Jim sits on the sofa. Janine waves him away. "Pay him no mind."

Mike and John try. Jim's eyes are hard to ignore. "Where's Mary?" asks Mike.

Janine shows them.

In her bedroom, the curtains are drawn. It's dark; no one can see a thing. Janine knows the flat's layout by memory, but John and Mike have to grope around and make sure they don't hurt themselves. "Turn on a light, maybe?" John suggests. Mike sniggers.

"She doesn't want the light on," Janine says, ever a good friend. She stops walking. Mike and John stand beside her.

Mike glances about the room, squinting and trying to pinpoint Mary, who is nowhere to be found. All is quiet. "Where is she?"

"In the closet." Janine has calmed down by now. Her breathing is still labored, she is still shaking, but she isn't crying anymore. Little specks of mascara dot her cheeks.

"Don't you think it's time for her to come out?" John moves past Janine, touching the door knob to what can only be the closet. He opens the door.

It's instant, with no hesitation. Mary's hand grabs John's ankle. She pulls, strong, forceful, fingers unyielding. John holds onto the doorjamb and Janine's shoulder to prevent falling. "Hello, Mary." Janine stumbles only slightly. Her hands are faint on John's back and chest.

Even in the dark, John can tell Mary doesn't look well. The closet is small, forcing Mary to curl into a tight ball. Her blonde hair is stringy, making her pallor even more prominent. She's wearing a thick winter coat, a wool cap sticking from the pocket. With her knees to her chest, she resembles a fetus. Underneath her feet, the carpet appears damp. She's still wearing shoes. Her scarf is wrapped around her neck a number of times. John wonders if she's warm. He ducks down, mindful of the fingers around his ankle, and presses the back of his hand against her forehead.

Cold, chilled, actively sweating. John pulls his hand back. "What's wrong with her?" John turns to Janine.

"She won't come out." Mike moves toward them now, crouching next to John and giving Mary his own inspection. "She says she prefers the dark. She's hungry all the time, but she vomits whenever I give her anything. I'm worried she's going to get dehydrated. Look at her fingers!"

John looks at Mary's fingers, peeling each of them from his ankle. "Wow, I wish there was some light."

Mike pulls out his phone and angles the screen away from Mary. Despite this, she shrinks, shutting her eyes and rolling until her back is to them. Her arm remains outstretched for John. Mike squints again. "Looks like paper cuts. Has she been filing?"

Janine snorts. "Funny, yeah."

John lightly touches them with the tip of his thumb. Her skin is cold. Each cut burns, as if they are on fire. "Actually looks like puncture wounds. Like—"

"Teeth," Mike finishes.

"Bit myself," murmurs Mary, almost too soft for them to hear. "It helps."

"You two boys are going to be doctors, right?" Janine crosses her arms over her chest.

"Yes," says Mike.

"Well, since you put it that way," says John.

"What should I do? Does she need to go to hospital?"

Mike and John give each other a look. Neither of them wants to be here right now. Mike turns off the makeshift flashlight, and John drops Mary's hand. He gives it a little pat. "How are you feeling, Mary?" John presses his fingers along her wrist. "Do you think you need to go to hospital?"

Janine rolls her eyes. "She's not gonna agree to that, John."

Mike shakes his head. John rubs his fingers into Mary's cold skin. "Mary?"

"Close the door," she whispers. "Let me rest."

John and Mike are quick to stand. "Says she needs her rest, and because we are going to be doctors, we should… let her have that rest." John dusts himself off. "The customer is always right and… all that."

"You're an arse." Regardless, Janine closes the door. Mary mumbles her thanks.

"Oh, I'm not a doll anymore?" John pouts. "Do I still smell like a peach, at least?"

Janine ignores him. "I'll keep an eye on her. Try to… feed her again."

"Be careful," Mike advises. He pulls John from the room, pushing him into the lit hallway. It hurts John's eyes. He rubs them. "You are a bit of a little shit."

John shrugs.

Jim is on the sofa. His head slowly turns as he watches them walk to the door. "Did you see the bite marks?" he asks.

"Yes," answers Mike. "Try to keep them clean. I would wrap up her fingers, so she doesn't try to bite herself again."

"She might rip off the bandages." John looks at Jim. Jim looks at John. "Or she might not."

They leave the flat. John and Mike begin to feel immensely better.

"I don't think Jim was taking about the marks on her fingers," John says once they return to the fourth floor. "He looked confused. He looked at us… like we were idiots."

Mike frowns. "Don't tell me you have more wild theories."

"It's good to know you have confidence in my abilities." John scratches his arm. "Mary didn't have a pulse, Mike."

"Maybe you were doing it wrong."

"Yeah." John nods. "Maybe I was doing it wrong."

John wasn't doing it wrong.

He's training to be a doctor. He wasn't doing it wrong.

Sherlock is dressed in mostly black—black coat, black skirt, a pair of black boots John thinks are really cute, and a soft blue scarf. His hair is long, curled, freshly washed. "Want to go out?" he asks, but it isn't needed. Clothes tell a story.

"Lemme get my jacket."

Earlier this week, it had snowed. Classes were cancelled. Teachers worried, students cheered. The sun is never out, but the clouds don't threaten any more snowfall. What a shame, John thinks. Sherlock's hair looks quite nice with snow in it.

John shoves his hands deeper into his pockets, fingers curled around gloves he struggles to put on without removing his hands from his pockets. He clenches his jaw and pointedly doesn't shiver. Sherlock is some sort of God next to him, walking with one foot in front of the other, his back straight, his hair perfect, and even more taller than John than usual. His boots have heels that add several inches to his height. John loves it.

"Haven't seen you for a while—before I did, but… you know," John starts, clearing his throat. "'Fraid to admit I was worried you moved."

Sherlock stubbornly shakes his head. "I would have let you know if I moved."

"How?"

Sherlock shakes his head again. "I hoped I wasn't pulling you from other plans you may have had. You didn't seem busy. Films were on the coffee table, but I don't think you were watching them."

"No. Mike and I had to… check on a friend. She's sick. Not sure with what."

For a moment, Sherlock is quiet. "What's wrong with your friend?"

She has no pulse. She's cold. She bit her fingers to the point they wouldn't be able to touch anything without stinging.

John shrugs. "Maybe a cold."

Sherlock is satisfied.

They pass shops. John ducks inside one with a brick exterior and a warm interior. Sherlock turns on his heel and follows with no question. John would like to stay in here for the rest of the night, but Sherlock looks uncomfortable. His eyes are narrowed, his brow furrowed, and he hides his nose in his scarf. Quickly, John purchases some Reese's and tugs Sherlock back outside.

It's cold. John shivers. Sherlock doesn't, by some magical means. They stand underneath a streetlamp. John tears into his candy and chews. "Want a bite?" he asks, after noticing Sherlock's eyes on him. Sherlock has been known to stare at John, though, so John hopes he wasn't being too upfront.

Sherlock, eyes gentle and the wind caressing his hair, replies, "Sure, I'll, uh, have a bite."

John holds it up, his arm nearly outstretched. Sherlock leans in and bites into the piece of chocolate, breaking off a tiny piece. His jaw works up, down, up, down, stops when he swallows. Carefully, John smiles. "It's good, yeah?" Never has he been more interested in watching someone eat. He licks his lips.

Sherlock runs off, ducking into an alley.

John doesn't wait to run after him. In the alley, among the dark and the piles of snow pushed off to the sides of buildings, John hears the sound of someone vomiting. His half-eaten Reese's cup, wrapper and all, rests in a puddle of brown slush. "Hey, hey, hey," John whispers, immediately running his fingers through Sherlock's hair, tucking it behind his ears, loosely twisting it at the nape of his neck. "It's okay, it's okay."

Sherlock is bent over, a hand on brick, the other resting on his knee. "I know," he says, voice hoarse and full of unshed tears. "I don't know… what came over me." When he recovers, John drops his hand to Sherlock's lower back, holding him steady. "Sorry."

"Don't have to apologize for getting sick. I should have asked if you were… allergic to peanut butter… or something." John rubs circles into Sherlock's coat, wanting to provide comfort, but assuming Sherlock wouldn't be able to feel it. "I can walk you home." John doesn't think Sherlock is allergic to peanut butter.

"I wasn't expecting any less from you, John Watson."

John feels like kissing Sherlock, but it's dark, and Sherlock still has vomit on his bottom lip. Gingerly, Sherlock wipes it away when he notices John staring.

"Come on, you… loon."

John does kiss Sherlock. They're in front of Sherlock's door. John stands on tiptoe and delivers a small peck on Sherlock's cheek, lasting a total of four seconds. It's a kiss. Sherlock appears breathless, speechless. "You okay?" John frowns.

"All right." Sherlock smiles then, and John smiles back.

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight."

Sometime between Saturday night and Sunday morning, John dreams of the bathtub with the yellow paint. This time, both arms are in the bathfill, and he's performing CPR on the body deep inside. With each pump, he breaks ribs, punctures lungs, but with each pump, bubbles float to the surface. Air is escaping. With each pump, John hears cracks, cracking. It doesn't stop. Soon, his hands go numb. When new bubbles appear, his hands join them. His fingers twitch, waving at their owner. John blinks, hears more cracking, more banging, more shaking.

John turns his head. Someone is knocking on the bathroom door, demanding entry, wanting inside. John has no hands, so he pushes himself up with his wrists and starts toward the door. The knocking is more persistent, more eager. Voices are thrown into the mix, deep ones, loud ones. They scratch at John's ears until he can no longer hear. There is no more knocking, there is no more cracking, and yet, John continues to the door.

John's hands are gone, and yet, John opens the door.

He smells winter and pine trees. He begins to cry. Then, hushed, a familiar, foreign accent, "May I come in?"

John opens his eyes and sees Sherlock. It's a beautiful sight. "Sherlock, what the hell?"

Sherlock is perched on John's windowsill, bare toes and fingers gripping the edge. Somehow, he is perfectly balanced. He's changed out of the clothes from this evening, now wearing an inside-out t-shirt and blue jeans, his hair pulled up into a loose bun. "You were thrashing in your sleep. I tried to get your attention. I think you were sleepwalking." Sherlock doesn't believe the words coming from his mouth; his brow furrows and his bottom lip sticks out. It goes away quickly. "May I come in?"

John takes a step back, digging his knuckles into his eyes. "Yes, Jesus, fuck, shut the window."

"Say it."

"You may come in. Damn."

Sometime between Saturday night and Sunday morning, Sherlock comes into John's room.

The window closes. The draft ceases. John is suddenly more content. "Thank you." He picks up blankets and pillows from the floor and fixes the bed, unable to remember actually getting up from the bed itself. Maybe he was sleepwalking. A frightening thought.

He fixes the pillow last, bringing it close and shoving his arms underneath it. Sleep will overpower him soon, and he'll go back to dreaming awful things. Sherlock is here now, but even the thought of Sherlock sleeping next to him doesn't quell John's concerns. "I might kick you in my sleep," John says, ashamed.

The rustle of fabric, soft footsteps, and his bed dips down.

Sherlock is freezing. He crawls, on hands and knees, until he is curled behind John, underneath the thick wool blanket. John states the obvious. "You're freezing. How long were you out there?"

Silence. Sherlock runs his fingertips up and down John's arm, raising gooseflesh, sending chills throughout John's body. This isn't going to warm me up, John wants to say, I'm going to push you out of the bed if you don't quit. He doesn't. John reaches behind him, grabbing hold of Sherlock's hip and pulling him in close. It doesn't take much; Sherlock was already so close to him. Now, though, his naked groin is pressed against John's clothed arse. He breathes in sharply and makes no other sound. John holds him there. "Get on top of me," whispers John, his eyes wide open and awake. He doesn't want to go back to sleep for some time now.

Sherlock gets on top of John, his weight heavy and comfortable.

"Crawl up until I say stop."

Sherlock stops before John tells him to. Sherlock knows where he's supposed to sit.

In the morning, with daylight streaming through the curtains, Sherlock isn't here.

In the morning, with birdsong in the air, John finds a note lying on his desk. It's on a torn-out piece of paper from one of his notebooks, written in pen, in messy handwriting. John can read it perfectly fine.

I MUST BE GONE AND LIVE, OR STAY AND DIE. YOUR SHERLOCK

John smiles.

If Mike knows anything, he acts none the wiser. "Think it's supposed to snow again tonight," he says, munching on toast, pouring coffee. "Do you think they'll end up cancelling the rest of the semester?"

John taps his chin in heavy thought. "Would we still have to suffer through finals?"

"Yes."

"Then, I shall become very acquainted with the broken lift shaft."

They raise their mugs and form a pact—laughter, laughter, and laughter, and laughter.

It does snow, but it doesn't amount to anything. John grumbles and shoves a hat on his head, wraps a scarf around his neck, and all the while, thinking of Sherlock.

Loud music is playing as John returns from his class. He doesn't recognize the artist. However, the intention of it is very clear: to help everybody wake up. It's Monday. Every person John sees rubs their red eyes and bites their chapped lips. They're groggy, cold, their mobile phones another limb every hour on the hour to check the weather update. Much like John, they were also expecting a snowstorm to come through and prevent them from attending class. It's happened before, why not now?

The only person actually thrilled to be alive today is Sherlock.

He's waiting on the sofa, his knees pulled underneath him, his eyes glued to the television set, currently turned onto a James Bond film Mike left in a few days ago. John drops his bag to the floor. "Who let you in?"

"Mike," Sherlock says, not moving his head, "before he went out."

"Where did he go?"

"Something about milk."

"I keep forgetting that."

"If it makes you feel any better, I always forget the milk."

John sits next to Sherlock. He undoes the laces on his shoes. "Funny how I thought your brother wouldn't let you leave the flat when you two first moved in."

"It's not funny. You were correct."

Was John expecting anything different? What else could he possibly be right about? Take that, Mike. After removing his shoes, John moves his legs onto the sofa with them, tilting his body toward Sherlock. "I'm getting the impression your brother is not a very nice man."

"He's all right," Sherlock says, and laughs. "He keeps me… safe. No one did that for me before."

Sherlock's hair is loose today. Since their encounter last night, he hasn't showered. John can still see the hints of where he ran his fingers through the dark locks and pulled and pulled and pulled. John straightens up, the cushion creaking beneath him, and threads his fingertips along Sherlock's curls again, detangling, smoothing, stroking. "What about your parents?" John asks. "You've never told me about them before." Sherlock's hair is thick. John gets his fingers stuck more times than he would like for Sherlock to know. Gently, John pries away the knots.

"My parents never moved to Sweden with me," Sherlock whispers, his lips hardly moving at all. "We were in London together, but it was only Mycroft and me who made it to Sweden." He leans into John's hands, a slow slide to the left as their legs touch.

John stares at Sherlock, finally freeing his fingers. "Why didn't they move to Sweden with you?" John anticipates an answer he already knows, yet doesn't want to know.

"They were murdered."

"Did the murderer get caught?"

"No. He will be caught… in a way." Sherlock pushes his hair over his shoulder, turns his back to John. "Braid my hair, will you?"

John decides, as he's braiding Sherlock's hair with all the skill he learned from his sister, Sherlock is very strange.

Over the course of the week, Janine texts Mike and John with updates on Mary. Neither of them asks for this.

At the end of the week, John and Mike reread them, going back and forth, day by day.

"'Monday'," Mike starts, "'Mary is still in the closet! She won't fucking come out. She won't fucking eat. Jim hasn't left! I think he knows something, but he won't tell me, the tit.' Creepy bloke."

"'Tuesday'," John continues, "'I've managed to get Mary to finally come out. She sits in her room, on the bed, all damn day. She still wears the clothes Jim found her in, which have started to smell. She doesn't move, and she still doesn't eat, no matter what I cook her. She tells me her lips often crack, and her throat often burns. Maybe just a bad case of strep? I'm not a doctor, though!'"

"'Wednesday. I think I need to take her to someone. Though, Mary swears she's fine. Can I believe her? She's moved around some today. I haven't seen her eat anything. Her eyes are dark, unhealthy. She showered today, too. Jim told me to keep track of the bite marks, but when I told him I was taping up her fingers, he called me an idiot and didn't explain any further.' Just like what you said, John. Do you think Jim knows something we don't?"

John shrugs. "'Thursday. I found bruises on Mary's neck. I don't know what they mean. They don't exactly look like hickeys, so I'm guessing it was from the attack. But it might be from an eager lad! Mary ate some meat today. She made me cook it all bloody. I didn't like it; she sure did!'"

"'Friday. Mary hasn't gone to class all week! She does the homework I pick up for her in her room. The curtains have been drawn, much to my extremely valid disappointment. When I tried to open them today, Mary screamed and ducked under the bed. Her hands and the side of her face erupted into icky boils. She wouldn't let me see them, not that I would want to. Gross. They disappeared after she spent an hour or two under the bed with a cold washcloth to the affected areas. Don't I sound like a doctor? She swears she eats. She swears she's feeling better. Jim won't stop looking at me. He does that, though, so I shouldn't be surprised. I feel weird… Do you two want to go out tonight? Molly wants us over at her place.' Of course she'd end it with an invitation to a party."

"Do you honestly expect Molly to have a party, Mike? Molly." John shoves his phone into his pocket. "Are we going?"

"What, are we a package deal? You're more attached at Sherlock's hip than mine, mate."

John narrows his eyes for a brief moment. He shakes his head. "Sherlock won't come."

"How do you know? Did you ask?"

"Don't need to ask. I know he won't come."

Mike snorts.

John asks.

He knocks on the door to their unit, dressed and ready to go to Molly's. "I'll just be a minute," John had told Mike, to which Mike said, "You're asking Sherlock, aren't you?" to which John said, "Fuck off."

John knocks on the door again, clasping his hands behind his back right after. He waits. When the door opens, he smiles, but when he sees it's Mycroft, he frowns. "Oh."

"Not pleased to see me, John?" Mycroft tuts.

John rolls his eyes. "Can Sherlock come out and play?"

"He isn't feeling well. Goodbye." Mycroft moves to shut the door. John catches it, holding it open for a moment longer.

"What do you mean he isn't feeling well? Is it, like, life-threatening?"

To that, Mycroft laughs. John frowns again. "You needn't worry about that, John. Go have fun."

Mycroft shuts the door. John lets him.

Janine's invitation to Molly's gave the impression it would only be her, Molly, Mike, and John. At least, it gave Mike and John that impression. They exchange looks at the sight of Mary and Jim there, both looking almost identical with dark eyes and sickly skin. Jim's appearance looks normal. On Mary, it only looks wrong, like she should be hospitalized immediately. John sits next to her. "How are you doing?" he asks, out of politeness rather than out of genuine concern. Mary is the girl who reminded him his shoes were untied, who always had a smile on her face and a cheerful twinkle to her eye, who kissed him with red lips and the smallest of romantic intentions. John feels nothing for her now. He looks at her and sees Death itself. She even smells of rot, a stench he finds oddly familiar.

"I'm okay, John," replies Mary.

John's eyes stray to Mary's neck. It's bare, white, and the faintest hint of teeth marks the surface. John looks away and makes eye contact with Jim. He's sitting beside Molly, on the sofa, an arm around her waist. John thinks they're seeing each other. Molly is happy, pink cheeks and wide eyes, and Jim is sitting beside her, blank and unreadable as can be.

Janine is the one to inquire about the alcohol.

"Oh, in the fridge," Molly says. Janine doesn't waste a single second.

John doesn't drink much. Janine mostly chatters, her conversation being the forefront to the indie music playing in the background. The music is soft, barely there. John hums to himself.

As the night progresses, Molly fidgets in her seat. Mike asks her about this. "Are you okay there, Molly?"

"I've been fighting back the urge to show you guys since you got here." Molly stands abruptly, a tad tipsy.

"Kitten—" Jim reaches for Molly's hand.

"Jim, don't spoil the surprise." Molly darts into a room with a closed door. She's gone for a moment, returning with a fuzzy ball of fur in her arms. "Look! Isn't he cute?"

The kitten meows. Janine squeals and claps her hands. "Aw! What about Toby? Do you still have him?"

Speak of the devil, Molly's other cat comes creeping out the room. His fur is on end, his ears pinned to the top of his head as he arches his back and shows his teeth to the guests. Molly points at him. "Toby, behave! He normally isn't like this, you know."

"So, what does this bring your cat total to, Molly?" John sets his beer can on the floor beside him. "Six, maybe?"

Molly blushes. "No, not yet. I have three."

"Where's the third?" Mike looks around.

"A stray," Molly says, and nods toward the back of a chair, where John is sitting, and where Mary is balanced on the arm. "There."

This cat is no older than the kitten in Molly's arms, no more than a year old. Its fur is white, the nose pink, and the eyes amber. Like Toby, its teeth are bared. John suddenly doesn't want to sit here anymore. He moves to stand, regrets it. Upon standing, Mary moves, as well, and the white cat with sharp teeth and claws hisses and claims Mary's skin as its own. Mary screams. Molly shouts. Toby gains courage and pounces on Jim, digging claws into his legs and scratching and scratching and scratching.

Janine jumps, yelling. Mike's eyes go wide. John feels sick. He watches the cat strike at Mary, ripping at her cheeks, her neck, her chest. He doesn't know what to do. His hands are shaking. He doesn't want to get scratched.

Meanwhile, Jim shakes off Toby, kicking the bundle of rage and blood. Molly scolds Jim, but no one is listening. Toby licks his shoulder and moves onto Mary.

John hears voices and voices, panic and mania. He reaches over and tries to peel the cat from Mary, but he's scratched in the process. John sticks his finger in his mouth.

Mary's screams drain out everybody's thought process. She begins to walk, to run, and then they're watching her leave the flat. In Molly's arms, the kitten hisses and shows its tiny claws and follows Mary with green eyes. Mike, John, and Jim skid outside, too, while Janine coddles Molly. "I don't understand," Molly is saying, as they race down the hallway. "I don't know what's gotten into them."

Jim is ahead of John, Mike trailing not far behind. They're running, panting. Jim's trousers are torn, traces of blood flying off him and landing on the flooring underfoot. "Mary!" Jim calls. "Mary, Mary!"

With two cats crawling their way up and down her body, Mary doesn't look like herself. She continues to scream, to run. Other tenants are sliding heads through doors and peering to see what's going on. All they see are flashes of fur and three men and blood, so much blood.

"Mary!" Jim catches up to her, grabs her arm, but a cat drags its claws along Jim's wrist, his arm, and Jim drops to his knees, clutching his wrist, at the veins the cat severed. Mike stays with Jim while John hurries after Mary. He doesn't go far, has to stop. Jim yells behind him, screeching at the top of his lungs. "Why did you stop? Get her!"

John stands there, at the end of the hall, and watches Mary tug open the lift doors and fling herself down the unused, broken shaft.

By now, Molly and Janine have come to see what's going on. Insensitive but expected, Molly cries, "Toby!" and runs down the stairs, Janine quickly following behind with tears in her eyes, reminiscent of not even a week ago. She calls for Mary, although John thinks Mary won't be able to hear.

Behind him, Mike is dialing emergency services. Jim is weeping, clutching his arm. Blood is everywhere, the sight of something grotesque and critical, but underneath Jim's palm, the gash the cat gifted him is barely a scratch.