Whispers in the Wind

Author: Lady Sam Mallory

Disclaimers: Boys not mine; I just borrow them from time to time when the muse moves me.

Special Thanks to: My Beta Queen, Zoe, without whom I'd be doomed to a life of grammatical inaccuracy. You are truly my conductor of light. Thank you for almost 40 years of friendship.

For my beautiful friend, Heather, whose incredible command of the English language allows her to provide me with individually needed words at a moment's notice.

Warnings: H/C, Smarm, Some violence, and usually a bit of colorful language.

Trigger Warning: contains some torture, physical, psychological and emotional abuse. Child on Child violence

Spoilers: Season 4 (maybe) You should read Deadly Intentions before this one as it takes up where that story leaves off.

Author's Comments: My take on how the Eurus story could have gone without adding a non-canonical sister to the mix. A pressie for my unbelievably awesome beta and dearest friend. An extra special thanks to my daughter for helping me get this story started.

Contains a quote from Macbeth, Act V, Scene iii for my beloved beta, who actually knew the act and scene without looking it up.

The location of Eurus' hideout is a decaying 19th-century Gun Tower called Grain Tower Battery that can be visited (during low tide). Special thanks to Abandoned Spaces and Viktoriia Makeenko and Michail Cvik (photographer) for the wealth of information and images that helped me to envision it and use it for this story.

Sherlock's fingers stroke the lush ginger hair of the Irish Setter.

"Why can't I break through this door, Redbeard?" The detective inquires of his faithful canine.

"Sherlock?" He hears softly as though from a great distance, but ignores, as he continues to sweep long fingers through the dog's coat.

"Bloody hell, you wanker…You need to come back right now," John orders, much louder as the detective feels a sharp pain in his chest.

His blue eyes begin to clear causing the doctor to heave a sigh of relief.

"Why does my…" Sherlock croaks out, surprising himself, as John pulls him up to sit. The doctor holds a glass of water to his lips, which he begins to gulp down.

"Slow down, mate. Unless you want to be sick," John suggests, pulling the tumbler away sloshing water on the detective.

"Why does my chest hurt?" Sherlock tries once again.

John smiles sheepishly, holding up his left fist. "Sternal rub. It was a last resort. I've been shaking you and calling your name for twenty minutes," the doctor informs him, his blue grey eyes flashing.

"Wasn't listening," the detective mentions, clearing his throat whilst reaching for the water.

"No kidding," John responds sarcastically, getting up from his knees to step away from the sofa. "How long?"

Sherlock meets his questioning gaze, answering, "A few hours."

The doctor actually laughs at that. "Try again," he suggests, his expression never wavering.

"If you know I'm lying…" Sherlock begins, only to be interrupted by his agitated flatmate.

The wolfish smile on the doctor's face should have told him what's coming.

"I suspect you're lying," John corrects, causing Sherlock to roll his eyes.

Sherlock's own grin betrays nothing as he congratulates, "Very good, John…"

"Don't," John warns. "I've just come off back-to-back shifts. I'll not be putting up with anything after nearly seventeen hours on my feet. I'm knackered, so let's have it."

"After a double you absolutely do not want the truth," the detective admits to the exhausted doctor.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock. We talked about this. No extended mind palace trips unless I'm in the flat to make sure you can get out," John reminds the detective. "I do not like coming home to a catatonic flatmate after the day I've had."

"Catatonic, really, John?" The detective scoffs, stopping when he sees the expression on the doctor's face.

John allows him to see these emotions, ever hopeful the detective will pay mind to how his actions affect those around him.

"Your concern is unwarranted…but appreciated," Sherlock concedes, for the first time realizing just how ripe he feels after the many hours spent in rigorous mental exercise.

The doctor nods acceptingly, offering a hand to the detective to help him up from the sofa.

Sherlock takes the proffered hand, rising with a groan as it's been at least half a day since he's moved.

The doctor's eyes narrow as his suspicions are confirmed.

"You prick," John curses. "Absolutely no caffeine until you're rehydrated, and for God's sake, eat the sandwich I brought for you. Yes, all of it," the doctor orders Sherlock, who's about to argue, until he notes his body trembling.

When he's sure that the detective follows his directives, John turns towards the stairs.

"I'll leave you to it. I'm going to bed," the doctor informs his thick-headed flatmate, leaving no room for argument.

"John," Sherlock whispers in deference to the hour and his vocal cords.

The fair-haired doctor turns at his name and smiles when he sees the unvoiced gratitude in the detective's eyes.

"You're welcome, Sherlock," he states, dragging his bone-weary body up the steps.

—-

John steps into the kitchen to finish helping Mrs. Hudson by setting the table.

"Thank you so much for this," John says softly, giving her a kiss on the cheek.

She smiles over at him. "It's just brunch, John," she dismisses with a shrug.

"It's a little more than that," John notes as Sherlock comes into the kitchen in his dressing gown.

"Morning," the detective mutters, heading straight for the coffee pot.

John steps out into the living room to get Rosie.

Shaking the empty carafe, Sherlock demands loudly, "Mrs. Hudson, where's the coffee?"

Mrs. Hudson smiles, giving his shoulder a pat as she takes the carafe from him.

"Water's on the table, dear. Doctor's orders," she elaborates, before grabbing a tray to take to the table.

"John!" Sherlock shouts from the kitchen in exasperation.

The doctor steps into the kitchen with Rosie in his arms. "Did you call for me?" He inquires of the flustered detective whilst bouncing the toddler up and down causing her to giggle.

"More like bellowed," Mrs. Hudson mumbles, setting the tray on the table.

Sherlock ignores her as John bites the inside of his cheek to stop from laughing.

The doctor sets his daughter in her chair at the table.

"Want milk," Rosie demands, wiggling her fingers towards the refrigerator.

"Want coffee," Sherlock gripes, causing John to roll his eyes.

"Leave it to you to emulate a toddler," The doctor teases, chuckling at his flatmate's scathing expression.

The doctor looks at his daughter. "Please," he reminds before pointing at his flatmate. "No, absolutely not."

Mrs. Hudson laughs. "Off with you, Sherlock. You're not sitting at my table today until you're clean and dressed," she admonishes, shoving him towards his room.

Sherlock forcefully sets his empty coffee cup onto the counter and heads towards the loo. "Fine. I'll bathe, but I want coffee when I'm done," the irascible detective grouses slamming the door behind him.

"That went well," John notes sarcastically to Mrs. Hudson, who chews her lip with a nervous smile, handing Rosie a beaker (sippy cup) of milk after hearing the child ask politely.

Bending down to place a kiss on his daughter's head, John smiles as he hears Sherlock grumbling in the bath, punctuated with the occasional shout of indignation.

John's head comes up when he hears a knock on the door downstairs. "Save your hip. I'll get it, Mrs. Hudson," the doctor suggests, and she nods appreciatively.

"Your father's such a dear," the landlady says kindly to Rosie whilst bringing the beverages to the table.

Returning moments later with Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, John guides them to the table.

"Does he know we're coming?" Mrs. Holmes asks in a whisper.

She nods her head in understanding when John shakes his head in the negative.

"Probably easier that way," she finishes, her face lighting up as she sees the sweet little girl at the table.

"Well, you know how much our boy loves surprises," Mr. Holmes states dryly, smiling at the patient doctor.

Mrs. Holmes kisses Rosie as she takes her place at the table. "There's our little lady. I can't believe how much she's grown, John," Sherlock's mother states, reaching for her husband's hand.

"Hi…Hi…Hi," Rosie crows repeatedly when she sees Sherlock's parents and waves excitedly.

"She looks more like her mother every day, Violet," the doctor relates with a fond smile, placing a kiss on the toddler's cheek.

Sherlock comes out of the loo in a cloud of steam wearing a crisp clean pair of grey trousers and a royal blue dress shirt.

"Suwa…up Suwa," the toddler cries, raising her arms towards the detective as he enters the kitchen.

Sherlock places a gentle hand on Rosie's head. "After we eat, Sherylyn," he reassures the child, as he takes his seat on the other side of her and puts some more blueberries in front of her.

"Bobos," Rosie cheers, shoving a few in her mouth happily.

Seeing his parents, the detective turns towards John. "I hardly think I've done anything lately that requires an intervention, and it's not Christmas," Sherlock asserts, placing the serviette into his lap with care.

"Sherlock, behave," his mother chastises, her disapproval colouring her features as well as her tone.

The detective sighs looking at his flatmate for answers as he reaches for the tea, suspecting something when John makes no move to intercept.

"I rang them this morning asking them to come," John admits, refusing to look contrite for his decision. "You spent, by my count, at least sixteen hours in your mind palace yesterday, Sherlock. We need answers," the doctor reasons, pointing at the detective's parents solemnly. "They may have them."

Sherlock nods quietly, surprising his parents. He reaches for the platter Mrs. Hudson offers and fills his plate with eggy bread and bacon sarnies, before passing it on to the doctor, who serves both Rosie and himself.

"That went better than we could have hoped for," Mrs. Holmes notes quietly, taking the platter from John, adding a portion to her husband's plate and then her own.

John smiles fondly remembering Mary used to do the same for him, then ensures that Rosie has had enough to eat.

"Don't borrow trouble, dear," her husband reminds her softly, patting her hand and thanking her for taking care of him.

Taking a sip of his tea, Sherlock grimaces, his angular face mired in disgust. "This is not tea," he accuses, looking at his landlady unfavourably.

Mrs. Hudson laughs. "Of course, it is, dear. It's hibiscus tea and it will help you rehydrate as will the cucumber juice or the coconut water. See, I've given you choices," she divulges with a pleasant smile.

"Coffee?" The detective suggests hopefully, knowing full well the doctor will not allow it.

"Don't be difficult," the landlady orders, followed by a "Drink your tea!" command.

John smiles at the exchange before interjecting, "That's like asking the sun to shine in London."

There's a knock at the door before Mycroft Holmes enters the flat.

"You called Mycroft?" The detective asks the doctor, wrinkling his nose with distaste.

Before John can answer, his father speaks up. "Your mother and I called him. He deserves to be here. He's a part of this family, whether you like it or not."

"Not," Sherlock replies snottily, placing his fork to the side of his plate.

Mycroft smiles down at his seated brother. "You may remember that I was actually here first, brother mine," he reminds his vexatious sibling, taking the last empty seat at the table. "How quaint," he remarks, glancing around the table.

"Do behave, Myc," Mrs. Holmes says with a hint of exasperation and fondness.

"Mycroft," the older Holmes brother corrects automatically after years of practice. "You bestowed the name on me, so if you could endeavour to make it all the way through…"

The banter comforts John more than he thought possible while Claire remains free to wreak havoc on their lives.

—-

Mrs. Hudson steps into the living room from the kitchen. "Ok, dears. Everything is clean and put away, so I'm off to the Farmers' Market," she notifies her boys.

"Would you mind picking up some more blueberries for Rosie?" John asks, reaching for his wallet as she waves him off and heads out the door, closing it behind her.

Mycroft pulls out the desk chair and seats himself with the fireplace at his back between Sherlock and John's usual spots, which are now facing the sofa where Sherlock's parents sit.

"What do you think you know?" Violet begins, jumping in with both feet.

"Mycroft told us everything," Sherlock states, his fingers steepled under his chin, his expression neutral so as not to give anything away.

Violet looks at her youngest son for a minute in silence, then her eyes dart away to her husband, who reaches for her hand to offer support.

"Not even your brother knows everything, Sherlock," Mr. Holmes informs the detective, causing Mycroft to lean forward in his chair with eyebrows raised.

"It was such a long time ago, Sherlock. Why is this so important now?" His mother questions, her voice barely audible over the thumping of her own heart.

"People are dying, Mother. I believe that takes precedence over our family skeletons," the detective responds sardonically without moving a muscle.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes! Don't you…dare…make light of what happened. You. Nearly. Died. What that child did to you was monstrous and had we known…" Violet scolds, standing up, her right hand over her heart, her body trembling along with her voice as tears fill her eyes.

Sherlock sees those tears and looks away from her vulnerability, clearly uncomfortable.

"We made the best decisions that we could under the circumstances," Sherlock's father Siger announces, gently guiding his wife back to her seat.

John leans forward in his chair. "That's all any parent can do," the doctor empathizes with the distressed couple, unable to even comprehend the pain he would feel if he lost Rosie.

"We need information, John, not drama," Sherlock notes unaffectedly, bringing his chin down upon his folded hands.

"You call this drama, young man? I didn't swan dive off a bloody building pretending to be dead for two years, breaking the hearts of those who loved me," Violet observes to Sherlock's consternation.

"Mother," the detective begins, only to be interrupted by her.

"Don't you mother me. I understand exactly why you did it, and I'm proud of what you accomplished during that time. The fact remains that sometimes we must make difficult choices to protect the ones we love, even if they pay an unbearable cost for it," she admits, knowing it may not make a difference.

Sherlock endures his mother's glare for a few moments longer, before he's forced to look away.

"John had to be saved and I will not be contrite for doing what needed to be done," the detective forces out through clenched teeth.

John pins his flatmate to the chair with a look. "This is getting us nowhere. Enough, Sherlock," he warns patiently. Deciding to try another tactic, he asks his friend, "What if the same thing had happened to Sherylyn?"

Sherlock pauses, thinking about the proposition and what his reaction would be in that situation.

He feels profoundly angry and sad at the same time, and his eyes widen with the knowledge of his reaction and a new understanding.

"Are you all caught up now, Sherlock?" John asks, not unkindly, but genuinely wanting to make sure they were all on the same page.

The detective nods, unable to speak for a moment at the thought of anything happening to his goddaughter.

"Let's start at the beginning," John suggests, grabbing his notepad and pencil.

Violet inhales deeply, trying to calm her fraying nerves. "I had brought Sherlock with me to the university, and Dr. Harrington was taken with the way his mind worked. He was always involved in gifted projects and the fact that he adored our boy as much as we did made it seem like a perfect fit," his mother begins, wringing her hands together.

John nods supportively, gesturing for her to continue as he makes a note here and there.

"Years went by, and we watched as Sherlock, our always affectionate, intelligent and curious boy, grew into an even more observant and intelligent adolescent. Sherlock lived with the Harringtons as part of the Sherrinford Program. We missed him dearly. He was only home for summer term and sometimes not even then," Violet reminisces with a smile, thinking back on that time with apprehension.

Sherlock sighs dramatically. "There were things to discover. I was involved in my experiments," the detective corrects adamantly.

"We know. You set fire to the parlour more than once, young man," Siger recalls, his face drawn into a grimace. "Got to the point where I almost couldn't pay for the house insurance."

John laughs in commiseration. "I know what you mean," the doctor replies openly, shaking his head.

"When did things take a turn?" Mycroft asks from across the living room, tapping his umbrella on the floor next to him.

Violet pauses before answering, "I started noticing that he was pushing us away. His personality had changed drastically. He went from a happy affectionate child to a morosely quiet young adolescent."

"I talked to Dr. Harrington personally, and he had assured me that nothing untoward was happening. We paid a surprise visit to the school and verified for ourselves that everything seemed to be alright. Sherlock showed us the lab where he ran experiments and told us about the work he was doing. He really seemed fine, just a bit distant," Siger assures them, his eyes closing.

"In the end, I couldn't shake this feeling that something was wrong at the school. I insisted to Siger that we pull him out of the program and told Dr. Harrington that this would be his last term. There was only a week of classes left," his mother explains, wiping at her eyes.

"The next day, we got a call that Sherlock had fallen down the stairs and we raced to the hospital to meet him there. The doctors explained that there was swelling in his brain that caused him to fall into a coma. The school claimed he'd fallen, but I honestly didn't know what to believe," Violet continues, her eyes filled with sadness.

Siger clenches his fist angrily, saying, "One of the children admitted that she pushed him, trying to claim it was an accident. Something about her was just a little off ,and we ended up pulling Sherlock from the program early, just before Rudy came in and shut the whole thing down."

"The second day in hospital, you started having seizures and convulsions. We were horrified and they asked us to allow them to start all these medications. We were so overwhelmed, and I have to admit…" Violet relates, stopping when she could go no further.

John leans forward, placing his notepad on the table next to him. "Admit what, Violet?" He inquires curiously, giving her his full attention while watching Sherlock from the corner of his eye.

Siger clutches her hand in his and kisses it gently, taking over the narrative. "Mycroft came home on the third day…"

Mycroft stands impatiently twirling his umbrella. "And mother was not to be found. You said that she was called away," the government official notes defiantly.

Violet closes her eyes, dropping her head to hide the shame in them. Siger holds her hand tightly in both of his own. "It wasn't your fault, love," her husband whispers in her ear.

Mycroft and Sherlock look on in confusion at the tenderness that he shows their mother and the secret they've obviously been keeping for a long time.

She releases his hand and stands up. "Goodness, I must look a sight," she mutters, excusing herself to the loo.

Siger watches her go with a heavy heart for all she's endured. "Your mother was in hospital," he acquaints them with a truth never before spoken.

"What happened?" Sherlock asks at the same time Mycroft demands, "How could you hide this from me?"

Their father takes a deep breath and looks at his sons. "Your mother feels a great deal of shame at what she perceives as a weakness, but I have never doubted that she's one of the bravest people on this earth. After all, she raised the both of you," he explains, his eyes flicking between them.

John sighs heavily. "She had a nervous breakdown. Didn't she?" The doctor asks kindly, his blue grey eyes filled with understanding.

Siger nods as they hear the door down the hall open and tentative footsteps approach the living room.

Mycroft turns to Violet as she steps back into the room. "I always wondered what could have been so important that you would leave my brother at that time. I made things more difficult for you when you came back a few days later," he recounts his actions. "Why didn't you say anything, Mother?"

"You know why," his mother explains, walking over to Sherlock and placing a hand gently on his shoulder. "I am so sorry, my dear boy," she apologizes, causing the detective to blanch visibly.

Sherlock studies her contrite tear-filled expression carefully, committing the visage to memory and storing it in his mind palace in the room dedicated to his mother. "There's nothing to forgive, Mum," he assures her using the familiar term of endearment that he knows she loves.

Violet smiles at her son, patting his cheek gently. "You spent twenty days in hospital, Sherlock. We were so worried, and when we finally got to take you home, you weren't the boy you had been. You were so frustrated and agitated nearly all the time. School became very difficult and you had memory problems and struggled with learning new things, " his mother clarifies, crossing the room to sit next to her husband who takes her hand in his.

"Your brother returned from university to help you. He understood you in ways your mother and I did not," Siger continues. "It was Mycroft who came up with the idea of the mind palace to help you organize incoming information as well as delete information you deemed unimportant ,so you wouldn't become overwhelmed so easily."

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "He's insufferable enough without inflating his ego with information like that," the detective rants, causing John to laugh out loud and break the tension.

"The same could be said for you, brother mine," Mycroft notes eloquently.

"It's only funny because it's true, mate," John adds, laughing even harder. "You're both impossible at times."

Mycroft observes the flatmates. Upon seeing John's open smile and the amusement in Sherlock's eyes, he relaxes infinitesimally. "This is why we don't often gather," he remarks caustically, his face drawn down in disapproval.

Violet and Siger grin widely at their sons, as the doctor puts them back on track.

"Why did you feel that a trauma reprogrammer had to be brought in? So far, from everything we've heard, it sounds like Sherlock was doing his best to deal with the ordeal," The doctor asks, preparing to write it down on his notepad.

Siger scratches his head before answering, drawing out the words slightly as he pulls them from his memory. "You were having nightmares and so much anxiety, but the night terrors were the worst. The doctors kept telling us to give it more time, but several months had passed and you wouldn't leave the house. You'd barely leave your room. Your mother would yell for me that you were having another episode. It was disquieting to watch you in so much pain," the man finishes, his voice catching on the last word.

"You weren't sleeping or eating very much, and we were terrified every moment that we'd never get our boy back. We had to do something," his mother adds, clearly devastated by the events as they unfolded.

"Rudy brought him to the house after…one of your turbulent disruptions. He told us he was a trusted specialist and to let him spend some time with you," his father discloses, his eyes asking his son to understand.

"The man explained to us that he could reprogram your brain over several hours, but his methods, while not damaging, would require a level of medication. We were at our wit's end, Sherlock. You were stagnating mentally and nearly uncommunicative. Then a man comes into our home and offers to give you back to us. It was a miracle," Violet relates, squeezing her husband's hand in her own.

"Rudy told us he would need to take Sherlock to a special hospital, but that he would be back within twelve hours. He promised us this would be for the best. Mycroft, your mother and I decided upon the memory that would replace all the horror," Siger fills in a few more blanks.

Mycroft shifts in his chair uncomfortably. "Redbeard was born, and he made you happy. You were wary, but the nightmares stopped, you began eating again, gaining back the weight you had lost. Most importantly, you were able to function mentally, and your observational and reasoning skills tested off the charts. You were returned, only a little worse for wear, brother."

Sherlock nods with understanding, drumming his fingertips on the arms of his chair.

"I must get into that room," Sherlock announces into the silence, the collective gasp of his parents notwithstanding.

"You must do more than that, mate. Tomorrow's a case day," John reminds him with a smile causing Sherlock to sigh dramatically. "I'm not weeding them out, either. You'll listen to every single one."

"I'm sure this level of torture for one week breaks the accords of the Geneva Convention, John," Sherlock notes in a recalcitrant tone.

"You owe me after scaring the shit out of me yesterday," John reminds the detective, pointing at him with a trembling finger.

"More than you know," Sherlock whispers, not missing the flicker of surprise in his friend's blue eyes.

—-

"Next!" Sherlock yells, shepherding the young man to the door before he has finished his story. "If the aliens take you again, please stay with them," Sherlock finishes as the next person, an older woman, walks in the door.

John's scolding expression causes Sherlock to smile. "What? I said please, John."

The doctor sighs as he turns to the new possible client sitting in the chair.

"Please tell us why you're here?" John inquires, leaning forward in his chair, pen poised to take notes.

"My husband, Edward Bradmore, has been an electrician here in London for thirty years," the woman starts, crumbling a tissue in her hand.

"Congratulations," Sherlock interjects only to be scolded by the older woman.

"Young man, I'll thank you to hold your tongue until I've finished. I raised nine boys, and I know how impatient they can be. I appreciate your time, but please keep in mind that I spent hours waiting here to talk to you because you're supposed to be the best," the grey-haired woman informs the detective firmly.

John nearly bursts with amusement but manages to maintain decorum after so many years as a soldier. A glance at Sherlock's expression nearly undoes his stellar control.

"Thank you," she says before continuing. "Edward took a job over two weeks ago that required him to travel. He said the woman needed some rewiring from top to bottom and he would be unable to return home between. The job, by his estimate, would be two weeks and he wasn't allowed to take his phone. The woman even sent a car and paid £25,000, all of which was added by direct deposit to our account," she explains, dabbing her eyes with the tissue and maintaining her composure admirably under the circumstances.

Sherlock waits to see if she will add more, when John asks, "Maybe there was a problem on the job that required him to stay longer?"

"Oi, I thought of that, but he would have found a way to contact me. We've been married fifty years next month, and he's always been considerate that way," she affirms, wringing her hands in her lap.

"Fifty years is a very long time," Sherlock mentions tactfully, not actually wanting to be taken to task again.

"That it is," she agrees with a smile. "I know him better than anyone as you probably know your friend, the good doctor, here," she attests, interrupting herself to praise the man in question.

"Excellent blog, by the way," she gushes, leaning forward in the chair.

"Is there any detail you've left out, no matter how inconsequential?" The detective inquires, pressing his hands together under his chin.

She pauses to think carefully about the past two weeks, when her eyes light up with the memory. "I thought it strange they would send a car for him, so I took a picture of the license plate," she recalls, pulling out her mobile to show them the picture.

Sherlock pauses a moment to consider everything she's told him. He carefully studies her, gleaning everything about her.

"Will you take the case and find my Edward, Mr. Holmes?" she asks seriously, but without pleading or snivelling.

This simple question makes the decision for him.

"Yes. I will find your husband," the detective promises, as John reaches out to help her from her chair. "Send John that picture."

"Thank you, Dr. Watson. Mr. Holmes, I appreciate that more than I can possibly say," she responds as she walks out the door of the flat.

—-

Sherlock bursts into the flat in a flare of dripping coattails with a bellow on his lips. "John?" He shouts out as he makes for the kitchen and a cup of tea. Shaking out his hair, he notes that John hasn't returned from the surgery yet, as Rosie's bag isn't in its usual place.

Knowing John will be positively knackered, he pulls out his mobile and orders takeaway. Heading down the stairs to 221C, he knocks on the door.

"Hey ,Sherlock, what can I do for you today?" Mya inquires, opening the door and inviting him inside.

"I'm here for Sherylyn. The takeaway should be here momentarily," the detective explains as Rosie comes running in from the other room.

"Suwa…up," she demands, throwing her arms upwards as she runs into his legs. He lifts the toddler effortlessly, taking her lovie from Mya with a nod.

"Say goodbye to Mya," the detective directs as they walk out the door. Rosie blows the nanny a kiss, then clings to Sherlock.

He bounds up the stairs amid her high-pitched squeals and gets her sorted, setting the toddler's bag on the table just inside the door as he hears the bell downstairs. Realizing the food has beat the doctor home, he hoists Rosie up once again and goes for the door.

Grabbing the takeaway bags, he once again flies up the stairs, setting the bags on the table as he settles Rosie in her chair, handing her a beaker of milk.

He barely has enough time to set the table when the doctor shoves through the door exhaustedly.

"What a bloody awful fucking day…" John starts before stepping into the kitchen and taking in the scene before him.

"Dada, Dada, Dada," Rosie shouts at the top of her lungs.

"Enough of that young lady," Sherlock scolds before turning to John. "Alright?"

John smiles so widely it hurts. "Well, except for the swear word I just dropped in front of Rosie, more than okay. How did you know?" The doctor inquires, hanging up his coat and shaking out his wet hair.

"Your last text contained a spelling error, as well as a disturbing lack of punctuation," the detective states with absolute certainty.

John grimaces, admitting, "Sorry, mate. No punctuation is downright appalling. I'm so knackered, I don't even remember what I sent."

Sherlock examines his flatmate's disheveled appearance and expression of fatigue. "You said that we had a guest coming by around 8:30. Perhaps we should reschedule given your level of exhaustion," the detective suggests, earning a weary glare from his friend.

"We'll not hold over the visit. It's been years since I've seen Becca and she's the best chance we've got at getting your memories back. Now pass me the chow mein," John orders, reaching for the container as he drops into his chair next to Rosie.

"Hiya, sweet girl," the doctor greets his daughter, placing loud smoochies on her cheek to make her laugh.

Sherlock knows solely by John's tone that postponing is not an option.

—-

"Thanks for coming, Becca," John greets the younger woman with a smile as she hugs him.

"John, I was sorry to hear about Mary," she says, patting his shoulder, nearly not hearing his quiet response thanking her.

Turning to meet the other occupant of the room, she crosses to where he sits in his chair.

"You must be Sherlock. It's great to meet ya. I admire your work," she addresses with a southern twang, extending her hand to shake his.

Sherlock analyzes the compact and athletic woman standing before him.

"What work would that be?" The detective inquires thoughtfully.

Becca's face breaks out into a huge grin. "What you did to Nielson hit the grapevine and I heartily approve. No one needed to be thrown out a window more than that asshole," she commiserates, placing her hand on her stomach from laughing so hard.

Sherlock tips his head, unsure what to think of this American woman. "You're an agent with the American agency," the detective ascertains, pulling himself taller in his chair before turning to John. "You didn't tell me that you dated her," he adds, causing John to nearly choke on his tea.

"You didn't ask," John answers after a short coughing fit and a shrug. "It was a long time ago and we were much different people back then," he notes, gesturing for her to start.

Becca grabs the desk chair and turns it backwards to take a seat. "John told me you were reprogrammed and can't access a set of memories that you now need to retrieve. I'm not gonna lie, but that's a tricky business. How much do you know about brain chemistry?"

The detective glances up at her inquisitive expression. "Enough," he answers honestly. "I know that we'll need to find a way to open a door that's been closed and locked for a very long time."

Becca shakes her head, before offering a different approach. "It's not about opening the door, Sherlock. It's about tricking your brain into believing that the door is already open," she reports steadily, pushing her long black hair back over her shoulder.

Sherlock leans back in his chair as he contemplates the elegant nuance of her suggestion. "Brilliant," he whispers, his expression filled with wonder and praise for the young woman.

John smiles at his flatmate. "I told you she's the best. What do we need?"

"Whoa, slow your roll, darlin'. There's more to consider than that before we go down this road. You both need to understand that the reactivated memories will go through a process of reintegration. It's not an easy process, and it makes a lot of people puke their guts out," Becca warns the detective, taking note of his focused expression.

The detective and the doctor study each other for a moment before turning to the woman as one mind. "Explain the procedure, please," John requests, pulling out his notebook and a pen.

"First, you need a clean, safe room for equipment. We'd need a CACI (computer controlled intravenous infusion) machine, DMI (desipramine), metoclopramide, propofol and a GABA (gamma-aminobutyric acid) uptake inhibitor, as well as several hours to root around in your brain trying to get to the information you're looking for," Becca lists out like a grocery list as John furiously copies it all down.

Sherlock nods and steeples his fingers under his chin.

"It's along the lines of a very aggressive regression therapy session with your cortisol levels off the charts," Becca finishes, meeting the concerned expression of the doctor.

"Pluck from the memory a rooted sorrow…and raze out the written troubles of the brain," * Sherlock quotes apathetically, his intense blue eyes never leaving Becca's face.

"Macbeth," the interrogator supplies with a shrug and a smile. "I'm a bit of a fan."

John laughs disbelievingly and adds, "More like a fanatic."

Becca's eyes narrow at John's comment, her expression promising that he's in a spot of trouble for that slip.

Sherlock nods with approval, turning to John. "I see it," he notes, causing John to blush and look away.

One look at Sherlock and she knows without a doubt that arrangements will be made very shortly.

—-

Lestrade jogs up the stairs to 221B and taps on the door.

"Hold on," he hears John holler from inside as he tries the door to find it locked which surprises him.

The doctor opens the door a moment later, drying his hands on a towel. "Greg, come in," John invites, opening the door a bit wider. "Sorry, Rosie's having a bath," he states, then heads back towards the bathroom.

"You didn't leave her by herself…" Lestrade starts only to be cut off by the doctor.

"Don't be ridiculous. Sherlock's with her," he states, turning into the room with a scene that makes Lestrade chuckle.

Water is everywhere and Sherlock has bubbles on his chin and a laughing, splashing baby in the tub.

"You have a case for me?" The detective inquires, standing up with a towel. "In here," he suggests strongly, tossing the towel on John's chair when he's finished.

"When did you start locking the door?" the Detective Inspector asks curiously.

"When Sherylyn thought it amusing to leave without permission," Sherlock informs the Yarder, before adding, "Certainly, you understand the concept of baby proofing."

The Detective Inspector chuckles, answering, "Course I do. Just didn't realize you did."

"He's picking up some doorknob covers tomorrow. John is an excellent father," Sherlock pronounces, incensed at the inspector's suggestion that the doctor performs at anything less than his best.

Lestrade raises his hand, grimacing at the perceived miscommunication. "That he is, Sherlock, and I would never intentionally suggest otherwise," Greg confirms and apologizes, earning a nod of confirmation from the detective.

Holding out his hand, Sherlock waits for the file, which Lestrade places there without preamble.

Sherlock opens the folder and sits in his chair, perusing through page after page of missing person reports. "For God's sake, Lestrade. Why did you wait so long to bring it to me? Twenty-two missing in eleven months," the detective verifies, looking to the Detective Inspector for an answer.

"We do try to muddle through without you sometimes, Sherlock. There are 45 territorial and three special police forces in the UK. I just put this together, requesting reports from every last one of them, the final of which came in today. Only three of those were from London or the surrounding area," Lestrade begins, watching as the detective continues to process at speeds he can only dream about.

"The electrician," Sherlock mutters, setting aside the file to pull John's laptop over. "John and I have a case with a missing electrician. Took a job, which he was paid for, yet he's nowhere to be found."

"Sounds familiar. If you read through every family statement, they received a sum of money from a direct deposit, which the Yard has been unable to trace even with our considerable resources, although I did transfer it over to the Complex Fraud Squad," the Detective Inspector explains whilst looking at the files on the laptop.

"I'll send them to Craig to sift through," Sherlock states, glancing over the notes made and pulling up a chart of all the connections made to Eurus, including the Dankworth and Zelley murders from earlier in the year.

"Those are still active files, Sherlock. Be careful who you share them with," Lestrade warns, as John enters with a clean toddler in her pyjamas.

"Gweg," she squeals, causing John to nearly drop her in shock, as she reaches out for the unsuspecting Detective Inspector to take her.

He smiles, folding her into his arms, with kisses to her cheek. "Hiya, Rosie, and what have you been doing today?" Lestrade asks, as she jabbers away to answer. "That sounds like so much fun."

Sherlock eyes flick over and back to his laptop. "You have no idea what she said," the detective declares with absolute certainty.

"Doesn't matter, Sherlock. She's like a little sponge at this age, soaking up all the information and words she possibly can," Lestrade informs him readily, continuing to talk to the toddler as Sherlock passes the file over to John to peruse.

"We'll take a look at the file and contact the network," Sherlock assures the Detective Inspector as John reaches for his daughter.

"Time for bed, sweet girl," the doctor says as she starts to argue with a yawn.

"No tired," Rosie mumbles, her jaw opening widely as she pops her thumb into her mouth.

Sherlock crosses to the corner and retrieves his violin, beginning the opening notes of Brahms Lullaby and watching as Rosie settles in on her father's shoulder.

"Goodnight, you'll put me to sleep if I stay a moment longer," Lestrade utters with a yawn of his own.

Sherlock offers a nod of farewell as John bids him goodnight and Rosie begins to drift off to sleep.

—-

"You're the British Government, Mycroft. Stop stalling. It's rather beneath your status," Sherlock berates, ringing off and tossing his mobile on the desk discontentedly as John enters the flat.

"Bad time?" The doctor asks, hanging his jacket on the back of the door.

Sherlock gazes scathingly upon his flatmate. "My brother's had the better part of a day to make arrangements and yet…nothing," the detective complains loudly, stomping round the flat.

"He does run governments, Sherlock. Give the man a break," John notes, tidying up behind the indignant detective.

Finally, giving up on the effort, John takes a seat in his chair and grabs his book, The Medical Detectives by Berton Roueche. "Give me fifteen minutes of peace. I finally have a mo' to read it," the doctor notes with a sigh, opening the book with a smile.

"How is it?" The detective asks, awaiting the doctor's answer.

"Excellent so far. Thank you," John expresses, returning his attention to the book. "What made you think of it?"

Sherlock pauses as he glances over towards his friend. "I saw it while we were working on the Brewster case and knew your birthday was coming," the detective admits, waving his hand around as he takes interest in the bookcase.

Sherlock stares up at the top shelf in the corner of the living room. "You're slipping in your old age, brother," the detective hisses nastily, only to smile at the alert on his mobile.

"Found another camera, have we?" The doctor determines, glancing over in that direction and flipping off the electronic device. "Bloody hell, my life is a damned three ring circus," John swears, shaking his head as he gives up reading his book and moves into the kitchen.

Sherlock picks up his mobile, reading the text his brother has sent. "Don't be so dramatic, John," he accuses his flatmate only to hear John's responsive laughter.

"You're one to talk," John retorts, shoving a cracker in his mouth as he reaches for the meats and cheeses to make a sarnie. "What did Mycroft have to say?"

Sherlock smiles genuinely. "A car will be here within the hour. I've texted Becca to meet us here," the detective informs the doctor, handing John back his mobile and declining the offer of a sandwich.

John rolls his eyes as he sets his mobile down next to him.

"I've warned your brother repeatedly not to give in to your tantrums," John clarifies before taking a bite and sitting down at the table.

"Then it's good he apparently doesn't heed your advice," Sherlock replies, grabbing a book to settle his thoughts before the government vehicle arrives.

—-

Sherlock, John, and Becca step out of the car in an underground garage to see Anthea waiting for them.

"I see Mycroft's penchant for drama and intrigue is still intact," Sherlock notes, waving towards the car they've just vacated.

"Blackout rear windows are a nice touch. I was just telling Sherlock that it's not creepy enough when I get kidnapped off the street by his brother," John complains sarcastically, causing Becca to laugh.

She stops when she realizes that John's serious. "What a wanker! Did I use that right, John?"

The doctor laughs patting her on the back. "You absolutely used that right," he congratulates, raising his eyebrows playfully.

"This way," Anthea interrupts their conversation, leading them into an unmarked door to start down a long white hallway.

"Love what you've done with the place," Becca remarks offhandedly, waving her hands at the walls just as Anthea stops at one of the doors.

Sherlock seems unsettled as they pass through the door into what can only be described as a medical surgical bay.

The walls are lined with metal tables filled with shiny instruments on sterile surgical linens.

John's low whistle shows he's impressed with the setup as he scans the orderly rows of medical implements taking inventory.

Becca wastes no time with pleasantries. "Ok, shirt off and hop up on the table, Sherlock. Please. So sorry, I'm not really used to asking," she adds, her southern hospitality shining through the words.

At John and Sherlock's shocked expression, she smiles, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "Yeah, yeah, I'll reflect on my life choices, later," the interrogator scoffs as the detective removes his jacket and shirt hanging them on the hook on the back of the door.

"Wow, you hide a lot under that jacket, Sherlock," she remarks pleasantly, causing John to roll his eyes.

The detective sits on the edge of the gurney, folding his hands in his lap.

"Shoes and socks as well. We'll have to strap you in for your own safety," Becca tells the detective, who glares at the buckles, but removes the requested items before resuming his position.

John steps forward at the minute flicker in Sherlock's expression. "I'll handle the initial setup, Becca," he imparts, rolling up his sleeves after removing his own jacket and hanging it up.

Pulling a rolling cart forward, he steps up to the table, forcing the detective to meet his gaze. "Are you absolutely sure about this, Sherlock?" The doctor asks, gauging the other man's expression cautiously.

The detective nods and John shakes his head. "I'm a doctor, Sherlock. You have to actually say the words," he reminds his friend.

"Yes, please get on with it," the detective reaffirms verbally, laying back on the table.

John requests a 20-gauge catheter for cannulation, which Becca hands him. The doctor efficiently advances the line observing the flashback of blood that ensures he's in the vein. He flushes the IV catheter with saline, before moving to the right forearm to repeat the procedure.

"Alright?" He asks the detective, studying his micro expressions over his actual words.

"I'm fine, John," Sherlock affirms as they strap his arms to the cushioned surgical arm boards.

John and Becca work diligently to buckle the detective down to the table without causing him harm.

"The padded restraints should minimize any damage from the straps," she explains as she continues to buckle him down to the table.

Covering the detective with a blanket from the warmer, Becca fastens the buckles at his hips and lower legs. She steps back from the table as John remains in Sherlock's field of vision.

"These are just a precaution so we can monitor your heart rate and ensure that you remain in memory retrieval mode," John informs the detective as he places the adhesive pads on Sherlock's chest.

Reaching for a set of electrodes, he begins placing them on the detective's scalp. He places the remaining leads, turning on the electroencephalogram (EEG). "These will allow us to monitor your brain activity and help guide you through," John explains to his flatmate as he studies the readout.

"You've done this procedure before," Sherlock recognizes, studying John's face closely.

John smiles down at his friend. "I'm afraid that information is classified," the doctor responds firmly, ensuring the end of this discussion for now.

"Ready to get started?" Becca questions, approaching the CACI (computer controlled Intravenous infusion) and beginning to enter the specifications for the subject.

"Of course," Sherlock answers, simultaneously nodding his head.

"Remember, you'll go under very quickly," the American reminds the detective, who nods in understanding.

"Parameters set. Infusing the diluted propofol now," she describes, pushing buttons on the machine and double checking the injection rate.

John watches as Sherlock's clear blue eyes glaze over and close heavily. The detective tries to push them open again and John smiles.

"Stop fighting the effects, Sherlock. I'm right here," the doctor reminds his friend, whose eyes close.

"Heart rate, holding steady at 68 bpm," Becca announces, crossing to the other side and entering more information into the second IV pump system.

"DMI filtration rate set. Infusing now," the interrogator notes, glancing at the clock on the wall. "Time: 8:52 a.m."

"CACI set for auto shutdown sequence?" John inquires, looking over at his former girlfriend from a lifetime ago.

"Affirmative," she responds, continuing to study the EEG, seeing the indicative spike occur as the cortisol level increases substantially.

"Sherlock, are you in the mind palace?" John asks, receiving a nod from the detective. "Okay, good. Let's go find Redbeard, shall we?" the doctor asks, as Sherlock flinches and his right hand clutches into a fist.

"John taught me," the detective whispers, "He said I wouldn't always have time to be clever."

Becca glances between the detective and the doctor.

"What did John teach you, Sherlock?" Becca asks, leaning over him slightly.

"Do pay attention, Lestrade. Can you not see that I'm splicing the wires to open the door," the detective drones on, causing John confusion.

"Sherlock?" the doctor questions, laying a hand on his flatmate's arm, being especially cautious of all the lines.

"No, I am real. I promise. We've found you," Sherlock assures, a lone tear escaping from his closed eyes.

"Remember, he's under duress, John, and the meds will heighten his emotional responses," Becca reminds the doctor.

"This seems familiar, though," John relates, sifting through his own memory when the answer hits him square between the eyes. "He's in the wrong memory. This is from the Gordon Hudson case. I was kidnapped and drugged. While I don't remember, per se, this matches how I must have looked, and his brain seized the memory."

Becca lays a gentle hand on the detective's other arm. "Sherlock, you're trying to find your dog. Where has Redbeard gone?" she asks, watching as his expression smooths out and his heart rate decreases.

John releases the breath he didn't register he's been holding, causing Becca to glance up at him.

"He means a lot to you," Becca intuits, smiling suggestively over at the fair-haired doctor.

"Don't be daft! We're best mates and he doesn't make that easy," John defends, causing her to snicker openly.

"Just fucking with ya, John. We used to date, remember. I know exactly what your type is," she giggles, receiving John's withering glare, which makes her laugh even harder. "You make it so easy."

"Sod off," John curses, then stops abruptly as his friend's voice breaks through the banter.

"There," Sherlock mutters beneath his breath, straining at his safety bindings, as his fingers seem to tap a rhythm out on the table. "Redbeard, here boy."

—-

Sherlock strokes the Irish Setter's silky hair. "That's a good dog," the detective praises as he squats down to pet the beautiful animal.

"Have you come to help?" Sherlock asks as the dog licks his face affectionately, before jumping up to knock the detective to his butt. "Hey," he protests, regaining his feet.

The dog wags his tail enthusiastically, then pushes his nose against Sherlock's legs suggesting he follow.

Moments later, the dog turns and runs down the impressively ornate hallway of Sherlock's mind palace.

The detective bursts into a run after the dog, trying to catch up as he takes the stairs down several levels to the masterpiece-lined walls of his childhood hall.

Spying Redbeard sitting in front of one of the doors, Sherlock strides briskly toward the dog, only to be disillusioned when it leaps through the decoratively carved door covered in copper vines winding across its surface intricately.

Taking a deep breath, he places his hand on the door to find once again, he cannot open it.

"Oh, for God's sake," Sherlock spits out, annoyed at being blocked at this juncture once again.

The detective rallies trying to force the door open to no avail.

Pulling his lock picks from his pocket, he works at the many locks on the door, but it holds steadfast like the tallest oak in a forbidden forest.

Losing his patience, he punches the door, slicing open his hand on the metallic artistry.

Blood runs down his arm which he ignores in favour of kicking at the door in his frustration.

"Let me see it," John says, appearing to his left, actually startling the detective.

"Seriously, what are you doing here?" Sherlock questions, rolling his eyes at his completely ordinary response. He's hurt and his brain summons the good doctor.

"Well, you did give me a room here," John reminds the detective, a slow grin spreading across his face as he works on Sherlock's right hand, placing several neat stitches in the pale skin.

"So, you just wander the halls of my mind palace like a wraith?" Sherlock inquires, his disbelieving gaze locked upon his friend.

"Of course not. Don't be an idiot," John responds boldly, finishing the last stitch. "Friends support you, remember. I'm here because you need me to be," He finishes, indicating the beautifully tailored stitches in the detective's right hand.

"I certainly can mend my own wounds," Sherlock assures fictional John, who's annoyingly accurate in his portrayal of the doctor.

"You can, but your stitchwork is rubbish, and why would you, when you have a very good doctor at your disposal," John reminds his friend, adding a pat to the detective's shoulder for good measure.

Sherlock sighs heavily, dropping his head back for a moment, before inhaling deeply.

"I cannot get through this door, John," the detective admits quietly, slowly bringing his gaze to his apparently helpful palace hallucination.

"What door is that, Sherlock?" The doctor inquires looking around the immediate vicinity.

The detective gestures with exasperation at the heavy wooden ornately decorated door, his entire hand telegraphing his aggravation.

"All I see is an open door, mate," John notes, looking at him strangely.

"This door…right here?" Sherlock asks, once again, disgustedly annoyed when John simply walks through it.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock inhales deeply, holding his breath for a count to ten before releasing it and repeating the process. This time, with eyes firmly shut, he steps forward trusting the process and clearing his mind of any doubts that rationality may present.

Several steps later, he opens his eyes amazed that he's made it to the other side of the door.

"Well, that's not disturbing," he hears John mutter sarcastically and turns to see what has captured the doctor's attention.

He sees a young girl of about eleven years old using a chef's knife to slice a doll into cross sectioned pieces. He tips his head as he realizes he knows her.

"Claire," he whispers, as he witnesses his younger self come into the room to play with her.

"What are you doing, Eurus?" The boy asks her, his tone coloured with confusion.

"Preparing samples, Sherly Girly," she answers antagonistically as if he should already understand her actions.

"You're not supposed to know my real name," young Sherlock says accusingly.

The girl smiles knowingly. "I snuck a peek at Daddy's files," she admits with a giggle.

"Your father says to call me Zephyr, Eurus," he notes, correcting her oversight.

"Fine, Zephyr," she hisses between the space in her teeth.

"The study calls for a specimen from a live organism. I found protozoa in a stagnant water source on the property. I could show you," the curly-haired boy offers helpfully.

"I will have my collection shortly," Eurus promises, her eyes never leaving that of the dissected doll.

Zephyr places his small hands on the table. "I don't mind helping," the boy informs her as she looks up finally with a smile.

"That's great!" She exclaims, before demanding, "Are we friends?"

Zephyr nods openly, smiling at the young girl.

"Friends share secrets, Zephyr. Can you keep your mouth shut?" The girl asks tauntingly, holding the young boy's gaze. He nods, holding out a pinkie, which she takes with her own little finger.

"Pinkie promise," they both recite, small fingers locked together.

"Excellent," the little girl squeals, jerking the young boy forward and placing a gash in his right arm with the chef's knife, causing him to cry out. Sliding young Sherlock's blood onto a slide, she smiles.

"Sample secured," she announces. "Remember your promise, Zephyr. Friends til the end."

Sherlock reels back from the display, a sudden sharp stabbing pain in his head bringing him to his knees with a moan.

—-

Becca and John continue to monitor Sherlock's vitals, when the heart monitor alarm sounds, and a seizure contracts all the muscles of his lean body simultaneously.

"Shit!" Becca curses, as John grabs the prepped syringe, trying to ignore Sherlock's writhing form on the table.

"15 mg of lorazepam infusing now," John dictates, injecting the contents into the IV port. "Come on, Sherlock," he states tensely, watching the detective for convulsion alleviation and unconsciously holding his breath.

Several apprehensive seconds pass before Sherlock's muscle tone normalizes, and John exhales sharply.

"There," Becca states, once again checking the detective's vital signs. "BP 160/90, Heart Rate 105, Respiration, 26 breaths per minute and coming down nicely," the interrogator lists, providing necessary information for the recording.

"That's it, Sherlock," John encourages his friend, placing a hand on his arm, watching the numbers come down to normal levels.

Becca smiles at the doctor and begins tapering off the medication. "We'll bring him back up easy," she informs John, handing him a syringe of 1 mg of flumazenil.

"I'm slow dosing so as not to cause another bloody seizure," John says as he sets up the infusion rate for the new medication to be administered intravenously over the next seven minutes.

"Sounds good," Becca responds, pulling a tray over from the wall, when the door opens.

"I trust that the procedure room met your needs," Mycroft Holmes conveys, entering the room and crossing to the head of Sherlock's bed.

"We're busy," John responds tersely, trying his level best to ignore the man.

"Problems?" Mycroft inquires, from the head of the cart, looking over his younger brother.

"Nothing we couldn't handle," John relays, his eyes never leaving Sherlock.

"The seizure?" the older Holmes questions, tapping his ever-present umbrella on the floor.

John maintains focus on Sherlock, unwilling to divide his attention between the two brothers at this crucial time.

"Under control," the doctor responds, then orders, "Not a good time, Mycroft."

Watching for any hint of awareness feels daunting under the circumstances.

A full-fledged groan from the detective, brings John's attention from the monitors back to his mate's slack face. "Sherlock?" The doctor calls, snatching the pen torch from his pocket and using it to check his pupillary response.

Sherlock flinches, jerking his head away, as the light hits his sensitive eyes. He moans again, before slurring, "Head hurts."

John sighs with relief at the complaint. "I understand, but I have to make sure you're alright," the doctor insists, lifting each of the detective's eyelids and checking his reflexive actions.

"Let me up," Sherlock demands through clenched teeth, flexing his hands irritably.

"Are you gonna hurl?" Becca asks, grabbing an emesis basin and releasing one arm so he can turn to the side and retch into the container.

John releases the other, waiting for the detective to stop chucking up so he can remove the IV lines.

"Where's the pain, Sherlock?" The doctor asks several minutes later as the detective falls onto his back and throws his free arm over his eyes.

"My head, gash on my right arm, stitches in right hand," Sherlock reports, his breath wheezing in and out of his lungs.

"What the…?" John studies the detective's right upper extremity to find nothing there. "Sherlock, there's no discernible injury to your right arm or hand. Tell me what happened?"

Sherlock sits up with a moan and rests on the side of the stretcher. Studying the offending appendage, the detective pushes to his feet with a grimace.

John steps forward into his space when the detective starts to go down to his knees.

"Whoa, mate. You're not going anywhere just yet. You've got to rest for at least an hour and let the drugs metabolize out of your system," John directs as he guides Sherlock back to the stretcher.

"John," the detective starts only to be interrupted by the doctor.

"This is definitely a nine," the doctor informs his obstinate patient. "Lay down," he orders, gently forcing the detective back onto the cart.

"One hour?" Sherlock verifies, his blue eyes searching John's face for any hint the doctor will back down.

"At least," John notes firmly, causing the detective to break eye contact and close his eyes.

Becca smiles over at the pair of them. "Wow, John. You've finally met someone even more stubborn than you are," she accuses playfully, hiding her mouth behind her hand.

"Bugger off," John retorts without heat. "Thanks for all your help with this. I wouldn't have been able to do it without you."

Becca smirks before placing a kiss on his cheek. "Good to see you again, John. I'm glad you're doing well," she remarks, before following a suddenly appearing Anthea out of the room.

—-

Sherlock shakes two paracetamol into his trembling hand, before tossing them into his mouth and dry swallowing them.

"How many does that make today?" John asks from behind, startling the detective into dropping the bottle.

The doctor retrieves the container from the floor, setting it on the kitchen table.

"Sherlock? How many have you taken today?" John repeats and the detective knows that it's useless to stall any longer.

"Eight," Sherlock answers, placing his hands over his face and pressing on his eyes with long fingers.

John places a hand on his shoulder. "Alright, go have a lie down and I'll bring you something to eat," the doctor suggests, watching as the detective stumbles towards the sofa. "That's the fourth headache this week, mate."

"Excellent counting, John. I see where Sherylyn gets it," Sherlock whispers snarkily in deference to his exploding head. "Becca said the reintegration of my memories may cause headaches," he reminds the good doctor.

John puts together a simple bowl of scotch broth and grabs a can of Coca-Cola from the fridge. Placing them on a tray, he brings them to the detective in the living room.

"How are the memories coming along?" John inquires, setting the tray down on the table.

Sherlock tips his aching head to the side. "Fine," the detective answers quickly, hoping to drop the subject.

Popping the tab on the can, he hands it to Sherlock, who blatantly baulks at the offending item. "What is this?" The detective questions disgustedly.

John smiles down at his friend. "This is called Coca-Cola. It's a fizzy drink with lots of caffeine and sugar that should knock out that headache," the doctor explains acrimoniously, motioning for him to drink it.

"Coffee and tea are acceptable vehicles for caffeine. I'm an uncomplicated man, John," Sherlock utters seriously, choking on a sip of the vile liquid.

The doctor scoffs loudly. "Bollocks, there's not a simple thing about you, mate," John relays informatively, earning a look of disdain from his friend. "Just drink it and stop being so bloody dramatic about it," he orders, leaving the tray and flopping down exhaustedly into his chair.

"The memories, Sherlock? Are they as bad as that first one, where Eurus attacked you with the knife?" John probes to the detective's utter dismay.

"Some are like that. Some are better," the detective answers, knowing it's pointless to refrain.

"Some are worse," John fills in what his friend leaves out of his reply.

Sherlock nods in agreement. "Yes, she was a very hateful child with psychotic tendencies, and we are fortunate that she didn't want you dead six months ago," the detective comments, making eye contact with his friend and rubbing his head.

Grabbing his laptop, the doctor checks over his schedule and begins to study the notes from the case. Seeing that he has some email to go through, he clicks on it to find a message from Craig mixed in with messages about his blog.

"Craig sent an email with a secure attachment," John relays to his miserable flatmate.

"What did he find?" He mumbles from the sofa, setting aside the fizzy drink to focus.

John clicks on the attachment, authenticates the password, then pulls up the information.

"Hmmm," the doctor verbalizes as he reads through the hacker's findings.

"Really, John?" Sherlock questions, making the doctor laugh.

"Annoying, isn't it?" John replies with a smile. "Craig tracked that license plate from Mrs. Bradmore to a rental agency in Rochester. He also discovered that the deposits trickle down through numerous corporations, which he's included in the email. He's still working on backtracking them to a single entity. His words, not mine," John relays, printing the list before closing the laptop firmly, unwilling to think about it for a moment.

He turns in his chair to study his friend carefully. "Headache abating somewhat?" The doctor in him requests.

"Yes, thank you, John," Sherlock replies, getting up from the sofa to pull the papers from the printer.

A knock at the door changes his direction. Opening it, he invites the larger-than-life gentleman, Langdale Pike, in to have a seat, then crosses to retrieve the printed pages.

"Tea, Langdale?" John asks, smiling at the former gossip columnist as he moves towards the kitchen.

"Now what kind of proper British gent would I be should I decline?" The large man rumbles, following the doctor into the kitchen and having a seat.

John laughs at the Orson Welles stand-in sitting at the table. "How're you holding up, mate? Any complaints for me today?" The doctor asks, knowing that the streets can be unforgiving, especially for a man in his late fifties with rheumatism.

"You know me too well, Doc, and I will let you poke and prod this old body," Langdale offers with a deep throaty chuckle. "I'll always stop by for tea and conversation."

Sherlock enters the kitchen with his fizzy drink, placing it on the table with a grimace.

"I see Doc's trying to fix up your headaches," the older man rasps, taking the tea John hands to him with a thanks.

"How anyone can drink this vile stuff…" the detective begins.

"Careful, lad, don't hate on my fizzy drink. It's got a lot of friends, mate," Pike admits, taking a sip of his tea.

Langdale laughs at Sherlock's distrustful expression, causing John to smile as he takes a seat across from the retired columnist.

Pike leans forward conspiratorially, whispering, "Jack, Jim, Johnnie, and the Captain. Hell, even the Crown herself."

Sherlock takes another sip out of the can, before pushing it across the table to the older man and placing his head on the table.

"Look, it may be nothing, but Bennett didn't show this morning," Langdale announces, causing Sherlock to raise his head.

"What was this morning?" The detective asks, folding his hands in front of him.

Langdale sighs, responding, "Today's Thursday and the lad always meets me at the Tesco for a grocery run. It's not a lot, but I can spare the time and the money for them wonderful kids."

"Did you talk to Susannah?" John inquires, smiling when a blush crawls up the older gent's neck.

"Oi, of course. She said Alfie wasn't at school today, and they were going over the maths which is his favourite. It's worrisome to say the least. Ms. Susannah was beside herself," Langdale notes, scratching his greying beard.

"Susannah?" Sherlock questions, not placing the name straight away.

John looks over at his friend. "She's the retired teacher that Mary and I recruited to volunteer her time to teach the homeless network. She's done a smashing job so far and was talking about trying to get a few of her friends to help out as well," the doctor reminds the detective, whose tendency to delete information makes these little cues necessary.

"We'll send Wiggins," Sherlock reassures the older gentleman.

"I should be on my way. I've taken enough of your valuable time," Langdale conveys as he pushes away from the table.

"Nonsense, you're always welcome," John declares, holding out his hand to shake that of the former columnist. "Just a mo' and I'll grab something for your rheumatism," the doctor suggests, popping into his room to grab the bottle of hydroxychloroquine he keeps on hand for the man.

Coming back into the living room, he hands the bottle over to Langdale Pike, while shaking his hand with the other.

"You do so much for us, Dr. John," the columnist decrees, letting go of the doctor's hand.

"No more than you deserve and sometimes I feel it's not enough," John responds, placing a supportive hand on the older gent's shoulder.

"Oi, that's what makes you such a great man, Doc," Langdale notes, pocketing the medicine and shuffling out the door.

—-

"Cartwright needs to meet at the cafe," Sherlock notifies the doctor as he comes in the door of the flat after a long day at the surgery.

"Of course, he does. Let me just grab something real quick," John says, turning back around after he sets his medical bag on his chair. He pulls out a package containing the supplies for the network and follows the detective out the door.

Moments later, they walk through the door of Speedy's Cafe to find the young man flirting with the girl behind the counter. Cartwright takes the sandwich she offers and heads over to the table where they meet him.

"Oi Doctor John, Sherlock. Thanks for meeting me on my break. I'm trying not to get too far behind today, but I needed to get this to you," he greets before taking a bite of his sarnie.

"No worries, mate," the doctor responds, nodding towards Katie behind the counter. John hands the young man the supply package which he promptly stows in his messenger bag.

"Enough pleasantries, Cartwright," Sherlock notes impatiently, drumming his fingers on his knee and wincing as he feels the headache start.

The young bike messenger finishes chewing before washing it down with a large swig of cola.

"I delivered certified documents to a construction site in Bermondsey. I met a couple of brickies who were pissed off they'd gotten called over to another site. Turns out two brickies and a steel fixer have gone missing from their site," Cartwright informs them, taking another bite and a swallow of fizzy drink.

"What else?" Sherlock inquires knowingly, ceasing his tapping and folding both hands on the table in front of him as he leans forward with interest.

Katie delivers sandwiches for John and Sherlock, who takes a bite without even noticing he's done so.

The detective closes his eyes as the pain increases suddenly in his head. He rubs his temples and opens his eyes to focus on the young man across the table.

John notes the change in Sherlock's demeanour with increasing concern. Handing the detective two paracetamol, he continues to eat and listen to the young bicycle messenger.

"They were last seen in Wallend," Cartwright states, smiling when he notes the detective's keen expression amidst the pain.

"Outstanding," Sherlock whispers in deference to his head, setting his sandwich aside as his mind sifts through the implications of that statement.

—-

Sherlock's breath wheezes out of him as he tosses onto his side in the grip of a nightmare.

Zephyr adjusts his safety spectacles and picks up the 2 ml pipette. He adds the reagent to catalyse the reaction for the next part of his experiment. Placing the conical flask into the clamp, the eleven-year-old boy glances at his notes for the next step to prove his theory.

Nodding to himself, young Sherlock lights the Bunsen burner, pushing it under the glassware. After two minutes, the chemical reaction confirms his hypothesis, causing the young boy to smile. As he reaches to turn off the gas, the conical flask explodes, sending glass shards in all directions.

Splinters of glass pelt his face as he backs away from the table, and Eurus enters the room and grabs the fire extinguisher.

"Next time, check that your glassware is clean. The tiniest little smudge could cause a fire, Zephyr," she taunts with a smirk, putting out the flames.

Zephyr glances over at her knowingly. "You sabotaged my research," he replies to the accusation.

"This is what friends do. Zephyr. They teach you to be more careful," she explains, her eyes filled with animosity.

Clutching the sheet, Sherlock turns over again with a moan, his eyes visibly twitching beneath closed eyelids.

"I need the additional time in the library this week," Eurus complains to Zephyr, whilst finishing her notes for the end of term.

"Work harder to outscore me," Zephyr suggests, gathering his own notes.

"You've already had the extra weekend time for the last three weeks," she argues, crossing her arms in front of her.

"I could help you…" young Sherlock offers, placing his papers into his backpack.

"Because we're friends?" the petulant young girl spits snidely. "There are no friends here, freak," she taunts, pushing him into the table at his back, causing him to wince in pain.

Sherlock pushes his face into the pillows unknowingly trying to stifle his cries.

Zephyr leans against the wall as he struggles to get to the loo. Unable to move further, he slides down the hall wall and curls onto his left side in an effort to curb the stomach cramps.

Moaning heavily, the child purges his dinner onto the floor, before curling in around himself further.

"Not feeling well, I see," Eurus notes, as he groans piteously.

"Need…help…" Zephyr whispers as he vomits once again.

She glances down at him, her disgust evident on her angular face.

"It was probably something you ate," Eurus suggests, with a menacing smile, before she hears someone coming down the hall.

A gasp causes her to turn towards the sound. "What did you do to him?" A small voice inquires.

"Mind your own business, Notus, or you'll be next," Eurus hisses, as the small elvish girl pushes past her.

"I'll get Aeolus, Zephyr. It'll be alright," she murmurs, touching his head lightly, before moving down the hall at a run.

The detective wretches in his sleep with the remembered poisoning, his arms closing around his middle as he curls around himself in anguish.

The boy shivers as he takes in the shelves around him.

'How did I get locked in here?' Zephyr wonders, trying the door once again, flinching at the coldness of the heavy metal whilst shaking off the sleepiness encroaching on his consciousness.

"Hello," he yells, his breath a white puff of smoke in the frigid air of the walk-in freezer.

Forcing his stiff fingers to comply with his commands, Zephyr grabs a set of tongs from a nearby shelf and begins banging on the door.

Several minutes pass before the tongs clatter to the floor, the sound reverberating through the small space.

Zephyr looks around for a way out of the small, chilled room, but the single light source is dim and he doesn't hold out much hope.

The near darkness breaks as the door swings open. "What are you doing in here, young man? You're going to catch your death. Come on out now," the Irish brogue orders as the solid woman places her arm around him and leads him out.

"Mrs. Cagney?" Zephyr questions through chattering teeth.

"Yes, lad, who else would be in the kitchen at this hour?" She asks kindly, ushering him to the table and pouring some hot tea into a mug. "Here you go, love. Drink up and get along to bed."

Eurus steps into the room with a slight bounce to her step.

"Oh, there you are. How was your experience in the freezer?" She inquires causing Mrs. Cagney to stop her muttering.

"Lassie, did you lock that boy in the walk-in?" She demands, her hands on her hips.

"Yes, ma'am. He said it was for an experiment," Eurus responds. "May I have tea before bed as well?"

"Absolutely not. You do not EVER lock anyone in the freezer, Miss Eurus. You could have killed this boy. I don't care why you did it, young lady. Off to bed with ya," Mrs. Cagney scolds sternly, sending the errant child on her way.

"The freezer would not have been necessary. My experiment deals with the chemical decomposition of saliva through thermogravimetric analysis," Zephyr explains readily, taking another sip of the warm sweet beverage.

"Well, that's a mouthful. Finish quickly, Zephyr, so you too can get to bed. You'll need your sleep and I'd stay away from Eurus if I were you, dear," the matronly woman advises with a pat to his left shoulder.

Sherlock shivers with remembered discomfort of the iciness of the walk-in freezer. Pulling another blanket over his trembling body, he curls further into himself with a sigh.

"No, Eurus. That's incorrect," Zephyr reminds his companion with a wave of his hand. "Light can act as an antagonist causing the decomposition of many chemicals. Hence the use of dark containers for pharmaceuticals."

She looks at him scathingly, her expression filled with hatred, causing him to step back.

"Believe what you will," he states, turning and stepping down onto the first stair. Pressure at his back challenges his stability and he heaves forwards.

Zephyr gasps as he realizes he's unable to recover from the pull of gravity. Grasping wildly at the handrail, his hand strikes the wooden spindles but fails to stop his fall forward.

He tumbles end over end, slamming into the steps with a momentum his overactive brain cannot calculate, although the thought occurs until he buckles under the black hold of unconsciousness.

"Nooooooooo!" Sherlock bellows, sitting up abruptly in his bed, trembling from the aftereffects of the memory inducing nightmare. Groaning, he places long fingers over his face in an effort to scrub away the disturbing images as his door opens after a brief unperceived knock.

The detective draws a shaky breath but finds communication beyond him. Falling back into his headboard, he's surprised when a strong hand cushions the impact.

"You alright?" John questions, removing his hand gently from behind his flatmate's head.

Sherlock shakes his head back and forth, but no words will form in his brain. He swipes annoyingly at the tears he finds on his face and pushes his hands through his damp curls.

His lean body drenched with sweat of the effort to retrieve those lost memories; his expression turns to disgust at his current status.

"Why don't you take a shower and freshen up? I'll make the tea," the doctor suggests, removing himself to do just that. Oftentimes, their positions are reversed and Sherlock's the one in the kitchen preparing the kettle. Post-traumatic stress disorder can be a real bitch like that.

—-

"What do you suggest, John?" Sherlock asks the doctor pointedly.

"Let's check in with Ekaterina. I've been dying for pirozhkis all day," the doctor answers, picking up his daughter from the floor and placing her in the carrier.

Sherlock nods as he grabs his keys. "Very well. After you," he says, opening the door to the flat and passing through with John and Rosie following behind him.

The detective hails a taxi, and they make their way to Mari Vanna, a Russian cafe in Wellington Court. The service exceeds expectations as the owner gratefully feeds them for proving that he was not part of a Russian hit squad that had assassinated a British businessman on a train back in late 2010.

They arrive and pay the cabbie, awarding an extra tip for the lack of conversation.

Entering the restaurant, they spot Kat right away as they're shown to their table.

John puts Rosie in a highchair as the owner, seeing them, heads over to speak with them.

"Mikhail, we couldn't stay away from the pirozhkis," John admits with a smile as the man approaches their table.

"Sherlock, John, so good to see you, and you brought Мой маленький цветок (my little flower)
Rose," the owner gushes gregariously. His deep baritone heavy Russian accent resonates in the small space as he smiles down at the child and pats her head.

She waves back at him causing him to brighten even further.

"I need to thank you for sending me Ekaterina. She's amazing with people and is now one of my best waitresses. I'll send her over with your drinks. I know, no vodka, all business," the exuberant man intonates as he moves on to the next table after signalling for Kat.

"Hey, guys," the teenage girl greets happily. "Thanks for setting this up for me. Mikhail treats me like one of his daughters. I'll bring your order out in a few," she finishes, heading towards the kitchen.

John sighs as some of the tension of the past few weeks melts away. Just as a sense of peace washes over him, Rosie starts banging a spoon on the table.

"Hand over the weapon," Sherlock demands, holding his hand out patiently, until Rosie places the spoon there. "Thank you," the detective praises as he sets the spoon aside.

John chuckles and before they know it, the food has arrived, and they are eating.

Kat comes over to the table to refill their waters. "Hey, so I know you've been working on that mass disappearance case," she starts quietly, leaning into the table and playing with Rosie to avoid suspicion.

"Yes," Sherlock confirms, folding his hands on top of the tablecloth.

"Well, a few construction workers came in today and I overheard them talking about how several of the missing workers had been seen at the Fenn Bell Inn in Allhallows the night before they were supposed to start a high paying job that nobody was allowed to talk about. I thought that may be some of your missing guys," Kat finishes, topping off their water once again and patting Rosie on the head.

"Thanks, Kat," John says graciously as he reaches for his glass and Sherlock types the information into his mobile.

The detective shakes his head. "There's something I'm missing," Sherlock mumbles, his fingers flying deftly over the virtual keypad.

—-

The banging at the door brings Mrs. Hudson out of her flat.

"Goodness, all that racket. You better not have forgotten your key again, Sherlock Holmes, or I will…Oh, hello," Mrs. Hudson greets the small elvish nine-year-old at her front door. "Apologies, dear, but I thought you were someone else."

"No, ma'am…" the boy wheezes. "I'm…just…me," he gasps, then braces his hands on his knees, his blond curls waving in the breeze.

Mrs. Hudson smiles down at him. "What can I do for you, young man?"

He tries to take several deep breaths before he can answer.

"My name's Ollie. Pilar sent me to get Sherlock and Dr. John and I ran all the way," the boy informs her.

"I can see that. Up the stairs, then. They're in B. I'll grab some biscuits and meet you up there," she orders, pointing him toward the stairs.

The boy takes the stairs quickly, reaching the flat in record time.

Knocking on the door, he waits impatiently for someone to answer. It feels like forever, but only moments go by before he hears scrambling at the door.

"Sorry about that. These safety covers," John mutters as he invites him in. "Ollie, sit down before you fall over and I'll get you some water," the doctor advises the still breathless boy as he puts the words into action.

"Now what has you wrapped around the axle?" John asks, handing the boy the water which he gulps down greedily.

"Pilar sent me for…you…told me…to run…all the way," Ollie relays quickly, as the doctor grabs his bag and pulls out a salbutamol puffer for the boy.

"Take it slow, Ollie. Deep breaths. Are you alright?" John questions as the boy settles from an imminent asthma attack and nods.

The doctor smiles down at him and grabs his bag, as Mrs Hudson enters with a tray of biscuits.

"Where am I going?" John asks readily, as he grabs a light jacket as well.

"Rohan's," the child replies, smiling as Mrs. Hudson offers him a few biscuits from the tray, along with a refill on his water.

"Excellent. Mrs. Hudson, do you mind getting Rosie down to Mya after her nap? She said she'd be home around three," John asks, hastily grabbing the stethoscope from the desk.

Mrs Hudson smiles at the doctor fondly. "Of course not, John," she replies, patting his arm as he pulls out his phone and shoots a text off to Sherlock to meet there.

"Thanks," he mutters, taking off down the stairs at a run.

—-

John grabs the bell laden entry board and slides it to the left. He looks around, noting that there's a mess in a space that's generally clean. The doctor steps inside carefully unsure of what he'll find.

"Pilar?" The doctor calls out, only to hear a familiar voice.

"In here, John," Sherlock responds, followed by, "Watch your step."

The doctor turns the corner and picks his way across the room amid the debris from what has obviously been a massive struggle.

"Rohan?" John asks, his expression hopeful.

Sherlock shakes his head once, before gesturing across the space at the body on the floor.

"This one won't be needing your services. Lestrade is on his way," Sherlock informs the doctor as he crosses the room.

"Is Ollie alright?" Pilar questions the doctor.

John nods, replying, "He is. I left him with some medicine, and Mrs. Hudson was plying him with biscuits."

Pilar exhales the breath she's unconsciously been holding. "I told him to run and fetch you guys when we found the mess. I saw the body but made sure little Ollie didn't," she explains, looking back and forth between the two men.

"You shouldn't have stayed. If they had come back," the doctor scolds only to be interrupted by the young girl.

"I hid because I'm not a complete idiot, Doc," Pilar defends, glancing worriedly around the room.

"An excellent point," Sherlock interjects distractedly, his discerning eyes already processing the scene without disturbing it.

"I have no idea what happened to Rohan, but at least he took down one of the bastards," the tall gypsy woman rails, her metal bangles jangling as she gestures wildly in her upset.

The doctor crosses the room to check over the body. Pulling on his gloves, he notes the foamy vomit in the corners of the victim's mouth and the syringe sticking out of the man's neck.

Jingling bells indicate a possibly unexpected arrival and both men straighten and ready for a fight.

Lestrade comes round the corner, Sally and Mick Patterson trailing behind him.

"This is quite the setup," Mick notes, glancing around at the shelves of glass jars filled with all kinds of interesting ingredients.

"Nothing's labelled," Sally notes, as she steps closer to investigate.

"He's an exceptional herbalist," John adds, kneeling back down next to the victim.

Sally scoffs, "What does that have to do with it?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "An exceptional herbalist already knows what's in each bottle, Sally. Do try to think before you speak," the detective educates acerbically.

Sally inhales to respond, when Lestrade interrupts, "He was a part of your network?"

"He is part of our network. Rohan dispatched with one of his kidnappers," Sherlock informs the Detective Inspector, turning back to the doctor, who has resumed examining the body.

"Poisoned," John indicates, pointing to the signs he'd seen earlier as he offers his opinion. "According to the syringe sticking out of his neck, 2 mg of something, so…exceptionally toxic."

"Any ideas what it could be?" Lestrade inquires, pulling his notepad from his pocket.

"TTX" Sherlock answers, finding another syringe in a laboratory beaker on the shelf near the fallen man.

"And that is…" the Detective Inspector draws out the last word hoping someone will fill in the blanks.

"Tetrodotoxin. It was a puzzle we hoped to crack," Sherlock enlightens, turning towards the Detective Inspector.

John stands up quickly, his anger shrouding him like a cloak. "It's a bloody neurotoxin, Sherlock. It causes motor paralysis in less than three minutes. Cause of death is most likely cardiac dysrhythmia," the doctor tells Mick as he approaches the body.

"Obviously," the detective announces, earning a glare from the doctor.

"There's no antidote…And there's the answer. You stupid bastards were trying to synthesize one," John realizes wanting to throttle his friend for his thoughtlessness.

"Only when we had time, John. It's a heterocyclic guanidine…" Sherlock begins, only to be cut off by the incensed doctor.

"Save it," he argues, then turns towards Mick. "We need to process this scene with you if we have any hope of finding Rohan alive."

Mick sweeps his hand out in a welcoming gesture. "The more, the merrier, mate," the forensic man extends the invitation.

Pulling out several tamper evident bags and vials, they get down to business. John collects the evidence as Sherlock concisely labels each one.

Upon noting Sally watching them, Sherlock explains, "His handwriting's absolute rubbish."

"Hello! I'm a doctor. Besides, that's why I type the blog," John replies snarkily, rising to his feet and handing the detective the last bit of evidence. "You'll love that. It's dirt and some kind of plant," the doctor supplies, smiling when the detective's eyes light up with the challenge.

Sherlock tucks the evidence into John's medical bag as they head out the door.

Lestrade raises a hand to stop them. "You can't leave, yet. I need your statements," the Detective Inspector grouses, and Sherlock rolls his eyes impatiently.

"Time is of the essence, Lestrade. We'll be at St. Bart's," the detective announces as he heads for the door with the doctor close on his heels.

—-

"I'll want Molly's assistance," Sherlock notes walking into her lab to find it empty.

"Excuse me, but can I help you gentleman?" a young woman asks, stepping through the door and placing a hand in the pocket of her white lab coat.

"Molly Hooper?" Sherlock inquires, rapidly losing what little patience he possesses.

"No, my name's Dr. Alice Evans. Molly's on holiday for a few days so they called me to cover," she informs them as she crosses the floor.

Sherlock studies the woman carefully, measuring her up in an instant. "You'll do," he notes as he flies out the door towards his lab.

"Do for what?" Alice inquires of the empty space, then looks over at the doctor.

"You've now met Sherlock Holmes. I'm Doctor Watson and we could use your help in tracking a kidnapper," John invites, shaking her hand. "Nice to meet you, but we'd best be off. You can call Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade for verification."

Her gobsmacked expression would be laughable if so much wasn't on the line.

John leads her down the hall to the lift, where they catch a car upstairs. Pulling out her mobile, she contacts the Detective Inspector and establishes their identities as the lift comes to a stop.

"DI Lestrade vouched for you and ordered me to give you anything you need," Dr. Evans replies as she follows the doctor down the hall and into the lab.

"The plant sample found in the shoe treads has aerenchyma, indicative of hydric soil. John, set up the map board. We're looking specifically for wetlands," Sherlock orders, turning to Alice. "Can you run this sample for salinity and porosity?" He asks, holding out a tamper evident vial towards the woman.

Dr. Evans takes the proffered specimen and begins running the necessary tests as John drags the map board over to where they are working.

Grabbing the colored tabs, John begins to mark off the information they know, including the location of Rohan's flat. He often stops to write out notes from Sherlock's findings.

"Molly, get me a pH on that soil," Sherlock demands, working to finish up his metallurgical analysis.

"It's Alice," the young woman replies, though it falls on deaf ears.

John crosses over to Alice to perform the pH test himself.

"He does realize that Molly isn't here, right?" she asks, finishing up her own analysis and recording the results.

"Probably not," John answers with a chuckle. "The pH is 6, Sherlock," he relays to the detective.

"Interesting," Sherlock replies, although most likely not to him.

Alice crosses the lab and hands him her findings. He glances over them. "John, add the pH to the board, along with a salinity of 32% and a porosity of .53. Get a modal size for the particles of mud from the shoe treads. These mean metal concentrations seem…" Sherlock trailed off mumbling to himself about unsubstantiated values.

John strides back to the map and begins marking locations within a ninety-mile radius. He knows this psycho wants to stay close by but needs a location that's remote. The doctor places tacks in several dock locations near Brighton, Eastbourne, and Hastings.

He then pulls out his notebook and adds the information from Ekaterina and Cartwright, as well as Craig's email materials.

Pulling up another search window on his laptop, the doctor enters information for warehouse and trade parks near bodies of water, ending up adding three more locations to his target board.

"Metallurgy has a vast number of mean metal concentrations, but mercury levels of 305 µg g-1, Manganese at 523 and titanium at 178," Sherlock mutters, reading through the printout.

"Got it," John says, writing down each number in chunky block style to improve legibility. "What are the other values?"

"They don't matter," Sherlock adds, before asking. "Do you have the primary modal size of the mud composition, Molly?"

Alice shakes her head. "17.1 mm," she replies, not even bothering to correct him this time.

Sherlock steps over to the board where John has collected all the information in one place. His intense blue eyes dart back and forth over each detail as he looks to be conducting a symphony of information that will hopefully lead him to the conclusion.

As he continues to process, fervently checking information on his phone and occasionally John's computer, Sherlock separates fact from fiction. Going over the realtor list, the answer comes to him.

"Of course, it's brilliant. We'll need transportation," Sherlock adds, running his fingers over the map along the Medway River.

"I've got it, John." Sherlock notes as he takes off through the door.

John quickly grabs his jacket and heads after him, shaking his head.

"Thanks for your help," the doctor says gratefully as he hurries to catch up to the engrossed detective.

Coming alongside him at the bottom of the stairs, John asks, "Where we headed?"

"Grain Tower Battery," the detective responds, pushing out the main doors of Saint Bart's Hospital. "We've not a moment to waste, but we must make a stop first."

—-

Racing up the steps to their flat, they bound through the door where John opens the top drawer of the desk. Entering the combination to the gun safe, he pulls out his Sig Sauer P226 and a few extra clips, which he shoves into the pockets of his jacket.

Stowing the weapon in his waistband, he continues to the kitchen and grabs some water and several paracetamol.

"Take them, you've been fighting a headache for the past two hours," the doctor says, pushing them into the detective's hand.

Sherlock swallows them without argument, setting the glass into the sink.

John takes the stairs up to his room two at a time. He bursts through the door and opens the closet reaching for his army daysack, which experience has taught him to keep at the ready.

Slinging it over his left shoulder as if it never left, he jogs down the stairs into the living space where he meets the detective, and they go out the door.

"We need to check on Mrs. Hudson before we go," John advises, heading down the steps. "I'll contact Mya from the cab and let her know what's going on."

They knock before going inside to find a note on the table, which the doctor snatches up and reads aloud.

Boys,

My older sister, Violet, has fallen down a staircase. She twisted her left ankle. I told her I could come and help awhile. Please, drop off notices with all other clients during my absence and remember that you're meeting Greg tonight to eat at Ozzie's cafe on Old Kent Road.

Sending my love,

Mrs. Hudson

"That's your mother's name, not her sister's," John announces, handing the letter over to Sherlock.

Sherlock takes the note and holds it under the light.

"It's a cypher. The greeting 'Boys', so every fourth word," Sherlock explains, grabbing the pen from the table. He circles the first letter of every fourth word in the missive.

"She's in trouble," the detective discloses, turning the paper towards John to read.

"Vatican cameos? Well, that's a bit not good," John claims, tossing the note onto the table and opening a drawer where he grabs a set of keys. "This definitely qualifies as an emergency."

"Understatement. It's Eurus," Sherlock imparts, following his friend. "Time is of the essence, John," the detective says grimly. "We'll need transportation."

"I know. I've got it covered, but I can't leave until I know Rosie's ok. What if that maniac has her, Sherlock?" The doctor inquires, his eyes filled with pain at the thought.

"Then we burn the city to the ground to bring her back," the detective answers matter of factly.

John nods imperceptibly, grateful for the friendship and loyalty of the detective. The doctor speeds down the stairs compelled by fear and the exigency of knowing that his daughter is fine.

John's breathless as he raises a hand to knock frantically on the door, but Sherlock grabs his fist before it makes contact. The detective taps on the door quietly.

Mya opens the door with a sleepy toddler on her hip. "Everything ok?" Mya questions, handing over the toddler as John reaches out for her, and they all step into the living room.

"Dada," Rosie mumbles tiredly, cuddling into her father's arms.

He breathes in her baby scent and the relief nearly overwhelms him.

"Hey, baby girl, I love you so much," John whispers, kissing her head gently.

Sherlock gestures for the nanny to step aside and fills her in on the missing Mrs. Hudson, letting her know that they will be gone for a while and asking her to keep Rosie until she hears from them.

She nods her understanding and steps forward to take the child from John's arms.

The doctor places another soft kiss on Rosie's head as Sherlock places a gentle hand on the child's back.

"Be well, Sherylyn," the detective whispers earnestly.

"I'll guard her with my life. You both know that," Mya promises, reclaiming the child into her arms.

"I'll hold you to that," the doctor responds as he and Sherlock head out the door.

—-

Sherlock grabs the keys and lets them into the car, which he starts and pulls quickly out into traffic.

"Out with it," John demands, now that they are on their way as he tosses his daysack onto the floor at his feet.

"So ,we start with the missing electrician. The license plate from the wife tracks to a rental car agency in Rochester. However, the man himself is never heard from again," Sherlock begins, quickly making a right on Melcombe Street.

"Next, we have the stone masons and steel worker last seen in Wallend, less than 10 miles from the car rental agency. Could be a coincidence, but you know how I feel about that," the detective continues, taking a left at Marylebone.

John braces himself against the dash as the car turns, his blue eyes taking note of their surroundings.

"Then we have our Russian friends who lead us to the Fenn Bell Inn in Allhallows, a reasonable pub where they have a few pints. From there, we tracked them to the Lodge, inexpensive but adequate lodging in the Isle of Grain and the last place they were seen alive."

"I understand geography, Sherlock. All of these places are near the Grain Tower Battery, but how did you narrow it down?" John inquires, tapping his fingers on the arm rest.

"By following the evidence. The dead kidnapper in Rohan's flat provided splendidly detailed information. Hydric soil, with a pH of 6, a salinity of 32% and a porosity of .53. Then the metallurgical analysis numbers and the modal size of 17.1 mm and I know the property resides along the Medway Estuary," Sherlock explains, his eyes never leaving the road.

"It's a big area," John notes, clamping his hands together in his lap, trying to maintain patience.

"Yes, but remember the realtor list, and the fact that the Grain Tower Battery was purchased for £400,000 by an anonymous benefactor, with ties to a corporation on the list sent by Craig and we can narrow that down to a…93.7 percent probability that Eurus commandeered the Grain Tower Battery," Sherlock finishes as he merges onto the A400.

"Astounding," John whispers reverently, always impressed by the way his friend's mind works.

Sherlock smiles at the compliment. "If she's harmed Mrs. Hudson…" the detective begins the thought which John finishes.

"We'll deal with her, but for now we need to stay focused," the doctor reminds him as Sherlock takes the A102 via the ramp to Blackwall Tunnel/Lewisham.

—-

"You sure about this?" John asks as they briskly walk along the beach watching for any signs of movement from the tower.

Sherlock pulls up the collar on his jacket to ward off the cold air coming in over the water of the Medway River.

"Were you not listening in the car? There's a 6.3 percent margin of error," the detective reminds the doctor as he comes to the entry of the causeway.

Looking out at the small strip of cobblestones covering a path only a metre wide, a sudden sense of foreboding settles over the doctor. Shoving his hands into his jacket pockets, John turns to the detective. "Shall we?" He asks, shrugging his shoulders as he moves to take the first step onto the land bridge.

Sherlock nods his head, contemplating possible scenarios with nearly incalculable accuracy as he follows in his friend's footsteps.

Five hundred metres has never seemed so long as it does at this moment, walking through small tidal pools interspersed with cobblestones, eyeing the historical tower expectantly.

Their feet wet from the flooding waters, they move together in concert, their skills honed through their time as partners. The unforgiving tide rolls in to wash away any evidence they've even been there.

Circling the tower quickly, before losing the land altogether, they conclude that the ladder is indeed the only entrance.

"I'll lead," John orders, climbing up the metal rungs quickly and efficiently. He steps off the ladder onto the concrete platform, retrieves his weapon and waits for the detective to ascend.

Sherlock begins to move towards the opening when John's hand on his arm stops him.

"Help me drag this up. We can't have unsuspecting tourists wandering into this mess," the doctor reminds him, as they each take a side and drag the heavyweight metal ladder up the side of the structure.

Laying it on the ground, they turn towards the doorway as one.

A single doorway to their right and a curved stairwell divide the path before them.

John quickly peeks into the darkness, before clearing the stairs from the bottom.

"Those are definitely not stable. They've cracked halfway up, and you can see where the steel reinforcements have degraded," the doctor notes, before taking a step towards the dark maw.

Leading with his weapon, he steps into the darkness, advancing like the soldier from years past.

A tell-tale click sounds in the darkened concrete tunnel, causing John to turn and shield his mate from any incoming damage as he tackles him into a side antechamber.

The whoosh followed by dings, as metal hits stone, erodes Sherlock's confidence and John's nerves.

Sherlock grunts under the onslaught of taking his flatmate's weight as they collapse to the ground several metres from the entryway in a small alcove.

"Alright?" The detective demands, trying to slide out from under his friend.

John's wheezing cough and groan of pain pull Sherlock up very quickly. "John! Are you alright?" He interrogates, grasping the doctor's shoulders in an attempt to steady them both.

"Just got the wind knocked outta me, I think," John responds, a moan escaping as he tries to turn over.

"John, lie still," Sherlock orders, sliding around to view his flatmate's pale face in the dark space.

"Sherlock, help me get up," the doctor issues his own command, reaching out to his friend.

The detective grasps his mate's hand beginning to lever him off the floor when he senses the increased tension in the doctor and leaves him there.

"What wrong, John?" Sherlock asks, laying a hand on his friend's shoulder and crouching down next to him.

"Bit of shrapnel, I think," John admits to a sigh from his flatmate.

"That's not good," the detective notes, following the statement with, "Where?"

John tips his head forward gasping as the pull at his right shoulder blade increases.

"Upper back. I can't reach it," the doctor divulges, his breath sawing in and out of him, as he attempts to do just that.

"Stop trying," Sherlock orders, rolling his friend in the direction of the nearest wall.

Pulling out his mobile, the detective turns on his flashlight to examine the wound, finding a small metal caltrop protruding from John's back.

"Hmmm," Sherlock murmurs, grabbing the set of gloves that John passes over his shoulder.

John allows the detective a moment to inspect the damage before losing his patience.

"Just pull the damn thing out, Sherlock," the doctor spits out, closing his eyes against the stinging pain. "If it's barbed, use the forceps from the med kit. Last thing you need is to cut your hand."

The detective nods, dragging John's bag across the unforgiving stone floor. Grabbing the sterile forceps out and ripping open the packet, he uses them to get a grip on the caltrop and pull it up and out of John's skin causing the doctor to hiss in pain.

Inhaling deeply, whilst trying to push to his feet, the doctor suggests, "Let's get moving."

The detective halts his progress and studies his mate's face, looking for any morsel of information the doctor allows him to see.

"Against my better judgment," Sherlock states, taking the doctor's strong hand in his own and pulling him to his feet.

John schools his expression, holding his breath as he levers upward.

A small wince of discomfort and a low moan has Sherlock glaring at him for an explanation.

'Well, you did just pull a chunk of metal out of my back, mate," John reminds the detective as he regains his footing.

"Yes. We should…" Sherlock begins only to be cut off by a disembodied voice coming over a speaker, which he illuminates with his flashlight, also taking note of the camera there.

"Zephyr, you've kept me waiting for….ever," Eurus's voice echoes through the limited space. "Did you like my little welcome gift?"

John scowls at the speaker and for a moment considers shooting it but knows that there's too high a chance of a ricochet in the concrete hallway.

"It was a blast," he answers acerbically, rolling his eyes at Sherlock.

"Why are you doing this, Eurus?" Sherlock asks quietly, surprising John with the question.

"Psychopath?" John retorts subvocally, turning his back to the camera.

"It was you that prompted the experiments, Zephyr. And they never ever stopped. My father was relentless in his pursuit of the mind and once he met you…" Eurus cries, the leap in anger causing her words to fizzle out.

"You played a psychiatrist. Daddy was a nutter," John proclaims provocatively, his hands thrown out to his sides.

"You'll pay for that, John," Eurus promises, cutting the connection.

Sherlock glances at his flatmate and friend. "How many times have you told me not to agitate the psychopath? Really, John," the detective questions, pushing forward through the cement maze.

—-

"I know how much you like puzzles, Zephyr," Eurus boasts, as they climb the rounded concrete staircase in the ancient tower.

They enter the magnificent chamber at the top of the stairs. The far wall glints in the low light, and both are blinded when bright floodlights kick on at their approach.

"Bloody hell," John curses, shielding his eyes from the visual onslaught.

Lowering his arm to examine the room, the doctor notices that caltrops have been scattered throughout lining the floor from wall to wall. He places a restraining hand on Sherlock's arm, knowing that the detective has seen them. Old habits die hard, and it never hurts to be cautious.

"I'll verify nothing's live," John states, going down to hands and knees to check for explosive triggers.

After inspecting each device, the doctor uses his jacket to sweep the metal weapon aside in the rapidly cooling room, creating a path to follow. The flood lights remain on as the detective follows his lead to clear the room.

A large portion of the floor has been removed to accommodate two steel boxes with holes, hanging from industrial chains running through a pulley and supported by an electric hoist mechanism.

"An Atwood Machine problem," Sherlock mumbles, studying the two boxes carefully. The left box is approximately five metres from the floor ledge, as opposed to the right, which remains at roughly eight metres.

Stretching between the two boxes, a thinner chain disappears into both. John carefully leans over the edge to see an additional 15 metre drop. "That's a hell of a drop. Mind the edge, Sherlock," the doctor mutters, moving backward from the rim whilst reminding his friend to be careful.

"Leave him alone," an angry teen voice cries out, causing John's head to pop up, his eyes glued to the boxes.

"Bennett?" John questions loudly, his voice shocked, looking at Sherlock who nods in confirmation just as the young man corroborates their belief.

"Alfie, they've come," Ben reassures his younger brother, who whimpers piteously but doesn't speak.

"Tell me about the boxes, Bennett," Sherlock orders, listening intently as the teen tells him what he sees.

"They put Alfie in a box. That maniacal bitch did something to him, 'cause he hasn't spoken a word since he went in. There's some kind of metal collar around my neck, with a chain attached to it. I notice a pull when the box changes position," Bennett explains, shifting his legs out from under him.

"That wasn't nice. I should just drop you," Eurus spits maliciously, her voice tinny over the speaker.

Sherlock studies the boxes with a critical eye, measuring every fact against each detail he remembers from the physics problem.

After several minutes of investigation, he turns inward to his mind palace seeking out any applicable information.

"This particular problem utilizes the chain pulley block system. The first chain adds intention, thus gaining mechanical advantage allowing the box to be lifted. The second chain prevents lowering each container to avoid the undesirable consequence," Sherlock dictates beneath his breath, further scrutinizing the boxes.

"No explosives that I can see," the doctor adds, carefully studying the layout looking for any kind of wires protruding from the solid metal cages.

"I don't see any wires, Doc. You've got to check on Alfie. He's all that matters," Bennett pleads, dropping his head back against the wall with a heavy thud.

"Be calm, Ben. We're working on it," John commands, looking at Sherlock worriedly. "And you both matter," the doctor adds the reminder.

"Bennett's in the higher box, meaning that there's additional weight in Alfie's box," Sherlock notes, pacing back and forth along the floor, when his eye catches something on the far wall.

The detective strides carefully over to see that it is covered in old fashioned keys that blend into the painted concrete.

John hears his friend sigh heavily, pauses to remove the additional caltrops and crosses to that side of the room.

"Wouldn't want to make it too easy," the doctor whispers, still keeping an eye on the entrance.

Raising his arm, John points towards the doorway, gesturing for his flatmate to keep talking.

The soldier in him silently stalks to the side of the doorway, steps around the corner and grabs the weapon of the man sneaking up on them. John strikes him with an elbow to the nose, shattering bones in a gush of blood. Taking advantage of the mercenary's momentary surprise, he executes a textbook chokehold, dropping the unconscious man at his feet.

Reaching into the side pocket of his pants, he quickly utilizes industrial zip ties to bind the man, stretching one between his ankles and wrists behind his back. Raising his head, John listens for another approach, dragging the unconscious gent back into the room after emptying the man's pockets.

He clips the felled former soldier's British army survival blade onto his own belt. He only returns to Sherlock's side when he's certain he's dispatched the current problem.

"Got it," Sherlock announces, holding up an ancient looking key in triumph. "I see you took care of our unannounced guest," the detective notes, gesturing towards the bound man on the floor.

"What did you find?" John asks, looking at the skeleton key dangling from his flatmate's right hand.

"The answer," Sherlock boldly states, striding towards the doorway after placing the key in his pocket. "Come along, John. Bennett, we'll return momentarily," he reassures the young man as they take their leave.

Jogging down the stairs at a breakneck pace, retracing their exact steps until they reach the entrance. Stepping through, he grabs one end of the ladder prompting John to take the other.

They transport it quickly to the chamber where the boxes still hang. Dragging the ladder to the ledge, John understands the plan and they carefully manoeuvre the unwieldy steps to catch on the top of the wall between the two containers.

"Steady, John," Sherlock advises as he begins to ascend the rungs until he's above the lower box.

Turning around on the ladder to face the centre of the room, he pauses gauging the distance.

"You only get one chance at this, mate," John says, the warning colouring his tone.

Sherlock nods, calculates, and leaps from the ladder to land on the box. Pulling the key out of his pocket with a wolfish smile, he unlocks the padlock with a steady hand and opens the door, nearly falling off the box at the stench that slams into him as the trap door strikes the metal top with a bang.

Taking a deep breath, he drops into the box, careful not to land on any of the shapes he can see from above.

Kneeling down in front of Alfie, Sherlock lays a confident hand on the boy's shoulder.

Looking over the collar, he pulls three more keys from his other pocket. Examining the keys with great care, using the torch from his mobile, he grabs the one he needs, replacing the others. Deftly, he unlocks the chain and drops it to the floor.

"Bennett, I've freed your brother. Pull the collar chain until you have both ends," Sherlock instructs, holding the young boy close to his side watching for compliance. He nods when the chain begins to move and remains cautiously optimistic as he watches the end escape through the holes in the box without issue.

"John, wait until the collar's clear and we're out of the box," the detective demands, helping the child to his feet.

He hears the doctor's muffled voice asking if he's sure that's a good idea.

Sherlock glances at the disembowelled bodies strewn across the floor and bellows, "Without a doubt."

"I need you to grab the edge and help pull yourself up, Alfie," the detective instructs, hoisting the young man up towards the opening.

Alfie does as directed, pulling as hard as he can. The added boost from Sherlock propels him out of the box. He crawls away from the opening allowing the detective to follow.

Grimacing distastefully, Sherlock leaps for the opening and grasps the sides, extricating himself from the container.

He directs Alfie to sit down and follows the action himself.

"Ready, John," Sherlock states, securing Alfie so that he doesn't tumble off the box.

The doctor, having found the hoist remote, lowers the box down to be level with the edge, now that doing so won't strangle one of the boys.

Within minutes, Sherlock hands the young boy into John's waiting arms, then leaps to the ground.

"See to the boy, John, while I collect his brother," Sherlock directs as he grasps the controls within his hand and begins to lower the other box, watching as the malodorous one rises.

John turns his attention to the boy. "Do you hurt anywhere?" The doctor asks, starting small, taking note of the shock shaking the slender frame in front of him.

Shaking out his jacket, he wraps it firmly around the boy as he continues his examination.

Before he knows it, Sherlock returns to his side with Bennett who leans over his brother.

"You're alright, Alfie," Ben whispers, folding the boy into his trembling arms. "Thanks for coming for us," the teen says, suddenly overcome with emotion.

Alfie whispers, "She told me she'd tear you apart like the other men in the box if I spoke a word. Benny, their guts were spilled everywhere, and I didn't know what to do."

Ben's angry expression mirrors the one's on John's and Sherlock's faces.

"You did the right thing, little brother. That's all that matters," Ben reassures him with a hug, making sure his brother understands.

John moves to examine the elder brother as Sherlock keeps watch.

"I'm good," Ben tells the doctor when he begins to check him over.

Nodding, he accepts the young man's answer, pulling some protein bars and bottles of water from his pack and handing them to the boys. Turning his attention to the elder, John knows what must be done.

"Bennett, you and your brother take the ladder and follow the stairs on the right to the bottom. When daylight comes, use the causeway, find a phone, and contact Detective Inspector Lestrade," John orders seriously, making sure the young man understands.

"What if we run into trouble?" Ben inquires, drawing his brother firmly into his side.

"You won't," Sherlock reassures them. "As far as Eurus is concerned, you've served your purpose," the detective finishes, turning to head up another set of concrete stairs.

"Don't wait for us, Bennett. It's your job to get your brother to safety," the doctor reminds him as he circles the boys to follow his friend.

—-

Sherlock and John waste no time vaulting up the stairs before seeing two additional chamber doorways at the end of a short hallway. Carefully, they keep watch for any of the mercenaries Eurus may send to attack them.

As they step onto the landing, two men attack from each side as a third comes at them from the front.

John ducks the punch from the right following it up with a throat strike disabling one of his attackers. The mercenary moving towards him realizes his mistake too late, as the doctor utilizes his momentum, grabbing his arm and shirt to throw him down the stairs.

Turning towards the first aggressor he'd momentarily disabled, John uses a well-placed kick to break the mercenary's kneecap before rendering him senseless.

Sherlock uses his right elbow to break his assailant's right eye socket before landing an uppercut that knocks the thug unconscious.

Reaching into his pocket once again, the doctor tosses a set of heavy gauge zip ties to Sherlock, wincing at the pull in his shoulder. They bind both men after searching them for any weapons they may use to get free.

John rushes down the stairs to verify the first man he put down would stay that way. A crisp nod from the doctor gives Sherlock the information as they turn and enter the next chamber.

Strapped to a long table lies their friend Rohan, seemingly unconscious. The doctor strides to the table quickly, already cataloguing possible injuries, whilst the detective examines the room closely.

There's a lab set up on one side of the room looking alarmingly similar to the one Wiggins, Rohan and he had set up in the flat when John was at the medical conference several months ago.

Sherlock begins cataloguing the chemicals at his disposal, noting the tools for hydrolysis and hydrogenation.

"John?" The detective inquires knowing that one word will be enough to elicit a response from the doctor.

"Working on it. He's severely dehydrated but also jaundiced," the doctor conveys, using a pen torch to check his patient's pupillary reflexes. "Poisoned is my best guess."

"That aligns with what I'm seeing. She used Gyromitra Mushrooms causing MMH toxicity. She left a single mushroom on the workstation," Sherlock notes, beginning to reach for several bottles of chemicals.

"Gyromitrin rapidly decomposes in the stomach to acetaldehyde and N-methyl-N formylhydrazine which converts to MMH by slow hydrolysis. We'll need to synthesize an antidote to counteract the effects before it interferes with the glutamic acid decarboxylase," the detective explains, finding the correct combination of chemicals needed.

John continues to monitor Rohan's trembling form as the man's eyes open. "Poisoned," he gasps, grabbing the doctor's shirt in a weak fist.

"We know, mate. Just lie still. Sherlock's working on the antidote," John reassures the young, breathless man on the table.

"Tell my gypsy girl I love her," he gasps, as his head lolls to the side and he begins to seize.

"Damnit," John curses, placing a firm, but gentle hand on Rohan as his eyes roll back into his head. "How much time, Sherlock?"

The detective hurriedly fires up the portable Bunsen burner and sets a tripod above it to hold the beaker.

"One doesn't rush science, John," the detective reminds the doctor. "If you have any benzodiazepines in your kit…"

John throws open his kit, grabs the Lorazepam and waits for the seizure to subside. He then pops two pills into Rohan's mouth and coaxes him to swallow with a sip of water, causing him to choke.

Quickly, Sherlock adds the necessary ingredients to create the pyridoxal kinase that will counteract the toxic mushrooms.

"She did this to you….as a child?" John inquires of his flatmate and best friend.

"Yes," the detective answers, never once pausing in his work. "How long?"

"You've been working for two hours. His seizures are getting worse, Sherlock," the doctor informs him, glancing down at his watch.

The detective removes the beaker from the heat using the tongs. Setting it down carefully, he begins to transfer the synthesized compound into a syringe, which he hands to the doctor.

Administering the antidote, John sighs in relief, until Rohan's seizures increase exponentially, shocking the doctor.

"Guess you should have checked your ingredients," Eurus's smug voice echoes throughout the small room.

"I triple checked everything, Claire," the detective rejoins hastily, pushing his hands through his dark curls.

"Eurus," she corrects angrily, causing the speaker to squelch with her indignation.

Rohan's body suddenly stops convulsing and his head drops back to the side, his eyes fixed open as his last breath pushes forcefully from his body.

"This time I got the dose right," Eurus sings through the speakers, causing both men to flinch.

"No, no, no," John demands, starting compressions on the young herbalist's chest, heedless of the pain firing through his upper back and wounded shoulder. "Stay with us, mate."

Sherlock's eyes close as he recognizes defeat. He drops his head to the side of the table, before placing his hand on John's, who still renders resuscitation efforts to no avail.

"He's gone, John," the detective whispers, pulling his friend gently from the table. "There's nothing else to be done."

John's hands clench into fists repeatedly, his anger a living breathing monster in the room with them.

Stepping back from the table, the doctor swipes at sweat on his forehead, angry at the senseless loss of life. Taking a deep breath in order to regain control, John grimaces before settling his shaking hands.

"He was brilliant," John says, reaching forward to close Rohan's eyes for the last time.

"Yes, he was," Sherlock agrees, his hands dangling at his sides whilst looking down upon his friend.

—-

They stare at their deceased friend for a few more moments before John turns towards the door, his steps slowed by his sadness.

The first crash has him spinning round to make sure that Sherlock's alright flinching at the pull in his shoulder.

The detective has swept the beakers and assorted glassware onto the floor in anger.

"You may have freed my little lab rats from their cages, but…. I…won…this time, Zephyr," Eurus taunts through the speaker system, her laughter angering him beyond reason. "A tisket, a tasket, guess who needs a casket."

He throws the Bunsen burner across the room, taking out the camera with a flash of sparks.

"It should have worked, John. He was poisoned. I gave him the antidote," Sherlock yells, slamming both hands on the glass laden bench before sweeping away more fragments and throwing a beaker across the room.

John joins the detective pulling him away from the destruction. "There's no telling how long the poison had been in his system," the doctor explains gently, leading Sherlock to the far wall.

John coaxes Sherlock to sit, watching for broken glass, and pulls water from his pack.

"Drink," the doctor orders, pushing the bottle into his flatmate's blood covered hands.

Levering the med kit back out of the duffel, John grabs more water and begins to clean the detective's hands.

"Doesn't look like anything needs stitches," the doctor notes, cleaning out the troublesome cuts, then putting a pair of latex free gloves on the detective.

At Sherlock's look of confusion, John answers, "Avoiding an infection, I hope."

The detective nods his acceptance resting his head on the wall behind him.

John places a hand on Sherlock's shoulder knowing that the detective will never get used to losing, especially when the cost is so high.

"Before your return, I would go to the St. Bart's rooftop every Thursday to talk to you," John starts, ensuring that his friend pays attention prior to continuing. "It started out innocently enough before it became a habit. I even took Mary there to meet you and share stories about you," the doctor admits, glancing away from the detective, momentarily unsure about sharing this.

Sherlock's eyes open at the sound of John's voice, his reverent tone causing him to remain silent. This was important to his friend. His interest piques as he leans forward, placing his elbows on his knees, intense blue eyes studying the doctor, seeing the reminiscent smile.

"As we sat talking, she took my hand and told me that the ones we lose often walk with us as whispers in the wind. It brought me a modicum of comfort for your loss," John finishes quietly, looking away, a tinge of embarrassment colouring his cheeks at the unexpected emotion the words dredge up.

Sherlock pushes up from the floor and reaches down to help the doctor.

"I believe…. I would have liked your Mary," the detective admits, pulling John to his feet.

"Everybody did," the doctor discloses, smiling with the memory.

Sherlock steps towards the doorway, turning back to the doctor when he begins to speak.

"Once more into the breach?" John rattles off, a knowing expression on his face.

The detective tips his head forward, his eyes dancing with amusement. "Ever the soldier, John," Sherlock answers readily. "After you."

John starts for the hall, before turning back towards Rohan. "We'll return for you. A soldier never leaves a man behind," the doctor adds with a sharp nod of his head, before heading out the door with Sherlock.

—-

Sherlock looks into the chamber from the left side as John peers in from the right.

"Bloody hell," the doctor whispers, meeting the intense blue eyes of the world's only consulting detective, who nods in agreement.

"We'll see if you have better luck with this one," she taunts with melodic laughter.

"Ignore her. Work the problem," John directs, keeping his eye on the stairs to ensure no one else enters the area.

Moving in a synchrony born through years of partnership, Sherlock and John carefully enter the chamber, ensuring that they don't trip any of the traps.

Crisscrossing throughout the room, a demented web of wires and rope pervade the entire chamber.

Trapped in the center of the deranged labyrinth, Mrs. Hudson's eyes widen as she recognizes the boys have finally come for her.

Her worried expression carries across the space, causing the doctor's lips to press together in a tight line.

Mrs. Hudson's wrists have been strapped to the arms of the chair, but Sherlock can see her fisted hands tremble with the effort of staying still. There are additional straps at her elbows with another in between, altogether three for each arm. Her legs are bound in the same way. Three straps each and all of them placing perceived pressure on the woman's delicate skin.

The detective's hand trembles as he reaches out to examine the wires, causing his lips to tighten in irritation as he draws his long fingers back to his side.

John places his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Put it in a box, mate," he advises, turning at a barely audible sound.

Sherlock nods, giving the doctor a withering look at his statement of the obvious.

"Be back in a mo'," John whispers, heading for the disruption he's just heard.

Sliding stealthily through the doorway into the near darkness, he isolates the light bouncing down the stairs.

John sweeps to the left of the stairwell, waiting for his prey to descend. As the mercenary clears the last step, the doctor deflects the barrel of the M4 carbine. Using a backhanded chop to the throat, he disables the man, allowing the merc's own inertia to put him on the ground.

Grabbing yet another set of restraints, John sighs heavily completing his task and dragging the man into the room with Rohan, where he secures his newest prisoner, relieving him of his taser.

Listening for any more movement, the doctor tilts his head sideways, maintaining a silent but ready stance.

Reassured that no further threat is imminent, John crosses back to the chamber hearing Mrs. Hudson's soothing chatter.

"She said you went on a date with her, Sherlock. We need to discuss your taste in women," John hears Martha scold, chuffing a laugh at his friend's expense.

"She's not wrong," John notes, coming back into the chamber, his steps light. "I see you've made some progress," he admires, noticing his friend's new position lying on his left side on the floor three feet into the mess of wires.

Sherlock shakes his head in disgust. "Not a date," he complains, snipping another wire, causing Mrs. Hudson to gasp at the electric shock, her legs and arms trembling.

The detective's piercing blue eyes meet her brown ones, his upset clear in them for only a moment before he looks back to the web before him.

She sighs and inhales deeply. "There was dinner and strolling, young man," their landlady corrects, trying to ignore the trembling in her body.

"She's got you there," John adds, grabbing another set of wire cutters from the duffel and laying down to help.

"No, John. Some of these are live," the detective warns, clipping yet another. "Better that only one of us goes and since I'm already halfway there…."

"You should probably continue," the doctor finishes, wiping his mouth with his left hand.

"One, two, she's an old shrew. Three, four, she'll fall to the floor. Five, six, the pain he inflicts. Seven, Eight. She's just the bait. Nine, Ten, Friends Die Again," Eurus sings hauntingly into the room.

John steps over and takes out the camera in a shower of sparks before dropping the taser to the concrete.

"Thank you, Dr. Watson," Mrs. Hudson says quietly. "That one loves the sound of her own voice. Sherlock, why are you on the floor? You'll get filthy," the older woman admonishes.

Sherlock cuts another wire, explaining. "People prefer to work at eye level. Staying under 18 inches lowers the probability of your receiving too many shocks."

John curses at the audacity of these people and what they've done to his friend. Tipping his head, he notes that she's nearly convulsing with fear, which seems unlike her.

"Mrs. Hudson, not to be indelicate, but you seem to be more agitated than I would have expected," the doctor notes, his blue eyes seeing every unusual tremor.

"Well, I have been kidnapped, tied to a chair and subjected to electric shocks and fists," she details, her lips tight from pain and the effort to remain still.

"Yes, but what did they give you?" John asks knowingly, shifting his weight from his left to his right.

Her surprised look and dry laugh cause Sherlock to look up from his work.

"They injected her with something?" The detective asks, his face shifting from concentration to outright fury.

"Do you know what it was?" John asks her, his eyes daring her to continue holding back information.

Studying the doctor's stern features, Mrs. Hudson recognizes the dangerous expression, though she's never seen it directed at her.

Sighing, she answers, "I'm not sure. The label read halo…something."

"Most likely, haloperidol," John answers, shaking his head. "It increases tremors in certain populations, but also causes light-headedness, dizziness and orthostatic hypotension, so be very careful when she stands that she doesn't fall," the doctor cautions, pushing his hand through his hair.

"Certain populations. You mean old people," Mrs. Hudson grouses before dropping her head forward.

"You alright?" John asks, noting her tremors are starting to fade slightly.

"Just resting, dear," she reassures them both when Sherlock looks up at her and redoubles his efforts.

The doctor follows Sherlock's progress, unconsciously holding his breath as the detective makes quick work of the wire web. Snipping the last wire, the detective enters the center of the trap and regains his feet with very little room to spare.

"John?" Sherlock inquires after inspecting the bindings and removing the electrodes, throwing them angrily to the floor.

The doctor pulls out his lock knife, sliding it to the detective, who uses it to free her from the chair and help her to her feet. He catches her as she swoons, putting her right hand on her forehead. She stands still, albeit unsteadily, waiting for a decision to be made.

"Look at me fainting like some maiden, for goodness' sake. Thank you, boys," Mrs. Hudson whispers, laying trembling fingers upon Sherlock's cheek.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asks gently, studying her very carefully, noting every bruise and burn that someone will pay dues for in the end.

The landlady nods her head tiredly, patting his shoulder in reassurance, before starting to lower herself to the floor.

"Enough of that, Mrs. Hudson," the detective advises, keeping her on her feet with his arm around her shoulders. "We'll be able to cut through now that you're safe," Sherlock assures her as John proceeds to do exactly that.

—-

"Obviously, we take her with us," John decrees as he checks over Mrs. Hudson's lacerations, contusions, and several burns where the electrodes had been placed. He tests her pupillary reflex, and she swats his hand, which he takes as a good sign.

"Agreed," Sherlock states, keeping watch around them as the doctor finishes treating their lovely landlady and friend.

"I'm a little concerned about the haloperidol," the doctor admits, sharing a worried glance with the detective.

"I'm fine, John. There's no need for all this fussing," she says, waving off the concern.

The doctor sighs with relief when he realizes that Mrs. Hudson does indeed seem well. "We'll have to check your heart when we get out of here to make sure there's no lasting damage from the electric shocks," he informs her, helping her to her feet. She seems much steadier which pleases them both.

"Yes, yes, dear," she placates adoringly, tapping a finger against her pursed lips.

John looks around as a thought occurs to him. "We've got all our missing…" the doctor fades out as he eyes his flatmate.

"We do," Sherlock agrees readily, his penetrating gaze snapping to John's for a moment before continuing to surveil their surroundings.

"But we need to find Claire," John finishes the thought he can see in his friend's blue eyes.

The detective nods, motioning for John to take the lead up the next stairwell. Mrs. Hudson follows the doctor, leaving Sherlock to cover their exit.

At the top of the stairs, the doorway leads to a large outdoor terrace with a stone pool in the center. Proceeding with caution, surprised that they have not encountered any more mercenaries, they take in their surroundings.

"Maybe she ran out of guys," John mutters cheekily, coming to the side of the enclosure, only to realize that he hears the sound of running water.

Mrs. Hudson laughs nervously at the comment, staying close to John but looking into the pool through its clear acrylic windows.

"I think there's something in there," she whispers to John, tugging at his sleeve.

John nods but continues to focus on Sherlock while they determine a plan of action.

"Sherlock?" The doctor inquires, trying to decide what to do next.

The detective turns round and round trying to determine the source of the next test, only to keep coming back to the pool.

"The pool is out of place. It shouldn't be here," Sherlock determines, making his way slowly to the side of the structure.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Eurus purrs through the speakers. "The contractors had a difficult time getting this done to my specifications. Good help is so hard to find. How do you like my new pet, Zephyr?"

Sherlock kneels next to the structure, shining the light from his phone into it. He can see a dark shape, but it's on the far side of the tank.

Pushing up to his feet, he rapidly circles to the other side, where John and Mrs. Hudson wait for him.

"Oh…" the landlady gasps, as she makes out the features pressed against the side wall.

"Molly," Sherlock's shocked whisper reverberates off the wall. He places his hand on the clear acrylic next to her face.

The specialist registrar slumps sideways against the transparent surface, chains locking her in place at the ankles and wrists which are bloody from struggling against them.

"Get me out of here," Molly demands, her eyes flashing angrily.

"John?" The detective asks, knowing the doctor anticipates these questions.

"I can't exactly examine her from here, mate," John supplies, understanding the frustration the detective operates under.

Mrs. Hudson knocks on the wall under Molly's head causing the young woman to jump, gasping for air.

"Mrs. Hudson, please do not tap on that until we're sure it's free of explosives," Sherlock chastises as relief courses through him.

John quickly examines each pane of ballistic glass as Sherlock studies the structure, noting the miniscule holes in the lid which would allow in air. Unfortunately, the rushing water John heard sloshes into the pool at an alarming rate.

Molly bolts upright away from the wall, turning away from the detective as she curls in on herself. The determination to survive these last several days bleeds out of her in a low moan.

"Ideas?" John asks, his worried gaze boring a hole in Molly's bare back.

"Four," Sherlock answers distractedly, his eyes constantly gauging his surroundings looking for answers.

John grimaces, then asks, "Are any of them feasible?"

Sherlock's expression says it all as Mrs. Hudson turns away with tears in her eyes.

"Oh, Sherlock," the landlady groans, placing both hands over her mouth.

John grabs a pipe from the floor examining the end elbow to ensure it's tightly screwed and wouldn't fly off and injure someone. His mind set, he starts banging on the top of the enclosure, the curve of the pipe like a sledgehammer striking the surface. His blows become desperate with each additional strike before a strong hand catches his forearm and removes the weapon.

"That won't work, and I can't think with you making all that noise," Sherlock informs the doctor, still studying his surroundings carefully.

"Mrs. Hudson, you rest, and I'll check the surrounding chambers," John advises, leading her to the nearest wall.

"I'll do no such thing, young man. Molly will die if we don't get her out of there. I'll help you check the chambers," she corrects, heading for the nearest doorway.

John hands her a torch as they slip into the next room to begin searching for anything that could possibly help.

Mrs. Hudson begins exploring an area across the room when a large tarp catches her eye. "John," she beckons, still a little too unsteady to be rummaging around on the floor.

The doctor crosses to her, notes the tarp along with a smell familiar to him from medical school and war.

"There's nothing under there we need to see, Mrs. Hudson," he declares, knowing they'll need to check on the bodies later.

"That smells awful," she whispers, waving her right hand in front of her face to dispel the repulsive odor.

"Death always does," John answers quietly, lost in painful memories for a moment before pushing those thoughts down into the deepest recesses of his mind.

—-

"Going to lose another one, Z," the disembodied voice taunts once again.

Sherlock studies every facet of the enclosure watching as it fills with water at an agonizingly slow pace.

"Tick tock, you're running out the clock," Eurus sings through the speakers.

The detective stoically continues his research, running long fingers over the miniscule holes in the surface of the lid, which he knows has been sealed with industrial adhesive.

"We didn't find anything to get through the ballistic glass, Sherlock," John informs him disappointedly, coming back into the room. "Did find some bodies though. Probably the missing workmen."

Sherlock blinks up at him. "Dimethylformamide," the detective says, pulling himself off the ground.

"Gesundheidt," the doctor answers, his expression clouded with confusion.

"DMF, it's how we're going to save her," Sherlock supplies, running around the structure. "Molly, I'll be right back."

The detective races down the stairwell into the lab. Passing the body of his friend, he pauses momentarily before continuing forward. He hurriedly glances through the remaining glass bottles, looking for a specific one, smiling when he finds it. He's grateful his earlier lapse didn't destroy it.

Grabbing the bottle in his hand, he dashes back up the stairs, coming to John's side.

"Step back, grab that pipe you were using earlier. We're going to use the DMF to embrittle the ballistic glass," Sherlock explains, causing Mrs. Hudson to ask. "Won't adding chemicals be dangerous?"

"It's miscible in liquid and should be diluted enough by all the water not to be a problem," the detective reassures her as he begins to loosen the top on the bottle. "Mrs. Hudson, retreat to the other side," he orders as the lid comes free.

John grabs the pipe from the ground where Sherlock set it earlier, hefting its weight in his hand, overtly pleased to be taking action. Striding towards the detective, he swings the metal in a circle adjusting his grip.

Sherlock upends the bottle of dimethylformamide onto the ballistic glass, stepping back and shielding his eyes from any fumes as the solvent begins to dissolve the laminated polycarbonate.

John lifts the metal tube preparing to bludgeon the surface of Molly's containment on the detective's signal. Eyeing Sherlock's raised hand, he waits with agitation for the sign that seems to be forever in coming.

Sherlock gives the go signal and the doctor metes out violent punishment on the now brittle structure, the loud cracks sounding like gunshots causing Mrs. Hudson to flinch with each one.

John's arms begin to tire and the wound in his back complains thunderously when he lurches forward as the improvised weapon pulverizes a section of the lid large enough for Sherlock to move through.

The detective's up on the barrier forcing his body through the opening before John can set down the implement with heavy arms. "Sherlock," he groans, climbing up to straddle the hole and track the detective's progress through the clearish surface.

Sherlock pushes through the freezing water, his strokes sure and strong though the iciness begins to sap his strength.

Seeing Molly floating ahead of him completely submerged in the frigid murky water, her eyes wide, he pushes himself to the near limit of his endurance. Sherlock ignores the burning in his chest, reaching for the padlock immobilizing her feet.

Pulling the pick from his pocket, his frozen fingers nearly drop it, causing Mrs. Hudson to gasp as she too watches the detective.

Sherlock tightens his grasp on the little piece of metal and begins to work the tumblers within the lock.

Molly places a hand on his shoulder as she realizes she's out of air. She smiles at him, closing her eyes causing him to hasten his work as the final tumbler gives and the lock pops open.

Grabbing the chain binding her hands, he draws Molly to him, fitting the thin body under his arm and swimming back to the gap.

His strokes become clumsy from the exhaustion that robs him of his strength. What feels like forever, takes minutes, as he hoists her unconscious form up through the space into the doctor's waiting arms.

John hauls Molly's lax body out, pulling her up to his shoulder as the detective clambers up through the space and over the side as quickly as he can in his current state.

Sherlock takes Molly from John and lays her gently on the ground as the doctor climbs down and begins clearing her airway to start rescue breathing.

Mrs. Hudson wrings her hands nearby, biting her lip in an effort not to distract the boys at this crucial moment.

Seconds stretch to minutes as the doctor works feverishly to restore Molly's breathing and heart rate.

One final push on her chest brings about the reaction for which they've been waiting. Molly jerks upwards and coughs up an alarming amount of brackish water as John turns her head and rolls her body to the recovery position as she continues to chuck up the river.

Sherlock awkwardly pats her back, rendering aid without getting in the way. He switches hands when he notices blood running down his right arm, turning marginally away from the doctor's eagle eye.

"We'll deal with that shortly," John states, not missing a thing.

Molly settles on a sigh, slowly bringing her right hand up to the pain in her chest. "I drowned," she mumbles, her face drawing down into a grimace.

"Yes, you drowned, but we saved you," Sherlock elucidates, moving his hand to her shoulder.

The specialist's head drops forward. "That explains the broken ribs and the dreadful taste in my mouth," Molly notes, wiping her hand across her mouth, her nose wrinkling in disgust.

"Sorry 'bout the ribs, but glad you're alive to give me a hard time about it," John apologizes, his clear blue eyes alight with a job well done.

Molly reaches out to him but aborts the attempt when it pulls on her ribs.

"What I meant to say was thank you for saving my life," Molly begins, looking back and forth between them. "Both of you."

Sherlock looks away and John leans towards her. "It's in the job description, but you're welcome," the doctor replies with a smile before turning to Sherlock. "Now let me see that arm," John demands of his friend.

"Is that crazy psycho a friend of yours?" Molly inquires, her voice hoarse, pushing her wet hair out of her face.

"Jim Moriarty comes to mind," Sherlock replies, smirking at her as he moves to stand.

Molly cringes before a smile appears on her face. "We both need to work on our social skills," she admits, her near death experience making her bold enough to reach her hand out for the detective's, which he takes in his own.

"Not to interrupt, but we still have a killer to catch," John notes, after clearing his throat to get their attention.

Looking down into Molly's face, holding her chilled but very much alive hand in his, Sherlock whispers, "I'm very glad that you are ok."

—-

"We're right here, boys," Mrs. Hudson notes, fisting her hands on her hips.

Sherlock and John nod continuing their discussion on how to proceed.

"I agree with you. We've got to finish the maze from hell, but we can't leave the girls unprotected," John concurs, running an unsteady hand through his sandy brown hair.

"You did not just say that, John Watson. I'll have you know I dealt with smackheads and low lifes just fine before you were even born, mister," Mrs. Hudson informs the well-meaning doctor.

Molly draws herself up a bit taller, careful of her ribs, adding, "What she said…only no smackheads and I'm pretty sure I'm younger than you…. but I've been on plenty of first dates."

Sherlock sighs, turning away from them as they test his limited patience.

"Leave us a gun. We'll be fine," their landlady strongly suggests, holding out her right hand.

"Do you even know how to shoot a gun?" John asks, as Sherlock answers, "She's actually a decent shot."

John pauses, considering Mrs. Hudson carefully. She holds his gaze effortlessly, causing him to make a decision. Reaching down into his pack, he pulls out a backup piece given to him by one of their homeless network.

Holding the firearm in his left hand, he grabs a magazine, checks the seating of the round, and inserts it. Using his right hand, he racks the slide and hands the gun carefully to Mrs. Hudson.

"That's ready to fire. Try not to have to use it," John advises as he turns to follow Sherlock. He turns back to the ladies, "And for God's sake, don't shoot us when we come back."

Mrs. Hudson smiles warmly, holding the gun properly, barrel towards the ground. "Of course not, dear," she coos. "That would be a horrible waste of ammunition."

Molly chuckles, holding her ribs, as John and Sherlock eye them both after a moment's hesitation.

Sherlock and John race up the concrete stairwell following it around until they see a final landing.

Looking right and left, checking for any additional mercenary activity, they clear the top step.

John adjusts the duffel on his shoulder as he examines the room with a keen soldier's eye. Years of experience tell him something isn't right.

"Something isn't right," Sherlock mutters, causing John to smile at how in tune they've become.

"I agree," the doctor mentions, crossing towards a small wooden desk with a laptop. Checking for wires and finding none, he turns the laptop towards them. "Bloody hell," he whispers, looking at his former psychiatrist on the screen.

"Hello, John. You didn't think it would be that easy, did you, Sherlock?" Eurus coos, tipping her head to the side coyly, daring the detective to complete the game. "Awww, you did. Just look at the disappointment. If you could only see your face…." she taunts, laughing until John sweeps the laptop off the desk causing it to slam against the concrete wall.

The echoing laughter stops as John loses his cool once more, kicking the table into the other wall.

"John," Sherlock utters softly, placing his hand on the doctor's shoulder to stay the violent outburst.

The doctor draws in a breath to center himself and another to increase oxygen to his brain hoping it will help him know what to say. It doesn't seem to matter as he's distracted when two mercenaries come in from out of nowhere.

John takes the man on the right, stepping into the attack, punching him in the solar plexus hard enough to put him on the floor. Stepping around his flailing legs, the soldier knocks him out and restrains him.

Turning to aid Sherlock, he's pleased to see that the mercenary on the left didn't fare much better and lays on his side unconscious and bound on the hard floor.

"I guess she did have more guys," John states with a sly smile and a shrug.

Sherlock smiles wolfishly. "She's here, John," the detective discloses, running towards a stairwell he missed the first time through the room.

Stepping onto the next platform, he notes that the doctor follows him. He jolts up the next few sets of stairs, barely winded from the exertion, excitement coursing through his veins at how close this is to being over. He stops when he reaches the final floor.

John steps onto the last level of the tower, when a sharp piercing pain in his upper back takes his breath away.

The doctor's gasp causes Sherlock to turn towards his friend's distressed sound, catching a slight figure out of the corner of his eye.

"I've still won, Zephyr. I just knocked over your king," she taunts, pushing John in the middle of his back sending him splaying onto the floor.

Sherlock's steel blue eyes follow his friend's collapse to the concrete as he struggles for air.

Eurus laughs heartily, stepping back from the detective and keeping the good doctor between them.

"More importantly, I've taken everything from you," she continues, her smile lighting up her eyes maniacally.

Sherlock looks at Claire, sympathy nowhere to be found in his expression. "You did try," the detective notes, glancing down at John trying to gauge the doctor's wellbeing.

"I got him, didn't I?" she beams, looking at the fallen doctor bleeding all over the concrete.

"He's seen worse in the war," Sherlock informs her readily, carefully guarding his fallen friend, watching every move she makes.

Eurus steps backward towards the railing, leaning away as she rotates quickly around to slide between the bars. She drops quickly, only to jerk to a halt when the detective lurches forward to grab her wrist.

"Not getting off that easily, Claire," Sherlock relays, sliding across the floor on his stomach to catch her.

"After everything I've done, you're actually trying to save me?" The deranged woman cries out, shaking with disbelief.

"He'd want me to," Sherlock says, gesturing to his fallen flatmate.

Claire cackles as she digs her fingernails into his left wrist hard enough to draw blood. Reaching up with her other hand, she grasps his wrist as if to pull herself up.

Sherlock relaxes slightly, only tensing when she places her feet against the side of the tower to use the leverage gained to attempt to draw the detective over the side.

"We can go together," Eurus hisses out petulantly, her face glowing with maniacal energy.

Sherlock grabs the bottom bar with his right hand trying to stay on the concrete floor but being dragged by her weight inexorably over the edge.

John pulls himself across the floor, groaning at the sharp sting of the knife still in his back, most likely puncturing a lung, but acting as a stopgap to prevent its collapse.

Shifting through the unbearable pain, the doctor kicks out his leg, making contact with her upturned face, causing her to lose her hold with one hand.

"That's…not going…to happen," John promises as he kicks out again, flinching when he hears Sherlock's shoulder pop out of the socket.

Claire lets out a frustrated scream as she falls over forty feet to the shallow bed below, remaining water puddles splashing onto her broken body as it sinks into the mud surrounding the tower.

John cries out as the blade shifts slightly causing his breath to wheeze in and out of him. Rolling to his side, he reassures himself that Sherlock remains alive, although the detective cradles his injured left arm.

—-

"John!" Sherlock shouts as the doctor's pain-glazed eyes begin to roll back into his head. "You idiot. Stay awake," the detective threatens as he taps his friend's cheek with his uninjured right hand.

"I'm…here…" the doctor slurs on a gasp as they hear footsteps running up the stairwell.

"Sherlock? John?" Lestrade's clear voice echoes through the space as he steps onto the landing with Sally at his back.

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock inquires, taking the jacket Lestrade offers and packing it around the knife handle.

"A young man called the Yard asking for me specifically. Where else would I be, Sherlock?" The Detective Inspector informs him.

John chuffs a laugh which immediately becomes a cough, his pain laden groan filled with curses. "Bloody…hell. That… hurts," the doctor gasps out breathlessly.

"Get the medics up here now," Lestrade orders Sally, who relays the message on her radio.

Sherlock wipes the blood away from John's mouth with the tissues that Sally presses into his hand.

"Lung," John hisses amidst raspy painful breaths. "Rosie," the doctor whispers, his blue eyes beseeching his friend to make it stop as his lung collapses in his chest.

Sherlock's face tightens imperceptibly. "She's fine. You're not. Lie still and for God's sake, stop talking," the detective instructs, dabbing up blood with additional tissues.

John holds his stare, his eyes broadcasting his sentiment to the detective.

"Our friend Rohan…Rohan's body needs to be collected," Sherlock states solemnly, his eyes never leaving the doctor's relieved ones.

"I'll see to it personally," Lestrade reassures them, handing the detective more tissues.

"Where are the…." Sherlock demands, ensuring his friend's comfort as much as he's able.

"Right here," a disembodied feminine voice rings out from the stairwell. "Clear a path," she demands, already prioritizing the patient's various traumas. She examines the wounds and prepares the necessary equipment to stabilize her patient. Glancing down, she curses when she realizes she recognizes him.

"Hettie," Sherlock greets, grateful for the fact that they know this team.

"Dr. Watson, with your history we have to intubate. Prepping O2 '' she directs, placing the mask over John's increasingly pale face and bluish lips. She knows the procedure is difficult under normal circumstances and these are not. "That's it. I know it hurts, but keep calm," she reminds him, receiving an eyeroll from her irritated patient.

Lestrade glances away as bloody expiration droplets tinge the inside of the clear mask.

Hettie's partner, Randy, starts the IV, covering it with Tegaderm and grabs a vial. Prepping the syringe, he announces as he doses, "50 mg rocuronium in. Inserting the chest tube, now."

Sally cringes at the pop that follows the procedure as Randy tapes the chest tube in place and hands Hettie the laryngoscope.

"Sherlock, raise him up to a 60-degree angle and brace him against you, watch the blade," Hettie instructs, nodding when he complies immediately with help from the Detective Inspector.

Using her left hand, she deftly guides the laryngoscope into the doctor's mouth, opening his throat. Visualizing the vocal cords, epiglottis, and glottis, she inserts the ETT and advances the cuff, inflating when she's assured position and placement.

She tapes it off after verifying that there are bilateral breath sounds and looking into Sherlock's eyes tainted with an edge of fear.

"What did she mean with his history?" Sally asks quietly, hoping Lestrade knows the answer.

Sherlock sighs heavily glancing over at the woman. "John's had enteric fever twice now and his lungs are rubbish, thus the need for the respirator," he informs her as they stand up and place the doctor in a Rescueform basket stretcher for extraction.

Everything moves quickly as they secure him in the specialized equipment and run for the ambulance many floors below.

—-

"We just got confirmation," Lestrade reassures Sherlock and John in his hospital room several days later.

"She's been positively identified?" Sherlock asks, looking at his flatmate resting on the hospital bed.

"Absolutely. We also think we know what set her off," the Detective Inspector informs them.

"Her father's death," Sherlock states with unquestionable assurance. "You found his body in the house at his desk."

"How…never mind," Lestrade states, shaking his head. "Oh, and just so you know. Mycroft Holmes claimed your friend Rohan's body and made the arrangements," the Detective Inspector finishes.

"He came himself?" Sherlock questions, his face drawn up in confusion. Surely, his brother would have sent Anthea for what he would consider a menial task at best.

John nods, a small expression of admiration tugging at his face mixed with relief in knowing that their friend now had some modicum of peace.

"How are you feeling?" Lestrade asks John as he shifts his attention to the man in the hospital bed.

The doctor nods. "Better, no more bloody chest tube," he croaks out a whisper in deference to his abused vocal cords and sore throat.

"Good, we need you out of here to keep that one in line," Lestrade states, pointing at the world's only consulting detective.

"I beg your pardon," Sherlock contends as he steps closer to the inspector. "I've solved three of your cases without even leaving the hospital."

"Yes, and we all appreciate your brilliance, but you've terrorized the staff to the point that they've called me to find you cases to work that take you away from the bloody hospital," the Detective Inspector complains good heartedly winking at John in the process.

"Me? They've been dreadful…" Sherlock begins when a quiet cough from the bed causes him to stop midsentence and offer his flatmate a bit of water. "A constant influx of people day and night," he grouses, taking the water cup from John and placing it on the bedside table.

"It's a teaching hospital, Sherlock," the doctor reminds him for the hundredth time.

Lestrade laughs, wiping his hand across the bottom of his face as if he can wipe the smirk away.

"You two are probably required reading," the Detective Inspector shares with a chuckle. "I wonder how many kids you've scared out of the program," he adds the afterthought, his face a mask of careful consideration.

"Hopefully not all of them," John mumbles, getting in on the fun.

Sherlock pauses looking at both men, before a genuine and somewhat terrifying smile appears on his lean face.

"Are you done?" the detective inquires, watching their responses as they consider the question with knowing smirks. He drops his head back impatiently, waiting for their responses as he rolls his hand to hurry them along.

"I'm going home tomorrow, Greg, and it'll be great to get back to normal. I miss Rosie. I miss the flat," John shares, his smile growing when he thinks of his daughter.

"You don't miss me?" Sherlock questions, an eyebrow raised fractionally.

John huffs a laugh, launching a coughing fit. The doctor moves his hand to his chest with a grimace.

"Alright, John?" The detective asks quietly.

John nods until he can catch his breath. "I can't miss you if you don't leave," he gasps out, causing Lestrade to break up and snicker.

"He's got you there," the Detective Inspector rules, shrugging when the detective meets his gaze.

Sherlock looks between the two men with a fondness he often keeps hidden, then turns away to get the nurse.

He's nearly reached the door when John's voice rings out a little stronger. "Sherlock?"

The lanky detective pauses at the door but turns to look back at the doctor.

"Thank you for being here," John finishes, smiling when a pleased expression briefly graces the detective's face.

"As I've mentioned before, there's no other place I'd rather be, John," Sherlock states clearly, holding the other man's gaze.

"No repeat performances?" The doctor inquires, his eyebrows raised with the question.

"Certainly not!" The detective states, stepping out into the busy hallway.

Lestrade's eyes remain on the door momentarily before switching back over to his friend. He draws a breath to say something, anything that will dispel the solitude that suddenly settles in his chest.

Seeing John's eyes close in exhaustion, the Detective Inspector remains silent, knowing that this moment of quiet will pass and trouble is never far behind when dealing with these two men who will always be his dearest friends.

The End