A few days had passed since the Christmas party, and while Sherlock seemed to be better, he definitely wasn't good. At the moment, it was morning on the last day of the year, and he was standing by the window, playing a sad tune on his violin. Max sat at the dining table, her breakfast plate scraped clean while Sherlock's plate across from hers was half empty. She had been at the flat as much as she could these past few days- sometimes spending the night, in which case she could sleep on the couch- but there was only so much time she had with work. John tried to be there when she couldn't, and even though he hadn't said anything, Max could tell that it was putting a strain on his relationship with Jeanette. The shadow of Irene's death hung over them all like a dark cloud.
Max had been reading a book, but she glanced up at him in concern as he stopped playing suddenly to make a notation on his sheet music. Honestly, she wasn't quite sure what to think of Irene dying; she had hardly known her, and the one time she had met her, she hadn't quite liked her. Still, she knew that Sherlock was upset about it, and that was enough for her to be concerned.
Then there was the matter of Irene's camera phone which, despite Sherlock's best efforts, remained locked.
Mrs. Hudson crossed the room to grab the breakfast plates. Max gave her a small smile of thanks as she cleared the table. "Lovely tune, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson commented. "Haven't heard that one before."
"You composing?" John asked. Max turned around to see him walking into the room, casting a glance at Sherlock to gauge his mood for the day.
Sherlock hmmed. "Helps me think," he replied.
John raised an eyebrow. "What are you thinking about?" he asked.
Instead of answering, Sherlock lifted his violin to his shoulder again- but suddenly he whirled around and pointed at John's laptop, his eyes bright. "The counter on your blog is still stuck at one thousand eight hundred and ninety-five," he said.
John blinked in surprise. "Yeah, it's faulty," he replied. "Can't seem to fix it."
Sherlock slid the camera phone from his pocket. "Faulty- or you've been hacked and it's a message," he countered. Max couldn't quite see what he was doing, but she knew what the screen looked like; I AM _ _ _ _ LOCKED. Sherlock typed 1895 into the phone, and they all stared at it with baited breath, waiting to see if Sherlock's hunch had paid off.
But the phone just buzzed in irritation. WRONG PASSCODE. 3 ATTEMPTS REMAINING, the screen read.
The light in Sherlock's eyes faded away, and he put the phone back in his pocket. "Just faulty," he said.
Max nodded to John. "And that's the answer to your question," she told him. "He's been trying to get in for the past week."
Sherlock started playing the sad tune again, and John looked at him in concern. "Right," he said. "Well, I'm going out for a bit." Sherlock nodded- barely perceptible, but it was a nod- and John glanced at Max. "Can I... can I talk to you for a second?"
The two of them stood by the door, heads close together. "We have to do something about this," John said.
Max shrugged helplessly. "What can we do?" she questioned. "We've been here with him all week." She paused. "Besides, at least he's eating. And he's talking. That's good."
John grimaced. "Yeah, I know," he replied. "I just... I don't like seeing him like this. I wish we could tell what he's thinking."
Mrs. Hudson was walking past them at the moment, and she gave both of them a sad smile. "He's Sherlock," she reminded them. "How will we ever know what goes on in that funny old head?"
John sighed in resignation. "Right," he agreed. "See ya." He nodded to Mrs. Hudson and clapped Max on the shoulder, then headed on out down the stairs.
Mrs. Hudson followed after him, bringing the plates down to wash, and Max headed back over to Sherlock. He had stopped playing, but he was still staring out the window, looking out but not seeing anything. She wrapped her arms around his waist from behind, resting her head on his back. He paused for a moment, then placed his hands on hers.
Max stared out the window down at the streets below. People walked down the streets, cars drove by. Slowly but surely, life went on...
... but sometimes it veered off the track a bit. Max frowned, standing up a bit straighter as she saw a woman approach John on the street outside the flat. They spoke for a few moments, their conversation indiscernible from here, and then an official-looking black car pulled up to the curb. The woman climbed into the car, and after a moment John followed.
"Sherlock," she said in alarm. "Do you know what Mycroft is doing for New Years?"
He gave her a look. "Why should I know?" he replied. "Going about his life as usual, I suppose. Why?"
She untangled herself from him, and he turned around to face her. "Because John just got into a black car," she answered. "And I don't think it's Mycroft- he wouldn't drive over, not when he could call."
The two of them shared a look... and then they were running out of the flat, chasing after John.
000
John, meanwhile, had been brought to an abandoned power station. The lady- Mycroft's assistant, he assumed- had left him at the doors, and now he walked on by himself into a large room that was seemingly empty.
"He's writing sad music," John called out, expecting that Mycroft was hidden around the corner, waiting for a dramatic entrance as usual. "He's eating- could be more, but it's better than nothing. He's talking, not as much as usual but at least he's not shutting us out." John continued walking, glancing around for a sign of Mycroft. "Why did you bring me here? You said he was handling it better than expected..."
But he trailed off when someone stepped out from behind a pillar... and it wasn't Mycroft Holmes.
"Hello, Doctor Watson," Irene said.
For a moment John stared at her in shock, unable to form words. "If you were... if you were trying to hurt him, or something, it didn't work," he told her. "He's fine."
Irene looked at him oddly. "And why would I want to hurt him?" she asked. "I'm glad he's doing well. I'll admit that I was expecting him to be a tad more heartbroken, though."
He scowled. "... You were dead on a slab," he said. "It was definitely you."
Irene gave him a graceful shrug. "DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep," she replied.
John nodded dryly. "And I bet you know the record-keeper," he commented.
She smiled grimly. "I know what he likes, and I needed to disappear," she told him.
He glared at her. "Then how come I can see you and I don't even want to?" he asked.
Irene stared at him for a moment, then she sighed. "Look, I made a mistake," she explained. "I sent something to Sherlock for safekeeping and now I need it back, so I need your help."
"No," John said, without having to think about it.
She frowned at him. "It's for his own safety," she told him.
John scowled. "Ask him yourself," he countered.
Irene hesitated, then shook her head. "I can't," she replied.
He nodded in resignation. "Fine, then," he said. With that, he turned and started to walk away.
"What do I say?" Irene called after him.
John whirled around angrily. "What do you normally say?!" he exclaimed. "You've texted him a lot!"
Irene shrugged. "Just the usual stuff," she told him.
He glared at her. "There is no usual in this case," he replied.
She stared at him for a moment, then pulled her phone out and started reading off text messages. "'Good morning,'" she said. "'I like your funny hat.' 'I'm sad tonight- let's have dinner.' 'You looked sexy on Crimewatch- let's have dinner.' 'I'm not hungry- let's have dinner.'"
John looked at her in disbelief. "You... flirted with Sherlock Holmes?" he demanded.
Irene grimaced. "At him," she corrected. "He never replies."
He nodded. "Well, that's probably because he has a girlfriend," he said.
She smiled. "Ah, Max," she mused. "I knew she had it in her." She raised an eyebrow at John. "Are you jealous?"
John gave her a look. "We're not a couple," he told her.
Irene scoffed. "Yes you are," she said. She typed something into her phone, then held it up to show John. "'I'm not dead. Let's have dinner.'"
But John's eyes just narrowed. "He has a girlfriend," he repeated venomously.
Irene sighed. "Yes, right," she said. "Very protective of your boyfriend, I see." She deleted the last sentence, then pressed the send button.
John groaned up at the ceiling. "Who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but- for the record- if anyone out there still cares, I'm not actually gay," he declared.
She gave him a small smile. "Well, I am," she replied. "Look at us both."
He looked at her oddly for a moment, then laughed dryly. But before he could reply, there was an orgasmic moan from behind a pillar.
Sherlock's text alert.
Sure enough, Max and Sherlock were standing in a corridor outside the room, hidden in shadow. They had followed John since he had left the flat, and now here they were, having listened to the entire conversation.
"Sherlock?" Max asked quietly. "Are you okay?"
Without a word, he turned and strode away, back out to the front of the building where their cab was waiting. Max hesitated, then followed after him.
John glanced in their direction anxiously, even though he couldn't see them from where he was standing. He was about to go after them when Irene held up a hand, stopping him. "I don't think so, do you?" she asked.
He was about to argue that no, he did think so, and that those were his two closest friends, but then he realized that she was probably right; Sherlock needed time. With a heavy sigh, he nodded to her.
000
The cab ride back to Baker St was completely silent. Max glanced over at Sherlock every few moments, but he just stared out the window with an unreadable expression, taking no notice of her. She didn't say anything. Neither did he.
They were a block from the flat when Sherlock suddenly leaned forward and tapped at the glass between them and the cabby. "Let us off here," he said.
Not even questioning it, the cabby pulled over to the side of the road. Sherlock tossed a bill on the front seat- enough to cover the fare- then got out of the car.
Instantly, Max was scrambling out after him. "Sherlock!" she called. "Hey, wait, Sherlock, wait up!"
To her surprise, he actually stopped, smack in the middle of the sidewalk. She hurried to catch up to him, stopping when she was standing in front of him. He didn't meet her eyes. "Hey," she murmured, reaching out and taking his hand. "Talk to me."
He closed his eyes, as if he was trying to block everything out. "What do you want me to say?" he asked, sounding lost.
Max looked at him in concern. "Whatever you want to," she replied.
Sherlock was silent for a moment, then sighed heavily and leaned his forehead forward so that it was resting on hers. "I don't know what to think," he admitted. "She's nothing to me. I don't know why I care."
She rubbed his arms in an attempt to comfort him. "Because you have a heart, Sherlock," she said. He scoffed, but she looked up at him before he could say anything. "I know you don't think so, but you do." She reached up and brushed his hair out of his face. "And besides, she's not nothing, not to you. The two of you understand each other, and that's not something that you find often."
He glanced down at her, trying to read her expression, but she didn't let her thoughts show. Anything she felt about Irene, or Irene's feelings for Sherlock, or even Sherlock's feelings for Irene, however confused they were... it was all racing through her mind like some complicated equation that she didn't know how to solve. But that was a problem for another day, a problem that she and Sherlock could face together. Right now, what was important was making sure that he was okay.
It didn't seem like he could read anything from her face- or if he could, he decided not to say anything about it. Instead, he just nodded uncertainly. "Alright," he said.
Max nodded and gave him a small smile. "Ready to go back home?" she asked.
He squeezed her hand. "Yeah," he answered.
And they headed down the street, hand in hand.
000
When they reached 221B, Sherlock knew something was wrong as soon as he looked at the front door.
His key was in his hand, but he saw now that it wasn't necessary; the door had been pried open, a small chip by the lock. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Something's wrong," he told Max.
She blinked. "Should we call Lestrade?" she asked.
He shook his head. "Follow me," he said, pushing the door open. Max bit her lip hesitantly, then followed him.
Something was definitely wrong. Max could see the door to Mrs. Hudson's rooms was slightly ajar, but the landlady never liked to leave it open. There was a bucket halfway down the hallway filled with cleaning supplies, seeming to have been abandoned in the middle of a task.
Sherlock walked forward to the stairs, his eyes flitting over the scratches on the wall that certainly hadn't been there before. Max couldn't tell what he was thinking, but suddenly his expression darkened with a ferocity that was pure murder. "There's three men," he said. "They took Mrs. Hudson."
Max's eyes widened. "Okay, we need to call Lestrade-" she started.
"No," Sherlock interrupted. "I'll handle this. Stay here."
She scowled. "I'm not going to just sit back-" she attempted.
"Stay here, Max," Sherlock insisted.
Max stared at him for a moment in disbelief, but then she realized that they wouldn't get anywhere by arguing. "Fine," she sighed. He gave her a gentle squeeze on the shoulder, and after grabbing a spray can from the bucket of cleaning supplies, he headed up the stairs.
The sight that met him when he entered 221B was just like he had pictured. Mrs. Hudson sitting on a dining chair which had been moved to the center of the room, a gun with a large silencer held to her head by Neilson, the American agent who had been at Irene's house all those months ago. Two other men were in the room, one standing by the window and the other by the kitchen. All four of them turned to Sherlock as he walked through the door.
"Oh, Sherlock, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson sobbed.
Sherlock gave her a look. "Don't snivel, Mrs. Hudson," he told her. "It'll do nothing to impede the flight of a bullet." He glanced at Neilson. "What a tender world that would be."
Neilson's eyes narrowed. "I believe you have something that we want, Mr. Holmes," he said.
Ah. The camera phone. Irene had been right in saying he was in danger.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Then why don't you ask for it?" he challenged.
He held out a hand to Mrs. Hudson, who grasped at it. "Sherlock..." she sniffled. He gently turned back her sleeve, revealing the bruises on her wrist.
"I've been asking this one," Neilson commented. "She doesn't seem to know anything." Sherlock's gaze rose, and he saw a tear in Mrs. Hudson's cardigan over her right shoulder, exposing the flesh underneath. "But you know what I'm asking for, don't you, Mr. Holmes?" Glancing upwards still, Sherlock saw a gash on Mrs. Hudson's cheek; he looked over at Neilson's hand, where there was a ring on his third finger. There was blood on the ring.
Turning his full attention to Neilson now, Sherlock looked him up and down, but he wasn't deducing him; he was picking his targets. Carotid artery. Skull. Eyes. Artery. Lungs. Ribs.
"I believe I do," Sherlock answered.
Mrs. Hudson whimpered quietly as he let go of her hands, putting his hands behind his back. "Get rid of your boys," Sherlock ordered.
Neilson frowned suspiciously. "Why?" he asked.
Sherlock gave him a look. "I dislike being outnumbered," he answered. "It makes for too much stupid in the room."
Neilson hesitated, taking stock of the situation. Then he nodded, apparently deciding that he could take Sherlock on his own. "You two, get in the car," he instructed.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed as they passed him to get to the door. "My girlfriend is in the hallway," he said coldly. "Hurt her and there will be hell to pay. Do you understand me?" The two men shared a wide-eyed look, then nodded. "Good. Pass her by- don't even look at her- then get into the car and drive away." Sherlock glanced at Neilson. "Don't try to trick me. You know who I am. It doesn't work."
Quickly, the two men hurried out of the flat. Now alone, Sherlock turned to Neilson. "Next, you can stop pointing that gun at me," he told him.
Neilson scoffed. "So you can point a gun at me?" he challenged.
Sherlock spread his arms. "I'm unarmed," he replied.
Neilson's eyes narrowed. "Mind if I check?" he said.
Sherlock nodded simply. "Oh, I insist," he told him.
Eyeing him cautiously, Neilson walked over, passing Mrs. Hudson as he did. "Don't do anything," she warned nervously.
Neilson started patting Sherlock down, searching for a hidden weapon as Sherlock stood there, arms extended. He worked his way around Sherlock, and he was almost in the perfect position for Sherlock to spray him with the spray can hidden in his sleeve when there was a blur of motion behind him and-
WHAM!
Suddenly Neilson was tumbling backwards, clutching the back of his head in pain. Acting quickly- even though this wasn't quite going to plan- Sherlock reared back and headbutted him, knocking him unconscious and sending him flying back onto the coffee table.
Exasperated, Sherlock turned around to face Max, who was standing there with a horrified expression and a broken broom in her hand. "Oh my God, I just hit a man in the head with a broom," she said. Then she glanced at Neilson, then at Mrs. Hudson's disheveled state, and slowly her horror turned into smug triumph. "I just hit a man in the head with a broom!"
Sherlock gave her a look. "I told you to stay down there," he said.
She crossed her arms. "Excuse you, but I'm not just going to sit back when my boyfriend takes on three government agents by himself!" she exclaimed. "Besides, it looked like you needed the help."
He looked at her in disbelief. "I had a plan!" he protested.
"So did I!" she replied. They glared at each other for a moment, then Max sighed. "I'm glad you're okay."
He nodded to her. "You too," he said. He turned to Mrs. Hudson, who was still sitting on the chair, and knelt down in front of her. "You're all right now, you're all right."
Mrs. Hudson sniffled. "Yes, yes," she replied. "But my broom..."
Max glanced down at the broken halves of the broom, one in each of her hands. "Yeah, sorry about that, Mrs. H," she told her. "I'll buy you a new one."
Suddenly Neilson let out a moan from behind them, apparently coming to now. Sherlock and Max shared a glance, then turned to look at the agent, Max's expression unimpressed and Sherlock's promising a world of hurt.
And it was a world of hurt that he was going to get.