Chapter 25
Day 138-139
Mycroft's dining room had been turned into a war room. Charts and files covered his table, spread onto boards that had been set around the room. Two analysts were busy typing away, coordinating with a team on the ground. He slept for an hour last night. Sherlock with John and the trauma team around him in the bothy as they worked to save his life dominated his thoughts. Sherlock's body covered by bruises and scars. The report he had read that Oliver had compiled. The fear in his brother's eyes when he saw him at the hospital. It disturbed him on many levels. He was determined to find Oliver, no matter the cost. If he could give his little brother that peace, he would gladly put the whole of his resources at his disposal into action to catch the man responsible for the abuse he had perpetrated and that were tracked on Sherlock's skin and heaven forbid in his psyche.
"You've been busy, Mycroft."
He looked up as Irene Adler sauntered in. He noticed quite a few heads looking up, tracking her as she walked across the room to where he was standing in front of a cork board.
"Any news?" he asked instead, focusing back on the map of London spread out before him.
"He's gone to ground. I've asked around. I don't think he's in London anymore. He's a patient man, Mycroft. He'll disappear and when you have forgotten about him, he'll be back."
"Yes, I was afraid of that. He does seem to be more prudent than Jim Moriarty. But I will do what is necessary to procure whatever resources of his I can find. I will make it very uncomfortable for him. Uncomfortable men make mistakes."
"I'll keep pressing those I know. But you need to be strategic about this Mycroft. It will benefit no-one if you burn yourself out while Oliver just bides his time. Think long term. How are you going to protect your brother and Molly when they get released from the hospital and are back to their normal lives? Because I've heard from others that he has no problem waiting a year before exacting revenge. He's that good."
"Very well. I will take your advice under consideration."
"There's also this," she said, pulling a memory stick out of her pocket.
"What is that?" he said, his attention now fully on Irene.
"It was given to me by an associate of Oliver. He had made a copy. If Oliver ever found out he did it, his life would be forfeit. I would make a suggestion that we watch this in private."
Mycroft stood still. Contemplated the memory stick. "My study?"
"That should be fine." Mycroft nodded. Grabbed a laptop that was lying on the table and they made their way to the inner sanctum of his house. They sat by the small table, the laptop open, the memory stick attached. He wondered what it would contain, the manilla folder that was in his safe already making it hard for him to sleep. Mycroft felt a sudden apprehension at pressing the mouse button to open the video file. It was an unfamiliar feeling. It wasn't him. He looked across at Irene, met her gaze. She nodded and he pressed play.
The video was unedited. He recognised that it had been taken inside the bothy almost immediately. The camera was focused on a chair. It probably was the same one that had been used in the first video he had received. He could hear movement and voices. Mycroft's lips thinned when he understood that one of the voices was Oliver's. That he was hearing for the first time what his brother's tormentor sounded like.
There was a hint of violence in the undertone of his voice. A voice used to give commands and demanding respect. A voice to fear.
"Keep Ms Hooper outside. If there's any problems, I'll let you know and you can bring her in although I think Mr Holmes understands sufficiently his role to not be combative. He's a quick learner." Laughter was heard.
What sounded like paper was shuffled. A hand came in front of the camera. Adjustments were made.
"Yes, that is good. Okay. You can bring him in."
The sound of a door opening was heard.
"On the chair."
Sherlock appeared in focus. His body moved smoothly, with the grace of an athlete. It had been taken in the last month he'd been at the bothy, Mycroft deduced, looking at his brother. Sherlock's hair was long, touched his shoulders. The curls falling along the side of his face. His beard is fully grown. He had the same dress shirt on from the first video. But this shirt was in tatters. Thin. He could see the attempts Sherlock had made to wash the grime out of it. Bruises, both faded and new, peaked from the holes and slits in the shirt. His trousers had tears around the knees, the material smooth from repeated wear and wash. But what captured Mycroft was the look in Sherlock's eyes when he glanced from the camera to someone just off centre.
It was unadulterated fear. He was masking it well. Hiding it behind a veil of granite.
"Let's not have any retakes like last time, Mr Holmes. Let's remember the lesson on obedience. Yes?"
Sherlock's cheek twitches. His eyes dropped briefly as he nodded. Looked back up almost immediately.
"Good." Papers were passed to him. "Memorise this. Please don't paraphrase or deviate from the script."
They watched as a look of horror passed over Sherlock's features while he read what was written. His hands clenched and he dropped the papers on the floor in disgust. His hands pushed on the arm rests as he started to rise from the chair.
"Don't."
That one word arrested his development. Shoulders slumped and Sherlock sagged back into the chair. He looked away, staring at the wall. Composed himself visibly. Movement and then Oliver was in front of the camera, his back to it. For the first time Mycroft saw Oliver in context with his brother. This was different to the report that Oliver had compiled about Sherlock. More personal. More real. It was a very visual reminder of how the man had manipulated his brother. The control he had over Sherlock at this stage was staggering. He had never seen Sherlock so defeated. Cowed. For a brief moment he wondered if Sherlock was acting. Putting on a façade of defeat. He scanned his brother fully. Focused on micro expressions. His demeanour. There was still a hint of defiance. A hint of his brother but it was hidden carefully. And it was asif a switch had been thrown inside his head, as words sprang to mind of what Oliver had written of those three days. For the first time Mycroft clearly understood what Oliver had managed to do. The brilliance of his twisted mind and how he had brought Sherlock to obedience. Why his brother was oh so careful in how he acted before Oliver.
Sherlock knew exactly the retribution that Oliver would enact on Molly if he misbehaved.
Oliver had his hand on Sherlock's shoulder in a conciliatory manner. It looked like he was providing sympathy. Support. Sherlock was completely passive. Accepting the other man's touch. Mycroft was watching a master class in the art of manipulation.
"Accept it, Mr Holmes. It is what it is. This is your life for now. It will get better once you have earned my trust completely."
Mycroft pressed his lips together, was aware that he was clenching his hands when he heard a sob of denial escape from Sherlock. Oliver's hand patted Sherlock's shoulder. He leaned down, whispered into Sherlock's ear as a friend might do. Mycroft had to pause, go back and increase the volume so they could pick up what Oliver was saying.
"Once your training is complete, you and Ms Hooper will move to nicer accommodations. There will be more privileges. Less physical games. I'll use your intellect more. Something to look forward to."
Oliver stood back up. The hand on Sherlock's shoulder moved. He grabbed the detective's chin, forced his head around and up. Blue eyes met Oliver's. Mycroft was reminded of Sherlock after Redbeard. Of the utter raw emotion of grief.
"I'll give you a moment, Mr Holmes. Then we'll get started."
Oliver turned and the look that passed over his face when Sherlock couldn't see was of complete and absolute self-satisfaction. The camera focus shifted slightly, the emphasis on Sherlock's face.
"You ready, Mr Holmes?" Oliver asked. Sherlock swallowed. Took a deep breath, seeming to brace himself. Blinked and then sat up straight. Mycroft watched in amazement as his brother's face changed. Gone was the aura of defeat. Gone was the grief. This was Sherlock acting.
"Perfect, Mr Holmes. You can start."
"Hello Mycroft," his brother said.
"It has been exactly a year since my disappearance. This video is my note. It's to give you closure. Molly and I are alive. We have moved on. We will not return to London in the foreseeable future. If you continue to look for us, there will be consequences. People will die. So, accept our fate for what it is. Goodbye brother mine."
Sherlock held the pose for another five seconds and then he let go. Shaky hands wiped at his face. His eyes roamed the room. He voiced the word 'no' once more, an echo of earlier; desperation bleeding from him in waves.
"That was very good, Mr Holmes. Well done," Oliver crooned. Moved in front of the camera again, his hand on Sherlock's head. Possessive. Pushed his head back so he could meet Oliver's eyes. "You did good, Mr Holmes. I'm very pleased with you. You have a choice of either food or some more soap."
Sherlock's voice was soft as he asked for more food. Oliver nodded, dropping his hand. Patted Sherlock's cheek, the smile predatory when Sherlock's gaze refocused away from him to the wall. He moved out of range of the camera, his voice faded. Mycroft heard him instruct someone to get another four bottles of Ensure from the helicopter. Through it all, Sherlock looked at the point of complete breakdown. Got up when instructed, standing by the wall as the men started to pack up. He looked like a little lost boy, reminding him forcefully of Sherlock shortly after Redbeard and Mycroft's heart broke. Sentiment flooded his system. Unwelcome. Unwanted. But he couldn't help it.
The screen went black as the camera was switched off.
They didn't look at each other. The dominatrix and British Government. Both were processing.
"I need a drink." Irene said.
"Yes. Agreed."
Mycroft got up, made his way to the decanter and poured a stiff one for both of them. Brought it over to where Irene was still sitting, eyes bright. She took the glass from him and without blinking an eye, gulped it down in one go. Put the glass slowly down on the table.
"If I find Oliver first, Mycroft…"
"Don't worry, Ms Adler. You and I both."
John had entered the room early in the morning to find both Sherlock and Molly still fast asleep in Sherlock's bed. He gazed with wonder at the change in Sherlock. The lines on his friend's face had softened. The underlying anxiety and fear were not present at all. He looked like Sherlock before Oliver. But more refined. Better. More human. John knew then that his friend was still intact. Still whole. And the reason for that was Molly Hooper.
Had carried the load that is Sherlock Holmes through fire and had made sure he came out the other side.
He gave a small wistful smile. He knew the road they were going to walk was going to be long. But at this moment in time, he had the sneaky suspicion that it would all work out okay.
He left them there, closing the door softly. Instructed the staff to let them be. Went in search of Dr Hurst. Found him in his office, reading a file. He knocked, entered and seated himself comfortable in the chair in front of the desk.
"I think they need a bigger bed." He said. Laughed silently at the look on the psychiatrist's face. He looked at the ceiling. Smiled at the memory of this morning, when he had watched Molly get into bed with Sherlock. Hurst was waiting for him to elaborate. "When I was with Moriarty, he showed me a photo of Sherlock and Molly. They were fast asleep. On a mattress that was barely bigger than a child's bed. You have the photos of the bed. It's easy to see why the sleeping arrangement was obvious. They had no other choice but to share the space. She was asleep in his arms and he had his arm protectively around her. To keep her from rolling off the mattress. It was either that or one of them had to sleep on the floor and I don't think that would have appealed to any of them. I think also in the end, it was a way for them to feel safe. That it was one place that Oliver couldn't intervene." He leaned back in the chair, met the eyes of the other man. "You must understand something. I know Sherlock. He has some of the traits reminiscent of being on the autism spectrum. Definitely neurodivergent. Touch is extremely hard for him. Hugs are out of the question. Yet last night did he not only allow Molly Hooper to touch and hold his hand. He actually invited her onto his bed and into his arms."
"The nurse said there were some difficulties?" Hurst asked when John went silent.
"He had a flashback. Some water was spilled on him that brought it on. Currently I've observed that cold, wet clothes and using their formal titles are all triggers for Sherlock. I've instructed the staff to call them by their first names."
"Good observation. I'm assuming there's more…"
John sighed. Ran a hand through his hair. "Sherlock is having auditory and visual hallucinations. He sees Oliver. Hears his voice. I suggested he talk to you. He agreed."
"Okay, that is a positive development. Why don't I have a talk to him this morning and then we'll see how it goes. If he agrees, I'll have a brief chat afterwards with you and Molly on what we can do to help ground him when he's hallucinating. I'd like for him to be off his IV line before we start the actual therapy." He was silent for a minute. "You realise that working through what happened to them will be mentally and physically demanding. They won't always be pleasant to be around while they work through the mire of their trauma."
"Yeah. Figured as much."
Sherlock was in a wheelchair, making his way down the corridor from his room. He had second thoughts about agreeing to John's request but his promise to Molly had been enough to not voice his concerns. It had been better when he'd woken up. Oliver had yet to make his appearance and he was hoping that the spectre of him was completely gone.
They didn't go far. It was the third room down that he was pushed into. It seemed to have been a nurse's lounge but had now been turned into an office. Sherlock wondered briefly if all of this had been his brother's doing. It was obvious to him that he and Molly had the whole floor to themselves. There were no other patients in the area they occupied. It made him feel safe, nonetheless. Less traffic meant less chances for Oliver to attempt to take them away.
Dr Hurst was about the same height as John. His hair had thinned on top of his head, his brown hair streaked with grey. Brown eyes met him without flinching.
"Good to meet you, Sherlock." He said, staying where he was seated on the chair. Sherlock nodded his head, still trying to get a feel of the man. He scanned him openly, deliberately deducing the man before him. What he saw was openness. Understanding. Intellect. A man who took his role seriously. Unlike Oliver, the man in front of him felt soft. But with an underlying core that said he couldn't be taken for a ride.
"My name is Giles, if you prefer. John says you've been having some what shall we say, perceptual disturbances?"
Straight to the core of it. Sherlock liked it. He was expecting the usual – How do you feel – conversation starter. He was still wary as he nodded.
"Recently or did it start earlier?"
"I was drugged." He said, sure it was common knowledge. He was certain that Molly would've shared it with John after his collapse at their rescue.
"Hallucinogenic with up-down properties. We had your blood drawn before and after your operation to plate your ribs. Toxicology reported that it was clear of any residual traces."
Sherlock was silent. This was a lot harder than he had thought. He wasn't willing to open up to the man in front of him. Even if everything he'd deduced was that his man was safe. Would not manipulate him the way Oliver had. Giles leaned back in his chair. He didn't fiddle.
"When you hallucinate, one of the best things you can do is to focus on your breathing and ground yourself. You will need to take slow, deep breaths and bring to your awareness your immediate surroundings to tether yourself to your objective reality. Next, you need to let Molly and John know that you see Oliver. Or hear him. It can be a word. A signal. So that you can realise that he's not there. Would you trust them with this?"
"You're different." Sherlock said. Giles smiled. Leaned forward and pushed the two books on the table closer to Sherlock. They looked like academic textbooks.
"I'm not going to insult your intelligence, Sherlock. I've worked with Mycroft before. Suffice it to say, whatever is discussed here will never make it to print or be shared with anyone. In reviewing your file, I'm favouring employing a therapy called EMDR. Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. It will help you process the traumatic memories you've been subjected to. In time it will alleviate some of the emotional distress and other symptoms you've been experiencing, such as hallucinations. We would be targeting the desensitisation of your internal and external triggers and allow for new insights and more adaptive associations and memory integration to occur. Why don't you read up on it and then we can have a discussion on it next week."
Sherlock leaned forward, grabbing the books. Turned them over in his hand. He met the gaze of the other man.
"Oliver…" he took a breath. "He was very good at getting what he wanted."
"I gathered as much," Dr Hurst said.
"Explain grounding techniques," Sherlock said, focused on the books in his hand. Opening one book at random, his fingers smoothing a page.
"Well, there are different methods you can use to ground yourself. You're good with deductions, yes. Like to observe. One way is to distract yourself by naming the objects around you. Describe their appearance and colour. Next pay attention to the sounds around you, feel your body's weight pressing onto the surface of your bed, or notice the sensation of your feet anchoring you to the floor. Feel the texture of objects you can touch or hold. Do this with a focused intention until you feel Oliver's presence lessen. Until his voice or body fades away. It will take some practice. Your friends can help if you want them too. As I said earlier, let them know by a phrase or signal. Then maybe talk to them about the object you're focusing on. This way you have a safety net around you if you feel his presence very strongly."
"Fine."
"I think you have some homework to do, Sherlock. Why don't we call it a day and next week we have a chat on the way forward."
Sherlock had made his way back to his room, John pushing the wheelchair. He had been quiet as he placed the books on the table by his bed. Molly was on her bed, eying him as he got out of the wheelchair and onto his bed.
"You okay?" Molly had asked him. He nodded. Sighed. Wasn't sure how to address Oliver's haunting.
"What do you need from me?" Molly asked casually. He looked up from where his hands had been busy playing with the blanket. Molly was making it easy. Shame that had been hovering, suddenly dissipated. John sat down on the bed next to him. His presence was safe. Good. He found that the words came easy as he started to explain what Giles had told him about grounding. His friends listened without interruption and it felt like another smaller burden suddenly lifted from his shoulders.
He understood then that healing from Oliver wasn't going to be an easy road. But with his friends and family there, he'd be able to take the first steps to not letting Oliver win.
Lestrade entered Mycroft's office. He was cleanly shaven, his clothes changed. The older man was sitting behind his desk, reading a file. Irene was seated by a window seat, another file in her hands. He made himself comfortable on a chair beside a smaller table off to the side of the room.
"Something I can help you with, detective inspector?" Mycroft said, closing his file and leaning back in his chair.
"You've released me back to my unit?"
"I think we've come as far as we can with the current investigation, Lestrade. Sherlock and Molly had been found, which had been the overarching reason why I had needed you. Your help at the house had been appreciated…." Mycroft said calmly, "The manhunt for Oliver and his men is about to go international. There's not much more you can do for the moment. Therefore, I deemed it prudent to release you back to your unit."
"That maniac is still out there…"
"Yes. I'm very much aware, Lestrade. As you can see, we're quite busy looking for him."
"I want to help. Bloody hell, Mycroft. They're my friends."
Mycroft was silent. Inspected Lestrade, his hands tented in front of his face. "Very well. I'll have a chat with your unit chief, although I can tell you that he won't be happy. You can be the liaison for our London operation. That sufficient for you?"
"Definitely chicken," Sherlock said. Tilted the cup so the sun highlighted golden what he was drinking. "And carrot, celery, parsley. A broth?"
"There's no chicken, Sherlock. It's only plain vegetable soup."
He took another sip. Enjoying the warmth of the liquid. "Wish I could have some bread. I crave bread."
"Ooh, warm and just from the oven."
"With butter."
"Mmmh. No butter. You're supposed to dip the bread in the soup. Butter will just make it oily."
"Fine. I'll butter mine. Yours can be plain. Boring. Uninteresting."
Molly giggled. Finished her soup with a last slurp. Placed the cup on the floor by the couch that John had moved to in front of the window. Tilted her head to the sun that was shining through the big windows.
"This is nice."
Sherlock agreed. Finished his soup, his stomach comfortably full. He flicked his hand through his hair, eyed the pathologist. "Where do you think John went off to?"
"Well, you did interrupt his sleep last night, Sherlock. Maybe a nap?"
"John doesn't nap. No, he's gone off on a mission. He was entirely too smug this morning."
"Maybe he met someone. Have you ever thought about that?"
"Don't be absurd, Molly. He was practically screaming that he knew something we –no, that I don't." Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "What did you two discuss in the morning when I was in the bathroom?"
Molly gave him a smug smile. "You don't have to know everything, Sherlock."
"You know I'll figure it out, right."
"You can try."
He spends the next half hour listing things he thought would be relevant, scanning her over and over for clues. Molly was unreadable. She didn't respond to any of his probes. Instead laid back on the couch, her eyes closed and enjoyed the sun.
"For goodness' sake, woman. Tell me," He finally snapped. Molly's eyes opened lazily. "Woman?"
"That's what you are, right? Infuriating. Annoying. Maddening. I'm convalescing. This is not helping me heal."
"Patience, Sherlock."
He rose from the couch. Swayed for a moment but rallied, grabbing hold of the drip stand. Energy was bouncing off him, engulfing his nerves. He stared down at her.
"Molly Hooper, you will tell me."
She laughed. A genuine laugher that he hadn't heard in quite a while. He looked at her with wonder. Spluttered.
"Sit down, before you fall down." She said, sitting up, cross-legged. Her arm with its cast resting against one knee. She glanced at the clock. "Shouldn't be long now." She said mysteriously. There was laughter in her voice. A hidden joy.
He sat down next to her. Not quite touching but close enough that he could feel the heat from her body surrounding him.
"Molly, when all this is behind us, you and I will have a good discussion on appropriate behaviour."
She lifted her eyebrow, but this time in jest. "Really?"
He smiled. Drank in all that was her. "Definitely." He leaned back on the couch, suddenly content. Oliver and his nightmares seemed far away. Here and now it was good. Here and now it was just him and Molly. She shifted. Legs settled next to his and then her head was leaning on his shoulder.
"Perfect." Sherlock said, almost purring. The sun shifted, the rays falling on them got longer. They didn't notice. Sherlock and Molly were asleep soon after.
John had returned that afternoon, shortly after three. The case in his hand familiar as he put it on Sherlock's bed, a big grin on his face. Sherlock stood at the foot end of the bed, the drip-stand out of the way as he opened the worn case, looking with wonder at the instrument. His fingers touched the body, caressed the wood with love. He hadn't touched his violin in so long, it was like rediscovering a long-lost lover. He picked up the bow, picked up the violin. Placed it under his chin as he arranged his fingers onto the strings and played a quick ditty. He was rusty, his fingers stiff but it felt so good. He ignored the twinge of his ribs. A smile broke out. John had placed his music stand beside him. A pen and music notebook stood on it. He opened it in wonder, the empty pages staring back at him, full of potential.
"Molly. You and John?"
She smiled shyly. Nodded at his obvious joy that was radiating from him in waves.
"Just not at 2 am in the morning." John said. "I'm literally next door, Sherlock. I'd like to have a good night's rest. And the staff might complain."
"Promise." He said.
"Hold on," John said as Sherlock placed the instrument back under his chin. "What exactly are you promising? Sherlock?" His voice faded away though. Sherlock had started to play. Soon Sherlock had his eyes closed. The music flowed out of his hands into the room. It spoke of strength. Of compassion. Of love. Given unconditionally. Never withheld. Self-sacrificing.
Of stepping through fire. Of understanding. Of learning and growing.
He played Molly Hooper.
When the music died away, his side where his ribs were healing sore, he met her eyes. And clearly understood that Molly Hooper had complete control of his heart.
And he didn't mind at all.
