Chapter Ten

Sherlock was about half way back to London when he felt his phone vibrate in his pocket. He'd been expecting this but he pulled the phone out to check the caller i.d. and test his powers of prediction. Yes, it was Mycroft. His mother had not disappointed. She was probably already ringing his brother while he and his father were still saying their goodbyes. Well, the last thing he wanted or needed just now was a confrontation with Mycroft. He cancelled the call and tossed the phone over his shoulder, where it landed on the back seat on top of his coat and, by a sheer fluke, slipped into one of the front slashed pockets.

He dropped the car back at the hire office and then had to decide what he should do next. He still had hours and hours of video footage to trawl through and the enormity of that task was proving rather daunting. He was also a little concerned about the security of the hard drive. Before he left that morning, he had stowed it away in a secret cubby hole at 23 Leinster Gardens and, though he was fairly certain that Mycroft hadn't yet discovered that particular bolthole, knowing the resources at his brother's disposal, he could not help but think it was only a matter of time.

It occurred to him that perhaps he should delegate the task of going through all those CCTV videos to the human rights lawyers. He could think of two practical advantages to that option. Firstly, the law firm would have the staff to manage the task and, secondly, their expertise would enable them to identify the specific human rights issues pertaining to Eurus's case. But the downside of that idea was that the files had been hacked and were, therefore, illegal and the lawyers might refuse to touch them or his case. So, that was a big decision to make and after the day he'd had, he doubted his competence to make big decisions. He needed to sleep on it.

He checked his texts. Still no news from Craig so nothing to follow up there but he did have the architect's drawings of the Special Unit at Sherrinford to scrutinise. There was something niggling in the back of his mind about the design of that Special Unit but he couldn't quite put his finger on what that might be. No problem, however. It would no doubt reveal itself when it was ready.

So, the most pressing issue was where he should go right now. Having spent one night sleeping on that incredibly uncomfortable camping cot, he didn't much relish a second. It was enormously tempting to just hop in a cab and go to Molly Hooper's but that was the problem – it was enormously tempting. John, he knew, was on night duty and gate-crashing St Mary's A and E department was not a viable option so he was left with no alternative but to go back to Baker Street. At least it had a comfortable bed.

When he stepped through the inner door of 221 Baker Street, from the vestibule to the hall way, three distinct odours assailed his olfactory receptors. The first, an earthy, alkaline smell, he correctly identified as 'wet plaster'. The second and most welcome of the three was the spicy aroma of the Indian takeaway he had ordered by phone from outside the car hire firm. The third and least welcome was the distinctive top and base notes of his brother's favoured brand of cologne.

So, it came as no surprise, when Sherlock topped the stairs and entered his sitting room, to find Mycroft sitting in the only chair – his chair – with one leg crossed elegantly over the other and his hands resting on the chrome and leather armrests. The ever-present umbrella was leant against the fire surround, in easy reach should the need arise. Sherlock could not help but make the comparison with Uncle Rudi from the Sherrinford video. Back then, Rudi would have been around the same age as Mycroft was now, give or take a decade. The similarity was quite disturbing.

'Fancy meeting you here,' Sherlock quipped, taking off his coat and hanging it behind the door to the landing. 'Did you lose your way? Get off at the wrong tube stop?'

'Why didn't you answer my call?' Mycroft snapped.

'I was driving, brother dear. It's against the law to use a mobile while driving. You should know that, being the British Government and all.

'I left a voice mail.'

'And I deleted it.'

'Without reading it?'

'Of course, without reading it!'

'You upset Mummy!' Mycroft barked.

'Well, Mummy upset me so I think that makes us even,' Sherlock replied, with a dismissive wave of his hand.

'What's the matter with your hand?' Mycroft asked, the wave having drawn his attention to the strapping.

'Broken,' Sherlock replied. 'Second and third metatarsals.'

'Hmm,' Mycroft huffed. 'Then I shall inform Sherrinford you won't be attending next week's session.'

'No!' Sherlock exclaimed, indignantly. 'Why would you do that?'

'Well, you obviously can't play the violin with a broken hand, can you?' his brother replied, with a withering sneer.

'No, but I can still talk.'

'To yourself, presumably!' Mycroft snorted in derision.

'You know, Eurus may not be talking at the moment but she can still hear. And think.'

Mycroft huffed, dismissively. He had never really understood what Sherlock thought he could achieve with these weekly trips to see their sister. She was obviously locked in and not just in a corporeal sense. But if it kept his brother out of trouble, he was willing to indulge him.

'There's something in your kitchen,' said Mycroft, indicating the bag of Indian food on the worktop. 'I took delivery of it.' Somehow, he managed to imbue that short statement with so much distaste, Sherlock was actually impressed.

'As I see,' he replied, adding, 'thank you,' as an afterthought. 'Now, to be brutally honest, I've had one hell of a day and fully intend to just eat my supper and go to bed so if you wouldn't mind closing the door on your way out...'

He turned and walked into the kitchen, picking up his takeaway on the way through to the bedroom but paused by the bathroom door and turned back to address Mycroft.

'And by the way,' he said, 'you really must stop spying on me, brother. I've always resented it but I cut you some slack because I thought you did it out of some misplaced concern for my welfare. But now I know that you only did it because Uncle Rudi told you to.'

Mycroft sat bolt upright, indignant at the very idea, but Sherlock continued blithely on.

'Well, as we all know, Rudi's dead now, has been for years. So, you don't have to do what he says any more. Good night.'

With that parting shot, he turned and walked into his bedroom, closing the door firmly behind him. That's when he realised he'd forgotten to pick up a fork and spoon with which to eat his Lamb Shatkora and lemon rice but he wasn't going to ruin his grand exit by going back for them. However, he didn't have to wait long before he heard Mycroft's footsteps cross the sitting room floor and make their way down the stairs to the front door and out into the street, leaving his flat door wide open, of course.

Sherlock placed his supper on the bedside table and returned to the sitting room to shut the door. He spent a few moments admiring the plasterer's handiwork on two of the four walls, so far – very smooth and even, in his opinion – then fished a clean fork and spoon from the cutlery caddy on the kitchen draining board and returned to his bedroom to enjoy the mouth-watering Indian whose aroma was making his stomach growl.

ooOoo

A delicious supper, an early night and a comfortable bed clearly worked their magic as Sherlock was up bright and early the next morning, heading for the bathroom and his new walk-in shower. Personally, he would have preferred the choice offered by a bath with a shower over but, to be fair, he could probably count the number of times he had chosen a bath over a shower, since moving into 221B Baker Street, on the fingers of one hand. And Mrs Hudson had been keen to take this opportunity to modernise the facilities.

He stood in the spacious shower cubicle for quite some time, eyes closed, luxuriating in the sensation of warm water cascading over his body from the overhead rainfall shower head and had to concede that it was a far more enjoyable experience than being pummelled by the previous incarnation, a power shower. Whoever dreamed up that fashion trend must have been some sort of masochist.

After completing his morning ablutions, he padded barefoot into the kitchen, a bath sheet slung round his hips and rubbing vigorously at his hair with a hand towel, to put the kettle on for his morning cuppa and leant against the worktop, deep in thought, waiting for the kettle to boil. The most vexatious issue for him, this bright and sunny morning, was Rudi's motivation to veto the head teacher's suggestion that his parents seek professional counselling for his six-year-old self, all those years ago.

It was clear to him that Rudi's prime objective in all matters was promoting self-interest. That was made quite obvious by the manner in which he had loaned money to his father. Surely, if one's relations were in dire straits and one had the resources to assist them, wouldn't you just do it out of the goodness of your heart? And there was no question that Rudi could afford to lend the money to Pa. The house he left to Mycroft, the one with the private cinema where his brother liked to watch old black and white movies, was more like a castle than a house. He probably could have afforded to give Pa the money, and not even miss it.

And imagine if he had just given Pa the money and said, Pay me back when you can. How grateful would Pa have been? And it would have earned Rudi a lifetime's worth of brownie points with Mummy. But no. Not only was Pa financially and emotionally indebted to him for rescuing the family from a desperate situation not of his making, he was made to pay for the privilege at a 'very reasonable rate of interest'. That sentence alone, coming as it did from his mother's lips, had floored Sherlock. That financial burden must have been like a millstone around his father's neck, even after the house burned down and the insurance paid up. Because the insurance policy, regardless of whose name it was in, was paid for by Rudi. The old bastard had saved the day again. And Pa was beholden to him even further.

This was a power play par excellence. Rudi needed his brother-in-law to be in a psychologically inferior position, unlikely to speak out for fear of appearing ungrateful – yes, ungrateful. That was the word his mother had used against him yesterday - you wicked, ungrateful child! Gratitude was clearly high on Maura Holmes' agenda.

But how did Rudi stand to gain from little Sherlock not receiving counselling for the emotional trauma of losing his friend?

Sherlock was vaguely aware of hearing Mrs Hudson's doorbell ring, closely followed by a brief conversation in the hallway and the sound of footsteps climbing the stairs but the implication of these clues didn't really register until the flat door opened and a man walked in, dressed in an off-white pair of overalls covered in lots of pinkish brown stains which exactly matched the colour of two of the sitting room walls. Sherlock correctly deduced that this must be the plasterer, here to resume his work.

'Oh, sorry, governor,' the plasterer exclaimed. 'The missus said you'd be in bed and not to disturb you with my music.' He nodded in the direction of the chunky yellow boxlike object he was carrying in his right hand.

'Normally she would be correct,' Sherlock replied, taking a sip of his tea. 'But, please, do carry on,' he added, gesturing in the direction of the unplastered walls. 'I'll be out of your hair, shortly. In the meantime, I would appreciate not having to listen to your radio.' He smiled to soften the sting. 'And if you fancy a cuppa, the kettle's just boiled; help yourself.'

'No, thanks, mate, I've just had breakfast at Speedy's, downstairs, and it comes with a bucket of builder's,' the plasterer replied, with a cheery grin.

Sherlock nodded and, pushing off from the work top, strolled down the corridor to his bedroom and closed the door. When he emerged half an hour later, fully clothed and immaculately groomed, the workman had covered the sitting room floor with dust sheets, set up two step ladders along one wall with a plank of wood stretched between them, like a catwalk, and was in the process of stirring a bucket of wet plaster, rather loudly, with a corkscrew attached to an electric drill. Sherlock placed his empty mug and the dirty cutlery from the night before on the kitchen draining board and dropped the bag of takeaway empties into the bin then grabbed his coat and exited the flat through the door from the kitchen and jogged down the stairs.

Mrs Hudson was loitering in the hallway, having heard him coming, anxious to speak to him about something.

'Good morning, Hudders,' he said, pre-empting her.

'Good morning, dear. Is everything alright?' she enquired.

'Is that a general enquiry or does it pertain to something specific?' he asked.

'With the plastering,' she clarified. 'Is it alright? Is he doing a good job?'

'Well, I'm no expert but it looks fine to me,' Sherlock assured her. 'It's nice and smooth, no lumps or bumps, no cracks or crevices. So, yes, I would say it's alright. But, please, feel free to look for yourself,' he shrugged.

'Oh, I will but I just thought I'd get a second opinion,' she replied, with an indulgent smile. 'Are you off out for the day, then?'

'Yes, probably,' Sherlock replied, very aware that the pretext for this conversation was really for his landlady stroke housekeeper stroke surrogate mother to check on his own well-being. 'What time does he finish for the day?' he asked, pointing upstairs with his thumb.

'Four o'clock,' Mrs H replied.

'Then I'll probably stay out until five,' he concluded and, with a nod 'goodbye' he exited the front door onto the street.

ooOoo

Sitting alone at a corner table in the staff canteen of St Bart's Hospital, Molly Hooper sipped her latte disconsolately and resisted the temptation to check her phone for the umpteenth time that day. She had not seen or heard from Sherlock Holmes for nearly three days. So what? she admonished herself. Why should he keep her continually appraised of his whereabouts? She had no claim on his time or attention. It was not as if they were in a relationship; they were just friends. Good friends, even close friends, just as he and John were close, but nothing more than that. So, what right had she to be upset about his radio silence?

The truth of the matter was, she was concerned for him, for his well-being.

Molly had always been exceptionally adept at reading other people's emotions. It was a skill, a talent, perhaps; some people claimed it was her 'superpower'. But it was an innate ability, something she'd been born with so she couldn't take any particular credit for it. And it certainly came in handy in her line of work as it enabled her to gauge and vary her approach when interacting with the friends and relatives of deceased persons in her care. Different people dealt with death in very different ways but she seemed to know instinctively how to handle each encounter, whether to be brief and factual, comforting and supportive or, in some cases, even step back and let the families and friends deal with seeing their deceased loved one in their own peculiar way.

But sometimes this gift could feel more like a curse and this was one of those times. Because being around Sherlock right now was difficult for all his friends but, for her, it was torture. He was shedding sorrow like a virus, everywhere he went and she could feel his sadness as though it were her own. But there was absolutely nothing she could do to help him. The other night, it had all gotten too much and she'd had that disastrous emotional outburst. And after all the trouble he'd gone to, to cook for her, as well! It had made the rest of the evening unbearably awkward. No wonder he was avoiding her, now – yes, she was sure he was. He'd probably only been making fun of himself or, at worst, just being a bit self-deprecating. And she'd gone full Moaning bloody Myrtle on him. God, she hated herself sometimes.

She picked up her phone again.

Perhaps she should text him, remind him that he'd left his violin at her house. He'd be needing it in a few days' time when he went to Sherrinford to play duets with his sister. Or maybe she should just give him some space and not pester him with unnecessary reminders. Of course, he knew where he'd left his violin and he would come and get it when he was ready.

The alert on Molly's phone pinged. It was time to get back to work. Swigging the last dregs of latte, she pushed her chair out from the table, stood up and headed for the canteen exit, tossing her empty cup into the recycling bin on her way out.

ooOoo

'Mr Holmes. How nice to see you again,' the solicitor, Miss Gatsby, greeted him and they shook hands. 'Please take a seat.' Which he did. 'I'm afraid I don't have any news for you, at present. It's quite early days and these things always take a bit of time to get started. But my PA said you had something for us?'

'Yes,' Sherlock replied, lifting the canvas tote onto the conference table and extracting the hard drive and the adapted laptop. 'This hard drive contains hundreds of video files which I've obtained from the facility where my sister has been held since she was five years old.'

Miss Gatsby looked both surprised and puzzled and was about to say something but Sherlock raised a hand to forestall her.

'The means by which I obtained these files was less than legal and no one at Sherrinford, as far as I'm aware, knows I have them…at least, I very much hope they don't.'

The solicitor frowned and went to speak again but Sherlock got in first.

'I did this for the purpose of establishing an insurance policy because I'm pretty sure that, when we make a Freedom of Information request for all my sister's records and my brother discovers that I'm bringing a writ of Habeas Corpus, one of two things will happen. Either they'll give us the records but so comprehensively redacted that they'll be unreadable or the records will all serendipitously disappear, wiped from the system by some 'unfortunate' computer malfunction.'

Miss Gatsby sat forward in her chair and folded her hands on the table, only to be thwarted yet again by Sherlock. She really will have to learn to be quicker off the mark, he thought, sardonically.

'Even if I'm wrong and Mycroft coughs up the records completely unredacted, I don't believe they'll include all of these files because I'm not sure he even knows of their existence.'

'Mr Holmes,' said the solicitor, at last, 'must I remind you that we are Civil Rights lawyers? The clue is in the name. We have to abide by the law. And I must advise you that any information obtained illegally would not be admissible in court…'

'Probably not, no, but…' and, placing his hand on top of the hard drive, he leant forward and pinned her with his most piercing gaze '…even if we don't use this information as part of our evidence, I would implore you to view at least some of it so that you appreciate the unconscionable nature of my sister's circumstances.'

The solicitor still looked uncomfortable.

'Alright. Perhaps if you just watched the first video?' he entreated. 'You watch that and then decide whether or not to ask your staff to view and catalogue all the others. And it will take a large number of man hours to do that because there are hundreds of video files in here, spanning the last thirty years.'

She chased that idea around her head a few times, weighing up the pros and cons, and eventually, still with some reluctance, said,

'Very well, Mr Holmes. I will look at the first file but, even if I feel we should agree to your request, I'll still need to run this past my colleagues and partners in the firm because this is all our livelihoods at stake here and none of us want to be struck off for malpractice.'

Sherlock nodded his assent then got on with setting up the on-loan hardware.

ooOoo

When Sherlock exited the solicitors' chambers there was more of a spring to his step than he'd managed to muster for longer than he cared to remember. He had hoped that the CCTV footage of little Eurus being tricked and manipulated into co-operating with Uncle Rudi would be enough to convince the lawyer to take a risk with the hacked files but he wasn't expecting such an emotional reaction. Miss Gatsby's professional façade had completely crumbled and he'd felt obliged to provide some physical comfort by way of a pat on the back. But once she'd regained control, she had agreed immediately to have all the files viewed and catalogued. So, after impressing on her the strict imperative of viewing the files only on the adapted laptop, he assigned both pieces of hardware to her safe keeping.

It was a great weight off his mind that he no longer needed to worry about Mycroft somehow getting his hands on the hard drive. And he was clear about what he needed to do next – sit and stare at the architect's drawings of the Special Unit until the thing that was eluding him jumped up, waved and shouted 'Here I am!'

ooOoo