John

A potassium solution; no mistake. It was obvious Jake's heart's natural pacemaker had been disrupted. The sweat-slick skin of his neck was doughy and grey and gave my fingers no rhythm of reassuring pulse. I awkwardly turned him over with one arm. His face was covered with intricate rivulets of dark blood streaming freely from his nose and forehead; I didn't stop to consider whether this was from hitting the ground or increased internal pressure.

"Sherlock…Sherlock!" It felt like my windpipe was constricted and I had to physically force my voice up through the narrow space.

"Yes. What is it?" I could hear him pacing around me, probably trying to think up why and how this had happened.

"I need you to start CPR. I can't do this one handed."

"Er-what?!" There was a distinct note of panic in Sherlock's voice and I turned around to see him backing rapidly away towards the road, "No. No, I can't… John, I can't do that."

"Sherlock!" I could feel the disbelief and incredulousness rising within me. Could even Sherlock have the audacity and selfishness to put his own whims and ideals before the life of a young man? "If you don't he's going to die!"

"He's probably going to die anyway…"

I stared at him, lost for words. For the first time, I was truly disgusted with Sherlock Holmes. Just as amazed as I often was at his brilliance but this time at his heartlessness. My fists were clenched and I couldn't imagine the immense satisfaction that would course through me when they made contact with his sharp cheekbones.

"Okay," Sherlock knelt down next to me. His hands were trembling, "I'll do it. Just… just stay with me… and tell me what to do."

"Alright." I said gently, realising that Sherlock was genuinely petrified. I talked him through how to perform CPR, something I thought everyone had at least a basic knowledge of (Sherlock had deemed it unnecessary and 'deleted' it from his brain), and he performed chest compressions and rescue breaths for twenty minutes until an ambulance arrived and Jake was declared dead.

"Oh well," Sherlock said brightly, as we made our way back to 'heavenly bodies' to break more bad news to Mollie, "Nothing else we could have done."

My mouth was full of sawdust, my legs were lead and my heart was barbed wire, "You tell that to Mollie, then." My voice was harsher than I intended it to be.

"I will." Sherlock stepped out in front of me. I was left watching his coat batter his ankles and his heels send up sparks of rain.

Sherlock

John would quiz me about my moment of weakness later. I knew he was cross with me but just then my personal feelings were irrelevant. I did not want to admit to myself or anyone else why I'd acted the way I had. If I was being honest with myself, which I wasn't, I was ashamed and embarrassed. My mind boxed the memory off so I considered it no more. All I had to do was break the news of the untimely demise of a not-so treasured son and valuable lead to an already grieving woman before going home.

As we entered the brothel for the second time that evening and with much the same objective, we passed the eager punter we'd seen arriving the first time we had. I nodded at him. He grinned giddily back at me. He and John both attempted to pass through the door at the same time which caused John to stumble into the doorframe. I cupped my hand into his leather-clad elbow and tried to pull him into a more steady position but he slapped my arm away. It hurt enough for me to know I'd develop a bruise where his palm had connected with my forearm. We didn't speak.

Mollie was no longer sobbing; she was sniffing miserably on her own, jiggling the baby up and down on her knees when we slipped through the bead curtain.

"Jake?" She said hopefully, looking at us with bloodshot eyes, "Oh," Her mouth thinned, "It's you."

John said nothing. He was deliberately leaving it all to me.

"It is." I confirmed. "May we sit down?"

Mollie nodded. I was surprised to notice that she'd applied a new layer of lipstick since we'd left. There was little doubt that her grief was genuine- I couldn't fathom how she'd found the time and will-power to do such a thing. Her eye makeup was stained in trails down her cheeks. Perhaps she was worried she'd have a customer and face them looking less than her whore-ish best… maybe she felt stronger with her true face painted over.

"What do you want now?" Mollie asked wearily.

I knew from experience that it was better for everybody to explain things in simple terms, include as much information as you can so you can obtain more and not draw out the telling process.

"I'm very sorry to have to tell you this," I was, I wished John could have told her, "but your son, Jake, died just a very few minutes ago. It appears he's been poisoned by the same group of people who killed your husband."

"No." Mollie said, shaking her head, "No, that's not true."

She was just being idiotic now, "Yes!" I said, trying to imagine I were talking to a particularly ignorant version of Anderson, "It is."

That was when Mollie's fist made crunching impact with my nose. I gagged on the metallic blood rushing into my pharynx from the newly crushed blood vessels in my nose. Red ebbed at the edges of my vision and I reeled downwards. The floor seemed to be rushing towards me; I could see the bright blood splattering the carpet from my nose and mouth. John caught me and easily took my weight, throwing my arm over his shoulder. I hung there, holding his hand.

"Get out of here!" Mollie shrieked.

"Alright," John said carefully, leading me backwards out of the room, "Okay, we're going."

As I was guided over the threshold every breath I attempted to take was hindered by the bubbling of blood in the back of my mouth. John whisked a packet of tissues out of his pocket; one of the only memories I have of my mother is of her orchestrating this same action to wipe a dribble of ice cream off my face on our only family holiday to the beach. I held the fistful of tissues John passed me to my nose and walked on my own now, beside him, scouring the desolate road with my eyes for any sign of a cab. The initial shock of the blow had by now worn off so I could feel a throbbing pain growing under my fingers.

John stopped me and examined my nose.

"It's not broken." He said, "And you kind of deserved it."

I was affronted so I complained loudly in my best whiney voice as we continued our stroll. "Ouch, John, it hurts. You're a doctor so do something to make it better…"

He said nothing.

"John! Ow! My nose! It's really painful."

"Shut up. So's my arm. At least you haven't been hung by your wrists from concrete and beaten to death or poisoned or had your skull smashed in by a cudgel!"

This was the juncture where I should have offered some comfort, perhaps told John I understood how he was feeling but instead all I did was say a plain, "Sorry," because I knew it would pacify John for a short while. As the flow of blood from my nostrils began to finally ease, a cab drew up and John and I stepped into it without speaking.