CHAPTER 5: THE LAST DOMINO

SATURDAY, APRIL 18, 2015

When the knife plunged and the blood burst from a slit throat like a fountain, John awoke with a jolt.

He flung the smothering duvet so far it landed to the floor. Then he swung his legs opposite, planting them apart and doubling over, feeling the need to vomit, a powerful wave of nausea traveling from toes to gut to throat. His mouth stretched and stomach clenched. He retched, but nothing happened. Again, and the same. Chills replaced the flushing heat in the space of a racing heartbeat. Trembling, he clapped a hand across his mouth and waited for the images to recede and the fit to pass.

John breathed.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

The front and back of his t-shirt were both soaked in hot sweat, and though his skin was still feverish, the sharpness of night air against his wet skin made him shiver.

Push past it, Watson. Restore normalcy. Get up and move.

John made two attempts before he managed to stand, legs still shaking. Glancing at the clock, he read the early morning hour: 02.29. He hadn't been asleep for very long, then. But he should have anticipated this, exactly this. A new attack, a blatant threat, stressful encounters and reignited anxiety—it could only lead to nightmares.

The pain in his leg also reignited, but he ignored it and didn't go for the cane. Instead, by the glow of the night light plugged into a power point near the bedroom door, he hobbled over to the sliding door, twisted the handle, and stepped out onto the fire escape where a rush of fresh air cooled his skin and cleared his airways. Again: one, two, three, four, five. And again, deep breaths, born in the belly. He let the chill wash over him and dispel the nausea, and only when it had passed and he could no longer keep the shivering at bay did he return indoors and close the door again, twisting the lock. Then he tugged the cord to turn on a dim lamp.

It still startled him, sometimes, the room as it now was. It was like living in a hotel room, a stranger's room, not his own. But he supposed the sensation that it didn't belong to him would pass, in time. It was half welcome, half not. He was grateful, he really was, for Dr Thompson's solution and Mycroft's redesign, joint efforts to keep him from reliving the nightmare attack that had taken place within these four walls not six weeks before. For the most part, it worked. He had not been driven from his home by the memory of the man who had abused and beaten and degraded him so thoroughly, and he felt empowered whenever he spent a night here without incident. But he still stopped short upon crossing the threshold, its unfamiliar arrangement and colour palette reminding him of exactly why it was unfamiliar; that is, why it was made to be so.

More importantly, Mycroft couldn't redesign the inner walls of his mind, and in sleep, he returned there. And if not to his memories of the Slash Man throwing him upon his own bed and looming over him, then to the convent, and the hellish things that had transpired there. When he closed his eyes, blood flowed liked a river.

He kept them open. His anxiety was a strong five on a ten-point scale. He didn't want to push into the red zone.

Above the dresser, he caught sight of himself in the mirror, and beside the mussed up hair and haunted eyes, he noticed the wet ring darkening the collar and spreading to his stomach. The jersey cloth stuck to his skin, in front and in back. That's when he felt the perspiration dripping down his chest and dampening his armpits. Turning away from the mirror, he pulled the sweat-soaked t-shirt over his head and tossed it to the laundry. Then he padded barefoot to the wardrobe for a fresh one, but waited to put it on until his skin dried.

He was incredibly thirsty.

Mycroft had fitted his bedroom with a mini fridge, and John stocked it with water bottles. He grabbed one now and sucked it down so fast he was gasping for air by the time he had emptied it. His thirst was slaked, for the moment, but sleep had fled. He was wide awake, restless, and needed to calm himself down to a four at least. He couldn't do that here. So he left the room for the kitchen downstairs. Three o'clock wasn't too late, or, for that matter, too early, for a strong cup of tea.

He half expected (or maybe hoped) to find Sherlock in the sitting room when he reached it. A single lamp had been left on, but the room was empty, and silent, the violin tucked away in its case and the computer screens dark. It was unfair of him to wish Sherlock were not sleeping, when it was Sherlock who so badly needed it. But John couldn't deny that he wanted the company, just now. Just to dispel the ghosts.

Letting the sitting room lamp serve as his light, he proceeded to the kitchen, still counting his breaths, as he silently set the kettle. He stood at the sink, rubbing his eyes, breathing into his hands, and listening to the hiss of the electric kettle as the water began to steam. But something distracted him. From the direction of Sherlock's room, he heard an arrested shout, a high-pitched moan, like a whimper or a shaky sob. His head snapped around.

Swiftly, he limped bare-footed across the linoleum and down the hallway, looking for the thin line of light outlining the door to indicate that Sherlock was awake, but the hallway was as pitch. He didn't knock, didn't call out, just reached for the door knob and pushed into the bedroom.

Sherlock lay in bed, swathed in blankets. Curled on his side with his back to the door, he appeared to be sleeping. But then John saw his leg jerk beneath the covers and his shoulders cringe, and from his mouth, pressed into the pillow, he heard the fearful shout again. Dreaming.

John hit the light, but when the sudden change in environment didn't snap Sherlock awake immediately, he switched the light off and tried again. He flicked it three times before Sherlock gasped and flung himself onto his back, eyes wide and wakeful. Only then did John fully enter the room.

'You're all right,' John said soothingly, coming to the edge of the bed. 'Just lie still a moment. Catch your breath.'

Sherlock's wraithlike skin shone with sweat. He flung an arm across his eyes to block out the light while he struggled to maintain deep, even breaths. He licked his lips, then pursed them together to keep them from trembling. Though half his face was obscured, John watched the colour in his cheeks change from white to red. He was ashamed to be seen like this.

'Water,' said John. 'One second.' And he left to give Sherlock a moment to recover himself.

When he came back, a tall glass of water in hand (he had turned off the kettle, deciding he had no need for tea after all), Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the bed, hands on knees, bracing. But he accepted the water and drank it all down.

John took the glass back, set it on the nightstand. Then, judging Sherlock would not object, he sat beside him. The dip in the mattress leant their shoulders together.

For a long moment, neither man spoke. It was enough to just sit side by side, while the visions that beset them drained into memory where they belonged. But then John noticed that Sherlock's gaze was fixed on John's hands, his wrists, which rested in his lap. He resisted the urge to cover them, and when he didn't, Sherlock hesitantly reached a hand over and traced the scar with a thumb. John let him. Then, almost inaudibly, like he didn't mean for John to hear, Sherlock whispered, 'Just a dream.' Then he withdrew his hand.

'You want to talk about it?'

'No,' said Sherlock softly. His gaze fell away, and his hands slipped to hang between his knees, hiding.

'Okay.'

'John.'

'Yes?'

But Sherlock seemed not to know what to say. In the ensuing quiet, John wondered whether he should say something himself, question him, press him, or just leave. It was hard to know what Sherlock wanted, or needed, most.

From personal experience, he thought he understood the conflict. After terrible visions and waking nightmares had done their damage and slinked off again to the shadows, John craved both solitude and company, and for a long time, he had believed those two things incompatible. But they weren't. Not really. When it came to Sherlock, somehow, inexplicably, having him near at hand, and only him, rendered John both solace in solitude and comfort in company, all at once. Sherlock's presence didn't disrupt his privacy, and yet it was still a presence. He supposed, in a moment like this, just maybe, he was the same for Sherlock.

Nevertheless, Sherlock had yet to reach such a realisation. After several long, quiet minutes, self-conscious, he murmured, 'You don't have to stay.'

'Would you rather I go?'

'No.'

'Well then.'

'You changed shirts.'

John smiled, just a quirk. Of course, Sherlock would have noticed.

'You too, then.'

'Yeah. Me too.'

'Look at us. Messes, the lot.'

'That we are.'

'John.'

'Yes.'

But again, Sherlock had nothing to follow it up with. There was a question in there somewhere, a conversation waiting to happen, but he couldn't seem to find the way forward. Maybe he didn't want to give it a voice. Or maybe he didn't even know what it was. But then, after another long silence, Sherlock ventured to speak, though softly, like he was treading through broken glass.

'What was it like for you when Harry died?'

John should have anticipated this, enough to brace. But as it was, the question rocked him. He tried not to let it show, and the only evidence for the strike to the solar plexus was the heart that forgot to beat. A long, slow sigh of air pressed from his lungs. Of course, such a thing would be on Sherlock's mind tonight. Maybe he should have brought it up first. But it was never easy, talking about Harry.

'It was,' he began, fumbling helplessly for a word that could capture it all; but failing that, he ended up stuttering the most obvious of them all: 'hard.'

'How did it happen?'

Sherlock knew the broad strokes of it. A night drinking. A car crash. But, John supposed, that wasn't really what he was asking.

'Oh, you know how it was with Harry,' he said with a sigh. 'She'd been fighting depression for years. Not to mention alcoholism. The two are so often bosom pals. But she wouldn't let me help. She wouldn't let anyone help. She never had. The last time I saw her . . .' He hung his head, remembering. 'She was coming off a bender, the kind where she drank everything in the house and started throwing things at the walls, breaking glasses, screaming, crying. Neighbours called the cops. Thought it was domestic abuse. Turns out, they were right, in their own way. Family of one, hurts self. When the police showed up, she was so far gone she hit one of them, so they arrested her. Then they called me.'

He remembered where he had been when he got the call. He should have been asleep, but he wasn't sleeping much those days. It had gone two in the morning, and there he was, in his scarcely furnished bedsit, sitting in the dark by the window and looking out into the black world. He didn't remember what he had been thinking about, maybe because he hadn't been thinking at all. Harry hadn't been the only one fighting demons back then.

'They didn't tell me what she'd done,' John continued, 'only that they were holding her on bail. I caught a train to Bristol first thing in the morning. She told me she'd had friends over. It was a lie, but that's what she said. That there'd been an argument, it got out of control, one thing led to another. She swore she hadn't had a drop, that she was four months sober. But I could smell it on her, the sour breath, the body odour. Drunks don't know that their sweat reeks of alcohol, too, but it does. She smelt like a tankard. But I didn't call her bluff. I should have, maybe. Let her sit in jail and sober up, but I didn't. I emptied my savings, paid her bail, and took her home. God, I even offered to stay. I was ready to leave London behind for good in that moment, and I would have done, had she let me. But she didn't want me. That's what she said. We argued, and she wanted me out of her life. So I left. I . . .'

His voice strained a little with emotion, and he cleared his throat to keep on going. 'That was October, the October after you . . . And well, I tried to see her at Christmas, but she wouldn't answer my calls. She didn't have anybody, you know? Her final Christmas in this world, and she didn't have anybody. Neither of us did, and she still wouldn't see me, her own brother. When New Year's rolled around, I swore that I was done with it. I told myself—' His voice closed off completely for a moment. He grunted, like restarting an engine. It was important that he get through it. 'I promised myself that if she wanted my help, she would have to come begging for it, because I was done putting myself out there for her, only to be buffeted away, time and time again. It was my goddamn New Year's resolution, to cut off my sister, the only family I had left.' He let out a humourless huff of laughter.

'John, I—'

'Six weeks later, I got that damn phone call.'

He might as well have been living his life on repeat. Once again, he had been awake in his lonely bedsit, looking out the window. Snow was the on the ground this time, but that was the only thing that had changed. And this time, it wasn't the police station, but the city morgue.

'Harry had been out drinking, per her usual. And as usual, she was alone. No one to stop her, say she'd had too much, take her keys from her. So she got behind the wheel. Less than a mile later, she sped through a red light, and a lorry smashed into the driver's side door. Legs, pelvis, ribs, all crushed to splinters, and a skull lacerated from the frontal lobe down to her ear. They tried to save her in surgery, but she didn't stand a chance. Not with how bad she was. Didn't last fifteen minutes on that table. That's what they told me. I made them tell me.'

'How do you live with it?' asked Sherlock. 'Knowing . . .'

John looked at him, not fully understanding. 'Knowing what?' That he had failed her? That had he tried harder or loved her more, he might have saved her in the end?

'That you're the last of your family.'

He winced at a pang deep down inside, but he couldn't talk about that. For now, he'd said enough. Besides, in the end, this wasn't really about Harry.

'I'm so sorry I wasn't there,' Sherlock continued. 'I should have been. I should have . . .'

John reached around Sherlock's shoulders to splay a hand across his back. 'He's still here, Sherlock. Mycroft is still alive.'

'I've destroyed them all. They're all dead because of me.'

'Stop. You have to stop this. You can't think that way.'

Sherlock's shoulders quaked and his head fell into one hand. John tightened his arm around his body, and with his opposite hand squeezed Sherlock's leg, drawing him closer.

'You're not the last. He's fighting!' John whispered fiercely. 'The aconitine is gone, out of his system. The body is healing itself, because that's what bodies do. He's already made it through the worst of it. He just needs time. Do you hear me, Sherlock? She doesn't win.'

Sherlock nodded, but it looked like a tremendous effort, a desire to believe John's words against inner storm clouds that blackened his hope.

'You're not alone in this.'

'I can't think straight anymore, John. It's like someone's hijacked my brain. Planted bugs. Viruses. There's something wrong with me.'

John was on the cusp of denying it, or reassuring Sherlock that this was normal. Normal people feared for their loved ones. Normal people grieved when tragedy struck. But the platitude rang hollow, even to him. Flat words of comfort, that's all they were. Empty. Such sentiment wouldn't have helped him when Harry died. It still wouldn't. So it sure as hell wouldn't help Sherlock. In fact, he doubted very much that anything he could say would help.

'I think we've put this off long enough, don't you?' John said.

Sherlock didn't answer.

'In the morning, I'm going to make that call. Is that all right?'

Again, no response.

'You have to tell me whether that's all right.'

Sherlock closed his eyes, but he nodded. 'All right. Make the call.'

Sunday, April 19, 2015

The Sam Jefferies files were stacked at the corner of Lestrade's desk. It was Sunday morning, and he was making every member of his team work through the weekend, himself included. Somewhat surprising, he hadn't heard a word of complaint about it, which was a tad unfortunate: he was in the mood to shout at someone. He'd read through these files twice already today, made three phone calls to the chief superintendent, and checked in with all his officers who were trying to put the pieces of Mycroft Holmes' attempted murder together: the testimony of the doorman at Home Office, CCTV of the drop on Baker Street, the ferryman who had been paid off, and so on and so forth. But they were still miles away from zeroing in on Moran.

First thing that morning, he had stopped by St Mary's for an update and to evaluate the security details he had reinforced the night before, as a special request from John. Now that it was day, he half expected to find both Sherlock and John there again, but instead, to his surprise, he found Anthea. Despite the plaster on her hand and other cuts and bruises, she seemed to be doing remarkably well, and was even dressed in a pencil skirt and matching jacket with her hair twisted into a severe knot at the nape of her neck. She told him in no uncertain terms that she was in charge of Mr Holmes' safety and recovery.

'I'm moving him to a more secure location,' she announced. 'I've already arranged for private medical staff and state-of-the-art equipment.'

'Is it safe? Is he well enough to be moved?'

'Well enough.'

'Where are you taking him?'

'I'll contact you when the relocation process is complete.'

With a measure of uncertainty, he asked, 'And the doctors are okay with this?'

'It's not their decision. But all are sworn to the strictest measures of secrecy. The official record is that Mycroft Holmes was never here.' She seemed entirely unperturbed by the extraordinary circumstance she was proposing. She might as well have been ordering a get-well balloon.

Lestrade kept himself in check; balking didn't look good on him. 'You think that will fly?'

'This isn't the first time I've run an operation, Mr Lestrade. The press is already complying with the new narrative.'

He let out a rush of air and pushed a hand through his hair.

'But we will need to talk soon,' she said gravely, and he nodded because he understood. There were protocols in place. For both of them.

Now, he sat in his office at the Yard and worried a pen cap between his teeth, wondering how long they could stand to wait before putting those protocols into action.

Then Donovan flung his door wide, eyes alight with urgency, and his heart skipped excitedly. He dropped the pen, spit out the cap, and sat forward in his chair. 'Got something?'

'Don't say I didn't warn you. Unless you knew she was coming.'

'She? She who?'

'Angela.'

'Angela?' The respite of confusion vanished in a microsecond. Lestrade gasped so hard his chest hurt. 'Angela Moss?' Donovan's forward-thrusting, hard-edged jaw was confirmation enough. 'What the hell, what is she doing here!'

'I'm just the alarm bell,' said Donovan. 'Ten seconds, boss.'

She pulled the door closed behind her, leaving Lestrade reeling.

He shot to his feet and looked wildly around his office. He had the bizarre urge to clean something. That, or barricade the door. But his seconds, just as Donovan promised, were ticking away, and suddenly, he saw her silhouette on the other side of the glass. Next moment, a sharp rapping, which proved to be mere precursor, not a request for permission.

Without waiting for an invitation, Lestrade's ex-wife opened the door herself and strode into the room like it was her office, not his. Lestrade's spine went rigid, and he tried to affect the look of one who hadn't been thrown completely off his guard. Damn, he wished he hadn't risen to his feet. He should have stayed in the chair, leant back, folded his arms, lifted his chin, narrowed his eyes, called security—

'Hello, Greg.'

He shoved his hands in his pockets, trying to play it cool. 'Angela.'

'Surprised?'

'Not at all. Weatherman did say we were in for gusting winds from the west.' He tried to hide a smirk; she couldn't know how pleased he was with himself for that one.

'Cute.' She swung her purse around in front of her body and invited herself to sit. Feeling foolish being left standing, Lestrade, too, resumed his chair, which, being on wheels, tried to slide away from him. He gripped the edge of the desk and forced himself still.

Angela tossed her wavy blonde hair over the shoulder of her severely cut burgundy blazer. 'You're looking well.'

'Thank—'

'For pushing fifty.'

'—you.' He bit his tongue. He was forty-seven, and she damn well knew it. And at forty-six, she was hardly one to talk.

'Losing more colour on top, I see.' With a finger, she indicated the silver streaking through his hair. 'Stress of the job? I've seen your name in the paper an awful lot these past months. Ghastly stuff.' She seemed not the least bit sincere. 'Sounds like the Yard is struggling more than usual to keep its ducks in line.'

'How did you get through security?'

She was wearing the visitor's badge, but protocol dictated that he be contacted if a guest arrived, unannounced and without an appointment. He'd been sitting at his desk all morning, and the phone hadn't rung once.

'Matthew at the front. He knows me. Thinks we're still married, and I let him think it.' She simpered. 'Getting on in years, isn't he? Been here almost as long as you.'

Finally! He was going to get to shout at someone after all: a long, heated discussion with head of security about Matthew. After all, it was dangerous to let a harpy fly into the Yard without shackles.

'I'll make the staff aware of your concerns regarding security. And rest assured, it will be corrected so nothing like this'—he gestured to her, head to toe—'will happen again.'

'Charming, darling. You always were so charming.'

'Why are you here, Angela?'

'I'm here'—she dug into her purse and produced a folded manila envelope with a torn flap—'because of this.' She waved it in the air like a flag announcing her territory.

He knew what that envelope contained, exactly what. It was the document detailing the terms of their divorce. He couldn't imagine why she had brought it, but she didn't leave him to wonder long.

'You've violated the terms,' she said.

'Horse shit. How?'

'My solicitor has been keeping a close eye on my assets, as a good solicitor does, and on those belonging to my ex-husband. Fifty percent of everything, we agreed.'

His jaw dropped open in stunned imitation of a fish. 'I already gave you fifty percent. Of everything. Bank accounts, savings, the car, furniture, even the DVD collection—'

'Not the house.'

Lestrade blinked, taken aback. 'You didn't want the house. It's right there in black ink, signed and notarized. You didn't want the house.'

'I don't want the house. But word is, you've sold it. Liquidated. And I'm entitled to fifty percent of all assets acquired during the course of our marriage. We bought the house together. That means I get fifty percent of its proceeds.'

He gaped even wider; he needed to regain control of his jaw. 'You can't be serious. The court determined that spousal maintenance was to last only two years. So as of last March, I'm done. You can't wring any more money from me.'

'This isn't maintenance. This falls under divisible assets jointly owned during the marriage.'

Shaking his head in stupefaction, he could only say, 'You said you didn't want it.'

'The only reason you ever had that property to begin with was because of me. Excellent condition, prime location, regular upkeep—that all came down to me. If it had been left to you, we would have thrown away money renting a grisly flat in the city. It's only fair I get half the sales.'

'But I paid for it! I paid for all of it, Angela! Fifty percent of what you took was fifty percent of all my earnings over twenty-five years! You never worked one damn day!'

Unruffled, she reached inside the envelope and produced a single sheet of paper. 'A letter of intent from my solicitor,' she said, 'insisting on your compliance. You pay me what you owe me, and this doesn't go to court. Then you get the clean break you always wanted. You should be glad you sold it under market value, or you'd owe me a lot more than this.'

She slid the letter across the desk. At the bottom of the page, bolded so as not to be overlooked, was a grand total of £347,689.24.

He held the sheet numbly in his hands. 'I can't afford this.'

'Of course you can. You just sold a whole house!'

'And what, you think I'm living on the streets?'

'How you live is not my concern.'

'Angela. Angela, please. Don't do this. Don't make this messy. You don't need this.'

She returned the manila envelope to her bag and clipped it shut. 'As you like it. Keep your phone handy, Greg. You'll be getting a call from my solicitor shortly.' She pushed to her feet.

'No, come on now, sit down. Let's talk about this. Let's work it out, like two adults.' God, he was pleading. He sounded so pathetic, and she was loving it.

She ignored the plea entirely and continued on as if he hadn't said a word. 'Oh, and one more thing.' She unclipped the purse and pulled out her phone. 'I stopped by the old love nest earlier today. Nostalgia, you know. Met the new tenants. They're having the place cleaned again—you did leave it in quite the reprehensible state—and wouldn't you know it, they found something in the crawlspace in the larder. Funny. I didn't even know we had a crawlspace in the larder.'

Lestrade vision narrowed to a tunnel, and his heart sank like a town car in a lake.

She turned the phone for him to see a photo of a box, plated steel and about the size of a shoebox, locked on three sides. The blood drained from his face.

'That's mine,' he said, voice strained, trying not to give anything away but already knowing his expression doomed him.

'If it was found in that house, it's mine too,' she said snidely.

'No. Angela, you don't understand. It's . . . it's . . .'

'Something you were hiding from me, clearly. How interesting. All those accusations during our hearings about all the secrets I kept from you, painting yourself as the golden boy of openness and fidelity, and yet'—she shook the phone at him—'you had your own secrets all along.'

'No—'

'What is it, Greg? Sex tapes of other women you shagged? Keys to a safety deposit box or storage locker you never reported on your taxes or disclosed during our settlement? Records of illicit activities? Cops really are shady buggers.'

'No.'

'With new evidence of ways you failed me as a husband, I can demand a new settlement. Maybe I want sixty percent. Seventy-five. Courts really do hate emotionally abusive men.'

'Don't be absurd, that thing has nothing to do with you, or us. Give it back to me.'

'Oh! You want it back?'

'Don't play with me, Angela.' He rose to his feet and pointed a stern finger at her. 'Tell me where it is.'

'I don't think I shall. Not until I see my three hundred and fifty thousand. In the meantime, I'll keep fiddling with those locks. They're serious business, those.'

'It's not your business, and it's not personal. It's a police matter. Highly confidential.'

She laughed. 'Going to play that card again, are you? You just love pulling that one. I'm an officer, Angela, I have a duty to the law. I'm a detective, Angela, and London needs me. Heh. Like you're some bloody superhero. Fine. You want it, get a warrant, and then we'll see.'

'I'm not fooling.'

'Neither am I.'

'Blackmail is a serious crime.'

'Then arrest me, Greg.'

She shoved the phone back inside her purse and abruptly left his office. Lestrade felt like he'd just been delivered a blow to the jaw. Slowly, he sank back to his chair and dragged his hands down his face. Then he spun toward the window, sweeping his arm across the desk and sending the Sam Jefferies files flying as he cursed with frustration.

'Fuck!'

Monday, April 20, 2015

'Good afternoon, Mr Holmes.'

Still wrapped in his Belstaff, collar high and buttons closed, Sherlock paused at the reception desk and read the nameplate: Naomi Mosaku. Their last encounter, he remembered, had not been exactly friendly, given his abruptness and state of panic, and he had left her scandalised. Today, however, she was all smiles as she handed him a clipboard.

'If you'd like to take a seat, just over there, and fill this out. Dr Thompson will see you shortly.'

His eyes raked the page quickly. On the first page, boxes for basic biographical information, including NHS number and alternative insurance providers, as well as emergency contact information. Flipping the page, though, revealed a survey: two tight rows of fifty-eight Y or N questions, everything from Do you have trouble falling asleep? to Do you often skip meals? to Have you ever thought of ending your own life?

'No,' he said, handing it back to her.

Naomi's eyes widened with surprise. 'It's a standard form.'

'You already have my name and phone number. That will do.'

'It's confidential, Mr Holmes. Only Dr Thompson will see your answers.' Seeing the hardness on his face, she conciliated the standard requirements. 'You can skip some of the questions, if you prefer.'

'Tell her I'm here so we can get started.'

Then he stood there and waited, ignoring the cosy waiting area with its inane magazines and potted fern. Dr Thompson might have chosen a two-hundred-year-old apartment, modernised it, and refitted it for business with the hope of retaining something classic and homey to put her clients at ease, but Sherlock wasn't fooled. It was unmistakably a backdrop meant to serve as veneer and distract from the true purpose of the therapist: to crack into one's mind and rummage about for loose bolts. This wasn't his first demolition site.

'Mr Holmes is ready for his appointment,' Naomi whispered tightly into the phone. Pause. Then she replaced it in the cradle and smiled forcibly up at him. 'If you'll follow me.'

It was entirely unnecessary to be escorted. The door was six feet away, and Dr Thompson was already expecting him. But with the blank pages in hand, Naomi stepped away from reception and led him anyway, knocking twice before turning the handle.

Ella Thompson was standing to greet him. She smiled and extended a hand, welcoming him, and he shook it to be polite. As he moved guardedly into the room, she took the clipboard from Naomi, and he watched their silent exchange—Naomi's apologetic frown, Dr Thompson's never-you-mind head shake—and closed the door. She set the clipboard on the desk also bearing the bust of Nefertiti in exchange for a notebook and pen.

'There's a coat stand by the door,' she said, indicating with a nod.

'I'm fine.'

She took a seat in a modern leather armchair near the tall, curtained windows and crossed a leg over. 'I insist you remove your coat.'

His eyes narrowed. 'Why?'

But she met his challenge with a frankness he did not expect. 'To slow you down if you decide to run.'

Grudgingly, he removed his coat and scarf, and hung them on the rack.

Be decent to her, John had said. I like her.

'Thank you for seeing me so quickly,' he murmured. He unbuttoned his suitcoat and sat in the empty chair. He wondered passingly how many hours John had spent in this very chair, the things he had said, the things he couldn't.

'It was kind of John to give up his appointment,' she said. 'But we'll find a schedule that won't compete with his.'

'Mm,' Sherlock grunted, noncommittally. He'd rather just give John back his hour and be done with it.

'Now then. How would you like to begin?'

He blinked, almost flinched. Wasn't that her job, to choose the entry point? 'Excuse me?'

Ella waved her pen over the blank page of her notebook. 'There are a few approaches we could take, although you've already ruled out the first. The questionnaire usually gets the ball rolling, easing us into the waters, but I see you would prefer a more direct methodology. So. Would you rather tell me what brought you here? Why now? Or would you prefer we talk about goals, what you want to get out of this session or in the long term?'

Sherlock took care not to shift and expose his discomfort. The visceral responses to even the thought of ever talking to a psychiatrist again were beginning to manifest, as he feared. Why had he sat? Why had he taken off his coat? Why had he let John make that phone call? Why the hell was he giving up so much of his power? Sure, she was 'allowing' him to choose the focus, the point of entry for the session, but he could imagine no conversation he was willing to have. If he explained about Mycroft being in hospital fighting for his life, she would want him to talk about the relationship between him and his brother, and pry until she got to the root of their mutual antagonism, which meant he would have to talk about their childhoods, which was very high on his list of topics to be left unexplored. If he mentioned the dreams, she would play interpreter of maladies and unravel the knot that would expose the true psychopath within. If he tried to deflect altogether and talk about John's own touch-and-go recovery, she would put up roadblocks and cite client privilege, and they would be left at an impasse.

'Mr Holmes,' said Dr Thompson, once the quiet had dragged on for some time. He'd barely been aware; he was slowly retreating into his mind, a place that had once been a sanctuary but now seemed only a prison. 'Sherlock.'

'What?'

'Why don't you want to be here?'

Ah. One he could answer with fluency. He began with a scoff. 'I don't like psychiatrists.'

She registered no offence. 'Why not?'

'Psychiatry is soft science.' He fixed her with a steady glare he knew others found intimidating. 'I have no patience for it. Its study is the safety net of students who can't hack it as medical doctors or chemists but are too proud to admit they really belong in the social sciences or liberal arts. Furthermore, it is the only branch of the so-called "sciences" that does not directly examine the object of its inquiry—the brain. It is the lesser cousin of neuro-science and the dressed-up aunt of fiction writers and advice columnists. It constantly changes theories, and its practises ride on cultural fads and political waves, and so in time are always proven false or ineffectual, thus illustrating that there is no true scientific method at work. Furthermore, all its data points are highly suspect when placed under scrutiny of more rigorous methods to establish proof. It is difficult to muster respect for such a discipline.'

He waited for her to launch into a defence of her profession, to cite the advancement of psychiatry since its (horrifyingly recent) development, and to list off her own personal therapeutic successes. He was already preparing to continue his argument. It might be rather fun. A good distraction.

'You didn't answer the question,' she said at last.

He furrowed his brow in consternation. 'Of course I did. With devastating succinctness.'

'You just told me you don't like psychiatry. I want to know why you dislike the practitioners.'

Oh. She thought he was insulting her personally. He had meant to insult her only in broader terms. 'I do not disrespect you,' he amended. 'I . . . appreciate how you have helped John.'

'But you don't believe I can help you.'

His teeth clacked together. This conversation was getting away from him.

'So I'm not the first,' she concluded. 'How many have you been to, before me?'

'Not relevant.'

'How long since the last one?'

'A long time.'

She stopped asking questions. She wrote nothing down.

Don't be a twat. She can't help you if you're being a twat.

Sherlock felt a little mite of guilt nibbling away at him. He was being obstinate, and he knew it. And it was entirely unfair. After all, it wasn't as though she had wrangled him into the chair. Not even John had done that. He had come to her. And yes, he was afraid of the things he might say, or discover, but he had come willingly. He needed help. He wanted it. His life couldn't go on this way, not with someone else in control of his mind.

He closed his eyes, trying to remember John's breathing exercises.

'When I was a young child,' he said, quickly, as though to get it over with, 'there was a death in the family. An uncle. I'd never met him. The wake was . . . boring. Too many adults, too much civility. I ran away.' It was strange saying these words. He'd never spoken them aloud before. Though sometimes, he thought about that day. From time to time. He didn't know why, it was no big deal. Just a child's memory of a day in the life. 'Everyone left for the night, and they forgot about me. Mycroft too, which is the surprising part. I crawled into the closest thing to a bed I could find—a display casket. That's where they found me. It upset them. Them. So that's the first time I was taken to a shrink. Child psychologist. To make sure it hadn't affected me.'

'Had it?'

'I was not a child easily spooked.'

'I don't mean sleeping in a casket. I mean, being left behind. Forgotten. Did it bother you?'

He shrugged. 'Why should it?'

'It is not usual for feelings of abandonment to have a profound effect on a child. Repeated instances, especially in the formative years, have been linked to internalised beliefs of being unwanted and unloved, which can translate into isolation behaviours, or a tendency to disconnect, or an unwillingness to make meaningful attachments. Not an exact science.' Then she gave him a knowing grin. He couldn't help but smirk in return. Nevertheless, her words were burrowing themselves inside his brain.

'How old were you?'

'Four.'

'That's quite young. Yet you remember it well.'

'My memory has always been sharp.' It was an understatement. 'But I do not count it as a significant event. And more to the point, neither did the therapist. He told my mother not to fret. I suppose I didn't mind him all that much. Of the six, he was the most tolerable.'

'Were you ever left like that again?'

Sherlock frowned as thoughts arose, unbidden: When Mycroft left. When Father left. When Mother sent him off to school in a hired car and told him she didn't want to see him again until Christmas or she'd send him even further.

When he left John.

'No,' he lied.

'Tell me about Mycroft.'

He felt his face blanching. Had she heard what had happened? 'What?'

'You said that Mycroft forgot you, too, and that it surprises you, even now. Why is that?'

Oh. Well, yes, he had said that. And he supposed that she knew who Mycroft was. Likely, his brother's name had surfaced a time or two in her sessions with John. He wondered what all John had said about him.

'Mycroft isn't the sort to forget something.'

'You mean you?'

'In this context, I suppose yes.'

'How old would he have been?'

'Eleven. Seven years my senior.'

'Did he look after you as a child?'

Almost exclusively. 'I suppose yes.'

'What about now?'

Sherlock opened his mouth to give a terse reply, something to express annoyance at how Mycroft always hovered just out of sight, unable to mind his own business; or a quip to suggest that Mycroft wasn't the sort of brother to care about the goings-on in the lives of lesser mortals. But he couldn't say either of those things. His usual disparaging remarks about Mycroft were stoppered by a constricting throat as he thought about where his brother lay at that very moment, a battlefield of Sherlock's own making. He fought to contain his reaction. Closing his mouth, shutting his eyes, he focused on his breathing, but he knew Dr Thompson had already seen enough.

'Take your time,' she said gently.

Sitting still was killing him. He pushed swiftly to his feet and began to pace. But his booted foot clunked with every step, aggravating his already volatile state. His breaths felt hard in his chest, and he scratched the backside of his hand.

'I don't want to talk about Mycroft,' he said.

'All right.'

'I'm here because I need to get him out of my head. He's there. Right there.' He dug furiously at his temple with three clawed fingers, as if he could burrow deep enough to pluck out the tumour enlarging inside his mind. 'Growing bigger. Stronger. Taking up all the space, he's a cancer. In every nook and cranny, throwing his shadows on the walls and burrowing into the floorboards and staining the rugs and curtains and everything, everything. When I fall asleep at night, he's there. When I wake in the morning, he doesn't go away. He's taken control of my mind—my mind. My greatest weapon, the only way I can defeat him, and he's taken it!'

'Mr Holmes, tell me who you are talking about. Who is "he"?'

He spun, eyes flashing. 'James Moriarty. The infection. The virus. The parasite. He thrives on me—my thoughts, my ideas—and what can I do but keep playing host to him? I can't cut him out. I can't burn him out. Unless I destroy myself, how do I stop him? Because of him, people have been killed. John almost died, and Mycroft may be next. And he's laughing at me, always laughing, because he's winning, and I can't stop him.'

He was panting now, as though he were being chased and he couldn't outrun his pursuer for much longer.

'I'm not mad. I know the real Moriarty is a rotting corpse in a lab, soon to be reduced to dust. I know that. But he's still too much alive. And sometimes, I can't tell the difference.'

'Between what, Mr Holmes?' asked Dr Thompson.

'Between where I end and he begins.'

His shoulders sagged. Only now did he feel the sting in the back of his hand, where he had left deep tracks, scraping away the skin.

'That's why I'm here. My mind is sick. Infected. That's what you do, isn't it? Treat sick minds? Rehabilitate the insane?'

He expected her to recast his words, to say not exactly and it's more complicated than that and we don't use the word 'insane' anymore. A more sophisticated definition, a more nuanced explanation of 'treatment' and 'mind'.

Instead, she nodded. 'That's what I do.'

He liked that she didn't mince words. That alone seemed to calm him somewhat. He didn't return to the chair, but he stopped pacing, opting instead to stand by the window and imagine the lives of the blissfully ignorant passing below.

'I have some questions for you, Mr Holmes, if you wouldn't mind answering.'

He allowed his silence to serve as concession; he didn't even turn around.

'When do you believe you were first infected, as you say? How long since Moriarty took residence in your mind?'

Sherlock had tried to answer this himself, once, tracing it backwards to its origin, the initial bite. He knew when he had first become aware—fully aware—that there was an uninvited presence in his head, a dark, unmoving shadow, ready to spring. At the time, he had been unusually susceptible—under the influence of a fear-inducing drug. There was enough in his past to draw from to create a monster, but what form had his fear taken? In the face of another man, he had seen none other than James Moriarty.

The visage had startled him almost as much as the raw emotion itself. Why should Moriarty, of all things, inspire in him such dread and panic? There was no cause for it! Naturally, he had wondered, in his idle time, what the genius consulting criminal had been up to since their first encounter at the pool, and of course he expected to have second, one way or another. But wondering and anticipating was not fearing. Nor had Irene Adler's casual mention of Moriarty following the jumbo jet fiasco raised any such sensations like fear, or even alarm. Had it? There had definitely been a kind of jolt to his system, and he had convinced himself that the racing heart that followed had been a result of the stimulus to the brain and the sudden, rapid deductions that followed. Exhilarating, he would have said. Not terrifying.

Or maybe it had been. Maybe Sherlock had feared him for longer than even he knew. After all, he could pinpoint the day, the hour, nearly the very moment when James Moriarty had shifted out of mere intrigue and into his spider form. No longer just an opponent or an exciting case to be solved. Yes, he had killed already, but Sherlock was used to hunting down killers. No, it was when he saw John, wrapped in Semtex, when the precision laser from a sniper rifle settled over his friend's heart. That was the moment. John was one finger's twitch away from death, and Moriarty was the master designer of his annihilation. And in that arrested breath, Sherlock knew pure fear. Since then, his worst fears had been synonymous with Moriarty. Only, it had taken too much time to realise it.

But was that midnight hour at the pool the same hour he had first been infected? Or had the virus already entered his system, unannounced and so unobserved? Because the thing was, Moriarty already knew him. He had been following Sherlock's work. He had named himself a fan. What, because of the website? That couldn't be. Before John and his blog came along, Sherlock's internet presence had been minimal (he would now admit) and his reputation for brilliance had been restricted to a small client base and the Yard (where few officers would have chosen brilliance as a descriptor). Moriarty was aware of him because he already knew him. In fact, it was Moriarty himself who explained how:

Carl Power's missing shoes.

Sherlock had been a child. A thirteen-year-old child. And in noticing the oddity of the missing shoes, and saying something, he had inadvertently been caught in a web.

'If I'd not engaged him as a boy,' Sherlock said to Dr Thompson, 'none of this would have happened. Every step since then has been one step closer to my utter destruction. I've been dragging it in my wake this whole time.'

He still stood at the window, but now he turned to her, though he could scarcely believe the words coming out of his own mouth. He had never related his history to another person, not like this. He couldn't understand why he was doing it. How long had he been infected? Twenty-six years. A full two-thirds of his life. He told her so.

Dr Thompson regarded him thoughtfully. Then nodded, and recast his explanation in a tight summation. 'Then, you believe that your writing a letter to a newspaper as a thirteen-year-old boy initiated a chain of events that has led to everything that has happened since, from your faked suicide to John's abduction to Darren Hirsch's final hour.'

'It's not an unreasonable line of logic,' he said. 'If one can identify the effect and relate it back to its cause, one can discern patterns or trace a causal path to the first falling domino across years, even generations and centuries. It's a foundational practise for historiographers and even evolutionary biologists.'

'Yes, we soft scientists have a term for it, too,' said Dr Thompson. 'We call it a causal nexus. But the thing is, it works only in one direction.'

'What do you mean?'

'Mr Holmes, you are a self-described man of logic.'

He nodded stiffly.

'And yet you subscribe to a fatalistic superstition.'

'It isn't superstition. It's reasoning.'

'And it's missing a key component of reality. You've effectively denied yourself control over any events. One of the strategies of cognitive therapy, which I would like to try with you, is one in which we restructure closely held but ultimately problematic personal beliefs about ourselves and the world by challenging our assumptions. So let us challenge the causal nexus. If these events you describe were destined to unfold because of this action taken so long ago, if that fallen domino made it inevitable that the next would fall, and the next, we should be able to anticipate the next domino, and the next, and therefore accurately forecast the end of that chain: we should be able to calculate that the final domino will fall.'

'Yes,' said Sherlock. 'The final domino will fall.'

'No, Mr Holmes. The analogy is faulty.'

'Why?'

'Can you predict the future?'

There was no sense in answering the ridiculous question. They both knew that he could not.

'Can anybody?' she pressed.

'No.'

'No. Because the events of our lives are not dominos waiting to fall. Yes, you can look backward and trace the chain, but you cannot look forward and follow it to an inevitable conclusion, because there is no inevitable conclusion. Your premise is fallacious because you have ignored the key component.'

'Autonomy.'

'Autonomy. You are an independent agent, presented with choices and empowered with decision-making. You cannot always choose the consequences of your actions or others', but you can choose your own actions.'

'I don't know how. Every action I take seems to end in devastation.'

'We start by giving you back control over your own mind. Therapy is a good place to start. And maybe, if we decide together that it will help, perhaps some sleep aids or anxiety medication, just to better manage—'

'No drugs,' said Sherlock sharply. 'I'm an addict.'

She nodded respectfully. 'I promise you, Mr Holmes. Even now, you have the power to influence or alter the course of your life. As well as the lives of others you care about.'

The hour expired. Sherlock was surprised by how quickly the time had passed. He left Dr Thompson's office, gave a brief but cordial nod to Naomi, and was soon back in his coat and out on the street. He didn't look for a taxi right away. Instead, he decided to walk, and think. But he had not gone very far before he received a text from John, who must have been watching the clock.

Well?

His fingers made aborted movements over the keyboard, not sure what it was he wanted to say. At last, he texted back.

She'll do.

Upon receiving the text, John closed his eyes and sighed with relief.

'Inspector Lestrade,' said the prison officer, opening the door. 'He's ready for you.'

John nodded and took back the detective's badge from the processing officer, sliding it into the pocket of his blazer, beside his wallet. It was the closest thing he had to a suit, and he needed to look the part: a dark blue blazer over black trousers, and a white, collared shirt. He still felt conspicuous, but a few things he had learnt from Sherlock over the years: nine times out of ten, confidence trumped evidence. If he said he was Greg Lestrade, they would believe it, and so wouldn't look too closely at the nicked ID, which John had found in Sherlock's sock drawer. His greater fear was that one of the corrections officers would actually know the detective inspector, personally or from the news, and the game would be up before it even started. But Sherlock's trick worked. Nobody so much as a batted an eye. They accepted his stolen credentials and honoured his request.

He followed the officer through two high-security locked doors and down a long hallway. It had taken him an hour to arrive at HM Prison Belmarsh, giving him plenty of time to change his mind and turn back. But he hadn't. Now, it was too late, and he intended to see it through.

The officer paused before a door with a small window. 'He's just through here. You want an officer in there with you? He's not violent, and he's cuffed to the table, but if you would feel more secure—'

'Nah, I'm good,' said John, hoping to pass as blasé and composed, which was another lie he was telling himself.

'Right then. I'll be just out here keeping an eye on things. Give me a signal if you want me to come in.'

John nodded. Then he braced himself.

The prisoner was seated at a stainless steel table, chained and wearing green and white prison garb and looking bored. But when Everett Stubbins saw John walk through the door, the colour drained from his face. Then the door slammed shut, leaving them alone.