::: author's notes: Well, I didn't expect this chapter to be so angsty. I blame it on an ugly little scarf that popped up and insisted I tell its story.

Thank you SO much to Londoner 123 and Sarah for leaving reviews here. You really lifted my spirits!:::

Conflict of Interest, chapter seven

Sherlock drank his juice for me, but refused the rest of the dinner tray. Eventually I gave up on him and set the tray, mostly untouched, outside the door of our flat. I thought he was still needing time alone, so I wandered around the office, trying again in vain to scrub the bloodstains out of my sofa, reading the articles splashed across the front page of every online tabloid, updating my case notes.

During my note-writing, my eyes wandered, focusing on nothing in particular. It was then I noticed the worn suitcase sitting beside a chair. I frowned and crossed the room to get a better look at it. The suitcase had seen better days, but I could still make out the initials carved on a tiny brass plate near the case's lock.

"S.H."

I guessed Mycroft had dropped off the suitcase before his departure the night before, and I'd been too preoccupied to notice it. Or perhaps he had returned during the night while Sherlock slept and I had dozed not in my own bed, but on the stained sofa.

Had that unpleasant man entered the flat without me noticing it?

It was best not to ponder that idea too much.

Instead, I pondered the contents of the suitcase. It would be invading Sherlock's privacy to open the case, of course, but I worried that his brother might have packed the trunk with items that would cause Sherlock to break completely. Contrary to what Sherlock wanted me to believe, I knew his mind was in a precarious place. I wouldn't risk his well-being for his brother's agenda.

I picked up the suitcase, intending it to put it in the closet until I could discuss it properly with Sherlock, when I spied a multi-colored scarf lying crumpled beside it. Apparently Mycroft had brought this as well, although I couldn't imagine why.

The scarf was quite awful; it was exceedingly long and thin, spanning nearly color of yarn imaginable, with loose stitches decorating its surface. It smelled faintly of soap and something else, and I couldn't envision Sherlock wearing such an abomination.

I was distracted then by a small "ping" emitting from my laptop. I hadn't received a private message since going on "sabbatical" a few days earlier. Curiosity got the best of me and I returned to my desk.

We have a situation.

I smirked; the last time I'd received an IM from Mycroft, I had agreed to lock myself away in a flat with his allegedly sociopathic brother.

I stifled a sarcastic reply; something along the lines of "Your brother is doing as well as can be expected, in case you were inquiring." My fingers were still poised over the keyboard when a second message appeared on the screen.

We have a client with whom we need your assistance. Suicide watch. Hospitalization imminent.

I sighed, then typed,

Does this client have a name?

I was interrupted then by Sherlock. He was standing in the doorway of his room, the light of his room silhouetting him from behind. I could barley make out his features, but he looked drowsy.

"Hello," I said, surprised. "I thought perhaps you'd fallen back to sleep."

"I'm thirsty," he said. "Is there more juice?"

"No, but I have water and milk some fizzy drinks in the refrigerator." I was so pleased he wanted to drink more that I jumped to my feet and hurried toward the kitchenette. I was just pulling out his choices when I heard him say, "How did you get this?"

I turned. He was standing beside the chair, and although he hadn't noticed the suitcase he was holding the scarf in his hands.

And his hands were trembling. The scarf had triggered something inside him. Something deep and, judging by his reaction, overwhelming.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?" I asked, alarmed.

He lifted the scarf to his nose, inhaling deeply.

"This is John's," he whispered.

He turned on his heel and walked back into his bedroom.

I followed him and watched as he paced the room, his fingers gripping the ugly scarf.

"Was he here?" he demanded. "Does John know… does he know I survived?" His voice cracked on the last word.

I didn't want to tell him. I wanted the illusion to last, even for just a moment.

But I shook my head. "I think your brother might have dropped it by."

I saw the pain cross his face briefly, and then it was gone. "When?"

"I'm not certain," I admitted. "He was here yesterday while the doctor was examining you."

He accepted this information without further comment. But the burst of energy he'd had a moment earlier seemed to seep out of him, and he sat down on the edge of his bed. His eyes, focused on the scarf, blurred with sudden tears.

I sat beside him, whether he wanted me to or not. He didn't seem to even notice, his gaze was so intent on what I realized was not just an ugly scarf.

"Tell me about this," I said, reaching to finger the material.

"I made it," he whispered. Clearing the emotion from his throat, he added, "It started out as an experiment; I wanted to see if a murderous little grandmother could crochet a proper noose."

"Of course," I smiled.

"But then John said it would make a wonderful scarf, and that he would wear it proudly whenever it was raining." Sherlock sniffled and ran the back of his hand beneath his nose. "He was joking, of course, but he did wear it after that."

Sherlock's face crumpled then as another thought occurred to him. "He'll miss it," he murmured. "The next time it rains, he'll be looking for it. And he won't be able to find it. And…he'll be cold."

"I'm sure there are other scarves," I said gently, but he shook his head. "He'll be cold. John will be cold and it will be my fault."

He faced me, his tears running unchecked now. "He'll be cold."

At that moment I lost him to his sorrow. He was gone, perhaps shackled in the dungeons of his self-professed "mind palace." I had the feeling he didn't know I was there as he doubled at the waist, clutching the scarf to his face, drowning it in his tears, his sobs muffled by the material he'd shoved against his mouth.

I rubbed small circles against his back as he cried, heaved in sorrow, wishing like hell there was something I could do. I tried to soothe him. I tried to suggest we return the scarf to the flat without John noticing. But nothing helped.

It seemed to go on forever, even as he winced from the pain as the sobs tore at his battered body. I waited as long as I could but I had to intervene when the tears stopped rolling down his chapped cheeks, although he continued to shudder and choke. His body no longer had enough fluid to produce tears. I'd known this could happen but had never seen it myself. It was a dangerous condition.

I left him long enough to pour a glass of water and bring it back to him. He didn't seem to notice I had gone, so I nudged him when I returned. "Sherlock, you are very, very dehydrated now," I told him as gently as I could. "I need you to drink."

He didn't respond, so I put the glass into his hands. I didn't even think of taking the scarf from his fingers, but his fingers tightened around it nonetheless. I cradled the bottom of the glass, lifting it gently to his mouth. He drank despite himself. One sip, and then he guzzled the entire glass.

"Good," I soothed, and his eyes were focused; he was with me once again.

"More," he whispered.

I nodded and refilled his glass from the bathroom tap. He drank this as well with the same fervor. When he handed the glass to me again, I shook my head. "Let's wait a bit. It won't do you any good if you bring it back up."

He nodded wearily. "I think I need to lie down."

"I'm sure you have a bad headache," I said. "Would you like some aspirin?"

"Just sleep," he mumbled, keeling over on the bed. I stood up, refilled his glass and set it on the table. His eyes were already closing, his hands still holding the scarf to his face as if was a child's security blanket.

He hadn't covered himself yet, so I pulled the blankets, tucking them up beneath his chin. I couldn't resist stroking his hair, just once to smooth the unruly curls.

"If you need anything," I began.

"Mmm," he murmured. "I'll call you."

Satisfied with his answer, I wandered back into my office and sat at the desk, tapping the keys to wake up the screen. I'd forgotten my brief messages with Mycroft, but they were still there:

MH 7:30 p.m: We have a situation.

MH 7:35 p.m.: We have a client with whom we need your assistance. Suicide watch. Hospitalization imminent.

MerryMiddleton: 7:36 p.m: Does this client have a name?

MH: 7:38 p.m: Yes.

MH: 7:45 p.m.: Merry, are you there?

MH: 8:02 p.m. Merry?

I glanced at the clock; nearly two hours had passed as I'd been trying to help Sherlock. I typed quickly.

MerryMiddleton: 9:48 p.m. Yes, Mycroft, I am here. Who is this patient?

I saw the icon flash immediately on the screen, indicating Mycroft was typing. But nothing could have prepared me for his reply.

MH: 9:50 p.m. : John Watson.