John stood on the busy high street, watching as a bubbly, awkward woman hurried away and disappeared into the crowd. He twiddled a strip of paper between his fingers, a plastic daisy in his other hand.

07700 900 552

E xx

He read over her quick scribble, smiling at the angular scrawling – it reminded him of Sherlock's handwriting. He laughed to himself for a moment before opening his phone. But something stopped him. He thought about her smile; the flutter of nerves he felt when he noticed her looking at him on the bus. He shook the feeling away, holding the paper over the mouth of a street bin.

"Who was that?"

He turned quickly to see Margaux standing beside him. "Hm?" He stuffed the paper into his jacket pocket, looking back towards the spot he had stood with the woman. "Oh, I spent an entire bus ride with Rosie's plastic daisy in my hair." He held up the flower. "Gained some attention."

"Ah," she laughed. "Anyway, shall we go?"

They walked to a small café and found a place near the window. Margaux slipped off her bag and coat as John carried a tray of coffees to their table. He sat across from her, distracted by the thought of the woman's phone number sitting in his pocket.

"I actually forgot we'd planned to have coffee until about twenty minutes ago," she chuckled. "Which is why I love having a car. I can do everything last minute."

"Mhm."

She tilted her head and squinted her eyes. "Something on your mind, Watson?"

"Sorry," he shook his head. "Sorry, no, I'm fine."

Margaux shrugged, taking a sip of her coffee. "So, I've been thinking about Sherlock's birthday. I was–"

"Sorry, what?" John's back straightened with intrigue.

"I wanted to talk to you about Sherlock's birthday. I was thinking of throwing him a small surprise thing–"

"He'd hate that."

"Exactly." She smiled.

"Wait, how do you know when Sherlock's birthday is? He won't tell anyone. I've been trying to figure it out for years."

"I asked his mum on Christmas Day."

"Ah, so simple yet so brilliant."

"I know."

"When is it?"

"18th February. He's an Aquarius in case you were interested. It explains a lot."

"I'll take your word for it."

They finished their coffees slowly. Margaux knew exactly how tired John was; noticing the bags under his eyes and how he basked in the moments of quiet. She recognised it in herself, not having the heart to tell him it would be years before he would sleep properly again.

III

In the days that followed, there had been a body in a car, a broken bust, Margaret Thatcher? Something was itching in the back of Sherlock's mind; a familiar voice in a clean-cut suit asking him did you miss me?

He had pondered the thought for some time, whether it was possible to miss something so toxic – so fundamentally bad. He knew he shouldn't miss him, that his return shouldn't excite him. But Moriarty was the moon and Sherlock was the tide, and since the moon had disappeared, the water had been eerily still.

He stood in a dark corner, slowing his breath and turning his head to listen carefully. His heart fluttered with excitement as he waited, like a chess player anxiously awaiting his opponent's next move. He had followed Moriarty's breadcrumbs and they had lead him to this house. For what? He didn't know. But he was certain something was coming.

The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end as the careful, quiet opening of a door invaded the silence. He slid out of his corner like a shadow and flicked on the light.

"It would be much simpler to take your grievances out at the polling station."

He had been planning that line in his head for a while, finding it difficult to hide how pleased he was with his delivery of it.

The man turned, pointing a gun to Sherlock's chest. He smacked it away quickly, blocking the man's attempts to hit him and elbowing him in the face. They brawled around the house, delivering smacks and blows that left both of them tired and sore. They fell together into the indoor pool, struggling for dominance before the man forced Sherlock's head under the water.

His head remained there. Bubbles danced across his face as his breath slowly began to leave him. He pushed back, fighting to emerge from the water, but the man's grip was too strong. Sherlock's eyes flashed open, and through the chlorine sting, he saw Vaughan – large blue eyes and round rosy cheeks reaching out to hug him. Suddenly, with a surge of strength, he forced himself up, taking in deep gasps of breath as he continued to battle the man behind him.

III

Margaux sat on her couch looking down at the plate of food in her lap, then across to the other plate she had placed on the coffee table. She checked the time on the TV and huffed. Sherlock was late – so late that she was almost certain he wasn't going to turn up at all. She tucked in to the takeaway food she was going to pretend she had cooked, annoyed with herself for going to the trouble to hide the containers.

'Your dinner is cold.' She sent the text and threw her phone on the couch beside her.

III

He stood over the man triumphantly, gripping the large, ugly bust of Margaret Thatcher in his hand. This was it. He was finally going to unlock the next piece of Moriarty's puzzle. He grinned knowingly, ignoring the ache in his bruised ribs as he threw the thing to the ground and shielded himself from the explosion of white clay and stone. Yet suddenly, his smile vanished. Amidst the rubble on the floor lay a flash drive. A.G.R.A

"That's not possible," he whispered. "How could she…" He picked up the flash drive and turned it in his fingers. "I don't understand. She… She destroyed it."

The man reached for his gun. "She?" He struggled to his feet, pointing the gun towards him. "You know her. You do, don't you? You know the bitch." He spat out his words. "She betrayed me. She betrayed us all."

"Mary… This is about Mary?"

Blue lights flashed against the walls of the home as pool water dripped from Sherlock's hair and trickled down his furrowed brow.

III

A frantic banging on the front door startled Margaux awake. She sat up in bed and brushed her sleep-tousled hair out of her eyes, looking at the clock on her bedside table.

"Are you joking?" She muttered angrily as she climbed out of bed and hurried out of the room.

"Bit too late now," she began as she opened the door. "Your dinner's in the bin–" she stopped speaking, the sarcasm draining from her like a slowly deflating balloon. "Mary?"

Mary hurried inside the flat, hoisting the strap of her large, bulging bag onto her shoulder. The panicked look in her eyes was contagious, inducing a thud in Margaux's chest as she closed the door behind them.

"What's going on?"

"I'm leaving."

"What? Why!?" Margaux gestured for her to come into the living room.

Mary shook her head. "I can't, I'm sorry I really have to go. I just needed to see you before I left."

"Mary you're scaring me. What's happening?"

"I thought I was done running from my past. But it's still chasing me."

"Who's after you?"

"That doesn't matter. All you need to know is that I'm leaving. I'm going to disappear before someone gets hurt."

"No, you don't have to do this. Sherlock and I can protect y–"

"Stop, Marg, just listen. I came here because I need you to promise me." She lowered her voice to a whisper. "Promise me you will be there for John, and that you'll help him with Rosie – god knows he'll need it. And Sherlock. Don't give up on him. I know I said don't wait, but I was wrong. Wait for him."

Mary fixed her black beanie over her head, turned away and opened the door.

Margaux grabbed her gently by the sleeve. "You're talking like you're not coming back..."

"Don't tell them I was here. John and Sherlock. You mustn't tell them." she glared deep into her eyes. "Marg, please. If the only way you could keep Vaughan safe was by disappearing, then you would do it. I know you would. I have to protect John and Rosie. But I can't do that here."

Margaux let out a sigh and blinked away the tears in her eyes. She watched as Mary disappeared down the hallway, wondering if she would ever see her friend again.

III

The weeks that passed were empty and cold. Even when John smiled at his infant daughter, the warmth could never quite reach his eyes. Anger and worry cancelled each other out, leaving behind a numbness that dulled every movement and thought.

Margaux walked into 221B with Vaughan at her side. She blew a strand of hair out of her face as she threw down her bag and folders from work. Rosie's car seat rested on the couch with the baby sleeping soundly inside. She rushed to her, leaning down and checking she was okay before turning around and scanning the flat for signs of the two men.

Vaughan made his way into the kitchen and straight over to his father who was crouched down, rummaging through the cupboard under the sink.

"Daddy."

Sherlock turned around. "Ah, when did you get here?" he replied plainly, as if Vaughan were a grown man.

"Sherlock it's dangerous to leave a baby on the couch like this," said Margaux as she lifted Rosie out of her car seat.

"Is it?" He shrugged. "That's where John put her so I thought it was acceptable to leave her there."

"Where is he?"

"Work. I'm… babysitting." He grimaced.

"Really? You know you have to actually watch the baby for it to be considered 'babysitting'..."

Sherlock stood up to walk towards her when suddenly, his ears pricked. He turned around swiftly to see Vaughan reaching out to touch a bottle of liquid in the cupboard. He scooped him up quickly and closed the cabinet with his foot.

"Ah ah, that's poisonous," he said to his son.

Vaughan stared back vacantly.

"Poi-son-ous," Sherlock repeated, enunciating clearly. "Can. Kill. You."

"Nice," Margaux nodded. "I can see why John trusted you with his daughter."

"Believe me, Margaux, I'm utterly perplexed too."

They sat down together in the living room. She rocked Rosie gently in her arms as Sherlock crossed one leg over the other, staring past her with cloudy eyes.

Since Mary had left, it was as if Sherlock had left with her. He was vacant and distracted, taking refuge inside his mind palace and only peering out at the world through a crack in its door.

"Any word?" asked Margaux.

"She left John a letter, she's trying to run from A.J; get him away from her family."

"Oh..."

His eyes burned through her like sun through a magnifying glass. "But you already knew that…"

There was a long pause as she searched for something to say. Eventually giving up with a roll of her eyes.

"Just out of curiosity," she said. "Had you already figured out that I knew? Or did I just do something that gave it away?"

"Something you did gave it away."

"Damn it."

Vaughan walked up to his father, patting his leg gently. "Daddy can I play with that?"

"Hm? Oh, yes, here." Sherlock reached up and grabbed a human skull from the mantelpiece, handing it to the toddler with a genuine smile.

Margaux pressed her mouth into a hard line as she watched her son skip away happily with the skull.

"So…" she huffed. "have you figured out what to do about Mary yet?"

"There's nothing to 'figure out'. I'm Sherlock Holmes, I know exactly where she is. I'm just waiting for John so we can go and get her."

"How do you know where she is? She wouldn't say a word about where she was going."

"I put a tracer on the memory stick." A smirk crept across his face, creasing his cheeks and wrinkling his nose.

"You put a tracer on her?"

"I had a feeling she would try to flee so I did what I had to do to ensure I could keep her safe."

"By… putting a tracer on her…"

"What's the big deal? I've done it before."

"To Mary?"

"To… Many people." He broke eye contact for just a moment.

Margaux pushed her tongue into her cheek. "To me?"

"Ugh, fine, yes."

"Sherlock!"

"Calm down, it was once or twice."

III

Night fell across London. John arrived at Baker Street with a large bag over his shoulder, stopping and looking Sherlock up and down as he stood in the doorway.

"No bag?" he asked.

"Why would I need a bag?" Sherlock frowned as he stood with his hands in the pockets of his trousers, his chest straining against the buttons of his navy blue shirt.

Margaux stepped forward with Rosie in her arms. "Be careful guys," she sighed.

"No promises," said Sherlock as he looked down at his phone.

She rolled her eyes. "Go and say goodnight to your son, will you."

He grinned, proud that he had managed to irritate her once more before he left. He slipped his phone in his pocket and walked off to the bedroom.

John placed his bag on the floor and stepped towards Margaux, kissing Rosie on the head as she slept in her arms.

"Will you be okay?" he asked.

Margaux smiled. "Between me, Molly and Mrs H, I'm sure we'll be just fine."

He nodded and took a deep breath, turning to look at Sherlock as he emerged impatiently at the bottom of the hall.

"Be back soon," he said as he pressed his lips against Rosie's head. "I'm going to bring Mummy home."