Chapter Twenty-Six

'You seem less than appreciative of this development, Mr Holmes,' Drew Merriman observed.

'I appreciate that Eurus needs to be represented in court and that, in order to achieve that, she must engage her representatives herself,' Sherlock replied.

'But?'

'But I'm concerned that my sister will be highly suspicious of anyone turning up at Sherrinford claiming to be Human Rights lawyers and asking her to sign something official. I suspect that she may refuse to cooperate.'

Miss Gatsby was keen to reassure him.

'Mr Merriman and his team have carried out this procedure many times, Mr Holmes, and often with people who have even less reason than your sister to trust another human being. They will know how to reassure her.'

'Really?' Sherlock huffed. He wanted it to be true but the doubt refused to go away. 'My sister has spent many years masquerading as a psychopath in order to protect and preserve her true personality…'

Much as you have been masquerading as a sociopath, the voice in his head reminded him.

'…She has only exposed her true nature to a very small, select group of people…'

Ditto, the voice added.

'…She doesn't trust easily…'

Like sister, like brother.

'You will need to convince her that this isn't a trick perpetrated by Mycroft to trap her into agreeing to something irreversible. I need to be there. It's the only way to win her trust.'

The barrister and the solicitor exchanged a glance and then Mr Ramachandran shrugged.

'The Home Office will, I'm sure, insist on sticking to the letter of the law which is that your sister may choose to engage a legal representative, independently and of her own free will. They will argue that the presence of a close family member could be interpreted as coercion, placing doubt on the independence of Eurus's choices. So, you are probably the least likely person to be allowed to be present at that meeting.'

'However,' Miss Gatsby interjected, 'we could insist that, as a vulnerable adult, your sister is entitled to have an Appropriate Adult present. That person would be appointed by the court and would be there to advise and assist your sister. Not to give legal advice but to ensure that your sister's rights are not breached in any way during the interview.'

'But you are right,' Mr Merriman conceded. 'It is vital that Miss Holmes cooperates with this initial process. Once we have her signature appointing me as her legal representative, all communication between her and my team will be subject to client confidentiality. So, you will be able to communicate with her, through us, without your brother or anyone else having knowledge of or access to what has been discussed. Once we're over this particular hurdle, the process should be a lot easier to manage.'

'And once you have Eurus's consent, what happens next?'

'With Eurus's signature on the document, we can begin to prepare our case in order to bring the writ of Habeus Corpus. And you will be crucial to that process. Having visited her regularly over the last six months, you will be our primary witness. The Home Office will endeavour to present evidence to justify your sister's continued incarceration.'

'So, what you're saying is that Eurus will effectively be on trial?'

'No, not at all. The proceedings will take the form of a judicial review. The evidence will be scrutinised by a judge and the decision will be theirs and theirs alone. There will be no jury.

But let's not get ahead of ourselves. One step at a time. And the first step is to obtain your sister's permission to act on her behalf.'

Sherlock was still dubious. The idea of an Appropriate Adult was good in principle but, in his opinion, it would just be another stranger for Eurus to distrust. His facial expression mirrored his misgivings, prompting Miss Gatsby to say,

'We can request that you be included in the meeting but we can't guarantee it will be successful.'

They couldn't be more positive than that. It was really down to the Home Office and, consequently, in Mycroft's hands. And, in the light of their most recent encounter, Sherlock had little doubt what his answer would be. But it was agreed that a request would be submitted and that concluded their business for the day.

On leaving Middle Temple, Sherlock was deep in thought, running through the many scenarios that might transpire if and when the Advocate and his team turned up to see Eurus. He wondered where the meeting might take place. Would Drew Merriman and his team be allowed to visit Sherrinford or would Eurus be brought to them on the mainland? If it were to be at Sherrinford, would they be allowed into Eurus's cell or have to speak to her through the glass? And if they were allowed inside the cell, would that precipitate an adverse reaction from his sister? The whole situation, though potentially a step in the right direction, was fraught with danger for Eurus if they couldn't win her over.

Having been walking on auto pilot for several minutes, Sherlock found himself outside St Bart's. His feet had borne him inexorably to this spot - his 'home from home', as Mycroft put it.

Home is where the heart is.

'Oh, do be quiet!' Sherlock hissed as he took the lift to the Pathology Department.

Molly was sitting at one of the microscopes, peering at something on a slide and making notes on a note pad but she looked up when she heard the double doors swish open and swing shut.

'Oh, hello!' she said, brightly, gracing her visitor with a broad, welcoming smile. 'What brings you here?'

Sherlock was caught on the hop. He didn't really know what had brought him here. It had just…happened.

'I have some news,' he said, at last.

'Good news?' Molly asked, though his general demeanour suggested the opposite.

'I'm not sure…' he replied, frowning.

Molly glanced around the path lab, noting all the technicians and junior pathologists making quite a show of focusing diligently on their work whilst straining every sinew to eavesdrop on her conversation with Sherlock. Without hesitation, she slipped off her laboratory stool and crossed the room, took him by the arm – much as he had done to her, that evening in Baker Street – and led him into her office, closing the door behind them before turning to him to say,

'Tell me what's happened.'

In the private confines of that small room, Sherlock related the content of his meeting with the legal team and all his concerns for Eurus if he were not allowed to attend her meeting with the Advocate.

Molly listened intently, processing every detail and analysing all the implications of the facts presented, her lips pursing in acknowledgement the sharp horns of this dilemma.

'Yes, I see your point,' she said, eyes narrowing, seeking inspiration. 'What you need is a safe word.'

'A safe word?' he asked. 'You mean that thing that sexual partners have if they…?'

She met his puzzled expression with a startled one.

'Oh, no!' she squeaked. 'Not a safe word, sorry. You need a pass word. Something the Advocate can use that she would know could only have come from you…'

'Yes…' he replied, nodding slowly, 'you're absolutely right. But what could that be…?' He was scanning his database, going back over all his visits with Eurus during the past six months, searching for a suitable candidate. The problem was, all those occasions had been monitored and recorded and probably viewed many times by many people - dissected and analysed, transcribed and filed away. None of the content would be private and exclusive to him and her.

But then his eyes widened and his mouth formed a round 'O'. His hands came up, fingers splayed in an attitude of surprise and then he grabbed her by her upper arms and pulled her toward him.

'Of course!' he exclaimed. 'Molly Hooper, you are a genius! Not only a conductor of light but an actual source! Where would I be without you?'

'I bet you say that to all the girls,' Molly giggled, self-consciously.

'Absolutely not!' Sherlock retorted, his expression suddenly sober and sincere. 'I'm serious, Molly. Where would I be without you?'

His eyes burned so intently that she forgot to breathe. Standing in that enclosed space as the seconds ticked slowly by, held in the grip of his hands and by the intensity of his gaze, Molly was a deer in the headlights.

And then, it was over. He let go and stepped back.

'Thank you, thank you, Molly,' he said, looking and sounding as flustered as she felt. 'I'll do that. Yes, straight away. Thank you.' And, with a swish of his freshly dry-cleaned Belstaff, he turned, grabbed the door handle, yanked open the door and was gone, leaving Molly still frozen in place.

For a moment, there, she had honestly thought he was going to kiss her.

And how did Sherlock Holmes know about 'safe words'?

ooOoo

What just happened?

Nothing happened.

No, but it nearly did.

'Nearly' is not the same as 'happened'. Nothing happened.

Only because you stopped it.

Exactly. I stopped it. Nothing happened.

Well, she noticed.

No, she didn't.

Of course, she did.

Well, she probably thinks she imagined it.

She's not stupid.

I know she's not stupid! When have I ever said she was stupid?

You haven't, which is rather my point.

Arguing with yourself, Sherlock?

Sherlock stopped abruptly in the corridor en route to the lift, eyes squeezed shut and finger tips pressed to his temples. As if it weren't bad enough having to defend himself to Mind Palace John, now Mind Palace Mycroft was butting in. He took a deep breath, opened a door inside his brain, shoved both John and Mycroft unceremoniously inside and slammed the door shut. He had work to do and no time to spare for self-recrimination.

He by-passed the lift and took the stairs to the ground floor and, as he emerged onto the pavement outside the hospital, took out his mobile and dialled his father's number.

'Hello, son. This is a pleasant surprise,' his father's voice answered, his words inducing a pang of guilt in Sherlock.

'Yes, sorry, Pa. How are you?'

'Not so bad, all things considered,' Siger Holmes gave his stock reply. He'd probably say that even if he were in the middle of a cardiac arrest. 'What can I do for you?'

'Is Mummy there?'

'No, I'm afraid not. It's Tuesday. She's at the WI.' He consulted his wrist watch then added, 'But she should be back soon...Oh!'

There was a sharp intake of breath as Siger processed two pieces of information – it was Tuesday, Sherlock was ringing.

'Has something happened? Has Eurus started speaking again?'

'No, Pa. I'm not at Sherrinford today…'

'Ah.'

Sherlock could hear the disappointment in his father's voice. Obviously, Mycroft hadn't shared the information with their parents that his regular Tuesday visits had been curtailed and this was not the right time for him to tell them, either. There was more urgent business to discuss.

'Look, I'm sorry to have to ask but I need you to do something for me.'

'Don't be sorry! Ask away and if it's in my power to assist, I will, of course.'

Sherlock took a preparatory breath.

'Do you remember, when we were children, Mummy had a favourite hairband? The one she wore on special occasions?'

This was an odd question and probably the last thing Siger had been expecting but he took it on board without question.

'Yes, I think I do remember it. It was aquamarine, wasn't it? Yes, it was my favourite, too - it matched her eyes…'

'Does she still have it?'

It was a long shot, thirty years on.

'Erm…' Concentration creased Siger's brow as he tried to recall the last time he'd seen his wife wearing that particular hairband. Nothing was jumping out at him.

'I've no idea,' he said, at last, 'but if she does, I know where it will be…'

Sherlock heard his father's footsteps moving through the house.

'She has a special place for all her little keepsakes,' Siger explained as he made his way to the foot of the stairs.

Sherlock listened as his father began to climb to the first floor and noted how every step the old man took was accompanied by a grunt as he made slow progress up the steep, narrow cottage staircase. The contrast to Sherlock's childhood memories of a fit, energetic man bounding effortlessly up those same stairs, taking them three at a time, was a painful reminder of how little he had interacted with his parents in recent years, so much so that he hadn't noticed the slow, gradual decline. However much longer his father might have on this Earth, Sherlock made a solemn vow right there and then that he would share as much of that time with him as possible.

Siger reached the first-floor landing and paused.

'Dear, dear, just give me a moment. These knees aren't getting any younger,' the old man sighed, echoing his son's thoughts.

'Take all the time you need,' Sherlock insisted, despite his rising anxiety that his mother might return at any moment and possibly thwart his plan.

Recovered from his climb, Siger continued on to the master bedroom which he shared with his wife. He crossed the floor to the third set of fitted wardrobe doors that spanned the entire width of the room and stretched from floor to ceiling. Reaching up, he opened one of the upper doors, just on his eye level, and peered inside the cupboard.

'Ah, there it is,' he exclaimed, reaching in and pulling out small, red, tartan-covered vanity case. 'If she still has that hairband, it'll be in here.'

The soundtrack of his father's progress created a visual narrative in Sherlock's mind's eye. Siger's voice was distant as he used both hands, including the one holding the phone, to retrieve whatever it was he had located. There was the soft thud as something was placed on the bed and then a squeak of bed springs as his father sat down, rather heavily, beside it. He heard the double twang of two metal spring-loaded catches being released and then a muted 'Ah' from his father.

'Are you there, Pa?' he asked, to no reply. 'Pa?' he called, a little louder.

'Yes, I'm here, son. Sorry, I forgot you were there for a moment,' Siger chuckled. 'Hang on, I'll just put this thing on 'speaker'. There, how's that? Can you hear me, now?'

'Yes, perfectly,' Sherlock assured him. 'Thank you so much for doing this.'

'No trouble,' Siger insisted. 'Right, what have we here…?'

He began to investigate the contents of the vanity case, one item at a time, each one sparking a memory and eliciting a smile or a comment or both… 'Oh, I remember that! Goodness, what a day that was. It never stopped raining for a moment but we still had such fun…' and 'Ah, I wondered what happened to that. It's been here, all along.' Sherlock had absolutely no idea what his father was referring to but listened fondly to his journey through the past, inspired by these random pieces of ephemera, hoping for a Eureka moment. The old man sounded so wistful, it seemed rude to interrupt but Sherlock was hyperaware of time passing and each tick of the clock was a moment closer to his mother's return.

'Ah!' Siger exclaimed, at last, reaching into the pocket in the lid of the vanity case and taking out a neatly folded aquamarine hairband.

'Have you found it?'

Sherlock held his breath.

'Yes, here it is. All these years she's kept it.'

The sense of relief was palpable. Sherlock clenched his fist and very nearly gave the air a victory punch.

'Look, Pa, I need to collect that hairband. And I hate to ask this of you but I'd rather you didn't mention this anyone…' By 'anyone', he obviously meant his mother.

There was a long, thoughtful pause before Siger replied.

'I don't know what this is all about, Sherlock - and I hope you will tell me, one day - but I trust you and I believe you wouldn't ask me to do this if it wasn't absolutely necessary so, for now, I won't tell your mother.'

'Thank you, Pa. Thank you so much,' Sherlock exhaled with relief. 'I'll meet you tomorrow morning, on your walk.'

'Tomorrow it is. I look forward to it.'

'I love you, Pa.'

'I love you, too, son.'

Sherlock closed the call and leant a hand against the wall of St Bart's, in the lee of the public telephone box, just a few short yards from the spot where he had 'landed' when he jumped off the roof, all those years ago. How was it that the mere affirmation of his father's trust in him could reduce him to a snivelling wreck? His emotions were dangerously close to the surface, these days. What had become of the pure, cold reason he held above all things?

Well, that was never really you, was it? That was the 'you' you invented to avoid emotional entanglements after the trauma of losing Victor. It was part of your protective armour. See, I always know when you're fibbing.

Thank you, Mary, he acknowledged. She was one resident of his Mind Palace that he didn't mind engaging with. In death as in life, she always spoke such good sense.

After taking a few moments to compose himself, he pushed off the wall and strode purposefully towards the junction with the main road where he hailed a cab and jumped inside. He would need to call the car rental and secure a vehicle for the next morning, to go and collect the hairband. Then he must arrange for the hairband to be picked up by a courier and taken to Edinburgh. He knew a few reliable courier services. It was just a case of deciding which one to choose. As the taxi cab crawled through the late afternoon traffic, he considered his options.

Siger carefully returned all the little mementos except for the ancient aquamarine hairband to his wife's memory box, closed the lid, placed it back on the top shelf of the wardrobe and shut the door. He pushed the hairband into his trouser pocket and stood gazing out of the bedroom window at the rolling fields in front of the house. He may be the 'moron' of the family but even he could deduce what was happening, here. Whatever Sherlock was up to, it obviously had something to do with Eurus and Mycroft needed to be kept in the dark - he wasn't sure why. But he knew Sherlock had Eurus's best interests at heart so he was prepared to go along with this little subterfuge. For now.

He turned and left the bedroom, closing the door behind him.

ooOoo

Sherlock and his landlady met in the front hall of 221 Baker Street, as he arrived and she was leaving.

'Oh, hello, dear, I'm off to Mrs Turner's. It's her turn to host the Marylebone Landladies' Association so I'm helping her with the catering.'

Marylebone Landladies' Association meetings, they both knew, were an excuse for a gossipy get-together over a cup of tea, a slice of Victoria sponge cake and a glass or two of sweet sherry.

'Enjoy,' Sherlock smiled, picking up his mail from the hall table.

Mrs Hudson nodded then added,

'And, just so you know, the curtain lady is coming tomorrow to fit the new curtains and the furniture is coming on Thursday, in case you don't want to be around for all the kerfuffle.'

'I'll be leaving early tomorrow morning and probably won't be back until mid-afternoon.'

That was a blessing, in deed. The curtain lady had a strident voice, he seemed to remember, and a problem with volume control.

'I have a few items of furniture coming, too,' he advised her. 'Not sure when but, if I'm not around, would you mind taking delivery?'

Of course, she didn't. She patted his arm and smiled.

'Oh, there's a package amongst that lot that came by courier, this afternoon,' she added, indicating the random collection of envelopes in his hands. 'I had to sign for it. Hope it's not a summons!' the old lady giggled.

Sherlock gave a nonchalant shrug and made his way upstairs.

After removing his coat and scarf and hanging them on the back of the sitting room door, he went straight into the kitchen and put on the kettle for a cup of tea. As he waited for it to boil, he rifled through his mail and singled out a large A4 envelope, the 'package' that Mr Hudson had referred to. He examined the outside carefully. In the absence of a post mark, there was nothing obvious to show where it had come from but the envelope itself was a clue. The paper it was made from bore a watermark which he recognised as being peculiar to paper mill in Luxemburg which produced high quality stationery for the well-to-do of Europe. So, who could be writing to him from the Continent?

Whomever it was, they had addressed the envelope in a bold, decisive hand - a feminine hand - using uppercase letters, written with a fine tipped felt pen. So, who did he know who lived on the Continent, favoured expensive stationery and would use a felt tip rather than a fountain pen? Certainly not The Woman. She would never deign to write in block capitals, either. And he would know her hand, even if she did. A new client, then. How exciting!

The kettle boiled and switched itself off. Sherlock poured boiling water over a teabag in a mug, added milk and carried it, along with the package, to his chair, placing the mug on the mantelshelf in exchange for the folding pen knife that lay there, just itching to stab some new correspondence. Sitting down, he used the knife to open the envelope and peered inside before shaking out the contents into his hand.

It was a cardboard document case. Judging from the weight and the thickness, it contained several sheets of A4 paper. But what first caught his attention was a folded sheet of paper that fell out with it. He opened the note and read:

I was sorting through my husband's papers and found this. I think the fact that he kept this amongst his personal papers, rather than with his professional files, speaks to how much Andrew regretted not doing more to help your sister. Perhaps it can be of some assistance in your endeavours.

Opening the document case revealed Dr Andrew Taylor's hand-written report of his psychological assessment of Eurus.

Sherlock began read.

Fifteen minutes later, he snapped the document case closed, wearing a grim expression.

This was a game changer and could not have arrived at a more opportune moment. He would not be sending the hairband to Edinburgh by courier. He would deliver it himself, along with this piece of vital evidence which would prove beyond doubt that Eurus was not a murderous psychopath with the power to brainwash people just by talking to them but an innocent victim of one man's ruthless ambition.

ooOoo