Chapter 37: Limbo
Sherlock's bedroom is on the top floor of the tall townhouse, and by the time Esther has climbed the stairs, her knees are beginning to make her feel her age. Mycroft had moved into the master bedroom on the middle floor at the back of the house five years ago, after their father had died. He'd also redecorated the main floors, painstakingly removing all evidence of Richard Holmes whilst sprucing up the parts that reflected the taste of the Viscountess of Sherrinford.
Up here, however, not much has been altered in what had once been the children's province. Plain paint rather than expensive wallpaper and polished wooden floors rather than expensive carpeting—a tad utilitarian but practical for two boys. The wood floor means Esther's passage down the hallway will be easily picked up by someone with Sherlock's acuity of hearing.
After a soft knock receives no answer, she opens the door and crosses the threshold, relieved at getting this far. The Holmes parents had removed an ability to lock the door, but Esther knows that Sherlock is more than capable of disabling the handle mechanism to achieve a similar effect. He'd done it before at Harrow, much to the surprise of the Bradby's House Master. Even without a screwdriver, if Sherlock had really wanted to block access now, he could have simply moved one of the heavy pieces of furniture across the door.
In an odd way, this ease of access worries Esther more than an outward show of defiance would have. Is Sherlock now employing dissociation on top of withdrawal? That would pose some formidable challenges for communication.
The scent in the darkened room is barely post-adolescent boy: unwashed body, sweaty trainers, socks discarded, dirty clothes probably loitering somewhere in a corner where they had been dropped. It's a pong once experienced, never forgotten. For someone with such a sensitive nose, this is Sherlock's equivalent of chemical warfare. He's willing to withstand the fug in order to keep others out.
The curtains are drawn, and the light is dim, but as Esther waits for her eyes to adapt to the lower light levels, she takes the time to look around the room. She's been here before, of course. Treating Sherlock on and off since he was ten years old means that she is familiar with all the spaces in the house he frequents.
In some ways, Sherlock has never really seemed at home here, at least not in the way he has always been in his Parham bedroom. There, he'd altered things to suit his needs and interests: shelves for books and his various specimen collections, a chemistry lab bench, walls painted a colour to soothe, limited lighting. Here, the room seems to bear little impact of who he is. Perhaps that is a statement of intent that he is not willing to invest thought or effort in a room he has no intention of voluntarily staying in for any length of time. The only real concession to his sensory issues are the curtains, whose black-out linings dim the morning light that would otherwise be streaming into the room. They are heavier and more modern than anything found in the rest of the house and do not match the decor; that is why it can be assumed they have been put in recently after a request from Sherlock.
There is a mound of crumpled duvet on the double bed, a pillow dumped on the floor. Esther thinks she can see a cloud of errant hair escaping from under the duvet, but it's hard to be sure from where she is. It's only when she walks across the floor to the other side of the bed that she can see just a part of her patient's face. His eyes are closed, there's no pillow—the side of his face is scrunched into the mattress. The sight makes her own neck and shoulders twinge in sympathy at the strain he's putting on his body; she can only imagine the boy's gangly limbs folded up into a foetal position. Under the duvet, she thinks he has put an arm over his ear, perhaps to block out the sound of London morning traffic coming up from the street below.
She reaches into her pocket and extracts a penny, coming up close enough to the bed to be able to put it on the mattress, just below his nose. Then, she steps back and waits.
Beneath the tangled mass of hair, a furrow forms between eyebrows. Without opening his eyes, Sherlock's hand comes out from under the duvet to push the penny off the bed. It hits the wooden floor with a metallic ring and then it rolls until it disappears down the crack between two boards.
"How do you know that wasn't a 1933 Lavrillier pattern penny**?"
There is a sigh, followed by a muttered, "Modern. Copper plated steel after 1991. If it had been 97% copper, it would smell different."
"Glad to know your nose is still working."
"You wouldn't dare risk that rare a penny. GO AWAY!"
"Not an option."
There is no answer, but the hand creeps out from the duvet again to pull it completely over his face.
"Pretending to be sleeping is not an option either. It's gone past ten in the morning."
No reply.
Esther goes to the desk that is in the bay window, framed by the curtains. Dragging the chair across the wood floor, it makes quite a noise, to which she adds a sigh when she sits down beside the bed to take the weight off her knees.
"You know the rules of this game, Sherlock. If you agree to a management plan, he will back off and leave you and me to it. If you stop talking, eating and doing anything other than what you are doing now, then it will end up with the two of us having this same conversation only in a residential clinic with electronic locks and a pharmaceutical input."
Still no answer.
She decides to try a different tack. "If you could have one wish come true right now, what would it be?"
Muffled but still audible, a voice mutters, "You're not a fairy godmother and I'm not a child."
"Then behave like an adult and attempt a conversation with me. Off the top of your head: what's bothering or pissing you off the most right now?"
Nothing emerges from the duvet.
She decides to push a button. "I'm going to hazard a guess that it isn't a what but rather a who—your brother?" She is certain of one thing: Mycroft Holmes is not the reason for Sherlock's recent brush with self-harm. Otherwise, this would have been a coping mechanism she had seen before. Mycroft may be right in that an issue pertaining to a romantic relationship is something that Sherlock would be particularly ill-equipped to deal with, so eventually that is something they must address. But, attempting to talk about this Victor Trevor right away would likely lead to Sherlock clamming up again. She needs to engage with Sherlock on something safe, something familiar, and if projecting a bit on his older brother might help, then there is little harm in indulging in a bit of that.
Sherlock groans. And then there is an explosion of movement as he pushes himself upright, bare-chested, the duvet shoved into his lap. He is glaring at her, which she registers at exactly the same time as she is surprised by how much he has changed since the last time she'd seen him, almost two years ago. Boys grow at an astonishing speed, not just in height. Sherlock has broader shoulders now, a bigger chest, and has filled out generally. There is stubble on his chin. His hands no longer look outsized on a smaller body. If it weren't for his face, she'd be pleased with what has happened to the boy; he looks physically more fit and at a healthier weight than she remembers ever seeing him.
His face, though, pushes all that aside; the sight worries her immensely. Red-rimmed eyes glare out of an expression bearing the ravages of loss, anger and disappointment.
"I hate him."
The baritone may be deeper, but it is still brutal. "I don't need you to run interference for me when it comes to my brother."
"Oh?" She lets the sceptical tone be obvious.
"He doesn't need your help to do what he always does: dictating, pontificating and generally ruining my life. I really, really hate him now."
"Care to be specific? What's he done this time?"
He rolls his eyes. "He's abusing his control over my trust fund. It's extortion, blackmail to force me into doing what he wants instead of what I need to do."
"Which is what?"
He brings his knees up to his chest and rests his head on them. "I need to be in Auckland right now, not stuck here. Instead, he's stolen my passport and stopped me from getting to my own money to buy the air ticket."
He raises his head to stare at her, and then scowls when he's worked something out based on what he can see of her face. "He's told you about Victor, then—probably already poisoned your mind about him before he let you come upstairs."
"Mycroft told me about Victor Trevor when he came to see me in March, on his way up to Cambridge. He's been worried about your relationship for some time."
Sherlock scoffs. "Worried?! He's tried to destroy it from the start! If worry was all he'd done, then everything would be fine. What did you tell him in March, then? To come to Cambridge to insult and try to separate us?"
Esther stifles a sigh. She had not known whether Mycroft had heeded her advice to respect Sherlock's independence; it seems not. "I told him that I thought you should be allowed the freedom to experiment."
"Experiment? That isn't the right word. I told you he'd spin it the way he wants you to think."
"What is the right word, then?"
He quick ruffles his mess of curls with both hands, leaving them even more dishevelled. "Victor's my friend, my…boyfriend. We've made plans for finishing our studies next year, and then going into business together."
"A long-term relationship, then."
"Yes."
"What do you think Mycroft has done?"
He looks down at the mattress, fingers picking at the duvet. "Like I said, he's used the money to blackmail me and keep me from going with Victor. And I can't do anything about it until I'm twenty-one."
"Are you planning to spend the next six months in bed? Like a caterpillar going into a cocoon, are you planning to wake up on the sixth of January and fly out of here as an adult butterfly?"
"Don't tempt me."
"What would Victor think of that?"
"I don't know. How can I know? He is twelve thousand miles away."
"Have you spoken to him on the phone?"
"Mycroft's holding my phone hostage."
"I'll try to get it back."
"Then ask him for my passport, too."
"Not going to happen. You're stuck here for the duration; make the most of it. I can get your phone back, provided you and I agree on a plan."
Sherlock shakes his head. "I'm not paying a ransom. He has to keep his nose out of my business. No listening in to my phone calls, no commenting from the side-lines about what I should or should not be doing."
"How long will Victor be gone?"
Sherlock shrugs. "He could be gone all summer."
"It upsets you that he isn't here."
Sherlock evades her eyes. "I'd rather be there with him. I need to be there with him."
There's a sudden urgency in his voice she finds telling. "Why?" she asks, carefully keeping her tone neutral.
"None of your business."
"Fair enough." Esther didn't really expect him to open up about his feelings so soon. "What will you do until he gets back? More to the point, what does he think you are going to be doing?"
"I'm supposed to be doing an internship in Cambridge, but the thought appals me. It was only tolerable as an excuse to spend the summer with him, away from all this." He waves dismissively at the room.
"So, if that isn't going to happen, what is the alternative?"
He shrugs. "London has its attractions. It's a good place for killing time."
Esther knows that if Mycroft were to hear that, he'd draw the wrong conclusions. "Aren't there too many temptations here in London? Wouldn't Parham be safer?"
"Why does everyone always assume the worst? I can control myself."
She knows she has to address the unspoken, confront the issue head-on. "If so, then what happened in the flat?"
He shrugs. "A bit of breakage."
"That doesn't explain the four scars now forming on your thigh."
Another shrug. "Better than the alternative."
"You'll need to explain that one. I'm not a mind reader."
"I wanted to stop, just stop— thinking, feeling, caring—everything. The last time I needed that I used heroin. This time I wondered if I could control the craving with some biochemistry of my own."
"So, a kind of experiment?"
"Well, you can put it that way if you want."
"Why four cuts?"
"Human biochemistry: the endorphins released when the cutting stops last for a while, but when the catecholamine level dropped low enough to make me want to use again, I cut again. It got me through the night." He shrugs, nonchalant about it all.
She has to put a stop to that thinking. "Non-suicidal self-injury is not a viable coping strategy."
"I agree; letting me go to Auckland would have been better. Perhaps you can inform his high-and-mightiness that when he has backed me so far into a corner that I can't figure a way out of the torture chamber he has created, this is what happens."
"You can't blame him for your decisions, Sherlock. Those are not the only two options you had available."
He doesn't reply.
"We've discussed this before, the last time you left rehab, before you started university. Time to take responsibility for your actions."
"How can I when he keeps interfering!" This is almost a shout. "He wants me to be alone, just like him, not caring about anyone. No friends. No lovers. Well, I'm not him."
"He cares about you, Sherlock. What you see as interference is him worrying about your choices. To stop the interference, you need to make good choices that don't land you in hospital. You need to demonstrate that in practice." She returns to the point she'd been trying to make before he shouted. "What worked two years ago can work again. The Ds are still viable: distract, delay, de-stress, de-catastrophise. Of those, maybe the last is worth a particular emphasis right now since you have to wait for Victor to return."
"The longer he's gone, the worse things will get."
"You explained that you think Mycroft is the one who has caused problems between you and Victor; right now, Victor is very far from his influence."
No reply.
Esther tries a different angle. "Just because you and Victor are apart does not mean that the relationship is in danger."
"Without him, I am in danger."
"Why?"
"With him, there is no need for distractions because he is there and won't let me use and I don't want to use; without him there is no way to de-stress, distractions only make it more obvious that he isn't with me, which stresses me out so I am bound to end in catastrophe. It's a vicious circle."
"What does he do to distract you?"
Esther's eyes are well-enough adjusted to the dim light to see the reddening of his cheeks.
She can't help but chuckle, trying to suppress the smile. "You weren't always in bed. What else?"
He's looking up at the ceiling, now. "Cycling… That was good, hard, physical activity."
"Other ways of de-stressing or distracting you?"
"When I moaned too much about Mycroft or just life in general, he made me play my violin instead. That also distracted me. And the music helps; I don't know why, it just does. Oddly, clubbing does, too; maybe because it's both music and physical exercise."
"Not sensible at the moment, given the proximity of easily available drugs."
"We went clubbing once a week in Cambridge, and I stayed clean. No one seems to get it that if I want drugs I know how to get them, no matter where I am. If you were to put a line of coke right in front of me now, I'd be able to walk away. I'm not an addict."
"So, you're saying you don't have a craving now?"
"No. I'm depressed. That's different. Drugs don't make a difference to that; if anything, they make it worse, so don't even think about prescribing an anti-depressant."
Such adult insight but lacking the maturity to make matching choices. This is one of the things that has always made Sherlock one of her most fascinating and her most challenging patients. "What about chemistry? You said that is what you wanted to do at university, and that has kept you on the straight and narrow for the past two years. You just mentioned an internship? Couldn't you get one down here in London?"
He makes a face. "Internships are for idiots. Some egotistical professor sets up a boring research project and then gets slave labour in to do the dirty work for them. It's boring in the extreme, won't teach me anything, and I don't play well with others. So, no; I do not want to be a lab rat for someone else."
"Then, now that the situation has changed, what are you planning to do to occupy your brain during the summer?"
"Two things. As long as I'm stuck in London, then I can still help Victor find what he is looking for Down Under."
She is intrigued. "Which is what?"
"It's complicated, and personal. He's found out that his dad, who was a single parent raising him, isn't in fact his biological father. There are secrets to be prised out in New Zealand and Australia, and the evidence he unearths down there may be enough to overturn some legal hassles with his inheritance. Whatever Mycroft thinks, it's not some bloody gap year travelling thing. We had real work to do, and Victor won't get as much done and it will take him a lot longer without me."
"You can still help him from here?"
"If he calls, if I get my phone back, if my bloody brother leaves me alone."
One part of that catches Esther's attention: 'if he calls'. Having to interpret the words and actions and emotions of others is particularly difficult for Sherlock. If he and Victor are not communicating during the other boy's absence, Sherlock has no way of gauging the state of their relationship. This could well be a major stressor he hasn't encountered before.
"Can't you be the one to contact Victor when you get your phone back?"
Silence.
"You said two things. What's the other?"
"I want to work on my own stuff, the thing I will be doing as the MSci project once term begins. Get started now, so when Victor gets back, it will take less time and we will have more time to do…other things. If I have to stay in London, I'll need access to a good lab; maybe Imperial College or UCL. I think I could talk my Director of Studies at Cambridge into getting me privileges there."
"You have the makings of a sensible plan."
"Of course I do. I'm not an idiot, as much as Mycroft would like to believe."
Esther wants to explore how Sherlock has found his way to a sensible plan after such a destructive meltdown, But she can see the anxiety and anger building and needs to tread carefully. "Then why haven't you told him these things? He says you haven't spoken since you got here."
"Why bother? He never listens to what I have to say. He rejects out of hand everything I ever want; he refuses out of principle, because it comes from me. The fact that he listens to you is something I've learned to use."
Oh. That is the first time he's admitted the value of her work with him. It's not exactly a ringing endorsement of their therapeutic relationship, but at least he sees how it helps.
"Okay, here's the deal. You are going to agree to stay in London for the next month, living here in the flat."
He starts to protest, but before he can refuse, she continues. "One month, Sherlock. Non-negotiable. During that time, you get your Director of Studies to open the door to whatever facilities you need down here, and you go say nice things to the people who are willing to give you some space in their lab."
This doesn't seem to entice Sherlock much.
"You will also agree to use that bicycle of yours every day for some distracting exercise, and you will ride it to my office twice a week where we will discuss alternative coping strategies."
Sherlock sighs.
"You will stay clean, away from drugs, and no more cutting." She has sharpened her tone. "You will also adhere to a routine of personal hygiene, proper meals which do not have to be in the company of your brother, and you will be polite to Miss Forster when she attempts to impose some order on the chaos in this room."
He rolls his eyes. "Sounds as bad as Harrow."
"I'll get your phone back, so you can communicate with Victor."
This is the thing that finally shifts Sherlock's expression away from confident disdain towards apprehension. "Has he tried to call?"
"Not according to Mycroft."
Disappointment. Withdrawal. Silence.
"In return, you don't have to speak to your brother if you don't want to. And, he will give you some space. At the end of the month, we'll have a meeting—you, me and him—to see what happens next. Do you agree?"
"You don't get to decide about me and Victor. Not you, not Mycroft."
"You're right—we don't. But, we have to make sure you have a place to live, the means to continue your studies and a support network. Is this acceptable?"
He sighs and then, rather glumly, "I suppose."
"Need more commitment here, Sherlock."
She waits.
Finally, he nods.
When Esther leaves the room, she looks back at the figure sitting on the bed, arms wrapped around his knees. He seems deep in thought. She decides that is a considerable step forward from where he'd been when she first crossed the threshold.
Fingers crossed.
oOoOoOoOo
As luck would have it, Sherlock is halfway up Fitzjohn Avenue when the phone tucked into the sleeve of his cycle shirt erupts with the V-absent ringtone* he'd downloaded last week. For a moment, as he pushes up to a higher gear to tackle the next part of the climb up to Hampstead, he is tempted to ignore it. Probably just his brother being a prat and reminding him about his appointment with Doctor Cohen.
And then he jams on his brakes so hard that the car behind him has to swerve, beeping its horn at him. He veers to the side of the kerb, flinging his leg out of the pedal, over the bar and coming to a hard stop, hands fumbling at the Lycra sleeve.
As the club tune continues, he sees a set of numbers appear on the screen that he's been waiting for. Finger trembling, he presses the button and lifts it to his ear.
He can hear the connection open and blurts out, "Victor! Hello? Where are you?" That's the extent of breath he can manage between pants. "Where've you been?"
There is a pause, then "Sherlock. Hi- yeah it's me."
He's still panting, so he crams everything into one sentence uttered at break-neck speed, "I've been calling you for days, and it wouldn't let me leave a message, just kept saying the number was unavailable. I've been so worried."
Another delay, then "Yeah, Sorry it's taken a while. The damned phone company wouldn't extend international coverage until I paid my overdue bill. Finally figured out why it wasn't working, and paid for a call on a land line to ask Causton to sort it out. It sucked not being able to call you, but relax, I'm fine."
"It's been ten days." Sherlock can hear the neediness in his voice, and wants to stuff the words back in his mouth as soon as they escape.
But Victor just laughs. "Yeah, the first four days off the plane I wandered around Auckland in a total daze of jetlag. It's bloody cold here—winter— and I was freezing. Had to buy myself some decent boots. It is absolutely gorgeous down here. Snow on the mountains and now that I'm in Rotorua, I've been to the hot springs to thaw myself out a bit; it's just amazing."
Victor sounds happy, even exhilarated. Sherlock has no idea what to say. He's always hated talking on the phone. It's bad enough when he can actually see the people he's trying to communicate with. Facial expressions are always hard to read, but they give him some clues. On a phone, he's blind. For a moment, his capacity for speech is overwhelmed by his sheer need to see and feel Victor's physical solidity in front of him. There is no way to put this into words, so finally he blurts into the silence. "You could have used a landline, called me collect."
"You sound like you're out of breath. Did I catch you at a bad time?"
"No, just on…" he takes a quick breath"…the bike and climbing a hill."
"Oh, okay." There's a little laugh that seems to echo down the line. "I am so screwed up about what time it is over there that I thought I might have woken you up at night, or caught you in the middle of a wank or something."
The flippant joke takes Sherlock by surprise, but rather than protest, he answers with a fact. "Rotorua is eleven hours ahead of London." He glances down at his watch: 2.12pm, "What are you doing up at one o'clock in the morning?"
"Just got back from a session with the local rugby boys. I'm staying at the Marist St Michaels Rugby Club in Rotorua. Makes sense to keep the costs down by bunking up with the local pros. I have to teach a couple of youth club sessions in return for the bed."
A session. Sherlock feels a pang; clearly Victor has missed the camaraderie and the beer drinking that used to come with his team captaincy. First chance he gets away from Sherlock, and he's back at it. He bites back his disappointment. "Have you found out anything useful yet?"
"Started by getting some insight into those tattoos, found four ink parlours here in town and will start talking to the owners. I've given Causton a PO box address here to send the photos I asked for; it should help if I can show the work around to some people. I tried to take notes, but I had to just drop everything and run for the plane."
Sherlock almost moans. If he'd been there with Victor, there'd be no need for further delay or any notes; he has everything in his head, and he wouldn't have left the roll of film behind. "You need to go to the Rotorua police station and ask for archive records of any arrests relating to Peter Spencer or Jack Trevor in 1982."
"Yeah, okay. That's a good idea. Listen, this is costing me a fortune, so I'll be quick. I need a favour."
"What?"
"Causton said the body has been released by the police to a funeral director in Norwich. On the instructions of the mystery beneficiary, the solicitor is organising the cremation and an interment of the ashes at the Colton Church. The instructions are 'no funeral, no service, no publicity'. Obviously, I can't be there. But you could be. Can you cycle there? Take a look and see if there's anybody there who fits the description?"
He's already had at least two lengthy conversations with Causton, before calling me. It stings, this realisation. "Causton should go; surely he's the one best able to recognise her since he's already seen her. He'd have a legitimate reason to attend, too."
"Yeah, well, it's bad luck, because according to him, the vicar says the internment is happening the day after tomorrow, and both of the Caustons are away right now, looking after her mum down in Devon. She had a stroke last week. You could spend the night at their flat; I'm sure they wouldn't mind. Just give him a call; you still have his number, don't you? He'll give you the codes to get in, and where to find a key."
Sherlock wonders whether Victor knows that he missed the appointment with the Norwich police to get the interim coroner's report. Mycroft had told him about it. "Death by natural causes" had been the verdict, much to Sherlock's annoyance. Should he mention it? Or will it make Victor angry with him? He's too ashamed to admit what had happened at the Saxon Street flat.
Clearly Victor still thinks that Sherlock is in Cambridge, if he thinks he could cycle to Colton. Causton couldn't have told him about what had happened, or his relocation to London. How can Sherlock even begin to tell him? Plan C is what Victor is expecting; to admit to anything else is to declare his inadequacies, his stupidity. So, he decides to say nothing.
The thought of going to Norwich intrigues him. There are other avenues to explore there, and he could recover the materials on the wall of Colton Grange, too, rather than have to duplicate the effort at the townhouse. He decides, "Okay. I'll go. Not officially, just to observe. Do you know what time the interment is taking place?"
"Four o'clock. Right, Thanks; it's good that you can do this." There is the sound of a yawn being suppressed. "I've got to go now. We'll talk soon. Bye for now."
The call is disconnected, leaving Sherlock staring at the phone in disbelief.
oOoOoOoOo
"Sherlock, what's wrong?"
Esther Cohen's patient has arrived ten minutes late. He's determined to be punctual for every appointment she's ever had with him, even at Harrow, as if proving to himself—and her—that he is capable of managing his time properly—a practical demonstration of his executive functioning. If he thinks he's going to be delayed, he's always, always phoned ahead.
Until today.
Being late would be strange enough. But the state that he's in adds a new layer of complexity to the problem, because whatever has happened has rendered him speechless.
Actions speak louder than words. Sherlock had crossed the threshold, closed the door, toed off his cycling shoes and then kicked them and his helmet into the corner. Seriously concerned, she is now watching him pace barefoot in the small consulting room. Unlike his usual fluid movements, the striding is jittery, punctuated by little twitches of his hands, sometimes even his arms and shoulders get in on the act. His facial expression is similarly odd. Sometimes his mouth moves, as if forming words, but his lips take no shape that she can translate into unvocalised speech. His eyes have a glare of such intensity that if he'd actually been looking at someone, it would have been frightening to be on the receiving end. Withering doesn't even begin to describe it. But the one thing Sherlock has not done since he arrived is make eye-contact, so she thinks it is unlikely that somehow she's done something to upset him.
"What's happened?" A quiet, calm voice. He doesn't need her to add to whatever anxiety is fuelling this.
This is not wilful mutism; it's as if he cannot speak. The words are just beyond reach. It scares her, for his sake. She's seen Sherlock in a state before: drugged up to his eyeballs, seething with rage, rendered speechless with frustration, manic with anxiety, in full throttle meltdown and even crying his eyes out.
Esther's seen nothing like this before. It's like someone just ticked "all of the above" at exactly the same time. It makes her wonder if he is going to explode.
How to defuse the bomb? If she touches him, will that precipitate the explosion? She knows he doesn't like contact, but a firm grip of pressure can override his other sensory issues and give him a chance to focus. She might have done it without thinking when he was eleven or twelve, but this Sherlock is six foot tall and she's all too aware of her own petite limitations. He's never been violent in her presence, but there's always a first time.
His manic passage brings him up sharply each time he reaches the bay windows, when he turns and paces back to the door. Until he doesn't. He comes up to the sash window on the right side of the bay and stops, focusing his eyes on the glass rather than the view of the street outside.
Some instinct puts her in motion as he starts to draw his right arm back, his hand forming a fist.
"NO!"
Without thinking Esther flings herself out of the chair to get between him and the window.
He doesn't look at her; it's as if he doesn't even know she's there. A tremor runs through his body, but the arm keeps moving back and the shoulder gets in on the act as well.
Esther has no time to think; she reaches up and slaps him hard across the face.
Sherlock rocks back, flinching away from the slap, and looking down at her now in surprise.
"Why did you do that?"
The baritone is pitched a little higher than normal, and a red splotch is forming on his cheek where she'd slapped him.
"You were about to punch your fist through my window, weren't you?"
He nods, looking a bit stunned.
"Why?"
"Breakage."
"Sit down, now." She puts steel behind the command, and is relieved to see no signs of fight in him. He backs up and drops down into the chair by the door, his eyes looking around the room as if in surprise that he is here.
She resumes where she'd started. "What's wrong?"
"I'm an idiot."
"Well, I'm not going to argue about that right now, given what nearly happened here. But, it might help if you told me why you've come to that conclusion."
"I can't. And that's the problem. I'm totally useless at communicating."
"What's brought this revelation on?"
He pulls out his phone and looks at it, as if it has betrayed him. "Victor finally called. On the way here. And I couldn't say anything that I wanted to say. The connection between my mouth and my brain just…went offline somehow."
"You couldn't say anything at all? Couldn't get any words out?"
He shakes his head. "Not like that. Worse. If I couldn't speak, then at least he'd have thought the connection had failed. He'd have hung up and I wouldn't have wasted the opportunity."
Esther is confused. "So what did you say, and how does that compare with what you think you should have said?"
The crinkle between his eyebrows and the look of confused frustration is one that she has come to know over the years. "Take it slow."
"It's what I didn't tell him. He still thinks I'm in Cambridge, doing an internship."
"Did you lie? Is that why you are upset?"
He shakes his head. "He made assumptions; I didn't correct him. He probably thinks I am living in the flat that I told him about."
"He didn't ask about how you are getting on?"
"No."
"What did he say?"
"Jet lag, freezing cold, rugby and he wants a favour; I'm to go see his father's ashes being buried. And how expensive phoning is."
She'd like to give this Victor a piece of her mind, and a handbook on the emotional care and feeding of one Sherlock Holmes.
"Why haven't you called him, rather than waiting for him to call you?"
His eyes narrow. Sherlock is still not making eye contact, but he seems to be more with it now than he was a few moments ago. "I did. I tried. Time after time. The number you have rung is unavailable. And it wouldn't put me through to a message service. Apparently, he was cut off because of an unpaid bill."
"You must have been worried about him." Esther knows that he needs to hear her validating his feelings. It must have been very confusing, distressing.
Sherlock nods. "That hasn't changed much, even now."
"What are you worried about?"
"He's going to botch this evidence gathering, get distracted by…other things."
"Such as?"
"Rugby friends, drinking sessions. Sightseeing." His distain about the last one shows.
"Has he ever been abroad?"
Sherlock's gaze moves across the wall. "Yes. I think so. A rugby team tour to France. But not much. We've not talked about it."
"So it will be very different, exciting for him."
Sherlock shrugs. "So what? Does that mean he should forget why he's there? What he's supposed to be doing?"
She needs to bite the bullet. "Are you worried that he's going to forget you?"
No answer.
"You are in danger of catastrophising here."
A slow nod, and then a sigh. "It's like the only reason why he called is to ask me to do something for him; I'm just a means to an end for him."
"You didn't say anything about what you are feeling? What's happened?"
"No. How could I?"
"You still can. You can call him up and tell him everything."
"It's the middle of the night; he's asleep by now."
"Then wait until tonight, and call him in what will be morning down there."
"He'll be busy."
"Sherlock, you need to tell him what you are going through. You can't be angry with him if he doesn't know how you are feeling."
"That's just the problem. When we are together, none of this stupid stuff gets in the way. He just knows what to do. I don't have to say anything. Asking me to put words to this? Not possible. I'd rather strip naked and run down the street."
Remembering that what he used to get up to as a child was not far off that, Esther knows that he's not exaggerating. Sherlock has never been able to voice his emotions.
"It's a relationship, Sherlock. That means you have to communicate."
There is a flash of anger. "Great. You want me to admit that I am a hopeless defective who can't control his temper, that I smashed up a place and oh let's add in the fact that I cut myself deliberately not once, but four times because the alternative was going down to the nearest dealer to score. Like that's really going to make him attracted to me. He wants me to be normal. To be doing what I said I would, burying my nose in an internship and waiting patiently for his return."
"You're angry with him."
"No… It's not his fault. He's fine, just normal. I'm the one who's not. He seems relaxed about being apart; I'm the one who is being stupid about this. I am angrier at myself for being so pathetic."
"Then call him tonight and tell him that you miss him. That's perfectly normal. It's okay to miss someone that you love."
"Is that what this is? Love?"
The question surprises her. "It would appear to be so. You have talked about a depth of commitment and emotional connection deep enough to be planning your life together for years ahead. Do you want that?"
As if not trusting himself to use the words, he nods his agreement.
"And there is physical attraction that is mutually held, and you actually enjoy it?"
Another nod. "And the other stuff, too. Being close. Sleeping in the same bed. Dancing together, just being together. I never thought I would, but I do."
"Good. That's all good, Sherlock. What you're feeling is attachment. There are a lot of positives in what I am hearing. It's just that love isn't all hearts and sweetness,. It hurts when things are strained, precisely because of that depth of attachment. Your distress at being apart is actually… well, if not a good thing, at least it is evidence that you really do care. It's not the feeling that is the problem; it's what you are doing to try to deal with it."
"Mycroft…" he stops, as if too distressed to complete the sentence.
She decides to do so for him. "Mycroft thinks you can't handle a relationship like this. And you are angry with yourself because you think he may be right."
This time, Esther takes his silence as confirmation.
Not for the first time in their therapeutic relationship, Esther wants to step outside the bounds of professional decorum, to reach out and just give the young man a hug, trying to find a way of consoling him through this emotional pain. She cares about Sherlock. Her first ever private patient, she's watched him overcome the challenges of his diversity and his family background, but she knows that he is his own worst enemy, that he has internalised a lot of ableist thinking. The amount of effort required to cope with his sensory issues and the barriers that his neurodiversity create take a huge toll on him every day. When unexpected emotional challenges get mixed up with his communication problems, it's a toxic combination that can erupt in self-hatred.
"Would it be any consolation to know that I have told Mycroft repeatedly that I think he's wrong?"
That surprises Sherlock, but it doesn't prompt him into speaking.
"You are stronger than you think, Sherlock. It's hard for anyone when communication is difficult. Long-distance relationships are always tough, no matter who you are. You shouldn't blame yourself. It's going to be frustrating. You need to find ways of letting that frustration out, without going down a self-harming route or a drugs relapse."
Sherlock sighs, and sits up in the chair. "Mycroft is going to be a nuisance when I tell him I have to be in Colton the day after tomorrow. Can you try to persuade him to stop being a prat? If I can at least do this for Victor, then the next time he calls, I will have something positive to say to him."
Esther is not surprised that he is returning to practical things. Operational thinking is something he is good at. Right now, he needs that affirmation, so she is happy to nod. "Of course. But you will have to re-schedule our appointment for the day after you get back. If you are delayed, give me a call."
He nods, and then gets up to collect his shoes and the helmet. When he gets to the door, she calls out. "In the meantime, Sherlock, please stay away from glass windows."
Author's Notes:
*A penny minted in 1933 is rare; the Royal Mint produced too many in 1932, so did not issue many the next year. Even rarer still is what Esther referred to. Andre Lavrillier, a French artist produced a King George V pattern penny that was never issued for circulation: there are only four known examples in the world. In 2016 one of them sold for more than $125,000. If you want to know why she would put a penny on Sherlock's pillow, you need to read Periodic Tales, Copper, Chapter Three.
Find Ringtones 2002 and find V-Absent 2002 (I kid you not, this is the name!) is real. Click on the third image along.