I could hear Sherlock's stomach growling from across the room.

He'd fallen asleep on the sofa, his limbs sprawling and his shirt rucked up enough to reveal a rounded, overly full, very noisy stomach. It didn't seem to be bothering him, though; he was out like a light. I had tried to wake him long enough to send him to his bedroom, but he'd just mumbled something about getting up in a moment and then had drifted back into oblivion. Eventually I pulled the duvet from his bed and smoothed it over his still form. He didn't move at all as I tucked the covers around him; because he was so deeply asleep, I thought I might be able to sleep in my own bed for a change.

Then I remembered Mycroft's words:

"And if you want to climb back onto the rooftop and jump again, then be my guest."

Those words sat like a block of ice in the pit of my stomach.

I felt silly for doing it, but I grabbed hold of my file cabinet and dragged it to block the door of our flat. If Sherlock moved it, I reasoned the scraping sound would awaken me.

I was a lighter sleeper than he was, apparently, since he didn't even turn his head while I was doing this.

I retired to my bedroom but left the door open, just in case, and propped myself up in bed. I had packed a novel in my suitcase, but tonight was the first time I'd had the chance to open it.

For a few moments, I read, half-listening to the blissful rhythm of Sherlock's quiet snores. His sounds of sleep had nearly caused me to follow his example, but just as I was drifting his breath hitched.

Immediately I was awake, sitting up and listening intently.

His breathing hitched again. A tiny whimper escaped from the back of his throat.

He was dreaming. And it wasn't a happy dream.

I hoped he would settle back into restful sleep, but a moment later I heard him toss back his duvet and scramble to his feet. He rushed into his bedroom, into the adjoining bathroom, and for a moment I thought he was going to be sick from the cookies he'd devoured. Instead, I heard the water running at full blast. He hadn't bothered to close the bathroom door, which struck me as odd.

I found him standing at the sink, rubbing his hands together as if they were covered in filth.

I called his name, but he only glanced sideways. "It won't come off," he said through gritted teeth.

"Is there something on your hands?" I asked cautiously.

"The blood!" he cried. "It's everywhere! It's all over me. It was all over… her."

"Who?"

"The child!" he sobbed. "The girl! If I had just been a little faster… if I'd just concentrated a little harder… I could have saved her."

"Do you mean Julie?" I stepped closer, reaching to touch him. He didn't flinch at my touch, but he didn't stop the frantic scrubbing. "But you did save her, Sherlock," I said.

He shook his head vehemently.

"Yes. You did." Gently, I reached to turn off the water; it was so frigid his hands were raw and red. Grabbing a towel, I wrapped it gently around his fingers, holding his hands in mine. "Sherlock?" I asked. "Could we go sit down now?"

He nodded but I knew he wasn't awake yet. Being careful to not jolt him into consciousness, I led him gently into his bedroom. He sat obediently on the edge of his bed, but his eyes were still half-open and blank. I knelt in front of him.

"That girl lived, Sherlock." I spoke to him as if he was a child. "You found her in time and she was okay. Do you remember now?"

His eyebrows knitted. "Remember…?"

"Yes," I encouraged. "She drew you a picture yesterday. Do you remember that?"

He simply stared at me, as if he couldn't make out my facial features. His eyelids dropped.

"Sherlock, it's time to lie down again, all right?"

He nodded and allowed me to ease him down to rest his head on the pillows.

That ugly little scarf of his was sitting on the bedstand, and I took his hand and lay it gently in his palm. "Here, sometimes this soothes you," I explained.

He fingered it gingerly. "What is this?"

"It's the scarf you made for John." I realized my mistake immediately. In a heartbeat Sherlock went from sleepy and complacent to frightened.

"John? This is John's. He always wears this. If he doesn't have it in his possession… Where is he?"

At first, I attempted to distract him. "It's late," I said. "Why don't you try to sleep?" I tried to press him back, but he wouldn't allow it. His glazed eyes searched the room. "This isn't our flat." He shoved away the duvet. "What's happened to him?"

"Nothing, Sherlock. John is fine. I promise you, he's fine."

"No!" He shook his head fervently. "I have to talk to John. Now."

"It's late, and John's sleeping," I said. "You don't want to wake him, right? People don't like phone calls in the middle of the night. It frightens them."

He was listening to me now; I saw the fear drain from his features. "I suppose it can wait until morning," he murmured. To my relief, his eyes began to droop again, and this time when I eased him back, he allowed it. His eyes slipped closed and he sighed. "My stomach hurts," he mumbled before drifting back to sleep.

Well, at least one of us was going to close their eyes that night. It certainly wasn't going to be me, not with Sherlock disoriented and sleepwalking and the door unarmed.

I glared at the security code pad mounted near the door. It was blinking a maddening shade of red.

I sat down at my laptop and sent an instant message to Mycroft Holmes.

Merry Middleton: (11:27 p.m.) Arm the doors.

There was no response. After five minutes, I sent a second message.

Merry Middleton: (11:32 p.m.) Your brother is understandably very upset and sleepwalking. I will not sleep if the doors are not armed. Arm the doors now.

Again, I waited and again, there was no response.

I knew the man always had his phone on hand, and I knew damn well he was getting my messages.

Incensed, I grabbed my cellular phone and padded softly into Sherlock's room. He was asleep, thankfully, but he wasn't peaceful; his forehead was furrowed, his mouth slightly downturned. A spectacular bruise had formed around his eye, and over his high cheekbone he had a lump, and in the middle of the lump was the slight imprint of an "H."

I held up my cellular phone and took a quick snapshot of the injury. I grimaced at the image as it downloaded to my laptop.

I attached the disturbing photograph to a new instant message, with a simple message.

Merry Middleton: (11:37 p.m.) That's a lovely ring, Mycroft. Is it new?

I had noticed the ring on Mycroft's right hand at the funeral that morning. It was a pretentious, gold monstrosity with an "H" etched into the face of the ring.

His brother's cheek bore a perfect shadow of it.

Merry Middleton: (11:38 p.m.) I wonder what Scotland Yard would think of this? If I remember correctly, there are several commissioners whose home phone numbers are at my disposal. Former clients, you know. Powerful men who could easily ruin a career with one simple phone call.

Now arm the damn door.

There was no response, but a moment later I heard a series of "beeps" behind me. I turned in time to see the security code pad change its color from red to green.