A throbbing pain pulsated down the back of Margaux's head. Her neck was stiff, shoulders aching as she rolled over on the cold tiles. She groaned as she opened her eyes and looked around the quiet kitchen through hazy vision, like a camera slowly shifting into focus. Vaughan. She couldn't hear him. Then she remembered Sherlock's voice; don't worry, he's great with kids.

"Sherlock, you bastard," she grumbled as she clambered to her feet.

She took a few hesitant steps forward as she was engulfed by a sudden wave of nausea. She forced herself to run, rushing through the hall towards the downstairs toilet where she was met by Mycroft. He was leaning over the sink splashing his face with water, the remnants of vomit still visible in the corners of his mouth. They looked at each other for a moment before Margaux dropped to her knees and threw up into the toilet.

"Where are they?" asked Mycroft between deep breaths.

"How would I know?" she replied as she sat back against the wall and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

"Margaux, it is imperative that you tell me what you know."

"Do you really think Sherlock would tell me anything?"

"I think there are two people he would tell. One of them has vanished, and the other is sitting in front of me on the bathroom floor."

She sighed. "He's doing what he feels he has to. He's going to save her."

"If you're referring to Magnussen then I'm afraid his attempt will be in vain. The only way Magnussen would even entertain a negotiation would be if–" He stopped suddenly.

She stared up at him, her brows sitting heavy over her watery eyes. He turned his head slowly to look at her as it began to click.

He charged for the door. She jumped up, grabbing at his jacket to pull him back but he wriggled out of her grasp. She chased him down the hall towards the kitchen but it was too late. He stood, staring blankly at the table. It was gone.

"Dear God, no," he said quietly.

Mary rushed into the room. She was groggy and unsteady on her feet.

"Where's John?" she asked in a panic.

"Mary, are you alright?" asked Margaux.

"Yeah, I'm… I'm fine. I just woke up in the living room with Mr and Mrs Holmes, and that Bill guy's there with Vaughan. But I can't find John."

"Vaughan! Is he okay?"

"Yeah, he's fine…"

She hurried out of the room to find her son.

"You shouldn't have encouraged this, Margaux," Mycroft called out to her. "For two intelligent people, you have made a catastrophic misjudgement."

III

Charles Augustus Magnussen sat on his large, white leather couch sipping a glass of whiskey. He swilled it around his mouth with a slight smile as he listened to the rumbling of the helicopter approaching. He had been expecting them. The helicopter landed on the grass. Sherlock and John climbed out, allowing two security guards to escort them inside the crisp, modern white house.

They stepped out of the lift and walked towards him as he continued to sit calmly, nursing his whiskey.

"I would offer you a drink but it's very rare and expensive," said Magnussen.

Sherlock turned and sat beside him on the couch with a sigh, placing the laptop between them and crossing one leg over the other.

"Oh, it was you," he said as he looked up at a projection playing against a glass wall.

It was Sherlock and Mary, fighting with the flames of a bonfire to rescue John who was buried inside.

"Yes, of course," Magnussen replied. "Very hard to find a pressure point on you, Mr Holmes."

"Mm."

"The drugs thing I never believed for a moment. Anyway, you wouldn't care if it was exposed, would you? But look how you care about John Watson. Your damsel in distress."

John walked closer to Magnussen, his jaw tight as he spoke. "You… Put me in a fire. For leverage?"

"Oh, I'd never let you burn, Dr Watson. I had people standing by," he stood up. "I'm not a murderer… unlike your wife."

John glared at him with fury.

"Let me explain how leverage works, Dr Watson. For those who understand these things, Mycroft Holmes is the most powerful man in the country. Well... apart from me. Mycroft's pressure point is his junkie detective brother, Sherlock. And one of Sherlock's pressure points is his best friend, John Watson. John Watson's pressure point is his wife. I own John Watson's wife..." he looked over at Sherlock. "I own Mycroft. He's what I'm getting for Christmas."

"It's an exchange, not a gift," said Sherlock as he slid the laptop towards him.

"Forgive me, but I already seem to have it."

"It's password protected. In return for the password, you will give me any material in your possession pertaining to the woman I know as Mary Watson."

"Oh, she's bad, that one. So many dead people. You should see what I've seen."

"I don't need to see it," John interrupted.

"You might enjoy it, though. I enjoy it."

Sherlock gave a nod. "Then why don't you show us?"

"Show you Appledore?"

"The secret vaults? Is that what you want?"

"I want everything you've got on Mary."

Magnussen let out a laugh. He shook his head and patted the laptop with his hand. "You know," he said. "I honestly expected something good."

"Oh, I think you'll find the contents of that laptop–"

"Include a GPS locator. By now, your brother will have noticed the theft, and security services will be converging on this house. Having arrived, they'll find top secret information in my hands and have every justification to search my vaults. They will discover further information of this kind and I'll be imprisoned. You will be exonerated, and restored to your smelly little apartment to solve crimes with Mr and Mrs Psychopath. Mycroft has been looking for this opportunity for a long time. He'll be a very, very proud big brother."

"The fact that you know it's going to happen isn't going to stop it."

"Then why am I smiling? Ask me."

John stepped towards him, his frustration building. "Why are you smiling?"

"Because Sherlock Holmes has made one enormous mistake which will destroy the lives of everyone he loves and everything he holds dear." Magnussen stood up."Let me show you the Appledore vaults."

He lead them through to two large wooden doors. He placed his hands on the handles and turned to the two men.

"The entrance to my vaults. This is where I keep you all."

He pulled the doors open revealing a windowless white room, completely empty except for a single chair in the middle.

"Okay, so where are the vaults then?" asked John.

"Vaults?" said Magnussen, his tone almost menacing. "What vaults? There are no vaults beneath this building. They're all in here." He sat down in the chair and pointed to his head. "The Appledore vaults are my Mind Palace. You know about Mind Palaces, don't you, Sherlock? How to store information so you never forget it. By picturing it. I just sit here, I close my eyes… and down I go to my vaults." He closed his eyes. "I can go anywhere inside my vaults. My memories. I'll look at the files on Mrs Watson. Mmm, ah. This is one of my favourites. Oh, it's so exciting. All those wet jobs for the CIA. Ooh! She's gone a bit... freelance now. Bad girl. Ah, she is so wicked. I can really see why you like her." He opened his eyes again, looking up at Sherlock. "You see?"

John cleared his throat. "So there are no documents. You don't actually have anything here."

"Oh, sometimes I send out for something... if I really need it. But mostly I just remember it all."

"I don't understand."

"You should have that on a T-shirt."

"You just remember it all?"

"It's all about knowledge. Everything is. Knowing is owning."

"But if you just know it, then you don't have proof."

"Proof? What would I need proof for? I'm in news, you moron. I don't have to prove it. I just have to print it."

Sherlock looked down at the ground. The realisation of his mistake beginning to set in.

"Speaking of news," Magnussen continued as he stood up. "You'll both be heavily featured tomorrow. Trying to sell state secrets to me. Let's go outside. They'll be here shortly. Can't wait to see you arrested."

John watched him walk out of the room before stepping closer to his friend. "Sherlock, do we have a plan?"

Sherlock continued to stare at the ground.

"Sherlock."

"They're taking their time, aren't they?" said Magnussen as he stepped out onto the patio.

"I still don't understand," said John as he followed.

"And there's the back of the T-shirt."

"You just know things. How does that work?"

"I just love your little soldier face. I'd like to punch it. Bring it over here a minute."

John glanced to Sherlock who had finally joined them outside.

"Come on. For Mary. Bring me your face. Lean forward a bit and stick your face out. Please?"

John leaned in reluctantly.

"Now, can I flick it? Can I flick your face?"

John leaned in further, allowing Magnussen to flick his cheek sharply. He blinked. Magnussen flicked him again, chuckling to himself.

"I just love doing this. I could do it all day. It works like this, John. I know who Mary hurt and killed." Flick. "I know where to find people who hate her." Flick. "I know where they live; I know their phone numbers." Flick. "All in my Mind Palace. All of it. I could phone them right now and tear your whole life down. And I will... unless you let me flick your face." Flick. Flick. Flick. "This is what I do to people. This is what I do to whole countries. Just because I know. Can I do your eye now? See if you can keep it open, hm?"

He flicked John's eyebrow, causing him to flinch.

"Come on. For Mary. Keep it open."

"Sherlock?"

"Let him. I'm sorry," Sherlock replied as he stood nearby, struggling to think. "Just... let him."

John grimaced as Magnussen flicked him again. "Come on. Eye open. It's difficult, isn't it? Janine managed it once. She makes the funniest noises."

The sound of a helicopter began to approach, growing louder and forcing strong gusts of wind across the patio. It soared over the roof, dropping down to hover nearby, pointing its bright spotlight at the three men. Armed police hurried up the path, aiming their weapons towards them as Mycroft's voice began to blare through the helicopter speakers.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson! Stand away from that man!"

"Here we go, Mr Holmes!" said Magnussen.

"To clarify," Sherlock began, shouting over the noise from the propellers. "Appledore's vaults only exist in your mind, nowhere else, just there!"

"They're not real. They never have been."

Sherlock nodded.

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Step away!" Mycroft's voice boomed.

"It's fine! They're harmless!" shouted Magnussen.

"Sherlock, what do we do?" said John.

"Nothing!" said Magnussen, turning to look at them. "There's nothing to be done! Oh, I'm not a villain. I have no evil plan. I'm a businessman, acquiring assets. You happen to be one of them! Sorry. No chance for you to be a hero this time, Mr Holmes."

"Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, stand away from that man. Do it now!"

"Oh, do your research," Sherlock sneered as he stepped closer to John. He reached behind him, pick pocketing the gun from his coat.

Save Mary. That was what he had to do. At any cost, by any means, with any consequence. He had to save her. And that was exactly what he was going to do.

"I'm not a hero," he said as he stepped towards Magnussen. "I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Merry Christmas!"

he raised John's gun and fired it at Magnussen's head before dropping it to the ground and turning to face the helicopter with his arms raised in the air. John recoiled in shock.

"Get away from me, John!" Sherlock turned to look at his friend. "Stay well back!"

"Christ, Sherlock!"

The armed police raised their weapons.

"Stand fire!" Mycroft shouted over the speaker. "Do not fire on Sherlock Holmes! Do not fire!"

"Oh, Christ, Sherlock," said John.

"Give my love to Mary. Tell her she's safe now."

III

She had spent the two days since Christmas cooped up inside her flat. She was forbidden from going to Baker Street, unable to communicate with him at all. She sat on her couch chewing her fingernail – still angry. She was sure she would be angry forever. But the dread she felt when she thought of him leaving was stronger than any rage her body could muster.

Vaughan sat on the living room floor surrounded by colourful pens and paper; 'drawing a picture for Daddy', he had said. It was enough to break her heart.

The intercom buzzed. She rushed to the front door and answered it.

"Yes?"

"It's me." His voice was so low it crackled through the speaker.

She pressed the button and waited near the door, chewing the same fingernail until it began to sting. His knock was gentler than usual – weaker.

"I'm surprised Mycroft let you come," she said as she opened the door.

"There's a car downstairs surveilling the building; just in case I try and make a run for it."

She nodded and let him into the flat, following him into the living room and watching as Vaughan ran into his arms excitedly. Sherlock dropped down on one knee to catch his son's hug. Pulling away after a moment to look at him with a genuine smile.

"I made you a picture," said Vaughan.

"Excellent, I've been needing one of those."

Sherlock planted himself cross-legged on the floor as he sifted through all the drawings with careful consideration, complimenting him on each one as if they were masterpieces. Margaux sat on the couch and watched them quietly, smiling as Sherlock took his drawing, folded it and tucked it neatly into the breast pocket of his coat.

"For safekeeping." He winked at him.

Vaughan smiled proudly.

III

Sherlock sat on the edge of the small bed, watching his son's chest rise and fall calmly. He stroked his thumb across his rosy, round cheek and tucked him in before creeping out of the room and closing the door. He found her standing in the living room peering through the curtain into the dark street. He stepped towards her.

"Thank you," he said quietly. "For letting me put him to bed."

She continued to look out of the window, watching the collection of mysterious dark cars parked around the building.

"Mycroft's really got you surrounded," she said.

He joined her at the window. "Mm. You'd think I'd killed someone…"

She glared up at him. He was making jokes? Now?

"That's not funny, Sherlock." She hit him on the arm, causing him to stumble backwards slightly. "Why did you have to go and bloody kill him? You know when I told you to kill him, I didn't actually mean it."

"You should have made that more clear."

Her eyes darkened. "Why, Sherlock?"

"To save Mary. I had to."

There was a long silence. Margaux finally nodded, stepping away from the window and running her hands through her hair.

"So, that's that? You killed him and you have to leave and there's nothing anyone can do about it?"

"Mycroft's had a plane ready since this morning. I requested one more day… Told him if he wanted me to go without incident, then he must allow me to come here first."

"So, this visit… This is a goodbye."

"Yes."

She felt tears welling up behind her eyes, salt in her nose. "Well what does it– I mean, will we ever see you again? Can we write to you? Video call?"

"My brother has made certain that I am well and truly exiled. I'll be placed on an assignment for MI6, no one is to know where I am."

"So, this is the last time I'll ever see you."

He nodded.

She took a deep breath, trying to loosen the lump forming in her throat. "I lost you once, I never thought I'd have to do it again." Her voice cracked. "What do I tell him? Vaughan. How can I…"

"Tell him that I would have never left him willingly."

And with that, Margaux burst into tears. She covered her face, trying to quell the sobs.

"Please don't..." he whispered.

She cleared her throat and held her head high for a moment before the urge to cry overcame her once more. Sherlock sighed and stepped forward, pulling her into a hug.

"I have no idea why you're so upset," he said as he rested his chin on top of her head. "I drive you mad."

Margaux laughed through the tears, pressing her face against his chest and taking in his clean scent. She looked up at him as he placed his hands either side of her face, brushing away her tears with his thumbs, and like instinct, she leaned upwards to kiss him. He returned the kiss softly, savouring every moment, taking note of the way she tasted, the way her lips curved to fit with his, the way her hands gripped the back of his neck. She pressed herself against him, deepening the kiss and trailing her fingers down his chest, along the buttons of his shirt to undo them.

He grabbed her wrists suddenly, holding them in place. "No," he whispered. "Not yet."

"Sorry," she whispered back.

"No, don't be sorry. As much as I'm sure we will… get to that. There are other things I need to do first."

"Other things?"

He let go of her wrists. "Margaux, if I am to never see you again… then I want to be sure to remember everything. I want to build you a room." He tapped his finger against his temple.

"I'm getting my own room in the mind palace?"

"Not if you dive straight into trying to sleep with me. Then it would just be more of a cupboard. With you, naked, inside of it… And I have one of those already." he smirked.

She pushed him away with a laugh.

She sat down on the couch, watching him as he began to pace back and forth.

"I want to be sure I know everything about you," he said. "Basic things. Like what's your favourite colour?"

"You don't know my favourite colour? Sherlock, I've told you my favourite colour."

"Yes, yes I know but it didn't seem like important information at the time so I didn't save it."

"You didn't save it? So, your head is an actual computer?"

He stopped pacing for a moment to sneer at her.

"It's yellow," she said.

"Yellow. Hm. Okay. Favourite book is The Woman in Black. Favourite food is that god awful halloumi stuff. Favourite song is that... that one you always listen to..."

"Don't Dream It's Over."

"Yes. What's your favourite flower?"

"Foxgloves."

"Aren't they poisonous?"

"That's why they're my favourite."

His mouth curled into a smirk.

He continued to ask questions for the next couple of hours, collecting and saving every piece of information she gave him; taking note of how her mouth moved around her words, how her voice dipped and rose, her laugh, her accent, making sure he recorded every minute detail – he didn't want to forget anything.

Margaux peered out the window, looking down at the cars that hadn't moved for hours. She could feel the cold December night fighting its way through the glass, causing her to shiver as she stepped away and pulled the curtains fully closed.

She walked through the hall to the kitchen as Sherlock took two glasses from the cupboard and placed them on the counter. As she watched him, she realised this was the last time she would ever see him in her kitchen. It was the last time they would ever occupy the same space, breathe the same air. She thought about the first time she lost him; the things she wished she'd said, the things she regretted holding back. She had been given a second chance, blessed with the knowledge that this was the last time, and she wasn't going to waste it.

She walked around the counter to his side and slipped her arms around his waist, pressing herself against him and hugging him tight.

He froze. "Erm… Margaux?"

"There have been so many times when I wanted to just… hug you," she said against his chest. "And I always held back because I didn't want to scare you off. You know, this whole 'are we friends, are we more' thing has been wild. But most of the time, I didn't even care what we were, I just wanted to be able to walk up to you and… do this."

He groaned in the back of his throat. "Physical contact…"

"You're better at it than you like to admit."

III

They sat on the couch together watching Margaux's favourite film. It was as if Sherlock had forgotten who he was. Though it was more likely that he knew exactly who he was; he was simply demonstrating the upmost self-control in allowing the two cogs in his head to stop fighting. Just for one night. He sat upright with his feet planted firmly on the floor, Margaux curled into him, her head resting on his chest and her arm draped over his stomach.

"Why would they listen to anything that fraud had to say?" said Sherlock, pointing angrily at the television.

"The point is that they all had what they were looking for all along."

"Well that's just ridiculous. And imagine leaving a clearly concussed person to sleep; of course she became delusional."

Margaux sat up to look at him closely as the end credits began to roll. "You didn't get even a little bit of joy from that? Not even from the songs?"

He shook his head with a grimace.

"I could while away the hours," she began to sing. "Conferrin' with the flowers, consultin' with the rain…"

"Please stop. I can't have this making it into the mind palace."

"Why!? He's just like you, listen:" She jumped up onto her knees, swinging her arms back and forth as she continued to sing. "Oh I could tell you why the ocean's near the shore…"

"Margaux stop."

"I could think of things I've never thunk before…"

"I am pleading with you," he said, his voice breaking with laughter.

"And then I'd sit!–"

He wrapped his hand around the back of her neck and pulled her towards him; his lips on hers before she could even finish. Not that he cared about interrupting her song. She placed her palms on his chest to steady herself as she welcomed the kiss eagerly, melting into him as if it were the last time – and it was the last time.

He wanted to touch every part of her; leaving no place un-kissed, no desire un-met.

He took her face in his hands and broke their kiss apart. "Bedroom. Now," he said.

She nodded, a slight grin tugging the corners of her mouth. She kissed him again and climbed off the couch, taking his hand and leading him across the hall.

III

They lay together in the dark. A tangle of bare limbs and bedsheets. Margaux loved the moments that followed sex; it was a time where she truly caught a glimpse of Sherlock, like she was a welcomed visitor behind the cold, unyielding wall that surrounded him. He lay with his head resting on her bare chest, caressing her upper arm, running his fingers across her small hand-poked tattoo.

"What is it?" he asked quietly. "I've often tried to work it out."

She giggled softly. "It's the symbol for Libra."

Even through the darkness she knew his face had scrunched in distain.

"I didn't know you were into all that," he said.

"I'm not really. I was seventeen, drunk at a party, and this guy I barely knew did it for me with a sewing needle and ink from a ballpoint pen. I'd read a bit about my star sign and it is pretty accurate."

He traced the outline of the tattoo with his fingertip, noticing the bumps and ridges where skin met ink.

"Libras are charming, romantic, indecisive, fair…" she said as she ran her fingers through his curls.

"Mhm. As are many people who are not Libras."

"Yours is pretty accurate too. Aquarius' are independent, analytical, assertive, impulsive, unpredictable, stubborn."

"You know a lot for someone who's not that into astrology."

She turned on her side to face him. "You can stick 'knows useless facts about star signs' in my room." She tapped her finger against his forehead.

He grabbed her hand and moved it away from his head before leaning in to kiss her. "I don't think I'll bother saving that one," he said against her lips.

III

The cool morning sun glittered through the blinds. Sherlock woke suddenly, as if his dream had startled him awake. He checked the time, climbed out of the bed and pulled on his clothes, careful not to wake Margaux as she slept beside him. As he headed for the bedroom door, he noticed a bottle of perfume on her dresser. He picked it up and sprayed a generous amount on the cuff of his shirt before creeping out the door.

Outside, he was greeted by a barrage of cars. Mycroft climbed out of one and waved him over.

"Long night?" Mycroft asked sarcastically as he watched his brother climb into the car.

Sherlock sat back in the seat as the car began to drive away. He patted the breast of his coat, exhaling calmly as he felt the edges of Vaughan's picture in the pocket.

Find chapter 33.5 in 'Glass: Omitted Scenes'.