Title: Sustain II: Refrain (3/3)
Authors: MaybeAmanda and onemillionnine
Rating: NC17/Adult
Dramatis Personae: Sherlock, John, Molly, Sarah, Lestrade, Mycroft, OMCs, OFCs
Pairings: Sherlock/Molly, John/Sarah
Word count: Total 22,000 This part: ~8,000
Summary: He could fix this.

Warnings: Consensual sex, off-screen violence, disturbing themes.

Beta: Courtesy of the lovely and talented what_alchemy

BritPicking: Courtesy of the vivacious and voluptuous non_canonical

Disclaimer: Son of fanfic of fanfic. Not ours, not really theirs, either. BBC, Moffat, Gatiss, ACD, PBS, Cumberbatch, Freeman, etc, etc. No money being made on this side.

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Sherlock Holmes was bloody brilliant, there was no mistaking that. But there were some things John Watson knew at least as well as Sherlock did, and some things he knew far better. The smell of death, of blood and gunfire, of bowels unleashed and starting to digest the body from the inside out - these things he knew like a man knows an ex-wife.

And so, John saw the blood and brains and shit and death even before he saw the blood and brains and shit and death. He saw it as soon as they forced open the warehouse window, pried off the metal grate, and the smell hit him.

Which wasn't to say he could make heads or tails of what he was seeing.

Three men in a row, big men, hanging, crucified and partially disemboweled, from the rafters. It fit no paradigm, no pattern he was aware of. And as soon as he saw them, his mind went inconveniently blank.

Beside him, Sherlock was very still. Finally, Sherlock cleared his throat and said, "Well, John, I can honestly say that I was not expecting this."

That was enough to snap John out of his daze. The crosses had been hoisted, John estimated, about five feet off the ground. Judging by the stench and the blood and the flies, these men had been dead at least four days, which fit. "And exactly what the hell is this?"

"I'd say three crucified Chechens, each just slightly smaller than the average lorry, and each, very likely, with the mental capacity of a bowl of shredded cabbage."

"Chechens? Because they ordered from that café?"

"Café remains a generous word, but yes, who else would?"

John couldn't find fault with that. He looked around.

Except for the corpses, the building was clean and very well maintained. There were the boxes one would expect, but not many, and they all appeared to John to be old, as if they'd come with the place and been left behind by who ever had had the building before.

Sherlock circled the suspended bodies, his eyes flicking from point to point, cataloguing, John knew, assessing, synthesising. As always, he was careful not to disturb any evidence that might help solve the crime, and indifferent to contaminating any evidence he knew would yield nothing of value or interest. John wished he understood how Sherlock always seemed to know one from the other at a glance.

"Four days dead?" Sherlock said at last.

"Based on the undelivered food and the state of these bodies, yeah," John answered.

"So dead before Bunny, then?"

John nodded. "I would say so, yeah. You think there's a connection." It wasn't a question.

Sherlock stopped pacing then, went very still. "See what's in those other rooms," he said very quietly, waving to his left.

John looked around the first room. Big, surprisingly bright, it looked like a combination dormitory and gym. A quick inventory revealed six treadmills, two Wii gaming systems and dozens of games, a fridge filled with sour milk, softening fruits and vegetables, and leftovers from the Djepelgesh Palace going off, a cooker that looked to never have been used, three sofas, three arm chairs. No art or even posters on the walls. No computers or laptops. No reading materials in view.

The next room contained twelve hospital-style beds, cupboards filled with women's clothing, non-descript hoodies, jogging tops, track suits in various sizes, all more-or-less freshly washed, all smelling of the same laundry soap. Bedroom slippers, yes; shoes, no.

The last of the three rooms was tiled, floor to ceiling, and filled with medical equipment. And not, he noted immediately, not just any medical equipment: a fully equipped operating theatre. Wheeled cryogenic freezers, open and emptied. A state-of-the-art ultrasound machine. Centrifuge.

What the hell?

John walked through the suite, examining the machines without touching them, trying to wrap his head around what these three rooms - and the slaughterhouse/warehouse - had in common. Try as he might, nothing made sense.

Sherlock stopped in the doorway, scanned the room. "Oh," he said. He actually looked surprised.

"I'm sure all of this makes perfect sense to you," John said, "but the best I can come up with is horror film shoot gone very wrong, or low-end holiday camp for medical fetishists."

"Both excellent guesses," Sherlock said. "Both wrong."

"Of course," John agreed. "I thought treatment facility at first, something private and below the radar -"

"- and catering only to females, younger ones by the look of the cupboards in dormitory," Sherlock said.

John nodded, "Yes, but all the exercise equipment, the utter lack of junk food in the fridge and cupboards, combined with all this obstetrical equipment, makes me think it might be, I don't know, what they used to call a home for unwed mothers."

Sherlock nodded. "Very good, John. Very good. But?"

"But - but it's not that, is it?" John said. "This level of security - the barred windows, the steel doors, key-coded locks - doesn't make sense. It looks like they wanted to keep someone out very badly."

"I believe," Sherlock said, "it's more a matter of wanting to keep someone in very badly. Or approximately twelve someones, judging by the number of beds."

"Right," John said. "Who? And why?"

Instead of answering, Sherlock grabbed a pair of nitrile gloves and a face mask off an instrument tray, and charged out of the room.

John, always able to take a hint, grabbed gloves and a mask for himself, and followed.

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Sherlock had made note of the equipment at the rear of the warehouse when they'd been attempting to gain lawful, then unlawful, access to the building. He hadn't accorded any significance to any of it, though, until they'd discovered the bodies. Or, he now thought, the lack of bodies.

"What's this? An incinerator?" John asked.

"A cold one, yes," Sherlock said, running a bare hand over the bottom and sides. He pulled his picks from his coat pocket and went to work on the padlock holding the door closed. "Judging by the state of these hinges and the more-or-less fresh pile of rust and paint flakes here -" he pointed to the ground "- it hasn't been in regular use in months, more likely years. But the gas line has been maintained and inspected within the last six months, as that tag indicates. Going by the trail footprints leading from that door to this point and back again, and going by the weather for this area in recent days, I'd say it was used within the last week or so."

Following Sherlock's lead, John tugged on his surgical gloves. "And what do you think they've been incinerating?" he asked. "Records of some sort? Evidence?"

The lock popped open in Sherlock's hand, and he swung the creaky door open. At that moment, he had a some evidence, a few facts, and the kernel of a theory, but not enough to share. "Something like that," he said.

John nodded. "What do you need me to do?"

Sherlock slipped the surgical mask over his mouth and nose, pinched it tight. "Check out that skip." He pointed to the large metal container. "And keep watch."

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

According to the European Waste Incineration Directive, an industrial furnace meant for rubbish could scrape by the approval process by hitting 870 C for all of 2 seconds. That was fine for most of the materials an incinerator such as this one was designed for - food waste, cardboard, wood. Not nearly long enough, or hot enough, to quickly and cleanly dispose of a body quickly, though. Or, as Sherlock now suspected, several bodies.

Most people believed cremation reduced a body to a pile of tidy grey ash. As was so often the case, reality was a great deal messier. One invariably wound up with a few kilograms of charred, desiccated bone fragments which had to be mechanically pulverised before Great Aunt Hildegard could be scooped into her eternal resting place. When done properly, there was almost no chance of wresting usable DNA from any of the cremains.

In this case, though, there could be a great deal of evidence left behind. He just had to find it.

He shone his torch inside the cavernous chamber. As expected, the furnace was full of burnt material. It was impossible to know how long it had been left running, of course, but even a unit of this size took time to cool completely.

He pulled out one of the small zip top bags he habitually carried and scooped as much ash as it would hold into it, then slipped it back into his pocket. And then he did it again.

Sherlock turned around, climbed into the oven so that he was facing the door, careful to keep his mask tight over his mouth and nose. He paused for a moment and thought. If he were attempting to reduce a number of bodies to unidentifiable dust in a furnace not designed for that specific task, and to do it swiftly and efficiently, he'd begin with dismemberment and use an accelerant. There was, however, no evidence of either. That suggested that the bodies had simply been pushed into the furnace, one by one, perhaps with some sort of implement, more likely by hand. If this method had been employed, Sherlock reasoned, the last bodies shoved in would be closer to the front. There was, therefore, a chance of finding less charred remains pushed up under the lip of the opening.

Torch held in his teeth through the surgical mask, Sherlock went to work. He ran his fingers very carefully under and around the metal gasket surrounding the door. Anything he might find - teeth were most probable - was likely to be both very small and very brittle. The gloves, though necessary, deadened his sense of touch somewhat, and he didn't want to miss anything.

Sherlock attempted to reconstruct the events that had occurred here. The victims were likely shot, given the number of firearms in the warehouse and the spent casings he'd found. There hadn't been any obvious blood, but he hadn't had time to investigate thoroughly and every serial killer and mass murderer worth his or her salt knew one could do wonders with enough plastic sheeting. Then, very likely, the bodies would have been carried out, one by one, and shoved into the furnace. Once all the bodies were inside, the door would have been secured, the gas turned on, the flame started, and -

- someone had, at some point, turned the gas off, he now realized.

One of the men inside, who'd been subsequently killed? Killed to hide a crime, or killed in retribution? Either seemed possible. Or had it been someone else, someone who had been sent to check in on the operation when communications had broken down and found much the same thing he and John had?

Data. He needed more data. He had to -

Ah. There. His heart beat in his ears, and a flood of new ideas, new possibilities, seized him as his fingers brushed against - something. Something under the gasket, something small and solid. Something not a tooth.

He climbed out, his prize clutched carefully between finger and thumb.

John was standing there, his own surgical mask pulled down under his chin. "Nothing in the skip but rubbish. What's that?" he asked. "What did you find?"

In the light, Sherlock saw exactly what it was. Something that should not, under any circumstances, have survived what he was sure had been a make-shift crematorium.

Shorter than his thumb, more fragile than glass, a bone - a piece of cartilage, really - confirmed his deductions.

He slipped it into a bag before it could break, or John could see it properly.

"Evidence," he said.

It was a tiny human femur.

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

"Welcome back." John looked up from the magazine he was reading. "I was beginning to wonder if you were going to be joining us again tonight. Water?"

Sherlock blinked, took in his surroundings. They were on the train, then. Night had fallen, and they were on the way to London. They were, by his estimation, about 20 minutes out.

He reached out and took the bottle John offered, twisted off the cap, took a large gulp. "Thank you."

"Thought you might be thirsty by now. You haven't spoken in hours."

Sherlock nodded, took another drink. "I've been thinking. Obviously."

"Obviously." John closed his magazine and set it on the seat beside him. "So, have it sorted? Ready to explain it to me now?"

The answer to that was 'yes.' Sherlock did have it sorted, most of it, anyway. Some of it was supposition, some reasoning, some the guesswork he claimed never to employ. Some of it was simply as plain as day. And he could explain it, certainly.

John wasn't going to like the explanation, though. And, as was usually the case, John was going to blame Sherlock for the explanation John didn't like, as if, somehow, Sherlock was solely to blame for the truth being true. Generally, when that happened, when Sherlock was forced to spell out something John deemed unacceptable, John yelled at him for a good few minutes, then punched him, or tried. Sherlock had no doubt that, given John's over-involvement in this matter, this was going to be one of those times.

"You're familiar with the term puppy farm?" Sherlock asked at last.

John tilted his head to the right the way he did when Sherlock said something he wasn't expecting. "Yes?"

Sherlock looked out the window. "I believe the operation we found in Birmingham was, essentially, a human puppy farm."

John stared, his mouth agape. Sherlock congratulated himself on having been right about John's reaction, Pyrrhic victory though it was. "Human puppy farm?"

Sherlock ploughed ahead. "Yes, obviously. As I am sure you are aware, there's quite a market for healthy, Caucasian infants, particularly males. Rumors have circulated about made-to-order babies for years, but it was never a matter to which I had any first-hand exposure, and to which, subsequently, I paid no mind. But you saw the evidence with your own eyes, John - young women, a number of them, obviously being held, most likely against their will, in a clean, comfortable, if intensely secure facility, watched over by three slabs of granite costumed as guards, exercise equipment, so-called healthy foods, but no television, no internet, no cell phone reception - I know, I tried - not even a land-line, so, no contact with the outside world. Obstetrical equipment, surgical equipment, neonatal units, cryogenic freezers. Bunny O'Hare delivered take-away to the security guards, standing order, paid by credit card, so the guards themselves probably didn't have an easy way to communicate with the world outside those four walls. Perhaps she approached him, or he approached her, how it occurred is immaterial. Either way, young Bunny became enamored of one of the 'factory components,' as it were. Samadezadeh was right about Bunny; he was smart, smart enough to get the girl out of there, just not smart enough to stay off heroin, and not smart enough to hide successfully over the long term."

John blinked twice. "So the girl, the one who died, you think, you think she was a - a - no, Sherlock, no, it doesn't make sense."

"In what way?" Sherlock asked.

"She was a junkie. She had track marks, and the child showed signs -"

"Did you find heroin on her person? Syringes? Any paraphernalia?"

"No, but -"

"She was a broodmare, John. I suspect they used drugs to bring these girls in and out of cycle. Further, she'd had at least two earlier pregnancies, so there would have been blood tests, intravenous administration of fluids, sedatives, anesthetic, vitamins, et cetera, old needle punctures overlain with new. "

"R-right." John nodded, still wide-eyed. "Right. Okay. And the guards?"

"It appears either the competition or the bosses decided, in a very literal way, to eliminate this wing of their operation. Either the guards did something unforgivable, probably letting this girl escape, or they were victims of rivals, and the girl's escape was incidental, but I favour the former, cleaner, more elegant, makes more sense. The killing and operation both bear the hallmarks of organized crime, and mob discipline, as you are well-aware, tends to be somewhat heavy-handed. The display of the bodies, along with the level of overkill, strongly suggests that someone was meant to learn a lesson."

John sat in silence a moment. "So where are all these girls? Where are their babies?"

Sherlock hesitated. Despite the frequency with which it happened, he did not enjoy being to be yelled at or punched. And despite the frequency with which it happened, he didn't like having John angry with him. "You already know, John."

John ran his hand over his mouth. "God. You mean -?"

"The incinerator was full of burnt material." He pulled a sealed zip top bag from his pocket, handed it to John. "I am quite certain this will prove to be mainly, if not entirely, human ash."

John held the bag in the palm of his left hand, covered his mouth with his right. Sherlock understood this much: John was shocked. After all he'd seen, both in battle and in life, John still had the capacity to be stunned by the evil of the world. It was an attribute Sherlock thought he should envy.

"Does it make it better or worse if I say it appears they were all dead before they were incinerated?"

John's head shot up. "What?"

"The girls - the women. The evidence strongly suggests they weren't burnt alive," he said. Something felt tight in his chest, but he pressed on. "I found only three bullet casings in the warehouse, but they would have been shot first, execution-style. Quick and efficient. They wouldn't have suffered."

John gaped at him, then let out a broken laugh. "Jesus Christ, there's no better or worse, here, Sherlock," he said. "You do understand that, don't you? It's - it's just bloody, fucking, full-stop horrible."

"Yes. Of course," Sherlock said. Of course he understood. The whole business of it was horrible - exploitation, human trafficking, forced enslavement, the selling of - of -

He opened the bottle, took another long drink. Of course he understood.

The train rattled on, and they sat in silence, John staring at the sack of grey ash, Sherlock staring at John. John had asked Sherlock for one thing: a name. To date, Sherlock had delivered exactly nothing. He was out of leads, out of ideas. He trusted the Birmingham police to find exactly nothing, perhaps less even then he and John had. The entire matter was beginning to feel like a loss. He hated losing.

John's text alert buzzed, pulling them both from their thoughts. John slipped the dust in his pocket - absentmindedly, Sherlock saw, and not in a deliberate attempt at theft or subterfuge - and produced his phone.

John read the text and frowned. "Have you turned your mobile off?"

"Turned my mobile off?" Sherlock asked. "Have we met?"

John's lips curled in a wry grin. "It's Molly. She's been trying to reach you."

Sherlock pulled his phone out, scowled at the screen. "'Network down?' Oh, splendid!"

John chuckled humourlessly, thumbed the keys. "I've told her you're alive."

Sherlock nodded once. She would have finished the autopsy hours ago, and had no doubt texted to say that the unidentified dead girl remained both unidentified and dead. Unless this girl had conveniently had her name and National Insurance Number tattooed on her backside, Molly wouldn't have found anything of significance. "I doubt that was why she was trying to contact me," Sherlock answered.

John blinked at him once. "Right. Well, I told her, anyway."

"All right, Yes. Thank you," he said.

They were on the outskirts of London when John said, voice subdued, "He's not, you know."

Sherlock's expression must have conveyed his confusion. "Who isn't what?"

"Caucasian," John said. "The baby, that, that girl's baby. He is, well, mixed, probably."

"Probably?"

John's brows pinched together. "The mother, she's, she was, well, European, I guess. Pale, light eyed. But that baby, no."

Sherlock sat a little straighter. That was unexpected. "Neonates, particularly premature neonates, can appear discoloured due to circulatory issues," he said.

"Yes." John scratched the side of his neck. "Yes, they certainly can. Which still doesn't make that child white."

Sherlock sat in silence a moment, considering the implications of this new bit of information. "Show me," he said.

"Show you what?"

"Don't be obtuse, John. The photo. The one you're pretending you don't have on your phone. Any of the half dozen or so I am sure you've taken. Sentiment, right? Show me."

John shot him filthy look, but it hardly mattered. Sherlock's synapses fired, half of them readying arguments with which to dismiss John's position, the other half slotting this new information, should it prove true, into the known facts.

John handed him the phone. "Only three."

Sherlock squinted. He turned the phone to the left, then the right, then the left again. He centred it, scrolled through all three screens. "I see a mass of medical equipment, a blue knit cap, and what looks to be an ape's foot." He looked at John. "A very small ape, mind you."

John shrugged. "Technically true, that."

The train pulled into the station. Sherlock stood, straightened his jacket. "Barts, then?" he asked.

"Barts? Why?"

"I want to have a look at your baby."

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

It was well after visiting hours, but no one questioned their presence in the hospital, no one asked why they were there or where they were going. Sherlock stood, with John at his side, and considered the baby for a good, long time. There were tubes running up his nose and into his thigh, and an IV fed fluid into the large vein in his head. He was so small, this nameless child who belonged to no one. Less than half the size Edmund had been at birth, and Edmund had been ridiculously, impossibly small.

He watched John's reflection in the glass. John was wearing his military face, the expression that said nothing and no one could faze him, just move along, nothing to see here. Sherlock, however, knew it for what it really was, as John turned it on Sherlock often enough: John was steeling himself for disappointment and pain.

Sherlock focused on the child again, and reminded himself the world was full of children who would not live to see their first birthday. This was merely one among many.

And John had been correct. The child was not Caucasian, not completely. The mother was decidedly of European stock, and Bunny had been, too. While it was possible recessive traits were at work here, it seemed an unnecessarily complicated explanation. If the girl and Bunny had only been in London a few weeks, it was more likely that Bunny had not been the child's father, that he'd been 'rescuing' the girl from that facility, that she'd been impregnated months before.

But the question nagged: why make a mixed race child to order, when mixed race children in care went begging for families? It made no sense.

It would take a good month for a return on a DNA analysis, not that he expected it to reveal anything of significance. He had no doubt, from the medical equipment at the warehouse and from Molly's autopsy of the child's mother, that someone had been 'manufacturing' infants for sale. He also had no doubt that this child was a product of that facility. So how did it all go together?

He didn't know. And oh, how he hated not knowing.

There were, literally, no more clues. He had reached a cul-de-sac. There was nothing more he could do. He hated to acknowledge failure, but it was impossible to do otherwise. The one time John had made a request of him, and he had failed. He had failed his friend, and he had failed this child, too, a child who would not likely live long enough to offer any recrimination. Still, Sherlock would remember on his behalf.

"Well?" John finally asked.

Sherlock was watching the large vein in the child's forehead throb. "I don't know," he said. "I'm sorry, but I simply do not know."

John seemed to deflate. "It was a long shot," he said, sounding resigned. "You can't know everything. I appreciate that you tried, though, yeah?"

Sherlock studied John's reflection again. He was suffering, that much was obvious, even to Sherlock. Now was the time for him to offer some solace, to show John support. That what friends did. "Sarah isn't the only one who's grown unreasonably attached, is she?" he asked.

John shook his head, folded his arms across his chest. "I guess not." He closed his eyes briefly, let out a long, slow breath. "We've been trying for months, you know," he began, "nearly a year. What am I saying? Of course you know. Probably figured it out from my shoelaces."

No, Sherlock hadn't known. He said nothing.

"We're neither of us young," John continued, "but we're both healthy, and it shouldn't be this bloody difficult."

"You enjoy sex," Sherlock said. "I can't imagine you find the task that odious."

John grinned. "No, of course I don't, you git. It's just - difficult - seeing someone you love disappointed over and over and knowing there's nothing you can do."

That, Sherlock did know. If he knew how to do anything, anything at all, it was disappoint. "Yes, I'm sure it is."

"And now this," he said, with a nod toward the baby in the isolet. "I hate like hell to have to disappoint her again."

Sherlock nodded once, cleared his throat. Support. Yes, he could offer support. "I'm sure, John, when the time comes, Molly will volunteer her services."

John's head snapped toward him. "What?"

"Perhaps we'll learn something from his autopsy."

"His autopsy?" John blinked at him. "He's alive, Sherlock."

"Yes, now, obviously," Sherlock said quickly, "but you can't imagine he'll live long."

John licked his lips. "Can't I?"

"Perhaps you can," Sherlock replied carefully, "but it's a mistake. You should make every effort to -"

"Why," John interrupted him, "Sherlock, why do you have to be this way?"

"Which way?" Sherlock shot back. "Honest? Realistic?"

"No," John said. "A fucking cunt."

It was Sherlock's turn to be surprised. "I've upset you."

"Oh, do you really think so?" John's words dripped sarcasm. "Have I ever, would I ever, in my life, wish Edmund dead?"

Sherlock took a step back. What was John talking about? "What? No."

"And do you suppose I would wish any child dead?"

"No, of course - "

"No, you're right, I wouldn't, because, unlike you, Sherlock, I am not a complete fucking coward."

"Excuse me?"

John moved forward, crowding into Sherlock's space. "You're the biggest coward I've ever met. You hide behind your bloody intellect and look down at the rest of the world and tell yourself you're too good for us, don't you? But that's only because you already know the truth, and that's that the world doesn't need or want you. You're not too good for us, Sherlock. You're not bloody good enough."

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat. He couldn't genuinely disagree with the sentiment - he'd thought it himself, and not infrequently. But what had he done to bring this on now?

Oh, of course. He'd told John the truth. Still a mistake, apparently.

John was furious. Sherlock had inadvertently wounded him, and like any wounded animal, John lashed out, a reflex with which Sherlock was all too familiar. But John was his friend, his only friend, so Sherlock tamped down his own immediate reaction - to retaliate - and spoke calmly. "John, please. You are being irrational."

"Am I?" John barked back.

"Yes, you are," Sherlock answered levelly. "You know as well as I do that this is hopeless. Further, you know sentimental attachments to hopeless causes are pointless, illogical, and ultimately lead only to suffering."

Breathing heavily, John looked at him as though weighing Sherlock's worth. Finally, he squinted at Sherlock, pig-eyed. "And who'd know better?" he asked with a sneer.

"John -"

"Right, then. That's me." He turned abruptly and headed down the corridor.

"John? Where are you going?"

John turned around, but kept walking backward. "Delete me, Sherlock," he said. "Just - just fucking delete me."

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

John Watson let himself into his flat, kicked off and lined up his shoes, put his keys in the dish on the hall table, and sat heavily on the sofa. The Tube ride had given him a chance to cool off a bit, but only a bit. He was too keyed-up to sleep, too tired to think. Something to drink, perhaps, tea or beer, but he couldn't decide which, and he didn't want to wake Sarah fetching either. So he sat in the dark, arms crossed over his chest, head tipped back, eyes closed, and willed his mind to go blank.

"Hey," Sarah called from the bedroom a few moments later. "You're home."

"Sorry, love," John replied, "didn't mean to wake you."

Sarah flipped on the lights and came to sit beside him, still dressed in the clothes she'd been wearing that morning. "I was just dozing," she said. "Waiting up for you."

"You needn't have done that." She looked tired and worried and somehow it made her beautiful.

"So?" she asked.

John put on his bravest face before he answered. "Nothing. Sorry."

Sarah shrugged apologetically, like she'd been hoping for better, but expecting worse. "And how're you?"

John ran his hands over his face. "Aside from wondering how I can get away with bludgeoning my best mate to death, I'm terrific."

"Oh dear." Sarah ran her fingers through his hair, and John leaned into her touch. "After all these cases, John Watson, you must know how to get rid of a body without a trace by now."

"S'true," he said.

"And if you did it right, there'd be no Sherlock to work it out."

"Perfect crime. Brilliant. What's that you smell of?"

Sarah worked her fingers round to the back of his scalp. "Probably Eddie," she said. "He's a snuggler."

He sniffed again. "Suits you," he said, then winced. Yes, idiot, perfect thing to tell your wife, the one you can't seem to get pregnant. Well done.

"So what did Sherlock do?" Sarah asked. "Or do I want to know?"

John sighed. "He was just being so very, very Sherlock." He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts. "I just - he has a child of his own, you know? You'd think - you'd think he'd have a bit more bloody compassion."

"I'm not sure he's capable," she replied.

"I'm not either." John closed his eyes. "I guess I want him to stop being Sherlock. Which is a bit stupid, isn't it?"

"I wouldn't say stupid. But it seems a hopeless cause."

"And we all know hopeless causes are pointless, illogical, and ultimately lead to suffering," he muttered in reply.

"What's that?"

John opened his eyes again, dry-scrubbed his face. "Nothing. Nothing. I just - I think I need a break from playing silly buggers with Mr. Sensitivity, yeah?"

Sarah's brows rose. "Permanently?"

John shrugged, sighed. "I don't know. Maybe."

"Up to you," Sarah said. "I rather like having you about."

"I rather like being about." He wanted, at that moment, nothing more than to forget the things he'd seen that day, forget the things he now knew that he could never, ever un-know. Wanted to climb into his own bed with his own wife and not think about dead girls or lost children or hopeless causes or how he was powerless in the face of any of them. He caught up her hand in his own and squeezed it tightly. "Marrying you was the smartest thing I've done in my entire life, you do know that?"

"Did you just work that out?" Sarah said, laying her head on his shoulder. "I've known that for ages."

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Sherlock spent hours in the lab at Barts pretending he was working, researching, thinking - doing anything he could to figure out a means by which to repair this situation. He could fix this.

He could. He could. He cou-

No. No, he couldn't. He'd failed John, and in failing him, driven him away. John had ordered Sherlock to delete him. And despite what John claimed about the human mind and the ways in which memory worked, he was sure that, by now, John had certainly deleted him.

He'd done without friends for years, so Sherlock knew it was possible. It just wasn't what he wanted anymore. But since when had what Sherlock wanted mattered to anyone but Sherlock?

It was early, not even dawn, when he returned to Baker Street. He'd had every intention of climbing those seventeen familiar stairs to his flat. He was almost surprised to find himself in Molly's lounge, instead.

He caught Molly dozing, still dressed, on the sofa. "Oh, hello," she said, sitting up and rubbing the sleep from her eyes. "How'd it go, then? Work it all out?"

He had planned to lie, had planned and plotted it to the last syllable, the last inflection. But it was half past four in the morning and he had woken her and she was bright and smiling, expecting him to bowl her over with his brilliance, and when she looked at him with those guileless eyes of hers, he found he could not do it. Instead, he pressed his mouth into a thin line to ensure no words escaped.

"No?" she asked. "S'all right. You can't solve every mystery." She yawned and stretched, the hem of her blouse riding up, exposing perhaps a quarter of an inch of bare skin. His mouth watered at the sight. "Hungry?"

He closed his eyes. Inhaled. Exhaled. Did it again. And again.

"Um, I - I could make you something," she offered, sounding concerned, then, and a bit desperate.

The thought of food, any food, sickened him, but he couldn't explain why, not even to himself.

He shook his head. Inhaled. Exhaled.

"Sherlock, are -?"

"Where's Edmund?" he asked, because he wanted to see his son. It was an ungovernable feeling, one he could not twist into calmness; the urge to know the boy was whole, wasn't hooked up to tubes and machines, hadn't been reduced to a pile of cold, grey, forgotten ash.

"He's - he's in his cot," Molly said, uneasily. "Why?"

Sherlock could not answer, could only walk past her to the nursery.

"Sherlock? What - ?"

He held up a hand, staying her. "I won't - I won't hurt him," he said.

Molly's brow wrinkled. "Of course you won't," she said with forced lightness, as if such a thought had never occurred. "I'm - I'm making tea, then." She headed for the kitchen.

In the darkened bedroom, it took a moment for his eyes to adjust, but they did, and he counted Edmund's breaths, watched his little chest rise and fall, each one feeling like a personal favour.

He counted five hundred and thirty seven before he turned back to the lounge.

Molly was on the sofa, two cups of cooling tea on the coffee table before her. Her head was down and her shoulders were hunched and her hands wrung each other, body language any human behavioural scientists would describe as "apprehensive". Apprehensive: 14th century, from the Middle Latin - to be fearful of or have anxiety about the future.

Molly was apprehensive. Molly was so clever.

He looked up. The ceiling plaster was as asymmetrical as it had ever been.

"Sherlock?" Molly said.

The curve of the arcs in the plaster was uneven, and he was having difficulty averaging them. He was going to have to look over the entire lounge before he got a number he was comfortable with.

"Sherlock?" she said again.

He looked at her as briefly as possible. It felt as though the sight of her burned some part of his brain.

Molly stood and took a deep breath, fumbling with something in her trouser pocket. "Your phone - your phone was off and I - I found another chip in that girl, Sherlock, and I've given it to Mycroft and I know I should have told the police because I'm supposed to turn evidence over, all evidence, and I could lose my license, I told you that, but for you, and John, and Sarah, and, and, oh God, Sherlock, are you all right?"

There were so many things he would have said to her if he knew how. There were an equal number of things he knew he should not say to her, should never say to her, but he could not tell one from the other. So he said nothing.

Without quite knowing what he was doing, he began unbuttoning his shirt.

One button.

Two.

Three.

Four.

Five.

"Six." Molly's voice surprised him. He raised his eyes to meet hers.

"Seven," she whispered as his shirt fell open.

He would have thanked her, but the risk of speaking was too dire. Instead, he reached out and slipped the first button of her blouse out of its hole.

"Eight," she said. "Or - or should I start over?"

He shook his head.

"Nine," she said, as he opened her shirt further. He could see gooseflesh rising on the skin he exposed. "Ten."

He paused at the next button, waiting for corresponding number.

"'Leven."

Despite her brassiere, despite the shirt over that, he could see her nipples harden.

"Twelve," she said breathily. "Thirteen."

He looked at her face for a moment, the urge to kiss her rising.

"Fourteen," she said as he opened the last button and his hands brushing her belly, still a bit soft from Edmund. Before, he would have found it unnerving, unattractive. He could not explain it, had no words for it, but there was something he understood now that he had not known before. Before. As it was, he wished only to press his face against her.

And he did. He knelt and pressed his face against the soft skin below her navel. He could cease to exist, he thought, if he gave in to the tide that pulled him, the desire to pour himself out onto her was so strong.

He did not want to think about exactly what he felt, or why he felt it; it was messy and sordid and weak, and her fingers sifting through his hair were gentle. He would rather think of anything but his numerous personal shortcomings at the moment.

He wanted her so badly his gut ached with it. He wanted her, wanted to be annihilated by her kindness. He pulled her to the floor, not bothering to ask. He pushed the trousers off her hips and her knickers along with them. He pulled the elastic from her plait and the pins that held her hair out of her eyes, one by one. His sense of rightness compelled him to remove her brassiere. And then, and then, - oh, she was as naked as he felt.

He watched, fascinated, as her heart beat in the hollow of her throat. Touched it with his fingertips. Tasted it with his mouth. There was a mole on the side of her neck. He sucked it on his way to her jaw, her earlobe, and finally, unable to help himself, he nipped his way to her mouth.

He didn't want to hurt her. He was careful, so careful, as careful as he had it in him to be. He only wanted to taste her. He only wanted to eat her up. He only wanted to suck her sweet breasts the way he had once, but would not do again because it was weak of him.

He was weak. And a failure. He could not risk putting words to it, to any of it, even in his own mind. He did not want to know all the nooks and crannies of his inadequacy, much less disillusion Mary Magdalene Hooper with them. He wanted, instead, to throw himself at her feet. She alone had mercy for him, but it was a dangerous thing to push too far.

Unfortunately, as always, too far was exactly where he wanted to go.

It was good of her to take his face in her hands. Even better of her to suck his lower lip into her mouth.

For a moment, she seemed to be struggling against him.

"What?" he said dumbly, and wondered vaguely if this was how other people felt every waking moment, this longing, this confusion.

"Bed," she muttered between kisses. "Please. It'll be better on the bed, I promise. Please."

Before he could think to stop himself, his weakness answered for him. "No, no," he said, and held her tighter.

"Shhhhh," she said her palm to his cheek. "Okay. It's okay, whatever's wrong, Sherlock, I love you, and it's okay."

Why did she have to use that word, that horrible, merciless word? It hurt him at every turn, like a rusted knife to the gut; like hope. The two were sisters in treachery.

Molly did not love him, Molly could not love him; he was not lovable. It had been tested and proven true. Molly could not love him, because if she did love him, if, at this particular moment in time, what she felt for him was truly love, there was always the danger that she might stop. No; there was only the inevitability that she would.

"Please," she said. She laced her little fingers with his. "Please," and she tugged him toward her room.

She didn't bother with the light.

He'd never had sex with Molly in the dark before. It made his intentions seem even more illicit, and perhaps that was only fitting. In the dark, she stripped him naked. In the dark, his craven lusts were bolder. In the dark, he was no longer ashamed to trace the marks left under her breasts by the wire of her brassiere with his mouth. In the dark, there was nothing he wouldn't dare, nothing she wouldn't allow.

His mouth found her breasts sweet and weeping fresh milk. His skin prickled and his belly churned with shame, even as his erection pressed hot against her leg, pleading for entry, demanding it. He was selfish and perverse and how he wanted her, all of her, her body and her mercy and her indulgence.

Her arms wrapped round him, her legs twining and untwining with his. He was relieved when she pulled him by the hair, pulled his face to hers, pulled his hips to the cradle of her thighs, every bit as sweet as her breasts. Sweeter, even, as his penis pressed between her labia and she slid up and down his length, hot and slick. Sweeter still when he slipped inside her.

He had been such a fool. Tonight he fully understood what he had done that day in Mycroft's bed. And, though there was no way he could find the words, much less say them, he wanted Molly to forgive him.

If I'd known, he thought, I never would have taken it so lightly.

He would have to tell her without words. He pushed himself in to the hilt, arched his back until his public bone struck her clitoris and he could feel the tremor it sent through her.

He inhaled deeply. The scent of arousal was strong, but so was the smell that had been absent since Molly took leave from work: the mélange of mortuary aromas, chemical and human, clung to her still. He sucked at her mouth, thrusting deep inside her for all he was worth. He refused to think of the incinerator full of ash behind the warehouse in Birmingham. He refused to think of the tiny bone he found there in a cold spot near the uninsulated door; a femur smaller than his smallest finger. He refused.

He thrust harder.

He wanted only to stop thinking, to feel her mouth like ripe fruit, her soft skin like a princess in a child's story, and her sex, clingy and wet and like nothing else.

Trust Molly to know what he needed. Trust Molly to give it to him. Like a thoughtless schoolboy marking iS.H. was here/I on the underside of his desk, he had carved his initials in her uterus, marked her. And yet, she gave him relief, comfort. It was both wonderful and terrible.

She rolled him onto his back when he paused, too lost in his own mind to go on, to know what to do next, and she took him. He gazed up at her in wonder, his hands on her breasts as she slid him back inside her. For some time, he knew nothing and cared for nothing and nothing hurt him and an ecstasy that was both full to overflowing and strangely empty welled up in him.

Then peace, like a simple melody played by a single instrument, lulled him to sleep.

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

Three hours later, Sherlock awoke to two utterly conflicting sensations.

The rich scent of the night's physical congress filled his nostrils, and Molly's body, warm and silky, overwhelmed his sense of touch. Somehow, his arms had wrapped themselves round her in the night, holding her close. His erection was adamant that it hadn't had quite enough of Molly yet and would, if given free rein, drown once more in the ocean of senses she had to offer. Most of his limbic system agreed.

On the other end of the scale, something else, something deep in his lizard brain, was panicking. Lights were flashing, and his heart was pounding, and he had no clear idea why.

Oh, he was naked. It was a hard and fast rule: Sherlock Holmes never slept naked.

For roughly three seconds, he struggled to sort out the difference between the sensations of fear and desire.

In short order, he assessed the situation. His leg between Molly's. His hand on her abdomen. He was suddenly intimately aware of the remnants of unprotected sexual intercourse on his penis, thighs, Molly's sheets.

His stomach turned.

He didn't want to imagine Molly's hard-set jaw and cold reproach once she realised what he'd done. He didn't want to, but he did, just the same. Not that he had anything to apologise for; she was every bit as culpable as he.

That didn't mean he wanted to face her in the cold light of morning, though.

And so he rose as cautiously and as stealthily as he would have had Molly been in possession of a gun. He dressed in absolute silence.

Soundlessly, he took the fifteen steps to his sleeping child's room. Edmund lay sprawled on his back, arms above his head, eyes still. No dreams, then, good or bad. He kissed the boy's cheek without quite making contact.

He slipped on his shoes at the door. He did not turn back to look at Molly. It did not matter how insistently the desire itched at him, he refused to give in. He had transgressed. He had embarrassed himself, as well as Molly, in the madness that had overtaken him in the night. He had been weak and desperate and unthinking. He had committed a wrong against her. And, as he had been reliably informed, to harm the mother was to harm the child.

That was the last, the very last, thing he wanted. To hurt either of them. Stupid. Stupid. So stupid.

But things were becoming clearer, now. He could fix this. He was clever enough to correct his mistakes. With Molly and Edmund. With John. All of them.

All he needed was a plan. And all he needed to formulate that plan was time and space, before he compounded one error with another.

He was not his father. He would return. And he would set it all to rights.

:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:~:

End 3/3

***** Coming (very ) Soon - Sustain III: Obbligato *****