Longer chapter than usual because so much had to go in this time. You're welcome for getting it in on time.

Asphyxia is almost done and I'm ecstatic. I have to start thinking about what I'm going to do after this. Hmm.

Enjoy this update.

"No, John. It's much too dangerous for you to go, dangerous as much to your physical health as mental. You're Wilhem Lecuyér's biggest target, and I can't determine what his reaction will be if he sees that you're present. We'll be in a neutral zone, but that doesn't give us a big enough advantage to justify including another variable. He could poison you again, or, worse, seize you again."

"I'm in more danger of being seized if I stay here alone than if I stay with you," I argued, sitting down on the bed. "and I don't want to be tied up here while the rest of you finish my case."

"It's our case, and it's in the best intentions."

"We have the same intentions. Let me go."

You sighed, shooting me a short glare before pulling on your woolen pajamas. "I don't think Lecuyér will be too difficult to dissect, though we will have to consider that Anne is still in his custody. We want to surround him in a way to cut him off quickly from communication with whatever underlings he may have, so that they do not recieve any kind of word that may endanger her or any of us. E, if not present at the party itself, would be our biggest concern."

"E." I muttered.

"Once Lecuyér is taken, E will be stomped out." You straightened your shoulders. "I'm looking forward to it."

You ran a hand through your hair and walked off into the bathroom.

With slight difficulty I followed, gripping the handle of my crutch as I shuffled into a walk. Thankfully our rooms were wide, so I was able to slip past you without much of a problem. You were busily scrubbing at your teeth, and I set my crutch against the lip of the countertop, bending down to rinse my face.

My eyes flashed toward the mirror, and I bit back a breath. Two dark eyes blinked back, the right surrounded by a deep purple-and-yellow bruise set against a gash cut into the skin just underneath. The bridge of my nose was busted open, my lip split in two places, and contusions smeared my skin from my temple all the way to my shoulder. I looked like a corpse. I had avoided examining my injuries before, but now, face-to-face with them, they scared me more than I expected. My stomach did a flip, and your hands grasped my shoulders as I reached out for the countertop.

"John?" Your breath still smelled like mint. "Are you alright?"

"Look at me," I croaked. "How can you even look at me."

Tears filled my eyes. You glanced at the mirror and then pressed your face to mine, your creamy skin looking even more pristine against my own discolored mess, but I started to see more of the purple under your eyes, and the redness around your lips.

"It's not permanent," You eased.

I bent my neck forward, trying to hide my trembling lips, but you knew. You ran your hand along my back.

"Come back into the bedroom, John. You're tired."

"I'm not tired, I'm just... ergh." I shuddered and pressed my hand against my chest. "I just..."

"Come lay down, John." You were stern now. "John."

I resigned and let you lead me into the next room, pushing my weak legs forward. The room seemed too warm, and so you went to put out the fire while I sat back onto our bed. The golden glow of the flames died down and the temperature began to drop almost immediately. You sat down beside me. For a moment we were quiet, just sitting arm-to-arm with each other, until you brushed my hand and spoke.

"You'll heal, John."

"I know, but..."

"You'll get better. You'll recover."

"Will I, Sherlock?"

You didn't answer. I reached over and wrapped my arms around you, pulling you closer and burying my face in the fabric of your shirt. Your arms snaked around me, and I felt your fingertips trail along my back.

"I'm sorry." I whispered. "I'm sorry."

"It's alright. I know you're still fighting."

"I hurt you."

"It's fine."

"No, it's not fine. I'm sorry. I just-..."

You placed your hands over my shoulders. "It's alright, John. I understand."

"No, you don't. You don't understand." I covered my face. "I hurt you. I'm still hurting you. I can't stop."

You took my hands and held them tightly in yours. There was a flash of seriousness in your eyes that surprised me, and made me even more ashamed than before. "I do understand, John."

You sat forward and brought our lips together, the soft mint of your breath seeping into my nose as your hand caressed the back of my neck. It was gentle, the smooth edges of your mouth leaving warm patches on my skin, carefully laying me down against the pillows. Fear creeped up my throat, but your soft hands reassued me, and I let my jaw slack as you brushed against my cheek. Then you were above me, tears sparkling in your eyes and emotion choking your voice.

"John."

I looked up at you, and you gripped the sides of my head with shaking fingers, holding me pinned against the bed. Your eyes were the color of shattered glass, threatening to spill over, your skin beginning to flush. Your cold exterior had fallen apart, and I pressed my hands against your chest, trying to keep you together. Your voice trembled.

"I almost lost you."

You leaned down and put your head against my neck, allowing your body to rest on top of mine as I held you. This kind of breakdown was new for you, and I didn't quite know what to do except pull you closer and breathe you in. Something told me that I had broken you. Something else told me that you had broken me. But there we were, curled up in each other, satisfied with just the touch of the other's skin, and I wasn't sure it was wrong either way.

It helped, feeling your weight on my chest, the smell of your hair and your breath. You were there, all of you, within my grasp, and you weren't leaving. I twisted my head around and kissed you, squeezing my eyes closed and focusing on the sensation of your lips on my lips, my neck. Desperately, sloppily, you kissed me again and again, and your lips became salty with your tears.

Then you stopped, separated us, and rolled over onto your side. You got up quickly to shut off the lights, then pulled back the covers and engulfed us both, reaching out for my hips while I searched for your mouth. Our limbs entangled, and we laid there together, with your lips against my nose or my head against your chest, the rhythm of our hearts our mutual promise.

We would finish this. Tomorrow was the last day, tomorrow this freak show would be overwith. Tomorrow. Tomorrow. But tonight, we would sleep.

I breathed in.

The next day was slow. My parents' home, warm and bright, was decorated with bright gold ribbons and Christmas holly that made the whole place smell fresh. The winter hadn't been so vicious out here, and though the lawn looked yellow from the mud, the sky was a brilliant blue, with a crest of gray clouds in the east. Mum, you, and I were sitting in their kitchen picking at our breakfast plates, sharing idle conversation and accustoming ourselves to each other in a subtle sort of way.

Mum had made a point of spending time with me, filling me in on all the recent gossip and asking about work back in London. I didn't mind. She was a sweet woman, thin as a rail but with plenty of vigor. She had been diagnosed with anorexia when she was a teenager and had struggled back-and-forth with it her whole life, but remained generally hopeful throughout the ordeal. I was happy to see that she was improving again, if only in baby steps. Her fingers, hollow as needles, didn't quiver like they used to.

"Have you kept on playing your clarinet, John?" She asked, pushing around a bit of egg.

I chuckled. "No, not exactly. I sold mine after med school, and the things are so expensive to buy."

"Well, we have one in the music room, you should use it sometime before you go." Mum smiled.

"You play the clarinet?" You asked, perplexed.

I shrugged. "In secondary school, yeah, but not much since then."

"Do you play, Mr. Sherlock?" Mum asked.

"Not clarinet. Violin."

"Violin!"

"He's the best I've ever heard," I nodded.

"Very best? Well, it might take some convincing for me." She brushed off her hands. "How about you play for us? We have a violin, a pretty little white one, it looks just gorgeous with our other strings. I'm a bit of a collector. Though, it may be out of tune. I don't play myself."

"I can tune it by ear," You said.

Her face lit up. "I'm impressed. Let's not waste time, then. I'm sure the violin's just dying to be played."

We rose, and she led the both of us back toward our rooms, where, down another hallway and around a bend, the music room's grand doors opened. The high ceiling and wide windows made the room look enormous, while in reality it must not have been too much bigger than our own rooms. A grand piano stood proudly in one corner, and in the other were the stringed instruments, including a cello, a double-bass, a violin, and a viola. Various wind instruments were mounted on the walls around us, glittering in the sunlight. You looked like you were about to burst.

"Jesus Christ. It's a Vuillaume," You breathed.

"It is, I got it at an auction last spring." Mum said proudly, taking a seat. "There's sheet music in those cabinets there if you'll be needing any."

"I know most things by heart." You replied, starting to tune. "Do you have a request?"

She didn't miss a beat. "Do you know Bach's Partita number two?"

"Of course." You lifted the instrument to your neck.

Mum's head did it's familiar twist as the first few notes of the Partita glided from your strings, her eyes fluttering with pleasure. One of the things that had brought her the most joy in the world had always been music. Because of both her age and her disorder she's been unable to play religiously like she used to, but I remembered many scenes from my childhood of her dancing through the kitchen to Chopin or drinking tea with Mozart sweetly singing in the background. She had encouraged my sister and I to learn several different instruments, but neither of us had inherited her skill or interest. So she instead spent her time listening to discs and records on her old chunky record player and swaying around the kitchen.

Her eyes were big, and she placed her tiny hands on my leg. "Where ever did you find a man like this, John?"

I smiled. "Some crime scene somewhere."

"You weren't kidding when you said he was the best." She sighed, watching you dip with the music. "If I was only a few years younger. At least I know that you have a better taste in men than you had in women."

"Mum."

"It's true." She laughed. "None of your girlfriends were ever half as charming as Mr. Sherlock."

"Well, I can't really argue against that, can I."

She smiled and patted my knee. "I'm very happy for the both of you. I think you'll be very happy together. He reminds me a bit of your father, don't you think?"

"Dad?" I paused. What in the world would make her draw that conclusion. You had more in common with a goldfish than you had with my father.

"And, soon enough, I'm certain to have grandchildren."

"Grandchildren?" I sputtered. "It's a little early to be thinking about that."

"Never too early, sweetheart!" She clapped her hands together and hummed. "I was starting to think it would never happen. You should start thinking about adoption, shouldn't you? Or perhaps a surrogate mother? A little baby boy with Sherlock's handsome cheeks, wouldn't he be so precious! Or a little girl with blonde hair, like yours, but curly, tied up in little bows. I can picture them running around like you and Harry used to do, causing mischief. I'd spoil them every day, oh my, they'd be spoiled perfectly rotten."

"Mum, I think you're getting a bit carried away."

"Oh, shush, John! I'm enjoying this. You would have to come every year for the Christmas parties, just so I can see them. They'll eat all the cranberries, just like you used to do. You got them all over your clothes and in your hair, I used to have to wash every inch of you to make sure to get it all. It'll be the same with them, you'll see. And you must teach them to play, always teach them to play." She paused, distracted by your music. "If we pray hard enough maybe they'll inherit the skills of their father."

"We're not even married yet."

She chuckled. "That's minor. And it won't be minor much longer, will it?"

I shook my head. She looked enveloped again in the song, but my mind was elsewhere. I touched her wrist gently, and she glanced back at me.

"Can I ask you something, Mum?" I said.

"Of course you can."

I took a breath. "Can you tell me about Anne?"

Her demeanor shifted. "You mean Anne Carter?"

I nodded. Mum repositioned herself in her seat, letting a few strands of hair fall out from behind her ears. Her light smile became a thin frown, and her eyes filled with sadness.

"That poor soul. She is a sweetheart, she really is, but she's been pulled into this whole mess. I hired her in 2008 when we went to Paris, just for a little security work. We became friends and exchanged contacts when her contract was up, just in case I might need to call on her again. Her permanent was with Lecuyér, of course, and she would go with Lecuyér often to his galas, so we would be able to catch up there. Pretty, too, isn't she?"

"Yes, but... could you just explain this all to me? She told us that you hired her, to watch me?"

"No, not exactly. I offered to pay her if she kept you out of danger. I was worried sick about you, and she was more than happy to help. She kept me updated on everything that happened to you. Though," She trailed off, gently touching the gash under my eye, "it looks a bit worse in person than I'd imagined."

"You practically saved my life," I said.

"You can't give me all the credit. I just had the money." Mum smiled, then grew serious again. "That woman she works for, though, she really is the devil's child."

"Woman?"

"Yes, Wihem's daughter. Anne's her personal. Blonde, a little taller than you, I think."

I made the connection. "Have you met her?"

"A few times, not privately, of course. I can't seem to remember her name, though. I know it either started with an E or an I. Isobel? Emily? Something with that eh sound."

I nodded. Definitely E.

"I'm sorry this happened to you, John." Mum said quietly.

"It's not your fault. You've done your best."

"But I just wish I could have done more." She grasped my hands. "How are you doing?"

I paused for a moment, then avoided eye contact. I had heard this question before, and I always resented it, because I hadn't yet found a way to get out from under it. Mum and I had always thought alike, and so it was easy for us to sympathize with and understand each other, but that also meant we knew each other's tricks. Usually I would be able to move past my discomfort, but today I felt isolated from her, as if letting her scale my walls would cause more harm than it would repair. Her eyes were full of care, but I ducked under them.

"I'm alright."

She pursed her lips and squeezed a little. "I know you can't just 'be alright', not with everything happening. Are you alright? You're still eating, you're not hurting yourself, you're not doing anything you shouldn't be doing, are you?"

"No, mum." I bit the inside of my cheek.

She continued to watch me, skeptical.

"I'm okay." I reassured. "There's just a lot to deal with right now. Once it settles down, I'll get better. I promise."

She nodded slowly.

I patted her hand. "Don't worry about me. I've got this under control."

"That's good. But, John, if there ever comes a time when you can't control things, promise me you'll remember that you have someone you can lean onto."

"I know. You and Dad."

"No." She motioned with her head toward you. "Sherlock."

I blinked. "Sherlock?"

"When I was struggling, at first I thought that I could battle it by myself. I truly believed it, and, given, I accomplished great things alone. But I just couldn't beat it. No matter what I fought through, no matter how hard I wrestled, I could never do it alone. Of course, I never admitted that, but your father admitted it for me. He came in behind me and helped me fight when I was too weak to keep going. And I'm not saying he won the battle for me, but without him, I would have never been able to get this far. Do you understand?"

"I think so."

She moved forward just a bit and wrapped her arm around mine. "He understands where I am and what I need, and that's really what counts. He doesn't fight for me, but he gives me the love and the support I need to fight my battles myself. That's what I see in your Sherlock, the same thing I saw in Henry." She patted my arm. "Depend on him, John."

We fell quiet, Mum transfixed and I distrait. I kept aligning my mental images of both you and my father, but I didn't see the lines that my mother had been drawing. My father was cold, stubborn, disinterested, and closed-off. You could be stubborn, and sometimes it was hard to talk to you, but you had always shown a warm sort of interest that made you Sherlock Holmes. The more I tried to take my mother's advice to heart, the more frustrated I grew, until I finally gave up on trying to decipher it altogether.

You drew your song to a close.

Later that afternoon, while you were changing into your suit for the evening, I decided to take a short walk around the house to calm myself. I had been nervous for the past several hours in anticipation of our meeting, and though an extra dose of morphine had helped, I still felt a little unwell. I tapped the foot of my cane across the lineoulium floors, and carefully made my way over through the left wing of the house.

Through the pillars of the wide sitting room, I spotted my father several meters away, gazing through a window and smoking his pipe. He wrung his wrist against the collar of his shirt, and the crook of his brow was drawn up tight, but he didn't notice me, so I didn't bother him. Smoke rose through his thick grey moustache, and as he gently exhaled, he let the smoke billow toward the ceiling in a cloud. He looked distant, and a small bit irritable, but I should have been used to that by now.

My whole childhood my father had stood like that, a stone statue in the distance, a figure of strength and discipline. Whether he had a pipe in his hand, or a newspaper, or a can of beer, or a glass of wine, his cold eyes ceaselessly reminded me of the demands he had instilled in me from the day I was born. He wanted me to be strong, he wanted me to stand tall, he wanted me to stop crying and to behave like the man I was. Mum said he was so strict with me because it was the way he showed love. But no matter how much I wanted to believe it, I still squirmed under his hand.

Something about the light from the window brought back the memory of you standing before our flat window. My mother had seen my father in you since she first met you, but how? She had spoken in complete confidence of your similarities, but why? There was nothing alike between the cold, uncaring man smoking his pipe by the window and the tall, vibrant man playing his instrument against the crackling of the fire.

Perhaps I had been viewing my father in the wrong light. It was this light, here, that I truly started to see him - not as a stone statue, but as a man, consumed by friction and aged by concern. My mother knew him for who he really was, she knew the man inside the stone, while I had never bothered to search for him.

Unexpectedly he turned, pulling the pipe from his lips. I flinched, thinking for sure he had noticed me, but his gaze was elsewhere. "Are you sure this is a good idea."

"Sherlock will take care of him." Mum emerged from behind a pillar, holding my father's black bow-tie in her hands. "Everything will be fine."

She walked up to him and put the tie around his neck, fixing his collar over it and starting to tie. My father still looked cross, but he held his pipe away from Mum so that she wouldn't get the smoke in her hair. His eyes didn't seem so dark when they were fixed on her. She smiled up at him, but he didn't return the gesture.

"We should just forget about this whole thing. Give Wilhem the deal. Tell him to fuck off and get his damn daughter out of John's life."

"Sherlock will fix it. I know he will."

"You have a lot of faith in him for only knowing him for a day."

"I talked to him a bit when he first came." She finished his bow-tie and smiled. "He reminds me a lot of you, you know."

He made a face. "Please."

She chuckled and patted his chest.

I crutched away from the two of them, hoping not to interrupt their conversation or make myself known. It was a little funny, hearing their banter and realizing that yes, of course you would have spoken to Mum. I was silly to think you hadn't, especially after hearing of her confidence in you. My mum was intelligent, and sometimes I underestimated that, but now reminded of it I had a feather of happiness in my chest. She liked you. Through your layers of childish and smartass, she saw your gemstone heart, just like I had. That made me happy.

Upon reaching our rooms, you had nearly finished getting dressed, but were having a little bit of trouble with your tie.

"Good, John, would you fix this damn thing?" You huffed.

"You would think you've never worn a tie before." I sighed, limping over. I leaned my crutch against the dresser so that I could use both hands, and you watched me suspiciously.

"This isn't a good idea," You warned. "You should stay back. Keep yourself under guard."

"I will be under guard. I'll be under your guard." I finished with the tie. "I'm not changing my mind."

You adjusted it in the mirror, then nodded.

"You talked to my mum," I mentioned.

"Yes?" You picked a piece of dust off the shoulder of my suit. "Did you expect me to do nothing while you slept?"

"No." I chuckled and sat down beside the window.

"That walk cheered you up quite a bit."

I shrugged. "Guess it did."

You gave me a look, then dropped the conversation. You pulled your suit jacket on as you walked back across the room, picking my gun from the inside of your suitcase and turning it over in your hand. Gently you loaded it, giving it one last cock before lifting it to the light. I watched with a sinking feeling in my stomach, an anxious chill quickly replacing the first giddy warmth as your fingers caressed the cold metal of its trigger.

You turned.

"Ready?"

"Ready."

Out the back door, goddamn, but I review anyway.

Watch for the next update.