"Sherlock," I breathed. "Oh, my Lord, you shouldn't have done that."

We were sitting on the couch while he held a bag of ice over his blackening eye. He hadn't spoken since his brother had left, and I didn't blame him. I'd never heard such hateful words in all of my life. Most people would have raged against the words, or curled into a ball and cried. But Sherlock just sat there, numb. His eyes were blank, staring at nothing.

"Say something," I prodded gently. "Let me know you're in there."

He moved his mouth to speak, but the words failed him. After a couple of tries, he finally asked, "Is John all right?"

"Yes," I said. "He fainted at the church. He needs some rest and some food and he'll feel better."

"I heard the paramedics bring him in," he said. "They said his name."

Realization dawned on me as I saw the fear still etched in his downturned face. "You thought something much worse had happened to John," I said.

He nodded, only once.

"An attack?"

Another nod.

I chose my next words delicately. "Did you think you had somehow failed to protect him?"

His voice hitched, but he nodded again. He caught his lower lip in his teeth and bit down, hard, to keep from crying.

"You have protected him, Sherlock," I assured gently. "You gave up everything to keep him safe. And when you couldn't be there yourself, you sent me in to make sure he would be all right. And he is, Sherlock. He'll be all right.

"You're a hero, Sherlock," I added. "Don't ever forget that."

He gnawed on his lip even harder, and I knew he needed a minute to regain control of himself, so I walked into our kitchenette area, looking more for something to do than something to eat. Someone had thoughtfully stocked our shelves before we had moved in, and my eyes perused our selection.

Among the jars of spaghetti sauce and boxes of noodles and tinned vegetables, I found sugar, flour, baking soda and baking powder. There was butter and eggs and milk in the fridge.

I didn't find chocolate, but fortunately I had purchased a couple of chocolate bars on my way to the funeral. Now, I unwrapped the bars and began chopping them into bits.

Curiosity got the better of him. "What are you doing?" he asked.

"I'm making cookies," I explained. "I think this situation warrants chocolate chip cookies, don't you?"

He frowned. "Why?"

I began dumping ingredients into a big bowl. "Haven't you ever eaten a warm chocolate chip cookie?"

He lifted one shoulder in a half-shrug.

"I guarantee it will make you feel better."

He raised his eyebrow to me. "Is that your professional opinion, that a person transitioning into stage four of Kubler Ross' grief process should drown their sorrows in a product consisting primarily of fats, processed starches and sugar?"

I pointed my wooden spoon at him. "Just for that, I'm eating them all by myself."

As the cookies baked, our flat began to fill with their warm, sweet scent. Sherlock had picked up a book from the coffee table and was pretending to read, while still balancing the ice bag with one hand, but eventually his eyes drifted to the oven and the source of the wonderful smell.

When the cookies were finished, I playfully wafted their smell in his direction, but he ignored me. When they were cooled, I filled a plate, poured a glass of milk and spread out the offering on the coffee table in front of him. I took his ice pack, inspecting the injury for swelling. "You'll look just like Rocky by tomorrow," I said. "Now eat."

I dumped the ice pack and sat down beside him. He looked at the cookies as if I'd offered a plateful of larvae. I picked up one cookie, dunked it in his milk, and held it to his mouth.

"Come on, Sherlock," I soothed. "Do it for me."

His eyes met mine and to my surprise, he took a tentative bite. His eyes closed in appreciation, a quick "hmmm" escaping his throat.

He took the cookie from my fingers and shoved the rest of it in his mouth.

"Easy, easy," I admonished. "Don't choke."

I watched as he ate another cookie, and then another. After his fifth or sixth cookie, I thought I'd better distract him before he got a stomachache.

"I have something for you, but it might make you cry a little," I said. "Do you want it?"

"Cry in a good way or a bad way?" he asked.

"Maybe a little of both," I admitted.

He wiped the crumbs from his mouth with the back of his hand and nodded.

I crossed the room, reaching into my coat pocket for Julie's drawing. Tucked inside the paper was a tiny sprig of baby's breath; I had dropped it into my pocket before Julie had given the rest of her bouquet to John.

I showed him the flowers first. "I met a little girl named Julie today at the funeral," I said. "She was there with her mum. Her mother said she was abducted."

"Julie Edwards, possible fourth victim of The Playground Strangler," he said automatically. "June 5, 2012. He had taken three children previously and had stuffed them into the sewer. We found them all underground. They were filthy, but otherwise uninjured. Julie was to be his fourth victim, but we found him before he could hurt her."

"No, you found him," I said. "When we were waiting for the ER doctor to visit John, he told me all about the case. You had discovered where the children were because you had noticed the unusual pry marks on a manhole cover near the playground. The police freed the first three children and then lay in wait until he came back with Julie.

"John also said the Playground Strangler went to the emergency room with a perfect imprint of the manhole cover still on his face," I added. "Do you know how that happened?"

"No idea." He reached for another cookie.

He was more interested in the cookies than the flowers, so I set the sprig on the table beside him. I held out the folded picture for him to take. He eyes grew wary. "My fingers are dirty," he said.

I unfolded it for him, showing him Julie's drawing. "She made this for you. She said she wished she could give it to you."

Sherlock forgot about his chocolatey fingers. He took the picture in his hands, staring at it as if memorizing every line, every mark of crayon. He began chewing on his lip again to keep his sobs inside.

"Sherlock," I said quietly. "Never, for a moment, think that people don't care about you. And never forget you are a hero."

He didn't speak a word. He just leaned into me, his forehead resting against my shoulder. I could hear his breath hitching, and I soothed him as best I could, stroking his curls with my fingertips, whispering over and over that everything was going to be all right.