I am holding my son when she crashes into my room.

"John, John! Come outside – you have to help him…"

And I know instantly who him is, and I also know I will do - whatever it takes.

He is standing on the highest part of the stack. It towers above the beach, like a huge archway, sculpted by the sea over millennia, and connected by the narrowest of parapets. Sherlock Holmes stands at the highest point. There is a hundred foot drop beneath him. A fall will kill him. When will he get tired of standing in high places? Soon, I sodding well hope.

Where has he been? It is three o`clock in the morning and I am wrenched outside to see him – my friend – in a position that defies logic. He is alone. There is no gun to his head. He stands, looking to the shingle below. Is there a gun to my head? No red dots. No red dots.

I race across the lawn towards Molly Hooper. She stands but she can`t go nearer. Five metres away, I see Sherlock, hair whipping across his face; purple shirt billowing from his frame. He stares into the middle distance and the horizon. His hands are clenched into tight fists. How has he got here? Why are we high up? Again.

"Sherlock!"

The wind whips away my words and carries them, hysterically, to God knows where.

"Sherlock! It`s John! Look at me! Look at me!" He slowly looks around. He has the eyes of … a man who has seen too much.

"Ah… is that not just a bit too high? Considering your last viewpoint? Get over here, and we can talk about it."

The summer wind whistles across my head and lifts my jacket around me. I look into the eyes of Sherlock Holmes and I can only see – defeat. He is saying goodbye. No mobile. No script. No plan. He is standing on the top of a high place and he doesn't want to come down.

A hand on my arm brings me to the eyes of Molly Hooper, who is standing by me and shaking. I want to shake her and tell her not to love him. It is simply not a good idea. But it`s all too late for that. The wind is whistling around us and Molly Hooper, dressed in a billowing, red dress, looks like a burning flame. We are frozen – we have him in our sights, but he could just step away from the …edge.

Molly looks at me. Really looks. "You know how this feels, John. Because you know, you have to trust me." Her strength is sudden and amazing.

She steps forward. One time. Then another. She steps again. Sherlock is holding his arms out to his sides and looking down. He is tired. Very tired. I want to touch him, but I stay back and let her do that.

My wife has now joined me and that is the only positive I have.

Mary holds my hand as Molly Hooper steps out, towards Sherlock Holmes. And she is strong, and I have to trust her.

"Sherlock." Molly falls to her knees, because she feels safer there. "Sherlock, step back from there. It's a little bit high and I don't want to pick you up again. We need you. I need you and so does Benedict."

He turns into the wind and looks at her. Her hair whips across her face and he sees her. He doesn't speak, but why do his eyes look so sad? A salty wind buffets about him and Molly Hooper makes an achingly gradual effort to reach out and touch his hand; the hand hanging limply by his side.

A nanosecond and … she has it.

Mary: "Oh God…"

Molly: "Sherlock. Don`t. Just don`t."

His grip on her hand intensifies.

"It`s your move and I think I have you in check mate," she says. He falls to his knees and we both go to him. Only difference – Mary is stopping me.

Molly holds Sherlock by the shoulders, and she holds him tight.

"Sherlock…get inside. Get inside. Stop fucking about. I love you, I love you so much, it makes me sick…but stop fucking about and get INSIDE!"

And he looks up into her brown eyes and he holds her arms and he sinks his head into her shoulders… and Mary pulls me away as I see them leave the cliff top to become … human.

x0x0x0x0x0x0x

The next morning is a beautiful, bright blue and yellow summer`s day. The air and the sea are calm and still. And all the King`s horses and all the King`s men have descended upon Tregennis Lodge.

Mycroft Holmes sits, suited and immaculate as he ever is, in the kitchen, as men in white overalls dust, sample and remove – whatever it is they need to remove. There is very much an `end of the holiday` air about it all.

"I don`t," he sniffs, "expect very much from the house. The Professor will have removed any illuminating detail before you and my brother set up camp here. As predicted, `The Life of Pie` is shuttered up and abandoned. Local agents have found nothing bar a few interesting looking apple pies. I fear we waited too long to strike."

Mary hands him a cup of tea and a pink wafer. He regretfully pushes the wafer away.

"How is Sherlock?" She asks.

"My little brother does have the knack of bouncing back from the brink. He is fine, albeit with a much impeded memory of the events of last night. His dosage of scolpolomaine was three times the amount you all ingested the previous day."

"Oh no." Mary shudders. She can only surmise at the horror Sherlock had endured. "He wasn't suicidal at all, was he?"

Mycroft frowns. "Absolutely not. He was instructed to stand on that spot and he had to do it, until a certain trigger was given. I can only imagine his inner turmoil."

As if on cue, Sherlock`s trigger walks into the kitchen, holding their son. Amusingly, the baby squeaks on seeing his uncle and reaches out for him.

"Oh, very well," succumbs Mycroft, accepting Benedict`s slightly slobbery embrace.

"You, my friend, were just a little bit of awesome last night. Saving Sherlock Holmes is becoming a bit of a habit with you." Mary smiles warmly at Molly Hooper, who looks as fresh as a daisy. Ms Normality; with a side of incredible-ness.

"What can I say? He`s high-maintenance." Molly smiles back as Ben sucks savagely on Mycroft`s expensive silk handkerchief. "Gums sore; teething. Sorry, Mycroft." The latter manages a weak smile.

"I am, once again, very grateful to you Miss H – Molly. I only wish Sherlock had a memory he could share with us, regarding Professor Moriarty."

"Maybe not an actual memory – " Sherlock Holmes walks into the kitchen wearing his black dressing gown and a slightly smug expression. He is holding something small and silver in his hand.

" – but I DO have a memory stick."