Session #1. Six Months after the Events of "The Final Problem," Six Weeks Ago from the Present

There are three types of professionals one never likes to shock: psychiatrists, priests, and exterminators. Each professional is generally able to say with real honesty that they've heard and/or seen worse than whatever you're presenting them with. So when Dr. Arthur Doyle assured his latest patient, Sherlock Holmes, that there's nothing that the detective could tell him that he likely hasn't heard before, he had said it with sincerity. But, after listening to Sherlock recount the story that played out several months ago both at Sherrinford Prison and the former Holmes estate but which rightly began over thirty years ago in his repressed childhood, the psychiatrist would have to admit to himself that, while not the worst case of on-going psychological trauma he's ever heard, it was certainly one of the most original and operatic.

Frankly, the whole story beggared belief. And he wouldn't have believed it were not for this patient having been sent to him by his old medical school classmate John Watson and were it not also for the extraordinary public reputation of Holmes himself. After listening to the strangely matter-of-fact retelling of the sad history, Dr. Doyle found himself at first dumbfounded as to where exactly to begin talk therapy with the imposing man sitting across from him.

"Well, um . . . " Doyle struggled for words. "That's quite an extraordinary tale."

"Yes, I suppose it is," the detective said, drawing out the words, cautious.

"So, I feel a little ridiculous asking this, given all you've just told me, but what exactly brings you here today?" Sherlock raised one eyebrow as if the question was indeed a profoundly stupid one. The doctor laughed. "I mean, you said this happened several months ago. What brings you in now?" Doyle asked.

"John is making me."

"Excuse me?"

"John. John Watson."

"Yes, I know who John is. What do you mean he's making you?"

"He says I've been unbearable the last few weeks and I have to see someone or he won't help me with my investigations anymore."

"So am I to understand you're here against your will?"

"Certainly."

At that, Doyle put down his pen and notepad, stood up, and held out his hand. "Well, then, I don't think I can help you, but it was a real pleasure meeting you, Mr. Holmes. My wife loves John's blog."

Sherlock was surprised and flustered. "I don't understand."

"I don't see patients who are being forced into treatment. Not much good can come of that."

"Well, I'm not being forced, exactly." Doyle sat back down and effected a confused look.

"But he issued you an ultimatum, did he not?"

"Yes, but, it's not like he's really going to go through with it. It's a bluff."

"I see. So, if it's a bluff, why come at all? Why not just call his bluff?"

"Ummm, well, I respect John and . . . "

"Let's cut the crap, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock sat back in his chair, annoyed, and looked the doctor straight in the eyes. "Are you here for John or for yourself?"

Sherlock grumbled, "Both, I suppose."

"Better. That I can work with." Doyle smiled but Sherlock didn't return the smile, still annoyed. "So, you say that John believes you've been unbearable the last few weeks. What do you think he means by that?"

"You'd have to ask him."

"I'm asking you. Do you think you've been unbearable?"

"I can't say."

"Well, do you think your mood has changed at all recently?"

"Mood constantly changes. That's why they are moods and not a disposition or one's character more generally, which are more constant over time and . . . "

"Mr. Holmes, may I call you Sherlock?" The detective nodded his assent. "Sherlock, you're obviously a brilliant man. I'm not going to dispute that, but if you're going to be evasive and/or try to intellectualize every answer, then this is going to be a very cumbersome process for both of us."

Sherlock clearly registered what the doctor was saying. "I'm not good at this."

"I take it you haven't had much practice at sharing your feelings."

"No, I suppose not."

"But that's what can be so helpful about trying to communicate your feelings in this setting. I'm nothing to you. I'm not one of your family members. I'm not one of your friends. I'm not a colleague or a client. You'll likely never see me outside this office. Nothing you say will ever leave this room. You don't have to impress me, get me like you, or respect you. All that I want from you is for you to feel better and make better choices for your life. So this is a good place to get that practice in a way that doesn't risk anything on the outside world."

"Yes, all that makes perfect sense, of course."

"But?"

"It's just difficult," Sherlock confessed.

"Of course it is. I'm not asking you to become to the model patient overnight. I just want you to try. Can you do that?"

"I suppose so."

"Ok, good. That's all I ask. So, going back to an earlier question: do you think your mood has been noticeably worse recently?"

"Maybe. Yes, I think maybe it has."

"Ok, in what way? How would characterize your mood?"

"Anxious, I suppose. Agitated at times. Perhaps a little more prone to anger than usual," Sherlock said, fidgeting.

"How do you think that's manifested itself in your outward behavior?"

"There are not new behaviors, per se, I don't think, just more, how shall we say, extreme versions of behaviors I have already had a tendency to manifest."

"Could you give me an example?"

"Umm, well, when I get frustrated, I'm known to, um, stab at things—with a knife."

"At things?"

"Letters, pieces of evidence, photographs. Things of that nature."

"And that's something you've done before."

"All the time."

"And has that changed?"

"I suppose I was in a bit of a rant one day about six weeks ago or some over some difficulty or another and I went to stab a police report sitting on my mantel and I didn't notice DI Lestrade was resting his hand just there. I grazed him slightly by accident."

"DI Lestrade?"

"He's a Scotland Yard detective I frequently work with."

"Was he alright?"

"Oh, yes, perfectly fine. Just hit the webbing between his thumb and forefinger. John stitched him up right in the flat."

"And he didn't press charges against you?"

"No, of course not. He knew it was an accident. He had some rather colorful language for me, but he understood that I hadn't meant any harm. John was angrier about it than he was."

"You're lucky. The situation could have been much, much worse." After a pause, Doyle continued, "Do you remember what you and Detective Lestrade were talking about before you stabbed him?"

"I didn't stab him. I stabbed the mantel. His hand was just in between the knife and the mantel."

"Nonetheless, do you remember what you and he were discussing before you stabbed at the mantel?"

Sherlock made an unconvincing face, trying to look like he couldn't quite remember. "Oh, just an on-going case that never quite seems resolved."

"Remember, whatever you say in here is confidential. I've had members of law enforcement discuss cases before."

"It's really not important."

"Well, it frustrated you enough to stab someone, albeit accidentally, so why don't you just give me an idea about what is so difficult about the case."

"It concerns James Moriarty."

"Ah, yes, Moriarty. Didn't The Daily Mail dub him 'The Bin Laden of Crime'? Isn't he supposed to be dead? You witnessed his suicide yourself didn't you?"

"Yes, he is dead. But that doesn't stop him from ruining lives and terrorizing innocent people, does it?"

"Excuse me?"

"He may have planned for actions after his death, with the help of accomplices or even a protege. Or perhaps someone is just using his name for their own purposes."

"All I myself witnessed was the interrupted broadcast messages," Doyle said. "Has he, or rather someone claiming to be him, been committing other crimes?"

"Crimes, no, but he's made himself known and has been terrorizing someone, a friend."

"John?"

"No, not John, someone else."

"Oh, John's the only friend you've mentioned so far. Who is this friend? The one being targeted?"

Here Sherlock appeared visibly ill at ease. "Um, the chief pathologist at St. Bartholomew's Hospital."

Dr. Doyle thought for moment and then said, "Molly? Do you mean Dr. Molly Hooper?"

Sherlock looked surprised at the psychiatrist. "You know Molly?"

"Not well, really. I consult at St. Bart's and I've had occasions when the question of whether a death was a suicide or murder was an issue. I'd look into the psychiatric history and she'd do the autopsy. She's extraordinarily good at her job."

"She's the best at her job."

"I agree. Oh no, I do like Dr. Hooper. How is she being terrorized?"

"She received a package ostensibly from Moriarty."

"What was in it?"

"That I cannot divulge. That would violate her privacy."

"Yes, sure, of course. Well, I do hope she'll be alright. In addition to being most competent at her job, she's a really lovely person."

"Yes," Sherlock said sadly.

"So, you and she are friends then?"

"We used to be."

"But not anymore?"

"No, not really, I fear."

"Why?"

"I can't talk about that."

"Can't? Or won't?"

Sherlock looks at his watch, gets up to leave, and says, with satisfaction, "Time's up. Have to go fight crime."

"Yes, fine, but I want to pick up here next week." But Dr. Doyle wasn't sure Sherlock heard him as he flew out of the door.

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