CHAPTER 16: A FUTURE, OF A SORT

MONDAY, MAY 4, 2015

The detective inspector said it was a gamble, their being home, and was she sure she didn't want to call ahead? But Ella was sure. She knew John well, and had a pretty good sense of Sherlock: if they knew she wanted to see them, one more time, in their own flat, they would say no. They would be polite and reasonable, but they would say no. John, assuming guilt for what had happened in her office, would argue that it wasn't safe, and Sherlock would thank her curtly for her concern before insisting that they would manage just fine on her own. He would be wrong. So she intended to help them along in her absence.

It had been challenge enough getting DI Lestrade to agree to bring her from the safe house to Baker Street, let alone without announcing themselves. In the end, though, he must have trusted she had their best interest at heart. He did, too. So they arrived at 221B in the drizzling early afternoon, Ella with carefully prepared, plastic-shrouded manila envelopes tucked under her arm, and Lestrade with constant lip-licking and finger tapping. She suspected he was craving a cigarette.

But he didn't ring their flat. Instead, he buzzed for the landlady, a cheerful old woman who was surprised but pleased to see Lestrade and embraced him warmly while regarding Ella with a chary eye.

'This is Dr Ella Thompson,' said Lestrade, and a light of recognition came over her. She knew the name. 'She's just going to pop upstairs to have a word with John and Sherlock. While they're at it, I was hoping you might enjoy some company? I hate to intrude, but—'

'Intrude, please, intrude! I'll put the kettle on. Isn't it my lucky day?'

John had mentioned Mrs Hudson frequently in their sessions, with affection, and now Ella could see he was not exaggerating about her warmth and intellect. She cottoned on quickly to the situation without needing to ask a single question, and gracefully played her part in keeping Lestrade occupied until they were ready to leave.

'Be back in a tick,' he said to Mrs Hudson with a wink. Then he gestured to Ella and led the way up the stairs.

The door stood open, and Lestrade paused only briefly before letting himself in. Ella followed. The sitting room was empty, but they heard footsteps pacing the floor above, and noises from the back of the flat, like drawers opening and shutting. Lestrade told her to wait a moment, then headed into the kitchen and toward the hallway. 'Sherlock? It's me,' he called, a warning that he'd entered the flat uninvited.

Ella was left to wait. She heard the voices in the back of the flat but couldn't make out their words, only their tone. Sherlock's dark timbre was unmistakably put out, so she would have that to contend with. She drew in a breath to ready herself, and moved to the centre of the rug so she wouldn't appear to be hiding. That was important, if she was to get him to listen. But while she steeled herself, she couldn't help but take in the flat itself. She liked it. It was rare, anymore, that she saw the inside of a patient's flat. Earlier in her career, she had made more house calls, and she had come to believe that the home said quite a lot about a person. John and Sherlock's was surprisingly domestic, cosy, not quite what she would expect of two bachelors. It bore the signs of two lives comfortably entangled, a relaxed sort of chaos, order in the clutter that promised to be around for months and years to come. She smiled at the thought. John had recently begun to speak in future terms, but his living was proof of a mindset already in action. He was as much in the clutter as his friend, and not easily extracted. A good sign.

'Ella?'

She had been caught up in her own thoughts and intent on the kitchen; she hadn't heard John descend the stairs from above, then suddenly there he was, dressed in a light jacket and slowly setting an overnight bag down at his feet, just on the inside of the doorway.

And then there was Sherlock, striding through the kitchen looking resolute, Lestrade on his heel. 'Dr Thompson, I'm sorry you came all this way, but it's really not a good time.'

John was less dismissive. 'Are you okay? God, I am so sorry, Ella. I am so sorry.' He came closer, shaking his head with remorse. 'I should have known. No one around me is safe, it's like I've been telling you all this time, it's my fault. Now you understand—'

'John,' Ella and Sherlock said together, chiding.

Lestrade cleared his throat. 'Mrs Hudson and I are having tea and a chat. So I'll leave you to it, eh? You know how she can talk the ear off an elephant, so please, take your time.'

Without awaiting further protests, he excused himself, leaving the three to stare discomfitingly at one another until at last, Sherlock said, 'I suppose I should invite you to sit.' She watched him cast a glance at John, as though expecting objection.

But John waved a hand at the cosy armchair by the fire and dragged a chair from the desk by the window. They three sat, Ella resting the rain-dotted plastic sleeve on her lap while the two men looked at her expectantly. Sherlock, she saw, was bracing, shoulders taut and back straight, still clearly uncomfortable around her, maybe even embarrassed by the things he had allowed himself to say in her office. He wasn't going to like what she had to say now.

'Naomi has asked for a letter of recommendation,' she started.

'God,' John groaned, and she knew he was on the verge of apologising once again, so she headed him off.

'I'll write her one, of course, once we are safe to return to our homes and she begins looking for other reception work. As for myself, I intend to keep on with my practice, and I hope you will return to me. Both of you.'

'Paycheck's a paycheck,' said Sherlock blithely.

It was John's turn to chide: 'Don't.' His glare was parental. Then he turned to Ella. 'I never wanted you to get caught up in this. And don't tell me there's no way I could have known they'd target you. They knew about you because Kitty Riley was their informant, and she stalked me, knew I was seeing you. They told me they'd go after people I care about. They have guys who can do it all—hack computers, bug phone, break into locked rooms. So you can't say it's not my fault.'

'I can, and I do,' said Ella calmly. 'John, I've known about the danger you've in since you returned to me. I never doubted the seriousness of that. Though, I will admit, it has become much more real for me now. And I have also gained quite a heightened appreciation for the fear you've been living with for so long. Even so, I have an obligation to you, both professionally and as a fellow human being, because I believe I can still help.'

'I can't keep seeing you,' he said regretfully.

'Not right now, no,' she agreed. She didn't know how long she would be kept in the safe house, but the detective inspector had made the vague estimate of 'until the danger is passed'. It wasn't a useful measure. 'But that doesn't mean I can't help you both.'

'Can you crack into the mind of a psychopath and tell me how to dismantle it?' Sherlock said, a bit snidely, but she took his inquiry as sincere and responded accordingly.

'My expertise, as you know, is in trauma therapy. It's what I've been studying and practising for seventeen years. But since working with John, I've been reading up on psychopathy and personality disorders. Specifically, sadistic personality disorder, and paraphilic coercive disorders.'

'Because of what I've told you of Moran,' said John.

'And Darren Hirsch. It was professional interest.' She had never before been drawn to such disorders, not even in school, when it was a morbid fascination with all her peers. Helping the victim, not understanding the victimiser, was what drove her. But the more she worked with John, the more she knew the foci could not be held at arms' length from each other. To help John, she needed to understand what he had suffered, and the men who had inflicted it. This was not something she tended to share with her usual patients. But neither John nor Sherlock quite fit the category of the ordinary.

'The woman,' she said slowly. 'Irene, is it?'

'Irene Adler,' said Sherlock, a sudden tight edge to his voice he didn't quite understand.

It was a name Ella had not heard from John. So when the strange woman had strode into her office with her pack of armed men, she was more confused than alarmed. That is, until she said she had come for Sherlock. It was then Ella began to understand the danger. Not long after, when this Irene Adler had learnt that it would be John, not Sherlock, who was on his way, she had referred to him scathingly as 'Seb's little plaything', and the connection was clear. What more Ella knew about her, she picked up during her harassment of John in the chair, a sight she was having trouble scrubbing from her own mind. She could still hear him begging not to be tied down, which made her want to weep. This is what it was like, she had thought. I'm seeing it in the flesh.

She turned her eyes to John now. 'I'm sorry for the things she said to you. And did to you.' John's jaw hardened, but she continued. It was important they both acknowledge what had happened in that room. 'She shouldn't have touched you like that.'

Sherlock's head twitched sharply and his eyes narrowed. Oh. John hadn't told him. Not everything. This was going to be more difficult than she wished.

John cleared his throat gruffly. 'She didn't do anything to me. Not really. You heard her—she doesn't want me at all. She wants him.' He nodded to Sherlock.

Ella cocked her head in concern. 'How do you mean?'

They were silent, looking at one another as though each expected the other to concede or refuse on their joint behalf. Sherlock's eyes were shooting daggers, but John's were likewise steely, and unrepentant. But something visibly shifted as they continued to hold one another's stare. Maybe they were making a decision between them. Yes, that seemed true, because after a short stretch, John's eyes closed as he sighed, and in the same moment, Sherlock said, 'Fine. Adler says she wants to have me. In some form or other.'

'Not quite,' John said tightly.

'How would you put it, then, John? She means to defeat me. Through sex, presumably.'

'Call it what it is.' John was visibly angry now. 'She wants to force you to have sex with her. That's rape.'

'Her reasoning, certainly, is nonsensical,' Sherlock said, mechanically, like he was less bothered by the act than by the illogic of it. A defence mechanism, Ella thought. 'But really, it's quite unsurprising. She will utilise the tools of her trade. She is, after all, a professional dominatrix.'

Ella frowned. 'I'm afraid I don't understand. Her interest in you is . . . or was initially . . . sexual or professional?'

'It was a case,' Sherlock was quick to correct. Then, just as quickly, he relayed the history: He took the case at the behest of what he called 'a higher power'; it was 2011, and at their first encounter with the woman, she greeted them entirely in the nude, a tactic, Sherlock believed, to throw him off his game. He spoke of a faked suicide, a series of flirtatious texts, and how he had finally cracked the code into her phone, an action which sent her into exile, which might have very well ended in her execution, had he not intervened. In more clipped terms, he mentioned an unexpected reunion abroad that ended badly for him—though he didn't elaborate—and ultimately her return to London and her reappearance the night he found John in the convent. All the while, Ella remained silent, fitting the narrative with what she knew of John's abduction the workings of Sebastian Moran.

'A dominatrix,' she said slowly, 'does not seem to accurately describe this woman.'

'How do you mean?' John asked.

'Well . . .' She was working off the cuff and with little information, which she did not prefer. It wasn't like she spent much time studying the world of pro-domme. 'The recreational world of erotic domination is, at its core, all about consent, and ultimately pleasure. What you are describing entails neither of those things. It's possible—and I hesitate to say this of a woman I haven't evaluated in a field I have no real expertise in—that her identity as a dominatrix may be a costume, of sorts, constructed to exaggerate or accentuate how she really sees herself, or who she really wants to be.'

'And who is that?' Sherlock asked, cocking an eyebrow.

'A woman intent on subjugating men. Who fantasises about forcing them into submission, a reversal of traditional roles but taken to extremes. Possibly she has had fantasies along those lines for a very long time, and needed an outlet. She found specialised sex work to feed that need. You see it, sometimes, in women with a history of abuse at the hands of men. But I really shouldn't speculate about history or motive, not without evidence.'

Sherlock's lip twitched in a sardonic grin.

'But the things you describe, Mr Holmes, with respect to her interest in a powerful and ubiquitous crime syndicate that was created by a man, controlled by a man . . . She wishes not to simply usurp the masculine, but to fill that space with the feminine, which is herself. All I'm saying is, it would not surprise me that taking control of it herself has become an obsession. The trouble is, the only thing standing in her way is you.'

'Yet another man,' said John.

'But one she cannot manipulate, like she has manipulated all the others. You don't desire her as other men do. She is a woman driven by the need to dominate, and not just anyone, but men especially. Her modus operandi for doing so—according to what you have told me—is through sexual domination. She forces her subjects into submission. That is, she has to eliminate the male threat through removal of their power. A symbolic sort of emasculation.'

'It may be symbolic,' said John, 'but that doesn't mean it's not violent. Look at what she did to Mycroft. If that's not removing a threat, I don't know what is.'

Sherlock looked pained, but quickly schooled his expression.

Ella nodded. 'Once the male power is removed, she supplants it with her own.'

'That's why she's been so bold lately,' John surmised, 'in the wake of what she did to Mycroft. She's gaining in confidence.'

Clearing his throat, Sherlock added, 'Moriarty fell, and she endured. Moriarty, the symbol of the greatest power and threat on the planet, died, and she survived. She believes she's the new force of power, and she has to remove her competition. Moran, for one.'

'And you, for another,' John said glibly.

'Forgive me if I'm being crude,' Ella said, 'but in you, I doubt she sees the same sort of threat. Moran's power is concentrated in a corrupted masculine conception, with its predilection to dominate and destroy. Your power is . . . something different. Something she doesn't understand.'

Eyebrows lowering in suspicion, Sherlock asked, 'What do you mean?'

'Excuse the Freudian overtones. But if we substitute the symbol of a phallus when we talk of male power, it may be easier to understand. With Moran, there is an emasculation for her to perform, a phallus to remove, which she replaces with her own female power. But with you, there is no phallus to remove.'

'Pardon?' Sherlock looked bemused now, a little insulted.

'What I mean is, a lack of desire. You do not want her, as other men historically have. Perhaps as Moran himself does, or maybe did once. In you, there is a kind of absence, and she doesn't know how to fight an absence. So she has to create a sexual being in you, a familiar villain to destroy. If she can get you to feel desire for her, or subjugate yourself to her, she can control you, dominate you, and ultimately destroy you. This is the psychology of one who is a pathological dominatrix. This is not a game to her. It's life and death, fertility versus sterility, power versus impotence. You, Sherlock, are her largest threat because you do not desire her as other men do. Untouched and untouchable. It is a weapon to use against her.'

'God,' John whispered.

'How?' Sherlock asked, a note of desperation in his voice.

'I wish I knew, precisely,' said Ella. 'I just hope it is of some benefit, understanding how she thinks. In the end, though, you may just have to rely the two greatest assets already at your disposal: your own brilliant mind'—she gestured with her head—'and John.'

She could see that they were perplexed, and at last she brought out the two manila envelopes, sliding them out of the plastic. 'That's why I've come. Because you need help, and I mean to help.' She passed each man an envelope.

'What's this?' John asked, fingering the top flap, unsure whether he should open it.

'Your best shot at defeating your many foes. A healthy mind is a powerful tool. For the time being, you can no longer continue with me as your therapist. But that doesn't mean you shouldn't continue with therapy. A common and very effective practice is that of group counselling. You are only two men, but I believe we can apply the same principles.'

'Wait . . .' John began, but Sherlock finished the thought: 'You want us to therapise each other?'

'I want you to talk to each other. I've told you many times before, John, that in physical therapy you exercise the body. In psychotherapy, you exercise the mind. You talk. You put words to your feelings, you give expression to your struggles, you share with another living person the burden of your own mind. You have both experienced similar traumas, and you need to talk about it. Together. And you need to listen to one another. The things you won't share, the secrets you each keep, for whatever reason—to protect each other, spare one another, whatever it is—cannot continue.'

'We talk all the time,' Sherlock argued.

'It's true,' John said. 'I've never been more honest with him.'

'But you didn't tell him everything about your encounter with Ms Adler, did you?'

John shifted uncomfortably. 'I told him everything of importance—'

'And you don't tell John about your dreams,' she said to Sherlock.

'They're dreams.' Sherlock huffed.

'Then why are you so afraid to talk about them?' she countered. 'Listen. You can't truly help each other if you don't completely and utterly trust each other. With everything. With you two, that is what it will take. You are strongest when you're working together. I've seen it for myself. And you will need that strength moving forward.'

Sherlock sighed. 'So what will it take?'

'I've prepared an envelope for each of you to help guide you in talking to each other about more difficult subject matter. You will each find a stack of cards on which I've written questions, one per card. I recommend that you take turns, one card a day, one hour a day.'

'So,' said John, for clarity, 'the questions in my envelope are for Sherlock to answer?'

'Yes. And his envelope contains questions for you.'

'The kinds of questions that, normally . . . you would ask me?'

'Yes.'

'Ah, hell,' he muttered.

'It will be uncomfortable, to begin with,' she said. 'I know that. But I promise you, I promise you, this will help.' She paused. 'Will you do it?'

Again, that shared look between them, and it seemed each was waiting for the other to come up with a compelling reason to object. But no, she was wrong—they were coming to a mutual agreement.

'Okay,' said John.

'Fine,' said Sherlock at the same moment.

'Thank you.'

At last, she rose to her feet, insisting she could show herself out and collect the detective inspector on her way. But before she left, she shook their hands and wished them well, wondering whether they would return to her having passed through new and unspeakable terrors, or whether they would return as conquerors. Or whether they would return to her at all.

They had stayed up all night working—making notes, talking through timelines, imagining a host of scenarios—until, in the wee hours of the morning, Donovan crashed on her own sofa, exhausted. She only had the one sofa, though, and Dryers wasn't about to lay claim to the bed. He could have gone home, he supposed, but with daylight only ninety minutes away, he saw little point in it. So, he lay on the rug and stretched out on his back—knees bent and pointing to the ceiling, among the notecards and open laptops—and dozed.

But when the sun came up, Donovan did not, and Dryers was getting his second wind. He rose, stretched, yawned, and snagged Donovan's house keys from the coffee table where she'd tossed them. Then he let himself out the front door, headed for the cafe on the corner.

It was busy; the queue was practically out the door. Still yawning, he double-checked his wallet to make sure he had enough cash for two coffees (they were going to need a jolt to keep going this morning, unless Donovan conceded to taking a break, which he doubted), all the while shuffling forward by minute measurements and glancing around at the other haggard faces of Londoners at the start of another work week.

That's when Dryers spotted him, at a table in the corner reading a newspaper. He'd grown a beard and looked a little more raggedy than usual, what with the jeans, trainers, and dark-blue hoodie. But there was no mistaking Philip Anderson, former Head of Forensics at New Scotland Yard.

He groaned inwardly when Anderson, perhaps feeling watched, looked up and spotted him, too.

There was a moment when he thought they could ignore having seen one another. Then Anderson folded the paper and got to his feet. To leave in shame, presumably, when he suddenly veered off course and came up to Dryers as though a chance happening between friends.

'Morning,' said Anderson.

'Yeah, it is,' returned Dryers.

'Oi, no cutting in the queue!' decried someone behind him.

'I'm not cutting, I've already been through!' Anderson shouted back, then muttered under his breath, 'Wanker.'

He dug both hands inside his pockets, looking uncomfortable. He should, thought Dryers. He started this.

'So,' said Anderson, casual as all hell, 'day off, is it?'

'Eh?'

'What I mean is, you're not in uniform.'

He wasn't about to confess to his suspension. 'Right. Yeah. It's my day off.'

'Things going all right, down there at the Yard?'

'Like a well-oiled machine,' Dryers lied. 'You know, you get the bugs out of the engine, and she runs like a dream.'

Anderson seemed to miss the dig. 'You, uh . . . You see Sgt Donovan around much? Still assigned to that case?'

That case. The one you bungled, you mean? Dryers willed the queue to move faster. 'Yup. I see her plenty.'

'She, uh . . . She ever mention me?'

Dryers felt a flare of irritation. 'By name? Never. Though she may have alluded to you a couple of times. What was it she said? "Shit piece of unreliable junk"? Hm. Might have been talking about her microwave.'

Anderson's mouth pinched in offense, making it disappear beneath the unkempt beard.

'Fuck you, Dryers,' he said, stabbing a finger at his face. 'Fff—' But he seemed to think better of it and spun on his heel to storm away.

Almost instantly, though, he was back. 'Hang on. What the hell are you doing on this street? You don't live around here. And what do you know about her microwave, anyway?'

Dryers feigned terrible insult and put a hand to his heart. 'Just what are you insinuating, sir?'

'Because if you think she likes the smart-arse, pretty-boy type, you don't know who you're dealing with. You don't. She, she, she . . .'

'You think I'm smart and pretty? Why, thank you.'

'Rebound. That's what you are.'

'Here's a question for you, Philip. Does Donovan know you're stalking her?'

Anderson blanched beneath the beard. 'Pardon?' he spluttered histrionically.

'Her flat is a two-minute walk from here. Yours is in Reading with your mum. Come here every morning hoping to spot her? What might she think of that?'

'I'm not stalking her! I was told I had to . . .' But Anderson closed his eyes and shook his head. 'Forget it.' He started away.

Something of what he said, or stopped himself from saying, resonated in Dryers, something he didn't understand—his morning brain was too sluggish; damn, he needed that coffee—but which compelled him to act. He left his place in the queue and grabbed Anderson's sleeve before he could get away. Anderson, thinking he was being attacked, threw his arms up around his face, sending the newspaper flying behind him, and let out a high-pitched yelp of fear.

'Hey you!' shouted someone from behind the counter, waving an admonitory hand. 'None of that in here!'

'We'll take it outside then,' said Dryers, and dragged Anderson out onto the street.

Flailing and whimpering, Anderson wrested himself from Dryer's grip and stumbled back a few steps. 'Get your hands off me!'

'No, no, finish what you were saying. You were told what? You had to what?'

'Nothing! That is'—his eyes darted guiltily to the sides—'I have to talk to Sally.'

'Not happening, mate.'

'You don't understand. I can only talk to Sally.'

Dryers stepped forward menacingly. 'About what? Who sent you?'

'Sent me?'

'That's right. Out with it, Anderson. Someone told you to contact Sally Donovan, right? Her and only her, and tell her something in absolute confidence. Who was it?'

Anderson laughed nervously, rubbing the back of his neck. He really could use a haircut.

'An old man in a suit, perhaps?'

'How . . . ?' Anderson was positively shaking now. 'How did you know that?'

Fifteen minutes later, Dryers returned to Donovan's flat carrying two coffees, still piping hot, and something in his pocket.

'I see you stole my keys,' Donovan said. She was sitting up now, but hadn't got much further than the sofa, still rubbing her face and tamping down her hair with both hands. She gratefully accepted the steaming cup from him, and he waited for her to sip appreciatively before sitting beside her, tapping his thumbs against his own paper cup.

'I ran into someone while I was out,' he began. 'A mutual friend.'

Eyeing him with heightened suspicion, perhaps sensing this was important, she set the cup down on the coffee table. He followed suit. 'Oh?'

'He had something for you.' He reached inside his jacket. 'Along with a message.'

He handed her a small but stiff envelope, padded with bubble wrap. Quite serious now, she opened it up and peered warily inside. Then she turned it upside-down, and a small brass key fell into her palm.

Donovan lifted it close to her eye, examining it. To Dryers, it looked like an ordinary house key.

'And the message?' she asked.

Dryers took a deep breath. 'Work faster.'

Lestrade was circling the rubble of what had once been a farmhouse-style cottage. Thames Valley Police had already combed through the ruins and removed four corpses. Victims. It had been murder, investigators were positive. Two had taken bullets between the eyes; two others were shot in the backs of the skulls. Precision shots. But though the gruesome murders had made headlines and shaken the peaceful Wingrave community, the case had not landed on Lestrade's desk until one of the constables from the Aylesbury Police Station, cataloguing all the evidence from the cottage, was transcribing items and descriptions into the computer when he came to a red bowl, the kind a dog might drink from. He was typing in this description and its measurements when a debriefing from many months before resurfaced in his mind related to a manhunt and the features of a London crime. The Moriarty Mayhem. He contacted his detective sergeant at once, and within the hour, DI Greg Lestrade was on his way to Buckinghamshire.

Was it the same dish? They were still running labs and making comparisons to the photos taken from the Slash Man's lair, but Lestrade wasn't waiting for the confirmation. This had Moran's name all over it. And what was more, the deed to the house belonged to a Mr Clement Martin Bailey. They tried to track down said Mr Bailey, but to no avail. It seemed he did not exist. So they looked into the sale history, and who had sold the cottage to Mr Bailey? None other than William Murray. The sale had gone through in December of the previous year.

He needed to take this one back from Donovan. No, he needed Donovan here. They needed to work this case together.

Digging his phone out of his pocket, he went to make the call. But before he could dial, the phone lit up with an incoming call from Angela Moss.

Lestrade groaned loudly, earning him looks from some of his team, who were sectioning off a corner of the back garden. He turned away from them, but debated. If he answered, he knew he'd spend the rest of the day in a sour mood; if he did not, she would just keep trying, and the forthcoming conversation would hang over his head like a black cloud until it burst.

He spit on the ground and answered without greeting.

'I'm working, Angela,' he said. 'Make it quick.'

There was a long pause, and he thought maybe she'd hung up on him straight away. Then: 'Greg?' He had been expecting the sound of nails on a chalkboard. Instead, her voice was small and quavering. He almost didn't recognise it.

'Yes, I'm here,' he said, a touch impatiently.

'Greg, I . . . Look, I know we've had our problems. God knows you're not my favourite person in the world, and yes, in many ways I hate you—'

'For the love of God, Angela, why are you calling? I don't have your money yet.'

'What I'm saying is . . . You're not a dangerous person! You're not, I know you're not, and, and, you're a police officer! You wouldn't hurt anyone!'

'What the devil are you on about?'

Another long pause, but his heart was now pounding solidly in his ears. 'Look, don't get angry.'

Shit, what had she done? Or rather, what more had she done. She had already done plenty to ignite his anger.

'I know you said it wasn't any of my business,' she continued, picking up steam, 'but . . . Fuck, I wish it had been sex tapes!'

He almost dropped the phone. 'The box. You opened the box.'

'What did you expect me to do!'

'Angela!'

'I know! I'm sorry, okay? You remember Randall, from the down the street?' Lestrade's nostrils flared. He did remember, in fact. She'd had an affair with him, one of the first. Maybe the first.' Well, I remembered, he had a blow torch, and I asked him, and . . . But what does it mean! Tell me what it means! Tell me you aren't going to hurt someone!'

'Okay, okay, calm down.' Was that for her benefit, or his own? He was turning in circles, marking the distance to his car, checking the actions of his team, calculating how long it would take to reach her. 'Angela, are you calm?'

'I'm calm!'

'Okay, then listen. Listen,' he repeated when she tried to interrupt. 'Close the box. Whatever's in it, just close the lid, okay? Don't touch anything else. I'm on my way.'

'Did you make this? Is this your work?' Her voice was pitched, nearing hysteria. 'Tell me what this is or I'm calling the police!'

'Angela, I promise you, I've never even seen the contents of that box, and I don't know what you're talking about. But I am on. My. Way. Don't touch it!' With that, he hung up the phone and, without a word to his team, made a bee-line for the car.

The car was quiet, but for the hum of the motor, the hush of tyres, and the occasional squeak of windscreen wipers as they rolled along at sixty-five miles per hour on the A1, heading north. Though still midday, the skies were dark with late-spring storms. John kept the speed tightly controlled. It wouldn't do to be pulled over, not with bloodstains in the car and a duffel with two pistols and a pair of handcuffs in the boot. That wouldn't do at all.

They had been on the road about an hour, and had another three to go, at least. The address was for a motel in a remote village in North Yorkshire, secluded, secretive. John couldn't help but wonder—and given their history, who could blame him?—whether they were walking into a trap. Maybe Anita Heselhurst was being used as a pawn. Maybe Moran had had a gun to her head when she made the call. John's fingers twitched on the steering wheel, wishing for a trigger of his own.

'When did you last have thoughts of suicide?'

His head snapped so quickly around that it was a wonder his hands didn't follow and run them right off the road.

'Excuse me?' he squeaked.

Sherlock indicated the notecard in his hand as his defence. The manila envelope was opened on his lap, and the stack of cards were in his left hand, the offending question in his right.

'Now?' John asked, incredulously. 'We're going to do this now?'

'It's a long drive, John.'

'And that's the question you want to kick off with?'

'I chose it at random from the deck. But I can find another, if you're going to be stroppy about it.'

Stomach writhing, John flitted through some of the other questions Ella had been likely to include: Why did he believe he was haunted by the dead? and Why did he believe killing Darren Hirsch had turned him into a monster? and When was the last time he had an erection? 'We are not doing this now.'

Sherlock shrugged but was surly as he said, 'Suit yourself. We'll do it tonight during bedtime tea. Maybe Bill can join us.'

Scowling, John retorted, 'You sure are keen.'

'We've been given homework. Might as well get on with it.'

With a half laugh, he said, 'Is this what you were like as a student? Throwing yourself at the textbooks like they were trying to escape?'

'Nonsense, John,' said Sherlock with a sigh, sliding the cards back inside the envelope and conceding his question was ill-timed. 'My homework back then wasn't nearly so difficult to wrangle.'

John smiled without teeth, but he made no reply, and the car fell silent once again. But his conscience was pricked with guilt. He was the one who had insisted on Sherlock participating in therapy to begin with, on the recommendation that he himself had greatly benefited from it. He was also the one responsible for the fact Sherlock could no longer attend sessions. One, that's all he'd had. What had he and Ella talked about?

The cards would likely provide some clue, but he hadn't looked at them yet. As soon as Lestrade and Ella had gone, John and Sherlock had grabbed their gear and left London. They hadn't neglected to bring the envelopes. Not that they had any intention of opening them, or so John had thought. It was to protect them from the wrong eyes, should the wrong people gain access to 221B. The flat had every private security feature known to man, but these days, one couldn't be too careful. He did wonder what questions he would be asking Sherlock, if he decided to play this game. Yes, he had promised Ella, but she was asking a lot of him. Surely, she knew that. The things he talked about with her? The things she still needed him to talk about? Sherlock didn't need to hear that.

Then again.

What if it was Sherlock who needed to talk? Maybe he didn't know how, not unless it was reciprocal. Dammit. John knew what he had to do. It just couldn't have come at a worse time. They needed to ready themselves for tonight, and whatever might happen. Bringing up past pains hardly seemed like the right precursor.

Fifteen minutes passed in utter quiet, maybe twenty. John licked his lips. Stole a glance. Tightened his hands around the wheel. Then, before he could lose his nerve, he answered the question.

'The night you found me in the pub.'

Sherlock must have been deep inside his own mind, because he resurfaced slowly. 'Sorry?'

John's eyes didn't leave the road. 'Your question. That was the last time I . . . had those kinds of thoughts. The last time I took them seriously, in any case.'

'Oh.' A long, uncomfortable pause. Then: 'Ella says I'm not to let you speak in vague terms or euphemisms.'

John laughed shortly. 'When did she say that?'

'There's a crib sheet about you in the envelope. A list of do's and don'ts for me to follow when talking to you about the cards. You'll see when you get to mine.'

'Oh. Right.' He sighed out long and deep. Of course, Ella wouldn't half-arse this, so she wouldn't let them, either.

'Go on then,' Sherlock nudged with the wariness of a bomb defuser who knew he was walking on volatile ground.

John took his foot off the gas; he needed to slow himself down, literally. 'Kitty Riley showed me the coroner's report. When I saw . . .' He cleared his throat, but it didn't dissolve the lump that was growing there. 'When I saw that Mary had been pregnant . . . It was like I was watching her die all over again. Suddenly, I couldn't see the point anymore. You know. Of living. I couldn't see . . . How do I describe it? It was like blindness. It was like tomorrow just disappeared, like I had reached the end of time. There was no tomorrow. It was just . . . gone.'

Sherlock said nothing. Maybe he didn't know what to say. Maybe he was giving John time to get it all out. Whatever his reasons, John felt the silence like an oppressive heat, no longer a respite but something to banish. He tried to explain himself.

'I know it doesn't make sense,' he said, 'feeling such devastation over . . . But that was my . . . my . . .'

'Your child.'

'Yeah.' The road blurred, but John blinked hard, and it cleared again. 'Or would have been.' He swallowed hard, but the lump wasn't going away. 'It was me. It was us. Mary and me. A promise that a part of us would live on long after we were gone, and we wouldn't be dead ends in the road. But no. I'm standing in a dead-end street after all, and it's like . . . I'm trying to mourn for a child that never was. And I don't know how to do it. It sounds stupid, don't laugh at me, but I don't think I've ever known how to mourn. I've spent months mourning Mary. Or trying to. Isn't that funny? The way we have to learn how to mourn? Like it should be instinctual, yeah? As easy as grief. But it's not. I just can't seem to get it right. I've had plenty of practice, but never learnt to do it properly. All I want to do . . . all I can think to do . . . is die myself. It seems easiest. No, not easiest. It seems most fitting. The best way to mourn.' He sniffed roughly. 'Anyway.' He didn't know if he'd answered the question quite right, but it was the best he could do. 'That's how I felt that night. And you needn't worry. I have my head on straight again.'

John tried to smile, to lighten the mood, but it was a forced twist of the lips at best.

He thought he'd perhaps satisfied the question, and given a little extra, so Sherlock would let him be. There must have been further instructions on his crib sheet, though, because Sherlock kept the wheel turning.

'What do you mean, tomorrow had disappeared?'

John cricked his neck. What did he mean? 'We don't all have the brains of a genius.'

He thought he saw Sherlock frown in his periphery. 'You think I don't know what it is to grieve for someone?'

'No no, what I mean is . . . my brain doesn't adapt as quickly as yours. It just goes dark.'

'I still don't know what you're implying.'

He thought. How did he explain this? It was more a feeling than a thought. 'Tell me something.'

'Okay.'

'On the roof that day. You thought you would outsmart him, yeah?'

Sherlock shifted a little uncomfortably in his seat, clearly not knowing where this was coming from, or where it was going. 'I had hoped to.'

'How long was it, from the second he shot himself to the exact moment you realised you would have to jump to save Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, and me?'

'I knew it instantly.'

'And how long before you had formulated a plan to dismantle his network?'

'Before I left England. It's why I left England. To keep you all safe, there was no other way.'

'I know. But you'd just had your whole world stripped away. Home, friends, reputation, all of it. You can't tell me you didn't feel the pain of that, Sherlock, because I know you did.'

'Of course, I did,' Sherlock said emphatically. 'It was hell.'

'Yes. But you kept yourself moving. Maybe it was distraction, or a sense of purpose, or a need to flee, or all those things together. But you had a plan, and you carried forward.' He shook his head. 'You saw a future, of a sort. I didn't. I couldn't. In an instant, it was just . . . gone.'

He let Sherlock think on that for a moment, and when it seemed he understood, John continued:

'It wasn't the first time I'd felt like that. When Mum passed, when I was shot, when you fell, when Harry got herself killed . . . I've stared into that void before. I saw it again, when Mary was taken from me. She was going to be my future, but I've had to learn how to relegate her to my past. Now, everything ahead looks different to how I thought it would be. Everything. It's more painful than I can say, looking ahead and not seeing her there. So when Kitty showed me that report, I learnt that there was someone else missing, too. Someone else that should be ahead and no longer is.'

'Is it particularly painful now?'

'What do you mean?'

'Mary was eight w—' Sherlock suddenly stopped talking, catching himself, but John knew exactly what he was about to say.

'Eight weeks, yeah.'

'I suppose you've done the math, then.'

For the first time since the conversation began, he looked over at Sherlock, who dared to meet his eyes in returned. He looked afraid to be having this conversation, and seeing it, John softened. 'Our baby would have been born this month. Mid-May.' He sniffed, then laughed without humour at how pathetic he was, returning his eyes to the road. 'Can't help it. I've thought about it a lot, since that day. I think, sometimes, son or daughter? What would we have named it? Would we have moved into a bigger flat? Would I have been a good father? Mary—she would have been a good mother. But it doesn't matter. Those thoughts mean nothing. Because they're dead. Both of them. That son of a bitch.' His voice caught and the road blurred again. He scrubbed fitfully at his face.

'John—'

'So that's what happened,' John said shortly. 'I saw the report, and the future again just collapsed into nothing. I felt I had died. Again. But I was still standing, still walking, and tomorrow was gone but the pain just wouldn't stop. I just wanted it over. I did. I wanted to kill myself.'

Sherlock spoke, softly, in a monotone, like he was choosing his words with great care. 'Did you have a plan?'

'Several,' John admitted. 'It wasn't the first time I'd thought about it. You know that.'

'Yes.'

But John didn't talk about those plans. He didn't want to. The thoughts were too dark, and anyway unrealised. It didn't matter anymore. Maybe Ella would have pushed for the details, but Sherlock didn't. John didn't want to give him the chance.

'My head wasn't on right. I wasn't thinking, just walking, when suddenly someone was asking me for money, and suddenly four men had jumped me, and suddenly I was fighting. But I wasn't fighting, not really. I was already defeated. I don't know what would have happened to me then, if someone hadn't put a stop to it, and led me to a pub to clean up.' He laughed shortly. 'A pub. For lowlifes, like me. I sat. I ordered a drink. I thought, here's to the end. I would get pissed, like I hadn't been pissed in years. And then . . . I'd do it. Walk into traffic. Fall from a bridge. A bit of liquid courage was all I needed. But then, all my plans went to shit.'

'Why?' Sherlock asked, but there was a note in his voice that suggested he knew why.

'Because suddenly—' His throat felt choked again. He cleared it so he could finish. 'There you were.'

'You mean, I interfered.'

'Like you always do.' John nodded emphatically, not daring to look over this time. He was already on the verge of losing it entirely. 'That's what it took. That's what it always takes: you, waltzing into my life, when that life is nearly over and—' He slapped the steering wheel. 'You saved me,' said John, simply, truthfully. 'Just like that. I could see tomorrow.'

'I don't understand.'

'I didn't either. How could you carry so much promise, just being there? Being you? When I saw the coroner's report, my vision narrowed to a pinprick, to the day Mary died, and everything outside of it was black. I forgot everything else that was part of me, including you. But then, there you were. And you weren't just you. You were everything. You were Baker Street, you were Mrs Hudson, and Lestrade and Molly and all those I cared about, and who cared about me. You were before the fall, and after the fall, and tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow. You were a life I'd lived and still had to live. I forgot you entirely, in those hours when all was dark. I forgot all you meant to me, and my reasons to keep going. I didn't want to see you, I didn't want to remember all my reasons.' He shrugged, sniffed. 'Didn't matter in the end. Because you were there. I saw you, and I knew. I would see tomorrow. And hard as it was, I would have to deal with it. It wasn't a pleasant thought, and I wasn't okay. But I would live to see tomorrow. I knew it then, and I know it now.'

They fell again into a sort of embarrassed silence. Ella would have been ready with the next question, or would ask him to think more deeply about an emotion or a thought, or explain something to him of what he had said. Sherlock said nothing. He was there to listen, and he did exactly that, perhaps not expecting John to express anything of sentiment. Outside of a charged moment of heated emotions, when things were calm and John didn't need rescuing, he didn't know what to say. This would take practice, on both their parts. Knowing he needed guidance, John helped him along.

'You always save me in the end. Don't you?'

'You're my friend, John,' said Sherlock softly, as if it were the most obvious answer in the world.

John reached across the seat and gave Sherlock's arm a quick squeeze to express the same.

'One day, I'm going to return the favour. You can count on that.'

The Goose and Anvil Inn was not visible from the motorway and stood on the edge of the woods under a single street lamp because the other two had burnt out. The skies still misted, and the droplets caught in the street lamp's glow like swirling dust. Two stories tall, the motel curved in the shape of an L, its outward-facing orange doors in full view of one another like Bentham's panopticon.

They parked in the shadow of a tree, not quite within the wet car park, not quite without. John killed the engine and pocketed the key, but neither moved to get out of the car. Instead, Sherlock pulled his mobile from a pocket, and John watched him send a text to Anita Heslehurst, announcing their arrival.

:)

Then, they waited.

Just three minutes later, the shadow of a woman rounded the corner of the motel. Though dark, there was no mistaking her from the woman they had met in Colchester. But instead of her professional slacks and modest blouse, she now wore cigarette trousers and heels, and a denim jacket over a skimpy shirt better suited for a hot summer night, not the chill of a drizzly May evening. She clutched her purse close under one arm and carried her lit phone in the opposite hand as she started warily toward their car, not sure if it was occupied by a stranger.

They pulled open the doors to greet her.

'Said I were off to see management about fresh towels. Said I saw pubic 'air in one.' Anita seemed pleased with herself for her quick-thinking lie.

'He's here, then?' Sherlock asked to confirm.

'Room 22.' She dug quickly into her purse and produced a room key. Passing it into his outstretched hand, she said, 'And you'll get 'im to give me back my money?'

Sherlock ignored the question. 'There's a diner down the street, less than half a mile.' He exchanged the key for five twenty-pound notes. 'Call a taxi, find another motel.'

'You gonna rough'm up?'

'Bill Murray is no longer your concern,' said Sherlock calmly, but there was a hard edge to his voice that caused her eyes to go wide and John's jaw to set.

She left, passing through the lamplight and into the night.

Wordlessly, they opened the boot. John unzipped the duffel, and while Sherlock stuffed the cuffs into a pocket of his coat, he checked the ammunition in both pistols and flipped the safeties on and off, testing them. The weight of the weapon reassured him, and without compunction, he slipped the pistol into his pocket, handed Sherlock his own Glock, and slammed closed the boot.

He started toward the motel doors.

'John.'

He turned back and saw Sherlock's shadow had made no move to follow.

'What?' The pistol tugged down on his jacket, weighing on his shoulders.

'I just wanted to say: Whatever happens tonight, whatever he has to say to you . . .' He stepped closer, but his words faltered.

'You'll be there with me,' finished John. 'I know.'

'And tomorrow.'

Soberly, John nodded. 'Tomorrow,' he agreed.

They stood together a moment longer in the dark. Then, in unison, without needing to speak a word, they came to a decision. It was time to go.