Disclaimer – I don't own the characters. They belong to ACD, MG and SM and the BBC. No one pays me to do this, I do it for love.

Chapter Twenty

It was nearly an hour before the cheerful nurse practitioner popped his head round the door of the family room to announce that John was back from his scan. Mary had fallen asleep, curled up across two of the institutional easy chairs, exhausted by the stress and trauma of the evening's events. Sherlock debated, internally, how best to wake her but, eventually, opted for a gentle shake of her shoulder. She opened her eyes and blinked at him, disorientated, at first, and unsure where she was. Then, she remembered and sat up, rubbing her face with her hands.

'Oh, sorry, I must have dozed off. Is he back?' she asked.

'Apparently, yes. Would you like me to go and see what's happening?' Sherlock asked.

'No, it's OK, I'll come with you,' she replied and struggled to her feet. He put a hand on her shoulder to steady her and then followed her from the room and back to the treatment area. John was sitting up, on the gurney and the rigid neck brace had been removed but replaced by a soft collar, which offered some neck support but did not restrict his head movement as much as the other had.

He was now dressed in green scrubs, courtesy of one of his colleagues, and his clothes – wet, from his dunking in the canal – had been put into a large plastic sack, which sat on the bottom of the gurney. On entering the room, Mary crossed to him and they hugged one another for almost a minute – which felt like a very long time to Sherlock, who stood by the door, feeling rather uncomfortable to be the silent witness to this intimate moment. As the couple broke apart, John looked across at his friend and gave a weak smile, which Sherlock returned, then said,

'What did the scan show? Clearly nothing broken but why the collar?'

'Soft tissue damage, nothing permanent. I just need to rest it for a day or two and take pain killers and anti-inflamatories,' he explained, indicating a box of prescribed medication, lying on top of the gurney. 'Has Lestrade been in touch?'

'No. I thought he would be here but I haven't seen him at all. I expect he'll need a statement from both of you,' Sherlock replied.

'Yes, well, that can wait until tomorrow. We need to get home and get to bed,' John answered.

'I can give you a lift. I have Mycroft's car and driver outside. Are you clear to leave?' Sherlock asked. John nodded, then regretted doing so and winced, painfully.

'OK, shall we go?' Sherlock led the way back through the treatment area and out to the Reception, through the automatic doors and out onto the pavement. They had barely stepped out of the doors, when the black car drew up alongside of them and the chauffeur jumped out to open the doors. They climbed into the back, with Sherlock and Mary taking the window seats and John in the middle. The chauffeur placed the sack of wet clothes in the boot and they set off towards St John's Wood.

'Why do we always seem to come across these head cases, in our work, do you think?' John asked, with an edge of irony to his voice.

'Occupational hazard, I suppose,' Sherlock replied. 'I'll try not to give you any dangerous assignments in the future, shall I?'

'Don't ask me right now. I might say yes and then regret it later. I've been around you too long, Sherlock. I don't enjoy the boring cases, either. And when did you ever give a moment's consideration to looking out for me? It's usually the other way around, wouldn't you say?'

'Now, that's not strictly true. I did jump off the roof of St Bart's to save your life, remember? Although, it wasn't just your life, I'll admit. It was Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, too. And I think you're forgetting that I bought you dinner and arranged a date for you, with a very attractive young woman, just last week.' Sherlock turned to gaze out of the window at the streets of London, flashing by, oblivious to the effect that his last statement, intended only as light banter, had had on his friend and on his friend's wife. Mary, who had been relaxing against John's side, with his arm around her shoulders, had stiffened and sat more upright. John felt his stomach lurch and, suddenly, his skin was cold and clammy. He turned toward Mary and she was staring at him, with an odd expression on her face. She didn't say anything – she wouldn't, not it front of his friend – but he was in no doubt that she would be asking some serious questions when they got back home. He knew there was an innocent explanation but he was equally sure that she would argue, if the explanation was so innocent, why had he kept his trip to the cinema with the attractive young lady a secret from her? With a sinking feeling, John saw the entrance to their road come into view. The car turned in and stopped outside their building.

'Would you like me to come in with you?' Sherlock asked, innocently.

'No, thanks, mate. I think you've done enough for one night,' John replied, with an irony that was entirely lost on his brilliant but socially inept friend. The chauffeur got out, opened the car door and retrieved the sack of clothes from the boot. They all said goodnight to one another and Sherlock said he would be in touch the next day, then the car drove away, leaving John and Mary alone on the pavement. John turned toward his wife and said,

'I can explain, Mary.'

'Let's get inside, shall we?' replied Mary, in a tone which confirmed John's worst fears. She was not at all pleased.

ooOoo

As the car drove away from John and Mary's street, Sherlock took out his phone and dialled Greg Lestrade. The call went straight to Voice Mail, which could mean one of several things. The phone could be switched off, Lestrade could be on another call or the phone was in a signal black spot. Whatever the cause, it was frustrating for Sherlock and he shut off the call without leaving a message. He would let the DI call him, when he discovered the missed call. He settled back in the leather seat of Mycroft's car and his mind returned to the puzzle of the secret cadre that he had uncovered, at the Home Office. If the coded messages had been translated, he had not been advised of their content, so he couldn't even speculate about what the aims of the group may have been. He was aware that they had all been picked up from their homes on Saturday evening or Sunday morning and either interrogated or placed under suspension. Their phones would have been tapped, their homes bugged and their movements monitored by MI5 operatives. It would not take Mycroft's team long to crack them. None of them would have had any training in how to resist interrogation techniques and so they would break very easily. To all intents and purposed, the case was solved. So why did he still have a nagging suspicion that they were missing something? It was the leaked documents that did not seen to fit in. He knew he should visit his Mind Palace, to see if he could find any connection, but he could not go there.

He had not ventured there for quite some time – not since his debriefing in St Hugh's. The last time he went there, he had seen something so horrific, it had temporarily unhinged him. It had shaken the foundations of his self-image and his self-belief. Since then, he had been - yes, he had to admit it – afraid to expose himself to the possibility that it might happen again. The therapy sessions he had attended, with Eve Matthews, following his escape from St Hugh's and everything that happened after that, culminating in his thwarted attempt to jump off the Forth Bridge, had dealt with how he was coming to terms with the realisation that he had killed a young boy, whom he thought of as his friend, with his bare hands. He had dealt with that surprisingly well.

What those sessions had not touched on, however, was his fear that there may be other secrets locked away in his memory, which may be just as shocking. He had not voiced these fears to Dr Matthews - he had barely admitted them to himself. But every time a situation arose wherein he would, previously, have resorted to a trip to his Mind Palace, he had backed off and used alternative means to crack the clues. He knew that he was denying himself access to one of his most useful deductive tools but the fear was stronger than the urge to overcome it. He hadn't told anyone about this, not even Molly. Sitting in the dark, in the back of the speeding car, with his jaw resting on his right hand, he flicked his chin with his little finger – a small but telling sign of his internal agitation. He was angry with himself, with his own frailty and with his inability to ask for help to solve this problem. He needed to do something. The key to solving this current case, he knew, lay in his own mind. He could sense it lurking there, hear it, smell it, almost touch it. If only he could open the door and just walk in….. But even thinking about the prospect brought on the familiar Fight or Flight symptoms of a panic attack, as he began to hyperventilate, and he closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the head rest, feeling faint.

ooOoo

The car drew up in front of 'Mycroft Mansion', as John liked to call the Holmes' ancestral pile, and Sherlock climbed outr and thanked the chauffeur, Orgreave, for his services that night. He let himself into the house, through the front door and, crossing the hall towards the stairs, glanced down the side corridor to see a strip of light showing, under the door to Mycroft's study. He diverted and walked along to the door, knocking before entering. This had used to be his father's study and, in those days, he had only ever gone there to be punished for some misdemeanour or other. The general layout was pretty much the same now, although Mycroft had added a few personal touches, but it still remained, in Sherlock's mind, a place of apprehension and dread.

Mycroft was sitting in his favourite chair, beside the dead embers of the fire, and he looked up, as Sherlock walked in, looking startled and somewhat bleary-eyed. He had clearly been asleep, with his chin on his hand. He rallied quickly, though, and asked after John Watson. Sherlock crossed the room and sat in the matching chair on the other side of the fireplace, relating the events of the evening to his brother. As he spoke, he looked across at Mycroft, noting the tiredness in his eyes, the wrinkling between his eyebrows, the sagging of the skin around his jaw. On completing his report, he leaned forward and said,

'Mycroft, are you unwell?' Mycroft was rather taken aback by this expression of concern by his usually distant, confrontational brother. He gave a weak smile.

'It's been a very long and trying day, Sherlock, and tomorrow promises to be much the same. I just need to get to bed, I think, even for a few short hours. But thank you for your concern,' Mycroft replied. Both men stood up and Sherlock preceded his brother from the room, as Mycroft switched off the lights. They went up the stairs and bid one another goodnight, on the landing. Mycroft went off to his room, to the left, facing the front of the house, and Sherlock turned right and walked along to the guest rooms assigned to him and his family, overlooking the back of the house. He went through the second door, into William's room, and went over to the bed to check on his son. The child was sleeping soundly, his dark, tousled hair contrasting with the white of the pillow case and his dark lashes echoing that contrast, against his pale cheeks. Sherlock leaned over and dropped a light kiss on the boy's brow, then moved, noiselessly, into the bathroom, where he changed into his PJ's and t-shirt, brushed his teeth and splashed water on his face, to remove the London grime.

He then went through the other bathroom door, into Nelson, the room he shared with Molly. He moved to the bed, lifted the duvet and slipped in beside his sleeping partner, wrapping his arm around her and moulding his body to hers. She stirred and turned towards him, cuddling into his chest.

'Is John alright?' she murmured.

'Yes, he is now. Bit of a sore neck but nothing too serious,' he replied, hitching her leg over his hip and pulling her closer to him. This was his favourite sleeping position, nowadays, with their pelvises pressed together, in a completely non-erotic way. Being 'joined at the hip' held a special significance for him. He loved the sensation of Molly's body pressed to his, even through the medium of PJ's and a night dress, but now, it was even more special, because it meant the baby was pressed against him, too. He looked forward, with great anticipation, to being able to feel the baby move inside her body. He wanted to be as connected to the child as humanly possible, even before birth. It was already a separate entity to him, with a growing personality.

His thoughts returned to his problems in relation to his use of his Mind Palace. He knew it was ludicrous to be fearful of the power of his own mind. The Mind Palace was his own invention. He should be able access it as and when he saw fit. One thing was unequivocal. He could not let the situation persist. He should have dealt with it before now but, with all the things that had been going on recently – Molly's NVP, her mother's accident, the case of the drowned woman, Mycroft's odd behaviour and the crisis of the leaked secret document - these things had taken president. But this problem was severely hindering his ability to do what he did best - deduce. He resolved to talk to Molly. He trusted her judgement. She would help him deal with this. Decision made, he drifted off to sleep.

ooOoo