Hi all! Finally here it is, the last part of TLD. These chapters are stripping away my will live, I swear. Trying to keep the characters in, well, character, is taking a lot of effort - especially when they don't feel in character in the first place. I've had to rework Hermione's and Sherlock's and Mycroft's reactions until they felt somewhat natural. The conversations they have in these chapters have been rerun in my head for hours to end hoping they'd sound like them, and they'd fit the narrative of the next chapters. Overall, this is probably the chapter I am the proudest of.

We are two (maybe three) chapters away from the end. It will be a good two months, probably until they are published, as I want to complete them all before posting the first. What I know is that they will have mixed POV.

As always, thank you for keeping up with my hectic updating schedule. Your comments made my day! Thank you so much for taking the time of writing a couple of words. And thank you to my wonderful beta nigthgigjo! These chapters have not been easy. Enjoy!

Note 18-05-2021: Edited

The lying detective - Part 3

Hermione burst into Baker Street and raced up the stairs, her heart pounding and Sherlock's name burning in her throat. When she reached the top, panting, it appeared as though she was entering a hoarder's nest. Thousands of photos covered the walls, joined with red threads. In whatever system Sherlock had used, those papers and pictures which had not made it to the wall were scattered over all the surfaces. Standing in the middle of the room were Mrs Hudson and John, both in front of the television. On the screen, Mary's static image was waiting to be played.

'Oh, dear! Thank goodness you're here.' Mrs Hudson pulled Hermione into a hug. Over the woman's shoulder, she watched as John turned his back on them, and out of the corner of her eye, she could see the mess in the kitchen. And no sign of Sherlock on the flat. 'I've been worried sick. I've been trying to call you, but you haven't answered any of my calls.'

Hermione shifted her eyes away, embarrassed, and spoke to John. 'I've come because I've received a video too.' John twisted around, and Hermione pointed at the television.

John frowned. 'You too?'

Hermione nodded. 'This morning, in an email. Mary was saying something about Sherlock being in danger, that she'd done something terrible. I came as soon as I saw him. Where is he?' Hermione peered toward the empty bedroom. 'And what's happened here?

'What do you think has happened?' replied John and gestured around him. 'We're standing in the middle of a meth lab, possibly inhaling toxic fumes judging by those decanters. And not forgetting Sherlock's new obsession,' he added, grabbing some photos of Culverton Smith from the table.

'I've seen it on Twitter, Sirius thinks—'

'Sherlock Holmes has been getting off his tits for weeks,' John continued, cutting Hermione off. 'He's been hallucinating about a woman telling him Culverton Smith is a serial killer, he's slandered him on social media, and earlier today, he's picked up a scalpel and threatened Smith with it. He's lucky he's in a room at the hospital and not on one of Molly's slabs.'

Hermione swallowed hard. Glancing at the kitchen table, she realised she had grossly underestimated the state in which Mary's death and John's behaviour had left Sherlock. She should have seen it coming the last time he saw him. If there was one night of danger that would have pushed Sherlock over the edge, it was the one when John cut him out of her life.

'Is someone with him?'

'Yeah, the police.'

'The police?' asked Hermione. 'At the hospital? Isn't that a bit extreme?'

'He could have hurt Smith. You should have seen him, Hermione. He was out of his mind. He's a danger to himself and others. Sherlock is lucky Smith isn't pressing charges. I was with Greg giving my statement before Mycroft called me here.'

In Hermione's mind, Mycroft had been three weeks late. She couldn't understand how he had let things escalate to that point. He, who had always been so cautious and had protected Sherlock even from himself, had left him to his own devices in his hour of need. But Mycroft was the least of their problems.

Hermione looked back at the television, where the screensaver had replaced Mary's image. In her video, Mary had said that she had pushed Sherlock to do something. Could this situation be that something? And Sirius had been right, anyway. Sherlock's brain functioned independently of drugs. His deductive skills were something he couldn't turn off, even with the strongest psychotropics. Hermione approached John and put a tentative hand on his arm. She felt the muscles tense under the clothing, but he didn't pull away.

'John, I think you need to listen to what Mary said to Sherlock. If what she says in my video has any truth to it, Sherlock may be in serious trouble.'

'That's not my problem.' John tried to pull away, but Hermione was quicker and put her other hand on his shoulder.

'Tell me there's a small part of you that doesn't believe there's a shred of truth to Sherlock's deductions. We've seen it all before. Even drugged, he's still Sherlock Holmes.'

'Sherlock Holmes is not infallible. It's about time you learned that.'

'I know, John, I know. But this,' Hermione put a hand over the photos he was still holding. 'This looks like Sherlock might be onto something. Let's see what Mary has to say.'

Hermione picked up the remote and pressed a random key to get rid of the words bouncing around the screen, and handed it to John. He stood, watching Mary's motionless features for a moment.

'All right.'

Her worst fears became true in a matter of three minutes. Hermione barely had time to think that Mrs Hudson had never seen magic before, that John had never done side-along apparition, or that Mycroft and Sirius were going to have a lot of explaining to do the next day. As soon as Mary had finished speaking, Hermione had grabbed John by the arm and apparated the two of them to the side of the entrance to Saint Caedwalla's hospital that she had glimpsed in one photo on Twitter. When their feet touched solid ground, Hermione ran towards the entrance, listening as John gasped at her back. It was nighttime, and the reception lobby was nearly empty. Hermione didn't know which way to go, but John darted past the reception desk and into a hallway. Hermione picked up her pace as John made his way up the stairs, taking them two at a time to the second floor. Hermione watched as John ran to one of the doors, next to a chair with a police officer's hat on it. John tried to open it by twisting the handle. The door did not budge, and then John charged against it with his shoulder.

'There should be security here,' said John and ran towards the end of the corridor. Meanwhile, Hermione had pulled out her wand. She pointed it at the lock, muttered the spell, and tried to turn the knob to no avail. She had always suspected that muggle technology would eventually get in the way of magic designed for outdated mechanisms, and she was being proved right at the worst moment. Fine, Hermione thought. Brute force it is. Hermione put the tip of the wand directly over the lock. A few feet away, John had gotten a fire extinguisher and was coming, ready to kick the door open. Hermione's method was going to be much more effective and much more destructive. But they were running out of time.

'Stay back, John,' warned Hermione and focused back on the door. 'Bombarda.'

The door burst open. Hermione was the first to enter with her wand on guard, followed by John, still holding the fire extinguisher. The loud bang had startled Culverton, who had quickly pulled away from the bed where Sherlock gasped for air. John threw the extinguisher to the floor and wrapped his arms around Smith's neck, dragging him further from Sherlock. The security guard who had not been at his post came in and began to question Hermione.

'What were you doing to him?' Hermione heard John ask.

'He was in distress!' said Culverton. 'I was helping him!'

John continued to yell at Smith, and Smith yelled back. Hermione tried to wriggle away from the guard as Sherlock replied from the bed, in a raspy, breathless voice, that Smith had tried to choke him and that after he tried to overdose him. Hermione finally managed to dodge John and approached the bed. Sherlock grunted, trying to sit upright. His voice wavered, and he tried to avoid Hermione's gaze, but not even the dim light in the room could hide his bloodshot, almost swollen left eye, the stitched cut on his forehead, and the bruises covering his pale face. His movements were slow and erratic. He was aligning his body in strange positions that would bring him the least pain. She had seen the pictures of him that very morning when this entire ordeal had begun. He had looked haggard and sickly but not battered. Hermione finally met his eyes as the detective dispassionately listed some of his problems, right down to talk of a confession and hidden listening devices and how he'd hidden an extra one inside John's cane.

'Am I that predictable?' asked John.

Hermione regarded him for a second, then looked back at Sherlock, who had dropped onto the pillows and was groaning in pain. Hermione understood then that Sherlock was not in the hospital because he was a security risk. She wondered how many more internal injuries she would discover when she read the report.

We don't know you anymore, John Watson.

During the days Sherlock was under observation, Hermione visited Sherlock every night. The name of Mycroft Holmes was a free-pass ticket, and by the third visit, the night shift nurses didn't bother trying to keep her out of the room. With Culverton Smith in some cell waiting to be prosecuted and all the complaints that had started to come in, the last thing the hospital needed was for the Government to meddle. Hermione sat in the armchair next to the bed, mentally cataloguing all the minor changes she could see. At about 3 am, Nurse Cornish would come in to check the monitors. She would bring Hermione a cup of tea while quietly updating her on everything invisible to the naked eye — 'the renal panel has come up clean today', 'Mr Holmes has discovered that Doctor Skyes and Nurse Bolton are having an affair'. Hermione smiled and thanked her and continued her vigil. Sherlock did not wake up, nor did he seem to hear anything that was happening around him. If he pretended to sleep or was indeed sleeping, Hermione never checked. At 6 am sharp, before the next round, Hermione was out the door until the next night.

In those hours when the silence was broken only by the machines attached to Sherlock, Hermione had plenty of time to think. She knew that John spent part of the day there, that Molly tried to stay a few hours in the afternoons if she wasn't on duty, and that Mrs Hudson covered most of the visiting hours. Why did no one seem to have any questions about Sherlock's bruises and cuts? Did they think Smith had been strong enough to overpower a man twenty years younger? Or that Smith had hit him before trying to kill him? Hermione couldn't see how nobody could have come to the conclusion she had.

Just the thought of John made her blood boil. The doctor, underneath the calm, gentle façade he projected to the world, had always had a latent aggression, constantly bubbling and that when it boiled over, it was thick and fiery as molten lava. Still, she could not reconcile the John Watson she had known with this one. With the man who cheated on his wife and who beat his best friend. There were things that grief could not justify.

The night before Sherlock left the hospital was the only day that Hermione willingly made contact with anyone. Following her nightly routine, Hermione had sat on the couch and watched as Sherlock shifted restlessly in bed, sweating. Nurse Cornish told her that he had been taken off all his medication and that the withdrawal symptoms had kicked in. Hermione sighed, pulled out her phone and sent a short message to Molly. I know Sherlock needs watching, she wrote, and I don't mind staying at Baker Street overnight. Molly replied gratefully and said that she and John had split the mornings and evenings. Hermione didn't care much, so long as she didn't have to see John. Mary's face came into her mind, standing in her kitchen, a crumpled piece of paper in her hand. She looked at Sherlock, still with a black eye. She thought of little Rosie, her goddaughter, whom she hadn't seen for months. And she made a decision.

Sherlock's first days back home were possibly the quietest the house had ever seen. Hermione thought the universe was rewarding her for all the hardships she had suffered in the last months when hours bled into each other undisturbed. Under the effect of a sleeping drug to help him heal, Sherlock never made a noise further than a light snoring. Her reading was only interrupted by Mrs Hudson, bringing her a cup of tea and some harmless gossip before turning in. The older lady had refrained from making questions Hermione would not answer and never bothered to ask why ten minutes before the next shift was due to start— and therefore, the next sitter's arrival as well—Hermione would wash her cup, fold the quilt and leave. She had not talked to Sherlock yet. She had only allowed herself a small slip up on his birthday — a short text, convincing herself it did not sting when he did not answer back.

Whatever positive balance she might have had with karma ended on a stormy evening, well into Sherlock's recovery. Hermione had arrived promptly at 6 pm and had made her way upstairs expecting to find the living room empty, but instead, she found John sitting in his old armchair. A newspaper laid open on his lap and played absentmindedly with a rattle in his right hand.

'What are you doing here?' blurted Hermione.

He turned his head to her quickly and then looked at the clock, surprised. He got up to his feet in a hurry, and the newspaper fell to the floor.

'God, I hadn't realised… I didn't know it was this late. I brought Rosie over today, and well, that must've messed up with my notion of time.'

The thought of Rosie being close made Hermione's heart beat faster, but she tried to ignore it. In silence, she left her overnight bag on the couch.

'Sherlock is sleeping,' said John. Hermione looked at him. He stood awkwardly in the middle of the room, stretching the fabric toy. 'He still gets tired very easily.'

Hermione scoffed and went to the kitchen. 'Fantastic diagnosis. He was on the verge of multi-organ failure. Not to mention he was beaten within an inch of his life by a man in his full capacities.' John tried to speak, but Hermione stopped him by raising an arm in front of her. 'Please, don't. I have zero interest in talking with you right now, John. I just want to do my bit and go back home.'

'Is that why you've been taking nights?'

'I take nights because I have nothing better to do. Unless I have to… What was it? Go back to lick Mycroft's shoes?'

'I cannot start expressing how sorry I am—'

'You're right; you can't,' Hermione slammed the kettle she was filling against the counter. 'Anyway, I don't need an apology.'

'I've already apologised to him,' said John quickly.

'Yes, well, if he were the only person you had betrayed, I'd understand how calm you are.' John paled and stopped fidgeting with the doll. Hermione left the kitchen and approached him. 'I thought you were so honourable. Everyone sang your praises. How mistaken we were, weren't we? Do you know how I know you were cheating?' John stared down at the carpet and shook his head. 'Because Mary knew. She noticed. I don't know how you thought you could keep it a secret knowing what Mary was. I bet you were so proud, felt so clever because you thought you were being squeaky and fooling her.' Hermione wiped the tears at the corner of her eyes, and John looked up. His eyes were bright with unshed tears, just like hers. 'She didn't say anything because she felt she deserved it. You made her feel she deserved to be cheated on. Mary was not perfect by any means, but she felt lonely, she had just had a baby, and you decided you needed a bit on the side.'

John sniffed and gripped the rattle in between his hands harder. 'I was so close to telling her so many times. Every time she said I was perfect, or too good, or too kind, I wanted to scream to her what I had done.'

'But you didn't. The great John Watson, in the end, you were just another sad man looking for a quick fuck that would give his life a bit more edge.'

'It was just texting, I swear.'

'Save it,' Hermione snarled. 'You don't have to tell me why you didn't. You felt legitimated, especially after she ran away. And now you have to deal with the fact that you spent the last weeks of your wife's life fantasising about another woman. And then, you deal with your self-loathing by beating your best friend. You, John Watson, are not half the man I thought you were.' Tears were running freely down Hermione's face, and John's eyes had started to water under the onslaught he was suffering.

'It won't happen again.'

Hermione decided not to answer and went back into the kitchen, closing the door behind her. John did not attempt to enter. Instead, Hermione listened as he picked up the newspaper from the floor and went upstairs. Before she put the kettle on, she heard Rosie's happy babbling, and Hermione put a hand to her chest, trying to ease the pain spreading under her ribs. The footsteps up the stairs paused on the landing for a moment, then continued down the stairs. The front door opened and closed, and Hermione breathed a sigh of relief.

Later, when the tea had gone cold, and the fire had died in the fireplace, the door to Sherlock's room opened. Hermione wiped away the tears clinging to her lashes and busied herself with a book, faking being engrossed in it. Her face felt swollen and hot, and she knew without looking in the mirror that her eyes were red. Her bare feet went down the corridor and continued to the kitchen. Hermione raised her head. Sherlock had reached the small carpet by the stove and was inspecting a mug. His face and neck had a light shine, and his normally carefully tousled locks were plastered against his head. His tailored dressing gown hung loosely around his shoulders and underneath his sleeping clothes stuck to his damp skin. The only evidence of the assaults was now only evident on his face. The detective touched with shaking hands the side of the kettle, and deeming it hot enough, he poured it over a bag of tea in a simple white mug.

'You should be in bed, Sherlock.'

He looked at her and made his way towards John's armchair. 'I was tossing around. I doubt I was going to get any sleep.'

'You have been through withdrawal before. You should be used to it.' Her words had more bite than intended, but Sherlock did not retaliate. Hermione went back to her book, listening to the sips Sherlock was taking. He thought so loud she did not need legilimency to know he was working up the courage to say something.

'Thank you,' he said finally and added. 'For your message.'

'It was your birthday, Sherlock.' Hermione paused for a second. 'Did you have any visitors?'

Sherlock arched an eyebrow, apparently puzzled. 'Like whom?' Hermione shrugged and lowered her head again. 'Why would you ask that? Who should have come?'

'Well, I thought Irene Adler might have come around, now that she's back in England.' Sherlock seemed surprised. 'She struck a deal with the Government for the safe return of the black pearl of the Borgias. I thought she might have mentioned it.'

'I wouldn't know, I don't open her messages. I merely receive them.'

'A passive receiver. She would appreciate the irony.'

Sherlock smiled into his cup. Everyone she had ever known since making the colossal mistake of entering Sherlock's life had a Pavlovian reaction to that smile: return it unintentionally, or go to the ends of the Earth because one of Sherlock's honest smiles could outshine the sun. She lowered her head and continued reading while Sherlock seemed to be deep in thought. The situation could have been a memory from months ago when they used to sit in companionable silence or banter with each other—right before tearing their clothes off. But that was before, and now everything was a hundred times more complicated. Hermione looked at him. The physical evidence of what had happened will disappear with time. As Hermione had said, this wasn't his first recovery. Mary had pushed him to the edge before Culverton Smith was even in the picture, and Sherlock's mental state was still very much one of her concerns.

'Can I ask you something?' Hermione said. Sherlock did not answer, so she continued. 'What was your big plan? If Faith Smith or whoever that was hadn't happened?'

'I thought… I might lure whoever Moriarty was working with out of the shadows if they saw me vulnerable. Admittedly not one of my best plans.'

'Mary shouldn't have asked that from you. It was unfair.'

'Everything happened the way she said it would, though. She was right.'

'She usually was; she knew everyone so well… Well, not everyone,' Hermione said sourly.

Sherlock finished his cup of tea. 'John swears it was only texting.'

Hermione deadpan looked him in the eye, and she swore he recoiled in his seat. She closed her book and gripped the spine.

'And you are an idiotic moron if you think that only sex is cheating. John voluntarily decided that texting for hours on end while his wife took care of their daughter was decent. Now he has to live with the consequences of his ridiculous middle-age, patriarchal crisis.'

Hermione got up and emptied her mug in the sink. She heard the noise of clothes against leather as Sherlock shifted. The silence was worse than questions or replicas. Why did John Watson deserve this level of worship and respect from Sherlock? She knew her real issue was she didn't have it.

'And now that we are on the subject, why have you forgiven John?' Hermione marched back into the living room and stood in front of Sherlock. 'He all but handicapped you! He knew you were on drugs, he knew you wouldn't fight back, and he still beat you up like some gangster in an alleyway! Why are you still defending him?'

'A bad act doesn't erase a good one. And John's family.'

Hermione couldn't help the next words that spilt out of her mouth.

'And what am I?' Sherlock opened and closed his mouth. 'A pet? A nicotine patch? A handy lay?'

'No, of course not.' Sherlock jumped up, and Hermione took a few steps back and began to gather her things. Sherlock walked over and stopped her, placing his hands on her shoulders. The same hands that had been on her body so recently, strong and warm, now felt like those of a skeleton, cold. Hermione slapped his hand away.

'Then what? What am I to you?'

'You know what you are, Hermione,' said Sherlock, pleading with his eyes not to make him do that. But Hermione was tired of dancing and playing. It was now or never, all or nothing. She was tired of getting scraps from people who refused to give her a full meal.

'No, I don't. Say it.'

'I can't, Hermione.'

'Say it!' Hermione shouted. A door downstairs opened.

'Hermione, please.' His voice was barely above a whisper.

Hermione held his gaze for a couple of seconds. 'You are a coward.'

'Yes.'

The alarm on Hermione's phone rang, and Hermione tore her eyes away.

'I'm leaving. Mrs Hudson will keep an eye on you until Molly's here.' He made no effort on approaching her, and neither did she. Hermione turned around and got her bag and coat under Sherlock's stare, and without looking back at him, she stepped out of Baker Street, banging the door close and disappeared into the night.

'The Auror office has finally decided to drop the charges against you for the two accounts of unauthorised magic. Sirius managed to get Sherlock's delicate situation to account for grave danger, so you are clear of all charges.'

'I'm sorry, Mycroft,' said Hermione, watching Mycroft's pursed lips.

'You saved Sherlock's life, which is what I asked you to do.'

'It was reckless, and I know that's been happening a lot lately. But I'm here to tell you it's over.'

'It's been a trying time for everyone.' Mycroft dropped the file on the pile to his right. 'Has something happened?'

'No,' replied Hermione, but of course, Mycroft was not buying into her pathetic attempt of lying. 'I can't continue like this. I don't recognise myself anymore, and with Mary gone… I know you asked me to stay close to Sherlock, and yes, I did what you warned me against, which is having… feelings, for someone who so obviously doesn't know how to deal with them. But I cannot stay close and still be myself, so I am choosing myself.'

Mycroft sighed. 'Sherlock Holmes is a difficult person to love.'

Hermione gave Mycroft a small, sad smile. He took her hand over the table.

'You've already done more than you had to. I'm afraid we Holmes are more of a curse than a blessing. I realise now that asking to turn your life around for Sherlock was too much to ask.'

'I volunteered, Mycroft. You did not make me do anything I wasn't willing to try.'

'I guess I did not see all the possible ways this could play out. And for that, I am sorry.'

'Not even you could've anticipated them.' Hermione stood up, and with one last look, she left. Mycroft sniffed and straightened his tie. He opened his agenda and dragged his finger across the ink: Sherrinford, 2 pm.

'No, I couldn't have.'

It had been eight days since Hermione had left Sherlock behind in Baker Street; ten hours, five minutes and approximately 50 seconds since the last time she had thought about him, and three hours since deciding this situation had to end. A part of her knew that Mycroft was hiding something from her, that Sherlock still had Moriarty's threat hanging over him. But she had nothing else in her to give. In her purse was a neatly folded letter of resignation, waiting for the moment Hermione gathered enough courage to sever the ties with Baker Street, Sherlock and Mycroft.

The problem was that everything reminded her of life in Baker Street: when someone asked for the type of pastry Mrs Hudson would buy, when someone added an excessive amount of sugar to their black coffee, a colourful jumper, any baby around Rosie's age.

Today, at Pret, it had been the sight of a Belfast coat. It was a woman wearing it, but she was tall and slim, and Hermione had started crying silently over her egg and cress sandwich.

'Here.'

To her right, a woman on her laptop offered her a tissue. Hermione took it with a thank you and dabbed her eyes.

'You are in those days, aren't you?' Her Scottish accent was pleasant, and it reminded her of McGonagall's. But it sounded like she had been living in England for a long time, the inflexions of her voice fluctuating from Scottish to typical British and back again. 'I get emotional with the tiniest things.'

Hermione smiled at her. 'Yeah, I guess you are right.'

That same night, when she was arriving at a tiny place she had rented in an attempt to regain some control over her life, her phone chimed. On the main screen, John's name flashed. She was very tempted to ignore it. An image of Sherlock on a hospital bed crossed her mind, and despite her best efforts, she opened the text.

Sherlock and Mycroft have another sibling.