Arriving at the flat once again, Owen walked with John into the building. Mrs. Hudson greeted Owen and Owen greeted back before Mrs. Hudson asked John what was going on in Sherlock's flat. It sounded like someone was struggling and she gotten worried. John assured her everything was all right and dragged Owen up the stairs and forced his way into the flat. Tied to the chair, was someone Owen recognized and he struggled in the chair as Sherlock tied him with cables.

"What the hell is going, Sherlock, have you gotten into the habit of kidnapping?" John asked him as Owen walked toward the man. Sherlock rolled his eyes and replied with, "He wasn't being nice."

"Sherlock," Owen looked at him. "Why's he here?"

Russel looked at Sherlock and attempted to shout slurs at him. However, Sherlock gagged him so it only came out as nothing but garbled mess. Sherlock paid no attention to Russel and only said to Owen, "They found prints on the rapier that beheaded Sheila."

Owen's stomach dropped, as he looked at Russel whose dark eyes moved toward Owen. Owen shook his head, "You killed Sheila, why would you kill her she did nothing to you!"

"Actually, she did, Mr. van Burton. She attempted to tell you all along that he had been harassing her," Sherlock corrected him. Owen turned his head to Sherlock after he said it. "What do you mean he's been harassing her?" he asked. Sherlock showed him the letters Sheila wrote about how she been plagued by Russel, he wanted information on Owen and he threatened her repeatedly to keep her quiet. She was going to sneak the letters to Owen so he would know and get help right away. However, Russel found out and dealt with her himself. Decapitating her as punishment for it and propped her head up in a borough as warning to anyone else who dared to warn those marked.

It hit Owen to the point he had to take a seat on the sofa and shook his head. He did not want to believe Russel would do this to him. He seemed like himself when Owen visited him to buy. He would never do anything like this, even when he was angry. He would get his brother to deal with anyone who cheapened out on deals, but he would never resort to this sort of violence. "Why?" Owen looked at Russel square in the eye. "Why did you do this?"

"I will let him tell you, Mr. van Burton," Sherlock walked over to Russel and ungagged him. Russel took deep breaths as his body greedily absorbed fresh oxygen. Looking at Owen, Russel lowered his head as he said, "When you told me you were quitting for good, I didn't believe you. I waited and waited for your British arse to come back to get more. You never did. You were my best customer. I made more money off you than I did from low rung idiots. I didn't think I needed your arse to run my business, but I got in a pinch. On the account of my brother, I couldn't leave London to find somewhere else to sell. Couldn't look for you, you didn't leave much a way of a paper trail. Look, I told it all to him."

He looked at Sherlock who shot him a nasty glare. Sherlock immediately said, "But why did you kill her, Russel."

Russel raised his head a little before saying, "She was gonna weasel. Going to tell him, I was looking for him. I couldn't have her tell him because if he ran I wasn't gonna find him again. Okay, there, I killed her."

His voice seemed almost depraved. It was as if he was only telling them what they wanted to hear. Sherlock took it as the truth and thus Owen and John did too. Owen then asked him, "Why, why a rapier?"

Russel lowered his head again before he said, "I found it. Found it near the place. I didn't think it was that sharp. I thought if I could use it to threaten her, she'd won't tell you I was looking for you. I don't know what happened, but, she was dead and I was standing there with a bloody rapier. I panicked and I dropped the rapier."

Owen shook his head as he stood up and walked toward Russel. "You killed a defenseless woman just because you wanted me to start buying again?" he shouted at Russel. "When you could have asked me, could have contacted me proper, you done all this and now a woman's dead and you had to use her head as a mark?"

Russel shook his head repeatedly. "I did-didn't take her head, I swear to you Owen. I didn't mean to kill her. It just happened. You have to believe me. I wouldn't kill some old bag even when she was gonna oust me. That's not my thing, I swear. I swear I dropped the damn rapier and ran!" he pleaded with Owen.

Owen refused to believe him and accused him. "You sent men to break into my damn flat, Rus. You sent men to terrorize my old boss. You sent them to stalk me. Why the hell should I believe you?" he pointed at Russel who flinched. He shook his head again and said, "You don't understand. You don't understand!"

"Then help us understand, Russel," Sherlock eyed him. Russel shot him a look before frowning. "I swear on Santa Maria I didn't know what was going on," he pleaded. "It just happened. All this feeling just got into me and it wouldn't leave me alone. All I kept thinking was you, Owen. How you were my number one customer. I just felt angry for some damn reason and blamed you."

"You expect me to believe you just "didn't know" you were killing someone. Sending people to stalk me, break into my own flat. You think I'd believe you?" Owen shouted at him. John grabbed him the moment he saw Owen's fists balling up and dragged him away from Russel. Owen exhaled sharply as he paced around the room.

Russel continued to plead, "You have to believe me. I don't know why I did it. It just happened. I'm sorry, okay. I'm sorry. I didn't want her to die. I didn't even want to scare her. It just happened!"

Owen refused to listen to him anymore and so Sherlock sent for the police to formally arrest Russel for the murder of Sheila and the emotional distress he caused in Owen. Given the nature of Sheila's murder, he expected at most twenty-five years in prison. He still pleaded with Owen even when they put him in the backseat of the cruiser before it pulled from the curb.

Owen felt vertigo come over him and he had to sit back down. Sherlock and John comforted him. Sherlock came through for Owen and got him a nicer flat with controlled rent and the expenses from moving paid in full. He would just have to tell Sherlock when he would move. The building he called home remanded to London since Sheila had no next of kin and thus he would have to move.

Once he felt the air clear, Owen stood up and profusely thanked the men for their help. John offered him medical help whenever he needed it. Sherlock told him to text if anything ever came up. Thus, Owen left for the hotel to collect his things, he decided to move next week since it gave him time to pack everything up and clear his mind of the things that happened.

He was astonished Russel purported the stalking, breaking and entering, and the death of Sheila. He could not believe it. It settled on his mind as the cab took him back that Russel would never resort to that high level of violence. Attacking elderly women would seem cowardly and weak; he even harmed for it since there were still those who held honor and integrity. Yet, Owen's mind still called him guilty.

Returning to the hotel, Owen quickly grabbed everything his before coming out to the cab. It took two hours due to traffic to return to the flat and Owen sauntered up the stairs after having a look at the locked off door to Sheila's. Entering his flat, Owen closed the door behind him and ran a hand through his hair. He took time to relax before he began to box everything up. He given notice to all the websites he worked for that he would be moving for "reasons" and could not do anymore until he set up in his new home. Owen categorized the books as he stuck them in their respected boxes and marked them with a sharpie.

Strangely, Owen felt something he never felt before. Calm.

The air that once heavy and oppressive cleared; Owen could finally breathe again and the feeling of being watched gone. It was all gone, now. He now felt for the very first time since this all happened, normal. He would dispose of the cocaine he had bought from Russel at a later point, for now he wanted to pack up everything.
As he packed, he remembered Frank. He went over to the turtle and picked him up. "Come on you ugly mug, you're coming with me," he smiled. The turtle said nothing, he was happy for it. The porcelain turtle sat on the table while Owen fetched bubble wrap. As he sat down, he put Frank on top of the bubble wrap and reached for the tape next to him. "I won. I finally did, Frank. I won. I feel like a new man, now, Frank. It's like I'm in a dream," Owen smiled as he prepared to wrap the turtle in the protective bubble wrap.

"Who said you won?" he heard. He stopped cutting the bubble wrap and wielded the scissors in his hand defensively. Looking around, Owen's hazel eyes darted around as they tried to pin point the source of the voice. It sounded too real and too close. "Who's there?" Owen demanded. "Show yourself!"

"Look down here, you twit," he heard the voice again. He glanced down to Frank and flinched. Owen shook his head, "It's not possible."

"Anything's possible, you idiot," the turtle hissed. Owen continued to shake his head. "No, this isn't happening," he denied.

"Oh, it's happening," the turtle rebutted. "You think you won? It's me who won, really."

Owen refused. "You're just a voice in my head. I am going to see a doctor. A real doctor, this time," he tried to tell himself. It did not work.

The turtle laughed. "Please, what doctor are you're going to see, crazy man," he snickered.
Standing up, Owen looked down at the turtle. "I'm just stressed. I'm not crazy. You're a figment of my imagination!" he shouted at the turtle.

"You're the one taking the pills. Oh wait, you have not been taking your pills. If you've been taking them, I wouldn't have to do all this," he heard the turtle.

Owen snapped the turtle up in his hands and stared at it. "It's a hallucination, it's not real!" he shouted at the turtle, trying to "wake" himself up.

"You're oh so wrong," the turtle only said.

In his rage, Owen threw Frank against the wall and the porcelain turtle shattered into a million pieces. He exhaled sharply as he watched the pile of porcelain debris rested at the bottom, a sole beady eye staring at him from across the room. "You're not real!" Owen shouted. He exhaled again as he looked around. "You're not real!"

His blood froze when he started hearing that laughter. The kind that sent chills up his spine and made his skin prickle and cold sweat flowed freely from his brows, the sort seen in horror movies. "You just don't get it, do you, Owen?" he heard Frank's voice. He glimpsed at the remains of the porcelain turtle and shook his head. The porcelain turtle was gone, destroyed. It dawned on Owen that the turtle was not the one that has been talking to him. It was something else.

Owen glimpsed around as his heart pounded against his ribcage. The laughing echoed throughout his room. It sounded like it could have come from anywhere and he would not know. "I'm not. I'm not crazy!" Owen shouted as his eyes moved around his room. He heard in response, "Oh, no, Owen. You are crazy; why else did I pick you?"

Owen's hazel eyes glided around the room as he pressed himself against the wall. "Who are you, what the hell do you want from me?" he yelled aloud. He stopped as he took deep breathes as he felt his heart racing to the point of nearly lunging out of his chest. "Why, I'm Frank," he heard in response. He shook his head repeatedly. "You're not. You're not Frank, I destroyed it!" he shouted. He heard a deep chuckle.

"Oh, Owen, you're so fun. I knew I got a good deal," he heard. "Worth every shilling, too…!"
Owen glanced at the front door and counted down in his head before he attempted to run toward it, only for the bookcase to fall in front of it. "You think I'll let you escape me?" he heard the voice balk. Turning around, Owen spotted his cellphone and attempted to rush toward it, only for him to trip and fall. "Who'd believe a crazy man, Owen, the police, Sherlock fawking Holmes, do you really believe they could help you?" the voice asked him. "They can't help you, you're all mine."

"You're not real!" Owen shouted as he forced himself up from the ground and crawled toward his cellphone, only for an unseen force pulling him away from it. When he tried to kick, he felt nothing there. With his diminishing strength, he got up and tried jumping for his cellphone, only for him to hit the wall. "I honestly did not want to do all this just for you. I could have taken you whenever I wanted. He, however, convinced me that for the betterment of affairs, keep the "boy detective" busy with you than noising around where he does not belong. We got what we wanted in the end," he heard as he felt eyes on him.

"L-leave me alone, j-just leave me alone!" cried Owen as tears poured from his eyes. He heard footsteps in front of him as he tried to force himself up. He heard the voice tisk at him.

"As if anyone will remember an internet accountant with an addiction, your family abandoned you. Your friends abandoned you. Your employers abandoned you. Do you really think he cares what happens to you after he solves this case?" the voice questioned him as he struggled to look around. Owen stopped as he felt his muscles recoil in pain as he tried moving. "It's a hard life, Owen. You cannot escape it. You can only delay it. Despite what you do, you cannot always win. You can play it safe, but then the idiots will say nonsense about not taking risks. If you were taking said risks, they would complain that you were being brash. It is a twisted world. No matter how much you try to change, you will always stay the same. A leaf does not always remain airborne, does it?"

While the voice made some sense, Owen refused to trust it and continued to try to escape the flat by any means necessary. He pushed himself up from the ground and tried running around the flat, attempting to break out the window, but found it been made with thicker glass and no amount of slamming chairs against it would put a dent in it. "Just give up, I've won," the voice scornfully told him. "I've already ensured it."

"Sherlock, John, anyone hear me!" Owen began to shout at the top of his lungs hoping someone will hear him and attempt to aid him. However, he felt himself knocked to the ground by a blunt force and wheezed as he grasped his chest. He struggled to look around and groggily shouted, "You're just a voice in my head. You're not real!"

"Am I?" the voice balked.

Owen whimpered as he tried to look around, looking for a way to escape the room. However, the voice trapped him like a rat. He then heard the voice say to him, "Gaze upon me, see that I am not a crazy man's drugs induced imagination."

The only thing Owen could do was scream, his hazel eyes wildly moving, attempting to escape his eye sockets.

The flat grew silent. When police arrived due to noise complaints and managed to enter it, they found it torn apart no trace of Owen. His cellphone and computer destroyed but nothing taken. Chairs smashed against the window, the window heavily warped from the force. There were some blood spots here and there, but nothing that would indicate what happened. In the bathroom, police found nothing. In his room, they found a baggie of cocaine stowed away in his drawers.

When Sherlock and John arrived to the scene, they pieced together the pieces to discern what happened.

"What the hell happened?" John stared in horror as he saw the living room smashed up. Owen's computer destroyed, hard drive and all, the television's screen destroyed, books torn apart, and a pile of rubble by the wall. Upon closer inspection, it was Frank the Porcelain Turtle or what remained of him. He had been shattered completely with the only exception of a beady eye starring at Sherlock and John as they gazed at the pile. "Why smash Frank?" John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock furrowed his brow as he shook his head. "I have no idea, John," he replied.

They explored the flat and attempted to look for clues. There was no trace of Owen and it looked like someone destroyed everything in his flat. "I don't understand, I thought we solved the case," John shook his head. He remembered how Sherlock was sure a spurred drugs dealer who grudged against Owen killed Sheila to silence her; how he sent, some grunts to do whatever it took to make Owen pay. How police found his set of fingerprints on the hilt of the rapier. "Sherlock, he's sitting in jail. Did he send someone to do this?"

Sherlock glimpsed around the flat, what remained of it, anyway. In his twisted mind, he had no idea. It pained him to admit he was wrong. How pathetically wrong he was. He was sure of it; the motive was there, the evidence told all. He knew how the dealer used his connections with the unscrupulous police officers to ensure Owen never got help. The downfall he had a man who had a craving for M&M's except for the brown colored ones. A man who loved to listen to Matilda Smith and even bought her latest album during the time they would need to avoid exposure as much as possible. Sherlock was beside himself as he looked around.

"Sherlock, do you think he's still alive?" John asked him. "He could have escaped, you know."

Sherlock slowly walked to the remains of Frank and picked up the eye. Studying it, it struck Sherlock, something he never felt before. He shook his head as he unconsciously said, "He isn't, John. Not anymore."

Police continued to conduct a thorough search and though they had help from Sherlock, Owen van Burton never turned up again. No one saw him or anyone who may have looked like him. Security cameras never noticed anything and by the end of the year, police announced the case closed following the lack of evidence. When Sherlock went to interrogate Owen's former drug dealer, he had hung himself. His cell empty and he made no calls. His body cremated per his family's wishes and his ashes sprinkled in the Thames.

Sherlock turned to the internet for help. No one knew anything. Some tried their hand but failed. Others could not locate an image of Owen that wasn't doctored by software. It was as if he disappeared off the face of the earth. Attempting to retrace his steps, Sherlock went to the clinic he gone to and learned of Dr. Mason's departure. He tracked down the clinic that the doctor transferred and they had no knowledge of who Dr. Mason was. He had disappeared, too.

The clinic he worked had no file on him, it was missing, and no one got a good look. They did not know who he was, but his credentials were legitimate and thought they looked thoroughly; he was a professional medical doctor.

Sherlock went to the police station Owen attempted to register his complaints. They had no knowledge of the clerks who worked when Owen made complaints. Nothing in the systems pointed to anyone in particular.

Wracked with guilt and shame, Sherlock returned to his flat and lapsed. When John arrived at the flat the next morning to check on Sherlock, he saw the needle sticking out of his arm. Though John was angry with Sherlock for this, he could not blame him one bit. He felt the same thing. They failed Owen. Now he is gone, aloof, and likely dead at this point. Wherever his body was, they will not likely find it.

John helped Sherlock clean up and helps him come down from his high and ensure he did nothing permanent. He made tea to wake Sherlock. Sherlock showered and dressed in a new set of clothes before returning to the kitchen.

The two discussed the case and come to a sound conclusion. Something happened to Owen. No one knew it. Whatever happened to Owen, they will not likely ever find out. "Perhaps he committed suicide?" John grimly deduced as he let his tea seep. "Maybe the dealer's men didn't finish the job."

Sherlock stared into his cup of tea and shook his head. "No, I don't think so. I don't think it was them, John," he finally said. John looked at him confusingly. Before he could say anything, Mrs. Hudson appeared with mail for Sherlock. Sherlock went through it quickly. Much of it fan mail, junk, and something peculiar. It was a small, neatly made, card. It was white and had deep intentions of textured frills all around it. In the center, something written, with an inkwell pen: DOCTOR.

"What does it mean?" John blinked as he looked at the card. Sherlock studied it and shook his head. It was simple stationary from a store; the cursive writing while easily identifiable meant nothing with nothing to compare it to, they will not be able to trace it.

Sherlock sighed as he sat the card down and placed his hands under his chin. "I don't know, John," Sherlock only said. "I don't know."

The End