Chapter 21 – The Convalescent
So weary with disasters, tugg'd with fortune,
That I would set my life on any chance,
To mend, or be rid on't.
- William Shakespeare: Macbeth
Mycroft drops his keys on the marble countertop with a clink that sounds aggressively loud in the quiet of the dark kitchen. Next to them, he places a cake box. There are several hours before he'll need to be getting in the car to take him to Bethlem and the weekly Care Team meeting. He won't touch it before returning; the thought of something nice waiting for him at home is consoling.
It's a work of art, right down to the wrappings. The colour scheme in its overwhelming pastel pink does not exactly fit his preferences, but he appreciates the meticulous design work that has gone into the Peggy Porschen logo, the opulent custom ribbons and the wagon-like shape of the box, the way the whole cardboard contraption opens like the petals of a flower.
It feels decadent, having an entire cake in the house, but this is his birthday, after all.
Yesterday, he had received the requisite congratulatory call from Mummy; she had been a bit rushed due to a hair appointment. She was preparing for a gala dinner at Columbia University, during which she was to receive a significant award for her research contributions to multidisciplinary applied mathematics. She had naturally apologised for not being present, for not having a homemade cake to enjoy while sitting together at the kitchen table in Surrey. Still, in her tone, Mycroft could hear relief instead of a heartfelt apology; she was aware as much as he was that this call was merely a ritual, that they both knew that Mycroft's enjoyment of his birthday would depend very little on the premise of parental presence. It didn't matter if she had even realised it – it was how things had been for a long time and there was no use in dwelling on it. Still, he couldn't help a certain irritability coming on during such calls from her – he is not the Mikey she speaks of. It's a role he can slip on as easily as he dons a tuxedo for a formal event, but it's not him.
Even Mummy falls prey to nostalgia on occasion. 'I wish I had all three of you here,' she had said one Christmas when Sherlock had been out of earshot. Neither Mycroft nor Father would acknowledge the comment, since it belonged in the world of fool's hope and sentiment. It was not spoken in earnest, since it was not a wish for a return to all the aspects of those days they had all gathered around the same table, but a longing for the gilded falsehoods of glorified memories. It was a wish for a time machine to magically go back to an era before it all went to hell and they discovered what kind of monster Eurus was. Mycroft had not been fond of fairy tales, not even as a child.
There's a bottle of champagne in the fridge, but the thought of opening it alone while eating the cake only serves to make him even more melancholy. He ought to do something more sensible, something less pathetic than drinking alone on the day of this somewhat arbitrary celebration.
He thinks about the townhouse, the empty rooms, the quiet air of it which he alone never seems to be able to fill well enough to make the place feel like a home. He'd practically inherited it from Uncle Rudy, when the man had retired from the service and left for the south of France. 'Consider it yours, my boy; a fair exchange for the services you are undertaking now in my place.' The man had been de-mob happy, delighted to be escaping the burden of being responsible for the Holmes siblings, especially the one kept in a cage at Sherrinford.
Annoyed at the gloomy direction his thoughts are going, Mycroft scowls at the fridge.
Uncharacteristically – perhaps because it is his birthday, after all – he decides to do something spontaneous, almost impulsive. He takes the cake box back upstairs to the Corbusier occasional table in the foyer, locks his laptop in the safe in his study, and calls his driver to the front door.
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His spontaneous arrival more than two hours early for the Care Team meeting could, of course, make his birthday much worse. Sherlock is certainly not a bundle of joy these days, but then again, Mycroft would not expect that at this stage of his convalescence. Those words have not described Sherlock after Eurus did what she did.
He doesn't call ahead, doesn't text, instead relies on the fact that his early arrival might make Sherlock curious enough to receive him. Since he delivered the clothes and the violin, there has been a slight thaw in his relations with Sherlock. After what Barnes had told Mycroft about the events surrounding the fight, he wants to know whether Sherlock is willing to discuss the past few days without being prompted by others.
The more time he has had to think over Barnes' telephone call, the more suspicious of it he has become. He needs to know first-hand whether Sherlock is shamming progress, or whether it is genuine. Their communications are mostly still taking place in the company of others —the amount of staff present at the Care Team Meetings tends to put a damper on most of their exchanges, since they must both feel terribly self-conscious about every word being scrutinised by a third party. Lately, his brother has been fairly predictable about his insults and accusations, keeping them down to a level that won't attract concern that his paranoia has returned to the levels of his earlier days at the hospital. Is this conformity to expectation because he thinks it will get him discharged faster? Or, is it real?
After his conversation with Doctor Barnes, Mycroft allowed just a little optimism to creep into his thinking about the future, but he's now unsure, since he has sternly reminded himself that his brother is a consummate actor. There's also the third possibility that it is a sign of his mental improvement that he is become able to mimic the behaviours needed to get him discharged.
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Mycroft is conversing with the Ward Sister while making his way down the hall, when an angular human form uncoils from an armchair off to the side of the large sitting room area and comes to meet them.
Sherlock has not gained back all the weight he has lost, at least not yet. Surprisingly enough, he is wearing hospital-issue clothes today instead of the selected pieces of his own wardrobe Mycroft had delivered. Perhaps he was injured more than the doctor had let on and these garments are somehow more comfortable right now; at least his shiner is a rather spectacular one. The T-shirt – worn, shapeless from being repeatedly shrunk in the wash – hangs from his shoulders like a shroud, and the baggy shape of the NHS logo-adorned track bottoms only barely conceals the stick-figure likeness of his lower limbs.
Food hardly interests Sherlock when he's doing well, even less when he's high or otherwise going through a bad patch. There is no way to predict how his appetite would react to the medications he's on here, but Mycroft would never have bet on the earlier reported improvement to last.
After the bone marrow biopsy results had arrived, showing nothing alarming except for the iron deficiency anaemia already suspected, Sherlock had been prescribed iron supplements. No other reasons than a lacking diet had offered itself for the findings. Mycroft is aware that iron tablets often cause gastrointestinal discomfort, which would offer Sherlock yet another reason for abstaining from food. He begins to question his decision to bring the cake.
A decision is made to open the first exchange of fire, a ranging shot to gauge his brother's mood: "Laundry day? Or was there blood involved in your little fracas? I can take something to be dry-cleaned, if the NHS isn't up to it."
The quip is delivered in a light-hearted but slightly provocative way.
Sherlock sniffs. "At least you've stopped pretending that they don't keep you up to date on everything that happens here."
Mycroft lifts up the cake box. "Already checked for files," he remarks, hoping a humorous acknowledgement of Sherlock's situation might break the ice.
"Ah." Realisation dawns on Sherlock's features, and he adopts a carefully curated look of utter disinterest. "Yes, of course. It's that day. Leave it to you to never forget an excuse for dessert or to replace lunch with it. Did they cancel the parade and the fireworks in your honour, then? Is this a self-acquired consolation prize, a peace offering, or both?"
Mycroft refrains from the impulse to grit his teeth and to point out that Sherlock himself looks to have been replacing lunch with nothing at all lately. He passes the cake to the Ward Sister who takes the box, murmurs a quiet appreciation over the way it looks, and disappears down the corridor.
"I remembered you prefer chocolate," Mycroft points out as a preventive measure against any more big-brother-and-cake-themed humour Sherlock might be planning to unleash any second now. Not that he would really mind. He's used to this, and simply grateful that Sherlock has not yet walked out of the room, refusing to engage. Even a jibe is welcome; it is, after all, the most common form of communication between them.
"What are you really doing here?" Sherlock asks in a wary tone. "The meeting isn't until half-past two."
"Believe it or not, I felt like seeing you today, and the confines of the Care Team assemblies are rather formal."
This time Sherlock actually laughs. "You'd have to share the cake with everyone then, and that wouldn't appeal, would it?"
After the apathy, anxiety and anger that he's been greeted with in the past, such a display of amusement comes as something of a shock to Mycroft. He decides to prod a bit, to see if he could get a further rise out of Sherlock: "When you were little, you liked sharing my birthday cake; insisted on it as I recall, even measured the pieces with a ruler to make sure you got your equal share."
"That was only to stop you from being excessively pleased with yourself, as if another year older gave you just another opportunity to tell me that you would always be smarter than me."
As insults go, this is neither creative nor very piercing. Mycroft could berate his brother for such childish behaviour, but then again Sherlock brings that out in himself as well. Over the years, Sherlock has become more and more adept at knowing how to push his buttons, even though he keeps getting better at hiding or disabling them.
It is now Sherlock who looks moderately pleased with himself since Mycroft has not countered his barb. Yes, banter like this is most certainly preferable to sullen petulance or feigned disinterest. The evidence so far is pointing to some actual progress.
The Ward Sister has re-emerged, and leads them to the art room since the common area is still populated by other patients finishing up their lunches. Mycroft welcomes the privacy. The Ward sister has delivered a pot of tea and two mugs, as well as plates and spoons. Mycroft takes one sniff at the tea and declines a taste. Sherlock's expression is hard to decipher as Mycroft sinks an old, slightly bent cake server into the dark chocolate truffle cake. The Ward sister had made a point about not letting a patient use the utensil. "No metallic forks or knives; just spoons." The comment had made Mycroft wonder if his brother is not safe here, or that he is still suicidal and these facts have been kept from him by Barnes.
As he slides the first slice onto a plate and gives it to Sherlock, he inquires, "Are they treating you well here?"
"It's not exactly The Connaught," Sherlock scoffs. "If they weren't, what would you do about it?"
"Everything in my power," Mycroft replies plainly.
This seems to throw Sherlock a bit off kilter, judging by a sudden need to glance out the window and the withering of sardonic expression into apprehension. Mycroft wonders if he has left Sherlock to his own devices for too long instead of insisting on regular informal contact like this.
He knows that the burden of keeping the conversation going falls to him, so he continues. "This is a belated birthday treat for you, too, but then you weren't receiving visitors on the 6th of January. I made your apologies to Mummy. You were too busy with a research project in Singapore, should you ever feel the need to explain your absence to her."
He cuts himself a piece. The cake has eight portions, each topped with a solid chocolate ball. After having this very cake numerous times before, he is still uncertain whether he likes the airy yet moist sponge cake better than the icing's combination of butter, sugar and 80% dark cocoa. Or perhaps, the solid chocolate truffle ball on the top could be thought of as the pièce de résistance. "This is for the both of us," he offers pointedly.
The usual reply to such a statement would be a rebellious retort along the lines of Sherlock pointing out that he has never considered birthdays to carry any meaning.
Yet, it never comes. Sherlock eats his piece, then picks up the slicer and cuts another for himself. Mycroft wonders if his appetite has been altered, after all – or, perhaps he enjoys the little act of rebellion of using the utensil against rules as much as the cake.
"It's alright, I guess," Sherlock begrudgingly acknowledges. "The cake, I mean – not this hell hole." For all the jokes that Sherlock has fired at Mycroft's eating habits over the years, he has always had quite a sweet tooth himself. He rarely buys food, usually seems to forget its existence until someone pushes it in front of him, but when offered a treat he tends to say yes. When he'd been living at South Eaton Place, all the sugary snacks disappeared from the kitchen cupboards and all the proper food would be left untouched. 'Saving you from yourself,' he'd usually snarked when Mycroft had complained.
"Well, even if it is belated I can still wish you many returns of the day and the wish that they won't take place in circumstances like these."
Sherlock lifts his tea mug and mutters, "I will drink to that."
The following silence isn't exactly amicable, but the symbolic breaking of bread seems to have at least made some of the previously overt hostility evaporate. Mycroft practically relishes the thought that his presence is allowed, finally. On too many occasions he has ended up within a hair's breadth from never even having this moment. It had all started with the fire that could have killed Sherlock, and then followed the trail of self-destruction that came as the troubled child became an adolescent, then a teenager and finally an adult. This is simply the latest eruption of that tendency, as heavily laden with grief as it is. Sherlock could have died that day in November. He could have died numerous times before as the victim of his own recklessness, self-neglect and a darkness that eludes a proper name, but somehow, for Mycroft, this last time had been the worst. Before, Sherlock's decision-making had appeared to have at least some thread of sense, but this latest debacle had entailed that extraordinary mind fracturing to pieces in an unprecedented manner. Losing one sibling to insanity was bad enough. Mycroft wants, no, needs to believe that this time Sherlock will be able to put the pieces back together again.
He doesn't need to interview Sherlock any further today regarding his well-being, but in order to achieve some peace of mind, he has to know the answer to one question: "To make sure that you do have more birthdays, I need to ask, when did you last have a list?" he asks quietly, careful to balance his tone as serious yet non-judgmental.
This had been their agreement, that Sherlock always made a list. No matter where Mycroft found him, there would be a list detailing what he'd taken, and how much, in case he lost control or he was sold something else than what he had asked for. This agreement had been reached at the intensive care unit of John Radcliffe Hospital in Oxford after Sherlock's first significant overdose. Sherlock himself had seemed quite shaken after the incident, and Mycroft had managed to convince him such a fail-safe was paramount.
Sherlock is licking some of the icing off a finger. He has abandoned the spoon and is eating the cake crumbs off the plate with his fingers. "Before that place in Birmingham."
The reference was to the last rehab Sherlock had been to before this disaster. It means that things had been as Mycroft had feared: Sherlock had no longer even wanted to be saved, or at least he no longer carried with him the hope that if he lost control, someone would come to his aid. Mycroft doubted there was anyone else Sherlock looked to for help than him. There has never really been anyone. Not really.
"Would you make a list now, if you needed to?" he asks.
They both know what he's asking. He doesn't need to spell it out. The words 'suicide attempt' have been spoken out numerous times during the past weeks by various staff members both here, at St Charles and at Chelsea&Westminster. The fact that there was no list, and the description of Sherlock's behaviour when he'd been taken to A&E makes the truth painfully obvious: whether it had been due to mental illness, or a sudden moment of surprisingly clear-headed self-destruction, Sherlock had wanted to end his life. Mycroft is not naive enough to hope or believe that it had all been just Sherlock's hallmark impulsivity at play, a silly spur-of-the-moment idea.
Mycroft still wonders when all this had started. When had Sherlock's thinking begun to veer off track, turning inward, painting demons on the walls of his Mind Palace? Should he have spotted the signs of paranoia and depression and intervened? It's his responsibility. It has always been all his responsibility. He doubts Sherlock is aware of any precise timeline. These things must creep upon one rather gradually.
"What's the point of a hypothetical question like that?" Sherlock waves a desultory hand towards the corridor. "If you want a list of the medications I'm on, the doctors here can supply one. Not that they haven't already told you everything that goes on in here."
"You'd be surprised. I was not informed of you being assaulted until more than a day later. I wish you had contacted me when that happened."
"And you would have done what? Come here to scowl at various people?"
"I'm sure Doctor Barnes has plenty of opinions regarding that incident, but I would appreciate hearing about it from you."
"I tried to stop someone from being beaten into a pulp." Sherlock shrugs.
"Very chivalrous of you."
Sherlock pushes his plate away and says nothing.
"My question was directed more towards when you're out of here," Mycroft specifies.
Sherlock crosses his arms and leans back in his chair. "You must have intended to say if, not when."
"I have no doubt in your abilities to reach a point when you can leave," Mycroft snaps back. "The question has always been what happens after that."
This would be an opportune moment for Sherlock to revert to hostility, to trample on Mycroft's sentiment, to throw in his face his own role in this whole trail of tears, but he doesn't take it. "I'm told that the proper, constructive mental attitude is 'one day at a time'. You've meddled enough. I would appreciate it if you left the future well enough alone."
It is the one thing Sherlock has asked of him again and again, if not always in words, and it is the one wish he cannot ever grant. Right now, though he can barely contain his own pain, Mycroft would gladly carry that of Sherlock's as well if that meant they could both have a moment's peace to live in that preposterous and risky one day at a time state of mind.
If only his attempts to help could remove from his brother's face the perpetual disappointment and confusion of someone who is in the world but never a part of it, because its rules and inner machinations elude him. Sherlock takes refuge in the claim that he's a sociopath – a label he took upon himself to wield like a shield. It's a reasonable tactic, really, judging by the course of his life so far and the way he's been treated, but the cold logic of it doesn't keep Mycroft's heart from breaking over it. Only Mycroft carries the truth that Sherlock does this because he doubts anyone would accept the real him, and because he consequently doesn't accept himself as a person worthy of being loved. To him, connecting with others and finding his way in the world without significant aid is a carrot dangled before him but always out of reach, a cruel joke on his expense.
Mycroft often hopes that someone would come and slot themselves into Sherlock's life in a way he would not protest – someone who would take his cynical brother utterly by surprise. Someone, who could look past the darkness and see Sherlock, instead of a problem to be dealt with or a nuisance to be shunned. Someone, who would choose Sherlock over others, to give him a gift of acceptance their connection in blood seems to prevent Mycroft from ever granting him. Someone who Sherlock would choose.
Mycroft doubts it will ever happen. The universe is not that kind.
Sherlock averts his gaze, having lost interest in the conversation that has probably made him rather uncomfortable.
The radio is on, turned to some popular music channel. Familiar place names in the lyrics of a song catch Mycroft's attention.
'So I convalesce and I ease the stress, 'cause DNA means does not accept.
Srebrenica cousin of Treblinka, scream until the war is over
War is over, and Dante's Inferno slides into dismorphia
So scream until the war is over'
"How apt. Manic Street Preachers", Sherlock points out and shoves away his plate and his spoon, leaning back in his chair. "There's fuck all to do here except to listen to the radio or read."
Neither of them make a habit of using profanities. This is a mild attempt by Sherlock to make him splutter with disapproval.
They both favour classical music, but Sherlock likely does not know that Mycroft's tastes of late are actually much more varied than his little brother would ever deign to suspect. The song is already familiar to Mycroft: The Convalescent. The album Know Your Enemy had been released six years ago, but it still remains one of his guilty pleasures.
Sherlock seems to enjoy thinking he has Mycroft all worked out, folded into the bland shapes the stereotypes he sees when he looks at his big brother. Perhaps they're more alien to one another than even Mycroft likes to think.
Maybe, in another life, without Eurus, they could have bonded over something else than a mutual discomfort of existing within the confines of their derailed lives. Sherlock has always accused Mycroft of keeping secrets from him, and it is true. He knows that that the one big secret he can never tell Sherlock would destroy him even more than his not knowing, but Sherlock is perceptive enough to have realised that his brother is concealing things from him and pulling strings behind the curtain of his existence. Sherlock has concluded that Mycroft is always watching him, judging him and of course he is, lest the little brother turn out to be like the little sister. He has spent ages defending Sherlock's right to be free, when the powers-that be jump at shadows and get nervous over even his more benign antics.
If only Sherlock knew that the brother he thinks is trying to control him is actually the one making sure he stays at the helm of his own life. Still, even Mycroft's influence has limits, and Sherlock has now crossed over to a realm where his influence cannot fully reach. Mycroft is the one who cares and worries about Sherlock; the powers that be are morbidly happy as long as he's just self-destructive instead of a threat to anyone else.
"Very contemporary of you, cluttering up the Palace with pop music trivia," Mycroft replies with a slightly upturned edge of his lip.
Sherlock is shifting in his chair, obviously wondering if there is any point to lingering in the room.
Mycroft wants to tell Sherlock he wants to do this again, to celebrate a pointless birthday every bloody year from now on, because it would mean that Sherlock is still present, still here with him, because that would mean that he hasn't failed, that there's hope, that he quite enjoys having Sherlock in his life, and would feel rather rudderless without him. It's so different with Eurus, whose contact with him is even more regulated than his current NHS-issue relationship with Sherlock. Mycroft avoids contact with her, because he hates what he has to do to her, even though he hardly has a choice.
If he could have one birthday wish, it would be that Sherlock knew that he cares. He doesn't say anything to that effect, because he doubts Sherlock is ready to believe such words.
Another reason for remaining silent is that it would be an admission that without Sherlock, the only comfort available to him on a day like this would be fleeting, store-bought and disgustingly saccharine sweet. On his own, he would have happily binged on the cake, devouring it entirely and then used the guilt that it engendered – the guilt that underscores his whole life – to end up on his knees beside the toilet, trying to purge it all.
Sanity and health are relative constructs. Both he and Sherlock must make do with the cards they have been dealt.
Although he has seen promising things today, he reminds himself that the jury must still be out on how well Sherlock is doing. It's very hard to tell without Sherlock voicing what goes on inside his head, since therapy notes and psychiatrist's reports only go so far. Regaining some instrumental skills in self-care and being interested in other people are good things and so are the novel displays of amusement, but it hardly means that psychotic symptoms or the depression have completely lost their grip. Had the violent altercation been a one-off, or will there be more eruptions of frustration and aggression? Is this an expected stage in recovery?
Mycroft hardly even knows what a normal state of Sherlock's emotions would be. Even if the onset of his mental health issues was not exactly subtle or gradual, they have defined his adulthood so pervasively that Mycroft can't even imagine what he'd be like in a stable, balanced, content state. Maybe it's because he may have steered clear of Mycroft during such periods, or because they never happened.
They study their surroundings. Mycroft, seeking out a conversation-starter in his distracted need for something to do; Sherlock, looking around for God knows what, probably an escape route.
In the end, Mycroft gets up first. Sherlock follows suit, and Mycroft assumes that when he makes for the door, he intends to signal that Mycroft should make himself scarce until the meeting.
He's surprised when Sherlock turns, fingers perched on the door handle. "Are you coming or not?" he asks impatiently.
Mycroft isn't exactly sure where he's being invited to go, but there aren't many options. He trails behind Sherlock to a single patient room near the kitchen and the common area. The symbolism of the gesture is not lost on him: this is Sherlock's space. Still, he forces himself not to pin too much on it. It could well be purely transactional, or even a ploy to lull him into a sense that there's an uneven truce in place between them. He very much doubts that.
In the room, he can see an unmade bed with faded, sky blue sheets under a plain duvet and a bedside cabinet where the drawers have been taken out. There is an open wardrobe with fixed wooden hangers that hold the clothes he had delivered; a series of open shelves on the side of the larger space contain folded underclothes and some toiletries. There is a very spartan, but not quite a prison-like feel to the place. The window has cloth blinds and no curtains, and the walls are the sort of yellowish white that makes them look impregnated with cigarette smoke. Perhaps they are, since smoking was likely once allowed inside the building. A stack of books sits on a wall shelf, carefully arranged into the middle of it.
"I need to get dressed for the meeting. Better that you come with me than leave you to eat the rest of the cake on your own."
As he sits down in the uncomfortable single wooden chair in the room, Mycroft can't help a bitter thought appearing: this is what Sherlock has traded his house for, but of course such a notion is unfair. The truth, on the other hand, may be even worse: Sherlock willingly traded his house for the streets.
Do you hate me that much? Yet another question Mycroft doesn't ask, because he has deduced the answer. As he watches his brother reach into the wardrobe for his dress shirt, Mycroft realises that Sherlock had voluntarily allowed his company on this day of all days despite all his misgivings. Mycroft doubts hate has ever been the right word, after all.
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The Weekly Care Team meetings are usually stagnant, boring, unbearable. The only pleasure Sherlock normally gets out of the proceedings is watching Mycroft attempting to drink the cheap, atrocious Earl Grey tea offered and failing to hide his disgust.
Arriving together with Mycroft, however, seems to have broken the pattern this time. He had hoped that by doing so, it might show the Care Team that his paranoia about his brother was being put behind him. It should have ticked yet another one of those boxes that stand between him and discharge.
But, to his surprise, instead of repeating the same things he'd said last week and the week before that, Barnes launches something new. "We need to understand the violence that happened recently, to assess its implications for the current medication doses. I am not going to pull any punches here, Sherlock. Your involvement in physical violence is unlikely to be a sign of progress – in fact, it has led the Care Team here to seriously reassess your situation. We need to understand where the anger is coming from. According to the nurse in the room, although you didn't start the fight, you did seem to enjoy it. This is worrying – in our experience here, patients who turn violent are usually linked to the fact that they want to hurt back, because they have been victims of earlier violence. Has someone hurt him in the past?"
This question is aimed at Mycroft, who shakes his head. "Not that I am aware of. Given our age difference, I wasn't in school or university when he was, so cannot say what might have happened there, or for that matter, when he chose to leave the house for life on the streets."
Sherlock can't resist. "You were never there." He draws a breath, and then shakes his head. "I had my share of school yard bullying, but it wasn't anything serious." He declines to give them any ammunition that they could use against him. His memories of being taunted, pushed around, and beaten up are locked up in his Mind Palace and right now that is the safest place for them. He jiggles his leg to try to deal with the annoyance of being confronted with this scenario. "I didn't start the fight. You said so yourself. I chose to intervene before another patient got seriously assaulted."
Barnes fixes a stern gaze on him. "A proper intervention would have involved alerting the staff, and getting the patient being attacked away from the assailant – you could have done that without having to resort to physical violence yourself. Instead, you freely engaged in a fight. And enjoyed it. That's worrying."
As if he could see his stimming through the table, Barnes says condescendingly: "Your reaction suggests that you found the violence empowering – a chance to inflict some pain. This is not going to help you manage conflict when you are discharged, is it?" The doctor is studying his face for confirmation or denial.
A chair creaks as Smathers shifts in his chair, clearly uncomfortable at the way the conversation is going. Sherlock gives the therapist a pleading glance across the table but then settles his features into a blank expression. He's being railroaded here, and he needs some time to get his anxiety back under control, time he doesn't have right now.
He is forced to tune out as Barnes recites some other nonsense about anger management to Mycroft. He traces a crack on the table with his finger, and it helps a little.
His attention is reawakened when Barnes comments: "Some concerns have been raised about the efficacy of current medications, based on your level of anxiety and agitation, Given the doses you are on, you should not be manifesting aggression. There have been other signs, too. Are you acting out your frustrations with your brother? Do you still see him as the principal problem?"
Sherlock's breath hitches in his throat. Despite his efforts not to, has he been acting in a suspicious manner, after all? He tries to quickly run through the last few days in his head. Apart from the fight, there's nothing at all. If anything, he has been feeling marginally better, less anxious at least. Perhaps he's been more irritable than before, but as he's stuck in a bloody hospital, who wouldn't be? He finds it hard to gauge his own behaviour against the backdrop of other people at the best of times, and in this place, it's doubly hard. Are they going to punish him for the fight, despite what Smathers thinks and what positive evidence on his behalf has been presented?
As if he could sense Sherlock's disquiet, Smathers finally decides to speak up. "Sometimes aggression is a sign that therapy is beginning to touch on important areas; there's been better engagement with the behaviour exercises recently and some important lessons learned. I don't think we should let this one occasion get out of proportion."
He hadn't shared the resurfacing memories of his childhood with the therapist, but Smathers had seemed impressed with his sudden willingness to discuss the future. They both know something is different, even if the details are only known to Sherlock.
He leans forward to put himself back into the discussion; his annoyance at being spoken of as if he isn't here adds an acid bite to his tone: "I didn't start it, and I didn't get off on it. I took action to ensure someone else didn't get hurt, until your staff could get that idiot back under control."
"What about -" Mycroft speaks up, stopping mid-sentence to clear his throat, "overt psychotic symptoms? Could the fight just be a sign of aggression brought on by paranoia?"
Sherlock feels stung by this accusation. So much for the bloody effort of being civil on his brother's birthday.
He turns to Mycroft. "Has that cake put you on a sugar high? I do still think you're a bloody dictator wasting taxpayer money keeping me under surveillance, but that has sod all to do with protecting someone." Sherlock stifles the urge to shout at his brother. He shouldn't allow himself outbursts even this mild. "Well, I know you didn't set up that patient to take a swing at me, so I must be getting better," he adds with a snort.
Barnes shoots him a look of disapproval. Sherlock hates the psychiatrist teaming up with Mycroft but then again, weak individuals often follow authority figures to save their own hides, and his brother does exude some level of intimidating power.
"Well, maybe you could explore that avenue a little," Barnes suggests. "How do you feel now about Mister Holmes, Sherlock?"
"I have not ever called him Mister Holmes and I'm not about to start now." He knows he sounds petulant, childish and arrogant. When someone gets treated like an imbecile for months, is it any wonder that at some point they might become tempted to fulfil that role? He wouldn't be surprised if they use the excuse of yesterday's fight to send him to his room like some naughty child – or worse still, back to the crisis ward at Gresham.
He's not going to take this lying down. "It may be a disappointment to you all," he says, "but I make a point of trying to waste as little time dwelling on my brother as I possibly can."
Barnes leans back in his chair, shoulders tight. "I feel it must be said that the incident has put into question the sense of continuing the current medication approach. We are either going to have to increase what is already a high dosage, since many different medications have already been tested, or change the approach entirely. There is an alternative that could avoid a possibility of things deteriorating further, so I want to raise again the subject of ECT. In my opinion, it could break the depression without having to make significant changes to the medications. "
Sherlock's sarcasm-laced anger grinds to a complete halt. Again? AGAIN?! This is the first he's heard of it. He tries to summon his fury again to say something, to counter-attack, but fear has unexpectedly crept in. He likes pretending this is a game where he can move the pawns the way he wants if he's clever enough about it; it makes it easier to deal with the thought that those in power can force him to do whatever they think is necessary. But this-?
It's a punishment. He's been bending the rules, and now he's going to suffer for it.
The worst thing is that the only one who could possibly back him up in this but who won't have any incentive to do so is the one with Power of Attorney over him. Mycroft.
Sherlock's line of sight snaps to his brother, who is shifting in his chair.
Mycroft's jaw sets into an angry, determined line, and Sherlock knows, he just knows, that this must be the man's dream come true. His coup de grace. Sherlock's heart pounds in his chest and fear injects a coldness into his bloodstream. Please is the word that appears in his head.
Please, no.
He should congratulate Mycroft and Barnes. They've finally come up with something that he would resort to begging and grovelling to avoid, a sucker punch that leaves him helpless. He scrambles for a counterargument, for something, anything to fight this, but panic is wrapping cotton wool around his head, and his lips move without producing sound.
Then, Mycroft speaks up, and Sherlock can't even breathe. All he can do is to somehow try to brace for the inevitable.
"My stance on this has not changed," Mycroft says gravelly, looking straight at Barnes. "Current guidelines mention ECT merely as an option, not as the only plausible step when the efficacy of pharmacological interventions leaves something to be desired. The risks are too great. Under no circumstances will I support a decision that gambles with his memory; there will be no ECT. If there is a possibility that this-" he glances at Sherlock as though it would help in finding the right word "-temporary unease is transient, or especially if it could even be a sign that things may be changing for the better, then we must wait."
Sherlock swallows and lets this sink in. This whole exchange seems to mean that Mycroft has fought Barnes on the subject of ECT before. Why? Wouldn't it be something he would relish, seeing Sherlock go through such a thing?
Yet, something is wrong with that thought. Something doesn't fit. During the past month, Sherlock has begun to notice more and more things he thinks he knows about Mycroft don't really fit what has happened during the past months; things that don't support the notion that he's the greatest enemy in all this. An enemy he is, but- Is Mycroft trying to slither back into his favour? Could that be the explanation to this?
Sherlock had discussed his original admission with Smathers, and accepted that no matter how he tried to reason it, Mycroft had not been responsible for him ending up at A&E – the man hadn't even been in the country. That still hardly changes the fact that Mycroft had driven him to the streets, had pushed him into this sequence of events, and has been supporting all the decisions to keep him here.
No, Big Brother deserves no praise or exoneration. What he has just said is insignificant when weighed in the balance against years of oppression. Yet, he is still relieved to find that someone is on his side besides Smathers, regardless of his brother's motives.
The relief and the resurfacing anger pushes Sherlock's anxiety into the backseat where it belongs, and he snaps: "I won't have ECT," he tells Barnes. "Ever. You heard what he said. Are we done?"
"Alright," Barnes retreats amicably. "As I said, just raising the subject, reminding you of the options. There is one more thing I'd like to discuss before we call it a day. There's a research project starting into the effects of a first psychotic episode on cognitive abilities. It's not a drug trial, and it won't affect your treatment. There will be a head MRI, a functional PET scan and a series of psychometric tests measuring intelligence and related processing capabilities. We're recruiting subjects whose IQ has been measured on a standardized scale earlier in their life. Dr Eileen Johnston is coordinating this from Maudsley Hospital, and I'm the local researcher here at Bethlem. Would that be something you're interested in, Sherlock? It would give you something to do, and you might help science forward a bit?"
Mycroft is frowning. "Won't that be a distraction from therapy?"
Sherlock would very much welcome such a distraction. Nothing about it sounds hazardous or offensive, and it even has one significant plus side: it might prove to all involved the damage done by keeping him here. Whatever it is they've been calling his psychosis must pale in comparison to the effects of being locked up in such a place.
The fact that Mycroft is wary of the concept also makes Sherlock determined to agree to it, if only to annoy the man a little. "Yes, I'll do it."
"I need to see a detailed explanation of what that entails," Mycroft says dismissively.
"Of course," Barnes promises. "I'll get you an info package, Mister Holmes. Two packages," he then corrects and nods to Sherlock. "We need a signed consent from both of you."
Sherlock manages half a smile. It's always nice when they remember he's in the room.