Anna had expected Sherlock to find a sense of closure now that the memory stick was safely in Greg Lestrade's hands, and that he had finally felt able to talk about the events surrounding its discovery with Ed Harris. She had expected him to find a sense of relief in that, to finally be ready to talk, and just perhaps, ready to find a way to move on. But as ever, his reaction surprised her.

By the time that she arrived at work at half past seven the next morning, he was already seated at his desk, fully dressed, working again on the file that he was preparing for John and Kate. It contained, she knew, his entire childhood laid out in black and white, illustrated and perfectly annotated. There was a section on his mother's own personal history, stretching from her childhood, all the way through from her life to her death, not as Mycroft had assumed at her husband's arrangement, but from suicide as a result of her illness. There was a careful account of her many episodes of mental illness as well, a familiar story from the not so distant past of a woman whose illness had been a source of shame, something to be kept hidden, something to be explained away and excused, pushing her into a cycle of self-medication with benzodiazepines, deteriorating mental health and recurrent clinic admissions. Attitudes to mental illness were changing, for which Anna was eternally grateful, but still, some of the stigma that Sherlock felt showed itself in the way that he had documented these episodes. His mother, too, had not been overly keen on medication, going through phases and compliance and non-compliance with the various drugs that her psychiatrists had tried.

Much of this history had been pieced together by John and Kate, Anna knew, both from the accounts of witnesses that they had tracked down and from the medical records that John had been able to extract from a variety of archives. Adrienne's final stay at the clinic and her self-discharge from there on the morning of her death had been well documented. What the clinic staff had not known about at the time of her departure was the letter that she had received from the husband on the morning of her death. This had only been found in her room when they were cleaning it for the next client. John had discovered it by some careful digging through the clinics archives. It had been found in her medical notes, without anybody seemingly having realised its implications. In it, Richard Holmes had clearly stated that unless his wife returned home immediately, he would be sending Sherlock to a different school, one that could 'manage his behaviour' which was becoming ever more difficult in his mother's absence. A threat obviously designed to enforce her return to him. Whether she intended to return home and then at the last moment decided that oblivion was preferable to returning to an abusive marriage, or whether her intention had always been to drive over the side of the cliff road, nobody would ever know.

In Sherlock's account too, were the photographs of Daniel Brierley and his father, Sherlock's own account of events interweaved with what Mycroft had uncovered. Daniel's subsequent life and his premature death and the crime reports related to that were included in an appendix; relevant to Sherlock's life, but not an intrinsic part of it. What was not included for John and Kate to read, and what only Anna and Ed knew about, was what Sherlock had uncovered in his father's study, the information that now lay safely in the hands of Greg Lestrade.

Elmhurst had its own chapter. Again, John had gone through both medical records, consultation records kept by James Harrison, Sherlock's psychiatrist from those days, and interviews with the staff that he had been able to track down, in order to formulate as complete a record as possible.

And finally, came a record of Richard Holmes' final illness and death, and there the account finished. As if what had come after was of no consequence to Sherlock. Of his removal from Elmhurst by Mycroft late at night, and with a court order to override a section under the Mental Health Act there was no mention. Curious that he should see his father's death as the end of the story, or perhaps he saw it as the beginning of his new story. It was almost impossible to tell.

The account was finished, Anna knew it. It had been finished before Sherlock had started work on the file for Lestrade, but somehow he was finding it impossible to leave it alone. She watched as he scanned the pages impatiently, deleting one word, inserting another, only to revert back to the original five minutes later. He would move pictures around within the text, he would search the Internet to check his data, only to discover that he was correct in his facts, and when he reached the end of the document, he would return again to the beginning and the entire process would begin again.

After three hours of this, refusing food, refusing drink, grudgingly accepting his medication, Anna watched him becoming progressively more agitated and then the pacing started. He would walk from the laptop to the window and back, flick through a few more pages, change another punctuation mark and then be back on his feet again.

Anna watched him pace like this for maybe twenty minutes, waiting to see if he would recognise the pattern himself and act on it. When he showed no sign of stopping, she put down the book that she had been holding in her hand all morning with little hope of reading, and walked over to him as he sat, scanning the pages of the document. 'Why don't you leave it as it is?' she asked.

He shook his head. 'There's something missing,' he said. 'I just can't work out what.'

'Has it occurred to you that perhaps that is because it isn't data that you're looking for? It's answers, and you may well not find them in that document.'

In answer, he stood up so fast that the chair behind him fell to the ground, and he kicked at it in frustration. Anna took a step back, watching, waiting, aware of the chance that he could become aggressive in this state of mind, yet confident that he trusted her enough not to lash out at her.

'Take some deep breaths,' she said calmly, 'and tell me what you need.'

He was standing stock still, eyes closed, teeth clenched, hands in fists by his side.

'You can control this,' she told him. 'Concentrate on your breathing, bring it under control,'

And slowly she watched him do as she suggested, using the techniques that he had learnt. Breathe all the way out, breathe in for the count of five, hold for the count of two, breathe all the way out for the count of five and repeat. Finally, he opened his eyes and shook his head slightly, still avoiding eye contact. 'I need to get out of here,' he said.

'Garden?'

'Yes.'

'Come on then,' she said, unobtrusively pressing the call button on her personal alarm for back-up. She would take him outside, but in his current condition, she wasn't doing it alone.

She led him out through the antechamber to the room where both their coats were hanging up, Anna having predicted on her arrival this morning that a trip outside was probably on the cards, and by the time they reached the corridor, Mark was there and fell into step behind them. Sherlock, still silent, ignored his presence entirely.

Once outside he walked all the way around the perimeter of the garden, head down, before finally making for a bench and sitting down.

'Better?' Anna asked.

'A little.'

'Frustrated?'

'Yes.'

'Can you explain?'

'I want to fix this. I want it done, finished. I thought - I thought -'

Anna waited for him to complete the thought, and when he didn't added, 'You thought you would finish the case and that somehow everything would go back to the way it was before?'

'Sounds ridiculous, doesn't it?'

'Not really, no. If we were machines then it would be precisely that simple.'

'Emotion,' Sherlock said. 'The grit on the lens; Mycroft always told me it would cause problems.'

'You don't really believe that do you?'

'No,' he said, shaking his head.' And nor does Mycroft, not really. Without emotion, our lives would be black and white. I prefer the colour version.'

'And which do you think life here is?'

He frowned as he considered. 'Everything is simple here, it's clean, pure, uncomplicated.'

'Which is why it can be so difficult to leave it behind.'

'You're saying that I don't want to finish the case, because when I do it will be time to leave?'

'Perhaps - you tell me.'

'Maybe. Maybe I just can't accept that that is all there is.'

'Your past?'

He nodded.

'Sherlock you have been through enough for several lifetimes as it is. Why does there have to be more?'

'Because I want there to be more. Because despite everything, it still doesn't explain -'

'You?'

'Precisely.'

'Human psychology isn't that simple. We are all formed from a combination of genetics, life events, neural biochemistry, and protective and exacerbating factors. You can't explain yourself away in simple terms.'

'Then how do I fix it?' he asked, clearly frustrated.

'The way that you are,' Anna told him. 'By talking, by understanding, by accepting your past and by taking medication.'

'So this is me now? Like this?' The emotion, the raw despair in his voice was almost painful to hear.

'Not remotely,' Anna said, placing a hand on his shoulder, letting him know that she was with him in this. 'Nothing is static, Sherlock,' she told him. 'Life will change, you will change, your illness will change, and your acceptance of your past and how you feel about it will change. You are getting better, and you will continue to do so.'

'If I keep doing what I'm told?' he asked, with a sideways glance at her.

Anna chuckled. 'That bothers you doesn't it?'

'I don't like relying on people - or on pharmacology,' he said with a frown.

'You rely on John, and Kate, and even on Mycroft to an extent,' she reminded him.

'That's different. They chose me.' He was staring at the ground now, obviously uncomfortable with where this conversation was going.

'You're bothered by the fact that Ed Harris and I are only here because we have to be?'

'Perhaps.'

'We choose our patients, Sherlock,' she told him. 'If we didn't connect to you in some way, if we didn't feel that we could help, if we didn't want to help, then we wouldn't have continued to look after you.'

'Despite me being an awkward sod?'

'Perhaps because you're an awkward sod,' Anna said with a smile.' I'll take challenging over boring and wallowing in self-pity any day.'

Sherlock gave her another sideways look, lips twisting up into an amused smirk.

'Yes, you're right, that was very unprofessional of me,' Anna murmured, continuing to look straight ahead. 'Let's just hope that nobody is listening.'

'I couldn't have done this without you, you know,' Sherlock said quietly.

'You didn't have to. That's the whole point of the clinic.'

'I'm trying to say thank you, Anna.'

'I know, and I appreciate it. You're more than welcome.'

She turned to look at him and grinned. 'Look at you, all polite. This isn't goodbye, you know. You don't get rid of me that easily. I'm going to be looking after you when you get home too.'

'Home,' he said, one hand coming up to ruffle his hair at the back.

'You know that you do that when you're feeling uncomfortable?'

'Do I? How well you know me,' he said, and in his voice was - not bitterness, but just a hint of sadness and regret.

'Go on, spit it out,' Anna said, not allowing him to divert the conversation.

'Coming here - it was like the final admission of defeat,' he told her. 'But once I'd done that, there was something almost glorious in it. Like falling into a feather bed when you've been awake for several days. I just wanted everything to stop, and here it did.

'And back home?'

'I don't know,' he said looking up at the sky, which was blue and cloudless, 'I worry that all the triggers will still be there.'

'But you are not the same,' Anna told him. 'Isn't that what we've just been talking about? You've already changed, Sherlock. Your attitude to this illness and how you approach it is entirely different to what it was two months ago. You have an understanding of it now, and a whole array of cognitive tools to use when things get difficult.'

'You think that it's time that I went home, don't you?' he asked, his eyes narrowing as he considered this.

'Don't you?'

He shook his head slightly, as he turned to look at her. 'Anna, you've spent the last four weeks telling me that I need to be here. Now you're telling me that I need to leave?'

'I'm saying that we need to start planning for your discharge. To start thinking about where you go from here.'

'Why?' he sounded anxious at the concept.

'Did you ever read the Nurse Matilda books as a child?' Anna asked.

He looked puzzled. 'I don't think so. If I did, then I deleted them.'

'You mean you lost the memory from the ECT.'

'I forget that I don't have to lie to you,' he said.

'The books were made into the Nanny McPhee films,' Anna said.

Again, Sherlock shook his head.

'They're children's books. About a nanny for naughty children,' she told him. 'She tells the children that when they do not want her, but need her, she must stay, but when they want her, but don't need her, then she must go. Well, the clinic is a bit like that.'

'You mean that I need to leave because I don't want to?' he asked.

'Precisely that. You're getting too comfortable here. We need to start thinking about getting you home.'

'It's not that I don't want to go home,' he said, staring at the ground again. 'I just don't know that I'm ready.'

'You scared?' Anna asked, after allowing him a pause to consider what this might mean.

'A little,' he admitted.

'Can you put it into words?'

He frowned before saying, 'It's safe here; I know that I can't do anything - to myself, or anyone else. There is a peace in that.'

'Do you think you might do something?' she asked

'Not now, no,' he shook his head, and hesitated before adding, 'but before -'

He broke off and buried his face in his hands for a moment, 'What if the voices come back?' he asked, fear in his voice now, his words tripping over each other in his haste to express them. 'What if they're like they are before and what if I can't resist them next time? The things that they said - about Kate. Awful, awful things. What if -'

'Hey,' Anna said, putting an arm round his shoulders. 'You're okay. It's better now, isn't it?'

He nodded my head still buried, and Anna rubbed his arm a little in reassurance.

'And that's largely due to the medication,' she told him. 'And as long as you keep taking it, the voices should stay under control, And if they do come back, then you tell me and we deal with it.'

Another nod.

'Sherlock, you're not going to be on your own,' she told him. 'I will be there for as long as you need me. Every day if that's what it takes, and when I'm not there, I'm only on the other end of the phone.'

He was silent for a while, composing himself, head still hidden, but his breathing was slower as the panic receded.

'It's normal to be scared,' Anna told him, calmly. 'It's safe here, it's controlled. Outside you have to deal with whatever life is throwing at you and after the peace and routine of being in here that can be terrifying.'

'When I was eight, I broke my arm,' Sherlock said, finally sitting up. 'When they took the cast off, it felt as if my entire arm was going to disintegrate without its support. The idea of leaving here - it feels a little like that.'

'When you think about home, what do you see?' Anna asked him.

'I see the flat in Baker Street, I see myself sitting in my chair, I see myself pacing, and working.'

'And Kate?'

'The Baker Street I imagine, the one that I'm concerned about returning to doesn't have her in it. Why is that?'

'Because your mind is accessing negative images still,' Anna said. It's a symptom of the depression. Try again. Picture your flat with her in it. Maybe even John, too. They're the ones who will support you when you get home after all. You're not going to have to do this alone.'

Sherlock considered for a moment. He didn't speak but his body language became more relaxed.

'Better?' Anna asked.

He nodded.

'I can't promise miracles, Sherlock. What I can promise you is that one day in the future, and it may be weeks or even months away from now, you will catch yourself in a moment and realise that you are happy. Not just content, but happy. When that happens, remember how you feel now, how impossible it felt, and file that away for the future.'

'For when it happens next time?' he asked.

'You may never have another episode like this,' she told him. 'You managed nearly twenty years since the last one. With medication, and regular psychiatric support the hope is that it will never happen this severely again.'

'And if it does?'

'Then the clinic is here. Anytime that you need it. But the trick is to catch it early. To recognise the early signs and to act on it. And that is a large part of what we are teaching you here.'

Sherlock nodded again, and they sat there in companionable silence for a long time before he stood up and asked to go back inside.

Once back in his room, he sat down at his laptop once more, and made a few final changes to his dossier, before asking Anna to make sure that copies got to both John and Kate, and shutting the laptop down with a touch of finality.

Then he switched on the television, and lost himself in an episode of Inspector Morse, yelling at their inaccuracies aloud. And Anna, watching him with a smile, fired off an email to Ed Harris telling him that in her opinion, it was time to start planning for Sherlock Holmes to go home.


Two more chapters to come, and then we're all done and dusted...

Thank you to my fabulous beta team of sevenpercent and Graveofthefireflies.

And thank you to all of you for reading and reviewing.