There are references to dubcon in this chapter but nothing explicit.

Chapter Eleven

Inside the candle-lit mausoleum in Hampstead cemetery, Sherlock was being true to his word – staring at the architect's drawings of Sherrinford's special unit, studying every nook and cranny, every corridor, every room, trying to fathom what it was that was eluding him. He'd been to the place so many times over the last six months, he could find his way around blindfold. Which was why he was finding it so frustrating that he couldn't quite put his finger on what it was that did not feel right.

Sherlock snorted an ironic laugh at that thought. Everything about the place wasn't right, from the purpose for which it was built to the fact that Eurus had been forced to remain there for nearly her whole life without anyone speaking up for her – not even her own brother. Well, that had changed now. Not only was he speaking up, he was doing something about it.

The WhatsApp alert on his mobile buzzed in his inside jacket pocket. He pulled it out. It was Craig.

Got something for you.

Sherlock had taken to using WhatsApp for some of his communications, especially on this case, because of the double encryption it afforded. He messaged back:

I'm at Jo's place. Meet here?

Sorry, can't. Toby's on a job.

As well as being a service dog, Toby had a second career. Craig would hire him out from time to time when an urban tracker dog was required. Toby's sense of smell was so refined, he was able to track a single scent unerringly along busy streets and through highly populated areas so he was very much in demand in the capital city. He was especially well suited to tracking elderly people, suffering from dementia, who had wandered away from home or gone AWOL from their care homes - and missing children, too – because of his friendly demeanour. When he found his quarry, he would lick them, enthusiastically. No one could ever be afraid of Toby. But, obviously, if Toby was otherwise engaged, Craig was confined to barracks.

I could courier it over, Craig suggested.

Please, Sherlock replied.

I'll message you an ETA, Craig advised.

Sherlock was on tenterhooks for the next ten minutes, unable to concentrate on anything, wondering what the something might be so, when Craig messaged back with an ETA in thirty minutes time, Sherlock had to ask,

A clue as to content?

Persons of Interest and death in the line of duty, Craig replied.

At the appointed time, Sherlock took a stroll through the cemetery to the main gate and was there just in time to see the cycle courier coast to a stop and look around for whoever his package might be intended for. Cycle couriers were by far the fastest means of moving small items around London so this man could make a good living hiring out his services. He delivered to all kinds of odd places but a cemetery? This was a first.

'I think that might be for me,' said Sherlock, holding out his hand for the package.

'Could be, mate,' the courier replied, retrieving an A4 envelope from his backpack. 'What name is it?'

'Sigerson,' Sherlock replied.

'And the address?' The courier was a 'belt and braces' kind of guy.

'Jo's Place.'

'Then yours it is,' the courier confirmed, handing over the package and taking the five-pound tip from Sherlock's extended hand, before pushing off from the curb with a cheery, 'Cheers, boss!' and peddling away, back in the direction from which he had come.

Although itching to open the package and see what Craig had come up with, Sherlock took the scenic route back to the mausoleum out of curiosity to see whether Mycroft had heeded his demand to stop spying on him. He didn't spot anyone on his tail but that didn't mean they weren't, only that they were being more careful about it. He arrived back at the leaning tomb and slipped inside.

The burning candles had raised the interior temperature by a few degrees and his walk had warmed him up, too, so he cast off his coat and settled on the couch before opening the envelope and sliding out the contents.

The top page was the front cover of an HR file on Nathan Garrideb. It began with his name, qualifications and home address - in the village of Bushmills, County Antrim, Northern Ireland - and his mobile phone number. It went on to list his National Insurance Number, nationality, date of birth, and marital status. Next came qualifications, bank details and next of kin, which was his wife. Family details were left blank, apart from the wife, which suggested that he had no children.

Sherlock turned the page and scanned through the usual trivia – Employee Number, Department and Job Title and a list of the various training courses he had undertaken during his time at Sherrinford, the dates when he was trained or retrained – there were quite a few examples of the latter so clearly not a quick learner - and comments from the various trainers – not terribly complimentary.

The next page was entitled Individual Absence and Lateness Record and it included a number of entries. So, Nathan was apparently not a very reliable employee. And this supposition was confirmed when Sherlock turned to the next sheet and found an account of an internal investigation into accusations, brought by another member of the Sherrinford staff, of inappropriate behaviour towards and relations with one of the patients, followed by details of the disciplinary hearing that followed.

Sherlock began to read the account of the investigation with an increasing sense of outrage. The nature of the 'inappropriate behaviour and relations', though couched in extremely vague language, was clearly of a sexual nature and the patient, identified only as Patient A, was described as the 'long-term female resident of the Special Unit' whom Sherlock had no option but to conclude must be Eurus. At the bottom of the page were references to the Employment Record of a second staff member, 'not named here', who was also implicated in the enquiry.

The details of the disciplinary hearing were equally vague but included a personal statement from Nathan Garrideb in which he claimed that his 'relations' with Patient A were entirely consensual. The document concluded with the words 'Employment terminated' and a date – at which Sherlock had to look twice. The date was almost six years previously.

With a strange mix of emotions, both anger and intrigue, Sherlock turned to the next document and found it to be the Employment Record of Alex Garrideb. He chose to skip the personal details, not really caring whether or not the second brother was married, what his qualifications might be or if he was a reliable employee but noting that his home address was also in the village of Bushmills.

Perhaps unsurprisingly, Alex Garrideb had also been investigated and found to have engaged in 'inappropriate behaviour towards and relations with' Patient A and he too had claimed the 'relations' were consensual. Equally unsurprisingly, his employment was also terminated on the same date as his brother. But, most unusually, the person whose accusations had led to the investigation and subsequent dismissal of the brothers was named, as Officer Evans.

Well, that explained the motive for the murder, at least. Whistle-blowers were usually afforded anonymity for this precise reason, to protect them from revenge attacks. By naming him in this report, Officer Evans had been seriously let down by the powers-that-be at Sherrinford. His next of kin, if he had any, would have a good claim for compensation if this breach of protocol was made public. Perhaps Sherlock could facilitate that. At the same time as getting justice for Eurus, why not get justice for the person who outed her abusers, since abusers they undoubtedly were.

What it didn't explain was why the brothers waited five years to have their revenge? Perhaps the next document would provide a clue to that. He turned to the next page.

Now, this was a surprise. The next document was the employment record of one Howard Garrideb, the third brother. So, either Eurus had lied about only two brothers working at Sherrinford or she didn't know the other one did, too. Interesting.

Flicking through Howard's personal details, it transpired he had a wife and two children and also lived in Bushmills but his occupation was that of an IT technician. However, like his two brothers, he had also been the subject of a disciplinary hearing but the misdemeanour on his record was 'being found, on numerous occasions, to be inebriated whilst on duty'. Not a functioning alcoholic, then. And, despite repeated warnings and several referrals to Occupational Health - who offered access to treatment for alcohol dependency which he chose not to take up - Howard showed up at work pissed as a newt once too often and his employment was also terminated, six months after his brothers.

So, three Garridebs, all employed at Sherrinford and all dismissed over five years ago. Which begged the question, how did Eurus get them back to Sherrinford on the day they were hung out to dry – or rather, out to get wet – for the purpose of Eurus's second Moral Dilemma? Or were the three men dangling outside the window not the Garidebs at all but three unfortunate substitutes? Perhaps a visit to Bushmills was in order, to speak to the relatives? Sherlock logged that idea in the back of his mind and turned to the next document.

This one concerned Dr Taylor.

Unlike the Garridebs, Dr Taylor had an exemplary Employment Record. He had trained at a top British university and qualified as a Psychotherapist, specialising in Forensic Psychology and Criminology. He had worked at several other institutions, including Broadmoor, before coming to Sherrinford seven years ago. His tenure at Sherrinford lasted four years and then he left – according to his HR file - to take up a post at a psychiatric hospital in Boston, Massachusetts. There was absolutely no reference to any suicidal ideation or any mass murder of his family. Again, interesting.

Sherlock would definitely be contacting the hospital in Boston. He might well enlist John's help with that. Perhaps he could talk to them as one doctor to another?

The next document was slightly disappointing but also interesting, in its own way. It was an invoice from a removal company which had, it would appear, been hired to transport the previous Governor's personal effects – quite a few of them, probably a house-full – to an address in Edinburgh. The recipient of the effects – presumably David's next of kin and that of his deceased wife, if she were deceased - was one Charlotte Storer. Possibly a married daughter, Sherlock speculated, which would account for the different surname. Again, perhaps a little trip up to Edinburgh was on the cards.

This batch of documents had given Sherlock a huge amount to think about and he wasn't even half way through the bundle, yet. He checked the time on his phone. It was 16.03. He'd told Mrs H he'd be back at Baker Street by five. He really didn't want the sad demise of an octogenarian - worrying herself into an early grave over him - on his conscience. Not on top of everything else. So he would be keeping to that commitment.

Since he had nearly half an hour to fill, he turned to the second half of the bundle, which he assumed was the information he'd requested on staff who had met an untimely end in the performance of their duties. It was a shockingly fat sheaf of papers even when one factored in the time span, which covered thirty years. Sherlock began to scan the documents, paying particular attention to the cause of death and the location wherein it occurred. It was a grim and grisly read and human bite wounds featured rather prominently. But what he was looking for – a nurse murdered by a patient in the Special Unit – was conspicuous by its absence.

So, had Eurus lied about her violent sexual encounter with a hapless healthcare worker of nonspecific gender? Given what he now knew about the Garridebs, Sherlock had his own theory.

But it was time to leave the leaning tomb and the dilemma he faced, as always, was what to do with the bundle of papers. He couldn't leave them here – too easily accessed by Mycroft's minions – and he couldn't take them to Leinster Gardens. Going there too often would alert his brother to the existence of his second favourite bolthole. So, he concluded, they were safer on his person. He split the bundle into four smaller batches and placed them inside the various deep pockets of his Belstaff coat, along with the architectural drawings for the institution, then, having extinguished all the candles, he exited the mausoleum and locked the door.

It was already dark outside so he slipped like a shadow through the cemetery and vaulted one of the small side gates that had already been secured for the night. Walking to the main road, he hailed a cab and sat back, ruminating over the day's discoveries, until the taxi pulled up on Baker Street. The familiar smell of wet plaster greeted him in the front hall and he could hear Mrs Hudson's TV – she was watching one of those late afternoon quiz shows – so he decided not to tap on her door to let her know he was back. She would hear him soon enough, when he started clumping around on the bare floor boards upstairs. Before going up, he checked the hall stand for mail. There was none for him so he climbed the stairs to his inhospitable home.

The plastering looked all but done. All four walls were now covered in a smooth pinky-brown coating, the two that were completed yesterday being a couple of shades lighter than those done today. Once they were totally dried out, the decorators would be able to do their bit and then the flat would be completely refurbished and he could start looking for ways of filling it up again with clutter.

As he contemplated that eventuality, the ancient brass bell positioned above the landing side of the door he'd just walked through rang out very abruptly, the suddenness and the volume of the sound, ricocheting off the bare walls and floors, causing him to startle. He had, long ago, removed the hammer from that bell so that, when rung from the street door below, it only vibrated against the inner casing. But Mrs Hudson had taken advantage of the refurb to have the hammer replaced and Sherlock had not yet got around to removing it again. However, if he was going to be spending most of his time here from now on, he needed to see to that most urgently.

Having recovered from the shock of that ear-shattering sound, he crossed to the window to take a look at who was ringing his bell, down in the street. Even from this strange angle, he recognised the head and shoulders of Molly Hooper and he also recognised what she was holding in her right hand.

Damn, he thought.

He turned to go down the stairs and let her in but Mrs Hudson had beaten him to it. He heard her open the door and exchange greetings with Molly. Mrs Hudson always greeted everyone she knew like a long-lost friend. She made everyone feel so welcome. After a brief exchange, he heard Molly begin to climb the stairs so he waited by the window until she turned the switchback and her head appeared, followed by her shoulders and then the rest of her as she reached the landing. Whereupon her face broke into a cheery smile and she held out his violin case towards him.

'I thought you might be needing this tomorrow so I thought I'd better bring it over,' she said.

'Oh, Molly, I'm so sorry. I should have let you know…'

Her face began to fall at those words as she realised that, for some reason, he would not be needing his violin tomorrow and she had embarked on a fool's errand, coming all the way over to Baker Street to bring it to him. Her cheeks began to colour with embarrassment and her extended arm, bearing the unnecessary burden, began to wilt.

Sherlock observed this slow transformation with a similar sinking feeling. He'd only gone and upset her again! He stepped forward, blurting a garbled explanation and reaching to take the violin case from her but she caught the words 'broken' and 'hand' and, at the same moment, saw the strapping on the extended extremity and, immediately, her demeanour changed. Bending to place the violin case on the floor, she reached out with both of her hands and grasped his one, bringing it close to her face to examine it.

'What did you do?' she asked, noting the bruising on the knuckles as well as the back of the hand and correctly concluding that he'd punched something.

'I punched a wall,' he said, looking down at his feet like a regretful school boy.

Molly, inspecting the two-day old strapping and factoring in the bruising, extrapolated the nature of the damage to his metatarsals.

'Well, you certainly can't play a violin with that,' she declared.

'No, and I'm so sorry I didn't let you know and save you a wasted journey.'

Not entirely wasted, Molly thought. At least I got to see you.

'I'd offer you a cup of tea but, as you can see, there's nowhere to sit and drink it,' he said, apologetically. But then had another thought. 'Actually, there's something I'd like to show you.' And, easing his injured hand from her gentle hold, he used his good one to grasp her by the wrist and strode off across the sitting room, through the kitchen and down the short corridor towards his bedroom, towing her along behind him. Molly had no option but to go along with him, jogging in order to keep up. On reaching the end of the corridor, he opened the bedroom door and, only then, released her wrist and gestured with his arm to invite her in.

In all the years she had known Sherlock and all the times she had visited his home, Molly had never been inside his bedroom. She had imagined going in there many times, in many different scenarios - some of them not unlike the current situation - but now it had actually happened, she was rather pleasantly surprised to note that his inner sanctum was pretty much exactly as she had imagined it would be.

In stark contrast to the sitting room and kitchen which, prior to the devastating explosion, had been monuments to disorganised chaos and clutter, this room was neat, tidy, refined, elegant and very masculine.

The boat-shaped bed, tallboy and wardrobe were a matching suite, crafted from mahogany, sometime in the early part of the last century. The bedside tables, also antique, were made of a lighter wood – possibly cherry or rosewood – and next to the window on the righthand side wall, stood a vintage ladder-back chair, also of mahogany, with spindle legs and an upholstered seat. In the far corner, next to the window in the end wall, was an Edwardian standard lamp and next to that, on the side wall, was a dark wood shelving unit which housed an eclectic collection of objects including several books, a Victorian display case of butterflies and a bust of Beethoven. The two other lamps – on the bedside tables – were an Anglepoise and a chunky Brutalist design classic.

On the wall above the headboard was a framed poster illustrating the various moves of the mixed martial art of Bartitsu, a system of self-defence favoured by Victorian gentlemen which employed everyday items, such as umbrellas, walking canes, great coats and top hats, as weapons. On the wall to the right of the door was a framed poster of the Periodic Table. The only covering on the bare floor boards was a large, square, deep red and navy blue Persian rug in the space between the foot of the bed and the end wall.

Molly took in all this detail with one sweeping 360-degree glance, while Sherlock was busy switching on the three lamps. Then he turned and handed her a sheaf of papers that he had pulled from a pocket of his coat, then another and another and another, all from different pockets.

'Have a look at these', he said before heading for the door. Almost as an afterthought, he turned back and said, 'Make yourself at home. I'll just make some tea.' Then he was gone.

Molly stood and stared at Sherlock's bed. His bed. The one he slept in.

She perched, tentatively, on the edge of the very firm – definitely not antique – mattress and stroked her hand over the smooth, soft surface of the duvet cover. Definitely Egyptian cotton, very high thread count, luxurious...

Oh, get a grip, woman! she scolded herself and turned her attention to the bundle of papers in her hands.

She was just getting to the end of Howard Garrideb's Employment Record when Sherlock returned, minus his coat, with two mugs of tea. He placed one on a coaster on the bedside table closest to Molly then walked round to the other side of the bed and placed his own mug on the bedside table there. Then without ceremony, he kicked off his shoes and climbed onto the bed to sit cross-legged with his back to the headboard. He reached over and picked up the sheets of paper that Molly had already read and discarded on the duvet.

'So, these are the men that Eurus dropped into the sea?' Molly remarked.

'Yes,' Sherlock replied.

'And they all worked there,' she added, 'but were sacked for misconduct, at least five years earlier.'

'Exactly,' he exclaimed. 'And the man they conspired to kill – I'm sure they did conspire to kill him, regardless of which one actually pulled the trigger, which is possibly why Eurus had no hesitation in drowning them all, if she did indeed drown them all – was the man who blew the whistle on two of them.'

At this point, Sherlock jumped off the bed and began pacing up and down the room, talking at one hundred miles an hour, theorising as to how the third brother might have been complicit in the sexual exploitation of Patient A, since he worked in IT and could have facilitated the other two to access areas usually out of bounds, or somehow interfered with the surveillance system in order to conceal the instances of sexual abuse of a woman who was monitored by CCTV twenty-four hours a day.

Molly watched him, as her lips stretched into a broad smile. It was like having the old Sherlock back. He was so energised, so engaged. The verdict of Victor Trevor's inquest, although it had floored him at the time, had also liberated him from the heavy burden of guilt that had been crushing him for the last six months. He now had a purpose, a puzzle that needed solving and a goal in mind – to liberate his sister from a lifetime of incarceration. And he had already made some intriguing discoveries, although there was still a lot more of the plot to unravel.

Sherlock stopped at the bottom of the bed and began laying out the documents like an evidence board, across the mattress, with the Garridebs in a group of three, Dr Taylor's Employment Record to one side and the removal firm's invoice to the other.

'I wouldn't bother reading the details of the staff members who died in the line of duty as none of it's pertinent to Eurus's case,' Sherlock commented, 'unless you want to, of course,' he added, since Molly appeared to be reading the information with interest.

'No, I was just thinking,' she mused, 'they seem to have a rather high incidence of cannibalism amongst their patient group. Certainly, well above the average per head of the general population.'

'Well, it is an institution for the criminally insane,' Sherlock reminded her.

'Yes, of course,' she nodded.

Sherlock turned back to his task of laying out the evidence board, talking as he did so.

'It would be far preferable to put these up on a wall somewhere so I could instantly refer to them whenever I feel the need but I really can't risk having them on display and Mycroft discovering what I'm up to.'

'So, which piece of information made you punch the wall?' Molly asked.

Sherlock stopped what he was doing and stood still for a moment then laid the remaining sheaf of papers on the bed and walked round to pick up his mug of tea. He sipped it, thoughtfully, and Molly sipped hers while she waited for his response. After a moment, he climbed back onto the bed and resumed his cross-legged position before launching into an explanation of the folder of video files that Craig had extracted from Sherrinford's IT network and the content of the very first one. Molly listened with a growing sense of dismay, imagining how that poor little girl must have felt, finding herself in such a horrific situation. When he stopped speaking, Molly reached across the bed and touched his injured hand.

'I think your reaction was justified,' she said, simply, 'though I'm sorry for the consequences. So, are you still going to Sherrinford tomorrow?' she asked.

'Yes,' he replied. 'I'm not sure how Eurus will react to me turning up without my violin and unable to play anyway but…one doesn't know until one tries,' he shrugged. He took a few more sips of tea then, suddenly, said, 'Have you eaten?'

'No,' Molly admitted. 'I came home from work and saw that your violin was still in my sitting room so I came straight over here to bring it to you. I was worried you might have forgotten where you left it.'

'I'm be honest with you, Molly, I hadn't forgotten where I left it, I just hadn't given it a second thought because I knew I didn't need it and, for that, I'm truly sorry. I should have been in touch, let you know, saved you a wasted journey. However, one good turn deserves another. Can I treat you to dinner? Angelo's will be nearly empty at this time on a Monday night. We shouldn't have any difficulty getting a table.'

And they didn't. Sherlock's favourite Italian restaurant was practically deserted and the owner, Angelo himself, was as effusive as ever in his welcome for his favourite patron. Sherlock took his usual table by the window but, unusually, on this occasion he chose to sit with his back to the window, not interested in looking at what might be going on out in the street. What Sherlock was interested in looking at was right in front of him, in the shape of Molly Hooper.

No sooner had they taken their seats than Angelo came bustling over with the menus, placing one each in front of Sherlock and his guest, saying,

'One for you, great detective, and one for you, lovely lady.'

A minute later, he was back again, this time with a candle which he positioned right in the centre of the table and then lit with an elaborate flourish.

'A candle for your table, sir and madam. Is more romantic,' he purred, causing Molly to look down at her hands and the tips of her ears to turn pink. Sherlock rolled his eyes then leant forward and murmured,

'Don't take it personally. He said exactly the same thing when I brought John here for the first time,' which made Molly snort with laughter and set the tone for the rest of the evening. The conversation flowed easily with no awkward silences and lots of laughter, as one or the other related their most embarrassing moment, their biggest fashion faux pas, their worst exam grade, their favourite science experiment and lots more. Two and a half hours later, when they rose to leave, Sherlock helped Molly on with her coat and held the door open for her to walk through, hailed a cab and handed her inside, stood on the pavement and watched her be whisked away then walked home alone.

ooOoo