She could still hear murmering voices behind her, as she hastily pulled on clothes in the bathroom that she had left in a small, neat pile by the sink the night before. She wasn't sure if anyone heard her leave the flat, but she preferred it that way. She'd probably get a concerned text from Sherlock, a few phone calls from John.

She hadn't been out of the flat for more than two hours since Christmas. Even then she felt edgy, as if someone was going to jump out from behind a toadstool or something like that. Now, it was as if she was walking straight through a sea of assassins, each to their own.

She made her way up Baker Street, towards Picadilly Circus. She missed the hustle. It was nearly April, and still cold enough to wear a jacket. The streets were busy today, and she wondered what was going on.

Nearing Picadilly Circus, she could hear a busker singing. The sound of life filled her ears, and it felt as if a muffle had been lifted off. She felt connected with the world again.

Looking around, she couldn't really see anywhere she could sit properly, every café was full, and all along the streets leading from where she was looked just too busy.

She felt her pocket buzz, alerting her to a text. That'd be Sherlock, asking where she was. That made sense. She got out her phone to answer before seeing a black-clad figure moving hastily across the road. She recognised the sillhouette, and began to move in their direction, her heart beating fast.

She followed the man, as it soon became apparent it was definitely the man she was thinking of, all the way down Regent Street, before winding in a small alleyway, with no way out. Florence hesitated by the entrance, but she knew who it was, so followed him inside.

'Long time, no see.' the voice sent shivers down her spine.

'Arthur.' she said, clenching and unclenching her fists in anxiety. She couldn't see him, and turned to find him.

'In fact, bloody long time.'

'I know.'

'So long, in fact, that you told us to fuck off.'

'I didn't say that.'

'You said that but politer. Why is that, Florence? Why don't you want to talk to us? Because we know what you are? What you did?'

'No, nothing like that-'

'I think it is.'

'They don't scare me anymore, your threats. They're empty.'

'I'm not so sure about that.'

'I've missed you.' she said, trying to smile. What appeared was more of a pained grimace. 'I have-'

'Save the bullshit, Florence.'

'Hear me out, Arthur.' she retaliated. 'I have what you want.' her heart rate quickened as she lied through her teeth. She had become a good liar, so good that Sherlock Holmes wouldn't suss her out. 'Not here, not with me, but I have it.'

Arthur stepped forward, his facial expression dead. 'Of course you have it. You've had it all along.'

'No. It got taken from me. But it's mine again, now, okay? And it's staying mine. You don't have to worry.'

'I'd reconsider that statement, if I were you.'

'Not scary.'

'Not trying to be.'

'Yes you are.'

'No I'm not.'

Florence started to giggle, despite herself. 'Look at you, fucking six foot two, looking down at me like that, the shadows hiding your eyes, you're trying to scare me.'

Arthur smiled warmly. He opened his arms, and she accepted his embrace. 'I missed you too.' he said, putting his chin on the top of her head. 'It's been eight months.'

'Yeah, well, it's been a year and a half and Sherlock still isn't used to my presence.' Florence sighed.

'No?'

'I'm really trying to make it feel like I never left. I've been joking and all that. But when he comes into the living room in the morning, and my shoulders are exposed because I can't control them being covered in subconsciousness, he sees those fucking scars, and it all comes back to him, you know? I haven't even told them how I got them.'

'By them I suppose you mean Doctor Watson as well?'

'Mhm. And Mycroft.'

'Do you want to tell them...?

'Yeah. I really do. But I can't.'

'And you'd tell them about you, as well? What you used to do?'

'Yes. But again, I can't. I really do want to tell them. So maybe your threats would be useful.'

'I wouldn't worry about my threats.' he said, his voice deep. 'they're meaningless.'

'How're James and Michael?'

'Eh, I don't know. Haven't seen them in two weeks.'

'What?!' Florence exclaimed, pulling away and looking up at the man before her.

'Yeah. I got a bit hot-headed. They didn't like it.'

'Oh, Arthur. I'm sorry.'

'It didn't mean as much to me as I thought it would have done. Now, though...' he looked down at Florence, smiling slightly. 'It's cold. Do you want to get coffee?'


Sherlock looked at the Woman, who's eyes were seductive. He sighed slightly. He could see right through her, and he wondered why she couldn't see through him. Surely, his pretending to be attracted to her would be plainly visible to anyone?

His phone buzzed on the arm of the chair next to him, and he looked over at it. Met Arthur in Picadilly. Getting coffee. Don't stay up. F x

He smiled.

'Something funny?'

'Florence has met a friend. Hasn't seen him in a while. She told me not to wait up, even though it's only ten in the morning, suggesting she won't be home for... a while.'

'I didn't even notice her leave.'

'I believe that's the point. Who told you what you know about her?'

'If I told you that, it would hurt her. I'm not in the mood for hurting people today.'

Ah. Sherlock thought. That doesn't sound good. 'I believe I have a right to know.'

'Do you? That's interesting.'

Sherlock sighed in frustration. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Irene smirk. 'Fine. We'll try a different approach. What do you know about her?'

'I know she was gone for a while, eight years. I know that she nearly overdosed six times, and she got up to some... nasty business. Nothing particularly harmful... to her. To others?' she let out a small laugh. 'I can't imagine why anyone would have wanted to mess with her.'

'What do you mean?'

'Ah, storytime's over for now. I'm sure she'll tell you in good time.'

That really doesn't sound good.


Florence didn't quite know what to make of this new development. It was strange.

First, Arthur was alone. He was never supposed to be alone. He always needed people with him. But, now that James and Michael were gone, he didn't have people anymore. She wondered if that's why he found her, to reconnect with someone. Maybe he was lonely.

Second, she had just told him one of the biggest lies she'd ever told.

Arthur wanted something from her. It was something that meant a lot to both of them, as it guaranteed their protection. She had told him that she had it, that it would never leave her. She was lying, and she thought he knew it. The problem was, because she didn't have it, it meant someone else had it. But with this particular thing, if it got into the wrong hands, it could do a lot of damage.

It was the proof that she was a murderer.


Sherlock played with the memory stick in his hands, turning it over and over in his fingers. To him, this memory stick was a storm. A large, dark cloud loomed over it, one that would spill over and cause the heavens to open once brought up. Not for him, but the storm that was about to be released on his best friend was one that could destroy a country.

He thought it a little foolish for Irene Adler to have gone out, but he was thankful for it. He presumed she had gone to meet someone, but didn't want to know who. It was probably a client. He shuddered, not wanting to think about what she was doing.

He had had this memory stick for a while now, nearly half a year. He had been sent it, in an expensive envelope. He knew it was from Moriarty, which made him concerned as to the contents. He had hesitantly downloaded it after Irene's conversation with him, and the outcome was not one he particularly liked the sound of.

He waited patiently, memory stick wound in between his fingers, in the cosy, dimly lit living room of his home. Outside, the traffic buzzed, with the occasional loud noise – a tire screech, a honking horn. Typical London noises. It comforted him.

He eventually heard the front door open, and his heart plummeted. He really did not like what he was about to do – what he was about to inevitably discover.

Florence walked into the room, her face unreadable. She didn't smile at him, which he thought to be odd. She immediately noticed the state of her friend, and then the memory stick in his hand. She frowned.

'What's that?'

'You tell me.' he muttered, standing abruptly. He brushed past her, knocking his shoulder into hers. She quickly and expertly took the stick from his fingers as he went by, and inspected it.

She dropped her hands by her side, and turned to face him in the kitchen. 'I was going to tell you.'

'When?' he said, his voice picking up.

'When it was the right time.'

'When was the right time, Florence? When could possibly be the right time to drop something like this on me?' he walked slowly towards her, and his voice was angry. Florence had seen her fair share of anger before, but this one hit her harder. It hurt more.

'When you had finished-'

'I've finished cases before, Florence!'

'Maybe I couldn't fucking tell you!' she yelled back. Her voice cracked a little, and it was hoarse.

'Why?'

'Have you ever had to tell someone who means that much to you that you killed people?'

'What do you think?' Sherlock thrust his arms into the air, signifying his feelings.

They both heard Mrs' Hudson's fragile footsteps coming up the stairs. Florence closed her eyes, holding her breath, and Sherlock let out a furious breath.

'Is everything ok-'

'Not now, Mrs Hudson!' they chorused, each with the same amount of aggression, not looking at her. The woman looked quite shocked, but she got the message and scuttled back where she had come from.

'Why did you do it?'

Florence felt the hot tears of frustration spring to her eyes, and she wiped them harshly. 'It wasn't for fun.'

Sherlock scoffed.

'It wasn't! These were bad people.'

'I've read each and every one of their case files. There was nothing against them. No criminal record, no-' he stopped as he realised the truth. 'Oh.'

Florence wiped another tear from her eyes. 'What?'

'Were these the men...' He thought back to when she was telling him about when she was attacked. She said there were seven of them, all in their early thirties, who had jumped her. She never mentioned anything more serious than being attacked, but he had had his suspicions, and these were brought to light. 'They didn't do anything more than hurt you, did they?'

Florence breathed in shakily. She was relieved, now that Sherlock understood. 'Barely. They tried to undress me, but when I put up a fight they resorted to breaking every bone in my body instead. Then, by the time they had finished, I was dead meat anyway. They told me I wouldn't be "as fun".'

Sherlock stared. He was thinking too hard to make his face do anything else. He realised with some sadness that his best friend was far more broken than he thought, and she had the mental scars to prove it.

'This stick had things against Arthur, too. And the others. Did they help you?'

'Once Arthur understood my situation, he knew it had to be done. The others refused, and his brother wasn't particularly keen-'

'Brother?'

'Mhm. Lucian. He's like the Mycroft of Arthur.'

'Poor man.'

Florence smiled through her tears. Her face was burning. Was this normal? 'Yeah.'

'Is this the thing you had, that they wanted? That you couldn't give back?'

'Yes. I couldn't give it back because I didn't have it.'

Sherlock nodded. 'You kept this a secret from me, even though it makes sense. Well, it doesn't make complete sense, why not just report them instead of kill them, but-'

'I couldn't, remember? If Scotland Yard knew where I was, they'd bring me back. I wasn't ready, I was still bad.'

'Still don't quite understand that mindset, either. You knew I would have done everything to help you, like I will now.'

Florence smiled again. 'I'm sorry for not telling you.'

'I can understand why you wouldn't. But...' he breathed in, preparing himself for the cliché horrors that were about to escape his lips. 'If you need me, any time, I will always be here to talk.'