Charles Augustus Magnussen was grey. Grey hair, grey suit, grey eyes, even his cheeks were ashen and hollow. He glanced at them through his thin, frameless spectacles as he stepped into the flat. Hands in pockets, calm and confident.

"I understood we were meeting at your office," said Sherlock.

Magnussen's henchman finished his body searches of the two men, stepping aside, allowing his boss to get a full look of the flat.

"This is my office," he replied, walking towards to the couch.

He turned to look at john:

JOHN HAMISH WATSON
AFGHANISTAN VETERAN (SEE FILE)
G.P (SEE FILE)
PORN PREFERENCE: NORMAL
FINANCES: 10% DEBT (SEE FILE)
STATUS UNIMPORTANT
PRESSURE POINT: HARRY WATSON (SISTER) ALCOHOLIC
MARY MORSTAN (WIFE)

"Well, it is now," he continued before walking to the dining table, picking up a newspaper and returning to the couch to sit down.

"Mr Magnussen," Sherlock began. "I have been asked to intercede with you by Lady Elizabeth Smallwood on the matter of her husband's letters," he continued to speak, struggling to stay on point as his words were seemingly ignored. "Some time ago you… put pressure on her concerning those letters. She would like those letters back."

Magnussen looked up at him silently:

SHERLOCK HOLMES
CONSULTING DETECTIVE
PORN PREFERENCE: NORMAL
FINANCES: UNKNOWN
BROTHER: MYCROFT HOLMES
M.I.6 (SEE FILE)
SON: VAUGHAN CAVE
OFFICIALLY DECEASED 2011-2013

PRESSURE POINT:
MARGAUX CAVE (SEE FILE)
JIM MORIARTY (SEE FILE)
REDBEARD (SEE FILE)
HOUNDS OF THE BASKERVILLE
OPIUM
JOHN WATSON

Interesting.

"Obviously, the letters no longer have any practical use to you, so with that in mind…" Sherlock trailed off. What was he looking at? Magnussen snorted.

"Something I said?"

"No, no. I-I was reading." He adjusted his glasses. "There's rather a lot."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed.

"Redbeard."

Sherlock blinked, feeling the air leave his chest.

"Sorry… S-sorry. You were probably talking?"

"I…" He cleared his throat. "I was trying to explain that I've been asked to act on behalf of–"

"Bathroom?" Magnussen interrupted.

"Along from the kitchen, sir," his henchman nodded.

"Okay."

Sherlock could feel the tension building, starting at his finger tips and collecting in his clenched jaw. "I've been asked to negotiate the return of those letters," he said, more firmly. "I'm aware you do not make copies of sensitive documents…"

"Is it like the rest of the flat?" Magnussen gestured around the living room.

"Sir?" The henchman replied.

"The bathroom?"

"Er, yes, sir."

"Maybe not, then."

"Am I acceptable to you as an intermediary?" Sherlock pressed.

"Lady Elizabeth Smallwood. I like her."

John glanced between the two men, trying his best to supress a look of confusion.

"Mr Magnussen, am I acceptable to you as an intermediary?"

"She's English, with a spine."

He pushed the coffee table away with his foot and stood up from the couch. Sherlock frowned. From the corner of his eye, he noticed the henchman removing the guard from the fireplace.

"Best thing about the English," said Magnussen as he stepped towards the two men, looking at each of them. "You're so domesticated. All standing around, apologising." He nodded to Sherlock before walking past them both to the fireplace and unzipping his trousers. "Keeping your little heads down. You can do what you like here. No-one's ever going to stop you."

John blinked rapidly at the sound of him urinating, while Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on the wall across the room.

"A nation of herbivores. I've interests all over the world but, er, everything starts in England. If it works here…" he zipped up his trousers. "I'll try it in a real country. The United Kingdom, huh? Petri dish to the Western world. Tell Lady Elizabeth I might need those letters, so I'm keeping them. Goodbye." He began to leave before stopping and turning his attention to Sherlock, pulling a stack of letters from his pocket. "Anyway, they're funny."

It took a moment for them to leave. Sherlock and John remaining silent, stuck in place as they watched them exit.

"Jesus!" John shouted in outrage, exploding like a bottle of champagne that Magnussen had been shaking up.

"Did you notice the one extraordinary thing he did?" replied Sherlock.

"Wh… There was a moment that kind of stuck in the mind, yeah."

"Exactly. When he showed us the letters."

"Okay…"

"So he's brought the letters to London. So, no matter what he says, he's ready to make a deal. Now, Magnussen only makes a deal once he's established a person's weaknesses; the 'pressure point,' he calls it," said Sherlock excitedly, picking up his coat and putting it on. "So, clearly he believes I'm a drug addict and no serious threat. And, of course, because he's in town tonight, the letters will be in his safe in his London office while he's out to dinner with the Marketing Group of Great Britain from seven 'til ten."

"How-how do you know his schedule?"

"Because I do. Right, I'll see you tonight. I've got some shopping to do."

"What's tonight?" John called out as he watched Sherlock leave down the stairs.

"I'll text instructions!"

"Yeah, I'll text you if I'm available."

"You are! I checked!"

III

The black cab grumbled to a halt at the side of the road.

"Right, you coming to keep me company while the kids are in school?" Rose asked Vaughan in a high-pitched voice.

He nodded excitedly, allowing his mother to fix the straps of his little green backpack on his shoulders.

"Be good." Margaux smiled before opening the cab door and helping them inside. She waved as they drove off, breathing a sigh as she stood alone on the pavement.

She didn't want to, but she had to see how bad he was. With her own eyes. She needed to call him an idiot herself, not through someone else. She took out her phone and dialled Mary's number.

"Hey. I changed my mind. My friend has taken Vaughan so I'm going to jump in a cab to St Bart's–"

"You've just missed us," Mary replied.

"Oh, right, where are you now?"

"I'm just in my neighbour's. John took Sherlock home. Maybe try Baker Street?"

"Okay."

"You alright, Margs?"

"Y-yeah… Yeah I'm fine." She pressed her fingers against her temple. "Was it bad?"

Mary sighed. "Well he got a slap from Molly… Twice."

"That bad?"

"That bad."

"Alright. I'll see you soon."

"Bye, love."

She slipped her phone back into her pocket before sitting down on the kerb and pulling her knees to her chest. She sat there for a moment, taking in the warmth of summer. The sound of a car engine turned onto the street. Margaux shielded her eyes from the sun as she watched it drive closer, stopping in front of her and winding its window down slowly. She looked inside the car.

"Already?"

"Afraid so."

She huffed and climbed in.

III

Justice Reginald D. Barker was dead. His cold, pale body sat upright in the desk chair of his office – eyes blank, mouth open. Mycroft stepped into the room with his hands in the pockets of his suit trousers, followed by Margaux who was wishing she'd changed out of her jeans and t-shirt.

"Assassinated," said Mycroft.

Margaux walked up to the body. "How do you know?"

"The injury to the back of his head. The tiny, pin prick hole. It's a signature. We've seen it many times."

"Why was he assassinated?"

"He was judging a trial; the defendant is one of the leaders of a major black market weapons dealership, we've been after them for years. They've had him killed, because a dead judge at the hands of this gang equals a mistrial, an investigation, an enquiry, new charges, a new hearing, new trial. All giving them enough time to plan his escape." Mycroft turned to Margaux. "And he will escape."

"So…"

"So. You're going to make it look like Justice Barker had a heart attack. Shouldn't be too difficult; he looked like he wasn't far off having one anyway."

"Mycroft."

"Sorry." He took a few steps around the room. "As far as your autopsy shows, he died naturally. Therefore, no breaches, no security risks, no re-trial. Bad guys: caught. I'll have him transported to St Bart's for you," Mycroft finished before leaving the room.

III

They wheeled the body into the morgue. Molly showed them where to put it as they flashed their government credentials. Margaux trailed behind the group of officials, giving a nervous smile and nod.

"As always, Mr Holmes hopes he can rely on your discretion," said one of the officials.

Molly nodded timidly as they walked out, leaving the two women alone. She turned to look at Margaux with a confused expression.

"First day on the job…" said Margaux jokingly.

"You work for Mycroft now?"

"It seems as though I didn't quite know what I was signing up for." She bit her lip anxiously. "Please don't tell anyone."

Margaux wasn't right for this job. She knew it when she turned it down, and she knew it now, as she stood over Justice Barker's large, lifeless body. She had spent her career delving into the minds of criminals, solving crimes with science and psychology, before eventually teaching it to others. She had always been criticised for her unconventional investigations; experimenting with corpses, spending more time at the morgue of St Bart's than behind her own desk. But it was what made her so good at her job. Performing an autopsy and tampering with evidence, however, was not her forte.

"I won't say anything," said Molly. "What happens in the morgue, stays in the morgue. Sorry… That wasn't funny."

"No, it was funny." Margaux laughed.

"So, what have you got to do?"

"Make this murdered man look like he had a heart attack."

"Oh."

They stood quietly for a moment, staring at the body.

"I can't believe I'm doing something so corrupt."

"Hey, I can't judge. I helped fake Sherlock's…" Molly trailed off awkwardly, realising who she was talking to.

She wished she could suck the words back in like a vacuum. But instead they sat there, heavy in the air like smoke.

"Ah, lest we forget," Margaux joked, trying her best to alleviate the discomfort.

"Sorry."

"it's fine, really. Can you help me?"

"Sure."

They began to prepare; putting on lab coats and clear plastic goggles. They heaved the body onto the slab and wheeled a tray of equipment to its side.

Margaux glanced down at Molly's hands as she stretched on a pair of latex gloves. "Oh no, what happened?" She asked.

"Hm?"

"No ring. Is your engagement over?"

"Oh, God you're turning into him."

"Sorry. I just… noticed. Are you alright?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Molly sighed. "Something just wasn't right, you know? He wasn't… I guess I thought because he was sort of what I wanted, I could just fill in the blanks. Turns out it doesn't work like that."

Margaux nodded empathetically. "It's hard when your heart lies somewhere else."

"What? Oh, no that wasn't- well, I mean…"

"It's alright. I know the feeling. A bit too well."

"Yes, but I'm not… I don't… I would never…"

"Molly. It's okay. I love that you love him. And I'm eternally sorry that he doesn't– that he can't."

"I'm sorry too."

They smiled at each other kindly.

"I guess we're just a pair of rejects standing over a corpse," Margaux laughed.

"Yeah. At least he'll never turn us away."

They laughed together.

"I'm really happy to have you as a friend… Even if you did help Sherlock fake his own death." She winked.

Molly smiled awkwardly.

…

"I am sorry, Margaux," said Molly as they slid the body into a freezer cabinet and began to clean up.

"What for?"

"For helping Sherlock… disappear."

"You don't need to be sorry, Molly. You did what was asked of you. If anything, you saved lives; Moriarty had hitmen ready to kill people if he didn't jump."

"No, I know that. I mean I'm sorry for not telling you that he was alive. I let you and John and so many other people go through all that grief while knowing I could stop your pain."

"But you couldn't. It had to be believed. We know that now."

Margaux turned around to see Molly getting upset, trying to blot her watering eyes on her sleeve.

"Hey, what's the matter?" Margaux asked softly.

"Sorry, I just– Whenever I think back to it– It was so hard being the only person that knew both sides. I had to watch you go through your pregnancy thinking you were alone, grieving for him while raising a baby, all the while I knew he was alive. And then on the other side, I knew he was out there, I knew that he had a son and had no way to tell him."

Margaux walked over to her and placed her arm around her gently.

"I tended to say no to the secret jobs after that," said Molly. "Which is probably why Mycroft hired you."

Margaux comforted her for a while longer. She had never blamed Molly, not even for a second. It broke her heart to see that she had carried the guilt for so long.

III

John rushed through the front door.

"Mary? Mary!?"

He ran into the kitchen, almost colliding with his wife who stood with a steaming kettle in her hand.

"Bloody hell, John." She noticed his panicked expression, the beads of sweat on his brow. "What? What is it?"

"Janine."

"What?"

"Sherlock and Janine. They're seeing each other."

"Good one." Mary snorted before walking back to counter and continuing to make her tea.

"No. I'm being serious. We've been invited to… dinner."

"Dinner!? I don't believe that man. He starts his morning being dragged out of a drug den, and by the evening he's got a girlfriend and is asking us on a double date! He needs help, John."

"I know," he replied, taking a mug of tea from Mary as he spoke. "But right now, there's no helping him. He's convinced he's in control of the drug-use. Says it's for a case."

"What sort of case requires him to have sleepovers with smack heads?"

"This guy… Charles Magnussen. You know the one who owns the papers? Met him earlier, he's an absolute creep."

Mary felt a wave of sickness come over her as she pretended she was listening. She pursed her lips and walked to the fridge calmly, grabbing the milk and adding it to their mugs with a forced smile.

III

Margaux poured herself a glass of gin and took it into the living room. She turned on the television and curled up on the couch, the decision of whether to stick with her new job weighing heavily on her mind.

She began to hear scratching at the front door, accompanied by shuffling and banging as if someone were trying to get in. She rushed to the door, her heart thudding as she tried to think of the easiest and closest object she could grab to defend herself. But as she looked through the peephole, the feeling of panic dissipated, immediately replaced by anger and confusion.

"How did you get in the building?" She asked as she opened the door.

"I'm Sherlock Holmes," he replied confidently, walking inside. "Also, someone was coming out as I was going in."

"Ah."

She watched him make his way into the living room, following close behind. He threw himself down right where she had been sitting. She let out a huff before taking a seat on the other couch. His eyes were sunken, his hands fidgeting in his lap.

"I heard John found you in a not-so-flattering situation this morning," she said.

"You normal people and your gossip."

"I believe whatever state you were found in earned you a slap from Molly Hooper."

Sherlock inhaled deeply. "I came here to see you and to see my son. Not to be lectured."

"Well your son isn't here, he's staying in Rose's. And thank God. I'd hate for him to see you like this."

"Your righteousness is painful."

Margaux ground her teeth together, taking a sharp breath. "You know what, Sherlock... leave us alone."

"What?"

"Leave us alone."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, as if he were a teenager being told off by his parents.

"I don't want you around us like this. I have to protect Vaughan."

"From what?"

"From you."

Sherlock huffed and began to speak.

"No," Margaux interrupted. "I've come to accept the fact that you're an absolute idiot. But he… he doesn't deserve this. He's not your acquaintance. He's not a chore. He's your son, and he expects nothing from you but love. Actual love. Love that you really, honestly feel. Turning up in this state, this isn't love."

"You complain I haven't spent time with him and then when I come over you berate me."

"Because you're not spending time with him. I don't know why you've come here, but it's not for him. Not really. You have so much to offer him, to teach him, but instead you're off doing god knows what with god knows who, turning up here like a petulant, drug-fuelled lump on my couch."

"It's. For. A. Case–"

"Yes, Sherlock, you keep saying. But what I don't think you realise is that you doing this to yourself - your willingness to destroy your mind and body for 'a case' does nothing but show how much more important work is to you than us. Him. I don't care what the case is. I don't care how interesting or evil the person you're following is. I don't care. Nothing warrants this."

They sat in silence for a moment. Margaux's eyes fixed on him, while his remained glued to the wall ahead.

"I think you forget that I never chose this role," he finally said.

He spoke slowly, trying hard to be concise and coherent. He felt sad and his head was pounding; he was coming down from his high.

Margaux blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I was like this as a child. I was like this before I lived in London. I was like this when we met and I was absolutely like this when you decided to get into bed with me."

"You're saying I knew what I was getting into…"

"Precisely."

"I knew that you were going to get me pregnant and then fake your own death…"

"Obviously not."

"That I should apologise to you. For making you a father when I knew that didn't fit in with your 'quirky detective' persona. Silly me. How dare I."

"You're overreacting. Putting words in my mouth."

"It was sex, Sherlock. Just sex. I never once lay down with you trying to conceive a child. But it happened, and I stepped up and did my bloody job. And when you came back after pretending to die I gave you the choice. You opted in. So don't you dare try to defend your drug addiction by saying I forced fatherhood on you."

Sherlock turned to look at her. He opened his mouth to speak, but instead he began to heave. Margaux grabbed a small bin from the corner of the room and shoved it under his chin.

"Stay here until you come down," she said. "I don't want you going back out there like this."

"Mhm, yes," he replied feebly.

Margaux headed for the living room door before stopping and turning to him. "There's a vivid memory I have. It's one I held on to so dearly when I thought you were dead... You broke into my flat – climbed through my window. It was when you thought I'd lost the baby." She stopped for a moment, looking down at her stomach. "You held your hands over my stomach and you said… 'this would have been a really good thing.'"

Sherlock didn't reply. But he was listening. He thought about Margaux almost every day when he was in hiding, and he remembered that moment too; how it felt to mourn something he never even knew he wanted.

He was Sherlock Holmes. The great consulting detective. The charismatic, enigmatic, fascinating man who solved crimes and cracked mysteries when no one else could. Currently sitting on a couch with his head buried inside a bin. He sighed, willing for her to come back. But she never did.

...

She wasn't tired, but there was a man she was very angry with sitting in her living room, so she went to bed anyway. She turned off all the lights and climbed under the duvet, lying with her back to the door, gazing out of her window at the night sky.

The door creaked open behind her. She was too exhausted to continue their fight, so she remained still. Ignoring him. Pretending to be asleep. She waited for him to speak, but instead she felt the weight shift on the mattress as he climbed in behind her. He wrapped his arms around her waist and buried his face into the back of her neck.

"I'm sorry," he said in a whispered mumble, almost inaudible. "I'm so sorry. It will be over soon, I will be me again soon."

She turned her head slightly. He pulled back, almost embarrassed that she had heard him.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to wake you, I just–"

"I wasn't asleep."

"Oh."

His voice was feeble and quivering.

"Sherlock, what's happening to you?"

"The come down is often the part I find most challenging. I find I can become quite… not myself."

Margaux rolled over to face him, looking at him closely. He was shaking, his cheeks sunken, his eyes teary and irritated. He looked as fragile as glass, she was scared he was breaking. She placed the back of her hand against his forehead. No fever. There was nothing he could do except ride it out. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into her, holding him as he shivered. He held her tight; for the first time in his life, welcoming the embrace without a second thought.

They lay together for a while. Margaux drifted off to sleep while Sherlock clung to consciousness, his arms around her never slackening until his phone began to buzz in his pocket. He slipped out of bed and looked at the message.

'You said you would text me instructions? J.'

Sherlock checked the clock. 7.15pm. It was time. He patted his pocket, checking for a ring box, before creeping quietly out of the flat and hailing a taxi to Magnussen's office.