Sherlock finally stood up from his armchair and walked to the kitchen. He fastened the buttons of his shirt, hastily covering up the places she had kissed, as if her lips had left scars – brandings of his weakness.

"I'm sensing this is a bad time," said John as he watched him flick the switch on the kettle to re-boil it.

"Not at all," he replied.

The two men turned to Margaux as she sat quietly, her forehead still glued to the table.

"Not a bad time, is it Margaux…" Sherlock pressed.

"No of course not," she sat up. "I haven't had sex since May, but you wanted to pop 'round for tea at half past ten so…" she gave John a sarcastic smile.

"I apologise," he laughed. "But if it's any consolation, I'm pretty sure what I just witness will scar me for life."

Sherlock poured hot water into his mug. "Tea, Margaux?"

"I think I should just go. I'll be back in the morning for Vaughan." She stood up.

"You don't have to go. There's a perfectly good spare bed–"

"'Spare bed'," John scoffed. "Like you weren't about to do it in your armchair five minutes ago."

"And that, John, is why I'm leaving. The moment's gone; the cloud of desire has lifted and he's no longer interested," she said.

Sherlock stared at her blankly. He assumed he was missing her point, but he didn't care much to try and understand.

"I can be alone and sexually frustrated from the comfort of my own bed at home. No need to do it here. Goodnight, boys."

She walked out of the flat and picked up her coat from the floor where Sherlock had hastily stripped it from her only ten minutes earlier. She thought about the story of Jekyll and Hyde and how much it reminded her of Sherlock; the intelligent, tormented doctor who wore his hair neat and his posture proper, who inside of him resided Hyde – the impulsive monster. She wished Sherlock's Hyde had stuck around a little longer that night.

III

They waited until they heard the front door slam shut. John walked to the window and watched as Margaux climbed inside a taxi on the road below. He sighed and re-joined Sherlock at the table.

"Listen I'm sorry for ruining your night. If I'd have thought there was even the slightest possibility that I'd be interrupting... that. I wouldn't have come."

"Don't be sorry, John. It was a lapse of judgement on my part – shouldn't have happened."

"Wha- why not?"

"Because all of this... This 'leaving the kids with a babysitter so mummy and daddy can have date night'. That's not me. I wasn't meant for any of this. Giving in to physical urges and lust... I can't lose focus like that anymore."

"Lose focus from what? Being Sherlock Holmes? You know you'd still be you, right? Sharing your life with someone wouldn't make you any less… you," said John. "Also, just because you've built yourself up to be this cold, pragmatic loner doesn't mean you have to stay that way forever. It's okay to change."

"But I haven't changed."

"Look mate, you can never predict a woman like Margaux Cave walking into your life."

"What do you take me for, John?" he scoffed. "I'm not some simple man who loses all comprehension the second a pretty girl shows interest."

"I'm not just talking about her looks, Sherlock. I'm talking about her. She's perfect for you. I don't know how to put it into words, you're just... you're fire and ice. You've met your match in each other, yet when you come together, that intensity creates..."

"A big puddle of water? Great analogy."

"You become... one," John sighed.

Sherlock deflected John's romanticism with an eye-roll that was almost audible. He let out a huff and leant back in his chair.

"And she's the mother of your child. That means something," John finished.

"It means we're two fertile adults."

"It means that against all the obstacles you put in place to stop people getting close to you, she somehow got through. Enough to create life with you."

"Hmm that's very good, John. Tell me, when did you last spend time with the woman who created life with you?"

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it? Have you looked at the USB yet?"

John took a gulp of his lukewarm tea. "No, I haven't."

"Why?"

"Because I... I don't know if I want to."

"Then why have you brought it in your pocket?"

"How did you–"

Sherlock stood up, threw his mug into the sink and walked off towards his bedroom. "If you can't face going home tonight then your old bed is available, since Margaux didn't take up the offer."

John slid his hand in the pocket of his jeans and touched the USB, wondering what deductions Sherlock had made to know he was carrying it with him. He pondered how even after all this time, he could still be so easily steered into changing the conversation. Even when he felt like he was leading, he knew he never really was. Sherlock was in control. Always. And it was infuriating.

Sherlock slipped off his shoes and unbuttoned his shirt. His belt had already been undone. When did she do that? He took off his trousers and climbed into bed, pulling the plain white sheet right over his head. He sighed as he curled up on his side, glaring at the vacant space next to him. His bed had never felt empty before.

III

September was a stony, grey bridge leading summer towards autumn. On one side was a clear blue sky, clouds of pollen in a warm breeze. On the other resided dark evenings and rain pattering on crisp brown leaves. September was much like its bridge; stony and grey, growing colder and duller with each day that passed. It had been two weeks since their dinner. Neither of them spoke of that night again, partly because of the feelings of embarrassment that had attached themselves to the memory, but mostly because she was sure he had expelled it from his mind; forgotten it, as easily as a dream that fades as soon as you wake up.

Margaux stood in the lab of St Bart's Hospital, leaning against the cabinets in the corner of the room with her arms folded across her chest. She looked out of the window, her gaze skimming the tops of scaffolding that wrapped itself around the building opposite. She watched as a pair of builders began their slow, careful descent down the scaffolding ladders, wondering if they would survive a fall from this height should their feet slip. She leant towards the window and tilted her head upwards, attempting to see the edge of the hospital roof from where she stood; she wondered how he survived the fall, or if he even fell at all. She knew he would never reveal the answer.

Molly walked through the door with an exasperated sigh. Her face was flushed from the harsh wind, a thick scarf bundled around her neck and tucked into her buttoned-up coat. She took off her hat and smoothed her ponytail with the palm of her hand.

"I didn't think I'd have to put on a hat and scarf this early in the year," she joked.

"I know, I always forget how unpredictable the weather is this time of year. The sun will be splitting the pavement by midday," Margaux replied as she continued to gaze out of the window.

Molly gave a polite laugh as she hung up her coat and scarf. "When you said that you were coming in today, I didn't think you meant first thing in the morning." She took her lab coat from the cupboard and slipped it on as she spoke.

"Well I woke up at 5am and couldn't get back to sleep, and Vaughan was sleeping over at Baker Street so I just… got up and came here."

"Oh. Something on your mind?"

"Just this case Mycroft's put me on." She rubbed her eyes. "I just need to get it over and done with before it drives me completely insane."

"What is it? I could always help. I- I mean, if you need me to."

"I have to fake someone's death. Oh, the irony!" She laughed.

The laugh reminded Molly of the time before they were friends; when she could never remember Margaux's name and knew her simply as Dr Cave – the strange one – the one who would request corpses from the morgue so nonchalantly it was as if she were ordering lunch, who would laugh at her own joke in the middle of the lab, who would sing along to music and sway her hips while examining the DNA samples of murderers. Everyone always commended Sherlock on his minuscule steps towards sociability. However, it was as if the change in Margaux had slipped by undetected; she had softened and somehow toughened at the same time. She was kind and funny, a loyal friend, a protective mother. Yet there was still a spark of strange in her, Molly thought, an endearing, peculiar quality.

"Y-Y… You have to…" Molly stammered.

"I have to fake someone's death." She lifted a manila folder from the counter beside her and read the first page inside. "Julien Amadio."

"W-why?"

"Mycroft won't tell me a thing. Clearly this is something too classified, even for the people orchestrating the whole thing."

Molly sat down in her desk chair and cleared her throat. "Erm…"

"I know you can never tell me how you did it. So, I won't ask."

Molly breathed an internal sigh of relief and she felt the muscles in her shoulders relax. She swivelled the chair to face Margaux. "Thank you."

"No problem."

There was a long silence before Margaux spoke again.

"I will need a body though, if you can get one for me," she said chirpily. "40 to 45 years old, 5ft 10, 196 pounds, medium skin tone, dark hair..."

There's the strange again, Molly thought with a smile.

By midday the sun was gleaming as it warmed the air and dried the pavements. Margaux had gained everything she needed for her job within an hour of Molly arriving, yet she had decided to stick around. She pulled up a stool and propped her elbows on the worktop, resting her chin on her fists as she watched Molly work. They talked about their favourite things, their best and worst memories, their opinions on trivial pop-culture dramas and celebrity scandals. It was nice to talk about something other than work.

Margaux checked her watch. "Do you want to go for lunch?" she asked.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, I can't. I'd really love to though. I just can't leave because…" Molly gestured to the abundance of tests and paperwork in front of her.

"It's okay, don't worry. I'm going to head off before the weather changes again. If you need an extra pair of hands just call me."

"I thought you weren't a pathologist," Molly joked.

"I'm not. But I'm pretty slick with a pair of gloves and a petri dish."

They shared a smile as Margaux took her coat from the hanger and left.

III

Sherlock stood in the shower with his arms outstretched, palms flat against the cold tiles. His head was stooped, the water pattering against the back of his head and trickling down his face. He ran a hand over the scar on his torso, grazing the bump of thickened skin with his fingertips; he was sure he could still feel it aching, but perhaps that was just the memory.

The water began to run cold – Mrs Hudson still hadn't had the boiler repaired. He sighed as he reached for the dial to shut the water off when suddenly the shower curtain whipped open, revealing two men in dark suits standing in his bathroom. He turned his head to look at them through the wet locks of hair that had stuck to his face.

"Gentlemen," he regarded them plainly, as if not startled by their presence at all.

One man leant over and turned the water off, while the other grabbed Sherlock roughly and heaved him out of the bath.

He stood in the living room with his hands covering his crotch, water still dripping from his bare skin.

"Can you at least get me my robe?"

Mycroft nodded towards one of his men, sending him to retrieve it from the bedroom. Sherlock glared at his brother who was sitting in his armchair, one leg crossed over the other.

In the doorway, Mrs Hudson let out a squeal, followed by the deafening crash of the tea tray hitting the floor.

"Oh, Sherlock, have some decency!" her voice quivered.

"You say that, Mrs Hudson, yet I notice you still haven't looked away," he replied.

She huffed and tutted, averting her eyes as she began cleaning up the mess.

The man returned and handed Sherlock his robe. He slipped it on and tied it tightly around his waist before stepping towards Mycroft and clearing his throat. Mycroft rolled his eyes and stood up, moving aside for Sherlock to sit in his armchair.

They sat opposite each other as Mrs Hudson brought a fresh tray of tea to their side. She blushed as she exchanged a glance with Sherlock.

"Calm down, Mrs Hudson, you may have a pulmonary," he said as he sighed and pulled his robe tighter across his chest.

She hurried back downstairs to her own flat where Vaughan was napping, leaving them glaring at each other in silence.

It took several minutes for Mycroft to finally break. "Well I'm pleased to know you're alive. I was starting to get somewhat worried," he said dryly.

"Somewhat worried. This is just… somewhat worried?"

"Well what did you expect me to do, little brother? You haven't been returning my messages, and it's been over two weeks."

"So, you had the Kray twins ambush me in the shower…"

"I brought them for precaution. You see, by now I'm accustomed to your unpredictability and lack of willpower."

"I haven't used in months."

"Congratulations. Would you like a celebratory coin? Perhaps a sash?"

"What do you want, Mycroft?"

"To know why you're ignoring me."

"Your neediness is sickening."

"Not needy. Just curious."

Sherlock poured himself a cup of tea and lifted it to his lips. His brow sat heavy over his eyes as he scowled at his brother.

"I warned you…" he began. "I warned you to never involve her in your work."

"Ah," Mycroft responded as he bit into a biscuit. "Because your work is much safer."

Sherlock stopped for a moment, catching his angry rebuttal before it had a chance to surface. Instead, he sighed.

"I want you to fire her," he said.

"Now why would I do that?"

"Because she has no business working for you. I don't even understand why you would go out of your way to offer her a job!"

"Short answer: I wanted to. I wanted to provide her and Vaughan with financial security. I wanted to be able to guarantee her safety while also having access to her expertise–"

"Her safety? Why?"

"Well believe it or not, Sherlock, but the wellbeing of my nephew is of the upmost importance to me."

"Forgive me for finding that hard to believe, considering this is the first time I've actually heard you refer to him as your nephew." He took a sip of tea. "Mycroft, if this is some ridiculously elaborate way of telling me they're in danger–"

"Not at all."

"Then. Fire. Her." He spoke through gritted teeth as he stood up. "Also leave. I'm cold and I'd like to get dressed."

"Very well," replied Mycroft. He walked out of flat, followed by the two suited men.

Sherlock shook his wet hair like a dog, shuddering as drops of water snuck under his robe and trickled down his back.