Chapter 63 - Right Here, Right Now, What is She?

Rose may have been able to carry the equipment from the store by herself, but Sherlock didn't want her navigating the dark alleyways behind the shops all alone. And it was too risky having Billy wander around her workplace solo, after business hours in the dark, looking for the display model to 'borrow.'

"It's for Mary," Sherlock had said when Rose initially objected to the idea of entering Roches Home Entertainment store when it was closed. Once they'd left the hospital, Billy had read the next item on his To Do list, after 'Rescue Shezza from hospital.' It read 'Borrow large-format projector from Rosie's shop.' It looked like both she and Billy would have to go to the store and leave Sherlock here alone.

Her high had well and truly worn off now. The layers of cottonwool that had protected her from the drama that was Sherlock Holmes had disintegrated until she was left painfully exposed. Helping Sherlock into the cab, the journey itself to Leinster Gardens, and assisting him climb the stairs to her flat had revealed the extent of his injury and therefore his weakness and vulnerability.

Her chest tightened as she took in his grim, ashen face. They slowly lowered him to her sofa before they'd even removed his coat because his heart-rate was erratic, he'd said, and he needed to lie down immediately. Billy left Rose to sit by Sherlock while he ducked back downstairs to retrieve the wheelchair that they'd had to leave on the ground floor after alighting from the cab. She held Sherlock's hand, which he squeezed back. She wondered how much pain he was in, and if he was trying desperately to hide the fact from her.

Once upstairs again, Billy emptied his pockets and took stock of his stolen supplies. Satisfied that he'd come away with the necessary items to set up an IV drip for Sherlock, they carefully eased the patient's coat and jacket from him. Rose rolled up Sherlock's shirt sleeve and Billy fastened a tourniquet around Sherlock's arm after palpating for a suitable vein.

Rose watched as colour began returning to Sherlock's face because he was now lying down and resting. He reached for her with his free hand as Billy wiped the crook of Sherlock's elbow with a swab.

"You'll be okay," she said, offering Sherlock a smile, but wondering to herself if Billy really had the necessary skills to do what he was about to do. In the cab ride over, Billy and Sherlock were talking about cannulas and flashbacks, valves and clamps and milligrams per second. Rose caught the word "embolism" at one stage and knew immediately that that wasn't a good thing.

She watched in fascination as the needle pierced Sherlock's skin, her eyes widening when the tiny chamber at the end filled with blood. Billy appeared confident as he pushed in the cannula, loosened the tourniquet and removed the needle. Rose expected Sherlock's blood to come splurting out the other end, but Billy's fingers seemed to know what to hold where.

"Just doin' the saline," Billy told Sherlock, as he connected a syringe to the cannula tube.

Rose returned her gaze to Sherlock as Billy murmured something about "flushing." Sherlock's eyes were shut, and deep creases had appeared in his brow. He was still in a lot of pain. It wouldn't be long now. She gave his hand another squeeze.

Billy had secured the tubes with tape and dressing and was ready to connect the morphine drip to the cannula. Rose helped him move the coffee table away to make room for Sherlock's makeshift IV stand, the wheelchair.

"Okay," said Billy, after cleaning up the medical supplies and setting a timer on Sherlock's phone, "I 'ave-ta get my disguise ready for la'er. Rosie, can I borrow some stuff?"

"Yes, of course. Help yourself," she replied, her eyes not leaving Sherlock's face.

After a few minutes, his hardened features began to soften around the edges. Sherlock exhaled deeply, then opened his eyes. Rose smiled warmly at him.

"You're not angry," he said.

"Oh, I'm holding back on my anger, don't you worry," she said with false bravado. "I'm saving it for later. You'll know the full extent of it when you're a bit better."

Sherlock smiled weakly and threaded his fingers through Rose's.

"I'm sorry," he said, locking his eyes on hers. The thickness of his voice said more than his words did. Rose thought he looked like he wanted to say more but didn't know how to go about it.

Rose's heart fluttered and she felt ashamed that she had let her mind flood with hatred toward Sherlock over the past few days, letting it fester and multiply while he had been lying in hospital on death's doorstep, presumably. They still had a lot to discuss. He'd well and truly stepped over the line in regard to courting Magnussen's PA. In her heart, Rose knew he hadn't had sex with Janine, but the kissing—and whatever else he had done to win her trust—had definitely put him in you-fucked-up territory as far as she was concerned.

"We can talk about it later," she said. Rose could feel her eyes beginning to moisten. "But just so you know the rules…" She struggled to keep the words from catching in her throat. "You're not allowed to… die… when I'm angry with you." When Sherlock's smile broadened, she shrugged lightly. "It's a rule thing. Nothing to do with me."

"I'll do my best."

"And in case you get any silly ideas," she said, smiling ruefully, "You can't die when I'm happy with you either."

"Noted."

His eyes seemed to take in her face a little more carefully than before.

"You haven't been wearing make-up," he said.

"No, but I usually—"

"—remove it when you get home. Yes, I know. But there would be traces of mascara on your lashes. There usually are. Clearly you haven't worn any in days. Haven't you been at work?"

"No."

Rose knew her expression was instantly readable to someone like Sherlock Holmes.

"Because you were upset with me?" he asked.

"Yes. But we're not talking about this now, remember? You have to rest and have relief from the pain, because… because we've got work to do." Rose almost choked on her own words. His words, actually.

Rose reached over and drew aside the hair that had flopped onto Sherlock's forehead. He closed his eyes against her touch.

"That's nice," he murmured.

Rose continued carding her fingers through his hair for a little while until Sherlock opened his eyes again.

"I have something to say," he said, "and I'd better do it now in case we don't get another chance…" When Rose's eyes widened a little, Sherlock swiftly added, "… tonight."

She relaxed a little. Only a little.

"Come closer," Sherlock bid her. "But try not to lean on me, this time." Rose leant forward and Sherlock rested his hands lightly on her arms. He smiled sheepishly and said, "I think you might have to start, though."

Sherlock's eyes glistened in expectation causing Rose's chest to constrict. Still, her eyes began to water as she posed the question that appeared to hold more meaning than ever before.

"Do you love me?"

"Yes."

Rose didn't think she'd ever get to say these words to Sherlock again, and she fought against her emotions long enough to say, "I love you, too."

Before her tears threatened to spill, Sherlock reached up and drew her down toward him. Rose captured his lips in hers. She shivered when Sherlock's mouth began to move avidly beneath hers. His fingers tangled themselves in her hair, but Rose resisted the urge to press herself against him in case she hurt him again. The taste of him was seductive, but the fear of what could have happened, what could still happen, welled up inside her.

"Aay," Billy said from across the room. "No snoggin'. This ain't The English Patient."

Rose slowly drew away from Sherlock. He was smiling faintly at her. She turned to look at Billy who was holding a yellow blanket, obviously taken from her linen closet.

"Can I borrow this?" Billy asked.

Rose smiled at her friend. She was amused at Billy's enthusiasm for working for Sherlock of late.

"Yes, Billy. So, what look are you going for?"

"'omeless, o'course. And I need a container for collectin' donations."

"Check the kitchen cabinets."

Rose turned back to Sherlock. "I'd better go help him," she said. "He might take all night." She fixed him with a smile, then leant over him once more, narrowing the gap between them. "Don't you go anywhere," she whispered, before planting a soft kiss on Sherlock's lips.

Billy couldn't find a suitable container after they'd checked every cupboard.

"Why, what's wrong with this?" Rose asked, holding up an empty yoghurt container.

"Doesn't look 'omeless enough. I'll check the skip bin on the way out."

Rose knew they had to leave soon. She returned to the living area and checked on Sherlock. He appeared relaxed and sleepy, but still responsive.

"Is that enough now, Billy?" Rose asked the resident medical expert.

"Ah... yep. Should be gettin' close."

Billy turned off Sherlock's drip as the mobile phone alerted them that the timer was up. Rose bent over and planted a soft kiss on Sherlock's lips. His eyes cracked open a little.

"I don't want to leave you like this," Rose whispered.

"I...f-fine," Sherlock murmured, his eyes closing again.

Rose stood and exhaled deeply. She regarded Sherlock's slumbering form. They'd be gone for at least forty-five minutes, Billy had estimated. Would that be too long to leave Sherlock on his own?

"Come on, Rosie," Billy bid her as he drew on his coat by the door. "We want t'be back by the time 'e wakes."


The world came into focus again. Sherlock could hear Rose struggling with keys in the lock outside the front door. Clearly she was panicking about what state they may find him in. Wearily Sherlock pulled himself to a semi-sitting position and looked expectantly over to the door.

Rose finally opened it, her eyes widening at seeing Sherlock awake and already watching her as she entered.

"Are you okay?" she asked, striding across the floor with a sense of urgency.

"I'm fine." He even planted a smile on his face to prove his point.

"Should... should we restart your drip?"

Sherlock heaved out a sigh. "No. We have work to do. I need to ring John now that you're back." Sherlock didn't fail to catch Rose's lips drawing into a thin line as she turned away from him and shrugged out of her coat.

When Billy entered holding a large cardboard box in one hand and an empty milk container in the other, Sherlock said, "Excellent, Billy. Take it out to the balcony. Rose, I need you to fetch me your laptop."

Sherlock swivelled his legs to the ground, then paused as the world swayed a little.

"Are you okay?"

Evidently, Rose hadn't left the room yet. She still had several more helpings of concern to dish out.

"I'll tell you when I'm not okay, or I'll just keel over—one or the other. But otherwise, just get on with it and stop worrying about me."

Rose didn't respond. She silently exited the living room for her bedroom. Sherlock closed his eyes and tried to concentrate on his breathing. It was easy to ignore the tiny pangs of guilt he felt over snapping at Rose. They were rather overshadowed by the excruciating pain somewhere in the vicinity of his liver.

He wasn't okay, but he wasn't about to tell Rose that. He had to hang in there for John and Mary.

This case—what case?—had taken a turn for the worst. He'd sorted out Garvie for Rose; he'd wanted to retrieve the letters from Magnussen for Lady Smallwood—it was a challenge, and that had made the case important. But now it was personal again. One of his own had been threatened by that man. Yes, she had shot him, but...

I'm sorry, Sherlock. Truly I am.

Sherlock leant back onto the sofa to stretch his ribs a little. He breathed out deeply. With his eyes still shut, he heard Rose re-enter the living area.

"Here's the laptop. Where do you want it? It still needs to charge."

He opened his eyes and reached for the computer when Rose held it out to him. He placed it on his lap and opened the lid. Rose drew the electricity cord away from him and busied herself with plugging it into the socket previously occupied by the cord for the floor lamp. Sherlock swiftly navigated to the photo gallery he'd set up at the beginning of the case; the one that contained the Watsons' wedding photos.

"Can I get you anything else?" Rose was hovering, worry lines etched into her face. "Or do something, for you?"

Without lifting his eyes from the screen, Sherlock said, "Fetch me my phone."

Rose turned around to take in the coffee table that had been moved aside.

"Where is it?"

"Here, Rose," Sherlock said, pointing. "Right here."

Rose turned around to look where Sherlock was pointing. He almost expected her to wear that stupid expression John sometimes wore. The one that said, Would it kill you to reach over and get it yourself. Instead, her pitying eyes told him she believed it would kill him to lean forward to retrieve it himself.

Rose grabbed the phone from the seat of the wheelchair and passed it to him. Sherlock placed it on the sofa beside him. Turning the laptop around to face Rose, he said, "Here. Give this to Billy. This is the image I want projected on the house opposite."

Rose made no comment about the photo he'd chosen: a smiling, radiant Mary Watson on her wedding day.

Oh, Sherlock, if you take one more step, I swear I will kill you.

He clenched his jaw.

"It doesn't have enough charge," Rose said.

"Oh, for God's sake, Rose! Run the electricity through the open door! Get an extension cord! Work it out! Think for yourself for once!"

Sherlock could feel the heat rising in his neck. His cheeks were beginning to flush. He leant his head back, closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. He wanted Rose to snap back. Why wasn't she arguing with him? Call him a rude bastard; tell him to fuck off. But she remained infuriatingly silent.

Adrenalin was a useful thing. Not in this case, though. Sherlock willed his heart to stop sprinting in his chest.

Rose moved about him. He knew she was being careful not to touch him. She ran the electricity cord along the back of the sofa. Once she was through the door to the balcony, Sherlock heard Billy murmuring. Probably reassuring her, making sympathetic noises. Because Sherlock had made her cry; he knew that. Shezza's in pain, Billy had probably told Rose. He's not himself.

I am myself. I'm an arsehole.

Sherlock opened his eyes and drew in necessary oxygen. He picked up his mobile and regarded it in his palm. He had to make the phone call now. There was no putting it off.

He wasn't an arsehole. He was in pain because he cared too much.

John was taking too long to answer his phone. Why wasn't he answering? The caller ID would clearly state that it was Sherlock. So... John was most likely hesitant because it could be a bystander ringing from Sherlock's phone to tell him that he found this guy in the street...

"Hello."

Tentative. Steeling himself for the worst.

"John."

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock! Where are you?"

"John. Listen to me. I'm going to text you an address. Come immediately and tell no one. Not even Lestrade. And definitely not..." Sherlock bit back his words as Mary Watson's voice once more echoed in his mind. I swear I will kill you. "I'll explain when you get here."

Sherlock ended the call not wanting to give John the chance to ask any more questions. He swiftly texted Rose's address to his former flatmate. He knew John Watson. The thrill of the unknown. The potential for danger. Of course he would tell no one.

"It's all set up," came Rose's voice from the door to the balcony.

Her face held no expression. She had obviously heard Sherlock's call to John and was attempting to be unaffected by the fact that John Watson was going to come here, to her flat.

"Thank you."

Rose gave him a tiny smile before she headed in the direction of the kitchen. Sherlock settled into the back of the sofa and sighed. He wanted to reassure Rose that John wouldn't make a big deal out of having to come to her flat. The flat of a former prostitute. The flat of Sherlock's lover—the one John knew nothing about until the day after his wedding.

But Sherlock couldn't offer Rose any reassurances, because John's reaction to whose residence this was would be insignificant compared to his reaction once he found out the true nature of his wife's identity. Sherlock couldn't have a discussion with his so-called best friend about what he thought of Sherlock's girlfriend. Should that conversation take place before or after he advised John that the new Mrs Watson was a deadly assassin? Would it be a competition about whose partner was more trustworthy and less likely to incapacitate you with a lethal weapon?

Sherlock reached for his arm and pulled out the IV line from the cannula.

"All right, Shezza?" Billy said as he came in from the balcony.

"Just removing this," Sherlock said, indicating his arm, "So I can move around."

Billy moved the wheelchair aside and handed Sherlock the remote control for the projector. He advised him that the middle button would take the unit off sleep mode. When Billy made to walk away, Sherlock called him back.

"Could you..." Sherlock said, lifting an arm to indicate that he wanted Billy to help him stand up. He didn't want Rose to see that he could barely hoist himself from her sofa without tearing some vital organ. "Thank you," he said breathlessly to Billy once he was on his feet again.

"'s'all right, mate."

Billy joined Rose in the kitchen as Sherlock retrieved his jacket from its resting place on the back of the armchair. He slid one arm in, then paused to draw breath and visualise how he was going to insert his other arm without twisting his torso. It was going to be impossible. He didn't want to ask Rose. His sense of helplessness was increasing in direct proportion to the rise in her concern.

Sherlock slipped his arm out of his jacket once more. He had a plan; it was a pretty pathetic sort of plan, really, but he needed to talk to her anyway.

Sherlock dropped his jacket to the floor behind the armchair and strode back to the middle of the living room.

He called Rose's name as he set about carefully rolling down his sleeve so that the cannula was covered up. He could at least do that by himself.

Rose wore a pleasant, accommodating sort of smile on her face as she entered the living area.

"Yes?" she asked.

"Are you okay with John coming here?"

Her expression lost its fake edge and she said, "I'm sure that finding out his wife shot you will be more upsetting to him than realising you're hiding out in some prostitute's flat."

"Rose."

"You know what I mean."

Sherlock set his jaw firmly.

"But are you okay?" he asked.

"Yes."

Liar.

He took a couple of steps toward her, placing his hands in his trouser pockets in an effort to appear casual and unaffected by the ongoing stabbing pain just below his ribs.

"After tonight," he said, "I may find it difficult to come and visit you."

"Oh, Sherlock. You shouldn't—"

"But I'd like you to visit me."

There it was. Her brows forming an arc of pity.

"Of course, I will."

"In hospital."

"Yes, in hospital. Why would that be a problem?"

It shouldn't be a problem in light of the ease with which Rose and Billy had assisted in his escape this evening. But Sherlock didn't know what his brother was playing at. He'd received no more than a text stating, "I hope you know what you're doing," from Mycroft, and no interference whatsoever. That told Sherlock one thing: Mycroft Holmes was currently tracking a person of interest and he couldn't take his eyes from the surveillance for one second. Someone abroad most likely. Possibly Poland.

And why would his big brother be concerned about Sherlock leaving the hospital anyway? It wasn't as if Sherlock had been escaping in order to obtain a fix in some unsavoury doss house. As Janine had remarked, they had attached the drugs to him. Why would he need to leave? Of course there was the danger of the case, but what he regarded as Sherlock's trivial 'adventures' had never been an avenue of worry for Mycroft.

But John Watson was another source of concern. The ex-army doctor, after encountering Sherlock tonight, would insist on some kind of security measures to ensure Sherlock couldn't go walkabout again.

"My brother may put minders in place," Sherlock replied.

Rose shrugged lightly and moved toward him. "We'll find a way. Billy's very clever at those sorts of things."

A smile grew on Sherlock's face, and he held out an arm to Rose. He would've preferred to have held her firmly in his embrace, but he was already in a lot of pain. Rose seemed to understand that she could only hug one side of him.

"I need to finish getting dressed," he murmured into her hair. "I don't want John to think he's doing rounds."

Rose moved in front of him, and unnecessarily straightened out his shirt. "Surely you don't need to dress up for him. He knows you've been shot."

"Then he'll be worrying about my medical condition when I need him to concentrate on what I have to say." Sherlock turned his head in a mock show of scanning the room. "Now, where did you put my jacket?"

"It was... Oh..." Rose said, immediately turning to the armchair. "Ah, here it is."

Behind her, Sherlock smiled in triumph. Rose stooped to retrieve Sherlock's "fallen" jacket and shook it out a little. She turned around and held it out to him. Now all he had to do was turn his back on her and slip his arms into the sleeves.

This he achieved with the minimum of fuss on his part. On Rose's however: she continued to brush dust from his jacket and attempted to straighten his lapels. She was hovering again.

"How about a cup of tea?" Sherlock asked, feeling the blood beginning to leech from his face. Evidently, standing for too long wasn't a good idea in his condition.

"Are you allowed to drink tea?"

"Since when did a cup of tea hurt anybody?" he quipped. He smiled, masking a grimace in response to the physical reminder that he wasn't as indestructible as he once thought he was. Of course he wasn't going to drink the tea.

Thankfully, Rose left him alone, obviously feeling good about having an excuse to keep busy and helpful.

Sherlock half-sat, half-collapsed into the armchair. He closed his eyes. He had approximately eleven minutes of peace. Peace from Rose fluttering about, while war raged within.

"All right, Shezza?"

Sherlock breathed out heavily and opened his eyes. Billy stood before him, dressed in his hoody with Rose's yellow blanket draped over his shoulders. In his hand he held the bottom half of a milk container.

"Jus' gonna set up across the road. Do you wan' another hit of—"

"No. Take it. Do you have the phone with you?"

Billy patted his pants pocket. Sherlock found comfort in the fact that he'd only had to explain the plan to Billy once back in the hospital earlier this afternoon. Billy had taken care of most of it: getting Rose's help, obtaining all the necessary items, and more importantly (and impressively) Billy had traced back the origins of Mary Morstan's stolen identity to a stillborn buried in Chiswick Cemetery in 1972.

"I'll send John down to you as soon as I've explained everything to him."

"Okay."

Billy left the flat, taking the wheelchair with him, leaving Sherlock to attempt to mentally traverse the mountain-tops of the Himalayas in an effort to numb the pain a little. Unfortunately, it may only have worked if he had conducted the exercise as soon as he had been taken off the morphine. It was too late now.

"That's the door," Rose said, striding past him and heading for the front door.

Sherlock instantly opened his eyes and straightened up a little. He hadn't heard it. Rose grasped the key then glanced around at Sherlock. She gave him a reassuring smile before unlocking the deadbolts.

"John, hi. Come in."

Sherlock commended Rose on her ability to keep her voice pleasant, but not too light as to disrespect the seriousness of the situation. John had dragged his stunned gaze from Rose to Sherlock beyond her. The doctor in him had him making a beeline straight to his patient.

"Sherlock, Jesus."

"I'm fine, John."

"No, you're bloody not."

John dragged over a footstool and immediately sat in front of Sherlock. He lifted one side of Sherlock's jacket, to check that his bullet wound wasn't bleeding through, presumably, then took Sherlock's wrist in his hand. John glanced at his watch as he felt Sherlock's pulse.

"John."

John continued silently counting.

"Right," he said eventually. "Slightly raised, but not tachycardic."

Sherlock hoped John wouldn't check his pulse again when he was standing up.

"I'm making tea..." Rose said from behind John, the inflection in her voice implying that she was indirectly asking John if he would also like a cuppa. She was trying to keep things civilised in an otherwise charged situation. Good on her.

John turned his head only slightly toward Rose. "He can't have tea."

Sherlock glanced up at Rose. He gave her an imperceptible shake of his head. She gave him a resigned smile in return then headed off toward the kitchen. She knew when to make herself scarce. Sherlock could've smacked John in the face for the way he spoke to Rose, but now was not the time to antagonise his doctor.

"John. There's no easy way to tell you this."

John's expression immediately hardened. Naturally Doctor Watson would know from previous experience around Sherlock Holmes that forthcoming revelations were often of the dramatic variety.

"Mary shot me."

John blinked several times then tilted his head. It was amazing how such a mannerism in a soldier seemed to imply that they were seconds away from doing you harm.

"I'm... s-sorry?" John asked.

You heard me perfectly well, Sherlock thought.

"Mary shot me. In Magnussen's office."

John breathed in abruptly, then exhaled just as forcefully.

"My wife, Mary," he said, blinking again in disbelief.

"Yes."

"Or someone who looked like Mary? Y-you were in shock..."

"I wasn't in shock when she turned around to point her gun at me," Sherlock said in as calm a voice as he could muster. "Nor when she asked me if you were with me."

John shook his head minutely and rose from the footstool.

"You're... delusional."

"Do I look delusional?"

"Sherlock, one more word—"

"John, just listen for a minute. We don't have much time." The strain in Sherlock's voice may have hinted that he didn't have much time.

John didn't appear to notice. He stalked away from Sherlock then spun around.

"You're talking about my wife!"

"Yes."

The air in the room seemed to crackle around John.

"Magnussen obviously has something on her, "Sherlock continued. "I think I can get her to confess, but she won't if she thinks you're in the room."

"Confess," John repeated, as if the word were poison.

"But not here," Sherlock added. "She needs to think we're in a secure environment. You need to stay hidden. I can get her talking."

Oh, Sherlock... I will kill you.

John shook his bowed head as he turned from Sherlock again.

"Just trust me on this, John. If you could—"

"She's my wife!" John yelled, rounding on Sherlock. "The mother of my child!"

Sherlock remained perfectly composed.

"And this doesn't change those facts."

From the vicinity of the coffee table, a phone began to ring. Sherlock eyed Rose's bag curiously. He had an inkling.

"Rose," he called.

John had turned his back on Sherlock once more as Rose came striding in.

"Sorry," she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"No, it's.. it's fine," Sherlock reassured her. "Just—"

"It's Mary!" Rose said, her voice stifling a panic as she stared at the caller ID.

John's attention immediately focussed on Rose. Of course he doesn't know that Mary has already met Rose, Sherlock thought.

"Just answer it," Sherlock calmly told Rose. "And answer her truthfully."

He saw Rose swallow before she pressed the Speaker button. John took a tiny step in Rose's direction, then stood, frozen to the spot, all senses honed in on Rose.

"Hello?"

"Rose, do you live in Leinster Gardens?" came Mary's business-like voice through the speaker. No preamble, no small-talk, just straight to the point.

Rose's eyes met Sherlock's. He could tell she wasn't breathing. He gave her a tiny nod.

"Yes," she replied.

"Is Sherlock with you?"

Rose's eyes widened in alarm. John straightened up, standing taller, soldier-like.

"Rose, is Sherlock with you?" Mary asked again, forcefully. Impatiently. She had business to conduct.

Again Sherlock offered Rose a nod in reassurance.

"Ye..." Rose cleared her throat and tried again. "Yes."

There was silence as Mary had presumably ended the call.

"She's on her way," Sherlock said, as Rose dropped her phone into her bag.

John came to life again. He nodded to himself as if he'd just convinced himself of a particular point. He reached into his back pocket and drew out his phone. He said, without making eye contact with Sherlock, "She'll ring me and tell me you're here."

Sherlock didn't feel the need to contradict John at this point in time. He exchanged a glance with Rose, then leant forward. He gestured lightly with his hand toward her, silently indicating that he needed help getting out of the chair. It was almost over, and he didn't mind letting Rose know that he needed her help now. John was otherwise preoccupied. He had his back to them, and was staring at the phone in his hand.

"My coat," Sherlock said in a low voice to Rose.

She crossed the room, carefully avoiding John Watson, and retrieved Sherlock's coat from the hooks by the door. Rose helped him put it on, as Sherlock kept his eyes on John. His best friend was still staring at his phone screen, willing it to ring. Its silence was rather telling. There was no need for Sherlock to say anything to him. This was the last clue that John needed to get him to accept Sherlock's plan.

Sherlock looked down at Rose who was now fussing again with the front of his coat.

"I'll be fine," Sherlock told her.

Her eyes were glistening with unshed tears.

"I'll wait to hear from you," she said. "When you're back in hospital," she added grimly.

Rose left him for the balcony. She knew her role. She had to wait until they were all inside the empty house, then she had to call a cab for them. Next, she and Billy would pack away the projector and return it to her store. And then she would wait to hear from him.

"Where do you want me?" John asked Sherlock without turning around. He had dropped the hand that had been holding his phone.

"Downstairs," Sherlock replied. "And across the road. Billy's waiting for you. He'll show you where to sit."

John nodded without turning around. He exited the flat. Sherlock listened for his footfalls to die out on the stairwell before he drew his own phone from his trouser pocket as well as the remote for the projector. He had to wait for Billy's call so he could hear the moment Mary appeared.

The game, it seemed, was on.

.