The Slash Man

by Engazed

Book 2 of 'The Fallen': After ten days of unspeakable torture at the hands of Sherlock's worst enemies, John Watson has returned to Baker Street to live with a man whose death, no matter how fake, still haunts him. But his recovery is not easy, his friendship with Sherlock is strained, and a dangerous but hidden menace continues to threaten them both. Violence/Horror/Rape

30. Memento Mori

CHAPTER 30: MEMENTO MORI

Please heed warnings: This chapter contains graphic violence and disturbing scenes. Discretion is advised.

SUNDAY, MARCH 8, 2015

From high above, she watched London fade white beneath the haze of snow, watched the rivers blacken and the lights wink themselves out all through the city. Her limbs, sinewy, curving, aglow with red light like from a beating heart, set the world below her feeling uncentred, unstable, unsettled. But cathedral-like, she drew all gazes and demanded reverence. Some said she looked like a flower, a thing of beauty, regal and feminine and divine; others called her a monstrosity and a blight on the city. Whatever she was, loved or despised, she was there to stay. Nevertheless, she ensnared men and imbued one with the sensation that he was about to fall.

Sherlock had never been so close to the ArcelorMittal Orbit before, having been dead for much of its erection and its later unveiling and tourist spectacle. No, not dead, he reminded himself, still trying to eradicate such skewed semantics from his lexicon. Gone. Now, as he strode purposefully through the empty stretch of Queen Elizabeth Olympic Park between the City Mill and WaterWorks Rivers, he refused to look at it. There were more important matters. The few people milling about were only tourists who had poorly timed their holiday and who hadn't sense enough to return to the hotel before the winter storm slowed traffic even more. The small spattering of men and women stood gawking at the towering structure and bemoaning its closed sign. Sherlock didn't even look up; but he couldn't escape the Orbit's long shadow.

Leaving it behind, he stepped onto the footpath leading down to the City Mill River, which ran north and south, slightly less than a mile long. He went south, toward High Street. Here the path was empty, and no one had passed there recently enough to leave tracks in the newly fallen snow.

Then he saw her, coming from the opposite direction; she saw him too. They each cut a recognisable figure against the bright snow. Sally Donovan picked up her feet and jogged closer, gingerly though, and minding the slickness of the ground. Sherlock came more slowly, his medical boot something of a hindrance.

'What are you doing here?' she asked. 'You should be resting.'

'The devil doesn't rest. Where's Lestrade?'

'He's supposed to be here already.'

The river was crusted over with patches of ice. On their nearer side ran a sloping embankment leading to the higher paths in the park. The lower footpath passed beneath bridges for trains and traffic. All were in the shadow of the Olympic Stadium, quiet now.

'Bloody cold,' Donovan muttered, hugging herself around the middle.

'You should wear a hat,' Sherlock told her, clipping his tongue on the t.

'Excuse me?'

'Despite the'—his splayed hand gestured in a broad circle—'hair, your head is the most exposed part of your body right now. Body heat is lost through convection as cold wind comes in contact with your skin. Basic physics.'

'I know how convection works.'

'And yet, here you stand. Hatless.' He pulled on the brim of his flat cap.

'You're one to talk. The only hat I've ever seen you in was that ridiculous deerstalker.'

'And such a thoughtful gift that was. I never did thank you and Anderson for treating me like a circus exhibition.'

Donovan scowled. 'It wasn't like that. It was a joke.'

'Always a riot, Sally.'

'Never a chore, Holmes,' she bit back.

He shivered, then tautened himself against the cold wind. 'Walking also helps. Back to High Street.'

'I just came from there. There was no one—'

'You obviously missed something.' He began walking, and she quickly, if not begrudgingly, fell in line.

'So what's this all about, sergeant? What did your people find?'

'Search me. Lestrade said come, so I came.'

'Clearly.'

'I'm surprised you're here, though. We're meant to minimise your involvement, not encourage it.' She sniffed. 'Not that that's ever stopped you.' Donovan looked over her shoulder, anxiously searching for any sign of Lestrade. She huffed, said, 'This is ridiculous, he knows I hate texting,' and pulled out her mobile and dialled.

As she did, Sherlock, too, looked over his shoulder, and when he did, he began to slow. Their two sets of tracks cut a long path through the snow—hers, clean and even outlines of the bottoms of her boots; his, sloppy and broad. But it was in the broad, scraping tracks left behind by his medical boot that he saw, revealed upon the wet pavement, a splash of red.

He fell back, approaching the mark on the ground with bracing anticipation as much as curiosity. Then he crouched down and brushed the slush away completely, revealing a symbol a little larger than a dinner plate painted onto the pavement: the letter I, apple red and highlighted with a white starburst at its base and black drop shadow, behind which were large, dark wings, unfurling.

'He's not answering,' said Donovan. Only when she pulled the phone away from her ear did she realise she was walking alone. She stopped and turned. 'Holmes?'

'Try him again,' said Sherlock, touching the symbol with cold fingers.

'What are you seeing?' Then, stepping to his side to examine the symbol, she said, 'Oh, one of those. Those things used to be all over the city a few summers ago. A new gang or something, but they must not have gained much traction. Died off pretty quickly, and most of these faded or got painted over. I'm surprised to see it here, though. They usually keep this place pretty clean of graffiti and rubbish.'

'A few summers ago,' Sherlock repeated. 'That would have been two thousand and eleven, wouldn't it?'

She thought a moment, 'I suppose so, yeah . . . Oh. Oh.'

'This paint is fresh, Sally. Very fresh. It might have been put here this morning.'

'What does it mean?'

'It's one of a set.' He braced himself on a knee and pushed himself upright. 'This must be what Lestrade found. The snow wouldn't have obscured this an half an hour ago. Why did he think to come here?'

'One of a set,' Donovan murmured to herself. 'You mean . . . IOU. Like the carvings on Watson's back. You're saying that was all connected with James Moriarty back in 2011?' She rotated where she stood, looking up and down the path. 'And just how are we supposed to find the others? With all the snow—'

'It'll be along this path. Toward High Street. That's what Lestrade said.'

'But I just told you, I didn't see him! I just came from there!'

'Then get him on the phone, now.'

While she punched his name again into her phone and pressed it to her ear, blocking the other with the flat of her hand to hear better, Sherlock continued down the path, brushing wide arches with his stronger foot in a frantic search for the next symbol.

'Something must be wrong, he's still not answering. I'm calling it in.'

'Yes, good, don't stop until you—aha!' For he had just come upon the second symbol, the anticipated red O, whose dark wings were spread even wider, the painted feather splayed ostentatiously.

He marked the distance from the I to the O, some fifty feet, then made a leap of logic in supposing that the third painting would be of equal distance further along the pavement. He and Donovan picked up their feet and ran ahead, finding themselves just on the edge of being under a bridge where the snow still fell. There, they found, after clearing away the snow, the final letter, a U, against large black wings, spread wide in flight.

'Now what?' Donovan asked, slightly out of breath and hugging herself for warmth.

'Now this,' said Sherlock, pointing, for also beneath the bridge, they saw a circular metal grate built into the wall of concrete. One-and-a-half metres in diameter and made of thick iron bars, it stood just slightly ajar. He locked fingers into the slots, and pulled. The grate swung forward heavily, its hinges groaning. Examining the inside surface, he saw scratches where it would have been chained and locked. Locked from the inside, he thought, to keep people out. Something, or someone, was in there. Sherlock bent his neck and stepped one foot inside.

'What the hell are you doing?' Donovan said, grabbing him by the shoulder and pulling him back into open air.

'I thought it obvious. I'm going in.'

'The hell you are. Something's not right here, and I can't be the only one here who knows it. Lestrade's phone keeps going to voicemail. Until he shows, we do nothing. I'm calling it in, see if someone can track him.'

'Go on then. Get your people out here, immediately. Because something's not right. Lestrade calls us both here but now he's nowhere to be found and won't answer his phone? Of course that's suspicious. Tell me this: did he call you, or send you a text?'

She frowned. 'A text.'

'So you didn't speak to him directly.'

'No . . .'

'And you didn't even question it, did you?'

'. . . No, I—'

'Neither did I. That makes two idiots. So the question has to be this: Was it really Lestrade who texted?'

Donovan stared at her phone, chest heaving.

'If it was, then something happened, because he's not answering his phone now. If it wasn't, then something definitely happened, because that means someone else has his phone. They've played this game before, Sally. They commandeered John's phone and used it to send Lestrade messages and photographs. Either way, you and I were led to this very spot, and we found access to a tunnel. If Lestrade found this same tunnel on his own, he might be in there even now. Or he might have been coerced to enter. The point is, they might have him. But he's not really who they want, is he?'

But when he tried to recommence entering the tunnel, she snatched his arm and fiercely pulled him back again.

'Sally,' he said.

'So it's a trap, and we're just going to let them lure us in? Go in there and get ambushed, maybe killed?'

'Not us. Me. You are staying here to keep watch, and keep this gate from locking behind me. Get your people here as quickly as you can. But if they're hurting him . . . I'm not waiting another minute.'

'Holmes.' She let out a cry of frustration. 'You're smarter than this!'

'The thing is, Sally'—he took her by the shoulders and pierced her with resolute eyes—'I'm not.'

He made one final go of escaping past the grate but halted when she shouted, 'Stop!' and her voice echoed down the long tunnel. She gritted her teeth, dug into her pockets, and pushed a small torch into his hands; then she unclipped a small stun gun from her belt and passed that over, too.

He looked at her, amazed. 'Giving me police-issued weaponry? Surely not, Sgt Donovan.'

'Eighty-thousand volts,' she said. 'It'll drop a man of any size. You better pray there's only one. Two minutes, Sherlock Holmes. You walk sixty seconds in, look, listen, and sniff the air like the bloodhound you are, and then come back and report. If I don't hear from you in two minutes, I'm coming in after you myself, backup or no backup. And you just took my weapon, so don't make me do that.'

'I'd rather you keep it,' he said, holding the gun out for her to take back.

'Take it,' she said, 'or you're not going in there.'

He nodded. 'Two minutes then.'

'I'm counting.'

---

A single rose petal caught in the beam from the torch. Sherlock paused, but only briefly, and threw the light further up ahead. He knew Donovan was watching his back retreat, could hear the echo of her muttering to herself and into her phone, 'Pickup-pickup-pickup, yes, this is Sgt Sally Donovan, requesting immediate backup . . .' He pressed on, keeping his ears peeled and eyes sharp. If they had hurt Lestrade, in any way, if they had killed him . . . He would tear them limb from limb.

The initial pass was long, some twenty metres, but then he came to a T-junction; to the right, another grate, beyond which he could hear running water—sewage, perhaps, or pipelines. The grate was secured, so he went left.

Another ten metres. Then the torchlight found shadow: an aperture to his left, wider than the opening of another tunnel. He approached warily and saw that the space opened up into a small cavern or room. What he saw there stilled the blood in his heart.

It was a bunker, and a hoard. In the far corner were stacked two flat and dirty mattresses, one on top of the other, and a red sleeping bag bunched against the wall. Empty tins littered the floor—peas, beans, soups, cherries, tuna—as well as dozens and dozens of wads of tissue or toilet paper. But Sherlock didn't need to step closer to investigate what they were: his nostrils were assaulted with the stench of stale semen, like rotting fish. His stomach turned, and before the sudden nausea could intensify, he pressed his nose into the crook of his elbow. Then he raised the beam on his torch and saw, tacked to the wall above the mattresses, a sprawling collage of photographs.

There they were, all eight of them: Sam Jefferies, Holden O'Harris, Ewan Nichols, Ralston Winters, Lynette Avery, Orrin Tippet, Colin Simpkins, and Karim Omid Niazi. They were shots taken from a distance, while Jefferies stood in a soup line or O'Harris stretched his arm into a bin in the park. There was Ewan, walking down the street with some of his mates, and Ralston and Nette sleeping together under a blanket of newspapers. Tippet sat on a park bench and Simpkins fed the pigeons. And Karim, holding a sign, asking for help and praising God in the same breath. They were being scouted, hunted, and none of them had the slightest of suspicions how it would all end.

But there was more. Alongside the scouting shots were photographs taken of the victims while in their captivity, from inside small, dark places or in isolated stretches of field or on a dark railroad track. They were each stripped naked, hands bound, bent over on their knees, and lapping at a red dog dish. Close-up shots of faces both blindfolded and with streaming eyes. Horrified, Sherlock stepped slowly into the room, his eyes jumping from face to tortured face, knowing that this wall, everything on this wall, had happened because of him. These people had suffered and died because of him.

He had to look away, to stop the roaring in his head, so he let the light drop, and when it fell upon the top of the mattress, he saw, just barely sticking out of the mouth of the sleeping bag, a pair of grey underwear. A jolt passed through him, as if he had electrocuted himself with the stun gun. He didn't need to touch it to know what it was, didn't need to see it in its entirety, but nor could he stop himself from this verification. Trembling, he reached down and tugged, and out they came, grey pants, stained with old blood, an item stolen from police evidence lockers. He whirled around, heart pumping madly in an aching chest as he observed again the crumpled tissues at his feet. This time, he had to fight hard to stop himself from retching.

Here it was, the Slash Man's secret hideaway. Here was where he came to glory in his conquests, to appease his lingering lusts or excite his carnal desires. Did he come here to stimulate his twisted passions in the hours before claiming another victim? Or did he return here to tack another photograph to the wall, to revel in his debauchery, to recall in memory and in body the contemptible violations he had performed on others? Whichever was true, it seemed that the grey underwear was his catalyst, his most prized possession. The sickness of this man Sherlock had known all along, but seeing it displayed so starkly . . .

Sherlock turned his back on the wall altogether, the torch fallen to his side to point at the floor. As he did, he felt something land against the side of his face, and he flinched away before he realised it was a cord dangling from the ceiling. His hand sought it out, seized it, and he yanked. A bulb above his head burst into light. He squinted against the sudden brightness, but he forced his eyes to remain open, and when the flashing stars began to clear, he found himself staring at the wall opposite the mattresses, a wall within perfect view of a man reposed and pleasuring himself.

And there was John. Photographs, large and small, cut and cropped, covering every inch of wall, floor to ceiling. A hundred, two hundred, maybe more, he didn't know, he couldn't estimate to any degree of certainty. Maybe three hundred or five. Sherlock's heart burned as each horrifying image seared into his eidetic memory: photographs of John from the basement of the convent, naked and laid out against the orange tiles; photographs of John, coated in his own blood, on elbows and splayed knees; photographs of John with a naked man between his thighs and hands around his throat; photographs of John kneeling, his battered face pressed into another man's crotch; photographs of John's face, close up, smeared with semen, or twisted in pain, or caught in an open-mouthed scream of anguish. They were photographs of John being raped over and over. Nine times, he had said, counting only those he recalled, but it seemed like a thousand for the terrible abundance of photographs taken, dozens and dozens per attack, now papering the walls in this subterranean hole.

The lair of the Slash Man. He had turned it into a shrine to his grandest obsession.

Sherlock's knees buckled, and he crashed. The stun gun hit the floor. As he landed hard on his knees, he cried out, 'Don't look at it, John! God, don't look!' The torch rolled away from him. On hands and knees now, he crawled forward, and when he reached the wall, he began tearing the photographs off with both hands, bandaged and free alike, until his fingernails scraped the concrete and he shuffled left, still tearing, still scraping, and repeating, 'Don't look, John, don't look. Go back!'

His mind was raging like a storm, beyond his power to control. Noise like a gale filled his eardrums; his vision narrowed to pinpoint precision. So he didn't hear the footsteps from down the tunnel, approaching at a rapid pace, nor see the shadow enter the room. But he felt the hands laid upon his shoulders, wrenching him away from the wall, and in his fear, he seized the stun gun, twisted around, and jammed it into the stomach of the man who had found him in this lair. He squeezed the trigger.

With a shout of pain, Greg Lestrade dropped to the ground, head smacking the concrete with a dull thunk.

---

Lestrade was out of breath by the time he spotted her, pacing below the bridge.

'There you are!' she cried out, dropping her phone from her ear. 'Why the hell aren't you answering your phone!'

'If it would ring, I'd answer,' he said, clutching a stitch in his side. 'Have you seen Sherlock?'

She jerked her head. 'Berk went in the tunnel. He went after you, figured you were in trouble. And I believed him!'

'What? He texted, said he needed help.'

'He does now.'

'I don't understand. Why would he think—?'

'Because we both got texts from you, telling us to get ourselves down here, that something had happened.'

'Shit. Oh shit. Have you called for backup?'

'I think the weather's slowing them, or they'd be here by now.'

Lestrade extracted a torch from the pocket of his coat. 'How long's he been in there?'

'Two minutes.'

'Right, I'm going in.'

'I thought you might. And nothing I can say will make you wait for backup, eh?'

'No. Is Sherlock armed?'

'He has my stun gun.'

'Then you'll need this.' He passed her his Glock 17. 'Your certifications up to date?'

'Who do you think you're talking to? Of course they're up to date. But if you think you're going in there without me—'

'Can't risk getting trapped in there. You're my best bet of keeping a clear passage. Fire if you're threatened, Sally, and that's an order.'

With that, he clicked on his torch, turned into the tunnel, and began to run at a crouch.

At the end of the tunnel he came upon the T, and the light emanating from what appeared to be a small alcove to his left made his decision. Heart racing, he approached with the stealth of his training, back to the wall, prepared to retreat, even though he knew that at one sign of Sherlock, he'd continue into the mouth of hell itself.

When he entered, he gasped, for there he was, fallen upon his knees, clawing at photographs tacked to a wall of cement in what appeared to be a fit of madness. Lestrade didn't have time to register the images; he simply acted. He lunged forward, grabbed Sherlock by the shoulders, and wrested him away. Single-minded on the task of controlling him, Lestrade wasn't prepared for Sherlock to react like a wild animal.

A jolt of electricity seized him. He'd been punched in the gut, and for a half a second thought he'd been shot. But as his muscles locked and he collapsed backwards, he remembered the awful sensation from weapons training. It wasn't the first time he'd been stunned. But having once been shot, he could now appreciate the similarities in the sensation.

His head struck the ground. His limbs, useless in bracing for the impact, flopped beside him, registering pain and cold. And then he was straddled across the middle. Through gritted teeth, he managed to push out a single syllable, 'Sher—!', but was struck soundly across the face. Sherlock had a punch like iron: he felt like his face had broken, and as his head lolled to the side, Sherlock struck him again.

He cried out in pain.

The room stilled. Above his head, he heard rapid breathing, then a whispered, 'Oh my god.' Suddenly, the pressure lifted off his chest. Sherlock knelt at his side instead, lifting his head off the hard ground, practically cradling it in his large hands. 'Lestrade. Lestrade? My god, I thought . . . I thought . . .'

'My head,' said Lestrade. It was all he could think to say.

'I never meant . . . I would never . . . Not you, Lestrade.'

'I know, I know,' said Lestrade, patting his arm.

'Can you sit up?'

Wincing, Lestrade grabbed his shoulder, and Sherlock pulled him upright, saying at top speed, 'Two compressed nitrogen charges emitting eighty thousand volts designed to simulate strong but involuntary muscle contractions and incite sharp but temporary pains in the abdominal region are nevertheless not harmful and seldom lethal, and multiple studies reveal no long-lasting effects unless repeated charges are executed in a short space of—'

'Shut up, Sherlock.' He was sitting upright now, full control already being restored to his body. He wiped his bloody nose and blenched at the pain there. 'What is this place?'

'The snow outside can serve as a temporary ice pack until we can get you to—'

'Sod that for now, yeah? I'll be fine. Where are we? Why are we here, Sherlock?'

Sherlock grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet, but strangely, he didn't answer the question. Turning slowly, three-hundred and sixty degrees, Lestrade took it all in for himself. 'Oh sweet Mother of God,' he said.

'I have to take it down, all of it, down,' said Sherlock, returning to the wall, pulling another photo down and crushing it into a ball.

'Stop, just stop. You can't do that. That's evidence, Sherlock. My people will take care of it, but you need to leave it just as it is.'

'They can't see this! It's not right, it's not fair. John, I'm sorry, he's not listening!'

Lestrade's eyes widened in concern. 'Hey now. Sherlock? Where's John? Is he down here?'

Sherlock was turning in circles, one fist clutching his hair hard enough to tear it from his scalp if he was of a mind to. 'Don't worry, I'll get rid of it. This is my fault, so let me get rid of it. No one will see, John, I promise.'

'Hey!' He took Sherlock by the shoulders to stop him from turning. Sherlock started and gasped, but when he saw it was Lestrade who held him in place, he seemed to return to himself. Lestrade asked again: 'Where's John?'

'Home,' said Sherlock. 'Safe at home.'

'Good. Now Sherlock, listen to me. We need to get out, right now. Do you see what's going on here? I didn't tell you to come to City Mill River. That wasn't me. It was them. They wanted you to find this place—now you have to ask yourself why.'

'To . . . to show me what they've done.'

'You know what they've done. This'—he cast an arm around the room—'is nothing new! It's sick, it's revolting, but it's nothing new! There's nothing here that's not already been done!'

Sherlock pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, as though to blot out the images, or maybe to ease the pressure of a throbbing mind. Frustrated, he let out a shout and dropped his hands. 'It's the space that is new. It's where he comes to . . . to remember, to plan, to . . . hoard.' He turned now to the third wall, bare, but against which stood a long, narrow table covered with junk: tins of food and bottles of water and cleaning solutions, plastic cutlery, newspapers, jars, aerosol containers, latex gloves, even an old, boxy television set. He stepped nearer the table.

'I really think we ought to leave, Sherlock. Sally, she's waiting for us.'

If Sherlock heard, he gave no sign. From among the detritus, he narrowed in on a single mug, upon which was set a folded square of cardstock paper. What attracted him to it, Lestrade had no idea, but he watched as Sherlock picked it up, opened it, and read it, lips moving but no sound coming out. Lestrade took the note from him to see the note for himself:

I know the locksmith.

'What is this? What does it mean?'

But Sherlock continued on as though he stood alone in the room. He lifted the mug; Lestrade heard the sound of something metal, coins maybe, shifting inside. But then Sherlock pulled out a silver key.

'Looks like . . . a house key?' Lestrade felt his already racing heart begin to beat even faster. 'Sherlock, you changed your locks. You told me you did.'

'I did.' He turned the key to examine the ridge of teeth. 'This isn't mine. It's yours.'

Lestrade took a step nearer. 'What?'

Setting the key aside, Sherlock plucked another from the mug, examined it, put it aside, plucked another, examined it, put it aside, plucked another. 'They're identical. All of them. Copies of copies of copies of your house key.' He overturned the mug, and the silver keys, twenty-five at least, spilled across the table and onto the floor. 'Yours, Lestrade. All yours. I remember the cut.' Alarmed, he locked eyes with Lestrade. 'I had a copy of your key on my ring. When they stole my keys, I changed my locks. But you . . . You didn't change yours.'

'Oh my god. Oh my god.'

'Where's Molly? Where?'

Lestrade was fumbling for his phone, trying to keep his thoughts from whiting out. 'She's, uh, working. She's working late. I told her I'd pick her up from Bart's at midnight.'

'Get her on the phone, now. Tell her to stay put, don't go home, keep in a public place, we're going to get her right now.'

'I've no signal in here!'

'It doesn't matter, we're leaving.' He set the mug back on the table, and that's when he noticed another note written in the same cream cardstock, folded, on top of the television set. Sherlock snatched it up and read aloud in a clear voice: 'That is, I know what he likes.'

'The hell?' said Lestrade. 'Sherlock, please, we have to go!'

Sherlock punched the 'on' button at the bottom of the television set, and that's when Lestrade noticed the cable running across the table and into the wall just as the TV popped and hummed to life.

They couldn't see anything at first, and Lestrade thought it must be white-out or static, but as the picture sharpened, he saw that it was snow. Veils of snow, sheeting down the screen, obscuring almost entirely the image of a snow-covered street, and a black door beneath an arch of stone.

'That's 221,' said Sherlock breathlessly. 'The security camera your people set up. That's the shot from across the street.'

'The feed . . . he's been watching the feed from here,' said Lestrade.

'That means he saw me leave. Forty-five minutes ago. Just . . . me.'

And at that moment, a dark figure entered the frame, striding confidently to the front door where it paused, turned to face the camera, and lifted a hand bearing a key for them to see. The sheeting snow obscured his face, but not his actions, as he turned back to the door, slid the key into the lock, and pulled the handle.

'God no,' whispered Sherlock. 'No, God, no.'

The Slash Man let himself inside.

---

Outside, where the visibility was narrowing to nothing, Sally Donovan's mobile announced an incoming text. She checked the screen from beneath the bridge, which provided her shelter from everything but the wind and cold. The sender was one she had not programmed into her phone herself: Mother Goose.

Donovan was not one whose sentiments made room for trepidation, but she felt it now. Gripping the Glock 17 in one hand and the mobile in the other, she stepped nearer the tunnel's mouth, checking once more for torchlights, listening carefully for voices; but it was dark and quiet. She held her breath and opened the text.

Three blind mice.
See how they
RUN!

---

John checked the clock. Twenty minutes, Sherlock had said, or twenty-five at a push. It had now gone forty-five. Slow service, he reasoned. Bad weather. But he couldn't keep his eyes from the clock.

He had been hungry, properly hungry, but any craving was being replaced with a mounting anxiety. Until, that was, Sherlock sent him a text:

On my way.
SH

He relaxed, and the hunger returned. Then, to occupy himself, he set out two dishes and two glasses and two sets of chopsticks on the table in the sitting room, the kitchen table having been taken over, once again, by books, samples, and experiments.

Five minutes later, he received a second text:

Almost there.
SH

John poured water into the glasses and set the kettle to boil.

He was rinsing out the teapot at the sink when he thought he heard, from below, the front door close. That couldn't be right though, he reasoned, because Sherlock always, always, rang the bell to announce himself. Always. He must have been mistaken, that he had heard anything at all. Nevertheless, he left the pot and returned to the sitting room where he lowered the volume on the telly, and listened.

Nothing. The flat was still, quiet. Then his phone sounded again, and he flinched. Chiding himself a little, and shaking off his jumpiness, he retrieved Sherlock's third text:

I'm here, pet.

John stared at the screen in disbelief, a lump hardening in his throat and his mouth going dry. Slowly, he reached for his cane, which leant against his armchair, and as he touched it, he heard a loud snap!, and the power was killed. The white noise of the telly died away, and John was cast into darkness.

And from below, a creak on the stair, and someone began to whistle.

---

They came running out of the tunnel, and Sgt Donovan, frantic and still waiting for backup, screamed at them while brandishing her mobile, 'What does this mean? What does this mean?'

Into the blizzard, they kept on, and she raced after them. 'What's happening!'

'He's got John!' Sherlock cried.

They were racing back in the direction of High Street where Lestrade and Donovan had both left their vehicles. The snow was loose but deepening, hitting their ankles with each step, and they slipped and slid but kept on running, even as they pressed phones to their ears and shouted at each other to run, run, run! But Molly wasn't answering, and neither was John.

When they reached the end of the path, Lestrade took Donovan by the shoulders and said, 'You and Sherlock—Baker Street! Now! Get on the radio, call for units, they'll get there before you, but you have to go now!'

'What about you!'

She had never seen him so fearful. He took his Glock out of her hands and choked as he said, 'I have to get to Molly. Sherlock, I'm sorry . . . but I have to find Molly!'

'Go!' said Sherlock, who was already limping toward Donovan's car.

They parted ways.

But when Sherlock and Donovan reached the car, they saw that the window on the passenger's side had been smashed in.

'Holy God,' said Donovan.

'Does it drive? Does it drive?' Sherlock shouted manically, pulling open the door and sitting himself in the snowy, glass-strewn seat. Donovan jumped in on the other side, jammed the key in the ignition, and the engine roared to life. 'Then go!'

The tyres spun. Cursing everything from the weather to the engineering, Donovan rocked the car back and forth before the tyres finally gripped asphalt, and she pushed forward and onto the empty A118, the lights on the dash of her unmarked car flashing and siren screaming. In the seat beside her, Sherlock pulled the collar of his coat higher, his only defence against the wind and snow rushing through the open window. She grabbed the radio and said, 'This is Sgt Sally Donovan, requesting immediate deployment of AFO units to 221 Baker Street. Do you copy? Over.'

There was silence on the radio. Even the static seemed to have gone out. She clicked and clicked, every button at her disposal, but nothing. 'Come on, come one, this is Sgt Donovan, is anyone there? Over.'

While she shouted into the radio, Sherlock pulled a loose panel off the dashboard. There, they both saw the bundle of severed wires.

'Dammit!'

'You have to go faster. Faster, Sally.' He was fumbling with his phone, staring at it like he didn't know what it was.

'I can barely see, and the roads are shite. If I go any faster, we'll never make it, understand?'

'Please, please,' he said.

She gritted her teeth and pressed down on the accelerator.

---

Molly had good news. That evening, Dr Torrence called her into his office to inform her that St Bart's was no longer being held responsible for the falsified medical certificates of death for Sherlock Holmes or the wrongful identification of James Moriarty. 'They're naming us as victims now, not perpetrators. All pending charges have been dropped,' he said, 'and all accused parties exonerated. You included.'

She was relieved, naturally, but uncertain as to why. When she asked what he knew, Dr Torrence merely shrugged and said, 'Best not to question good news. Police are sorting through things, it seems, and pinning the blame where it belongs, and that's not here. I'm lifting the sanctions against you—I want you back in the morgue, Molly.'

'Thank y—'

'But I hope it's clear that there really can't be anymore allowances, any special favours for friends. You know what I'm saying. That was some pretty hot water you got yourself in.'

'I understand. Completely.'

'Look, it's pretty slow around here right now, and they say there's a pretty nasty storm coming in. Why don't you take off early, stay ahead of the weather? See you back here tomorrow, then, eh? We'll have some bodies waiting for you.'

She laughed. 'I look forward to it.'

For the briefest moment, she thought she would call Greg, let him know she was off early, and perhaps they could have dinner. But it wasn't sensible. He would be working late, she knew, dealing with this most recent near-slaying. With the victim surviving, they had living testimony, something real, and they were all working overtime to catch these people. He was optimistic, but still stressed, and she didn't want to intrude on his focus.

So instead, she texted:

Off early. I'll take a bus
home. Let me know when
to expect you.
xxx

When she boarded the bus, though, just as the snow was beginning to fall, she had to fumble for her Oyster Card and so slipped the phone into her purse to free her hands. On the way to the back of the bus, she ran into a fellow technician, who urged her to sit and chat. And by the time they reached her colleague's stop, she had forgotten to check whether Lestrade had replied, and so was not bothered with the question of why he had not.

The bus dropped her off two streets away from the front door. It had been a long ride, not only for the distance but also for the snow, and she stepped onto a white, wet pavement. Hugging herself around the middle, she pushed home against the wind. As she neared the front door, she fished for her keys in her purse, and when she entered the house, she bolted it closed behind her. It was only then that she pulled out the phone to check for messages and found none. Odd. She dropped her coat and purse on a chair in the front room and headed for the kitchen, beginning a new text.

She never finished. For when she passed the stair and through the open door to the kitchen, a large hand clapped across her mouth, and another took her by the throat. Molly screamed soundlessly, and her mobile hit the floor.

---

Sherlock's hands were completely numb as he scrolled through his address book, found John's number, and opened the file.

It was as he suspected: someone had inputted an alternative number. Two numbers were now listed, mobile and home, a primary and secondary, and it was the number now occupying the primary position that he had been dialling over and over again to no effect. The digits corresponded to John's old phone—he recognised them as easily now as knowing a man's face. For the last hour, he had been corresponding with them.

But the actual, current number was still there. And just as he was in the act of dialling the new, his phone lit up with an incoming call from the old.

'Is that Lestrade?' Donovan asked, trying to control the panic in her voice. Sherlock wasn't familiar with the tone, not from Sally Donovan.

Sherlock's muscles tensed and he could hardly breathe. But he pressed his frozen thumb to the green circle and raised the phone to his ear. 'Who is this?'

For a long and terrible three seconds, he heard nothing, not even breathing. He covered his other ear to block the howl of wind. Then came a sound he had never wished to hear again. 'Good evening, Mr Holmes.' Her voice, sultry and cool all at once, sank into the recesses of his head like a needle injecting a deadly poison. 'Have you seen the forecast tonight? Ghastly.'

'What have you done?' His voice hoarse and lacking breath.

'Not even a hello? I'm hurt.'

'What have you done!'

'I am making good on a promise. Sebastian and I—we have an understanding. He's been so helpful, so patient, that it's time I rewarded him. After tonight, though, all my thoughts are on you. You owe me a dinner, Mr Holmes. Long overdue.'

'If you . . . hurt him . . . When I find him and see that you've merely touched him—'

'Find him? That's an old game. And yes, you won that one, I'll grant you. This game is about pain, nothing more, nothing less, and after tonight, I think you'll agree that I'm winning.'

'Holmes, hang up the phone,' said Donovan, hands locked on the wheel.

'I will kill you if you hurt him, do you hear me?'

'Sherlock Holmes, hang up!'

'One day, Mr Holmes, you'll have to explain it to me—the allure of John Watson. I don't see it myself. But you. You, and Sebastian, and dear old Daz—you all would do anything to have him, wouldn't you?'

'What do you want! Take it! Have me! But please—!'

Donovan snatched the phone from his hands and threw it at his feet. 'Don't!' she said.

'Agh!' Sherlock seized his hair in his fists and curled over his knees, screaming.

'We'll be there soon, we'll reach him.'

'Too late, it'll be too late! Run, John, god please, run!'

'That phone call,' she said, 'it was an attack on your mind, a way to throw you off balance, that is all! That's what they've been doing for nine weeks! Your brain is your greatest weapon, Sherlock Holmes, so use it!'

Something inside his head flashed like white-hot lightning, and for the thinnest of moments, his darkness was illuminated. 'Mycroft!' Sherlock dove for the phone at his feet. He started typing his brother's name into the phonebook—M Y C—but nothing was coming up. Rubbing at his eyes to clear them, he scrolled manually, alphabetically, through the short list of names, but when he got to the Ms, he saw only Molly and Mrs Hudson.

Mycroft had been deleted.

---

He told her to be still and she was. He told her to shut up and she did. But she couldn't keep herself from crying, even when he warned her to stop, said he'd punch her in the face if she carried on, and he did. Then he proceeded to pull off her shoes and socks, her jacket and blouse and trousers, and with the laces of her shoes he tied her wrists together.

'Any funny business,' he said, his face close to hers and a warning finger pointed between her eyes, 'and I'll break your jaw. Understand?'

Tears rolling down her cheeks, Molly nodded. She was lying flat on the rug in Greg's sitting room, knees locked together and trembling uncontrollably. Though she tried to hold it in, a sob broke free of her throat. 'Shut it,' he said, and backhanded her across the face. Then he grabbed her up by the hair of her head until she was on her feet before he slung her over his shoulder to carry her half naked from the room.

Then he turned to climb the stairs, and she jostled limply with each rough step. Her hands hung over her head, her hips dug into his shoulder, and his large, hairy arm locked her in place at the knee. Her terror was absolute. She couldn't think beyond present pains or the fear of imminent violations, and she kept seeing in her mind's eye Mary Morstan's body beneath the white sheet, John Watson in hospital, Sherlock screaming in the morgue, and Lestrade . . . Greg, her Greg, coming home to find that she wasn't strong enough, that her body broke as easily as glass, that her blood spilt just as red as Mary's.

At the top of the stair, she kicked backward, her leg bending at the trapped knee, and the heel of her foot smashed into the stranger's face.

He hollered and stumbled forward to his knees, and Molly fell, landing firmly on her backside, and in that position, she kicked again, her foot connecting with his nose. As another cry of rage erupted from him, Molly scrambled backwards, burning her bare arms and legs on the rug, and she crawled as fast as she could through the nearest open door, into the guest bedroom, and slammed her weight against the door to close it. Beyond, she heard him charging after her, and just as she set the lock, his body crashed against the door and she fell back. But the door held fast, for now. She knew, though, that he had the power to break through any moment.

But it was in this room, the guest bedroom she had occupied that first night, where she had deposited John Watson's gun. There, in the top drawer of the bedside table, beneath a short stack of magazines, it waited for her. She ran for it now, John's words echoing in her head: When you shoot, Molly, you shoot to kill. You don't give him a second chance.

The door splintered open as she pulled open the drawer.

His feet pounded across the room as she dug out the cold weapon, spun, and squeezed the trigger.

But the safety was on. The gun remained cold.

The man wrested it from her hands, and with the grip cracked her across the skull.

---

Half a city away, John Watson stood paralysed. Old but unforgotten words floated to the surface of his mind like detritus rising from the bottom of a black lake, matching a familiar tune, and he heard Lex's singing voice as clearly as though those lips were hovering right behind his ear.

Oh Johnny boy, your legs are spread and bleeding.

In the other ear, the voice of Ella Thompson: 'When you know you're having a hallucination, your goal is to restore normalcy. Turn on the lights. Put on some music. Find someone trustworthy to talk to. Breathe, and count to five.'

This was all in his head. He knew it, it had to be. He'd experienced hallucinations like this before, accompanied now as always by the elevated blood pressure and feverish skin and shortness of breath. Restore normalcy, he coached himself, and he reached for the lamp, but he clicked and clicked and clicked, and the room remained dark.

You're black and blue from nose to cock to toe.

The stair groaned and the whistling grew louder. John swallowed a cry of dismay and put a closed fist to his mouth. The need to escape flooded him now, overriding his rational mind. This isn't real, he's not here, he thought, even though he disbelieved himself. I am in control. I know what I feel isn't real. I know this will pass. But his leg flared with pain and the scars on his back twisted and pulled in the skin. As quickly as he could while making as little noise as possible with his shoeless feet, he hurried from the room, through the kitchen, and into the hallway as the stairs continued to creak and the whistling floated up into the flat.

He'll hold you down and fuck you while you're pleading.

John almost collapsed, his legs uncooperative and his chest aching for want of air. Breathe, breathe! One . . . two . . . three . . . He passed through the open door to Sherlock's bedroom and went straight to the window leading to the fire escape. But the window was barred, an extra security feature they had installed in the wake of the convent, and removing it would take time, make noise, draw attention. He didn't dare.

The whistling was in the flat.

Don't hold it back, dear Johnny, keen and moan.

In panic, he hid himself behind the open door, his body pressed to the wall. He clamped a hand across his mouth to silence his ragged breathing and leant heavily upon the cane. Not real not real not real. He thought to close the door, but there was no lock, and any movement, any sound would announce his location. He remained as still as he could, but the harder he tried, the greater his body trembled. He closed his eyes and focused on expanding his lungs, breaths in, breaths out, and he let his teeth sink into his finger to keep himself silent. Let Sherlock find me here, he thought. Let him explain to me about a power outage. Let him tell me there's no one here, just him and me, at home, on Baker Street, just him and me.

Silence. The flat was still, empty. The whistling had faded away, and the footsteps had gone. Slowly, John opened his eyes and stared at the blackness that was the door. He lowered his hand from his mouth, resting it at his throat. Had he done it? He must have done. He was again master of his own mind. A power outage, that's what it was. The darkness had thrown him into a panic, as it had done before, but he was okay. He would find a torch, light a candle, and when Sherlock got home . . .

But then . . . what about the text? Hadn't he received that text just before the lights had gone? Or was he confused?

By increments, he turned his head to peer through the narrow space between door and jamb between the hinges, to see the hallway. But his view was blocked. Even in the darkness, he could see a black eye looking back.

Suddenly, John was crushed: a large body had thrown its full weight into the door, slamming him back and against the wall, then again, then again. He grunted as his head rebounded between wall and door, and his cane clattered to the floor. But he was pinned, unable to move, not even to fall, not until the door was wrenched back and thrown into its frame with a resounding crash. Then John fell. He slipped down the wall, dislodged the framed poster of the periodic table, and collapsed upon his cane. When the frame hit the floor with him, the glass burst.

Two strong hands seized him where he lay, grabbing the back of his shirt and dragging him through the shards before depositing him in the centre of the floor, but not before John had grabbed the cane from under his body. Released, he rolled onto his back, and as the figure looming over reached down to grab him again, he swung the cane with all his might and heard it thwack against a skull. He saw the flinch, but the man made no sound. He swung again, but grounded, he couldn't get proper leverage, not enough to seriously harm or debilitate or stop the man from getting what he had come for. On the third swing, the man caught the cane in the air and wrenched it from John's grasp. He watched the cane lift high above the man's head, and John threw his arms around his head and curled onto his side just as the wood came down against his ribs. He cried aloud at the eruption of pain.

He tried to find his feet, tried to position himself to run or to fight, but before he could even push himself to his knees, another blow fell across his back. He shouted again and fell upon his face. A third crack, as he was beaten with his own cane. Each blow was like fire, threatening to rend the skin and bruise the bone. The stiff, wooden shaft came down a fourth time across his back, a fifth, and on the sixth merciless strike, the cane broke against him, splintering in two. He moaned into the floor.

The pieces of wood clattered beside his head, dropped, and a foot wedged beneath him, rolling him over. When he looked up this time, he saw, in the light of the moon-touched snow emanating through the window, a face that had plagued his memories both asleep and awake for the past one hundred and thirty-five days. Six-foot-six and eighteen stones, with shoulders like an ox and a neck as strong and thick as a keg. The man's hair was longer and wilder than before, hiding the kink in his ear, but he was shaven, revealing the squareness of his hard chin and an ugly, unsmiling mouth. But those eyes—those dark and ravenous eyes . . . They were hungry eyes, and they looked down at John with the untamed ferocity of an animal too long caged and deprived. It was those eyes that told John he was a dead man.

Wrong! John Watson is a fighter!

He almost gasped as the sound of his sister's voice resounded clearly in his mind, as though she were in that very room. It filled him, charged him, and he flung himself into action, determined to get away. He kicked so hard at Daz's shin that the man hissed through his teeth and fell back a step. John began to crawl away, but he wasn't fast enough. Daz fell upon him now, flipping him once again onto his back, and straddled him across the thighs, effectively trapping him with his weight. Hot blood pumping through his veins, John seized one piece of the broken cane and with a shout rammed the jagged end hard in the giant man's thigh. Daz made a grunt of annoyance, grasped John's arm at the wrist, and twisted. John shouted and dropped the stick, yielding his weapon, but the man wasn't satisfied. He rose up on his knees, loomed over John, and struck him hard across the face with a closed fist.

John's vision burst into stars, and he knew that the only thing keeping his head from rolling across the room was that it was attached to his neck. He slumped into the floor, only distantly aware that Daz's hands were at his belt, uncinching, tugging, unthreading, until the leather strap was free in his hands. Just as John's sight was clearing, he saw Daz feeding the belt into itself, creating a noose.

You're going to lose your breath, John.

Mike Stamford joined Harry Watson at the side of the room, just beyond the corners of his eyes where he couldn't see them. He just knew they were there.

Oxygen deprivation will lead to cerebral anoxia which may cause syncope. Give him enough time, and you're going to faint, and your brain will die. Don't let him do this.

John placed an arm across his face and locked the other around his head, trying to make it impossible for Daz to slip the belt over his head. But he was already weakening, and Daz was nothing if not a brute. John had no power to stop him from tearing his arms away from his head, striking him again, beating his chest until the breath left his lungs, striking his mouth until his teeth cut his own lips and blood leaked out from both corners, thumping him until he submitted. And submit he did. Only then did he feel the cruel leather strap pull taut against his throat.

He thrashed and kicked and heard the promise of sixty seconds in the strap. Hauled by the neck, his upper body left the floor, and he was dragged nearer the bed. His lungs burnt hotter and hotter as his body floundered without oxygen, and just as he was on the brink of passing out, he was released. His enervated body flopped against the floor. Head foggy and limbs useless, he didn't notice when Daz removed his socks. He was barely aware that Daz was on top of him again until he felt large hands traveling up the skin of his torso, under his shirt, rough fingers scraping against his chest, and next he knew his shirt and vest had been rucked up above his head and torn from him in a single motion. A blast of cold hit his bare skin, but when he trembled, it was not for the chill but for the vulnerability of naked skin, his hideous scars exposed so blatantly and forcefully, and the contact of that monster's hand upon him.

No no no! he thought desperately, but at his flailing the belt tightened around his throat once again. He grasped Daz's forearms in a pathetic effort to dislodge his hold, but the man was insentient to his efforts. Instead, he traced the scar over John's left breast with a light finger. To John, it felt like a white-hot iron against his skin, recalling with perfect clarity the slice of the scalpel. He believed he could feel the hot blood leave his body and drip down his sides. And then, just before the darkness pushed in on him and he was about to lose consciousness, the belt loosened once more, and the air rushed back into his lungs.

Coughing, choking, he gasped for air and curled onto his side, and there Daz left him to lie. John heard the heavy boots stepping away, not leaving the room, just moving around it, pacing from wall to wall. But John kept still. He could barely breathe, let alone move, and he knew there was no point. He would never get to the door, and there was nowhere he could possibly hide . . .

Opening his streaming eyes, he saw the space beneath the bed. If he could get under there, just far enough where Daz could not easily reach him . . . If he could stay away just long enough for someone . . . to come . . .

Though futile, John knew he had to act, buy himself time. He grasped the underside of the box springs and pulled, dragging his body halfway under the bed when a boot came down on his hand. He stifled a whimper as he was dragged back out again and punished for his attempts: another fist in the face and a harsh tug on the belt. And it was in the daze that followed that John's hands were bound in front of him with a charger cable torn from the wall. He cried and pleaded no no, voice sluggish and slurring, as his inside wrists were pressed together and wrapped with the length of Sherlock's phone charger, then knotted. When he strained against the cord, the struggle only tightened the knot.

Next moment, something wet hit his face in a steady stream. His first impression was that he was being pissed on, but then he smelt it: ammonia. His stomach writhed as a wave of nausea swept through him, and his eyes burnt. He squeezed them shut, held his breath, and angled his face away, trying to shield it with raised arms. Daz grabbed his arms at the wrist and held them down, straddled him once more, and with his free hand, he pried open John's mouth, held down his jaw with his fingers, and shoved a mated pair of Sherlock's socks, soaked in ammonia, into his mouth. John screamed into the gag, but the sound was muted even in his own ears. He twisted violently, trying to expel the wad, to push it out with his tongue, but Daz clamped a hand over his mouth and held his head still to the floor. Then he reached for the bedside table and ripped the cord from a lamp. A bulb shattered as the lamp hit the floor. With the severed cord, Daz secured the gag in place around John's head. And with every tremble of his jaw, with every tightened muscle in his face, whether from pain or fear, he squeezed the liquid from the soaked socks, and the ammonia filled his mouth and scorched down his throat. Instantly, his stomach tried to rebel, his lungs to ache, and his air passage was deferred strictly to his nostrils, but even his nose was swelling with blood.

He knew what was happening. Not only to his body—the physiological damage, the violent reactions and system shut downs—but also, he knew exactly what Daz was doing: he was preparing John, recreating the conditions of the convent, right down to the smell. Daz was going to claim him again, but this time, Moran wasn't there to hold him back, to say when enough was enough, to recognise when John couldn't take it anymore and call off the dog. This time, there would be no coming back.

God no, John thought. O God, I don't want to die.

Daz stood, looked down at his prey, and saw John Watson as he had been, that first time: half-naked, hands bound, choked, and stinking of ammonia and blood. And he smiled, a voracious smile, took hold of his own crotch, and rubbed. John fought against the bile rising in his throat as he tried to hide himself with his joined hands. But Daz wouldn't take him there. Instead, he grabbed the belt, yanking roughly on the end so that John was lifted, strangled, and Daz seized him at the arms as if he weighed nothing at all to throw him bodily onto Sherlock's bed. There, he didn't wait—there was no more waiting. He crawled on top of John, straddled him, pushed one hand into the old war wound of John's shoulder to pin him down, and with the other popped the top button on his own trousers, then John's.

Fight him, John! Harry shrieked at him. Don't you let him take you like this! You can stop this. Fight for your life!

Tears and chemicals stinging his eyes, John screamed loudly into the balled socks and tried to roll, throw Daz off him, but the weight was too great. Daz let him struggle, even grinned as he watched, as he shoved a hand inside of John's trousers and squeezed.

John screamed again, arching his back and wriggling like a fish, a helpless creature caught in a net with no chance of escape.

It's not too late, John, never too late. Don't give up now, said Mike.

Keeping his hand where it was, Daz wrapped the other around John's throat, bent his face so close John could smell the stink of his breath, feel its heat, as Daz said gruffly into his ear, 'Mine first. All mine. He can take you later.'

John shivered and wept.

Then Daz sat back. Still trapping him at the legs, he now excitedly moved to unzip John's flies. But he was too eager. He grasped both sides of the fabric and wrenched the teeth apart, effectively breaking the zip. Then he lowered his nose into John's crotch with relish and breathed in deeply. John tensed, and in his tension, he squeezed more ammonia from the gag, and his cry caught in a burning gurgle in his throat. Hearing the wretched noise, Daz laughed.

Gathering all his fear and rage, John balled his hands together and swung them mightily into the side of Daz's head. The laughter died instantly, and Daz surged up, thrust John's arms above his head, and bit him hard at the jaw. John felt the skin break beneath those teeth. His body stilled, and Daz returned to his ministrations—preparing himself manually, and filling himself with the scent of his prey. And down below, inside the broken zip, Daz spread wide his lips, and with an active tongue mouthed greedily at the sensitised skin shielded only by a thin layer of cotton. Whimpering, writhing, John beat his hands ineffectually against Daz's lowered head.

And that's when Daz made his first mistake. He released John's right knee to spread John's legs wide and to touch himself, drag himself out of his pants, and bring himself to full erection even as his tongue lolled long and thick against John. And John, surging with adrenaline, kicked his right leg—his strong and unwounded leg—inward with a shout. The knee connected hard with Daz's face, slamming his jaw closed. John heard an ungodly howl of pain as Daz's body slackened and he rolled to the side of the bed.

Run, my love! Run, run, run!

It was Mary! With Daz falling one way, John rolled the other. He fell off the bed opposite the door, landing hard on elbows and knees, but he pushed himself to his bare feet, and holding up his broken trouser with blood-swollen hands, he limped to the door, threw it open, and ran. But the Slash Man was in hot pursuit.

---

It wasn't Donovan's fault when the car went off the road. In the blizzard, she couldn't see the turning, and by the time she did, it was too late to slow. The car hit a stretch of ice, the brakes locked, and they slid across two lanes and directly into the path of an oncoming city bus.

The ensuing crash exploded the windscreen and crumpled the driver's side like paper. When the car finally stopped spinning, Sherlock lifted his head from his chest and looked over at Donovan. She was slumped over in the driver's seat, head hanging, eyes closed, her hair filled with glass.

'Sally. Sally.' He pulled at his seat belt, locked around him, keeping him from moving. When at last he unclipped it, he twisted in his seat and took her face in his hands. 'Sally, open your eyes.'

She groaned. The skin between her eyes furrowed.

'That's it, come on now. Eyes open, look at me.'

'Holmes?' She pried her eyes open, but she was still too disoriented to make sense of him.

Outside, the driver of the bus was lumbering through the snow to reach them. 'Oh my god! Oh my god! Is everyone all right?' He came first to Sherlock's open window.

'Call for an ambulance,' Sherlock said.

'Already have done,' said the man. 'Of course I have. Didn't even see you, and when I did, I couldn't stop, I couldn't—'

'Go, Holmes.'

His head came around to look at her face, which he still held in his hands.

'Go.'

'You're hurt.'

'Damn right. Something is broken. I can't help you anymore. So go.'

'An ambulance is coming.'

'I heard. Holmes.'

'What?'

'My phone. Front pocket, right side. I can't reach it—my arm . . .'

He reached around her and pulled her mobile from her pocket, placing it in her left hand. 'I'm sorry—' he began.

'I said go. You can still reach him.'

He nodded. Then he shoved his unbooted foot into the side door to open it and bolted into the snowy world. Donovan watched him go.

'Say, where's he going?' said the bus driver, who had observed the strange exchange in bewilderment.

Donovan ignored the question as she opened her phonebook and began to scroll. 'Any injured in the bus?' she asked.

'Weren't no one inside but two people. Seem okay. Bit startled. It's you what I'm worried 'bout, miss.'

'Paramedics will be here soon,' she said through clenched teeth. The pain in her elbow was severe, and even though the snow was filling up her lap and icing her hair, she was sweating. Her vision blurred as she scrolled, looking for the word Dryers. When she found it, she took a stuttering breath and dialled.

When he answered, there was a pause. 'Sergeant?' he said.

'Where are you?'

'Me? At my desk. Why?'

'Twenty minutes ago, I put in a call for AFO, and I've heard nothing. Have those teams been mobilised?'

'. . . Are you serious? Donovan, this is the first I'm hearing of it.'

She screwed up her face in a mixture of pain and annoyance. 'I thought as much,' she said, and this time she couldn't keep the agony from her voice.

'What's happened? Where are you?'

'Dryers, listen to me very carefully. This is urgent. I need a team of AFOs sent immediately to Baker Street, and a team to the residence of Greg Lestrade. Do you hear me? Immediately. If it doesn't happen, I swear to God, I will come after you and bury you.'

'I'm putting in the order right now.'

'I swear to God . . .' Her breaths were coming more rapidly now. She was struggling to keep calm, even as the adrenaline coursed through her body. She had no choice in this. Gregson's phone would have been compromised, like hers and Lestrade's and Holmes'. Dryers was her last recourse.

'Donovan, you still with me? Where are you?'

'Ambulance.'

'Ambulance? Are you hurt? Where are you?'

'On its way. I'm told. Shit shit shit.'

'I'm tracking your location. Stay on the line. We'll get help to you.'

'Watson. And Lestrade.'

'Yes, to them too. Hold tight. Just stay with me. You're with me, right, Sally?'

'Yes.'

But having done all she could, her arm went slack and she dropped her phone to the car floor. She heard Thomas Dryers' voice coming through the speaker, repeating: 'Donovan? Talk to me, Donovan. Units are en route to your location.' But she was slipping away quickly.

---

He was seven-point-four miles from Baker Street. The snow was coming down in droves. His fingers were numb and the boot on his foot made him feel like he was dragging himself through mud. The ankle pinched with each step. He knew he would never make it, not like this. The police had been compromised. He had no way to phone his brother. So he played the last and only move still available to him. He called Julian Smalls.

---

Lestrade found the front door bolted. The house was dark. But there, in the chair in the entryway, he saw Molly's coat and purse. He gripped the gun in both hands now and advanced slowly toward the kitchen.

Molly's phone lay screen-down on the floor. He bit the inside of his lip, checked the gun left and right, and kept going.

Her clothing was strewn about the sitting room. Oh god, oh god.

Then, above his head, he heard a light thump, an abbreviated tussle, and silence again. He quelled the urge to shout for her, to charge up the stairs and burst into the room like a madman. Wildness was met with wildness. He couldn't risk it. With measured steps and controlled breath, he turned to the stairs and ascended.

The upstairs hallway was dark, but there was a thin line of light at the bottom of the door leading to his bedroom. Furtively, he put his ear to the door. Only the softest of whimpers could be heard, and he knew the voice that made them. Fury and trepidation dangerously roiled together inside of him as he released one hand from the gun to turn the handle of the door. But once opened, he choked the grip with both hands, his left anchoring the weapon and his right adjusting the aim, and he nudged the door with his foot. It swung open slowly and soundlessly, and he stepped into the room.

On the far side of the room near the window, he saw Molly, captive, in the hands of a stranger. But for a bra and underwear, she was naked. She stood on her tiptoes, for the man who held her had one arm around her throat, and with the other, he held a gun to her head. Molly's hair was loose around her face, and one thick strand of it was red and stuck to the side of her head. He marked the shoelace-bound wrists and the bruises on her body—legs and stomach, arms and chest, neck and face—and his blood boiled. She looked at him now, eyes wide and pleading, lips quivering in fear.

Lestrade fixed his weapon between the man's eyes.

'Let her go,' he said. His voice was gravelly but steady.

He watched the man press the barrel more firmly against Molly's head. She held her breath; Lestrade's finger twitched on the trigger.

'Detective inspector,' said the man. He was a full head taller than Molly and at least double her weight; his hair was dark and his skin ruddy, and though he was firmly muscled, much of his size was just sheer bulk. He would be strong, but not fast. A tattoo of dots to the side of one eye spoke to a prison sentence; another tattoo on the back of his hand, the one carrying the gun, named him ex-military. 'You're going to lower your weapon. Release the magazine. Set the gun on the floor. And step away.' Lestrade didn't move. The man's arm pressed more firmly against Molly's windpipe, and her eyes flew open. 'Two seconds, detective inspector.'

In his dreams, over and over again, he had watched Mary Morstan die, a woman he had met only once. In the waking world, he had seen the look of a man who had watched his beloved slaughtered in the flesh. John Watson was haunted daily by that memory. Greg Lestrade was filled with fear that he was about to experience the same. There was nothing for it. He couldn't risk Molly. The best he could hope for was to redirect the man's attentions to himself. He offered a shallow nod and lowered his arms.

'Don't try anything funny,' the man warned, watching him, hawk-like. Lestrade shook his head and released the magazine. Then he crouched down to set the gun on one side, the magazine on the other. He knew, though, that there was still a bullet in the chamber. He'd made sure of it before entering the house.

'Tell me what you mean to do,' said Lestrade, straightening again. He spoke to the intruder, but his eyes were riveted on Molly. He wanted to tell her that it would all be over soon. He wanted to tell her not to be afraid. He wanted her to know, right now, that he had never loved anyone in the world as much as he loved her.

'Step away from the gun.'

He complied, stepping right. The man moved too, and Molly with him, circling closer to the gun as Lestrade moved away from it.

'Now. Is Sherlock Holmes with you?'

Lestrade carefully weighed his response and decided nothing could be gained by lying. 'No.'

The man nodded. 'Very well.'

'What do you want with him?'

'We weren't sure,' said the man, 'which he'd choose. We strongly suspected, but we weren't sure: the soldier or the girl. The one he died for, or the one he trusted for three years with his secrets.'

Lestrade resisted the urge to correct and defend. 'And if he had come?'

'Then I would have made him watch.'

Molly closed her eyes, and her tears fell down both cheeks.

'And now?'

'I'll still have her. But you die first.'

It happened in an instant: Moran's man pulled the pistol away from Molly and refocused it on Lestrade. There would be no more talking, no further warnings, and Lestrade knew it, and in the split second before the man pulled the trigger, Lestrade threw himself to the ground. The gun fired in the small room with the noise of an explosion; Molly screamed; and the mirror hanging on the wall behind Lestrade shattered and fell from its hook. In that moment of chaos, Lestrade sprang forward, hands outstretched, and he lay hold of Molly's arm with one hand. He whipped her aside and out of the line of fire, and in the same movement, grabbed the man's arm which still held the gun and thrust it skyward. Another terrific bang, and dust rained down from the ceiling. He caught the man in the stomach with his shoulder and tackled him to the floor.

The man was as powerful as he looked, and a trained military man besides. Within seconds, he got the better of Lestrade. Using his weight and the momentum of the fall to his advantage, he pulled Lestrade straight over his head, detained him with a choke hold, and dug a knee into his rib to incapacitate him. But Lestrade was fighting back. He broke the hold, jammed an elbow into the man's face, and slammed his hand against the ground in an attempt to make him drop the gun. The man hooked a leg between Lestrade's and caught him at the shoulder. In one deft movement, he had slammed Lestrade to the ground and was on top of him. A solid punch to the face, and Lestrade felt his body go slack. Another, and he grunted senselessly. Then, he felt a ring of metal pushing against his eyes.

A sudden blast! shook the air. Lestrade flinched and saw blood. It rained down on him, hot and wet, and then the man collapsed. His dead weight trapped Lestrade on the ground and squeezed the air from his lungs. But he was unmoving. Against his chest, Lestrade could feel a circle of warm liquid soaking through his clothing, spreading outward. There was a light gurgling noise by his left ear where the man's head now hung. Dying. Dead. He'd been shot through the chest.

'Greg! Greg!'

Molly! She was at his side, tugging at the shoulders of the dead man, and Lestrade, stunned, at last reacted. He pushed with her, and the man rolled off of him. He gasped, regained his breath, and as he rose to his knees, he saw the bullet wound, dead centre in the chest. His sternum had probably fractured in a dozen places. Lungs and heart were probably riddled with bone shrapnel. A kill shot.

He looked up at Molly from the opposite side of yet another dead body that lay between them, a position they knew too well. But she was trembling, a gun in her hands, and he was dripping in the dead man's blood.

She dropped the gun to the floor.

'Oh Molly!' he said, and rushed to her, gathering her up in his arms and pressing her close to his blood-soaked breast. Though her hand were still bound, she flung her arms around his neck and sobbed.

'Molly, Molly, Molly!' He buried his face in her neck, held her precious head against his, and began to weep.

She clung to him fiercely, hand and heart, and let herself cry loudly. 'I love you, Greg,' she said between gasps. 'I love you so much.' Huddled together on the floor, they wept in each other's arms. Mere minutes later, when police in full protective gear had broken down the front door and swarmed into the house, they discovered the detective inspector and mortuary attendant locked together beside the dead intruder.

---

He made it to the door just off the kitchen before Daz caught up with him, seized his arm, and swung him around and into the kitchen table. The table jostled. They knocked over beakers and flasks, pushed aside books, and glass exploded on the floor. John was pressed chest down across the table top, and Daz upon him. 'Li'l fuck, li'l fuck,' said the Slash Man in his ear. Something was wrong with his speech. With each syllable, John felt something warm spray the side of his face and dribble down his neck.

His brief escape had infuriated Daz. He was through with his games, his teasing. Now, with John pinned beneath him, he kicked his legs wide and tugged at his trousers, trying to get a hand down. John went limp, but only for a split second; then he thrust his head backwards, smashing it square into Daz's nose, and he escaped from under the roar of pain and anger only to be snatched again at the sliding doors. Together, they crashed into the glass, and together they hit the floor. John fought ferociously. There was no time to feel the pain of wrenched arms or glass-sliced skin, no space to dwell on juddering bones or a mouth on fire. Instead, with every arrested breath and every beat of his throbbing heart, John battled for his life.

But he was losing energy, and Daz was a tornado. They struggled against one another in the dark, throwing blind punches, landing wayward kicks, and in the confusion, John managed once again to escape. This time, he made it past the door, to the top of the stair, but he had made it only halfway down before Daz came at him from behind, jamming a foot into his back, and he fell forward down the steps. His bound hands could do little to brace him as he crumpled to the landing. Pain surrounded him—his hips and legs and knees flared in agony. He felt utterly stamped, unable to move his legs. Slower now, wheezing through his nose and trembling in every muscle, he rose to his elbows, and like a worm, edged forward, still trying to get down the stairs. Above him, he heard Daz's heavy footsteps and wet, slurping breaths. The man was still coming for him, step by weighty step. And then his path was blocked.

With hands large enough to encase John's full head, Daz slowly wrapped fingers around John's throat, and lifted him at the head. Then, with painstaking determination, he turned back around and hauled John up the first flight of stairs by the neck. John choked, flailed, and fought, but this time, his efforts were in vain. Daz had turned to stone. When they reached the door outside the flat, he paused, still grasping John's neck. Then he turned to the second flight and continued upward. The ammonia seeping from the gag was shooting up through John's nose, threatening to drown him. Daz kicked open John's bedroom door, dropped John to the floor, and slammed the door shut.

For a long moment, nothing happened. John lay still upon the ground, fighting to breathe, while Daz stood over him, as though keeping vigil. It was nearly pitch black, but John closed his eyes, trapped and exhausted. He should have known his efforts were futile. He should have known that, in the end, this was exactly where he would end up. He wanted to scream at the injustice of it all, at a universe that had beaten him into the ground throughout his life, a cruel fate that offered him the most desperate longings of his heart only to snatch them away from him at the last. I just got him back, he thought sorrowfully. When I lost everything else, I got him back. It's not real, none of it has been real!

And then, a gentle whispering in his ear, more breath than sound:

Sometimes, the dead do come back.

And me? he wondered, opening his eyes. What about me, Mary? Do I get to come back, too?

But before she could answer, before he could find her, see her, there was Moran, standing in the shadows of the room, as he had done before, with a finger to his lips, shaking his head: No. And he repeated his words from the convent, words whispered in his ear that had echoed through him for one hundred and thirty-seven days: 'I had no idea. You're so beautiful like this, like this, so freshly fucked, so thoroughly wrecked.' Tears sprang to his eyes at their renewed utterance, at the words he believed to be true, words he tried so hard to doubt. 'You were meant for this, John. All your life, you've been waiting for this, for me. It's destiny, me and you. Me in you.'

John gagged. He looked up at the shadow standing over him. Daz had himself in hand, stroking slowly. When he saw John watching him, he stopped. He was ready.

This time, he did not resist. The Slash Man lowered himself, slipped one hand under John's knees, the other behind his neck, and lifted him like a child to set him on the bed. Then he turned him over onto his belly, as easy as pulling down the sheets. John was compliant and soon found himself face down in his own pillow. His hands were pinned close to his chest. Daz crawled over him, one leg on either side of his body at first, then he wiggled himself between John's knees and laid himself out flush against John's body, penis exposed and erect, and as his weight pressed down against John, he began to rut. He lowered his head, sucking on John's neck, the meat between neck and shoulder, below the leather noose, biting and sucking and biting. One hand dug into John's trousers, seeking.

John carefully wriggled his bound hands out from under him, groping for the headboard, sliding open a drawer.

Daz's breath was becoming a pant. He moved faster. Thick fingers found the waistline of John's trousers, already shimmied down his hips because of the broken zip. He gave it a yank. John's grunt of protest caught in his throat. There wasn't space enough, though, for Daz to pull the trousers and underwear down completely, so he sat back, held John down at the neck, and tugged on the trousers with the other hand.

John's hand curled around the handle of the BK&T combat knife resting in the drawer. In the dark, and fully occupied by his lusts, Daz did not see.

To get the job done right, Daz needed both hands. He released John's neck. John felt Daz's fingers on his hips.

With all the strength left in him, John flipped onto his back beneath Daz's looming body. He brought his hands down hard over the man's head, the butt of the knife setting Daz's skull ringing. He kicked in, and his knee connected with Daz's ribs, and he pushed off with the other leg. But Daz had seized hold of him again, and caught in John's momentum, they rolled together to the edge of the bed. When John found himself on top, he flipped the knife around and, with the weight of his whole body, sank the blade down into Darren Hirsch's stomach.

The man gasped. His entire body went rigid like a board. For a moment, both men were still, Daz lying on his back with his arms around John, and John straddling Daz, curled over his body and around the knife. Then Daz reacted. He clawed at John's back, his fingernails dragging long trenches through his skin and tearing through old scars as he twitched, writhed, and tried to throw John off. But John was immovable. And each time Daz came close to casting him aside, he thrust the knife again, twisted it in the wound, and forced Daz to be still. He thrust the blade repeatedly, never quite pulling out of the same entry wound, but changing the angle of each stab, the edge of the blade tearing to shreds his stomach organ and lower intestines with each plunge, deeper and deeper. He aimed for spleen and pancreas, crucial veins and the aorta, and thrust, thrust, thrust. The blood rushed out, but John pushed deeper still, past the guard, burying even the hilt. And even then, he twisted the blade.

Daz stopped clawing. With one arm still wound round John's neck, he pulled him close in a warped embrace, and his teeth sank down deep into the meat of John's right shoulder with a moan. John didn't even try to pull away. He leant into the bite instead. The room was eerily silent. John's hands were filled with gore, and his breath was arrested in his chest; Daz's throat was stopped up with blood.

Then Daz's jaw relaxed. His head fell back against the bed, and John slowly lifted his head. They stared at one another, victor and defeated, but one felt no triumph, and the other felt nothing at all. With excruciating slowness, John withdrew the blade from its bloody sheath of flesh. He turned it around in his hand. Eyes still locked together, John placed steel edge to Darren Hirsh's throat, and pulled.

---

Julian Smalls got stuck in the snow turning right onto Baker Street from Maryleborne Road. The taxi slid to the kerb and wouldn't move.

'I'm so sorry, Mr Holmes,' said Smalls as he spun the tyres and tried to get out. He had felt Sherlock's panic and was now himself infused with it. 'She won't move!'

But Sherlock was already halfway out the door. 'Thank you, thank you,' he said, and he stumbled out into the storm.

He ran. With fractured ankle and brain shrieking like a machine whirring and about to break, he ran through the snow and ice, and as he approached 221B, he squinted through the storm and saw the brake lights of a black transit van matching Karim Niazi's description, parked just outside the flat. Suddenly, the lights dimmed, and the van began to move.

'No! No!' he shouted. He ran faster, screamed louder, but the van was already disappearing beyond the snow. In that moment, his brain whited out, and right before the door to his home, Sherlock fell, crashing forward to his face. When he came to, just seconds later, he arose on shaky arms and saw dots of blood in the snow, dripping from his own nose. He didn't care. They had taken him. John. He was gone. She had made good on her word. He was gone.

He clutched at his chest, unable to breathe.

Sherlock, calm down. He looked around, expecting to see Lestrade suddenly near at hand.

Use your brain! Donovan shrieked at him in his head.

Think! Mycroft demanded.

And that's when he saw the footprints not yet covered in snow, for the angle of the downfall and the position of the building had slowed the accumulation right before the door. One set of footprints, going in. None coming out.

Sherlock rose to his feet. He turned the handle on the door marked 221B—it was unlocked. And he stepped inside.

The lights were out and wouldn't turn on. The building was silent. Leaving the door to hang open, and letting in whatever light he could, he advanced slowly toward the stair, when to his left he saw, spray painted on the wall, four words in dark paint, the aerosol container set on the floor:

Who Killed Cock Robin?

'John!' he cried, and he shot forward toward the stairs, huffing as he climbed, screaming John's name.

When he entered the dark flat, he tried the lights again. Nothing. Someone had messed with the breakers. He hurried to the desk and pulled open a drawer. There, he found a silver torch, and he clicked it on and cast the beam around the room. He saw that the table had been set. Two sets of plates, glasses, and even chopsticks; John had been waiting for him to come home. But the rug was bunched on one side and a corner flipped, John's chair had been shifted, and there were shards of glass . . . He followed the evidence into the kitchen and saw the broken sliding door, the cracked and shattered beakers on the floor, and the upset on the kitchen table where it was clear a body had lain. A trail of blood led him into the hallway. He burst inside his own room, shining the torch around desperately. On the floor, the broken frame and shattered glass from where his poster had hit the floor; his sock drawer hanging open; his lamp cracked beside the bed; John's cane, broken in two; John's shirt and vest and socks, cast to the side. And the stink of ammonia. A container rested by the door. Visions of the convent erupted in his mind, and he almost lost himself, sinking in his despair. As he approached the disturbed bed, he saw large spots of blood and in the centre of a dark circle, a thick piece of flesh. He shone the light and covered his mouth, feeling ill: it was the end of a human tongue, chomped clean through.

But John was nowhere to be seen.

And only one set of footprints, entering the building.

Sherlock whirled around, crying out again, 'John! John!' He ran from the room, down the hallway, back into the sitting room, and out through the door to the landing, his eyes taking in more evidence, his brain making sense of it, putting the pieces together in a time line—attack, pursuit, attack, escape—until he found himself following the dots of blood further up, to the second storey, where John's bedroom door stood closed.

He pounded up the steps as if his ankle had sustained no injury at all, and he heedlessly charged into the room. The beam from his torch fell at once to the bed, and there, drowning in a pool of his own dark blood, Darren Hirsch lay dying. His eyes were opened, staring at the ceiling, and he blinked slowly but did not turn to look at Sherlock. His hands were over his stomach, which appeared to be emptying of gore. The front of his shirt was saturated in blood, and when the Slash Man's muscles shuddered, Sherlock could see even more burble up from a wound and spill, staining the sheets in a wide pool that dripped to the floor. His trousers were undone, and his penis was exposed and flushed. A deep gash crossing his throat still leaked, but his face and those eyes were as cool and unflinching as stone.

Sherlock felt frozen as he stared at the visage of a violent and agonising death, almost disbelieving the face he saw, a face he had never seen in the light, let alone the flesh. The Slash Man had long existed in his mind as a phantom, a giant of a man fit for legend and shadows, an ever-present but never material threat. Here now, broken and dying, the man was real but his blood was draining, and he was fading once again into lore. And his slayer?

The beam of the torch followed the blood trickling to the floor, the trail leading to a combat knife—his combat knife, the one given him by a soldier in another life—which lay wholly drenched in blood so that not even a sliver of steel shone through. The weapon that had felled the beast. And around the knife, prints of blood on the floorboards, streaks of red, dragged to the dark corner behind the door. He followed the path with torch and eyes.

There was John, sitting with his back to the wall, slumped in the corner, calmly watching the Slash Man die.

'God! John! John!'

Sherlock dropped to his knees in front of John, the torchlight bouncing from battered head to bare foot. 'My god, my god,' he said again and again. 'Don't be dead. Please don't be dead!'

John was blinking, breathing, but it was the evidences of death that registered, not life.

He was bare above the waist and his trousers were undone, broken, and fell off his hips. His shoulders sagged with bite marks and blood, and his sides appeared torn to shreds. His hands lay limp and swollen in his lap, bound together with cable, and a leather belt hung round his neck. And when Sherlock aimed the torch at John's face to see the gag, John winced as though in slow motion and turned his head away from the light. Sherlock's voice choked as he said again, 'My god, my god!'

He needed to get these binds off. The imperative that had seized him in the freezer seized him now, and before all else, he had to free John from the binds. He could save him if only he could free him. After setting the torch on its end, he took John's hands. Were they bleeding? He couldn't tell. John's skin was so red and wet that Sherlock couldn't believe that the blood was not his own. Perhaps the Slash Man had slit the veins; perhaps he was bleeding out and there was no time—in this weather, no one would be able to reach them in time. He had to stop it, stop it now. But his hands were shaking so badly that they slipped over the blood-slick cord securing John's wrists together; he could get no grip, but he tried diligently to loosen the knot, and he stained his hands red trying.

Then John, lacking all haste, pulled his hands away from Sherlock. 'What do I do? What do I do?' Sherlock queried in panic. John reached up and touched Sherlock's face, directing his eyes to look at him and only him, and only when their gazes met did Sherlock still, and John indicated what he needed most. He scraped his fingers down the side of his own cheek where a lamp cord circled his head, securing a gag in his mouth. Sherlock nodded, couldn't stop nodding, couldn't stop shaking. He touched the cord to feel its tautness, then gently put his hands round the back of John's head and inclined his neck forward as he felt for the knot. John's forehead rested against his shoulder, and there he waited, patiently. But it was too dark for Sherlock to see properly, and the knot seemed too fixed. He set John's head back to the wall and went for the knife. It felt foreign in his hand.

First he unlooped the belt from around John's neck. In the light of the torch, he could see the terrible chafing, the bruises already forming. His imagination supplied images of what must have happened, and how often, and he had to gulp for air. Then, bracing John's head with a hand on one side, he slipped the knife between cheek and cord, the edge of the blade angled toward the ear. He couldn't saw it away. He needed to snap it in one motion. And his hand was shaking so much. He feared to hurt John, to slice into his skin, do greater damage than that which had already been done, and so much had been done! Blood was everywhere, touched everything. Was he even alive? So calm, so still and pliant— Was Sherlock touching a corpse and just couldn't see it? He gasped and panted. And then John touched him again, bloody fingertips against his quaking arm, the one gripping the knife. And there was steadiness in his eyes, a calm Sherlock didn't understand but could feel. Holding his breath, he sliced the knife through the cord. It snapped and fell away.

John made a slight, almost imperceptible whimper as he tried to open his jaw wide enough to remove the gag, but he couldn't manage it on his own. With two fingers, Sherlock reached inside John's mouth and pulled out a pair of mated socks—his socks!—soaked in (he sniffed)—oh god—ammonia. With its removal, John turned his head, gagging and coughing and gasping. He spit, and a red line of drool reached from his bottom lip to the floor.

'Milk,' said Sherlock. 'We can dilute the poison with milk. We've two pints in the fridge. Ammonia is moderately basic with a pH of 11.7, so if we counteract that with something mildly acidic—and milk has a pH of 6.7—we can incite protonation, create a neutral solution, and negate the harmful effects. I can fix this, I can fix this.'

John nodded wearily as he coughed but couldn't speak. He presented his wrists, now, and Sherlock returned to the knife and cut right through. The arms fell apart at John's sides. Sherlock seized one hand, then the other, pushing away the blood, seeking out what was surely a gaping wound. His hands were as red as John's.

'I can't find it,' he said. 'Need to stop the bleeding. Need to stop, stop, where is it? Where?'

'Sherlock.'

John's voice came as a breath.

'I can stop the bleeding, I promise, create a tourniquet. With my socks and shoelaces— Oh god, I'm sorry. Forgive me, John. Tonight. I should not have left, not for a minute, should have been here—'

John lifted both hands to Sherlock's face, bracing him on either side, and kept him still.

'Do you see me?'

Sherlock blinked. Something shifted. The dark didn't matter—those were John's eyes. They were red and swollen and glistening with tears, but they were also bright, alert, and familiar, as John looked back at him, searching his face. One of his hands moved to Sherlock's throat and applied gentle pressure. John was checking his pulse.

'Do you see me, Sherlock? Can you hear me?'

'Yes.'

'I'm here.'

'Yes.'

'Alive.'

'John.'

'Say it. Please.'

'You're alive.'

John nodded. He smiled. But he couldn't hold it. He dipped his head and began to cry. His hands clenched around Sherlock's shoulders. 'Take me out of here, Sherlock,' he said. 'I can't feel my legs.'