Holmes Again

by LizzeXX

Sherlock/OC – Sherlock and Leena, newly married, are called back to London before their exile could even begin. With Moriarty seemingly back and taking up focus, will Sherlock miss the real danger lurking about? When tragedy strikes a beloved wife will it push him on or will the failure break him down? The East Wind comes for all eventually. Fourth in the Jackie Holmes Chronicles.

6. The Lying Detective: Downward Spiral

A/N: This chapter is going to be very Leena-lite, for obvious reasons :(

Trigger Warning: This chapter's also going to mention some very self-depreciating and spiraling thoughts/behaviors when it comes to Sherlock, so just a warning that this chapter is heavy on some depression elements :(

~8~

The Lying Detective: Downward Spiral

John Watson was angry and terrified, to a point where not even Mary could talk him round, and that said something to Sherlock Holmes.

Granted it had only been a fortnight, but the fact that Mary was failing in that endeavor spoke volumes as it hadn't taken her that long to work him round after he'd 'returned from the dead.' According to Mary, she had spent the entire time trying to convince John to just talk to his friend, but now he wouldn't even speak to HER any more than necessary. He hadn't wanted that to happen, or at least, he was sure, at one point he hadn't. It was harder for him to remember things recently.

Despite Mary's efforts, Sherlock was of the impression John was right to do as he was.

But the voice in his head that sounded like Leena told him he was being an ass.

Leena…

Sherlock let out a breath, jolting awake from where his head had been drooping while he laid nearly sprawled out on his armchair, trying to pay attention to a client. It was difficult to do, pay attention to anything that is. His head was all full of…stuff, so much unimportant stuff he was so tempted to just delete all of it from his Mind Palace.

But then how would he continue to impress Leena when she woke up?

He flinched at that, playing it off as a crick in his neck as he tried to sit up more on the chair. She would wake up, it wasn't an IF, it was a when she healed enough from her wound and was strong enough she'd open her eyes and come back to him. And when she did…he had to be ready, ready to be better than he'd ever been.

Which was, admittedly, hard to do when he could barely remember how he should be in the first place.

Words he spoke to Leena so long ago came back to him, he couldn't be him without her, and right now she was further away from him than she had ever been before.

It wasn't important, how he was or is or anything, HE didn't matter. Right now the only thing that mattered was making sure everything was ready for when Leena woke up and making sure Liberty was happy, healthy, and safe.

That. Was. It.

So what if John didn't want to speak to him or see him ever again? So what if Mary kept trying to do wellness checks on him or ring him up? So what if Mycroft had constant surveillance on him since the only time he left the flat was to visit Leena and absolutely nothing else? So what if Mrs. Hudson seemed on the verge of tears each time she took a look at him? So what? Who cared?

He was alive, he was functioning, he was caring for Liberty, and he could do it. He had to do it, he had to keep himself together long enough for Leena to wake up.

…she had to wake up.

She had to.

Until then, he needed to keep an income, keep busy, keep his mind as sharp as he could manage between remembering the visiting hours at the hospital and being there first thing to sit with Leena, and he had to remember when Liberty needed feeding and burping and changing and what stories he'd already read to her and how to change her nappy, between working on his experiments and finding just the right thing to help his wife when she was out of hospital. He rarely took clients, because there was too much to do and not enough hours and why do anything as wasteful and time consuming as sleep when Moriarty's last game was still out there?

Anyone looking at him would think him a mess, with his disheveled appearance, haggard face, bags under his eyes, how he'd gotten thinner, and how he went from a boneless heap on the sofa to raging about the place like there was something priceless hidden in the cushions, making a worse mess of the place than it had already become in just the 2 weeks he'd been alone.

(2 weeks and 3 days, but he rounded down, he had to round down because tomorrow would be 4 days and too close to 3 weeks...)

Leena's voice would agree with them, he was a mess, he was spiraling and he knew it, nearing the point where he was running on fumes but refusing to stop.

He couldn't stop, he couldn't.

Moriarty's game was out there, criminals were everywhere, there was a threat around each corner, and he'd made a lot of enemies over his time. He had to protect his family, he had to stop them all, he had to keep his daughter safe.

Never before had he done so much freelance work for Scotland Yard, without asking, without entreaty. As soon as Liberty was asleep after they'd returned from visiting Leena, he was on his laptop, hacking into their files and solving their crimes, as many as he could before Liberty woke up again. He would go to the hospital with it, sit with Leena, explain the cases to her and how he was solving them, telling her that it would be a safer world for her to wake up to, that no one would ever harm her again, so she just had to wake up and see it.

She hadn't woken up yet.

So, clearly, he hadn't done a good enough job.

He winced when something pricked his finger and looked down to see he'd been careless with the 'evidence' his latest client had brought him, a folded piece of paper he'd just given himself a papercut on.

"Three years ago," the woman sitting across from him, in the client's chair, was saying, "My father told me he wanted to kill someone. One word, Mr. Holmes, and it changed my world forever. Just one word."

He rolled his eyes at the woman, dramatics. Was that supposed to lure him in or something? Faith, he recalled her name being, was sitting there in an ankle-length, long-sleeved, red dress, gripping a cane in her hand, clenching her hands over the top of it.

"What word?" Sherlock asked, if just to see if the answer would be interesting. He reached for his mobile, checking it as he did at least a hundred times an hour for any update or notification from the hospital. His hand was shaking until he took the phone in both of his to steady it, nothing.

Each time he checked, each time he hoped for the notice that Leena was awake, but each time there was nothing.

For two weeks, there had been nothing.

A voice that sounded like John's said it shouldn't take this long, that the longer it took the less likely waking was to happen...

He flinched at the thought, twitching his head to the side to cast it off.

"A name," Faith spoke.

"What name?"

"I can't remember," she sighed, "I can't remember who my father wanted to kill and I don't know if he ever did it."

"Well, you've changed," he remarked, absently searching for a picture of Faith and her father on his phone to see just who the man was, seeing if there was anything to deduce about him from the picture, "You no longer top up your tan and your roots are showing. Letting yourself go?"

'You're one to talk, Locksley,' Leena's voice spoke in his head, 'HOW long has it been since you've had a shower, again?'

He shook his head sharply, a ping in his heart, thinking back to Baskerville, how she'd teasingly remarked that she never complained about how he could let his hygiene go a bit between cases. It was worse now.

Everything was worse now.

What was the point in hygiene? What care did he have for himself? He wasn't important, his girls were. Liberty needed to be clean, Leena needed to be healthy, to hell with him, just…just let THEM be ok.

Faith was watching him during his little inner crisis, "Do you ever look in the mirror and want to see someone else?" she wondered.

"No," he said.

It was a lie.

He hadn't before, not once in his life…until Leena was shot in front of him. Now he couldn't look in the mirror without seeing the failure he was, without wanting to see someone worthy of his girls and the life they had been about to build, to see someone who deserved the faith Leena had in him because he'd certainly let her down now and she was paying the price for it.

"Do you own an American car?" he changed the subject, needing something, anything else to talk about.

"I'm sorry?" Faith blinked.

"No, not American," he waved it off, "Left-hand drive, that's what I mean."

"No. Why…why do you ask?"

He glanced at her, frowning, for a moment genuinely not sure why he'd asked, "Not sure, actually," he admitted with a shrug, "Probably just noticed something."

He got up. He was slowing down. He knew the signs by now, he'd tracked them, catalogued them, mathematically worked out his rate and when he would need his next fix to keep going without being so slow he risked his daughter. He swayed a bit as he got upright, blinking rapidly from the rush of blood travelling through him. Hmm, he'd have to add a bit of sugar to the mix.

As he blinked, though, he caught sight of a straight dark line of dirt on the side of Faith's skirt.

"Are you ok?" Faith frowned at him, seeing him swaying before he steadied himself.

"Oh, of course you don't own a car," he ignored her, not about to give anyone any confirmation that he wasn't as well as he was projecting, not about to risk anyone thinking him not at the top of his game and targeting his family, or thinking he was unfit to care for his daughter and removing her from his custody, "You don't need one, do you? Living in isolation, no human contact, no visitors…" he held up the paper to look at the writing on it once more, using it more to focus his eyes than actually looking at it or reading it, the room had gone a bit blurry…

"Ok," Faith nervously began to fiddle with her necklace, "How do you know that?"

"It's all here, isn't it?" he waved the paper around, annoyed. This meeting was taking longer than it should have, it was encroaching into his fix time, "Look," he held the paper towards her, pointing at various points of it, "Cost-cutting's clearly a priority for you. Look at the size of your kitchen, teeny tiny," he moved to the window to glance out of it, "Must be a bit annoying when you're such a keen cook."

"I don't understand…"

"Hang on a minute..." he frowned, moving back to the window, looking out of it, "I was looking out of the window. Why was I doing that?" he'd thought it was to check that the streets were clear, no threat in sight…but this wasn't his normal time to do so and it wasn't his normal method…so he'd glimpsed out of it for another reason?

He shook his head, he needed a fix, he needed to be faster. This was slow, too slow, forgetfulness was another sign he had to hurry things up.

"I don't know!" Faith answered.

"Me either. Must have had a reason," he turned to her, "It'll come back to me," before he returned to the paper, moving across the room, if he could get closer to his next fix then he wouldn't have to waste time getting there once Faith was gone, "Presumably you downsized when you…when you left your job," he nibbled on the edge of the paper, "And maybe when you ended your relationship."

He winced, a stabbing pain hitting him in the front of his head, and moved to drop down on his armchair. He glanced to the side, frowning at the small pile of cups sitting there, all empty. Damn it, he couldn't even sneak a bit now…

"You can't know that," Faith declared.

'Of course you can," Leena's voice chuckled.

His lip curled at the corner, "Course, I can," he repeated, "There wasn't anything physical going on, was there?" he held up the paper, "Quite some time, in fact. There, see? It's obvious."

Faith just looked upset, "You can't tell things like that from a piece of paper."

"Think I just did, didn't I? I'm sure that was me."

"How?"

'Because you're Sherlock Holmes!' Leena's voice laughed.

"Dunno," he shrugged, and waved it off, "Just sort of…happens, really," he winced, recalling the last time he'd deduced someone like that, hearing the sound of the gunshot in his ears, seeing the blood on his hands, his wife's blood, "It's…like a reflex. I can't stop it."

'Nor should you,' Leena's voice reassured him the moment his thoughts began to drift to the contemplation that maybe he should stop it, 'You're amazing, Locksley. Truly fantastique!'

He shook his head, he couldn't stop it, he didn't want to, but he had to get better at it, he had to know, he had to KNOW what people were planning to do. He had to…to be more like Leena. He'd deduced the victims, the crime, but Leena…SHE had profiled the criminal, she had known Vivian had a gun and would use it when she used it.

He had to do that, he had to deduce the criminal too…

But right now, as much as he tried to think about what Faith told him of her father, his eyes kept going to her, to her shoulders and her hair, both of which were damp.

'It IS raining out,' Leena offered, 'And she has no coat.'

"Coat," he sat up more at that, looking at Faith.

"I don't have a coat," the woman said slowly, not sure where he was going with it.

"Yeah, that's what I just noticed," he muttered, pushing himself up and heading straight for the kitchen, when the Leena in his mind was making observations for him, it was bad, he needed his fix, NOW. He stumbled when he reached the wall though, the moving when the initial standing unbalanced him only made him more unsteady. He curled his hand into a fist and lightly banged on the wall, "I wonder why?"

The plastic covering hanging in front of the kitchen, which he hadn't taken down (because what if Leena's nose was still bionic when she came back?), moved and Bill Wiggins peered through, taking one look at Sherlock before he stepped back in.

"So what do you think?" Faith spoke when nothing was said for a moment or two.

"Of what?" Sherlock gave her an odd look, before letting out a breath of relief when Wiggins appeared, holding out a teacup of liquid to him.

"My case."

Sherlock winced, his face scrunching in a bit of distaste and pain when he downed the drink. It had been scalding and there was too much sugar for his taste, but the coffee…that was exactly what he needed, caffeine, keep him moving, sugar, keep him alert, that was all he needed.

"Oh," he stretched his mouth a bit, handing the teacup back to Wiggins and holding up a finger for another cup, before turning to Faith, "It's way too weird for me. Go to the police, they're really excellent at dealing with this complicated sort of stuff. Tell them I sent you that ought to get a reaction," he moved over to John's chair and picked up her very large handbag, tossing it to her with a, "Night night."

He could almost see Leena then, could imagine her shaking her head in exasperation at him as she sighed in his mind's eye.

'The bag is too heavy, Sherwood,' she spoke, having caught that thought in his mind even when he tried to push it away.

He just turned and headed for the kitchen, what did he care if the bag was too heavy?

"Please," Faith stood, getting him to pause just at the plastic sheet, "I have no one else to turn to."

"Yes, but I'm very busy at the moment," he waved her off, "I have to drink a cup of coffee."

Or three, if his slowness was anything to go by. He needed more than just two cups now. This was a three cup night apparently. Though he expected it, Liberty had been colicky, for weeks now, crying endlessly some days. He thought it was that the girl knew her mother wasn't there.

He empathized.

He felt like crying, too.

But he couldn't, because he was daddy, and he had to take care of his daughter and his wife and he would not fail, damn it!

He turned his back on Faith and strode into the kitchen, pushing the plastic aside and grabbing the coffee Wiggins had just dumped two heaping tablespoons of sugar into, downing it in one gulp despite the burn to his throat. He set the cup down, snapping his fingers for Wiggins to get another one ready, as he turned to look at the small laboratory they'd set up on the table. He moved to a clipboard Wiggins kept beside various liquids, frowning at the results...that wouldn't do. Each day was the day Leena could wake up, and each day they didn't work out the experiment was another day he failed to be prepared for her waking.

"You're my last hope!" Faith continued to remain behind, calling from the sitting room.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, moving to the plastic and brushing it away to poke his head out, "Really? That's bad luck, isn't it? Goodnight. Go away."

"What's bad luck?" Wiggins asked as Sherlock spun around and stormed back, setting down another cup of coffee before the man.

"Stop talking," Sherlock groused, "It makes me aware of your existence."

And when people were talking, he wasn't able to hear Leena. He'd rather have silence and her voice in his head than anyone else around him right now.

Wiggins seemed to get the hint for he just slid the cup towards him.

'It's her handbag, Locksley,' Leena's voice whispered to him as he drank the cup down again, 'It's too heavy. She has no coat in this rain, and no one waiting to take her home…' he could almost picture the sorrow in her eyes, the empathy in them, and he could almost ignore the feeling that she wanted him to go after Faith, until she uttered five words that had him rushing out of the flat, 'What if it were Liberty?'

"Stop!" Sherlock shouted, rushing out of the flat and down the stairs, catching Faith just as she opened the door to step out, "Wait!" he winced, leaning heavily against the wall as he nearly fell down the stairs, lightheaded from the jolt, the caffeine needed some time to kick in. But he took a breath and forced the words out, "Your life is not your own. Keep your hands off it, do you hear me?" he pointed a warning finger at her, for a brief moment picturing the girl he'd seen in his Mind Palace when he'd been shot, seeing his daughter and not some stranger, "Off it," he ordered, stern, "Off. It."

"Sorry?" Faith frowned, "What? What are you talking about?"

"Your skirt," he pointed his finger down to it, blinking at it, clearing the picture of his daughter from his mind.

"My skirt?"

"Look at the hem of it! That's what I noticed. I'm…" he let out a breath, resting his head in his hand a moment, feeling his heart rate picking up again, the caffeine starting to finally work the way he needed it to. Wiggins must have put an extra espresso powder in one of the cups for a boost, "Still catching up with my brain. It's terribly fast," he pointed at her skirt again, at the streak on it, "Those markings. Do you see them? You only get marks like that by trapping the hem of your skirt in a car door but they're on the left-hand side, so you weren't driving, you were in the passenger seat."

"I came in a taxi," Faith shook her head, really not sure what that had to do with anything.

"There is no taxi waiting in the street outside. That's what I checked when I went to the window. And you've got all the way to the door and not made any move to phone for one, and look at you. You didn't even bring a coat, in this rain? Now, well, that might mean nothing, except for the angle of the scars on your left forearm, you know, under that sleeve that you keep pulling down," he glanced at that exact sleeve right as she was tugging it in a nervous habit.

"You never saw them…"

"No, I didn't, so thank you for confirming my hypothesis," he probably sounded more genuine than he intended to but…some part of his mind recognized the relief he felt at knowing he would be able to spot those signs even on someone trying to hide them if, god forbid, anyone in his family ever reached that point, he would notice and he could help, "Don't really need to check that the angle's consistent with self-harm, do I?"

"No," she stepped back.

"Then you can keep your scars. I want to see your handbag."

"Why?"

"It's too heavy," he repeated what Leena's voice had been telling him, "You said I was your last hope and now you're going out into the night with no plan on how you're getting home…and a gun."

He didn't even smirk at being right when she lowered her head in shame.

'She's someone's daughter, Locksley,' Leena's voice urged in his head.

He nodded to himself, "Chips."

"Chips?" she frowned, startled.

Sherlock merely turned and grabbed a coat from the nearest rack to give to her, "You're suicidal. You're allowed chips, trust me. It's about the only perk," he moved to pull his dressing gown off and hang it on a hook, before grabbing his normal coat. They would go get chips, he would not leave a suicidal person, someone's daughter, alone right now but he also would not allow someone ready to harm themselves and in possession of a gun anywhere near his daughter. The only option was to get her out of the flat.

"Sherlock?" a voce called, and Mrs. Hudson approached just after Faith had stepped outside, "Are you going out?"

"I think I remember the way," he mumbled, pointing at the open door, "It's through there, isn't it?"

"Oh, you're in no state. Look at you…" just because she wasn't in his flat 24/7 didn't mean she wasn't aware of his goings on.

She saw the food sitting in the fridge, uneaten, some already rotting, not eating.

She saw the teacups piled up, stained from his coffee, to perk him up.

She heard him moving about at all hours of the night, not sleeping.

And…and she saw the lab, what could only be a bloody drug lab he'd cooked up in her home, something she knew would break poor Leena's heart if she saw it, if she knew he'd resorted to that again after so many years. The only thing that kept her quiet, kept her from calling child services, was that Liberty was always taken care of. The girl was always clean and happy and eating well and doted on by Sherlock, even when she was colicky and crying, Sherlock never lost his temper with her or shouted.

He wasn't taking care of himself, everything he had was given to Liberty.

And seeing him about to head out, knowing he'd barely slept or eaten in weeks…it was worrying to her.

Because this wasn't visiting hours at the hospital, so he wasn't going there, and she feared so much for what he might do to himself in such a state.

"Yeah, well, I've got a friend with me," Sherlock shrugged, heading for the door, pausing to look back at her, "Liberty is sleeping," he checked his watch, he'd timed everything his daughter had done since he brought her home to better attend to her. On the rare nights when the colic didn't disrupt her sleep he could even wager a guess how long she'd be out for, "Should be 5 more hours before she wakes. Please, Mrs. Hudson, look after her if I'm not back before then."

"Of course," she tried to give him a small smile, but the worry was clear on her face, because she didn't see anyone with him, but she knew that he would do all he could to come back to Liberty.

They had to see Leena in the morning.

~8~

Sherlock stared down at the chips in their cardboard carton, ketchup dripping off one, and trying his best not to think about how Leena had had a craving once for chips, dipped in strawberry sauce, and eaten with pickles. Truly, he had thought himself lucky when Leena seemed to only feel nauseous and not endure morning sickness, he hated her being ill and there being nothing he could do for her, but then the cravings started and he'd honestly documented each concoction to see if there was a pattern so he could anticipate her next craving and surprise her.

He'd failed.

No surprise there, he failed at quite a lot when it came to her lately.

He swallowed hard and forced himself to take the chips and eat them, even though his stomach protested against it. He didn't eat much, not recently, bit of cheese here and there, mostly coffee with excessive amounts of sugar. But he doubted Faith would actually eat or talk if he didn't do so too.

The rain had begun easing up enough for them to walk with their chips over to a bench by an old church, sitting in silence before he decided to himself that…he would take the case. For a cost. He couldn't say it now though, he wanted to make sure Faith made it through the night, that he got through to her, before he took it up.

This could have been her last plea, her last cry for help, and knowing someone would work on it might give her the push she needed to finally put an end to everything. He needed her to know he would only work on it so long as she kept living…he had to make her see that he could solve it though.

"You see the fold in the middle?" he asked, holding up the paper, open, for her to see, doing what he always defaulted to when he needed to prove a point or buy time, deduce, "For the first few months you kept this hidden, folded inside a book. Must have been a tightly packed shelf, going by the severity of the crease. So obviously you were keeping it hidden from someone living in the same house at a level of intimacy where privacy could not be assumed. Conclusion: relationship. Not anymore, though," he pointed to the top of the paper, "There's a pinprick at the top of the paper. For the past few months it's been on open display on a wall. Conclusion: relationship is over. The paper's been exposed to steam and a variety of cooking smells so it must have been on display in the kitchen."

He smiled a bit when he thought back to a gift Leena had given him once. It had been a simple card that she had mailed to him for his birthday, never forgetting his and always sure to call and text and send him a card and email and anything she could to make his day special even from a distance. He'd gotten the card once and it had clearly been signed and left on her kitchen counter to be mailed out the next day, the envelope smelt of burnt popcorn. He'd had to text her and tease her to be more careful because burning popcorn was a travesty.

She'd called him an ass for spying on her.

He'd been called that many times over his life, an 'ass,' but there was always a fondness when Leena did it, a joke, a tease, it was never meant to offend but to remark on his somewhat rude behavior at times…and a parallel to how he was rarely rude to HER.

He shook his head, lifting the paper to his nose and sniffing it, "Lots of different spices. You're suicidal, alone and strapped for cash, yet you're still cooking to impress. You're keen, then. The kitchen is the most public room in any house, but since any visitor could be expected to ask about a note like this, I have to assume you don't have any. You've isolated yourself."

"Amazing," Faith breathed.

'I agree,' Leena mused.

He smiled, more for the second voice than the first, "I know."

Faith snorted, "I meant the chips."

Sherlock actually chuckled at that, that sounded like something Leena would say, and his smile faded with that thought, swallowing hard as he tried to remember, she would wake up, he would hear her say things again, they would be together.

He glanced up when he heard the sound of a helicopter approaching and stood, walking towards it, smirking when he recognized what it was and how unsubtle Mycroft had gotten in his old age.

"Let's go for a walk."

~8~

"How did you know my kitchen was tiny?" Faith asked as they walked along the streets, their chips long since finished.

"Look at the fading pattern on the paper," he held up the note, "It's not much but it's enough to know your kitchen window faces east. Now, kitchen noticeboards," he paused, moving towards an empty area of the street and drawing a square in the air, as though it were the noticeboard, "By instinct we place them at eye level where there's natural light," he pointed to an area where she would have hung up the note, "Now look, the sun's only struck the bottom two thirds but the line is straight, so that means we know the paper is facing the window," he turned around and indicated where a window would be, about the normal size, "But because the top section is unaffected we know the sunlight can only be entering the room at a steep angle. If the sunlight was able to penetrate the room when the sun was lower in the sky then the paper would be equally faded top to bottom. But no. It only makes it when the sun is at its zenith, so I'm betting that you live in a narrow street on the ground floor. Now, if steeply angled sunlight manages to hit eye level on the wall opposite the window, then what do we know about the room?" he moved between where he was imagining the window and the noticeboard, and moved closer to the noticeboard, imagining the sunlight creeping up the paper till it was right where the fading occurred, "The room's small."

"Oh," Faith winced, when a spotlight was shown on them, lifting a hand to cover her eyes and face from the brightness, "Big Brother is watching you!"

"Literally," Sherlock huffed, "Come on," he nodded to the side, starting to walk again.

~8~

"Sex," Faith spoke after they had lapsed into silence for quite some time.

'Enjoyable,' Leena's voice teased, 'VERY enjoyable.'

Sherlock had to fight a blush from the imaginary words in order to face Faith as they walked along, both sipping on energy drinks now…perhaps he should invest in some of those too, they already had premeasured sugar in the same quantities…easier to more accurately study the effects than trying to get the exact amount of sugar and right level of coffee each time…

He shook his head, getting distracted, "I'm sorry?"

"Sex," she repeated, "How did you know I wasn't…getting any?"

He snorted, "It's all about the blood," he pulled the paper out and pointed to a small stain on it, "This one comes from the very first night. You can see the pen marks over it. I think you discovered that pain stimulated your memory, so you tried it again later. I'm no expert, but I assume that since your lover failed to notice an increasing number of scars over a period of months, that the relationship was no longer intimate."

"How do you know he didn't notice?"

"Oh, well, because he would have done something about it," he shrugged.

Faith eyed him a moment, "Would he?"

"Wouldn't he? Isn't that what you people do?"

"Well, that's interesting."

"What is?"

"The way you think."

"Superbly?"

"Sweetly."

"I'm not sweet," he muttered, before sighing, "I just…have experience," he remarked, knowing from things Leena had told him over the years that empathy and reciprocity could help talk someone down, "I was hurt, someone noticed."

"Someone important?" Faith guessed, "Your wife?"

He glanced at her, "How do you know I'm married?"

She smiled and just pointed to the hand that was holding the energy drink, the gold band glinting in the streetlamp light.

He blinked and looked down at it, it was…odd…how comfortable he felt wearing the ring that he didn't even notice it was there. It was like it was always meant to be there and so his mind didn't even register when it got cold in the winters or clanged on something glass or metal…

"She noticed," Faith surmised, "And she did something about it."

Sherlock smiled, "Yeah."

"She saved your life."

"More than once," Sherlock murmured, before shaking his head, not completely comfortable with sharing more than he already had, "This way," he turned 180.

"What? We just came that way."

"I know. It's a plan."

"What plan?" Faith followed after him.

He just glanced up at a surveillance camera at an intersection and smirked, raising his can to toast the people watching him, knowing, by now, they'd noticed some sort of pattern or reason for his changing in direction so much.

'Fuck Off' he'd been spelling in the streets they went down, clearly visible to Mycroft if he had the sense to trace it.

~8~

Sherlock sighed as they finally came to a stop from their walk all over London, moving to sit on a bench near the South Bank. He'd used the time to spell out a number of words to Mycroft, like 'bollocks' and hoping the man would get the idea to stop following him after he'd added 'bugger off' too. He absently had a half baguette in his hand, no plans to eat it, though he took Faith nibbling on hers as a sign he had finally gotten through to her enough where she would trust him to know what he was talking about.

"D'you know why I'm going to take your case?" he asked, "Because of the one impossible thing you've said."

"What impossible thing?" she glanced at him.

"You said your life turned on one word."

"Yes, the name of the person my father wanted to kill."

"That's the impossible thing. Just that, right there."

"What's impossible?"

"Names aren't one word. They're always at least two. Sherlock Holmes, Faith Smith, Santa Claus, Winston Churchill, Napoleon Bonaparte. Actually," he winced, thinking about how that one sort of disproved the others, "Just 'Napoleon' would do."

"Or Elvis?"

'Or Cher, or Madonna,' Leena added.

"Well, I think we can rule both of them out as targets," Sherlock remarked, only just catching himself in time to say 'both of them in stead of 'all of them.'

"Ok," Faith shrugged, "I got it wrong, then. It wasn't only one word, it can't have been."

"And you remember quite distinctly that your whole life turned on one word, so that happened, I don't doubt it, but how can that word be a name, a name you instantly recognized that tore your world apart?"

"Ok, well, how?"

"No idea," he admitted.

'Yet,' Leena teased.

"Yet," he agreed, taking a breath, "But I don't work for free," he added, firm, holding out his hand to her.

Faith glanced at it and then him, "D'you take cash?"

He gave her a pointed look, "Not cash, no."

She stared him down for a moment, before she sighed, reaching into her handbag and pulling out the pistol she'd put there, placing it on his hand.

He stood, wanting desperately to get the gun as far away from him as he could after what happened with Vivian and Leena. He stumbled somewhat from the sudden shift, but kept moving to the railing by the river's edge, hurling the gun as far away as he could into its waters. He moved, resting his hands on the railing, half shuddering as he relaxed now that the gun was gone.

"'Taking your own life,'" he murmured, "Interesting expression. Taking it from who? Oh, once it's over, it's not you who'll miss it."

He flinched, willing his mind not to turn to Leena. Even though she hadn't taken her own life, someone had tried to take his, and she had given hers to stop it.

NO, he shook his head firmly, no she hadn't given her life yet, she still had her life, she still had it, and she would keep having it and the second she woke up he would make damn sure she kept it forever.

He tightened his grip on the railing and looked up at the river, only to look away when he caught sight of the Aquarium in the distance. He tried to focus on the river instead, but it was grey, the same grey as Liberty's eyes, as Leena's eyes, and so he looked skyward.

"Your own death is something that happens to everybody else."

He understood it, but he hadn't quite comprehended what John and Leena had gone through when he faked his death. To say that out loud…he had a new context for it, for everything now.

Leena was the one who had suffered, through all his cases and plots and tricks. It had been HIS choice to fake his death, though he had hoped Leena and John would have been far away from it when it happened, he hadn't wanted her to see that, but she had been there and he'd needed to give her one last message. She'd worked it out, that he wasn't really dead, but it didn't stop the fact that she saw him jump and land and 'die' in front of her eyes. SHE had been the one of the two of them to suffer when his 'death' hit, she had had to go on.

He'd had his mission, to disband Moriarty's circle, it kept him going, the knowledge that when he finished he could return to her. But she hadn't known, not fully, if or when he'd pop up in the paper, where he'd go, if he'd survive to the next step. Two years of constant suffering and wonder and pain.

And then he got shot, and while Mary had aimed for a spot he could survive…if he hadn't fallen the right way, if he hadn't kept shock from settling in, if he hadn't borne the pain…he could have died. And Leena would have been the one to suffer that again.

His fake death, his near death, had happened to his wife and his closest friend.

And now…now karma was truly a bitch come back to bite him in the ass.

He might lose Leena.

Her death would be something that happened to him.

His life and hers, they were tied, they were married, and he wasn't ready for the 'till death do us part' bit.

"Your life is not your own," he repeated, "Keep your hands off it."

That last part…that was for him.

If it hadn't been for Liberty, he…he might have kept Faith's gun for himself. Truly the only things helping him cling to life and not put a bullet in his own brain was his daughter and Leena. If he hadn't had Liberty and Leena died…

He dug his nails into the metal of the railing, needing the pain to jolt him out of his spiraling thoughts.

Leena was alive.

His daughter was depending on him.

He couldn't break now.

"You're not what I expected," Faith remarked behind him, "You're…"

"What?" he asked, feeling himself shaking, feeling himself starting to break no matter how much he tried to hold it in. He had cried, he'd had his cry, he allowed himself just one after Liberty had been put to bed that fist night. He had to be strong, for Liberty, "What am I?"

"Nicer," Faith finished.

He nearly let out a broken laugh at that, Leena had been the only person who ever thought he was nice. Of course, he was nice to her, there was just…she'd smiled at him. When they first met, she'd smiled and seemed so genuinely pleased to meet him, so touched he'd tried to use her language, and she kept spending time around him even when his deductions accidently insulted her.

He blamed it on her broken English, she probably hadn't understood what he was saying and how it came across. Ok, his terrible French probably hadn't helped any.

But she stayed with him, she'd gotten under his skin, and he'd realized she pulled farther away when he wasn't nice to her and why would he ever want her farther away?

She didn't treat him like he was stupid like Mycroft or a freak like the school children, she was NICE to him. It was only fair he be nice in return.

And then it grew to just wanting to be nice to her, to be kind, to show her she was different to him, she was someone he actually hurt to hurt her.

"Than..." he began to ask, when his phone pinged and he pulled it out of his pocket with such a desperation he nearly dropped it into the river, "Hello?!" he nearly shouted into the other end.

"Sherlock," Mary's voice was tense, straining to hide a tremor, "It's Leena..."

He paid no mind to Faith at all, turning and racing down the road, leaving her alone.

~8~

Pregnant women were more likely to throw a clot, he'd learned, 5 times more likely to experience a clot than women who weren't.

Especially if they were stationary too long, like lying in a hospital bed.

Even more so when a gunshot wound could cause clots to form too.

Leena had thrown a clot.

She'd nearly died and now...now they truly didn't know if she'd wake up. They had her on blood thinners to prevent anything else from happening. They'd had her on them before, but not enough apparently.

He'd wandered back to 221B in the same dead daze he had the first time, he should call a cab, but he felt like if he sat down now, he'd collapse completely and he couldn't risk that. His mind was desperately searching for anything to distract him from the fear threatening to cripple him. He couldn't lose it now, not when Liberty still needed him, he needed something to focus on so he wouldn't break down at the sight of his daughter with her eyes like her mother.

His thoughts turned to Faith Smith, to her father, the man who wanted to kill...someone.

Now that he'd decided to take the case, he could stop deducing Faith and start working on who her father had planned to kill all those years ago.

'Her life turned on a word, Sherwood,' Leena's voice tried to help him along, already profiling the criminal while he dragged his feet, 'What says it's a name? What if it's just a word?'

He stopped suddenly at the thought, before shaking his head, "It has to be a name…"

'It could be anyone then.'

And that was when his heart stopped dead.

Anyone.

"Of course!" Sherlock breathed, "He doesn't want to kill one person, he wants to kill anyone. He's a serial killer!"

His mind short circuited at that...there was a serial killer in London, in London where he and his family lived, in London where his wife was laid up in a hospital, vulnerable, and then looped back to the only thing he could safely risk thinking about: he had to stop him.

He had to stop Culverton Smith…he had to stop him now!

"Oi, Sherlock!" a voice snapped, and Sherlock blinked, only to find himself standing in the middle of 221B, Wiggins in front of him.

He frowned at the man, "What…" he began, before looking around, he truly was standing in the middle of the flat, but how? He'd just been standing on a random street...

And then he noticed, his heart was racing, his skin was tingling, his ears were ringing, there were white spots on the edge of his vision, his lungs hurt, his legs ached, and he was panting.

He'd run there.

He'd run back to the flat from the hospital without even realizing it.

Microsleep, it had to be, those funny little points of time where your mind fell asleep before your body could recognize it and the body kept going. He had vague memories of shoving people aside, racing around corners, stumbling into things, but he'd gotten there. He'd known he'd had to get back to the flat as fast as he could and his body had done so before his mind had caught up to it.

Damn, he'd gone too long without another fix if he was experiencing them again.

"You've 'ad too much, mate," Wiggins spoke to him, "You gotta sleep."

"What?" Sherlock scoffed, "No!" he snapped, pushing past Wiggins and to the kitchen, putting the coffee on, and then stormed back to the flat, moving to the laptop and pulling out his phone as he got to work looking up every scrap of information he could find about Culverton Smith.

Wiggins watched on, alarmed, "Sherlock…mate, you need to get some sleep. I'm being serious…"

"Sleep," he nearly sneered at the world, "I can't! I can't sleep. Don't you see?" he glare at Wiggins, "They're always poor and lonely, and strange. But those are only the ones we catch."

"Who do we catch?"

"Serial killers," Sherlock replied, "What if you were rich and powerful and necessary? What if you had the compulsion to kill, and money? What then?"

Then they could get away with it, then they could go after anyone!

He flinched when the alarm on his phone went off again, reminding him that Liberty would be waking soon…

His stomach dropped and he felt bile rising in him.

Anyone.

Liberty.

Leena.

He grit his teeth, his hands clenching into fists, like hell he would ever allow that man to harm his family, he would not allow him to harm anyone else's family either.

Come hell or high water, he would stop Culverton Smith!

~8~

It took all of three weeks before even Wiggins had to make a break for it, truly convinced Sherlock was off his rocker and genuinely fearing for his own life the man was in such a state.

Mrs. Hudson, while not a genius detective, did not need to be one to know something had changed dramatically for Sherlock.

Things had gotten worse.

Sherlock spent every spare second Liberty wasn't awake on his phone or his computer, carving out news clippings and maps and magazine articles, hanging them everywhere, creating such a clutter. There were pages of notes strewn about and a mess everywhere save Liberty's pen and nursery, those were pristine. Sometimes she felt like there were two different men living in the flat. When Liberty was awake and active, Sherlock spared no scrap of his attention on her, feeding her, cleaning her, burping her, comforting her, soothing her, taking her to visit Leena. He spent his days in the hospital with his wife, always with that infernal laptop and each day he came back, more manic than the day before.

He'd gotten so…protective, as well, over his daughter, over Leena.

Last time Mrs. Hudson had tried to visit her hospital room she'd been stopped by MI6 officers Sherlock had gotten Mycroft to lend him to guard her room. Their flat was on constant surveillance. And Liberty, the blessed dear, wasn't allowed out of Sherlock's sight unless she was sleeping. She'd hardly gotten any chance to even hold the girl in the last three weeks. Sherlock had become so paranoid about her safety, as though any person who came near the flat was a danger to her or a threat that had to be dealt with that he'd stopped taking clients, he'd been obsessing over some commercial man, and it was…it was scaring her, it was truly scaring her how out of sorts he was.

She had thought he'd been bad before, the poor man just wasting away, barely eating or sleeping out of fear for his wife. But this? There was most stress in him, more he was doing. He barely rested, hardly stopped, and it would be one thing if it was numerous cases for the Yard or something different. But he really was obsessing over a single man to the point she was genuinely fearing for his sanity. A person could only go on little sleep or food for so long before something terrible happened, and adding to it the disgusting lab she knew was in his kitchen and what he must be doing to himself to keep himself going...something frightening in her told her Liberty was at risk of becoming an orphan if Sherlock kept going this path.

She crept up the stairs quietly, hearing 'Le nozze di Figaro' blaring over the record player in 221B, though there was a loud noise, a shouting, and roaring, someone yelling, coming above the sound. She winced when a crashing noise, like glass thrown against the wall sounded and Wiggins came running down the steps.

"I'm out of 'ere!" Wiggins declared, pointing a waring finger at her, "'e's lost it!"

"Where is it?!" she could hear Sherlock angrily ranting in the flat. She took a breath and crept up the stairs, needing to check on him and Liberty and…well…to be honest it wasn't the worst she'd expected to see when she peeked past the door.

Sherlock charged into the sitting room from the kitchen, a pistol in his hand, having heard the door below slam shut and ready to defend his daughter to the death. His dressing gown was hanging off him, barely covering his black shirt and pants, an outfit she was sure she'd seen him wear for the last 2 days straight, though he hardly cared. Liberty was clutched in his one arm, protectively held against his chest, as he wielded the pistol in the other.

"'Once more unto the breach, dear friends, once more!'" he cried out, spinning in a circle in the middle of the room though he kept his gaze on his daughter, ensuring she was alright.

She was smiling at him, giggling.

She loved Shakespeare, it seemed, just like her mother.

Oh he knew she was too young to understand a word of it, but when he recited it, she stopped crying. And it would be something Leena would have loved to do with their daughter, and so he would. He'd recite every sonnet, every monologue, every line from every play if he had to to keep Leena with them, to keep their daughter happy.

The room was filled with pictures and photos of Culverton Smith, stuck up on the walls, scattered over desks, string connecting various pieces of information with missing persons cases.

"'Or close the wall up," he continued to recite to Liberty, jumping onto the sofa with a bounce that had her flailing her arms in glee, "With our English dead!" he hopped off the sofa and strode around the room, "Let the teeth and stretch the nostril wide!" and kicked a door shut, making a great show of fighting off the enemy, wanting his daughter to know he COULD, "Hold hard the breath and bend up every spirit…" he ripped a picture down that was stuck up on the mirror, not wanting to see that but he and his daughter, "To his full height! On, on, you noblest English, whose blood is fet from fathers of war-proof! And you, good yeoman, whose limbs were made in England, show us here the mettle of your pasture! Which I doubt not, for there is none of you so mean and base that hath not noble luster in your eyes!" he spun in a circle, "I see you stand like greyhounds in the slips, straining upon the start!" he turned and aimed the pistol, firing it at a picture of Smith that was hanging by the sofa wall, before doing the same to four more photos all around the flat, "The game's afoot!"

He grinned at Liberty, using the hand holding her to tickle her sides.

'You missed a few key lines, Locksley,' Leena's voice commented, and he could almost picture her sitting in his armchair, 'Shame on you.'

"Well then you'll have to wake up and do better than me," Sherlock spoke at the chair, mumbling more to himself than truly saying it aloud.

But it was enough for Mrs. Hudson to speak behind him, until he spun around, "Oh, hello," he greeted, moving Liberty's hand to wave at her as well, "Hello, Mrs. Hudson!" he pitched his voice to pretend Liberty was speaking too, before sniffing loudly, "Can I have a cup of coffee? Two tablespoons of espresso, please."

He moved to the middle of the room, setting Liberty down into her small carry-cot as she made some raspberry sounds, which made him make one in return to her, tickling her stomach once more.

"These pictures…" Mrs. Hudson began and he glanced back to see she was standing there, staring, not making coffee.

Honestly, he was a single father at the moment and the woman couldn't help him by making some damned coffee? What use was she?

"Coffee!" he called out.

'Be nice, Sherwood,' Leena's voice chastised.

He huffed, turning to look at his armchair over his shoulder, "I would if she listened!"

Mrs. Hudson flinched both at the shout and at the bolt of fear that shot through her at hearing him talking to someone who wasn't there, but she hurried to the kitchen to do as she was told, not sure what else to do but hoping she might be able to gleam what sort of drugs he'd taken so she could warn John or Mary that she needed help.

Sherlock didn't seem to notice as he pressed Liberty's pacifier into her mouth, the girl always slept well for her nap after reciting some Shakespeare to her…

He turned on his heel and moved into the kitchen, to the clipboard with his findings, not seeing Mrs. Hudson quickly step away from where she'd been trying to glance at it.

"They're that man on the telly, aren't they?" Mrs. Hudson finished.

"What?" he looked to the side.

'The pictures, Sherwood,' the Leena he imagined spoke, now leaning against the counter beside Mrs. Hudson.

"Oh, yes, right," he nodded at her before turning to a very pale Mrs. Hudson, "The pictures?"

"They're everywhere," Mrs. Hudson said weakly, tears in her eyes to see him having fallen so far, to break so deeply.

"Oh, these pictures!" he gestured at the plastic of the kitchen hanging, "Oh, you can see them too," he murmured, "That's good."

He'd thought he'd developed a new tactic in his mind palace to project images he was thinking of onto walls and doors so he could look at them all at once. Good to know it was still paper. He couldn't remember how he'd gotten so much ink on his hands before, thought maybe Liberty's blankets had developed a fault and were leaking dye. But it was the printer, obviously. Mystery solved.

He winced, rubbing at the side of his head where the pounding headache he'd been fighting off was killing him. He knew it was coming, but he'd timed it. A nice up of coffee right now, more sugar and espresso mixed in, would stem off both the caffeine withdrawal pains and help set his mind going again. He adored his daughter, he did, but right now he needed to focus on stopping Smith and he could only do that when she was sleeping. With that in mind, his gaze turned frantically to the pictures and clippings and string he could see through the plastic draping.

It wasn't as nice as Leena would have had it.

But, then again, with Leena there and profiling Smith, he wouldn't have needed to do so much work.

Still, she wasn't there, and he had to do it. As soon as Smith was dealt with she'd wake up after all. Ooh, she was clever like that, teasing him, testing him. He promised her London would be safe when she woke up, and then a serial Killer popped up and that wasn't safe. No, no it wasn't safe. So he had to solve it and then Leena would wake up because it was safe.

Simple.

"Cup of coffee!" he spun around. His mind was slowing, he could feel it, his hands were shaking and he had to be steel, he had to be steady, anyone could come through that door for his daughter and he had to be ready to stop them, "Oh, for goodness' sakes!" he turned again, glaring at Mrs. Hudson when he saw her holding the coffee in the cup but it was trembling in her hands, "What's the matter with you?" he demanded, "Are you having an earthquake?!"

He moved to reach for the cup, but the sudden movement seemed to startle Mrs. Hudson, who dropped it.

His eyes widened, knowing he didn't have enough in the pot to have a second cup ready and he needed that NOW! So he dropped the gun on the table and reached for the cup, breathing a sigh of relief when he managed to save it with only a mouthful's worth spilling to the floor. He stood…and came face-to-face with Mrs. Hudson, holding his pistol right at him.

"Right, then, mister," Mrs. Hudson huffed, not trembling at all, "Now I need your handcuffs. I happen to know you and Jackie keep a spare set in the salad drawer," she shrugged, thinking about it, she would never touch their 'wedding cuffs' but they did have others lying about and that was the nearest one, "I've borrowed them before," he gave her a look, "Oh, get over yourself. You're not my first smackhead, Sherlock Holmes."

He rolled his eyes, unperturbed, and took his large mouthful of coffee, swallowing it, and turning to head back into the sitting room for his daughter…

Only for Mrs. Hudson to slam the gun across the back of his head, knocking him out.

~8~

To say John Watson was shocked when a very flashy, red car sped up to the door of his new therapist's home, with police chasing after it, a bin paying the price, and 'Ode to Joy' blaring out the speakers…would probably not be as much of an understatement as one would think.

To say he was shocked when it was Mrs. Hudson and not Sherlock Holmes stepping out of the car…now THAT would be an understatement.

He'd fully expected it to be Sherlock in some desperate bid to get his attention and get him to talk to him as Mary kept insisting he do. It had taken a month but she had worn him down enough where he had gone and booked a therapist to speak to, needing an outside perspective on whether he'd gone too far and should speak to his 'friend' or if he was right to cut all ties with him. It was too close to both him and Mary, he needed a non-biased third party to look at things objectively.

He knew he'd reacted poorly to the entire situation. He knew he should have done it differently but…there were too many parallels between what happened to Leena and what could have been Mary. Leena was Sherlock's wife, as Mary was his. Leena had just had a baby, as had Mary and him. Leena would go off on mad cases with Sherlock, just like he and Mary would.

Only this time, Mary had been the target.

This time it would have been Mary.

Last time, with Magnussen, Sherlock and Leena had taken pains to keep Mary away from the man when they confronted him, this time she'd been right there.

She'd told him it wasn't personal, Vivian and her actions, she and her team were just nameless faceless assassins she used and discarded. She hadn't set AJ on her, she'd honestly had nothing to do with that whole mess. And she'd told him how Sherlock had drawn the woman's attention and anger at himself, to keep Mary from being a target. She'd told him how Leena had refused to let her into the aquarium unless she took the bulletproof vest that was Sherlock's and wore it for extra measure.

All of it meant nothing to him because he walked into that room to see someone's wife on the ground, bleeding out of a bullet wound, and it so easily could have been Mary.

When he or Sherlock got shot or harmed, that was life, they were men and yes he knew it was a sexist way to look at it, but…he was meant to protect Mary and Leena too. When they were hurt, they were men. He didn't look at Sherlock and see his wife staring back at him, but when he saw Leena there…his mind had gone to Mary.

A blonde woman was on the ground and bleeding out from a wound and it could have been Mary.

It was like, for the first time, he realized how truly dangerous this whole thing was, how close they kept getting to it because of Sherlock and his enemies and cases.

He just…he'd wanted to get his wife away from there, keep her and Hamish safe.

Mary had been furious with him, they'd had the worst row they'd ever had and he'd been too angry then to hear her arguments, too afraid of how close he'd come to losing her. And the more she kept bringing it up in the days and weeks that followed, the more he wanted to dig his heels in that he'd made the right call.

When Mary stopped talking to him unless it had to do with Hamish…when he finally had silence…that was when her word began to sink in and he'd begun to question himself.

Sherlock's wife had just been shot. Leena had just been shot, their friend. Sherlock just had a baby girl and he was alone with her, with no support because Mycroft was not the godfather and even being the uncle Sherlock's relationship with the man was strained enough. THEY were the godparents, they had to be there for Liberty. They had to be there for Sherlock for god's sake, his wife might die!

Working at the hospital, Mary kept tabs on Leena, he did too. He didn't visit during hours, because Sherlock was always there. Mary would though, she'd check on him. He would…he'd go, read her chart at the end of every shift, check her equipment and the wires, make sure she was ok but not when Sherlock was there.

He knew it was bad, Leena's condition. She'd thrown a clot and that was horrifically dangerous. She'd shown signs of improvement before it happened, very minute signs that she might wake up, and then it all went to hell and she was in even more danger than before. They managed to save her, they were taking measures to prevent it happening again. But he knew she wasn't out of the woods. The trauma from it all? The fact that she hadn't woken up in over a month? It was BAD.

And he knew Sherlock had to be falling apart and spiraling and doing the worst things he could to try and cope. He knew, as a doctor, as a friend, as a decent human being, he should be there for the man, for his goddaughter at the very least…

Part of him was humiliated and ashamed of what he'd done, so guilty for how he'd reacted that he just couldn't face Sherlock right now, when the man truly needed them the most.

A larger part though, wondered if it was for the best, if this was the clean break they needed to keep Sherlock out of their lives for good, if they'd be safe. The friendship he had with Sherlock, how far they would go for each other...was that normal? Was there something psychologically wrong with it?

Sherlock had shot a man in the head to protect Mary and him.

Was that normal? Was that what normal people did? He had shot a man in defense of Sherlock, yes, but the man was a murderer trying to kill him, and he'd shot him non-lethally whereas Sherlock…

He just…he needed someone to tell him if this was right or wrong, because he couldn't trust Mary about this and he couldn't trust himself.

So he'd booked a therapist to talk to, had only gotten through an hour of describing Sherlock and Leena and a summary of what happened that caused all this, when the car screeching outside had distracted him and he'd rushed for the door.

"Well, now, won't you introduce me?" his therapist asked, a tease in her voice when the driver finally got out of the car.

Mrs. Hudson.

Of all the people in the world, he had not expected that. Second to Sherlock would be Mary, finally having enough and there to drag him away to see Sherlock for himself…another reason he'd cut contact. If he didn't see the man, if he didn't see the sorry state he'd imagined the man fell into, he wouldn't feel as bad. He could keep pretending (badly) that Sherlock was coping fine and not being self-destructive.

"Mrs. Hudson?" John gaped at her as she walked around the car to the other side.

"Right, you there," an officer hurried out of his car towards her, "Stop right where you are."

"Just a moment," she called out, leaning into the car and stepping back…with Liberty in a carry-cot.

"Mrs. Hudson…" John tensed, his heart stopping cold when he saw the baby, his mind racing with the implication of why Mrs. Hudson had absconded with the two month old infant, what it could mean.

"Do you have any idea what speed you were going at?" the officer demanded.

"Well, of course not," Mrs. Hudson huffed, "I was on the phone," she held up her other hand to show them her mobile, before handing it to the officer, "It's for you, by the way."

"For me?" the officer frowned but took the phone nonetheless.

"It's the government."

"What's going on?" John demanded as Mrs. Hudson made her way over to him, "What's wrong?" he pointed at the helicopter circling above, "What's happened?"

Mrs. Hudson broke down in tears, "It's Sherlock! You've no idea what I've been through!"

John looked down when Liberty began to cry as well, hurrying to take the baby from the cot and cradle her, rocking back and forth as he tried to speak to Mrs. Hudson, his heart racing as he feared the worst, that something happened to the man and now Liberty was alone in the world and he should have been there and... "Did you call the police?"

She sniffled, angry, "Of course I didn't call the police. I'm not a civilian!"

"Please," his therapist called, gesturing them to the house, "Come, come, she is upset."

Whether she meant Mrs. Hudson or Liberty, John could only guess, but he followed them both into the house as Mrs. Hudson recounted Sherlock's current obsession with a Culverton Smith.

The therapist frowned, moving over to her laptop and opening it to check who the man even was, for if this Sherlock man had grown so obsessed there must be a reason, "This, I think, is relevant from this morning," she turned the computer to show John.

He let out a breath that just barely refrained from containing a strong curse word when he saw the top article.

"Oh my," the therapist blinked, "It seems he's publicly accused Mr. Smith of being a serial killer."

"Christ!" he huffed, "Sherlock on Twitter. He really has lost it."

"Don't you dare make jokes!" Mrs. Hudson pointed a finger at him, recalling how the man really might have lost his senses, speaking to thin air and people who weren't there, "Don't you dare. I was terrified! I had to get Liberty out of there!"

John tensed at that, looking down at the baby in his arms, for Mrs. Hudson to fear for the baby…something cold dropped into his stomach imaging how bad Sherlock truly had to be for that to happen. He wasn't dead, clearly, but something else had to have happened.

"You need to see him, John," Mrs. Hudson pressed, "You need to help him!"

"Nope," John shook his head, honestly not sure which emotion he was feeling right now more than dread.

"He needs you!"

"He needs Leena, not me."

"She might be dead, John!" Mrs. Hudson snapped, tears spilling from her eyes, "She might be dying, and he needs help!" she sniffled, "Please John," she begged, "You're the only one who can help."

"Mycroft, Molly, Mary…" he tried to offer.

"They're not doctors," Mrs. Hudson insisted, "Would you just see him? Please, John. Or just take a look at him as a doctor? I know you'd change your mind if you did," she eyed him as he hesitated, and glanced down at Liberty, "That little girl might lose her mother any day now," she looked up at John, "YOU might still be able to save her father."

If that didn't just hit him right in the gut as he looked down at the baby in his arms. No matter what happened between him and Sherlock…Liberty didn't deserve to have someone refusing to help her father when he needed it. She needed her parents, and Mrs. Hudson was right, until Leena recovered…she only had Sherlock.

He took a breath, reminded that he WAS a doctor, when one needed to save a life, call John Watson, and it seemed...Sherlock might just need that saving, "Yeah, look, ok, maybe, if I get a chance."

"D'you promise?" Mrs. Hudson perked up.

"I'll try, if I'm in the area."

"Promise me?"

"I promise."

"Thank you!" she reached out and took his hand in what he thought was a gesture…only she didn't let go and turned to lead him back out of the house, to her car…to the boot…which opened to reveal Sherlock stuffed in there, his hands cuffed together.

"Well?" she turned to smile at John, "On you go. Examine him!"

John could only gape, not at Sherlock being stuffed in the boot…but at how truly terrible the man looked. From the bags under his eyes, the greasy hair, the stubble on his chin, the clothing he knew fit the man better than that which told him too much about his eating habits (or lack thereof), the dazed look in his eyes…and the fact that Mrs. Hudson had even been able to get the jump on him at all…

This…this really was not good.

~8~

Sherlock absently rubbed his wrists, finally freed of the handcuffs, and shot Mrs. Hudson a glare, "The woman's out of control," he muttered, "I asked for a cup of coffee!" he turned to John and stepped towards him, reaching out for his daughter, only for John to take a step back, "Oh, I'm sorry," he remarked sarcastically, "Are you being godfather now? Bit late," before his eyes hardened, "Give. Me. My. Daughter."

John glanced over at Mrs. Hudson who gave him a slight nod and, against his better judgement, handed Liberty back over.

Honestly, he was a little surprised how gentle and careful Sherlock was with the girl considering his clearly strung out state. The only thing allowing him to do it, was that he was there if Sherlock hurt the girl or lost focus. He would be ready to jump in and help…

Sherlock, though, seemed to know his own limits for once and strode past John, into the therapist's house, and plopped down on the nearest chair for more support, his attention on Liberty.

John sighed, turning to Mrs. Hudson as they entered the house too, "How did you get him in the boot?"

"The boys from the café," she smiled.

"I'm pretty sure they dropped me," Sherlock snapped at her, "Twice!"

Did those two have no respect for him? No care? He knew he wasn't the kindest person, but he was a father, they could have at least been careful with him for Liberty's sake!

"And d'you know why they dropped you, dear?" Mrs. Hudson wouldn't let him get away with it, "Because they know you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and finally looked away from Liberty, having down a quick scan of the girl to make sure she was alright. At least Mrs. Hudson had taken care with her. He glanced around, catching sight of John's therapist across the room, her back to him, on the phone, "Who's this one?" he looked to John for an answer, "Is this a new person? I'm against new people."

"She's my therapist," John huffed.

"Awesome!" Sherlock muttered, glancing at the woman, "D'you do block bookings?"

The woman ignored him though, waiting till John had finished speaking to Mrs. Hudson to approach with his mobile, "I'm so sorry. I answered your phone. You were busy. I think you'll want to take it."

Sherlock scoffed at being ignored and looked back down at Liberty as she fussed, John stepping to the side to speak to the person on the phone, by his guess Culverton Smith had made contact. He smiled gently at Liberty, ignoring the headache he could feel encroaching. It hadn't been enough coffee and…

He blinked when a cup of it was set on the small table next to the chair, looking up at the therapist.

"You looked like you could use a pick-me-up," she shrugged, her German accent quite heavy.

"Yes, thanks," he reached out and gulped it down in one go, wincing at the burn, much to the concern of the woman standing before him. He didn't care though, setting the cup aside and looking down at Liberty again as she began to move in the way that only meant she was unhappy, "Hey now," he murmured to her, lifting her to rest against his shoulder, knowing just the thing, "'Love looks not with the eyes, but with the mind," he began to recite to her quietly, rubbing her back, his voice a soft timbre in her ears, "And therefore is winged Cupid painted blind. Nor hath Love's mind of any judgment taste; wings and no eyes figure unheedy haste. And therefore is Love said to be a child, Because in choice he is so oft beguiled…'"

"You're very good with her," the therapist remarked as Liberty calmed.

"I have to be," he stated, too honest for his liking. He really needed more coffee than this, he was slowing down faster, building up too much tolerance for caffeine after a month living off it. He smiled when Liberty's flailing arms hit him in the mouth and he pulled away, smiling at her, "How is my little love?" he asked the girl, using his other hand to kiss her hand, before tucking her down into the crook of his elbow again, "What's that look for?" he asked, his eyes shooting up to the therapist, who was watching him in silent contemplation.

"Sorry?"

"You're staring."

"She's a beautiful girl."

"You should see her mother," he muttered.

"Is she improving?" the woman asked, HOW she knew quite clear, but without outright revealing or breaking her patient's confidentiality.

Sherlock merely shot her a narrow eyed look, "That is none of your concern."

The woman held her hands up and moved to gather his cup, heading to the kitchen to clean it.

Sherlock looked over, hearing the bell ring, only half paying attention to John's conversation, but, by his estimate of time, the car Culverton should have been sending by now would arrive…just now, as he'd instructed the man to do two weeks ago. He glanced up when John, who had gone to the front door when it knocked, strode back across the hall to the kitchen where Mrs. Hudson was speaking with the therapist.

"How did you know where to find me?" he could hear John demand.

"Oh, Sherlock told me," the woman answered, "He's not so difficult when you've got a gun on him."

'You're not so difficult ever,' Leena's voice argued in his head.

"Only with you," Sherlock murmured to himself, in answer of her.

Leena laughed, 'That's only because I hold you hostage with a kiss and not a weapon.'

"Your kiss is a weapon," he countered, but cut himself off from saying more to the voice in his head when John stalked into the room.

"How did you know?" John demanded of him, though he could only look on blankly, not sure what he meant, "How? On Monday I decided to get a new therapist. Tuesday afternoon, I chose her," he pointed to the woman who had returned to her chair, "Wednesday morning I booked today's session. Now, today is Friday. So two weeks ago, two weeks before you were abducted at gunpoint and brought here against your will!" he was getting angry now, "Over a week before I even thought of coming here, you knew exactly where you'd need to be picked up for lunch?" John let out a breath through his nose, "Did Mary tell you?"

"How could she tell me something two weeks ago you only decided to do this week?" Sherlock rolled his eyes, before huffing, "I correctly anticipate the responses of people I know well to scenarios I devised," he eyed John, "Can't everyone do that?"

"How?" Mrs. Hudson gaped at him, in the doorway of the kitchen, actually looking surprised by that.

"My wife is a profiler," he told them, "She can guess what you'll do before you do it. I've learned a few tricks over the years," before he frowned and pointed an accusing finger at Mrs. Hudson, "Except the boot. The boot was mean."

'I warned you she'd go for the boot,' Leena's voice teased in his head, 'You didn't believe me.'

"Never mind how," John waved it off, "He's dying to tell us that. I want to know why."

"Because of him," Sherlock pointed at the still open laptop displaying Culverton's face, glaring at it, "Whatever you think of me John, whatever danger you think I pose, you know that I am still functioning here," he pointed to his head, "So when I tell you that that man is THE most dangerous, the most despicable human being that I have ever encountered…when I tell you that this…this monster MUST be ended…please remember where you're standing. Because you're standing exactly where I said you would be two weeks ago," he winced and pressed a hand to his forehead, that was probably the longest he'd talked to anyone besides Leena in weeks, his head was splitting open from having to explain himself to them.

Leena understood, she always understood.

"So what has all this got to do with me?" John demanded.

Sherlock took a breath and opened his eyes, glaring at the photo of the man, "That creature, that rotting thing, is a living breathing coagulation of human evil, and he has to be stopped. I have to drive him out of this world, for Liberty. For Leena," he looked up at John, "When London is safe, she'll wake up. London won't be safe so long as he draws breath."

John could only stare at Sherlock in pity and…a mounting sense that something was truly wrong with him. For Sherlock had said it so surely, so completely positive that he was right, he truly believed what he said. That getting rid of this Smith fellow would magically cause Leena to awaken. And that was a dangerous thought path to travel down.

What was it Leena said about the people she profiled? Escalation always came towards the end, when the plan wasn't working, usually, when desperation got too high. Was this Sherlock just before escalation? Was Smith just the first step in the man finally falling over the edge? Who would be next after Smith if Leena didn't wake up? What would Sherlock do? How far would he go?

The man clearly wasn't in his right mind, it was so clear to him, and to his therapist too given how she was frowning and shifting on her chair.

Looking at Sherlock now…he understood Mrs. Hudson's concerns.

He was not in a good place, physically, emotionally, or mentally. He was breaking down without Leena there, with the trauma and the history behind her injury. Liberty truly could lose her father if the man kept up this way…now he needed to know how bad it really was.

He held out a hand to Sherlock, who blinked, with genuine tears in his eyes, before he stood, moving Liberty to one arm so he could reach out and shake John's hand…but that hadn't been his intention at all. He reached out with his other hand to push Sherlock's sleeve up, examining his forearm…dotted with three small bruises around the telltale pinprick of a needle.

John's jaw clenched at the sight, feeling another sort of fury blaze within him. It was bad enough Sherlock had clearly turned to drugs, the state of him could mean little else. But it was another to see the evidence of it…and to know he'd broken his promise to Leena to stay clean.

When Leena woke up she'd be heartbroken…

He flinched at that thought, IF. IF Leena woke up…

But even then, Liberty was there, and she needed her father sober.

He took a breath, putting a lid on his anger, and looked up at Sherlock, "I need to know what state you're in."

He needed to know what drugs the man had taken, what was he high on, what was he using, what would the withdrawal be like because he and Mary would need to plan to have a second child around while Sherlock detoxed. He would NOT let Liberty be around the man during that, not after what Leena had told him happened the first time.

Sherlock, though, frowned at John, seeing the simmering rage in his eyes, the coldness in his voice, and truly lost as to why, "Well, you're a doctor. Examine me."

John shook his head, "No, I need a second opinion. I need the one person who, unlike me, learned to see through your bullshit long ago."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, "Leena can't…"

"The one conscious person," John amended, wincing at his flub. While Leena had known how to handle Sherlock for years now, there was one other person who treated Sherlock with indifference, now more than in the past, but who still cared for him enough as a friend to help him with this if he asked, "I want you to be examined by Molly Hooper."

"Is that really necessary?" Sherlock scoffed.

For a moment, he'd genuinely thought that 'examine' meant just look him over, notice his exhaustion, notice his poor hygiene, notice his weight loss, the shaking n his hands from the caffeine, the uptick in his heart from the adrenaline he'd had to inject the last two days since the caffeine wasn't working as well.

He…he hadn't considered John would think he was using drugs again. He had promised Leena, sworn to her, he would always stay clean, for her. WHY would he resort to the drugs' when she was counting on him to stay sober? Why would he turn to drugs when his daughter was relying on him to be clear headed enough to protect her?

He had thought, briefly, that he likely looked like he was strung out to other people, sleep deprivation could cause a manic sort of behavior similar to being high. And not eating well or sleeping right or taking care of one's self could, he supposed, reflect a certain similarity to a druggie craving for a hit. He considered that others would come to this conclusion, that he must be using again.

But he had also thought that, after all this time, after every time they thought so and been proven wrong, he had earned enough trust for them to know or at least hope it was the same here, that they knew he hadn't.

Clearly, he'd been wrong if even JOHN thought the worst.

Before John could answer, the doorbell rang, both men looked up and over at the sound, before heading to the door, opening it to see Molly standing there in her lab coat, an ambulance parked at the curb, with Mary leaning against the side of it.

"Um, hello," Molly began, startled more at the sight of how…terrible Sherlock looked than how angry John appeared to be, "Sorry, um, Mary asked me to come…"

"What?" John blinked, looking over at Mary as she smirked and waved at him. He rolled his eyes, of course she'd do this. She'd be there, ready to test Sherlock the moment she found out he was on his way there. Mrs. Hudson must have called her to give warning or double check he really WAS where Sherlock claimed he'd be.

SHE had been the one most concerned Sherlock had turned to drugs, it had been one of her main arguments for him to speak to the man again, to check on him, being a doctor and being around Sherlock so much longer than her, he would know better than her. She knew where he would be today, and if Mrs. Hudson had reached out to her for help, for some sort of intervention as she seemed intent for this to become, she would have known he'd want to check Sherlock out before he even agreed to check Sherlock out.

"Of course she did," he muttered under his breath.

"There's no getting out of this, is there?" Sherlock grumbled.

John just turned and held out his hands for Liberty, "You want my help, you let Molly and Mary examine you."

Mary, at least, he knew would be very thorough about this, this had been something she'd truly worried about.

Sherlock huffed, placing a kiss on Liberty's head, before handing her over to John and stepping past Molly to join Mary where she was opening the back of the ambulance for him.

"Sorry," Mary remarked, helping him up and into the ambulance, noticing how weak and weary he looked and not thinking he'd manage it on his own.

"This really isn't necessary," Sherlock insisted, dropping down into a side bench within, "I'm not on drugs!"

"Oh, I know," Mary nodded, speaking so simply and surely that it startled Sherlock for a moment. She glanced out the doors to where John and Molly were talking by the house, and quickly got to work rolling up his sleeves and nabbing her tourniquet to draw blood, "You'd never do that to Jackie."

Sherlock let out a breath, "If you know that, then why…"

"Who do you think convinced him you had to be using?" Mary glanced at him, then down to his elbow where she began to insert the needle connected to the vial for tests, she needed the equipment to look used.

Sherlock frowned, "I don't understand."

Mary's expression grew soft and concerned, "Oh, Sherlock, how long has it been since you've slept?" she had to ask, knowing that a lack of sleep could severely impact someone's thought process and how fast their mind worked. He should have worked it out by now why she was doing this and what she was doing.

"What month is it?" he asked.

She truly didn't think he meant it as a joke, nor did she take it as one. She just finished the process, capped the blood…and put it in her right pocket. Sherlock frowned, watching as Mary took a quick look out the door, making sure Molly and John couldn't see…and pulled a second, already filled, vial from her left pocket to put on the small counter.

"Mary?"

She turned to him again, "I don't know how Jackie did it," she remarked instead of truly answering, "Blood is far easier to get a hold of than urine."

Sherlock's eyes widened, finally piecing together what was happening, how MARY of all people had anticipated this happening and what and why she was doing it.

She hadn't anticipated anything, she'd CAUSED it to happen.

SHE had been the one telling John he was back on the drugs, building up the thought so it was a reality and not a mere fear. She had made it so the man would see the pinpricks on his arm and think any number of injectable drugs instead of adrenaline, adrenaline which Mary had supplied him when he asked the last time she'd stopped by Leena's room. She made it so John would take one look at him and see strung out druggie and not exhausted single father wearing himself thin on lack of sleep and minimal food. She made it so John would see his ramblings and ravings about Smith to be a man high as a kite and not a genuine terror for the safety of his wife and daughter.

She put the idea in John's head, and because it was there, that's what he saw, what he believed, and not what was real.

And now, if he had to guess, which he didn't for he was almost certain, the vial of blood she'd snuck in likely would show someone with various drugs in their system.

She wanted John to keep thinking that he was on drugs.

Mary unwound the tourniquet, putting a bandage over where the needle was removed, speaking quietly, as she could see John and Molly approaching from the corner of her eye, "He's angry and scared," she told Sherlock, "But part of him regrets, I know it, part of him wants to be there for you, Sherlock. He just doesn't know how after the mess he made."

Sherlock nodded, "So give him a reason to help…"

Mary nodded, giving him a wink, before she pulled back right as the two reached the ambulance to see her finishing up the bloodwork.

Molly climbed in and they both got to work checking Sherlock over as John watched on, supervising, though Sherlock could see now, there was a concern in his eyes.

"If Mary didn't tell you…" John began, needing something to distract him from the grimace on Molly's face and the pity in Mary's eyes, "How did you know about the therapist?"

"Because you wouldn't trust your decisions," Sherlock stated, "Anything made in anger, you question. It's in your nature, according to Leena. And, Mary would be at your ear constantly, like she was trying to get you to forgive me about faking my death, so you couldn't trust her. Leena was…" he cut himself off, looking away a moment, before continuing, his voice more flat and monotone then before, distanced, "You'd need an outside opinion, but you also wouldn't want to give in right away, you were too angry and you wanted to be justified in your anger. Statistically that lasts about 2 to 4 weeks, according to Leena, but you've always been stubborn so I felt certain it would be nearer to 4 before you gave in and sought help. You work during the week, which is less time for Hamish, so you would never book an appointment on the weekend and eat up more time away from him. So you needed to see someone during working hours. And, because you would already be angry about not being able to do more during…" he cut himself off again, "You wouldn't want anyone at the surgery knowing you're in therapy, you want to seem capable, so that restricts you to lunchtime sessions with someone reasonably close. A search of the area brings up four men and one woman, and I think you'd rather had enough of me," Sherlock tried to smirk, but grimaced when Molly pushed too hard on one of his bruises trying to get his blood pressure down, "Having things explained to you by a man, so a woman. All that was needed was to find the first available lunchtime appointment with a female therapist within cycling distance of your surgery."

John just shook his head, thankful when Mrs. Hudson approached with the carry-cot, Liberty was already starting to fall asleep in his arms.

~8~

Sherlock spent the majority of the ride to the Culverton Smith's location in silence, letting Mary and Molly poke and prod him to John's standards. He could tell Molly now also thought he'd been using again by the hard lines of her face. But the ride there, with Liberty returning to 221B with Mrs. Hudson and John in the car Smith had sent, had given him time to prepare for the next act he'd have to put on and contemplate how to do it. He hadn't exactly planned to fall into the role of relapsed druggie. In all honesty, he'd gone to John's therapist in a last ditch effort to prove to the man that he COULD keep the people he cared about safe, that his vow and his word were good, meant something. He'd thought he could convince John to join him in taking down Smith, so when Leena woke up, he could prove to John that he could keep them safe.

He hadn't expected Mrs. Hudson to beat him to it and drive him to John herself. He hadn't expected Mary to show up after Mrs. Hudson called her with a portable drug testing lab. And he hadn't expected John to take one look at him and assume he was on drugs, though he blamed that on Mary.

He understood her logic there. Give John something to concern himself about, something to worry over him for. Let him think or start to fear he'd gone back to drugs and John might check in on him and give them time to talk. Now that Smith was involved, Mary wanted John to REALLY believe he was on drugs. Because, knowing John, the man wouldn't leave his side while he was 'tripping' on them, the doctor in him wouldn't allow it. Molly being there would mean that the results HAD to come back positive, or she'd know he wasn't using, and she'd tell John, and Mary's whole plan would be for nothing.

He was tired though. He was so tired of everyone assuming it was drugs and that he'd just fall back into them.

Well, at least Leena had gotten through to Mary and SHE didn't think it would happen...even if she was helping to ensure the others did. He wanted it to stop, he wanted their faith, he just…he wanted Leena to wake up. Everything was easier, everything was better, when Leena was there.

Mary was ensuring his tests came out positive, he wouldn't be able to deny anything and have someone believe him till Mary spilled the truth, which wouldn't happen if John and him didn't work out their friendship.

He looed up when the ambulance came to a halt, parking, Molly reading through the results of the tests she'd run on his blood with such an angry and heartbroken expression on her face that he almost, almost felt back about this plan, though he was grateful it couldn't be blamed on HIM this time. Mary had been very careful that she would run all the tests that would require a positive drug ID and Molly had done the general look over. He supposed his current bedraggled state only added to Molly's belief he was on drugs.

"Well?" John's voice spoke a few minutes later when he made his way over to the ambulance, Mary having opened the doors to wait for him, "How is he?"

"Basically fine," Sherlock called, resolving that no, he would not outright lie about his health and drug use. Let them think and assume things, but he would neither confirm nor deny it.

Molly scoffed, bitter, "I've seen healthier people on the slab."

"Yeah but, to be fair, you work with murder victims. They tend to be quite young."

"Not funny!" Molly glared at him.

He rolled his eyes and pulled his coat on again, heading for the door, "Little bit funny."

Molly's gaze just turned tearful, "If you keep taking what you're taking at the rate you're taking it, you've got weeks!"

"Exactly, weeks," he muttered, at least the person whose blood Mary had taken did, "Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

"For Christ's sake, Sherlock, it's not a game!" Molly snapped when he hopped out of the ambulance and couldn't even do so without swaying, "What about Liberty?!"

And then John knew it had to be bad if Molly was genuinely frightened for the man's child, "So this is real? You've really lost it. You're actually out of control."

Sherlock grit his teeth, "It's not me that's out of control, it's that lunatic Culverton!"

John swallowed hard and turned to Mary, "I'm sorry," he told her, as she stood beside him with her arms crossed, a look on her face that said 'see? What did I tell you' etched across it, "I thought this was some kind of…"

"Trick?" Mary supplied, shaking her head at him, "I told you John, I told you he needed us…"

"I know," John let out a breath, finally realizing how bad this was. If he had just reached out, been there, supported the man…maybe this could have been avoided, "I know, I just…"

Before another word could be spoken, a voice called out, "Mr. Holmes!"

John and Mary turned to see none other than Culverton Smith striding out the doors of a studio, with an entourage of his own.

"Thirty feet and closing," Sherlock said to them quietly, his back to Smith, "The most significant undetected serial killer in British criminal history."

Thank god Mrs. Hudson had taken Liberty to 221B.

"Help me bring him down," Sherlock implored John, "For Liberty, for Hamish," he added, "For Leena."

John's jaw clenched at that mention of his son, but, despite how mad Sherlock had been, and still was to think taking out one person would wake Leena up, he had never known Sherlock to be wrong about something like this…if he said the man was a serial killer…he was…and they were all in danger now, not just him or Mary, but every person in London.

And Sherlock was the only one trying to stop it.

He gave Sherlock a nod of his head that had the man nearly sagging with relief.

"Mr. Holmes!" Smith called again and Sherlock turned to face him, ignoring the cameramen the man brought with him to film all of this, "I don't do handshakes," he warned, moving forward with his arms wide, "It'll have to be a hug."

"I know," Sherlock muttered, leaning in just slightly to allow the man to hug him…or so he might think, really just needing to get close enough to nab the man's phone.

"Oh, Sherlock," Smith beamed when he pulled away, patting him on the back and shoulder, "Oh, Sherlock! What can I say? Thanks to you we're," he gestured to his group, "Uh, we're everywhere!"

"Mr. Holmes!" a reporter called out, "How did Culverton talk you into this?"

"Well, he…he's a detective," Smith joked, not letting Sherlock answer, pretending to be startled, "Maybe I just confessed!" that got a laugh out of the group, though he turned to Sherlock, John, and Mary and beckoned them towards the building, "Come on," he didn't wait to check if they followed, just went about his stroll, "Now, it's a...it's a new kind of breakfast cereal."

"Mr. Holmes, can you put on the hat?" another reporter called out.

"Oh, you should," Mary teased Sherlock, though she left off when she saw him wince, recalling who else wore a famous hat in his small group of friends, Hatman wouldn't be the same without his Catwoman after all…

"Yeah, he doesn't really wear the hat," John remarked.

"Kids will be getting two of their five-a-day before they've even left home!" Smith continued to extol, leading the crowd to a building, signing an autograph along the way.

"Sherlock's been amazing for us," a young woman, Smith's assistant remarked as she walked along with the trio, "We're beyond viral."

"What, sorry?" John frowned, "Beyond what?"

"I think they're talking about cereal," Mary whispered to him.

And, not for the first time, John felt completely lost.

~8~

Ok, so John was not quite so lost now that he stood in the studio, watching Smith advertising being a 'cereal killer' to try and push for a new breakfast product and then making a young assistant quite uncomfortable as he chatted with her after spitting out said breakfast product.

"Has it occurred to you," John began, glancing at Sherlock as he stood beside the man, Mary, still cross with him, on Sherlock's other side, "Anywhere in your drug-addled brain, that you've just been played?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "No."

Because his mind was not drug-addled, and he wasn't being played. If anything, HE was the one playing everyone else. He was holding himself together far more than he had at 221B, he was more focused and serious than he'd been at John's therapist's house, he was mentally calculating when he should let some sort of weakness or strength shine through. He had to be in control now. It was never more important, not when Smith was right in front of him, right in his grasp. He just had to dangle the carrot over the trap a little longer...

"For an ad campaign," John kept on. He'd been so sure, only minutes ago, that Sherlock had been right, that Smith WAS a serial killer. But, watching all this, the way the man brushed it off, the people fawning over themselves to assist him, his good natured response...he was beginning to doubt. He just...he wanted to make sure Sherlock wasn't being played, that this WAS real, or they'd all be in a great deal of trouble if they were wrong.

"It fits the profile," Sherlock murmured, sounding so much like Leena that John and Mary looked over at him for it, "The safest place for a serial killer to hide."

"Plain sight," Mary finished, nodding along as though it made sense to her.

Though, to be fair, it was the same for her. Going from a highly trained assassin to a civilian, just be a normal person or appear to be, do your normal life and it was funny how hardly anyone noticed you. She could imagine Leena saying something about it all. Hell, with the career she'd had in America, she was sure the woman handled her fair share of serial killers and had probably shared enough of those cases with Sherlock that he knew the very basics of how to spot one.

"Mr. Holmes?" Smith's assistant hurried over, "Culverton wants to know if you're ok going straight to the hospital?"

"Hospital?" John frowned, were they going to visit Leena? He didn't think Sherlock would ever allow the man near her hospital, nor allow him to know what hospital she was at to begin with.

"Culverton's doing a visit. The kids would love to meet you both. I think he sort of promised."

"Ok," Sherlock said simply, though Mary could see how his jaw clenched.

If there was any hospital in London he'd rather be at, it was Leena's, and this was just taking time away from his scheduled visits with her. But if this man was a serial killer and he was dong this to keep Leena safe, that was the only way she could see him letting this time at her bedside go.

"If you'd just like to come this way," she began to lead them off to the car waiting for them.

They followed the woman back to a limousine parked just outside the entrance, brought around just for them and quickly got in, Sherlock pulling out a phone and typing away on it.

"So," John took a breath, "What are we doing here? What's the point?"

"I needed a hug," Sherlock spoke, not looking away from the phone.

Mary, however, noticed then that the phone was not hers, John's, Sherlock's, or even Leena's and began to smirk, "You needed to get close enough to nick his, you mean."

Sherlock just glanced at her, then to the window as Smith approached.

"What do you think, Mr. Holmes?" Smith beamed, "'Cereal' killer."

"It's funny cos it's true," Sherlock muttered.

"See you at the hospital," Smith nodded to them, turning to go when Sherlock called out.

"Oh, you can have this back now!"

Smith paused, the noise of a message sending pinging, before the man turned back with a frown, "Have what back?"

Sherlock held out the man's own phone, "Thanks for the hug," he smirked, handing it back, "Oh, I sent and deleted a text. You might get a reply but I doubt it."

Smith gave a tense smile, pocketing the phone, this time on an inside pocket, as Sherlock eased back into the seat, "It's password protected."

Sherlock scoffed at that, "Please."

Smith eyed him a moment, before starting to smile, "We're going to have endless fun, Mr. Holmes, aren't we?"

"Oh no. No, not endless," he sent Smith a look, grim, before he turned away as the man left. He winced, moving a hand to his side, his arm across his middle, as though he were hugging himself.

"Need another hit, do you?" John shot at him, glaring.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, "What part of 'dropped twice' was missed?" he asked, it wasn't like he'd been able to brace himself or break his fall with his hands while they'd been cuffed and he'd been dropped on the stairs. That and, this way, he could apply pressure to his stomach, keep it from growling out loud around the Watsons. That would be embarrassing.

He took a deep breath and leaned his head back on the seat, trying to gather himself and will away his caffeine-withdrawal-induced headache. Just a little longer, he just had to last a little longer, then Culverton would be dealt with and his family would be safe…

~8~

'Bit on the nose, isn't it?' Leena's voice spoke in Sherlock's mind as he splashed some cold water on his face in the toilets of St. Caedwalla's Hospital, Smith's hospital of choice. Thankfully not Leena's hospital, he didn't think he would have been able to function the last 3 weeks if Smith had had access to his wife like that.

"What other hospital would he pick?" Sherlock muttered, looking at the image he saw of her in the reflection of the mirror, standing just behind him, just over his shoulder.

St. Caedwalla, the patron saint of serial killers.

Usually repentant ones, but he doubted Smith fell into that category.

The man had practically built this hospital, funded it, cut the ribbon for it, he knew every nook and cranny of it, he was the only one to know every hall and door.

Or so he thought.

Truly, people underestimated how easily a person could hack into their information, into funding data, blueprints, reports of hospital deaths…and where they happen, what rooms and how.

He rolled his eyes, able to hear John chatting with a nurse outside the door about their blog, Mary snorting away as John tried to insist that HE was the one who wrote the infamous Sherlock Holmes's blog and not the man himself.

'Be smart, Locksley,' Leena's voice warned, 'Be safe.'

He nodded, "Always," and wiped off his face, moving to the door, drawing the attention of the nurse, who clearly didn't believe a word John had said, to Mary's amusement as she glanced up from her mobile, texting someone, likely the sitter for Hamish.

"Oh, Mr. Holmes," she beamed at him, "You feeling better?"

"Psychedelic!" Sherlock remarked, his lip quirking at the snort Mary gave, a joke between the two of them, though John did not look impressed. Really, that should have been a clue to John about the whole ruse. Mary would have been far more cross and worried than she was being if he was REALLY on drugs.

"I was just saying I love your blog…"

"Great. I..."

"It's MY blog," John cut in.

Sherlock, surprisingly, agreed, "It is. He writes the blog."

"It's yours?" the nurse turned to gape at him now.

"Yes," John nodded, glad to have some recognition.

"You write Sherlock's blog?"

"Yes."

"It's…gone downhill a little bit, hasn't it?"

Mary bit her lip to keep from outright laughing at that, holding up her hands in surrender when John glared at her for it.

The woman nodded to herself, realizing that was a bit rude and trying to get out of the situation, "Oh, it's this way, then," she turned and led them down the hall, the two men behind.

"Actually," Mary called, "I just need to pop to the loo, you go on," she insisted, moving her elbows in a 'go on' gesture even as her hands remained in her coat pockets, "I'll find my way. Not my first hospital."

John sighed but nodded, though Sherlock frowned at her, going on only when she winked at him.

Mary moved like she was going to enter the women's toilet, but pulled back as soon as the two disappeared around a corner, heading in the opposite direction.

Sherlock might have a plan for dealing with Smith…but she had her own plan for how to help Sherlock.

~8~

Sherlock tensed as he and John, entered a play area in the children's ward, all of the small patients and their nurses and parents gathered around, waiting for them, clapping as soon as they saw the duo approaching, which caused Smith, who had been in the middle of the room, to turn and face them.

"Oh, my God, I love your blog!" one of the nurses called out.

Sherlock just grinned at her, "You're welcome!"

"Right, here he comes, the internet 'tec!" Smith was gathering the children together, "You all know Sherlock Holmes!"

Sherlock's smile grew a bit more genuine as the children clapped even louder to see him, "Hello."

"Oh, and Doctor Watson, of course," Smith added, chuckling a bit when the clapping was a bit less enthused, "Mr. Holmes. I was wondering, well," he gestured at the kids, "We all were, weren't we? Maybe you could tell us about some of your cases."

"No," Sherlock shook his head, really just wanting to get Smith alone now that he'd 'made his appearance' for the children.

"Yes," John hissed beside him.

"Yes!" Sherlock amended, "Absolutely, yes," and began to walk towards the children, keeping Smith in sight as the man turned to go sit off to the side, "The main feature of interest in the field of criminal investigation is not the sensational aspects of the crime itself, but rather the iron chain of reasoning, from cause to effect, that reveals, step by step, the solution. That's the only truly remarkable aspect of the entire affair. Now, I will share with you the facts and evidence as they were available to me, and in this very room you will all attempt to solve the case of Blessington the Poisoner."

"I think you slightly gave away the ending," John remarked.

"There were five main suspects…"

"One of them called Blessington."

"But it's more about how he did it…"

"Poison?" John guessed, honestly not sure if it was the drugs making him so scattered as to give away the plot or a natural impatience.

"Ok," Sherlock agreed, he'd done a poor job with that tale, though it made the children laugh, "Drearcliff House. Remember that one, John? One murder, ten suspects."

"Ten, yeah."

"All of them guilty."

"Sherlock…" John sighed, shaking his head that it may not be the best one to tell children.

Sherlock frowned, trying to think, "Uh, what did you call that one, John? Um, something to do with murder at the zoo."

"Yeah, I called it Murder at the Zoo."

"Or…or was it The Case of the Killer Orang-Utan?"

'You should have put the hat on, Locksley,' Leena's voice teased, 'Everyone loves the hat.'

"No one more than you though eh?" he asked himself quietly, unaware that the others had actually heard him and were giving him an odd look. He shook his head, "Right, um, a case…or um…questions? Any questions?"

"Mr. Holmes?" Smith raised his hand, "How do you catch a serial killer?"

Sherlock turned to the man, sitting beside a little girl and holding a Barbie doll in his hand, observing him for a moment, "Same way you catch any other killer," as though he would tell a serial killer HOW he was planning to catch him!

"No, but most killers kill someone they know," Smith argued, "In that case you're looking for a murderer in a tiny social grouping."

"Um, Mr. Smith," the nurse that led them there spoke up, "Um, I'm…I'm just, er, wondering. Maybe this isn't a suitable subject for the children."

"Nurse Cornish. How long have you been with us now?"

"Seven years."

He looked at her, "Seven years," and stared till she began to nervously smile, "Ok," before he turned back to Sherlock, "Serial killers, though, choose their victims at random. Surely that must make it more difficult?" his tone had clearly made everyone else in the room very uncomfortable, he sounded like he was questioning it, knew the answer, and was challenging Sherlock all at the same time.

"Wrong," a voice said behind him, followed by the squeaking of a wheelchair being led in, Mary moving to help the person resting there up stand up once the chair was parked, "Honestly, Mr. Smith, if you're going to try to profile a serial killer…" the woman smirked, "Leave it to the professional."

She stepped forward, introducing herself to the children, even as her gaze and smile remained on Sherlock.

"Special Agent Jacqueline Holmes of Scotland Yard."

A/N: AHHH! Leena's awake! And after everything happening, everything going on right now, I like to think she's ready to kick some shins in ;)

So, long A/N, some notes on the chapter.

Sherlock's spiral:

I couldn't see him resorting to drugs, not after having Leena in his life, not with Liberty counting on him. I was honestly a tiny bit thinking he wasn't actually on as many drugs or as bad of drugs as Molly or John made it out to be in the episode because he was a little too put together, even if he struggled in some areas, and too coherent at times, but that's neither here nor there in this version of it. Despite that, it didn't mean Sherlock wouldn't spiral in some way or let himself go. He's suffered a terrible trauma and his world is on the verge of falling apart and, right now, the only thing he's living for, the only thing keeping him going is that his wife MIGHT wake up and his daughter definitely needs him :(

I feel like it hits closer to home and is more relatable, in a way. Because when people are hurting, not all of us turn to drugs. Some of us can't stomach anything. Some of us just can't sleep or sleep peacefully. Some of us try to distract ourselves. It's sort of a more human way to cope, and seeing Leena gone from his life it's sort of like straining that part that makes him 'human' and stretching it, pushing it to the extreme. Sherlock is reacting in a way the average person might, but he just takes it too far without a real support system there to keep him in check :( I feel like, when it's drugs, a person can go 'well, they're doing it to themselves, shame on them, they're just a druggie' and brush aside the pain that's causing it. In the episode that might have worked out because it gave the added edge to John in having him continue to push Sherlock away and ignore all Sherlock was trying to do to make amends and do what Mary asked. HERE, the human reaction reflects that pain. Here, Sherlock is in so much more pain than in the episode, because it's not his friend's wife or his friend, it's HIS wife, it's his world, the mother of his child, who is in jeopardy :'(

Everything he has is given to Liberty. He's thinking about when she needs her next bottle, not when he should eat. He's thinking about how much sleep she's getting, and not how he should. He's thinking about when she needs her nappy changed and a bath, not when he should clean himself up. He's thinking about her being happy, and not how he should take care of himself. His hygiene, eating, sleeping, everything he should keep doing because it's healthy, he's not even registering as important, because, to him, right now, Leena and Liberty are so much more important :(

In my mind, and Leena hinted a bit at it when the dream-her remarked that Sherlock goes off like he's spiraled when he's living off caffeine, Sherlock would still go down a path of self-loathing and self-destruction. But it wouldn't be drugs. Him being as manic and out of sorts in this episode manifested as the result of him not eating right or sleeping enough. He's exhausted, mentally and physically and emotionally, he's not sleeping, he's running on fumes and caffeine and resorted to some extra adrenaline to keep him going. He's so scared of sleeping, either having nightmares of Leena or fearing someone might harm Liberty while he's out, that he forces himself to stay awake. He can't stand up right without swaying as a result of all of it, he's too hyper because there's nothing but coffee in him, he's not handling this well at all :( It's just that, because of what the caffeine, little sleep, and no food, and growing paranoia is doing to him is making others misunderstand what's actually going on. Not many people are privy to Leena and Sherlock's private time, to how they coped after his faked death and near death, though they did see changes in Sherlock in how he noticed Leena and was more aware and physically affectionate with her.

But he would never, ever dishonor Leena's memory by giving in to drugs and making all of her efforts in life worth nothing, he would never, ever, EVER let himself become that strung out while their daughter was depending on him.

Going to dip a little further into Sherlock's story-psychology here for why he's falling apart the way he is:

Sherlock has always had Leena in his life, since he was a child. He's latched onto her, accepted her, bonded with her on a level potentially a little out of the norm. Given what is discovered in the next episode, it may make a bit more sense that he became so close to Leena if his psyche was still reeling and healing from certain events and, perhaps, a part of him that was aware of what happened as a child felt he had to stick with Leena to 'protect her from the east wind' Mycroft was always going on about. Leena has been a fixture in his life since he was a child, his best friend, his support, there with him through school and university and his addiction. SHE was the reason he cleaned up, got his life together, she is the one he fights for and hones his skills to impress. So much of his life, in some way, revolves around Leena, as hers does him.

She goes to America and they are constantly in touch via email and phone call and texting. Even apart, they are still together and there for each other. She comes back and their relationship flourishes, the time apart helping Sherlock realize he wants her beside him in all things, to realize he cares for her as more than a friend. Then he fakes his death, completely cut off from that one constant in his life. No phone, no text, no emails, nothing for 2 years but still knowing she was safe and alive. So when he comes back, he's even more aware of her, what she means to him, how he feels for her, the life he wants to have with her. Being that cut off made him more aware of what he was without and how much he never wants that to happen again. He wants to be her husband, he wants to have a family with her, he wants the 2.5 kids and the dog and everything. Even more so after he nearly dies of the gunshot wound from Mary because, while Mary may have specifically shot him where she did to not-kill him, part of him surviving was how he fell and how he kept calm and how he ignored the pain, all of which could have killed him if HE hadn't made the efforts he did. He really came close to dying and leaving her and that opened his eyes to a lot of things.

But...in everything that has happened, the death and near deaths and faked deaths, it's been on HER side to suffer, it was Leena suffering his departures more than him. She had to live 2 years hoping he was alive but not where/what he was doing, if he was safe, if he'd died while he was out there. He had his puzzle with dismantling Moriarty to occupy some of his mind. HE chose to leave, it was his plan. He gets shot and he would have died, it would have been the end of it, but LEENA would suffer from his death. SHE was the one bearing the burden of losing him.

This time, this was the first true time that he truly feared for Leena, that HE experienced that loss, the reality of it all. A handful of other times where her life was in danger, like when Moriarty took her hostage or when others held a gun on her, it was a brief moment. It felt like forever to him, but it passed. This isn't passing. On top of his wife, the center of his world, possibly dying, he has a newborn baby depending on him, his best friend has cut him out, he has almost no support and he is utterly terrified that if someone can take his wife away, they can take his child away too.

He has to stay awake, he can't sleep. Sleep means being unaware of dangers to Liberty, sleep means missing updates about Leena, sleep means missing time with her, sleep means time wasted researching and solving crimes to make everything safer for his child and wife. He can't sleep, he has to protect his family. He can't sleep or he'll see her being shot over and over and dying in front of his eyes in his worst nightmares. Leena had nightmares of him dying, but they are different people and they handle/react to that differently. He doesn't handle it well. Because he is a self-proclaimed sociopath, he only feels things related to Leena (and John/Mary), so when it happens to Leena it's off the charts to him and he can't process it as well as the average person.

He's manic because he's hopped up on caffeine and little food, running himself ragged because he has to be there for Leena and protect Liberty and help Leena and keep Liberty happy and he can't stop or he'll think about Leena's life hanging in the balance. He's reciting Shakespeare to Liberty because that's what her mum would have done and it's a way to be closer to Leena and it makes Liberty smile. He will shoot at anyone who comes to the flat, even Mrs. Hudson, because anyone, literally anyone, could be a threat to his family. Subconsciously, I think he feels that 'anyone, even family, can be a threat' because the East Wind is always in the back of his head even if he might not realize it. Maybe part of him recognized a certain woman in her disguise and it triggered that frantic need to keep Liberty safe because a threat was in his home and near his daughter and he didn't realize it at first.

Now that he's in front of Smith, he has to be on top of his game to make sure he takes the man down. He has to be careful in how he acts, what he says, what he does, to ensure he can stop the man. He has to pick and choose the weaknesses he displays and when he appears to be put together.

Other people:

Everyone thinks it's drugs because of how manic Sherlock is, how disjointed, how scattered, how weak he is, how he's talking to thin air. But, really, it's sleep deprivation, caffeine, malnourishment and a very near mental break over the stress of possibly losing his wife. He may very well be hallucinating Leena the way John was Mary in the episode, John wasn't on drugs it was just the trauma. But, again, John and Sherlock are different people who handle and process their trauma in different ways.

Mary, Mary is on a separate page than Sherlock or John here, but it's that distance that sort of allows her to see what's going on and ways to help. Sherlock wants to be friends with John again, he never didn't want to be friends, because he has a better chance of protecting his family with John at his side and John is his best friend now that Leena's his wife. Mary sees that. And John DOES regret breaking things off the way he did, but he's ashamed and humiliated and stubborn, she sees that too. Mary knows Sherlock can't focus just on getting John back, not when he has his family falling apart and that John won't go to Sherlock unless there's something dangerously wrong (or a danger to Liberty). So Mary takes that into her own hands. She whispers in John's ear about how she's afraid Sherlock's gone back to drugs, even if she knows he hasn't. SHE sets Sherlock up with fake blood tests of some laced with drugs, to get John sympathetic and worried and willing to help. She knows the only way for John to make amends is to see how badly Sherlock is doing and how much he's struggling, which he couldn't do when he cut off contact with Sherlock. She's a sneaky genius assassin, she knows how Sherlock and John are even not being a profiler like Leena.

We see at the end though, that she's also had someone helping her to work out the next step of getting the gang back together ;) We'll see just how/when Leena woke up and got Mary involved and how far in the next chapter ;)

The Clot:

It turns out it's medically true. Pregnant women are much more likely to develop a clot either during pregnancy, during labor, or after delivery than women who aren't pregnant :( It's terrifying to think of :( Originally it was intended for the gunshot wound to merely have more complications than originally thought. But I couldn't see Mycroft not getting the best surgeons and doctors in for his sister-in-law and then my mom was talking about one of her co-workers who has a clotting disorder and is pregnant and how she has to be very, very careful because of how much more likely women are to clot and I started thinking about how any sort of severe wound does increase your risk of throwing a clot, and the two merged :( I hated to do it to Leena, but Sherlock has sort of seen and experienced his own gunshot wound, so he knows it can be recovered from, he knows what to expect. He hasn't experienced pregnancy outside of Mary and she was fine so he wouldn't be thinking about clots. Having it happen was something he couldn't predict or plan for and sort of triggered his real spiral. Because he had that hope, having survived his own wound, that Leena would to. If he could, she could. A clot was not something he knows how to handle :'(

To end:

I hope Sherlock's behavior and depiction made sense in the story. He wouldn't resort to drugs, he wouldn't do that to Leena, but he would let himself fall apart if he thought she was really going to die :( The first 2 weeks he could hope, he could believe she'd be ok, because it was just a single wound. After the clot, he has a harder time and, like the 'unsubs' Leena follows, he's escalating in his own way to fixation on Smith as a way to wake up Leena :(

I know in the episode it seemed a little too much like Sherlock knew everything that was happening or going to happen, so I made some tweaks to try and make it just a bit more human and to sort of reflect the world he's built with Leena and how he expected her to influence their social circle. Like...he knows John is going to a new therapist, even if Mary didn't tell him (she did, but he'd worked out a week earlier who and when it would be), and he plans to go there to confront John and ask for help to take down Smith. He wants to prove he CAN take the man down and protect people so John doesn't have to worry Mary could be hurt.

He does NOT plan for Molly to show up, though he does suspect John might possibly want him checked out for drugs first given his appearance but he doesn't actually think it would happen because Leena would never expect him to be on drugs and how many times has she told the others that? So he didn't organize the drug test, that was Mary because she knows John.

He was not expecting Mrs. Hudson to stick him in a boot, like in the episode, because he's been taking care of Liberty and isn't that a sign that he's in his right mind and not drugged up? That she doesn't have to worry? :(

As for John, he made a bad and rash and angry decision when he first saw Leena shot. He cut ties because god that could have been his own wife. But he regrets it. He's ashamed of himself for doing it, he's humiliated he reacted so poorly, and he doesn't know how to face Sherlock because either he's in the wrong or Mary made him. Seeing a therapist is his way of having an out, a reason to apologize, if someone else says he went too far and should work it out. It wouldn't be on him or Mary. Seeing Sherlock 'on drugs' just makes him feel worse and even more angry about himself :(

Some notes on reviews...

I have to start by saying I'm over the moon that you all love and care about Leena so much! Reading the reactions to what happened, as terrible as it is to say, made me smile, because my greatest hope is that people reading will come to love the OC as much as I do and seeing people so worried for her meant the world to me :') We got a pretty big win at the end of this chapter so I hope it made up for the angst ;)

I feel a little evil to say, but as soon as I saw the episode my mind went right to 'nope, not Mary, Leena's taking that bullet' and then it sort of ended up where it could ONLY be her that it happened to. Because the vest would go to Mary as the 'target' and Leena would not allow Sherlock to be shot a second time. Having the vest there, I hoped, would sort of lull into a false sense of 'oh thank god everything will be ok' and then it's like, nope! :)

Sherlock will need a little time to process how John's reacted. Right now his mind is basically Liberty, Leena, and stopping Smith. He can't quite handle any more emotional baggage or thoughts to process. He's sort of reverted to the 'John is my assistant' mentality when it comes to trying to stop Smith, wanting John at his side as he brings the man down. But once he can breathe, once he can recover and his world can sort itself back to rights, there will be some thoughts to go over in how he feels about John sort of turning on him ;)

It was definitely a rollercoaster to write too lol :) I was really trying to balance the threat and the drama with the hope and also angst to come so I'm glad it worked :) As for happy endings...I have to say I'm a sucker for them ;) There's, so far, probably only 1 series I've posted (incomplete so far) that will not end on a happy note for the OC, won't say which one, but 1 out of 20 isn't so bad ;)