Sherlock? Do you have anything to contribute?'

Sherlock wrenched his gaze away from the window. He had been contemplating Lestrade's case again. The genuine one, the current one, the one that Lestrade had told him was a cold case, but which was obviously much more current than that.

He pretended to consider, 'No, I don't think so,' he said slowly.

Every face in the room was turned towards him. One of the men at the far side of the circle gave a sarcastic snort, as if this was no more than he had expected.

God how he hated this. Hated this pointless sitting in a politically correct, 'All of us are equal circle,' and discussing feelings and emotions. Who cared about the bleached blonde forty something, wingeing about her troublesome teenage children who drove her to drink a bottle of vodka a day? Or the thirty-something ex-soldier, who was blatantly failing to adjust to life outside the forces, and who was using PTSD and alcohol as an excuse to not have to face the reality of life outside. Dull people with dull little lives.

'What?' Sherlock asked, enunciating each syllable precisely. Aware that he was being rude, wanting to be rude.

Vicki, the psychologist running the session that day sighed. 'It's called group therapy, Sherlock. The idea is that everyone in the group participates. You've been here for a week and you haven't contributed a single word, other than giving your name at the beginning of each session.'

'You want me to contribute?' Sherlock narrowed his eyes in a way that anyone who knew him well could have told her was dangerous; but then few people knew him well these days, and certainly none in here. He had made sure of that.

'Do you have any insight for us on what Stacey was saying? Any comments?' Vicki was asking.

Stacey was a junkie of the type that Sherlock most hated to think that he was now grouped with. Much too thin; long, lank dyed black hair; too many tattoos; too many piercings; looking at least ten years older than her twenty seven years. She had been bemoaning the fact that social services had taken all three of her children away from her, when the physical abuse that they had found evidence of had been perpetrated by her ex partner. Sherlock had been considering other things, but that didn't mean that he hadn't processed and remembered every word that she had said. Memorising one thing and thinking of another was one of the many cognitive skills that he had taught himself over the years. He had deliberately shut out some of the details of the injuries inflicted on the children, and Stacey's excuses for failing to protect them. But they had angered him, even from the edge of his consciousness. Who was most guilty, he wondered; the abuser, or the witness who failed to act. Too close to home now; too many memories. He pushed them back into the box where they belonged, and slammed the lid shut as hard as he could.

He was aware that everyone was looking at him, waiting for him to speak; no, waiting for him to apologise, as if that was likely to happen.

He allowed his gaze to sweep round the circle of people with disdain, trying to get his anger under control. He could take down every single one in less than five minutes, he knew. Not with fists and kicks, but with words. A far more powerful weapon.

'Insight?' he said innocently, already planning his first attack. If they wanted his opinion, then he would be delighted to give it too them.

'If he was listening,' muttered the ex-army, overly-muscled man two seats along. Joe, or Jim, Sherlock couldn't quite remember. He'd hardly slept since he'd finished his detox, and today was his first day without any diazepam. The effect on his mind, on his memory, bothered him more than he liked to admit himself. He had read the literature, knew that the resetting of his neurotransmitters would take a month at least, possibly longer; but still, it was - disquieting, to know that his mind was not working at full capacity.

He narrowed his eyes at Jim or Joe, or whatever his name was. How dare he think that he could try to make him look small. 'Of course I was listening,' he snapped. 'Stacey was telling us that her drinking was entirely due to social services cruelly removing her abused and neglected children from her care; and to her abusive partner, who she claims virtually held her nose and poured a bottle of vodka down her throat every evening - and in the morning too, I would imagine.'

There was a shocked silence in the group. 'Sherlock, this is meant to be a supportive environment,' Vicki said cautiously. 'Try to remember that.'

'Does supportive mean that we shouldn't state the truth?' Sherlock asked.

'Not if it is likely to upset the person that you are talking about, no,' Vicki told him, suddenly aware that she was almost certainly more than a little out of her depth. On the other hand, this was the first time that Sherlock had spoken to do more than introduce himself in group sessions, and she was keen to keep him talking.

'No, let him talk,' Stacey said, sounding more than a little pissed off. 'I'd love to hear Mr High and Mighty's insights into my life.'

'You don't drink because of your partner,' Sherlock said, watching her reaction, analysing her even as he spoke. 'You drink because of the abuse that was inflicted on you when you were a teenager.'

'Who the fuck told you about that?' Stacey spat out, unwittingly proving to Sherlock that his assumption, that his deduction was correct. He felt a familiar glow of satisfaction at being proved right. Perhaps group therapy was going to be fun after all.

'Nobody told me,' Sherlock said, failing to hide his irritation. He didn't like this woman. Couldn't bear her in fact. How could any mother stand by and watch someone do that to her children? The lid of his box was quivering, straining, threatening to burst open. He sat down on it, hard, now wasn't the time to deal with this; he had other fish to fry. Disconnect, externalise, use attack to distract from what was happening inside his head.

It's obvious, isn't it?,' he said, aware that he sounded scathing, then looking at the blank faces round the circle in mock surprise, 'Oh come on. There are self-harm marks all the way up your arms, you pull your sleeves down constantly to try and hide them, but they're still visible; and they're old scars, ten years or so at least I'd say. More to the point, when you're talking about your childhood, you rub your abdomen - more self-harm marks I presume. Cutting the thighs and the bottom of the abdomen are almost always signs of sexual abuse. So who was it - father? Uncle? No, your face says somebody else. Ah, step-father, of course. And the drinking - the drinking comes because you're terrified that your new partner is doing the same thing to your daughter, but you're too scared of losing him to do anything about it. So you drink to stop yourself thinking about it, and so the cycle goes on until you get up the balls to do your duty as a mother and protect her.'

Three things happened in quick succession. Stacey ran out of the room in tears, knocking over her chair with a crash that made the rest of the circle jump as she went; the ex-soldier with the muscles and the tattoos punched Sherlock in the face, sending him tumbling into the stack of chairs in the corner, creating an even louder crash, and suddenly the room was filled with shouting ex-addicts, all aiming their anger at Sherlock.

Vicki hit the panic button for back-up, grabbing Dave's arm to stop him going in for another punch or worse, and two of the other men in the group took the hint, and also seized him by the arms, pulling him away from Sherlock, and across to the opposite side of the room, where he continued to shout and swear about Sherlock's insensitivity.

The sound of running feet announced the arrival of four other members of staff, two of whom escorted Dave from the room to calm down, before another was dispatched by Vicki to check on Stacey.

'Everybody calm down and go back to your seats,' Vicki shouted over the noise. 'Sherlock? Are you okay?'

Sherlock staggered to his feet, looking slightly dazed. 'I'm fine,' he said, slightly amused at the reaction that he had provoked. And he had been right, he must have been, or he wouldn't have provoked that reaction.

'Do you have anything to say to the group?' Vicki asked.

'How long have Dave and Stacey been 'more than just good friends?' he asked, making inverted commas with his fingers in a conscious parody of the way that Stacey sometimes used gestures to accentuate what she was saying.

Tim, a usually mild mannered business man, stood up and looked as if he was going to finish what Dave had started, before Dale, one of the unit managers, who had remained behind after the panic alarm call as back-up, grabbed his arm and pushed him back into his seat.

'I think that's enough, Sherlock. Why don't you go to your room? In fact, I'll come with you,' and Sherlock found himself being escorted out of the group therapy room, past the dining room where final preparations were being made for lunch, and down the long corridor to his room. He couldn't help but allow himself the hint of a smile as he went; things had certainly become a loss less boring, and who knew? They might even allow him to stop going to group therapy at last; the pain in his jaw aside, things had worked out even better than he had predicted.