Time is a difficult concept. How exactly should we measure it? After all, when one is enjoying oneself, it passes by exceptionally quickly, like a cupped handful of sand streaming away. And in other times it passes by an inch at a time, slow as age, slow as a stone's heartbeat, if it had one. Stones were alive once he supposed; a train of thought that whilst rare, always made him think of her. Joyce. Impossible, fascinating, statuesque in a literal way, dead Joyce. Joyce with her stone's heartbeat, who seemed more alive than the million who lived in this city, his city, the city that had been her home for almost a century before she had fled and abandoned it behind her because of him. But mainly because of the murders she had committed. They had been friends, good friends. Perhaps she was one of the best friends a person like him could have. They had been similar in so many ways, with their dead hearts and love of the macabre. He had betrayed her, that was true enough, but does it count as a betrayal if they know your true nature? She had said herself she hadn't expected anything less of him. And the note… that single smudged note, with its misspellings and fingerprints…Joyce had been an obsession, plain and simple. She had said herself that she could inspire a childish devotion in the people around her, drawing them in like a moth to a flame. She could make them follow her to the depths of the earth or to the highs of the heavens if so wished, she had boasted once over coffee and cake.

He had scoffed at her words, scoffed at the immature boast of a selfish, self indulged girl. And now, a year since she had vanished, he knew those words to be true because for no logical reason, no sane reason, that was how he felt about her. Not that he was going to think about it.

He thought about Joyce for a fraction of a second before the blow hit him. Sentiment was a defect.

All he could feel was pain. Well, that was a lie. Oh, there were stabbing pains, sharp, burning stabbing pains, but there was something very comforting about the numbness that was sweeping up his body, racing towards his heart. It probably meant he was dying yet it wasn't something he felt he should worry about. There was nothing to care about anymore. He could feel himself slowing down inside, the body preparing itself for death, and it didn't feel so bad. He didn't even know where he was anymore. He'd lost track of everything around him.

A cold hand alighted on his forehead. It was like ice against his burning skin and felt amazing.

"You're drifting in and out of consciousness. Can you hear me? Sherlock, can you hear me?" The voice was familiar, but he couldn't place it. A small figure was stood to his left, but he couldn't see the face, just white and brown and shadows. He tried to tell them that he could hear them, but the words just wouldn't force themselves past his lips.

"Normally an insulting, yet snappy retort would have caused me to get pissed at you by now, but…you are looking at me, so I guess you can. You're in shock from the blood loss. You've been stabbed in the gut and in the shoulder, and I've staunched them both. Yes, I know, you're going to snap at me and say this is meant to be a fatal wound, but I've got it covered. You should be fine – barring accidents." The voice was brisk and almost cheerful. So that explained the pain in his abdomen (hands holding down gauze) but not how he felt inches from death – the numbness was continuing to spread.

"I'm dying." He managed to say with considerable difficulty.

"Oh yes. Most definitely." That did not fill him with hope. The voice grew only more cheerful.

"Get John. Need help."

"I told him to get out. People tend to listen when I tell them what to do. You're past any human help, I'm afraid. Luckily you've got me. Lie still and don't – fuss - so!" The hand moved away, to the side of his head, followed by the other one. The springs of the bed creaked slightly, and the figure moved towards him, pushing all the weight on the mattress. A leg was swung over, and Sherlock grunted as his helper sat on top of him. He began to struggle, but he was pinned down very easily.

"I told you not to fuss. I'm here to help you. I'm much stronger than you are and I could hurt you very easily so keep still. Now, I know my weight is hurting you – I'm a little heavier than the average modern woman – but just give me a minute." The now identified woman lent forwards, began sniffing around his neck. Her hair fell around his nose, tickling him. It smelt of nicotine, spices and strong perfume.

"What are you going to do to me?"

"Don't worry. You're going to fall into unconsciousness in about half a minute I'd say and you shan't feel a thing. I'm going to clean your wounds and close them. Is that all right your highness?"

He would reply but he didn't have the means to do so. The weight of the woman on top of him is uncomfortable, cutting off his breathing, which is rattling around in his chest.

The pain in his abdomen increased. He would scream if he had the breath to do it. There is something in the wound tract now, something wet and cold and warm and moving.

As he falls into unconsciousness, he realises that it is a human tongue.

I was a bit slow in writing more. Eeep. Well. Enjoy this tertiary epilogue.