The dim glow of lamplight bled onto the landing from inside 221B. John approached the door slowly as Mycroft Holmes' voice echoed through the house.
"Where is she?" said Mycroft. "Where's Mrs Hudson?"
John stepped into the room, ducking under a string of photographs. "Er, what are you doing?"
"Have you noticed the kitchen?" replied Mycroft as he stood up from Sherlock's armchair. "It's practically a meth lab. I'm trying to establish exactly what drove Sherlock off the rails. Any ideas?"
John looked in the kitchen, narrowing his eyes at the group of people in suits and white gloves "Are these spooks? Are you using spooks now to look after your family?"
He watched as Sherlock's things were collected into evidence bags, as things were examined and photographed. One spook stood on a chair in the kitchen, inspecting a small hole in the ceiling with a dusting brush. The corner of John's mouth curled slightly as he remembered his conversation with Margaux. She wasn't joking; she had actually fired a gun at his ceiling. "Brilliant," he muttered to himself. "Hang on, are they tidying?"
"Sherlock is a security concern," said Mycroft. "The fact that I'm his brother changes nothing."
"Yeah, you said that before."
John joined him in the living room, noticing the figure of Mary fading into the background. He kept his eyes on Mycroft; allowing his voice to fade while hers grew louder. She was encouraging him – pushing him to ask the questions that had been itching at the corners of his brain.
"Mycroft, last time when we were on the phone…"
"No, no, no, no, stop. I detest conversation in the past tense."
"You said the fact that you were his brother made no difference."
"It doesn't."
"You said it didn't the last time and it wouldn't with Sherlock. So, who was it the last time? Who were you talking about?"
Mycroft's jaw clenched. "Nobody. I… Misspoke."
"You're lying."
"I assure you I'm not."
John smiled slightly. "Sherlock's not your only brother. There's another one, isn't there?"
"No," said Mycroft firmly as he glared into John's eyes.
"Jesus! A secret brother! What, is he locked up in a tower or something?"
"Mycroft Holmes!" Mrs Hudson's voice bellowed across the living room. "What are all these dreadful people doing in my house?"
"Mrs Hudson," Mycroft began. "I apologise for the interruption. As you know, my brother has embarked on a programme of self-destruction, remarkable even by his standards, and I am endeavouring to find out what triggered it."
"And that's what you're all looking for?"
"Quite so."
"What's on his mind?"
"So to speak."
"And you've had all this time?"
"Time being something of which we don't have an infinite supply... so if we could be about our business?"
Mrs Hudson began to chuckle. "You are... you're-you're so funny, you are! He thinks you're clever. Poor old Sherlock; always going on about you." She turned to John, "I mean, he knows you're an idiot, but that's okay 'cause you're a lovely doctor." She looked back to Mycroft. "But he has no idea what an idiot you are!"
"Is this merely stream-of-consciousness abuse, or are you attempting to make a point?"
"You want to know what's bothering Sherlock? Easiest thing in the world; anyone can do it. He's not about thinking, not Sherlock."
"Of course he is."
"No, no. He's more... emotional, isn't he? Unsolved case: shoot the wall. Pew! Pew! Unmade breakfast: karate the fridge! Unanswered question... Well, what does he do with anything he can't answer, John, every time?"
"He stabs it..." replied John.
She pointed towards the fireplace as she spoke. "Anything he can't find the answer for... bang! It's up there. I keep telling him: if he was any good as a detective, I wouldn't need a new mantel."
John walked to the fireplace where a knife stood upright on the mantel. Beneath it lay a large white packing envelope. He reached inside and slid out a disc.
Miss Me?
He looked up at Mrs Hudson and Mycroft in shock, before hurrying to the television and loading the DVD into the player. Suddenly, his eyes changed – crumpling with devestation as they lay sight upon the face on the screen.
"If you're watching this, I'm... probably dead."
It was Mary. His lovely, bright, wonderful Mary. And it made his heart sink.
"Okay, no. S-stop that now, please," he said, walking away.
Mrs Hudson paused the DVD. "Everybody out, now. All of you. This is my house, this is my friend and that's his departed wife. Anyone who stays here a minute longer is admitting to me personally they do not have a single spark of human decency!"
One by one, every suite in white gloves quietly left the room. Yet Mycroft remained still; his arms folded in front of him as he looked down at the television. Mrs Hudson walked across the room, leaning into his face as she spoke.
"Get out of my house, you reptile."
He stared at her, startled. His eyes fixed on her like a stubborn child. But like most stubborn children, he gave in. He collected his umbrella and left.
John sat down as Mrs Hudson pressed play.
"I'm giving you a case, Sherlock," said Mary through the TV. "Might be the hardest case of your career. When I'm... gone – if I'm gone – I need you to do something for me… Save John Watson."
John grimaced, shaking away the tears that were clouding his vision.
"Save him, Sherlock. Save him. Don't think anyone else is going to save him, because there isn't anyone. It's up to you. Save him. But I do think you're gonna need a little bit of help with that, because you're not exactly good with people, so here's a few things you need to know about the man we both love – and more importantly what you're going to need to do to save him: John Watson never accepts help, not from anyone. Not ever. But here's the thing: he never refuses it. So, here's what you are going to do. You can't save John because he won't let you. He won't allow himself to be saved. The only way to save John... is to make him save you. Go to Hell, Sherlock. Go right into Hell, and make it look like you mean it. Go and pick a fight with a bad guy. Put yourself in harm's way. If he thinks you need him, I swear... he will be there."
John inhaled sharply; his sadness suddenly replaced with a feeling of dread. He stood up.
"He did it all on purpose," he said. "He's put himself in danger so I… save him."
"Well he's not in any danger, surely?" said Mrs Hudson. "He's in hospital."
"Oh my god. Culverton Smith. He was right about Culverton bloody Smith! I need to get to him. He's in trouble."
III
The small, slimy man sat in a chair opposite Sherlock's bed. The sleeves of his shirt were rolled up and his hands were covered in a pair of latex gloves. Sherlock's body was stiff and sore, his head heavy as it rested against the pillow. He could feel a pulse in his left eye socket as he tried to focus on Culverton. He thought about the recording devices he had planted in his pockets. The extra one that sat concealed inside the walking cane.
This was it. His one chance to make him talk.
"Why do you do it?" he asked, his voice deep and hoarse.
"Why do I kill?" replied Culverton, gently rubbing his fingers together. "It's-It's not about hatred or-or revenge. I'm not a dark person. It's... Killing human beings... it just makes me... incredibly happy." He smiled broadly.
A smile flickered across Sherlock's bruised mouth. Culverton stood up and walked towards him.
"You know in films when you see dead people pretending to be dead and it's just living people lying down?" That's not what dead people look like. Dead people look like things. I like to make people into things. Then you can own them." He laughed. "You know what? I'm getting a little impatient." He pressed a button on the side of the bed, watching as it lowered slowly.
Sherlock glanced to the door nervously as his body lay flat; stuck to the bed as if he were already dead. His eyes darted back to Culverton and the yellow, toothy grin on his face as he approached him, leaning down to whisper in his ear.
"Take a big breath if you want."
Sherlock gasped as two gloved hands smothered his mouth and nose.
"Murder is a very difficult addiction to manage," said Culverton as Sherlock writhed beneath him. "People don't realise how much work goes into it. You have to be careful."
Sherlock grabbed his arm, trying to bat him away.
"But if-if you're rich or famous and loved," he continued. "It's amazing what people are prepared to ignore. There's always someone desperate, about to go missing... and no-one wants to suspect murder if it's easier to suspect something else! I just have to ration myself; choose the right heart to stop."
Sherlock struggled, his eyes wide and glassy with panic. His lungs were burning, his head thumping as he tried desperately to take a breath.
"Please, maintain eye contact. Maintain eye contact."
Sherlock stared up at him, he could feel himself slipping.
"Maintain eye contact. Please. I like to watch it... happen."
The heart monitor let out a long, continuous beep. Culverton smiled triumphantly when suddenly, the door burst open. He turned to see John Watson walking into the room with a fire extinguisher in his hands, immediately releasing his grip and stepping away from the bed.
Sherlock drank in a long, painful breath as John charged for the man.
"What were you doing to him?" said John angrily as he dragged him across the room. "What were you doing!?"
"He's in distress! I-I'm helping him!"
John threw him into the hands of a bewildered police officer. "Restrain him, now. Do it."
"I was trying to help him!"
"Sherlock, what was he doing to you?"
"Suffocating me, overdosing me," Sherlock replied breathlessly as he pointed to the drip connected to his arm.
"On what?"
"Saline."
"Saline?"
"Yeah, saline."
"What do you mean, saline?"
"Well obviously I got Nurse Cornish to switch the bags. She's a big fan, you know? Loves my blog."
John frowned. "You're okay?"
"No. No, of course I'm not okay. Malnourished, double kidney failure, and frankly I've been off my tits for weeks." He squinted up at his friend. "What kind of a doctor are you?"
III
Margaux sat with her arms resting on the table in front of her. She had angrily chewed a hole through the inside of her cheek; her mouth lined with blood and venom. Across the interview table sat a killer. A proud, remorseless killer that was taking pleasure in talking about his crimes. She glanced down at his hands as they curled around a polystyrene cup on the table; hands that had almost stolen the last breath from Sherlock's lips.
Greg reached across the table and switched off the recorder before rubbing his eyes with his finger and thumb. He was exhausted, and Culverton Smith was a broken dam – gushing uncontrollably no matter how much they tried to patch it up.
"It's funny, I... I never realised confessing would be so enjoyable. I sh-should have done it sooner."
Margaux's fists clenched. Greg glanced down at them, kicking her gently under the table. She looked up at him, slowly loosening her hands and resting her palms against the table.
"We'll carry on tomorrow," she said calmly.
The pair of them reached for their coats on the back of their chairs.
"Well, w-w-we could carry on now. I'm-I'm not tired. There's loads more."
"Tomorrow," said Greg firmly.
"You know, I am gonna be so famous now."
"You're already famous…"
"Yeah, but with this... I can break America."
...
Greg and Margaux walked out of the police station together, taking in a simultaneous gasp as the wet, cold winter night clung to their cheeks.
"Thanks for coming in, Margaux. If I thought he'd blab so easily, I wouldn't have bothered calling you."
"It's alright. If only they were all so willing to talk." She smiled, taking her keys out of her pocket.
They walked through the carpark in silence. Stopping as they reached Margaux's car.
"I saw him at the hospital," said Greg. "When we went to arrest Culverton. He looked bad."
She leaned back against the car and sighed. "I can't believe he was doing it on purpose…"
"That's good, though, isn't it? Surely?"
"Yeah I guess. But how many times are we going to see him destroy himself in the name of a case?"
"Priorities. I doubt Sherlock's ever had them before."
"Good point." She laughed a little. "Well, I should go. I've got Molly Hooper babysitting Vaughan and Rosie at my flat, and I'm pretty sure she has to be up for work in like… five hours?"
He smiled. "Ah, she's a good'un."
"She is. Y'know I'm convinced she's an actual angel. Though I don't doubt she'll rip my head off if I don't get home soon."
Greg laughed and patted her on the shoulder. "Night, Margaux."
"Goodnight."
III
221B had been tidied. The photographs gone, the drug lab removed. Sherlock sat in his armchair as the fire roared beside him. He was wearing a dressing gown over his shirt and trousers, clutching a mug of tea and crossing one leg over the other. It had been two days since he was discharged from hospital, yet his face was still sickly and bruised, his jaw blanketed with stubble and his cheekbones higher than usual with swelling. He picked up his phone and sent a text, taking a sip of his tea before deciding to sending another. He put the phone in his pocket and glanced across to what was once John's chair, feeling a sense of comfort to see John actually sitting in it.
"I had, of course, several other backup plans," he continued. "Trouble is, I couldn't remember what they were." He glanced up, the white of his left eye was blood red. "And, of course, I hadn't really anticipated that I'd hallucinated meeting his daughter."
John nodded.
"Still a bit troubled by the daughter. Did seem very real, and she gave me information I couldn't have acquired elsewhere."
"But she wasn't ever here?"
"Interesting, isn't it? I have theorised before that if one could attenuate to every available data stream in the world simultaneously, it would be possible to anticipate and deduce almost anything."
"Hm. So you dreamed up a magic woman who told you things you didn't know."
"Well, it sounds about right to me," Mary chimed in from the corner of John's eye.
"Perhaps the drugs opened certain doors in my mind… I'm intrigued."
"Oh, I know you are. Which is why we're all taking it in turns to keep you off the sweeties."
"I thought we were just hanging out." Sherlock smirked slightly.
John looked down at his watch. "Molly'll be here in twenty minutes…"
"Oh, I do think I can last twenty minutes without supervision."
"Well, if you're sure."
"Christ, John, stay. Talk!" Mary came into view. She was so clear - so solid it was almost as if she were really there.
"Er, sorry, it's just, erm, you know, Rosie…"
"Yes, of course, Rosie."
"You'll be okay for twenty minutes?"
"Yes. Yes! Sorry, I-I wasn't thinking of Rosie."
"No problem."
"I should, er, come and see her soon."
"Yes." John nodded before making his way to the door.
"Are you okay?" asked Sherlock, trying to disguise his desperation.
He laughed, pivoting on his heels and walking back into the living room. "Er, what? Am I... no, no, I'm not okay. I'm never gonna be okay. But we'll just have to accept that. It is what it is; and what it is, is... shit."
Sherlock dropped his head, nodding slightly.
John sucked in a breath, glancing at the vision of his wife before speaking again. "You didn't kill Mary. Mary died saving your life. It was her choice. No-one made her do it. No one could ever make her do anything. But the point is: you did not kill her."
"In saving my life, she conferred a value on it," Sherlock replied quietly, hesitating. "It is a currency I do not know how to spend."
"It is what it is."
III
Margaux sat at her desk. She took off her coat and lifted a stack of folders from her bag. Her phone lay face down on the table, yet when it buzzed, she knew immediately who it was. She picked it up and read the text.
Please.
She let out a sigh, beginning to type but deleting her words when another text came through.
It's my birthday…
She laughed, looking at the calendar on her computer and shaking her head as she realised the date. She put the phone back on the table and returned to her work. But after a few minutes, she closed the folders, stuffed them into her bag, guzzled down her coffee and hurried out of the station.
III
Sherlock stood up slowly, his ribs aching with every inhale he took. He walked to the window, looking out at the late afternoon sky as it skimmed the tops of buildings as far as he could see. He picked up his violin, tucking it under his chin and positioning the bow. Yet as the first note left the strings, a voice interrupted from the doorway.
"Do you know why I get so angry?"
He turned around, wincing in pain. But he didn't care that it hurt.
He lowered his violin. "Mar-"
"Do you? Do you know why I get so worked up, so invested in your terrible decisions?"
His eyes darted back and forth, from her wavy hair to her corduroy trouser, her delicate wrists to her amber-hued eyes – she was really there. He began to smile a relieved, genuine smile.
She took in a deep breath, her eyes watering as she spoke. "It's because I love you."
His smile slowly began to melt away.
"I love you," she repeated. "I know it's already so obvious that verbalising it seems unnecessary. But I realised… that I've never actually said the words out loud." She took a timid step forward. "Sherlock Holmes, I love you. I am so in love with you... Do you hear me? I'm in love with you. Permanently."
He shuffled awkwardly on the spot, still gripping the neck of his violin. "I... I don't know what you want me to..."
"Nothing," she sighed. "I don't want you to say anything. I just want what I said to be... out there… by itself. I want it to exist as fact - an unchallenged statement."
"Margaux, I would never challenge..."
"I know."
She was shaking. He could see it in her hands, hear it in her voice. He stepped towards her and pulled her into a hug, ignoring the ache as her face pressed against his chest.
"We did this whole 'family' thing in the wrong order," she whispered into his shirt. "Some of it not at all."
Sherlock closed his eyes, ignoring the cogs in his head as they battled and screeched. He was a prison; a steely, hard fortress designed to keep everything trapped inside, and he could feel something within him screaming; pushing its face up against the bars begging for him to let it out. But instead he stood there, watching it, with the lock within reach and the key in his hand.
"Margaux…"
"it's okay." She looked up, gently cupping his bruised cheek. "It really is okay."