Sherlock opened his eyes. He glanced around the room, found he was alone; John was nowhere to be found. Groggily, Sherlock pushed himself up and stopped. He blinked as he looked under his fingers. On his left pinkie finger, a small indention in the center. Healed, no sign of infection, sterile, this was new. Sherlock tilted his head in confusion, before he realized. It was all a fevered dream.

Sherlock pushed himself off the bed and shuffled around. He shuffled toward the table near his bed to find an iPod, John's, charging quietly. Checking it, Sherlock found it had been charging for an hour. Taking it into his hands, Sherlock swiped the touchscreen and looked through the assorted playlists. Not surprisingly, majority of the songs were of John's taste. Continuing to look through the playlists, Sherlock stopped at one named, "Sherlock".

Looking into it, Sherlock found songs he would never listen in his life to songs he vaguely knew through John, of them Matilda Smith and Red Children. Of the songs, Sherlock came across one that caused him to play it. Red Children's "Memento" begun playing and Sherlock shuffled around the room, investigating the subtle differences he found.

"Why do you resent me, lock me up in your mind, when I am the only one who understood you?" The song echoed as Sherlock came across the Wallace & Gromit bag with the magnifying glass neatly wrapped in parchment paper. Stuck to the side by the tape, Sherlock pulled out the card Lestrade and his wife made. Inside, Sherlock tilted his head, the same card he saw in his dream. Looking at the date closely, Sherlock shook his head as he whispered, "That's impossible."

Sticking the card in the bag, Sherlock shuffled towards the bathroom. Turning on the light and starring into the mirror, Sherlock flinched at the sight of himself. Sherlock rubbed the faint beard that grew unchecked as he stared at his reflection. In the background, "At your self-righteous funeral, I was the only one who cried when no one else did. In my self-righteous suicide, why didn't you cry when no one would?"

Thoughts permitted every square inch of his mind, how everything happened. There in the woods, panicky running through the woods, following the sounds of gunshots before finding John huddled in a corner weeping uncontrollably. He helped John out and there waiting for them, Mycroft.

Mycroft took them to the hospital, John sound asleep, and yet everything else a blur in Sherlock's mind.

Sitting on the bed with his legs crossed, Sherlock held a hand under his chin as he pondered. "It wasn't LSD, was it?" He quietly said to himself. "What did you drug us with?"

His mind snapped when the door creaked opened. Poking his head into the room, a familiar face appeared. Sherlock nearly leapt up from the bed had he not seen John carrying a cup of coffee. John, in his casual attire with a white wool sweater, stopped in his tracks as they exchanged looks.

"John," Sherlock blinked as he looked at him. John stared back and replied with, "Sherlock."

"What the hell happened?" Sherlock inquired as John walked toward the table and sat the coffee down before taking up the iPod in his hands. Hitting pause on the next Red Children song, "Agent Jones", John turned his toward Sherlock.

"You were dosed, Sherlock," John informed him as he took up his cup of coffee. As John gently blew away the steam rising, Sherlock balked. He heard, "Of course, I was dosed!"

He winced at this, but shook it off before he told Sherlock, "You don't understand, Sherlock. You were dosed. Out of your mind, hardly knew where you were, talking to people who weren't there. Mycroft almost broke down when you almost went into cardiac arrest; it took four orderlies to get him out of the emergency room."

Sherlock listened and uncrossed his legs. He hung his head as he pieced together the events as John told him. He almost died, caused by his fevered nightmares and hallucinations, John helped but confirming his worst fears. "You were working yourself up just before you heartbeat went off the rocker. Muttering incoherently and weeping, you accidentally hit a nurse when she came in. Then you spent ten minutes crying out about something just before they got you under control enough to push you into the emergency room," John summed as he drank from his cup.

Sherlock rose his head at John asked, "What about you, how are you on your feet?"

John sighed as he took one of the chairs and pulled it toward Sherlock's bed. He explained to Sherlock, "I wasn't dosed as badly as you were. I don't know how to describe it, but I was fine in a few days. You were still out of it when they cleared me."

Sherlock continued to listen and deduced that Frank carefully constructed a plan that would allow him to dose Sherlock triple the amount of his drugs. Interestingly, Frank didn't see fit to do the same to John, considering his proximity and threats directed towards him. Perhaps, because he didn't John a threat. Perhaps John would be beneficial in the end, how or why, Sherlock couldn't tell.

"John, have they found Frank?" Sherlock immediately asked him. John rested his coffee cup on the table again, stretched out his arms, and said afterwards, "Mycroft would've overrun London with soldiers if they let him, he's been swearing up and down halls left and right. Seeing you awake and proper ought to keep him from going off the deep end."

Despite their sibling rivalry, Mycroft would hunt Frank himself to the ends of the world. Sherlock somewhat wanted to know what Mycroft would've done if he caught Frank and what would be left of Frank for the police to process.

"Where is he, dear brother?" Sherlock asked John.

John answered as he shifted spots in his chair. "He's been in and out of the hospital; they nearly had to escort him off the premises," John coughed as he rested one leg over another. "I figured you'd want to hear it from me, but your parents have been here. Mycroft tried his best but your father had to lead your mother away from the room. You'll have to talk to them after this."

Sherlock flinched when John told him his parents been here. How awful his mother must have felt seeing her youngest on the bed, out of his mind and how his father must have wanted to punch the daylights out of Frank. Now, once this ordeal is over, Sherlock gets to explain to them what happened and why it did. He mentally prepared for the scolding his mother will have for him and his father shouting at him for endangering himself and John.

"How about you and Mary, has Frank made any more threats?" Sherlock blinked. John shook his head as he assured Sherlock, "Mycroft's been keeping an eye on us. Frank hasn't even sent a raven to me. Mycroft thinks he sprung from London."

No, Mycroft is wrong. Frank wouldn't leave London, not without finishing his business with Sherlock. Frank was somewhere, where Sherlock didn't rightly know. The threat of an angry family didn't sway Frank to hide, but he also wouldn't leave.

"That's good, how about Mrs. Hudson, how is she faring?" Sherlock continued as he pondered.

John switched legs and responded with, "She's fine, too. Mycroft has been keeping an eye on us. Hell, he's been stationing men at your door because he wants Frank's head on a platter."

Hearing this intrigued Sherlock. Nevertheless, it was nice knowing that his brother protected their mutual friends while Sherlock recovered.

Yet, the mention of men being station at his door reminded Sherlock of something. He looked at John and asked him, "Have you met Agent Jones, yet?"

John stared at him, befuddled, before saying, "There's no Agent Jones, Sherlock."

"What do you mean, I met him when we came here," Sherlock insisted. John continued to stare. Sherlock, flustered raised his hands, "I talked to him, I swear!"

"Swear what, dear brother?" they heard a muffled voice.

Turning their heads, the door opened again. Standing in the threshold with his clasped umbrella at his side, Mycroft, he walked into the room and exchanged looks with Sherlock before closing the door.

"Agent Jones," Sherlock said to him. "We talked to him, when we were first brought here."

Mycroft tilted his head, confused. He explained to Sherlock, "You underwent the effects on the drive here, dear brother. You were barely coherent when they brought you on the bed."

"Sherlock, isn't possible you dreamt Agent Jones? We were listening to Red Children a lot," John suggested. Sherlock frowned and settled on his bed. Agent Jones wasn't real, a figment of his drugged mind.
Knowingly, Mycroft, in his own way, comforted Sherlock. He said to Sherlock, "Perhaps you mistaken him for Agent Murdoc, he has been several times at my request."

Agent Murdoc, a name unfamiliar with Sherlock, but reasonably Sherlock could've been influenced by the presence and whatever he and Mycroft discussed.

"Suppose that's the case, who is he, Agent Murdoc?" Sherlock questioned.

Mycroft sighed as he explained, "A decorated agent for the MI5, I assure you dear little brother he would never gone near you if I wasn't sure of his credibility."

At least Mycroft was considerate.

"How long am I stuck here for?" Sherlock inquired as Mycroft rested the umbrella near the door before taking a chair from the table and bringing it to Sherlock's bed.

"Until the doctor says," Mycroft recalled. An answer that Sherlock didn't like very much.

"Mycroft I have to find him," Sherlock insisted. Mycroft eyed him a look Sherlock never saw in his brother before.

"You are not going after anyone, dear brother," Mycroft's voice wavered. "Haven't you risked your life enough?"

"He's still out there, Mycroft," Sherlock pointed at him. Mycroft shook his head at him. John attempted to break the building tension by saying to Sherlock, "Lestrade's made a full recovery. Honestly, I think he's as happy as the rest of us. He nearly ran into the station when they cleared him for service."

That part Sherlock knew. Lestrade returned to service, healthy, and more importantly safe. He probably still wanted that drink with Sherlock and John.

"That's good," Sherlock nodded as he turned to John. "At least he still has his health."

Mycroft interjected with, "And you barely kept yours."

"Mycroft, I need to find Frank," Sherlock insisted.

Mycroft pointed at him and said in a low voice, "You almost died little brother. Our dear parents were in tears and wanted nothing more than for your speedy recovery. Do not wreck this for your stupidity."

Sherlock stared back and responded with, "I won't make the same mistake twice."

"No, you'd need to make the same mistake four times before the lesson sets in," Mycroft snarked as Sherlock leapt off the bed.

"Mycroft, must you always treat me like this?" Sherlock snarled at him. "Have I not proved myself enough?"

"Oh yes, dear brother, you have, you've proven that stupidity is genetics after all. Sit down and wait!" Mycroft barked at him.

John raised his voice, "Children! If you're not going to play nice, then you won't play at all!"

"He started it!" the brothers pointed at each other.

John shook his head. "My god, you two, looks what this case has done to you. Look at me and everyone else around us. Haven't we been through enough?" John shook his head in disapproval. "I agree with Sherlock, Mycroft. Frank is too dangerous. If he's still here he has to be found. Before you jump for joy, Sherlock, I am not done yet. I agree with Mycroft, too. You're putting yourself at risk, Sherlock. You nearly gotten yourself killed. Hell, your heart can't take it anymore. It needs rest!" John scorned at them both.

The brothers calmed and Mycroft offered a deal. "If you promise me this, and I do mean promise, then perhaps we can make a deal. If I let you catch him, you will remain in this hospital for however long need be. I want no complaints, no attempts to sway my opinion, or any of that. Do you understand me, little brother?" Mycroft eyed Sherlock.

John looked at Mycroft with bemusement. "But, Mycroft, what if something goes wrong?" John argued. Mycroft sighed and waved his hand. "If I don't let him do it, he'll do it anyway and get himself even more hurt. Enough blood has been shed, John," Mycroft responded.

John looked down to his feet before looking up to Sherlock. "Sherlock, are you sure you should move around, you've been in and out of your mind since he drugged you," John pleaded, but it were ignored as Sherlock remained set in his plot. Sighing, John ceded and responded with, "Is it worth your life?"

"John, what do I have to lose?" Sherlock asked as he frowned. "What choice do we have?"

That was then… this is now…

Sherlock and John ran up the stairs toward the rooftop. In their breaths thunder rumbled throughout the area. "Sherlock, what are we going to do?" John asked him as he briefly stopped, resting on the handlebars. Sherlock hobbled back down a few steps to stare at him. "We're going to catch him, John," he said plainly. John nodded. He said to Sherlock, "They're not going to get here in time."

"We dealt with worse," Sherlock, reminded him. He snapped his fingers at him. "Come on, we still have a suspect to catch!"

"Oy," muttered John as he hurried up the stairs with Sherlock. Sherlock almost slammed into the door as he joggled the handle until it opened. He held it open for John as he hurried out onto the rooftop. As they stepped out onto it, they met with the sight they thought they never see. There near the edge of the building was a tall and dark figure, standing there calmly. Sherlock hobbled toward it and huffed, "There's nowhere left to run!"

"Sherlock, you can't take him from there," John quietly told him.

Sherlock nodded, "Right."

Lighting flashed throughout the area and gave them a clear view of the plague doctor, bronze beak and all. Sherlock hobbled backwards and John stood there aghast. "Sherlock, what do we do?" John desperately looked at him. Sherlock stared at the plague doctor, remembering seeing it when he was searching for Alice. "What do we do?" he heard John.

Then they heard cackling under the mask. It was low and echoed through the mask. It left both Sherlock and John looking confusingly at the plague doctor. "Oh, gods aren't you two so damn fun?" they heard him.

"It-it's a person!" John gasped.

"Of course, I'm a person, dear Watson, I would have to be," he heard it say.

"Who are you?" Sherlock demanded.

The plague doctor continued to cackle until it tilted its head in both directions, popping bones. "Haven't you figured it out, detectives?" Sherlock heard it. "I can't believe it took you so long to figure it out."

"Who are you?" Sherlock continued to demand.

The plague doctor sighed. "Right, nose to the grind," it muttered. It raised its hands over its head and the sound of something unbuckling emitted. With one hand on the brimmed hat and another on the mask, the plague doctor revealed itself to them. His silver eyes looked at them both as he smiled.

Frank looked at them and smiled. He wagged his finger at them as he laughed. "Ah-ah! I have to say, dear Sherlock, you were always nose to the grind. And to you dear Dr. Watson, I never thought that threat worked. And here you both are on the rooftop with me!"

"Frank?" Sherlock stared at him.

Frank chuckled. "No, but I am a Frank," he gave a toothy smile. "Took you long enough to figure it out, what were you lot doing, watching the telly?"

"You attacked Lestrade," John pointed at him. Frank nodded. He said to John, "Oh please, was it really an attack when a scared little policeman points a gun at me?"

"What were you doing in the funeral home?"

"Oh, haven't you guessed, I was grabbing a few things,"

"You stole his body," Sherlock pointed at him. Frank nodded. John tilted his head as he added to what Sherlock had said, "You found Frank's body and brought it here."

"You masterminded the whole thing," Sherlock's eyes widened. "You used what you learned to secure ravens to ensure that everything went according to plan. You had them steal the shipment to draw attention, didn't you?"

"Oh yes, I might've had them do it. Then you are a man who goes by the rule of threes if I'm not mistaken. You're only interested when a case hits those three, nothing more nothing less. It is not about the drugs trade, Sherlock. It's about sending a message," Frank chuckled as he wiped his chin as rain drops ran down it. "I guess you never figured out then, though. I did have Wallace and Russel go and steal the shipment. But the shipment had something else in it that I needed, one that the Sinclair Riverside didn't put an order in for."

"You smuggled?" John eyed him. Frank wagged his finger.

He said to John, "You see John; I decided that the only way to do it is in style. See, I'm keenly aware about you two as much as a fool with his cell phone. So, I decided that what better way to make it fun than to ensure no one believes a set of nutcases. You think I'd let Alice get treatment for whatever hell's bothering him? Oh no, I wanted him sober so I can drive a nail through his head. Coincidentally, you lot seen to have made contact with it, too."

"The American bills," Sherlock suddenly said. Frank nodded. He smiled at Sherlock as he said to him, "Funny what a couple of hundred dollar bills and a few dozen pounds can do in such a short time. I had Russel distribute them to his pals in the pen and to his associates. Wallace spread them abound when he traveled. Lenny plastered them all over his room and left several at his workplace. Oh and that fellow from the shop was happy to hold onto them for me."

"That's how he drugged us," John's dark eyes widened.

Frank chuckled. "Well, yeah, I kinda had to. Oh please, where would you go to get a raven at three in the morning?" he rolled his eyes at John. "I decided to take some literary knowledge and toss it around until I came across the Raven. Such beauty in "evermore" I couldn't pass it up and that is the birth of the dreaded London Crow!"

"What did you drug us with?" Sherlock demanded as he stared down Frank. Frank wasn't bothered at the slightest and seemed to smile. He wagged his finger at Sherlock.

"So, what was it that you saw, Sherlock?" Frank deflected the question as he lowered his finger. "I know an impressionable Doc Watson would be seeing the Raven, but what about you, what sort of horror show went on in your head?"

Sherlock continued to stare down Frank and Frank merely rolled his eyes and shook his head. He was much like Morarity in many regards. Unlike Morarity, he didn't care for the attention Sherlock and John gave him. They considered nothing more than nuisances that got in the way of plans. Yet, like Morarity, he planned to deal with them doing the only thing he knew how.

"Oh, the strong silent type, such overused trope, Holmes, so overused," Frank waved his hand. "No matter, I know what you saw. Oh, don't give me that look; you can't hide it to save your life. For a man who reads people like books on a Sunday morn, you sure don't know when you're being read."

"Sherlock, what is he talking about?" John turned to him. Sherlock didn't respond. Frank sighed and rubbed the back of his head before glancing up to them.

"Oh, he knows what I'm talking about, but he won't admit it," Frank told John. "But, no matter, I'll simply indulge your curiosity: what did they say to you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock cringed. He thought back to see them, Frank Sr. and Morarity, in his flat. Taunting him about the case, warning him about what would happen, the type of things that he never knew could inflict havoc on his mind. Yet it did. Here he was confronting Frank's only son who seemed to know what Sherlock was thinking.

As the rain poured, Frank smiled at them.

John blinked several times as he felt the effects of the drug overtake him. He saw a murder of crows flying about in the dark skies, with their bright amber eyes glowing, and their horrific caws. His voice wavered, "Sherlock, I-I think I'm seeing them."

"Seeing them, the ravens?" Frank tilted his head. "Are they mocking you, talking about your past failures, about the mistakes you made?"

"Enough! What did you drug us with?" Sherlock shouted at Frank. Frank sighed and wagged his finger.

"Might want to keep a leash on that one, he's going to bark at the wrong person and it's the bullet for him," Frank glanced at John. "No wonder they adore him. You know, when I first came down here, I never thought about you much. Oh, I did follow your cases when they became headliners, but nothing about them interested me. But here we are, stalking about looking for crimes, causing problems all around, oh and who was that fellow that you pledged to catch?"

Frank snapped his fingers as he tried to remember the name. Water sprayed as he did until he remembered. "Oh, right that fellow, Moriarty was it? Oh, yes, and how you took quite a beating. Quite the story, if I do say so myself. Ah, but then I remembered how you were always so desperate for information about whether he was dead or was he alive."

Sherlock eyed him. Ever since his first and last encounter with Moriarty, he had never been sure if he was truly dead or not. He couldn't find his answer and it had been driving him mad. He spent hours digging around in his head trying to redraw his steps. In the end, the elusive answer never found and it left Sherlock fatigued.

"What are you getting at?" Sherlock watched as Frank ran a hand through his graying hair.

"What if I told you, a little raven knows where he was?" Frank hinted as he waved his hand, expelling the water he had wiped away from his hair. "And where you might find him?"

"Sherlock, don't believe him," John's eyes were slowly changing before Sherlock's. "You can't believe a word he says. The ravens, they, they are telling me that he's lying!"

"What do you want?" Sherlock shouted at Frank. "What is it that you want?"

"Alice's dead, so I have that going for me," Frank sighed as he tried to think. "But, now that I mention it, I don't like little dogs trying to nip at me. So, why don't we discuss how this goes?"

"Go on," Sherlock's own voice wavered as he started to see Frank Sr. walking past him and stood beside Jr. Sr. smiled at him, his eyes glistening in the rain. Sherlock heard his own heart beating and his breath starting to quicken as his eyes were fixated on Sr.

"I'll make this palatable. I leave, without harm to me, you get a little tidbit about Morarity, and you get your cure-all. I don't and you get to writhe in pain until your poor little heart gives out. And given your addictions, past and present, you won't last a few weeks, give or take," Frank Jr. cracked his knuckle. "I'd choose wisely. How good is that brain of yours if you can't use it?"

"Sherlock, you mustn't," John mustered as his eyes spun around the ravens that flew overhead.

Caught in a difficult situation, Sherlock's light eyes spun toward the two Franks and John. His heart was beating rapidly and it was going to get worse until it did in fact give out. If he allowed Frank Jr. to flee, then there was a good chance that he'd do it all again if he felt like it. If he didn't, then given what he and John were dealing with that Frank Jr. would make sure they would not get their cure-all.

"How do I know you're not lying?" Sherlock struggled. "How do I know you're not planning to kill us both?"

John knelt to the ground, holding his head. He was muttering about the ravens, how they were in his ear. They were talking about Mary, about her lying and cheating behind John's back. How his child couldn't've been his. All the things that were ravaging him, driving him to the brink of insanity as he bellowed out her name, fresh tears mixing with the rain.

"Hah, you and Morarity are much the same. So desperate to draw people, so desperate to wield some power, and yet here we are today. Pity about him though, he had a good head about him," Frank Sr. shook his head.

In the background, John curled up in fetal position, begging for Mary. Frank Jr. was laughing like a maniac at the sight and Sherlock was left to look at Frank Sr. who his mind had trouble either seeing him as a hallucination or real. His mind ravaged by thoughts and fears realized now. He was drugged, drugged with what he didn't know, and he couldn't know unless he let Frank Jr. leave. Yet, if he were anything like Morarity, he wasn't going to give it to them even if they did let him go. He was content in watching them suffer.

"Haven't you figured it out, Sherlock?" Frank Sr. asked him. "What we've been trying to tell you?"

"No," Sherlock mustered as he legs buckled under him. He fell to the ground. "I don't know!"

Frank Sr. knelt in front of him and held up his head. He said, "Do you really trust him or do you trust me?"

Sherlock's eyes slowly dilated and he could no longer see Frank Sr. properly. His vision blurred at times, fusing both Franks together. He saw the ravens that tormented John. The faces of those Sherlock knew who died were staring down on him. "I… I trust you!" Sherlock clenched his throat. Frank Sr. Nodded.

"Good, good, you see Sherlock, the problem you're having is a very simple straightforward one. It's no wonder people have the notion you've gone slightly mad. No, you see Sherlock; the problem is that you believe you're a man of science. You don't believe in the notions the common folk have. If it goes against your scientific standards, you ignore it. Sherlock, there are things in this world you don't even know, so many things. Now you must learn the first of many. Believe me when I say this, I am not bullshitting you this time. Sherlock, prepare for unforeseen consequences."

Sherlock struggled to listen as his eyes darted like arrows, unable to stay in one spot for long. He struggled to say to Frank Sr., "What do you mean, prepare for unforeseen consequences?"

"You will see in time," Frank Sr. sternly said to him. Behind him, Frank Jr. tilts his head in confusion, hearing Sherlock speaking incoherently. "Now, for business, I understand your predicament, Sherlock. Your heart cannot survive this dose; you've been dosed far too many times. One more and you're dead. If you want to live another day, detective, and then this shouldn't be hard for you to understand. For you and John's lives, would you be willing to give up his?"

This question was unheard of. Frank Sr. proposed Frank Jr.'s death for Sherlock and John's lives. Sherlock attempted to stare at Frank Sr.'s eyes and the vague glances was enough for him. Frank Sr. was serious. "You're willing to let your son die?" Sherlock flinched at this.

Frank Sr. lightly chuckled and wagged his finger at Sherlock. "Sherlock, you have so much to learn, yet so little time," he smirked at him.

The smirk was what all he needed. Sherlock blinked, "I have your word?"

"As a dead man, son," Frank nodded.

It was true, the terms popped up in Sherlock's head and he read them. In order for this madness to end, there needed to be one final thing to happen before it all stopped. That part Sherlock wasn't privy to. Nevertheless, if he agreed, Frank Sr. would aide them and peacefully leave, never to be seen or heard from again. Given his choices, Sherlock didn't have much of a way to say no to the terms.

As if Frank Sr. knew, he smiled.

"As much as I enjoy this day, I am tired. You interest me Sherlock. Suppose I'll let you and your friend live, for another day. As for him, well, it was the thought that counts," Frank Sr. forced Sherlock's mouth open and shoved two pills down his throat. He allowed Sherlock to fall to the ground and walked toward John, doing the same. Once done, Frank Sr. pulled out a revolver and cradled it in his hands. "Remember this Sherlock; death does not hold us back. Only we hold ourselves back. And as a man of my word, Morarity is where the willow sleeps."

Frank Jr. looked at the two writhing in agony. "Oy, what are you saying?" he shouted at Sherlock. Sherlock's eyes focused and he sees Frank Jr. standing there. "What the hell are you blubbering about?"

"Do take it from me, Sherlock. Sometimes dying alone is preferential to being bled dry," Frank Sr. pointed the gun at Frank Jr. and pulled the trigger. Frank Jr. fell backwards off the roof and a loud thud heard as he came to a stop on top of a parked car. Frank Sr. sighed as he shook his head. "Do forgive him; he had much to learn over the years, he had to learn from me and then from Morarity, I dread he's had an overload."

He turned to Sherlock. "Patrick was right though, I do always come back."

He walked past Sherlock and disappeared down the stairs. Sherlock left on the ground, his world spinning as he fell unconscious.

Faintly he heard the sounds of men and women. Faintly he heard his brother and Mary in the background, Mary agonizing over the condition of John. Mycroft in his cool exterior was speaking with the doctors. The sounds of beeping pierced through the conversation and like that, Sherlock heard nothing else.

What felt like weeks or even years, but a mere two days with careful care, and Sherlock's light blue eyes slowly opened to find him in the hospital. Beside him on his right was John, with Mary at his side. The room intentionally kept dim, as to allow the men to adjust to the light as the drugs flushed out of their systems. Sherlock groggily rubbed his eyes and stopped when he felt a presence before him.

"Hello, dear brother," he heard Mycroft. Sherlock lowered his arm and looked at him. "Mycroft," he mustered.

Mycroft shook his head, took a spot on the awaiting chair, and looked at him. "You owe me dearly. I had to lie to dear mother and father about what happened. I merely told them you took a blow to the back of the head," Mycroft told him as he settled on the chair. "They wanted to come here."

"What happened, what did he drug us with, where's Frank?" Sherlock instantly bombarded him with inquiries. Mycroft shook his head and answered them as he went. "The gunshot alerted the police. They found you with John sprawled out on the roof. The doctors haven't been able to discern the drugs, neither the hallucinogenic nor the cure," Mycroft informed.

Sherlock attempted to push himself up, but the weight of his body prevented that and thus he was force to settle back on the bed. "Did you find him?" Sherlock gestured.

Mycroft stared at him confusingly. Sherlock said slowly, "Frank Colton, did you find him?"

"The body was found," Mycroft told him. "It was in a flat in East London."

"Who took it?" Sherlock continued.

Mycroft responded with, "An escaped mental patient."

"Were they from Sinclair Riverside?" Sherlock coughed. He handed a Styrofoam cup filled with water by Mycroft. As Sherlock slowly drank it, he heard Mycroft.

"Actually, he was transferred out, but he did spend time there," Mycroft answered.

This was very much interesting.

"Who was it?" Sherlock lowered his cup.

Mycroft sighed. "The one who led you on this goose chase," he responded. "They weren't able to recover the revolver."

"What was his name?" Sherlock settled in the bed.

Mycroft changed position in the chair as he said, "It was a Patrick Fitzgerald. He was a typist who worked in a small printing press in Derbyshire. He diagnosed with acute paranoid schizophrenia in 2003, institutionalized in 2004 after burning down a constable's home in Galahad while on a trip; he claimed that the constable was involved in Frank Colton's murder. It found in his possession after he was apprehended draft papers written by Frank. It confirmed to be his handwriting. How he got them, no one's been able to figure out."

"He was transferred out of Sinclair Riverside?" Sherlock questioned. Mycroft nodded.

"In 2010 after repeated attempts to cause harm to the staff, he was transferred to a high security institute in Cheshire where he remained until 2013 where he escaped and was never heard from again," he replied.

The information spun around Sherlock's mind like a spider's web. It was something that he'd never encountered before. All this time, he never once considered it. He never once thought about it. There it was. It laughed in his face. It mocked him. The answer he sought for was in front of him for the longest time and he had not once taken a glance at it.

For the few minutes he sat there, a look came over him. It was this mistaken that had almost killed both him and John, caused fright in Lestrade, killed four men and many more. A mistake will wretch Sherlock's mind until his own demise and very well into the afterlife and life after that.

Frank was telling him the truth. Sherlock wouldn't believe it. And it almost cost him dearly.

"Brother?" Mycroft raised his brow at Sherlock.

Sherlock said, "They won't find the revolver."

"It's still early," Mycroft reminded him.

Sherlock shook his head, "Because he took it with him."

Mycroft looked at him, "Who, brother?"

Sherlock's eyes widened when fear slowly overtook him, "Him. He always comes back."

Somewhere in Sherlock's mind, he heard that voice again. "I always do," it said before it disappeared as quickly as it appeared. Sherlock tried desperately to find it again, chasing for it in his web of thoughts, but it never appeared again. His mind freed from its torment, but the questions remain. However, those were for another time. After all, he always came back for Sherlock to try again. There was next year to look forward.

The End