Chapter 7
September
The bothy, 3rd day (Last session with Oliver)
"Tell me about Mycroft Holmes."
"He's my brother."
"Come now. You know by now what I want, Mr Holmes. Let's not be coy."
"He's a rubbish big brother."
"Ah. I think I understand. Because of Redbeard?"
"Yes…No…"
"Which is it, Mr Holmes? I know we discussed Redbeard in depth earlier. It makes sense that it still hurts. The breaking of trust in someone so young…it is understandable that there would still be some resentment."
"It's not…please Oliver. Can I go home? I'll do what you want."
"Home? You mean back to Ms Hooper at the bothy?"
"Yes."
"Not yet, Mr Holmes. But soon, I promise."
"Please…I…my throat…it hurts when I speak."
"It has to be done, Mr Holmes. Do you see why?"
"…yes…"
"Good. You're learning, Mr Holmes. Well done. We're going to discuss your brother. There's still some resentment, even now? Just relating to Redbeard or is there more?"
"Maybe."
"Please clarify."
"He thinks he's better."
"At what?"
"Everything."
"So, sibling rivalry? Is that a good assessment to make?"
"…"
"Mr Holmes?"
"…yes…"
"Would he care enough that you are missing, to search?"
"Yes. He would rub it in my face that he had to step in and save me. Again. Probably tell our parents it's my fault."
"Do you truly believe that?"
"He'll offer me up at the altar if it means saving England."
"Interesting. What are you willing to do for your brother?"
"I don't understand."
"Not a hard question, Mr Holmes. What are you willing to do for your brother."
"He's my brother."
"Okay. Let's rephrase the question then. You've already declared that you will do anything and everything for Molly Hooper. I'm sure the same could be said for John Watson. Correct."
"…"
"Mr Holmes?"
"Yes."
"Very well. And your brother?"
"I…He's my brother."
"Not the answer I want, Mr Holmes. Please let us not repeat your earlier punishment. Do you want me to begin again? Another day with me on this couch?"
"No….I'm tired…Please, I just want to go home."
"Now, Mr Holmes."
"He's my brother. I'll do what is necessary."
Present Day
"What is the meaning of this?" Lyle asked. He moved, made sure his back was against the wall as he eyed the two men who had entered his cell. He didn't know them. They were definitely new yet there was something off.
"Your expertise is needed."
He gave a derisive laugh. "In case you haven't noticed. I'm not exactly in a position to help you."
"There will be a mishap with the monitoring system tomorrow night. Clothes will be provided. You will be able to walk out of here from the visitors lounge."
"Seriously?" he asked. "What's the job?"
"A car will pick you up. They will explain."
Lyle watched as the two men turned. Walked out of his cell. He didn't see them at lunch or supper. Kept a quiet evening to himself. Read and watched telly and bided his time.
The next day, he followed their instructions. Donned the clothes and walked out the building. Entered the car that pulled up the curb and disappeared.
It was still early in the morning when Mycroft entered Operations. The monitors that lined one wall were active, analysts scouring the video footage. Someone handed him a cup of tea and he sipped, while the monitors flickered, jumping from cars to people.
"Sir, this just in."
He pressed his saucer and cup into the junior agents' hand and took the memo. He read the heading and then scanned through the body. His body went rigid when he finally realised what he was seeing. He moved quickly, tapping one of the senior analysts on the shoulder.
"I want you to direct all focus immediately to Belmarsh Prison. An inmate escaped yesterday sometime during the evening shift. Priority one, Active."
"Who are we looking for?"
"Lyle Bowman."
He watched as the analyst brought the information up, the mug shot of the kidnapper suddenly filling one of the screens. He pressed a few buttons and suddenly a grid overlayed the photo. Formed into planes and then they opened the screen to the front gate of the prison and started running the video at speed.
The AI did the job and it was less than five minutes before the video stopped. Mycroft watched the man get into a silver Audi. The number plates were easy to trace but the driver was obscured – the windows were tinted. The analyst ran another program, again tracing the outline of the car and the number plate.
The owner was a bust. It had been reported stolen an hour earlier.
They managed to trace the car through London until it entered a car park. When Mycroft sent two agents out, they found the car abandoned in the corner closest to a broken camera. The car had been thoroughly cleaned. There was no trace of Lyle or the driver. No fingerprints. No convenient DNA left anywhere.
Lyle Bowman was gone.
"Is it doable?"
Lyle turned from the table he'd been at, rising and moving to the bookcase. He tugged on the glove, pulling it tight.
"You realise that security is tight. We need someone on the inside."
The older man that was with him in the room, nodded. "That won't be a problem. We should have the information you need by Monday."
Mycroft debated his options. There were the two memory sticks he'd received so far. And now Lyle's escape. He didn't believe in coincidence. The two were related. He was certain.
The question he had was what he was going to do about it.
He sighed. A headache was forming, just between his eyes. It throbbed slightly and he knew if he didn't do something about the headache, it would turn into a raging full-blown migraine very soon.
His phone dinged. He opened the text.
You shouldn't have killed them. You will pay.
He closed his phone. It wasn't the first text he'd received since the first memory stick had come his way via Murray. Every text came from a different number. All throwaway numbers. Untraceable. There was a soft knock on his door and Anthea entered.
"Sir, the final report on Lord Byron."
"Summary?"
"No link to Moriarty or Oliver. Some minor fraud regarding misappropriation of funds in his company. Some still questionable hunting practices but nothing that's even remotely as bad as the can hunting."
He nodded. Flipped through the file. A name brought his attention on the third page. A name he hasn't seen since childhood. He paused. Read the page more thoroughly. Anthea had closed the door, was gone by the time he looked up.
This was going to complicate matters. He thought. The headache increased in sympathy as sentiment flooded his system. Unwanted and he pushed back, divorced himself from his feelings.
Caring was not an advantage. Not in this case.
He got up, opened his door and beckoned Anthea. "Alert the agents assigned to Baker Street. Send them Lyle Bowman's photo."
"Your brother?"
"I'll speak to him myself."
She nodded. Left and he opened his phone.
"Brother dear, we need to talk…"
"I can't believe you talked me into this," John said. The rifle was lying forgotten on the backseat between them. "What happens when we get caught?"
"We won't," Sherlock said confidently. "Besides, he did invite us to stay. Just pretend you have a stomach bug. Throw up a little. Shouldn't be that hard to make yourself sick."
"Sherlock."
"Molly said to enjoy ourselves, John. Oh, this is like an early Christmas." Sherlock beamed.
"It's September, Sherlock. Not even close."
"Oh, buckle up, John. It will be fine."
John couldn't help the grin. Sherlock was definitely animated. So much like his old self. It was refreshing to see. His enthusiasm was starting to rub off and he felt the familiar tingle he usually got when doing something just a little bit dangerous.
"Fine. But if we get caught, we need to get our stories straight."
"Not going to get caught." Sherlock stated. "Snooping while staying over is practically a British pastime."
"No, it's not."
Sherlock frowned. "No one ever complained. Not even Uncle Rudy when I found his secret stash of lady's underwear when I was seven."
"Sherlock."
"What?"
"That was rude. I'm certain your parents and especially your uncle Rudy would've said something. Snooping is not something normal people do. Normal people respect the boundaries of others."
"Oh. Where's the fun in that?"
John sighed. "Did no one ever complain? Seriously?"
"Mycroft did but he doesn't count. He always complains. There was the week I was sent home because the headmaster apparently didn't appreciate that I pointed out that his wife was having an affair with the P.E. Teacher. He didn't believe me until after I visited his residence without an invitation and found his wife and the teacher both in bed in the master suite. I didn't understand how he could've been so obtuse. It was very obvious to see from the start."
"Never mind," John said. "What is Molly doing this weekend?"
"She's going up to her mom's. Apparently they have some baby things to sort out. Mycroft is keeping an eye on her."
"Sherlock…"
"Really, John. I'm fine. Lyle was barely a blip in the scheme of things. Oliver is dead. Lyle was never part of Oliver or Moriarty's organisations. He is motivated by money. Obviously someone wants him to do a job. I very much doubt that would involve me or Molly. There's no-one left."
"Are you really so sure about that? Remember Alex? And Jason spoke of those that are interested in what you've learned from Oliver. He spoke of people, Sherlock. Which indicates an organisation of sorts?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. He wasn't about to let on that it did affect him more than he let on. Lyle might not be an active member of the other two men but he was good at his day job. The brand on his wrist ached for some reason. He willed himself not to scratch. To leave it be. Sherlock had read Lyle's file. Had understood how dangerous the man could be. He and Mycroft had talked about strategy. Had speculated on reasons why the man had escaped. There just wasn't enough data and they, in the end, had decided to let it go until such time that Lyle emerged again. Until then, they would stay on alert although Mycroft had estimated that there was a less than 15 percent chance that his escape had to do with Sherlock or Molly.
"Maybe." He tented his fingers. Head down as he pulled on threads, trying to bring them together. But there just wasn't enough information.
"What is it they're after? What did…" John glanced at him. Sherlock could see uncertainty in John's body language. His friend was clearly uncomfortable. He seemed to read something in Sherlock because he set his shoulders. "What did he mean what Oliver had taught you?"
And there John had the crux of it. Sherlock didn't know. Oliver had taught him a great many things. About despair. Giving in. Obedience. Knowing what he was capable of to protect. Even plan murder.
"I don't know." He replied to John's question in the end. Because that was the truth. It seemed to placate his friend, for he gave a brief nod in answer.
They spent the rest of the trip in comfortable silence. The estate was modest. Sherlock and John and the two agents were relegated to a country cottage set behind the main house. It was cosy, two-bedroom place with a bathroom that contained a bath and toilet and a small kitchen with table and four chairs. Comfortable and warm. John was invited for sundowners in the main house and to meet the other hunters. Sherlock and the two agents were ignored as staff. They went around to the kitchen, got their pre packed evening meals and ate in the cottage. Sherlock spend the time afterwards, walking around the gardens and surreptitiously looking through some of the first level windows where the curtains haven't been drawn yet.
John returned late, a little tipsy and with not much more information than Sherlock had already gleaned by his own investigations. They went to bed just after 12, both worn out. Surprisingly, Sherlock slept more now than he did before Oliver. At the bothy, he and Molly got into a routine. With the broken sleep due to nightmares, lack of proper nutrition and Oliver's insane machinations, his body was physically exhausted enough that he rarely went a night without fatigue forcing him into sleep. Afterwards, a recovering body, more nutrition and mental tiredness at the initial forays he and Giles made in addressing Oliver's abuse, brought a new exhaustion. And then it became par for the course to go to bed with Molly most nights and then wake up around four, even when he was on a case. He didn't do all-nighters anymore. Didn't forego food completely. He looked after his transport. If there was one thing Oliver had taught him was that his transport had needs too.
"John." Someone was pushing against his shoulder. He came awake slowly, feeling lethargic. The result of a little too much cognac last night.
"John, wake up."
"What?" He sat up. Wiped his face and looked up into the face of Joe, their driver.
"It's Sherlock. He isn't well."
"What?" He frowned. Tried to get rid of the last cobwebs in his brain. Looked towards the bed where Sherlock was supposed to be sleeping. It was empty, the sheets and blankets rumpled and strewn over the mattress.
"What time is it?" He asked, swinging his legs and sitting on the edge of the bed.
"4:00 am."
"Okay. Where is he?"
"The bathroom."
He nodded. Rose and made his way over to the smaller room. He heard Sherlock when he exited the bedroom. A deep groan and then the sounds of retching. A soft murmur of the other agent. The smell of vomit was almost overwhelming inside that small space. Concern for Sherlock flared and he stepped inside. The agent moved out of the way, and exited the room. There just wasn't enough space for anyone else.
"Sherlock?" More retching. "Hey, when you said pretend to be sick, I didn't actually think you'd take it this far."
"Not funny," Sherlock managed to say, his voice gravelly and he sounded defeated. "Must've…something…ate…" Then he was over the bowl again. He wasn't bringing anything up anymore. A little bile but the contractions shuddered throughout his body. Didn't still and his stomach visibly heaved.
"Bring me my kit. It's in the boot of the car," John instructed Joe. Started to rub small circles on Sherlock's back and his friend stiffened beneath his touch. Moaned. "Please don't…"
"What?"
"Oliver did that…" was all Sherlock managed to say. Another shudder and then he bends over the toilet bowl again. He was wet with sweat, clammy and cold to the touch. Bleached dry in his skin. "This…sucks…" he managed when he sat back.
"Hey, it looks like a little food poisoning. I'll give you something for the nausea and to help ease the cramps and get an IV-line in to help with the dehydration."
"Fine."
More voices and then Joe was back, John's medical bag in his hand.
"Did you sleep at all tonight?"
"A little," Sherlock managed. Placed a visibly shaking hand against his mouth. Then he was over the bowel again. When he finally stopped heaving, he sat back and looked at John. "Make it stop." He groaned, hunched over his stomach.
John had his bag open. Forego the pills. Sherlock would just bring it up again. "Any diarrhoea?"
"No."
"Okay." He took out a vial. Drew up a full dosage. He was concerned when he struggled to get a vein. Sherlock was very clearly dehydrated. In the end, John simply stuck the needle in Sherlock's shoulder and injected it straight into the muscle. It will still work, just a bit slower. He opened a bottle of Pedialyte he had in his bag. Held the back of Sherlock's head and pushed the bottle against Sherlock's lips. "Take a sip." He instructed.
"No…can't." Sherlock managed.
"The drugs would've kicked in about now, Sherlock. You're dehydrated. I need to get fluids in you. Your blood vessels are constricted. It will make it hard to look for a suitable access point for the IV."
Sherlock shivered. Leaned forward tiredly and John helped him take a sip. He waited for a minute before giving him another sip. Helping Sherlock in this manner, he managed to finish the bottle. It took thirty minutes but by then the anti-nausea drug had clearly kicked in. Sherlock had his arms curled around his stomach, his head resting against John's legs, who was seated on the edge of the bath. One of the men had brought a blanket and it was tucked around Sherlock.
"Hey, Sherlock. You with me?" he asked.
"Stomach hurts."
"Yeah, it would. Your muscles have been working overtime there, mate. Let's get you to bed so I can set up the IV line and I'll give you something for the pain, yeah. You'll feel better in a few hours."
It was telling that Sherlock didn't protest. He was weak and John needed Joe's help to get Sherlock to his feet and to their room. He curled up immediately on the bed, knees to chest and arms around his stomach. John sat down beside him. Pulled an arm away and went looking and felt satisfied when he found a good vein. He was efficient in setting up the IV line, moving with minimum fuss. When the line was in, he administered a full dosage of Ibuprofen directly into the line. Sherlock was already asleep when he'd finished. They had hung the saline bag on a coat stand that had been in the living room.
One of the men entered with tea and John took it gratefully. Took a sip and looked at the time. It was just after 5 and he was surprised that since he woke, only an hour had passed. He stayed, watching over Sherlock until a soft knock on his bedroom door came just after 6.
"Apologies, I heard your man got sick."
He looked up in surprise when he noticed Brad entering the room. "Oh, Brad. Yes. He should be fine. Just a little food poisoning."
"I can make a call, get my physician to take a look," Brad said softly.
"No. It's fine. Thank you. I've got it under control."
"Well, I'll let the others know that we won't be going today."
"Oh. Please go. We'll just stay here, if you don't mind. Drive back to London later today when he's feeling up to it."
"You're my guest, John. I can't do that."
"John…" John turned his head. Sherlock was awake, still curled tight but clearly cognisant of what was happening. He moved and sat down beside Sherlock, placing the back of his hand against Sherlock's forehead. His temperature seemed good, although he clearly had been affected. Fatigue seemed to drag his eyelids down and he could see that it took effort for Sherlock to stay awake.
"Go. I'll be fine."
"You're not serious?"
"Not today. Let me just…rest." John knew him well enough. Understood exactly what Sherlock was implying. There's going to be no snooping today.
"Are you sure?" he asked.
"Yes. I'll be fine."
"Very well." John stood and turned to Brad. "Looks like I'll be joining you this morning."
"Excellent," Brad said. "I'll phone my doctor to come take a look. Make sure your man is fine."
"That won't be nece…"
"Nonsense. It's no problem at all. Come. Get ready. Breakfast will be served in the main house at 7. I can organise with the kitchen for some broth for your man."
"Uh. Thanks. I don't think he'll eat anything right now. Sleep would be best."
"Okay, I'm sure you know what is needed." Brad left. John made sure that the front door closed before he stepped back to the bedroom and sat down beside Sherlock.
"Hey," he took up Sherlock's wrist and took his pulse. It was slow and thready but not too concerning. Sherlock moved a little. "Are you seriously wanting me to go hunting today? I think we should head back to London, Sherlock. Come back another weekend."
Sherlock gripped John's wrist. It was surprisingly strong, considering what he'd gone through. "No. We might not be invited back, John. I'll be fine. I just need to sleep this off." He took a shuddering breath. His hold lessened. "Brad has some connection to Jason. I'm more certain of it. You need to build a rapport. Get him to invite us back."
"Yeah, I'm not comfortable with this. I think we should go."
"I have two agents guarding me, John. I'll be fine. Just…let's just do this."
John met Sherlock's gaze. His eyes were hooded and dulled with fatigue and sickness. But he was lucid despite everything. A willingness to forgo his own comfort for the case. A little of the old Sherlock coming to the fore.
"Fine." He got up and got another Pedialyte from his bag. "I need you to drink some more of this. And if you start to feel feverish, you let the agents know so they can phone me."
"I'll drink the Pedialyte later. Just leave it on the desk." Sherlock said.
"No. Now. If you want me to go play at being a hunter, you'll drink that. Or we pack up and go home."
"Okay." He helped Sherlock move into a sitting position. Helped to hold the bottle to his lips and sip. This time he managed to finish the bottle a lot faster. He removed the IV line and cleaned and placed a plaster over the site. Sherlock barely moved. John got dressed, grabbed the rifle and made his way to the main house after giving instructions to the agents. He wasn't in the mood to go with Brad. Obviously there was a plan in place. Something Sherlock had considered so that despite the fact that he was sick, he still wanted John to play his part.
When he met up with the other hunters, he came very close to declining. Even if Sherlock is going to throw a strop and sulk all the way home. In the end, he decided to stay. It really was important that they figure out the link between the fake Jason and Brad. That the threat to his friend is shut down and the only way that would happen, is if he played his part.
"Hey Sherlock, you awake?"
The man on the bed barely moved. Opened his eyes to glare up at him and frowned.
"Who are you?"
"I'm Dr Smith. And yes, that's my actual surname. Brad asked me to make sure you're okay."
"I'm fine. Just need some sleep." Sherlock murmured, his eyes already closing.
"Okay. Let me be the judge." He pulled Sherlock's arm away from his body, ignoring the protest from the other man. Fingers on the wrist were familiar enough that Sherlock didn't resist in the end.
"Good. You want some more pain meds?"
"Just…leave." Sherlock said.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I can't do that."
"Who are you?" Sherlock asked again and was now moving, pushing away from where Smith was sitting on the bed. Clearly alarmed but he was still weak. "You can come in." Smith said to the men waiting by the door. "Make sure you're careful," he advised. "I don't want any bruises."
Sherlock tried to escape but it wasn't the first time they've done this. They knew what they were doing and it didn't take long before the men had Sherlock secure on the bed. He struggled against the men holding him down and Smith readied the syringe. He was efficient and quick and waited as the drug took hold. It didn't take long before Sherlock's body relaxed. He was still conscious but no longer combative. The men had already loosened their grip. Smith leaned over and taking out a penlight, he did a quick check on Sherlock's pupil response. Satisfied, he patted Sherlock on his shoulder.
"Everything set up?" he asked one of the men.
"Yes."
"Good. Bring him."
They carried Sherlock in a two man carry. Smith checked in on the two agents who were asleep in their beds. Adding the sedative to their coffees had been ridiculously easy. They should be out of it for another couple of hours. Enough time for them to do what they had come for. And if need be, he could just drug them again if it took longer to get Sherlock to comply.
He stepped to the main house and entered the kitchen. The door to the cellar was through the pantry. The steps creaked as he went down. The smell of damp hung in the air and he shivered. The ambient temperature was lower here than outside.
Sherlock was already there, placed on a couch. One of the men was busy undressing him. He resisted but the drugs he was given, wouldn't allow him more than that token protest.
When he was ready, he nodded and one of the men who closely resembled Oliver's height and build sat down on the couch. He had the same clothes that Oliver had worn that third day. Smith had been adamant that they create everything exactly. Down to Oliver's aftershave he wore.
They placed Sherlock against the pretender. His head on the man's shoulder. The blindfold in place. Sherlock gave another weak protest. They ignored him. Continued to recreate the scene. Smith looked at the video screen they had set up that Oliver had recorded. Picked up the printed transcript and opened it to the first page. Made sure everything was accurate.
He nodded at the man when they were ready, who placed his hand on Sherlock's back and started to make small circles. Shushing Sherlock and using Oliver's inflection. The words Oliver had used to initiate calm and had conditioned Sherlock's body to absolutely obey. Smith was aware that the consulting detective had been receiving therapy. But there were a few responses Alex hadn't been aware of. Ones that Oliver had kept to himself. Smith very much doubted that even Sherlock was aware of them. It had been evident when Smith had analysed the videos. Had watched for the clues. It had taken time but now he was confident that they could proceed. Alex had very nearly derailed their plans for Sherlock Holmes. If the man hadn't been killed by Mycroft's pet assassins, he would've ended up with the same fate. The man he had ticked off was more powerful than he could ever have imagined. And more ruthless.
The end game was never Sherlock Holmes. He was just the means to an end.
It's always been about Mycroft.
Today was going to be a test run to see how much of the conditioning Sherlock retained with the help of the drug cocktail he'd given him, courtesy of Jim Moriarty's chemistry skills. Enough to bring him to a dream-like state and keep him pliable and compliant. Sensitise his skin to recreate the feel of a body tortured.
Sherlock's protest was getting less as time moved on. He was starting to listen to the instructions of the man who pretended to be Oliver. Starting to mimic actions Smith had seen on the videos Oliver had made. In less than thirty minutes, they were in a place he felt comfortable to proceed.
"Play it." Smith said to the man behind the keyboard.
They started the video. The sound quality perfect. Sherlock stiffened when he heard Oliver's voice.
"Tell me about Mycroft Holmes."
Unconsciously he moved, until he mirrored the actions from the screen.
"He's my brother."
Sherlock seemed to fight the words. Shook his head but all the same, his lips moved. Parroting almost in sync, following the lines of script Smith had in his hand.
"Come now. You know by now what I want, Mr Holmes. Let's not be coy."
Sherlock shivered just like the image of him on the screen on that fateful third day more than a year ago. His head shifted in unison on the shoulder. His hands clenched and he hugged himself, fingers curling around his biceps. The lines start to blur between the shattered man stripped apart in the video to the real-life actor seated on the pretender's couch in that damp cellar.
"He's a rubbish big brother." Sherlock whispered. His voice hoarse. Pained. The distinction becomes difficult to grasp between his voice on screen and right here and now.
"Ah. I think I understand. Because of Redbeard?"
A brief frown. Pursed lips and Sherlock pressed his cheek into the pretender's shirt. Just like he did not so long ago.
"Yes…No…"
The man shifted. He placed a hand between Sherlock's shoulder blades. Pressed slightly until the consulting detective responded, tilting his head and actively listening.
"Which is it, Mr Holmes? I know we discussed Redbeard in depth earlier. It makes sense that it still hurts. The breaking of trust in someone so young…it is understandable that there would still be some resentment."
It was fascinating to watch the play of muscles across Sherlock's body at the mention of Redbeard. It contracted and relaxed, an intake of breath that was more gasp than anything else. His shoulders slumped, despair evident and Smith almost felt sorry for the man. Redbeard was obviously a sore point. One they'll explore later.
"It's not…please Oliver. Can I go home? I'll do what you want."
It was childlike, the pleading. The hands gripping Oliver's shirt in reflex. He wondered if Sherlock was even aware of what he'd done in the end. How much he recalled of these sessions with Oliver. How Oliver had stripped away every wall he had built over the years until all that was left was the raw, broken man underneath.
"Home? You mean back to Ms Hooper at the bothy?"
And that had been the brilliance of it. Sherlock equated the bothy to home. Molly as part of it. Oliver's eyes gleamed as he stared at the video camera. The smile of triumph almost obscene. Sherlock shifted on the couch. Settled, a little hope that this was done in his voice.
"Yes."
And then another return of despair when Oliver answered, his focus away from the camera and back onto the man in his arms. His words were apologetic. Soft and a gentle kiss caressed Sherlock's temple.
"Not yet, Mr Holmes. But soon, I promise."
Sherlock swallowed a sob. He was back to begging for a reprieve.
"Please…I…my throat…it hurts when I speak."
Oliver had his hand tracing a path again on Sherlock's lower back. It must've been maddening, Smith thought. The feel of hand on skin already hyper sensitised to pain.
"It has to be done, Mr Holmes. Do you see why?"
Sherlock shuddered. Defeat that he wasn't going to get past dealing with his memories of his brother now evident in his body posture. Onscreen, Oliver gave a brief nod to the camera, knowing that the battle was won.
"…yes…"
"Good. You're learning, Mr Holmes. Well done. We're going to discuss your brother. There's still some resentment, even now? Just relating to Redbeard or is there more?"
"Maybe." Sherlock's voice was now completely synchronised with the video. Smith indicated to the man sitting in front of the laptop that ran the application of the video playing on the tv set. He moved the mouse. Clicked a button.
"Please clarify." Oliver's voice was still clear and the man on the couch had his hand on the side of Sherlock's head, pressing him to his shoulder. Just like Oliver did.
"He thinks he's better." Sherlock's words perfectly synchronised to the movement of his lips on the screen. Smith's lips curled upwards; the smile never reached his eyes.
"At what?"
Despair was evident. Shame. The consultant detective tightened his left hand into a fist. He burrowed his face into Oliver's shirt, to hide. His words were impossibly soft when he finally said, "Everything."
Just like he did …before.
Sherlock was ready.