Chapter 21: First Steps to Recovery

Esther Cohen pinched the bridge of her nose, and scrunched up her eyes. She was tired, but determined to finish the briefing. How to compress six years of CBT training into one morning's crash course?

When she opened her eyes, she looked at John, who was waiting patiently. "Cognitive behavioural therapy, John; it's the way to get him out of the depression. It's a way to talk him through it, get that brain focused on making sense of what he is doing. He has the emotional skills of a twelve year old, gets petulant, and shouts 'you're all idiots' when he gets upset by things he doesn't understand. And right now, he doesn't understand that he is his own worst enemy."

"Are you sure I can do this? Wouldn't it be better for you to use your training?"

"All the expertise and qualifications in the world won't help, if Sherlock doesn't trust me. And he trusts you, so, sorry, John, it has to be you who makes the first step. Ethically and professionally, you can't treat him as if he were your patient. But if you are the only person he's going to talk to, then you have to know what you are doing. You're his friend, not his doctor, but you can be more effective if you know what he needs, therapeutically speaking."

John sighed. "I'm no expert; I could do more harm than good."

She shook her head. "Don't be an idiot." Then they both realised how much like Sherlock that comment was. They both started giggling. When they were able to stop and catch their breaths, Esther went on. "You connect with him, John, so already you've probably stopped him from a major depressive episode, maybe even catatonia. He's been surrounded by people all his life who talk at him, telling him what to do, or how what he does is wrong. Or, he gets hectored by shrinks who keep asking him why he thinks the way he does. Very few psychiatrists get autism, even fewer understand sensory processing disorder."

"I have to be honest. I've been trying to treat him, get him to really engage with therapy for almost twenty years, and he's never done it. Not properly, anyway. He's too damn smart. He only gives what he has to in order to tick a box; he knows the things we use to define whether he has 'improved' enough to release him. It's manipulative, and the principal reason why so many of the psychiatrists decided he was a sociopath."

John frowned. "I've never bought that label; he uses it as a way of pushing people away."

Esther smiled. "That's probably why you reached him where none of us could have, by appealing to him to help you. Because he cares about you, it made him respond. That's not manipulative. He was worried about you being upset. Don't underestimate the power of that fact. Sherlock has never attached to someone before- or at least not since his mother died. It's one of the PDD-NOS symptoms- inability to respond to the needs of another. And yet, he did so for you. That's amazing. Because of you, he's abandoned one of his key defences. I don't care if you aren't qualified, and I don't want you to 'treat' him, John. I want you to help him, as his friend."

"How do I do that?"

"Keep going as you are. Trust your instincts. Get him to face the behaviours that make him so bloody difficult- doing things without considering their effects on you, for a start. Hating his brother for something he never even knew. That's a big one to overturn, because he's built his whole relationship with his sibling since he was twelve around the assumption that Mycroft was just using him. I know different. Sherlock is Mycroft's weakness. Really, I can read Mycroft better than I can Sherlock, and I know that it has pained him no end for years, because he thought Sherlock blamed him for being 'the chosen one', the one loved by their parents. He feels guilty, John. A really deep, painful guilt that he is somehow to blame, and Sherlock has just told him that he is, indirectly speaking. He didn't know, and wasn't responsible for the actions of his parents, but when he realises this is not a paranoid delusion, he is going to be devastated. If Sherlock can forgive him, then there is a chance of reconciliation. If not, I don't know how they are ever going to repair their relationship."

"I have always believed that empathy is something just beyond Sherlock's comprehension, but how he responded to you shows that he is capable of it. You need to see if he can do it for his brother."

"That's a rather tall order, given how Mycroft has locked him up in the past and is threatening to do it again now." John let his scepticism show.

"If anyone can, John, you can. Now stop stalling and get in there with him. He needs you."

oOo

John knew that it was counterintuitive- take a hypersensitive person teetering on the edge of depression and subject him to more stimulation. It didn't make sense. So when has Sherlock ever made sense?

So, John went in, told Sherlock to get dressed; they were going for a walk. For a couple of moments, Sherlock looked at John puzzled, as if he couldn't comprehend his friend's instructions. Then without another word, he got up and disappeared into the bathroom. John sat on the edge of the bed, hoping that he'd made the right decision. When he heard water running and then an electric razor, he was relieved.

The tall dark haired man walked alongside the short blonde one, taking the circular path that wove between the facility buildings and then to the far side of the compound. If the gait of the taller man was not as fluent and smooth as it usually was, then John chose not to comment. At least, he is walking with me. Agent Rothson had tried to stop them, arguing that security required the patient to remain in the building; John's only reply was to 'borrow' the man's coat and hand it to Sherlock, saying he would need to wear it to stay warm.

"It smells, John," Sherlock had complained.

"Be quiet and put it on; you need the warmth, and I forgot to bring your coat. Feel free to hate me, but just put this on." Then he had stared down the agent, who wanted to at least accompany them. "No one knows he is here, Rothson; so, you tagging along five paces behind will only attract attention. Just stand down."

The detective had not spoken since the two of them had left the building, but John could see how much he was responding to the autumn sunshine, the trees' colour and the crunch of fallen leaves beneath their shoes.

After nearly ten minutes came confirmation. "Thank you, John. It's not the same as walking through the gates and home to Baker Street, but the fresh air is appreciated."

A few dozen steps more, and then Sherlock stopped. John looked at his friend with concern.

"I want to go home, John. I want to go back to Baker Street. I want to lie on the couch and stare off into the distance, lost in my Mind Palace. I want to play my violin. I want to pick at a pile of cold case files, and get a call from Lestrade about a fresh, interesting case. I want to hear your footsteps coming up the stairs, hear you potter about in the kitchen." He raised his hands to his head and took in a fistful of curls in each hand. "If I don't get back to that soon, I just don't know…what's going to happen to me." There was a tremor in his voice.

Something in John just nearly broke at seeing his friend so distressed. At the farthest point from the medical facility, there was a bench, and John headed there. He watched as Sherlock sat down carefully, checking to see if his friend was finding the expedition too tiring. He wished he had words that could make it better.

Sherlock was looking down at the ground, but he seemed calmer. "I'm fine. I'm sorry if I just let it get on top of me. If I can just get out of this…limbo and back to normal life, I will be alright."

"So, how do we convince Doctor Toulson and Mycroft of that fact?"

Sherlock leant forward and then rubbed the back of his neck, trying to work out a kink. "Touslon will take his cue from Mycroft. The trouble with my brother is that no matter what happens, he assumes that I am not fine, that I've never been fine, and that I never will be fine. But, the longer he keeps me locked up, the harder that is."

"Is that what you meant when you accused him of becoming like your father?"

Sherlock looked at John curiously, then nodded. "Yes, I suppose I did. Father always assumed the worst of me, and now Mycroft is, too."

John spotted his chance, and decided to risk raising the issue. "However much their behaviour might be similar, do you really think that Mycroft is motivated by the same animosity that your Father had?"

Sherlock considered that statement for a while, and replied quietly. "Actually, their reasons are different. Father locked me away when I was ten because I reminded him of the wife he had just lost. He didn't care enough about me to be bothered otherwise. After I was sent home, he spent time overseas less to get away from me, more to forget his loss. Mycroft's motivations are a great deal more self-serving."

John shook his head. "Sherlock, I think you're being unfair there. I watched his face when you told him about the leukaemia; that was new to him, I am sure of it. "

"Even so, even if he knew nothing about that, he still wants to lock me away to avoid embarrassing him."

"Or to protect you?"

"That's what he would say, as a way to dress it up."

"Is it fair to assume the worst of him? Isn't that what you accuse him of doing to you?"

Sherlock didn't answer. In for a penny, in for a pound. John continued, "I know how you act around your brother. Been there, watched the floor show, could recite a few choice pieces of dialogue I've heard you two throw at each other like grenades. But what do you actually think about him? I'm not talking about the ritual abuse. No, if you were to set aside your feud, and look at it as if the World's Only Consulting Detective were seeing two other people, what could you deduce about your relationship?"

Sherlock looked at him as if he had said something so extraordinary. "You want me to deduce my brother, as if I didn't know him? Can I do that?"

"If anyone can, you can, Sherlock."

He sat back and let his eyes focus on the tree line in the distance. "Looking at the two of us as a pair of brothers, I'd be able to deduce instantly that Mycroft is the lucky one, the perfect one, John, and a second son would have always had that impossible standard to live up to- even a normal child would find that hard. The elder was so obviously loved by both parents. He was good at school, smart, successful, people respected him, relatives and friends of his parents noticed him and praised him. I wouldn't have to have been there at the time, the deduction is easy because you can just see it in all that confident smugness now. And anyone observing the relationship for the first seven years of the younger son's life would have concluded that he cared about the older one, too. He was a perfect older brother and the younger would have looked up to him. He was right in every way that the other was wrong, and the younger was painfully aware of it."

He broke the deduction for a moment, and just said quietly. "Whatever others may think, John, it's not like I wasn't aware that there was something wrong with me."

He got up and started pacing. "Any idiot could deduce that the older brother would "go far". And he did. He left home when the younger was seven and only came home at holidays or family events, when everyone would be all over him with praise about how wonderfully he was getting on. An outsider watching over their childhoods would see those same people who were praising him would have no words at all when they saw the younger son. Without anything positive to say, a disabled child is a ghost, hardly mentioned in polite company, because to do so would cause the family embarrassment about their failure. So when the older brother wasn't there, the younger would be even more of a social handicap to the husband and wife."

John almost flinched at the cold factual tone as Sherlock described how others would have seen him; to admit even in the third person voice that he was 'disabled' sounded so….strange.

Sherlock's had fallen into that emotionless but rapid delivery that characterised his crime scene descriptions. "Deduction tells us what happens when the mother dies. The younger one is blamed by the father for ruining their lives. The elder watches his mother grow ill from looking after the younger and die. It would be natural for the older to blame the younger."

Something in John just squeezed tight at those words. He blames himself for her death. He thinks Mycroft and his father both blame him, too.

Sherlock stopped, and struggled to find words. He turned his head away. "This is pointless; I can't deduce this as if I wasn't a part of it." He stood up and paced in front of John. "It's ridiculous getting worked up about all that old stuff- talking about it is just a waste of time. Emotion like this- it serves no purpose, John. I don't like it; it's distressing. Can we please stop doing this?" He jammed his hands into the pockets of the borrowed coat and stopped pacing. He was just staring at the razor wire fence at the end of the compound.

John shook his head. "Did you resent Mycroft leaving you behind?"

Sherlock sighed, "Do we really have to do this?"

"Yes."

"Oh, all right. Did I resent Mycroft? No, not really, I am aware that I'm not normal, John, have been since I was about four, I think. I understand my brother. He saved himself. Why on earth wouldn't he? He would have been better off if he hadn't gotten sick and they came up with the idea of having me. Even after I was born, he'd have been better off if I'd died in infancy. He didn't need me; the leukaemia never reappeared, and he's been healthy as an ox since the first treatment. All I was, all I am, to him is a burden, an embarrassment, a reminder that he isn't perfect, the reason why his family fell apart. Am I surprised that he left me behind? Not at all; it's understandable. I didn't get it when I was twelve, but I do now."

John's eyes widened. Sherlock was putting himself in Mycroft's position, and showing empathy. Drawing the wrong conclusions, but at least trying to see the world from another person's point of view. There goes another one of those diagnostic indicators of sociopathy and PDD.

Sherlock was now pacing again. "He goes off to boarding school just before my seventh birthday. In Mycroft's first year at university, mummy dies, and father puts me in an institution, and says I'm crazy. By the time Mycroft graduates at 19, I'm being looked after by a horde of faceless strangers, and father is away on business trips all the time. Why should Mycroft want to go home? I'm nothing to him except a social embarrassment. He spent his summers doing internships and work placements that set him up for the future- as he should have."

"Then he gets a job that suits him perfectly and sets out for an exciting life overseas. At 22 Father dies and suddenly Mycroft finds himself burdened by a brother he hardly knows, who is resentful, non-communicative and …not normal. He has no skills or experience to deal with an ordinary teenager, let alone me. Within a year, I'm into drugs and living homeless and well on the path of self- destruction. Why the hell he didn't just leave me alone to get on with it, I will never understand."

John reached up and grabbed Sherlock by the wrist, stopping his pacing and pulling him down beside him on the bench. "Then let me explain it to you in simple terms, because you are being an idiot." He took both wrists in his hands, as if trying to ground Sherlock. "No wonder Mycroft worries about you constantly, Sherlock. You have no idea that he loves you."

Sherlock looked at him, with total incomprehension. "I am the first to acknowledge my ignorance when it comes to the emotion of 'love', John. But even I know that if Mycroft were to have such a ridiculous feeling about me, then he has a very odd way of showing it."

John thought about it, and decided to go with his gut instinct. "Maybe, Sherlock, that's because you are not easy to love, now and probably even more difficult when you were younger."

The wrinkle between Sherlock's eyebrows deepened. "I don't understand, John."

"No, I don't suppose you do."

"To invest any emotion in me is pointless; Mycroft isn't sentimental. If he isn't locking me up to protect his own future health, then he is doing it out of some…I don't know…warped sense of family duty or to protect his reputation and power base. There is nothing in me worth loving. He knows this. The very idea of Mycroft doing something so stupid is just….absurd, impossible…ridiculous."

The doctor sighed, and then looked away from those grey green eyes. "You're an idiot, because you don't know how wrong you are about this." He then got up and just said "Let's head back now. I'm getting cold, and you're still recovering from pneumonia, so keeping you out here is probably not a good idea." The two men walked back in silence, each deep in their own thoughts.