A/N - Warning: Disturbing scenes (well, descriptions? Imagery? Ugh idk 😂)

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It was nearing ten'o'clock in the evening. Rita still hadn't awoken but her strong heartbeat continued - the doctors believed she would recover well, despite having such nasty burns. Mycroft had persuaded his parents to go home and return in the morning seeing as Sherlock and Elizabeth would appear to stay for longer.

Mycroft had removed his black blazer and had rolled up his shirt sleeves, taking to pacing across the room floor. The thief had left to fetch the three of them coffee, leaving Sherlock leaning against the wall, watching his brother walk lines into the floor. The government official was practically breaking out into a sweat.

"Exercising at a time like this?"

"Let's see, sit and stress myself into aging more or exercise the stress away - which do you think I'd really choose?"

"Neither. I know you'd rather be binging."

Mycroft glared at his brother but continued with his intense walking. Each human had their own method for coping with stress - at this point in time, pacing was Mycroft's coping mechanism. Not that it would wake Rita up any sooner.

"Why are you letting her stay?" Mycroft asked.

Sherlock frowned, thinking this a somewhat obvious answer, "Because she's my partner and her old flat is currently charred and seeking repair."

"Partner? Please." His brother scoffed.

"Well, what do you call Rita?"

"I don't call her anything. Why label something that certainly won't evolve into anything more?"

"Do you really think so little of yourself, Mycroft? Do you really doubt Rita's loyalty to you?"

"She's changed you, brother mine." Mycroft grimaced, refusing to answer Sherlock's questions, "How do you know the thief won't just up and leave?"

"Because I've changed her too." Sherlock then stated matter-of-factly, "She told me so."

"And what if she's lying? What if you are too blinded by love to see through her lies?" Mycroft challenged.

It took every ounce of resistance for Sherlock to not hit his brother there and then, understanding he was merely upset with his own situation, "Don’t displace your own feelings of fear and doubt onto me, Mycroft."

"Fear? Doubt? Please."

"Don’t pretend you don't care about her."

"I don't. I don't care if she lives or dies."

Sherlock shouted at him, knowing Mycroft could never truly mean a statement so cold, "Don't build walls back up around you the second something goes wrong!"

"Then what am I supposed to do?!" Mycroft snapped, raising his voice, "Go on, Sherlock, because you know it all, what am I supposed to do?"

He gestured to Rita, his palm flat and pointed, "A woman who loves you is lying in that hospital bed, there. Look at her, Mycroft."

The elder Holmes refused to do this.

"Mycroft, look. At. Her."

Reluctantly, his older brother gave in at seeing Sherlock's hard stare, his gaze clearly softening in distress at acknowledging Rita's state again.

"Is Rita a weakness to you? Yes or no?"

"Yes."

"Is Rita a disadvantage to you and a dangerous one at that? Yes or no?"

"Yes."

"Do you find your sentiments still remain with her? Yes or no?"

"I - "

"Yes or no?"

Mycroft shut his eyes, unsure of how to answer aloud but knew which one he was going to say. He said it in his head, he felt it in what little heart he had and he felt the truth in his gut. Mycroft Holmes, the Iceman, had somehow been broken down by Rita so quickly across a couple of days that he knew answer began with 'y'.

But he knew it was also a lie that she had broken him down over a couple of days. Honestly, he knew it had started at university, in drama society, when he first got to know her. He fell for her even more when they had put on The Tempest, with Rita as Miranda and himself as Ferdinand: two young, ignorant, naive lovers engaged within a day of meeting. His own mind felt as though a tempest was within, causing chaos and mixing his logic with his feelings. Perhaps he had limited his contact with her all this time in an attempt to prevent the inevitable.

"Yes." He finally answered, defeated.

Sherlock was relieved to discover that his brother did have a heart in him.

"Sherlock?" Elizabeth entered the room with coffee, "Molly has the results, saw her just now."

The thief placed a coffee cup down on the table by Mycroft before hand the other to Sherlock and keeping her own in her hands. Elizabeth looked between the two, feeling an uncomfortable tension in the air.

"Go down to the lab so long. I'll catch up."

"Okay." She nodded, leaving hurriedly in the fear that she had interrupted a moment.

Sherlock spoke up again before he left, with some final parting words, "Mycroft, she is probably just as afraid of loving you as you are of loving her, but don't let that fear prevent you from being with someone you like. It's rare for people like us to find someone who can see straight through us. Don't give up on Rita so easily."

And with that, the detective left his brother alone in the room where the only sound was the incessant beating of the heart monitor. Tired with his pacing, Mycroft took his seat beside her bed again, still staring at her expressionless face.

"I am sorry." He apologised, his heart now heavy with the guilt of his words, "I do - care for you. I do care if you live." Mycroft ran his hands over his eyes, "Two coffee meetings and look at what you've done to me - you've created a besotted fool."

His eyes looked to the monitor, watching the lines jump up and down every second and then back to her peaceful face and then down to her bandaged hands and arms. Jealousy somewhat overwhelmed him: Elizabeth had been able to hold his brother's hand and now he, too, wished to hold Rita's hand. But as fate would have it, he could not.

"I can only hope you know that I am here. And I'll be here when you wake up. I'll stay." Mycroft's doubts crept in, "But will you stay with me? You chose me, yes, but as I said before, I am very different to who I was when you first met me. I am afraid that who I am now will only...repel you."

He sighed, his demeanor thoughtful, "But then perhaps that's what the coffee meetings were for."

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

As Sherlock turned the shadowy hospital corridor corner, the smell of disinfectant wafting towards him, his phone began to trill. Seeing the caller ID was Lestrade, he stopped to take the call, hoping he was going to get lots of evidence.

"Lestrade. What have you found?"

"For starters," Came the inspector's gravelly London accent, "We can tell you that it wasn't Moriarty who threw the chemical over Dr Rahat."

"It wasn't?"

"No. It appears he had someone working with him. Manager said they had, today, just taken on another waiter for a trial shift - his name was Shaun Bagshaw. I've already got someone running the name through our database. I can also tell you that they hadn't taken on a new cleaner though."

"Waiter must have gotten Moriarty into the restaurant. What about the CCTV footage?"

"Nothing there, Sherlock. It's all erased."

"What?"

"We couldn't believe it either. Even in the surrounding shops. All gone."

"Moriarty's network..." Sherlock exhaled sharply, "Anything else?"

"No. Not yet. How far you gotten with the eye?"

"Seeing Molly about it now. I'll update you when I know more."

"Same here. And Sherlock, you better update us. You can't keep going into all sorts of situations alone - "

"Alright. I will." The detective interrupted before hanging up.

Sherlock knew he wouldn't though. He preferred dealing with crimes either on his own or with an invited associate whom he trusted. Calling police only introduced too much stupid into the scene. Hence why they were always called last thing if he were on a case.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

The thief and specialist registrar waited in the lab, both facing each other but sat on opposite sides of the work space. Elizabeth tapped her fingers soundlessly on the table as she watched Molly studying something through her microscope. It was unrelated to the case but she did still have a job to do when she wasn't completing favours for Sherlock.

"So why did you choose pathology?" Elizabeth asked Molly as they waited for the detective.

Molly contemplated this for a moment, "I like problem solving. Diagnosis is fun and important too. And the science behind it all is fascinating - the subject always clicked with me in school." She paused, "What did you do before you met Sherlock?"

"Uh..." Elizabeth hesitated, "That's kind of hard to answer."

Molly frowned, finding this statement bizarre, "Why?"

"Because it wasn't anything good."

"Oh...well...you can tell me. I won't judge."

"Mm, I really think you will."

Molly shook her head, "I can't judge someone I don't know very well on their past."

Elizabeth tilted her head, her lips pursing as she considered whether she should say or not, "I was...a thief... particularly for Moriarty."

Molly just listened quietly.

"Long story short, seven-years old, bad step-dad, no mum, all I remember is that he was shouting at me and then Jim came along and took me away. I was raised by Moriarty and moulded into the criminal he thought I should be."

"That's...a lot."

"Yeah..."

Molly nodded, taking a breath before admitting, "I was Moriarty's girlfriend for...five days."

"Wait, what?"

Molly nodded again, "Jim from IT. He was nice. But he only dated me to get close to Sherlock so...you can imagine how that turned out."

"You dated a psychopath?" Elizabeth was gobsmacked.

"Well, I didn't know he was a psychopath. And Sherlock actually ruined it, said he was gay and that he had slipped Sherlock his number when I introduced them."

"Damn." Elizabeth hadn't even known. Or maybe she did and it had been one of the things she had blindly ignored.

"Thieving doesn't sound as bad as murder though." Molly spoke optimistically, "And it sounds like you were just doing what you've always done. You didn't know any different."

"No, I didn't."Elizabeth gave her a soft smile, "Not until I got caught by Sherlock."

Speaking of the devil, the door burst open, revealing the detective. He zoomed straight over to Molly who immediately went over to her work computer with Elizabeth following after her.

"I ran the DNA test across our hospital records." Molly said as Sherlock stood next to Elizabeth, both behind her, "The eye belongs to Henry King. Lives in Marylebone, Chiltern Street."

"Did you just breach GDPR?" Elizabeth queried.

"I did. But if it means you solve the case quicker then I'm sure it can be overlooked."

"Perfect as always, Molly." Sherlock grabbed the thief's hand, already dragging her hurriedly out of the lab, the high of the case pumping through his veins.

"Thank you, Molly!" Elizabeth managed to say before they disappeared through the door.

She just gave a quiet, "Any time," in reply.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

It had taken them about a sixteen minute tube ride and a short walk from St Bart's Hospital to get to Marylebone. It was only towards the end of their walk that Sherlock spoke up, wondering about how much Elizabeth did know about Moriarty's network.

"Do you know of a Shaun Bagshaw?"

Elizabeth looked to him, woe crossing her features as she gulped, "That was...my Shaun - from the masquerade. Why?"

Sherlock looked away before briefly restating what Lestrade had told him and then adding, "...And the waiter who disfigured Rita was named Shaun Bagshaw."

"He's...dead though."

"That, we know. But now we also know that Moriarty's working with someone who isn't afraid to take the names of the recently deceased and use them as aliases. Did he ever mention anyone else, a right hand man that he worked closely with?"

Elizabeth shrugged, "He didn't widely discuss the network with me. Confidentiality, I guess. Everything I know, all the contacts I've met and the jobs I've taken is as far as my knowledge goes regarding the network."

The detective nodded, absorbing the information.

The thief stopped as they turned the corner, "Chiltern Place, that's the block of flats Henry King lives in, right?"

"Yes. Come on."

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

They had managed to deceive the receptionist into giving them a spare key to Henry King's flat.

As the couple cracked open the door to Henry's flat, they peered into the darkness, half expecting Moriarty to jump out at them. But there was no one. Sherlock stepped into the hallway, flicking the lights on as he crept forward, listening closely to every crack and creak. Elizabeth followed behind, just as cautiously, her stomach twisting at the thought of what they might find.

As they crept into the vast living area, there at the dining table sat a man, his back to the both of them.

"Hello?" Sherlock spoke, not expecting a reaction but thought it may be best to say something anyway.

At the lack of a response, the detective approached the statue-like being. He inhaled when he saw the man's face, not particularly disturbed by the sight as he had seen many a body in his line of work, but all the same, it didn't make the impact any lesser.

When Elizabeth walked around the other side to see the body too, she almost retched at the vile sight, covering her mouth with her hand and cursing under her breath. Who they both believed to be Henry King, was sat in the dining room chair, his head tilted back slightly , mouth hanging open in eternal agony and, where his eyes should have been, were two dark red, grotesque voids. On the table in front of him lay both his hands, although in his right hand he held a bloody spoon. Between both his hands was a plate with a note on it.

Sherlock picked up the piece of paper and read it out loud, "'Sorry, I got it wrong: Mr King was devout but his wife began to doubt Henry's love for her as business, he would prefer. Clearly, he offended Ruth so she took to the youth. Her little affair began where she first met her businessman. Eye'm sure they're dying to see you.'"

"Well, what in the hell does that mean?"

"Other than the fact that he's terrible at rhyming? A lot." Sherlock paused, scanning over the note again, "'If thy right eye offend thee, pluck it out' was what he said before. Originally, the Bible meant for the adulterer to maim themselves for their sin. Moriarty's turned it on its head as Mr King's wife has turned out to be the adulterer. He is suggesting that because Mr King spent too much time with his business rather than with his wife, this offended Mrs King and her hurt caused her to look for love elsewhere."

"And the person she was having an affair with is younger than her?"

"Yes. And their affair started where Mrs King met her husband. And the fact they're 'dying to see us' tells me we need to hurry and work out where they first met."

"Can't you deduce it?"

"I can only deduce so much."

"What have you deduced so far then?"

"That they definitely met in London."

"Oh, because that narrows it down."

"I don't know anything about his wi - wait." Sherlock paused, looking back down at Henry.

Fishing in his trouser and blazer pockets, he pulled out Mr King's wallet and phone, opening them with an intent to find one key item: a business card.

"If he is so dedicated to his work, then I doubt he would have time to find love elsewhere - perhaps his wife worked under him." He scanned both sides of the business card but frowned, shaking his head, "No. He runs an copywriting company, mainly works from home."

Daring another look at the eyeless corpse, an idea clicked in the thief's head, "Where's his other eye?"

"What?"

"His other eye. Moriarty only gave us one - probably the right one - so where's his left eye?"

Sherlock stared at her for a few seconds, the cogs turning, slightly appalled that he hadn't picked up on that first but also proud of his partner, "I could kiss you."

"Later." Elizabeth smirked, "We have a case to solve and people to find."