The single spoken name was a blessing to Watson as his friend finally responded to the world around him for the first time since the murder. Deafening silence that once filled the flat began to fade as Sherlock slowly regained his senses. Gray irises appeared partially between eyelids as the detective awoke from the sedative administered by Watson hours before.

"Holmes? How... How do you feel?" The hesitation in Watson's voice was as palpable as it was audible. "Are you in any pain? Nausea?"

Sherlock simply shook his head 'no' as he gazed tiredly at the gray hued wall beyond Watson.

"Perhaps some tea? It'll do you good to have something in your stomach."

Sherlock sighed as he looked at his friend with a cold facade. "You said... Mycroft needs me to work on the case, did you not?"

"Y-Yes. Scotland Yard is at a loss."

"And I'm the only one who can solve the crime. I'm the only one who can bring justice to... Mycroft."

"Yes..."

Sherlock remained stationary on his bed as he mentally contemplated the role he was seemingly destined to continue to play. He was tired, so very tired. Giving years of his life to the prospect of justice, to fight for a light to shine through the darkness and to identify the most nefarious minds in all of the world had left the skilled detective absolutely exhausted; mentally, physically and emotionally.

Watson eyed Sherlock's complexion warily. "You're still looking quite pale. Perhaps you should rest a moment more, or-"

"No." Sherlock replied bluntly as he slowly sat upright on the bed. His entire body was trembling from weakness, having not eaten in almost two days had left the already compromised detective all the weaker. "I must find Rathe. I must."

"But you won't do yourself or anyone else any good if you push yourself too far. You must pace yourself, my friend." Watson lightly put his hand to Sherlock's shoulder, relieved that Sherlock didn't try to push away his touch as he done the night of the murder. "I won't watch you work yourself to death."

Lifting a shaking hand to his shoulder Sherlock brushed Watson's hand aside before throwing his legs over the edge of the bed and standing upright very slowly. "Please wait for me in the study, I need a moment to freshen my clothes."

"Right, of course." Watson respected Sherlock's request and departed from the room to give his friend some privacy. "I'll be outside waiting."

Sherlock watched as Watson left the room and closed the door. Alone for the first time since he regained his senses Sherlock found himself for the first time in his life frightened, and feeling completely lost. Pressing his hands to his face he rubbed at his eyes and breathed heavily as he fought back the urge to begin weeping for the loss of his brother as well as the personal loss of direction. Taking in a deep breath he tilted his head back and stared up at the blank ceiling as he mentally calmed himself, forcing his mind to regain its usual emotional composure and steel.

Retreating to his private washroom Sherlock stood before the mirror and washbowl, his face a ghost of its former self in the reflection. Placing his hands into the bowl of cool, clean water he splashed it over his face to cleanse his sweaty face, ignoring the stubble for the time being.

Pulling his hands from his face he stared at his own frightful reflection with a loss of identity. Sherlock put his hand on the side of the mirror and pulled it forward, revealing a small six by six square compartment built into the wall concealed behind the mirror. In the compartment was a small wooden box made of oak.

Dropping his gaze from the box Sherlock looked down at his trembling palms before clenching them into tight, white knuckled fists of unfathomable anger. Anger not only toward Rathe who so brutally murdered Mycroft, but at himself for feeling weak.

Useless. Vulnerable. Worthless. Foolish. Broken...

Pushing the self deprecating thoughts from his mind Sherlock pressed his palms against the wall and stared intently at the box once more.

"Brother... I will avenge your death."


Watson hastily returned to his own room to change into fresh clothes of his own, and to wash his face before shaving the unkempt stubble that grown due to two days worth of neglect. Running a comb through his hair quickly Watson shrugged off his old clothes and in favor of something clean from his wardrobe. Straightening his tie he stepped out of his room and stood in the study with his hands concealed in his pockets as he awaited for Sherlock to join him.

Nervously Watson's hand fumbled with the pocketwatch in his trouser pocket as he stared anxiously at Sherlock's closed door. The good doctor could hear Sherlock moving about across the old floorboards in his room which was a good sign. The detective was active and anxious to get back out onto the street to begin the case.

The door opened and Sherlock appeared dressed in a dark gray suit with an even darker gray overcoat thrown on top. A dark maroon scarf was draped carelessly around his neck and shoulders. Despite washing his face Sherlock hadn't shaved, a rugged stubble remained along his chin and jawline.

Running his fingers through his slicked back dark hair Sherlock tugged the lapels of his coat as if to straighten the fabric. "Shall we?"

"Holmes, are you ready to go back out?" Watson asked tentatively as he studied his friend's every move, his every reaction to the most basic questions and activities.

"Yes. I'm certain." Sherlock spoke quickly as he crossed the room pass Watson and opened the door to the study with a forceful jerk. "Come. I must speak with Lestrade immediately."

...to be continued...