ok, they talk age in this chapter - please don't scream at me for getting the ages wrong, I do know they're supposed to be at least 40 by now but... no... my plot says otherwise... please...

Florence picked up her cup by the handle and sipped the boiling liquid tentatively. Mary watched her expectantly. She nodded as she put the cup down on the café's wooden table, careful not to spill the contents onto her skin.

'That's actually really good.' she said. Mary nodded, reaching over to take back her cup.

'Yes. It's only herbal tea, but it does absolute wonders for the immune system.'

Florence poured some sugar into her own cup of, notably normal, tea. 'So, how did you and John meet?'

'I work at the same clinic as him. We got talking one day, and he asked me out. I wasn't sure at first, but... well, I'm marrying him, so something went right.' Florence laughed a little. 'How did you meet Sherlock?'

'Primary school.' she said, and Mary's eyes widened.

'That long ago?' she exclaimed.

'Oh, yeah,' Florence said. 'I was...' she tried to remember, 'seven, I think. He was ten? We got on like a house on fire.'

'Wow.'

'Yeah. We spent eleven years together, every single day.'

'What, you're eighteen years old? I thought you were twenty-five, at least.'

Florence smiled in amusement, her eyes twinkling in a rare way. 'No. I turned thirty in August.'

'And there's three years' difference between you and Sherlock? He's a lot younger than I thought.'

'Mhm. He's nearly thirty-four.'

'That makes quite a big age gap between you and John, then.'

'I think it's seven years, yeah.'

'Wow.' Mary took a sip of her herbal tea. 'You said you and Sherlock spent eleven years together. I presume it was platonic?'

Florence laughed. 'Yes. One-hundred per cent.'

'Why eleven years? Why not the full…' she thought for a second. '…twenty-three?'

Florence closed her eyes and turned her head towards the window, trying to think of a way to word it. She scratched the top of her neck, and brought her arm down over her face. Mary watched her, concentrating. 'I, uh... I went away, for eight years.'

'Oh.' Mary frowned. She wasn't expecting that. 'Why?'

'I wasn't in a particularly good place. My mother committed suicide, and I thought that Sherlock and I were drifting, which scared me because I didn't have any other friends. I started using drugs, and then, before I knew it, I was on the streets.' Mary kept watching her, silently willing her to go on. 'After about a year, but it only felt like a few days, I was given this particularly strong drug, and didn't ask what it was. I just took it. Then everything went wrong. I think of that point as a turning point – when I realised I had to do something, otherwise I would die.'

'What happened?'

'I was attacked. They, uh... well,' she laughed nervously. 'they hurt me a lot. I was completely immobile by the... ah... end of their incessant abuse, which is what it was, and when they realised I wasn't worth it anymore, they just fucked off," the laugh that followed was humourless, and she still didn't look to Mary's own eyes. "Then I was found by a man I now consider my closest friend besides Sherlock. Arthur Jackson.'

Mary's eyes widened slightly, but her face remained still. Florence made a mental note – that obviously struck a chord. Acting oblivious, she continued, seeing if she could get another reaction from the woman before her.

'Arthur was kind to me, him and his friends nursed me quickly back to health. They manufactured drugs – very strong, very effective drugs that targeted feelings. They could make the most suicidal man ecstatic, and someone suffering from the worst pain imaginable not feel a thing. It was miraculous.

'Obviously, one could get extremely addicted to these drugs. It took five years for me to come off them, because I was constantly worried, constantly suicidal. They helped me sleep, and I was a nicer person during the day.

'Things sort of went downhill from there. I won't go into details, because it's actually quite boring,' no, actually, it really isn't... 'but eventually I had to go back to my real life, as things were getting a bit out of hand.' She frowned slightly, bringing her eyes to the other woman. 'Why did I tell you all of that?'

Mary laughed, her eyes dancing. 'You must like me.'

Florence scoffed. 'Consider that the highest of compliments.'

Sherlock Holmes was having a nightmare.

He had been having them very often, recently. It may have been the influence of all the drugs he took on a daily basis. It might have been the fact that he had no idea where his best friend was, that she was still gone, and he didn't even know if she was alive. That was just a hunch, though.

This was his usual nightmare. The knocking. The screaming. The running without moving – paralysis. He hated this the most about his dreams, how lucid they were, but he was stuck. Like an idyllic prison.

He wandered aimlessly through the corridors of a hospital. Most of his dreams contained corridors. As he reflected, awake, he expected it was something to do with the subconscious feeling of always wandering, or even wondering, when the corridor or tunnel would open and reveal something worth travelling for.

As he walked, he heard the odd scream, and a constant knocking, directly over his head.

He knew this dream so well that he knew when Florence Wood was going to drop from the ceiling, her throat slit, her green eyes, devoid of all life, staring directly into his.

He knew it that well, but it still scared him, every single time.

Sherlock Holmes was having a nightmare.

It was so rare, these bad dreams, he had forgotten what they had felt like altogether. This one wasn't his usual one, however.

This time, he was walking frustratingly slow through a firelit corridor. He couldn't see the fire, but it was just lit with a flickering glow, so he presumed it was there somewhere. He could hear murmuring voices in the distance, so he began to run towards them. He then found that he could not run.

Screams began to fill his ears. Hauntingly familiar screams. The screams of Florence Wood. He tried to run faster. Tried to grab onto the walls to push himself towards the sound. He could not. His face was dripping in sweat, his curls plastered onto his forehead. He stumbled against the wall, and let himself call out to her. She responded only with a scream.

Suddenly, he began to move, very slowly, albeit, but move, nonetheless. 'Florence!'

Scream.

'Where are you?'

Panic.

'Please, Florence,'

'Sherlock?' the sound was too muffled. It couldn't have been her. But it sounded just as panicked.

'Florence?'

Scream.

'I'm here, Florence!' He seemed to be getting somewhere. The walls were moving in the opposite direction, he was walking forwards.

Eventually, after hearing many more screams, he found the room.

She was lying dead on the floor, and Moriarty was leaning over her, a terrifying grin etched on his blood-stained lips.

Florence jumped backwards as Sherlock sat up abruptly on the sofa. He was drenched in sweat. They looked at each other for a few seconds, Florence's hand on her chest, a look of shock on her face.

'Are you alright?' she asked, moving forward to touch his forehead. It was a normal temperature. 'You were shouting.'

Sherlock watched her move to sit on the coffee table, and deduced that, despite the fact it was three in the morning, she had not even prepared to go to sleep.

'I...' he began. 'I had a...' he looked at her pointedly. He didn't know why he didn't want to say the word "nightmare", but she got it anyway.

'Oh. What was it about?'

Lie. 'I can't remember.'

Florence narrowed her eyes at him, obviously smelling a rat, but she let it go. 'Try and sleep.'

'You do the same.' he said, and she smiled and shook her head.

'I haven't slept since I came home.' she said, and Sherlock frowned in concern. That was three days ago.

'I insist you try, at least.'

'I have, Sherlock.'

'Try harder. Please. For me. I don't want you to get ill.'

Her face fell. Then she smiled again, a very different smile, and stood. 'Sleep.'

She began to walk away, but Sherlock called out after her. 'John told me what he said.' she stopped walking, and sighed. 'it wasn't your fault.'

'I know. I knew after a year or so. The year of tormenting myself was over.'

Sherlock felt it then. It was the fury she felt, towards him, towards John, towards anyone else who had anything to do with it.

'I'm sorry.' he said, and she turned around, and smiled a bit too sweetly.

'I bet you are. Go to sleep.'

Arthur Jackson made his way slowly to the place he knew his old friends to be. The warehouse looked far more run-down, but it was still in living order.

He stepped into the cold, steel and concrete corridor, and was not surprised to see Michael waiting for him, his arms crossed and leaning against a wall.

'I bet this is better than prison,' he muttered, and began walking into the main room.

'It's wonderful to see you, too.'

'How's Florence?'

'Oh, she's great. Just found out her ex-best friend is alive, but-'

'Sherlock's alive?'

'Yes. Has been this whole time.' Arthur replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm as he followed Michael.

'No shit.'

'Where's James?'

Michael sighed. 'Oh, he's out. He's always out now. I never see him anymore.'

'You sound like you've been married for twenty years.'

'Certainly feels like we have.'

They both sat down around the trash can that had embers still glowing inside of it. Arthur looked over at his friend, who's eyes were sad suddenly.

'You okay?'

'Yeah. Just, something doesn't feel right. James doesn't feel right anymore.'

'How so?'

Michael was about to answer when their other friend stalked into the room, and threw himself next to the bin.

He looked at Arthur with his cold, blue eyes, set like stone. 'Sherlock fucking Holmes.'

'Yeah? What about the bastard?'

'You knew he was alive, didn't you?'

Arthur frowned. How did he know? 'Yes. The elder Holmes man told me. Said not to tell Flo, that it was dangerous. I believed him, for some reason.'

James nodded, but his eyes betrayed him. Michael looked between them, confused.

'Flo's back at Baker Street.' James announced, crossing his legs. 'I've been out scouting.'

'You mean, you've been out stalking.' Michael muttered, and James shot him a dangerous look.

'What's it to you? At least I'm doing something.'

'Woah,' Arthur said, holding his arms up in surrender. 'What the fuck has gone on between you?'

'Oh, nothing more than a petty little argument. It'll all be fine once you leave.' James snapped.

'You remind me of a child, you know that? The same blatant immaturity a six-year-old may possess.' Michael growled at James. He responded by giving him a stare that could have killed.

'Jesus,' Arthur said. 'I can't stand this.'

'Yeah, well, it's not really your place to say anymore, Arthur. You left us here for a life in France.' James said.

'I spent the last year and a half in a prison cell, James.'

'In France.'

'I couldn't speak French!'

'Should have listened to me and Flo, then, eh?'

'Oh, I'm terribly sorry, I didn't know how I'd be spending my holidays.'

'This isn't going well.' Michael said, his voice upset. He stood, and began to walk out of the room. 'Don't kill each other.'

'He's right. It's not going well. So, until you buck your ideas up, you're not going anywhere near Florence. Do you hear?' Arthur said, his voice deep and threatening. 'She's in shock.'

'Not everything has to be about her, you know. It's only 'cause you're in love with her. You just feel overprotective, and it's wearing thin.'

Arthur frowned. 'I'm not in love with her.'

'She's the only person you've ever shown empathy for, ever, Arthur. You took her in, you helped her heal. Even if you haven't noticed it yet, me and Michael both think you're into her, and everyone knows how she feels about her detective.'

'I don't... I'm not into her, James.'

'Sure. Whatever.' James replied, and followed Michael out.

John Watson didn't really celebrate Guy Fawkes Night. He wasn't particularly enthusiastic about the fireworks, or the toffee apples, or the bonfires.

However, that all changed when he was forced into a celebration.

He was terrified. That was the only word he could use to describe it. He really couldn't move, and he couldn't see much of what was above. It looked a bit like a building had fallen on him.

He could hear voices, happy voices. He wondered if they were okay, or if they knew he was there.

He felt a liquid trickle onto his leg, and wondered if it was his blood. If it was a building falling on him, he could easily have been cut. But he felt no pain – he was just paralysed.

The voices got louder, and more cheerful, then, quite suddenly, the pile of rubble above him was set alight.

He realised where he was, and panic began to set in.

He tried to call out, to move, to do anything. A few noises escaped his lips, but they weren't loud enough to be heard over the celebrations.

He tried again. This time, he managed to shout louder, and he heard a scream as someone realised he was in there. There were more noises, and panic ensued.

'John!' someone called. He instantly recognised it as Mary's voice, and suddenly he could see the sky. 'Oh my God.'

He felt a rough hand begin to drag him from the pile of burning wood. The grip was shaking. Whoever's hand it was, was frightened.

He blacked out before he could see anything else.

'Jesus Christ!' Florence yelled, and shook her hand as it began to burn.

'What is this?' someone asked, and Sherlock gave him a look that could have killed. The man backed away slowly, frowning at Mary, who had her hand over her mouth as she tried to wake John.

Arthur ran up behind Florence, and his face fell as he saw John on the ground.

'What happened?'

'Take an educated guess.' Florence growled, and Arthur gave her a look.

'We've got to get him out of here. Now.' Sherlock said.

'Where do we take him? The hospital?' Mary asked, and Arthur knelt beside John.

'No. I know this drug. He's conscious but completely paralysed. They'll ask us where we got it. It is, if you haven't guessed already, very illegal. They won't believe this story.'

'It isn't one of yours, is it?' Florence asked, frowning. Arthur chuckled.

'Not quite. I never touched the paralyzing ones. You should know all of this, Flo. You were my best customer.'

'Shut up,' Florence said, kicking him lightly on the back as Sherlock gave her a funny look.

'Right, then.' Sherlock said pointedly, and Florence gave him an apologetic look. 'Back to Baker Street. You coming, Jackson? Florence?'

'Of course.' Florence replied, just as Arthur said, 'I really shouldn't.'

They looked at each other. 'Don't look at me for permission,' Arthur said, frowning. 'You live there.'

'We need to hurry up. Make a decision.' Florence said, and knelt beside John, who had begun to stir. Sherlock copied her, and together, they lifted him off the ground.

They noticed a small audience around them, but they ignored it. They didn't need them.

The ride back to 221B was silent – people were in shock, and rightly so. Arthur had decided to come, on the basis that he couldn't get home otherwise.

Once they arrived, they helped John stumble to the door, and up the stairs. Mary talked to him the whole time, telling him that it would be okay, that he was safe now. To Florence, it sounded like utter bullshit, but she didn't think it right to say.

'What happened, John?' Sherlock asked as they sat him down on the sofa. Florence moved into the kitchen to make drinks, taking her large, black jumper off, the smell of bonfires burning her nostrils.

'I was walking, someone nudged into me and before I knew it, I was under that fire…' he broke off, breathing in through his teeth. 'Now please, can I get some rest?'

Sherlock sighed in frustration, seemingly done with his interrogation. He nodded, and John slipped out of the room and upstairs, to where he used to sleep. He then turned around, frowning, as if wondering why the Hell he was going that way. He then shrugged in submission, and started climbing the stairs.

Florence noticed Arthur sitting on a chair in the kitchen, looking around the place warily. He had not been here before, she reasoned, and to someone who'd never been there before this place was something else.

She sat opposite him and leaned her arms against the wooden table. 'How did it go with you and the boys?' she asked, knowing something went wrong. She had been with Arthur for all of three minutes before they received a panicked call by Mary on Sherlock's phone. From what they gathered, they were riding on the back of a motorbike, and Sherlock - could not only apparently ride a motorbike - could ride it well.

Florence decided more questions would have to be asked.

'Not well. There seems to be some tension there, but Michael wouldn't open up.'

Florence frowned. 'That's not like them. They're best friends.'

'Yeah, well, best friends fall out all the time, Flo.'

Florence ran her hand through her hair. It was beginning to fall onto her face, and it was frustrating her. She then noticed that the table was, for once, not cluttered with bits of dead bodies, and science equipment. She could actually see the wood, and she figured it was because Sherlock hadn't been there for very long.

'How about you?' Arthur asked, his voice hushed. 'How's… life?'

'I presume you mean, how's living here. It's not bad. I don't see Sherlock much, he's either out or on his computer, but whenever I come into the room, he shuts the laptop, and won't let me ask questions. I've learned that this is normal and that he won't change, but it's still making me suspicious.'

'Is it much more different, now, though? Having him here?'

'I've noticed a difference in my overall mood. I was actually singing the other day.' She made a repulsed face, and Arthur laughed.

'I remember when you used to sing.' he said, smiling. 'it was so nice.'

'Yeah, well, some things had to go when I started working with you, and I figured that singing was the loudest thing and it could probably get me discovered or whatever, if I did it at the wrong time, when I wasn't concentrating.'

Arthur grinned. 'Yes – you'd be hiding in an alley or something, then you would just start singing Stayin' Alive.'

Florence's face fell. Arthur frowned in confusion, asking her physically what was wrong. She smiled a little. 'Sorry. I just hadn't thought of Moriarty for so long.'

'Fuck, yeah – I forgot about him. I'm sorry.'

'No, no. It's okay. I know he's dead now, and there's nothing much to worry about.'

oh, flo...

thank you for reading, see you next time!