Note: This chapter contains mentions of past violence and mature themes.

CHAPTER 8: PROLONGED EXPOSURE

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 22, 2015

Sherlock had his suspicions, but he had to make sure.

His sock drawer was tidy, just as he'd left it. But he dug around in the back, fingers scraping for the filched IDs, and returned with three. He knew perfectly well that he had stolen four. He also knew that only one other person (well, besides Lestrade) knew of it: not only the count, but where he stashed them. For emergencies, of course.

John was out for his appointment with Ella, but Sherlock still double checked the street before climbing the second flight of stairs to John's bedroom. He didn't want to go snooping, but really, what choice did he have? It's fine, he thought. What's good for the goose, etcetera.

As ever, John's room was immaculate. He was sleeping here again, dressing here, but not much else. It wouldn't take long to search the place, assuming the pilfered identification was within these four walls. And Sherlock was confident that it was. John wouldn't have destroyed it, or tossed it in a bin, or left it carelessly somewhere downstairs. Nor would he have kept it in his wallet, just in case he was for some reason caught with a copper's ID. All that, added up, meant it was in the bedroom. Sherlock just had to find it.

First, he turned to the wall, where hung a replica of Gilbert Rogers painting of an RAMC stretcher-bearer from 1919. It had been at Mycroft's urging that John purchase something for this wall, a mirror or poster, but more properly a piece of artwork, and shortly thereafter John had placed an order online for this painting and its wooden frame. Carefully, Sherlock lifted it off the wall and set it aside, revealing the metal plate to the safe built into the wall. He ran his thumb over the reader and spoke clearly: 'Bluebell.' The safe door clicked open.

Inside were the two pistols, eight boxes of ammo, and five knives Mycroft had stocked him with, along with John's additions of a taser, emergency kit, matches, lighters, candles, backup charger, canteen, binoculars, and a passport for someone named Joseph Conan. But no copper's ID.

Sherlock replaced the painting and turned next to the desk, methodically checking the two side drawers. In the top, notebook paper and pens and some torn envelopes containing a handful of sympathy cards. He flipped through the papers quickly and put it all back as he found it. In the second drawer, a short stack of medical books, journals, and folders. Having failed to find his quarry in either drawer, he turned to the long drawer beneath the sliding surface for a keyboard.

Along with pens and pencils, a few old receipts, and psychotherapy pamphlets and exercises, he found a spiral-bound notebook. The page count was 150, but Sherlock could tell, just by picking it up, that it fell quite short of that number. Furthermore, the wire spiral was filled with stripped, ragged paper edges, from the dozens of pages that had been torn from the notebook.

He didn't intend on reading anything, he really didn't. His only purpose had been to flip through the pages quickly in search of the ID. But Sherlock couldn't stop his eyes from seeing any more than he could stop his ears from hearing. The pages were filled with John's untidy scrawl, some of it crossed out or scribbled through, but much of it still legible, and the words floated up to him:

Most nights, while trying to fall asleep, I wonder what it would feel like,
a silver scalpel slashing my throat. Did she feel much pain? Did she know
she would die, even before they brought her to me? I think she knew.

Not wanting to read further, Sherlock flipped the page so hard he almost ripped it, but John's words continued.

. . . when we die? If I knew I'd see her again,would I kill myself and speed things
along, knowing I'd see her within the hour?But maybe that's not how it works.
What if, instead, you meet not loved ones but those you wronged in this life.First
you have to face the fact that you're the monster. Maybe that's the difference
between heaven and hell.

He flipped again.

Ella won't let me forget the details. There is no healing in hiding, she says.
It's just so hard, and she says she understands, but I don't think that's possible.
I've told her that what I remember is pain. Just that. She says I need to write out
the sources of the pain. I'm trying.

Sherlock continued flipping pages, faster now. Some had been torn out, presumably destroyed, but what was left behind was haunting. The word Mary rose off the page like champagne bubbles, but so did the words blood and scalpel and Moran. A few pages on, and the words became rape and Daz and

. . . didn't care that I was crying. He had me on my back this time, and his hands
were around my throat. Lex was laughing. I don't remember what Pete was doing.
But Moran wasn't even in the room. He gave Daz permission and left. Daz was so
heavy. Every thrust was like being crushed . . .

. . . I want him dead. Dead. It isn't enough that he be arrested, tried, convicted,
imprisoned. Not enough. He needs to suffer. Agonising pain, that's what he
deserves. A slit throat, a slashed back. I owe him. . .

. . . God, who have I become? These dreams. They're not like the old dreams.
I'm scaring myself . . .

He stopped reading, and slapped the pages closed. These were private writings, and he was sorry he had intruded upon them. For a second, he regretted coming into the room at all. If there were things John didn't want to tell him, then there were things Sherlock didn't have a right to know. But he was torn. He had already observed the missing ID from his sock drawer. He had already deduced John had been to Belmarsh. He felt compelled, still, to find the final proof.

So he proceeded, returning the notebook to the drawer. Then, in a perfunctory sweep, he dug his hand to the back of the drawer and found just two items resting together. The first was a crystal ashtray Sherlock hadn't seen in almost five years. He'd nearly forgotten it, and it stunned him to see it now. And sitting in the bowl of the ashtray was a gold key. He picked it up and held it before his eyes. It was the key to the front door of 221B, from before they had changed the locks, the same key Sherlock had left John on Porters Avenue.

The items gave him pause. While John had made it clear how he felt about him, Sherlock had never taken him for nostalgic. His brand of sentiment was for people, not things, and he hadn't seemed the sort to keep keepsakes. John didn't carry childhood memorabilia or have a drawer or box of knickknacks collected over the years. He didn't display photographs of his family, with the exception of Mary: the photograph Lestrade had given him rested in a new frame on the nightstand, beside the lamp. And the only physical object Sherlock could name from John's past that possibly held any emotional significance was the RAMC mug he'd brought with him to Baker Street the first time, and then again the second. The mug was currently downstairs, beside the laptops. But now, there were these.

Sombre, Sherlock replaced the key inside the crystal ashtray, and the ashtray in the drawer. Then he gently shut them away.

He turned the pillows and checked under the bed and between the mattresses. At last, he turned to the wardrobe. There, in the inner pocket of John's nicest suitcoat, he found it: Lestrade's credentials, including photo, badge number, and the title of Detective Inspector of New Scotland Yard, London.

'Dammit,' he muttered under his breath.

His suspicions were confirmed: John had been to Belmarsh. Under the guise of detective inspector, he had visited Everett Stubbins, talked to him, asked him questions. Those things didn't bother Sherlock. In fact, he admired it. What did bother him, however, was that John had gone alone. And lied.

'No cane?'

John flashed one of his tight smiles as he gripped the armrests to lower himself into the chair. 'Dr Harper reckons I should go a few hours a day without it. Rebuild muscle strength, increase flexibility, restore balance. That sort of thing.'

Dr Thompson nodded approvingly. 'Physiotherapy going well, then?'

'Well enough.' He grinned tightly again, but he knew she deserved a more thorough answer. Brevity, she had told him on more than one occasion, was a form of self-deceit, and he wasn't doing anyone any favours by lying to himself. So he considered what she was really asking him. 'In two days, it will be six months exactly since the night I was shot. Six months, and sometimes it's like it's been only six days. On and off, a sharp pain jerks me awake in the middle of the night. Most mornings, I still wake up with nerve numbness up and down my leg, sometimes all the way down to my foot, sometimes along my hip and groin. I do Dr Harper's home exercises to restore feeling. I massage the skin and muscles. I get the blood flowing and the muscles oxygenating, and sometimes it works, and sometimes I'm stiff for hours. I don't want that cane. I hate it. But I need it. I think I'll always need it.'

'What does Dr Harper think?'

'Nine to twelve months.' He sighed. 'Then he'll reassess and tell me what he really thinks.'

'Has that sixth-month mark been weighing on your mind?'

'Yes.' The answer left his mouth before his brain had fully considered the question, so he knew it was true. He didn't like the fact that a calendar always seemed to hang before his eyes. Six months ago, he was dying in the basement of a convent. Twelve months ago, he and Mary had taken a short holiday to Stonehenge. Only the month before that, he had moved to Porters Avenue. It was the same day and month he had posted his defence of Sherlock to the blog for all the world to see. Four months from now, he would be alone in commemorating the day, two years ago, he had met her. Six months from now, he would remember the day he had lost her.

Two months from now, he would remember the day he had lost Sherlock. But Sherlock had come back. He had lost Mary, and Sherlock had come back. He supposed he would remember that day, too, for the rest of his life.

'Talk to me, John. You're retreating again.'

That's what she called it. Retreating. He doubted she meant to conjure in his mind the image of a soldier on a battlefield, outnumbered, outgunned, and fleeing from the fight. But every time she said it, that's precisely what he thought. So he shouldered his rifle, took aim, and breathed.

'I wish I were healing faster,' he said. 'Six months, and I'm still having the same nightmares. And adding new ones to the rotation.'

'We've talked about—'

'I know. I know. And I'm tired of hearing that these things take time. I know that. I just hate hearing it. I mean, when do we get there? When is the healing done? When will I be . . . happy again? What if I'm, you know, stuck? Maybe I've reached the end. This is my end, this state. A wonky leg and a twisted mind, and that's it until the day I die. So no matter how badly I want to get better, no matter how hard I work on the leg or how many hours I spend in this chair, this is it. This is as far as it goes.'

Ella smiled softly. 'You really don't see it?'

He shook his head. 'See what?'

'John, it wasn't that long ago that you sat in that very chair and told me why you had come back to me.'

'I had to. If I hadn't . . .'

'You were afraid of yourself, and of what you might do. To Sherlock, for one, but also to your landlady and friends. You were also afraid that, if you didn't get help, then all they did to save you would have been wasted effort. You were living for them.'

'Aren't I still?'

'Yes, but you've added yourself to that list. Not long ago, you couldn't see beyond tomorrow. Now you're looking further down the road, into the distant future, and wondering what life will be like. Not long ago, you told me that happiness was not a priority for you. Now you're asking, when will I get there?'

'Will you be recommending me to a tarot reader, then?' John asked, a small smile playing at the corner of his lips.

Ella laughed. 'You don't need one. I can tell you myself: you're already walking the path. You're learning to smile again. Your appetite is back. Your sleeping is more restful.'

Some nights, thought John.

'So no, you may not be one hundred percent, but don't count your progress as nothing. In only six months, you've made incredible strides, because you're the kind of person who keeps moving forward, no matter how hard things get. You may still be in the thick of it, but that's exactly why it's so hard to see how far you've come. And that's why you have me, to show you.'

'It's true, though, isn't it?' said John. 'PTSD is a life-long affliction.'

'A lot of factors influence one's recovery. But yes, for many, the disorder is one that must be managed over a lifetime. I can't promise you that you'll never find yourself in the basement again, in your dreams. I can't promise that you'll ever be entirely at peace with your body, or the scars in your skin. Or that you'll ever want to have sex again.'

John sniffed and winced, pulling his eyes away.

'But you can manage these things, John, and live a very happy, very fulfilling life, all the same. Your past will always be yours, and the bad sits alongside the good. The future will be much the same, with both good and bad. But there can be so much good.'

Forcing another grin, John nodded. He didn't disbelieve her. But he didn't fully believe her, either. That was progress too, of a sort.

'So today,' she said.

'Today.'

'You choose.'

This was a new tactic they were trying. At the end of every session, Dr Thompson gave John three topics to consider for their next session. He would go home, think about what he was willing and able to talk about, and do some freewriting on the subject to help him sort out his thoughts. Then, when he returned, he would offer his selection, and they would proceed from there. This gave him more control over their sessions and his own progression, while still working within the psychiatrist's parameters. Last time, she had given him three topics he had in the past deftly avoided or outright refused to talk about: sex after rape, Mary's violent death, and killing Darren Hirsch.

Addressing any of those was like tackling a giant—and David had lost his sling. But of those three, only one jar had already been cracked open, if only a little. He could allow for a wider fissure.

He had prepared.

'The first one, then,' he said.

'Please name it.'

That's right. She was no longer allowing such evasions or euphemisms. Rape had a name, and he was to use it. 'You asked me how I feel about sex. In light of . . .' Say it, John. You've done it before. 'After being raped.'

'And you feel prepared to talk about this today? You did some freewriting to sort your thoughts?'

'Yes.' His mind conjured the images of a spiral-bound notebook he kept in the topmost drawer of his desk. He had a bargain with himself, to write daily and reread what he'd written, and not be ashamed. But he cheated. There were dozens of pages he had destroyed.

'All right. Good, John. Then, to help ease us into the waters, I'm going to begin with a short questionnaire, all right?'

He nodded. While she pulled out a page from the binder on her lap, John popped the cap on his water bottle and wet his tongue and throat. He shifted in the chair, readying himself.

'Some of these questions may be uncomfortable, but I'd like you to answer them all.'

''Kay.'

'One.' She poised her pencil on the page. 'In general, before your rape, how would you rate your desire to have sex? Very strong, strong, moderate, mild, very mild, or non-existent.'

'Before?'

'Generally speaking, let's say, in the six months prior.'

He thought of Mary. 'Strong,' he said.

'And since the rape event?'

John cleared his throat. 'Non-existent.' These days, he almost couldn't remember what desire had once felt like.

She ticked a box. 'Next. How often do you think about your rape? Not often, once in a while, one to two times a week, three to five times a week, daily, multiple times a day, every hour.'

'Multiple times a day.'

She ticked another box. 'When do you most often think about your rape? I'm going to read you a list of answers. Just tell me yes, no, or sometimes. When you dress or undress.'

'Yes.'

'When you use the toilet.'

'Yes.'

'When you bathe.'

'Yes.'

'When you watch telly.'

'Depends. Not as often anymore. I'll say no.'

'When you eat.'

'Sometimes.'

'When you are in the company of close friends or family.'

'Sometimes.'

'When you are in public spaces.'

'Yes.'

'When you lie in bed at night.'

'Yes.'

'Can you think of other times during the day not mentioned here that you find yourself most often thinking about your rape?'

John pinched his fingers into the bottom of the plastic bottle until he heard little snaps and cracks. 'I suppose when I've got nothing else to think about. So I try not to let that happen.'

She nodded but didn't comment, only made a note. 'On a scale of one to five, how would you rate your average level of anxiety when you think about your rape during these daily activities, one being low or manageable, five being high or debilitating.'

John thought. 'Two to three. Is that an option?'

'I'll pencil in a two-plus,' said Ella. 'Since your rape, have you had sex?'

'No.'

'Do you masturbate, and if so, how often?'

'No, never.'

'When was the last time you had an erection?'

It was as if he hadn't wetted his tongue at all. Instead, his palms were dampening, and his heartrate was up a few ticks. He breathed, long, slow, deliberate breaths. 'While I was—mmm,' he groaned, struggling to continue. He balled his fist on his thigh and simplified the answer. 'Six months ago.'

Ella looked up from the questionnaire. 'When was the last time you had an orgasm or ejaculated?'

Slowly in. 'Six months ago.' Slowly out.

She paused and asked delicately, 'Was this prior to, during, or after your captivity?'

God, was this over yet? 'During. It was . . . during.'

'I understand. We'll set that aside for now. Next question: What three words would you use to describe how you feel about your body?'

This was getting tougher. 'Er, uh . . .' He closed his eyes, searching for the most honest answers. 'Marred. Breakable.' He sighed out a shaky breath. 'Transport.'

She jotted these down. 'What three words would you use to describe how you feel about sexual intercourse?'

'For myself?'

'Yes.'

'Um. Then, I suppose . . .' Honesty, John. She can't help you if you lie. 'Painful. Abhorrent. And . . . dangerous.'

'Do you see yourself entering into a physical relationship within the next year, the next two years, the next five years, the next ten years, or never?'

His answer here came swiftly. 'Never. I'm done, Ella. I don't want that. Not anymore. Not ever again.'

She moved her hand away from the questionnaire. 'Tell me what you mean.'

'Well, it's a choice, isn't it? And I've made mine.'

'What choice is that?'

'Sherlock.'

'You've chosen Sherlock,' she recast, 'as a partner?'

'Yes. We're partners. Oh. I see what you— No, it's different to the way people think. But I've chosen him. I've chosen a life with him. The life we share together, that life—it's dangerous. It will always be dangerous. It'll take everything I am to keep him safe, and I can't—' His throat closed off for a moment. He grunted and pushed through it. 'I can't risk anyone else getting too close to that. I've learnt my lesson. Bad things happen to people who get too close to us. And after Mary—' It happened again. He cleared his throat mightily and sniffed firmly. 'I loved Mary. I love her still. I'll never love another woman the way I loved her. I wouldn't trust myself to. I . . . I wouldn't do that to another woman. Mm? So a physical relationship? Even if I thought I could—and I don't—I wouldn't.'

'Perhaps the answer, then, is obvious, but I'll ask it anyway. You don't trust yourself or anyone else with physical intercourse. Is that a fair statement?'

He nodded.

'Do you see a distinction between physical intercourse and other forms of physical affection?'

'What do you mean?'

'You trust Sherlock.'

'Yes.'

'There's an emotional intimacy between you, is that right?'

'I suppose so, yes.'

'Then would you trust him with physical intimacy, physical affection, further down the road?'

John smiled softly and shook his head. 'That's not what I meant when I said partner.'

'All I'm saying is, in cases where trust and emotional intimacy are already established—'

'No, no, I know what you're saying. But Sherlock and I, we're . . . something else.' He tried to explain something he'd never really explained to himself. 'I do trust him. I love him. But he's not like that. I'm not either. I never wanted anything physical with him, before he died, and certainly not now, not when I can't even . . . touch myself.'

'A related question, then,' said Ella, 'and our last. We've addressed it before, though not exactly in this context. Would you consider yourself touch-averse?'

'I'm getting better. It's nowhere near as bad as before.'

'That's a yes, then?'

John sighed. 'Yes.'

'On a scale of one to five, one being tolerable and five being intolerable, how would you rate your level of aversion to being touched?'

He considered the question, but there were too many factors to comfortably settle into a Likert scale. For one, it depended entirely on who, and where, and when, and why, and how, and for how long. As long as it wasn't a surprise. Yes, an unexpected touch either set his skin crawling or heart racing, but if he saw it coming . . . And as long as he wasn't touched on his back. Or too high on the thigh, naturally. Or around his neck, again, for obvious reasons. Or against his stomach or chest, for too long, particularly the left side. And the left shoulder, well, that was a bit off limits, too. And his feet. He hated it when Dr Harper touched the bottoms of his feet. It made him want to kick the man in the mouth. Then there were the wrists. Well. He didn't mind, so much, if Sherlock touched those scars. As long as he wasn't caught off his guard. And he didn't mind being embraced. By Mrs Hudson, for one, or perhaps Molly, or Sherlock. He could tolerate that, too.

But, he supposed, he wasn't as far along as he wished.

'Four,' he said sullenly.

'Better than five,' Ella said with a sad smile.

'Yeah. Go me.'

'It is improvement, John. You've come a long way, but we're not done yet. It seems that many of these issues—sex antipathy, touch aversion—are not surprisingly tangled with the rape event. So we're going to continue with the prolonged exposure therapy we began a few weeks ago. Because while choosing to lead a celibate life is not itself an unhealthy choice, choosing it based on feelings of fear, pain, danger, and abhorrence is not healthy. So we'll revisit that question again in future, and in the meantime, we need to address head-on the specifics of the rape event itself, and the emotions associated with it.'

This was not new. Ever since he had returned to her a traumatised victim of torture and horrific loss, she had been engaging him in prolonged exposure therapy. The theory behind it was that repeated exposure—which was to say, re-experiencing the trauma over and over again through repeated narration or writing, or a combination—would decrease anxiety about, anger over, and fear of the event while at the same time increasing coping skills. He was slowly becoming desensitised to the raw horror of it. It was not unlike treating wounded soldiers on the battlefield. The first time a boy had been brought to him with his stomach half blown away and entrails hanging out, he was besieged with nausea and had to leave the tent. Three months later, he didn't even blink. John had to admit the therapy was efficacious. At least, he was able to talk about the abduction now, and the beatings, and even the carvings with a fairly functional level of detachment.

But they hadn't addressed in detail Mary's death yet; it was another door he had been avoiding. He could at least talk about her, though. For a long while, it was too painful to even say her name. He couldn't say, exactly, when that changed. But one morning, he woke up, and suddenly it was possible to think of her fondly, and not drown in the sadness of her memory.

Another thing he had trouble talking about, or even giving a name to? The rapes. He'd said the word aloud now, and with Ella's help had been able to recall the number of times it had happened, and the details of each instance. But now, she deemed, they were ready to confront them more directly. Prolonged exposure. It had another name. Flooding. But she wasn't using that word.

Trying to hide his fear, John nodded stiffly.

'All right. Take another drink.' She set aside the questionnaire. 'And remember your safety zone.'

John closed his eyes and saw the sitting room at Baker Street. As was now his personal strategy, he placed an imaginary Sherlock in his leather chair, holding his violin and wearing his imperious whenever-your-ready-John expression. He also made sure his own armchair remained empty. Someone else had occupied it before. He wouldn't allow that again. 'I'm ready.'

'We're going to talk about the first rape, John. Today, only that. Take your time, and begin when you're ready.

He breathed in and out slowly, fully, allowing his ribcage to expand as he filled himself with calming oxygen. He could do this. He had to do this. This was how he recovered. This was how he became master of himself again. If he couldn't do that, he couldn't hunt Moran, or protect Sherlock, or get justice for Mary. This was the way, and the only way. He had to face his demons.

'It was the eighth day,' he began, 'of my captivity. And they had me on the floor.'

Of course, one of the very first things Lestrade asked the officer was whether Stubbins had had any recent visitors. The officer pulled out a binder, licked his thumb, and flipped backward through a log-in registry.

'Just you, sir,' said the man.

'Eh?'

He had been expecting a 'Nope, not for weeks' or 'Just his dear old mum last Thursday.' What he was not expecting was to see his own name—DI Greg Lestrade—and accompanying badge number written on the 'In' line of the registry and marked at 11.02 on Monday morning, and his initials on the 'Out' line at 11.21.

The corrections officer took no note of his surprise, nor made any indication that he remembered seeing him. Likely, a different officer had been on shift. He thought fast, and with Holmes-like rapidity deduced what was very likely the most plausible explanation: Sherlock. It wasn't the first time he'd impersonated the detective inspector, and Lestrade knew damn well that over the years Sherlock had lifted no fewer than four ID badges off him and kept them ferreted away, despite repeated empty threats to arrest him. God, he was such a pushover. When it came to Sherlock, at least. He knew he had a blind spot. But was it really a blind spot if one knew about it? At what point did it become wilful ignorance?

So he did his duty, pretending he'd been there just two days before, and therefore just hours before Stubbins, former officer of New Scotland Yard, had met his unhappy end. He proceeded to interview the prison guards and some of the inmates who had known him, but there had been no direct witnesses to the event, and he left dissatisfied. Naturally, his next stop was Baker Street.

He decided to arrive unannounced and corner Sherlock with the accusation, demanding to know what he had spoken to Stubbins about and to ask, dear God, had he anything to do with the man's death? He wanted the story directly from Sherlock's own lips before his meeting with Gregson. The chief superintendent was a reasonable man, but he didn't suffer the same blind spot as Lestrade did.

But Sherlock wasn't at home. Nor was John. Mrs Hudson said she'd heard Sherlock go out less than an hour ago, and there was no telling when either of them would be back, but would he stay for a cuppa? He was tempted—a respite from police work was always welcome and seldom claimed—but graciously declined. There were more pressing matters. With a sigh, he thought, weren't there always?

He thought of showing up unexpectedly at Mycroft's penthouse and cornering Sherlock there, if that's where he happened to be. But Anthea was very clear about limiting the traffic to and from the flat, so as not to draw unnecessary attention. She insisted, instead, that all visits be cleared through her.

So he phoned, first, at which point he was told that Sherlock had not been to see Mycroft for two days now.

'And what about you?' he asked. 'Tell me you go home to sleep, at least.'

She unapologetically did not answer. 'We cannot sit on our hands much longer, Mr Lestrade. I'm ready to act. Are you?'

'Soon, soon,' he said, just as he had said before, when he still held the bright hope that Mycroft would soon wake up and relieve him of the obligation. Every day that passed, however, the brightness dimmed a little more.

'They suspect brain damage,' she said sharply, as if reading his thoughts. 'So even if he does wake, he may be of little use to us.'

He winced at the thought, and at her clinical detachment. 'There's something I need to take care of first,' he insisted.

'There's always something to take care of first. But if I must, I'll move ahead and talk to them myself.'

'You won't have to. I'll be there. I promise.'

He texted:

Need to talk to you.
Where are you?

Two minutes later, Sherlock texted back:

Later.
Busy.

Bastard.

There was nothing for it. He was stressed, exhausted, and in need of respite. It was time to go home for a spell.

Well, not exactly home. Since selling the house, he and Molly had been staying in a Wimdu flat on a weekly rental and living out of suitcases. The rest of the property was in storage. Though accommodations were not ideal, it hadn't been so bad, the first week. But neither Lestrade nor Molly had many free hours during the week to go house hunting properly, and the tight quarters, noisy street, and lack of washing machine were beginning to wear on them.

He returned to find Molly sitting at the kitchen table, which was barely large enough for both her laptop and a water bottle.

'You're home,' he said, surprised.

'Taking a long lunch,' she said. A plate of half-eaten leftover curry sat at the edge of the sink. She waved him over excitedly. 'I want to show you something.'

He shrugged out of his coat and left it hanging over the radiator on the wall. Then he came up behind her and looked down at the screen.

'Just went on the market!' she said. 'Vincent Square, so you could practically walk to work! If you wanted. And I could make it to Bart's in under half an hour. Two-bedroom flat, modern kitchen, decent size bathroom. And all that light. Look at those windows! Now, it's a little outside our budget, but there's always room for negotiations on these sorts of things, so maybe after we've had a viewing . . . What's wrong?'

Lestrade moved around to the opposite side of the table and sank down into a metal-and-plastic chair. He leant a shoulder into the wall and propped his head up in one hand, his elbow planted on the table. God, she was beautiful. Even with her hair pulled back in a messy ponytail and with that little dab of yellow curry at the corner of her mouth, and even smelling faintly of formaldehyde, she was perfection. He was so in love, he almost couldn't stand it.

'I love you so much,' he said, though in a half mumble, as his hand was locking his jaw in place.

Molly blushed. 'Oh. Well, good. Because I'm trying to find us a house to live in together,' she teased. 'You had me thinking something was wrong.'

'Something is.'

His stomach flooded with adrenaline, knowing the confessions he was about to voice, and he dropped his face into his hand, scrubbing roughly.

'Greg? What is it? What's happened?'

'I messed up, Molly,' he said woefully. 'I messed up bad.'

She closed the laptop and reached for his hand to pull it away from his face, and she didn't let go. 'Tell me.'

He breathed hard. 'We can't afford a place like that. Not anymore.'

'Why—?'

'Angela came to see me.'

'Your ex?'

'She's suing me for half the sale price of the house.'

Molly gasped. 'She can't do that!'

'She can. She's trying, anyway. I'll fight her, but legally? I don't know if I have much of a leg to stand on.'

He told her, then, about the terms of the divorce and the loophole Angela's solicitors had exposed and exploited.

'But it's not fair,' Molly protested. 'You paid for the house, not her. Take it before a judge. Make her see reason. She has no part in this, not anymore. I mean, what were you expected to do? Never sell the house for as long as you live? Surely, there's something like a statute of limitations on the settlement.'

'There's more,' said Lestrade. Miserably, he withdrew his hand from hers to rub again at his face. More than anything, he wanted a cigarette. Would those damnable cravings never ebb? 'I can't take this to a judge. I'm not even sure I should consult my own solicitors because . . .' He had to close his eyes to say it. 'She's blackmailing me.'

'What?'

'I messed up, I messed it all up.'

'Greg, talk to me. You're scaring me. Tell me what happened! What could she possibly blackmail you for!'

He lifted his eyes to the ceiling and started shaking his head. 'There's this . . . box.'

'Okay. A box. And?'

Lestrade made a pathetic gesture with his hands, indicating the size. 'The truth is, I don't know much about it. I just know it's important.'

'You're not making any sense. I can't just fill in the holes and figure out what's going on. I'm not Sherlock Holmes, you know.'

He laughed without humour. He had already considered and dismissed the possibility of hiring a certain private detective to steal it back for him.

'Start from the beginning. What is this box? Where did it come from, what's inside?'

'I don't know, something dangerous. It has to be.' Then he blurted out the crux of it all: 'Look, I'm working for Mycroft.' Her eyebrows went up and her jaw went down, and before he could retract the confession, he pressed on ahead. 'Ever since Sherlock came back, ever since it's been obvious he and John are in a state of clear and present danger, I've been working for Mycroft Holmes. He sort of, I don't know, recruited me. To play spy for him, run errands, do whatever the hell he asks me to do, just to keep Sherlock safe while Mycroft . . . does whatever it is he does. That box . . .'

He trailed off as the sudden thought occurred to him. Never speak of this to anyone, Mycroft had told him. Our association is professional and distant. Never tell your superiors. Deny it to your loved ones. And for God's sake, don't tell Sherlock. Was it for their protection? His own? Or, perhaps, for Mycroft's? The possibility suddenly seemed very real: Mycroft had been clear that he would deny any involvement with Lestrade, if it came to it. And he never talked about his own people. If they—whoever 'they' were—knew what he was really up to, what would happen to Mycroft? Or—oh God—had it happened already?

Mycroft Holmes now lay in a coma. Lestrade and Anthea were left to operate a machine they'd never even seen.

He stood suddenly and grabbed Molly's hand. Then he pressed a finger to his lips to warn her to be silent. Wide eyed, she nodded. He placed an arm around her waist and gripped her at the arm, he steered her to the door. But before passing through, he dropped his phone on the table and grabbed his keys and her jacket, then together they pushed through the door.

On the noisy street, he finally spoke.

'They may be listening,' he said.

'They? They who?'

'I don't know. Maybe I'm just being paranoid. But what I'm about to tell you, Molly, may be dangerous to our friends. And I can't risk anyone overhearing.'

'You think the flat's been bugged?' she whispered. Her hand tightened anxiously in his.

'I won't presume that it's not.' Maybe it wasn't the flat. Maybe it was his phone. Maybe it was hers. He knew that he was sounding irrational, and he was frightening her. Was he going mad? Was the absence of Mycroft's protective shield a true danger to him, or just making him jump at shadows and think the birds were listening to him and reporting back to their master?

'We'll just . . . walk. Walk and talk,' he said.

But they walked two streets without saying a word. Until:

'I've been working for him, too,' Molly said, under her breath, just loud enough for Lestrade to hear.

He came to a grinding halt.

'You what?'

'Shh.' She slid her arm into his and tugged to urge him along.

Lestrade glanced around surreptitiously, as if to spot a man in a trench coat, hat, and glasses hiding behind a tree. He lowered his voice and stared straight ahead. His hand was growing clammy in hers.

'What do you mean, you've been working for him, too?'

'Back in November—'

'November!'

'—Mr Holmes came to the mortuary. He wanted to see Tony Pitts.'

'Oh my God.'

'It was just an excuse, I think. I mean, he hadn't even known Mr Pitts, right? And he barely looked at the corpse. What he really wanted was to talk to me.'

'What did he want?'

'Nothing, at first. He said he knew that I had helped Sherlock fake his death. He said, if I was willing to help Sherlock once, was I willing to help him again?'

'What did you say!'

'What do you think I said? Of course I'd help him. Why wouldn't I?'

He thought he might wear a hole in his skin, for as much as he kept rubbing circles into the temples. 'What did he want you to do?'

'Be his eyes and ears at Bart's. John had been discharged, but there would be follow-up appointments. I wasn't to spy, really, just sort of . . . keep an eye on things. Be the one to run the labs, even though it wasn't really my job. I thought that would be all, that was Mycroft's way of making sure things were all right. But then things got . . . complicated.'

'Go on.'

'I really shouldn't be talking about this,' she said. 'He said I shouldn't ever say . . .'

'Yeah, he told me the same thing. But look at us now.'

They shared a smile that said damned if you, damned if you don't. Maybe six months ago, even Mycroft Holmes hadn't had the foresight enough to see that Greg Lestrade and Molly Hooper would fall in love like they had. Or maybe he had. Either way, he must have seen the trajectory early enough to know that these secrets could not remain secrets forever. Not between them.

'He wanted samples. Blood samples, if I could get them, of both Sherlock and John. Not much, just 10 ml, about as much as would fit in a syringe. I thought, at first, he didn't trust Bart's bloodwork and wanted his own people to run their own tests. I don't know. It never made any sense to me. But in December, he told me to be on the lookout for—' She cut herself off as a woman came power-walking up behind them, rushing to get somewhere, maybe the Underground. Once she had passed them by, Molly continued: 'Corpses.'

Lestrade barely stopped himself from shouting again and repeating what she had said in his mounting disbelief. 'Whose?'

'Didn't matter, he said. Only that they were middle-aged, fresh, male'—she lowered her voice to speak the word again—'corpses. Two of them. Specifically, two civilians without a criminal past. No better person to ask than a mortuary attendant.'

'And why?'

'He wanted their records. DNA, fingerprints, dental records, all the things forensics scientists use to identify someone.'

'Oh my God. He changed the records.'

'Yeah. I think that's exactly what he did.'

Though not easily accomplished, the idea was simple enough. Sherlock and John were both in the system. Their identifying markers, down to their fingertips and DNA, were on record, national registries—John because of his military history and Sherlock because of one too many past arrests. But if the records were altered, if Sherlock Holmes' identity were swapped with that of a dead man, he became invisible. Any trace evidence he left would lead to a dead end in any investigation. And the dead man now attached to a record with Sherlock's true identity wasn't about to leave any evidence at all.

'Does Sherlock know?'

'I don't think so. Mycroft made it clear I wasn't to tell him anything.'

'Yeah, I got the same speech.'

'That's not all, Greg.'

'Let's hear it,' he said, resigned that there was a world of things Mycroft had done without his knowing.

'All of the victims of the Slash Man—they all came through Bart's. And Mr Holmes, he said he wanted photographs. I sent them on my phone. I know I wasn't supposed to. Not only was it against hospital policy, but the victims were part of your investigation, and it felt like I was selling photos to the media, and if I got caught I would lose my job. But I trusted that Mr Holmes had a purpose, a plan. So when he wanted a photograph of Moriarty's corpse after the exhumation, I sent him that, too. And now he's in hospital, and what if he doesn't wake up? I don't know what it's all been for, and I'm worried I've done something wrong, that I in some way compromised your investigation or put Sherlock and John in danger because of what I've done, and the secrets I've kept. Like with the gun.'

'Gun?'

'The gun I used to shoot the intruder in March. That wasn't the intruder's. It was John's.'

Greg was so stunned he started to laugh. 'When—?'

'After the break in, day before Valentine's.'

It sounded like the sort of thing John would do. Lestrade knew John had a gun, and he never said anything. In his own mind, he justified the lawbreaking because he trusted John, not only in his training in firearms, but in his capacity to use it wisely, morally even. Well, that answered the question about how Moran's man had got hold of an army-issued pistol. Not something he could tell his investigating team, however.

'And I'm so sorry I've kept all of this from you, too, Greg. There are times when I thought I would just burst.'

'And times I thought I would crumble into pieces,' said Lestrade. He stopped them walking and turned her towards him, wrapping arms around her and holding her tightly. 'I don't know what the hell I'm doing, Molly.'

She laughed, but sadly. 'Me neither.'

'I'm frightened.'

She reached up and took his face in her hands. Softly, she kissed him. 'Me too.' Then she laid her head against his chest and let him hold her again, enjoying the comfort and security they both sought.

When they took again to walking, their hands found each other. At least one thing in his life was going right, Lestrade thought.

'So about this box,' said Molly. Discreetly, she wiped her eyes clear. 'It sounds important.'

'Yeah. It does, doesn't it?'

'So we'll have to figure out how to get it back.'

'Mm,' Lestrade hummed in reluctant agreement, though he recoiled at the very thought of Molly being subjected to any kind of encounter with the harpy.

'I guess that means,' Molly continued, 'that it's time you told me about your ex-wife.'

When he walked out of Ella's office and onto Ashbourne Road, John felt much the same as he did after every session: like he had just finished his first week of his Army training regiment, muscle sore and feeling like he might faint but likely wouldn't. He could almost hear the major shouting his name. Watson! You undersized twink, up! Up! Run like a man or keep hugging the mud like a slag. Let's move, move, move! He was shaky all the same. At least he was on his own two feet, cane be damned.

Ella had been sympathetic, but relentless. Her language was soft but unambiguous, her questions direct: What do you remember thinking at the moment of initial penetration? What were you feeling, both physically and emotionally?

Emotionally? Fear. Disbelief. That such a thing could happen to him, was happening to him. Panic that there was nowhere to go, not physically, not mentally. He couldn't escape even to a recesses of his mind where the shadows might hide him and his intense shame. He'd felt like, not a man, but an animal—debased, stripped of dignity and humanity. And that had been only the very first second. Somehow, incredibly, the excruciating physical pain paled in comparison.

His right knee gave a wobble on the step, but as he reached for the railing, he stopped short. Sherlock was there waiting for him.

Sherlock must have seen the lassitude on his face. Of course, it wouldn't take a genius to see how haggard he felt, like his sense of self-respect had passed through a blender and he was trying to reassemble it in a hurry. In an instant, Sherlock's default dispassionate expression promptly slid away. 'All right, John?'

'Uh, yeah,' said John. Then, more honestly. 'Rough one today.'

Sherlock made an aborted movement, as if to step forward, and his arms did a partial lift. It looked as though he were going for a hug—to comfort him? bear him up, should the leg give out completely on the next step—but before Sherlock could follow through with the impulse, he maintained his place on the pavement.

But John would have welcomed an embrace. Not from just anyone. But from Sherlock, it would have been okay. After all, they understood one another. They both knew what it meant to have a 'rough day'. So what if he did want to feel arms around his shoulders. Maybe he was okay with being held for a moment or two, with feeling muscles tighten around him as his own at last relaxed. They weren't strangers to holding each other when they needed it most. Did they really have to wait for the next devastation? What about when they needed it just a little? But John didn't know how to say to Sherlock, it's fine, it's all fine. Not anymore. So he didn't say anything, and let the moment pass.

'Fancy a stroll?' Sherlock asked instead.

'Yeah, a bit of air sounds good,' John replied, and they turned together down the pavement, quickly falling in step with one another.

'Everything all right?' John asked. He hadn't expected to see Sherlock here, after all.

'I assume you mean other than the fact that my brother is in a coma after being poisoned by the same woman responsible for your abduction and torture, and my fourteen-month incarceration in a Libyan hell-hole.'

John nearly stumbled, not least because of what was said, but because, when his head snapped around, he saw that Sherlock's grim face was breaking into a restrained grin. Levity? Were they allowing themselves to point and laugh at how pathetic they were?

'Right,' said John, half ginning himself. Their lives really were quite ludicrous. 'Naturally, besides that.'

'Then of course everything's all right. We're on a case, aren't we?'

'And you just couldn't wait to get going, eh?'

'I didn't see the point.'

'Right. Well then. Where are we going?'

'Where our dear detective friends left off. Naturally.'

'Which is where?'

'The home of Mrs Bill Murray.'

'Frances? Why? She doesn't know anything.'

'Maybe she does, maybe she doesn't. Or maybe she does and even she doesn't know it.'

'Eh?'

Sherlock nodded to the right, indicating that they should take the corner. 'There are two types of interrogators, John. Our Lestrade is of the first sort, and it's his weakest skill as a detective.'

'How's that?'

'He asks questions he wants to know the answers to.'

John sniffed. 'And this is bad?'

'It's limiting. If he doesn't find the answer he wants with one question, he'll merely attack it from a different angle. He's rather single-minded that way. And it precludes him from getting answers to questions he didn't even think to ask. Donovan's not much better. If you go after information, you get information in return—but meted out in exact measurements. The subject is a miser, always a miser, and offers only as much as he is willing to part with. By this method, he will always withhold what he believes most valuable to him.'

'So the second method?'

'Do you not know? I learnt it from you.'

John gave him a crooked, disbelieving smile. 'How's that then?'

'Emotional manipulation. Far more effective.'

'I don't manipulate!'

'Of course you do, though perhaps would rather think of it as sympathising with the subject. Building a rapport. It works. You offer something of yourself to them, and they're much more likely to offer something greater in return.'

'It's called being a decent person.'

'If you like.'

'And it's not a tactic. It's just . . . connecting.'

'Exactly. You employ empathy, and when they are set at ease and feel a measure of trust, they start to talk. You let them. And then, you listen, really listen. I watched you do it with Mr Niazi. But I witnessed it long before then, too. Just one of the many ways you were so valuable to the work . . . before.'

'Oh,' said John, humbled and not a little chuffed. He hadn't been expecting the compliment.

'That's why, when we meet with Mrs Murray, you do the talking.' Sherlock suddenly slowed. 'Where's your cane?'

'I left it at home. Why?'

'Ankle's bothering me.'

John stopped walking entirely. 'We should grab a taxi. Maybe call Smalls.'

'No no, just a little slower is all. It's good, being out in the city. It was a long winter.'

John sighed and shook his head. 'We should sit then. At least for a moment. Take that boot off. I want to see the colour of your ankle.'

'An overreaction.'

'The last time you neglected it, you went septic.'

'Yes, and now I have a lovely pin in my bones to keep them from sliding around down there.'

'I'm not kidding, Sherlock. You mistreat it, neglect it, things start to go wrong. It's no different to what's going on up here.' He tapped the side of his head.

'You're the expert,' Sherlock mumbled.

'Damn right I am,' John answered, just as sullenly. 'Sit.'

John directed him to a wooden bench on the corner of Greyville and Kilburn Priory. Sherlock lowered himself with a groan like an old man, and John sat beside him and rubbed his own right knee. 'Quick look then, eh?'

'Fine.'

Sherlock reached down, lifted his trouser leg, and undid the Velcro straps. It was a laborious process, this putting-on and taking-off every day, but he'd not been complaining of it, much. Not aloud, anyway, which concerned John, who was used to hearing him complain of hindrances, both large and insignificant. He wondered just how long Sherlock had been bearing this 'bothersome' ankle. Probably for a bit; the pain was probably more than he was letting on.

And to let John take over as primary interrogator? Something was definitely off.

With the boot removed, Sherlock crossed a leg to give John better access without making him kneel on the pavement. John peeled the black sock down gently to expose the pale, bony ankle, along with the incision line from the surgery.

'When's your next PT appointment?' John asked, lifting the leg a little by the calf. 'Friday?'

'Friday.'

'Flex your toes.'

There was no swelling, fortunately, and no discolouration. But Sherlock's calf muscles quivered as he flexed his toes. 'Bit stiff,' he said, holding his breath.

John nodded, then gently rotated the ankle clockwise and anticlockwise. 'Does that hurt?'

'Just a bit.'

'And this?' He bent the foot forward and back.

'Mm,' said Sherlock in the affirmative, wincing.

'Well.' John rolled the sock back up. 'No discolouration or swelling. That's a good thing. Are you doing your exercises regularly at home?'

This time, Sherlock gave no answer at all, like a guilty child caught in a lie.

'Muscle strain,' said John. 'I doubt there's a problem with the bones. You'll want to mention it to your therapist, of course, but I'll bet he tells you the same. You've got that boot on most of the day and wear the brace at night, so your muscles are immobilised ninety percent of the day; they're trying to atrophy. You have to do those exercises, Sherlock, every day. Twice a week at therapy isn't good enough. When you don't stretch it properly, then go strolling around London, you put stress on unworked muscles. So of course it hurts.'

He sat back while Sherlock grumbled and inserted his foot back into the boot; he resisted the urge to coach him 'not too tight' as Sherlock adjusted the straps. When he had finished, he leant back into the bench and made no indication that he was ready to up and go.

Then John, thinking over what Sherlock had said, broke the silence. 'You forgot the third.'

'Hm?'

'Methods of interrogation. You forgot the third.'

'No, I didn't,' said Sherlock, simply and unperturbedly, as though he had been expecting the objection from the start. 'I'm merely denying it any value.'

Nothing more was said after that. John laid his arm behind Sherlock along the backrest of the bench, while Sherlock folded his hands together in his lap. They sat placidly for a while, silently, listening to the birds overhead and watching the cars of trundle by on the streets of London.