Chapter Two:

Author's note: For those of you unfamiliar with my other stories, this chapter involves an OC who has appeared in quite a few of mine, Doctor Esther Cohen, a psychiatrist who has been dealing with Sherlock on and off for many years. She is introduced in Side-Lined, and also appears in Cross Fire and Periodic Tales, where more of her work with him as a child is covered. Knowing her, she might creep into new additions being plotted for Ex Flies, too. She's a bit like that.

"Thank you for agreeing to see me, Doctor Cohen. I am sorry for the short notice."

The petite grey haired woman eyed Mycroft Holmes warily as he gestured to the leather chair opposite him. Short notice was something of an understatement. She had been minding her own business at Heathrow Airport, returning from a medical conference in Milan. As she came through the green customs 'nothing to declare' channel and through the double doors into the arrivals lounge, she saw the friends and families of passengers lined up along the railing, intermixed with the taxi and car drivers bearing placards with the name of an arriving passenger. As she had no one greeting her and planned to go home by Tube, she habitually ignored this gauntlet. That is, until her eye was caught by one of the placards- "Dr E Cohen"- At first she thought it was an interesting coincidence, but not that unusual; after all, Cohen was hardly a rare name, and there were plenty of E Cohens in the London telephone directory. On second glance, however, she noticed that the sign was held by a young man in a tailored suit. He looked…different from the other drivers. Fitter, more alert, not bored. More important, he'd seen her, and clearly recognised her, even though she'd never seen him before in her life.

As she pulled her carry-on case behind, he came up beside her. "Doctor Cohen. Mister Holmes would appreciate a word with you. I have a car outside waiting to take you to the Diogenes Club. After the conversation, you will be driven home. So, you can put your Oyster Card away." He was charming, but professional- and had delivered the message in a way that left her little choice in the matter. Yet again, she was reminded of Mycroft's ability to choose people to work for him who were very good at their jobs. For a moment, she considered giving the young man a difficult time, just to see how far she could push the envelope of his orders. But, almost as soon as the mischievous idea occurred to her, she stifled it. If Mycroft wanted a command performance, then it was probably serious, and probably something to do with Sherlock. So, she gave the young man a nod, and handed over the luggage handle into his outstretched hand.

Now forty minutes later, she was sitting across from Mycroft, watching him pour her a cup of tea. She was also looking for some sign of what the meeting was about. It had been six months since she'd last seen him. Impeccably dressed as always, there were, however, a few indications that all was not well in his world. There was an open file on the side table beside his chair. Given the kind of secrets he habitually dealt with, that file was relevant to the discussion they were about to have. And even from six feet away, she could see it was a medical file. But, oddly, it was an old one- there must have been a dozen changes in NHS record-keeping forms since that one had been used. It made her curious. She was also curious that Mycroft seemed to be slightly hesitant, as if he was still thinking through how to handle this meeting. That worried her- both because in her experience Mycroft was always prepared, and because it was almost certain that Sherlock wasn't aware that they were meeting.

As she took a sip of Darjeeling tea, and Mycroft sat back to take a sip from his own cup, she decided to pre-empt him.

"So, why are we having this conversation about an old medical file and why haven't you told Sherlock that you are talking to me?"

He looked a little sternly at her. "Been practicing his deductive techniques, have you, Doctor Cohen?"

She allowed herself a little laugh. "If I haven't learned something from you two over the years, then I'd consider myself a lost cause. What is it this time?"

Mycroft put his tea cup down. "I need to know if you talked to Sherlock either before or after our father died in 1994."

That caught her by surprise. "Oh- ancient history? Well, as a matter of fact, both. Can I know why you are asking?"

"Something happened four days ago that brought to light certain facts about that period. I would prefer not to mention them until you explain what you discussed with my brother on those occasions, and how you viewed his state of mind at that time."

She thought about his request. It niggled. "If you had asked back then, I might have told you. After all, he was a minor, and you were his legal guardian. But last time I looked, six months ago, he was an adult. Unless something has altered his mental status and returned him to enforced psychiatric care, then to do what you are asking would breach client confidentiality. If he wants me to talk to you about this period, then I will. What is this about, Mycroft? Why now, why the mystery?"

Mycroft considered her counter-attack. Like a fencing match, she was parrying his request, until she had more information. "I admire your ethics, Doctor Cohen, but I fear the time has passed for such considerations." He took another sip of tea. She waited. After more than twenty years of knowing Mycroft, she had come to realise that he used silence as a tool to manipulate just as much as he did words. To fill the silence, most people would often offer something, if only to keep conversation going. She didn't feel like compromising on Sherlock's right to privacy unless it was absolutely essential. So, she kept silent.

In the end, it was Mycroft who broke first. "Oh, very well. You may recall when you saw Sherlock in 1994, his wrist was broken. He broke the same wrist four days ago, and then the day after being released from hospital following surgery, he broke it yet again. In both cases, the fractures were accompanied by what can be described as …a psychological malfunction. Doctor Watson was with him on both occasions and said he was unreachable. And yet, once he regained consciousness after surgery, Sherlock acted as if nothing had happened. Watson suggests that my brother is 'deleting' the memory of the episodes."

Mycroft returned his cup to the side table. "When x rays were taken this time around, they revealed that the damage sustained twenty years ago was far more extensive than I had been told about. And, oddly, there were no medical records referring to that injury. An investigation revealed more information, and we eventually found the records...and why they have gone unnoticed for two decades." He gestured to the table and the open file.

"May I read them?" She was now very curious.

"No. Not yet. Not before you tell me what the gist of your conversations with him were. I need to know your recollection, before it is…altered by what you might read."

Curiouser and curiouser. Her commitment to confidentiality began to collide with her concern for what was right for the patient "I am assuming that if I talked to Sherlock, he'd deny that there was any problem- either now or back then."

"He has already done that to Doctor Watson. It is possible that he has repressed the memory so much that he is actually unaware of it. Yet, it was triggered again- on more than one occasion, if Watson is to be believed, and then immediately suppressed again. More pertinent is that fact that since returning to Baker Street two days ago, Sherlock has been totally withdrawn, uncommunicative and unwilling to engage at all with anyone or anything. While that might be thought of as rather ordinary after a case, I am told by Doctor Watson that he thinks it is different this time. I have not seen him yet to draw my own conclusions. I am due to see him this evening. In the meantime, I am… concerned about the possibility of another major depressive episode. So, a little co-operation on your part would be helpful, Doctor Cohen, if he is to avoid hospitalisation. I would not ask this of you if I thought there was an alternative."

Sherlock's persistent refusal to accept therapy put her in a quandary. Unless she knew what was going on, she would be unable to help him- after more than two decades of trying, she knew this was fact. And, looking across at Mycroft now, she knew that she was going to have to trust him.

She put her own cup down, and thought back to the time. "It was a long time ago, Mycroft. But both sessions – and yes, there were two- stick out in my mind because before them, I had not seen Sherlock for, well, probably fifteen or sixteen months. As I am sure you recall, when he first went up to Harrow, I saw him twice in the first term, to be sure he was settling in alright. Then I spoke to him on the phone occasionally in the second term, and I did poke my nose in a bit at the end of that first year. Sherlock was always going to be seen at the school as unusual, but, so long as his eccentricities didn't make him too much of a target of bullying, then I figured he would cope. As you are aware, I knew one of the Harrow House masters*, so I asked him how Sherlock was getting on. His report reassured me. He said it had been a challenging year for Sherlock, but he got through it and found a way of coping with all those boys. The violin and his riding gave him the escape valves he needed, and the academic work was challenging him enough. I spoke to Sherlock once that summer on the phone. He was very busy, a full schedule of shows and competitions with the horse. He didn't have much to say, but then he doesn't actually like talking on the phone, as you know. I left it with him that if he needed to talk about something, he knew where to call and if he preferred something face-to-face, I'd be happy to see him. And I heard nothing at all for the next year and a half."

"Then in September 1994, I got a call from my friend at Harrow. He said I should contact the Bradby House Matron, because they were all concerned about Sherlock. When I did, that's when I learned about the death of the horse. The matron said he had come back at the start of the new school year the week before, and had barely said two words since arriving. His arm was in a cast, and he came with medications for pain and a schedule of hand therapist visits, once a week. I think it was Mrs Walters who brought him to Harrow- and she told the matron about the fact that his horse had died, and that she hoped the school would bring him back to life a bit." Talking about the events was helping her remember the time better. "Matron said he wouldn't talk much to anyone about anything, but did attend his classes that first week and buried himself in school work. He was excused from any exercise, and of course the violin was off the cards, too. She said she thought he was depressed and needed help, but wouldn't ask for it. I arranged with her to go see him."

She scrutinised Mycroft now. She should ask now the question that she had thought at the time, but couldn't because he was out of the country. "How much did you know about what had happened to Sherlock and the horse? You were away overseas, that much I got from Mrs Walters, when I called her. She said she was also away visiting her sister in Scotland when the accident happened, and didn't know much about the circumstances. She said your father had told you about what had happened."

Mycroft gave her a cautious if somewhat strained smile. "Yes, he told me there had been an incident, Sherlock had broken his wrist and that the horse had died. That was all he told me- no details. He said Sherlock was back at Harrow."

"And you didn't think to contact Sherlock yourself?"

She knew him better than to expect any remorse or sense of guilt to be displayed. The elder Holmes was a master of managing his emotions, and this time was no exception. In a cool, detached tone he said, "It wasn't possible. In September, I was only able to telephone the UK on that one occasion. A month before, I had managed to speak to father in Jakarta in August, on the 16th. But it wasn't until late October that I was in a position to be able to telephone the UK again. On that occasion, I was told by his House Master hat Sherlock was at the doctor's getting his wrist seen to. It wasn't possible for me to phone again. The next time I saw him, it was at the funeral." Having batted away her implied criticism, he countered, "And what happened when you saw him?"

As she cast her mind back to the actual meeting, a wry smile appeared on her face. "I'd forgotten how fast boys grow at that age. I swear he'd grown at least six inches since I'd last seen him. And the weedy looking little boy I saw during his first term at Harrow?- well, there was a young man standing there. Same hair and eyes, but all angles, big hands and feet, just not yet in proportion. Once I got over the first shock, I thought he looked….unwell. Too thin. He wouldn't make eye contact. Was clearly NOT happy to see me either. Matron did rather spring it on him, I fear, didn't tell him in advance. But, in her defence, if he had known, I am sure he would have found a way to avoid the meeting."

Mycroft's gaze was now focused tightly on her. "What did he say about what happened?"

"He didn't want to talk at all- not at first. He was suspicious of me. The first thing he finally did say was to ask if I'd been sent to talk to him by you or his father. While that felt a little paranoid, I knew enough about his anxieties on that score, so I told him the truth- that the school staff were worried about him. Eventually, with a lot of coaxing, I managed to get a couple of sentences out of him about what had happened. He said there was a fire, he'd hurt his wrist trying to get the horse out, but it was injured- something about a shard of wood stabbed into it, and when it did manage to break out, it died from blood loss. He said he'd been bruised and cut when the horse was thrashing about. He was there when it died. It was strange- he said it in a monotone, without any emotion. I remember thinking at the time that he was not allowing himself to grieve, and that it might be the cause of the depression. He was depressed, Mycroft, that much was evident. But with good reason, he adored that horse."

He looked at her coolly. Unlike his brother, Mycroft's eyes were darker and seemed to carry more than a hint of steel in them. Not for the first time in her acquaintance with him, Esther saw the echoes of his father in him. She knew he would be uncomfortable with that assessment, but she also knew that he was his father's son, in a way that Sherlock never had been.

The subject of her scrutiny had been using the silence to do his own examination of her. "And what treatment did you attempt?"

She snorted. "Treatment? Chance would be a fine thing. No way would he talk about it. After reciting his little set piece about what happened, he clammed up entirely. I could not get a single word more out of him. I asked questions, I cajoled, I threatened, I tried bribery- nothing worked to open those shutters he'd pulled down. I suggested medication; he just shook his head. It was…as if he wanted to be miserable."

She remembered her frustration. And her concern. "After a half hour of being stone-walled, I gave up. I talked to the matron, and got a damn sight more out of her than I had from him. Turns out he wasn't sleeping properly at all, and the floor monitor had caught him with his light on at 3am. The night before I showed up, he'd been found in his pyjamas and dressing gown sitting in the music room reading a book. When he was asked why, he said he couldn't sleep. He knew he'd be caught if he did it in his room again, so he'd come out to find a place where he wouldn't disturb anyone. The matron said he was miserable about having to be helped every morning to get washed and dressed. His plaster cast went right over his hand and fingers and he couldn't do anything on his own. You know how he hated being touched. She said it was even worse than normal."

Mycroft was listening carefully. "You said he looked thin. Did the school have any reason to think he wasn't eating properly?"

She gave him a rather pointed stare. "Since when has Sherlock ever eaten properly?" She carried on. "Was it worse than normal? Well, the house nurse did the routine exam for the start of new term. All the boys go through a basic with her first- height, weight, the usual. He'd grown taller over the summer, but actually lost weight, so she referred him to the School doctor."

"And what did he say?"

She paused. It was a long time ago, and she was having difficulties remembering every detail. "Why don't you just ask him?" she snapped.

"I would if I could. Harrow school uses one of three doctors attending their medical centre from the Stanmore Medical Centre. I have checked the records and found the one who was on duty the week we are speaking about. Unfortunately, he died two years ago."

Oh. "You are investigating this very thoroughly, aren't you?"

"When you read the file you will know why. I want to know why the school failed in its duty of care."

That comment stopped Esther's thoughts in their tracks. He's looking for someone to blame. This was no longer a matter of curiosity or fraternal concern. She'd just seen an uncharacteristic flash of Mycroftian frustration. He wasn't there, and he wants to blame those who were for not seeing something important. She also knew that depending on her own answers, she was certainly one of those he suspected of failing his brother. Hence this… interrogation.

She played for time. "Sorry, Mycroft. I am not blessed with an eidetic memory like the Holmes brothers. Give me a minute."

*Author's Note: For more backstory about Esther Cohen, Sherlock and Harrow, see Periodic Tales Chapter 25 Polonium