CHAPTER 37 - Haunted
"Sherlock, will you please get a move on! We have to be there in forty minutes!" John shouts through the bathroom door, loud enough to be heard over the running water.
They're due to leave for Sherlock's follow-up appointment at the hospital, which is ridiculous, really, because there are more important things he needs to be doing right now. Things that don't fill him with a sense of unease.
He had tried to argue this very point over breakfast, saying that he had been discharged, from the MITU and the ward and Harwich, which clearly means that those places have nothing further to offer him, but John had been adamant in not letting him off the hook. Why?
His memory of the hospital is too precise, and too well-preserved in the halls of the Palace to be ever rendered harmless and unable to rattle the core of his sense of security. The most potent recollections of that place can completely unravel his concentration and slither into his nightmares, filling them with the sense of drowning, choking and being forgotten somewhere. Try as he might, he doubts he could delete those recollections, or amend them into something that doesn't make him feel as though he's standing on a trapdoor. Besides, trying to alter them would entail acknowledging them, which he'd prefer to avoid.
He'd much rather think about the case. As soon as he had got up, while John made breakfast, his mind had gone running back to what he is now tempted to call the Chinese connection: there has to be some link between Mark Watford's death by gelsemium elegans poisoning, and the personal trainer, Aiden Cole. Once he finds that link, the case will be closed. Just one small step.
John had made him wait until after breakfast to call Molly about the intestines. She'd sounded tired when she took his call, and her response was not encouraging either: "No, nothing at all in either of his intestines that could be remotely suspicious. In fact, so little contents could be found there that it made me wonder if he was on some sort of fasting diet."
Sherlock's next call was to the ChiMas number.
"Oh, yes. Mister Holmes. I got a message first thing this morning. You want to know about gelsemium elegans. In China, it is called 断肠草. The person you need to speak to is Dr Christine Leon at the Kew Gardens Jodrell Laboratory, but she's actually in China at the moment. Beijing is eight hours ahead of us now, so there won't be anyone still at the Institute of Medicinal Plant Development at this hour, which is part of the Chinese Academy of Medical Sciences. They are the only ones who can tell me how to reach her; I gather she is in the upper reaches of the Yunnan province in the south, where mobile connections are patchy at best. I will call you back when I know how to contact her."
At least Sherlock now has enough evidence to phone Lestrade and tell him that the murder weapon has been identified, although there is no certainty about how it was administered.
His news isn't greeted with enthusiasm by the DI.
"Bugger. If the Watford investigation continues, I'll have to hand off the new case I picked up just last night. The desk's already packed full with everything else we've got going."
This confirms, in a way, Sherlock's suspicion that at least part of the reason why Lestrade had still been trying to crack the case had to do with Sherlock and not the victim. Maybe John had put him up to it.
The thought had made Sherlock irritable, and he hadn't been able to resist snarking back: "So sorry if the truth is inconveniencing for you, Detective Inspector, but console yourself that it did much worse for the murder victim. Any particular reason why you'd be reluctant to let the new case off your hands? Anything that might interest me?" He knows he's fishing, but if he can convince John that there is another new case that needs his urgent attention, then he might get away with postponing the hospital appointment indefinitely. Not that a second case feels like a good idea at the moment.
"Really sad, but by your definition, boring. Domestic abuse gone bad," Lestrade explains. "Good for the clear-up rate, though. I could pass it off to Sergeant Donovan."
"Be my guest." Sherlock then sighs. "I've asked Molly to send you the results and the related notes by noon today. They should be enough to make the Coroner re-consider a natural causes ruling. That should keep the investigation alive."
"But you said you haven't been able to work out the connection to Cole? If it even is him?"
"No, but-"
"Any other leads to follow up? Why not come into the Yard at some point today and we can try to figure out how to take it all forward?"
He accepts the invitation, although from Lestrade's still reluctant tone, there rises a nagging suspicion that this is more charity than belief in that it will benefit the case.
Once Sherlock gets off the phone with Lestrade, he tries to paint the invitation into an urgent summons to the Yard without delay, but John just gives him a knowing smile. "Nice try, Sherlock. You're not wriggling out of this. Just one check-up, but it really is important. I don't want to be your doctor and you don't want me to be your doctor, so you are going to have to be seen by someone. Maybe you will actually believe them more than you seem to believe me."
The clock is ticking; twenty-one days after the death is a long time in his experience of case work. Sherlock hasn't been able to keep up the usual frenetic pace that his work before the illness, and his slowness— both mental and physical—annoys him intensely. He needs to catch up, and role-playing a patient at the National is hardly going to benefit anyone, least of all Mark Watford.
He detests the thought of being poked and prodded, assessed and measured so that someone can tick off boxes in some undoubtedly uselessly complex database of MITU admissions and "patient outcomes." He hates being thought of as an "outcome"; how could anyone other than him really know whether he had recovered, especially since the definitions others seem to be using for that word clearly differ from his own? "Pointless," he'd muttered over his breakfast tea.
"No, important," John had argued back at him. "You need to be seen, because it's the only way to get through that thick skull of yours that you are actually getting better. Plus, them hearing about your experiences might help them help others better." It was said with an exasperated fondness, and for some reason that Sherlock can't really explain, that takes the sting out of it.
Sherlock doubts whether whoever mans these post-discharge appointments would really want to hear his experiences. They would not be flattering towards the medical establishment. Even though some of the staff had been bearable, and they had managed to keep him alive while every part of him, one after another, ceased to function, the whole experience had been humiliating, condescending, uncomfortable, painful, mortifying, frightening and deeply unsettling. He'd been spoken of as though he was not there, and the rest of his entire medical history and current sobriety were, without fail, ignored right away, once the barest hint of his heroin and cocaine habits got mentioned. What he'd expressed as his wishes prior to the intubation, and the things he'd wanted to communicate after it had mostly been ignored, even when he'd been at his most desperate, by everyone except John.
John, who is likely already wearing his coat and standing by the door, is waiting for him.
He quickly brushes his teeth by the sink.
Footsteps echo outside the bathroom door. "We need to leave in five," John shouts through it. Sherlock answers with a noncommittal grunt that John probably doesn't even hear.
John wants him to do this, to subject himself to something he'd very much prefer to avoid. What is he looking to prove, and to whom?
Something had happened in their exchange last night, lying in the darkness. For Sherlock, it wasn't so much the kiss or the other manifestations of closeness, but rather the implicit reassurance that John had forgiven his relapse, that he wasn't going to leave, no matter what. Most of all, Sherlock had appreciated the fact that at least John wasn't going to stop believing that things would get better between them, that he was prepared to wait. It had all diluted a bit of the anxiety that has been eating away at him. If John's not prepared to give up, then how could he? He owes that much to John, doesn't he?
He hadn't been able to sleep after their conversation, but he had been willing to be held by John. No, it had been more than that - he'd allowed himself to want it. The arms enfolding him kept him warm, and he had been grateful that the embrace had not triggered any sensory discomfort. He knew that his own reluctance to initiate that kind of physical intimacy was, in part, due to the fear that contact would set something off again, and he'd have to stop. The thought of seeing John hurt by that withdrawal fills him with cold dread, but he also knows that he is still scared of the miscommunication that is happening between his body's senses and his mind. Just another thing neither he nor anyone else could fix, no matter how many pills he swallowed or how many doctor appointments he attended. His nerves have their own pace of fixing or not fixing themselves, and the risk of a relapse hangs above like the sword of Damocles. He's just going to have to get used to not knowing if or when it might come back.
That's easier said than done.
He surveys his look in the mirror. He can still see the ravages of the illness in the sharp lines, and the lack of sleep is visible in the dark smudges under his eyes. He rinses a bit of toothpaste off his thumb, wishing his reflection could change into someone who could actually get through today's appointment without getting anxious about it.
In the back of the taxi, he has to keep his eyes firmly on his phone, digging about in medical journals for data about gelsemium. The sight of London going by the window somehow distorts his vision and kicks off a sense of vertigo. It seems only to plague him when he worries about things.
He decides that Mycroft might be of some use in his attempts to cut through the red tape in the case.
The call is picked up on the third ring. "What is it?"
That terseness surprises Sherlock, but he presses on regardless. "Oh, so the meeting you are late for is tedious, is it? Traffic is such a nuisance these days."
"Make it short, Sherlock. I have things to do, as do you - I seem to recall you having a doctor's appointment today?"
"I need a favour. Lean on someone at the Home Office to get the Border Agency to cough up the details on Mark Watford's possible recent trips to China."
"Who is he?"
"Recently deceased. I told you about him when we spoke in your kitchen."
"Good lord. You still haven't solved that one?"
The man's criticism stings, but Sherlock stifles the urge to rise to it. "Perhaps, if the British Government could oblige me with the information I need, I could make better progress."
There is a slight sigh at the other end of the phone. "Why you are bothering with something as mundane as this is beyond me. Very well; I'll ask my PA to get back to you when she has time. Shouldn't you be focusing on your appointment?" The connection is then broken, leaving Sherlock staring down at the phone. There was the condescension that he had been expecting. Clearly Mycroft thinks he is off his game, but willing to pander to his weaknesses to keep him busy. The whole exchange sours his mood even further.
And it doesn't get any better at all, when they turn up at the hospital on Queen's Square after a short walk from Russell Square station. As soon as they walk into the Victorian red brick building's reception, he feels his stomach tighten. The familiar scents and sounds assault him, threatening to flood his head with memories, and he has to close his eyes for a moment while John asks the receptionist where the appointment is to be conducted. At least it won't be at the Harris Medical Intensive Therapy Unit where he'd been treated. Apparently, all follow up appointments are held in outpatient consulting rooms, which are dotted all over the building. It should make Sherlock relax more, but he's finding the practice harder than the theory of it.
They are directed to the waiting area on the fifth floor of the Cleveland Wing, where he sits and tries not to fidget. He knows that the MITU is three floors down, but the distance between him and it is still too close for his liking.
He gets out his phone and tries to read an article on gelsemium elegans. The Natural Products Journal from America has published the results of a study by Professor Xu Youkai, a lead scientist at the Xishuangbanna Tropical Botanical Garden, in Yunnan Province. His study identified two compounds that have been isolated and proved to be highly effective against tumour cells linked to leukaemia and various other cancers. The article quotes the scientist as saying that "Sometimes the treasure is hidden in the most dangerous place. We have to be bold."
The article includes a bit of history, too, which he decides to share with John. "Listen to this; according to Chinese legend, gelsemium is so fast acting that a Chinese deity, famous for his knowledge of cures for all poisons, died after ingesting it before he could even reach into his medicine bag."
John smirks. "Somehow, I don't see the Coroner being persuaded by a Chinese fairy tale."
Sherlock scrolls down the page on his phone. "Apparently, the Chinese have been studying the toxin for years. In lethal doses, it's known to cause convulsions, paralysis, and death from organ failure. In Watford's case, given the cardiomyopathy, it could well have given him a heart attack, before any of the other organs could be damaged that acutely."
His eye is then caught by another line in the article, which he reads out. "Previous case studies in Yunnan and other Chinese provinces over the last few decades show that people who consumed honey containing traces of gelsemium were dead within hours."
"Death by honey?" John sounds sceptical. "I thought you were convinced that someone injected Watford with the poison, instead of putting it in his food?"
"The Chinese didn't put it there - it ended up in the honey through gelsemium pollen carried in by bees," Sherlock corrects in a disapproving tone. His eye is drawn to yet another quote: 'Previous studies unlocked some of its secrets, such as its ability to relieve pain in a manner similar to morphine, but without the resulting addiction.' Sherlock decides not to mention this particular fact to John.
Before he gets to the end of the article, the clinic nurse calls out his name and the two of them are escorted into a small consulting room.
Sherlock recognises one of the two men present as the consultant he'd been assigned to at the MITU, Doctor Graham Perwit; he'd signed the hospital discharge paperwork when Sherlock left for Harwich.
He greets Sherlock with a smile and an outstretched hand, which Sherlock shakes firmly. He suspects the move might be deliberate, since many doctors seem to forgo shaking hands nowadays, based on a risk of germ transmission. Is it designed to test his grip and fluidity? Are they already making a survey of him?
If he has to act like a fully recovered person, he is going to throw everything he has at it.
"Doctor Watson, good to see you again under more pleasant circumstances. And Mister Holmes, it is a pleasure to see you looking so much better. This is my colleague, Doctor Serhat Gul. He's a consultant neurologist leading our post-Guillain-Barré recovery research. Please take a seat, we're going to be joined shortly by a third person - part of the final discharge assessment team."
John grabs a seat by the door while Sherlock descends into the chair in the middle, from where he can't really see John. Feeling shoved into the limelight, he opens the knot in his scarf but makes no move to remove his coat. He'd kept it on the waiting room, despite John's offer to hang it on a coat rack.
"Well, I won't beat about the bush," Perwit starts, taking a seat himself, "this is the point at which we look at your recovery and officially sign you off as discharged. If there are any residual issues that need addressing, before we return you to the care of your GP practice, this is where they need to be brought up and dealt with. We've had a look at the records forwarded by Harwich Manor, and your rehabilitation seems to be really progressing. Am I correct in thinking that your balance issues have resolved?"
Sherlock is certain he can feel John's scrutiny, but chooses to ignore it. "None that I can't manage, and they are improving." The less he opens up and the more concise and satisfactory his answers, the sooner he will be let out.
"Your A&E admission form reports double vision?"
Sherlock shakes his head. "That resolved before I was even admitted to the MITU. No problems since."
"The sensory component of your case was quite widespread, more than we usually see with this subtype. Have those symptoms persisted?"
"I'm taking what was prescribed for that," Sherlock says dismissively and attempts to stare Dr Perwit down to keep him from elaborating. It seems more successful than it had been when he couldn't really move, couldn't straighten his spine and lift his chin so that he's looking down towards the doctor, who is significantly shorter than him.
Perwit leafs through some printed sheets on his desk, until he finds a copy of the list Sherlock had been given when leaving Harwich. It lists the details of his prescriptions.
"Have they helped? Any side effects?"
"We can't know what the situation would be, if I hadn't taken them, can we?" Sherlock counters. "As for potential side effects, I suggest you study the package inserts."
The other doctor remains standing beside the desk, as all chairs have already been taken. Sherlock thinks it rather impractical to choose such a small room for an appointment with several doctors, unless the desired effect is to make the patient feel crowded and uncomfortable.
The Turkish-born doctor looks stern as he inspects the patient records he has grabbed from the desk. Sherlock's records. "We have no reports of you attending any physiotherapy sessions at the outpatient clinic across the square where we usually refer patients; did you make private arrangements?"
"Yes," Sherlock answers, hoping this will be enough. He tries to scrutinize Ghul, but his nerves are too shot to focus on gleaning a lot of facts from the man. Baby at home, left-handed - that's all. His head feels split in two, stagnant and slow. He makes a fist of his shaking right hand.
Perwit clearly isn't satisfied, raising his brows inquisitively. Sherlock doesn't even bother to try and glean any deductions out of him - that well had been drained during his hospitalisation.
"Besides a residential period at Harwich, I have resumed playing the violin, and have also taken up rock climbing. I find both to be more… interesting than standard physical rehabilitation. Both have served their purpose."
"Would you agree, Dr Watson?" Perwit asks, his line of sight now directed behind Sherlock.
Sherlock is aware that the Perwit and John had discussed his case several times during the long months he'd spent at the MITU. He tries not to be overtly annoyed at this line of inquiry, even though he could well interpret it as a sign that his own opinion is considered unreliable and subjective, and John's more balanced.
He twists in his seat to watch John, who looks slightly apprehensive. "There was a break in all that after you came home, before you took up those things."
"Since I obviously saw the error of my ways, the point you're raising is largely academic," Sherlock concludes sarcastically, and turn his back on John, hoping that no further questions will be posed to anyone other than himself.
"Have you any questions that you'd like answered?"
"Only two. Most up-to-date consensus on long term prognosis, and likelihood of recurrence."
Perwit nods. "Fair questions. About 30 percent of those with Guillain-Barré will still have some level of residual weakness after 3 years. About 3 percent suffer a relapse of some kind, but it's often not as severe as the original episode."
"How long before it's possible to say that it won't come back?" He hadn't really wanted to ask anything further, but this is something he hasn't been able to glean from his extensive online research on the subject.
Gul answers, "I have patients who have experienced this kind of setback many, many years after the initial attack."
How consoling.
"How many patients do you-" John begins asking, but trails off when there's a knock on the door.
Before anyone answers, it opens and Sherlock shifts in his seat just in time to see a woman in her mid-fifties, wearing a blazer suit, walk in with an apologetic smile. "Sorry I'm late, Graham. I hope I haven't kept you waiting."
Recognition of who she is dawns quickly, as does the chilling realisation of why she is here. His heart leaps into a frantic staccato as though attempting to escape from behind his ribcage. He's only seen pictures of her, and a video from a conference, but there's no doubt at all in his mind as to her identity.
Perwit stands up behind his desk, smiling. "This is Doctor Eileen…"
"-Johnston," Sherlock concludes out loud without even realizing he's doing so. He's so shocked that he can hardly get the name out except as a whisper.
Perwit has clearly sensed his unease, because the look he gives Sherlock is worried.
Behind him, he can hear the chair scrape on the floor as John stands up politely to acknowledge the woman's presence.
Perwit is still looking at Sherlock, confounded. "Oh, I didn't realise? You've met before? Doctor Johnston is joining us as the psychiatrist," he then explains, now directing his words at John. Sherlock tries to read his tone, to make out if there are signs there that John isn't as surprised by the presence of the neuro-psychiatrist as he is. Naturally John isn't aware of her precise identity, but did John know such a doctor was going to be present?
Suddenly, he remembers Mycroft's innocuous words from less than an hour ago: 'I seem to recall you having a doctor's appointment today?'
Is it possible that- of all the people… Here… Now?
It cannot be a coincidence. This is Mycroft's doing. That bastard. It's obvious he's brought John in on the little conspiracy. John's insistence that he waste his time with this appointment seems rather logical in hindsight.
Sherlock decides that all that talk last night must have just been a smokescreen to lull him into a false sense of security. He can feel the panic rising and stiffens his muscles, getting ready for the fight.
Mycroft's motive he could understand; this is what the man does, plays people like pawns and bulldozes over him whenever he sees fit. But, he would not have expected this from John. Not after last night. Not after the past few weeks. Not after the past two years.
"No, I don't think we've met," Dr Johnston says, "at least not at the MITU, as I am not directly involved in patient care there". She extends her hand, which Sherlock does not take. She doesn't seem upset by it.
Perwit moves away from the desk, offering her his seat there. She takes it without hesitation. Now the other doctors are standing to the side, making Sherlock feel as though he's in front of a jury.
The woman gives Sherlock a reassuring smile that he recognised as a professional expression, probably handed out to every one of her patients, no matter what their diagnosis. "Guillain-Barré patients with a long stay at the MITU can have some issues dealing with the emotional repercussions," Dr Johnston says.
Sherlock's fingers curl into the dark wool of the coat on his lap. His heart is still pounding and he blinks and bites his lip so hard he draws blood. Focus.
"As part of the discharge process, we always ask Guillain-Barré syndrome patients how they've managed to come to terms with the illness. That's what I'm here for."
Sherlock doesn't believe a word of it. It's hardly credible that someone with Johnston's credentials would attend every such outpatient appointment.
"It isn't easy. You've had to face not only physical difficulties, but emotionally painful periods as well. It is often extremely difficult for patients to adjust to sudden paralysis and dependence on others for help with routine daily activities." She aims another professional smile, this time past Sherlock, in John's direction. "It's good to see you have a strong support network in place. But, now is the point where we can also help you continue that progress by referring you to therapy. Many patients need psychological counselling to help them adapt to their changed circumstances."
There it is. Plain and simple. The whole end point of this subterfuge. This is how it starts. Mycroft has clearly learned something - in 2007 he'd simply been dragged against his will to an A&E. This time, it's more insidious. More… clever.
Still, Mycroft is clearly the idiot here, if he thinks Sherlock is going to fall for this ruse. Or go down without a fight.
He would have expected more of John than to be such a willing pawn. Or could the initiative have come from John? That doesn't bear thinking about.
"Patients with a particularly long stay at the MITU, especially if they've required extended mechanical ventilation, can have even more difficulty in coming to terms with such an experience," Dr Johnston continues. She seems completely insensitive to Sherlock's growing unease, trying to maintain a sunny disposition. It all feels rather grotesque in the face of what it is they're discussing.
He steals a look at John, who seems to be listening very eagerly. He snaps his gaze back to Johnston. "Wasn't the point of this session to declare me fit to be discharged from the services of this unit, instead of digging around for more issues?" Sherlock asks spitefully.
She carries on with the charade: "Of course, many patients will never recover fully, so there can be further difficulty of coming to terms with that fact, but in your case, it's early days yet. So, as long as you feel that you are making progress, then that is encouraging."
Sherlock finds it most distasteful, this harpy prattling on about how patients such as him feel and act."You used the words 'further difficulty'… What is that supposed to mean?" There is an edge of steel in his voice because he can now only barely control his need to flee.
Dr Johnston is watching his face now, finally having picked up on his discomfort. It would be useless to try and hide it any longer, since he feels his control slipping anyway. The tension in the room is becoming palpable, and he hears even John shifting in his chair.
She continues, a little less confidently. "Paralysis in an ICU over an extended period can cause symptoms very similar to PTSD. How have you been sleeping? Have you had any nightmares or particularly intrusive memories?" This time she grinds to a halt as she sees the look on Sherlock's face.
Nightmares. Memories.
She's been talking to John. She must have. Or Mycroft has, then passing the information onwards.
They're all in on it.
He can't even look at John right now. He may never want to, again. The most frightening thing about it all is, that right now, his anger is so overpowering that it easily overshadows the boundless misery in that statement.
He stands up, slowly, because he fears his legs might be shaking as badly as his hands now are. He wishes he could hide them by shoving them into his coat pockets, but he can't bring himself to do that. Too restless. He's running his thumbnails along his fingertips, a nervous tic he wishes John won't spot.
He has two options. Go on the offence, or leave. The last time someone tried to do this to him, he tried leaving, which landed him in restraints. "Doctor Johnston. You are technically correct in that we've not met, not professionally or socially. In 2008, you co-authored an article with Leeson, Barns and Mutsafa, in The Journal of Neuropathology. The title was 'The relationship between IQ, memory, executive function, and processing speed in recent-onset psychosis.' Do you recall it?"
Johnston now looks startled. "Yes, yes, I was a co-author of that. A pooled study—the four of us brought in twenty-five subjects. Why?"
Sherlock had had enough of mental health professionals years ago. The games they play, the labels they apply. He had his fill of them in 2007, and he's not going there again. Ever.
John had said that this meeting would be an opportunity to vent his frustrations, to ask for information on things he's struggling with. He has plenty enough information already, the most important piece is that Guillain-Barré can relapse, and today has given him very little good news. But, more importantly, he now knows that he has got to get out of this room right now.
He steps closer to Doctor Johnston, leaning slightly forward as he lets his fury have free rein. "As you must be well aware, I was Subject Nine."
He then marches out without sparing a single glance at anyone else in the room. He half expects the door to be locked, and the surge of relief, when he finds that it isn't, is so visceral that black dots dance before his eyes momentarily.
He heads for where he thinks the lifts were, trying desperately not to break into a run.