I look at the sealed envelope in my hand. I then look back at Mycroft. "What is this?" I ask.
"Open it," Mycroft orders.
I sigh. "And everyone thinks I'm the drama Queen." As soon as my eyes behold your handwriting, dearest John, my hands start to shake and I read.
Dear Sherlock,
I don't know how to begin except to say I'm sorry for leaving you like I did. I had a good reason. It turns out that Mary really was pregnant. Sherlock, I have a daughter. The baby was being used as a pawn to control Mary. It breaks my heart to think of the stress our dearest Mary must have been under. I was given strict instructions not to involve you. Rest assured I will be safe and when I come home I will be bringing my daughter home. I know you will be clamoring for details but please be patient I will explain everything when we get home."
I look up at Mycroft as the letter slips through my fingers to lie amongst my Iv lines. "I've got to get out of here. If John is in danger I must help him."
Mycroft pushes me back in bed. "Sherlock, you have to get well first."
As soon as Mycroft is off the premises I check myself out of the clinic. I have to prepare the apartment for a baby. I have to clean, remove body parts from the fridge and get baby things. Mrs. Hudson looks in on me in concern as I attempt to tackle the kitchen.
"Sherlock what are you doing? I don't think I've ever seen you clean," Mrs. Hudson says as she looks to the left to recall an incident that both of us knows never occurred.
My eyes sparkle as I throw away containers of rotten Chinese food. "John, is coming home and he's bringing a baby with him."
"What?" Mrs. Hudson asks in surprise as she checks my pupils for signs of drug use.
"I'm not going to repeat it again. John is bringing a baby home. Now chop, chop help me clean this mess up." I demand.
Mrs. Hudson laughs. "Oh, Sherlock what are you up to now? Clean your own kitchen. I'm not your housekeeper. Also, if John is bringing a baby home he would never bring it here."
I stare at her in annoyance. She is right of course. What sane person would bring a baby to 221b Baker Street?
A few days later, I get a text from you it reads: Staying over in Switzerland at Mary's apartment. Please don't try and come to us. We will be home soon. Oh, and just so you know no need to clean anything, not that you would. I am renting a flat for the baby and I across town. So, no need to worry about a baby underfoot at Baker Street.
I read the text aloud to Mrs. Hudson as we both look around at the spotless flat. "I'm sorry dear," she whispers.
I maneuver around her. "I'm going out," I say as I leave her, slamming the door on the way out. The only thing that keeps me from haunting my den of iniquity is a text from Lestrade. It reads: dead body found on Market Street, missing big toe. Come at once, I need you.
I smile the day is looking up. When I get to the scene there are mobs of reporters, cops, and ghouls. I duck under the police tape and head towards Lestrade. Just before I make it to him a motorcycle skids to the side of me and rights itself. As the rider takes off his/her helmet I say, "Nice riding."
I gasp in shock when the helmet comes off. It is Anderson, but not the Anderson I know. This Anderson is dressed all in black, the hair that once hung around his face is now pulled back in a ponytail, his beard his trimmed, showing off a set of cheekbones to rival my own.
Anderson stands before me, the only thing unchanged are his sad, blue eyes. "You like the bike?" I nod still unable to believe Anderson's transformation. He blushes under my gaze and looks down. "Well, I kind of went crazy after my wife left me and when I thought you had killed yourself."
I peer at him through narrowed eye lids. "So, no wife? How are the state of Donavan's knees?"
Anderson throws back his head and laughs. "Just fine. I'm single." He closes the distance between us. I am the first to back away. "Well, I'll leave you to it," he says and then melts into the crowd.
Something about Anderson sets me on edge. I shake my head to clear it and then head to the crime scene. The body is male, approximately 40 years of age. His throat has been slit but it is his big toe that I want to see or rather the space where it once resided. A deep socket stares back at me. I look at Lestrade. "Where is the big toe?" I ask.
Lestrade points to the top of the street sign where it is perched. I smile. "This little piggy went to market," I say.
"What the bloody hell are you talking about?" Lestrade bellows.
I do a little jump and land in front of him. "We are dealing with a serial killer. This is only the beginning. There will be another murder. The victim will be at home and the second toe will be removed."
Lestrade's eyes bulge out as he puts a hand over my mouth. "Sherlock, just solve it, don't predict. I don't want to have to arrest you on suspicion of murder again."
I smirk and then look over my shoulder. Anderson is watching us. He walks towards us, not smiling. Though he speaks to Lestrade of mundane matters his eyes never leave my face. I get angry. He must know I need a fix and finds it great fun to mock me. "I have to go," I say as I shove past Lestrade and then Anderson.
Anderson follows me. I open my mouth to say something and then shut it as Anderson asks, "Sherlock, do you need a ride home? I have an extra helmet."
It is a challenge. He holds out the helmet and I take it. The ride through London is glorious. Anderson takes chances and I revel in the danger as we weave through traffic. By the time we reach Baker street I feel a bit nauseous. I fall off the bike in a heap. Anderson helps me up. I scowl at him. "Come to gloat over my addictions?" I ask in a spiteful tone.
Anderson takes a small first aid kit out of his back pack and reaches for my bloodied hand. His body shivers as he takes off his gloves and touches my bare hand. "Though I am lowering the IQ of the whole street by speaking I myself am no stranger to addictions."
I press my fingers over my bandaged palm. "Thanks for this," I say. I am about to say something hateful but the sorrowful look in his eyes stops me.
Anderson then reaches out and takes my hand to inspect his work. My heart hammers in my chest as his fingers graze mine. He intakes a sharp breath of air and then releases my hand. "Good night, Sherlock," he says and then hops on his motorcycle and is gone.
