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.

7. The Lying Detective: Upward Climb

A/N: I added a scene with John at the end even though it doesn't feature Leena or Sherlock, mostly because I felt like it was sort of needed to show some foreshadowing and also a few glimpses into what's happening with Sherlock and Leena at that point in time ;)

~8~

The Lying Detective: Upward Climb

A few hours ago...

Mary nearly gasped when she saw something shift out of the corner of her eye from where she'd been checking on Leena's vitals at the end of her night shift. She had swapped shifts with another nurse, wanting to be home when John came home later. It was his first day with his new therapist and she knew it was always a draining experience for him to go to one. She could remember how he'd been when he'd been speaking to someone to cope with Sherlock's 'death' before, that was grief, this was anger, and anger always took more out of him than grief. He'd seen grief, he'd lost people in the war, anger always gripped him hard. He was such a good man that when he was angry it affected him more. She wanted to be there for him. Even if she was cross with him right now, she was still his wife and this was still something difficult for him. She was just grateful she'd finally gotten through to him and worn him down enough that he even agreed to speak to a 'third party' about what happened at the Aquarium and how he'd reacted.

And she knew, seeing Leena in such bad shape for so many weeks had slowly wormed its way into John's mind. The longer Leena didn't wake up, the worse John felt.

And, speaking of, she hurried over to the bed when she saw the girl in question's eyes starting to flutter, her face scrunching in pain.

"Jackie?" Mary reached out to take her hand one good hand. The arm she'd been shot in was in a sling and bound lightly to her front so she wouldn't move it too much. She looked around, making sure the lights were dim enough that when Leena opened her eyes she wouldn't be in even more pain, they were low so she should be fine.

Leena let out a breath wincing and shutting her eyes again as the room swam for a moment when she opened them. It took her a minute or two to get her bearings, turning her head to see Mary beside her. She was confused for all of a second, before a throbbing in her shoulder drew her attention to where her arm was in a sling. It all came back to her then, the aquarium, the gun, the pain...Sherlock, with tears in his eyes, begging her...

She took a breath and wiggled her fingers, letting out the relief in her breath when they moved though there was a tugging on her wound for it.

"It didn't do too much nerve damage," Mary told her, guessing where her thoughts had gone, "Might be a bit more noticeable when you grab things, but nothing some therapy won't help. Bone repaired, wound stitched up," she glanced at the medications in the bags dripping down the tubes to her, "You'll be on blood thinners for quite a while, but you made it, Jacks."

Leena took another deep breath, looking around and spotting a few items on the table beside her bed. Her gaze locked on a single Robin Hood book standing there. She stared at it for a moment or two, some vague whispers in her mind, like when you would hear a whispered conversation and weren't sure you'd heard everything right, trying to think about what she HAD heard, and the very familiar voice who had said them. She turned her head to Mary, "On a scale of stopping petty theft to catching a genocidal maniac…how bad is Sherwood?"

Mary gave her a grim smile, understanding, "Serial Killer," she offered, "And..." she hesitated, before mustering the words, "Alone. John...he didn't react well to it almost being me."

Leena let out another breath, sounding more like a groan than anything, resting her head back on the pillow and squeezing Mary's hand. She closed her eyes and contemplated that, the whispered words she was sure now that Sherlock had been saying while he'd been visiting her, for she had no doubts he'd been visiting her constantly, now making more sense, now clearer. Sherlock was at a 9 then, on the scale of what sort of case he was throwing himself into to try and not feel like a failure, which was not a good thing. She knew what he was like when she was there beside him, to keep him in check, to keep him from getting too consumed, to be either the voice of reason or the source of encouragement and reassurance…she hadn't been there this time, nor had John, and her mind was already racing as she catalogued what state he'd be in now.

There were always other variables that could affect him. But if she knew Sherlock, and she did after more than 20 years with him, she could take a very close guess, she felt. Adding in his intention that HE be shot, that SHE had been shot, that their daughter was a newborn, that John had cut ties, that Mary was trying, and the whispers, the faint recollections of what he'd been up to as she'd started to rouse...it was not going to be a good state at all. She knew what he was like when he felt that those dearest to him were in a true and near danger, he wouldn't sleep, he wouldn't eat, he wouldn't take care of himself till it was dealt with. She could usually convince him to do those things, she would be there to care for him, and without her...she could only imagine how others saw him now.

She looked over at Mary once more, "I need your help, Mary."

Mary just nodded, seeing a plan forming behind her eyes, "Anything."

~8~

Sherlock could only stare in shock at the sight of Leena standing there, real and solid and actually there, not just the final pieces of his mind fracturing and conjuring her image to help him cope. The fact that Mary brought her in, that John was staring, that everyone else in the room had turned to her, it told him it wasn't just him.

He was sure he was gaping as he blinked at her.

She looked about as bad as he did, though she'd basically been in a coma for a little more than a month so she had an excuse for the weight loss and the pale complexion, the weakness she was trying so hard to cover up. Her left arm was in a sling, tucked against her chest, but her hair was washed, she'd managed a shower or some sort of bath before she came there, likely for his benefit so he wouldn't have to see her in worse shape, dressed in her typical clothing and thankfully not a hospital gown or the clothes she'd been shot in.

Mary.

He realized then, Mary had known, she'd had a hand in this, in bringing Leena to them, she had to have.

He didn't know whether to plot her murder for not telling him his wife was awake, for clearly she'd been awake enough to plot even this small thing, or calculate next week's lottery numbers to give her as a token of his thanks in bringing his wife to him.

Leena merely stepped to his side, not needing him to speak to read every expression on his face. While they did communicate that way, just their expressions, they truly didn't do it very often. Usually only when they truly needed to communicate without others seeing or when they were in a position where they couldn't speak freely…right now the words just weren't coming out.

But she saw it, he knew she did, he knew she had noticed every sag, every under-eye bruise, every hair of his stubble, had smelled the lack of hygiene on him, seen his matted hair, the exhaustion in his eyes, the change in color of his skin two shades paler, the way his cheekbones were even sharper than normal. And he knew she saw the tears filling his eyes now, though he refused to let them gather past the corners since Smith was there and waiting for any weakness to pounce on. He knew she saw his relief and joy and thankfulness and love and happiness and…and so much more.

He knew she could tell his heart had finally started beating again to see her breathing.

Leena reached out and took his hand, squeezing it, telling him she was truly there, she was real, she was beside him, and then she turned, smiling that smile at Smith that had Sherlock smirking automatically to see. It was the smile she only gave to their enemies when they were trying so hard to be clever but weren't managing it well enough for her, when she was about to tear them apart. He knew that smile, it was his smile, she'd learned it from him.

"It's not as random as you think," Leena continued to explain, "Serial killers have a reason and a cause behind who they target, even though they themselves may not be fully conscious or aware of it. There was a case my team handled, a man who killed women who had an eye that was just slightly lower than the other, didn't even know he'd done it or that was why those women had to die, but he chose them for that. There's always a pattern to be found," she eyed Smith, "One just needs to understand the killer to know the victim."

"Is that so?" Smith tried to smile, though it appeared cold and challenging to those present.

Leena gave a short, tilted nod, humming in affirmation, and Sherlock had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from outright grinning. Smith didn't even realize the trap he was falling into. Every word he said, every move he made, every expression, was being added to Leena's profile of him, he was giving himself away to her, helping her predict what he would do, allowing her into his mind, without even seeing it. HE was adept at assessing a person, from how they styled their hair to the clothing they wore, seeing clues there. But they were often impersonal things, it was just fact to him. Leena, she was the one who could look at an expression, hear a nuance in a voice, notice a change in body language, that often escaped him. She was the one who got personal. It was why they worked so well together, she handled the human aspect of it.

"There are actually four types of serial killers," Leena added, casually, as though she were giving a light little lesson, "The visionary, usually someone mentally unstable who just…snaps one day, thinks they're another person or that god told them to do it. The mission-oriented, not normally psychotic, they kill because the 'world would be a better place without such and such.' Hitler would be a good example of that. Then there are the ones who want power and control, often abused or made powerless as a child, they exert force to make themselves feel more powerful than they actually are. And the hedonist. There's three subcategories for the hedonist."

"Lust, Thrill, Profit," Sherlock managed to say. Admittedly NOT the first words he thought he'd say to her when she woke up, but they didn't always need physical words to know what the other felt, not now.

Leena turned her smile at him, a real and genuine one now, "Look who was paying attention," she squeezed his hand again and Sherlock blinked, something telling in her look, in her expression that could only be one thing.

The way she was looking at him, she was revealing that SHE had been paying attention too. When she'd been in the coma, she had heard him. He didn't know if she'd heard every word he'd said, but clearly she had heard enough of Culverton Smith to know the danger going on, or piece it together on the way there. She wouldn't be giving the man a lesson in serial killers if she hadn't worked out he was one, and he doubted it was just the random claim he'd made on Twitter that alerted her to this.

She turned back to Smith, "A hedonist gets a perverse pleasure out of killing, their victims are expendable, a means to an end. They are fueled either by lust, wanting sex and to play out a fantasy…" she eyed the man with a queer expression, making Sherlock smirk when he saw a crack form in Smith's own façade, an insult Leena had dished out without words. She was either saying that the man was completely unappealing, which he was, serial killer and all, or that the only way the man would be able to get sex was by forcing someone, neither a compliment, "By profit, where they kill to steal or get ahead in life," Smith laughed, opening his mouth as though he were going to crack a joke about how he didn't need to steal for his fame, but Leena just kept on, "And by the thrill, they just want to induce pain and terror in their victims, makes it more exciting. Serial killing," she turned to the room, turning her back on Smith, "Is an expression of power and ego. Often brought about by people who aren't worth the air they breathe no matter how important they think they are."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed when, at those final words, Smith tugged the head off the Barbie without realizing it.

"To be deemed a serial killer, one must have three criteria," Leena spoke so easily about the subject that the children were more curious than alarmed, which Sherlock knew was not something Smith wanted, he wanted them uncomfortable and frightened, "Quantity. At least 3 victims, typically more. A place, not usually in the same location, otherwise how would they get away with it? But if they plan it carefully, it can be possible. And time, a cooling off period, lying low, till the urge to kill rises again. Which means," she looked around, "For someone to be called a serial killer, there's evidence of more than three victims," and turned back to Smith pointedly.

Sherlock grinned darkly beside her as the implication began to settle among the staff and the adults who were wising up to what she was saying. That, if HE had called this man a killer…and to call him a serial killer, it meant he knew of at least 3 victims who were tied to this man, that there were more than one, and that he knew who those victims were, how they died, and how they connected to Smith.

"Ultimately," Sherlock added, feeling back on his game, in control once more, with Leena beside him helping his case, "For full satisfaction, it requires plain sight. Additionally, serial killers are easily profiled," he nodded to his wife, "They tend to be social outcasts, educationally sub-normal…"

"So you only catch the dumb ones," Smith tried to joke, tried to take control back.

But Leena wouldn't have it.

Sherlock took a deep breath, seeing her expression, knowing that she knew Smith wanted the attention, wanted to make this more uncomfortable, wanted to make a spectacle and truly would NOT allow it. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction, because this was HER area of expertise, and she knew what Smith wanted, she would do all she could to throw him off balance.

He could finally breathe, he felt, finally, finally breathe…because nothing and no one could stop them when they were together. They were a team.

"Oh, not at all," Leena laughed, and Sherlock knew it was intentional as well, Smith wanted HER uncomfortable and to feel threatened, by being so at ease it was the best way to challenge him, "You would be surprised by how many high IQ serial killers there are. The smarter they think themselves, the more likely they are to be caught," she added, "You see, individuals such as that, spend so long coming up with tricks and traps and plotting their crimes that they might even be able to form an alibi to get away with it. But…" she added when Smith had begun to smirk, "Such a high IQ also makes a person prone to bragging…"

John had to hide a 'cough' at that, thinking about Sherlock and his own deductive reasoning.

Mary elbowed him in the side for it.

"They will tell anyone and everyone about what they've done," Leena eyed Smith, "Because they think no one will believe them. Those sorts, especially, work hard to build their image. They might even go so far as to use an accusation to bolster it," she could see a handful of people in the corner of her eye, Smith's team, since they didn't appear to be parents or nurses, fidgeting at that, because it was exactly what Smith had done, "They're superficially charming, smooth talkers, with outstanding charisma. But they don't actually care about other people. They like being in positions where they are the boss, they are the top, hardly noticing the people who work for them…or even how long they might have been working for them," her gaze darted to Cornish and back to Smith when the woman shifted, getting the point, "They create such a public persona that 'it couldn't possibly be them!' to others," she looked around the room, "Statistically, it's most likely to be a male between the ages of 25 and 55, likes to talk, likes to brag, be in charge…hmm…" she hummed, "I'm only seeing one person like that in this room," and her gaze fell on Smith who, for the briefest second, looked genuinely worried, before he started laughing.

"So someone with money, power, and fame," Smith chuckled, "Could be the Queen!" he joked, "Some things make you untouchable."

It was John who spoke next, as though truly starting to see Smith as the threat Sherlock warned him about, if Leena could build a profile of a typical serial killer and spot one in Smith, "No one's untouchable."

"No one?" Smith challenged.

"No one," Leena agreed.

Smith smiled, "Well then, a big round of applause for Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson!" the man called out, the group around them clapping, though the children were more excited than the adults who had picked up on Leena's lesson very well, "And our special guest, Mrs. Holmes," he turned to them, eager for this 'lesson' to be over and to get everyone's thoughts off of what she'd revealed and alluded to, "Thank you so much for coming. Thank you."

Sherlock looked down when Leena leaned against him a bit more, before squeezing her hand and leading her out of the room, letting Smith speak to the kids and giving him time to just…

He almost crushed her in the hug he bestowed upon her the moment they were in the hall, not knowing how much time they actually would have alone, though the Watsons seemed to be giving them privacy in not immediately following them. He was sure he really would have crushed her, only the flash of her sling connecting to his mind keeping the hug gentle and tighter on her good side.

"Leena…" he breathed, his chin resting on the top of her head as she ducked her face into his chest, "Oh, Leena…"

Leena chuckled a bit, though he heard a wet sniffle join it, "I'd never leave you, Locksley," she murmured, pulling back to look up at him, tears in her eyes, "I'm sorry it took so long to get back."

He shook his head, "You're back, that's all I care about."

"Really?" she teased, "I could have sworn I heard something about ridding London of danger so it'd be safe to come home."

There was a pink flush to his cheeks as he realized his hypothesis about her hearing him while in the coma was true.

But Leena didn't linger long on that, reaching up to touch his face with her good hand, her thumb sliding over his cheekbones, "You should have slept," she murmured, able to read the hours he spent awake on his face, "You do no one any good by burning yourself out, Sherlock."

He looked at her, his eyes swimming with emotion, "How do you know it's sleep and not…"

She smiled at him, "You would never do that to me," she stated, so firm in her belief it could never be drugs that it stole the breath from him, "You promised."

He closed his eyes and leaned into her touch, so thankful that she saw through it all, saw what others didn't want to see or didn't think to see, saw the exhaustion and not drugs, "I had to keep you and Liberty safe. If someone could…"

He didn't finish the sentence, but Leena didn't need him to to understand what he meant. If someone could get to HER, with him right beside her, there was nothing to stop someone going after their daughter too and he had to be better. He had to protect Liberty, and to do so he had to be awake and alert for any threat.

"Well, I'm here now," she patted his cheek till he opened his eyes, "And once we stop Smith, you are sleeping, Mr. Holmes."

He chuckled, "Not going to tell me to give up the case, Mrs. Holmes?"

"That man IS a serial killer," she confirmed, having worked on her own profile of it the second she was able to sit up on her hospital bed, Mary letting her borrow her laptop to draft it up.

It had killed her to not immediately call him and let him know she was awake. Initially she had thought that she could surprise him when he came with Liberty to sit with her as soon as visiting hours began. Mary had said he'd been there every day during those hours. She had planned to complete a profile on Smith so he could be better prepared to confront the man. But then he didn't arrive, and Mary came in saying Mrs. Hudson had called her and was taking him to John at his therapist's house and she knew that all those plans were going to need to be revised, especially when she found out this was John's first day at the therapist.

She knew her husband. She could guess that he'd work out when John would give in and go see a therapist, and he would choose that day to get to John, to ask him to help him confront Smith. She'd just hoped that he would come to her room first, so she could give him the profile to use when he went to go ask John for his help. Mrs. Hudson had jumped the gun a bit there in the middle, the poor dear probably meant well, fearing for Sherlock and Liberty, and wanting John to get over himself. But she knew it would throw off Sherlock's plans.

If she had to say, she would assume Sherlock had some grand plan for how he'd appear to John, what he'd say, how prepared he'd be for the confrontation. If he was as hopped up on coffee as she feared he might be, given Mary's confirmation of how he appeared day to day, he would have been cut off from it by Mrs. Hudson's actions and he wouldn't be at his best to speak to John. He'd be fighting a powerful migraine and he'd be giving an impression of being a little too desperate and weak to John. He would want to give an appearance of strength, to show he could protect people.

With that ruined...there was only one other way she could think of to help Sherlock get John on board and to stay at his side until she could get there. Because, by then, Sherlock would be about to confront John and a serial killer and she didn't want to distract him with knowing she was on the way, she had to just GET there first. She needed John to think Sherlock WAS on drugs, she needed Smith to think it too. It was an old trick they had used a few times in the past, not just with Magnussen.

It was truly surprising how often an enemy would allow you closer when they thought you were at your weakest, when they thought they had the upper hand. And with this particular man, she feared Sherlock might take it a bit far, make himself too vulnerable to lure Smith in closer. If she could just help control how 'vulnerable' he appeared, she would go for making others think it was drugs than anything else. They'd look for that, treat for that, and not realize he was fully functioning and aware.

They got closer to Magnussen by allowing him to think Sherlock was back on the drugs. They could get him closer to Smith through the same means. But having John at his side, she needed him to STAY there till she could get there. If he thought Sherlock fell back on drugs he would not stray far from Sherlock, he was too much a doctor and a good man.

So she'd asked Mary to find a blood sample riddled with drugs and go to the therapist, to tell John she'd run a test on Sherlock the last time he had visited her. Mary had been the one to think of going to the therapist with an ambulance and with Molly to make it seem more like a real drug test to John if Molly thought it was real. Mary told her she'd been feeding John concerns that Sherlock was using again, not that she believed it, but just to get him concerned and willing to just SEE Sherlock. John already had the thought in mind that Sherlock was on drugs, they just had to 'prove' it to him.

While Mary had been 'testing' Sherlock with Molly, SHE had been working on getting herself checked out of the hospital because she insisted on joining them to confront Smith. Had taken a cab to the hospital Mary texted her they were headed to, and the woman had met her at the entrance. With a bloody wheelchair and a smirk on her face, claiming 'she shouldn't be walking so much just yet.' She thought Mary just wanted to make some sort of grand entrance with her. Either way, it had worked and the look of astonishment on Sherlock's face, the joy, the happiness, the relief, had been worth it.

She hadn't heard everything Sherlock had said when he would sit at her bedside, but she heard enough to know about Smith and to know his genuine fear and alarm about the man and it was enough to put her on edge as well, "So long as he's free, the world is less safe for our daughter."

Sherlock smiled at her, reaching up to grip her wrist in his hand, ignoring the tremor running through his own, to turn his head and kiss her palm.

"Sleeping and eating," she warned him, "If I have to see that purple shirt hanging off of you…"

He leaned in and kissed her, wincing at bit as the thought of how it had to be horrible because…really, he HAD let his hygiene go in his frantic devotion to keep his girls safe…but Leena didn't care, having been away from him too long herself, and kissed him back. They pulled away only when air became an issue, resting their foreheads against each other.

Before Leena's nose crinkled, "Shower first though."

Sherlock could only laugh and pull her into his arms again, his eyes closed so the tears of his relief wouldn't fall.

~8~

It was quite…amusing, to observe the foursome as they followed Culverton Smith down the halls of the hospital. Sherlock refused to release Leena's hand, but he also wasn't in the best position to help her along given his own exhaustion. So Mary had inserted herself between them the first chance she got to give Leena a more stable support. Sherlock hadn't been pleased and, instead, moved to her other side, his arm and hand constantly twitching like he wanted to reach out for her hand but couldn't due to the sling. John just shook his head as he walked behind them, mentally trying to think of the best time to pull Leena aside and warn her about Sherlock's using. She deserved to know what he'd done.

"Where are we going now?" Sherlock demanded as they continued down a few floors.

"I want to show you my favorite room," Smith smiled.

"The mortuary?" Leena guessed, spotting the falter in Smith's step as she got it right.

Serial killers always enjoyed being able to celebrate their kills either at the location it happened or somewhere involving the body. For as well connected as Smith was, she doubted even he'd be able to hide taking bodies out of the hospital for 'no reason.' It would have to be somewhere he would have access to them. Which added to the profile she was building. For the bodies to be there, the chances were the people he'd killed were also in the hospital too, that the building was the location they happened. There were so many records of deaths in hospitals, if he wanted to hide them, that would be the place, it would be like finding a needle in a haystack for the police if they didn't know where to look or that they should even be looking in the first place. Smith might be able to go to the rooms someone died in, but he would have to do that for every single person who died, even those not his victims, for it to cover up and he was too busy to manage that. Going to the place they were all kept would mean having access whenever he happened to 'visit.' Everyday people died, so no one would be any wiser that he visited the mortuary on certain days he stopped by. It was a good cover, if you weren't looking for signs of a serial killer.

Sherlock, however, stopped short, spotting something through the open doorway of a room, "No, let's go in here," he called, moving into the room quickly, though ensuring Leena entered first before he followed, putting himself between her and Smith.

The room was a suite, a boardroom of sorts, with a white rectangular table set up in the middle of the room, three chairs on each side and one chair at each end. There was some sort of medicine bag hanging from a stand next to the chairs, with wire and needle at the end, the medicine giving off an odd glow.

"So you've had another one of your little meetings," Sherlock remarked, recalling how Faith had told him that Smith gathered people together, injected some sort of thing to make them forget what he told them about killing someone. Part of it had stuck with her, enough for her to get her notes down about it.

"Oh, it's just a monthly top-up," Smith shrugged, "Confession is good for the soul…providing you can delete it."

Mary tensed at the look Sherlock and Leena sent each other. Leena had given her what she could remember of Sherlock's utterings about Smith, something about something that made people forget what he said. She could remember him talking of a woman who managed to remember, enough that she knew someone was in danger of being killed, but not much more. She could guess where their minds had gone. If this was a monthly thing…did he tell people at every month what he'd done and who else he'd killed? HOW many people had this man murdered without anyone knowing or remembering? He seemed the sort to get off on telling people he had done something so horrible as often as he could, bragging, just as Leena said.

"What's TD12?" John asked, checking the writing on the bag.

"It's a memory inhibitor," Sherlock stated.

"Bliss," Smith nodded, not denying it.

"Bliss?" John frowned.

"Ignorance is…" Mary surmised.

"Makes the world go round," Smith smiled at her.

"Anyone ever decide to remember?" Sherlock challenged, crossing his arms.

"Some people take the drip out, yeah. Some people have the same…urges," Smith smirked, playing right into the profile, on the cusp of bragging, but managing to hold back from a full confession, which Leena knew he wouldn't do until there was no chance he'd ever be able to kill another person, "Come on," he shook his had, heading for the door, "Wasting time."

"Indeed," Sherlock glanced at his watch, "You have, I estimate, twenty minutes left," he sent Smith a smile as he stepped out the door.

"Sorry?"

"I sent a text from your phone, remember? It was read almost immediately. Factoring in a degree of shock, an emotional decision, and a journey time based on the associated address, I'd say that your life as you know it has twenty minutes left to run," he glanced at the watch once more, "Well, no, seventeen and a half, to be precise but I rounded up for dramatic effect, so please do show us the mortuary. It'll give you a chance to say goodbye."

Smith forced out a chuckle, trying to seem unaffected even if he was disturbed by the ominous warning, "Come along," and led them down the hall.

"I'm starting to think the game is on," Mary murmured to John as they followed.

"Not funny," John grumbled beside her.

Normally he knew he'd be keen to see this done, see the dangerous criminal apprehended and locked away, and he was. But there was just so much else going on. Mary was there, when he'd sworn never to let her near Sherlock again. Sherlock was on a bender. Leena had woken up and should be resting, but instead was there with them and a serial killer…god, he just wanted this to be over so he could process it all.

His therapist was going to have a field day during their next session.

It was made even worse when they were forced into the lift with Smith to go down even more floors, "Speaking of serial killers, you know who's my favorite?" Smith asked, sounding like he was trying to make conversation though they all doubted he was.

"H. H. Holmes," Leena guessed as the lift dinged and opened, refraining from smirking as the man's wide grin morphed into a glare, "You've been trying to taunt Sherwood from the start of all this mess," she answered, "You would only pick one that would irritate him due to the surname alone."

Smith kept quiet the whole length of the hall they travelled to get to a set of double doors at the end, striding in and calling out, "Everyone out."

It was, very clearly, just as Leena guessed, mortuary. Everything silver and chrome and white, bodies on tables and covered with sheets, morticians and autopsy specialists walking around in scrubs and disposable aprons, a wall of body freezers lined the side of the room for the bodies on ice.

"Mr. Smith, we're actually in the middle of something," one of the doctors spoke.

"Saheed, isn't it?" Smith eyed the man, "How long have you been working here now?"

"Four years," the man answered.

"Four years. Well, that's a long time, isn't it? Four years…"

"He's definitely adept at discomfort," Leena muttered to Sherlock as he moved to lean against the freezers and take a much needed breath while Smith was distracted.

"Ok, everyone," Saheed called out, eager to get out of there, the others going with him, "Five minutes?" he asked Smith.

"Come back in ten," Smith shrugged, before gesturing them out, "Saheed!" he called when the man reached the door, "This time, knock."

The foursome exchanged glances at that, not wanting to imagine what Saheed had walked in on before. Though it certainly added to the profile and confirmed Leena's remarks about wanting to be in control and not caring about other people.

"How can you do that?" John asked as soon as they were alone, "I mean, how…how are you even allowed in here?"

"Oh, I can go anywhere I like," Smith smiled, pulling out a ring of keys from his pocket, "Anywhere at all."

"They gave you keys?" Mary grimaced at the sight, thinking about how unethical that was to have a non-medical professional having access to everything.

"They presented 'em to me. There was a ceremony. You can watch that on YouTube. Home Secretary was there," he chuckled, watching Sherlock absently examining the cabinets, "You were right, Mrs. Holmes," he winked at Leena, nearly leering at her, "My favorite room. What d'you think?"

"Tough crowd," Sherlock remarked, turning around, trying to draw Smith's attention away from his wife.

"Oh, I don't know," Smith shrugged, wandering over to a body lying on the table, pulling the sheet back to reveal the autopsy had begun, "No, I've always found 'em quite pliable," he reached out to the elderly woman's corpse and tugged her jaw open.

"I won't ask if you have any respect," Leena remarked, moving her good arm across her to grip her other one, like she was crossing her arms, "It's in the profile, isn't it?"

Smith sniffed deeply and let go of the woman's jaw, turning to face them, "H. H. Holmes loved the dead. He mass-produced 'em!"

"He was a serial killer, active during the Chicago Fair," Leena told John and Mary.

"D'you know what he did?" Smith began, eager.

"He built a hotel designed so he could kill people," Leena cut in.

One way to deal with a serial killer, cut off their power, have their plans go wrong, and, very carefully, challenge them, turn the focus from their targets to the ones making the challenge and then prepare to catch them in the act. She wished her BAU team could be there though, it was always better to deal with serial killers when there was a larger group trained to handle them. Sherlock could adapt, she was sure, she'd spoken enough of it over the years, but John and Mary were wild cards in this.

"Had a hanging room, gas chamber, specially adapted furnace," Smith sighed, as though just picturing what fun he could have had there, "You know, like Sweeney Todd without the pies! Stupid," he scoffed after a moment, "So stupid."

"Why stupid?" Mary asked, hoping that the man would let something slip that would help Sherlock and Leena work out how to stop him. She was good with plans and running, with following a plan and instruction. But this was what they did for a living, if they wanted her part of the plan she'd do whatever they needed her to do to stop this lunatic. And, maybe, a little bit to prove to John that his worry was sweet but she could handle herself just fine, and if she got hurt it would be on HER, not on Sherlock or Leena or even him.

"Well, all that effort," Smith remarked, "You don't build a beach if you want to hide a pebble; you just find a beach! And if you wanna hide a murder, or wanna hide lots and lots of murders, just find a…hospital."

John frowned, "Can we be clear? Are you confessing?"

"To what?"

"The way you're talking…" he stopped and glanced at Sherlock and Leena for confirmation that this was what was happening, but they were too quiet…

Smith, though, laughed, "Oh, sorry. Yes. You mean, am I a serial killer, or am I just trying to mess with your funny little head? Well, it's true," he moved around the table to step closer to them, "I do like to mess with people and yes, I am a bit creepy, but that's just my U.S.P.. I use it to sell breakfast cereal. But am I what he says I am?" he pointed at Sherlock, who was now gripping Leena's free hand, though none of the others had seen him move to take it due to his own tremors, "Is that what you're asking?"

"Yes," John stated.

"Hm. Well, let me ask you this," he turned to face John now, "Are you really a doctor?"

"Yeah, of course I am."

"Well, no, a medical doctor, you know. Not just feet, or media studies or something."

"I'm a doctor."

He snorted, "Are you serious? No, really, are you?" and then grew quite angry, "Are you…are you actually serious?" and turned to step back, "I've played along with this joke. It's not funny anymore. No…look at him," he gestured at Sherlock, the man standing there, too rigid to not be trying to hide something he didn't want others to see, the grip on Leena's hands now white, his eyes blinking rapidly and his face frozen though there was a pain in his eyes.

Leena, to her credit, only gripped his hand tighter. He needed sleep, he needed rest and food. She'd seen him go without both before and he'd had such a terrible headache she'd actually taken him to the hospital because she'd thought he was having a brain aneurism. To know he had gone weeks in such a state, without anyone to force water and food down his throat if they had to…

His skull must feel like it was splitting open, he was hurting, badly.

"Go ahead," Smith taunted, "Look at him, Doctor Watson! Hmm? Oh, no, I'll lay it out for you. There are two possible explanations for what's going on 'ere," he pointed at himself, "Either I'm a serial killer…or Sherlock Holmes is off his tits on drugs, hmm?" he pointed an accusing finger at Sherlock, "Delusional paranoia about a public personality? That's not so special. It's not even new!"

Mary caught Leena's eyes, her own widening as she finally understood why Leena had asked her to procure blood from a druggie, why she'd even thought to really have John believe that Sherlock was on drugs. Yes, part of it was to keep John at his side, part of it was because Sherlock WAS in such a bad state that he could collapse any time and need a doctor. But there was another part to it.

This was just like with Magnussen!

By making Sherlock seem drugged to everyone else, by having JOHN there ACTING like Sherlock was on drugs, it allowed him to get close enough to the target, for the target to feel like he wasn't a threat because he was nonsense, when Sherlock was really sharper than ever. And then, when the target tried to claim it was drugs, Sherlock would have proof he'd been clean the whole time and therefore the target was now making excuses and looking worse than before.

The only problem with all that…was that Sherlock wasn't sharper than ever now.

She had tried like hell to get him to eat, bringing him food from the cafeteria when he came to visit Leena, it was always there, untouched when she came back around before she'd leave for the day. Mrs. Hudson had kept her up-to-date on the state of their kitchen, the rotting food, where the only thing digestible was the baby formula for Liberty and the coffee machine whirring at all hours. Sherlock was running on fumes and it was hitting him worse than ever right now.

Oh, it would only play into Smith and John's belief that he was on drugs, but it would also put Sherlock in danger of missing something, making a mistake.

They would need to proceed VERY carefully.

"I think you need to, er, tell your faithful little friend how you're wasting his time because you're too high to know what's real anymore," Smith stalked towards Sherlock, "Or, better yet, why not ell your dear little wife how you've gone off the deep end while she was sleeping?"

"Oh, I'm sorry," Leena eyed the man, "Were you under the impression that I don't know my husband?"

Sherlock's lip quirked up, the throbbing in his mind dulling just long enough for a thought to get through to him, "I apologize," he added, startling Smith, "I've miscalculated," and turned to Leena as though to explain, "I forgot to factor in the traffic!"

"You're getting slow in your old age, Sherwood," Leena teased, ignoring the deep frown John was sending her as she'd all but admitted she 'knew Sherlock was on drugs.'

He laughed, looking at his watch, "Nineteen and a half minutes," and cleared his throat, putting a hand to his ear to listen for something, "Ah, the footsteps you're about to hear will be very familiar to you, not least because there'll be three impacts rather than two. The third, of course, will be the end of a walking cane. Your daughter Faith's walking cane."

Smith frowned, stepping back, "And why would she be here?"

"You invited her," Sherlock told him, "You sent her a text or, technically, I sent her a text but she's not to know. Ah, let's see if I can recall, I don't have my wife's memory with the written word. 'Faith...I can stand it no longer, I've confessed to my crimes. Please forgive me!'"

"Why would that have any effect?" Smith smirked, "You don't know her."

"Oh, but I do," Sherlock's answering smirk was devious, "I spent a whole evening with her," he turned to Leena as though to reassure her, "We had chips," he stated, before tracing a line from the base of his wrist upwards two inches, subtly telling her why, the suicidal nature of the woman.

Smith's grin started to falter as he shook his head, "You don't know Faith. You simply do not."

"I know you care about her deeply. I know you invited her to one of your special board meetings. You care what she thinks. You maintain an impressive façade. I think it's about to break. She came to Baker Street."

"No, she didn't."

"She came to see me because she was scared of her daddy."

"Never happened," Smith insisted, "Is this another one of your drug-fueled fantasies?"

Mary began to smirk, knowing it had to be true, because Sherlock wasn't on drugs.

"Well, let's see, shall we?" Sherlock challenged, before calling out, "Faith, stop loitering at the door and come in! This is your father's favorite room," the door opened and he could hear the sounds of Faith entering, "Come and meet his best friends."

"Dad?" Faith called, and something about it made Sherlock frown, "What's happening? What was that text? Are you having one of your jokes?" she walked over to the man's side and turned to the four of them, though Sherlock and Leena were right in front of her, "Who are you?"

Sherlock frowned at the sight of the woman…because it was NOT Faith, or at least not the one who had come to the flat for help. Their height and size were the same, same style and length of hair, though there was a slight difference in shading and the glasses were only similar not identical. There was a different set to the hairline, a different mouth, a differing pattern on the walking stick.

"Who the hell are you?" Sherlock demanded.

"Sherlock Holmes!" Smith answered his daughter first, "Surely you recognize him."

"Oh my God!" Faith laughed, smiling, "Sherlock Holmes! I love your blog."

"You're not her," Sherlock realized, "You're not the woman who came to Baker Street."

"Um, well, no. Never been there."

"Sorry, I'm not sure I completely understand…" Sherlock trailed away, stepping forward, looking between Faith and Smith.

"Understand what?"

Smith looked far too smug, "Well, I thought you two were old friends!"

"No!" Faith giggled, "We've never met."

"Oh, dear!" Smith began to chuckle, even more pleased, "Oh!"

"Have we?" Faith turned to Sherlock.

"Sherwood…" Leena began, seeing the look on his face, like something was truly, very wrong, like there was a problem he wasn't working through, a lie in front of his face and he didn't know which it was.

"So who came to the flat?" Sherlock breathed.

"Well, it wasn't me," Faith spoke, and Smith's laughter grew stronger.

Sherlock stumbled forward, moving off to the side, his hand resting on a tray that had some medical equipment on it. John watched him closely, a deep frown on his face, while Mary hurried over to Leena's side.

"What's happening?" Mary whispered to Leena, able to tell something had gone wrong.

"Someone tricked him," Leena realized, working through Sherlock's mumblings, his shock, "They came to the flat to implicate Smith, but it was someone pretending to be Faith."

Sherlock scrunched his eyes shut, the throbbing in his head twice as bad now, Smith's laughing not making it better.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," Faith chuckled, "But I don't think I've ever been anywhere near your flat."

"If he doesn't stop laughing…" Leena threatened as Smith practically roared with it, Sherlock stumbling back with his hands over his face. She tried to take a step towards him but Mary held her back.

"Best not, Jackie," Mary waned, and the look in her eye told Leena that the woman was worried something bad was about to happen, "Just let him calm down first..."

"He won't calm down if I don't help him!" she insisted, "He's not going to hurt me," she tried to pull away, but after her stay in the hospital and her bad arm, Mary was able to keep a grip on her.

"God," Sherlock mumbled, angrily fisting at his hair, his eyes closed, all the while Smith continued to cackle, until Sherlock turned, bumping into a tray on a stand, nearly cutting himself on the six scalpels resting there. He stared at them, his mind racing.

Faith wasn't Faith, fine. But Smith was still a serial killer, Leena's profile had proven it, and he still needed to be stopped. This...this entire situation happening right now was not going to help him get a confession, not with THIS Faith standing there. He...he had to get Smith alone...

And there was only one way he could think to do it, especially since half the room thought he was drugged up...

"Sherlock…" John began, taking a step towards him, but Sherlock looked pale, ill, like he was about to be sick, "Sherlock? Are you alright? Sherlock, are you ok?" he looked over to Mary and Leena, but Leena's eyes were on Sherlock not him.

"Watch him," Sherlock panted, turning and pointing at Smith, "He's got a knife."

That only served to make Smith laugh harder, "I've got a what?!"

"You've got a scalpel!" Sherlock accused, which made Leena frown and tilt her head, catching something, "You picked it up from that table," he pointed to the tray, only five scalpels remained, "I saw you take it."

"I certainly did not!"

"Mary," Leena grabbed Mary's arm now, turning to her, "Don't let John hurt him too badly."

Mary frowned, lost, "What…"

"Look behind his back!" Sherlock continued to accuse.

Smith merely held out both his hands, nothing in them, "What?"

Sherlock grew more hysterical at the sight, "I saw you take it! I saw you!" he threw out his right arm at Smith, the missing scalpel in his own hand, brandishing it convincingly enough that Smith's smile finally dropped and he backed away.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" Smith held his hands up, pulling Faith back away from him.

"Sherlock!" John tried to get through to him, "D'you wanna put that down?"

Sherlock looked down at the scalpel as though he'd never seen one before, and then glared at Smith, "Stop laughing at me!" he hissed.

"I'm not laughing!" Smith assured him.

"He's not laughing, Sherlock!" John agreed.

But Sherlock ignored him, "STOP LAUGHING AT ME!" he yelled, lunging towards Smith with the scalpel.

Only for John to rush into the way with a shout of "Sherlock!" and grab his wrist, twisting it and turning it, slamming it on the side of an examination table till he dropped it. He grabbed Sherlock by the lapels of his coat and shoved him back till his back slammed against the body cabinets, "Stop it!" he shouted as Sherlock continued to struggle, a firm punch to the face had Sherlock falling to the ground.

"Mary!" Leena urged the woman, who was so startled to see John take such action, that she jumped out of her shock and ran to pull John off before the two orderlies she could see through the door windows made it to the room.

"Is this a game?" John shouted, trying hard to hit Sherlock again, clearly of the mind that this was all a drug induced break, but Mary succeeded in yanking him back.

"John, stop it!" Mary called, pulling him far enough away that Leena, now free, ran over to Sherlock, dropping to her knees before him and reaching out with a hand to touch his face, ignoring John's calls of warning behind her, tilting his head up to look at him, her thumb tracing just under the spilt in his lip.

"Thank you, Doctor Watson," Smith spoke behind her, though she didn't pay the man any mind, "But I don't think he's a danger anymore. Leave him be."

"Oh, Sherwood..." she murmured, wincing as blood began to fall from his nose from the force of John's punch.

John pulled himself out of Mary's hold, glaring at Sherlock, "Jackie, leave him," he urged, "He's been using again," he blurted, flinching as that wasn't how he'd wanted to tell her, with an audience, but Smith had already implied the man was on some sort of drug already, he'd just confirmed it.

"I know my husband, John," Leena shot back, without turning to face him. Whether they took her words to be a denial or refusal, or a grim acceptance that she could clearly tell something was wrong, she didn't care because Sherlock was looking at her with wide eyes locked onto her own, panting, seeming genuinely frightened, though she knew it was not of the situation nor of what just happened, but what she would think of it.

With her back to the others, she sent him a wink that had him slumping forward into her arms, sobbing in a way she knew was just for dramatic effect.

She had known Sherlock Holmes long enough to know when he was laying a trap, even if she wasn't fully sure what it might be, even one as hastily put together as this was.

She just had to play the role of concerned wife to seal it.

~8~

"Oh, Sherwood," Leena murmured as she sat at his bedside now, holding his hand as he had done constantly for her during his visits the last month. The roles were reversed and now HE was the one lying in a hospital bed and not her, at least he was awake, "You're taking this a bit farther than with Charlie, aren't you?"

He offered her a weak smirk, "This one's more important," he squeezed her hand, lifting it to press a kiss to the back of it, "Magnussen was after Mary, this one is a threat to YOU."

She gave him a soft smile, shaking her head, "Well, at least we know he won't press charges," she remarked dryly.

It fit the profile. Smith would want to continue to appear magnanimous and the victim in all this. Pitying Sherlock and 'trying to help him' would cast more doubts about his life as a 'serial killer' than having to explain anything about what actually happened.

"The police report will help though," Sherlock mused. John and Mary had been taken in for questioning by Lestrade after the authorities were called by hospital security. The only reason Leena wasn't was due to her status as his spouse, "John will, no doubt, bring up the drugs."

Leena's own smile grew weak and sad at the look he gave her, "I asked Mary to do that," she admitted, though she had a feeling he'd worked it out by now, "Partly to help you get closer to Smith, partly because…" she took a breath, "John would be more likely to stick with you and I knew you'd be in a bad enough state for him to genuinely worry."

If John acted like Sherlock was on drugs, Smith would likely believe it without needing to test the man for proof, it would allow Sherlock closer.

Sherlock scoffed, touching his split lip, "Yes, quite worried."

"Let's call that residual from faking your death," Leena chuckled.

"I think it's more in defense of your honor," Sherlock remarked, "About time," he made a jest, "I shoot someone in the head for Mary, the least John could do was punch someone he thought was a threat to you for you."

"Except you're not a threat to me."

"He didn't know that."

"You would never hurt me, Locksley, not after what happened when you cleaned up."

Sherlock fell silent, "…I didn't…" he struggled to find the words, "I didn't…alarm you, did I?"

He'd never forgive himself if he'd genuinely frightened her with his acting in the mortuary, as haphazard and thrown together as it had been.

She snorted, "You called a scalpel a knife, you'd never call a scalpel a knife," she gave him a look, "I knew right then that you were going to do something with the scalpel, that you'd probably try to 'attack' him," oh dear, it was quite difficult to use quotey fingers with just one hand, "That you were faking the rest of it."

"God, I love you," he murmured, looking at her in a besotted manner he only allowed for when they were alone.

"I have twenty plus years learning how you think," she reminded him, and it was sort of her job to know how people thought, though she grew a bit sad at the next part, "I'm one of the few who have seen you like this too," she reminded him. One poor roommate of his in university who had had to experience Sherlock living off caffeine during their end of year exams...she was fairly certain the poor sod had transferred schools to get away from Sherlock, "So I know how you think when you're barely sleeping but pushing on. You needed to get as close to Smith as you could. You might even need to get to a place where he felt he had the power and upper hand so he'd confess," she looked around the hospital room, "Confined to his own hospital where he's in charge of what happens to you? Can't get any closer than that."

Sherlock took a deep breath, letting it out through his nose at her insight, even if she didn't sound pleased about it, "Thank you for telling Mary not to let John beat me to death."

She snorted again, something she was starting to think he was intentionally doing, saying things to get her to snort, "He wouldn't have beaten you to death."

"He seemed ready to."

"I would have run him over with an exam table if I had to," she looked at him, "No one harms my family. Not even my family."

He smiled at her, about to speak more when the door opened and Mary peeked through, giving them an apologetic smile, "Sorry, um…Mycroft's being a pain in the ass," both Leena and Sherlock rolled their eyes at that, which made her chuckle, "He wants John to escort you to 221B, Jacks."

"Well Mycroft can go and…" Leena began, but Sherlock chuckled.

"Go," he whispered to her, smiling at her, "Liberty misses you terribly."

Leena let out a sharp breath at the mention of their daughter, nodding slightly, she missed Liberty quite terribly too. Damn the bastard knowing exactly what to dangle in front of her to get her to pry herself away from him, "You'll be alright?"

He nodded, "I'm in a hospital," he remarked, giving her a meaningful look that she caught.

"Well then," she turned into a small bag she'd brought with her, that had been hanging off the back of her wheelchair earlier, and pulled out a small stuffed teddy bear that was holding a heart which said 'Get Well Soon!' on it and held it up to him, "A gift from your girls," she teased, setting it on his bedside, "You had best do as it says," she warned, standing, "And get well soon, I don't want to miss you terribly too."

He nodded, understanding that she wanted him back with her as soon as possible, "I will," he promised.

"Your latest vow," she teased, leaning over to press a kiss to his lips and then his forehead, before she headed to the door where Mary was waiting, stepping to the side to allow Nurse Cornish into the room as she came to check on the hospital's most famous patient, nodding to the guard assigned to the door as she passed.

Mary, at least, had the sensibleness to wait till they had walked a far enough distance away to bring up, "You had that bear with you when you arrived," she remarked, the question present even in the statement.

Leena gave her a look, "I did."

Mary's eyes narrowed and she shook her head, "You planned this," she realized, "But…HOW? You were in a coma and Sherlock didn't know you'd woken up and…"

Leena laughed, "I didn't plan all of it, I'm not sure I even know half of it," she assured the woman, it was just fun to tease people at times, "It's just...I've known Sherwood more than twenty years, Mary. I know how he thinks, I get paid to know how people think. I'd be a rubbish profiler, an even worse wife of the great Sherlock Holmes, if I didn't work out he'd do anything to get close enough to Smith for a confession."

She'd been a bit wrong in terms of HOW he'd go about getting it. She had the bear with her for a reason, to leave it in his hospital room with him. Smith was a tricky bloke, serial killers often were, and one had to be careful when handling them. Most times they never really just revealed and confessed to anything, not when they could keep going, when they were in a place to continue their killings, they'd never give it up and, therefore, would refrain from confessing anything until that option was taken away and they were caught in the act of one.

It could be done, prying a confession from one, even going so far as to orchestrate who their next victim would be, to lay a trap. They always thought they were so clever, to be one step ahead. Smith was NEVER going to confess in the mortuary, not with her and Mary and John there, even less when Faith arrived. She doubted Sherlock had even bided his time in the hopes the man would do it. It didn't fit the profile for Smith to just blurt it and be caught. And Sherlock was not a stupid man.

If anything, she would have guessed that Sherlock's ultimate plan would have been to just be around Smith, get John to realize the man WAS a danger, and then collapse at some point. John would think it was drugs, Smith would have him committed to the hospital to 'help' him. It wouldn't have been hard to play off either, Sherlock wasn't well from all the stress to begin with. It was Faith that had thrown a spanner in it all. Sherlock HAD genuinely been startled to see a woman who was not the one he thought she was standing there.

He hadn't wanted to be wrong in front of John, she knew. It would just prove to the man that he could get things wrong, and that he couldn't keep his promise to protect people if he got it wrong. He hadn't been faking his reaction to that shock, not when he was running on fumes as he was. Had he been full of food and sleep and put together, he'd have held together far better, found a way to play it off, maybe even accused Faith of hiring someone to portray her out of fear for her father. But he wasn't at his best right now.

He'd needed to improvise a way to still get Smith to see him as weak, without John assuming he himself was wrong, and get everyone 'worried' about him.

Grab a 'knife' and start threatening people and it would look like a mental break from the drugs, a bad trip. It would make Smith overconfident, more than him being wrong about Faith would, and sure that Sherlock wasn't a threat to him or his secret. But it would also make John feel that it was the drugs fault he'd been wrong and not his own mental capabilities.

It had achieved the same end, him ending up under Smith's 'care' and in a hospital bed, she just hadn't thought it would go quite this way. Sherlock DID love to keep her on her toes.

Right now he needed a confession after the 'drug accusation' that would be going around. People wouldn't believe the rantings of a drugged mind, but they'd take a confession straight from the horse's mouth.

"Let's hope he gets it," Mary murmured.

~8~

It was just John and Leena in the car on the way to the flat, Mary insisting on calling a cab and heading to check on Hamish and relieve her friend Janine from babysitting duties. That and she'd not so subtly implied that John might need to speak to Leena.

"You should have tried to get him to wear the hat," Leena remarked, seeing John struggling with finding words to put to his thoughts and trying to break the ice.

John snorted, "He wouldn't wear it unless you were there in your cat-hat," his smile faded, "You weren't there."

"No, I wasn't."

"I wasn't either," John admitted, looking down and taking a breath, "I...I haven't been for over a month now."

"That was sort of obvious," Leena remarked and he looked at her, startled, "Mary told me. But even if she hadn't…" she let out a breath and closed her eyes, "Sherwood was certainly in a state," she looked at him, "He doesn't do well when he's left alone."

Even when she'd been in America, they constantly texted and called and emailed and video chatted. She was always checking in on him.

John's jaw clenched, "It's no excuse to turn to drugs."

Leena tilted her head more, "Always so keen to jump to that."

"I saw the tests, Jackie," John told her, "I had Mary AND Molly test him. He's…he's gone off, he's using. I'm sorry. But it's bad, worse than maybe it's ever been and…"

"And blood is far easier to procure than urine," Leena cut in.

John fell silent, gaping at her…because he hadn't said anything about it being bloodwork that had been run on Sherlock, especially when, last time, it had been urine samples.

"Mary told you…"

"Mary's the one who swapped it for me," Leena told him gently, "I asked for a favor," she gave him a look, "Do you really think Mary would have any reason to swap it if I hadn't asked?"

John did quite the impersonation of a fish at her admission, because Mary really wouldn't have. She may have been pushing him to check on Sherlock because she was worried he'd turned to drugs, but that was just to get him to speak to the man, to see him, there wouldn't have been any reason to really push it that far, "Why?"

"Would you have been as keen to help him if it was just sleep deprivation?"

John stared at her, "IS it?"

"John, I don't know how many times I can say it before anyone believes me, but Sherlock will never, ever touch a drug again, whether I'm here or not," she looked directly into his eyes to be sure he believed her, "He wouldn't do that to my memory if I wasn't. He wouldn't make my life meaningless or my support worthless by doing it. And especially not when our daughter needed him."

John swallowed hard and had to look away.

It made sense to him now, now that he was looking at Sherlock without the lens of drug user as a filter. The bags under his eyes, the way his attention drifted and struggled, the stale coffee smell he got each time the man spoke…the way his clothing hung off him, the stubble and lack of hygiene. It wasn't drug use, it was a man running on next to nothing.

They all just…kept thinking the worst of him.

And Leena, even while in a coma, still thought the best.

"I'm sorry," he breathed, his hands clenching into fists on his knees, his eyes squeezed tight, knowing he'd broken a promise to himself as well, to trust the man more in that regard, "I should have been there more."

"But you're angry and scared," Leena assessed, smiling when he looked at her, a little started at the 'scared' part, "I'm a profiler, John. I'm meant to get inside your head. After everything that happened with Mary and AGRA and Hamish and Magnussen…all the danger that Sherlock gets into. This was the first time Mary really came with us on a case," she recalled, "And she was the target as far as we knew. She was in danger, and Sherlock promised to protect her, I did too. We failed, because AJ found her because of us. You couldn't risk us failing again."

John's jaw clenched, "You got shot, Jackie," he said, his voice so quiet she was sure she would have missed it had it not been the two of them in the car.

"And it could have been Mary," Leena finished for him, "It 'should have' been Mary," her tone implied it never would be, only referenced back to Mary being the target, "It never would have been," she added, in case it hadn't been clear, "She told you we gave her the bulletproof vest, yeah?" he nodded, "We wouldn't take that risk, not with her life, or yours or Hamish," she reached out when he fell silent, putting her good hand on his curled up fist, "I know you don't think I can relate, because I knew Sherlock was still alive during that whole mess. But John, I didn't, not always. There were days, weeks, months, where there was no trace of him and I…I honestly thought he'd died and I'd have no way to really know. So…if you ever need to talk, I'm here."

John looked over at her again, tears in his eyes now as she saw straight through him.

Her smile was gentle, "Mary left, and you didn't know if she was alive or dead or if someone stole the memory stick. She was a target of someone truly willing to kill her and not just pressure her. Every second of every day you were afraid if that would be the moment she died. And then she comes back, and she's safe, and then she almost dies, really almost dies…" she knew, without him saying it, that he had seen Mary in that pool of blood and not HER, "You just want her safe, because you're so scared she could die and leave you again. I understand that."

She really did. And that, she felt, was why she couldn't rage at him or shame him for his choices. If this had happened in the reverse, just after Sherlock 'returned from the dead' and she nearly lost him and it was John's fault...she honestly felt she would have done something similar. She just...she knew what it felt like to come so close to losing something and want to protect it. John didn't need more people telling him he was wrong or trying to guilt him, he just needed to know what he felt was valid, but that sometimes holding onto that initial reaction could hurt him in the long run.

"I've had nightmare after nightmare of Sherlock dying, of not being able to protect him…"

She trailed off a moment and, perhaps for the first time, John realized that she really HAD. That she'd likely had hundreds of them especially after Mary shot him. She'd gotten the man a bulletproof vest as if it wasn't sign enough of just how much it had terrified her to lose her husband…

And she'd still helped.

Mary had shot her husband and nearly killed him…and Leena still helped protect her.

Meanwhile, his wife hadn't been shot, hadn't nearly died…and he'd cut all ties with them.

God, what had he done?

"I just mean," Leena continued, noticing the emotions flashing across his face but not calling out about it, "I've been there, with that fear. So if you need to talk…I mean, this last month I was a very good listener apparently…"

John managed a watery laugh at that, turning to put his other hand on top of hers, "Thank you, Jackie."

She smiled, "Anything for family."

John sniffled, nodding, "Anything," he promised, squeezing her hand, truly promising it.

He'd find some way to make it up to Sherlock, he'd find a way to be there, to push past his fears over losing Mary. He already had a therapist lined up, might as well talk about that than whether or not to be friends with Sherlock, because the answer always would have been yes, no matter what.

~8~

Sherlock did his best to exercise patience as he waited for Nurse Cornish to finish setting up his latest drip for him, pretending to have fallen asleep due to his injuries and natural exhaustion, though he implemented every trick he could think of to remain awake and not actually fall asleep. All those weeks of caffeine and adrenaline and his body should be about to give out, but his own adrenaline was kicking up. He was so close to stopping this, to finishing it, he couldn't risk falling asleep now.

A sweet story to the nurse about his wife and his history with drugs he fought so hard to crawl out of, a bit of a tear and a quiver of the lip, and the woman was kind enough to swap out one of the drips for him without a word to anyone else.

Gotta love fans of his blog.

His eye twitched a few seconds after the nurse left the room, hearing a swooshing noise, faint, easily ignorable…had it not been for the fact that the mental blueprints he'd brought up for the room told him it was the secret door at the end of the wood-paneled wall swinging open. Really, as though he'd just enter a building a serial killer basically built himself without looking at every single blueprint? Please.

The footsteps drawing nearer to the bed were familiar enough after paying attention to know it was Smith. There had been a faint squeak noise, like rubber rubbing on something, telling him the man was wearing gloves as he pushed the door shut. He could hear the man grabbing a chair from a nearby table and carrying it over, setting it down at the foot of the bed and waiting.

Sherlock only barely managed to refrain from smirking, he'd already calculated how long the man's patience could run for in a devised situation like this and he needed every last second of it to ensure he got what he needed.

Let the man wait, he was comfortable where he was.

~8~

"I'm starting to think Sherwood should retitle Mycroft from BomE to PimA," Leena muttered as she and John got out of the black car Mycroft had sent to pick them up and headed into 221B. John snorted at that, guessing what PimA stood for, and held the door open for her to enter.

Instead of heading for the stairs, Leena turned into Mrs. Hudson's section of the house, peering into the woman's sitting room and smiling, letting out a soft breath when she saw the woman napping with a book open on her lap, Liberty set up in her little carry cot, napping too. As much as she missed her daughter and wanted to cuddle her and look at how big she'd gotten and lament about the time she'd missed…she had learned never ever wake a sleeping baby from her friends in America. And, right now, she was quite sure a shouting match was about to happen upstairs and she'd rather Liberty be sleeping soundly down there with Mrs. Hudson than exposed to that.

She swallowed hard and pulled back, closing the door gently, wiping under her eyes as John studiously ignored the motion for her benefit, and headed up the stairs. John kept behind her incase she lost her balance, until they reached the flat.

"Where are they?" Mycroft huffed, "It shouldn't take them this long to…" he cut himself off as the door opened and Leena and John entered.

Leena could have almost sworn she might have seen a glimmer of relief across Mycroft's face when he spotted her, though she was sure she'd imagined it. Right now, she was too angry with the man to give any thought that he might be happy to see her.

Because all across the flat, things were being torn apart and dug into by a team Mycroft had clearly employed. She knew, without a doubt, that the flat wasn't as disorganized and chaotic just because of the search and filed it away for things she'd have to check up on Sherlock over as he really had lost quite a bit of himself in the last month if the flat got that bad. She always joked that his room reflected his mind, organized chaos…this was just plain chaos.

Regardless of that, she was starting to fume because she knew what sort of search this was without a word spoken.

John, who was more than a little startled at the state of everything and feeling even more guilt settle on him (because, really, even if he hadn't SEEN Sherlock, just seeing the state of the flat would have tipped him off that the man was suffering), didn't seem to work that out quite as quickly, "Uh, uh, what are you doing?"

"Have you noticed the kitchen?" Mycroft asked instead, pointing his umbrella at it, "It's practically a meth lab. I'm trying to establish exactly what drove Sherlock off the rails."

Leena knew he didn't mean what event, but what 'drug' in particular, and glared at him for it, turning to move through the plastic draping in front of the kitchen, into the space, examining the equipment set up and rolled her eyes. She walked over to a clipboard lying on the counter where Sherlock always kept his notes on any experiment he was doing, and pushed her way back to the sitting room.

Mycroft eyed her, as John looked around at all the clippings and photos of Smith hanging everywhere with knife holes and bullet holes in them, "Any ideas?" he nearly sneered at Leena, only the sight of her injury keeping him from gloating about Sherlock slipping this time.

Leena gave him an unimpressed look, "Nothing."

"Are these spooks?" John asked, getting it now, seeing the people going through the bookshelf, "Uh, are you using spooks now to look after your family?"

"They're glorified maids by now," Leena remarked, "Tidying up," she turned her eye on Mycroft, "I'm going to have to go through all of this all over again and set it to rights," she warned him, "If you've messed up Sherwood's sock index again…"

"Jackie," Mycroft cut in, giving her a firm look.

Which she shot right back at him, though far more narrow-eyed, "You know, for someone who keeps claiming to be 'the smart one' you're remarkably dim," she shoved the clipboard at him.

Mycroft looked down at it and frowned.

"What's that?" John asked.

Leena sighed, moving to sit in Sherlock's armchair, drawing John's attention to the copious amounts of teacups set about it, all rimmed brown with coffee stains, "I hate pills," Leena told him, "I can't stand the thought of injections ever since…" she trailed off but both men knew she was thinking about Sherlock's past drug use, "Sherwood was experimenting to try and find a liquid anticoagulant I could put in my drink instead of have to swallow or inject. One he could make here instead of rely on the chemist, because it can easily be switched for poison," she would have rolled her eyes at how dramatic and paranoid he could be if she wasn't so furious with Mycroft right now.

Really, it was so simple if Mycroft had just thought to LOOK at the damn notes! It wasn't a meth lab for god's sake!

John looked at Mycroft whose pursed lips told him Leena was telling the truth.

"I'm going to be on blood thinners for a while," she sighed, throwing a clot would do that to a person, "Sherwood was trying to prepare for when I woke up. And…don't you dare go in there!" she snapped at one of the spooks who was moving towards where the second bedroom, the nursery was. She was on her feet and striding over, but the man had ignored her, throwing open the door and just…stopping in shock.

John, who had been standing nearby, looked over and blinked…the nursery, compared to the rest of the flat, was pristine. It was organized and clean and smelled like lavender, fully stocked…

John felt like someone had punched him in the gut, for as much as Sherlock had let himself go…he'd made sure to take the best care of Liberty. By himself. Because the girl's godparents weren't there to help.

Leena shot the spook a glare and reached past him to slam the door shut, "Mycroft…" she began, her voice dead calm, eerily flat, "If you are about to suggest that your brother would hide drugs in our daughter's room…I really will smoother you with a pillow."

Mycroft actually looked alarmed by that, taking a step back, knowing she really meant it this time. Perhaps he had taken it a bit far this time. He cleared his throat and looked around, feeling…not quite as smart as he liked to claim, because the spooks had been going at the flat for an hour and found nothing but rubbish and a cupboard full of ground coffee. There were no drugs in that flat beyond the average stimulant that was caffeine.

"I had to be sure," Mycroft tried to defend himself for the rest of the flat, "Sherlock is a security concern. The fact that I'm his brother changes nothing."

"Yeah," John eyed him, "You said that before."

Leena looked over, hearing something odd in John's voice, something that sounded like suspicion.

"Why fixate on Culverton Smith?" Mycroft continued, ignoring John's words, "He's had his obsessions before, of course. None as long as Leena," he remarked absently, "But this goes a bit further than setting a mantrap for Father Christmas. Spending all night talking to a woman who wasn't even there…"

"Oh for god's sake," Leena huffed, moving over to her laptop and sitting down…only to struggle to open the top of it with one hand. John hurried over to open it for her, "Thank you," she smiled at John, before turning a narrow-eyed look at Mycroft, "For all your surveillance, you have too many blind spots, Mycroft. Did you even bother to check the cameras IN this room?"

Mycroft's expression told her he didn't even know there were cameras in the room.

She rolled her eyes and tapped something into the laptop, John moving behind her as Mycroft moved to stand at her other arm, watching as she brought up a video feed.

"I never took the camera out after Moriarty," she told them, it seemed like a wise thing to do, given all the enemies Sherlock made, to have some sort of security footage of their flat in the off chance a criminal admitted something thinking they were alone. She hit play from the only footage that came up for three weeks ago that featured someone other than Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, or Wiggins in the flat. Oh she had really been hoping this would work, that Sherlock HAD encountered someone resembling Faith in their flat to use as proof. This would have been terribly embarrassing if it had been a waking-dream where he'd hallucinated a case, his mind needing a 'big bad' for him to take down so she'd wake up.

But it was there.

It was too far to get a clear look at the woman's face, she was sitting in the client's chair, with big glasses on, and Sherlock kept walking in front of the camera, but it was enough to know there WAS a woman there. She'd added in a microphone, taped under the client chair though, usually it was in the middle of the room and able to pick up a good deal of sound.

It was enough for John and Mycroft to hear the woman imitating Faith Smith and talking about how 'her father' was wanting to kill someone.

"He spent the night with a real person," she looked up at Mycroft, who appeared alarmed by the sight, "Proof enough?" she turned back to the computer, moving to find another program that was blinking in the corner, another motion sensor camera picking up movement, a live footage, "Honestly, I have no idea how you haven't realized what's bothering him yet."

"I know his thought processes better than any other human being…" Mycroft began.

"Except Jackie," John crossed his arms.

But Mycroft continued as though he hadn't been interrupted, "So please, try to understand…"

"I was shot Mycroft," Leena cut in, blunt, "He's been trying to 'make London safe' for me, so it won't happen again. We're joined at the hip but we're not the same person. We handle trauma differently. I buy him a bulletproof vest and contemplate tying him to the bed for a time, he tries to rid London of any and all criminals singlehandedly," she sighed, shaking her head, "Is it any wonder why he's fixating on a serial killer? When his wife and daughter would be as much in danger as anyone else?" she snorted, "Don't answer that, you would wonder," she turned in her seat to look up at him, "Find a woman or a man or someone with a pulse, love them, and then, maybe, you'll understand the lengths a person will go to keep what they love safe."

John swallowed hard, and looked away for a moment, when Leena cursed, in French, moments after she turned back to the computer, "What?" he frowned, because he'd never heard her do that often, if at all.

"Tell me, John, as a Doctor," Leena began, tense, "Is there any reason for a non-medical personnel to be wearing medical gloves and sitting in a patient's room while they sleep?"

John had just begun to say 'no' when Leena turned the computer for them to see a camera she'd hidden in Sherlock's hospital room, the room somewhat dark, but with enough light to make out Sherlock sleeping…with Culverton Smith sitting on a chair at the end of his bed, smirking.

"Especially when visiting hours are over and said person is meant to be at his home?"

"Shit!" John realized, the only reason Smith would be there…since he was sure the man really was a serial killer now…would be if he was about to go after his next victim.

On the footage, Smith huffed out a noisy breath, waking Sherlock, "You've been ages waking up. I watched you. It's quite lovely in its way. Take it easy. It's ok. Don't want to rush this. You're Sherlock Holmes."

John was heading for the door the second the man said 'don't want to rush this' as that was all the confirmation he needed that Sherlock was in danger. Leena was right behind him, ignoring Mycroft already barking commands and orders into his phone as they ran out the door and back to the car that was blessedly still there.

~8~

Sherlock blinked a few times, staring at Smith as the man grinned at him, "How did you get in?" he asked, making sure his voice was a breathless whisper, a small tremor to it, as though he'd thought himself safe from the man there and was realizing he was anything but.

Smith chuckled, standing and walking towards him even as he pointed at the door, "Policeman outside, you mean? Come on. Can't you guess?"

Sherlock made a show of looking around the room, as though he didn't know about the... "Secret door?"

"I built this whole wing. Kept firing the architect and builders so no one knew quite how it all fitted together. I can slip in and out anywhere I like, you know…when I get the urge."

"H. H. Holmes."

"More than just a way to irritate you," Smith smirked, "Murder castle, but done right. I have a question for you. Why are you here? It's like you walked into my den and laid down in front of me. Why?"

Sherlock swallowed hard, looking at the man and then down, needing to appear shameful, "You know why I'm here."

My god, this was hard, he couldn't help but think. Hard in how irritating and annoying this was. To act like this? Like he was a frightened little mouse, suicidal and shameful. If Leena had been there, if he'd tried this on her, she'd take one look at him, snort, and tell him that he had absolutely no future as an actor.

But Smith, he was so arrogant he'd believe it.

"I'd like to hear you say it," Smith taunted, "Say it for me, please."

He took a breath and looked at the man again, "I want you to kill me."

"Now why would you want that?" Smith wondered, though it was clear in his tone that he didn't care, he just wanted to revel in someone being so pushed down and broken that they felt that way.

"I…" Sherlock's voice broke, "I swore to my wife, I'd always protect her. She got shot. She nearly died. Because of me. I…I don't deserve her," he blinked, tears in his eyes, that was a bit too close to home, "I don't deserve to live knowing I couldn't keep my promise. My daughter deserves someone better. They don't need a failure in their lives. And..." he trailed off.

Smith mused at that, "Love," he huffed, like it was a foreign concept to him, "Mankind's greatest weakness."

Sherlock sniffled and looked away, pretending as though his eye was caught by the medicine bags, "If you increase the dosage four or five times…" he glanced at Smith now that the man was eyeing the drip stand, "Toxic shock should shut me down within about an hour."

Smith hummed at the thought, moving around the bed to the other side, observing it, "Then I restore the settings. Everyone assumes it was a fault, or you just gave up the ghost," he grinned.

"Yes."

Smith eyed him, "You're rather good at this," he complimented, moving to take off his jacket. If he was going to wait another hour, he'd like to be comfortable "Before we start," he turned to Sherlock, "Tell me how you feel."

Sherlock eyed the man as he began to take his cufflinks off to roll up his sleeves, "I feel scared."

"Be more specific," Smith ordered with a chuckle, "You only get to do this the once."

Sherlock closed his eyes, knowing this had to be believable...and conjured up the image of Leena, on the floor of the aquarium, "I'm scared of…dying."

He was scared of Leena dying, of Liberty dying, of John or Mary or Mrs. Hudson, hell he'd even throw Mycroft in there, but not himself, not in the sense that he was frightened of death but of what he'd leave behind if it happened.

"You wanted this, though," Smith pointed out.

"I gave you my reasons."

"But you don't actually want to die."

"No," Sherlock admitted, opening his eyes, sure that there were more tears in them now that he'd pictured the nightmare that haunted him every moment of the day, "I don't want to leave Leena."

Smith smiled as though he were pleased, it was always better when there would be regrets, "Good. Say that for me. Say it."

"I don't want to die," Sherlock frowned.

"And again."

"I don't want to die," he repeated, a little louder, a bit more firm.

"Once more, for luck."

Before forcing his voice to sound tearful, he'd hoped to drag it out more, but he couldn't risk Smith catching on, "I don't want to die. I don't…don't want to die."

Smith leaned over him, coming so close that his face was only inches above his, "Lovely, he cooed, smiling, "Here it comes."

Sherlock could only turn his head away from Smith as the man reached out to the control panel of the drip machine and pushed the dosage up and up and up.

It was the only way, after all, to ensure the man didn't see his smirk.

He felt like a failure, yes. Leena deserved better than him, obviously. He didn't want to leave her, ever.

Smith was a fool to ever think he would do so willingly and without a fight.

It was just like the profile said, too high a supposed intelligence just bred overconfidence.

~8~

"He's not safe, Greg!" Leena was shouting into the phone as the black car sped down the streets along the river, heading for the hospital.

"No, he's fine," Lestrade tried to reassure her, "I've got a man on the door. What…what do you think's happened?"

"Smith is IN the room!" Leena snapped, "Ignoring the fact that it's a hospital and Sherlock is hooked up to a machine, there are pillows right there!"

John took a single moment to wonder why Leena seemed to think smothering was the go-to method for murder.

~8~

Sherlock made a show of sniffling as he turned his head back to look at the liquid now dripping rapidly from the bag of medication on the stand when Smith stepped back from it.

"So tell me," Smith began conversationally, moving back to the foot of the bed, wanting to watch it happen as fully as he could, "Why are we doing this? To what do I owe the pleasure? You said 'and' before. Thought I didn't catch it, but I did. What other reason did you have?"

Sherlock sighed, as though he'd been caught, "I wanted to hear your confession, needed to know I was right."

"But why do you need to die?"

"The mortuary, your favorite room," he didn't have to pretend how his face twisted in disgust as Smith smiled, "You talk to the dead. You make your confession to them," he watched as Smith moved to sit on the chair, "Why do you do it?"

"Asking for your wife?" Smith taunted, knowing the woman had likely given a profile but hadn't exactly picked out why HE did what he did, "Why do I kill? It's…it's not about hatred or revenge. I'm not a dark person. It's…" he sighed, "Killing human beings…it just makes me…incredibly happy," he eyed Sherlock, "Suppose that makes me the hedonist."

"Thrill," Sherlock murmured, before chuckling, "You're wrong. Leena had you pegged."

Smith's smile fell into an angry frown as he stood, "You know in films when you see dead people pretending to be dead and it's just living people lying down?" he huffed, angry, "That's not what dead people look like. Dead people look like things. I like to make people into things. Then you can own them. You know what? I'm getting a little impatient," he moved to the side of the bed, and pressed a button to lower Sherlock onto his back instead of partly sitting up. He moved closer to Sherlock's face, tugging on one of his gloves to make it more secure, and leaned over him, "Take a big breath if you want…"

Sherlock's eyes widened as his gaze fell to Smith's hands as he held them up and wiggled his fingers, the only warning he had before Smith shot out, putting his right hand over Sherlock's mouth just a moment after he managed to get a breath in, and pressed down hard. He reached out with his left hand and covered Sherlock's nose, pinching it to keep the man from breathing…

"Murder is a very difficult addiction to manage," Smith continued to speak, as though Sherlock weren't writhing and struggling on the bed, clawing at his arms, but the man was so weak and feeble he couldn't manage more than a scratch, "People don't realize how much work goes into it. You have to be careful, but if you're rich or famous and loved, it's amazing what people are prepared to ignore. I just have to ration myself, choose the right heart to stop," he hummed, "I suppose your pretty wife did have me pegged," he mused, "I wonder if she'll see me coming," he grinned dangerously at Sherlock, laughing when the man struggled more at the threat to his wife, "No one wants to suspect murder if it's easier to suspect something else! Her line of work, your enemies?" he let out a whistle, "Could be anyone who did it, who got to her," he grunted when Sherlock tried to twist away, "Pease, maintain eye contact," he ordered Sherlock who was now looking around as though for anything to help him, "Maintain eye contact!" he hissed, forcing Sherlock's head towards him, "Maintain eye contact. Please. I like to watch it…happen," he leaned in more, giggling with delight as Sherlock's eyes began to glaze, his struggles slowing, "And off we…pop!"

Sherlock's hand had just fallen away to droop to the side when the door to the room was smashed open, John charging through with a fire extinguisher in his hand, having rammed the lock enough to break it. Leena was behind him, running past him to Sherlock's side as he gasped for air and turned towards her on the bed to get away from Smith, who John had lunged for and tore away from the bed.

"Mr. Holmes!" the officer assigned to the door called, following the two in, "You ok?"

"He was nearly suffocated to death, what do you think!?" Leena snapped at him, turning back to Sherlock as he gripped her good arm, still trying to breathe as she soothed him, his heart monitor racing.

"What were you doing to him?" John demanded, wanting Smith to say it himself, getting the man in an arm-lock as he moved across the room, farther away from Sherlock, not caring about the whimpers of protest the man was making, "What were you doing?!"

"He's in distress!" Smith tried to defend, "I'm helping him!"

John glared, shoving the man into the officer's hold, "Restrain him, now. Do it!"

The officer quickly did as he was told, moving to hold Smith's arms behind him.

"I was trying to help him!" Smith insisted.

"Sherwood," Leena soothed, stroking the side of his face as he gripped one of her wrists to ground himself, "What was he doing to you?"

"You got it in one," Sherlock panted, "Suffocating me, overdosing me…" he nodded towards the drip.

John was at their side in an instant, shutting off the machine to stop it and racing to think of the counter drugs to whatever it was, "On what?"

"Saline," Sherlock sucked in a large gasp of air.

"…saline?" John blinked, frowning.

Sherlock chuckled, "Yeah, saline."

Leena let out a breath that sounded half a sob and half a laugh, resting her forehead on the back of sherlock's head and shaking it, "He won't touch morphine," Leena murmured, before pulling back to look at John, "Not even when he was shot and this was just a punch."

And a detox, John had wanted to say, but he knew it really wasn't now. It was more the dehydration and malnutrition coupled with the punch that put Sherlock in the hospital, everyone else just thought it was the drugs.

Sherlock grunted and leaned forward to push the button on the bed to lift it up so he could settle back against it.

"I got Nurse Cornish to switch the bags," Sherlock agreed, "She's a big fan, you know? Loves my blog."

Leena looked him over, mumbling, "Tu es sûr que tu vas bien?"

Sherlock smiled at her, his thumb running over the pulse of her wrist, "Qui," he reassured her, knowing she must have truly been frightened if she slipped into French to ask if he was sure he was alright.

"Liar," Leena sniffled.

"Malnourished, dehydrated, sleep deprived," Sherlock remarked, "But alive," he promised, moving her hand from his cheek to his heart, "And," he grinned, "I got my confession!"

"Such an ass," she murmured under her breath, he just winked at her.

And, of course, Smith had to ruin the moment by calling out, "I don't recall making any confession," he smirked, stepping forward, out of the officer's hold, but John blocked him. He rolled his eyes, indignant, "What would I be confessing to?"

"You can listen to it later," Sherlock waved it off.

"But there is no confession to listen to!" Smith continued, before chuckling, "Oh, Mr. Holmes. I…I don't know if this is relevant, but we found three potential recording devices in the pockets of your coat. Um, all your possessions were searched," he glanced at John and back, "Sorry."

"Must be something comforting about the number three," Sherlock said easily, "People always give up after three."

"You were so focused on Sherwood," Leena smirked, reaching out to pick up the small teddy bear resting by the bed, in the perfect position to watch everything that had happened, "Of course you'd find his," she held up the bear, "You didn't find mine."

John, given the angle of the footage they'd seen in the flat, knew there was a camera in the bear now, though probably a microphone too since they had heard Smith speaking.

"My wife is a profiler," Sherlock's own smirk matched hers as Smith began to look truly worried and alarmed, "It's her job to get into your head."

Smith stumbled back, right into the officer's hold as the man cuffed him this time, his face etched with disbelief and despair.

Sherlock just leaned back against the bed, his hand resting on Leena's, and finally, finally, let himself drift to sleep…

~8~

"I had, of course, several other backup plans," Sherlock spoke as he sat in his armchair at 221B, Leena wedged beside him, half on his lap, he was not letting her anywhere out of arms reach for a while, not that she was complaining, "Trouble is, I couldn't remember what they were."

"Sleep deprivation will do that to you," Leena remarked, using her good hand to run her fingers through the side of his hair, smiling at the clean feel of it. First thing she'd ordered when they got back, a nice hot shower…which he'd dearly wanted to pull her into but the dressing on her shoulder would need more preparation and coverings before she could join him.

A nice meal from Mrs. Hudson, who was overjoyed they were both back, second and third helpings, and even more sleep and Sherlock was almost looking his normal self, clean shaven, in actual clothing. He would still have a ways to go regaining his weight once more, but for now it was enough that he was hungry and sleeping again.

Leena glanced over at where Liberty was in a tiny pen they'd set up, Hamish in there too, the boy playing with some stuffed toys while Liberty was on her back, making gurgling noises and cooing, her eyes tracking every movement Hamish made. She looked across to where John and Mary were on the sofa, a spot of tea on a tray resting on the small table between them. It was a happy and cozy feel that made her relax onto Sherlock's side, resting her head on his shoulder as he moved an arm around her waist.

"Still a bit troubled by the daughter," Sherlock continued, thinking about the footage Leena had shown him, that there HAD been someone there, pretending to be Faith, "Could have been a decoy…someone Faith hired to pretend to be her so her father wouldn't know she'd reached out to stop him…"

"Or could be Moriarty's doing," Mary finished for him, sipping her tea, unable to help smiling despite that, so, SO relieved the boys had sorted themselves out and got on as friends again.

"Yes," Sherlock let out a breath.

Leena, though, shook her head, "He would have aimed more at destroying you, not leading you to a person who was actually a serial killer. You would have worked this one out, no matter what. And, as a consulting criminal, he would have preferred Smith be free to kill more people than caught."

Sherlock hummed at that, "The recording will probably be inadmissible," he mused, thinking of Smith once more.

"Sorry, what?" John perked up, the man having been silent and thoughtful the entire time he'd been there, hardly speaking or looking away from his cup.

"Technically, it's entrapment so it might get thrown out as evidence."

"Doesn't matter though," Leena brushed it off, "According to Greg, he won't stop confessing to everything," she shook her head, "Bragging."

"One day I really need to see the profile you drafted for me," Mary teased, not very curious but it was just…so interesting to her how Leena could be so accurate about things like that. Though, she supposed with a degree in psychology and criminology and a decades long friendship with Sherlock Holmes, as well as her experience with the BAU, she would be.

"That's good, then," John murmured, not quite catching Mary's words but more Leena's.

"John?" Mary reached out to touch his arm, frowning, "Are you ok?"

"Yeah," he forced a smile, "I'm fine."

"Liar," came the word from Sherlock and Leena, AND Mary.

John let out a long breath, "It's nothing, I just…" he looked up then, his gaze falling on Sherlock and Leena.

They were just sitting there, on the armchair, together, almost cuddled if that was something Sherlock Holmes would admit to doing. Entwined. Their entire lives had always been entwined, he knew, from the moment they met it was the end for both of them. Nothing and no one would ever come between those two, and they didn't want anyone to either.

Irene Adler had tried, tried to seduce Sherlock, but the only woman in his life was Leena, so much so that not even a dominatrix with all her tricks could turn him from her.

And Leena was just as loyal, with her faith and trust, even when the whole world looked at Sherlock and thought him a deranged druggie, she stood by him, saw through him, to the heart of him.

His heart was Leena, his mind, body, and soul were hers, there was no one else.

"I cheated on you, Mary," John blurted, turning to her as she straightened on the sofa beside him, shocked.

He couldn't do it, he couldn't keep pretending. He couldn't just sit there with Sherlock and Leena, the epitome of a committed and faithful and happy relationship (and god wasn't that something when the self-proclaimed sociopath had a healthier relationship with his wife than he did his own) and face them when he had fallen so short. He couldn't keep letting Mary feel the weight of her lies and actions, his disappointment in her, his hurt, when they were to protect him. When all his lies and actions had been to protect himself and not her.

It was time to be honest.

He had pulled away from Sherlock, from his friend, because he was terrified of losing Mary, yes. Because the man was dangerous, yes. Because it could have so easily been Mary shot instead of Leena, yes.

But also…because Sherlock saw everything, Leena understood everyone, and it would only be a matter of time before they saw it on him, before they saw the proof. And just like they felt HE deserved the truth about Mary's past and actions, it would have only been fair that they'd feel Mary should know the truth about himself too.

"John?" Mary breathed, a hurt in her voice.

He swallowed hard, "There was a woman on the bus, and I had a plastic daisy in my hair. I'd been playing with Hamish, we were making a…a surprise for you," he looked at Mary, and then down, so ashamed, "And this girl just smiled at me. That's all it was, it was a smile. We texted constantly. You wanna know when? Every time you left the room, that's when. When you were feeding our son, when you were stopping him from crying, that's when."

Mary looked away a moment and John winced, his eyes filling with tears.

"That's all it was, just texting," John spoke quietly, scrunching his eyes shut as he forced himself to admit, "But I wanted more. And d'you know something?" he looked at her, pulling her gaze back to him, "I still do. I'm not the man you think I am. I'm not that guy. I never could be. But that's the point. That's the whole point. Who you think I am is the man who I want to be."

"Oh, John," Mary reached forward to touch his face, relieved it was texting and not something more physical, not that she thought he'd ever allow something to go that far. Despite what he said, he WAS a good and decent and honorable man, "Then be that man," she leaned in and pulled him to her, hugging him tightly, truly just...relieved to know nothing else had happened but that. She'd made her own fair share of mistakes, she'd not been honest with him either, but she was trying to be now and so, it seemed, was he. It hadn't escaped her notice that something had been weighing him down, not just what happened with Leena and Sherlock, but something else tormenting him, now she knew what it was, "We'll both be," she promised, "Well both be the people we want to be for the other," she pulled away, "No more secrets, from either of us, I promise."

John sniffled, shaking his head, "How can you forgive me?"

"It was just texting," she reassured him, taking his hand, sniffling a bit, so sure in her bones that it was all it was, and knowing her husband, that he'd made the woman aware he had a wife and family and nothing more could happen, he'd force it to be friendship even if he might have wanted more. Really, the way he was acting, you'd think he'd gone and had a second family with the woman, he hadn't DONE anything, and that was what mattered to her. She'd always been a woman of action, as she'd proven when she'd shot Sherlock, when she'd fled AJ, it was actions that spoke loudest to her, and no action happened here, "It's normal to…to find other people attractive," she added, "It's normal to, on occasion, want someone else. It's the DOING that would hurt."

"Do you think?" John asked, on the cusp of breaking down about it all.

Mary laughed a moment, "Honestly, John, you're sitting there like I haven't, every so often, thought about throwing Sherlock down on the ground."

"What?" Leena called out, her and Sherlock trying to give them privacy in the middle of their sitting room, but that was…not expected.

Nor, apparently, was it for Sherlock who nearly choked on the sip of tea he'd been taking.

"Mary!" Leena gave her a look.

"Oh come on, Jackie," she shot Leena a teasing look, "You have to admit, our husbands are gorgeous specimens."

"Sherwood, yes," Leena readily agreed, "John…" she took a moment to actually look John over, from head to toe, her good hand actually coming to rest on her chin as she critically eyed him, before actually giving a nod, "I suppose I can see it."

"Leena!" Sherlock gave her an unimpressed look, even as John blushed and choked on air.

Leena laughed and leaned in to press a kiss to his cheek, "You are the only one for me, Sherwood."

"Good," he nodded, grumbling under his breath as he carefully sipped his tea this time, his eyes narrowed at John over the top of the cup.

John blinked, needing a moment to take in everything that had just happened, before he burst out laughing, even if, underneath the laughs, there were tears.

~8~

Leena smiled as she watched Sherlock move around the sitting room of 221B, Liberty in his arms as he lightly burped her, knowing she couldn't do so at the moment with her arm in the sling as it would be for quite a while, until the gunshot wound healed and she could begin physical therapy to regain more strength in it, which would hopefully be soon.

John and Mary had left only an hour ago with Hamish, both of them needing time and more privacy to really talk things out and so the Holmeses were left to their own devices.

"I can't believe I missed a month's worth of this," Leena remarked, just…so content and unbearably happy to have this moment with Sherlock and Liberty, to have woken up and been given this chance with them again.

"I'm sure the camera picked up enough of it," Sherlock murmured.

"Oh, it did," Leena teased, having gone through all the footage while he'd finally slept and Mrs. Hudson helped her with Liberty, "It's not the same as being here for it."

Sherlock moved over to her, leaning down to press a kiss to her forehead, "You've no idea how glad I am that you ARE here for it."

She smiled up at him, "Almost as glad as I am that I woke up when I did," she countered, before moving to a small box that Mary had bought with her, that she'd texted the woman a request to pick up on the way. She managed to open it with one arm and pick up the small cardboard plate within, "Happy Birthday," she turned to him, a small cupcake sitting on the plate.

"You remembered," her chuckled.

"Of course I did," she rolled her eyes, "I did receive an invitation to your birthday once or twice, I remember the date," she moved over to him as he finished with Liberty, setting the cupcake down on the table by his armchair as he sat down on it too, shifting Liberty to sit up against his chest, "And that's not all," she added.

He reached out to take her hand as she stepped away, "I don't need anything else," he told her, earnest, "I have all I need," he looked at her, "All I'll ever need."

"Sweet," she murmured, leaning in to kiss him, "But you'll want this," she told him, moving to her bag and digging through it, "Your daughter," she called back, "Is just like you. She…" she turned around, something behind her back and gave him a look, "It's YOUR cake, Locksley, you can eat it without needing to sneak a bite," she looked from the cupcake, that now had a large bite in it, and Sherlock, as he held their daughter in front of his face to hide the evidence. He chuckled and lowered Liberty back down, chewing. She shook her head, "As I was saying, your daughter was able to deduce the perfect birthday present to get her father."

He snorted, "At six weeks babies are only JUST starting to recognize faces," Liberty might have been a little older than that, but not enough to develop that skill to the point she understood family, "I hardly think she even knows who we are in a familial sense."

Leena couldn't help but smile, knowing he'd stored away all sorts of developmental milestones to monitor Liberty with, and moved to kneel down by the armchair so she was on level with her daughter, "Well she did," she insisted, "Mary and I met up with Liberty and Hamish while you were sleeping yesterday so I could get you a card and our little girl kept knocking over one thing in particular and grabbing for it whenever we came close. Only one thing."

"What?" he asked, curious now.

"Close your eyes," she ordered.

He rolled them, but did as he was told, hearing a rustle of fabric and felt Liberty lightly moved out of his hold and into Leena's arm.

"Ok, open them,"

He opened his eyes and started laughing.

Because Leena was standing there, holding Liberty…and their daughter was wearing a mini-deerstalker hat on her head.

"Well!" he leapt to his feet, moving over to the coatrack where he kept their special hats, putting his own deerstalker on, and then walking to her with her 'cat-woman' hat in hand, placing it on her head, "I stand corrected," he beamed, "Our daughter is a genius."

Leena rolled her eyes, "With you as her father, what else would she be?"

Sherlock just beamed, reaching out to take Liberty's hand as she flailed it, his heart stretched wide with love for the two girls before him.

~8~

John felt…quite a bit better as he met with his therapist once more a few weeks later, having taken time away from that to just…sort himself out, talk to Mary, spend time with Sherlock and Leena, and the children, really examine his priorities and what he wanted to work on in himself before feeling like he was ready to go back to therapy again.

The last time it had been more to use the woman to help him decide what to do about Sherlock and their friendship, but…that was sorted, as much as it could be, and he was realizing there were more important things in himself he should focus on improving and genuinely work towards in therapy instead.

"You seem so much better, John," the woman smiled at him.

He nodded, smiling a little, "Yeah, I…I am. I think I am. Not all day, not every day, no one is, but, uh, you know."

"And Hamish?"

He beamed at the mention of his son, such a stark contrast to how he'd reacted to anything even remotely personal last time, "Oh, beautiful, perfect, unprecedented in the history of baby boys. That's not my bias, that's scientific fact."

He was careful to say boys, last time he'd said babies in general it had led to a three hour debate (row) between him and Sherlock about which of their children was more perfect, until their wives had to call a truce for them and agree Hamish would be the most perfect boy and Liberty would be the most perfect girl. He could agree to that.

"Good," the therapist nodded, "And Sherlock Holmes?"

"Back to normal," John laughed, "Leena's got…she's got her hands even more full," a joke between them, since she was technically down a hand, "But they're good."

He chuckled, recalling the last case he'd been helping with before heading over here. A man absolutely sure his wife was possessed by the devil, which had Sherlock throwing them both out while Leena recounted a startling number of unsubs she'd come across who would target people because they thought they were possessed by demons and needed to be saved.

"That is good," the therapist nodded, "He and his wife are good, his daughter is happy?"

"Very," John snorted, "I'm pretty sure they're worse than before."

The woman's lip quirked in an odd smile, "What about his brother?"

"Mycroft?" John sighed, he'd complained enough about Mycroft's interference last time, how he kept texting and calling him to check on Sherlock, "He's fine. I mean, obviously 'normal' and 'fine' are both relative terms when it comes to Sherlock and Mycroft."

"Obviously," the therapist teased, "But I didn't mean Mycroft. I meant the other one."

"Which other one?" John blinked.

"You know, the secret one."

John opened his mouth to answer how he had probably just misunderstood Mycroft's one remark about how it 'didn't help last time' sort of thing when he'd been talking about being a brother. He'd thought, for some reason, it meant that Mycroft was talking about another sibling, another brother, but Sherlock had never mentioned more siblings than Mycroft, unless you counted the joke he and Jackie pulled on Anderson and Donovan when she came back from America. He'd been about to really question Mycroft about it when he'd had the spooks around, but things got off track.

…wait.

He blinked again, that had…that had happened AFTER he'd seen his therapist the last time, and he'd…he hadn't had any contact with her since.

"How did you know about that? I didn't tell you that."

She gave him a calm look, "You must have done."

"I really didn't."

"Well, maybe Sherlock told me," she shrugged.

"No," he shook his head, "You've met Sherlock exactly once. In this room. He was fussing over Liberty and ranting about a serial killer, he didn't say anything about a brother."

"Oh, no, no," she laughed at that, "I met him before that."

"When?" he frowned, because if she had, Sherlock would have recognized her when he caught sight of her last time.

"We spent a night together," she stated, "It was lovely. We had chips," she sighed, wistful, "He was so worried about my 'suicidal tendencies,'" she murmured.

John froze, recalling when Sherlock had made the remark of meeting Faith for chips, how he'd drawn a line on his wrist as though someone had slit them, he'd been talking about Faith but…what…what was going on?

"You're not what I expected, Mr. Holmes," the therapist spoke, her accent shifting from German to a North accent like Faith's, "You're nicer."

He frowned, watching her intently as she took her glasses off, "Culverton gave me Faith's original note," she spoke, her German accent back as she stood, "A mutual friend put us in touch," she moved over to the back door, turning the key to lock it, her accent wobbling between German and English, "Did Sherlock ever tell you about the note?" she glanced at John, moving over to a side table to drop the key there, "I added some deductions for Sherlock," and put her glasses down too, "He was…quite good," she snorted, "Talked about his wife a bit too much," she wrinkle her nose, "But he didn't get the big one."

She shrugged as though it were no big deal and turned, reaching to her right eye and pulling a contact lens out, revealing her true blue eyes beneath.

"In fairness, though," she turned back to John, her accent now sounding southern English, rather well educated too, "He does have excellent taste in chips," she tilted her head to eye him, "Is that him or is that his dear Leena's taste?" she hummed, considering it, moving to brush her hair back.

John's gaze darted to her ear, where a small plastic daisy flower was resting, a very familiar flower, "What's that?"

"What's what?"

"The flower in your hair, it's like I had on the bus."

"You looked very sweet," she told him, reaching up to take the flower and look at it, "But then…" she switched her accent once more, Scottish this time, "You have such nice eyes."

John jumped to his feet, seeing it now, the similarities, the face…the woman before him was the same as on the bus, she'd said the same thing to him.

"Amazing the times a man doesn't really look at your face," she commented, her accent back to the southern style, "Oh, you can hide behind a sexy smile, or a walking cane or just be a therapist, talking about you ALL the time," she rolled her eyes, sounding bored.

But the second he took a step, she'd turned and grabbed a pistol off a nearby table, aiming it at him, causing him to stop, his hands raised.

"Oh, please don't go anywhere. I'm sure the therapist who actually lives here wouldn't want blood on the carpet," she blinked, thinking about it, "Oh, hang on, it's fine. She's in a sack in the airing cupboard."

"Who are you?" John demanded.

"Isn't it obvious?" she frowned, "Haven't you guessed? I'm Eurus!"

"Eurus?" he repeated, as though the name was supposed to mean something to him.

"Silly name, isn't it? Greek. Means the East Wind."

John's jaw clenched, something Leena had once said, about how Mycroft would tell them stories to scare them, how the east wind was coming to get them…but no…no this…this couldn't be…this wasn't…

"My parents loved silly names," she continued, "Like Eurus…or Mycroft…or Sherlock."

His eyes widened, alright, so it was exactly like that then.

"Oh, look at him," she scoffed, "Didn't it ever occur to you, not even once, that Sherlock's secret brother might just be Sherlock's secret sister?" she eyed him, but John could only blink at her, "Huh. He's making a funny face," she aimed the gun higher, "I think I'll put a hole in it."

John raised his hands, stepping back as Eurus pulled the trigger…

A/N: So couple of notes lol :)

I hope Leena and Sherlock's plan to get Smith to confess was believable. In the episode I felt like Sherlock was a little too on top of things even while on drugs, he was predicting too much and we didn't really see HOW he came to do it other than a quick explanation after the fact. I tried to dig a little deeper and explore what led to certain things happening, as an examination of how well Leena knows her husband and a look at how Sherlock WAS struggling on such little sleep and food.

But, even then, things came up that neither of them planned for and they had to adapt or take a second look at things, try and get it done on the fly.

Leena DOES know Sherlock, very well, she can guess up to a point what he may or may not do. Even being slightly conscious at the end of her 'coma' she came out of it and really just needed to know what sort of state Sherlock was in to gauge what actions he might take. I think we have all been at that place where we're either super tired or super stressed and we just aren't thinking straight. She needs to know how bad he is to understand if there are things he's going to fixate on or mistakes he tends to make when he's like that. I once got 18 hours of sleep total in a 7 day period, by the end of it I was repeating myself because I honestly couldn't remember if I'd said things, my mother had to drive me to and from work because she didn't think it was safe for me to drive on such little sleep, and I came home after work and was confused why the milk was in the refrigerator and not the cabinet. None of us are at our best when we're tired lol, Leena's gotten plenty of sleep and is more than ready to help make up for Sherlock's slack ;)

But even then there are some grey areas since she isn't living in his head and she doesn't have all the information he does about Smith, she can only go on her best guess till she gets to him and even then they don't have a lot of time to discuss his plans, she has to sort of go along with it and hope she's picking up the right cues. Like she knows he wants to get closer to Smith, but not how he planned to do it. Because, in her mind, Sherlock wouldn't think to use a 'fake drug relapse' on his own without her there to back him up later, that's not even on his mind...so how else would he get close to Smith? She tries to help but giving him that opportunity to use that as an excuse, with someone in his corner who knows the truth, Mary. She knows Sherlock wants a confession and she knows Smith, from the profile and what she knows/has dealt with of serial killers, won't give it unless he's alone and thinking he's about to win. So she knows Sherlock was likely to get himself committed to Smith's hospital, but not HOW. She would have said he'd have just collapsed at some point, and others would rush to get him checked out and he'd have a room and Smith would think he was weak. But with the shock of Faith, that went out the window and he improvised a drug-induced break to get himself committed. Different means to achieve the same end.

I tried to show how sometimes plans go awry, even for the great Sherlock Holmes, and he does make mistakes, so does Leena, but when they work together they are able to sort of catch the other before those mistakes hit the fan :) Working together they can bounce off each other and really make it difficult for their enemy to take them down. Leena has experience with serial killers, that was what she and the BAU handled, so she knows how to get the upper-hand over Smith and keep him in his place, keep him frustrated and wanting to show how clever he is. She's purposefully goading him by cutting him off, by not rising to his bait, by guessing his answers, because she knows it'll push his buttons and make him want to prove himself more. And that overconfidence is what could very well lead to his downfall :)

I also sort of wanted to have Leena being sort of fed up and just done with the entire situation. She's not in a playing mood once Sherlock gets admitted to the hospital, she's not going to be easy going, or mince words. She's understanding with John, because he needs her to be, psychologically he needs someone to go 'you know, your fear and anger were justified and valid. I wouldn't have done it that way, but it's your right to feel how you do' and then talk him back to reason. He's had nothing but everyone telling him he was wrong and making a fuss and being a terrible person and guilting him. I felt like Leena would see that he just needed empathy to break past that defense he had around his actions. 'I understand why you did it, but have you considered...' sort of thing. I think, in any other situation, she would have been furious with John for abandoning Sherlock, if she hadn't been in the same place he had been in. If this had been just after Sherlock got back, and JOHN had put Sherlock in such a dangerous situation where Sherlock nearly died, she probably would have not spoken to John as well. She's been there. She's almost lost Sherlock forever and holds onto him that much more tightly, and anyone trying to take him away from her would feel her wrath. She can't fault John his initial reaction, and seeing him there, seeing him staying with Sherlock, it means he was coming around to how his reaction might not have been the right one to stick with.

Mycroft, however, is another story. And, I think, how she handles everything in 221B shows both her tension and anxiety with the situation, but also how she's just looking at this in terms of logic as it relates to Sherlock. Mycroft looks at the kitchen and sees a meth lab, Leena has the logical thought to look at the notes of what Sherlock was actually working on before assuming it's meth. Mycroft hears Sherlock met 'Faith' but that it wasn't her and assumes he hallucinated it, Leena logically just says check the cameras and see if there's a person or not then. Mycroft sees the state of the flat and assumes it's drugs, Leena just looks at the teacups and adds onto the knowledge that it is a FACT there are NO drugs in the flat and sees her daughter's room is put together where everything else isn't and makes the connection to Sherlock not taking care of anything BUT their daughter, not even himself. I know it may seem like she's too on top of things at 221B, but she's just so done with the situation and Mycroft's assumptions and wants it OVER, so she just gets straight to the point.

And if Mycroft is shamed for how he jumps to conclusions, all the better.

I really wanted to explore the struggles that both Sherlock and Leena are going through in this part of the episode. Sherlock, a lot of his issues are mental, brought about by his dark thoughts on himself, how he has little sleep, little food, little anything going for him and it's making him weak and slow. Leena's issues are more physical. Her arm is in a sling, she can't use it right now, she's physically weak from being asleep so long, and she's going to be on blood thinners for a while as a precaution. There will be a few lasting effects from these events :(

I also know, in the episode, Sherlock finds the note 'Faith' gave him and sees a hidden message on it. We'll get to that soon, but not here. Because he's not freaking out that the hallucination was 'real' because Leena has already proven to him it IS real, so finding the note isn't triggering anything in his head to check it over again or examine it closer. Sherlock is, finally, at a good place, it's John who's in trouble }:)

As for John and Mary. I felt like the way she was portrayed in the episode was both true to her as a person but also a bit of what John's mind hoped she'd say and do when he revealed he'd 'met someone.' Here, with Mary surviving, I felt like she would look at it in terms of what John has done, and how bad he feels, and what she has done, and how bad she feels, and compare them. She physically left, she ran, she put her family in danger, she was, in a way, the reason Leena got shot, and she feels so immensely guilty about all the lies and mistakes she's made. John, on the other hand, hasn't really done anything physically, emotionally probably, but he's also an honorable man, and he's being truthful with her, and he hasn't really DONE anything that risked their family. Because she unquestionably believes it was just texting and that he made whoever he was texting aware that he's married and friendship is it. I feel like Mary would compare what she's done to what John has and still feel like her acts were bigger, she'd feel like her lies and her running is what put that distance between them and maybe led to John reaching out to someone else, keeping so much from him. She's a woman of action. But she also understands that she's told lie after lie, so she can't quite turn that on him when he semi-lies or withholds the truth. All she can really do is say 'ok, from this point on, we're both honest.'

Because, I think, if John did something like that AFTER this point, he would certainly face her wrath ;)

But oh boy, we're at Eurus now! O.O I wonder what will happen? }:D

Some notes on reviews...

I'm so sorry you were triggered :( I did go back to the last chapter and made the warning I'd put in a separate line with 'Trigger Warning' in bold to make sure it wouldn't be missed going forward ;)

It's the real Leena yup, she's back! :D

Lol, you never know ;) Rosie could make an appearance in some form now that Mary's alive ;) But I very much picture Hamish and Liberty doing little adventures of their own and solving mysteries. Like I picture Hamish running into Sherlock's flat while he and John are on a case, with a newspaper in hand, going on about how he found a case and John just getting so exasperated and sending glares at Sherlock for getting his son interested in investigations. Or Liberty being the one to get Hamish to 'sneak out' so they could check out some location or crime scene or another without their parents noticing. Or the two off on their own digging around London and not realizing Sherlock, John, Mary, and Leena are in the background at each location just to keep an eye on them as they go :)