Chapter 7

Sherlock spent the next few days thinking. He didn't mention the promised outing, but he did think about it a great deal. The reasons for thinking about it were self-evident, and while he thought, he pursued his usual activities of reading, watching television, and playing the violin. Rowlesden didn't seem inclined to hurry him to a decision about the coming excursion and Sherlock was in no hurry to make one. When he chose, it had be just...right.

Two days after his dinner with Rowlesden, Dr. Black announced him fit to leave the infirmary, provided he kept eating and exercising his foot. It was a relief to be out of the infirmary and back in the room he'd been given. Dr. Black even provided him with a special boot that would support his foot so he could walk without a noticeable hobble. He celebrated by exploring the entire house, stopping now and then to rest his foot. He located Rowlesden's bedroom, the central library, the servants' quarters where Mrs. Burton slept, a painting studio, another bedroom that was inhabited (although by whom he couldn't guess) and best of all, he located the kitchen. It was a treat to see Mrs. Burton's face when walked into the kitchen, and in short order, after many exclamations of surprise and joy from that worthy lady, he found himself seated at the table with a snack in front of him. He was more than happy to sit there and work on consuming a custard parfait while Mrs. Burton chattered away to him.

"I've heard from Halmsley that Mr. Rowlesden is planning an excursion for you," Mrs. Burton said, giving his shoulder a fond pat. "You must be so excited! Everyone they bring here to help get better always enjoys such outings!"

Sherlock suddenly found himself wondering if she didn't realize that Mr. Rowlesden's guests were kidnappees. "Yes, he told me the other night. He said that I only have to let him know what I would like to do and then he will plan it. Is there anything you would suggest?"

Mrs. Burton tilted her head to the side, momentarily letting alone the batter she was mixing in a bowl. "Hmm. Well, the gardens at the squire's house are lovely, but I like to think ours are in better taste. He didn't have Richie working on his, after all. There's the shopping arcade in town, and you can find almost anything there."

A shopping arcade would be crowded. Hmm. That seemed...promising. "Shopping arcade?"

"Oh, yes," Mrs. Burton said. "Used to be just a row of old shops on one side, but a few years ago the town fathers decided to make the other side of the street into shops as well and enclose it all to make an arcade. There's lots of shops and restaurants there, and people love going."

"What sort of shops are there?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, there's the clothing shops, one for men and one for women. They look like expensive places, but it's only the decor that's expensive. Nice clothes and shoes and things; I do all my shopping for clothes at Merrow's. I think Mr. Rowlesden buys things for Halmsley from Wickham's. There's a discount store for those whose pockets don't stretch to those stores called Nonny's. Aside from the clothing shops there is a bridal shop, and then there's a toy shop. Oh, the children swarm that place, let me tell you." She went back to mixing the batter. "After that, there's the tobacconist and the wine shop, the bookshop, the coffee and tea room, the music shop, the housewares and sundries shop, an art supply shop, a jeweller's, and then there's the restaurants. They have a French cafe called Le Blanc and let me tell you, the food there is awful. They charge a pretty penny for it, too, but it makes a nice place for young men to take their lady friends on a weekend, but there's not much else that's special about it. After that is the family-style pub."

"A family-style pub?" Sherlock echoed. "A pub that serves children?"

"Eh, it's a restaurant made to look like a pub and there's a bar, but families can eat there and the parents can have a bit of drink for dinner if they like," Mrs. Burton explained.

"Oh, that sort of pub," Sherlock said. "I see. How is the food there?"

"It's good pub fare, all of it well-prepared. Frankly, the food there is better than at Le Blanc. The menu changes from day to day and it's always posted outside on a board, so you can see what's on offer. On Fridays they'll have a fish fry on the menu and sometimes the line is out the door. Everybody wants fish and chips on a Friday."

"So there's Le Blanc and the pub restaurant...what's it's name?"

"O'Leary's."

O'Leary's. How predictable. "Is there anything else down there worth a look?"

"There's Sweeting's. It's a shop that sells gourmet chocolate and ice cream and soda fountain drinks. You can sit down in Sweeting's and order whatever you like and the ice cream is all hand-mixed. It's worth a stop for sure, if you're thinking of visiting the arcade."

Sherlock filed all of that information away for later. As the day went by he thought about it some more and decided that unless something else presented itself, he very well might end up choosing the arcade for his first trip out.


He usually slept well at night nowadays, despite his circumstances, but two nights later he was having the worst time getting to sleep. He tossed and turned for a while, tried reading, and then thought about getting a warm drink. Rowlesden had told him not to wander the house at night and to ring for Halmsley if he wanted anything, but surely just once would be all right. The thought of a cup of hot chocolate decided him and he extracted himself from the bed (it was sometimes difficult to leave the bed when he was tired; it was so blasted comfortable) pulled on a robe and slippers, and made his careful way toward the elevator. He was halfway to the elevator when a clatter from the far end of the house made him whip around, looking for assailants. It sounded as if it had come from Mr. Rowlesden's room at the far end of the house.

Sherlock didn't think before acting. He just acted. He headed straight for Mr. Rowlesden's room, but when he was almost there the door opened. If he was caught, then he could count on being confined to his room for a while and kiss any chance of a trip goodbye. He ducked under a table and prayed that the shadows and the table's cloth would keep him hidden.

Halmsley strode down the hall and toward's Sherlock's hiding place, the sound of his steps and breathing letting Sherlock know that the house steward was furious.

"Where are you going?" Rowlesden demanded, coming up behind Halmsley, stretching out a hand.

Halmsley whirled, knocking Rowlesden's hand away. "Don't touch me!"

"You're angry, Jamie, and I want to know why," Rowlesden insisted, standing his ground.

"Oh, you want to know why?" Halmsley repeated. "Fine, I'll tell you. You rang for me in the middle of the night not because you needed me but because you wanted to get me into your bed! I told you when you first brought me here; I'll never, ever do that. What made you think that I wanted to do something like that now?"

"You were so happy earlier when I gave you the news about your sister," Rowlesden said. "The way you smiled...I thought that maybe, if I invited you, you would want to. I thought that maybe you were ready to let me show you how I feel. At least, that was what I thought until you bit me."

Halmsley snorted. "Of course I bit you; you were trying to shove your tongue in my mouth! You know my conditions for staying here, Rowlesden! You outlined them yourself!"

Rowlesden gasped as if hurt. "Jamie..."

"Don't call me that! Ever again! You hear me? Call me Halmsley! That is all I am to you and all I ever will be! Stop getting your hopes up! You may have me now, but you won't have me forever! Sooner or later, I'll figure out how Lacey and I will escape from you, and then I won't waste any time in letting the police know where you are and what you've done!"

Sherlock could see Rowlesden's stance change. "Be careful, now, young man," he said, his voice suddenly sounding menacing. "Threats only make me angry. You don't want me to tell your sister anything, do you?"

Halmsley was silent.

"One of my conditions was that you and I spend time together, but you manage to limit it a great deal, don't you? Busy with your work, and so on?" Rowlesden sounded so menacing that Sherlock felt a shiver of fear for Halmsley run up his spine. "I've been tolerant up until now, Halmsley, but I think I'm about to insist on the entire fulfillment of that condition from now on, a condition that you should have been adhering to for the past five years. Three nights a week of my exclusive company."

Halmsley took a step back, evidently seeing something on Rowlesden's face that made him nervous. "What are you hoping to accomplish by making me do that?"

Rowlesden chuckled. "Have you ever noticed animals, Halmsley? How they lose their wildness and eventually become used to humans after they're captured? How they accept the protection and attention from a certain human? How they eventually begin to choose to go to that human when called and how they choose to stay with that human? Eventually, their sun rises and falls on that human being, the person who had originally captured them in the first place. It's interesting, Halmsley, don't you think?"

"You think you can tame me?"

"Tame? No." Rowlesden sounded vastly amused. "With enough work and attention, Halmsley, I'll be able to make you love me just as much as, if not more than, I love you now. The day you choose to come to me will be the happiest day of my life, my Jamie."

Halmsley turned and fled. Rowlesden let him go, let out a chuckle, and turned back to his room. Sherlock waited until he heard the door close, counted to two hundred, and then made his way back to his room as quietly as he could, all thoughts of hot chocolate forgotten. He felt cold and sick for Halmsley. What had his life been like since being brought here? Thoughts kept moving around and around in his head until the small hours of the morning, when he finally managed to fall asleep. When Halmsley brought him his tea tray later that morning, he found the detective so deeply asleep that it was doubtful if even a brass band would wake him. The butler, unaware of why Sherlock had slept in, checked on him several times throughout the morning and woke him with a brunch tray around eleven. Sherlock ate and drank, his mind still full of what he had witnessed the night before.


"I've decided," Sherlock said a week later at the breakfast table.

Rowlesden looked up from his newspaper. "Decided? Oh, about your outing?"

"Yes," Sherlock confirmed. "I would like to go shopping. Mrs. Burton says there's quite a shopping arcade in town, so I would like to see what it's like and perhaps pick up a few things. Would that be all right?"

Rowlesden smiled. "Of course. I'll just need the rest of the day to make preparations. Would you like to go the day after tomorrow?"

"Sounds lovely," Sherlock said. "I'm quite looking forward to it."

He didn't realize that part of the preparations to be made would include him. The next afternoon, Rowlesden called him downstairs to the conservatory, where a man was waiting. There was an actual barber's chair and his entire kit waiting with him, along with Rowlesden and Welling. Sherlock gave the goon a wide berth and looked at Rowlesden. "What's all this?"

"We have to alter your appearance some for your outing, and you're due for a hair cut, anyway," Rowlesden said. "This is Jean-Claude and he'll be working on you. Welling is here to give him a hand if needed."

Sherlock gave the stylist a look of trepidation and then glanced over the chair and...other things. He knew enough about makeup and hair dye and the like to realize that they weren't going to stop with cutting his hair. "Is this optional?"

"As long as you decide to forego the trip," Rowlesden said pleasantly. "Have you changed your mind?"

As an answer, Sherlock removed his jacket and sat down in the chair. Jean-Claude draped a cover around him, turned the chair so that his back was to the sink, and made the chair recline so he could start work on Sherlock's hair. Sherlock closed his eyes and let his mind wander while his hair was being worked on. First, Jean-Claude washed his hair, then he washed it again with something else. His hair was cut to just a touch shorter than he usually liked to have it cut, and then something was combed through his hair and allowed to sit for a while. A rinse, and then his hair was wrapped up in a towel to dry for a few minutes. Jean-Claude and Welling helped him wash his face and hands before they attacked with exfoliating cloths, and then...something...was patted onto his skin with a sponge. A damp cloth wiped whatever it was away, and when Sherlock glanced at his hand he saw the skin tone was a few shades darker than it usually was. He understood now why they were bothering with coloring his skin: with his usual skin tone, a spray tan would have looked ridiculous. The little bit of...was it dye?...made it look natural.

He got a surprise after that, for Rowlesden asked Jean-Claude to "see to his hands and feet." That meant a manicure and pedicure, of all things. Jean-Claude was careful with his injured foot and he actually enjoyed the massage that accompanied such work on his hands and feet. Once his hands and feet were done, the towel was removed from his hair, his hair blown dry and combed, and he was turned to face a mirror. He found himself staring. "Incredible." He was facing a man with wavy brown hair and sun-touched skin. The difference was incredible.

"The hair and skin dye will come off after a couple of hot showers, so be careful," Jean-Claude told him, removing the cover around his shoulders and attacking the same shoulders with a clothes brush a second later. "You'll need touch-ups each time you go out, unless you go out on consecutive days."

Sherlock left the chair and leaned in close to the mirror, still speechless at how different he looked. "I doubt anyone would recognize me. Not even John." What a thoroughly depressing thought.

"Have you ever worn contact lenses?" Rowlesden asked, holding out a white contact case.

"Ah, no," Sherlock admitted. "My vision's fine."

"These are a little more than corrective lenses," Rowlesden said as Sherlock took the case and opened it.

"So, my eyes are going to be...green?" That would be...well, different.

"Wait until you have them in, and then look at yourself," Rowlesden told him, handing him a pair of glasses. "You'll be even more impressed with the difference. That can wait for tomorrow, though. You'll wear these to alter your appearance further."

Sherlock felt his stomach sink. He'd hoped that someone would see him tomorrow, realize just who he was, and the hopefully alert the police, or better yet, John. He had a strong feeling that as soon as John knew where he was he would descend upon Rowlesden and his friends like Nemesis.

He was quite looking forward to it.

"Now that that's taken care of, please come with me," Rowlesden said. "I need to outline exactly what will be expected of you in terms of behavior tomorrow, and how you'll be escorted, and so on."

He took Sherlock to his study, and once again Sherlock found himself eyeing the computer and the phone. Just one call...just one!

"Welling and Meyers will be accompanying you into town tomorrow, as will Halmsley," Rowlesden told him once they were both seated. "Throughout the shopping arcade there will be other employees of mine and a few friends, and they will re-direct you back to where you're supposed to be should you happen to become...lost. Do you understand?"

Sherlock kept his face as impassive as possible. "Completely."

"I'm glad you do," Rowlesden said. "I don't foresee a problem tomorrow, which is a big relief to my mind. I hope you enjoy yourself. Now, do you have any questions?"

Sherlock thought about it and decided to ask. "If I happened to become lost...?"

"You won't remain lost for long," Rowlesden promised. "You can be sure of that. If you do happen to become lost, then when we find you, we will return here immediately, and there will be no further outings. I hope I've been clear."

"Crystal. That was my only question."

"I'm glad. Have a pleasant day, and I'll see you at dinner tonight."

Sherlock didn't wait around after being dismissed. He went outside to the east garden and thought. A cat even came out of the catmint, purring like a lawn mower, and for a while, it lay on his lap and allowed him to pet it. It would have been nice to sit there and think of nothing for a while, but his mind wouldn't cooperate with him for too long. Each time he tried to think of nothing, his mind would circle back around to his coming outing and how he was going to be escorted and how it would be almost impossible to slip away from his handlers. If he took this chance to escape and was caught, then he would never have a chance to get away again. If he didn't take this chance...but if he was caught...

An hour passed and he was no closer to a solution. What could he do? What did he dare do? He already knew that Rowlesden and his wretched friends had a great number of resources at their disposal, but surely...surely...

He went in to dinner when it was time and kept the conversation with Rowlesden light and on any topic but his coming outing. He went up to his room after a few games of chess with Rowlesden and spent about twenty minutes just pacing, his mind working furiously. What could he do? What could he do? There had to be something he could do! Something!

When he went to bed he still had no answers. He was surprised when he started to dream of his mind palace. The same walls and floors that he saw each time he went there were there to greet him. He smiled in his sleep, wandering through the familiar rooms that he knew so well, greeting memories and remembered places that he could remember feeling safe in. He walked here and there, feeling calm for the first time in ages when a step through a door brought him into...Mycroft's office.

"Oh," he groaned. "Really? I have to come here? What would be the point?"

The chair behind the desk spun to face him. "There's always a point, little brother," Mycroft said at his most condescending. "You just have to figure out what it is."

"This is my dream, and I'm going to decide where I go in it," Sherlock retorted, turning to go back out the door that had brought him there. He groaned again as soon as he saw that it had disappeared. "Oh, that's just not fair!" He turned back to Mycroft and pointed at the space where the door had been. "Put it back!"

Mycroft gave him a smile. "Oh, come now, Sherlock. Didn't you just say this was your dream? If the door has disappeared, then you must have made it disappear on your own. Why do you think you might have done that?"

"I didn't!" Sherlock insisted.

"Use your brain, Sherlock," Mycroft told him. "You might not have made the conscious decision to be here, but your unconscious mind might have decided. Do you think that's likely?"

Sherlock glared at his brother. "Right now, my entire mind is unconscious, isn't it?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed. "Don't be obtuse, Sherlock. Think."

"Don't you think I haven't?" Sherlock demanded. "I've looked at the whole problem from every angle I can think of! If you have a better idea, brother dear, I'd love to hear it!"

"You don't need my help," Mycroft said placidly. "You pride yourself on being logical, but your fear and worry are getting in the way of your thinking. All the answers are already in your head, Sherlock. You just have to find them."

"I've tried!"

"No, you haven't," Mycroft insisted. "Think, Sherlock. Like I said, the answers are already in your mind."

Sherlock groaned and started to pace. "I can't find them!"

"You haven't looked," Mycroft insisted, his assistant suddenly beside him. She handed him a stack of letters and disappeared. "Just look, Sherlock. I'm sure you'll find the answers."

Sherlock kept pacing, back and forth, back and forth. He was on his fifth time around the office when his eyes landed on the letters his brother held in hands. He looked at Mycroft.

"I knew you'd find something," Mycroft said quietly.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he was back in his room, his heart pounding. He practically jumped out of bed, sprinted as best he could across the room, and opened up his desk. Idly he glanced out his window and saw that the sky was just beginning to get light. He did not have much time to do what he had to do.