Devonshire Squires- Epilogue

George dropped off John and Mary just before the December dawn broke, and they joined the commuters cramming onto the 07.27 train. There was a smattering of Christmas shoppers, too- heading up to London, going early in the hope of beating the crowds on Oxford Street and Knightsbridge. The direct service to London Bridge was nearly full, so they had to sit apart; the only two empty seats were five rows away from each other. For the next forty seven minutes, John would be alone with his thoughts.

There were plenty of them- mostly relating to the fact that while he was heading north back to London, Sherlock was being driven south, sedated and unconscious in the back of an ambulance from The Royal London Hospital in Whitechapel. There was something so fundamentally wrong with that fact, it took every ounce of self-control not to get off at the next stop and take the southbound train.

As the train rattled out of the station heading east to Redbridge, John's gaze around the carriage showed him that half of the passengers were plugged into their phones, ipods and laptops. Commuters who weren't preparing for work distracted themselves or just caught a little more shut-eye before the train would deposited them in the world of work. John tried to shut his own eyes in the vain hope that sleep would come now in the way it hadn't last night.

John's insomnia came from being incandescent with rage on Sherlock's behalf. No matter what had happened in the intervening two years, John knew his friend at a gut-instinct, visceral level. Hartswood Manor was just another form of cage, a bit more free range perhaps, but a cage nonetheless. He's going to be livid. If the presence of Mycroft's minions wasn't enough of a reminder, Sherlock's unerring sense of surveillance would know that the place was wired up to the nines. There would be no privacy. The indignity of being micro-chipped like some pedigree dog, and then tracked by satellite? It beggared belief. Whatever Mycroft might have said in the treatment room about Sherlock's success at taking Moriarty's network down, he was now acting like his brother couldn't be trusted at all. It seemed so wrong to do this to a man who had worked the miracles he had over the past two years, all on his own.

And yet... John couldn't ignore the facts. By any reading of the Mental Health Act, Sherlock's behaviour over the past ten days made a section almost inevitable. What hurt almost as much was that when Sherlock was going through all of it, he had not once reached out to John, in fact, had pushed him away. He rehearsed every conversation they'd had- from the first night at the restaurant all the way to the gym floor when he'd known for certain that Sherlock was using drugs again. He kicked himself up one side and down the other for his own pig-headedness. His sense of wounded pride for having been left behind, his hurt at realising that Sherlock didn't need him at all when solving the biggest crime syndicate in the world. He'd been an idiot, and his anger kept Sherlock away, just when he should have been there.

No wonder he'd been deleted. That hurt more than John thought possible, but he knew that he was more than half way to blame.

He'd tossed and turned most of the night trying to think of some other way to deal with his friend's breakdown. He had never felt quite so frustrated. Being cut out of the treatment process just burned a hole in his head and his heart. While Mary had slept peacefully beside him in the double bed that would soon be Sherlock's, he'd not been able to stop thinking, imagining what scenes would be played out in this very room over the coming days and weeks.

He had plenty of material to draw from- memories of Sherlock angry, depressed, hurt- enraged that others were presuming to know what was best for him. Scenes of him being a prat- or worse- replayed in his head all night; someone was bound to poke their noses in too close for Sherlock's comfort- and would then have to deal with having it bitten off. Sherlock was an intensely private person, with a reticence born from years of being misunderstood, misdiagnosed, and mistreated at the hands of those who did not understand him. No wonder he'd developed a repertoire of anti-social behaviours behind which to hide. Hayter hasn't a clue.

He'd struggled with his feelings towards George Hayter. Until yesterday, he'd thought well of the man. His background and record made him worthy of respect, but there was more- John had actually liked him. And watching him stand up to Mycroft had been –well, he enjoyed replaying the look of surprise on Mycroft's face during the showdown at the Diogenes Club. But…

That wasn't the same as handing over the responsibility for Sherlock's recovery to him. No matter how much respect he might have for the record, he didn't really know Hayter. And that made him mistrustful, anxious. What risks were being taken here?

He kept thinking- no, hoping-and then feeling bad about the thought- that Sherlock would feel his absence. But as soon as he felt guilty about that, hard on the heels of that thought came another- would Sherlock see him not being there as yet another form of John's betrayal? Because looking at it from his friend's point-of-view, which he had not really thought of properly before now, John's behaviour could be seen as that. If you shared the solipsistic world view that Sherlock had, everything should have just returned to "normal", as if the whole two years had not happened. Like someone had hit the pause button, when he returned Sherlock probably thought that life would just carry on exactly as it had before St Barts' roof.

As John listened all night to the grandfather clock in the downstairs hall chiming the passing hours, he couldn't stop the relentless train of thought. He wasn't sure which was worse- the idea that Sherlock needed help that he wasn't being allowed to give, or the pain that whatever was going on in that head of his had made John into part of the problem, rather than the solution. It struck at the very heart of John's sense of his own self-worth and the basis of his relationship with Sherlock.

Alongside that was the fear that this state of affairs might be permanent. That somehow Sherlock would want nothing more to do with him- ever. That maybe his relationship with Mary had somehow become an insuperable barrier. That possibility made him feel wretched. He loved Mary. He wanted to marry her, raise a family, become the husband and father that he'd always wanted to be, but had never found the right partner until he met her.

But the thought that his happiness might cost him his friendship with Sherlock kept him tossing and turning. He had angry conversations in his head with Mycroft, with Sherlock, even with Mary. Round and around the thoughts whirled, making sleep impossible.

Even while the train's gentle movement rocked half the carriage's passengers to sleep, John's anger kept him wide-awake. After a quick cup of tea in the farmhouse before George drove them to the station, he had sent Mary back upstairs to have a last word with Lidiya. John used the moment alone with George to let some of his anger show.

"Just so you know…I think this whole set up is wrong. Lots of new faces and not one that's familiar…more than a bit not good for someone like Sherlock. Now that you've read the files, you'll know that he's able to run rings around anyone who thinks that therapy is the way out. He finds his own way back, if he thinks it's worth it. That's where the people who really care for him come in- not a whole load of strangers he has no reason to trust."

He then looked the RAMC veteran straight in the eye. "If I were you…"

oOo

"…but you're not." George didn't let him finish. "I appreciate what you have to say, John. I certainly understand more this morning than I did last night." He gestured upwards, towards the minions who were probably listening in to their conversation. "I didn't agree to this level of surveillance. Their physical presence should be enough. I know that the tracker will be horrible in concept, but it's actually less obtrusive in practice. He just might accept it, when he realises that it will give him freedom of movement and the opportunity to be alone. To make that work, I'm going to have to get rid of those cameras, and push the two boys into the background, so they aren't in his face. I know that's a battle that I will have to fight with Mycroft Holmes."

John nodded, but was clearly not placated.

As Mary started down the stairs towards the two men, George finished quickly "And you may be surprised but I agree with you about familiar faces, now that I've read the files. That's why I've asked Esther to stay here, to help me get him through detox, if nothing else."

George wanted Mary to hear this, so he waited for her to join them at the door. "Look, John, I'm not you. I'm not trying to be you, not trying to displace you, or even to be Sherlock's friend. But that doesn't mean I am going to give up on him as easily as some of the medical professionals who've had him in their care. I'm much more willing to try anything so long as I can get enough commitment from Sherlock to really work at this. So, he's going to have a real say in what happens here. Has anyone ever really given him that choice before?"

The fifteen minute drive into town passed in an awkward silence. The night had been a long one, reading through the pile of medical files. George was a fast reader, but even so, he had only managed to hit the bottom file at well past four o'clock. Despite being fortified with strong coffee, he was looking at the world through the gritty eyes of someone short on sleep. He could feel the unresolved issues and emotions of John Watson, sitting in the car beside him. But, applying the principles of triage, he had to save more of his energy for the patient who would soon be arriving, which meant less on being polite to John and Mary. As they approached the train station, George knew he probably looked as weary as he felt, but he could still muster a smile for Mary, as he got her overnight bag out of the boot of the car.

He handed over a card with his mobile number on it. "I'll be updating you regularly, I promise."

John's parting words were uttered through clenched teeth; "I expect to be told everything. I'm still the patient's advocate, even if you think I have to keep my distance."

As the train left the station, George was already in the car and heading back to the Manor. There were things to be done. Driving out of the station, he had to turn left onto the one-way Holmesdale Road, and the name made him think yet again of the responsibility he had taken on. A lot of combatants. Either of the Holmes brothers would be challenging enough on their own, dealing with both would be even harder. But after this morning's conversation, he knew he would also have to figure John Watson into that battlefield.

He passed the town hall and headed along main road towards Bell Street. But, the fates were unkind. After passing the library, he watched ahead as a 773 bus pulled away from the kerb just as a car tried to overtake. There was a screech of brakes as an oncoming van heading in the opposite direction tried to avoid hitting the car now encroaching into its lane. It smacked the pavement, mounted it and crashed into a street lamp in front of the cinema, which crumpled on impact and then fell across both lanes, coming down onto the roof of the car directly in front of George.

He managed to hit his brakes in time and came to a stop. Luckily for him, the car behind him had also left enough room- but it was rear-ended by someone behind them. In the space of thirty seconds, utter chaos erupted as cars travelling in both directions became jammed in the morning school and commuter traffic.

George was on the phone instantly- a 999 call first. Then a quick call to the Manor land-line to tell them he was going to be delayed. Then he was out of the car and on foot, trying to see if there were any casualties.

Fifteen minutes later, he was happy to hand over to the paramedic who had arrived on a motorbike. The centre of town was grid-locked, so the Redhill based ambulance service knew better than to even try to get a rig in here. Fortunately, the van driver's injuries looked worse than they were: some stitches would be needed and a broken nose that would need investigation. He'd banged his mouth and nose on the steering wheel.

Thirty five minutes later, the police managed to get the traffic moving again, and he turned the car south onto Bell Street. He wondered if the bottleneck might have delayed the transport of his illustrious patient. When he turned into the driveway between the Manor and the farm, there was no sign of an ambulance, despite it being half past nine.

Some instinct though took him into the front door of the middle house, rather than his own.

Esther Cohen was standing in the hall, and greeted him with a concerned smile. "Was anyone hurt?"

He shook his head. "Not badly- a broken nose, some cuts. I think he's going to have words with the company- vans should come with airbags. It wasn't even his fault."

He pocketed his car keys and looked up at the hall ceiling when he heard a floorboard creak. "Has anyone called to say how late our patient will be? The centre of town was totally blocked."

"He's here; already installed upstairs, still asleep."

His face must have betrayed his surprise. "No problem getting here? How's that possible?"

Esther gave him a gentle look. "If he can track Sherlock's movements by satellite, Mycroft Holmes will have people who can figure out how to avoid a traffic jam."

That made George snort. "I guess I am going to learn a lot about not underestimating people."

She nodded. "Yes, the pair of them are a lesson in humility. I've lost count of the number of times Sherlock has called me an idiot."

"And yet here you are."

"Of course; compared to Sherlock and Mycroft, I am an idiot. Everyone is. But, you know something, George? Even geniuses have problems that they can't solve, and they need people like you and me."

She turned away and he followed her into the living room. The two nurses were there, sitting on the sofa beside the fireplace; Lewis was standing, looking out the window. There was a person he didn't recognise beside him- a big boned, ginger-haired man with a stern look on his face, who nodded to George. "I'm Alex Arthur. I came with the patient, and will be in charge of his security here."

Before responding to that comment, George waited for Esther to sit down in the comfy chair that matched the sofa.

"Right. Ladies, gentlemen, this is how it's going to play. Now that I've read the patient's medical files and have a better understanding of the needs of someone who is both hypersensitive and living with Sensory Processing Disorder, I am altering the arrangements. I've decided that we need to give Sherlock more space, peace and quiet. So, Lewis and Arthur- change of plan. You two are moving next door- into the big house. I know you've hard-wired a lot of the surveillance stuff up into the loft room here- just change that to a wireless hub and pick it up next door. You have three bedrooms on the second floor over there to choose from. Furnishing is a little sparse on the top floor, but there are beds. Just think of it as an occupational hazard, and a damned sight better than most stakeouts. But, you'll have to get used to it. Neither of you is going to be positioned in this house on a regular basis, and not at all at the start."

It was Ashley who reacted first. "That's not what we've been ordered to do, sir."

George stood firm. "This is my house, Mister Lewis, as are the two houses on either side of this one. And whatever you've been told, you are here because I am willing to accept your presence."

Now Arthur got involved, crossing his arms and glowering. "This is not acceptable. We have our orders, and close protection means just that."

Hayter shook his head. "Close protection? A tracker is right next to his spine, and that's close enough. Ten feet and one wall will make no material difference to your protection duties- but it will make a huge difference to him. Tell Mycroft Holmes this arrangement is what I agree to, and that's that." He glanced at his watch. "You have no more than a half hour to make the move. You have to be out before he wakes up."

There was shocked silence from the two agents.

"Now." George put the command tone in the word, so that neither could mistake it. "Lewis. Mycroft Holmes would have given you discretion to manage the situation as best you can. This is one of those times when discretion is required. Get to work."

Despite the obvious reluctance of his colleague, Ashley Lewis drew breath, nodded and then left the living room. Alex Arthur was left standing, red-faced and rather awkward. George decided to take pity on him. Quietly, he said, "just do it; I will deal with Mycroft Holmes. Get on with it, before his brother wakes up."

As soon as the door shut behind the big man, George turned to the sofa. "Lidiya and Ingrid, you'll be sleeping next door, too- and whichever one of you isn't on duty, will be over there, too. The first floor bedrooms in the big house are properly furnished- I needed to make them look good for the prospective buyers when they viewed the property. The décor is a little faded- but the space should be welcome- and the kitchen is well equipped. I think you'll get on well enough."

Esther was nodding her approval. "I agree, George, the fewer new faces the better. And even old faces that remind him of unpleasant things shouldn't be here either, which means that I need to make myself scarce, too. I'll park myself in your cosy little sitting room next door. If you need me after he wakes up, then you can call me."

He looked down at his watch. "Ingrid, I'd like you and Lidiya to get him out of the hospital gown and into his own pyjamas while he is still asleep. Once the boys are next door, remove the IV fluids; stop the sedation. I want him to wake up naturally, alone."

Thirty minutes later, the house was quiet- the creaking of old floor boards, the muffled voices, the scents of the staff were no longer in evidence. George looked in on the sleeping patient. The hospital paraphernalia was gone. Sherlock was breathing comfortably, and had turned onto his side in the double bed- a natural position for someone in the middle of a normal sleep cycle. He pushed the door to the bathroom ajar, and then left the door from the bedroom onto the hall landing open. George then went downstairs into the kitchen at the back of the house, switched on the CD player to a low volume, and settled down with his book. As the soft, sad sounds of Bach's cello suites kept him company, he waited for Sherlock to wake up.

Author's Note: For those of you who wanted a grand finale, a "kiss and make up" scene between John and Sherlock or a "happy ever after" ending- sorry. For those of you who are familiar with my work, the consolation is that by now you know that I rarely end one story without having another already on the go. Watch for "Magpie: One for Sorrow", which covers what happens next at Hartswood Manor. I promise that you will find out what happened in China, and how Sherlock recovers, and how the newly introduced OCs- Lidiya, Ingrid and Diane work with George Hayter to help Sherlock find his way back. In the process, we will see how the threesome of John, Mary and Sherlock in the So3 broadcast episode is formed. One for Sorrow starts the Series Three stories that I have planned between now and the airing of the Sherlock special. This will be a series of ten stories, following the Old English country rhyme about Magpies. Follow me to be sure you don't miss out on the start of the new series. And, if you liked this story and want to know what happens next, then review, because that encourages me to get on with it!