He woke several hours of dreamless sleep later to find a lunch tray on the table by his bed. Still warm, but even the smell of it made him feel ill. He hastily replaced the cover on the plate and pushed it away, as Sarah walked into the room.
'Its connected you know,' she said lightly.
'Whats connected?'
'The nightmares about your father and you not wanting to eat.'
'You sound like Matt.'
'Why? What does he say?'
'He's got a theory that mealtimes at home were difficult, that they involved conflict and that my issues around eating are tied up with my feelings about my father.'
'Were they difficult? Mealtimes I mean?' Sarah asked curiously, intrigued that he was talking about his father freely at last.
'I don't know do I? I can't remember. Wonderful isn't it? The very thing that was meant to make me better, the ECT, has made me lose all the memories that are meant to be associated with my illness, so that I can't even remember them enough to talk about them. And you wonder why I can't see my way to getting better.'
'You are better,' Sarah said gently, 'maybe not a hundred percent yet, but much, much better than you have been.'
'Am I?'
'Yes you are,' Sarah said, before leaving the room to get him a milkshake which she knew from experience it would take half an hour of argument to get him to drink. If she had ever had a more challenging patient she couldn't remember it. Three months and counting. Thank goodness James Harrison was back on board. If he couldn't get Sherlock Holmes functioning again then nobody could.
James Harrison arrived a little after two. Ringing the buzzer on the door of the unit, he felt oddly bereft without the swipe card which he had handed in when he had left.
Sarah grinned broadly as she went to let him in. 'I can honestly say that I've never been so glad to see you,' she said.
'How is he?'
'Subdued, frustrated, a little scared although he won't admit it. He's talked about his father a bit today for the first time since all of this blew up, which has helped, I think. But the real problem is that he can't see his way out of this.'
'He's giving up again, then.'
'I would say so. He'll be glad to see you though.'
Knocking on the door to announce their arrival, she buzzed herself into Sherlock's room. 'I've got a visitor for you,' she said, before standing back to let him in. Sherlock looked up from his book in surprise, then put it down, trying to place him. Tall, mid to late forties, dark hair greying at the side, Scottish accent. He looked familiar, and with an effort he tried to kickstart the cogs in his head into action to retrieve the memories.
'Hello, Sherlock,' the man said. 'Do you remember me?'
Sherlock shook the proffered hand, memories triggering as he did so. 'Yes,' he said, sounding relieved. 'You're the psychiatrist, the one that I liked, but I can't remember your name.'
'James Harrison.'
'Of course, sorry,' Sherlock rubbed his forehead, 'my memory isn't great.'
'And you're still getting the headaches?'
'Yes. Did I have them before?'
'They were bad for several weeks last time round. Do you mind if I sit down?'
Sherlock shook his head and indicated the chair with his hand, realising that it was the first time in weeks that anyone had asked his permission to do anything. Usually he was being told, not asked.
'Why are you here?' he asked bluntly, 'I mean, I thought that you had left.'
'I did leave and thats exactly the problem. Sherlock,' James Harrison hesitated slightly before slowly saying, 'I owe you an apology, I think. When I left you were getting better, we were planning for you to go home. I had absolutely no idea that Neil Simmonds was going to do what he did, that he would betray your trust like that, or that he would give you more ECT. Had I known what he was planning, I would have tried to stop it, but its a little late for that, so I can only apologise.'
He maintained eye contact with Sherlock throughout. Honest, direct, almost the polar opposite of Neil Simmonds who Sherlock was beginning to despise. Sherlock had trusted this man, he remembered, trusted him more than anyone else in here, and he had made him feel - not just better, but safer. As if he not only understood what was going on inside his head, but could help him to filter and untangle it.
'It wasn't your fault. You didn't know.' he said finally. He sounded tired, James thought, almost defeated as Sarah had said
'No, but I probably should have stayed around long enough to get you home,' he continues, 'knowing what had happened with your father, knowing about Neil Simmond's acquaintance with him. I think that some extent I let you down, and I would like the opportunity to reduce the impact of that.'
This was unexpected. 'How?' he asked
'This isn't entirely a social visit.' James Harrison explained. I spend yesterday evening with some friends of yours from here. They've filled me in on events, and have asked for my advice about how to get you well and get you home. I would like to help with that, if you'll let me.'
'I don't have friends,' Sherlock replied automatically.
'Don't you? Well you certainly engender amazing loyalty from your acquaintances then. Is that how you would describe them?'
'I don't know how I would describe them.' Sherlock was pleating the sheet next to him, unsure how to respond to this.
James Harrison sat back and took a deep breath, taking himself out of the therapist mode which came so automatically to him. 'I'm sorry, Sherlock,' he said after a pause, 'I'm not here to make you feel uncomfortable. This isn't meant to be a therapy session, unless of course you want it to be.
'What do you mean?'
James Harrison smiled at the slight figure on the bed. He had forgotten how this went. The distrust, the suspicion, and yet at the same time the endearing vulnerability. Pushing people away, but needing them all the same.'
'I am offering, Sherlock, to be your therapist again, if that is what you wish. It would have to be unofficially, while you are in here at least, but I will be back most weekend for the duration of your stay here, and for some time after you get home. Neil Simmonds will still have to be nominally in charge of your care, and it goes without saying that he can't be aware of my visits
'Why?' the suspicion again. 'Why would you want to do that?'
James Harrison smiled at him, 'Because I don't like leaving a job unfinished, and because I would like a chance to prove to you that there are people who you can trust, people who can help, and who have your best interests at heart. And because I believe that you have the potential to do a great deal of good with your life, but I am all too aware that the experiences that you have had, if not properly dealt with could push you in the opposite direction. We all have choices in life, some we make ourselves and some are made for us. I would like to make sure that those decisions that are made for you are the right ones.
Sherlock looked puzzled and considered for a moment. 'You're trying to tell me that you're doing this so that I don't turn into some kind of criminal mastermind? Thats crazy.'
James Harrison laughed. 'Not exactly,' he said, 'but I would like to think that you will use that powerful brain of yours for the right purposes eventually.'
'Instead of turning into a psychopath,' Sherlock said flatly.
Still depressed then, James Harrison thought, still interpreting the negative in any situation. 'We've had this conversation before,' he said gently. 'I don't think that you're a pscyhopath. I've never thought that. '
'Neil Simmonds thinks that I'm a psychopath, although he doesn't say it. Or possible a sociopath, that word seems to come up a lot.'
'Does that bother you?'
Sherlock shrugged. 'A little.'
'And that yet again proves why he is so very wrong, as I've said before psychopaths don't care what people think about them, you do. Neil Simmonds is much too interested in labels in my opinion, and not interested enough in the individual.'
Sherlock was staring hard at the sheet, picking at invisible threads on it. 'Can you help?' he asked without looking up, frowning a little as if even asking was painful.
'If you want me to then yes, I believe that you can.'
'Because my head, 'its just a mess. I think that it was like this before. I think that you helped.'
'I think that I did too. Can you define mess?'
Sherlock frowned. 'Everything is tangled, since the ECT. I can't work out whats real. I don't know which are real memories, which are from my nightmares, and what my head has just invented.'
'Do you want me to tell you?'
Sherlock looked up. He looked - worried, scared almost. 'No,' he said, 'thats just the problem. You could tell me, but how do I know that what you believe is the truth? And even if I know now, I might forget it all again later. I want to write it down. Sarah says that helped before, but I can't.'
'Because you don't want Neil Simmonds to see it.'
'Exactly,' Sherlock said quietly.
'This tangle, is it about your father?'
'Partly.'
'Then I have an idea. If your brother told you what had happened, could you believe it then?'
'Probably but he won't, at least I don't think that he would. He wouldn't before. I remember that. He came and he talked in riddles, it just made it worse.'
'What if we could persuade him to come here and tell you the truth?'
'How?'
'By asking, Sherlock. Because I honestly believe that is all that it will take.'
James Harrison stayed for an hour and a half in the end, leaving only regretfully because he had a train to catch back to Edinburgh that evening. He could have kept Sherlock talking longer, he thought. It was the easiest session that he had ever had with him. Exhausted, defeated, the barriers were finally down. He seemed relieved to be able to talk to somebody without filters, knowing that nothing of their conversation would end up in his medical notes, or be fed back to Dr Simmonds or Caitlin. James would still keep notes, of course, a log of the conversation to refer to before subsequent sessions, but they would only be seen by him. Sessions with other people, people that he didn't connect with had made Sherlock grateful for the chance to talk to him. Idly on the train on the way back to Edinburgh that evening he wondered if that was something that could be used. Give patients a few sessions with a therapist who they found it difficult to connect with, to make them appreciate the connection that they had with the one who was likely to help them. It was an interesting theory, although ethically challenging.
Walking to the door with Sarah immediately after the session, he had given her some quick feedback. 'You need to get him off the sleeping tablets, they're just making things worse. I would give him lorazepam and nothing else tonight, and explain to Caitlin in the morning, get her to change his drug chart.'
'Other than that he's still low, although I've seen him worse, and he's still paranoid, but he's trying hard to hide it. The problem is that in some ways his paranoia is correct. Can you talk to Caitlin about that one? Get her to put up his olanzapine?'
'I can try. I just don't want to risk making them think that he needs any more ECT.'
'I suspect that Neil Simmonds has learnt his lesson on that one. But I agree with what you were all saying last night, we need to get him functioning and out of here as quickly as possible. He's becoming too dependent on this place, and he's losing any idea of a normal life. Matt's not on today is he?'
Sarah shook her head, 'No, day off.'
'Pity, I'll give him a ring from the train. I've got a favour to ask him. From Sherlock.'
