Several days later
"You seem so much better, John."
"Yeah, I... I am." John replied in agreement as he sat across from his latest therapist once more. "I think I am. Not all day; not every day, but, uh, you know."
"It is what it is?" His therapist suggested, and John nodded as he agreed: "Yeah."
"And Rosie?" His therapist asked, tilting her head, and John replied lightly: "Oh, beautiful, perfect, unprecedented in the history of children."
He smiled, before adding: "That's not my bias; that's scientific fact."
He chuckled to himself as he thought about how vehemently Sherlock would likely disagree with his statement – for all that Sherlock claimed he only believed in cool, hard logic, he was a surprisingly biased parent.
"Good." His therapist noted, and John smiled again. "And Sherlock Holmes?"
"Back to normal." John shrugged. "Him and Marie."
221B Baker Street
"Get out!" Sherlock ordered.
Clean-shaven once more and in his regular black suit, Sherlock wrenched the flat door open, while his client protested: "She's possessed by the Devil! I swear my wife is channeling Satan!"
"Yes, boring." Sherlock snapped back, before gesturing out the door as he ordered angrily: "Go away!"
The male client huffed in exasperation as he stormed out of the room, followed by his wife who protested to Sherlock irritably: "I'm not channeling Satan!"
"Why not, given your immediate alternative?" Sherlock snapped back, before throwing the door shut behind his irritating clients.
"Another dud?" Marie asked as she walked in from the kitchen, already wearing her coat, and Sherlock scowled.
"You're ready already?" He asked, a hint of plaintive pouting in his tone, and she smiled.
"Don't you want your children back?" She asked lightly, and Sherlock immediately perked up.
"You're bringing them home today?" He asked, trying to sound nonchalant but unable to hide his eagerness. Marie laughed.
"Of course – I'd say they've been away from home for too long, wouldn't you?" She asked, grinning as Sherlock's previously annoyed expression melted away completely.
Kissing him lightly, she patted his cheek fondly as she moved towards the landing, calling over her shoulder: "I need to run an errand first, but I should be back by tonight."
"Errand?" Sherlock asked, puzzled, and Marie smiled.
"It won't take long." She promised, and he scowled. She could see him trying to scan her, and noted the way his eyes narrowed as he realized he couldn't read anything off of her.
"Dangerous?" He asked casually, but he didn't fool her.
"I'd let you know if it was." She replied, giving his curly hair a fond ruffle before walking out of the flat. "Don't think about following me, Sherlock!"
He scowled, pouting at her back as she disappeared down the landing. He briefly considered following her anyway but decided against it – she'd figure it out immediately. And not only would she not be happy with him, she'd probably be able to lose him regardless.
Wracking his brains, Sherlock wondered briefly if she was preparing something for Rosie's birthday, but decided that wasn't right – she wouldn't hide that from him and she was definitely hiding something. He'd gotten a hint that Marie expected to be moving a lot, given her unrestrictive choice in clothing, but what…?
Sherlock's thoughts trailed off as he saw something in the corner of the flat - an unassuming piece of paper, hidden from view behind the TV... and which should not have been there.
Slowly, he leant down, picking it up with a frown before his eyes widened as he realized where it was from.
John's therapist's place
"What about his brother?" John's therapist asked, and John shrugged as he answered: "Mycroft? He's fine."
Mycroft's office
"So, you're off now?" Mycroft questioned as he shrugged on his coat. "I won't see you for a week?"
"Just spending it at home..." Lady Smallwood agreed as she shrugged on her own coat. "Unless she calls."
"The P.M." Mycroft murmured, his tone as disgusted as Lady Smallwood's had been while Lady Smallwood nodded as she turned to face Mycroft.
She then held out a business card to him, offering: "Here."
"What's this?" Mycroft asked, taking the card absently out of habit and glancing down at it.
"My number." Lady Smallwood answered, and Mycroft replied calmly: "I already have your number."
"My private number." Lady Smallwood amended, equally calmly, and Mycroft lifted a brow.
"Why would I need that?" He asked, and Lady Smallwood just blinked at him innocently as she replied rather coyly: "I don't know. Maybe you'd like a drink some time."
"Of… what?" Mycroft asked, genuinely puzzled, and Lady Smallwood answered lightly: "Up to you."
She smiled, and added as she turned: "Call me."
With that, she walked out of the office, leaving him alone. Mycroft – both brows raised – turned to follow her as he chuckled dismissively, throwing the business card carelessly down on his notebook on his desk as he made to walk out as well… and then he paused. And he looked back.
John's therapist's place
"I mean," John added, "obviously 'normal' and 'fine' are both relative terms when it comes to Sherlock and Mycroft. At least Marie's more normal."
He chuckled, and his therapist smiled as she agreed lightly: "Obviously."
Mycroft's office
Mycroft slowly made his way back to his desk, reaching out his hand for the business card before he hesitated. He dropped his hand, tapping his fingers on the edge of the desk instead before he quickly turned away once more, starting to walk briskly out of the office once more.
221B Baker Street
Sherlock held up the notepaper he'd found under the kitchen light, staring at the writing on it including the small spatter of blood across the first word.
"She was real." He muttered in shock, frowning deeply as he tried to figure out what this all meant. If the 'Faith Smith' he'd met that night he'd thought he was high was a real woman... who was she?
Suddenly, Sherlock's eyes widened as he smelt the faintest hint of something very familiar coming from the paper.
Mycroft's office
Mycroft was in his doorway, literally one foot out of the door, when he stopped again. He stood still for a long moment, staring thoughtfully into space before he eventually turned back into his office once more.
This time, he reached for the card, swiping it quickly off of his notebook, which was open to two pages of his scribbled note reminders.
On the left, were the words:
Locate 'M'
Monitor —
Baker Street.
Blind Greenhouse.
Leaning Tomb.
Clock Face —
Elizabeth
Tower?
And on the right, were the words:
CALL
SHERRINFORD
2 pm
John's therapist's place
"I didn't mean Mycroft." John's therapist noted. "I meant the other one."
"Wh-which other one?" John asked, frowning in confusion, and his therapist explained with a soft smile: "You know – the secret one."
"Oh, that was just something I..." John smiled. "I said. I'm sure there's-"
He stopped speaking suddenly, staring at his therapist for a moment as something occurred to him.
"How did you know about that?" John asked with a small frown. "I didn't tell you that."
"You must have done." His therapist answered, frowning behind her glasses as well, but John said firmly as he eyed her warily: "I really didn't."
"Well, maybe Sherlock told me." His therapist answered with a light smile, her brown eyes soft, but John wasn't fooled by the act as he noted while shifting forward in his seat: "No, you've met Sherlock exactly once? In this room; he was off his head-"
"Oh, no, no." His therapist corrected lightly. "I-I-I met him before that."
"When?" John asked, frowning, and his therapist smiled.
"We spent a night together." She answered.
John blinked rapidly and alarmingly, but his therapist continued easily: "It was lovely. We had chips."
She smiled, and her voice changed suddenly to an overemphasized northern English accent as she quoted her words from a night over a month ago now: "You're not what I expected, Mr. Holmes. You're... nicer."
Her smile widened, becoming almost like a Cheshire cat's, and John's frown deepened as he stared at the woman. She looked right back at him before she reached up to take off her glasses, blinking as her vision adjusted.
But as soon as her vision cleared, she was staring at John once more, and her face was eerily empty of emotion as she said back in her original accent, though that too was starting to slip slightly: "Culverton gave me Faith's original note."
She stood, going towards the large French windows as she explained: "A mutual friend put us in touch."
John could only stare numbly as his therapist locked the door to the porch, taking out the key as she turned back to John saying in an English accent: "Did Sherlock ever tell you about the note? I added some deductions for Sherlock."
She dropped her glasses and the key onto a side table away from John as she mused: "He was quite good."
221B Baker Street
Sherlock searched about the kitchen frantically, looking for something in the drawers. When he finally found it, he reached up towards the kitchen overhead light, switching it off and throwing the kitchen into near-darkness as he closed all the doors.
John's therapist's place
"But..." John's 'therapist' sneered as she turned to face John once more. "He didn't get the big one."
221B Baker Street
Sherlock held up his ultraviolet torch, holding it to the note as he stared at the paper – or rather, the writing now apparent in the blue glow of his torch. How he had missed the linseed oil on the paper was anyone's guess; he was probably too high at the time to realize his mistake.
And boy was that coming back to bite him, Sherlock realized with terror gripping his heart as he stared at the two words written in the middle of the page in large caps, revealed by the ultraviolet light: 'MISS ME?'
Sherlock raised his eyes from the note, and he breathed in horror: "Marie."
John's therapist's place
John's 'therapist' bent forward a little, gasping as she removed a contact from her right eye.
She slowly lifted her head once more as she stared at John, revealing light blue eyes that were eerily familiar, right down to the cold, calculating glint. But not even Mycroft's eyes were that dead, and John could only stare as a slow icy feeling slid up his spine while the woman said in a full English accent: "In fairness, though, he does have excellent taste in chips."
She then swiped her hand across her head, brushing back her hair and tucking it behind her left ear to reveal a small, plastic daisy.
"What's that?" John asked tightly as he stared at the toy, and the woman asked lightly: "What's what?"
"The flower in your hair: it's like I had on the bus." John said slowly and in a low voice, and the woman smiled.
Taking the flower from her ear, she walked towards him as she said: "You looked very sweet. But then…"
She bent down so she was level with his eyes, and her accent turned Scottish as she quoted: "You have such nice eyes."
John fell back in his chair, stunned by this revelation. He could easily remember the pretty redhead from the bus, the one he'd cheated on Mary with, and it was a crushing blow to realize this was the real woman behind the mask. A mask he hadn't seen until too late… in every circumstance.
"Amazing," the woman before him noted back in what was apparently her regular English accent, "the times a man doesn't really look at your face."
She turned back to walk across the room as she listed: "Oh, you can hide behind a sexy smile, or a walking cane... or just be a therapist, talking about you..." she turned back to John with a bored expression, "all the time."
John quickly moved to get to his feet, but the woman said swiftly as she reached into the fruit bowl behind her: "Oh, please don't go anywhere."
She held the gun up, pointed right at John's chest as she said lightly: "I'm sure the therapist who actually lives here wouldn't want blood on the carpet."
John stood stock-still, his hands in the air as he stared at the woman while she paused briefly, as though thinking, before noting: "Oh, hang on, it's fine. She's in a sack in the airing cupboard."
"Who are you?" John asked in a low voice, staring at the woman grimly and she smiled.
"Isn't it obvious?" She asked, dropping the gun to her side as she let her arm hang while she stared at John. "Haven't you guessed?"
Her smile dropped, and she said impatiently: "I'm Eurus."
That only increased John's confusion, and he shook his head slightly as he asked: "Eurus?"
"Silly name, isn't it?" Eurus said disdainfully. "Greek. Means 'the East Wind'."
John's heart almost stopped as he stared at the woman, recalling the one time he'd heard a similar phrase, while Eurus grumbled: "My parents loved silly names, like… Eurus... or Mycroft..." she looked back at John with a small smile, "or Sherlock."
John's mouth parted slightly as the full impact of what Eurus was saying hit him, while the woman chuckled: "Oh, look at him. Didn't it ever occur to you – not even once – that Sherlock's secret brother might just be Sherlock's secret sister?"
John stared at Eurus, blinking rapidly as he tried to fully process what was happening, and Eurus frowned.
"Huh." She murmured. "It's making a funny face."
She raised her gun and pointed it at John again, making the man flinch slightly as she said almost boredly: "I think I'll put a hole in it."
John's eyes widened, his hands still in the air as Eurus fired her gun… just after a whirl of dark hair came flying into the room, leaping across the small sitting room to shove John out of the way just as there was the loud bang of the gun going off and something shattered.
And John, whirling around to look at his savior, shouted in alarm and fear: "MARIE!"
