I slept uneasily throughout the night, as if my mind waited for Sherlock to be seized by another night terror. I was relieved when my fears didn't come to fruition, but I knew we weren't out of the woods yet.

I could still hear the rain pounding against the window when morning came. It would be another dreary day, but at least Sherlock had slept during the night. So had I, which was good since I'd need every ounce of strength for the morning ahead.

Mycroft Holmes had sent me a text shortly after I'd turned off the laptop the night before.

MH: (11:33 p.m.) Please meet John Watson at your Lillydale Street office 9 a.m. Contact me if there's a problem.

"Thanks for the advanced notice," I muttered.

There was no point in arguing, so I opened the front door, hoping the breakfast tray was waiting. It was, and a pot of hot water and several tea bags accompanied the meal.

Beside the tray sat a cardboard box with my name scrawled across it.

I brought everything inside and closed the door. The meal and tea forgotten, I opened the box with trepidation. Inside was a stack of newspapers, topped with a simple note:

"For your information.—MH."

There must have been a dozen newspapers, each of them different, all of them showing stock pictures of Sherlock, wearing his ridiculous crime-sleuthing hat and a scowl.

The headlines screamed from each front page:

"Super Slueth dies in hospital fall!"

"Sleuth determined a fake, jumps to death."

"Police reports fake genius suicide!"

One tabloid even featured a fuzzy photo, obviously taken with a cellular phone, of Sherlock's bloody body, twisted across the unforgiving sidewalk. A nurse dressed in scrubs was standing spread-eagled in front of Sherlock, her arms held wide, trying to shield the gruesome sight.

In that same issue, a smaller photograph of John Watson was framed in the corner of the front page. This, too, was a stock photo, apparently taken from one of the many times Sherlock had received commendations for his sleuth work. John's smile was forced; I could imagine him whispering to his friend, begging him to behave in front of the press.

The caption beneath the photo read, "John Watson gives exclusive interview, calls best friend 'a fraud and a liar.'"

I refused to read such rubbish. And I most certainly didn't want Sherlock to see it. Stuffing the newspapers into my bottom desk drawer, I glanced at the clock on the mantle; I only had an hour before I needed to be at my office.

I ate a piece of toast and left the breakfast things on the countertop for Sherlock to find. After showering and dressing, I peeked into his room.

He was still asleep, and I knew that if I awakened him he would never go back to sleep. I couldn't do that to him; he needed the rest so badly.

I watched him for a moment. He was lying on his stomach, his cheek nestled against the pillows. The scarf was still wrapped around his wrist.

Really, I wasn't comfortable leaving him. However, since I hadn't been given a choice in the matter, I wrote him a note.

Sherlock, I need to run an errand. I will be back before noon.—Merry.

PS Eat something.

Propping the note against his half-empty glass of water on the nightstand, I reassured myself by pausing to listen to his breathing. It was even and deep. He showed no signs of dreaming; his face was calm, his features smooth.

He was in a deep, deep slumber. Perhaps he wouldn't even know I'd gone.

So why did it bother me so much to turn my back on him and walk away?