"Go upstairs?" John echoed in disbelief.

Melissa nodded. She'd just arrived at the house, hastily dressed; John reflected that he'd never seen her in a t-shirt and track pants before. She wasn't even wearing makeup. He mentally added Melissa to his list of people he could rely on in a crisis.

"You know the law," she said. "I can't ask you for private information about your patients, and without their permission, I can't tell you about mine."

"How am I supposed to help her if-"

"I'll share with you anything she gives permission for, and we're going to sit down and all three of us talk. But first, I need to talk to her without you. Go upstairs."

Melissa was intractable. John went up, pausing by the nursery door on his way down the hall. From below, he could hear both Melissa and Molly talking in low voices. He felt a sudden ache of exclusion, as if this was Secret Women's Business that he had no part of or right to.

Casper was brushing against his legs. He took him into the bedroom and sat on the bed waiting for nearly fifteen minutes, until he heard Melissa climbing the stairs and walking along the hall. She knocked on the door and opened it when invited to.

"Okay, come down," she said gently. "We'll talk. She's okay."

Downstairs, Molly was nursing a second cup of tea in both hands. She'd stopped crying, John noted with gratitude, though she still looked dishevelled and soggy. "Is Charlie all right?" was the first thing out of her mouth.

"She's fast asleep." John sat down in the armchair and waited for Melissa to begin. He knew how this went. This was like therapy… this was therapy, really. Free therapy in the middle of the night. He owed Melissa one.

"Molly," Melissa said, "it seems to me that a lot of these issues have come up because both you and John find it difficult to communicate with one another when there's something wrong. You're both a bit scared of upsetting the other, but then you end up more upset when these things don't get said at all, right?"

Molly nodded, and Melissa looked at John for a second.

"So do you want to go ahead and talk now?" she continued. "I'll leave you to it if you don't want me to overhear."

"I…"

"Say what you really think, Molly... not what you think I want to hear."

Molly was silent for a few seconds, grappling with this. She tucked one straggling lock of hair behind her ear."Maybe… maybe if we talked about this on our own for a little bit?" she ventured. "Maybe… maybe you could make some more tea or play with Casper, or…?"

"That's better." Melissa rose and went into the kitchen. Molly looked awkwardly across at her husband for a few seconds, obviously wondering how on earth to begin.

"I'm sorry," she finally said, then checked herself. "No. I mean, I… I'm sorry that you're hurt," she said. "But I… Mel says I need to tell you honestly…"

John swallowed down on what felt like a boulder in his throat. He felt the warm spread of anxiety in his chest as he awaited it, or something like it: John, I don't want to be married to you anymore.

"I want to go back to work," she said. Once the dreaded sentence was out, she took a deep, shuddering breath. "I… I don't think I'm the sort of person who likes to just stay at home with the baby all day..."

John nodded, checking that her sentence was finished before clearing his throat. He was trying not to show how relieved he was that his worst fears hadn't eventuated. "Okay," he said. "You know, I agree with you. That night we were at the morgue was the most cheerful I think I've seen you since Charlie was born. You were having a great time."

"But it's terrible -"

"Why?"

Molly paused, trying to sort her thoughts out. "Because… I don't know why," she said. "But it doesn't matter, does it? Because I don't want to leave Charlie in care."

John nodded again. This was no surprise. Molly had already stated her decision not to leave her child in the care of a stranger until she was at least six months old. "Okay," he said. "But Lolly, I think you might be missing the obvious…?"

She frowned. "What do you mean?"

"What if you went back to work, and I didn't?"

Molly's mouth dropped open and then, to John's surprise, she started softly crying again. "Oh, no," she said, putting her hand to her mouth. "John, no, you've been wanting to get back to work for months. And… to be at home all day with Charlie…"

"You never know, I might like it." John shrugged and took a deep breath. "Listen," he said. "I had a talk about this with… well, with a lot of people, actually. But it was Greg who said that I can't do everything for everyone. He said something would have to give, and he was right. And… I suppose if I were a more responsible person, it would be Sherlock who'd have to give."

"No," she said immediately. "He's your friend. Our friend. He's important to you, and he's important to me."

"Yeah." He squeezed her hand. "So there it is. You and Charlie need me. Sherlock needs me… sometimes. Harry needs me. I can't take Sherlock out of my life, any more than I could take you or Charlie or Harry out of it."

"But…"

"I don't need to work. We'll do okay on one income for a bit. We've done okay so far. Charlie might not get that pony for her first birthday, but she'll probably have happier parents."

"But you'll get bored…"

"I might," he said. "But you're already bored, and I might get bored. I might not. Why don't we try it and see?"

At half-past twelve the following day, John arrived back at the hospital with Charlie in his arms and a floral pink nappy bag slung over one shoulder; Molly was on a much-needed lunch date with Melissa. He was acutely aware that almost every woman who saw him was casting him looks of approval for his choice of feminine company; at least, he reflected, they weren't looks of pity. He made his way down the corridor to Sherlock's room, finding a stout nurse with the medications trolley near the doorway.

"Liz," he said cheerfully. "What's all this about?"

Liz Elerman had been a nurse at Hammersmith for part of the time that John had worked there; the two were on friendly terms, even if they had never known each other particularly well.

"Switching to oral amoxicillin doses," she explained, briefly checking the time on the watch pinned to her uniform. "At the moment he's still got the drip, but we're weaning him off that."

"Already?"

"Dr. Grantham said she's concerned about him building up a resistance. We're closely monitoring the infection; if it stops responding to the oral doses, we'll go back to the IV… and aww, who's this?" She was smiling at Charlie, who was placidly nestled up against John's shoulder.

"This is my daughter. Charlie," he said. "Before you ask, because everyone does, she's eight weeks old tomorrow."

"Awww, she's lovely. Anyway." Liz stopped cooing and made quite a different face. "Rosa's notes indicate Sherlock didn't much like last night's medicine."

"Great." It was John's turn to make a face. Charlie's bag, containing every conceivable thing a baby could ever want, was slipping down his shoulder. He shrugged it up awkwardly. "I'll spare you the abuse and give it to him… come on, Liz. You know I'm authorised to give someone a medicine cup of Amox. Haven't been struck off the register lately. And I won't put arsenic in it somewhere between here to his bed. Promise."

Liz didn't seem particularly miffed about missing out on giving Sherlock his medication. John took the medicine cup in his free hand and went into the room. He found Sherlock, looking pale and tragic, picking through what John felt was easily the most unappetising lunch he'd ever seen.

"Afternoon," John said. "Don't scowl at her. It's a long story."

"I wasn't scowling," Sherlock protested, dropping his spoon as if grateful for the interruption. He may not have been scowling at Charlie, but he was certainly frowning at her and looked confused. "Why is she looking at me like that?" he wanted to know.

John shifted Charlie slightly, looking at her face. "She's smiling at you, Sherlock."

"No, she's not… why is she?"

"I don't know. Maybe she likes to see you." John put the medicine cup on the table and sat down in the nearest chair. "Listen," he began. "I can't stay long today, but we need to talk -"

"You… have a child, John."

There was no mockery or sarcasm or dudgeon in Sherlock's voice. Only a sense of wonder. John blinked.

"Yeah," he said slowly. "Sherlock, I've had a child for two months now."

"You're someone's father."

"Yep."

Sherlock was still looking at Charlie. He paused for a second or two, then shook his head. "No matter," he said. "John, I've decided that you're involving yourself far too much with this case, and with me. Lestrade and Mycroft are also assisting, so there's no need for you to -"

John frowned. "Did Mel -?"

"And I've spoken with Mycroft," Sherlock continued over the top of him. "We've agreed that after I'm released it would be best if I spent a week out at Linwood, since he so stubbornly refuses to stay at Baker Street."

John paused for a few seconds, looking at him. "Thank you," he finally said.

"What for?"

"You know what for. I don't want to have another touchy-feely conversation today if I can avoid one."

"I -"

"Nope, not interested. Here, shut up and take your medicine…" He held the medicine cup out to Sherlock, who downed it quickly and put the empty cup back down on the table with a grimace.

"I'm taking Mycroft's money, by the way," John continued. "Yeah, you heard about that, I'm not stupid, you know. I'll be in Mycroft's debt, but -"

"No one's in Mycroft's debt," Sherlock said, spooning what looked like lumpy pumpkin soup into his mouth and wincing. "And no-one ever will be. He never gives away a penny that he expects to see again…"

He put the spoon down and trailed off. He was looking at the now-empty medicine cup beside his lunch tray as if it were the first time he had ever seen it.

"Sherlock…?"

"What did I just take?"

John paused, a little taken aback. "It's liquid amoxicillin," he said. "Same as you had last night, or so Liz tells me."

"I just drank that because you told me to," Sherlock said. "I didn't ask what it was. You didn't tell me. It could have been anything..."

"It wasn't 'anything.'" John said, genuinely offended. "I would never -"

"No, I know you would never do anything to harm me," Sherlock said witheringly. "I trust you, and that's why I drank it. But what if I was Edwin Bartlett, John? What if I was a hypochondriac who loved to take medicines of all kinds? What if I had a longsuffering, beautiful, sexually frustrated wife whom I trusted as a nursemaid -?"

John stared at him. "Oh, God," he said. "Are you saying…"

"That's how Addie Bartlett did it, John. Half-asleep and probably suffering from a pounding headache, Edwin Bartlett drank a bottle of chloroform because Addie told him it was medicine!"

"The… the narrow-necked bottle," John blurted out. "He wouldn't have been able to smell it if he just chucked it down… wouldn't have realised what it was until it was too late. And the water -"

"Was a chaser from when he swallowed the chloroform, not the aspirin. That's why the chemical burns in his oesophagus and mouth were so mild."

"God," John said. "But then, Addie was remanded when Tim -"

"Yes, but Ralph Inglis wasn't remanded when Tim Bartlett was murdered," Sherlock pointed out. "There were no other serious suspects for Tim Bartlett's murder, and that was his mistake. Addie asked him to procure the chloroform, and he did – because she told him she was going to kill Tim with it."

"Tim? Why would she -"

"Inglis was jealous of Tim, and if he didn't manage to hide it from Lestrade, he wouldn't have hidden it from Addie. No doubt she told Inglis the reason she'd never sleep with him was because of Tim's relationship with her. She must have also told him some nonsense about Tim being controlling, or having some sort of a hold on her that prevented her leaving him. Some reason for Inglis to believe she wanted Tim out of the way. So she and Inglis arrange what Inglis thinks will be Tim Bartlett's murder. Instead, she kills Edwin because she's in love with Tim, not with Inglis!"

"So... so that's what the meltdown was for when Tim was murdered… it was Tim she was in love with the whole time…" John shifted Charlie in his arms, wondering vaguely if overhearing any of this was going to do her any harm. "Wait," he said. "So why didn't Inglis just out her as the killer when it was Edwin who was poisoned?"

"Because he loves her, the idiot."

"So since he still wanted Tim dead, he went out to murder him on his own."

"Oh, yes, that was definitely pre-meditated. Nobody brings a wire ligature to a crime scene unless they're intending to use it. But Lestrade said the evidence suggests Tim was calmly making him a cup of tea when he was attacked, so they weren't fighting at the time. What was it that Tim told us about Ralph Inglis? Something about him being a wimp, a wet blanket sort. He never saw Inglis as a threat, and let him right into the house. But a man like Inglis doesn't talk things out. He's silent until he explodes in a rage like he did at Tim that night."

"But what provoked it? It was well after Edwin was dead, and Inglis knew she'd been sleeping with Tim for ages."

"Yes, but he didn't know that Addie was remanded in a psychiatric unit - Lestrade told me that was his primary concern when he was interviewed. In his mind, it was Tim's fault that Addie is looking at being sectioned at her Majesty's pleasure." Sherlock reached out for his phone, wincing a little as his reach fell short of the far side of the beside table.

"Here. Use mine." John pulled his phone out of his pocket and held it out to him. Sherlock snatched it without thanks and started navigating the address book.

"We need to hurry," he muttered, putting the phone to his ear. "Inglis was released on bail an hour ago and ordered not to leave London. Lestrade needs to go to his house and rearrest him now."