Hey guys. I'm sorry I haven't been able to update on-time this week, it's been hectic. I'm trying to finish school and wrap up Asphyxia while busy with our theater group's tech week and it's a lot of shit to work through believe it or not. I'll try to keep myself on track but just bear with me.

We're getting closer and closer to the end! Chapter 30 is the finish line. Sprint till the end? Sprint till the end.

Enjoy!

I was lulled to sleep by the hum of the engine about halfway through our ride. You roused me every few minutes, just to make sure I was still alright, and by the fifth time I wasn't quite pleasant about it. The morphine had begun to wear off, and in consequence my muscles ached and my wounds stung whenever my jumper brushed against them. I decided to suffer through it until we got there, but the recurrence of the pain made me unhappy.

Dull pangs echoed through my chest whenever I breathed. Guilt had settled there like thick dust, and watched the window blankly, trying to relax so I didn't have to deal with the pain. You watched me, tense yourself, and at one point reached over to pat my knee. "As soon as we get there, I'll give you another dose." You promised.

"I don't want more morphine," I bit back, and almost lost it. I pressed my forehead against the glass and held my breath.

You frowned. "Sorry."

I sucked in a sigh. "I just want to sleep."

"We're almost there."

"And I want to be there when you talk to them. I want to know."

"Then I'll wait for you, as long as you're mindful of your health."

I nodded.

The house my parents now lived in was not the one I had grown up in, so I had almost no memory of it, besides various Christmas dinners, but those were a long time ago. My father had bought it at a bargain for sixty million pounds, the celebration of a new hundred-million quid deal, when I was eighteen. A half-mile driveway stretched past a wide white gate, dividing the street from the drive. It wound around a short hill to where the house looked off toward the sparkling lights of Cardiff. You had definitely not been expecting it's ridiculous girth. I could see the awe on your face as we pulled up the front roundabout.

Mum came through the doors just as we parked, and my heart lifted as I saw her. Her grey hair was pushed by the breeze as she ran out to our car as fast as her heels would take her. "Oh, John!" She shrieked happily, throwing her arms around my neck and squeezing. "I'm so glad you're here, sweetheart, oh I've missed you so horribly, it's been perfectly awful."

"I've missed you too, Mum." I smiled and rubbed her shoulders, careful to be gentle with her. "You've gained weight since last I saw you."

"Yes, a whole two stones! It's been lovely, it really has." She giggled, but then gave me a closer look. "Though, you've been losing."

"It's been difficult keeping things down lately," I confessed.

"That's a shame." Her eyes flashed, and she took my arm in hers. "I told the cook to plan for salmorejo for dinner, do you still have a taste for salmorejo? I knew you used to like it, but I didn't know, it's been such a long while since you've been home."

"I haven't had salmorejo in ages. Though, isn't it cold?"

"I couldn't remember any hot dishes you liked." She shrugged. "But come inside, I'll have him make it up now instead."

"Actually," You interjected, "John should rest. He wasn't feeling well on the way, it would be better if he laid down for a few minutes before attempting anything."

"Oh." Mum turned to you as you came around the car, and the two of you studied each other. "You must be Shorluck."

"Sherlock." You corrected. "Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Watson."

"And you, Mr. Holmes." She smiled and patted my arm. "If you're tired, John, I'll show you to your room."

"Thanks, Mum." I squeezed her hand, and she led the way.

Mum led us through the house's wide halls, and I tried my best to keep up with her without tripping her on my crutch. Our room was on the right side of the house, first floor, and we had to go through the massive sitting room to even reach our hall. I expected my father to come out at any moment, but he was nowhere to be seen.

Our guest suite boasted tall windows and a set of French doors leading out onto the back patio. The curtains were a deep beige, set against the rich red wood panelling and cream sitting-chairs. We had our own small sitting-room and bath, even a fireplace. I gaped a bit as the footman set down our bags.

"Do you have a large staff, then?" You asked, a bit at a loss.

"Not very. Most of them are just maintenance. Someone has got to keep this house clean." Mum nodded, and shooed the footman away. "You can rest as long as you'd like, John. If Mr. Holmes would rather stay in reach of you, there's a library just across the way you can help yourself to. I'll be in the kitchen, alright?"

"Alright." I smiled at her. "Thank you."

"My pleasure!" She pecked my cheek and showed herself out.

I collapsed onto the bed just as the door closed. My leg was killing me, and my head was pounding with the overwhelming largeness of this place. I had gone too quickly from the stuffy car into my father's damn palace, and it made me a bit dizzy. You squatted down to unzip your suitcase while I stretched out.

"I've only brought a few days' supply," You warned. "We should try to ration it, if we can."

"My dad sells the stuff, I don't think we need to worry about running out." I kicked off my shoes and wriggled into the bed. "Oh, God, mm. Can we bring this home with us."

You smirked, pulling your drug box out of your case and sitting down beside me. "Your father sells morphine?"

"Yeah, medical morphine. But don't get any ideas." I rolled my sleeve up against my bicep. "I would rather not him hear about this. About any of this."

"They'll be curious as to where your wounds came from," You said.

"Well, you can tell them that part." I squirmed when I saw the needle. "Just try to avoid the personal things."

"Last night?"

"Specifically. But I'd rather not have a heart-to-heart about my diagnosis, either. My father..." I trailed off, not really wanting to go into it.

You looked at me, a bit of incertitude in your brow. "I won't mention it."

"And wait to talk about the case until I'm there, alright?"

"Alright." You prepared the syringe.

I closed my eyes, and soon enough I felt the small prick in the crook of my arm, followed by the warm wave of morphine wisping over my skin. The pain faded gradually. I hadn't even realized how tired I was, distracted by the wounds, until sleep passed within my reach. I felt the bed tip, and I grabbed for your arm, gripping tightly the fabric of your shirt.

"And-... Don't-... Afgh-..." I murmurred, my head lolling to the side.

"Alright, John." You leaned forward, pressing your lips against my skin.

My childhood had from the very start been littered with references as to how alike my father and I had been. I have his same squat shoulders and square face, and though I'm just a smidge taller than him, his perpetual cold glare cuts a few inches from my posture. He was seated in his large armchair, an ashtray nearly filled set on the table to his right. The last time I had visited, he had been begrudgingly trying to get away from smoking, but now it seemed like he had begrudgingly gone back to it, and was filling the mouth of his pipe with tobacco with a frown carved deeply into his face.

"Do you smoke, son?" He asked, pointedly toward you.

"I do not." You answered.

"Good. It's damn torture for the lungs."

He cleared his throat and brought his pipe to his lips, flicking his lighter with a round, calloused thumb, and sat back deeper into his chair. You answered him by broadening your own shoulders. I felt a bit strange seeing you two together for the first time, especially at this angle, with the two of you sitting isolated and robust in your armchairs. The pipe fell to my father's lap.

"I know that Patricia wants to believe that this little visit is nothing more than a holiday," He started, motioning toward Mum, "But it's not like John just to come around without a reason. Over the phone you sounded pressed for time."

You nodded. "But I have a feeling that you know why we're here, Dr. Watson."

My father puffed a bit of smoke from his nose. He shared a glance with Mum.

"It's the deal, isn't it?" She asked.

He shook his head. "I know who you are, Mr. Holmes. You're a detective. One of the finest, or so I've heard. Your name has come up a few times in my circles, and I'll applaud you for your skills. But I have no use for them here, and I do not want a detective meddling with the affairs of my business or the business of my partners."

"I have reason to believe that some aspect of your business is causing direct harm to John," You inserted.

"I am aware. But as I'll state again, this is not a place for a detective."

"Sir," You began.

"I don't want to hear any more of it." He took another draw.

"Then I won't bother you," You nodded, leaning forward onto your knees. "But allow me to update you on John. I'm sure you, being his parents, are interested."

"Sherlock." I hissed.

"He's had a bit of insomnia lately, but that can be overlooked. He's engaged. I would expect you both to be elated, but so far I've only seen affections flow from Mrs. Watson, not from her other half. Maybe it's because Dr. Watson is less relationally inclined. Maybe it's because he has more on his mind just than John. And I understand this entirely - often I find myself falling into that same predicament. But perhaps your disinterest is simply because you don't understand exactly how much danger you've indirectly imposed on John.

"Over the last weeks our house has been invaded, our privacy disrupted by burglars and spies, and John has been both poisoned and abused. He was abducted and held hostage for over forty-eight hours, where a nameless and faceless young woman subjected him to various forms of mental and physial torture. I have done everything I can thus to keep John safe, and sane, in the wake of these events, but I cannot fight an enemy I can't see."

"You cannot shock me into agreeing with you, Mr. Holmes." My father growled. "I didn't ask you to bring John here."

We all froze, and he grumbled.

"I'm not glad those things had to happen to John. I did what I could to stop it, as well. I've been far from idle, mind you. But- this is not a place for detectives, Mr. Holmes. It's a matter of pride."

"Does your pride matter more than the well-being of your son?"

He stared you down. You two were at the moment resembling angry rams, bleating and stomping your hooves, preparing to charge. Mum and I both felt the tension begin to spark, and, in an attempt to avoid a fight, she stood to walk behind my father's chair.

"Henry," She said quietly, touching his shoulder, "The boy's just trying to help. What harm would it be to tell him? John is here now, they can't hurt him here."

"We still have Harry to think about," He reminded her.

"The sooner you allow me to intervene, the sooner we can remove the threat both from your children and from yourselves," You stated.

"Amateur detective or not," He bit, "You have no power to remove any threat, and I see no usefulness putting more people in harm's way for no good reason. There is nothing you can do, and there is no way you can help us."

"Why don't you let me try."

I could tell he was beginning to give in, but he looked at me for the final opinion. "John."

I sucked up a breath. You gave me a discreet nod, and I bit my cheek. "If there's anyone who can help, it's Sherlock."

Mum patted his shoulder. "Tell him."

Dad sighed, sitting back in his chair and tapping the end of his pipe. His brow was curved, but he had resigned. Mum came back and sat down beside to me with a defiant wink as he began.

"Understand, Mr. Holmes, that you are not dealing with a man. He is in more ways a beast than he is a human being."

You folded your hands underneath your chin. "First, his name."

"Wilhem Lecuyér. He and I met in university, he was my upperclassman, hailing from a rich French family, and held the highest marks in the school. We were friends throughout our first year, but afterward my respect for him slipped. He was deceptive and repulsive, and I didn't agree with his attitude. He considered me weak and made it clear to me he did. We tended to avoid each other until I transferred to med school, which marked the end of our interactions for a little less than four decades.

"While I built my career, he built his. He's bloomed well in France, where he has invested himself chiefly into his family's wine heritage. In looking to expand his company's influence in Britain, he is interested in establishing my name behind his product. He got into contact with me about three months ago.

"I found out very quickly after his offer, however, that Wilhem's old methods hadn't changed at all since university. He was still deceptive, still selfish, and still considered me to be nothing above a pawn that he can push where he wants without consequence. I want nothing to do with him or his business, and I tried to put him off, but he has continued to try to step over me and trample over my own interests in the process. He refuses to accept that I, such a weak opponent, could dismiss him so easily."

"How does he communicate with you?" You asked.

"Face-to-face. At times over e-mail, but not often." He puffed.

"How does he approach you?"

"He brings me deals, which we might sit down to discuss for a little while, but they haven't failed to be worthless to me. If and when I deny them, he might turn the conversation idly onto John, or Harry; things that he has no reason to know. Harry's gotten a new mobile number within the last week. You two have gotten a dog. Gladstone?"

I nodded, feeling a bit cold.

He flicked his lighter. "Wilhem made it very clear that he had my children under his thumb without handing me anything that could be used as evidence."

You tapped your lip. "So, then, what was your plan?"

"I waited. I watched for an opening, a hole in his defenses, but as time passed I started to run out of options. Things started happening, and he established that if I went to the authorities with a complaint, it would get worse."

"Then we should wrap this case up quickly, for the safety of everyone involved." You rubbed your hands together. "It's been a while since I've had to deal with a businessman."

"Sherlock," I whispered.

"Sorry. There are several different ways to entrap a businessman in his own web, many of which are open to us. My brother's career has been built around dealing with criminals like this, and so he will undoubtedly be an irreplacable asset. But because of the delicate nature of the case, I'll wait to contact him when I'm sure that we'll require his services. For now, I think our best move would be to pay a visit to the Lecuyér residency ourselves."

"No. That would give him too much of an advantage." My father shifted, thinking. "There's a New Year's dinner scheduled for tomorrow evening in Cardiff. Wilhem will be attending, along with dozens of others - some of the top men in our circle. Patrcia and I hadn't been planning on accepting the invitation due the circumstances, but we can always change our plans. It wouldn't be difficult to secure another ticket for yourself."

"Perfect. I'll attend alongside the two of you and be introduced to Lecuyér firsthand. If I can't pick out the web, I'll employ the skills of my brother."

"But if anything goes wrong, the plan is shot. Wilhem won't be able to be fooled once he's caught a scent. He's a sociopath."

You smirked. "I have plenty of experience with those."

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