Five years ago, Sherrinford

There are exactly twenty-five seconds left on the clock when Jim Moriarty stops smiling.

"You want something, too?" Whether Eurus thinks it or says it aloud does not matter so very much; it has only mattered intermittently in the last four minutes and thirty-five seconds.

He rolls his head from side to side, neck cracking and popping. Not so satisfying as a snap, but one can rarely have everything. "Call him a birthday present."

"Do you want him alive." It's barely a question.

"With a bow on top." The smile starts crawling again, at the corners of his mouth, and it doesn't stop. "No dog-eared pages, no highlighting…though, can't help that, I suppose. Built-in."

"You want the Bookkeeper."

"Clever girl."

"I'm not a girl."

He sort of laughs. Like putting on another person's body. That's how Eurus does it. "I know."

"Do you want him on your birthday?"

He flattens his tongue against the glass, then blows so it fogs. Drags a finger wetly up, around, swoop. "Darling," he drawls, smooth and empty as a coffin, "I'm born every day of the year."

Then the guards come in. They take him away, her Christmas present, but they can't take away the glass. The letters may fade, but not for Eurus.

I O U.

Present day, London

It was a month after the Baker Street explosion. Less than a week after the phone call. And Molly felt raw, exposed along every inch of her skin, under the impersonal eyes of agents with no badges. Mycroft's men.

"This is a necessary debriefing, Miss Hooper."

"I understand. I mean, I've already agreed to it. So…uh, if you don't mind, do you think we could get on with it?"

"Of course." The agent didn't exactly smile. He didn't look like he did that sort of thing. "Mr. Holmes—Mycroft Holmes—wished you to be informed that any…strange communications you may have received were the result of a highly sensitive investigation involving himself and his brother, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. It was believed by all parties that your flat was rigged with explosives and that unless you spoke aloud a sort of…keycode, you would be instantly killed."

Molly took a breath. A shuddery breath, but under the circumstances, she considered that it was probably better than not breathing at all.

"There were no explosives in your apartment, Miss Hooper. You need not fear for your safety. The threat—such as it was—has been neutralized. But it was very important to Mr. Holmes—" this time, he did not specify which one, and she felt a strange little twist to her insides—"That you understand the nature of the circumstances. Mr. Holmes extends his sincerest apologies for any inconvenience you may have suffered."

Say it like you mean it.

Say it.

"Thanks, it seems like I'm going to be OK." Because it did seem like that, didn't it?

The agents rose. Toby was still growling behind her bedroom door. He didn't like new people. Maybe it never really disturbed him, that his mistress only ever carried with her the scent of the dead.

"Thank you for your time, Miss Hooper."

She hadn't cried, ever since that day. On that day, plenty. Crumpled down by her counter, hands and knees shaking. Big, ugly sobs.

I love you.

I love you.

Had she imagined that inflection?

…any inconvenience you may have suffered.

The tears came, then.

"Have you talked to her?"

"I talked to her five minutes ago, John. I explained the solar system. I know how much you want your daughter to have a thorough understanding of that indispensable phenomenon."

"Molly, Sherlock. Have you talked to Molly?"

"Molly Hooper?"

"No, the other Molly you know." John's hands were on his hips. It was the parenting thing; it just sort of stuck after a bit. Only Rosie wasn't old enough to be scolded. Huh. Parenting thing had been in the works a bit longer. "Of course, I mean Molly Hooper."

Sherlock tugged at one of the papers stabbed to the mantle, tearing it free. Eyes carefully removed from John. "I wanted to be sensitive. Trying that out, you know. Sensitivity." He gave a flick of his wrist, flitting, demonstrative. "The whole…emotions thing."

"Yeah, OK, good. But the thing is—she doesn't know that."

"You don't know what she knows." Carefully controlled tone, back straight, still facing away. John narrowed his eyes.

"I was there, Sherlock. I heard the phone call. You two need to talk. About…whatever is between you."

Silence.

"You bought a yellow chair, Sherlock. I may see and not observe, but I know that we don't have a third person living in this flat, you've never cared about an extra chair before, there's a sofa—and Molly likes yellow. Conclusion: you want her to come and visit."

"Thank you, John. Shall I hire you? Right. I already have. Blog about something. Read to your daughter about elementary science. Invite Molly for tea. But do stop going on about the furniture."

John rubbed the back of his neck, smiling. "Did you just say invite Molly for tea?"

Silence.

The flowers arrived the day after the debriefing. White calla lilies, of all things; a sheaf. Sleek and elegant. The card said, S.H.

Molly rubbed the back of her hand over her eyes. Toby blinked inscrutably.

"You know, you can talk about it."

"Talk about what? Do you know, John, your daughter is showing marked of high intelligence for a child her age?"

"I know, she's perfect. Sherlock."

Sherlock paused, in truth, halfway in the middle of aero-planing a spoon of mashed peas into Rosie's mouth, though he wouldn't have admitted it for the world. If this was about Molly again, he wasn't going to discuss it. He'd sent her flowers two weeks ago. Still, he'd heard nothing. Saving someone's life, saying those words—

He was human. Less than human, maybe, in these regards. He couldn't do anything all at once. Not when it came to Molly. "John."

"Your visits. To…Eurus." It was still in the back of John's eyes; that soldier hardness that meant he wasn't far from being afraid. But he was John, so he kept going. "If you need someone to talk to, I'm here."

Sherlock pressed a light kiss on Rosie's curly head before answering. Funny thing about little gestures of physical affection; he rarely used them (rarely had used them, was that all going to change?), but they did give him more time to think. "I know. Thank you. There isn't much to tell." There wasn't much to tell that John would understand. He'd seen her twice in the past week. Two helicopter flights. She was reinstated, all white and glass and gray. Madness in the blank eyes, but less, much less, when her violin was in her hands.

When his violin was in his.

"There's a very long road ahead, John. I…appreciate your concern."

"Of course. Of course."

Lestrade came in one afternoon, uninvited, wearing a jumper instead of his usual coat and button-down.

"Griffith."

"Ha." He waggled a finger. "I know better now, Sherlock. I know you know."

"Fine." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Greg. New taste in clothes, quite suddenly, or you're still seeing the one with the kids in Rio."

"What? No. We broke it off." He frowned. "I found out about the kids in Rio."

"Right then. New relationship already?"

"Sod off, Sherlock."

"Greg," John said, coming in. "You look well. Popped round for a visit?"

"Yeah, wanted to see how the new, old flat was coming along."

Sherlock beamed. "As close to the old as we could possibly manage, isn't that right, John?"

John chuckled. "Yeah. Rosie and I are thinking of relocating, if Sherlock will stop keeping body parts in the fridge."

Sherlock scoffed at that. "She can't open the refrigerator doors yet. Don't be ridiculous."

John cocked a thumb in his direction. "That's why we're only thinking of relocating."

"Cool. I've got a new batch of cases coming in tomorrow, Sherlock. And I'm running by the morgue tomorrow afternoon to look at a body. If you're interested."

A tiny silence fell and Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Is it interesting?"

"Yeah." Greg shrugged. "Pop by, if you like. Later."

Sherlock leaned back in his chair. The beetle and bat collection had not yet been replaced on the mantle; it was troubling. He'd have to procure more taxidermy. Maybe a small mammal? John could be reasoned with. "Is Lestrade plotting some sort of chance meeting between myself and Molly Hooper?"

"Not just Lestrade," John said, too wisely. As was his wont.

The calla lilies had faded, and Molly was sorry. But she couldn't quite bring herself towards any ulterior action. Her phone buzzed: John.

Please come visit. Rosie misses you.

She typed, I miss her too.

And made no promises.

What is your emergency?

There's been a break-in. She's bleeding, someone's attacked her—they've cut her—it's awful

Miss, please. What's the address?

Twenty-three Beaufort Street—this is really—please—

"I will have Lestrade skewered if he's dragged me out of the flat on something dull."

"No, you won't."

Sherlock smiled. "No, I really won't. Tempting, though. Rosie with Mrs. H.?"

"Yes. The more I learn about her, the less I should trust her, but the more I do." John shook his head.

"I've locked up her cabinet of herbal soothers and pocketed the key, just in case." Sherlock patted his coat. "Can't be too cautious."

A sergeant met them at the station door. "Lestrade's already at the hospital," she said. "He said to hurry over. It's a strange one."

"Hospital, not morgue." Sherlock mused on this. "The body must not have been very interesting then. Something new." He rubbed his hands together, leather gloves a bit stiff in the brisk wind. "I've been eager for something new."

"You're always eager for a new case," John reminded him.

"Details." Emotional context, Sherlock. Destroys you every time. "Shut up."

"What?"

"Sorry."

Lestrade was pacing the hall. "There's a woman inside, and she's in shock. You've got to go easy on her."

Sherlock nodded once. "Agreed."

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "OK, then. Well. Her name's Irina Knight, widow of the late Christopher Knight, one of the richest men in England. Her brother's Anthony Charles. That's right, Home Secretary. See all these men in black up and down the hall? They're security. And last night, when she was at home—in her room—no security, no locks, didn't do her a bit of good. Someone got in through her upstairs window, down from the flat above, we're not sure yet, and mashed her up."

"Let's have a look, then." Sherlock felt a curious little tremor, something unexpected and unpleasant. A woman, alone in her flat. Cruelty seeping in all around her. He shook it away. Unpacking his brain and everything inside it—unpacking his heart—this was going to have consequences. Cobwebs, filling up his processes, just as he'd always feared.

And yet going back somehow seemed worse.

The woman on the bed was in her early forties. Dyed blonde hair, but well-done—she was wealthy. Well kept up, though the bruises purpling her swelling features made it hard to tell.

"Mrs. Knight. My name is Sherlock Holmes—"

She coughed slightly. "I know who you are. I read the blog."

"Right, then." He stood there. The observations were rolling, but they weren't piecing together like they ought.

Lestrade shifted where he stood. "Mrs. Knight, please. I'm very sorry, but if you wouldn't mind—"

"Mind?" she half-smiled, quick and bitter. "This is a police investigation, isn't it, Chief Inspector? I don't get to mind." Shifting in the bed, she twisted and turned, tugging at the strings of her hospital gown.

John breathed through his teeth. "Jesus."

Sherlock had seen it bitten into an apple, sprayed across a window, imprinted in his mind. Now carved in angry scars along the length of a woman's spine.

I O U.