The faint but persistent headache that clung to the edges of Sherlock's skull was not at all made better when Gerald opened the car door smoothly for him, revealing his head of security sat comfortably in the back seat. Cheryl raised her gaze from her phone to give him a look that would have passed for casual disinterest if anyone else had been on the receiving end – but Sherlock read all of the warning and judgment in it very clearly.
He repressed a sigh, sliding in beside her, the quiet click of the door closing making him feel momentarily trapped. A slow breath deliberately expelled that sensation – he couldn't afford anything that reminded him of the incident.
He wasn't particularly surprised to find Cheryl waiting for him, although had hoped to forego any confrontation – not matter how indirect – until he'd arrived at the office.
Cheryl was well armed, no more than she normally was, but it sat poorly with him this morning. It was more difficult to shrug off than the confinement to the back of the car, despite how accustomed Sherlock was to her defensive presence. She was a near constant companion, so often unnoticed and unnoticeable, even if she was rarely so directly at his side.
And she had invested a great deal to ensure that Sherlock could take care of himself when she wasn't with him.
Which was, he suspected, why she was there that morning.
But she said nothing, turning back to her phone to occupy her during the short commute, and then following him up to his office, a silent shadow he couldn't shake.
Tina was there when they arrived, her momentary surprise at seeing Sherlock fading into sharp scrutiny as her eyes raked over his face, then down the rest of his body. She gave him a brief warning glare that Sherlock ignored outwardly, smoothing over the inward cringe of guilt. Despite being younger than him by a few years, Tina was the oldest of three and had evidently had the same practice with her siblings as Mycroft had had with him.
Sherlock wondered if she knew that her disapproval mirrored Mycroft's – probably not, although he doubted it would surprise her.
Still, the silent warning appeared to be enough for her, and she resumed her brisk, professional efficiency, albeit with slightly less of a sunny disposition. Tea and coffee were expertly made and delivered promptly, enough for two, with Cheryl ensconced in his office.
His head of security still hadn't spoken, save to thank Tina for the tea, and was making a deliberate point of continuing with whatever work she was doing on her phone. Gabriel's prominent absence was undoubtedly the reason for her silence – Sherlock didn't even bother to entertain the idea that he might get away with speaking to each of them individually.
He didn't know where Gabriel was, but it scarcely mattered. The younger man wasn't about to let this slide – as much as Sherlock would prefer not to have the necessary conversation, he also wouldn't tolerate Gabriel avoiding the confrontation. He'd trained Gabriel better than that, and if something as significant (although tiresome) as this slipped past, it would be ruinous.
Keeping the business running smoothly, without any interference from their specialized competitors or from the law, was an enterprise Sherlock couldn't – and didn't – undertake on his own.
Still, it annoyed Sherlock this needed to happen at all. If John had stayed out of his medicine cabinet, this discussion would never have to take place. He'd had no intentions of resorting to the sleep aids Irene had provided – at least not then, and he would have taken them discretely had he needed them, after John had gone to sleep and while in bed, so it would have appeared the next morning that he'd had nothing more unusual than a good night's sleep.
With an inward sigh, Sherlock wondered if he still might get away with using them without notice. If he were lucky, the nightmares would abate now, but drawing attention to them sometimes made them worse. John would be on the lookout, which was irksome.
There had to be some way around it he decided as his computer finished booting up. There always was.
At the moment, he didn't have the luxury of exploring those possibilities. A day of inactivity was costly when unplanned and he'd missed two or three important meetings the day before, with people who were not easily put off. One of them, at least, had the equanimity to deal with Gabriel if required, but she was a rare breed.
The two others were paranoid idiots as far as Sherlock was concerned; privileged men with significant problems chasing them who had paid hefty sums to make those problems disappear. One of them was more inclined to be persuaded to patience than the other, and Sherlock suspected he would ultimately have to silence the more nervous one permanently. Probably sooner rather than later.
Without involving the police or any publicity, of course – he scarcely wanted to tarnish his reputation over one spoiled and rather stupid man.
Whom, by the looks of it, he was meeting that afternoon. It would be tedious, but Sherlock suspected the wife would be in attendance, which made things so much easier. She was far more practical than the husband she'd been saddled with and, unless Sherlock was very much missing the mark (which he never did), she wouldn't be put out by the loss of her husband's companionship.
He made a mental note to have Cheryl check into some options; it wouldn't do to discuss it before the meeting and therefore without all the facts and he was damned if he was going to give into her on-going silence.
The silence persisted for almost an hour before Gabriel deigned to arrive, announcing himself with a perfunctory knock before stepping into Sherlock's office, showing no surprised at Cheryl's presence.
The slight, nearly imperceptible limp, and the faintest creasing on the lower right leg of his trousers were enough to announce the reason for his delay; his leg was bothering him – albeit not much – and he'd been to see John about it.
Sherlock found himself annoyed with that development; it was clear from Gabriel's expression and posture he hadn't spoken to John about the event, but it felt like a sneak attack nonetheless.
Surely Sherlock's relationship with John was no one else's business.
Just like his sleeping patterns should be.
Gabriel accepted a fresh cup of tea from Tina, who disappeared with remarkable efficiency, even for her. He settled onto the plush leather sofa across from the one Cheryl was occupying, leaving both chairs open for Sherlock, who remained firmly behind his desk. Gabriel let the silence stretch for a moment, crossing his bad leg over his good, giving Sherlock an inscrutable look over his tea cup.
"Explain," he said. "All of it."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, imposing his own brief silence on them before replying.
"There isn't anything to explain." Two sets of impassive eyes gazed levelly back at him, the irritation almost entirely hidden, but not quite. Sherlock interlaced his fingers, resting his hands on his desk. "Neither of you are unaware of my sleeping patterns." He shrugged slightly, as if unconcerned. "There are times when I need sleep but can't get it. For those times, I have a solution. There's nothing else to it."
"I'd believe that," Gabriel said, leaning forward to set his tea cup and saucer on the low table that stood between the sofas and the chairs, "if that explanation didn't make you sound like a complete and utter idiot."
Sherlock felt his nostrils flare involuntarily and rebuked himself sharply for the unwanted reaction. Gabriel hadn't missed it and nor had Cheryl, who raised an eyebrow pointedly at him.
"If it were that simple, you would have gone through proper channels, not resorted to having Irene provide you with illegal drugs. And, at very least, you would have told Cheryl about them, because it is her actual job to make sure you don't come to any harm – which I'm sure is made much more difficult when you are so brazenly irresponsible with your own damn health. Not to mention you should have told John. And me."
"My personal life is not your business," Sherlock said, more bite in his voice than he would have preferred.
"It is when it interferes with our business," Gabriel replied. "And when it's impacted by our business. This isn't about lack of sleep, Sherlock. This is about Pakistan."
He shouldn't have been surprised; Gabriel had clearly spoken to Mycroft, and no doubt had received some information from John the day before, even if they hadn't spoken about the events after Sherlock had woken up.
He sighed again, rubbing his eyes with one hand, giving the appearance of weariness that was only partly feigned. Truthfully, Gabriel's insight made directing the conversation that much easier.
"Yes," he said bluntly. "It is." He caught the flicker of surprise in Gabriel's eyes, but Cheryl was outwardly unmoved by the unexpected admission.
"This time," Sherlock amended, letting his gaze flicker between the two of them.
"Most times," Gabriel said, and Sherlock conceded with a slight nod; it had been something of a guess, based on his younger associate's tone, and he saw no reason to lie.
"It isn't common now, and it's certainly not the only reason I don't sleep." That was true, although nearly a lie by degrees – occasionally sleep was elusive just for the sake of being elusive, but Sherlock had never resorted to the drugs Irene had provided in those cases. Particularly not since John had come along and he could wake the doctor up to have any number of pleasant things done to him.
"It was this time," Cheryl commented.
"It was," Sherlock agreed. "Although you're both well aware that I had no intention of taking anything for it. It happens occasionally, but it's been ten years. I'm not inclined to worry about it unduly. Nor should you."
"My entire job is ensuring you stay alive," Cheryl said, and Sherlock heard the sharp undercurrent in her voice, saw it briefly in her eyes. "I will worry about it when you're keeping illegally obtained medication and using it without any oversight, especially when it causes you to collapse in the middle of the night."
"Admittedly, an lapse in–"
"And when this illegally obtained medication comes from one of our own," Gabriel interjected. "And you neglect to mention it to either of us."
"This isn't–"
"Sherlock, I can't do my job if you choose not to keep me informed of everything that could potentially harm you," Cheryl interrupted, the warning glare enough to keep Sherlock from attempting to speak. "Nor can Gabriel. If you can't sleep, we don't need to know. If you can't sleep without assistance, we do."
Sherlock drew a deep breath, letting it out slowly.
"My life is not open to your scrutiny," he replied.
"It is," Gabriel countered, "so that it won't be to the police."
"This was an accident," Sherlock said, keeping his voice level with some effort that he ensured didn't show. "One I have no intention of repeating and – I should point out – one that never happened when I administered the dose myself."
"And one that wouldn't have happened if you'd told John," Gabriel said.
"Yes," Sherlock admitted. That was true, after all.
It didn't change the fact that he'd never intended to tell John at all.
"Or if you'd seen an actual doctor about this," Gabriel added. "How long has Irene been giving you drugs?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes at the tedious accusation – Irene was hardly a dealer, after all, let alone his dealer.
"Eight years," he lied.
Gabriel raised his eyebrows, Cheryl mirroring his expression, and Sherlock allowed himself a small, put-upon sigh.
"Do you imagine Pakistan was information to which she was privy immediately?" Sherlock enquired, putting a cool note into his voice.
"You did hire her not long afterwards," Gabriel pointed out.
"Six months afterwards," Sherlock said sternly. "She sought out our assistance, I needed a new Irish lieutenant. It was a mutually beneficial arrangement. Not dissimilar to a young man who was being watched by Interpol when I met him, but who had no desire to join their ranks."
Gabriel scowled slightly, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees.
"So, what?" he asked. "You just happened to mention you can't sleep sometimes?"
"It's not a secret," Sherlock sighed. "And yes, I did. I make it a habit of not hiring stupid people. It was hardly difficult for her to come to the obvious conclusion. She offered them to me – I saw no harm in accepting. It seemed like an agreeable solution."
"What did you do in the intervening two years?" Gabriel asked.
"Dealt with it," Sherlock replied coolly. "As I said, her offer seemed like an agreeable solution."
The faint click of plastic against the table's surface cut through the haze of semi-consciousness and Sherlock blinked his eyes open, managing to restrain a groan at the ache that blossomed with even that small movement. Three weeks had softened some of the bruises but seemed to have done little else; everything still hurt, mending ribs protesting each deep breath, wrists refusing to abandon the memory of ropes cutting into his skin, the muscles across his shoulders still inflamed from days of constant tension.
Irene sat down across from him, smoothing her flight attendant's skirt with practiced efficiency, expression serious except for the light in her dark eyes.
He would, he thought, find out how she'd managed this, to be on the crew for this secure, and very secret, flight without Mycroft knowing.
How she'd found out about it in the first place.
Where she'd been since leaving him – admittedly not by choice – in the mountains to make that interminable one-kilometer walk to the small American military detachment who were now undoubtedly under the strictest of orders not to discuss his rescue or his unexpected presence.
He would find out – in time. When the appreciation for her deception was more than drugged amusement, when each thought wasn't wrestled out from behind a haze of pain medication and agony just barely kept in check.
The bottle slid across the table, propelled by one finger, perfectly shaped nail painted a vivid red.
Astonishing, Sherlock thought, but wasn't entirely sure why.
"What is it?" he managed – it was difficult to keep his words clear, but he made a point of doing so. Appearances were everything and right now, his appearance was not one to inspire confidence.
"It will help you sleep," she replied. "Particularly when you don't want to dream."
"I don't dream now," he said. Her lips twitched into a small smile; her lipstick, he noted, was the same colour as her nails.
"You won't always be on morphine, Mister Holmes. Believe me, you will need this. Not to worry; I have no intention of jeopardizing my investment. It's perfectly safe. I've used it on loads of my friends."
Gabriel sighed, eyes flickering to Cheryl who returned his gaze with an inscrutable look.
"What does she know?" Gabriel asked. "About Pakistan."
"Less than you," Sherlock replied. Another one, but one that came easier from a decade of polished practice. "As much as she needs to."
"We aren't on a need-to-know basis, Sherlock," Cheryl said. "We need to know everything."
"Well," Sherlock said crisply, making sure his tone boarded on annoyed, "you know about this now – and you certainly know John won't allow me to take the medication again, not without his permission and not without him administering it. If at all."
"And Pakistan?" Gabriel asked.
"Do you imagine there is anything about Pakistan I haven't shared with you?" Sherlock demanded, letting his voice drop to icy.
Gabriel sat back with a sigh, sharing another glance with Cheryl, and Sherlock studiously ignored the flare of guilt. Any deception was a decade old and necessary, imposed on him by an authority he had never answered to in any other instance and whom he hoped never to answer to again.
If nothing else, the way the incident had played out at least ensured Mycroft wouldn't hold Sherlock's assistance over him for the rest of his life.
He'd managed to get out of the bloody knighthood it had almost earned him, too, but it had been a near miss.
"You didn't share this," Cheryl pointed out.
"And now I have," Sherlock replied curtly. "Regardless of whether or not I wanted to, you now know, and are free to do whatever you see fit with that information. But if you imagine this is the most important task facing us today, I invite you to re-evaluate your priorities. We have work to do. All of us," he added, casting a pointed glance at Cheryl.
She and Gabriel kept him pinned a moment longer then rose in unison, as if they'd planned it. Sherlock stayed seated, watching them with feigned equanimity as they made their way to the door, unsurprised when Gabriel lingered, closing them in again. His second crossed the room, gripping the back of the chair that faced Sherlock's desk, leaning in slightly.
"That," Gabriel said, the control gone from his voice, replaced by something verging on vehemence, "was really, really bloody stupid, Sherlock. Don't do it again."
Sherlock raised his eyebrows, half wondering if Gabriel knew that when he was really angry – and only ever with Sherlock alone – that hints of his childhood accent came back, little ragged chips in the elegance he'd cultivated over the last decade.
He refrained from pointing it out, rightly deducing it would earn him only further ire.
"I am sorry," Sherlock offered, mostly sincere.
"Sorry you got caught, I'd believe," Gabriel shot back, but some of the banked fire had vanished from his tone.
"And for neglecting to tell you," Sherlock said. It was only partly a lie. "It hardly seemed important."
"Everything is important," Gabriel replied, "to someone."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Among the many things at which Gabriel excelled, throwing Sherlock's own lessons back at him was often near the top of the list.
"See to it that it isn't," Sherlock said. "To anyone."
"I will," Gabriel promised. "But when it comes to John, you're on your own."
Sherlock waited an appropriate amount of time – just over two hours – before clearing a small space in his schedule without alerting anyone to the change. It was the work of a few minutes to ensure that his mobile line and the one he was dialling were secure – that knowledge and technology hadn't come cheap, but had been sufficiently modified that if the seller had been interested in hacking in, he would have found himself sorely disappointed (and the subject of intense police scrutiny in very short order).
Irene answered after her customary two rings.
"I trust you're well," she said.
"Well enough," Sherlock replied; the lingering headache had abated, losing its battle to tea and ibuprofen.
"And John?"
"Will be fine." The question made him uncomfortable, the answer even more so, reminding him of the frustrating complications that were impossible to avoid now.
Things had been so much simpler before John, but Sherlock found even the idea of going back made it difficult to breathe.
John's anger he could handle.
John's absence he could not.
"Have you had to make any changes?" Irene enquired, redirecting the conversation smoothly from the personal.
"No," Sherlock replied. "The story remains the same."
"Thank you," she replied. It struck Sherlock as odd that she would thank him – granted, it was for the information, but the idea that she had any gratitude to show when it came to this was absurd.
He said nothing.
"Do take care of yourself," Irene said. "John, too."
"I will," Sherlock promised. He rung off and stood behind his desk, gazing absently over the sprawling city for a moment before setting his mobile and the conversation aside to return to work.