Bryant's anger had fizzled, giving way to something darker, more disturbing. If John and Sherlock hadn’t told anyone about the Anna/Mary/Moriarty connection, then who did? Even he didn’t know about Mary’s past until last night. If the message left for him wasn’t from Mary, who else knew about her past? Who would want to keep Mary’s name from coming up in a murder investigation? One that could see her extradited back to Canada. 

“Where were we?” Sherlock asked between sips of tea. “Chloe is your girlfriend.” He paused and he nodded. “She led you to believe she was arriving tonight but didn’t. She claims she never sent the message. Is this correct?” 

“More or less. But if you’re insinuating she’s lying, she’s not. She wouldn’t.” 

“Everyone lies.” 

Bryant started to say something, but Sherlock held up a hand. 

“Show me the message,” he said. 

Bryant reached into his jacket pocket and handed Sherlock the note.

He read it out loud. “Heathrow. Air Canada 3112. 9pm. Fancy a cuppa?”

Read out loud like that it sounded nothing like Chloe. Bryant leaned forward, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. “I am an idiot.” An idiot with a diamond ring in my pocket. 

“Most people are.” 

“Sherlock, not now,” John warned. “Bryant, what is it?” 

Bryant sat up, shook his head. “I didn’t see it, I wanted to believe that she –” Still loved me. He paused and concentrated on breathing evenly. He was not going to cry in front of Sherlock Holmes. “Chloe’s French. From Montreal. Her English is really good. Better than my French.” 

“Congratulations to you both. The point?” Sherlock prompted. 

“She would never write 9pm. Quebec uses a twenty-four clock. 9pm is 21 hours – vingt et une heures – to her. Always.” 

“Then we can safely conclude she didn’t send the message.” 

“Yes.” Bryant knew where this going.

"Child’s play, really. The question is why?” 

John frowned. “But first shouldn’t you work out who?” 

“If you know why –” Bryant said. 

“—you know who.” Sherlock finished. 

“It must be Mary.” Bryant stood and began pacing. “If I were able to prove she had a hand in Peter Goodale’s murder, and she found out... we know she doesn’t react well to feeling threatened... Sorry, John.” 

“Sorry, John?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 

Bryant looked down at him. “What are you, five? Only I don’t have enough evidence to tie Mary to the murder – at least not enough to get me an extradition hearing. I don’t think I ever will, but I’m prepared to live with that. I told Greg earlier that I’d take the details of the money transfers, letters and go home.” 

“Mary didn’t do this. She wouldn’t do this.” John sat up in the chair. 

Really, John, you’re still defending her? “Why? Not in her job description?” 

Sherlock avoided looking at John. “I agree with John – Mary didn’t do this.” 

“Based on what?” Bryant asked. 

“It wasn’t Mary.” Sherlock stared at a space above John’s head. 

Bryant moved behind John’s chair. “What makes you so sure?”

“Sherlock, why are you so certain my wife wasn’t involved?” John said slowly. 

Bryant saw Sherlock’s eyes widen and his hands still when John referred to Mary as “my wife.”  Ouch. 

“You know my methods, John.” 

Bryant was beginning to understand his methods too. He rocked back on his heels, thought for a second. “You’re keeping tabs on her. Tracking her? Using big brother? You know she didn’t send the message because you would have been told about it. ” 

“It seemed a prudent course of action in light of recent...” 

“You’ve been tracking my wife this whole time?” 

“I’ve been tracking the assassin who tried to kill me. The fact that she is your wife is incidental.” 

Even Bryant winced at that one. “So who, then?” 

“I vote for Mycroft.” John sat back in his chair and crossed his arms. “And just how is Mary incidental?” 

“Nope. Mycroft doesn’t even make the top ten,” Bryant said. 

“What do you know about my brother?” Sherlock frowned. 

“I know enough. Met him, hated him, dismissed him. Besides, he was too busy trying to get me on the next plane home.” 

John stood, walked toward the door and then back toward the kitchen. “You're having Mary tracked? Like some animal?"

“For crying out loud, John, he’s trying to save your life.” 

Sherlock looked puzzled. “Why would Mycroft want to get you out of town? Someone like you would hardly be in his crosshairs.” 

“Gee, thanks. Apparently your brother has his own set of Mary issues –" 

John turned back to Bryant. “Mary issues?” 

Bryant sighed. “I can’t believe this is news to you. I’ve been in London for two days and I know more about Mary than you two. Your wife works for him, John. Or did, anyway. I didn’t get all the details, I was too busy trying to escape.” 

Sherlock watched John pace. “John.” he said quietly, “Sit down. Please.” 

John stopped and looked at Sherlock. “Why didn’t you tell me?” His voice rose a notch. “Why do you never tell me?” 

Bryant rolled his eyes. “Hey, I have an idea – how about you two go make out some more or go and dope the drug addict even further and I’ll find a real suspect to question.” Bryant paused, deciding how much to say. John walked to the window, turning his back to them. His face was reflected in the dark window and he saw him wipe his eyes with the heel of one hand. “What about Charles Magnussen?” he said. “I imagine he has a very thick file on Mary.” 

Sherlock had the decency to look surprised. And a little impressed. 

“You were in his building the night you were shot – my theory is that she was there to kill him and you got in the way. According to the police report, there were two victims that night – you and Magnussen. What I haven’t figured out yet is whether you knew about Mary before you went there. My guess is no.” 

“Lestrade might be wise to engage your services, Inspector,” Sherlock said with a small smile. 

“But why would Magnussen want to mess with me? What he did wasn’t a threat, not really. More like trying find out what buttons he could push. But why?”

Sherlock shifted in his chair and winced. “He was trying to discover your pressure point,” he said after a minute. 

Bryant came around and sat in John’s chair. Sherlock looked pale and in pain. “You okay? You’re sweating. Do you need a pill or something?” 

Sherlock ignored him and looked over at John. “If it is Magnussen, then we can assume he knows exactly why Inspector Bryant is here.” 

John turned back from the window. “Sherlock, answer Bryant – are you okay?” He walked over and laid a hand on Sherlock’s forehead. 

Sherlock brushed the hand away. “I am fine. I just need to focus.” He coughed several times, one palm pressed flat against his chest. 

“Don’t move.” John walked into the kitchen. He got a glass, filled it with water, and came back to Sherlock. “Take these.” He held out two pills. 

“No, I need to focus, John.” Sherlock winced and shifted again in his chair. He waved his hand. “I’ll take a pill later.” 

“Talk to me about this pressure point,” Bryant said. John was throwing him dirty looks, obviously wanting him to wrap this up. He emptied the glass into the sink. 

“Magnussen was attempting to discover whether Chloe is your pressure point – your vulnerability – your Achilles heel. The one thing – or one person – that you would risk everything to keep safe.” 

“Let me guess. John is yours.” 

“I’m your Achilles heel now?” John frowned.

Bryant threw up his hands. “Not everything is about you, John.” He turned back to Sherlock. “I need to know if you think Chloe is in danger.” 

“I don’t know. I doubt it.” Sherlock stood unsteadily. “But a timely visit to an out of town cousin may be in order.” He got as far as the fireplace, stopped and put a hand against the mantle to steady himself. He leaned forward, breathing hard. 

“Sherlock, let me take a look at you. “ John walked over to the fireplace. “You’re sweating. A lot.” 

“It’s hot.” 

“It’s not hot. Sit down.” 

Bryant stood. “Can I use your phone?” 

John helped Sherlock back to his chair and gestured to the phone next to it.

“If you’re wrong, Sherlock, I’m going to look like a complete ass. Again.” Bryant punched in Chloe’s number and waited. John was right, Sherlock looked like crap. Worse than he had all day. But he had been cut in two from gunshot wounds and surgeries, so what did he know? 

Sherlock started to speak but was interrupted by a coughing fit, more violent than the one he had witnessed the day before. John moved quickly to Sherlock’s chair, leaning over him, rubbing his back, talking calmly to him. “It’ll be okay. Just try to breathe.” 

Bryant hung up the phone when he saw the look on John's face. Something was definitely wrong.

“A glass of water, I know,” Bryant said. He hurried to the kitchen to refill the glass John had just emptied. “He doesn’t sound good. I’m not a doctor, but shouldn’t he be in the –” 

Sherlock drew his legs up into the pain, moaning and twisting sideways in the chair. He held one hand against his mouth, coughing, his other arm wrapped tightly around his chest. “No hospital,” Sherlock gasped. “I can’t –”

He continued to cough, a terrible wet sound. He lowered his hand from his mouth and it came away bloody. Bryant felt useless, standing there watching Sherlock struggling to breathe and coughing blood.

If John didn’t call 911, he would. 

“That's it! We’re going to A&E. Now.” He turned to Bryant. “Call 999. Tell them I suspect a PE and possible DVT.” His voice was calm, controlled and Bryant saw the army doctor he used to be. He held the glass of water up to Sherlock’s mouth. “Try to drink this.” 

Bryant dialed. Gave the operator the details. Felt his own heart pounding in his chest. “They said five to ten minutes.” 

“Good. Grab a blanket from Sherlock's bed. And a towel from the bathroom.” He bent down in front of Sherlock and took his face between both hands. “I'm sorry but I have no choice now. You're not fine. We need to fix this. You can hate me all you want later.”

Sherlock nodded and began to cough again, his eyes filled with pain. He took another gasping breath, closed his eyes and slumped forward.

Hospital waiting rooms were the same everywhere. Uncomfortable chairs, bad fluorescent lighting, terrible coffee. Bryant wasn’t sure why he stayed, just a vague half-formed feeling that he shouldn’t leave John on his own. So he waited. Every half hour he’d go outside.

“You should go back to the hotel,” John said. “Get some sleep.” 

Bryant shook his head. “I don’t mind staying. How is he?” 

“Stable. They’ll know more in a few hours. Scans showed multiple clots in his lungs. He’s also got a serious DVT—deep vein thrombosis – in his left leg and it’s throwing off clots to his lungs. His leg has probably been hurting for days but the painkillers and his own stubbornness helped mask the symptoms.” He scrubbed a hand across his face. “I’m a bloody doctor. I should have seen –” 

“You saw what he wanted you to see.” 

“Probably.” He didn’t sound convinced. 

“What’s next?” 

“He’s on oxygen which is helping him breathe easier and they’re pumping him full of thrombolytics – clot busters. Anticoagulants too. If they don’t do the job, they may have to remove the biggest clots surgically. But it’s a bit dodgy doing surgery after a course of thrombolytic therapy.”

“Is he awake?” 

“Off and on. They’ve got him back on a morphine drip, so he’s not making much sense and won't be for some time.”

“What can I do?” 

“Sit with him until I get back. As much I hate the idea, I have to call Mycroft, let him know what’s happening. He can decide whether to tell their parents.” 

“Their parents? I don’t know why it seems so odd that Sherlock and Mycroft have parents. Everyone has parents. Are they –” Bryant wasn’t sure how to put it.

“Despite their children, they are completely normal and very pleasant people.” He smiled when he saw the expression on his face. “That was my reaction too.” He cleared his throat. “They moved him upstairs to ICU. I’ll take you to him.” 

John walked slowly. He looked exhausted. “I can’t believe we’re back here. He was finally getting better.” 

Bryant was quiet – anything he said would have sounded trite and facile and false. 

He hesitated outside the entrance to ICU. It was five years ago. Why did it still feel like yesterday? 

“You okay?” John asked.

“Touch of déjà vu, that’s all. I’m fine.” 

One hour after seeing Sherlock in ICU, Bryant left the hospital and followed the crowd up out of the Barbican Underground station and into the sunlight. His directions said to take the 56 bus from the station, but he decided to walk – the only exercise in the last few days was moving from one chair to another. Despite the chill, it felt good to be outside and walking. At least there was no snow here yet.

After fifteen minutes, he turned the corner and saw the hospital in front of him. He couldn’t help but look up and imagine Sherlock standing on the ledge. How did you manage it? You must have needed help. Who cared about you enough to help you die? To keep your secret? I didn’t understand at first how could you do that to John, but I understand now. You’ll do anything to keep him safe.

He’d stayed at the hospital most of the night, until the hotel called to tell him that his room had been broken into. That was right before his boss called and reminded her he’d promised – but had failed to deliver – a full progress report. He also reminded him that he expected him and his report in the office on Monday morning – no excuses. It only gave him two days before the flight home on Sunday afternoon.

He’d retrieved his belongings from the hotel and called Greg. Nothing was missing. Greg had picked him up from the hotel, fed him a decent breakfast, and dropped him and his suitcase at 221B after a dozen sidelong glances and a few hundred words on why staying with Sherlock was a rubbish idea. How it would compromise the objectivity of his investigation.

“I’m not staying with him. I’m staying at his flat.” And should he really be the one lecturing her on compromising objectivity with a Holmes sibling? “And it’s only for a day or two, Greg.” Bryant leaned in the car window. “Until we get the rest of this mess figured out and I can go home.”

Greg rolled his eyes and pulled away from the curb. Bryant stared up at the windows of the flat, hesitant to go in. Greg was right, if he crossed the threshold, he would be forever tossing his hat into the ring. He’d be firmly picking a side. Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson opened the door, took his suitcase and hustled him up the stairs.

Bryant spent the first hour wandering through the place. He picked up books, shook them, put them back. He dug through the refrigerator and found the only edible things were a wedge of cheese and a jar of pickled beets. He stood at the door to Sherlock’s room for a while, staring into the corners, wondering if Mycroft and/or Magnussen had the place bugged. He checked under the bed, behind the dresser, above the doorframe. When he was satisfied he was really alone, he stretched out on his bed and allowed all the facts to float above his head as he tried to put them in a logical order.

Bryant wanted to get on a plane right then – to hell with Sherlock and John and Mary and Mycroft. But as long as someone was trying to get to him through Chloe – he had to stay put. He pulled a blanket over himself, yawned and closed his eyes.

The dream was back. The one he’d had every night in those first, long months after Sarah died. In every version of the dream, he was biking with Sarah beside the canal. It was always spring because the tulips were in full bloom (sometimes yellow, sometimes pink, and after especially bad days, black). Sarah would pull ahead, then turn and laugh and tell him to try and keep up. But no matter how fast he pedaled, Bryant fell further and further behind until Sarah disappeared completely. Tonight though, it wasn’t Sarah who turned back, urging him on, it was Chloe.  

“Chloe, wait for me,” Bryant yelled after her. “Please don’t leave me.”

But it was too late. She was already gone.

Mrs. Hudson came upstairs with tea a few hours later and woke him up with the news that John had called and Sherlock was doing better. The doctors were now talking about non-surgical solutions. Bryant sighed and popped two biscuits in his mouth at once. Mrs. Hudson clucked and handed him a takeout menu from Speedy’s.

“You need to keep your strength up, dear. You can’t live on tea and biscuits.”

Bryant glanced at the menu and settled on egg salad on rye and a coffee and tried to ignore the pressure building behind his eyes. He’d quickly gone from a comfortable seat in the balcony to center stage in this little melodrama. He went looking for his shoes and kicked aside his messenger bag, which he had dropped by the door when he first came in. A thick file slid out onto the floor, loose papers spilling haphazardly across the carpet. A photo of Sarah’s smiling face stared up at him.

Sarah had always been so present, so alive – no matter how hard Bryant tried to move on. He knew exactly how John felt after Sherlock left. But then he’d met Mary, and she’d done for him what Chloe had done for him – she’d let the light back in. What would he have done if Sarah had miraculously reappeared? As much as he missed her, he was glad he’d never have to make that choice.

He bent down and shoved the papers back into the file. Briefly he held Sarah’s photo between two fingers. There was no way he could ask for Sherlock’s help now.

Bryant walked a step into the room just as John snapped, snatching a handful of Mycroft’s well-pressed shirt and throwing him hard against the wall. He wrapped a hand around Mycroft’s throat and squeezed. “I told you, don’t talk about my wife.”

Mycroft could only breathe a little, but it was enough to push out the words, “Oh, do make up your mind, John.”

John dropped his hand and turned away. “Just go. Now.” He sank down into the closest seat and closed his eyes.

Bryant twisted back out of the room and let Mycroft pass by him. He fought the urge to trip him, just for the sight of his smug face hitting the shiny linoleum, and walked back into the room. John was staring at a spot on the floor.

“John?” He laid a hand on his shoulder and he looked up.

“Bryant. You’re back.”

“Yeah, I thought maybe I could convince you to go home. Get some sleep.” He looked him over. “You’re starting to look a little ragged round the edges. Where is he, by the way?”

“They’ve taken him for more tests. I should stay until he gets back –”

He shook his head, “No. You should go. Mrs. Hudson told me they were moving him out of ICU later today. I think he can manage without you for a while. I don’t mind staying.” He held out one hand, “Come on. Go home.”

He took his hand and stood. “Yeah, all right. Thanks.”

“I’ll call if anything changes.”

He was halfway to the door when he turned back. “Any word from Chloe?”

“She's in Montreal and said she’d call me tonight.”

“That’s good then, right?”

“Fingers crossed. And John?”

“Yeah?”

“He’s going to be all right.”

John nodded and after a quick look back at the empty bed, left the room.

Bryant sat by the bed, writing up his notes and flipping through the old copies of newspapers he’d found in the waiting room. After an hour, his notes were in pristine shape and he’d developed developed a headache.

Still no sign of Sherlock.

After another half hour, he went looking for a nurse. It was like trying to hail a cab in rush hour.

“Will Mr. Holmes be much longer? It’s been almost two hours.”

The nurse, clearly not happy to be intercepted, removed her latex gloves and dropped them in the waste container by the door. “Not my patient. You’ll have to ask at the desk.”

“Thanks.” For nothing.

At the nurse’s station, after waiting ten minutes for the nurse to acknowledge he was standing there, Bryant was told Sherlock had been brought to his new room downstairs directly following his latest tests. “Didn’t anyone tell you?” He asked.

“No,” Bryant answered, unsuccessfully hiding his annoyance. “What room is he in now?”

He finally looked up at Bryant. “And you are?”

He knew how this worked. Never say friend or colleague or boyfriend. You might as well say “I met him this morning.” Always say family. The nurse looked skeptical but let it slide possibly just to get rid of Bryant quicker.

“Right.” He sighed and wrote something down. “He’s in 122. Do you mind bringing his belongings down to him?”

Because I work here?  “Sure, no problem. But can I ask you something?” 

Bryant decided to take the silence as a yes.

“Do you know where or what Voxcross is?.”

“Voxcross? No idea, really.”

“Thanks.”

“Vauxhall Cross, I reckon.” said someone behind him. The voice was young, the accent Cockney.

The girl was probably not more than sixteen. She looked like a street kid, thin and pale, dressed entirely in army surplus couture. But when she smiled at Bryant, she showed off a set of perfectly straight teeth that Bryant guessed must have set her parents back a few thousand dollars.

“Vauxhall Cross is where he works – when he’s in London, I mean.” Her accent slipped. Rich girl playing street kid. She paused and looked at Bryant. “I like your accent.”

He laughed. “I like to think you have the accent, not me. It’s Canadian.”

“Yeah, he said.” She bit her lip. “Dammit.”

“Who said? What’s your name?”

The girl didn’t answer, just shrugged and walked away.

Bryant was tempted to follow her, to shake loose whatever else she knew.

Back in Sherlock’s room, He pulled the case off one of the pillows and gathered up everything he could find – t-shirt, sweater, socks, robe and slippers and stuffed them into the pillow case. When he picked up his pajama pants, a tiny piece of paper floated out of the pocket and onto the floor. He picked it up, carefully unfolded it and read the words – "I.O.U" what an odd thing to keep even for someone like Sherlock. He refolded it and tucked into his wallet between his driver’s licence and a bunch of pound notes. He added the pants to the pillow case, slung it over one shoulder, and walked down the hall.

He gently pushed open the door to Sherlock’s new room.

“John?”

Bryant stepped into the room and stood at the end of the bed. Sherlock was awake and sitting up.

“Well, you look like crap,” He said. “Which is officially a grade higher than yesterday's death warmed over, so that’s positive.” The oxygen mask was gone – replaced by a nasal cannula, but the IV and monitors were still in place. “I hear the meds are working.”

“Where’s John?” he repeated.

“I sent him home to get some sleep – he was exhausted. He’ll be back in a few hours.”

“John never did have any stamina. He always insisted we stop and eat at the most inopportune times.”

Bryant shook his head. “Give the man a break. He’s had a rough few days.”

“Brought on by your visit, Inspector Bryant.”

“You’re on blood thinners, aren’t you? Lots and lots of them, right?”

Sherlock looked confused by his sudden change in direction. “That is the standard treatment for blood clots, yes.”

“Then don’t piss me off. All I need to do is poke you with a safety pin and you’ll bleed like a stuck pig.”

He gave Bryant a small half-smile. “Noted.”

He dragged a chair beside his bed and sat down. “We need to talk, Sherlock. Just you and me.”

“I need to rest,” he protested, but he could tell he was curious.

He would always be curious.

“Rest when I leave.”

“Very well. Talk.”

Bryant knew his time was limited. John wouldn’t be able to stay away much longer and Sherlock wouldn't co-operate for very long without him.

“I had a lot of time to kill and I fell down the rabbit hole. I found some things."

Sherlock closed his eyes and there was something in his expression that made Bryant feel like he’d just kicked a puppy. “I’m sorry...”

Sherlock looked at Bryant. “Did you tell him?” he asked.

“No. It’s not my place,” Bryant said.

“Nor mine.”

“But then he’d have a reason to leave Mary for good. He wouldn’t stay with her if he –”

A shadow crossed Sherlock's face. “I always hoped I was reason enough. I miscalculated. Human error. ” He cleared his throat and continued. “No matter how much he protests otherwise, no matter how much I loathe it, he is still tied to Mary. I know I have very little experience in this area, but I’m not naïve enough to believe that he never loved her, that part of him still doesn’t love her. John has a strong sense of duty, of responsibility. To Mary and the child.”

“But if it’s not his – ” Sherlock didn't let Bryant finish.

“Finding out about Mary’s connection to Moriarty has pushed him to make a decision. But he is still torn, whether he admits it or not. I recognize that I could pull him in my direction if I told him, but I’ll not have him by default.”

“But not telling him is cheating. If he finds out you knew –” Again Sherlock talked over Bryant like he wasn't there.

“If I hadn’t returned, he’d still be with her. Happily, I believe. Looking forward to the birth of their child. How many times, how many different ways can I... and still expect –” He stopped and took a long breath. “Have you ever lost anyone, Inspector?” His voice was thick.

Bryant nodded. “Of course. Everyone has...”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Not everyone remains so vigilant.”

“You should talk.”

Sherlock shifted a bit in the bed. “Sister?”

“Weren’t we just talking about you and John?”

“No, not a sister but someone close. Not your mother. Mothers don’t usually cause this kind of devotion to their death. Mothers are supposed to die-“

“Jesus. If I tell you, will you shut up?”

“You’ll tell me. You’ve wanted to tell me for days.” Sherlock lifted an arm, winced, and placed it on his chest. “I think it’s the real reason you came to see me.”

“Bloody hell.” Bryant squirmed in his chair. It had to be telepathy. He hadn’t said a word. “Contrary to your giant ego, I came to see you about Moriarty.”

“And...”

Bryant just sat, arms folded.

“Oh, come on, Inspector. I need a distraction.”

“Can we please just get back to John and why you haven’t told him about the – ”

“Girlfriend.” Sherlock slumped back into the pillow. “Of course. This morphine makes me dull.” He looked hard at Bryant. “Murder?”

“Are you having fun?”

“Trying to. Unsolved I take it?”

Bryant stood. “I will not sit here and let you turn her death into a game.”

Sherlock closed his eyes and blew out a breath.

Bryant shook his head and sat back down. He’d only known him a few days, but he could distinguish sincerity from all the other bullshit that usually came out of his mouth. He pulled the chair closer to the bed. “I was just going to leave you the file. Didn’t think you’d be well enough by the time I left.”

“Where’s the file?”

“On your kitchen table. And if you start rubbing your hands together in glee or something, you will never see it.”

“Why in the world would I...”

“Oh, please, if you had a mustache and cane you’d be twirling them.”

Sherlock’s mouth curved into a smile. And then he frowned. “I am sorry for your loss.”

Bryant decided he liked the bullshit better. “Yeah, thanks. I’m getting over it.”

“Yes, I can see that.”

Bryant sighed. He scrubbed his face. Recited the facts. Looked at his shoes, hands, watched the monitors. He knew every syllable by heart. As he went through the forensics he wondered if Sherlock would find it all so mundane. Hate crime. Brutal. Unfortunate. Unsolved.

“I’ll take the case.”

Bryant looked up to see Sherlock staring at him.

Sherlock winced and rubbed at his chest. “As soon as I am released...”

“No worries. It’s been five years. I can wait a bit longer.”

“Time heals nothing,”

Bryant realized he was not talking about Sarah. “Yeah, but you came back,” he said.

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, I did. Sometimes I wonder...”

“You’re an idiot.”

“I just think...”

“Yes, you think. That’s all you do. What is that thing you said to me? You see but you do not observe?”

“I observe. The particulars are just beyond my control.”

“You need to tell him, Sherlock.”

“I need to do no such thing.”

“How can he really choose if he doesn’t have all the facts?”

Sherlock sighed. “What would you do?”

“Me? I’ve been watching you two – it’s so obvious...”

“No, I mean you. What would you do if Sarah came back?”

Bryant squeezed his eyes shut. “She’s not coming back.”

“Yes, but if she did – what would you do?”

Bryant felt pressure in his chest. He didn’t want to think. He didn’t want to let any shard of light into the darkness that surrounded Sarah’s death. She was gone. It was over. He rubbed his hands on his knees. He couldn’t breathe. He thought about Sarah, walking through the door, backpack slung over a shoulder, her glasses shoved up on her head. The pain was sharp. But then he saw Chloe, sitting at the kitchen table, her legs tucked under her, reading a police report. Dammit. If this is what John was going through... he looked up at Sherlock, tears threatening.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I love Chloe. But I loved Sarah too.” He wiped a hand across his eyes. “God dammit, Sherlock.”

“Exactly. So what choice do I have?”

“What will you do?”

“I made a vow – keep John and Mary safe. For John. Because I have done enough. He’s endured enough.”

“What about you? What about keeping yourself safe?”

“I am irrelevant in the equation. My job is simple. I will simply focus all my efforts into ensuring that Mary doesn’t feel threatened and keeping John by my side.”

“How?”

“By taking back whatever information Magnussen has collected.”

“And how do you plan on doing that? He’s not going to give it to you because you say please.”

“I’ll give Magnussen something he wants more.”

Bryant wasn’t going to ask what that something was. He didn’t want to know.

Bryant shifted uncomfortably in the chair. “Magnussen can’t be the only one who knows about Mary. Do you plan to do battle with them all?”

Sherlock picked at a loose thread in the blanket.

“And you’re sure Mary’s the only reason?”

He drew in a breath and winced. “Yes, of course.”

“Then why do I have the feeling there’s something else going on – something personal between you and Magnussen.”

“What could be more personal than John’s safety?”

Maybe it was the morphine, but he was a terrible liar. “Good try, Shezza.”

He raised one eyebrow. “You are a dangerous man, Inspector Bryant.”

“What did Magnussen do to you?”

Sherlock looked at Bryant, his expression open and vulnerable, and he caught a glimpse of the boy he must have been – his head stuffed full of facts and figures about how the world was made, but not a clue about how it worked. He thought for a moment that he was going to tell him, but then he watched him shut down, retreat back into his head. “You should leave,” he said.

Bryant wasn’t sure if he meant leave the hospital or leave London. Both, probably. “I will. When John gets back.”

“You won’t tell him about –”  

“I said I wouldn’t. I will tell him you’re an idiot, though.”

His mouth curved into a small, tired smile. “That appears to be the consensus.” He closed his eyes and his breathing slowed.

Bryant sat back and watched him sleep, working out what excuse he could give his superintendent that would let him stay in London a few days longer. What excuse he could give Chloe.

Bryant achieved everything he’d come to London for – he’d found enough evidence to make an arrest in Peter Goodale’s murder, solved the mystery of Anna Ashcroft’s disappearance, and even extracted a promise from Sherlock to take on Sarah’s case. Most surprising, he had a girlfriend waiting in Montreal who was not only speaking to him, but throwing around the L word. Maybe the engagement ring wouldn’t end up be pawned after all. All that was missing was a bright red bow to tie it all together.

So why couldn’t he shake the feeling that he needed to stay a little longer? Sherlock was brilliant, but a complete imbecile when it came to his own relationships. He would analyse and deduce and plan and in the end he’d mess it all up because he knew nothing about human nature. Sherlock still didn’t understand that all John had ever wanted to hear was “Choose me.” Someone needed to protect him from himself.

Preferably someone who wasn’t sleeping with at least one other person in the room.

Bryant's head hurt. He stood and stretched and made his way out of Sherlock's room.

Halfway down the hall, he stopped, took a coin from his back pocket, and stared at it. Why not? It was as good a way as any to make a decision.

Bryant flipped the coin in the air.

John knew he needed to sleep. But he couldn’t. Not yet. No matter how tired he was, there was something he needed to do first. He stood on the pavement outside St. Bart’s, looking for an empty cab. It was only five, but the sun had already set, the air tight and cold. She’d be home by now, making tea, listening to the news. When he first moved in with Mary, it had surprised him to find out how much he enjoyed the routine of their lives. Up at 6, to work at 7, home by 5, in bed by 10. It was everything that life with Sherlock wasn’t, and everything he needed.

No matter what Sherlock believed.

Half an hour later, he stood outside his house, hands deep in his pockets, staring up at the bedroom window, searching for the words he would say, and a sharp pain filled his chest – as if someone had wrapped a wire tightly around his heart and was tugging it from a great distance.

A light came on in the room next to the bedroom. The baby’s room. He and Mary hadn't gotten as far as buying a cot or choosing colors, but they’d talked about moving the office downstairs to the alcove off the kitchen. It would be tight, but it was wasted space anyway and the bedroom upstairs faced south and with new a carpet and curtains...

He knew how to leave Mary, he’d been doing it since the moment Sherlock returned. But how could he leave his child? Where did one learn to do that?

Some nights, lying alone in his room upstairs at 221B, unable to sleep despite the whiskey, he had let himself imagine a life with Sherlock and the child. A girl, he thought. He saw her at three or four, blue eyes and blonde curls, sitting on Sherlock’s lap, one small hand resting against his cheek. Harry had done that when she was young, nestling into John as he read to her – first the Peter Rabbit books, then later, although she was perfectly capable of reading it herself, The Secret Garden. He pictured Sherlock reading to his daughter, all the books he’d been too serious to read as a child all the while teaching her the 'Science of Deduction' and the periodic table. It was stupid and sentimental and it broke his heart every time.

He looked up again and saw Mary standing by the window. Her back was turned but her hands were moving, pointing left and then right. She leaned against the window sill and a figure – a man, taller and broader than John – moved in front of her. His hands came up and for a short, stupid minute John thought the man meant to attack her, but then he put his hands on Mary`s shoulders and they turned and he watched as the man pulled her into a kiss and let one hand drop, his open palm pressed against Mary`s stomach. Casually, like he’d done it a hundred times before.

John stared, his brain stubbornly refusing to draw conclusions, to understand. He turned and left. Walked stiffly to the corner and caught the first bus that came by. He didn't know where it was headed, anywhere was better than here. Half an hour later, he got off and hailed a cab back to 221B. The cab turned the corner onto Baker Street and he felt the familiar tug in his chest. Ever since Sherlock had first shown him the flat, he knew it was where he belonged. It was where he felt safe. It was where the nightmares had finally dulled to white noise.

It was home.

In those short months between having Sherlock and then losing him, John had tried hard not to think too much about what was happening between them. They had never talked about it. John was too scared of driving Sherlock away especially since Sherlock really wasn't capable of understanding and voicing his own feelings. 

He’d known that it did him no good to analyse was happening between them, and it would have done neither of them any good if John had admitted, to Sherlock or himself, that sometimes those dazzling, perfect moments were all he lived for.

Now he unlocked the front door, took the stairs two at a time and pushed into the kitchen. He heard Mrs. Hudson downstairs, rattling something, her radio turned to the classics, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t talk about what he’d seen. Not yet. Not until he was sure. If there was thing he knew for certain about Mary, it was that she was a liar. Maybe what he’d seen was just another lie. He leaned against the table, trying to decide what to do next.

He was hungry.

He didn’t bother opening the fridge. He saw a Speedy’s take-away menu on top of a stack of blue file folders, and shut his eyes. Everything ached. His eyelids felt like sandpaper as they scraped open again and he tossed the menu on the table. He glanced at the files, didn’t recognize the handwriting, the little post-it tags hanging off in rigid single file.

He slid a finger under the first one and opened it. Standard police report. Picture paper clipped to the upper corner. Victim. Young. Pretty. He hadn’t heard Sherlock talk about taking on any new cases. Then he noticed the maple leaf stamped in one corner, the RCMP insignia in the other.

This must be one of Bryant’s files, but why would he leave it here? He knew he had no business looking, but what if it was about Mary... what did Bryant say her real name was? Anna?

He went down to Speedy’s, picked up a plate of sandwiches and three beers. He ate quickly and sat back in his chair, files on his lap. No, this was definitely not about Mary.

This was about a girl called Sarah.

He was two beers and twenty pages in when he lost his struggle to stay awake. The papers slid noiselessly to the floor and his head dropped to his chest. When Mrs. Hudson came up to check on him two hours later, she gathered up the papers, tossed the empty paper plate and left him to sleep.

“I’m going to gain twenty pounds,” Bryant said between bites of Mrs. Hudson’s cranberry scones.

He sat in Sherlock’s chair. Mrs. Hudson had given up offering him tea.

Mrs. Hudson shook her head and gathered teacups from the tables. “Less sugar than your American donuts, dear. I used to buy them by the dozen in Florida, lovely and sticky. Gained a stone once over a long weekend.”

Bryant smiled. “Canadian, Mrs. Hudson. I’m Canadian.”

Bryant stood and brushed crumbs off his shirt. “I’d be offended if I weren’t so full.” He took his dishes to the kitchen. “How does Sherlock stay so thin, I wonder.”

Mrs. Hudson joined Bryant at the sink. “It’ll do you no good to wonder about that one."

“Really?” Bryant always felt like Mrs. Hudson was on the verge of telling him something very important, some little tidbit that would explain it all – especially why Bryant was still here, gossiping over tea and cakes like a proper English lady.

“Yes, dear, really. Now, I need to air out his room. John said they’d be home at 3 and it’s already half 2.”

Shut down again. Bryant sighed and walked back into the living room. Why was he still here? Coin toss aside, of course. He’d spent the last few days alternating shifts at the hospital with John and filling his notebook full of scribbles and theories and not much else. He’d resolved not to say anything about Magnussen or Mary or the baby to Sherlock until he was better. To pass the time, they played chess when he was up to it and hearts when he wasn’t. He brought him cookies and tea and in a weak moment, probably brought on by too much morphine and not enough John, he explained how he’d managed the fall from the roof. “It was quite easy, really,” he said with a small smile. “It was leaving him that was hard.”

Chloe had taken the news better than he’d hoped and his superintendent was surprisingly (and suspiciously) sympathetic. And now Sherlock was being released from hospital and John had gone to fetch him home. Home. That’s what John had said to the doctor when he called to say that at this stage in his recovery, Sherlock would be more comfortable somewhere else. Bryant had been around long enough to understand the code for Sherlock needs to leave this hospital because he’s being a complete dick to everyone around him.

“I’ll bring him home,” John had said into the phone. He’d turned to Bryant and smiled. “He’s coming home.”

“That wonderful news, John.”

He’d wondered if John was thinking the same thing he was.

Intermission was over.

Act Two was about to begin.

Bryant sat on the sofa, legs crossed under him, drinking his third coffee of the afternoon, rereading a case file he’d found stuck under a cushion. To say the arrival of Sherlock and John had made his presence superfluous was an understatement.

John had hustled Sherlock through the flat, waving off Mrs. Hudson and her bottomless pot of tea, and had shut the bedroom door firmly behind them. Mrs. Hudson frowned, set the teapot on the table, and left.

Bryant hadn’t been sure what to do. He’d listened for a bit to the murmured tones, punctuated by Sherlock’s protests – "I am not a child, John, I can take off my own trousers, John, I don’t need to rest, John"

Bryant was starting to think of the sofa as his spot – he’d spent enough hours sitting there over the last few days. He found the file after John had left to fetch Sherlock from the hospital and had been very interested to read how he’d figured out that the suspect had borrowed his sister’s shoes to avoid detection. He would have to remember that one.

Bryant heard the bedroom door open and slammed the file shut. John walked into the kitchen, turned on the tap and filled the kettle. He walked to the doorway. “Everything okay?”

“He’s asleep.” John rubbed his neck. “Finally.” He sounded like the tired father of a small child and in a way he was.

“Doesn’t like naps I take it.”

“No.” He set the kettle onto the stove.

“He listens to you more than most.”

John smiled wearily. “It wasn't always like that.” John retrieved the teapot from the table and emptied the contents into the sink. “I know better than to ask you if you want tea.”

Bryant held up his coffee. “I’m good.” Bryant walked back into the living room. He felt even more out of place than ever. John puttered in the kitchen, waiting for the water to boil, and he stood halfway between Sherlock’s chair and the door. His suitcase was shoved behind the sofa.

John came out of the kitchen with his cup and sat in his chair.

Bryant sat facing him in Sherlock’s chair. John sipped his tea and looked past him out the window. Bryant tried to come up with something to say. Something safe that wouldn’t piss him off or let some secret slip. He’d never cheated on any of his girlfriends, but he imagined this must be what it was like. He had so much to keep straight – John didn’t know about the baby, but he did know Sherlock was having Mary followed. He couldn’t remember if he’d told either of them that Mycroft admitted that Mary worked for him too. Bryant knew for sure that John had no idea just how much Sherlock truly loved him.

John cleared his throat. “I’m sorry about before, when we got here.”

Bryant sighed with relief. “No worries.”

“It’s just that I knew Sherlock was dead on his feet and he’d end up back in hospital if I didn’t get him to lie down.”

“I’m sure the cab ride was tiring.”

John rubbed the bridge of his nose. “Mycroft sent a car.”

“Nice.” Bryant knew all about Mycroft and his cars.

“Sherlock didn’t think so.” John sighed. “For once, I didn’t care. I’m just glad he’s home.”

Bryant nodded. “Look, I meant to tell you before, but I didn’t get the chance. I’m going to move back to the hotel tonight.”

“No, it’s fine. You should stay. You can have the room upstairs. I’ll stay with Sherlock.” His face colored. “To keep an eye on him.”

Bryant laughed. “I thought we were past all that, John.”

“Yes, well. Quite right.”

“I’m hungry. How about I go pick up some groceries and cook dinner for us tonight? Then I promise to disappear for a few hours.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Bryant stood and grabbed his coat. “I’ll find something decent. As long as I end the meal with cookies, he’s good.”

He wrapped his scarf around his neck and buttoned his coat. He had one hand on the door knob when he stopped and turned back. “John? You can stop worrying now. He’s fine. Everything’s going to be fine.”

“I know. It’s just...”

“God, I know I’m about to sound like Mrs. Hudson, so tell me to shut up if you like. But one thing at a time. He’s home. Worry about Mary and the rest of it tomorrow.”

John walked to the door, reached in his pocket and gave him a £20 note. “Thank you."

Dinner was a disaster.

At least the food was good.

Sherlock was back in his chair when Bryant got home. He set the bags on the kitchen table and put what needed refrigeration away. He heard the shower through the closed door of the bathroom and sat down in John’s chair.

“How are you feeling?”

Sherlock sat with his fingers laced, staring at the fireplace. “Fine.”

“John in the shower?” Bryant had suddenly lost the ability for small talk.

“Obviously.” Sherlock looked at him. “Did your supervisor get the information about the money transfers and letters?”

No need for small talk, apparently. “Yes, thank you. He’s sending it up the chain. Should have an answer back from him in a couple of days.”

“Good.” Sherlock went back to staring at the fireplace.

Bryant felt like she was on a bad first date. “Uh, are you hungry? I brought-“

“Tikka masala and samosas. John doesn’t like samosas.”

“He doesn’t have to eat them.” Bryant felt the irritation crawling up his neck. “What’s up with you?”

Sherlock sighed and leaned forward. “I’m trying to think. Why don’t you tell me everything you need to say now, and I can get back to it.”

“Oh I can think of plenty to say to you right now.” Bryant stood and walked to the sofa. “I hope you haven’t been an ass to John, too, today. He doesn’t deserve it.”

“Then he should act less like my nurse and more like my – ” His voice trailed off.

Bryant threw him a dirty look, grabbed the files he’d been reading earlier and took it back to John’s chair.

“What is that?” Sherlock reached for the file.

“An old case file I found. Interesting.”

Sherlock looked at the name on the folder. “Tedious.”

“Tedious?”

“A five at the most. Lestrade knew better than to give it to me. I solved it over the phone.”

“And I paid for it for months.” A voice from the door startled them both. Greg Lestrade stood in the doorway, holding a brown bag. “Thought I’d bring dinner.” He walked into the sitting room.

“Put it on the table with the other one.” Sherlock leaned back in his chair.

Bryant stood up and took the bag from Greg. “Detective Inspector.”

Greg smiled. “Please, after all we’ve been through?” He squeezed Bryant's shoulder. “How are you doing?”

“I’m good.” Bryant nodded toward Sherlock. “He’s a bit cranky.”

Greg picked up the bottle on the table. “What are we celebrating?”

“Sherlock’s homecoming.” Bryant walked back into the sitting room. “Though I think he’d be happier if we left him alone.”

Greg grabbed a beer from the fridge, and sat on the chair at the desk. “So he’s back to himself then?”

“I am right here.” Sherlock crossed his legs, winced, and uncrossed them.

“You okay?” Bryant frowned. “Need something?”

“An hour of silence and a good shot of morphine.”

“No morphine.” John walked out of the bathroom, hair still wet. “I need you to wean you off it.” He came into the room, greeted Greg and sat in his chair.

Bryant went into the kitchen, took plates from the cupboard and opened a bag. “I brought Indian. Hope that’s alright.”

“You hungry, Greg?” John asked.

“Yeah, looks like Bryant beat me to the take-away.” Greg smiled.

John looked at Sherlock. “You feel like eating?”

He shook his head. “Does it matter?” Sherlock looked at John. “How was your shower?”

John smiled. “Lonely.”

Sherlock sputtered something and sat back in the chair. Both Greg and Bryant busied themselves with the cartons of food.

Bryant was secretly ecstatic. John had just made a public innuendo to Sherlock, right in front of them. Things must be looking up.

They ate in silence for a bit. Bryant watched John count every bite that went into Sherlock’s mouth. Bryant got up and was looking for glasses when he heard John slam down his hand on the table.

“I don’t care, Sherlock. You’re just home from hospital. Give it a bloody rest for once.”

Bryant came back into the sitting room. Greg had moved to the sofa, and John stood above Sherlock, who was looking up at him.

“There is no time to rest, John. The plan is everything.”

“There won’t be a plan if you end up back in hospital.”

“What’s going on?” Bryant stood behind John’s chair.

“I was explaining to John that it is imperative we retrieve whatever information Magnussen has about Mary. That is the only way John will be ever be safe.”

Bryant walked around and stood between them. “Tonight? We need to talk about this tonight?”

Sherlock sighed. “Yes! We’ve wasted so much time already.”

“But don’t you see?” Bryant asked, voice rising. “You think this is about John and Mary, but it isn’t. Not really. It’s not even about you. You’re all just pawns in Magnussen’s game. You must see that.”

“I need to see Mary. “ John stood with his fists clenched at his side. “Before we do anything, I need to talk to her.”

Sherlock and Bryant answered at the same time. “No.”

John turned to Bryant and pointed a finger. “You have nothing to say about it and why the hell are you even still here?”

Sherlock reached for John’s arm. “John, he is invested.”

John pushed away from the table and stood up. “Mary is my wife. My pregnant wife.”

Bryant looked at Sherlock, who sat back heavily in the chair and closed his eyes. He wanted to punch John. Didn’t he understand what he did to Sherlock every time he said that?

“John, even I agree with Sherlock. You have no idea how deep any of this goes.” Greg stood beside John. “Mycroft’s all up in it, so you know it’s serious.”

John grew very still. He lowered his head. Bryant thought for a minute he was crying. But then he raised his head and the look on his face made him step back a bit.

“I understand the seriousness of this situation. I understand it better than all of you. It’s my life. It’s my problem.”

Sherlock started to speak, but John held up a hand.

“I know you’re trying to deduce your way to a solution, Sherlock, but you’re just out of hospital and you have a rather compromised perspective about this.” His expression softened. “You have too much in this game to be objective. You know I’m right.”

“I know no such thing.” Sherlock gripped the chair and pulled himself up. “It’s precisely because I do have too much in this game that I must stop Magnussen from ruining everything. From hurting you.”

John stared at Sherlock for a minute. Bryant didn’t know whether to say something or grab Greg and head to the nearest pub. He glanced back to see Greg. At least if it all went sideways, he knew Mycroft ex machina would be at the ready.

John turned and headed to the door. He grabbed his coat and scarf from the hook. “I need some air.”

Bryant waited until he heard the bottom door slam, then went back to the kitchen table and lifted a small container from the take-out bag.

John turned the corner and felt the familiar pain grip his chest. This was the place he’d hoped to find his happily ever after Sherlock. He’d been so angry with him for being dead and later, so angry with him for not staying dead. Sherlock’s return had made John’s life with Mary seem small and foolish.

The black car idling at the curb ten feet ahead should have surprised him, but didn’t. He stopped, hands on his hips. Bryant was right – his life was a tragic cliche play. The back door opened and an umbrella appeared, followed by Mycroft’s shiny shoes.

John waited while he walked toward him. Crossed his arms. He wasn’t in the mood.

Mycroft stopped a few feet from him. “John.”

“Must be important. Anthea usually does your dirty work.”

Mycroft smiled. “Anthea is on holidays. Don’t make a scene, John. Get in the car.”

“Bugger off.” He turned and walked down the block toward the house. His mistake was looking back. Mycroft stood, umbrella hooked on his arm, staring at him, infuriating smile still plastered on his face. Mycroft shrugged and turned and walked back toward the car and John wanted to laugh because it felt so good to finally –

He felt an arm tighten around his neck and the point of something hard press into his back. He was carried back to the car a few inches off the ground, gasping and choking.

The grip around his neck loosened and the car door held open for him. John looked back (and up) and his pride was relieved to see that Anthea’s replacement was clearly military – tall, wide and well-trained. John straightened his jacket and stepped into the car. The door closed and Mycroft smiled at him.

“Thank you for meeting with me, John.”

“Bugger off.”

“Yes, well. I thought it was time you and I had a private chat.”

John frowned. “A chat? Really? You followed me all the way here to chat?”

“I needed to ascertain if your repeated threats to confront your wife were simply that – threats.”

“I am not going to confront my wife.”

“Prudent, since she’s an assassin. An extremely successful assassin, I might add.”

“You may not. It’s none of your business what I do.”

“Sherlock is very much my business.”

“What about him?”

Mycroft crossed his legs, looked out the window. “How is he?”

That wasn’t the question he expected. He almost sounded concerned. John didn’t answer. He had to be careful. Mycroft was nothing if not a master manipulator. John knew why Mycroft didn’t want him talking to Mary – at least not without an approved script in hand. And he knew why Sherlock didn’t want him here. Even Bryant had an opinion about it. He may not have the jersey to prove it, but he was definitely playing for Team Sherlock.

Only John wasn’t lying. He really hadn’t come here to confront Mary. He just wanted to see her, talk to her, and convince himself that he hadn’t imagined everything. He needed to remind himself that whatever else she had turned out to be, she was also Mary – the woman who blushed when he called her beautiful, cried when they found out about the pregnancy. She drank him under the table and ate dinner from the same table. Mycroft bloody Holmes had nothing to say about any of it. This was between him and Mary.

“I looked at his charts. His improvement was a relief,” Mycroft said.

John looked over at him. “Yeah? Tell him that yourself.”

“I thought it best to monitor his situation from a distance.”

“Although I’d love to sit here all night and discuss your unique relationship with your brother, I have to go.” John tried the door. “Unlock the door.”

Mycroft’s face lost all traces of a smile. “Not advisable John.” He sighed. “I didn’t want to have to do this, you know.”

“Do what? Kidnap me?”

“I had hoped that when you discovered the true nature of your wife’s nature, you would understand the delicate position you are in. As well as the danger you continue to put Sherlock in. I will not stand idle and allow it to continue.”

“What are you on about?”

“My brother’s obsession with Charles Magnussen has turned a difficult situation into an untenable one. Not to mention the latest addition to your happy little household.”

“Bryant? What does he have to do with this?”

“What indeed. I fear he has stirred up quite the hornet’s nest. He has far more in common with Sherlock that you might imagine."

“Do you ever get to the point? You and Sherlock think that if I tell Mary I know that she was working for Moriarty and killed that MP in Canada, it’ll get me a bullet to the head –“

“Or chest.”

John stopped. “She’d never hurt me. She’s not a monster.” He hoped he sounded surer than he felt.

“And you are convinced of this because...”

“Because for one thing, she’s carrying my baby. She’s not going to kill the father of her baby, no matter what files you have on her, no matter what you think she’s done in the past.”

Mycroft turned to face John. “This is getting us nowhere. You will not contact Mary. Not today, not tomorrow. You will continue to correspond exclusively through the postal service. Until such time that I feel it is necessary, she is simply someone you used to know.

“Bugger off Mycroft. She’s still my wife. Sherlock and I-“

Mycroft reached over and grabbed John by his throat and pinned him against the window. It shocked him so much he forgot everything he was going to say or worry about whether he cracked the window due to the force and the strength of Mycroft's grip.

“You are an idiot. An idiot who is going to get my brother killed. Again. And you continue to wound him with this nonsense about your poor, misunderstood wife while still crawling into his bed. I am done with standing by and allowing it to keep happening.” Mycroft was breathing hard. “Your wife, John, is right now in Essex eating rosemary potatoes and filet of sole with the man she’s been sleeping with for months. She started seeing him two weeks after Sherlock’s return. Two weeks after she realized it was very unwise to put all her eggs into your very flimsy basket. James Moriarty taught your wife well. She will always have an exit strategy.” Mycroft released John’s collar and he fell back against the seat.

“What are you talking about?” John’s voice was barely above a whisper. He didn’t want Mycroft to say another word. He knew it was the truth, a truth he had been studiously avoiding since he’d seen them at the window, his window.

Mycroft ran a hand through his hair. “I didn’t expect to reveal so much.” He looked at John. “I have a soft spot for my brother, infuriating as he is, and I fear these last weeks have made me sentimental. My only objective is and always has been to keep him safe. A daunting task at the best of times. But surely John, you do see what you’re doing to him?”

“What I’m doing to him?”

“You move back to Baker Street and resume what I can only surmise is a longstanding relationship, and now here you are, running back to your wife.”

“I just want to talk to her. Why does no one believe that?”

“If you tell her you know about her connection to Moriarty – what do you think happens then?”

“I don’t know, maybe she could explain...”

“What explanation could she possibly give, John? She is exactly what Moriarty made her.”

John took a deep breath. Mycroft was right. Sherlock was right. Bryant was even right. He had to stop thinking of Mary as his. The woman he loved. Had loved he realized with a start. And if he were honest with himself, it had all gone wonky the minute Sherlock returned. The wedding had been nice, the honeymoon nicer. How many chances did one get to upstage Sherlock Holmes? But the picket fence future he had clung to those first nights with Mary, when she had rescued him from the endless nights and nightmares without Sherlock, had all seemed moot the moment Sherlock appeared in front of him, champagne bottle in hand, saying all the wrong things, in all the right ways.

Bloody hell, he’d been a daft prick.

“Two weeks after so like November last year?”

Mycroft looked at him. “I don’t have the exact date. I can access the file if you.”

“No. Does Sherlock know?”

Mycroft frowned. “He doesn’t have the clearance but I would not put it past him to find a way.”

John sat for a moment, trying to make his heart slow down. Trying to take all the ridiculous pieces of information swirling around his head and put them in some kind of rational order that he could understand. That he could accept. He wished he had Sherlock’s mind palace. Because it was all too much. He could feel himself shutting down. But then a lone thought flashed across his brain in neon colors.

And it changed everything.

“It’s not my baby, is it?”

Mycroft didn’t answer, took a long look at John’s face, and tapped on the window. The car pulled away from the curb.

Greg left not long after John. Bryant walked him to the door and they stood on the landing for a few minutes, talking.

“Did you call Mycroft?” He was no fan of Sherlock’s brother, but maybe he was exactly what John needed. Assuming a smack upside the head was out of the question.

“Yeah, told him I would. Though I’m not convinced that John having it out with Mary is such a bad idea. I can’t see that she’d do him any harm, not with all of us looking on.”

“Maybe.” 

It was Greg who broke the silence. “When you are going back to Canada? Chloe must be missing you.”

“Sunday afternoon. I miss her too. You’d think I’d be more anxious to get home, but I feel like I’m walking away at half-time. I want to know how it all turns out. Sherlock is convinced Magnussen is the anti-Christ and he’s the only one who can set it right.”

“If what Mycroft tells me is true, then Sherlock’s not far wrong about him.”

“You know he’s set on getting into Appledore’s vaults and taking back whatever evidence Magnussen has against Mary? Lady Smallwood too.” Greg look surprised and he added, “I spent a lot time this week sitting in Sherlock’s hospital room. Morphine makes him rather chatty. I think he enjoys the meds more than he lets on.”

“Yeah, well that’s a story for another day.” He buttoned his overcoat. “I should get going. Early court date. Call me if you need anything.”

When Bryant came back into the flat, Sherlock was still sitting in his chair, hands steepled under his chin. He was capital T thinking and he knew him well enough by now to leave him alone. He cleared away the plates and take-out containers and found a place in the fridge for the unopened bottle of champagne. He filled the kettle and set it on the stove. No doubt someone would want a cup of tea before too long.

Bryant was trying to decide whether to tell Sherlock he’d taken on a case while he was in hospital. He was bored and it was so simple it seemed a shame not to accept it. All it took were a few phone calls, and a search of the client’s boyfriend’s car and the next day £200 was transferred into Sherlock’s account. He liked to think of it as earning his keep. He wasn’t sure Sherlock would see it that way.

“Boiling,” Sherlock said.

Bryant looked up. “Are you telling me because you want tea or because the noise is bothering you?”

“Both.”

He stood. “I think I liked you better when I thought you might die.”

“Sorry to disappoint.” He glanced over at the kettle.

“I know. I know. More bloody tea for his highness.”

“How long?” he said.

“An hour,” and then more softly, “He’ll be back soon. Knowing your brother, he’s driving John all over London, lecturing him on the foolhardiness of chasing after Mary. I bet he actually uses the word foolhardy.”

He blinked. “My brother?”

“I thought you knew. Greg called Mycroft when John stormed out.”

Sherlock leaned back and closed his eyes. “This has nothing to do with him.”

“It has everything to do with him. He has a lot to lose if it gets out that the British government is in the habit of hiring assassins.”

“Mycroft can take care of himself.”

Bryant sat opposite him in John’s chair. He knew he wanted him to go away, but he didn’t have much time before John came back.

“Sherlock?”

“Why are you still speaking?”

“Just listen. Is there any way Mycroft could know the baby isn’t John’s? Would he tell him if he knew?”

Sherlock studied Bryant for a long moment and blew out an irritated breath. “If he thought it would help him. Your questions are tiresome.”

“Well, you won’t have to put up with me much longer. I’m leaving Sunday.”

Sherlock continued to stare at him. He wasted so much time on thinking. If he thought that someone was about to tell Chloe something that would potentially hurt her, not to mention wreck every chance she might have at a reconciliation he wouldn’t be sitting here thinking about it –

“Did you know Sarah had a US savings account?”

It was Bryant's turn to stare. “What?”

“The day before she died, five thousand dollars was put into the account. As it was on the fifteenth of every month.” Sherlock sat back, still watching Bryant.

“Not possible.”

“I can show you the documentation.”

“How did you...”

Sherlock arched an eyebrow.

“Wait.” Bryant sat up. Tried to breathe. Why in the hell would Sarah have a bank account that he didn’t know about? Who was paying her five thousand dollars a month?

“When did it start?”

“There were three previous transfers. They stopped after her death. It seems reasonable to pursue a connection between these payments and her attack.” He stopped talking and looked at Bryant.

He couldn’t breathe. He hung his head between his knees. Didn’t help. Things were getting fuzzy around the edges. Sarah had a secret savings account?

Bryan felt Sherlock’s hand on his shoulder. He grabbed his knees and took a deep breath.

“Not so fast. You will hyperventilate. Just lean back. Your airway is obstructed.” He gently shoved Bryant's shoulders back against the chair. “There, now slowly breathe in and out, in a consistent and measured rhythm.”

Bryant almost laughed. It was like being cared for by a textbook. But he did what Sherlock said and he began to feel his heart slow. His breathing calmed. He opened his eyes. Sherlock was studying him with what looked like actual concern.

“I'm okay.”

Sherlock nodded and fell back heavily into his chair. “I didn’t mean to ambush you.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“So I take it you were not aware.”

“Wow, you are a detective.”

Sherlock ignored him. “Did she know anyone in America? Friends? Family?”

Bryant rolled his eyes. “Everyone in Canada knows someone in the States. Basic geography.”

“Balance of probability then.”

“It doesn’t make any sense. Sarah was an artist – she never had a steady job in her life. It was one of the few things we fought about – she always felt guilty that I was supporting her. She never believed I was happy to do it. So where did the money come from?”

“Untraceable so far. Of course I’ve been a bit... distracted.”

“I’m surprised you found anything. The police never did. Not that they looked very hard.”

“I have associates.”

“So I’ve heard. Speaking of associates...”

Sherlock held up a hand. “That case was a three at the most. Even John would have solved it.” He smiled. “Eventually.”

“I was bored. And it was a four.”

“I will use our fee to continue to track Sarah’s payments.”

Bryant looked at him. “I know what you’re doing,” he said.

“What am I doing?”

“You chose now to tell me about Sarah because you didn’t want to talk about John. Or the baby.” Bryant stood and walked around the chair. “You outmaneuvered me, didn’t you?”

“I’m sure I have no idea.”

“Distract, distress, discombobulate.” Sherlock opened his mouth but Bryant held up his hand. “No. No. Not until we talk about John. About what you’re going to do about him.”

“I’d like to know the answer to that question as well.” The voice startled them both.

John stood in the doorway, half in, half out.

“We were just wondering where you were.” Bryant at least tried to look nonchalant.

John dropped a thick file on the table, unwound his scarf and hung his coat on the hook by the door.

He walked past Sherlock and Bryant into the kitchen, took down a bottle of whiskey from the cupboard and splashed some into the bottom of a glass. He leaned back against the sink, emptied it in one swallow and quickly poured another.

He carried the glass and the bottle back to his chair and sank into it. Sherlock glanced at the bottle, but said nothing.

Bryant had retreated to the sofa. He knew if he said anything, one of them would kick him out and he was just as keen as Sherlock to find out what Mycroft had said to John.

No one spoke. John concentrated on his drink. Sherlock concentrated on watching John drink. Bryant concentrated on not banging their heads together.

“What’s in the file?” Sherlock finally asked.

John looked at the file. “It’s from Mycroft.”

“Consorting with my brother now?”

John held up the glass, pointing a finger at him. “You don’t get to do that.”

“What’s in the file?” Sherlock repeated.

John refilled his glass and set the bottle on the floor. “To do with a case, he said. Not Mary, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“I’m not thinking anything.”

“You're a terrible liar, Sherlock. You’re always thinking. Trying to work out the right angle, the right story, the right lie – don’t let John know I’m not really dead, don’t tell him I’m having his wife followed, don’t tell him – ”

Sherlock leaned forward. “I explained –”

“Don’t tell John the baby’s not his.”

There was a long silence. John and Sherlock stared at each other and Bryant held his breath – he had no clue where this was going.

It was Sherlock who blinked first. “Did Mycroft tell you that?”

John scrubbed a hand across his face. “You’ve been following her for months. Of course you knew.”

Sherlock nodded. “I suspected as much, yes.”

Bryant gave Sherlock points for not lying.

“And you didn’t tell me?”

“It wasn’t my place.”

“Then whose bloody place was it?” John swallowed the rest of his drink and looked at Sherlock. “Would you have ever told me?”

Sherlock pressed his hand against his chest. Bryant knew it meant he was uncomfortable. He wondered if it was the injury or the subject. “I don’t know,” he said. “John, I...”

“So you would let me go on thinking it was my child. For how long?”

“I don’t understand.”

“How long?” John repeated.

“How long did I suspect?”

“Don’t be dull. How long would you have kept this from me?” John asked, voice breaking and his hand curling into a fist. For a moment, Bryant thought John was getting ready to hit Sherlock. But then he paused and took a breath. When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, calmer. “You let me think you were dead for two bloody years. How long were you going to lie to me this time? Until the baby was born? Started school? Would you have let me spend my whole life believing a lie because it wasn’t your place to tell me the truth?”

“I didn’t want to force you to choose.”