Chapter 18: From the Pen of Kitty Riley

SATURDAY–SUNDAY, FEBRUARY 15–16, 2015

Over the next few days, Sherlock Holmes was the top story on BBC News, Channel 4 News, ITN, Sky News, and CTV London, and his face—never smiling, deliberately darkened, caught at unfavourable angles—sullied the front page of every major Sunday newspaper in the city, and most of the minor ones. But it was the article in The Sun, penned its star investigative journalist, that had the inside scoop.

Sham Genius Sherlock Holmes Busted for Assault

by Senior Reporter Kitty Riley

London – The verdict is in: Sherlock Holmes is a dangerous and violent madman.

On February 14, a day celebrated by most as a time of love and romance, Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street, Westminster, London, launched a vicious and unprovoked attack on Scott Anderson, Head of Forensics at New Scotland Yard, while the latter was in the course of his duties. Officers in the vicinity arrested Holmes on sight.

The brutal attack left Anderson with a severely broken nose, burst ocular blood vessels, and numerous severe contusions (see page 3 for photographs).

When Anderson regained consciousness, he was surprised to discover himself in hospital. The 44-year-old forensics specialist from Reading recounts the seconds preceding Holmes' ruthless assault:

'He came out of nowhere. I was minding my own business, not talking to him at all, when he just snapped. Went completely mental. I thought he wanted to kill me, and I hadn't done a thing to him. Not a thing.'

Witness Nakul Fazal, an innocent bystander, adds, 'It was Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde right before my eyes. One minute, I am talking to a sane man. Then I blinked, and he had become a monster.'

Inside sources claim that Holmes has been mentally and emotionally unstable ever since his sudden return to London after more than three years of lying about his own death, an elaborate stunt enacted to evade charges of kidnapping and homicide. More recently, however, his volatility has been exacerbated due to ex-girlfriend Molly Hooper's continual rebuffs of his renewed advances. Hooper was involved with Holmes back in June 2011 when she assisted him in faking his own death, going so far as to forge the medical certificate of death and to sign her name to the falsified autopsy report. Charges against Ms Hooper for these illegal actions are pending.

However it is that Hooper assisted Holmes in the past, their relationship of late has not been amicable. According to anonymous insiders, Holmes has been terrorising Hooper for weeks by sending her threatening text messages and phone calls, abducting her cat, and leaving the corpses of mutilated animals in her flat. Reportedly, the night before the attack on Anderson, which took place just outside Hooper's building, Holmes locked Hooper inside her own flat and refused to let her leave or use her phone to call her boyfriend, Metropolitan Police detective inspector Gregory Lestrade, Holmes' long-time professional rival.

Of Holmes' erratic behaviour, Ms Hooper said, 'I'm just scared. I want this all to go away.'

DI Lestrade was not available for comment, nor was Dr John Watson, Holmes' associate and recent victim in the St Mary's abductions, which is rumoured to be another of the amateur detective's schemes. It has been suggested, however, that Watson, too, was being detained alongside Hooper and is still too traumatised by his prior captivity to comment.

Although Mr Holmes has been arrested and charged, it is too early to know what his fate will be. One can only wonder whether the Yard will issue a formal apology for its gross misjudgement of Holmes' character, and for excusing his past crimes. As for Mr Anderson, forgiveness will come slowly, if it comes at all.

'If he'd only been arrested back in October,' he said, 'I wouldn't be sitting in a hospital bed today.'

She came in to see him late Sunday evening, while he was spooning ambiguously flavoured red hospital jelly into his mouth. The flavour didn't matter, though. With the busted nose, he really couldn't taste much of anything.

'Sally?'

'Hi,' she said with a small smile, stepping closer to the bed. There was a startling look of contrition about her. She squeezed his big toe through the blanket and gave it a friendly wiggle. 'Damn, look at you. That nose has got to hurt something awful.'

The truth was, he was pumped full of enough painkillers that all he could really make out was dull buzzing in the middle of his black-and-blue face. But Sally Donovan was offering her sympathies, and he couldn't pass up the opportunity to take advantage of this rare treat. So he nodded miserably as she sat in the chair beside him where his mum had spent a good portion of the morning before heading back to Reading, promising to bring him a whole sack of those Jelly Babies he liked so much when she returned.

'You know,' Donovan said slowly. Her eyes were downcast, staring at the palms of her hands before looking up at him through long lashes. He had always found her eyes alluring with their rich brown irises, so dark they were almost black. 'It's not easy for me to admit that I was ever wrong . . .'

Oh lord, she was finally seeing it. A red-letter day. He wanted to reach out and touch her. He knew, maybe better than anyone, how smooth her skin was. Sally was a hard and rigid woman, but there was so much about her that was soft, supple.

'. . . that I was mistaken in my judgement . . .'

If she came just a little closer, he could touch the tight spirals of her hair. He had once loved getting his fingers tangled in its deceptive, unnavigable pathways.

'. . . a judgement I once defended openly, despite myself, despite others' warnings and disapproval. But I was wrong from the start. Wasn't I?'

He nodded benevolently and parted his lips to console her, to say that they all made mistakes from time to time, and he was ready to accept her apology and forgive . . .

'It was my own fault, I suppose, for ever getting involved with a married man. That should have told me something about his moral depravity right there.'

'Wait, what?'

'I can't help but hate myself a little. Just a little.'

'You're talking about me?'

'Dear old Anderson,' she said with a sigh, no longer hiding the contempt from her eyes, 'we've been through so much together. So you can be honest with me. Are you shagging Kitty Riley?'

'What?'

'You know, sweet Kitty, the poor, struggling journalist from The Sun, whose passion is and always has been to bring the "truth" to the people. Are. You. Shagging. Her?'

Anderson spluttered and the weak, warm jelly sploshed around in the bowl.

'Or is the price of your collusion a little higher than a good shag? The cost of divorce can be pretty devastating, can't it? Did Susan take you for all you were worth? Pity, that. What did you agree to so you could get back on top? Five thousand pounds? Ten thousand?'

'Stop it.'

'Ooh, more than ten thousand? I think you're looking at something more severe than just getting sacked, am I right? I think you're looking at serving time.'

'What are you talking about? I didn't take any money! Holmes attacked me! Look what he did to me!' He waved a hand at his busted face.

'Oh please, I've seen worse beatings in pub brawls. Go on, be honest: Was it really Sherlock's smacking you about that made you black out, or did you faint at the sight of your own blood?'

He gaped at her.

'For someone who works in blood-splattered crime scenes, you can be awfully squeamish at the sight of your own.'

'This is outrageous! Holmes came at me like an animal!'

'Yes, and after what you did to incite him, it's a wonder you're not sucking that jelly through a straw.'

'I didn't do a damn thing! I was talking to Watson, trying apologise . . .'

She shot to her feet, planted a locked arm on either side of where he lay in his elevated bed, and hissed, 'You're a goddam liar. Holmes was very detailed about what happened, the horrid things you said, and Watson confirmed every word.'

'Watson's delusional! He's impressionable! They probably concocted the whole thing together.' He suddenly backtracked. 'In any case, what word? What was I supposed to have said? But more importantly, what the hell does it matter? Even if I'd said that— that— that— that Watson was a blithering moron for taking on with that freak again, you think that justifies his going berserk and caving my face in?'

'You're a real pansy, you know that? You're barely hurt. John Watson's broken nose was the least of his problems. You want to feel sorry for someone? Feel sorry for him. But no. You have a go at him anyway but practically piss yourself when Sherlock turns a hard glance at you. Who spends two days and a night in hospital for a broken nose anyway?'

'I did nothing to deserve—!'

She guffawed loudly, straightened, glared down at him dangerously. 'Kitty Riley might try to draw you as some hapless victim or tragic hero, but you forget: I was there when you made an arse of yourself the first time. A dozen of us heard you that night, mocking the victim of a vicious rape about his rape, so we all know you're an out-and-out tit. You torment a man who was brutalised for ten days, and you want me to feel sorry for your well-deserved collision with someone who wasn't about to tolerate any more of your bullshit?'

'I told you! I didn't say anything to Watson besides sorry! You weren't there! You didn't see how Sherlock came unhinged! It's like I've been telling you for weeks: He's dangerous, he's mad, he was bound to hurt someone. I was just the unlucky sod he decided to turn on.'

'See, here's the difference between you and Sherlock—besides the size of your brains. Someone has a go at you, and, coward that you are, you retaliate by going after one of his mates. But you get on the wrong side of Sherlockor one of his mates, and he'll just go after you. Something admirable in that, and I'm not loathe to admit it.'

'I wasn't having a go at anyone. I. Did. Nothing.'

She shrugged, though her scowl defied her indifference. 'Is that the version you're sticking with? Fine. I guess it will all come out during the inquest.'

'The what?'

'That's why I'm here.' She pulled out an envelope from the inside of her leather attaché. 'All of London may be sopping up the sob story you and Ms Riley have concocted . . .'

'Wait just a minute—'

'. . . but the Yard is proceeding with both eyes open. You already have two official strikes against you, Anderson. One: The unsanctioned interview you gave to the press last October; and two: the obtuse comment you let slip in January that led to your three-day suspension. As of today, you are officially on unpaid mandatory leave. An internal investigation into your recent unsavoury behaviour will be conducted to determine whether you keep your job at the Yard.'

'You can't be serious. Because of a scuffle?'

'What scuffle, Anderson? Just seconds ago you were calling it a vicious attack.'

His mind was spinning rapidly, in near blind panic. 'They can't find me guilty of saying something I never said,' he said weakly. 'And even if they did, they wouldn't sack me over, um, words.'

'Officially,' she said with a sneer, 'this is an investigation into the more serious matter of your supposed collusion with Kitty Riley and her campaign to paint Holmes as the blackest of villains.'

'Absurd,' he said without breath.

'That's behaviour unbecoming an employee of New Scotland Yard.' She laid the envelope on his blanketed lap, her smile belying the intensity of her vindictiveness.

'You—' he said tremulously, 'you're not, that is, they wouldn't let you conduct the investigation. Right?'

'Me? With our history? Oh no, of course not.' She headed toward the door, her heels clicking with each step. 'No, I'm being called to testify.'

'But you weren't there!'

'Character witness, love,' she said.

She disappeared through the open doorway. He stared after her, horror-struck. Then, with shaking hands, he picked up the envelope, but before he could tear open the flap, another body darkened the doorway. He looked up to see Greg Lestrade, suit coat unbuttoned and hands deep in trouser pockets.

'Lord, you didn't just get on the wrong side of Sally Donovan, did you?' he asked. Then he winced and shook his head in affected pity. 'Rotten luck, mate. No man has ever come through that unscathed. Ask any of us. Sherlock Holmes included.'

There was no humour in his eyes, no hint of a smile, only hatred. 'Cheers,' said Lestrade, and he turned his back and left.

Sherlock Holmes was kept in a holding cell for twenty-three hours before he was officially charged. After that, he was detained further while it was decided whether his release was a public danger. Once the legal thirty-six hours had expired, he was at last detained pending bail only. And though bail was promptly paid, a hold-up in processing the paperwork postponed his release even further. All told, he spent a full two nights and three days in police custody, where he was virtually ignored by the custody sergeant, before being released on bail and given a mandate to appear for his court hearing, which was scheduled for March 2, still two weeks away.

Meanwhile, as he languished within solitary grey walls and behind a steel door, the full consequences of Kitty Riley's article were only beginning to unfold.

Within twenty-four hours, Molly Hooper received official sanctions at work, prohibiting her from handling bodies and restricting her to lab work. She was to have nothing to do whatsoever with criminal or even suspected criminal deaths. Dr Torrence, though cordial as ever, now regarded her with an unprecedented measure of caution, and her colleagues made a point to avoid her, some simply for lack of knowing what to say, but most because she was tangled with Sherlock Holmes, whom they all knew was a bad piece of work. Criminal charges now stood against her, and though no one said it aloud, they were embarrassed by the association and how her actions might sully their department, if not their profession. They hoped, secretly, that Molly would do what she did best: to leave, and to do so quietly.

And then her landlord, Nakul Fazal, asked her to move out. He had no legal grounds to evict her—though he looked for one—but he made it clear that he disliked the company she kept, and that the neighbours, too, had lately expressed their unease. Molly, who was not one to deal easily with confrontations of the sort Fazal presented, agreed to be out within the week. Though his request was inconvenient (and hurtful), she couldn't claim to be heartbroken. She'd not been there even half a year, after all. And frankly, she no longer felt safe within those walls, anyway.

'Stay with me,' Lestrade said the moment she told him. The words jumped from his lips without a second's hesitation, as if he had anticipated this happening, or had at least been preparing to offer it regardless.

'You wouldn't mind?'

He gave her a look that suggested both incredulity and teasing. But not presumption.

'You know I have more space than I really need. The guest bedroom, the upstairs bathroom, it's yours. You can stay as long as you like. That is, if you don't have anywhere else to go.'

But she didn't see moving in with him, however temporarily, a matter of last recourse. She had been hoping he would offer.

As for Lestrade, he was formally without fault, given that Dimmock had propitiously ordered him away from the scene. Nevertheless, he had fallen a few pegs in the eyes of the chief superintendent because it had been he who had vouched for Holmes in the beginning and assured Gregson that if anyone could solve the Slash Man serial killings, it was Sherlock. But the bodies kept turning up, the public grew more and more afraid every day, and now one of their own had been beaten soundly by the very man they had cleared of all suspicion not six weeks before.

'You promised me,' said Gregson to Lestrade behind closed doors, 'that we could trust him. You gave me your word I wouldn't regret bringing him on.'

To this, Lestrade had only one reply. 'I meant what I said. And I stand by it.'

Lestrade's convictions be damned: they retracted all permissions that had been granted to Sherlock in the name of good faith. He was not allowed anywhere near a crime scene ever again (that was, if he wasn't serving time for the assault on Anderson, and Yarders were already taking bets); he was not to handle or even to know of evidence; and neither Lestrade nor anyone else was to discuss any aspect of the investigation that was not related directly to Holmes' or Watson's basic safety. The resolution of this matter was strictly of concern to the Metropolitan Police.

Opinions in the Yard were divided, not as to the matter of whether Holmes should have been permitted to continue to investigate with the Met—everyone had disagreed with that from the start—but as to whether Holmes had been justified in knocking Anderson out cold with just two solid strikes, as was reported. They were torn between their hatred of Holmes and their general dislike of Anderson. Most, of course, defended Anderson to the hilt, because no matter the circumstance or provocation (if there was indeed provocation, and not everyone—particularly readers of The Sun—were convinced that there had been), there was no cause for such a violent outburst. 'What if it had been you?' they asked one another. 'Or what if he'd attacked your partner? Holmes is unsafe, always has been, and it's all finally coming out.'

But Holmes had been interrogated, Watson interviewed, and the gossip of what they said—of what Anderson had said—circulated quickly. For some, the balance was tipping in Holmes' favour. 'Anderson said what to Watson?' 'Good lord, what is his problem?' 'Yeah, I would have broken his nose, too!' And when some questioned their loyalty to a fellow Yarder, they turned it around and questioned theirs: 'If it had been your mate? If Anderson had said that to a friend of yours?' The defenders were few in number, but they were unwavering.

As for John. After giving his statement and being denied his request to talk to Sherlock or visit him in holding, he found himself standing alone on the street before the station with nothing but his aluminium cane, a mobile, and a handful of crumpled banknotes in his pocket. Not enough for a cab, and he didn't think he could handle a crowded bus or train. Not today.

Before he could decide what to do, a shiny black town car rolled to a stop in front of him. He fell back a step, and his empty stomach tensed unpleasantly. When Mycroft Holmes stepped out of the car, it didn't relax.

'John.'

'He's in there,' John said, gesturing with his head.

'I know,' Mycroft said with a sigh and a pitiable shake of his head. 'But I'm here for you. You need a lift.'

John didn't move. 'Sherlock's been arrested, and you won't go in and see him?'

'I will, eventually. He's not going anywhere.' John sniffed in disapproval. 'First, I'm going to take you home.'

'No thank you.'

'You can't walk,' said Mycroft. 'And I know your aversion to cabbies and public transport.'

John looked away, contemplating the time and distance it would take to limp all the way home. Already his leg was bothering him. 'I'll call Lestrade.'

'He's busy. My brother's certainly seen to that. Get in the car, John. Don't make me beg.'

John hesitated a few moments longer, weighing his options, knowing it was a sensible decision but being disinclined to make it. Mycroft waited him out. At last, he stepped forward, saying drily, 'Wouldn't that be a sight.'

Mycroft held the door for him as he climbed inside, then stepped around to the other side of the car and joined him in the backseat. 'Baker Street,' he said to the driver. 'Unless,' he turned his head to John, 'you'd rather stay somewhere else tonight? I have multiple guest rooms—'

'Mrs Hudson is expecting me for dinner,' said John quickly.

'All the same, should you be in want of company . . .'

'Why? Are you?'

Mycroft's smile was small and tight. 'Just an offer.'

John turned his head away and stared out of the window. He had already considered what Mycroft was implying, but it was a private matter, and he resented Mycroft's perceptiveness. John hadn't spent a night alone—that was, a night without Sherlock nearby—since leaving his prolonged stay in hospital. Even there, Sherlock had invited himself to stay in the room with him. He hadn't really considered it before, but he knew now, anticipating an absence, that there had been comfort in falling asleep, even when he dreaded falling asleep, because of the assurance that if anything happened, if he had a living nightmare or panic attack, Sherlock would be there to set him right. Tonight, he wouldn't have that. But worse than the thought of sleeping in an empty flat was the thought that somebody, like Mycroft, would see him in such a deplorable state and discover what a mess he still was. Now, his only comfort was in knowing that the pistol was now with Molly. If worse came to worst, at least he wouldn't shoot anyone.

To cut through the oppressive silence that had followed John into the car, Mycroft said, 'I understand that there was a bit of a to-do at Ms Hooper's last night.' His tone was conversational, inconsequential. 'How is she?'

'Molly's fine,' said John shortly.

'There was a break-in, as I understand. Anything taken?'

'Don't pretend you don't know.'

'As a point of fact, I don't. I heard about an incident in her flat only upon learning of Sherlock's arrest. All other details have been slow in coming. I was hoping you could enlighten me.'

'I'm not one of your informants.'

'John—'

'Look, just so I know, because this has been gnawing at me since I learnt otherwise, but just so I know now, what else have you been lying to me about?'

'When did I ever lie to you?'

'Did you know, did you know, that Irene Adler wasn't really dead?'

'Ms Adler?' he said, as though in genuine surprise.

'If you can stand to be bloody honest with me for just two seconds, did you know she was never killed? All that rubbish about witness protection schemes and protecting Sherlock, was it just about keeping me in the dark in the end? Did the two of you concoct that one together?'

'I promise you, I believed her dead for years, right up until Sherlock told me otherwise.'

'But you knew she was dangerous. From the start, you knew that.'

'Dangerous? Yes. As a conniver and an extortionist, I knew it. But I never imagined . . . that is, I couldn't fathom what she was truly capable of.'

A sharp burst of pain spiked up John's leg and reverberated in his knee. He flinched and squeezed the muscles there, the pressure lessening the pain, if only a little. 'I bet you couldn't,' he said, breathless.

'I should never have allowed Sherlock to take part in that case. I know that now. It is one of the deepest regrets of my life. And where Sherlock is concerned, I have many.'

John sensed that Mycroft was trying to catch his eye, but he couldn't look at him; instead, he stared determinedly out the window.

'I am sorry I let her go. It was an act of cruelty, and I knew it, though I believed it was against her. Instead, it has proved to be a turn of malice against my own brother. I regret that very much indeed. Not least of all because of what my folly has meant for you.'

John cleared his throat uncomfortably.

'I don't expect you to believe me, and I doubt the usefulness of the words, but I am sorry, John.'

He didn't know what to say to that. He couldn't accept it, he couldn't reject it. He was feeling too much, and he didn't want to. So he kept his mouth closed and watched the city flash by.

'What I did know,' Mycroft continued, 'was the truth about Sherlock.' John started visibly at this, and Mycroft, seeing it, hurried to clarify. 'Not that he was alive. No, not that. But the truth of who he is as a man. People around him, people close to him—they get hurt. He's toxic, John, and I should have warned you from the start. He doesn't mean to be, he doesn't want to be. But he is.'

'Why are you saying this?'

'I'm saying this because Sherlock won't. He feels an obligation to you, but you should know that you have none to him.'

'Obligation,' John repeated softly.

'No one can deny that your association with him has taxed you greatly. You've given him enough. No one is asking you to give any more.'

John's head was spinning. The conversation had taken an unwelcome turn, and he could scarcely make sense of it. What was Mycroft suggesting that he do? Leave? The very thought felt like a dead weight in his chest. Where would he go? What would he do? He couldn't return to that kind of life, not yet, he wasn't strong enough. Why was Mycroft saying this! Were all of Sherlock's gestures—the rare kindnesses and small services and watchful eye—all symptoms of a guilty conscience and not— Not what? What had he thought they were?

Whatever it meant, he needed to square it with the conversation he and Molly had had as they sat tea together in 221B:

'He should be here, soon,' John said, handing her a cup. 'You know Sherlock—he'll make quick sense of everything. He'll be a fair bit more useful to you than I am.'

'I'm just glad you were home,' Molly replied. 'You know. To talk to. I was in a bit of state. He's not so great with people like that.' He wasn't sure how to respond to that, wasn't sure how to either sympathise or disagree, and so he said nothing. Molly wrapped a hand around the bottom of the cup to feel its warmth. 'I'm lucky you didn't go out with him.'

'And slow him down? Best not. I'm a bit of millstone these days.'

She smiled with concern. 'I'm sure he doesn't think that. He, you know, needs you. He relies on your being there.'

'That's just the addict in him.'

'Pardon?'

'He's a man of habit, isn't he. Once he gets used to something, it becomes part of his daily routine, good or bad. So yeah. He came to rely on me, after a fashion, once. There was a time he even called me a stimulant.' He shook his head, half in exasperation, half in something else. 'I might as well be cocaine as far as he's concerned.' Then his tone turned sour. 'Withdrawals must have been hard on the poor bastard. Lucky now he gets his daily fix.'

At this, Molly appeared, to John's surprise and regret, alarmed. 'Surely, you don't actually—' She stopped short, and her cheeks flushed.

'What?' he asked. When she pursed her lips and shook her head apologetically, he pressed her. 'I don't what, Molly?'

'I shouldn't say . . .'

'You've already started.'

She winced. 'Surely, you don't really . . . hate him?'

Whatever he had been expecting her to say, it wasn't that. He stared at her, nonplussed. When he found his voice again, he said, 'Hate him? Why would you say that?'

But she seemed to realise she was in error, divulging a confidence, and bit her bottom lip. Only at his continued urging did she finish. 'He thinks you can't stand him. He told me that you tolerate him only because you need him to find . . . them. That's why, he says, you came back to Baker Street.'

'To use him?'

'Yes. And once he's done it, you'll be done with him. Then you'll leave.'

John had forgotten about his tea. He sat back deep in his chair, stunned.

'Will you?' she asked at last.

But at that moment, the bell sounded: S-H.

'You know better than anyone,' Mycroft was saying, 'the price of taking up with a man like Sherlock. He's detrimental to your recovery, John, you must know that. Whatever he drags you into next, whatever new malice he attracts to his doorstep: you need not suffer it any longer. It may be that the best way for you to move forward'—he took a bracing breath—'is to move in your own direction.'

'This is far enough,' said John, shifting forward in his seat and taking hold of his cane.

'What's that?'

'Here. Right here. Stop the car.'

The driver glanced questioningly at Mycroft in the rearview mirror.

'John, don't be ridiculous,' said Mycroft. 'We've still miles to go before—'

'I'm getting out. Excuse me'—he leant forward to address the driver directly—'stop the car.'

'This is a bit of an overreaction.'

John said nothing as the car rolled to the corner, but before it had even stopped completely, he had opened the door to leave. He had one foot out the door when he paused just long enough to say, 'You have it the wrong way 'round, Mycroft. Why do you think he disappeared for three years? Why do you think he's at this very moment sitting in a jail cell? I'm the toxic one, not Sherlock.'

The evening of his arrest, the custody sergeant sent one of the other guards to transport Sherlock from his holding cell, where he had been waiting in cuffs for several hours, back down to interrogation. He sat at the bare table, interlaced his long fingers (his fist ached, but he ignored it) on the table top with an air of dignity that belied the handcuffs, and waited.

Minutes later, Mycroft and Lestrade entered the room together.

'What's this?' Sherlock said without inflection. His face, too, lacked expression. 'Mother and Father come to scold me?'

Lestrade looked taken aback, likely wondering which character he was meant to represent in this scenario. Mycroft merely scowled.

'If you don't like it, perhaps you should stop behaving like a child.'

'Now now, it's nothing like that,' said Lestrade. But before he closed the door behind him, he stepped back out of the room, and Sherlock heard him shout down the hall: 'Oi! Let's get the cuffs off him, yeah?' He returned with an angered expression. 'Sorry, Sherlock. Leaving you in those things isn't protocol.'

Sherlock ignored this. 'How is he?'

Letting out a long breath, Lestrade returned, 'In hospital.' Sherlock betrayed his first emotion by flinching, rattling the cuffs on the table. 'Broken nose for sure. Bad swelling. He'll be fine, but he'll also milk it for all that it's—'

'I wasn't talking about Anderson.'

'John's fine,' said Mycroft. 'He went home.'

'How long until I'm out?'

'We're working on it,' said Lestrade. 'But it's not good, Sherlock. There will be fallout from this.'

'I can handle it. It'll be fine. Just get me out so I can be home tonight.'

'You think we can just wave a magic wand and make this all just go away?' said Mycroft.

'You have influence.'

'Not over every newspaper in the city. Not over public opinion. Not over the basic tenets of law. Just what the hell were you thinking, Sherlock?'

'I—'

'You weren't. And that's the problem. That's always been your problem. You're an emotional idiot, Sherlock, allowing yourself to be compromised like that.'

'I told you what Anderson said,' said Lestrade to Mycroft, teeth grinding. 'Any man would be hard-pressed not to react like—'

'Sherlock isn't allowed to be any man. He's too deeply mired in greater things, so even his slighter actions have large consequences.' He turned a hard eye on Sherlock. 'You know what they're doing out there, right now, Moriarty's people? They're laughing their arses off. This is how they destroy you: they just sit back and watch you destroy yourself. You are your own worst enemy, Sherlock, always have been.'

'That's enough,' said Lestrade. 'This isn't helping anything.'

'Never learns,' Mycroft said scathingly, losing a little control himself and turning away.

'Fine. Now let's go over what happened, exactly, and talk solicitors. I know a guy—'

'If I'm not getting out tonight,' Sherlock interrupted, reconfiguring his mask, 'someone needs to look in on John.'

'I'm planning to—' Lestrade began.

'See that he eats. That he takes his pills. Especially the Benzodiazepine. That'll help. And if he asks, tell him I'm bored in here, that's all. That'll be enough.'

Lestrade started speaking, but Mycroft turned back. 'John's a grown man, he can take care of himself. Not that adulthood is any indication of self-sufficiency. Clearly.'

'Now who's being the idiot?' Sherlock said with a snarl.

'He needs some time away from you.'

'I'll go over, Sherlock,' Lestrade cut in. 'I'll let him know what's going on, downplay the gravity of it all.'

'Wonderful,' said Mycroft. 'You have your project. Now if you wouldn't mind, detective inspector, I'd like a private word with my little brother.'

By the time John finally arrived back at 221, his leg was on fire and hot beads of sweat slipped down his wind-chilled cheeks. Then, with the door bolted behind him, he rested a shoulder against the wall at the foot of the stairs to catch his breath. He was unwilling to make the climb to the empty flat, and though he could hear Mrs Hudson bustling about in her kitchen, already preparing dinner, he didn't want for company. So he sat on the stair and stretched his leg out in front of him, massaging the aching calf at the scar tissue, and time fell away from him, twenty minutes, thirty minutes, forty, listening to Mrs Hudson move about as he cooled and calmed and tried to forget his encounter with Mycroft Holmes.

As promised, he joined Mrs Hudson in her flat for a simple dinner of cock-a-leekie soup. At first, he excused Sherlock's absence to her with an unspecific though accurate justification: 'He's been detained.' But as the dinner progressed, after she was done fussing over him and bemoaning the unyielding cold, he confessed to her where Sherlock really was, knowing it was bound to come out sooner or later (though he was not fully anticipating the news stories that would appear the next morning). He spared her the details, used words like hit and not assault, assured her that the charge wasn't too serious, and reminded her that this wasn't his first arrest. They reasoned together, eating slowly, that Sherlock would most likely be back home tomorrow.

'Mycroft will take care of it,' he said, hiding his dubiousness.

'He's a funny one, that Mycroft,' said Mrs Hudson, expressing her own.

They sat at the table while the soup cooled on the cooker, talking of things inconsequential and light for an hour after eating: Mrs Hudson's plans for changing the wallpaper in her bedroom, a new programme on the telly about home makeover disasters, and the closing of Mrs Hudson's favourite retail outlet. While she carried on, John's mind wandered to the jail where Sherlock was being kept, wondering what he was doing to keep his overactive mind occupied and hoping they were treating him fairly, regardless of his crime. It wasn't a Libyan lockdown cell, but John knew the police had no fondness for Sherlock. He tried to believe his own words of assertion, that Sherlock would be released in the morning.

He helped her with the washing-up and sidestepped her gentle queries about his sessions with Dr Thompson, and, in the end, stooped a little to let her kiss his cheek goodnight. He returned at last to a flat that, despite its clutter, felt so empty. He physically shook his head to dispel the echo that whispered of permanence, and he went straight for the anxiety medication he'd been too long without. Then he sought distraction.

First he tried to watch BBC 1, but halfway through the programme he realised that he had no clue what was going on because his thoughts were too intensely engaged on the street outside of Molly's flat. He tried to put himself to work straightening up the kitchen and Sherlock's experiments, but Mrs Hudson had already done a thorough job of cleaning what could be cleaned and leaving what Sherlock wouldn't want touched. After that, he found himself in the bathroom, contemplating a shower, but he knew, ultimately, that he still couldn't do it—completely undress, that was. And tonight wasn't a night to risk any degree of panic. So he spot-cleaned, as was now his custom—arms, pits, neck, and face—leaving the rest for the morning, when he was rested and sleep was again many hours away.

But then he found himself back in the sitting room; the hour was getting later, and the thought of sleep—and maybe it was just Mycroft in his head—made him queasy. He thought of Ella's exercises—counting and breathing and safe zones—but he didn't want to do any of it. He hated it. He hated it. He hated that he was this way now, a grown man afraid to fall asleep alone. He hated the skin he wore, the darkness of his mind, the feebleness of his heart. He was a lesser man not just in some ways, but in every way, and he always would be.

His mobile rang.

'Hello?'

'John? It's Greg Lestrade.'

'Did they finally let you in to see him?'

'Only because I had Mycroft with me.' He laughed shortly. 'You'd think I'd have a little more sway.'

'How is he?'

'Bored. You know Sherlock. He's a man who needs an occupation. He hates just sitting around.'

'Yeah, I know.'

'Look, John—'

'So what happens next?'

'Well, legally, they can't hold him longer that twenty-four hours without charging him. Then they'll set bail. Why don't I stop by on my way home? We can talk more.'

John paused, suspecting what Lestrade was really asking. Why he was asking. He felt his cheeks flush a little. 'Don't trouble yourself.'

'It's not an inconvenience. Actually, I'd like—'

'No. Really, Greg. I'm good. You can tell Sherlock I'm good.' He meant it, too. He was home now, and though he'd had an attack earlier that day, he'd managed it well enough, and he'd be sure to avoid any other triggers. As for nightmares? He handled those on his own anyway. Lately, he had been awaking in the morning following a bad dream feeling . . . better. More stable. So no one had to know.

'Are you sure, John?' said Lestrade, understanding that they were speaking the same language now, even without breaking euphemism. 'It's no trouble. Really.'

'Mrs Hudson and I had dinner together.' Then he lied. 'She and I will just be watching telly all night. But, you know, thanks, all the same.'

There wasn't an immediate response. Lestrade was trying to think of the most tactful way to continue insisting. So John stepped on his first word. 'I'll talk to you later, yeah? Bye, Greg.' And before he could be otherwise persuaded or backtrack himself, he hung up.

He set the phone on the desk, realising in the space of a skipped heartbeat that he had just thrown away the lifeline Sherlock had thrown him. He could call back. Of course he could. But what use would that be? What could Lestrade do? He was fine. He knew he was fine. Even so, even as he made a beeline for the cupboard for a glass of water from the tap, he recited to himself under his breath, 'I am in control. I know what I feel isn't real. I know this will pass.' He drank two full glasses at the sink, filled another, and returned to the sitting room.

There, his eyes fell to his and Sherlock's closed laptops, resting across from one another on the desk. He needed an occupation. He needed to be . . . useful. Since last night, and in light of that morning's events, he hadn't given much more thought to their conversation last night. Maybe that's what Sherlock was doing right now, but he didn't have access to all his resources right now. John did.

He sat on Sherlock's side of the table, opened Sherlock's laptop, and entered Sherlock's password. Whatever work Sherlock had done on his own would be kept here: files, charts, spreadsheets, all of it. But John started by opening a web browser. He would first review the nursery rhymes Sherlock had researched by checking his internet history.

The story of Jack and Jill came up first as the most recent website Sherlock had visited, and John was on the verge of clicking the web page open when he paused. Below a short list linking to original nursery rhymes and analyses, John saw a different string of websites: J & A Beare, Frederick Phelps, and Stringers Music, and Cardiff Violins—all violin shops. John frowned as he scrolled down further. Dozens of visits to dozens of different pages, all violins.

Then John's finger stilled and his eyes narrowed as he read the other names of sites and searches, pages titled 'How to help someone with PTSD', 'Panic disorder treatment', 'Side effects of benzodiazepine', and 'Should you wake a sleepwalker?'

Sleepwalker? Surely, Sherlock didn't mean him. He did a quick search for all the websites related to sleepwalking that Sherlock had visited and found a lengthy list dating back to early January. Searches included questions: 'Is sleepwalking dangerous?' and 'What triggers sleepwalking?' and 'Sleepwalkers and sleeptalkers—What do they remember?'

Was he really sleepwalking? He must have been! What other reason would Sherlock have to search this topic so many times in so many ways? But how often? And what did he do? Where did he try to go? His heart was pounding again, and his level of anxiety increased from a three to a four.

'Damn it,' he said, pushing himself to his feet. He paced across the floor, feeling his hands begin to shake. 'Damn it,' he repeated. He limped back to the desk, grabbed up the phone, and dialled quickly.

'This is Dr Thompson.'

'Ella.' He rubbed a trembling hand across his face. Suddenly, he didn't know what to say.

'John? Are you all right?'

'Yes. No. I don't know.'

'Where are you?'

'I'm . . . at home. You said,' he swallowed hard, cleared his throat, 'you said I could call. When I needed to.'

'Of course you can. Whenever you need to. John. What's wrong?'

'I've lost my, um, my safety net.'

'Okay. I understand. First, are you taking care of yourself? Have you taken your medication today?'

'Yes.'

'Are you sleeping well?'

'Yes, I . . . Well, I don't know anymore. Maybe not. I'm just feeling a little anxious right now. I don't want it to get out of control. Not when . . . That is, I'm sort of on my own tonight.'

'Okay. John, I want you to remember: all control comes from you. Everything else is just aids—your medication, your safety zone, even your safety net. Right?'

'Right. I know that. I'm just . . . feeling . . .'

'It's okay. Let's talk about it.'

For the next twenty minutes, they talked, and though John never got specific—there were still some things he couldn't speak aloud, certain emotions he couldn't confess—he was never dishonest. And once he could claim to be a two-and-a-half on the scale, she said, 'Now that you're feeling calmer, there's one more thing I want you to do before you try to sleep tonight.'

'What?'

'Write.'

'Write?'

'It's the one exercise I've given you that you have yet to do.'

'I . . . can't write about . . . those things. Not tonight.'

'Don't write about that. Write about tonight, the things you are feeling. Just write. I've told you that writing is your way of making sense of things, including yourself. You'll feel better, John. I promise.'

'. . . Okay.'

They said goodbye. For a few seconds, John didn't move, just stared at the mobile in his hand, wishing Sherlock would text, wishing Lestrade would come over anyway, wishing Mrs Hudson would pop up for no reason at all. But these things weren't going to happen. He was alone.

So he sat at the desk and opened the computer. Seconds later, he was staring a blank screen, the text cursor blinking in the upper left-hand side of a white page. His fingers hovered over the keyboard until the tips of his index fingers brushed the little lined grooves on the black keys below them. And froze.

He didn't know how to start, what to say. But he didn't want to write about himself. He never had. He had never seen himself as a subject of interest, and now that he was, he couldn't bear to explore what he had become. He had avoided writing about his experiences for that very reason, and because he had already related it all—for Lestrade, for Sherlock, and now, bit by bit, for Ella. Each time was hell, and he couldn't bring himself to write a word of it.

But there had always been Sherlock. Sherlock's life, cases, habits, character. The words had once come easily, writing had been a pleasure, and though he never believed he would take up the subject again, he had missed it, the act of writing, of telling Sherlock's story.

And so he began:

Molly Hooper came to the flat last night, frightened but faithful, looking for Sherlock, consulting detective.

As before, he became the spectator in the story, less a player, more an observer. He delved into his memories of the last thirty hours and translated them into clear images and verbatim dialogue onto the page.

He sniffed the air as he entered her flat, like a hound searching out the same scent as had been left on the note. 'Where's the rose now?' he asked Molly, and she retrieved it from the kitchen.

His fingers plucked out the needed letters with greater speed now, eagerly listening to Sherlock explain about the claret, following him into the bathroom where the message had been left on the mirror, and then to the bedroom where he made his final reveal.

And there he made known what should have been obvious to us from the start. The intruder had been none other than Irene Adler.

He recounted in near-perfect accuracy his conversation with Sherlock, after Molly had gone to bed: the notes, the rhymes, the fall, the riddles. And as he typed out from memory the notes that had been left on Winters and Avery, he paused in a moment of clarity and understanding that was washed clean away the second he tried to examine it, like forgetting a dream upon awakening, like holding water in a closed fist, and he decided that he had understood nothing after all.

He elided the uneventful night and carried the story through Lestrade's morning arrival and their return to the flat—omitting, of course, the very first thing that had happened upon stepping through their door—and so far as to their being called back to the scene of the break-in, Dimmock's anger, and the forensics team's appearance in the flat.

There, he stopped. He couldn't describe what Sherlock had done to Anderson, not without repeating what had been said, and he could not think about Anderson's words without remembering Moran's. They had been like a spell, conjuring the devastating memory of that basement kitchen and the words your mind and body are forevermore filled with me.

He shuddered. He closed his eyes and breathed, counting to five. Then he found himself on his feet and with his cane suddenly in hand, hastening to Sherlock's bedroom where he knew Sherlock kept a BK&T combat knife in his sock drawer. He unsheathed the blade and tested it with his thumb, breathing hard. He would sleep with it tonight, under his pillow.

Then he returned to the computer where he deleted the long document, every word, and slammed the laptop closed.

The night of Sherlock's arrest, John Watson couldn't sleep, and across the city, Molly Hooper couldn't either. Somewhere in London, Kitty Riley sat at a computer typing feverishly, Anderson slept in drug-induced bliss, Mycroft Holmes paced worriedly before a roaring fireplace, Sherlock sat rigidly in a dark cell, and homeless men and women stood in rings, whispering about vicious shadows and evil men and what might be done. The next morning, Ms Riley's article would appear, setting new wheels in motion, but tonight, as the vestiges of an unobserved Valentine's Day dissolved into nothing, Molly sat up in a borrowed bed, feeling the disquiet of the day and the foreboding of tomorrow wrap around her.

Greg's room was just down the hall. It had been more than an hour, now, since he had reassured her that his home was secured, showed her how to jiggle the handle on the toilet to get it to flush properly, and wished her good night, making no presumptions about her first night staying under his roof while her own flat, still a crime scene, sat empty. Tomorrow, she would learn that Mr Fazal wanted her out, and tomorrow Dr Torrence would place her on occupational reprimand, but those were as yet unknown concerns. Tonight, in the quiet of her head and the stillness of the room, she closed her eyes and saw a strange woman without a face entering her flat, touching her things, and planting threats in the form of roses and birds. And she saw John in hospital, hooked up to life-supporting instruments, every inch of skin testifying of acts more hateful than any she had ever known. She shuddered and hugged herself around the middle. Her flannel pyjamas and the heavy duvet seemed useless against the kind of cold she felt now. Softly, she set her feet on the rug, grabbed her dressing gown from the back of a chair, and stepped into the hall.

When she opened the door to Greg's darkened room, she saw his silhouette outlined in the soft blue light coming in through the window. He was awake, too, sitting on the edge of the mattress with his back to the door. His arms braced against his knees, and his head hung low and heavy.

She knocked lightly on the open door, hoping not to startle him. 'Greg?'

His head came up and he looked over his shoulder. 'Molly,' he said. He twisted around and brought his knee up on the bed to see her better. 'Is everything all right?'

'I just . . .' she started. Why was she being so timid? 'I'm jumping out of my skin. I keep hearing things, feeling things. I just don't want to be alone. Not tonight.'

She couldn't make out his face for the dark, but she saw his arm extend out toward her across the bed, the palm open and inviting. She came forward and reached for him. With her hand securely in his, he drew her close, and together they lay down upon the bed. He pulled the blankets up around them, and when he felt her shiver, he wrapped an arm around her waist and pressed his warm body into her back.

'I'm sorry this has happened,' he murmured. She felt his words pass from his body into hers, a soft vibration.

'Will they be okay?' she said. 'Sherlock and John?'

'I have to believe they will be,' he said.

She closed her eyes and laid her arm along his, and in the comfort of his embrace, she felt herself sinking into sleep. It was not a night for passion, but they shared an intimacy they had not permitted themselves before, one of softest affection and care, and in the moment before sleep stole her from the present, she thought she felt his lips kiss her hair, thought she heard him say, 'You should never have to feel afraid. I'll do anything I can to protect you.' But she didn't answer. In his arms, she was suddenly fast asleep.