Devonshire Squires Chapter Thirty Four

Time is relative.

For Sherlock, the next eighteen hours passed without him being aware of it. But, for the rest of the people who cared about that fact, those hours were jam-packed with activity. At the hospital, a medical team of unknown origin arrived without fanfare to see to the sedated patient. Alex Arthur watched in the corridor to keep out any proper hospital staff while a small incision was made, and a tiny tracking device inserted. The sedation levels were increased, to keep the patient unconscious until he could be moved. The room was kept in darkness, and no visitors allowed.

Meanwhile, most of those who might have visited if they had not been not otherwise engaged got to work. Of the five, the DI went back to new Scotland Yard. The Cunningham investigation was coming to a head, with new information being provided by João Morrison, now wide awake and passing information to Sally Donovan. Because of the temporary tracheostomy, he wouldn't be able to talk for another couple of weeks yet, but there was nothing wrong with his fingers as they tapped out on a tablet's keyboard the details that were needed to close this case- and a whole series of earlier frauds, too. Lestrade was co-ordinating a series of arrests with the Serious Fraud Office and various overseas law enforcement agencies, but he promised to keep George Hayter informed.

He'd explained it to Hayter while driving from the Diogenes Club to drop him off at Victoria Station. "When Sherlock starts paying attention again, he'll want to know how right he was about the case. This one is big- even bigger than the Tilbury business, at least in terms of pounds and pence. Despite the fact that he's been firing on half the cylinders he should be, he's just broken about the biggest scam in the world shipping industry for the past decade."

George had no idea when or if Sherlock Holmes would start caring about what Lestrade kept calling "The Work"- in a tone that capitalised the first letter of both words and made it sound rather important.

As they turned off the Mall left onto the roundabout in front of Buckingham Palace, George raised the subject that he'd been meaning to ask. "Watson's blog- the cases on it are…well, not to put too fine a point on it…they're interesting but rather quirky. More peculiar puzzles than threats to public security. When did Sherlock go up-market?"

For some reason, that tickled Lestrade. "Don't let him hear you. An interesting case is not defined by how much money is involved or the greatest good for the greatest number of people. 'Boring' was his usual reaction to that idea, rapidly followed by something along the lines of "that's what the British Government pays Mycroft to do. Too tedious.' " He put the sort of distain into that last word that George could imagine coming from the man whose posh accent had still been there despite its owner being delirious with fever and high on cocaine at the Shootfighters Gym.

They passed the Queen's Gallery and then got stopped at the traffic lights where Buckingham Palace Road crossed Victoria Street. George used the time to ask one more question while he had the DI as a captive audience. "So, the underground Guy Fawkes, Tilbury and now this shipping scam- all big ticket stuff. Why now?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Don't know for sure. It's…well, it's almost like he's trying to prove something; that he can do these big jobs, all on his own. He sent John packing and he's pissed off just about everyone at the Yard, too." As the lights turned green, he slipped the car into gear. "But, I do know one thing. He's not getting his kicks out of it. Not at all. It used to sort of worry me how much he enjoyed solving the weird murder that no one else could. Now it's as if he's had to up the dosage, and it's still not getting him the high he wants."

George filed that away in his mind as he got out at the side entrance of the station, said goodbye to the DI and joined the hordes on the concourse, looking for the platform to find the next train back to Reigate.

An hour later and forty five miles south and a tad to the west of where Sherlock was asleep, George's Reigate 123 taxi from the station turned into the driveway between Hartswood Manor and the farm. As he fumbled for his wallet, George heard his mobile phone ring. Standing in the doorway, inserting the key with one hand, he thumbed on the phone.

3.17pm Plan C is go. He arrives 9 am.

While Esther Cohen had been sure that Mycroft would agree, it was still reassuring to know that she'd been right. Then he found himself thinking about the fact that the text had come from a man to whom he had not given his mobile number. When he checked, there was no number identified as having sent the text, which made George wonder how that was possible. He was used to the more usual "caller ID withheld", but this message denied having been sent by a phone. When he managed to put his keys down on the hall table, he looked back at his phone to re-read the text, but he found that it was gone- some sort of auto-delete function. That made him smile. Who's showing off then?

His friend at Six had been cagey when he had asked him what he knew about Mycroft Holmes. The man was a veteran officer, well versed in the Balkan arena where Hayter had worked.

"I used to think this guy didn't exist- was just used as a bogey man to frighten us into doing things our superiors wanted us to do. Then I met him in October on a certain project that has to remain nameless, and discovered that, if anything, his reputation understates the reality. Be careful, George- Mycroft Holmes is way out of your league."

Always did like a challenge. He had a feeling that he would need to remind himself of that over the next couple of weeks.

He was still pondering that fact when three unmarked white vans turned into the back driveway – the one shared by his house and the middle house. When George realised they weren't coming to see him, he used the communicating door from his home into the middle house, where a number of men who did not introduce themselves were already inside, despite not having a key, and that they seemed to know their way around the place, as if they'd had seen a floorplan. He filed that away for future thought, as well. George was intrigued to discover just how much had changed in the technology since he had last been in the field; everything was smaller, much harder to detect, and infinitely more powerful. His friend in MI6 had been right when he'd said, "You wouldn't recognise it now; tech is more important than weaponry in this battlefield."

That they were being supervised by someone he did recognise- Ashley Lewis- gave him some comfort while he watched them place various surveillance devices at various places.

"Your knife wound- healing nicely?" George was actually pleased that Lewis was one of the two who would be staying behind. Having seen what Sherlock was capable of in his darkest moments was important.

Lewis didn't even glance at his arm. "Yes, just enough of a reminder now to make sure I don't underestimate him again."

George tucked that comment away, too.

"Mister Hayter, the master bedroom on the middle floor will be the patient's room?" Ashley gave it the slight inflection of a question for the sake of politeness- George knew it was the most easily defended room, and it was the only one of the four that was ensuite, which would be needed to keep the patient segregated, if necessary.

So, he nodded and then gestured down the hall to the next bedroom. "The twin-bed room will suit the nursing staff. There's another bedroom across the hall- that will be for visitors; they'll share the bathroom with the nurses. My guess is that you two boys will be using the loft suite upstairs under the roof. It's got the space for the equipment."

But, despite his curiosity, George had better things to do than spend the time watching other people work. His first immediate task was to get the third part of the house, the one that John and Mary had visited while masquerading as buyers, quietly taken off the market and the photos removed from the local estate agent's window. After he made the call, he checked online, and discovered that all traces of Hartswood Manor being for sale had already vanished from the internet. So, no more speculative buyers. He didn't mind; he'd become choosey- too many overseas buyers looking for an investment in which to launder their dirty money. He'd been thinking of taking it off the market anyway. John and Mary had been the couple viewing the property that he had most taken to- it was different when you were choosing your own neighbours.

That made him think of Mary Morstan, who was still in London, working on the recruitment of one of the two nurses that were needed. Before he'd left the Diogenes Club, she had tried to convince him to use her as the general nurse. George didn't doubt her competence and her skills, but he explained "You are indelibly linked in his mind with John. We have to find people he doesn't know." He'd dealt with her disappointment by getting her involved. "Can you help recruit someone to deal with the physical healing? You know his injuries and you know him, so I trust your decision. When you have an idea, send the details to Mycroft so he can vet the person."

Then he turned his attention to the psychiatric nurse. That was easier for George, at least in theory because he had the ideal candidate in mind. A quick scroll through his phone contact list found the number.

She answered on the third ring. "Hello? Ingrid speaking." The faintest Scandinavian accent was like a carpet underlay, not visible but just enough softening of the English to be noticeable. He'd known Ingrid Dowler for five years; she'd been a volunteer at the Tyrwhitt Centre almost as long as he had. Over the past seven years, Ingrid had worked as a part-time Community Psychiatric nurse with occasional stints at Margaret Laurie House, the NHS psychiatric rehabilitation centre in Reigate. She'd helped George on occasion with some of the veterans with head injuries over the years, and had proved invaluable as a phone PTSD counsellor. She'd done many nights alongside of him. Nights were the hardest part; PTSD was cruel, it struck when people were at their most vulnerable.

"Hello, Ingrid. How are you? Did Sam get away alright?"

There was a sigh. "Yes. It's been a week, and I'm still moping around the house. It's ridiculous, I know. But I miss him so much. You'd think I would be used to it by now."

"Ingrid, I have a special favour to ask. I am about to take on a private patient- someone who needs psychiatric nursing, but can't handle a rehabilitation centre. Outpatient treatment isn't possible. PTSD is suspected, but I can't be sure, not until I've had a chance to get his physical injuries under control, and to get him detoxed. I'm doing this all at home, at the manor. It's a very special case, and it would require you to be living on site for at least a couple of weeks. Would you be willing to help?"

"Wow- that's..um. Well, kind of spur of the moment." He heard the caution in her voice.

"Yes, I know. But he's had a psychotic episode and needs help now. There'll be another nurse, with expertise in trauma. Two things that might help you decide: I'm thinking of bringing in Diane Goodliffe as therapist, and I know you worked well with her last year. And if that isn't enough to entice you, then this might; he's a 38 year old on the Spectrum."

He heard an intake of breath. Ingrid's kid brother back in Oslo was autistic. "Oh."

George smiled. That "oh" was a commitment, if ever he'd heard one. He made a mental note to pass her name to Lewis, who would no doubt vet her properly.

"It won't be easy; he's probably going to be the toughest patient I've ever dealt with. So, I could really do with your help. I trust you."

"Of course, George. I can put off resuming work. Whatever you need."

"He's being transferred to Hartswood tomorrow morning at nine. Could you be here at eight?"

"Sure. You can count on me."

As he said goodbye and broke the connection, he knew it was true. He could count on her. One down, one to go. He phoned Mary Morstan's number.

"Hello George."

Just from the cheery tone in her voice, he figured she must have good news.

"Are your ears burning? I've just been singing your praises to your new nurse."

"Tell me more."

"Lidiya Koprila. She's a Czech national, but been all over the place- like me, a disaster junkie, working in camps in Africa, Haiti, the Philippines. I knew her well in Aceh in 2005, after the tsunami. She's tough as old boots, and seen it all."

"What's she doing back in the UK?"

That made Mary laugh. "Yeah, well, that's a bit like me, too. She came here for a little R&R and realised that maybe it was time to settle down. She's been working for the Wellington trauma unit, building up a deposit so she can go live in the country. She'll love the Manor."

"And you think she can cope with Sherlock?"

"Yeah- but even more important, I think he won't mind her. She has a sense of humour."

"How long will she be available?"

"She was getting itchy feet at the Wellington; hates routine. So, she jumped at the idea of a private patient. As long as you can match the wage, she'll be happy."

"Okay; that's fine. And it is good news. Could you ask her to get here later tonight? In fact, why not bring her down yourself? I've asked John and Esther to spend the night here too- need to have a patient conference, before he arrives tomorrow morning at nine."

That made George think. No one had talked about money. Despite the obvious amount of resource being committed to the surveillance, he'd better check with Mycroft.

"Mary, do you have Mycroft Holmes' telephone number?"

"Yes- I'll text it to you. You might get his PA, but she can get a message to him."

He thanked her and told her to text when she knew what train, he'd pick them up from the station. When her text came through, he saved it to memory, and then typed:

4.19pm Team recruited. Names to be vetted w/Lewis. Is budget limited?

The response text came quickly.

4.21pm My brother's health is priceless. Do whatever is necessary.

George listened to the sounds of activity in the house, and smiled. The supporting cast was getting in place. He just needed to learn his lines tonight, before the leading man arrived. I'm looking forward to this.