The Sign of the Four

by solojones

Summary:

A year and a half post-Reichenbach, a damaged Sherlock Holmes returns to Baker Street. But everything's changed, leaving the friendship between Sherlock and John tense and uncertain.

While struggling to adjust, Sherlock, John, and Mary Morstan find themselves on a case involving betrayal, deception, and tests of friendship. But will it make their bonds stronger or tear them apart? And will it matter if Sherlock's demons pull him under first? An incredibly angst-filled adaptation of the Sir Arthur Conan Doyle novel. Essentially designed as a theoretical 'next episode' of the show.

Notes:

DISCLAIMER: "Sherlock", its stories and characters were created by Steven Moffat & Mark Gatiss and are the property of the BBC. No copyright infringement is intended.

The novel "The Sign of the Four" was written by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and is the property of the public. In the spirit of the show, this is my modern adaptation of that story, complete with a whopping dose of angst.

Chapter 1

For the first time in his 18 months of working at King's College Hospital A&E, John Watson had got off work early. This put him in such a good mood he didn't really mind lugging groceries up Baker Street. He'd picked up quite a lot of them at the Tesco's down the block, winding up with four bags, which honestly, was far too many bags. Not that it was his idea to buy this much stuff. The list texted to him had been frankly outrageous. But he was more than happy to oblige.

As he reached the front door of 221B, he struggled to free at least two fingers from the bag handles to get the key in the door. It was precarious and on another day might have been more frustrating, but today was a good day, John had decided. None of his patients had died, no one had vomited on him, and he'd made his 30 minute tube ride in 26 minutes. Bags semi-securely slipped over his wrists, John entered and made his way up the 17 steps to his flat.

As soon as he opened the door, John sensed someone's presence around the corner in the kitchen. He smiled, calling out ruefully, "I'll have you know, I got everything on your list and somehow have managed to make it up the street without dropping a single bag." The presence in the kitchen stilled as John approached. "Which I think deserves a sizeable reward, don't you?" The last words trailed off as John stepped into the kitchen and saw who was standing there.

"You're early," Sherlock Holmes remarked, frozen in the middle of steeping some tea, and completely inconsiderate of the fact that he'd been dead for a year and a half.

All four Tesco bags clattered to the floor. They were followed by John Watson, who suddenly found his legs incapable of supporting himself. He sank down, grabbing wisely at the edge of the counter for balance, and wound up on his knees in a stream of apple juice that was now flowing freely all over the kitchen floor. "Oh my God," he managed between suddenly shaky breaths and rapid heartbeats. Some part of his brain was aware that he was in shock. "Oh my God," he repeated, wiping a hand over his eyes slowly. It didn't erase the image of his supposedly dead friend taking a knee across from him.

Sherlock remained silent. Once John's eyes focused properly, he was able to see a measure of apprehension on Sherlock's usually passive face. A face that seemed slightly thinner and, if possible, even more pale than Watson remembered. But a face that was there. Really, truly in front of him, not just a dream or nightmare. John's throat felt like lead, but he somehow managed to gasp, "You're alive."

"Glad to see the powers of observation I taught you are still intact," Sherlock commented with a quirk of his lips that for him counted as a smile.

"I don't... how? And where have you... Jesus," John stammered. Without really expecting to, he suddenly grabbed Sherlock into a slightly awkward kneeling hug. Sherlock, never much one for contact, remained still. After a few moments, he patted John lightly on the shoulder, silently signalling the end of the hug.

"As I was saying," Sherlock started in that familiar clipped way he spoke, as if he were always running out the door to an important engagement. "You're home earlier than usual. I wasn't quite prepared..." he trailed off, glancing down at the puddle of apple juice and soggy crackers mixing on the floor. "You look ill. You should sit down. I'll get the mess."

John laughed and drew in a long, shaky breath. "Now I know you're not real, offering to clean up."

"Really, John, you're sweating, pale, your blood pressure's most likely low. You're in shock. Have a seat," Sherlock commanded as he swiped a dish rag off the counter and threw it into the puddle.

After staring blankly at the ghostly presence cleaning his kitchen floor for a few moments, John managed to grab the edge of the counter and pull himself to his feet. A rush of blood flooded his head, and he felt like he might collapse again. Lucky he had the counter for support. He drew a few calming breaths, then took a couple steps to the sofa, where he promptly collapsed.

John watched Sherlock mop up the bulk of the mess with the dish rag and unceremoniously toss the whole thing in the bin. Sherlock then took the two cups of tea he'd made from the counter and walked toward the couch. He held one out to John, who could only look up at Sherlock with an expression of utter bafflement. "Tea," John stated flatly. "You come back from the dead, show up in my flat miraculously, and your solution to this situation is tea?"

"There's scotch in yours."

"Right, then." John took his tea and downed a healthy gulp. Sherlock blew on his own cup in a leisurely manner that drove John insane. How could he possibly be so calm about this? And - hang on, had he said...? "You know what time I usually get home." Sherlock said nothing. "How long have you been spying on me?"

"A couple weeks, perhaps?" Sherlock said, a shrug in his tone as he chanced a sip of his tea.

A couple weeks? Blimey. Well then, John thought, that means he'd know about Mary. Just as this realization and some of its most prominent implications were growing in Watson's mind, the door to Sherlock's old room opened and out stepped the subject in question.

"I thought I heard a noise. Do you need help with- " Mary Morstan stopped, noticing the man standing in front of the couch. "Oh, didn't realize we had company."

Sherlock had paused mid-sip, turning slowly to stare at this woman in sweats, her sandy blonde hair thrown into a lazy ponytail, kind but tired round eyes suddenly wide in recognition as she stared back. John could only imagine all the calculated and unfiltered observations forming in Sherlock's brain as he squinted suspiciously at Mary. John was about to say something to rescue her, but Sherlock was faster to practically spit out, "Who are you? And how long have you been here? No one besides John's come or gone from the flat for two days, and that was the latest of John's dates, who looked completely different from you."

John balked, standing up. "The latest...!" His eyes darted to Mary, who was still staring slack-jawed at the tall, dead stranger standing in her living room. "There haven't been any other women here, I swear."

"Oh, please," Sherlock snorted. "I've counted four or five women in the last few weeks. Par for the course, I'd say, John."

"The only woman who's been in this apartment is Mary," John insisted.

"Who's Mary?" Sherlock asked, but didn't wait for an answer. "In any case, all the women coming and going looked different."

"Different how?" John demanded.

"I don't know. Hair styled differently, various manners of dress," Sherlock replied impatiently.

"Different faces?" John challenged, locking his accusing eyes on Sherlock's.

The erstwhile detective's indignation wavered. His cheek twitched in annoyance. "Well I can't be expected to remember all the faces," he half spat, half grumbled.

"Unbelievable. You still can't tell women apart." John wasn't sure if this was funny or tragic, but was beginning to feel in either case that he had entered a bizarre French comedy. He managed to hiss instead of shout, "Those were all Mary, you git."

Sherlock didn't manage the same restraint. "Who the hell is Mary?" he shouted.

"She's Mary! The only woman in the bloody room!" John gestured to the woman who was standing still in what he belatedly realized must be the same kind of shock he still felt shaking his limbs.

"Perhaps we could all take a breath then discuss how and why Sherlock Holmes is here," Mary suggested calmly. She'd taken a good minute to form that sentence, and as usual John was impressed with not only her seemingly inhuman ability to remain calm in any situation, but to make others settle down as well. It was one of the many things he loved about her, and it drew him back to his senses as usual.

Unfortunately, Sherlock seemed utterly immune to her pleasantly anaesthetic effect. "You know who I am," he stated accusingly. "And you were in my room. Why were you in my room?" Without waiting for a response, Sherlock swept toward his old bedroom, gracefully depositing his tea cup on the mantle and opening the door all in one motion.

John followed after him, a knot of dread forming in his stomach. He knew exactly what Sherlock's reaction would be. The man might have been dead for a year and a half, but he expected the world to stay precisely as it had been.

"Where are my things?" Sherlock stated flatly, not raising his voice. His eyes took in the desk, the bookshelves, the altered paint colour, and most likely a hundred other little changes only he would notice. "This isn't my room. You've gotten rid of everything." He turned around, a despair in his eyes that took John by surprise. He'd seen Sherlock irritated and impatient on a daily basis. He'd rarely seen him fragile. When was the last time, Baskerville? No, that call from the roof of- John quickly suppressed the thought. It didn't happen. He's right here, so it didn't happen.

John was now looking at Sherlock as if seeing him for the first time. His slightly wild eyes were ringed with dark smudges. He was, bizarrely, wearing jeans, sneakers, and a long-sleeved t-shirt, all of them flecked with dirt. His naturally pale complexion had an almost yellowed tone that made him look rather unwell. "Sherlock, it's been a year a half," John reasoned softly. He could see all that time hanging on his friend and he began to wonder, properly ponder where Sherlock had been those eighteen months and what the hell he'd been doing.

"A year and a half," Sherlock sneered mockingly. "Plenty of time to chuck my things out and get a lodger."

"I would never throw your things away. They're fine, they're- wait, lodger?" John glanced back over his shoulder at Mary, who was trying her very best to remain out of the way, but looking like the restraint was difficult. It occurred to him that this had to be a unique sort of baffling for her, having a dead man she'd heard so much about but never met materialize in her flat. John gave her a sympathetic look to tell her they'd talk about this later before turning back to Sherlock and his accusatory stare. "Mary isn't a lodger," he intoned slowly.

"She's living in my room."

"No, this is her office. She's working on her dissertation, so she's in here a lot." Evidently the glaring social cues were still missing from Sherlock's powers of deduction. John sighed. For all the things he'd missed dearly about his friend, this blindness to normal human interests wasn't one of them. "Mary is my girlfriend. She lives here with- we live here. It's our place now."

Sherlock stared between John and Mary for a few moments. Then he pushed past them into the living room, calling out loudly, "Mrs. Hudson!"

Notes:

This first chapter's a bit light, but the contemplative angsty bits are coming.

Chapter 2

Notes:

I'm really daft and forgot to thank my good friend ophelia_interrupted for being a patient and helpful sounding board for all my ramblings and brainstorming while writing this story. Thanks, ophelia!

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock had yelled.

Maybe she hadn't heard. Sherlock opened the door and repeated down in the direction of 221A, "Mrs. Hudson!" This was her property. Her responsibility. He left the door open as he paced back inside, waiting for the landlady to answer his summons. This was all too much, too fast. He'd spent weeks watching John, tracking his movements, getting an idea of changes to his habits and routines. But this he hadn't seen.

"Sherlock, are you mad?" John hissed at him. Sherlock hadn't a clue what he meant. Instead he just kept pacing the unfamiliar, frankly ghastly floor rug. It was a mix of powder blue, yellow, and brown that now pervaded the decor in his once stately flat. If only something here had remained unchanged, he wouldn't feel quite so adrift.

The light footfalls on the stairs, so familiar even if quickened, were like a salve on Sherlock's mind. He whirled around perfectly in time to see Mrs. Hudson burst into the flat. "Mrs. Hudson, I demand to know what-"

"Sherlock! Sherlock, thank everything holy, you're alive!" She didn't stop a moment, instead grabbing him tightly in an embrace. The old woman was, not actually much to Sherlock's surprise, rather strong. After months of barely speaking to anyone, let alone being in contact with anyone, he was however taken aback by his second hug in a handful of minutes. Unlike with John, however, he found himself squeezing her back, though he didn't quite know why. There was something strangely calming about it, and he felt some of his hyper restless tension melt away. He didn't even resist when Mrs. Hudson pulled his head down towards her and planted a firm kiss on his cheek.

Clearing his throat, Sherlock pulled back a half step from his dear landlady. "It's good to see you," he said, surprised at the fond tone of his voice. He noticed John looking on in shock and Mary in confusion and grew self-conscious. "Now please," he said, clearing his throat, "explain to me where my things are."

"Oh, Sherlock dear," Mrs. Hudson said, "you look like death warmed over, pardon the expression. You ought to sit and have some tea."

"Had some. Where are my belongings? My lab equipment, research, coat...?" it wasn't that he wanted to rush her, but he wouldn't need to if she'd just hurry up and answer.

Mrs. Hudson took a pointless amount of time to look at John before finally replying, "We had to pack up your things about six months ago. Your brother has them."

"Of course." Sherlock scowled, then looked at Mary. "How long have you been living here exactly?"

The younger woman seemed to be searching for the best way to answer, but gave up. As if trying to hide guilt, she replied over-casually, "About five months, I think."

Sherlock's brow tightened in annoyed triumph. John sidestepped the point, instead interjecting, "Look, I completely understand why you might not want to, but you've got to tell your brother you're alive. No matter what he did to you, he's still your brother."

"He knows," Sherlock replied.

"He..." John trailed off in realization. "Of course he does. How better to fake your death than with the help of the most secretive arms of the government. No wonder you've stayed hidden this long."

Sherlock balked at that. "I didn't require his help with that. I came to him with the plan. Only asked his assistance on some minor legal issues, and for some connections." Yes, Mycroft had been helpful in giving him leads on Moriarty's network. Or rather, leads on where to find leads, so as to distance himself safely from what Sherlock was off to do. "And only because I absolutely had to. It isn't as though we've stayed in touch, after what he did," he spat bitterly.

Sherlock ground his teeth as he ruminated on his brother's role in Moriarty's scheme. An uncomfortable silence had fallen over the room. To everyone's surprise, it was broken by Mary.

"John, dear," she started in a sweet sort of tone that made Sherlock roll his eyes. Where does he find such dreadfully boring women? Sherlock wondered. Mary continued, "I don't think any of us is in a state to cook. Not to mention half the shopping's been smashed on the floor." She and John exchanged a wry smile that further irritated Sherlock. "Maybe I should pop down to the corner and get some Chinese?"

"That would be amazing," John said with a relieved sort of sigh. "You're amazing, thank you." He gave her a kiss on the cheek.

"I'll just be going as well, then," Mrs. Hudson said with a glance at John. Sherlock sensed there was some sort of social exchange going on there, but couldn't be bothered to puzzle it out. The old woman gave Sherlock's hand a squeeze, a gesture he also didn't quite understand but accepted. "It really is such a blessing to see you. I think this must be the best day of my life."

Sherlock frowned. "I thought that was the day Mr. Hudson was executed?" He'd distinctly remembered her saying that many times, and it had made sense. Being rid of an awful nuisance of a man like that had to be a relief. Sherlock wasn't quite sure how his own return would best that.

"No, dear, certainly not," she said, that odd fondness in her voice that made Sherlock feel curiously at ease. Smiling, she followed Mary out the door, shutting it softly and leaving John and Sherlock alone in 221B Baker Street.

John was looking Sherlock over with a fretting eye that really annoyed him. It was the same way Lestrade and Mycroft used to look at him just before they'd bullied him into rehab. "You look like shit," John commented, also echoing a sentiment he'd heard many times. The comparison was annoying.

"I'm fine," Sherlock insisted.

John shifted his weight, mulling that over. "Okay," he said finally. "Okay, I get that. Look, I'm just glad you're alive. But I have to say I think you'd better explain that bit to me." He wiped a hand across his still clammy forehead. It had only been approximately sixteen minutes since John had gotten home.

"You're obviously still in shock. Your cardiovascular system will never normalize with you running around all worked up. You should sit down," Sherlock observed.

Watson laughed dryly. "I'm worked up? I think you've put a hole in the rug already with your caged lunatic pacing." Sherlock might have interpreted it as an insult had it not been accompanied by a smile. "You don't know how many days I've come home and prayed to whatever gods there might be that you'd be here. That you wouldn't be dead..."

"Yes, sorry I had to delay that little reveal. I've been occupied." An understatement John obviously saw through. "I'd like a few things explained to me..."

"Said the man who died then showed up to make me tea." John shook himself. "Right, I think the best thing for both of us is to pour the rest of that scotch into our cups, sit down, and sort a thing or two out."

A grin tugged at Sherlock's lips. "First reasonable thing you've said yet." John took his own cup from the coffee table, Sherlock's from the mantle and, as promised, filled them to the brim.

Sherlock didn't drink that often, finding it dulled his senses, but he'd make an exception tonight. He inhaled the rustic scent and stinging feel of the drink as he sank into his old, faithful chair. The one piece of furniture, he noted, that hadn't been replaced. "So, firstly-"

"Nope," John cut him off, to his annoyance. "You can ask all you like, but I get to go first." Sherlock rolled his eyes in resignation. John continued, haltingly, "I saw you... jump off of that roof. I saw you hit the ground."

"Did you?" Sherlock asked, sipping his scotch. "Curious, as I remember there being a building between your vantage point and the sidewalk."

John froze with his drink halfway to his lips. Sherlock could see that familiar look he got on his face when trying to puzzle something out. It was funny how slowly these things dawned upon John. It belied a sort of slow motion way of living that Sherlock had always found remarkable in others. But with John, it had come to be more a humorous quirk than an annoyance. "You told me to stay where I was." John closed his eyes. "Hell, you made me go to that exact spot and watch." His eyes opened and bored into Sherlock's in accusation. "You're a sick bastard, you know that?" There was a new tightness in John's voice that signified a real touch of anger.

Sherlock recalled what he'd told Moriarty. That he was no angel, but rather more like his devilish nemesis than the man had guessed. His activities the past year and a half had only served to confirm that. Sherlock's eyes flicked down to his drink for a moment. "I never claimed not to be." They found their way back to John. "Still, I can guess what your other questions might be, so let's just save ourselves the trouble and get to the answers. Jumped onto a fall bag in the back of a truck, rolled out onto the ground, the truck pulled away, applied some of my previously drawn blood while some of Mycroft's people blocked your view and distracted you, stopped my pulse with a squash ball in the arm pit, old magician's trick."

He took the slack-jawed look on John's face to mean he didn't fully comprehend yet, and continued, a bit annoyed, "Everything Moriarty was doing was leading up to this. My so-called suicide. My fall, which he kept saying, quite literally. He wanted me to guess his endgame. But he never guessed that I actually had."

"Was he there? What, did he have a gun pointed at your head?" John asked, reaching for answers.

Sherlock exhaled, drew his lips together tightly. Long ago, he had decided it wasn't worth explaining all of this to John, or Mrs. Hudson, and definitely not Lestrade. He couldn't quite articulate the reasons why, but faced with the chance to do so now, he was positive it was the right choice. The idea of the whole thing irritated and flummoxed him. So instead he gave a clipped reply of, "Something like that."

"So where the hell have you been the last year and a half? And why come back now?" Something dawned in John's eyes. The next question came out a conspiratorial whisper, as if saying it too loud might alert the all-seeing network Sherlock had been out there dismantling. "Is Moriarty dead?"

"Yes."

John eyed him warily. "Are you sure? Because if you can fake your death, then you know he can."

"Positive."

A deep, eerie silence settled over the room. Sherlock could see from the way his lips kept starting to form words that John had something else he wanted to ask. And he could tell from the way John swallowed and shifted uncomfortably what that question was. Did you kill him? In spite of the fact that the answer was no, Sherlock didn't particularly want to answer that. Moriarty? No. Some of the members of his network, on the other hand... The look he gave John had the desired effect of cutting off that line of questioning. "Right," was all John said.

But, as a further precaution... "Before you ask, I can't tell you where I've been or what I've been doing either. Government secrets." He wasn't sure that lie would work on John, who'd seen what kind of regard Sherlock had for 'government secrets' in the past. But whether he believed that or not, John at least had the intelligence to sense that this was not a path he'd get anywhere on.

"Well, I'm just glad you got back from wherever it was in one piece. Mostly," John gave Sherlock another appraising glance. "When was the last time you ate?"

"Not sure. You know how it is. Day or two?" John at least had to understand Sherlock's warped sense of time by now, surely.

"Or four," John grumbled, shaking his head. "You're a stone cold genius, Sherlock, you know you are. But how exactly have you ever managed to keep yourself alive without my help?" he said with a smile.

Some of Sherlock previous irritation and unrest started to stir up again, fighting against the calming effect the scotch was attempting to have on him. "I managed to make it through thirty three years without your help," he replied. He stopped short of detailing some of the methods he'd employed to that end, which indeed, he'd had to fall back on in his 18 months of hiding and hunting. Frankly the depths he'd sunk to weren't things he ever wanted to think about again. Thankfully, John didn't show any sign that he really understood the implications of Sherlock's statement.

"Somehow," John said with a light shake of his head and another sip of his scotch. "So, fair's fair, guess I should fill you in on what's been going on with me."

"You're working full time at King's College Hospital A&E," Sherlock stated.

"Right, you've been following me," John remarked. "After you died, after I thought you died," he began.

But Sherlock decided to save him the trouble. "You realized after the next month's rent was paid that you'd need a more steady source of income now that you wouldn't be getting paid for case work. Part time jobs at clinics wouldn't cut it. Mrs. Hudson most likely agreed to cut you a deal on the rent, but still you needed something full time. But you couldn't go back to a family practice, not after tasting the excitement of our work. You need that excitement to live. But you're not qualified in surgery and your most applicable recent experience is as a soldier, thus Accident & Emergency. St. Bart's would have been closer, but too many bad memories, negative associations, plus working down near Brixton means more muggings, stabbings, potentially even some gunshot wounds, just the sort of thrilling work you need to have in your life or go out of your mind with boredom, now who the hell is Mary?"

John stared, and blinked a few times. "Forgot what that was like," he commented with a shake of his head. "You're right, naturally. As to Mary... well, like I said, she's working on her doctorate in child psychology."

Sherlock snorted derisively into his drink. He'd had a run in or two with a child psychologist in his day and found them utterly pointless. Of course it was the sort of thing John would go for. "Doing research at your hospital?"

"Yeah, well I had a patient, this kid with OCD, and turns out that's what her dissertation has to do with. And the way she was with this kid... I don't know, I just saw something special in her, you know?" He seemed to realize what he was saying partway through that last phrase. "No, of course not."

"But this isn't like your other girlfriends," Sherlock remarked. "How did this one manage to get you into this situation? Living together?"

"It's not a 'situation', Sherlock, it's a relationship. And you make it sound like she trapped me. You don't know a thing about Mary. She's a wonderful person, brilliant, about to have a doctorate for one thing," John's voice was rising in indignation.

"Meaningless. Research is valuable insofar as it has an application, not as part of some paper no one will ever read so you can earn some other paper telling people how brilliant you are," Sherlock sneered.

"What, as opposed to shoving it in their faces all the time? Showing off?" John sucked in a sharp breath. "Look, I don't want to do this. I don't want to argue, all right? We're both stressed out and you look completely knackered. I'm so incredibly glad you're back. You know, if you were using those powers of observation of yours, you'd have noticed that it took me a year to box up your things and move them out. Probably a lot longer than was healthy. I really didn't want to believe you were dead. You're the best friend I've ever had. And I just don't want my best friend and my girlfriend hating each other. So please give her a chance before you form all your conclusions about her, just this once."

Sherlock eyed him carefully. There was a certain kind of satisfied feeling he got hearing John use the words 'best friend' in reference to himself. But, if he wasn't mistaken, there was an equal measure of care for Mary in his tone. "Why is this so important to you?"

John shook his head, looking up at the ceiling. "I really didn't want to have to get into this. I can see how upset you are about this whole thing, some person you don't know moving in here..."

"I'm not upset," Sherlock replied, perhaps too quickly.

John had the graciousness not to respond to that. Instead he looked at Sherlock, and sighed. "You don't know how bad things were for me, a year ago, when Mary and I met. She saw it in ways other people didn't. Basically," John said, softly, "she saved my life."

He didn't quite know why, but Sherlock felt a bit as if he'd been kicked in the stomach. Or, perhaps, the way he'd felt falling several stories into a frankly extremely uncomfortable landing on a fall pad. Ah, he thought, there it is. What was it John had said to him at St. Bart's that last night they'd seen one another? Friends are for keeping you safe? Sherlock flexed his hand against the arm of the chair, thinking of everything he'd gone through to do just that... but he'd told himself he wasn't going to think about it. Not about Moriarty, and certainly not about what came after. He was deleting those 18 months from his mind. It was better to go back to how things were before all of that happened. To John, and Mrs. Hudson, and Lestrade living safely. To 221B, cases, adventures, fascinating research. Getting back to that was what this had all been about, after all.

Sherlock only realized he'd been staring off into space when John said his name for what was most likely not the first time. "...hm?" Sherlock mused, eyes and part of his mind still focused on the wall.

"I said, there's something else I have to tell you, and there's never going to be a great time, so I'll just get it over with, shall I?" John said.

"Sure," Sherlock voiced noncommittally.

"You absolutely can't tell Mary this, because if you do, I don't care if you've just come back from the grave, I'll murder you myself," John warned, then took a breath. "I'm going to ask her to marry me."

Sherlock's whole body stiffened in shock, so only his eyes darted sharply over to John. "What?" He asked, his voice low.

John rubbed the bridge of his nose. "God, I knew this was a bad time to bring this up."

But before either of them could say anymore, the front door opened and Mary entered, her arms full with large bags of take away Chinese. "Well, I got there and realized I didn't have my mobile and didn't have a clue what you like, Sherlock, so I basically bought some of everything I think," she said with a smile as she lugged the bags into the kitchen. Neither of the men moved nor took their eyes from one another, both trying to figure out what the other was thinking. Sherlock was shocked and disturbed to find himself unable to form a coherent thought. "Well come on, then, John's usually starving by now and Sherlock looks like he's been starving for a good while."

John was the first to move, turning his head toward the kitchen. "Yes, thank you Mary." He glanced back at Sherlock. "Come on," he nodded toward the kitchen. In spite of the somewhat patronizing treatment, Sherlock thought he might be rather hungry. Eating couldn't hurt, at any rate.

Mary had set out plates for everyone. Sherlock sat down and scooped a few items onto his plate. He liked Chinese food well enough, or the things passed off as Chinese in London. They'd all taken a few bites in blissful silence before Mary asked, "So, Sherlock, I have heard a lot about you - your brilliant detective work, your talents with the violin which you'll have to show me soon. But I'd like to hear more about you personally. And of course, once John's not here, any dirt on him I should know."

Sherlock finished chewing, his brow furrowing in confusion. "How do you mean more about me personally? You said yourself, John's told you about my work."

"No, but I mean about you. Where are you from? Got any family? I mean, I've met your brother, but..." Mary asked. Across the table from Sherlock, John winced.

"I'm from London. And no, Mycroft's it. Thankfully." Sherlock wouldn't even have bothered humouring her at all, but he recalled how earnestly John had begged him to 'give Mary a chance'. Unfortunately, she evidently took his taciturn response as encouragement to continue.

"Well, what about girlfriends? Any great romances or tragic heartbreaks? Lord knows I've had a lot of the latter, so don't think I'm trying to run you down."

At this, John's eyes flicked to Sherlock's, his brows drawn up in worry. "Ah, darling, maybe we shouldn't..." John began.

"Oh, don't be coy, John. Everyone loves a good lurid love tale. Let's see, there was this one woman who seduced me, faked her death, came back from the dead then tricked me into helping her facilitate a maniac with state secrets, only to then disappear into American witness protection," Sherlock offered with false brightness. That last part wasn't true, but it's what he was supposed to believe. In fact, he'd had several rather... interesting encounters with Irene over the last 18 months, but he couldn't very well mention that to anyone. Instead he leaned forward on the table with faux sociability. "What shall we chat about next? 'So, Sherlock, tell me, what are your favourite drug rehab facilities?'" he spat.

Mary and John both looked aghast, though the latter was less surprised and more pained. Mary, for her part, did an admirable job pretending she didn't know what Sherlock was getting at. "I... first of all, that sounds horrible, what happened with that woman. But I'm sorry I... don't quite understand."

"Don't you? All of this, these personal inquiries," Sherlock spat the word like poison sucked from a wound, "were covered in Kitty Riley's famous 'tell all' article."

Mary let out a breath she'd been holding. "I see. I think you misunderstand, and I get why you'd be so cross about that. I've never read that article, I promise. In fact, when John and I met, I didn't have the slightest idea who you were. Afraid I've been caught up in pretty much nothing but my doctorate for the last eight years. Couldn't give a damn about current affairs, to be honest."

"She's telling the truth, Sherlock," John added, his voice hard. "It was one of the nice things about her."

He smiled at her, presumably for reassurance, though Sherlock hardly understood why she should be the one in need of support.

"Well, even if that's the case," Sherlock retorted, directing his comment to John, "you can hardly blame me for being cautious at this stage."

John stared back, his jaw set. "No, you're right, I can't. But you might at least try a little common courtesy." Sherlock knew what he actually meant. Why not try a lot of uncommon courtesy for this Mary person? Well, he'd had quite enough of that for one evening as it was.

Sherlock blinked angrily and stood up from the table. "Actually, I need to go to bed." Leaving his half-eaten meal on the table, he started for his bedroom door.

"Are you sure? You must still be hungry? I didn't mean to upset you," Mary called after him.

It was most likely supposed to all be very warm and considerate, but honestly, that sort of thing ground on his nerves. Particularly frayed as they were right now. For John's sake, he said nothing, barging through the door before he remembered. He stood in the doorway of Mary's office for a few moments, reconfirming to himself that he hadn't, in fact, been imagining all of it. Without turning back around, he said, "There's no bed in here."

There was a long pause. Sherlock turned around to find John and Mary looking not at him but at one another, having the sort of silent exchange he often felt people were having around him but never quite understood. John looked over at him. "You can have the sofa. Of course you can," he assured him.

"How generous," Sherlock replied blithely.

"And feel free to use the spare shower in the morning," John added.

"I know," Sherlock said. "I don't need your permission to use my own things."

"There are some extra towels in there. Not so sure about shampoo or a toothbrush though," Mary said, looking like she was trying to recall. "I can get you those in the morning."

"And let me get you some sheets for that," John was in the middle of saying when Sherlock plopped himself down on the sofa. "Or not."

Sherlock turned to face the back of the couch, hoping they'd take the signal to leave him alone. He got the sense that another silent exchange was going on behind his back, because a few moments later, Mary announced, "I'll just be in the office working some more."

To which John added, "And I'm going to go upstairs. Shout if you need anything, not that you've ever needed my permission for that." Sherlock said nothing, only grasping around for a spare pillow to slam down over his head, which he suddenly realized had been aching for about half an hour. He vaguely heard the door to his room shut as Mary exited. Then John quietly said, "Goodnight, Sherlock," before heading upstairs and leaving Sherlock in blissful silence.

Chapter 3

Summary:

The morning after Sherlock's arrival, Mary and John try to get their bearings and come to terms with what Sherlock's return means.

Notes:

I'm so very glad for all the kudos and hits. This is my first Sherlock fic, and I would love to hear some of your thoughts and reactions as well. This fic is to be fairly epic and what can I say, who doesn't love some feedback to cheer them on? I hope you all continue to enjoy the fic!

Mary had awoken the next morning very early, well before John, who wasn't much of a early riser. He'd often take night shifts, he said for the extra cash. But she saw right through it, knowing how much he preferred the night, how he found it more exciting. After getting dressed, she'd started to head down the stairs before remembering their guest asleep in the living room. She paused in the stairwell before slowly stepping down until she could see the couch. To her surprise, Sherlock was not only not asleep but also nowhere to be seen. It was only half past six.

Entering the living room, she noted that the water in the downstairs shower wasn't running, either. Sherlock really must be out somewhere, then. Mary frowned as she put the kettle on. She hoped he'd gotten at least some sleep. He'd looked incredibly run down. Mary hadn't the faintest idea what sort of things Sherlock could have been up to for a year and a half. He was a detective, after all, not some super spy or world traveler, was he? She supposed there must be a lot involved in faking one's own death, though it wasn't a topic she could say she'd ever given much thought.

As the kettle began to whistle, she heard John's distinct clopping sound as he ambled down the stairs. Tea before a shower, that was him. Ever the night owl. "Good morning," she greeted him as he came in rubbing one tired eye with the heel of his hand. She handed him his cup. "Sleep well, did you? You were already out by the time I came to bed."

"Yeah, bit mentally exhausted I think," he replied, looking around.

"He wasn't here when I came down," Mary answered his unspoken question.

John let out a relieved sigh. "Not dreaming, then."

"No," she said, squeezing his shoulder with her free hand. She couldn't begin to imagine all the things that must be going through his mind. With his PTSD, he'd had horrible flashbacks not only to the war but also to Sherlock's death. She'd been there through many of those nights and knew just how deep the psychological scars ran. "How are you holding up?"

"Great," John replied, almost reflexively. "I mean, of course I am. Sherlock's not dead. If you'd asked me yesterday what the thing I wanted most in the world was, it would have been that. So obviously, yeah, I'm great."

Mary leaned back against the counter. "Well obviously you're glad he's alive and mostly intact. But it is okay to be overwhelmed by this, you know. It's a lot to take in. A lot of things are going to change."

"Yes, I think we'd all noticed that."

"This may be the understatement of the century," Mary said, "but I get the impression Sherlock's not a fan of change."

John snorted. "A well reasoned psychoanalysis, yes." He shook his head. "I haven't the foggiest idea what we're going to do. He obviously expected to walk back in and pretend nothing every happened. Which would have been crazy enough on its own, but now with you, with us..."

Mary took a contemplative sip of her tea. "What is it you're most worried about?"

"Where's he going to live, for one thing? Where are we? Do we move or does he get a new place?" John scratched at his stumble in aggravation. "I don't even know where to begin that conversation with Sherlock."

She hummed thoughtfully. Naturally that was the most obvious concern. "Well, I don't see any reason why that has to be figured out right now. He's welcome to stay here as long as he likes as far as I'm concerned."

John gave her a sidelong glance. "Give it a few days before you say that."

"He's worked up right now. It's understandable, isn't it? We all are. I confess to having no professional training in dealing with someone coming back from the dead, so you're basically on your own here," she said with a wry smile. "But I do know stress and we're clearly under a lot of it. None of us more than Sherlock, it seems." She pondered over their horribly tense dinner the night before. "I have to admit, he doesn't seem to like me much, but I tried not to take it personally."

Grimacing, John said, "Sorry, I should have warned you about that. Sherlock can be a bit socially... awkward isn't really the right word for it. Radioactive, more like. Last night was a full on nuclear meltdown. Doesn't happen often. Or at least, it didn't use to."

Mary noted his frown, and thought he must be thinking some of what she was: that things had possibly changed with Sherlock as much as they had with John. She wondered if Sherlock even realized this. He seemed doggedly committed to the notion of denying everything and going back to 'normal'. "Well, you didn't exactly have a reason to warn me. Not like you actually expected him to come round to dinner some day." She laughed a little, and John joined with a chuckle.

"Yes, well, I guess it's easier to romanticise people when they're gone, isn't it?" John reasoned. "I mean, I know that. And I know I probably painted a rosy picture. Telling you Sherlock was eccentric instead of that he's completely mad."

Shifting, Mary gave John a reproachful look. As a psychologist, she didn't like to dismiss anyone as 'mad' or 'insane'. That was oversimplifying the matter. "I don't know about that," she said. She considered whether she should say any more about her observations of Sherlock. Instead, she switched gears. "But it is very odd coming face to face with someone you never thought you'd meet. They almost become a fairy tale. I've heard so many stories about the cases you worked with him. But people are always much more complicated in the flesh. I suppose I always assumed that, in spite of his supposedly mythic powers of deduction, he'd be a regular bloke."

That really produced a laugh from John. "What, going down to the pub? Playing football? If I ever gave you that impression of our friendship, then I really am an utterly useless storyteller."

Mary smiled at him fondly. But she was still pondering their dinner the night before. "I can understand his being suspicious of my personal questions, in retrospect. Not having read that article, I only have your word to go on that it was an awful piece of trash journalism. I never knew any of the specifics." To tell the truth, she wasn't quite sure if the things Sherlock had said about himself were merely mocking responses to lies printed in the story or indignation about secret truths being splashed all over the front page. In particular, his mention of drug rehab centres had caught her attention. John had never mentioned anything remotely like that in relation to Sherlock, but she felt it was none of her business to ask.

"Still," Mary continued, "I expected he might have something he'd like to talk about."

"Oh, he loves to talk. But Sherlock," John said delicately, "Isn't much for chat."

She frowned. "But everyone has interests. I know he plays the violin. You've said he loved studying all sorts of scientific areas. It seems we should have some things in common if we actually talked about them." She gave John a mock pleading look. "You've got to give me a cheat sheet here, John. What's something he likes?"

"Dunno...dissections?" John ventured, and Mary wasn't sure if he meant it as a joke or not. He continued, "He really doesn't enjoy having free time. Hates it, honestly. His work is his life. When he's not on a case he'll do research, experiments. He once spent days cataloguing 143 different types of tobacco ash." That drew a quirk of one of Mary's light, lovely eyebrows. John could only shake his head. "Honestly, I think I'd forgotten what he's really like to be around... I should have known that dinner wouldn't turn out well. I'm sorry to have put you through that."

"Well, I'm sure his eccentric tendencies are exaggerated right now. He seems just as in shock as the rest of us about this. And wherever he's been, it's obviously been at least somewhat in hiding. It must have been a long time since he'd sat and just had a conversation with someone."

"Yes," John said softly, "I suppose it probably has."

"Part of the time it was like he didn't notice we were there. He'd start rambling on about something, not making eye contact, sort of... in his own world. Which," she pointed out, "he has been now for quite a while."

John swallowed the remainder of his tea and shook his head as he set the cup in the sink. "That stuff? Sherlock's always like that."

"With women you're dating?" she asked, wondering if perhaps it was just some kind of awkwardness around women. "Some men don't quite know what to make of women."

"With everyone," John replied, matter-of-factly. "Sherlock doesn't know what to make of anyone."

That didn't quite sit right with Mary. She frowned. "If that were true, he'd be a pretty rubbish detective. I thought you'd said he was brilliant at making these intricate snap deductions about people." Which, come to think of it, Sherlock had yet to make about her. She wondered if that was on some sort of request from John or if Sherlock were simply burnt out. She'd seen more 'paranoid and stressed out' than 'analytic mastermind'.

John's brow furrowed as if he'd never quite tried to parse out what he was about to say. "That's the thing. He can look at your hand, your shoe, or your wallet and tell you all about where you've just been, what you've been doing, what your profession is. It's incredible, honestly. But then it comes to basic social interactions and he's at a loss. Sometimes he just doesn't care, but other times he legitimately doesn't seem to notice or understand them. It's like he can read the facts and figures and clues about a person without ever really understanding that person at all."

That made perfect sense in Mary's estimation, particularly given some of the thoughts forming in her mind about Sherlock. "Well, the brain can only be clever with so many things. And kids who are gifted often get shunned by their peers, which only makes it tougher on their social development." Mary chewed her lip in thought and gave John an uncertain look. "I don't know, it was just... well, some of the things I observed with Sherlock and then some of the other things you told me, things like obsessively cataloguing types of ash, for instance..." she sighed. "You know, psychologists specifically aren't supposed to see everyone as a diagnosis. Particularly not people they hardly know. Nevermind."

"No, go on, you can't leave it like that now," John said, a concerned look on his face.

She supposed she couldn't. "Has he ever said anything about having Asperger's?"

John raised an eyebrow. "You've talked to Sherlock now. Does he seem like that type to talk about that sort of thing? I mean, he did proclaim himself a sociopath when I first met him, but I never thought that really fit. I don't think he even believes that."

"No, I shouldn't think so," Mary agreed.

John scratched the back of his head in contemplation. "But Asperger's... Lestrade and I used to sort of joke about it. Can't say I know enough about psychology to make a good assessment. But you really think so?"

"Well," Mary backtracked, "I probably shouldn't be making assessments either. It's not very professional of me to make some sort of snap diagnosis. It's not my particular area of emphasis, either, though I have seen a fair bit of it along the way. A lot of kids with OCD are misdiagnosed as having Asperger's, and vice versa," she sighed, setting her tea cup in the sink. Feeling restless and a bit disappointed in herself, she turned toward the back cabinet to search for a granola bar. She needed to head off to the hospital to work with some of her actual patients whom she genuinely knew and stop diagnosing strangers. "I probably shouldn't have said anything, and certainly don't take this as a diagnosis. All I mean is that some of his intense focus, ramblings, and inability to interpret social cues are often associated with some kind of Autism spectrum disorder, though they range widely in severity," she finished, turning around to face John, whose back was to the hallway to her office, as hers had just been.

Which is why neither of them had noticed Sherlock standing in the doorway at the end of the kitchen which led to his old room. "Please," he replied, the acid in his tone making it very clear he'd heard at least part of her last speech, "don't let me interrupt your chat."

Mary closed her eyes in frustration, unable to keep up some kind of pretence that she had no idea what he was on about. John, evidently more used to this sort of uncomfortable encounter, replied with equal venom, "Sorry to deprive you of your eavesdropping. Where've you been?"

"Here," Sherlock replied. "Took a shower, spent a bit of time cutting my hair." John made a face at that, to which Sherlock countered defensively, "Not out of vanity. It was getting in the way." Mary did note that he looked slightly better than he had done the night before, just a bit less disheveled. "Not to mention the bits of dried blood," Sherlock added.

"What exactly did you use to trim it?" John asked.

"Scissors in the desk," Sherlock answered, pushing between them to get at the tea kettle.

"Right," John drew the word out. "I'll add a new pair of scissors to the shopping list, then." He eyed Sherlock's outfit, still clad in the same jeans as the day before, but wearing a long-sleeved light blue New York City t-shirt John had bought on a visit years back. "Hang on, that's my shirt. That was in my closet... did you manage to sneak in while we were sleeping and raid my wardrobe?"

Thankfully, Mary's phone bleeped at her just then, cutting off further awkward conversation. She pulled it from her pocket and checked the indicated e-mail. She sighed, and John glanced over at her. "Don't tell me it's another one of those weird e-mails?" he asked.

She nodded wearily. Sherlock, to her surprise, turned around and cut in, "E-mails? What e-mails?"

John gave her a small shake of his head as if to say you don't want to get into this with him. Mary thought that was probably right. Besides, they were nothing. "Oh, a couple cryptic messages I've been getting the last week. Something about an investment or interesting business proposition. Clearly just spam," she said, brushing it off.

"Seriously, Sherlock, don't worry about it," John said, a touch of warning in his voice. "I've got to take a shower then head out." He glanced at Sherlock. "I'd say see you at dinner, but I know better than to make such brazen assumptions about your schedule," he said, a bit of friendly mocking in his voice.

"Oh, I expect I should be here," Sherlock replied lightly. "I've got one or two things to take care of, but I can hardly go running freely around London looking for cases, unfortunately. There's still the minor problem of my being legally dead. Actually, I should get to that in a bit."

"Well, you have fun with that. See you later," John said, giving Mary a kiss and heading up the stairs.

Looking at the time on the microwave, Mary realized she was a few minutes late leaving. Serves you right for spending breakfast meddling and gossiping, she reproached herself. She glanced up at Sherlock, who was sipping his tea and looking off at the window, who knew what running through his head. She thought of apologizing, and even opened her mouth to do so, but then thought better of it. He seemed, frankly, like he'd rather be left alone, just as he had the night before. So instead, she offered him a quick, "see you later," before heading to the door. She wondered if she'd ever even be given a chance to speak to Sherlock and prove herself not quite so dreadful as he imagined. Not to mention, to get a glimpse of the man John had spoken so highly of, wherever he was.

Chapter 4

Summary:

Sherlock goes to see Mycroft, collect his things, and confront his betrayer.

Notes:

I swear the plot begins in the next chapter... but first, some angst.

It was amazing how a few small changes in dress and the way you carried yourself could allow you to hide in plain sight. Sherlock had used disguises and pretences productively in many cases, but being dead provided new challenges. Half of Scotland Yard knew what he looked like, and most likely at least some personality-obsessed imbeciles still remembered the coverage of his exploits and downfall. As soon as he'd finished his business with Moriarty's network and been able to return to Britain, he'd realized there was quite a bit of work to do before he could walk around freely as himself.

Thus, the atrocious jeans and t-shirt combination he'd been wearing for the last couple weeks. He'd kept binning shirts and boxers along the way rather than bothering to wash them. Sherlock had grown used to traveling extremely light and changing identities every fortnight or so. This was hardly different, and had allowed him to track John around London quite successfully in the guise of a tourist. No one paid attention to tourists. At least, Scotland Yard didn't.

So, with a map of London in hand and a New York Yankees cap pulled down over his face, Sherlock Holmes turned onto the street where his brother lived. He glanced from the map to road signs as he walked. Stopping at the bottom of the steps, he glanced around as if considering other doors before walking up and pressing the buzzer. "Excuse me," he said in a flat, bland American accent, "I'm kinda lost. Can anyone here give me a hand?"

Without a word of reply, the door buzzed open a moment later, and Sherlock stepped inside. The stately decor and dark colours instantly reminded Sherlock of home. Not of the old 221B, but of his childhood home, all drab and severe and oppressively neat. He hung his annoying hat on a coat rack and walked around the corner into Mycroft's office, where he knew his brother spent the majority of his time when working from home.

"Tourist? Really, Sherlock, I noticed you on the camera as soon as you entered the block," Mycroft tutted, indicating his video surveillance monitor.

"I wasn't aiming to fool you," Sherlock pointed out.

"In any case, I can presume your work is done?" Mycroft asked, ever delicate.

Sherlock's mouth turned up in a small sneer. "You know it is. I can only assume you've had people following me." Not that he'd actually gotten wind of any, though there'd been plenty of other people after him at various times during his world tour. But with Mycroft, he always assumed he was under some level of surveillance. His brother had never bothered hiding this fact.

So Mycroft's response took Sherlock off guard. "Not at all," he said plainly. "I couldn't risk anyone else in the government realizing you were alive and that I had aided you. Not until everything was completed. Didn't want it causing trouble for either of us." Sherlock believed him, if only because Mycroft was so truly preoccupied with self-preservation. "But I did," Mycroft added, "order increased surveillance on Moriarty's network. The leaders of which seem to have increasingly wound up either imprisoned in unforgiving nations or dead over the last year or so."

Sherlock met Mycroft's somewhat reproving stare and replied, without wavering, "Not a great employee satisfaction rating, then."

Mycroft didn't rise to the joke, but instead stood, pulling a file out of his desk, notably one he had at the ready. He set it down on the mahogany surface and flipped it open. "The last piece to fall was Sebastian Moran, Jim Moriarty's most trusted lieutenant, an expert marksman and close quarters fighter." Sherlock's cheek twitched slightly at a flood of memories that were supposed to be deleted, but maintained his composure. "Three weeks ago, his body was found in the bottom of a sinkhole beside the Dead Sea. It had been there a few days before some hikers stumbled upon his belongings sticking halfway out of the sand."

"Yes, I'd heard they've been having issues with sinkholes there," Sherlock commented, still staring straight ahead at Mycroft.

When Mycroft looked up from the file into his younger brother's face, Sherlock was surprised to see something nearing concern in his eyes. He knew his brother would never bother to manufacture such a thing, and wondered at its origin. "The death was reported and ruled an accident. But the autopsy, which was marked classified due to Moran's known status as an assassin, showed bruises on his face inconsistent with his fall, bruising on his fists, blood under his fingernails, and multiple defensive wounds on his hands and arms." Mycroft continued to give Sherlock a look of hesitant concern. It was a little disconcerting, to tell the truth. Mycroft's concerns in the past had always led to nagging, but this time, the elder Holmes simply looked at his little brother gravely and said, "I'm very glad you're back." Much to Sherlock's surprise, he extended a hand to him. Sherlock glanced at it a moment, then turned his back and paced away.

"Mrs. Hudson told me you have my things. I need them back immediately," Sherlock said.

"Where should I have them sent?" Mycroft asked, not showing any outward sign of being hurt by his brother's snub.

Sherlock stopped, and threw an annoyed glance over his shoulder. "Baker street, obviously."

"Of course," Mycroft replied, not sounding terribly convinced. Sherlock continued to pace.

"It will look too obvious if you just deliver everything to the flat. Have my effects disguised as being sent to the sandwich shop below. I need my lab equipment, research notebooks, and my violin. Furniture would be too conspicuous, best to save that for when I'm reestablished." He allowed himself a moment to wistfully muse about how much better the flat would look again once he'd incorporated all his things. How much more at ease he would feel.

"For now," Sherlock continued, turning around to face Mycroft once again, "I should take some clothing back with me." He looked at his brother expectantly.

Mycroft looked reluctant instead of wearing the slightly irked expression he usually did. "This way," he said, giving Sherlock a glance as he walked past him and led the way to an upstairs room. Once again, Sherlock felt that annoying touch of pity and worry in his brother's demeanour. Whatever it was meant to accomplish, it only set Sherlock on edge.

Mycroft showed him to a closet where all of his clothing hung. The site gave Sherlock a moment of relief. Mostly black suits and dark shirts. Perhaps they would stand out, would make him look a bit too much like himself. He'd have to opt for something a little more casual (thus, hardly used) instead, but just the idea of being surrounded by something familiar helped him relax. There was a garment bag hanging on the end of the rack, and Sherlock instantly set about filling it with his things.

Behind him, Mycroft shifted and began talking again, which Sherlock really wished he'd stop doing. "Sherlock, you must realize that you are still officially dead. And while John and I worked hard to maintain your reputation in the wake of all that criticism, I'm afraid the public and certainly the Yard were left with a rather bad taste in their mouths where you were concerned. I can work to give you a cover story, bring you back to life, but it will take some time. In the meantime, I suggest you stay hidden. And for God's sake, stay out of murder cases."

"Oh, yes, thank you so much for taking care to restore my sullied reputation," Sherlock virtually snarled as he zipped up the garment bag and whirled around on his brother. "Some pompous twat gave a lot of sordid details of my life to the Fleet Street crowd. But I'm sure it was all worth it. Tell me," he growled, closing on Mycroft, "dear brother, were you able to get some valuable secrets off Jim before he stuck a gun in his mouth?" He stayed like that, face inches from his brother's for a moment, until Mycroft swallowed and looked away. Sherlock felt a bit of triumph. It was his own guilt Mycroft was feeling rather than real worry for Sherlock. Naturally. Good.

Sherlock had turned around to take the garment bag and leave when Mycroft said softly, "Sherlock, if there's anything I can do, anything at all to help you..."

Before he knew what he was doing, Sherlock had spun around and punched Mycroft with a strong right hook across the nose. Years of boxing training as a youth and more recent practice led to the punch producing a satisfying crack and a gush of blood flowing freely from Mycroft's nose, all over his own shirt and Sherlock's hand. Disregarding Mycroft's cry of pain and shock, Sherlock shoved him away. "I don't need your help, or your protection. As you've so wonderfully taught me, that's what I have me for."

He began to pace, his veins not throbbing with his usual intellectual giddiness, but unfettered rage focused through the intense computing power of his brain. Sherlock was shaking with it, his mind flashing through a thousand images of grisly violence, culled from years of study and cases and - deleted.

A reddish-grey haze filled Sherlock's vision. He leaned his head against a nearby wall for support, and began clutching at his sides, his fingernails digging in as if holding on for his life as he shouted in fury. He wasn't sure quite how long he stayed like that, but eventually he found himself coming to his senses. He was slumped against the wall, his borrowed shirt covered in swipes of Mycroft's blood. His brother had left the room at some point.

Shaking, his throat and sides in pain, Sherlock drew himself up. He wiped what was left of the blood on the tail of his shirt before slowly taking the garment bag out of the closet and into his hand. Sherlock silently opened the now closed door to the room and went out. He walked as quietly as he could down the stairs, but knew in his heart that no matter what he did, Mycroft would be waiting for him anyway.

And there he was, leaning delicately on the end of the banister, his eyes blackened and his swollen nose clearly broken. It had been years since Sherlock had had this sort of meltdown in front of his brother, but he was determined not to let it shame or fluster him. Sherlock kept his gaze straight ahead on the door as he paused at the foot of the stairs. "Get my things to me," he said, his voice hoarse but even.

"Sherlock..." Mycroft began, his voice calm yet strained.

Sherlock turned his head slowly toward this man, his supposed family. "You know, Mycroft," he said slowly, almost casually. "I always thought that as irritating and misguided as you were, you still had my best interests at heart. It's what kept me from telling you something like this." Sherlock leaned in, letting his proximity carry the threat, while his tone remained low and eerily calm. "If I ever see or hear from you again, you'll have far more than a broken nose to show for it."

With that, Sherlock silently turned and swept out the door onto the sidewalk, never minding that his disguise had been ruined.

Chapter 5

Summary:

John comes home from work to find Sherlock is already back to his old habits and looking for a case.

Notes:

Okay, it's taken a while to establish a lot of the running themes and issues for the characters, but finally in this chapter the plot emerges!

The first thing that reminded John was the music. Specifically, lovely bittersweet violin music that he could hear as he walked up the stairs. For all of Sherlock's annoying and frankly grotesque habits, the violin had always been a surprisingly nice exception. Hearing it now filled John with a nostalgia that was more than welcome.

Which was a good thing, because then he opened the door and saw what had become of the living room.

The site brought on a different nostalgia, more of a strong flashback. Stacks of cardboard boxes occupied random sections of the floorspace. Sherlock couldn't be bothered to put them all over to one side or in any apparent order. Some beakers filled with an unidentifiable green substance covered the coffee table. And he could see that evidently the skull had reclaimed its place on the mantle. The music, he now noted, was floating through the kitchen, from behind the closed door of the office, Sherlock's old room. This wasn't only the 221B of their time as flatmates; this was the 221B of when they'd first met.

Annoyed though he should have been, John couldn't help but smile. It was true, what he'd told Mary, that he'd romanticised Sherlock after his "death". But even now, faced with the reminder of his friend's highly unusual habits, John found that he didn't mind it at all. As he waded through the stacks of genius disguised as rubbish, he felt as though he were moving backward in time. At work, he'd had plenty of time to mull over the previous evening's events. Regardless of how world-shaking this turn of events was, John was going to fully embrace Sherlock's return. This was his best friend. No amount of belligerence or social blindness had ultimately driven them apart

Of course, Mary was another issue. She'd promised there was no rush to figure anything out, and knowing her saintly patience and understanding with all sorts of people, John believed her. Still, she'd most likely prefer not to have what appeared to be petri dishes with various things already starting to grow in them scattered about the kitchen counter. Nor a large microscope and cases of slides taking up half the kitchen table. He was trying to think of a good place to put all this when the violin playing stopped and the bedroom door opened.

Sherlock leaned out, looking like he was about to say something, but stopped, his brow furrowing. "Oh," he said, "it's you."

John's first instinct was to feel a bit guilty, wondering if Sherlock were really cross with him about this morning's admittedly very rude conversation. But then it occurred to him how strange Sherlock's statement was. "Yes, it's me. As opposed to..?"

"I was hoping it was Mary," Sherlock said, scowling a bit as he stepped into the kitchen room and began playing his violin again as he walked out to the living room.

"I can see you got your things from Mycroft." John indicated the room.

"Not all of them," Sherlock pointed out. "These all had to be sneaked in. Some items were too large or conspicuous for now. Haven't gotten much of it sorted yet so it's a bit of a mess. Sorry to be of trouble."

"No you're not," John replied, with humour, "you're practically beside yourself to be of trouble." He wasn't sure if he imagined Sherlock's small smile or not. "Well, at least you're looking more yourself," John said, opting not to get into a fight about the mess just yet. Instead, he tested the waters by moving a few petri dishes from the counter over to the coffee table. Sherlock didn't seem to mind. "Got some of your own clothes back." He nodded at Sherlock, clad now in black slacks and a plain grey button-up. "Where'd you put my shirt?"

Still walking in a slow, meandering path through the stacks of boxes, Sherlock stopped playing long enough to gesture with his bow toward the crumpled-up shirt on the top of one stack. "Tried putting it in the wash, but I'm afraid it didn't help much."

John wasn't sure what Sherlock meant until he picked up the shirt and saw that it was covered in half-faded brownish-red smears. He'd been a doctor long enough to know that on sight. "This is blood," he said, turning to Sherlock, who was looking out the window, his face to John in profile. "Are you all right? Did something happen?"

"I'm perfectly all right," Sherlock replied, flexing his bow hand a little, perhaps unconsciously.

John's eyes flicked to the knuckles of that long, white hand and immediately noticed that they were freshly scraped and bruised. He panicked a little at that, wondering how on earth Sherlock would have managed to get in a fight when he'd supposedly barely left the house. Then it clicked. "Aha," John said, trying his hardest not to laugh, "and how is Mycroft's... nose, I'm guessing, from this amount of blood." John couldn't say he much disapproved. There'd been many times, just after Sherlock's death, that he'd wanted to hit Mycroft himself.

Sherlock stopped playing, turning suddenly to look at John with appreciation. "Did you just make a deduction about my day's activity's?" he asked, sounding both shocked and proud.

A smirk turned up John's lips. "I do have to diagnose and treat traumatic injuries within minutes all the time in my job," he reasoned. "Which isn't to say I didn't learn a thing or two from you."

Sherlock made a self-satisfied "hmm" before turning back to the window and resuming playing.

Watching his friend, John wondered how long he'd been playing, but was certain it was pointless to ask as Sherlock wouldn't know. Instead, he reflected on the implications. "Violin means you're thinking," he said warily as he moved back toward the kitchen to resume his clean-up, hopefully before Mary returned from work.

"I'm always thinking," Sherlock countered.

"No, I mean thinking thinking. Like about a case," John said as he set the microscope on the coffee table next to the dishes and slides he'd moved. "Sherlock," he began slowly, "tell me you didn't pick up a case. You know everyone thinks you're dead and has to until things are sorted." Although he knew this intellectually, some long-dormant thing sparked in the back of John's mind for a moment at the prospect of that old lifestyle.

"So Mycroft reminded me," Sherlock said bitterly, clearly resentful. In the past, Mycroft warning his brother against something had been taken as somewhat of a challenge, though, and John wasn't entirely convinced. "No, I haven't picked up a case," Sherlock said, sounding so disappointed it made John more inclined to believe him.

"What did Mycroft have to say? Will he be able to help get you reinstated among the living?"

"So he says," Sherlock replied, drawing his bow viciously down against the strings, making the music louder and more insistent.

The front door creaked open then, and Mary entered. "Good evening, boys," she said, somehow managing to not be shocked or overwhelmed by the cluttered and occasionally ghastly mess before her.

"Mary," Sherlock said sharply, setting his violin down on his chair immediately and nearly bounding across the room to stand in front of her.

Surprised, Mary stammered, "Sherlock, what I said this morning, even if you weren't meant to hear it-"

"Oh, nevermind all that," Sherlock replied with an impatient wave of his hand, "I need on your computer."

"Oh," Mary replied, calm if a little taken aback in the face of Sherlock's rapid-fire demands. "Guess I should have asked this morning if you needed it. Didn't think about that, sorry."

"No, hang on," John cut in, with a bad feeling of where this might be going. "What do you want her computer for exactly?"

Mary put a hand on his arm and smiled. "It's no trouble, John..."

"I need to read her e-mail," Sherlock responded plainly.

"There it is," John said, glancing at Mary and shaking his head slightly if to say you don't know him like I do. Looking back at Sherlock, he asked, "Why haven't you just used it already. You always managed to break into mine."

"Because you kept choosing passwords related to personal tastes and things in your life. Her password didn't seem to have any relation to any of the items in her office. It isn't as though I were a hacker," Sherlock grumbled in annoyance. Frowning, he added, "And by the way, you're not using any of your old ones."

John laughed dryly. "We use random passwords. As I recall, something you always told me I should do."

Sherlock's lip curled up. "Well I didn't think you'd listen. At any rate," he said, his speaking pace ramping up again. "I've spent some time thinking it over. And those emails you've been receiving, Mary, can't have simply been spam. You said they'd been coming steadily for a week now. From the same address?"

"Yes," Mary replied.

"Spammers don't repeatedly e-mail the same person," Sherlock said to both John and Mary.

John folded his arms across his chest. "It could still be a targeted con," he reasoned.

Sherlock shook his head. "Towards a woman who's most likely thousands of pounds in debt after that much schooling, and has no business interests to speak of?" To Mary, again, "You said the messages mentioned business and an investment, two things you couldn't be expected to have any interest in."

Mary chewed on her lip thoughtfully. She was a cautious person by nature and not easily duped. She mused, "Unless they figure someone in debt is the sort of person who'd be desperate enough to go for something like that."

Sherlock considered Mary for a moment, as if sizing her up. After a moment, he challenged, "Then prove me wrong. Let me see the e-mails and I'm sure I'll be able to tell you."

Mary looked at John questioningly. He'd told her about Sherlock's abilities many times, and she had always said she would have loved to see him at work. Still, the idea of Sherlock prying into his girlfriend's e-mail didn't exactly flood him with excitement. He'd probably just conclude it was a scam after all... But something in John's mind had been thoroughly conditioned into believing Sherlock Holmes' so-called hunches, and he couldn't help but be partly thrilled at the prospect that something unusual might be afoot. John closed his eyes. Damn him.

He looked at Mary and gave her a small nod. She turned to Sherlock and shrugged, "Well it can't hurt anything just to have a look."

"Excellent!" Sherlock exclaimed with a gleeful clap of his hands.

Mary led the way into her office and sat down at the desktop computer she'd worked countless hours in front of this summer and would the rest of this year, John wagered. Sherlock put a hand on the back of her chair and leaned over her to see the screen, his fingers drumming impatiently as he waited for her to log in and pull up gmail. "Here, they're all in this conversation, though I've not replied as you can see."

John had read them all, and instead of looking at the messages watched Sherlock's eyes flicking back and forth over the words. The detective's lip quirked up in a smile, and that's when John knew they were done for. "As I suspected," Sherlock said, "he certainly talks like a businessman. Let me," he waved for Mary to get up. Though John didn't really like the commanding tone, he was used to it.

The rudeness must have been lost on Mary, because she did as Sherlock asked, standing up beside John to watch as Sherlock worked, clicking a few buttons and bringing up what looked to be html source code. John noticed how transfixed Mary was, the way she could get when sitting analysing her own data. But he knew Sherlock would never explain himself unless prompted, so he commented, "I thought you said you weren't a hacker."

"Please, this is hardly hacking," Sherlock said, copying and pasting some bits into another tab. "I simply opened the e-mail's original html source code and pulled out the sender's IP address. Normally the sort of thing hidden by a client like gmail, but fortunately business men tend to be in the habit of using an external client like Outlook or Thunderbird. Those unmask your IP address for the world to see." He smirked. "And I'm sure his company's IT people believe their stock virus software and firewalls stop this sort of thing. He thought as long as he didn't include his name, he didn't risk you calling his company or reporting him to the police." He opened a new tab of maps, copied and pasted something else in, hit enter, and sat back in his seat triumphantly. "There you are," he said.

"What, that's where the email was sent from?" John asked.

"Somewhere in that building," Sherlock asserted.

"Blimey, I'm never using Outlook again," Mary muttered. "But that looks like a really large office building. There've got to be at least a half dozen companies in there. How could we begin to know which office it was sent from, let alone which employee?"

Sherlock leaned forward again, clicking a link to the building's website. It was a business park and, indeed, there were eight companies listed. Sherlock looked at the page a moment, then he steepled his hands together under his chin, and spun slowly around, his eyes sweeping Mary's bookshelves. Mary seemed confused, and John waited with baited breath. It had been so long since he'd seen Sherlock work his magic that he'd ceased being used to it. Near the end of their friendship before, it had grown so commonplace he'd been taking that genius for granted. He hadn't realized it until Sherlock had supposedly killed himself while being branded a fake.

After what could only have been about six seconds, Sherlock glanced up at Mary and asked evenly, "Does your father know someone by the name of Sholto?"

Mary's face blanched, and her jaw dropped open. It was enough of a response to earn a small, understated smirk of triumph from Sherlock. And judging by Mary's stunned, wide-eyed expression, Sherlock had hit on something. Of course he has, John thought. But he was slightly worried as well, mostly by the reference to Mary's father. He gave his girlfriend a concerned look. Swallowing, Mary collected herself enough to ask, "How... how on earth did you know that?"

"You have a lot of items around your room from various parts of the world," Sherlock began briskly. "You've done a lot of traveling. Judging by that photo of you with some children in an African village and your current age, that was after university, some kind of humanitarian work. But there's one item that doesn't fit: that flag," Sherlock pointed to a light blue coffee mug with the outline of a country and some sort of Southeast Asian writing on it. John had noticed it before, in passing, but knew Mary had never used it. "It's Cambodian, but was only used from 1992 to 1993 during the time Cambodia was under UN Peacekeeping control. You'd have been no more than 15 or 16 at the time. Obviously the mug is from a parent who served there. Statistically more likely to be your father."

Mary shook her head. "That's incredible," she said. "But how could you possibly know about Major Sholto?"

Sherlock smiled and turned toward the list of companies on the screen. He was, in particular, indicating the entry for Alba Gem & Mining Company. "That's their UK phone number, naturally. This one, country code 855, that's Cambodia. The owner is listed as Bart Sholto. Those emails speak of a business opportunity, but also of a long-buried secret. The only connection I could see from your personal effects to any company in this building was this one. Therefore, your father must have known this Sholto from Cambodia. Am I wrong?"

It took Mary a moment to take in everything he was saying, but John could see from her reaction that Sherlock was right. Watson felt vicariously as amazed and surprised as he had the first time he'd met Sherlock and been analytically dressed down like that. "Only about one thing," Mary finally replied. "My father's friend wasn't called Bart. He was called Timothy."

Sherlock growled a little in frustration and turned back to the computer to pound away at the keyboard some more. As he did, Mary turned to John. "Is that the sort of thing I should always expect?" she asked in a low voice, though Sherlock could clearly hear them.

"Basically," John replied with a smile. For some reason, it felt vindicating for Mary to glimpse Sherlock's brilliance. It certainly was an improvement over his sullen and standoffish moods.

"Aha," Sherlock said, "you're right. Timothy Sholto, was the founder of the company. But he died a few weeks ago. The obituary notes that he's survived by two sons, Bartholomew and Theodore." Sherlock stood up. "May I speak to your father?" he asked Mary as he headed for the clothes cupboard and started shuffling through his things.

"I'm afraid not," Mary replied. "He passed away quite some time ago."

"Really," Sherlock said in a too chipper tone, "That makes this much more challenging."

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed, appalled.

"What?" Sherlock said, finding the item he was searching for and pulling it off its hanger. He looked at the glare on John's face. It took him a moment to process the cue, but when he had, Sherlock merely huffed. "Oh, for heaven's sake, John, she said it was ages ago. You were ready to chuck my things out and move your girlfriend in just a year after you'd seen me throw myself from a building. If you can handle that, I'm sure Miss Morstan's fine by now and can tell you all about the stages of grief and how she's gone through it all." Sherlock pulled out the item he'd freed: his long black coat. He shook some dust from it, then threw it on with an energized flourish. Then he reached in for a scarf and started tying it around his neck.

"Are you going somewhere?" John asked, getting that sinking feeling in his stomach when he knew that somehow, someway, Sherlock had managed to get them into something before John could stop him.

Sherlock looked at his watch. "It's 8:17. We're to meet this mystery man, also known as Bart Sholto, near the Princess Diana Fountain in Hyde Park at 10. But I presume you'll want to be there early, on the off chance that there's some sort of trap being set up. He'll barely have had time to get himself together, which is the idea, so I highly doubt it." There was a gleam in Sherlock's eye that was both familiar to John and just a little beyond what he remembered. It wasn't just excited, it was euphoric. Like he'd found a new high. As soon as that occurred to him, John shoved the thought away.

"Slow down, when did this happen?" John asked, holding a hand up to try to calm his friend.

Sherlock fidgeted impatiently. "I wrote him back a quick note while you two were marvelling. And, after all, he did tell Mary in his first e-mail that she could bring some people with her if that would make her more comfortable. Now come on!" he cried, a restless agitation bleeding through that John tried not to let give him too much pause. Instead he considered what was being presented to him, to them. A late night meeting with a mysterious figure connected to Mary's past in the middle of a park to talk about God knew what, possibly connected to her dead father. That was the sort of thing that would give most people a feeling of panic or, perhaps, utter incredulity.

But John felt only a dormant excitement stirring in his veins. It was the thing he'd sought after, and found to some degree, working in casualty. But Mary, he reminded himself, you've got to think about Mary. He looked at her, standing there very still and calm. He might have known she would be. That was her sort of response to even the most shocking of things. "I don't know," he said cautiously. "I don't want to put Mary in danger..."

At that, Mary's back straightened a little. "I don't need looking after," she said quietly but assertively. She looked off to a spot past Sherlock, somewhere she'd been staring, somewhere off in her mind. John knew her so well, knew how carefully and cautiously she puzzled things through. The last thing he wanted was for her to put herself in danger for the sake of some boyish romp. A few moments passed, then Mary looked Sherlock square in the eye and said, "I lost my father when I was 15 years old. You're right that the main part of the grief was put to rest long ago. But if there's someone out there who knows something about him, whether it's a business connection or not, I'll meet with him."

John squeezed her shoulder and turned her towards him. "Are you sure?" he asked, knowing the answer already. And, to tell the truth, his feet were already itching to head out the door.

"Yes," she replied. There was trepidation in her eyes, but also determination. John could have snogged her senseless in that moment, had Sherlock not been standing right there.

"Well, what are we waiting for?" Sherlock asked. When neither John or Mary had a response, he took that as his permission and started striding purposefully out of the room. John and Mary exchanged a glance before following after him. As he trailed an energized Sherlock Holmes to the front door of 221B, John couldn't help the smile that spread across his face. Maybe he had been wrong in his assessment of Sherlock's state of mind. He'd been worried that he'd seen a look in his friends eyes the night before that belied a haunted, troubled sort of mindset. But perhaps Sherlock really did just need to readjust, to have a little bit of mental stimulation. Not to mention, for the first time Sherlock wasn't snapping at Mary. And it couldn't hurt for John to go along. It couldn't be a way of life again, he reminded himself as he grabbed his coat off a peg by the door. This was just once, just because it was Mary and he cared about her. Besides, for all the cloak and dagger theatre of it, in the end, this was just a business meeting, wasn't it? At least it would keep Sherlock away from murder investigations.

Chapter 6

Summary:

Sherlock, John, and Mary go to meet with Bart Sholto. But things take an unexpected turn.

Chapter 6

If you'd asked Mary this morning if she thought hanging around Hyde Park for an hour in the cold of autumn would be a constructive use of her night, she'd have given you a flat 'no'. In fact, if you'd asked her that question at any time, she would have had the same reply. The cold, damp air was not one of her favourite things about London. But tonight it didn't seem a bother. There was too much on her mind for her to consider her body. She'd laid her father to rest, body and spirit, so long ago. But the sudden nature of his death (heart attack at the age of 45) and the fact that he'd been overseas working for the UN at the time had always made it difficult to come to terms with. He'd come home already cremated. And now it was a bit like having his ghost rise from those ashes. Mary didn't quite know how to feel.

And she didn't even have John to talk to about it. Sherlock had insisted that for safety's sake they should all sit behind different trees scattered around the Princess Diana fountain. As he'd said, it would enable them to see someone approaching from any direction. A bit paranoid, and not something Mary would have thought of herself. But then she didn't suppose she had many items in her checklist of Things to Remember on a Dodgy Stakeout. All she could do was attempt to remain focused enough on her surroundings that she might spot Bart Sholto when he showed up.

But Sholto never came. Instead, at almost exactly 10pm, the only person strolling toward the fountain was a middle aged woman dressed in a smart black suit. Mary frowned. She tried to look across at the tree where John was huddled in hiding to give him a questioning glance. But all she could see in the yellow-orange cast of the halogen lights was his silhouette, turned towards her. Mary wondered for a moment if he'd been watching her the whole time instead of their surroundings.

The suited lady went to stand in front of the fountain, looking around, then down at her watch. She seemed rather bored, to tell the truth, which Mary thought was awfully inconsiderate of her given how twisted with nerves her own stomach had been through over an hour of waiting.

Only a few seconds later, Sherlock Holmes strolled out casually from behind his tree and approached the woman. "You're Bart Sholto's driver," he stated. It wasn't a question. Mary guessed he'd managed to deduce that in one way or another. She'd seen already that, whatever other exaggerations or edits John had made in his stories of Sherlock, his insane reasoning powers couldn't possibly be overstated.

The driver looked at Sherlock suspiciously, perhaps even seeming a bit afraid. Mary wondered how much the woman actually knew about this whole secret meet-up. "Who are you?" the woman asked.

Instead of answering, Mary watched Sherlock give the woman a cursory up and down glance. Then he said, but not to the driver, "It's fine, she doesn't have any weapons."

Mary looked askance at John, as he was much more used to this sort of thing than she. But she remembered he probably couldn't see her face. Instead, they both started rising slowly, the unspoken agreement between them made solely with shadowy body language. As they stepped out and started approaching Sherlock and the driver, Mary and John's paths converged and he took her hand. "I hope you're Mary Morstan so we can get on with this," the woman said, clearly put off at the whole notion of this arrangement.

Mary nodded. "Yes, I'm Mary."

"And they are?" the woman asked, indicating both the men with a degree of uncertainty.

The one thing Mary had never dreamed of as she'd been sitting there waiting for their mystery guest to arrive was that they might wind up being the intimidating side of this meet-up. But she supposed the two black-coat clad men might be a bit frightening if you were only expecting to be pick up a young woman. Mary tried to keep this in mind and kept her suspicions out of her tone as she replied, "Mr. Sholto said I could bring some friends with me. They're interested parties. Is this going to be a problem?"

Glancing at the two men and then back to Mary, the woman shrugged. "Suppose not. I don't know why Mr. Sholto does half the things he does, but I guess it's not my place to judge his... quirks." The woman sighed. "Right, then, follow me," she said, heading off down a path towards an exit of the park. Sherlock followed without a word. Mary raised an eyebrow at John, who glanced at Sherlock then made a slightly apologetic face as if to say this is what you get when Sherlock's involved. At least it made her feel she wasn't out of her mind to think this was all extremely strange.

When they reached the black town car, Sherlock had already jumped eagerly into the back. The driver, who didn't seem interested in doing anything but the bare minimum duties, was getting into the driver's seat. Mary and John, hands still linked, paused outside the open back door. John glanced at her, saying softly, "You don't have to go if you don't want to. I can't say I've got any idea where this is all headed."

"Of course she has to come," Sherlock interjected from inside the cab, stepping on any fears and trepidations Mary might have had. "There's hardly a point to mulling it over when you know you're going to get in, so get in."

"Can't say much to that," Mary murmured, and followed John into the car.

The blacked out windows had prevented them from seeing where they were going on their twenty minute journey, but Sherlock casually informed Mary and John of the roads they were turning onto. Evidently, he was in possession of a cab driver's map of the city in his head, but Mary wondered at his being able to do this without looking. Heading generally north by north east, he'd said, ending with slowing to a stop on a road he insisted was Courtenay Avenue, whatever that was. "Expensive area, in line with the luxury of having one's own driver to send out, but more secluded than Belgravia or St. John's Wood. Private. That fits with what we know of Mr. Sholto," Sherlock mused before opening the door and bounding out.

When Mary followed, she was surprised to see that they were indeed not in a posh, urban part of town but parked in front of a massive home with swirling columns dotting its two-storey facade. They appeared to be on a tree-lined road dotted with similarly large houses. "Blimey," John remarked as he followed her out, "I should have gone into the mining business." As soon as he shut the car door behind him, the impatient driver pulled away, leaving them with no choice but to approach the mansion.

Mary, though impressed, was a bit unnerved by the place to be honest. Having never had a great deal of money, the opulence was discomforting. Or perhaps it just fed into the strangeness of the situation. Hopefully, she thought, things would become more clear and simplified in a few moments when they actually got to speak with this Bart Sholto fellow.

"Your meet up," Sherlock told her, nodding to the door in indication that she should ring the bell.

Slowly, Mary reached forward and pressed the small button. A pleasant series of rings could be heard emanating from inside the foyer, rather different from the insistent buzzing sort of sounds Mary was used to hearing in flats. A furious patter of feet quickly followed, and the door was practically thrown open only a few seconds later.

"Thank God you're here so quickly!" cried a young, frail blonde woman in a plain black dress that Mary supposed was a sort of modern housekeeper's uniform. There were streaks of mascara trailing in tears down her cheeks. "It's just awful, I never thought I'd have to see something like this."

Mary, though inclined to panic a bit herself at this, instead put a hand on the girl's shoulder. She couldn't have been more than 20. "Shh, take some deep breaths and tell us what you mean. What's going on?"

The girl sniffed and looked at Mary in confusion. "Doesn't the 999 operator tell you what I said?" Her eyes flicked to the two men plain-clothed men standing behind Mary. "You are the police, aren't you? You're not dressed like police."

"Detectives don't wear uniforms," Sherlock cut in promptly. He produced a wallet with what looked like official identification, to Mary's great surprise. "DI Lestrade," Sherlock said, as if by way of introduction. Mary noticed John rubbing his forehead and closing his eyes in response to this. Mary guessed this must not be the first time this had happened. "Show us to the scene," Sherlock demanded.

The girl looked a little taken aback by his curt tone, but wiped the mascara from her face and nodded. Mary understood how even the illusion of an official presence could calm someone down. The girl let them into the foyer, which to Mary's surprise smelled of incense and was lined with stone statues done in a distinctly eastern style. The girl led the way up a grand staircase and along several twisting hallways. They were uniformly lined with brightly coloured gold-threaded tapestries, bas relief wood sculptures of the Buddha, several finely printed photographs of what Mary recognized as Angkor Wat, several photos of the Alba Gem & Mining Company, and various other places that she assumed must also be in Cambodia.

As they walked, Mary hung back a few steps with John. "Is this a good idea? Impersonating the police?"

"A good idea? Maybe," John replied tightly. "But certainly not a wise one."

The housekeeper stopped in front of a large oak door. "Here, that's Mister Sholto's room. He's in there, but it's locked. I'd tried knocking but when he didn't answer, I looked through the keyhole..." She pointed at the large, old-fashioned lock on the door and tears began rolling down her face again. Sherlock let out an annoyed breath.

"What's your name?" Mary asked the girl gently, jumping in before Sherlock could make a blunt comment. He glared at her over the girl's head, but she ignored it. She wasn't quite sure how to go about pretending to be a detective, but Mary at least knew people and knew that they'd find out more if they didn't terrify this poor child.

Trembling, the girl looked at Mary. "Julie," she replied.

"Julie," Mary repeated evenly and kindly. "Tell us, do you have a key to Mister Sholto's room?"

Sherlock looked away from this conversation and peered in through the skeleton keyhole. Julie shook her head. "The only one who has that besides Mister Sholto is Mister Gardner, the butler. And he's off in Ibiza on a two week holiday. His first in five years, he said."

Standing back up, Sherlock glanced briefly at Julie before, to Mary's horror, reaching over and pulling out one of the girl's hairpins without so much as a warning or request. Julie jumped in surprise, and John shot Sherlock a highly annoyed look that the detective ignored. Instead, he started bending the kirby grip, then leaned over and began working the pin into the lock. "You'll have to excuse my colleague," John told Julie, "He's a bit unorthodox. In fact, it might be best if you went and sat downstairs."

The young woman blinked, then nodded. "All right. I don't want to see what's in there again anyway." She indicated the door, the latch of which had just given aclick as Sherlock finished picking the lock. Julie turned away and headed back in the direction of the stairs before she could see inside. For her part, Mary's natural instinct was to go sit with the girl. But she couldn't deny her stronger desire to find out what was in that room and how this all related to her and her father. She turned back toward the door as Sherlock pushed it open.

The scene inside was shockingly immediate. Directly across the room from the door, perhaps 15 feet away, a man lay slumped onto a desk, blood pooling around his head, dripping down the desk legs to the carpet, a spray of crimson on the wall. Mary gritted her teeth and managed not to look away from the sight, but she did put a hand against the doorframe for balance just in case.

"Jesus," John muttered, though he didn't seem particularly appalled or surprised. More exaspertated. She supposed with his job and past experiences both in the war and with Sherlock, he wouldn't be easily shocked. But after a moment, he seemed to remember her presence and gave her a concerned look. "You okay?" he asked. "If you're not..."

Mary once again replied with a curt nod. She appreciated John's concerns over all of this, but really she was fine. She wondered at his seeming so apologetic about pulling her into the world he'd occupied before they'd met. Perhaps he thought she'd reject it, but if so he underestimated her.

"John," Sherlock beckoned to him curtly, and John turned back around into the room, going to stand next to Sherlock. Mary followed just a few steps into the room, hanging back near the door. "Well?" Sherlock asked John.

"Gunshot wound, obviously. Close range. Couldn't really be at any other range in a locked room," John mused. He seemed a bit hesitant, and Mary noted with interest that it was like watching someone try to pick up a cricket bat who hadn't played in years.

Sherlock, for his part, seemed completely energized by the situation. "A handgun, .45 calibre," he said, pointing to a shell lying on the ground about 10 feet away. "Notice the angle?" he seemed positively thrilled, to a degree which was slightly disturbing to Mary, but John simply considered the bloody head wound in a detached manner. She supposed he saw some of those now in A&E. Still, she was reminded of why she hadn't become a medical doctor. All she could see was some poor man in his late 30s, his face turned slightly towards her, eyes open in shock, his jaw half blown off in a mess of red. As much as she tried to make it impersonal, she couldn't help but think, This is Bart Sholto. The man who's been trying to contact me. The man who knew something about my father. A shudder ran through her, and Mary tried to refocus.

John had been leaning in over the body and now looked up at Sherlock. "High angle?" he ventured. Sherlock nodded, far too pleased, almost giddy. "So the killer was, what, really tall?"

Sherlock's excited expression fell a little. He waved a hand as if swatting a fly. "No, no you didn't look closely enough. The shot's entered nearly at the crown of the head, exiting through the jaw. That's not an angle of a tall person, unless he's 10 feet. And look at the floor," he crouched down, waving his hand over the neatly cleaned, nearly-white carpet. "This carpet's clean, as in spotless, recently steamed. Look at the bits of dirt we've tracked in. At the indents we've made and the change in the carpet's colour as it's been brushed against the grain by our feet. And there's a path of Bart's own leading in here and directly to the desk and chair." Mary tried to pay close attention, determined to be enthralled with this. It was certainly better than looking at Bar- at the corpse.

"But... there aren't any other indentations or areas of dirt," John filled in. Mary supposed that was true. That was something to focus on, footprints. Clinical, just be clinical, she reminded herself.

"Precisely," Sherlock replied. He pointed to the carpet again, to an area that seemed spotless. "But look at all this," he said, his head snapping up to look between John and Mary, his eyes gleaming as if he were a kid who'd just spotted Wally.

There was a beat as John and Mary exchanged confused glances. "Look at all what?" John asked hesitantly.

Sherlock's expression fell into one of open shock. "Dear God, I'd forgotten just how blind you lot are." He reached his hand down and ran it across the carpet, scooping something up. Then he stood and held his palm out to John and Mary, who had unwittingly stepped closer to the scene as she's started to pay more attention to Sherlock's explanations. Now she saw that he was holding a mass of white paint flecks and what looked to be perhaps tiny splinters of wood.

"How did you even see those?" Mary marvelled, though she was totally clueless as to their significance.

"I looked," Sherlock replied irritably. He then pointed up at what Mary noticed was an attic door in the ceiling of the room, just under where Sherlock had gathered the paint flecks. "The killer wasn't tall. He was aiming from the attic." Without further comment, Sherlock spun around, looking about the room. Spotting a chair at a small breakfast table, he grabbed it and carried it over to a spot just under the attic door.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John reprimanded, seeming to see where this was going.

Sherlock didn't respond, instead climbing up on the chair and squinting in concentration at the ceiling just about a foot above his head. He reached up and pulled something out of the crack between the attic door and the ceiling. He flipped it over, studying it, before showing it down to Mary. "Does this mean anything to you?" he asked. It was a blue-backed four of diamonds card.

"No, why should it?" Mary replied.

Sherlock shrugged. "Just a thought. He was your associate after all."

Mary balked at that. "Myassociate? I'd never met him."

Sherlock slipped the card into his pocket, then turned his attention back up to the attic door. "Still, the message might be meant for you, whatever it is." He tugged at a ring on the door and it popped open and swung down with a thunk. There was no ladder, just a dark entry to who knew what.

"Message?" Mary asked, starting to feel unnerved and very aware of her surroundings once again. The idea of some sort of message being left for her at a crime scene was extremely unsettling.

"Well, the killer didn't just accidentally leave the four of diamonds wedged in the attic, and it couldn't have been there before because it would have fallen out when he opened the attic door to shoot Sholto," Sherlock pointed out, and Mary supposed that must be true.

John sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. "Why is it, Sherlock, that everything was going along normally in my life until you turned up alive? Suddenly odd deaths are happening all around me again."

"That's hardly my fault," Sherlock replied haughtily. "This is your girlfriend's case. Besides, it's only that you notice the odd things more now that I'm around again. I raise your powers of perception, it seems." Sherlock gave a proud smirk before turning his attentions back up to the attic door.

"Does someone really need superhuman powers of awareness to notice a man lying dead in his room?" John replied, sounding a bit annoyed at the patronising. But as Sherlock put a hand on either side of the entrance to the attic, John's expression and tone changed to one of panic. "Sherlock, are you mad? No." He moved as if to yank his friend off the chair.

But Sherlock had already established a firm grip on either side of the doorway and, to Mary's great surprise, pulled himself up into the attic with a smooth motion that must have required a lot more lithe upper body strength than Mary would have given the man credit for. Still, she was as alarmed as John. "Wait! If the killer came in through the attic, wouldn't they be up there still?"

"I should hardly think so," Sherlock's voice echoed down from above. "He didn't enter through the room, so I'm sure however he got in, he's gone back that way already. If only I could find..."

"Sherlock," John hissed, "Are you mad? Get down from there. You do remember that the police, the proper police, have been called and will most likely be here any minute? You're meant to be dead. We've got to get out of here."

There was no response from above. But it was the sort of thing one should never, ever utter, because no sooner had John pointed this out than Mary heard the noise of several people talking and tromping up the stairs. Panic at the thought of being caught at the scene of a very recent murder seized her. It wasn't the sort of place she'd ever expected to be, let alone under what could be deemed suspicious circumstances. A heavy feeling settled in her stomach as it dawned on her that, even if she hadn't been here, Bart's emails to her might well draw attention from the police as it was. How many more questions would she get for being at the scene, and under the guise of being a police officer herself? Her instinct was to run, but there was nowhere to go and in any case Julie had already seen them. With dread, she realizes there was nothing for it but to await the inevitable.

"Shit," John gritted out, looking wildly between the door and the attic, calculating. But he must have come to the same conclusions Mary had, because ultimately he wound up stuck to the spot as the voices approached; then a few police officers appeared in the doorway. At the lead was a pretty but stern-looking Black British woman in plain clothes whom Mary supposed to be the detective.

"That's them, the ones who said they were the police," Julie said.

The detective's stern features twisted into surprise, and Mary was just scrambling to put together a coherent and honest explanation when the detective remarked not to Mary but to John, "What the hell are you doing here, Doctor?"

Mary turned her head to look at John, who had turned white as a sheet, his mouth stuck open in what she could only call abject horror. Someone he knew, then.And, it dawned on Mary, someone who would know Sherlock.

Before either John or the detective could reply, however, Sherlock Holmes dropped down from the attic onto the floor in a fleet-footed, spirited manner. "I'm sure the killer exited through the roof somewhere, but I'll need a torch to see more." An utter stillness came over the room, as if everyone but Sherlock had stopped breathing. He was facing a wide-eyed John, but a man that observant had to have already known there were other people in the room now. He'd have heard them even before he dropped down. Which explained his utterly casual attitude and, Mary thought, even pleased triumph as he turned and said to the detective, "Ah, Sergeant Donovan. You'll be happy to know I've done a lot of the work for you already, as usual." He smiled.

Donovan looked as if her mind had been wiped totally blank. Then some sort of professional instinct must have kicked in because she reached for the CS incapacitating spray bottle at her side and quickly drew it up in a threatening stance. "Hands up!" she barked. John looked appalled and at a loss for something to say. Sherlock failed to be flummoxed.

"Now, Sally, is that any way to treat an old friend?" Sherlock asked in mock reproachfulness.

"I'd shut up if I were you, Freak," Donovan spat back, and Mary flinched at the way she used the insult like a name. As if that was how this woman always referred to Sherlock. Something about that made Mary quite offended and bit sad for his sake, particularly because he appeared used to it.

"Can we skip the dramatics and incredulous questions for now and instead discuss the man lying dead?" Sherlock asked evenly.

"No, we can't," Donovan replied. "I'll get to my crime scene just as soon as I've dealt with you. Now put your hands up. Search him," she ordered one of her officers. The man gave a curt 'yes ma'am' before approaching Sherlock.

"On what grounds?" Sherlock snapped, causing the officer to pause mid-step.

"The police have a right to search criminals," Donovan replied, "especially ones they're arresting."

That shook John from his state of speechlessness. "Sally, come on now, is this necessary?"

"It's Detective Inspector Donovan," she replied icily. "And you'd better stop talking unless you want to be taken in as well. You've probably known he was alive all along."

"No, I swear, I only found out yesterday. Lestrade doesn't know, either," John insisted. "I just think we ought to explain how we wound up here before you jump to any conclusions."

"Oh, we'll get to that down at the Yard," Sally replied. To the officer frozen near Sherlock, she said, "Sergeant Collins, the search?" The man stepped over to Sherlock, who stood still, not putting his hands up but not resisting either.

"The Yard?" Sherlock asked, quirking an eyebrow as Collins began patting him down. "What charge could you possibly be arresting me for?" Mary was feeling extremely nervous already, but that mention made her stomach churn with anxiety. Were they all going to be arrested?

Sally for her part only grew more upset. "Are you serious? We'll start with impersonating a detective, faking your own death, escaping police custody, and kidnapping. Who knows, we might get to add in some drug charges if we're lucky. Be like old times."

Mary watched Sherlock's cheek twitch slightly at this, saw him shift irritably and noticed his flippant expression turning into a glare. Mary wasn't sure, but thought it might have been embarrassment she was sensing from Sherlock. Mary glanced at John, who looked annoyed on his friend's behalf. I suppose that answers that question, Mary thought dismally, recalling Sherlock's angry remarks about rehab the previous evening at dinner. John and Mary had drifted closer together, unable to do much but look on helplessly as Collins began pulling items out of Sherlock's pockets: a pen, some blank scraps of paper, the four of diamonds, a wallet, and Lestrade's stolen identification.

"You know," Donovan mused, clearly pleased to have shut Sherlock up for a moment, "that article Kitty Riley wrote got it pretty spot on with that. And with her details about all your faked brilliance, the crimes you'd set up. She must have had some good sources. Makes me wonder if she was right about some of those other things," Sally mused. Sherlock continued to stare straight at her, unwavering and unanswering. John, however, was starting to swallow uncomfortably, and Mary shared his apprehension, even though she didn't know why. "For instance, is it true that there hasn't ever been a woman idiotic or insecure enough to sleep with you? That would restore my faith in the intelligence and instincts of women where creeps are concerned."

Mary saw John's face grow red with anger, and put a hand on his to stop him from doing or saying something to Donovan they'd all regret. Not that she blamed him. She hardly knew Sherlock (and had never wanted to know all the things Kitty Riley had told the whole world in her article), but she felt utterly mortified on his behalf. This time, though, there was no nervous or embarrassed reaction from Sherlock. He'd evidently steeled himself now, and instead replied with relish, "I suppose you think I should take a lead from you and start shagging my married acquaintances?"

All humour drained from Sally's face. "That's enough out of you, Freak," she spat bitterly. She shoved Collins and his bag of Sherlock's items aside, pulled the handcuffs from her belt, and circled around to Sherlock's back. Grabbing first one hand, then the other, she snapped the cuffs tightly around his wrists. Mary noticed Sherlock wince ever so slightly. Then Donovan pushed on his back to get him to walk forward. "You do not have to say anything," the detective began reciting the rights as Sherlock made a face of pure, seething loathing. Nevertheless, he let her push him towards the door. "But it may harm your defence if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence," Donovan finished just as they exited the room, members of her squad both in front and behind them.

Mary turned to John to ask him if they should follow, but he had already started for the door.

Chapter 7

Summary:

John and Mary head to Scotland Yard to learn Sherlock's fate, but wind up discovering more about his past than they bargained for.

The cab ride to Scotland Yard had taken far too long in John's opinion. The whole time he'd been apologizing to Mary for dragging her into this. She kept insisting it was fine, but he still felt horribly awkward about the whole thing. Things with Sherlock had gone from odd behaviour to arrest in record time, and John could tell Mary was at least overwhelmed by it. By the time they'd reached the Yard and been directed to the lounge for friends and family of those awaiting processing, he could see that the reality of the whole thing was hitting her. She'd grown quiet as they'd been sat down in some plastic chairs and told they'd have to wait for news.

And Mary was never quiet in a crisis. She was the one usually asking him how he was doing, but now as she sat there biting her nails (a bad habit she rarely indulged anymore), he found himself saying, "You know, I appreciate your support, and I know you keep saying you're fine with being here, but are you absolutely positive you don't want to go home?"

"Oh, I'd love to," Mary replied, "except then I'd just go more out of my mind than I already am. I'd be just as anxious about what's going on. It's not as if what happens to Sherlock stops affecting me if I go home, does it?"

She probably didn't mean that as an accusation, but John still couldn't help feeling guilty. This definitely wasn't something she'd signed up for, and now it was going to affect her... what, forever? If they got married, he realized, it would. Well, he reasoned sardonically with himself as he looked at his surroundings, not if Sherlock's in jail.

John glanced over at Donovan, who had been standing by the clerk's desk filling out some paperwork since they'd come in. She'd given him an icy stare that told him not to attempt talking with her. Which was probably for the best, as he knew he wouldn't be able to remain calm and didn't think it was polite to punch a lady, and certainly not a detective in a police station. After sitting for about ten minutes in silence, however, someone else entered from the back, and John sat up straight at the voice.

"Where is he?" Inspector Lestrade demanded of Donovan without any preamble.

"Not your concern, Greg," Donovan replied, not looking up from the form she was finishing. John was surprised at her use of Lestrade's first name, but he guessed she must like to remind him that they were of equal rank now. Of course she would.

Looking at the sheet, Lestrade's eyebrows shot up. He ran a hand through his grey hair. "Is all of that necessary?"

Sally looked at him evenly. "Yes, it's necessary. It's the law, and these are the ones he's broken. At least the ones that he can still be prosecuted for. Or do you think I should just excuse him? He's your pet, Greg, not mine." She handed the form over to the clerk at the desk. "Now I have the interview to conduct." With that, she pushed past him and scanned her keycard to let her through the door to the back.

John stood and approached the detective. He hadn't seen the man in ten months, since the previous Christmas when Lestrade had invited him over. John felt a bit bad about falling out of touch, but the thing they had in common had no longer existed, so they thought. Besides, it wasn't as though John had been providing case input anymore. "Inspector," he said a little tentatively.

The detective turned at the familiar voice. "John!" he said in relief. "I was just about to call you, but I'm guessing your being here means you already know."

"He came back last night," John confirmed.

Lestrade shook his head in bewilderment. "So he really is alive? It's not just some case of mistaken identity or someone trying to be funny?"

"Very much alive," John replied. "And obviously already his usual self."

Lestrade made a sound of amusement. "Judging by the report Donovan was filing, I'd say so." He ran another hand through his hair. "Ah, look, you should come back to my office. Be a bit easier to talk about this there."

John agreed, and was relieved at the prospect of getting out of this lounge with its weeping mothers, unsavoury looking blokes, and frankly appalling looking coffee. "That's a good idea. Ah," he looked over at Mary, who was observing the conversation but clearly trying not to intrude. "Is it all right if my girlfriend comes, too? She lives with me and, well, she was at the crime scene with Sherlock and me anyway. She's a witness and all that."

"Oh," Lestrade said, a little surprised. He turned to Mary, who stood. "Absolutely, you should come back."

"This is Mary Morstan," John said, motioning to her as she walked over to join them. "This is Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"Greg," Lestrade corrected, shaking Mary's hand. "Your boyfriend's a too polite old friend of mine. He and Sherlock helped me get convictions in more than a few cases." He added, chagrined, "Some of which managed to hold up after the legal reviews." John knew that was a sore spot, having the cases Sherlock had worked on poured over with a fine-toothed legal comb. It was a small miracle it hadn't cost Lestrade his job, to be honest.

"It's nice to meet you," Mary said, "I've heard good things."

"Oh," Lestrade looked at John in mild surprise, "fantastic. Well, let's not hang around here longer than we have to." He swiped his card and the door buzzed open, letting them into the hallway.

The detective led them down past some interview rooms and what looked to be steel-doored holding cells, but there were no windows so John couldn't see where Sherlock and Donovan might be. At the end of the hall, they got on a lift to the third floor. John recognized this floor from the last time he'd been to Scotland Yard, when he and Sherlock were brought in to interview the girl Moriarty had kidnapped. The seafoam green and white walls weren't a thing one forgot. They followed Greg into his glass-panelled office, whereupon he drew the blinds for some privacy.

"This is much nicer than being downstairs," Mary remarked in relief. John could see a little bit of the tension going out of her. At least she'd stopped biting her nails.

"Yes, which is to say that it had drab blue carpet instead of drab blue tiles," Lestrade replied in his upbeat sarcastic manner as they all sat down. "Now, if you tell me what exactly was going on at this crime scene when Donovan showed up, I can take your official statements so you have to talk to her as little as possible."

"That would be amazing," Mary replied in relief, maybe too quickly.

Lestrade and John exchanged bemused grins. "She shares Sherlock's love of Inspector Donovan, I see," Greg noted. When it looked like Mary might retract, he waved a hand. "You'll get no objection from me."

"She was horrible to Sherlock," Mary explained. "She made some incredibly personal comments and it was very unprofessional. I mean, I suspect anyone who knows him can tell Sherlock's a bit of a prat, but really." She blanched a little, realising what she'd said. "That won't be part of the official statement, will it? Sorry, John."

Lestrade smirked. "I'll omit it."

"Oh, don't worry, it's the truth. He'd say so himself." John smiled in bemusement, strangely proud of Mary for being loyal to a man she hardly knew, even if she was beginning to realise what a chore Sherlock could be. But then, John himself had become very loyal to Sherlock in a very short time. Still, he wasn't about to kid himself that the whole 'Sherlock crashing in our living room' situation was going to be tenable for long.

"Well, technically these statements should be taken separately, but we won't mention it to Donovan. God, she's got to be livid to see Sherlock alive."

"Is she so petty she'd really rather he be dead?" John asked, gobsmacked.

"Well, you've got to remember, 'exposing' Sherlock is, in large part, what got her that promotion. Unfortunately as she doesn't work for me any more, it's a lot trickier for me to have much say in her investigations. Still, who minds someone helping with their paperwork, eh?" Lestrade said, sliding out the shelf with his keyboard on it. Mary and John proceeded to describe the whole scenario, beginning with the emails she'd received and ending with Sherlock's arrest. "So basically," Greg said, looking at John, "a pretty typical night in your adventures with Sherlock Holmes?"

John rubbed the bridge of his nose. "You could say that," he said in exasperation. In a way, he knew, it was all very thrilling to him. In a way, he was as addicted to the game as Sherlock was. But sometimes, like in this instance, there were very real consequences. And it began to occur to him that, with the list of charges being as long as what Donovan had given, Sherlock's odds weren't looking great. It seemed impossible that Sherlock could actually be imprisoned, simply because he was Sherlock and nothing kept him caged. But John couldn't help wondering how they'd managed to go from the joy of his friend being alive to the insanity of their current situation in such a short time. "Was it always like this with Sherlock, or is it just with me that he gets into these sorts of situations?"

"No, it definitely wasn't always like this," Lestrade affirmed, his tone suddenly more sober.

John licked his lips anxiously. "Why, what did he do before he met me?"

"Cocaine, mostly. Heroin on occasion," Lestrade replied.

"God," John breathed, closing his eyes. When he opened them, he noticed Mary still had hers shut, and wondered what she must be thinking. This definitely isn't what she signed up for, he thought again.

"Sorry," Lestrade said, noting both John's and Mary's distress. "I don't mean that as a joke. It's just that as insane as this situation seems, him being hauled in here under arrest for all kinds of things, it's really a lot better than it used to be."

John laughed humourlessly, thinking of the long list of charges Donovan had filed against Sherlock. "I don't see how that's possible."

"Course it is. You're here, aren't you?" Lestrade replied seriously. John shifted in his seat, considering that. He knew Sherlock hadn't ever really had any other friends to speak of. If he'd thought about Sherlock's past brushes with the law at all, he'd always assumed Mycroft would have been there to get Sherlock out of it. But thinking about it now, he supposed Sherlock might not often accept his brother's help. And even when he did, it was sure to be begrudgingly.

Lestrade leaned forward on his desk, seemingly exhausted just by the memories. "You don't know how many times I dragged him into jail for a night, or maybe 30 days at the most. At the end of it, he'd just take off on his own and I knew he was gonna go straight to one of his dealers."

John felt his stomach was all stuff he should have known, did know intellectually, but had never really asked about. If he was being honest, he'd preferred to think of his friend's addiction as a thing of the past. Oh, he'd search his room on occasion when Mycroft was particularly concerned. But he'd never really want to know the details. And now this was all coming out with Mary here as well. She had a look of incredible anguish and worry on her face, and John wasn't sure what that meant. Lestrade was looking at both John and Mary, seeming uncertain but clearly having more to say. To John's surprise, it was Mary who spoke up. "It's all right," she said, despite looking pained. "Go on."

Lestrade continued, "Sherlock was shooting up at least three times a day before I finally put my foot down, told him he wasn't getting a single case until he went to rehab. That was the only thing that could motivate him. It wasn't really that he wanted to get clean. Said the cocaine helped sharpen his mind, made him think more clearly." Lestrade leaned back in his chair and finished solemnly, "No, I'll take faking his own death and impersonating me at a crime scene any day over the drugs."

"So will I," John replied softly, not quite knowing what more to say. He felt as if a terrible load had been set upon his shoulders. And Mary's, too, he realised. Everything to do with him or Sherlock concerned her now as well. He shook himself, grasping at something positive. "Thank God he's been clean for a long time now, anyway."

"Well," Lestrade paused to think back on it, "three years now I guess. That's by far his longest streak."

"Hang on," John replied, suddenly unsettled. "Three years? How long had he been clean when we moved in together?"

"Dunno," Lestrade mused. "The rehab program was three months so I'd guess... three months and a few days?" John ran a hand over his face, which he was pretty sure had lost all colour. Lestrade looked a little sheepish. "He never told you that, did he?"

"Guess it didn't seem important to him," John replied, surprised at the anger in his voice. He felt Mary's warm hand clasp his own, and looked over at her. He was instantly grateful for the commiseration evident in her gaze. Even if it was mixed with her own anxiety over hearing all this.

"Well, anyway, that's why he was looking for a new place," Greg explained. He hesitated before asking, "He is clean still, isn't he?"

John tried not to panic too much at the question. It was a fair enough question, but it sent his mind racing through the interactions he'd had with Sherlock in the last day. After a moment, he replied, "I think so, yeah. He seems fine to me. Brilliant, irritable, socially impaired - his usual self." Lestrade smiled at that. "Why do you ask? In fact, why bring all of this stuff about the drugs up now at all?"

The inspector fidgeted in his chair, but clearly knew he couldn't keep anything from John at this stage. "One of the things I saw on Donovan's sheet. Probably nothing, just out of spite, but she's having him take a drug test." Lestrade gave Watson a look of forced casualness. "Wondered if you knew what it might show."

"It will show nothing," a voice from behind John said, startling all of them.

John wasn't quite sure how Mycroft had managed to ease the door to Lestrade's office open without any of them noticing, but somehow it didn't surprise him. The man's swollen nose and black eye confirmed John's suspicions about Sherlock's earlier 'conversation' with him. John couldn't help the feeling of satisfaction he took from it. Turning to Lestrade, slightly accusatory, he asked, "Did you call him?"

Lestrade looked almost as miffed as John felt. He could have hugged the inspector for that. They'd all spent some time attempting to clear Sherlock's name of the filth Mycroft had helped fling on it. "No I didn't," he said coolly. To Mycroft, he asked, "What are you doing here?"

Mycroft smiled without humour. "Do you really believe I don't know when my little brother is arrested? How many times have we gone through this scenario?" His eyes drifted to Mary, who looked to be having a really hard time taking all of this in even before the appearance of a complete stranger. "But where are my manners?" he said, nodding in her direction. "I'm Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's brother. You must be Mary Morstan."

Well that's not going to help, John thought, irritated as usual at everything Mycroft did. In Sherlock's absence, he'd grown to resent the man nearly as much as Sherlock did. He'd repeatedly offered John monetary assistance in paying the rent, but Mrs. Hudson had saved him from having to take it. And now here Mycroft was freaking Mary out. She stared at Mycroft in surprise and suspicion before replying with more composure than John would have managed, "Good to meet you. Now would you mind telling me how the hell you know who I am?"

"Best not to ask," John muttered for her ears only.

Attempting to keep the trains running, Lestrade prompted Mycroft, "You were saying about the drug test...?"

Mycroft poked the dingy carpet with his umbrella, looking down as he began rather clinically, "Cocaine only shows up in a blood or urine test for one to three days. I saw my brother this morning and I can assure you he hasn't been using." He looked up. "At least not in that time period."

John could feel a vein throbbing in the side of his head. It may have been out of anger or tension, but probably a combination. His voice was quiet and terse. "Are you suggesting he's been using outside of that time period? Did he say something?" The room had gone deathly silent.

Mycroft smiled sadly, "If he tells you very little, how much do you believe he tells me?" John supposed he had a point. All he needed to do was take a look at the state of Mycroft's face to know Sherlock wouldn't have told his brother a damned thing even if there had been something going on. "Still," Mycroft continued, "he's been on his own for a year and a half, off doing God knows what."

"You know what," John stated bluntly. "Sherlock said you helped arrange everything."

"We hardly remained in touch during his time away," Mycroft insisted. And though that might be strictly true, John knew the man had eyes in every corner of the globe. Mycroft must have read that accusation in his eyes, because he added, "I confess to having an idea of what was going on, but I assure you that it is a matter of great sensitivity and secrecy. I really can't tell you what he's been doing."

"Convenient," John replied.

Undeterred, Mycroft continued, "I can only implore you to keep an eye on him. He won't accept my help, but it's possible he'd listen to you should the need arise."

The implications of that were unsettling, but John felt determined to hang on to his resentment rather than give in to fear. "Why didn't you ask me to do this before when we lived together? Or tell me he'd just gotten out of rehab?"

"I wasn't sure how far I could trust you with that information. But I did ask you to keep an eye on him, if you recall," Mycroft pointed out.

"You asked me to spy on him, that's not the same," John said through gritted teeth. Neither Mary nor Lestrade seemed to think it was a good time to comment, what with John nearly on the edge of his seat. It was taking a lot of restraint not to add to Sherlock's handiwork on Mycroft's face.

Mycroft was at least smart enough to sense the tension and redirect the course. "Well, at any rate, I'm not here to quibble about the past. I came up to let you all know that I've managed to get Sherlock cleared of all charges, much to Inspector Donovan's ire. All I can say is that the government owes Sherlock a fair amount of gratitude." Though John was extremely relieved to hear Sherlock had been cleared, in some ways it made him more angry because it meant being indebted to Mycroft, of all people. Still, he looked away from the tense, laser-like stare he'd been locked into with the elder Holmes. The tension in the room seemed to ease slightly. Mycroft didn't ask for thanks. He just added, "I've already gotten the other thing I came for."

"Which is?" John asked impatiently.

"I was able to obtain a hair of Sherlock's from his coat down in evidence," Mycroft explained, though it was really no explanation at all.

Lestrade's brow furrowed. "A hair? What for?" he asked, evidently feeling more able to speak now that it didn't feel quite so much like a bomb was ticking down in the room.

"As I said, a standard test would only tell us if Sherlock had been using in the last couple days. But a hair retains chemical markers of drug use for as long as it's on someone's head. In Sherlock's case, we should be able to see about the past year or so," Mycroft explained, clinically detached.

"Right, we've started using those in some cases," Lestrade nodded in recognition now. Evidently not a terribly often used thing, then, John observed. "But ours only go back 90 days and take weeks to process at a special lab. I'm guessing you'll have yours in, what, 3 or 4 days?"

"Theoretically it could take less than a day. The test itself doesn't take too long and mine goes to the top of the pile," Mycroft stated matter-of-factly.

"God, to be outside the chain of command," Lestrade grumbled.

For his part, John couldn't help but be uninterested in the science or politics of the test. He was too flabbergasted at what they were suggesting. "This is all more than a little intrusive, don't you think? Sneaking around behind his back, conducting drug tests. Especially when there's no evidence at all that anything's been going on," John snapped, all the tension quickly returning to his voice and face.

Mycroft stared at him evenly, knowingly. "If you feel so strongly about it, Doctor Watson, you don't have to be told the results."

John swallowed, knowing he'd been trapped. He still had a strong inclination to refuse on moral grounds. But then he saw Mary, whom he'd practically forgotten as he'd been consumed with all the horrible things Mycroft was implying. She wasn't pleading with him or going into hysterics. Instead, she was simply watching him (him, not Mycroft), with a look of concern. She's hearing all this about a stranger staying in her flat and she's concerned about how it might affect me. Sure, he had seen some of her surprised reactions to the revelations about Sherlock. But he knew her well enough to know the depths of her empathy. It's what made her a fantastic psychologist. She was able to sublimate whatever fears and tensions she had and focus on someone she deemed more in need. And right now, in her estimation, that was him.

And John realised that was precisely why he couldn't refuse Mycroft's offer. If there was a chance, even a very small one, that Sherlock was using drugs again, he had to know. It was Mary's flat, too. Their life was shared. He didn't want to think what Sherlock might be like when high, but any amount of risk to Mary simply wasn't all right. It wasn't fair to her, and she'd never say so herself. So he had to know. "Just..." John began, unable to look anywhere but the floor. He felt like he was betraying Sherlock. He probably was. But what choice did he have? Gritting his teeth, he said, "Fine. Let me know. But I'm telling you, it isn't going to show anything."

He heard more than saw the surprisingly sympathetic response from Mycroft. "I hope you're right, of course. But do keep an eye on him anyway, John. Please." That made John glance up. For some reason, the grave sincerity on Mycroft's face was more worrying than any of his statements and conjectures thus far had been. "There are things other than drugs that can have an effect on a person," Mycroft added softly. But the moment passed - or, rather, was suppressed - and he said in a more controlled voice, "Now, I should be off and let you go see my brother. He would be rather displeased to see me here, to say the least."

With that, Mycroft exited the room, leaving a heavy blanket of silence in his wake. No one met anyone else's eyes. John was looking down at his hands, wringing them together as if trying to physically grab ahold of some kind of sense. This was all too much. Sherlock's happy return wasn't supposed to be like this. In all the times he'd had dreams about it, it never came with such heavy precautions.

John felt a hand gently touch his shoulder. "Come on," Mary said, "let's go get Sherlock."

---

As the door to his little interrogation room whooshed open, Sherlock was greeted with the most wonderful sight: Sargent - sorry, Inspector Donovan standing in the hallway, looking completely and utterly infuriated with his release. Sherlock smiled, not even having to fake the chipper expression for once. "Well, this has been fun, hasn't it?" he asked. The burning look in her eyes gave him all the response he desired. He finished tying the loose-hanging scarf he'd been given back along with his coat around his neck. "Until we meet again," he said with a wave, turning and taking a step toward the exit.

He was yanked backward by the neck, Sally's hand clutched tightly around his scarf. Sherlock resisted the natural urge to gasp in pain and surprise, not even willing to give her that satisfaction. She yanked his head around to look at her, and growled, "Listen, Freak, I don't care who your brother is. I know who you are. And if I see you anywhere near my case again, no amount of running home to mummy is going to save you, understand?" Their faces were inches apart and her glare was brutal.

"I can't say I'm the best at interpreting these signs," Sherlock mused casually, "but really, Sally, I find your methods of flirtation particularly bizarre."

A second later, Sherlock felt his skull crack sharply against the wall, producing a few spots in front of his eyes. Then Donovan spat in his face.

"Oi!" a voice called from down the hall. Sherlock recognized it, and turned his head to see Lestrade watching this little display in horror, with Mary and John at his side. Without another word, Donovan let go of Sherlock and stormed off in the other direction.

Wiping the spit off his face and straightening his scarf, Sherlock observed, "You know, I don't think Inspector Donovan enjoyed our little interview very much."

"God, Sherlock," Lestrade said with a shake of his head that might be classified as exasperated if he weren't also grinning. "You are incorrigible, you know that?" Sherlock's mouth quirked up knowingly, but he said nothing. Lestrade continued, "Part of me still wasn't sure it was true, despite what John said. But, well... alive," he petered out awkwardly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at the obvious statement. Still, he found himself oddly happy to see the Inspector, even if he had always been a bit slow. Sherlock had, after all, spent a great deal of time ensuring that Moriarty's men didn't murder Lestrade. It was nice to see the fruits of his labor. "Well, while you lot have been upstairs most likely panicking about what to do, I've found out some very interesting things," Sherlock said.

"Such as?" John asked.

"In the course of accusing me of murdering Bart Sholto, Detective Donovan got a bit overzealous and let something slip. Evidently his older brother, Ted Sholto, also had an attempt made on his life tonight."

"Good God," Mary breathed, closing her eyes a bit. John put a hand on her shoulder for whatever reason. She opened her eyes and said, "I can't help feeling a bit like a noose is tightening around my neck."

"Hey," John told her, "We won't let anything happen to you."

"More to the point," Sherlock added, "we're going to figure out what this is about. They're obviously connected, and given the timing it can't be coincidence with your own contact with Sholto. So it's highly likely it's all tied to this business with the late Major Sholto and your father. Not to mention the four of diamonds."

Lestrade gave Sherlock a look before telling Mary, "But don't worry about that right now. You three should all get home and have a good night's rest. I know this is Inspector Donovan's case, but I'm going to look into it as well."

"Oh, very reassuring," Sherlock muttered. "No, of course I have to go speak to Ted Sholto at the hospital as soon as possible."

"No," Lestrade said sharply, pointing a finger in Sherlock's face. "Look, I'm thrilled you're back, Sherlock, but if you go poking your nose into this, there is absolutely no way I'm ever letting you assist on another case. I'm not losing my job or any more convictions. We can find a way for you to consult on my cases. I'm sure your brother can help out with that." Sherlock's eye twitched at the mention. "But this is non-negotiable, you got that?"

Sherlock blinked in surprise. It had been a very long time since he'd seen Lestrade put his foot down like this. He absolutely hated the constraint, but chewed his cheek in annoyance as he realised he knew Lestrade was serious. "Fine," he hissed after a few moments of consideration. "I won't let Donovan know I'm working on the case."

"That is not what I said," Lestrade growled in frustration.

"If I may say something," Mary interrupted, to everyone's astonishment. "This did begin as a private matter that I'd told Sherlock he could look into. Obviously, the murder is official police business. But surely while you are investigating that, there are still some things Sherlock can look into regarding the connection between my father and the Sholto family?"

Everyone stared in stunned silence. John's jaw looked about to become unhinged. Not only that, but he seemed slightly miffed. Perhaps no one was more surprised than Sherlock, who for the first time felt Mary had said something worth paying attention to. "You see," he said, "private case."

Lestrade rubbed at his eyes furiously. "All right, that's fine, but only," he gave Sherlock a pointed look, "if you stay at home, at least for tomorrow. The press might get wind of you being not dead and the last thing we need is you out running around drawing attention to the case." Sherlock opened his mouth to protest, but Lestrade cut him off. "Those are the terms, take it or leave it."

"Fine," Sherlock growled, "now can we please get back home? Police stations are so tedious." They had all started heading for the exit as John fell in step beside him.

"So, saw the list of charges Donovan was trying to pin on you," John said with a chuckle. "Not to mention a drug test, which I saw came back negative, obviously," John said - a little too hastily, Sherlock noted. His eyes flicked to his friend and saw that he was glancing away for a second. Sherlock bristled with suspicion, but most likely not in a manner that was outwardly obvious to his friend. John added, forcing humour into his voice, "Suffice it to say, some things never change, eh?"

"No," Sherlock replied, his anger starting to grow as he realised that of course Mycroft had been here and of course he had been speaking to John, Mary, and Lestrade about Sherlock. Pestering, worrying, speculating on Sherlock's state of mind over the last year and a half, as if he had any right. After that little incident at Mycroft's flat earlier in the day, he was no doubt falling all over himself with worry for his helpless little brother. Let him worry. It was no more than he deserved. Sherlock's lips tightened as he said, "Some things never do."

Chapter 8

Summary:

Mary and Sherlock get to know one another better, with mixed results, as they look through her father's belongings for clues to the case.

Before they'd gone to bed the night before, John had impressed upon Mary the supreme importance of letting him know if Sherlock left the flat (against Lestrade's orders). So she was mightily chagrined to find that she'd woken up after John (a thing that rarely happened) and well into mid-morning. Suddenly recalling the examples John had given her of Sherlock's escapes from not only the flat but from police custody, Mary threw on her dressing gown and hustled down the stairs feeling strangely like an irresponsible parent. Fortunately she had the previous morning's experience to remind her to check her office when she didn't find Sherlock in the living room.

Slowing to a casual walk, Mary went through the kitchen and into the hallway toward the half-opened door. She was relieved to hear Sherlock's voice, carrying on what sounded like a telephone conversation. Mary paused, debating whether to go in. She strained to listen, only for the sake of getting a sense of if this was a very private conversation or not. "No, no I haven't just been searching in English. I pulled up the list of all nations involved in the United Nations Transitional Authority in Cambodia and added their corresponding languages to the search. So why isn't there anything else about either Sholto or Moran? If there were some kind of secret worth keeping, it would leave some trace, no matter where, no matter how small... I just have to think. I need quiet for a moment."

Though satisfied it wasn't a personal matter but only the case he was talking about, those last words gave Mary pause. Still, perhaps she could at least offer him some food. That might also help thinking. If he was on the phone still he couldn't be that dedicated to quiet yet...

She sneaked in through the half-open door, cringing as it creaked a little. But Sherlock didn't seem to notice at all. He was sitting at the computer, his elbows resting on the desk, his hands steepled under his chin. To her surprise, she noticed that there was no phone in sight, nor was anyone else there. Sherlock's eyes were open, scanning back and forth across the blank wall as if seeing through it to some middle distance. "Sherlock...?" she ventured quietly, not wanting to interrupt his thought process but wanting to make him aware of her presence.

Sherlock kept staring ahead. "There are a few references to their UN status. An old obituary of Moran's which states nothing but that he had a heart attack in Cambodia and was survived by his wife and daughter. Nothing in Sholto's but that he had a heart attack in a chemo ward and was survived by his two sons, plus some information on his ruby mining business. But he started that business right after the peacekeeping mission and it was operational only a year after Morstan's death on the 4th of September 1993. But nothing about this," he gestured to his screen. "There has to be a link somewhere, I know it," he hissed in frustration.

Mary was reminded, troublingly, of the possibility that Sherlock hadn't really spoken to many people in 18 months and was a little alarmed as to whether he was simply rambling or hallucinating. She was about to ask him who on earth he was talking to when she recalled one of John's old stories about a time Sherlock hadn't noticed he'd been gone and had carried on talking to him for days without noticing. They'd had a laugh about it, and Mary had presumed it to be a greatly exaggerated story about a late friend. But now she saw that John must have meant it quite literally, but known no other way to explain his friend but with a bit of a laugh. He probably assumed if he conveyed the literal truths, everyone would believe people like Kitty Riley and Sally Donovan who said he was a mad weirdo.

Mary felt the corners of her mouth turn down and her heart clench a bit for Sherlock's sake. She completely understood why someone like Sally Donovan - trained to be suspicious, calculating, and careful - might be completely put off by Sherlock's behaviours. But that didn't excuse her so actively and caustically voicing her disdain for the man, spitting in his face, making mocking jokes about his sex life, and routinely only calling him 'Freak'. It made Mary feel incredibly embarrassed for him. Sherlock himself seemed to take it all in stride, which might suggest to most that he wasn't bothered by it. But Mary had been studying the effects on their pathology of routine ostracism of children with OCD for her dissertation, and couldn't help but be inclined to think that an adult with such a thick skin might have obtained it precisely because he'd had many such comments lobbed his way over decades.

She had also observed the night before, in the speculation on whether Sherlock had been using drugs again, that John had seemed completely unable to see his friend as an addict. Given that he'd never actually known Sherlock to use drugs, she could understand John's desire to maintain that perspective. But from her more objective viewpoint, just seeing what she had so far, Mary sadly had less trouble picturing it.

Biting her lip, she reminded herself for the dozenth time that it was not her place to try to diagnose Sherlock Holmes - either his conceivable (possible) relapsing or his possible (probable) autism spectrum disorder. What she could do was make him some breakfast. "Sherlock," she repeated, louder this time. When he didn't reply, she touched him on the shoulder, which made him whirl towards her, his brow furrowing in confusion.

"Where's John?" he asked. "I was just talking with John about my research for the case."

"John's not here," Mary replied slowly, gently. Glancing at her watch, she noticed it was almost ten. "He had planned to meet Lestrade about an hour ago to go talk to Ted Sholto. Remember?"

Sherlock gave her a contemptuous glare. "Of course I remember," he huffed, "I'm not an idiot."

"Anything but, I'd say," Mary said with a wry smile. "Anyway, I know you're working, but I just wanted to know if some breakfast might help."

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand at her. "Pointless. I can't bother with it when I'm working." He looked back at her, considering her for a minute. "Mary!" he said, almost as if just noticing her presence - that it was her specifically. "Glad you're finally awake. You can bring me any of your father's personal effects that you have. That could help tremendously," he said quite energetically. "Thanks."

That didn't leave much room for argument. But Mary was already growing accustomed to his abrupt manner. Yes, it was irritating, even to someone of her patience. On the other hand, she had already seen enough of his deductive brilliance to believe he might be the only one capable of figuring this thing out and, hopefully, keeping her safe in the process. Even if he considered that part an afterthought.

"Sure, I keep most of them in the attic. I'll get them," Mary replied, heading back out the kitchen and front door. Up the stairs, just outside her and John's room was the entrance to the attic. She was surprised to see that the little ladder was already folded down and the door was open. How had she not noticed that as she'd shuffled out of her room? She must have been more tired than she realized. Seeing as they had just been at a crime scene where someone had been shot from the attic the night before, and seeing as that someone had just been intending to tell her some secret information, Mary felt a cold knot of dread forming in her stomach as she looked up into the pitch black room. On the one hand, it was stupid to be afraid of the dark; on the other, it was perfectly logical to be afraid of men with guns who hid in the dark.

"Hello?" she called out, knowing full well that it was a stupid thing to do. Someone lurking around to kill her wasn't going to cry Polo to her call of Marco, was he?

Feeling anxious, Mary darted back into her room and grabbed her old field hockey stick from the corner where it had leaned unused since she'd moved in. She might not get back on the field much these days, but it had to be good for something. With the stick held firmly in her right hand, Mary headed back out to the hall. She stepped lightly up onto the ladder, cringing as it squeaked. After that, she thought it best to move quickly rather than secretively, and scrambled up, reaching for and finding the light pull-string at the top. The tiny incandescent light (probably the last in the whole flat as it was hardly used) cast a warm orange glow on the sight of several boxes opened and their contents strewn about carelessly as if someone had gone through them in a hurry. Her heart clenching in panic, Mary moved the two boxes that were stacked on top of the unlabelled of her father's things. When it was free, she hefted it up under her left arm, still clutching the hockey stick with her right hand. It was an awkward business hurrying back down the ladder so encumbered and with her dressing gown annoyingly catching on the spring-loaded hinges. She had to jump to the floor and yank herself free before she was able to flee down the stairs and back into the main part of the flat.

By the time she reached the office, she could tell her face was red and that there was some sweat dripping down her brow, but that wasn't important. "Sherlock," she breathed out in anxious warning, "I think someone's broken in."

That got him to look up sharply from the computer. "What? Where? How could I have not noticed?"

Mary shook her head, catching her breath. "I don't know, but when I went to the attic it was already opened and some of the boxes had been rummaged through. I think someone might have been looking for my father's things."

Sherlock blinked. "Oh," he replied, slumping back down casually in the chair, "yes, that was me."

Now it was Mary's turn to blink, though far more furiously than Sherlock had. "You?" she replied incredulously, her usual tact forgotten.

"Yes, I was looking for your father's things but realised as the boxes were horribly organised, it would be a better use of my time to work on some online research. Oh, and I forgot to mention, I removed your computer password yesterday when I was logged on to allow easier access. No point in adding an extra step when there's work to be done, I'm sure you'd agree," Sherlock explained.

Mary gripped the hockey stick to avoid wringing his neck. She took a deep breath and reminded herself of the things she'd been mulling over just a few minutes ago. It wasn't entirely Sherlock's fault he was this obtuse and socially unaware. Arguing with him or scolding him wouldn't be productive. "That's... fine," she managed, leaning the hockey stick against the wall. "Though in the future if you'd like to find something, you can just ask. No point in adding an extra step and making the research more difficult." She turned away to set the box on top of a stack of research notebooks on another desk against the far wall.

When she turned back, Sherlock was eyeing her with a look that somehow went between gratefulness and suspicion, as if he felt the former but reasoned heshould be feeling the latter. He stared at her that way a moment before saying, "You were asleep. Isn't there something about being a good guest?" he grumbled. "I'd have just woken John up when I was up there at 5 looking for it."

Mary couldn't help but feel appreciative that he'd tried to be polite, in his own curious way. In fact, it was the first gesture of good will he'd sent her way, and while it might be the sort of thing many people wouldn't pick up on, she recognized it for what it was. "Thank you," she said. He said nothing, keeping his eyes on the screen, but she'd bet he'd heard anyway. Following his eyes to the screen, she saw that he had a window up with what looked to be a Google Earth view of a remote area dotted with woods and plains. There appeared to be some sort of metal warehouse structure there as well. In a smaller window, he had a photo of a sign reading 'Alba Gem & Mining Company' on a brushy roadside in what she presumed was Cambodia. "You were saying something earlier about looking for more information on Major Sholto and my father? And this?" she motioned to the screen.

Sherlock tapped his fingers on the desk a few times, all the while staring at the computer screen. "That's nothing. I couldn't find anything of relevance," he said eventually, standing abruptly and turning to face her. "Now, let's have a look through your father's things," he said with an invigorated smile.

 

 

 

Sherlock crossed the room to the box Mary had brought down from the attic. It was quite ridiculous that she hadn't managed to deduce that of course he'd been the one up there. The image of her scrambling around waving a hockey stick for protection was rather amusing. But what disconcerted him was the fact that she hadn't really gotten angry over his not warning her about it. Most people, even John, tended to get annoyed at him on a fairly regular basis for not spoon feeding them every little bit of information that, quite frankly, he felt they should have realised on their own. But Mary, slow though she clearly was, hadn't yelled at him or berated him at all. He didn't quite know what to make of it, which generally tended to make him suspicious.

Taking the lid off the box, Sherlock instantly realised from the dust line separating where the lid had been from the rest of the box that it hadn't been opened in a very long time. It could only have been moved into this attic six months ago along with Mary's other things, but the way the cardboard creaked as he pulled the lid off suggested it hadn't been opened in much longer. Inside was a collection of items one might expect to find on a bedside or in a footlocker of a man on an overseas mission with limited personal space: a framed photo of Mary and her mother, some paperback novels, a pipe, a pair of reading glasses, a half-empty prescription for the heart medication digoxin, and a journal. Sherlock grabbed the journal and wandered out into the kitchen as he looked at it, noting the way the bound spine cracked as he opened it. Possibly never opened by anyone, Mary included, in the last twenty years. Promising. He stepped into the living room and sank into his chair as he flipped to the first page.

The owner had hastily sketched his name, Michael Morstan, on the inside cover. A cursory glance through the first few pages revealed that he'd printed rather than written in proper handwriting. So the entries were likely to be quick observations rather than thoughtful ruminations. The first two entries were cursory remarks on the climate and culture shock. There were oblique references to the reasons for the UN Peacekeepers being there, but the journal seemed to shy from those. He turned to the next page, whereupon the journal started to slowly shift to observations and rudimentary sketches (which the author apologised to some unknown reader for) of various local birds.

"Finding anything of use?" Mary ventured, and Sherlock vaguely noted that she'd taken a chair across from his that was light blue and high backed and not John's old chair.

"Your father was a delicate, sensitive man. But plain, without pretences. He grew up in the post-war era, back when schools enforced handwriting, but he no longer used it. He was a man of bureaucracy but fancied himself a bit old fashioned, up for a globe trotting adventure, but more along the lines of Darwin than Lawrence. He obviously liked nature, though he had no formal training in biology," Sherlock mused. Just the tip of the iceberg, but he was only just beginning to read.

"Yes, that may just be the beginning, but it is spot on. He used to take me on nature walks through the country nearly every weekend before Cambodia." Mary made a bemused humming noise that caught his attention, enough for his eyes to flick up from the journal to her face. "It really is brilliant what you're able to do, Sherlock."

Sherlock remained cautious, but could not deny that the rare praise he received felt rather good. It was something he'd been utterly lacking in during his missions this past year and a half. The tasks he'd been engaged in required everything from saintly patience to brutal physical endurance, but were all alike in two respects: they required the very best of his spectacular powers of reasoning, and there was no one to appreciate them. There'd been only himself, and he already knew how brilliant he was. No one else could even know what he'd been doing.

The only exception had been Irene, whom he had seen on several occasions for her knowledge of Moriarty's network. Or at least, it had begun on that pretence. But between the two of them, nothing seemed capable of remaining that simple. Most of it he'd really rather delete, but he seemed incapable of doing so completely. Parts of those experiences were muddled to begin with. He could only try his best not to think about her, about any of the things that had transpired while he was gone. But one thing that leapt forth unbidden was the memory that, on those rare occasions when he'd known he could speak freely, he'd found himself unwilling or even unable to... But that was another world, he reminded himself. Another lifetime. Sherlock Holmes was a new man now in the sense that he was back to his old self.

And now here was Mary, a new acquaintance, offering him some genuine praise. It wasn't a new feeling, but it was certainly a dormant and always rarely encountered one. He recalled something he'd told John long ago, that the frailty of genius was that it needed an audience. No, Sherlock couldn't help giving Mary a little smirk as he said, "You'll get used to it."

"Really?" she sounded sceptical. "John hasn't."

And Sherlock was secretly very glad of that. He wouldn't really mind if Mary continued complimenting his genius, but he'd found that one of the best ways to get John to do so was to pretend to be self-effacing. "It's just observation and high level reasoning," Sherlock replied as he continued flipping through Michael Morstan's journal.

Mary sat forward in her chair. "I'm curious," she started, entirely unnecessarily given her obviously interested posture, "how did you get into this?"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked without looking up.

"Well, solving mysteries. Detective work. Was that something you were always interested in? And if so, why didn't you become an official detective?"

Sherlock sneered at that. At least she hadn't used the words 'proper' or 'real'. "Where does one begin? Far too many constraints, pointless bureaucracy, surrounded by imbeciles you're forced into working with, far too many boring cases, tedious paperwork, and all of that's not to mention that in order to become a detective you have to be a police officer first."

Mary laughed. "No, I can see how that wouldn't suit you. But what is it that engages you so fully in these cases? I know it's not the money because I'm not even paying you and yet here you are poring over my father's journal."

"Interesting read.," Sherlock mused, dodging her personal question. "I'm not familiar with most of the birds he mentions, and he doesn't really provide enough details about specific features such as beaks, talon shape, or measurements that would really be useful to any kind of scientific study. Too focused on the easy distraction of plumage," Sherlock noted with some displeasure. "I've seen just a few casual mentions of his relationship with Major Sholto. For instance," Sherlock began reading in a more narrative tone, "'The 5th of August, 1993. Had an exciting interruption to our typical night at the pub when I spotted a Sarus Crane on our way back, landing in the pond. Tried to point out to Tim that this was the tallest of all the world's flying birds, and very rare. Indeed this one was nearly 1.8m and the red and black banding on its head was striking even in the moonlight. Tim was too unwell to appreciate it.'" Sherlock turned a page "With his delicate nature, I'm presuming what your father really meant by 'unwell' was 'pissed'."

"Yes," Mary drawled fondly, "Father did have a way of winding up the designated driver."

"Well, that's the most indicative thing I've found so far," Sherlock remarked, frowning. "But then it hardly tells us anything we didn't know. You were aware Sholto and your father were friends in Cambodia; you recognised the name immediately."

"Yes, he'd told my mother and I about him, just in passing on the phone. And his fellow Peacekeepers seemed to indicate the same," Mary said. She considered Sherlock for a moment, still flipping through the pages of the journal, then asked, "What's your father like?"

The question was so surprising that Sherlock paused mid-page turn and slowly looked up at Mary. What had prompted her to ask that? To suddenly throw in a personal and probing question while they had been in the midst of talking about the case? Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly. "That's hardly relevant," he said. Keeping his eyes fixed on Mary in order to see her reaction, he added, "Besides, you have a sense of what my family is like: you've met my brother." It was a statement, but there was an undeniable subtle undertone of accusation to it. Mary, John, and Lestrade hadn't actually confessed to meeting with Mycroft at New Scotland Yard, but he'd been there to free Sherlock, so naturally they must have all had a nice little chat behind his back.

Mary seemed to be caught off guard by that. While Sherlock kept her pinned under his gaze, he could see her wriggling. "Ah," she said, clearly knowing she was caught. "You're right, of course. You already knew he'd taken care of things for you at Scotland Yard last night. And yes, he came up to introduce himself, just briefly."

"Hmm," Sherlock hummed, looking back down at the journal, though not really reading it now. He was doing a different sort of reading now, listening for shifts in Mary's tone, slicing up her words and turning them over in his brain. The flicker of suspicion he'd felt earlier this morning was sparking and he needed to know whether there was actually anything there with which to kindle it. But he let Mary make the next move.

"I heard you saying you'd searched papers in various languages for any reference to my father or Timothy Sholto," Mary said. "How exactly did you do that? I confess, I stick to English in my research, but perhaps I should be branching out. I'd be interested to know how you do that."

Now Sherlock could hear the subtle edge of forced casualness in her voice. He must have missed it earlier. If he were honest with himself, he seemed to miss such conversational subtleties quite often when they related to interpersonal matters, as Mary's remarks had tended to. But now there was a cold feeling creeping into his stomach. "You know, Mary," Sherlock said, slowly closing her father's journal and looking over at her. "Despite your so professionally rendered diagnosis of me yesterday, I'm not completely incapable of reading people's emotions. I'd be a rather useless detective if I were."

Mary looked down, just for a moment, but it was enough for Sherlock to interpret the action as a sign of guilt. That was the last confirmation he needed. His teeth involuntarily ground together and his brow creased into a look of cool, accusatory anger. This wasn't a person who wanted to idolize him, bask in the glory of his brainpower and skills. She was interested in his brain, all right, but she was a psychologist. All she wanted to do was analyse him.

"I'm sorry," Mary replied, looking up with an apologetic expression. "I really don't mean to be patronising. I just spend all my time speaking with children. I haven't really worked with adults in a long time."

"Nor are you working with one now," Sherlock snarled. "I'm not your patient. I'm your consulting detective. Not to mention that I live here." He stood up, heading back through the kitchen to his bedroom.

Sherlock angrily tossed the journal onto the small desk next to the box and started examining its objects. As he did, he could feel the blood pounding in his ears and saw slight grey spots appear in his peripheral vision. This feeling, this burning and barely controlled rage, was something he'd experienced a lot in the last year or so. But why he should care about what Mary thought was beyond him. This rage had gotten out of control with Mycroft, but he was reminded of a few things he hadn't deleted, of an ability to channel that anxious, kinetic energy into his mind. So as Sherlock started fanning the pages of the paperbacks to check for items that might fall out, the adrenaline in his body sharpened his mind. Generic airport novels picked up en route to Cambodia, the price on the back is in rupees, stopover flight through India. The pipe tobacco would be a small regular splurge. Fairly expensive Hungarian Pipe. Digoxin for atrial fibrillation, most likely considered a contribution factor to heart attack. Pair of inexpensive non-prescription reading glasses, fairly well worn but never replaced, indicating frugal-

Sherlock's hands, busied with holding the various items up for close examination one at a time, paused as he went to replace the glasses case. Just at the spot where he was about to set the case down was the photo of Mary and her mother. And sticking slightly out behind it was an item he somehow hadn't seen: a small bamboo case just about the size of a cigarette case. But what would a man who splurged specifically on his pipe want with cigarettes? Sherlock set the glasses case down and picked up the rectangular bamboo case instead. As he held it up to examine it, he noted for the first time that Mary had followed him back into the room and was, thankfully, curbing her incessant questions and personal analysis this time. She watched in interest as Sherlock flicked open the hinged top of the case.

"Fantastic," Sherlock breathed. It was not, after all, a cigarette case: it was a playing card case. "Yes, what better reason to continue heading to the local makeshift pub than for some cards. Though I'm not a betting man myself, I'd wager..."

He slipped the well-worn red-backed playing cards out of the holder and began sorting through them with rapid ease, so that in no more than thirty seconds they were sitting in four stacks on the small desk, arranged by suit, and in order. Fifty-one cards.

"But," Mary stammered, and Sherlock smirked. "Where's the four of diamonds? The card that we found at Bart Sholto's murder scene... that was it, wasn't it? That was a card taken from this deck!"

Sherlock's smirk faded into a look of annoyance. "Of course not. That was blue backed, and practically unused. These are red and well worn. This set of cards has been used over and over, regularly, down at that pub outside Phnom Penh. Until one card disappeared. But you can't play without a full deck. There aren't even any extra joker cards in here to use as stand-ins for the four of diamonds. The four most likely disappeared the last time the deck was used. The last night your father played cards. The four of diamonds..." Something about that card suggested itself to Sherlock's brain, and he took a mental note. His brain humming with the excitement and personal feelings thankfully shoved aside once again, Sherlock locked onto Mary now. "Is there anything odd to you about the contents of this box? Something missing? Something that doesn't belong?"

"Ahhh," Mary held her hands up in nervous uncertainty in the wake of Sherlock's sudden rapid-fire intensity. "I don't know, I've barely opened this box in years. I couldn't really bear it. Didn't even know about the journalling about the birds. It had always felt too intrusive to read his journal. I wasn't sure what I would find out."

"Yes, yes but you're looking at them now," Sherlock replied impatiently. "So look at the objects, hold them, feel them, smell them."

Mary blinked, and Sherlock thought he might have detected some old memory passing through her eyes. After a moment, she reached a bit hesitantly for the pipe, Hungarian style with its large, scooping bowl. She held it up, looked at it. Then, closing her eyes, she breathed in its aroma. Her brow furrowed, and she opened her eyes. "Before I put this box away, back when I was a teenager, I once smelled my father's pipe. It smelled different to me."

Sherlock perked up at this. "Different how?"

"It's probably nothing," Mary said with a shake of her head, still holding the pipe and looking at it fondly. "Our memories are often false. We recall things that never happened or imagine they were one way when they never were. It didn't smell like my father's pipe, but my father was gone. That's probably all it was."

But Sherlock took ahold of one of her shoulders and shook her out of the little trance she'd gotten herself into. "With images, sounds, whole scenes in our lives, whole people even, that's true. But not scent. Scent is the sense most powerfully linked with our memories. The olfactory nerve is close to the amygdala and the hippocampus, both having to do with memory. And we can't imagine scent falsely because we can't recreate the sensation of a scent simply by thinking about it. One whiff of a scent we haven't smelled since childhood can spark a memory we never knew we had." He took the pipe carefully from her hand. "Your father was a stable man, a consistent man. He was stuck in a tumultuous near-war zone but he wrote about birds in his journal every day. I'll bet he cleaned his pipe after every use, didn't he?"

"Yes," Mary acknowledged, "Always."

"But this pipe," Sherlock sniffed at it, smelled the sharp aroma tinged by something sweet. Too present to be the caked on soot of years of smoking alone. Carefully, he turned the deep bowl of the pipe upside down. It took a few sharp taps of it on his palm to produce a result, but soon some clumpy bits of ash fell out. "This pipe hasn't been cleaned. He never got a chance. This is the last of what he smoked." Mary's eyes widened a fraction, but she didn't dare to speak and interrupt the flow of Sherlock's deduction. "I'm guessing he had one sort of tobacco he smoked. Just one."

Mary nodded. "Yes. Full Virginia Flake from Samuel Gawith."

"No!" Sherlock cried with a volume and enthusiasm that made Mary jump. He looked at the clumps of ash in his hand. Despite being partially burned, the tobacco was relatively light in colour. There were dark veins here and there. He smelled it and could place the slightly peppery aroma of Latakia tobacco. So, a Latakia blend with Virginia and Oriental flakes as well. Guessing by the proportions of the various types, he was fairly certain it was German's Special Latakia Flake tobacco. The Full Virginia Flake tobacco of Samuel Gawith would be dark, sweet-smelling, and all of one type. This ash did have a note of sweet aroma, but it was from a foreign substance - some small, light greenish stalks of a plant that was most certainly not tobacco. Sherlock shook his head. "No, no, no. This is definitely not a Full Virginia Flake tobacco. There's hardly anything I've made so careful a study of over the years as tobacco and tobacco ashes."

"Ah," Mary noted in remembrance. "Yes, John did mention that. 143 different types?"

For a moment, Sherlock froze, the excitement draining from his features. "Two hundred and forty-three! Two hundred!" he corrected indignantly. "I can understand an average mind's decompensation as one ages, but really, to slight me one hundred whole types of ash!"

"But you were saying about that, what you found in my father's pipe?" Mary prodded.

"Yes," Sherlock said, remembering where he'd been. "This is most certainly not your father's regular tobacco. It's not the tobacco he always used, every time, so often that you'd know its scent anywhere. This is Germain's Special Latakia Flake tobacco. But there's something else..." That sweet scent. The tiny bits of thin, curled plant matter, more fibrous than the tobacco, from stalks instead of leaves. The brush in those photos of the 'Alba Gem & Mining Company'. Those satellite photos of the grounds... it all fit. And somewhere, in the midst of all that were the four of diamonds and a mysterious rooftop climbing killer.

Sherlock looked at Mary, his smile turning from thrilled to a touch self-satisfied. "Miss Morstan, I'm sure that you've been worried about your father's connection to such a dodgy business as all this. Secret e-mails, sneaking around London in the dark, murders and attempted murders."

"Of course I have," Mary replied, hesitantly. "No one wants to hear that someone they loved dearly might have been caught up in something like that."

"Well," Sherlock said, "he was caught up in it. That much has been clear from the start." Mary drew a deep breath as if preparing for the worst. Sherlock couldn't help but take on a confidently declaratory tone. "But rest easy: your father wasn't the perpetrator of any of this foul business," Sherlock stated, and Mary relaxed visibly. Happily, Sherlock finished, "Your father was murdered."

Notes:

In case anyone's wondering about those teases in this chapter about Sherlock's encounters with Irene while he was supposedly dead, I'm thinking of writing a one-shot separate from this story that deals with that. Maybe this week. I'll let you guys know if you're interested. It may or may not actually come up again in this story.

Chapter 9

Summary:

John and Lestrade visit Bart Sholto's surviving brother Ted in the hospital, and learn some startling things.

Notes:

I needed to denote text messages so I went with « and », which are French quotation marks.

Also, my natural inclination in writing the character of Ted Sholto was to have all his dialogue in Scots, which is a dialect/branch language of English (depending on which linguist you ask). Think Robert Burns poetry or Trainspotting. But seeing as how it would confuse the hell out of most people, I stuck to only using Scots contractions (i.e. cannae = can't, didnae = didn't, haednae = hadn't have). Hopefully these are easy enough to pick up on.

Finally, in my mind, Ted Sholto is played by David Tennant. Just saying.

By the time John and Lestrade had made it from Scotland Yard all the way out to Ealing hospital to see Ted Sholto, it was just past ten o'clock. They'd gotten stuck at the station while Lestrade took much longer than expected to complete some of his morning paperwork. When they arrived at Sholto's room, the door was closed. As Lestrade went to open it, a nurse approached quickly. "Sir," she said, "you can't go in there."

Lestrade took out his ID wallet and showed it to her. "I'm DI Lestrade, here to talk to Mr. Sholto," he said politely.

"You can't go in there," the stern, middle-aged woman repeated.

John noticed Lestrade's barely controlled scowl and couldn't say he blamed him. But John wasn't about to say anything. He almost certainly wasn't even supposed to be here himself, and mostly he just wanted to get in and out of this interview without Sally Donovan showing up. "I'm meant to speak with Mr. Sholto about the attack. It's official police business," Lestrade explained irritably.

"Well, you'll have to wait," the nurse replied in her Estuary accent, undeterred and clearly someone who didn't take flak from anyone. "He's having some stitches done on his face by the plastic surgeon. Didn't want an A&E doctor giving him a scar last night." John took offence at that, but was completely familiar with the situation as it was fairly common to have plastics work on cuts to the face.

Lestrade stared the woman down, but she didn't blink. "Fine," he said, annoyed, and walked around the corner from the door to sit in a chair against the wall. John took the one next to him.

"So this is what the waiting around part of a hospital visit is like," John mused, attempting to lighten the mood.

"Guess you're used to being the one taking ages and making everyone wait," Lestrade replied.

"In the future I'll attempt to always do a rush job and get everyone in quickly," John countered, with a smile. His phone bleeped a text alert, and he pulled it out of his jacket pocket. Seeing that it was from Mary, he opened it. « Have you spoken with Ted Sholto yet? SH » John sighed. Of course, Sherlock didn't have his own phone yet. So naturally he'd have taken Mary's.

John texted back « Did you even ask Mary to use her phone? » He sighed, and Lestrade gave him a knowing look.

"One guess at who that is," the detective said. "He's probably got about fifty questions he thinks we should ask Sholto." Despite having reason to be annoyed, Lestrade sounded more fond than anything.

"As a low estimate," John replied, looking down as his phone buzzed again. « Irrelevant. Ask Sholto how much the mining company is worth. SH » Though he had no idea why Sherlock wanted to know that, he wasn't going to question it. Partly because he knew how brilliant his friend was, partly because he didn't want to hear a diatribe from his friend on said brilliance.

« Sure.» John replied, hoping desperately (and, he knew, futilely) that this was the end of it.

"Sir, put your phone away," the nurse, now seated at a station just across the hall from them, barked.

"Sorry," John replied. "Just a friend of mine. I'll tell him to stop." He rapidly tapped out. « Can't talk now. No phones in the hospital. Call you later. » He turned the phone on vibrate for good measure and slipped it back into his pocket.

"Good luck with that," Lestrade muttered.

"So how badly is this guy supposed to be injured?" John asked Lestrade. They'd been able to read the basic report of the attack on Ted Sholto on the drive over to the hospital. He'd been at his flat in Ealing, hauling the rubbish out back to the skip around 9pm when a man had assaulted him, beating him until a neighbour broke it up. The police had been called immediately. But more than that, the report didn't say. The more detailed report hadn't been typed up into the system yet, and as it was in Donovan's office somewhere, Lestrade hadn't seemed inclined to try to grab it.

A buzzing feeling and noise from his pocket interrupted John's reflection. Shit. He was just sliding the phone out to read it when Nurse Ratched strode over toward him, shouting. "Sir, turn that phone off or I'll have to confiscate it!"

"We're sorry, ma'am," Lestrade stepped in, "it's some official business from a colleague of ours, you understand."

The woman's face said otherwise. "This is a hospital. Everyone knows you're not allowed to use your mobile here. I don't care if you are the police, you could be putting someone in danger. It interferes with the medical equipment."

John held his hands together in a pleading gesture. "It really doesn't," he insisted. "I'm a doctor, I understand why hospitals have that policy. Same reason planes do, to keep people from getting annoyed. But please, it's just a few texts-"

Thankfully, the door to Ted Sholto's room opened and a woman who was evidently the plastic surgeon exited, stopping the nurse from shouting at John more (or, by the enraged look on her face, possibly hurling something). John and Lestrade both stood, and the detective stepped toward the white-coated surgeon.

"Excuse me, Ms.," he glanced at her identification badge, "Miller. You were just in with Ted Sholto?"

"That's right," Ms. Miller responded, not looking up as she scribbled something on a chart.

"I'm DI Lestrade. I have some questions for Ted Sholto if you think he's up to it," he ventured.

The surgeon looked up from her chart. "I'm not his primary physician," she replied with a shrug. "He seems perfectly fine to talk to the police. At least he no longer has an open wound on his brow, which is really all I'm concerned with. Good day gentlemen," Ms. Miller said, and headed up the hall.

"Fantastic bedside manner here," Lestrade grumbled as he pushed open the door. John trailed behind, feeling his mobile buzz yet again. He stopped, halfway inside the door, and pulled his phone out impatiently, flicking to the texts. There were two messages now:

« Ted no longer works for the family company. Find out about this. SH »

« Also, ask what sort of tobacco his father smoked. Type, brand, etc. SH »

John stared at the screen incredulously. Nevermind the issue of why on earth any of this was relevant. He was sure that somehow it must be, coming from Sherlock. But how the bloody hell did Sherlock expect John to casually work in questions about Ted's father's tobacco? The other things he might attempt to find out, though he planned to leave most the talking up to Lestrade, as he was an actual detective and John really didn't have much of a right to sit in on an interview. It was only as a favour to both Sherlock and Mary that Lestrade let him come along.

As he was still staring at the screen in baffled contemplation, the mobile was suddenly snatched out of John's hand. He looked up to see the nurse holding it. "I told you I would have to confiscate it," she said. They stared at each other for a long moment, and the incredulous blank look on John's face said everything he wanted to. After a few beats, the nurse turned around and headed back to her station, dropping the mobile into a desk drawer. "You'll get it back on your way out."

Shaking his head slowly, John turned back around and went through the door into Ted Sholto's room.

Lestrade led the way past the private bathroom to the area with Sholto's bed. Ted Sholto was around 40, but somehow seemed younger. He was tall and pale with wild brown hair that looked as it if might stick up no matter what you did to it. He was incredibly thin, with sharp elbows digging into the hospital mattress as he held a magazine on his lap. "Excuse me, Mr. Sholto," Lestrade began, slipping easily into a practiced professional mode. "I'm Detective Inspector Lestrade and this is a colleague of mine. Is it all right if we ask you a couple questions?"

The man looked up from the F1 magazine he was reading. "I cannae think what else I can say, to be honest. Besides what I told the other detective," Ted replied in a thick Scots accent. Alba Gem & Mining, suppose that makes sense, John thought. "But maybe you'll think of something she didn't," Ted continued, his tired voice ticking up hopefully. Then he swallowed, his gaze and voice dipping downward. "Anything that might help find the man who killed Bart. Thought losing dad three weeks ago was the hardest thing I'd ever have to go through..." Ted closed his eyes and drew a deep breath. When he looked back at Lestrade, Ted forced a smile and bright tone. "But you don't wannae hear me blether on about that. Of course, have a seat, ask what you like." He folded his magazine and set it aside as John and Lestrade took the two visitor's seats next to the bed.

John felt the man must have a strong constitution to even be able to fake cheerfulness just then: frankly, Ted Sholto looked like shit. The aforementioned facial laceration was about 5cm and ran from the corner of his right brow downward. The plastic surgeon had indeed done a good job, but it was still going to be swollen for a while. Ted's face was marred with multiple deep abrasions, as if he'd been slammed against a brick wall. His upper lip was swollen and cut. There was a large angry red bruise on his left cheek. John noticed that the hands folded in Ted's lap were also bruised and scraped on the palms. Defensive wounds, he noted. He might not have been Sherlock Holmes, but John was an expert at assessing traumatic injuries. If he had to guess, he'd bet Ted had other bruises on his torso as well. He'd been beaten to hell, that was for sure. And hadn't slept, judging by the bags under his eyes.

"Now I know you've probably repeated this about ten times by now," Lestrade prefaced apologetically, "But can you walk us through what happened to you last night?"

"Certainly," the man replied. "I was at my flat in Ealing last night, and I needed to take the rubbish round back to the skip. That was about nine, I'd say. So I'm back there in the alley behind the building when suddenly I get whacked in the back of my head. And I'm thinking it's some ned, right? Kids and that. But no, when I turn around it's this big, strong bloke wearing a balaclava. And he starts beating the shite out of me. Not asking questions, mind, just hitting me. As you might guess, I'm no strong fighter so I didnae ken what to do." Ted had gotten himself worked into a small frenzy, his eyes wide and hands shaking as he gesticulated like a natural born storyteller. Lestrade was struggling to scribble it all down in shorthand. "But that's when he stopped. He took my wallet and started askin me all about my bank accounts. Luckily just then a neighbour came out with his cricket bat and the radge legged it out of there. Dinnae remember much after that. I was only half-conscious on the way to the hospital."

Well, that definitely explained Ted's injuries. And, John noted, meant that this had happened about 45 minutes after Sherlock had sent that e-mail to Bart. They'd all been waiting in Hyde Park at the time, while someone tried to kill both Bart and Ted Sholto. And succeed in the former case. The thought gave John a shiver of anxiety, and he was suddenly very glad that Sherlock was back with Mary so she wouldn't be left alone.

"This guy, you said he wore a mask, but did you notice anything about him?" Lestrade asked. "Any visible tattoos?" Ted shook his head and Lestrade sighed slowly. "What about race or accent then? Anything would help."

Ted chewed on his swollen lip. "Well, he was definitely white and English. South London, maybe?"

Lestrade nodded as he wrote, though John could tell he was displeased. That definitely wasn't much to go on. The detective tapped his pen on his notepad as he formed his next question. John was noting all the differences in Lestrade and Sherlock's approaches. This one was certainly easier on the subject of the interview. "Can you think of anyone with a motive to do this? Go after your family?"

Ted scoffed lightly. "Who wadnae had? My dad and brother flashed the money they made around like they were kings. I always told them to be more careful. Knew it might attract some enterprising, dodgy types." His voice grew quiet as he looked down at his hands. "But never thought it would come to this."

There was a moment of solemnity, but John's brain was churning. Clearing his throat and looking at Lestrade rather than Ted, he started, "Can I ask a question?" Lestrade looked askance at Ted.

"Sure," Ted replied, the brightness slowly returning to his eyes.

"Why now, do you think?" John asked. "These guys went after both you and your brother at the same time. It had to be coordinated. So why do it now and not a month ago? Years ago?"

Ted sighed, drumming his long fingers impatiently on the bedsheets. John noted the yellowed fingernails of a smoker. The man was probably dying for one right now. One of the many drawbacks of being in hospital. Finally, Ted explained, "Because a month or years ago we never would have had as much cash on hand as we're about to."

Lestrade's ears seemed to perk up at that. "Why's that?"

"When my father died, he left the company to my brother. I used to oversee the on site Cambodian side of things before I finally got my father to let me out," he explained. He scratched at the back of his neck, a little sheepish. "Never was much for the business side, to tell the truth. I was shite at it. Now I run my own graphic design shop, out of my home. Better for my creativity." Ted gave a lopsided grin and gestured to the various cuts and bruises on his face. "It's a good job I dinnae have to meet face to face with clients now, eh?"

John couldn't help smiling at that. The man was charming, that was certain, even when he appeared to be drained of a lot of energy. And the notion of breaking away from your family's expectations for the sake of your career made sense. Just look at Sherlock.

Still, there was something more to this. The anxiousness behind Ted's self-deprecating manner was telling, and John realised the man hadn't actually answered his question about the timing of the attacks. "So you were saying," John said, casually, "about having more cash on hand?"

Ted looked at him uncertainly for a second, then sighed. "Yeah, I was," he admitted. "Em, well you see, Bart inherited the company but he didnae want to run it on his own. And I certainly didnae want to do it. Thing is, you have to be a Cambodian citizen to own land or a company there. Which is easy enough, just pay about 25,000 quid - and that's official policy, mind, not a back room deal. If you inherit land but arnae a citizen, you've got three months to sell it or else the government will wind up giving you a shite price for it," he said ruefully. Then, incredulous, he added, "They said they'd give us a million pounds for the land and the mine."

John and Lestrade both raised their eyebrows and exchanged a look at not only the figure, but Sholto's evident dismay at how low it was. Then John recalled one of the questions Sherlock had texted, and jumped in. "How much does the mine bring in a year, then?"

"Round about two million quid," Ted replied. "So you see why we didnae want it coming down to that. Bart and I had just lined up a buyer who was gonna give us 10 million."

John and Lestrade sucked in air at that statement. "Blimey," Lestrade breathed. "I can certainly see why you'd be paranoid, suddenly having that much in your bank accounts."

"Aye, but it wasn't final yet. Whoever did this got ahead of themselves," Ted sank back into his bed, the life draining out of his visibly battered and shaken body once more. Quietly, he added, "And now my baby brother's dead over nothing. Just some rubies he had in his attic, that's what the other detective told me. That's all they took. He'd have gladly given them that. For all his showiness about his wealth, Bart was always generous."

"I'm sorry," Lestrade replied genuinely, clearly used to having to deal with survivors. It was the same sort of professional ease John had developed over the years with breaking the news that a loved one had died. Though as they'd both found out, no amount of experience being the bearer of bad news could make up for being on the other side of it when they'd thought Sherlock was dead. John had been loathe to find anything positive at all from that experience, but deep down he knew it had made both him and Lestrade more sensitive to the emotions of the bereaved.

Unfortunately, that didn't mean they got to stop doing their jobs. There was still one very large question (certainly far more important than some lunatic obsession with what sort of tobacco the man's father smoked...). John had been hemming and hawing about whether he should ask it, realising not only was he not a detective, but his involvement as a witness probably meant he shouldn't be here at all. And yet there was Mary. What about Bart's emails to her? What about their cloak and dagger meet up with the personal driver? All that secrecy, but to what end? "Mr. Sholto, I understand your loss, I do. And I'm very sorry for it. But I have to ask you something else." He waited for Ted to look up and meet his eyes. "Are you familiar with someone called Mary Morstan?"

In the chair beside him, Lestrade jerked his head briefly toward John in question. Probably shouldn't have said that... But, well, it was out now anyway. John gave the detective a small shrug of apology, but quickly darted his eyes back to Ted, who was sizing him up with those large, smudge-rimmed brown eyes. "Ah," he said, realisation dawning. "So you've found out about that." Ted sighed. "Suppose there's no purpose in hiding it, then. I'd hoped maybe I could keep her name out of this. God knows the poor lass deserves that."

Now Lestrade sat forward in his chair, engaged. "How do you mean?"

Ted ran a slightly shaking hand through his hair, somehow managing to make it more wild than before. Then he let out a long, hefty sigh, his eyes flicking to the ceiling before returning to Lestrade and John. "Three weeks ago, when our father was on his death bed," Ted began, "he told my brother and me something he never had before. We knew he'd discovered and purchased the land for the mine whilst working with the UN. And we knew he had a mate called Morstan over there who'd sadly died of a heart attack. But we never kent the two were connected."

"But they are?" John asked, his heart rate spiking up at the mention of Mary's father. He was sitting straight up in alertness now. He had no idea what Sherlock might have found so far about Michael Morstan, but here John was about to strike gold.

Ted Sholto nodded. "Och aye, as it turns out. Dad didnae find the land or the mine on his own - he found it with Morstan." John blinked rapidly, a result of his brain trying to make sense of the implications of that and failing miserably. Ted continued, "On his death bed, Dad said he felt horribly guilty about the fact that Morstan's daughter Mary never saw any of the money she wad'a had if her father haednae had a bad heart. So we decided to get ahold of her. Bart sent her loads of emails. I dinnae ken if she got them, though, or what she thought it was about."

John gave Lestrade a sidelong glance. The detective only had to give a slight shake of his head for John to read him: don't say a word about Mary. He was sure Lestrade was right about that instinct. Not only could it contaminate the testimony in court eventually, but Sholto would speak much more freely if he didn't know the woman in question's boyfriend was in the room. Lestrade was somehow able to pull himself together and asked, "So, what was the reason for you and your brother reaching out to Mary Morstan?"

"The plan was to sell the company and land to this Cambodian buyer we found, for the £10 million," Ted began, a bit reluctantly. He seemed to chew the words over in his head before he finally said, "Then we were gonna split it three ways - £3.3 million each to me, Bart, and Mary."

John was incredibly grateful for the invention of the chair and its ability to stop someone from falling flat on his face on the ground when, as happened now, all the blood seemed to rush from his head and into his suddenly heavy limbs. The phrase £3.3 million repeated itself over and over in his head until there wasn't room for any other thought.

Lestrade's jaw had dropped open at hearing the sum, but as it wasn't his girlfriend who might become a millionaire, he managed to hold it together a bit better. "Youwere going to," Greg said, "but now...?"

Ted gave him a confused look for a moment. Then the intent of the question seemed to dawn on him. The worry lines on his forehead melted back into his usual sort of perky expression. "Oh, well, still plan on doing that. Of course." John thought the man looked vaguely sickened. Or maybe that was just John projecting how he himself felt. He completely understood the difficulty it must take for someone to part with £3.3 million... well, no, on second thought, he really didn't.

"My brother's left the company to me now. And I certainly dinnae want to run it, so I'll still sell. Though I guess now," Ted ventured, his ever-shifting moods swinging toward the solemn, "Bart's third should go to his own daughter, Danielle. She's just starting year 7." It dawned on John that this would make the girl a few years younger than Mary had been when her own father passed away. "Poor lass," Ted added, rubbing the anxiety out of his forehead. He laughed nervously. "What I wadnae do for a smoke right now."

You're telling me, John found himself thinking, despite the fact that he'd only smoked a cigarette once in his life, in Afghanistan, after his first firefight. He'd found it disgustingly dreadful. But for some reason, it sounded good right now. A cigarette, he thought, plus an extremely large quantity of alcohol.

Lestrade glanced over at John, seeing that his friend was still peaky and reeling from what Sholto had revealed. He gave John a look of concern before turning quickly back to Ted and saying, "Well, thank you very much for your candour, Mr. Sholto. I know it's a royal pain in the arse to have to repeat yourself to the police when you've been through what you have. We appreciate it."

The detective stood up. It took a good deal of willpower and military training for John to hoist himself stiffly to his feet, despite the fact that he wanted nothing more than to lie down on the floor with an icepack on his sweaty forehead. "Yes, thanks," he managed to parrot robotically.

"No, thank you. I'm glad someone knows about all of it now, to be honest," Ted said, empathetic and relieved. "It's just that it's a messy business. And now with Bart dead... I've been worried is all. I guess it's best the police know about all this. I just didnae want whoever did this to Bart and me to have a reason to go after poor Mary Morstan next."

That was perhaps the only thing someone could have said to snap John back into action. He swallowed the mind-boggling thought of Mary suddenly coming into all that money and how that might look with his intention to ask her to marry him. That was a problem for later. The cold sweat on his head persisted, but his hands stopped shaking. "No," he agreed stolidly. "We definitely wouldn't."

It was John who led the way out the door. Without stopping, he strode purposefully over to the grouchy nurse's station. She was standing by the counter doing paperwork, but he didn't mind her. His head was swimming, his heart was pounding, he felt like he was walking through a room filled with jelly. And all the while, a tingling sense of fear was emerging from the primal parts of his brain. Without asking, he opened the desk drawer and took out his phone. He briefly noted that he had 23 messages from Sherlock, but didn't care to open them now. John kept walking down the hall, followed by Lestrade.

"Oi! You can't just walk off with that!" the nurse shouted after him.

John didn't even have the reserve energy to tell her to sod off. Instead, he ran down the stairs and out the exit, forcing Lestrade to practically jog to keep up with his strides. John's mind was focused on only two things: getting some fresh air into his lungs and hunting down these killers before they came after Mary.

Chapter 10

Notes:

There's no two ways about it - this chapter is quite long and involved. For mystery fans: enjoy all the solving and who-dun-it. For angst fans: hang in there because it's taking a sharp turn in your direction soon.

Your father was murdered. Sherlock's assertion kept running through Mary's brain. As soon as he'd said those words, she'd found herself sinking onto the wooden chair next to the writing desk her father's box was sitting on. She'd been too overwhelmed to ask Sherlock to explain that slap-to-the-face declaration right away. Unfortunately, after finding a plastic bag to seal the tobacco ash in, the detective had immediately thrown himself back in front of the computer, typing and clicking away furiously. Several minutes passed in which Mary could focus on nothing else but the words 'your father was murdered' and her own breathing.

Then, without looking up from the computer monitor, Sherlock spoke. "I need your phone."

Mary started to reach into her pocket for it, when she came to her senses a bit. "What for?" she asked suspiciously. It occurred to her that the last time she'd let Sherlock Holmes borrow an electronic device of hers, they'd wound up at a dodgy meet up that had led to a murder scene.

Sherlock didn't look back over his shoulder at her, but she could tell from his brusque tone that he now had a scowl of annoyance on his face. "I need to text John some questions for Ted Sholto."

"What sort of questions?" she asked, hesitant still.

"The time sensitive sort," Sherlock snarled in retort. "Phone," he demanded, stopping his furious typing long enough to turn slightly towards her and reach his hand out. He didn't make eye contact.

Everything in Mary's gut kept striving to analyse behaviours like this. But she recalled how sharply he'd seen through her attempts to make not entirely innocent conversation with him. He had been right, of course: she was used to treating everyone like a patient. She'd gotten him to open up and talk a little by showing interest in what he was doing, but he'd seen through it. And now that she genuinely interested to know what he had figured out about her father's death and what he was doing now, he was in no mood to share. Mary found herself feeling shamed by Sherlock's defensive response to her behaviour, and had her mobile out of her pocket and in her hand, ready to hand over, when she paused.

Sherlock didn't want to be treated like a patient or a child. Mary had been treating him as a bit of both, as he had so angrily pointed out. She was used to holding back in such situations, to reminding herself that it wasn't about her, no matter how angry or insulting her patient got. But this wasn't one of those situations. "You know," Mary said, her voice shaking slightly with the combination of anxiety and fury she only just realised she was feeling, "you really can be a heartless arsehole."

There was a beat in which both she and Sherlock sat frozen in shock at her blunt words and venomous tone. Then he slowly turned the rest of the way around and this time actually looked up at her for the first time since he'd made his declaration about her father's death. "Is that your professional opinion?" he asked in a blithe tone.

"Is this funny to you?" she spat back. Mary felt more surprised at her sudden boldness than Sherlock appeared to be. He seemed more annoyed and inconvenienced by it than anything.

"Of course it isn't," he countered sharply, while still seeming personally detached. "It's a matter requiring great alacrity. John might have left the interview with Ted Sholto already. And I'm not the one keeping John from asking Sholto some very important questions. Now, phone," Sherlock said, sticking his hand out further.

The combination of distress, worry, and annoyance seething within Mary was threatening to cause her to explode in a rare display of uncontrolled rage. The thought of slapping Sherlock in the face flitted through her mind, and that alarmed her. She was immediately repelled by that instinct. The professional part of her believed he truly couldn't understand the source of her distress. But it didn't stop his obtuseness from being maddening right now. It took all her natural patience plus a great deal of training for Mary to restrain herself to merely raising her voice as she retorted, "I'm not giving you the bloody phone until you explain what you mean about my father having been murdered!"

Now Sherlock looked surprised, finally. He seemed to only now realise she was serious and not just trying to annoy him. Although he still acted put out as he sighed then rapidly replied, "The tobacco in his pipe, the last tobacco he smoked, wasn't his. Which implies someone gave it to him. Not only that, but I believe it's been contaminated by another plant, one that could potentially have been dangerous. There's much more to it than that, but I won't know anything for sure until I'm able to obtain some more information from John and the crime scene. Now give me your phone." Sherlock glared at her fiercely, looking like he was about to lose it himself.

Mary had felt her anger swiftly give way to a sickening sense of understanding as Sherlock explained about the tobacco. It wasn't something she could ever have put together herself, yet when he said it, it seemed perfectly obvious. That is, if the different tobacco in her father's pipe did actually turn out to also be poisoned. Still, Mary's anger had burned out quickly. She knew it was only a mask for her deeper feeling of dread. There were only so many options as to who could have poisoned her father, and she was starting to realise Timothy Sholto was one of the only viable ones. At this realisation, all of Mary's strong front melted away, and she weakly dropped the mobile into Sherlock's hand before leaning back against the desk, feeling shaky.

As soon as he had the phone in hand, Sherlock fired off a rapid text, frowning as if the speed of his own fingers were annoyingly slow in his opinion. Then he promptly spun back toward the monitor, setting the phone down on the desk as he resumed typing. Mary vaguely noted what appeared to be various news sites popping up in different tabs on the screen as Sherlock searched around the internet for who knew what. At random intervals, he would pick up the phone and dash off a text message with a ferocity that suggested he was growing increasingly impatient. Mary, for her part, was trying not to get caught up in Sherlock's frenzied state. Though there were still a million questions flying around her mind, she confined herself to breathing deeply and waiting it out. Sherlock clearly wasn't in the mood to explain much more, and in any case, she realised, there was a lot he had no way of knowing. Hence his constant texts to John with what she presumed were questions for Ted Sholto.

After about twenty minutes of this, Sherlock spoke up. "Why hasn't he responded?" he complained, glaring at the mobile as if this situation were its fault. "Poor reception?"

"Maybe," Mary replied noncommittally, though she highly doubted it. John was in a position to ignore Sherlock's intense focus on the case for a moment and pay attention to the task in front of him instead. She couldn't say she blamed him.

Tossing the phone back onto the desk, Sherlock went back to typing several long strings of information into some website. Mary hadn't really been paying attention, to be honest. She was starting to realise it might be best if she didn't know the details sometimes. So she was just about to drift off back into her own ruminations on her father's death when Sherlock asked, "John still has his Visa card, yes? It doesn't expire until next year so I presume so..." He kept typing, opening what appeared to be a few pdf versions of newspaper articles.

It took Mary a moment to snap out of her own world. "Hang on, what's this about John's credit card?"

"Their archival articles were behind a pay wall," Sherlock replied, as if this explained everything.

"Whose articles?" Already knowing Sherlock would be uninterested in responding, Mary stood up, walking over to stand behind his chair so that she should see the monitor. Setting aside the casual manner in which Sherlock stole John's credit card information to pay for access to the site, Mary tried to study the page he now had up. It was indeed some sort of foreign newspaper. "Cambodge Soir," she read aloud. She dug into the rusty part of her brain that had once known some French but now chiefly felt self-satisfied on occasion at recognising the names of countries read in French during the Olympics. "French for 'Cambodia Night'?"

Sherlock hummed in vague acknowledgement as he clicked through the pages of different issues of the newspaper, evidently speed reading through the article titles. Evidently his French was sharper than Mary's. After a few minutes of rapid-fire clicking and scanning, Sherlock stopped abruptly on one page: an article beneath a grainy image of four men in what appeared to be some kind of prison visiting area. "Oh," Sherlock breathed, going perfectly still all of a sudden as his eyes scanned the article. "Oh, you were dedicated, weren't you Timothy?" he gave a crooked, dark grin in response to whatever had occurred to him.

Though she didn't know why, Mary realised she'd been holding her breath. She let it go, then asked cautiously, "You found something?"

"Everything," Sherlock replied, standing up slowly, his eyes wide as if forced that way by the rapidly expanding notions inside his head. He stared off into the distance for a few moments, then let out a deep, rumbling chuckle.

"What is it? Please?" Mary begged, forcing herself into the path of Sherlock's vision and hoping he didn't drift off entirely into his own universe again before explaining himself this time.

Fortunately, Sherlock did register Mary's presence quite fully. In fact, he seemed glad to have someone to zero in on as he began what she was starting to recognise as one of his famous self-satisfied explanations. "I looked all morning for anything pertaining to your father or Timothy Sholto. Anything at all that might give me some hint as to why either of these two men were connected to Bart Sholto's dodgy 'business' proposal to you and his murder. Bart bringing you into this meant it almost certainly had to do with your fathers. Yet there isn't anything connected to their names that would suggest anything contrary to the official story - that your father died of a tragic, accidental heart attack and that Timothy Sholto coincidentally also bought the land for his mining company soon thereafter."

"But," Mary ventured, "that can't be the whole story, can it? Not if Major Sholto murdered my father." Those words were difficult to get out, sticking in her throat. They had only the wildest speculations to go on, based merely on some unusual ash found in her father's pipe and a card missing from his deck... but somehow, Mary already knew that Sherlock's hunch was right.

"No," Sherlock replied vehemently, "it certainly isn't the whole story. But in a case like this, the immediate evidence is long gone. Even the parties involved are. Like your father. He's long gone, cremated, there isn't even a body." Sherlock gestured in the direction of his effects, and Mary tried to let his blunt words slide in lieu of focusing on whatever point he was making now. "Those items, they're not your father. They're shadows of your father. And those are what we should be looking for. Not news about him or Sholto; news about what Sholto left behind. That's the reason someone's knocking off his family now anyway."

Mary's eyes flicked to the page on the screen, specifically to the seemingly innocuous image of four men staring plaintively at the camera, wearing their plain Cambodian prison garb. "And you think you found them. The... things he left behind?"

Just as Sherlock opened his mouth to explain, Mary's phone rang loudly, causing her to jump back in surprise. She'd been trying so hard to decipher Sherlock's rambling explanation she'd almost forgotten entirely about John and Lestrade's interview with Ted Sholto. Sherlock himself seemed caught off-guard for a moment. Then he snatched up the phone eagerly and brought it to his ear. "Why haven't you answered my texts? Tell me you at least asked him the questions I sent you, John..." there was a pause, and Mary could hear John give some sort of reply. Sherlock scowled deeply. "You let a nurse impede our investigation? Really, Jo-"

Mary yanked the phone away from Sherlock's ear before he could say anything else. He was too surprised to stop her from turning it to speaker phone and setting it on the desk where they could both hear. "John, go on and tell us what you found out. What happened to Ted Sholto and what does he know?" Sherlock was staring at her as if she'd just slapped him, but frankly Mary didn't care if he felt slighted by her taking her own bloody phone back. Nor was she in the mood to brook another one of Sherlock's rambling explanations, which she was beginning to realise were more him reasoning out loud than him actually giving an already-formed explanation of his thoughts. She prayed to God John could shed some light on this mess.

"Er, hi," John replied, seeming to realise what had happened and that both Sherlock and Mary were listening now. "Well, yeah, so Ted. Seems a bit odd and out of sorts, but then that makes sense given everything going on."

Sherlock locked on instantly, demanding, "Odd? How exactly? Describe any unusual mannerisms, tones of voice, or statements in detail. Not just what he said, how he said it."

"I don't know, Sherlock," John replied, sounding unusually on edge. "He was spooked is all I mean. Someone just killed his brother and someone else tried to kill him at the same time. Anyone would be a little jumpy."

Before Sherlock could dissect this further, Mary took the opportunity to jump in with her most burning question for the present. "Did he tell you what his brother wanted to talk to me about? Did he know?"

There was a moment of hesitation on John's end. Then he replied, "He said that when his dad found the mine he wound up using for his business, the land he bought, that your dad was with him."

Sherlock gave Mary a significant glance, and for once she and the detective seemed to be thinking the same thing. Was that on the last night of her father's life? From what she knew of his death, he'd last been seen down at the pub early in the evening, playing cards with Sholto and some other acquaintances. The crowd had broken up as the night went on, in no notable fashion. The table had dwindled. Her father left hours before Sholto and had said he was heading back to his quarters. He'd been found dead of a massive heart attack the next morning, in the woods somewhere on the way back, alone. With his pipe. That was the story... but, she reasoned, looking away from Sherlock's knowing gaze, even if that weren't the full story, she had no reason to believe this incident John was talking about had anything to do with her father's death. Nothing but Sherlock's assumption that the four of diamonds card had disappeared from her father's deck the night he'd died, during his last game of cards. But she was just conflating the two nights in her head, that was all.

And yet, Sherlock had a look of growing satisfaction and certainty on his face as John continued talking. "Evidently they talked about going in together on the land, but then your dad passed away and Sholto continued on without him." Sherlock sat up straight at hearing that, a satisfied smirk now gracing his features. "Evidently, Ted and Bart just learned about this from their dad right before he died. They thought you ought to know," John finished, rather in a hurry.

Mary shifted her weight uncertainly. Clearly there had to be more to the meet-up than just informing her of a business venture he never lived to see (or, a part of her mind whispered, was never allowed to live to see). A 'business opportunity', Bart had called it. Mary was getting a crawling sensation all over her skin, like she knew everyone, including John, was holding back information. "So they just wanted me to know about this? That's all?"

There was a tense silence on the other end of the line. That wasn't helping. "Ah, there's a bit more," John admitted, "but can we talk about that in person?" Mary could tell he was stalling, but also knew he wouldn't do that if it were something truly important. Like if it were a matter of life and death, which strangely, she realised, was now a real possibility instead of just an expression. But she trusted John, so she replied, "All right, we'll get to that later."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but said nothing more. Instead, he barged in, "Were you able to ask about his father's tobacco ash?"

"No," John replied slowly, "there wasn't exactly a natural opening to bring it up."

"Who needs natural openings," Sherlock grumbled. "If you want to know something, just ask. Never mind the social conventions unless manipulating them can work to your advantage." Mary considered that statement. It implied that Sherlock actually knew what all the social conventions were, and she was beginning to think that wasn't always true. But she was sure it was convenient for him to write off the ones he didn't get as simply unimportant. Sherlock continued, miffed, "I sent you at least twenty questions. Did you ask any of them?"

"Well I didn't see most of them until after we got out," John admitted. "Ah, remember, the nurse had my phone," he added sheepishly.

Sherlock glared at Mary's phone as if John could see him through it. Mary had to cover her mouth to stifle a laugh at the absurdity of it all. Just then, there was a beep on the line followed by Lestrade's voice coming through, sounding like he was on speaker phone too now. "It's not as though I need your advice in order to conduct an interview," the detective inspector said defensively. Sherlock merely made a scoffing noise that suggested he thought quite the opposite. "Look, we've just pulled up to the Sholto Mansion. You near a computer? It might be easier if we can all see each other."

Without replying, Sherlock opened up video chat on the computer and logged in. "Yes, I'm ready, now bring up the video chat," he said impatiently.

Mary recalled John mentioning once that they'd occasionally run a video chat so that Sherlock could see a crime scene without actually being there. She also recalled John mentioning how much he hated the arrangement. The very audible sigh on the other end confirmed that. "God, Sherlock, give us a minute," John replied, hanging up. Mary wondered if John was just generally on edge today or if it were something more specific. Either way, he certainly seemed more agitated than normal. She made a mental note to ask him about it as she pulled her wooden chair over next to Sherlock's in front of the computer.

A few seconds later, the call came through and Sherlock answered. The pixelated forms of John and Lestrade, sitting in a police car with the phone evidently on the dashboard, came into view.

"As I was going to say. Ted Sholto did used to work for the company, on the Cambodia end of things," Lestrade explained. "But says he wasn't any good at it, hated it, and now runs a graphic design shop out of his home."

"And now that their father is dead? He owns half the company, is that it?" Sherlock inquired.

"No, that was left to his brother. But," Lestrade continued, cutting off a suspicious glance from Sherlock, "they were planning to sell it and split what they got evenly. He figures whoever did this was after the money, hence asking for Ted's bank account information."

"But not his brother's," Sherlock pointed out.

"Yeah," John added, "but they did steal some rubies from the attic, he said. That's right, isn't it?" He looked to Lestrade, who nodded.

"Some rubies?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "That wouldn't be as much as the sale of an entire mine. How much were they going to sell for?"

Again, Mary noticed John looking rather uncomfortable. It was little things in the ways his shoulders tensed that were his tell. I really need to find out what he's not telling me, she thought. She wondered if it were something he didn't want to say in front of Sherlock. She couldn't think of another reason for him to be so secretive and careful. Finally John replied, "£10 million."

"What?" Sherlock asked, his voice low and demanding. "And how much did he say it was bringing in a year?"

"Two million, think it was," Lestrade replied. "Why, is this the part where you tell me that's far too much for a little ruby mining operation and spout off facts and figures about the average net profit of companies mining various gems?" he asked sarcastically.

"I haven't the slightest idea how much most companies bring in," Sherlock replied. That shocked Mary. Not because one ought to know something like that off the top of his head, but simply because she had yet to hear Sherlock admit he didn't know something. Interesting. A lot of autistics took absolutely no interest in certain topics but managed to remember even the slightest details in other arenas. Speaking of being obsessively focused on a topic, she chastised herself. Sherlock continued, cutting into her thoughts, "No, what I was going to say is it seems incredibly low. Not given their output, which I haven't looked into yet. But just considering the expense of that home."

"The home? Why, how much is it worth?" John asked, his interest piqued.

Sherlock waved a hand. "You're sitting right outside it, just look at it! Look at the street you're on, the part of town. All that posh luxury and privacy, only a twenty minute drive from Hyde Park? Those houses are all 20 to 30 million a piece. A man whose company brings in a few million a year can't even get close to affording that." Sherlock leaned back in his chair, clapping his hands once in excitement. "See, John, this is why you ask the questions I want you to. If you'd asked the others I'd intended, we'd probably be done with this already."

John and Lestrade exchanged an annoyed look. Obviously neither wanted to give Sherlock the satisfaction of admitting he was right or of asking him to explain what he meant. But Mary had no such male ego, and decided to bite. "So if the mine wasn't making them that much, what do you think was?" Mary asked.

Sherlock gave her a sidelong look for a moment before leaning forward again in his chair and saying with an air of forced casualness, "No idea. Now, tell me what Ted Sholto told you about his attacker," he asked John and Lestrade.

The other three people in the conversation all exchanged looks that ranged from Mary's annoyance to John's complete resignation. If Sherlock didn't want to explain something, he couldn't be made to. Mary was realising that it was rather difficult to get him to do anything on someone else's timetable. If he was on to something new, he would bring it up eventually, wouldn't he? John shrugged in silent reply to all their questions, and soldiered on. "Not much. It was past 9, pitch dark, and the guy had a balaclava covering his face. He was white, tall and evidently fit, maybe from South London, and graciously stopped beating Ted to hell long enough to ask for his bank account information."

"Jonathan Small," Sherlock stated plainly.

"I'm sorry, did he just say a name?" John asked, clearly directed at Mary.

But Mary was just as confused as John was. It wasn't as if being present in the room with Sherlock Holmes as he puzzled through something actually meant you knew what he was talking about. But then her eyes were drawn back to the computer monitor and the article still filling the screen. No, not the article, which was unintelligible to her. The photo caption. From left to right, the men in the picture were named as: Alain Giroux (dark-haired, compact but muscular Frenchman), Murad Shah (an annoyed looking Indian bloke), Vithu Pheng (Cambodian, seemingly non-plussed by his imprisonment), and Jonathan Small (tall, fierce, and pale).

Mary's eyes had grown slowly wider as her gaze lingered on the name Sherlock had said and the picture of the man who fit at least the scant description John had relayed from Ted. She met Sherlock's steady gaze and practically whispered, "You're saying that's him, right there? The man who tried to kill Ted Sholto?"

"Yes, of course it is," Sherlock replied.

"Hang on," John replied, his voice rising with incredulity. "Have you two somehow solved this case without even hearing any testimony or leaving the flat?"

"Don't know yet," Sherlock said.

Mary could do nothing but stare and try to get her brain to catch up. Thankfully, she wasn't the only one who seemed completely lost. Lestrade rubbed his eyes ferociously before finally sayin, "Look, we're at the Sholto Mansion and we can't sit here in the car all day. Donovan might show up any time. But before we go in and look around, we're going to all of us get on the same page, all right?"

"That would be appreciated," Mary replied gratefully.

"Right, so," Lestrade began, "besides being obviously your guess for the man who attacked Bart Sholto, who the hell is Jonathan Small and how did you find out about him?"

"It's not a guess," Sherlock said, miffed. He charged headlong into an explanation, his tempo speeding up gradually as he spoke. "I'd searched unsuccessfully for anything on Sholto or Morstan. So I looked for their shadows instead. Any mentions of British UN officials, UN Majors, anything that might be linked but wouldn't mention specific names. And I came across an interesting editorial in a Cambodian French language newspaper from 1995. Four former UN Peacekeepers wound up as prisoners there back in 1993 as part of a sting operation performed by the UN brass in response to complaints of rampant gambling, drug use, and illegal pornography amongst Peacekeepers. Kept very quiet in the international news, no doubt. But here's the interesting bit," Sherlock said, just before Mary was ready to shake him out of his musings and shout get to the point! "They claimed an unnamed British officer with the UN had targeted them with the sting. They said the UN refused to reveal the officers who gave specific orders, but these four men insisted that they were arrested right after they showed this officer and a friend of his to a location containing valuable raw gems for mining. These four men all swear that the major swindled them out of their treasure."

Lestrade rubbed his forehead, looking as bowled over as Mary felt. It was John who seemed most able to follow Sherlock's rapid-fire speech and not entirely linear thinking. "But Sherlock," John said, sounding like he was trying to unconvince himself of the conclusions Sherlock was putting forth. "You said the article was from 1995. Mary's father died back in 1993."

"Yes, yes," Sherlock replied in annoyance, "and obviously the UN was no longer there in 1995 either. The article wasn't about their arrest, it was part of a series of coverage of their last appeals. They'd already been in this prison, trying to get their voices heard, for two years. There were virtually no local news outlets in 1993. And the UN certainly wouldn't have advertised a story about four convicts who were themselves a blight on the UN's already unstable mission. Nor would it be enough for a western outlet in the area. There were much more important things to cover. And they had no proof. They didn't even have the officer's name." At this point, Sherlock was talking so excitedly, he was hardly leaving spaces between words. Mary was doing her best to keep up, silently watching him lecture to the web camera. "It's no wonder it didn't get picked up by anyone else. It only seems to have been printed by Cambodge Soir because the Frenchman, Alain Giroux, was a very minor sort of celebrity in France for his mountain climbing in the Himalayas prior to his joining the UN. So a sort of interest story for the Francophone population. I'd wager if we look at the papers of his hometown back in France, we might find an article or two there as well. But nothing ever came of it." Sherlock was red in the face and out of breath by the end of his speech, but hadn't seemed to notice.

"Sherlock, just take a breath for a second," John said, elevating his voice to cut through his friend's rambling. Mary was a little concerned for Sherlock herself. They waited until Sherlock took a few breaths before John spoke slowly, emphasizing each words as if to force his friend's unruly mind to slow down. "How do you know this is talking about Major Sholto and Mary's father."

"Isn't it obvious? The dates," Sherlock said, turning to Mary as he realised she was the only one who could actually see the article on his screen. "Look at the date these four were arrested."

Mary followed his finger to the indicated line, and her heart nearly stopped. "What?" John asked, concerned. Clearly being able to actually see her made all the difference. She must have looked as faint as she felt.

"The 5th of September, 1993," Mary read quietly, preferring to stare at that side of the screen rather than the corner where John and Lestrade's video chat window was. "The day after my father died."

There was a palpable silence in which the only noise seemed to be the sound of Sherlock's head inflating to an unbearable size. A smug smile and raised eyebrow were focused in turn on each other them until, finally, he said, "Well, seeing as I've already identified the murderers, shall we get on to finding concrete proof for the sake of curiosity and the court case?"

"For the sake of the court case," Lestrade interjected, his voice rising in irritation, "you might want to actually explain how the hell you've even jumped to this conclusion."

Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh. "It's so painfully obvious. The story those four imprisoned UN peacekeepers told Cambodge Soir was essentially true. They most likely stumbled across land that had potential to be mined for rubies. But not having the means to purchase Cambodian citizenship or the land, they decided to cut Sholto and Morstan in. Sholto got greedy, killed Morstan, then had the other men arrested as part of a sting." Mary flinched. She'd already pieced together that Sherlock must suspect Timothy Sholto for her father's apparent murder, but hearing him actually say it stung.

"So you're saying these four guys are out of this Cambodian prison now and want money and revenge?" Lestrade asked.

"Of course," Sherlock said, "it was clear from the beginning that this couldn't be a simple robbery."

"The four of diamonds left in Bart Sholto's ceiling," John noted slowly, as if working it out as he spoke. "That had to be some sort of message or symbol."

"Precisely," Sherlock replied. "It's something to do with their last card game at that pub, where the four of diamonds disappeared from Michael Morstan's deck. In the minds of these incredibly dense and unimaginative criminals, it's quite literally a calling card: the four of them and a red gemstone. They may as well have written 'the four of rubies' across the top; it would have been just as prosaic."

"But there are four of them," Mary pointed out, looking at the picture that was still up on the screen as she did. "How do you know which one of them killed Bart? And where are the others?"

"Working on it," Sherlock replied curtly. "I'll need to have a look around the scene again for a few key items first."

Lestrade held a warning index finger up. "No, I told you Sherlock, you aren't getting anywhere near this scene. It's bad enough me being here with John in the car. I told you I might might send some items back with him if you wanted to see them. But that's it, you're not coming here."

"You have a web camera in your phone!" Sherlock insisted.

"I am never doing that again," Lestrade asked. "And you won't come here, do you understand that? I told you I'd help you with this case on account of your involvement and Mary's, but if you put one foot out of line, I'm not giving you a case again. Hell, I still have to figure out some sort of official way to use you in the first place," the detective grumbled.

If Sherlock was deterred by what Mary would consider to be a fairly large and troubling bit of information, he didn't show it. Instead, he only seemed momentarily irritated by Lestrade's refusal. "Fine, but at least take some decent video and photos of the scene. Knowing what we do now, there are only two things I really need you to look for. Firstly, I need you to find a sample of Timothy Sholto's pipe tobacco. Most likely from a desk drawer. In its case if you can. Unlikely Bart or the housekeepers would have thrown it out. Secondly, when you go up on the roof-"

"Hang on," John interjected. "The roof?"

"Yes, of course. Obviously that's the way the killer came in. We've established it wasn't through a door or window but that he fired the gun straight from the attic. So, most likely he came in through the roof. I'll need you to take some good photos there. Once you've determined his point of entry, get me a shingle from around there. Also, look around for any vestiges of climbing equipment: rope, carabiners, descenders, cams. He most likely wouldn't have left those there, but it's worth a shot. But the shingle is the essential bit for confirming it. Also, be sure to look at where he might have climbed up from, photograph any marks on the side of the house that seem suspicious."

"You're saying one of these guys climbed onto the roof?" Lestrade replied, looking up from the paper he was scribbling away on.

"Do you have an alternate theory for how one gets on a roof?" Sherlock replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Then he explained impatiently, "Alain Giroux would have been the natural choice for the task, given his mountain climbing background."

"All right, what are the other things?" Lestrade asked, all business despite the fact that, in truth, he was being ordered around by a civilian. Mary would wager he'd long ago realised some things weren't worth arguing over. And Sherlock's tone toward authority figures seemed to be one of them.

But to Mary's surprise, Sherlock simply shrugged and stood up. "No, those are the most material things for the moment."

"You got a date or something?" Lestrade questioned sharply, clearly not happy about Sherlock Holmes looking very much like he was about to run out the door and go God knew where. It made Mary nervous as well; she certainly didn't want to stay at home alone at the moment, but also wasn't exactly jumping out of her seat to follow Sherlock on another "adventure".

Sherlock was looking about for his scarf, which turned out to be draped over the chair he'd been sitting in. As he picked it up he commented absently, "Best not to make that joke around Molly, I think."

There was a beat. Lestrade and Watson exchanged horrified looks. "Molly? You aren't going to St. Bart's, that's out of the question," Lestrade said sternly.

"We have to get some items tested. I don't have the capabilities to do so here. And it would be useful to speak with someone who has access to autopsy records," Sherlock said matter-of-factly, putting on his scarf. Mary gave John a pleading look, not quite knowing what she should do.

"Sherlock," John cut in flatly. "Listen, I'm all for that. But can you at least wait until I've brought the things you want back from the Sholto mansion. Please? Then we can go to St. Bart's together." Mary noticed the way John's voice wavered slightly on those words, how he swallowed reflexively. And it occurred to her, though of course it didn't to Sherlock, just how huge it was for John to offer to go to St. Bart's at all. He'd pathologically avoided the place for the last year and a half. They'd actually become quite good friends with Molly and, more recently, her boyfriend, but had never been to her place of work.

Oh God, Molly, Mary thought. From what John had told her, the poor woman had been hopelessly in love with Sherlock. In all the time Mary had known her, she'd carefully avoided mentioning his name. How on earth could they break it to her gently that he was alive?

But more importantly, Mary was back to wondering what John would think going to St. Bart's though Sherlock was alive and mostly well, the last thing she wanted was for John to have to go and meet them at St. Bart's by himself. There was still so much unresolved over what had happened that day on the rooftop. Both physically, in terms of how Sherlock had managed to fake his death, and emotionally. Because, though he never believed Sherlock's assertions that he was a fraud, John had still never quite come to terms with why his friend had supposedly killed himself. Mary had listened to John's long, guilt and anger-filled speculations, but for all her training, could do nothing more than admit that sometimes we didn't know why people did the things they did. Which even she knew was an utterly shit answer.

Unfortunately Sherlock's return thus far hadn't actually answered many of the questions Mary knew John had. Nor did it erase the fact that John had still believed, on balance, that Sherlock was capable of killing himself. And that there might be reasons he would want to (though John never would fully articulate them). The implications of that put Mary on edge for both Sherlock and John's sake. And if all of these things were occurring to her just at the mention of going to St. Bart's, she wondered how much more strongly it would affect John.

"Please, Sherlock," she found herself saying, giving him a pleading look. As if what she wanted factored into his decisions at all. "It's better if we wait so John can come to St. Bart's with us. It'll be more convenient." She's emphasized John's name just slightly, hoping that Sherlock might see her point without her having to spell it out.

Sherlock looked down at her, trying to size up what she meant. He appeared to be struggling with it more than his usual studies of objects or articles. Then he glanced over at John on the computer screen. Perhaps he had pieced together the concerns Mary had. Even if he had, she couldn't imagine he really understood them. Nevertheless, he seemed at least to comprehend that there was some measure of concern for John in all this. And that was evidently enough.

Sherlock gave a long sigh and sank heavily back into the desk chair. "Fine," he huffed, like an overgrown child. "But hurry up."

"You don't have to worry about that," Lestrade replied. "The last thing I want to do is linger around in that attic until DI Donovan shows up."

"Yeah, let's not have a repeat of that mistake," John said. "I quite like being not in prison." To Sherlock he said, "See you soon." Then to Mary, he added, haltingly, "And I promise I'll fill you in. On... other things. When I get back."

"All right. Hurry back," Mary replied with a small wave before shutting off the video call. Turning to Sherlock, she said quietly, "Thank you." She hesitated, unsure if she should further explain, then decided it might help Sherlock. "I just didn't want John to have to go meet us at St. Bart's by himself. Even though I know you don't understand why, I just worry it'll bring back a lot of bad memories for him."

Sherlock looked at her for a long moment. Not sizing her up, though. Not this time. He looked as if he were actually considering his words before speaking for once. Finally, he said quietly, "John doesn't have a monopoly on those." Without another word, he turned back to the computer.

Chapter 11

Sherlock had been practically ready to climb out of his own skin with anxiety by the time John had returned from the crime scene. While he had brought the requested shingle, photographs, and tobacco from Timothy Sholto's desk, it had taken him dreadfully long to do so. It had given Sherlock some time to gather more information on the four UN peacekeeper prisoners; but he'd hardly needed as long as John had taken. Practically the instant John opened the door, Sherlock spun him the other direction to head down to the road and catch a cab to St. Bart's. Mary tagged along, of course. A bit superfluous, but Sherlock didn't want to spare the time to point this out. He flagged down a cab and hopped in, with John and Mary sitting next to him.

While Mary and John engaged in forced casual conversation about mundane topics like the weather and some election or other, Sherlock concentrated on the items John had brought back. He turned the shingle and tobacco case both over in his hands, letting all their details pour into his brain. "Let me see the photographs of the side of the house again," Sherlock told John without looking up from the items.

John gave a sigh. Why he still did that, Sherlock didn't know. He was fully aware that John found his straightforward manner impolite. What was the point in repeating that sentiment every time Sherlock said anything? It seemed a horrible waste of time and energy. The end result was still going to be that John would do what Sherlock had said anyhow, which was exactly what happened as John handed his mobile to Sherlock. The detective tapped to open the photo album and started flicking through the photos. Most were useless, but John and Lestrade had managed to take a few useful (if slightly blurry) photos of the side of the house. A series of deep scratches in the stately brick had stood out even to John.

"What are those from?" John asked, noticing the photo Sherlock was stopped on.

Sherlock looked up from the phone, and held the shingle John had brought back from the Sholto mansion rooftop. "The same thing these are," Sherlock said, indicating the distinct series of parallel puncture marks a few inches apart.

"Which is..?" John asked.

"Crampons," Sherlock said. "Really the only thing that could both make these distinct marks, leave scratches even in brick, allow someone to climb up a sheer brick face, but also grip onto the asphalt tiles of the roof. Especially a steep one like the Sholto Mansion has."

John blinked. "What the hell are crampons?"

"They're those metal spike things you attach to your shoes for ice climbing, aren't they?" Mary offered.

Sherlock was somewhat impressed. It wasn't incredibly obscure knowledge, but from John's reaction Sherlock gathered it wasn't entirely common either. It was always fascinating to learn what normal people did and didn't know about. "Exactly," he replied, "And who should happen to be a climbing expert but our friend Alain Giroux. You said there wasn't any more climbing equipment left behind," Sherlock directed at John, who shook his head in confirmation. "Of course he would have been careful. But it's just as well. This gives us what we need to go on anyway. Then there's the tobacco." John had indeed found a tin of Germain's Special Latakia Flake tobacco in Timothy Sholto's desk, as Sherlock had suspected he would.

"Yeah, the Germain's Special Latakia Flake," John affirmed. "I'm not even going to ask for an explanation about telling types of tobacco ash apart, so I'll take your word that's the right kind. But what's it spiked with?"

"I have my suspicions, but we won't know for sure until it's tested," Sherlock replied nonchalantly, which seemed to satisfy both Mary and John. In truth, he was almost certain about the source of the stalks of plant matter he'd found in Michael Morstan's pipe. And if he turned out to be right, it would also add to the evidence supporting his belief as to where all that extra Sholto family money came from. But Sherlock wanted to play that close to the chest, in the phraseology of card players like the four. It wouldn't do to make such a declaration publicly then be proven wrong. This case was his chance to show everyone he was fine and more than ready to jump back into the work. Thus far, he felt he'd done a terrific job and didn't want to muck that up.

As the cab turned down Gitspur street, an odd stillness came over the car. Even before the outline of St. Bart's came into view on the right-hand side of the street, John had tensed. That in turn made Sherlock feel uncomfortable. He could certainly understand why John had grown silent. Their phone conversation and his leap from the roof of St. Bart's was one thing Sherlock had specifically tried not to delete. Horrible as it had been to live through and sometimes almost worse to re-live and analyse for Sherlock, he knew John must have had a much harder time of it. After all, he was at the disadvantage of not having all the facts. No, it was more than that: Sherlock had intentionally misled and deceived John. He'd felt it necessary, and still believed it was. But he wouldn't delete the memory. If John had to live with that in his mind, Sherlock had reasoned that it was only fair he should as well.

When the cab pulled over to the side of the road, Sherlock paid the driver without a word and was very glad to step out of the stiflingly tense environment of the car. Unfortunately he was then presented with a familiar sight, though Sherlock was aware that he was seeing it from the opposite perspective than the last time he'd been here. They passed the low brick ambulance station Sherlock had used to obscure John's view when he'd jumped. Neither man said anything or looked directly at the other. John had his eyes fixed on the street, intentionally not looking up as they hurried across the road. Sherlock noticed Mary taking John's hand and giving it a squeeze as they entered the hospital.

Sherlock followed behind John and Mary, whose hands were still intertwined as they headed up the staircase that led to the lab. When they arrived at the catwalk to the lab on the third floor, John stopped and turned around to face Sherlock. He was giving Sherlock a reproachful look already, which didn't seem a good start to whatever conversation they were about to have. "Sherlock, are you sure this is a good idea? Isn't there any way to test these things out back at home?"

"You vastly overestimate my lab," Sherlock replied. "Besides, we may need autopsy records as well and Molly will have access to those." That seemed obvious enough, but John and Mary were still exchanging nervous looks for some reason. "What?" Sherlock demanded impatiently.

It was Mary who seemed to have the bravery to voice the essence of the silent conversation she'd evidently been having with John. "It's just, well, Molly thinks you're dead. And you've done a lot of surprising those of us who thought you were dead, I know. But it's a bit different with Molly."

Sherlock gave her a puzzled look. "I don't see how. Anyway," he continued as he turned and strode across the catwalk and into the hallway, "I'm sure it will be fine." John and Mary struggled to keep up with his long strides, which gave him the chance to stroll casually through the wooden door to the lab before they were able to stop him with any more boring chatter.

As the door swung open loudly, Molly Hooper practically fell off the stool she was sitting on. And she knocked the case of slides she'd been arranging off the island, and scattering glass everywhere as she saw who had barged so confidently into her quiet lab. Sherlock gave a curt nod and said, "Molly."

Behind him, Sherlock heard John and Mary enter and come to a stop, paralysed with indecision most likely. He was just thinking how quaint that reaction was when Molly suddenly closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around Sherlock, throwing him into a surprising paralysis himself. For a moment, no one said or did anything. Then Molly seemed to realise what she was doing and let go, taking a few awkward steps back. "It's really good to see you. I didn't know... no one told me how you were or..." she seemed to notice John and Mary for the first time and went even whiter than her normally pale complexion. She covered her mouth with one hand, looking horrified. "Bollocks," Molly exclaimed fearfully. "I probably wasn't supposed to say anything."

"It's fine," Sherlock replied awkwardly, realising his feet were still stuck to the floor in shock.

There was a pregnant pause. Then John took a step toward Molly. "Hang on," he said, the light of realisation clearly dawning in his eyes. "You knew," he whispered. "You knew all along that he was alive, didn't you?"

Molly looked helplessly to Sherlock, though he had no idea why. The only explanation was the truth, really. She might as well tell it. He simply shrugged at her in response. Swallowing and looking back at John and Mary, who looked just as shocked, Molly said, "Yes. Sorry. I wasn't supposed to tell anyone. But Sherlock needed me... well, he needed someone who could provide fake autopsy and death certificate forms for him..."

Mary and John exchanged flabbergasted looks. Sherlock really wished they'd push past the inevitable shocked stage and just get right into accepting it. But Mary was looking at Molly with astonishment and something else Sherlock couldn't quite place. He'd almost call it pity, though that made little sense. "All this time, you knew and couldn't say anything. All those dinners we've had, double dates with you and Amir, and you could never say anything. That must have been awful."

"Oh God, it was. So, so awful," Molly affirmed vehemently. "I wanted to say something so badly. To you, especially," she said to John, who was looking gravely conflicted by this new information. Molly gave him a pleading look. "I saw how hard it all was on you. Even when you didn't say so, I knew. I could only imagine what I'd feel like in your place, if I didn't actually know Sherlock was alive..." John looked up and met her excessively pleading expression. "I wanted to tell you so badly. But I couldn't tell anyone, not even Amir. You have to believe me!"

Molly was getting awfully worked up about this, Sherlock thought. Yes, keeping a secret could be difficult. He knew that well enough himself. He'd wished for the ability to pick up a phone and call John many times in the last year and a half. But not being able to was a practical reality he'd forced himself to accept. What was the use bawling about it now, as Molly was practically doing? John had to put a reassuring hand on her shoulder to get her to calm down. "Hey, it's fine," John said gently. "I'm sure you didn't have a choice. And I can hardly fault you for being a great friend to Sherlock when he needed it, can I? I'm sure he wouldn't have asked for your help unless he really needed it. For whatever he was up to." John gave Sherlock a quick look that served as a reminder that Sherlock had yet to explain why he'd faked his death. Well, he'd have to keep waiting on that account.

Sniffing, Molly shook her head. "I'm just glad that's finally over. It'll be so much nicer going out with you and John and Amir without a big lie hanging over my head." She looked quickly up at Sherlock, nervously explaining, "Amir's my boyfriend."

Sherlock looked at her blankly for a second. Was he supposed to have a response to that? He didn't. Instead, he said, "Molly, I need you to test something for me. Tobacco ash that I believe could be contaminated."

Seemingly grateful for the change of topic, Molly gave a nervous smile. "Sure, anything specifically you're looking for?"

Sherlock took out the bag and handed it to her. "Let's see what you come up with first, shall we? I wouldn't want my hunches to bias the test. And here's a sample of what I believe to be the same type of tobacco, unsmoked." He handed her both the bag of ashes and Sholto's tin. "I'd like to make sure they're actually the same tobacco, though I'm within the margin of error of being completely certain of it."

"All right," Molly said, taking the items and turning back towards the island. Finally they all seemed able to move from where they'd been frozen. Mary took a chair next to Molly while John stood next to them and Sherlock started pacing. "Can I ask what case this is for?" Molly inquired.

"The murder of Bart Sholto, for one," Sherlock said. "Though that's hardly the whole of it."

Molly paused, looking up from the counter where she'd just started opening the plastic bag of tobacco ash. "Sholto?" she asked. "Was he related to a Timothy Sholto?"

Sherlock paused his pacing and exchanged a look with John and Mary, who were just as surprised at Molly's question. "Yeah," John answered. "This was his son. Shot in the back of the head in his own bedroom. Why, do you know something about Timothy?"

Molly fidgeted. "It's probably nothing..."

"Any information might help," Mary insisted.

Sherlock took a few paces toward Molly, his attention fully focused on her and whatever she clearly wanted to say. The nervous woman looked up at him and seemed to lose all resolve instantly. "Well, he died here in St. Bart's. Had been doing chemo for a while. Didn't work out, obviously." She winced in self-recrimination for the comment. "Anyway, he came through here for his autopsy. Something seemed off. He had cancer, so he obviously wasn't well. But he'd died suddenly in his room when his vitals and labs had been good. It didn't make sense to me."

Now Sherlock was intently focused on her. For once, Molly seemed to actually have something to say that piqued his interest. And of course now she was faltering. "Go on," Sherlock prompted, his gaze intense and anticipatory.

Molly stared at him for a few long moments before looking away to address John and Mary instead. "I'd been reading some stories in medical journals lately about some nurses in different hospitals who'd turned out to be killing elderly patients with succinylcholine - sux, for short."

Sherlock's brow furrowed as he tried to call up the relevant bit of information in his mind. But John stepped in instantly, "That's a paralytic. We use it to restrain a patient chemically for intubation. Relaxes all your muscles instantly, including ones normally used for breathing."

"Right," Molly said with a nod. "So if you give someone a lot of it and they don't have a breathing machine, they'll die pretty quickly. That's what these nurses I'd read about did."

"And did you test Sholto's blood for this drug?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, that's the thing," Molly replied, still seeming nervous even though she should have been confident in having all the knowledge for the moment. "You can't test for it. It metabolises too fast. But in this journal it said they'd been able to look for its metabolites instead. The sort of bi-products of it being broken down. Like you would for a long term drug test."

Sherlock wasn't certain, but he thought he saw John shift uncomfortably. For his part, Sherlock was a bit too shocked to hear Molly Hooper of all people describing a rather clever process of tracking down a murder. "And I take it you found these metabolites?" Sherlock asked, riveted.

Molly nodded. "Yes. Someone had definitely given him a large shot of sux. That's what killed him. I've been working on bringing this up to superiors for a couple weeks. No one really wants to think their staff are killing patients, though."

"Oh, they needn't worry about that," Sherlock said, starting to become energised. "The killer wasn't a staff member. In fact, I'd bet it was Jonathan Small."

"Why him in particular?" Mary asked.

"Because," Sherlock replied, gesticulating angrily, "he had been in the Peacekeepers medical corps. He'd have known what sort of medicine in a hospital might be able to kill without leaving a trace. Didn't you take any of the hour we spent waiting for John to look up more about the men who might be trying to kill you?"

"No," Mary drawled sarcastically, "You were on my computer that whole time."

Sherlock waved the comment off. "Never mind that." He turned to Molly. "Do you have a list of Timothy Sholto's effects? Everything that was found with him in his room when he died?"

"I can bring one up," Molly said, moving down a ways to a computer. The other three followed her, looking over her shoulder as she searched for the right file. In a few minutes, she had opened the report on Major Sholto's death. "Here's a list of everything he had."

The other three all scanned the list, with Sherlock finishing his read first and pounding the counter suddenly in frustration. John looked at him. "No playing cards," John noted.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "But it had to be Small. There's far too much coincidence otherwise. Two members of the same family murdered within a month's time but by different people? Highly unlikely. Especially considering these four had more reason to seek revenge on Timothy Sholto than on anyone else." Sherlock pulled his hair anxiously, staring off into the air as he thought aloud. "So they didn't leave a calling card as with Bart. But this was the original... the night they told Sholto and Morstan about the rubies, they were playing cards. The four of diamonds went missing from Morstan's deck. He didn't have it. But maybe, maybe..." Sherlock trailed off, realisation hitting him. "Ah, that could be it."

"What could?" Mary asked, even more invested now.

"Maybe they didn't leave a card with Sholto; maybe they took one from him instead," Sherlock said, steepling his hands together against his mouth. "But there's no way to know for certain unless we find them."

"Why would he have a single playing card on him?" John asked incredulously.

"Sentiment, perhaps," Sherlock replied. "In any case, their attack against the Sholto family looks to be something they've thought out. Not very well, I'm afraid. But it does point to a large degree of premeditation. Which, given that they've had twenty years to think about it, makes sense." He shook his head, musing to himself. "Metabolites... That took some careful attention to detail to catch. Your observations have improved. I'm impressed."

Molly's cheeks turned red. "Thanks," she said, avoiding looking up at him.

Sherlock noticed John staring at him in open astonishment, as if he thought his friend incapable of paying a compliment. Which was ridiculous. Of course Sherlock gave compliments, but only when they were truly warranted. Otherwise it just became meaningless. With a smirk, he added, "Hopefully this applies to your scrutiny of boyfriends. You haven't got much experience in that area, which puts you at a bit of a disadvantage in judgment. I hope this Amir fellow turns out better than dear Jim."

The room grew tense with silence, and he wondered what he'd done wrong this time. He glanced at the pained looks on both John and Mary's faces, then at Molly's cheeks, which had gone from red to deep scarlet. All right, that was evidently a not good thing to say, he noted mentally.

"You know, Sherlock," John began slowly. "Maybe we should let Molly do that test while you and I take a closer look at that shingle you have."

"It's hardly necessary," Sherlock scoffed. "We know they were made by crampons, almost certainly worn by Alain Giroux."

"Yeah," John coaxed, "but it can't hurt to take a closer look. Run some tests. See if there's some sort of, I dunno, special dirt on it or something."

John was behaving very oddly, but Sherlock did suppose it couldn't hurt to be through. "Fine," he replied absently. John led the way down to the far end of the lab from Molly. Sherlock noted Mary staying by Molly's side, even giving her friend a pat on the arm that seemed entirely unnecessary.

Sherlock set the shingle on the counter and grabbed a scalpel to excise a small bit of it. They were out of earshot of the women, and as Sherlock set about working, John remarked quietly, "You shouldn't say things like that."

"Like what?" Sherlock asked, his attention focused on trying to pry loose a bit of the tough asphalt.

"What you said about Molly's boyfriends," John hissed, and Sherlock was surprised at his apparent anger.

Sherlock's brow furrowed as he looked at John in confusion. "What did I say that was so wrong? She hasn't had many boyfriends and the last one she had was simply using her to get to me. I was merely suggesting that I think her improved observation might help her avoid that in the future. I was simply stating the facts."

John closed his eyes and rubbed them as he said, "I know, but this is Molly. You have to be more delicate."

Sherlock was still staring at him in puzzlement. "Why?"

John opened his eyes and let out a sigh as he looked up at his friend. "She's a sensitive person. A really nice person. And because, Sherlock," his voice lowered slightly, "she fancies you. I'm sure that's a big part of why she kept this massive secret for you, too."

"Oh, that," Sherlock replied in relief. He went back to working on the shingle. "Yes, I'd worked that out actually. One of the reasons I chose her." He glanced back at John, asking, "...and?"

"And," John replied, his voice turning stern, "you shouldn't insult and pick at the love life of a poor woman who happened to have the misfortune to fall in love with you, of all people."

Sherlock froze for a moment, still staring down at the asphalt shingle he'd just managed to slice a small piece off of. He kept his eyes on it as he slowly moved the sample to a microscope slide. "What's that supposed to mean?" Sherlock asked, surprised at the tremor of anger in his voice.

"I just mean," John replied, back-peddling, "You're not exactly the most emotionally available bloke."

"Machine," Sherlock replied tersely. When John said nothing, Sherlock drew back just far enough from the eyepiece of the microscope to turn his gaze in John's direction. His friend looked like he'd been smacked. "That's how you put it the last time we were here, wasn't it?" Sherlock asked with an acidic note of false casualness. He knew his memory was accurate; he'd thought about the last words John had said to him in person many times in the months he'd been trying to delete. John had nothing to say, so Sherlock went back to the microscope.

After a long moment, John continued, "Well that's irrelevant. You don't like her anyway. Haven't you put her down enough?"

"When have I done that?" Sherlock scoffed, looking fully round at John now, offended.

John looked completely shocked at Sherlock's reaction. "Are you mad?" he asked. "When haven't you? The last time we were here to see her, I distinctly remember you telling her that she should give up dating entirely because the last man she'd gone out with turned out to be Moriarty."

Sherlock blinked, truly confused and wanting to understand what John meant. "I was making a joke. Isn't that what friends do with one another? I was showing her I consider her a friend," he stated plainly. He couldn't help if sometimes he were misinterpreted.

John just shook his head and scratched the back of his neck before replying, "Look, just never mind all that. All I'm saying is try to be careful what you say to Molly, okay?"

But Sherlock wasn't going to let this go that easily. "No, I want to understand this," he countered sincerely. "I find these lessons of yours interesting. Sometimes they're useful."

Looking skyward, John exhaled in exasperation. "I can't do this," he said, looking back to Sherlock. A vein at his temple popped slightly as he ground his teeth together, trying to hold back anger. "Look, Sherlock, just so we're clear," he stated, "I'm here on this case to help Mary. That's it. But I can't do this all the time anymore. Interesting as this might be for you, I can't spend all my time being a seeing eye dog for the socially blind."

It was Sherlock's turn to stare at his friend in surprise. Well, surprise at first, which quickly turned into something more akin to deep offence. Perhaps even pain. "I'm not handicapped," he replied, his voice turning quiet seemingly of its own will.

John winced. "I didn't mean it like that." He looked as though he wanted to add something else in apology, but the moment had passed and Sherlock was back at his microscope.

His voice now more normal, Sherlock remarked, "This all seems moot. I simply don't see why someone would mind someone making statements of fact about them."

Carefully choosing his words now, John replied, "Because not all facts are things you'd like everyone to know. I'd think you of all people would understand that, after what Kitty Riley wrote about you." Sherlock slowed his turning of the microscope's focus ring for a moment, but otherwise gave no response to that. The last thing in the world he wanted to talk about right now was that article. If he did, he feared he might get half a mind to drive over to Mycroft's and punch him again.

Fortunately, Molly's voice cut in. "You were right," she said, and Sherlock looked up to see her and Mary standing across the counter from him and John now. "Same chemical makeup, same tobacco from the tin and burned in the pipe. Plus," Molly continued, "those little bits of stalk tested positive for ephedrines."

Sherlock smirked, "Well, that would make sense, wouldn't it? Considering they're the stalks of the ephedra plant."

Molly blinked in confusion. "If... you knew that already, why'd you have me test it?"

"I told you, my certainty was within the margin of error," Sherlock replied. "I wanted to be positive." And what a good piece of news it was, too. He'd thought the stalks pictured next to the Alba Gem & Mining Company sign had looked like ephedra. Evidently Timothy Sholto had noticed them, too. And that was a very nasty thing to mix with Michael Morstan's digoxin prescription...

"I was wondering about something," Mary started, breaking annoyingly into Sherlock's thoughts. "It seems like the only two of these four showing up here now are Small and Giroux. What about the others? What's their role in this?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Possibly support, possibly nothing. In any case, they're convicted criminals with Indian and Cambodian citizenship; they're not likely to be able to get into the UK so easily as an Englishman and Frenchman."

"So we shouldn't worry about them coming after Mary?" John asked.

"I don't know that we have to worry about anyone coming after Mary," Sherlock said. "How long do you think Small and Giroux will want to stay in the country?"

"Ted Sholto's still alive," Mary pointed out. "They're revenge isn't quite complete, is it? Not to mention they failed to get much money out of this after all." She paused thoughtfully. "They'd said they were going to sell the company for ten million and that it would be split evenly. So shouldn't Ted Sholto be coming into a lot of money pretty soon?"

"Ten million pounds?" Molly asked. "That's a lot. I'd think someone would want to stick around for that amount of money." She turned sheepish. "Not that I really know much about the... motives side of things. I just stick to the science."

John shifted uncomfortably, chewing his lip as he looked at Mary. "Yeah, the thing is, Ted wasn't going to keep quite all of that. The plan had been to split it three ways, so he'd be keeping 3.3 million and giving Bart's 3.3 million to Bart's daughter now."

It took a second for that to register. Sherlock's brow furrowed in interest. "And where did he say the last third of that sale was going to go?"

"Well," John looked anxiously at Mary, and Sherlock instantly knew. His friend continued to hem and haw and evidently Mary was unawares, but Sherlock already realised what John was going to say. Brilliant. A good way to cover your tracks from the one person who might be suspicious. Ah Ted, you are quite clever. Mary was getting uneasy herself from the look of things, so John finally explained, "Since they'd found out your dad was going to be in on the company originally, the Sholto brothers planned to give the last third of the sale to you."

Mary blinked. And then again. And then rapidly, in time with her suddenly shocked breathing. John put a hand on her side to steady her. "To me?" She asked, incredulous. "3.3 million?"

John swallowed. "Yeah. Sorry I didn't mention it before it's just... well, not the sort of thing you want to say over the phone. Wanted to be there in case you passed out," he attempted a small joke. Then, more seriously, "You okay?"

"Evidently I'm going to be," Mary said with a shaky laugh. She was sweating and a bit pale but otherwise seemed to be holding up fairly well.

"Oh my God," Molly said. "That's... I think I need to sit down." And she did, perching on a lab stool.

"Don't worry, I know the feeling," John murmured.

Sherlock didn't quite understand what all the fuss was about. Yes, that was a lot of money. But they were totally missing the most important part: that was still notnearly enough money. Not for the kind of wealth the Sholto family evidenced. And yet as they all took a few minutes to collect their breath, none of them seemed to think of this. Sherlock shook his head.

After a few minutes, Mary had managed to calm herself enough to at least ask a somewhat decent question. "But there's something I still don't quite understand," she started. "Why would Timothy Sholto frame these four men, have them sent to a prison, but kill my father? What was so unique about him that required that?" Her voice was tight.

Sherlock had a pretty good idea about that, actually. Since he'd first looked at the satellite map images of the mining company's land this morning, he'd felt something was off. There was a large amount of grassland on the property, which might seem normal, except that half of it had been harvested. There was even a tractor visible at work in the satellite shot. Not to mention the silos and large warehouses he'd noticed. Those wasn't incidental grasslands: they were fields. The ephedra Timothy Sholto had no doubt instantly recognised easily given his work in counter-narcotics with the UN mission could potentially be exported as the key component in producing methamphetamine. Or, depending on what was in those warehouses, they could have even been producing it onsite. Meth had become a growing problem in the region over the last several decades and therefore was a very profitable business. Certainly much more lucrative than whatever scant ruby deposits might still exist after centuries of exploration and use. Then there was the glaring hole in Ted's story: why would Small and Giroux think the brothers suddenly had made this sale before it had actually happened? Unless they were being deliberately misled...

Sherlock was now completely certain of these facts that had been congealing in his brain all day. Normally when he had arrived at such a point, he was inclined to share his summations. But as he looked from Mary to John, Sherlock thought better of it. Look at how overwhelmed they were just at the notion of some money flying their way. Would they really want to try to prove it was really drug money? Besides, hadn't John expressly stated that he had no interest in getting involved in Sherlock's cases any more? Well, best to get back in the practice of working alone, Sherlock reasoned, somewhat bitterly, somewhat sadly. He'd done it for years, and he'd done it for the last 18 months. He hardly needed John's help.

Making his decision, Sherlock replied, "I have no idea. But I think the more important thing for now is to try to track down Jonathan Small and Alain Giroux before they're able to leave the country. John," he turned to his friend, "we'll have to split up I'm afraid. We don't have the time to afford not to."

"What, you mean right now?" John asked, looking at the clock on the wall. It was 7pm.

"Well, if you'd prefer we wait until tomorrow when they've most likely already gone, you may," Sherlock countered sarcastically.

John seemed to take the point. "Okay, where should I look?"

Sherlock picked up the shingle and continued, "There's a particular type of tar on these asphalt tiles that's extremely unique. Giroux would have gotten it on his shoes, his pants when he climbed over the edge, everywhere. I need you," he grabbed a pen and paper and scribbled an address down, then handed it to John, "to go here. Ask the owner of this home if you can borrow Lord Bombadil."

"I'm meant to borrow a Lord?" John asked, looking at the paper in confusion.

"Lord Bombadil is a dog. A bloodhound, one of the best methods of tracking in all of London," Sherlock explained. "Take this shingle with you and take the dog to Sholto Mansion. If you let him scent it, he'll be able to take you to wherever Giroux went."

"A bloodhound. Is this a wind up?" John asked.

"This is science," Sherlock replied, sounding offended.

"Right, okay. I don't always get your methods, but I trust them," John acquiesced. He looked to Mary. "You coming with me?"

"Actually," Mary said, noting the clock, "I'm running a bit late. Didn't realise the time. I've got a night shift back at King's College Psych Unit... which I may or may not be doing once I'm a millionaire," she joked with a laugh. But John only looked uncomfortable. "I should run along." Mary gave John a long hug, then gave Molly a shorter one before dashing out the door.

"Right. So," John said, "what are you doing while I'm out there being Dr. Doolittle?"

"Checking in with the homeless network," Sherlock replied, already heading towards the door, with John falling in stride next to him. "They most likely won't be traveling by plane or train through the Chunnel because of the extra security and scrutiny. Not even Lestrade would have neglected to alert the proper channels about them by now. That leaves boat. Most likely something small, chartered. The homeless network will be able to find out much more quickly than the police."

Sherlock paused at the door just long enough to turn back to face Molly. "Thank you for all your help, Molly." He stopped for a moment, considering the woman before him who had done so much to keep his secret. He really did owe her quite a lot. And despite whatever John might think, Sherlock had grown to think of her as a friend. "It's been good to see you again," he added honestly, getting a pleased look from John, which he supposed meant this time he'd gotten it right.

Molly nodded sincerely, "You, too, Sherlock."

With that, Sherlock and John turned and pushed their way out the door. With any luck, Sherlock thought as he hustled toward the stairwell and downward at this quick pace, John would soon be off on a wild goose chase. And Sherlock would be free to get to the bottom of what was really going on here without having to go through John or Lestrade. It was about time he looked into Ted Sholto personally.

Chapter 12

Two days ago, if John Watson had been given ten, or even twenty guesses as to what he'd be doing just a few hours before he was supposed to start the night shift in A&E, taking a bloodhound on the tube to a very posh section of London wouldn't have been anywhere near his list. But, he supposed this sort of thing was one of the side effects of having Sherlock Holmes back from the dead and in his life. Which is what he kept reminding himself as people on the Northern Line gave him looks ranging from curious to angry for having a slobbering dog on the tube. He supposed on balance it was still a good trade off. After all, he had sworn to the heavens that he'd do anything for Sherlock to not really be dead. It was just that he hadn't quite expected the heavens to have such a sense of humour.

The address Sherlock had given him for the dog's owner was down near Earl's Court, so getting there had been about a 20 minute cab ride. The animal evidently belonged to a friend (well, acquaintance) of Sherlock's, because upon hearing the detective's name, the man had been more than eager to loan his pet and its evidently sharp nose to John. Unfortunately, cabbies had ended up being less enthusiastic about taking the animal with them. Hence, the tube. Which had taken about half an hour, only to dump him off nearly a mile and a half from the Sholto Mansion. Evidently posh tree-lined neighbourhoods couldn't be marred by underground stations. He'd considered taking the bus, but Lord Bombadil was getting restless with confined spaces and seemed to much prefer a brisk trot up the lane.

By the time John had made it to Courtenay Avenue, it was 8:30. He was supposed to be at work at midnight, and he hadn't even started actually following the bloody dog around who knew how far in pursuit of this Giroux fellow. He approached the gatehouse for the private road. "Uh, yeah, hi," John said, waving to the man inside the green booth. "John Watson. I've been here a couple times with Inspector Lestrade. He sent me back to take a look at something else." The security man stared blankly. "You remember me, right? I was here earlier this afternoon. And last night?"

"You have some ID?" The man asked, already sounding suspicious.

"Ah, well proving my name's John Watson, but not much else," John said with a laugh. The man didn't join in. "Look, really all I need to do is walk down to that house and let my dog ah... sniff around. I've got to track someone, you see." Yep, his suspicion had been right: saying it out loud sounded even more moronic than it had in his head.

"Can't let in anyone but residents or police with proper ID," the security guard said, folding his arms across his chest.

"Funnily enough you didn't seem to stick to that last night when someone waltzed in here and murdered one of your residents," John growled in annoyance. Rather than get into it with a useless guard, he turned around and walked a couple paces away. Thinking about it, Courtenay Avenue was a dead-end road, with well-walled houses and thick throngs of trees all around them. The only way in or out would have been to either go back up the avenue or through the trees. Given the guardhouse, the trees seemed more likely.

Letting out a sigh, John realised he was indeed about to get even more ridiculous, supposedly for the sake of science. He turned up the main Hampstead Lane again at the end of the street and glanced around before making his way between two close houses. He and the dog wound up in a line of thick, old trees that ran eventually to behind the Sholto mansion. "I hope you're feeling as much of a git as I am right now," he muttered to the dog, which simply stared up at him. Pulling the shingle out of his coat pocket, John crouched down and held it up to the bloodhound. "All right, well, do whatever it is you're supposed to do I guess."

The dog sniffed at the tile with its wrinkled nose. It sniffed the air, spinning around. Then it looked up at Watson with its sad, droopy eyes and whined.

"Come on boy," John said, leaning down and waving the asphalt shingle in front of the hound. But Lord Bombadil looked terribly confused. After a second, he laid down on the sodden grass and began gnawing on a medium-sized tree branch.

John ground his teeth together in frustration. He looked around the trees, glancing from them to the ground, as if he were going to somehow find crampon marks in the earth. But he was getting a sinking feeling he wasn't going to find anything. And certainly Lord Bombadil wasn't going to. He was beginning to think Sherlock might have known that.

Tugging on the dog's leash, John managed to prompt him up off the comfortable grass bed he'd been lying on. It would be at least an hour's journey back to his owner's house, and whether he realised John was taking him home or not, he didn't seem happy to be trudging back down the lane after so short a rest. You and me both, John thought angrily.

---

Ealing was clear out west, the opposite side of town from St. Bart's, and it had taken Sherlock a considerable and considerably expensive cab ride to get there. It was nearing 7:45 and pitch dark by the time he arrived on the street where Ted Sholto lived. Like most places out in Ealing, the complex of Greystoke Court was about as uniform and boringly suburban as you could get. It was decent enough, backing up to a little golf course in fact. But the three storey building of flats was certain a far cry from the luxurious privacy of the Sholto Mansion in Courtenay Avenue.

The flat Ted lived in was on the first floor. Sherlock strolled through the small foyer of the building, up a flight of stairs, and down to the end of the hall to find it. He'd seen that no one else was coming down the hall, eliminating the need to glance around and draw attention to himself before he drew out a lock pick. In about ten seconds, he'd clicked the deadbolt open and stepped inside.

The near complete lack of decor was in sharp contrast to Ted's finely decorated family home. The only thing they shared, in fact, was the smell of incense. But here it was mixed with something else. Or, rather, covering something else - a sort of unpleasant chemical scent. Sherlock had smelt that in a number of seedy alleyways in his time. Glancing around the disorganised living room, Sherlock had a moment of familiar flashback to some of the places he'd lived. Except instead of being strew with lab equipment and composition notebooks this flat was littered with half completed charcoal sketches and some admittedly impressive woodcut ink prints. But many of them had been ripped up or scribbled through. Whatever graphic arts business Ted might have had didn't seem to be going well.

What Sherlock really needed to find, however, was Ted's computer. He located it back in the dingy bedroom - a laptop, lying on a pile of dirty clothes next to the bed. What Sherlock hadn't expected to find was Ted's mobile phone also lying on the ground. He supposed that fit with Sholto's story, though; he had said he'd just gone outside to the skip. Evidently he hadn't brought his phone with him, and had gone straight from the car park to the hospital.

Wasting no time, Sherlock booted up the laptop. The background image was a photo of Ted and Bart on a football pitch, both in their twenties, smiling good-naturedly as they competed for the ball. Sherlock was pleased to see that there was no password protection on the computer. Better still, Ted's browser stayed logged into his gmail for him, allowing Sherlock to scour his correspondences for anything out of order. There were a few business emails, with Ted and some clients sending sample designs and notes back and forth. Not as many clients as a graphic artist probably would have liked. The other messages were coupon offers from a few standard online stores, junk mail, and an electronic invitation to a friend's birthday party. But there were hardly any emails in the archive. Ted must be in the habit of deleting most of his messages. If there had ever been anything suspicious, Sherlock had no way of knowing.

Frustrated, Sherlock shut off the computer and set it back in its place. He stood up and began pacing as he took Ted's mobile and started flicking through the recent calls, texts, and voicemail transcriptions. There were a number of texts that appeared to be from several different women. These featured remarks varying from coy to unabashedly lewd, but were uniformly marked by horrible grammar and punctuation. Outside of these apparent trysts of Ted's, there were very few messages, and most of them were to Ted's younger brother Bart. That piqued Sherlock's interest. For one thing, most people weren't in the habit of deleting their text messages very often. This implied one of two things. Ted Sholto could be obsessively fastidious about keeping his email and texts cleared out (which, judging by the state of his flat, didn't seem to fit). Or he could be paranoid and worried about the sorts of people he was contacting. Which, judging by the state of his flat, not to mention the sharp odour of burning chemicals he'd attempted to mask with incense, seemed far more likely. There was a time when Sherlock had done the same, and a time prior to texting when it had been voicemails he'd needed to worry about. Particularly if he were around Lestrade.

"Of course Lestrade missed the signs," Sherlock reasoned aloud, at the point where he was no longer able to think well if he held his thoughts in. "He's always had a blind spot when it comes to drug users. Most likely due to his own father's alcohol abuse and an overdeveloped feeling of empathy. But John's a doctor, he should have noticed. Most likely deals with drug users frequently at his A&E. But he was distracted by concern for Mary. Typical." Sherlock huffed. "This is why you take me with you to interviews in the first place!" He flicked through Ted's phone again.

Then he paused on two of the text conversations with Bart, dated a week ago. The first was from Bart and read « This month's check's in the mail. » Which had garnered a short reply of « Thx. » The second message was started by Ted, reading « Thoughts about the buyer? 10 million, nothing to sniff at. Time's running out. »Bart had replied « Let's talk in person. »

"Interesting," Sherlock mused, tapping the phone absently against his chin. "Seems to support the story of finding a Cambodian buyer since they weren't citizens. And his brother - "

A scraping of metal on metal, followed by a creaking sound stopped Sherlock short. He didn't hesitate for even a moment before tossing the phone back in its place. In the next second, he had unlatched the bedroom window. Even if he couldn't properly lock it from the outside, he doubted Ted would notice or even remember how he'd left it anyhow. In one graceful motion, Sherlock dropped out the window and landed two meters below on the ground. For good measure, he strode around the corner, out of sight of the window, before stopping to slow his breathing.

Apparently Ted Sholto had come home from the hospital earlier than Sherlock would have expected. But then, from what John had indicated, the man had been beaten but had no critical injuries. Besides, he might ask to leave early. Sherlock doubted the man would want to be away from his drugs for long...

This presented an unexpected opportunity, and Sherlock was more than happy to grasp it. Straightening up, he strolled casually back toward the entrance of the building. He headed back up to Ted Sholto's flat and rapped on the door loudly. There was a coughing sound from within, then a strangled call of, "Just a second."

But it was, in fact, several seconds before Ted Sholto opened the door. He was bruised, battered, cut, that much was true. That was most likely what John and Lestrade had seen. But Sherlock instantly noticed a slew of other things they clearly hadn't been looking for. Thin frame, pale skin slightly sunken at the cheeks. Eyes dark, one with a bruise, one from extended lack of sleep. Hair wild and unwashed. Sore on the outside right elbow from repetitive scratching. Single bead of sweat dripping down face, despite cool room temperature and no evident physical exertion. Fidgeting. Teeth-

Ah, that was interesting. And perhaps why Lestrade and Watson had completely overlooked the possibility of methamphetamine use when they'd met Ted. The most telltale sign was obviously the yellowed, sometimes rotted teeth associated with 'meth mouth'. But Ted's teeth were white and perfectly straight. Veneers, then, and very good ones at that. Not cheap. The sort of thing most meth addicts would never afford or care about. The sort of thing only provided by someone who could care about the addict for them, by the sort of person who sent them a check every month. In this case, Ted's younger brother Bart. Sherlock paused momentarily as he attempted to not consider his own experiences in this area. It took a good deal of effort and he wasn't very successful.

In truth, from the moment he'd stepped into Sholto's flat, Sherlock had been fighting against the comparison. There was a time, less than a year before he'd gone to the resident rehab facility, when Sherlock had stopped accepting Mycroft's help, just to spite his brother. Unfortunately, he'd quickly fallen behind on rent and been reduced to applying for council housing. Which had been an absolutely dreadful situation. He couldn't stand his boring, dull neighbours, with barely an A-level between them all. One of them had wound up filing to get an ASBO against him for the drug use and property damage, and that had ended his chances of ever getting council housing again. Which in turn had led him back to Mycroft, and only added to his brother's contemptuous smugness about the whole business. Sherlock's inability to brook any more of that was part of what got him to rehab. That and the fact that Lestrade threatened to take away all of his case work.

"Can I help you?" Ted Sholto interrupted Sherlock's reverie. The tall, nervous man was leaning against the door frame in an attempt to look casual, but wound up looking like he was obviously hiding something. The cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth had clearly just been lit during Ted's scramble to hide his meth pipe and cover the smoke with a more innocuous sort.

But Sherlock opted to go with the truth, mostly. "Sherlock Holmes," he said by way of introduction, his tone neutral. "I was hired by Mary Morstan to look into your family's business and the money you've evidently offered her. Not to mention the apparent extreme danger of the situation."

Ted's eyebrows scrunched, a bit nervously. "Private detective?" he asked, seeming hopeful for that to be correct. Though Sherlock hated the label, it wouldn't do to quibble about it now. He nodded. Ted relaxed a little, relieved that at least Sherlock wasn't the police. Ted remained tense, though, as he stepped back and stammered, "Em, you can come in but try not to trip over the refuse, like." The edge of his lips turned up in a small smile. "Hazard of the artistic brain."

Sherlock noted the man's thick, muddled Scots dialect. Central Scots if he wasn't mistaken, most likely in the east, possible Edinburgh based on his pronunciation of 'to' as 'tae' rather than 'ta'. Stepping inside and closing the door behind him, Sherlock said nothing but instead smelled for (and found) the chemical burning smell of meth covered by the cigarette smoke.

Ted must have noted the slight sniffing, because he pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and remarked, "Sorry, you one of those anti-smoking types? Worried about second hand and all that?" He held the cigarette down at his side, cautious, on edge.

"No," Sherlock replied with a wry smile, surprising the other man when he added, "May I have one?"

Ted relaxed visibly, sticking the cigarette back in his mouth as he reached into the pocket of his jeans and pulled out a crumpled blue pack of Mayfairs. "Aye, sure," he said, "have a couple if you like."

Setting aside his distaste for cheap brands, Sherlock reached out and took three, sliding two into his pocket and one into his mouth. He leaned forward to accept the proffered light from Ted. Sherlock took a deep drag as he leaned back, studying Ted, who was practically chewing his cigarette out of nervousness. "I wonder," Sherlock mused, blowing out a long trail of smoke. "What will you do now for money?"

"Eh?" Ted asked, unconsciously scratching at the sore on his right arm. "I have my job-"

"Oh, spare me," Sherlock replied. "You may be a designer but you're not a very good one." He indicated the scrapped drawings all around the room. "You'd rather be a fine artist, but when your work tends that way, clients become displeased."

Ted's already buggy eyes widened. "Wait a minute-"

But Sherlock cut him off again. "How long have you been getting help from your brother? Several years, hasn't it been? Ever since you left the company?" in spite of the sharp accusations he was tossing about, his tone remained casual. Let Ted Sholto squirm. It was the best way to see what sort of man he really was.

Ted swallowed, trying to search for some measure of composure. "All right, yes. Bart's been helping me for a while. Since I've been trying to get my business going..."

Sherlock laughed and shook his head as he took another drag. "I must say, your dedication to this ruse is quite spectacular. It's clearly paid off. A lot of people have been fooled by you, Mr. Sholto." He paused, giving Ted a pointed look. "But not your father." The other man's face blanched and Sherlock knew he'd hit on the right path. "That's the real reason you had to leave the company, isn't it, Ted? Daddy found out you'd been sampling the product. Oh, growing ephedra and cooking meth are fine professions, and apparently a good way to become very rich. But to actually consume it..." Sherlock trailed off, relishing the look of abject horror on Ted's face. For some reason he couldn't quite name, it felt good to have someone else's pathetic reality laid bare. To firmly assert his superiority over this quivering, moronic junkie, too far gone to even support himself.

The world wobbled a little, and Sherlock realised he was dizzy, not from the buzz of the cigarette, but because he'd stopped breathing, grinding his teeth in rage instead. He drew a long breath. When that didn't entirely help, he inhaled smoke instead, its calming effects minimal. Nothing could compare to the real thing. Oh, Sherlock remembered it well...

Sherlock's stomach turned over, and his voice was drained of all its powerful accusation as he finished, "Seems a terribly unfair double standard."

"I dinnae do any of that," Ted said quietly, his voice shaking not from anger but from fear.

Oh, he truly is a miserable sod, isn't he? The thought was out of pity now more than disgust. Sherlock rubbed the bridge of his nose with his free hand. "No," he said flatly. "Boring. And embarrassing. Just... stop it." He gave a dismissive wave. "I'm not actually interested in your habits." The word felt like lead to spit out. "I'm not the police. I'm interested in your business and how it concerns Miss Morstan, my client." There, perhaps he could bring a different tenor to the discussion.

"All right," Ted replied cautiously, looking at Sherlock a bit like one might look at a rattlesnake he'd stumbled upon on a hike. "Well I dinnae ken if you talked to the detectives, but what I told them is still the plan. The company and land's mine now, since Bart passed." The strain in Ted's voice was obvious as he mentioned his brother. "I'm still gonna sell it, for £10 million, split three ways. Even. For me, Bart's daughter Danielle, and your client Miss Morstan." Ted took a shaky breath from his cigarette, apparently trying to calm his fidgeting. But there was probably only one thing that could actually sooth Sholto's urges at this point, Sherlock thought numbly.

Trying to focus back on the issue at hand, he thought about what Ted had just said. Judging by the Sholto Mansion's value in the £20-30 million range, Sherlock already knew the company was worth more than £10 million. But it wasn't as if he were going to squabble over that. Trying to get more money for Mary's sake would be pointless; it was all drug money that would ultimately be confiscated by the government. No matter whether they caught the murderous band of Four or not, that much seemed inevitable.

The Sholto brothers wouldn't be stupid enough to sell their land off for so little. They could become citizens of Cambodia and retain the land if they liked, but neither had done so. So what was the £10 million for, then? And who was paying it?

Setting that thought aside for a moment, Sherlock turned to a more important question. This one, he asked aloud, quietly, evenly, "Something about this strikes me as odd, Mr. Sholto..."

Ted looked like he really didn't want to hear the rest of this musing. "What's that?" he asked tepidly.

"I know who killed your brother," Sherlock said, and that was enough to finally bring Ted to a standstill. "And I know who came after you. These men had a grudge against your father, and therefore against the two of you. Because it wasn't just about the revenge, it was about the money as well."

"You know who they are?" Ted asked, ignoring Sherlock's point. Ted sat down slowly on a couch, paying no mind to the sketch he wound up on top of. "Well why haven't you told the police? Why isn't someone trying to find them?"

"We'll get to that," Sherlock assured him. "But there's one thing I don't quite understand." He gave Ted a sidelong look, trying once again to size the man up. "They shot your brother from his attic. Oh, the man took some rubies with him, but that could hardly have been the real prize." Sherlock let Ted stew another moment, and the man looked to be growing a bit nauseous. Sherlock continued, "They asked your brother, the man who owned the company, no questions at all. They killed him. Yet here you are, alive, having been beaten for bank account information but not having given it up. Don't you find it odd, Mr. Sholto, that your brother is dead and you are not?"

There was a long, surprisingly solemn pause. Ted Sholto turned to look away from Sherlock, off at some unknown distant point in his mind. The cigarette in his hand was held dangerously close to the side of his face as he leaned his cheek onto one bony thumb. Without looking over at Sherlock, Ted said quietly, "I find it cruel more than strange, Mr. Holmes." He straightened up and blinked slowly, turning his head in Sherlock's direction. The strain was evident in every line of Ted's battered face. "My brother was a good man. More of a big brother to me than I ever was to him." He laughed bitterly, then closed his eyes and turned his face downward. Ted took another drag of his cigarette before finally looking up at Sherlock, resigned. "They didn't kill me because I'm the one who set up the sale. The Cambodian bloke who's gonna buy the company, he's someone I know from over there. Guess that makes me the indispensable one." He didn't sound pleased about that at all.

Ah, that made perfect sense, and perfect sense calmed Sherlock's brain a bit. "You had been the man on the ground in Cambodia," he said in realisation. "Your brother wouldn't have known anyone there. Most likely didn't speak the language. But you do. You lived there." Ted nodded in affirmation, and Sherlock could feel things clicking in place once again in his brain. Good. That was much, much better than feeling dizzy and overcome by unwanted sentiment. "So your brother inherits the company but turns to you to sort things out. He trusted you as your father never had. This was to be your moment of glory, a chance to prove yourself."

Ted swallowed hard, looking down at his slender hands before glancing back up at Sherlock. "Fine mess I managed to make of that, too."

Sherlock thought about it a moment. "No," he said, in realisation as much as affirmation for Ted. The other man gave him a questioning look. "These men who came after your father, your brother, and you, they waited until they thought you were about to come into all of this money. Clearly they got something wrong, because they struck too early. Before you'd closed the deal."

"And...?" Ted asked, curiosity piqued.

"How did they have any idea of the sale in the first place? Whether their information was completely accurate or not, there still had to be a leak somewhere, a weak link in the chain between you and this man you've been planning to sell to." Sherlock dragged on his cigarette in growing excitement.

Ted didn't seem to share his enthusiasm at this revelation. "So you're saying this friend I'm selling to was giving information to these guys you said are trying to kill off my family?" He sounded somewhere between incredulous and hurt.

"Well," Sherlock started in a conciliatory tone that surprised himself a bit. Why should he care whether Ted felt guilty about any of this? It was unlike Sherlock to be compelled to protect someone's feelings. "Most likely it was one of his people. He'd have no motive, these killers couldn't have enough money to bribe him. A man who can afford to spend £10 million at once must have many, many people. There could potentially be a leak anywhere. I highly doubt it's actually your friend."

Ted began scratching at his arm again in his nervous, tweaker habit. Sherlock suspected that, in a strange way, that was an indication that he felt a little more himself. The man ran a free hand through his grungy hair, somehow causing it to stand up more. "What does any of this matter now, though?" Ted asked, scratching at his face, then wincing when he remembered the nasty swollen bruise there. "These guys have probably legged it the hell out of Britain by now."

"With only a box of rubies to show for it?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow. "No, Ted, I think they're still around. I think they'll wait until they know you've actually got the money this time."

"This time?" Ted asked. He ground his teeth together, one of the many bad habits of meth addicts. Sherlock did his best to suppress his annoyance with it.

"When you actually close the deal and those bank accounts they're so interested in are truly full," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly.

Ted's jaw went slack. He searched around the mess near him until he found an ashtray on the coffee table to stamp his dying and abused cigarette out in. "You want to use me as bait, like? That's your plan?"

"If you'd like to actually catch the men who killed your brother and most likely also your father, then yes. That's how it can be done. I have people out looking for these men," Sherlock said. On his way over he'd stopped by a few key players in his homeless network and got the word out to scour the whole shoreline of the Thames for any small charter boat captains who might recognise Giroux or Small. The probability of finding something was high. But more time would certainly help. "But if we know they'll be coming after you, it makes the job of catching them much easier. Do you have your contact's number?"

"Yeah, course I do," Ted replied hesitantly.

"Well, ring him up," Sherlock said. "What's his name, by the way?"

"Vibol Sang. And what, you want me to ring him right now?" Ted asked. "It's..." He blinked and looked to be thinking for a moment. "2am in Phnom Penh right now."

"I think your man would be eager to be done with this," Sherlock said. "He'll have his mine and ephedra fields, you'll have your money, just wake him up!" Sherlock was growing more restless and impatient by the minute. As soon as a plan came upon him, he loathed having to wait on anyone.

"Och, all right, I'll do it," Ted said. "Let me get my mobile and computer and I'll be right back." He got up and headed into the dingy bedroom. In the meantime, Sherlock started pacing the floor, breathing more of his cigarette than of the actual air. Who needed drugs, he reasoned with himself. There was no exhilaration like a case. Particularly one where the stakes were so high. And even if he did have to utilise a pathetic nitwit like Ted Sholto, setting up a trap for the two members of this gang of four who were somewhere in London still seemed a fantastic challenge.

Ted reappeared, heading to the couch and putting his laptop down. He had already pulled up a bank account website; a bank in the Caymans, Sherlock noticed. Oh how the mighty Swiss have fallen, he thought. Ted entered a long string of numbers into his phone, then hit dial. He held the phone to his ear, which would have frustrated Sherlock more if it weren't for the fact that when someone did pick up, Ted launched into Khmer that felt practiced and fluid (though quite odd with his thick, irrepressible Scots accent mixed in). Sherlock supposed it didn't really matter if he could hear something that he couldn't understand. Still, from the tone of Ted's voice and the expressions on his face, Sherlock felt he should be able to deduce the jist of it. Particularly because it wasn't a tonal language, which allowed for more freedom of vocal expression.

At first, Ted was clearly apologising for calling this late. He paused for a while, evidently while this assistant or housekeeper or who knew what went to get the man in question. A few minutes later, Ted's voice brightened in familiarity as he chatted with the man on the other end. Chatted! Sherlock sat down next to Ted, closer than he really needed to be, just to urge the man into action. This certainly had the desired effect. Ted glanced at Sherlock, then instantly switched his tone.

Settling the transaction was evidently all that was left. And paperwork would have been signed already (perhaps the leak was some sort of state official...). But thank God all of that boring officious drudgery was out of the way. This way, it only took about 15 minutes for it to happen. But when the money actually appeared on Ted's bank account website, split evenly into three different accounts. Ted had even already put names on two of them (though it wasn't required): Danielle Sholto and Mary Morstan. As Ted uttered what sounded like a few apologies then a goodbye to his friend, Sherlock stood up off the couch again. "Excellent!" he declared, taking a quick draw of his dwindling cigarette.

Ted had really done it. That put Sherlock more at ease about the plan and using Ted. Sherlock had long since deduced that this man sincerely cared about his brother, relied on him even. Monetarily, Ted hadn't had anything to gain by his brother's death either. He was still getting the same cut as before.

And Sherlock found that he could actually empathise. A little. Ted seemed to have liked his brother much more than Sherlock had ever cared for Mycroft. Sherlock, in fact, felt justified in saying now that he hated his brother. He'd told him to piss off, threatened him, even. But kill him? No. It took a specific kind of twisted, dark pull for someone to commit fratricide. Sherlock couldn't see Ted possessing that. Besides, the man probably hadn't had a clear-headed day in at least a few years. Sherlock only hoped he could at least rely on the man not to muck this up.

Ted just looked exhausted and drained. "Well, you can tell your client that the money's in an account."

"You do that," Sherlock said dismissively. "I don't have a phone. She's at work right now at King's College Hospital." Sherlock stopped, frowning down at Ted, who hadn't moved since he'd hung up. Shouldn't he be exhilarated? They were about to have the chance to confront these men, quite possibly face to face. What was wrong with the mass of people who had no sense of adventure?

"Fine. Okay," Ted said, finally standing up. "So I'm just supposed to watch my back?"

"Sounds wise," Sherlock replied.

"And if these men do show up and I also happen to have a chance to contact someone before they beat and possibly kill me, how do you reckon I should call you on your non-existent mobile to let you know?" Ted quipped sarcastically. Another sign of his comfort returning, Sherlock would bet.

"Ah, yes well." Sherlock spun around, grabbing the first charcoal and bit of paper he saw. He scribbled out John's phone number and handed it to Ted. "This is my associate's mobile number. If you contact him, I'll know about it. Texting would be best." It occurred to him that there was a small chance Ted would recognise John's voice, and Sherlock didn't want Sholto realising there was any official police connection here. The last thing they needed was bait that was frozen with suspicion.

Ted took the number and stuffed it in his pocket. "Thank you, I guess," Ted said, scratching the back of his neck. "I mean, if this is the way to find these bastards, then I'm willing to take the risk. Glad you thought of it."

"Well," Sherlock said, casually leaning over to stamp out his cigarette in Ted's ashtray on the coffee table. He stood back up and gave Ted a cheerful smile. "I wouldn't thank me just yet. Not until you're out of this alive." That didn't seem to make Ted feel any better, so on his way out the door, Sherlock added a pleasant "Good luck!" as an extra measure.

---

It was around 9:30 when John made it back to Earl's Court and to the townhouse where Lord Bombadil's owners lived. John was physically tired, mentally exhausted, and he still had to stay awake all night in A&E. Somehow he felt this was going to be a good reminder of what it had been like to be a medical student. Which wasn't something he needed. Just as he hadn't needed to be made a fool of running around London with a dog. John wasn't quite sure if it had indeed been a wind up, some kind of revenge, or if the dog was just confused somehow. While he hoped for the latter because the other options seemed so petty and childish, there was something in the back of his mind that just kept reminding him, But this is Sherlock we're talking about.

John's jaw clenched tightly shut in anger as he rang the doorbell. Best not to shout at some people who'd done nothing more than be indebted to Sherlock Holmes. The sound of feet tramping carelessly down a staircase ended with what sounded like leaping the last few steps.

A boy of about 15, dressed in the characteristic track jacket and Burberry plaid cap of every bloody chav everywhere, opened the door. John couldn't fathom what was so hard about the boy's life in an upscale neighbourhood that he'd felt the need to rebel in such a horrid fashion. The boy looked at John blankly. As in, John wasn't sure whether there were any thoughts going through the kid's mind at all. So he would have to be the first to speak, evidently. "I've got your dog...?" John said in a 'is anybody home?' manner.

"Oi, yeah," the kid said. He took the leash from Watson and Lord Bombadil obediently (and, it seemed, happily) went inside and immediately laid down on the floor. The youth still looked confused. "What'd you have our dog for?"

"Your parents let me borrow him for an investigation. Trying to track someone," John explained. The kid didn't seem bright, but at least he had to know his own pet. John took the shingle from his pocket and displayed it. "Used this, but he didn't seem very keen. I was trying to track some tar. Very distinct, picked up by a killer at a murder scene." The more he explained, the more ridiculous it sounded. He also didn't know why he was trying to prove himself to some teenager.

To add insult to injury, the kid laughed at him. "With that? What'd you expect, stupid? He's a bloodhound, not a tarhound. Dog like that's for tracking people, innit?"

John bit the inside of his lip so hard he tasted a drop of blood. This was a new low. He could understand Sherlock's enthusiasm for a case, but wasting hours and hours of John's night on... what, a prank? A distraction of some kind while Sherlock went off to do something he thought only he could handle, most likely. "You're right, it is stupid," John replied tightly, mostly to himself as he turned and started walking away. "Very stupid."

"Oi, come back if you wanna take Bomby on a really long walk again!" the teenager called after him, laughing as he shut the door.

John's veins throbbed in anger and he picked up his pace as he walked back to the main road to get a cab. Sometimes he really hated children - especially ones who were full grown men.

Chapter 13

Notes:

Remember how I promised way back in the beginning that this story would eventually become incredibly angsty? Well, this is the turning point... you've been forewarned.

By the time John finally managed to get back from Earl's Court (in a cab this time, since he didn't have the bloody dog to deal with), it was almost 10:30. He had about forty-five minutes before he had to leave for work with time to change into scrubs and grab some coffee from the lounge before his midnight shift. Or maybe two coffees, considering he had been up since eight and hadn't slept all day. Not normally how he would have chosen to start an all-night shift. Plus, he was just starting to realise that with all the running around he'd been doing with or for Sherlock today, he hadn't eaten anything since breakfast. He would have had time for dinner if not for this childish prank of Sherlock's. John gritted his teeth as he opened the door to 221B, hoping that he could restrain himself from unleashing all of the annoyances and tensions of the last two days on his friend.

The sight of Sherlock Holmes stretched out lazily on John's fairly new couch, smoking a cigarette and staring idly at the ceiling didn't help one bit. "What are you doing?" John asked.

Sherlock didn't look over, instead keeping his gaze fixed on the ceiling. He took a deep drag of his cigarette, then exhaled a long, slow breath of smoke as he let the hand with the cigarette fall carelessly over the side of the couch. Finally, Sherlock replied, "Waiting."

"For?" John asked, hanging his jacket up by the door and heading over to stand directly at the foot of Sherlock's couch. The fact that he had just thought of it as such was not a good sign. He was sure Sherlock already thought of it that way.

"I told you, I was contacting the homeless network, having them search for the ship Giroux and Small might have chartered," Sherlock replied nonchalantly.

The muscles in John's cheek twitched. "So in the meantime you thought you'd work on your odds of getting lung cancer, is that it?"

"Oh, spare me," Sherlock said, continuing to smoke. He seemed to John somewhat like a put-upon teenager as he replied, "I've died and come back to life. I think that deserves at least one cigarette."

John didn't have time for this. He turned around and headed for the fridge to put together a sandwich as he replied, "Well, you can't smoke in here. You'll make everything smell horribly and Mary will hate it."

Sherlock scoffed. "Oh, we wouldn't want your minder getting upset, would we?"

"You know what," John replied, ignoring the comment as he started putting his sandwich together. "That's fine. Smoke it, smoke as many as you like." His tone grew firm and he stared Sherlock down, whether or not the man would actually look at him. "But do it outside. We don't need the smell or the carcinogens. You can kill yourself if you like, but leave the people around you out of it."

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed thoughtfully as he dragged on his cigarette. "Tried it once. It didn't take."

John froze, his mind sobered instantly by that. A cold feeling started spreading over him, as it did any time he was reminded of That Day at Bart's. He couldn't tell whether Sherlock had meant that comment entirely as a joke or not. John slowly set his sandwich back on the plate and stared at Sherlock, his annoyance giving way to anxiety. He recalled that Mycroft had told him, ages ago, that giving up smoking after he'd gotten off the cocaine had been Sherlock's own idea. Mycroft hypothesized that in Sherlock's mind, it was all tied together and indicative of how in control he felt. That was why Mycroft had offered his brother a cigarette when he'd thought Irene Adler was dead. And why John had been so concerned that he'd taken it.

"So," John said, trying to keep his tone light but with an edge of fear slipping in, "Should I be checking your sock drawer again?"

That got Sherlock's attention. He sat straight up, the cigarette hanging forgotten in his hand. He blinked a few times, looking quite unsettled. "That's not..." he looked frustrated at his inability to come up with the right words. He looked around, though John wasn't sure for what until Sherlock gave up and put his cigarette out inelegantly on his shoe, then set the butt on the coffee table. He turned away from John to face the fireplace. "You don't need to worry about that," Sherlock snapped. "I should think you'd know me well enough by now to be familiar with my extreme dislike of dwelling on personal foibles."

For the life of him, John couldn't understand Sherlock's pathological aversion to admitting that he was a fallible human being. It was the height of delusional arrogance. "You're right, I'd forgotten," John replied sardonically. "Personal lives, problems, desires, fears, those aren't my business. Running around London, putting my life in danger, or just wasting my bloody time," John spat, "That's your business, Sherlock. You are certainly in the business of that."

Now Sherlock looked over. "What are you talking about? We've been on a case doing important work."

"Oh, I see," John laughed humourlessly. "And what in important detective work necessitates making your friend look ridiculous whilst dragging a bloodhound all around London?"

The thin line of Sherlock's mouth quirked up at the edges. He actually found this funny. It took all of John's restraint not to punch him in that amused mouth. "Oh, I don't know, John," Sherlock said, "It might have worked. Dogs are smart. Can even be useful. But then you know that, don't you?" He turned and stared at John, all the humour gone from his features. "You're my 'seeing eye dog for the socially blind', after all. You tell me."

John's anger was replaced by a sudden pang of guilt. He'd often been very blunt with Sherlock. Sometimes, frankly, he felt it was totally warranted and unavoidable. The man could be insufferably self-centred. But, as Mary had tried to make John aware, there were certain things Sherlock didn't seem able to help. "Look, all right, maybe I deserved that," he admitted, though he wasn't entirely sure Sherlock's revenge for his insult had been a proportional response. "But what have you been doing this whole time? I doubt all you did was contact the homeless network then lie in and have a smoke for hours."

Sherlock, remarkably good at switching gears instantly, stood and started pacing the room slowly, not even bothering to respond to John's apology but evidently grateful to be off the subject of himself. "Have you got any messages on your mobile tonight?" he asked, steepling his hands under his chin.

"Why, should I have?" John asked, growing suspicious. He'd completely abandoned his attempt to eat his sandwich, realising he'd just have to take it with him. When Sherlock didn't immediately respond, John stood and walked to the edge of the living room. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock was looking vaguely disappointed. "Just thought I'd check. I gave Ted Sholto your number. I was hoping he might have rang by now. Suppose it will take longer."

John's jaw went slack. "You went to see Ted Sholto? Sherlock, have you completely lost your mind? Do you know what would happen if Lestrade found out? Or if Donovandid?"

"Someone has to run a proper investigation!" Sherlock replied stridently, stopping his pacing to face John. "In any case, they didn't find out and they won't, so the point is moot. What's important is that in speaking with Ted Sholto, I realised he was spared precisely because these four conspirators know he's the one with the power to actually finish the deal and get the ten million pounds. They wouldn't leave or strike again until he'd done that."

"Good thing he hasn't, then," John replied.

"Oh, well now he has," Sherlock replied matter-of-factly. "I asked him to. Incidentally, I'm guessing he's rung Mary by now to give her the number to a Bank Account in the Caymans. Only I recommend she not spend it all in one place."

John was stunned into silence. Not only had Sherlock deliberately asked Ted Sholto to bait these maniacs, but Mary's newfound wealth was evidently very real all of a sudden. From the moment John had heard about the £3.3 million the Sholtos had planned to give her, it had felt alternately like a fairy tale and a nightmare. Obviously coming into that sort of cash had its benefits, not least of which would be paying for her many years of schooling. On the other hand, what would it look like if John asked her to marry him now? He'd come off as an opportunist at best and a gold-digger at worst.

"In any case," Sherlock continued when John was unable to speak, "There's a leak somewhere along this transaction. It hardly matters where, only that Giroux and Small should be alerted soon if not already that the sale has finally taken place. I told Ted Sholto to call or text if he got any hint that they were coming after him again. So do check your messages while we're out."

"Out?" John asked, setting aside the revelation that he might be getting messages from Ted Sholto about people trying to kill him again. He was getting a very bad feeling about where Sherlock was going with all this.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course, we can't very well capture these men whilst sitting in our flat."

"We can't capture anyone anywhere," John said, a strong note of warning in his voice. "If I find out someone's after Ted, I'm calling the police."

Sherlock groaned in annoyance. "If you must bring them into this for practical assistance, then I suppose you may," he muttered, as if his permission were needed to dial 999. Or as if it weren't the perfectly logical thing to do when someone told you they were being attacked or followed. "However, we may get lucky and not need Sholto as bait. The homeless network should be reporting back any minute now. If they've found where Giroux and Small are now, we may catch them there before they ever learn of the transaction at all." The abject giddiness underlying Sherlock's manner now was both ridiculous and concerning.

"Sherlock," John said, rubbing his forehead to stop an oncoming headache. "Even if that happens exactly as you think it will, which I doubt, I can't go running off with you. I've got to leave in a few minutes to go to work."

"Work!" Sherlock replied, aghast and seemingly offended at the thought. John wondered if the man had ever worked a day at a proper job in his life, but realised the answer was almost certainly no.

"Yeah, it's a thing people do in order to pay the rent and make sure they have food," John replied glibly. "Mrs. Hudson can only afford to give me so much of a break on the rent. Mary doesn't have time to work, so these nightshifts are the only thing that get us through most of the time. I have to go to work tonight, Sherlock. It's not negotiable."

"The John Watson I used to know would drop anything to go on a case like this. Where's your sense of adventure?" Sherlock goaded.

John shook his head. "We could do that back then. We managed to scrape by because I started making you charge for your services. Otherwise you'd have starved," John pointed out. Frankly, he wasn't sure how Sherlock had ever managed to pay his rent and remember to eat before they'd met, but he supposed Mycroft must have seen to that. "You're not getting paid for this one. You may never be able to make money working cases again. Not unless you rebuild your reputation," John pointed out sternly. "Which you can't do if you burn the only bridge you have with Lestrade. Tell all of this to him and let him handle it."

"Since when has turning something over to Lestrade ever been the best course of action?" Sherlock scoffed. The seriousness of the situation seemed lost on him. He simply waved his hand dismissively. "What does money matter to you now? Your girlfriend - and possibly soon to be wife - just became a millionaire."

John didn't miss the way Sherlock had spat the word 'wife' like a curse. But he was more offended by the overall suggestion. "I'm not going to marry her for her money. Nor am I going to start in mooching off her already. I know you're very comfortable doing that to people, but I'm not."

"This is all for her sake," Sherlock asserted.

Laughing, John replied, "Don't try to convince me you're being altruistic. This is for your sake, just like everything else you do." Sherlock flinched and clenched his jaw together, looking hurt and angry. But whatever he was thinking about, he stayed quiet, leaving John to only be able to guess at the source. As always. Continuing, John said, "Mary will be just as happy to have these men caught by the police. She doesn't need some dramatic capture to get closure, and neither do I." John found his voice rising in assertion. He was reminded that yesterday - or was it the day before? He'd lost track - he and Sherlock had been sitting in this very room agreeing not to argue. To instead just be happy that Sherlock was miraculously alive and well. And John was ecstatic about that. But as it turned out, that fact didn't magically make Sherlock less infuriating.

As if John had needed any more justification for his current anger, Sherlock sneered derisively and started to pace away from him as he grumbled, "Mary again. I simply don't understand this infatuation with her."

John was sure that was true, but now Sherlock was stepping into dangerous territory. John's back straightened in indignation. "Oi, stop it, all right? You're upset, but leave her out of this."

"Why? She's the cause of this, isn't she? The new John Watson," Sherlock replied caustically. "It makes little sense. You've never been able to make a relationship last longer than a couple weeks. You jump between women so fast you mix them up."

"You think that's how I wanted it?" John asked, flabbergasted. This was getting ridiculous. Not even Sherlock could be that thick. John laughed humourlessly. "Sherlock, did it ever occur to you that I was able to form a real relationship with Mary because I didn't have a flatmate constantly analysing her, putting her down, and dragging me away from her to run around the city with him?" As soon as he'd said it, John regretted his words. Even though he knew deep down that it was true. That was what had made it such an unkind thing to say.

Sherlock took a step back, reeling visibly. "I see," he said, his voice quiet and taut. He didn't look John in the eye, and seemed to be restraining himself with great effort. "So the grief was bad at first, but once you'd gotten past it, having me dead had its benefits. Well, I'm glad to know my suicide aided in your dating life."

"That's not what I meant," John replied. The room was beginning to feel as if it were crackling with sparking, dangerous bolts of electricity. His stomach churned with a dread he couldn't quite place. It was as if something large were snapping between him and Sherlock.

"It's not what you meant to say, but it certainly is what you meant," Sherlock replied, his tone all acid. "Just look at what's become of you. Staying in, worrying about the bills, taking extra night shifts. That isn't you. You don't like stable, you like uncertainty. Danger. Not a calm, reassuring psychologist who makes you feel at ease all the time." Sherlock stepped closer to stare down at John. "You're the man who needed to climb rooftops and chase a potential murderer in order to stop limping and steady your hand. You crave adventure, you need it. That was the whole reason we became friends in the first place."

That was true. Everything he'd said was, apart from the slights about Mary. But, deliberately setting aside the rush John had felt last night when he realised they were really onto an exciting case, he wasn't that man anymore. He insisted to himself that he didn't need any of that now. It was as if he'd been a child when he'd been mucking about on Sherlock's cases. A very happy one, but still a child. It was well past time to grow up. "You don't understand, and I don't expect you to. But this is how my life is going to be now," John said.

Sherlock looked down at his friend in disgust. "You are aware, John, that you don't have to marry someone to get the benefits of a relationship? It's perfectly possible for you to remain independent and keep shagging Mary on the side."

John had only hit Sherlock once before, when it had been required as part of his disguise for seeing Irene Adler. Sherlock had actually told John to hit him. That had felt fantastic. This time as his sudden, intense anger unexpectedly resulted in him punching Sherlock squarely in the jaw, it instantly felt hollow and very wrong. But John hardly had time to contemplate his remorse, as he was suddenly thrown off balance and grabbed firmly around the neck. John's eyes widened, not out of pain or panic, but out of shock. Nearly as soon as he'd struck out, Sherlock let go and stepped back, his breathing quickened. There was a completely alien and animalistic sort of readiness and ferocity in Sherlock's stance that made John feel sick. He realised he didn't want to know what in the last year and a half had given Sherlock the instincts and muscle memory to react to a physical threat in that manner.

There was a long, tense moment between them, with neither really looking directly at the other. Finally, his eyes still downcast, Sherlock insisted, "You have to come with me."

"Sherlock, I can't," John replied, firmly but kindly as his friend met his eyes. Instead of the sadness or even anger he expected to see in Sherlock's eyes, John saw a kind of growing terror that struck him as much worse.

"I need your help," Sherlock countered.

John smiled without mirth. "No you don't. You like to have someone to talk aloud to. But I'm not your skull, Sherlock. And as brilliant as you are, I can't spend all my time going around the city as your," he searched for a better phrase than the last one he'd come up with. "I dunno, your caddy or something."

"But this is what we do together, John," Sherlock reasoned, the edge of fear in his eyes snaking its way into his tense voice. "What else is our friendship based on?"

Feeling as if his heart had frozen in his chest, John realised he didn't have an answer for that. But the silence evidently said everything to Sherlock, whose posture and expression had alarmingly lost their typical air of pride and confidence. If anything, he looked defeated. Never, not even in the face of Moriarty's horrific grand plans, had John seen Sherlock look like that.

No, that wasn't true. It was how his friend had seemed That Day at St. Bart's. But that had been an act, hadn't it? Suddenly, John was feeling less certain about that.

"Sherlock, look," John began, searching for anything he could find to console his friend. Not to mention himself. If he were honest with himself, he wanted to go with Sherlock. God, he really did. But he couldn't. It was an enticing road but it simply didn't make sense with his life now. "I can't. I wish I could, you're right about that. I have missed the adventure, the cases, all of it. But I can't do that anymore. I'm sorry, mate. I can't just put my whole life on hold for you."

"I did it for you," Sherlock replied through clenched teeth, as if it had come out against his will.

That stopped John dead in his tracks. He opened his mouth to ask what on earth Sherlock meant when his phone rang. John answered it immediately, fully expecting to hear Ted Sholto screaming for his life or something along those lines. He was surprised to hear Mycroft's voice instead. "John, are you alone?" the man asked.

Covering the mouthpiece, John shook his head in answer to Sherlock's questioning look. "It's not Sholto. It's... private." He cringed at not being able to think of a better lie or cover, but Sherlock seemed to immediately lose interest anyway. "I'm just going to take this in the office," John said, and Sherlock waved him away, walking back to his chair in the living room and sinking down into it heavily. John entered the office and closed the door behind him.

Bringing the phone back up to his ear, he said, "What is it?" Though it had dawned on him that there was only one reason Mycroft would be calling him.

"I've just received the results of Sherlock's hair follicle drug test," Mycroft said, his voice lacking any emotion one way or another to tip John off.

John found his mouth suddenly dry. He swallowed hard. "Yeah?" was all he could manage.

Mycroft's voice remained stoic as he said, "The test shows that Sherlock has been using cocaine on a fairly regular basis for approximately the past eleven months. He appears to have been clean for the month before that. The test doesn't go back further than a year based on the length of his hair."

The world seemed to have vanished save for the room John was standing in. Even that was devoid of all sound outside the beating of his own heart. He didn't breathe. His peripheral vision blurred away so that all he seemed able to see was the blank wall in front of him. It felt as though he'd been cut adrift from a space station and was floating alone in the dark. Sherlock. Cocaine. Eleven Months. These fragments of Mycroft's flat statement were the only coherent words in his mind. The sound of wind felt impossibly loud in his ear, and it took John several moments to realise it was Mycroft sighing.

"The only consolation is that he seems to have avoided it for the last several weeks," Mycroft was saying, though John only half heard. "It can't really tell us anything for the last week or so, but his last usage seems to be perhaps two weeks before that..." There was a pregnant pause before Mycroft added, a small measure of feeling finally entering his voice, "I'm sorry, John."

John drew his first breath in a good half a minute. His name had brought him around just enough to reply in a shaky voice, "Yeah. Me too." It was the understatement of his life, but he couldn't manage more words just yet. Even if he had been able to, he had no idea how to articulate what he was thinking and feeling right now. All he knew was that his whole body felt abnormally heavy.

Then, all of a sudden, a thought hit him like lightning, not just to his brain but his body as well. John was in the kitchen before he realised he'd even moved. But Sherlock was gone.

"I have to go," John said, not waiting for a reply before switching his mobile off and grabbing his jacket from the peg. He threw it on as he scrambled down the steps, gravity's pull making it more like falling than anything. As the cold, damp night air hit John's skin, he offered a silent prayer, looking desperately down the left side of the street. Nothing. His head whipped around to the right.

John didn't think he'd ever seen a more wonderful sight than that of Sherlock Holmes handing a homeless teenager a tenner. The detective turned around to head back into the flat, but stopped when he saw John.

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked. John couldn't possibly answer. Everything seemed wrong. From the lump in his throat to the pang of despairing sadness he felt just from having Sherlock standing in front of him. Eleven months ago, John and Mary had begun dating; Eleven months ago, Sherlock had begun selling his soul.

Sherlock's brow was furrowed as he evidently raced through possibilities, then alighted on one that piqued his interest. "Did Sholto contact you?"

"No," John replied, his voice sounding gravelly and causing Sherlock's brow to crease even deeper. "Can we just get back inside?" He didn't know where he was going with this, what he should do or say or if he should do anything at all just now. But at least the comforting surroundings and privacy might help.

"Of course I was going back inside. I still need my coat," Sherlock replied, confused as he led the way inside. John followed him up the stairs mechanically. Once inside the flat again, he found he couldn't move past the door as he watched Sherlock grab the long black coat he'd draped haphazardly over the back of the couch. He'd say it felt like a dream, or more accurately a nightmare, except that he had no delusions that any of this was fake. Sherlock was giving him an all too familiar scrutinising stare. "I don't particularly care to dwell on any of the things we've been discussing. In any case, I've just got a lead on a boat, The Arrow, that's just been bought for a hefty sum by someone matching Small's description. What's more, one of the network followed him back to a nearby hotel where they thought they spotted him with Giroux." He took a few excited strides toward the door, but John was still frozen there in place.

Sherlock's excitement faded, turning instead to a scowl. "Well if you're not coming with me, the very least you can do is to get out of my way."

"No, Sherlock," John started, not firm and demanding but desperate and lost. "Please, sit down for a moment."

"This is about the phone call, I take it?" Sherlock surmised warily.

"Lab results," John said stiffly.

Sherlock looked confused. "All right, lab results, good. But do tell me what it is quickly. So that was Molly, I take it?" he looked displeased with his own deduction, and revised it. "No, you said it was private. You closed the door." A dark look crossed Sherlock's face as he ventured, "Mycroft?"

John wasn't sure exactly what Sherlock had deduced about this, but nodded in affirmation. The detective clenched his fists, growing more steely by the second. "It wasn't about the case," John said, for once really hoping for Sherlock to dissect everything he'd said. Anything to avoid actually having to say it.

Sherlock's eyes flicked back and forth a moment in thought. He breathed deeply, evidently attempting to keep up a pretence of calm. But the pieces John could practically see falling into place in Sherlock's head seemed to be preventing that from working very well. Sherlock screwed his eyes tightly shut, looking very much like he was silently cursing the whole world. When Sherlock opened his eyes, they were hard and angry. "Mycroft's visit to Scotland Yard wasn't solely for my release. He wouldn't have needed to go in person for that." It wasn't a question. Sherlock knew. "Hair samples?"

"Yeah," John replied, his voice sounding dry.

"Well, I hope you're proud of your newfound talent for spying," Sherlock said angrily, stuffing his hands in his coat pocket and taking a few determined strides toward the door. "Out of my way."

Looking up at his best friend's face, John could see the horrible anxiety and perhaps even shame under the thin mask of fury. John's numbness finally gave way to a deep pang of empathy. A wave of sadness like he hadn't felt in months crashed over John's whole being. Suddenly Sherlock's seemingly increased eccentricities and moodiness made horrible sense. John hadn't been imagining it and it wasn't just due to Mary. Sherlock had said he'd been watching John's movements for perhaps a few weeks. That imprecise declaration, along with the fact that even Sherlock should have been capable of realising all the women coming and going from the apartment were Mary is what caused John's revelation. He hadn't used in those weeks. He'd most likely been going through horrible withdrawal, the likes of which John had become used to seeing working in A&E. All in an effort to try to return and make believe that nothing had really happened while he was away at all. That life could continue as it had before.

But John only now had the crushing realisation about how drastically everything had changed. The vague hints and deductions he'd tried not to make about Sherlock's time away all collapsed in on themselves in the wake of the truth. His voice bled pity as he looked up at Sherlock and said quietly, "This is more important than the case. Thanany case. We'll call Lestrade, let him handle it."

"Don't you have your vital job to-" Sherlock began to spit bitterly, but John wasn't going to let him finish until he'd had his say.

"Sod the job. You're my best friend. Let's sit down and talk about this. Or you talk, I'll listen. Whatever you want just please, Sherlock," John pleaded.

"There's nothing to talk about," Sherlock replied in a clipped tone. "You should know from the test, it's the past. It's irrelevant. I'm clean and focusing very hard on not using again. Which would be much easier if you would just stop talking about it!" Sherlock shouted.

"But you were shooting up only a couple weeks ago!" John replied, his distress coming out more strongly than he'd hoped.

Sherlock let out a furious growl of frustration, a sort of noise John had never heard from his friend before. It was loud and uncontrolled, and was followed by Sherlock stepping away and starting to move around. Not pacing, no. There were no straight lines or worn paths involved. Sherlock was moving instead like a man trying to find a way to break out of an impossible prison cell. His hands had started shaking, he pulled on his hair and bit his lip, evidently needing some sort of physical outlet for whatever meltdown his mind seemed to be having. John had no idea what to do. He just stood stupidly by the door as Sherlock snapped, "Now it's fine to care. To pay attention to Sherlock. Poor pathetic Sherlock. Goddammit!" He grabbed an empty beaker from amongst his equipment on the coffee table and flung it against the wall. The massive shattering of glass everywhere made John jump.

"Take some deep breaths," John suggested, knowing how useless and patronising it sounded, but knowing nothing else to say. "Look, obviously you've been going through some enormously difficult things. I only want to help." He knew it sounded stupid, but he was completely at a loss. But his face must have displayed all the wretched pity and regret he was feeling about the argument they'd just been having a few minutes ago. About all the grief he'd been giving Sherlock over Molly. About everything, back to telling him he was an annoying dick all the time to accusing him of being a machine. John had no idea what had driven Sherlock to fake his death. No idea what had brought him to the somehow even lower state he'd wound up in after that. But he couldn't help feeling guilty. Couldn't help wondering if there were anything he could have done to prevent it. And there was the more pressing concern of Sherlock's perhaps fragile current state of sobriety. Surely aggravating a man so dangerously on edge as Sherlock was now wasn't helping. "Sherlock, I'm so sorry-" he stopped.

The look Sherlock was giving him could have cut the rest of the beakers in two with its laser intensity. "This," he began slowly, his voice deep and tense, "the way you're looking at me now. That's precisely why I knew you'd believe I'd killed myself." John felt his heart pound painfully against his ribcage. Sherlock's voice remained low, but began to build in its tempo and intensity. "Not that I was a fraud, perhaps. But that I was desperate and pathetic. This is what I've been to you all along, isn't it? Some miserable, lonely sod, no friends, no one to stick up for him. Someone in dire need of your help. Your saving. Someone who embarrasses you when he doesn't say just the right stupid thing to appease people. Who frustrates everyone, especially you, with his inability to just behave normally. It's why you roomed with me. Why you didn't accept Mycroft's money to spy on me. You thought you needed to help me. You felt sorry for the sad, pathetic freak."

The way he spat the word caused a further pain in John's chest. He could feel the anger in Sherlock's words, but also a tense underlying sort of pain. "You know I'd never, ever call you that."

"No," Sherlock replied, his voice hard and sharp edged as ice, "but you still think it. It's why you hate it so much when Donovan says it: you think it's impolite to say because it's true. You both see me in fundamentally the same way. Her reaction is disgust, yours is pity." Sherlock swallowed, and John could see as the man approached that he was just barely controlling the rage he'd let out earlier. "I'm not sure which is worse."

"I'm not going to stop you. Because I'm not your minder and I don't see you as some pet project that I'm responsible for," John replied quietly. "But I'm begging you -please don't go."

Sherlock paused for a moment, and John thought he could see something behind the wall of rage, something fragile and on the verge of snapping. But only for a moment. Then Sherlock replied thinly, "I have work to do." Without another word, he shoved John out of the way with one hand and stomped down the stairs and out the door. John stayed there at the open door to 221B feeling numb and powerless as he hadn't felt since he'd saw what he'd thought was Sherlock's dead body lying on the sidewalk.

It was ten minutes later, eating his sandwich vacantly on the tube as he headed in to work (because what else could he do now?), before John realised Sherlock didn't even have a phone with him. He was truly out there on his own.

Chapter 14

Notes:

Thank you all so much for the feeback on the last chapter! It's really gratifying to see your hard work pay off in the way you want it to. A lot of stuff in the story thusfar had been leading up to that confrontation. Now the rest of the story is dealing with everything that came to light there. So you can expect a lot more intensity and angst from here on.

Chapter 14

As soon as John had got into work, he'd headed not to A&E (he still had ten minutes before his shift) but next door to the building housing the maternity unit. Mary was doing some research on mothers who'd developed OCD during pregnancy, and whether this might have an effect on the foetus. He'd found her in the doctors' lounge, reading a magazine. "Mary," he said, running a hand over his face, relieved just to see her.

She looked up, a little surprised. "John, I'd actually been hoping to see you before I took off." She took a second look at him and her brow furrowed in concern. "What is it?"

As much as he was dying to tell her what had happened with Sherlock, Mary looked distinctly anxious. "Ted Sholto rang you, didn't he?" John asked. "About the bank account?"

Mary nodded, looking a little relieved that she didn't have to find a way to bring up that awkward subject herself. "I can't really believe it," she said, certainly looking as in a daze as she sounded. John had to laugh internally at the fact that both of them seemed so put out by the ostensibly very happy news of her coming into millions of pounds.

But then, it was just one in a series of insanely surprising things - from the amazing to the horrifying - that they'd learned over the past few days. "You don't have to tell me," he murmured, but was unable to keep even the small amount of humour in his voice. All he could really think about was Sherlock, and the drugs, and the fight they'd had, and the fact that he was now out running around London alone chasing after some dangerous killers. It made John queasy. He felt as though all the blood had been drained from his body. He leaned against the counter for support.

"John," Mary said, moving towards him to put one hand on his shoulder and another on his forehead. "You look unwell. Has something happened?" Something seemed to dawn on her. "How did you know about the bank account?"

"Sherlock," John said, by way of explanation. Just saying his friend's name made him anxious for the man. He could hardly believe the shaking pain and rage that had overtaken Sherlock's whole being just before he'd taken off into the night. "He went to see Sholto."

Mary was evidently not appeased by this nebulous answer. "What else?" she asked. When John didn't look up, she gently tilted his chin up and looked him in the eye. "John, please, what's going on? You're scaring me."

It was only her distress and the degree to which this all affected her that could pry the words from John. As a doctor, he was practiced at giving bad news in a clinical manner. He tried to imagine that's what he was doing now, just impartially giving someone the facts. Still, it took a great deal of inner resolve to manage it this time. "Sherlock's been using cocaine again, pretty frequently, for the past year according to Mycroft's test."

Mary covered her mouth with a hand, her eyebrows knitting together in distress. "Oh my God," she exhaled quietly.

"Yeah," John replied, swallowing. "He claims he went cold turkey a couple weeks ago, which the tests seem to support. But then we had a pretty bad row and he took off to find these guys, the killers, Small and Giroux." John rubbed his hand over his eyes. A 'bad row' was really putting it very lightly. Some of the things he'd said to Sherlock rang accusingly around in his head. Not to mention punching the poor bastard. That word choice made him wince, and recall Sherlock's burning glare of accusation as he'd asserted that John was just like Sally Donovan. Was that true? Did he really just pity Sherlock? But then, knowing his friend had been fighting against the drag of his addiction, seeing how angry and hurt Sherlock was actually feeling underneath his calm facade, how could John not pity him?

"And," Mary said, slowly, seeming hesitant to break into John's thoughts. "He doesn't have a phone, does he? You don't have a way to contact him?" John shook his head, not looking up at her. There was a beat. "You should call Lestrade," Mary said finally.

"And tell him what?" John said, shaking his head miserably. "That against his explicit order, Sherlock's gone and talked to Ted Sholto, and on top of that is now taking the entire capture of the murderers into his own hands? And oh, by the way, he's been shooting up a lot recently."

"Won't Mycroft tell him that part anyway?" Mary asked. "After all, Lestrade was there when Mycroft told us about the test."

John rubbed his eyes. "Yeah. Of course he will," he realised. He straightened up finally, pacing away from the counter. "God, this is an utter nightmare."

"Sherlock's still alive," Mary said, "that's got to count for something."

"Of course it does," John replied. Then he grew quiet. "But if Lestrade bars him from official cases and he doesn't have police support in re-establishing his reputation, he won't be able to get any kinds of cases. I honestly don't know what he would do with himself." John shut his eyes tightly, trying not to imagine the sorts of things Sherlock might do if he weren't kept busy. He'd seen how desperate for a smoke the man could get in even a short dry period. And he knew deep down, the reality of it apparent now more than it ever had been before, precisely what Sherlock would fill his time with if he had no work at all.

John felt Mary draw him into an embrace, and for a moment felt a little guilty. He shouldn't really be the one being offered some comfort. As bad as things were for John, Sherlock had seemed much worse off. There'd be no one to comfort Sherlock. Not that he'd want it. "You should go home, wait and see if he comes back," Mary suggested.

John shook his head, opening his eyes and pulling slowly back out of the hug. "That won't help. I'll still just be waiting for him anyway. Sherlock operates on his own schedule. I'll know what's going on when he wants me to know. I might as well get some work in while I'm waiting."

"You're sure we shouldn't call Lestrade?" Mary asked.

"No. This is Sherlock's only shot," John said, the sobering thought having the ring of truth to it. "Say somehow he is able to track these men down, to catch them, turn them over to the police... maybe Lestrade will overlook the interference. And the drugs... Maybe." The hope sounded false, even to him. "In any case, it could be his only chance to prove he's all right, that he's up to working order. I'm sure that's how he sees it." John remembered the inspector's firm insistence that he wouldn't tolerate any interference in Sally Donovan's case. And he'd seemed to mean it, which made sense as his own arse was on the line as well. But this was the only shred of hope John had to hang onto. "Isn't your shift over?"

"Yes. I can hang around with you if you need me, though," Mary offered.

"I'd feel better knowing you were getting some sleep. Don't worry about me," John said, giving a half smile. "You should head home."

"All right," Mary said. She grabbed her purse from the little breakfast table, then turned to look at John. Her face bore the most sincere concern but also trust. She trusted him, his judgment about all of this, even though many people would have seen bringing an unstable recovering drug addict into their home as unforgivably reckless. Not Mary. She could see the person in everyone. She saw it in Sherlock. She'd seen it in John when he'd been feeling destitute, detached, and hardly human at all. Mary Morstan was a beautiful woman, in every possible way. And he was reminded how desperately he wanted her to marry him. It wasn't that he could imagine spending the rest of his life with her; it was that he couldn't imagine spending it without her.

John leaned in and closed his eyes, giving Mary an insistent, thankful kiss. She ran a hand down his neck and kissed back softly. After a moment they drew apart. "God, I love you," he said.

"I love you," she said. Then she pulled back and swatted him on the shoulder. "Now get to work. I'll see you later." She waved to him as she headed out the door of the lounge and down the hall.

John grabbed an extra large cup of coffee, wishing like hell he had a shot of something to toss in it, before heading down to what he feared would be a long, anxious shift.

---

In the daytime, the Thames was a lovely little river, crisscrossed by bridges, buffeted by tourists on boat rides or the London Eye.

 But this late at night, as time was now creeping in the direction of morning, the waterside was cold, damp, and speckled with a number of unseemly types. Sherlock thought bitterly that he fit right in. How many dark alleys and unpleasant nights had he known in how many different countries in the past year and a half? Even if he'd been entirely cogent the whole time, he wouldn't have been able to keep track. No, he'd truly become a part of the night more than simply moving through it. Just like all the other shadowy figures.

But Sherlock had a mission. He wasn't simply loitering around aimlessly or waiting for customers. It was the only thing that kept his mind remotely focused, kept it from wandering back to the things he'd said to John. Some of those things he was only just beginning to realise, much to his deep embarrassment. Why hadn't he noticed earlier, year sago, just how John perceived him? Why did his observational abilities always seem to fail him in interpersonal situations? He'd been blinded by John's flattery, by his tolerance and protestations of friendship. He'd never dreamed he was the man's pet project, but it was starting to feel sickeningly that way.

Everything had been going according to plan. After three weeks of hellish and frankly dangerous unsupervised detox, Sherlock had been able to be his old self again when he'd headed back to 221B. After all, returning to that life had been the only thing that could motivate him to sever ties with the drug. Perhaps he'd been a bit more on edge, a bit out of practice at the difficult business of social interaction, but mostly Sherlock had been in good form. He'd even been instantly presented with the opportunity to jump back into a case, to throw himself fully into the thing he so loved and missed, the one thing that had got him off the cocaine the last time. But then John had to go and try to dig into the past. Into what Sherlock had been up to. Picking away at a scab that was better left to heal on its own. And now that the wound had been torn open, how could it be closed?

But he shouldn't think about it. Sherlock couldn't stop for a second to contemplate, had to keep active and locked onto the task at hand. Like a shark, he had to keep moving or die. It was the only thing that would keep his mind from slipping back into the frantic meltdown state it had been in when he'd left 221B. In truth, he'd only barely managed to pull his head above the water on that one. He felt as if he were treading with all his might to stay afloat. The mission of going to their hotel and finding Small and Giroux was the only thing that kept him from grabbing something else and breaking it, or from letting out the guttural yell that was lodged in his throat. It was impossible to swallow but too dangerous to release.

Sherlock's pulse was still pounding, slightly elevated, by the time he found what he was looking for. The Arrow was a small inflatable hull boat used for high speed adventure type cruises on the Thames. It was moored at the Bankside Pier on the South Bank of the Thames, just next to the Globe. Most likely that had cost a hefty price for the night, but Small and Giroux had probably figured on having quite enough money to pay for that soon. They might have already got a few hundred thousand for the rubies they'd stolen from the Sholto Attic. Sherlock walked past the pier, not stopping as he turned up the road, not wanting to draw attention to himself. He just needed a mental map of the area. Just in case.

The next part would require more finesse. That was good. It would keep him 'on', focused, head still pulling in breath above the water. It was a challenge, and that made his brain thrum with excitement, adrenaline feeding his needs. It was enough to narrow his focus at least for a few minutes, although not nearly as effectively as a certain foreign substance would. Stop it, he snapped at his treacherous subconscious. He had a job to do. And he didn't need that sort of help.

The hotel he was looking for was a few blocks inland, making it a lot cheaper than it would be otherwise. The All Seasons London Southwark Rose was a typical economy European hotel, part of a massive chain that would be easy to defraud with fake identification. As Sherlock entered the lobby, his nose wrinkled up in annoyance. It was one of those places that had gone for sleek "modern" decor: simple chairs, curving white walls, annoyingly bright fixtures. In reality it was a cheap way for a place to attempt to look trendy, two things Sherlock detested and hated even more in combination. He kept his distaste in check as he approached the desk. The room Small and Giroux were in, according to his homeless network source, was 206. But he had an important detour to make first.

"Can I help you, sir?" asked the clerk in the ridiculous red uniform.

Sherlock didn't even have to force a smile. This was his area, his world. He moved through it like a shark through the deep, cold ocean. Keep moving. "Yes, I'm up on the first floor and noticed the ice machine has spilled everywhere. It's melting all over the carpet. I thought you might like to send a maid to clean it up before it soaks all the way in," Sherlock's voice was all politeness, a good Samaritan.

"Oh, of course. Thank you for telling us, sir," the clerk said, reaching immediately for the phone.

Sherlock gave a smile and headed for the stairs, taking them two at a time up to the first floor. Calmly, he strolled down to the middle of the hall where the ice machine was. Seeing no one around, he held down the lever. The machine began spewing chunks of ice all over the floor. Sherlock let it go for approximately 12 seconds before he was satisfied. Then he walked calmly back to the stairwell, went inside, and waited.

How many times had he pulled this trick or some variation? He'd always known London hotel staff were incredibly dense and unawares, but as it turned out, the same was true in Dubai, Mexico City, Tokyo, Krakow... No matter where he went or what he had seen, the one thing that had remained a reassuring constant that Sherlock could count on, that reminded him he was in the same world, was that people were depressingly thick. Three minutes after he had alerted the front desk, a maid rolled out of the lift with her cleaning cart. As soon as she had bent down to mop up the mess, Sherlock exited the stairwell, and walked down the hallway towards her cart.

With practiced ease, Sherlock took a mid-sized pocketknife from its now very familiar resting place in his coat pocket and flicked it open. Without pausing a moment, he sliced through the little nylon rope holding the universal keycard to the maid's cart, freed the key, and slipped it in his pocket. He kept on his way until he was at the opposite stairwell, where he casually headed up the stairs then around the corner to room 206.

Sherlock could feel his pulse quicken. This was it, the moment he'd been swimming towards. He would stop Small and Giroux. It would pull his mind back from the brink his fight with John had pushed it towards. He rapped on the door loudly. "Mr. Small," he said, "It's the management." He waited several long seconds, his knife clasped in his right hand, hidden in his pocket. Most would think a three inch blade could inflict precious little damage. But then most were blissfully unaware of how easily it was to slice the carotid or brachial arteries and cause someone to pass out within a minute and bleed to death within a few. Not to mention severing the associated nerve bundles. In Sherlock's experience, this was much more efficient than random, highly survivable jabs at the torso with larger implements.

However, the knowledge and experience wound up being moot. Not only did Small and Giroux fail to answer, as they might have if they were suspicious, but there was absolutely no sound from inside. Keeping the knife in his right hand, Sherlock used his other hand to slide the keycard in and open the door.

The room inside was still and pitch black. Moving fluidly through the room, eyeing the open bathroom, the curtains, balcony - anywhere someone might hide - Sherlock quickly realised no one was there. He relaxed, closing the knife in his pocket and flicking on the light. The room was sparse save for some refuse on the desk and a suitcase on the bed. Sherlock tore through it, examining every pouch, every zipper. There were clothes, an international calling card, toiletries - that last bit indicating they were packed and just about ready to go. Yet they weren't here. They had taken Ted Sholto's bait, so they must be going after him. That was right, wasn't it? Sherlock was suddenly getting a nagging sensation of uncertainty.

And then, worse, much worse, he felt the relentless swimming, treading motion that had been his salvation come to a halt. No Small, no Giroux. Sherlock instantly felt as if he were sinking under the surface, without enough warning to take a deep breath first. He vaguely realised the rush of water he heard around his head was actually the pounding of blood in his ears as his barely latent meltdown started to overcome him again.

He realised he'd been hit with a crash, a post-adrenaline high collapse that seemed uncomfortably familiar. When he'd thought he was on his way to capture Small and Giroux, it had been easier to keep himself focused on the issue at hand. But here he was now, in an empty room, and his long period of elevated heart rate was taking its toll. Sherlock had been in many such situations in the last year and a half, and he had come to realise he relied heavily on his extra boost. No, out of the question. He hissed at the inner voice, but even the unvoiced sentiment sounded weak and false to him. His mind was racing with flashes of Giroux, Small, Sholto, whose flat he should probably be heading to. Yes? Isn't that where the killers would be headed? But the images were all muddled up in his brain, mixed with flashes of rooftops and phone calls and John insisting that he couldn't do this anymore and now where did that leave their friendship then?What was Sherlock going to do now that he was finally back here but not back where he wanted to be?

He was suddenly aware that he was shaking again, unable to control anything. He'd had these sorts of episodes, if he got overstimulated or emotionally overwhelmed, his whole life. And he hated it, absolutely loathed it. "Stop it, stop it!" Sherlock shouted, smacking himself hard on the sides of his head as he sat down heavily on one of the beds, elbows on his knees, pulling on his hair so hard some strands came out in his hands. His brain worked wonderfully, superhumanly, but like a fast-working hard drive it sometimes skipped and sputtered and glitched. And now was the worst time for this. When he had to think clearly, to move into action, figure out exactly where these conspirators had gone and how to stop them. Sherlock was so close, he couldn't do this now. Not now. He needed clarity, needed-

Something was digging into his leg, a thin object in his trouser pocket. It had just now occurred to him, and he remembered, one memory punching through the haze of his mind. He recalled coming back from Ted Sholto's, the feel of smoke in his lungs, the very recent memories of other things rushing through him tapping him on the shoulder all the way home. Once he'd reached 221B, Sherlock hadn't hesitated. He'd gone straight to one particular floorboard, in his old room, wedged it open, grabbed a few items inside, and slipped them into his trouser pocket. Not to use them. Just to have them there. Just to remind himself what it felt like to have complete focus and clarity. As if maybe the memory itself would be enough to fuel him now. It was what he had been lying on the couch smoking and thinking about, trying to tap into, when John had come home.

And now Sherlock felt the objects pressing against his outer thigh. He felt the tap, tap, tap on his shoulder again. Slowly, he pulled the syringe and vial from his pocket. Sherlock's heart pumped loudly, as if calling out to the drug in his hand. Here I am. Take me.

One shot. He could take one shot, clear away all the things his mind didn't need, throw the things it did into brilliant contrast. That's how he'd reasoned with himself the last time he'd started. And the time before that. One shot.

But he couldn't do that. Sherlock's mind and body might be hopelessly caught up in the pull of the cocaine, but he had at least learned enough along the way to know there was no such thing as just one use for a specific purpose. Every time it began that way, and every bloody time it wound up being the drug that was using him.

And then a cold, terrifying voice in the back of his mind whispered, So what? So what if he wound up right back where he'd started? If the drug powered his mind to fantastic and incredibly useful heights, if he were able to solve difficult cases, what was wrong with that? How did that phrase go - 'it's better to burn out than to fade away'. Computers broke down, wore out, and no one mourned them. Sherlock had believed, even as he'd been using these past eighteen months, that eventually he would stop because eventually he would be back with the people he'd left for, and there would be a reason to quit. He hadn't needed the drugs when he'd been working with John. If that was never going to happen again, if their friendship were truly over, the logical conclusion was that the preservation of his mind and body no longer mattered. What else was he going to do, 'hang out' with his friend? Sit around chatting? Sherlock hated chatting, and knew John grew irritated with him when they were forced into prolonged contact with nothing to do.

But still, still... wasn't there something about human dignity for its own sake? A tiny part of him still fought with the instinct of self-preservation. But why? Most people could only speculate on what would happen to the people they cared about if they died. Sherlock didn't have to. He'd seen it for himself. Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade had seemed fine. And John, grieved though he may have been for a while, so people said, had come out on the other side with a new life and Mary, whom Sherlock couldn't even convince himself he disliked. Maybe that was all okay. Maybe Sherlock Holmes wasn't supposed to be preserved, put on a shelf and admired and studied. Maybe he was supposed to be used up, to burn brightly and be as useful as possible in the short time he was meant to be around.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock pushed himself to his feet and headed robotically into the bathroom. It was only a small sense of (wretched) purpose that allowed him to focus enough to move at all. His mind was still running at a million miles an hour, but he could hear a tiny call above the noise. A familiar siren.

Everything went into autopilot, motions he'd done thousands of times. He set the vial and syringe on the sink. He took his coat off and laid it aside. He unbuttoned his left shirt cuff, rolled up the sleeve to his elbow. He washed his hands and his left arm with soap. Turning his wrist this way and that, he noted the numerous marks. All were healed over. They wouldn't remain that way for long. A vein on the ulnar side of his arm looked useful. He'd filled the syringe with his own pre-mixed solution before he'd even thought about it. He had the needle in hand, and the vein at the ready, but froze when a familiar voice whispered ominously, triumphantly in his mind - I owe you a fall.

And through his stress and sensory overload-addled mind, Sherlock could suddenly see everything very clearly. This was his real fall. He had survived the jump; he had been clever enough to plan his escape; he'd had the iron will, patience, and meticulous dedication to track down and dismantle Moriarty's entire network. He had thought he'd won.

Which made the loss all the more humbling. Sherlock sank heavily to the ground, unable to sustain his own weight any longer. Because none of that mattered now, did it? No matter what he did, how he'd worked around it, Moriarty had still managed to win. He'd reached from beyond the grave to yank Sherlock down with him. Everything he'd done, all the things he'd set in motion, had finally brought Sherlock quite literally to his knees. He had sunk to the floor of this nameless hotel room that wasn't even his. This was Moriarty's victory: debasing and reducing Sherlock to this. The wretched half-man that he used to be, back in the days before rehab, before John, before he had actually enjoyed himself. Back to the man who relied on a drug, not just to focus his mind, but to momentarily ease away his depression and loneliness. He'd regressed to a man he never, ever wanted to be again... but no, it was worse than that. Because Sherlock had had a taste of a relatively normal (for him) and pleasant life. Some friends. Some genuine laughs. Some fantastic victories. He'd tasted that, and it made the ashes of his old life taste all the more bitter in his mouth now.

Sherlock leaned forward, feeling sick, feeling his mind burning, smashing his forehead into the carpet as if he could reset his brain, knock it down into some average human operational level. Sherlock was doubled over, hands stretched in front of him like he was praying towards Mecca. Syringe held out like it was his offering. Please, he thought, prayed, over and over again. Please, please, please. He didn't even know what he was asking for. He got no response.

With a deep inhalation, Sherlock sat up, swung the needle towards his arm, and jabbed it into the vein. The plunger pulled out blood; the plunger pushed in cocaine.

It was like a train rushing towards his head, its lights and horn blaring, wind throwing his hair back, the vibration of its mass rushing across the land moving up his legs and through his whole body. It was terrifying. It was mystifying. Sherlock couldn't look away. He never could. The train smashed into him, sending him reeling back, a surge of energy followed by a diamond sharp clarity filling his head, his arms, his legs, his racing heart.

Sherlock jumped to his feet. He raced back to the desk. He'd seen something, but not noticed it before. What was it, where was it? A light blue paper with a rose watermark and some numbers scrawled across the bottom edge. He didn't even know he'd seen it until now, but his magnified brainpower recalled it from some deep recess. Tossing aside a newspaper and some empty crisp bags, Sherlock pulled out the item in question: a bit of hotel stationery. And on it, the words:

King's College Hospital

Denmark Hill

London, SE5 9RS

His first, incorrect thought was of John. His second, obvious, lightbulb exploding in his head thought was of Mary. The thought that should have been obvious but couldn't have been reached by his glitching brain before. Not without help from his old friend. They know the money's been transferred, but they're not going after Ted. They're going after Mary.

Sherlock barely remembered to grab his long coat and throw it on as he bolted out the door and sprinted for the stairs.

Chapter 15

John had done his best to focus on his work, he really had. It had always done him good to throw himself into a difficult and possibly dangerous task in order to distract himself from his thoughts. That was, in fact, the whole reason he'd been drawn to rooming with Sherlock in the first place. Having those heart-pounding and often ridiculous adventures was the thing that had got John past his crippling PTSD. So surely a bit of emergency medicine should be the perfect cure for his mind fixating on the fight he'd had with Sherlock?

When he'd come in from the main hospital building where he'd been talking to Mary and entered A&E, John had jumped straight into working on a couple who'd been in an automobile accident. That seemed like just the thing he needed. The woman had only a broken leg. The man had blunt force trauma to the chest from the airbag, causing a broken rib and collapsed lung. There had been a few tense moments as John cut through the muscles between the man's ribs and inserted a chest tube to re-inflate his lung. But that hadn't lasted long: less than ten minutes. It was important, potentially deadly, but fairly routine work for an emergency physician.

John was currently sitting next to the unconscious man, suturing the chest tube in place. Then he'd move on to stitch up some other deep lacerations caused by shards of the windshield. Really, it was the sort of thing a medical student could be doing, but they were short staffed tonight. So John had stayed, hoping vainly that if he remained near the main trauma rooms like this, he would be right there to jump into the next life-threatening case that rolled through the doors. That would be nice, distracting. He hoped.

Because really, none of this was helping at all. And deep down, he wasn't sure he should be ignoring his thoughts. Sherlock, his best friend, was out there somewhere attempting to track down two extremely dangerous and probably armed murderers. And he was in a dangerously altered state, an emotional meltdown the likes of which John had never dreamed of seeing from Sherlock. It frightened him, because his friend didn't seem able to control it. And John was completely powerless to stop him, or to find him now and help him.

John had failed. There was nothing more to it. He recalled the look of terror in Sherlock's eyes as he had pleaded, "I need your help." John had thought he'd meant about the case. But that had been before the phone call from Mycroft, before he'd learned about the drugs.

It wasn't the fact that Sherlock had been using cocaine regularly for eleven months that troubled John the most, although that was admittedly a disturbing and difficult image to wrap his mind around, not to mention extremely dangerous. No, the deeper thing, the thing that twisted John's guts with concern and fear was why? That time had been hell for John. There was no two ways about it. But he'd eventually had Mary to help him through. Sherlock would have had no such respite. John was beginning to realise things must have been even more hellish for Sherlock. The drugs made that obvious enough. But John also vividly recalled Sherlock's instinctive strike to the neck when John had punched him. Whatever Sherlock had been up to, John got the distinct feeling that it was extremely dangerous and in a very up close and personal sort of way. John had seen those sorts of reactions from panicked soldiers in Afghanistan. Hell, he'd had them himself. He knew the sorts of things that caused that kind of reaction. It made him sick on Sherlock's behalf.

And it all kept circling around the rooftop of St. Bart's and the question John had never, ever been able to come to terms with, no matter how 'over' Sherlock's death he might outwardly appear to be: Why had he jumped off that roof? Oh, John had gone through phases of blaming every imaginable cause. Sherlock's own brother had betrayed him. His only friend had (maybe in his mind) grown tired of him. His name was disgraced. He might go to prison. But in all the time John had thought about it, on all the nights he'd lost sleep or woke up screaming from a nightmare about it, he'd never thought of anything that truly made sense. Mary had been able to help him control his flashbacks and his reaction to them. And even that had taken months. But no one had ever figured out why Sherlock had done it. And now that he was back, Sherlock refused to say anything, pretended as though it hadn't happened at all.

The only hint John had been given in all this time was what Sherlock had said back at Baker Street, just before Mycroft had interrupted everything with his awful revelation. John had said he couldn't put his life on hold for Sherlock. And Sherlock had said the words that were still bouncing around John's head, weighing him down with a combination of guilt and confusion: I did it for you.

Had all of this really somehow been for John's sake? To protect him? Alone is what I have. Alone protects me, Sherlock had said. And John had said that's what friends were for. As if Sherlock didn't know that. And that fake call about Mrs. Hudson having been shot, then Sherlock's lack of reaction to it... had that all been part of some plan? John had wondered about it, had gone to Sherlock's grave and pleaded with him to explain all of it. Now he said he'd done it for John. Had put himself through hell, had got to a place so low he'd fallen back into his addiction. Had Sherlock really willingly thrown himself into that for the sake of someone else? For his friend? It was the sort of action most people would never believe Sherlock Holmes - arrogant, insufferable, self-centred Sherlock Holmes - to be capable of. And John realised with deep shame that Sherlock appeared to believe John was one of those people.

So now he, Sherlock's friend, had let him go off alone. Had let him storm off with the belief that their friendship was effectively over. Sherlock had seemed broken, resigned. Then the mention of the drugs had made him enraged, overwhelmed, like a cornered animal. John hoped that what Sherlock had said wasn't true, that he didn't simply pity the man. No, he admired Sherlock. He liked Sherlock. The man was a genius who enjoyed having John around him, a scientist with a dark and sharp sense of humour. They'd got on famously. And he'd never really told Sherlock that. He'd said it over and over at his grave, but there'd been no one there to hear. A hard lump formed in John's throat as he realised just how big of an idiot he'd been. When Sherlock had shown up alive, John still hadn't bothered telling the man any of those things. What was that, male pride? English repression? Whatever it was, John cursed that foolish part of him, screwing his eyes closed and clamping his jaw shut until it ached.

The sound of shouting voices coming from the hallway snapped John back to attention. A new trauma case? A disorderly drunk? Hell, he'd take anything to distract him right now. Tying off the running stitch he was working on and laying a cotton wool dressing over it, John stood and headed out of the room and into the hall.

John could hear one of the nurses, Clara, speaking loudly from down the hall and around the corner, probably near the reception desk by the sound of it. "Sir, sir you have to go back to the waiting area!"

"I saw his jacket in the doctors' lounge and his name on the board. I know precisely which curtain area he's in." At the distinct sound of Sherlock's insistent, imperious voice, John's heart jumped with relief. It was like a prayer being answered. He immediately started jogging down the hall as Sherlock continued to shout, "And this is an emergency! And not one on the order of a lady cutting her hand on a bread knife or someone riding his bike into a tree. An actual, valid emergency, you useless- ahg!" There was a loud thud, several shouts, and the sounds of vicious scuffling.

John rounded the corner in time to see two of the department's young, fit medical students wrestling Sherlock roughly to the floor. They quickly pinned both his arms to the ground, but he was kicking out wildly with his legs. John's fellow senior physician, Dr. Greer, was standing nearby. She shouted, "Someone get 10 ccs of Haldol!"

"On it!" Clara said, turning to rush to a medical cart.

"Wait, stop it, get off of him!" John shouted, stunned. But Sherlock continued kicking and crying out angrily. Turning to Greer, wild-eyed, John asked her, "What the hell is going on here?"

Greer grimaced. "This maniac just charged in here, demanding to see you. Thank you, Clara," Greer said as the nurse handed her a syringe of Haldol. But before Greer could move, John grabbed her by the wrist. She gave him a shocked, angry look, her mouth hanging open in indignation.

"He's my friend," John hissed.

"Well your friend is tweaked out of his mind on something or other."

John felt the world spin and thought he might throw up. "He's high?" he asked, dropping her wrist.

Greer nodded. "He's diaphoretic, talking a mile a minute, eyes are bloodshot, and his pupils are dilated to almost 8 millimetres." A beat, and she softened a little. "Does he have a history of drug use?"

John's mouth and throat were completely dry as he replied in a pathetic, defeated voice, "Cocaine." He swallowed, looking again at the scene of Sherlock struggling futilely to break free all while cursing and growling inhumanly at the med students. It was the sort of sight he'd grown used to seeing with junkies in A&E all the time. It was like a hard slap across the face in the cold of winter to see Sherlock that way. His drug use had always been theoretical to John. He'd never quite been able to imagine Sherlock as a cocaine addict. Now he didn't have to.

John's throat filled with bile. He couldn't watch this for another second. He turned quickly back to look Greer in the eye. "Please, please let me deal with this. Get the bloody med students off of him and let me talk to him."

Greer hesitated a moment, but must have sensed John's utter distress. She nodded. "Take this," she said, offering him the syringe of the sedative. "Just in case."

John gave her a hard stare, then turned away without taking it, striding quickly over to where Sherlock was being held on the floor. "All right, that's enough!" John shouted at the medical students. At the sound of his voice, Sherlock stopped kicking and settled. "Get off of him. We're not tying him down or injecting him with anything. He's not even a bloody patient! He's my friend and he's here to see me." The medical students exchanged stunned expressions but remained frozen. His face growing red with anger, John ground out, "I said get off of him!"

The students scrambled to their feet and stepped aside, both looking sheepish and a little frightened at John's intensity. "I'm sorry, Dr. Watson, sir," one of them started to say.

"Everyone back to work," John snapped. The med students looked to Dr. Greer, who nodded in agreement, even though she seemed suspicious of the situation herself. Thankfully, people slowly started to get back to their business as John approached Sherlock. He went to offer his friend a hand, but the detective was already springing up to his feet.

"Where's Mary?" Sherlock demanded in a clipped tone. Looking at him face to face, John could easily see exactly what Dr. Greer had. Sherlock's skin was slick with sweat and his pupils were huge within his wild-looking eyes. "When was the last time you saw her? Where did she say she was heading? Has she received the bank account information?" the questions came one on top of the other with no room for a breath. John's nausea wasn't getting any better witnessing this. Sherlock was definitely high. He'd been out on his own for less than a hour, and he'd already started shooting up.

He couldn't do this here. Not with everyone still sneaking curious glances at them. John was still fuming at the way his co-workers had handled the situation. "Not here," John said in a whisper, "this way." He headed in the direction of the doctors' lounge, and Sherlock followed. John felt the bittersweet irony of this whole situation. He'd just been hoping, practically praying for Sherlock to turn up still in one piece. And he'd mostly got his wish. But the catch that had come with this gift was a massive, heavy burden. Still, high or not, John wasn't about to make the same mistake twice. As soon as they entered the lounge, John turned around and said, "I've been a bloody awful friend and I'm so sorry and so incredibly glad to see you."

Sherlock's brow wrinkled in confusion. "What?" His drug-fuelled mind seemed unable to compute "Never mind, this is a matter of life and death, now tell me where is Mary?" he rattled off.

As much as John wanted to find a way to calm Sherlock down, to let him ride out the high in safety until they could speak more rationally, Sherlock's words stopped John cold. "Why, what's wrong?"

"Small and Giroux. Ted Sholto and I tried to set a trap for them with Ted as the bait, finishing the deal and getting all that money into his bank account. But I was stupid, stupid,"Sherlock growled. "In my haste, I overlooked the fact that this made Mary a target, too."

"Oh, God," John's eyes widened as the realisation hit him as well. The words 'Mary' and 'target' sat uncomfortably close together in his mind.

Sherlock continued at his even more rapid than usual pace, "I followed a homeless network tip to their hotel room, broke in, found they were gone already, tipped off by whomever their source in the chain of transaction was, and they'd left behind a scrap of hotel stationery with the hospital's address, this address, where they knew Mary would be. John," Sherlock surprised him by grabbing him by the shoulders and looking at him desperately. "It's my fault. I'm sorry, it's my fault, I didn't think it through enough but I swear I'll fix it. Help me, please, we have to find Mary."

John felt as though he might be able to cry if he were alone. Seeing Sherlock like this, and knowing this was how he'd spent the better part of a year, felt like a swift kick in the gut to John. Especially with his new nagging feeling that he might have been the reason for it. Still, hearing that Small and Giroux were going after Mary, might already have kidnapped her, overrode any and all other concerns for the present. John was sweating himself as he replied, "She left here about ten minutes ago. Said she was going home."

"Where did you last see her?"

"Maternity unit, in the Golden Jubilee Wing. The big glassy building right beside this one." John's heart was starting to pound uncontrollably. The thought of Mary in mortal danger, on top of all the rest, was too much. He leaned on a counter. "Okay, okay," he started murmuring, "Right, I should call her." He pulled out his phone and hit the speed dial with shaking fingers. The tremor continued as he held the phone to his ear. It rang. It rang again. It rang a third, long, agonizing time then went to voicemail. John hung up. "She didn't answer."

"Because they already have her," Sherlock said, and John felt the room whirl around like an old fashioned merry-go-round in a park being given an extra push.

"We need to call Lestrade. We need the police," John said, starting to dial.

"No!" Sherlock snapped, and John looked up at him. "We can track them, figure out where they're taking her, follow them, and put an end to all of this."

"How are we supposed to do that?" John knew the cocaine was probably telling Sherlock he could do just about anything. Which in addition to his normal confidence was a very dangerous combination. But how on earth could he keep Sherlock from going out and doing something when every fibre of John's own body was pulling him out the door?

"What we always do. What I've done hundreds of times and in more dire circumstances. We observe, look for clues, follow them through to their logical conclusion that will take us to where Mary is," Sherlock insisted. "Come on. We can't delay."

"Sure," John said, as evenly as he could manage right now, "I'll come with you. Just let me call Lestrade. Only Lestrade." Even as he said it, he knew it was a lie: he'd call all of bloody New Scotland Yard to track down Mary if he had to.

Sherlock studied him for a second, made some sort of decision, then said, "All right. Call him. And get your coat." He gestured to the clothes cupboard on the other side of the room.

One step at a time, John thought, trying to bring some order to his racing thoughts. Call Lestrade. Get the cops looking for Mary. Let Sherlock go looking if he must, you probably can't stop him from that. But for the love of God, don't let him out of your sight. The thought of losing both Mary and Sherlock to this business caused John to tremble. He felt barely under control as he turned around to walk to the clothes cupboard on the other side of the room. He rang Lestrade's personal cell number, propping the phone between his shoulder and his cheek as he grabbed his jacket and began putting it on. Pick up, pick up, he chanted silently.

"Lestrade," the voice on the other end of line said.

John let out a huge sigh of relief. "Thank God. I need your help. You, the Yard, anyone you can get... I think Mary's been kidnapped."

"Christ," Lestrade breathed on the other end. "Tell me what happened, what you know, anything."

"I don't know, you'll have to talk to Sherlock," John started to say, a bit warily, as he turned back around. But he trailed off, the blood draining from his face and all speech dying on his lips.

Sherlock was gone.

Chapter 16

Sherlock burst out of the front door of the A&E building, his heart pounding with exhilaration. He couldn't wait for John to decide whether he actually wanted to go with him. There was no time to wait for the police, even Lestrade. Never mind how furious the detective inspector would most likely be with Sherlock. The DI might be done with him. John might be done with him. Whether it was his last case or not, Sherlock sprinted towards the main hospital building as if it were.

Ten minutes. If she'd left ten minutes ago, Small and Giroux almost certainly had Mary already. They were probably gone. But they wouldn't kill her. The thought made Sherlock's stomach churn. It was his fault they were after Mary in the first place. Not that he was particularly fond of her or felt guilt; he just didn't enjoy having such a major slip up in a case. That's what he told himself. But no, they couldn't kill her until they had her bank account information and had verified that it was correct. They'd need to take her somewhere with computer access. There was still time. They had to have left some clues behind. There was always something, no matter how small.

Sherlock slowed up outside of the seven-story building, a structure combining old and new with its three brick sides and one sleek, modern all-glass facade. It was massive, and Sherlock realised he hadn't any idea what exit Mary would have normally come out of. He should have asked John. Stupid. But oh, wait! How would Small and Giroux have known where she'd exit? They just got her information. And how did they get that? No, Sherlock shoved that thought aside for later. Focus. How would they have found her? There are only two of them, no possible way to cover every exit, not unless they had a better vantage point. Some place to see all of-

Sherlock froze, his eyes wide. "Yes, of course!" he shouted, drawing the attention of several doctors passing out a side exit of the hospital. He paid them no mind. Because he had it now, and he was positively giddy. The roof. One of them had to be on the roof - the only place to cover all exits. It would most certainly have been Giroux, the climber accustomed to heights. He might be gone by now, if he'd been able to take the stairs to the roof. If not...

Shoving past the doctors at the exit, Sherlock bolted through the door and into the hallway. He spun around wildly, spotting the stairwell he was looking for and striding quickly towards it. He took the stairs two at a time, his mind buzzing but his cocaine-fuelled heart having to pump twice as fast to get enough oxygen. He'd become accustomed to this tradeoff. Sharp mind, overtaxed body. But again, what did it matter? he wondered as he broke out in a sweat, charging up and up the stairwell. His body was simply a carriage for his mind, and he'd decided to let that mind loose, damn the rest of it. He felt even less inhibited than he had when tracking down Moriarty's men and women. Then he'd had something to come back to. Now he was free of that.

By the time he reached the door marked 'roof access', Sherlock was wheezing, but hardly noticed. He pulled on the door. It didn't budge. He fidgeted with the lock, but it wouldn't move at all. So, Giroux couldn't have taken the stairs. He'd have to have used his climbing abilities then. Past midnight on a weeknight, it was quite possible he'd have been able to free climb up the building without being noticed. But getting back down would be trickier. He'd have to abseil down, which would require some equipment and time. With luck, he might still be working his way down.

But which side of the building would he be on? Sherlock had come in from the west and not seen anyone. The north face was completely glass and therefore not traversable. That left the south or east sides. The building was massive and Sherlock might not have much time to check on both. The east side would be visible from the main road; the south side was at the back of the building, buttressed against the building housing private offices which would be closed at this hour. Making his decision, Sherlock descended to the sixth floor and turned left, heading south down a corridor lined with patient rooms. He got all the way to the end of the hall, turned right, then walked straight into the first room on his left.

The woman in her hospital bed roused a little, but must have been used to doctors and nurses coming and going by now, or been otherwise sedated, because she didn't wake up as Sherlock crossed her room. He went directly to the window, slid it up, and stuck his head out. It took his eyes a few moments to adjust to the dark, but as soon as they had, he spotted a figure moving a few floors down. A second look revealed a small, compact man in his 40s repelling down the back of the building. Giroux, Sherlock thought, grinding his teeth together. The Frenchman was making quick work of his descent. There was no way Sherlock could get to the ground floor before Giroux was able to get to the ground, detach his harness, and take off into the night. Have to slow him down, can't cut a climbing rope with anything short of a machete, think! Sherlock quietly exited the room and walked a few paces to a supply closet. Not even knowing what he was looking for, he opened the door and scanned the shelves furiously with his eyes. Swabs, needles, gowns, scrubs, emesis basins, anaesthetic sprays, antibiotic creams, suture kits, cotton wool, medical tape, foley catheters. Maybe, possibly I could-

Without hesitation, Sherlock grabbed some medical tape, a hospital gown, and an ethyl chloride topical anaesthetic spray jar. Striding quickly, but not so fast as to draw attention to himself, he headed to the room three doors down. An old man lay awake in his hospital bed, and started when Sherlock entered. "Who the hell are you?" he asked, giving the sweaty, strange man in a long black coat the suspicion he was owed.

"You're being transferred to another room," Sherlock said, not stopping as he walked to the wall, unplugged the man from his vitals monitor, took his IV bag off the stand, and placed it in the man's lap.

"Like hell!" the old man protested. He tried to push the call button on his bed, but Sherlock had already disconnected it from the wall. He started wheeling the bed briskly into the hallway, and down in front of the next room for good measure. "What the hell is going on?"

"Believe me, sir, you don't want to be in that room. Gas leak, terribly dangerous," Sherlock said with a brief forced smile before wheeling around and heading back into the now-empty room.

He flung the window open and looked down. Giroux was directly beneath him, almost to the third floor now. The climbing rope hung directly outside the window, a few feet away from the building, pulled taut by the man's weight. Sherlock stretched out just far enough to wrap the hospital gown he'd taken in a large wad around the rope. Then he unscrewed the top of the anaesthetic bottle, then poured the entire contents onto the gown, concentrating on the area directly around the rope. He tried not to inhale the fumes - some people huffed the stuff, but Sherlock found the acrid scent deplorable. It would do its job, though. Stepping away from the window, Sherlock quickly rinsed his hands in the sink to make sure they were free of any ethyl chloride residue.

Sherlock then reached into his pocket, which held only the last cigarette he'd got from Ted Sholto and a lighter he'd grabbed out of his things back at Baker Street. He'd thought to enjoy a smoke when this was done, but this would have to do. Giving the window a wide berth, Sherlock took the little red lighter in hand. He sparked it into the on position, then used the medical tape he'd taken to secure the switch in the down position. The little flame continued burning as Sherlock tossed the lighter through the air and at the wad of soaked material outside the window.

A ball of fire burst from the rope and gown doused with the highly flammable liquid. It scorched the inside ceiling of the room. Sherlock felt the hot gust of wind on his face and smiled. He could see the climbing rope burning, bits of flaming hospital gown falling. And even from up here, he could hear Giroux swearing. Sherlock stepped out into the hallway just as the sprinkler system in the room went off. He dashed back in the direction of the stairwell, ducking into it just before several staff people went running by in panic. Of course it would be fine. There was little danger to the room itself, only to Giroux's rope. The man would have to latch himself onto the side of the building and free climb down now, which would take much longer.

Sherlock took off down the stairs, his clammy skin feeling the wind rush past him. He could hear the blood rushing through his head and feel his body still tingling with the high. It couldn't last too much longer, though. Ten minutes at most. How could he possibly get to Mary before then? But he had to try. He doubled his speed of descent, his long legs flying down the stairwell. When he reached the bottom, he jumped the last half-flight of stairs, hit the ground running, and pushed his way out into the cool night air all in one movement. His heart constricted a little painfully in his chest as he sprinted around the side of the building and to the back.

Giroux was down to the first floor, perhaps twelve feet off the ground. The fire-severed climbing rope hung limply on the ground. Working on a rush of adrenaline, cocaine, and honed instincts, Sherlock ran to directly beneath the man before he'd even been noticed. He grabbed the rope, which was still attached to Giroux's climbing harness, and gave it a sharp, hard tug. "Ahh!" Giroux shouted as he lost his grip on the window ledge he'd been grasping. He fell to the ground, landing on one leg with a loud, sickening snap. "Ahhhhhhh!" Giroux cried in agony, gasping and rolling onto his back and clutching at the mangled leg. He lay just at Sherlock's feet. A glance down at the Frenchman's left leg revealed a compound tibia-fibia fracture, both bones jutting through the skin of his calf.

Sherlock took this all in without a remark. "Where is she?" he demanded, his voice shaking with the chemicals running through his body. Giroux sobbed in pain and writhed on the ground. Feeling blind with fury, Sherlock crouched down quickly beside the man, took the length of rope still in his hand, and wrapped it around Giroux's neck. The Frenchman gasped in horror as Sherlock pulled hard on the rope. He counted to three, then released it. Leaning in face to face with the man, he shouted, "Where is she?"

"BFI Southbank!" Giroux cried out through his tears of pain and fear, naming a nearby British Film Institute cinema. "The IMAX. They needed a place with open wi-fi-"

Sherlock slammed the man's head against the gravel ground, stunning him. Giroux moaned. Sherlock rolled the man on his side. Sherlock used his trembling hands to tie Giroux's wrists together with a section of the rope. He doubted very much the man would make a run for it, but the extra measure couldn't hurt. Sherlock's breath was coming in short, uneven patterns as he stood and strode quickly back towards the street to hail a cab for the nearby BFI.

---

The new IMAX cinema at the BFI Southbank was a peculiar structure. It was perfectly round, completely glass on the outside in a very modern sort of style. It was also situated in the centre of a large roundabout. "Let me out here," Sherlock told the cab driver, tossing some cash his way.

"In the middle of the roundabout?" the cabbie asked, incredulously. Impatient, Sherlock tossed him another £20. "You do know there aren't any entrances from the street level, right? You're supposed to take the tunnel over there," the cabbie nodded across the street.

"Yes, yes, now pull over," Sherlock snapped. He was in no mood to argue. Things were tense enough with Mary having been kidnapped, but that was amplified tenfold by the fact that his high was quickly wearing off. This had a propensity to leave him irritable, shaky, and even depressed. He had none of the sorts of medications that would ease the notorious cocaine crash. The only thing that would really help would be shooting more cocaine. In fact, he'd had to fight the whole ten minute cab ride to focus on Small and Mary rather than where he could get a new needle to inject the rest of the vial that still rested in his pocket. Sherlock rubbed the bridge of his nose. Not now. Concentrate.

The cab pulled up to the curb (or, rather, low wall as cars weren't really meant to be pulling up here) and Sherlock jumped out eagerly. The car pulled away, and Sherlock hopped up onto the two-foot wall to avoid being too close to traffic. The entrance to the cinema, and all the walkways and outdoor cafe space around it, were a storey below street level, sunken into the ground surrounding the circular building like a sort of concrete moat. Every metre or so there were support struts covered in ivy that ran from the wall up to the side of the building. Fortunately for Sherlock, they also provided some cover in case someone should glance up. In the dark of night, the light spilling from both the glass building and the walkway down below were like a beacon. At nearly one in the morning, the cinema was practically the only place still open. It appeared to be just emptying from the last showing of the evening. Clever to think of this place for open wi-fi. Coffee shops and museums are all closed down. Open wi-fi networks make communications more difficult to trace.

Sherlock's thoughts were running much more slowly than they had at the hospital. In honesty, they were going more slowly than they usually did in general. As Sherlock slinked along the wall, scanning amongst the crowds for a sign of Mary or Jonathan Small, his thoughts turned once again to the vial in his pocket. Why hadn't he brought another needle? He'd been in a goddamned hospital. He should have just taken the time to shoot up back there. A small voice in the back of his head prodded, God, don't you see what's happening? And he did. But he just couldn't muster the will to care.

Punching himself hard in the leg brought Sherlock's attention back to his present task. He had to think of Mary, of how this was his fault, would be a black mark on his reputation, would upset John tremendously. Pursing his lips in determination, Sherlock continued his path along the wall until finally he spotted them. Mary was seated on a bench against the near wall, a laptop on her lap, her fingers shaking as she typed. Beside her, the tall, imposing Jonathan Small sat, looking fierce and on edge. His hands drummed impatiently on his knees. Sherlock slowed and bent over as he approached with caution.

Soon, he was crouched down on the wall, a good dozen feet above where Small and Mary sat. Sherlock bit his lip, trying to concentrate and come up with a plan of action. Small almost certainly had to have a gun on him; otherwise, Mary would never have come with him. And most likely as soon as the bank transfer was complete and verified, he'd walk Mary out of there, find a quiet place, and kill her. Sherlock drew a deep breath as he realised he couldn't afford to delay. Mary was already closing the computer, evidently done with the transfer. This was his best opening. He turned sideways on the wall, staring down at Jonathan Small below him. He'd have to be precise to avoid hitting Mary as well.

Swinging his legs down over the side of the wall and letting go with his hands, Sherlock threw himself down at Small. His swinging motion brought his legs into contact with the side of Small's head, sending him toppling over off the edge of the bench, while Sherlock managed to slow his descent with a foot on the bench before he toppled off and rolled on his shoulder and back to his feet. Mary had jumped up in surprise, dropping the laptop onto the ground with a crack! She stared, and Sherlock hissed, "Run!" She started back-peddling away, then turned to run. Sherlock spun back around to Small, who was on the ground, raising his gun towards Sherlock. The detective kicked at the man's wrist instinctively, and just in time: the shot Small squeezed off was thrown off course, firing harmlessly into the concrete as the gun itself flew out of his hand.

The deafening sound of the gunshot echoing in the little concrete moat provoked screams from the exiting cinema patrons. Those who were still loitering around the cinema started running away from Sherlock and Small, fleeing in the direction of the exit tunnel. Sherlock glanced at the gun, but it was a good ten metres away. His eyes flicked back to Small just in time to see the man pull a 6-inch knife from his belt and take a swing at Sherlock's leg. The detective dodged backward, and Small was on his feet in an instant, throwing himself bodily at the smaller man. The brutish 40-something criminal had several inches and at least two stone on Sherlock. There was no stopping his momentum as he slammed the detective into the concrete wall. Dark spots appeared before Sherlock's eyes, and the wind was knocked out of him. It was only months of similarly dire situations that kept Sherlock moving. Before the murderer had a chance to put that knife to use, Sherlock had reached up and struck sharply at Small's face with both sets of bunched, pointed fingers, hitting him directly in the eyes. "Gaaaah!" Small shouted in pain and surprise, taking a few steps backward.

Sherlock stepped away from the wall, standing opposite Small in a ready stance. The brute gritted his teeth and gripped his knife tightly. Sherlock knew it was only a matter of time before he charged, believing his superior strength to be the only factor. Just as many thick-headed lowlifes seemed to. Sherlock waited until Small started charging forward. As soon as he was a metre away, Sherlock dropped suddenly to the ground, onto his left side. Small was totally thrown, and stopped short, his legs locking in place. That was precisely what Sherlock needed. He drew back his right leg, then kicked downward with one swift strike that hit Jonathan Small directly on the kneecap. His leg hyperextended, most likely tearing several tendons. The man gave a mighty, guttural cry of pain. He doubled over, shaking.

Rolling onto his back, Sherlock started to get up, planning to crack Small's chin against his knee and hopefully render the man unconscious. But to his great surprise, as soon as he started to push himself off the ground, Small gave a furious shout and threw all of his massive bulk down on top of Sherlock, aiming his good knee directly at Sherlock's diaphragm. The air rushed from Sherlock's lungs again, and his already chemically taxed heart and lungs had to work double time to gasp in enough air to keep the black spots in his vision from becoming a full-on blackout.

Before he knew it, Small was sitting on his thighs, preventing Sherlock from kicking out with his legs. He tried to punch Small in the face, but the larger man stopped it, grabbing Sherlock's fist in his much more massive hand. Small slammed the fist into the concrete ground, sending a jolt of pain up Sherlock's right arm. The killer pressed down forcefully on Sherlock's wrist, effectively pinning it down. Then a perversely satisfied smile twisted the thug's pale, vicious features. "Not so tough when you have to fight like a man, eh?" he sneered in a thick South London accent. Sherlock's eyes went wide as he the man struck downward with the knife in his right hand. Sherlock threw his left arm up and grabbed Small around the wrist, stopping the point of the knife six inches from the hollow of Sherlock's throat. He desperately attempted digging his fingernails into the man's tendons. The killer grunted but didn't let go, and kept pressing the knife closer, fuelled by adrenaline even as Sherlock was feeling his whole body shake with the cocaine crash that was now hitting him head on. His left arm trembled as Small pressed down against it, easing the sharp blade closer and closer to Sherlock's throat.

Not like this, please not like this, Sherlock pleaded silently. He may have resigned himself to burning up his mind and ending in an early grave, but not this early. He fought with everything he had to keep the blade from his neck, but everything he had just wasn't enough. Small was incredibly strong, had all the leverage, and was enraged. As the knife reached an inch from Sherlock's exposed neck, he could keenly feel the blood rushing too sluggishly through his body. With a nauseating churn of his stomach, Sherlock realised he was going to lose this battle of strength. The cold steel would slice through his trachea, cutting off his air supply. Where Small was aiming, he might even sever the arch of the aorta. That would almost be a blessing: he'd bleed to death in under a minute instead of slowly dying by aspirating his own blood into his lungs. The knife was a centimetre away now and, in spite of himself, Sherlock closed his eyes.

"Get off him," Mary's icy voice cut through the surreal haze Sherlock was in. His eyes flew open. He couldn't see Mary, but he could hear her shout from behind his head. "Get the hell off him and drop the knife or I swear to God, Small, I will shoot you."

Small eased the knife back slightly, ever so slightly, as he stared up where Mary must be. Sherlock had to lean his head back to see her. She was holding Small's gun in her right hand, supported by her left hand. She was trembling. Small chuckled. "You know you're not going to use that. You're free, I've got my money. You don't really want shooting someone to be on your conscience, do you? Just run away."

Mary didn't reply. Small grinned in satisfaction. "Nah, didn't think so," Small said, and Sherlock's eyes grew wide as he saw, as if in slow motion, Small's right arm rising high into the air, then swinging the knife back down towards Sherlock with a force there was no way Sherlock could stop. His heart thudded in his chest for maybe the last time, then-

BAM! The shot was fired from so close it rang Sherlock's ears. Warm blood spurted from Jonathan Small's right shoulder, and his knife clattered uselessly to the ground. "SHIT!" Small screamed, reeling backward and off Sherlock's legs. He knelt on the ground, clutching the offended shoulder. "You shot me!" he cried. "You bitch!"

In an instant, Sherlock was on his feet, hit with a burst of adrenaline. This time, Sherlock did get his chance to grab Small by the head and crack the man's chin down viciously onto his knee. The thug instantly went limp with unconsciousness and sagged forward.

That small surge of adrenaline must have been all Sherlock's body had left, because he instantly collapsed onto the ground, relishing the feel of his cheek against the cool concrete in the autumn night. He felt dizzy and sick, and not all just because of the cocaine crash. He heard someone move towards him, then felt himself being lifted into a seated position. Mary was staring at him, a look of grave concern on her face. "Are you hurt?" she asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "I just need-" A shot of cocaine. That was his first thought. He'd escaped a near death experience in a miraculous manner, and the drug was still all he could think about. That's what his body really needed, but he bit his lip hard and shut up. "To catch my breath," he muttered.

Mary looked nervously at Small. "Is he unconscious?"

"Yes, and bleeding. You don't have to worry about him," Sherlock replied, running a hand over his clammy, cold forehead.

"Thank God," Mary said, sitting down next to Sherlock and setting the gun aside. In the distance, Sherlock could hear sirens approaching. He supposed a number of the cinema patrons would have rung the police once the gunshots started. They'd be here any second. He couldn't bring himself to panic, even if Lestrade had said he was through with Sherlock if he interfered in this case. All Sherlock could feel was an aching wave of irritability and depression, a monsoon of lethargy that always hit as soon as the high wore off. It was this feeling, even more than the high itself, that usually drove him to shoot up again.

Blinking, Sherlock tried to make some sense of what had just happened. It took him a few long moments to realise what Mary had done. He turned his head to look at her in confusion. "You saved my life," he said, utterly at a loss as to why she would have done that. Particularly at a risk to her own.

Mary, shaking and nervous as she was, managed a small smile, "You saved mine first. I didn't want you holding that over my head forever. You'd have become insufferable."

She'd saved his life and now she was joking with him? Sherlock's brow furrowed. "You were supposed to run," he pointed out.

Mary gave him an appraising look. It wasn't the sort of gaze he preferred to have turned on him. He fidgeted. Finally, Mary asked, "Would John have run?"

Sherlock wasn't sure what that had to do with this situation, but he thought about it anyway. He thought about the very first case he and John had ever worked together. How John had fired that crack shot through two sets of windows, just to stop the mad man who was tempting Sherlock into a deadly game. It had surprised Sherlock at the time, but he had finally recognised it as the gesture of friendship it was meant to be. They'd only known each other a few days, but John had been willing to kill a man for him. No, he knew John wouldn't have run. John was his best friend. Or used to be, Sherlock thought, the black wave of depression starting to drown him. "No," he said, looking down at the ground. "John wouldn't have run."

Mary sat up straighter beside him. "Are you all right?" He wondered in what sense she meant it. Physically? Psychologically? Knowing her, she probably wanted to explore every possible avenue, every way in which his body and mind might have been affected by this 'traumatic event'. But it wasn't the knife at his neck that he feared the most. That wasn't the sort of thing he had nightmares about. It was, rather, the much smaller slice of a needle cutting into his vein, and the blissful, exhilarating, demonic substance that came with it. "Sherlock?"

Mary prompted, concerned.

Sherlock realised he was shaking, but couldn't stop it. He couldn't even look at Mary and answer her question, for fear that she might eventually notice his red eyes with their blown pupils. Shutting those eyes against the light, the throbbing pressure of blood behind them, and every other thing Sherlock just wanted to obliterate, he rasped out finally, "No. I'm not."

Chapter 17

Mary and Sherlock sat in silence for a few moments, but she couldn't help the feeling of anxiety filling her as the sound of sirens drew closer. Glancing at Sherlock, his head bowed and eyes screwed tightly shut, Mary wasn't sure whether she should interrupt his delicate composure. But there was a pressing matter on her mind. "Sherlock," she started tentatively. He blinked slowly, but his eyes remained downward. She wasn't entirely sure that he could hear her. Mary had only had basic exposure to and training with drug addicts long ago in her university courses. But between that, having been around the hospital a lot, and knowing what the hair follicle test had revealed, she feared she understood exactly what was going on with the detective. "The ambulance is almost here. And the police."

"And?" he asked, his eyes turning towards her slightly but his head remaining down.

"Well, I just wondered if maybe you should get out of here," Mary said. She wasn't sure when she'd become someone to encourage running from the police, but evidently she had.

Sherlock lifted his head, turning to look at her as if to check that she was hinting at what he thought she was. His eyes were red, a little unfocused as he looked at her. Unfortunately, this seemed to confirm her suspicion that he had indeed taken more cocaine since his fight with John tonight. Mary felt incredibly sad at this revelation. Turning away, Sherlock said, "John told you, then."

Mary was worried for a second. "Should he not have?"

"No," Sherlock said with a sigh, "it's fine."

"But if the cops find you like this..." she trailed off, remembering Donovan's rough treatment of the man and how she'd given him a drug test immediately given his history.

"A man lying shot on the ground by a woman whom he'd just kidnapped? I don't think they'll notice. Still," inhaling deeply, Sherlock said, "you're right. Have to be careful." He got slowly to his feet, and Mary stood up quickly, worried he might collapse again. But he stayed on his feet as he reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a vial of clear liquid.

Mary swallowed, trying not to be visibly alarmed by the implication of what he'd been carrying around with him, or the fact that he'd been high while her life hung in the balance. The sirens came to a halt, and the sound of cars screeching to a stop on the street up above rocked her out of indecision. Mary reached out for the vial. "Give that to me. I'll throw it away." The police car doors slammed, and feet started heading down the long tunnel to where they currently stood.

"No!" Sherlock snapped. Then, more evenly, "I'll do it. There's no sense in you getting more involved than you already are. That was John's mistake." He looked miserable as he turned and strode quickly over to a rubbish bin. He tossed the vial inside and turned around just in time as the police officers ran into the little sunken concrete courtyard.

"This man, Jonathan Small," Mary said, directing their attention towards the man on the ground and away from Sherlock. The lead officer, a sergeant based on his uniform, the name 'Miller' on his name badge, stepped towards Small carefully. He looked terribly young and eager to help. "He kidnapped me from where I work. He was going to kill my friend here, who came after us to rescue me. So I picked up Small's gun and shot him. It was the only way I could stop him."

Turning and facing up the tunnel, Sergeant Miller shouted, "Oi, get the paramedics down here! We've got a gunshot wound." He turned back to eye Mary and Sherlock with concern. "You Mary Morstan?" he asked. She was surprised, but nodded. The sergeant sighed in relief. "Thank God. A detective inspector from Scotland Yard issued an All-Ports Warning about your kidnapping just a few minutes ago." To one of the other officers, he said, "Call it in, will you." The man nodded and headed back up the ramp. Turning back to Mary and Sherlock, the sergeant asked, "Are you two all right? You said he tried to stab your friend here, Mr...?"

"We had a bit of a fight, yes," Sherlock said, deftly avoiding giving his name. Officially he was still dead, though she imagined since the night before there might had been rumours of his arrest floating around amongst police. But as far as they knew, it wasn't public knowledge yet. Best to delay that as much as possible, she supposed.

Miller frowned. Mary noticed that behind him paramedics had rolled down a gurney and boosted Small onto it. They were strapping the man in to wheel him back up the long ramp back to the street. "You okay?" the officer asked Sherlock. "You look unwell. Maybe I should have the paramedics take a look at you. Might be a concussion."

Mary's heart skipped a beat, but Sherlock was evidently quite practiced at this. "No, I didn't hit my head. Just the adrenaline, I suppose. I'll be fine."

Miller didn't look completely convinced, but seemed distracted by the paramedics wheeling Small away. After a few agonising beats he said, "All right, follow me. You'll be all right now." Mary had to repress a roll of her eyes at that, as if the police had really done anything in this case. Despite herself, she found Sherlock's point of view on them a little easier to understand now. After all, he had been here when they weren't. And if he hadn't stopped Small...

Mary shuddered, not thinking about it as she and Sherlock silently followed Miller up to the surface. There she saw several checkered police cars, their lights shining brightly, and an ambulance. Miller was watching as the paramedics wheeled the killer in that direction. Giving Sherlock and Mary a quick glance, he asked, "Will you two be all right for a moment? I'm going to go check on him."

"Yes," Mary replied fervently, "we'll be fine." She hoped she didn't sound too desperate to get rid of the man, but if she did the police officer didn't notice.

"Right, then. I'll be right back. Have a seat and try to relax," Miller said, indicating a wall before turning and striding quickly over to talk to the paramedics. Mary and Sherlock both seemed relieved to have a chance to sit and catch their breaths. Just beyond the police cars, a small throng of on-lookers had gathered. Gunshots were a relatively rare thing in London, but the extra scrutiny made Mary nervous. She had been the last person to fire said gun, after all. And even though it had been in justifiable defence of someone else's life, the staring eyes made her feel irrationally guilty.

Mary looked away from the crowd, and over at Sherlock. He still seemed incredibly tired and worn, but it was more than that. He was quiet in a pained sort of way. Recalling what he'd said a little earlier, Mary said softly, "What did you mean when you said it was John's mistake to get involved?" Though she suspected she understood the implication, she wanted to hear it directly. But she wasn't sure how much she could get Sherlock to say. He was a difficult nut to crack, to be certain. Still, he seemed unusually emotive right now, probably due to the after effects of the drug.

"All of this. The things that go along with being around me," Sherlock said, sounding annoyed at himself as much as anything.

But Mary couldn't let him go on sounding so miserable. "You think he disliked all of that? Sherlock, I've had a lot of conversations with John about you, about your friendship. All of this excitement is what drew him to you in the first place. He needed it."

"Well, he hardly needs it now. He's got you," Sherlock pointed out, and Mary felt a pang of guilt. Of course it would seem that way. She wondered just exactly what had been said in this 'bad row' John had alluded to back at the hospital. Whatever it was, she could see from John's distress that he'd said things he shouldn't have, most likely things he didn't even mean. She was even more sure that John did not understand that Sherlock was as affected by things as anyone else, he simply lacked the language and body language to express it. John couldn't see that. But to Mary it had become clear in a matter of days that for all of Sherlock's arrogance, he might not actually like everything about himself that much. People who were content with their lives didn't tend to become drug addicts.

"Look, I don't know what John said to you. But I know he instantly regretted them," Mary said.

"Yes, because he felt they were rude, not untrue," Sherlock replied, beginning to sound bitter.

"No," Mary insisted, her tone becoming more assertive. She turned to look at Sherlock, even if he wouldn't look at her. "Because they were incomplete truths. Which is probably worse than a lie. More deceptive. It's certainly a lot more difficult to detect." Sherlock finally raised his head a little, giving her am evaluative look, clearly intrigued. Insatiable curiosity, she thought, relieved that she might be able to use that side of him for good.

While she had his attention, she explained, "John couldn't even go back to the flat for nearly a month after your 'death'. His PTSD, which he told me you had helped cure him of when no psychologists could, worsened. When I met him three months out, he was miserable. Talking about you seemed to help a little, so I encouraged that. And all along, what I heard from him was how Sherlock Holmes was one of the most brilliant, witty, fantastically misunderstood men he'd ever known." Sherlock's eyes narrowed a little, and she could see his mind searching for a counter-argument. Not giving him time to object, Mary continued, "And what he hated more than anything, a huge part of what made him so miserable about your death was that he never bothered to tell you that. It's a lot easier for people to take out their frustrations than to express their sincere compliments. Especially," she said, a note of humour creeping into her voice, "when the people in question are men." She knew with Sherlock it was more than that, and that in addition to the normal male ego he wouldn't have been able to pick up on the usual silent male exchanges of sentiment. He'd have simply thought John really didn't feel anything but annoyance towards him unless he said otherwise.

Sherlock seemed confused by that last bit, but did seem to be considering her words. He looked as though he wanted to say something, ask something, figure things out. But either he was unable to comprehend his own feelings or simply unwilling to convey them. Either way, Mary felt for him. It was a commonly frustrating situation for people with Aspergers, and Sherlock had a heaping dose of extra baggage on top of the usual social difficulties. After a few moments, he turned his head away, giving up with a frustrated look.

A few seconds passed, then Sherlock said, "I have to talk to Small."

The abrupt change in topic thew Mary for a second. She followed Sherlock's eyes to the ambulance where Small was being packed away for a trip to the hospital. "I doubt they'll let you. He did just try to kill you," Mary pointed out cautiously. Deep down, she knew that if Sherlock wanted to do something, he was going to do it anyway. Outright fighting him on it would most likely just be seen as a challenge to surmount. Still, she hoped that maybe in his exhausted, emotionally raw state, he might like to simply go and rest for once. "You solved the case, didn't you? What more do you want to know?"

"The case isn't solved until I understandthe motive," Sherlock grumbled in frustration. Turning to her, he asked, "Did he happen to say anything? About why he was going after you?"

"For the money, naturally," Mary said. But she recalled something else Small had said. Everything had been going by in a bit of a panicked blur as Small held her at gunpoint, but she did recall one thing. "He did say that I deserved to pay for keeping the money from him and his friends. Which of course I thought was odd, because I'd just got the money myself and hadn't known anything about this business until a few days ago."

Sherlock's brow furrowed deeply. He got that look of searching concentration. "You're right, it doesn't make much sense. They went after you specifically because they were monitoring the money transfer," he said with a frown. Unwell as he looked, Mary could see his mind still sparking in an attempt to click back into its natural fantastic cleverness. Sherlock looked frustrated at his own inability to think. He stood up, starting to pace, albeit slowly and looking a lethargic shadow of his normal self. Nearby, the ambulance carrying Jonathan Small started pulling away. Sergeant Miller was headed back in their direction, presumably to debrief them and hopefully let them go without sending Sherlock to the hospital. Mary hoped that Sherlock might break out with one of his sudden, clap-of-thunder revelations soon, but nothing was happening.

Then a woman's voice called out, "Oi! That's Sherlock Holmes! That conman from the Crown Jewels case." Mary and Sherlock both turned sharply in the direction of the crowd of on-lookers where the statement had come from.

"Shit, you're right. Ain't he supposed to be dead?" a young man replied. He whipped out his cell phone and snapped a photo.

It was like the floodgates being thrown open. Suddenly, all of the onlooker were murmuring to one another in disbelief and snapping photos, the flashes from their camera phones causing Sherlock to flinch in his delicate, photophobic state. Mary jumped off the wall and went to Sherlock's side. The detective seemed frozen in his sluggish state. Quietly, she hissed, "We need to get out of here."

After a moment of staring at the crowd in surprise, Sherlock turned down to Mary and came back to his senses. "Yes, you're right," he agreed. Turning, he addressed Sergeant Miller, who was gaping with the same look of surprised realisation as the growing crowd of pedestrians wore. "Yes, I'm Sherlock Holmes, I'm alive, now focus, Sergeant," he growled in annoyance.

"I recognize you now. From the news and the papers. Blimey," Miller said, eyes still wide.

"Yes," Sherlock replied impatiently. "Look, you can ask me all about it later. But right now I've changed my mind about needing medical assistance. I need you to take me to whatever hospital is closest. Most likely the one where they just took Jonathan Small. Please, I'm not feeling well, I need to see a doctor right away."

His dual aims of getting out of here and getting at Small occurred very much to Mary, but she kept a poker face. For his part, Miller seemed too stunned to do anything but nod and put back on a composed police officer's face. "Of course, Mr. Holmes. Follow me." He led Sherlock and Mary to his police car and let them in the back. He kicked the siren's on and pulled away quickly, just barely avoiding being engulfed by the growing crowd of onlookers.

---

When they'd arrived at St. Thomas' hospital only a few blocks from the cinema, Sergeant Miller had insisted on seeing that Sherlock got his paperwork and started the process of checking in. Mary noticed how annoyed this made the consulting detective, how strongly he hinted that the officer needn't stick around, but the poor young Sergeant seemed clueless and insisted on staying to 'look out for' them until a detective arrived. Unfortunately, this only served to make Sherlock more anxious and agitated than he already was. On the ride over in the police cruiser, Sherlock's lethargy and exhaustion had quickly started to transform into visible anxiety and discomfort. Mary wagered that the loud, crowded A/E waiting area wasn't helping much with either his cocaine crash or the itching desire he'd expressed to talk to Jonathan Small. Never mind the fact that he had to be nervous about Miller realising he was on drugs. In fact, as Sherlock filled out the forms, Mary noticed his hands shaking slightly.

Concerned, she stood up and walked a few feet over to where Sergeant Miller was leaning against a post. "Sergeant?" she said, and he turned to look at her, obliging.

"Yes ma'am?" he asked.

Mary wasn't quite sure how 'ma'am' made her feel. She was only 35, but then this Miller seemed to be about 12. Ignoring this, she said sweetly, "I was wondering if it might be possible to get my friend into a room as soon as possible. It's only that he has a condition that makes him terribly anxious in crowds, and I'm afraid with the fright we've all had tonight that it's only worse now." It wasn't entirely a lie. Coming down from cocaine certainly could cause someone to be anxious, particularly if a cop were hovering nearby. And Aspergers could cause people to become sensory overloaded. Mary wasn't sure which one to attribute Sherlock's current state to, but it really didn't matter. "Even if he can't be seen right away," Mary added, quite conciliatory, "it would help him calm down."

"Oh," Miller said, blushing a little in embarrassment at the apparent oversight. "Of course! I'll tell the clerk." He headed over to the desk and started talking to the woman there.

Meanwhile, Mary sat next to Sherlock and said quietly, "Just hang in there a bit longer."

Sherlock gave her a curious look, then glanced over to Miller. Looking back at Mary, he said, "We should try to get near Small's room. Room 2, according to the room chart on the far wall."

Mary turned around to glance at the dry erase board in question, which did indeed state Small's room number and doctor. "Not very big on privacy, are they?" she muttered.

"Holmes," a nurse at the admit desk called out. Sherlock and Mary both stood, he a bit less sturdy on his feet than she. Mary had the natural inclination to put a hand on his back to steady him, but thought better of it. He didn't seem like someone who liked being touched.

They reached the nurse, a young Indian woman with a studious stare and the name 'Singh' on her nametag, who gave Sherlock an up and down glance, seeming to take everything about his condition in but saying nothing. Discretion from someone in this emergency department then, Mary thought. Miller nodded to Mary. "I'll just be out here waiting on the detective inspector, but please let them know if you need me."

"Thank you, Sergeant," Mary said with a smile as the young man went back to leaning against his post and looking like a dog waiting for its owner to come home as he stared at the entrance.

"I can take you back, but just so you know, the doctor will be a while," Nurse Singh said, frankly but not unkindly. She motioned for Sherlock's form, and he handed it over.

"That's perfectly fine," Sherlock said, and Mary knew he wasn't being polite (was he ever?). He genuinely would prefer to have the doctor take ages so he might have a chance to sneak out and get to Small. Though Mary hadn't the slightest clue how he thought he would accomplish this, she'd learned not to underestimate Sherlock Holmes.

Nurse Singh looked to Mary. "I'm afraid only family are allowed back."

"I'm his sister," Mary said immediately, surprised at the ease of the lie. She noticed Sherlock's eyebrows raise almost imperceptibly, as if impressed by her quick thinking. She wasn't sure whether to be proud or worried.

"Very well, this way then," the nurse said, leading them back, down a hall.

"I think, I mean, if it's not too much trouble..." Mary started tactfully. "That my brother would do best in one of the closed off rooms rather than an open curtain area. I mean, if it's possible."

The nurse looked back over her shoulder at Mary, then at Sherlock. "Right," she said slowly, "his 'condition'." The verbal quotation marks were quite evident, and the woman scowled a little as she turned back around, and Mary guessed the emergency nurse could probably spot a high patient from a mile away. For a moment, Mary wasn't sure whether whatever Sergeant Miller had told the admit desk would really be enough for special treatment. Finally, though, Singh huffed, "Fine, I'll see if one's open. Hold on." Mary and Sherlock waited a moment while the nurse checked the rooms, then waved them over and ushered them in.

It was a typical small hospital room with a bed and one chair crammed into the corner. But it also contained a crash cart and a glass-front cabinet that looked to be stocked full of suture kits and various drapes. Looking down at the chart, the nurse said, "So, your main complaint is a headache. The cop said you got in a fight with a kidnapper?" she looked up at Sherlock.

"Yes," he replied.

The nurse gave him a skeptical look, and Mary felt annoyed on his behalf. "A kidnapper who was most likely about to take me off and kill me," Mary added with a pointed look. She could understand the woman's suspicions, as they were based on truth. Objectively, Mary knew it was probably a lot more common for this woman to be dealing with junkies who would lie without thinking about it. And, all right, so Sherlock did seem to have a tendency to withhold the truth sometimes, but still, clearly he wouldn't lie to make himself seem more heroic.

Seeming not to really care one way or another, the nurse shrugged and said, "However it went. You should probably lie down and make yourself comfortable." She seemed unwilling to move until Sherlock did so, so he crawled up on the bed with a scowl. Still, Mary couldn't help agreeing that resting a little would help him. At least it was quieter here. The nurse quickly took Sherlock's blood pressure, pulse, and temperature. "Everything's running a bit fast, isn't it Mr. Holmes?" she said, making a note on the chart. "I'll come back round to check in a while, but do you need anything? Orange juice? Crackers?" she raised one eyebrow suggestively, adding, "Narcan?"

Sherlock flexed his jaw, giving the woman a cold stare. "I'm not on heroin," he replied thinly.

"No, you're right," the nurse said casually, scribbling some more, "Elevated vitals and those tremors, definitely a stimulant. What is it, then: Meth? Ecstasy? Cocaine?"

"None of your business is what it is," Mary cut in, again surprised at herself. Perhaps having had her life saved by Sherlock had made her feel slightly overprotective of the man. But then, it seemed he needed someone to look out for him. Evidently being out on his own for only an hour or so had led him down a bad path.

Nurse Singh turned her cool, detached expression on Mary. "Yeah, I'm only a medical professional and he's only a patient. God forbid I should care about his health." She was right of course, and Mary felt a little bad. Normally she really respected nurses. Singh turned and headed for the door, sighing as she said, "Doctor will be by eventually." She pushed out of the room, leaving Mary and Sherlock alone.

The instant the door closed, Sherlock swung his legs over the side of the bed and jumped back onto the ground. Mary had just been about to sit down herself, but stopped. "Small has to be in one of these rooms," Sherlock said, already heading for the door.

"Wait, don't you think maybe you should rest a few moments?" Mary said, going after him and tugging on his arm.

That certainly got his attention, and he froze, staring at her hand a moment before looking her in the eye. He looked deeply confused and a little suspicious. Mary pulled her hand away. "Why are you suddenly acting concerned about me? Lying and defending me?"

"I'm your friend," Mary stated matter-of-factly. "That's just the sort of thing friends do, Sherlock." He seemed to work very hard at processing and contemplating that, and Mary couldn't help but feel sorry for him a little that this seemed to be such a foreign concept to him.

But before Sherlock was able to formulate a reply, the door opened again. Mary turned, fully expecting to see the nurse again. Her eyes went wide and she inhaled sharply when she saw Inspector Lestrade, and with him, John.

Before anyone could say anything, John had wrapped his arms around her and pulled her into a deep kiss. Mary made a surprised noise that soon turned to a sigh of relief as John ran a hand roughly up the side of her face to pull her even closer. The world seemed to collapse into nothing but her and John and this kiss. She had no idea how much time had elapsed once they pulled apart, gasping for air, but with her newly opened eyes she saw Lestrade standing behind John looking incredibly awkward. She also noticed Sherlock had disappeared from her side, but before she could turn around to see what had become of him, John placed hands on either side of her face and looked at her with the most immense concern and gratitude she could imagine. "Small made me get rid of my phone. Didn't want anyone tracking the GPS or anything," Mary explained, shaking with relief.

"God, I imagined so many horrible things, and then I couldn't even get a hold of you," John breathed. Closing his eyes and leaning his forehead against hers for a few moments. Then, as if making a sudden decision, he pulled back and looked at her a second. Exhaling, he said, "Marry me."

Chapter 18

John stood stock still, all the breath having gone out of his lungs with his words. Mary appeared to be in a similar state, her eyes wide, mouth loose, tendrils of her sandy blonde hair sticking out between his fingers. Someone else might say she looked mildly ridiculous. To him she looked absolutely breathtaking. Literally, his breath was having trouble returning. When he finally managed to inhale and Mary still hadn't said anything, John stammered, "Oh, God, that's not really how I meant to ask." He dropped his hands from her face, feeling suddenly sheepish.

"You..." Mary caught her own breath. "You've been planning then?"

John was confused for a second, then blanched as he replied quickly, "God, yes, of course. I've got the ring and everything. Not on me. It's in a safety deposit box at the bank. But I've been thinking about it a while now." He swallowed, noticing just how flustered he was getting. "But, ah... since apparently now I've asked anyway... do you think you have an answer? Because, if you want some time to thi-"

He was stopped short by Mary kissing him, insistently but briefly. She pulled back and smiled ear to ear. "Yes. Yes, of course I'll marry you." John felt the same ridiculous grin reflected in his own features. He grabbed Mary and hugged her tightly. After a few long, gloriously happy moments, they pulled apart.

"Well," Lestrade said, scratching the back of his neck a bit awkwardly. It was only then that John really remembered there was anyone else in the room, or in the world, besides Mary. The detective inspector smiled and gave John a hearty handshake. "Congratulations, John. Mary." Lestrade let John's hand go and leaned in to give Mary a kiss on the cheek. "Congratulations. It's good to have something really nice in all this ugly business."

A clattering sound of metal hitting the floor made all three of them jump and broke the somewhat misty-eyed mood that had overtaken the room.

They all turned in the direction of the noise, and John saw Sherlock kicking away some forceps that had fallen from a metal tray onto the ground. The tray was wobbling and making sounds like a flimsy cookie sheet being waved around. Sherlock's hand was drawing back from the tray, and John surmised he must have leaned on it without really noticing, which was very unlike him. John also saw that Sherlock's hand was shaking slightly, and that the detective looked jittery.

"Sherlock? Are you all right?" John asked, stepping away from Mary and Lestrade to get a little closer to his friend, who was currently looking back and forth along the tiles on the floor.

"Yes. Fine. Just... aren't you supposed to be enjoying the moment?" Sherlock said, not making eye contact with anyone but looking just off to the side of the group. "What do you want? My congratulations? You have them. Now, I'm just... thinking. They haven't yet managed to make that a crime, have they?" he snapped, and it was clear to John that he wasn't angry so much as nervous. And of course he would be. John realised precisely what was happening. It wasn't as though he had forgotten, or was going to forget any time soon, the way Sherlock had been when he'd shown up at the A&E at King's College.

John felt the afterglow of his joy at Mary agreeing to marry him fading away already. Which was fine, because he really should be concerned about Sherlock's welfare. As he and Lestrade had been driving around like mad, they hadn't only been looking for Mary and her kidnapper. John had been horrified by seeing Sherlock high and seemingly out of control, but having him disappear again had been even worse. It had made John feel stone cold sober in a way he wasn't sure he'd ever felt before. And now that feeling was returning. "I've been worried about you, too." John hesitated, then said slowly, delicately, "After you showed up at my hospital hi-"

"Stop!" Sherlock shouted furiously, his eyes finally locking on John's. The doctor noticed beads of sweat on his friend's forehead, and the still widened pupils and visibly throbbing pulse on the side of his temple. He must have a hell of a headache. John felt another pang of guilt and sympathy, but knew better than to show it outwardly. Sherlock gave a tight, worried glance at Lestrade, before flicking his eyes back to John.

Ah, now John understood the silent meaning. Of course Sherlock was worried about a police inspector walking in on him when he was still under the influence of drugs. Especially when said inspector had given him very strict guidelines for getting back into working with the police. John had sort of forgotten the legal aspect in all of this. He looked to Lestrade, who was eyeing Sherlock with a pained but resigned expression. "It's okay, Sherlock, I already know," Lestrade said in a voice that sounded very much like a long sigh.

Sherlock's head snapped around to look at John. "You told him?" he asked, incredulous and perhaps even hurt, if John was interpreting his friend's tight tone right.

"No," John replied immediately, not wanting his friend to think he'd betray his confidence like that. The last thing Sherlock needed in his present state was things to make him suspicious. Not just because of the drugs, but because of everything he'd said to John before he stormed off and got high. Clearly Sherlock was feeling isolated, and John had to do his damnedest to pull him back in. He continued, honestly, "Mycroft let him know the results of the test, same as me. But all right, yes, I did tell him that you'd shown up high because you ran off before I could come with you and I hadn't a bloody clue where you'd gone or if you were okay. You about gave me a heart attack."

"Oh, don't be dramatic," Sherlock replied, but without his usual fervour. He walked over and sat down on the edge of the hospital bed, leaning his hands onto his thighs and closing his eyes a second. "I don't want to talk about this," Sherlock said weakly, almost as if pleading. The markedly unusual quality of his voice convinced John both to leave off the subject and that as a doctor he really ought to check Sherlock out. And as a friend, he was really starting to worry. There were a lot of things he needed to say to Sherlock, to apologise for, but the man was in no state for a heart to heart. Or heart to harddrive, in Sherlock's case.

John approached his friend slowly. Standing in front of him, but a comfortable metre or so away, he looked at Sherlock and asked quietly, "Crashing?" Sherlock's eyes flicked up, a little surprised at first, until he most likely remembered that John was an emergency doctor. Though he'd never seen Sherlock this way, he'd seen countless other people like this. Sherlock looked almost ashamed for a moment before dropping his eyes and nodding. "Do you want them to step out?" John asked tentatively, indicating Mary and Lestrade.

"Nothing he hasn't seen before," Sherlock replied. "And Mary already knows."

"Anything I can get you...?" Lestrade asked from the other side of the room.

Sherlock gave him a sardonic look. "What, such as handcuffs? Chemical restraints?" he asked, only seeming to be half joking. It made John wonder exactly how out of control Sherlock had been the last time before rehab. John hoped to God he'd never have to find out first hand.

"Can I check your vitals?" John asked.

"The nurse did that. Elevated, but within normal range," Sherlock said in a clipped tone that some might read as impolite but John had come to realise was simply him spitting out the facts quickly.

Trying to remain as professionally detached as he normally would be, John cleared his throat a little and asked, "Is the injection site okay?"

"Yes, I know what I'm doing," Sherlock replied, and for once he didn't sound proud of his knowledge.

"Okay," John assented. "Look up a second." Sherlock did as requested, and John held up a finger for him to follow. The detective didn't even need to be told to. Clearly an old pro. John tried not to bite his lip at the pangs of empathy he was feeling. Sherlock would notice and it would only make this worse. "Is there anything that helps you normally?" John asked, hating that there was a normal to this. But his doctor side helped him stay focused. "Uh, Wellbutrin maybe?" he asked, suggesting one of the drugs he often used to help curb the awful effects of the crash. Cocaine was a curious and nefarious drug, causing very few physical side effects upon crash or withdrawal, but instead bringing on perhaps the worst mental distress of any drug. Particularly when taken intravenously.

Sherlock was getting restless just sitting there, John could tell. He was often restless when on a case, but this was a restlessness making him edgy instead of thrilled. Though John was surprised to find him not being a difficult patient, really. Perhaps his defences were too low for that. Cocaine could certainly make a person much more emotional than usual. "No. I don't know... I - I sometimes take a valium," Sherlock said.

John nodded, reaching into an inner pocket of his jacket to pull out his prescription pad. "Okay. I can write and fill a prescription for you... how many do you take?" He tried to phrase that as delicately as possible. The last thing he wanted to be was accusing.

Sherlock rubbed one eye with a tremulous hand. "Just a normal dose. I don't... use them. Overuse them, I mean." Sherlock looked at John, almost as if to judge whether his friend believed him. But John did. Valium was certainly a drug some people used recreationally, but John stood by his very first assessment of Sherlock and drugs: this was not a man who would have 'recreational' drugs around. The drugs were clearly very real, but they weren't something Sherlock did for fun. The consulting detective continued after several moments, "I was given an actual prescription once upon a time. Didn't actually fill it."

John was terribly curious about that statement and the small but rare insight into Sherlock's past. It just now occurred to John to wonder whether Sherlock had ever seen a psychiatrist. Then it occurred to John to pity this theoretical person immensely. Sherlock was no easy case. John doubted he'd have gone to such a session solely of his own free will... but he really needed to stop thinking about these things right now. He was never going to learn anything from Sherlock by prying anyhow.

Taking a pen out of his pocket, John scribbled out the prescription. "All right, now I should be able to find this hospital's pharmacy and get this filled." He turned to Mary and Lestrade. "If you all don't mind waiting with him here."

"No, not right now," Sherlock interjected. "I'm fine, I just got a little dizzy and had to sit down for a moment. Please, can we get on with the work?"

John's first inclination was to say no, but then he thought better of it. The cases he'd handled with John seemed to have at least in part been responsible for keeping Sherlock off the cocaine. The man's obsessive eye had to be fixed on something. Apprehending murderers was infinitely better than the alternative. "Yeah, maybe we should all get on the same page."

Lestrade finally relaxed from his awkward position in the corner of the room with Mary. They both stepped a little closer to John and Sherlock, forming a sort of loose circle. Mary slipped her hand subtly into John's, and he couldn't help giving her a quick, small smile, which she returned and squeezed his hand. His expression apologised for having to deal with all of this instead of celebrating their engagement. Her expression said she understood. Beside him, Sherlock stood up, folding his arms across his chest, breathing deeply and slowly. "John's filled me in on a lot," Lestrade began tersely. "Like about how you went to Ted Sholto to set him up as bait for Small and Giroux."

Sherlock shot John a tight look. "I thought we'd agreed there was no reason for him to know that." John completely understood Sherlock's fear, and it had been his own as well. When he'd revealed this to Lestrade, he'd asked if the inspector were going to stop working with Sherlock because of it. But Lestrade had only given him a noncommittal response, saying he was too pissed off and focused on finding Mary to make a decision right now. John understood that.

"Look, I wasn't trying to get you in trouble," John replied calmly. He tried to do this as delicately as possible, hoping being straight with Sherlock would be appreciated. "But you ran out of my hospital telling me you were going to find Mary, who'd been kidnapped. You didn't wait for me. You didn't say where you were going. All I could do was call Lestrade and tell him everything I knew that might help us find both you and Mary." Truthfully, John had known at that point that Sherlock had a much better chance of finding her than they did. But in the drugged up state he'd been in, John had been terrified he'd get himself killed in the process.

"We'll talk about it later," Lestrade said, giving Sherlock a pointed look. The two detectives stared each other down for a minute. But John noticed Lestrade's earlier anger seemed to have diminished significantly in the wake of actually seeing Sherlock in his current state. The police inspector was the first of the two men to look away, breaking the tension. "How did you find Mary anyway? We only knew you two were here because we heard it over the radio while we were out just driving around the area looking for signs of you or Mary. We didn't even know where to begin, to be honest."

"Shocking," Sherlock commented with an eye roll. John felt oddly comforted by the familiar attitude.

Lestrade ground his teeth, but managed to show a professional restraint few could muster with Sherlock. "I'm guessing," he said, not rising to Sherlock's bait, "You had a little chat with Alain Giroux?"

Sherlock raised one eyebrow. "Good work. And how did you realise this?"

"Well, it might have had something to do with someone finding Giroux tied up behind one of the hospital buildings with his bones sticking out of his leg," Lestrade said, admirably matching Sherlock's sarcasm. "Only needed one guess as to whose work that was."

"He fell!" Sherlock objected, evidently affronted at the accusation.

"Oh yeah? Did he also burn his own rope and tie his own hands behind his back?" Lestrade asked, his voice raising slightly, a touch of anger evident. John couldn't entirely blame him; Giroux had been a somewhat grisly sight. John had jumped at the chance to treat the man the second someone had wheeled him in and John had recognised him from the photo Sherlock and Mary had found. He'd hoped to get information out of him, but the man had a concussion, evidently from having the back of his head slammed into the ground. John had also noticed slight ligature marks around his neck, clearly from the same rope his wrists were bound with. He hadn't mentioned all of that to Lestrade, who had just arrived at the hospital as John was treating Giroux. Of course they'd realised this was Sherlock's handiwork. But John couldn't help not really caring that Sherlock had roughed up the scum who'd helped kidnap Mary and who'd blown a hole in Bart Sholto's head.

The two detectives were once again staring each other down, both with arms crossed and expressions tight. John was trying to think of the best way to keep them from trouncing each other when, to his surprise, Mary spoke up. "Perhaps we could set the testosterone competition aside for a moment and refocus?" Both Lestrade and Sherlock looked at her, the former duly chagrined and the latter mostly just annoyed. For his part, John couldn't help giving her a proud smirk. When it became evident the detectives were actually going to keep quiet a moment, Mary cleared her throat, then continued, "I'm assuming, Sherlock, that you must have put this whole thing together in your head to have been able to find Small and Giroux."

"I believe I've put together most of the salient points," Sherlock replied.

"Well, I know that I should know a lot of it by now, and I'm sure I do. But you'll have to forgive me if I'm just a little bit flustered at the moment and not quite able to get it all straight in my head," Mary said, and Sherlock gave her a 'get on with it' look. "Most of all what I want to understand is... exactly why my father was murdered." The waver in his voice was subtle, but John was keenly tuned to all her subtleties. He moved his hand from within her own to around her back, gently pulling her close to him. She leaned in a little.

Sherlock was studying her, and John was suddenly afraid his friend was going to use his famously awful way with women and offend Mary. But to his great surprise, something shifted in the detective's demeanour. If he didn't know better, John would almost say Sherlock's expression and tone softened when he replied, "I suppose it couldn't hurt." John's eyebrows rose at that, and Sherlock shot him a warning glance, almost as if to say 'if you tell anyone I was kind to your fiancée I will kill you, John Watson'. John cleared his throat and composed his face back into a passive expression, though on the inside he was chuckling.

Breaking away from the circle and starting to slowly pace away, Sherlock began, "When your father and his friend Major Sholto met on the UN Peacekeeping mission in Cambodia, I'd be willing to bet it was through a shared love of cards. Your father's journal mentions many trips to the little outdoor pub on the outskirts of Phnom Penh, to say nothing of its avian life." Sherlock turned back in the direction of the others, still walking slowly as he continued. "Most of what Alain Giroux claimed in the editorial piece in Cambodge Soir that no one believed was in fact true. He and his three friends, all of them UN troops of no significant rank, would have also been regulars at this pub. But your father never mentions them in his journal, so he and Sholto most likely didn't know them personally, but as fairly high ranking officers and regulars in the same pub, these four men would have known them. So when these four stumbled upon something valuable on that land, they knew they couldn't manage it all themselves. Even though they had a Cambodian citizen among them who could legally purchase land, they wouldn't have had nearly enough money for it."

"So they enlisted Mary's father and Timothy Sholto as what, business partners?" John asked. He had a fairly good image of how this must have occurred himself, but everything going on in the past two days had made it difficult to see it all clearly.

Sherlock smirked. "Well, they intended to be. In one way or another, they showed Sholto and Morstan where it was, or how to get there and survey it for themselves, at any rate. That was most likely the 2nd of September. Which would mean they did indeed give it a look on the 3rd before meeting back up again. The morning of the 4th is when your father was found dead. Murdered, we now know."

"Yes," Mary said, "but why? Was Major Sholto really so greedy that he felt the need to kill my father, his friend, and send four more men to a horrible prison for twenty years over some rubies?"

"No, not over rubies," Sherlock replied, shaking his head.

Lestrade's brow furrowed. "I thought you said the four of diamonds left at the crime scene was a sort of calling card. That they really meant the rubies they'd been robbed of. And that's what Giroux took from the attic."

"Oh, I have no doubt these four men believed it was the rubies. They still seem to. But that wasn't what compelled Sholto to cover his tracks so well and buy the land on his own," Sherlock stated. "I'm willing to bet Major Sholto already had a reputation for being lax with regulations, perhaps even taking bribes. Most likely that's why they chose him, with Mary's father only coming along because he and Sholto appear to have been inseparable. But these conspirators were quite unfortunate to choose Sholto, who worked largely in drug enforcement, though evidently light on the 'enforcement' aspect. At any rate, the potentialhe saw in the land was quite different than simply the mining opportunity."

"What do you mean?" Mary asked. "What did he see?"

Sherlock stopped pacing and looked at the three of them with a self-satisfied expression. John couldn't help but be happy this brain work seemed to be helping Sherlock deal with his crash. He sounded perfectly his proud self as he declared, "Ephedra. Massive natural fields of it and most likely space for more."

John straightened at the mention of the herb. "Ephedra? As in the stuff that Timothy Sholto put in her father's tobacco to kill him?"

Sherlock nodded, then said, "And as in the source of a key ingredient in the production of methamphetamine."

"Well, that certainly explains where all the Sholto family money came from," Lestrade muttered. To John and Mary he added by way of explanation, "Meth, or even just concentrated ephedra being sold to other cooks, would be much more lucrative than rubies, believe it or not."

"Indeed," Sherlock affirmed, then he looked at Mary. "He had to have shared his plan with your father. And his refusal to go along with it - or more likely his insistence on reporting this to their superiors - had to be the reason Timothy Sholto killed him. With the ephedra he had on hand. He mixed some in with his tobacco and graciously shared it. Probably even told Morstan that he was right, all the while waiting for the poor man to die."

Mary tensed under John's arm, and he glanced over to see her shutting her eyes tightly. He leaned in and placed a long, gentle kiss on her forehead. She gave him a brief side hug, then opened her now red eyes, glimmering with unshed tears. "I'm so sorry," John murmured, a bit worried that Sherlock's straightforward retelling of this painful event had only made things worse.

Sniffing and pulling out of his grasp so she could wipe at her eyes, Mary said, "No, it's fine. I asked because I wanted to know whether my father was the man I always thought. Now I know he was." She exhaled shakily. "If I'd known this, I'd have never accepted the money from Ted Sholto in the first place."

"Yes," Sherlock started, a little hesitant. "So I wagered. I'm afraid I knew the money would have to be confiscated by the government eventually, but didn't want to say anything out of a desire to let the trap play out as naturally as possible."

"It's fine," Mary said, giving Sherlock a smile. Frankly, it was more than fine with John. Maybe he was mad to think so, but he'd been uncomfortable with the idea of her becoming an overnight millionaire in the first place. At least this way she knew all of his reasons for asking her to marry him were honest.

The tense moment had passed, and Lestrade shifted and cleared his throat awkwardly, clearly wanting to steer things back on course. Once he had everyone's attention, he ventured, "So then Timothy Sholto framed these guys, and twenty years later they got out and came for revenge. Small got his chance to give the bastard a horrifying death via a paralytic, so John informed me."

"They did want revenge, but there was clearly an element of profit to it. My research showed they got out of prison six months ago. Clearly they bided their time until Sholto was about to die and give his company over to his sons. Small helped him along in that. Whatever leak they had in the government or within the organization of Vibol Sang, Ted Sholto's buyer, they must have realised it was best to wait for the sale to go through. Obviously we know there was a miscommunication in there somewhere, leading to quite literally pulling the trigger too early. Still," Sherlock mused, pacing around again now, "in the end they nearly succeeded in getting the money they were after."

"Well, two of them did," John pointed out. "But what about the other fellows..." he racked his brain to remember the names Sherlock had given him, then ventured, "Murad Shah and Vithu Pheng?" Sherlock nodded in affirmation. "They couldn't get into the country so they, what, got screwed over a second time?"

To his surprise, Mary straightened and replied, "No. No, they didn't." Everyone stopped to look at her curiously. "When Small had me transferring the money from the account Ted gave me, he had me sending it to four separate accounts. His and Giroux's in Switzerland, but also one was in India and another in Cambodia."

Sherlock stopped pacing and looked genuinely surprised at this revelation. "Well. Evidently these four thugs stick by their word much better than Timothy Sholto ever did."

"Honour among thieves," Lestrade said, sounding just as surprised. "Unfortunately all it will do is enable us to track down their friends and see if we can't get their governments to cooperate in their arrests. I'm sure Cambodia will love hearing about this meth operation as well... Small's really done them all over with his friendship, hasn't he?"

"Yes, Small," Sherlock replied, his brow furrowing. "I still need to talk to him. There are a few things that don't quite add up." He certainly looked out of sorts, and not just due to his physical state. John knew the exact way Sherlock behaved when he couldn't quite grasp some clue or conclusion. It drove him insane even without the drugs.

But, as John expected, Lestrade was having none of that. "No way," the inspector said shortly. "I've let you get away with far more than you ought to have. Some of which I understand given your... well, emotional state." Lestrade danced around that one. "But all that aside, the man just tried to kill you. We'll be prosecuting him for attempted murder and kidnapping. I've gone through a lot of work trying to make sure cases of mine don't get overturned. The last thing I need is to further interfere with one of Donovan's. She'd probably have both our heads if you hadn't brought the killers in for her."

"That's never stopped her swinging for my head before," Sherlock replied. But he seemed to grant Lestrade the larger point, which only made John suspicious. "Still, I wish I could at least ask him a few nagging questions."

"Such as?" John asked, curious. To him, everything seemed to be wrapped up quite logically.

"The original four of diamonds card, for one thing. The one missing from Morstan's card deck. There was no such card left at the scene of Major Sholto's murder, but part of me wonders if it's something they tookfrom the scene instead. Perhaps something he carried with him for one reason or another."

"His own sort of trophy?" Lestrade asked grimly.

Sherlock pursed his lips, not looking entirely satisfied with that explanation. "Perhaps, but I'm not certain. There's something more troubling, though. Something I haven't been able to come to terms with, even when I urged Ted Sholto to push the sale through."

"What?" Mary asked, now much more composed and with a clear voice again.

"Ten million pounds," Sherlock replied, shaking his head and staring off into space the way he often did when trying to think about something. "It doesn't add up, quite literally. That's the price someone might pay for the mine. But their ephedra and potential meth production netted them a lot more money than that. Why would the Sholto brothers be willing to give it up for so little?"

Lestrade looked contemplative for a moment. "Maybe they couldn't. Selling a drug operation isn't like selling a house. The buyer would be taking a huge risk. Ten million might've been all they could get."

"It was certainly a lot more money than Small expected," Mary mused.

Sherlock's head snapped around to face her. "What did you say?" he asked sharply, then took a step towards her, locking on.

If she was intimidated by Sherlock's intensity, as many were, she didn't show it. "Well, when it showed my account as having £3.3 million, Small nearly fell off the bench. Said it was only supposed to be a million total and where did I get that money, how long had I been profiting from Major Sholto scamming them. Of course I told them I'd never made any money off this before and didn't know what he meant."

Now Sherlock's eyes had gone wide and his jaw slack in an expression John knew only too well - epiphany. The detective took a step backwards, running a hand through his hair and turning around as he exhaled, "No! No, no, no. Idiot! How could I have been so blind?" He smacked himself in the side of the head, which alarmed John enough to make him drop Mary's hand and take a step towards his friend.

"What is it?" John asked carefully. When the consulting detective only bared his teeth in frustration and sucked in an angry breath, John grew even more concerned. The last thing they needed was for Sherlock to tax his stressed body further by having another meltdown. After a few moments, John asked more insistently, "Sherlock?"

His friend wheeled around, setting his face into a stony, angry arrangement. At first John feared he might have somehow set off an issue from their still not really resolved earlier fight. To his relief, Sherlock said, "There was no leak. Vibol Sang, his organization, the government, none of them told the Four that the Sholto brothers were selling them the land for £10 million. Obviously, or else why would Small have said £1 million? That's what someone told them because they were idiots, men who'd been in prison in Cambodia for the last twenty years and would have no concept of how much money the Sholto family actually had. Especially since they don't seem to have been aware of their drug business."

"Someone," Lestrade said, pausing. Then Lestrade's eyes widened in realisation. "You mean Ted Sholto."

Sherlock snarled. "Of course it was Ted Sholto. Who else would it have been? He was the one attempting to set up the £10 million deal with Vibol Sang. But God, how could I have been so easily taken in?" he hissed, breathing heavily and the colour in his cheeks rising. John swallowed, still a bit worried about Sherlock getting too worked up but completely bowled over himself at the same time. Sherlock continued, "That money couldn't have been to sell the business outright. More likely, Sang was buying the land to enter a business partnership. He's the Cambodian citizen on the ground, and now Ted wanted to take the place of his father, running everything from London and reaping the rewards. I'd bet anything that was the arrangement, and that Bart wasn't going for it. But he owned the company. Ted wouldn't inherit it unless his brother was dead." Sherlock swallowed hard, almost as if keeping himself from being sick.

"Oh my God," John said quietly, all the air having been sucked from his lungs. Indeed, it was almost as if the entire room had become a vacuum, because everyone was utterly breathless and silent. "But then... if there's no leak, how did Small and Giroux know Mary had been given her share or where to find her?"

"Because Ted Sholto told them," Sherlock said, his voice taut with anger. "Just like he most likely told them he really wanted to give them their due money, but his brother Bart was holding out on them and needed to be got rid of. No, and the timing couldn't be coincidence. He could have easily got his brother's email password. He must have known Mary was coming to see Bart. That Bart might even tell her some of the actual truth. Whatever it was, he ordered Jonathan Small to kill his brother. They clearly thought they were all on the same team. Meanwhile Ted was paying them a tiny fraction of what he would actually get and using them to his own ends."

"Why give me any of the money at all? Why draw me into this?" Mary asked.

John was able to answer that one. Grimly, trying not to look at Sherlock lest he think John was accusing him, John said, "Well, it certainly worked to take suspicion off him, didn't it?"

Sherlock looked positively ill as he leaned against the wall, facing away from everyone else as he said tightly and quietly, "I let myself be fooled by him. I wrote him off as a pathetic drug addict, someone who wouldn't have possibly been clever enough to put this together, instead of seeing the kind of scum he really is." Sherlock turned around, though still looking off to the side rather than at any of them. From this angle, John thought he could see the vein in the side of Sherlock's neck throbbing with his evident fury. "Ted was the outcast, the older brother who'd got himself kicked out of the company by using the product. He's a meth addict," Sherlock said, halting. "But I... didn't think he could or would have his own brother killed over this. Not just his brother. Bart was his friend who'd been supporting him in spite of his problem..."

A deathly quiet fell over the room. Sherlock looked at the ground, and everyone else attempted to look anywhere but at Sherlock. John closed his eyes, swallowing against the rising bile. He tried not to picture Sherlock as he'd been back at King's College: out of control, aggressive, manic. But for all of those things, Sherlock would never do something like Ted Sholto had. Which is exactly what Bart Sholto thought. The thought had come to him unbidden, and John squashed it violently. No. It's not the same, and don't you dare ever say anything like that out loud.

John opened his eyes to see Sherlock approach Lestrade. "I have to talk to Jonathan Small."

"Sherlock, I can't," Lestrade replied, sounding regretful.

"He has to know something about where Ted Sholto went. It's the only way," Sherlock insisted.

"Honestly, I know what you mean and I would if I could, but I'm not even supposed to be interviewing suspects in this case, let alone allowing you to," Lestrade pointed out emphatically.

Sherlock inhaled deeply then let the breath out as if coming to a decision. "Fine. You don't have to take me in with you. I trust you to talk to him on your own."

"Oh, glad to hear I've got your seal of approval then," Lestrade quipped.

"You should be. It's not given out lightly," Sherlock replied. Then, waving a hand, he continued, "Never mind that. Just please go and ask Small about Ted. I'll stay outside the room, out of sight. I won't leave. You can even let John and Mary babysit me if you like. All I want to do is make sure this man who orchestrated the deaths of his father and brother doesn't make it to France and off to Cambodia for a life of wealth and pleasure," Sherlock said, looking Lestrade in the eye, clearly dead serious.

Finally, Lestrade closed his eyes and sighed. "Fine, I understand what you mean. And I know he also tried to have Mary killed. And nearly killed you. Just... come with me to his room but like you said, stay outside and don't move."

"I understand," Sherlock said, shocking John further when he added after a second, "Thank you."

"All right, stop it. You're getting weird," Lestrade muttered as he led the way out of the room. John followed, in step with Mary behind Sherlock. Lestrade rounded a corner, saying over his shoulder, "Small's room is just over here."

But the second they cleared the corner, everyone froze.

Chapter 19

Notes:

This chapter's short but potent, so I didn't want to just throw it in with another section. I should be able to post the next chapter tomorrow or Tuesday.

"You've got to be fucking kidding me," Sally Donovan said, standing outside what was evidently Small's room. They were too late, John realised. Just seeing the woman made him apprehensive enough, but in the context of their current predicament and the time crunch they were under, it made his muscles tense. In front of him, Sherlock's back had straightened. John and Mary naturally moved to stand beside their friend, a few feet back still from Lestrade. Whom John desperately hoped was somehow enough of a smooth talker to get them through this one.

Lestrade took a deep breath before saying evenly, professionally. "Sally- Inspector Donovan." Wow, John thought. Wonder how difficult that was to get out.Lestrade continued, "I need to talk to Jonathan Small, just for a moment. It's urgent. He might be the only person with information on-"

"Shut up," Donovan said sharply, loudly. Her eyes were cold as she stared down her former boss. "This is my case, Greg. One I don't have to report to you about, thank God. And yet somehow he's still here." Her stony stare flicked to Sherlock before returning to Lestrade. "It was bad enough having him at my crime scene or hearing his name come up over the radio as having been involved in a shootout with my suspect."

"He was saving a woman's life!" Lestrade retorted, utterly incredulous.

Donovan continued as if he hadn't said anything, except that her voice got a little louder. "But now you're actually here with him wanting to ask that suspect questions that no doubt come straight from your pet." She gave Sherlock a closer look. Her jaw went slack as she asked, "Christ, Greg, is hehigh?"

"No," Greg snapped defensively. Technically that was true. The actual high from the cocaine only lasted about half an hour and had long since worn off by now. John noticed Sherlock's jaw muscles clenching as the man somehow managed to hold off saying anything. He must really be on his best behaviour. Or, judging by his still shaky stance and the beads of sweat on his forehead, still weakened and fighting against the after effects of the drug. Lestrade also remained calm somehow as he said, "I just need to know if he's said anything at all about Ted Sholto."

Evidently very slightly glad to not be shouted at, Donovan folded her arms and replied, "He hasn't said anything about anything. Asked for a lawyer straight away. I already have everything I need on him anyway."

Sherlock scoffed at this and started to speak, but John grabbed his friend's right arm and dug his fingers sharply in. Even through his trademark long, heavy coat, Sherlock flinched and drew his arm back sharply, giving John an annoyed look. It gave Lestrade enough time to ask, "Did you find any phone numbers on him, addresses, anything?"

Still cautiously defensive, Sally replied, "Just the rubies his partner stole from Bart Sholto's attic. So I think I've got this case well in hand without your help." She turned as if to go back into Small's room, but Lestrade cut her off, stepping halfway between her and the door.

"That's just it. I don't think you have," Lestrade said, and Donovan's thin layer of professionalism dissolved back into cold anger. Lestrade kept on the war path. "These men, Small and Giroux, they're not the ones pulling the strings. Sherlock thinks Ted Sho-"

Donovan's sharp, derisive laugh cut him off. "Oh, well of course if the Freak thinks something it must be true." She looked utterly disgusted as she shook her head at Lestrade and said, "God, he's really got your lips wrapped around his dick, hasn't he?"

John could only blink in disbelief that she'd actually just said that. Beside him, Mary inhaled in shock. To his other side, John saw Sherlock glowering even more deeply at Donovan, if such a thing were possible. Lestrade, however, remained dangerously still and terrifyingly calm as he said in a quiet, thin tone, "You're lucky I haven't yet reported you for physically assaulting and sexually harassing him when he was in your custody. You'd be wise to not add to the official complaint I'm very much thinking of filing."

"Oh, be my guest," Sally shot back, unfazed and almost even taunting. "You were just starting to gain an ounce of respect back after using that lunatic on all your cases. Is this really how you want your career to end, Greg?" Sally unfolded her arms and gave Lestrade a disbelieving shake of her head. "What is it going to take for you to understand that he's not the guy you get advice from? He's a sociopathic creep who gets off looking at murder scenes, not to mention a junkie scumbag to boot. You're a cop, Greg: he's the guy you lock up and hope he never gets out to put anyone else in danger. You don't constantly get the Freak out of trouble and let him carry on waltzing into our crime scenes and openly insulting us."

Without warning, Mary practically leapt forward to just a foot from Donovan. "Listen, you vindictive bitch." she started, causing all three men to give her unabashedly surprised looks. If she realised how uncharacteristically vicious she was being, she didn't show it. She was still fuming as she continued, "Have you ever considered that maybe if you didn't treat him like shit he might not be so horrid to you? He isn't to Inspector Lestrade."

Even Donovan looked surprised at seeing such a vehement defence of Sherlock coming from the composed, blonde children's psychologist. She seemed to re-evaluate Mary a moment before responding, just slightly conciliatory, "I'm sure you're feeling indebted to him because you think he saved your life. That is if he's not behind this one, too." John rolled his eyes. How on earth could Donovan still believe that bullshit? It didn't hold up to any kind of logical test, and yet she continued to think Sherlock was not only a fraud but the greatest mastermind of a fraud of all time. Basically, John had realised, she had him confused with Moriarty, which is exactly what that maniac wanted. "But let me tell you who your friend really is and the kind of thing you can expect to have happen to you if he hangs around you long enough."

Lestrade swallowed and hedged a little, asking nervously, "Sally, is this really necessary?"

"Only telling the truth, Greg," she countered. When Lestrade said nothing, John realised that it was possible some of the complaints Donovan had against Sherlock were actually valid. He glanced up at Sherlock and only saw that the detective's pale grey eyes were narrowed in concern and perhaps a little fear at what Donovan was about to say. Mary was the only one remaining stoic as Donovan started her story. "I should've made detective about three and a half years ago. I was considered a bit of a prodigy, even. I figured out this big break in a double homicide, followed up the leads myself when no one else thought they'd go anywhere." John had a hard time actually imagining Donovan doing her job well, but then he supposed he had always seen things slightly through the light of Sherlock's understandable distaste for the woman. John noticed the remaining colour draining from Sherlock's face as he must have realised the incident Sally was talking about. That alone was enough to make John's stomach turn in anxiety.

But the sickened look on Lestrade's face only made him doubly sure this wasn't a story he'd like to hear. And yet John was ashamed to find another part of himself deeply curious about the source of Donovan's extreme hatred of Sherlock. "Stop it," Lestrade said quietly, halfway between a plea and a command.

Sally eyed him unblinkingly. "Stop telling something you and the Freak know is true? Or do you want to deny it?" Sally challenged, her eyes flicking from Lestrade to Sherlock. Neither said anything. Seeing she very much had everyone's attention, Donovan continued. "So finally we track the killer to this drug house down in Brixton, catch him, have all the evidence we needed to convict him. Everything else to then had been circumstantial. But I had it. I had everything I needed to put this low life away. And what does Inspector Lestrade do?" she gave Lestrade an icy glance. "He calls in the Freak to check out the scene. Even though I'd already made my case with what we'd found. And not ten minutes after he got there, I go into the bathroom to search for anything else that might be useful," she paused a moment, looking directly at Sherlock now, pinning him down with an accusing stare as she said, "and find the Freak mainlining coke he's stolen out of my evidence bags."

Oh God, John thought miserably. Because there wasn't any way he could possibly see that as anything but an utterly debased and pathetic action. And Donovan knew it. Going by the shockingly pained look on Sherlock's face, and his utter lack of response, Sherlock knew it, too. Sally returned her eyes to Mary, who was now as shaken and shushed as John. "The entire chain of evidence was broken, my case didn't even go to trial, and a murderer walked free because Sherlock Holmes couldn't wait fifteen minutes to get home and shoot his own bloody poison into his arm. I should have been able to lock him away for years on that. But no, Lestrade and his brother got him into rehab instead. Now tell me, Miss Morstan," Sally finished quietly, challengingly, "does Sherlock Holmes sound like the sort of person you really want to associate with?"

Lestrade looked at the ground, eyes closed. Mary seemed on the verge of crying, which was enough to make John want to hit Donovan, to actually hit a woman. But if it hadn't been, the look on Sherlock's face would have pushed him over the edge into imagining his fist connecting with Donovan's face anyway. It wasn't that Sherlock was enraged or indignant. If he'd been denying Donovan's version of events, or even her cutting conclusion, that would have been one thing. Instead John saw something much worse there: it was almost as if Sherlock agreed with her assessment of him. And John was once again confronted with the question of just what Sherlock's life had been like, particularly this past evidently hellish year. Sherlock without an ounce of pride on his face was a sight that made John feel sick simply because he realised how close to home the story must have hit to make Sherlock react this way. John was trying to think of something to say that wouldn't sound like a pointless platitude or a tellingly snappish response to Donovan when suddenly a bright flash of light turned them all around.

"My God, it's really true," the man with the camera said. In what felt like an instant, perhaps a dozen paparazzi and reporters appeared next to the man, and John realised they were coming from the direction of the waiting room. Bright flashes of light went off one after the other, taking John back to a situation he hadn't been confronted with in a very long time. It was longer still for Sherlock, not to mention his psychologically and physically fragile state. He held up a hand, blinking in shock against the lights and the sudden volley of questions. "Sherlock, how'd you do it?" "Where have you been?" "Did you really kidnap those kids?" and a dozen others in less than 20 seconds.

"Christ," Lestrade said, leaving Donovan's side finally and physically shoving Sherlock back up the hallway. "We have to get out of here," he said to John, and the doctor couldn't agree more as he placed himself between Sherlock and the throng of reporters following after them.

"What about Small and finding out where Sholto is?" Mary asked, walking briskly beside John and clearly completely unused to the press and just how overwhelming they could get on your best days, let alone on a day you'd relapsed into drug use.

To John's surprise, it was Sherlock who responded, his voice a little uneven but his words still sure, "We don't need Small anymore. I know where we have to go. Just... yes, let's get out of here," he finished a little numbly.

Lestrade led them out a back entrance, and started almost jogging across the car park to his unmarked vehicle. John wasted no time in hopping in back with Mary while Sherlock jumped in the passenger's seat and Lestrade got behind the wheel, turning the car on and pulling out before the reporters really had time to get outside and hound them with any more questions. They drove for a few blocks, everyone breathing a little fast. John eyed Sherlock, who was gazing silently out the window. Lestrade stole a glance at the younger man as well. "Where should I be headed?" the inspector prompted.

It took Sherlock a second to turn away from the window and respond, "Bankside Pier."

"What's at the Bankside Pier?" Lestrade asked.

Blinking a few times before really seeming to boot his brain back up, Sherlock replied, "With a great deal of luck, a small speed tour boat called The Arrow. But it's more than likely gone now."

"Hang on," John said, sitting forward in his seat. "I thought you said that was the boat Small and Giroux bought. The one the homeless network told you about."

"They may have been the ones to physically hand over the money and dock it there," Sherlock said, "but they didn't buy it. The only way they could have afforded it would have been to sell the rubies they stole from Bart Sholto's attic, and as Donovan said, he Small still had those on him." He clamped his jaw shut and looked back out the window. "They must have paid for it on Ted's behalf. In any case, he'll know where it's been docked and has now had several hours since I last saw the boat there in which he could have escaped on it."

"How fast do these boats go?" Lestrade asked.

"It's a rigid hulled inflatable boat, it's designed to hydroplane. As much as fifty miles an hour," Sherlock informed him tersely.

"Shit," Lestrade said. The implication didn't need to be made more clear. The distance from the Bankside Pier out to the sea was only about 50 miles, even with all the bends. He'd undoubtedly have to slow down at some point, and the Channel was obviously more difficult to cross, but it wasn't inconceivable that he'd be able to do it in that boat, and in only a few hours. He already had who knew how much of a head start.

In a matter of minutes, Lestrade pulled the car up to the road running alongside the pier. As soon as they all got out, it was clear that there were no boats docked there. John's heart sped up. He turned to Sherlock. "You're sure it was here?"

"Yes, of course," Sherlock replied tersely, staring angrily out at the murky water of the Thames and the lights reflecting off nearby buildings. Mary came to stand beside John, looking at Sherlock then up at her fiancé, giving him a concerned look. John could do nothing but shake his head.

"Right," Lestrade said, pulling out his mobile and hitting speed dial. It rang a few times before someone appeared to pick up. "Marjorie, it's Greg Lestrade. I need you to issue an All Ports Warning right now. Theodore Timothy Sholto, aka Ted. Male, approximately 40 years old, tall, very thin, brown hair. Scottish. He may be armed and is definitely dangerous. He's in a Thames River Cruise RIB boat called The Arrow, most likely headed East towards the Thames Mouth and maybe the North Sea, though he could switch vessels. Now can you transfer me to Phil, please." Lestrade drummed his fingers on the hood of his car as he waited to be transferred. John and Mary both watched him anxiously, but Sherlock was still gazing out at the river as if willing the boat to come back. Finally, Lestrade spoke into the phone again. "Phil, yeah, it's Greg. I'm at the Bankside Pier just next to the Globe and we have a situation. We're going to need the Marine Policing Unit." He glanced over at Sherlock, then back at John as he added, "And get me a helicopter."

Chapter 20

Five minutes later, a police helicopter landed on the water next to the pier, the wind from its rotors blowing Sherlock's long coat out behind him as he started walking towards it. He'd been pacing around impatiently as John and Mary leaned against Lestrade's car and the inspector rang several different agencies directly. Sherlock was only too happy to get a move on, and he'd made it halfway down the pier before Lestrade called from the shore, "Oi, Sherlock! Where are you going?"

Sherlock turned around, rolling his eyes in annoyance. "Well I'm not going for a swim."

"That's a police helicopter," Lestrade said, stepping down onto the pier. John and Mary followed, looking at the scene uncertainly. "It's not a car you've hired."

"Yes, and I hardly expect to be dropped off in Baker Street," Sherlock countered. "But seeing as I'm the one who solved this case in its entirety, including figuring out how Sholto would be escaping, I think that warrants a ride along, don't you?"

Lestrade looked chagrined, and that made Sherlock feel good. The police detective scratched at the back of his head. "Suppose so. But," he seemed to be searching for the best phrasing, "don't you feel like you should go home and lie down? Take it easy?"

"Lie down?" Sherlock asked, incredulous. "Do you often go home and lie down while your main suspect is actively fleeing? I suppose it would explain a lot about your solve rates."

"Sherlock," John said, stepping forward slowly. "I wasn't even able to fill that prescription for you. You'd feel much better if you sat this one out."

Sherlock highly doubted that. He was anxious because of the cocaine crash, sure. But staying away from Sholto's capture would only make that worse. "And how would that look? Seeming as though I'm unable to close a case isn't going to help me win over many new clients."

"You don't have anything to prove," John insisted. "Your record will speak for itself."

"Precisely," Sherlock hissed, taking a step towards John. "And right now my record in the eyes of the public is that I am a fraud at best and a criminal mastermind at worst. Not to mention knowing about the drugs."

"Hey," Lestrade interjected, "you didn't do yourself any favours by escaping police custody. And with a hostage held at gunpoint, no less."

"It was only John," Sherlock scoffed. John shook his head in disbelief, but he'd get over it. Sherlock continued. "And no one in Scotland Yard bothered to contradict the public perception, did they? In fact, you came to arrest me yourself. For the sake of your career, you were willing to help ruin my life." He glared accusingly on Lestrade, who was looking appropriately ashamed. Taking a step towards the inspector, Sherlock stared him in the eye and said in a low, tight voice, "You owe me this, Lestrade."

At this, Lestrade swallowed and nodded, and Sherlock knew he'd won. "All right. But you all have to stay safely out of the way," Lestrade said, leading them all into the waiting helicopter. Guilt could certainly be a useful emotion to play on. But in this case, Sherlock really did feel he was owed this chance to prove himself. John might not think it was necessary, but it was in fact vital. And not just for his career. Sherlock had told Moriarty that he wasn't an angel, and the mad man had insisted that no, Sherlock was him. That encounter had replayed over and over in Sherlock's mind for the last year and a half as he'd been out on the run.

As he put on his protective earphones and buckled himself in across from Lestrade, the rest of the world was drowned out. The helicopter lifted off, floating quickly up above London like a stray balloon. Sherlock drifted momentarily inward in a rare instance of reflection. A thousand images that were supposed to have been deleted played out in Sherlock's mind: some of the things he'd done, his relapse into addiction, and moments of painful revelation about himself that had shaken Sherlock to his core. It had been enough to make him seriously entertain the notion that he might, in fact, be a bad person. There were many times when he'd been positive of it. In those moments, he hadn't been sure he even should come back. Sherlock was slowly beginning to realise it wasn't possible for him to delete things so strongly connected to emotion. There must be a different sort of memory storage in the brain for that. He made a mental note to look into the research on that topic. This settled his nerves a little.

Coming back to his senses, Sherlock looked down at their surroundings and was surprised to see that they'd flown all the way to the eastern edge of Greater London. He supposed that couldn't have taken the helicopter long, but was still disturbed by his lack of attention to where he was. The sluggish feeling in his brain and body was no real excuse. He could damn well rest in a bit. Sherlock shook his head and blinked, trying to sweep away the cobwebs. Across from him, Lestrade was speaking into his headset, though what precisely he was saying was unclear to Sherlock. Annoyingly, he'd been given a headset without a radio in it. Following Lestrade's eyes, however, he was able to see the searchlight of the helicopter illuminating the darker parts of the Thames. The water was murky and the bank, instead of being packed with buildings, was scattered with them. In fact, they were now entering a landscape with no buildings along the river at all, only swampy darkness. Rainham Marshes Nature Reserve, Sherlock thought. Nearly out of the Metropolitan police jurisdiction.

Then Sherlock thought he saw the tiniest bit of movement, a speck in the darkness below them. He sat up straighter in his chair, squinting and gazing down at the water. His head ached and buzzed, and the vibrations of the helicopter weren't really helping that. But even so, his eyesight was still sharp and had become accustomed to low light conditions. He saw the wake more than the boat, choppy lines of white across the black water. Sherlock shook Lestrade's knee to get his attention. The inspector gave him a confused look until Sherlock pointed down at the water. It seemed to take Lestrade an awfully long time to spot the suspiciously fast-moving boat, but when he did, he called something in over the radio.

Looking down, Sherlock watched as the Marine Unit boat turned and headed in the direction of the craft. It trailed behind, but didn't attempt to overtake the swift little boat. A moment later, Lestrade looked at Sherlock, nodded, and mouthed "Sholto" in confirmation. He then turned around and shouted something at the pilot. Frustrated and agitated, Sherlock vowed to dedicate some time to learning to read lips. Really, it was embarrassing that he didn't posses the ability already.

The helicopter angled forward, picking up speed considerably. They flew a ways down river, far out from where the boat had been spotted. They circled a spot near a pier, then slowly lowered down until they settled on the calm water. The instant the pilot cut the power, Sherlock yanked off the annoying headphones that had only been making his headache worse. Now his temples were throbbing. "They got a positive ID?" Sherlock asked as Lestrade led them all out onto the pier.

"Yeah, saw the name on the boat. The Arrow. So it looks like you were right about Sholto," Lestrade said, walking to the end of the pier and stopping.

Sherlock strode quickly beside Lestrade. John and Mary followed more slowly. "Is someone meeting us here? Where are they? Sholto will make it here in a matter of minutes," Sherlock said testily. He noticed that his pulse was starting to elevate again, but that was of little consequence.

"Just a moment," Lestrade replied. "Our boat is coming up behind him, but we're now in Gravesend, in the Kent Police jurisdiction. I'd already rung them to give them a heads up, and the pilot called in where we'd meet them."

"Is one boat really all London could spare?" Mary asked, seeming quite invested.

"They've got more, but they can't leave their regular patrols. Not for this," Lestrade explained apologetically. "But he's just in a small craft and frankly he's got nowhere to go."

"Yes, and luckily all criminals behave rationally. Especially when they're high on methamphetamine," Sherlock scoffed. Looking around impatiently, he spotted the Kent Police boat heading up river toward them. Sherlock kept his eyes on it, waiting for the seemingly endless time it took to make its way through the water.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade said sternly, as though he were repeating it.

"Yes, what?" Sherlock asked, starting to feel a bit shaky. It seemed he'd missed something Lestrade had said, but then it wasn't terribly unusual for him to ignore the inspector.

"I asked if you thought he'd be easier or harder to handle while high," Lestrade asked.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I'm your expert in this, am I?" he remarked edgily. Lestrade shifted uncomfortably, but Sherlock was too eager to get going to really harp on the point at the moment. Instead he shrugged and said, "Meth is a drug that tends to make people extremely jumpy and erratic. Most likely not a good mix with desperation, no. I'd wager he'll be much more dangerous this way," he remarked absentmindedly, not looking at Lestrade as the police boat finally pulled up to the pier. "Our ride's here," he said happily, starting towards the boat.

"Wait," Lestrade said, stepping in front of Sherlock. "Now, I was able to bring you along in the helicopter because that's Met's. But I can't just invite a civilian onto someone else's Marine Unit craft without asking."

Annoyed, Sherlock replied, "Then ask." He waved in the direction of the Kent Marine Unit officers who were finishing mooring the boat to the pier. "You told me I could come along."

Lestrade pursed his lips before replying shortly, "Fine. Wait here." Sherlock watched from a distance as Lestrade introduced himself to the officers and began chatting with them.

To Sherlock's surprise, John walked around to stand in front of him, gazing at him with a concerned look. Sherlock's brow furrowed. "What?"

"You're just starting to look unwell again is all," John said. "Do you feel okay?"

Sherlock thought about it. His head hurt, his pulse was racing, he didn't feel as if he wanted to stand in one place for more than a second, and his back was starting to grow slick with cold sweat. "Fine," Sherlock answered.

John chewed at his lips in a gesture Sherlock recognised as characteristic hesitation, which he had no time for at the moment. He needed to get onto that boat and help apprehend Ted Sholto. His friend opened and closed his mouth a few times before finally spitting it out. "Maybe it's best if you just hang back here with Mary and me," John said, and Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise at the suggestion before narrowing in displeasure that it had been made. John continued, "I'm sure Lestrade will let you talk to Sholto when they bring him over here. It's not as though you're going to slap the cuffs on him yourself, so is it really that big of a difference? I only say this because you seem like you're about to burst out of your own skin."

"It's called enthusiasm, John. I know that may not be a condition you're used to now, but once upon a time you felt it as well," Sherlock chided.

John chewed his lower lip, then sighed in resignation. "Okay, we'll wait here and see you in a minute. Just be safe."

Sherlock hummed noncommittally, then strode over to Lestrade and the two Kent officers, hopping across the water and onto the boat. "Are we ready to set off?" he asked, as if he were their superior who'd just arrived on scene.

"Ah, so guys this is the consultant I mentioned," Lestrade said, and the officers nodded mutely as one of them jumped back on the pier to unmoor the boat. Sherlock observed that it was most likely some kind of regulation that they secure the vessel every time it docked, which was clearly a massive waste of time. He looked out at the water, half expecting Sholto to go speeding by any moment now. The man on the pier finally loosed the last rope from its claw and came aboard.

"Sergeant Hartley." The man said by way of introduction. "DI Lestrade tells me this guy might be high on meth? Might have been something to mention earlier. We'd have had tactical units out."

"You should have had them out in any case. The all ports warning said he was dangerous and might be armed. His being high will make that worse, but his being desperate is the underlying factor, and that would be the case with or without the drugs," Sherlock replied.

Hartley gave him a sidelong look, but didn't seem to care enough to argue the point. "Hopefully we can handle him. Anyway, in here," he said, nodding in the direction of the little wheelhouse where his partner was already turning on the engine and guiding the boat away from the dock. At least neither of these officers seemed bothered by having him on board. That certainly wouldn't have been the case in London.

The wheelhouse was rather small, fitting only the two officers and Lestrade, leaving Sherlock really standing at the side entrance more than in it. The mute boat pilot turned all the lights on the boat down low and steered them toward the centre of the river. Hartley and Lestrade stood behind him. To the inspector, Hartley said, "Given what you said about this guy's state of mind, we'll call in for some backup on shore. Just in case he gets there somehow, but we don't anticipate that. Between us and London, the scumbag won't have any way out, will he?" He chuckled and shook his head. "So he's got a London boat after him and he hadn't noticed?"

Sherlock cut in, "He may have noticed, but in his state of mind it would hardly matter. He's most likely paranoid and on edge even without the actual threat."

Hartley glanced at Lestrade as if checking if the detective were put off by this man answering questions for him. Fortunately Lestrade was wise enough to simply shrug, and Hartley continued speaking to Sherlock, "Well yeah, being high on meth I should think so." He shook his head and turned back around to watch out the window. "Can't trust any of them addicts. Sell their own mother for a hit. I reckon it takes a fundamentally weak person to get that low. Should just lock 'em all up."

Sherlock was glad the man was turned around and couldn't see the uncontrollable anger that flashed in his eyes for a moment. But Lestrade saw, and they exchanged glances a moment before the inspector turned to look out the window as well. Sherlock clenched and unclenched his hands a few times. This, he knew, was how much of the public felt. And thanks to Mycroft, he had that extra hurdle to contend with. Not that he was especially hurt by what people might think about him, but when it got in the way of the work, it angered him. Nothing to prove, indeed, he thought.

It was only a few moments before the sound of a speed engine and the whomp whomp of a rigid hulled inflatable boat against the water could be heard quickly approaching. It was nearly 2 am and there were no other active vessels on this stretch of the Thames. It had to be Sholto. Turning down the lights would only hide them until Sholto was close, but Sherlock supposed that might be enough for their plan. The sound grew closer, and closer, then the pilot flicked the light on full brightness. The relatively small boat, five metres long and two metres wide, slowed as the figure inside threw a hand up against the sudden blinding light.

Hartley took the handset that was connected to the loudspeaker and spoke into it. "Ted Sholto, this is the Kent Police Marine Unit. You are under arrest by order of the Metropolitan Police Service. Put your hands in the air and surrender immediately." What sounded like swearing emanated from Sholto's silhouetted figure. Then his hand reached down and grabbed the throttle once again. But Hartley said, "I wouldn't keep running if I were you, Mr. Sholto. Even if you get by us, we have backup down the river. There's only more Marine Police the closer you get to the delta. This is over, Mr. Sholto. Make at least this part easy on yourself."

As he spoke, the boat from the aforementioned Metropolitan Police came into sight upriver, quickly speeding Sholto's way, its bright lights already on. Ted looked frantically between the two boats, and Sherlock was beginning to think the man might actually give up. Then Ted reached for something tucked into the back waistband of his jeans, and a second later whipped a gun into the air, squeezing off two loud warning shots.

Everyone but Sherlock flinched and ducked. Sherlock only stared across the water at Sholto, seemingly the only one aware that with the lights blaring in the man's face, he wouldn't actually be able to see or aim at anyone on the boats. All he could do effectively was scare them, and only if they let him. "All right, now I've got your attention," Sholto shouted overconfidently.

"Shit," Hartley said, still crouched down next to the pilot and Lestrade. They all kept stealing glances out the window, not paying Sherlock much mind behind them.

"What's the protocol?" Lestrade asked.

"Wait for tactical units that actually have a way to enforce anything," Hartley muttered. "Unless Metro's Marine Unit get guns? Or gas?" Lestrade shook his head. "Didn't think so." He took out his phone and started dialling a number. When it picked up, he began making a request for additional aid, but Sherlock was already tuning him out.

Sherlock was focused entirely on Sholto, sizing him up. He was squinting against the bright lights, whirling this way and that. His tone was rapid. Definitely high, Sherlock thought with a scowl. He knew the man felt invincible, on top of the world right now. But if he actually let himself believe that, then he was at his most vulnerable. Making his decision, Sherlock took a few steps back and shirked his coat off, laying it across the engine well in the centre of the boat. Then he started removing his shoes and socks as Sholto continued, "Now clearly I dinnae need a boat or a plane or car. I dinnae need money or anything like that. I just need to be left the fuck alone."

Sherlock picked up a life jacket and pulled the nylon belt free. Wrapping that around his hand and shooting a quick glance back at Lestrade to confirm that the detective wasn't looking, Sherlock slid off the side of the boat and into the water.

The frigid autumn water wrapped around him like a giant hand squeezing his chest. As his heart pumped harder to vascularise his limbs against the cold, he instantly started breathing rapidly. He'd anticipated that, of course, and focused on at least keeping the breathing quiet. His limbs were already beginning to feel sluggish as he started swimming quietly in Sholto's direction.

Sholto, for his part, kept compulsively rambling. "I've got this holiday planned, like. I ken the rest of your boats'll respect my gun here, too, eh? Don't suppose many Marine police get guns. I fucking love Britain. Such a fake sorta peace. In Cambodia, every bloody punter on every corner's got a gun. This one's not even that big! But in the land of the blind, right?"

Sherlock had reached the edge of the light being cast by the police boats and couldn't risk going any further this way. Taking a deep breath, he sank down beneath the surface. Even in broad daylight, the Thames wasn't a river Sherlock would ever open his eyes in. The dark, quiet cold surrounded him like space, or the grave. Sherlock kicked out with heavy limbs, pulling himself along. He had absolutely no sense of distance, only estimations based on how far each such stroke normally took him. He thought four would be the right number, but in the end it hardly mattered. His limbs felt so leadened, his heart pounded so painfully hard, and his lungs stung so keenly for want of air that Sherlock was forced to surface then anyway.

Sherlock slid just his head out of the water and it took all of his willpower not to gasp loudly as he drew a long breath of air. His chest trembled and his breathing instantly sped up. Regardless of needing to disarm Sholto, Sherlock needed to get out of this water now. Otherwise he'd start to hyperventilate, and then he'd be no use to anyone, and rather a large liability in fact. Blinking hard to focus himself, Sherlock saw that he was only half a metre away from the rigid inflatable hull of the boat. He quickly paddled over directly beside it to make it harder for Sholto to see him, staying at the low, back end of the boat. The man was currently facing away from Sherlock, apparently addressing the Metro Police Boat. Sherlock realised Ted was saying, "So I'll just be on my way if you lot dinnae mind." He had to act now. Gripping the length of nylon belt in his right hand, Sherlock summoned every ounce of energy he had remaining, placed both his hands on the hull, then pulled himself up.

The boat was so small and light, and its balance so thrown with Ted shifted over to the far side, that Sherlock's added weight made the back end dip and the front end tilt up out of the water. Fortunately, he'd been prepared for this while Ted was thrown off balance, having no idea what had happened. This gave Sherlock the key moments he needed to pull himself to his feet, in spite of his sluggish limbs. He grabbed the free end of the nylon belt in his left hand, pulling it taught between his arms, and lunged out at Ted's back, bringing the belt over his head, under his chin, and around his neck.

Ted spluttered in surprise, gasping for air. Sherlock pulled the man back against himself, leaving no room for Sholto to twist around and fire his gun. Placing the left end of the belt into his right hand and pulling the belt tight as a noose, Sherlock freed his left hand. When Ted instinctively reached up to claw at the belt with both hands, Sherlock used his left hand to twist Ted's wrist and wrench the gun free.

Sherlock moved from behind Ted and shoved the man down onto the tall, round inflatable edge of the boat as he swapped the pistol to his right hand and the nylon belt that was still wrapped around Ted's neck to his left hand. The belt wasn't very long, forcing Sherlock to lean down over the man menacingly, even though he was no longer holding it tight enough to choke him. Sholto blinked up at him with his wide, frantic eyes. "You? I thought you weren't a cop?"

"I'm not," Sherlock growled, leaning in closer. "Why did you kill your brother?"

"I didnae," Ted snarled back.

Sherlock backhanded Ted across the face, the weight of the gun giving the hit more heft and snapping Ted's head to the side. A bright red welt instantly appeared on his sharp cheekbone. Dazed, he looked back up at Sherlock, who was now shaking, though whether with anger, withdrawal, or cold he couldn't tell anymore. But he must have been a sight, because Ted looked terrified. "You fooled me before," Sherlock admitted. "And I don't like being made a fool of. Tell me why you hated him so much, even after everything he did for you? Was it jealousy?" Not even giving Ted time to reply, Sherlock clocked him in the same spot again, causing him to cry out in pain as the welt split open in a bloody mess.

"I didnae... I didnae hate him," Ted whimpered, bringing his hands up to shield his face. That response only made Sherlock more angry. It didn't make any sense. You didn't kill your brother unless you bore a perverse, unreasonable hatred toward him. You had to be under the dark pull of fratricide. Somewhere, Sherlock thought he might have heard the sounds of someone shouting and the rumble of boat engines. But his world had narrowed down to nothing but the rapid beat of his own heart and the man cowering in front of him. He had to understand.

With Sholto's face blocked, Sherlock punched him in the sternum with his gun hand instead, the impact reverberating painfully up Sherlock's own ice cold arm. He didn't care. He hit Ted again, then again, then grabbed the now sobbing man by the shirt front and looked him in the eye. "WHY?" Sherlock shouted.

Desperate and broken, Ted Sholto finally shouted back, "He was going to sell it back! He was going to sell the land back to the government, stop the mine, stop the ephedra, everything. All for only a million quid, split three ways."

Now Sherlock was listening, though breathing heavily and shaking. "And that wasn't enough?"

"Do you know how long £330,000 would last me?" Ted asked miserably, almost as if seeking Sherlock's pity. "Maybe two years if I stretched it out. And then what? Bart gave me enough for rent and food, but what about ... everything else?" he trailed off.

Sherlock inhaled deeply. "You mean the drugs," he said, pulling back a little, feeling shaky. It wasn't the dark pull of fratricide after all; it was the dark pull of addiction. Meth wasn't even a very expensive drug, but a large habit could still total hundreds of pounds a week. Without any other income, even that would add up quickly. Sherlock could see the logic of it. That was the worst part, and it made him feel queasy. He was also beginning to feel lightheaded.

Ted swallowed. "Yeah. And at some point I'd like to live somewhere that isn't shite. A place like my miserable sod of a father had. Why dinnae I deserve that, too?"

"And all you had to do," Sherlock rasped, "was murder the man who'd pulled a miserable, worthless shit like you out of the gutter and onto his feet again." Sherlock was utterly appalled. It would have been as if he were to murder Mycroft... No, he realised. As if he were to murder John.

Sherlock let go of Sholto and stood up. For a moment, the man looked tentatively relieved. Until Sherlock pointed the gun down at him and cocked it. Ted froze, not daring even to breathe. As Sherlock stared down at the cowering, bloodied man, his vision flashed red. He saw every time he'd lied to Mycroft about what he was spending his money on. Every disgusting flat he'd never cared enough to clean up. Every dealer he knew in an alley, on a corner, in a park. Every case he'd wrecked because he couldn't focus anymore. Every gut-wrenching crash and spirit crushing desire for another hit. Every time he hated himself for that desire. And every single time he had ever stuck a needle in his arm, his leg, his neck in search of a few moments of solace that would eventually kill him.

There might have been shouting. Someone possibly called his name. Sherlock's finger eased onto the trigger. He could do it. He had done it. Only, he told himself, when he'd really needed to. And only to scum in Moriarty's network who had all done far worse to innocent people. Just as Ted had. But still, Sherlock was a killer. There was no question about that. The same as Ted. You're me, a pleased voice whispered in his ear.

Sherlock shuddered at the ghostly whisper of Moriarty. Suddenly, the world hit him like a train. All the horrible sensations in his body the frozen skin, the bone deep shiver, his throbbing heart grabbed him and threatened to bring him down to his knees. Instead he dropped the clip out of the gun. A second later, a hand grabbed the weapon out of his. Blinking, Sherlock realised Greg Lestrade had stepped onto the boat from the police vessel that had pulled up beside them. The inspector looked furious, but before he could chastise the younger man, his face fell. "Shit, what's going on? Are you okay?"

The world wobbled, and Sherlock was about to say that he'd be okay once it stopped doing that when a sudden, stabbing pain struck him in the chest. He let out of cry of pain and doubled over, his cold-heavied limbs collapsing beneath him. He wanted to gasp for air at a frantic pace, but his throat had closed up almost entirely. The pain in his chest was so powerful he started seeing spots. Not being able to breathe was only making the panic worse, making his heart pump harder. And, he could tell, irregularly. For the first time in his life, Sherlock wished he didn't know so damned much about human physiology.Oxygen levels dropping, leading to increased acidity in the blood, potential to cause seizure. Lack of oxygen also damaging heart muscle, brain function... Then, in a horrifying moment, Sherlock felt his rapid heartbeat arrest, his heart muscle quivering erratically in his chest. Lestrade may have been leaning over him, looked to be saying something. Sherlock's eyes went wide in panic as he tried to hang onto the waking world. But the searing, burning pain around his heart had other plans. The world turned grey, then black, then empty.

Chapter 21

Notes:

Just because this is obviously getting to the end of the story and I'm sure no one want to have traffic problems here at AO3 stop them from reading... just in case this site does go down, please note that this story is also being posted at ff.n, where I have the same screenname.

Also please note, I'm not a doctor. I did want to be one for a long time and did a lot of technical research to try to make this accurate. I'm quite a medical nerd, so I'm not entirely sure what terminology most people would know. I tried to make it clear in layman's terms, but if anyone's confused, just smack me and tell me to speak English and I'll explain.

John had been standing on the shore watching what little he could make out of the scene as the police and Sherlock captured Ted Sholto. A patrol car had pulled up behind him and Mary, evidently called in as backup, though the constables remained inside. John had realised it was his friend climbing onto the boat and wrestling Sholto down. But whatever Sherlock was saying to the man as he hit him, John couldn't make out. It was only clear that Sherlock was furious. John had grown anxious as he watched the scene unfold. Mary's hand tightened in his, but neither of them said anything, on some vague hope of being able to make out the words Sherlock was shouting. When the boat carrying Lestrade had moved up beside the smaller craft, it had completely blocked their view of Sherlock.

So John had absolutely no idea what was happening as the police boat soon pulled away, gunning its engines for shore amidst a chaotic scene of shouting and several people laying a limp figure on the deck. The boat's bright light shone away from its own deck, leaving the frantic scene in the dark. As the boat pulled up next to the dock, John could finally make out someone shouting his name. His natural reaction was to hope in vain that it was Sherlock shouting at him. But the voice was definitely Lestrade's. "What is it?" John replied, letting go of Mary's hand and taking a cautious step toward the boat.

"It's Sherlock," Lestrade replied breathlessly. "He collapsed."

John leapt onto the boat beside Lestrade before he even had a chance to think about it. The last time he'd been given such a shock, he'd wound up stumbling across the street, only to find Sherlock apparently dead by the time he got there. This time, John's body seemed to propel him instantly into action. "What happened?" he asked Lestrade, even as he went right by the man and up to where Sherlock lay on the deck. The sergeant whom Lestrade had been speaking to earlier was crouched next to Sherlock, giving him chest compressions.

"Well, he jumped into practically freezing water, for one thing," Lestrade said, looking extremely worried as he crouched off to the side. "Then he got Sholto's gun and started hitting him. Looked like he'd practically lost his mind by the time we reached him. I swear to God I thought he was going to pull the trigger... then he let Sholto go and just sort of collapsed, grabbing at his chest. Hartley started CPR..." Lestrade looked dazed and in shock, which was much as John was inclined to feel. But his ironclad determination to stay focused kept his own heartbeat and blood pressure mostly in check. He swallowed down the fear rising up with the bile in his throat. You're an emergency doctor. This is what you do. It's just like any other patient.

John kept repeating this mantra as he crouched beside Sherlock's limp, soaked, lifeless form. He was pale enough as it was, but the cold water and lack of air had turned his skin ghostly white and his lips a dark blue. "Sergeant Hartley is it?" he asked, and the man nodded. "I'm John Watson, I'm a senior casualty physician."

Hartley seemed immensely relieved, and sat back from Sherlock. "Thank God. We called the ambulance. We're all given CPR training but I've never actually had to use it..."

"You did the right thing," John replied as he tilted Sherlock's head back to assure an airway. Listening, he didn't hear any breathing, which made his own chest clench in panic. He felt for a pulse, but couldn't find one. Swallowing the lump in his throat, John breathed two times into Sherlock's mouth. Then he focused all his attention on chest compressions, knowing this was far more important than mouth-to-mouth breathing. He had to keep blood flowing to Sherlock's brain. John still maintained his professional aura. His adrenaline had kicked in, which always did have a bizarre tendency to make him feel calm. "Do you have an AED on board or in any of the cars you called in?"

Hartley's brow furrowed. "A what?"

"Those machines to automatically shock someone," Lestrade explained, more impatient with the man's thickness than John was.

"Yeah, we've got one," Hartley said, jumping up to go find it.

John called after him, "And a towel!" He looked over at Lestrade, who was uncharacteristically flustered. "Greg, can you help me get his shirt off? I can't defibrillate him through the shirt, or when he's soaking wet like this. Besides, when the ambulance gets here I'll need to give him some medication intravenously." Not to mention, giving the Inspector something to do might help calm him down a bit.

"Sure," Lestrade replied. "What should I do?"

"Hold him up for a few seconds when I stop," John instructed, and the detective nodded. Halting compressions, John ripped open Sherlock's shirt along the buttons, thinking of how his friend would complain about ruining an expensive article of clothing. But John was instantly sobered by the fact that Sherlock might never get a chance to make such a snarky comment to him again.

Lestrade eased an arm under Sherlock's back and heaved his lifeless body into a seated position. Together John and Lestrade removed the consulting detective's shirt in under a second, then Greg eased him back down onto the plastic surface of the boat. With his shirt off, faint track marks were visible on Sherlock's left forearm. John and Lestrade both noticed them and Lestrade shot him a serious glance as John resumed compressions. The inspector obviously knew Sherlock had taken cocaine tonight and that he'd been using much of the last year, but the reality just seemed to be hitting him. Quietly, Lestrade said, "This is the cocaine, isn't it?"

"That," John replied tightly, "and then running all around London, jumping in freezing cold water, and getting himself in another fight." He knew precisely what had happened: the cocaine led to adrenaline, adrenaline led to increased oxygen demand and thus more CO2 in the blood. Running and getting in fights also added to both oxygen depravation and adrenaline. This led to both the rapid heartbeat of tachycardia and acidosis, Sherlock's blood turning acidic. That sort of state could only be sustained for so long before the heart crashed into a highly irregular, dangerously unstable rhythm. Or to no rhythm at all...

"Got it," Hartley said, coming back to Sherlock's side and handing the defibrillator pack to John. "And the towel..." As Lestrade took that and quickly wiped Sherlock's chest dry, John turned on the AED and unhooked the paddles. When he turned back around, he noticed Hartley was looking down at the track marks on Sherlock's arm with disgust. Then he turned on Lestrade. "You brought a junkie onto my boat? And now I have an overdose to save?"

"It's not an overdose!" John shouted. He needed to put the paddles to Sherlock's chest to get a reading, but Hartley had thrown a hand down in the way.

"Oh, right I'm sure he just took the recommended amount of cocaine," Hartley sneered.

John's eyes burned into Hartley's as he snapped, "He'd have been fine if he were just sitting at home getting high for his own pleasure. But he wasn't. He was out running around London, fighting off some incredibly dangerous people who kidnapped my fiancée. And if I don't shock him before his heart stops, it's highly unlikely he'll live, so get the bloody hell off him!"

Before Hartley had a chance to do anything but gape, Lestrade grabbed him and pulled him off Sherlock. Angry, Hartley stood up and took a few steps back, then turned away and headed back into the wheelhouse. Taking his opening, John stuck the two pads of the device to Sherlock's chest. "Analysing heart rhythm," a voice on the machine said. John's own heart was in his throat as he waited. The best they could hope for would be the erratic beat of ventricular fibrillation. That was a dangerous and unsustainable condition, but it was better than asystole, a flat line. If Sherlock had flatlined already, shocking him wouldn't do any good. The only small hope would be cardiac drugs that would arrive with the ambulance...

The machine bleeped, and John held his breath. Then in a woman's voice, it said, "Shock advised. Charging. Stay clear of patient." John closed his eyes in minor relief. At least Sherlock's heart was still functioning, but it wouldn't be for much longer if this didn't work. A few seconds later the AED said, "Deliver shock now." John pressed the orange button and Sherlock's body tensed and rose off the deck a moment. When he relaxed, John instantly checked for a pulse. Still nothing. "Dammit," John hissed, resuming compressions for another 30 repetitions. Then he backed off and gave the machine a chance to read the rhythm. It advised another shock. John could feel his composure slipping as he watched Sherlock tense again from the shock. John then put his now trembling fingers back on the carotid artery.

"Anything?" Lestrade asked.

John shook his head and went back to compressing Sherlock's chest, with more vigour this time, even though the previous times had already been enough pressure to pump blood through the heart. But John couldn't help trying harder. This had happened because of the fight Sherlock had had with John, and for the sake of saving Mary. The doctor had done a good job up to this point of keeping calm, treating Sherlock like any other patient, and avoiding looking at his friend's face. But now not even the surge of adrenaline could hold the grim reality at bay. But he knew the statistics; If a patient couldn't be successfully cardioverted with three defibrillations, it was unlikely he'd live. Looking down at Sherlock now as he compressed his friend's chest, John was terrified by the prospect of having this image of Sherlock burned into his head forever: skin white and cold, lips blue, arms covered in faded track marks and one fresh one. He'd already had one horrible memory of Sherlock dead on a sidewalk, and he didn't think that one would ever leave him. But this time it would be real, with no room for doubt or confusion as to the why. The why was perfectly clear.

"Come on, Sherlock. Please," John said, then repeated the plea over and over as he sat back and let the machine set itself to the right voltage. As a cool wind whipped by, John could feel it especially on his wet cheeks, which is when he realised he'd started crying. Across from him, Lestrade was holding a hand over his mouth. Finally, the machine gave its warning, then sent a third powerful shock into Sherlock's heart, tightening all his muscles.

Sherlock gasped in a breath of air. John let out a breath of his own. "Thank God," Lestrade said as Sherlock started breathing again. John knew they were far from out of the woods, though. Feeling his friend's pulse, he immediately noticed how rapid it was becoming again. This tachycardia would decompensate into v-fib again if they didn't get the rhythm under control with cardiac drugs. To say nothing of the fact that being without oxygen could cause brain damage. Sherlock hadn't opened his eyes yet, and John knew he had to check his friend's neurological state.

Eyes, verbal, motor, John reminded himself of the basics of the Glasgow coma scale that he used several times every day. It was a scale of mental alertness from one to fifteen, and anything below 13 was cause for concern. Sherlock already wasn't opening his eyes spontaneously, which was a point off. So John prompted, "Sherlock? Can you hear me?" When there was no response, John started to worry. "Sherlock?" he tried again. When Sherlock's grey and now very red eyes opened, John felt extremely relieved. He squeezed his friend's shoulder tightly. "Hey," he said with a small smile. Sherlock blinked as if fighting strong fatigue. "Do you know where you are? I need you to answer me verbally."

"John? I... London?" Sherlock asked, brow furrowing. "What were we...?" he trailed off, his eyes closing slowly.

John swallowed. There was another point off. "Sherlock, you've got to stay with me, all right? An ambulance is on its way. I'm trying to assess your GCS score," he said, knowing Sherlock would know what that was. At least, he would if he were alert. The younger man opened his eyes again slowly. John looked steadily at Sherlock. "Raise three fingers if you understand me," he ordered. Sherlock didn't obey. "Sherlock, I said raise three fingers." Still nothing. A third point off. Much more and it could indicate some permanent damage. John moved to the next step, putting a hand on Sherlock's left trapezium muscle between his neck and shoulder and squeezing hard. Thankfully, Sherlock reached up and pulled John's hand away almost instantly. 12, then. Borderline. He might be fine, unless he slipped back into v-fib and went without oxygen again...

Just then, John heard two sets of feet hit the boat deck, and turned to see the paramedics striding towards them quickly. One held a backboard and bag of supplies, the other a small oxygen tank. How John hadn't noticed the ambulance pulling up, he wasn't quite sure. Though he sometimes tuned them out at work because they were so frequent, and must have been hyper-focused on Sherlock this time. The paramedics, a black British man and a ginger woman, approached Sherlock. Before they could start rattling off instructions, John stood and was already saying, "I'm Dr. Watson. I'm a senior physician at an A&E in London and this man's my best friend."

Nodding in understanding, the man said, "Tell us the situation, then, doctor."

"First, that oxygen," he motioned to the woman, who handed over the tank and the connected mask. John crouched down and put the mask on Sherlock, then turned the tank to the maximum safe flow rate. "Just breathe normally. I know your heart is still going fast and I'm sure it hurts, but try not to hyperventilate." Sherlock tried to mutter something.

Not entirely sure Sherlock had enough awareness to understand, John glanced questioningly at Lestrade, and the inspector nodded back. Putting a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, Lestrade said evenly. "Just take deep breaths, you're gonna be all right." Though he hated people saying that, especially when it wasn't necessarily true, John wasn't about to contradict the statement and give Sherlock cause for panic. Had he been alert, the consulting detective would have probably been asking all sorts of questions about his dysrhythmia and would know himself that he was still dangerously unstable.

Standing and addressing the paramedics again, John said in a discrete voice, "My friend - his name's Sherlock Holmes - he went into cardiac arrest several minutes ago. I wasn't with him at the time so I can't be completely sure, but everything points to tachycardia that taxed his heart too long and led to VF. I used the AED machine to cardiovert him, but it took three defibrillations and I'm worried he could slip back into VF again if we don't get things under control. He's somewhat disoriented and not responding directly to commands. GCS is 12. What cardiac drugs do you have?"

"Epinephrine, lidocaine," the woman began listing off the most common ones.

"No," John interrupted. "It's not from a heart attack or any traumatic injury or disease." Knowing it was vital to get all the medical information out, but still feeling a big like a traitor in spite of this, John said quietly, "The cardiac arrest is secondary to cocaine toxicity. He took a hit a couple hours ago and has been running all around London since then. So he's not only got the cocaine increasing his acidosis but also a lot of anaerobic physical activity. And he's a bit hypothermic from jumping in the water." The paramedics exchanged worried glances. John explained, "So I can't give him anything like epi or lidocaine that might increase the strain on his heart. They have the same action as all the adrenaline running through his system. Same goes for beta-blockers. Have you got bicarb and vasopressin?"

The female paramedic took the bag off her partner's arm and quickly unzipped it. After rooting around the rows of vials, she pulled two out and handed them to John. "Do you want me to start the IV or would you like to?" she asked.

As a senior doctor, John actually had very little recent experience doing that. "If you could, please. It might be difficult to find a vein... he's been an IV cocaine user off and on for… well I'm not actually sure how many years. And I'm sure you've got more experience than I do. Thanks." He let the woman past him to crouch at Sherlock's right side. Despite the couple of track marks and the no doubt toughened veins in general, she had the IV catheter in quickly. Meanwhile, John had drawn up a syringe with each drug. Now he crouched beside the paramedic and pushed them into Sherlock's IV, one after the other. It was difficult to tell how effective they were without an ECG. And it was impossible to give him anything else until they knew that. "Right, they need to get him out of here," he said to Lestrade, and the inspector took the hint, standing up and making room for the other paramedic to bring in the back board.

John helped the man roll Sherlock onto the board and strap him in as the woman hooked his IV up to a litre of saline and slipped the oxygen bottle onto the board beside Sherlock. Once Sherlock was securely strapped in, John went to grab the board at his head while the man grabbed it at his feet. Looking down at his friend, whose eyes were still slightly glazed over, John said, "We're going to put you in the ambulance and get you to the hospital, okay?" Sherlock murmured an acknowledgement. John looked up and nodded to the male paramedic, then they hefted Sherlock up off the ground. The woman and Lestrade both followed behind them as they carried Sherlock, carefully but quickly, off the boat.

When they got onto the dock, Mary's brow turned up in worry as she saw Sherlock. John felt ashamed that he'd nearly forgotten his new fiancée was there, but she didn't seem at all offended by it, only concerned. "What happened? Is he all right?" she asked, walking alongside John.

"He went into cardiac arrest. He's awake and breathing but unstable. We have to get him to the hospital," John said. They had reached the back of the yellow ambulance with its neon yellow and green checkered sides. The female paramedic threw the back doors open and dropped down the short ramp. John and the man carried Sherlock in.

"If he's not responding to commands, we should just strap the backboard to the gurney," the man said, and John nodded in understanding as they slid the board on and secured the straps.

The female paramedic had entered and set the medicine bag on the ground, off to the side. She seemed to notice Sherlock's eyes widening as he was further restrained, and said, "Sherlock, try not to panic. We'll unstrap everything just as soon as you get to the hospital, okay? Until then, I'm going to be back here with you. And so is your friend Dr. Watson." John gave her a deeply grateful look.

Having finished securing their patient, the male paramedic put the ramp up and jumped out the back of the ambulance. As John watched him, he caught sight of Mary again, looking at him in concern. John was about to say something about how there probably wasn't space for her to ride with them, but Lestrade seemed to read his mind. "Mary, ride along with me and we'll meet them at the hospital," he said. Mary nodded, though she was still looking at John and Sherlock as the paramedic closed the back doors. John and the female paramedic took the only two seats in the back just before the engine started and the ambulance pulled out, sirens blaring.

Chapter 22

Notes:

In case you hadn't noticed the recent updates to the chapter numbers, there are 25 chapters in this story. So we're nearing the end. And now it's time for everyone to face the cold, hard facts.

It had taken the casualty team at the nearby Darent Valley Hospital almost an hour to get Sherlock's vitals stabilized and his heart back in a normal sinus rhythm. They'd graciously allowed John to join in, though by the time they'd reached the hospital his focus wasn't sharp enough for him to completely lead the team. Mary and Lestrade had both stood by the whole time, dutiful sentinels staying there mostly, John felt, for his sake. Once they'd established Sherlock's alertness, the doctors had sedated him to alleviate his extreme pain and discomfort. Then they'd sent him to the ICU. John, Mary, and Lestrade had all stuck around the hospital. They'd collapsed in the ICU lounge, all of them falling asleep around 7am when it became clear Sherlock was stable and was going to be out of it for a while due to pain medications and, John assumed, sheer exhaustion.

At 4pm the next day, the doctors had deemed Sherlock stable enough to leave the ICU and move to his own room. He would still be monitored closely, but since his condition had been brought on by cocaine rather than heart disease or defect, his vitals had evened out more quickly than most and he wasn't in much danger of a further episode. With all the fluids they were pumping through him, the drug had probably left Sherlock's system entirely by now. John still hadn't spoken to him, as evidently Sherlock had yet to wake up at all. This worried John, but the neurologist assured him that at least the EEG of Sherlock's brain functions seemed fine. But it was impossible to really asses fine mental function until someone was awake. Many people who suffered cardiac arrest were left with some mental effects, things like difficulty concentrating or memory recall. The sorts of things that would be completely devastating to Sherlock. But, in spite of how worried he was, John had still only slept a few hours in the ICU lounge, and was having a damned hard time staying awake as the nurses wheeled a pale, unconscious Sherlock into his room. John had found himself collapsing onto a couch in the room, sitting up with his legs splayed out and Mary curled up next to him. With Sherlock at least out of the ICU, John was finally able to relax slightly. He thought back on what an insane 36 hours it had been. He'd done everything from interviewing suspects to following a worthless blood hound to saving his friend from dying. That wasn't even the half of it, but it was enough to thoroughly exhaust him. He didn't know exactly when he'd fallen asleep again, only that his last two sights had been both Mary and Sherlock sleeping peacefully.

John was awoken by the rays of the sunset coming in through the window at just the right angle to hit him directly in the eyes. He groaned and tried to rub away the annoyance, but eventually realised what he was doing and stretched. This went on a few seconds before John opened his eyes to find Sherlock Holmes propped partway up in bed, a nasal cannula of oxygen on his face, giving John a curious stare. After a moment of surprise, John sat up straighter on the couch, an immense wave of relief washing over him. Groggy himself and anxious to know his friend's current GCS score, John subtly tried to establish it. 4 points for spontaneous eye opening. Getting up, he prompted, "Hey, how long have you been awake?"

"About 70 minutes, going by the sun's path and the light's altered colour temperature," Sherlock replied. 5 points for normal conversation. Well, normal for Sherlock at any rate. Which was immensely relieving and, John hoped, meant there was probably no lasting neurological damage.

"Good, that's good," John nodded, stopping to stand beside Sherlock's bed. "You feeling okay then?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. "Are you testing me? What, Glasgow coma scale? Do I seem to be in an altered state to you?" he asked testily. Even though he was clearly exhausted, his skin was barely off-white, and his voice was raspy, Sherlock didn't appear to have lost his snarkiness.

Fairly certain at this point that his friend was back to normal, but feeling as a doctor that he should be thorough, John didn't rise to Sherlock's bait, but instead said, "Can you raise three fingers for me?" Giving him a hard, sardonic stare, Sherlock lifted the middle finger of his right hand and gave a two-fingered salute with his left. John coughed, holding back a smile in spite of himself. "I may have been asking for that," He conceded, and Sherlock put his hands down, giving John the smallest of smiles. "I was really worried about you, we all were," John said sincerely. Really, that was a massive understatement. He'd been terrified for Sherlock. In a way, he still was. "I'm glad to see you're doing much better now," John said.

Sherlock nodded briefly. "How long was I down?" he inquired.

"I'd say less than five minutes. And they began compressions right away, before I got to you," John said. Really, if it had been much more than that, they wouldn't be having this conversation. They both knew that. "I was able to defibrillate you there and this hospital's only a few blocks from where we were. You were really lucky."

"Yes," Sherlock admitted quietly. The detective gave him a surprisingly sincere look as he said, "It's a handy thing, always having a doctor with you when things are liable to become dangerous."

Before John could think of what to say to that, a yawn behind him caught both his and Sherlock's attention. Mary sat up, her dark blonde hair wild from lying on it. Not to mention being dragged all round London before that. "Goodness, did I really sleep," she glanced at her watch, "two hours? No wonder my neck hurts." She rubbed it as she got up and stood beside John. "How are you feeling, Sherlock?"

Sighing, Sherlock asked, "How many times am I going to have to answer that today? Fine. I'm fine."

"Good," Mary said with a soft smile, ignoring Sherlock's irritation. To John, she said, "I think I should go get Greg."

Sherlock's eyes snapped to her. "Greg?" he asked, worried. "Greg Lestrade? What's he still doing here? It's been something like 18 hours, hasn't it?" Sherlock moved his lips tightly against his teeth, drawing a breath through his nose then looking at John and asking evenly, "Am I under arrest?"

John's brow knitted. "What? Of course not." Though there were a number of things Lestrade might have arrested him for, the inspector had never even considered it. Well, not out loud anyway.

"Then why's Lestrade here? Shouldn't he be working?" Sherlock asked.

John and Mary exchanged looks. She seemed almost sorrowful as she explained slowly to Sherlock, "He was there with us last night."

"I remember," Sherlock said with an air of '...and?'.

"He wanted to make sure you were all right, Sherlock. He was worried about you," Mary said. Sherlock still seemed suspicious, and Mary looked all the more pained at that. John thought he could probably understand what she was thinking, that it was terribly sad it didn't occur to Sherlock that the inspector might value him more than simply as a resource. "I ought to go get him. He said he was going to be doing some work from the lounge, but I told him I'd find him when you were awake." She gave Sherlock a small smile before slipping out to retrieve Lestrade.

"I dunno if you've actually spoken to the doctors yet, while I was asleep..." John started.

Sherlock read his mind, shaking his head and interjecting, "Tell me what happened. Was there an infarction? Potentially lasting tissue damage? My memory's hazy from the point where I collapsed."

"Well mind you don't do it again. Take a breath, will you?" John said, only half joking. Sherlock seemed able to get worked up about practically nothing, but that had been even more true since he came back. Or, most likely, for his last eleven months of using again. Cocaine could make one quite emotionally unstable and irritable. God only knew what Sherlock would be like if he went back to chronic use... pushing the thought aside, John answered directly, "No, there wasn't an infarction. It wasn't a heart attack. The cardiac arrest was caused by a combination of acidosis and an overload of adrenaline from the cocaine and all the running around. You got to v-fib by the time I was able to defibrillate you." Sherlock looked at the ceiling and nodded, avoiding John's eyes. Knowing he'd still want his other question answered, John drew a deep breath. "As to lasting tissue damage... it's possible, yes. They might need to put you on some medication."

Sherlock made a face. "What, a daily medication? I hardly think that's necessary..."

"Sherlock," John said, giving his friend an uncompromising look that held his attention for once. "You were extremely lucky. Only about 5% of people who go into cardiac arrest away from the hospital live at all, and a lot of them have mental damage from lack of oxygen. You've had the best possible outcome someone could have, and you're still not out of the woods. Chronic cocaine use will have put your heart through more distress than most people have their whole lives. Please, for once take the advice of a qualified expert. If not the cardiologist, then at least trust me as both a doctor and your friend. You're going to need to take it easy, go to physical therapy for a while, and see a cardiologist. Regularly."

There was a long stretch of silence. Finally Sherlock said quietly, "I'll see a cardiologist."

"Good, thank you," John said, pulling up a chair next to Sherlock's bed. A couple hours sleep here and there hadn't been nearly enough to get him past the utter exhaustion of the previous day and a half yet. John ran a tired hand over his face and eyed Sherlock carefully. Unsure if he really wanted to know, John asked, "Have you been doing things like this a lot lately?"

Sherlock seemed to be weighing how much he should say and how to say it before replying, "Sometimes. But I've tried to be more careful. Taken precautions. I've certainly never demanded that much of my body physically while high before."

John studied his friend, feeling a little guilty. Quietly, he said, "You didn't have to do this, you know. I'm sure you thought it might give you an extra boost, and I'm guessing you think it helped you find Mary, but you shouldn't ever feel like you need to shoot up in order to help someone."

"I know. It never started as that anyway, I just..." Sherlock stopped, seeming to have swallowed something else he was going to add. "I used to think it helped me focus at least. But over the course of the last year, I have concluded it probably only makes it harder for me to do my work, particularly if it's more than just the brain work. I know how dangerous it is to combine cocaine and physical activity. If I'd known I'd need to exert myself I wouldn't have taken it. But I took it before I knew they were after Mary."

John blinked hard. He had been wondering if the fight they'd had might have been the thing that pushed Sherlock to shoot up. As much as he didn't want his own part in this to be confirmed, John had to ask, "Then why did you do it?"

Sherlock looked at John for several long seconds, his pale eyes ringed with purple hollows. He seemed to consider very deeply whether he wanted to answer that or not. Then he turned his head to gaze up at the ceiling. Sherlock's voice sounded tense with the effort to keep it under control as, changing the subject, he said instead, "I'm glad you and Mary are happy." John sat up a little, surprised to hear Sherlock say that. His friend must have sensed his reaction, because he glanced over. "I know you probably believe this concept is beyond me, and I confess to still being completely put off by a lot of this relationship nonsense. But I do... I can see the appeal of it. Theoretically..." Sherlock closed his eyes almost involuntarily, turning his face away from John and towards the ceiling again as his expression became pained. A silence fell over the room.

A pang of sadness hit John as he realised Sherlock might not actually be thinking so theoretically. John still vividly remembered how hard Sherlock had fallen for Irene Adler, how she'd led him on at every turn, and how furious John had been at her for toying with a man who, as far as he and Mrs. Hudson could tell, had probably never even dated anyone. And it hadn't just been lust, which would have seemed foreign enough coming from Sherlock. A man didn't play his violin and hardly speak for days because of a lost lust. John recalled the way Sherlock had asked for her phone, displaying a level of sentimentality John hadn't previously realised his friend was capable of. That was one of the first times John had realised there truly was more going on under the surface than what Sherlock let on. It was very rare to see the detective looking at all vulnerable, but he certainly had then, and did again now. The come down from cocaine wreaked havoc on even the most stoic person's emotions. Sherlock seemed to be teetering on the edge of a dangerous precipice. And now John was again surprised by the way the detective spoke so painfully on the subject of romance.

But God, was Sherlock still thinking about Irene? That had been nearly two years ago. But then, John reasoned, it wasn't as if there were someone else Sherlock would be thinking about. Irene had been the only woman Sherlock had ever paid any attention to, the only one he deemed a worthy equal. John had read Mycroft's report, including the bit about Sherlock finally cracking her phone password, giving him the realisation that there must have actually been some level of reciprocation. That could only have messed with Sherlock's head further, knowing that Irene did care for him too but being unable to tell which of her actions or words had been genuine. That would be tough enough on an average bloke. Evidently it had left a miserably deep mark on Sherlock. He can never, ever know that she's dead, John resolved firmly.

All of this just served to remind John that Sherlock really hadn't been cold about the whole Mary business. It was just that he genuinely didn't understand it and had no frame of reference for a whole slew of personal relationships. And yet Sherlock admitted to seeing the appeal. Which only made John feel worse about how miserably alone Sherlock must have been the past year and a half. It didn't take many guesses to realise why he'd started using again, nor why he'd shot up last night. Just as Sherlock was opening his eyes and John was trying to think of something to say, the door opened. Mary entered, followed by Lestrade. Sherlock instantly sat up straighter in bed, opening his eyes and clearing his throat of its tightness.

"Hey, Sherlock, how are you doing?" the inspector asked.

"Oh, God," Sherlock groaned, rolling his eyes. "Honestly, is it not a given that someone who's in the hospital recovering from cardiac arrest is both not feeling wonderful and inevitably doing better than they were when their heart wasn't pumping?" As annoyed as the words were, John got the distinct impression that Sherlock was actually relieved by the interruption, and for a chance to squash the no doubt embarrassing level of sentiment he'd let the whole ordeal bring him to.

"Well I have to say," Lestrade began, giving Sherlock a closer glance, "it's infinitely better than last night. You scared the shit out of me."

"I take it you were able to detain Ted Sholto, though," Sherlock said, his voice turning to ice as he said that name. Lestrade had told John about how viciously Sherlock had lashed out at Sholto on the boat.

"Yeah, after you broke his cheek bone," Lestrade said, his features turning stony for a moment. "I ought to have you arrested for that, you know. Now already I've been seen doing you favours again."

"I've never asked you to do favours for me," Sherlock countered.

"Great," Lestrade said with false brightness. "Shall I handcuff you to the bed and file a report, then?"

That shut Sherlock up. John and Mary exchanged worried glances, and she said, "Can we please avoid going straight back into fighting like this? I don't think it's good for anyone's blood pressure. And it certainly isn't helping my head any, either." John quirked a smile at her.

"Sorry," Lestrade replied, chagrined. Looking at Sherlock again, he sighed and rubbed a hand over his tired-looking eyes. John realised the police detective probably hadn't slept at all this afternoon with all the paperwork he'd been doing. "Thing is, Sherlock, it's not really up to me. My superiors-"

Sherlock interrupted him with a scoff and shake of his head. "Of course. Worried about your job."

"As you should be, too," Lestrade pointed out. "I've brought you onto cases no one else would have. It's just that I can't bring you on secretly anymore. The Chief Inspector will know about it. He already knows about this whole mess and is still deciding whether to suspend me for a couple weeks. Again." John began to feel apprehensive about where all this was going. He could completely see Lestrade's point, but it only seemed to be leading to one conclusion, and if so that conclusion would be devastating to Sherlock. John had tried not to think too much about Sherlock's future work, being more concerned with his friend actually getting well. But of course Sherlock wouldn't be so quick to drop the subject. Finally the inspector said, "I don't know what to tell you, Sherlock. I really don't. I can't get away with using you on cases now. It's just not allowed. The mess we went through retrying cases you'd helped with..." He rubbed his forehead. "I really shouldn't have brought this up. You should be resting. God knows the last thing you need is to get worked up."

"Oh, well I'm sure I won't now that you've put me so at ease," Sherlock spat back. Changing tactics swiftly, he took a breath and asked, "Is it the drugs? Is that the problem?"

"Part of it," Lestrade conceded, but John could clearly hear the 'but...' in his tone. The real problem, John suspected, was that Sherlock's position had absolutely no standing legally. This had become clear in the past 18 months. They'd seen cases he'd worked on fall apart at the seams, not just because people doubted his veracity but because they questioned why the chain of evidence and confidential police information had been accessed by a private citizen in the first place. John met Lestrade's eyes, and knew he was right. The inspector looked hopeless, and at some point the hard reality would have to come out. It wouldn't have mattered if Sherlock had never touched a drug in his life. He was a massive liability, and Scotland Yard wasn't going to let him work on any of their cases again, full stop. Sherlock must have realised this about the same time John did, because he looked away, out the window, his breath hitching, his jaw clenched, trying desperately to put on a brave face and brace himself for the news, but evidently unable to actually look at Lestrade while he said it.

John closed his eyes a moment. What could they possibly do, lie to Sherlock? He'd seen this case as his one chance to redeem himself, had thrown absolutely everything into it, had nearly died trying to bring closure to it. And for what? Whatever Sherlock had assumed would happen clearly never had a chance. John liked to think that Lestrade hadn't known that at the time, because if he had and had still led Sherlock on, let him help out with parts of the case, John would never forgive him. Sherlock could try to rebuild a private case business. But those could never be nearly as interesting to Sherlock as murders. And his reputation was still seemingly irreparably tarnished, so even private work might be impossible.

When John opened his eyes, he realised Lestrade and Mary were both looking to him to say something to Sherlock, who had leaned back heavily in his bed, his eyes focused on the far wall, flicking back and forth as no doubt countless scenarios went through his head. Sherlock's jaw was clenched tightly shut, but still visibly trembling. John didn't know what he was expected to say. He felt just as hopeless as his friend looked. The best he could hope for was trying to focus Sherlock's mind on something else. He needed something positive or something interesting or-

Not Mycroft Holmes appearing in the doorway, looking as put together and aloof as always. John couldn't very well chuck the man out with telekinesis before Sherlock saw him. Instead, he could only watch like a man standing frozen in front of an oncoming train as the elder Holmes stepped into the room. "If I may-" he began.

The sound of Mycroft's voice caused Sherlock's head to snap instantly in his brother's direction. The younger Holmes went from white to red in a few seconds. "Brilliant, just what I needed. Come to gloat now that I'm awake to hear it, have you?" Sherlock sneered viciously, though John could see it was just barely hiding the pain in his voice. Sherlock pulled his arms out from under the covers and lifted them, displaying the nearly faded track marks. "Perhaps this is what you're looking for. Physical proof of how much better you are than your worthless junkie brother? If only mother and father were alive to congratulate us on fulfilling their expectations." Everyone had grown still and silent, all of them but Mycroft visibly wincing at Sherlock's words. For John's part he desperately wanted to interrupt but had no idea what to say.

Pointing to a more vivid purple mark on his left arm, Sherlock kept going, his tone powerfully acidic. "I don't know if you heard, but this one here's from just last night. Shot up in someone else's hotel room and wound up almost dying on a boat deck. Couldn't even stay clean for a month. It really is a shame you weren't able to witness some of my finer moments while I was away, brother. You'd have really enjoyed those. And now," Sherlock's tone grew even more self-deprecating as he motioned angrily toward Lestrade. "You're just in time to hear Inspector Lestrade tell me Scotland Yard won't let me work on any more cases. And no one's going to hire me privately because of the work you and Moriarty did to smear my name, so I essentially have nothing left to do with my pathetic life. I'm sure you have all sorts of commentary on how this is what I get for being so difficult to be around, that no one's willing to stand up for me when the time comes and maybe they would if only I weren't such a prick." Sherlock's voice sounded surprisingly more pained and angry as he said lowly, "Is that enough humiliation for you, Mycroft? Do you feel proud of your part in it?"

The air was thick with tension, and the looks of keen pain on Lestrade and Mary's faces reflected John's own feelings. Only his was mixed with an anger towards Mycroft that he shared completely with Sherlock. In fact, as Sherlock talked, as the depth of his shame and despair became more and more obvious, John had to restrain himself from going around the bed, grabbing Mycroft, and tossing him bodily out of the room. This was the last thing Sherlock needed right now, mentally or physically. As it was, no one said anything for several seconds.

Then Mycroft, who'd remained mostly stoic throughout Sherlock's rant, asked, "Are you finished yet?" When Sherlock only glowered back at him, gnashing his teeth together in silent rage, Mycroft took that as his permission to keep going. "Your addiction doesn't shock me and it certainly doesn't please me, Sherlock. You've made many poor choices in your life, and those are yours alone." John thought Sherlock might actually jump off the bed and throttle his brother, if such a thing were possible for someone in his weakened condition. John put a steadying hand on his friend's shoulder. Mycroft continued, "But whatever you may think of me, I do care about you. You have no way of understanding how difficult it is to see your baby brother waste his life and his brilliance in such a vain and destructive pursuit of a measure of happiness." Sherlock flinched at that. Mycroft glanced at the others. "I'll say this with your friends here because they deserve to know, and you deserve to be defended to them." Mycroft's eyes fell back on Sherlock, and his expression and tone softened ever so slightly. "What happened with Jim Moriarty was entirely my fault." Sherlock straightened a little at that, and so did John. Since when had Mycroft ever taken responsibility and willingly conceded an argument? John realised how serious the man must be, and he slowly let go of Sherlock's shoulder.

Mycroft continued, "Oh, I'm certain someone of his intellect and connections could have found ways to manipulate you, toy with you. But his specific end game and the personal humiliation that came with it was only possible because I betrayed you. Granted, I genuinely thought it would protect the lives of British citizens to trade that information with Moriarty. I want you to understand that I acted out of foolishness, not vindictiveness. It was never my intention to see any of that information made public."

"You shouldn't have given that information to anyone," Sherlock replied, sounding more hurt than angry. John was a little surprised at that. Normally Sherlock was one to fight fire with fire, to use his deductive skills to cut the other party deeply. But he wasn't even attempting to hide how much Mycroft's actions had wounded him. "Even if it had only been Moriarty, if he'd never shared any of it, what were you thinking? That it was all right if he knew my complete arrest record, the schools I'd been tossed out of, psychiatrists I was forced to see as a child, all about my drug addiction, even about Irene and my sexual history-"

"If you'll recall," Mycroft interrupted. "He already knew about that. In fact, he's the one who told Miss Adler of your naïveté in order to facilitate her manipulation of you." Sherlock flinched at that reminder, but said nothing. "But regardless, yes, it was wrong of me to give anyone the information I did. Not primarily because it could be used against you, but because I know that you're an extremely private person." Mycroft looked steadily at his brother, "In any case, I'm sorry."

Everyone seemed surprised in their own way at the admission, perhaps even a little moved. Frankly, even John felt he couldn't harbour the same degree of hatred for Mycroft as he had just a few minutes ago. Nothing excused his actions, of course, nor provided a solution to Sherlock's current predicament, but John did believe that Mycroft hadn't meant to be malicious. And being as pompous and insufferable as he was, it couldn't have been easy for Mycroft to make such a confession to Sherlock. John looked over at his friend, who had his jaw clenched tightly, looking to be fighting an internal war.

Tightly, Sherlock said, "You're a bloody idiot, Mycroft. So because you realise you've ruined my life and feel bad about it, I'm supposed to forgive you?"

Looking down, Mycroft replied, "No, I don't expect that. But I do hope that you are smart enough not to use this as an excuse to sever ties with your only remaining family member. Or, especially with perhaps the only person who can help you out of your predicament."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "What, pay for rehab again?" he asked guardedly.

"Of course. Are you offering to go?" Mycroft asked, his eyebrows arching slightly. John had got the impression that rehab hadn't been Sherlock's idea in the past, but more something forced on him after the incident with Sally Donovan's case.

Reluctantly, Sherlock said, "I don't want to be institutionalised again. I can't stand being locked up and watched like a child. But..." he struggled a moment, seeming unsure of how much he was willing to say about his recent drug use. In the end, not much, at least not in front of his brother, John noted. Sherlock simply said, "A program of some sort might help. Since apparently it doesn't work on my own… Outpatient. And something private, not the NHS."

"Naturally," Mycroft said.

"Though I'm loathe to take your money for it," Sherlock grumbled.

"Yet you've always seemed perfectly willing to spend my money on the drugs themselves," Mycroft noted, evidently unable to avoid being snarky about something. Sherlock glared at him. After a second, Mycroft seemed to remember that he was supposed to be contrite at the moment. Breaking their staring contest, he said, "At any rate, that isn't actually what I meant about helping you. I was referring to your dilemma with Scotland Yard."

That got everyone's attention. Sherlock seemed particularly on edge as he asked, "What do you mean?" There was a note of warning in his voice, and John understood its meaning because he had the same twisted feeling in his own stomach. If Mycroft was offering any kind of false hope, he'd strangle him.

"Some of my superiors and associates are indebted to you for reasons I'm sure you're aware of," Mycroft began, giving Sherlock a significant look. And Sherlock did seem to understand, nodding curtly. Which of course only made John wonder what the hell they meant. "I've spoken with them on your behalf, and they're willing to appoint you as a special investigator working in concert with Scotland Yard. Before you object," Mycroft said, putting up a hand, "realise that this is quite literally the only way for you to continue your work without bringing undue scrutiny down upon the police. And I'm sure they're unwilling to continue working with you without such safeguards. It isn't as though you'd have an office. We also can't pay you, so you'd need to continue your private case work. Their sole stipulation is that you provide a written account of each official police case you consult on." Sherlock was flexing his jaw and blinking in consideration, looking as though he understood what Mycroft was saying but also as though he was quite unhappy about it anyway. The elder Holmes added quietly, "Think very carefully about whether your health and happiness or your pride is of more importance to you, Sherlock."

That seemed to anger Sherlock for a moment, but whatever usual resistances he had were also clearly lowered by the ordeal he'd been through. Even he couldn't be stubborn enough to pass up an offer like that, John thought. He was on the verge of just saying yes for his friend when Sherlock relented, huffing, "Fine." In spite of his silent protestations, Sherlock did seem to relax quite a bit once he'd gotten the humbling part over with. And a glance at his vitals monitor showed his heart rate was slowing. Thank God, John thought. He really didn't know what Sherlock was going to do otherwise, and suspected the answer couldn't be anything good. But before John could express his relief, Sherlock added, "And what about John?"

Mycroft drew a deep breath, his eyes flicking over to John's for a moment. The question in them was obvious, and John felt suddenly put on the spot. He hadn't had any time to think about this. Sherlock had only shown up alive again a few days ago. John wasn't sure he should or even could rejoin his friend in their old work. Now he had Mary to think about, both in terms of the danger but also in the practical matter of needing the extra income to support someone who wasn't presently able to work. As bad as John felt about his earlier fight with Sherlock, the financial concerns John had expressed had been true and hadn't magically gone away in the last 24 hours. If anything, now that he and Mary were engaged and she wasn't destined to be a millionaire after all, it seemed an even more serious consideration. Sensing John's conflict, Mycroft looked back to his brother and replied facilely, "I hadn't thought to ask about John. I'm not sure whether they'll agree to that, frankly. And I'm afraid the Yard won't allow him on cases otherwise. I'll check with them and let you know."

"You mean you'll ask John privately if he even wants to, that way you can spare my feelings and say it was simply impossible to arrange if he decides he doesn't," Sherlock deduced, glancing over at John. The doctor felt his cheeks warming, because of course that had been precisely what the silent exchange between him and Mycroft had been about. John found himself looking over at Mary in question, hoping desperately that she might have an answer or a tactful way of talking through the difficult issue. Her eyes were full of understanding, and she seemed to be searching for something to say when Sherlock let out a long, irritated sigh. "Oh, God. The wavering is much more annoying than just saying you aren't going to do it." Pained, John looked down at his friend, and found Sherlock's eyes fixed on the far wall. "You've already stated your reasons. I don't really care to hear them again."

John's throat constricted painfully at the memory of their fight. True, he'd wound up asserting all the reasons he couldn't go back to working with Sherlock. But frankly, he knew he still wanted to. He just couldn't figure out how to make it work, practically speaking. Seeing how tight and barely controlled his Sherlock's voice and tone were, though, John recalled what he'd thought about giving him false hope. Perhaps John could talk to Mary, and maybe there would be a way to work something out... but it would be unreasonably cruel to string Sherlock along on the small chance that it might work out. Respecting his friend's wishes, John dropped the subject for now. Instead, he had been reminded of the other thing that had stood out from that fight, the thing that had made him feel so at fault when Sherlock had shown up high. Perhaps he shouldn't bring it up, should let the poor man get some rest…

But John couldn't help it. He couldn't sit on this any longer. "When we were talking back at 221B, you said something about how you'd put your life on hold for my sake. What did you mean by that?"

Sherlock glanced up at John, his gaze lingering a moment before he looked back at the wall. "Nothing."

"Oh, come now Sherlock. Now you're simply being deliberately difficult," Mycroft chided.

Sherlock shot him a look. "This isn't any of your business."

"No, you only forced me to lie about your death to your friends. And not to mention bringing poor Ms. Hooper into things." Mycroft seemed to sense that Sherlock was about to object, so he added, "Really, do you believe they're ever going to stop wondering? You'll have to tell them eventually. Make everyone's lives, including your own, a bit easier for once instead of more difficult."

Sherlock ground his teeth and closed his eyes. John for once agreed with Mycroft, and desperately hoped Sherlock would say something. Lestrade and Mary both seemed to be all ears as well. Finally, Sherlock opened his eyes, staring at Mycroft coldly. "Well, would you at least leave us alone?"

"Of course," Mycroft said, inclining his head. "In fact, I have business to return to." He headed for the door, stopping with it half opened to say, "I'm pleased you're not dead." Then he turned and exited, causing Sherlock to sigh in relief and lean back against the bed for the first time since his brother had entered. He took a few deep breaths, looking incredibly weary.

"You were about to say...?" Lestrade prompted, rubbing at the corner of one eye in exasperation.

Sighing, then taking a deep breath, Sherlock began speaking in a matter of fact tone. "As I told John already, I had figured out based on deliberate hints that Moriarty's endgame would lead to him forcing me to commit suicide, to have a literal 'fall', completing the narrative he'd set up about me being a disgraced fraud. I think he wanted me to figure it out. It was merely a game to him. But knowing the end of that game ahead of time, I was able to choose the place and set up the means to both survive the jump and convince everyone I was dead. The particulars I've been over with John, you can explain it to them," Sherlock said, waving weakly at Lestrade and Mary, who were exchanging confused looks.

Lestrade folded his arms and said, "Okay, I get all that. But you can't force someone to commit suicide, can you?"

"Oh? And how did that work out for the victims of that cabbie serial killer a few years back?" Sherlock said pointedly, causing Lestrade to swallow in chagrin. Shaking his head, Sherlock said, "Of course you can't do it by putting a gun to someone's head. 'Jump off this roof or I'll shoot you'. In fact, I'd wager the shot would be far less terrifying to most. If, however, you put the gun to someone else's head..." here Sherlock trailed off, wavering for the first time.

John held his breath as the realisation hit him. What Sherlock must have meant by 'I did it for you'… "No," he breathed out quietly.

Sherlock eyed John, realising he'd worked it out. He nodded, and John gripped the railing of the bed tightly. The realisation was like suddenly becoming aware of the turning of the world and fearing he was going to fall off. Looking down, Sherlock said, "Moriarty had his three best marksmen trained on John, Mrs. Hudson, and Inspector Lestrade. Either I jumped or you all would die."

"Oh my God," Lestrade said, closing his eyes tightly. Mary was looking at Sherlock in open awe.

And John, well... he was feeling almost exactly as he had in the wake of Sherlock's supposed death. Every chance he'd passed up to tell Sherlock what his friendship meant and every stinging remark he'd made about his friend's supposed callous inhumanity were thrown back at John, slicing deeply into his chest. For a moment, he felt as if he were the one whose heart might stop. His throat was constricting and quickly started burning with swallowed tears. When John looked up, he saw that Lestrade looked ill and Mary was squeezing Sherlock's shin tightly through the hospital blanket, giving him the deepest look of gratitude imaginable. Feeling his eyes stinging with what were for him very rarely shed tears, John realised he didn't give a shit. He hadn't cried at Sherlock's funeral, he had barely cried on the boat when Sherlock had nearly died again. But what the hell was the point of being so composed? Maybe what they both needed was to be a little less proud and a little less afraid of letting someone else see they were human, the same as everyone else.

"Sherlock," John said, and when his friend looked over and saw that John was crying, he seemed instantly uncomfortable. Not that John was going to let that or anything else stop him from saying what he needed to now. "You're the best friend I could ever have hoped for. You're the best man I know, and as human as any person I've ever met. And you have been from the start, even when I didn't see it. I was alone, I was depressed, and you," John swallowed hard, feeling more tears stinging his eyes. Sherlock was lying completely still as he let John talk. "You saved my life. You pulled me out of that. Then you gave me a purpose, something to care about. And all when we were practically strangers." John took a shuddering breath, feeling the weight of those unspoken words that had been burdening him for a year and a half lifting off his chest. Sherlock looked decidedly uncertain of all this praise, and John knew it was a completely foreign experience for the poor sod. Wiping at his eyes, John added, "You're bloody difficult sometimes. Maybe even most of the time. But sometimes I think you quite like that."

That evidently set Sherlock a little more at ease, because his lips quirked up as he replied, "Perhaps."

But if Sherlock thought he was about to be let off the hook, Lestrade was having none of that. The inspector had been listening to John's words, and looking contemplative. Now he said, "Sherlock, I've known you a long time. I know the sort of things you've been through, the things you've done. The drugs and all that..." Sherlock's eyes snapped up to meet the inspector's. "But I've supported you anyway. Because I've always thought you were stronger than all that."

Sherlock swallowed. "Well evidently you were wrong, judging by our current surroundings," he said thickly.

But Lestrade shook his head. "No, I wasn't. You're in here for the same reason a lot of people are: you've got a disease. That doesn't make you a bad person; it just makes you a person." Sherlock looked like he was mulling that statement over. Truly, he seemed overwhelmed by this sudden outpouring of sentiment. John thought he even looked slightly annoyed by it. It occurred to John that this reaction might have been one reason Sherlock hadn't wanted to say anything, but he didn't give a damn. He wasn't going to pretend not to care that his friend had put himself through hell to save their lives. Lestrade seemed bent on continuing as well. "I told John once that I kept working with you because you were a great man and I hoped some day you'd be a good one as well." Then the inspector held out his hand. "You're a good man, Sherlock. And I'll be proud to keep working with you."

Sherlock hesitated momentarily before taking Lestrade's hand, shaking it firmly, and replying, "Thank you, Greg." Lestrade and John exchanged glances at the use of the inspector's first name.

Sherlock let go of Lestrade's hand, then slowly ran both his hands over his face. As he did, Mary said, "You realise you've saved the lives of everyone in this room, don't you?"

"God, yes, I understand," Sherlock groaned in exasperation. "And you've saved mine and it's all quite touching. Are we done, then? Because I'm not sure how much more sentiment I can bear at the moment."

Mary smiled knowingly and John laughed, wiping the rest of the tears from his eyes. "Yeah, sorry to have put you through the torture of telling you things we like about you." He gave Sherlock a hard look, and considered whether he really wanted to ask the next question. But he had to know. There had been too many hints for John not to ask. "What exactly were you doing, then, before you were able to come back to London?"

Sherlock's features grew tight, and it was clear he was fighting against some unpleasant memories. "If Moriarty's network found out I was still alive, they'd kill you all. So it was either live in secret for the rest of my life or eliminate the threat. Officially it was a sanctioned SIS operation with funding and some information from Mycroft... though of course if I'd been discovered they would have disavowed me." Lestrade's eyebrows flew up at that, and he gave John a questioning look. But John wasn't surprised, only grimly understanding. He'd seen how vicious and instinctively violent Sherlock had become. That wasn't just the drugs. Still, having it confirmed, knowing that Sherlock had been effectively hunting a group of dangerous killers made John feel sick. He knew Sherlock would never tell him exactly what he'd done, and John wasn't going to ask. He'd been to war, just as Sherlock now had. John knew some things were better left unsaid.

"Just one thing, though," John asked, switching topics. Sherlock sighed but didn't interrupt. "Why the hell didn't you just tell us all this when you first came back?"

"Because I didn't want this," Sherlock waved around at them, biting his lip in frustration. "I didn't want all my relationships to be based on a feeling of obligation. I've had some experiences that have made me realise just how destructive that can be," he noted, cryptically. Blinking a few times as if to clear some memory, Sherlock added dismissively, "And anyway, don't self-sacrificing acts lose much of their value if you turn around and boast about them?"

John was astonished at just how unused to or unwilling to believe people's praises Sherlock seemed to be. It had been one thing to hate press conferences and public gifts from grateful clients. But to squirm at private compliments was different. Sherlock was most likely unused to them. How many people had assumed, as John had before the business with Irene, that Sherlock was incapable of possessing sentiment just because he didn't fully understand or like it? But Sherlock had had enough of serious proclamations, it seemed. Instead of making another, John simply shook his head and muttered, "Whatever you say, Snape."

Sherlock's brow furrowed in indignation. "What?" he asked, and John was sure he was confused by the reference until he added, "Snape was self-effacing because he didn't want people to know he was still harbouring some stupid school boy crush on a dead woman. I was merely trying to avoid annoying declarations. It's hardly the same."

John, Mary, and Lestrade all exchanged surprised, bemused expressions. John felt his mouth turning up in a smirk. "You've read Harry Potter?"

"It was research for a case," Sherlock huffed. "Tedious research. Such obvious mysteries. How could anyone not realise someone called Lupin was a werewolf? Honestly, do they not teach taxonomy in biology class any more?"

John bit his lip to keep from laughing, and saw Lestrade coughing suspiciously into his fist. "And you didn't delete it because it might come in handy in future cases, I assume," John said with a nod of faux understanding.

"Precisely. Given the disproportionately high sales of the books, the series is likely to be widely referenced for another eight years or so. It's information worth hanging onto for now," Sherlock replied. He sighed, looking a little perturbed. "You know, I don't think I've eaten in a few days. I wonder if I ought to have something," he pondered, the way most people wondered if they ought to call an old university mate over for drinks sometime.

"How about John and I go get you something," Mary suggested, giving John a pointed look. To Sherlock, she said, "So you don't have to eat whatever dreadful stuff they have here. And so you can have a moment with everyone out of your hair?"

Trust Mary to realise precisely what someone needed. Sherlock didn't even try to hide his exasperation as he replied, "Thank God. That's the best suggestion I've heard in ages."

"Well, I need to get back to Scotland Yard anyway. I'll be in touch," Lestrade said. Sherlock nodded, but didn't look at him as he exited.

Mary's estimation did seem to be correct. Sherlock really did seem desperate to be left alone for a while. John couldn't say he blamed him. "Chinese sound good?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied curtly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Now run along."

For once, John didn't take offence at Sherlock's blunt tone. It only made him smile, glad to know that some things would never change.

Chapter 23

Sherlock had spent nearly 60 hours in hospital by the time they finally agreed to let him go. Really he'd felt well enough to leave as soon as he'd woken up and been fully alert the day after his cardiac arrest. And he'd kept a close enough watch on his own vitals to know that they hadn't changed. He'd tried to explain to the doctors that, logically, they wouldn't. The cocaine had long since stopped affecting him and would be completely out of his system in a day or two. His heart rhythm had stabilised and it was perfectly capable of working on its own now. It clearly wasn't terribly weak or damaged. Still, they insisted they usually kept people at least three full days, which Sherlock wasn't sure he could stand. He'd told them over and over that he'd be staying with a doctor anyway, and wouldn't they like to be free of a coveted cardiac ward bed for some old sod with blocked arteries? Eventually he'd prevailed upon them to let him got the third afternoon he was there, though they'd reminded him over and over that he needed to go see a doctor and physical therapist back in London as soon as he was back. Sherlock had at least managed to get John and Mary to both leave and go to work the previous day under protestations of his weariness and desperate need for sleep.

He was tired, but mostly he'd just wanted to be left alone for a while. And in fact, he'd hardly slept at all the last two days as he lay there contemplating everything that had happened and where it left him now. Normally it was easier for Sherlock to think when he had someone to prattle on to aloud. But he'd found himself instead turning inward and quiet, which in his experience never led to much good in the long run. But it seemed impossible to avoid a little self-reflection and speculation given the circumstances. He couldn't talk to anyone about these things out loud. As he'd lain there awake all night, he'd tried to imagine where he would go from here.

The previous evening he'd been made to get up and walk around a little so as to avoid blood clots from inactivity, a standard hospitalisation procedure and one Sherlock didn't actually mind too much. The little stroll around the cardiac unit had been a nice break in the monotony of lying around without a case or any experiments to think about. That is, until Sherlock had come to the end of the hall and seen out the window. Then he'd noticed the small throng of press photographers and reporters gathered outside of the hospital. There were local outlets, but many more were from London. Word of his being alive had evidently travelled fast. And they must be interested if they were willing to camp outside for a few days. He hadn't been watching the news, so he didn't know whether he'd been mentioned yet or if they were waiting until they could accost him personally for that.

Sherlock had tried not to dwell on this too much, but now as he was finally changing into some regular clothes his brother had left with him and preparing to go home, it was back on Sherlock's mind. John was coming in one of Mycroft's cars to pick him up, which thankfully would offer a measure of privacy on the way back to London. But he'd still have to actually get into the car. Sherlock had grown used to moving about without anyone noticing him. Remembering his brief period of near fame and how annoying it had been to be paid attention he had never asked for, Sherlock was growing anxious. And the cocaine withdrawal itself made him incredibly antsy and emotionally strained as it was. It had been bad enough having the press follow him about when he'd just been a remarkable detective. Now that he was a remarkable detective turned fraud turned miraculously alive mysterious figure, he wagered it would be worse than ever.

He grimaced at the thought. He'd been on edge for frankly an entire year and a half, and now he'd just come out of a physically and emotionally exhausting couple of days of painful re-entry into the world. Sherlock had never wanted to be left alone more in his life. Even watchful and faithful John seemed to have realised how sincerely Sherlock needed some time alone to rest, hence not hanging around the hospital all weekend. But knowing the press and the public's insatiable desire for gossip, Sherlock thought he'd better get used to it the attention. He wondered how long they would trail him in and out of rehab every day before they got bored.

There was a soft knock at the door and Sherlock looked up from tying his shoes to see John easing the door open slowly. "You decent?" he asked.

"Yes, come in," Sherlock replied, finishing with his laces and standing. He felt wobbly and his limbs were heavy with exhaustion, but seeing John and knowing he was getting out of here brought him a small burst of energy.

"You get any sleep this weekend?" John asked, eyeing his friend with obvious worry. Sherlock guessed he mustn't look much better than when John had left.

"Six or seven hours a night," Sherlock lied as he picked his long black coat up from the couch and started putting it on. "Did you?"

"God, yeah," John said, rubbing a hand through his hair. "Think I slept 12 hours when I got back from seeing you here. And almost that many after work last night. I feel like I've been run through a meat grinder." He gave Sherlock a chagrined look. "Well, I don't need to tell you. Obviously you've been through much worse. Oh," John reached into his coat pocket, seeming to remember something. He held out a pill bottle. "Before I forget. Got this filled for you. I didn't know if they gave you anything here for the anxiety or…" he trailed off awkwardly. Clearly even with his newly stated concern for Sherlock's addiction recovery, this was all a bit new and uncomfortable to John.

Sherlock took the bottle and looked at it a moment. He recalled what rehab had been like before and knew this was only the beginning of a long road. He opened the bottle and popped one of the pills in his mouth before swallowing it down with some water from his bedside table. Putting the bottle back in his pocket, he nodded to John a little awkwardly. "Thank you," he said, not quite looking John in the eye as he turned up the collar of his coat. It had always been especially difficult for him to talk to or even acknowledge his addiction to anyone, let alone accept help with it.

"Yeah, no problem," John replied. "It might help in the short term anyway. How are you feeling?"

Sherlock knew he was referring to cocaine withdrawal, and replied curtly, "Fine for now. Anxiety might get worse. The Valium should help with that. It was only one hit…"

"Right, but it's been a lot more than that recently. I know you spent a couple weeks getting clean but, well…" John insinuated.

"Yes," Sherlock conceded. Silence fell over the room.

The awkward tension filling the air between them must have got to John as much as it was getting to Sherlock, because thankfully the doctor clapped his hands together and said, "Okay, let's get you checked out of here so we can get the hell out of this town and back to London."

Sherlock nodded silently, noting that John hadn't said 'back home'. He wasn't sure he should read anything into that, but in any case it hardly needed to be pointed out that he probably couldn't stay with John and Mary at 221B for very long. They hadn't actually said so, but Sherlock inferred that most engaged people didn't want another person hanging around their flat all the time. They didn't even have a spare bedroom, after all. As Sherlock followed his friend out of the room and into the lift, he turned his thoughts to what lay ahead. He'd be able to work with Scotland Yard again, which might have altered Mycroft's status from complete estrangement back to an merely intense dislike in Sherlock's mind. And he'd actually wound up feeling relieved to tell John and Lestrade why he'd faked his death. It had seemed to lift a burden from his shoulders he hadn't realised was there. In any case, it had certainly prompted them to display shocking levels of affection and goodwill towards him, which even Sherlock had to admit felt all right. And they'd all made clear their desire to support him through drug rehabilitation…

But then what? The bare truth of it, when you removed all the sentiment and the euphoric relief of his not being dead, was that Sherlock had a very difficult task before him. He tried to think of it logically, in a step by step manner. First he'd get through physical rehabilitation and drug rehab and get back to working on cases. Hopefully people would be willing to hire him for private work again. He loathed the idea of asking Mycroft for more financial help, and vowed not to take any more of that. It was bad enough being indebted to him for working on this special relationship with the Yard. But as for the work, he'd be doing that alone again, since it had become clear that John felt he couldn't go back to working with Sherlock for a variety of practical reasons. Of course it was a devastating blow, but he'd make do and there was no use arguing it further. They were still friends, after all. They'd see each other and… do the things friends did with one another, he supposed. Which was what, exactly? Sherlock thought of John going down to the pub to have drinks and watch football with Stamford. The football didn't interest Sherlock in the least, but he supposed he could talk over his cases with John and pretend to listen as his friend rambled on about married life. Sherlock had no experience in this normal sort of friendship but… he could try his best. What other choice did he have, really?

Sherlock sighed and closed his eyes a moment, leaning his head against the back of the lift. John had remained respectfully silent, probably presuming that Sherlock was too exhausted to chat. Which was just as well, since he hardly wanted to express any of this to John. What would his friend say if he knew how strong the twisting feeling of doubt was growing in Sherlock's chest? Never mind that Sherlock hadn't been able to stay sober for any long stretches of his adult life before he'd started rooming with John. That didn't mean it was impossible. He'd have John's support still, even if more from a distance. It wasn't how he'd pictured his return when he'd been living in secret, but it was what he had. He'd just have to throw himself fully into the work and not slow down. That was the one way he might succeed, he reasoned, even as he began to feel a cold pit growing in his stomach. Sherlock swallowed hard, opened his eyes as the lift came to a stop on the ground floor, and strode out with as much determination as he could muster.

As Sherlock approached the front desk, he could see the throngs of reporters being held at bay just outside the front door. Luckily they didn't have a very good angle on him for photos as he filled out his paperwork. But just as he handed the paper over to the charge nurse and he and John both turned in the direction of the exit, they were met with an even worse sight, if that were possible.

"Mr. Holmes," Sally Donovan said tightly, her arms folded and her whole stance indicating she very much didn't want to be there. She was holding a folder and an evidence bag. "I need to speak with you before you go."

"How is it," John began, incredulously, "that you seem to show up at the worst possible times?"

"Oh that's hardly fair, John," Sherlock remarked. "At least she wasn't waiting in the ambulance to slap a pair of handcuffs on me." He narrowed his eyes at Donovan. "What is it? I'd rather like to be on my way."

Donovan remained cool and composed, though clearly annoyed at this whole business. "I've got a statement you need to sign. Everything you saw and deduced," she paused a little on the term, grinding her teeth as if trying not to roll her eyes. "Look, Lestrade wrote it all up so you didn't have to. And I figured you'd rather go over it here than at your flat or Scotland Yard."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that. He really didn't want to have to speak to Donovan in either of those places. "A surprisingly accurate perception," he said blithely. "Why not just have Lestrade bring it by?"

"Believe me, I would have done, but I still have one thing to ask you about," she said, seeming to resent her own words. Ah, of course. She would absolutely abhor having to ask Sherlock for information in her case. That perked him up a bit. This might actually be a little enjoyable.

Exchanging looks with John, Sherlock smirked at Sally. "Of course. I'm always willing to assist when the Yard is out of their depth."

Sherlock noticed John smiling and certainly noticed Donovan glowering at the remark. "In here," she said with a curt nod as she led them into the doctor's lounge for some privacy. As Sherlock entered, Sally had her back turned to him, setting some papers out on the table. Then she turned around and handed him a pen. "Look over these documents to see that they accurately represent your recollection of events."

Sherlock leaned on the table and started reading through the papers, marking wherever he noticed a small but important discrepancy. All in all, Lestrade's account wasn't bad. It was terribly wordy and filled with unnecessary adjectives, but the content seemed to represent Sherlock's investigation in a more or less accurate manner.

As Sherlock was reading through the account, John remarked to Donovan, "So, I've given my account. Now you have Sherlock's. Does that mean we'll get to see your version of events, Inspector Donovan? Will you regale us with the story of how you followed Sherlock's investigation around, waiting for him to discover and apprehend the suspects?"

Sherlock couldn't help glancing up and giving John a small smirk of appreciation. Normally John tried to steer clear of Donovan, to simply ignore her remarks and interference. And he'd certainly never deliberately antagonised her. But Sherlock couldn't say he was unhappy with his friend's newfound outspokenness. Not at all. Signing the last page, Sherlock stood and joined John in staring down the police inspector, who was looking decidedly uncomfortable. "Yes, I think John's right. It should be an interesting read," Sherlock mused. "Though personally I'd like to hear the part where she theorizes that I committed the crimes myself. After all, this is one of my more elaborate long term schemes. It began back when I was 15 and convinced a man in Cambodia to poison his best friend so he could start a drug business," Sherlock commented sardonically.

Donovan shifted uncomfortably, swallowing in annoyance. Clearly there was little she could say to that. Looking away from the men for a second, she composed herself before replying, "Lestrade gave me the rundown of why you faked your death and everything else, including saving Ms. Morstan from her kidnappers." She bit her lip, as if this admission of Sherlock having done something good cost her a great deal. And Sherlock had to admit, that unexpectedly felt very good. Even if he hadn't proved himself to the public at large yet, it was almost more rewarding to humble Sally Donovan. Clearing her throat, she added, "And the SIS sent us an official report about that Moriarty guy. Evidently he really was behind all of those things. It's incredible that you managed to attract the attention of someone who was an even bigger creep than you," she grumbled, seemingly unable to remain completely professional towards Sherlock. He and John both stared back at her, unblinking, and she added, "It seems from the report that Moriarty knew exactly how to play people. And I wasn't alone in that. He knew how to play you as well."

"No, you're right about that," Sherlock said, taking a step towards Donovan. "He knew how to manipulate each person's actions splendidly. For instance, he knew that I would die for my friends, just as he knew that you would jump to the most illogical explanation of my intellectual abilities possible out of petty spite." He calmly held the stack of papers back out to her.

The look of abject mortification on Sally Donovan's face in that moment was something Sherlock decided he would never delete from his memory. This was the sort of moment one could return to in times of trouble to lift his spirits, Sherlock thought. Judging by the satisfied smirk on John's face, his friend thought something along the same lines. It took Sally a good ten seconds to compose herself enough to take the papers from Sherlock and return them to her folder. It took her ten more to put some words together. "Like I said, I still have one thing for you to look at," she said, attempting professionalism. She reached into the evidence bag and pulled out a small paper object, then handed it over to Sherlock.

The red patterned back was recognizable, though crisscrossed with scribbles and drawings in ink. It was well worn and faded, but when he turned it over, the face of the card was still visible – the four of diamonds. "Is that…?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock said, turning it over slowly in his hand. "This card matches Michael Morstan's set. It's the four of diamonds that went missing the last time he played cards down at the pub in Cambodia. With the four conspirators, obviously." To Donovan, he said rather than asked, "You found this on Jonathan Small."

She nodded reluctantly. "Yeah. What is it? Besides a four of diamonds card, obviously. It's clearly old and has been carried around in someone's wallet for a long time. And," she ventured uncertainly, "I remember you having a four of diamonds card on you when we searched you at Bart Sholto's place."

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. "Yet you didn't jump to the conclusion that this was a sign of one of my master plans. We may make a detective of you yet," he remarked dryly, and Donovan chewed the inside of her cheek in annoyance. Showing the back of the card to both John and Sally, Sherlock said, "You see these lines and arrows? How this bit's been darkened? And this X marking here?"

John stared at the card back, his brow furrowing. Glancing up at Sherlock he said tentatively, "It's a map. That's the river near the pub. And those markings must indicate distances. Obviously the X marks the location of the potential mine they'd found."

Sherlock beamed at John proudly. "Precisely. The four conspirators needed to give Sholto and Morstan a map, but they likely didn't have any other paper on them. But there were Morstan's cards. And evidently one of them thought it was quite clever, since they thought they were showing these men to a fantastic ruby mining opportunity, to use the four of diamonds as their sign, if you will."

"So," Sally ventured, "Grioux left a four of diamonds at the scene of Bart Sholto's death… but Small'd been carrying this original one with him all the while?"

"Through a Cambodian prison?" Sherlock scoffed. "No, clearly they weren't the ones holding onto it. That would make no sense at all. They gave the card to Timothy Sholto as a map, and he kept it as a sick sort of trophy. When Small killed him in his hospital room a month ago, he didn't leave a card because he took this one out of Major Sholto's wallet instead. Reclaiming it as a symbol of what he and his friends hoped to accomplish." Sherlock held the card up, turning it over thoughtfully a few times. "Still, as trite and misguided as they might have been, the four did manage to remain true to their bond of friendship. Even thousands of miles apart, they refused to betray one another. For all the good it will do them now." He handed the card back to Sally.

"Is that everything then?" John asked. "Because if you hadn't noticed, the man's gone into cardiac arrest recently and should probably be at home resting now." Something about his use of the word 'home' this time constricted Sherlock's throat, albeit briefly. Evidently vain hope was something difficult to kill.

"That's all I need," Donovan said, zipping the card back into the evidence bag. She gave Sherlock a look. "Suppose I won't be able to avoid you entirely, but all the same, stay away from my cases."

Sherlock sighed internally. It was really quite petty and counterproductive for Donovan to maintain this stance towards him. He perfectly understood its origins. No, he couldn't even blame her for how she'd felt towards him the last time he'd been shipped off to rehab. That had been an incredibly low point for Sherlock and it had, in fairness, been quite damaging to Sally's career. Yet here she was now, having made the rank of Detective Inspector. And here he was, having been cleared of all charges and appointed as a special investigator. In theory, there was no reason he shouldn't be able to help Donovan with her cases when she was in over her head, which was likely to be always. But he supposed people's pride could be a damned near impossible thing to erode.

Sherlock gave the recently minted inspector an appraising look. "You know, Sally," he mused, but without a hint of mockery, "You really did have promise, as far as Scotland Yard 'promise' goes at any rate." It was the nearest thing to a compliment he'd ever given her, and she looked deeply suspicious. He continued, "You had every reason to mistrust me in the past. There were times I wasn't a very trustworthy person. It's a shame you let yourself become so fixated on petty resentments. And now your idiotic zeal for a plainly irrational theory has put us both in a similar position: we both have to prove our worthiness again."

Evidently wary of Sherlock's almost conciliatory tone, Donovan stared him down. For a moment, her expression was one of contemplation and consideration. Then she turned steely again, setting her jaw and folding her arms across her chest in a challenging manner as she said, "And how long do you think you'll be able to keep up this bit? How long before the shine wears off and they realise at the end of the day you're still a psychopath who gets off on horrible murders? How long before you put a needle back in your arm? I'd give that six months at most."

Beside Sherlock, John straightened, his jaw clenching in obvious anger. Sensing his friend was about to unleash a volley of insults against the presumptuous inspector, Sherlock raised a hand to stop him. He felt surprisingly calm and unfazed by Donovan's remarks. In fact, he recalled how great it had felt to prove her wrong, and looked forward to doing so again. With Donovan and John's attentions on him, Sherlock said almost brightly, "Considering the frequency with which you are correct in your assumptions, Sally, I think I'll take that as an encouraging prediction." Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw John smile.

"I believe we're done here," Sherlock said with a confidence he didn't entirely feel. He knew as soon as they stepped out the door of the lounge and walked towards the entrance of the hospital, there would be people photographing him from every angle, shouting personal questions at him, squabbling over the bits of his carcass they could pick at. And he hadn't forgotten all the things that lay ahead for him, the deep seeded knowledge that he couldn't do this alone, that he'd never been able to, that he wouldn't have the same friendship with John he had relied on before. No, all of that was still swirling around Sherlock's brain. But for a second he'd tasted what it would feel like to prove all the naysayers wrong, including himself. It was just enough incentive to push him towards the door, with John following as he walked in Donovan's direction.

Sherlock was just about to walk past the police inspector and out the door when he stopped. "Oh, and one other thing you were wrong about, Inspector Donovan," he said, pausing to lean in so his head was alongside hers. In a low voice, he said, "I'm not a virgin."

As he straightened with a small smirk on his face, Sherlock observed both Donovan's blank shock and John's wide-eyed surprise with satisfaction. He couldn't quite place why it made him feel good, but it did. And he would hang on to any good feeling he could. Without another word, he swept out of the room, followed by a completely mute John.

Sherlock used his momentary confidence to propel himself out the front doors of the hospital and through the sea of flashing lights, intrusive shoving, and clamouring inquiries. The bodies closed in around Sherlock, and he might have felt as if he were drowning if not for the extra ease he'd got from getting the last word in with Sally. Or perhaps that was the Valium kicking in. Whatever the reason, Sherlock was mercifully able to push his way through the crowd and into the back seat of the waiting black car sent by Mycroft. John jumped in after him, shaking off one last photographer as he slammed the door shut.

It was only then that Sherlock realised he'd been holding his breath. He exhaled slowly, closed his eyes, and rubbed the bridge of his nose. All the anxious thoughts and worries from earlier were still there, creeping around the edge of his mind. But more than anything, as they pulled away from the hospital for their hour drive back to Baker Street, Sherlock was hit with an overwhelming sense of exhaustion. He leaned his head against the window, closing his eyes, just to catch his breath. To prepare himself for what lay ahead.

In a few minutes, he was sound asleep.

Notes:

This might be a good time to mention that the prequel 'one shot' I was going to write about Irene and Sherlock's encounters while he was away, his relapse into addiction, and a bunch of other deeply angsty character explorations plus *ahem* some other stuff... sort of became slightly bigger than that. About 50,000 words longer, in fact. Whoops ;)

So just offering that perhaps the silver lining to this story coming to a close is that I've secretly written and completed a whole other novella whilst I was finishing this novel... so if you do like my writing and a Mature rated black as pitch angsty character study story sounds like something you might be interested in, I'll be posting the first chapter when I post the final chapter of this. It's actually a series of 5 stories, some one shots and some multiple chapters, but they'll really work best if read together.

Chapter 24

Notes:

I did some restructuring, so there are now 26 chapters instead of 25.

Sherlock had slept soundly the whole way home from the hospital, and John was loathe to wake him. There was always the possibility of being snapped at but, honestly, he was mostly just concerned for his friend's well-being. John wagered Sherlock probably hadn't slept very much the last couple days. Few people could sleep well in hospital. And though Sherlock had been sedated the first night, that wasn't at all the same thing. And it wasn't just that Sherlock hadn't slept well in a few nights, but that John was starting to suspect he hadn't slept well in 18 months. There were the drugs for one thing, but since Sherlock had revealed the dangerous work he'd been doing, John had the feeling he would have been sleeping with one eye open much of the time. He wouldn't blame his friend if he slept for about a month straight.

Unfortunately, as the black car pulled into Baker Street, John saw a small cadre of reporters gathered around the front door. "Shit," he muttered. Apparently it wasn't just going to be at the hospital. This wasn't going to help. When the car pulled up to the curb, people instantly turned around with their cameras at the ready. John was very glad for the tinted windows at least. He reached over and shook Sherlock's shoulder. He wondered how long it would take for the detective to wake up, what with the Valium and the lack of sleep and general exhaustion.

To John's immense surprise, Sherlock bolted upright and awake almost instantly, his eyes snapping open as he looked around. Evidently John had triggered a fight or flight response, which was something he could certainly understand. Noticing the reporters outside the vehicle, Sherlock grimaced. "How long do you think this will go on?"

John looked out the window, then back at Sherlock. "Dunno. Tabloids tend to get bored after a while. Maybe a few weeks."

"Unless I slip up," Sherlock pointed out grimly. "Which of course is what everyone is waiting for. And you wonder why I don't mind the so-called 'news'."

"Shall we?" John asked, trying not to dwell on Sherlock's concerns. Sherlock waved a hand indifferently. Taking a deep breath, John pushed the car door open and shoved his way through the crowd. Sherlock followed closely in his wake, managing not to get pulled under. Frankly, knowing what Sherlock had been up to for a year and a half, John was more concerned about the safety of any reporters that got too close than he was about Sherlock. As soon as they got inside the door, John locked both deadbolts. When he turned around, Sherlock was leaning against the wall, running a hand over his face. "You all right?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, though he didn't really look it.

John didn't say anything. What could he say, really? That Sherlock ought to open up and have a chat about his feelings? John actually snorted out loud at that thought, earning a sideways glance from his friend. Then John turned and started up the stairs. Sherlock remained silent behind him as John unlocked the door and entered.

As soon as they got inside, John called out, "Hey, we're back."

Mary came out of the kitchen, smiling and giving John a kiss on the cheek. "Perfect timing, we just finished making some lunch. Thought you might be hungry, Sherlock."

Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but was cut off by an exclamation of happiness coming from Mrs. Hudson, who'd just stepped out of the kitchen. In the next instant, the older woman had thrown her arms around Sherlock and was squeezing him tightly. "Oh Sherlock, dear. I'd have come to the hospital only these two didn't even tell me you were there until yesterday. Then they said you'd most likely be wanting your rest."

"I dare say they were right," Sherlock replied, patting the enthusiastic woman a bit awkwardly on the back and shooting John a mildly grateful look over the top of her head. John had judged that Sherlock had very much wanted some privacy when he'd sent John and Mary back to work.

Unfortunately for Sherlock, he wasn't about to get out of this easily. Still holding onto him but leaning back so she could look up at Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson said more gravely, "I don't know how I could ever repay you. John told me what you did for me and him and the inspector."

"Did he?" Sherlock asked, looking over at John a bit nervously.

"Yeah," John replied. "And about how you had to go into hiding until the government was able to sort out the would-be assassins."

Sherlock blinked and gave John a grateful look. Mrs. Hudson shook her head. "That must have been dreadfully boring. I know how you always like to be up and running about. But thank goodness you're back with us now." She reached up and pulled Sherlock down so she could kiss him on the cheek. "I couldn't be more proud of you, Sherlock."

Sherlock closed his eyes a moment and kissed Mrs. Hudson on the top of her head. "I very much doubt that," he said, pulling out of the hug. She let him, with only a marginally curious expression at his statement.

Clearing his throat, John said, "Ah, before we have whatever lovely lunch the women have prepared, shouldn't we…" he glanced over at Mary and nodded slightly in the direction of her office. He wasn't sure there'd been time while he was off at work to finish sorting everything out as they'd planned, but Mary nodded in affirmation.

"Yes, Sherlock, come here a moment," Mary said, leading the way through the kitchen and down the short hallway to the door. Sherlock gave her a suspicious look.

She stepped aside, and John motioned toward the door. "Go on, then."

Staring at the two of them for a long moment, Sherlock finally turned back towards his old door and twisted the door knob. He opened it, taking a few steps inside before freezing. Stepping in behind his flabbergasted friend, John couldn't help smiling at the sight of the room, with all of Sherlock's old furniture and things moved back in. "I uh, wasn't sure where all of your books and things would go on the shelf, so some of it's in those boxes over there. But I think this is the general configuration," John said, eyeing his friend. Sherlock was remaining stock still, only his eyes moving as they darted about the room.

John was about to say something, to ask what Sherlock thought of having his room back, when he saw the look on his friend's face shift ever so slightly. And John recognised the immense relief in a way few others would. That was how John had felt himself when he'd limped off the plane at Heathrow and set his eyes on the familiar sights of the UK after having been wounded in Afghanistan. How many nights had he spent in the cold, godforsaken desert just wishing to be home? How many nights had Sherlock spent who knows where, wishing for the same? His friend had, after all, been away at his own kind of war. For once in his life, John felt he knew precisely how Sherlock felt about something. He kept his mouth shut and let his friend take in his old room.

Very slowly, Sherlock stepped forward and ran his hand down the dark oak at the foot of his bed. He then made his way to the mostly empty shelves against the far wall, picking up one of the books before setting it down absentmindedly. He turned around and seemed to notice the periodic table hanging on the wall behind John. That was one thing John had remembered and had made sure Mary knew where to put it. He'd always wondered why Sherlock needed a poster of the thing since he almost certainly had it memorized. But nevertheless, Sherlock looked quite pleased to see it. In fact, he looked downright overwhelmed as he walked back to the corner near John and sat down in his wing-backed chair. The detective closed his eyes and steepled his hands in front of his face. He stayed like that a few moments before opening his eyes and looking up at John. "Thank you," he said, in the most heartfelt tone that Sherlock Holmes possessed.

"It's no problem. We're glad to have you," John responded truthfully. He'd talked it over with Mary, and it hadn't even really been a decision. They weren't about to chuck Sherlock back onto the streets in his condition. Or when he'd lost so much time with his friend. Mary had agreed to just move her computer and office things up to their room, since John wasn't there much of the time when she'd be working on her dissertation during the day anyhow. He'd tried to impress upon her just how difficult it could be to share a flat with Sherlock, including body parts in the fridge, but she'd insisted she'd get used to it. They'd see about that, but still, John was immensely grateful to not have to fight about it for now.

Sherlock seemed hesitant a moment before asking, "How long may I stay?"

"You found the place. You can stay as long as you like." Sherlock's eyebrows shot up in pleased surprise. John bit his lip, uncertain of how Sherlock would react to the rest before saying slowly, "Mary and I, though, will probably want to move out when we get married. Some place nearby, though. But that won't be for at least a year. Probably more, seeing as how I doubt she'll want to do much wedding planning whilst writing her dissertation." John gave Sherlock a wry smile. "Just… try to leave Mary alone if she's up in our room while you're working on something, all right?"

Sherlock's face fell a little. "While you're at work, you mean?" he asked, clearly trying to keep his voice even, but sounding on edge nonetheless. But to John's surprise, he seemed more resigned than angry about it.

John felt a pang and looked down. He hadn't yet given Sherlock a straight answer on whether he would be rejoining him, but the detective had correctly guessed at the hospital that none of John's earlier stated reservations had changed. In particular it seemed financially inviable. No one knew if Sherlock would even be able to build a private client base again. Mary had even graciously stated that if John needed to go back to working part time at casualty in order to accommodate working with Sherlock, she might be able to pick up some paid working hours in a clinic. But he knew she didn't have time for that. And John was aware that it was incredibly unfair to his friend. It wasn't as if Sherlock had done anything wrong. In fact, all he'd done was sacrifice said work for the sake of saving John's life. Frankly, it made John feel like shit and it wasn't really what he wanted to do, but what choice did he have?

Mary poked her head in behind John. "I don't want to interrupt, just checking if you were ready for some stew and bread. Not to mention Mrs. Hudson's lemon bars, which are amazing."

Sherlock nodded and got up, walking silently past John. They followed Mary back to the table, where they sat down. Mrs. Hudson seemed to have filled all their bowls to the brim whilst they were in Sherlock's room. "Sherlock, I think you should have two bowls at least. You're skinny as a post. Does the government starve people it puts away into hiding? No wonder you've been having heart trouble."

Sherlock pursed his lips, and John exchanged an uncomfortable look with Mary. They hadn't wanted to tell Mrs. Hudson about the cause of Sherlock's cardiac arrest, nor about his impending rehab. That was the detective's own business to share or not. News of his addiction had been all over the papers at the time of his 'death', and John suspected Mrs. Hudson knew about that. But it was a subject John had never actually heard her bring up directly. As it was, Sherlock replied tightly, "No, for once the government isn't to blame. My poor health is my own fault." He looked down at his stew and took a large bite.

Mary and John also started eating. John desperately wanted to find a safe topic of conversation, but knew how much Sherlock hated idle chatter. Mary hadn't really realised this yet, and chimed in pleasantly, "It seems like it's been unseasonably cold for early autumn. I wonder if we'll get snow for Christmas this year. That would be nice, wouldn't it?"

Sherlock only chewed on his stew and stared blankly, as if questioning whether he was supposed to have something to say to that. It did, however, lead Mrs. Hudson into a fifteen minute discussion about how the weather in London had changed over the course of her lifetime. John had added a comment or two, nodding politely, but kept glancing back at Sherlock. The detective often didn't participate in what he deemed to be pointless conversation. But John had never seen the man look so glum about it. There were deep lines of either concentration or worry on Sherlock's forehead. Normally the detective was perfectly happy to retreat into his own little world while other people talked about boring things, but John supposed Sherlock's little world might not be a very pleasant place at the moment.

Then, out of nowhere, Sherlock interjected, "What do you like to do, John?"

Mary and Mrs. Hudson stopped talking, looking between John and Sherlock. The doctor was confused. "What do you mean?" he asked, taking a slow bite of stew.

"Hobbies or activities. For fun, what do you like to do for fun?" Sherlock asked, in exactly the same tone he'd use to interrogate someone for information on a murder.

John wasn't sure where the hell this had come from. Sherlock certainly hadn't ever given a damn what John did with his free time before. "I dunno… Hang around the pub. Watch football. Go to a concert, though I haven't done that in ages." In truth, John felt he was fairly boring, but Sherlock seemed to be mulling this response over with extreme interest and contemplation.

"A concert," Sherlock said, staring off in contemplation. Looking back at John, he asked, "What sort of music do you like?"'

John wanted to make a snide remark about how it was unbelievable that the man had lived with him and stolen his computer constantly yet somehow still hadn't ever noticed the music he played or anything that was listed in his iTunes. But John restrained himself, knowing he'd been more than hard enough on Sherlock recently. Instead John eyed his friend cautiously. "Why are you asking this all of a sudden?" he inquired, considering the possibility that Sherlock was hatching some sort of plot that John wouldn't like at all.

To his surprise, Sherlock looked hesitant and uncertain. By contrast, his plotting usually made him unbearably confident. So it wasn't that, then. "I'm not sure about a rock concert. Really, no one should be going to those, with what they do to your hearing. But perhaps we could compromise on the symphony…?" he ventured.

Now John leaned back in his chair, laughing a little. "You want to go to the symphony with me? You're really going to have the tabloids talking again, you know." He shook his head and gave Mary a bemused look, though she only seemed confused and like she was trying hard to be polite and quiet. Mrs. Hudson likewise was sipping mutely at her stew.

When John looked back to Sherlock, he was surprised to see his friend clenching his jaw tightly. His tone was terse and irritated as he said, "I'm trying to think of things we can do together. I can go to a sodding football match if you'd prefer. Though there's no sense in pretending I'd enjoy it."

The realisation hit John like a slap in the face, and he instantly felt like an absolute bastard. "Oh," he said, swallowing in embarrassment as Sherlock looked down and stabbed at the meat in his stew. Of course, both he and Sherlock had realised that their friendship had always revolved entirely around Sherlock's cases. John had sometimes grown resentful of being dragged around as a sort of replacement for Sherlock's skull, feeling like the detective really just wanted anyone to be able to talk aloud to. But obviously that wasn't true. That much Sherlock had proven in the most bold manner possible. And now what else would they do together? Of course Sherlock would be worried about it. John was aware that Sherlock had never had any other friends and that he really didn't understand how most friendships worked. But evidently he was very serious about wanting to keep his friendship with John alive, cases or no, if he was even willing to go watchfootball. John cleared his throat and said, " No, the symphony sounds fun. Can't say I know much about classical music but what you've played sounds nice."

The whole room fell silent for a few minutes. Sherlock had set his fork down and was now leaning on the table, his head in his hands. John and Mary exchanged glances, both seeming to want to say something, but John couldn't think of what might help. Finally, Sherlock gritted out, "I'm trying, all right?"

"I know you are," John replied.

Sherlock scratched at his scalp viciously, still not looking up. "I just… This isn't how it was supposed to be. I don't see any way to make it work." Without a frustrated noise, Sherlock got up from the table, turned, and stalked back into his room. The door slammed behind him loudly.

"Goodness," Mrs. Hudson said. "Do you think someone ought to check on him? He might be feeling ill. And with his heart…"

"He's not ill," John assured her, rubbing a hand over his face. He could hear loud banging sounds starting to emanate from Sherlock's room, and his stomach twisted in remorse. He knew just how much of this was his fault. Mary gave him a sympathetic look, but John glanced away, not feeling he really deserved sympathy. John shook his head and said quietly, "I think we should all just give him some space for a bit." He looked back down at his stew, and tried to block out the sounds coming from Sherlock's room.

 

..........

 

Sherlock often lost track of time. When he needed to know the time, he could find it out one way or another. But still, he was prone to deep bouts of thought that stole all internal sense of time passage. So he really hadn't any idea how long he'd been sitting cross-legged on his bed, elbows on his knees, chin propped up on his folded hands, staring down at the assortment of items he'd collected. He'd pulled them from every secret nook and cranny his room had, ones that even John and certainly not the police had ever been able to find. And he'd been eyeing them for however long it had been since he left the kitchen. He stared them down as if his life depended on it, because of course, it did.

Sherlock had known all along that returning things to normal wouldn't be easy. Still, even when he had thought it might be very hard, he'd never even considered not being up to the task. He had always been quite sure he could do it, even in the times he wasn't sure that heshould. But if he chose to return to his old life, failure was out of the question. He'd always thought of himself as an extraordinary person, even if he wasn't always satisfied with himself. He wasn't necessarily a good person, no, but those were much more common than a true genius anyway. And that exceptionalism had to count for something. He'd even put it towards something that was valuable to society. Surely such a thing wouldn't go to waste. Oh not because of God or karma or anything like that, but simply because Sherlock believed the universe was a rational system in the end and that such a system would never cast one of its most brilliant resources into entropy.

But it wasn't the universe that had brought him here. Not really. Nor was it Mycroft's lack of family loyalty or Sally Donovan's stupidity. It wasn't even Mary and her new place in John's life. No, it was the stuff sitting in front of Sherlock now. The demon he'd let in entirely of his own volition, that had in one way or another controlled him for fully half his life now. Would a real genius and a truly satisfied person have needed to resort to such a thing in order to alleviate his boredom and anxiety? And how many times had he been down this path? Less than a month ago, he'd been making these same sorts of resolutions about never touching the stuff again. He'd felt sure it was behind him, only to fall back into its clutches once more. Forget the logical argument about whether he should allow his mind to burn out, whether his body was only a vessel. That was all moot if he had no choice in the matter, if regardless of how terrified he was of having almost died, there were simply no way for him to stay clean on his own.

"Sherlock," John said, and the detective blinked but didn't take his eyes off the items on the duvet in front of him. Sherlock hadn't heard John come in.

"How long have I been in here?" Sherlock asked absently, not looking up.

"Almost 40 minutes. Mrs. Hudson's gone back to her flat. Told her you'd probably gone to sleep," John said, stepping into the room. When he got to where he could see what Sherlock was looking at, he froze. "Sherlock, what are you doing?" he asked, quietly, like a man approaching a rattlesnake.

"This is all of it. Everything I had hidden in here but never touched the whole time we lived together. Not in my sock drawer." Sherlock glanced up briefly at John to see his reaction. His friend was clearly trying to remain calm, but his forehead was sweaty and his eyes were a bit wide. Sherlock's eyes flicked back down.

"Okay…" John started, swallowing. "And what's it doing out on your bed?"

After a long moment, Sherlock finally took his eyes off the cocaine, closing them as he rubbed his fingertips into the sockets. He didn't have a headache. He wished the sort of pounding he had in his head were as treatable as that. "You don't understand, John. There's no way you can…"

"Probably not, but I at least want to know what's on your mind," John said, approaching cautiously. He perched himself precariously on the curved oak foot of the bed and stared at Sherlock. "I don't have a chance of understanding at all if you don't say anything. And I know you're world class at that, but for God's sakes, put your pride aside this once." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at his friend, unsure if he were really offended of simply feeling defensive. John didn't flinch. "Sherlock, I swear to you, I want to know. I know it might be embarrassing and difficult, but I promise you that I'm not going to judge you. I know who you are. Nothing I hear from you or your brother or Donovan or Lestrade or some drug test is going to change that."

Sherlock studied John a moment. He tried to think logically about his friend's statements. There was no obvious artifice to them. Logically, John had no real motive to lie to him. But there were many shades of untruthfulness or insufficient understanding. John could believe what he was saying but not actually be able to uphold his promise not to pass judgment. Sometimes such things were inevitable and beyond one's control. What it really came down to, Sherlock realised, was whether he believed what John was saying. Whether he could trust him.

Sherlock had come in here to search out his remaining stash of cocaine for the express purpose of confessing all to John. He had known this might be his one shot at getting his friend to reconsider working with him again. Because he'd realised that no other scenario would work, not in the long run. He needed John by his side. So he would have to trust John. He thought he could. It was only that Sherlock made a habit of not trusting many people with his deeply personal thoughts. Few had ever given him reason to. But, he realised, the handful whom he had placed his trust in had, in one way or another, facilitated his rehab and recovery at different points in his life. Perhaps if John knew everything, he could and would then understand how much Sherlock needed his help.

Looking at his friend now, though, Sherlock thought he understood what John was saying. Unlike Mycroft, he didn't only care that Sherlock used cocaine; he cared why he did. And unlike the doctors and psychologists in rehab, he wasn't being paid to. Sherlock had only encountered that with one other person, and she was out of reach now. But John was right in front of him.

Making his decision, Sherlock immediately broke from his statuesque state, gathering all of the powder, syringes, and premixed vials of the wretched solution up in his hands. Just as John was standing up, Sherlock bounded off the bed and strode with determination out the door, through the kitchen, and into the living room. He ignored Mary, who was sitting on the couch highlighting something in a book. He had a single-minded purpose as he shoved a few bits of chemistry equipment to the side of the coffee table and dropped the drugs down. Mary started at the noise, and John watched from beside the couch. Sherlock then sat himself down in his familiar chair and motioned to the couch. "Sit," he ordered John.

Chapter 25

Notes:

So close to the end! I want to thank everyone for their support, for their kudos, bookmarks, etc. It's immensely appreciated.

John paused only a moment before doing as Sherlock said. Now that Sherlock had decided on saying whatever it was, he didn't seem to want anything holding it up and potentially robbing him of his nerve. So John wasn't about to get in his way.

Nor, it seemed, was Mary. She looked from the cocaine to Sherlock, then to John, worry flooding her features. "Should I go?" she asked, already closing her book and setting it aside.

Sherlock looked to be on an utterly focused war path, so John jumped in tactfully before his friend could respond, "Yeah, you might want to go let Mrs. Hudson know Sherlock's feeling okay. I know she was worried."

Mary gave John a look of both understanding and quiet encouragement. She was perceptive enough to read the situation, and gave Sherlock a quick nod, which went unacknowledged, before standing and heading quickly and quietly out of the room. John was left alone with Sherlock and the large amount of cocaine he'd dumped on the coffee table. The doctor looked at his friend unflinchingly, though internally he found himself a bit nervous. They were entering uncharted territory, after all.

Sherlock leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and steepling his hands in front of his face. John waited, wanting to give his friend as much time as he needed. Whatever personal confession he felt he should make, John knew it couldn't be easy for Sherlock. The detective closed his eyes for just a moment, then looked directly at John as he said, "It's all right to ask questions if you have them. Anything you want to know."

John didn't think he'd want to interrupt Sherlock too much, but he gave a small nod. "Go on."

"It began at University," Sherlock said evenly, in something approximating the usual tone he took when explaining something. John realised just saying the words in a neutral voice might help Sherlock feel more comfortable with this. "My first year at Oxford, where I was reading biochemistry. My roommate hated me, which didn't surprise me much as all the roommates I'd had in boarding school had as well. I didn't care for them, either." John bit his lip to keep from frowning in sympathy. Sherlock would hate that. But really, these descriptions didn't surprise John. In the first few days he'd known Sherlock, numerous people had freely voiced their dislike of him. John figured he got that a lot, but it still hurt a bit to hear it. Sherlock continued, unfazed, "I'd been booted out of both Eton and Harrow early on and wound up back at home for the remainder of secondary school. It was no attempt at rebellion or anything so trite as that. I was only being myself. Which, as you've pointed out yourself, tends to put people off."

John winced a little, wanting to apologise but knowing that Sherlock would simply dismiss it as proven fact. Which, to be fair, it was. "So why was it different? In university, I mean."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, moving his hands to the armrests. He tapped his right fingers thoughtfully on the fabric, then mused, "I suppose it was the first time I'd known for certain there was no way back. Mother had made it clear that it was well past time that I should make a way for myself. That I was an adult and that I had better integrate into society as I'd have to get some sort of job upon graduation."

"And what did your dad say?" John asked.

Sherlock looked like he was working very hard to restrain himself from a knee-jerk remark. After a moment, his friend replied dryly, "Well, not much, given that he died when I was thirteen."

John's eyebrows shot up in surprise. He knew both of Sherlock's parents were deceased, but he'd never known when it had happened. In a way, he felt bad for not having known that Sherlock's father had died while he was still a boy. But then Sherlock consistently avoided talking about his family. And it wasn't as though Mycroft were open about it, either. For all John knew, they'd been raised by Martians. "I didn't know that," John confessed. "But I know that must have been difficult. I mean, I know how hard it was on Mary, anyway."

"Really?" Sherlock replied with sardonic false interest. "Did her family also consider it a blessing her father didn't live to see her disgrace yourself?"

John felt thoroughly rebuked, and heard warning bells going off in his head. The last thing he needed was for Sherlock to get angered and spooked. "No, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have interrupted."

"No, you shouldn't have," Sherlock said, leaning forward a little as he stared John down. "Whatever bits of Mary's work may have rubbed off on you, this isn't a therapy session. I don't want your analysis of my problem. I know what the problem is, which is what I'm trying to get to. I merely wanted to explain the history of my addiction as background to some important conclusions I've recently come to. I've got far enough off course as it is without you prying into things that are utterly irrelevant."

John didn't think they were irrelevant, but he wasn't about to scare Sherlock off speaking so openly about his addiction. "I won't ask any more questions." He cleared his throat to alleviate the tense silence that had settled between them. "So university…" he prompted.

"Yes," Sherlock said, seeming relieved to get back to a point. "My roommate moved out a few months into school. I was given a special dispensation to live on my own, which I didn't mind in the least. Unfortunately he also made everyone aware of the so-called difficulties of living with me." Here John really had to bite his tongue, literally. He might have tasted blood. John couldn't blame Sherlock's university roommate for being insanely frustrated with the man. Still, spreading gossip around seemed unnecessary and childish, though he supposed they had only been about 18. Sherlock continued, "I could see things going the way they had in boarding school. Only this time I couldn't simply move back home. And I didn't particularly want to, either. I was eager to be off on my own. But Mother kept asking me questions not about the actual school work – which was dull and unchallenging – but about any new friends I might be making, or girlfriends I should bring round to dinner." Sherlock sounded more irked than deeply wounded, but John wondered if that were simply the way such feelings manifested outwardly for Sherlock.

"In any case, I knew I should attempt to integrate with my peers, in spite of how difficult I found the business of socialising. I realised that in addition to appeasing my mother, it might in fact be nice to have some friends. And there were one or two girls who were attractive and seemed not to be too horrifically thick. It wasn't as though that held no appeal for me. I simply didn't know how to approach any of it." Sherlock had paused, looking down a moment. Then he met John's eye again as he continued, "I'd known some of my classmates to use drugs and alcohol as social lubricants. Alcohol of course being the most prominent, but really that's a depressant, and who would want to slow their mind down?" Sherlock scoffed. In fact, John thought that might be exactly what Sherlock's mind could use once in a while. But he said nothing, letting his friend continue talking. "After some research, I settled on pure cocaine as the thing most likely to alleviate my anxieties and lower my inhibitions. So I started running some experiments, going to a few parties high and letting my uninhibited self out to socialise."

"And that didn't work," John noted, not really a question. He remembered how Mycroft had once laughed out loud at the suggestion that Sherlock might have school friends, and the doctor felt his stomach dropping, feeling he knew precisely how this story would end.

Sherlock gave him a sidelong look. "You know it didn't. I felt more free to voice my thoughts and desires, which turned out to be off-putting. It only seemed to drive people further away, and I never felt the relaxation I knew the drug could deliver. I thought perhaps it might be the mode of action, since I'd only been inhaling." Sherlock steepled his hands again, pressing his fingers to his lips a moment before saying, a bit more subdued, "I put my studies to some use, at any rate. I realised the cocaine would be infinitely more effective if it were injected intravenously. Naturally I was correct. It's a whole different drug and experience that way. It's like comparing riding a bicycle with holding onto a fighter jet. And I realised almost immediately the value it could have not socially but in terms of brain work. The crystal clarity it provided was unbelievable..."

Sherlock stared off into space a moment, and John knew he must be involuntarily recalling the intoxicating sensation. John fidgeted uncomfortably, but kept his promise of remaining nonjudgemental. Thankfully Sherlock broke from his reverie on his own. "I'd all but given up on the notion of a social life, much to Mother's disappointment and I believe to Mycroft's glee, as I'd proved his predictions correct. But I was already much more interested in murder cases than in school work or friendships. My professors thought I was on the right track to doing forensic science. Which would bore me to tears on its own. So I invented my own job. I was already doing a bit of private investigative work here and there by my second year at university, aided by the clarity the cocaine provided. I was so thoroughly bored by the coursework and wearied of being in a constant state of antipathy with my peers by the third year that I left school."

"Wait," John interjected, unable to let that go by without examination. "You never finished university?"

"Have I ever claimed to hold any degrees?" Sherlock asked, challengingly.

"I guess not. I just assumed, someone as bright as you…" John wavered under Sherlock's scowl.

The detective leaned forward in his chair. "If I'd wanted to, I could possess any number of doctorates by now. But I decided not to waste the time being lectured at by fools who couldn't tell me anything I didn't already know or couldn't learn on my own. Besides, the more degrees you get, the less you're fit to do anything but teach other imbeciles so they can get their own bits of paper. I didn't need a degree to do what I wanted to. I was my boss. Cocaine was my partner. And we got on famously." John cringed at that, though he was glad at least to see that Sherlock looked equally grim about the whole thing. The detective's defensive posture recessed as he said more calmly, "That is of course until the drug became less of a means to an end and more an end unto itself. It was still useful for the work, yes, but I found myself using it more and more simply for its own properties and to alleviate periods of boredom. This was when I was about 23, I think? I had to start asking Mother for more money, which she gave me, much to my brother's indignation. Mycroft I think had long since suspected my addiction, and when he finally had solid proof and told our mother, I dare say it nearly killed her."

Sherlock somehow managed to remain impassive as he added, "I did a couple failed stints in different rehab facilities before one stuck. I had been clean about a year when she passed away. There'd hardly been a day in that time when I hadn't wanted to use. I was miserable, frankly, but she was unwell and desperately wanted to see me 'cured'. And in spite of appearances I'm not entirely heartless."

"I dare say Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and I all know that well enough ourselves," John assured him, without any artifice.

Nodding curtly in acknowledgement, Sherlock said, "But I didn't want my sobriety for myself. I wanted it for her. I'm ashamed to say her death was something of a relief at the time. It was freeing to know that there was no longer anyone who would care what I did."

"Obviously Mycroft does," John pointed out lightly.

Sherlock gave him a pointed look. "Yes but largely out of concern for himself." John wasn't quite sure he believed that, but it was quite obvious by now that Sherlock did. And John couldn't really blame him for feeling that way. "And," Sherlock added, "I didn't mind a jot whether Mycroft was upset or not. In a way I enjoyed the fact that my drug use angered and embarrassed him. He kept giving me money anyhow, so as to avoid the abject mortification of having a brother who was both an addict and homeless. So there I was, 27 years old and at liberty to live as I liked. Which mostly consisted of shooting up," he confessed, looking away a moment, some cracks in his calm and clinical manner showing. After a few moments, he continued, "I pursued police cases for a while, but had no luck getting an official response even when I would drop off my solutions to cases that had been cold for years. No one at the Yard would give me the time of day until I met Lestrade. He at least had the good sense to realise I could be very useful, though not the observational skills to spot that I was a cocaine addict. Once he did realise it, he was probably stupidly lenient with me. Eventually there was the incident Donovan mentioned and then rehab and then you and I became flatmates," he finished rapidly, as if concluding his analysis of a crime scene and anxious to move on.

But having got that all out, Sherlock pursed his lips, seeming to have become reluctant all of a sudden. Up until now, he'd been more or less maintaining the disposition of the detective walking through the motives and circumstances of a crime. But now he seemed to have words stuck in his throat. He looked at John a little nervously, and for a moment the doctor feared his friend might have lost his nerve. Then the detective glanced down at the stash of cocaine laid bare on the table and swallowed, seeming to remember whatever reasoning it was that had propelled him into this confession in the first place. When Sherlock spoke again, his voice was no longer cool and declaratory, but reluctant and quiet. "I'd never been happy. I wasn't so foolish as to think the drugs could make me that way. They made me less anxious and provided a certain feeling of euphoria and insight that, however fleeting, was really the nearest thing to contentment I expected I'd ever be capable of attaining."

John felt his throat constricting painfully at seeing Sherlock look and sound so openly miserable. At least, this was what passed for openly emotional for Sherlock. Of course John had seen him this way a couple times in the last several days, but it didn't get any easier. Especially since it had very much occurred to John at this point that, in spite of how Sherlock had been when he and John had been working together, this was probably a more accurate representation of how Sherlock had lived most of his adult life. "Solving a murder doesn't make you happy?" John asked.

"It's something," Sherlock admitted. "It's a challenge and rewarding, and certainly a good outlet for my energies and brainpower. But if that on its own had done it, quitting the drugs before probably would have stuck. It never has. I don't aim to be cheerful," Sherlock pointed out, almost sounding disdainful of the word. "But a feeling of contentment would be desirable. Intellectually I'm aware of course that the drugs don't actually provide that. Whatever it may look like, I loathe them. I'm sick of them. Sick of feeling so unstable whenever I'm between hits, sick of having them control my life, even sick of the high itself." Sherlock sounded adamant and disgusted, and John believed every word he was saying. "I truly don't want any of it. But I've felt that way in the past and it's never mattered in the long run. I may be done with them, but they never seem to be done with me." Sherlock settled back into his chair, beginning to seem uncharacteristically worn out and resigned. But after everything he'd been through, why shouldn't he be?

"We're going to support you through this, Sherlock," John said, staring unwaveringly at his friend. He hoped he had made his support completely clear to Sherlock at this point. What else did he think all of this – bringing his stuff back to the flat and vowing not to make him move out again – was about?

"That's just it," Sherlock replied, his voice sounding dull and heavy rather than irritated or frustrated with John's lack of understanding. "This isn't only about rehab. It isn't about the month or six months or year after rehab, either. It isn't a case of getting me back on my feet until I'm able to resume my normal life. You see," Sherlock sat forward, looking earnest, "my normal life is what led me to the drugs in the first place. It's what keeps leading me back to them."

John was starting to feel desperate and out of his depth. He found himself wishing that Mary were here, or at least that he had her expertise in discussions such as this. John had sat here listening to all of this from Sherlock because he thought his friend wanted him to understand how he could be of help. But it was starting to sound like Sherlock didn't believe there was any hope at all, and that terrified John. Inhaling deeply, he too sat forward on the couch, copying Sherlock's alert and insistent posture. "It won't be the same this time. We'll be here. You and I will still be friends. And you can tell me all about your cases."

"What, every Sunday at dinner? A couple times a week while getting drinks at the pub?" Sherlock sneered and shook his head. "Even if I can manage to get through those sorts of rituals, I'll still be spending the vast majority of my time back where I started: walking around London working cases and talking aloud to myself. I know where it will lead, John. I don't want it to. God help me, it's the last thing I want. And I know that it's only getting more dangerous, physically. I've put myself through a lot in the last year and I accept that it may have long term effects. If I relapse again…" Sherlock trailed off and, to John's surprise, a look of desperation came over his friend's face. He seemed completely at a loss as he said quietly, "I don't want to die. It's a disgustingly cliché thing to say. But I've really… I could have done a number of times in the past year. I was saved from getting to that point, but only just. Only because someone cared enough to intervene."

John swallowed hard against the painful lump rising in his throat. One of those times was just three nights ago. John didn't want to know about any of the others. And somehow he knew Sherlock wasn't only talking about outside threats he'd encountered from Moriarty's network. He knew what his friend was getting at, and maybe it was cold, but John just didn't think he could handle hearing too much about it. His friend had given him one too many death scares at this stage. "So," John began, doing his best to follow Sherlock's line of thinking without letting it drag him under. He needed to understand what his friend wanted, if anything. "What can I do, Sherlock?"

Sherlock stared at him, not challengingly, but pleadingly. "When we started rooming together, I think we were both in a position to need something from the other. I correctly guessed at the means to alleviating your PTSD. You provided me with a companionship and sounding board on my cases that I'd never had before. Our friendship was mutual. Is that fair to say?"

"Yeah, of course," John replied.

"Well I know it isn't now." Sherlock held up a hand to stop John's objection. "At least not in the way it was. The work, the game of it all used to be something we both not only enjoyed but required to be content. But now you've got a job you seem to like, in spite of it mostly consisting of handing out creams for rashes. And you've got a fiancée who isn't actually a complete waste of your time." John was instinctively offended but, as was usual in dealing with Sherlock, knew it wasn't worth the fight just to get his friend to be a bit more tactful. The detective continued, "My point is, you have several things that seem to make you content. But besides my work I," Sherlock faltered, losing his confidence. His voice grew incredibly quiet as he laboured to look his friend in the eye. "I still don't have anything else. And I don't see that I'm likely to. I realise it's an unfair thing of me to ask, but I'm begging you, John…" Finally, Sherlock fully met John's eyes, and the doctor was floored at the level of unreserved pleading he saw there. Sherlock swallowed, getting up his nerve a moment before saying, "You have to come work with me again. I don't even care if it is out of pity. But I'd like to keep on living and that will only happen if I stay off the cocaine, which has only been possible at a long stretch when I could rely on you being there," Sherlock rattled off, sounding logical and strained with emotion at the same time. It was a bizarre mixture to see, but the detective wasn't wasn't done. He couldn't keep the tremor out of his voice as he said, "Please, John… please."

Sherlock trailed off, looking unable to say more, and sounding like his throat was closing up. The desperate look on his friend's face and the mortal terror in his eyes gripped John's chest like a vice. It would have been a moving thing to see from anyone, but knowing Sherlock as well as he did only made John realise just how massively difficult it had to have been for him to humble himself in such a way. Not to mention laying his shortcomings and insecurities bare. It was the antithesis of Sherlock's usual arrogance and confidence. John felt his own throat stinging, and it was a good while before he found his voice. In the interim time, unfortunately, Sherlock hadn't seemed able to breathe as he waited for John's reply. Finally, John croaked out, "You know I want to, it's just that financially-"

"I've thought about that," Sherlock jumped in, pausing a moment to finally suck in a breath he probably hadn't realised he'd been holding. He held a hand up, his demeanour taking on its usual frantic intensity, but tinged with a wholly alien desperation as he said, "I'll ask Mycroft for help." John blinked. And he'd thought begging was something Sherlock would never resort to? Begging Mycroft was something he'd been fairly certain Sherlock wouldn't do even if it did mean avoiding misery and death. "It's not all his money anyhow," Sherlock added disdainfully. "A lot of it belongs to us both, but he was made the arbiter of the accounts because my mother didn't trust me with my own funds. Which," Sherlock lost all his steam and indignation. "That might have been fair. Still, he has no right to deny it to me now. Besides, you and I were always able to manage before. I'm sure once I'm able to rebuild a load of private cases…."

John looked at him seriously. "What if that doesn't happen? You've seen the press outside the flat. No matter what you do or say, it's possible there's nothing that can save your reputation now. And what you're asking… it's not just something temporary. You're talking as if you need me to keep working with you indefinitely. What if you can't make money off it anymore?"

Sherlock looked away, glancing out the window and taking a few moments to contemplate that. "Well," he began thoughtfully, eyes still off in the distance, "I don't think that will happen. And the amount my parents left me should be more than adequate for years, possibly longer. And if all else fails," he added, his eyes flicking over to John, his tone turning wry. "We could always hope that someone offers to make Mary a millionaire again."

It took John a moment to realise his friend was making a joke, but when he did, his lips turned up in a smile that felt like a huge sigh of relief. He knew Sherlock wasn't much for long term planning, wasn't one to worry about everything that could go wrong before he jumped into a dangerous situation. But if he had been overly cautious, John realised, John or he would be dead from Moriarty's plans. Perhaps every once in a while, it was necessary to throw caution to the wind. And it wasn't as though they were entirely without a safety net. Not if Sherlock actually swallowed his pride and asked for Mycroft's help…

John let out a breath he didn't realise he'd been holding. It had finally occurred to him that this might actually work. This might be the solution. The finances were the crux of the problem. Yes, Mary had been worried after this experience about the safety of it all, but she'd insisted to him in the last two days that the danger didn't frighten her. That John was a soldier and she had confidence in his ability to keep himself safe. Even she knew this was the right thing to do; it had only been the question of money holding them back. And suddenly John wondered what the hell he'd been thinking, and how he could have ever wavered or refused Sherlock in the first place. Really, since the moment his friend had shown up in his kitchen alive all John had wanted to do was get back to the thrill of running around London solving crimes with Sherlock Holmes. Now his heart thudded rapidly with the realisation that might actually happen again.

"Yes," John breathed. He blinked, as if coming awake from a long period of sleep. The haze was clearing from his mind and everything finally seemed clear.

Sherlock glanced over at him cautiously. "Yes…?" he asked.

"Yes, of course I'll work with you again, Sherlock." John laughed shakily, feeling adrenaline start to course through his veins. This was a daunting challenge that lay ahead of them; it made John feel fantastically alive. "Bloody hell, you really think I can sit here in the flat every evening whilst you're out there? What, me Alfred to your Batman? I don't think so, mate."

Sherlock's face went slack for a moment, then his eyes lit up and he sat bolt upright and clasped both John's hands in his own. "Thank you," he said sincerely, though excitedly.

John slipped his right hand out and, to Sherlock's apparently great surprise, slapped his friend on the side of the head. "It's not a favour, you idiot. I've missed you and the cases and all of it. My life hasn't been perfect and complete, no matter how much it might look that way to you. Ask Mary some time about just how long it took me to even be functional after you supposedly died. I'd be the biggest idiot to ever live if I passed up this chance." John leaned back against the couch again, finding himself unable to keep a stupid grin off his face. "Besides, someone's got to write those case reports for the government. And God knows you'll never do an adequate job."

After being stunned for a moment, Sherlock smiled back. Then he cleared his throat and leaned back casually in his chair. In a matter of seconds, he had somehow transformed back into his confidently relaxed old self again. His tone was even dismissively imperious once more as he said, "You know, I'm going to be rather busy the next few days. Perhaps I ought to delegate to you, as you're my assistant once again. Really, when I think about it, you could be the one to ask Mycroft-"

"Not a chance," John cut in, flatly.

Sherlock let out an annoyed grumble. "Well it was worth a try."

John remembered something else that he and Mary had meant to approach Sherlock about at lunch, before that had gone horribly wrong. "Ah, also, Mary had a suggestion about your rehab," John began tentatively. Sherlock's eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn't bite John's head off the way he certainly would have done in the old days if John had brought up the word 'rehab'. So that was something. "There's a very good psychiatrist she knows from University who runs a private drug rehabilitation clinic. Mary talked to him, confidentially obviously, and he's willing to let you jump a fairly long list and get a spot in the outpatient program. Part of which involves carrying out a lot of your one on one therapy at home. It's incredibly expensive, but I thought since Mycroft was paying you wouldn't mind the expense. It might be a good way to avoid having to deal with the tabloid press quite so much as well."

Sherlock gave John a stunned look. "That was Mary's idea?" he asked. John nodded, and Sherlock shook his head, sounding shocked as he said, "That's actually a very good idea." John pursed his lips, giving Sherlock a sardonic look that said 'try not to sound so surprised that my fiancée's competent'. Sherlock rolled his eyes slightly, then added more sincerely, "Yes. I'll do that."

"Good," John replied, knowing Mary would be pleased. Her desire to be of help to everyone occasionally went overboard, and John knew this would inevitably annoy Sherlock at times. Still, John felt cautiously optimistic that Mary and Sherlock could more or less get along. Besides, they'd seemed to form at least a small bond over having saved one another from mortal danger a few nights ago. Which, having been at war himself, John understood could go a long way towards bringing unlikely people into friendship with one another. John's optimistic mood faltered a bit when he noticed his friend was now eyeing the bags and vials of cocaine on the coffee table. "Guess we'd better get rid of that, then," John ventured.

"Yes," Sherlock said with a grimace. "That was the idea, wasn't it?" He paused only a moment before picking the items up and standing. John took a few of the syringes and vials in hand himself. Sherlock shouldn't be doing this on his own, after all. Without a word, Sherlock headed back towards the hall bathroom and John followed him just as silently.

Inside the restroom, Sherlock and John stood each off to one side of the toilet. Setting the bags, tin foil wrappers, and vials down on the back of the toilet, Sherlock began to carefully open them one by one and dumped them into the bowl. Saying nothing, John did the same with what he'd carried in. This was almost certainly not recommended in terms of water treatment and quality, but John wasn't about to say anything, not even as a doctor and representative of public health. Sherlock's mental health was more important to him anyway. When all of it was in, Sherlock reached over without hesitation and flushed, not even watching as it swirled down. Instead he went to the sink and turned the water on hot, washing his hands deliberately.

John took the containers and syringes and silently carried them out to the bin under the kitchen sink. When he'd washed his hands there, he crept back in the direction of Sherlock's room. From the hall he could see the detective standing, hands in pockets, looking around, simply taking everything in. John went and stood beside his friend, saying nothing. He simply let Sherlock take everything in with new eyes. He could only imagine how much his friend had longed to be both back here at 221B and back to work with John. Well, he didn't have to imagine too hard; John had felt the same, only his wish had required a miracle. And he'd got it.

Chapter 26

Notes:

I can't describe how much I have loved writing this story, sharing it with people, and hearing people's thoughts. It has been a huge challenge but also my favourite story to write of all time. Thanks for being part of it,

Chapter 26

After a long moment of comfortable silence, Sherlock turned and headed back to the living room, where he took a seat on the couch, letting out a sigh. He seemed much more relaxed, in spite of everything, than John had seen him since he'd returned. Quietly, John took a seat next to Sherlock, both of them staring ahead, enjoying the easy, companionable silence. It was something they hadn't often had in their friendship before. The silences had tended to be ordered by Sherlock so he could think, not mutually agreed upon for the purpose of simply enjoying a moment. It occurred to John that, for all the pain they'd been through in the last several days, and all the wounds that had been opened, perhaps their friendship had grown even stronger now. Perhaps that was because all those things had been brought to light, deep wounds cleansed, and demons thoroughly exorcised.

There was a long stretch of companionable silence before John spoke again. "I wanted to ask you to do something," he began, turning slightly towards his friend. "It's a bit early and absolutely nothing's settled, but still, I wanted to ask."

"Then stop stammering," Sherlock replied with a sideways glance, matter-of-factly, though not really unkindly.

John looked nervously at his friend. "Will you be my Best Man?"

Sherlock blinked, then looked away thoughtfully for a moment. He glanced back at John, seeming uncertain. "In your wedding, you mean?"

"Yes, you idiot, in my wedding," John said with a smirk. Then, more seriously he added, "I wouldn't want anyone else."

"I've never been to a wedding," Sherlock mused, his brow furrowing in contemplation. John was a little surprised at that, but realised Sherlock's family had probably been wise enough to keep him away from any family weddings, most likely to Sherlock's delight. "What would I have to do?"

"Well," John started, scratching the back of his neck, "the Best Man usually organizes the bachelor party and some pre-wedding events. But don't worry," he said, seeing the look of trepidation on Sherlock's face, "I'd get Stamford to take care of that part. That's his area." Sherlock relaxed a little. John added, "And usually the Best Man gives a speech…"

There was a pause.

"Bad idea," Sherlock said.

"Bloody awful idea," John agreed with a grimace. He sighed in exasperation and sat up on the edge of the couch, turning fully around to face Sherlock now. "Look, all I want you to do is stand up there next to me not saying anything or making a scene for 30 minutes. Does that sound like something you'd be willing to do? And think about this very carefully before you answer."

To John's surprise, Sherlock looked quite serious as he replied immediately, "Of course I'll do that for you, John. And I'm flattered you'd ask."

John gave a small smile. "Then you've got the job." He extended his hand, and after a moment of looking annoyed at the ritual, Sherlock shook it. It was all remarkably normal. John sat back again.

"I feel as though I owe you something anyway," Sherlock added by way of explanation. "I know none of this is easy. The press, rehab, all of that nasty business. And then me basically forcing you back into working with me. Really, it's quite a lot to take on. I don't know if I would do it."

"You jumped off a building and tracked down cold blooded killers for a year and a half but you don't think you could handle a flatmate in rehab?" John asked. "Not likely. Besides, you've got a psychologist and a doctor for your flatmates. I think it would literally be impossible to find two people more perfectly equipped to help you through the worst of it."

Sherlock's brow furrowed in consideration. "I hadn't thought of that," he admitted. His tone sobered a little, and he glanced over at John. "Still, there are a lot of psychologists and doctors who haven't afforded me anything nearing this sort of understanding." He hesitated momentarily. "I am aware that I'm not what would be considered normal. Which is perfectly fine by me, since 'normal' indicates the worst sort of boring, average, useless person. What I mean to say is," Sherlock continued, facing forward again. His tone was matter-of-fact, despite what he was saying. "Most people don't like me. And I genuinely don't care about most people. But I've come to hold the opinions of a select few in high regard. It's nice to be thought well of. To be liked. I've realised just how important that is in the last year and a half..." He trailed off, lost in some sort of contemplation for a while.

John nodded thoughtfully, then remembered something that brought a slow grin to his face. "Well, clearly someone you met while you were away liked you. And quite a lot," he mused suggestively.

Sherlock turned his head, eyeing John warily as he asked, "What do you mean?"

"Well," John began, raising an eyebrow. "Was it true, what you said to Donovan when we were leaving the hospital?" He could see Sherlock wasn't catching his meaning, so he added. "You know, the thing about you not being a virgin..?"

Sherlock looked both surprised and indignant. "What, that?" he asked. "You think I was boasting?"

"Oh, you were definitely boasting," John said with a laugh. "I just wanted to know if you were telling the truth."

Looking agitated, Sherlock got up from the couch and took a few steps away. "Yes, it was the truth," he said, not looking at John and sounding casual.

John got the distinct impression that his friend was embarrassed, even though he wasn't blushing or faltering. But John very much recalled how inhumanly calm Sherlock had been able to remain when Irene Adler had seemed about ready to jump him in the middle of the living room. Clearly Sherlock was good at playing these things close to the chest. So John didn't buy his off-hand attitude now one bit. And he certainly wasn't about to let this go. "But you were one before, right?" John asked, raising an eyebrow. He hadn't actually asked Sherlock directly about it, but the report on the Irene Adler case that Mycroft had given him cited this as one of the bits of information she'd gained to use in her manipulation of Sherlock. Which probably wouldn't have worked unless it were true, and really it seemed to fit to John.

Turning back towards his friend and giving him an annoyed look, Sherlock replied, "By definition everyone's a virgin before they aren't one any more. Very sound reasoning, John."

"No, I mean…" John stopped himself from getting drawn into the semantic argument, realising what Sherlock was doing. "Oh, sod it. You know what I mean, you're just trying to avoid the question."

Seeming to realise that his flatmate wasn't about to give up so easily, Sherlock sighed in annoyance and started pacing a little, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I simply don't understand why this fascinates you so much," Sherlock muttered. A smile tugged at John's lips, and he could tell he'd really got Sherlock flustered, whether the man would admit it or not. Maybe it was cruel to take advantage of the detective's frayed defences, but this was too rare an opportunity to pass up. Sherlock finally stopped to grumble, "Yes, I had sex while I was gone. Honestly, is it really that amazing?"

"Dunno," John drawled, a suggestive grin quirking his lips, "was it?" To his delight, Sherlock gave him a glare that would light ants on fire and began pacing away again. "Oh, come on," John said with a laugh. "This is kind of a big deal. And you're the one who said something about it. I think you wanted me to know. I think you were showing off," John surmised, revelling in the irritated look Sherlock gave him. "You can't simply drop information like that then not give any details."

Sherlock stopped and stared at the ceiling, running his hands over his face. "God, is this really the sort of thing people talk about?"

"Yes," John replied plainly.

"Well people are idiots," Sherlock spat, a bit petulantly in John's estimation. The doctor couldn't contain his knowing grin. Sherlock glared. "Now you're just being deliberately annoying."

"And you're deliberately avoiding a question again," John pointed out.

"What question?" Sherlock challenged, eyeing him evenly.

John smiled and sat forward on the edge of the couch. "Well… who's the lucky lady?" Sherlock gave him a wary look, and John added tentatively, "Or… fellow. That's fine as well." Sherlock rolled his eyes, and John held up his hands as if to say 'just had to check'.

Now Sherlock was actually looking at John, considering him carefully, as if weighing how much he wanted to say. Then he steepled his hands against his mouth, and turned to look out the window. He stayed that way for several long, contemplative moments. "Woman," Sherlock replied finally, with a depth of genuine appreciation and sadness that John hadn't been expecting. Something about the way he said that, and his choice of word, made John involuntarily wonder… No, she's dead. Mycroft was sure of it, John reminded himself, shaking that thought from his mind.

"Sorry, is it all right if I come in?" a voice interrupted cautiously, and both John and Sherlock turned around to see Mary standing in the front doorway. "Only I phoned Lestrade about something and he said he was going to be giving his press conference at two, and it's five past now."

"Yes, come in," Sherlock said, seemingly grateful for the interruption. He picked up the remote from the coffee table and turned the television on, all the while muttering, "Though I can't believe you put a television in here…" When he got to the news and saw Lestrade at the podium, he set the remote down, but remained standing. Mary came and sat down next to John on the couch, giving him a mysterious look before glancing back at the tele.

John was anxious to hear what Lestrade would have to say. There'd been a flurry of press releases from Mycroft's end regarding James Moriarty and Sherlock's semi-official government role in all of that. But Scotland Yard had yet to make a statement. And now as John watched, he realised that this press conference would affect not only Sherlock's future, but John's own as well. It would affect their livelihood and their work. So he was a little nervous as Lestrade called for everyone to take a seat, and looked down at what appeared to be index cards he'd brought with him.

The detective inspector looked out at the crowd of reporters and the cameras as he began. "I'd like to say that New Scotland Yard will have an official press release out to all the outlets as soon as I'm done talking. But I wanted to give a personal statement. A year and a half ago, this department and I in particular failed not only you the public but also one specific person." John glanced up at Sherlock, who remained stoic, folding his arms across his chest. Back on the tele, Lestrade continued, "As you've all heard and seen by now, Sherlock Holmes is not actually dead. He did fake his death, but as part of an officially sanctioned SIS action, which I'm sure you've read about from them. That part I wasn't even aware of. So, like a lot of you, I was left wondering why. But many of you, in particular the press, jumped to the conclusion based on lies and misinformation sown by international criminal James Moriarty that Sherlock Holmes was merely a fake. A man who'd tricked people into thinking he was some kind of genius."

Here Lestrade looked directly into the camera, and John noticed the way Sherlock stared straight back at the television. Lestrade said evenly, "Sherlock Holmes is a genius. He is a brilliant and sometimes difficult man. But he is not a villain and he's certainly not a fraud. I won't speak to any of the personal claims that have been made about him by Kitty Riley or anyone in Fleet Street." He sounded genuinely angered, even though he knew as well as John that many of her claims were based on fact. Still, it was none of the public's business. Lestrade looked now at the press assembled before him as he said tightly, "I'll only say that making sordid and unsupported claims about a man you have every reason to believe has just killed himself is the lowest kind of cowardly, muck-raking so-called journalism imaginable."

At this Sherlock straightened, looking surprised at Lestrade's firm defence. John couldn't help being proud of the inspector's candour, and exchanged pleased looks with Mary. Taking a sip of water, Lestrade continued more calmly, "Yes, I've had many cases reviewed and some even overturned because I used Mr. Holmes as a consultant. But not going through official channels was my mistake, not his. I tried to save face for myself by throwing a friend under the bus, and for that I have to apologise. So if you're watching this, Sherlock, just so you know, I'm sorry."

Sherlock blinked and his brow furrowed as he watched Lestrade hold up several stacks of letters. "I've got a sack of letters like these here from 371 separate individuals citing their support for Sherlock Holmes. They note the various ways in which he's secured the conviction of murderers who'd stolen their family members from them and would otherwise have gone free, proved people innocent of heinous crimes, and even saved people's lives. He's saved mine, and I don't mean that figuratively." Lestrade cleared his throat, and pulled out a piece of paper that looked to have the official New Scotland Yard Seal on it. Glancing at it, he said, "So, I'm here to announce that as of today, Sherlock Holmes and his colleague Dr. John Watson," John's eyebrows shot up, and he gave Mary a look. She was smiling knowingly, and he realised then what she must have been phoning Lestrade about. She knew I couldn't stay away, he realised. She'd apparently intuited before he had what Sherlock would ask and what John's answer would be. God, he loved how she understood him. John smiled back at her as Lestrade continued, "will be working with New Scotland Yard's Criminal Investigation Division on a case by case basis as needed, serving as official case consultants for the Crown."

John looked up at Sherlock, who was still giving little outward sign of his thoughts as he kept his eyes fixed on the television. Lestrade looked back into the camera as he finished, "I know Sherlock hates publicity, and the very last thing he needs having just got out of the hospital is a bunch of unwanted attention from the media. But should you have a private matter you want investigated, you can be damned sure there's no one better to look into it. Sherlock Holmes is a great man. He's also a good one. Thank you." With that, Lestrade left the podium under a flurry of flashing lights and a volley of questions, none of which he responded to as he strode out of the room.

As the television cut back to several BBC commentators remarking on the press conference, Mary quietly leaned forward and turned off the television with the remote. John saw Sherlock swallow and shift. He knew his friend didn't do the work he did out of any sense of civic duty. Sherlock quite often never thought of the human impact of a case at all. It was a problem to be solved, something to stimulate his mind and keep him going. And yet, hadn't Sherlock only just been saying how nice it felt to be liked? And here he was, liked or at the very least appreciated by many people. Perhaps, in the end, that was enough.

Finally, Sherlock cleared his throat and said, without turning around, "John, would you mind texting something to Lestrade? This not having a mobile yet is really becoming irksome. In fact someone ought to get me a new one this evening. I have messages of my own to send..."

"Sure," John said, pulling his mobile out of his pocket, and trying to steer the conversation back on topic. "What should I say?"

"Tell him 'thank you'," Sherlock said.

"That's all?" John asked, and Sherlock nodded. John typed and sent the text, making sure to sign it with Sherlock's trademark 'SH'. "Done. Anything else…?" he ventured.

His friend hesitated only momentarily before turning around. "I'll need to use your computer right away."

"It's under that chair," John said reluctantly, pointing to the wing-backed chair opposite Sherlock's. John felt a strong but not unwelcome sense of déjà vu.

"Fantastic," the consulting detective said, scooping the computer up and plopping down in his own beloved chair. Realising Sherlock wasn't going to come to him, John got up and went to stand behind his friend, looking over Sherlock's shoulder as he pulled up his website, 'The Science of Deduction'. Mary looked on the two of them with keen interest from the couch, but didn't interrupt, almost as if studying an anthropological scene. After a moment, a message appeared on Sherlock's website. Then another. Then half a dozen more in the span of the next minute. "Ah, that's the one," Sherlock said, pulling up one message in particular and rubbing his hands together as he read and re-read it.

John knew precisely where this was going, and he couldn't help feeling intensely worried. He walked around to stand in front of his friend, looking down at him seriously. "Sherlock," he said warningly, "you know you have rehab, and physical therapy. And your cardiologist to see. And they let you out of the hospital early. You need to take it easy."

"Of course I'll give my body a break. But why should that stop my mind?" Sherlock replied, still looking at the computer and beginning to type furiously as he no doubt opened about ten browser tabs at once. Beginning his research, John realised with a worried groan. Sherlock must have heard it, because he looked up and rolled his eyes a little. "I won't leave the flat for anything below a seven, remember? This is a five at best. You have my word, I won't take any cases beyond that level until I'm through with my programme and fit to go investigate personally."

"I see," John said, folding his arms across his chest. "So you're going to sit in here for about three months whilst I run around London Skyping you into crime scenes and interviews with potential criminals, is that it?" John asked.

"Well really, John, I feel rather dreadful," Sherlock said with a long-suffering sigh. "I've nearly had a heart attack and could have died. Not to mention having done my fair share of running around the entire globe whilst you were sat here getting fat on Mary's cooking." Sherlock remarked pointedly. He sat forward in his chair. "But my mind is itching for something to do. It will help my recovery. You wouldn't deny me that, would you?" Sherlock looked deliberately pathetic.

John gave his friend a pointed, knowing stare. "What do you want?" he asked, feeling he was going to regret this already, but bizarrely also feeling a grin creeping onto his face. This is how it should be, he thought.

Sherlock Holmes grinned back, a genuinely pleased expression like John had wished to see for months and never really believed he would ever see again. "There's a man you need to go see over in a pub over in Knightsbridge. Bring your phone for video chat and I'll email you his details." When John didn't move, Sherlock looked at him expectantly. "Well?" the detective prompted. He glanced at Mary. "Is he always this relaxed these days?"

Mary gave John a bemused smile. "Not for long I don't think," she said knowingly. And John couldn't help but think that that sounded wonderful.

"Get your coat, John," Sherlock ordered. And John didn't even mind the bossiness for once as his friend leaned back in his chair and said with a contented smile, "The game is on."

Notes:

As promised long ago, I've posted the first chapter of the set of prequel stories about Irene and Sherlock's encounters and his relapse into addiction. If you're interested in it, the first story is called "Nothing Out of the Ordinary", and the series of 5 stories (some of which have multiple chapters) is called "What He Likes". It's not a case fic, but rather an insanely angsty character study. So for anyone who kind of wished the angsty chapters in this fic would go on forever, you'll probably enjoy the non-stop anguish in that series.

Once again, thank you all so much! I will miss posting this story and talking with people about it. And even just knowing there are so many other people reading, giving kudos, and enjoying it. Even if I never heard from you, I know you're reading and that makes me happy.