The Devonshire Squires Chapter Six:

As Sherlock walked back across the delivery bay floor towards the exit ramp, the CSE started to take photographs, in rapid succession, of the blood splatter. The pop and brilliant white light of the flash was broken only by the high pitched whine as the flash recharged. Sherlock flinched, then ducked his head, trying to limit the sensory stimulation. He suddenly felt his stomach cramp with a wave of nausea. He'd developed an aversion to sudden bright lights, but tried to ignore it now. Just a left over from China. He decided that retreat was better than a second look at the body, so he bolted into the darkness, pursued by the flashing lights.

Less than ten minutes later, he was curled up in a ball, his head buried in his arms, trying to get his breathing back under control. The mad dash that took him up the ramp to the next level of car park and then up four flights of stairs lit only by the beam of his torch ended when he collided with the door to the roof.

It was locked shut and he couldn't budge it, no matter how much he shoved and pushed in blind panic. He tried to still his shaking hands long enough to get his lock pick out of the soft leather roll that he carried in his suit pocket. After dropping it three times, he picked it up and stared at it, as if it were something alien to him. His hand was shaking so much that he knew he'd never be able to feel the tumblers give way. He threw it against the wall in a rage, and then sank to the floor. There is no escape.

Somewhere buried deep in the storm of physical and sensory distress, he knew he had to stop panicking. A part of his brain knew this for what it was- a panic attack brought on by PTSD- but in the hormonal soup that seemed to be coursing through his veins, the voice of sanity was being drowned out by a cacophony of screaming voices, some of whom were speaking Chinese in a Manchurian dialect.

There was another door that was bolted shut, too; he knew without even trying that his Mind Palace was …closed…off-line…out of service. His access these days was limited solely to the work. If he tried to get in for anything else, he found a smooth stone wall- no doors or windows. Even when he was working and he did get in, it was as if someone had down-sized the place while his back was turned. Only a few corridors were left, the rest seemed to have been bricked up. Now it felt more like a Mind Lab- a few rooms, a bit of technical equipment, but everything that wasn't a memory directly related to a case was just…out of reach. That had happened in China. A lot happened in China, most of which he didn't want to remember. To stop remembering that, he'd had to erase large areas of his hard disk. Even the corelet programming was fragmented and cluttered with useless rubbish that got in the way of coherent thought.

Rhlung lang po mthong mang po, Rhlung lang po mthong mang po, Rhlung lang po mthong mang po. He repeated it over and over in what started as a stuttered gasp, but began to lengthen as the meditation techniques kicked in. While in Tibet, he'd taught his body to calm itself; muscle memory could be recalled even when the gates of the Mind Palace were welded shut. He'd ditched the scriptural words the monks had used, resorting instead to the name that the abbot had given him. It had resonance- "angry one who sees too much". **

When eventually his breathing started to return to some semblance of normality, he knew what would come next. He pushed himself upright and leaned back against the wall. If neither fight nor flight was possible, the scientist in him knew what would happen. Tears - the product of too much adrenaline in a blood system already saturated with distress. He had no more control over it than he had over the sun now setting over London. He switched off the torch- no point in wasting the battery. He could feel the progress of fluid down his face, and tried to moderate the gasping rhythm of his breathing.

Through blurred vision, he forced himself to look at the luminous dial of his watch. Seventeen minutes of 'lost time', when he had no idea what had really happened to get him up the stairs to where he was now sitting. But, the panic was easing, allowing him to regain a bit of control.

The look on their faces. Lestrade's had been concerned, Donovan's sympathetic. But it was the pain on John's face that somehow kept interfering with Sherlock's breathing. No amount of meditation could erase the sense of betrayal and the anger that had been John's reaction to his return. He might have forgiven him, but Sherlock heard the truth when John had said, "You were the best and the wisest man that I have ever known."

"Were…." John's use of the past tense was not a mistake. Resurrecting that look of John's now, he heard a shuddering breath that was half way to a sob, and realised it had come from him.

This hurt. It hurt in ways that he had never imagined possible. All through the exile, he'd held onto his image of John as what he had been- loyal, reliable, the only person he could really trust. Worth saving, worth coming back to. But, he'd come home to find all of those things changed. The doctor's loyalties were now tied up in Mary and his new life. Sherlock dare not call him, for fear of being told the doctor had "other things to do that were more important." He'd been replaced; someone else was now the centre of John's universe.

Of course, Sherlock had deduced much of Mary's background from almost the moment they met. But even 'retired' spies had a right to a new life- wasn't that exactly what he was trying to do? He'd been tempted to get Mycroft to work on her background, but then John had put a stop to that when he came to Baker Street after being discharged from the hospital. Sherlock was already on the back foot, apologising not once, but three times to John. He- who never apologised- wanted John to know. But it made no difference.

He couldn't shake the memory of his own casual "How are you feeling?" and John's response "Bit...smoked". There was anger in that- and an accusation that was then actually voiced: "Is it someone trying to get to you through me?" Sherlock had to tell him that he didn't know. It went round and round his head like some horrid CD stuck on continuous replay.

So, following his explanation about Moran as chief rat , his next question – about Mary-had been tentative, as the two of them shared a cup of tea.

"Don't you dare."

Sherlock almost flinched at the venom in the tone. "I'm just asking how you two met. Is that so unusual a question?"

"In anyone else, it might be normal, but you're not anyone. You spent three years sabotaging my love life, telling me everything you deduced about my dates. I won't have you do that to Mary, and that's final. "

A line had been drawn, and Sherlock knew that to cross it would risk losing even what little was left of their relationship. So, Sherlock didn't ask, and didn't tell.

The fact that Sherlock had no idea who had put him into a bonfire or why ate away at his soul. "I will burn you; I will burn the very heart out of you" had nearly come true. Just thinking of John and how he'd been taunted over the phone the nearer he and Mary got to the bonfire at St James the Lesser church made Sherlock's guts twist in anxiety. You were supposed to be safe. This was all about making it safe for me to come back without being a threat to you. But that had gone up in flames on the bonfire.

To have John anywhere around him before he knew who had done that and why- it was risking John's life, and he couldn't do that. Alone is what I am left with.

The tears had stopped. He looked down at his watch and realised that another ten minutes had gone by. This is ridiculous. There were too many things warring for his attention. He felt ashamed that he had lost control, letting the flashback take hold, again. The fear of being found out now as so badly damaged warred with anger at why the whole thing had happened in the first place. When he set up the Sigurson Plan to defeat Moriarty three years ago, it wasn't supposed to end like this, with him a basket case, and everyone in his life angry at him. Why do I care so much? I'm supposed to be a sociopath; I'm supposed to not care. This is just WRONG!

He heard footsteps coming up the stairs. Two sets, leather shoes- three flights down. Not John, not Lestrade. He knew their strides too well. But two men, certainly. The past two years of keeping an ear on threats that were heading his way told him that it was probably his brother's surveillance teams. Or not, as the case may be. He had plenty of enemies who wouldn't mind taking revenge, now that he was back in circulation.

Got to get away. There was no way he could be caught like this; if they were the mystery men who had put John in the fire, he needed to escape. The same applied if it was Mycroft's men. His brother would over-react, as always, and he'd end up in some institution, ostensibly for his own benefit. I didn't avoid you for two years just to fall into your trap as soon as I get back, brother mine. The need to flee took over, pushing all other thoughts to the side, and delivering both the focus and the adrenaline he needed to shake him out of his funk. He scrambled to his feet, scooped up the lock pick and headed for the door that said Unauthorsised Access Not Permitted. He knew it was the lift shaft, and that it was his way to escape.

Author's Note: * If you have not read it yet, check out Exempt in Ex Files, for what happened between John and his therapist.

** What Sherlock did in Tibet to earn him this name is covered in Still Talking When You're Not There, Chapters 9 and 11.