CHAPTER 19: SEE NO EVIL

MONDAY, FEBRUARY 16, 2015

The wind stung his face the moment he stepped onto the street and away from the courthouse. He stood in the same spot that John had two days and four hours prior, but, unlike for John, no long black car rolled up to meet him and take him home.

It was dark out, coming on ten o'clock, and he had already resigned himself to another sleepless night of pacing, fretting, and cursing at the custody sergeant for not allowing him to make a phone call whenever—if ever—they opened the door to slide him food or tea or let him use the loo. Soon, soon, they kept telling him, as though it would assuage him in the moment and he would forget, like a child. They'd denied him visitors, too. He was certain, certain, John had tried to come see him repeatedly the past couple of days and been turned away. Mycroft had come just the once. Lestrade was the only one who managed to get through, but only because he had brought with him the moronic solicitor. 'What they're doing isn't legal,' Lestrade said. 'You've been charged, not convicted. They're deliberately slowing the paperwork. Hang tight, Sherlock. I'll fix this.'

Lestrade must have done, because he was out now, though there was no sign of Lestrade. Their excuse for keeping him so long and releasing him so late in the day? To protect him, and to discourage the reporters who had been camping out on the pavement, waiting to catch him. A rumour had been leaked that he was being 'uncooperative and hostile', giving them cause to keep him in there another night at least. Neither descriptor was true. But that was no excuse for holding him two nights to begin with. Nor for 'forgetting' to take off the unnecessarily tightened cuffs for three days straight even while he sat in a solitary cell, behind a metal door with a single, glassed peephole no wider than four inches in diameter. He rubbed his wrists now to assuage the ache of raw, rubbed skin.

With the mandate that he not leave the city and that he report to a probation officer every seventy-two hours, he was released on bail and due back in magistrate's court in two weeks' time to answer the charge of assault. Lestrade had assured him, when visiting earlier that day (the only time he'd been free of the cuffs, thanks to the barking, infuriated DI), that it was a summary offence, for which he would most likely be fined. He also predicted a non-molestation order would be set up, but that was yet to be determined. For now, his property—coat, scarf, keys, wallet, and phone—were returned to him, and he was free to go. They kept his blood-stained gloves as evidence.

But when he took his phone out of pocket to call John and let him know he was on his way back to the flat, he saw that the days it had spent locked away in a little cardboard box had expired the charge, and the battery was dead. He sighed in annoyance and stepped toward the kerb to hail a cab.

Before he could flag one down, however, he caught sight of a young woman edging nearer him from behind a closed newsstand. She had been loitering a few seconds ago (he had not failed to notice her), but now she was inching her way closer like a nervous cat, her eyes wary and darting left and right, as though afraid to be seen of anyone but him. His temper was shot, so with a scowl, he turned to face her directly and said loudly, 'Well? Have out with it.'

Realising her failure at being furtive, she straightened more boldly and took large steps closer, though she stopped short before coming within arms' length. 'You the Detective? Sherlock Holmes?' she asked. Her shoulders were hunched against the wind, her back curved.

'Yes,' he answered plainly.

He observed her clothing: a dark green coat weathered by constant wear and wet, fingerless gloves that were ineffectual in protecting from the cold, a woollen bobble hat fraying at the edges and along the seam, and boots two sizes too big. Her fingertips were darkened with newspaper print and old mud, her cheeks coloured with city grime, and her hair had been pulled into the same plait for over a month. She was obviously one of the homeless.

'Thank god, I've been waiting forever in this fucking weather.' Her accent screamed streetwise.

'What do you want?'

'I've a message for you.'

'From whom?'

She didn't answer, just pulled a folded sheet of torn, lined paper from her pocket and stretched her arm forward, careful not to move her toes even an inch closer. He took it, and when he did, she backed away. He unfolded the sheet and read:

you want to take down the slash man? end of old church street on the tames. be there in 20 mins or don't bother. come alone

He snorted at the melodramatic tone but was nevertheless intrigued and so gave the note his full, customary inspection. The penmanship suggested the note had been written by a man, and a less educated one who didn't know the proper spelling of Thames. There were smudges of fingerprints—clearly held by dirty hands with no thought or care for self-identifying markers. And it smelled faintly of cigarette smoke. He breathed it in deeply. Whoever had written the note was one of the girl's own kind.

'Is this a joke?'

'Ain't no joke, Mr Holmes.'

'Who gave this to you?'

'A friend,' she replied. She began to edge away. 'We all want the same thing, don't we? They wanna talk, but only to you. You bring the fuzz, just forget it.' Then she shifted inside her coat and turned away.

He entertained only a moment's debate. He needed to get back to John, needed to see that he was okay. But if this opportunity gave him the key to bringing down the Slash Man, how could he dismiss it? He was desperate for more information, more clues, that could point him in the right direction and end this once and for all.

When the cab pulled up, he directed it to Old Church Street.

Sherlock stood fifteen minutes on the bank—a mixture of sand, dirt, and rock—looking out across the river and thinking wistfully of cigarettes and hot tea. It was downright cold, and he had his coat buttoned to the collar where his scarf was tucked securely under his chin. His bare hands were little protected inside his pockets. He did not care for hats, but right now he understood the appeal as the biting wind burned his ears red. Regretfully, he thought of 221B, and a part of him understood that he should have returned there first, if anything to dress more warmly. But the more dominant part—the one that needed information—knew that, given the opportunity, he would not have made any other choice.

Stomping his feet just to see if he could still feel his toes, he decided that he would wait only two minutes more. Two minutes for his mystery informant to show, and if not, he was gone. They knew where he could be found. Hell, half the newspaper-reading city knew. So maybe just one more minute. One more—

'Hey, freak!'

He turned about to answer. That's when he saw a line of (he counted quickly) nine men and one woman approaching from farther down the bank, coming from the direction of Battersea Bridge. Above them, the A312 traffic zipped by, streaks of light in the black world.

'That him?' one asked another.

'That's him.'

They framed him like a crescent moon, and he stood to face them with his back to the water. The dark obscured their faces, but the lights behind them highlighted their frames. He took the measure of them: Two were taller than he, three matched him for height, and the rest were shorter. But it didn't matter. The maths was easy. He was outnumbered.

'What is this then?' he said. 'A lure? How clever of you.'

One of the shadows spoke. 'Shut up. We're the ones doing the talking tonight.'

'S'right,' said another. 'And you're going to listen up, understand?'

'I'm all ears,' Sherlock drawled. He assessed the weak points in their human barricade. The little man, third from the left, would go down easily, as would the fat one in the middle, the one with girth, not bulk, and a centre of gravity that would be easy to topple. Logical, sound, but that didn't stop his heart from beginning to race.

'Then we'll get straight to it, won't we?' said the first. 'You're in trouble, Mr Holmes.'

He maintained a tone of dispassionate curiosity. 'Am I?'

'S'right. An' lemme tell ya why. It's 'cause we ain't gonna take this no more.'

'By this, I assume you mean—'

'We're dying. Our kind, you know. The sods of the streets. The Gaffer, Jack and Jill, and who knows who's yet to get snuffed. One by one, he's picking us off. You know who I'm talking 'bout, don't you, Mr Holmes?'

'Of course.'

'And you know whose fault that is?'

'I should think it is the fault of the killer.'

'It's your fault as much as his!' shouted another shadow, anger shooting forth like water from a crack in a dam.

'You come back to life, and look what happens!' cried another.

'Don't be absurd,' said Sherlock. 'The Slash Man was active long before I returned.'

'Ain't nobody died, though,' said the spokesman. 'And we think we know why. It's your mate, isn't it?'

For the first time since seeing their approach, Sherlock's stomach clenched in fear.

'That's who Old Slash really wants—the one that got away.'

He flinched visibly at the echo. 'You don't know what you're talking about,' Sherlock growled.

'So here's what we aim to do,' the man continued. 'We give him back. Watson. We give him who he really wants, and the attacks will stop.'

'The naivety of your reasoning is astounding,' he returned. 'He's playing a game you can't possibly understand. If you want the attacks to stop, you'll let me do my job. I have just as much interest in stopping him as—'

'Wrong! You're a liar, Mr Holmes, a goddamn liar! If you gave two shits about what was happening, you woulda stopped it by now! You're the Detective! You're the one who can see a man's history in his shoes and read the minds of criminals.'

'An oversimplific—'

'But you've thrown in the towel, ain't that right. You just don't care no more. But us? We don't want no more of our people dead, not a one. We ain't so content to sit on our hands. So here's what's gonna happen. You bring us Watson, and we'll take care of the rest, yeah? Ain't nobody else gotta get hurt.'

Sherlock stepped forward aggressively. 'I'll personally come after any man who touches John Watson.'

The spokesman came forward too, and suddenly he and Sherlock were nose to nose. This close, even in the dark, Sherlock could make out the hairs in the man's dark eyebrows, the scab of an old cut under one eye. 'So our people have to suffer, our people have to die, just so's you can keep your friend, just one man, from giving what he owes?'

'He already gave enough!'

'Not his life! That's what Old Slash wants from him, yeah? One more hard fuck and then the blood from his veins. Watson's the price, and if you won't pay it, we will.'

'If you even dare—!' Sherlock roared.

The man shoved him backward, two hands punching hard into his shoulders. 'Fuck you, you don't get it, man. You don't get it. You don't see what's happening to us, do you? You just turn a blind eye. Ain't that right.'

'And a deaf ear,' said another.

'He's a ruddy coward.'

The wind howled across the river and the cars rolled ignorantly by up on the road. Above their heads, the rolling winter storm clouds winked out the stars.

'Listen to me,' said Sherlock, digging his feet into the ground, bracing. 'I understand why you're frustrated and scared. Believe me, I do. No one should have to suffer like this. And I promise you, I'm doing everything I can think of to—'

They started screaming at him, calling him a liar and a coward and a cad, shouting accusations of betrayal and conspiring against them, and when Sherlock shouted in return, beseeching them to stop, to listen, the leader said, 'I think we've heard enough outta you,' and a dark fist came up out of the shadow of their ring and slammed into his face.

In an instant, he was down on one knee, balanced on one hand, stunned, but he felt the crescent wrap around until he was encircled on all sides, in front and behind. There wasn't another moment to waste. He sprang forward, catching the leader in the gut with his shoulder and driving him to the ground. He made to break through the barrier of bodies, but he wasn't fast enough.

'Grab 'im! Grab 'im!' they cried, and before he could land more than two blows, they had seized his arms at the shoulders, elbows, and wrists, and dragged him back, planting him on his knees.

'Killing me won't stop the Slash Man!' he said. 'It won't stop anything!'

'Shut him up.'

Someone kicked him in the stomach and kneed him in the face, but though his body tried to curl inward, the gripping arms didn't permit him to fall. Then a hand seized his hair and yanked his head back, forcing his mouth to gape wide. 'This'll stopper that goddamn mouth,' one said as a large hand carrying a heap of muck from the riverbank clamped across his mouth. Cold mud hit the back of his throat, and he choked, spluttered, but the man didn't release him. Instead, the hand rubbed viciously back and forth, and Sherlock felt the sand and chips of slate cut along his gums and lips. He twisted furiously in their arms until the hand was withdrawn and he could spit and cough up the mud, but they weren't finished. Someone else was coming forward now, another fistful of sludge and sand, to rub into his eyes, and from behind, more mud to shove into his ears. He grunted and groaned and pulled and flailed, but to no avail. His resistance was met with slaps across the face, landing hard like the crack of a whip, and kicks to the back, butt, legs. He was released only when he heard the woman say, 'I get his shoes.'

Suddenly, he was on his back, and hands were everywhere, pulling at his feet, yanking at his coat. They didn't bother with the buttons—they just tugged wildly until the threads tore. He tried to kick out, but they held him down, two men to a leg, so he couldn't move. One shoe came off, then the other, then his socks, and meanwhile the swarm of hands above divested him of his Belstaff coat, his suit coat, and his belt. Then they ripped the scarf from around his throat. Only then did the hands release him. Someone kicked him hard in the ribs, and he rolled onto his stomach, the rocks and damp pressing through his thin shirt.

They were backing away from him now, widening the entrapping circle—he could feel it. Though his eyes stung with blinding grime, he could sense them moving away. Setting his bare hands into the cold, wet soil, he started pushing himself up to his knees. He passed a hand across his face, trying to clear his burning eyes, when a sharp pain erupted in the side of his head.

He cried out in pain even as one of the men shouted in triumph, 'Got 'im!'

Warm blood slid down his face, but before he could give it any attention, another unexpected pain burst in shoulder, and then another at the hip. They were hurling stones. The fourth missed—he heard it land heavily in the earth beside him—but the fifth smashed into his right hand, which was raised to shield his head. They pelted him with rocks, all about the size of a closed fist, jagged and hurled with great force, and he lay helpless on the ground, still choking on dirt, still unable to see, never knowing where the next rock would fall. His only protection was his own arms wrapped around his head like a split helmet while the missiles landed like small explosions, a storm of rocks, along his exposed body, tearing away fabric and flesh, grazing his neck, slicing across his scalp.

'Had enough, Mr Holmes? We get through to you yet?'

He shook with cold and with anger and with pain. He had no intention of giving answer, and they expected none. Instead, they came at him again and seized him under the arms. They lifted him bodily and dragged him toward the water. There, they flung him face-first into the lapping shallows of the wintry river.

'Hello?'

'Hello, Auntie!'

'Bless me, is this Gillian?'

'Of course it is! How are you, Auntie?'

'Oh lovely, dear, just lovely. Well, there's the hip, but that's old news now, isn't it? And it's getting more and more difficult to warm these old bones. Your mother was the same way, wasn't she? Lord, I sound just like her these days! But don't let me natter on. Go on, it's been ages since we had a proper chat. How's Robert?'

'He's fine, we're all fine.'

'And the twins? Oh, how I miss those little rascals.'

'We're all fine, Auntie. Look, there's a reason I'm calling.'

'And that mean dog of yours? Rufus, Rufie, I forget his name.'

'Ralph, and we put him down last summer.'

'Oh, that's right, I remember.' That had been the last time she'd called. 'The motorbike.'

'Auntie, are you listening?'

'Of course, I am, dear.'

'Here's the thing. We've been reading the paper and seeing things on the news—'

'How's the weather up your way?'

'Same as it is in London. Listen. It's about your tenant. Sherlock Holmes . . . Auntie? You still there?'

'I'm here, dear. What about my Sherlock?'

'Rob and I are concerned. I don't know how closely you've been following the news, but yesterday we read something in the paper about this guy, and he seems, well, God, Auntie, he seems downright scary.'

'Sherlock? No . . .'

'But have you heard what he's done? All of it? Just the other day he beat up a police officer! For no goddamn reason!'

'Language, Gillian, goodness, if the children should hear!'

'It's not safe. Not anymore. We want you to come stay here with us. For a time. The twins adore you, you know they do, and there's no reason for you to be living on your own like that anymore, with no one to look after you.'

'I'm fine, dear! I've never been happier.'

'We'll get someone to manage the property for you, have the tenants removed, find new ones, everything. You won't have to lift a finger. And Auntie, maybe it's time you start thinking about selling.'

'Oh, I could never sell 221. This is my home. No, that's sweet of you, really, dear, but I think I'll just stay right here in London while I've still got my wits about me. The hip's no bother, not really.'

'But there's nothing for you in London anymore. No work, no family.'

'Now now, there's plenty of both.'

'It's not safe. Goddammit, Auntie, the man's a psychopath! He's a killer! And he's living right above you!'

'Sorry, sweetheart, that'll be the kettle—'

'Please, listen to me!'

'I've got to dash. You'll give my love to Robert and the children, won't you?'

'Aunt—!'

Mrs Hudson lay the phone back in the cradle beside the cool kettle. Then she dabbed the tears from beneath her eyes with a handkerchief and sat down to think.

He felt like he had been thrown into a fire—pain so intense it went beyond hot or cold. The freezing water set his every nerve screaming in anguish, shocking his system so terribly he didn't have air enough even to gasp. Instead, he thrashed until he could get his limbs under himself again and pushed himself up and out of the water. He stumbled, lost balance, and fell back to his knees. His lungs felt like they had collapsed. The murky water, dripping off his face, stole away most of the mud, and together with his tears of pain began to clear his sight. But as he crawled out of the bitterly cold water on hands and knees onto a damp bank, he could see no sign of his attackers. They had fled as swiftly as they had come.

Upon the shore again, he rose trembling to his bare feet and shuffled forward, but a pain searing his side made him keel over. He stayed on his knees a moment, unmoving, waiting for the fire and pain to ebb, but the both persevered. Again, he struggled to his feet. The jagged shale, mixed with sand and broken bottles and other rubbish, stabbed with each step, but with each ticking second, he lost more and more feeling in his toes, feet, and legs. Wet from head to toe, he shivered violently, ceaselessly, his shoulders heaving and jarring his whole frame. His head pounded, his teeth rattled, his bones felt wrenched, but he kept moving, crossed the gritty bank, and headed back toward the nearest stone incline to get himself to the street. Once there, the wind pushed him across the road.

Staggering, he made it back to Old Church Street, to the same corner where he had directed the cabbie to drop him off. The night was still young, but the street was quiet, not a cab in sight, and the cars that did pass by paid him as much attention as if he were an alley dog. When he tried to step into the street to flag one down, it swerved soundlessly around him and sped away.

Along with his coat and jacket, they had also stolen his wallet, keys, and battery-drained phone. Now, he had nothing, not even a pair of shoes. He barely had his own body heat. It rose off him as steam, a ghostlike fog, and it was thinning quickly.

The first cab he saw, on the corner of Old Church and King, he waved down urgently, his extended hand trembling, making him look jittery, drugged. The cabbie, deciding he looked like trouble, didn't even slow. He carried on, feet nothing more than pale, numb stumps, not bleeding more profusely only for the constriction of veins and capillaries. He calculated quickly, while he still could: Baker Street was still three miles away. Walking without impediment would take him a good hour. He didn't have a good hour.

He was surrounded by gated flats and parallel-parked cars, darkened furniture shops and closed dress shops. At last, he spotted a corner pub. There, he could stop inside where it was warm, use to the phone, call John. It was the only clear thought in his head: get to John. Wincing, he heaved the door open and stepped inside. He was reeling toward the bar when the host stepped in his way.

'Oi, I know you. I seen your ugly mug on the telly. Sherlock Holmes?'

The half-empty pub heard the name. Silence fell, and all turned to look.

He cast his own eyes away, anxious not to meet theirs. 'I j-just n-need the phone,' he said.

'Look at that,' said a man who sat drinking at the bar. 'Full-on pissed, he is.'

'A right mess,' said another. 'Looks like someone finally gave him the what-for.'

'Heard he was a paedo, on top of everything else. Probably got roughed up for that, and good riddance.'

'Out you get, you ruddy wanker,' said the host, and he grabbed him up by the scruff of his sopping, torn shirt and hauled him out, back onto the street.

He was having trouble breathing now. Each inhalation felt like a knife in his sides, and each cold rush of wind knocked the air out of him. He made it another two streets, leaving red footprints in his wake, before stumbling into the middle of the road where a car screeched to halt. Sherlock looked up and saw a little yellow light reading Taxi. His hands landed on the bonnet, as though he had the power to hold the entire vehicle in place. Then he sidestepped around the car, pulled open the back door, and crawled in.

'Blimey, you okay?' said the cabbie, appraising him through the rearview mirror.

Sherlock kept his head hung low and turned aside, keeping to the shadows.

'B-baker,' he said haltingly, 'Sssstreet.'

The cabbie put the car back into first gear and began rolling. 'Baker Street? That what you say? Hey mate, you don't look so good. Sure I can't take you to A&E?'

'N-no.'

'You need a doctor, mate.'

That's what he'd been saying. Didn't the man understand? 'B-baker Street,' he said again, and the driver nodded his concession.

The back of the taxi was warmer than the street, but he was still wet, dripping, and shivering like mad. The ache went down to the bone. He willed the man to drive faster, and whatever positive energy he sent to the front of the taxi seemed to be working. The cabbie laid his foot down on the accelerator and zipped around corners, pressing Sherlock's body into the door. His eyes were growing heavy, and he wanted to sleep. All the while, the cabbie kept glancing in his mirror, watching him.

He never said the words 221, but that's exactly where the cabbie took him.

For John, it had been a wretched two nights, and what looked to be going on a third.

Saturday night, he'd barely slept at all, but for once, when, pushed far past mental exhaustion, he had dozed off at the desk, his head on his arms. But he started awake sometime in the darkest of the pre-dawn hours when he thought he heard a thump from below, then heavy footsteps on the stair, and a soft whistling. Those weren't Sherlock's steps, and they definitely weren't Mrs Hudson's. He grabbed the combat knife, removed it from its leather sheath, and forced himself out onto the landing, turning on every light within reach as he went. But the staircase was bare, the entryway empty. Heart in his throat, he returned to the flat and bolted the door.

Sunday, he returned to the courthouse with Lestrade where he sat for hours waiting for permission to see Sherlock, permission that was never granted. Lestrade fumed and paced, making phone call after phone call to every judge and influential law enforcement officer he knew, but to no avail. They only told him to be patient, stop overreacting, and let the system work. Lestrade and Molly took him to lunch to get his mind off things and away from the reporters who were trying to snap photographs or catch a word, and while he appreciated the gestures, he mostly just wanted to be alone. So he declined the dinner invitation, ate instead with Mrs Hudson, and locked himself away in the flat once again.

He pushed through the night, reading every page of Sherlock's internet history since early December until the words blurred together and his thoughts were hazy like clouds. He attempted to write, but never managed more than five minutes' worth of material before stopping, deleting, and downing another coffee. In the corners of his eyes, the shadows were moving. Three times he felt hot breath on the back of his neck. And once, when he passed in front of the mirror hanging over the hearth, he saw someone standing just behind him. He cried out and whirled, but there was no one there.

Once he recovered, he removed the mirror, lest he shatter it like he had the first.

Monday, he didn't leave the flat. He ignored Lestrade's repeated attempts to phone him, texting back that he was fine and wanted to be alone. He told Mrs Hudson he wasn't hungry. And for the first time since they had started, he missed his afternoon session with Ella.

He had work to do. The day passed, and night fell, and he had work to do.

The buzzer skittered, and John's head came around from where he had just pinned another note to the wall. Automatically, as if by some new internal programming, his heart began to race. That was not Morse.

He didn't move, though the tremor in his hand reawakened. He clamped his other fist around it to keep it still.

After a long pause, the buzzer sounded again. This time it was the code, and it slowly, painstakingly, spelled out SH. But he didn't move to answer it. Sherlock was still in custody. Surely he would have texted if he were on his way back, which couldn't be the case, given the hour. And anyway, Sherlock could let himself in, and John heard no steps on the stairs. He closed his eyes to focus on his breathing, but he couldn't shake the fear: someone was at the door who had Sherlock's code.

After another long pause, a new message began to be transmitted: N-O K-E-Y.

Might it be Sherlock after all? Why didn't he call?

John turned away from the wall where he had been organising his work and was halfway to the window before remembering that all the panes had been boarded up—no one could see in or out.

He could just ignore the bell. Pretend no one was at home. But then he heard it: a shout from the street: 'John!'

He knew this one. It wasn't the eager I've-found-something John, or the angry the-police-are-all-twats John. It was an urgent, fraught, I-need-your-help John. Sherlock was in trouble.

Forgetting his cane, he rushed out the flat and was halfway down the stairs before the deep ache flared to life. He caught himself against the wall, suppressed a deep moan and grinded his teeth, then pushed himself forward.

Wrenching open the door, he found the man himself leaning wearily against the building, his forehead resting on the white stone framing the door. John stared, aghast. Sherlock's face was pale blue like the moon, bruised, and bleeding; his hair was flattened as though with rain, and his shirt, clinging wetly to his chest and shoulders, was muddy and torn. He wore no coat at all. Nor shoes.

'B-be so g-good as to p-pay the cabbie, J-john,' he said, his whole frame shaking with his words. Meanwhile, the taxi pulled away behind him. 'I've lost my w-wallet.'

'Oh God,' John breathed, and he caught Sherlock as he fell forward, his foot having failed to clear the threshold.

John flung one of Sherlock's arms around his neck and shoulders to keep him from hitting the ground, hefted him up with an arm around the narrow waist, and, kicking the front door closed, guided him to the stairs. He watched as Sherlock lifted a leg and gingerly set a long, white foot on the bottommost step, as though testing its solidity. John realised that Sherlock's foot must be almost entirely numb. The cold encasing his body was bleeding into John's own, and when he shivered, John shivered with him. He grasped Sherlock's wet trouser leg at the knee and lifted it for him. 'Good, you're doing good,' he said encouragingly, and together, slowly, they ascended.

When they reached the flat, he left Sherlock standing hunched in the centre of the room and returned to the landing. 'Mrs Hudson!'

He flew back to Sherlock's side, straightened him, and began quickly unbuttoning his shirt. 'You're shivering, Sherlock. That's good,' he said. 'Keep it up. Don't try to stop.' He heard Mrs Hudson's door open below, then her quick steps on the stair. John began peeling the wet shirt down Sherlock's shoulder, but he froze in shock when he saw a back peppered with deep bruises and open wounds. Mrs Hudson stepped into the flat, and a hand flew to her mouth to hide a gasp.

John regained himself. 'He's half frozen,' he told her, calm, though carrying a certain exigency in his manner. He continued peeling off the ruined shirt and tossed it to the side. 'I need dry towels, blankets. Hand me that blanket just there.' It was the one John slept with at night, a heavy, woven material.

She hastened to obey and opened the blanket and to set it delicately around Sherlock's shoulders while John undid his trousers.

'Towels, Mrs Hudson,' John said. She scuttled off to the bathroom, and John shimmied the trousers down Sherlock's hips, their wetness hampering the ease of pulling them off. When they were finally down around his ankles, John, crouched low and, ignoring the pain in his own leg, directed, 'Step out.' Sherlock tried to lift his leg but seemed unable to bend his bobbing knee. 'Okay, no, it's fine. Here.' John stood again, tugged the blanket closed around him, and helped him shuffle over to the sofa. 'Keep shivering, Sherlock. Don't stop. Tuck your arms in.'

With him now seated on the sofa, John was able to get the trousers off completely, followed by his underwear, by the time Mrs Hudson returned with a full stack of towels and another couple of blankets.

'Wrap his legs, feet. Let's dry him off.'

Together they worked to get him dry, and Sherlock sat doubled over, trying to get warm. But when John rubbed a towel across his hair, Sherlock winced and sucked air through his teeth. John pulled back the towel, now stained red. Peering closer, John saw a gash across his scalp and blood coating his hair. 'Shit,' he said softly. Then, to Mrs Hudson, 'The emergency kit's in the kitchen. And I need you to run a bath. Warm water, not hot. About body temperature. And prepare something hot to drink.'

'Tea?'

'Chocolate, if we have it. More calories. Sherlock, can you cough?'

Sherlock coughed and nodded.

'If you can cough, you can swallow. Chocolate, Mrs Hudson. Hot.'

She nodded and hurried off for the kitchen.

John slipped his warm hands inside the blanket, splayed one across Sherlock's chest, the other on his back, feeling for two things: the temperature of his skin, and the vibrations of his breathing. When he had the right instruments, he'd be able to tell more, but already he knew that it wasn't good. He withdrew the hands and gently drew Sherlock's head closer to examine the wounds in his scalp.

He parted the damp curls, the better to see the damage. One laceration was long, though not so deep. Cold and mud, acting as a sealant, had kept it from bleeding too terribly. Still, he would likely need stitches. Another wound looked more like a direct hit: the skin was ruptured like the points of a compass. He would clean and treat the wounds once he could get Sherlock into the bath, but he was likely concussed.

Keeping a light hand on the back of his neck, John asked gently, 'Who did this to you?' When Sherlock didn't speak, just shivered, John fought to keep the anger from his voice as he further questioned, 'Was it the police?'

'N-no.'

Softer now, more timorous. 'Was it them?'

But Sherlock shook his head. John sat closer, wrapped an arm around his back, rubbing firmly, trying to share body warmth. 'St-treet people,' said Sherlock at last. 'Homeless. They jumped me. B-by the riv-ver.' He took a ragged breath, coughed, sniffed. 'Should've c-come . . . home.'

John heard the bath running, and Mrs Hudson returned with the emergency medical kit.

'What more can I do?' she asked.

'Sit there on that side of him. Keep him warm.'

'Should I rub his legs and feet? They looked so pale.'

'Trunk first. We don't want to push too much blood to the heart by warming his extremities before they're ready.'

John opened the kit, taking out the digital thermometer first and placing it in Sherlock's mouth under the tongue. Then he removed the stethoscope, settled the tips in his ears, and breathed hot air onto the diaphragm. He pulled the blanket down Sherlock's back a little, seeing again evidence of bruising and broken skin. Anger curled in his blood, and he breathed between gritted teeth, fighting for calm. Then he placed the diaphragm against Sherlock's back and instructed him to breathe deeply. There was the faintest rattle.

The thermometer beeped, and John removed it, but he was startled to see that Sherlock's saliva had turned the white rod a sickly brown.

'How long were you out there?' he asked as he read the screen: 31°. Moderate hypothermia.

'Don't know. L-less than an hour, m-maybe.'

He pulled out a pen light and moved to crouch in front of Sherlock; meanwhile, Mrs Hudson's arm replaced John's around Sherlock's shoulders. 'Look at me,' he directed, but Sherlock, quaking more severely now, was bent double and couldn't lift his head.

'Hurts-s-s.'

'I know, Sherlock,' he said, rubbing a knee, trying to coax him into looking up. 'That's a good thing. It needs to hurt. That's how you heal.' He clicked the pen light on. 'It means you're warming up.' He lifted Sherlock's head by the chin and flashed the light into his eyes and away again, testing for dilation and constriction. 'Any nausea?'

'No.'

'Double vision? Black spots? White spots?'

'N-no.'

'I'll go check on the bath,' said Mrs Hudson. 'Chocolate should be ready soon.'

John set aside the kit. Then he brushed a thumb across a dark streak at the corner of Sherlock's lips, thinking at first that it must be blood. But it was dirt. There was more in the corners of his eyes, the rims of his nostrils, the bowls of his ears. 'Open your mouth for me,' he said. Sherlock unclenched his jaw and complied, and when John shone the light inside and pulled the bottom lip down, he saw evidence of both mud and blood—scraped gums, gritty teeth, all the way back to his throat. 'God, what did they do to you?'

The water in the bathroom turned off, and the kettle whistled.

'I'm-m not enough, J-john.' As ever, he was felt compelled to explain something, but he wasn't thinking clearly enough to do it.

'Sh-sh, let's talk about it later, yeah?' said John. 'Sit tight.'

He rose swiftly and left for the kitchen, returning with a large glass of tepid water and a bowl. 'Rinse and spit,' he instructed, and when Sherlock did, the water came back murky. He did this several times before John was satisfied. Then John set both glass and bowl aside and resumed his place on the couch beside Sherlock and pulled him in close again. He would warm soon enough. If the hypothermia were any more severe, skin-to-skin contact would be best to bring his temperature up, but he was in a warm, dry place now, and though the shivering continued, it was only a sign of a body working to generate heat.

Moments later, Mrs Hudson returned with a mug of chocolate, and John helped him drink it. 'As much as you can manage,' he said, holding the back of Sherlock's head and tipping the mug into his mouth, as Sherlock's hands were locked inside the blanket. He swallowed well, Adam's apple dipping with each large gulp. John let him sit with it a short while, knowing his body was already working to burn the calories away. This would help. One more time, he checked his body temperature with the thermometer: 33°. Almost out of danger.

John set aside the cup. 'I'm going to check on the bath,' he said.

He had Mrs Hudson sit with him while he tested the temperature of the water. Too warm, and the blood vessels in his legs and arms would dilate, causing the blood pressure in his major organs to drop, which might lead to cardiac arrest. Too cold, and the hypothermia would worsen, causing him to slip into unconsciousness. He checked it first with his own hand, then with the thermometer. Mrs Hudson had gotten it just about perfect.

Together, he and Mrs Hudson helped Sherlock to the bathroom where they unwound him from the blankets and towels, and John lowered him steadily into the water. It was then that he could really see the damage done to Sherlock's body: the purple, black, and red markings made his skin look like a minefield: small explosions had blossomed up and down his torso, front and back, arms and legs, hands and head. Some abrasions were slight, like smudged drops of dark paint, but too many resembled eruptions: large circles of black cracked open like a geode, and only the intense cold had kept them from bleeding more profusely. Sherlock groaned in pain as the feeling began to return to his body, and the wounds began to bleed.

'Do you want more chocolate?' John asked.

'I'd rather tea,' said Sherlock through a deep moan.

John nodded at Mrs Hudson. 'Tea's fine.'

Then John set about to clean the dirt away from the wounds, starting with his head. He treated the gashes with surgical spirit and stitched the skin as swiftly as he could. Sherlock, still in a state of half-dazed compliance, bore it well. Then he cleared away the mud, which he found everywhere, from clinging to Sherlock's eyelashes to coating the lining of his ears, one of which was already recently scarred. John worked silently, filled with questions but suppressing them in a tight, little pit somewhere deep inside, alongside his anger.

When he touched a particularly dark bruise along the left rib, Sherlock made a noise like a stepped-on pup and flinched, splashing John with water. 'That one might be fractured or broken,' John said, wiping his face with a sleeve. 'I'll get you some paracetamol with your tea.' He looked into Sherlock's face, concerned. 'What was it?'

Sherlock sighed—as his body temperature rose, his mental faculties cleared. 'That one, I think, was a boot. The rest were rocks.'

'Rocks?'

'On the banks of the Thames. They threw rocks at me.'

'Your homeless network?'

'Yes.'

John felt the suppressed rage flare up again; he stamped it down. 'Why?'

'Because I'm killing them.'

'What?'

'And they were angry.' He flexed his fingers under the water, his face screwed up in pain. 'And scared.'

In pieces, he told John what had happened, beginning with the girl waiting for him on the street with the message, how they had waylaid him, argued with him, and then fallen upon him, stolen his property, and pelted him with stones before flinging him into the river and running away.

'I told them,' he said in the end, 'that killing me wouldn't stop the Slash Man. But that's not true, is it?'

'Sherlock—'

'If this is all happening because of me, if I'm the reason, then take me out of the picture, and—'

'Sherlock, stop. It's not that simple.'

In little more than a whisper, Sherlock said, 'Maybe it is.'

John froze in his ministrations. He stared at Sherlock, but Sherlock wouldn't look back.

'So what are you saying? That we should turn ourselves over to Moran? Is that what you mean?'

Sherlock looked up in surprise, a light of horror in his eyes.

John's own flashed angrily. 'Say the word, and we'll do it.'

'Here we are, love,' said Mrs Hudson, returning with tea, but seeing that Sherlock was now more lucid and not especially decent, she excused herself to go tidy up the kitchen. John stepped to the cabinet for the painkillers, but as he reached for the paracetamol, he changed his mind and pulled down the bottle containing his own prescribed pain medication instead and handed Sherlock two, as well as a Benzodiazepine tablet. Sherlock took the pills, drank the tea, and when the cup was empty again, John took his temperature one last time: 36.4°. The danger had passed.

He pulled the plug on the drain, knowing he shouldn't leave Sherlock in a bath that would only lose heat as the minutes passed. Then he helped him out of the bath and dried him off. Weary, unable to stay upright for long, he sat heavily on the toilet seat, a towel wrapped around his middle, to brush his teeth while John dressed his remaining wounds.

At last, John pushed open the door to Sherlock's bedroom, helped him into warm clothing, and laid him softly to his bed. As he pulled the covers up to Sherlock's shoulders, Sherlock proffered only a token verbal complaint. 'I have things to do, John. There's so much to do.'

'First, sleep. Everything else can wait for morning.'

As he brought more blankets from the cupboard and lay them across the bed, John made a mental note to crank the heat in the flat a little higher tonight. He turned off the lamps and moved toward the door. But when he opened his mouth to ask whether Sherlock was comfortable or cold, he saw in the light coming from the hallway that, surrounded in warmth, Sherlock had burrowed his head into a pillow, eyes already closing in sleep.

John watched him a while longer, unmoving, from where he stood by the door. In the quiet of the room, the stillness, the reality of what had happened, what might have happened, began to descend on him. He felt something well up inside of him, something unnamed and frightening, and his eyes began to burn. He couldn't leave, not just yet. Softly, he crossed the floor and sat on the edge of the mattress.

For untold minutes, he watched Sherlock sleep by the light of the hall as if, by looking away, he might make him disappear. So he watched. His battered face, though smoothed in sleep, was not untroubled, though John couldn't say why he thought this, exactly. There was something youthful about him in sleep, and yet at the same time so terribly aged. Like a man dead before his time, one who was never meant to come back, but did anyway. John lay the backs of his fingers against his brow, his cheek, feeling for temperature, but also, feeling that he was real. It was as if he could never be too certain.

His skin was cool, his breath steady. So John had to check just one more thing: the beat of his heart. A pulse would do. Gently, mindful not to disturb, he pulled back the covers just enough to expose one of Sherlock's hands, which he drew out from beneath the blankets. In the dark, John pressed two fingers to Sherlock's wrist and felt for the beat of his heart. It answered with steady throbs, like an incoming tide pushing to shore. He held the hand and counted the beats until, with an accidental brush of his fingers against the back of Sherlock's hand, he felt something else: a thin, hard ridge, like a seam, running across the surface.

Something he had missed? Trusting Sherlock would remain asleep, John leant forward and turned on the bedside lamp, careful to angle the light away from his face so that it fell just so on the backside of his hand. And there, John saw long red streaks, some scabbed, some scarred, the skin inflamed. Rocks hadn't done that.

He returned to the bathroom and from the cabinet extracted the antibacterial cream he had used on his own wounds, the tube nearly empty. It would be enough. Back in Sherlock's room and sitting again on the edge of the mattress, he squeeze a few drops onto his fingers and rubbed the cool cream into the reddened skin. Sherlock didn't stir.

When he was finished, he set the cream aside, but he didn't drop Sherlock's hand. Instead, held it in both of his own.

'We've really done a number on each other, haven't we?' he said in a low voice.

Then the light coming through the doorway dimmed. He looked up to see Mrs Hudson standing anxiously, wringing her hands, as she looked in.

'Will he be all right?' she asked softly.

John nodded. 'He just needs rest.' He let go of Sherlock's hand and tucked it back inside the covers. He took one last look before following Mrs Hudson into the hallway and closing the door behind him. Together, they returned to the sitting room.

'A bit of a scary sight,' John said, 'but he wasn't in any real danger.' He smiled briefly to put her at ease, but she didn't seem to be buying it.

'What happened out there?'

He sighed and shook his head sorrowfully. 'He was attacked,' he said. Then he cleared his throat to rid himself of the sudden lump that had appeared there.

'Who did it?'

'Strangers. He didn't know them. But he got away. That's the important thing.'

She nodded, still looking unconvinced, and touched his arm briefly before dropping her hand to her side.

'We've proven to be a bit more than you bargained for, haven't we,' he said. Her head came up sharply. He tried to infuse a touch of lightness to his tone and explained, 'Most landladies don't have to worry about tenants who shoot at walls or get shot at through windows.' He sighed. 'You shouldn't have had to deal with this tonight.'

'He's family,' she said defensively, then added, 'of a kind. You both are.'

He smiled sadly. 'Yes, but—'

'John Watson,' she said, and he was taken aback by the sharpness of her tone. 'I have my boys back. Both of them. Don't think that I regret that for even a second.'

When Lestrade's phone went off at midnight that evening, he stared at the screen a little dumbfounded, for though John W had been programmed into his address book for three-and-a-half months now, he'd never received an actual call from that number, just a couple of texts. He quickly overcame his shock, unwound his arm from around Molly's shoulders where they sat together on the sofa watching telly, and hastened to answer.

'John?'

He received no greeting in return. Instead, he heard the voice of John Watson, speaking very heatedly: 'The entire city is calling for his blood, and you don't insist on sending him home with a police escort? You don't call me? What the hell is wrong with you?'

Lestrade blinked and rose swiftly to his feet. Molly watched his face nervously. 'John, what happened?' he asked. His mind raced. Last he'd been told, Sherlock would be spending a third night in a jail cell, a point Lestrade had hotly contested—and on legal grounds!—but which had no power to influence directly. He'd not been told of any change, though he had specifically demanded to be informed if and when the judge mandated bail.

'He was beaten up, that's what. They jumped him and stoned him like it was the bloody Middle Ages!'

'What? Oh my g— I'm sorry. John, I swear I didn't know he'd been released. Is he there now? Have you taken him to A&E? I'm coming over.'

'Don't bother. He doesn't want police involvement anymore—you people have done enough.'

'John, you have to report this—'

'But just so you know, Lestrade, if they had killed him, his death would have been on you.'

And the line went dead.