No torture references here, either.

Chapter Eighteen

Sherlock handed the phone back to Anthea and, without another word, walked out of the Incident Room and along to the antiquated lift, texting John Watson as he went:

Need urgent assist. Meet Euston ASAP, to go North. Bring gun. SH

His friend responded immediately, as though he had been waiting for such a summons which, of course, he had.

Meet in 1 hour. Bag packed already, gun too.

Travelling down to the Ground Floor, he checked train times and booked two First Class tickets to Stalybridge, via Manchester Piccadilly, for the 16.20 train, then he speed-dialed Molly's mobile.

She, too, seemed to be expecting his call.

'What's happened?' was her opening salvo.

'I'm going to talk to Arthur's family. I know they are involved in this. I don't know how and I don't know why, so I'm going there to ask them. Mycroft doesn't believe me but he's agreed it – probably just to get me out of the way – and John is coming along,' Sherlock explained, as he strode from the Whitehall building and hailed a passing cab.

Molly had watched Mycroft walk away from the Jungle Gym. She could tell, by the way he pinched the bridge of his nose and looked to the heavens, that he was talking to her husband. And now she could hear the agitation in Sherlock's voice, the sound of a human blood hound fastening onto a scent and giving voice. She was relieved to know that John was involved. She knew how reckless Sherlock could be, when the Game was On. He would be deaf and blind to everything but his quarry.

'Don't be too hard on Mycroft,' she pleaded. 'He is desperately worried about Arthur.'

'It would be nice if he trusted me,' Sherlock replied, bitterly.

'I trust you. If you believe Arthur's family are implicated then, however improbable that may seem, I believe it.'

'Thank you,' he murmured, humbled by her unquestioning faith in him.

'But, please, take care. Your babies and I need you back in one piece.'

Having climbed into the cab and given the driver the Baker Street address, Sherlock sat back in the seat and said,

'How are you and my babies?'

'William and Freddie are OK. I've told them that you're helping Arthur with something important. William suspects foul play but is coping. Freddie is just enjoying being in the countryside. But Violet really missed you last night. She was not impressed when it was me who turned up at playtime.'

'I missed her, too. I miss you all,' he breathed. 'So the sooner I get to the bottom of this, the better!' came a determined declaration.

Molly looked down into Violet's sea green eyes. The little girl had stopped suckling and was looking around, with a little crinkle between her brows. Her mother chuckled.

'I think she just heard your voice,' she laughed. 'She's looking for you!'

'Put me on Speaker Phone,' Sherlock requested then, after a short pause, said,

'Violet Augusta Hooper-Holmes, are you receiving me?'

The baby's eyes lit up at the sound of her father's disembodied voice and she broke into a gummy grin, as she struggled to sit upright and look around for the man himself.

'Daddy's in the phone, baby,' Molly tried to explain, holding the mobile in front of Violet's face, so she could home in on the source of the sound.

'I'm here, in this little box!' Sherlock exclaimed. 'Help me, Violet! Help me! I'm the ghost in the machine!'

Violet reached out and grasped the phone in two hands, pulling it to her mouth and gnawing at the top right corner.

'No, don't chew it, silly-billy!' Molly giggled.

'No! Don't eat me, Violet! I'm your daddy, not your lunch!' Sherlock wailed.

As Molly moved the phone away from Violet's questing lips, the little girl voiced a loud protest and tried to claw it back but Sherlock was speaking, again, so she stopped to listen.

'Are the boys there, too?' he asked. 'Can I speak to them?'

Molly waved her hand in the air to attract her sons' attention, and called,

'William! Freddie! Come over here, sweeties!'

The brothers scrambled down from the Jungle Gym and ran to their mother.

'Daddy's on the phone,' she explained and offered the mobile, Speaker Phone off now, for one of the boys to chat. Freddie took the initiative and the phone.

'Heyyo, Daddy, are you tumin' home soon?'

'Hello, Freddie. I'm not coming home today. I have to go on a train journey but I hope I won't be away for too long. Are you being good for Mummy?'

'Ob-torce I is, Daddy!' Freddie exclaimed, 'I is or'ways a good boy!'

'Yes, of course, you are, Freddie, my mistake. I apologise. Are you having fun?'

'Yep, lops an' lops ob fun, fan-tu.'

'Oh, well, that's good. Is William there?'

'Yes, he here. I gib him to you. Bye, Daddy!'

Freddie handed the phone to William and then turned to Violet, who had finished her feed and was now peering over her mother's shoulder, as Molly rubbed her back, to bring up her wind.

'Ada, hab you finist your dinner? Wad it nice?'

Violet just giggled and waved her hands at her brother, kicking her legs with glee. Freddie was definitely her second favourite playmate.

'Hello, Daddy,' William said, turning away with the phone, for a private conversation with his father.

'Hello, Will. Everything OK?'

'Are you still safe?' William asked.

'Yes, I am still safe,' Sherlock replied, wishing for the umpteenth time that his eldest son were a good deal less perceptive.

'Where are you?'

'I'm on my way to Baker Street but Uncle John and I are taking a ride on a train, later.'

'Is Uncle Arthur with you?'

'No, not at the moment.'

'Is Uncle Arthur safe?'

Sherlock pursed his lips. He couldn't lie to William but neither could he tell him the truth. The pause was just a fraction too long.

'Alright, Daddy, I understand,' said William.

'I'll explain everything when I get home, I promise,' Sherlock assured him.

'You take care, Daddy. And take care of Uncle Arthur, too.'

'I will, William, don't you worry. Can I talk to Mummy now?'

'Yes, Daddy. Bye bye,' William replied then handed the phone back to Molly, before walking across to the Jungle Gym, where he climbed right to the top and sat, deep in thought.

'I will call you tonight, let you know I'm OK,' Sherlock promised.

'You make sure you are and make sure you do,' Molly replied. 'Love you.'

'Love you, too,' he whispered and cut the connection, just as the cab pulled up outside 221B.

ooOoo

When Arthur awoke from his litany-induced nap, the 'therapist' had gone. He was alone, again. He rolled onto his back and instantly regretted doing so but decided it was less painful to lie still than it would be to roll over again so he stared at the ceiling and reviewed his situation, yet again.

The room he was in, having no form of ventilation, smelt very stale, now. The sink was still clogged with his vomit and the floor spattered, here and there, with the bile, saliva and water he had spat out at various points during the course of his incarceration. It was, generally speaking, a most unpleasant environment but he comforted himself with the knowledge that it was just as unpleasant – perhaps more so – for the other two men as it was for him.

To be frank, he'd been in worse smelling places. Digging through the rubble of bombed out homes, in Helmand Province, Afghanistan, looking for survivors amongst the dead bodies, in the heat of the blazing sun – that had smelt a whole lot worse than this. He shut off that line of thought, preferring not to dwell on such matters.

Back in the present, he balanced the pros and the cons.

He had convinced his captors, temporarily at least, that he was unwell but it was going to be impossible to maintain that subterfuge for any length of time. Even if he did endless press ups when he was alone, to keep his pulse rate up and make himself hot and sweaty, they would no doubt catch him in the act, sooner or later, and then the game would be up.

He was aware that Blake was less than enamoured of the good doctor and wondered whether he could inveigle his way into that man's confidence, perhaps make a deal with him to assist his escape. But that seemed unlikely, since it would appear that MIB worked for the man who had actually instigated this whole fiasco – and Arthur had a good idea who that person was.

So, it was back to Plan B – affect a dramatic change of heart, give the Reparationist what he wanted and bring this ridiculous farce to a speedy conclusion. Having made that decision, Arthur set about planning how to go about it. By the time Knowles and Blake returned, he knew exactly how he was going to proceed.

'Ah, the patient is awake again – and looking a lot better!' Knowles exclaimed, with false joviality.

'No thanks to you,' Arthur muttered, eyeing the sjambok, warily.

'Now, Arthur, as I've explained, this is for your own good. Sometimes one has to be cruel to be kind. Sometimes a rude awakening is just what's needed to make a subject see the error of their ways.'

'For my own good? What do you know about what's good for me?' Arthur replied, bitterly. 'You have no idea what I've had to go through, in my life.'

'Why don't you tell me, Arthur? I want to hear about your troubles.'

Arthur fixed him with a suspicious glare, as though considering whether he should trust this man with the intimate details of his life story. Knowles returned his glare with what he intended to be an encouraging smile, though it more closely resembled a lecherous leer.

Following a brief internal debate, Arthur seemed to come to a decision and said,

'Have you any idea what it's like to grow up in a household full of women, with a father who is impossible to please? Whatever I did, it was never good enough for him.' He managed to put a depth of anguish into this pronouncement that surprised even him.

Knowles was almost beside himself with excitement. This confession keyed right into the pet theory of Reparationists everywhere, that male homosexuality was a product of the lack of bonding with a father figure and an over-exposure to female influences, during childhood. Arthur, of course, was well aware of this, having watched a TV documentary on Reparation Therapy , quite recently, unbeknown to Knowles. He was giving the quack therapist exactly what he wanted.

'Actually, Arthur, I do know what that is like. Why do you think I chose this line of work, made it my vocation? I have met so many young men, just like yourself, who have had this aberrant style of up-bringing.'

It was all Arthur could do not to snort with derision. The true nature of his childhood could not have been more different from the one he had described. He had been the apple of his father's eye, since the day he was born. His dad had taken him fishing, walking on the moors, to Lads and Dads football on Sunday mornings, had watched him play rugby for his school and then for the county. And, as an adult, Arthur Senior had shown him off at the pub, over a jar or two, and bragged about his soldierly exploits.

All of this father-to-son adoration was the very thing that had made it so difficult for Arthur to come out about his sexuality. He really did not want to break his father's heart.

Summoning all his latent thespian abilities, Arthur suddenly threw his arm across his face and released a strangled sob.

'I've tried so hard to fight it! I hate these feelings that I have, this craving for affection, this desperate need for my father's approval. That's what my partner gives me. He's the father that I never had!'

Knowles laid a comforting hand on the young man's shoulder.

'But this man has abused your trust, Arthur. He has exploited your desperate need for his own lascivious purposes. He's not a father to you, he's your abuser. He has groomed you for sex.'

'Oh, god! You're right!' Arthur gulped, channelling all the guilt he felt at this dreadful misrepresentation of his true relationship with Mycroft into his performance.

'Let it out, Arthur! Don't hold back! You must release the pain!'

Arthur was in full flow, now, exploiting his previously suppressed sense of desperation, as a prisoner at the mercy of this mad man. His body shook with wracking sobs, mucus streamed from his nostrils and tears poured, in profusion, from his eyes, running down his cheeks and soaking into the pillow and his hair.

Blake observed this dramatic scene, from the other side of the room, with a cynical squint. He was unconvinced. But Knowles was completely taken in. He saw this as a great step in the right direction. He reached out to stroke Arthur's head, in a gesture of sympathy, but the young man pushed the hand away.

'Don't touch me!' he bellowed. 'I don't want your fake sympathy! You don't care about me at all!'

'I do, Arthur, trust me,. I do!' the other man insisted.

'No! You are a liar! If you cared about me, you wouldn't leave me in this stinking room, wallowing in my own sweat, breathing the foul stench of my piss and puke in that filthy sink! God, I feel so dirty!'

Despite the pain it induced in his back and shoulders, Arthur rolled over, turning his back on the quasi-physician and weeping, inconsolably, into his pillow. Knowles turned to Blake, with a self-satisfied smirk on his lips.

'I never fail,' he boasted.

Blake just twisted his mouth, in a sardonic grimace, and said nothing.

ooOoo