"I was hoping to talk to my daughter."

He sits at the base of the stairs with his left thigh in spasm, remembering himself standing by the coat hooks declaring "Heartfelt apology still works miracles." The cavalier tone rings clear in his mind, but not the occasion. The blank spot in his memory is an irritant, and he can't stop worrying at its edges, trying to place it. The situation had been tricky, he recalls; complicated more than dangerous, but not entirely without risk. One of his favorite cocktails, and he'd belittled Watson's concern in his eagerness to pursue whatever the hell it was.

Unforgivable, the lack of respect he showed her on a regular basis. Empirical evidence continued to mount regarding her influence on him, but that was the least of her worth. She'd previously held people's lives in her hands, until the day she lost her grip. And then she moved on to cup lives in her hands a different way, and moved once again, with him, to reassemble what remained of the shattered pieces from lives lost. What could be reassembled from this?

The thought trails off into a shadowy abyss until the bright pain of the bannister smacking the side of his head jerks him upright again. It's been a scant twenty minutes since the airport shuttle dropped him off, twenty hours since he was cleared to leave Switzerland, twenty days since they determined this was the path they'd take. And yet he can't formulate how long it's been since he slept; he's not sure what day it is. No matter; he feels every second from the moment Watson walked alone into the park etched into his cells.

If he doesn't leave soon, he'll be late. He is so far past anything heartfelt, any reparation; promptness is the only offering he can make. His fingers hurt from clutching at nothing. This is the worst-case scenario they'd outlined, worst for being unavoidable. Not death. (He would never allow that, no matter what Watson thought he could or could not promise.)

Mary.

His gut roils as he compulsively reviews that day. A perfect storm of incidental steps that had accelerated Watson's timeframe and delayed his, leading to the notification of next of kin handled by local authorities rather than the shocked business partner who of course would identify the remains and make the necessary calls, working from a meticulously prepared script. Instead a 22-year old Swiss policewoman with flawless English among her three fluent tongues contacted Mary Watson to inform her her daughter was dead.

Mary was the linchpin to the success of their ruse: Moriarty would look to her for verification, after him. Any indication she wasn't a grieving parent could spell disaster. His fear for what might follow should Moriarty realize their deceit drove him to extremes of cruelty he hadn't expressed since his earliest days at Hemdale. It was the worst argument they'd ever had.

When they made the plans, Watson insisted he not tell her mother she was dead. He reacted with incredulity and derision. "I cannot believe you would jeopardize everything, including your mother herself I might add, for some childish notion of sentiment. We have a vanishingly small window of opportunity here, Watson. To rid the world of this… Cancer." He was livid, could feel the veins pulsing behind his eyes, couldn't stop clenching and unclenching his fists.

"And you have no emotional attachment to the outcome of this at all, do you?" She meted out her bitter sarcasm through her teeth, even then mindful of being overheard through the hotel's thin walls. He'd had no such compunction.

"I don't have the luxury—" Her hand flew out and she hissed at him to keep his voice down. "And neither do you," he sneered in a harsh whisper. "The only priority is the success of this plan. We might as well throw ourselves off the edge otherwise. The world would be a better place without us letting puerile feelings sway our resolve."

She had been gripping her arms across her chest and let them drop. They arrived in Zurich a week before, staying at the cheapest airport hotel. Mildew, dust, and stale cigarette smoke assailed his senses. In the dim overhead light, the dark shadows under her eyes and the tight press of her lips were the only contrast on her face. She stared into the threadbare carpet, and he saw her fear for a moment, rekindling his. A full minute passed before she spoke.

"The first time my father disappeared on the streets, I didn't know where he was for months. Eventually my mother advised me to consider him 'lost' as a way to accept the inevitable while clinging to a bit of hope that he might be found." He sucked in a breath to prepare his next objection, and she slammed a book down on the bedside table to cut him off. He started, blinking his surprise, as her eyes dared him to interrupt again. When she continued she spoke so softly he had to strain to hear. "If you tell her I was lost, she might forgive me, after."

She left his room then, and a moment later he heard her door open and close, and then the clatter of the horrid bathroom fan on the other side of the wall. He understood too late that the differences in what they feared didn't matter at all. She was afraid, and he should have offered comfort. Instead, because he had no reassurance to give her, because he was the childish fool driven by sentiment, he countered by insisting his fear was the greater concern.

All that pain for nothing, once circumstances forced his hand. Watson's death is public information now, effectively announced to the world by Swiss bureaucratic efficiency when Mary was contacted by the official. All he can do is affirm the lie. He's too frightened to attempt anything else.

Superstition drives bile up his esophagus. Untenable fear that lying to the woman who brought her into this world would somehow make it true. That he was endangering Watson's life and the success of their plan by recounting the nightmare scenario they'd concocted. In Switzerland for a case. Taking the afternoon off to see the sights, separately. He'd visited an archives to look up something about beekeeping lore: a solid alibi. She'd gone on a short hike, up a paved path normally thick with tourists, to admire the falls. And she'd fallen.

No one saw. The trail was slippery from an unseasonal ice storm, the tourists nestled in the trailhead cafe, and only her bag sliding onto the path and a stray fiber from her coat proved she'd been there. There was a railing but it wasn't continuous, with room to pass and see alpine flowers on a ledge and maybe she'd gone to take a look? Startled by some sound? Became lightheaded? Reached for something she'd dropped? He can go on and on with possibilities in the absence of corroboration, and that last night Watson had to cut him off from ever more elaborate explanations.

"You know that's not going to fool anyone," she'd said, frustrated by his ineptitude. She turned to look at him and paused, strained lines around her eyes softening. "Just stop. The police will have the evidence. You won't be there. You can't know. And neither will they. You don't have to deduce anything." He was almost certain her hand reached toward his before she drew back and slipped it into her pocket instead.

His pacing slowed after that, but his mind continued chasing itself through every possible avenue to construct the map of hypothetical outcomes, all the tiny variations their plan might play out, for good or ill. He merely stopped voicing them in her presence. He tries very hard now not to determine whether this outcome was one he'd spoken aloud, and not to blame her for shutting him up, or himself for not warning her. The memory of her hand, hovering briefly in the space between them, haunts him.

The taxi honks outside, and the floor drops from under him. At that moment he sees how it must be and slams shut all the doors in his attic except the one with the police report and his grief. She's dead. His vision pixelates, and he staggers up to open the inner door, feeling his breath lose purchase in his lungs and hyperventilation set in. Watson is dead — he realizes it now, stumbling down the steps and into the cab. That fantasy of their plan, all denial. He is going to her mother's home to confirm it. It takes him a moment to figure out why they're not moving, and he stutters out the address. Despair descends. He drops his head into his hands as the car moves off.

By the time the cab reaches Mary's block, he's buttoned and rebuttoned everything he can, on shirt, waistcoat, and jacket. He stands on the sidewalk and brushes at wrinkles set before the Polizei contacted him. The ignoble wish to shirk his responsibility didn't survive crossing the river: Watson has her part to play, and this is his. His mental and physical exhaustion aren't an act, and between the two he believes he can muster an appropriate affect. He has to. Whether it will convince will depend on his audience. He wishes he had some water to lubricate his throat but has no confidence it would stay down. Nothing else has.

He hasn't moved from the curb when the door opens and her silhouette looks down on him. He tugs the hem of his jacket down and climbs the five steps. For a moment he expects her to slam the door in his face and he can't meet her eyes. They each take the same shaky breath, and she steps back to allow him inside.

"Mrs. Watson, I —" She raises her forearm, elbow tight by her side and gestures him toward a dark green upholstered chair. She sits on the pale green loveseat to its left. He walks to the chair but remains standing, gripping the back with one hand to stop himself from pacing. He feels as if he's about to perform a recitation.

"Mr. Holmes. What have you done with my daughter?" Her voice cracks at the end, and she swiftly stills the grimace it produces, steadying her face as she looks up and waits his reply.

"I have little to add to what the Swiss police would have told you. I did— It was her bag, and the coat fiber matched fibers in her luggage at the hotel. I can describe— It's a beautiful park… I—" He sways with a wave of dizziness.

On the way over he almost directed the driver to let him out on Third, just a few blocks from where he knew he could get a fix. The impulse was so strong it shocked him. Terrified him to realize how weak he was. And standing in Mary's living room the terror returns: so many ways this could go badly, starting with fainting, so he lowers himself into the chair with trembling arms.

After a few shallow breaths he looks up to see lines of shock cut deep along the sides of her mouth. "I thought…" She hesitates and clears her throat. "I thought this was a plan. Some stupid trick you two pulled for a case. Joan always said your methods weren't necessarily orthodox. I thought surely, this must be… A ploy. Or decoy, or whatever you call it. It's too— My Joan is not lost!" Her voice now stronger, angry.

He gapes at her and can't engage his diaphragm. He fights an inhale, and his palms raise in a helpless gesture. "She is—" He swallows and feels his eyes burn, too dehydrated for tears. He can't say Watson's word; Mary's already seen through everything. If he gives her any leeway for hope, she won't be able to hide it. At least he wouldn't, in her place. He hopes Watson will forgive him, after. "She is," he whispers.

"Look at me." He's heard that tone from Watson, rarely. He closes his eyes for two shuddering breaths and then complies. "Tell me now. My daughter is dead. You are certain. Even without her— a body. This is your professional opinion." The stern face that met him at the door is in place again. His chest aches in recognition of that same superb control of expression he has studied so closely, in every room of the brownstone and at half the crime scenes in the city, and so seldom cracked.

Watson lied to him a few times, or a few times that he knew, with that face. More often she hid from him, shielding the doubts she thought he wouldn't respect. Her resilience awes him. He remembers that small movement of her hand and wishes he'd reached for it. I'm sorry Watson.

He keeps his gaze firm on Mary's, mourning his need to convince her. He doesn't have to fake the sorrow in his voice. "Yes. The evidence is very strong, even without. Without that. Some, some blood. And other…" He stops when she presses her hand to her mouth. "I'm so very sorry. I can't—"

When he finally returns to the brownstone, he collapses on the library couch and shakes with suppressed sobs into the cushions, unable to weep. Mary has remained close to both of her sisters-in-law and called one, he couldn't attend to which, who would stay with her overnight. It may have been the coward's way but he thought she was relieved when he acceded to her suggestion he go home to rest.

His limbs feel made of lead; he doesn't have the energy to push off his shoes or drag the blanket off the backrest, but his mind still races through rehearsing the next day's scripts. Emily and Alfredo in the morning, and then Ms Hudson in the afternoon. He doubts preparation will prevent the need for improvisation, but he can't stop replaying his lines until exhaustion overtakes him.

He dreams that night of Watson's return, and he meets her in the foyer and pulls her to him, and her hands hold him close.

Note: Many thanks to Sanguinity on AO3 for beta and for her story "Telling the Bees" which inspired mine and takes place the next day. Please read it! ao3 dot org/ works/1372351

Title is from "Telling the Bees" by Carol Frost.

"Heartfelt apology still works miracles" is from 2x03, We Are Everyone, after their accounts have been hacked.