Sherlock Holmes had always been a man who needed a case to motivate him.
This time, he seemed to have found not just a case, but a mission. His conversation with Mycroft had galvanised him in a way that John hadn't seen for more time than he cared to remember. After Mycroft's men had confiscated the seventh phone that Billy had smuggled in for him in three days and Sherlock had broken the second orange kindle by throwing it across the room in disgust, he had reached his blistering deduction; that the only way that he was going to be able to escape from Mycroft's interfering was to get fit enough to leave hospital.
He set himself to the case with a passion. Within forty-eight hours of waking up, he had negotiated a move out of Intensive Care and back to a private room, although Mycroft had ensured that this one looked out into a courtyard rather than the street, and had a lock placed on the window to prevent it being opened more than a few centimetres. Nobody was going to risk another escape attempt.
Sherlock demanded physiotherapists to help build up the muscles that has wasted from so many weeks in bed, and performed the exercises that they gave him every hour on the hour until John had to beg him to stop. He forced himself to sleep for precisely forty minutes, twice a day and no less than eight hours at night, admittedly with the aid of sleeping tablets that he bamboozled the bewildered junior doctor allocated to the private wing to write up for him.
He had blasted the poor chap with more facts about the neurophysiology of sleep and the chemical changes in the brain after trauma than John had ever heard, many of which he suspected were entirely fabricated. But then Sherlock was never a man who allowed the truth to prevent him from achieving his goal. He has also negotiated a switch from the morphine infusion to buprenorphine tablets. When John commented on this, Sherlock would only say that it was a logical transition. Neither of them mentioned the elephant in the room, that buprenorphine tablets were an effective substÃtute for methadone or intravenous heroin. Sherlock still refused to talk to any kind of drug and alcohol services and John had agreed at pain of castration (voiced by Sherlock in rather more colourful, but still anatomically correct terms) to drop the subject. For now, the hair test that Molly had run had proved conclusively that he had fooled them all with his double bluff. Ketamine, cocaine, heroin and diazepam had all been present. John could only hope that the buprenorphine would work for now and that Billy Wiggins wasnt supplying him with more than mobile phones.
John was worried, but remembered his conversation with Mary; you couldn't force an addict to stop using, you could only support them and provide them with the tools for when they wanted them. Ultimately it was Sherlock's choice and the that more John pushed, the more he would kick against him. He could only hope that Sherlock's desire to get out of hospital would allow him to beat his habit from sheer willpower alone.
It seemed that Sherlock would stop at nothing to get what he wanted, and the more that Mycroft interfered with his research on Magnussen, the more extreme his methods became. He demanded to see the head chef who catered for the private wing and reeled off a list of dietary requirements that would have made an Olympic athlete proud, but made the dieticians allocated to him tear their hair out in frustration. He ate precisely three meals and two snacks a day and heaven help the catering staff if any of them were more than two minutes late. When the meals didn't meet his requirements, he would phone Angelo in the restaurant and demand that he delivered alternative meals to his room.
At first John had been dubious, but he had to admit that it seemed to be working. Sherlock was slowly putting back some of the vast amounts of weight that he had lost during his illness, and was able to walk to short distances around the room, although even a trip to the bathroom still exhausted him and left him more short of breath than John would have liked.
'Be patient,' John told him. 'It's going to take time to recover, and you need to give the antifungals a chance to work.'
'It's been six days, John,' Sherlock replied, distractedly, as he tapped away at the latest iPad that he had persuaded Janine of all people to smuggle in for him, concealed appropriately enough in a hollowed out copy of Grey's Anatomy. 'That should be time enough surely.'
'You're going to need at least six weeks of medication, you know that,' John told him. 'It's early days. The echo is your best guide to how it's going. What did yesterday's one show by the way?'
'Nice try, John,' came the murmured reply, and then the frantic tapping started away and John had no option but to return to his book of sudoku and his frustration.
Since he had woken up, Sherlock had shut John out of any involvement in his medical care entirely. He refused to even allow his nursing observation charts to be kept in the room, had reversed his permission for John to be allowed access to his medical notes and abruptly changed the subject every time John asked him about his illness. John had tried approaching James MacPherson, but even he had refused to give him information.
"I can't tell you anything John, sorry,' he said. 'Sherlock has withdrawn his permission for you to be given any information about his medical condition.'
'But I've got power of attorney,' John said. 'I mean, I know that only really kicks in when hes incapacitated, but surely...'
James looked uncomfortable. 'Perhaps you should talk to Sherlock about that,' he said.
John was aware that his jaw had dropped open, was even more aware that it was a cliche, but could do nothing to prevent it doing it.
'Seriously?' he asked. 'He's cancelled it? I don't have power of attorney anymore?'
"Just for the duration of this illness, I think. Look, John, whatever is going on between you two, he obviously really, really doesn't want you involved his treatment or knowing anything about it. If you want my opinion, I think he wants you to be there as his friend and his colleague, but not as his doctor. Lines getting too blurred perhaps?'
'Friend, colleague, yes exactly,' John said, barely aware that he was speaking out loud. "Good to know what he thinks about me.'
James gave him a sympathetic smile. 'You can't push these things, you know? Give the guy a chance. He's been through a lot. It's not the time to be jumping into anything.'
John gave him a sharp look, unsure if he was implying what John thought he was. Unwilling to ask.
James clapped one hand on his shoulder and gave it a squeeze. 'Look, I'm not blind, John, ' he said. 'I can see how you feel about him. But illness does odd things to people, that's all I'm saying. I've seen too many relationships fail because they had their roots in the fear of loss on an Intensive Care Unit. If you really, genuinely, care about him then give it some time for you both to sort your heads out. Or you'll screw up your friendship as well as anything else that may or may not be the right thing to go for.'
'You're - warning me off Sherlock?' John asked slowly.
'God, no, of course not,' James said with a grin that made him look eighteen again. 'I've had enough relationships in my time to know that you have to follow your heart sometimes. All I'm saying is not now. Help him to get well, help him to get home, help him to get back to his normal life and then, if you still feel the same way, then that will be the time to see if he feels the same way.'
'We're just friends,' John said, aware that his reply came far too quickly for it to be true.
'Of course you are,' James said with a chuckle.
'But what I can't get away from is that Sherlock trusts Mycroft to make decisions about his welfare if he's incapacitated more than he trusts me.'
James frowned, 'Not Mycroft,' he said, 'although you didn't hear it from me.'
'Then who?'
James shook his head. 'Can't tell you, sorry. Talk to Sherlock, John - get him to explain.'
'Is he going to be okay?' John asked. 'Can you tell me that much at least?'
'I very much hope so,' James told him, and that was as much as John could get from him.
And so it went on. John couldn't help but feel more than a little frustrated. He wanted to help, he needed to help. And yet here he was shut out, both of being a part of Sherlock's medical care and in recent days even out of the case. Sherlock had made it very clear that his help was required with neither.
And that left him with far too much time to think. About Mary, about Sherlock, about the baby, about what he did and didn't want, which seemed to rotate on a daily if not an hourly basis. Because John was furious with Mary, and yet he missed her in a way he could not have imagined two years ago. He missed everything about her; the smell of her shampoo, the way she would fold his boxer shorts before she put them in his drawer and yet leave her old clothes lying on the bathroom floor for him to pick up. He missed her resting her head on his shoulder when they watched television, he missed her habit of leaving the cafetière filled with coffee grounds before she went to bed, two mugs beside it complete with spoons 'because you need to minimise effort in the mornings to the greatest extent possible.'
He missed - Mary, and all that she was, and yet he didn't want her back. The Mary that he missed was the Mary that he had thought that she was; Mary the nurse, Mary who would entertain him with stories of her childhood exploits in Gloucestershire where she claimed to have been asked to leave no less than three private girls schools before the age of eleven; Mary who claimed that she had never been outside Europe and longed to explore Australia and Vietnam. But that Mary didn't exist, he didn't know which if any of the stories that she had told him were true and he didn't know what to do with that. Had it all been a lie? The tenderness, the loving words, the late night conversations. Had it all just been a ruse to get her close - to who - to Sherlock? Just as Sherlock had used Janine to get to Magnussen? John shook his head without realising it, like a dog shaking water out of his ears.
No that didn't work, Mary hadn't been trying to get to Sherlock. She had shot him by accident, that was all. And besides Sherlock trusted her. Several times John had come to visit to find Mary sitting next to Sherlock's bed, pouring over something on the iPad with him, both of them looking up guiltily and snapping the concealing book shut too rapidly when he walked in.
Sherlock might miss a whole raft of social cues but he was an excellent judge of character. And he trusted Mary. He had told John that he could trust Mary and yet how could he? Mary had used him as a cover, that was clear. A cover while she planned her next case. Part of her quest for respectability. And what better cover than a nurse married to a doctor with a baby on the way? Who could possibly suspect anything of her now? Certainly not that she would break into Magnussen's suite, threaten him and then shoot Sherlock Holmes. John was still struggling to believe that himself.
Lestrade had admitted himself stumped. He had told Sherlock himself that the intruder appeared to have been 'some kind of ninja' entering and leaving without any trace of their presence. 'Definitely a professional,' he had told Sherlock. 'You're sure you don't remember anything? Anything at all?'
'I nearly died, Greg,' Sherlock had said (and John would have thought that the mere miracle of Sherlock getting his name right for once would have alerted Lestrade to the fact that Sherlock was lying. What sort of detective was he?)
'My memory of events is a little hazy to say the least. Hypoxia will do that to you. I don't even remember being shot.'
'But you have to remember something,' Lestrade persisted. 'Anything at all. Did you hear a noise? Did you hear Magnussen and the shooter talking? Do you remember what they sounded like? What they were wearing? How tall they were were? Anything at all.'
Sherlock shook his head. 'Nothing at all, I'm afraid. It's as if the whole event has been expunged from my memory. Deleted you might say. Hardly surprising under the circumstances. Probably the psychological trauma.'
'We could always try - hypnosis?' Lestrade suggested doubtfully.
'Wouldn't work,' Sherlock replied too quickly. 'In fact I'm fairly sure that I'm never going to remember anything about the events of that evening. Now if you don't mind, I'm rather tired.' And with that he closed his eyes and did a very good impression of falling asleep.
Lestrade sighed loudly, said his name a few times and then caught John's eye and jerked his head towards the door. John follows him reluctantly out of the door, past the goons who returned Lestrades personal possessions to him without comment (it appeared that even police officers weren't exempt from Mycroft's digital ban) and then into the Relatives' Room at the far end if the corridor.
'Has he said anything to you about who shot him?' Lestrade asked bluntly.
'Why do you think he knows?'
'Of course he bloody knows, John! This is Sherlock that we're talking about. He knows what kind of eggs you had for breakfast and when you've got a hole in your boxer shorts. Even if he didn't see the face of the shooter, he would have worked it out by now.'
'Well if he knows, then he hasn't said anything to me.'
It was true - sort of - Sherlock hadn't told John, he had let Mary do that, but John still kept his fingers firmly crossed behind his back. Boy Scout to the last.
'Which means he must be going after the shooter himself - or he knows who they are. Why else wouldn't he tell me?'
John shrugged in what he hoped was a nonchalant fashion. 'Your guess is as good as mine. Maybe he's got bigger fish to catch? You know Sherlock - he always sees these things objectively. If he's not telling you, then there'll be a good reason for it. So you've still got no clues?'
Greg shook his head. 'Nothing. How somebody can break into one of the most secure offices in London, leaving no fingerprints, no DNA, nothing is beyond me. Man must have been a bloody ninja, ' he repeated. John wondered what films he'd been watching with his kids recently. 'Would have put James Bond to shame, I tell you.'
And John was surprised to feel a jolt of pride. That was his wife that Greg Lestrade was talking about. The ex-secret agent who was better than James Bond. He was married to a woman who could break into a building, knock three people out, shoot a man and leave without a trace.
'And shoot your best friend,' a voice in his head said.
'And lie to you about it. Lie to you about her last, lie to you about who she was, where she came from.'
But somehow the sting in the words was diminished. Because he couldn't miss the admiration in Greg's voice for this person. And this person had chosen him. And that was something wasn't it? Something to be perhaps just a little but proud of?
'John?' Greg was saying. 'What is it, mate. Have you remembered something? From that night? Something that could help? Because I have to tell you we've got less than nothing at the moment. Janine didn't see anything at all - all she remembers us being clonked over the head from behind, same with the security guard. And Magnussen obviously knows but he's not telling. So anything you can think of, anything at all, no matter how tiny a detail, could help.'
John shook his head, 'I was just trying to work out how they could have got in, that's all,' he said. 'I didn't see anything at all. Just Janine and the security guard on the floor, and by the time I got to Magnussen's office, the shooter was long gone.'
Lestrade shrugged. 'Well at least Magnussen isn't kicking off about the police's inability to discover the identity of the intruder. He's done a tidy job of keeping it out of the media as well. If I didn't know better, I'd say he's got his own reasons for keeping the shooter's identity secret too. Off the record, if they had a grudge against him, I can't help thinking it would have been better if they'd just finished the job. Something about Charles Augustus Magnussen just makes my skin crawl.'
'Do you think they would have? Shot him I mean! If Sherlock hadn't disturbed them?'
'Well that's the thing, isn't it? The shooter broke into the office assuming that Magnussen wouldn't be there. But they obviously wanted something. They had a gun, they shot Sherlock so they obviously had no moral issues with seriously injuring or killing a man. It looked like a professional hit - single shot, centre of the chest. So why stop there?'
'You mean why not shoot Magnussen?' John asked.
'Exactly. I can't imagine that Magnussen is a man you could exactly blackmail, so if he'd seen their face, then why wouldn't they shoot?'
'Maybe he didn't see their face. I mean, maybe they were wearing a mask or something?' John wondered if he doubted as desperate as he felt.
'Oh he saw their face alright, ' Lestrade said. 'Because they wanted him to see it. Somebody that clever, that professional could have just turned and left when they realised that Magnusssen was there. No, they wanted to confront him, no doubt about that.'
'So why shoot Sherlock and not him?' John had almost forgotten that he already knew the answers - but then did he? Or did he just know what Sherlock thought, or what Sherlock had told him. Christ this whole thing made his head spin.
Lestrade shrugged. 'For control? Because he wanted something from Magnussen? Or maybe because Magnussen had already set plans in place if something happened to him. It's blackmail, John, it has to be. The shooter couldn't kill Magnussen because if he did then Magnussen would publish whatever it was that he was trying to keep secret. But he had to shoot Sherlock as a statement of intent. To prove that it wasn't that he didn't have the balls to shoot, it was that he chose not to.'
'So you think Magnussen has still got something on the shooter ?' John felt a little sick at just how close to the truth Lestrade was getting.
'I'm sure he has. Buggered if I can work out what though.' Lestrade sighed. 'Important thing is there's no sign that he's going after Sherlock again. If he was going to try and finish the job, then he would have done it when he made his great escape.'
'So what - you think he's realised that Sherlock is going to keep his mouth shut?'
'Must have. Or Sherlock's told him as much. Wish the bastard would just tell me what's going on, though. Makes me look like an idiot all of these unsolved cases.'
'You and me both,' John found himself muttering as he walked back to Sherlock's room. Because Greg was right, there was more to this than met the eye. And he couldn't help wondering if Sherlock Holmes hadn't been selective with the truth yet again.