Chapter 26 – Exile Vilify
Antonio: Will you stay no longer? Nor will you not that I go with you?
Sebastian: By your patience, no. My stars shine darkly over me; the malignancy of my fate might, perhaps, distemper yours; therefore I shall crave of you your leave that I may bear my evils alone.
– William Shakespeare: Twelfth Night
Even though he's seen all of Sherlock's patient records since those had been delivered to the powers-that-be, there is still information Mycroft needs in order to prepare for the day Sherlock comes home. The most obvious choice for a data source is Sherlock's cognitive psychotherapist, so he goes to visit Bethlem.
"I cannot disclose the precise contents of his therapy sessions," Derek Smathers reminds him after they've taken a seat in the man's office.
Background checks have naturally been done on all Bethlelm employees who have regularly interacted with Sherlock on a regular basis. He Smathers has worked at Bethlem from his graduation as a psychologist, and he had early on expanded his repertoire into psychotherapy. All in all, his employment record is untarnished but belongs to someone with little academic ambition. 'Very much a clinician' – meaning that patient work is what he enjoys the most – is what a former Bethlem employee had had to say. Mycroft cannot make heads or tails about the therapist – he would have dismissed Smathers as utterly useless, if for some reason Sherlock hadn't actually seen fit to co-operate with him the man – perhaps just to spite him.
"While I do have his permission to talk to you about how he's currently doing, the success of therapy hinges on trust, and since that has been a major theme in our discussions, I will have to err on the side of caution," Smathers explains further.
Mycroft is fingering a copy of the Home Care Plan, passed onto him by Doctor Barnes earlier that morning. Their one-on-one meeting had been short and to the point; Mycroft has no respect for the man, an assessment confirmed by the meeting, which revealed no useful information regarding how to proceed with reconnecting with his brother. Sherlock will need to sign the Plan as part of his Recovery Plan before he can be released – while it is not a legal document, it is a practice Bethlem insists on. It is designed to empower patients to adhere to what has been agreed on. Mycroft has already signed one copy as Sherlock's medical proxy.
"I understand that. Today I merely want to know how much, and what, he has divulged of our childhood."
"You could ask him, Mister Holmes. Communication is important, given your agreement to have him at your home again."
"There are reasons why I'm reluctant to approach this subject matter with him, and why others discussing it with him pose much less of a problem. Has he mentioned any recurring dreams? He was plagued by them when he was younger." Mycroft worries that any further direct probing by him might trigger Sherlock to remember. Mentioning the East Wind had already been a risky move. Mycroft needs to know which, if any, memories may have resurfaced on their own. The thought of the recording of the violin piece he'd received still makes him deeply uneasy. Not for the first time, he bitterly regrets not having been able to somehow compel this therapist to make recordings of the therapy sessions. It's supposed to be a way to help patients remember things between sessions, as well as being a memory aid for therapy notes, and he's always been able to find a way in the past to get access to such recordings. He worries what may have been shaken loose by that foul combination of drugs with the lithium.
Smathers is unmoved by his need to know. "Sherlock isn't as preoccupied with thinking about his childhood as you may think. He seems to consider it inconsequential to his everyday life now. Cognitive therapy is very much about acquiring coping skills in the here and now – we do address childhood issues when they are relevant, but we're a more practically oriented school of thinking than, say, the psychoanalytical one. In his case, I do see quite a bit of relevance in experiences he had during his formative years such as bullying and the diagnoses he had received, but some of the experiences that have been key to understanding this psychotic episode are more recent."
"Such as?"
Smathers purses his lips. "It was very difficult to get him to discuss those things. I think I will have to stay silent in that regard."
"Are those issues resolved?"
"They are not ongoing events or problems in his life, that much I can say."
"We are speaking of the drug use, are we not?"
"Among other things, yes."
Mycroft frowns. Sherlock has never been that reticent to talk about the drugs – at one time, he had practically seemed to relish throwing it all in Mycroft's face as an act of rebellion.
Even though he has not yet wrenched much out of the therapist, Mycroft finds himself very relieved at his comment about Sherlock not putting much emphasis on their childhood. If he had got wind of a secret, he would go at it like a bloodhound – tireless, relentless. If he isn't digging around for those truths, he must still be unaware that they even exist. Perhaps the tune he had been playing is just an isolated, singular echo that had been shaken loose by the medications instead of a harbinger of wider destructive reminiscence.
He needs to ask different questions to draw off attention from what has interested him the most. "I have discussed his paranoia with Doctor Barnes in regards to ways in which to avoid provoking him. Any further advice you might have?"
"The early days of his therapy were focused on challenging those kinds of thought constructs and to prove to him that his logical reasoning may not have been serving him well back then. Only after he became willing to question his own interpretations could we start looking at why his delusions took the forms they did."
Those forms bear Mycroft's shape. Is this the part where he gets blamed for everything? Has Sherlock managed to turn the therapist to his side of thinking? The notion is nothing short of chilling, because that is what Eurus does: turns people to her way of thinking.
"And," Mycroft inquires, "what is your conclusion?"
"I think what we're dealing with here has a lot to do with the inherent value a person sees in himself. Sherlock suffers from outstandingly low self-esteem and he feels that he has always been labelled a troublemaker, someone who taxed your parents and frustrates you."
He decides to raise an eyebrow at this revelation. "I thought you were not allowed to share the contents of his therapy."
"I have his permission to disclose things that are relevant concerning his discharge. The nature of those things is left at my discretion. When someone is hospitalised for psychiatric reasons, the entire family is impacted and in need of advice on how to proceed. He understood when I told him that it's a reasonable idea for you to hear some of these things even though he didn't feel he should be the one to take them up."
Mycroft nods, while wondering what had possessed Sherlock to be so charitable. The only reason he can think of is that he hopes for the therapist to somehow serve a purpose here. When has Sherlock ever shied away from verbal confrontation, and what on Earth about all this is so difficult that he couldn't have simply flung it all in Mycroft's laplike he does with everything else? "Have you advised him regarding compliance with the Home Care Plan?"
"Rather than advise, my task is to find out how he feels about it and to help him make constructive decisions regarding his future."
Circumspect. Careful. Suspicious.
"I do not need to be told that he's not happy about the planned living arrangements," Mycroft points out. "I'm very prepared for it to take time for us to settle into a comfortable routine at home. I've been making arrangements to give him more autonomy in the house, his own space."
"Have you discussed the details of those arrangements with him? What you'd want to avoid is making him feel as though he's walking into a hotel – impersonal and designed by and for someone else."
Mycroft is taken aback. "I assure you, Mister Smathers, that most of the general populace would envy his circumstances when it comes to his lodgings."
"Sherlock calls it a gilded cage," Smathers says. His tone isn't accusatory – he must feel as though he's simply relaying a message.
"He has always had a propensity for being melodramatic," Mycroft scoffs. "Your advice has yet to provide anything of value about his state of mind now that we are nearing discharge," he says and glances at the wall clock to emphasise his words. "You have known my brother for approximately five months. I have known him all his life, from the very day he was born."
Smathers drops a ballpoint pen into a mug already filled with them. He seems unaffected by Mycroft's dismissal. Since he has lasted this long in regular contact with Sherlock, his patience and his ability to shrug off abuse must be admirable. "Sometimes the ones who are closest can't see as clearly as an outsider would."
Mycroft has an impulse to walk out and slam the door in his wake, even though he never does such things. He endures., He prevails, waits patiently and then makes a precision strike when he needs to change an outcome.
How can this man presume to understand his brother and his family better than him?
"A pervasive thread through his childhood and adolescence seems to be that he feels as though nothing he did was ever good enough, that he only received attention when he did something wrong, most of those times not even realising what had gone awry," Smathers explains after taking another moment to contemplate his wording. "Instead of his autism diagnosis enabling him to receive help and support he could have benefited from, he feels that he has constantly been chastised, disapproved of, managed, watched over in a manner that does not empower him to take responsibility over his own life. Most importantly, he feels that he's not allowed to make mistakes and when he does, acceptance and forgiveness are not in the cards."
Mycroft feels sideswiped, and it shakes loose an emotion that he has not felt in a long time. From his perspective, when he was younger, their parents had their hands full with Eurus up to the point that Sherlock got away with everything. After she was taken away, Sherlock's troubles increased, but no one could really blame a little boy for acting out, and his behaviour was left unchecked for years. Their parents spread their hands and at times, they seemed almost intimidated by the small boy who kept the whole household on its toes by not speaking, not eating and having spectacular meltdowns over seemingly nothing. Things changed for the better through the years as Sherlock grew up, but their parents remained clueless as to how best direct his behaviour. Sometimes it seemed as though they were overcompensating for this by placing such heavy demands and expectations on Mycroft, instead. And why not – he was the only one left who could fulfil them.
Yes, Sherlock had been excused for his bad behaviour; their parents might have been disappointed by it, but never really expected anything better from him. It was on Mycroft's shoulders that the greatest demands were placed not to mess things up, to do well, to be sensible. He was old enough to "cope" with it all. All Sherlock had to do was "recover". Sherlock had been allowed to choose not to care about how his actions affected others, whereas Mycroft's whole life has been pushed and pulled to meet the demands of others. Is it any wonder that Sherlock never learned to respect that fact or even acknowledge it? For decades, Mycroft has bent over backwards to help, and all he gets is a lecture from some psychotherapist Sherlock has managed to charm into believing his side of the story?
Anger rises in him. "He has had the best help money can buy. Despite our parents, he had every chance to succeed and he never made use of a single bit of it."
He enjoys the look of disquiet on the therapist's face. What good is this wretched place's therapy if all it does is justify Sherlock's actions to himself? Why shouldn't Sherlock be forced to face the consequences of his own actions, for once?
"Have you accepted what has happened to put him here, and have you forgiven him for it? It doesn't matter how he has fared in the past – Whatever has happened in the past, this is a chance to succeed now, and you need to think he can make it."
The therapist's words ring naive to Mycroft, and they are the views of someone who knows only whatever surface level Sherlock has deigned to reveal of himself.
As much as he he tries, he can't entirely ignore his own sense of being the victim of injustice. Why should he have to apologise make amends when Sherlock has acted so hurt and betrayed, and made making is the one who has assigned all the roles in this play, casting him into as the villain of his paranoia? The fact that he's the main character in his brother's psychosis has hurt him, more than he has let himself realise. He will accept blame for letting things get so bad, but what has he ever done to get categorised so unfavourably? Before, he'd chalked it up to Sherlock's strange psyche that sees angels and demons everywhere instead of real people. To be labelled as such an arch-enemy stings.
Suddenly, it catches up with Mycroft the notion that a part of him feels that Sherlock deserves the punishment of being here in Bethlem, that it ought to teach him a lesson. As soon as he feels it, though, guilt creeps in – this has been a most difficult an experience for all concerned parties. Of course he wouldn't wish this on Sherlock, not ever, and he would have so hoped to spare him of such an ordeal. It's just that sometimes-
He throttles the emotion down. Anger and frustration can't be allowed to interfere here. Sherlock isn't here because Mycroft had decided it must be so. He's here because he couldn't look after himself, and Mycroft had not managed to do so, either. He should have realised what was going on, should have seen, should have deduced what Sherlock was planning, before it got to the state where the decision-making was wrenched out of both their hands.
As the older brother, the one who isn't recovering from psychosis, Mycroft knows that he needs to be the one to make peace. Sherlock is too proud to give in even an inch. If Mycroft doesn't take the reins, both of them will have years of icy silence to look forward to. They will never be able to agree on the events of the past or on where the blame for certain things lies, because he can't tell Sherlock the truth, without breaking the Official Secrets Act. The only chance they have is to try to negotiate the future together where they can agree to disagree and manage to find a co-existence.
Smathers is looking at him somewhat expectantly; perhaps he has let the silence last longer than he should have. "I asked him if he would be willing to return to my residence, and told him nothing would please me more. If that is not acceptance and forgiveness or support, then pray tell me what would qualify?"
"Did you emphasise asking the question, or your preference that he returns?"
Semantics. As if Sherlock really even had a choice. The powers that be are content that he can be released, but the conditions were made clear: 'close and constant monitoring'. Thankfully, that idiot Barnes had readily agreed that living with Mycroft was the sensible approach for the Home Care Plan. Mycroft can only worry that somehow Sherlock has wrapped Smathers around his finger and got the therapist to oppose such a move. Any dissonance at this point will only give Sherlock the idea that he has options.
He needs to talk to Sherlock about this again, make him see reason.
"It will be a long road, Mister Holmes," the therapist tells him, "there are going to be good days and bad days, and what he needs the most is for someone close who's willing to listen and to try to understand that – to understand his side of things. That has been vital in getting him to engage in therapy – establishing a sense of someone valuing his views, accepting and allowing the way he feels about things, and giving him a chance to explain why he has made certain choices in his life."
Mycroft squares his shoulders in a subtle dismissal. Of course he values Sherlock's views! His brother is highly intelligent and even entertaining company when he's in a benign mood. "What is the point of analysing his past choices, if they have been abysmal ones? Shouldn't the emphasis be on counselling him to make better ones in the future, as you have just stated as the ethos of your therapy?"
"That is very much what we have been trying to achieve, yes," Smathers explains, "empowering him to make better choices concerning his well-being."
There is something about the therapist's wording that Mycroft dislikes, but it's hard to pinpoint what exactly without hearing further details about the therapy sessions. Oh, how he wishes he had those recordings at his disposal. It would have made a lot of things much easier or even unnecessary. This conversation, for starters.
As much as he may dislike the man sitting behind the worn desk, the truth is that Smathers has had unprecedented access to Sherlock during a time when he may have been emotionally compromised enough to provide important clues about the state of his psyche. The therapist has information he could use to manage things after discharge, but Mycroft's well-honed skills in evaluating people's motivations and willingness to bend the rules tell him that Smathers will not reveal much more than the limited amount he already has – not even under duress.
All he can now do is to focus on the discharge. "What should I do, then, in your opinion?" Mycroft asks the therapist. "What does he want from me?"
"It's likely that your guess would be as good as mine at this point, Mister Holmes. My advice is to not wait until he is discharged before you try to establish a dialogue. He's outside, said he wanted some air after our session. My advice is to go talk to him."
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He finds Sherlock in the well-tended kitchen garden behind the main building of the Bethlem Royal. It's used for therapy groups, and during summertime some of its produce is taken to the kitchens and flowers displayed at wards unless a current patient is allergic to them.
Standing on a gravel path and idly picking browned leaves off what looks like sweet peas, Sherlock greets Mycroft with a nod and continues poking about the plants.
Sherlock had once declared the garden dull, since all the plants are edible and harmless. Even the sage is of a seasoning variety, not the rarer, hallucinogenic sort which Sherlock had once told Mycroft about when they had walked here once before.
"I suppose growing psychoactive substances would be a practice frowned upon in a place like this," Mycroft had said and Sherlock's lip had quirked up. It had been one of very few hints of amusement he has seen after Sherlock had ended up here.
After the ECT discussion and the reunion with his violin, Sherlock has been willing to talk to him to more. While it is not a big step forward, it very much is one, and Mycroft wants to rejoice even in such a meagre thing. He hopes that it might eventually lead to a willingness to work together on a plan to keep Sherlock out of trouble after he leaves Bethlem behind. He knows his brother well enough to be certain that Sherlock will not adhere to anything forced upon him. Doctor Barnes may have largely dictated the contents of the Home Care Plan and the Recovery Plan, but they are rather general documents. The minutiae of life after Bethlem will have to be designed by Mycroft and Sherlock once they are home again.
He thinks back to what the therapist had said. Should he address any of Sherlock's misgivings about him at this stage? According to Barnes, overt paranoia has now very much waned or even disappeared, but Mycroft wonders if there is any real level of trust between the two of them yet. He's hardly going to apologise for what he has had to do during all this, but perhaps it might serve as an olive branch if he acknowledges that Sherlock has had a very difficult time.
How might he do that without sounding pitying or apologetic?
"You were in no state to seek help yourself," he finally elects to start, after clearing his throat to gain attention.
Sherlock's gaze immediately locks onto him, expression shifting as though he hasn't decided yet how much anger he should unleash. Mycroft is reminded of the early days of the hospital stay, when Sherlock been all fire and brimstone whenever he dared to show his face here and attempt communication. Yet, this anger is contained, focused, purposeful. It could be a good thing, a resource to be channelled into recovery. It simply needs to find a constructive direction.
"I couldn't just watch idly by," Mycroft adds.
"Why not? You've managed that perfectly for the last six months, since I've been here. You've been practically relishing in the fact that I've been indisposed." Sherlock's gaze takes in Mycroft's form from head to toe. Even in his current, fragile state he's an intimidating sight when riled up. Mycroft wonders why he's in such a confrontational mood, and his thoughts go back to some of the therapist's comments about Sherlock needing to feel in control. There accusations need not mean that he's regressing; they might just be compensation for escalating anxiety concerning his release.
It's hardly a surprise that Sherlock goes for the jugular next: "You so like to think you're in control of everything, but the recent failures of your diet plan say otherwise."
This is a classic sidestep, a below-the-belt attempt at changing the subject. It has been designed to make him back off. There is, indeed, something carefully calculated about Sherlock's words – much more strategic than his furious ramblings right after ending up this place. He's being particularly dismissive and mean today without an obvious reason. Mycroft needs to get to the bottom of this, which means that he can't let any of the verbal poison darts being shot get to him.
Squaring his shoulders, he resists the urge to retaliate, which isn't all that hard since he has had plenty of practice of ignoring Sherlock's barbs. "You'll have all the time in the world to snipe at me over a nice cup of tea at South Eaton Place, once you sign your Care Plan and the release date arrives. Time to focus, Brother Mine."
He watches Sherlock meander around the geometric grid of the garden, leaning occasionally down to scrutinise the nametags stuck up next to neat rows of sprouting growth. He's wearing his pair of black jeans and a teal green dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. It doesn't exactly fit him – he had lost a lot of weight on the streets and Bethlem's food is only now beginning to round his cheeks back towards what they used to look like. He does already look much better than he had during the early days of hospitalisation. Save for the patient bracelet on his wrist that's only occasionally visible since he tends to tuck that hand into his pocket when other people are nearby outside, he hardly even looks like a patient of any kind.
If one looks closer, though, there are the dark shadows under his eyes, the propensity to flinch at the slightest unexpected noise, the bitten-down-to-the-cuticle nails and the haunted look hidden carefully under a well-crafted mask of normality. There's a surgical scar on the crook of his elbow and a landscape of old, scarred and thrombosed venous puncture sites dot his left arm like lunar craters. It's a roadmap of addiction which Sherlock usually hides underneath the long sleeves of his dress shirts, but during his time here he has made little effort to do so. He is hardly the only patient carrying such marks.
Nevertheless, he looks like Sherlock again. Some of these barely hidden dark things have been there nearly all his life. Mycroft wonders briefly how his visage might appear, had they enjoyed a very different childhood.
There had been a kitchen garden at Musgrave Hall. When they moved to Essex after the fire there would have been plenty of space and a good soil for a new one, but Mummy never bothered. There were a lot of things Mummy no longer had the energy for after Eurus was taken away.
Mycroft intercepts Sherlock by the neat rows of baby lettuces that have been planted out under cloches. "I refuse to apologise for trying to save your life."
"I would hardly expect you to do so."
"Sometimes we all need a bit of help after making bad choices," Mycroft offers. I must learn how to forgive you for yours.
That makes Sherlock look up at him again. "Are you repenting your decision to play God, then? Do I have to remind you that you weren't even in the country when I ended up at A&E? And, as you have said on numerous occasions, it wasn't your decision to lock me up in here." The last phrase is spoken in a mockery of Mycroft's tone, a parody Sherlock has enjoyed performing for years.
If only they could have a civil conversation. If only Sherlock knew how hard he has had to work on those who hold true powers over Sherlock's life to get him out. If only. "I do not blame you for what happened, although I do so wish you'd see that the destructive choices you have made in life have consequences."
"I have not been allowed to make my own life choices, which means that it's not actually possible for me to have made many bad ones."
Mycroft sighs. He knows that if he continues down this path, he's going to stoop to what Sherlock will invariably interpret as nagging. That will then only lead to Sherlock getting even stroppier. Mycroft wonders if he should specify that he does not see the depression as being Sherlock's fault – only the way in which he had evaded help and turned to illegal narcotics as self-medication. Still, talking about the drugs at this particular point will, in all likelihood, make Sherlock promptly end the conversation, so he refrains.
Instead of arguing further, Mycroft walks up to an old sundial surrounded by lush beds of herbs. Moss has grown over the inscription on it. Sherlock joins him, his curiosity now obviously piqued. He picks up a pebble and scratches the growth away.
"'Hora quasi umbra'", Mycroft reads out loud. "'Time is but a-"
"––shadow", Sherlock completes the translation. "Although that hardly applies to someone stuck in here." He glances at Mycroft with a frown as though challenging him to continue their altercation.
"Water under the bridge. Whatever transpired before, has obviously been remedied. You've recovered sufficiently to no longer require inpatient treatment. There's no need to dwell in the events of the last six to eight months. That was then, and this is now," Mycroft says amicably. "We need to talk about what happens when you are released."
Sherlock wanders to the overgrown pond in the corner. Its unruly state is in stark contrast to the neatness of the rest of the garden. He peers closer to the water, then returns to the main pathway and kneels to read some labels in one of the herb beds. "I'm sure you, Smathers and Barnes have already decided on every salient detail. It must be nice to be able to outsource your dirty work to the NHS."
Mycroft stops by the garden gate and pinches the bridge of his nose, battling his frustration and the impulse to walk away.
"Sherlock," he starts, "you know they won't release you if you won't co-operate with your Care Plan."
"Oh, believe me, I will tell them everything they want to hear. I shall be the very poster boy for co-operation."
"But who will you tell what you actually want?"
"Someone who's willing to listen. That sure as hell isn't you."
Mycroft closes his eyes momentarily, trying to shove the despair gathering at the horizon of his patience back to where it came from, but it is becoming harder. Sherlock must be aware that, while Mycroft's opinion could well influence the decision to discharge and the contents of the Care Plan, he has been doing so much better lately that there are hardly grounds to continue involuntary treatment. He has jumped through the hoops and he knows that Mycroft knows it, too.
He has heard enough good things from Dr Barnes lately, and the psychotherapist clearly approves of Sherlock being released. Apparently, he has even stopped battling taking his assigned medications, the doses of which have been significantly tapered down. He's also actually willing to engage during his therapy sessions and has even been exhibiting relatively normal emotional affect. According to what Smathers had said at the last Care Team meeting, Sherlock finds some things enjoyable again, which is nothing short of a triumph.
It still remains to be seen what good things baby brother might actually take with him from his place. The lessons from addiction rehabilitation have always proven short-lived, and the fact that the current conversation seems to be going nowhere is not a good sign. Whatever restoration their relationship requires, it doesn't require a trained therapist to realise that brief interactions in these surroundings will not be enough. Mycroft hopes that once they are back at the house, he will be able to coax some truth from Sherlock as to his daily wellbeing, and to hopefully offer a sounding board when he's having a bad day. He shall offer support in whatever Sherlock decides would be a good use of his time in the future, as long as that option is legal and healthy.
Sherlock digs out a lighter and a cigarette from his pockets, neither which he is supposed to have in his possession. Mycroft refrains from asking where he'd procured them; the boy has always been able to find someone weak enough to manipulate into bending the rules, which truly is one of the more chilling similarities between his two younger siblings. That, and Sherlock is also a skilled pickpocket.
Secretly craving his own dose of calm, Mycroft watches wordlessly while Sherlock indulges.
After taking a long drag and then blowing out the smoke in Mycroft's direction, Sherlock gives him a look of boredom. "When did you start smoking again?" he asks with one brow raised in conspiratorial mockery.
Mycroft starts to deny it, but then stops. "You are enough to drive anyone to bad habits."
That raises a grim smile. "Well, get on with it; I don't have all day."
"Excuse me?"
"The rest of the lecture. I've heard it often enough to know one is coming." He then proceeds to mimic Mycroft's own intonation yet again, "You have to behave, now, or I will tell Mummy and Father."
Mycroft gives him a steely look back. "We stopped doing that years ago, Sherlock. If telling you off or threatening to snitch worked, we wouldn't be in this position."
"Here we go," Sherlock says with a vile smirk, "do share how everything is always my fault. Including your eating disorder."
Mycroft's fingers curl tighter around the handle of his briefcase. He's still not going to give Sherlock the satisfaction of showing that he's in any way affected by the conversation. He tries to keep in mind that trying to turn the tables on him is just a defence mechanism. Nevertheless, he hates that he has buttons someone could press like this, and he hates that it has to be the person he is supposed to look after who knows what they are.
Sherlock takes in his expression and snorts. "You always were so worried that I would retaliate by telling them about your secrets. But, that's old hat now. You don't really care what they think anymore, do you? Well, I hardly care, either. Tell them about this." He waves his cigarette at the buildings. "They should know that one of their sons is a nutter. It'll hardly be news. In their eyes, I've always been the defective one, the slow one, always in trouble, forever making mistakes and embarrassing everyone. In fact, I don't know why I ever really cared; it's not as if they did, which is why you gladly let them outsourced me to you." The mimic's voice now catches the exact cadence of their father's tone: "Look after your brother, Mikey; Mummy isn't feeling well and needs to be on her own for a while."
The truth of it cuts Mycroft like a knife, but he's learned how to mask his emotions well enough that Sherlock won't be able to deduce the pain. How can Sherlock insinuate that he happily accepted his role? What sort of a person would have found enjoyment in the events of the past ten years?
They don't talk about the days when their parents were incapable of looking after even themselves. The fact that Sherlock is even mentioning this may have something to do with therapy. This may well mean that the therapist was lying outright about childhood being a major recurring theme in their discussions. Mycroft curses the fact that he has not had a hand in picking the professionals assigned to Sherlock's case; Barnes' destructive decisions could have been prevented, and a more harmless therapist assigned to ease Sherlock's idleness.
At least there is still enough proof that the most destructive memories haven't surfaced – Mycroft is certain that he would have noticed and that the trigger words would have produced a visible reaction. Not even Eurus' frightening little song has brought anything significant to the surface, although it is alarming that Sherlock remembers even a part of it.
The status quo still remains. Safeguards are still in place.
To distract both of them, Mycroft reaches for Sherlock's cigarette. "May I?"
Sherlock evades his grasp. "You've got your own in your inside jacket pocket, right side, lighter included." He takes a backward step to put even more distance between them. "Whether you tell the parents is irrelevant, but you are still not going to contradict my statement to these idiots here that I am happy to comply with whatever arrangements you and they have cooked up."
Sherlock usually enunciates the word 'idiot' in a scathingly hateful manner. It fits the recent positive reports from his care team that this time the anger in it is mostly just habitual. His tone is not the stubbornly petulant one Mycroft is used to, but calm and collected. Determined, frighteningly so.
"Will you actually comply, then?"
After finishing another deep exhalation of smoke, Sherlock scoffs. "Of course not. But if you try to interfere, then I will make sure that your employer knows about your unfortunate weaknesses. I am sure that someone would like to make use of such knowledge to take you down a peg or two. At this delicate time in your career, advancement is just so dependent on making a good impression, on projecting an image of infallibility and sturdy stress-control skills. If nothing else, then it would at least offer your colleagues some fodder for in-office jokes."
Mycroft takes a moment to consider what the effects of that knowledge would be amongst those who are envious of his rise through the ranks. He doesn't like what he concludes; it wouldn't hole him below the waterline, and he could manage to diffuse some of the consequences by pointing out that Sherlock is hardly a reliable source. Still, his enemies would take advantage, of that he is sure. It's elementary PR: the way things actually are, is always secondary to how they appear to be.
He can't afford to project any weakness, not in his position.
"Sherlock, why does it always come down to threats of mutual destruction with you? Isn't it time to be negotiating a nuclear non-proliferation treaty?"
Sherlock's laugh is scornful. "There's no win-win option here, Brother Mine, because this is not a negotiation. I won't bargain, because you have left me with nothing worth haggling over. I do not care at all what you think of me."
"That's not true, is it? As a matter of fact, what you think of me seemed to be the very focus on your disordered thinking."
"You drove me to it."
"I did not drive you to madness, Sherlock." Mycroft had vowed not to use such vocabulary, to stick to the politically correct and neutral terms used by the staff, but a petulance is rising in him, kicked into life by the fact that Sherlock never takes the high road.
"There's scientific proof now, in the form of research data, that what they've done to me here made me exactly the way you wanted – dull and docile – and when they finally lowered the medication doses the cognitive results must have improved considerably," Sherlock muses. "If only I could get to see the results."
Mycroft knows that Sherlock is referring to the results of the first round of IQ and cognitive function tests from the research project he has been taking part in. Mycroft has not been provided those results, either, and he has been reluctant to obtain them through unofficial channels, lest he risk the powers-that-be mistaking it for a sign that he's more worried than he has let on. Before the eventual research articles will be published, all he knows is the alias assigned to Sherlock: Subject Nine. Neither Sherlock nor Mycroft were supposed to know such a thing, but nosy as he always his, Sherlock had caught a glimpse of some of his result printouts during the proceedings.
"You have enjoyed everything that happened," Sherlock announces. "Because as punishments go, this was way better than anything you could have come up with." He glances at Mycroft's feet where he stands at the end of the vegetable patch. "Cabbages. How apt. Just the sort of thing you do so enjoy having around to make you feel clever in comparison."
Mycroft grits his teeth to keep his anger in check, curling his fingers around the handle of his briefcase so hard that his nails dig into his palm. He can't explode at Sherlock right now, no matter how much he wants to. "If there is a discrepancy between your performance level after being admitted here and your performance now or long-term, it is because you were ill. Now, you're on the mend, and that just might be due to the fact that the treatment is finally beginning to work. There's no point in dwelling on whatever that research data may say. How could you possibly blame the medications for potentially alarming results, when you were doing your best to avoid taking them at the time of the first round of tests?"
Sherlock replies nothing. There is no counter-argument, not really, because Mycroft knows his logic is sound.
He gives Sherlock a warning glance. "You won't be able to avoid continuing the medications when you are released. They will be doing laboratory tests to evaluate compliance. But, the doses should be manageable, even taper off. Try to stick with it, Sherlock; it's important."
"In your world, maybe." Sherlock begins walking around the main building towards its front side.
Sherlock has always had a way of twisting facts to his liking when it comes to shirking responsibility and evading the truth. To Mycroft it seems obvious that it had been severe mental illness that had distorted those abilities, but he doubts Sherlock would ever accept that notion fully. According to his psychiatrist, he had conceded that some of the more outlandish claims he had made about Mycroft's power over him had been grossly exaggerated, but this had only happened in conversation with the therapist. He will likely never admit this to anyone else, will never give Mycroft what he assumes will be smug satisfaction over being right about anything, ever.
It's alright – he doesn't need that. What Mycroft wants and, yes, needs, is some resemblance of a relationship with his little brother, and a chance to help him stay out of this place forever. They could be united by this goal, but he fears that Sherlock will elect to wrap himself up in bitter vengeance.
He looks heavenward and lets out a frustrated breath. He can't decide whether Sherlock is just venting, just using him as a punching bag, or if there's something else going on. Their interactions have been much more amicable during the recent two weeks. What has changed? Why this sudden onslaught of highly refined nastiness? Is this how it's always going to go, his every attempt at help and support misinterpreted as tyranny and sadism? A less patient person would have thrown in the towel already, but then again, they are not bound to their siblings the way he is. Work, family – merely facets of the same coin. If he doesn't convince Sherlock that coming to stay with him is the only solution, then others who want to see his siblings in adjoining cells might take matters into their own hands.
He understands Sherlock's anger, at least partly. No one wants to accept that they are mentally ill, psychologically unwell up to the point of requiring saving from themselves. Society's stigma against mental illness is still deeply unfair. If Sherlock had cancer, he'd get more sympathy. Show any sign of mental instability, and the reaction is very different. Were their roles reversed, Mycroft would have likely railed against his fate at first, too, seeking a judicial opportunity to free himself from the section order. But, he would have eventually relented, seen reason, accepted the help he was offered if it was the only way out. Mycroft knows, that to win one has to play by the rules, or only break them when one knows it will lead to victory or go unnoticed.
Play by the rules? Not Sherlock. Not ever. Mycroft is forced to consider that, judging by today's behaviour, his co-operation of recent weeks could well be an elaborate hoax. Mycroft hopes that it is good enough to convince the unseen watchers. He does not doubt that the psychosis has lost its grip and the depression has become a transparent fog instead of a mile-high wall separating Sherlock from the rest of the world. But, if Sherlock refuses to engage with the people closest to him – people best equipped to help him – what chance does he have of staying functional? Is his life going to be a march towards the moment when his recklessness backfires yet again, and he ends up incarcerated for good, or will his self-destructive tendencies claim his life before that happens?
Has Mycroft ever even had a real chance of keeping him out of harm's way?
Sherlock is now heading down a path towards Fitzmary House. He's walking fast, shoulders hunched in anger. Mycroft hesitates slightly, unsure whether there is any point to following him back to the ward.
Unaware of the battle going on in Mycroft's mind, Sherlock turns on his heel to face him. He's no longer sneering. Instead, he looks sombre and collected. Triumphant.
For a moment, they're both suspended in the expectation of what is about to happen.
Then, Sherlock says it, delivers an unfathomable gut punch, "Once I am out of the door here, I never want to see you or speak to you again."
This is a final blow that startles Mycroft with its power to hurt even after all the venom Sherlock has directed at him today. This how it shatters, then; the hope that the bottle of champagne in the fridge might be shared.
The hope that with time, patience and motivation, they might move on, putting behind them everything that has happened during the past six months.
Despite all their differences, all their arguments, all the things that have driven them apart through the years, they're brothers, and that's been a tether that neither of them has attempted to cut before now.
'I never want to see you again' – a wish Mycroft cannot even grant, because not only is this his brother, this is his career – the one he never chose, but was forced upon him.
There is no reply he could offer, no clever comeback, no way to turn the tide. The cold determination in Sherlock's gaze tells Mycroft that he is fully aware of the power of explosive he has just detonated – a bullet that will render their relationship unsalvageable.
Mycroft has no choice but to continue his vigil from afar, and every day, it's going to bring him face to face with his failure. Not a failure to do his job, but a failure to be the sort of brother Sherlock would want in his life.
Maybe alive and happy was never a realistic goal for Sherlock. Maybe alive is all that Mycroft can ever hope for. But, he knows that it won't really be up to him anymore, if he can't be there to care and protect.
Without a word, he watches Sherlock turn his back and walk away.
[Authors' notes: J. Baillier thanks The Moss Stomper for an inspiring conversation regarding the contents of this chapter.]
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