Walking back to the office, Sarah was relieved to hear James Harrison's level voice talking to Sherlock. He was still there then, still safe, and he hadn't bolted yet. But at some point they were going to have to tell him that Mycroft coming to find him, and how he would deal with that was more difficult to predict.

'Mycroft's on his way,' she wrote on the pad of paper. 'He's sending someone to watch him until he can get there. He wants you to arrange an admission to a rehab facility if you think that it's needed.'

James nodded his head slightly as he continued to concentrate on what Sherlock was saying, and to scribble notes rapidly with his free hand.

'Sherlock, we need to get you somewhere safe,' he said finally, when the conversation seemed to have reached a natural lull. 'Can you think of anyone that I can call, someone that you trust?.'

'There isn't anyone,' he replied dully. 'You know that.'

'Friends at college? Is there anyone that you're close to, that could come and be with you?'

'No,' came the abrupt reply. 'Nobody who I'd want to see me like this.'

Still isolated then, still finding it hard to open up and trust people on anything but the most superficial level; still scarred from his treatment at the hands of his father and the mistrust he had learned at Elmhurst. Sherlock hadn't always been like this, James knew. When he had started prep school, he had been charismatic and mischievous, and had had friends; one or two close ones, who he had plotted and schemed with, and a wider circle of those who admired his sheer ingenuity and the extent of what he seemed able to get away with. As the trouble at home increased he had become more withdrawn, pushing people away, learning from bitter experience that the only person that he could trust, that he could rely on was himself.

Public school had been even harder for him, James was aware. With puberty had come a distrust and a sense of isolation. His friends began to develop an interest in girls. Sherlock himself had reached puberty relatively late and even then, he had failed to understand his fellow pupils' fascination with the female sex, and indeed with sex in general. It held no mystery for him. He understood the biology, he was aware of his own biological urges even, but they were disconnected, and the idea of engaging in the act with a member of the opposite sex held little appeal. Sex would involve closeness, and trust, and physical contact with another human being. Closeness implied trust, trust was difficult, and he associated physical contact only with pain. He couldn't bear to be touched even by his mother anymore, shying away from her attempted hugs, or even her familiar hair ruffle. She had put this down to his age, ignoring, as always, what she would rather not know. Ignoring the bruises, and the days when he would take to his bed after an argument with his father. Easier to deny it than to face the fact that her husband was beating their youngest son.

'Then we're back to Mycroft, aren't we,' James said calmly, wishing not for the first time that he could help Sherlock to unravel what had happened with his father.

Silence from the other end of the phone. 'I don't want him to know,' Sherlock said quietly after several minutes.

'Because you think that he'll judge you? He won't, Sherlock. Mycroft cares a great deal about you. He just wants you to be safe. I can talk to him if you'd rather, or Sarah can.'

James pushed away his feelings of guilt. This felt a lot like lying to Sherlock, this need to pretend that the conversation with Mycroft hadn't already occurred. He and Sarah had breached Sherlock's confidentiality after all, but then he wasn't officailly their patient anymore. He had approached Sarah as a friend primarily, or as something as close as Sherlock came to having a friend. He had gone to her as someone that he trusted, not as a healthcare professional. And yet the golden rule of psychitary still applied. Safety had to come first, and while Sherlock was not overtly suicidal, James shuddered to think what he might do if he walked out of that pub. From his conversation with him he knew that it wasn't that he wanted to die, in that he had no plans to hasten his own demise, rather that he no longer cared what happened to him. The drugs had numbed his emotions to the extent that nonexistence seemed to him like a logical option. And logic with Sherlock was not always a safe option.

'Sherlock, I have to ensure your safety, you know that,' he said gently. 'If you won't let me call Mycroft, then I'll have to call the police. They will either take you to A&E, or to the police cells for a psychiatric assessment. That is the only other option. I would come myself, but I'm too far away, so is Sarah, so if there is nobody else we can call, then it has to be Mycroft.'

'I'm not your patient anymore,' Sherlock said stubbornly, 'You don't have to tell anybody.'

'I'm not doing this because I have to,' James told him, 'I'm doing it because I care about what happens to you. So does Sarah. We both want to get you help, and to make sure that you're safe. I can get you into a rehab place - maybe even today, if not then certainly tomorrow, but somebody needs to get you there safely.'

'You've already phoned him, haven't you,' Sherlock whispered, sounding defeated.

James sighed. His insight was almost frightening, even in this state. 'We had to, Sherlock, I'm sorry. Now you just have to sit tight and wait for him to get there.'

'Where would I go?' Sherlock asked bleakly, his head starting to spin as the alcohol began to finally flood his system. He laid his head onto the table for a second, closed his eyes, wondered what would happen if he allowed himself to sleep.

'Sherlock,' came James' voice from the phone he had dropped onto the table. 'Sherlock, are you still there.'

Wearily he picked the phone up. 'I'm tired,' he said, no longer bothering to stop his words from slurring.

'You need to stay awake,' James Harrison told him. 'Get some coffee, distract yourself, just stay awake until Mycroft gets there. I can keep talking to you for as long as you want me here.'

Sherlock looked up for the first time since he had started his conversation with Sarah nearly an hour ago. There was a man sitting at the only other table in the snug which had a partial view of his table. Early thirties, dark, closely cropped hair already starting to grey at the sides. He was dressed in a way that seemed designed to blend in. Navy blue chinos, pale blue casual shirt, brown lace-up shoes that were well polished, but still showing signs of scuffing through the polish. Scuffed at the toes, heels worn down slightly on the insides. The kind of wear that you got on children's school shoes; because children run in their shoes, and these shoes had also been run in one time too many. There was a carefully mended tear on one leg of the trousers too. Torn climbing over a wire fence perhaps?

The man was studiously studying his paper, or giving a good impression of doing so. Wrong paper, too; The Guardian, while his clothing cried out Telegraph reader, not quite smart enough for The Times.

'Sherlock, are you still there?' James Harrison was asking.

'I'm still here. I think that I've tracked down a source of coffee,' Sherlock said, continuing to stare at the man until he put down his paper and met his gaze. Then he got up, and walking over, sat down in the vacant seat opposite him. 'Do you mind?' he asked nonchalantly, as he slid the unused coffee cup towards himself, poured himself a cup from the cafetiere and tipped in four sachets of sugar. 'You can always get yourself another cup if you want some, or better still get yourself that pint of bitter that you really want.' He paused, giving the man a moment to stare at him in amazement. 'Well, since we're both stuck here until my brother arrives, we might as well wait together,' Sherlock added, trying not to slur his words and failing.

'Greg Lestrade,' the man said, sticking out his hand as his lips twitched upwards into a smile.

'Sherlock Holmes,'Sherlock said, as he took Lestrade's hand and shook it. 'But then you already knew that.'