Chapter Eleven

Four hours later, Sherlock was still staring at the ceiling, working through the ramifications of the earlier discussion. He wasn't too sure about John, but clearly his brother and the psychiatrist believed him to be incapable of solving the problem. He knew he could, but the longer he left this, the harder it would be. He had to get somewhere private, where they wouldn't drug him and stop his ability to re-build the Mind Palace and clean up the mess left over from the system crash.

He'd heard voices discussing something loudly after he left the living room, but Sherlock decided to tune them out. He just didn't have the strength to spare. There were more important things he had to do in his Mind Palace. But it was hard to concentrate because he also heard John's voice. The tone was firm and angry in equal measure. Good, the more the three of them argued, the less likely it was he'd end up in a locked psychiatric ward tonight. He breathed a sigh of relief at that thought. He kept the audio device driver on standby- it would alert him if anything dramatic was about to happen.

Then he was cheered by the sound of Mycroft and Esther Cohen leaving. Whenever those two showed up in his life, Sherlock always worried about the possibility of ending up in rehab. This time, I'm not even using. It annoyed him, got him so angry for a moment that he found it impossible to concentrate on anything other than what they had been talking about. Hospital records? He knew there weren't any. He'd done a check almost a decade ago. He was so determined that Mycroft would never find them and use them against him. That's what his father had said. "Keep quiet, or these will give me the means to put you away forever." He no longer remembered what it was that he had to keep quiet, he just knew that if he didn't, he'd lose everything. If by any chance they had found something, then it was even more of a reason to bolt just as soon as he could. If they decided that whatever they thought they'd found was enough to justify the confrontation he'd just been put through, then he wasn't going to hang around to let his father's prophecy come true.

He could hear John making a meal, the scent of pasta wafted down the corridor- a tomato sauce. Footsteps came, then a knock. "Sherlock, please eat something. I promise not to talk. If you want, I can bring it to you in there." He didn't answer. The footsteps went away. In the background, Sherlock heard the sounds of John washing up, the television and then the news. Finally, John went upstairs to bed.

That was the signal for Sherlock to come to life.

(ESC)

He got up from the bed and opened the drawer in his chest – the one where he kept his various "disguises". Out came the dark jeans and the tee, then the hooded sweatshirt. He found the baseball cap at the top of his wardrobe, the cyclist's headlamp and pulled out the cheap mac and a pair of scuffed trainers, already loosely tied; he could work his feet into these without having to mess one handed with shoelaces. He stuffed these, a sash cord, a tie that some idiot client had given him and a black plastic bin liner into a cheap backpack also pulled from the back of the wardrobe. Most important, he found the small red notebook from the bookshelf- his user guide and manual, he called it. The original coding that led to the Mind Palace directory structure. That went into the backpack, too.

Next, he moved his shoes from the bottom of the wardrobe, pulled the drawer out and the lifted the floorboard underneath to which he could now access. Why was it that people never thought of moving the 'immovable'? It was awkward with only one hand, and he had to do it carefully, so he didn't make a noise. Out came the survival pack, as he called it. Cash and fake driver's license, which went into the jeans pocket. He took a look at the other items, and then decided to leave them. Plenty more of that where he was going.

He took ages getting dressed; the sling kept being a nuisance. Finally he got annoyed enough to take it off and just deal with the pain. Actually, the pain helped him to focus. Although moving his arm to get the pyjamas off and the old clothing on hurt like hell, he'd learned how to dress himself on his own in these clothes a long time ago, and found the memory after a bit of searching. There were some advantages to having easy access to these memories again. He knew exactly what he had to do, and was not going to allow anyone- least of all Doctor Cohen or Mycroft- to interfere. They had been useless back then, and they would be useless now.

He moved very quietly down the hall, and then onto the stairs, listening. He stilled his own breathing, tuned out the noises of the refrigerator's hum. The doctor had left his door open. He knew John was still in the early stages of sleep, he'd learned what his sleep breathing patterns sounded like. Although he would have preferred to wait until the doctor was more deeply asleep, the need to move was too strong. No matter, he was capable of getting down the stairs without making a sound. Just walk slowly in socks on the sides of the steps by the wall, and miss out the seventh step, which creaked no matter where you stood. A minute per step and the brain of ordinary minds like John's or Mrs Hudson's would not connect the sounds if there were any.

Seventeen minutes later, he was out on Baker Street and at work on the next part of the plan- losing the surveillance man that Mycroft would have put in place. It took him all of twelve minutes. You're slipping in your recruitment and training, brother; it normally takes me twenty minutes. Twice in the final moments, he'd had to alter course to avoid patrolling black government cars, brought there as soon as his tail lost him. His brother had moved fast, but not quite quick enough. He had only one more road to cross before gaining access to the tunnel he needed.

Climbing down the iron ladder was tricky with one arm, but it was easier than getting the manhole cover back in place. To do that, he'd had to thread his damaged arm through the ladder so that he could trap it between his upper arm and side. A little precariously, he was then free to use his right hand to pull the cast iron circle back in place. He tried to ignore the fact that falling here would result in a thirty foot drop. When he did finally get down the ladder, his muscles were shaking from the strain and his brain was positively buzzing with the pain. He took a deep breath through his nose, to totally overwhelm his sense of smell. The overload stunned him for a couple of seconds, but it meant he would now be inured to the utter stench of the place. He slipped the black plastic bag over his bandage and splint, then used the useless tie to serve as a sling. No sense in exposing new sutures to the bacterial morass of the sewer. He pulled the mac out of the backpack and onto his shoulders. Then he found the headlamp, pushed it onto his curls and pulled the mac's hood over. Then Sherlock was off, tacking his way through the sewer system across London avoiding every CCTV camera, every traffic camera, every piece of Big Brother's watchful eye. He knew exactly where he was headed, but he was going to make absolutely certain that no one tracked him there.

oOo

John woke with a start, and for a split second, had no idea where he was. In the next three seconds, he considered and dismissed the idea that he was at Camp Bastion and that the noise he heard was an approaching Chinook helicopter carrying casualties. Then the sound registered properly- his mobile phone was on vibrate mode, and it was rattling at him from the bedside table. He sat up and touched the screen to bring it to life. As soon as he recognised the caller ID, he connected.

"Some watchdog you are, Doctor Watson." Mycroft's acerbic tone was like a splash of cold water in John's face.

"What's happened?" John switched on the bedside table lamp and started looking for his socks.

"He's bolted. And evaded my man. No sign on CCTV. Into the wind, and untraceable. Did you speak to him at all this evening?"

"No, he wouldn't open the door." John was now struggling into his dressing gown while walking down the stairs, juggling the phone from hand to hand as he put his arms through it.

"We should have put him in a secure place. I warned you and Doctor Cohen that this was likely."

John thought back to the heated debate the three of them had when Sherlock locked himself in his bedroom. Mycroft had been all for breaking the door down and taking his brother into care. John had argued against that, saying that forcing therapy on a reluctant Sherlock had never worked in the past, so he wouldn't be party to it this time. In any case, there was no evidence that he represented a threat to himself or to anyone else, so a section would be very hard to get. Esther just tried to stop the two men from coming to blows. She agreed that a section would be hard to justify, and that voluntary admission was highly unlikely. She admitted that she didn't know what would work, but arguing about it only made things worse. She eventually came around to John's side- the "let things settle overnight" strategy. He'd been sure that given space and reassurance, Sherlock wouldn't flee.

And as he opened the door to Sherlock's bedroom, he saw just how wrong he'd been. The place looked like a tornado had passed through. Clothes strewn about, shoes everywhere, the drawer gaping from the chest. And the sling was lying on the bed, forgotten. The wardrobe door was standing wide open, and when John peered in, he could see the floorboard was up. He reached in and pulled out a plastic packet, turning the contents out onto the bed.

"Oh, Sherlock." It was said with sadness.

"What have you found, Doctor Watson?" It was the formal title, not the familiar 'John'. Mycroft was really, really angry at him.

"Do you want the good news or the bad, Mycroft?"

"The time for clichés is long past. What have you found?"

"A stash- but he left the drugs behind. That's the good news. The bad news is that he's probably got cash and fake ID, he's left two credit cards behind- fake names. Looks like he's had a contingency plan all along."

"He's always had contingency plans. That's why I wanted to move him into someplace secure. Well, Doctor Watson, there it is. My brother is having a mental breakdown and he is out on his own, hiding on the streets with no support. I hope you're happy." The call was terminated.

Shit. John sat on the edge of Sherlock's bed and tried to deal with the guilt that was settling around his shoulders like a shroud.