Reference to sexual abuse but no graphic descriptions.

Chapter Thirty Eight

Even as he made that statement, the little colour that Sherlock's cheeks possessed drained away and his body began to tremble. He could hear the blood rushing in his ears and his heart pounding in his chest. His breath hitched as the panic attack took hold.

Moran looked on, in amazement, as the man in front of him visibly crumbled.

'I would rather appreciate…some of that brandy you served last night, if you would…be so kind,' Sherlock gasped, rubbing his face with his hands and trying to suppress the nausea rising from his gut. 'And a glass of water, if you please?'

Moran curled a smile at the other man's discomfort but did get up and cross to a sideboard, unstoppered a decanter of brandy and poured a generous measure into a glass. He reached into a small fridge, fitted inside the cupboard, and brought out a bottle of water, keeping a wary eye on Sherlock, all the while. He carried both items back to his guest, who held out two shaking hands to grasp the brandy glass. Moran put the water bottle on a side table and retook his seat.

'Well, Mr Holmes, either you are a world class actor or you might actually be telling me the truth,' he quipped.

Sherlock sipped at the brandy, eyes tight shut, and strove to get the panic attack under control. He couldn't lose it now. He understood that this involuntary display of vulnerability was working in his favour, at the moment, but it was affecting his ability to think clearly and stay ahead of the game. He concentrated on regulating his breathing, relaxing his tense muscles and slowing his racing heart rate. The brandy was helping. The water helped, too, as he exchanged the glass for the bottle, but he could really use a cigarette, right now.

'I'm waiting, Mr Holmes,' Moran prompted, not entirely convinced that his guest wasn't putting on a show.

With a monumental effort, Sherlock quelled his physiological responses and took back the brandy glass, to sip as he explained himself to Moran.

'When my parents died.., well, let's just say I didn't take the news quite as well as my Iceman sibling did. In fact, I suffered an emotional collapse. I was admitted to a private clinic for treatment and was kept there for three months, more or less, during which time I was designated a Vulnerable Adult and made a ward of court, with my brother as my legally-appointed guardian. Because of my hospitalisation, I missed my parents' funeral, which is something that has haunted me, ever since.'

His breath hitched once again, at that point, and he took another sip of the brandy, to steady his resolve.

'When I was discharged, they sent me home with a whole chemist's shop worth of medication, which was administered by a private nurse that my brother took on, to take care of me. She turned out to be a bit of a lush. Every night, after she gave me my knock-out pills – I was having trouble sleeping, you see. Still do, as a matter of fact – she used to hit the bottle and be out for the count by midnight. However, she was fairly efficient, during the day, and she didn't try to make me think she was my friend, so I rather admired her for that. At the time, I thought she was just a spy, for Mycroft. I still believe she probably was.

Anyway, getting back to the point of why I'm telling you all this – I've never told this to anyone, not even my wife, so I hope you appreciate how privileged you are – once I got back home, I started having these really bizarre dreams that I was being visited by demons and evil spirits, in the night. I have to say, I was pretty out of it at that time and the cocktail of drugs I was on could have felled an elephant, so if it were just the dreams, one would probably not attach too much significance. But there was physical evidence…'

He stopped abruptly and took another tremulous gulp of the brandy. Moran waited, fascinated by the performance so far but also intrigued about what was to come.

After a second slug of the warming liquid, Sherlock continued his account.

'There was physical evidence on my body – bruises and abrasions – that I couldn't account for. I became quite paranoid, convinced that I was being attacked, during the night as I slept, by these supernatural beings. I believed the dreams to be true. So, me being me, I decided to investigate. I set up a secret camera in my bedroom, hidden in my bookcase, which fed into my PC and, before the nurse came in to give me my evening meds, I set the camera running.

The morning after, I checked the results and…I don't think I have to go into detail about what I discovered. Long story short, it was not a bunch of mythological creatures interfering with me but a real-life monster – my dear brother.'

Sherlock could feel his heart rate increasing again and he broke out in a cold sweat but pressed on with his story.

'I was in a bit of a quandary. I was terrified about would happen if my brother found out I had filmed him – as he was my legal guardian and had complete control of my life. I was so paranoid I didn't trust the doctors or anyone else. I had no one I could confide in. So I kept the evidence secret, copied it onto a disc and deleted it from my hard drive. I hid it away but I never threw it away. I think I always believed that there might come a time when I could use it against him. And I think that time has come.'

Sherlock looked across at the other man, and Moran was quite shocked by the haunted look in his guest's eyes. He found himself utterly convinced that what he had just heard was, indeed, the truth.

'So where is the disc now?'

'It's not on a disc now. I transferred it to a memory stick, a few years ago, and hid it in a very secret place.'

'Tell me where it is. I'll send someone to collect it,' Moran declared.

Sherlock shook his head, adamantly.

'Oh, no! Not a chance! This is my most secret place, the one place I know that I can go and be completely safe. No one knows about it, not even my darling wife, who knows absolutely everything about me. No, only one person can go and get the memory stick and that person is me.'

Now it was Moran's turn to be adamant.

'Do you expect me to trust you to go and collect this piece of so-called irrefutable evidence, all on your own? Do you think I'm completely stupid?'

'Well, of course I think you're completely stupid. That goes without saying. But, taking that as read, I am not willing to compromise on this. Either you let me go and get it, on my own and without a tail of any sort – human or electronic – or the deal is off.'

Moran was flabbergasted. This man's arrogance knew no bounds. He opened and closed his mouth, several times, but could not come up with an utterance that did justice to his outrage.

'I can see you need to consider my proposal further so, if you don't mind, I'd rather like to return to my room,' Sherlock requested, his voice weak and breathy. 'Oddly enough, I don't feel at all well. Reliving such a traumatic episode in one's life can do that to a person. Just call that chatty man with a penchant for martial arts, would you?'

Moran glared at the detective but stood up and crossed to the door. When he opened it, Sherlock saw that the guard was standing outside.

'Take him back upstairs,' his host growled. 'And make sure he stays there.'

ooOoo

The guard marched over to Sherlock and, grabbing him by one arm, yanked him up out of the chair. He just about managed to put the glass down in time, or he would have been drenched in the remains of his drink. He was hauled out of the room and pushed toward the staircase. As he began to climb, his head swam and he tripped on the step, pitching forward. He put out his hands to save himself and thus avoided falling, face first, onto the treads.

The guard made no attempt to help him up but as he righted himself, the man gave him a good shove in the small of his back which almost sent him crashing forward again. He grasped the banister and dragged himself up the stairs and along the landing, back to his room, where the guard opened the door, pushed him inside and shut the door again.

He staggered over to the bed and flopped down on the mattress, so relieved to be alone, at last. He covered his face with his hands and took a few deep breaths, which helped to clear his head, a little. He lay like that, unmoving, for several minutes then pushed himself up to sitting and leaned against the head board, while he fished in the inside breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a disposable lighter, feeling immeasurably grateful that he had stopped off at the cigarette kiosk, on his way to meet John at Euston Station.

He peeled off the cellophane wrapper, flipped open the top and pulled out the silver paper, dropping the debris on the carpeted floor. He shook out a cigarette, stuck it between his lips and then tossed the packet onto the bedside cabinet. Sliding off the bed, he walked unsteadily to the window and unscrewed the fastener that was holding the sash closed. But, when he tried to lift the bottom sash, nothing happened. He tried again, but it stuck fast, screwed shut, he deduced.

He reached up to the top sash and pulled down. This one moved, but only about four inches, then hit a block in the frame and would not lower any further. He turned to the room, in general and said,

'I'm not trying to escape, I just want some fresh air and to ventilate the room while I have a smoke, if that's alright with you.'

He was fairly sure that the room was wired for sound and vision, so he took the cigarette out of his mouth and held it in the air so that whoever was watching would be able to see it. Then he stuck it back in his mouth, lit it and inhaled a deep breath.

He felt his brain buzz and his skin tingle at the first hit of nicotine and he leaned against the wall, next to the window, closing his eyes and holding his breath, to get the full benefit before exhaling very slowly. Only now could he even begin to think about the terrible risk he had just taken, in that room downstairs, with Moran.

Everything he had told the colonel about his reaction to his parents' death and his weird dreams was absolutely true. Yes, he had set up the secret camera and, yes, he had discovered the cause of the abrasions and bruises on his body and, yes, Mycroft was involved. But that was where the facts deviated from the fiction.

When Sherlock had viewed the footage the next day, he had been shocked to see himself thrashing around in his own bed, throwing himself from side to side, banging his head, repeatedly, against the wall. He had seen Mycroft come running in, grab him by his upper arms and hold him down on the mattress, while he kicked and screamed and tried to fight his brother off.

And when, eventually, the thrashing and screaming subsided, Mycroft had taken him into his arms and hugged him, smoothing the hair back off his forehead and rocking him, to sooth and calm him. Then his brother had laid him back in his bed and covered him over and sat beside him for the rest of the night, just in case it happened again.

Sherlock had recorded similar scenes every night for a whole week and then the night terrors had stopped, just as abruptly as they had started. He had copied the footage onto a disc and wiped the hard drive, and he had never mentioned this to anyone. Not even Mycroft knew that he knew about this phase in his life. Maybe one day he would tell him. Maybe one day, he would thank him. Because not only had he saved him then, but he had saved him now, by giving him the means by which to affect an escape from this posh prison into which he had placed himself.

It was perfectly obvious to Sherlock that the house was like a fortress, with no chance of sneaking out undetected, so he had needed an excuse to leave. A trip to London, in order to retrieve the non-existent sex tape, was just what the detective ordered. Once back on his own turf, the odds became stacked decidedly in his favour. He just had to hope that he had been convincing enough for Moran to agree to it.

And, in order to be convincing, he'd had to play the part of the victim of abuse to perfection. To achieve that, he had done the unthinkable. He had gone down into the depths of his Mind Palace, to the place where he kept his most fearsome enemy to date, in chains and under lock and key, and he had released The Dragon.

The extreme panic reaction that had followed had been entirely genuine. No one could have faked it so well, not even that actor person that Molly was so obsessed with. But, having released her and channelled all that angst into his performance, he then had to put her back, which is what he had been doing as he lay on the bed – forcing her back into her dungeon, replacing the chains and locking the door.

And she did not go willingly. Irene Adler, his true abuser, had never done anything, willingly, that she didn't want to do so why would her avatar be any different? Only now that she was safely locked away, again, could he even begin to think about his next move, and that depended entirely on Moran taking the bait.

He crossed back to the bed and shook another cigarette from the pack, lighting it from the stub of the first one, then returned to the window and flipped the dog end out through the four inch gap at the top. He inhaled, deeply, and stared out at the North Yorkshire scenery, wondering what might happen next.

ooOoo

It's my birthday this weekend so I am going away for a week (yay!) so may not be up-dating during that time. But I hope I've put your minds at ease over one matter, at least! :)