Chapter 2

Day 1

"Sherlock?"

"Fine." Sherlock leaned away from his microscope. Eyed the toast, cut apple and tea that had been put on the table. John took a bite of his own bread. He sighed and then ate the toast and drank the tea.

"Apple too, Sherlock. You promised Molly."

"I don't see why I need fruit." He said as he eyed the four pieces.

"Four months of starvation, Sherlock. You need to build up reserves again."

"That's what multivitamins are for."

John didn't even sigh. Just stood and waited. This has been an ongoing battle for the last two months.

"Fine." Sherlock said and bit into a piece of apple. He grimaced at the taste, swallowing hard but in the end, managed to get all four pieces down.

"There, happy?" he asked as he got up from the table. The big 14 on the fridge caught his eye. He had written it on the door this morning with a white board marker. John hadn't said anything and he was grateful for that.

"You want me to go with you today?" John asked casually.

"No. I'll be fine." Sherlock answered.

"You sure?"

Sherlock nodded. Eyed the time and moved to the door. The big fat 14 on the fridge door seemed to be mocking him. He suddenly wondered if it had been such a good idea to do what he'd done. It had been a moment of frustration when he'd woken this morning and had realised that Molly wasn't there. That she wasn't going to be there for another 14 days.

"I'm on call today so I'll go into the clinic later. Text me if you need anything, okay."

Sherlock gave a small wave to John and then left. His Belstaff was tight against the late autumn chill, the scarf he had received from Lestrade at the hospital around his throat. His body shivered briefly as he exited the warmth of his flat into the street. Clouds were grey and dark against the sky. His lips thinned as unwelcome memories surfaced. He hunkered down in his coat as he made his way down the street. His body slid easily into remembered muscle memory and he strode at a pace that would've made Oliver proud if the man had been alive. He was two blocks down before he realised he didn't need to walk all the way and he came to stop.

How're you going to cope without Ms Hooper?

He ignored Oliver's voice. Flagged down a cab and entered the relative warmth of the car. Gave the address for Giles and leaned his head back, closing his eyes.

She's not safe, you know.

Go away, he thought. I don't need you.

Oh, but you do, Mr Holmes. Why then am I still in your head?

You're dead, he thought. I killed you. Go away. Oliver laughed.

"Excuse me, uhm. We're here."

Sherlock opened his eyes. Time had passed and he hadn't been aware at all. The cabby was in front of a nondescript house. It was where he and Molly went to see the psychiatrist after they had returned from the hospital back to Baker Street. It was a safe space. Sherlock felt himself relax as he exited the cab. Went up to the front door and entered without knocking. Found Giles in the kitchen busy making tea. He took the offered cup without comment, his hands curling around the warmth.

"You good?" Giles asked casually as they made their way to a sitting room. Sherlock plopped down in his chair, opposite the other man.

"Oliver is hard to ignore today." He said and took a sip of the tea. "Molly left yesterday for the conference."

Giles nodded. "You miss her already. But 14 Days is doable, Sherlock."

Sherlock stared at the bookcase. He took a calming breath. Focused on the titles. Giles didn't say anything. Allowed him the time to settle his own thoughts. The silence wasn't uncomfortable. It just stretched out until Sherlock turned his attention away from the titles and onto Giles.

"Why did Molly have to go?" he asked quietly.

"A little distance is not a bad thing, Sherlock. We talked about this. You and Molly both need to get some autonomy back. The conference will be a good way for you both to do it in a safe space."

"She's not safe." He said before he could stop himself. He looked away from Giles, trying and failing to hide his fears.

That's right, Mr Holmes. She will never be safe.

His hands clenched around the cup and he focused on the feel of the enamel beneath his hands. On the chair and the titles of a few of the books until Oliver's voice receded.

"What do you think will happen?" Oliver asked gently.

Sherlock was silent as he dissected the question. A decision tree sprang up in his mind's eye and he could follow the branches. All of them are good. Molly was safe. Mycroft had promised. Mycroft had told him that he'd keep an eye on her. Oliver was dead. Moriarty was in prison, his network almost dismantled.

He finally relaxed.

"Okay. Fine. What are we doing today?"

"I want to talk to you about bilateral stimulation."

"Greg, hi. Did you have a look?"

"Yeah, mate. Sorry but our cases are a bit light at the moment. I'm going through some cold cases, trying to find one that would appeal to him."

"Anything would do, really. Just to get his mind off the fact that Molly isn't here."

"Fine. I'll swing by after lunch and leave a few, how does that sound."

"That would be great. Ta."

"No problems mate. Is he doing okay?"

"Yeah. He should be fine. Just a bit hard at the moment. He's with Giles this morning. Should be back by lunch time. If not, just leave it on the table."

"Yeah okay, will do. See ya."

Sherlock looked up from his chair that he was sitting on. He knew time had passed. Today he'd been especially exhausted for some reason. His emotions were hard to manage, the memories he had dealt with difficult. He blinked against the tears that wanted to form. Focused on getting his equilibrium back.

He found it hard to understand the valleys that seemed to dip in his psyche. Why, when he felt that he was moving forward, it felt like he'd taken two steps back. Molly being at the conference must be one of the factors that had everything muted in colours of deep blue.

"I've phoned your brother, Sherlock. He should be here shortly."

Sherlock nodded. Didn't have the energy to really protest. Besides, Mycroft was safe. Someone in his very small circle he now trusted explicitly. He didn't have long to wait before he heard the door open. Mycroft's soft voice in the hallway followed by Giles' deeper baritone.

"Hey brother mine," Mycroft said as he stepped inside the room. "Ready?"

Sherlock didn't reply. Got up and made his way past his brother. Entered the car and sat down in the corner. Mycroft was silent as the car smoothly pulled away from the curb. Pages rustled and Sherlock noticed that Mycroft was reading from a file. He closed his eyes, leaned his head back as he processed today's session. Was grateful that his brother didn't feel the need to fill the silence with small talk. He couldn't deal with that. Not today.

The driver turned on the radio. Moved the dial and then Bach's partita no 2 flowed from the speakers. Sherlock felt the switch in his mind flip. The car and his brother disappeared and he was back at the bothy. Back with Oliver. Back in his memories and he couldn't stop it.

He had spent the last four days alternating between sleep, drinking Ensure and resting. His body shattered by what Oliver had done, his mind fractured. The first day he had slept through, just catching up on the lost sleep of the last three days. Day two and three had gotten better and he had managed to move between the outside and inside of the bothy with Molly's help. When he was awake, he had focused on his mind palace. He didn't speak to Molly at all. She was a calming presence and he took advantage of that while he tried his best to deal with the physical and mental trauma he'd experienced.

On day four Oliver arrived as promised. He was nowhere ready enough for the other man. His transport was barely functioning. His wrists were still bruised and swollen, the cuts weeping slightly. The bruises on his body were a kaleidoscope of dark green and blue. They hurt whenever he moved. His throat raw, his voice hasn't recovered yet. His mind struggled to hold a thought long enough.

"You will come to understand despair…"

"This is all your fault…"

"Rebel again and Ms Hooper will get to understand what you went through…"

He could remember every word Oliver had spoken during those three days. And seeing the man stand in front of him, brought all of it to the fore. He didn't say a word as he silently made his way to the helicopter.

Oliver didn't react when he couldn't meet the other man's eyes. He was tense throughout the trip, aware of every sound that was made. He unconsciously breathed out a sigh of relief when they landed and he could remove the blindfold. They were on top of a hill, looking out over the estate. He could see an access road winding its way up the hill to where the helicopter was parked. He was relegated to the side, instructed to wait out of the way.

He focused on the vista before him. Calmed the storm inside of him as much as he could. But his body didn't want to play ball. He was reacting to the closeness of the men. Of Oliver. Fear was making its presence felt in a way that he couldn't hide. He hunched into himself, eyes on the tufts of grass that was as ever moving with the wind.

"Good. Set it up here." Oliver's voice commanded. Sherlock watched as Goon 1 brought out three chairs. Two were camping chairs, the other a short-legged event chair. They were put next to each other beside the helicopter. Oliver seated himself in the middle chair, comfortable as he settled down. Indicated the chair next to him.

"Mr Holmes, if you please…"

Sherlock nodded. Sat down in the event chair gingerly. His head just clearing the armrest of Oliver's chair. Oliver's hand settled on his head and Sherlock stilled. He didn't dare breathe as a memory surfaced, of Oliver caressing his hair while he confessed his soul to him barely a week ago. Has it really been that long?

I can't do this again, he thought. Not this soon. Please…

"Because you've been so good with your retraining, Mr Holmes, I thought I'd give you a treat today. We're going to sit here and enjoy the view. I'll provide you with headphones and some music to listen to. You can close your eyes if you want."

Sherlock frowned. Shifted his head slightly so he could look up at Oliver. The hand on his head didn't stop him, just stayed where it was. Oliver made sure to meet Sherlock's gaze. His eyes were clear. Serious.

"A colleague is going to join me shortly. You are not to say a word. Not look at him. Not deduce him. Concentrate on the music. Am I clear?"

Sherlock nodded, dropped his gaze, and focused on the view before him. Oliver patted his head, a hum of satisfaction emanating from the man. "Good, Mr Holmes. Don't disappoint me today. Regardless of what is asked."

Sherlock didn't reply. Goon 3 moved into his view; his stride familiar as he set up a small table between the two camping chairs. Sherlock's body reacted automatically and he pressed against the back of the chair. He hated how his transport was acting but he couldn't seem to stop whatever was going on with it. His eyes filmed and his breathing increased. He clenched his hands around the chair's arm rests.

Stupid bloody transport. Stop reacting.

But he couldn't. The trauma was still too fresh. Too very real. He wanted Oliver's hand gone where it rested unwanted on his head. He would've preferred to run a race to this imposed closeness with the other man. There was something very wrong with this enforced intimacy. Oliver felt the shift in him.

"Shhh. You're okay, Mr Holmes. We're not going to hurt you. Unless you force my hand." He warned. "I know that the three days have been hard on you but see it as an opportunity for learning. You did very good in the end, Mr Holmes. I'm proud of you."

Sherlock almost did a double take. Anger surfaced through the fear. He shifted, tried to move his head out from under Oliver's hand. Fingers tightened, pulled his head back and he was forced to meet the other man's eyes. They were dark and malevolent.

"Don't undo our hard work, Mr Holmes. Anger has its place but not right now. Do you understand?"

Sherlock dropped his gaze, forced his hands to loosen its grip on the armrests. Willed his body to relax.

He had learned the lesson on giving in. Knew it intimately. Now was not the time for retaliation.

"Good." Oliver said, relaxing his hold. "Do you remember the rules?"

Sherlock nodded. The sounds and smell and feeling of hands on his body felt for a moment like he was right back there, in that moment. Oliver asking about his childhood. His mind pulled apart and dissected by unwanted questions.

"Can you say them?"

"Don't lie. Obey and do my best on the challenges," he manages to whisper. His voice was still raw, it hurt to speak.

"Perfect, Mr Holmes. I like that you're a quick learner. It makes things so much …easier, don't you think?"

What the hell is he supposed to say to that?

"Mr Holmes?"

"I'm sorry," he manages to say. Stilled his body, to accept Oliver's hand playing with his curls. Tears were close but he refused to shed any more of them in front of Oliver.

"Shhhh. It'll be okay. I promise. Things will get better, Mr Holmes. Don't fret. You and Ms Hooper will learn to accept that this is your life now. Once I can trust you, things will get much better. A lot more privileges will be available. Something to look forward to, yes."

He shook his head lightly. He wasn't even close to acceptance of that nightmare. Oliver didn't chastise him. He seemed pleased. The sound of a jeep coming up the hill was a welcome distraction.

Goon 1 came into view. The hated headphones in his hand. It took great effort to take it from the man's hand and place it on his own head willingly. Oliver moved his hand, patted him on the shoulder as the man got up from his seat. Sherlock heard a car door slam close and a voice greeting Oliver. He focused his eyes on his feet and then the music started.

Bach's partita no 2 started over the headphones. Oliver's presence was felt as the man sat next to him again. Sherlock could see Goon 3's shoes as they made their way around his chair. Heard the vague clink of glasses. Oliver's hand settled back on his head. Sherlock closed his eyes. Focused on the music flowing over the headphones as he tried to forget Molly's screams that had been heard over it not so long ago.

Reminded himself that it wasn't Molly. That Oliver had played mind games. It was still hard, the trauma all too real and all too close. He didn't know if he'd ever be able to use headphones again without associating it with those three days.

He went into his mind palace into his room at Baker Street he'd created. Focused on John. Mrs Hudson. Had tea. Talked about everyday things. What Lestrade was up too. His transport relaxed while Oliver's fingers were playing with his hair. Whatever Oliver and the man were discussing took a while. Time flowed and the music changed but didn't stop. Sherlock was starting to fall asleep, his body warmed by the sun. His head drooped down. Oliver's hand tightened, pulling painfully on his hair and Sherlock understood the message.

Don't fall asleep, Mr Holmes.

He clenched his hand, opening and closing it briefly until he felt a measure of control over his transport again. Opened his eyes to stare at the grass by his feet. Wondered at the composition and variant. If it was area specific or more widely spread. Focused on what he could see. The movement of bugs underfoot. A small cow parsley was struggling against the wind, flowers white against the green of the grass stems. He counted the petals, focused on the way it swayed in the wind. Tried to find ways to occupy his mind, to stop his transport from relaxing and falling asleep.

It worked for a bit. But it was hard with a body still recovering from the abuse that had been heaped on it less than a week ago. A body sleep deprived because every time he closed his eyes, the nightmares would start. Oliver's hand in his hair was less subtle now, letting him know that the man was getting slightly annoyed. Sherlock didn't look at the man. Kept his head still as he shifted in the chair, trying to get numb legs and buttocks some leeway. Oliver patted his head and then his hand was gone. He felt more than seeing Oliver get up.

His breathing hitched. He couldn't help it. He oh so hoped he hadn't done anything to make Oliver angry. The headphones were removed and Oliver was standing in front of him. The blindfold in his hand. Sherlock opened his mouth to protest. To say he was sorry. Closed it abruptly as he remembered Oliver's words from earlier. He took the blindfold and put it on. Waited for whatever was coming next with resignation.

"Please stand up, Mr Holmes."

He stood up slowly. It was hard. He couldn't see where potential danger was coming from. He almost laughed. Danger surrounded him. It wouldn't matter in the end. Oliver knew that. A hand was on his arm and he forced himself not to react. To be passive. His wrist turned and then fingers were light on Oliver's brand burned into his skin. Tracing it.

"How long has he been here?"

"A little over two months. As you can see, that has healed quite well."

"Yes. Compliant?"

A laugh. "Mr Holmes has learned about obedience, haven't you?"

Sherlock nodded. A hand on his chin, his head was turned to the left and right. "This is all well and good Oliver. I know that you have a process to follow. I'm more interested in his mind."

"Intact. Once his training is complete, I'll use it more. But for a price, you can have access to it now."

Sherlock stood still. Didn't react. Knew the price was too high if Oliver felt he was not following through with the rules. He wasn't about to serve Molly Hooper up on a plate to Oliver. The hand went from his chin to his neck and then down his chest.

"You didn't break him completely, did you Oliver?"

"Do you want to use him or not?" Oliver asked, his tone suddenly had a hidden violence in it that had Sherlock shudder.

"Very well. I'll provide the details. Have him study and look it over and come up with a solution. If it works, we might come to an agreement."

Sherlock stayed where he was as the voices receded when the men moved away. A short time later, a car door was opened and closed and the jeep started up. Sherlock didn't move when he felt Oliver back in his presence.

A hand patted his cheek. "Well done, Mr Holmes. I see that we'd had some success with your retraining. I'm very pleased with you."

They left shortly after and Oliver dropped him back at the bothy. Was very clear that Sherlock was not to discuss any of it with Molly Hooper. Was graphic to what he'd do to the pathologist if he'd ever breathed as much as one word of today's meeting to her.

Sherlock had heeded the warning. Couldn't risk Molly for a few words spoken unwisely. Had been vague when she'd asked how it went. Had gone back to the mattress, laid down and had fallen asleep soon after.

The nightmares woke him constantly that night. In the end, he'd gone outside and left Molly asleep in front of the fire.

Thought about Oliver and his meeting that he'd been privy to.

Thought about the fact that he'd had at least another two months to go according to Oliver's timeline.

He slid down the wall by the well, bringing his knees up. His head resting on his knees as he tried to keep the panic at bay.

"Sherlock?"

He looked up at Molly standing in the doorway. "You okay?"

How could he answer that? He was tired. Was physically hurting. Mentally…a vivisection of his mind; Oliver's expertise at pulling apart his thoughts and replacing it with despair. The thought of Molly in Oliver's hands in the forefront of his mind now all the time. Tears started to flow and he couldn't seem to stop them. The situation was so far from okay, he couldn't articulate even if he had his voice back. She came over and sat down next to him. Hesitated and then her arm was around his shoulders, pulling his head into the crook of her neck.

"I'm sorry." She said softly. Held him as he cried silently. She held him for a while until he could get his transport back under control. Stop the tears from flowing. He felt ashamed that she had to see his breakdown. He moved away from her, wiped his face with hands that trembled. She hugged herself, looked up at the stars that shined above them.

"This is majestic. I don't think we ever see stars like this in London. Too much light pollution. I can see Ursa Major. You know it means 'the great bear' right. There's been fascinating stories told throughout history. The Greeks associated it with the myth of Callisto, a nymph who had sworn a vow of chastity to the goddess Artemis. Zeus fell in love with her and they had a son named Arcus. But Hera didn't like it and so she turned her into a bear. She wandered the forest for 15 years until she and her son came face to face. Arcus was about to spear her when Zeus saw what was happening. So he sent a whirlwind that carried both of them up into the sky. And Ursa Major was born and the Herdsman."

"That's…myths and legends don't hold up to scientific scrutiny." Sherlock said softly. His voice was still raw and he couldn't manage much more than a painful whisper. Molly's story had helped calm him, her voice more than the story calming the storm raging inside him.

Molly chuckled. "That's not the point, Sherlock. Stories can be helpful. It can be a way to remember that things aren't always rosy. It can be tough. That we can overcome. It's…it's just something to focus on okay. Hope is up there," Molly said, indicating the vastness above them. "…and in here," she placed her hand on Sherlock's heart. "Hope doesn't go away. Please don't let Oliver win. You're stronger than him."

Sherlock took a shuddering breath. Her hand was still over his heart and he placed his own over hers. Leaned his head back against the rough stones and looked up at the sky.

"I…" He swallowed. Felt new tears prick his eyes. Slowed his breathing. Focused on the patterns above him. Willed the tears to stop. Was partially successful but he could feel them ready to escape if he allowed them any leeway. "…It hurts." He said in the end. Not sure how else to articulate what was happening inside of him.

Her hand was on his head, pushing his hair out of his face. It was different to Oliver's. Soft. Caring. He turned his head, looked at her. Her eyes shimmered in the darkness that surrounded them, the glow from the stars bright against the sliver of moon that hung in the sky. "What do you need, Sherlock?" she asked, her voice filled with something he couldn't quite understand.

"Just…" he pats her hand that was still on his chest. Gripped it tight. Keep it in place. "…for now, just this." He manages to say in the end. Broke his gaze and focused again on the sky. "…just for tonight…"

"Okay." She said, settled against him. It was cold. But he couldn't move. Didn't want to. Needed this now more than ever. They sat like that as the stars moved in the sky. Sherlock thought about her words. Molly's presence calming in the face of the storm that's raging inside his soul. His mind. He closed his eyes and focused inside. After a while, Sherlock felt something inside him shift. Unconsciously, he'd come to some sort of decision. Hope was cautiously stirring inside him, the flame birthing beneath Molly's hand.

For her. For himself. He had to trust that John and Lestrade and Mycroft were looking for them. That Oliver was capable of mistakes. That this wasn't going to be forever. He took a cleansing breath. Then another one. Focused on his mind palace. Stilled the storm with Molly's hope. Made it his own. Stirred the flames, watching it brighten in the portal of his palace. The tears that until this moment had been surface deep, dried.

When he opened his eyes, the sky was lightning in the east. Bright shards of light beams across the deep blue that brought fiery colours that played across canvas in front of him. Soon, a sliver of the sun peeked behind the hills in the distance and then broke free as it rose. With it the hope inside him rose as well. He couldn't explain it. Had no words for why. He looked to Molly who had fallen asleep sometime during the night. Her head was leaning on his shoulder, her hand still clutched in his over his heart.

And at that moment he knew with certainty that as long as she was there, in his life and a part of him, Oliver would never win. That she was Oliver's mistake. That it was the biggest mistake the other man had made to choose her. And if Oliver didn't see his mistake, he would make others.

"Hey," Molly said, opening her eyes as the sun rose. Shifted, stretched. Her hand moved away from his chest as she rose. Pulled the bucket up from the well and washed her face. He rose, his body stiff and still very much sore. But it was physical and he could deal with that. Molly met his eyes and smiled.

"Hey Sherlock. …It's good to see you again." She stuttered, wiped a stray hair behind her ear. "I mean…uhm. I can see you…"

He smiled. "Thank you," he said. That seemed enough. She nodded. Made her way inside the bothy and Sherlock followed. He slept half the day but this time, for a while, the nightmares stayed away.

"Sherlock. Come on mate. Breathe."

He blinked. John's face was hovering in front of his. Molly in his mind was still there though. Felt very real.

"Where are you, Sherlock? Can you tell me? Focus."

He took a breath. Focused on holding it for three seconds before releasing it slowly. Did it again and he closed his eyes.

"Sherlock. Don't…"

"John," he manages to say.

"You're safe. You're in Mycroft's car. Can you feel the leather seat?"

He nodded. Clenched his hands reflectively. The shift of John's body weight on the seat next to him grounded him more than anything.

"Should we phone Giles…" John started, his fingers on Sherlock's wrist as he took his pulse.

"No." Sherlock said simply. Waited until the fingers left his skin before opening his eyes. Looked at his friend. "I'll be okay."

"Right. Okay. You think you'd manage to get up to the flat?"

"Oh," he said. Looked out the window of the car to see that they were parked in front of 221B Baker Street. Nodded and opened the car door. His legs felt rubbery and he had to wait a moment. Took another measured breath as John came around the car. John waited patiently as he gathered himself. The memory faded away, too slow for comfort. He felt disoriented as always. Looked down at his shoes and the cement of the walkway. The cold after the warmth of the car didn't help. He shivered and for a moment his mind wavered between here and now and then. John's hand was on his sleeve, pulling slightly. That was familiar. He focused on his friend's hand. The sinews and blue of arteries that crisscrossed under the skin. The small little imperfections on the skin.

"Sherlock?"

"I'm okay," he said again. Wished with all his heart that that was true. But he was still seated on the edge, his feet on the pavement. John squatted down in front of him, drawing his gaze.

"You're safe, Sherlock."

He nodded. Managed to get upright and without looking at John he stepped towards the front door. Opened it and breathed in the air of his home. He was home. He made it up the stairs and Mycroft was in the kitchen, making tea. It was incongruent but for some reason that grounded him more than anything else. John seated himself in his chair, grabbing the newspaper and opening it. Mycroft brought tea and the aroma and warmth of the cup in his hands finally settled everything inside him.

"Thanks," he said, glancing at his brother. Mycroft had seated himself by his writing table. A file opened in front of him. A hand waved briefly in acknowledgement. Sherlock took a sip, the tea warm and sweet. He leaned back in his chair. John turned a page and Mycroft opened his laptop.

Sherlock placed the empty cup on the side table and only then realised that he still had his Belstaff on. He got up, removed it and hung it on the hook.

"Thought you were on call today?"

John rustled the papers as he turned another page. "Still am." He said, "Might have to go in later if Peter can't cope. So far not enough patients. Lestrade left you some cold cases."

Sherlock's interest piqued. He spotted the pile of folders. It looked to be five cases the DI had left him. He opened the first folder. Read through the report. Looked at the photos. Spend time on absorbing the data. This was familiar. This he could do in his sleep. Closed the folder and smirked.

"Easy."

"Which one is that?" John asked, folding the paper and placing it next to him.

"The gardener found in the observatory."

"Scotland yard stumped for…"

Sherlock looked at the date. "How did they cope without me is a mystery." He said, "The answer is so obvious…"

John laughed. "Maybe to you. So, who did it?"

"The wife's brother of course. Was upset that he had strayed. Was having an affair with the owner's twenty-year-old daughter. Probably found them in the act."

He solved two more cases. John got curry. All three ate and Sherlock had a good helping, which pleased John. In the end, John didn't need to go in. Sherlock was secretly grateful for that. Glad that both his best friend and brother had not left him alone. He was completely honest with himself. He had needed them today to ground him away from Oliver and his memories. He showered and then closed the bedroom door behind him. John and Mycroft were chatting. The sound of their voices white noise to the storm that still seemed to be threatening inside his mind. His phone dinged and the first genuine smile settled on his face when he read Molly's text.

Safe. Door locked. Had a good soak and in bed. MH

Good. How's the conference? SH

Very interesting. The software looks great. Think I'd be able to get a copy for you to try out. MH

Solved three cold cases today. How Lestrade managed to solve any without me is a mystery. SH

Haha. I'm sure he'd appreciate the sentiment, Sherlock. MH

….

How was your session today? MH

A bit hard. For some reason, Oliver is vexing today. SH

…

Do you need me to come back? MH

No. John and Mycroft are here. I'll be okay. SH

You sure? MH

….

….

Yeah. Sleep well, Molly Hooper. SH

Night Sherlock. MH