Room at St. Caedwalla's Hospital

"How did you get in?" Sherlock croaked out, his voice weak as he stared at Smith.

The small man smiled a little, standing as he asked softly while pointing towards the door: "Policeman outside, you mean? Come on. Can't you guess?"

Sherlock's eyes immediately moved to the decorative wooden panel on the wall opposite the bed, and he murmured the obvious: "Secret door."

Smith smiled as he explained quietly: "I built this whole wing."

He waved his gloved finger around to indicate the general area they were in as he continued: "Kept firing the architect and builders so no-one knew quite how it all fitted together. I can slip in and out anywhere I like, you know..."

He inhaled sharply, almost longingly, before finishing in the tight tone of an addict: "When I get the urge."

"H. H. Holmes." Sherlock murmured, and Smith corrected slightly: "Murder castle, but done right."

He then stared at Sherlock more intently as he asked: "Now, I have a question for you. Why are you here?"

He examined Sherlock as he pointed out: "It's like you walked into my den and laid down in front of me."

Sherlock lowered his eyes, no longer meeting Smith's stare, and Smith repeated softly: "Why?"

Sherlock's eyes flickered up briefly before lowering once more, and he swallowed before he answered hoarsely: "You know why I'm here."

"I'd like to hear you say it." Smith replied as he gazed at Sherlock, and then he smiled a little, like a child anticipating a treat.

"Say it for me, please." He requested, and Sherlock looked back up at Smith at last.

"I want you to kill me." Sherlock stated finally, and Smith's grin widened.


221B Baker Street

John flung open the door, Marie hurrying out first as she looked for a cab as John came out right behind her, when a voice called: "John! Rose-Marie!"

The pair turned back to the flats as Mrs. Hudson stuck her head out, tossing John a set of keys.

"My car." She explained, gesturing round back to indicate where it was parked.

John nodded, while Marie took the keys from him as they quickly headed around the building, both of them breaking into a brisk run.

"You're driving?" John asked, glancing at Marie, and she answered curtly: "I'm faster."

He didn't argue that; and though it meant he wouldn't likely ever get the chance to drive Mrs. Hudson's car, that was the least of John's concerns as he climbed into the passenger seat of the Aston Martin.


Room at St. Caedwalla's Hospital

"If you increase the dosage four or five times," Sherlock noted and Smith's eyes flickered at the drip currently attached to Sherlock's hand, "toxic shock should shut me down within about an hour."

Smith smiled, straightening slightly as he moved to the foot of the bed while finishing quietly: "Then I restore the settings. Everyone assumes it was a fault, or you just gave up the ghost."

His smile widened, and Sherlock agreed calmly, as though they weren't discussing his own imminent death: "Yes."

"You're rather good at this." Smith noted as he walked up beside the drip.

The man then worked off his jacket, dropping it onto the chair beside Sherlock as he murmured: "Before we start, tell me how you feel."

He then started to remove his cufflinks, rolling back his sleeves carefully while Sherlock murmured softly: "I feel… scared."

Smith scoffed, and he almost ordered sternly: "Be more specific."

He paused, before chuckling as he added: "You only get to do this the once."

"I'm scared of dying." Sherlock murmured, frowning just slightly.

Smith nodded, looking pleased as he noted: "You wanted this, though."

"I have... reasons." Sherlock murmured, and Smith asked: "A fight with your wife, perhaps? I saw her leaving… she didn't look very happy."

"Part of the reason." Sherlock breathed, and Smith nodded as he smiled.

"Doctor Watson." He noted, and Sherlock didn't answer.

Smith examined him, and he asked quietly, darkly: "But you don't actually want to die?"

"No." Sherlock whispered, and Smith smiled once more.

"Good." He whispered, looking very pleased and even content as he finished rolling up his sleeves, before he looked back at Sherlock.

"Say it out for me." Smith breathed almost lovingly. "Say it."

"I don't want to die." Sherlock murmured, and Smith breathed: "And again."

"I don't want to die." Sherlock repeated, a little louder and a little firmer, and Smith breathed.

"Once more for luck." Smith whispered, as though he didn't want to ruin the pleasure of the moment, and Sherlock repeated tearfully, his eyes watering: "I don't want to die. I don't..."

Smith leaned in then, coming closer as Sherlock whispered: "I don't want to die."

Smith watched him, his gaze almost intense even as his tone was almost loving as he breathed close to Sherlock's face: "Lovely."

His lips continued to twitch, as though he were fighting the urge to smile with the utter pleasure he was feeling, while he straightened up and moved to the drip control panel.

"Here it comes." Smith murmured, before pressing at the controls, raising the levels on the readout to increase the dosage in Sherlock's drip.

Sherlock watched him, an anguished expression now covering his face as his death came ever closer.


London street

Marie zoomed through the streets, definitely speeding but she was sure she'd be fine – she was arguing on the phone.

"You deserved to be kicked out." She countered into her mobile. "And you can have your petty revenge for that and for the car by letting me be pulled over and ticketed, but then it's on your head if Sherlock dies, Mycroft."

Meanwhile, John was saying to Lestrade urgently: "Please, I don't think he's safe."

"No, he's fine." Lestrade argued, even as John heard him moving about hurriedly. "I've got a man on the door. What-what do you think's happened?"

"Something dangerous." John answered frantically as he glanced at Marie. "I don't know what exactly, Marie's taking me there now. Mary left a message-"

"What message?" Lestrade asked incredulously.


Earlier

221B Baker Street

"John Watson," Mary pointed out grimly onscreen, "never accepts help, not from anyone. Not ever. But here's the thing: he never refuses it. So, here's what you are going to do, Sherlock."


Room at St. Caedwalla's Hospital

Smith was pacing at the foot of Sherlock's bed as Sherlock watched with groggy eyes while his drip continued to feed him.

"So tell me." Smith asked curiously. "Why are we doing this? To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"I wanted to hear your confession." Sherlock answered softly. "Needed to know I was right."

"But why do you need to die?" Smith asked, frowning, and Sherlock explained just as quietly: "The mortuary; your favourite room."

Smith smiled slightly as he understood, while Sherlock stated with difficulty: "You talk to the dead. You make your confession to them."

Smith sniffed, straightening up as he turned away, shaking his head but not in denial – in admiration.


"You can't save John because he won't let you." Mary had told them, shaking her head with a small rueful smile onscreen. "He won't allow himself to be saved. The only way to save John... is to make him save you."


Room at St. Caedwalla's Hospital

"Why do you do it?" Sherlock asked faintly, and Smith looked at him.

"Why do I kill?" He asked, before looking down a little as he explained while gently rubbing his fingers together: "It's not about hatred or-or revenge. I'm not a dark person. It's... Killing human beings..."

He broke down into chuckles, covering his mouth as he laughed to himself in delight like a child while admitting to Sherlock between laughs: "It just makes me..."

He let out a long, contented sigh before finishing with a wide smile: "Incredibly happy."

Sherlock's lips thinned just a little as he watched the other man while Smith's smile faded slowly as he fell in thought. The man let out a harsh breath through his nose as he stood up, walking back to Sherlock's bed as he said suddenly: "You know i-i-in films when-when you see dead people pretending to be dead and it's just living people lying down?"

Smith shook his head, his lips pressed together in dislike before he said discontentedly: "That's not what dead people look like."

Sherlock watched carefully, silently, as Smith continued with a smouldering look in his eyes: "Dead people look like things. I like to make people into things. Then you can own them."

He huffed out as he stared at Sherlock, who was gazing back at him silently.

"You know what?" Smith stated as he straightened up. "I'm getting a little impatient."

He leant back, pressing the button on Sherlock's bed to bring the partially angled detective back down flat on his back. Sherlock could only lie there and watch as Smith ran his tongue over his lips like a predator about to hunt his prey, or the way a fat child looks at cake just before he devours it whilst enjoying every morsel.


"And Marie," Mary stated as she stared right at the camera as though to Marie herself, "I'm sorry to ask this; but I know that if our roles had been reversed, you would want this for Sherlock. So please… let me ask this of you two. Marie, please look aside just this once. Forgive me, and forgive Sherlock."


Room at St. Caedwalla's Hospital

Smith leant down over Sherlock as the younger man just stared up at him helplessly.

"Take a big breath if you want." Smith murmured to Sherlock, and Sherlock's eyes lowered immediately to Smith's hands.

And Sherlock took a quick, deep breath right before Smith pressed a firm hand over his mouth and nose respectively, blocking Sherlock's airways as Smith began to strangle him.


"Go to Hell, Sherlock." Mary ordered as she stared seriously at the camera. "Go right into Hell, and make it look like you mean it."


Room at St. Caedwalla's Hospital

Sherlock struggled, writhing as Smith pressed down hard on his head while Smith mumbled contently: "Murder is a very difficult addiction to manage. People don't realise how much work goes into it. You have to be careful."

Sherlock flailed weakly at Smith's arms, trying to break the other man's hold, while Smith continued with that wide, toothy smile: "But if-if you're rich and famous and loved, it's amazing what people are prepared to ignore."

Smith's voice was also becoming labored, both from the effort of resisting Sherlock's squirming and from the sheer anticipation of murdering his victim.

But the confession was part of that anticipation, and so Smith continued to murmur as he leaned in to watch Sherlock struggle: "There's always someone desperate, about to go missing, and no-one wants to suspect murder if it's easier to suspect something else! I just have to ration myself; choose the right heart to stop."


"Go and pick a fight with a bad guy." Mary continued, half-ordering half-pleading as she addressed both Sherlock and Marie in her message. "Put yourself in harm's way."


Room at St. Caedwalla's Hospital

Sherlock struggled valiantly, his eyes wide as he stared frantically up, while Smith breathed, almost hissed: "Please, maintain eye contact. Maintain eye contact. Please. I like to watch it... happen."


"If he thinks you need him," Mary promised onscreen and they'd all known she was right, "I swear..."


St. Caedwalla's Hospital

John and Marie burst through the doors into the hallway leading to Sherlock's hospital room, the pair striding quickly to the door where the police officer that was supposed to be on guard was missing. Only his cap still remained on the chair placed by the door, and the sight made John's heart pound harder as he quickly tried the door.

It wouldn't budge, the handle jiggling but refusing to open.


Inside Sherlock's room

Smith leaned down over Sherlock as he hissed: "And off we ... pop."

Sherlock's eyes started to glaze and close while his heart monitor slowed dangerously.


"He will be there." Mary promised, staring right at the camera.


Inside Sherlock's room

Sherlock's heart monitor started to go flat, going into a long single tone and Smith's smile was almost manic… when the door burst open, revealing John Watson and Marie Holmes, holding a fire extinguisher and mobile phone respectively.