Sherlock sat on the thinly-cushioned bench in the hospital corridor as the sun rose through the large windows. He was leaning forward, resting his arms across his thighs as he clutched his bloodstained coat. His eyes were stinging – forcing themselves closed. But he wouldn't let himself drift off. John snored gently beside him; sleeping sat upright with his arms folded across his chest, his legs outstretched and crossed at the ankle. His head had tipped and was resting against Sherlock's side. Sherlock elbowed him lightly, but he didn't budge.

"Mr Holmes?" A man in surgeon's scrubs stepped through a set of heavy double doors.

"Yes," Sherlock replied, standing up immediately.

John's head dropped in the absence of Sherlock's side, causing him to wake suddenly with a snort. He blinked and scratched his head before scrambling to his feet.

"Shall we go somewhere to talk?" asked the surgeon as he glanced around the corridor.

They followed him through the doors to a small, unoccupied consultation room. He closed the door behind the two men and sighed.

"She's out of surgery," he said, leaning against a desk. "The bullet entered on the right above her chest. It shattered her clavicle and sent a fragment of bone into her neck which damaged an artery. So–"

The door opened and Mycroft stepped into the room. He looked as though he had been picked up and shaken; with an unbuttoned collar and pallid complexion.

"Sorry," said the surgeon. "We're in the middle of–"

"Not to worry, this is my brother – aka the British government," said Sherlock. "He'll no doubt be having you and your colleagues sign some hefty non-disclosure agreements. Which I'm assuming is why he's here. Please ignore his presence, as I often do. Continue."

Mycroft frowned at his brother and pushed his hands into his pockets.

The surgeon cleared his throat. "Okay well, as I was saying, we've completed the surgery. We've successfully repaired the artery and we've installed a metal rod and screws to reconstruct her collarbone. But… Mr Holmes, it is my job to be as forthcoming with you as I can be." He stopped for a moment. "I must warn you that just because the surgery was successful, it doesn't mean she's out of the woods yet. Ms Cave suffered major blood loss. Quite frankly, we're all astounded that she survived at all. If it wasn't for the cold temperatures lowering her heart rate, she would have absolutely bled out."

John's eyes turned immediately to Sherlock, watching as he caught a cry in his throat before it had the chance to surface, inhaling deeply and straightening his back. Then he turned to Mycroft who dropped his gaze to the ground.

"We're going to keep her in a medically induced coma for a few days while we monitor her and try to keep her stable."

"But…?" said Sherlock.

"But… we can't be certain that she will pull through."

"Jesus," John sighed.

"I would advise that if Margaux has any family and friends that wish to see her… well… that they come sooner rather than later."

"Right. Thank you." Sherlock nodded.

"I'll give you all a minute," said the surgeon as he stepped out of the room.

As the three men stood there, it was as if they were still inside Eurus' game – still sad, still prisoners in another small room. The silence was suffocating.

John turned to his friend. "Sherlock... I'm so sorry." He shook his head gently. "But look, there's still a chance. There's still a chance she could…"

A tear escaped the corner of Sherlock's eye, trailing down his cheek as he spoke quietly. "Yeah. Mhm. Yes. There is…"

John reached out and pulled him into a hug, patting him firmly on the back. Mycroft pressed his lips together and cleared his throat.

"I should, um, take this opportunity to speak with… to um, to speak with…" his voice trailed off as he opened the door and stepped outside, closing it behind him.

He took a few steps before stopping and leaning his back against the wall. He cupped his face in his hands and began to cry.

III

He held the key up to the lock, hesitating for a moment. It felt strange letting himself into her flat. Because in that moment he realised he had never done that before, and he knew that if standing there felt strange, then walking in and not finding her on the other side of the door would feel even stranger.

He let himself inside. Mrs Hudson hurried out of the living room into the hall. She was blubbering, pressing a crumpled tissue to her nose as she tried to hold it together as best she could.

"Oh, Sherlock," she said with a sniffle as she walked towards him.

She hugged him like a mother hugs her son; though he towered over her, she somehow managed to fit all of him within her embrace. He stood with his arms by his sides as she hugged him – accepting it, but not reciprocating.

"How is she doing?" she asked as she stepped back.

"She's out of surgery. But…" he shook his head.

Mrs Hudson began to cry. "Oh, it's just awful. First Mary, now our poor Margaux." She looked him up and down. "You, though, are you alright?"

"Mostly." He glanced past her. "Is he…"

"Yes, he's just in there watching some cartoons."

Sherlock nodded and began to walk. Mrs Hudson took the coat from his hands and examined it.

"I'll get this in the wash for you. I'm good with the blood."

"No–" he began, reaching out to grab the coat before stopping himself and letting go. "Actually, yes. If you could, Mrs Hudson, thank you."

She looked down at it with the sudden realisation of whose blood had stained the fabric. "Oh dear, I'm sorry. Are you sure?"

He nodded before making his way to the living room.

The toddler sat on the edge of the couch, his eyes glued to the colourful cartoon on the television. He was wearing a set of matching pyjamas, his hair wild and wavy, his plump cheeks flushed red. He looked up with a gleaming smile as the door creaked open. He jumped up, rushing to his father with excitement.

"Daddy!"

Sherlock dropped down on one knee and pulled Vaughan into a hug. He held him tight, closing his eyes and burying his face into his hair.

"Where's mummy?" Vaughan asked as they walked to the couch.

"Erm, well, she's not feeling very well. So, the doctors are looking after her tonight."

The boy nodded, accepting his answer innocently and without question. He climbed onto his father's lap and pointed to the television, encouraging him to watch.

Sherlock melted into the couch, keeping his arms wrapped around him. Holding his son brought a calm that he never knew was possible. It loosened his muscles, opened his lungs and allowed him to breathe clearly. 221B was a safe place, his coat was a security blanket, his cold shell a protective shield. But this was a comfort like no other, and he had never truly realised how much he needed it until now.

...

Mrs Hudson sat in the kitchen. It had taken a small mountain of tissues but she had finally stopped crying. She checked the clock on the kitchen wall, realising it had passed Vaughan's bedtime. Filling a bottle with warm milk, she walked to the living room, feeling the lump in her throat return as she laid eyes on them.

Sherlock was slumped on the couch, his head tilted back as heavy breaths of sleep escaped his open mouth. Vaughan was curled against his chest, snoring lightly with his thumb tucked between his lips. She let out a small cry, shook her head and placed a hand on Sherlock's shoulder.

"Sherlock," she whispered.

He stirred, his brow furrowing, eyes opening reluctantly. "Mm?"

"Go on and get yourself to bed. You need a proper sleep. I'll see to him. Go on." She smiled kindly.

"No, it's fine," he grumbled, his words slurred from sleep. "I can…"

He stood up, cradling Vaughan in his arms and walked across the hall to Margaux's bedroom. He put the boy in bed and tucked him under the duvet before slipping off his blazer and throwing it to the ground. He walked around to the other side and sat on the edge of the bed, taking off his shoes as he looked around the dark room – at the crumpled, worn clothes draped over the chair, at the makeup scattered on the dressing table. It was all so normal; as if at any moment, she was going to walk in, brush her hair and climb into bed beside him.

He sighed and lay down, still wearing his shirt and trousers. He lazily pulled the duvet over him and curled onto his side, pressing his face against the pillow that still smelled of her. He draped his arm across Vaughan and pulled him closer before succumbing to his exhaustion again.

III

Sherlock, Greg and John were gathered around the door of the private room as Mrs Hudson walked hand-in-hand with Vaughan down the hospital corridor. He was wrapped in a coat with his backpack on his shoulders, smiling obliviously to the solemn faces of the grownups around him.

"Alright, little man," said Greg, patting the boy's head.

"How is she doing?" asked Mrs Hudson quietly.

"Stable for now, but no change," said John.

Rose stepped out of the hospital room and closed the door softly. She wiped away smudges of cried-off mascara that had collected under her eyes, and turned to see everyone waiting in the corridor.

"Hi," she said.

"Hello…" said Sherlock as he searched for her name. It was a flower. Some kind of flower. He continued tentatively. "Dais–?"

John leaned towards his ear. "Ah, nope. Rose."

Sherlock turned to him with a sigh. "Ros-ie," he replied, emphasising each syllable.

"No, I'm not talking about my daughter, Sherlock. I'm telling you her name; it's Rose."

Rose shook her head. "That's okay, John Watson, I don't care if he doesn't know my name." She looked up at him. "Hello, Shuttlecock."

John's head dropped quickly as he tried to supress a giggle – it was the first real laugh he had felt in days, the first time a smile had truly reached his eyes. Sherlock looked down at the sharp, auburn-haired woman with furrowed brows.

Rose shrugged. "What? If you can't learn mine, why should I use yours?" She pulled the strap of her bag up her shoulder. "That's my best friend in there. Please keep me informed."

She walked away, brushing shoulders with Mycroft on her way through a set of doors. He glanced down at his arm where she had touched, a look of disdain in his crumpled nose.

Sherlock's parents shuffled behind Mycroft, the harsh fluorescent lights exposing every line of worry in their faces.

"Our parents, as requested," said Mycroft, gesturing to the couple as they stood behind him.

"How is she doing?" asked Mrs Holmes.

Sherlock shifted on his feet with irritation. "Is there a rule somewhere that everyone must ask the same question?"

John stepped in. "She's stable for now, but no change."

"I just can't help but feel somewhat responsible," Mrs Holmes whimpered. "Our own daughter; how could our flesh and blood do something like this?"

Mycroft sighed, preparing to speak.

"We're still cross with you, young man," she cut him off.

He closed his mouth.

Mrs Hudson handed Vaughan over to his grandparents, smiling and wishing him a nice time. Sherlock ran his thumb across his son's cheek, promising to see him soon, while Mycroft nodded his head at him.

"'Til next time, little one," he said with a subtle smile.

They all stood quietly as they watched them leave.

"You made the right decision not taking him in to see her," said Mrs Hudson reassuringly. "He doesn't need the confusion of it all."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Mhm, thank you for the commentary. Are any of you actually going in to see her, or is this some kind of social gathering in the hallway that I wasn't aware of?"

John noticed the glisten in Sherlock's eyes, he needed to be alone, so he ushered Mrs Hudson and Greg through the door.

Inside, the room was dimly lit. They stood together at the foot of the bed, no one knowing quite what to say as they laid eyes on her for the first time; the sling and bandages, the breathing tubes and wires. She looked so like herself, yet so different at the same time – so frail, sallow and lifeless.

"She's a great girl," said Greg quietly.

"Oh, one of the best people I've ever met," John agreed.

"D'you know," Greg smiled. "I fancied her when I first met her."

John laughed slightly. "So did I."

"Me too," said Mrs Hudson absentmindedly.

The two men looked at her.

"Well she's got a face, hasn't she," she said as she waved her hands around.

"She's… 'got a face'?" said John.

"Oh, you know what I mean. She's beautiful - lovely features. Lovely…" she began to whimper, reaching into her pocket for a tissue before walking over and taking a seat at Margaux's side.

The men stayed standing at the foot of the bed.

Greg folded his arms across his chest. "This is all a bit morbid, ain't it? They did say she could pull through."

"Yeah," said John. "But as quickly as she could recover, she could also deteriorate. I guess they just wanted to give us all a chance to say goodbye. Just in case."

They watched as Mrs Hudson took her hand, rubbing her thumb gently across it.

"How's Sherlock handling it?" asked Greg.

"He's er, he's handling it like Sherlock."

"So not well, then?"

"Nope."

Sherlock leaned against the wall in the corridor, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. He scratched at the nicotine patch under his sleeve, the craving for smoke on his tongue growing stronger with every second he breathed in the sterile hospital air.

His ears pricked to the sound of footsteps approaching him. He turned his head and slowly opened his eyes.

"Molly," he said, standing upright and placing his hands behind his back.

"Hello," she said softly, her eyes trailing the ground.

The buzzing lights filled the awkward silence as they stood there. But as Sherlock stared down at her face, her eyes never left the floor.

"Sorry I'm–"

"How are y–"

Molly shook her head. "Sorry, go on."

"No, I insist." He gestured for her to speak.

"Oh, I- er- I was just going to say s-sorry I'm a bit late," she shifted her weight from side to side before pointing at the door. "Is she through there? Shall I…"

"Molly," Sherlock began quietly, his voice deep and hoarse. "I am truly sorry… for what happened. For what I said on the ph- for what I made you say. I just wanted to save you."

"I know." She gave a feeble nod. "I understand that now. It's fine, it's… it's good."

"No. It isn't. I hurt you, Molly. I made you think that I would use the way you feel about me against you."

"Well you sort of do. All the time."

"But never to hurt you." He turned, bringing them face to face. "Molly, I hope you know… the 'I love you'… I hope you know that I meant it."

She nodded. "Just not… in the same way that I mean it."

He sighed. "No."

A tear escaped the corner of Molly's eye. She pressed her lips into a line and forced a smile.

"Well I suppose it's something," she said.

Sherlock smiled sympathetically.

III

Beside Margaux's bed was the only place he could find sleep. He had spent the past two days using the sound of her heart monitor as a metronome, the ventilator a lullaby. Having a brother with so much power came in handy; he had been gifted a free pass to escape the rules of visiting hours, graced with a privacy that not many were lucky enough to get.

He woke to a text.

'Mrs H just called. Your flat has been declared safe. J.'

He looked down at Margaux and sighed, squeezing her hand and waiting for a moment – searching for a flicker in her eyelids, a twitch in her cheek. But nothing.

…

The smell of smoke lingered in the air; burnt books and singed fabric. The furniture stood atop a sea of ash. Nothing was in its place. But perhaps that was because there was no longer a place for anything.

Sherlock walked carefully around the flat, examining the ruins and salvaging items that had gone undamaged from the blast. A metal trinket box sat on the mantle, covered in a layer of soot. He picked it up and blew the dust away before opening it. Inside was an open pack of cigarettes and a clipper lighter.

"The men will be here to replace the windows tomorrow," said Mrs Hudson from the doorway.

Sherlock looked up at the large wooden boards nailed to the blown-out windows. He closed the box and put it back on the mantle.

"Mm. I thought you were leaving it like that. Makes for an interesting design choice," he said.

She looked around the charred living room. "Goodness. If you think I'm cleaning this, you've got another thing coming, Sherlock Holmes."

A laugh murmured in the back of his throat. "I'm sure I can convince John to help," he said as he wandered towards the kitchen.

Sherlock sat down at the kitchen table, listening as Mrs Hudson's footsteps returned to her flat downstairs. As her door closed, he let out a gentle sigh, as if he had been putting on an act and could finally drop the charade. He picked up a piece of glass from a smashed chemistry beaker and threw it across the kitchen, watching as it soared through the air and landed perfectly in the bin. He tipped his head back and smiled slightly as he laid eyes on the bullet hole in the ceiling. It was proof she was real, he thought to himself.

He placed his fingers on his temples and closed his eyes, allowing himself to fall, and within a moment he was standing in a room. A bright, clean room that smelled like honey and old books. He opened his eyes and took a sharp breath.

"I won't say 'hi' because I know you hate it," she said.

"Hi," he breathed.

"Hi." She smiled. Her eyes were sparkling, her cheeks full of colour. She took a step forward. "How's the real me doing?"

God, why does everybody keep asking that?"

"Well because it's a standard question. Because they're concerned. Maybe deep down they're hoping the answer will be that I'm fine. Or maybe they're actually hoping I'll die…"

Sherlock glared at her.

"Wow, so even in here my jokes are bad. You couldn't have made me funny in the Mind Palace?"

"It wouldn't be you if you were funny."

She smirked, holding out her hand for him to come to her.

Goosebumps pricked his arms as he took her hand. He could truly feel her – as if she were really there. He grasped her hands, then her wrists, then her arms, until eventually he was cupping her face.

She held onto his arms and smiled. "You're desperate for a smoke," she said.

"It's killing me."

She chuckled. But her smile faded quickly as she noticed the sadness in his face.

"Listen, don't dwell on the way things were before. So, we never got the chance to be together," she shrugged. "Never mind! You never cared for sentiment anyway. Also, I could still pull through, y'know. But if I die, I sure as hell won't care-"

"Don't say that." He shut his eyes.

"What?"

"Don't say 'if I die'. I can't think about that."

"Sherlock, I'm in your mind. It's all you're thinking about."

He brushed her hair away from her face. "…I can't lose you."

"Sherlock?" John's voice melted the room away, like rain on snow.

Sherlock blinked, his eyes adjusting to the dark kitchen and the sight of John standing in the archway.

"What were you in the mind palace for?"

He shook his head. "Just… visiting."