Chapter 14

Over the next two weeks, Sherlock had the strong feeling that his nightmare had unnerved everyone in the house. Halmsley checked up on him hourly, Dr. Black checked on him morning, afternoon, and evening, and Mrs. Burton spent time with him whenever she wasn't cooking. He was still ill enough to be in bed the greater amount of time, and oddly, he found he didn't mind it. His bed was comfortable, and there were plenty of books and newspapers and magazines to read, he had a television to watch, a sketch pad and pencils when he wanted to draw (it wasn't the best idea to paint in bed), and he began writing a very long monologue on his laptop that consisted of his reflections on detective work. He would nap after lunch and spend most of his time just relaxing and amusing himself.

That had been what Rowlesden had wanted, after all. Now he was relaxing, all day, every day.

The weather turned decidedly bleak. It began with clouds that covered the sky and they slowly morphed into thunder clouds. After two days of menacing clouds hanging over their heads, the heavens opened up in an act of vengeance, pelting the towns and people below with unrelenting rain. It was dreary and gray and made Sherlock feel...well, oddly flat. He felt as if nothing would change, no matter what he did or said, and there was no point in trying. That thought alone was depressing, but he forced himself not to think of it. He distracted himself with music or the television or a book, and eventually, he would find his mood...not getting better, but slowly moving to a state that was less doleful. Whenever his mood became too difficult to shake off, he would ring down to the kitchen (Halmsley had installed a bell system for him, and depending on the button, he could ring either to the kitchen or to Halmsley's room), request a hot chocolate, and then as soon as he was warm from the hot drink, he would be able to take a short nap. He always felt better after doing that, but he noticed that he began to do it more and more.

Rowlesden returned after two weeks in London. When he finally stopped by to see Sherlock the detective saw right away that his trip had not been an easy one. There were dark shadows under his eyes and a tired slump to his shoulders. He looked more like he'd been around the world without a night of sleep rather than on a trip to London.

"I'm sorry to hear you've been ill, Mr. Holmes," Rowlesden said as soon as he arrived. "How are you feeling?"

"I'm feeling a great deal better," Sherlock said as Rowlesden dropped into a chair. "How was your trip?" If Rowlesden had been mugged, would he mention it?

"Trying," Rowlesden said. The fact that he'd openly said what he was thinking without concealing anything was very telling.

"Trying? In what way?"

Rowlesden leaned his head back and sighed. "Nothing seemed to go right, from the time I arrived to the time I left. The entire experience would try the patience of a vetted saint."

Sherlock nodded. It sounded as if Rowlesden had had a miserable time. He fought to keep from smiling. Good. "May I ask why you'd gone to London?"

"A slight emergency which required my attention," Rowlesden answered. "Nothing to worry you."

Sherlock looked him directly in the eye. "Nothing to do with John?" If Rowlesden didn't give him a definite answer he would do something violent. If Rowlesden had gone to London to find John and then refused to tell him, then there would most likely be a homicide. He was sure he would be doing the world a favor.

Rowlesden shook his head. "No. Our sources are still searching, and so far they've found nothing. I wish it were otherwise."

Sherlock felt his heart give a dreary little thump. He'd been sort of hoping that Rowlesden might actually find something. Still, what was it that people said? No news was good news? Well, he supposed that was something to keep in mind. Irritating, but there it was.

"I haven't seen Dr. Black yet," Rowlesden said, shifting in his chair. "Has he told you what this illness of yours is?"

"Bronchitis and pharyngitis mixed," Sherlock sighed. "It's...annoying."

That actually won a smile from Rowlesden. "Only you would put it that way," he said. Then he looked at Sherlock. "You've been sick for two weeks? Shouldn't you be up and about by now? Have you been taking your medicine?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I should be, and I finished my antibiotic four days ago. I have no more symptoms aside from fatigue. Dr. Black says that I seem to be taking longer than usual for someone of my age to throw something like this off. I've been feeling tired a lot, so Dr. Black suggested that I rest. I've been doing a lot of that. Resting."

"Don't you get bored?"

"I've been too tired to be bored, really. I've been napping a lot, reading, watching the telly, and so on. I'm fine."

Rowlesden's eyebrows shot toward his hairline. "You must be tired."

Sherlock fiddled with the edge of his blanket. "I wouldn't lie about that."

Rowlesden nodded. "I know. Is there anything you would like?"

It was ironic that he could literally ask for anything and he would get it, but he couldn't think of a single thing. He could ask for books, DVDs, new music, games, his favorite foods, a state-of-the-art something...and he couldn't think of a single thing. "Maybe some hot chocolate? I've become very fond it of lately."

"I'll ask Halmsley to bring it up for you," Rowlesden promised. "If you think of anything else you'd like, then please let me know. I'll make sure you have it."

"Thank you," Sherlock said politely, and ten minutes later, Halmsley arrived with the hot chocolate.

"I think you surprised Rowlesden," Halmsley said as Sherlock took his hot drink.

"In what way?"

"I think he expected a lot of groaning and complaining about boredom, but he said that you seemed rather...well, docile."

"I'm bored, but I'm also tired," Sherlock reminded him. "I'm too tired to complain."

"Mrs. Burton's getting worried," Halmsley said. "She said that it's not like you to be so...quiet."

"I'm just tired," Sherlock repeated. "Is there anything going on out there in the wider world?"

"Don't you watch the news every morning?" Halmsley asked, confused.

"I mean here in the house. What's going on in the house now that Rowlesden's back?"

"Welling and Meyers and Company are all in foul moods," Halmsley reported, understanding at last. "Ms. Lewis, who has been very quiet the whole time you've been sick, is now showing signs of life."

Sherlock felt his lips twitch in irritation. "Is she still here?"

"Yes, and she's seemed depressed," Halmsley confirmed. "She'll keep to her room or the rose garden, and occasionally she'll go out riding, but nothing else."

Sherlock tucked that information away for later. "What's Dr. Black been up to?"

"Aside from fretting about you? Not much. He's been reading a lot lately, mostly books on nutrition and mental health and so on. I think he's worried about you."

"I'm fine," Sherlock stated.

"No, you're not," Halmsley contradicted. "But you're all right."

Sherlock gave Halmsley a long look. "Why do you think I'm not fine? And isn't 'all right' the same thing?"

"You know they're not," Halmsley said, dropping into the same chair that Rowlesden had sat in.

For all the time that Sherlock had known Halmsley, he'd also known that the butler did not waste words. Everything he said had meaning behind it. "They're not? What's the difference?"

Halmsley smiled. "You already know the difference, Sherlock."

Sherlock thought about it. "I can remember when you wouldn't call me by my first name," Sherlock said, fighting for time to think. "You used to say that Rowlesden insisted on formality."

Halmsley clasped his hands on his knees and shrugged. "He's not here. And...I'm feeling a bit rebellious, that's all. So, what's the difference?"

Sherlock smiled and thought a bit more. "'Fine' is when there's nothing wrong. 'All right' is when you're able to manage."

Halmsley grinned. "You're right."

Sherlock shifted in bed, settling deeper into his pillows. "How on earth did you come to that understanding? Most people never grasp it."

"My life for the past seven years has helped."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes. You've never come straight out and said it, but I know that you're as much a prisoner here as I am," he said, glancing at Halmsley. Usually, he couldn't get this far with Halmsley in a conversation about himself. He was getting close to the line, here. "There's just one thing I don't understand...Rowlesden brought you here, and now you work for him as his house steward and butler? How did that happen?"

Halmsley gave a bleak chuckle. "You've not been able to figure it out? You, the great detective?"

"It's been driving me mad, but no matter how much thought I give it, I can't figure it out," Sherlock confessed.

Halmsley nodded. "Shall I take pity on the sick and tell you how it came about?"

"Oh, I wish you would." If he knew how it had happened, then he might have a better understanding of Rowlesden, and then, with knowledge on his side...

"I needed something to do," Halmsley said.

"You've said that before," Sherlock remembered.

"I have. I...needed something to do that was completely different from what I'd always done. I could fool myself, you see, when I started working as a butler. I could tell myself that I was only working in a job and...it was the only way I could stand it, being held prisoner like this. When I'm working, I don't feel like myself, I feel like...Halmsley."

Now that was interesting. "Your real name isn't Halmsley?"

Halmsley shook his head. "No. My proper name is James. James Wright."

The name struck him right away. There was something...something in the back of his mind. Something about James Wright...an artist...something...He shut his eyes and immediately his mind palace was there, with Halmsley standing in the front entryway. He said nothing, but he gave a small, sad smile. He turned and began running, running directly to the room that Sherlock used to store all of the cases labeled "unsolved disappearance."

Sherlocks' eyes snapped open. "You disappeared seven years ago. You were an artist that plenty of people in London were talking about then. You had a showing at the Tate Gallery. Then, shortly after the showing, you disappeared. You were brought here?"

"A month after the show," Halmsley said quietly. His shoulders were hunched and he was leaning forward in his chair. Not good. His body language was screaming that he wanted to stop talking about this.

"Rowlesden wanted you to join his wretched secret society?" As soon as he asked the question, he felt stupid. Of course that wasn't the answer. "No, that's not it. All of Rowlesden's members are people involved in energy, finance, scientific engineering, stocks and bonds, research, armaments, pharmaceuticals...all very lucrative fields. What would he need an artist for? No, he brought you here for another reason."

Halmsley shot out of his chair and headed for the door.

"Wait!" Sherlock said sharply. "Please, Halmsley. I can help you. I know you don't want to be here."

Halmsley stopped, but he didn't turn around. "I don't want to be here," Halmsley said quietly. "I've never wanted to be. For a while, I thought I'd go mad, being here. Seven years later and I'm still sane. It's nothing short of a miracle, really. I've done what I had to do, and I've done what was needed. I have to stay."

He sounded so hopeless that Sherlock felt his heart wince in sympathy. "For how long?"

Halmsley turned and smiled at him. "Until I don't have to stay any more. Is there anything you'd like me to bring you, Mr. Holmes?"

Just like donning a mask, Halmsley had slipped back into his role of butler. Disheartened, Sherlock shook his head. "No, thank you, Halmsley."

"Very well, sir. Please ring if you require something."

A few days after his talk with Halmsley, Sherlock felt well enough to leave his bed. He got dressed, joined Rowlesden and Ms. Lewis for breakfast (he kept his words to her very brief and chillingly polite), and then he went outside for a walk. He didn't go far beyond the east garden before he became tired. Drat it all, he was still not up to snuff yet. How irksome. Fortunately, he found a handy hammock strung from two trees. With the shade and warm breeze and the hammock, it was the perfect place to rest. It wasn't long before he was stretched out in the hammock, pleasantly dozing. He breathed in and out, hoping to lull himself into actual sleep. If he slept, he would feel much better.

"Mr. Holmes?"

He jerked awake, not sure if he'd slept or not. He found himself staring at Ms. Lewis. "What do you want?"

"I wanted to talk to you," Ms. Lewis said, a worried crease forming between her eyebrows.

"And now you have," Sherlock said, swinging himself out of the hammock and to his feet. He turned and started walking. "Good morning."

"Can't you let me get just two words out before you walk away?" she demanded, storming after him.

"No," Sherlock said flatly, still walking away. He glanced behind his shoulder and then glanced again. "Why are you following me?"

"I said I wanted to talk!"

Sherlock planted his feet and let ice flood his eyes. "I can see I won't get rid of you until you've said what you wanted, so out with it. Once you've said it, I can get on with my day. What are you so set on saying to me?"

She came to a stop in front of him. "I wanted to say I was sorry. I am sorry for how I behaved. I shouldn't have done what I did."

For a moment, he couldn't believe what he was hearing. Weeks had gone by, he'd been ill, and only now she thought to apologize? Incredible. "Apology accepted." He turned back toward the house and kept walking.

"Is that all you're going to say?" she asked, still following him.

"That's all I need to say," Sherlock answered. "Is there anything else I should say?"

"You could stay for a chat," she suggested.

"That would suggest that I wanted to talk with you, and I don't," Sherlock retorted. "Now, do stop following me. People will begin to think you're a stray cat."

He reached the house at last and slipped in the back door. Mrs. Burton was delighted to see him and told him so. He received several hugs, a kiss on the cheek, and then a sound scolding.

"You've not been taking care of yourself; that's why you've been ill so long," Mrs. Burton said, bustling around the kitchen. "I would say serves you right, but nobody deserves to be ill, dear. Did you eat breakfast this morning?"

"With Rowlesden and Ms. Lewis," Sherlock assured her. "I had a croissant, a dish of fruit, some yogurt, a soft-boiled egg, some mushrooms, and sausage. I had plenty to eat."

"Good to hear," she said, quickly peeling a potato before cutting it up and placing the pieces in a pan of water.

Sherlock watched her as she cut up another potato. "Is that for lunch?"

She nodded. "Shepherd's pie made with beef," she said, picking up another potato. "You need some proper food. Your color's still not good. You're pale naturally, but you're really pale right now."

"So far, it's been a difficult morning. That might account for my lack of color," Sherlock said, washing his hands. "Mind if I help?"

"You're just getting over being ill, and you still look like your own ghost," she protested. "No. You sit still and rest."

"I've been resting for weeks," Sherlock said, locating his apron on its hook. "I'm ready to do something. If you let me help, I promise to eat an entire plateful of pie at lunch as well as dessert."

Mrs. Burton tilted her head to the side and appeared to think about it. "Now, that's an offer, that is," she said. Sherlock could tell that she was mightily tempted and she was thinking the offer over. He could practically see the wheels turning in her head as she thought about it. "Do you promise to have a nap after lunch?"

Sherlock grinned. "Done. Would you like me to help peel potatoes?"

"With two sets of hands, they'll be done faster," she said. "Then, once they're set to cooking, you and I will be able to pick a good dessert. Berries are in season, so we'll have to choose a good one."

Sherlock felt his mouth water. "Something decadent with cream, like a berry shortcake."

"Oh, now I like that idea."

A few hours later, after he'd helped with assembling the pie and the shortcake, Sherlock headed up the stairs toward his room to clean up before lunch. The kitchen had been rather warm, so he'd sweated a bit, and his clothes were covered with flour and a few smears of butter. Still, it had been a pleasant morning. He was halfway up the stairs when his foot slipped and he stumbled. With the way he landed he knocked the breath out of his chest and for a few moments, he was stunned and unable to draw breath. He lay on the step where he'd fallen, waiting for his diaphragm to start working again. He'd always forgotten how much that hurt!

"Who's there?" he heard Rowlesden demand, coming out into the hall. From the floor below, he wouldn't be able to see Sherlock on the stairs, and Sherlock had no breath to tell him that he was on the stairs, in great pain and unable to breathe.

"Anyone there, Rowlesden?" Dr. Black's voice asked, joining Rowlesden in the hall.

"Just my imagination," Rowlesden said. "Now, you were saying?"

"I was saying that I was worried about Mr. Holmes," Dr. Black said. "He shouldn't have been so fatigued by his illness, and he...well, he doesn't seem himself."

"How so?"

"He seems depressed," Dr. Black said. "I know we see that with the majority of guests you bring here, but it's more worrisome in his case. He's been in this house for close to a month, now."

"He's confined to the house for a month," Rowlesden said. "That's his penalty for sending those letters."

"But why punish him for something that wasn't even a problem in the first place?" Dr. Black wanted to know. "You knew what he was going to do and took steps from preventing the letters from being noticed. Why give him a penalty for that?"

"Because he disobeyed me," Rowlesden reminded him. "That's why."

Dr. Black sighed. "I am worried about Mr. Holmes, Rowlesden. Very worried. Despite eating the special diet that is designed to help someone put on weight, he's losing weight. He doesn't sleep well. He may not remember them, but most nights he has nightmares. His jaw is permanently clenched and he spends a lot of time with his hands curled into fists. He suffers a great deal from tension headaches. Being kept here against his will is getting to him."

"Hmm," Rowlesden said. "Well, that sounds normal. Once he accepts being here, he'll be better."

Sherlock felt his diaphragm move and he was able to breathe. He concentrated on taking quiet breaths, both so Rowlesden and Dr. Black wouldn't hear him and so that he could hear them. He wanted to hear what they were saying. More than anything else in the world, he wanted to hear them.

"I don't think he's going to accept being here," Dr. Black said. "He's showing the same behaviors as Halmsley, Rowlesden."

My, my, my. Now that was interesting.

"And Halmsley has been here for seven years, with no demands that I let him go for the past six years and six months," Rowlesden snapped. "He's accepted being here, Dr. Black. With time, he'll come to think of this place as home. He just needs more time."

Dr. Black sighed again. "Rowlesden, keeping Halmsely prisoner is no way to make him love you. I know you know that, so why...?"

"I can't bear for him to be away from me," Rowlesden said quickly, obviously wrestling with a strong emotion. "If you'd seen where they were living...they were practically destitute, Black. I couldn't stand the thought of my Jamie in that tiny little flat, living on whatever meals he could cobble together from a bare pantry. He was the most highly-regarded artist at the time, but it certainly didn't pay well. So, I took matters into my own hands. I brought him here and made sure he would stay. Now he can be taken care of, properly, and in time, he'll come to enjoy being here. All it will take is time. Not only will he want to stay, he'll be happy. I'm sure of it."

"I hope you're right," Dr. Black said, the tone of his voice clearly stating that he knew not to pursue the topic of Halmsley any further. "As for Mr. Holmes...I think he may need a night out."

There was a pause in the hall below. "A night out?"

"To cheer him up. To help him shake off his lethargy and depression. A change of scene could be very beneficial for him."

Another pause. "What would you suggest?"

"I've been reading Dr. Watson's blog posts," Dr. Black said. "All the posts that talk about what Sherlock Holmes is like as a person. Did you know Mr. Holmes is passionate about music?"

"Of course," Rowlesden said, sounding confused. "I had his violin brought for him."

"Dr. Watson also mentions being 'dragged' to musical performances and the theater by Mr. Holmes."

Well, that was surprising. John didn't like the theater? After going to shows together, John had always stated that he'd had fun.

A short chuckle from Rowlesden. "Dragged?"

"Dr. Watson did not appreciate having his own plans altered whenever these performances took place," Dr. Black explained.

"Which performances?"

"Dozens," Dr. Black said. "They've been to see ballets, operas, the London Symphony, plays of all sorts...I was thinking...on the third, there will be a performance by the Royal Ballet in London. They'll be performing Swan Lake and Dr. Watson did mention that Mr. Holmes goes to see it as often as he can. I think that going to London and seeing something he enjoys will help Mr. Holmes immeasurably."

Rowlesden let out a bark of a laugh. "You want me to take him to London? Impossible! He'll be impossible to handle in London! At the first opportunity he'll try to slip away and...no, no, no. We can't do that."

"We just need to take the right precautions," Dr. Black said at his most persuasive. "Change his appearance, make sure he's escorted, and we can both go with him. If need be, we can handcuff him to one of us."

"Oh, that would make such a pretty picture in Covent Garden," Rowlesden scoffed.

"Okay, we'll think of something else," Dr. Black said. "But I'm afraid I must insist on your getting Mr. Holmes out of the house for at least a night. As his doctor, it is imperative, do you understand, Rowlesden?"

Rowlesden gave a grunt and Sherlock heard the tap of his shoes on the floor below. He seemed to be pacing. "We'll talk some more about this later. It's almost time for lunch. The last thing Mr. Holmes needs to hear is that we might be considering taking him to London. He needs to relax, not have his brain cells fire off about this."

Sherlock waited until both Rowlesden and Dr. Black had left the hall and gone into another room. He picked himself up off the stairs and ran up them as fast as possible and all but flew to his room, grinning. London! They were possibly going to take him to London! Oh, that would be brilliant! On his home ground, anything was possible, and he had the advantage!

London was calling!