Chapter Ten

"You said you each had a question. I've heard one of them, and a lot of unevidenced speculation. What question do you want to ask, Doctor Cohen?" Sherlock's tone managed to convey both how fed up and annoyed he was with the conversation.

Esther sighed, disappointed that her challenge had provoked an avoidance strategy. Sherlock was not going to be easily convinced that dealing with the repressed memory was the best alternative. Not without a fight, not without a lot of convincing. She tried to think fast of a question that could bring him back to the realisation that he needed help.

"Ok, here's my question: I want you to think back to September 1994. You were fifteen, and I saw you at Harrow. Can you remember exactly what you told me about how you were injured, and what happened to your horse?"

"Exactly? Very few people could remember the exact words, Doctor Cohen, and my not being able to now would not be evidence of a problem."

"Then give me an approximation."

"You think I was traumatised by the death of a horse, and John thinks that my being around horses at Musgrave Hall has somehow…what? Triggered PTSD?" He made it sound preposterous. "That's ridiculous."

"Just answer my question, Sherlock."

He sighed. "Very well, for all the good it will do you. There was a stable fire, the horse was trapped and frightened, I tried to get it out of the stall. It smashed my left hand before kicking its way out of the stall. In the process, it impaled itself on a piece of wood." He held up his right hand, extending thumb and last finger as wide as it would go. "About that length, which punctured his chest and about a quarter of a mile later, he collapsed and died from blood loss." It was said quickly, in a slightly peeved, almost bored tone.

Esther was shaking her head. "All very plausible. It's what you told me and the School doctor, Mrs Wallace- pretty much anyone who asked got that story. But unfortunately, it's not entirely true."

He frowned at her again. "So, you were there, were you? An eyewitness who can argue differently?"

"Nope, but hospital evidence doesn't lie."

He finished off the mug of tea, setting the empty cup back on the table. "No such evidence exists."

"How do you know that, Sherlock?" Mycroft's question was delivered quietly, but like a rapier thrust, it hit home.

Sherlock stilled. Then slowly, very slowly turned his gaze onto Mycroft. "Now I understand why you are here. If she can prove I am losing my mind, you're here to lock me away."

"I'm not your enemy, Sherlock."

The younger man got to his feet and turned away, looking out the window onto Baker Street. There was a dismissive sniff. "I beg to differ, brother, and my prior experience of being incarcerated under your orders proves me right."

Mycroft would not be parried. "You agreed to three questions- so, here's the third: what did father say to you when he got back from Indonesia that August? Did he tell you to say what you just said about the fire, the horse, how you were injured?"

That made Sherlock look back at him. "You know what he said."

Mycroft shook his head. "No, actually I don't, or at least not the way you are implying. His exact words to me on the phone in September were 'There was an incident- a stable fire. The horse is dead. Your brother broke his wrist, but he's back at school now.' Then he went onto discuss other things for half a minute, then the line failed. I didn't even know you'd been to hospital; you could have had the wrist set at a GP's surgery if it wasn't serious. "

Now it was Sherlock's turn to be confused. "Then why are you siding with them?" He gestured to John and Esther. "What you just said backs my version- this isn't important. Or, in your eagerness to lock me up, are you just willing to go along with any old diagnosis?" His voice rose, and anger crept in. He moved away from the window, to the centre of the room, closer to the hall to his bedroom.

Esther stood up. "Sherlock, please, just sit down. No one is trying to lock anyone up. That's paranoia speaking. Just… calm down." She was trying to get him to focus on her again because clearly interacting with Mycroft was provoking more of a flight response.

They had discussed what to do if Sherlock challenged their version. It was possible that he simply could not remember the truth. Or he might be aware of the truth but unwilling to admit it. On the one hand, she needed to take some of the heat out of the conversation before she could see which it was. On the other, she couldn't let him slip away from the problem.

"Sherlock, just sit down." She took her own seat again at the table.

"Why should I? This is just pointless. You said you had three questions. Well, I've answered three questions, so I'm done here."

She realised that if she didn't move quickly, they'd lose him. He'd go down the corridor, shut himself in the bedroom and make it impossible to raise the subject again. She had to keep him engaged in the discussion. "What if I could show you proof? The hospital records that you say don't exist? Would that make you stop and wonder why you have a memory that isn't the same as what actually happened?"

He had already turned towards the hall, but her words made him stop. He didn't turn around. "There are no hospital records. He would not have left anything to chance."

That comment chilled Mycroft's blood. "Who, Sherlock? Who wouldn't have left anything to chance?"

Sherlock looked back at his brother, over his shoulder. "What difference does it make? Long ago and far away. Irrelevant. You weren't there, and now it's just pointless to even discuss it."

John could see that Mycroft was about to protest, but that would just take Sherlock further and further away from the real problem. "Sherlock, a half an hour ago, you were lying on the floor there in the corridor." He pointed down the hall to Sherlock's bedroom. "You collapsed because of a memory that you were reliving. Whatever the hell it was, it was bad enough to drive you to that state. And stuck inside that memory, I heard you. We all heard you say 'Myc, where are you?' So don't ignore the fact that he is here now. We all want to get to the truth, him included. If that means facing the fact that there are hospital records that show what you remember to be…less than the whole truth, well then, don't run away from it."

(ERROR CODE 2 0X2 ERROR_FILE_NOT_FOUND)

For a moment, curiosity beckoned. What were these mysterious records? He both did and didn't want to know, there was a dread right in the pit of his stomach, a burning flame. If he had deleted those memories, then there would be reason, and he was suspicious why now the three of them were conspiring to raise them again. He thought it very, very dangerous.

"No, I'm done with this."

As he strode down the hall to his bedroom, a message flashed up on his Mind Palace programme:

(ERROR This operation has been cancelled due to restrictions in effect on this computer. Please contact your system administrator)

He slammed the door hard enough to make sure they understood his answer, and he locked it, too.