"Two years! Two bloody years! I thought you were dead."

"Yes, John. That was the point."

"If you'd given me a sign. A message. A bloody smoke signal — I would have waited. You know I would have. I would have waited for as long as it took. I just needed to know that I was waiting for something."

"I … had rather assumed you wouldn't require a message. You would just know. That I wouldn't actually die that way."

"Like what, exactly?"

"Like a fraud. A coward. That I would give up. On life. On you … on us."

"Oh, so you are arrogant enough to think you can choose how your life will end?"

"I don't think, John. I know."

"So, is this it? A guilt trip because I didn't know that, despite having a dangerous profession that has you consorting with the deadly criminal classes, you mean to choose how you die?"

"Simply facts, John."

"… I never stopped caring … loving you, Sherlock. But I love her, too. I'm in love with her. And I've made promises."

"You are an honourable man. A man of your word. I understand that. I respect it."

"Do you? Do you really?"

"Did you not hear me the first time?"

"Of course, of course. Sorry … two years of just talking to 'ordinary people' have got me out of practice."

"Yes, well …"

"It's not going to be that different, you know. We'll still spend time together. Work on cases … when I have the time away from the clinic."

"Of course. We've already had two years apart. The adjustment will be minimal."

"All right, then. That's … good. Glad we talked about this."

"Yes. Yes. It will be fine."

It had been fine. Well, mostly fine. The bit about things not changing had been a lie. Particularly after the wedding and the discovery of Mary's pregnancy. But Sherlock had relished the time alone. Mostly. Time to work on his experiments and keep up on his reading. Work on cases. Without distraction. Without John's prattling. Without … John. With … drugs. It would have been easier if he'd been able to delete the physical and emotional aspect of things. He'd tried, but found it was similar to other emotional memories, such as some of those from his youth. The impact could be minimized, but not fully deleted. Tiny infections he could treat, but not heal. There was a time when this had driven him mad, but lately he'd reconciled it as the price of admission for forming attachments. Having friends. Much to Mycroft's horror, of course, Sherlock had finally discovered some value in that which was scientifically unquantifiable. And certainly he would not have survived this long without them: the people who seemed to be able to bear his presence more than most.

And for that reason he'd sacrificed everything. To set Mary free. To keep her and John safe. And the baby. And any future victim that Magnussen targeted.

It was over now.

He was in prison. Solitary confinement. Magnussen was dead. Murdered at Sherlock's hand. In full view of the authorities. There was no sweeping this one under the rug. No tradeoff of favours. Now Mycroft had to figure out what to do with his naughty baby brother.

And Sherlock had to figure out what to do with himself. Because he was bored. So very bored. But he did have two things at his disposal: his Mind Palace and his drugs. Everyone knew that prison was actually the easiest place to get one's hands on narcotics. Sherlock's main suppliers all came through the prison system. So that wasn't a problem. Sherlock's network even knew how to breach solitary. Mycroft sometimes put too much faith in systems.

It had been nearly three years since Moriarty had forcibly initiated Sherlock into the world of sexual experience, which had had the unexpected consequence of bringing Sherlock and John together. And then ripping them apart. His encounter with the Mind Palace spectre of Moriarty during his near-death experience had stayed with him. He'd kept the consulting criminal under wraps. In the deepest, darkest depths. In a straitjacket and chains. In a padded cell. Darkest urges needed to be contained, but also kept safe.

You're lonely, Sherlock. Is that it? a soft voice whispered in the distance.

One is never alone in a Mind Palace.

True, true. But there is a difference between alone and lonely. And there is a seven percent solution to that problem. You'll have to come find me for the other ninety-three percent. So why don't you fix yourself up and let me out … to stretch.