Check chapters for specific trigger warnings.

Trigger warning: use of drugs, homelessness, mention of child death, forced restraint

Sherlock completed his time at Cambridge, graduating with a First in Chemistry. Mummy wanted him to stay on for Postgraduate Research. Sherlock couldn't even contemplate another three years of tedium just to gain an entirely pointless qualification. Mycroft, as always, had other plans for his younger brother's future. He knew that Sherlock had neither the temperament nor the desire to carve a career for himself in either Whitehall or Vauxhall Cross. Therefore, he decided that his brother needed to focus his talent for science into research. Porton Down would be too restrictive, so Mycroft had decided that Baskerville was the best fit for his willful sibling; isolated, and with a reputation for it's more cutting edge and esoteric research, it was an environment that could be closely monitored, but offered an illusion of freedom.

Sherlock hadn't decided what he wanted to do. He hadn't found that niche that made his blood sing, but he knew it was out there. Even if he had to invent something himself, he would find his vocation.

Unsurprisingly, Sherlock had experimented with cocaine during his remaining years at Cambridge. He wasn't addicted, only using it when he needed the isolation and focus that only the drug could provide. Still, his arm bore the scars of his infrequent companion.

After graduation he briefly stayed with Mrs Hudson, enjoying the buzz of London. Finally, he bit the bullet and returned to his parent's home, returning to his childhood room and feeling that, despite the years that had passed, nothing had changed since he was eighteen. He was twenty-three and had no clear idea of what he wanted to do with his life. Mummy was obviously disappointed that he had not chosen to earn a Ph.D, and Mycroft tried, via barbed words, cryptic texts, and in one case, kidnapping, to persuade him his future was on Dartmoor. Sherlock might have considered the option if anyone but Mycroft had approached him.

Mycroft's association with Sir Peregrine had changed him. To everyone else he appeared charming and erudite, but to Sherlock, who had always known him best, Mycroft was merely smarmy, domineering, and manipulative, Sir Peregrine's guidance exacerbating Mycroft's already overbearing need to control.

Sherlock lay in the garden listening to the buzz of insects as he blew lazy smoke rings from his cigarette towards the cloud dappled blue of the summer sky. Perhaps he should travel. Take some time and explore the world. Let his mind absorb all its strange wonders, before he had to make a choice about what he could do.

He closed his eyes, letting himself wander through his Mind Palace, throwing wide doors rarely opened and rummaging through long ignored shelves and cupboards. It was in the dark corner of his play room that he found a magnifying glass, large and round with a brass handle and rim. Curious, he picked it up and was instantly assailed by the memories attached to the object. The pool near the Barbican. The inter-school swimming competition he and his classmates had been forced to attend. Sitting in the stifling humidity in his thick school uniform with his schoolmates amongst the scruffy urchins of central London. The 100m butterfly and one boy flailing then sinking in the middle of the pool. Teachers working frantically to breathe life back into the limp body on the poolside as other teachers herded the spectators away to the cafeteria. The distinct impression of wrongness. Sneaking into the locker room and finding the kit bag labelled 'Carl Powers' kicked under a bench in front of an open locker. The clothes, screwed up and thrown in, all neatly labelled 'C. Powers' by a loving hand. The missing shoes. Telling his teacher that his shoes were gone, that something was wrong, but being dismissed and, finally, when persistence did not pay off, being shouted at and dragged away. Writing five hundred times 'I will not be insolent to my teachers'. Reading in the paper and hearing in the gossip that buzzed down his school's corridors that the 'oik had a fit'. Knowing that that was not the correct answer, but having no means to discover the truth. Finally tucking the memories away in a dusty corner so the lack of an answer no longer haunted his dreams.

Fascinated, Sherlock returned to his room, withdrawing the carved ebony box from its hiding place amongst his other accumulated clutter. Always the best way to hide anything from Mycroft's nosey prying; keep it in plain sight.

Sherlock locked his bedroom door, filled his syringe, and waited for the opalescent calm to free his mind.

He awoke some time later to a feeling of uncomfortable constriction. All the information about Carl Power's death was clear in his mind. The boy had been murdered, by whom and for what reason remained unclear due to insufficient data, but that his shoes were taken as some kind of memento mori, or more likely a trophy, was indisputable. He became aware of a feeling of movement. A vehicle of some sort. He was lying down. He tried to move but his arms were bound around his waist. He struggled to sit up, but a strong hand on his chest and even stronger straps held him secured to a stretcher. He was confined in straightjacket, being taken to who knew where by a thug in a white uniform.

Mycroft!

Sherlock knew without doubt that this was Mycroft's doing. A further way to control his brother's 'errant' behaviour and coerce him into falling in line with his grand plan for his brother's future. Well Mycroft would be disappointed.

Sherlock was registered at a private rehabilitation facility. He started off in sterile white isolation. After an initial medical where his health was deemed to be satisfactory, and a self-satisfied nurse (thirty-five, single, three cats, dyed red hair, naturally a nondescript mid brown, passion for Oreos, Tetley tea, gossip magazines, and the large man who had brought him in) tutted patronisingly over the scarring in the crook of his elbow, he was re-secured in the straightjacket and dumped in an ancient wheelchair before being locked in a white padded cell.

For a long time he sat, stony faced, back against the padding. Mycroft knew what this kind of sensory deprivation did to Sherlock. It appeared his older brother was not above torture to get his way. Sir Peregrine had taught him well. Sherlock refused to give the bastard the satisfaction.

The room was not as efficient as cocaine, but the sterility and sound-proofing reduced extraneous stimuli to a minimum, so Sherlock again entered his Mind Palace to continue his explorations. The continuous prodding of a full bladder finally roused him from his reverie. Using the wall as support, he gained his feet. He walked to the door and shouted out his need to urinate. Unclear how long he had been incarcerated, he knew that it had been at least twenty four hours since he last ate or drank, his last meal being half a cheese sandwich at lunch the previous day. His bladder now becoming painfully urgent he shouted again. No-one came.

One final time he yelled out. "LET ME OUT OF THIS ROOM SO I CAN TAKE A PISS. IF YOU DON'T I'LL JUST DO IT HERE." When there was still no answer he did as he'd threatened, uncomfortable at soiling himself, but determined not to give in to a situation over which he had little other control.

An angry man and a pinch faced women, both dressed as medical staff, entered the room shortly after. The porter grabbed Sherlock from behind, yanking aside the neck of his restraints exposing his neck. An injection administered, none too gently, by the nurse quickly rendered Sherlock unconscious. When he awoke he was in a bed. He wore a hospital gown, with an IV inserted into his hand and an uncomfortable catheter to drain away his urine. They were taking no chances of a repeat performance. The straightjacket was gone, but his wrists were bound by leather straps to the sides of the bed.

A nurse entered the room to check that status of his IV.

"Can you tell me why I'm restrained? I've not been violent towards myself or anyone else. If you are unable to give me an answer I would like to speak to someone who can."

With barely an acknowledgement of his request the nurse left the room.

Some while later a doctor appeared, a nurse standing at her back. The woman had not long graduated medical school, her white lab coat still almost pristine, her mind stuffed with all the answers and latest research, much of it flawed, but giving her a confidence that she knew best. Sherlock observed both women, dismissing everything about them as irrelevant. He repeated his question in as uncondescending a tone as possible.

"You have been committed by a Mr Holmes. You were found in your bedroom by your Mother having injected yourself with a solution of cocaine. Apparently she became quite hysterical. Mr Holmes requested that you be restrained as you have a tendency to violent outbursts and unpredictable behaviour. He has asked that you remain in the secure unit until the completion of your rehabilitation."

"Fucking pompous git. And how long will my rehabilitation take?"

"Two months. You will receive a schedule of your group and one-to-one counselling sessions. There is also a full programme of recreational activities including painting, bingo and supervised walks around the garden when the weather permits."

"Oh excellent." Sherlock's voice dripped sarcasm. "And may I ask when I will be allowed to eat or drink as I have had nothing since Tuesday lunchtime."

"Oh really? I wasn't aware."

"I find that surprising given the rather startling concentration of the piss I left in your padded cage."

"Normally we would limit food intake during the first few days as addicts often start to suffer withdrawal symptoms causing nausea, however you do not seem to be exhibiting any of the usual indicators."

"That is because I am not an addict. I use a seven percent solution of cocaine injected intravenously when I have need to focus my mind. I do not seek nor crave a high. My mind is quite enough to keep me entertained without entering the realms of a drug induced la-la land. I deal in facts, not hallucinations."

"Really. So the scarring indicating a fairly regular drug habit is just for show?"

"I have been using intermittently for the past two and a half years. I am here solely because my brother wishes to control my life, and I will not give him the satisfaction. Having me locked away in here, restrained and regimented at every turn is his way of punishing me for my insubordination."

"Well, I'll keep that in mind."

"I will tell you now, I do not play well with others. I tend to make weaker minded individuals unaccountably angry when I tell them the truth, and I always tell the truth in all its lurid detail. So, if you wish to keep any semblance of control over your inmates I suggest you find solitary pursuits to keep me entertained. I enjoy reading, if your library carries more than tawdry paperbacks. The BMJ will do at a pinch. I am familiar with computers, assuming you have an internet connection of course. I like to keep up with the latest news and, of course, scientific advances. I also play the violin. I find it soothing. Tell my disgusting brother that, if he wants to do something useful, he will send me my violin, assuming you have no objection of course."

"No, no objection. However you will not be permitted any contact with the outside world while you're here except for scheduled visitors, so no internet I'm afraid. You will be allowed to wear your own clothing, pyjamas and leisure clothes mostly, t-shirts, tracksuits, that kind of thing. I understand your brother is arranging for your possessions to be brought in tomorrow. I see no objection to the violin, so I will let him know. This does all assume complete co-operation on your part. You're obviously an intelligent man. I would hate to have to treat you like a naughty child and slap you back in irons."

"How ironic. I always wanted to be a pirate."

Dr McTavish struggled to hide her involuntary smirk as the nurse behind her grew even more pinch faced.

"Nurse O'Mara, please see that Mr Holmes receives food and drink within the next thirty minutes. We do not starve our patients. And ensure that his schedule keeps communal activities to a minimum, including all non-essential group sessions. Good day Mr Holmes. I will see you at breakfast in the dining room tomorrow."

"I assume that means I will be freed from this instrument of torture?" He nodded his head in the direction of his crotch.

"Nurse O'Mara will remove the catheter when she brings your food. If you behave you will also remain free of the restraints. The IV will be removed, by the nurse, once you have finished your meal. Any other questions?"

"No Doctor. You have answered all my immediate questions. Until breakfast then."

-0-0-0-

When Sherlock awoke the next morning, it was to find a large holdall loosely packed with clothing deposited outside his door. There was also a cheap violin case leant against the wall. Inside the holdall were t-shirts, sweat pants, hoodies, and jumpers along with cheap cotton underwear from a high-street retailer. He found sleepwear, a ghastly towelling bath robe, a pair of slippers and a couple of pairs of trainers. A wash bag contained the essentials for personal grooming.

Sherlock turned his attention to the violin case. Unsurprisingly, it was not his violin. Mycroft had ensured that nothing that came in for his brother's use was actually his. It was all bought from high street chains and of the cheapest quality. Mycroft did love his unsubtle message. Submit or go without. Similarly the violin, whilst passable, was nothing special. It was little more than a proficient child would play.

Entering the breakfast hall, Sherlock nodded his head in acknowledgement to Dr McTavish who was drinking coffee with colleagues at a table with views across the room. The only table set with crockery and cutlery. The inmates made do with fragile plastic cutlery as they ate bland slop from flimsy plastic trays.

Over the next week Sherlock surveyed the layout of the facility. He had no doubt that, if he could get outside undetected, he would have little difficulty leaving the grounds. The main problem was finding a way out of the secure unit with its doors deactivated by card readers and pass codes.

Discovering the passcode proved remarkably simple, calling for fortuitous positioning and sharp eyes when one of the other inmates decided to freak out. It was a fair assumption that the code was the same throughout most of the general staff access doors in the facility, given the lack of intelligence of most of the staff.

He chose his time well, selecting an evening when Nurse O'Mara was on night shift. His nimble fingers removed her security card as she ushered into his room for the night. Since she was not supposed to leave the inmates alone, it was doubtful she would notice its loss until morning. Packing his meagre possessions into the holdall, including a blanket from the bed, and grabbing his violin case, Sherlock picked the lock on his room with ease. He had little difficulty exiting the facility, only having to duck into a side room once when one of the orderlies swept past with a cleaning trolley. Within ten minutes Sherlock was outside, and half an hour later he was off the grounds entirely. Making his way to a main road, he hitched a lift with a lorry driver heading for London who was grateful for the company to ease the tedium of his journey.

Once in central London, Sherlock simply disappeared. He stayed away from Baker Street, unwilling to drag the lady into is battle with his domineering brother. He joined the crowds of homeless who remained largely invisible in the throng of England's capital. He became familiar with every street, alley and bolt-hole. He quickly learned to identify and avoid Mycroft's spying CCTV cameras, using routes over rooftops and through tunnels and underpasses when remaining at ground level was impossible. He was quickly accepted into the homeless community where he began to build a network of useful contacts. He would not call them friends. He did not have friends, still clinging to Mycroft's mantra "Alone is what I have. Alone protects me." It was a while before he realised that he no longer repeated the words in Mycroft's conspiratorial tone, as though he were passing on a great secret. He now heard the words in his own voice. He had taken ownership.

He made his living playing his violin and, when the weather grew bitter, by vetting the clientele of a local drug den. He generally stayed away from drugs throughout his time on the street, having no use for it, better uses for his money, and needing to remain aware of his surroundings at all times. However, he could not avail himself of the normal shelters when the weather grew deadly cold. The drug den was warm, with food, and a degree of comfort. His job was to keep an eye on the door 'reading' each new client to ensure they had money, were not from the police or, worse, a rival dealer. In exchange he was allowed room and board. Very occasionally he received payment in kind. There were only so many times he could decline the offer without becoming the object of suspicion, so a couple of times each winter he would find himself back in his Mind Palace, isolated from the world by his drug of choice.

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