Present

John's therapist's house

"Did you call the police?" John questioned as he led Mrs. Hudson back inside the house, and Mrs. Hudson snapped as she followed him: "Of course I didn't call the police. I'm not a civilian!"


Earlier that morning

221B Baker Street

Sherlock twirled and paced about his living room, tearing at some of the photographs as he went, before clutching his head in frustration with his pistol still in one hand.

"These pictures..." Mrs. Hudson began uncertainly from where she was standing in the kitchen, pouring tea from the teapot she'd managed to scrounge up from the chaotic mess lying around the whole kitchen "They're that man on the telly, aren't they?"

"What pictures?" Sherlock demanded as he paced around anxiously, and Mrs. Hudson looked up nervously as she said tentatively: "They're everywhere."

She placed down the teapot, picking up the teacup in its saucer shakily while Sherlock gestured wildly around the room with his hands as he said: "Oh, these pictures! Oh, you can see them too."

He pointed at her with his gun as he continued: "That's good."

He then turned away, swaying worryingly as he stared at a few of the photographs, looking at various ones in particular as they jumped out in his frenzied brain while he clutched at his head with his hands again.


Present

John's therapist's house

"Culverton Smith."

John's therapist showed John her laptop, where she'd opened the search page for the billionaire entrepreneur that Mrs. Hudson reported Sherlock had apparently been inexplicably obsessed with.

John leaned in to look as his therapist peered at the screen, pushing up her glasses on her nose as she scrolled down the page before murmuring: "This, I think, is relevant from this morning. "

She clicked on the top news story of the day, which read: 'He's a serial killer!'

"He's publicly accused Mr. Smith of being a serial killer." She read as she opened the page, which showed a picture of Sherlock in his deerstalker mashed next to a picture of Culverton Smith. Under the heading, read the caption: 'Net detective blasts Culverton Smith on Twitter'. Below that, the articles key statements were bulleted, reading: 'Defamatory remark goes viral on social networking site' and 'Media tycoon yet to comment'.

"Christ!" John muttered as he stared at the screen. "Sherlock on Twitter. He really has lost it."

"Don't you dare make jokes." Mrs. Hudson interjected, cross and distressed. "Don't you dare! I was terrified!


A few hours previously

221B Baker Street

Sherlock stood, facing the sitting room as Mrs. Hudson stood trembling with the cup of tea, staring at Sherlock in a mix of worry and fear. He was making strange gestures and motions with his hands, at thin air… while still holding his gun in his hand, when he called through grit teeth: "Cup of tea!"

Mrs. Hudson flinched, as Sherlock spun around to face her and he rolled his eyes at her as he snapped: "Oh, for goodness' sakes."

Mrs. Hudson was staring at him, her hands shaking so badly half the tea had spilled over already, while she slowly took a step back in utter fear.

"What's the matter with you?" Sherlock demanded as he stormed into the kitchen, unsympathetic in his drugged state as he shook his own hands and mocked irritably: "Are you having an earthquake?!"

Mrs. Hudson flinched again, before at last she dropped the cup and saucer in her hand…


Present

John's therapist's house

"You need to see him, John." Mrs. Hudson pleaded as she looked at John beseechingly. "You need to help him!"

"Nope." John replied flatly, shaking his head, and Mrs. Hudson cried frantically: "He needs you!"

"No, he needs Marie, he needs his own wife." John answered flatly. "Not me. Not now… not ever."

He turned away from Mrs. Hudson, only to freeze as he saw the vision of Mary that haunted him so often at his house, at his work… everywhere.

She was leaning almost casually against the wall as she gave him a raised-brow look, and John hesitated, while Mrs. Hudson stormed up as she snapped: "Now you just listen to me for once in your stupid life. I know Mary's dead and I know your heart is broken," her voice broke as well, "but if Sherlock Holmes dies too, who will you have then?"

John opened his mouth, brows furrowed, but Mrs. Hudson cut in as she jabbed a finger at him: "Because I tell you something, John Watson. You will not have Rose-Marie anymore, and you will not have me!"

With that, she stormed out of the house, clearly distressed and near tears, and John watched her go, his eyes resting once more on the vision of Mary. She jerked her head after Mrs. Hudson, giving John a pointed look. John paused before resignedly stomping out after Mrs. Hudon, missing the smile that appeared on Mary's face as he did.

John stepped out of his therapist's house, wincing as he saw Mrs. Hudson leaning against the top of her car, weeping loudly. She was alone now, the cops and the helicopter nowhere to be seen, and John sighed as he carefully approached the heartbroken landlady.

"Have you spoken to Marie?" John asked tentatively, and Mrs. Hudson wept: "She left after Sherlock fell back into drugs when Mary died. Said she didn't want him near the children, and I don't blame her."

John winced, before he cleared his throat and tried instead: "Well, have you spoken to Mycroft, Molly, uh, anyone?"

"They don't matter." Mrs. Hudson cried. "You do."

She straightened up at last, her face tear-streaked and crumpled sorrowfully as she pleaded: "Would you just see him? Please, John. Or just take a look at him as a doctor? I know you'd change your mind if you did."

John was already starting to shake his head, but as Mrs. Hudson stared at him beseechingly he gave in slightly as he answered: "Yeah, look, okay, maybe, if I get a chance."

"D'you promise?" Mrs. Hudson asked, brightening up instantly.

John almost winced, but he answered a little evasively but honestly: "I'll try, if I'm in the area."

"Promise me?" Mrs. Hudson wheedled, turning up the charm, and John gave in as he answered: "I promise."

"Thank you!" Mrs. Hudson beamed before turning and striding purposefully towards the back of her car. John frowned slightly, confused, as Mrs. Hudson popped open the boot of her car to reveal… Sherlock Holmes.

John – who stepped around to look – felt his mouth part slightly as he stared at not only his former best friend's wild, swiveling eyes and clearly unkept appearance with the greasy hair and days-old stubble; but also at the manacles that kept Sherlock's hands bound before his chest.

"Well?" Mrs. Hudson said expectantly as Sherlock squinted up at them against the sudden light. "On you go. Examine him!"

John could only shoot Mrs. Hudson a look before looking back in the boot incredulously, as the detective himself started to wriggle his way out, throwing an unsteady leg over the side of the boot while poking his head up and out.


Earlier that morning

221B Baker Street

As the teacup and saucer fell from Mrs. Hudson's trembling hands, Sherlock moved at lightning speed – quite remarkable given his state – to drop his pistol on the kitchen table before stooping down to catch the saucer and cup before it could smash on the floor.

But, what was probably more remarkable was Mrs. Hudson, who had used Sherlock's momentary distraction to snatch up the pistol from the table. By the time Sherlock had straightened up with the cup of tea and saucer – shaking once again as he fought the effects of the many drugs he had taken – Mrs. Hudson had the pistol cocked and pointed right at Sherlock's chest.

"Right, then, mister." Mrs. Hudson stated grimly while Sherlock started slightly at the sight of the gun pointed right at him. "Now, I need your handcuffs. I happen to know there's a pair in the salad drawer."

She paused, before she added with a small half-shrug: "I've borrowed them before."

Sherlock stared at her, his brain still trying to process what he was seeing even as his face scrunched up in indignation, but Mrs. Hudson answered sharply: "Oh, get over yourself. You're not my first smackhead, Sherlock Holmes."


Present

John's therapist's house

John threw open his therapist's front door, standing aside to let Sherlock through as the consulting detective staggered inside, rubbing his wrist where the handcuff had evidently dug into it.

"The woman's out of control." Sherlock hissed as he walked inside, glaring around wildly. "I asked for a cup of tea!"

His eyes suddenly fell on the glass vase of flowers sitting on the entrance hall cabinet, and he grabbed it as John, followed by Mrs. Hudson, also walked inside. Sherlock removed the flowers from their vase as he walked further inside the house, while John turned to Mrs. Hudson and asked in a mix of incredulity and curiosity: "How did you get him in the boot?"

"The boys from the café." She explained, and Sherlock spun back around to spit out harshly: "They dropped me. Twice!"

He turned back around, heading inside the kitchen as he drank the water from the vase while Mrs. Hudson snapped back: "And d'you know why they dropped you, dear? Because they know you."

Sherlock ignored her as he dropped the flowers onto the breakfast bar while he took another gulp of water from the vase, and Mrs. Hudson added: "They probably spared you a third time because they do actually like Marie."

Sherlock grimaced, though it was debatable whether it was at the mention of his missing wife or the dank water he was drinking, before he abruptly pointed and asked: "Who's this one?"

John's therapist looked over, startled, while she held a mobile to her ear, as Sherlock added, looking to John: "Is this a new person? I'm against new people."

"Excuse me for a moment." John's therapist murmured into her phone, before lowering it as Sherlock took another drink from the vase.

"She's my therapist." John answered Sherlock shortly, and the taller man declared while walking over to the new woman: "Awesome! D'you do block bookings?"

John, meanwhile, had turned back to Mrs. Hudson and he asked as he gestured to the Aston Martin: "Whose car is that?"

Mrs. Hudson glanced over before looking back at John as she answered with a hint of confusion at the obvious answer: "That's my car."

"How can that be your car?!" John demanded, and Mrs. Hudson exclaimed: "Oh, for God's sake! I'm the widow of a drug dealer, I own property in central London, and for the last bloody time, John, I'm not your housekeeper!"

And with that, she walked to the front door, closing it firmly and leaving a gobsmacked John behind. Sherlock had made himself comfortable on one of the living room chairs, while John's therapist hesitantly walked over to John, holding out his mobile as she explained: "I'm so sorry. I answered your phone. You were busy. I think you'll want to take it."

John took the phone, confused, and he asked: "Uh, yes, hello?"

"Is this Doctor John Watson?" A male voice questioned, and John's frown deepened as he answered: "Yeah. Who's this?"

"Culverton Smith." The man replied smoothly. "You've probably heard of me."

"Oh, well," John answered hesitantly as he stared at his therapist's still open laptop on the table across from him, "yes."

"Get me a fresh glass of water, please." Sherlock suddenly piped up, waving his nearly empty vase around. "This one's filthy."

John's temple throbbed and he moved further into the entrance hall for some privacy as Culverton Smith said into the phone: "I mean, I'm aware of this morning's developments."

Sherlock groaned in the sitting room as John's therapist took the empty vase from him, taking the consulting detective's strange antics well, while John said apologetically into his phone: "Yes. I'm sure he was being ... hilarious. Sorry, did you say all still meeting?"

John abruptly changed topics, frowning in confusion, and Smith explained: "You, me, and Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. I've sent a car; should be outside. Mr. Holmes gave me an address."

John's brows furrowed as he answered: "Well, he couldn't have given you this one. And sorry, did you say Mrs.-?"

He broke off as the doorbell rang.

John turned, and slowly opened the front door to find a well-dressed man outside, who greeted politely: "When you're ready."

John stared at the man for a moment before glancing out to see a black limo parked on the curb. His mouth falling open, John looked back at the driver, managing a small nod, before he slammed the door shut once more and demanded into the phone: "When did Sherlock give you this address?"

"Two weeks ago." Smith replied, and John repeated incredulously as he walked into the house: "Two weeks?"

"Yes. Two weeks." Smith sounded a little confused, and John fumed. Hanging up on Smith, John walked into the kitchen, where Mrs. Hudson was busily cleaning up the sink out of habit.

"How did you know where to find me?" John demanded, and Mrs. Hudson looked up with surprise.

"Oh, Sherlock told me." She answered easily. "He's not so difficult when you've got a gun on him. I wonder if that was Rose-Marie's trick."

John turned, hesitating for a brief moment, before he stalked into the sitting room where Sherlock was now slumped back in the patient's consulting chair, looking like he'd fallen asleep while John's therapist placed a glass of water beside the consulting detective.

"How did you know?" John demanded loudly as he walked in, waking Sherlock with a start. "How? On Monday I decided to get a new therapist. Tuesday afternoon, I chose her. "

He pointed at his new therapist, who had settled quietly into her consulting chair, while Sherlock just lazily leaned his head on his fingers, propping his elbow on the arm of his chair as John ranted: "Wednesday morning I booked today's session. Now, today is Friday."

Mrs. Hudson appeared uncertainly in the doorway as John continued, his voice rising: "So two weeks ago – two weeks before you were abducted at gunpoint and brought here against your will," Sherlock was frowning as though he was finding it hard to keep up with John's rant, "over a week before I even thought of coming here, you knew exactly where you'd need to be picked up for lunch?!"

John glared at his former best friend, and Sherlock grimaced as he answered calmly: "Really? I correctly anticipated the responses of people I know well to scenarios I devised? Can't everyone do that?"

John's jaw had dropped while Mrs. Hudson asked incredulously: "How?"

"Except the boot." Sherlock added, pointing at Mrs. Hudson as he gave her a withering look. "The boot was mean."

Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips while John muttered to her: "Never mind how. He's dying to tell us that."

He turned back to Sherlock as he hissed: "I want to know why."

"Because Mrs. Hudson's right." Sherlock bit out, looking like the admission physically hurt him. "I'm burning up."

John's eyes narrowed and he gazed silently at his friend as Sherlock said slowly: "I'm lost. I've lost you, I lost Mary," John's eye twitched but he listened silently, "and, and I lost Marie as well."

Sherlock took a deep breath as he continued: "I'm at the bottom of a pit, and I'm still falling and," he shook his head, "I'm never climbing out."

Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips, her face drawing with sorrow as she turned away and walked back into the kitchen, but John remained unmoved as Sherlock stood up and said beseeching: "But even with all that, I need you to know, John – I need you to see that up here."

He gestured to the sides of his temples with both of his shaking hands as he continued urgently: "I've still got it, so when I tell you that this," he staggered to lean on the table to point at the picture of Smith on the laptop screen, "is the most dangerous, the most despicable human being that I have ever encountered; when I tell you that this-this monster must be ended, please remember where you're standing, because…"

Sherlock took a deep breath before finished as he pointed at John: "You're standing exactly where I said you would be two weeks ago."

John's brows furrowed and his lips pursed, while Sherlock fell into the chair beside the table, grimacing with pain.

"I'm a mess." Sherlock admitted in a quiet voice. "I'm in hell; but I am not wrong, not about him."

He pointed again at the laptop screen, and John finally interrupted, folding his arms across his chest: "So what has all this got to do with me?"