'Can you be trusted with them?'

'Do you mean am I going to shove a pen up my nose and bang my head on the bedside table in a bizarre attempt at a self-lobotomy, then no. I'm not going to do that.'

'Then yes, you can have a pencil and paper.'

'And some books?'

'If you wish. There are some in the library. What do want?'

'Greek, I like the Greek philosophers.'

'In Greek? I don't think the library here stretches to that. There might be some translations, I'll send the librarian along to discuss it with you.'

'Thank you.'

'Do you want to look at this depression score with me, or shall I leave it with you?'

'What is it?'

'Its a way of quantifying depressive, and manic symptoms. It is basically a series of statements. You need to tick the ones that you feel apply to you.

Sherlock took the proffered sheaf of papers and looked at the list. It made uncomfortable reading. 'I thought that you didn't believe in labels,' he said.

'I don't, but this is a useful way of assessing progress.'

'And of working out if I'm bipolar.'

'Possibly, but we don't have to do it now if you're not feeling up to it.'

Sherlock looked at a few more of the statements and handed the papers back. 'I can't,' he said bluntly, 'not today.'

'Why are you finding this so upsetting?'

'I have no idea.' He paused, and considered. 'I suppose that I don't like seeing my feelings written down in black and white. It feels - odd, wrong.'

'Because it proves that you are ill?'

'Possibly.'

He could feel it, rising up from the pit of his stomach. Black, writhing, consuming misery, with panic in close pursuit. He closed his eyes and tried to calm his breathing.

A hand on his shoulder, reassuring, comforting, but still he kept his eyes closed. 'You've done well today. I'll get Clare to bring you some medication to help. We'll continue this tomorrow. Gemma Haynes is coming to see you this afternoon. Try to work with her if you can.'

Buzz, click went the door as Clare came into the room. How had Dr Harris summoned her? The call button? He hadn't even heard it go, or had she been listening the whole time. Were there listening devices as well? He opened his eyes to check the footsteps were hers. Dr Harrison was still sitting beside his bed, and Clare was on the other side with a paper pot of medication. Two oblong blue pills. Lorazepam she had said yesterday. He liked those, they helped. He swallowed them quickly, gratefully and lay back and waited for them to kick in. Dr Harrison was saying something to him, but he couldn't register it. There was just the mud, thick and black, dragging him down and threatening to close over his head, and then the blessed release of sleep.