Hello, dear readers. I discovered a huge plot hole in the previous chapter, so I have taken steps to plug it. If you wouldn't mind, please go back and reread Ch 39, to bring you back up to speed. Sorry about that!

Chapter Forty

Closing the call from Molly, Mycroft called Anthea and asked her to come to his room. He shared with her the information his sister in law had provided and gave her his orders, with respect to the staking out of the road in Bayswater and the decoding of the final part of the message Sherlock had sent. Finally, he instructed her to make arrangements for the transfer of Arthur to St Hugh's and their own return to London, immediately following the psychiatric assessment of the young man in question. Anthea returned to her own room to carry out her boss's instructions.

Mycroft returned his attention to the double page spread of the Road Atlas, open at the section covering this part of England. He had marked the position on the A635 where Arthur and Josie had been abandoned by Moran in his horse box hideaway. He was deducing where the horse box would have gone, after that.

The box was travelling east, toward Holmfirth and the A629, when it dumped two of its occupants. Having met that road, in which direction would it be most likely to turn - north towards Huddersfield or south to the M1? The M1 could take them back to London, or it could lead them further north, towards Leeds.

Mycroft put himself in Moran's situation, taking on the Colonel's mind set and factoring in the mode of transport. A horse box, in the countryside, was unremarkable. In the middle of a big city, it would stand out like a beacon. Also, as Sherlock had pointed out previously, this whole caper had a distinctly Northern feel to it. So, north it was.

At Leeds, the M1 joined the A1, to become the A1(M) and continue its northerly progress through West Yorkshire, forging a path through the gap between the Yorkshire Dales and the North York Moors, past Wetherby, Harrogate, Ripon and Thirsk, through Richmond and on up to Newcastle on Tyne.

Looking for a horse box in Yorkshire was the equivalent to looking for the proverbial needle in a haystack. But this horse box had letters on the side – the initials WB. What sort of person put their initials on the side of a horse box? A professional horseperson, obviously - a polo player, an event rider, a race horse trainer, a horse breeder?

Mycroft continued to trace the A1(M) on its route north and the name Middleham caught his eye, just south of Richmond. Cog wheels clicked into place in his machine-like brain and he narrowed his eyes. Middleham was a major centre for horse racing, on the edge of the Yorkshire Dales. Was there a racing trainer in Middleham with the initials WB? And, if so, would he allow a terrorist organisation to use his horse box to transport kidnap victims? The first of those questions was easily answered. Mycroft Googled it.

ooOoo

Sherlock inspected his reflection in the full length bedroom mirror and was not entirely displeased with what he saw. He'd always liked the colour black and the cut of these military-style combat trousers and T-shirt rather accentuated his slim build and muscular torso. He had chosen the closest fitting set he could find. The short sleeves showed off his biceps to good effect, too.

Scraping his hair back off his forehead, however, was not to his taste. He felt it made his face look too long and thin – like a horse, he thought – but the black beret could be worn at a jaunty angle over one eye so he would have to settle for that. Sherlock was the first to admit that he was vain. He didn't much care for other people's opinions on most things but he did care about his appearance. He had always drawn admiring glances and, even though he feigned indifference, he certainly liked to be noticed

It was a relief to get into some freshly laundered togs. He folded his suit - jacket and trousers - and his shirt and placed them on the bedroom chair, along with his handmade shoes. He would have to leave them here, he realised, or Moran would suspect that he was intent on absconding, once they got back to his old stamping ground.

He was confident that Mycroft would eventually work out where Moran's base was and send a raiding party. In the event that he had already departed the scene, he hoped the team would bag and tag his personal possessions and eventually return them to him. He was rather glad it was July and he had not been wearing his Belstaff coat. That was irreplaceable. He would hate to have to abandon it anywhere, even if his life depended on it.

He looked at his watch. It was three o'clock in the afternoon. Moran had said they would be leaving as soon as it was dark, so he figured he had a good six hours to wait. He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes. He might as well use the time profitably. Within moments, he was asleep.

ooOoo

The call came just after three pm, advising Mycroft that the Psychiatric Assessment of Arthur's mental state would take place in approximately half an hour. He, Anthea and John were packed and ready to leave, waiting only on the phone call, so a cab was summoned to transport them to the Tameside Hospital.

John was unhappy about leaving the area, not knowing where Sherlock was or even whether he was alive or dead. He felt partly responsible for the situation in which his friend now found himself. He really should not have allowed Agent Delaney's comments about 'members of the public' to rile him. That was, after all, what he was now. He should have made sure Sherlock stayed well clear of the derelict psychiatric hospital and let the Special Ops team do their thing.

He had listened to Mycroft explain to Anthea his theory as to whom the horse box belonged. The Google search had confirmed that Wendy Burrows was, indeed, a racehorse trainer based in Middleham. A quick check with Wetherby's had confirmed that Miss Burrow's racing livery was two-tone, Sky and Royal Blue, which matched the description of the horse box given by Josie Brocklehurst. The address and location of her racing yard had been ascertained and a small Special Ops unit had been dispatched to recce the location, looking for any indications that Moran might be holed up there, with or without his hostage.

John had protested that he should be allowed to go with them but Mycroft was adamant that, until they knew for certain that they had the correct location, involvement was to be kept ultra-low key – two men on a 'cycling holiday', stopping to ask directions.

'And even then, John, I would be loath to involve you in any active participation in the operation. I don't doubt your proven military record but you were never trained in Black Ops. You would be too much of a liability. Also, I suspect your wife would sue me for negligence, should anything untoward occur.'

On arrival at the hospital, John and Anthea waited in the Main Reception area while Mycroft went up to the Observation Ward to which Arthur had been moved, pending his Psych Consult. His system was now clear of all foreign substances so he was no longer in need of intensive care but he had been placed in a side ward so that the psychiatric assessment could be conducted in private.

When Mycroft arrived on the main ward, he approached the nurses' station and identified himself. He was directed to Arthur's room, which he hoped was an indication that his fiancé was sanguine about him being present for the assessment. However, he knew better than to pre-judge. He entered the room to find Arthur sitting up in bed, looking a lot more like his normal self. He didn't flinch or look away, at least, though neither did he smile.

'Thank you for all of that,' Arthur said, foregoing any sort of greeting and inclining his head toward a collection of shopping bags parked in one corner of the room.

'I hope I didn't forget anything,' Mycroft replied.

'No, you remembered everything – even my favourite toothpaste.'

Mycroft nodded, with a slight pursing of the lips that might have been an attempt at a smile.

'Arthur…'

'Mycroft…'

They both spoke at the same time and both stopped speaking, too.

'After you,' Mycroft said, softly, standing a few feet from the bed, hands folded together in front of him, ignoring the two easy chairs.

'Mycroft, I know this has been hard for you and that it still is. I wish I could say that I don't believe any of the things I saw on those DVD's but the truth is, I just don't know what to believe. I don't know what is real and what is a clever illusion. And, until I do, I really need to keep my distance.'

Mycroft nodded but kept his thoughts to himself.

'I am grateful for the clothes and all the toiletries. That was very thoughtful of you. And I'm thankful that you've arranged for me to be treated at St Hugh's. I never would have been sent there, but for you exercising your authority.'

Mycroft acknowledged the thanks but still said nothing.

'And I can't begin to tell you what it means to me that you are allowing me to see the children…'

'I thought I might bring them to St Hugh's tomorrow, once you're settled in,' Mycroft interjected and Arthur nodded his appreciation.

'But, after that, I really need some space, some distance, some time to myself, so I can try and sort out my head. I hope you understand.'

Mycroft waited to see if Arthur had anything more to say but, when it became clear he did not, he spoke.

'I do understand, Arthur. I won't press you on my own behalf but I hope you will stay in contact with the children, especially Charlie. He misses you terribly.'

'I miss him, too,' Arthur gasped. 'I miss you all but…I can't go there, not just now.'

'Of course not. I understand. We'll be patient, I promise.'

'So, Mycroft, I'm sorry but I really don't want you here for the Psych Consult.' Arthur looked down at his hands, unable to meet the other man's eyes, too aware of the hurt that he knew he would see there.

After a long silence, Mycroft replied,

'Very well, Arthur, I accept your conditions. I won't wait for the results. I'll leave instructions that, when you're ready to be discharged, you will be flown by Air Ambulance to St Hugh's and, if they will inform me when you have arrived, I'll arrange for the children's visit. I will need to be present for that,' he added. 'They might need my support.'

'Yes, absolutely,' Arthur agreed, feeling on the verge of tears and wishing that Mycroft would leave before he lost his resolve.

'I will go now,' Mycroft announced and, after a very brief hesitation, turned and left the room.

As he approached the Nurses' Station, he met the Consultant Psychiatrist and his entourage on their way to see Arthur.

'Oh, this is Mr Holmes, Mr Brocklehurst's fiancé,' the Ward Sister explained to the doctor.

'How is the patient?' the doctor asked, with a patronising smile.

'I would imagine that that was for you to ascertain, doctor,' Mycroft replied, rather acerbically, still stinging from Arthur's plea. 'You have my instructions. Once you've made your diagnosis and formulated your recommendations, contact my PA and she will arrange the transfer of the patient to the specialist unit that has agreed to provide treatment. Good day.'

With that, he by-passed the group of people with shock etched in every line of every face, and strode out of the ward.

ooOoo