Sherlock was irritated. And frustrated. And above all else - bored.

He wanted more than anything else to get out of these four walls; to do something more than lie on the bed and flick through the television channels at ever increasing speeds. He was aware of Anna's silent presence, observing him, waiting for him to crack and throw the remote control against the wall, as he so badly wanted to.

'Don't you ever get bored?' he exploded eventually. 'Sitting there, watching me all the time, coming up with theories, trying to work out what's going on in my head?'

Anna pretended to consider. 'Not really,' she said calmly, walking over and taking the remote control out of his hand, switching off the television. 'Not when you're around anyway. How about you let me take you outside, get rid of some of that frustration with a bit of exercise?'

Sherlock shook his head. 'I don't think so,' he said, staring at the now blank screen in front of him.

'Sherlock, you're going to explode if you go on like this,' Anna told him. 'Oh not literally,' she said in answer to his disapproving look. 'But something's got to give, and it would better if you could learn to deal with this without sedation.'

'I don't want to go outside,' he said coldly, still avoiding eye contact.

Anna sat down in the chair at the side of the bed, and continued looking at him until he finally turned towards her.'You remember when you were first admitted, when I told you that sometimes you needed to let us make decisions for you?' she asked, and he nodded reluctantly. 'Well now is one of those times. You need to get out of this room, you need to remind yourself that there's still a world out there, away from that mess that's going round and round in your head. Sitting there, endlessly obsessing about what Kate and John are discovering, trying to uncover your own memories, trying to piece together the evidence yourself is going to get you nowhere.'

He narrowed his eyes slightly, and there was irritation in that look and more - he looked almost offended at this suggestion that this was one puzzle that he was going to be unable to solve.

'You know that I'm right,' Anna said quietly. 'Why not give it a try? If you get outside and decide that it's all too much, we can come back in, but a change of scenery might be just what you need to help you work things through.'

He frowned, swallowed, and looked uncomfortable. 'You have to face the real world at some point, Sherlock,' Anna said. 'Trust me, it will help.'

He closed his eyes, as if trying to process something, then opened them again and nodded slightly.

'Good,' Anna said, 'I'll get Chloe to get both of our coats. It's cold out there.'

'What day is it?' Sherlock asked suddenly, realising that he had lost all track of time. 'I mean what's the date?'

'Sarurday, November 3rd,' Anna told him. 'It's nearly Bonfire Night.'

'Remember, remember, the 5th of November, Gunpowder, Treason and Plot.' Sherlock said quietly.

'Did something happen on November 5th?' Anna asked, watching his face.

'My mother died two weeks before,' he told her. 'At the school bonfire that year, I thought for a moment that it was her body and not the guy's in the flames. I've hated it ever since. The fireworks always seemed like a celebration of death, because they are, in a way. A celebration of the death of Guido Fawkes and his co-conspirators and their barbaric deaths. A celebration of the triumph of the status quo and the establishment over change, over her.'

'What date did your mother die?' Anna asked, cogs clicking into place.

'October 17th,' he said with a speed that let Anna know that it was a day that was engraved on his brain, and would never be forgotten.'

'The same night that you ended up on he roof,' Anna said quietly. 'Did you know that?'

He shook his head, looking confused. 'No - I, I always remember, always. How could I have lost track of time like that? How could I not have known?'

'You weren't working,' Anna told him. 'Kate and John were keeping newspapers and any reminder of the outside world away from you. It's not surprising that you lost track. Perhaps subconsciously you did know, though. Anniversaries can often be a trigger, and it does seems like a huge coincidence.'

Sherlock shook his head slightly, considering, then took the proffered coat from Chloe, who had appeared silently in the room, put on his shoes, which had appeared on the floor, and followed Anna to the door.

He chose not to comment on the presence of the two men in white clinic uniforms who were waiting for them outside the door, and fell into step silently behind them. Of course they would not allow him outside without an escort. Of course Anna would believe that he might still try to escape. Would he, if the chance was there?

It was possible. Logic dictated that he should stay, that he should try to believe that he could recover from this, but for once in his life, logic seemed a small consideration at this time. There were other more powerful motivators.

'John thinks that my mother killed herself,' he said conversationally, as they reached the outer door, and Anna used a combination of a swipe card and finger recognition to let them out onto a grassed lawn area, with gardens behind. It reminded him oddly of the grounds at Elmhurst. A strange place to find on the outskirts of the City of London. The space seemed a luxury. 'Where is this place?' he asked.

'Highgate,' Anna told him. 'Why?'

'My family kept a house not far from here,' he said, then with a nod. 'I recognise the skyline. We used to come up here for several weeks sometimes, when my father was sitting in the House of Lords., although he used it more than the rest of us did.'

'A town house and a country house,' Anna said with a smile. 'How was that?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'I missed the space of the country,' he said. 'The mental space as much as the physical space, but on the other hand-' he broke off and swallowed, staggered slightly and Anna guided him to a seat where he sat, head in hands. She rested a hand on his shoulder, letting him know that she was there. He was breathing fast, too fast, and the hands over his face were shaking slightly, but she knew better than to interfere. She had taught him breathing techniques, ways to deal with these moments when he was able, but sometimes he just needed to ride the wave of it, as he was doing now.

'Flashback?' she asked when he finally sat up.

He nodded, eyes fixed on a tree on the opposite side of the garden.

'About your father?'

He nodded again. 'I'd forgotten,' he said. ' That house in Highgate. He never used to attack me there. It was too small, and I never went there without my mother.' He paused, closed his eyes, took a few deep breaths. Anna waited patiently for him to continue.

'Then one time I did,' he said. 'The main house was having some work done to the roof. They'd found asbestos. We all had to move out for a couple of weeks - house staff too. My mother was meant to be coming to Highgate with us, but - something happened.' He paused and frowned. 'She had to go away - to France. Mycroft was off staying with a school friend, he did that a lot. It was just me and my father.'

'How old were you?' Anna asked, when it was obvious that he wasn't going to continue unprompted. '

'I was nine. We had a woman who came in during the day - she cleaned, tidied, cooked, kept an eye on me, but once she'd served dinner, she left and we were alone.'

'What happened?' Anna asked.

His face crumpled, as if he was in pain. 'I don't remember,' he whispered. 'I said something, that made him angry. He dragged me out of the drawing room by my hair, he seemed to enjoy doing that. The next thing I remember is coming to on the floor in my bedroom. Everything hurt.'

'What did you do?' Anna asked, wondering if he was aware of the implications of what he was saying.

'Crawled into bed, cried for my mother, eventually fell asleep. In the morning he acted as if nothing had happened.'

They sat in silence for a while, Anna fighting the temptation to ask the obvious question, but sensing that now was not the time for this.

'I think John's right you know,' he said finally.

'About your mother committing suicide?'

He nodded. 'I didn't want it to be true. I wanted him to find an alternative explanation. I accused my father or murdering her, you know, when I found out what had happened. The day after the funeral. That's why Mycroft took me back to school so quickly.'

'Why did you do that?'

His eyes were fixed in the distance, avoiding eye contact again. He seemed to find it easier that way. 'There was no family in France, Anna. None close enough for her to go and stay with regularly anyway. If there had been they would have come to the funeral. They didn't.'

'So - she wasn't staying with them when she went away.'

'Obviously not.'

'And you confronted your father with that?'

'He told me that she had been meeting a man, that she was a good for nothing whore. I told him that he was a liar and that he had probably had her killed himself. He slapped me, knocked me to the floor. He would have done worse, I think, if it wasn't for Mycroft. He heard the noise and came in and pulled him off me. Mycroft let me sleep in his room that night, and the next morning he drove me back to school.' He spoke calmly, as if he was discussing the weather, or a scientific concept. Disconnected now, but Anna knew that it wouldn't last.

'Did your father leave a mark - with the slap? Didn't the school ask questions?'

'Mycroft told my house-master that I'd tripped and fallen against a door. He had no reason to doubt his version of events.'

'Do you still think your father killed her?'

He shook his head. 'No, I told you, I think that she killed herself.'

'Do you have any idea why?'

He frowned and stared at her. 'Because she couldn't live with her illness, Anna, isn't it obvious?'

'You think that she was bipolar too? Do you have any evidence for that?'

He sighed. 'Her moods, how she reacted to things, the days spent in her room, the little white pills for her nerves. I suspect that she had a fairly hefty benzodiazepine addiction too. But then we all have a propensity to self-medicate, don't we,' he said bitterly.

'Is that why you're finding today so hard? You're worried about what Kate and John might find?'

'I miss her - Anna,' he said heavily. 'I miss Kate. I wanted to give her some space away from his - mess,' he waved his hand around I indicate the clinic. 'From me. But I've come to rely on her, and that scares me.'

'Do you trust her?'

Sherlock sighed. 'With my life,' he said, 'but it's more complicated than that.' He paused for a moment, then continued slowly, 'My need for her frustrates me, because it is illogical. Because without her -' he broke off.

'You would have done what you intended to that night on the roof?' Anna asked.

He nodded. 'I love her, and I feel bound by her,' he said finally. 'I have to try - for Kate, when every cell in my body is telling me that it is futile.' He hesitated, frowned slightly as if trying to find a logical way of continuing, then shook his head and fell silent.

'Is there any point in me telling you that this will get better?' Anna asked.

He shook his head. 'Not today he said,' then standing up. 'Can we walk? If you're going to force me into the outside world, then I might as well see a little more of it.'

'Sherlock-' Anna started, but he shook his head.

'I'm done with talking, Anna,' he said. 'Conversation solves nothing. I need facts, and only John and Kate can get me those.'