Chapter Seventeen- Interregnum 2004 Part One


Over the next nine weeks, Lestrade heard nothing from or about Sherlock. The silence was ominous. Christmas and the New Year came and went. It was a busy time for the Homicide and Serious Crime Division of the Met. Unfortunately, the holiday season seemed to bring out the worst in people- crimes of passion and crimes against property that tipped over into life-threatening harm. Fuelled by alcohol and greed, criminals seemed to think of this time of year as their very own special occasion.

In the meantime, between hot cases, his teams cleared up nine of the twelve cold cases that Sherlock had resurrected from the files. Apart from the suicide and the accidental death cases, one had to be closed due to insufficient evidence- both suspects identified by Sherlock as the likely perpetrators had died since the crime was committed- one in prison for another offence, the other felled by a massive heart attack. Greg felt a dim sense of justice being done in both cases; at least neither had managed to live for that long after their victim. The other cases proceeded to court and were well on their way to securing convictions. So, almost every day, the DI was reminded of the brilliance of Sherlock and that amazing Sunday they'd spent together.

He often wondered what was happening to the young man. Presumably, his brother forced him into Rehab. Perhaps, when he got out, Sherlock would try to re-establish contact, in defiance of his brother's wishes. Greg hoped so.

Today, the young man was even more in Greg's mind than usual. Detective Chief Superintendent Jackson MacDonald was now in the duty room speaking to Lestrade's team, and to the members of the Forensics teams that had been assigned to work on the cold cases.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm here to congratulate your people for outstanding work in clearing these twelve cold cases. Out of the Met's 24 Murder Investigation Teams, yours stands out as a role model, and I want to take this opportunity to note that your work has helped the Force deliver its pledge to tackle serious offenders blighting Londoners' lives. I know from personal experience how frustrating it can be when cases go cold; nothing distresses the victims, their families and the community at large more than when their police force is seen to be letting them down by not bringing the guilty parties to justice. Your initiative in not letting sleeping cases lie is commendable. Due to your leadership, justice is now seen to be done in cases that were once thought to be beyond solving. So, on behalf of the Deputy Assistant Commissioner and myself, please accept our formal congratulations on a job well done. We will be issuing a press release to this effect for tomorrow's papers."

He clasped Greg's hand in a firm shake, and smiled for the police photographer, who caught the moment for posterity.

"I can't accept the credit, Chief Superintendent. I had help in spotting new lines of enquiry and the team did the work to make it all happen."

"Of course, of course, Lestrade; it's generous of you to share the kudos. Still, it takes a certain style of leadership to bring out the best in your team and others in the force. So, no false modesty, please." He beamed and Lestrade gave an embarrassed smile.

Later that afternoon, Greg could not shake his awkward feeling- Sherlock should have had the credit. Not that the young man would have cared. Lestrade could almost hear him dismiss the whole thing as "tedious". What mattered to him was solving the crime through deduction. And, Greg couldn't tell anyone just what a role Sherlock had in the whole business. Inevitably, once they knew a civilian had helped, his superiors would want to know more. And that would lead to an addict in rehabilitation- where publicity would not be in the young man's best interests. So, he felt torn. Greg did feel, however, that his brother Mycroft should know that what he had casually dismissed as mere "puzzles" in fact had been important to the victims' families, friends and their local communities. And, he should be told before it went into tomorrow's papers.

He decided to phone the number that was still in his text history. After three rings, the same female voice answered. "Detective Inspector Lestrade, how may I help you?"

"I'd like to speak to Mycroft Holmes, please."

"That isn't possible at the moment. However, it might be possible to arrange it for later. I will get back to you shortly." Then the line went dead, leaving Lestrade glaring at his mobile.

True to form, the elder Holmes called back at the most inconvenient time- in the middle of a dinner out with Louise and her best friends, a husband and wife team from her work. She'd invited them to a local restaurant that Greg didn't particularly like- it was expensive and posh, but the food had always disappointed him. Better to look at than to eat was his verdict. The same could be said of the company. While he respected Louise's work in public relations, he found he had little in common with the overly made-up blonde and her husband, who was all in black and sporting the inevitable three day old stubble. The three were full of work-related gossip and the conversation steered into areas of social media and search engine optimisation that left Lestrade wondering what on earth they were talking about.

When his mobile started vibrating in his pocket, he pulled it out, saw the number and excused himself. His wife just rolled her eyes and shooed him away. "Police work, no doubt," she drawled to the pair. Greg went into the restaurant foyer, which was now quiet, given every table in the place was already full.

"Lestrade here."

"You rang." Mycroft kept his tone neutral and bland.

"Yes, I did. A heads up- I wanted you to know that the Met is publishing something for tomorrow's papers about the dozen cold cases that Sherlock solved on that Sunday he spent with me. You might understand a bit better the good he did then."

There was no reply. Greg decided to plough on. "How is he? I would much rather be saying this to him than to you, but I have no idea where he is. His phone has been disconnected. Is there any chance I could see or speak to him?"

There was a sigh at the other end. "Detective Inspector, I am assuming that you were intelligent enough not to mention Sherlock's role either to your superiors or to the press? Can I assume that you have shown no one that note describing his activities with you?"

Greg gritted his teeth. "Of course not. Whatever you think of me, Mr Holmes, I assure you that I have Sherlock's best interests at heart. Will you tell me where he is?"

The silence lengthened.

"I am serious, Mr Holmes, I would like to visit and to speak with him."

"That is not likely. My brother has not spoken a word since he recovered consciousness following his overdose. I have no reason to believe that he would appreciate a visit from you. He hardly acknowledges the presence of anyone now."

Greg swallowed. "Was there some sort of. ..brain damage then?" He tried to keep the horror out of his voice.

A cold tone replied. "No, nothing is physically wrong with him. He just chooses to be… uncommunicative and uncooperative."

Greg decided to risk offending the man. "Perhaps it's more a matter of who is trying to communicate with him. Maybe if it was somebody of his own choice, it would make a difference. Ask him, Mr Holmes, whether he would be prepared to see me. Will you do that?"

"I am not sure the medical team would agree with you, Detective Inspector."

"You won't know until you ask them, will you? And no matter what they say, you won't get a real answer unless you are brave enough to ask your brother whether he wants to see me."

"I will consider what you have said, Detective Inspector. Good night." And with that, the line went dead. Once again, Greg was left glaring at his phone.

oOo

Two days later, Greg was heading home after a long day at New Scotland Yard. He'd been ribbed enough by the other MIT detectives; most of it was good natured about his ambitions. Only a few seemed envious enough to accuse him of trying to show them up. It was a fine line to walk. Greg didn't want to be accused of being a 'brown-noser', sucking up to the bosses. On the other hand, when Sherlock handed him the leads, he wanted to do justice to that gift.

He was only twenty feet out of the exit to Seven Sisters tube station when he spotted the black car pacing behind him. When he glanced back, his sense of déjà vu activated. Was it stalking him the way that the car had followed Sherlock down Victoria Street? When he stopped, the passenger side front door opened, and the agent that he remembered from that occasion emerged. "You're presence is requested."

The drive took them out of London to the northwest. Neither the driver nor the agent who got in the front passenger seat spoke to Greg during the journey. He dragged his mobile out and called Louise. There was no reply. Probably on her way home by now. So he texted her to say he'd been detained, and didn't know when he would be getting home apart from that it would be late.

After forty minutes, the car left the motorway and began travelling down dark unlit country roads, then made a right turn onto a single track driveway that ended at a set of impressive metal gates. There was a CCTV camera which swivelled to scan the driver and passengers, before the gates glided open. Five minutes later, they got out of the car in front of a modern low rise building. The two agents escorted Greg into a well-appointed reception area. A private clinic, he guessed, from the medical professional who greeted them at the desk.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade for Doctor Cohen," announced the agent.

He was taken upstairs and shown into an office. A moment later, the door opened and a petite woman in a white lab coat over a navy suit entered. Her short grey hair framed an open face that smiled a welcome. "Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm Esther Cohen. I'm Sherlock's doctor here. I am so glad you could make it this evening."

He gave a rueful grin. "I wasn't given much choice."

Her smile faltered. "Oh dear, Mycroft hasn't been up to his usual tactics, has he? I was led to believe that you requested the chance to see Sherlock. Oh, I do hope this isn't under duress?"

"No, of course not. I asked to see Sherlock. I'm worried about him- have been for the past nine weeks."

She looked relieved. "Please sit down. It must have been a long day for you at work, and this is keeping you from your home. Can I offer you some tea, coffee or water?"

He thought about it; a coffee would help fight off the fatigue a while. And he was strangely nervous. "A black coffee, no sugar; that would be great, thank you." She made a call, and asked for two coffees to be brought in.

"Is it safe to say that Mycroft Holmes didn't tell you much about Sherlock's condition?"

"Only that his brother hasn't said a word since the overdose. That worries me."

The coffees arrived. As she poured some milk into hers and stirred it with a teaspoon, she replied "It worries me, too, Detective Inspector. I've been trying to treat Sherlock since he was twelve years old, and he has never been so far…out of reach before. In the past, he's been angry and rebellious about being in rehab, arguing with therapists, resisting loudly any kind of serious engagement. Now, he is just silent."

Greg took a sip of the scalding liquid and felt its warmth burn its way down into his stomach.

Esther Cohen continued, "Until this morning, that is. Mycroft arrived and went into see Sherlock. He hasn't visited much, because Sherlock generally reacts badly to his presence. This time, he told Sherlock about your telephone call, and asked if Sherlock would be willing to see you. After nine weeks of not saying a single word, Sherlock just replied as if there had been no gap at all- Yes, he'd be very pleased to see you and to know more about how the cases had turned out, the twelve cold cases and the one involving James MacArthur."

"I am not sure whether Mycroft or I was more shocked at the reply. So, here you are."

Greg looked at her and smiled. "I'm glad, really glad."

"There are things you need to know about Sherlock. According to Mycroft, you are aware of Sherlock's autism and SPD. What you will not know is that the last nine weeks, he has been unwilling to moderate the characteristic behaviours associated with both. He's gone back to sitting in corners, rocking, stimming, all the stereotypical behaviours. He won't eat properly and he won't take his drugs orally. Everything now is via IV. He's made no eye contact at all since he got here. That's a shock to me, and to his brother. He learned a long time ago how to behave in a way that passes for 'normal' in society. Mycroft thinks he is doing it on purpose- a sort of rebellion. I think it is more symptomatic of his despair- a sort of 'if you won't let me out, I see no reason to behave' kind of depression.

Her face showed genuine sadness, rather than the usual bland neutrality that Greg associated with medical professionals. She continued, "You're not a doctor, but with your help we need to be able to take advantage of this breakthrough in communication to get him engaged with his recovery programme. So, I am afraid, Detective Inspector, that there are things we need you to discuss with him. Things he needs to do, if he is going to get well enough to be released. Whatever else you may say to him, those things matter the most. Do you understand what I am saying?"

Greg looked troubled at her words. "I won't do or say anything that I don't agree is in his best interests. But, if by his stay here he gets clean and stays that way when he is released, then I think that is something I am happy to help with. I guess, though, I value what he has to say about his recovery, more probably than his brother does."

She examined him carefully, and then a little smile formed. "Oh, I am pleased. You like Sherlock. Mycroft said he thought you might be using Sherlock to further your career. But, I'm not getting that from you at all. Mycroft is usually an excellent judge of character. Maybe, because it's his brother, that has blinded him a bit. That said, no one beats Sherlock at being able to read people- and he obviously trusts you, if he is willing to see you when he has ignored everyone else. Sherlock generally thinks everyone is an idiot, but he clearly wants to talk to you, and by the sound of it, to work with you. I've seen that list of cases, by the way. Mycroft showed it to me."

Lestrade looked suitably impressed. "Have you tried to convince Mycroft Holmes that case work is something worthwhile for his brother to do? Or is he still blaming me for leading Sherlock into temptation?"

She tilted her head and replied with a supressed smile. "Mycroft Holmes is not immovable. He will change his mind in the light of new information. He wouldn't last long in his job if he didn't. To hear his report, the medical team at St Thomas' Emergency Department credit you with saving his brother's life. Which, by the way, is probably why he took your call, and why you are here. If you really want to save Sherlock's life, then you'll get in there and convince him to do what is needed to get out of here- to start talking, and start co-operating. Without that, Mycroft won't change his mind."

Greg returned the smile. "They are both stubborn; must make it hell to have to intermediate."

"That's where you've been helpful, Detective Inspector. You've already had a beneficial effect on Sherlock, and I am not just talking about getting him talking again. He ate a breakfast and lunch today, when I showed him that his low blood sugar levels would mean that he'd probably faint when he got up to see you. I got him to do that because he insisted on meeting you in this office. And for the first time in nine weeks, he got himself out of bed and dressed. I don't think he wants you to see him as being ill. Sherlock raises his game for you. Mycroft will have noticed that fact. And Sherlock will have to continue doing so, if he wants to get out of here."

Lestrade considered her words. "So, leaving here isn't up to Sherlock?"

She raised her eyebrows at the question. "No, he's been sectioned under the Mental Health Act because of his suicide attempt. Unless he can convince us that he is no longer a threat to himself, he's here for as long as it takes."

That sobered Greg's mood. "Something I was told at the hospital- this wasn't his first attempt. What happened previously?"

Esther folded her hands in front of her. "You might ask Sherlock that same question. He's never answered me when I've asked it. And he has not spoken about this latest attempt either, so your guess is as good as mine, perhaps even better, as you were with him in the days running up to it. So, I will turn the question around- why do you think he did it?"

Greg thought about that. It wouldn't be betraying any confidences; after all, Sherlock had put it in a letter that he assumed would be used in public. "He said in his letter to me that it was to do with his brother not allowing him any freedom to do what he wanted to do- which, by the way, is to work on cases like the ones he had considered the weekend he stayed with me."

"Could it really be that simple?" she seemed puzzled.

"Yeah, maybe it is that simple. Maybe it's time to listen to what he has to say and let him do it. If that's what it takes to keep him off the streets and free of drugs, then I'd say that's a successful therapy. I know his brother is sniffy about this work, but, well, you know what I'm going to say. It's my life; I do it because it's something that needs to be done, for the good of society. I'm not the world's greatest detective, Doctor Cohen, but that young man just might be, if anyone apart from me will give him a chance to prove it."