"Marlene, do you wish to talk about this any longer?"

"Not particularly, Dr. Berg." The woman replied, the face of the mystery genre in Norway. Her hair, formerly an asymmetric pixie cut that framed her thin face, had now grown to a short nearly platinum bob. A gaunt hand nervously twisted a piece of hair as the swarthy psychiatrist's brow furrowed in clinical concern. She hadn't eaten at all since the sixth. Marlene sighed wearily, threw down the English paper in disgust.

LONDON'S FRAUD DETECTIVE COMMITS SUICIDE, JUMPS OFF BUILDING

The headline mocked her from the coffee table, she turned it over so it wouldn't show. Her lips moved into a straight, wan line before shuddering and letting out a sob. Her hands immediately flew to her face, ashamed of breaking down.

"It's alright, Marlene. You can tell me. That's why I'm here."

She nodded slowly behind her hands. She knew she could tell him. Her family hadn't hired him, one of Norway's most sought after psychiatrists, for twice a week sessions. It had been Mycroft. Always looking out for his little brother, despite what she'd done to him before.

"He wasn't a fraud. He taught me..." She dissolved into tears again, mascara running pitifully down her face. "...he taught me how to do it."

The psychiatrist raised his black underscore eyebrows and got a paper and pen ready.

Marlene glanced down at the paper after she was finished with her story, sobbing now, psyche just barely held together with baling twine. There was the man who cared enough to teach her, to show her, to love her, with his pale head resting on the pavement like it was a pillow. His hair was splayed in a dark corona around his head and the pale blue eyes were peacefully lidded. Sickened, she was reminded of watching him sleep on the morning she left for Norway. A dark pool of blood stained his skin and swirled on the pavement. Life's blood, she thought, and immediately regretted it. He was really gone. Forever. The most wonderful man shed known; so intense, so volatile.

"I hate how graphic and sensationalized it is," she hissed, scratching at her cheeks, pinching herself to stop from crying.

"Marlene." The therapist stated sharply. "Let me see your thigh."

She'd been scratching unconsciously the entire time. She pulled up her skirt about two inches. There was a gnawing pain as dug-in fabric peeled away from raw flesh. She bit her lip. The skin was raw and bloody.

"I'm writing you a script for Valium. You're going to pick it up, go home, take one, and rest."

When she got home, Marlene suffered from an intense vomiting episode.

The funeral was hard. press showed up, but were kept at bay by Mycroft's men. Marlene sat in between him and John and bawled through the eulogies.

Mycroft had provided her with a plane ticket, as well as a black dress and veiled hat, both to keep her semi-anonymous, but also to comfort her. Sherlock's death had hit her like a mallet, he could see it in visible ribs, shaking hands, dark-ringed eyes.

The three plus Mrs. Hudson returned to the flat after services. Marlene wouldn't look at John. When she finally peeked up at him, he wordlessly walked over and held her. Her cage of bones body shuddered. Mrs. Hudson made them all tea, and they sat in silence until Mycroft cleared his throat.

"Marlene, he...he would have wanted you to have this." He pushed over a familiar leather-bound tome. The photo album. Fresh tears streamed down her face.

"Thank you," She squeaked, then got up, and exited to her old flat.

"I hate you," Marlene said tenaciously to her reflection in the window, straightening her grip on the drawer. "You dumb motherfucker. Stop being so sad and shitty and do something." Fingers wrapped around the surface of the drawer parallel to her body, she slammed it shut. And again, and again, baring her teeth. This little ritual happened sometimes three times per day, but it had gotten worse lately. She hadn't been taking her Valium; she'd been forgetting and then doubling up doses.

Her newer books had done well, but the stresses of book tours had been getting to her; as well as the ever-present question: Did you know Sherlock Holmes?

It'd been said that he'd influenced the character of her Byronic detective in the newest neo-noir she'd been writing, and the answer was always a tenacious "no." The fact that they were neighbours was almost always brought up, as well as the fact that she attended his funeral; and she said it was just a courtesy, that she'd rarely exchanged words with him, let alone knew who he was.

The public eye had been focusing on her since she moved back to Norway permanently after Sherlock's death and bought a house near a fjord, relatively close to Annika's, about two and a half hours away from Oslo. Never let alone when she released a new book, always a question, always super-fans of both Tate and Holmes looking for meanings, both straight-forward and subliminal, in her work.

Hence why she had delayed her next book by six months, and now writer's block was setting in.

With a strung-together yet decent ending, Marlene presented her new book at a press-conference in Oslo. Prepared for the harrowing and redundant questions, she took three Valium before leaving, and almost drove off the road ten times. Finally arriving at her destination, she moved up to the podium, ready to shoot down anyone who dared ask her about her previous life.

She was there.

Her hair had gotten longer, she had become much, much thinner, gone from a size six to about a two, but she was there. That was the most comforting thing Sherlock could see so far. Matching jewelry, a designer power-suit, an updo that framed her thin face; Marlene had come into some money and was trying her damnedest to hide every symptom of depression that she had. Taking the podium, he could see the forced smile stretch her lips as she answered a few questions.

"Did you know Sherlock Holmes?"

"No," She replied coolly. "Next question."

Sherlock raised his hand confidently. Her eyes, which he now noticed had a drug-induced glaze, scanned the crowd, and settled on the tall man with a sandy-brown wig and sunglasses.

"What inspired you to write this, then?" He asked, in bad Norwegian. Her face fell, and he suddenly could see the harsh reality. There were bruises on her fingers, most likely from self-harm, her face was what he called the "drug-mask," slow to respond and not having good coordination. She knew it was him, but the drug haze couldn't put anything together. She re-collected, then took a sip of water. Her ever-practiced sleight-of-hand had slipped a pill into her mouth so fluidly that no one except Sherlock could even tell she did it.

"As always, my imagination; my childhood times in Norway, the white-collar crimes I'd heard about. Just putting them onto paper. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm not feeling well. I hate to cut this short, but I really must get home."

He was there.

She didn't know how, and she didn't know why, but Sherlock had somehow manifested himself back from the dead and had been there, asking her a seemingly innocuous question. It had to be him. The voice, the stance, the height. It had happened.

She was finally going insane.

Marlene paced the room back and forth and back and forth, scratching at her face violently, wondering what to do, how to handle this, and her eyes finally came upon the bottle of Valium.

If you take a handful, you'll just throw it up. You have to space it out.

She took two, waited an hour, took three, waited an hour, took two more, waited an hour, took five, and repeated until the lights started going dim.

The last thing she remembered was a pill bottle rolling out of her hand and spilling all over the carpet.