Being sorry for myself is a luxury I can't afford.
~Stephen King
Sherlock
Goodbye Dad.
The very moment she comes into the screen he knows who is she even though he doesn't know her name. The semblance is uncanny and doesn't look very flattering on her just as much as it doesn't look flattering on him. He wasn't exactly beaten with an ugly stick, he knows people who got worse luck in the gene pool than he did but he does know how he looks like. In his teenage years awkwardly unproportioned, too gangly and too feminine to fit well with his male peers and too boyish to fare well in his contacts with girls his age. Not quite here, not quite there and definitely gay as it turned out quite early on.
She almost looks like him at that age. The hair is different, hers is blue and his… it used to be some sort of an awkward semi-military mohawk which with the curly top looked ridiculous but didn't require out of him a lot of attention.
At the same time he accepts what he sees and violently rebels against it because he would have known, he should have known. That's why he kept drawing out the moment when John resumed playing the video for as long as possible, throwing in distractions from left and right.
But it couldn't be avoided and now he's in a new reality in which his daughter, his adult daughter that grew up without him, thrust into his arms her own daughter and told him to decide her future.
How I'm supposed to make that choice?
Goodbye Dad.
How I'm supposed to know what would be better for her?
Goodbye Dad.
And how did Mycroft… How that fat, sleazy bastard managed to keep the fact that I had a daughter away from me? What was he trying to achieve?
What was she trying to achieve?
Something stupid probably, he can almost hear Mycroft's voice in his ear. After all she's your daughter and when it comes to people you love and their safety you completely lose your marbles. The apple didn't have fallen too far away from the apple tree, Sherlock. The only difference between you and her is that you thrust your most important person in the world into the hands of an assassin and she did that to a detective.
"There's still time," he hears himself saying and he finally refocuses himself in the present, Josie a solid weigh in his lap and John's hand still in his.
He blinks and looks at John who at the same time is trying to balance slightly squirming Rosie on his knees while holding his phone to his ear in his left hand and Sherlock's hand in his right.
Not good, he thinks and he lets go John's hand as he reaches for Rosie who happily accepts his attention.
"Mycroft?" he asks John when he settles Rosie in his lap.
"The calls are going straight to voicemail," mutters John grimly. "I already left one," he adds and grimaces before he lowers the phone, disconnects the call and pulls the camera app.
He rewinds the video on mute until he can find a moment in which Daisy's face is the most visible and snaps a photo of her. Quickly he checks the quality of it before he attaches the photo to a message in a thread which Sherlock can't quite catch from the distance and the angle but he assumes it's Greg. Then he calls that number.
"Hi Greg," says John quickly. "I'm calling because I need to report a missing person," he adds and then looks at Sherlock. "Actually no," he adds. "I sent you a picture that needs to be distributed to all police officers. I'm hoping that it's the most recent photo, the hair colour might change since it stands out. Probably will be something dark but might as well use caps or any head covers. I don't have a lot of physical details," he pauses. "Try to find something about Daisy Violet Jones, born 13th May 1995 or Daisy O'Kelly, probably a similar date…" sudden and long pause. "You sure?" another pause, longer one this time. "We will met you at the Yard later, there's something we need to check first. Bye."
"What we're checking?" asks Sherlock as he raises.
In the video he spot nothing that would provide Daisy's probable location.
"A hunch," answers John with a grimace. "Mrs H couldn't have left at a worse time," he mutters and grimaces again. "Hopefully we won't find anything dangerous. She couldn't have that big head-start," he adds as he picks Rosie from him and heads to the kitchen.
Sherlock follows him and asks, "How big?"
"Josie wasn't there at around four when Mrs H checked on you," says John as he's trying to wrestle Rosie into her fluffy romper.
"I woke around half past five," he supplies as he watches John.
"Get her dressed," John tells him. "And put your winter shoes on."
"Why?" he asks from the living-room as he picks Josie's coat from the hook and throws it on the sofa.
"Because you will need them," John answers.
"That's maddeningly unhelpful," he mutters into Josie's hair as picks her up from the sling.
She gets into the coat, cap and scarf without a fuss and as he turns around John is handing him baby shoes. He helps him put them on and put her back in the sling.
"We don't have a second car-seat for her so you will have to sit in the back with them and slightly slouched on that," says John. "Shoes," he tells him, "I will met you in the car," he adds as he's starting to walk away.
The ride is mostly quiet, interrupted only by cooing, gurgling and grunting of two little girls. Josie isn't very happy about being wrapped into his coat on the top of her own outwear and Rosie isn't very happy about being left alone in the car-seat.
He attempts to keep both of them distracted by tickling each of them in turns while his mind flies to his daughter.
Out of immediate shock it's slightly easier to accept it, he has a daughter, and a granddaughter that's strapped to his chest.
What have you gotten yourself into? What sort of tight spot Mycroft couldn't get you out? Because he knew that you existed, he knew about you, he watched over you, the filthy hypocrite.
That startles him enough of his train of thoughts to pick up his phone and he proceeds to call Mycroft. It goes to voicemail. So does the other and the one after that. He starts texting instead.
It's over.
I can't do it anymore.
Look after John and Rosie and take care of Mummy and Daddy.
It's petty. He knows it but he will use Mycroft's concern to get that bloody ponce to pick up his freaking phone.
Except nothing happens. His phone doesn't ring and neither does John's.
"Try, I'm going to blow up Buckingham Palace if your way isn't working," offers John suddenly.
He considers it for a moment and grimaces before he answers, "That would get us arrested within five minutes for treason. Really counterproductive right now."
"I asked Irene Adler for her hand and she said yes," suggests John.
"He doesn't know that she's isn't dead and I would like to keep it that way," he mutters. "Less problems for me and more for a French equivalent of Mycroft."
"Take mine then," says John as he throws it to him. "Write something about death caused by autoerotic asphyxiation or something."
He does, except he trades autoerotic asphyxiation for being dead and covered in a gold body paint. After a moment he throws in a comment about an appearance of something that looks like a stolen Picasso and that bloody black pearl of Borgia's.
More minutes trickle by as John drives until he suddenly says, "Police car heading our way, turn you face from the window and try your best to appear pregnant."
"You realise that I have a beard, don't you?" he asks but he tugs on his scarf to cover his face and turns his face away from the window. "Also, it's one of the most ridiculous statements I heard from you," he adds just as he notes that the police car is finally behind them.
About two or three minutes later John takes a turn right and parks on the street of two storey brownstones, then he walks around the car and after rummaging through the diaper-bag he pulls out Rosie's carrier.
"Are you sure?" asks Sherlock, trying to keep scepticism from his voice as he unbuckles himself.
"Are you going to sit in the car?" counters John.
"No," answers Sherlock as he gets out.
While he does that John puts Rosie in a carrier which doesn't take a lot of time before he straps the carrier backwards so Rosie ends up on his back. She doesn't look too amused about it but at least she isn't fussing.
"Are you sure it's wise?" asks Sherlock.
"The wisest wouldn't be bring them at all but we don't exactly have that option, do we?" admits John as he goes to the boot and opens it.
He picks up a tyre level, closes the boot and locks the car. Luckily for the miniscule part of Sherlock's brain that flashes to that day at Baker Street when one of Magnussen's henchmen pulled a tyre level from John's trousers he doesn't stick it into his trousers.
Nope, not a good time or place to think about that, he shakes his head.
"Where we're going?" he asks when he catches up with John who walks in sure, long strides.
"Following a hunch," says John.
"Care to elaborate?" he presses.
"Not yet," answers John. "I would say that turnabout is a fair play but that would mean that I'm hundred percent sure that I'm right and I might not be," he adds.
"You know that place," says Sherlock, it's an obvious deduction.
"I think that I know it, I might be wrong," replies John.
They pass next three brownstones before John suddenly stops in front of the fourth one. He eyes the door with a suspicious look on his face and after a moment he pulls the keys from his pocket.
It's quite a big bunch. Separated in sets on individual rings attached to a big one. One for his flat, one for Baker Street, one for Bart's (probably his locker and a copy to the door of his office), one probably for Harry's flat. But there's another set on it which over the years Sherlock didn't manage to match to anything lockable by keys while John lived at Baker Street.
John picks one from the ring and without a problem opens the front door before he walks inside.
Curious, thinks Sherlock as he follows him inside and locks the front door.
The house rather than one big, well, somewhat big living space appears to be divided into two individual flats. John shows no interest in the door on their right and heads up the stairs with Sherlock at his heals.
Upstairs on the tiny landing John stops in front of the door before he starts fiddling with another key.
To their mutual surprise the door opens and John quickly steps inside.
Even from over John's back and through a tiny sneeze-and-you-will-knock-yourself-on-the-furniture-or-the-door corridor Sherlock can see the bright yellow walls of the room on the right.
John quickly steps into the room and takes a deep breath.
"Bloody Mycroft," he breaths out.
"John," presses Sherlock. "Where are we?"
"My old bedsit," answers John sourly. "The one I lived before I moved to Baker Street. I can't believe his audacity," he adds grimly. "Stick her here, with a baby. I'm definitely going to knock his teeth out."
His comment registers with Sherlock but barely.
The place looks much the same as it did in the video. The furniture looks exactly the same and are standing exactly in the same places. The only different thing that's about it is that the wall over the mantelpiece is covered with photos of a singular man in various circumstances and surroundings.
It's hard to estimate his height from the photos and not exactly familiar surroundings but from what Sherlock can see he appears to be taller than most people that surround him. In one of the few close ups he's looking towards the camera. His hair are very dark, bordering on black and wavy, reaching the edge of his jaw, his eyes in the photograph seem green.
"Flann MacNamara," says John tearing Sherlock away from his examination.
When he looks at him John is holding one of the photos in his hand but on the reverse side.
"Lieutenant in Cormac O'Callaghan's Mic Na Héireann," reads John. "Past infor. for Garda National DOCB. Double-crosser. That's underlined. Extortion. Money laundering. Drugs. Weapons. Human-trafficking. Ties with CIA, MI5, MI6 and who knows what else. Still breathing. EP," he rattles and then breaths out, "Christ."
Like I said, he can hear Mycroft whisper in his ear.
Mic Na Héireann. Sons of Ireland. Not as dangerous as Moriarty's Irish network and a rivalling gang to it actually that had some sort of mutual nonaggression pact with it as long as both kept to 'what's northern stays northern and what's southern stays southern' philosophy of not getting into each other's ways.
They weren't his problem in the past and their members refused to be exploited in his attempts to destroy Moriarty's network. After few tries he switched tactics and convinced a rivalling northern gang into taking care of what was left of Moriarty's Irish network and both had been taken care of by Mycroft's men eventually.
What ties could Daisy have to Mic Na Héireann enough to be able to list MacNamara's crimes?
"The life I lived," says Daisy in his memory, "was complicated and at one point I traded a bad situation into one that I hoped that it would be better. It wasn't. It took me some time to realise that I traded one ugliness for another."
Escaped from her mo… grandmother's care at some point. Mycroft's control too. Had to be pretty clever about it to not get caught immediately otherwise Mycroft would have dragged her back home pretty fast.
When? How? Where to?
Ireland most probably if she knew enough about MacNamara. But when it would be most convenient time for her to do so? When Mycroft was otherwise occupied obviously. That doesn't exactly narrow down the timeframe because when that plonker wasn't glued to his chair he was always up to something.
Was it during the early days of decimating of Moriarty's network? Or later? Japan or Russia or Serbia. Too many possibilities. He needs a timeframe.
"Sherlock," John's voice tears him from his thoughts.
"Yes?" he asks, barely keeping the annoyance from his voice.
"We're going to the Yard," says John as he holds up the photo.
"Why?" he asks. "Everything is here."
"No," John shakes his head. "It isn't. All that's here is what she wanted us to see. You saw it yourself. There were no signs of struggle. The doors weren't forced. She left this place under her own steam and willingly," he continues. "And Greg…" he pauses, "everything is at the Yard."
"What you're not telling me?" he presses insistently.
"Daisy Violet Jones disappeared from Heathrow on 6th June 2013," says John. "She was supposed to board a plane to Vienna for some kind of violinist contest. Never made it to Vienna and as far as MET is concerned she never left the airport. Just vanished into thin air."
"No one can vanish into thin air, don't be absurd," he mutters.
"Well, she had," shrugs John. "At least well enough that she was never found. Not officially at the very least. According to Greg to these days Daisy Jones remains as officially missing, presumed dead," explains John.
"And?" he presses.
"Greg might have something on MacNamara when we will get there," adds John. "He says that he knows where to look."
"Who investigated her disappearance?" asks Sherlock. "Surely he disclosed that detail."
"DI Adam Hughes, some young upstart that got transferred from Belfast in February 2013. Went back to Belfast by the end of September 2013, supposedly due some family problems. I hazard a guess that Mycroft had some hand in that," explains John.
"Can Greg schedule a call?" asks Sherlock.
"Unfortunately no," grimaces John. "In March 2014 Hughes was fatally shot by an unknown offender that to these day remains uncaught. It was speculated that he started digging too deep in some gang related murders and that the price was put on his head."
"That's very curious," mutters Sherlock.
"Mycroft?" asks John.
"Not personally, no," grimaces Sherlock. "And if Mycroft was involved Hughes would have been found dead much sooner. Murder isn't exactly his style."
John grunts and blessedly he doesn't say, no, it's yours.
"What about the flat?" asks Sherlock. "We can't leave it like that," he adds.
"That never bothered you before," points out John.
"My daughter wasn't in the equation before," he retorts. "If it was Rosie you wouldn't rest…"
"Exactly, I wouldn't rest," John cuts him off. "This isn't resting, Sherlock. It's following a different lead. You do it all the time."
"But this is different," he says quickly. "We might still find something in here."
"Something you didn't spot already?" asks John. "What's in there Sherlock?
He looks wildly around the room. The flat is small, cluttered while clean, lived in. The desk is a mess, filled with books on pretty much everything from development of babies in first three years through organic cooking to books on music and notes. Mozart, Beethoven, Vivaldi, Monti, traditional music. Next to the desk there's a violin case.
He picks it up, places it on the desk and opens it. It's not a Stradivarius by any chance. She wouldn't be able to afford a one and even Mycroft wouldn't be very keen on handing her one, not as long as she lived here. He inspects it closely as he runs the list of affordable violins through his mind and then picks it up for closer inspection before he wedges it under his chin and runs the bow over the strings.
The sound causes some cooing that comes both from within his coat as much as from John's side of the room.
He smiles to himself at that and starts playing 'For Elise' which never failed to both put Rosie to sleep and then rouse her again depending on the tempo he played it.
The sound that fills the room is beautiful, clear and full. It's not a beginner violin or one for the immediate players. No, this a professional instrument. The boxes in his mind tick one after the other.
Ming Jiang Zhu. 905 or 909. No, 909. A very good quality instrument and well taken care of, loved even. Possibly a gift from the umbrella wielding twerp or something she purchased herself. Come to think about it if she was able to save money for 909 she most certainly wouldn't live in a bedsit. A gift then.
He's so concentrated on the violin and playing that the sight of John crouching to pick up something from the floor almost startles him.
"Siobhan M. 083 3388…." he reads. "That's Irish number," he adds.
"As if the name wasn't a good enough indicator," mutters Sherlock. "Irish criminal. Irish gangs. And now an unknown Irish number."
"Stinks like O'Shea's shoes after a three days of walking," says John sourly as he pulls out his phone and starts typing the number into it.
Once done he presses call but the call goes straight into voicemail.
Bloody voicemails. Does no one pick their phones anymore? Well with the exception of one DI?
"Let's go," says John.
"Okay," sighs Sherlock.
He returns the violin into the case, closes it and after a moment of hesitation he picks the case.
"Sherlock?" asks John gently.
"I'm not leaving it here at the mercy of whoever will come here," he says quickly. "Once she's back I can always return it…"
… and if she won't come back. It's still his daughter's violin. If this and Josephine is all that will be left of her…
He shakes his head. He can't think this way until he has evidence that says otherwise.
Daisy is out there somewhere and she's alive. She has to be, for Josie if not for him.
Be alive, he thinks. Be alive. Love your daughter fiercely enough to come back to her…
… and to me.
The ride to NSY stretches out painfully. Minutes tick by while they're stuck in the traffic. He tries to kill the passing time by trying to dial Siobhan's number interchangeably with Mycroft's and both keep going to voicemail.
Finally John parks the car in NSY underground garage (thanks to a parking pass which Greg one day just handed to John) and they head to the lifts.
As soon as they're on the ground level John dials Greg's number and asks, "We're in the building. Where are you?"
Greg's answer is too quiet for Sherlock to hear it but as soon as John presses the button to the second to the highest floors he knows that the situation is bad.
The top floor in NSY is reserved for the highest ranking officers, more politicians than actual police force that hadn't seen a solid day of policework since… well, since they got their positions.
But the one below it is Organised Crimes territory helmed by one Tommy Gregson. Their working relationship was not what one would call peaceful. They respected their mutual effectiveness but Gregson always had a problem with evidence that wasn't strictly speaking obtained legally so they tended to step on each other's toes quite a lot in the past until Gregson got the promotion to Organised Crimes. Overall it was a good riddance even though Gregson was a great detective. Ever since then if he required something from Gregson he used to use Greg as a messenger.
If Greg is waiting for them in Organised Crimes the situation is bad, very bad but he doesn't realise how bad it might be until the doors of the lift slide open and he sees a very grim looking Greg standing next to Gregson who looks just as grim.
"Sherlock, John," says Greg. "And that's…" he stops when his gaze slide over John who has Rosie in his arms and Sherlock who still has Josie in the sling.
"Long story," says John quickly. "Tell you later."
"Right," says Greg sceptically and gesticulates at Gregson. "Doctor John Watson, DCI Thomasina Gregson," he introduces them.
"And we will get along as long as you call me Tommy," she says as she shakes hands with John and then nods to Sherlock as she adds, "Holmes."
"Thomasina," he nods.
"Like I said," she sighs heavily. "Come on you two," she adds as she turns on her heel.
They follow here mutely through slightly empty open office space into her office at the other end of it. Unlike Greg's abode downstairs their arrival is mostly ignored aside from a curious peak from one or two officers that take notice of their boss and quickly return to work.
Gregson invites them in and locks the door behind her. The blinds facing the office are already closed.
"Do sit down," she says as she walks towards the desk, to Greg who is already leaning against the filling-cabinet behind it.
"Out with it, Tommy," says Sherlock as he sits down.
He dreads what she's going to say in a way he never dreaded anything before, not unless John was in danger. His stomach ties itself in knots, his palms are sweating, although that might be the heat in the room, Gregson always hated being cold.
He shrugs the coat from his shoulders but makes no move to hang it on the hanger.
"Daisy Jones," says John swiftly. "What do you know about her aside of what you told me earlier," he directs it at Greg.
"Tommy?" Greg prompts, he sounds exhausted even though it's not even noon and as far as Sherlock can say he didn't leave the Yard.
"You sure about that?" Gregson asks sceptically.
"Daisy Violet Jones, born 13 May 1995 to Magnolia Desdemona Wellington-Jones and James Winston Jones. Disappeared from Heathrow on 6th June 2013. Was supposed to board a 10:34 AM plane to Vienna and return within about two weeks. However she never stepped a foot on the plane and disappeared into thin air," says Greg tiredly.
"There's no such a thing as disappearance into thin air," counters Sherlock.
"We know that now," snorts Greg. "Hughes was an idiot and so was whoever was put on the case on the MI6 end. Finding her on tapes wasn't an easy task but a doable one with enough patience. Though I have to hand it to her the disguise she used was a good one. Her disappearance was planned and well executed. Unfortunately, the footage is nearly two years old and while I have a guy shifting through CCTV footage for now we don't have footage of what she had done after leaving Heathrow."
"And?" presses Sherlock.
"And I know, Sherlock," sighs Greg heavily.
"Of course you do, a moderately intelligent first grader would have reached the same conclusion," Sherlock practically spits.
"Tommy," mumbles Greg.
"We don't know what she was doing after leaving Heathrow but we do know where she eventually ended up," says Gregson quickly as she presses keys on the keyboard and at the TV screen behind her back appears an image.
It's a copy of an Irish driving licence issued to one Williamson, Scottie Maebh. Date of birth was adjusted from 1995 to 1994, month was still May but the day was listed as 26th. In the photograph Daisy hair were straight, light blonde and ending just below her chin.
"As you can see, it's a driving licence issued to Scottie Maebh Williamson. On 10th November 2013 she was caught speeding just outside of the town of Ennis by the usual Garda patrols. The car she was driving was 2007 Honda Civic registered to Flann MacNamara," she says quickly. "Predictably that put the patrol on high alert, especially after they got the confirmation that Scottie Williamson whose driving licence it was registered to turned out to be dead for about six months and sixty-four at the time."
"Why wasn't she arrested for identity theft then?" asks John before Sherlock has a chance to open his mouth.
"Because the car was registered to Flann MacNamara," answer Gregson. "They got orders from above to let her go. Since then Williamson was under the careful watch of the Garda's DOCB. She was obviously seen prior to that, according to my contact in Garda as early as early July 2013, but they were unsuccessful in obtaining her identity until that point without drawing attention to themselves. That," she waves towards the screen, "was pure dumb luck, nothing else. The licence was a fake but as sure as they were that it originated from Mic Na Héireann they were unable to locate her real name."
"Obviously it didn't occur to them to search for her outside of Ireland but at the time she wasn't considered as a foreigner. According to Tommy's contact her accent was impeccable and they assumed that she was one of the country girls that were so desperate to get away from their middle of nowhere lives that she latched on MacNamara the very moment she had the chance," continues Greg.
"Was it true?" asks Sherlock.
"MacNamara certainly latched on her," snorts Gregson. "From July 2013 until May 2014 she accompanied him to all the 'family'," she accents the word, "functions. In the beginning she appeared to be willing but the closer to May 2014 it got, the more at times she looked at MacNamara with such ferocity that their sitters made a note that one day MacNamara might wind up in a river missing both kidneys. Obviously she was doing that when no one else other than them was looking at her."
"It was around the time when the higher ups started pushing the idea of acquiring her as an informant but before they had a chance to approach her while MacNamara was otherwise occupied with his criminal activity she disappeared into thin air," adds Greg.
"Again," mutters John. "Until now."
Greg looks down at his shoes and Gregson sighs heavily.
"She is dead, isn't she?" whispers Sherlock and the words barely make it out of his throat.
"This," says Gregson as she presses another key and the image on the monitor changes from the fake driving licence to a big, spread out mansion, "is Cormac O'Callaghan's home in Cloughlea, County Clare. It's his family home as well as the place where his most faithful met to enjoy each other's company as much as plot their movements. The photograph in question was taken prior to 6th January, doesn't matter at which point. Now this," she presses another key and the image on the screen changes to a completely levelled ruins of a house, "was taken in the morning of 7th January 2016 day after O'Callaghan celebrated his 50th birthday in the company of his pals. Flann MacNamara was one of them."
"It had to be one hell of a party," mutters John.
"It was," agrees Gregson. "The explosion that levelled it out took place around 4:15 AM give or take a couple of minutes. According to the early reports most probably it was C-4. Their working theory was that it was gang related. O'Callaghan had many enemies and supposedly one of the smaller bosses got fed up with him and decided to send a message."
"Especially after, not so far away from the wreckage, they found one of lieutenants from an old Na Naoimh gang that over the past fifteen years dissolved into smaller gangs or attached themselves into other ones," adds Greg grimly as he rubs his beard before he takes a deep breath and says. "Her name was Siobhan Moran."
The image on the screen changes into headshot photography of a red-haired woman with a singular bullet wound on her forehead. But that isn't shocking, he stared at enough dead bodies to not find even the most gruesome deaths shocking.
It takes him a moment to take in her whole face but once he does he knows and he isn't surprised by John's shocked gasp from his left.
Lying on the slab is one Mary Morstan Watson aka Rosamund aka Siobhan Moran. Supposedly dead and buried two months ago. Now she's also dead and the bullet lodged into her brain had to surely kill her for good.
"Moran," whispers John.
"Yeah," grimaces Greg. "I would say that I'm sorry about that but actually I'm not."
"Ta for that," mutters John.
"You're welcome," sighs Greg. "She wasn't alone when she was found," he adds grimly. "A few feet away from her was found…" he pauses as another image joins Mary's on the screen.
It's a headshot photo of Daisy, hair blonde and curly, shorter than it was in the video. She too is lying on a slab but there aren't any wounds on her face that he can see.
His heart suddenly drops to his stomach and then jumps to his throat. He doesn't want to make that deduction although it's a very clear one.
"How?" asks John breathlessly.
"According to the notes we got from Garda they were both found on the grounds of O'Callaghan's house. Each had a gun lying by her body. Moran's gun was missing two bullets and Willamson's was only missing one," says Gregson. "All three bullets were accounted for with the corresponding wounds. According to preliminary examination of the crime scene Williamson was running ahead of Moran when Moran shot her in the right ankle. Williamson went down. It's hard to specify the amount of time that passed between the first shot and the following ones but their working theory is that both bullets were fired simultaneously or within split second of each other. Moran's bullet hit Williamson in the chest, Williamson's hit Moran dead on like you can see. According to the ME Williamson could have lived for another few minutes but eventually she bleed out."
"What was the exact location of the Williamson's wound," asks John weakly.
Gregson looks at the screen and reads out, "According to the autopsy report the bullet nicked one of her ribs, passed through the liver and punctured inferior vena cava. Bone fragments from the rib caused further internal bleeding by lodging themselves into her right lung, liver, pancreas and large intestine."
The report for some reason catapults John out of his chair and before Sherlock realises what's happening John is thrusting Rosie into Greg's arms and running out of the room.
John's reaction gets Sherlock in motion and he's springing out of the chair as he's already pulling Josie from the sling. He doesn't drop her in Gregson's lap but it's a near thing and with her brows raised questioningly she secures her hold on Josie but while she does that Sherlock is past caring and already following John who is disappearing behind the big long wall on the left side to the lifts.
The blessing of NSY building is that the layout on all the floors is the same and this particular section houses lavatories.
He finds John in the men's room, in the closest cubicle to the door, kneeling over the toilet and retching.
He crouches next to him and very slowly places his right arm on John's left shoulder. John doesn't shrug his hand off so Sherlock takes it as a good thing.
"It wasn't your fault," he tells him quietly because he knows what John is thinking. "It was her choice, John. No-one made her do it. You said it yourself, no-one could ever make her do anything she didn't want to do. She killed Daisy, not you."
John stops retching but keeps his head hanging before he suddenly shifts to the right and collapses against the wall of the cubicle. His face is ashen and there are beads of sweat on the top of his forehead. His breathing is slightly irregular but not dramatically so therefore it isn't a full blown panic attack.
Sherlock kneels down in front of him and places his right hand over John's left.
"It wasn't your fault, John," he repeats.
John takes a shaky breath that could pass for an attempt on a deep one and whispers, "You aren't seeing it, Sherlock. It's my fault, all of this is my fault."