Title: Of Dubious and Questionable Memory 
Author: Diandra Hollman
E-Mail: diandrahollman@gmail.com
Website: http://diandrahollman.neocities.org
AO3: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diandrahollman
Date Finished: 10/20/2023
Rating: vacillates between R and NC-17
Keywords: Sherlock/OMC, Tom Hiddleston fancast, drugs, 
slash, Sherlock POV, bisexual Sherlock, mystery, amnesia
Spoilers: This story takes place in early 2016 so the 
dumpster fire that was basically everything about that year 
- including season four - hasn't happened.
Disclaimer: The characters are all from BBC Sherlock, 
except Henry who is mine even though he's named after 
several of Doyle's characters. The plot bears general 
resemblance to "Before I Go to Sleep".
Summary: Every day I wake up not remembering how I got here 
or who this man is who claims he's my husband. I cannot 
trust my own memory. There is one thing of which I am 
reasonably certain: John Watson is dead. Isn't he?
Dedication: Thank you to Teddy for all the love and support 
when I believed nobody cared about this thing anymore.
Author's Notes: Welcome to part 2 of my Sherlock novel that 
was never supposed to be this long. I don't regret it 
though, because I believe this has grown into something far 
better and more complex than I originally intended. 

Of Dubious and Questionable Memory - Part II
By Diandra Hollman


Day 10: Friday, 19 February 2016

I see a car with London plates parked round the corner 
while I am walking Grace. While it isn't impossible that 
someone in the development would have visitors - possibly 
from out of country since a new car usually only gets that 
many scratches when it is a rental - something about it 
still strikes me as odd.

Once I have Grace back inside the house, I head straight to 
the back garden - following the clue I uncovered just 
before Grace interrupted me.

When the queen goes above board. Clever.

It takes me a few tries and a trip back out to the smoker 
where I find a crumpled piece of paper with the quote 
attributed to John H. Watson. I have gone to a lot of 
trouble to hide the contents of the memory stick from my 
husband. At first glance, it is unclear why. The first few 
entries are identical to the ones in the journal on my 
laptop, beginning with our honeymoon on the continent. But 
after the familiar erotic images and vacation photos is an 
entry voicing concern that Henry is lying to me and 
"editing" the "official" journal on my laptop. I amended 
this note yesterday, being sure to time stamp the addition 
for clarity of context.

'I understand the need for all the lies now,' I wrote. 'It 
doesn't matter which of us manufactured the lies initially, 
we must both maintain them now to protect ourselves and the 
people we care about from a man who may well be the most 
dangerous killer I have ever faced. Until my memory 
improves, I will remain ignorant of the threat he poses 
before Josh has the opportunity to present all the data I 
have collected.'

Who is Josh?

I instinctively open a web browser and begin typing the 
name "Josh" into a search box before I realize I don't know 
what, exactly, I am looking for. The entry provides very 
little information and a clear warning against 
investigating further before I know what I have already 
uncovered.

I read further. This version of the past three months has 
noticeable gaps where I failed to find the memory stick - a 
problem I remedied recently by buying a jar of honey at a 
local market, pouring the contents into a cleaned jam jar 
and passing it off as fresh from my hive. I even enlisted 
my neighbor Lillian to design a label that would guide me 
to look above the crown board, although I doubt she 
realizes the significance.

At about the same time, I made a discovery: the tablet 
Henry gives me twice a day is a sugar pill. The actual drug 
is in at least one of the teas in the kitchen cupboard - an 
herbal blend that purports to relieve headaches. This 
strikes me as both brilliant and dangerous. Brilliant 
because, as my condition seems to include a degree of 
paranoia, it is the most reliable way to insure I receive a 
dose every day. Dangerous because it would be far too easy 
for me to overdose unintentionally.

Which brings me to the other question I had hoped this 
experiment would answer: what is the purpose of the drug? 
My notes stress that it is still unclear whether the drug 
is a treatment for my condition or, as I have hypothesized, 
causing said condition. It would be an egregious error to 
theorize one way or another before I have all the facts - 
and until Lillian tests the samples I gave her nothing is 
certain - but so far the evidence is mounting in the case 
against it being a treatment for amnesia. Employing such an 
unpredictable method of treatment against a rare condition 
would be ineffective at best, dangerous at worst.

If the drug is in fact causing my memory loss and taking it 
reduces my symptoms of withdrawal...it would explain why I 
would specifically choose a tea that claims to relieve 
headaches to lace with it.

No. I can't be the one dosing the tea. It has to be Henry.

Benzodiazepene. Or something similar. Probably a custom 
blend. Even if I determined the mixture, Henry has to be 
controlling the dosage. Which would further explain why my 
memory is improving. He is gradually reducing the dosage, 
slowly breaking my dependency without even me realizing it 
is happening. It's still an imperfect solution - the dosage 
can vary from day to day based on factors not in his 
control. If I don't drink the tea that is drugged, I risk 
considerable side effects. If I drink too much, I risk 
undoing any progress I have made so far in my recovery.

Oh. Of course. All the times - in both journals - that I 
noted his obvious fear of losing me. His desperation to 
make me happy.

'We are on a carousel.'

He knows my condition will improve eventually. If, in my 
ignorance, I take too much of the drug, I will simply be 
delaying the inevitable a bit longer. His guilt over 
keeping me in this amnesiac state likely feeds his anxiety. 
He wants me to remember him, but he fears what will happen 
when I do.

My condition is only part of the puzzle if my note from 
yesterday is any indication, however. Who is this dangerous 
killer and why is there no mention of him even in the 
journal Henry doesn't know about?

'Until my memory improves, I will remain ignorant of the 
threat he poses before Josh has the opportunity to present 
all the data I have collected.'

The answer comes to me suddenly, absent of anything but a 
vague memory of hovering over Henry in an unfamiliar bed, 
murmuring "Josh" against his parted, trembling lips.

I didn't run to Liverpool and change my name to hide from a 
past I couldn't bear remembering. We are both hiding from a 
very real danger. The man who could kill everyone we care 
about.

I send a text to Henry that simply says 'who is Josh?', 
then I finish reading this secret journal. It seems my last 
attempt at contacting Lillian about the status of her 
testing was two days ago. She gave an uncharacteristically 
brusque response that she was still awaiting the results, 
then apologized and promised to get back to me. In the 
entry, I suggested it was possible she was busy 
entertaining the guests whose car was parked out front.

The car with London plates.

That's why the car I spotted during my walk caught my 
attention. I have seen it before. I didn't write down the 
number two days ago, but two separate visitors from London 
visiting a quiet suburb of Liverpool in the middle of the 
week? I note the plate now in a new entry just in case I 
see it again. If it is the same car and its owner is 
visiting Lillian, it seems strange that they would be 
parked a half a block away today when there is nothing 
preventing them from parking closer. Unless they don't want 
to be seen. Is it possible she's having an affair?

My mobile rings, interrupting my thoughts. It is Henry. On 
video chat. I put on my best innocent expression and 
answer. 

"Where did you hear that name," he asks, foregoing any 
greeting. There is fear and suspicion in his eyes, though 
the source of such feelings is unclear.

"I had a memory."

He takes a slow breath and seems to calm a bit. "A memory?"

"Just a flash really. Me saying the name Josh to you. I 
figured you would be able to provide context."

He licks his lips and glances somewhere past the screen. 
"It was my name," he says hesitantly. "Josh Amberley."

"Why are we both using assumed names?"

He draws himself up a bit and nods, as if giving himself 
permission to answer. "In the desk in my study, top drawer, 
there is a memory stick. The contents will explain 
everything."

"A memory stick?" Of course, I already know the gravity of 
what I will find on the memory stick, if not the specifics, 
but I must preserve the innocence of my query. 

"Just...read it. Don't talk to anyone or do anything until 
after you've read it."

Intriguing. Certainly seems to corroborate my entry about a 
dangerous killer I can't know about until Josh can explain 
the details of the case - or apparently tell me where he 
has hidden them.

"Will." My attention snaps back to the phone and I realize 
I had drifted, my mind already halfway to his study. "How 
are you feeling?"

Right. Symptoms of withdrawal. I do a quick inventory and 
determine that - aside from a slight twinge behind my right 
eye - I am not suffering any symptoms yet. "I'm fine," I 
say. "Took Grace for a walk after breakfast. She went 
further than my notes say she did yesterday. Almost the 
whole block."

I hear a thump from the next room before I am finished as 
Grace - responding to either her name or the word "walk" - 
comes to investigate. 

"All right. Well. I have to get back to work. Call me 
later?"

My attention is torn from the screen as Grace's front paws 
land on my leg. I reach to pat her as I give a distracted 
"mmm."

"Is that Gracie?"

"Yes."

"Put her on screen a moment."

I hesitate a moment, shooting him my best look of 
disapproval. Then, figuring it can't harm anything, I hold 
the phone up so he can see her.

"Gracie, be a good girl for me and keep an eye on your dad. 
Make sure he doesn't do anything daft."

I feel my eyes rolling without any conscious effort. Grace 
cocks her head at the sound of my husband's voice and woofs 
when he finishes his instructions.

"Don't look at me like that," he says as I turn the camera 
back on myself. "You'd be surprised how much she 
understands."

I don't argue with him. This entire exchange has obviously 
put him at ease again, so it wasn't a waste.

"Call me," he repeats and I nod. "I love you."

Not knowing how to respond to this, I nod again and he 
rings off. The fact that I have difficulty responding to my 
husband's affections is a recurring theme in both versions 
of my journal and it seems I have recently begun to feel 
guilt over it.

Love is a construct. A label we use to define the 
sentiments we feel toward others. The bonds of friendship, 
family and sexual partners. The way he looks at me, I have 
no doubt my husband loves me. 'Maybe one day I will be able 
to reciprocate,' I rather uncharacteristically noted days 
ago.

Oh. That was in the possibly edited journal, wasn't it? 
Does it sound uncharacteristic because I altered it later 
when I was in an uncertain mental state or because it was 
actually written by Henry?

I am still scratching Grace's ear. I look down at her 
contented face. "Want to help me search his study?"

She responds by running into the living room to fetch a 
toy, immediately challenging Henry's claims about her 
intelligence.

---

A search of Henry's study turns up very little of any 
interest. The furniture is sparse and the only personal 
item on his barely used desk is a copy of the honeymoon 
photo in front of the Eiffel Tower in a frame. Obviously 
his laptop is with him at work, as is the large bag that 
typically occupies the bottom drawer. A change of clothes 
so he can go to the gym after work or during lunch maybe?

I open the drawer containing the memory stick last. It also 
contains a small ball of string, a needle and two vials. 
One of the vials is unmarked. The other has a label 
identifying it as a combination sedative and antiemetic. 
Likely what he uses when my withdrawal symptoms become 
severe, as my notes indicate has happened twice just in 
this past week. The other vial must contain the drug 
itself. I take both vials to my study and prepare sample 
slides using my limited lab supplies, leaving them in an 
envelope marked "for Lillian". I can ask her to test them 
when she is not distracted by her mystery visitor.

I return the vials to Henry's desk and take the stick to 
the kitchen, turning on the kettle before settling back at 
my laptop.

An hour later, I realize I have completely forgotten about 
the kettle.

The drive contains all the data on the killer I alluded to 
in my journal - a former spy turned psychopath who claims 
to have murdered nearly a dozen people, disguising their 
deaths as accidents or suicides. He even claimed to have 
killed John, but I officially disproved this allegation 
earlier this week when I realized his description of the 
murder didn't match the accident report.

A headache is beginning to form behind my right eye and I 
have no idea if it is caused by the strain of trying to 
piece all this data into something coherent or if it is 
simply the first sign of withdrawal.

I need to filter out the distractions. If it were anytime 
other than winter, I could actually perform some of the 
beekeeping I've been fabricating in my journal. But the 
fact that Henry obviously knows so little about beekeeping 
that he doesn't question how I am able to draw honey in 
early February is at least useful data.

This is when I usually turn to drugs. But if I am already 
on a narcotic, taking anything stronger than paracetamol 
could be dangerous. We probably don't have any other drugs 
in the house for that very reason if Henry trusts me alone 
in it all day. This line of deduction leads me to question 
how I would go about purchasing something illicit. I check 
the contents of my wallet and find a small amount of cash 
and a bank card in both of our names. Clever. I cannot 
withdraw enough money to purchase illicit drugs without him 
noticing. No doubt the bank would alert him straight away 
so he could stop me before I could take them. This also 
explains how I got the cash to purchase the honey. 

I have no driver's license - for medical reasons as I have 
documented in my notes - but even if I had one, we only 
have one car and Henry drives it to work. I also have an 
EHIC card and a directive making Henry responsible for any 
necessary medical decisions should I be incapable of making 
them myself. No doubt, I have made the same arrangements as 
I did last time I went into hiding to dismantle Moriarty's 
network. If my condition becomes grave, Mycroft has an 
advance directive to step in should my brain cease to 
function. 

I find the violin in my study and run through all the 
pieces I have so committed to muscle memory that I can play 
them without thought to fingering or bow movements, 
creating a sort of white noise to drown out everything else 
so I can think clearly.

Eight months ago, I was in a car accident. This much I am 
certain of, even if everything else since that moment is 
corrupted by lies and paranoia. The accident caused a 
concussive blow that left a scar on the top left side of my 
skull. This likely resulted in symptoms of memory loss in 
the immediate aftermath of the accident, but NOT a rare and 
persistent form of amnesia. Regardless of who or how or 
why, by the time I had fully recovered from the initial 
trauma, I was addicted to a specially designed narcotic 
that wipes my memories of the past day. I have made 
unsuccessful attempts at taking myself off the drug since, 
each time resulting in dangerous withdrawal symptoms that 
reinforce the need to slowly decrease the dosage over time 
- a treatment plan Henry has ensured I will follow.

I stop playing midway through the second verse of Amazing 
Grace as a thought occurs to me. Gruener isn't real. He 
can't be. The timing of the case - all the details - are 
too perfect, as if it were deliberately designed to be 
unsolvable until my detox is complete.

Of course, I could be wrong. As long as I have doubts about 
his existence, I cannot afford to risk the lives of the 
people I am ostensibly protecting by faking my death and 
going into hiding. Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson. John. Rosie.

No, not John. Mary. John is dead. Isn't he? Why do I 
remember speaking to him recently?

Mind palace. Right.

I return the violin to its case and return to the kitchen, 
starting the kettle again. I stand in front of the tea 
cabinet contemplating the box of drug-laced herbal for a 
while. They look like average, store bought teabags, except 
the bag and string attaching the generic paper tab are of a 
somewhat different quality.

Oh.

After another hour of searching, deductions and examination 
of all the teas in the cupboard, I find all the evidence I 
need to prove that Henry has drugged the herbal tea I 
already suspected of being drugged and ONLY that tea. I 
find a package of empty cloth tea bags, blank paper tabs 
and more of the string I found in his office drawer in the 
laundry where he uses the iron to seal the bags after he 
has laced their contents. No doubt the drug is in the 
unmarked vial in his desk. 

I no longer need the results of Lillian's test to confirm 
either which tea is drugged or what it is drugged with, but 
hopefully her results can provide specifics. I send her an 
email instructing her to focus on the sample number 
matching the herbal in my notes and tell her I have 
collected an undiluted sample of the substance as well 
should she need it. I detail all of this in the journal on 
the memory stick.

Or course, having this part of the case that has become my 
existence solved doesn't really change anything. I can only 
go two, perhaps three days without dosing before risking 
dangerous withdrawal. That cost doesn't seem to outweigh 
the benefit of an extra day or two of memory retention. 
Which explains why I needed to invent the Gruener case to 
keep my mind occupied. Assuming I am correct in that 
conclusion.

I debate how I should handle this new discovery for a 
while. Should I confront Henry with this? Would he accept 
my word that I will cooperate fully in the treatment plan?

Probably not. Even I wouldn't believe myself capable of 
making good on such a promise. At any rate, it is entirely 
likely that I have already tried this strategy if my entry 
from the official journal two days ago is any indication. I 
noted that I became sick and that Henry, when he came home 
from work, gave me a massage and a cup of tea that seemed 
to help. This part of the day is absent from my hive 
journal, but the entry for that day has data from my tests 
to determine which teas might be drugged, so I must have 
known the tea was drugged and still willingly consumed it.

I return all the tea and various paraphernalia to its 
proper place and make myself a cup of Ceylon - now 
confirmed to be safe. I can afford to skip a dose today. I 
consider wetting a bag of the herbal and tossing it in the 
bin in case Henry checks to make sure I have dosed when he 
comes home. Does he check? 

I decide it is best if I don't do anything that could 
compromise the data. If I convince Henry I have consumed 
the drug and I don't lose my memory as expected he could 
become suspicious. I could always pretend to lose my 
memory, but that act would only hold until the withdrawal 
symptoms start and would likely accomplish nothing but 
betray his trust in me. 

There is another option, I realize. I don't have to fight 
it. I could drink the tea and avoid the withdrawal. I have 
planted enough clues to lead me back to the discoveries I 
have made today. And if I don't...would it be so terrible 
if I took a day or two off? Whether I recover all the data 
or not won't change the fact that I am not well enough to 
abandon the course of treatment that seems to be working so 
far.

I don't have to decide yet. I can gather more data. Try to 
determine whether Gruener is real or just a lie to keep my 
mind occupied. 

I return to my laptop in the kitchen and begin searching 
for Josh Amberley.

---

"What are you saying here," John asks, frowning at the 
pages strewn over the table in 221b. "You think Josh 
Amberely is another alias?"

"The data on him is just as incomplete as the data I've 
found on Henry Peters." I fish the documents from the pile. 
"Birth certificate. University degree. Nothing in between."

"What were you expecting? A report from a primary school 
teacher?"

I groan. "No, but there must be *something*. Census data. 
The obituaries for his parents if they are, in fact, 
deceased."

"You know, if this Gruener person is real, it would make 
sense for Henry to still keep his real name from you."

I blink at John. "Go on."

"You are afraid that any investigations you attempt 
directly could attract his attention, right? So you must 
believe he is watching anyone you might try to contact."

"If that were true he would have caught me out by now. Even 
if I'm using an unknown mobile there must be a pattern of 
calls that anyone as smart as Gruener gives any impression 
of being could take as proof of my continued existence."

"Are you calling them? Are you sure?"

This thought brings me to an abrupt stop. Aside from the 
recent entry in my journal where I called Mycroft while in 
a fit of withdrawal fueled hallucination and prompted him 
to call Henry, there is no evidence I have spoken to anyone 
in London in the past week at least. Texted, yes, but how 
can I be certain of the identity of the person texting me? 
I delete phone numbers from my memory once I have them 
stored in the contacts on my phone - no sense wasting 
valuable storage space in my mind - so I would trust that I 
had programmed them correctly. But what if I didn't?

"Of course," I murmur. "In order for the plan to work, 
*everyone*, with the obvious exception of Mycroft, must 
believe I am dead."

John scratches his eyebrow. "But if no one is on the other 
end of the line...who is responding? You can't be doing it 
yourself."

"The only other people who know I'm alive are Mycroft 
and..."

"Henry."

"Of course. He and Mycroft are communicating with each 
other. How could I have missed that?"

"Maybe you didn't. There are several gaps in your journals. 
Who knows how many details you have forgotten?"

I pick up my wedding ring and take another stab at 
deciphering the inscription. It is mostly illegible 
squiggles, but the initials T.S. are clear. "T.S. is his 
real name," I say confidently. "It must be. The J and A 
must stand for Josh Amberley. The G would most logically be 
Gruener. Or the J is something else entirely and the A and 
G are Andrew Gruener, but that doesn't make any sense. Why 
would I put Gruener's name on my ring?"

"You're assuming they're all initials because of the first 
two letters," John says. "What if it's really a sentence?"

I consider this possibility for a moment. It might explain 
the odd number of letters, but it is just too inefficient 
and random considering all the other methods of storing 
data that I have at my disposal. It seems far more likely I 
am simply keeping track of my husband's identities here and 
this is all I have discovered so far. "No, you were right 
the first time. I solved the mystery at least once already. 
I ruined our cover and we had to take a new identity."

'William,' Moriarty said days ago right in this room of my 
mind palace. 'Scott? What are you calling yourself these 
days?'

I sigh. "All of this just proves that Gruener must be 
real."

"Does it?"

Moriarty's voice startles me and I look up to find he has 
replaced John when I was wasn't looking. No doubt he was 
summoned unconsciously by my line of thinking.

"I mean, come on, he snorts. "A criminal mastermind nobody 
else has ever seen or spoken to who commits murders so 
perfect nobody even suspects they are murders?"

"Jealous?"

Moriarty smirks. "Maybe. But you'll always come crawling 
back." He leans forward, elbows on the table. "Just for fun 
let's say he is real. How did he threaten that detective 
friend of yours? Your landlady? Your boyfriend? Must've 
been very convincing to make you go to this much trouble to 
hide from him."

I emerge from my Mind Palace to find my hand has curled 
into a tight fist around my ring. I uncurl my fingers 
slowly, inspecting the damage done by my nails digging into 
my palm. The skin isn't broken. I shake off the residual 
annoyance and slip the ring back on my finger.

The Gruener file is still open on my laptop. I scroll to 
one of the more detailed murders he described to me - a man 
he coerced into committing suicide. He had described in 
graphic detail the slow, excruciating method he would use 
to kill the man's wife while he watched helplessly. And 
when the man finally accepted that his desperate pleas for 
mercy were falling on unsympathetic ears - that his wife 
would only be safe so long as he sacrificed himself - 
Gruener had watched him put the gun into his mouth and pull 
the trigger.

Gruener knew my reputation. He must have known the lengths 
I had already gone to to stop Moriarty from hurting the 
people I care about. And this is why he doesn't believe I 
am really dead now. Why he is waiting. Monitoring everyone 
I am protecting by going into hiding in case I make the 
mistake of trying to contact them.

Or trying to research their real identities.

It is still possible that my original theory is correct and 
Gruener is merely a figment of my imagination designed to 
keep me distracted during my convalescence and improve my 
odds of actually recovering. It would be simple enough to 
prove whether or not he exists. But if I'm wrong... 
Letrade, Mrs. Hudson, John's family, Molly, my parents and 
who knows how many of Henry's friends and family could be 
at risk.

Does he have anyone he's protecting? He must have somebody 
other than me.

'How did he threaten your boyfriend?'

My thoughts stall again. Did Gruener threaten him the same 
way he did that victim's wife? No, I can't possibly have 
formed such a close bond with him in so short a time that 
Gruener would think he could use him against me. And 
yet...the thought of something happening to him as a result 
of my actions evokes a feeling of dread tinged faintly with 
nausea. It is a familiar feeling. Nearly identical to the 
one I had when Moriarty threatened John. Not exactly, of 
course, as my memories of our time together are broken, 
fleeting or entirely erased. If anything happened to him, 
my grief would only last as long as my memory of him. 

What a horrifying thought. That all the months spent 
building a connection to another person could be severed so 
easily.

My phone rings, breaking me from my thoughts. It is Henry.

"Did you find the memory stick," he asks immediately.

"Yes."

"How are you holding up?" There is genuine concern in his 
voice.

"They all believe I'm really dead, don't they? Lestrade. My 
parents. Everyone but you and Mycroft."

I hear his breath catch and wish for a moment that I'd 
waited to ask questions until I could see his face. "Yes," 
he says finally.

"What is your real name?"

"Look, we shouldn't do this over the phone. My last 
appointment for today cancelled, so...let me just finish up 
this paperwork and I can come home early."

Of course. That makes sense. And if I wait then I will be 
able to read his face as I ask my questions. "Fine."

"I'll see you in a bit, darling," he says softly. "I love 
you."

He hangs up before I can respond again. He doesn't expect a 
return of his sentiments. 

I shake off the feeling of unease that realization leaves 
me with. I need to get back to work. I need to finish the 
entry in the secret journal so I can return the stick to 
the hive.

---

I am waiting on the sofa when Henry returns from work. 
Grace awakens instantly at the sound of the door latch and 
vacates her spot beside me to greet him.

A minute later his hand rests gently on my shoulder and he 
presses a kiss to my head, carefully avoiding my scar. 
"Hello, darling," he murmurs. 

I look up and wait for his eyes to catch the screen of my 
open laptop, sitting on the table in front of me, watching 
for a reaction.

After I returned the stick with the secret journal to the 
hive and let Grace out again, I decided to try verifying 
that the numbers programmed into my mobile were incorrect. 
Searches for all of them returned results of "unlisted 
mobile number", which wasn't really surprising for some of 
them. But then I got the same result when I searched for 
John's office number.

Figuring the doctor the clinic hired to replace him 
probably wouldn't bother to change the number, I searched 
for clinics in the vicinity of the flat he'd shared with 
Mary (I couldn't remember the name of it) and pulled up 
their contact page. John Watson was still listed as one of 
their physicians.

Eight months is a long time to neglect to update your staff 
page. Unless, of course, there's nothing to update.

This is the page I still have on the screen.

I watch Henry's expression shift as he reads John's name 
and phone number, going from surprise to a controlled sort 
of fear. "Did you call this number?"

"And reveal that I'm not dead? No. I just wanted to confirm 
that you knew about this. Obviously you did."

He closes the laptop and sits on the table facing me. "I 
can explain," he begins weakly.

"You don't need to. Obviously John is alive, but the only 
way to insure I didn't ruin my cover by trying to contact 
him was to make me believe he was dead. I laid out enough 
evidence to convince myself that he died in the accident 
before we went into hiding."

He blinks, surprised. "You're not upset?"

"Why would I be?"

The tension in his body eases a bit.

"Was Gruener's claim of murdering him based on a threat or 
did I invent it entirely?"

"You ah...you never told me what he said exactly. But you 
were convinced he was responsible for Mary's death."

My mind trips over these words. For a moment I think I must 
have misheard him. "Mary?"

"She died about four months after your accident. The 
details of her death were kept secret, but unofficially she 
was killed by a former fellow operative."

"But Gruener claimed credit?"

"Supposedly he told you he tipped off the operative. It 
doesn't really match his usual style, but the timing was 
too convenient." 

It doesn't matter if it was a set up or simply convenient 
timing, I realize. I couldn't afford to take the risk that 
he would come after John. I couldn't risk Rosie losing both 
of her parents, or worse, becoming collateral damage. 
That's why the plan is different - more elaborate - this 
time. 

"What did Gruener threaten to do to you?"

Henry looks surprised by this question and I wonder if I've 
ever thought to ask it before. Have I never considered 
whether he had become important enough to me for Gruener to 
threaten? "I ah...I don't know. You never said."

"But obviously you believed he was a threat to you if you 
won't even tell me your real name."

Henry becomes visibly uncomfortable and rubs his palms 
along the tops of his thighs as if he is wiping sweat on 
his trousers. "I think I could use some tea. Would you like 
a cup?"

Does he realize I haven't dosed yet or is this simply a 
distraction? "No, I just had one."

He nods, then gets up and goes to the kitchen without 
another word. Definitely a distraction.

I follow him and stand in the doorway watching him start 
the kettle and retrieve a bag of Ceylon from the cupboard. 
His movements are mechanical and he is clearly lost in 
thought. He is afraid, but for reasons that are more varied 
and complicated than I previously suspected.

"I'm sorry, I..."

"Don't!" He turns to face me, his eyes bright. "Don't you 
dare apologize. You have *nothing* to be sorry for."

The words hang in the air. I fall silent. After a moment, 
unsure of anything else I can do, I cross the room and take 
him in my arms. He clings to me tightly, burying his nose 
in my hair.

"I love you," he murmurs.

"I know." 

He makes a tiny sound somewhere between a laugh and a 
hiccough and straightens so he can look into my eyes. His 
gaze is full of wonder, love and something like dread.

"I won't let him hurt you," I vow.

He makes the noise again and cups the back of my neck.

"But that's not the part you're afraid of, is it," I 
deduce. "You're afraid I will leave you once my condition 
improves and Gruener is no longer a threat. You're afraid I 
will go back to London. Back to John."

His breathing shallows. His pupils constrict. I feel his 
muscles tighten slightly. A common physiological response 
to stress commonly referred to as fight or flight.

The kettle whistles and he jumps, twisting out of my arms 
to switch it off. His hands are surprisingly steady as he 
pours out a cup. He takes a deep breath and turns to face 
me again.

"I don't believe in marriage," I continue before he has a 
chance to speak. "I have always seen love as a chemical 
defect. Romantic love especially. But after everything I've 
seen today - everything I've read...even though I know our 
relationship was established on a foundation of lies, I 
cannot deny that I am forming an attachment." No, don't 
phrase it like that. "I'm...I think I'm falling in love 
with you."

He is still for a moment. Not breathing. As if he isn't 
quite certain he heard me right. Then he is kissing me so 
forcefully our lips immediately begin to bruise. I back him 
against the counter, pinning him bodily and he gasps into 
my mouth, squirming as my hips grind against his. I cup his 
arse, pulling him tighter against me, and abandon his lips 
to attack his throat, feeling the vibration of his moan as 
his hands tangle in my hair.

A bark from the kitchen doorway pierces the heated fog 
muddling my brain.

I bite back a groan and mutter "ignore it."

"When did you have her out last," he gasps as I nip the 
soft skin behind his earlobe.

"She's fine."

As if to contradict me directly, Grace barks again, this 
time more insistently. 

I grit my teeth as Henry pushes me away with a soft "I'll 
take care of it."

I think I should object, but I'm not sure I'm up to walking 
quite yet. Not that he's faring much better, I realize with 
a swell of pride as he stumbles a little on his way out of 
the kitchen.

By the time he returns, I've calmed and remembered to take 
the sodden tea bag from his cup. I meet him at the door 
with it and we settle on the sofa.

"My name was Thomas."

Was. Past tense. "Thomas what," I prod.

He shakes his head. "I can't bear to say it anymore. Too 
many bad memories." He takes a sip of his tea. "Not that it 
was his fault, really. My ex. He was schizophrenic. I 
didn't know...*we* didn't know until after we'd been 
married." He fingers the seam of his trousers absently. "He 
was a perfect, loving husband. But sometimes he would lash 
out. Hit me. Strangle me." He clears his throat. "One day 
he became convinced I was some sort of spy sent to seduce 
him. He got hold of a knife." His fingers twitch toward the 
scar I know is hidden beneath his clothing unconsciously. 
"I know you probably have a version of that story in your 
notes. An explanation for the scar you can see. But I've 
never told you about the other scar. The one that's hidden. 
The one he gave me when he threatened to castrate me."

I wince instinctively. 

"He said it wouldn't make any difference, really. That I 
could still seduce unwitting men who were looking for a 
pretty mouth or a tight arse to fuck." The words are flat, 
unemotional, as if he is describing the event with the 
clinical detachment of an observer and not a participant. 
It is not an uncommon method of coping with trauma.

Nor is lying and refusing to talk about it. I was right. He 
is hiding his past from me to protect himself. Not just 
from the possible threat of Gruener, but from a painful 
past he would rather not relive every day for my benefit. I 
can't blame him for that. 

"That was when I realized I had to leave him. That if I 
didn't, he would eventually kill me." He licks his lips and 
takes a sip of his tea. "I changed my name...joined the 
MSF...made a new life for myself. I found out years later 
that he'd died of a heart attack. It was strange. When I 
saw the report - the confirmation of his death - I felt 
nothing. Anger, sadness, grief...nothing. It was like he 
was a stranger and not the man I had once loved. You're 
right. I'm not afraid Gruener will hurt me. But I am 
terrified of losing you. And yes, part of that fear has to 
do with John, but...a week ago I lost a patient to injuries 
from a car accident and I was reminded of how easily I 
could lose you." He takes a deep breath, sets his mostly 
empty cup on the table and turns toward me, gathering my 
hands in his and looking me in the eye. His hands are warm 
from holding the cup. "Will, darling, you should know 
there's something else I've been lying to you about. You 
don't have amnesia."

Well, I guess I won't have to find a way to bring that up 
after all. "I know. The drug is making me forget."

He nods, relaxing slightly. He isn't surprised I have 
figured this out. "Then you know the risks of withdrawal. I 
have been reducing the dosage, but the more you improve, 
the more you refuse to take it. As much as it pains me to 
watch you worry that you are losing your mind, the 
possibility that I could lose *you* terrifies me even 
more."

Maybe I should have let him make me the herbal. Allowed 
myself to forget. What will happen when it comes time for 
me to take my evening "dose" and what are the possible 
repercussions of that decision tomorrow morning? I consider 
revealing that I know the drug is in the tea, but I don't 
want to lose this small bit of control I have gained over 
my circumstances. Maybe I can convince him to let me skip a 
pill. Just one. Then I will find a way to recover the 
memory stick and put as much information on it as I can 
before I take the actual drug tomorrow.

I cradle his face in my hands gently. I cannot assuage his 
fears entirely. Withdrawal is dangerous and possibly 
deadly. But I can do something about his fear that I will 
leave him of my own volition. I kiss him softly, gently 
massaging his lips with mine. He melts into it easily, 
allowing me to take the lead, parting his lips at the 
slightest prodding of my tongue.

"Show me," I whisper into his mouth before my hands go to 
his belt, deftly undoing it and the trousers beneath. He 
lifts his hips obediently so I can drag his trousers and 
pants down to the tops of his thighs. Then he takes my hand 
and wordlessly guides my fingers to a spot just to the 
right of his cock. 'His ex was left handed,' I note. The 
texture of the skin is different, but it is difficult to 
discern much beneath the coarse pubic hair.

I slide to the floor between his knees and lean closer, 
gently parting the hair with my fingers until I can see the 
small scar. Not that I really needed the confirmation of 
his story. I press my lips to the scar, then to the base of 
his cock. He makes a breathy sort of groaning noise and his 
head drops to the back of the sofa.

I tease him for a while - kissing and rubbing my lips 
gently up and down the growing erection, lapping delicately 
at the head. His hand tangles in my hair, but he doesn't 
attempt to guide me. I reward his chivalry by taking the 
entire head of his cock in my mouth and sucking gently, 
feeling his fingers pull a bit as his hands clench 
involuntarily.

I slowly take him as deep as I can and hum an 
encouragement. A tiny helpless noise bursts from him and I 
feel his hips twitch in my steadying hands. He won't last 
much longer.

I find myself wishing I had set my phone to record this so 
I can see the look on his face later. So I can have a 
recording of the restrained noises he is making. I tug his 
hips forward a bit and angle my head so I can take him just 
a little deeper on the next downstroke.

"Wait," he gasps between ragged breaths. 

I ignore him.

"Will..." He grasps my shoulders, squeezing. "I'm gonna 
come..."

I tighten my grip, swirl my tongue around the head of his 
cock and take him as deep as I am able, humming softly. 
'Yes,' I think. 'I want you to.'

His fingers tighten almost painfully when he comes, the 
strangled, surprised sounds of pleasure making my own cock 
stir lazily. I manage to swallow his emissions without 
choking and gentle my ministrations as he goes soft.

Finally, I am able to look up at his face. It is slack and 
serene. His eyes are closed. I crawl up onto the sofa, 
straddling his lap and reclaim his pliant lips. His breath 
catches in surprise - either at my forcefulness or the 
taste of his own semen on my tongue. His hands cup my arse 
possessively, fingers kneading the muscle.

"Just give me a moment," he murmurs into my mouth between 
kisses. "To catch my breath...and I will...return the 
favor."

"I want to fuck you until you come again," I growl. I lick 
his lower lip and feel a shudder go through him. 

"Might need...more than a minute then," he says with a 
laugh.

I flex my gluteal muscles, rolling my hips in his hands 
pointedly and he whimpers.

"Can we have dinner first?"

"Not hungry."

"Well, I am." He releases my arse and pushes me back with 
both hands on my chest until our eyes meet. "I promise I'll 
make it worth the wait."

I am not a patient man. My instinct is to insist he can eat 
later and drag him up to the bedroom. But I can also 
recognize when anticipation can make the reward more 
satisfying. If I can hold off for a couple hours, he will 
have time to recover and be gasping for it again. Maybe I 
can even make sure Grace is settled so she won't interrupt 
us. 

I slide from his lap, give him time to fix his clothing and 
hold out a hand to help him up. 

He straightens and drapes his arms over my shoulders, 
kissing me reverently. "Thank you," he murmurs and I know 
he doesn't just mean for agreeing to his compromise or even 
for the orgasm. He is thanking me for staying. For not 
being angry with him at finding out John's death was a lie. 
For accepting all of the deception. For still desiring him 
so much that he had to beg me to be civilized and wait 
instead of just dragging him to bed like a caveman.

I rest my hands on his hips and nod slightly and our faces 
are so close to each other that it causes my nose to bump 
softly against his. "Thank you," I say, carefully 
inflecting it with my own meaning. Thank you for telling me 
even though it obviously terrifies you. Thank you for 
desiring me in a way I'm pretty sure nobody else ever has 
before. Thank you for taking care of me.

He nuzzles my face a bit, running his nose along mine in a 
way that is so intimate that it makes my breath hitch 
slightly. Then he pulls away, his hands brushing my chest 
as he drops them from my shoulders, picks up his cup and 
heads for the kitchen.

---

He turns his back on me long enough during dinner that it 
is easy for me to slip the tablet he gives me into my 
pocket. Too easy. It is probably a bad idea for me to be 
taking advantage of his trust like this, but I don't want 
to drink the drugged tea and I can't think of a better 
solution.

I walk Grace again after dinner, hoping all the activity 
today will wear her out so she'll sleep. The car I saw 
earlier is gone, which quite possibly confirms my theory 
about Lillian having an affair as her lover would have fled 
before her husband returned home from work.

There is another possibility, however, that merits 
discussing this with Henry. I would think anyone who had 
successfully tracked me down meaning to do me harm wouldn't 
be spending this much time on surveillance, but I cannot be 
certain.

I find him in the bedroom, already stripped down to his 
skivvies and turning down the bedsheets.

"How much do you know about Lillian Taylor?"

He frowns. "Not a lot. You've spent far more time with her 
than I have. Why?"

"There was a car parked at the curb in front of her house 
two days ago. I think I may have seen the same car today 
parked 'round the corner. The most likely explanation is 
that she's having an affair, but there's nothing in my 
notes to suggest I've picked up on that before."

Henry's muscles have stiffened. "Is the car still there?"

"No. Only this afternoon. Nobody was inside it, so it seems 
unlikely it has anything to do with Gruener, but I can't 
rule out the possibility..."

He takes a deep breath and seems to force himself to relax. 
"No. It's probably just a coincidence. Or you're right 
about Lillian having an affair. I don't really know 
anything about her." He shakes his head slightly, then 
brushes past me abruptly, disappearing into the bath.

'There's something he's not telling me,' I think. He is 
obviously unsettled.

I knock softly on the door before I open it. He is standing 
over the sink, braced on hands that are damp from having 
just splashed water on his face. His eyes meet mine in the 
mirror.

"We knew this couldn't last forever," he says softly. "When 
we devised this plan...faked our deaths...we knew that we 
would be found eventually." He straightens and turns toward 
me. His eyes are pained, haunted. "I'm tired of running. 
Hiding. Of having to lie to you. Of living in constant fear 
of being discovered."

His body language bears out his words. There is an 
exhaustion in him that is not physical. He is feeling the 
strain of maintaining this life built on a foundation of 
deceit. 

"You think it's possible we've been discovered?"

"No," he says rather unconvincingly. "No, I don't think 
this is Gruener," he adds with more conviction. "You could 
be right about Lillian having an affair." He chuckles 
lightly. "In fact, I'm relieved to hear you say that you 
suspect there is someone else because I once feared you 
might be the one she was having an affair with."

This stuns me. "Why would I be having an affair with 
Lillian?"

"You've been spending a lot of time together. She's 
beautiful. Smart. Uncomplicated. I would probably be 
attracted to her myself if I was bisexual."

Like I am, he means.

"I know," he says hurriedly before I have a chance to 
respond. "I know it's an offensive stereotype to think 
bisexuals can't be monogamous or are incapable of resisting 
temptation, but...I also know you didn't exactly choose 
me."

A piece of the puzzle clicks into place in my mind. He 
doesn't simply fear I will leave him once I am recovered. 
He expects me to leave him. For Lillian, for John, for the 
work...it doesn't matter. Someone - or possibly several 
someones - has led him to believe himself unworthy of 
happiness. Unlovable. Undesirable. 

I have been trying to understand - in both versions of my 
journal - why he is willing to put up with so much. Why he 
would volunteer to give up so much for someone who cannot 
even return the sentiments he offers so freely. He never 
expected anything of me. He has contented himself with the 
belief that any reciprocation of his sentiments is simply 
not possible.

I step closer, until there is hardly any space left between 
us, and I gently cup his face in my hands. He holds 
perfectly still, the apprehension practically radiating 
from him as I delicately trace the edge of the fading 
bruise beneath his eye with my thumb. The evidence of my 
having lashed out at him in a fit of delusion brought on by 
withdrawal. I think of the photo in my journal of a similar 
bruise on my face and my suspicions that he had been 
responsible despite my repeated convictions that he would 
never hurt me intentionally.

There is so much still going on here that I don't fully 
understand. Now that I have regained some control over my 
condition, I might finally have time to work it all out. To 
get myself clean so I can take down Gruener and eliminate 
the need for all the deception entirely. To assuage my 
husband's fear that I will leave him once the dust settles 
and I am free of my dependency on the drug he has to trick 
me into taking so I won't do exactly the sort of thing I am 
doing.

I kiss him softly, slowly, feeling his breath spill out in 
sharp, uneven exhales between each individual meeting of 
our lips. "I am choosing you now," I whisper.

He trembles faintly and a tiny, breathy sound escapes him. 
He leans into me as I grow bolder, kissing him more deeply, 
running my tongue along his and moans as I pull him tightly 
against me, pressing my hips into his so he can feel the 
beginnings of my erection. He fumbles to loosen my trousers 
and then his hand is sliding into my pants and wrapping 
around my cock.

"Do you still want to fuck me," he asks between hungry 
kisses and panting breaths.

I have a brief impulse to simply tear his pants off, bend 
him over the counter and have him right here. 'He would 
probably let me,' I think. But I haven't been patiently 
waiting since I sucked him off on the couch for something 
so hasty and primitive. In fact, I think as I draw his hand 
from my pants with a firm grip around his wrist, I know 
just what I want.

---

I take my time exploring his body, hoping that my mobile 
has sufficient memory to capture all of this. Now that I 
know I will remember this tomorrow, I make mental notes to 
properly file later of what works and what doesn't. What 
makes him moan, what makes him sigh, what makes him squirm 
away from me. 

His body is yielding to me, opening easily, so I am not too 
concerned about the fact that his cock is not yet erect. I 
have been rather avoiding it after all. But he seems 
distracted.

He whimpers as I slip a lubed finger inside him. My other 
hand is pressing his knee up and back and I feel the 
muscles in his thigh tighten beneath my lips. 

"Is this still all right," I murmur between soft kisses 
trailing up further until I am at the crease of his hip.

"Y...yes..."

"Are you sure?" I press my lips to his still mostly soft 
penis.

"Yes," he says firmly. He rocks his hips into my hand, 
forcing my fingers deeper and at an angle that brings them 
into fuller contact with his prostate. His cock twitches a 
bit. "Yes, please. Please..."

He allows me to maneuver him into position without 
complaint. I take a moment to admire the sight of him on 
his hands and knees, pressing his rounded arse enticingly 
back toward me, before slicking my cock and pushing inside 
as slowly as I can bear, feeling his body not just accept 
the intrusion, but welcome it eagerly. 

"Oh...Will," he sighs, rocking back to meet my thrusts.

Pleasurable as this is, it is not quite what I had in mind. 
I wrap my arm around his waist and coax him back with me as 
I sit on my heels. It is awkward for a moment as he tries 
to balance on my lap without causing me to slip out, but 
then he sinks back into me, his head tipping back onto my 
shoulder. Our height difference is effectively all in his 
long legs, but he still has to arch his back a bit.

I chose this position partly for its efficiency. My hands 
are free to explore his body, although for now I am simply 
holding him to me as he grows accustomed to the 
penetration. Another reason I chose it is because, for all 
the access I have to his body, he has little access to 
mine. He cannot distract me. He cannot even get enough 
leverage to thrust. I am in near full control of him. He 
groans and his hand comes up to tangle in my hair as I bury 
my face into the exposed column of his throat. I move 
languidly, rolling our hips as if we are slow dancing to 
music only we can hear. I am barely moving inside him, but 
it is just enough to create a gentle friction.

I keep him steady with my left arm and run my right palm 
along the inside of his thigh, feeling the muscles twitch 
beneath his skin. 

"Is this all right," I ask in a low voice, my lips brushing 
his ear. 

He shudders, audibly bites back a whimper and nods. He 
grips the arm wrapped around his waist, grounding himself, 
and leans into me, allowing me to guide his movements.

"So deep," he whispers. "I can almost feel you at the back 
of my throat."

"Ridiculous exaggeration," I mutter, though his words make 
me instinctively try to grind just a bit deeper. My efforts 
are rewarded when he makes a helpless little noise and 
reaches for my right hand as it reaches the apex of his 
thighs, his fingers gripping my wrist tightly. 

"Slow," he pants. 

I swallow a groan and force myself to go slower. I cup his 
balls gently, rolling them in my palm, and feel his hips 
twitch. I look down at his cock, pleased to see it now hard 
and bobbing with each languid thrust. "Are you going to 
come for me?"

"Yes." He says it almost like a question. He gasps as I 
draw my forefinger up the underside of his cock and moans 
quietly as I tease him a little between fingers and thumb, 
occasionally collecting the moisture beading at the tip 
until the head is so wet it is slippery. His hips are still 
twitching, but he doesn't thrust. Both of his hands grip my 
supporting arm so tight that I think if I wasn't so 
distracted by the feel of his body squeezing my cock it 
would probably hurt. 

I want to kiss him, but the angle would make it awkward. On 
impulse, I press my fingers - wet with his emissions - into 
his mouth instead. He sucks eagerly after only a moment's 
hesitation, reaching for my wrist so he can press my 
fingers deeper, muffling his moans. The image of his lips 
wrapped around my fingers, sucking frantically sends a 
spike of arousal so powerful through me that I become 
momentarily dizzy.

I can't hold on anymore. 

I shove him to the bed, wincing as my cock slips from him 
into air that feels downright cold by contrast. I pull his 
hips back and push back inside, thrusting with single-
minded determination until the built up pressure suddenly 
releases and I am coming. I have barely the presence of 
mind to try to stifle the sounds burbling up from my lungs.

I collapse on top of him. He is trembling violently. A 
small, broken wail reaches my ears and I realize belatedly 
that he's coming. His muscles squeeze around my softening 
cock, sending little shivery bursts of pleasure up my 
spine. I press my lips to his shoulders in sloppy attempts 
at kisses as the sound turns to gasping breaths punctuated 
by small whimpers.

A woof drifts in from the hallway and a grin tugs at my 
lips. I think I should be annoyed, but the rush of 
endorphins is making me giddy.

I stagger from the bed and have just enough presence of 
mind to grab my dressing gown before opening the door to 
reassure Grace.

I get her settled back in her bed and return to the bedroom 
to find the bed empty. My mobile is still perched on the 
side table, forgotten. I snatch it up and stop the 
recording that I notice has been going for a rather 
impressive amount of time. I'd wager it will be the second 
longest video I have saved so far.

I hear water running in the bath and follow the sound, 
mobile still in hand, opening the door without even 
thinking to knock first. 

He is washing himself at the sink and I take a moment to 
appreciate the sight of his naked body before raising my 
mobile to snap a photo. I don't have many candid shots of 
him and most of them are of an intimate nature - like this 
one.

He turns his head as I snap the picture and holds the wet 
flannel out to me wordlessly, making me aware of my 
increasingly sticky and uncomfortable state. I set the 
phone on the counter as I accept the cloth, but I become 
distracted as I get a closer look at him. His face has been 
freshly scrubbed, but his eyes are still red-rimmed and 
damp. I cup his chin, tilting his face toward the light to 
verify. He has been crying.

"Did I hurt you?"

"No! No, darling..." He catches my hands and presses a kiss 
to my palm. "I just got a bit emotional."

It isn't all that uncommon. The sudden rush of hormones and 
chemicals in the brain caused by orgasm can bring a surge 
of emotion. But I'm fairly certain this is more than just a 
simple chemical reaction.

He must see my doubt because he adds "okay, yes, it stings 
a bit and I'll probably be limping tomorrow, but it's 
nothing to fret about."

A smile tugs at my lips, but I manage to hold it back. I 
nudge him toward the sink and kneel behind him. He 
understands, obediently leaning forward and spreading his 
legs a bit. As I suspected, he hasn't gotten to this bit 
yet. I prod gently at the swollen aperture. The muscle is 
still a bit soft and loose, but there are no visible tears 
and my prodding only brings forth a weak trickle of 
lubricant mixed with semen. No blood. 

He gasps and shivers as the fluid spills over my fingers 
and my cock twitches lazily in response. I fumble to grab 
my mobile. There is already a picture of me that looks very 
much like this on my laptop and I want this one to match. 
On impulse, I gather a bit of fluid on my fingertip and 
press it back inside, massaging it into his interior wall. 
He moans softly and his muscles clench. 

"Shh..." I pull my finger back, toss my mobile back on the 
counter and set about wiping away the rest of the residue 
before just pressing the cool cloth over the raw skin. I 
brace him with my other hand on his hip, mindful of the 
bruises already there that my fingers fit neatly over, and 
catch sight of the glint of my wedding ring in the mirror.

'You are mine.'

I shouldn't find the sight of that arousing. The base 
response of my transport to such symbolic markings of 
ownership should offend me. And I suppose to an extent they 
do. Yet somehow it feels right. The instinct to claim and 
be claimed isn't repulsive. 

Then my eyes meet his in the mirror and for a brief second 
something clouds his gaze. A memory or a thought. Something 
dark and unsettling. And then he smiles gently and covers 
my hand with his, the moment forgotten. 

Or at least he tries to let it be forgotten.

"What is it," I ask. 

He turns and tugs me to my feet, directly into a kiss and I 
realize we haven't properly kissed since before we began 
this latest round of coitus. It is slow and lingering - as 
if he is delaying having to answer my question. When he 
finally relents, he takes a trembling breath, runs his 
thumb over my lips and whispers "I want you to remember, 
but I couldn't bear it if I lost you." He takes a 
shuddering breath. "I've stolen these last months. 
Jealously kept you by my side...you shouldn't have to live 
like this. You deserve better."

'I love you, my darling. Until my body ceases to draw 
breath.'

'If anything were to happen to you, my life would be 
forfeit.'

I have dismissed his overly sentimental statements in my 
notes as simply the words of a romantic. But coupled with 
my deductions earlier tonight and his near fatalistic 
statements now...it all stems at least partly from his 
feelings of guilt for lying to me and keeping me in my 
condition. Because if it weren't for these exact 
circumstances keeping me from leaving...

"I know how difficult living with me can be. I have been 
told repeatedly and explicitly. I don't deserve to have 
someone like you who not only tolerates my usual mercurial 
temperament, but also my inability to even remember you, 
much less express my gratitude for your willingness to 
brave the threat of a serial killer just to be by my side."

His eyes darken at that last statement, but I disregard it 
as simply an instinctive reaction to the reminder of 
danger.

"I don't 'deserve' to be so loved. I have no desire to 
leave or do anything that would compromise our life here."

He stares into my eyes for a moment longer, seemingly 
debating his next words, before shaking himself and 
reaching for the all-but-forgotten flannel still clutched 
in my hand. He rinses it and gently, silently, with the 
careful touch of a doctor, washes the stickiness from me.

The touch isn't meant to arouse, but my penis stirs lazily 
anyway. My body is well accustomed to his touch and 
responds instinctively despite the hesitations of my mind.

"Did you take the tablet with dinner," he asks suddenly and 
I force myself to focus on his face instead of his hands, 
though he doesn't look up from his task. He knows. He knows 
I haven't dosed, but he doesn't realize I've uncovered the 
true source of the drug. I quickly calculate the impact of 
either answer and determine that the honest one is likely 
to do the least damage.

"No." My voice sounds strained, but then he is cupping my 
testicles so that is to be expected.

He nods, looking disappointed yet entirely unsurprised.

"I will take the next dose tomorrow," I promise. "Before 
the withdrawal sets in."

He nods again and remains silent, his eyes still focused on 
the movement of his hands as he finishes washing me. "I'll 
just change the sheets on the bed," he finally says. He 
looks up and I see something like resignation in his eyes. 
He won't argue with me on this. Just as I won't resist 
tomorrow when he offers me a cup of the herbal tea. Maybe 
then I can reveal that I know it is the true source of the 
drug. Maybe he will agree to let me have control over my 
treatment.

Maybe.

I nod and he gives me one last lingering kiss before 
leaving me alone in the bath.

---

I save the new video and photo files to the journal on my 
laptop. Then, after locating some headphones so I don't 
disturb Grace, I watch the video.

I forward to the last bit just before I left the room. From 
this angle, I can see his face. I focus on it as he is 
thrown forward in my race toward orgasm. His mouth is open, 
but the only sounds reaching the mobile camera are harsh 
breathing and the slick, violent impact of my thrusts. But 
his eyes...the way his fingers twist desperately in the 
sheets...it is a mixture of fear and arousal. His mouth 
moves and a low whine I didn't hear earlier emerges, 
turning into a strangled cry that is almost drowned out by 
my half-swallowed shout when I reach climax.

I collapse then, causing him to collapse as well beneath my 
weight. He wails softly and his face - turned toward the 
camera - contorts in a rictus of pleasure and pain.

I did hurt him. And that's what got him off, despite 
neither of us touching his cock.

I am kissing his shoulders as he comes down, trembling, 
looking dazed, lost.

And then Grace barks and I roll from him with a laugh and 
disappear to reassure her, entirely oblivious to Henry's 
distress. Completely failing to notice the tears already 
flooding his eyes or the way he flinches as I pull out of 
him.

I watch now as he struggles to push himself upright. As the 
tears begin to spill onto his cheeks. As he lurches from 
the bed and nearly collapses to the floor before catching 
himself and stumbling to the bath.

These new images tumble through my mind, combining with the 
existing ones and all the information I have gathered until 
a new conclusion emerges. The tears weren't brought on by 
simple emotional overflow. The pain, coupled with the 
sudden and violent orgasm, triggered a memory. A traumatic 
memory.

A movement out of the corner of my eyes shakes me into the 
present and I am surprised to see him standing at the 
counter, switching on the kettle.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you," he says as I pull 
the buds out of my ears. He holds up the mug. "Chamomile?"

"He wasn't schizophrenic," I blurt out. I may have more 
than twenty-four hours to make my conclusions now, but I 
still don't want to waste them. "Your ex. You just tell me 
that because you believe the truth makes you look weak."

He swallows, sets the cup down. "No," he says softly. 
"That's not the reason."

"But I'm right, aren't I?"

He sighs. "Yes, of course you're right." He runs his hand 
through his hair, gripping the strands briefly in 
frustration. "I don't like having this conversation. I 
don't like having to relive my life with him. But since you 
keep working it out, at least if I say his cruelty stemmed 
from a disease, that it was a surprise to both of us, I can 
pretend I couldn't have anticipated how bad it would get. 
That I wasn't stupid enough to stay with a man who 
obviously got a sick thrill out of hurting me for three 
years."

Usually making a correct deduction gives me a momentary 
thrill, but that feeling is absent now. Three years.

On the laptop screen I see myself return and pick up the 
mobile, bringing my flushed, happy face more fully into 
frame for a moment before the video stops. This image - my 
glaring ignorance in the face of his trauma, spurs me into 
action. I cross the room and take him into my arms, 
shushing him stupidly as I feel the faint trembling in his 
body.

"It's all right," he murmurs even as his arms wrap around 
me and he leans into the embrace, taking comfort from it. 
From me. He trusts me even after this incident and the one 
that left the faint but still visible bruise beneath his 
eye. How many others have there been?

I want to ask for more details, but any answers he could 
give would serve no purpose but to satisfy my curiosity. 
Not enough to justify prying at old wounds.

The kettle whistles and I unwrap myself just enough so I 
can reach to unplug it. I cradle his face in my hands then 
and wait for his eyes to meet mine. "You don't have to tell 
me. But I will write it in my journal because I believe it 
would be better if I knew there was a chance of this 
happening so I can avoid it."

"You didn't do anything. I was lost in my own head."

Oh. Of course. "You don't want me to know because you don't 
want me to treat you like a victim."

He flinches slightly at that. "It's not that simple."

"Then explain it to me."

He sighs and reaches for my hands, pulling them down and 
clutching them to his chest. Bracing himself, I think. "I 
was his submissive. Do you know what that means?"

I didn't until the case with The Woman. Though I understand 
there is a great deal of variation among individuals. "He 
dominated you sexually."

"It was more than sex, but yes. Essentially. I discovered I 
enjoyed giving up control. And a little bit of pain made 
the pleasure all the more potent. But his understanding was 
that the contract I had entered into made me - in effect - 
his slave. That my body was his property and I could not 
deny him of his rights to it."

My hands tighten within his as I feel a surge of revulsion. 
"He raped you."

Henry winces. "It took two years for me to realize that 
what we had was not a normal, healthy dominant/submissive 
relationship and another to get up the courage to leave. I 
was young and naïve. I loved him and I believed he loved 
me." He trails off for a moment as he becomes lost in his 
memories, then focuses on me again. "I know you would never 
hurt me." My eyes flick to the fading bruise beneath his 
eye and he quickly adds "not deliberately. I didn't want to 
burden you with my past just so you could worry about what 
you might do accidentally."

"That's not..."

He lets go of my hand to press two fingers to my lips, 
silencing my protest. "What happened tonight was not the 
result of anything you did. I promise."

"It's about trust," the Woman had purred in my ear as she 
tied the knots around my wrists. "You can trust me to test 
your limits so long as I can trust you to stop me before I 
break you." 

I shake the memory away and wrap my hand around his wrist, 
squeezing gently as I pull his fingers from my lips.

He trusts me. And I have stated in my journal that I trust 
him. Can I really blame him for not wanting to dredge up 
the past? I nod and he relaxes a little in relief. 

"You forgot your chamomile," I note, glancing at the still 
empty cup. 

He laughs softly. "It was for you. I thought since you 
didn't take the tablet you could use something to help you 
sleep."

I look to the cup again and verify that it is, indeed 
chamomile and not the drugged herbal. Unless I was wrong 
and this one is also drugged...

No. He trusts I will take the tablet tomorrow. I can trust 
that he won't trick me into dosing before that. 

But I still don't want chamomile.

"I have a better idea," I say as an offer he made in a 
saved message once comes to mind. "Give me five minutes to 
finish up here and meet me in the bedroom."

---

I groan as he digs the heels of his hands into my lower 
back, taking full advantage of the music emanating from his 
mobile just loud enough to cover any noises that might 
alarm Grace. I am half hard, but I don't think I could move 
to do something about it if I wanted to. 

My groans turn deeper, lustier as he moves lower and he 
leans down to whisper in my ear. 

"Do you want to come?"

"Mmmnot sure," I mumble into the pillow. "Do you?"

"Mmm. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is well spent, 
I'm afraid."

I can feel his thighs clenching around me each time a noise 
spills from me, but the half hearted interest his cock is 
showing bears out his claim. 

He is kneading my backside and every so often he delves in 
to brush a teasing finger against my anus, drawing an 
embarrassing whimper from me.

He moves on, turning his attention to my thighs and I am 
torn between frustration and relief. I am undeniably 
aroused and yet I don't feel the urgency to chase the 
release of orgasm.

He works his way steadily down to my feet, until my body is 
utterly limp and pliant. Then he orders me to roll onto my 
back and slowly works his way back up, carefully avoiding 
my swollen cock.

"Would you like me to take care of that," he asks softly as 
he massages my shoulders and biceps.

Another whimper slips from me. When did I lose control over 
my transport?

"It's okay, sweetheart. It's perfectly natural. In fact, 
it's not the first time you've been aroused while I did 
this for you."

I open my eyes and focus on him hovering over me - 
carefully keeping his pants-covered cock well away from my 
bare erection. "What did you do about it last time?"

He smiles. "I made it a really thorough massage. External 
and internal. Is that what you would like me to do now?"

I would LIKE to drag him down on top of me, wrap my hand 
around both of our cocks and rut against him. But he is too 
sore and oversensitive and I have no desire to hurt him 
anymore than I already have. So I nod instead.

He retrieves the lotion he has been rubbing into my skin 
and arranges me until my legs are spread wide, my hips 
propped up on a pillow. He rubs my inner thighs as he 
kneels between them. "Stay nice and relaxed. That's it. Let 
me do all the work."

The first finger slides into me easily and I sigh and force 
myself to remain still. He rubs along my interior walls, 
carefully avoiding my prostate, for longer than is really 
necessary before inserting a second finger. 

"Stop teasing," I huff.

"Shh."

He continues to move slowly, occasionally brushing against 
my prostate as if by accident, until my fingers are 
twisting in the sheets and I am fighting the instinct to 
thrust and get it over with already.

Worth the wait. That was what he said earlier, wasn't it? 

The maddening brushes against my prostate become 
increasingly less accidental, until he is deliberately 
brushing it on every in-stroke and pausing to circle it 
before retreating again.

I am focusing on my breathing, on swallowing the helpless 
little noises of pleasure he is drawing from me as best I 
can. The music seems to be working, even if it threatens to 
be distracting.

I can't take it anymore, I decide, and reach for my cock, 
emboldened when he doesn't try to stop me. 

His other hand moves from its position braced against my 
thigh, smoothing over heated skin, making the muscles 
beneath twitch. And then the thumb is pressing into the 
sensitive spot behind my balls and my back arches 
involuntarily. 

"That's it," I hear him murmur around the blood rushing in 
my ears. "Come for me, my darling."

He bends over me and licks across the tip of my cock before 
taking the whole head in his mouth. A startled grunt erupts 
from me and I immediately abandon my previous efforts in 
favor of gripping his head with both hands, my hands 
tangling in his hair. I'm sure I am not being as 
considerate of him as he was of me earlier, but I am too 
far gone to control myself. 

My eyes try to close to curb the overwhelming amount of 
sensory data, but I force myself to keep them open, 
entranced by the sight of his lips stretching around me, 
glistening in the light as they become wet with his saliva 
and my emissions.

He moans and I can't hold on anymore. I manage to stutter 
out a warning just before I come with a strangled groan, 
but since I can't bring myself to release my hold on his 
head it doesn't serve much purpose.

An orgasm can produce a chemical effect on the brain not 
all that dissimilar from drugs - clearing my mind and 
helping me to focus. I figure this is why I am currently 
free of all other recreational habits - the drug Henry is 
weaning me from excepted. I have never tried to use sex 
this way only because I always found manual stimulation 
disappointing and messy and the effort of seeking out a 
partner tedious.

As my brain comes back online, I take in all the details of 
my surroundings. The imperfections in the paint on the 
ceiling. The beginnings of a spider's web in one corner. 
The cloying sound of the pop song drifting from his mobile. 
The careful placement of his wristwatch beside it on the 
bedside table. The feel of his fingers and mouth continuing 
to work, gentler now as I come down from my climax. He 
stops just as it starts to become uncomfortable - 
demonstrating just how attuned to my body he is - and 
trails his lips across my quivering abdomen as I catch my 
breath. I run my fingers gently over his hair, soothing 
ruffled strands in apology for tugging them into disarray 
moments ago. I feel the vibration of his hum against my 
skin more than I hear it.

After a bit, he sits up and reaches for his mobile, 
mercifully stopping the noise and listening for any signs 
of Grace. The house is quiet just long enough for me to 
think we may have found a solution. Then an accusatory 
"woof" dispels that notion.

Henry gives a sigh of defeat, wipes his hands on the 
flannel he brought to bed in preparation, and goes to 
reassure her.

I roll on my side, listening to his soothing voice drift 
down the hall as I come down from the high. The exhaustion 
that usually follows a really powerful orgasm is already 
beginning to creep in, along with the cold as the sweat 
dries on my skin.

I pull the covers up to my chin and drift until the 
mattress dips beneath Henry's weight as he slips in with 
me.

"Still awake," he asks softly.

"Mmm," I hum sleepily. 

He wraps himself around me, anchoring me with a warm hand 
splayed across my chest. He kisses my neck softly and 
buries his nose in my hair, murmuring nonsense about how 
lucky he is and how perfect I am.

I can't be certain, but as I am sliding toward sleep, I 
think I hear him say "I love you. No matter what 
happens...I will always love you."

---
Henry, AKA Thomas

I can't sleep. I cannot bear to waste even a moment of 
whatever time I have left with you. I cannot bring myself 
to leave, even though I know I should. You would forget me, 
eventually. Even if you do find that second copy of your 
journal that I know you're keeping somewhere.

I never meant for it to be like this. I thought if I could 
just get you away from him I could convince you to leave. 
Maybe I could even convince you to give me a chance to make 
you happy. You figured out you were being followed and drew 
the wrong conclusions. 

I've played the accident over and over in my mind. The 
truck that tried to pass you far too close to be safe. Your 
car hitting the tree. The driver stopping briefly, then 
panicking when he saw me approach and fleeing. I gave his 
license number when I gave the anonymous report, but would 
his reckless driving really have caused the accident if you 
hadn't believed somebody was after you?

I didn't know you were an addict. He was careful to keep 
that detail out of his blog. By the time your concussion 
abated, you were well on your way to being addicted to a 
drug that treated pain and helped you sleep at the price of 
your memories. 

I should have brought you to hospital and let someone else 
manage your treatment. But I am weak. So I lied to you. And 
I convinced you to lie to everyone who might take you away 
from me. 

You have never blamed me. Even when I told you everything. 
About me, about Gruener, about how you really came to be 
here. Even when I had to track you to a bar in Liverpool to 
explain because you thought I was holding you hostage and 
tried to flee. You forgave me. You came back, took the 
tablet and vowed it would not happen again. Of course, you 
forgot soon after and we had to repeat the cycle. I should 
have let you leave. I should have *made* you leave. But I 
couldn't bear even the thought of it after experiencing 
what it was like to be loved by you, even if you have never 
said it in so many words. I thought I was saving you, but 
it turns out you have saved me.

The deep, even rhythm of your breathing changes a moment 
before you roll onto your stomach, away from me.

I have had the privilege of being in a position to watch 
you sleep for nearly nine months now - both before and 
after you allowed me more intimate privileges - so even 
though I can only see the back of your head now, I can 
readily picture your face in my mind, relaxed in sleep. 
Beautiful. Innocent. You would laugh if I said those words 
in front of you. Neither of us is innocent. 

I trace the scars on your back with my eyes until they 
disappear beneath the covers. I was always so careful to 
avoid scarring my own body. I failed twice. The rest of my 
scars are all hidden. 

I don't know if I should be relieved or disappointed that 
you believed the lie that I was upset because you reminded 
me of my ex in the heat of the moment. You could never 
remind me of him. The truth is I had been reeling ever 
since you came to me with your concern that your theory 
about Lillian having an affair might possibly be wrong, 
trying to come up with explanations for my distress before 
you reached the correct conclusions on your own. Because I 
know that your mysterious car can only mean one thing: they 
have found us again.

It has happened before, of course. Nearly five months ago. 
And when I told you everything then I thought surely you 
would leave me. Turn me in to your brother. Instead, you 
gave me the stick you had hidden in your violin case and 
offered to help insure the deception would work this time. 
You helped me resurrect Andrew Gruener and make him the 
monster he always claimed he wasn't. We burned our 
identities, hopped a car through the chunnel and began our 
lives as Henry and Will Peters on the continent. I treasure 
those "honeymoon" moments most of all, but even then I knew 
it could never last. 

I know if I gave you the choice now, you would do it all 
over again. But I cannot let you. I cannot ask you to 
continue living with me in this gilded cage. You have 
already given me eight and a half months - more than I 
could ever have hoped for. 

I considered hastening the inevitable earlier tonight - 
contacting your Detective Lestrade directly - but I 
couldn't bring myself to do it. I cannot bear to let you go 
any sooner than is absolutely necessary. It doesn't matter. 
I can't imagine they intend to wait much longer.

You won't be truly free as long as the drug still holds 
power over you. But with any luck, you are most of the way 
to recovery. I will give you all the information you need 
to complete it. Without me.

I just hope you can still forgive me.

---
Day 11

I am back at the pool with Moriarty. Only this time he has 
two hostages, knelt on either end, bound and gagged and 
with bombs strapped to their chests.

"You have to choose," Moriarty says in his unhinged lilt. 
"The noble pet or the tragic lover? You can only save one!"

I run through scenarios frantically in my head. Positioned 
as they are, I would only have time to try to remove one 
bomb before the other went off. Assuming I would be given 
time enough even for that. If I simply shoot Moriarty, then 
his man with a hand on the switch will kill them both. 

There is only one choice I can make. I press the barrel of 
the gun to my own temple, keeping my eyes firmly on 
Moriarty.

He sighs dramatically. "Oh, Sherlock...WRONG answer."

One of the bombs explodes. Before I have time to register 
which one it was, I am running in the opposite direction. I 
can stop the other one at least. I have to try.

I am rounding the corner of the pool, just close enough to 
see the terror in his eyes, to hear him try to call my name 
behind the duct tape over his mouth.

The second bomb explodes and I fall to the floor. I am 
screaming, but I can't hear it.

'I will burn the heart out of you...the heart out of 
you...' No. Please no.

I close my eyes against the horror and when I open them 
again I am laying in bed, looking up at a ceiling 
illuminated by the soft light of early morning pouring in 
from the hall. A dream. Of course it was a dream.

I give myself a moment or two to calm my nerves before 
rolling over to face Henry. It was his face I had seen, 
tear streaked and terrified. 

I don't believe in ascribing too much meaning to dreams. 
They are little more than a random collection of thoughts, 
fantasies and memories put into some sort of order by an 
idyll, unconscious mind. Unfiltered by logical thought. But 
that doesn't necessarily mean they are always without any 
meaning. I have spent months believing John was dead and I 
needed to protect everyone else who could be at risk - 
including Henry. Now that I know John is alive...

Gruener doesn't need to threaten anyone else. I made the 
same choice in my dream that I made when I jumped from the 
roof of St. Bart's, because it was the only way I could 
save them. Like Moriarty, Gruener knows I would do anything 
to protect those closest to me. Henry is safe as long as 
Gruener believes he is dead. John is only safe as long as 
he believes *I* am dead.

I frown as I wake up a bit more and take in the sight of 
Henry. He is still not only wearing the pants he had on 
last night, he is now dressed in an undershirt as well. 
This would not necessarily be odd were it not for the fact 
that I distinctly remember him being naked yesterday 
morning and there has not been a dramatic difference in the 
weather that would account for the change. Even more 
bizarrely, he is already wearing his wristwatch.

'As if he had crawled into bed after a long night out and 
forgot to remove it.'

He must have got out of bed sometime during the night. 

Before I can work out what he might have been doing, a 
whine drifts in from outside the door. Grace is probably 
overdue for her morning wee.

I try to slip from the bed without waking Henry, but his 
eyes open before my feet can touch the floor. He blinks at 
me in the bleary manner of someone who has only just 
managed to fall into a deep slumber. What was he doing all 
night?

"It's all right," I whisper. "Go back to sleep." He clearly 
needs more rest. I can ask what he was doing later. Or, 
more likely, figure out for myself.

He doesn't say anything, but he seems to relax a bit when 
Grace barks her impatience.

I pull on my dressing gown and locate my shoes. Grace is 
already beside the front door, vibrating with excitement. 

"Yes, yes, hang on a tic," I mutter as I struggle to attach 
the leash to her collar while she squirms.

The moment I step outside, I realize that it wasn't her 
urgent need to relieve herself that had her so worked up.

There are four men crouched just outside the door, their 
backs to the walls so they can't be seen from inside. All 
of them have guns held in ready position. Were it not for 
the fact that the man nearest to me is Lestrade, I would 
have sounded an alarm immediately. Instead, I stare at him 
in shock. He presses his finger to his lips and holsters 
his weapon. Grace trots right up to him and sniffs the cuff 
of his trousers. I have the fleeting thought that she would 
clearly make a terrible guard dog. I say my next thought 
out loud.

"Have you caught Gruener then?"

Lestrade blinks in confusion, shakes his head slightly and 
whispers "go. Now," urgently. The other three men stream 
past me into the house before I can muster up an objection.

"What are you doing?"

He guides me away from the door with a hand on my elbow. 
"Come here. You all right?"

"Yes, of course I'm all right. What is going on?" Although 
the answer is forming in my still-waking brain already.

Lestrade doesn't answer me. Instead, his hand goes to his 
earpiece and he asks the person on the other end "are you 
sure?" He pauses, then says "okay, bring him out."

They're arresting Henry. 

I go back over all the data I've collected in the past 
twenty-four hours and the conclusions I drew from it. 

I got it all wrong.

"Will!"

"Stay back, Mrs. Taylor," Lestrade calls to Lillian. She 
obediently halts her approach at her front walk, bundling 
her coat around herself nervously.

The car. She wasn't having an affair. The police wanted to 
question her before they executed this plan to...to...

I thrust Grace's leash into Lestrade's hands and go back 
inside the house before either of them can protest.

Lestrade's men are handcuffing Henry - having had to wait 
while he put on the rest of his clothing. Their weapons are 
holstered, but they are regarding him with a wariness that 
suggests they anticipate the possibility they will have to 
reach for them again if he resists. They are treating him 
like a dangerous suspect. 

"On what charges are you arresting him," I demand 
indignantly. 

One of the officers intercepts me, gently blocking me from 
getting any closer.

"Abduction, wrongful imprisonment and possession of illegal 
narcotics for a start," the officer cuffing Henry responds.

"It's all right," Henry calls softly. He stops talking 
abruptly as the officer cinches one of the cuffs tighter 
than necessary. 

"Quiet," the officer spits.

I have the belated realization that they could have shot 
him when they came barging in here. Lucky for them they 
didn't, or whoever had pulled the trigger would not be 
leaving this room alive. 

"Those charges are false. I am here of my own free will." 
The drugs charge is likely true, of course, but I can 
address that once I disabuse them of this ridiculous notion 
that I have been kidnapped.

"He said you'd say that," the officer mutters, roughly 
shoving Henry toward the door. 

I try to step in his path, but the officer guarding me 
throws an arm in front of my body. "Sir, stay back!"

"I'm sorry," Henry says as he is herded from the room. "I 
love you." 

He isn't putting up any sort of fight whatever. Which, 
combined with my observation that he was already dressed, 
leads me to the conclusion that he was anticipating this 
exact scenario. 

On the heels of this is another realization. His behavior 
last night. His story about fearing I was having an affair 
with Lillian...it was a lie. Offered up in order to 
discourage me from coming up with an alternative theory. He 
knew what the presence of the car really meant.

'He said you'd say that.'

I know instinctively which "he" the officer must have been 
referring to. Mycroft. 

I retrieve my mobile and find my brother's name in the 
contacts. But I realize the futility of it before I dial 
the number. If he is having Henry arrested for kidnapping 
me, he must not be in contact with me. The number in my 
phone for him - like all the other numbers - must not be 
real. All of the evidence in my journal that I have spoken 
to Mycroft in recent months - that he is aware of my 
current situation at all - has been fabricated.

Which means he can't be speaking with Henry either.

My eyes fall on Henry's mobile, still perched by his side 
of the bed. Did he leave that intentionally, or did the 
police not allow him to take it with him?

His lock code is the date we were married. Obvious. There 
is a note already open that answers any questions about his 
intent.

'Look in the bottom drawer of my desk.'

He wanted me to find this. 

The officer who held me back is speaking to Lestrade in the 
front hall when I pass by. My stomach clenches a bit as 
Lestrade calls my name - not Will, but Sherlock. I ignore 
it.

As I suspected when I searched the office yesterday, the 
bottom drawer of Henry's desk contains a duffel bag and a 
laptop. 

I am just about to open the duffel bag when Lestrade 
appears beside me, his hand wrapping around my arm. 
"Evans," he barks to the officer who has followed him. 
"Alert the bomb squad..."

"Oh, for God's sake. It's not a bomb!"

"How can you be sure?"

"Because he told me to look inside."

Lestrade raises an eyebrow. Clearly this isn't enough. What 
sort of monster do they believe Henry is?

"Whoever he is - whatever he's done - I find it impossible 
to believe he would do anything to deliberately cause me 
harm." Unless he meant for somebody else to find that 
message. No, he knows enough about me to realize I would 
have been the first to figure out his lock code. He wanted 
me to find this.

Lestrade hesitates, clenches his jaw, then reaches in his 
pocket for two pair of gloves.

Right. Everything in the house is probably considered 
evidence now. 

I put on the gloves - annoyed at the delay this causes - 
and open the bag. Beneath a folder similar to the one that 
contains the introductory notes I read every morning is 
several bundles of euros and pound notes, several EU 
passports, an unmarked jar of tablets, a gun and a memory 
stick. I open one of the passports to find my picture 
beside the name William Smith. The next one I open has a 
picture of Henry beside the name James Walter.

Lestrade gingerly lifts the gun from the bag and holds it 
out to Evans. "Bag that, will you?"

"He's a spy," I mutter. It isn't a question. This is the 
sort of bag a spy would keep on hand in case he needs to 
make a quick escape. Burn his current identity and start 
fresh in a new city, new country.

"He was," Lestrade confirms. "Got out a couple years ago."

I open the folder. Like mine, it has a handwritten note on 
top of the rest of its contents. But this one isn't in my 
handwriting. The ink is fresher and the paper is less worn 
from repeated handling.

'My darling Sherlock,' it begins. 'By now you have probably 
realized that you are here under false pretenses. I never 
meant to hurt you and I never meant for this charade to go 
on as long as it has. 

'You already know the drug you are taking is causing your 
memory loss, but you may not yet know that it isn't 
contained in the tablets, but in the herbal at the front of 
the tea cupboard. All the bags in that box are already 
laced with one crushed tablet per. The rest of the tablets 
are in the jar in this bag. By now the dosage should be 
minimal enough that any doctor could manage your withdrawal 
in hospital if you choose not to take them.

'I have been conditioning you to associate your name with 
feelings of illness and discomfort and the name Will with 
pleasure. You insisted this was the best way to discourage 
you from breaking our cover.

'The answers to any other questions you may have can be 
found on the memory stick. It is the one you gave me four 
months ago when we came up with the plan to go into hiding 
while you finished detoxing. For what it is worth: I am 
sorry. For all the lies. For the suffering I have caused 
you. I never wanted to hurt you, and I understand now that 
I will be if I allow this to continue any longer. I love 
you. Until my body ceases to draw breath.

'Always.'

The note isn't signed.

"Conditioning," Lestrade asks, reading the letter over my 
shoulder.

"Operant conditioning," I mutter numbly. "He only called me 
Sherlock when I was ill or in pain." My stomach rolls a bit 
uncomfortably. How did I never make that connection? 

Something from the secret copy of my journal comes back to 
me. The day he came home at lunch and fucked me into two 
orgasms while saying both of our names. Had I slipped?

Beneath the note are printouts of an obituary and a 
coroner's report. Again, similar to my folder, but not 
identical. The obituary is dated from 2005 and is for 
Andrew Gruener. The coroner's report is from November of 
last year and identifies the remains of two men who were 
killed in an explosion as Josh Amberley and Sherlock 
Holmes.

I got it all wrong.

"Gruener," Lestrade reads. "Is that the man you were asking 
about?"

"What is Henry's real name," I ask numbly.

"Thomas Schlessinger, according to his birth certificate. 
He's had a few other names since. MI-6 knew him as James 
Armitage."

TS. JA. Was Andrew Gruener one of his aliases? One that 
"died" and was therefore easily appropriated into a perfect 
foil? I skim the obituary. It is vague and generic. No 
family. Few friends. Well liked enough by coworkers. No 
details about cause of death.

I text Molly to find the coroner's report for me, only 
remembering that the message will not actually reach her a 
moment later when Henry's phone screen lights up with it. 

I groan. "Ask Molly to pull the coroner file on Andrew 
Gruener, would you?"

I jam the papers back in the folder and grab the memory 
stick. NSY can have the rest of the contents of the bag. I 
open the top drawer and retrieve the other memory stick - 
the one with all the data on the Gruener case. Obviously I 
was right about the case being fabricated to keep me from 
"blowing our cover", but why did we choose this man? 

"Where's Grace," I ask, suddenly remembering I left her 
with Lestrade.

"Ah...Mrs. Taylor offered to look after her while you get 
sorted."

I wonder how long that will take. 

"Did she contact you?"

"Not exactly. She ran DNA on a swab you gave her. Result 
set off alarms at MI-6."

The swab I gave her. I did this.

Something must be written on my face because Lestrade 
gentles. "Look...why don't you put some clothes on and I'll 
take you to the airport? There's a plane waiting to take 
you back to London."

I look down at myself. I had nearly forgotten I am only 
wearing a dressing gown and shoes beneath an unbuttoned 
coat. The sash on the gown is dangerously close to 
unraveling now. Which might explain why Lestrade is 
beginning to look uncomfortable.

I need a shower first though, because while Henry did a 
cursory wash up last night, I still smell rather powerfully 
of sweat and sex.

"Right. I'll just wash up and..."

"You can do that later," he interrupts. "After we collect 
evidence."

Oh.

I stop moving and stare at him. "Evidence," I repeat 
slowly. "You want to collect evidence for a rape kit?"

Lestrade definitely looks uncomfortable now. "Yeah," he 
mutters, his eyes darting about.

"I see. And will you also be collecting samples from him?"

"Er..."

"Of course not. Because you have already come to the 
conclusion that I am being held here against my will. What 
have I said about theorizing before you have all the 
evidence?"

"Are you saying you're here by choice?"

"I'm saying I haven't been *raped*. And I will not consent 
to a procedure which will only waste valuable time and 
resources to prove that my husband and I had sex last 
night!"

"He's not your husband."

"What?"

"At least...not legally."

I blink and look down at my ring. Of course. Marriages 
between fictional identities aren't legally binding. 
Especially if the proper paperwork was never filed with the 
state - as is unlikely in this case. 

"That doesn't change anything," I insist. "The sex was 
still consensual and I will not submit to any sort of test 
that attempts to prove otherwise."

He hesitates, obviously considering whether or no he should 
press the issue before deciding - correctly - that I will 
not be swayed. "Fine. But I'm not takin' the blame. You'll 
have to explain to your brother why you're destroying 
evidence."

My brother. Of course. 

"Fine."

---

Lestrade waits with the officer left behind to gather 
evidence while I wash up, dress and recover the memory 
stick from the hive. He doesn't try to stop me removing all 
the data sticks, my laptop and both folders from the house. 
He knows trying to keep me off this case would be futile. 

I go to retrieve my coat and note Henry's still hanging in 
the cupboard. This was not an accident, I know. It would be 
faster for the police to use a clean spare coat than take 
the time to search his and ensure it is free of anything 
that might cause harm or aid in escape. Not that this is 
common practice, but in this case they knew they were 
dealing with a spy who would likely have a contingency plan 
in the event that he was captured. 

Oh.

The realization comes to me with sickening clarity. He does 
have a contingency plan. He knew they would be cautious 
about any articles he put on when they allowed him to 
dress, but that they were unlikely to question anything he 
was already wearing as they believe they took him by 
surprise. The fact that his gun was nowhere near close at 
hand probably confirms that for them, but I saw it in his 
eyes. He knew. He deliberately left his gun in the study, 
just as he deliberately put on pants, an undershirt and his 
watch before crawling into bed to catch whatever sleep he 
could before I woke this morning.

His hands were secured behind his back when he was escorted 
from the house. But if they have allowed him to use the 
toilet since then...

"I need to speak to Henry," I tell Lestrade as I climb into 
the car he's using to take me to the airport. It is the 
same car I spotted round the block yesterday. Likely, the 
same one I saw in front of Lillian's house three days ago. 
The one I stupidly took as evidence she was having an 
affair.

He encouraged me to follow that deduction. He didn't want 
me to realize what was really happening. Didn't want me to 
try to stop it.

"We'll arrange for you to sit in on the interrogation..."

"No, I need to speak to him *now* or there may not *be* an 
interrogation. Can you contact the officer with him?"

Lestrade has always understood that it is unwise to 
distrust my instincts. He pulls out his mobile and dials 
before handing it to me and pulling the car onto the road.

It rings twice before a familiar voice answers. "We've just 
landed. I trust my brother is on his way?"

"Mycroft."

He inhales deeply before he responds. "Yes." I know how to 
read the slightest inflections in my brother's voice. I can 
hear the relief in it now. 

"Let me speak to him."

Mycroft's tone hardens again. "No."

"I wouldn't be asking if it wasn't a matter of life or 
death. I just need a minute. You can instruct him to remain 
silent if that would ease your apprehension."

He is silent for a minute. Then I hear a faint rustling, as 
if he is gesturing to someone. "I'm putting you on 
speaker," he announces finally.

I relax a bit and, after waiting a moment until I can be 
sure he is listening, I begin. 

"I figured out your exit strategy. The fact that you 
obviously haven't attempted it yet must mean either that 
you've not yet had an opportunity or you've had a change of 
heart. If it is the former, then I beg of you to 
reconsider. I know you believe it would be the noble course 
of action, but your life is no longer yours alone."

There is a long silence and I wish I had thought to demand 
Mycroft put the call to video so I could read Henry's face. 
There is a faint sound and Mycroft takes the phone off 
speaker.

"I hope this doesn't mean you are letting sentiment cloud 
your judgment," he says mildly.

"Don't start the interrogation before I arrive. And while I 
will allow your need to disprove the kidnapping charge 
officially, I insist that you drop the accusation of rape 
immediately."

"Yes," he mutters. "DI Lestrade said you were especially 
vehement in your objections to that one."

"Yes, and if you insist on pursuing it you will only 
succeed in making all the sordid details of our sex life 
part of public record. And there are quite a lot of photos 
*and* videos to provide ample evidence of consent, 
including one from last night that would render any DNA 
evidence you might still be able to collect from his body 
redundant."

Lestrade shifts a bit beside me. No doubt my brother is 
reacting with similar discomfort. I always suspected his 
insistence that I was still a virgin was rooted in a sort 
of protective denial. He could no more imagine me having 
sex than I could him. The proof in my journals and on our 
phones would scandalize him.

"We can discuss this later. In private," he finally says.

"I won't change my mind."

"Fine," he says tersely. "Anything else?"

"Yes, I need a mobile with all of my contacts."

"Already taken care of."

"And let him shower."

Mycroft sighs heavily. "Right."

He disconnects just as we pull into the airfield. 

The sight of John Watson waiting beside the idling private 
jet produces a fascinating combination of emotions in me. 
Near as I can tell, I have spent the better part of the 
past nine months believing him to be dead. Which explains 
the relief and happiness. The apprehension and fear likely 
stem from the more recent discovery that he has believed me 
to be dead as well. This is mostly instinctive. It is 
unlikely he will react as badly as he did last time I 
"died" as everyone seems to believe me to be little more 
than a victim of some elaborate kidnapping scheme. But the 
memory of his rage paralyzes me for a moment.

"I'll meet you back in London after we finish up here," 
Lestrade says gently. "I can bring your dog with me if you 
like."

I was so distracted by the shift in everything I thought I 
knew - only twenty four hours after having it all upended 
already - that I almost forgot about Grace. Did we have a 
plan for her? Why did he get a dog knowing our life here 
could be disrupted any minute?

"Not yet," I mutter. I don't know where she would stay in 
London. I don't yet know where *I* will stay. Did Mrs. 
Hudson sell the flat this time? For the time being, Grace 
is probably better off with Lillian.

Lestrade's hand clasps my shoulder. "You all right?"

I nod somewhat shakily and am surprised to find myself 
pulled suddenly into a hug across the console. 

"It's good to have you back."

I relax and breathe in the familiar scent of his laundry 
detergent, almost entirely masked by the scent of the hotel 
room he has been staying in for the past few days. I am 
safe. They are safe. I still don't fully understand why I 
concocted Gruener, but maybe the new data on the stick in 
my pocket will help me solve this new puzzle before the 
withdrawal sets in.

This last thought sobers me. I am still on a clock. I may 
be able to choose when or if I take my next dose and forget 
everything I have learned, but the idea of it frightens me 
more now than it did yesterday. How much could I lose? How 
much can I expect to recover? 

I remind myself - as I retrieve my bag and reach to open 
the door - that I have all the data. And now I have the 
freedom to explore further. Do all the research I want 
without fear. Get to the bottom of all of this once and for 
all.

---
John


When an airbag deploys, it does so with a controlled 
explosion that leaves a noxious odor in the air similar to 
gunpowder. It stays in the nostrils for hours. 

The last thing I remembered was Sherlock shouting my name. 
A warning. And suddenly the car was moving in the wrong 
direction violently, uncontrollably. The next thing I knew 
I was coughing from the acrid smell, a dull pain and 
buzzing in my head blurring my vision. I strained to look 
at Sherlock. He was slumped against the passenger door, 
frighteningly still. I called his name and tried to reach 
for him, but the effort of moving sent a fiery pain through 
my arm and left me gasping for breath.

My door opened and a man crouched beside me, hands feeling 
along my neck carefully while a voice called "sir? Can you 
hear me?"

"Sherlock," I slurred.

"Is that your name?" His hands went through a routine check 
that I immediately recognized, having performed it many 
times myself in the field. "Did you lose consciousness," he 
asked and it occurred to me that I might well have and that 
was why the paramedics seemed to have responded so quickly.

A needle appeared in his hand. "I'm going to give you 
something for the pain, sir. Try to stay still."

I hissed as he injected the drug into my carotid. I 
wondered vaguely why he chose to give the injection in my 
neck, but I was grateful as it meant relief would come 
faster.

The man disappeared from my side then. I lost consciousness 
shortly after, but I thought I heard the passenger door 
open and the same man speaking to Sherlock. 'He's alive,' I 
thought, relieved.

Everything after that was a blur. I remember coming to in 
the ambulance and asking after Sherlock. I remember the 
confused expression on the paramedic as she asked if that 
was the name of the person they should call - my emergency 
contact. 

Sherlock had vanished.

The next morning, Mary showed me the texts I had received 
from Sherlock hours after the crash when I was too busy 
being sedated by concerned nurses to worry about where my 
mobile had got to. She, Lestrade and Mycroft had received 
similar messages. Sherlock was on the trail of a dangerous 
killer who was so good that he had been getting away with 
his crimes for years. Sherlock was deep under cover and we 
were not, under any circumstances, to attempt contacting 
him as it could compromise the whole operation. 

Once the pain from my injuries - mild whiplash from the 
impact, multiple lacerations from broken glass and exposed 
metal and a broken arm courtesy of the airbag - was more 
manageable and the nurses allowed me to keep my mobile, I 
texted him awkwardly with my undamaged right hand. 'Where r 
u?'

I gave him thirty minutes to respond. Then I texted 'so 
help me I'll have your brother run trace.' 

The phone buzzed five minutes later. 

'I told you not to contact me,' the text read. 

'What happened? RU all right? Should have waited for 
ambulance. Could have concussion.'

'Only a minor one. I'll be fine.'

An angry noise burst from me before I could stop it. The 
man was stubbornly determined to get himself killed, one 
way or another.

'I had to leave before he came back to finish the job.'

'Your mysterious killer?'

'Yes.'

'Should have backup.'

'NO! I have to do this alone. You would only get in my 
way.'

I bristled and went to start another message detailing 
where he could shove it when I remembered something he had 
said the day he jumped from St. Bart's. "Alone is what I 
have. Alone protects me." It was a long time before I 
understood that he had been protecting me. He was afraid if 
I stayed with him I would get hurt. He jumped to prevent 
Moriarty's men from killing me, Greg and Mrs. Hudson. 

He was doing it again. 

I decided this was not a conversation I should be having 
via text and tried to call. It went straight to voice 
message and a moment later he texted 'Can't talk right 
now.'

I ground my teeth in frustration and muttered "you cock" 
even though nobody could hear me. 

After I allowed myself a few minutes to calm down, I called 
again. This time, I left a voicemail.

"I can respect your conditions and I swear I won't try to 
contact you again if you'll just promise me one thing. 
Don't disappear like you did last time. Text me. Send me an 
email from an anonymous account. Send me a goddamn 
postcard. Just...anything. I won't respond or try to 
contact you or do anything whatever that might compromise 
you. I just...I need to know you're still alive. Please, 
just...do that for me?"

I waited rather impatiently for a response, determined to 
show him I could respect his terms in the hopes that he 
would accept mine. The mobile finally buzzed and I sighed 
in relief as I read his simple response. 'Okay.'

For the next four months I got semi-regular messages from 
Sherlock. Most of them simply said 'okay' or 'still alive', 
but there was the occasional photograph devoid of context. 
A cow. A train platform. A sunset. A newspaper piled with 
chips. I scoured them all for clues, trying to guess where 
he was or find hidden messages in the grease stains on the 
paper.

Shortly after Sherlock's disappearance, Mary's past as an 
assassin caught up to her in the form of a partner she had 
presumed dead. She ran as well, leaving me a letter 
explaining that she needed to draw the danger away from me 
and Rosie and even though she knew I wouldn't want her to 
do it alone, it wasn't my battle to fight. One month later, 
Mycroft informed me that her body had been found in a hut 
in Morocco. My only consolation was that her killer - the 
partner she had supposedly betrayed - was summarily 
"neutralized" by British agents during a raid.

The next 'still alive' text from Sherlock brought me to 
tears.

I started sleeping with my pistol under my pillow. I became 
absolutely terrified for Rosie's safety and my own. Because 
if anything happened to me, there would be nobody left to 
protect her. Of course that wasn't really true. I had 
friends who could care for her. But I didn't want her to 
become an orphan, however selfish my reasons may have been.

Five months after the accident, I got a text from Sherlock 
at near one o-clock in the morning that said simply "I'm 
sorry, John." I forgot my vow to not reply and tried to 
call back straight away, getting only a "number not in 
service" message.

I didn't sleep much that night, and each time I did drift 
off I would wake not long after from dreams of Sherlock 
calling my name much as he had just before the accident. 
Pleading for me to help him. Save him.

Hours later, Mycroft knocked on my door and I knew what he 
would say before he opened his mouth. He looked weary, 
deflated. Defeated.

I went into denial immediately, of course. I couldn't 
accept that I had lost him again, especially so soon after 
losing Mary. It must have been another trick - part of the 
plan to trap the killer he was chasing. It didn't matter if 
the coroner's office in Sussex had positively ID'd Sherlock 
from what little DNA could be recovered from the bomb 
blast, along with the remains of a Josh Amberley, whose 
connection to Sherlock or the case he claimed to be on was 
a mystery. 

For the next three months I grew to understand why Anderson 
had been consumed by conspiracy theories after Sherlock's 
"suicide". Every news story about a difficult or unusual 
case being solved, no matter where it was, I read while 
asking myself 'could this have been his work?' Did he find 
the missing woman in Poole? Did his anonymous tip lead the 
French police to the jewels stolen from a shop on the 
outskirts of Paris? Did he help identify the archeological 
remains at a University of Liverpool lab based on how the 
man had died centuries ago (he was murdered, after all)?

I kept all of this to myself, of course. It wouldn't do for 
a working single father to show signs that the stress was 
getting to him. That he was occasionally talking to his 
dead wife and chasing the ghost of his best friend. I 
learned to put on a show for other people. Not that I 
didn't grieve, but I convinced them I was coping with it 
better than I really was. 

Everything is fine. I am fine.

I had almost convinced myself that was really true and I 
could move on with my life and start over - maybe move to a 
different part of England...somewhere rural where the need 
for doctors is desperate - when Mycroft contacted me again. 

A lab in Liverpool had run a DNA sample that turned out to 
belong to a person of interest. A former freelance agent 
who had turned civilian and then suddenly disappeared. 
James Armitage, née Thomas Schlessinger. A brilliant young 
man with medical training who was able to use his cover as 
a doctor with MSF to get close to key political and 
criminal players in several African nations and, on more 
than one occasion, eliminate them in ways that wouldn't 
rouse suspicion.

"We traced the source of the sample to a woman in 
Cressington Park. It seems she ordered the test as a favor 
for a 'friend'. When one of my people went to question her, 
they spotted her neighbor out walking his dog. The agents' 
description of the man is a fair approximation of 
Sherlock."

Hope surged within me, even though I knew it was foolish. 
But this was Mycroft. He wouldn't entertain the idea that 
Sherlock was still alive if he didn't have solid evidence. 
Would he?

"Records indicate that his name is William Peters. There's 
very little information on him - no employment history, no 
driver's license - but his husband, Henry Peters, is a 
doctor at a University Hospital in Liverpool."

Mycroft handed me some photos - distant images of a man who 
looked unmistakably like Sherlock dressed in clothing that 
didn't quite look right on him (the coat is wrong, I 
realized later) and holding a small dog on a leash. Another 
photo showed a man I didn't recognize standing in the front 
garden of a suburban house, the same leash in his hand. 
"Facial recognition confirms William and Henry Peters to 
be, in fact, Sherlock and Thomas Schlessinger."

It was a lot to take in at once and my head very literally 
ached from the effort. "How is...are you..." I shook my 
head and cleared my throat. Focus. "What do you need me to 
do?"

---

The neighbor – Lillian – reported that Sherlock was 
suffering from a sort of chronic memory loss. She described 
a man with apparently intact short-term memory who was 
none-the-less incapable of retaining those memories for 
longer than twenty-four hours and kept a journal so he 
could write down everything he might need to recall after 
that interval. Things like her name, his husband's name and 
how he came to be living in a suburb of Liverpool. I knew 
of no medical condition that would exhibit such symptoms 
and the existence of such a malady seemed downright 
impossible. It seemed far more likely that everything he 
was doing - the stories he told Lillian - was part of an 
elaborate plot to catch a killer.

"But why give Mrs. Taylor the DNA sample," Greg asked when 
he, Mycroft and I debated the details of the case. "He had 
to know it would get the government's attention."

"Yes, that could be precisely the point," Mycroft said. "He 
is aware of the failsafes we have to alert us in the event 
that one of our agents may have been compromised."

Mycroft had mentioned those failsafes before. The most 
common use for such alerts was to identify possible 
breaches in security. Such as an attack on a former agent 
or a spy in the early stages of Alzheimer's who could 
unwittingly share state secrets. 

"What if Armitage *is* the killer," I ventured. "What if 
this amnesia ruse is Sherlock's plan to lull him into 
revealing everything?"

Mycroft was obviously displeased by this theory. "Contrary 
to popular opinion, doctor, the government is not in the 
habit of contracting agents with such loose morals."

"But he could have gone mad, couldn't he," I argued. 
"Sherlock once said that when a doctor goes wrong they make 
the most formidable of criminals because they have the 
knowledge and the nerve necessary to kill. Wouldn't the 
same be true of assassins?"

"Or soldiers?" Mycroft let the words hang in the silence 
for a moment so I could fully appreciate the implication. 

"Regardless," Greg said. "He must still be in danger if he 
went to all that trouble to contact you like that."

"Agreed," Mycroft nodded. "We need to proceed with extreme 
caution."

To that end, agents were sent ahead to perform 
reconnaissance. With each report they sent back, what had 
seemed impossible before began to look more and more 
probable. Sherlock barely seemed to notice the rental car 
parked at the curb in front of Lillian's house after the 
second day and even then he seemed uninterested and made no 
attempt at contact. It appeared the DNA sample was not the 
deliberate signal we had thought it to be, but practically 
an afterthought. He was far more interested in testing bags 
of tea, having discovered that some tablets he had given 
Lillian to test a week earlier were sugar pills. She had 
not got results of the new tests back yet, but I could 
guess at what she would find. 

Sherlock's memory really had been compromised. Not by 
amnesia, but by some sort of drug. He had already reached 
this conclusion and enlisted Lillian in helping him 
identify the drug. 

I tried to look at the case as Sherlock would. The tests he 
had Lillian doing showed he wasn't entirely ignorant of his 
current circumstances. And Lillian said he was keeping a 
journal of details he might need to remember. Surely the 
fact that he was sending up a flare in the form of Thomas' 
DNA would have been mentioned there.

Unless he feared Thomas might read it. Or we were wrong 
about why he needed the sample tested.

"Maybe he doesn't know who Armitage really is," I suggested 
the next time we met in Mycroft's office.

I saw Mycroft roll his eyes and hurried to explain before 
he said something disparaging. "He didn't know Mary was a 
spy either. Not at first."

That shut him up for a bit.

"If he didn't mean to contact you," Greg said hesitantly, 
"Could he still be in danger?"

"We haven't found any evidence of that." There was a 
definite note of frustration coloring Mycroft's voice. "We 
cannot find any evidence that the man he claimed to be 
after even exists." 

"That doesn't mean he doesn't," I pointed out. "Sherlock 
has uncovered patterns before in places no one else ever 
thought to look."

"Or maybe John was right after all," Greg offered. "Maybe 
Armitage is the killer."

"That theory was based in the assumption that Sherlock 
isn't really suffering from amnesia," Mycroft pointed out. 

Greg sighed. "Okay, supposing he didn't knowingly contact 
you, the amnesia is real and Armitage isn't the killer he's 
chasing who may not even exist. Where does that leave us?"

The pieces all fell into place in my mind at once. 
"Sherlock isn't investigating Armitage as a killer. He's 
being held hostage." I looked at Mycroft and Greg, realized 
I had their full attention, and continued. "That would 
explain everything, wouldn't it? He solved his own 
kidnapping, but he knew he would forget so he gave Lillian 
a DNA sample, knowing that when she tested it, it would 
send out an alarm."

There was a long silence while we gave full consideration 
to this new scenario. And then Greg pointed out its biggest 
flaw. "Why did it take him this long to work out?"

Mycroft had what turned out to be the obvious answer. 
"Because he was too busy chasing a non-existent master 
criminal."

Greg's forehead furrowed. "So this guy kidnaps Sherlock, 
invents a case for him to solve and then keeps him drugged 
so he can't remember any of it?"

Put that way, it sounded ridiculous. But nothing else we 
had come up with made quite as much sense. 

"Maybe it's about control," I suggested. "Or proving he's 
smarter than Sherlock Holmes. Maybe he gets off on keeping 
Sherlock locked away, working on a case he can never 
actually solve." 

Mycroft inhaled deeply. "We continue with the plan," he 
declared. "Until we have Sherlock and Agent Armitage in our 
custody, we cannot be certain of anything. We must move 
quickly and carefully and keep the number of people who 
know Sherlock is alive to an absolute minimum. Inspector, I 
want you to lead the operation. I trust you will be 
discrete and insure my brother's safety."

Greg nodded soberly.

And then as we got up to leave, Mycroft asked one last 
question. "Given my brother's mental state, Doctor 
Watson...would you say he is capable of providing consent?"

"Consent," I repeated stupidly.

Mycroft pinned me with a stare. "In your professional 
opinion, is his ability to offer consent compromised by his 
condition?"

My mind struggled to keep up. "You think they're having 
sex?" The possibility had not occurred to me until that 
moment, honestly.

"Based on Mrs. Taylor's testimony, it seems likely," he 
said with an air of distaste.

I swallowed, my mouth suddenly dry. "Uh...it's difficult to 
say...without knowing the details...without an examination 
and questioning..." My instinct was to say no. That holding 
Sherlock hostage for months on end chasing a made-up serial 
killer was absurd enough. That if they were having sex, it 
was probably because Sherlock was manipulating Thomas 
somehow, the way he used Janine to get to Magnusson. But I 
couldn't be certain of that either. I couldn't be certain 
of anything that was happening in that house in Cressington 
Park until we could get more information. 

But when I looked into Mycroft's eyes, I saw that he was no 
more convinced of anything than I was. "But...you need to 
file charges before you can do any of that. So, I 
suppose...it's possible."

Mycroft pressed his lips together and nodded. "I thought 
so. Thank you both," he said in a clipped voice.

I caught the stricken look on Greg's face as we left 
Mycroft's office and I knew that if it turned out Thomas 
really had hurt Sherlock, he would never breathe free air 
again. 

---

After that, everything moved quickly, even if it felt 
excruciatingly slow. Greg coordinated with the agents 
Mycroft had sent to Cressington already and they worked on 
a plan to extract Sherlock and arrest Thomas before either 
of them saw it coming. Lillian could not tell Sherlock that 
her tests had confirmed he was right: one of the teas was 
laced with a narcotic compound. It would be a while yet 
before the exact composition was worked out, but the 
elements she had identified already explained his 
"amnesia". Did he even remember giving her the samples? Or 
was he too busy trying to solve the serial killer case 
again?

I insisted on being part of the rescue operation. After 
much argument, Mycroft and Greg agreed to allow it - within 
certain limits. I told Molly the absolute basics of the 
plan and my part in it for two reasons. I knew I could 
count on her to keep it secret and not ask for any more 
details than I could give, and I needed her to watch Rosie 
for me.  

Early Saturday morning, I boarded Mycroft's private jet 
with him. If everything went according to plan, the agents 
would have Thomas and Sherlock waiting when we landed in 
Liverpool, along with a helicopter, which Mycroft would use 
to escort Thomas back to London personally. I would 
accompany Sherlock and perhaps get a head start evaluating 
his mental state.

"Something's off about all of this," I said as I reviewed 
what Mycroft's men had collected so far again. "The 
neighbor says she was suspicious of 'Henry' from the 
beginning, but every time she tried to talk to Sherlock 
about it, he got defensive."

"Yes, I thought that was irregular too," he admitted. "Mrs. 
Taylor had a flatmate who was murdered by her domestic 
partner, so it's possible she's projecting certain 
assumptions onto Sherlock."

"Okay. But, he solved a five hundred year old murder and 
she still didn't recognize him?"

"People generally believe what they are told so long as 
they trust the source of the information." Mycroft raised 
his eyebrow slightly. "And she said she didn't recognize 
him without the hat."

I barely suppressed a laugh at that. The despised 
deerstalker. Though the fact that people generally 
associated him with certain articles of clothing - like a 
police officer in uniform - no doubt made it easier for him 
to hide. He always was a fantastic actor, but he couldn't 
pull off disguises well. "Do you think Armitage is really 
capable of keeping him in the dark for this long?" I was 
finding such an idea increasingly hard to believe myself. 
Sherlock may not have been quite as brilliant as he wanted 
everyone to believe he was, but the more I thought about 
our kidnapping theory, the more far-fetched it sounded.

"That is something I hope we will be able to determine 
soon, Doctor."

---

The helicopter was waiting for us when we landed, but there 
was no sign of anyone else yet. This wasn't cause for 
alarm, really, but I still felt a vague sense of dread when 
Mycroft's mobile rang.

"Yes," he answered. He was frustratingly silent while the 
voice on the other end spoke. Then he said "thank you, I'll 
look into it," and hung up.

"Was that Greg," I asked.

"Yes," he said shortly, already dialing another number. "I 
need you to check a name for me," he told this new person 
without preamble. "Gruener. Any spelling. Cross check it 
with my brother and all of Agent Armitage's known 
identities."

That must be the name of the killer he was chasing, I 
realized. 

"Is Sherlock okay," I asked when Mycroft hung up again.

"Physically, yes," Mycroft said and had I not known the 
Holmes brothers long enough to detect the slightest hint of 
affect in their voices, I would think he felt nothing at 
hearing the news. But to me - if not to anyone outside of 
the immediate family - it was obvious he was relieved. 
"I'll leave the assessment of his mental state up to you. 
It seems he was highly agitated by Agent Armitage's 
arrest."

I was still trying to process that information - and 
wondering what "highly agitated" looked like when it came 
to Sherlock - when the first car arrived. I scanned its 
occupants for either Greg or Sherlock, but I could only see 
two agents I didn't recognize and their prisoner: a man I 
had only seen in photographs.

I watched as Thomas was hauled from the back of the car and 
marched toward us. He was tall - taller, even, than 
Sherlock possibly - and slender, but even though they were 
hidden by the coat, his broad shoulders hinted at a 
muscular upper body. I could easily imagine him capable of 
subduing Sherlock and yet there was a hint of a fading 
bruise beneath his left eye. I couldn't know for sure it 
was in the shape of Sherlock's fist, but I thought it 
likely. This combined with the fact that he didn't seem to 
be resisting the agents' rough handling in any way 
challenged whatever expectations I may have been forming of 
him.  

When his eyes met mine, I was startled by the intensity of 
his gaze. Inscrutable but for an air of resignation that 
matched his general demeanor.

I tried to focus on what the agents briefing Mycroft were 
saying, but the moment I looked away from Thomas, he spoke.

"Be gentle with him," he said so softly he could have meant 
the words only for me.

My eyes snapped back to him. "Sorry?"

I felt Mycroft's attention turn to us as Thomas spoke 
again, this time a little louder. "He believed you were 
dead."

Something about him scratched at the back of my brain. He 
was familiar somehow, but I couldn't place him. "Have we 
met?"

I saw Mycroft gesture toward him and the larger of the two 
agents moved to unlock the restraints at Thomas' wrists so 
he could maneuver the man's arms from behind his back to 
his front. Once again, Thomas made no move to resist, even 
as one half of the cuffs was obviously closed too tightly, 
making him wince a bit.

It was only when he was shoved toward the waiting 
helicopter that his calm appearance finally cracked and he 
stumbled as he tried in vain to halt his forward momentum. 
The agent didn't give any indication he noticed the 
hesitance and simply got on with the business of installing 
his suddenly nervous looking prisoner in a seat before 
taking the one opposite. 

A minor detail from his asset file came back to me then. He 
had a fear of heights. Manageable, perhaps, in the enclosed 
space of an airplane, but in a helicopter...

"DI Lestrade will bring Sherlock shortly," Mycroft said, 
drawing my attention back suddenly. 

The other agent had finished speaking to him and retreated 
to the car. I wondered which agent had drawn the short 
straw. 

I nodded. 

"Agent Wilson will meet you in London."

"Right. Yeah. Good luck."

And with that, Mycroft boarded the helicopter, its rotors 
already beginning to spin.

Less than five minutes after it took off, my mobile buzzed 
with a group message to me and Mycroft from Greg. 'Bit 
late. S insisted on washing up.'

'Stop him,' came the reply from Mycroft.

'Tried. Said he wouldn't consent to a rape kit. Chewed me 
out for drawing conclusions without evidence.'

Seeing those words on the screen gave me my first bit of 
hope that things really would be okay. Sherlock was alive 
and he was being exactly as difficult and uncooperative as 
I would expect him to be.

'A had a copy of Gruener's coroner report. S wants the 
original.'

Coroner's report. I wasn't the only one chasing a ghost all 
those months.

'First name?' Mycroft prompted.

'Andrew.'

'Thank you. We will look into it.'

By 'we' he didn't mean me, of course.

I got an incoming call from Greg shortly afterward. 

"How is he, really," I asked.

"Oh, everything's tickety boo aside from the fact that he 
just learned he's been shagging a spy who's got him chasing 
after a dead man."

I winced. "He didn't know."

"He suspected a lot of it, I think. Just not the spy bit. 
Says he's been collecting data."

Of course he was. 

"Listen, I thought I should give you a head's up: Armitage 
left a note confirming that the drug causing the amnesia is 
in the tea. He also said Sherlock's been conditioned to 
respond to the name 'Will'. Says he gets ill if anyone 
calls him 'Sherlock'."

"What," I spluttered.

"He says it was Sherlock's idea. Based on the way Sherlock 
reacted when he read it, I'm inclined to believe that."

"Why would he..." I rolled my eyes as I reached the 
conclusion before I could finish the question. "He thought 
he was hiding from a killer."

"Yeah. You can read the note yourself, but it seems like 
there's more going on here than we thought. It might be 
difficult to get Armitage on anything." There was a faint 
noise on the other end of the line. "I gotta go. I think he 
just went into the back garden."

I had plenty of time to think after Greg rang off. Eight 
months seemed like an impossibly long time for Sherlock to 
have been chasing a killer without realizing he was being 
led on. And all of it - running off after a criminal 
mastermind, faking his death - it looked so similar to his 
strategy to take down Moriarty's network. It didn't quite 
add up.

It was becoming obvious that the only two people who had 
the necessary information to solve the mystery were 
Sherlock and Thomas. 

After what felt like an age, the rental car finally arrived 
and I felt the last niggling fear I had about the whole 
operation dissipate. Sherlock was safe. He was alive. And, 
as he emerged from the car, I was surprised to note that he 
looked *healthy*. Moreso, perhaps, than he had the last 
time I saw him.

I was so distracted by his appearance and my general relief 
that he was alive that I only noticed belatedly the 
wariness with which he approached me. He held a bag in 
front of him like a shield and eyed me as if I were a 
coiled snake he half expected to strike at any moment. 

That image brought a sudden awful realization to my mind. 
'Be gentle with him. He believed you were dead.'

I regretted letting my anger and frustration get the better 
of me the first time he came back from the dead. From his 
behavior, it seemed he expected similar treatment the 
second time around. I didn't let myself think about the 
implications of Thomas being the one to voice the appeal to 
my better nature yet.

I reached for him slowly, guiding him toward the waiting 
plane with a hand under his elbow. Once we were safely on 
board, I coaxed the bag from him and set it on one of the 
seats before pulling him into an embrace.

"Don't ever do that again, you bastard," I muttered in his 
ear, being sure to keep my tone light, even though it 
warbled a bit.

I felt a tremor go through him as he awkwardly, hesitantly 
returned the embrace. "'m sorry," he mumbled.

"It's all right." I squeezed him just a little tighter. 
"It's all right."

I felt some of the tension ease from his body in the long 
moments before he extricated himself. "John, I...I need 
your help."

"Of course. Anything."

"I only have a few hours, perhaps, before the withdrawal 
symptoms set in and I have loads of data to go through." He 
reached into the bag and pulled out two folders, thrusting 
them into my hands. "I need to catch you up. You can start 
by reading these."

I blinked. "Withdrawal..."

"I've become addicted to a custom psychotropic that causes 
amnesia. Henry has been lowering the dosage, but it would 
seem I'm not quite out of the woods yet, so to speak. I've 
no intention of taking another dose unless I absolutely 
have to, but judging from my notes, once the symptoms of 
withdrawal start I will become practically useless. I will 
have to get as much work done as possible before yes what 
is it?"

The captain had come back to do a cabin check midway 
through Sherlock's explanation. She had then hovered beside 
us, waiting politely for a break in the conversation. She 
smiled politely at Sherlock and held out the object she had 
draped over her arm. Sherlock's Belstaff coat. "Your 
brother wanted me to give this to you personally," she 
said. Her accent sounded Scandinavian, but I couldn't quite 
place it any more exactly than that.

Sherlock took the coat slowly, looking at it as if he had 
forgotten its existence entirely. I knew he once thought of 
the coat as a sort of uniform. I wondered if it held a 
similar weight for him as my fatigues had for me. 

"If you'll take your seats, we will be taking off shortly," 
the captain finished.

"Thank you," I said. She nodded at me and made her way back 
toward the cockpit. 

I moved to take my seat. After a bit more hesitation, 
Sherlock searched the pockets of the coat and triumphantly 
extricated a mobile. Then he dropped the coat onto a seat 
opposite unceremoniously and sat beside me, his thumbs 
flying over the keypad. 

As usual, I was several steps behind him. In the same 
breath he had confirmed that Thomas was drugging him AND 
suggested he was taking the drug willingly. 

Greg was right. Whatever was going on was more complicated 
than we anticipated. And so far all clues seemed to point 
to Sherlock as the mastermind behind everything.

I needed to catch up. And if he thought what was in the 
folders would achieve that purpose and provide some much 
needed context then it was as good a place to start as any. 

I buckled myself in and opened the first folder.

---
Sherlock

The new memory stick, like the one I hid in the hive, 
contains a journal that was obviously meant to be kept from 
Henry, then Josh. Except this one more or less covers the 
time between the accident and the honeymoon. The early 
entries are nearly identical to the ones in the official 
version on my laptop, except Josh seems to be caring for me 
not in hospital, but in a sparsely furnished flat outside 
of London.

The entries also provide clues as to how I became addicted 
to the drug affecting my memory. I began the journal two 
weeks after the accident when it became clear my memory 
retention wasn't improving despite the rest of the symptoms 
of concussion abating. Josh provided me with tablets twice 
a day to alleviate pain, but wouldn't tell me where he kept 
them and became distressed if I tried to search for them 
myself. It is easy to work out what must have happened. 
Either because of my tolerance to drugs or because I simply 
must have forgot how much I had taken in a given day, I had 
overdosed myself. When Josh realized what had happened, he 
put me on a carefully controlled regimen, but the damage 
had already been done. Subsequent efforts to drastically 
reduce the dosage or eliminate it entirely resulted in gaps 
in my journal and hazy recollections of illness. These 
incidents caused Josh great distress and I noted the way 
his professionalism gradually slipped and he cared for me 
less as a doctor and more as a devoted partner.

Three months after the accident, I described waking up to 
find him curled on the bed beside me after a violent bout 
of illness. I noted the fitful nature of his sleep, the 
dark smears beneath his eyes that told me this was the 
first rest he'd got in a while, and the way he had 
positioned himself close enough to be alerted if I needed 
him yet far enough to remain respectable. I confronted him 
with this obvious evidence of his love for me when he awoke 
and he affirmed it with a kiss. A tender, chaste kiss that 
held no expectations of anything more, uncaring of the 
foulness of my breath.

Our first kiss was followed by our first sexual encounter - 
a clumsy affair wherein he climaxed practically the moment 
I got his pants off. He was mortified, but I was undaunted. 

The familiar patterns began to emerge as my condition 
stabilized and I grew to trust Josh. Our sex life improved 
as well, though I express some frustration with how 
tentative he was in our first forays into penetrative sex. 
My notes started to include details like what sort of 
attentions yielded the most positive responses and the fact 
that holding him down seemed to both thrill and terrify him 
to some degree depending on other variables like whether he 
could see my eyes. Seeing this now reinforces my belief 
that the story he told me about his ex yesterday is true. 
How many times have I accidentally triggered his anxiety 
because he refuses to "burden" me with his past?

As with the journal I found in the bee hive yesterday, this 
one contains an obvious point at which I began keeping a 
separate account of events on the memory stick. Before I 
would have assumed this meant all the entries before that 
point were suspect. And maybe they are. But then everything 
after that point could have been changed too. He has had 
the memory stick in his possession for long enough that he 
could have altered the entire contents to fit the narrative 
he chose. And that doesn't appear to be the case. 

The first entry after I began keeping a separate account 
voices suspicion that the Thomas Gruener case is not what I 
believed it to be.

Thomas?

I text Molly again. 'Forget Andrew. Need anything you can 
find on Thomas Gruener.'

A hand grips my arm as I tap "send", startling me. I 
realize I have completely forgot my current surroundings.

"Who are you texting," John asks.

I blink at him, wondering for a moment if it really is him 
and I really am conscious.

He sighs and takes the mobile from my hand, glancing at the 
screen as if he knows what he will find there and tapping 
the phone icon before bringing it to his ear. "It's all 
right. It's me," he says. "I'll talk to him."

"What are you doing," I ask as he rings off.

"Good job I told Molly you were alive two days ago despite 
orders not to tell anyone. Mycroft is already looking for 
Gruener." He frowns at the screen again. "*Thomas* 
Gruener?"

"I believe he was Andrew Gruener's husband. That's why his 
initials were in my ring."

"What ring?"

Right. I hold up the ring finger on my left hand. "I've 
been keeping track of Henry's identities by inscribing the 
initials on my ring inside my mind palace. Well...probably 
the whole names, but the initials seem to stay even if I 
forget the rest. TS. Thomas Schlessinger. JA. Josh 
Amberley. G. Gruener. I must have forgot the first name on 
that one, or else mixed it all up sometime these past three 
months and forgot which Gruener was which."

John frowns again. "Josh Amberley? Not James Armitage?"

"It could be both. Why?"

"That was his name when he worked for MI-6. He was a hired 
hit man who specialized in accidents and suicides. The sort 
of thing that wouldn't rouse suspicion when an enemy of the 
state turned up dead."

Oh. *Oh.*

"That must be what he drew upon to create the perfect case 
for me to solve. Deaths deliberately designed to be 
impossible to trace back to the person who orchestrated 
them. Probably mixed up some real assassinations with some 
accidents and suicides from the papers, imagining how they 
might have been done by someone with his skill set. Oh, he 
is *clever*."

John winces. "*That's* how you respond to finding you the 
man holding you prisoner has had you solving years old 
murders he himself committed?"

"They weren't murders, John. You said it yourself: he was a 
government hit man. He is no more a murderer than you or 
your wife."

He flinches again and I remember too late that Mary is 
dead. Killed by a fellow government assassin.

"Sorry. When did it happen?"

"About four months ago. Not long before you died again."

Was that what triggered the sudden change? Did I find out 
about Mary? Did I think Gruener was escalating and the only 
thing that would stop him was my death?

No, that doesn't make sense. 

"Did I try to contact you?"

He looks baffled for a moment. Then he glances at the 
folder as if he is remembering my condition. "Er...not 
about Mary. You were hiding from a serial killer. At least 
you thought you were. But I made you promise to check in so 
I'd know you were still alive, wherever you were." He 
reaches into his pocket and pulls out his mobile. "I still 
have the texts..." He taps the screen a few times and hands 
me the phone, open to a text conversation between him and 
an unknown number. 'I'm sorry, John,' reads the last one. 

I scroll up through the one-sided conversation. Most of the 
messages simply say 'still alive', but there is an 
occasional picture of scenery or a pile of chips on the 
day's paper. I don't remember any of it, of course, but I 
don't understand why none of this is mentioned in my 
journal. I skim ahead in the journal, looking for any 
mention of John. The entries in this journal are sparse, as 
I seemed unable to reliably remember I had hidden the 
memory stick in my violin case. 

"What is it," John asks. 

There. Toward the end of this journal is an entry where I 
attempted to contact John as I began to question the threat 
of Gruener. Except I suspected it wasn't really John. 'I 
know I am risking not just John, but Mary, Rosie, Mrs. 
Hudson and everyone else if Gruener really is watching as 
closely as the evidence leads me to believe,' the entry 
says. 'But his reprimand was too cold, too abrupt. It was 
as if he would be perfectly content if he never heard from 
me again.'

I turn the laptop toward John and point to this paragraph, 
letting him read it while I verify that there is nothing on 
his mobile that corroborates such a conversation ever 
taking place. 

John splutters a bit in confusion. "I never..." He clenches 
his fist and takes a deep breath, which explodes out of him 
in a curse. 

"It wasn't you. And this," I hold up his mobile. "Wasn't 
me. We haven't been in contact with each other since the 
accident. In fact, I haven't been in contact with 
*anybody*." I hand the mobile to him and he watches in 
bewilderment as I reach into the bag and pull out both the 
mobile I have been using these past months - the one with 
all the fake numbers programmed into it - and Henry's. If 
my theory is correct... I select John's name from my 
contact list and dial the number, half expecting to see 
Henry's phone light up, but not wholly surprised when it 
doesn't. John's voice answers with the familiar outgoing 
message he has had on his voicemail for as long as I have 
known him. John stiffens at the sound of it.

"I know who you really are," I say and hang up, then search 
through Henry's phone. There are multiple texting and voice 
apps in a locked folder, each renamed for a different 
person I might try to contact. Lestrade, Molly, my brother, 
Mary. No doubt each of them has an outgoing message 
similarly copied so I would believe I was really calling 
each of them. How he got those recordings is a mystery. Or 
perhaps not. For a trained spy, this whole set up is 
probably as simple as establishing new identities and 
burning old ones.

"Greg," John says suddenly and I realize he has taken my 
mobile - the one with the fake numbers programmed into it - 
while I was busy searching for clues on Henry's phone. 
"Yeah, this is his phone." He looks up at me, still a bit 
bewildered, but starting to catch on. "Hang on a sec, I'm 
gonna put you on speaker." He pushes the speaker icon and 
holds the mobile out on his palm between us. The screen 
says "JOHN". He dialed the number again and this time 
someone picked up.

"Will," Lestrade's voice calls tentatively from the 
speaker. 

Not exactly who I expected. "Whose phone are you using?" 

"We took it off of Armitage when we arrested him."

"He had two," John says. "Sh...Will is using his mobile 
right now."

Lestrade sighs. "Right. Guess that explains why this one 
has hardly anything on it but some missed calls and texts."

"He had a separate mobile for you," I mutter. "Of course. 
He didn't need to answer it. I believed you were dead." 

I turn back to Henry's mobile. Thomas'? No, too confusing. 
The locked folder with the additional phone apps also 
contains some photos and videos as well as a locator app. 
The first - or rather last - photo appears to be a 
paragraph of my journal.

'Henry told me about his past. The fact that there is 
nothing in my previous notes about it I can only attribute 
to an effort to spare him the pain of re-living it. But I 
now believe this to be based on faulty logic that could 
potentially cause even more pain when I inevitably question 
him about it. He is a survivor of abuse. He believes 
telling me this will make him appear weak in my eyes or 
prompt me to treat him as if he has been damaged by his 
abusers and is now easily broken. A victim. But he is 
stronger than he thinks he is. What he experienced could 
easily and justifiably have left him bitter and cynical - 
distrustful especially of the men closest to him. Yet his 
love for me is whole-hearted and genuine. He clearly has 
complete trust in me, which is probably why I instinctively 
trust him as well, despite knowing that he is keeping 
secrets from me. He spoils me with all the love which he 
was once deprived and expects little to nothing in return. 
He deserves better than I can give, yet he has chosen me. 
And he fears the day my memory improves enough that I will 
no longer need him as much as he needs me. He hopes that by 
then I will love him as deeply as he already loves me. But 
how can I love a man I cannot trust to tell me the truth?'
 
It is obviously my writing, yet I haven't seen it in either 
version I read yesterday. He must have deleted it from the 
official journal, as I suspected he might be doing, but he 
couldn't bear to erase the words entirely. 

"Will?"

John is off the phone. I think this may not be the first 
time he's called me. I look up.

"You know that I love you, right? That you are like a 
brother to me? And even though you drive me round the bend 
sometimes..." He glances at the laptop. "I would never 
consider you a 'burden'."

"Yes, I know. I suspect that is how I knew something was 
off. He could fool you into believing you were in contact 
with me, but I knew I wasn't really in contact with you. He 
could play every other role he needed to to maintain the 
illusion, but he couldn't make me believe he was you."

John blinks, looking thrown by that answer, though I'm not 
sure why. Is he afraid I see him the same way Henry did? 
"Okay," he says finally, twisting in his seat toward me. 
"Help me understand this. Because these," he waves the 
folders for emphasis, "just seem to prove that Thomas has 
been holding you prisoner for months, feeding you lies 
about a boogeyman, torturing you so you won't even respond 
to your own name and drugging you so you'll forget 
everything."

"He didn't hold me prisoner and he didn't torture me. The 
drug erases my memories. It doesn't affect my cognitive 
functioning or my ability to make decisions."

"So, what, you believe this was all your idea?"

I gesture at the open laptop. "I have documented three 
separate, slightly different accounts of the past few 
months and they all seem to suggest that the drugs, at 
least, were partly my doing. I believe Henry didn't know I 
was predisposed to a chemical dependency. He has been 
carefully controlling the dosage and lowering it gradually 
for at least the past five months. I believe he invented 
that 'boogeyman', as you call him, to keep my mind occupied 
during this treatment."

"Treatment? He cut you off from everyone you know."

"Yes, that was the part I couldn't quite understand either. 
But I think Gruener may be the key."

"Gruener..."

I thrust the phone into his hands. "I wrote this five days 
ago according to the date on the screen. He deleted it, but 
only after taking a photo of it."

As John is reading the text, I turn to the journal and skim 
the remaining entries. There isn't much more to this 
journal though, aside from the increasing belief that the 
threat of Gruener wasn't actually real and my "amnesia" was 
being caused by the medicine I was purportedly taking to 
treat it.

It used to be in the tablet. Was the switch to drugging the 
tea instead his idea or mine?

I focus on one entry where I tried to gather data on Thomas 
Gruener and report finding nothing useful aside from a 
possible connection to a somewhat powerful deceased 
businessman named Andrew Gruener. There is a photo clipped 
to this entry.

"Jesus," John mutters under his breath. I turn back to him 
and his focus on the phone screen is broken. "What does 
this have to do with Gruener?"

"Henry had to give his killer an identity. I believe he 
used the identity of the most vile man he knew. The man who 
delighted in tormenting him for three years."

John looks at the photo on the laptop screen. "Andrew 
Gruener?"

"His ex-husband." I point to the watch adorning Gruener's 
right wrist. "He was left handed. He died of a heart 
attack. It all fits."

John shakes his head. "Sorry...you lost me."

Right. He doesn't have all the data. I bite back a 
frustrated groan that I have to pause to explain 
everything. "The man I described - the man Henry described 
to me - left a scar on his body. A scar that was clearly 
made by someone left-handed." The other scar, I realize 
suddenly, the one on his abdomen, was made by someone 
right-handed. That was why the stories he told me never 
fully made sense. Two different attackers. Two separate 
incidents. "He escaped and was working in Africa when he 
got word Gruener had died." I pick up the folders John set 
down moments ago and locate the coroner's report. "Of a 
heart attack." 

Something about this is wrong too. A young, healthy man 
doesn't usually simply drop dead of a heart attack...

"None of this explains why he felt it necessary to abduct 
you and construct this elaborate scheme to prevent you from 
contacting any of us."

Right. Not important right now. Focus. "Did you see him in 
hospital? After the accident?"

"I didn't see YOU in hospital. The medics only pulled me 
from the car. You..." he trails off as something suddenly 
occurs to him. "The medic...THAT'S why his voice was 
familiar!"

"Whose voice?"

"The man at the scene of the accident. I thought he was a 
paramedic, but the medics said there was no one else in the 
car when they pulled me out. It was Thomas. That was when 
he took you."

I frown. "And you recognized his voice? When did he speak 
to you?"

"Today, at the airport. I knew I recognized him from 
somewhere..."

"What did he say, exactly?"

"Er..." John falters a bit at that. "He asked me to be 
gentle with you. He said you believed I was dead."

Be gentle. Too cold and abrupt. 

"He expected you to react violently to my return."

John winces. "Yeah. I noticed you did too. That's how I 
made the connection. Look...I never apologized for the way 
I behaved back then. I was angry. And I know that's no 
excuse..."

I wave off this little detour he's headed for impatiently. 
"No, you're missing the point. How did *he* know about that 
months ago when he depicted you as cold and put upon? I 
knew I wasn't really speaking to you because his portrayal 
was based on a faulty perception, but where did that 
perception come from?"

A long discarded memory comes back to me suddenly, many of 
the details now missing as the entire incident was deemed 
unimportant. A man approaching me as I stood on the curb 
nursing my bloodied nose after John and Mary left me. He 
had offered to call the police and, when I refused, 
insisted I should at least have my injury looked at by a 
doctor. I close my eyes and try to remember the man's face, 
but I was too preoccupied to be concerned by some prying 
Good Samaritan. All I am certain of is that he was tall and 
had dark hair and a very proper accent. He could have been 
anyone. 

He could have been Henry.

"Lillian expressed concern that I was being abused based on 
observations that were clouded by past experience. She 
obviously failed to recognize the signs in time to save 
someone once and was determined to avoid repeating the 
mistake."

"Her flatmate," John murmurs. 

"What?"

"Her flatmate was murdered. Mycroft already noted that as a 
possible reason for some of her testimony."

Did she tell them about my black eye? The bruises on my 
wrists? I could provide an explanation for the latter, but 
not the former.

"What if he made the same mistake? Assuming he witnessed 
your response to my return from Siberia somehow. What if he 
mistook your temper as an inherent personality trait? What 
if he saw Andrew Gruener reflected in you?"

This statement clearly unsettles John, but I rush onward 
before he can protest, the pieces finally seeming to fit 
together in my mind. "He thought he needed to save me as he 
once had to save himself because nobody saw Andrew Gruener 
for the monster he really was."

"Hold on...you think he believed I was hurting you and 
staged an *accident* so he could get you away from me?"

"Absolutely not. Anything that would put me at so great a 
risk would be abhorrent to him and run counter to his 
intentions. I'm not sure how he came to be at the scene of 
the accident, but he couldn't possibly have caused it."

"That doesn't make *sense*, Sher..." John clenches his 
fist, his face twisting in frustration. "You have never 
believed in coincidence. Why make an exception now?"

"I'm not making an exception." I massage my forehead. The 
effort of trying to solve this ever expanding puzzle is 
giving me the beginnings of a headache. Or is that the 
withdrawal symptoms setting in? "The one constant in all 
the data I have collected these past months is that he is 
incapable of causing me deliberate harm. The lies, the 
elaborate false serial killer case, it was all designed to 
insure I continued taking the drug in a controlled 
environment under his care. Not because he wants me to 
forget, but because he wants to reduce the risks of 
withdrawal."

John looks at the mobile still in his hand. Its screen is 
dark. "You, er..." He shakes his head. "You actually are 
falling in love with him, aren't you?"

I take the phone from him and unlock it, looking at the 
photo again. "I mention his abusers, plural. He only spoke 
of the one. I must have uncovered more when I wrote this."

John clears his throat, clearly frustrated by my avoidance 
of his question, but not surprised. He won't press. "Most 
people are drawn to partners that remind them of a parent. 
What do you know about Thomas' parents?"

"According to my notes, they are dead, though I'm not sure 
if I ever verified that fact."

"Not sure?"

"My memories are hazy. I seem to recall uncovering a 
tragedy in his past, but I don't remember any of the 
details."

"But you believe what he told you about Gruener?"

I look at John; weigh his intent with this question. He has 
always trusted my judgment when it comes to people's 
character. Right now he is balancing that against the 
evidence that that judgment may have been compromised by my 
feelings toward Henry. I need to convince him that I can 
still be objective in my thinking.

"I have always suspected he was lying to me about 
something. But the story he told me about his ex yesterday 
was not the sort of story anyone would invent. He omitted 
details like the man's name, but I've no doubt that the 
pain and torment he described were genuine."

John's eyes search mine as I speak and I can see he is at 
least partly satisfied by my answer. He nods. "All right. 
So he believed he was rescuing you when he abducted you 
from the scene of the accident. Is it possible he caused 
the accident unintentionally?"

I consider that for a moment. "That would explain the guilt 
and feed his savior complex. I became addicted to a drug he 
used while he was treating me for injuries he inadvertently 
caused." I strain to remember the time immediately 
preceding the accident, which has become just as hazy as 
everything that followed. "Before the accident, did I 
express any sort of concern that we were being followed?"

"Er...not in as many words, no. But after...I started 
wondering how long you'd known about the killer you claimed 
you were chasing. There were times when you 
seemed...distracted."

"As if I knew someone was watching me," I murmur. I have 
some recollection of this, but I wasn't sure if I was 
remembering the time before the accident or after, when the 
drugs were making me paranoid.

"Yeah," John agrees. "You think it could have been him?"

'I never meant to hurt you.'

'You shouldn't have to live like this.'

"It is a logical explanation. It might explain some of his 
more effusive romanticism as well. He may be 
overcompensating." 

The Icelandic pilot's voice fills the cabin suddenly, 
warning us that she is about to begin descent and we should 
prepare for landing. I remove the memory sticks from the 
laptop and stow everything back in my bag, except Henry's 
phone. While John checks his own mobile and watches the 
London skyline appear as we drop below the clouds, I return 
to the contents of the hidden folder. Some of the text 
conversations are familiar - I have already read them on my 
phone and in my notes - but some seem to be slightly 
altered. The discrepancies happen with more frequency the 
further back I go in the conversation histories - as if he 
had to go back and edit them after the fact each time he 
slipped up and I began to catch on to the deception. 

I thumb through the photos in the folder. Aside from the 
photo of me with a black eye that he obviously didn't 
realize I had saved to my secret journal, they seem to all 
be missing bits from my official journal, in order from 
most recent on back.

The one immediately preceding the one where I describe his 
history of abuse has a similarly vague account of returning 
home after Henry tracked me down in Liverpool and 
'explained everything'. I express understanding for all the 
lies surrounding my current predicament and describe the 
sexual encounter I planned to engage him in that night 
wherein I would allow him to tie me to the bed and then 
bring himself off at my verbal guidance. This being largely 
similar to what the Woman did, I assume the inclusion of 
this entry in the journal would have easily led me to draw 
the correct conclusions about Henry's past sexual 
experience.

'I decided to test my theory about Henry's predilections 
today,' the next entry reads. 'I took a more aggressive 
role. Initially, he was very receptive, exhibiting obvious 
signs of increased arousal as I detailed my plans to tie 
him to the bed and fuck him senseless. But when I threw him 
on the bed, pulled his hair and growled some filthy 
nonsense about making him scream, making him *mine*, he 
snapped. He fought his way out from under me and punched me 
in the face. By the time the pain receded and I could focus 
on him again, he was crouched just out of arm's reach from 
me, still trembling a bit with fear but clearly horrified 
by what he had done. Once he calmed, he fetched a bag of 
frozen peas for the swelling and fretted over me. I 
confronted him over the obvious signs of post traumatic 
stress and what I could do to avoid triggering an episode 
in future. He told me a story I suspect was only partly 
true about a paranoid, schizophrenic ex and assured me it 
couldn't possibly happen again and I needn't burden myself 
with his past.'

I am simultaneously relieved and sickened by this 
explanation to one of the most maddening discrepancies in 
my journal. His determination to keep his past trauma 
hidden from me drove him to conceal the most obvious 
evidence of it that I had uncovered, deleting the incident 
from my journal and inventing an argument with the neighbor 
to cover it up. 

I try to recall the journal entries surrounding this 
incident. Did I confront him about the lie, as I did 
yesterday? Did he tell me the real story and I didn't add 
it to the journal either because I thought I would remember 
it in the morning or because I decided the mention of it 
wouldn't ultimately prove useful?

I send this image to John, adding to the text conversation 
Henry began months ago while pretending to be me. I see 
John startle a bit and reach for his mobile from the corner 
of my eye as I move on to one of the videos. I reach for 
the earbuds I packed in the bag when I realize that, like 
all the other videos, it is sexual in nature. 

The video was obviously taken during the honeymoon, in a 
hotel bed. I am splayed sideways across the mattress, my 
fingers twisting in the already rumpled sheets as his head 
ducks between my legs. Even though the angle obscures what 
he is doing, it is very obvious he is riming me.

He stops and shushes me as I let out a particularly 
desperate whine, pausing to press his lips to my inner 
thigh as he arranges a pillow beneath my backside.

My back arches as he penetrates me and my head tips back 
over the edge of the mattress. Oh. I remember this. The 
Eiffel Tower was just visible on the horizon outside the 
window my face is turned toward.

I reach for my cock and he swats my hand away gently with a 
murmur of "not yet, Will."

I cling to him as he thrusts slow and deep, murmuring 
encouragements the microphone doesn't quite pick up. It 
does, however, catch my heated whisper of "Josh..."

His thrusts falter and his face twists in something like 
pain. 

"Henry," I correct.

He smiles, kisses me and prompts "again" as he resumes 
thrusting.

There's a solid couple minutes of copulation, the wet 
sounds of sex punctuated by moans and sighs and the 
occasional whisper of "Henry" and "Will" and "yes" and 
"fuck". And then suddenly I'm reaching between our bodies 
and popping off practically the moment I touch my cock.

John moves suddenly, standing up, and I realize the plane 
has landed and come to a stop. I pull out one earbud and he 
says "Mycroft is waiting for us." The sounds of me and 
Henry kissing fill my other ear as the video continues, 
creating an odd juxtaposition. 

John's eyes land on the screen suddenly and he very nearly 
recoils. He averts his gaze quickly and mutters an 
embarrassed curse. Right. I will have to be selective in 
what information from my journal I share with him. I may 
delight in proving to my brother that I am not the virgin 
he chooses to believe I am, but John always reacts as if I 
am the one corrupting him somehow.

I stop the video and collect my things. 

John clears his throat. "Er...so Gruener was 
schizophrenic?"

"No. That was a comforting lie Henry sometimes told so he 
could pretend he couldn't possibly have seen the signs of 
abuse sooner. A form of psychological defense."

John nods. Then he retrieves my Belstaff from the bench 
opposite and holds it between us hesitantly. "I can...hang 
on to this if you like." 

I stare at it, the same odd feeling coming over me as did 
when the pilot handed it to me. I had once felt lost 
without it, and yet now it is like some alien...thing. It's 
absurd. That I had so longed to have it back after two 
years and yet not be so eager now after mere months. As if 
this experience has fundamentally changed me in a way that 
one didn't. John obviously understands and patiently waits 
for me to reply. I nod and he drapes it over his arm 
without comment.

---

Mycroft is waiting beside a government car. He eyes me 
critically as we approach, no doubt looking for evidence of 
the case they are building against Henry. I climb into the 
car without a word. 

"How is he," I hear Mycroft ask, not quite low enough for 
me not to hear.

"Perfectly capable of speaking for himself," I call back.

John mutters something under his breath before sliding into 
the seat beside me.

Mycroft sits opposite and, as the car begins to drive, 
reaches into his pocket and passes me Henry's watch. "It's 
still in there," he says as I immediately begin searching 
for the opening.

"What's still..." John begins, trailing off as the face of 
the watch slides away, revealing a small compartment 
beneath containing a single, small tablet.

"Cyanide," I pronounce. "Did he give you this immediately 
after we spoke or some time later?"

"Perhaps ten minutes later," Mycroft estimates. 

"You must have realized what I was referring to, but you 
did nothing. Would you have stopped him if he had tried to 
use it?"

Mycroft's expression doesn't change, which is answer 
enough.

"He was going to commit suicide," John asks, and I realize 
he's fallen out of step again.

"Old spy instincts. He knew he would be captured. He left 
his weapon in a locked drawer several rooms away, so he 
wouldn't be tempted to resist."

"Isn't that usually meant to prevent giving away state 
secrets if an agent is tortured?"

"Yes, like I said: instincts. He would likely consider life 
in prison a form of torture. Especially if it turned out he 
was wrong about my current condition and the symptoms of my 
next withdrawal were severe enough to kill me. My journal 
notes multiple instances where he stated he would rather 
die than live without me. He is an inveterate romantic with 
a flair for the dramatic."

"'Until my body ceases to draw breath,'" John quotes. "He 
sees himself as some sort of romantic hero."

"What have you found on Andrew Gruener," I ask Mycroft.

"Nothing of much interest. A wealthy businessman of some 
moderate power. He was married to a Thomas Scott for three 
and half years, though the marriage wasn't officially 
recognized, of course."

That was why there was confusion about the initials in my 
ring. He never took Gruener's name. He remained TS.

"He never tried to hide his homosexuality, but no doubt his 
upbringing instilled a sense of shame in him that fueled 
his sadism."

"Sadism?" John cuts in. 

I turn to address him. "Henry, or rather Thomas, was his 
submissive. At least that's what he believed. In reality, 
Gruener wielded their matrimonial bond as if it were a deed 
of ownership compelling Thomas to submit to his cruelty."

John looks increasingly repulsed and horrified as I speak, 
but I can also see an increasing understanding. I never 
specified how Henry had been abused by Gruener. Now that he 
has this detail, no doubt he understands better the context 
behind that passage of my journal.

"I assume your request for the full coroner's report 
indicates that you believe Andrew Gruener may have been one 
of Agent Armitage's victims," Mycroft says mildly.

I say nothing, so he forges ahead.

"Bloodwork showed a significantly high level of alcohol at 
the time of his death, which, coupled with the evidence of 
recent sexual activity could easily have put undue stress 
on his heart. And while this is exactly the sort of 
accident Armitage often arranged, it turns out he was 
tracking key members of Al Qaida in Algeria at the time of 
Gruener's death."

I feel something like relief at this. Not because it 
exonerates Henry - in fact, I am more convinced now that he 
*was* involved in his ex-husband's death somehow - but 
because the government is satisfied with this explanation. 
I will not persuade them otherwise. There are some crimes 
which the law cannot touch and which, therefore, 
necessitate more private rectification. 

"Sexual activity," John asks.

Mycroft clears his throat uncomfortably. "Yes, there 
was...paraphernalia supporting my brother's claims of his 
proclivities. All evidence in his flat indicated he was 
living alone, however, and the 999 call was made 
anonymously. It was assumed his partner that night was 
either a professional or a one-time diversion."

"A logical assumption," I say, handing the watch back to 
Mycroft. "You must have a protocol for disposing of this. 
He won't be requiring it any longer."

Mycroft glances at John as he takes back the watch and 
tucks it into his jacket, a silent question. Still using 
John to spy on me then.

"Have you dropped the rape charge, then?"

"There was nothing to 'drop'. He was never charged with 
rape. We felt abduction, wrongful imprisonment and 
possession of illegal narcotics was sufficient."

"Good. Should be able to make an arrangement then since I 
was never abducted or imprisoned and the drugs were mine."

Mycroft's eyes narrow and John tries to intervene, gently 
calling "Will..."

"And you can stop this 'Will' business. I will not explode 
if you use my name, I will simply become mildly ill."

John falters a bit, but continues without correction. "I 
understand that you want to protect him, but he is not 
innocent. You can't just accept all the blame for 
everything when you admit you don't even remember 
anything."

"I may not remember, but I have three journals full of data 
that clarifies my role in all of this. I will not allow you 
to paint me as a victim. I made my own choices and I chose 
to stay with a man who could provide me with a distraction 
elaborate enough that I wouldn't notice he was weaning me 
from the one narcotic that yes, he obtained for me because 
he feared stopping me taking it entirely would kill me." I 
pause a minute, allowing them to fully digest that, then 
ask Mycroft "have you already begun the interrogation?"

Mycroft sighs with an air of annoyance. "We have tried 
questioning him, but he insists he will only speak to 
Doctor Watson."

That is...unexpected. From John's reaction beside me, I 
gather he is just as surprised by this news. "I want to be 
in the room..."

"No," Mycroft interjects.

"You know perfectly well that I am in the best position 
to..."

"No," he says more forcefully.

John's hand closes on my wrist before I can argue further. 
"We can compromise," he offers. "You can be part of 
questioning without being in the room."

I forgot how much John could say without saying a word. He 
can convey entire sentences and paragraphs with a look. And 
right now, he is simultaneously pleading with me to not 
create trouble and reminding me that he is my partner, not 
an adversary. I can trust him to help me, to act on my 
behalf without treating me like a stroppy child. I can 
trust him to be open minded and fair. 

I can trust him with this case.

I nod and I see victory flash briefly in his eyes. He 
smiles and squeezes my wrist slightly before releasing it.

John was wrong earlier when he described us as brothers. 
The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the 
womb. He is family to me, yes, but we are not bound by the 
obligations of shared genetic material. He has chosen to 
stand by me time and again, against all odds and reason. He 
is my best and closest friend. I would be lost without him. 

"I need you to swear that you won't give me the drug when I 
begin to exhibit symptoms of withdrawal," I say suddenly as 
a realization comes over me. I thought I could be content 
with simply having control over when I lose my memory, but 
the idea of willingly erasing the past twenty-four hours is 
just too galling. "I realize the risks involved and the 
reasons he has treated me by reducing the dosage gradually, 
but I have come too far to turn back now. If it becomes too 
much for me to manage, admit me to hospital, but I will not 
consent to any further treatment involving the drug that 
has erased my memories."

"Of course," John agrees quickly.

In all probability, he will struggle with keeping that 
promise as my withdrawal symptoms worsen. But I have 
confidence that his sentiments toward me will not cloud his 
judgment to the extent that Henry's have. He will be able 
to resist the temptation of an easy fix. He will be 
stronger.

But this does not lessen the urgency of catching John up 
and convincing the authorities to release Henry. I may be 
able to retain my memories, but once the withdrawal starts, 
I will become useless. Utterly insensate and unable to 
think clearly.

I need to work quickly.

---
John

Sherlock spent the rest of the trip to the facility Thomas 
was being detained in getting us caught up on relevant 
details from the months since he went missing. At least the 
parts of it he had recorded in his notes. He made sure to 
stress all the gaps that could only be filled by "Henry" 
like how he came to be at the scene of the accident and why 
he lied about the neighbor hitting Sherlock if the truth 
was just as benign as the story behind the bruise Thomas 
was currently sporting.

The most striking thing about the way he told his story was 
the ways in which he seemed to deliberately skim over the 
bits having to do with their sex life. It was obvious he 
wasn't doing it to be delicate. He was very candid about 
the fact that he uncovered Thomas' history the day before 
after he was too rough during a session of shagging that 
had triggered his PTSD. But compared to the way he had 
practically rubbed my nose in his fake relationship with 
Janine, he was more guarded.

'Because this one's real,' the tiny voice that still 
sounded a bit like Mary whispered in the back of my mind.

"You don't believe feigning death and concocting an 
elaborate ruse to keep you from leaving is an overly 
complicated way to manage your withdrawal," Mycroft asked 
dryly when he had finished.

"Yes, but considering it was 'concocted' by a former spy 
and myself I would hardly expect anything less."

I suppressed a snort. Mycroft's disapproving frown 
deepened.

"I suspect much of it wasn't part of the initial plan. The 
accident and my subsequent addiction to the drug affecting 
my memory...probably even his falling in love with me. Each 
time something unexpected altered the plan, a new layer of 
deception was added until the truth became entirely 
obscured."

"The original plan being to rescue you from me," I said. 

Sherlock's eyes met mine. "You will have to confirm that 
with him, but it seems the most likely explanation."

"Sherlock believes Thomas was projecting similarly to Mrs. 
Taylor," I explained for Mycroft's benefit, catching the 
wince Sherlock tried to hide and regretting my use of his 
name immediately. "Except he was driven not by his failure 
to save someone in the past but by his own experience as a 
victim."

I could see the understanding settle on Mycroft's face. So 
could Sherlock.

"You knew about his past," he accused.

"We knew about his parents, yes," Mycroft said.

"His parents," I asked. "Not his ex-husband?"

"No. Although that might explain some of the discrepancies 
in his file."

"What discrepancies," Sherlock prompted.

"He struggled to complete his medical studies. He was cited 
on multiple occasions for truancy. One professor expressed 
concern over evidence he was getting into fights."

"Evidence being bruises and injuries consistent with being 
struck repeatedly."

Mycroft looked a bit uncomfortable at that. "Yes. His 
recruitment and training officers described a very 
different man, which they chalked up to age and maturity."

"Of course," Sherlock sneered. "A convenient explanation 
based in gendered assumptions. If a man shows signs of 
having been beaten repeatedly, people assume he was simply 
on the losing end of a fight. If a woman does, surely 
somebody would consider the possibility she was being 
beaten by a domestic partner."

Silence filled the car for a bit and I thought again about 
the man I'd seen at the airport and how he hadn't matched 
my expectations of him.

"What about his parents," Sherlock finally asked. 

Mycroft took a deep breath. "His mother was charged with 
his father's murder. She claimed she did it to protect the 
boy as well as herself although it was never proven he had 
laid a hand on the child. She committed suicide shortly 
after being imprisoned."

Jesus. I swallowed and asked "did you...did he ever tell 
you about this?"

Sherlock's eyes met mine and I could see my own disgust 
reflected in them. "Possibly. But I haven't found any 
mention of it in my notes. He may have deleted it along 
with anything else pertaining to his past that he didn't 
want me remembering."

"You said he had a scar that proves the story he told you 
about his ex-husband," I said slowly. "What sort of scar?"

"He threatened to leave. Gruener retaliated with a threat 
of castration."

I winced reflexively and I thought I could sense Mycroft do 
the same.

"If all this is true, he is most likely suffering from 
PTSD," I said carefully. "He would distrust people, 
especially men. It might explain why he felt he needed to 
take such extreme measures to rescue you from a perceived 
threat."

"He knew my brother would find me and arrest him," Sherlock 
agreed. "He must have realized long ago he'd made a 
mistake, but by then I was well on my way to addiction and 
he...was becoming infatuated."

Despite understanding the chemistry of it, the concept of 
love still mostly eluded Sherlock. He could feel it and he 
could recognize it in others, but he still found it a 
pointless distraction from his more cerebral endeavors.

"Regardless of his intentions, we cannot simply drop the 
charges against him," Mycroft said.

"I know that," Sherlock snapped. "But I believe given the 
extraordinary circumstances and after questioning we can 
come to some sort of agreement. He needs treatment, not a 
prison sentence."

I reached for Sherlock's arm, hoping to diffuse the 
situation before it got fully underway. "Okay. He hasn't 
officially been charged with anything yet. We can get him 
the treatment he needs once we determine what, exactly did 
or did not happen."

Sherlock calmed and nodded. Mycroft muttered an agreement. 

We returned to the details Sherlock had gathered and the 
questions still left unanswered for the rest of the drive.

----

The interrogation room was in the basement of a government 
building. The walls were padded to prevent the more violent 
prisoners from injuring themselves. 'Or to muffle screams,' 
I thought morbidly. A one-way mirror on one wall allowed 
for an audience outside the cell. I didn't find out until 
later that it was the same room that had once been used to 
hold Moriarty while Mycroft questioned him.

One of the agents who'd met Mycroft at the airport fitted 
Sherlock and me with earpieces and then disappeared into 
another room. I gathered the folder with evidence Mycroft, 
Lestrade and I had deemed relevant along with some of the 
documents Sherlock had recovered and, steeling myself, 
stepped into the interrogation room. 

Thomas sat at a table bolted to the floor, his hands folded 
in front of him, the fingers of his right hand idly 
manipulating the wedding ring on his left. He was dressed 
in different clothing than he had been at the airport. It 
seemed Sherlock had insisted he be allowed to shower. I 
tried not to dwell on the reasons he had needed one.

He looked up when I entered the room and straightened a 
bit. I tried to read him as I thought Sherlock would. But I 
didn't know him as intimately as Sherlock did - memory 
erasing drugs aside - and everything I'd thought I knew had 
been recently challenged. He was still a cunning ex-
assassin, but he was also a broken, damaged man.

I set the folder on the table and reached for his nearest 
hand - the right one - turning it so I could inspect the 
bruising on his wrist from the handcuffs. 

I could feel the tension in his arm, hear the way his 
breathing grew shallow. 'He doesn't trust you to not hurt 
him,' the voice in the back of my mind whispered. The idea 
that I could get the best of him seemed laughable, but then 
our location and the proximity of armed agents gave me the 
advantage.

After verifying the skin was not broken, I let go of his 
arm. He let it descend slowly back to rest on the table 
beside the other. I took my seat on the other side of the 
table.

"I realized why I recognized your voice earlier. You were 
at the scene of the accident."

Surprise flashed in his eyes momentarily and I wondered if 
Sherlock had seen it from the other side of the glass. 

"Did you cause it?"

He flinched slightly. "He knew I was following him," he 
said slowly. "I tried to fall back, but it was too late. 
He'd already drawn the obvious conclusions and become 
anxious." 

"He wasn't the other driver," Sherlock said in my ear. 

"So you didn't *deliberately* drive us off the road," I 
said.

"I wasn't in the car that tried to overtake you. But if he 
hadn't been convinced someone with malicious intent was 
following you, the accident may not have happened in any 
case."

"The fact that he blames himself isn't proof of guilt," 
Sherlock said. 

I bit back a sigh and pressed on. "So you just took 
advantage of the opportunity and abducted him from the 
scene."

He lowered his eyes and twisted his ring thoughtfully. "He 
hardly remembers the first time we met," he began slowly, 
carefully. "Deleted it to make room, he said. Just a random 
display of kindness from a stranger - a nobody." His eyes 
met mine and I could see something like an accusation in 
his gaze. "It was the night he first came back from the 
dead. When you aggravated the still-healing wounds on his 
back and left him standing by the curb nursing a bloody 
nose."

A cold feeling sliced through me as I saw myself for a 
moment through his eyes. Saw what it must have looked like 
to someone who didn't know my history with Sherlock - 
someone with his own history of experience with men prone 
to violence.

"I thought he looked a bit familiar, but I never really 
followed the stories of the great Sherlock Holmes," he 
continued. I flinched. 

Thomas stopped talking suddenly and stared at me. His eyes 
slowly drifted toward the mirror behind me and Sherlock 
groaned softly.

"He knows I'm watching."

I had blown it already. I should have known a former spy 
would catch on immediately. I debated my next move. Should 
I acknowledge the moment? Admit that yes, Sherlock was 
listening because we decided it wouldn't be right to have 
him directly involved in the interrogation and move on?

But before I could say anything, he continued. "I found 
your blog. Saw the photos of your wedding. And I became 
convinced that you posed just as much danger to him as any 
of the criminals he exposed, if not more because he trusted 
you. Loved you. Forgave you for hurting him."

Jesus. As always, Sherlock had been right. But from his 
silence, I gathered he was no more pleased with that 
knowledge than I was.

"You, er...you thought you needed to rescue him as you wish 
someone had rescued you from Andrew Gruener."

He flinched. "I know what it's like to feel trapped. To be 
so dependent on the thing that you know is slowly killing 
you that leaving seems impossible." He blinked rapidly and 
took a deep breath. "I just wanted to talk to him. Alone. 
Give him an opportunity to escape. Offer whatever support 
he needed." He paused and rallied himself a bit. "The 
driver of the other car fled when I arrived. I...phoned 
emergency services and checked that you were both still 
alive. Your injuries were mostly superficial - both of you 
- but he was unconscious."

"And you saw an opportunity."

Thomas swallowed. "I know I should have waited for the 
ambulance, tried to speak to him in hospital. But I feared 
I wouldn't have another chance. That he would recognize me 
as the person who'd been following him and have me 
arrested. That he would never listen to me."

"A likely assumption," Sherlock confirmed. 

I reached for the pitcher of water on the table then and 
poured a glass, setting it in front of Thomas wordlessly. 
He shot me a grateful look as he accepted it, his eyes 
darting to the mirror as he drank. 

"Ask him about the drug," Sherlock prompted. 

'Yes, I am getting to that,' I thought. I should have known 
Sherlock would get impatient. I cleared my throat 
pointedly, hoping he would understand the warning without 
me having to turn around.

"You injected me with something," I noted. "Was it the same 
drug you gave him?"

Thomas shook his head slightly. "Morphine. For the pain."

"And you just happened to carry morphine with you?"

His lips twitched in a pained sort of half smile. "Old spy 
habit. Never knew when I might need to patch myself up."

"Is that why he has a scar," Sherlock asked, his voice 
somewhat muffled. "He had to patch himself up?"

I wondered for a moment if I was supposed to respond to 
that somehow, but before I could say anything I heard 
Mycroft reply, his voice also muffled, and realized the 
question wasn't directed at me. 

I tried to ignore the voices in my ear and focus on Thomas 
and the present line of inquiry. "When did you start giving 
him the other drug?"

"When he woke up he was confused; in pain. I tried to talk 
to him then, but... he was obviously suffering from a 
concussion. I kept giving him morphine for the pain, but it 
wasn't enough...So I gave him the other drug I carried in 
case of emergency. One I designed based on an anesthesia 
commonly used in surgery. It was never meant to be used 
like this, but I hoped..." He trailed off, looking into the 
distance past me, something like torment in his eyes. "I 
just wanted him to sleep. To forget the pain."

"But the fact that he was forgetting more than the pain was 
convenient, wasn't it," I prompted, keeping my tone 
neutral. 

He winced. "I only intended to use it for a short time. I 
hoped I could get my hands on a supply of more suitable 
drugs. But I didn't anticipate that he would find the 
tablets and self medicate. I didn't know he was an addict. 
By the time I realized...it was too late."

"And because you knew he wouldn't react well to finding out 
the truth, you thought you'd buy yourself some time by 
convincing him he was hiding from a serial killer."

He glanced at the mirror again and I thought he might have 
been pleading silently with Sherlock. "As a doctor, you 
know that the best treatment for benzodiazepine addiction 
is slow reduction in dosage, monitored by a physician. It 
was my drug and my mistakes that had led to his condition. 
I thought it only fair for me to assume responsibility for 
his treatment."

"He didn't trust anyone else," Sherlock murmured.

Thomas rushed to continue before I could respond. "It was 
selfish of me, I know that. I'd already begun to fall in 
love with him. I couldn't bear the possibility that we 
would be discovered. That his brother would have me 
imprisoned and he would simply...forget about me. I 
supplied him with a case that would both serve as a 
distraction from his condition and discourage him from 
drawing attention to us. I recast all my marks as victims 
of Thomas Gruener, carefully omitting any details that 
might suggest their true identities. That they were 
terrorists, arms dealers, human traffickers." His lips 
twitched a bit. "Of course, he worked it out eventually. 
About four months ago, he gave me a memory stick that had 
the journal he'd been keeping to try to make sense of 
everything - his condition, the case, me - and he offered 
to assist me in making a few...improvements. Buy more time 
until he could safely stop the drug entirely. Thomas Gruner 
became Andrew Gruener and the number of victims credited to 
him grew."

"Including me."

He went silent a moment, his eyes meeting mine, 
unflinching. "Yes. He was especially insistent you be 
included. If he didn't believe you were dead, he couldn't 
be sure he wouldn't try to contact you and ruin the plan."

'He couldn't make me believe he was you,' Sherlock had 
said.

Thomas got a distant look in his eyes. "He ran away to 
Liverpoool about three months ago. I found him huddled 
beside the statue of Lennon outside The Cavern Club. It 
struck me as ironic that despite the fact that he most 
certainly had no idea who the man was, in the depths of 
withdrawal when he was half coherent and ill, he found a 
way to run to John."

I was stunned into silence by that, but Sherlock seemed 
unaffected in the least. 

"How did he find me," he demanded.

"Ah...how...er...did you find him," I asked stupidly, not 
quite sure what Sherlock was getting at, but knowing it 
would probably prove important enough.

I could see in his eyes that Thomas understood the 
importance immediately though. His expression was similar 
to many of the criminals Sherlock had apprehended the 
moment they realized they'd said too much. "I embedded a 
tracking chip beneath the scar he got in the accident," he 
said slowly, quietly.

I stared at him in silence for several moments as I 
processed his confession. "You..."

"It wasn't the first time he'd run off. He once went three 
days without taking the drug. He hardly slept. He became 
convinced I was a henchman of Moriarty's out for revenge 
against him. That I was slowly poisoning him to death and 
reveling in his prolonged suffering." Thomas' eyes shone 
with tears. He swallowed thickly. "I tracked him to the 
edge of a cliff, where he threatened to hasten my efforts 
by throwing himself into the sea."

Another, longer silence before I asked "how did you talk 
him down?"

He gave a humorless sort of chuckle. "I told him you were 
alive. Told him I could prove it if he'd just come away 
from the edge." He swiped at a tear as it spilled from his 
left eye. "You probably don't remember, but I called you 
that evening, pretending to have the wrong number so he 
could hear your voice."

Of course I wouldn't remember that any more than Sherlock 
would remember their first meeting on the street. Still, I 
felt the same sort of frustration he no doubt had felt upon 
learning the significance of the moment. 

"There is nothing about any of this in my notes," Sherlock 
said.

'Of course not,' I thought. 'You had to go on believing I 
was dead.'

"I told him everything that night. And he took the drug, 
willingly." Thomas trailed off, seemingly lost in thought 
for a bit before he continued. "That was when I first 
thought of buying him a dog."

"Sorry?"

His eyes focused on me as if he'd forgot I was even there 
for a moment. "There's a classic Italian movie about a man 
who is so depressed he's decided he will commit suicide. 
But before he can go through with it, he finds a stray dog. 
He takes in the dog, feeds him. And the next time he thinks 
about killing himself, he looks at this dog and he realizes 
that he can't bring himself to do it. I thought if Will..." 
He stopped talking, swallowed, and averted his eyes from 
mine. "I hoped I could give him something to live for."

The silence stretched even longer that time as I tried to 
remember the questions I was supposed to be asking while 
all the new information swirled around in my head along 
with snatches of memory, particularly the one of Sherlock 
falling from the roof of St. Bart's. Thinking back, this 
was probably the first time I realized I may have had more 
in common with Thomas than I'd previously cared to admit.

I recalled one of Sherlock's questions as I skimmed the 
contents of the folder in front of me. "You lied to him 
about a black eye you gave him around that time. You told 
him your neighbor - Robert Brown - punched him during a 
fight. Why?"

He looked up from his left wrist, which he'd been fingering 
absently. Just where the watch with the cyanide pill had 
been. "It's difficult for someone of his celebrity status 
to hide. It was easy enough in Sussex where we had little 
cause to interact with others and on the continent where 
not many would recognize him. But I feared Bob would work 
out who he really was and draw attention to us. It seemed a 
harmless enough lie to discourage them from talking. It 
also worked to distract Lillian, who became so convinced of 
her perceived narrative that she was blind to anything 
else."

"It didn't bother you that she believed you were a 
monster?"

His eyes met mine and for a moment I was convinced he could 
see straight through to my soul. "Am I not? I orchestrated 
the deaths of more than a dozen men. Am I any less 
monstrous than them simply because I was acting under 
government orders?"

Before I could respond, the door to the interrogation room 
opened. 

"Doctor Watson, could you step outside," Mycroft asked in 
that manner that made it clear he wasn't really asking.

Thomas reached for my wrist as I moved to stand. "The 
details of the drug are on my laptop," he said urgently. 
"Exact composition and dosage as well as a record of the 
past eight months."

Mycroft cleared his throat - an obvious warning - and 
Thomas flinched and released his hold.

Thomas' words, the pleading look in his eyes, coupled with 
Mycroft's interruption brought a sudden realization to my 
mind. Sherlock hadn't spoken for several minutes. And 
Thomas had already worked it all out and knew what must 
have happened.

"I only have a few hours, perhaps, before the withdrawal 
symptoms set in," Sherlock had said.

I stepped into the hallway quickly and barely waited for 
the door to close before asking "where is he?"

---
Four months ago, Henry

It may be the endorphins talking, but I am certain you have 
never looked more gorgeous than you do right now, arching 
and moaning beneath me, tugging helplessly at the sashes 
from the dressing gown securing you to the bed. Your body 
welcomes mine eagerly, your thighs trembling with the 
effort to draw me closer, deeper inside you.

"Say my name," I demand, stilling your movements with a 
firm grip on your narrow hips. ‘Still too thin,' I think. 

We've done this many times over the past hour and I fear 
you may be too far gone to respond anymore. I doubt I will 
have the strength to pull out this time and wait for your 
arousal to wane if you say the wrong name. This may be an 
effective means of training you – as you called it – but it 
requires a lot of stamina and discipline.

You writhe and squeeze your thighs around my hips, bearing 
down on my cock. Every inch of your skin is hot and slick 
and perfect. You mutter something, but it isn't coherent 
even before it dissolves into a helpless groan.

"Will," I prompt, hoping this is enough to trigger the 
correct response. ‘Please, don't force me to stop.'

Your eyes open, wild and bright with arousal, slowly 
focusing on me. "Henry," you moan.

An insensible, half-curse, half-thanks tumbles from my lips 
as I double my efforts, determined to push you over the 
edge now before you say anything else.

You come with a wild cry almost the moment I touch your 
cock, having been denied for so long that your body seizes 
the opportunity without hesitation. 

I manage to free your wrists before succumbing myself, 
feeling you cling to me, preventing me from pulling away as 
we both come down. 

Your eyes are already clear by the time my senses fully 
return and I find you studying my face with some 
fascination. 

"You are ashamed of the way bondage excites you," you say, 
still slightly out of breath. "Normally I would say that 
could be attributed to a strict, religious upbringing, but 
in your case..."

I kiss you in a futile effort to distract you, or at the 
very least stop you from going any further down this path 
of deduction. I should know by now that I can't hide my 
demons from you. 

"What was his name," you murmur stubbornly against my lips.

I sigh and pull out gently. I would prefer avoiding this 
conversation entirely, but as that is unlikely I can at 
least have it while we aren't so intimately entwined. 

I clean the worst of the mess with the flannel I left close 
at hand as I gather my thoughts. I need to be more cautious 
in how I speak of Andrew now as his name has been bestowed 
on the killer you believe we are running from. I may have 
to avoid speaking about him altogether, in fact, so you 
don't make the connection and unravel our carefully laid 
plans immediately. 

You wait patiently for me to answer, your fingers tracing 
along the scar on my abdomen. This gives me an idea. 

"He was schizophrenic," I begin, the story forming in my 
mind as I speak. "We were young – still at University." 

Andrew wanted me to drop out. Said I was wasting my time 
when he could easily support the both of us on his salary 
alone. Of course, that would have achieved his real goal of 
making me entirely dependent on him. 

"He became increasingly paranoid. Delusional. First 
convinced that I was cheating on him, then that I was 
trying to kill him." 

I can still see the desperation in the eyes of the arms 
dealer when he understood who had sent me. The moment of 
victory in his eyes as he plunged the knife into me, 
believing he had successfully cheated death. The surprise 
frozen on his face as the bullet tore through him. 

"One night, he tied me to the bed and threatened to 
castrate me. He'd come to believe I was a spy sent to 
seduce him. God knows to what end. I managed to escape, 
but..." This story is too complicated. You assured me that 
if I included enough true elements I could make any lie 
believable, but in future I should really try to simplify. 

I look at you as my words trail off, half expecting you to 
tear my story apart and demand I tell you the truth. I 
suppose there wouldn't be any harm done, really. After your 
next dose, you will forget this entire conversation, just 
as you've forgotten the truth about Gruener. But all I see 
in your eyes is sympathy. A recognition that regardless of 
the believability of all the details I've just told you, 
the pain behind them is genuine.

You stroke the inside of my thigh softly and I expect you 
to move higher, to seek out the proof borne out by the 
other scar. I realize suddenly that if you do, you will 
know that it was left by a different assailant than the one 
on my abdomen. It's on the wrong side. I have made a 
mistake. Not the first and likely not the last either. But 
a very stupid one.

But you seem content with keeping your touch well away from 
my groin. Whether out of some sort of respect or simply 
because you don't want the contact to tip over from 
soothing into sexual, I am grateful. 

There's a knock on the door of our room. I slip reluctantly 
from the warmth of the bed and have just enough presence of 
mind to arrange the covers over you for the sake of decency 
before fetching my dressing gown and answering it.

The hotel employee has the room service I ordered earlier 
this evening along with the package I have been waiting 
for, discreetly wrapped, yet obviously some sort of drugs. 
Whether because of this or because of the clear evidence 
that I was recently having sex with another man – his 
objections to which might be explained by the prominent 
cross around his neck – his expression is one of obvious 
disapproval. Either way, I tip him generously, hoping he 
won't cause us any trouble. 

I expect you to declare the exact source of the man's 
contempt the minute I close the door, but you are focused 
on the package in my hand. I set it down on the cart. 

"We should eat before it gets cold."

"Not hungry."

I bite back a sigh and sit on the bed. "I know, love, but 
you should eat anyway."

"Why? Will taking the tablet on an empty stomach make me 
ill?"

I could say yes, but I will never earn your trust if I lie 
to you unnecessarily. "Probably not, but not eating for 
days could make you ill regardless."

You grunt something unintelligible. Then..."he wasn't 
schizophrenic."

It isn't a question. 

"Your almost Pavlovian response to the use of bondage 
suggests a familiarity and comfort that go beyond one 
traumatic incident. He restrained you regularly. Or you did 
him. Which means you trusted him at one time." You look at 
me with prying, but not ungentle eyes. "Did he catch you 
cheating?"

I am grateful that you seem to have disregarded the spy 
business as part of the lie, but I will still have to be 
careful. "I threatened to leave him." I take a deep breath 
as I try to piece together enough truths without revealing 
too much. "He was possessive. He treated our marriage 
contract as if it were a deed of ownership." I had to be 
ready to perform when the desire struck him. At first, I 
found preparing myself every day erotic. The knowledge that 
he could be so overcome that he would need to bend me over 
the nearest piece of furniture and fuck me without warning 
made me feel desired and deliciously filthy. Until the day 
I didn't prepare and tried to say no. He treated it as a 
lesson I needed to learn.

"He raped you," you say softly, startling me. Sometimes I 
believe you really can read my thoughts.

I nod. "I asked for a divorce. He...reacted violently. I 
feared if I didn't leave, he would kill me. So I ran. 
Changed my identity. Joined the MSF." 

Your hand wraps around my wrist, squeezing gently. "Is he 
still..."

"No. He died years ago." For a moment I wonder if your 
gesture of comfort is really just a clever way of 
monitoring my pulse to judge whether I'm lying. It doesn't 
matter. Nothing I've just said is technically untrue.

"You have told me this before."

I nod again.

"I'm sorry I keep forcing you to relive painful memories. I 
will put it in my notes, so you don't have to tell me 
again."

I know you will. And, as I did last time, I will delete it 
before morning. Because as excruciating as it is to have to 
re-open old wounds every time you uncover the truth about 
Andrew, it would be too easy for you to unravel the rest of 
our carefully constructed lies if you start out knowing 
that much already. 

You sigh up at the ceiling suddenly. "God, I could use a 
fag."

I chuckle softly. "Would you settle for a cup of tea?" 
Nicotine may be the least reprehensible of your habits, but 
once you give in to that addiction, other drugs are likely 
to follow. I can't risk the possible interactions.

You groan, mutter a couple expletives under your breath and 
finally say "fine."

You slip from the bed and put on your dressing gown while I 
put the kettle on and set food on the small table in the 
corner. I know if it weren't for the cold you wouldn't 
bother covering yourself at all. You might even have 
stepped out onto the hotel room balcony naked. I sometimes 
admire your complete lack of shame. I don't think I have 
ever been so un-self-conscious. 

You eat some of the food I put in front of you – realizing 
that you are actually hungry after recent exertions – and 
drink all of the tea. 

"You should put the tablets in the tea."

I swallow the bite of pasta in my mouth slowly, wondering 
if you expect me to object or ask for clarification. But 
you simply continue.

"Paranoia is an inevitable side effect. I cannot be trusted 
to take a tablet regularly. Lacing my food with the drug is 
unlikely to be a viable solution." You gesture at the 
untouched food still on your plate. "But I am far less 
likely to refuse a cup of tea." You must see something on 
my face, as you frown and declare "We've already discussed 
this, haven't we?"

"Argued more like. Especially when you insisted I continue 
giving you sugar pills twice a day so you wouldn't know 
when you were being dosed."

"Ah. That's the other bit that was bothering you earlier. 
The elimination of free choice, even if you had my 
consent."

"This is not the same. You cannot withdraw consent later if 
you don't remember what you consented to." 

"Did you wait until you had obtained my consent before 
giving me the best drug you had at your disposal for 
treating pain after the accident?"

"This is not about..."

"Medical ethics? I should think it is. If not giving me the 
drug causes harmful and possibly deadly side effects, 
allowing me to stop taking it because I've forgot the 
danger and decided to withdraw my consent of the treatment 
would hardly be responsible."

I set my fork down, no longer hungry myself. You reach for 
my hand, suddenly, gripping tightly, prompting me to meet 
your insistent gaze. 

"I wouldn't be here if I didn't trust you."

You've said before that you could always tell I was lying 
to you, even if you were uncertain what I was lying about. 
But you were absolutely certain that you could trust me 
with your life. The idea that I could be willing to fake my 
death, change my name and go into hiding with you after 
only knowing you for five months didn't even seem absurd – 
an extreme measure only someone with a history of becoming 
someone else would agree to so easily.

I smile weakly and squeeze your hand. Your left hand. I can 
feel your ring pressing into my flesh. And I think of the 
night we planned our escape. This honeymoon and the next 
phase of your treatment. When you told me you knew Andrew's 
death hadn't really been an accident.

"Whether you administered the potassium that caused the 
fatal heart attack or – more likely – provided his newest 
victim with the means and opportunity and the assurance he 
would suffer no consequences...it doesn't matter. I don't 
need to know the details. The world is better for having 
fewer men like him to continue their reign of terror and 
abuse."

I found emotional release that night in your arms as well 
as physical. And as I watched you sleep afterward, I 
thought that just might have been the moment beyond which I 
would no longer have the strength to walk away, even if I 
knew I should. 

I don't know how long I can keep up this charade. And I 
suspect it cannot end well for me. But I am in too deep to 
turn back now. 

I hate having to lie to you. I hate watching you suffer 
physically when you don't take the drug and go through 
withdrawal, mentally when you do and believe you are losing 
your mind and emotionally when you believe you were 
responsible for Mary's – now John's - death. But I cannot 
bring myself to leave. 

"I love you," I whisper.

Your lips twitch slightly in a smile before you pull away, 
turning your attention to your mobile and the notes you 
have been keeping there until we return to England and you 
can use a proper laptop. I know declarations of love make 
you uncomfortable. But the fact that you no longer roll 
your eyes and grumble about 'sentiment' suggests a sort of 
shift in your opinions. In your own way, you might just be 
falling in love with me as well. At least, that's a 
comforting story I can tell myself on the bad days.

"Are all forms of physical restraint objectionable, or 
would you be amenable so long as it doesn't involve 
anything rope-like?"

The question catches me off guard and the images it invokes 
send a flush of desire through me. "Er..."

"I would like to experiment with different variables."

"Now?" Normally, I would expect a man your age to be 
finished for the night after what we just did. But you have 
seemingly boundless energy and I suspect you are capable of 
getting a similar high from sex that you would find in 
solving cases or using drugs. I sometimes find it difficult 
to keep up with you.

You set your phone down. "When you're ready."

---
Present, Sherlock

Mycroft knows better than to say anything as I leave the 
observation room. My notes suggest I had suspected Henry 
bought Grace for me to try to win my affection. 

'I hoped I could give him something to live for.'

I turn off my earpiece as John starts asking about my black 
eye and the neighbor my journal claimed was responsible for 
it. I no longer need an answer to that particular question. 
It's obvious enough.

I vomit into the toilet in the men's and take a moment to 
steady myself before washing up. I try to get a closer look 
at the scar in the mirror above the sink, but the angle is 
wrong. I try to feel the stitches instead and wince as this 
causes pain. I should have realized the wound was too 
fresh. That it must have at least been partly reopened 
recently.

The tracking app on his phone. I should have understood 
what it meant sooner. Of course it was meant to track me.

The door opens and John steps in. No doubt Mycroft sent him 
to check on me.

"When did he call you," I ask before he can say anything. 
"What did he say?"

"Er...Thomas? I don't remember."

"But you must have recognized his voice. It's far more 
likely you were recalling that than the one conversation 
you had months ago when he was disguised as a paramedic. 
Think!"

He bristles a bit at that. "People sound different over the 
phone than they do in person. It was a wrong number. I put 
it from my mind. What does it matter?"

This is getting nowhere. I sigh and rub my forehead where 
the headache is beginning to form. "He said months ago. Not 
two days ago?"

"No," John says firmly. "I would definitely have remembered 
that."

I'm not sure that's true, but if MI-6 was alerted early 
this week and Mycroft, Lestrade and John were working on a 
rescue plan ever since it is unlikely any strange phone 
calls would have failed to catch their attention. So that 
couldn't have been the proof Henry gave me two days ago 
that prompted the journal entry. Unless he recorded the 
conversation somewhere for the occasion he might need it 
again.

No. I didn't need proof that John was alive yesterday. I 
wouldn't have needed it two days ago.

John's fingers wrap around my wrist, checking my pulse. 
"Look at me."

I acquiesce, impatiently waiting while he checks my pupils. 

"Any symptoms besides vomiting?"

"Headache," I mumble.

"This is the withdrawal?"

I nod. He mirrors the movement unconsciously. 

"Okay." He pauses for a long while, still holding my wrist, 
and I wonder if he's still monitoring my vitals or has 
simply forgotten to let go. "What do you need?"

"I need to be in that room."

"Anything but that."

"Why," I spit, my frustration growing by the minute. "It's 
obvious he doesn't pose a threat to me or I would not be 
here now."

"This isn't about whether or not he poses a physical 
danger. He has been deceiving you – successfully – for the 
better part of a year."

"All the more reason for me to be involved in this 
interrogation! If he could keep me from finding out the 
truth for that long, what hope is there for the rest of 
you?"

John sighs heavily and visibly switches gears. "You are too 
close to this – to him – to be objective."

I snort. "That's ridiculous, I..."

"You love him," John interrupts. "I don't doubt you want 
answers, but not if getting them means sending him to 
jail."

I don't attempt to fill the silence that follows. Honestly, 
I'm too stunned by the way he said ‘you love him.' As if it 
was a simple statement of an obvious fact. How can he be so 
certain of something I haven't even sorted out myself?

I start as the answer to my previous inquiry comes to me 
suddenly.

It takes less than a minute to find the voicemail in the 
locked folder of Henry's phone. The sender is not 
identified by name. Of course. He wouldn't risk me finding 
John's name on his phone.

"I can respect your conditions and I swear I won't try to 
contact you again if you'll just promise me one thing. 
Don't disappear like you did last time. Text me. Send me an 
email from an anonymous account. Send me a goddamn 
postcard. Just...anything. I won't respond or try to 
contact you or do anything whatever that might compromise 
you. I just...I need to know you're still alive. Please, 
just...do that for me?"

The sound of his own voice startles John briefly, but he 
obviously recognizes the message. "That's...that's the 
voicemail I sent after the accident. When you said you were 
off chasing a killer..." He shakes his head. "But it wasn't 
you."

"No, it wasn't." I brush past John, even more determined to 
get in that room now. I vaguely hear John voicing some form 
of protest as he follows me, but I am not listening. Henry 
is the only person who can give me the answers I need now.

He is clearly surprised to see me enter the room. He sits 
up straighter, his eyes momentarily darting to John. 
Uncertain. Wary.

I put the phone down in front of him so he can clearly see 
the open file. I don't need to play it for him to recognize 
it.

"You played this file for me two days ago, before telling 
me everything." It's not really a question. I know I'm 
right. But I do need him to verify for the benefit of my 
brother and John, the latter of which I can see gesturing 
to the former through the mirror from the corner of my eye. 
I may not have much time before Mycroft puts a stop to 
this, so I talk quickly. "You believed you were rescuing me 
until *this*," I gesture at the phone "sowed seeds of 
doubt. You went to the trouble of saving this voicemail 
despite destroying the phone that originally received it 
partly so I would understand, but also to remind yourself 
of just how wrong you'd got it."

His eyes go to John again. "Yes," he says quietly.

"The cyanide tablet wasn't insurance against facing the 
consequences incurred these past few months. You may say 
you can't live without me, but that's not true. You 
couldn't live with yourself if anything happened to me as a 
result of your mistakes."

He shakes his head slightly, visibly fighting back tears 
now. I press on.

"You are a masochist. You believe you deserve punishment, 
but you couldn't bear it if it came as a result of 
irreversible damage you'd done to me out of ignorance."

His lip quivers before he catches it in his teeth. He looks 
down at the phone, as if he can't bear to look me in the 
eyes now. I instinctively reach out and take a fistful of 
his hair, forcing his head back, forcing him to look at me. 
He yelps, but makes no effort to defend himself. There is 
pain and fear in his eyes, but also resignation. All of 
which confirm my deductions so far. I voice the next 
thought as it comes to me.

"This is why you refused to tell me your history of abuse, 
isn't it? Not because you didn't want to burden me but 
because you wanted me to hurt you."

"Oi!" 

John's hand is on my arm, trying to coax me into backing 
off. I twist my fingers just a little tighter instead. 
Until Henry cries out.

"Let him go," John says in what I've come to think of as 
his Captain's voice. Low, but forceful. A tone that leaves 
no room for argument. I release my hold on Henry and allow 
John to guide me into the chair he recently vacated.

I realize belatedly that nobody is coming to stop me. That 
Mycroft has either been convinced by that display that I'm 
not as compromised as he previously believed or he is 
acknowledging that this method could possibly produce the 
desired results. 

I keep my eyes on Henry as John retrieves another chair 
from the corner of the room. I had expected him to plead 
with me, to be desperate to explain. But he still has that 
look of quiet resignation. I decide this is probably for 
the best. I don't want excuses. I want answers. 

"Why go to all this trouble? Judging by the details in the 
Gruener file, you obviously at least contemplated simply 
killing John. Or was that merely an expression of regret 
after the fact?"

"I didn't write that entry," Henry says quietly.

Oh. Well. That would explain the unusual amount of details 
compared to the others. 

"I never believed John's intent was malicious," he 
continues. "I believed it was a combination of insecurity, 
ignorance and denial. I wanted to separate you from him." 
He looks at John guiltily. "But when I heard the worry in 
your voice...as I got the opportunity to see the both of 
you through each other's eyes...I knew I'd misread your 
relationship." He looks back down at his fingers, fidgeting 
with the cuffs of his shirt, with his ring. "It doesn't 
excuse what I did. And yes, I can accept the consequences 
of my actions and understand that I deserve whatever 
punishment you deem just. But I couldn't live with myself 
if the worst were to happen." He winces. "Although perhaps 
that's exactly what I deserve."

"You don't believe I can survive the withdrawal if I stop 
taking the drug now," I conclude.

"I honestly don't know," he admits. "The risks aren't as 
great now as they were even three months ago, but that 
doesn't mean there aren't any risks at all." He takes a 
slow, deep breath and tries to control the warble in his 
voice. "I should have allowed you to make the choice 
whether to take the risk or continue treatment, but I was 
too terrified of losing you. These past months have been 
the best and worst of my life. Having you, but knowing I 
shouldn't...wouldn't if the circumstances had been 
different."

'You didn't choose me.'

'You shouldn't have to live like this.'

'I never wanted to hurt you.'

John clears his throat suddenly. "How did you get the 
drug?"

"He didn't," I answer before Henry can speak. "I did." 

The look in Henry's eyes tells me this is most certainly 
not true and he knows I am only saying it to protect him. I 
don't care. I am perfectly happy to take the fall for this 
and any other charges my brother wants to try to lay at his 
feet. Even if my brother were to shift the charges to me – 
highly unlikely – I can leverage my current mental state in 
my defense.

"Obviously I have no memory of it, but that's the only 
explanation that makes sense," I continue. "That's why I 
needed the lab equipment. I worked out the exact chemical 
composition and called in a favor to one of my old 
contacts." 

"You don't have to do this," John interjects. Predictably.

"I am simply drawing the most logical conclusions, John. It 
is obvious I was an active participant in this charade. I 
even wrote a rather sensational account of your murder at 
the hands of a fictional killer. A killer we seem to have 
created together under the guise of his monstrous ex as the 
perfect villain for a case I could never fully solve until 
I was clean. The idea that I may have been able to procure 
the drug is hardly a stretch of the imagination."

"Sherlock," Henry says sharply and I suppress a wince as my 
stomach rolls in Pavlovian fashion. I sense John stiffen 
beside me and reach to stop him before he does something 
rash, shaking my head. Henry's face is a mixture of regret, 
pain and fear. Some of it is likely an instinctive reaction 
to John's anger. But the regret...

"You hate it. Lying to me, causing me pain. This was not 
your plan. You could not have made these choices alone."

"Not alone," he admits softly. "But you know you couldn't 
possibly have procured the drug and I won't let you accept 
the consequences of my actions."

"You shouldn't have to suffer consequences for trying to 
save me, even if you were mistaken about the danger you 
thought I faced. And you certainly shouldn't have to suffer 
for following a treatment regimen that has quite possibly 
kept me alive since I overdosed, which, yes, may not have 
happened in the first place if not for several events you 
may or may not have put into motion, but there's no sense 
debating the exact order of cause and effect. You have 
spent the past nine months doing anything you thought was 
necessary to keep me from harming myself deliberately or 
inadvertently."

His eyes are wet with unshed tears. I press on.

"And if my brother will call off this ridiculous 
investigation, I would like you to continue treatment."

"What," John spits. 

I gesture at him to be quiet, keeping my eyes on Henry. His 
momentary shock is giving way to a confused mixture of hope 
and horror. I can dispel the latter. "I don't mean that I 
want to continue as we have been. I have no desire to lose 
my memory unless there is absolutely no alternative. But 
you are uniquely qualified to recognize and treat my 
condition and you have ample motivation to ensure my full 
recovery. However, I know that your desire to spare me the 
symptoms of withdrawal will prevent you from respecting my 
wish to not receive any more of the drug, which is why I 
trust John to act on my behalf as my condition worsens."

I can hear Mycroft's voice faintly through John's earpiece. 
I don't have to hear it perfectly to know that he is upset 
by this turn.

"Hang on," John begins, looking like a negotiator caught in 
a heated crossfire. I turn to him, but my words are more 
for Mycroft's benefit than his.

"This is not a negotiation. I don't know how much time I 
have before I succumb to the effects of withdrawal and I 
don't want to waste it sitting here arguing about who is at 
fault. Surely the government has better things to do than 
pursue charges against a man whose only crime was enabling 
my drug habit."

There is a long silence while I've no doubt Mycroft 
silently fumes. I turn back to Henry.

"But before we discuss the terms of my treatment, I need 
you to remove the tracking chip."

"Yes, of course," Henry says quickly. 

"There should be all the equipment you need right in this 
facility. John can assist you."

"What, now," John asks feebly.

"Yes, now." I stand up and walk toward the door before 
anyone has time to object, confident that John and Henry 
will follow and my brother will not try to stop us.

---
John

I suppose I shouldn't have been surprised that Mycroft's 
secret detention center had a fully equipped medical lab. 
Though the implications were rather disturbing to consider. 

Thomas assisted in the preparations and guided me to 
finding the tiny chip just beneath Sherlock's scalp. It 
didn't require more than the smallest of cuts to retrieve, 
thankfully, so shaving his hair was not necessary. No doubt 
it had been months before when Thomas had stitched the 
original wound. The one he'd acquired during the accident. 

Thomas' hands were steady, practiced and professional, but 
his voice was anything but. He spoke quietly, hesitantly. 
As if he couldn't quite grasp the sudden change in his 
circumstances. No doubt the visible chafing on his wrists 
from the handcuffs made it impossible to forget that he was 
still technically being held captive.

"I've got it," I announced as I felt the pincers grip the 
tracker.

"Stop," Thomas said with more force to his voice than he'd 
used since we began. "He's going to be sick."

I let go and stepped back instinctively, only a moment 
before Sherlock lurched sideways on the table and heaved. 
Thomas held a rubbish bin in position and supported him 
with practiced ease, soothing him as he moaned pitifully, 
being unable to bring up more than a thin bile. When had he 
last eaten?

"It's all right, love," Thomas whispered, his thumb tracing 
the ridge of Sherlock's jaw. "Just breathe."

Sherlock huffed in annoyance, but seemed to obey the gentle 
command and lean into Thomas' touch gratefully. It was the 
most obvious confirmation of the affection he held for the 
man that I had witnessed to that point.

I caught the glint of the light bouncing off Sherlock's 
wedding band as his hand covered Thomas'. He nodded and I 
sensed a wordless conversation pass between them. 

"Can you finish," Thomas asked me, barely taking his eyes 
off Sherlock. 

"Yeah," I said, though I hesitated to move. 

"Do it," Sherlock ordered, though his voice slurred a bit, 
making him sound less than commanding. "Take it out now."

I touched the bleeding wound tentatively, testing his pain 
response. Maybe the numbing agent hadn't set in yet? But he 
didn't give any indication he felt the touch. I looked to 
Thomas. "We should find an anti emetic..."

"Now," Sherlock snapped. 

"Shh, just relax," Thomas murmured. 

Right. Quicker the better, I supposed. I gently pried the 
wound open and tried to get the pincers directly back 
around the chip. It only took a couple seconds and then 
Sherlock grunted as I tugged it free. "Got it," I said 
triumphantly, dropping it on the tray and pressing gauze 
over the bleeding incision. 

Thomas reached for Sherlock's throat suddenly, checking his 
pulse and calling "sweetheart?" Whether from pain or his 
growing illness, Sherlock had passed out. Thomas' eyes 
turned to me nervously and I saw a mixture of pain, guilt 
and possibly fear in them. Fear of what, I wasn't sure. But 
it was at that moment, I think, that I first understood why 
Sherlock so firmly believed Thomas incapable of hurting 
him.

"Get the anti-emetic," I said quietly.

He hesitated only a moment before he went to the medicine 
cabinet to search for something suitable. He returned in 
short order with two bottles, which he held out to me.

"You'll have to do it."

"I know," he said, still holding the bottles out to me. And 
I realized he wasn't offering them to me so I could 
administer the drugs. He was letting me read the labels and 
give my approval. 

I looked him in the eyes and said "I trust you." A bit 
foolish, maybe. It was possible one of the bottles 
contained benzodiazepine or something similar to his 
anesthetic concoction. But no matter how badly it might 
have pained him to see Sherlock suffer, I didn't think he 
would try anything under Mycroft's nose as it were.

By the time he'd changed gloves and got the needle prepped 
with a mixture of the drugs, Sherlock started to come 
round.

"It's all right," Thomas soothed. "You're safe. I'm here. 
John's here."

"John..." Sherlock sounded lost and confused. 

I touched his shoulder gently, keeping pressure on the cut 
with my other hand. "I'm right here."

"You're real..."

It wasn't quite clear if he was asking or stating a fact. 
My eyes met Thomas'. He still looked fearful and pained, 
but now his eyes were decidedly wet.

"Yes, darling," he answered. "He's really here. Can you 
open your eyes for a moment?"

Sherlock groaned softly as he complied. He was rewarded 
with a warbling smile. 

Thomas held the vials of medicine up so Sherlock could see 
them. "I'm going to give you an anti-emetic and some 
paracetamol. Is that all right?"

Sherlock grunted an assent with barely a pause for 
consideration. Either he was as convinced as I was that 
Thomas wouldn't try anything untoward or he was beyond 
caring. I hoped it was the former.

I lifted the gauze a bit to verify that the bleeding had 
slowed before warning "I'm going to do a couple stitches. 
You all right?"

"Yes, get on with it," Sherlock grumbled.

Thomas returned to my side, handing me sutures and using a 
bottle of sterile water to flush the wound so I could see 
what I was doing. It did only require two stitches. If it 
had been anywhere else, he might have got away with just a 
butterfly plaster. 

"You all right, love," Thomas asked after the first stitch 
was tied off.

"You're avoiding addressing me by my name," Sherlock noted 
tiredly. "You're afraid it will reinforce the conditioning. 
Or else complicate it. Have you always done that?"

I hadn't noticed he was relying overly on pet names until 
that moment. Trust Sherlock to be aware of details even in 
his condition. 

Thomas glanced at me before returning his focus to the 
wound. "I don't like making you ill."

"Mmm. You can stop it now. Avoiding it will only prolong 
the recovery process. And the anti-emetic will counter the 
effects anyway."

Thomas' eyes darted to my face nervously before refocusing 
on my hands. He said nothing.

I cleared my throat and asked "what should we call you? 
Thomas? James?"

"Henry," Sherlock answered before he could speak.  He 
reached for the man clumsily and for a moment I feared he 
was signaling a need to vomit again. But his long fingers 
just wrapped around Henry's wrist. 

Henry blinked rapidly and nodded. 

"Right," I said gently as I tied off the last stitch. "That 
should do it."

"Slowly," Henry warned as he helped Sherlock sit up on the 
gurney.

Sherlock grunted with annoyance, but didn't argue with him. 
For him, it was a massive accommodation. Although it could 
have mostly been owed to the nausea the movement caused, 
which was only being tenuously held at bay by the meds.

Henry cradled his head carefully, as if he were holding an 
injured bird, and looked into Sherlock's eyes with the 
critical consideration of a doctor assessing his patient. 
Sherlock covered his hands and tugged them away with a nod. 
Another silent exchange between them. He inspected the 
damage to Henry's wrists as I had done earlier before 
looking him in the eyes.

"It doesn't matter who procured the drugs. And it doesn't 
matter if the danger was a serial killer or my own drug 
induced hallucinations. You have spent these past months 
keeping me alive. Even if your reasons for doing it weren't 
entirely selfless, you don't deserve to be punished for 
your efforts. I have done far worse to protect the people I 
care about." He looked at me pointedly and I recalled the 
sight of the back of Charles Magnusson's head exploding. 
Sherlock had murdered him to protect me. To protect Mary 
and Rosie.

He turned back to Henry. "You are one of those people. I 
meant what I said yesterday. I will keep you safe. Even if 
the biggest threat to your wellbeing is me." He took a 
slow, heavy breath. "And if that means I must continue 
taking the drug until you both deem the side effects of 
withdrawal to be at a safe minimum, then I will do so 
willingly."

Henry's breath caught and he stared at Sherlock as if he 
was certain he had misheard. My own shock at this change of 
sentiment was tempered by our years of friendship and the 
understanding that to him, this was the only logical next 
step. 

"I don't *want* to," Sherlock added. "But I trust that you 
will only use continuing the drug as a last resort if the 
danger of not doing so proves too great..."

Henry kissed him, smothering anything else he might have 
said, unflinching despite the fact that Sherlock's breath 
must have been foul with all the vomiting he'd been doing. 
When he broke the kiss, he pressed their foreheads together 
and whispered, "I never wanted you to forget."

"I know," Sherlock sighed. "It's why I have always trusted 
you even when I knew you were lying to me. You would never 
do anything to hurt me unless doing so prevented something 
far worse. But you have also taken advantage of my 
condition to conceal parts of your past from me and I would 
like that to stop now."

Henry's breath grew heavy, thick with building tears. He 
shook his head slightly, not in argument but in protest of 
something that obviously pained him.

"You don't have to tell me anything. Just let me discover 
it in my notes."

"It's not the telling that makes it unbearable," Henry all 
but whispered. "It's the way it changes everything. How you 
look at me. How you touch me." He took a deep breath and 
pulled back so he could look Sherlock in the eye. "Even 
when you try not to do anything differently, you still 
treat me as if I am damaged. One false move or poorly 
chosen word away from shattering completely."

"Maybe that's because you never let me have all the data. 
If I could be confident in my knowledge of what triggers 
you, I wouldn't have to fear stumbling upon it 
accidentally."

The same head shake. Henry didn't believe him. Sherlock 
reached to cup his face, pressing a thumb to the healing 
bruise beneath his eye. Or perhaps wiping away a tear. "But 
I will never be certain unless you allow me to prove my 
theory. You said it yourself. I keep working it out. Trust 
me to do it properly."

Henry swallowed thickly and slowly, almost reluctantly 
nodded. He kissed Sherlock again, tenderly and with obvious 
affection and I began to feel awkward about observing their 
interaction. I busied myself with cleaning up the surgical 
tools, trying to ignore their quiet discussion, but unable 
to get far enough away in the small room to not hear it at 
all.

"I can compel my brother..."

"Do you have..."

"...Mrs. Hudson...John?"

It took me a moment to realize Sherlock was trying to ask 
me something. I turned back to find him looking at me. 
"Sorry?"

"Is 221b still available?"

"Er...yes. Mrs. Hudson only just got round to trying to fix 
it up to put back on the market. And when we knew you were 
alive and coming home, she started stocking the fridge and 
pantry in anticipation."

"It's a two bedroom," Henry said and it was unclear if it 
was a question or who that question might have been 
directed at.

Either way, Sherlock responded. "We won't need the second 
bedroom. Unless John or Rosie needs it."

Henry averted his eyes, obviously feeling awkward 
acknowledging their sleeping arrangements in front of me. I 
felt a pang of sympathy for him. He was obviously a 
private, possibly even shy person and Sherlock... wasn't.

"We're fine for the moment. Though I'm sure she'll be eager 
to see her godfather again."

Sherlock snorted. "She's too young to retain memories yet. 
She might have a vague recognition of me still, but she 
hardly noticed my absence."

"Right." Sometimes I forgot who I was talking to. "I'll 
talk to Mycroft about releasing you then."

"That won't be necessary," Sherlock replied. 

"Yes, it is. He trusts my judgment."

"Fine," Sherlock agreed. "Can I use your mobile? I need to 
speak to Lestrade before he leaves Cressington Park."

---
Sherlock

Convincing Mycroft to drop charges against Henry is easy. 
Convincing him to release the drugs Lestrade had 
confiscated back to Henry so that he can continue my 
treatment proves a bit more difficult. In the end it is 
John who has to assure both Lestrade and my brother that 
this is the best solution and he will monitor my condition 
and ensure that my recovery progresses. 

The responses John and Henry had to my conclusions are 
similar and yet diametrically opposite. Henry is horrified 
by the prospect of continuing my "treatment", yet relieved 
as it reduces the risks to my health. If he needed to atone 
for the months spent lying to me, I could very easily make 
the argument that all the time he has spent caring for me 
and torturing himself with this moral debate is sufficient 
penance. 

John obviously doesn't like the idea of allowing me to 
continue consuming the drug that affects my memory as a 
solution - especially as I've told him previously I had no 
intention of doing so again - but he is practical. He 
accepts my assessment of the risks involved and understands 
that losing my memories - painful as that might be - is 
preferable to having a stroke or a heart attack.

They both love me and want to see me through this illness, 
no matter what it takes. I have every confidence in their 
joint ability to do so.

Mrs. Hudson welcomes me back to 221b with open arms. She is 
warm, but far more reserved toward Henry and I wonder just 
how many of the suspicions John and Mycroft had about him 
she was made aware of. Like John though, she seems to trust 
my judgment of him.

The first thing Henry does once John leaves us to our own 
devices in the flat is acclimate himself to the kitchen and 
begin making food he insists I must eat despite my 
protests. 

"You need something in your stomach. Don't argue with me."

I settle in to the table, spreading out all the data I have 
both in hard copy and on the laptop and set about 
reconstructing the last nine months and separating fact 
from fiction. Starting with Gruener.

Obviously Gruener the brilliant psychotic serial killer was 
a total fiction. I arrange all the murders attributed to 
him into two categories: pure fiction based on recent 
suicides, accidents or unexplained deaths and sensational 
accounts of the hits James Armitage carried out. John fit 
in neither as I wrote that account using the pattern 
suggested by the others as a guide.

Henry is visibly nervous as he confirms which deaths he was 
responsible for. He takes care to justify each one - the 
black market arms dealer, the trafficker in abducted girls, 
a ranking member of Al Quaida - until I finally assure him 
he doesn't need to.

"I don't believe you would blindly follow an order you 
believed to be injust. You could only have taken another 
man's life if you believed his death served the greater 
good."

The pain and tears in his eyes make it clear I've struck a 
nerve. I push the plate of pasta I've hardly touched aside 
and take his hands. "Whatever you're thinking of right now 
doesn't change anything."

"I know," he says shakily, gripping my hands to reassure 
himself. "You told me once that the world was better off 
without him in it and you didn't care how I'd done it."

"Andrew Gruner." It's not a question. I am absolutely 
certain he killed his abusive ex husband. He nods anyway. 
"I assume I've told you what I did to Charles Magnusson?"

"You did," he says quietly. 

"Everything I've read suggests Gruener was just as 
monstrous, perhaps even more so. You were lucky to have 
survived his cruelty. His death shouldn't haunt you." But 
it does. I can see the moral struggle in his eyes. Which 
tells me exactly what sort of man he is and justifies my 
desire to protect him.

"I did survive," he agrees. "But I know that's not because 
I was stronger than my mother. Just like I know the fact 
that it took me so long to leave him doesn't make me 
weaker. I fantasized about killing him many times. 
Poisoning him. Stabbing him. Strangling him with one of the 
ropes in his collection. With a necktie. The one thing that 
always stopped me was the fear that I would be caught. 
Because if I had to spend the rest of my life in a prison 
cell because of him...then he would have won."

People often wonder why victims of abuse stay with their 
abusers long past the point where they are able to deny the 
pattern. Part of it is denial that the same person - 
usually a man, but not always - they fell in love with 
could hurt them. They chase the high they feel when the 
abuser showers them with attention and adoration and delude 
themselves into believing that maybe this time his dark 
side will stay buried. The other part, either alternatively 
or in some combination, is that they are justifiably 
terrified that any attempt to leave the abuser will result 
in their death. Most homicides resulting from domestic 
violence happen when the abused party tries to leave.

I'm sure Henry must know this. I probably said something to 
this effect one of the times I successfully worked out his 
history. But it can still be difficult for survivors to 
accept the truth of it, even in hindsight.

He is staring at our entwined hands. As if he can't bear to 
look me in the eye for fear of seeing the pity he dreads. 
"I got lucky. I got away and was reasonably assured he 
wouldn't find me. But I was terrified of going back home. 
To England even, much less London. My nightmares all 
revolved around the fear that he would find me." He blinks 
rapidly and shakes his head slightly. "I still told myself 
that wasn't the reason I ordered the hit. That it was 
because I knew I wouldn't be the last of his victims. That 
I was stopping him before he hurt others who didn't have 
the resources I did. That I was justified."

"You were," I interrupt. "The authorities were obviously 
incapable of recognizing the threat he posed to you or 
anybody else. You were the only one who could have stopped 
him." I pause and observe the way his lip quivers and a 
tear spills down his cheek as he nods. "Is this the first 
time you admitted the role you played in his death?" I am 
assuming, of course, that what he has told me is true. But 
he has no reason to lie now.

"Not exactly. I described it to you as I did to the agent 
who carried it out, casting him as a victim of Thomas 
Gruener. You removed it from your notes four months ago and 
made me swear I would never put it back in because he 
didn't deserve to be thought of as a victim whose killer 
was never brought to justice."

Despite all the conclusions of the past two days, it only 
occurs to me now that Henry spent months convincing me he 
was a monster and the vile people he killed his innocent 
prey. "And you don't deserve to be thought a murderer." The 
pieces are falling into place rapidly now. "You were able 
to hide from him, but that wasn't enough. He still held 
power over you. You needed to be free of him. And your work 
with MI6 provided the means. But you still couldn't do it 
yourself and risk any suspicion falling on you. As you 
said, being imprisoned for his murder would only give him 
victory over you. So you detailed the plan to a 
professional. Someone skilled, like you, in creating 
accidents." 

His eyes have drifted from mine. He swallows thickly and 
nods.

I give his fingers a quick squeeze and he looks into my 
eyes again. "But you are still allowing him power over you 
by torturing yourself with guilt or fear of some sort of 
karmic retribution. No one is seeking vengeance for that 
man's death. You shouldn't feel any more guilt over it than 
you would any of the ones you carried out under government 
orders."

"I know," he says softly. "But if I don't feel even the 
smallest amount of guilt over taking a life...what makes me 
any less monstrous than they were?"

"The fact that you are even asking that question," I answer 
easily. A scrap of data floats to the forefront of my mind, 
but I can't recall where I ever read it. That ancient 
cultures put more value on warriors who could shed tears 
after battle than the ones who stifled all emotion in order 
to appear more fearsome. Because the ability to cry over 
being forced to make that choice made them more human.

Thomas was an innocent victim. James was a trained killer. 
Henry is the broken bits of both men, plagued by the 
morality of his actions and struggling to find happiness 
and peace.

Numerous times in my journal I have expressed unease over 
the apparent imbalance in our relationship. The assumption 
being that I am not holding up my end and he is practically 
a saint to put up with me. Now that I have a more complete 
picture of him, I understand the part I really play.

I stand up and circle the table, pulling him up out of his 
chair. He is surprised by the sudden action, but offers no 
protest. I cup his face in my hands and kiss him, firmly, 
but not forcefully. He makes a noise somewhere between a 
whimper and a groan and surrenders to it, leaning into me. 
His hands reach up to grip my shoulders, steadying himself. 
He makes a small, helpless sort of sound as I turn my 
attention to his neck and I feel any hesitations he may 
have still had melt, his body relaxing.

'I could do anything I want to him right now,' I think. The 
arousal clouding my brain clears a moment later as I 
realize this is exactly the submissive tendency Gruener 
took advantage of.

'It's about trust,' the woman had said.

He trusts me not to hurt him as others have. And because I 
could sense that trust - that vulnerability - I have 
trusted him with my life even when all the evidence I had 
suggested he could be dangerous. 

He is dangerous. But no more than I am. And certainly not 
to me.

His eyes open, confused by the sudden loss of sensation as 
I have pulled back. His pupils are dilated. He gasps as I 
cup the front of his trousers, feeling his cock stir 
against my palm.

"Will you fuck me?"

His gaze darkens and he shifts, pressing against my hand. 
He licks his lips and nods.

---

Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson didn't disturb my more...personal 
belongings. Everything is as I left it in the dresser 
drawer. Henry offers to use a condom despite no evidence of 
either of us using one these past months. He claims it will 
help him "last longer", but I assure him that is not 
necessary as I don't expect I will have much better 
endurance. Besides, I have seen plenty of video and 
anecdotal evidence of his impressive stamina.

He takes it as a challenge and spends more time than seems 
necessary on foreplay until I wonder if his goal is to get 
me off before he's even inside me. It certainly feels like 
he could succeed in that endeavor. 

I moan and thrust into the increasingly sodden pillow 
beneath my hips as he gives a particularly obscene lick. I 
am past caring if I am being too loud. If Mrs. Hudson or 
the neighbors can hear me. 

"Shh..." I shiver as he whispers directly into my ear, not 
having registered the movement. I feel of the blunt, wet 
head of his cock pressing against me for a moment and then 
he sinks inside. I gasp as my body offers no resistance, 
muscles shifting to accommodate him with obvious 
familiarity. "All right?" he pants.

I know he is asking after my comfort, but the logistics are 
all wrong. "No, wait," I mutter.

He pulls out immediately, babbling apologies, and I realize 
too late my mistake. "I should have used more slick...did I 
hurt you? I'm sorry...we don't have to..."

I kiss him forcefully to stop the torrent, mumbling "shut 
up" into his mouth. I run through the advantages and 
disadvantages of multiple standard positions in my head 
before remembering the video I recorded days ago. Me in the 
dominant position, him penetrating. A sort of balance of 
power. I think I know how I can improve upon that theme.

I manhandle him into position reclining against the bedhead 
and leave him momentarily to search for suitable bindings. 
His expression darkens as I press the sash from my dressing 
gown into his hands a present him with my wrists in clear 
indication of what I expect him to do with it.

"Turn around," he says, his voice soft, but deeper and 
darker than before. I follow his instructions and he 
expertly binds my arms behind my back. At the forearms, not 
the wrists and tight, but not painfully so. His experience 
is obvious. As is his excitement at seeing me restrained. I 
wonder if he will let me experiment with different 
variables in future.

I straddle him as gracefully as I am able and pause while 
he locates the bottle of lubricant and ensure his cock is 
sufficiently slick. He guides me into position, but allows 
me to control the speed of penetration. It is an odd 
sensation, feeling my body open to him with an ease of 
familiarity even though I can't quite remember doing this 
before. I pause when I am fully seated to give myself a 
moment to adjust to the sensations. 

"All right," he asks gently, sounding a bit overwhelmed, 
but still far more in control than I feel. 

I nod and widen my stance, a whimper slipping out of me as 
that causes him to sink just a little deeper. He may not be 
significantly above average in endowment, but this position 
allows me to feel every inch of him keenly.

His hands stroke my thighs, abdomen and hips. He makes no 
effort to move anything below his waist or force me to 
move. The fact that he is not taking advantage of the 
situation proves that he understands what I am doing. I am 
at his mercy despite being in the more dominant position. I 
am demonstrating my trust in him while also proving that he 
can trust me. I rock gently in his lap, not really 
thrusting, but unable to remain still any longer. He grunts 
and grips the back of my thighs. 

"We both know...you've no trouble coming like this," he 
says, the strain in his voice a testament to his restraint.

"I assume you mean without manual stimulation. I never said 
you couldn't touch me. You can do whatever you like. You 
have full control over when - or if - I achieve orgasm." 
I'm sure he won't actually torment me by keeping me on edge 
for very long, but I won't object to anything he does 
regardless. 

There is a hesitation while he reads my face. Then his 
hands tighten on my hips. I buck against his hold 
instinctively, my body chasing the pleasurable friction. He 
waits patiently until I am still. Then he guides me through 
a very long, controlled thrust, lifting me almost entirely 
off him and bringing me back down at an angle that 
perfectly stimulates my prostate. 

It is the easiest thing to simply allow him to take control 
of my body. Not that I am passive. I can feel the muscles 
in my legs and abdomen work, compensating for my inability 
to use my hands to balance as I ride him. But my movements 
are entirely thoughtless within the confines of his 
guidance. Helpless noises spill from me as I chase my 
orgasm and for a fleeting instant I think I should be 
mortified. The sash bites into my skin as I instinctively 
try to reach for my cock. He notices, but he doesn't take 
pity. He shifts and I feel his knees come up so he can 
brace himself better to thrust. 

Through the haze of pleasure, I see his face go slack and 
feel his movements become erratic. 'He's coming,' I think 
feverishly. And that knowledge pushes me over the edge. The 
tension breaks and my orgasm washes over me so suddenly and 
powerfully that my vision tunnels and my body goes slack. 

I feel his hand on my arm as my awareness returns and 
realize that I must have actually lost consciousness. I am 
laying on the bed and he is hovering over me worriedly. 
"What..." My voice has an alarming slur to it.

"Can you sit up for me," he asks in the calm manner of a 
doctor.

There is an ache between my legs as I move to comply. But 
there is very little residue anywhere on my skin, so 
clearly I was out long enough for him to clean me up. 

A glass is pressed into my hands and he commands me to 
"drink." Again, I don't hesitate before following his 
directions. Mostly because the smell of orange juice is 
helping me draw all the conclusions I need while he is 
confirming them. "You fainted. I should have known better 
than to let you exert yourself. Have you had ANYTHING to 
eat or drink since last night?"

"Clearly not enough," I mutter. Blood loss. Vomiting. My 
blood sugar must be dangerously low.

"Clearly." 

He is upset, but in a way that makes it clear this is not 
the first time this has happened. Not surprising given my 
eating habits. As my senses return, I take in the sight of 
him, my dressing gown wrapped around his naked body, 
cinched with the sash that has left faint bruises on my 
arms. His hair is mussed and he obviously didn't take the 
time to give himself more than a very perfunctory wash 
after cleaning me.

"I'm sorry."

The tension in his shoulders loosens a bit as he calms. 
"What can I make that you will eat? The anti-emetic should 
still be working, but I can give you more if you think you 
need it."

My stomach rumbles, awakened by the orange juice, but not 
having anything of substance to digest. I am hungry. "I 
think I can eat that pasta now." 

---

I try to get a few more answers as we eat, but as he has 
also gone without food for the better part of a day and I 
have been reprimanded on multiple occasions about certain 
topics not being appropriate to discuss while eating, I try 
to limit the scope. He confirms that he is really qualified 
to be a doctor and MI6 just provided the paper trail to 
prove his credentials for multiple false identities. Our 
marriage license, like the identities we took months ago, 
is not real, but all the photographs of our "honeymoon" 
are. 

"We spent a month on the continent, building our identities 
as Will and Henry. Conditioning you..." This last bit makes 
him squirm a little. 

"I assume that involved using our aliases while we were 
having sex so I would associate the names with pleasure."

"It wasn't only during sex," he protests. "Anything that 
gave you pleasure or made you happy worked just as well. A 
massage. Solving one of your cases. A really beautiful 
piece of music."

"And seeing as our most recent sexual encounter caused me 
to have an orgasm so powerful I literally lost 
consciousness and you never once called me anything other 
than pet names the entire time, you are obviously still 
reluctant to use either name now."

He sighs. "I didn't want to use this method of training you 
to use the right name even when you couldn't remember the 
reason. You insisted it was the most effective. I don't 
know how to reverse the process without risking having you 
associate pleasure with illness. I don't want to hurt you."

"Thank you, but the only way to reverse the conditioning is 
to desensitize me. The anti-emetic should dull the response 
as well as temper the effects of withdrawal for now. You 
should use that to your advantage."

He chuckles dryly and shakes his head, taking another bite 
before responding properly. "One night in Rome, you had me 
tie you up and instructed me to do whatever I wanted to you 
so long as I periodically prompted you to say your name and 
stopped immediately if you got it wrong. It took three 
attempts and even half mindless you worked out that seeing 
you struggle against the bindings and cry out in 
frustration was turning me on. I never knew if you did it 
deliberately."

"Most likely," I agree. "I doubt I would have made the same 
mistake twice." This explains the bizarre "kink" I noted in 
my journal where he made me orgasm while saying my own 
name. "So bondage and submission still excite you so long 
as you remain in control."

He swallows a bite slowly. "I never gave much thought to 
it. Before Andrew I didn't even know such things existed. 
And then I learned that being helpless, being under the 
control of someone I could trust was exciting. Until I 
realized I couldn't trust him." His eyes follow his fork as 
he absently pushes a bite around his mostly empty plate. 
"Since our arrangement was never negotiable, I never had 
the experience of being the one dominating. Until you 
taught me that the rules didn't have to be unbending. That 
I didn't always have to be the one submitting. That I could 
say no."

This is why I trusted him in spite of the lies. Even when I 
forgot everything else, I understood that he was placing 
all of his own fragile trust in me. Whether because he 
initially believed me to be in an abusive relationship as 
well or because he knew I could never hurt him is largely 
irrelevant.

I realize this conversation is affecting his eating. I need 
to reign it back in. "I know you want to go by the name 
Henry, but I assume you've no attachment to the surname 
Peters?"

He blinks in confusion. "Why?"

"We should start the paperwork for legally changing it. How 
would you feel about taking mine?"

He stares at me for several long moments. "Are 
you...proposing to me?"

"Well, I suppose we could just marry if that's simpler. But 
I don't think it's necessary. I don't plan on changing our 
current arrangement any time soon."

His face contorts a bit and he makes a couple aborted 
attempts at speech. "You...want me to take your name 
legally...even if we aren't married?"

"Yes."

He laughs and rubs at the stubble growing on his face. 
Which calls to mind another detail. 

"We should have your things brought down from Cressington. 
I should have an extra toothbrush and razor in the bath, 
but you'll probably want your clothes."

He shakes his head, dazed by the shift in conversation, but 
he makes no effort to stop me. "Yeah, um...we can wait to 
get Gracie back until you're stable. Assuming you still 
want her..."

"Of course I want her. But yes, she should stay with 
Lillian for now. If she is upset by what she thinks is 
distress, I imagine she wouldn't cope well once the 
withdrawal really sets in." 

"She's just trying to be useful. But yes, you should be the 
primary focus of care right now." He pauses as another 
thought comes to him. "What about the bees?"

"They won't need tending until spring. I'm sure the house 
will have new owners by then."

He frowns. "You don't need to tend to them regularly?"

"I assume you are referring to the frequency of my notes 
about them. I was keeping a memory stick with a 
supplemental journal in the hive."

Understanding washes over his face. "Above a board?"

"The crown board, yes. They rarely venture that high in the 
winter, so I was unlikely to disturb them." I pause while 
he chuckles fondly and returns to his dinner. Another 
detail of the missing months comes into focus. "I didn't 
need to hide it, did I? You knew I was keeping a secret 
journal all along, but even if you'd known where it was you 
wouldn't have taken it. You wanted me to find it. To have 
all the data."

He shrugs. "I knew you would work out the truth eventually. 
You did it once. Although knowing where it was might have 
tempted me to try to alter it's contents and stall the 
inevitable." He drops his fork onto his plate with a 
finality that makes it clear he is finished eating. "I 
honestly never expected any of..." he waves at our 
surroundings "this."

"You thought I wouldn't be able to stop my brother from 
pressing charges."

"Until you offered to make improvements to the Gruener case 
and your treatment I thought you would gladly have me 
arrested for abducting you." He pauses, biting his lip 
while he visibly corrals his thoughts. "I don't think you 
meant for us to be discovered yet. You wanted to be more 
certain of your full recovery first. You wanted to come 
back to London on your own terms."

"With you?"

He shakes his head. "I never considered how I would fit 
into your life once you'd recovered. I think I always 
expected the plan to go wrong somehow. Because it couldn't 
possibly last very long." He sighs and tears begin to pool 
in his eyes. "You've expressed distress repeatedly in your 
journal at your inability to tell me you love me. But when 
you had the opportunity to leave - and every reason to want 
to - you not only chose to stay, you constructed an 
elaborate puzzle designed to keep you at my side until you 
solved it. You..." His voice catches and he blinks rapidly. 
"You were giving yourself a better chance at recovery, yes, 
but you were also protecting me. You wouldn't have done any 
of that and you wouldn't be entertaining the possibility of 
continuing treatment now even though it terrifies you if 
you didn't love me in your own way."

That's how John knew. That's why Henry keeps brushing off 
my clumsy verbal responses to his romantic declarations. 
Apparently, it is obvious to everyone else. 

Love is a construct. No. Marriage is a construct. Love is a 
chemical reaction, combined with an evolutionary instinct 
to form bonds and care for one another. It is often 
confused with lust, which Henry also feels toward me, 
obviously, but what we feel for each other is clearly more 
complicated than pure carnal attraction. 

"Marry me," I find myself blurting. "Forget what I said 
earlier. My hatred of social conventions can make me blind 
to the obvious. I do love you and if proving that 
necessitates a contract, I will oblige."

He is quiet for a full minute while his face goes through a 
whole range of expressions from surprise and amusement to 
wariness and resolve. He reaches for my hands and squeezes 
as he says "Sherlock..." My stomach gives a halfhearted 
sort of rumble at the name. I ignore it. "You don't have to 
prove anything to me. As nice as it might have been to have 
a few months believing we were bound by contract...we don't 
need one to validate us. This is enough."

You are mine.

You didn't choose me.

He still hasn't reconciled the fact that he has made it 
this far. That we are both still alive and free after 
stepping off the carousel, as I repeatedly referred to our 
life in Cressington in my journal. "Are you trying to 
respect my disdain for social convention or are you making 
it easier for me to leave once I am free of the drug and 
able to retain memories because that's what you still 
believe to be inevitable?"

His mouth twitches into a sad sort of smile. "A little of 
both, I suppose. One thing about living with you for the 
better part of a year: it has forced me to think more 
practically. You once told me that this honeymoon period - 
romantic infatuation, you called it - lasts on average for 
two years. I've known you for barely one and you...you 
hardly know me at all."

"I do know you. I have been leaving clues in my notes and 
in my mind palace for months. I knew instinctively that I 
could trust you even when you were clearly lying to me. 
Even when you let the neighbors believe you could strike me 
deliberately. Because I buried the truth so deep into my 
subconscious that I could never forget."

I think about the encounter with Mary in my mind palace 
that I described in my notes. The spy that John loved in 
spite of everything urging me to understand why I had 
chosen her as messenger. 

And of course, my brother's intrusion to offer the 
assessment that I "can't help but become attached." 

"You love him." 

John always was able to see the things I couldn't.

"A compromise then. We will wait until I am recovered and 
you are satisfied of my intention to stay. And until 
then...what is your mother's maiden name?"

He gives a little start, surprised by the question. 
"Ronson."

"We can legally change your name to Henry Ronson if that 
isn't objectionable?"

His smile now is genuine and full of affection, his eyes 
once more becoming wet with tears. He nods. "All right."

---

I spend a few more hours piecing together a more accurate 
and complete history of the past months and writing a new 
letter I can read if taking the drug proves necessary. John 
drops by with more antiemetic, liquid paracetamol and an IV 
bag of saline for use in the event that I become severely 
dehydrated. Henry mercifully doesn't tell him about my 
fainting spell. But whether that is because he is 
preserving my dignity or simply wants to avoid explaining 
what I was doing when it happened isn't altogether clear. 
Either way, it would be pointless as it was obvious from 
the way John scrutinized both of us that he knew we had 
recently had sex. 

After ensuring Henry had his real phone number and exacting 
a promise to keep him updated about my condition, John left 
us again. I'm not sure if his faith in Henry to care for me 
through the worst of the withdrawal is grounded in mine or 
the other way around.

I am driven to bed far earlier than is my usual habit by a 
creeping exhaustion Henry insists is normal for my 
condition. 

"It's not all that different from any illness, really," he 
explains. "Your body is using all of its resources to fight 
it and so you tire easily."

Curled against him in a familiar bed, I trace my finger 
along the scar on his abdomen. "What's the real story 
behind this?"

He kisses the top of my head, being careful of the newly 
re-stitched scar he covered in salve earlier. "There is a 
version of it in your notes. I underestimated one of the 
men I was sent to eliminate and he got the upper hand. I 
had to shoot him, which wasn't the plan. I never saw my 
handler so upset as I did after that mission. I slipped up 
and almost got myself killed. Worse, my cover was almost 
ruined." His breath catches as I let my hand drift lower, 
until my fingers are just brushing the scar hidden beneath 
his pubic hair. "I didn't lie about that one. I threatened 
to leave Andrew and he tied me to the bed and threatened to 
castrate me. He said other men were welcome to have my 
arse, but..." He swallows. "My cock would always be his."

I'm too tired to hide the flinch. My earlier assessment was 
correct. Gruener had been far worse than Magnusson, if on a 
deceptively smaller scale. 

I run my fingers along Henry's penis in gentle exploration 
intended to soothe and not excite. It twitches slightly in 
my hand anyway in response to the stimulus. He does nothing 
to try to stop my attentions, but we both know neither of 
us is up for anything more tonight. "There are some cases 
the law cannot touch," I murmur. I stop my petting motions 
and let my hand rest low on his abdomen, just above the 
pelvic bone. "Where justice must be carried out through 
more private means."

His fingers tangle in my hair, rubbing and lightly 
scratching my scalp until he drags a contented hum out of 
me. I tilt my face toward his and he kisses me slowly. 
Gently. 

"I don't want to forget again," I whisper into his lips.

"I know," he whispers back sadly.

I cling to him desperately as I drift to sleep. As if I can 
will myself to avoid the likely inevitable descent into 
withdrawal and need to take any more of the drug.

If only it were that simple.

--- 
Henry 


There are times when I think the loss of memory can be a 
blessing in disguise. You have been largely spared from 
remembering the worst days of withdrawal. When you could do 
nothing but writhe in pain. When you soiled yourself 
because you couldn't make it out of bed. When you screamed 
barely coherent threats at me because you thought I was - 
or was at least working for - Moriarty. It is agony to 
watch you suffer these entirely preventable indignities. 
Which is why I have gladly accepted the alternative of you 
forgetting who I am these past months, the ethics of dosing 
you without your knowledge be damned.

It is a delicate balance, trying to keep you fed and 
hydrated as withdrawal sets in. First you can't keep 
anything down, which is easily treated with anti emetics. 
But once you stop vomiting, whatever food I can ply you 
with finds another path of violent exit from your body. I 
have spent several nights on the bathroom floor with you, 
unable to coax you from the room entirely for fear that you 
won't make it back quickly enough. I held your shivering, 
sweaty body and reassured you as your bowels churned loud 
enough to be plainly audible. Wiped your feverish brow and 
helped you drink tea laced with the drug that would 
technically cure your illness while telling myself I had no 
other choice.

I wait for you to return to bed on your own now, folding 
myself and the covers around you to warm you back up after 
your exposure to the chill air. I have my own limit for how 
long I will wait before following you into the bathroom to 
wrap you in a blanket or a towel. I have suggested you wear 
something to bed to avoid this problem, but you always 
refuse, insisting you cannot sleep if you are not naked.

"You are feeling guilty because John obviously knows we had 
sex earlier," you mumble distantly.

"It wasn't something a responsible doctor would do," I 
admit. "You were obviously in no condition to be exerting 
yourself."

"Hmm. I doubt even a 'responsible doctor' could be faulted 
when his lover quite literally has him by the balls."

A snort escapes me. "Yes, you are very adept at making me 
forget my responsibilities." You run your fingers over my 
hand and it takes me a moment to realize that you are 
feeling for my wedding ring. "Suppose I should take that 
off."

"Not yet," you say so softly I could almost believe I 
imagined it. A moment later your breathing deepens and I 
know you are asleep. You won't stay that way long. But I 
have learned to embrace these periods of respite and try to 
find whatever sleep I can myself so I am alert enough to 
properly care for you when the sickness inevitably worsens 
again. I press myself close to you, feeling how your body 
has already warmed again, and close my eyes.

---
Sherlock, Day 12


I am back on the rooftop, about to jump, reciting my note 
to John. Only this time, before I can finish I see John 
crumple to the pavement, the phone falling from his hand. I 
have taken too long. The sniper took the shot. A pool of 
red blossoms beneath his head and I scream his name 
impotently into the open line...

I wake to my own horrified screaming. Arms wrap around me, 
pulling me into an embrace and I struggle instinctively 
until a familiar voice murmurs in my ear. 

"It's all right, darling. You're safe. It was a dream."

I still and take a moment to reorientate myself. The 
familiar man is stroking my back, soothing my trembling 
body. His face was one of the faces that flashed in my mind 
as I saw John collapse. The people I could be compelled to 
do anything to protect. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, John, Rosie 
and...

"Henry."

"I'm here," he whispers in my ear. 

I shiver and clutch him to me. They are safe. All of them. 
Moriarty is dead. There is no active threat. I am home. 
Henry is taking care of me.

"What day is it?"

"It's Sunday."

I sigh and burry my nose in his neck. "Third day."

"Yes. How do you feel," he asks softly.

"Slow. Muddled." My stomach churns uncomfortably. "Empty." 

"Think you can handle a bit of toast and a cup of tea?"

Despite the hollow churning of my stomach, the thought of 
eating anything makes me feel nauseous. "No."

"Just tea?"

I need to replace the fluids I'm losing. My fainting spell 
last night proved that much. But the knowledge that 
consuming anything will only fuel these horrid symptoms, 
dulled as they may be by the antiemetic required to give my 
body a fighting chance of absorbing anything makes the 
prospect unappealing. 

"I won't put anything in it," he assures me, obviously 
thinking this is what is prompting my hesitation.

"I know," I sigh. I close my eyes and then I am startled by 
the mattress dipping beneath his weight. 

"Can you sit up for me?"

I fell asleep again. And now he is sitting on the other 
side of the bed, dressed and holding a cup of tea. I sit 
slowly, mindful of the vertigo that causes. "What day is 
it?"

He presses the cup into my hands. "You were only asleep for 
about ten minutes, love. It's all right."

"That's not what I asked."

He hesitates and I realize that may have come out a bit 
testier than necessary, but I am already becoming 
frustrated with my inability to hold on to data. And I have 
the beginnings of a headache forming. "It's Sunday, 
sweetheart."

"You're still refusing to use my name, I see."

"I don't want to add to your discomfort. We have plenty of 
time to reverse the conditioning. I know you are impatient, 
but you really don't have to do everything at once. Be 
gentle with yourself."

I grunt into the cup before carefully taking a sip. It is 
hot, but comfortably so, and it is sweetened to my 
preference. Of course he would know exactly how to make my 
tea. We have been intimate for the better part of a year. 
"You said you wouldn't put anything in the tea. So you must 
have the drug here."

"Yes."

I wait a moment for him to elaborate, which he doesn't. "I 
suppose it's no use asking where you're keeping it?"

"John and I thought it would be best if I didn't."

Of course. The burden of continuing treatment for addiction 
is on the doctor, not the addict. "You know I can just find 
it."

"I'm not trying to stop you taking it. Just stopping you 
taking it without me knowing so I can hopefully prevent you 
setting your progress back further than necessary."

"Mmm." I sip my tea and ignore the way it sloshes about 
rather unpleasantly in my empty stomach.

"Your mother called."

I wince. "What did Mycroft tell her?"

"That you are alive but unwell and not ready for visitors 
yet. I confirmed his assessment as your live-in doctor." He 
hesitates. "Does she know about your sexuality?"

I snort. "Yes, my parents have known for years." As has 
Mrs. Hudson, which is why she was so convinced that John 
was my lover when he moved in to the flat with me. "I'm 
sure Mycroft thought it best not to tell them everything 
all at once, but she likely knows anyway depending on how 
long you spoke with her."

His lips twitch. "You take after her, don't you?"

"She is of above average intelligence if that's what you 
mean. I'm sure the two of you will get along well once you 
are formally introduced." 

His face freezes. "You...you want me to meet your parents."

Oh. How many of his relationships have been serious enough 
to warrant an introduction to parents? Did Gruener have 
living parents when they married? Were his adopted parents 
still part of his life? There is so much I still didn't 
know about him, even if I do know the darkest parts of his 
past. "If we are to eventually be married, they will insist 
upon it."

He sighs. "Your brother was obviously kind in his 
description of me, though I don't know why. I can't imagine 
they will be very forgiving once they learn that I am the 
reason their son faked his death for a second time."

"As I recall, you said I was largely responsible for that 
plan."

"I abducted you. It doesn't matter the justification for my 
actions or the reasoning and intent behind everything that 
came after. I've hurt you. Repeatedly and deliberately."

"They will understand. As I have. As John has. Even my 
brother, apparently, has accepted my faith in you if he is 
trusting me in your care." I reach for his hand and entwine 
our fingers. "What about your parents? The ones who adopted 
you."

"Fostered. We haven't kept in touch."

The headache is becoming stronger. I can no longer ignore 
it, nor can I hide it from him.

"How bad is the pain? Scale of one to ten."

"Six, up from three or four a few minutes ago."

He tightens his hold on my hand. "Do you want paracetamol?"

My face twists as I contemplate how much worse I would feel 
if I put anything in my stomach that my body will 
inevitably reject. 

"I can give it to you intravenously," he says before I can 
speak, obviously realizing the cause of my hesitation.

I squeeze his fingers gratefully. "All right."

He leans in to kiss me before he goes to fetch it. I take 
another sip of tea and close my eyes, breathing deeply.

"Sherlock?"

My eyes snap open to the sight of Henry's worried face. 
"Where..."

"It's all right, sweetheart, just relax." He is stroking my 
hair, carefully avoiding the area that is throbbing dully. 
I strain to recall the source of that pain. Did I hit my 
head? Is that why I was unconscious? No...surgery. The 
chip. Then why was I unconscious?

"What happened..."

"You fell asleep."

I can feel a warm wetness beneath me and have a moment of 
horror before I remember the tea I was holding 
moments...(minutes?) ago. I can't have been unconscious 
long then. What was he fetching for me?

"Do you still want the paracetamol?"

Right. I nod slightly, trying not to aggravate the problem 
further.

I watch as he prepares and administers the shot, afraid if 
I close my eyes for more than a quick blink that I will 
lose consciousness again. 

"It's all right, love," he says as he finishes the 
injection and rubs my arm gently. "You can sleep."

"Don't want to," I say and hear my voice slur alarmingly. 

He purses his lips and blinks rapidly, staving off tears. 
"I know."

I don't want to forget. But I also don't want to die. And I 
don't know how to avoid both of those outcomes. I feel 
helpless. I reach for him and he slides under the covers 
with me, pulling me tightly to him. He wraps the duvet 
tighter to me and I realize I am shaking. But I'm not sure 
it's from cold.

"Shh, I won't let you," he murmurs in my ear and I don't 
know which fear I voiced out loud. Either way, I doubt he 
can be so sure of his answer. But I trust him to do 
everything within his power to keep me safe. 

I trust him.

I...

---

Moriarty is sitting in John's chair, the light from the 
fire in the hearth dancing madly on his face, adding to his 
usual air of derangement. "This was all far more 
interesting when you thought you were hiding from a serial 
killer. Although I admit...I was a bit jealous. But now?" 
He groans. "This is all so *boring*."

"Reality often is," I mutter.

"Oh, of course it is. That's why you enjoyed our little 
game so much isn't it? A welcome distraction. A bit of 
excitement more satisfying than drugs. Longer lasting too." 
He smiles in that reptilian fashion of his and climbs from 
the chair, crossing the distance to mine in the time it 
takes me to blink and bending over me. "Admit it. You miss 
me."

I wince as pain throbs behind my eyes. I am feeling too 
warm and his proximity is not helping matters. "What do you 
want?"

I can feel his hot breath on my cheek as he purrs "I told 
you. I want you to *burn*."

I cry out as the heat increases. The burning seems to be 
coming from inside me. 'How is he doing that,' I wonder 
feverishly. He laughs as I writhe in agony.

'I will burn the heart out of you.'

"Sherlock!"

I open my eyes and Mary is hovering in front of me. 

"Can you hear me," she asks worriedly. 

Wasn't I just talking to someone else? How long has she 
been calling to me? I try to move but my transport doesn't 
seem to be responsive to even the simplest of commands. Am 
I dying? Am I already dead?

Oh. Mary is dead, isn't she? 

"I'm sorry." The effort of speaking is almost more than I 
can bear. My eyes close.

"What for, love?" Her voice sounds odd, but I am too tired 
to open my eyes again to determine why.

"I wasn't there to save you," I mumble. "...failed..."

I let myself be swallowed by the darkness, only to be 
dragged back again as something cold touches my face. I 
groan and try to move away from it.

"Are you awake?"

I would know that voice anywhere. "John?"

"Got it in one. That's good." Cool fingers press to my 
wrist. "Can you open your eyes for me?"

I concentrate on performing that simple task, but only 
manage to open them briefly. Why am I so tired?

"All right. That's fine." The fingers let go of my wrist 
and the cold thing touches my face again. "Do you know 
where you are?"

I am reasonably sure I was in 221b earlier, but I'm not 
sure when that was. It certainly feels like my bed, 
although the smell is slightly off. "Home."

John sighs. "Yeah."

"Where's..." I struggle to think of the name that belongs 
to the face, but it is escaping me. "Where is he?"

"Henry? I made him take a break." He pauses. "Do you 
remember what you said to him? Something about not being 
able to save him?"

I frown. Save him? What is he talking about?

A memory of his tear-streaked face springs to the forefront 
of my mind. 

'Burn the heart of out you.'

"Moriarty. I couldn't stop him. He killed you both."

"A dream," John pronounces and I can hear the relief in his 
voice. "It's all right. It was just a dream. Moriarty is 
dead. He can't hurt anyone anymore."

"Mmhhh..." I cannot stop myself from sliding back into the 
void.

---

I can see John's cab pulling up across the street and 
wonder which vantage point the sniper is aiming from.

'It's a trick. Just a magic trick.'

'You always want everything to be clever.'

The body behind me is still warm, blood still spreading 
from what remains of his skull. His expression frozen in a 
victorious smirk. Willing to die just to beat me. 

This is how we end. 

"Don't come any closer. Stay right where you are."

"What are you saying? What...Sherlock?"

"Sherlock!"

I turn, startled to hear the voice coming from behind me, 
fearing for a moment that it is Moriarty. But it is... 
"Henry," I whisper to myself. A red dot appears on his 
forehead. 'No, not again.' I can't let Moriarty win. 

I climb onto the ledge before it's too late. Before 
Moriarty's men decide I am not holding up my end and carry 
out his orders. I think I hear Henry scream, but he will 
understand. I have to do this to save them. All of them. He 
made sure it was the only way.

Pain explodes through my body, shocking me to alertness. I 
am on the ground. I am alive. I failed. 

Hands are touching me now and I see his face again. Henry. 
He's alive. I try to yell at him to run. He isn't safe. He 
may never be safe again as long as I am alive. But I can't 
seem to form the words.

"Can you hear me," he calls frantically. "Oh god...don't 
move..."

Everything is fuzzy around the edges. More hands spread 
something warm over me and I realize I am shivering. Naked 
on the cold cement. Why am I naked? There's another voice 
but I can't tell if he's speaking to me or Henry. A hand 
slips into mine and I try to grip it with numb fingers. I 
need to warn them. They are still in danger. I need to...

---
John

I was startled awake at an ungodly hour of the morning by 
voices. I panicked for a moment as I'd forgot where I was. 
My old room above 221b. I'd offered to stay when it became 
obvious Henry was struggling to care for Sherlock as his 
withdrawal worsened. 

I had the presence of mind to put on my shoes and grab my 
phone. Old wartime habits, Sherlock would note, but 
something in the urgency of the shouting I heard told me I 
might need to be prepared to run.

I arrived downstairs and opened the door just in time to 
see Sherlock climb naked through the open window. Henry 
screamed his name from the other side of the room, helpless 
to stop him. Then he ran past me down the stairs, seemingly 
not even aware of my presence. I stood frozen for a moment, 
feeling the familiar sickening horror I'd hoped never to 
feel ever again. But perhaps because I had experienced it 
all before, I was able to push it aside so I could do what 
needed to be done.

I went back for my duvet and dialed emergency before I 
reached the front door, mechanically reciting the location 
and nature of the incident requiring an ambulance.

"I couldn't stop him," Henry babbled frantically as I 
spread the duvet over Sherlock's naked body with my free 
hand and checked his pulse. He was alive. From my angle I 
couldn't tell if he was awake, but the way Henry kept 
telling him not to move I was reasonably certain he was.

"Did he say anything," I asked. 

Henry shook his head. "Nothing I could make out." He was 
trembling. I knew that had as much to do with the trauma as 
with the fact that he was only partly dressed and barefoot.

I could hear dispatch relaying everything I said and 
ordering me to stay on the line. Mrs. Hudson appeared in 
the doorway, bundled in her dressing gown, and whimpered 
Sherlock's name in horror.

"Go," I ordered Henry. "Get your shoes and your coat. 
Ambulance is eight minutes away."

His eyes met mine, dazed. And then he blinked and for a 
moment it was like looking in a mirror, watching the calm 
of a field trained medic settle over him. He nodded, 
detangled his fingers from Sherlock's, and stumbled back 
into the flat, accepting Mrs. Hudson's steadying support.

"Don't you dare die on us," I muttered as I pressed my 
fingers to Sherlock's carotid artery again. 

I thought I heard a soft sound of acknowledgement from him, 
but I couldn't be sure. 

---

I arrived at A&E less than an hour after the ambulance 
carried them away, after I reassured Mrs. Hudson that 
Sherlock would live and made sure he hadn't done anything 
in his delirious state that might burn down the flat. He 
hadn't. I didn't need to be him to deduce that he had gone 
straight from the bed to the sitting room window, opened 
it, and jumped. 

I found Henry in the waiting area, slumped in a chair. I 
was struck again by the difference between the image he 
presented and my initial expectations of him. He may have 
been taller and more broad shouldered even than Sherlock, 
but he was so thin that his posture gave him an almost 
insubstantial appearance. Delicate almost. Easily broken.

He sat up straighter when he spotted me. "He's in 
surgery..."

I sat beside him.

"We should have dosed him sooner. We waited too long."

"You couldn't have predicted he would do this."

"I could have," he argued. "I should have."

I looked at his face. His eyes were rimmed red and haunted 
looking. Dark bruises beneath them stood testament to the 
exhaustion he must have felt. "You should get some sleep." 
I knew this was probably a futile effort. I'd taken off 
work and dropped Rosie off with Molly to spend a day and a 
half back at 221b helping him care for Sherlock. I'd 
convinced Henry to sleep for part of it, but obviously it 
hadn't been enough. Watching him tirelessly care for my 
friend had dispelled any lingering doubts I may have had 
about him. He tended to Sherlock's every need with the 
patience and familiarity of a doting spouse. Initially, I'd 
wondered how he'd managed to do it alone for the better 
part of a year, but then I'd understood. This was why he 
had continued to drug Sherlock, even though it meant 
erasing his memories and unraveling any progress they may 
have made. "You'll be no good to him if you collapse," I 
added. 

He looked like he might just. He seemed to be barely 
keeping himself together out of necessity. 

I handed him my car keys. "My car's out in the park. I'll 
fetch you when he wakes."

This finally broke past his hesitation. He nodded and 
accepted the keys gratefully. 

---

I nodded off briefly in the waiting room chair. Then, once 
it was a respectable hour (and after the surgeon assured me 
Sherlock was stable and moving to recovery soon), I phoned 
Mycroft to tell him what had happened. Then I phoned Mrs. 
Hudson. 

"Oh, that's a relief," she sighed when I updated her on his 
condition. "And how is Henry? Poor dear was in such a 
state."

Mrs. Hudson treated Sherlock as if he were an adopted son 
or a favorite nephew. She knew him and within five minutes 
of meeting Henry, she seemed to have sized him up and given 
her stamp of approval. 

"He could use a hot meal, but I doubt he'll be able to eat 
until Sherlock wakes up."

She made a soft sound of sympathetic agreement. "Just tell 
me when and I'll have it ready within the hour."

I smiled. "Will do."

---

The drug Henry had given Sherlock was derived from an 
anesthetic used during surgery. Which is why I was hesitant 
to call him straight away when Sherlock was moved into 
recovery. I wasn't sure how a setback after they had worked 
so hard to avoid erasing Sherlock's memory would affect 
either of them. 

Ultimately, I decided it was more important to have Henry 
present regardless of what happened as he was the doctor 
who had spent months managing Sherlock's condition. He 
could manage his expectations. He'd been doing it as long 
as they'd known each other. 

That was a sobering thought. That he had spent far more 
time explaining who he was when Sherlock awoke in the 
morning than he hadn't. 

He still looked exhausted when he arrived at the room, but 
at least he looked a bit less like a stiff wind would do 
him in.

I kept one eye on the monitors, noting the spikes in 
activity as well as the calming effect Henry had on him. 
Sherlock had said repeatedly in his notes and journals that 
he trusted Henry, even when he didn't fully recognize him. 
His instinctive responses bore out that claim. He didn't 
have the strength to open his eyes and he was obviously in 
pain despite the morphine, which was understandable seeing 
as practically the entire left side of his body was encased 
in plasters. But his blood pressure lowered noticeably as 
Henry murmured soft reassurances and touched him like he 
wanted to take away his pain but feared he would only cause 
more.

"It's all right, darling," he whispered into Sherlock's 
ear. "You're in hospital. You're safe."

Sherlock struggled to speak, his breathing labored beneath 
the oxygen mask. All he managed was a slurred "Hhnnn."

"John is here. He's safe," Henry murmured. 

I wondered if I should move closer, speak, touch him. But 
it felt like that would be unnecessary and intrusive. He 
was barely conscious. And I wasn't so certain it had been 
my name he was trying to say anyway. 

I watched as he slowly slipped back under and waited 
another minute before gently trying to pry Henry away from 
him, assuring him he could return after he washed and ate 
something. He pressed one last kiss to Sherlock's all too 
prominent cheekbone before letting me maneuver him all the 
way out to my car. 

We were halfway to Baker Street before he spoke.

"I'm sorry."

I glanced at him and our eyes met briefly as I realized 
he'd been idly watching me. "Sorry?"

"I thought I was saving him from you. I hurt you both 
because I jumped to the wrong conclusions."

"Yes," I said carefully. "But we can't all be Sherlock 
Holmes. Even he's not as bloody perfect as he'd like the 
world to believe he is." There were many cases I never 
wrote about. Some due to discretion or the sensitive nature 
of the incident and the people involved, but some simply 
because they didn't make for a good story. They were never 
solved or Sherlock had got it wrong. But I probably didn't 
need to tell Henry any of that.

"He deserves better."

I snorted. I couldn't help it. "No. He deserves someone who 
will love him despite his MANY faults and protect him from 
the dangers he recklessly invites. Very few people have 
seen him at his worst and not run screaming. If anything I 
would question whether YOU deserve HIM. A young, good-
looking doctor could surely pull better. That said...I've 
seen how he is with you. You inspire him to want to do 
better. Be better. Kinder. More sensitive. So yes, 
kidnapping him from the scene of a car crash because you 
believed he needed to be rescued wasn't a normal way of 
going about starting a relationship, but I would hardly 
expect Sherlock to do ANYTHING the normal way. I think in 
the end it just might work out."

He was quiet for a while, thinking. Then he said softly 
"we're a bit masochist, aren't we? Those of us who don't 
'run screaming'?"

I chuckled. "A bit, yeah. And yet...I would take a bullet 
for him. And I know he would do the same for me. Because as 
much as he drives us round the bend, we love him and he 
loves us."

"Yeah," Henry all but whispered. 

I glanced at him as I pulled the car onto Baker Street. "I 
should be apologizing to you. I let my temper get the 
better of me and gave you cause to think he needed 
rescuing. If it had been me in your shoes...I can't say I 
wouldn't have done the same." I practically had done, I 
realized. I had distrusted Henry when I first met him. 
Drawn conclusions based on faulty assumptions even when the 
reality of him didn't match my expectations. As Sherlock 
would put it: I had committed the capital offense of 
theorizing without first having all the data.

"I forgave you months ago."

I parked on the curb and turned more fully to face him. 
"You did, didn't you? That's why you kept texting me, 
pretending to be him."

He stared at his hands in his lap. I could see him 
fingering the edges of his shirt sleeve, fussing with his 
ring. "I never believed you were as cruel as my ex husband. 
I never wanted to hurt you. I just...wanted to stop you 
hurting him." His hands stilled and his eyes met mine. "In 
a way, I think Sherlock made me a better person as well. He 
proved to me that not all men were like my father and 
Andrew. Whether he did it deliberately or not...he taught 
me how to trust again. How to love without fear or pain."

I felt my lips pull into a bit of a smile without any 
conscious effort on my part. "Sherlock rarely does anything 
that isn't deliberate." I reached to squeeze his shoulder 
gently. "You should get in there. Mrs. Hudson will be 
waiting. I'll go back and wait with Sherlock in case he 
wakes again."

Henry gave me a wan smile, nodded and opened the car door. 

---
Day 424
Sherlock

Knowing that my memories were incomplete and suspect for 
the better part of a year is frustrating to say the least. 
But I learned to accept this unchangeable reality. Once 
Henry felt secure and confident in his standing with me, he 
helped fill in any gaps in the data - even if it meant 
revealing a lie or manipulation. I valued that honesty and 
came to rely on his recall of events above my own.

In particular, my memories surrounding my jump from the 
window of 221b are largely non-existent, which Henry and 
John both assured me is a mercy. I don't know why I jumped, 
but as I was feverish and incoherent and very likely didn't 
know where I was or what was happening to me it is not 
important. The extended hospital stay resulting from the 
incident aided in my recovery from the drug. As did Henry's 
continuing efforts at rehabilitation. 

We were just settled back into 221b with my memory showing 
signs of improvement when all news was eclipsed by the 
results of a ridiculous vote. Which was itself eclipsed by 
something even more ridiculous in America. The details of 
neither interested me at all, although there was some brief 
promise when the first involved a murder, but Henry assured 
me that bemoaning the fact that it wasn't interesting 
"enough" was Not Good. Henry and I argued for a stretch 
about whether I should care more about politics, but I 
didn't see the point in getting worked up over the self-
inflicted drama of idiots easily taken in by propaganda. He 
eventually contented himself with discussing matters that 
didn't interest me with my parents, who came to think of 
him as their favorite child.

John also befriended Henry with a speed I didn't expect but 
probably should have. Rosie adored her "Uncle Henry" almost 
as much as she did Grace and Henry happily spoiled both of 
his "girls" whenever possible.

It was partly this easy acceptance of him by everyone who 
mattered in my life (likely in combination with the case 
I'd recently finished wherein the client was being stalked 
by a man intent on her inheritance) that prompted me to 
consider proposing. 

Henry stilled, pulled the sheet back and blinked up at me 
incredulously, his hair tousled and his face ruddy. 
"Sorry?"

"There's no sense putting it off any longer," I continued, 
knowing full well he'd heard me.

He glanced down at my half erect penis and I could tell he 
was debating whether or not he should resume his efforts. 

"Sorry. Continue."

"No, I can't very well carry on when you're obviously 
distracted."

"You know I'm fully capable of thinking about many things 
at once."

"Okay, then *I'm* distracted." He crawled up the bed to lay 
on his back beside me and scrubbed his eyes with his palms 
before turning his head toward me. "You're serious?"

"Yes. Neither of us has any reason to fear our relationship 
will not last anymore. We have been living as if we are 
married for more than a year now. We might as well sign the 
paperwork."

He chuckled softly. "And here I thought you were being 
romantic."

His voice was colored with a unique mixture of affection 
and exasperation that I was growing accustomed to. "You're 
disappointed?"

"No." He kissed me. After a long moment, he leaned back far 
enough that he could look me in the eyes. "There was never 
in this world a man who loved with a more whole hearted 
love." 

The intensity of his lustful gaze - and the feel of his 
still somewhat turgid cock pressing into my thigh - made it 
easy to ignore the instinct to scoff at his overly tragic 
romanticism. I reached for him, pulling him closer, letting 
my legs fall open in encouragement as his fingers wrapped 
tentatively around my reviving erection. 

Minutes later, as he penetrated me, he whispered "I am 
yours and you are mine," heatedly in my upturned ear. I 
realized he'd not formally accepted my proposal, but I took 
that as unofficial confirmation. 

I squeezed our entwined fingers together before succumbing 
to the fog of lust and moaned "yes."

Mine.

---
Day 500

I began having second thoughts about marrying when I 
realized it was going to be more involved than just signing 
the necessary documents. Henry was initially cooperative on 
that point, but claimed he felt bad about excluding my 
parents and Mrs. Hudson. We argued for a bit before I came 
to understand that weddings, like funerals, are more for 
the benefit of the parties not directly involved. I agreed 
to the small sacrifice on the condition that we would 
eliminate the most absurd traditions associated with 
marriage in favor of simply reciting a few words in front 
of an officiant and the small handful of people who were 
important to us. Or to me anyway as he didn't have any 
family or close friends (the hazard of being an orphaned 
former spy). He did insist upon writing his own vows, and I 
agreed to do the same easily enough as I figured anything 
we wrote would be better than the standard religious fare. 

John took it upon himself as my best man to help me write 
my vows. Or rewrite them, more accurately, because as he 
put it, the ones I'd originally written were "bloody 
awful."

"It's a wedding, Sherlock. Not a lecture on the value of 
marriage as an institution."

"Ridiculous exaggeration," I grumbled. He gave me a 
withering look, to which I sighed "fine."

"Okay, let's start from the top." He opened his laptop on 
the table. "Why do you want to marry him?"

"Because we are already living as if we are married and 
legal documentation of our status facilitates any medical 
or financial arrangements that may need to be made."

He sighed and muttered something unintelligible under his 
breath. "Let's try it a different way. Tell me about him. 
What makes him happy? What does he do that makes you happy? 
What little things does he do to show you he loves you?"

"He..." I glanced at Grace, who seemed to be napping beside 
Rosie while she played with her toys. Except she was 
obviously keeping a weather eye on the small human. "He 
bought me a dog to lift my spirits," I murmur. "He may have 
been inspired by a depressing Italian film that suggested 
an animal companion could reduce thoughts of suicide, but 
he has a very particular look in his eyes when he sees me 
with her."

"Good," John praised, his fingers flying over the keys. 
"That's good. What else?"

I thought back on some of the things I had noted in my 
journals during the year largely forgot. "He knows me. 
Everything about me. How I take my tea. How I crave mental 
stimulation..." How to bring me to orgasm with impressive 
skill and efficiency. "He...takes care of me. In every way 
possible, both as a doctor and a lover. He is supportive 
and understanding without overindulgence or any expectation 
of a return in sentiment."

John had that understanding smirk on his face. I pronounced 
the thought I knew was forming in his mind before he did.

"He loves me."

"Yeah. He does."

"Despite the fact that I have never returned the 
sentiment."

"You have. After a fashion."

"Have I?"

He abandoned his typing entirely and turned toward me. 
"You're not as mysterious as you think you are. You might 
find expressions of sentiment abhorrent, but you are 
perfectly capable of demonstrating love. For anyone who 
knows you, it is obvious that you love him."

Obvious.

John returned to writing after that pronouncement, but I 
couldn't stop thinking about those words.

On the day of the wedding, I carried notecards with the 
words John wrote in my pocket. I assumed Henry was doing 
the same until we stood in front of Lestrade - who 
volunteered to officiate - and he smiled, took my hands, 
and recited a vow he had clearly been working on for longer 
than the months we had been planning the wedding.

"It seems cliché to say I didn't truly know what love is 
until I met you, but I cannot think of a better way to 
describe the impact you have had on my life. You made me 
question everything I thought I knew. You taught me that it 
is possible to love without fear or pain. You restored my 
broken faith in people and earned my absolute, unwavering 
trust. I know you don't believe in fate or divine forces, 
but I choose to believe your appearance in my life was more 
than random chance. Because even if I didn't know how much 
I needed you, I realize I have been searching for you all 
my life. And now that I've found you, I cannot imagine a 
future without you by my side. It is my fortune and 
privilege that I will not have to. It will be my honor to 
call you my husband from this day forward and I will love 
you, wholly and completely, for the rest of my life. I am 
yours. Until my body ceases to draw breath."

I heard Mrs. Hudson sniffle from somewhere behind me, but I 
couldn't tear my eyes from the intensity of his gaze. Time 
seemed to lose meaning until Lestrade cleared his throat 
and called my name softly.

"Right...ah..." I considered reaching for my notes, but the 
words - which I hardly needed the cards to remember anyway 
- suddenly seemed hideously inadequate. So instead, I 
looked into his eyes and said the words that came to me. 
"Love is a dangerous disadvantage," I began. I heard John 
groan softly, but ignored him. "A chemical imbalance that 
makes people behave irrationally. For example, it can 
compel a man to legally bind himself to an insufferable 
drug addict who is incapable of recognizing its virtues."

The nervous whispering coming from the gathered witnesses 
stopped and Henry smiled encouragingly.

"It may speak to your masochistic tendencies that you love 
me more than could possibly be warranted."

Someone snorted. I couldn't be bothered to identify who.

"But I find myself basking in the warmth of your affections 
every day. And I am only fortunate enough to do so because 
you have saved me, many times over, from self-destruction. 
I may not be able to return the sentiments you bestow upon 
me so freely, but I assure you that does not mean I am not 
keenly aware of them. And while I am not sure I am 
deserving of your so eloquently expressed devotion, I vow 
to spend every day as your husband striving to become the 
man you believe worthy of such honors."

I heard a couple sniffles and saw Mrs. Hudson daub at her 
eyes with a handkerchief from the periphery of my vision.

"All right," Lestrade said, bringing everyone back to the 
moment at hand. "Do you, Henry Ronson, take this man to be 
your lawfully wedded husband?"

"I do."

"And do you, William Sherlock -"

"I do," I interrupted impatiently.

"Holmes...right. Then by the power vested in me, I 
pronounce you -" 

I tuned him out as I pulled Henry to me and kissed him, 
feeling the vibration of his muffled laugh beneath my lips.

We fell into bed late that night, still partly dressed and 
exhausted. When I woke up the next morning it was to the 
feel of his eyes already studying me. He smiled as I opened 
my eyes and reached to trace the lines of my face with 
gentle, reverent fingers. 

"Good morning, husband."

"Mmm..." I captured his hand and turned my head to kiss the 
ring that encircled his finger. "I fear I am already 
becoming far too accustomed to this."

He laughed. "To me calling you my husband?"

"To you. To the way you look at me. The sound of your voice 
saying my name in all the myriad of possible inflections 
and colors. The feel of your touch. Remembering everything 
about you. About us."

He sobered at that. "Are you already growing bored of me?"

"No. Familiarity does not necessarily engender boredom."

He was quiet for a moment, as if he was waiting for me to 
say something else. 

"What?"

He laughed softly. "Well, I don't think I'll ever be fully 
"accustomed" to you, darling." He leaned closer and kissed 
me gently. I could still taste the cake that had been 
Mycroft's contribution to our small ceremony on him and 
wondered if he tasted the same. After a couple slow, lazy 
kisses, he sighed. "I could use a shower. Join me?"

I felt a stirring in my groin. This too was becoming 
familiar. The way my body responded to the slightest 
provocation from him. And his to mine. I licked the spot on 
his neck I knew to be sensitive and was rewarded with a 
small whimper of arousal. I would draw many more sounds 
like that one from him throughout the course of the day, I 
knew. In the shower. On the bed. On the kitchen table if 
the mood struck me. I ignored the voice inside me that told 
me I was primitively staking a claim as was now my legal 
right to satisfy the baser desires of my transport. Not 
because it was wrong, but because I was more than willing 
to suspend such thoughts for the next several hours at 
least.

"Absolutely."

---

Day 1,552


Life returned to something like normal. John helped Henry 
get a job at the clinic. Both provided assistance when 
needed with my cases. I found I no longer required the 
stimulation of illicit chemicals, although Henry accused me 
once or twice of using sex to get a similar high. Usually 
followed by a reminder that I should really check to see if 
he was "finished" before running off to test the brilliant 
theory that had come to me.

Political scandals, terrorist attacks, protest 
demonstrations and natural disasters all danced around the 
periphery of my awareness, often blurring one right into 
the next until it seemed every week was marked by a 
reshuffling of parliament, a wildfire, or gun violence in 
America.

Then came the event even I couldn't ignore.

As COVID 19 patients began to overwhelm all hospitals, John 
and Henry were both pressed into service. Henry insisted on 
sleeping in John's old room for a while to avoid the 
possibility of infecting me. I humored him for a few days 
before convincing him that he was being ridiculous and 
should really come back downstairs. 

Worst of all, the lockdown meant that all potential 
interesting cases practically evaporated. I grew so 
desperate that I took on a client who suspected his wife 
was having an affair, though at least that turned out to be 
more than it appeared. It turned out the woman in fact had 
a child her husband didn't know about. A child who had been 
in the sole custody of her father until he became an early 
casualty of COVID. She had kept the child a secret for fear 
that her new husband was too "traditional" to accept the 
mixed race product of a teenage fling. He was horrified 
when he learned of her fears. "I am not a very good man," 
he'd said. "But I hope I am better than you give me credit 
for."

"If you ever think I am getting too arrogant or 
overconfident or full of myself, would you say the word 
'Norbury' to me?"

John blinks at me from the laptop screen. He is tired. 
Overworked and stressed. "Sorry, what?"

"Never mind. It isn't important. Continue."

"How is Henry?" He has that understanding, sympathetic look 
on his face again. He knows I've thrown myself into the 
work as a distraction from my helplessness.

"Still managing with steroids and breathing exercises."

"And you're still testing negative?"

"Yes, and I still can't see anything in my samples that 
explains why." This disease is endlessly frustrating.

"Consider it a blessing. You don't want to catch this."

"I know."

He is still giving me that look. "And how are you holding 
up?"

"I'm fine."

"It's okay to admit you're not, you know."

A horrible cough from the bedroom makes me flinch. 

"Go. I'll check back in tomorrow."

I nod and ring off, only belatedly realizing I failed to 
ask after him and Rosie. I already know they are fine, but 
Henry has spent so much time lecturing me on the value of 
reciprocity that I feel a nagging sense of guilt when I 
don't ask anyway.

That might go a long way toward explaining the way I feel 
toward Henry right now as well. In my journal, I described 
him once coming home in an emotional state after losing a 
patient. I comforted him and put him to bed, noting that it 
felt as if the tables were turned somewhat for the first 
time in our relationship. Now I am plying him with fluids 
and medicines and cleaning the bucket he uses when he 
doesn't make it to the bathroom in time to vomit. The 
parallels to my condition at the height of my withdrawal 
are not lost on me.

Henry is resting – at least as much as he is able – in our 
bed with a pillow clutched to his chest. Grace is beside 
him, facing the door as if ready to protect him from any 
dangerous intruders if need be. She lifts her head as I 
enter the room and wags her tail. 

“Good girl,” I murmur, scratching behind her ears. 
Satisfied by the praise, she puts her head back down, 
returning to her guard. So devoted is she to her task that 
she has hardly left Henry’s side in days unless absolutely 
necessary. His reasons for adopting her may have been based 
in faulty logic, but I am glad of it as she has been good 
for both of us. Especially once she got over her alarm at 
any noises we make during sex.

I need to wake him and convince him to swallow more 
paracetamol. Perhaps give him another dose of steroids as 
his breathing is alarmingly labored again. But I take a 
moment to just observe him. It is obvious he threw the 
covers off recently. His skin is flushed with fever, but 
soon his near naked state (just some well worn pants) will 
set him to shivering. He looks so...vulnerable. I find 
myself wishing I could remember those previous times (or 
was it just the one?) I found him in this state. Given his 
history, did he try to mask his weakness for fear it would 
be exploited? As he did when he first tested positive for 
this disease ravaging him now? I may have earned his trust, 
but years of habit are difficult to break.

I don’t quite know what these feelings are exactly that 
well up in me until the words come tumbling from my mouth 
almost without thought. “I love you.”

He stills and his eyes slowly open, blinking up at me 
blearily. “Am I awake,” he asks softly, his voice rough and 
painful sounding.

I sit beside him and take his hand. “Sorry.”

He squeezes my hand. “I’m not going to die.”

“I know.”

After a small, awkward silence, he asks “is this about your 
case?”

“Possibly.”

“Y-“ He is interrupted suddenly by a violent bout of 
coughing. I note that he tries vainly to turn his face away 
from me out of consideration before I tug him into a more 
prone position and rub firm circles on his back. I wince as 
the pain draws tiny whimpers from him. Sympathy pains 
squeeze my own chest and I wonder if this is what people 
call heartache. “You never had...to say it,” he finally 
forces out. “I always knew.”

‘You’re not as mysterious as you think you are,’ John had 
once told me.

I am reminded of a conversation Henry and I had that I have 
only a hazy memory of, mostly aided by my account of it in 
my journal. “You are capable of loving so deeply that you 
are paralyzed by it,” he’d said. “And you can’t help but 
dread that the thing you love will be taken away from you 
too soon.”

Logically, I understand that the possibility of him 
succumbing to this disease is very small. One in millions. 
But it isn’t nonexistent. And some small, primitive part of 
my brain given to sentiment is obsessing over that unlikely 
scenario and fretting over the possibility that I might 
lose him and it won’t be because I failed to stop some 
villain, but because of a virus. Something largely beyond 
my control.

“I don’t want you to mistake my abhorrence for sentiment as 
taking you for granted.” I don’t want him to die having 
never heard me say the words. Ridiculous thought, 
especially since he most certainly isn’t dying at the 
moment, but this pandemic is forcing me to confront our 
mortality in a way I hadn’t previously considered.

He smiles tiredly. “Never.”

I need to fetch him some paracetamol and maybe some tea. 
But right now I cannot resist the impulse to climb into the 
bed, pulling the covers over him, and curl my body against 
his, absurdly taking the comfort I should be giving. But he 
is more than willing to indulge me. As always.

“My darling, Sherlock,” he says quietly.

I stopped feeling the effects of the conditioning years 
ago. Now, hearing him say my name in that reverent way of 
his gives me a brief spike of endorphins. Not as powerful 
as drugs, perhaps, but no less pleasant or addicting. I hum 
contentedly and squeeze our entwined fingers briefly, 
feeling the hard press of his wedding ring. 

I still have my ring set on the music stand in my mind 
palace. But now it bears only two sets of initials. One to 
recall the man he once was – TS – and one for the name he 
gives proudly now. 

HRH. Henry Ronson Holmes. My husband. 



THE END