Loving A Holmes

by C.C. Red

Madison Love: "You are also very protective of those close to you, as I can't imagine that lists is very long you have to be. And You are still alone because you feel that no one will ever be able to match your intelligence. And you are very intimidated by mine." Follow the story of Madison Love Moriarty as she beings working his her brother's number one enemy. story from BBC

38. Smith

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Smith

Molly and I had taken turns watching after Rosie for the past few weeks, honestly, it seems like John is avoiding his own daughter. But Molly liked it joke that it was giving me plenty of practice for when Sherlock and I have kids. I suppose she's right, but I'd rather have Mary here making that joke while Sherlock is there to tell her we haven't even decided if we want kids or not.

John had gone out to a therapy session so I was at the flat alone, with little Rosie. Not that it bothers me, but would like to get out of here at some point. Following Mary's advice, Sherlock had gone to hell. Getting back on drugs and losing his mind. I know he is doing this for our friend, which made it all the harder to act like I hate him right now around the man he is trying to save by risking his own life. But since this is the situation we have to deal with I had asked John if I could stay with him while Sherlock went through whatever it was he was going through and John was happy to oblige, since I was helping to take care of Rosie. As long as Sherlock didn't come around the flat. We had kept in contact with a handful of texts when he was sober, which sadly, wasn't often.

Which brings us to today, Sherlock had sent me a text about a week ago telling me to get a sitter of Rosie and to meet him at John's new therapist's office. When I get to the rather nice flat in an upper-end neighborhood I see a very nice car out front and when I walk inside I hear John and Mrs. Hudson talking.

"How did you know where to find me?"

"Oh, Sherlock told me. He's not so difficult when you've got a gun on him."

John turns and sees my walking through the open door.

"Oh, let me guess she told her too."

John takes a deep breath.

"How did you know? How? On Monday I decided to get a new therapist. Tuesday afternoon, I chose her. Wednesday morning I booked today's session. Now, today is Friday. So two weeks ago – two weeks before you were abducted at gunpoint and brought here against your will … over a week before I even thought of coming here, you knew exactly where you'd need to be picked up for lunch?"

As I enter the room the rest of them are in I see Sherlock sitting in one of the chairs, looking up at the ceiling. He looks horrible, he hasn't shaved since I left the flat, his skin looks oil and discolored, and he looks extremely strung out.

"Really? I correctly anticipated the responses of people I know well to scenarios I devised? Can't everyone do that?"

Mrs. Hudson tilts her head.

"How?"

"Except the boot. The boot was mean."

John scoffs.

"Never mind how. He's dying to tell us that. I want to know why."

"Because of Mrs. Hudson's right. I'm burning up. I'm at the bottom of a pit and I'm still falling and I'm never climbing out."

I take a deep breath, placing a hand on John's shoulder.

"He's right, John. He needs you. I mean look at him, he looks horrible and that's coming from the woman who loves him."

Sherlock stands.
"I need you to know, John – I need you to see that up here… I've still got it, so when I tell you that this… is the most dangerous, the most despicable human being that I have ever encountered; when I tell you that this-this monster must be ended, please remember where you're standing, because ... you're standing exactly where I said you would be two weeks ago. I'm a mess; I'm in hell; but I am not wrong, not about him."

John crosses his arms.

"So what has all this got to do with me?"

"Look at me. Can't do it, not now. Not alone."

He looks away and swallows, his eyes slightly tearful. John sighs slightly, then unfolds his arms and holds out his right hand towards Sherlock, pulling in a sharp breath through his nose.

"You're not alone, you have Madison."

"Madison won't work with me when I'm like this. And I don't blame her. It is too dangerous with her previous condition."

Sherlock stands up, also sighing a little, and takes his hand. Instantly John clasps Sherlock's arm with his other hand and turns it over. Sherlock rolls his eyes as John pushes up the sleeves of his dressing gown and shirt to reveal all the dark marks on the underside of his arm where he's been injecting himself.

"Yeah, well, they're real enough, I suppose."

Sherlock pulls his arm away, turning away.

"Why would I be faking?"

John takes a deep breath, raising his voice.

"Because you're a liar. You lie all the time. It's like your mission."

"I have been many things, John, but when have I ever been a malingerer?"

"You pretended to be dead for two years!"

"... apart from that…"

"Listen, before I do anything, I need to know what state you're in."

"Well, you're a doctor. Examine me."

Sherlock throws himself back into the chair.

"No, I need a second opinion."

"Oh, John, calm down. When have you ever managed two opinions? You'd fall over."

"I need the one person who – unlike me – learned to see through your bullshit long ago."

"Who's that, then? I'm sure I would have noticed someone other than the woman standing next to you."

"The last person you'd think of. I want you to be examined by Molly Hooper. D'you hear me? I said, Molly Hooper."

Sherlock cringes slightly.

"You're really not gonna like this."

"Like what?"

The doorbell rings. John looks towards the sound, then heaves in a frustrated breath and scowls down at Sherlock. John and I walk over to the door, John opens the door to Molly who is standing outside wearing her white lab coat over her clothes. He looks at her in exasperation. An ambulance is parked in the driveway of the house opposite. A paramedic is opening the rear doors.

"Um, he-hello. Is, uh ... I'm sorry, Sh-Sherlock asked me to come."

"What, two weeks ago?"

"Yeah, About two weeks."

"Great, who is watching Rosie?"

I take a deep breath.
"Don't worry, I got a babysitter and made sure she has one of the best I could find."

John nods in resignation. Sherlock stumbles out into the hall.

"If you'd like to know how I predict the future …"

John interrupts him, anger in his voice.

"I don't care how."

"Okay. Fully equipped ambulance; Molly can examine me on the way. It'll save time.

Ready to go, Molly? Just tell me when to cough."

Sherlock strolls past John, Molly, and I.

"Hope you remembered my coat."

Molly shakes her head and looks up at us confused.

"Wh… I… Sorry. I didn't know that you were gonna be here. Absolutely no idea what's going on."

John sighs.

"Sherlock's using again."

"Oh God. But, um, a-are you sure?"

"No. It's Sherlock. Of course, I'm not sure. Just check him out."

I step out of the flat and step beside Molly.

"John, did you see him? You can't fake that. Take it from someone who knows first hand."

John and I get into the limo that Sherlock's lunch date had sent for us.

"Did you know about this?"

I shake my head.

"Not a clue. But he needs your help, John."

"Why does he need help, why can't you help him?"

"Because I can't understand why he needs to go back to drugs all the time when I can stay away from them. You are more… understanding with him then I can be."

John goes quiet. I know why Sherlock is going back to drugs this time, but that's how I feel every time he does. I don't understand why, nor can my brain being to process why he would when he has been doing so well about staying away from them. But while John may not understand he can be more understanding toward Sherlock then I can when he's going through this. When I glance over to John it looks as though he is listening to someone else in the car. Before long we get to a large building and stop out front.

"What are we doing at a hospital."

John scoffs and gets out of the car.

"Why you keep putting up with him, I don't know."

"Because that's what you do when you love someone. You stick with them through thick and thin."

"You can't even stay in the same flat with him right now."

"No, I can't stay in the same flat as drugs, he just brought them there."

Outside the building, a large billboard is being carried away by a couple of people. The image shows someone – presumably a man but the picture only shows him from the neck down – wearing a suit and tie and holding up a large sharp knife covered with blood. To the right of the person, the text reads ROWBANK MEDIA. A ROWBANK ORIGINAL SERIOUS. ROUGE. SERIES PREMIERE 8TH MARCH. EXCLUSIVE TO PLAY TV.

As the billboard is carried away, behind it the limousine turns into the forecourt.

The ambulance is parked nearby with its back doors open and he walks over to where Molly is sitting on the back step slightly hunched over and with her hands clasped in her lap. Sherlock is lying on the stretcher inside but now stands up.

"Well? How is he?"

Sherlock shrugs.
"Basically fine."

He takes off his dressing gown and reaches down to pick up his coat which is lying on the stretcher.

Molly takes a deep breath.

"I've seen healthier people on the slab."

"Yeah but, to be fair, you work with murder victims. They tend to be quite young."

He puts his coat on.

"Not funny."

"It's a little bit funny."

"If you keep taking what you're taking at the rate you're taking it, you've got weeks."

Sherlock comes to the doorway and holds onto the poles either side and steps down to the ground, then totters on the spot.

"Exactly, weeks. Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

I walk up to him and get a few inches from his face.

"Sherlock, listen to me. The only reason I haven't hit you is because we are in public. But if you don't start taking this seriously, that will change."

Molly stands up.

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock, it's not a game!"

Sherlock turns to face Molly.

"I'm worried about you, Molly. You seem very stressed."

"I'm stressed; you're dying."

"Yeah, well, I'm ahead, then. Stress can ruin every day of your life. Dying can only ruin one."

I take a deep breath as John steps between Sherlock and me.

"So this is real? You've Really lost it. You're actually out of control."

"When have I ever been that?"

"Since the day I met you."

"Oh, clever boy. I've missed you fumbling 'round the place"

John turns his attention to Molly.

"I thought this was some kind of… trick.."

"'Course it's not a trick. It's a plan."

Just then the man who has in the commercial on the billboard walks up to us. I believe this is Smith, the man Sherlock had been accusing of being a serious killer for the past two weeks.

"Mr. Holmes."

John looks past Sherlock's shoulder to where the voice came from. Smith is coming out of the doors of a building marked VILLAGE STUDIOS, a man walks alongside filming him as more people come out of the doors behind them. Sherlock looks at John and me.

"Thirty feet and closing: the most significant undetected serial killer in British criminal history. Help me bring him down."

"What?... What plan?"

"I'm not telling you. Either of you."

"Why not?"

"Because you won't like it."

"We already don't like it."

Sherlock turns to face him. Smith stops a few feet away. A cameraman and another man hurry around behind us so that they can film Smith from the front.

"I don't do handshakes. It'll have to be a hug."

Smith starts to walk towards Sherlock again. Reporters holding notebooks gather around them. Chuckling, Smith reaches out and hugs him. Sherlock leans down into the man's embrace. Resting his head on Sherlock's shoulder, Smith pats his back.

"Oh, Sherlock. What can I say? Thanks to you … we're, uh, we're everywhere!"

The reporters begin asking questions.

"Mr. Holmes, how did Culverton talk you into this?"

"Well, he-he's a detective. Maybe I just confessed!"

The reporters and Smith laugh. He looks at Sherlock and beckons him towards the building.

"Come on."

Starting to follow him, Sherlock turns and throws a significant, perhaps pleading, look to John and me, who follows him. Molly watches us go, looking worried, as the reporter and Smith continue.

"Now, it's a… it's a new kind of breakfast cereal."

"Mr. Holmes, can you put on the hat?"

John shakes his head.

"Yeah, he doesn't really wear the hat."

"Kids will be getting two of their five-a-day before they've even left home!"

Smith continues, leading us into the children's ward of the hospital and is standing in the middle of a play area in a children's ward. Child patients and their nurses and other support staff are sitting and standing around him.

"Right, here he comes, the internet, 'tec! You all know Sherlock Holmes."

The children cheer and applaud.

"Hello."

Smith walks closer to him as the applause dies down.

"Oh, and Doctor Watson, of course. And the lovely Madison Holmes."

Sherlock and I respond simultaneously.

"Love!"

"Oh, sorry… Madison Love. It seems that our great detective here can't commit."

Smith laughs.

"Mr. Holmes. I was wondering – well ... we all were, weren't we? – maybe you could tell us about some of your cases."

"No."

John sighs.

"Yes."

"Yes! Absolutely, yes."

Sherlock goes into lecture mode as he walks forward into the circle of children.

"The main feature of interest in the field of criminal investigation is not the sensational aspects of the crime itself, but rather the iron chain of reasoning, from cause to effect, that reveals – step by step – the solution. That's the only truly remarkable aspect of the entire affair. Now, I will share with you the facts and evidence as they were available to me, and in this very room you will all attempt to solve the case of Blessington the Poisoner."

I chuckle, trying to act happy around the children.

"Darling, I think you slightly gave away the ending."

"There were five main suspects."

John nods.

"One of them called Blessington."

"But it's more about how he did it."

John and I glance at each other, speaking simultaneously.

"Poison?"

The children laugh.

"Okay. Drearcliff House. Remember that one, John? One murder, ten suspects. All of them guilty."

"Sherlock…"

"Uh, wh-wh-wh-what did you call that one, John? Um, something to do with murder at the zoo.

"Yeah, I called it Murder at the Zoo."

"Or-or was it The Case of the Killer Orang-Utan?"

"Sherlock…. Norbury…"

As I say this Sherlock takes a deep breath.

"Thank you, Madison. So, any more questions?"

Several of the kids shake her heads. As I look over to John, he has the same look on his face he had in the limo. As I reach out to touch John's arm, he comes back to and Smith begins to speak.

"Mr. Holmes? How do you catch a serial killer?"

"Same way you catch any other killer."

"No, but m-most killers kill someone they know."

"You're looking for a murderer in a tiny social grouping."

One of the nurses steps forward.

"Um, Mr. Smith. Um, I'm-I'm just, er, wondering. Maybe this isn't a suitable subject for the children."

"Nurse Cornish. How long have you been with us now?"

"Seven years."

"Seven years. Okay. Serial killers choose their victims at random. Surely that must make it more difficult?"

"Some of them advertise."

"Do they really?"

"Serial killing is an expression of power, ego, a signature in human destruction. Ultimately, for full satisfaction, it requires... plain sight. Additionally, serial killers are easily profiled. They tend to be social outcasts, educationally subnormal."

"No-no-no-no-no-no. You're just talking about the ones you know, the ones you've caught. But hello, dummy, you only catch the dumb ones. Now, imagine if the Queen wanted to kill some people. What would happen then? All that power, all that money. Sweet little government dancing attendance. A whole country just to keep her warm and ... and fat. Hm… We all love the Queen, don't we? And I bet she'd love you lot!"

John steps forward.

"Uh, it-it's all right, everyone. I can personally assure you that Sherlock Holmes is not about to arrest the Queen."

"Well, of course not! Not Her Majesty! Money, power, fame. Some things make you untouchable. God save the Queen! She could open a slaughterhouse and we'd all probably pay the entrance fee!"

I shake my head and glare at Smith.

"No one's untouchable."

"No one? Look at you all! So gloomy! Can't you take a joke? The Queen! If the Queen was a serial killer, I'd be the first person she'd tell! We have that kind of friendship! A big round of applause for Sherlock Holmes, Doctor Watson, and Madison Love! Come on! Wonderful!"

He chuckles and applauds while the audience clap rather unenthusiastically. He turns to smile at Sherlock, who gazes back at him intensely.

"Thank you so much for coming. Thank you."

Sherlock's eyes lift to meet John's. John returns the look. It's clear that he's now fully on board. Not long afterward, Smith leads us through a bright white-painted corridor.

"Where are we going on?"

"Oh, I wanted to show you my favorite room."

"No, let's go in here."

As we walk past a door Sherlock glances towards it, then does a double-take. The door has a window in it and he pulls the door open and goes inside. A sign on the wall inside shows that this is Suite W34, Directors Boardroom B-2. There's a white rectangular table in the middle with three chairs on each side and one at each end, and there are drug stands beside each of the side chairs. Sherlock walks around the table, gesturing towards it.

"So you've had another one of your little meetings."

"Oh, it's just a monthly top-up. Confession is good for the soul ... providing you can delete it."

John looks closely at a bag hanging from one of the stands.

"What's TD12?"

I glance over at John.

"It's a memory inhibitor."

"Bliss."

"Bliss?"

"Opt-in ignorance. Makes the world go round."

I scoff.

"Anyone ever 'opt' to remember?"

"Some people take the drip out, yeah. Some people have the same ... urges. Huh... come on. Wasting time."

Sherlock nods.

"Indeed, you have, I estimate, twenty minutes left."

Smiling, Smith walks towards the door which Smith is about to push open. Smith turns back towards us.

"I'm sorry."

"I sent a text from your phone, remember? It was read almost immediately. Factoring in a degree of shock, an emotional decision and a journey time based on the associated address, I'd say that your life as you know it has twenty minutes left to run. Well, no, seventeen and a half, to be precise but I rounded up for dramatic effect, so please do show us your favorite room. It'll give you a chance to say ... goodbye."

Smith chuckles, rather unpleasantly.

"Come along."

He turns around. Sherlock pulls a brief humorless smile behind him, then heads for the door which Smith is holding open for him. They walk away, Smith letting the door go behind him. John walks towards it. Shortly afterward, we find ourselves in an elevator. John has his head lowered and he and I are pinching the bridge of our noses. Sherlock looks uncomfortable and twitchy.

"Speaking of serial killers, you know who's my favorite?"

"Other than yourself?"

"H. H. Holmes. Relative of yours?"

"Not as far as I know."

"You should check. What an idiot."

Smith pushes through a set of double doors and looks around the room as he walks in.

"Everyone out."

The three of us stop just inside the doors. Deeper in the room, a body is lying on a silver chrome examination table, covered by a sheet up to its neck. A male mortician stands at the other side of the table holding a clipboard and pen. He is wearing green scrubs with a blue disposable plastic apron over the top. A woman, similarly dressed, is nearby with her hands on a wheeled trolley with medical equipment on it. Tall silver-colored cabinet doors are set into the walls. The man looks up at Smith. The mortician looks up a little confused.

"Mr. Smith, we're actually in the middle of something."

"Saheed, isn't it? How long have you been working here now?"

"Four years."

"Four years. Well, that's a long time, isn't it? Four years."

Saheed nods his head, swallowing nervously, then looks around at the woman and to other two men in the room.

"Okay, everyone. Five minutes?"

"Come back in ten."

Looking at Smith nervously for a moment, Saheed turns away and his colleagues start towards the door. John steps aside to get out of their way. Saheed follows his co-workers. The three of us walk closer to the examination table and Smith wanders round to the other side of the table. John shakes his head.

"How can you do that? I mean, how-how are you even allowed in here?"

"Oh, I-I can go anywhere I like."

Smith takes a ring of many keys from his trouser pocket, holds them up and shakes them noisily.

"Anywhere at all."

"They gave you keys?"

"They presented 'em to me. There was a ceremony. You can watch that on YouTube."

Sherlock has walked over to one of the nearby cabinets and pulls open the door.

"Home Secretary was there."

Sherlock looks into the cabinet and the slide-out shelves in there.

"So, your favorite room: the mortuary."

"What do you think?"

"Tough crowd."

"Oh, I don't know."

Smith pulls back the sheet on the table to reveal the head and shoulders of the corpse. There is a Y-shaped cut, sewn up, in the chest. I take a deep breath and step away from the table, John looks back at me confused.

"Are you okay?"

I nod.

"Yeah, I'm fine."

Smith has kept this attention on Sherlock.

"No, I've always found 'em quite pliable."

As he says the last word, he reaches out to the body – which we can now see is an elderly woman – and pulls her jaw down with his fingers. John steps towards him.

"Don't do that."

"She's fine. She's dead. H. H. Holmes loved the dead. He mass-produced 'em."

Sherlock shakes his head.

"Serial killer, active during the Chicago Fair."

"Did you know what he did? He built a hotel, a special hotel, just to kill people. You know, with a hanging room, gas chamber, specially adapted furnace. You know, like Sweeney Todd… without the pies! Stupid. So stupid."

Instantly John grabs the sheet and pulls it over the woman's face as Smith steps away.

"Why stupid?"

"Well, all that effort. You don't build a beach if you want to hide a pebble; you just find a beach! And if you wanna hide a murder, or wanna hide lots and lots of murders, just find a... hospital."

John lowers his head in disbelief for a moment, I raise my head and takes a step closer.

"Are you confessing?"

"To what?"

"The way you're talking."

"Oh, sorry. Yes. You mean, am I a serial killer, or am I just trying to mess with your funny little head? Well, it's true. I do like to mess with people … and yes, I am a bit creepy, but that's just my U.S.P. I use it to sell breakfast cereal. But am I what he says I am? Is that what you're asking?"

Smith walks past John and I continuing along the side of the table. John turns as he and I watch him.

"Yes."

"Hm. Well, let me ask you this. Are you really a doctor?"

"Of course I am."

"Well, no, a medical doctor, you know. Not just feet, or media studies or something."

John scoffs.

"I am a Doctor."

"Are you serious? No, really, are you?"

Smith e turns to walk away, then turns back and takes a couple of steps towards John, looking angrily at him.

"Are you ... are you actually serious? I've played along with this joke. It's not funny anymore. No ... look at him."

He gestures towards Sherlock who really does look like he's badly in need of a hit. He's blinking frequently in between widening his eyes in an attempt to keep them open and blowing out silent but heavy breaths.

"Go ahead, look at him, Doctor Watson! Hm? Oh, no, I'll lay it out for you. There are two possible explanations for what's going on 'ere. Either I'm a serial killer … or Sherlock Holmes is off his tits on drugs, hm? Delusional paranoia about a public personality? That's not so special. It's not even new! I think you need to, er, tell your faithful little friend how you're wasting his time because you're too high to know what's real anymore."

Smith turns and walks away, stopping a few paces away with his back to Sherlock. John frowns, apparently wondering what to believe.

"I apologise."

Smith turns to Sherlock as he speaks.

"I've miscalculated. I forgot to factor in the traffic! Nineteen and a half minutes."

Clearing his throat he continues onwards a couple of steps, then stops and turns his left side towards the doors, dramatically cupping his left hand to his ear as there's a clunking sound some distance away.

"Ah, the footsteps you're about to hear will be very familiar to you, not least because there'll be three impacts rather than two. The third, of course, will be the end of a walking cane. Your daughter Faith's walking cane."

"And why would she be here?"

I step forward, finally, I don't have to act stupid.

"Because you invited her."

Sherlock nod.

"You sent her a text – or-or-or technically I sent her a text but she's not to know. Ah, let's see if I can recall. 'Faith... I can stand it no longer, I've confessed... to my crimes. Please forgive me!' Something like that."

"Why would that have any effect? You don't know her."

"Oh, but I do. I spent a whole evening with her. We had chips. I think she liked me."

I shake my head.

"Excuse me."

Smith tilts his head slightly.

"You don't know Faith. You simply do not."

"I know you care about her deeply. I know you invited her to one of your special board meetings. You care what she thinks. You maintain an impressive façade. I think it's about to break. Well, let's see, shall we? Faith, stop loitering at the door and come in! This is your father's favorite room."

The door opens and a pretty, thin, young mid blonde haired lady walks into the room with a walking cane.

"Come and meet his best friends."

"Dad? What's happening? What was that text? Are you having one of your jokes?"

She chuckles, then stops walking forward and looks inquiringly at Sherlock.

"Who are you?"

John frowns at her question. Sherlock lowers his chin, flashing back to a close-up rear view of the hair of the woman who stood at his window three weeks ago, before focusing in on the hairline and then the mouth of the woman in front of him. He lowers his gaze to her hand leaning on her walking cane and the gold patterning on the stick. Sherlock raises his gaze to this Faith's face before he screws his eyes shut.

"Sherlock? What is it?"

"Who the hell are you?"

He calls out to Faith as his eyes snap open.

Smith walks across the room to the Faith.

"Sherlock Holmes! Surely you recognize him."

"Oh my god!"

"Mm!"

She gasps and looks at her father, smiling, before looking up to Sherlock.

"Sherlock Holmes! I love your blog."

"You're not her. You're not the woman who came to Baker Street."

"Um, well, no. Never been there."

"Sorry, I'm not sure I completely understand."

"U-understand what?"

Smith walks to stand between the two of them and gesturing at both.

"Well, I thought you, two were-were old friends!"

Faith giggles a little.

"No! We've never met."

Sherlock moves towards Faith and raising a hand to his mouth as he chuckles.

"Oh, dear! Oh!"

"Have we?"

Smith keeps laughing, as John and I step towards Sherlock.

"Sherlock?"

"Darling?"

Faith lets out a nervous laugh and Smith is still chuckling. Sherlock stares down towards the floor.

"So who came to my flat?"

"Well, it wasn't me. I wasn't there. I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, but… I don't think I've ever been anywhere near your flat."

Smith cackles with delight. Sherlock screws his eyes shut. Sherlock's lower lip trembles and his eyes are wide with shock. Smith continues to laugh uproariously. Sherlock stares downwards for a few moments before his eyes, start to widen. Sherlock raises both hands and covers his nose and mouth, shocked and breathing out a horrified breath as he slowly backs away. Smith continues to cackle delightedly. Sherlock blows out a couple more sharp breaths and takes his hands away from his face. He briefly flashes back to the empty riverside bench. Sherlock shakes his head and raises his hands again, pressing the sides of his thumbs to his eyes as he screws them shut.

"God!"

As Smith's manic cackling continues, Sherlock's head jolts and the room starts to come into focus again. Sherlock buries his head in his hands and can see a flashback of him holding his phone with the photograph of Smith and Faith. He lowers the phone and the client chair comes into focus, but it's empty. In the mortuary, Sherlock opens his eyes and drags his hands down his face, rubbing one across his mouth. Still, Smith laughs as Sherlock's hand trembles. He clenches both hands into fists, pressing them against his mouth and screwing up his eyes again before lowering his hands a little, shaking his head in denial. He flails his hands in front of him as Smith continues to cackle. Putting one hand to his head, Sherlock turns away from him, bumping into a tray on a stand. The tray rattles noisily and he flinches away, focusing briefly on the row of six scalpels lying on it. Nearby John looks at him in concern as he continues to spin. John jumps forward toward Sherlock, putting an arm out in front of me.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock stops and faces Smith, who points at him, still laughing. I step forward, but John doesn't let me by him.

"Sherlock? Are you all right? Sherlock, are you okay?"

Wide-eyed, Sherlock points a shaking hand at Smith.

"Watch him. He's got a knife."

Smith laughs incredulously.

"I've got a what?!"

"You've got a scalpel! You picked it up from that table. "

He points to the tray which is now several feet away from him. There's a gap in the row of scalpels and only five remains.

"I saw you take it."

"I certainly did not!"

Even though Smith is talking and not laughing."

"Look behind his back!"

Smith smiles, bringing both hands up and waves them in the air.

"What?"

Sherlock is almost hysterical at this point.

"I saw you take it! I saw you!"

As he speaks he points his right arm at Smith, brandishing the scalpel he's holding. Smith's smile turns to a look of alarm as he keeps his hands in the air and backs away.

John now steps in front of me, as I call out to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, calm down. Don't do anything rash."

John holds out a stern hand to Sherlock.

"Whoa-whoa-whoa. Whoa, Sherlock, d'you wanna put that down?"

Sherlock stares wide-eyed at the scalpel in his shaking hand. Smith and Faith continue to make noises of concern while John shakes his head anxiously, his eyes fixed on Sherlock's hand. The sound of Smith's laughter continues to echo. Sherlock lowers his head and shakes it, screwing his eyes shut, then stumbles back and raises his head, glaring savagely at Smith and pointing his left hand at him.

"Stop laughing at me."

"Sherlock, no one is laughing."

He surges forward towards Smith with his right arm held forward and the scalpel aimed at the Smith. John shoulders jumping in front of Sherlock. John seizes Sherlock's lower arm with his left hand and turns his left shoulder into Sherlock's body, then slams his hand down onto Sherlock's hand and knocks the scalpel out of it. As it clatters noisily to the floor he turns and seizes Sherlock's coat with both hands and bundles him backward across the room and slams him hard into one of the cabinet doors. Sherlock grunts in pain.

"Stop it!"
John yells at him, he pulls Sherlock forward a little and then slams him back against the cabinet again.

"Stop it now!"

John punches Sherlock a few times before I step forward, grabbing John's arm. Crying out, Sherlock falls to the floor. Gasping, he props himself up on his right arm, his nose bleeding.

"John stop."

"Is this… a game? A bloody game?"

"John, just stop."

Sherlock takes a deep breath.

"No, it's okay. I killed his wife."

"Yes, you did."

He holds Sherlock's gaze, breathing heavily through his nose. Sherlock continues to look up at him for a moment and then slowly, oh so slowly, his eyes gradually lower away from John's face.