Apologies for leaving this one so long. Had a long debate as to whether or not to do the Abominable Bride and decided not to, but to do a different drug trip for Sam. In other news, there's a poll on my profile as to what you want me to write up next. And apologies if Sam seems a little off in this. She did just have a bad time with drugs and everything else, but let me know what you all think. The ending bit though is a little giveaway as to what's coming up. Wasn't sure how else to get Sam through things wihtout writing it that way, but meh.

My head sagged, chin hitting my chest before lolling to the side and lightly bouncing off the edge of the small plane window. I closed my eyes and let out a long sigh, flexing my arm to encourage the drug to move just that much faster and help me forget what I'd done and where I was headed.

"Why are you so determined to be alone?"

My eyes cracked open and shifted to the figure sitting in a chair beside me. My head ached, throat burned. My bones felt like they were being stabbed by a thousand knives as my body quaked and sweated under the thick comforter holding me to the bed. I was at my flat in New York, working off the drugs that Moriarty had gotten me addicted to and their lasting after-effects. Bobby sighed heavily, dropping his head into his hands.

"Why, Sam? After everything I've done, everything you've done, why are you giving up here?"

I clenched my eyes shut, not wanting to listen, to see him after what I'd done. When I opened my eyes again, I was back in the plane, but Bobby still sat there, eyeing me with what could only be disappointment.

"Stop," I murmured, turning my head away so I wouldn't have to look. "Stop looking at me like that. There was nothing I could do."

"Really? Do you honestly expect me to believe that?"

"There was nothing!" I shouted, trying to get up, but the strap around my waist prevented me from going anywhere and I sank back down, leaning forward and dropping my head into my hands as my elbows rested on my knees. "Nothing…"

A bell chimed, and I peeked out of my hands, looking at the black cat that wound around my ankles. My heart clenched, but Bobby spoke up again.

"Sam, you need to focus."

"No."

"Sam."

"No, no, no. I don't want to focus. If I focus, I think. If I think I-I…" My words caught in my throat as he sighed again and leaned back in his seat, drumming his fingers on the crook of his arm.

"If you think, you remember. You remember the drug you've taken in the hopes of forgetting. You remember that you're on your way to prison, if not your death. You remember that you just killed a man."

"Shut up!" I snapped, tears welling up in my eyes as I pressed my palms to them. "Please. I don't want to remember."

"You have to, Sam," he murmured, leaning forward and taking my hand. "You have to remember, because how else will you learn from your mistakes?"

"It wasn't a mistake. I needed something to cope. I need to cope."

"So, you turned to drugs…"

"I had to."

"No. He was right there. He was there, Sam. Standing right next to you and you didn't say a word. You kept to yourself and hid away. Just admit it, Sam. He confessed he cared for you and you were scared, so you ran away."

"I didn't run."

He scoffed. "Yes, you did. You ran because you couldn't admit that you were scared of what this meant. You were afraid of how this would change things. What it meant for you and for Sherlock. You—"

"I was afraid I would get hurt because it would happen again!"

He went quiet as I clenched my fists in my hair, tugging harshly in the hopes of drawing myself from this nightmare.

"I didn't want to get together with him b-because I don't want to watch him die like I had to watch you," I breathed out, shuddering. "I don't want to disappoint him. I just…"

"You want everyone to be safe and everything to go as planned, but that's not how it works, Sam."

"I know that…"

"Then why are you still putting up this farce?" He reached out and pulled my hands away from my face. "You need to stop running, stop holding onto me and realize what you should be doing."

I scoffed, looking at him with a small frown. "And what is that?"

He smiled; the first I've seen in a long time and one that warmed my heart. "Live. Properly. None of that boring old moping about. Solve cases, Sam. Work with Sherlock, have luncheons with Mary, write with John, banter with Mycroft and worry Mrs. Hudson. Get out of your head, Sam and move on."

The plane rattled, shaking from turbulence, but I clung desperately to Bobby.

"What if I don't want to?"

"Then, I'll come back and haunt you again," he teased, brushing a hand over my cheek. "But for right now, you've got other things to focus on."

"Moriarty."

He shook his head. "No, Sam. He's gone. You know that."

A figure hovered over his shoulder, a crazy smirk dawning their lips as they leaned forward with a breathy whisper.

"Am I?"

"You are," Bobby repeated, looking back as Moriarty's bloody smirk turned to a childish pout.

"Well, now, that's not entirely true. You'll remember me forever, won't you, Sam?"

My body stiffened as the shaking happened again and my mouth went dry. Bobby though squeezed my hand.

"Perhaps, but there will always be someone to pull her away from dwelling on you."

The villain scoffed. "Who? I do believe she's on her way to a prison where she'll undoubtedly be killed by someone sooner or later. Either that, or she'll go properly mad." He smirked. "Wouldn't that be amusing? Sitting in a room, all tied up in a straight jacket with only me to keep you company."

He was behind me now, hissing in my ear and draping a hand over my shoulder in a suffocating hug.

"This is what you've done, after all. You've killed a man. You're being punished for it and because you're not nearly as important as Sherlock. No one's going to save you."

A lump caught in my throat and I tried to call Bobby for help, but he was gone, and the plane was growing darker. A second figure stepped over instead, replacing Bobby and settling in his place with the ease of a snake.

"He's right, you know. I don't appreciate being shot, but I suppose you thought it was the only way," Magnussen hummed, removing his glasses and cleaning them with the corner of his shirt as blood dripped from the bullet wound in his forehead. "So many ways, so little time. You should just admit it. You shot me because you wanted to."

"N-No."

He raised a brow. "Really? I threaten the people close to you, murder your little feline friend and try to go about ruining Sherlock Holmes, and you're saying you would have just let me go?"

"N-No, I… I didn't…"

Moriarty scoffed, sauntering around to stand beside me and placing something in my lap.

"I don't believe that. We both know the truth. Go on. Show it to us. Shoot him."

I stared at the gun in my lap and slowly picked it up, feeling the anger from before. The hatred towards the two men for everything they'd done. To me, to John and Mary, to Sherlock. I lifted it and aimed it at Magnussen, finger slowly pulling the trigger.

"Sam."

And froze. Moriarty scowled, and Magnussen replaced his glasses with a sigh as someone stepped up behind me and placed a hand on my shoulder.

"Come now. You're better than this."

My hand quivered along with the entire plane. I'm not.

"You are. Despite everything, do you really think that I don't see it? That I don't see how amazing you are?"

I'm not amazing.

"Please," he scoffed, leaning forward and causing the edge of his curly brown hair to come into view. "I wouldn't have confessed to you otherwise. Now, wake up, Sam."

Sherlock.

"Wake up and show just how brilliant you are."

"We've landed, ma'am. We've landed." A flight attendant shook Sam's shoulder and she wearily blinked her eyes open as her mind tried to register what had been said.

"W-What…? Landed? Oh, no. Not now."

The captain stepped over then, smiling. "I trust you had a pleasant flight, ma'am."

She looked at the woman, stunned as Mycroft, Sherlock, John and Mary climbed into the plane.

"Well, a somewhat shorter imprisonment than we'd imagine, Miss Foxe," Mycroft commented. "Though, I'm sure it did wonders for your mental state."

Sam looked between them, eyes landing on Sherlock before she flinched back. "Oh, no, no, no, no. I can't be here. Not now."

John raised a brow. "What? Y-You want to go to prison?"

"Yes! Ah, w-well, no. I don't…" She brought a hand to her head with a grimace. "Oh, how do I fix this."

"Fix what?" John questioned, confused. "Sam, what are you talking about?"

"I changed too much. He didn't have the weird drug trip. He hasn't figured it out… Ricoletti."

"Who's Ricoletti?" John questioned, but Sherlock stepped forward, brows furrowed.

"It was a case, a famous one from a hundred years ago. A woman who seemed to be dead, but then she came back."

"What, like Moriarty?"

Sherlock nodded. "Shot herself in the head, exactly like Moriarty."

Mary sat across from Sam, eyeing her with knowledge that something was definitely off about the young woman.

"But she's only just been told. We've only just found out. He's on every TV screen in the country."

"So?" Sherlock scoffed. "It's been five minutes since Mycroft called her and there's no doubt in my mind that she had some idea about it already. What progress have you all made? What have you been doing?"

"More to the point, what have you been doing?" John huffed. "You've been quiet since Mycroft called to get Sam back."

Sherlock smirked. "I've been in my Mind Palace, of course."

"Of course," John rolled his eyes.

"The bigger question is, where did Sam get the idea of Ricoletti?"

All eyes went to Sam before Sherlock frowned. She kept her gaze off him, eyeing the window, but the tell-tale quiver of her hands and the dilated eyes gave her away. Sherlock reached out and grabbed her left wrist, startling her as he pulled it out and turned her arm over—yanking the sleeve of her shirt up to reveal the track mark on the crook of her elbow.

"Christ," John breathed out as Sherlock's frown deepened.

"I thought you were acting off."

Sam pursed her lips, pulling her hand from his grip and turning away again, clenching and unclenching her hand around her coat.

"You were high before you got on the plane."

Mary, typing away on her phone, raised a brow. "She didn't seem high."

"Nobody deceives like an addict," Mycroft muttered as Sherlock rounded on him with a snap.

"She's not an addict. She was clean up until this dealing with Magnussen, something I'm sure you've played a part in."

Mycroft stiffened, but lifted his chin proudly. "She was going off to her potential death. A last request seemed perfectly sound."

Sherlock stomped towards him heatedly. "I was helping her get over the drugs! You've dealt with me, so you should know not to encourage using!"

"For God's sake!" John shouted, having taken Sam's wrist to try and get a pulse count. "Could we stop shouting! You're only making her panic and doing so while she's high is never a good thing."

The brothers begrudgingly stepped down, before Sherlock caught sight of Mary.

"What are you doing?"

"Emelia Ricoletti. I'm looking her up."

"Ah, I suppose we should," Mycroft hummed, taking a seat nearby. "I have access to the top level of the MI5 archive."

"Yep, that's where I'm looking."

He frowned at Mary. "What do you think of MI5's security?"

"I think it would be a good idea," Mary answered with a grin, typing away. "Emelia Ricoletti. Unsolved, like he says."

"I'm sorry."

Eyes went back to Sam as she curled up in on herself and Sherlock stepped forward.

"Why?"

She flinched, refusing to look at him. "It's all my fault. Everything's going wrong b-because I couldn't… I couldn't let you…" She grimaced then, holding her head. "All these damn voices. W-Why won't they just shut up?"

Sherlock frowned, turning to Mycroft. "How much did you give her?"

"A more minor dosage than what you usually take," he replied, eyeing Sam. "Though, I was unaware she was high before getting on the plane."

John looked stunned. "She fooled you?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "She refused to talk or do much of anything on the way over. Hard to get a deduction when you're getting the silent treatment from someone who tends to dislike you."

"I'm sorry," Sam repeated again, and Sherlock sighed, lightly touching her arm and being careful to read her body language should she be coming off the high and getting a little more volatile.

As it is, she's almost regressed into her younger self. She's stuttering with nowhere near the amount of confidence she's had as of late and the apologies—though not uncommon—suggest that she may have been hiding more than I suspected.

"I'm not angry with you," he said quietly. "And I helped you before, so I'll be there for you again, Sam. I'll always be there for you, remember?"

Some of the tenseness left her shoulders, but he frowned as her eyes slipped shut.

"Sam? Sam, you need to stay awake."

He shook her shoulders a bit as John hastily squeezed past him to check on her, lifting her eyelids and using a penlight from his pocket to check her eyes.

"She may have OD'd. Shit."

"But she'll be all right, yes?" Sherlock questioned, not knowing how well she could handle an OD versus himself.

He was more used to drugs, after all, whereas she had one foul dealing with Moriarty and fought them off before more recently getting back to it. Can her body handle it? John though, nodded.

"It's not a bad one. Her pupils are still dilated, but they're reacting. She may just need a minute before her mind reacts and brings her back."

"Is she right though?" Mary piped up. "Has Moriarty survived like in the Ricoletti case?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Hardly. The woman in the Ricoletti case most likely worked together with someone to fake her initial death and then killed her husband, and either hid away or killed herself and had her body replaced in the morgue. Moriarty is dead. I was there. I witnessed him shoot himself in the head. No one survives that."

"Should we take Sam to the hospital then?" Mary asked, and Sherlock shook his head.

"No time. We need to return to Baker Street. Between John and myself, we can keep an eye on her and ensure that any other drug-related issues she has are taken care of. I do believe she is tired of hospitals anyway, seeing as she always seems to end up in one some way or another."

Sam shifted then, peering her eyes back open, though she looked dreadful. A thin sheen of sweat covered her pale skin and she appeared to be having a hard time focusing on the people in front of her too.

"Sam, can you move?"

She nodded, pushing herself up onto her feet only to wobble as Sherlock grabbed her arm to steady her.

"Sherlock, we really should—"

Sherlock silenced John with a glare and continued to help Sam out of the plane, leaving the man to sigh as he and his wife followed.

"What am I going to do with them?"

"What you're about to see is classified beyond top secret," Mycroft explained to the three people in front of him as videos played behind them of the scene that had played out at Appledore. "Is that quite clear?" He looked to an older woman who had been getting ready to transcribe the meeting. "Don't minute any of this. Once beyond these walls, you must never speak of it. A D-notice has been slapped on the entire incident. Only those within this room—code names Antarctica, Langdale, Porlock and Love—will ever know the whole truth."

The silence in the room was only interrupted by Sherlock's rapid tapping at his phone.

"As far as everyone else is concerned, going to the Prime Minister and way beyond, Charles Augustus—" Mycroft finally snapped at Sherlock. "Are you tweeting?"

Sherlock hastily covered his phone as it chimed. "No."

"Well, that's what it looks like."

Sherlock's finger swiped the texts away and returned the screen to Twitter, knowing what was coming. "Of course, I'm not tweeting. Why would I be tweeting?"

"Give me that," Mycroft demanded, reaching for the phone.

"What? No. Get off. What are you doing?" Sherlock complained as they fought over it.

Mycroft finally got a hold of it, annoyed. "'Back on terra firma.'"

"Don't read them out," Sherlock complained.

"'Free as a bird.'"

"You're such a spoilsport."

"Will you take this matter seriously, Sherlock?" Mycroft snapped at him, angering him in return.

"I am taking it seriously. What makes you think I'm not taking it seriously?"

Mycroft looked back at the phone. "'#OhWhatABeautifulMorning.'"

Sherlock scowled, though silently pleased Mycroft wasn't looking at the texts he'd actually been sending. "Look. Not so long ago, a good friend was on a mission that meant certain death, and now she's back and I'm in a nice warm office with my big brother and—" he paused, spotting something on the table where the three others were sitting. "Are those ginger nuts?"

He was up on his feet in a minute, grabbing a handful of them, stuffing one in his mouth and the rest in his coat pocket.

"Oh, God," Mycroft sighed.

"Love ginger nuts." Not really, but Sam has a fondness for them. I'll bring some back for her.

"Our doctor said you were clean," Lady Smallwood frowned at him.

"I am, utterly. No need for stimulants. I have work to do."

"You're high as a kite!" Sir Edwin argued.

"Natural high, I assure you. Totally natural. I'm just glad my friend is alive," he hummed. "What should we do next?" He pointed at the elderly woman. "What's your name?"

"V-Vivian," she stuttered out.

"What would you do, Vivian?"

"Pardon?"

"Well, it's a lovely day. Go for a stroll?" Sherlock offered, hoping he was annoying them enough to get the meeting over with. He desperately needed to get back to Baker Street. "Make a paper airplane? Have an ice lolly?"

"Ice lolly, I suppose."

"Ice lolly it is! What's your favorite?"

"Well, I really shouldn't…" She trailed off, giving her superiors a nervous look.

"Go on," Sherlock urged. Ice lolly might be good for Sam too. She was running a fever earlier.

"Do they still do Mivvis?"

"Mr. Holmes," Lady Smallwood said firmly, trying to get things back on track.

"Yes?" Sherlock and Mycroft responded simultaneously.

Sam wouldn't shut up if she saw that, Sherlock mused, trying to push thoughts of Sam aside for now. She was growing distracting. Not that that's new.

"We do need to get on."

"Yes, of course," Mycroft muttered, playing the video footage to show edited footage of a trigger-happy soldier taking the shot before Sam could.

"That's not what happened at all," Sherlock grumbled.

"It is now."

After a bit of admiration, Lady Smallwood turned to Sherlock.

"Your friend is off the hook, Mr. Holmes. Home and dry."

"Okay, cheers." Sherlock jumped up and grabbed his coat, buttoning his jacket.

"Obviously, there's unfinished business," she continued. "Moriarty."

"I told you, Moriarty's dead," Sherlock emphasized.

"You say he filmed that video message before he died."

"Yes."

"You also say you know what he's going to do next. What does that mean?"

"Perhaps, that's all there is to it," Sir Edwin offered, pointing to Sherlock. "Perhaps he was trying to frighten you."

"No, no. He would never be that disappointing," Sherlock frowned, staring off into the distance. "He's planned something. Something long-term. Something that would take effect if he never made it of that rooftop alive. Posthumous revenge. No, better than that. Posthumous game."

"We brought your friend back to deal with this with you. What are you two going to do?"

"Wait," Sherlock answered bluntly.

"Wait?"

"Of course, wait. I'm the target, maybe even Sam. Targets wait and she's in no condition to help right now after the stress you lot put her through." He glared, turning away to not have to look at them. "Look. Whatever's coming, whatever he's lined up, I'll know when it begins. I always know when the game is on. Do you know why?"

"Why?"

"Because I love it." He smirked, walking out the door and picking up his pace as he whipped out his phone on the way to the cab.

On my way.

Ten minutes.

Got you some ginger nuts.

Maybe an ice lolly.

-SH

He settled down into the cab, directing it towards the nearest shop by Baker Street before his phone buzzed in return.

Twat.

-Sam

He chuckled, unable to help the smile creeping up on his face as he drummed his fingers on his thigh. Same old Sam. His phone buzzed again, earning a raised brow.

Red berries Solero?

-Sam

With a roll of his eyes, he responded a yes and went to grab the flavor she wanted from the shop. A minute later, he was stepping into Baker Street and stripping off his coat, holding up the small bag as he ate another ginger nut cookie from his pocket, much to John's confusion.

"Brought snacks for her. How is she?"

"You… went shopping for her? You never go shopping."

Mary rolled her eyes, speaking to Sherlock since John was apparently struggling. "She's not in the best shape. Fever's gone up, but she stopped vomiting not long after you left. Tired mostly with chills and hot flashes. Shaking's gotten worse too, though she's doing her best not to show it."

"Typical," Sherlock grumbled, lifting the bag. "I'll give these to her and see if she wants to come downstairs."

The Watson's nodded as he went to his room, Mary giving John a look.

"And you were saying it wouldn't happen."

"I was saying it wasn't likely to happen," John argued, glancing over at the door Sherlock disappeared into. "Never thought I'd see it. I mean, Sherlock's… well, him. And didn't think Sam would do it because of the age difference."

"Yeah, but they're good for each other," Mary smiled. "You saw him."

"I know. He never goes shopping. Always gets me to do it."

"He was texting her non-stop too," Mary hummed. "I was texting her responses to him since she's having trouble touching the keys, but it started the moment he left."

John raised a brow. "Flirting?"

"Their version, I'm sure. They were talking about cases."

John snorted as the bedroom door opened and they were surprised again as Sherlock stepped out with Sam curled up in a blanket in his arms. She didn't look good, as expected. She was pale with a thin sheen of sweat and red cheeks, breathing heavily and already looking as though she'd lost weight. A white bandage covered the crook of her arm where John had been giving her fluids when she started to get dehydrated, and occasionally, they'd give her a miniscule dose of heroine to help ween her off it. She was refusing them for the most part, but they'd already had a moment when she couldn't, she was shaking so bad. They had almost been concerned she'd hurt herself if they didn't, and she'd begrudgingly allowed it to happen. It had only been a week though, and she had a long way to go.

Sherlock set her down on the couch, moving to the small bag of groceries he'd gotten and pulling out the box of ice lollies, tossing it to her. She caught it in her gut, grunting and flipping him off as she tore open the box, and he moved over to his mantel, picking up a knife. He stabbed the knife into a handful of cases, grinning.

"If this gets any better, I'm gonna get two knives."

"Pays to advertise," John hummed, typing away at his blog, though sparing Sherlock a look when the man kissed Sam on the forehead and stole an ice lolly for himself.

"So, what about Moriarty then?" Mary asked, rubbing her baby bump with a small grimace.

"Oh, I have a plan. I'm going to monitor the underworld—every quiver of the web will tell me when the spider makes his move."

"He's just being dramatic," Sam grumbled, earning a pout from Sherlock.

"I am not!"

She raised a brow at his outburst, which proved her point, only for John to jump in as well.

"Basically, your plan is to just sit there solving crimes like you always do."

"Awesome, isn't it?" Sherlock beamed, hopping up and grabbing the first case from the mantel. "Sam's already said there's nothing to be done for a while anyway. Might as well get back in the swing of things."

John glanced at said woman as she grimaced and handed off the full box of ice lollies to Mary, who offered a sympathetic smile. Not able to eat much still, I see. "Really? Nothing?"

Sam shook her head, curling up a little tighter under her blankets. "Not for months."

"You're kidding," John huffed settling back in his chair. "Well, I suppose it's good though. Gives you time to recover."

Just as he said that, Sam's face turned green and he scrambled to grab the small trashbin and rush to her side as she vomited off the side of the couch. He winced, letting her hold the bin as he called to Mary.

"Mary? Could you grab a bowl? She's vomiting again."

"On it!"

Sam groaned, breathing heavily as sweat slid down her temple. "Fuck. T-Those were really g-good ice lollies too."

"Apologies," Sherlock mused from his spot by the mantel. "Should have gotten something easier on the stomach."

Sam waved him off though. "I-I appreciate the change in flavor… just n-not the second time." She managed a small smile, only to drop her head to vomit again as Mary hurried back with a bowl, helping her up from off the couch.

"We'll just be in the bathroom for a moment," she muttered, earning a nod from the other two as they slowly headed off.

John looked over at Sherlock though, who wasn't looking anywhere in his direction; a guilty habit of his.

"She's doing good, you know."

Sherlock grunted.

"Really, Sherlock. She's gone through the process once, so this time will be much easier, but she's already managing to talk and joke, even smile. You should be proud of her."

"She's still sick."

"Yes, but she's trying, and that's what's important." John pat him on the back. "I'm just saying that you should maybe let her know? That you are proud of her?"

Sherlock's brows furrowed. "What? Why?"

"Uh, because she's in a sensitive position right now? She's vulnerable and might need to know that you're supporting her."

He huffed, turning away. "She's fine."

"Is she?" John asked, eyeing him uncertainly as he remained silent. "Look, I'm just saying that you should try to be a little more… sensitive about things with Sam is all."

Sherlock didn't respond, and John just let out a soft sigh, shaking his head and silently wondering what Sam was thinking by getting with Sherlock.

I had good days and bad days. Days where I was trapped in a fever-induced haze. Days where I was angry for no reason, shouting and cursing everything and everyone. Days where I felt so sick that I couldn't stomach any food without nearly dying from dehydration in the bathroom. I owed John, Mary and Sherlock so much for putting up with my bad days. Mary especially, being as pregnant as she was. Then, I had days like today. Where the fever was mild, my stomach actually content with food, the cravings down to nonexistent. I had been able to eat a small, mild breakfast, be helped into the living room and settled on the couch to go over the cases Sherlock had been dealing with.

It had been almost a month now, since Sherlock had somehow managed to get me off that plane, and while I wasn't entirely better, I was getting there, which was more than I could hope for. It was odd though, the way Sherlock had been acting. I was still getting used to the fact that we had gotten together, and the small things still surprised me. The way he went and got my favorite snacks, knowing exactly when I was feeling the cravings for the drug and replacing it with sweets that he would never usually buy willingly. The feather-light touches when he thought I was asleep, or when I was dazed from fever, and the brush of his lips over my forehead. It was very… un-Sherlock like. Something I would have never expected from him, especially with what I knew about him from the show. I'd grown to accept that though. That this was no longer the show I'd watched before. I'd changed a lot, and there was a lot I didn't know too. And there's a lot I need to change still… I won't let her die. I refuse.

I sighed softly, rubbing at my face and picking up my tea that Mrs. Hudson had brought in at some point. It's hot, so recently. I didn't even notice.

"I'm proud of you."

My head snapped up so fast, I thought I'd get whiplash. "What?"

Sherlock scowled, typing away on his phone. "I'm not saying it again."

My brows furrowed in confusion. "Okay, but… what brought this about?" I skimmed through the last few weeks, thinking about what had happened and how odd Sherlock had been acting lately, especially around myself and John. "Did John say something?"

Sherlock didn't answer but turned further away.

"He did, didn't he?" I set my tea down, with a grimace. "You don't need to force yourself."

He turned with a frown. "I'm not—"

"Yes, you are," I grumbled. "You couldn't even look at me properly when you said that."

He faced me, spine straight. "I'm proud of you."

I gave him a look. "And now you're just trying to satisfy me. Look, I'm glad and all, but you don't need to do anything special just because John or somebody said so. I know how you are. I think the fact that we're suddenly together proves that much at least. So, you don't have to tell me anything."

He looked ready to argue, but I waved him closer and he huffed before stepping up to me and leaning down. I brushed a kiss over his cheek, earning a surprised look from him as I flushed bright red at my forward actions.

"I already know you're proud," I muttered, scratching at my cheek awkwardly. "And I'm not expecting you to go out of your way to do things like other couples. It's our relationship and we can do what we want, right?"

Sherlock smiled, chin lifted up haughtily. "Absolutely. Now, what do you think about the case?"

I cracked a smile, glad he spotted my uneasiness with the subject of our relationship and shifted it towards his cases. "Which one? The unidentified limbless body or the canary trainer?"

"Neither. The dog case, Sam. Do keep up."

I blinked, confused. "What dog case?"

He waved at me as he sat down in his chair. "The folder on your right. Pick one."

I frowned, picking up the folder and opening it only for my eyes to go wide at the contents, flipping through pages upon pages. "What… What is this?"

"Dogs. I thought I made myself clear."

"Y-Yeah, but why?"

"You sent Wiggins on a search for available pets with no specifications," he replied, steepling his hands under his chin. "I edited your quest for a new pet. Dogs are less likely to make dashes outside our home for exploratory reasons and are more easily trainable than your feline compatriots."

"Well, yeah, but…" I flipped through the adoption papers and breeder information pages. "T-These are puppies. Like… Like not house-trained puppies. I didn't think… Y-You're okay with this?"

"A pet will undoubtedly help in your recovery." He shrugged. "Just as your previous companion assisted you after my death and your…" He paused, eyeing me "And Bobby's."

I nodded, looking at the papers and flipping past German Shepherds, Labradors, Golden Retrievers and breeds of all different types. "And you… You're okay with having to train them and care for them? They… Dog's aren't like cats, you know. They're a bit more hands on and…"

"Why are you trying to convince me against this?" He asked instead, making me wince.

"I… I'm not. I just… I don't want you to feel forced to change because of me."

"I'm not changing," he huffed, closing his eyes again. "You're over-thinking things."

"But you would never—"

"Accept a dog in my home? No, not by myself," he agreed, confusing me all the more.

"Then, why—"

"Because I feel that you need help I cannot offer. As you said, we are not the usual couple. We do not and will most likely not display our affections often, in public, or in any form other than through very miniscule actions. While I am more than comfortable with this, I am aware that others such as yourself might require more… comfort at times, which I may not be willing to offer. A pet can satisfy that need." He lowered his hands, looking back to me seriously. "Do you understand?"

I nodded slowly, understanding but still feeling as though he was giving up his home just to make me happy. He must have sensed this and sighed, getting up and joining me on the couch to look over the files as well.

"I suggest one that's quick to train and without a lot of shedding or grooming needs."

I hesitated but finally nodded. "Um, okay. So, no huskies or fluffy dogs. I, um… I'm not really a fan of the very tiny ones."

He agreed with a grimace. "No overly barky types. And search for ones without many breed-specific health problems."

"So, that takes out chihuahuas, yorkies, bulldogs, beagles, and… a number of others," I muttered, pulling out more papers into a discard pile. "What about energy level?"

"Mild," he grumbled. "We don't want one too hyper active that will require lots of walks. Preferably, one that we can leave on its own as well, for when we're on cases."

"What about one we can take with us?" I offered. "Something friendly, but maybe helpful?"

He raised a brow. "Like a sniffer dog?"

"Spaniels? Dachshunds? Um…" I flipped through papers. "Bloodhounds…"

"Not dachshunds," he countered. "Bloodhounds are a bit large…"

"Or sight hounds?" I added. "Irish wolfhounds are cute."

"And one of the tallest dog breeds."

"But very friendly, easily trained, and lazy enough to leave at home on their own."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "You said lazy, and with their size, bringing them to a crime scene would be a poor decision."

I gave in reluctantly. "Fine… Um… Basset Hounds?"

"Too slow."

"Labradors or Golden Retrievers?"

Sherlock shook his head as I flipped through the last few papers.

"German Shepherds, Pointers, or any of your atypical police dogs."

"Pointers have too much energy. Shepherds have hip problems. The rest can be scrapped too."

"So, we're back to Bloodhounds, Basset Hounds, and Spaniels. Schnauzers and terriers too, though terriers are typically on the more energetic side…" I skimmed the papers, before finding one and stopping.

Sherlock eyed it, seeing I'd stopped and frowned.

"No."

"Oh, come on!" I argued.

"It's a hunting dog."

"But one that can be trained as a sniffer dog," I argued.

"And one that needs brushing and grooming."

"Like, maybe once a month. Just… please?"

"No."

"Please?"

"No."

John and Mary both grinned behind his back in a way that seemed to burn into him as he returned with them to Baker Street after a case.

"I still can't believe you're doing this," John commented, grinning away as Sherlock struggled not to give in and look at the beaming married couple.

"I told you," Mary countered, lightly hitting John's arm. "She's got him whipped."

"I am not whipped," Sherlock broke, snapping at them with a glare.

"What do you call this then?" Mary pressed, gesturing to what he was holding.

John agreed. "I thought you two had a fight about it, called it off."

Sherlock looked back out the window of the cab, not wanting to admit anything, but the pressure was too much. "She stopped talking."

John let out a barking laugh. "Really? The silent treatment made you crack? Mary, can you believe—What?"

Mary raised a brow at him, making his smile falter.

"No. No, you're not saying that he broke because she wouldn't talk to him. T-That's ridiculous!"

Mary huffed and turned away without a word, making John's mouth drop open in shock. She eventually looked to Sherlock though, smiling.

"So, what made you pick this one?"

"Mary!" John pressed, getting ignored as the other two gave him the silent treatment.

"Mycroft knew someone," Sherlock muttered. "They didn't think it could keep up."

"Poor thing," Mary murmured as the car pulled up to Baker Street. "I think it's perfect though. She… She's been out of sorts lately."

Sherlock nodded, agreeing with a small frown. "Something's coming."

Mary nodded solemnly as they headed up to the door.

"Mary?" John tried again, hurrying after them after being left behind to pay the cab driver. "Mary, please! I didn't—I'm sorry!"

Mary finally turned around with a smirk. "Not so easy, is it?"

John sagged with a small sigh as she kissed his cheek and looped her arm through his as they entered the building. There was a loud "thud" from upstairs though, making the group dash up to the flat, bursting in to find Sam slumped over in Sherlock's chair with her head in her hands; a pistol set on the end table beside her and a new hole in the wall.

"Sam?" John questioned, moving into the room slowly. "Can I have the gun?"

Sam nodded, and he went over and took it, disarming it and sliding it away as Mary hurried over to Sam's side and Sherlock hung back awkwardly.

"Sorry," she muttered, dropping a hand and revealing tired, sunken-in eyes. "I… thought it would help."

Not sleeping. Whatever is going on is worse than I thought, Sherlock mused.

"Help? How would shooting the wall—" John shook his head. "You know what? Never mind. Sherlock does it, why shouldn't you?"

Mary rolled her eyes at his comment, rubbing soothing circles on Sam's back. "Ignore him. What's on your mind?"

Sam shook her head, either struggling to say it or unable to, just as there was a soft crying that drew her attention away. Sherlock fidgeted with the squirming bundle in his arms, looking away awkwardly.

"W-What's that?" Sam asked.

"I… meant to give it to you as a… surprise," Sherlock muttered, heading over and setting it on her lap. "Apologies."

Sam stared at the three-legged, brown and white Springer Spaniel puppy in her lap as it whimpered and cried a little. Her gaze snapped back up to his, mouth dropping open to say something, only to look back down at the puppy. Sherlock raised a brow, waiting for some sort of response as Mary shot him a look, trying to keep him patient. Then, Sam reached out and pet the puppy, biting her bottom lip as it trembled, and she picked it up and held it close.

"T-Thank you," she breathed out, cradling the dog that had gone quiet. "Thank you, Sherlock."

Sherlock relaxed, reaching up and scratching at his cheek for a moment before speaking up once more. "You've been upset lately," he muttered.

Sam slowly lowered the puppy back to her lap, not lifting her head. "I'm sorry. Something just…"

Sherlock already knew. "Something big is coming."

She nodded, rubbing at her face with her free hand.

"Can you tell us about it?"

Sam winced, and Mary felt bad about asking. "I-I don't know. I have to tell some of you, but…" She looked up to John, who frowned.

"Me? Again?" He complained. "I can't know again?"

Sam flinched, and Sherlock scowled, making to step forward, but Sam spoke before he could.

"You'll hate me if I don't tell you," she muttered, drawing their attention to him. "But if you do, and something goes wrong or someone catches on… I won't know what'll happen. People could die."

John settled down, looking conflicted. "I… I won't hate you."

Sam shook her head. "No. You will. You absolutely will. I don't doubt that."

"You can't be sure—"

"No," Sam said with such conviction that John went silent. "You will, because if I weren't here, you would hate Sherlock to the point that you wouldn't associate yourself with him ever again."

John didn't know what to say, looking to Sherlock and back to Sam, who had lowered her gaze to the small puppy in her lap once more.

"I'm sorry," she muttered, "but this is just… this is how it has to be."

"What can you do?" John asked, surprising her with the seeming acceptance. "You're making it sound like you can do something."

Sam slowly nodded. "I… have a plan. I'll need help." She looked to Sherlock, who nodded definitively, willing to go to hell and back for her.

"What's the plan?" Mary asked, wondering if there was anything Sam could say.

Sam pursed her lips, thinking. "I… can't say much, but…" She looked back to John. "I can promise you, everything will be okay."

John took a second but nodded. "Then, I'll just have to remember that."

Sam managed a small smile, sad as it was. "Yeah. Yeah, you do that."

They all knew Sam didn't believe he would keep to his promise and knew that even he was unsure about it. For now, though, it was all anyone could hope for.

I fidgeted uneasily, clenching and unclenching my fists as that temptation reared its ugly head again in my mind. Stop thinking about it. I don't need it. There's not even any here. I winced, scratching at the crook of my arm until something tumbled into my ankle and I relaxed, picking up the puppy and petting it lightly, much to his enjoyment.

"Did you figure out a name for him yet?" Mary asked, stepping back into the room as I hastily put the puppy down and took the tea tray from her.

She's about due any day now. "Not yet. I've been asking Sherlock what he thinks of names, but… you know how he is."

"Doesn't care?"

I nodded, setting the tray down and keeping an eye on her as she sat in her arm chair. "Until I say a name he hates, yeah."

"Anything good?"

I shrugged, handing her a cup and fighting to ignore the way her eyes lingered on my shaking hand. "I've been looking for things he likes and trying names based on that. Beaker, Bunsen, Sulfur, Boron, Argon…"

Mary snorted at the names. "What about Ein?" She offered. "Like Einstein. It's simple, not element simple, but it's better than trying to name him after science tools."

I blinked at her, running the name through my mind and looking at the little puppy that was now chewing on a rubber toy in her living room. "That's bloody perfect."

Mary smiled, sipping her tea. "You're welcome." Her expression shifted then, and I gave her a look.

"Mary?"

Her face remained pinched as she held her stomach. "Call John."

"Are you sur—"

"Call him. Now."

"Yes, ma'am," I blurted out, not wanting the possibly birthing mother's ire.

Scrambling around the room, I went to my coat hanging by the door and tried calling John. I bit my lip when he didn't respond, dialing again before moving to the house phone and trying from there. When he still didn't pick up, I hesitated on turning around, feeling Mary's eyes glaring into my back.

"H-He's not answering," I stuttered out.

"Try again!"

"Y-Yes!"

And I did. Over 50 times, even trying Sherlock's phone. At this point, Mary was gripping my arm in a bruising hold, making me bite my lip as I tried again and again to get a hold of someone and keep her breathing deeply. Then, Mary's cell phone started to ring.

"Thank God," I breathed out, reaching over the coffee table and grabbing it, answering it hurriedly. "John, you need to get your arse over here. Mary's going into labor and—"

Mary ripped the phone from my hand. "Get over here now or you'll be sleeping on the porch." She hung up the phone and whipped her eyes to me. "Get the car."

"R-Right!" I squeaked out, scrambling from the room and scooping up the newly-dubbed Ein and rushing to the car parked outside.

John and Sherlock must have been near Baker Street, which wasn't far because they soon showed up and John helped Mary into the car as Sherlock slipped into the passenger seat and I was left in the back with the screaming Mary. One curb stop and a hospital trip later, and the baby was born without issue. After that came the baby blessing, dubbing of the Godparents—Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock and I—multitudes of cases, and innumerable hours of dog-training, leading us to the next moment.

"As ever, Watson, you see but do not observe," Sherlock frowned. "To you, the world remains an impenetrable mystery whereas, to me, it is an open book. Hard logic versus romantic whimsy. That is your choice. You fail to connect actions to their consequences. Now, for the last time…"

Sherlock reached down, only to blink in surprise to find a moppy-eared Ein wagging his tail at his feet—the baby rattle in his mouth awaiting retrieval. Sherlock eyed him, but took the object, cleaning it of dog drool and handing it back to Rosamund Watson. "If you want to keep the rattle, do not throw the rattle."

The baby took it and promptly threw it again, Ein chasing after it and sending the child into a fit of gurgling laughter. I eyed the scene in amusement, passing Sherlock a cup of tea as Ein brought the rattle back to the child and propped his front leg up to deposit it on the baby's tray to get it thrown again.

"Just let them have their fun," I mused, settling in a chair at the desk since John and Mary were sprawled out on the sofa. "Just means they'll sleep well later."

Sherlock huffed and dropped into his seat, eyebrow twitching when the rattle was thrown again. He kept his focus on his tea though, while I settled in for typing away on my laptop, answering some easier cases or ones Sherlock had memos for nearby that just needed to be input on his website.

"Have you figured out what you're going to do yet?"

My fingers hovered over the keyboard, frozen for a moment before I resumed typing, knowing that he was talking about Mary. "Yes and no," I muttered. "I've spoken with her about it, and she's sure it'll work, at least for the moment."

"That's not what I'm talking about."

I winced, knowing he wasn't but still struggling with explaining things that were troubling me, especially after the drug problem. "I… I'm worried."

"About?"

I bit my lip, lowering my hands and sinking back into the chair. "John."

"Him being upset?"

I nodded as Sherlock sighed lightly.

"He gets over it, does he not?"

"Yes, but… things were different. Without me around… What he does to you is just—"

"Stop."

I glanced over at him uneasily. I was acting like my old self and I knew how little he cared for me when I was like this. I couldn't help it. After the drug use, it… Everything became harder to deal with. Being anxious is all I can do at the moment, especially with the mess that's coming up. Something touched my thigh and I jumped, only to calm down at Ein's head resting on me; him looking up at me with deep caramel eyes and a soft whine. Sherlock had been right about him helping. He was uncannily attuned to my emotions, and whenever I seemed to be growing anxious, he was quick to come over and comfort me. I lightly ran my hand over his head as Sherlock spoke up once more.

"You've gone through the plan?"

I nodded. "With Mary too. I'm just… I'm wondering if it should be short term. The bullet was meant for you, but the fact that she dies… I don't know. I-I need to look over my notes again."

I started to get up, but Sherlock stopped me again.

"Sit."

I slowly sat back down, unable to look at him with how I knew I was acting; unable to see the disappointment on his face.

"Sam, look at me."

I winced, Ein pushing his head against my hand and I slowly looked to Sherlock.

"Now, focus," he purred, getting up and approaching me; kneeling before me. "Pretend it's a case." His hand rested over mine, Ein heading off for a moment. "A case you're keeping secret from me. You can't tell me everything, but you can tell me some things. Facts. Mary dies, then what?"

"John…" I dropped my gaze, but he tapped my chin, lifting it back to his.

"John, what?"

I looked back into Sherlock's clear gaze, hoping upon hope that I'll never see them clouded over in a drug-induced haze anytime soon. "Loses it. Hallucinates her, sees a new therapist who—" I winced, turning my gaze away. "Sorry."

Sherlock shook his head. "Push that aside if you can't tell me. What else?"

"You."

He waved me on and I hesitated.

"You… get as close to over-dosing as you ever could. You… pinpoint a criminal but are so lost in yourself that you just keep… falling."

"And Mary would keep him sane which would, in turn, keep me from using. Downside?"

I bit my bottom lip. "If she lives, John won't meet someone, won't feel guilty, won't grow as a person. Not in the way her death would allow. Not in the way your inebriation would allow."

"I could fake it."

"He'd know."

"No, he wouldn't."

"He'd know," I pressed, finally locking gazes, "and you use it to try and fool the criminal."

"And your part?"

I leaned back, looking away again. "I don't know."

"Yes, you do. You know your own plan. Tell it."

"It might not work."

"I don't care. Pretend it does."

"Save Mary," I blurted out.

"And then?"

Once again, my gaze shifted down. "Keep her death a secret… or bring her back."

"Say you kept it secret, like planned. What then?"

"John gets upset. Has to take it out on someone."

"You," Sherlock concluded. "You plan on taking my place. Let him take it out on you instead of me. What does he do? What could he do to me that would be so bad that you would go to this length to save me?"

"I saving Mary."

"No, you're not. In the end, you're saving me. Don't think I'm too dull to not see it, Sam."

A flare of anger ran through me and I whipped back around. "So, what? So, what if I am?"

"I don't want you to. Did you think of that? Me not wanting you to?"

"S-So, I don't save you? I-I just sit back and watch as John just l-loses it and takes it out on you? Blames you for her death? Beats you? Abandons you when you both need each other most?"

Sherlock stood. "And instead, you want him to blame you? Beat on you? Abandon the both of us because I am not about to leave you, Sam. Not for a moment."

"S-Someone has to be hospitalized."

"Then, I'll do it."

"Someone has to save them."

"Then, you'll do that. Or John. Or both. You're going to save Mary no matter what."

"Yes," I breathed.

"And you're going to let her live for John. Let him see her, let him know." Sherlock cracked a smile. "You're not cold enough to let him suffer, and Mary's never going to go along with that."

"But then—"

"But then, you won't have to worry. He won't blame you or beat on me. He'll be happy. We'll be happy. Is that so hard to believe?"

"Y-Yes."

His grin faltered, turning into a soft frown. "You really believe that? Why?"

"Because nothing turns out right around Sherlock Holmes."

"Perhaps not, but you change that. Every time. Now, think. You save Mary, expose that to John. What changes?"

"I…" I looked down, brows furrowed in thought. "He doesn't get a new therapist."

"Easy fix. I'll drive him mad."

I gave Sherlock a look, but he waved me on.

"What else?"

"If we let him know you're faking your high, and he's decent enough at lying—"

"He's not."

"Mary's helped him with that."

"Fine. Then?"

"Then, you could still take down the criminal, but…" I brought a hand up to my head. "How is she supposed to meet with you?"

"Who?"

"Can't tell you," I murmured, thinking. "You're not supposed to be able to connect the dots. The drugs are supposed to stop that."

"So, I'll actually get high."

"No," I pressed, standing and feeling as though this was the one thing I wouldn't back down on. "No. I won't let you."

He crept closer, closing the distance between us and staring down at me; his deep voice sending a chill down my spine. "Then, what do you propose?"

"We'll get drunk," I offered, his expression wrinkling. "I know it's not the best, but… you can't know who she is, can't see the differences until later. And if I'm around, then I'll have to do it with you. It'll be a pain, but I think—"

Hands lightly wrapped around me as soft lips touched the top of my head. "Then, you'll be fine. We all will."

Someone cleared their throat and our head snapped to the side where John was raising a brow and Mary was smirking away.

"Are we interrupting?"

"No, shut up," Sherlock spat, not letting go surprisingly, but holding tighter.

"Ooh, John. I think we are," Mary cooed.

"Shut up," I added with a grumble. "How long were you listening?"

"Uh, something about getting drunk, I think," John mused, eyeing us. "Any reason why? Actually, don't tell me. I don't think I want to know. At least Rosie was asleep before you two started doing anything indecent."

Sherlock huffed and released me, stepping away into the kitchen as Mary slapped John's arm. I didn't mind though, spotting Ein asleep at the foot of Rosie's chair.

"You look happy," Mary mused, drawing my gaze back to her. "Figure anything out?"

I nodded, looking to John. "I'll save her. You can count on it."

John looked confused, but Mary raised a brow skeptically.

"You're going to tell him?"

"Tell me what?"

I hummed, settling back down in my seat. "Yeah. Sherlock helped me figure it out."

"Is that all right?"

I managed a smile, looking between the two of them as she held John's hand. "Yeah. Better than all right. It's brilliant."