I have finally got my story finished. I am sorry for the long hiatus! This chapter is the last one, so I hope, that you enjoy. Thank you for all my readers.

Disclaimers: I don´t own the characters, they all belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.

Warnings: Not really. Sporadic mentions about a dead body, rape and torture. Nothing really triggery.

They were back at home. It seemed almost a lifetime since they had last been there, although it had only been a few weeks.

The first day, Sherlock didn´t say a word. He went to his room, closed the door and stayed there for hours, until he came into living room dressed in his favourite blue gown before going to shower. Sherlock stayed there for two hours. John heard the water running and knocked the door, shouting Sherlock´s name, but he couldn´t get an answer.

Who spends two hours in the shower? Someone with OCD? A rape victim...

When he came out, his skin had reddened from then hot water. He didn´t say anything, and just went to his room again.

John couldn´t hear a sound from his room after that, and was unsure whether he should go after Sherlock. Instead he turned on their telly; although he turned its sound down so much that he hardly heard it. Maybe his flatmate had gone to sleep and didn´t want to be disturbed. Sherlock needed his rest more than ever. John knew that it would be a good idea for him to go to bed as well, but he awoke the next morning still in his chair in front of the telly.

"Why did you come?" Sherlock asked John the next day at the breakfast table. The newspapers lay on the table alongside coffee mugs, toast, jam, cheese and eggs. John had bought them for Sherlock, but he didn´t show any interest in them.

"What do you mean?" John asked, confused by his flatmate, his coffee cup half-way to his lips.

"You heard me. Why did you come live with me? Nobody wants me. I know that. I've heard it enough times. I don´t make friends. I'm a freak. Why do you bother to live with me?"

John continued to stare at him.

"I don't… Those people… have no idea… How can you doubt me? You're my friend. I do for you what you would do for me at any time under any circumstances. You would have done the same for me, only so much more effectively. You would have been there in time for me. I am sorry, that that monster… I should have been there in time to prevent it. But it wasn´t easy to find you, especially when you didn´t send… I mean… when the police didn´t… and I am not a detective."

Sherlock couldn't look at him anymore.

"It's fine, John. I'm disgusting. I can smell my filth… the smell won´t go away, however hard I wash myself. How can you be near me? Don´t you smell it?"

"No, I don´t! Don´t think you're like that for one second. That sick bastard did this to you. He's made you feel disgusted by yourself."

John prodded his breakfast, but he had suddenly lost his appetite. It wasn´t over with Sherlock. It was only the beginning of the aftermath.

"Sherlock… I know you won't like this idea, but you should really share this with someone. Talking about how you feel inside will help you to recover… help you to feel like before… you can talk to me, if you want…"

But Sherlock stared at John like he had spat frogs from his mouth, and he realised that he'd better not push further with the subject.

oOoOoOo

"You want to hear how I feel? You want to go inside my head? Do I tell my story to the press? I could become an easy tabloid hero for the never-satisfied audience. Or would you like to write about it in your blog? Oh, you would get a wide readership after that," Sherlock shouted. He waved John´s gun in his hand. "The famous Sherlock Holmes has been raped, and smells like a cesspool, and is having a nervous breakdown. Oh, how human! More publicity means more clients. Are you all that interested in my inner world?"

"I don´t mean it like that. I suppose that you know that. What you've gone through, it wasn´t human at all," John said quietly.

John had heard the gunshots on the stairs, when he had come to home laden with shopping bags. He didn´t like to leave Sherlock alone for too long, but they needed food and he was the only one capable of doing the shopping. He had run up the seventeen stairs as fast as possible, just in time to see Sherlock randomly shooting in the flat.

"Stop this! You could hurt me, or yourself." John noticed something. "You've shot your skull."

The white pieces of Sherlock´s former pet skull lay on the mantelpiece and on the floor. This wasn´t a very promising turn of events.

"Are you telling me to see a psychiatrist? You haven´t seen the wreck my latest therapist was after trying to treat me? Or do you want to try?"

John looked troubled. He was relieved that Mrs Hudson was visiting her sister. John hadn´t slept well recently. To be honest, he hadn´t slept properly for years, and living with Sherlock hadn´t improved it. But his weariness wasn´t the main focus now. It had never been since he had moved to the Baker Street.

"Please, give me my gun back. You shouldn´t take it."

"What will you do with it? Shoot more people for me? Maybe Lestrade would like to know about that. Wait, he already does. But the 'dangerously unbalanced' Sherlock shouldn´t play with a gun… no no no… he could hurt someone with it."

Suddenly Sherlock dragged John nearer, pointing the gun at him.

"I could use it… at any time… against you." His voice was a low whisper, quietly threatening. "You´re so sure that I am so damn good… what if Donovan is right about me? I would be the perfect murderer. I have the knowledge and the skills. Nobody would track your death back to me. I could make your body completely disappear. And my brother would cover it all up, if needed. He would do that for me. You're crazy to live with me, that´s the only explanation. You're keeping your gun here and leaving it for me to find, free to use. You want me to take it. " His lips twisted a broken smile.

He put the gun into his mouth, his eyes fixed curiously on John´s shocked face, almost gleefully excited.

"Sherlock, stop this. You don´t mean this, not really."

Slowly, making sure John saw the movement, he pulled the trigger. Nothing happened. He pulled the gun slowly from his mouth, a suggestive movement that was almost seductive. John blinked. There weren´t any bullets in the gun. He had known that all along. Or… had he? John hoped that he had.

A flash of frustration and anger washed over John. Sherlock knew exactly what kind of effect his demonstration would have on John. He would have turned the whole London over for his detective, and he definitely didn´t deserve this. Sherlock didn´t need to play with his life in front of John's eyes.

"You're unfair," John said to him, quietly but firmly. He was exhausted. He felt like he couldn´t handle this situation. Even he had his limits.

"I'm unfair? I didn´t ask you to stay." Sherlock's voice cracked as he yelled, betraying his true emotions. "I don´t force you to do my shopping or clean my kitchen, to disapprove of my experiments. I didn´t ask you to do any of this. You do it all because you need a purpose in your empty life. You need the adrenaline."

Sherlock tossed the gun onto the table.

"I don´t need this! I don´t need anything from anybody. You have no idea how little I need you." His flatmate's vicious flurry of words stung. "I thought that I already knew my limits, but I've been so wrong. I've learnt that I need much less than I ever thought would be possible. The least I need now is your acceptance or understanding or forgiveness. Leave me alone. Just go."

"Sherlock, listen me…"John tried to keep his voice in control.

The detective swirled and rushed into his room, slamming the door behind him, and John heard the key turn in the lock.

I didn´t know he had a key to his door, John thought. He swallowed his urge to shout after his flatmate. It wouldn´t do any good.

Sherlock wasn´t like this in the hospital. He kept it inside, behind locked doors. When they had arrived home, it was like a dam had cracked, and the dark feelings which had been kept behind it were flowing free.

oOoOoOo

He was awake, but he didn´t open his eyes. He was more safe this way, he thought, though he didn´t know why. However, the monster didn´t leave his room, although he pretended that it didn´t exist. It was there… He could hear it breathing. "He's here," he whispered, as if he needed affirmation.

It was here, and if he opened his eyes, he could stare at it.

It could touch him. He was powerless, unable to stop it, to fight back. He knew now how their story would end. He was still too weak to prevent it.

No! He wasn´t in the cellar anymore. He was in his own room, sleeping in his own comfortable bed. He was perfectly safe.

But it was still with him somehow, in his room, ready to touch, to violate him, to force him to look at his face whilst it did it.

He had to open his eyes and see the monster disguised as a man. He fought against his urge to scream. The man always made him scream, moan, react. He was ridiculous. This time he was going to fight back.

He opened his eyes and saw the man over him, too near him, pushing his blanket away, ready to touch and violate and humiliate him, and he had to scream. He fought back.

John woke to Sherlock's screams, as he had done in the hospital. He heard them in his room through the walls and closed doors.

He ran downstairs.

He didn´t expect this to be easy.

He stood by his flatmate´s bedroom´s door, and then remembered that Sherlock had locked the door behind him.

John could hear terrifying shouts behind the closed door. It sounded as though Sherlock was fighting an intruder. John had to get in. He tried to shout Sherlock´s name, but when he didn´t get any response, he kicked the lock and the door swung open for him.

Sherlock sat on the bed, frantically attempting to drive an invisible something or someone away from him. His eyes were open, but he was not awake.

"No! No! No! No! Go away, don´t touch me, don´t touch me, don´t touch there again, go away…!"

"Sherlock! Sherlock! Wake up! You're dreaming!"

"Don´t touch me… please, don´t touch me." His voice was pleading. Sherlock had stopped fighting. He just sat slumped on his bed, almost sobbing, like all his strength had been drained from him.

John felt at a loss of what to do. He had never seen Sherlock so scared.

After a while, he managed to calm the trembling man down. John kept him close until he felt him stop trembling and relax. He was still sobbing, but he was able to focus on where he was and with whom.

"John?" He stared at his friend, as it was hard for him to remember.

"I'm here for you." John tried to sound soothing. "You're safe now, in your own home, and I won´t let anybody hurt you. Do you understand? I won´t leave you."

"He was there… I swear he was here in this room, like you are now… Where is he?"

"Not here. He can't get here. He won´t catch you again. You were dreaming. You're safe, I'm taking care of it personally. You have to rest and get your strength back. Go back to sleep now."

"Like in the hospital?"

"If you want."

"I do."

John stroked Sherlock's arm with a feather light touch, after climbing behind his friend to spoon him, to assure him there was no monster, that nobody was hurting him, not now.

oOoOoOo

So the days went on. Sherlock had nightmares every night. John Watson would wake up to calm the detective, sleeping behind him, spooning him and keeping him safe.

John Watson had got his flatmate back, but couldn´t recognize him. He spent two hours every day in the bathroom, as if he couldn´t get himself clean. He was more unpredictable now than ever before. He didn´t go out. Sherlock said that without cases to investigate, he had no reason to. John suspected that he was afraid.

It had been difficult to get used to Sherlock´s screams, to see him so wary and jumpy, as though he was waiting for his tormentor to pop up behind a door, as if the man could walk through walls.

It was like Predator had won, Sherlock was still in his hands. Sherlock was marked by the black electricity burns on his skin that would never disappear. Worse than the visible scars was that his mind was still trapped inside the damned cellar. The murderer returned to torture him every night in his nightmares. He tried to clean off the dirt and self-loathing every morning without success. The filth was in his head, not on his skin. John wouldn´t let Mycroft know that. He'd have found out by himself.

Sherlock was far from well. John didn´t know what to do. He just was himself, which was all that was possible.

When Lestrade wanted to talk with them, John was prepared. Lestrade understood that Sherlock was still recovering, but he couldn´t wait much longer. He had been more patient than he was strictly allowed to be, for Sherlock's sake. But Sherlock was the only survivor, and his testimony was vital. The police needed his statement.

John told him that Sherlock wasn´t in the right frame of mind to be questioned, and that he didn´t believe Sherlock was ready to talk about his ordeal. John was sure that Lestrade could get all the information he needed from Sherlock´s medical records.

"Yes, I can use them for the investigation, but it's not the same as a witness' testimony. I need his statement still," Lestrade said.

"I see," John answered. "Then you'll have to wait."

oOoOo

"How is it with you, with both of you?" Mycroft asked John in the café. Although the day was sunny, he was still carrying his umbrella. He wielded it like a weapon.

"He's … he's doing fine, considering what he had to go through. He can cope with hard experiences. He's making progress."

"You call this progress? He doesn't go out, or work. He threatened you with a gun."

John´s anger flared suddenly. He kept his fury, exhaustion and frustration inside him, because he couldn´t show it to his still recovering flatmate. "If you are already so well informed, and have bugged our home without bothering to ask our permission, then you tell me, please, how you could have lost him in the first place?" John's voice was acerbic. "If your men were doing their jobs, then how was it possible for your dear brother to be abducted that night, leaving you with no idea where he was and who had taken him? You clearly pay them too much."

"John, don´t use that tone with me…"

"I'm not finished! Bloody hell, I'll use whatever tone I like. You won't do anything to me, you´re not that stupid. I'm the only one who doesn´t merely tolerate your brother, but looks after him and tries to put him together again after some maniac tore him apart. If you're using your intelligence service to supervise our daily life instead of keeping us safe, stop it at once, and leave us in peace!" John's rage was at its peak. "This is your fault. He's losing himself even as we speak, because you couldn´t keep your eye on him when he needed it most!"

Mycroft paused, an irritated yet calm expression on his face. "Have you finished?" John nodded. "Good. I hope you're feeling better now. You do not realise that I have done more for him than you can imagine. You don´t know about the attacks that I have prevented, because I have kept my eye on him and you. I'm deeply sorry that this unfortunate accident occurred. My guard has not been perfect. I appreciate your efforts with my brother very highly, but I am offering you extra help. He needs a professional..."

John shook his head, feeling calmer. "He won't accept it, you know how he feels about therapists. I don´t believe forcing him into therapy would be good for him. It would cause more damage than it would solve. He needs time to get through this. He is progressing."

Mycroft sighed. "If you wish to call it that. I have other matters to discuss with you. The nurse you encountered at the hospital, Ms Adler, was hired as a temporary worker for a month, but she disappeared only a week after she had arrived. They remember her in the hospital, but the funny thing is, all her records have vanished too."

"She was a bit odd. As though she wasn´t who she claimed to be. What's happened to the murderer?" John asked.

"Believe me, you don´t need to know."

"It´s vital for Sherlock to know the truth."

"Tell my brother that he doesn´t need to worry about this man any more. He met an unexpected end. He ate something unhealthy, or at least that's what I have been told."

Mycroft stirred his tea. "This case couldn't go to a trial, that was out of question. I couldn´t allow the details to become public. I wouldn´t let my brother testify, be forced to retell all those details, and then to face the defence's questioning. He needs time to recover, and public humiliation isn´t the right way. I couldn´t prevent the press from getting their hands on such information. And when this… man went to prison, he would have been a hero amongst criminals. The man who made my brother suffer. When he got out, he wouldn´t have forgotten you both. I wouldn´t call that a punishment. It was my duty to prevent all that."

"You have nothing to do with this man´s death, John. It was a 'sad accident'. Your job is to make my brother better. It will take time, but you have that now."

When John heard the last sentence, his heart skipped a beat. He had been so sure that Mycroft would send Sherlock away, take him to a secure place to "recover", because John wasn´t making enough progress with him. Mycroft could be impatient sometimes. John never considered that he would be so considerate. He knew that most people wouldn´t see this as such, but he knew the elder Holmes brother well enough to understand that this was an act of love.

oOoOoOo

"I heard you," Sherlock said suddenly, on one of their better days, when Sherlock was more cooperative than usual.

"Hmmm?"

"I heard your voice, when I was in coma. You read me a story. I clung onto your voice, I think; it tempted me back. I had something to hold onto. Please, read me more. I want to listen your reading," Sherlock asked.

"What do you want to hear?"

"The book you started in the hospital. What is its name?"

"The Fellowship of the Ring. I thought you didn´t care about fiction."

"Not usually, but I am open to new things."

So that was how John started to read to Sherlock. They had plenty of free time, as Sherlock stayed at home these days, and John shared his time with Sherlock, especially as he was out of work. Well, that was untrue- he had a job to do. Mycroft even paid him for doing it.

The bookmark was still in its place, where John had left it last time. John opened the book. Sherlock curled up on the sofa, wrapped to his blue gown, pressing his legs against his chest and listening. John wondered if anyone had read him bedtime stories in his childhood. He dared not ask about it, but instead enjoyed their togetherness. Sherlock listened to him keenly, enjoying John´s peaceful voice and the story, which blocked out all the shadows of the outside world. Sherlock never used to be so docile.

"This is a long story. It could take a while to read it all."

"Then it's even better. It won´t end too soon." John started to read, smiling to himself when he saw Sherlock so relaxed and happy, almost as though none of this madness had ever happened. It was surely a good sign.

"You have a nice voice. I could listen to it forever."

oOoOoOo

Sherlock had begun to talk about his ordeal. This was a start. John smiled when he knew that they were progressing.

"First I tried to think over my scientific experiments to keep my mind busy, and focus on… something else. I was… He made me… He didn´t let me go to the loo. But you know that. You know what happened. I thought of my experiments, the unfinished ones, thinking how I could finish them. I… I couldn´t concentrate. I was hungry all the time. He kept me hungry and thirsty. He told me that I deserved it, that I was waste."

He stared directly forward, talking more to himself than to John.

"To my shame, I couldn´t remember any formulas correctly. I tried to think of anything else than... where I was. But it didn´t work very well. It was hard to concentrate, hard to forget the pain, the knowledge of how I was and how I smelt. I became so angry with myself, angry that I was so... incapable of making it all go away. Then I thought about you. It helped a bit, but after a while I couldn´t even remember your face correctly. It was like… things just slid from my memory… my brain. I was unable to think properly, as if my brain were a sieve. Then I just followed the ceiling."

"Followed the ceiling?"

"Yes. How it changed, how it moved. It seemed to curve a bit at its edges. And then it waved, with so little movement that I couldn´t be absolutely sure if I really saw it or just imagined it."

They were mentions about drug remnants in Sherlock´s blood. The drugs had been in the nutriment fluids. This explained the vision aberrations, and partly his difficulty thinking.

"He assaulted me. Not just once, but many times." Sherlock's voice became a little choked. "He forced me to come, telling me that it was for my own good, that I needed it. Somehow I believed him. Can you imagine it? I know it was wrong, but he made me enjoy it. And I hated myself more for that. I wanted to disappear through that damn table, through the floor, vanish into the ground, but of course I couldn´t go anywhere. I was trapped."

He wiped his tears away angrily. He was tired of his body continuously betraying him. John tried to pretend that he didn´t notice them.

John let him talk, making his ordeal into words, giving form to his experiences, making them tangible and letting them loose from his mind.

"Finally, I stopped believing that anyone would come to my rescue. I was sure that I would die there sooner or later, as the man assured me. That I had only one way out. He would help me if I begged him. If I asked him to kill me." As Sherlock said it, his expression was completely blank. He had gained his control over his body.

John Watson wasn´t a psychiatrist, but he knew that this was the best he could get Sherlock to do. Such a proud man would never voluntarily go to a real psychiatrist, and forcing him there wouldn´t do any good. All he could do was be there for him, taking what Sherlock was able to give him, assuring him that he would always be there for him. John knew that he couldn't make his pain vanish completely, though he wished in his heart that it would be so easy, but the ache could one day become tolerable. He would be more himself, maybe not today, but one lucky day.

At least Sherlock was talking about it now. John would consider this a good sign.

He remembered how little his own therapist managed to help him, and how much more Sherlock did for him by being just Sherlock.

That´s all he could do now for his friend, and maybe it was enough to save him from the abyss he was sinking into.

He still had nightmares, although not every night. John had slept beside him, consoled him, assured him that the monster was dead, that he could trust in his brother´s word. At least Sherlock didn´t spend the whole morning in the shower any more.

Now all they had to do was just to live on, and hope even against their best knowledge that the next day would be better.

oOoOoOo

Sherlock began to work with cold cases which Lestrade sent him. They were again on good terms. Sherlock wasn´t a man to hold a grudge, despite what some people might think of him. If the case was worthy of his time, he was eager to help with it, and Lestrade knew exactly what kind of cases Sherlock wanted. He was always ready to give him what he was looking for.

It was a perfect arrangement for them both.

But now Sherlock was standing in the middle of their living room, wrapping his blue scarf around his neck and putting on his coat, despite the warmness of the summer day.

"Out, John. Let´s go out. It's a lovely day. I want to go for a walk."

John grabbed his coat in a hurry, as Sherlock was already storming out. It was just like the old days. He tried to hail a taxi without success. They weren´t out just to get some exercise.

"Where are we going?"

"To a crime scene. Lestrade needed me to check a corpse. A young woman found strangled in a basement."

"Strangled? In a basement? A cellar?"

"Yes, in an old house." Sherlock said the address.

John stopped. The house was near the place they have found Sherlock. This didn´t sound good.

"Sherlock, are you sure about this? Are you ready for this case?"

"Of course I am. I need a fresh case. My brain needs stimulation. The work is my best medicine."

"But this case… after what you have experienced…"

"It's just a case!"

What was Lestrade thinking, asking Sherlock for a case like this? Sherlock was still recovering. He was still fragile, under his mask of well-being. Only John knew how thin such masks could be, because he had worn the same one himself. John wanted to see Sherlock functional and occupied, but not for wrong reasons.

Sherlock didn´t listen. He finally got a taxi to stop, and they climbed in. Sherlock said the address and they continued in silence, Sherlock´s thoughts on the new case, John´s thoughts on Sherlock.

"You may be right," John said to him finally, hesitating.

"I usually am."

Sherlock sounded more like himself. It might just be an act, which made it possible for him to experience the outside world again, a flexible shell covering his inner fractures, but John was grateful. He wanted to believe in it, he wanted to see his Sherlock. Sherlock knew what John wanted, he might think he owed it to him, forcing himself to look better to make John feel happy…

They were there. It was as always, a couple of police cars around the house.

"I didn´t take my wallet." Sherlock gave his to John. He had already gone when John turned to pay to the driver.

Sherlock rushed into the house like a child, who'd gotten extra dessert instead of a proper meal. Nobody asked him anything. The police officers recognized him and thought that their boss had asked him to come. But in the doorway Donovan stopped him, staring in disbelief.

"Freak. You shouldn't be here."

"Your boss asked me. You should not stop me, Sally." Somehow Sherlock managed to lace her first name with poisonous distaste, without ever insults.

"No, I don´t mean like that." She looked almost concerned. "You really shouldn't be here. Believe me. Go home. I'll get you a police car to drive you both back."

Sherlock mused on the suggestion for one second. "I have been asked to come, and here I am. It's none of your business." Sherlock passed her without another word, John behind him.

"Hey, the Freak´s friend! You're making a mistake!"

They found the stairs soon, in a dimly lit corridor. The door was open as though calling to them, and they stepped through, beginning to descend down.

In the basement there was another door to a cellar room, which was damp and smelled wet. The forensics team was at work. Anderson stared at them as they entered, and Lestrade did too. He looked surprised.

On the ground lay the naked body of a young woman, her wrists tied with plastic restraints, having been strangled and very probably raped. But the most shocking sight was her other injuries- a bloody pattern on her chest, random wounds and black burn spots found all over her body. Sherlock suddenly paled. Even John could see why. He felt sick for the poor woman and for his friend. Who could do such a horrifying deed?

The woman was twenty-six. Her dead eyes stared at them, amazingly blue, her mid-length curly hair dark brown, very pale skin and… cheek bones. She looks like a female version of Sherlock, John though. She was raped and tortured to death. Just what happened to Sherlock. In fact, there's only one exception: she's dead and Sherlock is alive.

"Sherlock. What are you doing here?"

Sherlock didn´t answer Lestrade. He was lost in the horrific sight before him.

"You asked him to come."

"No, I didn´t. I wouldn´t do that, not for a case like this."

"Someone did. He said that you asked… Can I get your phone, Sherlock?" But the man didn´t react.

"It was probably a text."

"I told you not to come." Donovan had joined their company.

"Who did send ask him to come?"

Sally looked stern. "I dislike him, but I have some sense of humanity. I wouldn´t do that, even to him. He's almost human, so…. besides, I wouldn´t use your phone without your permission, sir."

"Don´t look at me. I'm innocent," Anderson murmured.

"Like an idiot," John murmured back.

Lestrade was clearly furious. "Who's responsible? Do you think this is funny? A game?"

They looked away. Nobody answered.

"It was a text," John confirmed, checking Sherlock´s phone. "Sender: DI Gregory Lestrade."

"It can't be," the DI protested.

Sherlock breathed rapidly, his gaze glazed. He was having a flashback. Shit. Just when he was getting better. He didn´t need this.

"Let´s go out, Sherlock." He needed air now, and he had to get Sherlock out of this room, where the ceiling was too low and you could smell the dampness and death. He leaded him out.

Sherlock seemed like he had woken from a dream when they were finally in the sunshine under the bright blue sky. He shook his head, like he was trying to shake a bad thought from it.

"Moriarty," he whispered.

"He brutally assaulted and killed a woman for nothing…" John was horrified.

"This… This was just a practical joke to him. He had a good laugh. The victim was a piece of meat to him. Like I was to Predator."

"A camera?"

"It's sure to be hidden near. He wants to enjoy my reaction. And he might own someone among the police. Anything is possible. Nowhere is safe from him."

A hand went to his shoulder. It was Lestrade.

"Sherlock, I didn´t want you to come here. I'm so sorry. You have to believe me. I would have wanted to save you from seeing her."

"I know. And you don´t need to guess the murderer´s identity any more. His name is Moriarty. You don´t find him."

"I've asked for a car to drive you home."

"No."

"Yes, please."

"No. Call us a taxi, John."

"Thank you for your offer, Lestrade."

Sherlock was already going, but John grabbed from his sleeve, forcing him gently into Lestrade´s car.

"You can't find a taxi here, Sherlock. We'll accept Lestrade´s offer."

Protesting surprisingly mildly, Sherlock complied.

They drove home in silence.

John worried how this joke would affect Sherlock. He was grateful that Sherlock hadn't deduced anything about the poor woman, who had lost her life because of this insane criminal´s obsession.

He expected that Sherlock would lock himself in his room, staying in silence for days, or spending his time in the bathroom. Instead he sat on the sofa, burying his face in his hands, but he stayed in his place with John and even accepted the tea John offered him.

"Moriarty keeps his eye on me. He's constantly following my life. I would have been surprised if he had been ignorant of my… incident."

His phone beeped.

"Hah! I knew it!"

Do you like my little surprise, sexy? I hope that I got the details right. Please enlighten me.

"Sherlock, how are you?"

Sherlock stared at Moriarty´s mocking text and saw-wrong, imagined his scornful face.

How are you, love? He still heard Jim´s voice. Did you enjoy that?

Tell me how you feel? Another voice wanted to know. The dead man´s voice. Look at me and tell me!

"Sherlock? Sherlock! How are you?" The third real worried voice repeated.

He muted the wrong voices, shook them from his head and answered the third.

"I will be fine, John. I won´t let them win. Ever. Not when I have a friend like you with me."