Chapter Twenty One.

John Watson hurriedly paid the cab driver, practically throwing the money through the open window at the poor man, and then hurried up to the front door of 221B Baker Street, door key in his shaking fingers, medical bag banging painfully against his leg, his chest tight and his heart knocking alarmingly against his ribs.

Oh God, Sherlock, why don't you ever listen to reason!

Fear for his friend had gripped Watson since the moment the call had ended so abruptly, and he had been forced to end a consultation with a patient.

There had been something in Holmes voice, in those tight, clipped, commanding tones that had instantly touched a chord in him and immediately put him right back in the worst moment of his life, standing on the street near Bart's Hospital, heart exploding out of his chest as he watched in horror as Sherlock had stood on the roof and calmly said 'Goodbye, John,", his voice emotionless and cold, and then he had taken that last step over the edge.

All Watson had wanted to do was to get over to Baker Street as quickly as he could, expecting to find his friend ...

Well, in truth, he did not know what he expected to find at Baker Street, except that some ingrained instinct was telling him that it could not be good.

Oh God, don't let me too late...

He fumbled with his key in the lock, silently cursing his shaking fingers, never more relieved that he had decided not to give the thing back to Holmes, and in his hurry, almost fell over the threshold as he got himself tangled up between the door frame and his medical bag.

Wedged stuck for a moment, he finally managed to free himself, falling into the hallway, but as he caught himself and pulled himself together, he came to an abrupt halt half way down the hallway, as he was confronted by the sight of Sherlock Holmes sitting at the bottom of the uncarpeted stairs, shoulders hunched, his head bowed and buried in his hands.

"Geez, Sherlock! What happened?"

Watson was striding toward Holmes now, his eyes roaming over his friend's hunched body seeking out any sign of injury.

A quick, cursory inspection revealed nothing obvious, but Holmes was still holding his head in his hands.

"Did you fall down the stairs?" He demanded as he stopped before Holmes and dropped his medical bag on the ground beside the bottom step of the stairs. "Did you lose consciousness?"

Watson's tone was all businesslike now, his voice filled with professional concern for his patient, as he squatted down in front of Holmes.

"Let me see, Sherlock, let me see ..." He coaxed, fearing that he would find his friend's face covered in blood, although there were no telltale signs on Holmes tight fitting pristine white shirt.

Holmes responded by lowering his hands and finally raising his head, and Watson, his hand automatically reaching out for Holmes wrist to take his pulse, his eyes still seeking out any sign of injury, was both relieved and surprised by what he saw.

No blood.

No obvious sign of injury.

Thank God!

However, Holmes looked pale, anxious and tense, his pinched features all the evidence that Watson needed to realize that he must be in considerable pain.

"It's alright, John," Holmes assured in his usual low baritone, but there was a note of anxiety in his voice.

He tried to pull his hand away from Watson, but the doctor clung on, determined to take his pulse.

"Talk to me, Sherlock. Tell me what happened? Did you black out again?"

"John, I'm fine," Holmes reiterated.

"Will you shut up! Just shut up! Stop putting a brave face on things, and let me do my damn job!"

"John, I am not your patient."

"Yes, you are, remember? You put me in charge of your health and well being for the duration, so I took the liberty of having you registered with my practice as a temporary patient," he explained hurriedly. "Now hold bloody still!"

"John, truly, I am not your patient."

"You stubborn sod, why do you always have to fight me..."

"Watson!"

Holmes snatched his hand away now, and there was something harsh in his voice that caused Watson to stop and take a closer look at his friend.

"I must apologize for the manner of my phone call, John. I knew what you would think, and I apologize sincerely for presuming on our friendship like this, but I really didn't know what else to do."

"You didn't fall down the stairs?"

Holmes shook his head, tentatively.

"You didn't pass out?"

Again Holmes shook his head, very carefully, his eyes narrowing as a sharp jag of pain exploded behind his eyes and he began to see stars.

"Sherlock!"

Watson finally began to realize that he had been summoned on a wild goose chase, and his attitude swiftly changed from concern to fury.

He rose to his full height now and glared up at Holmes.

"You scared the living crap out of me!" He railed angrily. "You bloody idiot! You had me thinking ..."

"I know."

"Well, you had me thinking all kinds of dreadful things!" Watson continued, and then paused to stare in utter contempt at his friend. "You know!"

"Yes, John."

"I was in the middle of a ruddy consultation with a patient!"

Watson was getting angrier by the second, but Holmes was pretty sure that it was a reasonable reaction to his supposed 'crying wolf', except that that was not what it had been at all.

"You thoughtless, reckless, selfish, prat! What the hell! Did you get me round here because your ruddy toenails need trimming!"

"I would have called a podiatrist for that," Holmes responded dryly now.

"You git! You complete idiot..."

"John, can we do this later, please?"

Holmes emitted a soft sigh, hanging his head briefly before looking up once more.

"I will be more than happy to listen to you call me all the names under the sun that you can think of ..."

"You wanker! For God's sake, Sherlock, you cannot keep doing this to me!"

"John, shut up! Just shut up and listen!" Holmes snapped out now, growing impatient with his friend.

"I am not your patient."

Holmes spoke very slowly, deliberately and precisely, as though he were talking to a complete idiot.

Watson, drawing in another deep breath to continue his tirade, finally heard what Sherlock was saying, and as the words took hold in his brain, he suddenly had another sense of fear and dread.

"Then who is? Mrs Hudson?"

"No, John. As far as I am aware, Mrs Hudson is fine. She's round at Mrs Turners and they are both probably engrossed in their lunch time soap opera," Holmes intoned dryly, relieved that he finally had Watson's full attention.

"Then I don't understand, Sherlock. Who the hell am I here to see?" Watson's eyes narrowed suspiciously now and he felt like he had walked slap bang right into the middle of the Twilight Zone.

"Cassia Ingram."

There it was again, Watson realized.

The real concern and anxiety in Holmes voice and in his pinched features, and now there was just the tiniest hint of regret in his eyes, that he had caused his friend to be so anxious and worried over his health.

A silent apology.

Call me Mr Repentant.

It didn't really suit Holmes.

Watson much preferred the bullish, belligerent, recalcitrant Holmes.

Just like his attempts at humour and levity, it was an ill fitting suit of clothes on Holmes, and it grated on Watson's nerves.

He much preferred the blunt openness his friend usually practiced. It was easier to deal with, and didn't leave him wondering if Sherlock was trying to pull a fast one.

"Cass?" Watson clarified.

"Yes."

"What happened?"

"She was waiting for me when I returned from the hospital appointment," Holmes began in even tones, recalling the scene on the street a little earlier.

"She was hysterical, beside herself, John. Ranting and screaming. I couldn't understand what she was saying, she was so incoherent."

He explained patiently, and then paused to draw in a long, ragged breath.

Suddenly Holmes looked a little shame faced, and Watson's eyes narrowed in suspicion as he looked at his friend.

Oh God ...

"I really had no choice..."

"What the hell did you do to her, Sherlock?" Watson demanded gruffly.

"I slapped her. Only once," Holmes clarified quickly. "Across the face. Just to calm her down."

"And did it work?" Watson rolled his eyes heavenward in exasperation.

For a man who usually shied away from any kind of physical contact with another human being, Holmes had suddenly become very tactile where Cassia Ingram was concerned.

Tenderness was one thing.

Violence, something completely different.

Still, if the woman was hysterical, it probably was the only thing Holmes could have done to snap her out of it long enough to get her off the street, Watson reasoned silently.

He did look genuinely remorseful and apologetic.

Don't look at me like that, Sherlock! I'm not the one who could sue you for assault!

"Oh yes, and then some."

Holmes' tone was wry as he heaved a deep sigh now and hung his head briefly.

"The change was shocking and almost instantaneous. One minute she was a wild, raving lunatic, the next she was practically catatonic."

"So what did you do then?"

"Naturally I got her inside as quickly as I could and up to the flat. I thought she was in shock. I know I was," he admitted wryly. "So I offered to get her a brandy. She was calm, John. Too calm. It was very unsettling to see," Holmes explained in low tones, looking up at Watson once more, and it was clear to see that he had genuinely been affected by what he had seen.

"Look, Sherlock, I'm no shrink. If she needs psychiatric help ..."

"She had another dream or vision; I'm not quite sure which. She didn't elaborate." Holmes explained quickly.

"Oh God ..."

"It was bad, John. Very bad."

Holmes suddenly gave Watson a pointed look, telling his friend silently that that had to be about the biggest understatement of the Century.

Watson could only imagine what it must have been like.

Poor Sherlock.

This case really was throwing everything at him, and just at a time when he wasn't really able to deal with it, physically or emotionally.

"What did she tell you?"

"I think the killer has a psychic link with Cass."

This drew a frown from Watson.

"She told me that whilst experiencing that vision, or dream, she felt as though she was him, the killer," Holmes explained. "She told me that he had his hands around a little boy's throat, and that she felt they were her hands around the child's throat."

"Oh hell ..."

"Its worse, John."

Again Watson frowned.

"It seems that Cass has been staying with a friend, and that she was not alone while she had this vision or dream. Her friend must have come to her assistance. When she finally regained her senses, Cassia discovered that she had her hands around her friend's throat."

"Holy crap!" Watson gasped.

"She was choking her. She could have killed her friend, John, and now she's genuinely terrified that he can control her, could even make her commit his crimes with him, under his influence in her visions and dreams."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock. Is that even possible?" Watson asked incredulously.

"How should I know?" Holmes gave Watson a pained look. "But, it stands to reason that if she can link to him psychically and see what he is doing, and more importantly feel what he is doing, then it is possible that it could also work in reverse," he pondered, his hand absently rising now to knead at his brow.

His head felt like it was caught in a vice, the pressure relentless.

"And we know that her mental strength and whatever strengths and protections she has learned to use to control her psychic gift are already weakened, so perhaps that makes Cassia even more susceptible."

It sounded logical coming from Sherlock.

"What happened then?"

"She fainted."

"So where the hell is she now?" Watson demanded, his eyes growing wide in disbelief that his friend could be sitting there, calmly talking to him, while Cassia Ingram needed medial assistance.

"Upstairs. I laid her down on the couch and then called you."

"Why the hell didn't you say so sooner, you twit!"

Watson scooped up his medical bag and roughly put his hand on Holmes shoulder to move him out of the way so that he could get past.

"Is she still unconscious?" He demanded as he shoved his way on to the stairs, clouting Sherlock in the shoulder with his medical bag on the way.

"Ouch! Do please be careful!" Holmes exclaimed, swiftly moving his head out of the way before Watson took it clean off his shoulders in his haste.

"Then shift out of the damned way, Sherlock, or I might just be tempted to knock some sense into that moronic head of yours and save Surgeon Witty the ruddy trouble!" Watson growled. "Cass?"

"She's awake. She came too after about five minutes. She seems alright, but very quiet still. Withdrawn. She wouldn't talk to me."

"I don't blame her. I often don't want to talk to you!" Watson muttered darkly as he fought his way loose, careful to avoid hitting Holmes again with his medical bag, and then took the stairs two at a time.

Suitably chastised, Holmes rose carefully, wobbling slightly as he did so, leaning heavily against the wall for a moment as stars exploded before of his eyes, and then, when the world righted its self at last and the bright lights began to fade, he followed Watson up the stairs and walked slowly and somewhat shakily into the living room, to find Cassia Ingram where he had left her, laying on the couch, curled up in the foetal position, her back to them, a tight ball of abject misery.

Feeling helpless and surplus to requirements, the energy suddenly draining from him and his head feeling as though it were about to split open, Holmes decided that retreat was the better part of valour and withdrew to the kitchen to boil the kettle for tea, should it be required, and it was at least something to do with his hands and take his mind off the pain, whilst Watson coaxed Cassia Ingram to allow him to do a rudimentary physical examination.

He did not want Watson to see how wretched he was really feeling, and was hoping that a few minutes alone in the kitchen to compose himself would give him a chance to recover his balance and regain his strength.

However, even John could not get Cassia to speak, other than to provide monosyllabic answers to questions about how she was feeling and what had happened before she fainted, as he took her pulse and blood pressure and temperature.

It was as though she had withdrawn deep into herself, and Holmes suspected that it was a form of self preservation, still far too traumatized by her dream or vision and her subsequent actions to even contemplate revisiting the images.

However, when Watson declared that she was exhausted and offered to give her a mild sedative she flatly refused.

Holmes was standing in the kitchen doorway where he had been silently watching proceedings, about to ask who wanted something to drink, discreetly hanging on to the door frame because he felt dizzy and off balance, and he caught the look of utter horror on Cassia's face as she recoiled away from Watson and tried to make herself as small as she possibly could be on the couch.

Holmes understood immediately.

She was terrified to go to sleep.

While she was awake, she could fight to keep control, although even that was becoming more and more difficult, but asleep, she had no control at all.

So it had been a dream, then, he deduced, not a vision.

With his heart seeming to beat irregularly in his chest, Holmes drew in a slow, steadying breath and waited for the world to stop spinning, as Watson relented and began packing away his paraphernalia back into his medical bag.

Sherlock suddenly had a eureka moment.

He knew that he was running the risk of being called the cruellest so and so in the world, but he immediately saw how things could be used to their advantage.

Sometimes it was necessary to be cruel to be kind.

He really didn't care what they thought of him.

Time was running out, for both of them, and, for the children too.

No point denying it.

Something had to be done, and it didn't matter to Holmes that they thought him cold hearted, callous and unfeeling.

Perhaps, if it worked, they would thank him in the long run.

If not.

C'est la vie, Grand-mere!

"Don't argue with the doctor, Cass. He's made a special journey to come and see you. The least that you can do is take his advice."

Feeling less dizzy and his heart beating more regularly, Holmes spoke at last, in his usual calm baritone, and both Watson and Cassia Ingram, unaware that he had been there for some time, looked around to see him standing in the kitchen doorway.

"No," Cassia's voice was hoarse from weeping and ranting, but there was no mistaking the determination there, as well as fear. "I'm fine now. Thank you for your kindness, gentlemen, but I will be going on my way."

"I don't think that that is wise," Holmes intoned, moving slowly and cautiously into the room now, keeping the furniture within easy reach should he feel that he was suddenly going to lose his balance.

"John? Do you concur?"

"Cass knows my medical opinion," Watson sighed softly. "However, as I have recently been told, you can lead a horse to water, but you can't make it drink, Sherlock. She wouldn't be the first patient I have had who ignored my sound medical advice."

He gave Holmes a very pointed look.

Pot. Kettle. Black.

"Where would you go?"

Holmes turned his attention to Cassia Ingram, ignoring Watson's dig as he continued to walk carefully toward the couch.

"Back to your friend?"

"No."

Again there was determination in her voice, and Holmes found himself silently applauding her for her need not to place her friend in danger once more.

He could empathise.

He knew what that felt like.

"Then stay here," Holmes offered. "You can sleep on the couch, or I will gladly give up my bed, there's even a spare room upstairs, Watson's old digs," he went on. "You would be most welcome."

"No!" She answered sharply.

"I really don't think you should be out there, on your own."

"And I really don't think I'm fit company for anyone."

Holmes understood what she meant.

She was worried about what she might do to him too.

"You would be perfectly safe," Holmes assured, reaching the couch, where he slowly hunkered down so that he was face to face with Cassia Ingram, using his right hand to steady himself against the seat cushions. "And so would I."

This drew a frown from Watson, who as usual, was about three paces behind the rest of the conversation.

Stupid man, did he really think the poor woman was in any fit condition to try jumping his bones, even if she had the inclination!

Egotistical tosser!

"You don't know that, Sherlock," Cassia whimpered softly and there was a distinct quiver in her voice now. "I don't know that."

"Yes I do. Your friends and mine on the other side seem to have appointed you as my guardian angel. I don't think they would allow anything to happen to me," he smiled reassuringly.

Watson finally realized where Cassia and Holmes were coming from, and her fear that she would lose control again and might harm Holmes, but when he turned his head to regard his friend, he suddenly saw something ominous in Holmes' cold, reptilian like eyes and he could not help thinking that there was more than kindness and compassion in Holmes offer to allow Cassia to stay at 221B.

"You need your rest and to regain your strength."

What are you up to, you sly bugger?

"If you're at all worried, I am sure that John would be prepared to stay, as a chaperone, not that you would need one," Holmes smiled shyly.

"But you might," Cass allowed herself a weak smile now, although they both knew that it wasn't his virtue that she was talking about.

"Forgive me?" Holmes spoke softly and reached out with his hand, stopping shy of actually touching the spot on her face where he had slapped her.

Cassia nodded gently.

"You had no choice."

"Thank you."

He moved his hand to close the gap and cupped her chin, gently, stroking her cheek lightly with his thumb, and then slowly withdrew his hand.

It was probably the most tender gesture Watson had ever seen his friend use.

It instantly set off alarm bells.

Holmes was definitely up to something.

Mr Sensitive! I don't think so!

Mr Touchy Feely!

No way.

Who is this man and what the hell has he done with the real Sherlock Holmes! Watson found himself thinking sarcastically.

"Stay. Together, the three of us can deal with anything adverse that might happen. You have my word on that, Cass. Stay, please."

"Thank you," Cassia acquiesced, rather more quickly than Watson might have thought, no doubt swayed by Holmes sweetness and light act, the fight suddenly gone out of her, and obviously wanting and needing to trust someone because she was almost at the end of her rope with this business and wanted an end to it.

It was, after all, why she had sought Holmes out.

He was the only person willing to listen to her and take her seriously.

She let out a long, exhausted sigh and relaxed back against the couch, closing her eyes wearily now.

Watson glared at Holmes.

He was definitely cooking something up.

He'd never been so saccharine sweet in his life, but Watson saw through him.

"Fine, that seems to be all arranged then."

Holmes stood up, rather unsteadily, but tried to hide the slight wobble as his legs suddenly felt like water beneath him, by moving toward the table where he leaned casually against the back of a chair for a moment.

"Kettle's just boiled."

Holmes pushed off from the chair and began to walk back toward the kitchen, his back ramrod straight, each step measured as he fought to keep his balance, bursts of light erupting in front of his eyes as the pain in his head crashed in waves against the inside of his skull.

"Anyone for tea?"

He spoke without turning around, fearful that Watson would see the pain, fear, anxiety and distress in his face.

Get a grip, man.

You don't have time for this!

You still have work to do.

He just wanted to seek the sanctuary of the kitchen and a moment to get his equilibrium back.

And to gobble down a fistful of pain pills.

Watson glowered at Holmes receding back.

"Well..." He let out a hearty sigh of frustration and exasperation. "I'd better call my wife and let her know I won't be home tonight," he spoke in a tight voice, to no-one in particular.

And won't that be fun.

He couldn't wait for that conversation.

Mary had theatre tickets for one of the hottest shows in town and had been excited about the prospect of going for weeks, and whilst she understood his friendship and loyalty to his friend, his concern and his need to check on Holmes on the way home, she still expected him to escort her to the theatre and then on to dinner afterwards.

I see a long stint on a lumpy sofa in a certain doctor's future, I hope it's worth it, Sherlock, I really hope it's worth it.

Ah the joys of wedded bliss.