Chapter Six

I chased after him the second he left the room, whistling as he went, and only just caught up with him as he turned a corner down the deserted corridor. The police may face murderers every day, but Sherlock can scare them away into their offices just by appearing at a doorway. He had stopped, crouching down with his back against the wall, and he had his head in his hands. He was shaking and deathly pale,

"Sherlock!" He looked up at the sound of my voice, his eyes wild and panicked, "Don't give me that look! What the Hell was that?" He blinked and stared at me, confusion clouding his expression,

"I—I don't know, John. What just happened?" He looked around wildly, confusion clear in his expression, "What's going on? When did I get to Scotland Yard?"

I stared at him for a second, and then slowly lowered myself to sit beside him. He genuinely looked confused., and his entire face was horrified,

"What's the last thing you remember?" He ran his hands through his hair, tugging at the ends slightly, "Sherlock, calm down. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"I saw Donovan at the end of the corridor, and I heard something." It didn't seem possible but his face was another shade paler, "I heard someone in the back of my head with my voice. He was saying things about her, crude things, and begging me to let him out. Then, it just went black." I reached out hesitantly and took his hand. He didn't pull away, and I rubbed a calloused thumb across the back of his hand. "I don't understand what's going on anymore, John. I can't remember large chunks of the day. Sometimes I only remember a few moments and sometimes nothing at all; it's as someone's stealing my memories."

I put an arm around the shaking man and pulled him into a hug, but he struggled away. For a second, I thought I was going to be greeted by the cool, sociopathic man from the hospital bed, but what I received instead was far more chilling. He was sobbing and, when he spoke, I quickly realised why he had frightened Lestrade so much on the night of the attack. It was as if a child had stolen the face of an adult, his voice trembling and taking on a high pitched lisp and his eyes wide and innocent,

"Please, stop. Daddy won't like it."

"Sherlock, wh—what do you mean?" He shrank away from me, curling into a ball and sobbing,

"Please, don't be angry at me. Please, don't tell daddy I was bad! I'm sorry!"

"You haven't done anything wrong. Calm down, Sherlock. Your daddy's not here. Nobody's going to hurt you—"
"Yes, he will, daddy will find me and he'll punish me because I was bad. Please, don't tell him I was bad. Don't let him hurt me, John."

"I promise, Sherlock. I promise, I will never let anything hurt you again Sherlock." He finally relaxed and allowed me to pull him back into a hug. I think I needed it as much as he did. He smiled against my neck and said, quietly,
"You're my best friend, John. I know I don't say it much, but you're my cuddly teddy bear and I need you. You keep the bad men away, and you'll keep me safe forever, won't you?" I nodded, resting my chin on the top of his head,

"I promise. Now, let's go home."

We both struggled to our feet, Sherlock moving with a hunched over childish gait, dragging his feet and tucking himself into a ball like a frightened child – although he still towered over me. Then he did something that surprised me more than anything. He took my hand. Not in a couple sort of way. He just took hold and clung to it like a little boy seeking comfort and guidance from its father, looking to me to lead the way, and – with a shrug – I held the hand and began to head in the direction of home. I was going to have to talk to Mycroft soon; I was forming an idea based on what might be happening to Sherlock, but I needed the psychological assessment that Mycroft would no doubt have made sure his brother received. And I needed it before this got out of hand and someone got hurt – like Sherlock.

When we got back to the flat, I found Mycroft waiting already, sat in the armchair and gently wiping the mud from the end of his umbrella with one of our washing up cloths. Sherlock's childish eyes lit up with delight at seeing his older brother,

"Mycroft! I thought you were at university; mummy told me you weren't coming back. Have you come to see me? Did you bring me some more books?" He released my hand and shot over to Mycroft, hugging his brother. I gaped at them as Mycroft gladly accepted the hug and genuinely smiled,

"Hey Lockie, I haven't seen you in ages. I missed these hugs."
"That's sad, don't the others hug you? I hug you lots!"
"I know and the hugs are wonderful. Could you go to your bedroom for a lie down? We grown-ups need to talk, now." Sherlock pouted, "Don't give me that look Lockie. If you go to bed now, I'll give you some liquorice after breakfast tomorrow."

Immediately, Sherlock jumped back up out of the hug and rushed off to the bedroom, with Mycroft calling after him, "And don't forget to brush your teeth!" There was a groan, but no sound of protest before the bedroom door slammed shut. Certain that Sherlock was out of earshot, I turned to Mycroft,

"You have some serious explaining to do Mycroft. What the hell was that?"
"That was my favourite out of all of Sherlock's personalities. Lockie was always far happier to see me than the others; even the insipidly nice one drew his boundaries at being merely cordial towards me." I crossed the room and picked up one of the cups of tea that he had made, taking a seat and simply saying,
"Explain."

Mycroft put down his umbrella, reached out for his own teacup, and sighed,

"Sherlock, amongst other conditions, has Dissociative Identity Disorder."
"I think I've gathered as much. Has he always had it?"
"He has always had the Genetic Predisposition – much like our father. Siger Holmes had two personalities; his usual self and another identity. The abuse that Sherlock suffered at our father's hand, or rather the other identity's hands, eventually lead the young boy to create the new identities to protect himself. Of course, being the arrogant sod that he is, all of the identities were just different forms of himself, which splintered off from the true self. Lockie is merely Sherlock's way of indulging the pure childish side of himself he lost. He is the side that was lost during the abuse, which he never truly understood. We think one of the other identities was created to endure the sexual abuse. No doubt the abuse the other day caused them all to resurface…"
"How many are there?"

"I'm afraid I can't say…"
"Mycroft, if I'm going to help him then I need to know-!"
"No, I cannot say because I don't know. Sherlock's personalities split off when there is need. He hasn't had an episode in about twenty years, new sides of his personality have evolved and broken off since then. However, when were young there were merely four sides other than his usual self… the Sociopathic and highly logical side, the Psychopathic murderous side that suffered through the abuse and fought our father, the innocent child-like side and the impossibly kind side. Each was an exaggeration of one side of himself, the nice side having taken all feelings of nicety with him and leaving Sherlock without any social graces, but I have no doubt there are more personalities now. Which of the old four have you seen?"
"All of those and more."

There was a crash, followed by loud cursing in Sherlock's bedroom, and Mycroft got to his feet with a sigh,

"I do believe that Lockie is gone, or at least I hope so. Otherwise, he's picked up some fairly foul language for a five year old. We had best hope that it is one of Sherlock's more amiable sides. The Sociopath and Psychopath did not particularly like me." I gave him a look, "Yes, I know, neither does his usual side, but he hasn't tried to stab me in the past or analyse me into a tiny quivering pulp of insecurity. The sociopath can be even crueller than Sherlock normally is."

"I believe I experienced that in the hospital."

I followed the man into the bedroom, and we found an incensed Sherlock ransacking his room in search of something. The second we crossed the threshold, he leapt to his feet and shot across the room to seize Mycroft by the shoulders,
"Where is it? Where did you hide it, you bastard?"

Mycroft rapidly blinked at his younger brother, in surprise,

"To whom do I owe the pleasure of speaking to? I don't recognise this identity—"

Sherlock didn't reply, he just returned to overturning things, getting angrier by the second. He grabbed the pen-knife off his bedside cabinet, causing Mycroft and I to jump into action, terrified by what he was about to do, but instead he simply used it to tear open his pillows. Stuffing spilled out of the overstuffed pillow like guts and then he was sifting through it, throwing it up in a fluffy whirlwind.

He must not have found what he was searching for because, grunting in frustration, he threw it away and completely lost it. He screamed loudly, beginning to throw anything he could get his hands on across the room at his brother, before collapsing onto his backside and drawing his knees up to his chest.

There were tears running down his cheeks, and he began to rock slightly,

"Where is it Mycroft? Where is it? I need it!" He was running his hands incessantly through his hair, as Mycroft crouched beside him,

"What? What are you looking for Sherlock?" He looked up,

"The drugs! Where's my stash? It was here yesterday. I had some, and it felt so good. The real Sherlock freaked out when saw the mark, but I don't care. It's so delicious. I need it… I need it!" Mycroft reached out to place a hand on his shoulder, but his brother was suddenly on his feet. He raced away, disappearing out of the flat, and leaving us in the dust,

"Sherlock!" I raced after him, but by the time I reached the front door he had disappeared through the door and round the corner,

"Go find him, John. I don't want him getting back into old habits and he won't listen to me, not that side of him. It's the addict in him, it's irrational and doesn't want anything else. He no doubt still blames me for getting Sherlock off the drugs, but you can appeal to the other sides. They'll listen to you; you're the only one that they will."

I nodded and, grabbing my coat, ran into the rain in search of Sherlock.