Chapter 39: Miscommunication

Esther surveys the wreckage of her patient from her bedside chair. She's been here all morning, observing. Sherlock is awake, and about an hour ago he'd staggered out of bed into the bathroom next door for a pee. Afterwards, he'd returned to bed, ignoring her completely.

The dissociative state of the past four days seems to have been replaced with something else: he is in control of his body enough to be sitting up, his back against the wall, knees drawn up and his arms loosely folded on them. He seems aware of his surroundings, but is choosing not to engage with them. That's different from yesterday, and it is an improvement, albeit insufficient if he continues to refuse to eat, drink or communicate.

The only thing Esther has said to the young man is that Mycroft has gone back to London, and that Sherlock won't have to talk to him if he doesn't want to. "But, you do need to talk to me," she had added, to no avail.

She needs to move this forward, so she gets up and collects the glass of water from the lab bench that he'd had installed there when he was twelve. Standing in front of him, she thrusts the water at him so it will appear in his line of sight.

"Drink." It's an order, which she makes clear with her tone.

He does not respond.

"Do you want to end up in hospital?"

No answer.

"I'm on your side, Sherlock. I think Mycroft has got this all wrong, but if you don't cooperate, then I can't argue your case."

Not even a blink of an eye. It's like he's staring right through the water, as if she and it weren't there.

Is this a test of wills, or has Sherlock truly lost his will to even try? This is not the first time the older Holmes has sought to manage his life, and usually Sherlock is quite tenacious in his rebellion against such attempts.

Esther knows she is at her wit's end on knowing how to break the deadlock. Short of conjuring the Trevor boy out of thin air, she cannot come up with any incentive or comfort to offer to her patient.

A soft tap at the bedroom door breaks the moment; she has to put the glass down to go answer it.

Mrs Walters is in the hall, a concerned look on her face. "Any progress? Should I try to bring up a bit of lunch?"

Esther shakes her head. "If I can't convince him to drink water, I doubt we'd have more success with food. He knows where this is headed, and he doesn't seem to care." The last thing the psychiatrist would want is to traumatise the boy with further involuntary treatment, but she has a duty to protect his health and his life, and that is precisely what she will be forced to do if this nearly catatonic state continues.

"There's someone here who wants to talk to you; he's down in the Long Gallery," Mrs Walters says quietly. "It's Frank Wallace, the gamekeeper. He's… well, he's been one who has helped Sherlock in the past and he has an idea."

Esther tries to grasp how a gamekeeper of all things could be in any way helpful, but she is desperate enough to at least listen, so she nods. "Just keep an eye on Sherlock, please, while I speak to him. I won't be long."

When she gets to the Long Gallery, Esther's eye takes in the tall, burly figure dressed in what she assumes is appropriate clothing for someone whose job entails being outdoors all of the time. For a moment, she has a pang of concern at the slightly muddy boots he's wearing on the exquisite antique carpet adorning the floor, thinking of how Mycroft would have reacted to such a sight.

But, all that is taken in an instant as her attention is drawn to something else—an obviously young brown dog on a slip lead, sitting down beside the gamekeeper, her head looking up at him. The dog is a barely suppressed wiggle of energy, and she keeps getting up from her sitting position. This provokes a brusque command to sit, leading to her rear end landing on the carpet again, for all of about ten seconds before she's up again. When Esther approaches, the dog's fragile obedience breaks for good and it comes towards her as far as the lead will let her, wagging the tail that looks too thick and long to be in proper proportion with anything but the paws and ears.

"Bella. Sit. Down, NOW." It's a command accompanied by a jerk on the slip lead, followed by an apology. "You're Doctor Cohen. I'm Frank Wallace, the gamekeeper here at Parham, and this chocolate furball with no brain is Bella."

Esther isn't a dog person nor has she ever had time for other sorts of pets; even if she'd had any interest for such, her career would have made it impossible. Even a fish tank felt like too much responsibility for the life of another creature. She has enough of a burden of that at work.

"Mrs. Walters said you wanted to speak to me? I'm rather busy at the moment."

"Aye, and I know why. Mrs Walters says he's nay speaking again and I'll guess the lad's sitting in his bed now staring off in the distance trying to pretend that he isn't here. He's done it before, on and off over the years, plenty of times when you weren't around."

"Well, then you know that I should be back in there, trying to get him to re-engage with me."

"With respect, ma'am, you aren't the problem and you may not be a solution. I'm going to stick my neck out here and guess that Sherlock's having troubles with his boyfriend, and as a result, with his Lordship as well."

Esther is startled. Not just by the man's perceptiveness—how does he know about Victor Trevor?—but also by the fact that the dog had just pressed a cold wet nose into her hand. She steps back to put some distance between her and the dog.

"BELLA." Frank rolls his eyes to the painted ceiling of the Long Gallery. "Sorry; she's six months old and needs training. That's why I'm here. She's Sherlock's dog. He was there when she was born in my cottage on New Year's Eve, and he asked for her to be his own gundog, that he would be back in the summer to train her. His brother agreed."

Esther sighs. "That may be so, Sherlock is barely able to look after himself at the moment, let alone train a puppy he's probably forgotten by now."

"Forgot? Pardon me, ma'am, but have you ever seen Sherlock with an animal?"

She hasn't, so Esther shakes her head.

"He connects with them in a way that's special. Has he told you about the Irish Setter called Redbeard*? Or about his horse, Pirate**? When tatties' o'wer the side an' the lad is unreachable, he'll want nothing to do with the likes of you, me or his brother, but he will make an effort with an animal. It's easier for him than with people. At least let me give it a try. Or, perhaps I should say: let Bella here have a go."

Esther has heard of the pioneering work of Jim Sinclair, a psychologist and rehabilitation counsellor who developed the use of service dogs for autistic people. The fact that Sinclair is autistic himself had encouraged him to think of its possibilities for non-verbal children. The idea of doing so for Sherlock has never occurred to her, until now, and she wonders why.

She looks down at Bella, whose wagging tail is making her entire behind swing from side to side. Shrugging, Esther says, "Nothing ventured, nothing gained. How do you propose we go about doing this?"

oOoOoOoOo

There is a noise in the hall outside of his room, but Sherlock tunes it out; noises have been coming and going. Sometimes the noises come out of the mouths of people who come in and stare at him; he ignores them, and everything else. He's been here before—everyone talking at him, telling him what to do, demanding things of him. There is no energy left; it's been swallowed up in the fog that has descended on his brain.

Alone protects me.

He'd made a panicked retreat into his Mind Palace to escape from Mycroft when the realisation had sunk in that all of his plans had gone up in smoke. The blood samples from the autopsy and the post mortem report are only a small part of what he needs, and Mycroft's minions had stopped him from getting the most important evidence from the solicitors: the name of the beneficiary. If he could find out who this Gess person is, then he and Victor could sort the puzzle out. Now, since he's effectively under house arrest, his phone and his passport confiscated, there is no way he could get to London to find Madam Huilang and collect a debt in the form of safe passage out of the country.

All Victor cares about is the treasure hunt he's on, an impromptu holiday of new rugby pals and family revelations. He'd left Sherlock behind and is rapidly losing interest in him because he's not managed to provide him with the evidence he needs. He sounds like he's doing absolutely fine, alone—not falling apart because of the distance between the two of them.

Out of sight, out of mind. Victor is out of sight. I am out of my mind.

On the two hundred and twelfth time that conclusion rumbles by in the street outside his Mind Palace, he decides that he hates it, because it's wrong. The truth is more like he gets stuck inside his mind, not out of it. Round and round he paces, with no light coming in from the windows. Thoughts come running down the corridors, then leap on him, knocking him over and ravenously tearing into him with their teeth. It's best to suffer in silence—Victor doesn't know he's like this, defective, unable to function in a scenario that someone like Victor, someone normal, is able to manage even after losing a family member. The only Sherlock he's even seen is a Sherlock who doesn't get like this. It's best if he doesn't come back and discover what Sherlock can really be like; he'd be disgusted and leave him for certain.

Or, maybe Victor already knows? Perhaps that is the reason why he went without him. Something had come between them after Jack Trevor's death; Victor seemed frustrated and angry with him and since he cannot work out why, the reason must be one of his defects.

To make matters worse, he has failed to have worked out a way to fund both of them out of the country without being dependent on Mycroft's signature unlocking his Trust Fund. He's failed his one and only friend, his one and only lover. Of course, Victor would prefer to find other resources,and leave him behind; it's only fair. Someone so strong, so beautiful, so right is better off without the likes of him.

The thought is like a vise around him, pushing away every other idea and emotion, and it takes all the strength he has to suspend the squeeze even momentarily, to step out of himself, to retreat even further down into the dark recesses of the Palace.

He tries to do just that, to sink down and disappear, but the sudden changes in the light filtered through his closed eyelids distracts him, keeps him tethered to reality.

A sluggish deduction: something has come between him and the light from the bedroom window. The blinds were down when he had last opened his eyes, but the curtains are not drawn, so he has been using the contrast between light and dark to anchor his eyes. His nose tells him the intrusion is Doctor Cohen; she has a unique scent, a blend of the hand disinfectant that she uses when on hospital duty and her chosen perfume, Cabochard by Gres. He's always liked its combination of woody, earthy aromas with a touch of leather, overlaying a strong floral note. His mother had worn it and taught him that the word in French means headstrong or stubborn. He doesn't like using his French, not after she died.

His nose also tells him that Doctor Cohen is carrying water—the faint tang of Parham's own water supply is unmistakable—which he ignores just as he has her. Instead, he turns away from the window in his Mind Palace and takes a spiral stairway down to a lower floor. He strides to the doors of the laboratory wing of the Mind Palace and rattles the handles in the hope that this time they will open. In there are the test tubes of blood that he needs to preserve. Once he gets them frozen, he can focus on his project; once he proves that aconitine poisoning can be identified from the folding protein sequences, then they will reopen the police investigation into Jack Trevor's death. But, he's botched it; the samples will have deteriorated by now and be useless. He's not even been able to put his scientific knowledge to good use. No wonder the doors of the lab are being locked against him; he's not worthy of entry. He has failed Victor yet again.

Angry, he takes the next flight of stairs down. Here is a whole corridor of beastly regrets that gnaw on him when he dares to venture down this part of the Mind Palace. Perhaps this time they will finally consume him, bone, flesh and blood, leaving nothing left.

If Only has a separate room on this corridor, and he decides to lock himself in here for a while; speculation is slightly less upsetting than cataloging his failures. If only he'd thought of going to Huilang before Mycroft found out about their plans: she would have loaned him the money and got them both to New Zealand. He'd planned to go straight to China Town as soon as he'd recovered the name on the will. If he'd thought of it before, there would have been no need to go on a bended knee to his brother and allow the wretched sibling to interfere yet again in his life. It never occurred to him, until too late, because that is the story of his life.

He hears a howl from outside in the hallway; it must be one of those regret beasts voicing its displeasure at his stupidity.

If only he'd never agreed to go to Colton Grange, never met Jack Trevor, never been coaxed into deducing his secrets. Perhaps the man would have died without disinheriting his son. If only Victor hadn't met him in the first place; he would not have found out about his mentally ill mother, or the fact that he was a bastard, nor had a reason to go off to New Zealand.

No wonder he'd left Sherlock behind. I am the cause of this evil befalling Victor, the architect of my own downfall.

There are noises outside in the hall that intrude into the bedroom—odd sounds. Someone is talking, and Sherlock vaguely realises that it is not a usual voice but it is familiar, as are the scents of the outdoors: earth and woodland, grass and animal. But, his curiosity does not last long, and he retreats back into the If Only room.

If only Mycroft hadn't stolen his phone! Has Victor been calling him? When he gets no answer, what will he decide? Will he give up? More likely, he hasn't been calling, having already given up on what they had.

If only it had occurred to him earlier, that their relationship may not have meant as much to Victor. Why had he assumed that Victor's feelings for him matched the intensity of his own? Clearly, family is more important to lots of people than a boyfriend. Sherlock would gladly give up his own useless close relatives, but other people wouldn't. Victor had certainly seemed to forgive his father, judging by the depth of his grief over the man's death. Victor may have forgiven Jack Trevor for abandoning him because he had chosen the likes of Sherlock––

There is an odd sound in the room that cuts through the devastating vicious circle in his head—a sort of clicking which moves across the wooden floor towards the bed. What little thought capacity Sherlock has available tells him that it isn't human. The scent accompanying it has taken on a breathy quality, and it comes close to the edge of the bed. Noise and aroma solidify into a very soft whine.

Odd. Is this one of his beastly regrets taking physical form to remind him of his stupidity? Has he been not eating or drinking for so long that he's hallucinating?

No, this is too concrete, too real. He focuses his eyes down onto what slowly takes the shape of a brown dog's head. The fact that the dog's tail is wagging is a vibration that he can feel through the mattress. Brown eyes connect with his and the wagging intensifies.

"Hmmm?" It's all he can manage, but it's enough. The next thing he knows is that the dog has launched itself onto the bed and is now wriggling next to him, leaning its warm furry body into his side. A pink tongue delicately protrudes to give a tiny lick at his face.

His memory of dogs claws its way through the fog, enough for him to recognise this is a Labrador and a look at the tummy she presents to him for rubbing confirms his initial deduction that she's a bitch. When he doesn't instantly comply, she clambers back onto her feet and scrambles onto his lap, lifting her front paws onto his chest to nudge at his chin.

Fingers unused to being commanded these days fumble at a collar, and lift a brass identity disc. He recognises the Parham House phone number on one side. The other reveals a name: Bella.

"OH!"

oOoOoOoOo

TWO WEEKS LATER

"Progress report, if you wouldn't mind, Doctor Cohen."

There is the briefest of hesitations, which tells Mycroft more than enough. The psychiatrist is preparing to deflect or to put a positive spin on things, in order to keep him at bay for a while longer.

"The sitting, staying and recall to a whistle have all improved quite noticeably. Heeling is also much better, and the retrieving is brilliant."

"How droll. I wasn't talking about the animal but rather its owner, as you well know."

"Then you will also know from your own people that Sherlock's moved out of the House and into the second bedroom of Frank Wallace's cottage. According to him, Sherlock's now eating three meals a day once he told him off for feeding half of every plate to Bella. She is his constant companion, sleeps with him, won't leave his side. He is dedicated to training her properly and spends most of the day outside in the parklands with her. Apparently, he is ignoring the presence of your man, Charles Baker, so long as he keeps his distance."

Mycroft finds all this tedious; do I have to prise every morsel of information from her? "Are you making any therapeutic progress regarding communication? Is he talking to you yet?"

"Not to me, or any other human besides Frank, and to him only at the most basic levels. In other words, he will not discuss Victor Trevor or returning to Cambridge. On the other hand, he is teaching Bella commands by hand, whistle and voice and he does talk to her about human things as well—especially if he thinks no one is listening."

"So, to cut this short, you have made no progress at all. We seem to have arrived at something of an impasse, Doctor Cohen. He is neither well enough to return to normal life, nor ill enough to require a more dramatic intervention. So, it appears our only option is to wait and see what happens. I will contact you, should anything change that status quo, and I expect you to extend me the same courtesy."

Mycroft makes a mental note: speak to Mrs Walters, Frank Wallace and Charles Baker once a day for a report. One of them is bound to be more forthcoming than the psychiatrist who is, for some unfathomable reason, still siding with Sherlock.

As long as Sherlock is taking it easy while he is playing with a dog, at least he isn't trying to run away to New Zealand or attempting to acquire a criminal record. Perhaps the time-out will at least put some useful mental distance between him and that wretched Trevor boy and his family problems. According to Frank Wallace, he has stopped attempting to use the landlines in the house to contact Trevor. In any case, Mycroft has informed BT to disable international dialing from the Parham numbers.

Lord knows that Mycroft could do with his own time-out. Removing Ford from his in-tray of worries has simply led to more things piling in there, and now he is the one whose neck is on the chopping block if he can't satisfy those who keep dumping him with their problems. From the Brazilian debt crisis and Indo-Pakistan clashes in Kashmir to Russian air manoeuvres taking place over the Pankisis Gorge near the border with Georgia, everywhere disruptions and conflicts are simmering close to boiling point. At times Mycroft feels like he is sitting on a volcano with eruptions and earthquakes threatening at all corners of the globe.

However, he's not one to leave anything to chance when it comes to either of his two siblings. Even while hoping that the Trevor absence is making Sherlock's heart less fond, Mycroft has to do what he can to close down his escape routes.

The first step is to visit a particular premise on Gerrard Street.

oOoOoOoOo

"You would be best served by asking your people to leave, Madam Huilang."

She might be tiny but there is ferocity in her eyes. "Who are you to tell me what to do in my own restaurant?" The stony looks from the Chinese men on their feet behind her might intimidate someone else, but Mycroft is made of sterner stuff.

He gives her one of his smiles that doesn't reach his eyes, responding with exaggerated civility. "Someone who has the capacity to shut that business down and make it impossible for you to fulfill your obligations to the 14K Triad."

"I don't know what you are talking about. I run a restaurant. You want something to eat?"

The conversation then proceeds in Cantonese, with her sneering at his Hong Kong accent, and he pointing out that the Pearl River accent makes her denials hard to believe. He presents her with more than enough evidence of her gang's activities to make it clear that he will be able to deliver on his threat. While she remains inscrutable, the shifting weight of her men shows he has hit home with much of the revelation. Perhaps she is unhappy with those men knowing too much of her business. In any case, she blinks first and orders them to leave.

Reverting to English, she asks, "I'm not afraid of you, Mister Englishman."

He comes to the point quickly. "I am not here to make life difficult for you. If we attempted to uproot every aspect of Chinese organised crime in the country, then it would only be a matter of time before one of the new Triads moved in. I have no wish to disturb the status quo."

"Then why you here?" Hands on her hips, Tinkling Black Jade looks annoyed.

He finds the English translation of her name rather ridiculous; there is no delicacy in those eyes. "Because I need a commitment from you not to disturb the status quo, should someone by the name of Sherlock Holmes come asking for favours."

"What's he to you?"

"Family."

"Ah." Her eyes widen in sudden understanding. "You his big brother, Big Nose. Dá Bìzi."

Mycroft knows that this is a racial slur, but used more in the north east of China than down south. It is the sort of schoolboy humour that would appeal to Sherlock. "I am aware that you have a debt of honour to him for services he rendered to you three years ago. That debt is redeemed here and now by me, as the head of the boy's family. The only thing you owe him should he come seeking a favour is to show him the door."

"And if I don't agree?"

"Then the full force of British law will be applied to the Samsui organisation, and your enemies will prosper at your own family's expense."

She considers that for a brief moment, and then nods. "Good bye, Big Brother. If Little Brother comes asking, I tell him I cannot help; family is family."

oOoOoOoOo

Mycroft makes a daily check on Sherlock's phone, which he is keeping at the office. For four days after he'd deleted Victor's seven messages there had been no new calls. Then, on the sixth day, the boy had called to leave a new message.

"Sherlock, it's me at last! You must have thought I'd fallen off the earth or something. Can you believe it: my phone got nicked! I was in Wellington, waiting for the ferry across the Cook Strait to the South Island and I went to the loo, left it on the table by mistake and by the time I got back, it was gone. Shit. I couldn't believe it! But, I had to run to catch the ferry, or I would have lost the money I'd spent on the ticket. Even with a student discount, I'm watching the pennies. Using buses, staying in hostels and all that. I'm in a place called Blenheim, in the Marlborough area, because that's where Lizzie said Betty's first letter came from. There are like thirty wineries here, but they're all pretty close together so it's doable. I managed to do a few days match stewarding work at Landsdowne Park—that's the Rugby Union ground here in Blenheim—so I could buy a new pay-as-you-go phone; make a note of the number: plus sixty four—that's for New Zealand—oh two one nine seven six four two seven one. International calls on it are mind-blowingly expensive, so I'm going to have to call less often. Give me a call, will you? It costs less for me if you leave a message on this service than it did on my old phone, so ring me back. Hey, I miss you, and hope you're okay. Bye for now."

A day later, another message is left.

"Hi Sherlock. Just to say that I found something at Jackson Estate Vineyards outside Blenheim. Betty worked there years ago, but luckily their winemaker has been around that long so remembered her. What's interesting is that she reverted to her maiden name Betty Simpson, claiming to be a divorcee from Sydney. She did some of their marketing and shipping work, invoices and the like, for a couple of years. The winemaker says he remembers her as having a baby while she was here; he told me the he'd thought it pretty rum of her husband to run off after leaving her pregnant. Maybe this baby is our Mystery Woman—who knows? The guy said Betty went south towards Christchurch before the kid got to school age; remembers giving her a reference, but it was like a general to-whom-it-may-concern type, because she didn't know where she'd end up. I thought I'd hear from you once you got my new number; are you okay? Give me a call; I'm missing you."

Mycroft considers the last statement a rather perfunctory one, especially considering Victor's nearly carefree attitude to his little gap adventures in the Antipodes. He wonders how Sherlock can be so blind as to not realise that the depth of his emotional investment in this Trevor boy is not being returned? Judging by the conversation the transcript of which Mycroft had read between the two boys, the rather breezy phrase 'missing you' has taken on an entirely different meaning for Sherlock, enough to plunge him into acute depression and voluntary mutism. Mycroft had been surprised at the things he had managed to convey when speaking with Victor; it is highly unusual for Sherlock to be able to verbalise his emotions like that. Yet, the response from Trevor has remained almost bland and mechanical rather than heartfelt.

His brother has never had the ability to moderate his attachments, which is why this one has to be come to an end.

oOoOoOoOo

On his way home from a Cabinet office meeting to deal with Chinese interference in the rising tensions in Kashmir between India and Pakistan, Mycroft checks the phone again.

"Hey, I'm getting worried now. Why aren't you replying? Are you even getting these messages? Look, I don't have much time, got a bus to catch, but you know that thing you suggested—looking for death certificates? It made me think. So, before heading to Christchurch, I went to the Blenheim registry office and asked if they had any birth records under the mother's name of Betty Simpson. Guess what? We hit the jackpot! The birth certificate says Gloria Elizabeth Scott Spencer Simpson—what a mouthful!— was born at the Wairau hospital on the twelfth of February 1978. Did you realise that the initials add up to G.E.S.S! Kind of a weird coincidence that our birthdays are so close, isn't it? I'm trying to see if I can find her in school records in Christchurch, starting tomorrow."

Victor clearly hasn't quite got the brainpower to put two and two together, but Mycroft is suddenly struck by how the pieces connect: the crime that Sherlock had been convinced happened is most probably a double rape. As the DNA test proved that Victor is not Jack's issue, then probability suggests that Peter Spencer is the biological father who made Gloria Trevor pregnant. Perhaps this Gess person is the result of Jack Trevor doing the same to Spencer's wife, a horrible sort of revenge from two deeply homophobic men who married a pair of lesbians.

Once the surprise fades, Mycroft loses interest. Irrelevant. The sins of those two fathers have no significance to him, unlike those perpetrated by Richard Holmes against his youngest son. Sherlock's current voluntary mutism first emerged back then and, thanks to the utterly unnecessary drama brought on by Trevor, has returned with a vengeance.

Sherlock does not seem able to deal with separation or loss. Starting with his mother and then various animals, the boy has no sense of self-preservation, no ability to distance himself. He plunges in, head-first, with no escape plan or self-respect. This is why Mycroft has his reservations about Frank Wallace's plan: even if this dog has managed to get Sherlock out of bed and functioning at a low level, it runs the risk of simply transferring emotional dependency from a human to a dog. With the animal's inevitably shorter life span, has Sherlock simply traded one imminent heartbreak for another in his customary blindness to what's good for him? Caring is not an advantage. He wishes he could learn to care less about Sherlock, but he knows he can't.

oOoOoOoOo

The next four days' worth of messages from Trevor Junior are more succinct.

"You're scaring me. Are you alright? Why aren't you calling me back?"

…

"Has someone stolen your phone? Shit, that would awful. Mycroft's not taken it, has he? Did you piss him off?"

Mycroft raises an amused eyebrow.

…

"For God's sake, Sherlock! Answer your bloody phone!"

Mycroft is not surprised when six hours after the temper tantrum the inevitable ultimatum is issued.

…

"Okay, I'm not taking this silence any longer. I'm going to start calling around to see where the hell you are. I need to know you've not been in an accident or anything."

After that, Mycroft reasserts his strict instructions to the Mrs Walters and the Parham security team. All incoming calls, even to the estate offices, are to be screened and no international calls are to be answered. He makes it very clear to Frank Wallace that if the man values his position, he must not attempt to circumvent the rules should Victor attempt to telephone him looking for Sherlock.

It leads to some resistance from the Scot. "My Lord, I think he would benefit from having his own phone returned. Don't you think they should sort their thing out?"

"I assure you there is nothing to 'sort out'. It's over, and the sooner Sherlock accepts it, the better."

Frank's comment does make him consider whether he should return the phone, minus the message from Victor explaining about the theft. Without the boy's new phone number, Sherlock's attempts to telephone New Zealand will lead nowhere. Presumably, whoever stole the Trevor boy's phone is ignoring the messages that are being placed there by Sherlock. It might actually help his brother realise that he needs to stop this ridiculous pining of his and get on with his own life if Victor isn't available and doesn't seem to be making an effort to reach him, either. Best wait a few days, but returning the phone is definitely worth considering.

The next day, a call comes from Causton, and fortunately it is made to the Parham House landline. He is politely redirected by Mrs Walters to Mycroft in London.

"Good evening, Mister Causton. I understand you are have been asked by your former employer's son to contact my brother. I regret to say that he is unavailable, and is likely to be so for the foreseeable future."

"Good evening, sir. May I know why this is the case? Mister Trevor will want to know the reason why he has been unable to contact him by telephone. I have been asked to pass on his new phone number, in case your brother has somehow lost it. Mister Trevor is worried; he wants to know if Sherlock is alright."

"My brother is well enough, and the new number was received, as I understand it. I think it best that neither you nor I interfere in this long-distance relationship. Rather fraught with opportunities for misunderstandings and miscommunication, if you catch my meaning. Best if we just leave it to the two of them, don't you think? It's hardly something you should be getting involved with, especially now that you are going to be looking for a new position. I could ask about amongst my contacts to see if there are any suitable vacancies, if you would find that helpful?"

"That's very kind of you, your Lordship, but that won't be necessary. As it turns out, my wife and I are moving to Devon permanently to be near her mother who is unwell. I am unlikely to be available for a butler position due to caring responsibilities, so will be looking into some part-time positions in the hospitality sector down here."

"I understand—family first. Thank you for your call, Causton. Should Mister Trevor ring you again, do pass on my greetings."

oOoOoOoOo

One Week Later

"Sherlock; something's going on with you and I don't understand why you aren't calling me back. Causton says you have my new number, so I'm not going to waste any more money or time leaving messages. Not hearing from you makes me think that you've changed your mind–– about you and me? Maybe I should have realised that earlier. I don't know, and you're not talking to me, so what am I supposed to think?"

There is a pause before Victor continues. "Tomorrow, I'm starting a new job at the Christchurch Rugby club to earn enough to pay for a plane ticket; should take me three weeks. I'll be off to Sydney because that is where Elizabeth's daughter moved to when her mum died. It won't be easy to find Gess; Sydney is a fucking big city, and it's going to take a while. But, since you no longer seem to care about any of that I guess what I'm saying here is that I'll see you in September, and then we'll see what happens next…if you even want anything to happen, that is. Bye."

After deleting the first of Trevor's communiques—the one with the new phone number— Mycroft decides to leave the rest, including this final message on the phone. The resignation in Victor's voice should make it clear to Sherlock that he needs to move on. Should Trevor break his resolution not to call, Baker has already found a way to block Victor Trevor's new phone number from gaining access to Sherlock's old number, a straightforward diversion which will advise the caller that this number is no longer in service.

The phone will be sent down to Frank Wallace; Mycroft has decided against putting in an appearance at Parham. Doctor Cohen's advice to stay away has become a convenient excuse. As long as Sherlock is safe and under constant surveillance, he can take a bit of respite leave from constantly worrying about him. Perhaps the psychiatrist is right; time will heal all wounds, even those that are self-inflicted by reckless involvement with other people.

oOoOoOoOo

"You've done a grand job with her, laddie; time for her to go to big school now. Bella needs to be alongside the other gundogs, so she can learn how to work when there are the distractions of a proper shoot. Once you're back at university, she'll have to get used to working for another handler. So, let Nik Green have a go with her alongside the others. He's taking the lot of them down to the Springhead Farm for a couple of days to get them used to rabbits and chickens."

The trailer attached to the back of the Land Rover is full of dogs: four black Labs, three springer spaniels, and three cockers. They are this year's puppies, now aged between seven and 12 months old and ready to take their next steps to becoming Parham gundogs.

Sherlock is standing at the edge of the kennel area. It's part of the Parham Estates Saw Yard, and the sound of wood being worked in one of the outbuildings means that Frank has to speak a bit louder than he'd like to; this means that Charles Baker, standing by the wood store, may well hear every word. The agent keeping an eye on Sherlock has learned to keep his distance from the boy, but Frank knows he will not allow Sherlock out of his sight whenever he is out of the Keeper's cottage.

There is a crinkle forming between the boy's eyebrows that the gamekeeper has come to interpret as concern and confusion. He has had to learn a lot about how Sherlock communicates non-verbally, given his current state of mind. For much of the past summer weeks he has been monosyllabic, at best. It's made for quiet evenings, to be sure. Meals are eaten in silence, after which Sherlock tends to retreat into a book, Bella resting at his side.

There had been some good days when the dog had managed to coax out a smile. Then, there had been the bad days, when the boy was so wrapped up in his head, so anxious, so wound up that he could barely sit still. It's fathomless pain without resolve, and it breaks Frank's heart to see such a thing. Sherlock has no words to let it out, and there's no way to find any closure since he's not allowed to talk to the Trevor boy. The gamekeeper has a mind to wring his neck if he's gone and done what this looks like, walked away without an explanation when he obviously means the world to Sherlock, who's lost both his first friend and first love.

On one of these evenings, when Sherlock had just sat staring at the rainy darkness outside, stroking and hugging Bella to him like a lifeline instead of giving in to her invitations for a bit of play, Frank had given him some whisky—never mind if the lad dislikes the taste. "If you want to talk about Victor––"

Sherlock's head had snapped up, eyes wide as though frightened, as though startled by the very name even though it must have been on his mind all the time.

"Can't," Sherlock had whispered, looked away, and then put the glass back on the table, untouched.

"That's alright, too. Just saying, I'm here if you need to talk."

Sherlock had not replied.

"I'm fer bed, then. Close the baffle in a bit, will you?"

He'd gotten a nod. The next morning, the boy had disappeared before breakfast off to the mist-shrouded woods with the Labrador in tow.

Frank's been worried about this moment; how to separate the two of them without making it too hard on Sherlock. But the dog needs this next step, and it is important that Sherlock can accept that fact.

Now, Bella looks patient as she sits beside Sherlock, but she seems to detect his uncertainty, so looks up from her position at his knee to give a whine. Instinctively, his hand drops to her head to give her a reassuring pat. He then goes down on one knee so he can look at her closely, with his hands rubbing the velvety fur on the back of her ears. "Time to go, Bella. Have fun. You're ready for this now."

It's startling for Frank to hear entire sentences from him, but they are still only reserved for the dog who does not demand them of him, doesn't judge him.

Sherlock stands up, takes a deep breath and then strides over to the trailer, dropping the tailgate and giving a hand signal to Bella. "Get in."

She jumps up to join the other dogs, and then turns as he shuts the tailgate behind her. Once Sherlock swings the metal grill shut, Nik Green puts the Land Rover in gear and drives out of the yard.

Frank watches the only dog that bothers to look back at them, her brown muzzle pushed up against the grill.

Sherlock is watching the retreating back of the car, too, shoulders hunched but head held high. Frank had worried he'd take this hard, letting the dog go with the others.

"She needs to learn to get along with other dogs. Mycroft will get rid of her otherwise," Sherlock says resignedly.

"I'll keep her at the cottage if she doesn't make the grade to join the rest of the gundog crew. His Lordship may think her a munter, but he knows she's yours." Taking the phone out of his pocket, he walks up to Sherlock. "That reminds me: he sent this down this morning; I think this is yours."

"OH!" Sherlock gasps and grabs the phone from Frank, nearly dropping it in excitement.

Sherlock strides away, towards the road where he will be able to get a signal; the cottage and sawmill are too far away from the mast in Storrington.

Frank watches his shadow, Barker, following fifty meters behind.

oOoOoOoOo

Sherlock is standing in a field with the phone pressed tight against his ear, a finger shoved into the other to block out the cawing sound of rooks. He'd walked down the service road until the signal reached two bars, and then out in the field to avoid Mycroft's minion from getting close enough to overhear.

For the past seven weeks, Sherlock had tried to sneak a call to Victor from the landlines, but it had kept going to the messenger service. Then his brother must have gotten wise to that and disabled the international dialing on the Parham landlines. That had led him twice into pick-pocketing the cook's mobile to leave another message. Could there be a problem again with his phone? At least Sherlock's number hasn't changed, so if Victor has wanted to keep in touch, there should be something in his voicemail, at least, provided that Mycroft hasn't somehow interfered with it.

"You have… seven new messages."

Just seven…? That's barely one a week!

Has Victor given up on him? In trepidation, he presses the key to play them.

His knees nearly buckle when he finally, finally hears Victor's voice. Fucking Mycroft. He has never hated his brother more than he does for the fact that he has kept all of this from him for weeks!

He listens to each of them, getting more and more agitated and anxious. When the last one ends "–– I'll see you in September, and then we'll see what happens next…if you even want anything to happen, that is. Bye."

Sherlock can't breathe.

What does Victor mean, 'if you even want anything to happen'? Sherlock hasn't changed his mind—he thought Victor had wanted him, and now he's changed his mind since he hasn't heard back–– how can Victor think that he can wait until September to maybe see each other? What the hell does Victor think he's going to do in Australia for so long? Doesn't Victor want to talk to him until then? Why? Doesn't he understand anything? Had he never listened when Sherlock tried to tell him––

No. He can't accept this. It's not fair. It's not fair that he never understands, that he always fails, that he never knows the rules, that he never knows what's expected of him, that dealing with other people is like constantly being expected to apologise for things he didn't even know he was doing or didn't know he should have done! He has tried and tried and tried––

I love you.

Desperation brings on a recklessness. He dials a number he knows by heart, now, after punching it into phones every damned time Baker's eye was elsewhere.

The result is the same.

"The person you have rung is not available. Please leave a message after the tone."

Could this a wrong number? Could he have mis-dialed in his haste? He tries again, more slowly, checking the number on the screen after every key stroke. Yes, it is the right one!

After a gap which he presumes is the result of international roaming at work, the phone rings three times, and then a click. "The person you have rung is not available. Please leave a message after the tone."

Again. "The person you have rung is not available. Please leave a message after the tone."

AGAIN! "The person you have rung is not available. Please leave a message after the tone."

He waits for the beep, hands shaking with anger towards himself, towards Mycroft, towards everything. "Victor…it's me! I didn't have my phone, I only got your messages now! Bloody Mycroft took it away from me, pissed off because I tried to get the evidence we needed in Norwich. I had it all planned, a way to get out of the country without him knowing, get the money to pay your tuition fees and plane tickets and–– I've been held prisoner at Parham." He whirls around to glare at the figure of Barker, standing at the edge of the field. "Bloody prison warder has got his eye on me right now. Have you not been getting my messages? I've left them, sneaking calls on the landlines and other mobiles I've nicked off the staff here. Call back as soon as you can. Just call me––please. You have no idea…" His voice breaks and he has to take a deep breath, "…no idea how much I miss you. \I love you. I can't wait until September, how could you––why would you want to––" he gasps for breath, tears trailing down his cheeks. "Please, Victor. Just––"

Before he even knows what he is trying to say—it feels as though he has not even begun trying to explain the sense of being torn apart from the inside when he lets himself think about Victor—the phone beeps to signal the end of the recording period.

Aghast, he looks down at the phone.

'Maybe I'll see you in September.'

The realisation sinks in. Victor obviously doesn't find it difficult to stay apart for that long. He doesn't want to know why Sherlock hasn't answered his messages. He doesn't want to hear what has been going on back home.

He doesn't want…

oOoOoOoOo

Baker watches from the edge of the wheat field as the Holmes boy is on the phone. He stands with his back to the road, as if pretending that he isn't being watched. Over the past weeks, Charles has learned how to keep just enough distance between him and the boy to avoid confrontations. Too close, and Holmes simply stopped, sat down on the floor or ground wherever he'd been and shut down. The first time it had happened in the walled garden at the side of Parham House, Charles had rushed over to see if the boy had taken ill and was in need of assistance. He'd not responded to Charles' questions or reacted even when his shoulder had been shaken. Eyes blanked out and non-responsive, the boy had been unreachable. He'd called Lord Holmes and asked for advice; should that doctor be called?

The advice had been abrupt. "Consider this an extreme form of passive resistance, Baker. Don't touch him, don't talk to him. Back up, walk away and put enough distance between you and him that you are no longer visible to him. If he doesn't come out of it in ten minutes, send in the dog. That seems to make a difference, according to Doctor Cohen; God knows why. And next time try to be a little less intrusive. Do I have to remind you that you are there to protect him, not to annoy him?"

So when he sees the boy sink down into the wheat, Baker mentally checks the distance. He's outside the zone of annoyance as he's come to term it. The wheat is not tall enough to cover the boy; he's just sitting there. Binoculars show him more detail. The phone is no longer visible, and Holmes is just staring off into the distance.

It is almost ten minutes before the boy gets up and underway again. He walks straight back towards Charles, who decides to stand his ground rather than back away. As Holmes exits the field and gets to the road, he passes within feet of Charles, giving his a long sharp look, as if wanting to see him close up. Then he is past and striding back to the cottage. Following at a safe distance, Baker watches him enter the cottage.

He returns to the sawmill office which has been his base ever since the boy moved in with the gamekeeper. Baker opens his laptop and clicks on the surveillance cameras in the cottage. He thinks it may be a long night ahead, if the boy doesn't have the dog to keep him in bed.

Author's Notes:

*Redbeard in my universe is a dog. See Ex Files, Execute, for the story of Sherlock and Redbeard.
**Sherlock's relationship with Pirate, a Friesian horse, is covered extensively in Musgrave Blaze, and a bit in Defrag.
and I have to thank the incomparable J_Baillier for the Scottish phrase about tatties overboard. Her research skills are fantastic; I'd not heard this before and I'm a second-generation Scots! She loves my OC Frank Wallace and has helped me shape him here. Her delicious finger-prints are all over this chapter; she is more a contributing editor than a beta, and I am very lucky this is so.