Sherlock was standing at his usual post, the window, gazing intently down at Baker Street.
Mrs. Lovett entered with a tray of food. "Brought you some breakfast, dear, farm fresh eggs and a dollop of lovely clotted cream, only the best for my…" She stopped when she realized he wasn't even listening to her. Her heart sank seeing him at the window, wearing his obsession like a cloak. She gazed sadly at him. She didn't count, after all. "Sherlock… might I ask you a question?"
He didn't turn, "Mm?"
"What did your John look like?" Molly asked. "You heard me…" A moment passed, "Can't really remember can you?"
"He had yellow hair," Sherlock said simply, before he turned back to the window.
Molly proceeded with great sincerity, "You've got to leave all this behind you now. He's gone… You keep looking down into the grave, you're never gonna look up. And life will just pass right by… Life is for the alive, my dear."
He didn't answer.
"We could have a life we two… Maybe not like I dreamed, maybe not like you remember… But we could get by." Sherlock still didn't answer her. "Come away from the window," She instructed softly. It was a long while before He finally did; almost as if to leave his demons behind.
She smiled quietly and held out her hand. She began to cross to him when they heard footsteps climbing the stairs.
Molly remained standing, her hand out to him as Greg staggered through the door, absolutely exhausted.
"Mr Holmes… Mrs Hooper, ma'am…" Greg sank into a chair, "… Seems I've not slept in a week — but it's done –"
"What is it, Greg?" Sherlock asked
"He has him locked in a madhouse…" Greg growled bitterly.
Sherlock's head snapped to Anthony, riveted, "You've found Mycroft?"
"For all the good it'll do — it's impossible to get to him." Greg rubbed his eyes.
Sherlock began to pace, the tiger again, his mind is racing –
"A madhouse…? A madhouse… Where?" Sherlock questioned. His little brother locked up in such a place…
"Fogg's Asylum. But I've circled the place a dozen times. There's no way in. It's a fortress," Greg sighed, defeated.
Greg faded to a brooding silence as Sherlock continued pacing, thinking, and thinking. Molly watched him, concerned. Sherlock suddenly stopped.
He settled into an inspired sort of calm, as if he could finally see the Promised Land. "I've got him," Sherlock whispered.
"Mr. Holmes?"
Sherlock turned to Greg, "We've got him… Where do you suppose all the wigmakers of London go to obtain their human hair? Bedlam. They get their hair from the lunatics at Bedlam –"
"I don't understand –"
Sherlock suddenly grabbed Greg, hauled him up, and held him close; forehead to forehead. His whispered intensity was truly disturbing. "We shall set you up as a wigmaker in search of hair — that will gain you access — then you will take him," Sherlock instructed.
"Yes…" Greg fought a smile, it was too early for such strong hope.
"You will not be deterred — You will slaughter the world — To bring him here," Sherlock studied the sailor's expression.
"Yes." Greg nodded.
Molly watched, troubled, as Sherlock embraced Greg closely and held him for a long moment. Then Sherlock is frantic, hurrying to get some money and give it to Greg. "Go and outfit yourself properly; you are to be a gentlemen wigmaker. When you return we shall dispatch a letter to this Mr. Fogg announcing your arrival. Go — quickly now!"
Greg clasped Sherlock's hand, "Mr. Holmes — how can I ever–?"
"Go!" Sherlock instructed.
Greg hurried out.
Sherlock immediately hurled himself into a chair and began writing a letter, his violent scrawl slashing across the page.
"Dear, I wonder if –"
"Fetch the boy," Sherlock muttered.
"Don't you think it's time you –"
"Fetch the boy," Sherlock growled. Molly did as she was asked.