"Sherlock? Sherlock, you okay? Jesus, you've been out for hours."

The detective's eyes opened slowly, but his head felt like a dumbbell. His tongue felt as big as his mouth, and trying to speak was unbearable.

"John…" he managed. His voice sounded horridly strangled. His arms were immovable, and his legs equally so. He was on the settee in the sitting room, and his memory was completely black.

Then he remembered.

"Where is she, John? Where is she?" he frantically questioned.

"Go to sleep, Sherlock. You need rest."

"No…" he said, fighting John's consolations. "No, John…where is she? Where's she gone? Did you see her go? John…John…what's happened?"

"No one saw her, Sherlock. She was gone when I got here, and you were out cold on the bloody floor. Whatever you two had a row about, I imagine it wasn't…particularly good," he said, his eyebrows popping up with a quick flourish.

"No…she's…she's gone. Eurus…Eurus…something happened. I need to see my sister."

"What d'you mean she's gone?"

"She's GONE, John! She's gone. For God's sakes, just shut up. I can't be bothered. I need to get to Sherrinford," he said. He now looked drunk in every sense of the word. His arms flailed as he tried to control them, his voice drifted in and out of use, and his eyes were open only half way. He fell off the sofa, making the wooden floorboards rattle with the impact.

"Sherlock, you can't even stand up—you're not getting to Sherrinford today, mate. C'mon, let me help you to bed," John said. He set Rosie down on the sofa as he helped Sherlock to his feet.

"What's the time, John?" Sherlock asked, a bit of drool falling out of his mouth. It landed on John's shoulder, and the doctor gagged.

"It's nearly ten, Sherlock. I found you at one o'clock. I came over as soon as you started ignoring my phone calls. She did this to you, then?"

"Yes, but only because I made her."

"Bloody ridiculous."

"It wasn't her fault, John!"

"Yeah, alright…" John whispered, rolling his eyes with nausea. They were ridiculous.

Getting the door to the bedroom open, he shoved the detective down upon the bed once they were inside. Forcing Sherlock's feet under the covers, he shook his head at his friend's insane marriage relationship.

"I don't know where she's gone, John. I don't know where…" Sherlock was muttering over and over, rubbing his face as if he were having a hangover.

"Sherlock, are you sure you didn't…you know, take things the wrong way? She might be back in the morning, or—"

"No—she's gone. She isn't coming back, John. She's gone."

John's mouth went dry. He couldn't understand. What the hell was happening?

"John…you have to help me find her, John…John?"

The doctor remembered himself.

"Yeah, I will, Sherlock. I will. Just…go to sleep. You need it. I'm ordering you. Go to bloody sleep. I'll come 'round in the morning and we'll talk then. Just…good night," he said, pulling the covers up to the detective's neck.

"Good night, John," he whispered, his mind already seeming to fall into the dark abyss of dreams. He was breathing through his mouth, and after a few minutes, John deduced he had finally drifted off.

Venturing into the sitting room, he pulled out his phone with the sole intention of calling his best friend's wife. He had snagged her number off of Sherlock's mobile once, when the detective hadn't been looking. He'd always saved it in case of…some kind of emergency.

Rosie climbed onto his lap, and John bumped his knee up and down to keep her amused.

"Come on…" he muttered, listening to the dial tone. "Pick up—just bloody pick up."

But then the man silently gasped.

"We're sorry; the number you have entered has been temporarily disconnected, changed, or is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this message in error, please review the number and try again."

Her number was saved in his phone; it wasn't misdialed.

"No, no, no, no, no, no," he said, to himself, dialing the number again. Once more, it was the same. Her number had been disconnected.

This was ridiculous. Her mobile phone was everything. For years her only connection to Sherlock had been her mobile number, and now?

For the first time in all the time he had known her, having her phone number was useless.

Sherlock was right.

She was gone.

In the darkness where Sherlock could not see, the doctor's eyes were brimming with tears…brimming with the hurt he felt for his dear friend. He knew neither the detective nor the dominatrix had ever told the other, but he had seen it. They had loved each other. Sherlock still loved her. John was quite confident that she still loved him…wherever the hell she was or whatever the hell the circumstances were.

When John looked up, his mind painted a picture for him of something he desired to see more than anything at the present moment: he saw Mary standing in the hall that led to Sherlock's bedroom, leaning against the wall and staring at him and Rosie. The liquid in John's eyes was starting to spill, and his mouth was open in a silent gasp.

"He's lost it, John. This time…he's really lost it," Mary lamented, gesturing to the dark abyss down the hall where the man slept. She wiped her face. Her lips were burdened with sadness, and her eyes were wet.

"What do I do with them? What do I do with them, Mary?" he asked his dead wife. She smiled at him through her own veil of tears.

"Our Beast has lost his Beauty, John. You've got to help him find her again. You've got to help him, John Watson. Don't let him lose her like you lost me."

John swallowed, the lump in his throat growing larger by the minute. He sniffed, looked at his wife, and nodded.

"Mary, I—I…" his voice cracked in between. "How do I? I'm not a hero, Mary. I never have been. I don't think…" he leaned over to one side as his words stretched his mind, "I ever will be. What do you expect me to do, Mary? Why don't you tell me? I don't know why you even think…that I can. For…God's sake, I couldn't even save—" he stopped short. He put his hand over his mouth to stifle a sob.

"Jesus."

Mary looked at him sympathetically. Even from beyond the grave, all she wanted was to wrap her arms around her husband and dry his tears. But she only lived in his head, and his head wouldn't permit it.

"You'll be okay, John," she said, nodding reassuringly. "Yeah? You're gonna be fine. Alright? Because if there's one thing I know, it's that I can always count on my Baker Street boys."

"But that's only because…you tell me you can."

"Yeah, well—okay, maybe that's true," she said, winking playfully at him. Her teeth shone through her lips with a beautiful radiance. Her eyes sparkled with mirth.

"He's a monster, but he's our monster, John. And you've got to make things right with him and that…scary, mad woman. And you can because…well, because I say you can," she said. John's wet face had a grin breaking through the drops of water.

"I miss you, Mary. God knows…just how much," he burst out, kissing Rosie's cheek. The girl patted his face with infantine curiosity. John felt like looking at her was the same as looking at Mary. Turning back to the ghost of his wife, he let tears fall down his weatherworn face.

"I miss me, too, John," she said, somberly letting a grin grace her mouth. "But there's enough you still out there for the both of us. And you've got her," she added, nodding her blonde head at the other equally blond head in the room. John smiled into Rosie's gleaming eyes then turned his gaze back upon his wife.

Smiling with her heart on her face, she gushed, "You're a good man, John Watson. There isn't a better one I'd have chosen to raise our daughter. And there isn't a better man I'd have chosen to look after our little monster," she said, jerking her head down the hall toward Sherlock's bedroom.

John was having the most difficult time keeping his heart from blowing out of his chest. The sheer amount of love that had swollen there had made his soul triple in size.

Mary cocked her head at him, and once more, as she always had, added, "Now then…get the hell on with it."

John laughed, sniffled his nose and bounced Rosie once more on his knee.

"I will, Mary…" he said, his voice cracking. "I will."