Chapter 38: Hell
Sherlock is standing in the study at Colton Grange, eyes roving around the room; the furniture is gone, and the space reeks of new paint, new carpets and curtains.
The assault on his nose adds to the rasp of frustration that has been sawing across his nerves for the past two days.
To enter, he'd used the Caustons' keys, which Jason had left on the kitchen table in their flat over the garages. The couple had been given keys to the new locks that have been installed because they are supposed to let in the people who are going to be viewing the property—now listed with Knight Frank and Rutledge estate agents. Since the couple are currently in Devon, ministering to Sharon Causton's mother, Sherlock has the run of the place. He's glad because he really doesn't want company right now.
He had taken an early train from London to Norwich. The fact that the place has been already cleared surprised him; he'd wanted to have another go through the filing cabinets just to be sure he hadn't missed anything in those first hectic days. In his mind's eye, he reconstructs the evidence wall, each puzzle piece slotting into place. He'd never needed it; it had been constructed to help Victor see the elements of the Jack Trevor Paradox. Putting it up in London would show Mycroft that he wasn't fantasising about this; it was real.
When his phone goes, he automatically calculates the time difference between New Zealand and here. Twelve minutes past ten pm. YES!
He's already smiling before he reads the number he's hoped for. "Hi," he answers when he hears the line connect. It's just a word, but he hopes his delight is clear. Keeping in mind his conversation with Doctor Cohen: he has to be more obvious. So, he adds in for good measure: "It's great to hear from you; I'm missing you."
"Well, today I'm missing just about everything good, so you might not be so happy after we're done talking." Victor sounds tired, and annoyed. "It's been one fucking failure after another today. No luck at the police station. No arrest records for either Peter Spencer or Jack Trevor."
Sherlock knows he should offer encouragement and reassurance. Once Victor has vented his frustrations, maybe they can then talk about other things. "That's to be expected. It's a crime that wasn't solved back then. So, we now know it wasn't reported. Maybe no one has ever known it took place, except the people who were involved."
"Is that supposed to cheer me up? We know that at least three of the four people involved are either dead, or missing, presumed dead. The only one we don't know about is Simon's mother."
"It has to be still possible to put the clues together. We never expected anyone to turn themselves in or confess; all we have to do is create reasonable doubt that the wills are the product of blackmail and extortion."
"I've also spent the day traipsing about town looking at the ink parlours. Causton faxed me the photo of the tattoo, and three people recognised his work, but it turns out the guy who did it died fourteen years ago. No one knows why he would have left the middle empty; all the Maori guys say it's just not the way they do things. It's even kind of like a sacrilege, and they don't want to believe it of this artist, who's some sort of legend. So that's a dead-end, too."
Sherlock feels obliged to put a more positive spin on the outcome; he's disappointed in Victor's defeatism. "Well, at least it means that Jack was in Rotorua, and he's not the only one. I messaged Simon to find out if his dad had a similar tattoo, and he's confirmed it. It's on his left shoulder, and Peter never had the J and P initials removed." It had been a relief to resort to text messaging; Simon used it all the time for his work. There was less ambiguity in an SMS, and he'd gotten the answers he needed quickly. "While I think of it, does your phone contract include SMS messages between New Zealand and here? It would make the time difference less of a problem," he offers.
There is an incredulous laugh on the other end. "Listen, roaming charges out here are ridiculous. They charge me for every incoming call, too, not just outgoing. Mobile to mobile is the worst; I'm having to top up the phone every other day or they stop the service. You know I'm running up a huge credit card bill out here, so, let's not add messages to that. What did Simon say about the lawsuits?"
Sherlock doesn't want to add fuel to the fire of Victor's mood, but there is no way around telling him the truth. "Not great. He phoned me after he'd left work last night to say his civil suit is stalled indefinitely. Solicitor says overturning Peter's will depends on him being found. And before you ask, not yet. No body, no boat. If he's still alive, the case is different. If dead, then the whole thing needs to wait for an inquest into the circumstances. If it's suicide, then that creates a different legal line. He did say that the solicitor doesn't think the extortion idea will hold water unless we can find conclusive evidence. It could be months, even years before the case would move forward if there's no body."
Victor gives a small groan of frustration. "Poor Simon. Can't even imagine what he's going through, even if he and his dad weren't that close."
Caring and empathy for what Simon is going through? Sherlock firmly stomps down his bitter jealousy over Victor's reaction. He needs me to run things at this end, not complain and demand reassurances.
"And the police investigations?" Victor presses.
Sherlock's not going to admit that Mycroft hasn't let him see the actual report, because that would require him to explain the reason. "Since the Coroner's Interim Report based on the post mortem concluded natural causes, it's been dropped. That's why the body was released and has already been cremated. So, the police don't have a reason to proceed."
The sigh is audible twelve thousand miles away. "No pressure, then."
For a moment, the comment makes Sherlock's mind stutter. In fact, both Victor and he are now under intense pressure; all of their plans rely on getting evidence that is looking increasingly difficult to obtain. Then, he realises that Victor is using sarcasm. "You are…upset about this?" he asks carefully.
"Damn right I am! The meter is running, and every minute is racking up the costs. Legal fees, me being out here, spending the loan from Simon. Even these phone calls—it's like the taxi meter is ticking over, but we're getting further and further away from the answers. Maybe I should jack the whole thing in and come home."
A part of Sherlock latches on to that idea like a lifeline, but he manages to remind himself how crucial it is that Victor comes back with something tangible. Anxiety is creeping up; he needs to keep Victor working on the case, but he sounds so depressed, and Sherlock has no idea how to cheer him up. All he has to offer is the truth: "We just have to keep going. Don't worry about the money. In January, it won't matter. I can pay off the debts."
"Relying on that right now makes me uncomfortable."
"Why? It's not a problem." Why does he need to keep repeating this? He doesn't care about the money and Victor doesn't have to, either; they'll soon have enough of it if they just wait, or if Mycroft has some sort of a sudden stroke that makes him act sensibly.
Sherlock decides he needs to distract Victor. "I'm in Colton now."
"I don't suppose you've seen your mystery woman hanging around the village, waiting for the interment?" Victor's tone is strange, as though he's sceptical of her existence.
"She's not mine, Victor. Causton saw her in the flesh so we know this Gees woman is real. According to the St Andrews Vicar, apart from him the only other people who will be there are someone bringing the ashes from the crematorium, and someone from your father's solicitor's firm." Sherlock wonders if Victor knows how hard it will be for him to have anything further to do with Jack Trevor—a man who had hated him, despised and reviled him. The thought of going anywhere near the interment makes his innards twist. At least there won't be any relatives or close friends there—not that Sherlock assumes Jack Trevor would have advertised to them the reasons for disinheriting Victor or the identities of the people involved. Or, would he have, to distance himself from such things? He really cannot tell. "I will check, of course; I'll be keeping an eye on the burial, in my disguise as a brass rubbing enthusiast. The vicar said I don't have to leave the graveyard, because it isn't a service. That's how I found out about who's expected."
He can hear Victor's sigh from the other end. "Bugger. We aren't making much progress, are we? Sorry to have made you cycle all that way."
"No problem. I enjoyed the exercise." Sherlock is not going to tell him that he'd taken a train from London to Norwich and then a taxi to Colton.
There's a pregnant pause which Sherlock knows he needs to end if he's to prevent Victor from ringing off. He has some news that he is reluctant to pass on, given his boyfriend's downbeat mood, but he decides it's better to be honest. "Um, you should know… The solicitors have put the Grange up for sale. And all the furniture is gone."
"Yeah, Causton already told me; called him yesterday to see how he's getting on with the mother-in-law. Before he left for Devon, he moved my stuff into his loft, and he's got my bike, too, in the garage next to his car. I never liked Dad's taste, so it's no loss."
Yet again, Sherlock has to stifle his jealousy and hurt. Victor complains about the expense of telephoning but keeps speaking to Causton? About his mother-in-law?
Doesn't Victor understand at all how difficult this is? Is it not difficult for him, being halfway across the globe without Sherlock? Clearly, he can cope—even in the middle of a family crisis—whereas Sherlock can't.
I'm failing him.
"Did he also collect your father's files from the study?" he scrambles to ask.
"No. The solicitor took the lot; boxed it all up. Apparently, the company is up for sale, too." Victor sounds exasperated. "A fat lot of good this is doing. I'm on the other side of the planet, looking for someone whose surname I don't know when it's only a matter of time before this woman gets everything and disappears. We have no idea how she has anything to do with my father, who it turns out isn't actually my father. It makes me wonder who the hell is. We don't know a thing about Gees except that she might be from New Zealand. Who says she's even from Rotorua? She could be a Kiwi raised in Australia, or someone who moved to the UK years ago. Seems like a bloody needle in a haystack. Not sure anyone could find her with what we've got."
Sherlock hears the implied criticism, and it slides into his heart like a stiletto.
Before he starts to bleed from the thought that Victor is losing faith in his abilities to solve the puzzle, he rushes his next sentences: "Victor, just listen. We have no idea why Jack and Peter went to Rototua. I mean, why there? What, or rather who, was there that would draw them to that particular place? There has to be a reason."
To stop Victor from interrupting, Sherlock rushes on: "While I had Simon on the phone, I asked him for his mother's maiden name: it's Simpson. According to the online telephone directory for Rotorua, there are nineteen Simpson families in the area. One of them may be a relative. Go knock on doors, see if anyone had a relative called Elizabeth or Betty who visited them in 1989. If she came with her husband, and another couple, then we've at least placed them there. And you can see if anyone remembers why they were there." He has to stop to draw breath.
"Seems a bit far-fetched; another wild goose chase you're sending me on."
Scepticism is not what he needs to be hearing from Victor. He snaps, "Would doing a bit of leg work interfere too much with your sightseeing plans? Your rugby coaching sessions? Or is it going to disrupt your partying?"
"Whoa—you sound a bit grumpy. I'm not exactly sipping a cocktail by the pool here! Get out of the wrong side of the bed this morning?"
"It doesn't matter which side of the bed I get out of these days, because I am the only one in it. You focusing on the task in hand is the only thing that could bring us back together sooner rather than later."
There is a little wry chuckle at the other end. "Yeah, well, I miss you, too, Sherlock."
The bleeding slows. Just one comment like that, and it's enough to repair some of the damage. Sherlock is torn; he wants more, but will it sound too needy? Will Victor think he is being clingy? His reluctance is overwhelmed by his uncertainty; their brief argument has tilted what little equilibrium he's clinging on to way too much. "Do you? Really? Despite all the attractions where you are?"
"Everything would be better if you were here with me. You do know that, don't you?" Victor sounds surprised.
"No, I don't know! I can't know. Not unless you tell me." Why does Victor expect him to be a mind reader? Or, is this another case of what Mycroft calls his social deficits? Has he somehow missed important cues that Victor's affections haven't waned since his departure? Things clearly haven't been the same since Jack Trevor died, so how could he come to such a conclusion?
"Look, I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you, but what I'd really like is for us to have come here just to enjoy ourselves. Instead, you're trying to make me feel guilty about doing anything for even a single minute other than playing amateur sleuth out here. It's a bitch that your brother took your passport, because I could really do with some help out here; you're better at this than me."
The pain resumes in Sherlock's chest. "I'm doing what I can from here." He knows it sounds defensive, and he resents the fact that he can't come up with a better answer. Damn Mycroft!
"Yeah, I know. It's just getting me down, all this. If only dad had died of a heart attack last Christmas. And, as soon as I think that, I realise how awful that makes me sound, but it's true. All I really want to do is re-wind the past six weeks and start over again."
"We can't undo what has happened."
There is a silence, a pause that goes on long enough to make Sherlock worry that the connection has somehow been lost.
Then, Victor speaks. "I'm sorry. There's just too much going on in my head right now, and I can't deal with even half of it right now."
Sherlock doesn't understand. Which half am I in?
"So, I'm going to pack it in tonight," Victor announces. "If anything miraculous happens, give me a call. Good night."
Sherlock opens his mouth, grasps the phone with both his hands, scrambling to come up with something, anything to keep Victor on the line, but comes up with nothing. Social scripting has taught him that he has to reciprocate, so he manages to stutter out a good night before Victor ends the call without another word.
It's not a good night.
He almost drops the phone in disgust at himself. Victor is clearly regretting his trip, blaming Sherlock for sending him on a mission that he is now doubting, and getting annoyed at being reminded to keep his eye on the ball—as Jack Trevor liked to say. It was Victor's choice to go on his own; Sherlock had argued against it but been totally ignored. Why can't I communicate? He's totally useless at getting his point across in a way the Victor can understand. No matter how many times Sherlock tells him to stop worrying about the money, he still raises it every time they speak.
Why hadn't he at least suggested he could pay the phone bills? Inept idiot. Socially handicapped.
No wonder Victor ended the call early; Sherlock's not been able to make him feel any better. He never does. In fact, that must be the explanation as to why Victor doesn't call him more often, because when he does, this sort of misunderstanding happens.
Sherlock sinks down to sit on the floor of Jack Trevor's study and starts to think, to really think about how he can solve this problem. This is no time for hesitation; he needs to do everything in his power to fix things.
oOoOoOoOo
"I am sorry to disturb you at this hour, sir, but I need a decision and it can't wait."
"What's the problem?" It may be half past midnight but Mycroft has not gone to bed yet; events in Nepal are keeping him awake. The king is making a hash of the state of emergency, disagreeing with the prime minister about whether to dissolve parliament and call for fresh elections. In the political disruption, the Maoist PLA forces are gaining strength in the rural communities.
"As you predicted, the target did not stay at Colton Grange. He left the house at ten thirty pm on a bicycle he took from the garage under the flat. His phone was tracked as he rode first to the Norfolk and Norwich University Hospital. He was followed into the hospital, but we lost him briefly inside; we think he may have disguised himself in medical clothing. After forty minutes, he emerged in his civilian clothes and got back on his bike, travelling into the centre of Norwich. He then went to Norfolk Coroner's office in Norwich and gained entry to the premises through a back door, by a method we were unable to observe. The target emerged sixteen minutes later."
"You said this was urgent; come to the point."
"I am on-site now, at Fosters Solicitors offices on Bank Plain Street, where the target is seeking entry through the back door. This time I have eyes on him. I estimate his lock-picking skills are going to be up to the task, sir."
Mycroft rolls his eyes. He'd been a fool to trust Sherlock to spend a single night away from the townhouse without getting himself in trouble. "Stop him. Preferably before he commits yet another offence of breaking and entering, interfering with a police investigation or tampering with evidence."
"That will mean identifying myself, sir, and possibly the rest of the team."
"He's almost certainly done that already, Mister Baker. You can rotate the team members as much as you like, but he will still be able to pick them out."
"And when I have apprehended him, what would you like me to do with him?"
A part of Mycroft would like Sherlock to end up in a police cell for the night, just to teach him a lesson, but that lesson is unlikely to stick. The incident just might end up in a permanent police record.
With a weary sigh, he says, "Handcuff him, remove everything that he has managed to steal and bring him back here. And take away his phone. Turn it off."
oOoOoOoOo
"What do you have to say for yourself?"
Sherlock glares at Mycroft from the leather chair where he is sitting. He raises his hands to make a rude gesture with the middle finger of both his hands, which are joined together by the metal cuffs. Baker is outside the library, ready to intervene if there's an attempt by Sherlock to remove himself from the South Eaton Place townhouse. In the hands of the Norfolk constabulary Police, Sherlock would undoubtedly have had to endure much worse, and lessons need to be learned.
"Don't be childish. Consider yourself lucky that you aren't in police custody. What on earth possessed you to become a thief?"
Mycroft already knows the answer, but needs his brother to admit that his obsessive relationship with the Trevor boy has led him down a dangerous path. On Mycroft's desk there is a collection of evidence that Charles Baker had removed from Sherlock's pockets: two blood samples, photocopied sheets from the Interim Coroner's Report, and a stack of cash in twenty-pound notes, withdrawn from the cash machine at the Norwich & Norfolk Hospital. It represented the full value of Sherlock's monthly allowance, which had been deposited two days ago.
More damning evidence is in the typed transcript of the phone conversation between Sherlock and Victor Trevor. Also on the desk is the translated conversation between Sherlock and Madam Cheong Huilang. The S&ILS brief on this woman and her Samsui organisation makes very disturbing reading. Not for the first time this evening, he is grateful that he'd taken the decision to tap the actual conversations, rather than just trace the numbers being called.
Mycroft tries again. "Why are you in touch with a known criminal organisation?" He has deduced the reason, but wants Sherlock to admit to it.
Sherlock does not even bother raising his eyes to Mycroft's; he just sits there seething in rage, brought on, no doubt, by the agents' intervention in the boy's plans for escape. He's stolen evidence that will be useful in this ridiculous investigation of his on behalf of Victor Trevor. The cash isn't enough to buy an air ticket, but somehow the Chinese woman is willing to get him out of the country. The fact that is most disturbing in that deductive chain is that if Baker had not intervened, then it is quite possible that the boy's plot could have succeeded. Cheong Huilang has connections with the 14k triad, which had significant success in smuggling illegal Chinese immigrants into the UK.
This last point is more worrying, because Mycroft cannot deduce how Sherlock knows her. "Why would the Samsui be willing to smuggle you out of the country?"
Still no reaction.
Mycroft decides that he needs to provoke that anger into outward expression. "You are leaving me no choice. This infatuation of yours has turned into an unhealthy obsession. And now it's led you into committing indictable crimes as well as consorting with criminals. I am minded to put an end to it. You have given me no reason to condone any further contact between you and Trevor while he is in New Zealand. And I can see no benefit in sponsoring such a toxic relationship when he returns. So, what you've childishly called 'Plan C' is off the table. I will not fund your cohabitation with this boy next term, nor will I authorise a loan to cover his tuition fees. Contrary to your assumptions, I derive no joy from intervening and Lord knows I have other matters that require my attention but clearly you are not able to sort this out yourself. A clean break should be easiest. You will not hear from Victor Trevor again."
Still no reply. Mycroft harbours no misconceptions about Sherlock's willingness to take advice from him, but pure logic should still prevail, even if repelled by hormonal urges. "You have been seriously injured three times, broken your sobriety, risked prison and your entire academic future for this boy, yet you cannot even tell him you're struggling since he left? What does that say about the foundation of your relationship? The cost has been great for him as well—destitution and alienation from his family. What is left between the two of you that could possibly compensate for all that? It doesn't matter if he asked you to break the law on his behalf or not; the fact remains that you did—that you were willing to throw caution to the wind in such a manner. I don't expect you to see sense right now, but with time you will see that nothing good would have come out of it. It's over, Sherlock, and I suspect it has been over for some time since it's driven you to such desperate acts."
He suspects that this…this…case Sherlock is trying to build is nothing but a desperate attempt to rationalise, to intellectualise a problem that does not, by its very nature, adhere to such principles. That problem being, of course, that his brother is utterly unprepared and unequipped to handle an adult relationship.
He sighs. "It's time to stop, Sherlock, and gain some perspective. The evidence is right in front of you, and it's not about some grand conspiracy to conceal a crime from twenty years ago. Even if it existed, it would have little bearing in the fate of your relationship with him. This isn't a riddle to solve or a puzzle to assemble. It's sentiment, and by its very nature it is messy, illogical and dangerous and this should teach you to steer clear of it."
Sherlock won't look at him; his eyes are fixed on the empty grate of the fireplace.
Mycroft does not hesitate. "This isn't love; it's a pathological dependence—an addiction—to someone who is clearly not very aware of your particular needs nor very concerned with your well-being."
Expecting this to cause an explosion—so far, Sherlock has never failed to fervently defend the Trevor boy—Mycroft is startled when Sherlock slumps instead, the tension that has been keeping his posture defiant slowly ebbing away.
Mycroft sees the boy's facial expression slacken and then disappear into blankness. It is the oddest thing he has ever seen from Sherlock. Concerned, he walks up to the chair and reaches down to shake Sherlock's shoulder. "Are you alright?"
There is no response. The boy's handcuffed hands are now lying slack in his lap, eyes staring at nothing.
oOoOoOoOo
"What's happened?" Doctor Cohen asks, clearly concerned with having been summoned from her duties elsewhere to an emergency consultation in Parham.
"Victor Trevor happened. As I feared, their relationship continues to be a disaster. I brought him here to Parham in the hope that putting some distance between him and recent events will help. I will ask Mrs Walters to bring us some coffee, and then I will tell you more."
Mycroft firmly believes that her presence is imperative for damage control, and he had made that clear during their phone call an hour before the arranged transport was to pick her up. It has been well established that when it comes to matters of the heart, Sherlock will not listen to his counsel—if anything, he will do the exact opposite of what he advises just to spite him.
After observing the domestic routines of the English morning coffee, Doctor Cohen is looking at him sternly and expectantly.
The ever-observant Mrs Walters makes her excuses and leaves them in the Yellow Room.
After a single sip of her coffee, Esther puts the cup down and asks, "Details. All of them."
"As you know, Victor Trevor is in New Zealand. I refused to let Sherlock go with him."
"I know that because Sherlock told me about it during his appointments in Hampstead; what I don't know is why, from your point of view."
Mycroft is irritated at the sense being judged. He finds it odd that she should be so willing to allow Sherlock the freedom to wreck himself. He's disappointed to find that not even a trained psychiatrist can resist the naive optimism that befalls people when it comes to love and other sentiments.
"The Trevor boy is attempting to sort out a rather complicated life history. The boy's father, recently deceased, disinherited him because of his relationship with Sherlock. My brother has been obsessing ever since about some conspiracy theory, encouraging Trevor Junior to become indebted for legal fees pursuing lawsuits that will not be won for lack of evidence. Sherlock has managed to provoke the police into a pointless investigation and has hypothesized—without any evidence—that Trevor Senior had been involved in some sort of criminal activity before he emigrated to this country."
Mycroft takes a sip of the Arabica blend before continuing. "It's all rather bizarre, and proof that his mind is becoming further destabilised after the incident at the Saxon Street flat. For example, he agreed to Victor's suggestion that he go to the interment of Jack Trevor's ashes at Colton, despite the fact that the man was vile in the extreme to him when he was alive. He must have been aware of the stress that would cause Sherlock, but I shouldn't be surprised by my brother's willingness to go anyway—he has been willing to risk much more than just his peace of mind for this boy. Even though he was present when his father treated Sherlock so deplorably, the young Trevor demanded he go through with this without thinking about the consequences."
After another taste of the coffee, Mycroft continues. "Sherlock's obsession with the death of Trevor Senior has now led to dangerous behaviour in the middle of the night in Norwich city centre. Thankfully, my surveillance team collected him and brought him home before it escalated further or the police became involved. You've already seen his use of self-harm, which demonstrated exactly what I was concerned about when their relationship first began. His behaviour since being apprehended before he could commit an indictable crime has been total withdrawal and non-cooperation. Clearly, this relationship of his is toxic. How much more evidence do you need?"
"So, you feel vindicated."
Mycroft is surprised by her judgmental tone. "Yes, of course I do. It is obvious that their relationship has become destabilised. Sherlock is attempting to use his Trust Fund money to subsidise the Trevor boy into cohabiting with him this summer, even paying his graduate tuition fees so he would stay in Cambridge next year. It's bribery on his behalf, even if he may not realise it, and financial abuse on Trevor's."
He omits the fact that Victor has at least consistently pretended to be most uncomfortable with accepting such funds. He has been living on his father's money at Cambridge, and now he is funding the New Zealand trip through a cousin and the cousin's co-worker. Guilty conscience or not, Trevor is a serial abuser of others' generosity.
Doctor Cohen seems unmoved by the revelations. "You can't stop him from spending his money the way he wants to after January, so why be difficult now, unless you've decided to pile yet more pressure onto their relationship?"
How can the woman not understand? Mycroft snaps, "That pressure is self-inflicted—by Sherlock, most of all. He does not know how to handle the anxiety levels associated with this kind of sexual and emotional relationship. His inability to cope with their separation is a case in point. All I have done is require a brief hiatus, a cooling off period if you may, for their own good. If in six months, Trevor is back in the country and Sherlock has made a good start to his fourth year at university then, as you say, it's his money and if he wishes to throw it away on this foolishness, then I cannot stop him. But, at least he will have had time to consider whether the Trevor boy is really serious, or whether he's just exploiting and exacerbating my brother's weaknesses. I cannot risk their continued communications to keep clouding his judgment. I am confident that his considerable intellect will come to the right decision once he gains some distance from the emotional side of this tryst. I need you to speak with him, today."
"Do you want my advice, or just my complicity in telling him what you think he should do?"
"Both. You will not sway my decision, but if you can help him see the wisdom of the cooling off period, it would be much appreciated, as would any thoughts on how best I can continue talking to him about it in a way that will be most persuasive."
"Then, my advice is this: don't belittle their relationship," Cohen instantly tells him.
Mycroft huffs. "Raising it on some pedestal is counter-intuitive to what needs to be achieved."
"I am not telling you to soft-pedal what has happened, but I guarantee that you will lose whatever little willingness he has to listen to you the minute you describe what he has with Victor as anything but a serious attempt at a long-term relationship. Your language will matter. Try not to belittle your brother. It's not a tryst, not hormonal lust, not a childish crush, not a casual acquaintance, not an affair."
"You may be willing to help him entertain such a fantasy; I am most decidedly not. He needs to learn how not to invest so much significance in something so destructive for him."
"That may be your opinion, but it isn't his. It's his right to define what Victor means to him. You are not a parent who needs to separate a child from a new friend who is a bad influence; you need to try to help him navigate what does appear to be a struggling if not failing relationship." She averts her gaze, looks out the window with her lips pinched. "I sound like a broken record. I do wonder sometimes which of the two of you is less willing to listen to counsel."
Mycroft leans back in his chair. She's right in that he had asked for advice, He's not happy with what she is saying, but it is best to hear her logic, if this is what Sherlock is going to be thinking. . "Very well; pray continue."
"I agree with some of the points you raised about the particular challenges Sherlock has with human interaction, but you must be wary of sending the signal that he's the one to blame. He may have made some bad decisions in the course of the relationship, but there's a major risk here of a severe deterioration in his self-esteem in areas he has very little confidence in at the best of times."
Mycroft nods while turning the handle of his cup towards the middle of the table. He likes to leave things neatly for the housekeeper. "That is precisely my point: why should he deliberately seek out trouble in those areas of his life in which he struggles the most?"
Doctor Cohen's expression is quite sad, now. "Individuals on the Spectrum have trouble forming relationships even if they want them. The loneliness can be crippling."
"Indeed. But, it can provide protection from even worse problems."
"Let me see him, Mycroft; it's pointless continuing this conversation without talking to him."
oOoOoOoOo
"If he doesn't come out of this soon, Mycroft, then he needs to be hospitalised." Doctor Cohen steps away from the still figure lying in the single bed. "If only to keep him hydrated and fed through a nasal tube. He'll soon be losing muscle tone."
It's been two days. Sherlock had not responded to Doctor Cohen on her first visit, which had not surprised Mycroft; he recognises how upsetting the situation must be his brother and, the pattern is already familiar from the Saxon Street incident. But, this time his retreat into himself is so alarmingly complete that Doctor Cohen is right: something must be done. So, she has been brought in for an assessment.
"You were able to reach him before; can't you do it now?"
She gestures towards the door. "Let's have a word outside."
Down the corridor of the East wing of Parham house, he follows her into the long gallery. When she turns to speak to him, there is a trace of anger in her eyes. "I'm not a miracle-worker, Mycroft. Last time, he was too pissed off to speak with you, because he said you never listen to what he wants. This time, he's dissociated. Unreachable, in other words. I can't just tempt him out of this with some trick."
"Mycroft––" she starts again, and there is something very judgmental in her voice. She takes a deep breath, starts to speak again, but then stops, shaking her head. "No, not going there; I have to consider what is best for Sherlock. Don't take this the wrong way, but I think we need to put as much distance between you and him as possible for a while. It's my professional responsibility to formulate the home treatment plan for my patient. So, go back to London tonight. I can shift tomorrow's appointments so I can keep him under observation here. If there is no improvement overnight, we might need to consider admission. I'm consulting now at the Priory Hospital at Hayes Grove; it's just down the road from Bethlem Royal. It's a private unit offering in-patient treatment, and is able to provide a supportive environment. I promise to keep you informed."
Why does Mycroft feel like he's been dismissed? He's only trying to do what is best for his brother. He had tried his best to follow the psychiatrist's advice in his conversation with Sherlock two days ago, but she still seems most displeased with him.
Setting aside his misgivings, he knows that there is no other doctor that knows Sherlock as well, or has had such success with the boy. "Very well, Doctor Cohen. I will comply with your wishes."
oOoOoOoOo
The car has just past the outskirts of Dorking when Mycroft decides to check Sherlock's phone.
"You have…seven… new messages."
Good Lord, the Trevor boy just doesn't know when to shut up. Mycroft sniffs and presses the key to hear the first recording.
"Hi, Sherlock. Just a quickie to say that your idea was brilliant! Took me a while but the sixth Simpson I visited turned out to be Lizzie Simpson, the wife of Rob, Betty's uncle. She moved there when he died in Weipa, killed in a mining accident at the Comalco bauxite mine. Old lady now, but she was so kind, let me in when I told her I was looking for Betty. Turns out she'd been close to her husband's sister, even named their daughter Elizabeth after her. She invited me in and, well, I think she's lonely so I got the whole family history. What matters is…BEEP.
"To save this message, press star. To delete, press hash. To continue listening to messages, press one."
Mycroft presses the number one key.
"Second message."
"Damn, these recorded messages sure are short. So be prepared for a lot!" This is followed by a chuckle and then, "Over a cup of tea, I told her I was Simon's cousin and searching out the family while I was over here. She drags out an old high school yearbook that her husband had, from Betty's last year in Weipa. Wow, turns out Betty and my mum were best friends from school. Soulmates, inseparable. I never knew that high school girls would be so…smoochy?" Victor laughs. "Lots of love and kisses and all that stuff all over the whole yearbook in Gloria's handwriting. So yeah, Lizzie knew my mum! Betty's dad didn't get on with Glo…BEEP."
Mycroft is rolling his eyes at this stage. What relevance on earth could such pointless domestic drama have? Sherlock is beside himself with worry about being apart from this boy, and all he can do is talk such drivel? No better evidence could be had that this is a relationship that is not going to end well. He presses the one key to cut off the annoying recorded message.
"Third message."
"Christ this is costing a fortune, but I've got to share it with you, because you are just so brilliantly right! Betty's family didn't get on with Gloria and kept pressuring her to date boys, so she hooked up with the most disreputable ones she could find. And, she ended up pregnant, so was forced by her family to marry Peter Spencer. God, Simon's going to freak when I tell him that! According to Lizzie, Gloria wouldn't go to the wedding and it sort of broke Betty's heart. Then, Gloria ends up marrying an equally unsuitable bloke, even worse than Peter. Abandoned by his own mother, unknown father, taken into care. A loner at the school, always in trouble. It was as if she'd gone out to pick the most unsuitable boy in the whole town! BEEP."
Mycroft immediately presses one.
"Fourth message."
"Yep, you've guessed it: Jack Trevor. I can't believe how many lies my dad has told about his family; turns out, he was from Townsville, foster kid who ran away at fifteen. He'd been dumped in an orphanage by his mum at less than a year old. Christ, what this Lizzie told me about him makes me almost glad that I'm not actually related to him. How could he have lied so much to me when I was growing up? Anyway… bit off track there. Lizzie was feeding me a piece of cake when she told me what happened when her niece Betty gave birth to Simon up in Weipa. The marriage was never very good; Peter blamed Gloria for keeping his wife unhappy. So, he ups sticks and moves… BEEP."
Mycroft glances up as the car clears the backed-up traffic trying to get onto the slip road onto the M25. Once they pass that, the A24 will take them through Epsom before they head eastwards through Sutton. Traffic willing, they should be at South Eaton Place in an hour.
Mycroft presses one.
"Fifth message."
"Where was I? Oh yeah, Peter and Betty move down south from Weipa to Wollongong; Simon's two years old then. Apparently, Gloria is the one who convinced Jack to go there, too, about six months later. Lizzie sort of lost touch with them for about almost four years because her own husband died, and she'd moved to New Zealand to be near her mum, who was also in the process of dying. They did the Christmas cards thing, but nothing more. Then Betty and Simon, together with Gloria, suddenly show up in Rotorua out of the blue, saying that they'd split from their husbands and were going to start a new life in New Zealand, together. I'll wait for the beep here rather than get interrupted again."
There is a pause, then … BEEP.
Again, Mycroft thumbs the one key.
"Sixth message."
"Here's when it gets interesting. God, you'd have loved to be here to hear this first hand. Two days after the girls and Simon arrive, Peter and Jack turn up and tell Lizzie to leave her own damned house, so they can have a discussion with their wives. She regrets the fact that she did, but she wanted to let them sort their problems out. When Lizzie comes back to the house a couple of hours later, Betty is the only one there. She's in a state, saying that Peter's taken Simon with him, and that Jack has taken Gloria with him, back to Sydney. Betty was beaten up but won't go to the police or see a doctor. Christ, I better finish this, or I'll run out of money on the phone. After the shock of it wears off and the bruises heal, Betty's depressed as hell for about six weeks and then suddenly says she's going to go off to the South Island to see if she can find work in the wine trade down there."
The message ends with a BEEP.
Again, Mycroft tries to imagine what, if any, comfort Sherlock could get from hearing these inane messages. All of this seems very far away from what has been happening to his brother, not just in miles between here and New Zealand, but in terms of the reactions of the two boys. Victor's voice is excited, almost jubilant in this bizarre series of communications.
"To save this message, press star. To delete..." The one key cuts off the recording
"Seventh message."
"It's the last time Lizzie saw her. They communicated by letter, but no matter how many times she begged, Betty never came back to see her. When she suggested that she travel to Betty instead, she always had some excuse as to why it wouldn't work. Eventually, Lizzie gave up. Sherlock, I'm convinced you were right, which is why I'm going to the South Island; I'll try to find her there. It may take a while, but I have to know what the hell happened. I;m on this like a bloodhound now; you've been so brilliant and I miss you a lot. I'll call in a couple of days to tell you what happens next. Bye for now."
"End of messages. Press 1 to save. Press 2 to delete. Press 3 to re-play."
Seven messages, and not once has Victor asked how Sherlock is doing. Mycroft notes the absence of anything approaching a romantic word or even the affection of friendship from the object of Sherlock's obsessional attentions. He wonders what Victor Trevor's reaction would be to finding out that, since he'd left the UK, Sherlock had been admitted to hospital for self-harm, has committed criminal acts to obtain evidence, and is now back at Parham under the care of a psychiatrist since he appears to be having yet another acute mental health crisis.
As the chauffeur starts to navigate through the one-way system in the centre of Epsom, Mycroft's decision solidifies. He has to protect Sherlock from the callousness of a boy who could send these messages.
He presses the number two key on the phone and tosses it back on the seat in disgust.
Notes:
Jean Paul Sartre called it right: "You remember all we were told about the torture-chambers, the fire and brimstone, the "burning marl?" Old wives' tales! There's no need for red-hot pokers. HELL IS OTHER PEOPLE!" Sherlock is now discovering the truth of this.