That's right, dear reader. We're not done. Once again, I don't own these characters, nor do I own the side of the angels speech, but it was too perfect not to include in some form. This story has kind of become a combo of RDJ and Cumberbatch's Sherlock, but I think it works. Well, read and enjoy! Leave a review if you are so inclined. Cheers!

Chapter 20

"Of all ghosts, the ghosts of our old loves are the worst."
~ Sir Arthur Conan Doyle

Passing through the parlor toward Watson's office which her husband had temporarily commandeered for her experiment work, Irene paused as the mysterious gypsy woman approached Mary as she played on the rug with her doll. Although a stranger to her, both Sherlock and John seemed to trust her, care for her even, and the rarity of that was not lost on her. So she watched this woman, Simza, kneel a few feet from Mary, gazing at the child in something Irene could describe only as enchantment. Irene briefly wondered if she had any idea the child even existed. Likely not. Irene recalled the first time she had met her niece. The angel had stolen her heart and it was impossible now to imagine a life without her.

Despite Simza seeming perfectly content to watch Mary play with her doll, the little girl looked up at the new face in her familiar little world. "Hello."

Simza was a bit taken aback, but gave her as much of a smile as she could, considering her scarred cheek. "Hello."

"I'm Mary."

"I know. I am Madame Simza," she said softly. "You have a beautiful doll."

Mary scooted closer to her so that their knees were touching. "You can hold her," she offered, handing her precious doll to Simza. Irene smiled as she watched the exchange.

Simza gently took the doll and held her in her lap. "Her name is Shirley."

"Shirley?"

Mary nodded, her blonde curls bouncing. "Like Uncle Holmes."

Irene pinched her lips to keep from laughing aloud as she continued to the office, satisfied for now that Mary was in good hands.

When she entered the office, Holmes was bent over a table in the center of the room, carefully depositing exactly two drops of clear liquid into a test tube already containing a thick, red substance. Irene frowned as she stepped closer. "Is that..."

"Yes," he answered, never taking his eyes from his work, which fizzed and bubbled as the chemical and blood reacted. "Taken from the good doctor before he retired to his room for a well deserved rest."

"Tell me you asked his permission first."

"Of course I did, don't be absurd, my love." A sample from the test tube was placed on a microscope slide. Peering through the eye piece, Holmes motioned her over. "Just as I feared," he announced.

Irene looked for herself.

"Mercury poisoning."

"Mercury poisoning?" she echoed.

"And here," Holmes added, exchanging the slide for another sample of Watson's blood. "A mild strain of tuberculosis. The poison is responsible for his other symptoms. Violent outbursts. Tremors. Nosebleeds and insomnia. It all makes perfect sense."

Irene crossed her arms over her chest. "So what do we do?"

"I've been thinking on that. I have an-"

But the detective's words caught in his throat when he heard possibly the worst, most haunting cry.

"Holmes!"

He felt sure he'd lost ten years of his life as he raced to Watson's side. He only gave pause when he saw Mary sobbing in Simza's arms, but another cry from Watson, and Irene's silent reassurance as she kneeled beside their niece had him turning once again in the direction of the doctor's room. when he arrived at the doorway, the sight that greeted him only confirmed his scientific findings. Watson stood, leaning heavily against the foot of the bed. His eyes were bloodshot and wild. His face was flushed with fever.

His frantic gaze fell immediately on Holmes. "Holmes! Thank God," he breathed a sigh of relief and Holmes stepped forward to brace him when he began to sway.

"Watson, what is it, old boy? What's happened?"

"Where's Mary?" he demanded.

"Just outside. I'll fetch her for you, shall I?" Holmes steps out just long enough to take their angel in his arms, swiftly returning to Watson once again. "There, you see? No cause for alarm."

Watson frowned as he stared at Holmes as though he had completely taken leave of his senses. Mary had tucked her head into the curve of Holmes' neck, refusing to even look at her father, her little hands clutching desperately at his shirt.

Holmes felt a chill run through him. Something was very dreadfully wrong.

"Is this some sort of joke?" Watson scowled. "Where is Mary, Holmes? She was just here!"

"John," he said slowly and patiently, stroking little Mary's hair when she whimpered and tensed against his chest. "You're confused."

"Only because you won't tell me where my wife is!" he shouted. "For the last time, where is Mary?"

Irene swiftly entered the room, having heard enough, and took their softly crying niece. "You!" Watson scoffed. "I should have known. Who's the unwitting father, eh?"

"John, I think you should lie down," Holmes began, taking a step closer to him as Irene hastened from the room.

"Oh Holmes, don't tell me it's you. You and that woman? You cannot be serious. And if that other woman is here for a case, I told you, I'm not going with you. Mary and I have plans and I cannot come running every time you-" he gasped sharply as a lance of pain shot through his head from one temple to another.

Holmes' heart was breaking. "Watson, please, lie down. You're not well. I must go speak with Irene, but I promise I'll return and explain everything." He placed both hands on Watson's shoulders and captured his gaze. "You must trust me."

Watson closed his eyes as the room began spinning and tilting around him. "Yes," he muttered, "perhaps I should lie down. You'll explain all this?"

Holmes gave him a short nod. "As best I can."

Watson nodded in return as Holmes helped him back to the bed. "You'll tell Mary I'll be home for supper, won't you?"

"Of course, Watson. Of course."

Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes as he felt the familiar grooves of his violin tucked just between his shoulder and chin. His bow glided over the strings, drawing long and mournful notes from the reliable instrument. He rarely knew just quite what he would play when he picked it up. He knew the classic compositions, of course. But why bother copying another man's work when it never sounded exactly the way he wanted it to? They never used the right notes anyway.

He lost track of time as he played, one thought rolling on top of the other just as the thunder rolled on softly in the distance. A cold rain had replaced the snow of a few days prior, but instead of competing against his music, he found the steady pattering at the window complemented it nicely.

When he opened his eyes once more, it was to Watson's troubled face looking over at him from the bed. "I remember, this time. What happened."

Holmes nodded, carefully setting his instrument aside.

"I swear, Holmes. I saw Mary as clearly as I see you now. But, what's perhaps worse, I didn't recognize my own daughter. What kind of father doesn't know his daughter?"

Perching on the side of the bed, Holmes shook his head. "You are ill, Watson. Your lapse has no reflection on you as a parent."

"What's wrong with me, Holmes?"

Holmes fidgeted with a loose thread on his trousers, unable to meet Watson's gaze. "Poison," he whispered at first, then cleared his throat to speak in a more clinical tone and have it done with. "Mercury poisoning, to be precise. And a mild strain of tuberculosis. Noncontagious. I ran a few tests to be sure. Mary is safe. Evidently it was intended for you and you alone."

"I see," Watson answered, already a list of symptoms forming in his medical mind of what to expect from such a diagnosis. More of the more mild symptoms he had already experienced, of course. Nosebleeds, headaches, dizziness, and general fatigue. His hallucination today was only the beginning. Frequent mood swings that would turn violent. The occasional tremor could escalate to complete loss of fine motor skills. Eventual loss of awareness and receptors to external stimuli. "You must send me away."

The detective scoffed. "Don't be absurd."

"Holmes, there is no telling what I might do!"

"It is out of the question, John!" Holmes shouted, rising quickly to his feet. His heart was pounding in his chest. He pulled at his hair as he paced a few feet from the bed, looking much more the part of a madman than Watson himself. "It is unthinkable," he ground out, though his voice was near to breaking. "Do not... Do not suggest such a thing to me ever again."

"Sherlock..."

"I will find a cure, John, I swear to you. And I will find him."

He fled the room then, and Watson shut his eyes, willing the burning tears lingering there not to fall.

Holmes staggered out onto Baker Street, the rain soaking through his clothes and matting his hair to his forehead. His breath bloomed in clouds of smoke in the winter air, but his eyes were a blazing fire of fury. "Moriarty! I know you can hear me!" he roared, drawing his pistol and firing a warning shot into the air. "If anything happens to John Watson, I will kill you. I will show you no mercy for this. I may fight alongside the angels, but do not for one moment be so foolish as to believe that I am one!"