Sherlock closed his eyes.

It was over. It was all over. No more Irene Adler, no more feelings. He had not been able to concentrate on anything else, because of his feelings. They were all too much.

He had sent Florence away. He didn't want to deal with her, too. He loved her, a lot, but sometimes she was too much. She felt too much. It was overwhelming. But now, he didn't know where she was, and didn't want to text her, just in case she was busy. He couldn't imagine she stayed idle for three hours.

He let his mind unfold, sitting in the black leather chair of his living room. He didn't know where John was – probably on another date. He hoped he was safe.

His eyes still closed, he thought over the events of the evening. Irene had been working with Moriarty. The whole time.

He should have known! He should have deduced! That was what he did, isn't it? If he couldn't even do that properly, what was the point of him?

Mycroft had told him not to beat himself up about it. He had replied ignorantly, saying that that was idiotic.

He had been wrong.

He heard the key turn in the door downstairs, and listened for signs of who it was. Judging by the heavy footsteps, and the hesitaton on each step, it was John.

Marvellous.

'You okay?' he asked, and Sherlock opened his eyes.

'Mm.' he replied, and stood abruptly. 'Seen Florence?'

'No, why? Isn't she here? Where... where's Irene?'

'Oh, she's gone. Turns out she was working for Moriarty the whole time. We assume she won't live for more than three weeks.'

'Oh.' John muttered. 'I'm sorry.'

'Why?' Sherlock spat, incredilous.

John stuttered, shocked by his friend's sudden mood change. 'Because...'

'Do you believe I actually felt for this woman? Come on, John. I thought you knew me better.'

'Yes, I do know you better. I know you feel for Florence, don't you, Sherlock?'

'Hm?'

John jumped, and spun around. Florence stood at the door, her eyes narrowed. Sherlock hadn't heard her come in, but it couldn't have been soon after John. Her dark hair had fallen over her eyes, which were red-rimmed. She had been crying, but now was not the time to ask.

However, Sherlock did not think that was the case. 'You're upset.' he stated. Florence nodded, tucking her hair behind her ear.

'Yes.'

'And you're not trying to cover it up...'

'No.'

'What happened?'

Florence glanced at John, offering him a small smile. Then she looked back at Sherlock. 'Later.'


Truth be told, Florence was having a meltdown. It wasn't often this happened, not really, but everything James said, everything that had happened that evening, on top of his careless slip-up - she wasn't coping.

Sherlock hadn't looked hard enough. He hadn't. Even if she didn't want to be found, he still could have found her. He could have done. But he didn't. Now, she was without the majority of her friends, who weren't friends anymore, and she felt more separated from Sherlock than she could ever have felt. They hadn't spoken to each other properly in days. It wasn't the same anymore, and it hurt her.

But then, when she thought about telling Sherlock about James' accent, and what happened at the Warehouse when she was chased – she didn't want to tell him, because of what James had said. This man, who meant so much to her, was getting into her head, and she didn't like it.

She didn't know how much more of this she could stand, in all honesty. She didn't want to live with Sherlock anymore. She didn't want to spend any time with anyone. It was confusing her, and she didn't know what to do.

She sat on the second to last step, by the door to the living room, her head in her hands.

'Hey.'

She looked up, automatically shuffling to the side so whoever was talking to her could get up the stairs.

John was standing in front of her, a cup of tea in his hands. He sat beside her. 'You okay?'

'Yeah.' she said, unconvincingly.

'What happened with you and your friend today? When you got back, you weren't particularly... pleased.'

'It's okay. Really. What James said – it made perfect sense. I'm just trying to wrap my head around it.' She refrained from telling him about the accent.

'What...' John began, knowing he was treading on thin ice. 'What did James say?'

'It was stupid. It really was.'

'You don't have to tell me if you don't want to, but I would really appreciate it, and it might help you, if you did.' John said. He said this to some of his patients sometimes, when they weren't comfortable with sharing their symptoms.

'It's not true. Any of it. But it's just working it's way through my head...'

'It's okay. You can tell me.'

'He said Sherlock could have found me if he wanted to, if he tried hard enough.'

'Oh...' John said, frowning. He took a thoughtful sip of his tea. 'You really believe he didn't?'

'I'm not sure.' Florence's head fell back into her hands. She rubbed her eyes with her palms. 'It's scaring me a bit.'

'Listen.' John said, his more serious voice replacing his soft one. 'Sherlock loves you more than he's ever loved anyone.'

'I think I know that – but what James said...'

'You can't let it get to your head. He searched so, so hard for you. Mycroft told me that he turned to drugs because you were gone. You hurt him so, so much-'

'You're really not helping-'

'-which made him who he was today.'

'Are you actually trying to comfort me?'

John chuckled. 'What I'm trying to say is, he cares. A lot. Maybe too much.' Florence's eyes widened at him, and he rushed to correct himself. 'In a good way, of course.' he cleared his throat awkwardly. 'All this about Irene Adler... I don't know where she's gone, but I'm glad of it, honestly. She was a bit of a pain, in the end.'

'I'll say. You could cut the tension between them with a knife.'

John laughed, then sipped his tea. 'Yeah. It was scary.'

'Where did Sherlock go?'

'I don't know. Probably to bed. It's been a long, long day.'

'What happens now, that she's gone? What do you do?'

'What do we do, do you mean?'

'You and Sherlock, yeah.'

John smiled. 'No. Me, Sherlock, and you.'


Sherlock hadn't seen Florence in two days.

Ever since she went to university, the same as him, they had seen each other in passing, at least three times a day. They would go out for lunch, and they would spend the entire weekend together.

Now it was Saturday and there was no sign of her.

He wouldn't have thought this to be abnormal if it were anyone else. But, knowing Florence, she relied on him. He helped her in ways neither of them fully understood.

Recently, however, she had been acting strange. She wasn't nearly as talkative, and whatever they did talk about was not nearly as interesting or as in-depth as usual. She wasn't eating, which struck Sherlock as odd. She wasn't a particularly foody person, but she still ate normally.

Her eyes were sunken, and her cheeks more gaunt.

There was something wrong with her, but she was gone before he could ask her about it.

And that hurt him.


Three weeks later

Sherlock was not coping too well. He desperately did not want to say he was withdrawing, but... he was.

He was angrier. So much angrier. There were no cases, apart from all the boring ones, like the affairs, and the thefts. They weren't helping him.

He kept lashing out on people, yelling at them, then not talking for hours.

Florence was worried about him, and John was worried about both of them.

Every morning, he would leave for over three hours, then return in a state he definitely did not leave in. He would then moan for ages about how bored he was.

It was on one of these mornings, his prayer for an interesting case was answered by Henry Knight.

Florence shuddered. She had always hated trains. Ever since she was a little girl, she hated trains. In fact, she hated most methods of transport – she had just become accustomed to cars.

But now, as they boarded at Paddington Station, en route to Dartmoor, of all places – she told herself to get the fuck over it and get on the train.

They got a booth, and Sherlock got out his laptop immediately. He opened it, and started typing ferociously.

Florence laid her head against the window, and closed her eyes, willing the time to pass quickly. Sherlock ignored her, knowing her antics.

'Florence?' John asked quietly, ignoring her glance that said shut up.

'I'm fine. I'm just not too used to trains.' she said dismissively, and John left it at that.

The ride wasn't too rocky afterwards, and John noted how quickly Florence managed to fall asleep, and how peaceful she looked. Almost as if nothing had happened to her over the past ten years. Sherlock was watching her too, he noticed, but not in the way he was. Not in an inappropriate way, either, just... watching. John could tell that he, too, was marvelling at the way she slept. Untroubled. Controlled. And if John didn't know better:

Drugged.


Baskerville! Finally!

I feel like I spent years on the great game, and now this feels a lot nicer.

Also, I have noticed that the last few chapters have not had the little breakers in them, and I'm not even sure if this one will work, so I'm sorry for any confusion!

(Florence is fine, by the way)