The night was black like smoke, cold like death. Fine rain fell like mist across the windshield as the car turned onto the residential street. It halted under the orange glow of a streetlight, the silence thick and heavy as the engine cut out.

John got out of the car, dragging his feet as he walked towards his house. He didn't want to step through the door, because coming home without his wife somehow made it real. Margaux climbed out of the driver's side and followed beside him. She placed her hand on his back, guiding him gently as they walked. Sherlock opened the car door, yet before he could set his foot down, John turned around.

"No," he said sternly, his voice harsh and coarse.

Sherlock stared at him with wide eyes, his foot on the pavement, his hand clutching the door handle.

Margaux turned back to him. "Just… stay there," she said quietly with an empathetic smile.

The warmth inside the house surrounded them like a hug. Vaughan was sleeping soundly on the couch while Rosie slept beside him in her basket. Molly stood in the middle of the living room, her arms folded and lip quivering as she watched John walk straight past her. Margaux hurried towards her and pulled her into a tight hug, feeling her sniffling against her shoulder.

She pulled away and turned to John "Do you want me to take Rosie too?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he began to climb the stairs.

"It's okay," said Molly. "I'll stay. He shouldn't be alone."

They shared a nod.

Margaux lifted Vaughan off the couch as Molly draped a blanket over him, careful not to wake him as they walked to the front door.

III

Sherlock held his sleeping son close to his chest, wrapping his coat around him to shield him from the rain. They climbed the stairs and walked down the hall to Margaux's flat. He watched her fumble with her keys as she unlocked the front door, pushing it open and ushering him inside.

He carried Vaughan to bed, shushing him softly as he stirred. He sat on the edge of the bed for a moment, stroking his head and watching him sleep. He assumed he was feeling grateful for him, but he couldn't be certain. Sherlock had never been good at distinguishing his emotions.

In the kitchen, Margaux poured herself a large glass of neat gin. She swirled it around for a moment before bringing it to her lips with a shaking hand. Sherlock appeared in the doorway, watching quietly as she gulped it down.

"Well goodnight," he said.

"What?"

"I have to go. There's a case I wanted to do some reading for–"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I said I'm leaving, Margaux," he snapped. "I have outstanding cases – better things to be doing with my time than watching you guzzle down gin!"

"Mary. Is dead. And you're just heading on back to work like it was some minor inconvenience!?"

He hovered in the doorway, choosing his words carefully to avoid the lump forming in his throat. "I cannot let myself grieve. If I give way to grief, I risk falling apart."

"If you give way to grief?" she scolded. "She was one of your best friends, Sherlock. She was John's wife. We watched her die. She deserves for you to grieve you cold bastard!" She slammed her drink down on the counter, causing the glass to smash and cut her hand. She winced in pain, looking down at the blood pooling in her palm.

Sherlock sighed and rushed to her side, reaching out to take her hand. She pushed him away, turning her back to him and carefully picking the glass out of the cut. He followed, trying to help, yet each time she would pull away in anger.

He sighed again. "Just- let me…"

"No," she replied sternly, battling with him as he tried to take hold of her hand.

"Margaux…"

She glared up at him with red, irritated eyes. He returned the glare; the pair staring at each other in an intense silence that seemed to last forever. Yet suddenly, Sherlock's breath quivered. Margaux furrowed her brow as she watched his lip tremble and his eyes well up with tears, and like instinct, she grabbed him quickly, pulling him into a hug as he began to cry. He cried into the crook of her neck, clutching at the material of her top as he felt himself breaking.

They dropped to their knees together on the kitchen floor. She held him tight as he cried, leaning back against a cabinet door as he collapsed into her.

She buried her face into his hair. "It wasn't your fault," she whispered. "I know what he said. I know you think you failed her. But I promise you, Sherlock, it wasn't your fault."

III

She wasn't sure how much time had passed. Only that it was still dark outside. She stroked his hair as he lay in her arms listening to hear breathing. He thought back to John resting his forehead against Mary's unmoving chest, and found himself cherishing the feeling of Margaux's chest rising and falling beneath him.

"Come on," she said softly, shuffling out from underneath him.

She knelt in front of him on the kitchen floor and gestured for him to take her hands. He looked down at the dried blood in her palm and frowned, taking her hand in his and running his thumb gently over the wound.

"It's fine, I'm fine," she said.

"I'm sorry." His voice was so low and quiet it was almost inaudible.

"Don't be. Just... come on. You need sleep, we both do."

They stood up together, their bodies heavy and tired as they walked slowly to Margaux's bedroom. They undressed next to each other in the dark, discarding their clothes in heaps on the floor before climbing into bed.

When it came to spending the night together, Margaux had grown to expect reluctance from Sherlock. Unless lost in the heat of desire, he would seldom entertain the idea of sharing a bed. Yet tonight, it was clear that he was tired – too tired to make quips about sleeping separately and too tired to act cold and uninterested. Tonight, he was simply too tired to play the role of Sherlock Holmes. Instead, he curled up under the duvet and let out a long, slow exhale.

Margaux turned on her side. "Talk to me," she said quietly.

He reached out and wiped away a tear that had trickled down her cheek. "I..." his voice was deep and crackly like wood smoke. "I can't escape the feeling of guilt-"

"I told you it's not your fau-"

"I hadn't finished." He took in a deep breath. "I can't escape the feeling of guilt, that I am able to lie next to you tonight. While John..."

She brushed a curl out of his eyes. "Sleep," she whispered, before moving closer and curling into him.

He wrapped his arm around her and closed his eyes. He was tired. Though he wasn't sure sleep could fix it.

III

There was a funeral.

And with it came the deliveries of flowers, cards and messages of condolences; each one as unhelpful and unwelcome as the last. No amount of white lilies or kind thoughts could bring Mary back, and no matter how many times Sherlock tried to talk to his best friend, he would always be met with silence, anger and blame.

Margaux suggested therapy. Sherlock told her that therapy was nothing more than facilitated self-indulgence. But she was worried about him, and so he went to the bloody therapist.

"Do you have experience with grief?" asked the therapist.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment as the image of Moriarty pushing a gun into his mouth invaded his mind. The feeling of his father's hand on his shoulder as he stood before his uncle's coffin. The pain in his chest when he though Margaux had lost their baby.

"Hasn't everyone?" he replied.

"We've all experienced loss." She twiddled her pen in her fingers. "Grief, however, is different for everybody."

Sherlock didn't respond.

"What is grief like for Sherlock Holmes?"

"It's a parasite. Gnaws on my brain while I'm trying to focus."

The therapist cleared her throat. "Well… Instead of seeing it as an intruder, it might benefit you to… invite it in. Explore it. You've told me everything that's happened and it must be difficult."

Sherlock remained silent. Staring straight ahead with eyes so blue they were almost clear.

She tried again. "Do you want to talk about it?" she waited, but he didn't speak. "This is a two-way relationship, you know?"

He drew in a deep, frustrated breath and blew it out in a sigh.

"The whole world has come crashing down around you, everything's hopeless – irretrievable. I know that's what you must feel. But I can only help you if you completely open yourself up to me."

"Not really my style," he finally replied. "I need to know what to do."

"Do?"

"About John."

III

Mrs Hudson sat in the armchair holding a damp ball of tissue under her nose.

"Nothing will ever be the same again, will it?" she snivelled.

"I'm afraid it won't," Sherlock replied bluntly as he sat opposite her.

"We'll have to rally 'round I expect, do our bit."

Margaux walked in from the kitchen carrying a mug of tea. She handed it to Mrs Hudson before perching on the arm of her chair and rubbing her shoulder.

"Look after little Rosie," Mrs Hudson finished, crying as she spoke.

Sherlock shot up from his chair, looking around awkwardly in search of a distraction.

"I'm just going to… erm… Look through these things." He pointed to the table covered in paper. "Might be… a case." He sat down at the table.

"A case? Oh, you're not up to it, are you?"

"Work is the best antidote to sorrow, Mrs Hudson," he replied.

Margaux noticed his fingers jittering over the keyboard of his laptop. "We all cope differently," she said, trying to ease his discomfort.

"Yes. Yes, I expect you're right," Mrs Hudson replied, resting her head on her fist. "I'll make some tea, shall I?"

"I just made you some," said Margaux, pointing to the mug on the small table beside her.

"Yes, but it's not very good."

Mrs Hudson got up and walked off into the kitchen.

Margaux slid down the arm into the chair and crossed one leg over another. "I knew I couldn't cook, but apparently, I can't make tea either–"

"Margaux," Sherlock interrupted. "If you ever think I'm becoming a bit… full of myself or overconfident, would you just say the word 'Norbury' to me?"

"Norbury."

"Just that. I'd be very grateful."

His hand brushed across a stack of papers and grazed over a thin, unopened package hidden beneath them. He slid it out and examined it.

"What's this?"

Mrs Hudson walked back into the living room. "Oh, I brought that up. It was mixed up with my things."

He tore it open and slid out a plain white disk with two words scrawled across it in black ink.

'Miss Me?'

III

John was hollow. Anger and defeat echoed around the emptiness inside of him. He couldn't cry anymore, he couldn't smile, he could barely blink. He noticed everyone rallying around him – doing what they could to make things easier like watching Rosie, cooking his dinner, speaking softly in his presence. But they were passing him by, like he was fast-forwarding them as he sat there still.

He had started to see Mary in the corner of his eye, hear her close to his ear. He hoped the quieter, the stiller he sat, the more likely he was to have these moments with her.

Molly stepped into the living room and closed the front door behind her. She was holding Rosie in her arms, a sunken expression on her face.

"Was that him?" He asked calmly.

She nodded.

"Did you tell him?"

She nodded again.

He got up and walked to the window, peering out through the blinds as he watched the tall, dark figure disappear down the street.