A/N: This is the final chapter. The especially triggery bits are in this chapter, so do heed the warnings. It's still not what I would call graphic, but it could be upsetting.

xxxxx

Lestrade turned on his lights and sirens and roared onto the street.

"Can I borrow your phone?" Sherlock said.

Lestrade fished it out of his pocket and handed it over. "What happened to yours?"

"He threw it out the window of the car." Sherlock took the phone and quickly dialed a number. His head lolled back against the seat, and he was panting as he waited for an answer. "Mycroft, I need discreet medical attention right away. Do you think you can arrange that?" he said.

Lestrade slowed down, expecting to receive directions.

"I'll live," Sherlock said after a sort pause. "It's just a scrape, really. And no, I didn't get shot. It was a taser."

Lestrade looked quickly to the road and coughed.

"Well, brother, I thank you for your concern, but I'd really rather not," Sherlock said. "I was somewhere I shouldn't have been and rather than cause a lot of trouble for everyone involved, I'd just like to be treated quietly so I can go about my day."

Lestrade thought he could hear Mycroft asking if Sherlock was okay, then Sherlock said, "I don't know. Figure out where I can go and text the address to this number. I already have a ride."

Sherlock handed the phone back to Lestrade and said, "Thank you."

Lestrade glanced at Sherlock, whose chest was still heaving dramatically.

Sherlock kept his face turned toward the window. "Thank you for not asking questions."

"I will be asking eventually, just so you know," Lestrade said.

The phone went off in Lestrade's hand and he looked at the screen. It was the address they were waiting for. Lestrade slowed and made a turn, watching Sherlock closely for signs of pain.

"Are you alright?" he asked.

"My chest hurts. It's hard to breathe."

"How many times did he shock you?" Lestrade asked gently.

"Later," Sherlock said shortly, leaning back as far as he could against the seat. He gasped and his knuckles turned white from balling up in the front of his shirt.

Lestrade opened up the console between the seats and fished out a bottle of aspirin. He handed the bottle to Sherlock and said, "Here. Chew on a couple of those," and then he stepped on the gas.

xxx

They arrived at a small clinic, which looked closed. A black car pulled up on the other side of the street as soon as Lestrade had parked. Mycroft and two women got out of the car. The younger woman was the assistant that Lestrade had seen before. Anthea. He remembered her well. The older woman was tall and thin and elegantly dressed. She had shoulder-length, grey-streaked hair. Lestrade didn't recognize her.

She jogged across the street to the front door of the clinic and unlocked it, letting herself inside. Mycroft strode up to Lestrade as he climbed out of the car.

"You were with him?" Mycroft asked, looking at Lestrade suspiciously, before he bent to the side to look at Sherlock, who was attempting to get himself out of the passenger seat.

"No. He called me," Lestrade said.

Mycroft looked down his nose at Lestrade for a moment before he nodded and then walked toward Sherlock to offer him help. Sherlock held up a hand to Mycroft and braced himself against the car.

Lestrade looked toward the clinic to see the older woman struggling to get a wheelchair through the door. He ran over and held the door open for her. She had changed into a white coat. So, this was the doctor.

Sherlock let Mycroft help him into the chair without protest. The doctor pushed him into the clinic, leaving Lestrade and Mycroft just outside the door with Anthea, her hands stuffed into her coat pockets, hovering behind Mycroft.

"Thank you, Detective Inspector," Mycroft said earnestly as he started for the door. "We'll take it from here."

Lestrade was stunned. It took him a moment to decide how to respond. He finally settled on, "Fuck you," and placed a hand on Mycroft's shoulder. "I'm putting my career on the line messing about with you two. I'm at least going to stick around and make sure he's okay."

"I am more than capable of handling this," Mycroft said coolly.

"He called me first," Lestrade said. He immediately felt terribly childish.

Mycroft turned sharply and walked into the clinic after the doctor and Sherlock.

Lestrade wasn't about to leave it at that. He followed Mycroft inside and stayed hot on his heels. "He should be at a hospital. He's seriously injured."

Mycroft put a hand in his pocket and moved closer to Lestrade. "And how was he injured, Lestrade? In the line of duty, I presume. He said he was tasered—by one of your force? Has that person been punished?"

"He's en route to St. Bart's, I imagine," Lestrade said.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Good job."

"I didn't do it. Sherlock did."

"Ah, so that's why he wants to keep it quiet. Assaulting a police officer. I see. That and, for the sake of sparing you embarrassment, of course."

There was suddenly a commotion coming from inside the room. Sherlock was shouting and there was a crash against the door. Then the door swung open and the doctor appeared looking bewildered.

"Sir, I think you'd better come in," she said.

"You can wait here if you like," Mycroft said magnanimously and started toward the doctor.

The doctor held her palm up to halt him. "No. Not you." She pointed at Lestrade and said, "He asked for you."

Lestrade looked to Mycroft and the elder Holmes just shrugged. "Go on."

"Doctor Finnemore," the woman said and extended a hand to Lestrade.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade."

He stepped in behind the doctor and found Sherlock sitting on the edge of an examination table with a white paper sheet over it in the corner of the room. He looked like an animal with its foot caught in a trap. His eyes were wide and his jaw was clenched as he took deep, ragged breaths.

"You okay?" Lestrade asked before glancing at the doctor.

"Ahjushuh," Sherlock started and shook his head quickly. "I want to give my statement. Get it over with."

"Right. We can do that," Lestrade said. Of course, he deduced that there was more to it. He figured Sherlock was stalling for some reason.

"I need to get him calmed down," Dr. Finnemore mumbled.

Lestrade nodded. "Sherlock, let her look at you, before you pass out."

Sherlock's panicked eyes flicked between them. He nodded reluctantly. "Okay."

Dr. Finnemore moved closer to Sherlock as she pulled on a pair of latex gloves. She picked up the cuff that was sitting on top of the box and took his blood pressure right away. She frowned at the result, but pressed on.

"Now, I see what look like taser probes on your chest. Were you tasered?" the doctor asked. She moved to touch one of the probes and Sherlock flinched away from her.

"Yes, obviously," he said shortly. "That one's embedded."

"Okay. We'll have to carefully remove it then and get your shirt off to treat the area. How many times were you tasered?"

Sherlock paused and seemed to be trying to count in his head, during which Lestrade held his breath. "I don't know," he said after a while.

The doctor didn't physically react. "More than three times?"

"More than ten."

Dr. Finnemore gently took one of the probes between her thumb and forefinger and quickly plucked it out, which earned her a nasty look from Sherlock.

"Sorry, sir. Nothing else for it. How long do you think the shocks lasted each time?"

Sherlock shook his head and rubbed at the back of his neck, looking lost. Lestrade was amazed at how much he already seemed to have calmed down. He'd stopped gasping and the redness was receding from his face.

Dr. Finnemore did have a comforting quality about her, whilst seeming very professional and capable.

"Not more than thirty seconds," Sherlock said.

Lestrade had a visceral, shuddering reaction to that and said, "Jesus Christ."

"Detective Inspector, what is the maximum amount of tasering considered acceptable, according to police training?" Dr. Finnemore asked.

"The standard setting is three seconds at fifty-thousand volts," Lestrade said. "You can hold it a few seconds longer, but they say not to use it more than a few times. I've never had to use it more than once. And you never aim at someone's chest."

"So, that's dangerous," the doctor said mildly.

"People have died from less."

The doctor snatched the other probe out and Sherlock yelped and reeled back. She reached out a hand to his shoulder to still him then rubbed his back reassuringly.

"Okay, that was probably the worst part of this whole ordeal, over and done with," Dr. Finnemore said.

"He took a couple of aspirin in the car," Lestrade said. "Was that all right?"

"All right?" she said and chuckled. "It probably prevented cardiac arrest. His blood pressure is sky high."

What followed, once she had given Sherlock some medicine and gotten him leveled out, was a standard physical examination. The doctor helped Sherlock take his shirt off and she saw to the angry red lacerations on his chest. She listened to his lungs and checked his blood pressure again and looked at his eyes. She asked him to scoot further back and lie down on the table.

Lestrade was sitting uncomfortably in a chair on the other side of the room. Even from his vantage point, though, he couldn't miss the streak of red on the padded top of the table as Sherlock moved back.

Dr. Finnemore hadn't missed it either. Once Sherlock was on his back, she put a hand on his knee. "Okay," she said. "Looks like you're bleeding. Hang on a moment, Mr. Holmes. Inspector, can you please step out?"

"No," Sherlock said and propped himself up on one elbow. "He stays."

Lestrade didn't move or breathe.

Sherlock struggled to sit back up and he looked to Lestrade. "This is why I wanted you here."

"Why?"

"To help collect evidence."

"Evidence…" Lestrade was sure he'd missed something. He looked at the doctor questioningly.

Sherlock sighed dramatically and said. "Come on, Lestrade. You've figured it out by now, surely. I have blood on the seat of my pants. Where do you think it's coming from?"

Lestrade breathed in sharply and looked away. "No. Really?"

Given his training, it probably should have crossed his mind before that moment, but it was just so, quite literally, unthinkable.

"Yes. Really," Sherlock said. "And while I don't want to press charges, I do want to make sure everything is documented, in case it comes back on me."

"Okay," Lestrade said quickly. "I'm here."

"I'm sorry," Dr. Finnemore said quietly. "I'll need to step out to gather some things before we continue. Will you be all right?" She touched Sherlock lightly on the hand and he nodded.

Dr. Finnemore swept out of the room and left Lestrade and Sherlock sitting there in tense silence.

With a groan and a gasp, Sherlock sat back up and kicked his legs back over the edge of the table. Lestrade's eyes didn't venture above his ankles.

"Do you believe me?" Sherlock finally asked.

Lestrade's stomach lurched and he quickly looked up into Sherlock's eyes. It hadn't even crossed his mind to second-guess Sherlock. Perhaps that would have been surprising to anyone else, but Lestrade was sort of offended at the idea that Sherlock thought he wouldn't believe him.

"I wish you would press charges," Lestrade said. "He shouldn't get away with it."

"I will not press charges. But don't think for a second he's going to get away with it."

"If you're doing this for my sake—"

Sherlock scoffed. "Don't be ridiculous, Inspector. When have you ever known me to be altruistic?"

"I'm just saying don't worry about my job or your job. That's my responsibility."

"But if they find out you let some junkie tamper with evidence and question witnesses, then not only will you be sacked, but I'll be left with nothing but a sore arse."

"Sherlock—"

"And if he claims that I instigated it in some way, they'll back him up. You know they will. There will be nothing you can do about it, because you'll have been sacked. They all despise me for showing them up in the first place, and police are notoriously loyal to their own. I'll be charged with assaulting a police officer. I'll go to prison and he'll walk free."

"Sherlock, you don't need to worry about any of this right now," Lestrade said.

Sherlock's eyes were glazed over and unfocused as they darted around the room. His chest was heaving again. Lestrade figured he was having a panic attack. He scooted to the edge of his chair, not sure if he should approach Sherlock in his current state.

"I can't even claim self-defense, Lestrade. It was already over by then. I kicked him and he hit his head. He was already unconscious. I lost control and beat him until I physically couldn't anymore. That's not reasonable self-defense, by any definition."

"Nobody will blame you," Lestrade said.

"Nobody will believe me."

"That's why I'm here to collect evidence, remember?"

"And if he says I asked for it?"

"You're bleeding, Sherlock," Lestrade said and cringed.

"It'll be his word against mine. They'll dig up my past and use it against me. There's only one way it can end. I can't go to prison, Lestrade. Can you imagine how unpopular I would be in prison?"

"You're getting worked up again. Just calm down."

"We'll gather evidence and leverage it against Patrick. Get to him before he talks to anybody and make sure he has his story straight."

Lestrade snorted. "You expect me to coach that bastard to lie so he can get away with this, when what I'd like to do is rip his head off with my bare hands."

"You'll be blackmailing him," Sherlock said. "And you'll be finding a good reason to demote him and transfer him. He will not be grateful."

"Wouldn't your brother be able to—"

"Don't tell my brother about this," Sherlock said. His voice was hoarse and demanding, but his eyes were desperate. "As far he's concerned, Sgt. Patrick and I had a row over a case. He cannot know that I was raped."

Lestrade saw sheer mortification on Sherlock's face. It was the first time anyone had actually said that word about what had happened. He watched him silently. Sherlock suddenly sat up straight and tilted his head back, exposing his long neck. Lestrade could see bruises in the shape of smudged fingerprints showing up against his alabaster skin. Sherlock took a deep breath and closed his eyes and his face became peaceful. It was as though he'd started meditating right in the middle of their intense conversation.

Lestrade wanted to ask why Sherlock needed to keep it from Mycroft, but he was afraid to speak and shatter that tranquility. He couldn't shake the feeling that they were doing a big, big thing very, very badly.

Dr. Finnemore returned at that moment, and Sherlock snapped out of his trance and looked at her pointedly.

He spoke to her as though he were carrying on a conversation already in progress. "I know you work for my brother, so your professional ethics are already compromised, but I expect confidentiality. If you can't agree to that, I need to go elsewhere."

She was frozen in the middle of the room, holding a cardboard box and a lamp of some sort. "And if you're not going to show me respect, I'd rather you go somewhere else. My only duty is to my patients, and I take that very seriously. It will take a lot more than your brother can manage to get me to forget that."

Sherlock stared her down for a moment longer before nodding and slipping off the table to stand next to it. "You need me to undress, I presume."

The tension visibly melted from her shoulders. "Yes, but not just yet," she said.

She set the box down on the counter. From the box she pulled a bunch of white paper bags. She opened them and arranged them on the floor and Sherlock watched her carefully.

Lestrade was vaguely familiar with this part. He had briefly worked in the sex crimes division when he was rising through the ranks. It was too much for him, at the time. He was young and pig-headed and he lacked the sensitivity required to handle victims. He had never been present for a rape kit, but he had been trained on how they worked.

Sherlock was instructed to stand on a mat and take off each item of clothing and put them in a separate bag. Dr. Finnemore opened up a cabinet and pulled out a neatly folded paper hospital gown and a white sheet, then sat them on the table. She pulled a privacy screen around in front of Sherlock.

"Take your time," she said.

xxx

Sherlock looked even more vulnerable in the hospital gown, perched on the exam table once again with his naked, skinny legs dangling in front of him.

Dr. Finnemore stuck a pair of latex gloves in Lestrade's face. He looked from the gloves to the doctor's face. He panicked for a moment, thinking what she expected him to do with those gloves.

"Help me label and index everything."

"Oh. Of course." He took the gloves and she handed him the box filled with envelopes and glass slides and individually wrapped swabs.

Lestrade glimpsed the list of questions they had to ask that came in the rape kit. There was a checklist of revolting acts like, Oral to anal copulation. He decided to start by asking Sherlock to describe in his own words what happened.

Sherlock said that Sgt. Patrick had unexpectedly pulled the car over on an empty street. Without saying a word, he had turned on him with his taser gun and shocked him in the chest. While Sherlock was in too much pain to realize what was happening, Patrick drove them somewhere isolated and then shocked Sherlock again. Then he bundled the convulsing man into the back seat and climbed on top of him. He handcuffed him. He pulled down Sherlock's jeans and pants and took off just one of his shoes. Sherlock said that whenever he tried to fight, that's when he would get shocked again. And the shocks didn't stop during the rape. Sherlock said that Patrick put his hand around his throat and choked him as he reached orgasm. Then he collapsed on top of Sherlock and stayed there for long enough for Sherlock to recover. He finally pulled out and tucked himself back into his trousers.

That's when Sherlock took the opportunity to kick him in the gut. Sgt. Patrick hit the back of his head on the metal of the car and it knocked him out. He fell draped over Sherlock's crotch. Sherlock then shoved him out of the car and proceeded to beat him with his own nightstick. He said that bit was sort of blurry.

He explained all of this almost clinically, except for the obvious edge of rage in his tone. His normally bright eyes were black and cold and terrifying in the blue UV light.

While he told the story, Dr. Finnemore had turned the lights out and was searching Sherlock's upper body with the UV light for fluids to sample. She collected hairs from his head and packed the samples away into carefully indexed little envelopes, then handed each one to Lestrade to index.

She switched the lights back on and then it was the doctor's turn to gently ask difficult questions.

"Did your attacker wear protection?" she asked quietly.

"No," Sherlock said.

"Do you know if he ejaculated?"

"He did."

"Did he ejaculate while he was penetrating you?"

"Yes."

"When were you last tested for sexually transmitted diseases?"

"Never."

"Have you been otherwise sexually active in the last twenty-four hours?"

"No."

"In the last six months?"

"No. Never."

Lestrade's heart sank. He had never considered that that could be the case. It wasn't that Sherlock being a virgin made what happened to him worse. It didn't, of course, change anything. It still made Lestrade inexplicably sad.

Sherlock looked bored while the doctor drew blood from his arm. Just moments before he was a raw nerve, worried that his life was ruined forever, and now he was dryly answering deeply personal questions and detailing his assault as though it happened to someone else.

Lestrade assisted by filling out paperwork and sorting and indexing all of the samples the doctor had taken, while she began the part of the examination that Lestrade most dreaded being present for.

She pulled the privacy screen behind her, separating Lestrade from the action.

Mercifully, he couldn't see a thing. But he could still hear the doctor mumbling the entire time, describing what she was going to do next and why. She apparently was inspecting Sherlock's genitals for abrasions. The lights went off again while she collected more samples of hair and fluids. Sherlock seemed okay with all of this.

Then Dr. Finnemore asked Sherlock to roll over onto his side.

"Now I'm going to need to insert one finger to feel for tissue damage," she said. "It's going to be uncomfortable. Tell me if you need me to stop."

Sherlock said nothing.

"Just bear down. There now. Breathe deeply and relax."

Lestrade could hear Sherlock gasping for breath.

After a few minutes, Lestrade saw the doctor step to the side and change her gloves, dropping the old ones into a bin. Then she went to the little rolling table, which Lestrade hadn't noticed until just that moment, standing just beyond the edge of the screen. She picked up an instrument that looked almost like scissors from where Lestrade was sitting. She went to the sink to run hot, steaming water over it.

"We're nearly there now," she said when she returned to Sherlock. "I'm going to get some samples from inside. And I need to check for further lacerations and clean the area. I'm going to use this speculum so I can get a clean sample. Tell me if you need me to stop at any time."

Lestrade heard a low whimper come from Sherlock and he froze and dropped the pen he was holding. It clattered onto the ground with what seemed like an awful clang in the quiet room.

"There's going to be a slight pressure now. Just relax. We're almost done."

Lestrade heard a strangled sob.

"Do you need me to stop?"

"No," Sherlock rasped. "Get it over with."

Lestrade began humming a random tune in his head, trying to block out what he was hearing. He felt like he was intruding. He was sure the last thing Sherlock would want was for him to hear him cry.

The doctor gave Sherlock a shot to numb his pain and she cleaned and stitched him up. She gave him a strong round of antiretroviral medications to prevent infection. She took photos of all of his injuries.

When the screen was pulled away and Lestrade saw Sherlock next, he was lying on his back with the blanket pulled up to his chest. His eyes were red-rimmed and moist. He looked dreadfully tired.

"You did very well," the doctor said as she took the kit from Lestrade and started putting the new samples in their designated envelopes.

Lestrade started to say, "Thank you," but bit his tongue.

"Where's my lollipop?" Sherlock asked dryly.

xxx

Lestrade joined Mycroft in the waiting room of the empty clinic while Dr. Finnemore performed a few more tests on Sherlock. Anthea had apparently left.

He told Mycroft that the doctor was concerned about tissue damage to his heart from the shocks, but that he was otherwise going to be fine.

Mycroft regarded him suspiciously. "What took so long in there?"

"Just basic stuff," Lestrade lied.

"Basic stuff?" He pronounced, "stuff," as though it tasted bad in his mouth.

"She was just being thorough," he said. "Plus, he was giving her a hard time. You know Sherlock. He thinks he knows better than everybody else."

Lestrade smiled tightly, hoping he had convinced Mycroft to leave it at that.

"Did he tell you what happened?" Mycroft asked.

"Yeah."

"Well?"

Lestrade hesitated a moment. He knew he had to be careful. Now was not the time to betray Sherlock, even if he thought it was for his own good.

"It was just a row over the case," he said. "Sergeant Patrick took a swing at him. He defended himself, and Patrick went for the taser gun. Simple as that."

Mycroft considered it for a moment, but he didn't ask any more questions. "I trust you'll see to it that he's appropriately punished?"

"With pleasure."

xxxxx

"I still have the whole kit in a safe deposit box," Lestrade said.

"Oh my God." Donovan's mouth hung open until she suddenly looked to her left with a sharp inhale of breath. "That's why he was on drugs, isn't it?"

Lestrade frowned and shook his head slowly.

"No?" Donovan said.

"No."

"He started doing coke in uni," John said. "That much, I do know about."

"He was fresh out of rehab when I met him," Lestrade said.

"He relapsed, though?" John asked.

"Yeah. Pretty badly," Lestrade said.

"Did he ever get any help? Did he talk to anyone? Go back to rehab?" John asked. His eyes looked desperate.

Lestrade shrugged his shoulders. "I don't know. He never talked about it to me after that day."

John had moved back to sitting in the armchair across from Donovan and Lestrade on the couch. He balled up his fist and slammed it against the arm of the chair, then paused there, as though he was lost in thought. "Damn him," he whispered.

Lestrade shifted in his seat uncomfortably. He turned to face Donovan. "I probably shouldn't have told you all that, but I couldn't let you keep thinking he was a violent psychopath."

"Yeah," Donovan said. "Yeah."

"What do you think of him now?" John asked. His face was blank and his voice was oddly cold.

Donovan blinked and took a deep breath before she looked at John directly in the eyes and said, "I was wrong."

"But?" John said.

"No but."

"If you had known…" John stopped and closed his eyes. "Would it have changed anything?" He held up his hand and shook his head. "No. I'm sorry. That's not fair. Don't answer that."

"John," Donovan said softly.

"It's fine."

"I'm sorry," she said.

Lestrade was certain she meant it this time. At least, she meant it in a way she hadn't previously. John apparently noticed it, too, because his face softened and he smiled sadly.

"You would do the same thing again, probably," John said.

She frowned. "Maybe not. A lot would have gone differently, I think, long before that."

"Well, this didn't go like I planned," Lestrade said. He laughed nervously.

John smiled again. "You got what you needed, though."

"I did?"

John nodded. "I'm stopping the suit."

Lestrade hesitated. "I thought it wasn't up to you. What about the family?"

"Mycroft, you mean."

That was the last thing Lestrade expected to hear. "I'd have guessed Mycroft wouldn't have anything to do with it," he said.

"He's Sherlock's only living relative," John said. "Well, that he had any connection with, anyway. His dad is still alive, but Sherlock hadn't seen or heard from him or anyone else on that side of the family since he was six years old. He owed me one."

"I didn't think you would even want to talk to Mycroft," Lestrade said. "I heard he gave Moriarty a bunch of personal information about Sherlock."

"Like I said, he owed me one," John said. "But it's sort of hard to avoid Mycroft, if he really wants to talk to you."

Lestrade laughed. "Good point."

Donovan said, "Tell him I'd like to meet him and apologize, if I can. At least offer condolences."

"You haven't met him?" John asked.

She shook her head.

"Obviously," John said and smiled ruefully. "He's a lot like Sherlock. You'd hate him. You should have seen them together, though. It was really something. Their dad left when they were both young, you see, and their mum died when Sherlock was fourteen and Mycroft was twenty-one. So, Mycroft was his legal guardian from that point on. It made for an interesting dynamic."

"I didn't know that," Lestrade said. He thought hard about it and realized that there wasn't really much that he did know about the Holmes brothers.

"I didn't know it until recently," John said. "Amazing how I lived with him for almost two years and knew nothing about him, then after he dies people can't wait to tell me all his secrets."

Lestrade stood up to signal that the visit was coming to an end, and Donovan followed suit. John stayed seated and looked up at him with a confused expression.

"It's loyalty. Why nobody talked about him while he was alive. He had a way of inspiring loyalty in people," Lestrade said. "You know it better than anybody."

John looked at his feet and smiled sadly. "I'm sorry. I don't really know what I hoped to gain from all this," John said. "I don't need money. I definitely don't want the attention. I guess I just needed to know that you felt something for him. Guilt. Remorse. Loss. Whatever. Anything."

Lestrade was almost bowled over when Donovan stepped around the coffee table to pull John up into a tight hug. John stood there with his arms glued to his sides, staring at Lestrade in shock, until he finally softened and returned the hug. It looked nice and Lestrade had to fight with himself not to join them.

"You got what you needed, too, John."

xxxxx

A/N: The end. Of part one, anyway. I haven't written the next part yet, but I'm thinking Sherlock comes back after his hiatus and finds that all of his secrets have come out. So, look out for that. Reviews, as always, are cherished. Thanks to everyone who has been following this. You've made my first experience posting Sherlock fanfiction a fantastic one.