Hidden Truths

by loulouflowerpower

Sherlock/OC-Moriarty's final game is not yet over, but while Sherlock Holmes and Amelia Wilson work to try and uncover his final puzzle, life as they know it changes. A sudden death causes a rift between old friends and buried secrets are forced to light. Can they work to overcome it? Or is this truly the end?

13. Chapter 13 The Lying Detective, Part 5

The Lying Detective, Part 5

Sherlock was going on be okay, or so the doctor that had assessed him had reassured Amelia. He had been moved into a private room upstairs in the same hospital, something that Amelia planned to change as soon as possible, but she had been advised that given the delicate nature of Sherlock's condition, it would be wiser to wait until the morning to even start putting plans into motion about just what to do with him. He had managed to escape any broken bones and even a concussion, which would have severely have complicated matters already, but he was extremely dehydrated and his blood work had been found to be utterly all out of whack from weeks of barely eating anything, resulting in him being lacking in not just electrolytes, but his potassium was also found to be quite low, resulting in Sherlock requiring extensive heart monitoring and not just a normal saline drip, but a specific one for electrolyse imbalance. On top of all of that, he was finally being treated properly for his detoxing, receiving a dose of Naloxone, a medication to reverse the effects of an overdose of opioids, as well as medications to help manage some of the main, distressing symptoms of withdrawal, such as anti-nausea and calming drugs.

All in all, Sherlock had been incredibly luckily, if it wasn't for the fact that he had very nearly brought himself to the edge of killing himself with his excessive drug usage and had basically starved his body for several weeks, he had managed to avoid sustaining any real injury from his fight with John. He had a small cut on his eyebrow that had been cleansed and closed up; while he had some bruising to his face and ribs, though even that was rather minor, considering that Amelia had managed to largely hold John back from being able to fully strike him properly. Still, it was upsetting to see Sherlock in this state, Amelia had utterly refused to leave the hospital until she had finally spoken to the doctor and been reassured of his condition, she had also been forced to make the call to Sherlock's parents about what had happened, leaving out a few details to spare them the heartache, and reassuring them that he was going to be alright, that Sherlock was still sleeping peacefully from the medication that he had been given to ease the withdrawals. The main thing was that he was going to be okay.

Everything else...well, that was looking far bleaker.

Lestrade arrived at the hospital less than an hour after Sherlock had attacked Smith, his expression one full of regret and resignation, the look of a man who truly had little desire to be doing the task that had been set for him, but yet, he was. Amelia had felt for him, though she had held her ground when he had asked for her to come back with him to conduct a proper witness statement, insisting that she would not leave Sherlock's side until she knew he was going to be alright. Lestrade had agreed, reluctantly, and another hour later Amelia found herself sitting stiffly in the back of a police car, refusing to even look at John, fingers tightly laced in her lap and her head either fixed directly ahead of her to starve off car sickness, or turned to her passenger window, but never towards John. It made for a silent car ride, but she could care less. It was almost a relief to escape the car and find herself in the cool, gloomy lit interview room of Scotland Yard, sitting across the table from Lestrade.

"You're saying you didn't know what Sherlock Holmes was planning to do today?" Lestrade asked her, frowning deeply as he eyed her from over the table.

Amelia sighed, feeling sick to her stomach with exhaustion, "Of course I didn't know," she said warily, reaching up to briefly rub at her forehead...her makeup was likely already ruined, what did it matter anymore? "And if I had known, I would have called you, Lestrade, and put an end to this madness, but there was no indication that Sherlock was going to do anything like this".

His eyebrows jumped up, "'No indication?'" he repeated dubiously, giving her a look that plainly said that he didn't believe that for a second.

"It wasn't a planned thing that Sherlock was going to attack Smith," she said firmly, "There was nothing in Sherlock's behaviour that would have made me think for a second that he was about to lash out and physically attack the man, it was a moment of...passion".

"And the knife? Did you see him take it?"

She very nearly groaned aloud, gritting her teeth to hold back the urge, "No," she replied tightly, "Of course not".

"You had absolutely no idea what Sherlock Holmes was about to do?"

"No. None. No one did..."

Lestrade frowned, regarding her closely, "How could you not have known, Amelia?" he asked her with a slight shake of his head, a look of almost confusion crossing his features, "You know how he thinks better than anyone else, how could you not have seen it?"

Amelia clenched her hands together as they rested on the fake wood laminated wood top of the table, small scratches scarring the fake wood. She felt like she didn't know if she was about to throw up or burst into tears brought on purely from stress and frustration at the whole situation, she just wanted to run away and find a deep, dark corner of the world and hide away from everything and everyone, she just wanted things to all go back to how they used to be before Mary had died and their entire world had been turned upside down. She wanted to go back to the hospital and shake Sherlock, to slap him, just like John had...and as for John, well, she didn't know if she wanted to punch him more than anything else or to throw her arm around him and sob. She was furious with him, but she also felt just such utter devastation for what he had become from this entire situation, because not one of them was or had been the same as they once were. There was a divide between all three of them now and there was nothing she could do to fix it, and now Sherlock was on the brink, John was seemingly on the edge of being lost to them all, and she...she felt as if she was breaking.

"I don't know," she finally said, her voice soft, almost fragile sounding, and she lowered her eyes onto her hands, unable to look at Lestrade any longer, "I don't know how I missed it...but I did. I missed it all".

Lestrade tried to keep his expression blank, she could read it in the way that he shifted in his chair that he was trying hard not to react with emotion, how his right hand shifted against the table, how his hand briefly clenched and relaxed. Slowly, he released a small breath and reached out towards the recorder.

"End of recoding at eighteen hundred hours," he said, before hitting a button on the machine and immediately the small red light switched off. He sighed heavily, again, and slumped in his chair, "Amelia".

"Please...don't," she breathed, squeezing her eyes shut, her face twisted up in an almost pained grimace, "I can't hear anyone say that it's going to be okay right now, Lestrade. I just...I can't".

"Alright, alright," Lestrade said quickly, though his voice remained soft, almost placating, "I'm not going to..."

She released a small breath through her teeth, eyes still closed and her fingers tightening as they remained tightly laced together, until her knuckles began to hurt and her flesh turned bone white. She couldn't stop her right foot from tapping against the concrete floor beneath her, one leg crossed over the other, causing both of them to bounce. She felt as if a part of her could do little more than shift or bounce her legs anxiously, when inside she simply dreamed of escaping this room, escaping the harsh lighting that burned against her closed eyelids and no doubt cast her drained features into harsh view, her stomach rolling with nausea and her heart pounding in her chest. She felt faint and tired and overwhelmed. She wanted out of this room, out of this building...perhaps out of this entire situation she found herself in, but there would be no relief for her. No matter what, this was her life and the choices she had made had gotten her to this point, as well as the choices of those around her. Everything was spinning completely out of her control and she felt utterly lost to it all.

"Amelia," his voice was gentle and softer, almost tender with concern. She still flinched when she felt his large hand suddenly cover her own hands on the table top between them, eyes snapping open and grimacing against the intense light that immediately assaulted her again, but she still managed to focus on Lestrade, peering at her with such obvious worry, it was almost enough to send her off into a puddle of tears. Her bottom lip felt suspiciously close to wobbling, her throat constricting with emotion, and she had to stop herself from simply lunging forward and hugging him.

They had known each other for a long time, longer then she had known Sherlock or John, even, and while they might not be on coffee date terms, Amelia had a great deal of fondness for the Inspector, though she might not always express it with as much respect or affection as she perhaps ought to. He was a hard worker and willing to listen, he was also intelligent, in his own way, and Amelia appreciated that in Lestrade. She trusted him, she respected him, she viewed him to be something a little above being merely a close friend, and perhaps that's why she felt such a sudden, intense desire to break down and cry in his arms, knowing that Lestrade, while no doubt shocked by such a display from her, would merely let her cry and hold her, until she was done. But she didn't, she couldn't, not here in the middle of Scotland Yard. In another place or time she likely would have, but here, they had to stay on their own strict paths, he the Detective Inspector and she the former private detective, turned consulting detective, that helped out with tricky cases.

And that thought process is what helped her to regain the fragments of fragile control she still had to cling onto, perhaps the only thing she had left, the only strength. And bloody hell, she would cling onto that until her dying breathe.

"Are we done here, Lestrade?" she asked him, voice fragile and brittle, barely above a whisper, but she held his worried gaze.

His expression faulted and he frowned at her, his hand briefly squeezing her own, "Amelia, if you ever need to talk to someone..." he began, his voice gentle and almost pleading, as if he could sense her own thoughts.

She gave him a weak, tired smile, "Words, I'm afraid, will not help this situation right now, Lestrade," she said quietly, and a part of her was startled by how defeated she sounded, how unlike herself, but it was true. She had tried so hard to use words to solve this problem, but it wasn't her words that could fix it, it was the actions of others, she feared, "It's a lost cause".

"You don't believe that," he blinked, startled and alarmed, his eyes widening very slightly.

"Don't I?"

"Jesus, Amelia..." he shook his head, an almost stricken expression crossing his features, now. At any other time she might have laughed at how horrified he looked, as if it was positively to much for him to comprehend that she might have given up, given up on what, she still wasn't entirely sure herself, but she did feel...hopeless. He licked his lips, staring at her with a half-pleading frown, "I know it seems bad..." she scoffed and he sighed, shoulders slumping, "Alright, it is bad. I won't lie, everything's a right bloody mess and I don't have a bloody clue what to do, but I do know that you and John and Sherlock have gotten yourselves in and out of some bad spots before, you can do it again. You've got to believe in that, yeah?"

Amelia merely smiled thinly at him, listening to his words and allowing them to roll off her, words that she knew were supposed to inspire her, words that were meant to give comfort, and if she had heard them hours ago she would have found them comforting. She would have smiled happily and probably have thanked Lestrade, reassured him that it was exactly what she needed to hear and that she knew everything would be alright...but she could bring herself to stomach pretending now. Deep down, she still hoped with every fibre of her being that the pieces that had been shattered would be fixed, but she also felt as if everything had simply spiralled out of control far too much. Sherlock had almost killed someone and suffered what appeared to be a psychotic episode, though she still believed that he was entirely right about Smith, she knew that she was in hardly the best state of mind to try and prove that, though she would try, fool as she was. As for John, she believed that he was still lost and grieving, all of his fury a coping mechanism that would fade in time, but also couldn't move passed the fact that he had come so close to killing Sherlock, himself, in a fit of rage and seemingly had little regard for her own feelings. And as for her...she didn't have a clue what to believe in about her, anymore. She felt helpless and alone, but yet as if the entire world was resting upon her shoulders, looking for her to try and fix it...and she didn't know how to even start.

"Lestrade," she sighed, weak, sad smile still working across her lightly stained red lips, having licked and gnawed away what lipstick had been on them over the course of these past few hours, "Are we done?"

...

Amelia returned to Sherlock's hospital room in the back seat of a cab, having turned down Lestrade's offer to get one of his officer's to drive her. She let the sound of Sherlock's breathing lull her into a more reassured, calmer state as she perched herself on an uncomfortable, plastic padded chair by his bedside, her hands restlessly toying at the hem of her shorts as her gaze remained on his sleeping form. She had forced herself to stop fussing with the blankets on his bed, fearing that it might rouse him, though she doubted it, eyes dull and tracing his still, pale features. He looked more peaceful then he had in weeks, she almost felt as if she was looking at him during one of the rare mornings when she had woken up before he had, rolling onto her side in their bed to indulge in the chance to watch him in secret without having those knowing, sharp eyes catching her out. She didn't exactly make a habit of watching him sleep, of course, she wasn't creepy, but she did enjoy seeing how carefree and young he looked when he wasn't putting on a pretence for anyone, utterly vulnerable and trusting, trusting in her by sharing his bed with her. She'd usually wake him by pressing a kiss to his cheek, silently laughing to herself when his brow would crease in his sleep and he'd subconsciously turn his head in her direction, pressing another kiss to his nose, then his chin, and his jaw...he'd eventually reach out and wrap an arm around her waist, sending her into giggles as he very suddenly was wide awake and leaning over her, curls tangled from sleep and eyes, while still clouded with drowsiness, curiously bright and warm with affection.

God, she missed those carefree, light hearted moments.

The door of the room opened and her head snapped up sharply, very nearly causing her neck to crack, a wave of uneasiness washing over her...it didn't ease when she saw John standing in the doorway, his own eyes slightly wide in surprise at the sight of her, while by his side he held his old walking stick in his hand. Her gaze lingered on it, though she had no desire to comment on it. Apparently, John thought that it would be so easy to end his friendship with Sherlock as it was by dropping off his old walking stick while Sherlock remained unconscious in a hospital bed, partly there due to John's own hands. Amelia struggled not to scoff aloud as she turned her head back towards the bed, eyes narrowing. Personally, she couldn't help thinking it was rather cowardly to do so while Sherlock wasn't even awake, but she had little desire to cause a scene. Or another fight.

John stepped further into the room, footsteps light on the lino flooring, and came to an awkward stop at the end of the bed, gaze shifting uncomfortably from Sherlock to Amelia, who still refused to glance at him. He sighed heavily.

"Did you hear that Smith isn't going to press any charges?"

Her hands briefly flexed to cover the tops of her legs, smooth skin and cotton rubbing across her palms, "How wise of him," she said coolly, her voice flat and her gaze steady on Sherlock's still, bruising face, "No doubt he's concerned that an investigation may uncover some truth to the accusations thrown at him..."

John made a slightly strangled noise in the back of his throat, caught between a scoff of disbelief and a startled gasp, "You can't be serious, Amelia?" he seemed to be frowning, though she still refused to look to check for herself, "Sherlock was off his face when he made all those claims, he was hallucinating..."

"Hallucinating or not," she cut across him sharply, finally looking around to him, fixing him with a dark, cool glare, "I do believe that Sherlock was right to accuse Smith of being a serial killer..." she frowned deeply, looking away again as John continued to stare at her, eyes wide, "I don't have any proof, yet, but there's something not right about that man. He's...unsettling".

He was silent for a moment, his rubber sole shoes squeaking against the flooring as he shifted from side-to-side, "Creepy, you mean," he corrected quietly, his mouth lifting up very slightly as he cast her a look from the corner of his eye...but when she made little attempt to respond in kind, to smile back at him or immediately jump to agree, his lips turned down and a flicker of discomfort crossed his features. He sighed, dropping his eyes, "Amelia...I'm sorry..."

She didn't bother to stop the mocking scoff that slipped passed her lips, her eyes narrowing darkly as she positively glared at the blue, scratchy hospital blanket that stretched over Sherlock, folded neatly over the top of the crisp white sheets. She turned her head to look back up to John.

"What exactly are you apologising for?" she demanded, her voice short, abrupt and rather rude, but she didn't care, "Ignoring me for weeks when I've only ever tried to be there for you? Forgetting to even perhaps consider, for seemingly a moment, that you might not be the only one struggling with Mary's death? Or perhaps this is about Sherlock, how you would have beaten him half to death had I not practically had to hang off your back to stop you? At twelve weeks pregnant, I might add, placing myself at risk in order to stop you from doing possibly one of the stupidest things you have ever done in your life, and almost killing a man you once viewed as a brother!"

She was breathing hard by the time she had finished, now standing on her feet, hands on her hips as she glared furiously at John, but never once had her voice raised above a level, even tone, never once had she somehow managed to let her own fury and frustration consume her, until she was shouting, because she knew that once she started shouting, she'd likely never stop until John had left her line of sight. But she was shaking, hands gripping the fabric of her blazer, twisting the cotton and silk blend, until wrinkles had formed. John gaped at her, looking positively shell-shocked, and after a moment of breathing heavily, Amelia shook her head and laughed, utterly humourless, her gaze dropping onto the floor with a look of almost disgust.

"I expected so much better of you, John Watson," she murmured, practically collapsing back into the chair, her arms moving to wrap around herself, the barely noticeable swell of her stomach brushing against her arms, "You're so much better than that...we all were, once. Now look at us".

The silence that followed was deafening and heavy, almost suffocating her as she closed her eyes, still feeling the last dregs of her anger clinging to her skin. She sensed John shift closer to her chair, though he was wise enough not to try and reach out to her psychically, feeling his eyes on her, feeling the guilt and shame rolling off him in waves. He might not feel guilty for hurting Sherlock, well, she assumed he didn't, since he'd done little to suggest that he did feel that way as of yet, but she knew that he felt bad for hurting her.

"I'm sorry for all of it," John's voice was barely a whisper, full of shame and guilt, full of apology. Amelia kept her face turned away from him, "Amelia, I..." he paused, breathing deeply, and again he seemed to shift on the spot, "I didn't want any of this..."

"And yet, this is what we have," she laughed darkly, briefly tilting her head backwards, shaking her head warily, "It's all just so...fucked".

"Yeah," he agreed softly.

Amelia turned her head to look at him, then, their eyes meeting. She wasn't normally one to swear like that, she truly wasn't, she'd always considered swearing to be something of a bad habit...why swear when the English language is full of so many excellent words that can be used to express one's self? But in this moment, at her absolute limit, Amelia found herself truly lost for anything better. She could see John thinking the same thing, any surprise he might have had at her using such language that she typically left up to the boys to use, gone, instead he simply looked incredibly tired and very, very understanding. She wanted to almost smile at him, feeling as if, for the first time in hours, they were back on the same page again, but she didn't. She was too tired for that.

The door suddenly opened and they both looked over to it, only to see Nurse Cornish stepping into the room, her eyebrows lifting up in surprise at the sight of them, before a bright, warm smile spread across her lips. She softly shut the door behind her.

"Oh, hi," she greeted them.

John glanced at her and then back to Amelia, his eyes, however, seemed to catch on Sherlock and a flash of...something crossed his features, his eyes almost seeming to become stuck on Sherlock. It was almost as if he had just noticed that he was lying unconscious, hooked up to a heart monitor and a drip, as if he was finally seeing him. Amelia's eyes lingered on John, curious of his reaction. Had it fully just hit him the sense of responsibility of his own actions for Sherlock's current state? She couldn't help wondering.

"Hello, Nurse Cornish," Amelia said quietly, distractedly, eyes still on John's profile, "I know visiting hours are over..."

"Oh, I won't tell anyone," she gave her a bright grin, shaking her head happily with a conspiratorial wink at Amelia. She tried to smile, but it felt forced and weak, "Just in to say 'Hello?'"

"No," John replied, his expression growing oddly blank of emotion, gaze resting firmly on Sherlock, "I'm just in to say goodbye".

"I'm sure he'll pull through".

"He will," Amelia said instantly, strongly, though she inwardly winced at how defensive she felt as if she sounded. She glanced at Cornish, who merely gave her a warm, friendly smile, seemingly not in any way taken aback by her words.

"Oh, I'm sure," she nodded, her face full of open kindness and a warmth that likely helped put many people at ease, "And yeah, he's made a terrible mess of himself, but he's awfully strong, so must look on the bright side".

John nodded slowly to himself, a distant look in his eyes as Cornish moved to step around him, slipping around behind Amelia's chair to check the IV pump by his bed. Sherlock slept on, utterly unaware, while Amelia's eyes darted from John to Sherlock, wondering just what the old army doctor was thinking right now. He seemed curiously distant from everything, as if he had suddenly taken a large step back from it all. A defence mechanism, perhaps?

"Hmm," he seemed to hum softly, just to himself, before he finally blinked and lowered his gaze from Sherlock, his eyes landing on the walking stick still clutched in his right hand, "Well..." he cleared his throat, eyes briefly darting up to meet Amelia's gaze. He frowned very slightly and hastily looked away, turning his back on her as he walked around to the opposite side of the bed and lent the walking stick up against a second, spare chair, briefly giving Cornish a small, tight smile as he did so, "Parting gift".

Amelia's eyes narrowed on John as he began to turn away, his eye catching hers briefly. So, this really was his idea of parting ways with Sherlock, giving away his old walking stick that Sherlock had once used to prove to him that he was stronger then he thought himself to be...there was an irony in that, she supposed, though she lacked any appreciation for it, in this moment. He was a fool if he really thought it would be so easy as this to give up on everything he and Sherlock had, they were like brothers, best friends, and that sort of relationship didn't just end, but it also made her curious...just what did John consider him and her to be now? Her life was forever tied with Sherlock's, from the moment she gave birth, to her own death, he would be a part of her life...would John be able to handle that? Or was this his attempt at breaking ties with her, too? She wondered.

"Oh, that's nice," Cornish smiled, if very slightly bemused, oblivious to any true meaning or intention at the gesture, "A walking stick".

"Yeah..." John dragged his eyes from Amelia to the cane, smiling thinly, still, "It was mine...from a long time ago..."

He gestured awkwardly to the stick, Cornish merely nodding and returning the smile, if a little politely. He glanced at Amelia, but she merely looked back at him, neither moving to stand and follow him out, nor smiling at him and reassuring him that she'd just be a moment. She was leaving herself, it was quite apparent that her time sitting by Sherlock's bedside was up and that Cornish, while sympathetic and understanding, was building up to telling her to do just that, but she didn't exactly wish to leave with John. They may have worked out some of their issues; she may no longer feel the urge to throttle him in anger, but had not forgotten all that had occurred between them. She would need a little more time than that. He sighed and briefly, nodded slowly, as if understanding her thoughts, his smile slipping as he turned his back fully on her and Sherlock, on the room as a whole, and began to walk away. The phone sitting on the bedside table rang and Amelia's head snapped to it sharply, eyes narrowed and her body tensing, watching as Cornish immediately moved to pick up the phone receiver, lifting it to her ear.

"Hello?" she greeted the caller, "Ward seventy three..." she paused, listening, and slowly her eyebrows rose and she lowered the phone from her ear. Her eyes flickered over to Amelia, who sat stiffly in her chair, knowing already who was on the other end, before her gaze turned to the doorway, just as John slipped out of it moving to shut the door behind him, "Oh, uh, Doctor Watson!"

John paused mid-swing of the door, "Hmm?" he hummed, opening it again to give the nurse a curious look over his shoulder.

"It would seem we have a phone call," Amelia said quietly, just as Cornish opened her mouth to speak. She turned her head towards the man, her expression pointed and her voice flat, "The Government is calling".

He eyed her for a brief, almost blank moment, before sighing in exasperation and closing his eyes, "Mycroft".

She smiled grimly and uncrossed her legs, the top of her thigh pink from having her legs pressed together, and rose. She reached out a hand to take the phone from Cornish, who, looking rather politely confused, handed it across to her and stepped back to give her room. Amelia lifted it to her ear, turning to look back across the room to where John remained in the doorway.

"Mycroft," she said, wary, "Let me guess...the car is waiting patiently downstairs, and if we refuse, you'll make any number of mysterious threats and warnings you are so inclined towards, even though we both know that you would never be so foolish as to truly attempt to carry any of them out".

Mycroft sighed on the other end, irritation in every exhale, "You know what to do, Miss Wilson," he said, his frown audible.

She smirked and lowered the phone back down onto the cradle, ending the call. She looked back across to John and almost sighed. So, she guessed she was leaving with John, after all.

...

A black, shiny town car was waiting for them as they left the hospital, climbing silently into the back seat, John letting Amelia go first, before slipping in after her. It was a slightly awkward ride through London, the city lights alive and occasionally lighting up the inside of the car as they drove on. Amelia took the chance to close her eyes for a while, never quite falling asleep, but merely resting her tired eyes and letting the motions of the car and the engine lull her into a relaxed stupor. It was better than getting sick, though she'd only had two medium packets of chips and a can of diet Coke from the hospital for her dinner. She forced herself back into the more wakeful world when she noticed that their car was stopping more and more frequently at traffic lights, having entered inner city London, eyes darting from side window to windscreen, rarely straying over to John, who seemed to keep his gaze fixed on his own window.

They pulled up out of the front of Baker Street and climbed out, Amelia letting the car door slam shut behind her, legs instantly chilled from the sudden blast of cool wind on bare flesh and she shivered. However, her attention was immediately fixed on the man that stood guard outside Baker Street door, pretending and failing to look casual, while dressed in a nice, black suit and with a concealed gun in his pocket, hidden by any other eyes by the drape of his suit jacket. One of Myroft's men, then, and while he didn't stop them from walking inside, Amelia felt his trained eyes on them, assessing them all the while, until the door was shut.

The sound of many footsteps and movement above their heads was easy to hear from even the entrance hallway, Amelia's eyes pulled to the ceiling over head, sighing to herself as they moved to start climbing the stairs. She caught a glimpse of polished, shiny dress shoes walking across the floor of the living room through the open doorway as they rose, eyes narrowing. Just what, exactly, was Mycroft trying to do now? He hadn't even gone to see Sherlock in the hospital, instead, here he was.

"Where is she?" he practically growled through impatient, gritted teeth, and Amelia narrowed her eyes, sensing John's gaze firmly on the back of her head. Well, she doubted if Mycroft was referring to her, given the fact that he was well aware that she was presently on route in his own car, so it had to be Mrs Hudson. His tone, however, did not improve any annoyance she felt towards him. She was proved correct by his next huff, "Where's Mrs Hudson?"

Amelia stepped up onto the landing and crossed the short distant to the living room door, just in time to find a man in another well-tailored suit and glove covered hands removing a piece of string that had been strung across the room, baring a number of pictures and documents that Sherlock, in his drug addled mind, had seemingly complied together. She swiftly cast her eyes around the room, frowning at the sight of the flat positively buzzing with activity, while many other well-dressed agents worked to dismantle and tidy up Sherlock's mess. Mycroft, naturally, was not one of them. Of course not, Mycroft Holmes would rather go for a jog around Hyde Park then lift a finger to do any form of 'Dirty Work,' choosing, instead, to sit himself in Sherlock's favourite armchair, one leg crossed over the other and his umbrella leaning up against the armrest beside him, a look of impatience and annoyance firmly marking his furred features.

"She'll be up in a moment," one of the agent's, a dark haired man, nodded to Mycroft.

"Mycroft," Amelia said coolly as she stepped forward, rolling her eyes, ducking slightly to avoid walking into the string and photographs as it was being removed, though not quickly enough for her taste. She ignored the slight tugging she felt on top of her head of one of the photos brushing against her hair, but she still gained their attention and the dark haired agent swiftly stepped aside, allowing her to pin Mycroft with a stern glare, "Just what do you think you are doing in this flat?"

"Have you noticed the kitchen?" Mycroft asked in response, lifting an eyebrow and swinging his leg back down onto the ground, before moving to stand...she frowned at him, sensing John stepping up behind her, "It's practically a meth lab, which is hardly appropriate for someone in your condition to be exposed to presently, Amelia".

He smiled thinly and levelled her with a knowing, insufferable smug look, and Amelia very nearly smacked him in the face with her handbag. The temptation was deliciously strong, so strong, in fact, she actually let her bag slip from the crook of her elbow and down her arm, stopping just on her fingertips, while she positively glared daggers at Mycroft. Her other hand clenched tightly at her side.

"Don't you dare toy with me right now, Mycroft Holmes," she hissed furiously, voice tight and trembling slightly from the sheer will of not just smacking him, repeatedly, across the face and whatever other body part of his that she could reach, while she was at it. She honestly wasn't all that picky. Her lips curled into a dangerous sneer, "I am at my limit. That is your one warning".

Mycroft was intelligent enough to drop the smirk and frown very slightly at her, his eyes briefly darting down to her handbag and his eyebrows rose sharply. He sniffed and quickly looked away from her.

"My apologise," he said smoothly, reaching down to pick up his umbrella and briefly twirling it on the spot, still avoiding looking at her. Amelia just about just lunged at him just for speaking, but even she had to concede that Mycroft couldn't help that his voice made her want to be violent right now, so she let it go, but not her furious glare.

"I ask again and for the last time, before I will have out thrown out," she said in forced, barely civil, calm voice, constricted by anger and threat, "What the hell do you think you are doing invading my home and allowing your agents to pick over it without my permission?"

"I'm trying to establish exactly what drove Sherlock off the rails. Any ideas?"

Amelia actually blinked at that and found herself quite thrown, her angry glare replaced by one of slight bemusement as she stared at him, while Mycroft fixed her and John with a honestly curious, concerned, expression. She...couldn't believe him, she really couldn't, he just didn't know Sherlock at all. He thought he did, he'd probably claim he knew Sherlock better than anyone, but he failed to understand Sherlock, he truly did. She didn't know what to say, how to respond, glancing sideways to John, but he seemed caught up in staring around at the bustle of agents moving around the flat, taking down pictures, dusting for prints, slowly deconstructing Sherlock's little lab in the kitchen. She slowly shook her head and turned back to Mycroft, who still peered at them curiously and hopefully.

What bloody planet was she living on? Whatever it was, Mycroft Holmes definitely didn't come from it.

"Are these spooks?" John turned around to give Mycroft a slightly incredulous look, "Uh, are you using spooks now to look after your family?"

"Look closer, John," Amelia sighed warily, reaching up to pinch the bridge of her nose, tilting her head back up towards the ceiling. Her obstetrician on Harley Street had advised her to be careful of high blood pressure at this early stage; she wasn't doing a very good job at that.

He frowned and peered around more closely, turning to look into his kitchen, his eyebrows shooting up and his eyes narrowing as he watched one of the agent's dropping something into a plastic, zip-lock evidence bag. He shook his head slowly in disbelief.

"Hang on...are they tidying up?" he turned back around to almost gape at Mycroft.

Mycroft smiled tightly, "Sherlock is a security risk," he replied, shrugging lightly, "The fact that I am his brother changes nothing".

Amelia inwardly groaned and shut her eyes, just as the flash of a camera going off on the other side of the room briefly illuminated the room; agent's taking pictures for evidence, in her own home. Agents hunting through her own home, for evidence. Agents prowling through her home, the place she felt safe and comfortable, or she was supposed to. Sure, it hadn't been her home in weeks, not since Sherlock had decided to spiral himself into near oblivion, but in her heart Baker Street had become her home, her peace, the place she longed for at the end of a long day, and here they were. Bad enough that she had been forced from it by Sherlock, but now this on top of it? She truly could have slapped Mycroft over the head with her handbag and not felt an ounce of guilt. She felt almost violated.

"Yeah," John nodded to Mycroft, turning away from the kitchen and glancing around the room again, his voice flat, "You said that before".

"Why fixate on Culverton Smith?" Mycroft shook his head thoughtfully, seemingly utterly missing any disapproval from John, or Amelia's growing anger and outrage, "He's had his obsessions before, of course, but this goes a bit further than setting a mantrap for Father Christmas..." Amelia scoffed and rolled her eyes, before fixing him with a cool look, not that he seemed to notice, frowning, "Spending all night talking to a woman who wasn't even there".

Idiot, that was all that Amelia could truly say for Mycroft Holmes. And disappointing. She knew he loved Sherlock, that he truly had his best interests at heart, and that was the only reason why she hadn't just grabbed Mycroft by the scruff of his bloody French collar and dragged him out of her house. The only reason she hadn't smacked him and warned him to only come back when he found the decencies and feeling to truly apologise to her for this entire mess, or else she promised that she would never allow him to darken her door again, Sherlock's brother or not. She was quite done dealing with Holmes men deciding to rule her life by their own choices and actions, she was taking control now.

"Mycroft," John eyed him closely, folding his arms firmly across his chest, "Last time when we were on the phone..."

"No, no, no, no, stop," he swiftly cut across him, screwing up his face in disgust and cringing, while Amelia frowned and looked over to John, confused. Okay, what was this about? He lifted a hand to physically cut off John, who watched him carefully, and slowly wondered closer to Sherlock's armchair again, "I detest conversation in the past tense".

He stepped closer to him, eyes narrowing, "You said the fact that you were his brother made no difference," he continued, seemingly ignoring Mycroft's antics.

Amelia looked curiously from John to Mycroft. Just where was this going?

"It doesn't," he levelled John with a firm look.

"You said it didn't the last time and it wouldn't with Sherlock, so who was it the last time? Who were you talking about?"

Amelia's eyebrows shot up and her eyes widened very slightly in shock, her eyes immediately narrowing on Mycroft, who stared defiantly back at John...far to defiantly. His entire posture remained seemingly calm, his expression relaxed and smooth of emotion, but Amelia had played far too many games with Mycroft Holmes over the years, spent far too much time around the whole Holmes family, quite honestly, to not pick up the key tells of them all. Sherlock was easy for her to read now, when he had once seemed almost daunting to deduce, and Mycroft, for all his pretence of being made of ice and unfeeling, was anything but. Calculating and analytical, yes, for sure, but he felt keenly and cared greatly, for his family. The very fact, that in this very moment, staring back at John, that Mycroft showed little reaction was proof enough to her that he was thinking very quickly and trying to assess damage control over this entire situation, otherwise he would have been confused. He wasn't, he was unfeeling, closed off, guarded. He was caught red handed.

"Nobody," Mycroft said instantly, oddly still, his voice level and his expression smooth of emotion still, no hint of anything breaking through that iron wall that had come down, "I...misspoke".

"For God's sake, Mycroft," Amelia scoffed, stepping forward, until she was level with John once more, giving the elder Holmes a look full of disbelief and almost mocking, "You have spent your entire life perfecting the art of deception and politics, and you are still a terrible liar".

He gave her a pleasantly polite smile, "I assure you I'm not lying, Miss Wilson".

She laughed at that and rolled her eyes, shaking her head as she turned partly away from him, towards John, who glanced sideways at her, their eyes meeting. Again, they it might have been the old days. She smiled very slightly, though it lacked any humour, because beneath all the anger and outrage and hurt, she also felt stunned. Sherlock had another sibling...he surely didn't know about them, he couldn't. He would have told her...wouldn't he? She believed he would have, in her heart she wanted to believe that, they had spoken so much about their own pasts, their childhoods, she had told him so many details about how cruel James had been, how kind he had also been to her, at times, and he had returned that trust by sharing details of his own near idyllic childhood. How loving it had been, how his parents had cherished him and given him and Mycroft all they could. She would have known if he had another sibling, Sherlock would have told her.

"Sherlock's not your only brother," John smiled thinly at Mycroft, watching him intently, almost full of humourless amusement and disbelief, "There's another one, isn't there?"

Mycroft's gaze grew harder, his eyes briefly holding John's and then Amelia's gaze, "No".

"Jesus!" he broke into laughter, shaking his head, while Amelia eyed Mycroft carefully, "A secret brother! What, is he locked up in a tower or something?" he gave him a look full of derision.

Amelia, however, watched Mycroft carefully as the man seemed to swallow thickly, a flicker of something like panic in his eyes, though he remained silent. He didn't deny any of it, seemingly conceding defeat, so there was another Holmes sibling...how? Unlike John, she had spent a fair bit of time around Mr and Mrs Holmes, in their home, around their personal things, and they were very proud, loving parents. They had pictures up all around their house of Mycroft and Sherlock through the years, Mrs Holmes had even, much to Sherlock's horror, dragged out the family photo albums for Amelia's pleasure and spent an entire evening going through them, laughing and regaling Amelia with all sorts of lovely, sweet, childhood memories and moments about both boys. There was no hint of another child to be seen, not one single hint.

"Mycroft Holmes!" Mrs Hudson's angry shout rang through the air, and Mycroft actually grimaced and ducked his head, just as the land lady came marching into the room, frowning around at all the agents, "What are all these dreadful people doing in my house?"

Mycroft quickly lifted an open palm, placating hand towards her, "Mrs Hudson, I apologise for the interruption," he cut in hastily, and Amelia eyed him with a slightly mocking glint in her eyes. Oh, yeah, apologise to Mrs Hudson, clearly he didn't believe that Amelia meant it when she said she would throw him out of the flat, if need be. He sighed slightly warily, "As you know, my brother has embarked on a programme of self-destruction remarkable even by his standards, and I am endeavouring to find out what triggered it".

She frowned at him, slightly confused, "And that's what you're all looking for?" she asked.

"Quite so".

"What's on his mind?"

"So to speak".

"And you've had all this time?"

Amelia very nearly laughed aloud at that, seeing the truly bemused expression on Mrs Hudson's face, while Mycroft struggled to maintain an air of calm and cool, even though he looked rather frustrated to be trying to deal with the land lady...he had no bloody idea. She shook her head slightly to herself and looked away, knowing that if she glanced at the older woman's face she would surely crack and giggle, knowing just what she was thinking. She couldn't wait for this, it was one thing for her to snap and get angry with Mycroft, but she did love to see other people annoyed with him.

"Time being something of which we don't have infinite supply..." Mycroft sighed, his gaze returning to settle more firmly and pointedly on Amelia and John, seemingly trying to shut out Mrs Hudson entirely, "...so if we could be about our business?" he gave the older woman a very fake, polite smile.

Mrs Hudson giggled and slowly, his smile fell straight off his face and was replaced by a positively startled, baffled frown, while Amelia smirked. Oh, she would enjoy this.

"You are..." she continued giggling, almost snorting in delight, while John stared at her and Mycroft looked across to him and Amelia for help. Neither of them made any attempt to help him, while the land lady chuckled and almost bent in half from laughter, briefly covering her lips, "...you're...you're so funny, you!"

He blinked, eyeing her, "Mrs Hudson?"

She grinned widely, voice still laced with amusement as she glanced at John, who was eyeing her with a curious, if rather confused expression himself, "He thinks you're so clever," she waved a dismissive hand towards Mycroft, shaking her head fondly, "Poor old Sherlock, always going on about you," she smiled and turned to lightly grasp John's arm, who was smiling slightly smugly at Mycroft now, "I mean, he knows you're an idiot..." his smile slipped and he blinked, while she went on happily, "...but that's okay, 'cause you're a lovely doctor," she dropped her hands from John's arm and turned back to face Mycroft, while poor John seemed to slowly process her back-handed compliment, "But he has no idea what an idiot you are!"

Amelia did allow a smile to cross her lips at that, her gaze steady and focused on Mycroft, watching him slowly frown, regarding Mrs Hudson with obvious bafflement and seemingly debating with himself if he ought to take offence, frowning deeply at the woman. He didn't seem entirely sure what to think, while John just seemed completely thrown himself about how to react.

"Is this merely stream-of-consciousness abuse, or are you attempting to make a point?" he finally questioned, giving her a rather flat glare.

"You want to know what's bothering Sherlock? Easiest thing in the world, anyone can do it".

"I know his thought processes better than any other human being, so please try to understand..."

She gave a rather started little giggle, instantly causing Mycroft to trail off and blink, staring at her in alarm, "He's not about thinking, not Sherlock!" she exclaimed, still laughing away at the idea.

"Of course he is," he insisted instantly, giving her a rather stern glare.

"He's really not," Amelia cut in swiftly, smirking very slightly, tired, but amused eyes steady and fixed on Mycroft, who turned to give her a look full of surprise and disbelief. She lifted an eyebrow at him, "Sherlock is many things, but he is far, far from emotionless...in fact, I would very much argue to anyone in the world that Sherlock Holmes is one of the most intensely feeling people I have ever known, but the fact is that he simply doesn't always know how to express or deal with those feelings, so..." she her expression grew almost fond, "He finds a more creative means to do so".

"Exactly," Mrs Hudson agreed brightly, smiling happily at Amelia, before turning sharply around to face the wall above the sofa, "Unsolved case...shoot the wall!" she brought her hand up like a gun, pretending to shoot at it, "Pew! Pew!" she spun around to look through into the kitchen, "Unmade breakfast...karate the fridge!" she lifted her hand and mimed karating chopping the air with it, "Has a domestic with Amelia..." she waved her hand to Amelia, who tried hard not to sigh, "...plays the violin for four hours straight," she then turned and pointed her hand towards the fireplace, which Mycroft stood before, "...Unanswered question..." she glanced sideways to John, giving him a slight smile, "Well, what does he do with anything he can't answer, John, every time?"

Amelia looked curiously to Mrs Hudson, who was watching John with an oddly knowing look in her eyes, that coupled by the fact that she had very pointedly asked John that question, made her wonder if this whole little example of Sherlock and his emotional approach to dealing with things, might be something more. Why drag John into it if it wasn't so? It would make more sense to ask Amelia about it, then John, so why try and almost drawer John's attention so pointedly. She already well knew the answer, but her eyes still moved towards the wooden mantelpiece over the fire, littered and covered with bits and pieces, a picture in a silver, metal picture frame sitting slightly out of place on the end of the mantle with Amelia and Sherlock standing within the picture, Amelia smiling happily, while Sherlock stood slightly stiffly beside her with a slightly exasperated, half-smile on his face, clearly trying and failing to look as if he wasn't enjoying himself. But that wasn't where her eyes had fixed on, but rather the knife stabbed into the wood, pinning a thickly padded, white envelope into place, an envelope Amelia had never seen before.

"He stabs it," John replied slowly, eyeing the knife as he uncrossed his arms, a curious frown on his face, and moved to cross the room to the mantle, Mycroft stepping aside and turning to watch him, confused.

"Anything he can't find the answer for..." Mrs Hudson nodded, and pointed two fingers at the mantelpiece, "Bang!" she sighed slightly and shook her head, while John removed the knife from the envelope and picked it up, turning around to face them as he began opening it, "It's up there," she made another gesture towards the fireplace, "I keep telling him: If he was any good as a detective, I wouldn't need a new mantle".

John suddenly inhaled sharply and his head jerked up, his eyes wide and alarmed, immediately falling o Amelia. He stared at her, almost looking torn between worry and confusion, and Amelia eyed him closely. In his hand, partly slipped from out of the envelope, was a CD.

"John," she gave her a concerned frown, "What is it?"

He briefly pressed his lips together, before slowly lifting up the CD for them to all see, the words 'Miss Me?' scrawled it in large, black pen lettering clear across the white surface of the disk. Mycroft instantly tensed, but Mrs Hudson looked almost resigned, her eyes softening as she peered at John. Amelia took note of the land lady's reaction most of all...she had seen it already, this disk. She knew what was on it, she had seen it before, she had practically manipulated the entire situation just to ensure that it was brought to their attention, to John's attention. This wasn't about Amelia, this was about him, and she suspected that this all came back to Sherlock, like always.

"Okay," Amelia said slowly, looking back to John, "Let's do this, then".

John clearly thought this was about her brother, she could see it in the way that he hesitated, the way that he cast her and the CD a slightly apprehensive look, as if he wasn't entirely sure if that was such a good idea, but he still did it. He moved to switch on the TV and the dusty CD player that sat on the shelf beneath the flat screen, rarely used these days, save for the odd case, and inserted the disk into the player. The room grew silent as everyone, including Mycroft's men and women, all stopped in their work and came to watch from around the room, looking at the screen as Mrs Hudson took a seat before the TV, Amelia standing behind her next to John, who stepped back up beside her, all eyes on the screen. The screen was black for a moment.

"If you're watching this..." Mary's voice came over the speakers, before she appeared on the screen, sitting before the camera in a white room with windows with blinds covering them in the background. She looked quite grimly into the camera, "I'm...probably dead".

Amelia felt her breath catch in her throat and her heart drop, just seeing Mary on the screen, hearing her voice again, hearing her talking about her very own death...it was a lot. She looked quickly over to John and almost crumbled at the look of shock and devastation upon his face, and he actually stumbled back a step from the TV, practically recoiling.

"John," she breathed, reaching out towards him.

"Okay, no," John was already shaking his head, distress written across his face as he held up a hand, almost trying to physically silence the TV, "S-stop that now, please..." he turned away from the screen and walked away as Mrs Hudson quickly used the remote to pause the video.

"John," Amelia followed him, reaching out to place a hand on his back...he was shaking, she felt it the second her hand touched him, positively trembling from the effort to not completely lose all composure, and all she wanted to do was to hug him, because no matter what might have happened between them today, no matter what might have happened between them all these weeks, she only ever wanted to protect him and make sure he was okay, and the fact that he didn't immediately shrug her hand off him said so much to her.

"Everybody out, now," Mrs Hudson called suddenly through the room, and Amelia glanced back over her shoulder in surprise, finding the land lady now standing on her feet and looking sternly around the room, "All of you," she narrowed her eyes threateningly at the agents, "This is my house, this is my friend..." she pointed over to John and then over to the TV, "And that's his departed wife. Anyone who stays here a minute longer is admitting to me personally they do not have a single spark of human decency".

Silence filled the room, thick and heavy with tension, and Amelia felt a great surge of affection and admiration for the land lady, who stood tall and fierce before an entire room of properly trained spies and government agents, and Mycroft Holmes himself, and basically told them to get out. She turned around to watch as slowly they all began to shift and turn away, shuffling out of the room under Mrs Hudson's watchful gaze, none of them saying a word. She then turned her attention to Mycroft, who remained behind, and stepped up towards him, closer then truly needed, and fixed him with a startling challenging, near threatening look.

"Get out of my house," she told him in a low, almost savage voice, leaning right into Mycroft's personal space, "You reptile".

Mycroft stared down at Mrs Hudson, shock positively written across his face, and Amelia barely held back the urge to bounce across the living room and throw her arms around the older woman, truly impressed, and she clearly wasn't about to back down, glaring at Mycroft without another word, her eyes fierce and brimming with anger and warning. Amelia dropped her hand from John and edged forward, fixing her gaze sharply on Mycroft's back, when he still didn't move.

"I'd do what she says, Mycroft," she advised him, and Mycroft blinked and turned his head around to look back to her. Her lip lifted very slightly, though her gaze remained sharp and narrowed, "Or else I'll be more than happy to let you have a taste of Italian leather..." she toyed with the top strap of her handbag casually as she spoke, his eyes darting down to it and frowning. Her smirk widened, "Though, I suspect you already know well enough what that tastes like. Goodbye, Mycroft, have a lovely evening".

Mycroft's lips thinned and pressed into a disapproving line, and he held Amelia's gaze for a moment, before glancing back to Mrs Hudson, still glaring him down and holding a hand out towards the doorway. He frowned and moved to collect his umbrella from the armchair behind him, before turning and strolling calmly out of the room without any word, shutting the door behind him. It was almost as if he was trying to play it all off as his idea, though it fooled no one. Even with Mycroft and his agents gone, a heavy silence still hung in the air, and Amelia turned back to John. She watched him for a moment, before sighing and holding out her hand.

"John, take my hand," she said softly, giving him a bracing look.

"I can't..." John started to shake his head, a slightly panicked look filling his eyes, which darted quickly to the TV, Mary's image still paused on the screen.

"You can," she insisted, firmly, "And...you need to," she frowned very slightly, feeling horrible for pushing the matter, but John had gone long enough trying to shut out Mary's death. It was time he started to progress further in his grief then just being angry and seeking to blame, "John, it's time. You need to hear this, whatever it is. I've got your back, okay?"

He took a sharp intake of breath, a breath that practically shuddered his entire body as he looked close to positively just fleeing from the room, a wild look in his eyes. She could see the conflict there, but she waited, patiently, and slowly he reached out his hand towards hers, taking it. It was cold and sweaty from the stress, but she squeezed it and slowly stepped backwards, guiding him along with her back over towards the TV. She gently led him over to the chair that Mrs Hudson had sat in and he sunk into it, almost gratefully, and brought his haunted, almost fearful eyes onto the screen as Amelia moved to stand next to him, bringing a hand up to rest on his shoulder. She swallowed, hard, and looked up to Mrs Hudson and gave her a nod. Silently, Mrs Hudson lifted the remote and un-paused the video...

"I'm giving you a case, Sherlock," Mary said over the speakers, looking grimly into the camera back at them, but slowly her lips lifted into a wary little smile, "Might be the hardest case of your career, and..." she hesitated, her smile slipping and an apologetic frown crossed her face, "...I'm sorry, Sherlock, but Amelia can't know about any of this".

Amelia straightened very slightly at the mention of her, but she couldn't say she was overly shocked. She had suspected since they had started the DVD that Mary must have placed some sort of stipulation on it, hence why Sherlock had never told her about the disk, or Mrs Hudson, for that matter. She wanted to feel angry, but she just...couldn't.

"When I'm...gone..." she paused on the video and shook her head slightly, her eyes briefly darting off to the side, "If I'm gone...I need you to do something for me. Save John Watson," John shook his head and grimaced, but Amelia squeezed his shoulder, her eyes still on the screen as Mary looked firmly back into the camera, "Save him, Sherlock".

"John..." Mrs Hudson frowned worriedly, leaning slightly around Amelia to peer closely at the man, "If you want to watch this later..."

"...save him," Mary repeated more fiercely over the recording.

John, not taking his eyes off the screen, shook his head slightly, "No," he mumbled, barely audible, and Mrs Hudson slowly straightened and leaned back...Amelia gave his shoulder another squeeze and his hand moved up to cover her hand, even though he didn't turn his head to look at her.

"Don't think anyone else is going to save him, because there isn't anyone," the video continued, Mary's voice the only thing to hear in the deathly silent living room, "Not even Amelia can do it, because she won't be able to go as far as you will. It's up to you, Sherlock," she gave the camera a sad, grim smile, "Save him. But I do think you're gonna need a little bit of help with that, because you're not exactly good with people and I know you rely on Amelia to help you with that, but this time you won't be able to, so here's a few things you need to know about the man we both love...and more importantly what you're going to need to do to save him".

Amelia shook her head slowly, suddenly feeling as if her entire world was spinning and tilting sideways...it was slowly coming together. She could see the missing pieces shifting into place, repapering before her very eyes, all the questions and worries she had all these weeks started to make complete sense. Sherlock's such sudden shift, his sudden relapse, how he had so clearly pushed her away...it had all been just another elaborate plan. He hadn't just been driven to it by grief and guilt, as she had first presumed, he had calculated it. That was...insane and she felt like walking away, but she also couldn't look away from the screen, couldn't stop herself from needing to hear it all.

Mary sighed on the screen, "John Watson never accepts help, not from anyone," she said gravely, "Not ever," something sparked in her eyes, then, something knowing and fond, "But here's the thing: he never refuses it. So, here's what you are going to do. You can't save John because he won't let you. He won't allow himself to be saved. The only way to save John...is to make him save you".

Amelia inhaled sharply...Oh, God, no. Please, no. She could see the logic, it was just so plain for her now to see why Sherlock had done what he done, why he had done it, she understood it all now, and she wanted to hate Mary for doing it. Sherlock would do anything for someone he loved, there was so few people in his life that could be counted amongst those that he did love, it made those in that little circle all the more precious to him, what did his own life matter when it came to protecting those that he loved? In his mind, it didn't, nor his sobriety. If he believed that John was in danger and that he could save him, he would do it, without a second thought or hesitation, risking it all, because that was Sherlock. He didn't do anything by halves, he was either in or out, no in-between, just as his love and loyalty was absolute. She almost jumped when she felt John's hand suddenly squeeze her own and her throat tightened. Here she was, supposedly meant to be John's support, and he was still looking out for her, even while forced to endure listening to his wife from beyond the grave. If he could stand here and listen, she could too.

"Go to hell, Sherlock," Mary looked steadily into the camera, her eyes intent and sharp, staring right back at them, "Go right into hell, and make it look like you mean it. Go and pick a fight with a bad guy. Put yourself in harm's way," she gave the camera a reassuring, near comforting look, "If he thinks you need him, I swear...he will be there".

Mary flashed the camera one last bracing smile, before the screen went black and the room fell utterly silent, just the distant noise of the London traffic outside breaking through. Amelia forced herself to keep breathing, in and out, in and out, even though she felt like vomiting, her mind spinning and swirling. Slowly, her mind started to catch up with herself and her blood turned to ice.

"Oh, God..." she gasped, stumbling backwards from John and the TV, her hands flying up to her mouth as John's hand fell from her own. He and Mrs Hudson turned to look at her, "Oh, my God..." she breathed, weakly, words muffled from behind her hands, all the colour drained from her cheeks, "He's going to get Smith to kill him!"

"What?" John blinked, startled and confused, and he hastily moved to rise from the chair to stare at her.

"Smith, John!" she very nearly shouted, panic gripping her and a sick sense of terror filling her chest, nearly chocking her, her hands falling from her mouth to wrap around her middle, hugging herself, "Mary told him he needed to place himself at risk, that he'd have to make you save him! That's why he went after Smith! He manipulated this situation, ensured that he would end up getting hurt and hospitalised, placing him..." she trailed off as the true extent of Sherlock's actions hit her.

Smith...the man who had built an entire hospital, who's favourite room was the morgue, who was so obviously a killer...and who was a great admirer of H.H Holmes, the serial killer that designed his own hotel for the pure means of killing his victims through the use of secret and hidden doors. What if Smith had taken that very idea and used it himself? What if Sherlock had deduced as much and concluded that Smith wouldn't be able to help himself if he had a victim like Sherlock in his very own hospital of death? Serial killers loved to stroke their own egos and Smith was no different, to be able to murder someone like Sherlock and get away with it, right under the nose of Scotland Yard and Amelia herself, now wouldn't that just be the most perfect ego boost? And Smith was cocky enough to think that he could do it and get away with it, for sure.

"It's happening tonight," she looked back up to John and Mrs Hudson, her eyes widening in horror, a positively stricken, panicked look in her eyes, "Oh, God, I should never have left him! We need to go, now!"

"Amelia..." John called in alarm, but she had already turned away.

She took off for the door, half-hating the fact that she had decided to wear heels for once in her life as she hurried out onto the landing and started down the stairs, forced to slow and measure every footstep half a second slower than if she had been wearing flats. She heard John's hurried footsteps right behind her and relief briefly flooded her system. At least Sherlock's plan hadn't entirely failed if John had jumped into action to help Sherlock, though perhaps he was merely doing it for her sake, she wasn't entirely sure...she didn't have time to think on it to greatly. She reached the bottom of the stairs and took off for the door, throwing it open and hurrying out onto the street, her eyes immediately scanning up and down the road for a cab. Her heart dropped when she failed to see one just passing on by.

"Amelia!" Mrs Hudson called, and Amelia spun back around to find that Mrs Hudson had followed them down, standing in the doorway. She held up a set of car keys and threw them across to Amelia, who reached out and caught them in slight surprise, blinking at her, while John's mouth fell open. She merely gave her a small smile and pointed off down the left side of the street, "My car".

Amelia threw her a brilliant smile and waved the keys at her, "Mrs Hudson, you are the best!" she blew her a quick kiss and the older lady laughed, waving a dismissive hand.

She turned swiftly on her heel, determined as she spotted the cheery red Aston Martin parked a few car spaces just up the road from them, and hurried over to it, glancing at John to check that he was still following. He was, his phone in his hand. He caught her eye as she unlocked the sports car.

"Maybe I should..." he started, pointing hopefully to the car.

"John, my dad taught me to drive in his 1995 Ferrari," Amelia said without pausing in her pace, already reaching for the driver's door, "I know how to handle a sports car..." she smiled very slightly as he sighed and moved to slip around the front of the car to the passenger seat, glancing over the roof to him, "But I'll let you drive it back, if you want".

John smiled very slightly at that and Amelia grinned, climbing in behind the wheel of the car, slamming the door behind her as John got in, shutting his own door. She had the engine going before he even had his seatbelt on and was pulling out of the car spot in a matter of thirty seconds, taking off down the road at a far faster pace then she really ought to, but she didn't care about road laws right now. As long as she didn't get them involved in a cash or go to over the limit, she'd happily pay the fines and argue in court, if need be, for her licence. Sherlock's life was on the line.

"Call Lestrade, John," she said over the roar of the engine as they went speeding along, hands gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles and her heart pounding in her chest, "We're going to need him".

John nodded and quickly looked at his phone; Amelia assumed he was searching up Lestrade's number, though she didn't dare to take her eyes off the road. He brought the phone up to his ear and was silent for a moment, before slight relief sparked in his eyes.

"Greg!" he said in greeting, "It's Sherlock. Please, I...we don't think he's safe..." he paused and frowned deeply, a look of frustration briefly crossing his face, "I don't know! Something!" he sighed over the line to whatever Lestrade had said, Amelia shooting him a glance from the corner of her eye, "Mary left a message..." he briefly squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head, "It doesn't matter, Greg! Just get your man on the door to check on him! Do it!"

He lowered the phone and the screen briefly illuminated his face, Amelia swallowed, hard, tightening her grip on the leather wheel as she waited anxiously. She licked her lips and tasted salty sweat on her upper lip, even though the heater wasn't even turned on and the night was typically chilly. John sighed.

"He's going to get the officer standing guard on Sherlock's door to check him," he told her, picking up his phone and tightly squeezing it, his gaze darting from Amelia to the road ahead of them, "We're not that far off..."

"Far enough," Amelia replied tightly.

It felt like the drive went on forever, Amelia must have imagined one hundred and one different scenarios of what might be happening to Sherlock during the drive, must have pictured so many awful, frightening things that Sherlock might be enduring right now, while trapped helplessly in that hospital bed with Smith completely at his mercy. It made her want to vomit from the sick images it brought to her mind, pushing her to drive the car faster, pushing her to drive more recklessly then normal...not quite to the same level of Mrs Hudson, mind, but road rules did become more like helpful suggestions, then actual laws. The sight of the hospital entrance was like a blessing.

She didn't bother to find a car park, pulling up directly out the front of the main entrance, light spill out onto the wide pavement from the tall windows and sliding glass doors of reception. She and John climbed out quickly and she automatically locked the car over her shoulder as she and John hurried into the reception area of the hospital. Visitor hours had ended earlier and the administration staff had seemingly left around the same time, because there was no one sitting behind the front desk. Amelia glanced sideways to John, who shrugged and simply kept on walking towards the lift, and Amelia followed him, not about to complain.

They took the lift up to the third floor where Sherlock's room was and stepped out of the lift, much to Amelia's relief, and headed down the corridor to the ward door. Sherlock's room was set rather curiously the furthest away from the nurses station and just within the ward entrance, allowing them to enter the ward without any pesky nurse trying to stop them. Amelia's attention, however, was immediately grabbed by the lack of police officer outside Sherlock's closed door, the chair next to the door empty, save for the officer's hat. Her heart dropped and she picked up her pace, reaching for the silver, cool metal door handle of the closed door, but it refused to budge in her hand. Her eyes widened in alarm. It was locked.

"No," she breathed, reality fully hitting her that this was really happening, everything she had feared, it was real. She desperately shook the door handle, but it refused to budge.

"Let me," John gently pushed her aside and Amelia stumbled back, squeezing her hands slightly at her sides, before wrapping her arms tightly around herself, watching anxiously as he rattled the handle...it made no difference. His head shot up and he looked down the hallway urgently, but there was no sign of any staff to help them, no police officer that was supposed to be keeping Sherlock safe.

"Oh, God..." Amelia gasped, over and over again, finding herself actually starting to panic, her breathing growing uneven and shaky, while her knees suddenly felt weak and she had to reach out and grab the wall to keep herself up right, her mind racing...what if they were already too late? What if Sherlock had already been murdered? What if...? It was too much.

She was barely even aware of John suddenly darting up the hallway, struggling to keep her own legs beneath her and herself from hyperventilating, when he suddenly appeared back in her line of sight, a fiercely determined expression on his face and a fire extinguisher held in his arms. She stared at him slightly in amazement at how swiftly he had acted, while she was too busy practically having a panic attack, and her admiration for him briefly outweighed her own fear. He lifted the extinguisher up and brought it heavily down against the lock of the door, instantly smashing it and causing the door to spring open with a loud clang and smash of broken wood. The sound of a heart monitor alarming briefly filled the air.

Amelia eyes widened in horror at the sight of Smith hastily spinning around from the side of Sherlock's bed, a look of shock upon his face and a pair of surgical gloves covering his hands, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Behind him, Sherlock gave a great gasp of air and seemed to positively gulp down as much oxygen as he possibly could, like he had been starved. The heart monitor stopped alarming and seemed to blip more normally again, but it wasn't hard to tell what they had just burst in upon. Smith's look of disbelief and surprise, and Sherlock's desperate gasps for air told them that they had just walked in just in time to save Sherlock from being suffocated, and if Amelia had to guess, Smith had been using his own hands to do it. John dropped the fire extinguisher on the floor and it rolled away as he stormed into the room, glaring at Smith, just as the bloody police officer suddenly decided to appear, rushing up behind Amelia in a panic.

"Mr Holmes!" the officer exclaimed, stepping into the doorway, "Are you okay?"

"Sherlock!" Amelia dashed into the room, shoving Smith aside to get to his bed, her eyes frantically running over Sherlock, who gasped and struggled for breathe still. She grabbed his hand and Sherlock's fingers immediately entwined with her own, his other hand grabbing at his throat as he wriggled in the bed, his eyes lifting to meet hers as she leaned over him, looking intently into his face, "Sherlock..."

She sighed in relief, briefly closing her eyes and ducking her head, feeling as if she could finally breathe now that she could see him alive and breathing. When she opened her eyes, he gave her weak, vague attempt at a smile, before another gasp of air interrupted it and he grimaced. He was going to be alright...well, as alright as he could actually be, given how seriously ill he had driven himself to after all these weeks of abusing his own body, but he was alive and he would be able to start healing now. Judging by the still slightly panicky look in his eyes and the desperate gulps of air he was taking, chest heaving and head thrown back against his pillow, seeking as much air as he could get, it had been a very close call. She squeezed his hand and felt his fingers flex around hers, wanting to touch his face...but given what she suspected Smith had just done to him, she didn't want to accidently send him into another panic by touching his face, so she settled on just holding his hand and gripping the edge of the bed.

"What were you doing to him?" John demanded from Smith, staring at him as he stepped closer to him. Smith made a weak noise in his throat and held up his hands slowly, and John positively lost it, "What were you doing?"

His shout was loud and furious, and Amelia's head snapped up from Sherlock in alarm, just in time to see John lung at Smith and suddenly grab him, wrapping an arm around his neck and forcing him further away from the bed, a near threatening expression on his face as he practically put Smith in a headlock. Even the police officer looked rather startled and edged forward, his lips parted in disbelief and staring from John and Sherlock, as if not knowing what to do.

"He's in distress!" Smith managed to get out hurriedly, his arms flailing uselessly as he weakly tried to free himself from John's hold, "I-I'm helping him!"

"What, into an early grave?" Amelia scoffed, rolling her eyes as she turned back to Sherlock, dismissing Smith with her back, "Gee, thanks for the help, but I think Sherlock basically already had that covered".

Sherlock gave her a rather amused, if still weak look, and she returned it with a slightly harsher glare that practically threatened further violence to his person if he dared to find anything about this situation funny right now. His thin smirk clearly said that he wasn't overly concerned.

"Restrain him, now," John snapped at someone...likely the police officer, "Do it!"

The sound of shoes scuffing against the floor made Amelia glance behind her again, just in time to see the officer take Smith by both his arms, holding him firmly, back pressed against his chest. Smith gasped and his eyes widened with a wild, frantic look in his eyes as he managed to lift his hand and gesture towards Sherlock's bed.

"I was trying to help him!" he cried, the picture of innocence.

"Sherlock," John turned sharply around to face the bed, "What was he doing to you?"

"Suffocating me," Sherlock chocked out breathlessly, before weakly pointing over towards the IV stand next to his bed, "Over dousing me".

"Terribly thorough, I see," Amelia remarked darkly, shooting Smith a positively icy glare over her shoulder...the pathetic look of shock and disbelief upon Smith's face made her want to just punch him.

"On what, Sherlock?" John cut in with a worried glance at the IV bag hanging upon the hooks of the metal stand, along with the syringe pumps that were set up beneath the IV pump.

"Saline".

He blinked and threw him a confused frown, "Saline?"

"Yeah, saline," he nodded, groaning slightly as he moved to try and sit himself up, bracing himself upon his elbows, letting go of Amelia's hand to do so, breathing heavily.

"Of course," Amelia said lightly, barely blinking an eye as she reached down along the side of the bed, easily having spotting the rows of buttons to control the bed mechanics. She pressed a button with an image of the head of the bed lifting and the bed lifted, allowing Sherlock to gratefully fall back against it, panting heavily. She glanced at John, who was still staring in confusion, and sighed, "He switched the bags out, John," she explained, shaking her head lightly as she looked back to Sherlock, eyeing him closely as he briefly closed his eyes and just breathed deeply, "Let me guess...you sweet talked Nurse Cornish into doing it?"

His eyes cracked open and his lips lifted slightly, "She's a big fan," he confirmed, voice still breathless and weak, his eyes darting over to John, "Loves the blog".

"You're okay?" John asked slowly, frowning at him suspiciously...clearly believing that this entire thing was all just a complete lie, like usual. He probably thought Amelia had been in on it the entire time, too, judging by the slightly narrowed eyed glance he swept over her.

"No, no, of course I'm not okay," Sherlock rolled his eyes, shaking his head, but at least his breathing seemed to be getting better and his voice was steadier, "Malnourished, double kidney failure, and frankly I've been off my tits for weeks," he squinted his eyes dubiously at John, "What kind of doctor are you?"

"And he's back," Amelia shook her head in slight wonder, eyeing him with a stern frown.

He smirked very slightly, a rather pleased flicker crossing his bruised and battered features as his gaze lifted back to her face, lingering on her. For the first time in weeks, she could see the real Sherlock Holmes looking back at her, no drugs, no deception, just Sherlock, and his eyes seemed to briefly soften as she looked back at him. She kept her stern frown in place, not willing to forgive him, not willing to give him much more then what she had already, which was her relief that he was still alive and her comfort as he recovered from the near death moment. His eyes roamed her face and she noted how his forehead creased very slightly and his smirk slipped, a calculating expression crossing his face and slowly he dropped eye contact with her, his features smoothing out. He looked across to Smith, then, and something close to satisfaction filled his features, though it seemed...different. Almost forced.

"I got my confession, didn't it?" he commented as he fixed a steady gaze on Smith.

"Huh!" Smith blinked, his face screwing up in confusion and fabricated innocence. He pulled himself roughly free of the police officer, staring at Sherlock in disbelief as everyone turned to look at him, "I don't recall making any confession," he moved to walk forward.

"Whoa!" John hastily held out a hand and pushed it into Smith's chest, stopping him from going any further, "Whoa, whoa, whoa..."

He stopped and gave him an indigent look, eyes wide with very fake shock, "What would I be confessing too?" he questioned, shaking his head at John.

"You can always listen to it later," Sherlock said lightly, shrugging very casually, as if it was nothing of consequence to him if he did or not.

Smith blinked and turned to fix him with a rather startled frown, "But there is no confession to listen to!" he paused, then, and gave a mock gasp, briefly glancing away, "Oh, Mr Holmes!" he suddenly shook his head in mock despair, looking as if realisation had just hit him, and clapped his hands together lightly, before holding them up in surrender, "I...I don't know if this is relevant, but we found three potential recording devices in the pockets of your coat," he shook his head as Sherlock regarded him curiously, "Um, all of your belongings were searched," he glanced at Amelia and then John, mockingly grimacing, "Sorry".

Amelia eyed Smith thoughtfully, before turning to look back to Sherlock, who slowly lowered his eyes onto his blankets, his expression swiftly filling with confusion and shock. John and Smith looked to him, too, and slowly Sherlock's gaze lifted back up to Amelia, catching her eye.

"Must be something comforting about the number three," he said softly, considering it as he peered up at her, "People always give up after three".

All the colour drained from Smith's face and a look of horror swiftly replaced the fake apologetic look, realisation seemingly hitting him like a smack in the face. Amelia lifted an eyebrow, considering Sherlock with a mock thoughtful air.

"Hmm," she hummed lightly, "An interesting psychological theory, Holmes. We ought to conduct more research on the matter".

"Naturally," he agreed instantly, a very slightly pleased glint in his eye as he looked at her, before his expression grew very slightly smug and his eyes drifted away, briefly lingering on Smith, "But first..." he let his words trail off and looked directly to John, gaze pointed.

"What?" John frowned at him, shifting slightly under his eyes, "What is it? What?" Sherlock didn't say a word, but he did slowly start to smile and he bit his inner lip, almost as if he was struggling not to burst out laughing. The doctor eventually huffed out a puff of exasperated air through his lips and leaned back slightly on his heels, his eyes hardening in annoyance, "You cock".

"Yeah," he smiled happily, while Amelia grinned and lowered her gaze to the floor, amused, despite herself.

"Utter, utter cock".

"Heard you the first time," he smirked, and shifted slightly in the bed, turning his face away from him.

Amelia turned her head to watch as John looked across the room to the chair that had been pushed very slightly from the bed since their last visit, but the walking stick was still leaning against it, hooked to the top of it. He eyed it, before glancing across to her and she smiled very faintly. He sighed and rolled his eyes, almost looking frustrated as he stepped forward and grabbed the walking stick, before turning back to the bed, holding it up as Sherlock looked back over to him.

"So how...how does it open?" he waved the walking stick around.

"Screw the top".

John frowned and reached up to grasp the handle of the walking stick, giving it a little twist...it turned easily in his hand and he continued twisting it, while Smith watched on with a rather grave expression, no hint of cockiness in his face now. The handle finally came free in his hand to reveal a bright red light sitting in the top of it, and John tossed the handle aside onto the end of the bed, before carefully plucking the hidden device from the stick. The light went out.

"Two weeks ago?" he lifted an eyebrow up at Sherlock.

"Three," Sherlock corrected with a smug little smirk. If he wasn't already injured, Amelia might have smacked his arm.

His eyes widened slightly, "I'm that predictable?"

"No," he shook his head, smiling more widely, a hint of fondness crinkling the corners of his eyes. He held John's gaze for a moment, while the other man sighed and shook his head. Sherlock's eyes then turned onto Smith, "I'm just a cock".

Smith's lips parted in horror and he stumbled back slightly, gaping at the recording device still held between John's fingers, looking utterly lost and very, very caught.

"Well played, Holmes," Amelia said quietly, her eyes on Smith, "Well played".

Her heart, however, still felt hollow.

We're so close to being onto the last episode of Sherlock; I'm still kind of shocked that I've almost finished this series. Of course, I'll still carry it out through the one-shots, but this is nuts. Also rather bittersweet, I must say, since I have written this story for nearly as long as I have been on Fanfic, but that is the way of things, I suppose.

Next chapter, Amelia and Sherlock will talk, but will it be for the better or worse for them? Things are not as they once were between them, and quite possibly never will be again. I hope you guys liked this chapter, tell me what you thought. Please review :)