Jim

There's still half a muffin on the table when Moran comes back, and Dani goes to use the shower. She lost interest in the chocolate after the first couple of minutes. Maybe it wasn't having the effect she was after. Moran thinks nothing of this. He just sees it, thinks it's the best idea he's ever had, and gets stuck in. That, and the coffee, and the ice water, the nausea seems to have gone off him since his purge.

"When she asks who ate her breakfast," I tell him, "you better not point at me."

"She knows I need the rush, first thing."

"Does the Honey Monster know you're seeing Chocolate behind his back?"

"No. And so long as he stays in the cupboard he doesn't need to. Nobody needs to get hurt here, Jim, and we can all be happy."

As delightful as this whole exchange has been, it's over now. Because wet, running feet are slapping their way downstairs, and Dani's ringtone is cutting shrilly through it all. She flies into the kitchen, holding her phone and the towel around her with one hand and the doorpost in the other so she doesn't crash into Moran's back. The weight of the water in her hair whips it around, throwing an arc of cold droplets right across the room and me and him like the fecking Dulux dog. Moran, all of a sudden, is more awake than he really needs to be and very angry about it. "What the fuck?!" and I must say, I second that emotion.

But she puts the phone down on the table, points at the screen as she's getting her breath back. 'MH', it says, on the caller display. 'MH'.

"Surrender call," I say, mostly to myself.

"Speaker?" Dani breathes.

I don't even have it in me to rise to the goad, to the implication that she would ever have done otherwise. "Yes, please," that's all I say. Then I join my hands, and put my face down against them, so that I can hold my mouth closed. Not entirely sure I trust myself to be in the room for this.

She answers with the formal, too-busy-for-this-shite, "Mies speaking."

"This is Holmes."

"Ah. Good morning, Mycroft. And how are you?"

"Quite well." Oh, what a beautiful lie. Brave and elegant, trembling with the effort of it. Brave man and his beautiful, beautiful lie… "I thought you ought to know, it's all in motion."

Danielle cuts her eyes to me. I wish she wouldn't. It's too much like being given a present, too difficult to contain myself. She says, "Clarify that for me, would you?"

"It is as you and your… employer would have it."

"Oh, you're going with our version of the tale. Very good, I knew you'd come round." Then, a little unnecessary trill, off-script, something I'm afraid I don't quite understand, "Just out of interest, what convinced you? You seemed so adamant yesterday you'd get around us."

"I… I put it to someone else. Someone whose intelligence I respect. I've concluded you can make it very difficult for me to escape suspicion."

"Unless, of course, you do as you're told." Then, like somebody with real, genuine interest in how he's getting on, like an old friend, "So how's it going over with the brass, then, your little fairytale?"

"Not without difficulty. It will, however, be made to work."

I am nodding to myself. She sees and translates, darkly telling him, "Too right it will." Across the table, Moran taps his watch. Must be coming up on the time limit for having the call traced. I wasn't even thinking of that until now. Dani nods to him. Me, I grab the paper bag from the pastries, and a pen off the windowsill, and start to ask for one last gift. While I'm writing, though, she has a question of her own.

"And the other matter?"

"It's being handled. He won't be a problem, before long."

In the corner of my eye (I'm still writing) her brow furrows. "Nothing unfortunate to befall him, I hope."

"Rehabilitation. His condition makes him easy to discredit."

It looks like she'd like to carry that line of conversation on a little further. But Moran shoves his watch under her nose at one side, and me the paper bag at the other. Out of time, and let's get back to the script. There might not be a real, physical script as such, but we all know she's way off it. Mostly because I don't have a clue what they're talking about.

Like a UN interpreter, she reads and polishes and speaks all at once.

"By the way, my employer would like you to know he's really no threat to you. In fact, he wishes you all the best in your rapidly advancing career. He sees this as having been a very successful joint venture, and can only hope we've been setting a precedent for the future."

Which is much more eloquent than my scrawly, heartfelt, Tell the bastard I couldn't have done it without him, must hook up again sometime. And remind him the higher a monkey climbs, all you see is his arse.

"Over my dead body," is Mycroft's reply, and I swear to you in that precise moment, three pairs of eyes turn upward, three pairs of lips are sealed, three hearts beg Satan to sit in the back…

"Cheer up, Mycroft. I've got a feeling you have a very good day ahead of you. Remember, you're still alive, which is more than can be said for some."

It's hard to tell if he slams the phone down before she cuts the line or if it's vice versa. It's hard to care. I tell Danielle while she's sitting there, with water from her hair running down her face, "You know, I've never watched you manage somebody like that before. Do you want to do more of that? Or would that be too much like secretarial work?"

"Excuse me," she mutters, "but I'm freezing."

Quick as you like, she's up from the table, leaving nothing except the drips, and the puddle from her feet.

Not the reaction I was expecting. Then again, she was shivering. And it clearly takes it out of her, bitching mercilessly at somebody that way. I don't know, maybe I was wrong to put it to her as a possible career path. I've scared her off. But my God, though, did you hear him? How can you be thinking about anything else when you heard him? Defeat. I know what it sounds like now. I know how Priam sounded when he laid down his arms, the precise tone of voice that ought to be used for 'Et tu, Brute?', the qualities a classical performer might bring to Losing My Religion. Moran heard it all too. He's still looking at his watch, actually. Says, "That was, like, three seconds shy of the inside limit and everything. Y'know when you said I could have a go with him once he was ours?"

"Leave it a while, would you? Oppress him too quickly and we're only inviting revolution."

"Still want that guillotine?"

We laugh. I don't foresee much ahead that isn't laughing, if I'm honest. But when Dani comes back from drying off, guess she's not doing. I'm almost offended, actually. But she's back on the phone. This time calling herself a cab. I don't know why. Most of her hair is still damp. She's dressed, but only haphazardly, things she's left here over the last couple of days. Her running shoes, and a t-shirt I could swear is Moran's.

"I'm not going to be about for a while," she says.

"You can't take a holiday," I tell her, nodding at Moran, "He's taking a holiday. Somebody needs to come flat-hunting with me."

"Oh, I'll still do the security trials, I'll let you know how that goes. But I have something else to take care of. You can phone me if you need me, but other than that-"

And she's starting out of the room again, like that's it, like that's enough. "Hold the feck on! What are you talking about, what do you have to take care of that's so important?"

I'm a little shocked, when she turns back. She's not crying, exactly, but it's close. It's torment, crumpling her face, making her careless. She says, "We've left him with nothing, sweet fuck all, absolutely nothing." This is what stops a drunk woman from sleeping, makes her go running with a hangover, makes her eat chocolate for breakfast. It's a guilty conscience.

"Mycroft? The idea was to leave him with nothing."

There's no reply to that. She didn't hear it.

Moran looks at me when the front door slams behind her. "Fuck's that about?" he says. And I'm really glad I'm not the only one who doesn't know.

"Y'know what? So long as she shows up with a new coffee machine soon's I find somewhere…"

Sherlock

Mycroft arrived a little after lunch. I only know this because I could smell hospital food getting wheeled up and down the corridor to the main ward. I myself am still on liquids only, and even those I don't really want.

I don't know if I'm really safe to be moved out of here or if he just asked the doctors over and over again until they realized he was taking me away from here, whether they (or I, or anybody else for that matter) like it or not. I heard him coming. Shut my eyes. There's no danger in shutting my eyes, not like there was last night. Wish there was. I'm pretending to sleep now, but it hurts, remembering how close I was last night to something that has to be better than this, even if it turns out to be infinite darkness and nothing more. That was me, and my decision. It should have been left to me. If he hadn't come in and started talking all that absolute shit I could have done it. That nurse wouldn't have saved me. She's been in a couple of times since. She doesn't care about me. I am an unfortunate blip. I am not part of her vocation, simply part of her work. If he had just left me alone last night I might have just closed my eyes and slipped.

Now, hard as I might try, I can't even slip into sleep.

He's left me like that for what feels like hours. But I'm not moving and my mind, entirely unbidden, is racing days ahead and days behind and worlds away in every direction. Might be ten or twenty minutes. Now he gets bored. Says, as gently as he can, "Breathing patterns, Sherlock."

"Oh, of course."

It always was the breathing patterns. We were children and he would know I wasn't really asleep because of the breathing patterns, and tell Mother I'd stayed up again, reading with a torch under the covers. An old game. I never did bother to get the hang of it.

"Where are we going?" I ask, not ready to open my eyes yet. He makes the very slightest noise of interest, as if he doesn't understand. "You were asking the doctors if I could be moved. So where are we going?"

"Nowhere special."

"God, you just never stop, do you? It's just what happens when you open your mouth, by default. Some people talk and some people, you, just lie."

He shifts. Maybe re-crosses his legs or some other pointless little nervous twitch. "I've made the arrangements for you to be taken care of privately."

"You promised. You told me you wouldn't do this. That's the only reason we were even back in touch, you said you wouldn't do this-"

"It's not reh-"

"Yes it is," I say over him, not even wanting the end of that word. He stops. "Yes it is." I've stopped him completely, it seems. I know what he's going to say next – the old speech, how I don't know what's best for myself right now, how last night's 'incident' (that's the word he'll use) has changed the game considerably – but he doesn't know it yet. And I don't want to hear it. I look ahead and I can only see this ending his way. So I sit up in the bed, finally open my eyes, and look about for the clothes I came in with. "Fine. Let's go." I'm still slurring. Can't help that. Physiological after-effect, part of an inhibited set of motor-functions. Same reason my ankle turns beneath me when I try to stand. I don't quite fall, holding onto the bed. "I'm fine," I tell him.

But it's enough reason for him to have the bloody wheelchair brought up while I get dressed. That's fine too. It's all fine. Let the smarmy bastard wheel me along, that's fine, less work for me to do, and he's the one has to be seen with me, it's all fine, more than fine. Wonderful. Honestly, I couldn't care less. In the chair, I can be nodding out and nobody has to pick me up. This is absolutely great. Don't worry about me, I'm grand.

"Nice quiet little place, is it?" I ask him. "Up the country somewhere, lots of fresh country air, country peace and quiet, calm, quiet cunt-ry people with soft voices and rubber-soled shoes, is it? Tell me, am I to be put away for my addiction or for being all mad and paranoid and dangerous?"

"Sherlock, please."

"It's alright, Mycroft, it's fine. I just want to know. And I want you to know I'm onto you. I just want you to remember that, all the time. I won't be forgetting it, so why should you?"

"This isn't you talking, it's that stuff in your veins."

"Oh, go on, say something stronger. Really. Make you feel better, wait and see." It's as you might expect; another car with darkened windows, discreetly parked, discreetly waiting, discreetly harbouring a staff of two, which is a bit much, don't you think? Especially since Mycroft seems to think he's getting into the back, with me. "Please," I tell him, "don't feel like you need to accompany me."

He thinks about giving me an argument. Then he hangs near the open door and won't look at me. That look again. I'll kill Mies if I get hold of her. She started that, and it's been like a virus. That fear that wants so much to be about me, but it's not, it's all for him… "You won't understand this now," he says, "But this is best."

"Of course it is, Mycroft. I told you. It's fine."

I pull the door shut and curl on my side on the back seat. And I intend to stay this way until some delicate orderly in a white uniform peels me bodily from this very spot. They want a lost cause. I am more than inclined to give it to them.

And, for the record, just while we're talking about things which are fine and lovely and which I'm absolutely okay with, the drive is quite nice. Soothing. The engine noise is a low purr, very reassuring. Once we're out of the city there's no stopping and starting, just a long, gentle drive at a good clip, the rumble of the road rocking me gently when I need no encouragement whatever.

If the two in the front would shut up we'd be flying… Talking about other cars on the road, of all things. There's a silver Aston Martin that really must be a thing to behold, because they will not shut up. I'm not half-listening, though, there could be something else to keep their attention.

And then something happens, and we stop.

I sit up, if only to see why. I was not led to expect any stops.

Out the window, I see their beloved silver Aston on the road ahead of us, with the bonnet up and spewing smoke. They've stopped, and one of them is getting out, to help.

There's something just a little off. Don't ask me what it is, and always remember that I'm a paranoid person and not to be trusted.

One of my keepers gets out and walks up to it, to the driver's side window. Rather than a grateful face, a small spray can appears. Something is shot into his face and he drops, perfectly unconscious, to the ground. My first thought is that I ought to find out the contents of that can. Then, predictably enough, my other keeper gets out to run to him. Predictably enough, he suffers the same fate.

So that's me stranded anyway. Or it's a kidnap and I'm off on a magical mystery tour. I lie back down. Bored already, if I'm honest.

Before I know it, the door next to me is opened. "Do me a favour and don't spoil the surprise; put a bag over my head," I tell them.

"Gladly, dear. Even I can't bring myself to call you gorgeous today and I lie for a living."

I know the voice but don't quite believe it. I only lift my head enough to check. Then put it down again, groaning, "Not you. I thought this was over. Please Christ, not you…"

Mies sits down on the edge of the seat, looking out into the road. I have no idea what she'll say if someone else passes the two guards' crumpled forms and the two cars, and no doubt she'd pull it off. It doesn't happen, though. She lights two cigarettes and passes one back to me. It's not what I want, but it'll do.

"You can still go to rehab," she says. "I'll drive you, if that's what you want."

"What's the alternative?"

I feel her shrug. Nonchalant, offering an idea and no more than an idea, "Fella I know owes me a couple of quickie passports."

"Why? I mean, not why does he owe you, but why would you-?"

"Because y has a long tail and two branches." I don't know what to do. Please don't think I'm so far gone that this feels like a rescue. I don't know what to do. It doesn't matter what I say. There are no good decisions left to make.

[A/N - The end, shock-horror! Thanks for being along with me, and I really do hope you've enjoyed it. Whatever you thought, if you've come this far with me, I hope you'll let me know. It's been a pleasure, as always, to serve. Thanks so much to everybody. Usually I would do special dedications, but I figure all those folk know who they are!]