Chapter 40: Dissolution


"I leave the country for two days—TWO days—and this is what happens!"

Esther Cohen hears the frustration and anger that Mycroft is not even attempting to hold back. The contrast with his usual, calm demeanor is stark. His clothes are rumpled; he's unshaven and clearly exhausted. The anger seems to be aimed at everything and everyone: himself, Sherlock, her, and the other person in the room—one who has been introduced simply as 'the man who failed to protect my brother'. It's clear that the older Holmes blames her for not being able to break through Sherlock's mutism or get him to engage with therapy, but perhaps Mycroft is most angry with himself for not being able to stop what has happened, even if Esther is doubtful anyone could have done so.

"Why is it so impossible to find anyone capable of the simple task of keeping an eye on one bloody teenager?!"

Baker does not flinch from Mycroft's rage; his eyes are firmly on the wall of the St Thomas hospital Emergency Department's family waiting room, glued there as part of his parade rest military training. Esther almost admires his stoic acceptance of his superior's anger.

Esther does not correct Mycroft's wording; she has reminded him enough times that they are dealing with an adult, even if Sherlock is four months short of the legal age of twenty-one. Someone with particular needs and special circumstances, yes, but an adult all the same. An adult trying to navigate through dealing with other humans just as any other twenty-year old does—without the wisdom brought by years and experience that is needed to keep things in perspective.

And that same diagnosis applies at least in part to the twenty-seven year old Mycroft who has finally arrived at the point where he knows that he has failed to stop what he and she have been afraid of for years.

Mycroft's pacing distresses her, but nowhere near as much as the sight that had greeted her in the ITU—Sherlock, sedated and intubated, surrounded by monitors, medical staff, and infuser pumps. Running her practiced eye down the Emergency Department's intake report told Esther all she needed to know: a toxic cocktail of ridiculously high levels of cocaine, combined with a lethal dose of heroin. The heroin had been quickly and efficiently countered with naloxone which is still being infused, but the effects of the cocaine had necessitated keeping him sedated and intubated until the symptoms began to abate: severe arrhythmias, extreme confusion and agitation, high body temperature and a skyrocketing blood pressure. He'd had a seizure in the emergency room after a third dose of naloxone—which is now being infused at a steady pace—brought on by the cocaine when the heroin lost its depressant effect on his central nervous system.

Given the levels shown in the tox screen, the balance of probability is that the dosages are likely to have been no mistake but rather a conscious attempt to end his life. Before she can make that distinction for certain, Esther needs more information. What she does already know—the bare medical facts, that is—she has already reported to Mycroft, who'd been driven here directly from Northolt airport. The older Holmes had returned to the country on an overnight military flight from Andrews Airforce base. His PA had contacted her when Sherlock was first reported as missing, and been told that Mycroft was in Langley, Virginia. He'd been in the air and on his way home when Sherlock had finally been found.

Esther decides that she needs to take the temperature in the room down a notch of two. "He's alive, Mycroft. Whatever he may or may not have attempted, it's likely that the worst possible outcome has been averted. The next twenty-four to forty-eight hours are a case of just letting the effects work through his system."

"The doctors say he may have brain damage."

"They are saying that as a precaution. We don't know how long he was unconscious and not breathing properly. All we have is the EMT's report that he was not breathing when they got there. The club was probably crowded, and so were the toilets—he can't have been there for that long without being seen by someone. They administered naloxone and he woke up, violent but incoherent; they only intubated him here at the hospital when it became obvious that they couldn't manage him without sedation. We don't yet know if there will be any long-term effects of oxygen deprivation on his cognitive function. All that said, they got to him in time to save his life. I'm going to assume, until we hear otherwise, that he will recover."

"What, then? Is this what it's going to be like for the years to come, or however long he manages to go on without succeeding in––" Mycroft stops wearing a trench into the floor and shakes his head.

"Mycroft. Best focus on what's going on right now. Once he's well enough to be moved out of the ITU, a psychiatric evaluation will happen, most likely resulting in a move to a psychiatric ward. Once that happens, we need to make arrangements to get him discharged to the Priory at Hayes Grove. We need to find out if this drug use was just a slip or a full-blown relapse, and whether it involves suicidal tendencies."

Esther watches the impact of those last two words work their way through Mycroft's clearly exhausted brain. It's what he couldn't say but what hangs heavy between them. It's not characteristic of Mycroft Holmes to shy away from difficult truths; his doing so now is a testament to his distress.

"It's going to be a long road back, Mycroft. While we wait, I need to understand more about what happened, because it may have a bearing on how intentional this was. How did he manage to leave Parham without being noticed? Do you know what would have triggered flight?"

"This excuse for a protection officer failed in his duty. He did not realise that Sherlock is intelligent enough to have worked out an escape strategy in advance, complete with contingency plans." He turns to Baker and snaps, "Precis please, for the doctor, how you managed to miss his initial departure and then, having finally spotted him in China Town, managed to lose him yet again."

Baker's still calm gaze falls on Cohen. "At 0338 hours yesterday, the power went out at the cottage and sawmill, losing the visual connection with the surveillance cameras in the Keeper's Cottage. I was able to use the laptop and tracer in his shoe and the phone to see that the principal remained in his bedroom, presumably asleep. A conversation with the main house security team confirmed that the power outage was local; the house and the rest of the grounds were not affected."

Mycroft is still pacing and barks out "Don't you dare tell me it never crossed your mind that such a precise loss of power may not have been coincidental."

There is a brief nod. "I'm afraid I did assume it was a simple power-out, sir. There had been several over the past week at the estate."

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "To cut to the chase, Doctor Cohen, due to this man's ineptitude, Sherlock had at least a six-hour head start. No CCTV footage on the grounds, at nearby train stations or traffic cameras picked up any image of him. He left behind the phone and the tracker that had been put into his trainers. Thirteen hours after the power went out, he shows up in China Town looking to be smuggled out of the country. Fortunately, I had put measures in place to close that escape route. Despite being caught on camera there entering the premises, Sherlock managed to disappear again. Proceed with the rest, Baker."

"The rest of the team had fanned out, looking in his known boltholes, checking dealers. Given how distressed he seemed about the phone messages, I had a hunch he might go back to a location he had previously visited with the Trevor boy. The apartment at Canary Wharf would have been unavailable and he had already been to Gerrard Street; the club he and Trevor had visited twice seemed a possibility. I was there, looking for him, when he was found in the restroom by one of the guests, who notified the club staff. The emergency services were alerted. You know the rest."

Mycroft turns away from the agent and now glares down from his considerable height at Esther. "The rest, Doctor Cohen, is the result of my allowing your advice to go unchallenged and even to follow it. You were the one who told me months ago to let Sherlock attempt this relationship. You were the one who said he needed to learn from his mistakes." He resumes pacing. "I fear that this may be the last thing he learns, if his overdose proves either fatal or debilitating beyond repair."

As shocked as she is by the attack, Esther chooses not to rise to his bait or to go on the defensive. In her line of work, she has often had to stand firm against parents whose wish to protect their children can blind them to an obvious fact: if a child wishes to self-harm or to attempt suicide, then they have to address the cause of that desperation instead of attempting to remove every sharp object from the child's life. He may be Sherlock's brother, but right now Mycroft is no different from any other grief-stricken and frightened parent. He is afraid. What makes it even worse for him is that this is no toddler; he is only seven years older than Sherlock is, possessing less resilience than most parents would have if facing this kind of emotional disaster.

Right now, he does not need even more pressure. She raises her hands in mock surrender. "I don't think it helps Sherlock for us to be throwing blame around the room. We should be focusing on what needs doing now."

Mycroft stops pacing. "I am not exempt from culpability. By allowing this relationship to take the shape it has, I bear some responsibility. Perhaps I, too, may have fallen prey to wishful thinking." He takes another few steps and then stops again. "Contrary to what he and you believe, I would appreciate anyone who was capable of making him happy and keeping him safe, but I am not naive: Victor Trevor is not such a person. I doubt such a person exists. I am beginning to doubt even my own abilities in managing him."

Mycroft turns and glares at her. "I should have known better; I underestimated Sherlock's reaction to his phone being returned, complete with a number of messages from Victor Trevor in New Zealand. It's my own stupid fault. Any logical person hearing those messages would have concluded that the Trevor boy is at best seriously distracted or at worst losing interest in their relationship. I'd hoped it would offer closure, to make Sherlock see sense—that he should sever his ties and move on. Clearly, he is too emotionally involved to see what is right there in front of him."

Esther forces herself not to answer what comes immediately to mind: of course he's bloody emotionally involved! No one at this level of distress and emotional involvement would be logical. But, berating Mycroft for his stupidity will not help Sherlock at this moment, and whatever was in those messages was communicated or not communicated by Victor, rather than by Mycroft. She wonders how strategically selective Mycroft had been in what he allowed Sherlock to hear.

She tilts her head and looks at the elder sibling with some empathy. "Mycroft, he's in love. Love makes us all a bit blind to the costs of making such an attachment. Could you stop caring about your brother, even though it's hurting you right now? Can you stop loving him? The fact that you are so upset is telling me the opposite. Surely you understand that you can't tell someone not to fall in love or tell them to stop; it doesn't work that way. Let's get him through this, so he can survive."

"You make that sound easy."

There is a world-weariness in the words that makes her realise just how young Mycroft is. She needs to give him reassurance. "It's not going to be easy. It will take time; it will be frustrating and there will be steps forward and plenty of steps back. Sherlock has shown in the past that he can come through an episode like this. We just need to be there for him. Not beating each other—or him—up for what has happened in the past, and most of all not punishing him for wanting something that happens to all of us, what all of us want: to have someone in our lives."

Not for the first time, Esther realises that Mycroft and Sherlock share some personality characteristics. Mycroft has only ever made one exception to his chosen ethos of solitary focus on his work; in his case, it is Sherlock. Now Sherlock seems to have done the same regarding Victor. Both are in pain. Without giving Mycroft time to protest, Esther continues: "Time to look forward to the future, show him that we are there for him and will be united to help him through the recovery."

For a moment, Mycroft's mask slips, and Esther sees the fear, worry and regret of a twenty-seven-year-old sibling trying to deal with an awful situation.

Then, the stony resolve she has learned to expect from him returns, and he replies icily, "Let's hope he survives long enough to have a future."

oOoOoOoOo

Six Weeks Later

Victor uses his foot to push his carry-on bag forward as the queue snakes closer to the passport check. Heathrow arrivals hall is a zoo; half of Asia seems to have arrived simultaneously. And, he'd been stupid enough to choose to return on the morning of an August bank holiday Monday when it seems that every Brit who has been out of the country on vacation is coming home. The UK/EU Passports Only line is almost as bad as the All Other Passports lines. After the thirty-seven hour journey from Sydney, Victor is tired and in need of a stretch, wash, and sleep; squeezing his six-foot-five frame into an economy class seat is a form of torture. The stop-over and change of planes in Los Angeles had offered a brief respite, but the overnight Virgin flight from LAX had been full and featuring what had begun to feel like an obligatory quota of screaming toddlers. He hasn't had a good night's sleep in a bed in two days, making it had been difficult to concentrate on watching the films shown on the flights or reading a novel he'd picked up at Sydney airport.

Another reason for distraction was that he'd spent most of the journey worrying about what he is going to find back in England. Ever since he left three months ago, there has not been a day that has passed when he has not thought of Sherlock. His journey to find the truth about the Trevor family may be over, but now he has to discover what the cost has been to his relationship with Sherlock.

Despite his angry message saying that he wouldn't call again, Victor could not hold to that threat—that had been just frustration breaking through, nothing more permanent. When he got to Sydney and purchased a new phone, the first number he'd dialled was Sherlock's, only to be shocked when an automated message informed him that the number was no longer in service. He'd tried calling Parham, too, only to discover that the landline number was somehow "not available". That provoked him to call Causton down in Devon and plead with the man to find out what had happened to Sherlock.

A day later, Jason had called him back, leaving a message: "Victor, sorry to have missed you. I regret to report that the Parham staff have been advised to say only that Sherlock is away and unavailable for contact either by telephone or in person. They simply would not be drawn on the reason why. I am sorry; I know this will worry you."

Causton had been spot on: Victor has been worrying himself sick ever since. Is this just Mycroft Holmes interfering again, or has something happened to Sherlock? Victor needs to know why their communication was so abruptly cut off. On his more paranoid days, he thinks that the cause has to be Mycroft Holmes, acting like a villain in some bad movie. It has been a struggle vacillating between that thought and outright worry that something really awful has happened to Sherlock.

Even without this doubt and worry constantly nipping at his heels, it would have been hard being apart from Sherlock; Victor misses him more than he would have thought possible. They'd only been together for six months, known each other for barely nine, and yet Sherlock has become a part of him in a way that all those years with Chloe never achieved. Victor's whole way of thinking has changed because of Sherlock, and often it had felt like the boy has been with him throughout his journey, even if it had just been inside his head rather than standing beside him, where he belonged. He'd listened to a busker playing a violin on an Auckland street corner, thinking: Sherlock would like that. He had laughed because he could imagine Sherlock then saying something about the bloke's choice of music. Rotorua's hot springs and bubbling mud, not to mention the sulphur stink, had made him smile because all he could think of is how Sherlock would have launched into a highly detailed scientifically technical explanation of how it all worked and then probably complained about the stench.

Sherlock's sensory acuity had opened up new layers in Victor's own perceptions the way things smelled, the sounds of crowds, how people interacted with one another. He'd eaten abalone at a street stall and imagined the face that Sherlock would have made; rubbery cephalopods and shellfish never failed to provoke his disgust. The satay chicken skewers might have passed muster; Sherlock developed a liking for peanut butter on his breakfast toast as long as it was smooth and not crunchy.

When Victor finally made his breakthrough by finding Lizzie Simpson in Rotorua, he'd told her all about how Sherlock had deduced her existence, showed her the photos of the evidence board back on the walls of the Colton Grange study. Beaming with pride, he'd even showed her the photo of Sherlock he'd taken in that pub near St Brides Church in London; Causton had sent a copy along with the other images. Victor had openly admitted to her that the worst thing about being in New Zealand was being apart, not being able to share the experience with Sherlock. At her suggestion, Victor had started a journal, making entries every day about what he'd seen, what he felt and wanted to share. In those words Sherlock would hopefully find the evidence of how much Victor had been missing him. Neither of them is much good at talking on the phone; maybe this would be a way to make amends. Victor had never been abroad alone before, and everything that has happened since their first visit to Colton Grange still has him reeling. He knows that his quest to make sense of it all had meant he'd been so wrapped up in himself while in New Zealand and Australia. Now that ghosts have been laid to rest, Victor is eager to get on with his life

In the familiar bustle of Heathrow, hearing familiar accents all around him, anxiety is building because it's real, now: he's home. It's over. In a few hours, he can collapse into bed, and hopefully not be alone. Now that the horrors of his family history have been fully unveiled, he can look forward to the new life—the new future he wants to build with Sherlock. He's learned enough about his family to realise that whatever crimes were committed, they are in the past, and not his fault. If Peter Spencer and Jack Trevor valued their reputations enough to take their own lives rather than risk exposure as homophobic rapists, then that was their problem and their shame to carry to their graves. Simon, Gees and he are the next generation, which needs to be able to make their own ways without taint.

Meeting Sherlock's Mystery Woman in the flesh had been a sobering experience. From her, Victor learned that the revenge she had on her mother's assailants was thin compensation for the years of poverty and stress that Betty Simpson had lived through, caused by being married to a homophobe with a penchant for domestic abuse. Even after the rape and the abduction of her son, Gees' mother had to struggle with PTSD while trying to make ends meet as a single parent. At least Victor had never known until he was an adult about how brutal the man who he'd thought of as a loving—if meddlesome— father was in his former life.

It's over. He knows everything, now. Time to move on.

He has so much to tell Sherlock. He's brought back three rolls of film, the photographic evidence to share every step of the journey with him. Not just the bits about Jack and Gloria, Peter and Elizabeth—no, he wants to show him the beauty of New Zealand, so he can promise that they will go back once they get the next year or so out of the way. That thought is the only thing that has kept his mood from plummeting down as the long journey home stretched his patience and mental reserves.

Yet, he cannot escape a constant, gut-clenching sensation that all of this is predicated on the belief that somehow, despite the enforced silence between them, he will be able to re-connect with Sherlock. That he will be allowed to make amends for their separation. That it will be enough of an excuse that he doesn't always quite know the right thing to do or say, and that he has tried to keep in touch but sometimes it felt easier to just focus on something else than their relationship. That he had skirted that subject in his messages because he didn't want to be reminded of how much he missed home and Sherlock—two things that now mean the same.

He wants… no, he needs for it to be possible to go back to the way things were between them; the alternative is too awful to contemplate.

Finally, he is first in line and the Border Agency officer handling the queue signals for him to go to the desk at the far end of the hall. He digs his passport out from his jeans pocket and lets out a sigh of relief. Nearly home.

But, as he approaches the desk, Victor realises that there is another person standing off to the side.

"Mister Trevor, please accompany me." The uniformed man's no-nonsense tone seems to be a bit more serious than he would have expected during a routine check.

"Why? What's the problem?" Victor looks at the desk officer, and then his tired brain realises that no one has seen his passport yet, so how the hell can they know who he is?

"This way, please." The officer gestures to a roped-off aisle that skirts the wall of the arrivals hall.

"No, just hold on a minute. What's going on? Where are you taking me?"

"Your co-operation is required. Please accompany me, Mister Trevor. I assume you all your questions will be answered."

There is polite firmness in the man's tone, but Victor is wary.

Before he can reply, the officer warns him: "If you are unwilling to comply, then I will have to call for additional officers to escort you. Surely we would both prefer to avoid a scene."

The implied threat annoys Victor. "What is your problem?"

"No problem, sir; you are not suspected of anything. We simply require your co-operation with a matter that arose during the flight. If you will accompany me, all will be explained."

Bewildered, Victor decides he really doesn't have a choice here, so he goes with the officer, who leads the way down the aisle to a set of double doors. Swiping his card to unlock them, the officer then takes him down a brightly lit hallway to a door with another swipe box. Opening it, he gestures Victor inside.

As he crosses the threshold, Victor realises that the person sitting on one side of a small table, facing an empty chair is someone he recognises—Mycroft Holmes, in the full armour of a perfectly tailored three-piece suit. He is wearing an expression that can only be manufactured by a genuine English aristocrat.

Victor has been surrounded by the G'Day blokes of Down Under for so long that he can only stare in exhausted astonishment at this apparition.

"Please be seated, Mister Trevor; you must be tired after such a long and undoubtedly very uncomfortable flight."

Victor can't manage anything other than to blurt out, "Why are you here? What's wrong? Has something happened to Sherlock? Is that why he hasn't been answering his phone? Where is he?"

The eyes that meet his are calculating, giving nothing away. "Your questions will be answered in good time. Be seated."

Something in the man's tone irks Victor and he stiffens, crossing his arms. "No, I won't. What the hell is going on? I need to get down to the baggage hall and collect my backpack."

"That is being done on your behalf."

"What right have you to interfere with my entry into the country? Am I under arrest, somehow?"

"Nothing of the sort. It is merely convenient to have this discussion here, before you have a chance to embark on a fruitless search for my brother." Mycroft gestures again to the chair.

Still annoyed and not mollified in the least, Victor drags the chair out from the table and flops down into it, leaning back with his arms still defensively crossed.

He is about to ask again about Sherlock when Mycroft interrupts him: "How was your trip? Did you succeed in your rendezvous with Miss Simpson in Los Angeles?"

"How do you know about that?"

The blue eyes are giving him an almost reptilian stare. The penny drops and Victor realises the implications. "You must have been listening into my phone messages—all of them, not just the times I've called Sherlock." It annoys him enough to snap, "Where is Sherlock and why hasn't he been answering? Have you somehow stopped him?"

"The answer to that question will come after you answer mine."

"I'm not playing this game, Lord Holmes. What is going on?!"

The man does not rise to the bait, but icily replies: "We do this on my terms, or not at all."

"What does that mean? You just said that I'm not under arrest, so you can't keep me here!"

"Either you answer my questions first, or you will not get the opportunity to find out anything about Sherlock."

Victor is outraged to the point of being speechless. But, he suddenly realises that Sherlock's brother may be in a position where he can demand this. Causton had said that Sherlock is 'unavailable and away'. Away where?

Victor's need to know is more important than anything else right now, including his pride. "What do you want to know?" If it comes out sullenly, he doesn't care.

"Was your mission successful? Did you find the answers to your questions?"

"Yes. Sherlock was right about just about everything he put up on the wall at Colton Grange. Given you seem to have snooped on every aspect of our lives together, I'll assume you've seen that wall, too. He is right that Jack Trevor and Peter Spencer were guilty of a heinous crime in New Zealand, and my mother and Peter's wife paid the price. I'm not Jack's son, but Peter's, which means Simon Spencer is my half-brother. Gees is the only living blood relative of Jack Trevor and she has more right to the inheritance than I do. I told her so when we met up in Los Angeles. The court cases will not proceed. That's it in a nutshell."

"So, not to put too fine a point on it, you are now returning to the UK homeless, in debt, and penniless."

The brutal honesty stings, and Victor rouses himself to fight back a bit. "I hadn't thought of it that way. I can work to pay my debts—I promised Simon as much—and make a new home for myself with Sherlock."

"That is no longer possible."

"Why?"

Mycroft Holmes reaches into a briefcase that is beside his chair and pulls out a manila folder, placing it on the table in front of him. "During your absence, you have been making a number of assumptions about Sherlock that are incorrect. Let's start with the very day you left for Auckland, shall we?"

He opens the file and slides a photo across the table. Victor recognises the kitchen of the Saxon Street flat, but it looks like a bomb has gone off inside. There is shattered crockery everywhere, and as Victor lifts the photo to get a closer look, he is shocked to see the tell-tale red of shed blood. "What happened? Did someone attack him? How is he?" Fear makes the questions tumble out in one gush. At least his sleep–deprived brain soon reminds him that since they've talked on the phone since, Sherlock must be alright.

"While you were leaving UK airspace for Asia, Sherlock had a rather violent meltdown and then resorted to self-harm: four self-inflicted slashes on his upper thigh which required hospital treatment. As you see, he did not deal well at all with your precipitous departure."

Victor is stunned. "I don't understand. He hurt himself? Why? When I spoke to him from Heathrow, he was fine! He talked about the new flatshare and packing up. He doesn't do stuff like that, why would he–– I've talked to him after I left, and he was fine!"

Mycroft's expression is stony. "Actions speak louder than words, don't you think?" He takes the photo back and turns it upside down. "If you wish for a more dramatic retelling of the incident, I suggest you speak to Mister Causton, who discovered Sherlock in the nick of time. The man was quite shaken, but agreed to Sherlock's begging him not to tell you. I collected Sherlock from the hospital and took him back to London where he resumed therapy with the psychiatrist who has been treating him on and off since he was ten years old."

"I don't understand. I talked to him when I got to Auckland; he sounded fine. Sherlock didn't say anything about being in London or anything about a––a meltdown." The word is unfamiliar to Victor. What does that even mean? And what was that about a psychiatrist?

"No, of course he wouldn't," the older Holmes dismisses in a berating tone. "Sherlock would have been most embarrassed to admit this to you, so he allowed you to assume what you wanted. As I said, you've made a lot of assumptions all along in this relationship of yours, mostly based on expecting for my brother to react and think the way you do. Sadly, those assumptions are often what happens, since Sherlock—when he so chooses—has built some skill in passing for someone without his…particular difficulties."

Lord Holmes takes a pause. When he continues, it's as though a switch has been flicked, and the tone that had been skirting sympathy has been replaced with an accusation: "Even before you left, you seemed more concerned about your father's reaction to you than to Sherlock, overlooked the consequences of him being subjected to such a level of verbal abuse about his sexual orientation I must admit I find difficult to accept as possible in this day and age. Do you have any idea how horrible it would have been to be on the receiving end of such vitriol? My brother has always hesitated to form any kind of relationship, to be intimate with anyone before you. Now, I am certain that he will never be brave enough to try again or perhaps even to admit his sexual orientation to anyone. Your father spared you from the worst, putting the blame squarely on Sherlock's shoulders, and you added to that burden by having the temerity to send him back to Colton to deal with the remains of such a man. Did it truly never occur to you what a strain that would put on him?"

Victor is feeling the pressure now, wrong-footed and alarmed. The guilt surges in, but he does have some words to offer in his own defence. "Sherlock thought it was sensible and logical that he attend to see if his mystery woman made an appearance. He wasn't distressed by it! He didn't tell me he wasn't in Cambridge," he adds for good measure to demonstrate to the aristocrat staring him down that, like Sherlock tends to say, it's not possible to deduce anything properly without all the facts.

That excuse cuts no ice with his interrogator. "Again, Sherlock's hardly likely to have admitted the truth to you, especially given what a fine time you were having, sightseeing and consorting with your rugby friends in Rotorua." Mycroft opens the folder again and consults a sheet of text which Victor tries to read from the other side of the desk. He soon recognises it as a transcript of some of his messages to Sherlock.

"It seems pertinent to remind you that you were vocally questioning at this stage whether the whole thing was some figment of Sherlock's imagination. You kept stressing how important it was to find evidence promptly to support your various legal claims."

Another photo is extracted and pushed across the table to Victor. It's a night shot, a bit blurry, of a figure crouched by a door, fiddling with the keyhole.

"That is Sherlock, attempting to break and enter into the premises of your father's solicitors in Norwich, presumably in search of the name of the will's beneficiary. It followed similar thefts, first from the hospital—two vials of your father's blood—and then at the coroner's office—the post mortem report which you had presumed he collected as per your instructions. This he was unable to do because he was hospitalised for his injuries."

"I never asked him to do this, never––I wouldn't have; the risks…" Victor knows he is stuttering and defensive, but this revelation has shaken him badly.

"My people intervened before Sherlock could pick the lock, which would have set off an alarm and likely led to his arrest. He was prepared to take action likely to result in a criminal record in order to meet your demand for evidence."

"You make it sound like I'm some sort of––I don't know what, but… I never, ever asked him to do this. I wouldn't!"

Mycroft gives him a rather pained smile. "Perhaps not. A charitable interpretation is that you simply did not understand the lengths my brother would go to in his attempt to please you." He pulls the photo back to him, turns it over and adds it to the pile by the folder.

"Sherlock was taken from Norwich to Parham, where his mental stability deteriorated further. He retreated briefly into dissociation. Are you familiar with the psychiatric term? In brief, it means that he simply stops reacting to everything that is happening around him; he loses touch with reality and cannot be roused. He stopped speaking, eating, refused to even drink water for three days. When he emerged from that, it was into what the psychiatrist termed a major depressive episode."

"God," Victor whispers. Then with more force, "Why? Why didn't someone tell me?!"

"This coincided with a series of banal messages from you on his phone about your little adventures. Not once did you bother to consider what effect your absence might have had on him. I could not expose him to such communiques, not while we were still doing our utmost best to discern how best to help him."

A spark of anger takes hold, pushing his distress about Sherlock aside for a moment. "You're acting like that's all my fault; I thought he was fine! You're the one who took his passport hostage and refused to let him pay for our trip together. If he'd been with me, none of that would ever have happened!"

"You can't know that. In fact, you have never fully appreciated the fragility of his mental state, let alone understood the strain that living up to your expectations of him in your relationship imposed on him. I daresay that you did not quite grasp the depth of his affection for you; my brother has always been highly emotional, and when his emotions get out of control he can become attached in a way that serves only to harm him."

Holmes clasps his hands together on top of the folder. "This breakdown and what happened afterwards could have just as easily happened twelve thousand miles away as your single-minded focus on your search for answers lead to the deterioration of your relationship. There, he would have been without the support network he needs to survive."

Victor's mind has stuttered to a halt at the words 'and what happened after'. "There's more?" he whispers.

"Regrettably, yes. While he was being treated for the depression, your messages stacked up. As one of his symptoms was mutism, he could hardly reply, so I held onto his phone, concerned as I was that such carefree messages from you could send him into an even deeper tailspin."

Victor's eyes are prickling, and he bites his lip. Showing his true state of distress in front of Sherlock's brother might be misinterpreted as weakness. He has to be strong, has to keep his emotions in check if he's going to come out of this conversation with his wits and his pride intact. There are too many things that need sorting out, no time to fall apart.

He uses his anger to anchor him to the task: "Why didn't you tell me? If you were listening in, you knew about my new phone. Why didn't you call me yourself? Come to think of it, I asked Causton to call you to find out why Sherlock wasn't answering. You could have told him. I would have come back. I would have come back, because it would have been more important than what I was doing out there."

Mycroft does not reply, letting the silence lengthen.

To Victor, that silence seems to signal that the one he would have needed to convince of his priorities is not sitting at this table.

He snaps, "So, you did nothing to help him at all, didn't explain to him anything about what I said in those messages. It's because you blame me; you think this is my fault. That I am somehow responsible for everything that has happened."

A pained smile of agreement emerges. "Suffice to say that if that wretched dog of yours had not attacked Sherlock, then he would be in the happy position of working on a prestigious internship with Professor Blay, preparing for his final year of academic work."

"Christ," Victor scoffs. "Dad thought everything was Sherlock's fault, and you blame it all on me. Why is it that nobody understands that we're together, that we made all the decisions?"

"Such as the decision regarding the timing of your departure? Or the selecting of a new residence after you lost the lease at Saxon Street? Clearly, your knowledge of the things Sherlock finds most difficult is sorely lacking, since you left him to deal with interacting with potential co-inhabitants all on his own. Oh, by the way, since you never bothered to ask on any of your multitudinous messages, Sherlock did get a first and he did win the chemistry prize for the best undergraduate final project. Not that it will do him any good for the time being; I've had to defer his entry for at least one term. Most likely, this will need to be extended to the whole of next year."

Victor is struggling to take all of this in; his worst fears about what could have happened to Sherlock in his absence seem to be coming true. He'd had a hunch that Sherlock was downplaying some stuff, but during their last conversation they had talked honestly about being apart, hadn't they?

Why can't Sherlock go back to Cambridge? Why defer for a whole year?

Scrambling for purchase in the barrage of all the news, Victor manages to ask: "Where is he? I want to see him. I need to see him!"

"He's in a secure psychiatric unit—a private one—and you are not permitted to see him. Not even I am I advised to attempt to interact with him, for the time being. It seems that we both share the privilege of being a trigger for his breakdown, according to the therapists there."

Something breaks in Victor. "How can I believe you? You could be making all this up, all this––" He points at the file, "––could just be lies to keep us apart. You've never wanted him to be with me, always interfered, spied on us—who the fuck does stuff like that? As soon as I was on a plane, you've probably been sabotaging us, driving a wedge between us. What right do you think you have to stop him from even hearing my messages?"

"Unfortunately, I didn't stop him; I wish I had. That would have spared him from your declaration that you were going to Sydney; that you might not be back until September. Your tone and the implication that there was something fundamentally adrift in your relationship had an unfortunate effect on Sherlock, one I regrettably failed to anticipate. He vanished from Parham and made his way to London, ending up at a club the two of you once frequented. There he took what would have been a lethal overdose of heroin and cocaine."

"No…" Victor's hold on his emotions breaks and it comes out more as a sob than a word. He knows that his tears have escaped his lids and are making their way down his face, but no part of him cares anymore. "No, no––"

"He was found in time for no permanent damage to occur. Permanent physical damage, that is."

Mycroft Holmes opens the file and pulls out another photo which he slides across the table to Victor. "This was taken four weeks ago, a week after he was sectioned and moved to the clinic."

The image is shocking: Sherlock, pale and thin, so very thin that those cheekbones are jutting out of a face the colour of which is close to matching the sheets. Those amazing blue-green eyes are nearly closed, deep in sockets that are smudged and bruised. A thin tube runs to his nose, alongside a cannula the tell-tale prongs of which signal that it must be carrying oxygen.

Victor is still trying to deal with the horror of the image—the contrast with which his memory of the healthy, happy and loving boy he'd left behind is crushing—when Mycroft starts speaking again: "I have been granted power of attorney over his affairs. It is unlikely that he will be able to be discharged before his 21st birthday, so I can say with complete confidence that you can no longer look to him for financial support."

"I'll wait," Victor replies hastily, trying to infuse his broken tone with confidence he doesn't have. "I'll defer my entry until next year, work to earn the tuition fees. As soon as he's well enough to see me, I'll be there for him, help him; I love him. I'll put everything on hold, I'll take care of him––"

"No. This breakdown is the price for him of your relationship and why you will never be allowed to see him again."

"That's not up to you, because we love each other. You can't change that. We'll get through this; I just need to see him; I love him––"

"So you say. If it's true, and your devotion for him is as selfless as you profess it to be, then you must realise that this relationship is toxic to his mental health. Contrary to your assumptions, I have not attempted to discourage it out of malice; I simply know Sherlock well enough to have foreseen the inevitable."

Victor shakes his head, speechless.

Mycroft Holmes is anything but. "I came prepared for the possibility that you may well both be too young to see sense; it is pointless for you to wait for him to get well enough to be able to leave the clinic. If necessary, I will secure a court injunction forbidding you to be within a thousand meters of him, and to bar you from any form of communication."

"Why do you hate me so much?"

"I don't. Not at all, so you shouldn't take this personally. I have no doubt that for a time, you and my brother took pleasure in each other's company, and for a short time, he seemed to thrive in it. Any person such as yourself could have made the erroneous assumption that he'd be able to sustain the pressure of a relationship without this sort of catastrophic result; his skills in concealing his problems even when they threaten his safety, his health and his life are formidable. To persist in your attachment to him will simply make his current situation worse. It is also a ridiculous waste of your time and potential, Mister Trevor. Which is why I have an alternative arrangement for you to consider."

Mycroft returns to the manila folder and takes out a stamped envelope, which Victor realises is addressed to him. His eye spots the return address on the upper left-hand corner.

He tears open the sealed envelope and withdraws a single sheet of typed correspondence: "As the Dean of Admissions for the MBA programme at The Stanford Graduate School of Business, I am pleased to advise you that your application has been accepted. A full joining pack will be sent under separate cover. I look forward to meeting you at the induction session on Wednesday the 5th of September at 10.15 a.m."

Victor drops the letter onto the table. "I didn't apply for this."

"The application was made on your behalf, endorsed by the Dean of the Judge Business School at Cambridge. You are being fully funded as part of a one-off exchange student scheme. Perhaps you are aware that Stanford Graduate School of Business is the number one rated MBA programme in the world? I have no doubt that this arrangement is to the benefit of Cambridge University to be associated with such a prestigious institution. Your tuition fees of $33,000 a year for a two-year full-time MBA are already paid for by an anonymous donor, as is the cost of accommodation at the Schwab Residential Centre, complete with a monthly stipend for living expenses. There will be no debts."

Victor's tired mind is beginning to flail in panic. "I don't understand––I'm supposed to be starting the Cambridge programme in two weeks?"

"The admission to this year's programme needed an advance payment of tuition fees, which you missed. Deferring entry costs £700, a sum which you do not have available. That door is closed."

Stubbornly, Victor shakes his head. "I could get seven hundred from Simon. I already owe him enough that he won't mind adding to the pile."

"Alas, your half-brother is no longer in London. His bank fired him three weeks ago when they found evidence of his off-book trading in contravention of the compliance requirements. The impropriety was revealed when he defaulted on a trade, and he is in the midst of bankruptcy proceedings unless he is able to sell his Canary Wharf apartment or his father's death is confirmed and he is able to claim on the life insurance policy. He has moved to the Cayman Islands, where he is currently advising corporate clients seeking offshore tax shelters. He will be unable to provide you with any further assistance, and you may find that your debts to him could be called in shortly, by the administrator. Unless a benefactor intervenes, that is."

Another letter is slid across the table. This one is from none other than Mycroft himself, addressed to the Court of Insolvency, advising them of Victor's current absence from the country but promising to meet in full any and all debts listed by Simon Spencer as being owed by Victor Trevor.

Victor is struggling to take all of this in. It's too much; he doesn't even know where to start trying to grasp what's going on. "You… you're the anonymous donor, paying for the tuition fees, and now my debts. You've arranged all of this just to keep me away from Sherlock?"

"Yes."

The bluntness is like a punch to Victor's solar plexus.

"As I said, I bear you no ill-will," the older Holmes adds. "Assigning blame will help none of the parties recover and move forward." He gestures to the letter. "Your future path comes with only one string attached."

Victor feels like a rag doll, all the fight gone from him, leaving only a bitter, angry hollow. "A Faustian pact, then? Sell my soul to you?"

"Nothing so dramatic. You must simply agree not to contact Sherlock in any way shape or form, or return to the UK, before the two years of your exchange have passed. You may think of this as a cooling off period."

"But I love him."

"If you do, then you will let him recover. I can assure you that if you tried to contact him now, he would refuse to see you. Despite his current state, he is self-aware enough to feel shame at what he believes are his failings alone. You need to give him the time he needs to find his way back to himself. Trying to re-establish his relationship with you will only turn into a vicious circle, the risks of which have already materialised."

"I can't leave without seeing him. Like you just said, I left once before like that; I won't do it to him again."

"If no further harm could be done by allowing that, I would. But, as I said, no further risks regarding his mental state can be taken, and I must submit to the recommendations of his treatment team. They have advised against further contact between the two of you for the time being. If you need corroboration from an independent party…" Mycroft pulls a business card out of his pocket and hands it to Victor, "…This is the name and telephone number of his psychiatrist. Doctor Esther Cohen has known Sherlock since he was a child, and she has been told to expect your call."

Victor knows he is being handled with all the finesse of a steam-roller, but there is little he can do to protest; Mycroft seems to have predicted his every reaction.

Now, the man returns to the manila folder. First he hands across a fat A4 envelope. "Joining instructions and the accommodation details. Your new bank account in California and your student visa." Then he pulls out a hard card envelope bearing a British Airways logo, which he places in front of Victor, beside the letter. "Given your recent experiences with air travel, I thought you might appreciate an upgrade. This is a first class single ticket to San Francisco. It will give you access to the Executive Lounge here at Heathrow Terminal Four, where you can clean up, change clothes and have something to eat while waiting for the evening departure. A credit card linked to the account I just mentioned is also in the envelope; it will allow whatever purchases from the airport you require. Your backpack will be re-tagged for transit on this flight; no need to collect it. As for the rest of your possessions, I will arrange to have them sent to Stanford from the self-storage facility in Norwich, where Jason Causton moved your things when the Grange was sold. Again, at no cost to you."

His sleep-deprived brain is trying to make sense of all this. He opens the BA folder and sees the boarding card, his eyes focus on the date. "You want me to leave tonight?"

"As the Stanford letter says, induction is only four days away. You will need time to recover from jet lag, so it is pointless wasting time where so little of your old life remains."

"I need time to think this over. I'm tired. I need to think about this."

Mycroft shrugs. "The flight departs at 16.10 this afternoon; you will need to be at the gate by 15.30 which gives you six hours to decide. If you are on the flight, I will know that you have accepted the terms of our arrangement. If you aren't, then the entire deal is off the table and you're on your own."

He closes the manila folder and puts it back in his briefcase, then stands up. "I have done everything I can to help you build a future. I believe that I am doing this in both your self-interest and that of my brother. Whatever your decision will be, I bid you farewell, Victor Trevor."

He extends a hand to Victor, who by reflex also stands up. Bewildered and bone-weary, Victor shakes it, and before he even notices, Mycroft Holmes is gone.

The Border Agency officer pokes his nose in through the open door. "Ready now, sir? I will escort you back to passport control. I understand your backpack has already been collected and re-tagged for your onward journey."

Victor follows him out, shaking his head. He has six hours to sort both the debris field that has become of his life, and the shattered pieces of his heart.

oOoOoOoOoOo

"Hello, Esther Cohen here."

"Doctor Cohen, my name is Victor Trevor. I've been given your name and number by Mycroft Holmes. I think he told you that I would be calling, to talk to you about Sherlock."

"Hello, Mister Trevor. Yes, he did tell me, and let me say how glad I am to hear from you. I know you must be worried sick about Sherlock."

"Yes, ma'am, I am. Beyond words….I was worried when he didn't call me back, but I never dreamt that… well, you can imagine what his brother has told me."

"Victor… may I call you Victor? I feel like I know you already even though we've never met."

"Of course. How is he? Really? Is it as awful as Lord Holmes has said?" Victor leans forward in the leather recliner in the First Class lounge of Terminal Four. He's had a shower, shave and a change of clothes, a properly cooked meal—breakfast, lunch or dinner?—he's not sure which, given how messed up his body clock is. In Sydney right now it would be eleven o'clock at night. He's tired, but he did manage to catnap for an hour after the shower, getting the lounge steward to wake him up before he slept too long.

The BA coffee is strong and the caffeine has kicked in enough to prepare him for what he thinks may be the most important conversation of his life. Even before he'd picked up the phone, the generosity of Mycroft's offer rolling around in his head keeps banging into his feelings about Sherlock. Victor knows that he's pitched it in such a way as to make it hard to say no. And yet… at the same time Victor feels the magnetic pull of Sherlock, of wanting to be here, to make things right, to heal what has happened while they've been separated.

The calm voice on the other end of the line intrudes into these thoughts. "I don't know what Mycroft will have told you, not for certain anyway. I can imagine that he painted the worst possible picture, because right now that is how he is seeing things."

"Are you saying that Sherlock is better?" He can hear the enthusiastic hope that laces his reply.

"No. Not better. Perhaps not as bad. Mycroft has a tendency to catastrophise. But then in his line of work, he's always dealing with worst case scenarios. And being responsible for Sherlock since he was only eighteen himself has been quite challenging. Has he told you that this is not the first time that Sherlock has been in a clinic?"

"Yes, ma'am. But he didn't elaborate."

"I have to be careful here to respect my patient's confidentiality here, so you will understand I hope if I am a little sparse on detail."

He respects her discretion, so hums an assent.

"Sherlock is on the Spectrum, which Mycroft tells me you are aware of."

He gives another hum, impatient to get past the obvious.

"Then you may know that social relationships are one of the hardest things for people on the Spectrum to navigate. Many withdraw completely, don't even try to form friendships or more intimate relationships. Some find emotions difficult to understand. But everyone is different, and it isn't fair to stereotype. In the past, Sherlock has formed deep emotional attachments to the very few people who matter to him, and when something happens, he finds it very, very hard to deal with the loss. His mother when he was ten, and his mentor, a chemistry teacher when he was at school—both of them died, and he was bereft. He couldn't handle the grief and it made him ill."

"I'm alive, Doctor Cohen. He hasn't lost me. I know he loves me. And I want to help, to be there for him, to do whatever I can to repair things. I had no idea…." Victor runs out of words and for a moment has to take a deep breath and pinch the bridge of his nose to stop his emotions from taking hold of him. "I didn't know that he was suffering at all while I've been away. The few times we spoke on the phone, he seemed fine. If I had known he was in trouble, I would have come back. I am just so sorry…" His voice cracks and he is grateful that he's pulled his chair so that it faces out of the window onto the runway. The lounge is busy with businessmen who have already looked somewhat askance at his casual attire

He is grateful that Doctor Cohen is a woman. Somehow that makes it easier to speak about this on the phone. Perhaps she won't be as judgemental about him as Sherlock's brother has been.

"I understand your distress, Victor. I do know that before this recent breakdown, Sherlock was very happy in your relationship. And I need to explain- that happiness is something that has happened so little in his life that it is truly remarkable. I think that is part of the problem. He knows what is possible with you, and blames himself for failing to sustain it."

"But it isn't anyone's fault! Not his for certain, maybe mine for being so selfish and wanting to sort out the mess of my own family life. I don't know if anyone has explained to you where I was and what I've been doing. It's Sherlock's advice; he's the one who told me what to look for and where to go. It never occurred to me that he'd get into a state while I was away. But, I'm back now and together we can fix this: I am sure. I love him."

There is an exhale of breath on the other end of the line. "Right now, Sherlock does not love himself. He doesn't love anyone or anything. He's shut down, closed off emotions because they are too painful for him. Emotional dysregulation is what it is called."

"I want to see him. I need to see him, to ask him if he wants me to go away. I know that is what his brother wants me to do, but I won't do it if Sherlock wants me stay. I don't care about business school, or my unpaid debts. None of them matter at all, if he wants me to stay. I can wait until he is better."

She sighs. "You need to understand something. When Sherlock is like this, he hates it. Hates himself for what he is, what he is feeling and how he is not living up to the standards he sets for himself. If I were to ask him, he'd be horrified at the idea of you seeing him like this. You may think it is unfair for me to make this kind of assumption on his behalf, but I have known him since he was ten years old. Just the idea of anyone he cares about seeing him like this would unleash such self-loathing. It is the thing I fear the most for him, because this is what drives him towards suicidal ideation. I am sorry to be the one who has to tell you this, but Sherlock's breakdown meant that he almost certainly decided to try to kill himself with an overdose. He hasn't said as much, because he is barely communicating at the moment. But the tox screen figures don't lie. Unfortunately, this is not the first time that he's found himself in such a dark place and decided to end it all, but I can assure you that we are doing everything we can to help him out of it."

Not the first time…. That phrase ricochets around in Victor's mind, tearing into his hopes. "I don't need, don't want him to be perfect. I just want to be with him. To help. And if me being away from him has in any way contributed to what's happened, then I need to make it right, to tell him that I love him, that I want him to get better." He's repeating himself. He can hear it but can't stop because he has no other words to explain how this is tearing him apart.

"I'm sorry, Victor. He isn't in a place where he can hear that. He's not really listening to anything at the moment. If… no, when I can get him talking again properly, then I could ask, but it could be weeks, if not months. I wouldn't want to get your hopes up."

Victor heaves a sigh. He's stuck. If he turns down Mycroft's offer, then he's basically kissing goodbye to the dreams that he and Sherlock had shared. If he goes, and Sherlock gets better enough to start thinking about him again, what if he decides that he doesn't want a future with Victor, because he's not been there when he needed him?

Doctor Cohen fills the silent pause in their conversation. "Can I make a suggestion? Write him a letter. Tell him what you are feeling, that you care about him. There will come a time when he needs to know that he has been loved, that he is lovable still because I am determined to be optimistic about his recovery. When, not if, the time comes that he is ready to think about you, then I can give him the letter. You and I can stay in touch so that I can keep you updated."

"I've written a journal. I was planning on giving it to him when I got back. Can I send it to you as well?"

"Of course."

"To you, just you. You will promise me that you will never let his brother see it or the letter? I don't trust him. He's been against our relationship from the very beginning, and I wouldn't put it past him to stop Sherlock from ever seeing what I've sent him. He's going to paint me as the villain here; I just know it."

She does not hesitate. "You can trust me. Mycroft is, well… overly protective of Sherlock. He's had good reason, and his motives are honest, if not always his methods. You should have my mailing address on that business card I gave him to give to you. I will keep whatever you send me and give it to Sherlock when I think he's able to deal with it. I promise."

"If he wants me back, even if all he wants to do is see me before making a decision, you will tell me? Because whatever I am doing, wherever I am, I will come. You must tell him that."

"I promise."

"Then I'd best ring off now and start writing that letter. I have two hours to go before they call my flight for boarding."

"Good luck, Victor. I hope things go well for you."

"They will only go well, if Sherlock gets well."

"I understand. I will do my best; I promise."

"Thank you, Doctor Cohen. Bye for now."

"Bye."

Victor ends the call and beckons the lounge steward over. "Do you have some writing paper and an A4 envelope I could have? And I will need something posted before my flight."

"Of course, sir. Our business centre can handle your needs." He points to the door by the side of the bar. "They've got just about everything you could wish for."

If only things were so simple. As Victor heads for the door, he wishes that Sherlock was beside him, about to head off together to a new life together in California.