"Look." Sherlock pointed at the paper with his pen.

00L213859 19J3722E 98F63F75R17Y 190214AG L. Jeffry

00A213859 87W6093I 31L73K60E30S ICN51938 A. Wilkes

00J213859 36S0506M 75I90T81H09E 48KK96BB J. Smithe

00R213859 16B0430A 20R20N06E47S BES1S603 R. Barnes

John stared. There were names mixed in with the numbers. "What exactly am I looking at?"

"This is a list of bank account numbers, names, and passwords."

"What? How do you know?"

"The first eight digits are all the same." Sherlock fiddled with his mobile for a moment then showed him the screen. It was the web site for Selby Jennings Investment Bank. The bank routing number was 00213859, an exact match.

"You think someone was going to try and steal money from these accounts somehow?"

"Possibly, or something equally nefarious."

John frowned. "Why these people?"

"According to their site, Selby Jennings' London branch offers a special discount for civil servants."

He blinked. "Civil servants?"

Sherlock tapped away on his mobile. "Yes, Adam Wilkes is the Director of Ammunition Procurement for the Ministry of Defence. Jeffry and Smithe are officers under him and Rupert Barnes is the Director of General Finance. The list goes on. This slip of paper contains bank account access information for every senior member of the MOD."

John's mouth fell open. "My god. Do you think the bank is some kind of front?"

"No. I'm certain the Director of General Finance vets his financial institutions quite thoroughly. It's more likely our killer intended to investigate the spending habits of those listed and blackmail them accordingly. Much cleaner than funneling money out of accounts."

He sucked in a breath. "And if they refused to comply, the blackmailer would sell the information to the press like that whistle-blower did to The Telegraph five years ago."

His friend looked up from his phone. "What are you on about?"

"It was a huge scandal, Sherlock. How can you not remember?"

"Was anyone murdered?"

"No."

"Then why would I care?"

"You should care because expense accounts were exposed for a number of government officials, including members of the House of Commons and House of Lords. It was revealed the majority were falsely expensing their second homes, writing off the cost of furniture, duck houses, and even tins of cat food. The public was outraged. Ten officials were imprisoned and others fined. There were even death threats. It was a mess."

"Hmmm."

"Don't you think we should warn the account holders their information has been compromised?"

"No, because it hasn't."

"How do you know?"

"Because this is the only copy our killer had."

John shot his friend an incredulous look. "You can't know that."

Sherlock waved the paper in his face. "Balance of probability, John. No one prints anything anymore. Everything goes on thumb drives or on the cloud. It's clear our killer is unable to access the computer he originally used to retrieve the data or he wouldn't have gone to the trouble to drug Rebecca Frost or attempt to run over Miss Walker. Whether he intends to sell it to another party or blackmail those listed, its value is dependent on it being one of a kind. He wants it and will do whatever it takes to get it back."

Oh. It was both annoying and fascinating the way the man could deduce so much information out of such a tiny thing as a printed piece of paper. "What next then?"

Sherlock gave an impatient shake of his head. "Who is more important than what."

He let out a sharp breath through his nose. "Alright, I'll bite. Who's next?"

"Neil Henley. This is his missing composition book. He works in the tech department for Selby Jennings. He was also a favorite student of Ms. Frost."

"And you know this how?"

Sherlock's eyes gleamed. "I found him playing the piano at Aria. Giles mentioned he was looking for his notebook and that he worked for the investment bank."

"Have you met him, Vivian?" John glanced over at the woman. She'd been uncharacteristically quiet.

She was slumped against the corner wall, head lolled to the side. A light snore filled the air. The lamp flickered, sending shadows flitting across her face. Before John could take a step in her direction, her arms and legs spasmed and she startled awake.

She blinked over at them. "What? Why are you both looking at me like that?"

John frowned. "You-"

"-must be extremely distracted by our conversation," Sherlock said. "John and I will just finish our discussion elsewhere so you can continue to build your storage room. I'll be back in a moment."

A yawn tugged at her mouth. "Alright, but you better not lock me in."

Sherlock cast her a sidelong glance. "I wouldn't dream of it."

Her voice carried through the door. "Oh yes, you would."

Instead of stopping inside the entrance to the shed as John had expected, Sherlock headed out into the rain, towards the closest tree. The heavy green foliage of the magnolia thankfully sheltered them from most of the downpour.

"Why exactly are we out here, Sherlock?" He wagered it wasn't for the fresh air.

"Miss Walker's hearing is entirely too sensitive for this discussion."

"What's going on?"

"She's been nodding off every half hour or so, then jerking awake."

John shot him an incredulous look. "And you're surprised? She's starving and exhausted. Most people don't thrive on sugary tea and little sleep."

"She hasn't been sleeping at all," Sherlock said flatly.

He cast his friend a quizzical look. "She was sleeping a minute ago."

"She's not even aware it's happening. One moment she'll be asking a question, the next, she checks out mid-sentence. When she awakens she has no memory of the event at all. I believe she's experiencing micro sleeps. It's possible the data overwhelming her brain is preventing her from reaching REM sleep."

John's stomach lurched. REM sleep was necessary for the body to function. Too long without it put incredible stress on the brain and nervous system, resulting in paranoia, hallucinations, and if left untreated, death.

"We need to get her to hospital immediately," John said.

"Don't be ridiculous. The noise from all the machinery would only increase the speed of her decline. She doesn't need hospital. What she needs is a Mind Palace."

He pursed his lips. "Isn't that your job?"

"Yes, but I'm out of time. I thought she had the mental energy left to finish building her storage room and devise her deletion method, but she's declining too rapidly now."

"Why didn't you tell me sooner?"

"None of the symptoms were there a few hours ago. This most recent episode officially established a pattern. I thought she was stable. The nico-" Sherlock's mouth shut with a clack.

John's heart sped up and heat filled his face. He tried to keep his voice even, but each word came out louder than the previous one. "Tell me you didn't give Vivian nicotine patches. Tell me you weren't that stupid."

Sherlock remained silent, though his eyes narrowed.

"Are you a doctor? Are you trained to treat patients or prescribe medication?" John advanced on his friend. "Answer me, damn it!"

Sherlock's lips thinned. "No. I'm not a doctor."

"No, you're bloody well not. So, what in the hell possessed you to think you knew how to treat her?"

"Nicotine patches helped me cope with my own withdrawals. I thought it would stabilize her emotional state, reduce withdrawal symptoms, and suppress her appetite." His tone turned defensive. "And it did. She appeared more relaxed after a few doses. I know you're angry I didn't consult you, but it worked."

John's blood pressure rose and the vein in his forehead began to throb. "Oh, I'm not angry, Sherlock. I'm way past angry and into furious now, or haven't you deduced that yet?"

"I don't see the problem." Sherlock's frown deepened.

"Of course you don't, you arrogant bastard. As a textbook insomniac, you never noticed the effects, but nicotine negatively impacts sleep rhythms, REM sleep in particular. Do you see the problem now?"

Sherlock's eyes widened a fraction.

"Oh good, the gears are finally turning. We would have known Vivian was in danger sooner, but your prescription of nicotine patches masked her decline by suppressing her metabolism and giving her body a false sense of alertness. You've also robbed her of what little REM sleep she could have gotten in the meantime. Are you still pleased with yourself, Doctor Holmes?" John jabbed a finger at Sherlock's chest. "Because you may well be responsible for her death."

Sherlock slowly shook his head. "I didn't - I never intended-"

He'd never seen the man so inarticulate. Refusing to feel a speck of sympathy for him, John folded his arms and waited.

Sherlock cleared his throat. The words, when they came, were low and slow. "I'm sorry."

He had to brace himself against the urge to rock back on his heels. It wasn't often that Sherlock Holmes apologized. He ran a hand through his damp hair and sighed. "You should be telling Vivian that, not me."

Sherlock's gaze shifted to the shed and back. "I should have consulted you instead of taking matters into my own hands. What do you think we should do?"

John's expression turned stony. "We tell her the truth. There's no hiding this from her."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I meant to help save her. Have you any ideas?"

Of course. Only now that the situation was appropriately dire was he being consulted. John threw his hands up in the air. "No, Sherlock, I don't. I've never seen anything like this in my life. The human body is complex. It's not like I can put her in sleep mode like I do my laptop."

Sherlock went still, then his hand darted out to clutch John's arm, his grip so tight it bordered on painful. "Yes, you can. You've done it before."

"What?"

"Sergeant Anthony Phillips. You treated him for cardiac arrest in Afghanistan."

John stared at his friend. "How did you-?"

"My curiosity was piqued after Lt. Doyle mentioned you turned his friend into a human ice lolly. It was simple enough to use Mycroft's security clearance to gain access to Sergeant Phillips' military records. You saved the man's life."

An explosion had rocked their unit. Phillips had collapsed, his pulse absent. John administered CPR, and while the man's heart beat and respiration resumed, he didn't return to consciousness. Air support wouldn't reach them for another day, and John had been desperate to save him. The neurological damage was spreading, and the young soldier wouldn't last the night. They'd been camped near Lake Zarkol along the Tajikistan border. As a last resort, he and the men in his unit carved a hole in the ice and sank Phillips' body into the freezing waters.

Therapeutic hypothermia slowed the spreading damage by decreasing oxygen flow to the brain, reducing the production of neurotransmitters, and limiting free radicals. While current studies still showed mixed results, the risky medical treatment had saved Sergeant Anthony Phillips' life.

John shook his head. "This situation is not the same."

Sherlock paced beneath the shelter of the tree. "It's similar enough. Miss Walker had a traumatic brain injury six months ago. There was neurological damage resulting in data overload. Her brain is now overheating due to lack of REM sleep and the inability to assimilate the influx of information bombarding her mind. Lowering her body temperature will act as a coolant for her brain and slow down the decline."

"That doesn't solve the REM sleep issue."

"One of your sleeping pills should do the trick."

John scowled. "Did you go through my bag?"

He scoffed. "You always take them with you when you travel. It makes you snore by the way. Your nasal wheezing carried all the way down the hall to my room last night."

John refused to be distracted. "You want me to dispense my own prescription medication to someone who isn't my patient."

Sherlock spread his hands. "Do we have any other options? Just one Ambien, John. The combination of hypothermia and the medication may not fully induce REM sleep for her, but there's a chance it will at least give her body a few hours rest. Sleep paralysis will prevent her limbs from twitching her awake. It could reboot her brain just enough to allow me to finish her training and save her life."

John sighed. "You should have been a barrister."

"Excellent."

It was only after his friend's shoulders lowered that John realized how tense the man had been. And still was, judging by the tightness around the man's eyes. Guilt had a funny way of doing that to a man.

"I have two conditions," John said.

"Conditions?"

"One. I will give her a single Ambien. In case your Mind Palace hasn't told you, it's dangerous to give post withdrawal patients hypnotics. There's a greater risk of dependency developing. Two. If her condition does not improve following this treatment, you will follow my medical advice without question or complaint. Do you understand?"

Sherlock lifted a single brow. "You're the doctor."

John wasn't about to let him off the hook so easily. "Promise me you'll comply with my terms."

His friend shot him an insulted look. "You have my word."

"Good. It's high time we let Vivian know what's going on." He nodded towards the shed. "And remember, it's her decision, not yours."

A roaring fire sent warmth curling through the drafty library. John set the tea tray down on the coffee table and passed the cups around. The clinking of spoons against china sang in curious harmony with the hiss and sputter of raindrops down the flue.

Sherlock eyed Vivian over his teacup. "You haven't been sleeping."

Right. Of course the man would take the most direct, obnoxious route possible.

Her head shot up, eyes narrowed. "Yes, I have. Not as much as before, but I'm managing."

"No, you're not."

Somehow John didn't believe antagonizing Vivian was going to make her want to agree with Sherlock's plan.

"The sooner you finish teaching me, the sooner I can sleep. I'll be fine until then."

Sherlock shook his head. "I can't teach you if you're falling asleep during your lessons."

She scowled. "I haven't fallen asleep once."

"Yes, you have. You just have no recollection of it."

She gripped her tea cup. "I think I'd remember if I fell asleep or not."

John cleared his throat. "You wouldn't, not if you're experiencing micro sleeps. It can last anywhere from a few seconds to a minute or two."

Sherlock cast him a sideways look. "I thought you were going to be a silent party."

"I was, but I can't just sit here and watch you muck it up."

Sherlock gave him a smug smile and John knew he'd been had. Ah, well. In for a penny and all that.

Her brow furrowed. "Did you see me fall asleep?"

John nodded. "In the shed."

"And I've witnessed you doing it most of the morning, every half hour or so, though the intervals between episodes are shortening," Sherlock said.

Sherlock glanced at the clock then moved to stand next to Vivian where she sat in the leather chair.

She looked up at him. "If this is some kind of sick joke, I'm going to be-"

Vivian sagged sideways and her head fell forward. Sherlock's hand shot out and caught her teacup before it could spill.

"It might be best to keep hot beverages away from her for the moment," John said, crouching next to her chair. He checked her pulse. Fast, but steady. The color was high in her cheeks. Red streaks spread up towards her temples. Definitely feverish.

Sherlock sighed. "I thought the tea and sugar might keep the next episode at bay."

"Well, you were wrong. Again." John put a hand on her shoulder and gently shook her. "Vivian. Wake up."

"-very upset," she mumbled. Her eyes fluttered open. She recoiled, and her hands rose, fists raised defensively.

Sherlock stood to the side, face grim, still holding her tea cup.

"It's alright," John said, speaking in the calm voice he used for frightened patients. "You just had another episode."

She swallowed. "Sorry. It's just a bit weird. One minute you were sitting on the sofa and then a second later right next to my face."

"A natural reaction," he said with a smile, "I'm just glad you didn't punch me."

"I'm not. It would have been far more entertaining if she had." Sherlock set the tea cup back on the tray.

She ran a hand across her eyes. "I don't understand. I lost time, but I can recall the conversation just fine. You told him to keep hot beverages away from me."

John's eyebrows rose. "Yes, I did."

"That's your audio memory coming into play, I'm afraid. You weren't technically awake though," Sherlock said.

"What's happening to me?"

Sherlock gave John a go ahead gesture.

"We believe the data building up in your mind is preventing you from REM sleep. Going without it for too long adversely affects the brain and body. The micro sleeps you're experiencing are a sign of acute REM deprivation," John said.

Her forehead furrowed, then cleared. "Oh." She craned her head to look at Sherlock. "That's doctor speak for I haven't much time, isn't it?"

Sherlock gave her a curt nod.

"How long?"

"If the pattern continues, you have 48 hours of relative lucidity remaining. That is, as long as you remain unstimulated and not physically taxed in any way," Sherlock said.

"And that's not enough time for me to finish my training?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not in your current state. Your mental energy is too depleted, and your body temperature is rising too rapidly."

She worried at her bottom lip. "What happens when I run out of time?"

"You'll continue to decline." John waved a hand. "Knowing the ugly details isn't going to help you right now though. It's better if we focus-"

Vivian scowled. "I deserve the truth. Sherlock?"

Sherlock's mouth thinned. "The micro sleep episodes will increase in number and length. Mental decay and organ shut down will follow, ultimately resulting in a comatose state, then death."

She blinked, and a pained smile caught at her mouth. "Right. So, I guess I can eat now."

A nervous giggle bubbled up in John's chest. It felt similar to the time when he'd burst into hysterical laughter in front of his Aunt Muriel's open casket. He took a large gulp of tea to shove the sensation down.

"No, I'm afraid food still isn't an option," Sherlock said.

Vivian slammed her palms against the arms of the chair. "I don't even get a last meal?" She appeared far more upset over the lack of food than the prospect of death. "I think I've bloody earned it."

"Eating will only further stimulate your system and accelerate your decline."

"What does it matter if I'm going to die anyway?"

"Your death isn't certain. There's a chance-"

She lurched out of her seat and poked his friend in the chest. "Don't you dare give me false hope, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock caught her wrist. "I'm telling you the truth. There's a chance we can slow the process down and give your body the rest it needs, but the method is risky."

She stared, and her hand slipped from his grasp to slowly fall to her side. "Tell me."

Sherlock gestured at her chair, and she resumed her seat. She looked from Sherlock then over to John. "Tell me."

John nodded. "Essentially, your brain is overheating, like a high-powered engine without coolant. The lack of REM sleep prevents the assimilation of information and saps energy from your body. Our plan is to put you in a bathtub full of ice to induce therapeutic hypothermia. There's a chance it could slow down the neurological damage."

She frowned. "I can see how lowering my body temperature will help reduce the pressure in my brain, but if I can't achieve REM sleep, what's the point?"

"We'd dose you with Ambien. It's designed to induce REM rhythms and sleep paralysis so you won't awaken due to your limbs jerking or from shivering," John said.

Vivian wiped a drop of sweat from her temple. "How long would the treatment take?"

Sherlock put his hands behind his back. "We'd keep you on ice for two to three hours, then slowly rewarm your body until you awaken. Ideally, your brain will be rebooted from the cooling and induction of REM sleep. You'd then have enough energy to allow me to finish your training."

"What's the risk?"

"Nerve damage and death," Sherlock said, his tone softer than John had ever heard.

"I see." Vivian let out a slow breath. She raised her head and gave them a grim smile. "When do we start?"

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