sherlockbbc_fic | Prompting Part XXXV

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Prompting Part XXXV

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{note...the Bacha Bazi are a group of men in Afghanistan who use boys as sex slaves. http://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Bacha_bazi}

John stayed precisely two steps behind. When they reached the top of the stairs, it was John who spoke.

"The man with the violin."

Both Holmeses turned to face John, who had turned his gaze towards the violin on the sofa.

"He came to pack up things. He wanted to take the vioiln-- it was lying on the sofa. And I said not to take it. That you might need it when you came back. To help you think." John looked at Mycroft who was sure enough, sitting in Sherlock's chair. "And I expected you would say something condescending, like I needed some rest. Or say I was crazy. But instead, you didn't say I was wrong. You didn't say anything at all... just smiled a tiny smile, like someone who knows something, and turned and left it on the sofa, untouched."

"And there it remains, John. Do you know who I am?"

"No. No, I don't."

Sherlock scowled. This was not the way this conversation was supposed to begin.

"John, go check the fridge for heads."

"Yes, sir," was the reply.

"Well, that was said with quite a bit less sarcasm than expected."

"Shut up, Mycroft. this is not a game."

"Indeed not. You were saying you found him. Where?"

Mycroft looked like he wanted to make a gesture with a tumbler of scotch. Sherlock took pleasure in not offering him one. "Where did you say you lost track of him?"

"South of Kandahar. we caught up with him and were going to provide him with information as to your last point of contact, but the agent said he went into a tent and disappeared. he assumed he intended to raid a camp nearby."

"Of Bacha Bazi."

"So he was out to liberate some dancing boys along the way?" Mycroft glanced at John, who had emptied the contents of the fridge onto the counter and was busy wiping down the shelves. "Noble, your soldier. Whatever brought you back to Afghanistan?"

"We didn't meet in Afghanistan. We met in Chisinau."

"Moldova? Before or after your..."

Sherlock cut off the line of questioning with a look. Mycroft observed John again, far more subtly this time.

"I see no injuries."

"Some injuries are not visible."

Mycroft leaned forward. "How did you get him out? We've been trying to infiltrate that camp for over a decade. With good men."

Sherlock looked at Mycroft, then at his chair. "I'll send you the bill."

"You purchased him?"

"I happened to be staking out an auction at the time. It was expedient."

"Do you realize how easily you could have been spotted, Sherlock? Maybe you were. Maybe they knew it was you from the moment you walked through the door. The Underworld knows you are alive. The Yard has its suspicions, always a step or two behind the criminal element. One member of the force-- Anderson, I believe-- has made tracking you across the Continent his personal obsession. You should have noted where John went and we would have gotten him out."

"The same way you got him in? No." Sherlock picked up his violin, and started on a discordant arpeggio. Mycroft only spoke louder.

"You are letting your heart rule your head, Sherlock. I'll admit it wasn't easy, given the circumstances, but you are entirely too close to this to be objective. He will need specialised care."

Sherlock stopped the cacophony. "And some debriefing, perhaps?"

"Why must you always be so cynical? I am merely trying to help."

"Why must your actions always inspire cynicism? And I accept your acknowledgement of responsibility."

Sherlock turned back toward John, who was thoroughly absorbed in cleaning the bottom vent with a cotton bud and rubbing alcohol.

Mycroft looked uncharacteristically grave. "The very best care, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded. "Outpatient only."

"The appointment is in three days' time. Nine o'clock, with Mary Morstan."

"Very well. And where is Doctor Morstan's office?"

"Ms Mary Morstan... is a psychiatric nurse."

"Surely someone more qualified would be better suited to..."

"Oh, Mary is uniquely qualified. She is an expert at this type of deprogramming. Need I remind you that you do not possess a single degree in criminology, nor could you add formal police training to your personal CV?"

"Point taken." Sherlock still felt uneasy, but perhaps he would with anyone. This was, after all, John's mental well-being at stake. "Where is her office?"

"She would prefer to meet John at Baker Street, on his own 'home turf', so to speak. She wants to observe how he interacts when he is most at ease, and requests you not be present, but that you give him formal leave to speak with her about anything he wishes to-- including you-- in your absence."

Sherlock's response was swift. "I would like to meet with her first."

"I anticipated that possibility. Noon today."

"I can't leave John alone."

"Surely a man dedicated to catering to your... every whim... is capable of taking care of himself for a few hours."

Sherlock started pacing the room. "Fine. Fine, fine, fine. Where is her office?"

The office, just off Leinster Gardens, was completely lacking in personality, and appeared to have been set up fairly recently by a rather soulless interior decorator afraid to offend clients by showing something as crass as an actual personality. It was precisely what Sherlock had hoped not to see. White walls, two white leather chairs, fake white flowers on a (not white! quelle suprise!) antique pedestal.

Mary Morstan arrived promptly and extended her hand in greeting. Sherlock took her hand, though his focus remained the bookcase, eyeing the volumes for a clue as to her methodology.

"Some of them are gifts from my professor, a mentor to me. He'd be insulted if I didn't at least display them, although I admit I've strayed quite a bit from the original training I received. You are welcome to ask me anything you'd like about my approach."

Sherlock smiled. She was quicker than he had expected. "Unnecessary. Besides, in the softer sciences, what we think we do, according to our grasp of theory, and what we do in actuality can often be at odds. Theory can only get you so far; after that, puzzles are solved with instinct and adaptation as additional facts are uncovered."

"Mr Holmes reviewed John's file with me." Hearing her call him 'John' with such ease made Sherlock vaguely uncomfortable. "It seems we are both in the business of uncovering mysteries, Mr Holmes. It's odd, referring to both of you as Mr Holmes. Might I call you Sherlock, seeing as you are my patient's friend, and... not my boss?"

"Whatever you wish."

"Good. It would help if we could show John we have a friendly rapport. But, let's be more direct. Even at the risk of being blunt. You're not exactly his friend, are you? Please, have a seat, Sherlock."

"I prefer to stand, Mary." He expected to see some indication of discomfort now that they were on equal footing, nominally, at least, but she appeared to take no offense. "Yes, he calls me his master. Right now, he has no other experiences from which to draw to determine if another label might be more appropriate. But I am still his friend, no matter what he chooses to call me. On my end, it has never changed."

Mary sat in one of the white chairs and crossed her legs. "Yet you purchased him?"

"Why is this made to be such an issue? Yes. Yes I did. Of course I did. I got him out of there and kept him safe." Sherlock momentarily eyed the door as an escape, but instead, took a chair and slid it closer, to better observe Mary. "Do you have a better alternative to suggest with your glorious hindsight? One that wouldn't have risked losing track of him as he was transferred to whatever vile creature would purchase him, use him..."

"Certainly not. It was expedient, straight-forward, and precisely what I would have done-- given I had the cash."

"A minor detail." Sherlock smiled and relaxed, but no sooner had he done so than he realised he had let his guard down terribly. This woman was interesting.

They stared at each other for a moment in silence. Then Mary took out a small notepad. "Don't be ashamed. Nothing leaves this room. But I need to know. For his healing."

"Do I use him to meet my own sexual needs? No. At present, he cleans the flat." Sherlock shuffled in his chair, frowned, and added, "Compulsively."

"People who have fully internalised this identity can be very persuasive. They can manipulate situations. Create steady temptation. It can become their obsession, to service you and anticipate your physical needs."

"Then I am the ideal candidate for this situation."

Mary looked puzzled. "You are in a steady, fulfilling and strictly monogamous relationship that John sees and respects?"

"No. Not remotely. I simply do not require much to ensure my physical needs are adequately met. Apparently, he sees my true need as having someone to clean up after me." Sherlock folded his hands under his chin. "I trust the bulk of this therapy will be to help him regain his memory and sense of identity?"

"I know someone who can provide a service for you. A sort of a fiancee-for-hire. Intelligent, attractive, who can make John feel as if he does not need to continually wear you down until you give in to his advances. Regardless of your internal drive, John will see a high libido as everyone's default setting. I don't mean to make any assumptions concerning your sexual
preference, but a male escort is not available at this time. I can get you a female one."

He flicked his chin upward and the corner of his mouth twitched, but he schooled himself back to a more placid expression before he spoke. "I have no preference, but it is irrelevant. He has not propositioned me since I made clear the nature of our relationship on the first day he began speaking."

Mary raised her eyebrows and quickly shifted her gaze back to the notepad. "To suppress his training to that degree is highly unusual. Perhaps he was not programmed to meet solely sexual needs. How old is John?"

"Forty-three."

"That might be a factor. Greater versatility, in case buyers didn't find him to be quite what they were looking for sexually." She opened a case file and looked at a photograph of John. "Even though he does seem fit and attractive."

Sherlock rose quickly and headed for the door.

"If I can be of assistance, please don't hesitate to let me know."

"I won't. Thank you, Sherlock."

Sherlock left without a reply.

"So. How was it?"

"Great. She's great." John's tone and expression were far less enthusiastic than his word choice suggested.

"Mmm."

"She's pretty easy to talk to, though we didn't discuss much yet. Asked me about myself. Told her I didn't know much. I think... " He sighed before starting over again. "I told her that I think everyone knows more about me than I do. It's a bit disconcerting."

"Disconcerting or no, it's probably accurate."

"Didn't talk about you, if that's what you were wondering."

"No, it wasn't what I was wondering."

"She wanted to know if I remembered anything at all about the place they kept me at. Where it was. What they did. Said that it would help her figure out what approach to take if I remembered any of it, but if I didn't it was fine. I said I was glad that it was fine because I'd hate to disappoint her."

Sherlock bristled. Seemed a bit early to probe the most sensitive part of John's ordeal.

****

Another week went by and Sherlock tried not to ask John any questions. It was just as well, because this time, John just headed to his room without comment and didn't even come back down until morning.

*****

John didn't leave the study this time, but he didn't discuss anything either. They watched some programmes. John stayed resolutely on his side of the sofa, then started eyeing the arm of it closely during the last advertisement, flicking a small spot with his thumbnail.

****

Sherlock was monitoring an experiment in the kitchen when John burst into the room and raised his hands out slightly from his sides, palms out, saying, "Go ahead. I've reread all my blogs, all our cases, I know what you do. I know you're doing it. I can hardly believe my own writing... that you are really that brilliant, that amazing... that it's real. So. What did we talk about today? Go on. Deduce me. "

Sherlock was at a loss. He had deliberately avoided thinking about John's sessions. About Mary. Emotions bias judgment. On the other hand, he had yet to show John what he could do, and that pained him. No cases until he was formally cleared by New Scotland Yard, as a non-criminal first, as alive second. Best as he could tell without data, they were somewhere in between the two and avoiding him completely until both objectives were met. He reigned himself in. Being selfish would get him nowhere. Keep it simple. Just because he's challenging you doesn't necessarily mean he wants to talk. He placed the test tube back in its holder.

"Well, to start with, you discussed me today."

"Because?"

"Obviously you were concerned I would somehow know anyway, so you went on the offensive. Control where there is none. Don't have to be a trained psychiatric nurse to see that one. But it's even more simple than that. She asked me to make it perfectly clear that you could talk freely about me. This was your fourth session. The time for simple observation on her part has passed. Your clothing is less formal, your speech and choice of words would likely also be more relaxed. You would be closer to the real "you" at this point.

John chuckled. "The real me. Nice to know what I'm like."

"You also talked about sex. Mary works for my brother. A full dossier on me is readily available, so the only thing worth gleaning from you concerning me is whether we have sex, why not, how it makes you feel... all that." He tried to brush it all aside with a hand wave and resumed adding drops to the beaker.

"I told her you weren't interested." John slowly looked up and waited until he made direct eye contact with Sherlock, who felt the pull of his gaze. "I told her that couldn't possibly be true. I told her that I was good." Apparently John wasn't finding whatever he was looking for in Sherlock's expression, because he looked away again. "She asked me how I knew that and I said a lot of people said so. She asked me... she asked me how many people, and I told her 'a lot, a whole lot'."

Sherlock paused his experiment and continued to watch John. "She flirted with you." It was somewhere between a question and a statement.

"Maybe."

"It made you feel uncomfortable. You weren't uncomfortable taking about sex before, so this is different. Maybe because you do find her attractive, maybe because..."

"I'm not hers," John interrupted, looking back at Sherlock again.

"You're not anybody's."

"Yeah, right. Nice try. I just... she didn't exactly flirt, but, and it didn't... it didn't feel right, but it did, but it...didn't."

"Are you asking my permission to have sex with her, John?" Sherlock's brows furrowed in concern, but his eyes remained soft. "Because, we are not in a sexual relationship, you and I. Are you wanting that?" A sediment formed in the bottom of the tube; Sherlock failed to notice.

"A Relationship? Oh. Permission. No. And I'm not saying I want it. With her. I just feel like I should. She's nice, and pretty, and interested."

"And this is enough?" John couldn't tell if it was a simple question or a judgment. He shifted back and forth between his feet, unable to get a good read on Sherlock's features.

"Ummm. No? I guess not."

"Doesn't sound like what you want, then."

"When is it ever about what I want?" John muttered bitterly. "I think I'll do some reading."

That was good. Sherlock needed to do some reading as well. They both headed in different directions.

{ok this is the second time Mycroft has said "they are watching"...I hope it's not a message for me.)

*devours update* *looks around for more*

Gosh I love this story. It hurts to see John so lost and to watch them try and navigate this thing with each other.

I'm sorry I have slowed down a bit....holiday concerts and other committments (today's my birthday...yay!) but I'm trying to keep pace ;)
Very very very glad you love it!

( Mycrof says "save it"...I will, Mykie, I will....)

Oh no worries I'm a patient soul in the end. I'm always willing to wait to have a good story updated. And Happy Birthday! I do hope it went well/is going well for you.

Haha Mycroft says 'time flies* to me. Which is true. And certainly when you're busy. And definitely when you're celebrating another year older.

Happy belated birthday!

You're doing such a good job with this. I'd been feeling a little burnt-out on fan fiction i the past couple of months, but I'm so excited excited about this story.

{ Thank you OP and nonny for the birthday well-wishes! And the compliments on this story! I seem to be having some issues nesting this...I hope it posts OK. BTW...the Garcia story is real. And pretty damn fascinating}

The article stated that 90% of therapists admit to having been sexually attracted to a client, though the reported cases of actual sexual misconduct remains a paltry 10%. With that high a percentage representing potential and that low a percentage actualization, one thing was abundantly clear: patients were choosing to remain silent. Sherlock's initial reaction to the figures was far from compassionate-- namely, that anyone seeking therapy would, by the simple fact that they were seeking therapy, already have issues, so this type of thing should come as no surprise. The judgment was soon tempered by a somewhat more compassionate view regarding the abuse of power. Still, Sherlock remained surprised by the sheer volume and level of mutual interest, after reading vast numbers of "I have a friend who..." posts scattered throughout various forums.

Transference-- a commonly recognised phenomenon where the therapist takes on the symbolic role of prominent figures in the patient's life, which often results in sexually charged unconscious scenarios-- something any competent professional would be well aware of and have safeguards against. Or perhaps Mary was not merely incompetent, but predatory. A few more keystrokes and he would have access to Mary Morstan's medical license.

Issued in 2012. Two years of professional work experience. This was Mycroft's so-called 'expert'?

He searched professional profiles, found an email address, cross-referenced that and found an old CV. Yes, there was a degree from a lesser-known institution of higher learning, and it appeared to be a legitimate one-- again, dated 2012. Professional reference... 'AGRA: Supervisor William Gerbers; Bootle, England; 2003-2011'. Searching for AGRA yielded nothing even vaguely resembling a healthcare workplace. Con-Agra Foods. Alliance for a Green Revolution in Africa was considerably more plausible than the Arizona Gay Rodeo Association, but still quite the leap. William Gerbers didn't seem to exist.

Sherlock's impatience grew exponentially. There was no way Mycroft would have hired someone who wasn't... "Middle age, brother mine, comes to us all", he had said once. No. There is no way his brother was slipping to that extreme. He knew. He knew and he had put John at risk with this... whatever she was. She doesn't want to help John, she wants to find out more about the organization that held him captive. Sherlock could tell them more. Tell them about their filing system, where the room was, even how to gain access to it. Let MI6 send someone in there. Reminiscing made his skin crawl, thinking of just how disconnected John had been, and he quickly steered his mind back to The Mary Problem before any other physical sensations could emerge, then grabbed his phone.

"Mycroft, what the hell is AGRA?"

"I believe the correct response in these situations is 'I could tell you, but then I'd have to kill you.'"

"Or someone from AGRA will do it for you?"

"Oh, my dear boy, you know the British Government would never align themselves with assassins... directly, anyway."

"So is AGRA not filled with assassins, or not aligned with the government?"

"What was it John said regarding your knowledge of history in that charming little list of his? Feeble? I think it was feeble."

Sherlock grinned broadly. "That was my knowledge of politics. My knowledge of history is nonexistent. Worse than non-existent. I would argue that filling one's head with such rubbish is more than a waste, but is actually detrimental to developing the unique methodology which could prevent the endless cycles of wars, but then again, studying who killed whom and how to carry on doing so has always been right up your street."

Mycroft cleared his throat. "If you had bothered to pay attention during your quality schooling, you would know about Arabel and Garbo."

"So that's the AG... the RA is Something Association?"

"Recruiting Agency, actually. But you wont find it anywhere. And you didn't hear about it from me. As a matter of fact, I am only mentioning this right now because I expect full disclosure on how you were aware it existed at all.

"Mary Morstan's previous employer. Reference."

Mycroft sighed. "There was an audit of our personnel department. They wanted some kind of documentation to be assured that we were practicing proper hiring practices. Records were... provided. As if anything aside from competency or lack thereof would ever be an issue for someone in my employ."

"Well, clearly the number of years of relevant work experience isn't an issue." Sherlock didn't need to see Mycroft to know his expression. "The only reason I'm so calm about your having put John in the hands of a hack with two years experience is because I fully expect to be convinced of why this record is completely falsified and she has been doing this far, far longer than I could ever possibly have imagined in the next," Sherlock glanced at his watch, "three minutes. I couldn't care less about Arabel or Garbo."

"Your abysmal knowledge of history will require at least four. Arabel and Garbo are the same person. Code names for Joan Pujol Garcia. The Germans called him Arabel. We called him Garbo."

"Wonderful. So it's an organisation for double agents. Or...triple agents that you haven't discovered yet."

Mycroft sighed a second time. "Might I continue? Garcia wanted to work for British Intelligence. We refused his help. He decided the best way to make a difference was to head over to the German side, work for them for a while, and then come back to us. Naturally, at that point we were far less likely to refuse him again and dubbed him Garbo. Garbo has the unique distinction of being the only person to receive decorations from both sides during World War II... an Iron Cross --that would be from Germany, my politically feeble brother-- and a Member of the Order of the British Empire. AGRA is a point of contact for people who are in some way connected to the enemy and who sought us out voluntarily, rather than having been discovered and persuaded through various means to work for our side."

"And Gerbers... the employer?"

"Garbo had created a whole line of fictitious agents working under him... all on Germany's payroll. One of them was William Gerbers. His imaginary widow even received a lovely, and quite real, pension when he was tragically killed in the line of duty... ensuring the information he was to have passed on to Germany would arrive too late to be useful, but woud still be completely accurate. Bolstered their confidence in the remaining agents. "

Sherlock paused. "You've used up two of your four minutes on a history lesson, and I am no closer to supporting your decision to turn John over to..."

"She has experience, Sherlock. Experience with these organisations. That's what John needs."

Neither brother spoke. Sherlock used the break in conversation to listen for John. Nothing. Still reading, then. "What sort of experience?"

"I wasn't the one who recruited her for the program. I wasn't even on the committee that approved her placement."

"What sort of experience?"

Mycroft spoke faster. "She knows their methodology, Sherlock. She can counteract it better than your run-of-the-mill therapist, and she does have a degree in..."

"What. Sort. Of..."

Mycroft cut him off. "I don't know!" Mycroft struggled to regain composure, frustrated at his own outburst. "I... don't know. Not with any certainty. There were records once. Someone near the top of the chain of command destroyed them. Said it was irrelevant. Whatever AGRA team members have done in the past, their future lies with us."

"Interesting choice of words. Lies with us."

"She abandoned that line of work-- hardly easy to have done so-- went through the nursing training, joined us, all because she wanted to help people, Sherlock. Whatever she did, she wants to make it right. She... may very well be a victim, too-- at least in some capacity. I don't think many end up in that sort of... career field by choice. Sometimes you are pulled into something and... end up on the wrong side due to circumstances behind your control."

Sherlock, grateful Mycroft was unable to read his body language, kept himself silent. With luck, his determination to not be read would be mistaken for contempt. He recalled what a senior advisor had once said of Mycroft, at an ostentatious ceremonial event, upon hearing Sherlock was his brother: 'Mycroft Holmes's specialty is omniscience'.

Mycroft continued. "I do know one thing, though. She has something to prove. She wants John to get better. She needs John to get better. I can think of few motives stronger than redemption. His fate is tied to hers. She will help him."

"She doesn't want to help him! She wants to use him! She wants to exploit him!" Intense as his emotions were, he managed to keep it to a controlled snarl.

"Are you quite sure he doesn't want to be exploited? This is hardly a normal therapeutic situation, Sherlock. An unconventional approach might be appropriate. I think you can possibly relate to someone employing unusual, possibly questionable, methodology."

The allusion to Sherlock's own unconventional approach to criminology wasn't a new tactic for Mycroft, of course, but that combined with the implication that John wanted any of this set off a reaction that even took Sherlock entirely by surprise. He was on his feet and halfway across the flat without intending to have moved a muscle. "She is systematically stripping him of what little autonomy he has. She is steering him into this. He doesn't want her!"

"You are certain of what he wants?"

"Of course I am, he has made it perfectly clear to me what he--" Sherlock was suddenly aware of his visceral reactions and forced the volume of his voice back down. It wouldn't do for John to hear any of this conversation. "What he wants," he finished quietly.

"And that is?"

"He... he's not himself now. He's been through something indescribable, and doesn't need this complication. He still feels as if he has no ability to make choices. But he can learn to control whatever negativity might arise from taking conscious steps, given his own indefinite timetable and the right support. He needs to determine how he truly feels. It will take some effort, and some time. He's spent a long time being made to think his feelings aren't relevant."

Sherlock wasn't entirely sure how he could hear a soft smile, but he knew it was there. And he was puzzled as to why. "And that's what John Watson need. Well, this has been an informative chat for all concerned," Mycroft said, with a surprising amount of warmth. "You know, you could always order him not to follow any more orders."

"Spare me your inappropriate interpretations of heuristic maxims. As appealing as the simplicity is, it is not the answer, and the levity is misplaced. I have important tasks to attend to. I'll let you get back to reinstating the British Empire in all her glory. Usurp someone's autonomy for me, won't you?"

"Best to you as well."

{moving this up a bit for more room}

Part 17 continues after Part 1 ( back to the beginning for extra room)

(Not OP)
I just read this all the way through and this is AMAZING. Merry Christmas!

Thank you so much, Nonnie! Your kind words really brightened my holidays. merry Christmas to you as well :)

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