Chapter Six– She's So Heavy

John is home later than Sherlock had expected. Either his session overextended or there are delays on the District and Circle again. He hears the quiet but distinct closing of the door and footsteps on the stairs. Slow, but not worryingly so. Thoughtful, not distressed.

John pauses in the doorway as he enters, takes a deep sniff at the air.

"Something smells good."

"Mmm. Venison stew," Sherlock says, turning back to chopping the parsley he'll use as a garnish.

"Venison?" says John, walking over to join Sherlock in the kitchen. "Bit fancy, isn't it?"

"Butcher on Colliston Road," Sherlock says. "Owes me a favour. He let me keep the deer's brain too."

John pulls a face. "I hope you aren't putting that in the stew."

"I have no desire to contract spongiform encephalopathy, John."

"Right," John says. "Good."

John goes to the sink, and pours himself a glass of water.

Sherlock eyes him. There's a damp spot on his shirt, distinctive. Tissue fragment on his sleeve. Add that to the thoughtful expression -

"Someone's been crying on your shoulder," Sherlock says. "I rather thought the emotional support aspect of therapy was supposed to tend in the other direction."

John smiles. "It wasn't my therapist," he looks at Sherlock with that particular light in his eyes that Sherlock knows is intended as a challenge. He does seem to enjoy watching Sherlock deduce when he already knows the answer.

Sherlock straightens, casting his eyes over John. "Definitely a woman," he says. "From the stain she's left on your shirt, she's smaller than you, very few men can claim that."

John rolls his eyes at the mention of his height, but nods in confirmation.

"The pottery woman," Sherlock states. "Mary. She's had some bad news… death in the family? No. Divorce. Her husband sent her the papers recently."

"Bang on," says John, raising his eyebrows. "How did you know?"

Because, Sherlock thinks, John has clearly put his arms around her, spent some time in close physical proximity. John has a certain prudery about getting physically intimate with married women, particularly woman he is attracted to (which, as far as Sherlock can observe, is most women). An impending divorce might relax John's principles considerably.

He isn't sure he wants to tell John that however. It never does to encourage one of John's romantic entanglements. They occur far too frequently as it is.

"Shot in the dark," he says instead. "She's been institutionalised for months. That would put strain on any marriage. "

"Would it?"

"Despite what this culture of romanticism would lead you to think, these attachments are rarely unconditional," Sherlock says. "Few people will wait indefinitely."

"Right," John's gaze drops to the floor, a faint frown line appearing between his brows.

Ah, Sherlock reviews the conversation and locates his obvious misstep."Our relationship is different."

"Is it?" John asks.

"We aren't married," Sherlock says. "We solve crimes together, that's much more important."

There's a brief pause in which John stares at him and then suddenly he throws back his head in a brief shout of laughter. "I might have known you'd see it that way."

He places a hand briefly on Sherlock arm as he passes, and as ever Sherlock fees a brief jolt of surprise at the warmth of it.

"When will dinner be ready?" he asks, heading for his armchair.

"Soon," Sherlock says. "I'm almost finished."

His eyes linger on the back of John's head for a moment as he considers the other words he had tempted to say. I would wait for you indefinitely.

John is just laying the table and Sherlock is about to dole out the stew when he hears the distinctive growl of Lestrade's car from the street. He freezes, waiting, as the doorbell sounds and Mrs Hudson goes to let the Detective Inspector in.

"You all right?"John asks, looking at him.

"Case, John," Sherlock says, dropping the ladle back in the pot.

Sure enough Lestrade is through the door in a moment.

"Which is it?" Sherlock says. "The missing jewels or the Tower Hamlets stabbing?"

"Neither," says Lestrade. He turns to look at John. "Mate, I didn't know you were back! Good to see…"

"Neither?" Sherlock cuts across the unnecessary social civilities, forcing Lestrade to turn his attention back to him.

"Murder in the London Dungeons at Waterloo," Lestrade says. "One of the ticket takers was found in the control room. Looks like he'd been strangled with a cravat."

"And?"

"And the doors were locked from the inside," Lestrade says. "Electronic lock, could only be locked from the control panel. CCTV was wiped."

"Interesting," Sherlock steeples his hands considering this.

"You coming then?" Lestrade says.

"Yes," Sherlock says, striding over to the coat stand to get his coat. "Go ahead, we'll take a taxi."

Lestrade rolls his eyes briefly at John before leaving. Sherlock puts on his coat and gloves, and turns to see John still sitting at the table.

"Um," says John. "I think I'll sit this one out."

Sherlock blinks. It hadn't occurred to him that John wouldn't be on cases with him again. Is he more unwell than Sherlock had thought? Sherlock takes an unconscious step towards him.

"It's fine," John says. "Just, you know, might be a good idea to take things slowly for a bit. Go ahead. You can tell me about it later."

Sherlock's eyes scan John's face. He doesn't look upset. His shoulders are relaxed and he's still smiling.

"Go on," says John. "There's a locked room murder waiting for you."

That decides Sherlock: he gives a brief nod and follows Lestrade down into the street.

The case is reasonably straight forward, once Sherlock has taken a proper look at the state of the door handle. Their murderer turns out to be one of the exhibit's engineers, a reprisal for too frequent acts of bullying in the workplace.

If the case is disappointingly easy to solve, it does involve a pleasantly bracing chase through the crowds of tourists mobbing the South Bank. Their criminal, seeing policemen approaching from the opposite direction and panicking, makes the rather amusing decision to try and climb up the London Eye as a method of escape. Impressively, he manages to clamber on top of one of the compartments. Lestrade is preparing to follow him when Sherlock points out the obvious: the ride is circular. All they have to do is wait for him to return to earth.

Something of a carnival atmosphere develops as they wait. Donovan sends junior Sergeant Hopkins off to get candy floss and ice cream for the waiting detectives. The sight makes Sherlock think of the venison stew, and of John back at home.

"I'll be leaving you then, Lestrade," he says.

Lestrade gives him a disbelieving look. "You don't want to see what'll happen?"

"It's obvious what will happen. Once he reaches a distance of 30 feet Donovan will attempt to talk him down, and he will respond by jumping and probably break his ankle," Sherlock reaches over and pulls off a piece of Lestrade's candy floss. "Even you should manage to apprehend him after that. In any case, I have more important things to be doing."

He arrives back at the flat to find John lying on the sofa. Not a good sign. As much as Sherlock enjoys lounging about the place, John views such behaviour as an indulgence. Only a particularly strong dose of exhaustion or apathy lays John out.

John sits up as Sherlock enters. The smile that lights up his face is so convincing that Sherlock is almost fooled.

"Solve it already, did you?"

"It was barely a three," Sherlock says. "Lestrade is getting progressively stupider in his old age."

John snorts. "He can't be much older than me, you know. Well, tell me about the case."

"In a minute," Sherlock says. He goes into the kitchen, begins clattering plates, ostensibly preparing his own dinner. The level of stew in the pot hasn't dropped. Has John eaten anything at all? His plate is on the drying board, washed. Sherlock is meant to think he's eaten, in any case. Perhaps John took a few mouthfuls and was able to convince himself it wasn't a lie.

For a moment Sherlock feels a helpless anger flood through him. He can't reproach John, can't question him. That would make him defensive, and worse, guilty. Sherlock has promised himself he won't behave like John's family had. Won't use sighs and reproaches as a mechanism to manipulate John into eating. John responds to guilt the way most people respond to water torture. He folds quickly, but Sherlock is certain something in him is damaged by it.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and ladles out a large bowlful of stew. He brings it out into the sitting room, and sits down on the sofa next to John. John tenses a little, then relaxes with what Sherlock knows must have been an effort of will. Sherlock ignores him, eating with gusto. He can only hope the sight and smell will inspire John's hunger.

It doesn't. Sherlock eats in silence with John watching him, smile growing ever more strained.

"So, the case?" he says as Sherlock puts the bowl down with a sigh.

Sherlock leans back on the sofa, stretching his legs out in front of him and begins to explain. He can't say he feels the same satisfaction in expounding to John as he usually does. There is a heaviness in his chest that he can't seem to shift by talking. John is giggling by the end of the story though which makes it all almost worth it.

"You should write about this one." Sherlock says, eyeing John.

"I wasn't there," John points out.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "As if you've ever let facts get in the way of your writing."

"Oi," John swats him playfully on the arm. "I'll think about it."

"Do," Sherlock says. "Your blog has been sparse lately. How will the general public find meaning in their lives without constant news of my antics?"

"Oh, with great difficulty." John says seriously, the sparkle in his eyes giving him away.

Sherlock looks at him, at the layering of lines on his brow, at the tension of the hand, still clenched on his lap, at his eyes, wide and clear. John's expression shifts in response, eyes tightening at the corners and then relaxing, hand clenching in his lap. It feels like they are having a conversation but Sherlock is not skilled enough to read the meaning behind it. He can tell a world of information from a stain on a shirt, a hair out of place, but faces….

"Time for bed, I reckon." John cuts in to his thoughts. He's on his feet before Sherlock can blink, stretching. "I'll see you in the morning."

He touches Sherlock's shoulder briefly before retreating to his room. Sherlock lies back on the sofa, crossing his hands over his chest and listens to the sounds of John preparing for bed above him.

John eats the next morning, thankfully. Sherlock sips coffee and watches from the corner of his eye as John very deliberately cuts his toast into slices before dipping them into his boiled egg. Soldiers Sherlock thinks, and represses a smile.

Downstairs the bell rings once, sharply. Sherlock and John exchange a glance. Client. John gets up and clears his breakfast things away, as they listen to Mrs Hudson chatter to the client and point them up the stairs.

An unusually tall woman, broadly built, with large dark eyes, and short curly hair enters the room.

"Excuse me, are you Sherlock Holmes and John Watson?"

Upper class accent with a buried hint of Derbyshire broadening the vowels. Dress neat and perfectly tailored, in what looked like a retro style but in fact was a 1970s original dress – it has been rehemmed once, and the collar replaced. Watch, expensive, new. She stands awkwardly in her low heels, feet planted wide. She's used to sturdy boots, wellingtons– a woman who spends her life out of doors, for whom the close packed streets of the city must feel like entering a cage.

"That's us." John is at his most charming, ushering her into a seat.

"My name is Hilda Cubitt,"

The woman sits, a little awkwardly.

"You must be tired," Sherlock says. "It's a long drive from Ridling Thorpe, especially so early in the morning."

The woman's mouth falls open. "How did you….?"

"You're clearly a woman who spends a great deal of her life outdoors, from your hands I'd say a farmer. Your bearing and accent say money, your attitude says old money. You can clearly afford to buy new clothes but instead have chosen to adapt an old dress, probably one you owned as a teenager. You are deeply attached to the past, to tradition, always have been. The farm to which you devote your every energy to is not an acquisition but part of your heritage, ancestral lands converted to productive use. Only a few of those are still run by the original families, not chopped up and sold off. Your accent points to Derbyshire. There is only one old manor house in Derbyshire which fits that description: Ridling Thorpe."

"Yes," The woman says. "That's all – quite correct. Well done."

Behind her, Sherlock sees John fight a smile.

"Well," Sherlock says. "Your problem clearly a matter of some import to you if you've travelled all this way. What is it?"

Hilda fidgets a little in her chair. "I recently entered into a civil partnership. My partner Elsa," she bites her lip.

"Go on." John says.

"I feel disloyal coming to you," Hilda says. "I promised never to pry into her secrets and I don't want to. But recently, she's seemed so – afraid. I don't know what to do."

"When you say afraid…"

"She has panic attacks. She barely sleeps anymore. I've tried asking her what's wrong but she just snaps at me. It's so unlike her."

"Something in particular happened to trigger these panic attacks," Sherlock prompts. The woman looks at him in surprise. "Oh, don't look at me like that – there's a reason you're consulting a detective rather than a psychiatrist."

"The first time – we were out in the garden and she just suddenly stopped in her tracks, started hyperventilating. I was too worried at the time to think of it, but when I came back to the spot where she stopped I noticed there was something drawn in chalk on the garden path. Stick figures."

"I don't suppose you made a copy?" John asks.

"I took a photo," Hilda takes out her phone and shows them both.

"They look like they're dancing, don't they?" Hilda says. She's right. The stick figures are drawn in lines, caught in various positions, arms flung up or out, as if in celebration. "I noticed a post it note with the same figures tucked under our car windscreen wipers the next day," Hilda says. "But Elsa picked it up before I had the chance to look at it. There was another one scratched on a fence post in the farm, and on the barn wall. Each time Elsa was very distressed - but she wouldn't talk about it."

"I've always known there were things in her past she didn't want discussed. I was happy to respect her wishes – but. It's hard to see someone you love suffer and not be able even to speak to them about it for fear of making it worse."

Sherlock swallows, and is careful not to look at John.

"I take it you did not manage to photograph any of the other messages?"

Hilda shakes her head.

Sherlock pauses, considering. Then he nods.

"I need you to return home, and look for as many examples of the stick men as you can. Undoubtedly your partner has received more than you are aware of, and is most likely keeping them somewhere."

"I don't think-"

"If I'm right, these messages are code," Sherlock says. "I have seen similar codes used by various criminal organisations in Europe. Elsa may be in very real danger, and we will not be able to help her unless we understand its nature. If there was ever a time to put scruples aside, this is it."

Hilda hesitates. "I don't want to pry into her secrets…"

"If the messages prove to be harmless and private in nature, I will not inform you of their content." Sherlock says. "You needn't be concerned about breaking her trust without good reason."

Hilda's eyes widen, but then she nods slowly. "Elsa will be out tonight," she says. "I'll take a look in her things and if I find any dancing men, I'll email you."

"Excellent."

Hilda stands, and reaches out, her large dry hand taking Sherlock's. "Thank you," she says. "For listening to me. It's a weight off my mind."

"Email me the photo you have," Sherlock says. "I'll begin examining it now."

"I will," Hilda says, and turns to shake John's hand. "Dr Watson, thank you."

Sherlock turns to his laptop as soon as Hilda leaves, rooting through his old files to find information on criminal codes. John quietly goes to the kitchen, and comes back with a cup of coffee which he places by Sherlock's elbow.

"Any luck?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "Only a matter of time, John." He says, and takes a swig of the drink.

Sherlock narrows the code down to a couple of variations, all associated with criminal gangs based in Scandanavia. The meaning will be harder to decipher and he needs a larger sample to be able to recognise patterns. Frustratingly little can be done until he receives Hilda's email.

It's late in the evening when Sherlock's email finally pings with a message from Hilda. She's sent him copies of several dancing men messages written on post it notes. Apparently, Elsa has been collecting them. Sherlock copies down the figures and begins work on trying to crack the code. It's morning before he manages it – Sherlock is dimly aware of a faint smell of coffee and toast when everything finally clicks into place.

"Oh," he says.

"Got it?" John says, coming in from the kitchen in his dressing gown.

Sherlock stares at him. "I need to go to Derbyshire," he says. "Elsa Cubitt is in grave danger."

Hilda Cubitt isn't picking up her phone. Instead Sherlock rings the Derbyshire police on the way to the station, and initiates what proves to be an extremely frustrating conversation. By the time finally Sherlock manages to extract a promise that they will check in on the Cubitts he is on board a train North, watching the landscape of London streaming away from him outside the window.

Sherlock has nothing to do but stare at the grey morning face of the businessman opposite him (travelling to Leicester, sales conference, two children, one cat, toothbrush in need of replacement). Sherlock takes out his phone, and texts John.

Trains are unbearable. SH

The reply is immediate. Should have taken a book.

Ridiculous suggestion. Moronic. You're an imbecile. SH

Get yourself a cup of tea from the trolley. Take deep breaths. You'll be there soon.

This is abominably slow. I should have borrowed Mycroft's helicopter. SH

But then you'd owe him a favour. You know you'd hate that.

Not at all. He's still in my debt for keeping silent about the cucumber incident. SH

The… what now?

Oops SH

I will never understand how the pair of you work

And for the record I never want to

Wise choice. SH

Are Elsa and Hilda really in as much trouble as all that?

Possibly. SH

OK, well. You've done all you can, right? Phoned the police?

Certainly. The chief constable seems to be doing double duty as village idiot. SH

But he said he'd look into it.

Yes. Eventually. SH.

Your advice is terrible, by the way SH

My advice?

About the tea. I've never tasted anything worse in my life. SH

And you eat things that come out of our fridge.

Exactly. SH.

Arriving at Doncaster. Finally. SH

Good luck.

Sherlock is too late. It's obvious as soon as he approaches the Cubitt household – the local police are already unfurling crime scene tape.

Sherlock walks slowly up the garden path, taking in the details of the scene – blood, from a head wound, sprayed in distinctive pattern against the wall. Footprints in the soft grass where the assailant had attempted to flee. And the body of a woman stretched out on the grass. Hilda Cubitt had died trying to protect her wife.

Sherlock stares for several long minutes, then turns away.

It's evening by the time Sherlock finally arrives home. Hilda's attacker, Nils Ingesson, has left hospital and is now in police custody. His motive is pitifully banal – he is an ex of Elsa's, recently released from prison and enraged to find out that she had moved on in the meantime. Elsa is still in intensive care.

The light is low in the flat – John sits in front of the television, the blue light emitted by the screen playing over his face. Police are saying the man who attacked the women in their Derbyshire home is… John reaches for the remote, shutting the television off.

"You heard," Sherlock says.

John nods. "I'm sorry."

Sherlock shoulders off his coat and sits in his chair, stretching out his legs. He closes his eyes, and undergoes the process of filing away the day's information - what little that may be gained from the case labelled, locked up, and put away so that the rest can be deleted.

When he's finally done he opens his eyes feeling better, cleaner, and finds John watching him, expression anxious.

"Dinner?" John asks. "I don't suppose you've eaten today."

"Hmmm," says Sherlock, and sure enough there's a familiar hollowness in his stomach now he thinks to check it. "Perhaps a takeaway. I fancy Bengal House, how about you?"

He thinks he sees John flinch, and opens his mouth to suggest they cook instead but John has already picked up his phone, and is dialling.

They eat quickly and in silence. They don't bother with cutlery, instead tearing off pieces of naan bread and using it to scoop up the curry. Once they are done, John takes the empty cartons to throw away, and Sherlock leans back, closing his eyes. He's more tired than he usually is following a case, the heavy food on his stomach, and the pleasant sounds of John moving in the kitchen more effective than a lullaby.

The washing up sounds pause and Sherlock hears John pad quietly past him. There's a rush of air and a slight increase in weight on his limbs. Clearly John thinks he is asleep already, and has taken the opportunity to cover him with a blanket. A peculiarity of the human condition, Sherlock thinks, that somehow pulling a blanket over one's own body is infinitely less pleasing than having someone else do it for you. At least, if that someone happens to be John. Sherlock has certainly never felt quite so moved by Anderson's attempts to foist a shock blanket onto him.

Sherlock smiles to himself and lets his mind wander, drifting off into the warm dark.

He wakes to a sensation of pressing cold. Freezing air seems to be forcing itself into his lungs. He tries to take a breath but finds he can't.

When he opens his eyes he realises Hilda Cubitt is in the chair with him, her legs wedged between his thighs, chest pressing against his, crushing the air out of his lungs.

"You're getting blood on my chair," he says, looking at the leaking head wound at the corner of her temple.

"Brains too," Hilda says unconcernedly. She reaches a hand up to the bullet hole and swivelling a finger inside it. She smiles a moment, and presses the gory finger to Sherlock's lips. It tastes of curry.

"I deleted you." Sherlock says. His words are stifled due to lack of breath, like the creak of a door.

"Yes," Hilda says, her icy breath brushing over his face. "Not exactly infallible though, are you?"

Sherlock doesn't know how to respond to that so he tries to shift away in the chair. Her weight pins him in place.

"The worst thing," Hilda says. "Is that I know she'll blame herself."

Sherlock blinks for a moment trying to follow her meaning. "Elsa?"

"People like your John, and my Elsa. They've spent their lives fighting alone and they don't know how to share the battle field. It's our job to teach them. I was too late." Her eyes turn toward Sherlock. "I expect you'll be too late too."

Sherlock swallows, staring at her. "I won't," he tries to say, but the air seems to be have been forced out of him. All he can manage is a gasp.

"It's not been a good showing so far, has it, Mr Observant?" Hilda says.

Sherlock hears a low rumbling somewhere far above him, like thunder. Hilda's head rolls on her neck, her mouth falling open. Suddenly face looks as dead as it had when he'd seen her body in Derbyshire. She slumps forward over him. Sherlock can taste decaying flesh, can feel it filling his nose, his mouth. He's being buried alive in her.

Desperately he scrambles to get out from under her weight, body jerking sharply – and wakes.

He is alone in his chair, his blanket tangled around his chest. He reaches over to the table to switch on a lamp. The room is empty - no dead clients anywhere to be seen. Everything is as in its place, illuminated by the yellow street light filtering in through the windows. It's quiet, barring the occasional rushing sound of a late night cab passing on the street beneath him.

For some reason the sense of prickling unease lingers.

Sherlock gets to his feet, and hesitating for just a second, climbs the stairs to John's room. No harm in checking.

The door to John's room is ajar and Sherlock can see at a glance, empty, covers in a crumpled heap at the foot of the bed. A crack of light shines under the bathroom door. Sherlock approaches slowly.

There is no sound from inside and Sherlock hesitates for a moment, thinking of Hilda. I don't want to pry into her secrets. He knocks, softly.

"John?"

There is no response. Sherlock clears his throat, and turns the handle. The door isn't locked. He pushes it open slowly enough for John to react if he doesn't want Sherlock to come in.

John is sitting on the floor by the toilet, head tipped back against the tiles. He opens his eyes to meet Sherlock's, and for a moment the expression in them is worryingly vague and unfocused. Then John seems to realise Sherlock is looking at him, because his posture changes, shoulders tensing, head twisting away to avoid his gaze.

Sherlock thinks of the meal they had shared that evening. He'd been too focussed on his own hunger to notice the way John had been eating, fast, frantic. They rarely finished an entire order between them, but last night there had been no leftovers. Something has tipped one of John's invisible tripwires, tumbled him into an old pattern of behaviour. Binge and purge.

In itself, a relapse is not exactly surprising. Inevitable, one might say. What is disconcerting is the defeat written into every line of John's posture, the shame that has left his usually proudly upright frame curled in on itself on the bathroom floor.

Sherlock searches his memory, trying to recall the strategy he'd developed for situations like this. He finds nothing but a humming blank. Should he give John space? Fetch him water? Is he supposed to take John's averted head, and downcast eyes, as an implicit rejection of his presence or should he be providing comfort? The thought of leaving John here feels entirely wrong. But what if he is making things worse?

Deciding, he steps into the bathroom and, eyes on John, slides to the floor opposite him. He is distant enough to provide John an impression of space should be require it but close enough, he hopes, to imply solidarity. John's breath hitches, and Sherlock thinks his shoulders relax just a little. He still doesn't look at Sherlock, so Sherlock waits.

The floor is cold – this room has always been poorly heated and after a few minutes Sherlock's arse starts to ache with the chill. John, in his thin t-shirt and pyjama bottoms must be even colder though he doesn't show any signs of it. Sherlock wonders perhaps the floor leaching away his body heat might grow a fraction warmer for it and that might transmit itself to John's portion of the room. He hopes so.

Eventually John raises his head, his eyes slowly travelling over the room to rest on Sherlock's face. His gaze drops away almost immediately but the connection is enough to decide Sherlock to try speaking.

"The first time I left Riverview," he says. "I almost died."

John's eyes rise again to his – curious in spite of himself. Sherlock knows he wonders about Sherlock's past, that much is obvious from the little glances he always gives Sherlock when the subject comes up, although he never asks directly.

"It was an overdose," Sherlock continues. "I misjudged the quantity required by my body – the resistance I'd formed had been lowered considerably by the detoxification programme. A painfully obvious mistake, the kind I thought myself too clever for."

John's lips part, but he doesn't say anything. The reliable expression of sympathy spreads across his face.

"I hadn't even intended to get high that night. My spell in rehab had been ordered by Mycroft: I'd believed it was unnecessary. I was not an addict. A drug user, certainly, a heavy one at times but not - dependent. I intended to steer clear of illicit substances for a few weeks after leaving Riverview simply to assert my independence of the habit, to show my brother how wrong he'd been to institutionalise me."

"I told myself when I visited the club where I usually procured drugs, that I could simply pop in, touch my base my contacts and leave. I told myself when I bought the drugs that they were for future use, that I wouldn't actually take them now. By the time I'd got into the loos and began the preparations to shoot up, I'd run out of lies to tell myself."

John is looking at the floor again, but Sherlock can tell he's listening. Sherlock shifts a little on the uncomfortable floor, and continues.

"I'd been so certain of my own willpower. I believed – genuinely – that I wasn't like the others. That once I put my mind to it, I'd be able to stop. But there I was with a needle in my arm, feeling as if I hardly knew how I'd found myself there. I hadn't been able to resist for even 24 hours."

"So… you went back?" John asks, his voice a little hoarse. Sherlock feels a flood of relief at hearing it. "To Riverview?"

Sherlock nods. "Naturally, Mycroft took very little time in ensuring that. The second time I was released I lasted longer. And when I relapsed again, I checked myself back in voluntarily."

"And now," John says. "You're… better."

Sherlock smiles. "That's an optimistic statement. I haven't taken anything in a couple of years. There are certain places, certain situations I still avoid. Better that my strength remain untested, where possible."

John nods. "If you ever need me to, I can…"

"Yes," Sherlock says, meeting John's eyes. "I know, John."

The silence between them feels a little more comfortable now.

"There is something about bathrooms. I think every single one of my relapses took place in one," Sherlock says.

"Private," John comments.

"Yes, and an easier clean up. They also make excellent murder scenes."

John's mouth twitches at one corner. Sherlock counts it as a victory.

"I'll bear that in mind."

There is a silence in which John stares at his feet, and Sherlock pretends to stare at the towel rack, while in fact watching John in the mirrored reflection.

Perhaps it would make things worse, but Sherlock has to know.

"Why today?"

John goes still again. Then, looking up at Sherlock, he shrugs.

"The case, " guesses Sherlock.

John blows out a breath. "I dunno. Maybe."

"We've lost clients before."

"Yes, I – yes, we have." John looks away, past Sherlock, eyes unfocused. "Would we – would you have.." John trails off, still staring at a point past Sherlock as if it was somehow entrancing.

"John." Sherlock says, trying to make his tone sound gentle and not irritable (he isn't sure he succeeds.)

"Nothing," says John. "It doesn't matter."

"Clearly it does," Sherlock snaps, and instantly bites his lip, regretting it.

John looks at him, eyes focussing at last. His hands tighten and then relax.

"I wondered if you'd have gone with her," John says. "To Derbyshire, right away, if I hadn't been…" he nodded to the bathroom around him.

"If you hadn't recently been unwell." Sherlock says.

John nods, lips tightening a little.

Well, Sherlock thinks. His theory about John and guilt was apparently bang on the money.

"Perhaps," he says. "I didn't think of it consciously at the time, but I can't claim it wasn't a factor."

John nods, as if this is the verdict he'd been expecting. "She might still be alive if you had. They both might-"

"It's possible," Sherlock says. "On the other hand, I can't be certain of the odds of my disarming a madman with a gun. I might have died with her."

John shudders. "No – you wouldn't…"

"Probably not," Sherlock says. He waits a moment, gathering the words he wants to use. "A butterfly flaps it's wings in Brazil and causes an earthquake in Japan. One does not usually blame the butterfly. Causality is a complicated thing."

"I know that," John says.

"I wonder if you do," Sherlock says. "You want me to say that your eating disorder led to my taking a less proactive stance in this case and led to the death of our client. I wonder if you have considered any of the other variables in the instance – my own choice to stay, and remote operate remotely by email. Elsa's choice to secrete threatening notes rather than immediately asking for help. The slow response of local police. Perhaps most pertinently the gunman's choice to shoot Hilda at point blank range."

"Yes, I-"

"If one is to take your logic to its natural extreme, one might look at the factors that caused your eating disorder. You were bullied at school, should we find the culprits and ask them to account for the part they played in Hilda Cubitt's murder?"

John glares at him. "Of course not. I'm not a – I made my own choices."

"And yet you seem insistent on taking credit for my choices," Sherlock says. "And Nils Ingesson's choices, and Elsa Cubitt's and everyone else with a role to play in Hilda's murder."

"That is not-" John says. "that is not remotely what I was getting at."

"Oh? What am I missing?"

John's mouth opens as if searching for words.

"Do you blame me for Hilda Cubitt's death?"

"Of course not!"

"But I am one link closer in the chain of causality, am I not?"

"You –"says John. "You were trying to help me." A flush has spread across John's cheeks.

Sherlock regards him for a moment. "Why did you refuse to attend cases with me?"

John hesitates. "I'm not in the best shape. Not – like I was."

"And why does that matter?"

"I could make a mistake. Not be there when you need me. You could be hurt."

"So," says Sherlock. "You were attempting to protect me. If it is intentions that matter to you in this instance, our moral position is very similar."

"I –" John says, an expression of frustration on his face, that Sherlock is inspite of itself transforming into a smile. "You don't – you can't argue me into feeling better."

Sherlock smiles, smugly. John laughs.

"All right," he says. "You annoying dick." It's said with such affection, Sherlock can't help smiling.

"But you know," John hesitates and looks away from Sherlock for a moment, blue eyes thoughtful. "It won't always be – logical. You know."

"Sometimes," Sherlock says. "Logic is all we have."

Sherlock thinks for a moment of the grounds at Riverview. Of walking out in the gardens, the second time around, his limbs aching with withdrawal, scattered darts of pain shooting through his head. And the though: I can think of eight different ways to struggle drugs into this place. It had taken a the construction of a system of thought as brutal as it was efficient for him to control his urges – to force him to ignore pain, desire. And yet sometimes, he still…

"Hey," Sherlock blinks. John has got to his feet and is standing in front of him. He holds out a hand to Sherlock.

"Tea?" he says.

Sherlock takes the hand and pulls himself to his feet. John looks up at him, smiling slightly now eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that Sherlock has discovered means both amusement and concern.

"Tea," he says. "Good."

He follows John down the stairs.