Chapter Twelve

(Error Code 3 0x3 ERROR_PATH_NOT_FOUND)

This was awkward. He was stuck and trying to fight the rising panic in his chest. The pathway into the bolt hole was difficult for an able bodied person. And right now the screaming pain in his left arm and hand were making him far from able-bodied. He took a deep breath, held it while reciting in his mind the first nine elements of the periodic table, then released it for the next three. Another deep breath taken in, and elements thirteen through twenty one went by. He kept going at it through the whole table. When he finished, he realised that the panic had eased. He wasn't stuck. He was just tired, and in pain. Wait a while and he'd take care of the pain- it was at the end of the path, like a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow. He could take all the time in the world. He wasn't stuck. There was no need to panic. He could stay right where he was. If necessary, he could even go to sleep in this position. As ludicrous as it sounded, it made him relax a bit.

Sherlock was squeezing between a ventilation shaft and the roof of a building, up against the outside wall. He had to go feet first and then wiggle his way along, using his one working hand and elbow, plus his bum to push himself the twelve feet he needed to go. It had to be feet first because there was a drop at the end, a fall of about four feet. He'd found that out the hard way, the first time he'd tried it. Once he got past this obstacle and got his feet down on the new level, the space opened up again and he would sit down and catch his breath before finishing the journey. He told himself it was worth it. Once in, he'd be safe. No one would interrupt him, he could do what he needed to do, rebuild his Mind Palace without risk of interference by well-meaning idiots.

He'd made this journey a total of six times over the past fifteen years, although always when he had the full use of both arms. It was the very best of his bolt holes, the one he called Armageddon. He'd found it by accident, when chasing a drug dealer who was behind one of the most audacious series of murders, trying to protect his territory. Sherlock was working with Lestrade and an idiot DI from the Drug Squad who was highly dubious about the consulting detective. Every one of four times, the murderer made no effort to disguise himself, yet within minutes of killing he disappeared. And stayed disappeared for weeks, but still managing his network remotely. It was a puzzle that nearly drove Sherlock crazy, until one night he got lucky. He was actually in a drug den making a purchase (all part of the disguise, he assured Lestrade- and took a regular drug test to prove he was clean; no need to explain that he was stockpiling the purchases for later use) when the murderer showed up and knifed the dealer in front of witnesses, him included. Most of the clientele were too high or too scared to care, but he'd followed the man to a street southeast of Kings Cross station lined with multi-storey office blocks. When the killer made it to the roof of one of the businesses, Sherlock was not far behind, but then the man just vanished. He had walked around an air conditioning unit out of sight, and never reappeared. Sherlock spent the rest of the night sitting on the roof trying to figure it out.

He didn't tell Lestrade about it, just said he'd lost him. But he did go back to the roof the next day, and the next night after that. He left a motion activated camera, one that would not betray its presence. And three weeks later, it caught the man on film, leaving. Sherlock had found the edge of the roofing felt that lifted up and revealed a small hatch. Without a thought, he dropped through it and found himself in the crawl space between the metal ventilation system ducts. There was electrical cabling and pipework as well, which meant it was a tight squeeze, but with his pocket torch he could see a possible way through. When he followed it all the way, he found the drop down- the hard way by falling four feet. And then he discovered the rope ladder down between the two office blocks. When he got to what he figured must be the ground floor level, he found a locked door. He picked it and entered a room that was perhaps fifteen feet long and about four feet wide. It had ventilation, power, water- even access to the sewer. But it was totally hidden in the space between the two buildings. It was stocked with everything the criminal could need to keep safe and out of sight for weeks. As soon as he saw it, Sherlock knew he had to have it.

So, when he caught the killer, on his own, before Lestrade could show up, he didn't stop the man from choosing to take his own life rather than face life imprisonment. He took possession of the hidden room a month later. Over the years, he'd put in it everything he'd need to avoid Mycroft for good. And then he stayed away from it as much as possible, so he wouldn't risk having it discovered.

He knew what he was proposing to do was dangerous. The first time he'd re-built his Mind Palace from the bottom up, he'd been looked after. The school had thought him depressed, he was just…busy. This time, there'd be no support network if anything went wrong. But, on the other hand, there'd be no one to tell him he was crazy or to stop him from doing it the way he intended to this time. It had taken him weeks before, because he had to maintain some semblance of ordinary behaviour, but this time he didn't have to, so he planned to do it in four days.

It was well over an hour later that Sherlock arrived in front of the locked door. He was exhausted and the pain was so bad that he was panting. The darkness was only broken by what his head torch lit up, but the edges of what he could see were going pink, so he knew synaesthesia was on the way. His clothes stank of the sewer and of sweat. His right hand was shaking so much that it took him ten minutes to pick the lock. He'd never found the key, just locked and unlocked it using his pick. Then he stripped slowly, gritting his teeth against the agony that burned in his wrist and forearm. He threw away the tie he'd used as a sling, and removed the black plastic bag hoping that it had given the sutures some protection from the sewer. The only thing that had kept him going was the knowledge of what lay on the other side of the door- relief. He dropped the smelly clothes outside. He then went in and used the tap to run two buckets of water, then grabbed a bar of soap and a towel. Then back outside the door he began to scrub himself clean, rinsing off with the second bucket. The water was cold and he was shivering before long, but in a way the sensation of scrubbing overwhelmed other sensations, so he kept at it until his skin was hot and red. If he was going to spend the next four days in a windowless room, he wanted to keep the smell of the sewer outside.

After towelling himself dry, he walked back in and turned the light switch on- a single low energy bulb in the ceiling stuttered to life. The electricity demands of the room were low enough to escape notice; the cable had been snagged from a bundle in the crawl space and re-routed here. He would keep the light on for only the shortest of times, to keep suspicions down. He switched on the fan, opened the ventilation slot and left the door open. In ten minutes stale air would be refreshed and he'd switch it off and close the door. Air would continue so long as the ventilation grid was open- it was hooked up to the same shaft that served the ground floor. The long life bulb increased in brightness as the gases began to get excited. He liked thinking about the chemical processes going on in the bulb, it gave him something to occupy his thoughts other than the throbbing in his arm.

He went to the metal shelving at the end of the room, and pulled out a plastic package, then ripped it open to reveal a cashmere blanket and a high thread count cotton sheet. He wrapped himself in the sheet, and threw the blanket onto the camp bed. Then he found the pair of very soft cotton socks and pulled them onto his feet. The room was cool, but not cold. Between two heated buildings, it managed to be insulated from the worst of the weather.

He drew out the last item and then shoved the backpack out of the door and closed it. Even the backpack had acquired an unpleasant smell from the sewer. The paper in the red notebook had a faint whiff, but he could stand it if he had to resort to the written codes. He put the notebook on the shelf above the bed- it would be in his line of sight when he was lying down.

He had a pee into the third bucket, then closed the tight top on it. He'd found it amusing that the drug dealer who built this room had not wanted to endure life imprisonment, but had spent weeks using a slop bucket inside a room not much bigger than a prison cell. The access to the sewer was outside, in the space between the two buildings- a pain to get to but it meant you could stay here for weeks if need be.

Now, at last, he was ready. He had been keeping the pain at bay with the thought of what lay inside the metal cabinet which he'd brought to the room years ago.

(CTL_SHIFT_T)

He opened a previously closed tab, the memory of what treasures lay within the cabinet. As he opened it, his eyes took in the various bottles and packets of powders inside. Built up steadily over the years, it was a significant supply of the cleanest, purest collection of class A substances that he could gather. Some he had made himself, to be sure of quality. Just the sight of them was enough to set off a dopamine surge that took his breath away. He closed his eyes and just rode his body's reaction to the very idea of drug use. It surged right past the pain and made him smile.

Doctors had been medicating him with drugs since before he could walk. He still found it hypocritical and deeply annoying that his self-medication provoked such hostility from everyone. He was an experimental scientist who knew his own biochemistry better than any pharmacologist, and knew just how to use drugs to manipulate both his brain and its transport system. Apart from one glitch six months ago that wasn't really his fault, he'd not used for more than two years. During that time, however, doctors had been more than happy to pump him full of all sorts of drugs whenever he was injured. He suspected that the current problems with the Mind Palace were in fact the result of two doses of general anaesthetic within the space of two days- enough to frazzle most neurotypical systems, let alone one as finally balanced as his.

First things first- he had to ease the pain and take a brief rest. His brain was too addled by the journey to begin the re-build immediately, so he would allow himself an indulgence. He opened the bottle of Oramorph, an oral liquid morphine. He preferred intravenous injection as a rule, but there were compelling reasons to take it without leaving any tell-tale marks. It would also take about fifteen minutes to take effect, by which time he'd be ready. The morphine and a two hour nap would be enough to prepare himself. He took a carefully measured low dose, and followed the bitter liquid with a swig from the first half litre bottle of water he pulled out of the plastic shrink wrapped set. He set aside four more full litre water bottles on the shelf above the camp bed. If he was to avoid dehydration, he needed the visual reminder that he must consume at least one litre a day.

Then he cut open a packet of powder labelled n-methyl-1-phenyl-propan-2-amine. He had eyed the other packets, but decided against cocaine at the moment. Injected cocaine resulted in a better high, and was incredibly useful to him when having to sort out a difficult problem that required intense concentration. But, the Mind Palace re-build was different, it needed stamina, too. So, he opted for Meth, taken orally. It had been a long time since he'd used crystal meth. He had always been wary of its longevity and its addictive character. He had never dared smoke it or inject it, but taken orally it did not have quite the same impact. Because it took a full three hours to reach peak levels in his blood, orally ingested meth didn't create a rush. The high was controllable, and the shoulder period was sustained rather than frenzied. He needed to do the dosages now, though, before he was under the influence of the morphine. He measured a dose very carefully, tipping it into the half litre bottle of water he'd just started drinking and gave it a good shake. He ripped the label off the bottle and put it under the camp bed. Then he repeated the exercise with another half litre bottle. Two doses would be enough. The stimulant would kick start the re-build, and keep it going for the first twelve to twenty four hours. Then, if he really needed it a second dose should finish the work. Much safer than the continuous top ups needed to keep a cocaine high going. And dissolved in water, it couldn't leave any tell-tale injection marks. It would also be well gone from his blood system by the time he showed at the clinic.

He cast a lingering look at the syringe kit. His body was almost quivering in anticipation.

No, behave. Oral was slower, but steadier. And that made it safer, too. He was only too aware of how long it had been since he'd enjoyed his last high. This was not about indulgence; it was about work.

He inserted batteries into the digital clock and set it on a countdown timer. He had ninety six hours before his appointment at the London Hand and Wrist Unit. As he sat down on the edge of the camp bed, he fervently hoped he wouldn't need all of that time.