Sherlock did not regret, ever. He did not allow the occasion to arise. All that he did, always, was done deliberately and for a purpose.

And so it was now. He'd arrived at the inescapable conclusion, and thoroughly prepared her to help him execute what it required. Soon, all that would remain would be to guide events to unfold as they must.

He would do this with the knowledge that in time, all would understand that although their pain had been real, the loss had been false, and quite obviously necessary.

For now, it was clear only to two, and one of those might not survive to provide the resolution. The other must also bear this responsibility, to step forward if the need arose, to explain. For the lesser arrangements, the details of tidying up a life, he had prepared an envelope. As he had wordlessly handed her the bank box key, their eyes agreed: it's only just in case. "Anything else?" she asked.

He closed his eyes, calling up, considering, and then setting aside all that he had left undone, unsaid, until only the last remained. This was not something she could do for him, yet he placed it in her care, a debt ... a regret ... to hold until he returned to clear it himself. An overdue apology owed: Baskerville.