Chapter 11
October
Day 143 – 10 days after Molly and Sherlock's rescue
The stars were out and the clouds non-existent. Which was nice. He sat on the roof of the hospital, back against a vent pipe. He leaned his head against the piping and his ribs protested, his skin pulling against the stitches and his intercostal muscles flaring in pain. But he could deal with the physical pain. It has been a part of him for such a long time now that he had learned how to quarantine it away in his mind.
Molly had been asleep when he had slipped out of the bed. Bypassing the nurses' station had been easy. It was a bit harder with the guards but the mental exercise had been fun and he had enjoyed the challenge. He was certain that at one point the alarm would be raised but for now, he was alone. It was familiar, this. Sitting outside in the cool of night and watching the stars. Seeing the passage of time as they moved in the night sky.
At the bothy, it had been his saving grace. The ability to go outside and switch off. Let his mind drift while Molly slept in front of the fire. Where he devised and rejected plans to get rid of Oliver. To escape. Anything and everything really to make their captivity and his lack of control a bit more manageable. Even if it was to lie to himself. That it wasn't that bad. That Oliver could've found other ways to torture him. More imaginative ways that would've hurt a lot more.
That all in all it could've been a lot worse. Yes, Oliver had starved them. Had pushed him physically and mentally but he was stronger for it now. Wasn't he?
He ignored the little voice inside his head that reminded him what happened during the three days when hell had come down to earth and he had experienced Oliver's depravity. Surely he'll be okay now that he and Molly were free. Here and safe, away from Oliver and his insanity. Where Molly can go a week without bruises and fists that hit flesh.
He sighed.
It wasn't that easy. Molly was quiet. Drawn into herself. He didn't know what to do with himself now that he didn't need to wait by the bothy door for Oliver to turn up and take him on a challenge. All these months of shoring up his mental walls and focusing on surviving and his body didn't know how to respond to the lack of stimuli. It was still disconcerting…waking up in a soft bed in a room where there was no crackle of fire. Where they could eat every day and it wasn't Ensure. Take a hot shower. Where the knot of fear wasn't centred in the middle of his stomach, flaring at the sound of helicopter blades.
He wanted to go home. To Baker Street. But at the same time, he knew that he wouldn't cope. What had been done to him…to Molly. He understood that it was going to take more than waiting for stitches to heal.
He shivered. Even with the fleece pyjamas that John had gotten him, he still struggled with cold. It didn't matter that it was summer. That the nights would've been pleasant any other time. Apparently lack of body fat did that to you.
The door opened, a flare of light against the relative darkness of the roof. Giles stood there, silhouetted against the light. He closed the door, bringing the dark back and his footsteps were soft on the cement of the roof. Sherlock watched him as he came closer, wary of the other man's intentions.
"You managed to create a minor panic attack for the base commander responsible for your safety." Giles said, easily sitting down next to him.
"I'm sure he'll get over it," Sherlock stated.
"He wants to have a chat with you. Find out how you bypass the security detail he had on the floor. Plug any potential gaps that could exist."
Sherlock turned his head, staring at the man in the dark. Giles wasn't looking at him, instead he was focused on the stars. By all intents and purposes, he looked comfortable.
"I don't feel like sharing," Sherlock said, testing the waters.
"Then don't." Giles' mouth seemed to turn upwards briefly in a quick smile. "It will keep him on his toes."
Sherlock found himself chuckling. He relaxed, realised how much tension there had been in his shoulders. He tried another deeper breath but it hurt and he decided to forgo the breathing exercise he's supposed to do to stop pneumonia from developing. Took a few shallow breaths. A falling meteor streaked across the sky, flaring briefly before dying away.
They sat in silence. For some reason Sherlock didn't find it uncomfortable. For the last almost five months, it had only ever been Molly that would come out, searching for him. She seemed to instinctively know when he needed her. When it was better for him to be alone with his thoughts. After a time, he shifted and turned his gaze from the horizon to the man seated next to him.
"Why are you not asking me questions?" Sherlock asked. He was genuinely interested. This man was very different from Oliver. To any psychiatrist he ever had the misfortune to meet.
"Do you want me to?"
Sherlock didn't know what to say to that. He pulled his legs up, hugged them to himself and ignored the twinge of protest from healing ribs. It got uncomfortable pretty quick and he let go, leaning back again on the pipe. Focused on his mind palace but everything there was warped and dark. Except for the room he had created where John and Mrs Hudson stood waiting for him. Where he could sip tea and disengage while Oliver…
Don't…just don't go there. Shuddered as a memory surfaced of the first time he had gone away into his memory palace like that. Of his near drowning and the cold…
Control. He reigned in his turmoil and fear and despair. It wouldn't do to show weakness now. Not when Giles sat next to him. Evaluating. Waiting to see his flaws. Ready to pounce. But the man did nothing but breathe and watch the stars.
It was …different.
"How do I fix Molly?" he asked. "It was my fault…" He stopped. Continuing would be too much like sharing his own inner guilt and turmoil and he just wasn't ready for it. Focused on Ursa Major.
"Do you think it's your responsibility to fix Molly?" Giles asked.
Sherlock scanned the other man but he could find no duplicity. None of Oliver's scheming and manipulation.
"I don't know." He said honestly. He'd thought it would be. Because of him Molly had been kidnapped. Had suffered the indignity of starvation. Of bruises meted out on a regular basis. Had looked after him, watched over him and pushed and prodded his own stubbornness to not let Oliver win the battle for his mind.
Sometimes he wondered if he was a lost cause…that he was just lying to himself and that Oliver was settled in his mind. Controlling and directing his thoughts even while the man wasn't physically present.
"Maybe Molly should make that decision for herself." Giles said softly. "Just as you should decide your own healing forward."
"Molly was always adamant that I shouldn't let Oliver win."
"Then don't."
He blinked. Surprised. He re-evaluated the man before him. "Oliver…" he paused. What was he doing? Sharing…he sneered. The word felt too much like the couch and the incessant questions of Oliver that never seemed to end and wanted to peel away his life until nothing was left that wasn't exposed. The rape of his mind on that day still stung. A hurt he couldn't quantify.
Don't let Oliver win.
Molly's voice was a soothing balm over the turmoil in his mind. He made a decision.
"Oliver set me up to fail…the first time that he uhm…that we met him. He wanted me to fail so that he could hurt Molly. To show me that I had no control. That if I didn't do what he wanted, that she would suffer. He was ruthlessly and utterly brilliant and I admired that in him even though John would say it's a bit not good."
"It's an effective method used by abusers." Giles stated, "Create a scenario that has no way of success so you can set a baseline. Introduce fear and helplessness."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes when there was no follow up question asking him how had felt. Giles stayed silent. No comment was made either on his admiration of Oliver's mind. He suddenly, inexplicably felt engaged, his mind flaring into a decision tree of possibilities.
"Why are you different?" he asked. "You don't behave like the others."
Giles tilted his head as he scrutinised Sherlock for the first time. "Other mental health professionals?"
"Yes."
Giles gave a brief smile. "My training…was a bit unconventional."
"You know my brother…ah yes. I see. You are different. You …understand."
Giles shrugged his shoulders. Sherlock smiled. Leaned his head back and looked at the stars. They didn't need to say anything more. They had reached an understanding that wasn't expressible in words. And Sherlock realised that for some reason he trusted the other man.
Sitting under the stars on the roof of the hospital, Sherlock realised that he wanted this. Wanted what Giles could offer him in terms of his own healing. To help him fix his mind palace. Fix Molly. Move forward.
Giles will never be Oliver.
"That was interesting." The older man said, watching the soundless feed.
"His response is still very visceral. We can work with that and with his conditioned response we saw in the first session," Dr Smith said. Watched Sherlock succumb to the sedative as his brother read to him. "Mycroft was a surprise. He wasn't anticipated."
"No. He wasn't. But this…" he gave a satisfied smirk. "…Yes. Brilliant. Mycroft Holmes' pressure point is very obviously his brother. Moriarty?"
"He's settling in. He's onboard."
"Good. We need to keep a tight leash on him. His obsession with Sherlock Holmes will aid us for now."
"Do you think Sherlock will make the connection? Between Brad and Oxley?"
Lord Byron switched off the monitor and met Smith's gaze fully. "Not unless Oxley left anything incriminating. He will be taken care of; plans are already in place. As far as Mycroft is concerned, the Phoenix club died with the four former Lords. He might take Oxley in consideration after having seen the photos. Sherlock doesn't remember the hunts. He barely reacted to the photos. No…I think we're safe in that regard but just in case, put Brad on alert. I think he should clean house, as it were. He can oversee our business in Russia."
"Brad is not going to like it."
"I don't care. Send Jason. He should be enough to let Brad understand the gravity of the situation."
"You realise that this would hamper our access to Sherlock. If they'd gone for another weekend hunt, we could've easily managed another session with him."
"Yes. You will just have to make do. He enjoys his walks to Regent's Park. That might be an opportunity. How much time do you need?"
"Two-hour blocks. Successive sessions over the next several weeks should do it."
"Very well. We have time."
Sherlock was aware that he was in his room before he even opened his eyes. The smell of Molly, his own shampoo and soap and the slightly mouldy smell of the patch in the corner that gets damp after a heavy downpour. He groaned softly, remembering the cellar and his own visceral response to the video. He could hear voices from the sitting room. Molly…John and…he listened and took a deeper breath when he realised the third voice belonged to Giles.
Ok. This is …not ideal.
He opened his eyes. Turned on his back and looked up at the ceiling. Tried to gauge his own response. His transport didn't react as much when he thought back to the video but he still had the fuzzy feel of sedatives running in his system. What would it be like when he was completely sober. Would he still feel the same or would there be another …episode.
This is unacceptable. He thought. He swore and sat up. Swung his legs off the bed and placed his head in his hands, elbows on his knees. Headache wasn't the greatest but he could deal with it. What he craved was quiet. Not people asking if he was okay.
He didn't need their looks of sympathy as he walked into his own sitting room. Didn't need John's understanding, Molly's disquiet or Giles' professionalism. He eyed the window. Took a deeper breath and then rose and made his way over quietly. Pushed it open and eyed the distance to the ground. He could make it, it wasn't the first time he'd gone out this way but it'd been before …Molly. His wife…his pregnant wife.
He sighed. Closed the window. Turned around and walked out the bedroom and the voices trailed off and went quiet.
"Hey." Molly said quietly, seated in his chair. Teacups littered the side tables. John was in his chair and Giles on the couch. All cosy. And it was too much.
"I need to go," he said abruptly. Grabbed his coat and pretended he didn't see the hurt look on Molly's face as he thumped down the stairs and opened the door. He was outside the flat and his feet unconsciously turned him down the familiar path to Regent's Park. He set a quick pace. His long stride took him onto the outer circuit. If he closed his eyes, he would still be able to follow the route. It was as familiar to him now as the feel of his violin underneath his fingers.
Oliver always expected him to be fast…
He shook his head, pushed his hands into his pockets. Pushed the memories down and locked the door to Oliver's room. He was in control. He could ….
Are you in control, Mr Holmes?
He swore under his breath and turned into York Bridge to the inner circle and Queen Mary's Garden. Did the smaller circuit route and then turned off the main route into one of the smaller side roads. He came to a standstill, eyed the grass and trees. Moved off the path and deeper under the trees.
It was too noisy. Even in the relative quiet of the park at this time of day. He needed to think. Needed to pull at the threads of Oliver, Tony Oxley and Brad Vine. And the four men in the photos. He sat down under a tree, leaned his head back feeling the bark against his back and closed his eyes. Focused on the men in the photograph.
Well to do. Clearly had privileged upbringing. Probably went to Eton, wonder if that is where they met Oliver? Shared an interest in the outdoors. Comfortable with holding their guns, well versed and knew what they were doing. Mmm. Did Oliver see in them what he knew of himself? A complete disregard for life. For taking what you wanted…for craving that power over another human. Their callousness in posing with their victims after their 'successful' hunt.
The video…
He swallowed against the bile that seemed to force its way up. Took a deeper breath and forced his transport to comply. To assert that he was in control. Was that what he'd looked like…
He dropped his head into his hands, heel of his palms against his eyelids.
Did Oliver make a video of his 'sessions' with him…
He opened his eyes. His left hand was trembling ever so slightly and his shoulder hurt. He set his face into a neutral expression, didn't look up when Giles sat down next to him. He glanced at the psychiatrist. Noticed his relaxed posture. This man that was so unlike Oliver…
He still sometimes wondered where his brother had found Giles and what the man had done to earn his brother's trust. But if he was completely honest with himself, the man was helping. Knew what he was on about…just like Oliver…a sneaky voice whispered in his head. He squashed it down. Kicked it to the curb and locked the words behind Oliver's door.
"Did you watch?" he asked, staring at his hands that were plucking at the grass. Thought back to the bothy and what seemed a lifetime ago when he had sat on that open grassland the first time after he had woken to find Molly behind him. Before he knew about Oliver and things got …complicated. Before he found out that he was ordinary. Prone to nightmares and triggers and all the joy that Oliver had left him with in the process of his remake of Sherlock. Sometimes he wished he could press the undo button and be back to not caring. To his intellect and his Work and let the boring people get on with their dull lives and their tedious mental problems.
You can't kill an idea, can you. Not once it made a home in your mind…oh, Oliver loved his ideas. Loved to mess with his mind. Pull it apart…
"Do I need to?" Giles asked.
He glanced at the man again. Took the measure of him but nothing has changed in his body language. He wasn't even looking at Sherlock. Was just sitting there, completely at peace with himself. It reminded him of the hospital rooftop, sitting next to this man under the stars when he had made the decision to trust him.
"Isn't that what you people do?" he asked harshly. "To understand why someone goes nuts."
Giles gave a chuckle. "Everyone's nuts, some just more than others."
"Not a very elegant diagnosis, is it doctor?" Sherlock felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth.
"Yes well…" Giles shrugged his shoulders.
Sherlock rubbed his left shoulder. Turned his left-hand palm up and watched it open and close. The scar on his forearm pulled and the fall from the cliff on that rainy day when Oliver had pushed him to climb suddenly felt real, like it'd happened yesterday. The memories surged and the left side of his body twinged in sympathy pain as he remembered Molly and her sure hands as she did her best to keep his sanity in check while dealing with his physical injuries he had sustained on that day. To make it better. He remembers the hazy moment after coming conscious when he'd thought he was back at Baker Street and that John was there. And the utter despair when he realised that he was still at the bothy and Oliver's nightmare hadn't disappeared.
He gave a harsh bark of laughter. If only his mind healed as easy as the scars he carried on his body.
But for those who knew where to look, his scar was plain to see...
Shut up. Not relevant.
He shifted, sitting cross legged and his back straight.
"Oliver…" he took a deeper breath, gathering his thoughts. "He was adamant that it will get better once I accepted what was happening. Once I showed myself trustworthy…" Giles didn't say anything. It wasn't the first time he had railed in anger. In frustration. He huffed. Glared at Giles.
"You can leave. I'll be fine."
Giles didn't leave. He stretched his legs out and crossed it at the ankles. Leaned back on his hands and looked up at the branches and leaves. For all intents and purposes, he looked content. Sherlock grunted in annoyance. Didn't know what to make of it and he suddenly wished for John. At least his friend would be able to explain. They sat in silence for the next 20 minutes. Sherlock focused on the case. On Tony Oxley and his little wall of preserved horrors. On the photo collage. He pointedly ignored the memory of Oliver and the blubbering man. Ignored that his mind had already made the connection to the third photo from the bottom left pile of the collage. Had catalogued the injuries on the man and compared it to his own scars. Had seen the obvious signs of abuse. He had noticed The Words. How much similar it had been…yet not as refined yet. From the clothes, the manner of guns, the angle of the sun he knew that this man had been the fourth victim. And there were…he closed his eyes and counted. Despite the ten jars of trophies there had been 15 different men. Running. Fighting. Dead.
How many before him had there been…
"Did you ever meet Oliver?" he suddenly asked Giles. "You're of similar age. Contemporaries at uni?"
"No." Giles said. "My training…" Sherlock focused with sudden intent on the man next to him. "…If I tell you, I'll have to kill you." He said with a secret smile.
"That is how you met my brother? MI-6?"
Giles didn't acknowledge his fishing expedition. Suddenly the man wasn't boring, not that he'd ever entertained the idea. He was intelligent. Knew his way around people. Could hold a conversation on various topics.
"About today, at the cellar," he waited but Giles didn't ask. Didn't offer him any condescending platitudes that everything will be okay. Just sat silently next to him.
"Thanks." He said in the end. The other man nodded.
"How do I stop my transport from responding the way it did," he asked. "It …uhm…it was unexpected."
"What happened at that moment?" Giles asked instead.
Sherlock focused on the question. Thought back to his own reaction. On what he had tried to implement. The strategies he and Giles had worked on. Analysed his own response.
"I went into my mind palace. Oliver's door was open and I couldn't close it. I had the key but it was useless. My transport wasn't working. I was reacting physically to Oliver's voice. To what he was doing."
"Okay. What was Oliver doing?" Giles asked gently.
Sherlock looked away. He was pulling tufts of grass out by the roots. Only really became aware when his fingers cramped. He snorted in frustration.
"You want to psychoanalyse me now? Want me to say it."
Giles didn't respond. Sherlock sneered in derision and felt the familiar feeling of fear form a knot in his stomach. He knew what the man was doing. They'd gone through this when he talked about what Oliver's men had done to him. The torture. The rape. And finally, that third day…when Oliver had raped his mind and had showed him who was in control. The shame of that day still flooded his body. Even now. Oh, how easily he'd given in. Three days and he was part of the ordinary people with their little lives and problems…Even he, Sherlock Holmes, let sentiment override his senses as he cried like a baby into Oliver's shoulder. Begged him to stop.
He swore. Loudly. At the same time a mother was walking by with her toddler in hand and glared at him in disgust. Promptly picked up her child and hurried on.
"Fine." He grumbled in the end. Anger now replaces fear. Anger at Oliver. Anger at the stupidity of his transport. Anger that John and Lestrade had seen him at his most vulnerable. And his brother…
"Why did you call my brother?" He asked. "You didn't need to do that."
"Because he was needed. You responded to him and it brought you to a place of calm."
He blinked. Tears were threatening and he hated it. Hated that his transport after Oliver at times seemed to have a mind of its own. That his control and discipline was completely shot. He knew what Giles said was the truth. It was logical. He still felt shame.
"I'm not a child," he mumbled. His go-to response but it felt muted. And Giles would see through it without any effort.
"I'm aware," Giles said quietly.
"I hate Oliver." He said vehemently. The silence stretched. Sherlock rubbed his left shoulder against the ache of it. He finally stretched his own legs out, ankles crossed and leaned back against the tree behind him.
"I thought Oliver was in the room with us. I could feel everything. The texture of his shirt. They put my head against his shoulder just like…" He couldn't complete the sentence. Didn't want to make the comparison. "…his voice, I could feel it vibrate against my ear. He told me that it was going to be okay. That it was almost done. That giving in was good…that I was learning." He sniffed. What he was sharing, it wasn't new for Giles. But it was new in the context of the video. Of the proof of …what exactly? A man now dead, taken by a psychopath and manipulated like he was.
Did he really look like that…Pathetic.
The visual and auditory proof of his own humanity. John…John would never look at him the same way. And Lestrade…
They think he's broken…wasn't he?
"Sherlock?"
He opened his eyes. Looked at Giles. Knew the tone for what it was. To stop his own thoughts spiralling.
"Who's alive?"
"You know the answer to that." He said tiredly. "Why keep asking the question?"
"Because you need to understand." Giles said succinctly. "What Oliver did…I gave you the empirical evidence of those that had been tortured for Queen and country. No one is immune."
"I'm aware," Sherlock stated.
"Oliver had meticulously scripted and manipulated the events leading up to those three days. He was starving you. Pushed you physically to the brink with his 'challenges'. Mentally by his constant physical abuse of Molly and you and by controlling every aspect of your lives. By the time he took you to the cellar, he's already been at work methodically breaking you down physically and emotionally for 2 and half months. It didn't take him three days, Sherlock. It took him 2 and half months. You lasted longer than most before those fateful three days. Do you see it? You are not ordinary. You are the exception. None of the other men lasted more than two months. Their 'sessions' with Oliver happened a lot earlier. Probably within the first month."
Sherlock focused on Giles. The man was serious. Met his eyes without any duplicity. Sherlock gave a sharp nod. Broke his gaze and stared at the broken knolls of grass polls that surrounded him.
"Your brother and your friends admire you, Sherlock. You and Molly both. You have stepped through fire. You have survived. Not just living but moving forward. The cellar happened. And the trigger your transport responded to will in all probability happen again. Maybe a little less visceral. You will notice. It might eb and it might flow. But it will not defeat you. When you feel overwhelmed, when you feel like butter spread too thin on a piece of toast – that's when your friends and your brother will be there for you. Help you move ahead, one step at a time. Will you allow them to do that for you?"
Sherlock took a deeper breath. Blinked against the sentiment that flooded his system.
"Fine." He said shortly. Couldn't manage more than the brief acknowledgement. Giles allowed him the space to get his equilibrium back. He heard John's voice, telling him to breathe. He focused on the exercise he and Giles had devised. And with a cleansing breath he expelled the memories. Closed and locked the door of Oliver in his mind. He found with sudden clarity that he could now think of the video from a scientist's perception, removed from subjectivity and emotionality.
Observe. Measure. Report. Disconnect.
"I never knew the colour of the couch. Or how big it was." His own voice sounded raw and a little hoarse. He hadn't noticed it until now. "I've never been to the cellar. I just wasn't interested."
"That's understandable." Giles said.
"The couch looked expensive." What a stupid obvious observation, he thought. Why is that the thing he noticed? "…the floor was hard packed with dirt. Easier to soak in blood. All they really had to do was add another layer and pack it down again. The wall behind the couch was made out of wooden slats. Nailed tightly together. Oliver liked his uniform. The hiking boots, khaki trousers and plaid shirts." He paused. Focused on facts and getting his transport under control. Even today he can't abide the sensory feel of the material. He leaned forward, away from the tree and brought his legs up. Rested his elbows on his knees. Focused on the distance and the people walking past. Mostly mums and older people with dogs. Everyone else not at work. He glanced at his watch. It was only 1 and he couldn't believe that the day wasn't gone yet.
"The man…"
Control. You are in control.
"He didn't look emaciated. I recognised him. He was in the photos that were on the wall. Probably the fourth or fifth victim. Not sure when Oliver started with the Ensure regime…Those on the photos…most of them looked like they had eaten at least a bit better than Molly and I did." He paused. Tasted the vile drink and swallowed convulsively. "Maybe Oliver thought that it would be less effort…that the drink would be enough. But it wasn't in the end. We were malnourished." He sighed and gave a derisive chuckle. "You know…if it wasn't for the starvation…" Sherlock changed tact. Looked down at his hands. "John keeps feeding me. I indulge him even though it irritates me. I …before Oliver…I wouldn't have cared, you know. But now…I think it scared him. Scared him to see how thin Molly and I were. It's his way of making sure that he's helping. That's good right? Giving John that control?"
"It's not control, Sherlock. You're allowing him to care."
Sherlock nodded. "I'm not sure how long the video was." He was contemplative. "It was obviously a bit of a blur. But I remember…Oliver did the same to me. He manipulated me into a false comfort. Persuaded me that my surrender was good. That it will get better. What was different was that I had headphones on the whole two days before. And when I was made to sit on the couch…while they put me against Oliver I still wore the headphones. It was only after that they removed them. This man didn't have any headphones on…" He paused. The sudden differences between his own experience and the man are glaringly obvious.
"He was brilliant, wasn't he?" he said with awe. "He knew…he didn't just cookie cutter his whole approach. He adapted. Tailored his approach. Learned how to adjust to each of his …" he paused. Wasn't sure if he wanted to say the word as it would implicate him as well. But he had no idea what else to say. So, he said it in the end. "…victims." He swallowed against the word and took a deeper breath. Adjusted his own feelings and thought…Oliver is dead. He didn't win. I did.
"With me…he brought in Molly. Molly or John would have sufficed. He studied me. Knew me and what approach would work best to exploit and leverage physical and mental foothold against me. I couldn't disconnect like I would've if I was alone. He understood that…that I wasn't that good with people. That I didn't understand teamwork."
"And now?" Giles asked.
Sherlock thought about the past year. On what he'd endured. With sudden clarity, understanding came to what Giles was trying to help him see. What John had done for him. What his brother had done. Even Lestrade. How each of them had freely given, had freely stepped in and helped to carry him when he stumbled. He remembers Molly silently sliding under his arm that first week when they had attempted to hike their way out of the estate. Before they understood how much they actually weren't in control. She had carried him even then. By his side. Strong and silent. He smiled at the memory.
This was good.
"I understand better now." He said simply.
Giles nodded.
His eyes followed another mother, jogging with a pram. He could see the fuller figure, all evidence that she had given birth. He wondered if Molly would be the same. If she would come here for walks. Pushing the pram. He would very much like to do it with her, he decided. Not alone. Never alone.
"I still feel shame," he finally acknowledged softly. He had never said these words to Giles before. He was sure the man had seen the underlying sentiment. But he had never called Sherlock out on it. "I'm ashamed that Oliver broke me."
There. He'd finally said it. It didn't make the feeling go away and he felt unsure. Maybe he shouldn't have voiced it. Giles studied him. The silence stretched but it wasn't uncomfortable and he felt the feeling of disquiet fade.
"You feel embarrassed." Giles said after a time. "Damaged. You feel you've failed. But let me ask you this…At that point, Sherlock…when you were with Oliver on the couch. How much control did you have over what he'd done?"
He focused on the question. Like a film reel rewinding and then fast-forwarding at hyper-speed through his hippocampus, those three days and the 2 and half months before that. His eyes widened when the realisation came. "None." He said. And it was true. He could see it.
"If you can acknowledge that you had no agency. If you can acknowledge that Oliver systematically deployed physical and mental torture to break down your body, distort your thoughts, and manipulated and exploited your concern for Molly. If you can acknowledge what he did, he's done to others. Could you have prevented Oliver at all from getting the information he wanted in the way that he did it? Let's put it this way…if you had to deduce the situation, what would the facts be?"
When he didn't reply, Giles said, "Do you not think Oliver wouldn't have spared Molly. Let you observe as he did to her what he did to you if you hadn't surrendered fully. You survived an impossible situation, Sherlock. There's no shame in it. Do you understand?" When Sherlock gave a nod, Giles said, "Remember those mindfulness strategies, especially when triggers get activated. Well, when you think back…remind yourself you did what you could. You survived. And now… You're about to become a father. You're already a husband. A friend. A brother. A consultant detective. That is how you beat Oliver. By living your life."
Sherlock ran his hand through his hair. Gave a half smile. His shoulders relaxed for the first time since he sat down.
"Yes. I think I can do that."
"Good." Giles stood up. Stretched out his hand and Sherlock took it. Allowed the other man to pull him up.
"I think your wife and friend would like you back to Baker Street. Phone me otherwise I'll see you in two weeks' time. And I look forward to seeing where this case is going to take you. I'm sure you're up for the challenge."