Devonshire Squires Chapter Thirty Three

"I'm afraid it's a deputation, sir, to see you."

They had come at an awkward time. The Prime Minister's urgent need for a brief on the latest cyber-attack on the US Pentagon's twitter account was pressing. He glanced at his watch.

"Very well, m'dear. Put them in the meeting room. I can spare no more than twenty five minutes. Come rescue me if I'm not out before then."

A few minutes later, once he'd finished reading the file, Mycroft paused before the closed door to straighten his tie, pull down his waistcoat and square his shoulders. Into battle. He opened the door and strode in, taking in the five people sitting at the round table and instantly deducing. John Watson was sitting opposite the door- the chair of authority. Yet he looked haggard and decidedly wary. As well you might be. He made sure that the doctor saw his look of disappointment. Whatever he might have thought about the doctor's suitability to help his brother had evaporated in the second episode of rejection.

To John's right the woman who was not really Mary Morstan sat quietly. Poised, her body language and expression were just that little bit too controlled to be natural, although it would take an expert like Mycroft to notice it. She had even more incentive to feel anxious about his disappointment, but was hiding it well, and that spoke volumes about the past she was so keen to protect.

On John's immediate left sat DI Lestrade, whose face betrayed his disquiet. Whatever he might have done to assist Sherlock's recovery from the occasional drugs relapses in the past, this situation was way beyond his capacity, and he looked like he knew that. Even so, he met Mycroft's gaze with determination. He'd been Sherlock's advocate before, and would be again, no doubt.

To the DI's left, the man Mycroft knew as George Hayter was sitting. Unlike Mary, the posture of the big man was natural. Not exactly relaxed, but more the approach a military officer would take- at ease. His eyes showed a trace of curiosity, as he took in the setting and Mycroft's arrival. He found himself wondering what the others would have said to Hayter about who they were meeting. As a colonel and a doctor, he would have had experience with authority, yet his stance was open, confident, even slightly bemused. What Mycroft had read in the file prepared by his team confirmed his earlier assessment- Hayter was interesting.

He delivered his bland civil servant smile to the assembled group as he reached the empty chair and pulled it out. That's when he exchanged glances with the fifth person in the room, whose brown eyes radiated an unexpected sympathy. Yes, well, she would know something about what he was actually feeling. Esther Cohen had twenty five years' experience of reading Mycroft, after all. If he was mildly surprised to see her, it was only because he didn't think that John Watson would ever willingly call in another doctor. Yet here were two. Revealing. He clearly felt the need for reinforcements when he tried to convince Mycroft to release Sherlock into their care. It would make no difference. The whole battlefield that was his brother's life after his return had changed; Mycroft had to re-trench, buy time and find some other solution than the one he'd originally hoped John would take up.

Once seated, Mycroft placed his clasped hands on the table, and began, "I know you are here to influence what I decide should be done regarding Sherlock. As my American contacts have a habit of saying, 'I'm listening.'" But he let the faintest undercurrent of sarcasm show, to make sure they knew just how unlikely that would affect his decision. He looked across the table at John Watson and waited for him to start.

To his surprise, it was George Hayter who began. "You know why we are here, so I will get straight to the point." The big grey-haired man sat forward, his hands making small gestures to emphasise his points. "From what I saw of you at the gym, your Plan A was to drive John Watson and Mary into taking responsibility for your brother's rehabilitation. But unfortunately your plan hit a snag: after the second incident, it's clear that somehow John has become a trigger for the psychotic episodes that Sherlock is suffering."

Mycroft's left eyebrow climbed. His tactics at the gym had been successful at provoking Watson's protective instincts, but Hayter was perceptive enough to have spotted his technique. To buy himself a little time, he responded with a question. "In your opinion, Mister Hayter, is it a form of PTSD? After all, you've seen a great number of cases."

For some reason, the question provoked a smile from Hayter.

"I've seen enough to know that no case is ever alike. And, no, I wouldn't make any kind of diagnosis without knowing the patient a lot more than I currently do."

In his peripheral vision Mycroft caught the tiniest nod from Esther Cohen, as if Hayter's words were confirming something she had thought. He decided to follow that up.

"Then I shall ask someone who does know the patient rather well. Doctor Cohen, have you a professional opinion you wish to share?"

She gave a gentle chuckle. "I've known Sherlock long enough to know better. Whatever someone out here thinks is going on in his head, the truth is likely to be quite different." Her smile faded as she looked down at her own hands, which were clasped like Mycroft's. As if that fact annoyed her, she pulled them apart. Then more quietly, "From what I have been told, this is new behaviour, and I'm hardly an expert in trauma induced psychosis."

Now Lestrade leaned forward. "If this was just about the drugs, then I might be able to help. Be a sort of Plan B. Been there before, could manage the detox again. But I agree with Doctor Cohen; this is different. Christ, he doesn't even get any pleasure out of The Work anymore. I've never known that before."

A silence fell, as several people looked to John. He'd kept his hands in his lap, out of sight. Mycroft wondered if he was flexing his left one into a fist. Such an obvious tell.

Finally, John took a breath and waded into the conversation. "Greg's told me what he knows about Serbia, but I don't think what happened there is the issue. Sherlock's been held captive before, been at the wrong end of a beating, even been tortured; I was there to pick up the pieces then, because he wanted my help. Not this time. So, what the bloody hell happened to him in China, Mycroft? What's done this to him?"

Mycroft's jaw tightened, but he projected an air of slight boredom. "I don't know. He's not said a word to me about it, or to anyone." Mycroft looked down at his clasped hands, willing them to stay exactly as they were.

John's brow furrowed. "How is that even possible? You…you had to have eyes on him. I just can't believe that you would leave him at risk like that." The accusation was there, and it angered Mycroft.

"You have no idea, Doctor Watson, and it is unwise to pass judgment from a position of ignorance. You were in that gym treatment room; you heard what I said to Sherlock, unless you were so busy performing your surgery that you couldn't be bothered to listen." The sarcastic barb was planted firmly.

And got the expected reaction. John gave that little smile that said he was furious. "I know what you told Sherlock, but that isn't the same as the truth. If anyone's a better manipulator than Sherlock, it's you. You told Sherlock that he'd been such a good boy when he got back, like some page out of a parenting by numbers book. If he'd been in his right mind, he'd have treated that little pep talk with the scorn it deserved."

This was tedious. Now that the doctor was part of the problem, rather than a solution, he had outlived his usefulness, so Mycroft allowed his scorn to show. "Well, we all know he wasn't in his right mind; and that appears to have something to do with you, so much so that at first he tried to kill himself because of you and then at the hospital he declared that you are dead to him. You've been deleted, doctor." He sniffed. "Plan A is no longer viable, if it ever was. Plan B is what the substance of this conversation should be about. If you have no other useful input to offer, then I will thank you for your time, and bid you good afternoon." He shifted in his chair, as if preparing to leave.

"Stop it, both of you. This isn't some custody battle." Mary looked at John and then back across the table. "It isn't about you, Mycroft. And, John, whatever happened before…whatever regrets you have; well, arguing about the past just isn't helpful. How does he put it? 'That was then; this is now'. If Sherlock's going to fix this, then he has to make the decisions. Other people trying to do it for him- well, it won't work. And you both know it. So, please, just stop arguing for now. We all have to focus on what will help Sherlock the most."

Mycroft gave her a knowing smile. "Obviously, I do have a Plan B, but it doesn't involve you, Miss Morstan." She would hear the slight emphasis on the name. She had proved to be something of a disappointment.

George took charge again. "Yes. And you've already discarded your original Plan B, too, or else you wouldn't be speaking with us now. You would have moved Sherlock to a secure facility and told us after the fact."

Esther Cohen tried to smother another chuckle at that comment, unsuccessfully.

Hayter didn't allow himself to be distracted. "So, let's talk about the alternatives. Bunking up at the Watson flat is not an option. The Detective Inspector works all day, so his place is out of bounds, too. Besides, no disrespect, but this is way out of your comfort zone. Sherlock quit Baker Street, probably because the place reminds him too much of what has changed since he got back. If John is the trigger for psychosis, then anything that reminds him of John is going to be a problem. You've decided against the last place he was held for rehabilitation- and yes, both Doctors Watson and Cohen have told me about that. No one here- not even you- is really thinking your brother would cope with any form of a residential centre. From what I hear, over the past two years he made a specialty out of escaping from places far more secure than what we have available in this country. So, if you were planning on something like that, you'd have to keep him so chemically controlled that he'd never get better. No one on this side of the table thinks that is a viable option."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Tell me something I don't know, or I will have to leave. Duty calls." He brushed an imaginary piece of lint from his jacket cuff.

It didn't faze the big man in the slightest, who just carried on smiling and talking. "Okay, so here's something you won't have thought of before. Plan C is simple: I'll take him home with me- to Hartswood Manor. The middle unit in the house has four bedrooms- one for Sherlock, one for your Mister Lewis and another of your people- because I don't think you'll allow anything else than 24/7 surveillance. The spare room will be shared by one full time psychiatric nurse and another general nurse to see to his physical injuries. The last bedroom will be used by visitors. Doctor Cohen is likely to be one of those, if he will engage with her. I'll try other people and other approaches, too. Some of those, you probably wouldn't approve of, but it's not your choice; it's going to be his."

Mycroft allowed the other eyebrow to rise as the details came out. There was the faintest possibility that it might work. "Why do you think Sherlock would be any more amenable to that than to a residential clinic?"

"Because it isn't an institution; it's my home. It's not Baker Street, nor any other place populated by people he wants to avoid. Call it an educated hunch. He's not a typical case, so there's no telling what will work, if anything. But at the very least, it will be a sanctuary to give him time to heal physically. And I'll try to find a way to get him talking, so we can bring the other side of the equation into play."

Mycroft chose a sceptical look. "And why would I entrust my brother's mental health to a man who is no longer a qualified doctor, and was never a psychiatrist even when he was? Your little 'good Samaritan' volunteering at the local veteran's club doesn't exactly build confidence." He put just enough obvious sneer in the words to see if the man would rise to the bait.

The smile on the big man's face broadened. "You're good at that, and from what I've heard, your brother is too. Did he learn it from you?"

This time Esther couldn't contain her chuckle, and then she intervened, "Mycroft, please; have the good sense to listen without playing mind games. George has a point worth considering, and he shouldn't have to pass any of your…little tests of character to earn the right to be heard."

Mycroft shrugged. "Why do you think Sherlock wouldn't simply take advantage of you and disappear when he'd recovered physically?"

"Two reasons. The first is that your people will be there to shadow him if he makes a break for it. Choose your best people; from what I hear, he's rather good at disappearing. But out in the country where I live, he's going to be more conspicuous before he can reach London to disappear again."

"I could confine him to Parham if that were the only criterion of success."

"Nope- he knows that place like the back of his hand. He doesn't know my area. That would buy time. And in any case, we'll take a belt and braces approach. You're going to get one of your people to put a small microchip GPS right in the middle of his back, under the skin and muscle, next to the pedicle of the T5 vertebra. It's a bitch to get out on your own…" Hayter demonstrated by trying to reach around his own back to that spot "…and by the time he finds someone to do it for him, you'll have tracked him. He's certainly not stupid, so he won't bolt if he knows he's going to be caught- and you'll tell him, unlike the other people who are currently being tracked by this method."

That comment made Mycroft unclasp his hands and lay them out flat on the table top. He gave a stern look at the former Army doctor. "I can see that your Special Ops training was not wasted. But do tell who is the person leaking our current capability on this matter."

Hayter's smile broadened. "Not a chance, Mister Holmes. I have my sources, as clearly you do, too."

Mycroft sniffed. "And what, pray tell, is your second reason?"

"Because I intend making the process of healing interesting."

That was an unexpected answer, and Mycroft considered whether it just might work. He decided to test the hypothesis he was forming. "Do you have any idea what you are letting yourself in for, Mister Hayter?" Mycroft decided it wouldn't hurt to let a little honest incredulity creep into his tone.

That smile on Hayter's face became a grin. "Yeah, these four think I am certifiable. But, with their help, I think this is achievable."

"Why would you do this rather than spend your days as you had planned, being useful at the Tyrwhitt centre?"

"They've got lots of trained staff working with people who want to be helped. Your brother is in an entirely different situation. He doesn't like people and doesn't want to be helped. I've been looking for a challenge, and I think I've found him."

Anthea knocked and entered. "Sorry, sir; the car is waiting to take you to Number Ten."

Mycroft stood. "Thank you, Mister Hayter. I will consider your plan and get back to you on it tonight."

oOo

Much later, after he returned to the Diogenes Club from Number Ten, Mycroft replayed the tapes of the what happened after he left. As soon as the door shut behind him, John had locked his gaze onto Hayter. "Do you think he will agree? I've never been able to figure out what he is thinking."

Hayter was still smiling. "What do you think, Doctor Cohen? You've known him longer than any of us."

Esther gave a smile that lit up the room. "Yes. He will agree." Then the smile faded. "Of course, that's only the first step. Convincing Sherlock will be much, much harder."

You and I agree on that point. Mycroft made his decision.