Sherlock wasn't entirely certain how long it had been since Margaux left. It felt like months. Yet the bullet hole in the ceiling was still shedding plaster and paint, so he knew it had really only been a few days. Mrs Hudson asked him to let the handyman repair it, but every time, Sherlock would refuse. It was the only thing that proved she had once been there, that she was real, so he wanted to keep it exactly how it was.
He paced around the flat, his movements so quick he created a breeze as he walked. His eyes darted around the room, struggling to focus on one thing for more than a second, and his fingers trembled as he gripped his phone in his hand. He stopped suddenly, an idea brightening his dull skin for just a moment as he rushed to a pile of books near the couch. He searched through them quickly, throwing the unwanted books over his shoulder until he found the one – The Encyclopedia of Plants and Flowers. He sat on the floor with his back against the arm of the couch as he flicked through it roughly, ignoring the sounds of tearing pages and papercuts forming in the nooks of his fingers. Finally, he stopped on a page and grinned, taking a photo of it with his phone and sending it to her.
Look, Foxgloves. S.
He waited. But a reply never came. He threw his phone across the room and stormed into the kitchen for another fix. It was all his fault. He had lost Mary and John, now Margaux and Vaughan too. All by his own hand; the same hand that was now injecting his arm with drugs, the same hand that had started pointing the finger at Culverton Smith and accusing him of murder, the same hand that picked up the gun from the kitchen table and began swinging it maniacally around the flat.
Mrs Hudson crept up the stairs, flinching at the sounds of smashing and shouting as Bill Wiggins hurried down the stairs past her.
"I'm out of 'ere," he said, panic-stricken. "He's lost it. He's totally gone!"
She carried on nervously until she got to the living room door as Sherlock's loud, manic ramblings grew clearer. She poked her head around the side to catch a glimpse of him. The walls were blanketed in pictures of Culverton Smith, articles, newspaper clippings, printed photographs. She looked around at the mess when a bullet whipped closely past her face. She gasped, shutting the door quickly as another two shots shook the walls of the house.
"The game's afoot," said Sherlock breathlessly.
Mrs Hudson opened the door again, peering around at him.
"Oh, hello," he said, swaying on the spot and looking down at the gun with confusion. "Can I have a cup of tea?"
"Tea!?" She shouted as she followed him into the kitchen.
He scratched his head with the gun. "Please."
She thought for a moment, took a deep breath and walked to the kettle. "Yes… Yes of course."
"He's a serial killer. Has to be. Why not? I mean, why not?" Sherlock rambled, pacing the living room again as Mrs Hudson made the tea.
"These pictures. They're the man off the telly, aren't they?"
"What pictures?"
"They're everywhere."
"Oh, these pictures! Oh, you can see them too, that's good." His head began to hurt. He closed his eyes for a moment. "Ugh. Cup of tea!"
Mrs Hudson turned around with the tea. Her hands were shaking, the cup rattling against the saucer as she stepped towards him.
"Oh, for goodness sakes," he said as he watched her. "What's the matter with you? Are you having an earthquake!?"
She looked at him fearfully as he approached her, waiting until he was just close enough before dropping the tea. She knew he wouldn't be able to help himself, and she was right. In one swift movement, Sherlock threw the gun on the table and dipped down to catch the cup and saucer.
He stood back upright, hearing a familiar metallic click. He stared at her – his head heavy, eyes struggling to focus at the sight of her pointing the gun at him.
"Right then, Mister, now I need your handcuffs. I happen to know there's a pair in the salad drawer." she said firmly. "I've borrowed them before."
He furrowed his brow and crinkled his nose.
"Oh, get over yourself," she said, still pointing the gun at him. "You're not my first smackhead, Sherlock Holmes. Come on then. Let's go."
"Where are we going?"
"We're going to find John," she replied calmly.
III
"Let me go!" Sherlock shouted as two young men in Speedy's aprons hauled him through the front door. He wriggled, causing them to drop him on the hard steps.
"Ow!"
"Oh, get him quick before he runs away!" Mrs Hudson shouted.
"I'm not a cat!"
They picked him up again as Mrs Hudson opened the boot of her sleek, red sports car. "In there'll do. Thanks boys."
"Does the sun have to be so bloody bright!? Go away you big, yellow bastard!" He screamed into the sky.
The two men dropped him again as they tried to stuff him into the boot, eventually managing to tuck his long limbs inside.
Mrs Hudson stood over him with the gun in her hand. "So, are you going to tell me where I need to go?"
Sherlock let out a sigh before giving her an address. She nodded and slammed the boot shut.
III
John sat across from his new therapist. She was a plain, grey-haired woman with glasses who cocked her head to the side when she spoke. He could tell he was being snappy with her; short, sarcastic and angry. Nowadays, he was always angry.
They noticed the faint hum of a speeding car, stopping their conversation as the noise grew louder and closer. The screeching of breaks and crashing of wheelie bins raised them from their seats. They rushed down the hallway of the therapist's house as the sound of sirens and helicopters approached.
John opened the front door and stepped out, watching as Mrs Hudson climbed out of her car. She smiled and breathed a sigh of relief as she made her way towards him, startled when a police officer tried to stop her.
"Right, you there! Stop right where you are!" the police man shouted. "Do you have any idea what speed you were going at?"
"Of course not, I was on the phone!" She replied. "Oh, it's for you by the way."
"For me?"
"It's the government," she said before hurrying to John.
"Look at the state of you! Mrs H, what have you been doing!?" asked John. "What's happened?"
"It's Sherlock!" she cried, collapsing into him. "You've no idea what I've been through!"
III
Molly opened the front door with Rosie on her hip. She was wearing a cream, patterned blouse buttoned up to the collar and her hair fell loosely down her back.
"Hi." She smiled.
Margaux stepped into Molly's flat and followed her into the kitchen. "Sorry I'm a bit late, got held up at work."
"Oh… Were they okay with you leaving early?"
"I don't know," she replied, twiddling her work badge in her fingers. "I'm pretty sure they're all scared of me because they think I secretly work for MI6. Guess it comes in handy when I need time off."
Molly laughed and lifted a fluffy, teal cardigan from the kitchen counter. "Do you... Would you mind…" she gestured to the baby.
"No, of course." Margaux took Rosie in her arms, bouncing her gently as she watched Molly put on her cardigan and tie her hair into a ponytail. "So, what time does John finish therapy?"
"I'm not sure. But he did say he'd pick her up from you this afternoon."
"Oh okay."
Molly looked at her closely. She seemed different somehow; tired, sad, distracted. "You still haven't spoken to him?"
"No." Margaux sighed. "He keeps… texting me."
"Sherlock? Texting… Voluntarily? Gosh."
"I know." She let out a tired laugh. "I feel so guilty ignoring him when I know he's hurting. But I just can't do it, Molly. I said I was done and I have to mean it. If not for my own sake then for Vaughan's."
"I suppose we've all gotten so used to just putting up with Sherlock and his…"
"Shit?"
"Mhm. I just didn't realise it was weighing on you this much."
"A few years ago, it probably wouldn't have. But now; I don't think there's any of my heart left to break. It's just dust at this point."
Molly understood. She understood so much that she could almost feel the dust in her own chest too. If it were her, she wasn't sure if she would be able to stay away from him. Perhaps that was the difference between her and Margaux, she thought. Though as they both stood heartbroken in the middle of her kitchen, she didn't feel different at all.
"I'm sure he's got some elaborate plan in the works to try and coax me into talking to him again," said Margaux. "Anything to prove how bloody clever he is."
The alarm on Molly's phone began to beep. She looked down at it and pressed her lips together. "You're not going to like this then," she said.
"What?" Margaux huffed.
"Well, erm, two weeks ago, he asked me to meet him at an address in Chiswick… this afternoon. And to bring a fully equipped ambulance."
"Two weeks…"
"Yep. That was the alarm to remind me."
"Unbelievable."
They gathered Rosie's things, put her into her car seat and walked out of the flat together. Margaux watched as Molly hurried down the road toward St Bart's where the ambulance was waiting.
She strapped Rosie's car seat in the back and climbed into the driver's seat, unlocking her phone and looking at the picture of the Foxgloves once more.
III
"Culverton Smith," said the therapist as she clicked on her laptop, pushing her glasses up her nose. "This, I think, is relevant from this morning. He's publicly accused Mr Smith of being a serial killer."
She clicked on a link which led to an article.
Net detective blasts Culverton Smith on Twitter
Defamatory remark goes viral on social networking site
Media tycoon yet to comment
John leant down to the laptop. He knew Sherlock could be impulsive, but accusing someone of being a serial killer was risky, even for him.
"Christ! Sherlock on Twitter. He really has lost it."
"Don't you dare make jokes," said Mrs Hudson. "Don't you dare. I was terrified!" she stepped towards him. "You need to see him, John. You need to help him!"
"Nope."
"He needs you!"
"Somebody else." He turned away from her. "Not me. Not now."
"Now you just listen to me for once in your stupid life. I know Mary's dead and I know your heart is broken, but if Sherlock Holmes dies too, who will you have then? Because I tell you something, John Watson. You will not have me."
She stormed out of the house and threw herself against her car, crying into her arms as John followed slowly.
"Have you spoken to Mycroft, Margaux, Molly, anyone?" he asked reluctantly.
"They don't matter. You do." She turned to him. "Would you just see him? Please, John. Or just take a look at him as a doctor? I know you'd change your mind if you did."
He shook his head, pausing for a moment. "Yeah, look, okay, maybe, if I get a chance."
"Do you promise?"
"I'll try, if I'm in the area."
"Promise me?"
"I promise."
"Thank you!" She smiled brightly and walked to the boot of the car, lifting it up and turning to John.
John glanced inside, his forehead creasing as Sherlock's contorted body lay there. His wrists cuffed together, his irritated eyes staring up at him in a daze.
"Well? On you go," said Mrs Hudson. "Examine him!"
John opened the front door and let Sherlock inside.
"The woman's out of control. I asked for a cup of tea!" he said, rubbing his sore wrists.
John watched as Sherlock picked up a vase of flowers from the shelf and guzzled down the murky water.
He turned to Mrs Hudson. "How did you get him in the boot?"
"The boys from the café," she replied.
"They dropped me. Twice," said Sherlock angrily before stopping and taking a long look at the therapist as she stood talking on the phone. "Who's this one? Is this a new person? I'm against new people."
"She's my therapist," said John.
"Awesome! Do you do block bookings?"
The therapist stepped towards John, handing him the phone. "I'm so sorry. I answered your phone. You were busy. I think you'll want to take it."
"Uh, yes," he raised the phone to his ear. "Hello?"
"Is this Doctor John Watson?"
"Yeah. Who's this?"
"Culverton Smith. You've probably heard of me."
"Er, well, yes."
"I'm aware of this morning's developments, and I assume we're all still meeting later…"
"Yes. I'm sure he was being... hilarious. Sorry, did you say all still meeting?"
"You, me and Mr Holmes. I've sent a car; should be outside. Mr Holmes gave me an address."
"Well, he couldn't have given you this one. It's..."
The doorbell rang. John frowned.
III
Sherlock sat in the chair with one leg crossed over the other. Even while sitting still, the energy that radiated from him was frantic and unsettling.
"How did you know?" John asked. "How? On Monday I decided to get a new therapist. Tuesday afternoon, I chose her. Wednesday morning I booked today's session. Now, today is Friday. So, two weeks ago – two weeks before you were abducted at gunpoint and brought here against your will, over a week before I even thought of coming here, you knew exactly where you'd need to be picked up for lunch?"
"Really?" Sherlock began sarcastically. "I correctly anticipated the responses of people I know well to scenarios I devised? Can't everyone do that? Except the boot. The boot was mean."
"How?" asked Mrs Hudson.
"Never mind how," John interrupted. "He's dying to tell us that. I want to know why."
"Because Mrs Hudson's right. I'm burning up. I'm at the bottom of a pit and I'm still falling and… I'm never climbing out. I need you to know, John – I need you to see that up here," he gestured to his head. "I've still got it, so when I tell you that this," he pointed to the picture of Culverton Smith on the laptop. "is the most dangerous, the most despicable human being that I have ever encountered; when I tell you that this-this monster must be ended, please remember where you're standing, because… you're standing exactly where I said you would be two weeks ago." He slumped in his chair. "I'm a mess. I'm in hell. But I am not wrong, not about him."
"So what has all this got to do with me?"
"That creature, that rotting thing, is a living breathing coagulation of human evil, and if the only thing I ever do in this world is drive him out of it, then my life will not have been wasted. Look at me. Can't do it, not now. Not alone." Sherlock stood up, stepping towards John and giving him his hand.
John grasped his arm and turned it over to examine the dark scars and puncture marks. "Yeah, well, they're real enough, I suppose."
"Why would I be faking?"
Mrs Hudson watched as the two men bickered and couldn't help but smile slightly at the sight.
"Listen, before I do anything, I need to know what state you're in," said John.
"Well, you're a doctor. Examine me."
"No, I need a second opinion."
"Oh, John, calm down. When have you ever managed two opinions? You'd fall over."
"I need someone who – unlike me – learned to see through your bullshit long ago."
"Who's that, then? I'm sure I would have noticed."
"The last person you'd think of… I want you to be examined by Molly Hooper."
Sherlock looked down, biting his lip.
"Do you hear me? I said Molly Hooper."
Sherlock looked up at him. "You're really not going to like this…"
"Like what?"
The doorbell rang again.
III
Margaux stood on the playground of the nursery waiting for Vaughan to come running out to her. She shifted Rosie from one arm to another, keeping her eyes down to avoid having to make conversation with the other parents.
"You're getting heavy, do you know that?" she said to Rosie.
Vaughan ran out towards her with a huge smile. She smiled back, shaking her head when she noticed his jumper was inside out. She took his hand and they began to walk back towards the carpark when she noticed something out of the corner of her eye. A tall, out of place figure watching her near the gates.
"You shouldn't really hover outside a nursery you know, Mycroft," she said as she approached him.
"Trust me, I won't be making a habit of it," he replied dryly.
"Uncle Mycof!" Vaughan shouted, hugging his uncle's legs.
Mycroft patted the boys head. "Hello, little one." He nodded at Rosie. "And… littler one."
He walked with them towards her car, his hands behind his back, posture straight.
"I assume you've seen the news," he said.
"I have. 'Detective accuses Culverton Smith of being a serial killer'. Honestly, I just read it as 'Proof: Sherlock Holmes is down to his last functioning brain cell'"
Mycroft smirked. "Ah, so the pair of you are fighting, are you?"
"I wouldn't say 'fighting'…"
"Well lover's quarrel then, whatever they call it; either way, I assume this means you won't be there to keep an eye on him?"
"Nope. Sorry, Mycroft. Not his babysitter, not his secretary, not his wife."
She unlocked the car and let Vaughan climb inside before strapping Rosie into her seat and closing the door. She looked up at Mycroft, waiting for the sarcastic quip. Yet it never came.
"I'm finding myself rather… concerned," he said sincerely.
She blew a strand of hair out of her face. "Me too, Mycroft. Really. But I'm not going to expose my son to his father in that state. I saw a lot of things growing up, which is why I never even wanted childr–" she sighed. "But now I have him, and I swore he would never have to see or hear or feel what I did. I hope you can understand that."
III
The longer John spent in the company of Culverton Smith, the more he understood Sherlock's suspicions. He was a small, creepy man that seemed to speak solely in insinuations, and as they followed him through the hospital, John felt a sense of unease; like he was being lured into a trap.
Culverton led them into a room. Sherlock looked around, sliding out a large metal drawer from the wall.
"So," he began. "Your favourite room: the mortuary."
"What do you think?" Culverton replied.
Sherlock bent down to the next drawer where a body lay covered in a sheet. "Tough crowd."
"Oh, I don't know." He pulled back the sheet, revealing the body of an elderly woman with a Y-shaped autopsy scar on her chest. "No, I've always found them quite pliable." He grasped her jaw and pulled it down.
"Don't do that," said John.
"She's fine, she's dead." He smirked. "H.H. Holmes loved the dead. He mass-produced them. Serial killer, active during the Chicago Fair. Do you know what he did? He built a hotel, a special hotel, just to kill people. Y'know, with a hanging room, gas chamber, specially adapted furnace. Y'know, like Sweeney Todd." He moved the dead woman's jaw as he spoke. "Without the pies!" He chuckled to himself. "Stupid. So stupid."
"Why stupid?" asked John.
"Well, all that effort. You don't build a beach if you want to hide a pebble; you just find a beach. And if you want to hide a murder, or want to hide lots and lots of murders, just find a… hospital."
John took a step closer. "Can we be clear? Are you confessing?"
"To what?"
"The way you're talking…"
"Oh, sorry, yes. You mean am I a serial killer, or am I just trying to mess with your funny little head? Well, it's true. I do like to mess with people… and yes, I am a bit creepy. But that's just my USP. I use it to sell breakfast cereal. But am I what he says I am?" he pointed to Sherlock. "Is that what you're asking?"
"Yes."
"Hm. Well, let me ask you this. Are you really a doctor?"
"Yeah, of course I am."
"Well, no, a medical doctor, you know. Not just feet, or media studies or something."
"I'm a doctor."
"Are you serious? No, really, are you?" He stepped towards John, his demeanour bubbling with anger. "Are you… are you actually serious? I've played along with this joke. It's not funny anymore. No… look at him."
He gestured towards Sherlock in the corner of the room. He was slumped and sickly, blinking quickly as if he were trying to stop himself from falling asleep.
"Go ahead, look at him, Doctor Watson! Hm? Oh, no, I'll lay it out for you. There are two possible explanations for what's going on here. Either I'm a serial killer… or Sherlock Holmes is off his tits on drugs, hm? Delusional paranoia about a- a public personality? That's not so special. It's not even new!" He walked to Sherlock, getting close before speaking again. "I think you need to, er, tell your faithful little friend how you're wasting his time because you're too high to know what's real anymore."
Sherlock glanced over at John. He knew Culvertion was getting to him, picking on his doubt and encouraging it to grow. Just a few more seconds, he thought, a few more seconds and the woman with the cane would walk through the door; the woman he spent an evening with, the woman he shared chips with as she told him how much she feared her father.
But when she walked into the room, Sherlock's eyes began to blur. Her hair was different – lighter, and though her height, size and posture remained the same, he couldn't seem to find familiarity in her face.
He grimaced. "Who the hell are you?"
"Oh my god! Sherlock Holmes! I love your blog."
"You're not her. You're not the woman who came to Baker Street."
"Erm, well, no. Never been there."
"Sorry, I'm not sure I completely understand…" His head was hurting, his mouth was dry.
"U-understand what?"
"Well I thought you two were old friends!" said Culverton with a smug, crooked grin.
"No!" she giggled. "We've never met. Have we?"
John huffed. "Sherlock?"
"So, who came to my flat?"
"Well, it wasn't me," she continued to giggle.
"You... look... different."
"I wasn't there."
"Who came to my flat?" Sherlock's voice had diminished to a whisper as he thought back to that night. The woman standing in his flat with damp shoulders and a smudge on her dress.
"I'm sorry, Mr Holmes, but... I don't think I've ever been anywhere near your flat."
His lip trembled, his eyes widening with shock. He placed his hands on his head to block out the sounds of Culverton's laughter, the thoughts whipping around his mind like puzzle pieces rattling around inside a box. He looked up – the walls were moving, or was he the one that was moving?
"Sherlock…" John's voice echoed between his ears. "Sherlock? Are you all right? Sherlock, are you okay?"
"Watch him. He's got a knife," he replied, pointing at Culverton.
"I've got a what!?" the small, arrogant man laughed.
"You've got a scalpel! You picked it up from that table. I saw you take it."
"I certainly did not!"
"Look behind his back! I saw you take it! I saw you!"
He raised his arm to point at him, suddenly noticing the missing scalpel clenched in his own fist.
"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" said Culverton, backing away with his daughter.
"Whoa-whoa-whoa. Whoa, Sherlock, do you wanna put that down?" said John sternly.
Sherlock looked down at the scalpel in his shaking hand. How? How did it get there? The pain in his head amplified; it sounded like laughter – ubearable laughter. He lowered his head and screwed his eyes shut, losing his balance for a moment.
"Stop laughing at me," he hissed.
"I'm not laughing!"
"He's not laughing, Sherlock," said John, his face peppered with concern.
"Stop laughing at me!" Sherlock screamed, before charging towards Culverton.
"Sherlock!" John tackled him, disarming the scalpel from his hands and throwing him to the ground. "Stop it!" He grabbed him and threw him down again. "Stop it now!"
Sherlock let out a grunt, before a hard, dizzying punch connected with his face. He gasped, propping himself up on his arm as his nose began to pour with blood.
"Is this…" John hit him again. "A game? A bloody game?"
Sherlock tried to get up, but each time he was met with another punch to the face. He lay down, using his arms to shield his head as John began to kick him. He kicked him over and over again, so hard Sherlock could feel the anger with each footprint left on his aching body. John was angry; he was sure he had enough anger to fuel him forever. Even when two staff members came and pulled him away, he could still feel the anger rising from him like steam.
"Please. Please, please, please, no violence," said Culverton as the men let John go. "Thank you, Doctor Watson. But I don't think he's a danger anymore. Leave him be."
Sherlock tried to hold himself up on his arm, staring blankly ahead as a thread of bloody saliva hung from his mouth.
"No, it's… it's okay," said Sherlock, his voice trembling. "Let him do what he wants. He's entitled." He stared up at John, his swollen, bloodied face throbbing as he spoke. "I killed his wife."
John took a sharp breath. Yes… You did."
III
Darkness clawed its way into the early evening, dominating the winter that was drawing to a close. Margaux had waited all afternoon; sent texts, left voicemails. Yet John hadn't answered any of them. She was used to having Rosie; sharing the responsibility of her with Molly and Mrs Hudson. She knew he was struggling, that the mere sound of his daughter's cries was sometimes too much to bare. But he had never been late to pick her up. Not until tonight.
The buzzer startled her. She hurried to the door and let him in, opening the door and peering into the hallway. Her thick brows furrowed over her worried eyes as he walked towards her.
"What the hell, John!? Did you not get my..." she looked down at his hands - the tremor in his fists and his raw, bloodied knuckles. "Oh my god, what happened!?"
She ushered him into the living room, sitting him down and taking his hands in hers to look more closely.
"It's fine," he said.
"Obviously not! How did you…"
"Just a… fight."
"Just a fight? Oh, come on John, don't give me the whole 'you should see the other guy' thing."
He paused for a moment before looking up at her. "The other guy… Is Sherlock."
She let go of his hands, her mouth agape. She could feel her heart beating in her fingertips as the air left her chest. "You…"
"I don't know what… I just… He was…" He cleared his throat, struggling to find the right words.
"Why?" she whispered.
"I was angry. I was embarrassed. Embarrassed that I'd let him dupe me into believing it was all real, and that it wasn't just some drug-fuelled delusion." He looked up at her. "When I lost it… I wasn't losing it at Sherlock. When I visited him in hospital afterwards, I wasn't looking at Sherlock. It's like he was a stranger."
Margaux nodded, trying to block out the visions of him lying alone in a hospital bed – how scared he must have felt.
"I really hit him, Margaux. Hit him hard."
The room was silent.
"I fired a gun at his ceiling," she finally replied, her mouth pressing into a straight line. She let out a sigh. "I'm not going to visit him, John."
"No. I don't expect you to. I won't be either. Not after tonight."
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. She slid it out and opened the text waiting on the front screen.
Hi. S.
She dropped her head, trying to quell the tears forcing their way out the corners of her eyes. "God. He really makes this 'ignoring him' thing difficult…"
John took the phone and raised his eyebrows. "Wow, he loathes texts that begin with 'hi'. He must be desperate."
"He's lying in hospital, he shouldn't be texting at all," she said before putting the phone back in her pocket.
"Anyway," said John, standing up from the couch. "I need to go over to his flat. Do you want to…"
"No. When I said I was done, I meant it. Done with everything; even Baker Street."
He nodded, making his way out of the living room to the front door. Margaux waited for a moment, allowing a smile as he hurried back into the room.
"I forgot–"
"Your daughter?"
"Yeah. Only for a second though."
She stood up and laughed. "Tell you what, you've had a weird day. I'll keep her for the night and drop her off in the morning when I take Vaughan to nursery."
"Thank you."
III
As John walked down the stairwell, he felt a presence beside him. He pushed his sore hands inside the pockets of his coat and turned to his wife.
"You're lucky to have her, you know," said Mary. "She's amazing."
"I know. Sherlock's a bloody idiot."
She stopped on the bottom step. "He didn't." she turned to him with a soft smile. "He didn't kill me."
"I know that too."