CHAPTER 4: A CASE FOR NEUROREHABILITATION

THURSDAY, APRIL 16, 2015

John didn't know where they had come from. When he had arrived at St Mary's, the pavement had been clear, unobstructed, and he expected no different when he left it less than ten minutes later, head bowed and eyes downcast, fighting to keep his breathing a steady five in, five out. He didn't know where he was going, only that he had to go. But suddenly, his path was blocked. Before he had finished even one round of breaths, John found himself surrounded by popping lights, cameramen, and reporters pressing microphones into his face.

'Dr Watson! Dr Watson!'

He stopped short—feet, breath, heart—and instinctively sought an exit point. There was none.

'Is it true there was an incident on Baker Street last night?'

Something jostled him sideways; his elbow struck metal. A sharp pain flared from knee to hip, and he stumbled.

'Early reports say that Holmes was taken to hospital. Is it true? Is Sherlock Holmes injured?'

'Is it serious?'

'What happened, Dr Watson? An accident? An attack? Was anyone else hurt?'

'Tell us, was the attack on Mr Holmes perpetrated by the fugitive Moran?'

'Excuse me,' John muttered, trying to push through, angling his face away from one camera only to be caught by another. Black spots on the edge of his vision were beginning to spread toward the centre.

'Could you say a few words about your blog? In March, you confirmed that Sherlock Holmes was not behind your abduction, but that you were in fact tortured beyond reason. Your words. Dr Watson, what happened in the convent?'

'Was it Moran? Did you meet Sebastian Moran?'

'Why are the details of your captivity being withheld from the public?'

John dug a hand into his pocket for his mobile, not even knowing whom he would call, what he would say. But when he brought it out, his tremor reignited and caused him to fumble. The mobile hit the pavement. He bent to retrieve it, discovering the screen had cracked.

'Many are calling you a hero for bringing an end to the Slash Man's murder streak. Others say you lured him to your home to kill him. What is your response?'

'What is the connection between Moran and Darren Hirsch?'

'Put the rumours to rest: What did he do to you?'

John put out a hand, but there were too many cameras, too many eyes, he couldn't possibly shield himself from them all. 'Go away. Please.' But his voice lacked any force.

'Sebastian Moran is the most-wanted man in Britain. Do you have any reason to believe that he is still after you?'

'Look into the camera, Dr Watson! If Mr Moran is watching, what would want him to know?'

'Do you have anything to say to your girlfriend's killer?'

'I said go away!'

John grabbed the nose of the nearest camera, perched on the shoulder of a camera man, and thrust it to the ground. He had meant only to redirect the gaze, but the operator lost control of it, and it collided with the pavement.

There were gasps of astonishment and a few people cried aloud in outrage, but the cameras never ceased to flash and roll. Having destroyed just one, John had inadvertently created a gap in the cage of reporters, and he darted through it and into the street, waving a dismissive hand at the car horns and cursing drivers. There, in the middle of the road, he spotted a taxi, which had come to a screeching halt, and held up a finger. Then he yanked open the door and hurried inside.

'You some kind of celebrity?' asked the cabbie, half alarmed, half excited.

'No.'

'Right, mate. Where to?'

'Away from here.'

Lestrade spotted Donovan in his rear-view mirror as they idled at a light five minutes away from their destination in Edgware. He lifted a hand to acknowledge her, and she nodded in return.

They parked their cars in the drive, one behind the other, and stepped out in perfect synchronicity.

'How's the arm?' Lestrade asked, pocketing his sunglasses.

She treated his question as nothing more than a customary greeting. 'You going to tell me why we're here, or am I walking into this blind?'

Keeping an eye on the front windows, Lestrade brought out a folder and flipped it open to a blow-up colour copy of the original five-by-seven photograph taken from the home of Mary Morstan and later found in the possession of a constable named Moore, who was now serving time for kidnapping, and for the death of a man named Frank Vander Maten. 'Remember this?'

'Of course I do. It's the evidence that implicated that pillock Stubbins.' Donovan took the photo, re-examining its subjects in the sunlight: John Watson and Mary Morstan in the foreground of the pub, Everett Stubbins in the background. 'Is this to do with him? Or Ivan Moore?'

'Likely. But more specifically, it's to do with this man.' Lestrade pointed a finger at the figure seated beside Stubbins at the bar, just out of focus. 'William Murray. Who lives'—he indicated with his head—'here.'

'How did you identify him?'

'John. They were in Afghanistan together.'

Her mouth fell open in astonishment, and he raised his eyebrows as a sign that he agreed.

'C'mon. Let's have a chat.'

They walked up the garden path to the front door of the orange-brick bungalow, and Lestrade rang the bell.

Under her breath, Donovan, who was still processing what they were doing, said, 'Wait, are we working under the presumption this man is a conspirator? An agent of Moran?'

'Got your stun gun handy?' Lestrade said.

'I'm serious, Lestrade, are we?'

'I'm making no assumptions, one way or the other. We're here to ask questions. Though, granted, to catch him off his guard.'

A curtain parted at the side window, and Lestrade spotted a woman's hand. He reached into the inner pocket of his suitcoat and pulled out his identification, which he presented to the window. A second later, he heard the turning of a lock, and the door opened, revealing a plump, middle-aged woman with short-cropped, greying hair, an oversized t-shirt, and flour streaks on her jeans. The aroma of activated yeast wafted over the threshold.

'Christ spare me,' she said with a sigh. 'This is about Bill, innit?'

It wasn't the greeting Lestrade had expected. 'Uh, good afternoon. Mrs. Murray, is it?'

'Frances Murray, yes. I'd shake your hand, but . . .' She showed him the flecks of raw dough on her palms. 'Come in, then. Let's hear it.'

Exchanging looks of surprise, Lestrade and Donovan followed the woman indoors, stepping over empty soda cans and around stacks of old magazines and discarded socks. The Murrays didn't keep a very tidy house, which surprised Lestrade. All the military men he had known, John included, had all been very orderly, if not downright sparse, with their living space. Not that such kempt behaviours extended to wives and flatmates. Sherlock, for example.

Mrs Murray sat them at the kitchen table, hastily clearing it of half-eaten plates of spaghetti and half-drained glasses of milk, but leaving the newspapers, children's colouring books, pencil cups, an ashtray filled with grey-and-white dust and a dozen cigarette butts, and a bowl of turning fruit. 'You don't mind?' she asked, indicating the unlit cigarette already between her fingers. Lestrade hadn't even seen where it came from; it just appeared. She reached for a lighter sharing a sugar bowl with half a dozen rubber bands and a tin of mints.

Lestrade, not opposed to a little second-hand smoke at the moment, was on the cusp of saying not at all, when Donovan stepped on his first word. 'Best not. Flour is combustible.' A white fog was practically hanging in the air. A ball of underworked dough rested on the countertop.

The woman sighed. 'Well, I'm gonna need something for this, won't I? And I'm out of vodka.'

Two children ran up to the sliding backdoor, which was streaked with greasy handprints. Giggling and screeching at each other, they reached for the door but didn't get one finger on the handle before Mrs Murray raised her voice. 'Stay outside! Go on! Now!' The children darted away. 'Sorry about that. They don't need to be here for this.'

'Mrs Murray,' said Lestrade, 'you don't seem at all surprised to see us.'

'This is about Bill, innit? And you're cops, ain't you?'

He nodded.

She shrugged, but her indifference was betrayed by the new shine in her eyes and the thickness in her voice. 'So you're coming here to tell me what happened to him, eh? So let's get on with it. He been arrested, or is he dead?'

'Neither,' said Donovan, while Lestrade, both bemused and intrigued by her response, extracted his notepad and flipped to a blank page. 'We were hoping to find him at home, actually.'

Mrs Murray's pencilled eyebrows lifted. 'Were you? Well, ain't that something. Christ Almighty, what's he done?'

Pen poised, Lestrade engaged a line of questioning. 'Why do you think he's done anything?'

'You wouldn't be here otherwise. Would you.' She stabbed the unlit cigarette into the table top, as though she didn't remember she never lit it.

'I take it, then, you don't know where we can find him?'

She shook her head, looking tired. 'No, sir. That's a question I haven't known the answer to for a while.'

'How long is a while?'

She shrugged. 'Months.'

'Have you reported him as missing?'

'He's not missing, detective inspector. For reasons of his own—reasons he's not bothered to share with me—he's just not living at home anymore."

"But you suspect he might be in trouble.'

'Until I saw you on my doorstep, I figured it was an affair.' She snorted. 'Just another one to add to the lot, the ruddy wanker. But affairs don't bring cops, do they? Usually. Yet here you are. So you going to tell me what this is all about, or what?'

Lestrade hedged. 'We believe he may have information.'

'Information.' Her voice was gruff, sceptical.

'Related to a case we're working. That's all I can say.'

When Mrs Murray continued to regard him with a chary eye, Donovan stepped in to keep the ball rolling. 'Mrs Murray, when's the last time you had contact with your husband?'

'He calls. Now and again. Doesn't talk long, never answers my questions, but he'll ring the house phone once in a blue moon. Asks after the kids. Asks how I'm managing. The bastard.' She put the cigarette between her lips, sucking lightly.

'And when was his last phone call?'

'Been a few weeks.' She craned her neck to see the wall calendar. 'Early March, it would've been. Let's see. It was morning. That's right, morning before the big snow storm. Next day, I couldn't get the car out the drive, and I remember thinking, what good is a phone call? A phone call doesn't shovel my snow. A phone call doesn't salt the stoop or scrape ice from the windscreen or keep these two brats from tearing apart my living room, being cooped up inside all day.'

Lestrade noted the date with gravity. 'What did you talk about?'

She shrugged. 'More of the same. Wanted to know if I was all right, if the kids was all right. Said he loved me. That was a new one. Hadn't heard that in a while. I told him to get his arse home and take care of his kids, like a proper father. And what does he say back to me? Kiss my babies for me, Fran. That was it. Hung up on me.'

'Did he say where he was calling from?' asked Donovan.

'Never does.'

'Do you have a number where we can reach him?'

But Mrs Murray was shaking her head halfway through Donovan's question. 'It's always blocked. Unavailable. Buys one of them disposables, you know? Probably, I mean. I don't know. I just figured he was afraid I'd call and his floozy of a mistress would answer and find out he was married.'

'When did you last see him? In person, that is?'

'January.' She was now rolling the cigarette between two pinching fingers, rubbing it down until the ends began squeezing out and flaking off. She was anxious. 'Maybe I shoulda seen it coming. Him going AWOL, that is. He hadn't been right for ages, but recently, it had just been getting worse and worse.'

'What was getting worse?'

'His moods. Episodes. PTSD, whatever the hell it was, he never saw anyone about it.'

'What do you mean? What was he like?'

Mrs Murray drew up her defences. 'You have to understand, detectives, I know that man better than anyone. Knew each other as teenagers. Even back then, I knew I was going to marry him. And things were good. We were good. I didn't want him going to Afghanistan—he was a CMT with the RAMC, see—and I told him so. His father had just died, and he inherited some property and a little windfall, and I told him, now we can start a future, a proper one. Get a job in a surgery or hospital, right here at home. Ride high on the wave, you know? But Bill, he had his mind set on going. And he said when he shipped out, he said we were strong enough to last the distance. Come what may. So he comes home, and we get married, and I get pregnant, and I think it's all going to be good, you know? But war messes with a man's head. I didn't let myself see it, let alone say it. But when he came home, I knew he wasn't the same man who had kissed me goodbye.'

'Was he violent?'

'God no. Not with me, not with the baby. Not when the second one came along. He just got into these black moods sometimes where he wouldn't talk, couldn't stand to be in the house, just closed me out completely. Early on, he tried to hide it behind this mask of false cheer, it drove me insane. Bill can't fake a smile. Eventually, things seemed to be getting back to normal. Like he was getting over it, or through it, or whatever it was he needed to do.' She sniffed. 'Then I found out he was just looking for comfort somewhere else. With someone else. Lots of someone elses.'

The cigarette was practically disintegrated, leaving behind a yellow stain on her fingertips.

'Jesus, it was months and months of that. But we were working through it, you know? He made me promises. I thought he was keeping them. Then, last year, he started getting, I dunno . . . jittery again. Couldn't sleep. In and out of bed all night, it drove me mad. Didn't eat much. He was biting his nails down so much his fingers were raw and bleeding all the time. Started drinking like a sailor. I kept saying, Bill, you're killing yourself, you need help! But when had he ever listened to me?' She fixed Lestrade with an imperious eyes. 'So is it really so strange I would think him dead when coppers show up on my doorstep?'

The page of Lestrade's notepad filled, and he flipped it to keep going. 'I'm going to need you to be a little more specific about the time line here, Mrs Murray.'

'Frances. Please.'

'Frances. You said, last year he started getting jittery. When last year?'

She thought, closed her eyes as though to see better, but shook her head. 'I dunno. Summer? Early summer? I dunno.'

'What do you mean by "jittery"?' Donovan asked.

'Nothing crazy, nothing to call a paddy wagon about. But you know. Little things. Like I said. A woman has a keen sense for when something's amiss, and holy hell, the house reeked of it. Something was wrong. But I couldn't tell you what. Then he disappeared for two days in October, and I really thought he had offed himself. I did phone the police on that occasion. But he came home on his own.' She snorted and looked out the window. 'Yelled at me for calling the coppers, said I was overreacting.'

'October,' Donovan repeated, and the significance wasn't lost on Lestrade.

'That's what I said.'

Mrs Murray leant two elbows into the table, massaging her temples with her middle fingers.

'And he didn't disappear again until January?'

She nodded. 'He was already in a bad way. All throughout Christmas, he was hell. Snapping at me, snapping at the kids. The slightest upset would set him off. Then an old army buddy of his died. I think that's what cracked him. It was on the morning news. Suddenly, he was out the door and . . . that was it.'

Lestrade scratched the words death of colleague into the pad. 'Died in combat?'

'Worse. Bloke was murdered.'

His pen stopped scratching. 'Oh?'

'Awful thing. Strung up in a tree, I heard. One of those Slash Man killings.'

Donovan started. 'Sam Jefferies?'

Mrs Murray gave an affirming nod. 'Shook Bill pretty badly. I saw it on his face.'

'Your husband knew Sam Jefferies?'

'That's what I said. Mate from his army days. Why?'

Lestrade quickly reviewed everything he knew about Sam Jefferies of Hackney. He knew the man had also been CMT. Upon returning from Afghanistan in 2008, he had worked as a paramedic, but mental instability had eventually led to homelessness. Jefferies fitted the profile of other men Moran had selected as victims or perpetrators, but loosely, and eventually it had been revealed that, more than anything, he had been chosen to die because of his name. His initials. Other than that, there was no apparent connection to ex-soldier Moran. Nor, he had believed, to John Watson.

But now, Bill Murray. How did he fit this strange picture?

He sidestepped Mrs Murray's question with one of his own. 'Did Bill ever talk about John Watson?'

Mrs Murray seemed to sense larger schemes at work—Lestrade could see it in her eyes. Mention of Sam Jefferies, and in the next breath the Slash Man and John Watson?

'Oh lord,' she said. 'Something has happened to Bill, innit?'

'Was he aware of what happened to John last October?'

'Well, I—' She looked distressed, and at a loss for how to answer. 'It was all over the news, wasn't it? You'd have to be blind and deaf not to know about it.'

'But did Murray talk about it? He knew John, after all. He must have talked about it.'

'Not with me, he didn't. They were friends, back in the day, but as far as I knew, they weren't close. I never even met John, and I don't think Bill had seen or spoken to him for years.' She paused, then seemed to remember something. With closed eyes, she shook her head. 'But when he went missing . . . I read about it in the paper, you know? And to Bill, I says, you don't think that's the same John Watson, do you? And Bill, he says, no, no, there are dozens of John Watsons. But then it comes out that it is the John Watson he knows, and I told Bill, I says, it's John! Your mate John Watson! And before you know it, we're reading about what had happened to him, you know, things like kidnapping and torture and Sherlock Holmes, and Bill, he doesn't say much, but he says, I should have let the bastard die.' She rushed to explain. 'That is, when he was shot. In Afghanistan. So he wouldn't have had to go through all that. You know. You know what I'm saying? That's all he meant.'

'I'm sure it was,' said Donovan.

They continued to probe for details about Murray's behaviour and activities, to suss out information about past haunts or offhand but meaningful comments. They tried to link Murray to Moran. But when it became clear that Mrs Murray had nothing more to offer, they conceded that it was time to go.

'Thank you very much for your time, Mrs Murray,' said Donovan, rising. 'We should let you get back to your baking. Lestrade.'

Mrs Murray stood too, anxiously wringing her hands. 'Is he in trouble, then? In danger?'

Slowly, Lestrade put the notebook away. 'Let's not jump to the worst. I'm sure he's fine.'

'Because he's dead. The Slash Man, yeah? He died.'

'That he most certainly did.'

'But will you still be looking for my Bill?'

Pulling a card from his pocket, he passed it over to her. 'If you think of anything else. Or if you hear from him. You just give me a call, okay?'

She nodded numbly, a flour-dusted hand accepting the card. Lestrade wondered how long before it was lost in the detritus.

The server stole the bowl of sugar packets and creamers from an empty adjacent table and placed it between the two steaming mugs of coffee. 'Anything else?'

'This is fine, thanks,' said Lestrade, helping himself to a creamer, and the server flashed the obligatory smile and left them to themselves.

'Well," said Donovan, leaving her mug to cool, 'if she wasn't suspicious as all hell.'

'Mm.' Lestrade stirred the creamer into the coffee.

'What are you thinking?' she pressed, never one for small talk. 'This Murray fellow, victim or perp?'

'Too early to say.'

'My money's on perp.'

'Oh?'

She nodded sharply, then rested arms on the café table and leant in. 'Man appears in a photograph with Everett Stubbins, a known conspirator. He's a former military compadre, but he doesn't say a word to John that whole night. Then, he pretends not to know or care about a missing John Watson—'

'Pretends?'

'Of course, pretends! I hear that a John Smith has disappeared and it makes the news, and I think about every John Smith I ever met! For months, the man is jittery, unsettled, moody, distant. Sounds like guilty behaviour to me.'

'Or fear.'

Donovan's jaw set squarely, but she didn't reply. It was her way of acknowledging an alternative.

'Whatever he is, he's connected. The question is, how? How? What does he know? Why won't he say? Why did it take Sam Jefferies' death to scare him into hiding?'

'And how do we pull him out?'

He pointed his spoon at her and gave her a meaningful look. 'Exactly.' Then he set it down on top of his serviette, blew over the rim of his mug, and sipped. The heat scalded the tip of his tongue. 'Make it a priority, yeah?'

'Just me?'

'I need you running point on this. Assemble a team, delegate tasks, the whole tamale. The sooner we find Bill Murray, the sooner we get answers. Probably to questions we haven't even thought to ask.' In his mental list of priorities, he moved a review of the Sam Jefferies murder to the front of the queue.

Donovan placed a finger alongside the mug, gauging the temperature. 'And you?'

Lestrade was going for a sugar packet now. 'An attempt was made on the life of one of the most powerful men in Britain. I think I'll have my hands full.' He ripped the packet and poured the crystals into his coffee. 'Ultimately, I think we'll find we're still working the same case, just from different angles. So keep me up to date, yeah?'

'I expect the same from you.'

'Of course.'

'Good. Let's start with this mystery woman, then. Anthea.' Donovan at last picked up her mug, and over the rim her piercing stare matched the shade of her unsweetened coffee. 'Everything you know about her, and what you think happened last night.'

For a few seconds, he let the silence drag out. It was no longer a question of how much to share. Not with Sally Donovan. This was a woman who had proved herself more capable and trustworthy than any other officer he had ever worked with. She was smart and tenacious, discreet when he needed her to be discreet, and bold when he himself did not feel bold. He felt lucky to have her at his side, especially now that Mycroft Holmes was out of action. It was as though the general had fallen, and before he was ready, he was thrust at the head of the army to lead the assault, only to find that Donovan had followed him to the front line, musket at the ready and awaiting the order to charge.

He picked up a menu.

'This may take a while,' he said. 'Might as well order a sandwich.'

She was almost to the lifts—juggling jacket and satchel in one hand a coffee and keys in the other—when she heard her name shouted from the conference room.

'Michaela!'

Nearly dropping her coffee, Michaela Warner stopped short and spun around, angling back the way she had come. From outside the conference room's large window-walls, she could see Larry Heinrich standing hands akimbo, watching the mounted TV screens, along with three other reporters. Dodging interns and copyeditors, she pushed into the conference room to join them.

'Why are we only hearing about this now?' Mr Heinrich threw an arm at the TV.

Michaela took a few seconds to get her bearings. CTV News London on one screen, the BBC on another, ITV on the third, all running footage of the same event: John Watson being hounded on the street by reporters, John Watson trying to turn his face away from the cameras, John Watson losing his temper and attacking a cameraman's equipment. And at the bottom of the screen, scrolling by at an urgent pace, the breaking news: Attack on Baker Street lands Sherlock Holmes in hospital. Snippets of the report struck Michaela's ears:

. . . Sherlock Holmes fighting for his life . . .

. . . no rest for the private detective . . .

. . . distraught partner John Watson lashes out . . .

'The Sherlock Holmes story is your story, Michaela. Breaking news, and you're still in the building?'

Her mouth fell open, not sure what to say. This was the first she had heard about an attack on Baker Street! 'I was on my way out the door,' she protested. 'I've an interview scheduled with one of the jurors, Matilda Wil—'

'Oh no, you haven't!' barked the editor-in-chief. Mr Heinrich's face had gone purple, a mixture of aggravation and excitement that only a news chief could express to its fullest capacity. 'You're getting on this story! You pull your magic strings and get the real story, the story no one else is getting. Tap your contacts. Talk to whoever you have to—police, doctors . . .' His eyes brightened with a thought. 'You get a statement from John Watson himself, and I'll promote you to senior reporter before next pay day.'

'I—'

'Don't just stand there looking like it's your first day! Get out there! Go! Get me that story!'

Having no more need of caffeine, she dropped her coffee on the conference table and near as bolted to the lifts, using her freed thumb to start scrolling through the news briefs on her phone. Two minutes old, twelve minutes old, twenty-one. Still new, still fresh, all repetitions of each other. She wasn't too late. There was still time to claim the story.

Friday, April 17, 2015

The doctor had just finished giving his orders to the nurse for the next twelve hours of care. At last, he addressed Sherlock, who stood anxiously on the other side of Mycroft's hospital bed.

'One of our primary concerns,' he said, 'is getting him to breathe on his own. The cardiopulmonary bypass was successful, and he seems to be responding well to the charcoal haemoperfusion. His blood pressure, heart rate, and oxygen levels are still being controlled for, but I'm optimistic on those counts.'

'How long until he wakes?' Sherlock was trying not to fidget, but he ceaselessly drummed his fingernails into the skin of his palms.

'We'll start weaning him off the sedatives and opiates after a full seventy-two hours and see how he responds. But it may be longer, especially if he's not breathing on his own. The damage may be more extensive that we originally assessed. Like I said, Mr Holmes, I'm optimistic. But I make no guarantees. It would be best if you were prepared for, well, all possible circumstances.'

All possible circumstances shimmered before his face: full recovery was dimmest, overshadowed by the likelihoods of brain damage, paralysis, and—

'Do you know if your brother has an advance directive?'

Sherlock blinked. 'What?'

'A living will. There's no need for it just yet, or for a while. But if it comes to it, we should know how to proceed, and you'll need time to prepare.'

'Prepare,' Sherlock snapped. 'You want me pull the plug on my own brother?'

'I don't, Mr Holmes.' The doctor nodded to the insensate man between them. 'But would he?'

It had been forty-two hours, and Sherlock hadn't slept. Instead, last night he had paced, and waited, and wrestled with his guilty conscience for having landed Mycroft in hospital and driven John away. Now, he sat glaring, arms folded and one leg crossed over as he waited impatiently at Mycroft's bedside, where he had been since morning, when the nurses had allowed him back into the ICU.

'You're an arsehole, you know that? A moron, to land yourself in here, and a bastard to stay. An utter arsehole.'

He lifted his eyes to the monitors but detected no change. The machines continued their mechanical tune, uninterrupted.

One of the nurses had suggested he talk to Mycroft, despite his vegetative state. It wasn't that he was unfamiliar with the literature. Neurorehabilitation was a well-established therapy in which, it was believed, the sound of loved ones' voices registered in the long-term memory and language centres of the brain, stimulating awareness and speeding recovery. In other words, waking up. Since studying it in recent months, at a time when he was curious about the effects of one's voice on a sleeping individual, Sherlock had even indulged the foolish belief that it was hearing Sherlock's voice that had brought John out of his post-convent coma. It had certainly helped with the dreams.

So he did not doubt, necessarily, that it might be effective now. It was just, he hated doing it. Like this. He hated talking to those he loved as they lay defeated on his account. Too often, he found himself at the bedside of the dying.

He wanted Mycroft to quip back, roused by his insults and ready to spar. Instead, he lay insentient, pale and poisoned, a poor visage of the hale, indestructible demigod Sherlock had both resented and strived to impress for the whole of his recollection.

'Bloody barmpot,' he tried next. 'Corpulent codger.'

Nothing.

The day was aging. Visiting hours had expired, but they hadn't asked him to leave. It was understood that his was a special case. There was security and surveillance of higher calibre than there'd been twelve hours ago, and Sherlock had not slept properly since his midnight arrival, but there was no removing him. So when they weren't testing Mycroft's blood for traces of the aconite or changing the catheter bag or recording the monitor readings, they left Sherlock alone at his brother's side.

'You know,' he said, bringing joined hands to a point just above his chin, 'you should never have left your lofty tower to dabble where we mere mortals play. How imprudent. You were supposed to be the smart one.'

Quite unaccountably, his lip began to quiver, and he covered it with a hand and squeezed his eyes shut until the moment had passed. Then he lowered his hands to his lap where one latched itself to the other and began to scratch. He noticed, wrenched his hands apart, and shot to his feet.

'Damn you, Mycroft,' he seethed. 'You're better than this. You're better than her! You don't get to leave now, not like this. I need you. There. Are you happy? I said it. I mean it. I can't fight them on my own, I'm not clever enough. I'm not strong enough. I'm not enough. I thought I was, and I was wrong. You said . . . you said I should have come to you. When I was dead. For help. And I said I didn't need your help. But it was a lie. I knew it even as I said it. I just . . . I couldn't, Mycroft. I was dying out there, Moriarty was defeating me every day, and I couldn't turn to you, I couldn't tell you I was alive, I couldn't show you just one more way I had failed and disappointed you. I know I'm not . . .' He shook his head, regretful. 'I'm not who you wanted me to be. I don't know if I can ever be that. But I still . . . need you.'

His hand was on Mycroft's arm, just above the wrist and mindful of the cannulas and blood pressure monitors. The skin was cool and dry, no longer fevered, but there was no reaction to his touch, no jumping skin, no twitch of a nerve. But beneath his fingers, Sherlock thought he felt a ridge along the skin.

He looked down. A line of red looped Mycroft's wrist, chafed red as though by thin, metal wire. His eyes snapped to the other arm and found the same redness, the same swelling. It had not been there before. Hurrying around to the other side of the bed, he took up the arm to examine it more closely, but his vision was blurring with tears. 'No,' he breathed. 'It can't be. It can't.'

He looked at Mycroft's face to find his lips cracked and scabbed, nose off-centre, bruises scattered across the skin. And then a spot of red, bright and wet, in the centre of his chest. It bloomed larger, rapidly soaking through the hospital gown, until it revealed a pattern: the letters IOU, bleeding into one another, one great crimson stain.

Sherlock thrust his hands over his brother's chest to stop the bleeding and cried out, 'Help! A doctor, now!'

The door flew open, admitting first the security guards, then a nurse, and at last the on-call doctor.

'He's bleeding! He's bleeding!'

'Please step back, Mr Holmes.' The doctor rushed to Mycroft's side, and Sherlock fell back several steps as the nurses crowded in.

'God, help him,' he whispered.

'Where? Where's the bleeding?'

Sherlock blinked. 'What?'

One of the nurses turned from the monitor. 'Haemodialysis readings are stable, Dr Freiburg.'

'Ventilator output normal,' said another.

'Any new brain activity?'

'EEG pattern holding for the last five hours.'

Sherlock looked down at his hands. Dry. Uncoloured. And then at Mycroft again, surrounded by nurses and doctors—still wan and ghastly, but otherwise . . . untouched. There were no marks on his face, no chafing of his wrists, no blood smeared across his chest. It hadn't been real.

'I thought . . .' he began.

'Mr Holmes, you look unwell.'

One of the nurses took his arm and started walking him to the door. In a stupor, he allowed himself to be led away, but he watched Mycroft over his shoulder until the door swung closed behind him, and the guarding officers resumed their positions.

'Have you eaten today?' she asked him, guiding him out of the ICU.

'No.'

'Drunk water?'

'I don't remember.'

'When was the last time you slept?'

He couldn't think well enough to answer. The wrists, the blood, the scars—how could he have imagined all that?

'Mr Holmes, I'm going to ask your boyfriend to take you home so you can eat and rest up. Okay?'

Her words jarred some of the dust from the shelves. 'What?'

'He's been in the waiting room for hours. Said not to bother you.'

'John? He's not exactly . . .'

'Excuse me,' she said, correcting herself. 'Partner.'

They reached the waiting room, and she let go of his arm. John was sitting alone. The overnight bags were tucked under a chair, and the cane was back. Sherlock was sure he hadn't brought it with him the first time. He must have returned to the flat.

John's head came up, and his eyes widened when he saw Sherlock's face.

'Sherlock?' Rising swiftly to his feet, he limped over, looking anxiously between Sherlock and the nurse. 'Mycroft, is he—?'

'He's fine, Dr Watson,' the nurse said, giving Sherlock's arm a gentle pat to reinforce for whom the reassurance was really meant. 'We're taking real good care of him. But I think it's time Mr Holmes went home and slept.'

John nodded once, and she took her leave of them. Sherlock watched her go, wanting to follow after. It wasn't right that he should leave Mycroft alone, nurses or no nurses, guards or no guards. It was too risky, he was too vulnerable, and what if something were to happen while he was gone? What if he slipped away suddenly, or what if he awoke and needed to tell him something? What if the stranger returned, an assassin, and no one saw him in time, no one stopped him?

'Sherlock.'

John touched his arm, drawing his attention, a slow turn of the head.

'What happened? You don't look so good.'

'I . . . I don't know. I'm just . . .'

With a soft look of understanding, and without pressing him for more answers, John nodded again. 'Okay. We should go. Yeah? Unless . . . Do you want me to stay? I'll stay.'

But he flinched against the thought. He couldn't articulate why, exactly. Leaving John behind was logical, practical even, and an answer to why he had not allowed himself to leave. Mycroft wouldn't be alone. Someone he trusted would be here, just in case. And yet . . . Sherlock needed John, too.

Without his saying a word, John understood. 'Right,' he said. 'I'm going to call Lestrade. He'll make sure Mycroft isn't on his own, that he's safe. And you and me . . . We need to go home.'