A/N: Thank you to all who continue to read this story! And thanks again to all who reviewed, followed, and faved. I'll be honest, this is my first attempt at a real case!fiction, and I'm not too sure about it. Do you want to see more of the case, or should I mainly focus on the relationships, with the case as a minor aside? I'd love to hear your thoughts.


"I didn't mean it, Sherlock," John protested weakly.

"Forget it," Sherlock said abruptly. "I need to go out. I'll let you get back home."

"What about the case?" John asked hopefully.

"Oh, that. Honestly, I don't know where it's going, and where it will take me. You might not want to be on it if it involves traveling out of the country for weeks."

"Why- oh, you mean Rosie. Of course," John smiled thinly. "How nice of you to be concerned."

"You named me godfather. I take my responsibilities seriously," Sherlock said, aiming for a light tone. He left the flat, letting John see himself out. He couldn't shake off the feeling that he was abandoning his friend.

His transport was walking by itself, functioning without input from the hard drive. Sherlock was quite surprised, when he woke up from his reverie, to find himself on the roof of St. Bart's. His subconscious had taken him there, and he needed to figure out why.

He disappeared into his Mind Palace, searching. Moriarty was there, as usual, gloating, taunting, and mocking. Sherlock knew that it wasn't quite proper to give his enemy such prominent quarters in his own mind, but honestly, Moriarty hadn't asked. Besides, he needed a symbol of adversity when fighting his internal demons.

"How's your little pet doing?" Jim asked gleefully.

"Go away," Sherlock said tiredly. "I don't want to play today."

"Oh, honey, are you feeling alright?" Jim asked mockingly. "Are you in pain? Is your heart burning?"

"Don't be ridiculous. I won, Jim. You and your associates were de-fanged, and I'm still here."

"Yes, you are. You figured out the final problem: staying alive." Moriarty hummed a few notes of the "Stayin' Alive" song. "But I won, too. I burrrned through heart out of you, didn't I? How sad, Sherlock's little friend betrayed him. Now Sherlock is all aloooone again. I'm crying in sympathy."

"He had every right to be angry. I caused Mary's death. And he forgave me for that. He saved me. He confronted Culverton Smith for me. If that isn't evidence that he cares, than what is?"

"Johnny the doctor. Johnny the soldier. Johnny the hero. Always saving people. That's what Johnny does!"

"He did it for me," Sherlock argued, an uncomfortable lump forming in his throat.

"He so loves saving you. You are such a great distraction for him. You give him his adrenalin rushes, and you feed right into his hero complex. It's so heartwarming to watch. What happens when you try to save him? Hmmmm? Does he even realize when you do?"

"That's different," Sherlock gritted out. " It's John. You can't expect an ordinary mind to grasp even what seems obvious to us. Sometimes, he just doesn't understand. He still thinks my two year hiatus was one long string of case-solving. He doesn't understand why I had to shoot Magnussen. He thought my mission in Eastern Europe was a six-month adventure. I couldn't expect him to act differently."

The consulting criminal laughed in glee. "Oh, poor Sherlock, defending his little doctor. Of course he doesn't understand." He suddenly turned deadly serious, a fire burning in his dark eyes. He grabbed Sherlock by his upper arm and shook him. "Tell me, my dear detective, did he even try?"

The detective didn't respond.

"I won, Sherlock Holmes," Moriarty said softly, before shooting himself in the head, again.

Sherlock's eyes fluttered open, and he was once again gazing at the empty rooftop.


"I need a list of all the staff members during Bennett's time of operation, with full details. I will be searching her former place of residence. I need the current resident out."

Sherlock was on a roll. His heart was throbbing with the thrill of the chase. Instead of hurt and confusion, but now was not the time to think about that. He had a case to solve.

"She hasn't lives there for over two years," Greg raised an eyebrow.

"Nevertheless," Sherlock insisted.

The DI agreed with a put-upon sigh, which belied his relief that Sherlock seemed alright. He hoped that John and him had worked things out between themselves. The last thing London needed was a fresh rift between the duo.

"There are some things missing here," the consulting detective furrowed his brow. "The Why and the How. If we knew the motivation, or the methods, I would have more to go on. We know Who, or we think we do. The when we can narrow down to a specific time frame. The where is obvious... Oh!" Sherlock jumped up.

"We need to search Sherrinford. Get her records, analyze the handwriting. If there's anything of hers that's left behind, that would be wonderful." Sherlock was dialing on his mobile while he spoke.

"I need access to Sherrinford," he said firmly, without any sort of greeting. "Full access. Records, rooms, each everything." He listened for a moment. "Yes, of course you would send me with a minder. Don't worry, I won't touch anything without permission. I'm wounded to the core. My own brother doesn't trust me. When I need it? Yesterday."

He put down the phone and rolled his eyes. Greg swallowed a smirk. The Holmes brother's were anything but ordinary, but their sibling rivalry was just so bloody typical. Sherlock flounced out of the room without a goodbye. As much as things changed, some things stayed the same. In some way, Greg liked that.


"Alright, this is what I have in the meantime," Sherlock swooped into the DI's office two days later. "No handwriting samples, she was thorough I'm her cleanup. But I've got an old wallet of hers. Take a look," he handed it over to Greg.

It was a rather worn maroon wallet, but of good quality. It was also empty. In the front, on the right-hand corner, there were two embossed letters: E and D.

"You're sure it's hers?"

"I interviewed a former guard, who admitted to stealing it from her," Sherlock smirked.

"You think those are her real initials? It might be from a previous alias. We aren't sure how many she had."

"It's worn and out of style, bought about forty-five years back. She kept it out of sentiment. Why would she do it if it wasn't her real name?"

"Hmm, I see. Wait, perhaps it was inherited from someone else, her mother or aunt or something?"

"Perhaps. But look at what I found in her previous residence."

A small gold chain was laid down on the DI's desk. The charm hanging from it was engraved with the same two letters."

"I found this caught between the floorboards. This one isn't as old as the other one. About thirty years, I would say. It's a pretty generic style, not custom made. Still, I'm confident that those are her real initials."

"Great, so now we only have to investigate every individual with the initials ED," Greg said sarcastically.

Sherlock gave him a look that said, "Are you being stupid on purpose?" Then he shrugged nonchalantly. "Every individual who's also female, in her sixties or seventies, between five foot five and five foot seven, according to descriptions, and has a higher education, in the field of medicine or psychology probably, or both."

"Alright, alright. I wasn't thinking too clearly, I suppose." Lestrade rubbed his forehead.

"Take a break, Lestrade. Take the time to smell some flowers. I can't have the only half-decent DI in the yard slipping due to stress."

"Shut up," the DI grumped, but he did it good-naturedly.

"I did some more research into the staff," Sherlock said, suddenly gravely serious. "All of the people who were working on the island when Eurus took control, gave a similar account. They were brought to talk to Eurus about two months before the takeover, and had about five sessions each.

"They described the sessions as mostly a blur. But ever since the first session, they've been afraid, paranoid even. They began doubting themselves. They began doubting everyone and everything around them. The only thing that calmed them down was a session with Eurus, where they felt secure and at peace. As soon as they left, they began to feel confused once more. They listened to her, because she managed to convince them on a very deep level that listening to her would keep them safe."

"That sounds horrific," Greg breathed.

"It is," Sherlock said grimly. "There's more. The only ones who had steady contact with her over the past five years were the governor and the Deputy Chief Psychiatrist."

"And who is that?"

"Dr. Taylor."

"The one who, who," Greg couldn't finish the thought.

"Who killed his family and then committed suicide. The ones who have the answers are either dead, vanished, or...," Sherlock paused. "Lost in their own mind."