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John raises his gaze from the map on his phone, looking at the door before him. '221B' it reads in gold letters. This is the place: this is the home of Sherlock Holmes. This is the home of the consulting detective who could supposedly read your life story in the lines of your face and the creases of your clothes, who could solve cases so remarkable they belonged in Agatha Christie novels instead of in the mundane daily paper. This is the man who Mike swears can help John.

This is John's only hope.

He pockets his phone and presses the doorbell.

Four Days Earlier

Harry was late.

John did not even know why he had bothered turning up early. Harry was notoriously late for everything. She had never had the best time management skills, even when they were kids at school. However, John had thought that – or hoped that, perhaps – this would be different. This was going to be the first time that John saw Harry since he had come home from Afghanistan, despite the fact that John had been home for months. Harry had been the one to organise this catch-up, to choose the date and the location. She had told John that she was doing better, that she had been sober for almost a month now – certainly the longest period of time that she had gone without a drink since she was a teenager. John had thought that maybe it meant she was better, now. He had thought that maybe it meant she was more in control of her life, and it meant that she would get to her chosen cafe on time.

Apparently, John had thought wrong.

Five minutes was understandable. Ten minutes was frustrating, but forgivable. Harry, however, was over half an hour late. John had gone through most of the bottle of water that was sitting on the table. The waitress kept giving him pitying looks, as though he had been stood up on a date. If this were a date, John would have left already. If your date was half an hour late, it either meant that they weren't reliable, or they just weren't that into you.

Yet, this was not a date. This was Harry. This was John's little sister, with whom he would admit he had always had a strained relationship, but she was still family. He had half a mind to just leave the cafe and go home, but what kind of brother would that make him?

He stood up, apologised to the waitstaff for wasting their time, and left a tip although he had not ordered anything, before moving out into the street. He hailed a cab, and when one pulled up, he climbed in and gave them Harry's address.

Today

John knows the doorbell worked, when he pressed it. He heard the faint echo of its sound from his place outside the door. However, the few minutes that pass after John presses the button makes him wonder if anyone is actually home to hear it. He had looked Sherlock Holmes up on the Internet, after Mike mentioned his name. He had found his website – The Science of Deduction. The website included a forum, where you could post messages if you needed the man's help, but John had been unwilling to wait the length of time that it could take for Holmes to see and respond to his message. He did not know if they had that long to wait. Turning up at the man's flat seemed like a better idea, a better way to get his attention immediately. Unfortunately, the website hadn't given any details on "office hours", or times when Holmes would be home to see any visitors, and so John can only hope that he has not come at a bad time.

John is about to press the doorbell again – he's impatient, yes, but he's got every right to be desperate – but fortunately, the door opens before he has the chance. The man standing before him is certainly Sherlock Holmes. John had found a couple of newspaper articles when he had looked him up. No paper had gotten a clear image of his face – there was one with a hat pulled over his head, another with his face turned away from the camera – but what John had been able to see in the papers matched the man before him. His dark curls are pushed back off his head by a pair of safety goggles. He is holding a burner in one hand.

John wonders if this is a bad time.

John immediately thinks that this is important, and if this is a bad time, Sherlock Holmes is just going to have to deal with it.

"Mr Holmes," he says, extending a hand in greeting. "I'm, uh, I'm John Watson, I'm—"

Holmes cuts him off before he has a chance to finish. "A client," he says, looking John up and down with an odd sort of scrutiny. On his website, Holmes had claimed that he could identify a software designer by his tie and an airline pilot from his left thumb. John had thought at the time that this was a little bit of a joke, an exaggerated comment. With the way Holmes is looking at him now, John finds he's not sure it was exaggerated at all. The way Holmes looks at him gives the impression he sees far more than what meets the eye to most people. John wonders exactly what it is he sees.

"If this is a bad time, I can make an appointment and come back," he says, hoping to come across as polite and consequently get into Holmes' good books, and also hoping that this is not a bad time. Fortunately, Holmes also seems to believe that making an appointment is unnecessary.

"No," he says, and he turns swiftly, making his way up the stairs. He does not close the door behind him, so John assumes that that is an invitation. He steps inside, closes the door, and then follows Holmes up.

Four Days Earlier

John pounded on the door to Harry's apartment, ignoring the shouts of "Shut up!" or "Go away!" from her neighbours. John knew that Harry was inside. He had heard something fragile fall earlier and shatter, and that had been immediately followed by the unmistakeable sound of his sister swearing. Harry was definitely inside, and Harry could definitely hear him knocking. John was not going anywhere until she opened the door.

He knocked again, yelling Harry's name, and he ignored the neighbour that yelled "She doesn't want to see you!" Of course Harry did not want to see John. If she wanted to see John, she would have turned up at the cafe. It didn't mean that John was going to give up and go home.

He raised his fist to knock for the umpteenth time, but Harry opened the door before his hand could make contact with the wood. She was still dressed in pyjamas, hair tied in a messy bun, bathrobe hanging loosely over her shoulders. She hadn't even made the effort to get ready, hadn't even tried to meet John at the cafe. John might have forgiven her if her excuse was that she had overslept – it happened, he knew – but it was clear that Harry hadn't just stumbled out of bed at the sound of the knock. She held a glass of clear liquid in one hand. John was willing to bet it wasn't water.

"Harry..." John started, but Harry turned away before he could get out another word.

"Don't," she said, making her way back into the apartment. It did not escape John's notice how she failed to walk in a straight line to get there. She had not closed the door in John's face, however, so John stepped inside and closed it behind him.

Today

The Baker Street flat is interestingly decorated, to say the least. It's a mess, for one thing – a small table by the window is covered with papers, and a second table in the kitchen seems to hold far more scientific equipment than it does food. It is on this second table that Holmes places his burner, and the safety goggles that were on top of his head. He ruffles his hair before he moves into the living room where John is standing.

There is a bison skull on the wall, wearing a pair of headphones. There is another skull – a human one – sitting on the mantel. Its empty eyes stare blankly at John. John does not stare back.

Aside from the chairs at the two tables, there are three seats in the room – two chairs and a sofa. One of the chairs looks significantly more worn than the other. Its cushions sink inwards under the weight of someone who has sat upon it multiple times. The other chair, in comparison, looks scarcely used. It's interesting, that having two chairs gives the impression of two people living there, but that only one is used makes it clear that Holmes lives alone. John wonders why the second chair is there.

Holmes gestures to the sofa, and John takes a seat. Once he does, Holmes sits as well, this time in the more worn of the two chairs. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees and placing his fingers beneath his chin. He gives John that same, scrutinising look that he had when John had come to the front door.

"You're not here for yourself," he says after a brief pause. John blinks in surprise, and wonders what part of John's face, or body, or clothing, gives that little titbit of information away.

"No, I'm not," John confirms with a small shake of his head. "It's about my sister."

Four Days Earlier

Harry's apartment was a mess. Dirty dishes were piled up in the sink, and they looked like they had been in there for more than a day. It was clear that they were not just breakfast dishes. Clothes were strewn over the floor, with no apparent organisation. There was an open bottle of vodka on the kitchen counter. John immediately headed for it.

"You said you'd stopped," he said, picking up the bottle and pouring its contents down the drain.

"I'll stop when—hey, stop!" Harry stumbled to her feet, but she was too unsteady to make her way over to the kitchen before John had emptied the entire bottle. "That was mine."

"You were doing well, Harry," he said, putting the now empty bottle back on the counter and turning back to his sister. "You told me it had been weeks."

"It had," Harry said, reaching the kitchen counter and leaning her elbows on it for support. She held her glass of vodka in her hands, and looked down at it with a pitifully sad expression on her face, now aware that this was her last glass until she could go out and buy some more. "Changed my mind. Sobri- Sobree- Being sober doesn't suit me."

"Harry..." John started, but he didn't know what to say. Harry had been a drinker since before she was even legally allowed to do so. John had watched her fight for sobriety and then fall apart again when the next bad thing happened in her life. John had tried, time and time again, to stop her from drinking, but to no avail. What could he possibly say now that might help her get through her relapse? What could he possibly say that might make her think that being sober was better than not having to think?

He looked around her kitchen, taking in the scattered mess of objects over her counter and the floor. His eyes finally settled on a pile of envelopes on the corner of the counter. Harry did not often receive letters – neither of them did, given that most contact nowadays was done through the wonders of the internet – so the number of envelopes sitting there must have accumulated for at least a week. John took a step over and started sorting through them.

Some of them were bills – he recognised them from the logo in the corner. They weren't even open. He put them in one pile. "They'll shut off your electricity if you don't pay them, you know," he said. When he didn't hear Harry respond, he looked up, and found that she had moved from the place beside the counter to her dining room table. Perhaps she had decided that standing used too much energy. Her glass was empty now, and she was rolling the base around on the table, staring at it as though with the hope that she could refill it with nothing more than sheer willpower. She showed no sign of having heard John's comment, and John figured that he wouldn't have much luck if he repeated it, either.

He went back to sorting through Harry's mail, putting the bills aside and then making a separate pile for any junk mail that could be thrown out. Perhaps if he made it easier for Harry to get back on her feet and get back to the real world, she would be more likely to try. Getting rid of the junk mail made the pile of letters look less menacing.

As he sorted through them, one particular letter caught his eye. It had been opened – messily – and the letter had been shoved back into the envelope, apparently after it had been read. It was creased and crumpled and half hanging out of the envelope. There was no return address.

"What's this?" John asked, glancing up at Harry. She did not respond or even so much as glance up from her empty glass. John was not sure that she had heard him at all.

Rather than repeating the question, John - after a moment of hesitation – carefully pulled the crumpled letter from the envelope and unfolded it.

The letter was written in a messy scrawl that took John a moment to decipher. When he did, he felt something cold clench around his heart.

Today

John reaches into his pocket and pulls the crumpled letter that he had found in Harry's kitchen. Harry doesn't know that she has it. It's not the sort of letter that she would notice had gone missing. Judging by the way she had crumbled it, she was probably going to throw it out anyway. John is glad to have taken it, because it means that Harry won't read the letter again. She shouldn't have had to read the letter once.

Even though the letter had not been directed to John himself, he couldn't help but feel sick to the stomach upon reading it. Even handing it over to Holmes, knowing what is contained inside, makes him feel sick. The letter is filled with insults and slurs that John would never repeat out loud, not even to his worst enemy. They're words that John knows Harry has heard her whole life, since she came out as a teenager. He had thought they had stopped when she left high school. Surely adults are intelligent enough to know better.

The insults aren't even the worst part of the letter, however. The worst part is the two sentences at the end. They read:

you deserve to die. you deserve everything thats coming to you

He watches in silence as Holmes reads over the letter. Holmes has a blank expression on his face – he has since John arrived – but as he reads the letter, his eyebrows raise, and John is sure that he sees his upper lip twitch into a microexpression of disgust.

"That's the most recent one," John says, when he is sure that the detective has read enough of the letter to get the point. "Or, at least, it was the most recent as of four days ago. I don't know if she's received any more like that over the past couple of days."

"The most recent, but not the first," Holmes says – a statement, not a question.

John nods his head.

Four Days Earlier

"Harry," John said, slowly raising his gaze from the slurs and the threats on the page to look at his sister. She was still looking sadly at the empty glass, as though she was secretly hoping it might magically refill itself. When she did not respond, John approached the table, holding the letter in his hand. "Harry," he repeated.

When the word finally reached Harry's ears and she looked up at him, John gestured to the letter in his hand. "What's this?"

For a moment, Harry's gaze flickered between John's face and the letter, and John could see the exact second she realised what John was holding. Her eyes widened, and some of the colour drained out of her face. She reached for the letter, and she probably would have snatched it out of John's hands if she wasn't so drunk. However, with her reflexes slowed, it was easy for John to hold it out of her reach.

"What is it, Harry?" he asked.

"It's nothing," Harry said, shaking her head. "Rubbish. Junk. Why're you snooping through my letters?"

"I wasn't snooping. I was sorting them out for you - and, by the way, you have a few bills that really need to be paid soon." He gestured to the letter in his hand again. "Who sent this?"

"I don't know," Harry replied with a shrug. "Some homophobic jerk. It doesn't matter. I'm not replying to any of them, so eventually they'll give up."

"Any of them?" John repeated. "You've received more than just this letter?" When Harry ducked her gaze, John continued, "Harry, how many of these letters are there?"

Harry frowned in thought, looking towards the ceiling in the way they used to as kids when she was thinking really hard. "Um, maybe ten? Or twenty. Probably closer to ten, I don't think there were twenty. Something like that."

"Have you told anyone?"

"Why bother? They're just stupid letters. They're nothing, really. I've heard worse."

"They're not nothing, Harry, these are death threats."

Harry leaned her head on her hand, rubbing her temples as though to will away a headache. John moved back into the kitchen to grab Harry a clean glass of water, putting the letter in his pocket as he did. When he returned to the table, he placed a fresh glass of water in front of her and then slid down into the adjacent chair. "How long has this been going on?" he asked.

Harry shrugged her shoulders. "A few weeks. Maybe a month or so." She paused for a beat, and then added, "They weren't all threats. Some were just insults and stuff. One basically told me I need a big strong man to shag the gay out of me." A wry smile grew over her face, as though that particular letter was supposed to be funny, but John failed to see any humour in the situation.

"You need to tell someone," he said. "Maybe even the police."

Harry shook her head. "Why bother? I don't care."

"You're drunk, Harry. You got drunk after reading that letter. You and I both know you care."

Today

"Harry's always been really confident in her sexuality," John says, as Holmes reads over the letter again. "She came out when she was maybe fourteen, and after that it was never really a secret. She had girlfriends every other week, and she was open to anyone she talked to. It was impossible to not know she was gay. And, yeah, of course she got shit for it, because teenagers are idiots, but it never got to her."

"When did she start drinking?" Holmes asks. John blinks – he doesn't remember getting to that part in his story yet – and Holmes says, "Her letter smells faintly of alcohol. More likely to be from her than from the writer. It's obviously not from you. When did she start drinking?"

John thinks for a moment, and then says, "I think she was about sixteen."

Holmes raises his eyebrows. "And you don't think the harassment got to her back then?"

John shakes his head. "I can see why you'd think that, but you don't know Harry. Other things would get to her. Break-ups or unrequited love – they were the kind of things that would make her turn to the bottle. Her girlfriends, or ex-girlfriends, were the sort of people who could do that to her. So could..." He trails off for a moment, hesitates, and then says, "our father", before pushing on quickly, "but bullies didn't get to her. At least, if they did, they weren't the only thing that bothered her, or the only thing that made her drink. When it came to bullies, she almost seemed to find it funny. She's witty when she wants to be. Quick to come up with comebacks and stuff. She'd say that they were just jealous, and then that would be it."

Holmes reads over the letter again. "And yet you say that the letters – or at least this letter – bothered her to the point of making her choose to drink?"

John glances at the letter in Holmes' hand. "Yes," he says, thinking of what that might mean. Why would Harry, who had never cared for morons who insulted her sexuality, be so distressed by these letters – bothered enough to drink but not concerned enough to call the police? Did it mean that Harry was more sensitive now that she was older? Or did it mean...

As though reading his mind, Holmes says, "I believe she knows who is sending these."

Four Days Earlier

The amount of alcohol that Harry had consumed in a short period of time caught up to her a few moments later. John sat in the living room while she emptied the contents of her stomach into the toilet. He pulled the letter from his pocket, reading over it again.

It didn't make sense to him. He couldn't understand why someone would write and send a letter like this – multiple times. These were words that Harry had heard her whole life, but it felt different coming from what was probably an adult. Teenagers were idiots, and while that did not excuse their behaviour, it did make it somewhat less surprising. Adults, however, should have known better. The idea that a fully-grown adult sat down and wrote out those letters and made a conscious decision to send them was sickening.

Adults were also more likely to go through with their threats. It made the letters infinitely more terrifying.

The toilet flushed, and John glanced up as Harry, now much paler than before, returned. She wrapped an arm around her stomach and swayed a little on her feet, leaning into the doorframe for support to steady herself. John pocketed the letter once again and stood.

"Come on, let's get you to bed," he said, in the tone of voice that he used with young children, nervous patients, or just a very drunk Harry. "You can sleep it off. I'll come over tomorrow morning, and we can talk about this when you're sober."

"Don't wanna talk about it," Harry mumbled, though she did not protest when John wrapped an arm around her waist, guiding her gently towards her bedroom.

"I know you don't," he said. He pushed open the door to her bedroom and guided her over to her bed. She immediately collapsed down onto it, and John dragged the blankets up over her. "Just rest now. I'll be over first thing tomorrow morning. Promise me you'll be sober when I get here."

Harry made a mumbled sound that did not quite sound like a promise. John stood there in silence until Harry looked at him, and then he looked her straight in the eye and gave her his most stern big-brother voice.

"Promise, Harry," he said.

Harry sighed, but finally, she said, "I promise."

"Good," John replied. "Now go get some rest. I'll see you in the morning."

Today

"Do you have the other letters?" Holmes asks.

John shakes his head. "No, sorry. I had a look before I left but I couldn't see anything anywhere. I think she might have been throwing them out."

"Did she tell you anything else about them?"

"Very little. She mentioned that not all of them had been threats, though they seemed to be centred around her sexuality." He paused for a moment, thinking, and then added, "I think the person writing them is a guy. She said that they implied she needed to have sex with a man so she wouldn't be gay anymore." He couldn't stop his upper lip from twitching into a sneer at the mere thought of the message.

Holmes seemed more able to disconnect and treat it a lot more scientifically. He nodded his head. "It does seem more like something a male would write," he said, and then he clasped his hands together. "I need to talk to your sister, to gather more data."

John purses his lips, and he drops his gaze to the floor. "You can't," he says slowly, and Holmes cocks an eyebrow.

"And why is that?"

Three Days Earlier

True to her promise, Harry was sober by the time John reached her apartment the next day. That may have been in part because John chose to visit her apartment so early the next morning that Harry did not really have the opportunity to drink before he turned up. She was still in her pyjamas when she opened the door, and the sleepy look in her eyes said that she had not been awake for long. There was no smell of alcohol on her breath, and she was steady on her feet.

"How are you feeling?" John asked, stepping through the door and closing it behind him.

"Sober," Harry replied, spitting the word as though it was something distasteful. She turned and moved into her living room, and when she sat down on the sofa, John took a seat beside her.

"You said you had been clean for a few weeks," he reminded her.

"Yes, and then yesterday I drank half a bottle of vodka."

"It doesn't mean you failed. You can get back there again. Little steps at a time, remember?"

Harry wrinkled her nose. "I like it better when you're fighting with me. I know what to say then. The whole caring older brother thing doesn't really suit you."

"I am a caring older brother," John insisted. "My fighting with you is just my way of showing you that I care."

"No, your fighting with me is just your way of showing me how much I piss you off."

John's lips quirked upwards into a faint smile. "Well, that true," he said. After a moment, he asked, in a more serious tone, "Was it the letter that made you drink yesterday?"

Harry averted her gaze. John took that as a 'yes'.

"We'll tell someone," he said. "I'll call the police. We can tell them everything, show them the letters, and they can—"

"No," Harry said firmly, cutting him off. "No, we're not telling the police."

"Harry," John said firmly. "They can help you. They can make sure that this guy – whoever he is – can't hurt you."

Harry shook her head. "No. I don't care, I'm not going to the police. I don't want them involved."

"We're talking about death threats. You can't just ignore this."

"Of course I can!"

"What if whoever wrote those letters decides to act on them? You could get hurt."

Harry shook her head. "It's just some stupid jerk. It's nothing to worry about."

"Harry—"

"I said no, end of story. You can't make me talk to them."

"Why are you so against it?"

Harry shifted in her seat, and fixed her gaze somewhere off over John's shoulder, out her window. "This is my life, John. I don't want the police to follow me everywhere. I don't want them parked outside my house. You might be happy with that kind of invasion of privacy, but I'm not. This guy – the guy writing these letters – doesn't get to make my life any worse than it already is."

"And you don't think that the possibility of him actually hurting you won't make your life worse?"

Harry turned her head away. "I'm not talking about this anymore," she said.

Today

"She refuses to talk to the police," John explains. "I don't know why. She claims it's because she doesn't want police escorts, but even when she told me I didn't believe her. I suppose if she knows who is sending them, that makes a bit more sense. Either way, she won't talk to the police, and I can't get them involved without her cooperation."

"So you came to me," Holmes says.

"So I came to you," John replies. "From what I've been told, if anyone can help, you can. You might be the only person who can work out who is sending these letters without letting my sister know that you're even investigating it."

Holmes leans back on his chair. "I'm used to mystery on only one end of my cases," he says. "Normally, I wouldn't accept a case where the client in question remains out of reach." He pauses for a moment, for long enough for John to worry that this was just a waste of time and that there is nothing he can do to help his sister, and then he continues, "Fortunately, I'm in need of a challenge." He clasps his hands together and gets to his feet. "When is your sister next going to leave the house?"

John blinks in surprise at the question, and then glances at his watch. "She should be out for the next hour or so, if she takes my advice," he says. "I asked her to go to an AA meeting today that starts in about fifteen minutes."

"Perfect," says Holmes. "Text her, confirm she'll be out of the building."

John is already pulling out his phone to do just that. "What are we going to do?" he asks.

"We," Holmes replies, "are going to go find out what other data her home has to offer."

Two Days Earlier

John sat at the table in the coffee shop, twisting the letter in his hands. He had not meant to bring it with him – he had found it in his pocket when he had gone to reach for his wallet. He had forgotten it was in there when he put these trousers on this morning. He should have put it straight back away, but once he had it in his hands, he couldn't stop himself from reading over it again.

He was waiting on one of his friends from his days at university – Mike Stamford – to meet him at the coffee shop. He had bumped into him a few days earlier when he was out for a walk; they had both been a bit stuck for time, so they had agreed to meet for coffee to catch up. John had felt a lot more excited for that catch up when he hadn't had thoughts about Harry lingering in the back of his mind. Now, he couldn't help but feel that he wouldn't be very good company.

He read through the letter again – not that he needed to, because the words were already firmly engrained in his mind. Two days later, and it was just as sickening as it had been the first time he saw it. It still made no sense to him, why someone would do this. He could only fear what else they were capable of.

"Sorry I'm late," said a familiar voice, and John looked up to see Mike slide into the seat across from him. He hurriedly folded the letter in his hand, as though it was something shameful, something that needed to be hidden. Unfortunately, he did not manage to hide it quickly enough, because Mike nodded towards it. "What's that?"

"Nothing," John answered, in a tone of voice that must have made it clear that it was far more than nothing. Mike picked up on the tone, but did not realise the meaning behind it, because a small smile grew over his face.

"Something embarrassing?" he teased, and John wished he could crack a smile, make it a joke and then move straight past it. Yet, he couldn't do it. It felt wrong to make light of the situation in any way. His gaze dropped to the table, and the smile immediately fell from Mike's face.

"What is it?" Mike asked, in a much more serious, concerned tone, and even though John and Mike had been out of touch for years, John couldn't help but remember nights spent studying with Mike and talking about things going on at home, things with his father, or with Harry. Something about late nights was like a truth serum. Mike had always been a good listener, then.

"It's Harry," John said after a long pause .He hesitated, and continued, "She's been getting letters."

Mike didn't speak, but the look that he gave him prompted him to go on – not pushing, but willing John to continue all the same. John considered leaving it at that – talking about this was only going to ruin the mood of what could have otherwise been a very nice meeting – but he had already brought it up, and it was probably too late to avoid killing the mood. So, John fiddled with the letter, and continued, "Abusive letters. Stuff about her sexuality. She's been getting death threats."

Mike's eyes widened. "Do you know who from?"

John shook his head. "No idea. I want her to talk to the police about it, but she's refusing. You know what she's like. The police can't do anything if she doesn't want them to." He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I don't know what to do, Mike."

Mike frowned, looking thoughtful for a minute. "I might have an idea," he said after a pause.

John looked up immediately. "What?"

"I know this guy, Sherlock Holmes. He's kind of like a private investigator, but not quite. He might be able to help you. He might even be able to help without letting Harry know what's going on."

"Do you think that would work?" John asked. Mike smiled a little.

"Trust me, Sherlock seems to be the best that there is. I've seen him work. He's a bit of a madman, but he's also a genius. Here, let me give you his address."

Today

When John approached Sherlock Holmes earlier this morning, he did not expect to be breaking into his sister's flat by early afternoon.

To be fair, the term "breaking in" can only be loosely applied (or, at least, that is what John keeps telling himself). He knows his sister well enough to know that she has a tendency to misplace her phone, or her purse, or her keys, especially after a night at the pub. He knows that she's had to call a locksmith more times than she would have liked just to get back into her apartment. So, John knows that she keeps a spare key under her doormat. John has told her multiple times that keeping a key under the doormat is incredibly obvious. Harry has told him in response that if she did not put the key in an obvious location, her drunken mind would never remember where it was.

Holmes had implied that he would have been content to do this on his own, but John had insisted on coming with him. Even though Mike seemed to trust the man, John is not willing to let a perfect stranger break into his sister's apartment on his own. John would much rather stay close, just to make sure that Holmes really is who he says he is, and not a thief who poses as a 'consulting detective' to gain access into unsuspecting people's homes. In addition, John does not want to be left out of the loop. Anything Holmes knows, or works out, John wants to hear about immediately. If there is anything, anything he can do to keep his sister safe, he needs to know right away.

John stands by the wall so he's out of Holmes' way, and he watches the man work. Holmes' eyes are bright as they move around the room, taking in everything there is to see. What John sees when he looks around is a messy room of someone who has had no reason to clean up for guests in a long while. John wonders if Holmes can see more. With gloved hands, the consulting detective opens drawers and cupboards, picks up glasses and cups, inspects frames of photos. John doesn't know what Holmes expects to obtain from Harry's home – surely any useful evidence would be in the home of the mystery person who is writing the letters, and not in the home of the recipient. But, John is no consulting detective. He can only hope that Holmes knows what he's doing.

Two Days Earlier

When John returned home from coffee with Mike, he immediately opened up his laptop and typed in the name Sherlock Holmes.

A few results popped up in response to his search. He chose the first link first, which redirected him to a webpage titled "The Science of Deduction". This, it seemed, was the detective's website. John did not spend long scrolling through the site, but he spent long enough to see some of the more recent forum and blog posts. The most recent blog post was an analysis of 243 different types of tobacco ash. John did not know what purpose such an analysis served.

John exited the webpage and looked through some of the other search results. A couple of the links led him to newspaper articles of investigations – missing persons, murders. Apparently, Holmes had been involved in investigating some of those cases. Interestingly, however, John noted that his name was never the main investigator – the articles listed Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade as the chief investigator on the case. Holmes, judging by the articles alone, never played a particularly big role in any of the investigations. The way Mike had spoken about him earlier made John wonder how big a role Holmes had played behind the scenes.

There was the odd photo or two, as well, in some of the articles, but none gave a clear view of Holmes' face. Some looked candid, like the photographer had captured a picture of the side of Holmes' face while he was off paying attention to something else, while others looked like Holmes had intentionally turned his head away or covered his face by his hand. Could he be camera shy, John wondered, or was there some other motive Holmes had for keeping his face out of the papers?

The web search ultimately led John to more questions, more uncertainty, but he trusted Mike's opinion, and if Mike thought that this man could help, John would take his word. John returned to the man's website in search of contact details, and found an address: 221B Baker Street.

Today

Eventually, Holmes finishes with Harry's living room – either because he's found everything he needs or because he hasn't found anything at all – and he begins to move through her apartment. He does not give John any warning, or tell John where he is going or what he is doing, but John is not going to let the man out of his sight. The moment he steps through a door, John is right behind him.

"Are you concerned I'll steal something?" Holmes asks as he moves into Harry's bedroom, looking over his shoulder and raising an eyebrow at John.

"Not really," John replies. "I'm going to assume the newspapers are right in thinking that you're a consulting detective and not a fraud who pretends to be a detective to get into people's houses to steal from them."

Something like amusement flickers over Holmes' face, and he turned to look around the room. "Newspapers are rarely accurate," he says.

He walks over to the bedside table and begins to look through the drawers. Now that they are in Harry's bedroom – an undeniably more private place than her living room – John can't help but feel that this is a huge invasion of privacy. He is invading his sister's privacy, and he's letting this detective – a perfect stranger – invade his sister's privacy. He knows that his sister would be furious if she found out that he allowed someone to go through her drawers when she was out, especially after her refusal to go to the police. He reminds himself that this is for her own good, that this is all so that they can keep Harry safe.

In the bottom drawer, Holmes finds an envelope, and he turns it over in his hands. At first, John thinks he has found another letter – had Harry kept them, hidden away? However, when he takes a step closer, he sees that what Holmes pulls out of the envelope is not a letter, but instead a pile of shiny photographs. He lifts the top one up, studying it for a moment before holding it so that John can see. In the photograph, there are two women. The arm of the woman on the left extends outside of the frame – she was the one holding the camera, taking the photo of the two of them. The woman on the right is kissing the other woman's cheek.

"The one on your left is your sister, correct?" Holmes says. "There's clear family resemblance. Do you recognise the other woman?"

John takes a step closer to get a better look, but it makes no difference. The woman is completely unfamiliar to him. He can't get a particularly good look at her face – side on, her dark hair falls over her cheek and hides her profile – but what he can see is unfamiliar. It's not any of Harry's previous partners. He glances at the date at the bottom of the photograph, which puts it at several months ago. It was after Harry had split up with Clara, her now ex-wife. John had not known that Harry had had another girlfriend since then.

Holmes begins to flick through the photographs – there are at least a dozen in the envelope, all containing the same woman. She and Harry were undoubtedly together – the kiss on the cheek in the first photograph could have been platonic, but the other photos remove that possibility from John's mind. There are pictures of kisses and of holding hands, a few photos of the mysterious woman alone gazing at the person behind the camera, red lips pulled into a sincere-looking smile.

The final photo in the set is of the dark-haired woman alone, curled up in what John recognises to be Harry's bed. Her dark hair is splayed out over the pillow. She looks as though she's just woken up, a lazy sort of smile on her face, but there's a twinkle in her eye as she looks at the person behind the camera. The expression on her face is clearly flirtatious, and though the photograph itself is not explicit, John feels almost perverse looking at the expression that was clearly not meant for him.

"These pictures are taken over a matter of months," Holmes says, and John drags his gaze away from the picture to look at Holmes instead. "You really never became acquainted with this woman in that time?"

John shakes his head. "No, never. Which is weird, because Harry usually tells me about her relationships – if not directly, then she'll post pictures on social media."

That's not even the strangest part about this situation, John thinks. The strangest part is that Harry has this stash of pictures in her bottom drawer. John's sister has gone through numerous relationships in her life, ranging from lasting a couple of weeks to months or years. When they end, Harry throws away everything that reminds her of that person. Usually, she's the one to end the relationship – the fights get too much, or she gets sick of sharing her life with someone, or she falls out of love – and when that happens, Harry clears her ex-partners out of her life for good. On the few occasions when the partner has been the one to end the relationship, she does the same thing as a way of coping with the heartbreak. Photos get burnt, gifts get thrown away – she even gave John the phone that her ex-wife had given to her, even though it was expensive and in near-perfect condition. Harry has never been a sentimental person, especially not when she falls out of love. When she moves on, she does it completely.

There are no pictures of Clara anywhere in the flat, despite Clara being the strongest relationship that Harry was ever in. There used to be photos in frames, ornaments on shelves that Clara had bought. Now, the shelves are empty, the photo frames bare. You would never know that Clara had been a part of her life. And yet, here is a collection of photographs of a woman that John does not know, hidden away in the bottom drawer as though they're a guilty little secret.

John does not explain this out loud, but Holmes seems to realise how unusual the situation is all the same. He begins to flick through the photographs again, this time lingering on each of them a little bit longer, eyes moving around the scene that each photo displayed in an attempt to take in anything and everything that could prove useful. Once or twice, he takes out his phone and takes a picture of a photograph, undoubtedly so he can study it later. John feels uncomfortable, knowing that such a private set of pictures is now stored on the phone of a stranger, even if it is for a good cause. When this is all over, he'll make sure Holmes deletes the photos, just to be safe.

"Do you think these have anything to do with the letters?" John asks, glancing over his shoulder as though he fears Harry might come home any moment and find them snooping. He reminds himself that, if she stays for the entire AA meeting, she won't be back for at least another half hour.

"A set of letters that your sister does not want to talk about, and a set of photographs that she's been keeping hidden?" Holmes says. "Seems a bit too much to be a coincidence, doesn't it?"

"Well, yes," John says. "But I thought the letters were coming from a man."

"From what you've told me, that does seem likely," Holmes says. "That these photos are in some way connected to the letters does not imply that the woman featured in these photos is the one writing the letters. Had the letters been coming from a heartbroken ex-partner, the content would have been quite different. However, the letters could have been coming from someone associated with the woman, such as..." He trails off, staring at one picture in particular – the last picture in the pile, of the dark-haired woman in Harry's bed – and his eyes widen. "Oh. Oh."

"What?" John asks. "What is it?"

The man does not respond, apparently too caught up in his own head. There is a flurry of movement as he shoves the photos back into the envelope, almost carelessly, and returns it to the drawer. He pockets his phone, and then he turns swiftly, coat flying out around him, and he's taking long, quick strides to the door.

"What happened?" John says again, louder and more forcefully.

Over his shoulder, the man shouts, "The ring!"

And then he's out the door and out of sight.

John hesitates, for a moment torn between following Holmes and staying behind to see what he had seen in the pictures, and curiosity wins out. He also realises he wants to make sure the photos are put away properly, to hide any evidence that they had been handled. He moves quickly – maybe he can look at the pictures and then hurry off after Holmes before he gets too far away – pulling the envelope from the drawer and pulling out the last photograph that Holmes had viewed.

The woman's left hand lies on the pillow beside her head. There's no ring visible on it. John doesn't know what Holmes had been talking about, and his eyes begin to move around the photo in search of a ring somewhere other than on the woman's hand. He shifts the photograph in his hand, and the light catches the shiny paper. Then, he sees it.

It's not a physical ring, but a line around the woman's fourth finger that is paler than the rest of her hand. John would not have seen it if he had not been looking. The woman is not wearing a ring in the photograph, but the tan on her hands says that she's been wearing one recently, one that has been worn for long enough for a tan line to appear on her skin.

Six Months Earlier

Violet's hair splayed out over Harry's pillow, dark locks framing the woman's face. It had been a few months now, but whenever they were together, Harry still could not tear her eyes away. Sometimes, she thought, Violet didn't even look human. She looked like some goddess sent down from the heavens, where the ugliness of the world could never reach. Harry reached over and tucked a lock of hair behind the woman's ear, and she smiled as Violet stirred, leaning into the touch.

She was beautiful like this, the lines of her face smoothed out in sleep, looking so calm, so content. Harry wanted to wake up to a sight like this every morning. It was definitely a sight she wanted to catch on camera and hold forever. She wanted to be able to look back on this moment whenever she pleased, to remember those brilliant few months where she had had this beautiful woman in her life, to feel the brush of her skin when they lay tangled in the sheets.

She leaned across to her bedside table and picked up the film camera that she had left there. She was almost out of film now, but she did not mind. She would have a roll of film filled with memories of this woman, of this relationship. She refused to use a digital camera, or her phone. She did not want these pictures to ever end up online – she did not want them on a device that could risk that. These were for her eyes only.

She turned back to Violet, who was beginning to come around. Her dark eyes fluttered open, and that smile – the smile that made Harry feel like a teenager again – grew over her face. Harry snapped a photo before the expression faded.

"You're going to waste all your film if you keep taking photos of me like that," Violet murmured.

"If I keep taking photos of you like that," Harry replied, "that film isn't going to waste at all."

Violet hummed, smiling, and Harry put the camera back down on the bedside table before she rolled onto her side. She let her eyes trace the soft lines of Violet's face. Here, in Harry's bed, she looked so calm and content, like it was exactly where she was supposed to be.

Nothing in Harry's life had ever gone this well. How did she get this lucky? What did she do to deserve this?

She tucked a loose strand of Violet's hair behind her ear, and dragged her fingertips down to cup her jaw, guiding her in for a kiss. Violet met her halfway, and Harry sighed into her mouth. She had never fit this well with anyone before. They slotted together like pieces of a puzzle, hands drawn to one another's skin like magnets. Violet made her feel like she was sixteen again, the way she felt the first time someone kissed her. Even the simple, chaste kisses and the innocent brushes of hands made her giddy. If Harry wrote poetry, she would write of symphonies, of fireworks that flashed behind her eyelids every time Violet kissed her just so. But Harry was no poet, and instead, she traced messages of love into the curve of Violet's waist and wrote promises into the smooth skin of her back.

She pressed closer, drawn in by the warmth of Violet's body, but Violet broke the kiss and turned her head away. "I should go," she said, but there was no real intent behind her words.

"Stay," Harry whispered, hands tightening around Violet's back, and she pressed her lips to Violet's cheek until Violet gave in and kissed her again. For a moment, Harry felt like nothing else in the world mattered. It was just the two of them, two halves of the same whole, tangled together in each other's arms as though they were exactly where they belonged.

But then Violet pulled away, pushing at Harry's shoulder – reluctant, but firm. "You know I can't," she murmured, and the perfect illusion shattered.

Harry had her on some nights or for a couple of hours over lunch. Sometimes, she was even lucky enough to have her for a weekend. But when the sun filtered through the blinds and shed light on a new day, Violet would always go back to him.

Violet rolled out of bed, taking the sheet with her, and set about searching for the clothes that had been discarded the night before. Harry pulled the quilt up, now feeling cold without the heat of another body beside her.

"Sure you can't stay even a little longer?" she said, trying not to sound too petulant.

Violet shook her head, like Harry knew she would. "I need to get back before he does," she said, and Harry watched her button up her shirt, tucking it into her skirt to hide the creases. Then, she pulled the ring from her pocket and slid it back on her finger, and once again, she was the Perfect Wife, ready to go home and have breakfast on the table by the time her husband walked through the door. Harry thought of her kissing his cheek, asking about his trip, telling him of how bored she was in the house, all alone, while he was away. Sometimes, Harry thought about his face, if she were to go over there and tell him exactly what Violet had been up to while he was out of town.

But she wouldn't. Violet wouldn't end her marriage, even though she was unhappy, and if Harry was to speak up, she might lose Violet forever. So, she would deal with the secrets and the lies, with sneaky meetings in her apartment and never out where they could be seen. She would deal with treasured photos of moments few and far between, of lingering kisses as they parted, promises that it would not be the last. Even if she only had her for a few hours, or maybe a night, it was so much better than never having her at all.

Today

Holmes isn't answering his phone. John has tried half a dozen times. He's left voicemail messages and sent texts, but to no avail. This is the last thing he wanted, to be left in the dark. He doesn't know what lead Holmes has found, or what he's following. He doesn't even know where Holmes is. The only guess he has is the Baker Street flat, which is where John is headed at the moment. If Holmes is following some sort of lead, he might not be at the flat at all, but it's the only thing John can try. His knee bounces as he watches the streets flash past the window of the cab.

When the car comes to a stop, John passes the driver the money, but asks him to wait outside until he sees John enter the flat, so that, if no one is home, John doesn't need to hail a cab again. It turns out that the request is unnecessary. He knocks on the door and Holmes' voice calls "It's open" from somewhere up the stairs. John's chest swells with relief.

John pushes the door open and makes his way up the stairs. Once upon a time, he would have struggled to get up staircases like these. His leg would ache, and he would have to take one step at a time, leaning heavily on a cane. Now, he's doing a lot better. His leg still hurts sometimes, but it's not so bad now – especially now, while his mind is so focussed on the pile of photographs hidden in his sister's bedside drawer, and the way the detective had rushed off suddenly, as though the last piece of the puzzle had fallen into place in his head.

He reaches the top of the stairs, and finds Holmes standing by the small table in the corner of the room. His laptop is open in front of him. He is leaning over the back of the chair to read whatever is on the screen, rather than sitting down at the table.

"Please don't do that," John says from the doorway. Holmes glances up at him only briefly before his attention is back on the laptop screen again.

"Do what?" he asks, in a distant-sounding tone of voice.

"Run off without telling me what's happened or where you're going," John replies. "This is my sister's life we're talking about. I need to know what's going on."

"This is my job. This is what I do. I can't wait around for your tiny little brain to catch up." An insulted look must come across John's face, because Holmes immediately makes a dismissive gesture and adds, "Oh, don't be like that. Everyone's brains work slower than mine."

"Right," John says, and then continues, "Okay, then give me a hand and catch me up to speed. What happened? What did you work out?"

In response, Holmes turns the laptop around. John can see the screen, and the webpage that he has open. It's an online profile. John recognises the dark-haired woman in the picture.

"Her name is Violet Jones," Holmes explains. "She's been married to her partner, Simon, for six years now. Unhappy, which is obvious both from the content of her profile and from the fact that she was having an affair with your sister."

"But she wasn't the one sending those letters," John says.

"No, she wasn't," Holmes confirms. "I believe her husband found out about the affair. They're still together, according to the profile, so perhaps he forgave her for it. The letters would suggest he hasn't forgiven Harry. Perhaps he puts all the blame on her, believes that she seduced his otherwise perfect wife, confused her into believing she likes women. He's angry, and he's taking it out on Harry."

"Do you think there's any truth behind his threats?" John asks. "Would he actually hurt her?"

"Hard to say," Holmes replies, "but it would not be the first time that an affair has been a motive for murder."

A sick feeling churns in John's stomach.

Holmes scrolls through the webpage for a moment in silence, before he glances up at John. "Simon Jones should be at work for the next few hours," he says. "Why don't we go pay Mrs Jones a visit?"

One Month Earlier

Harry glanced at the sign about the coffee shop, making sure this was the right one. She had never been to this coffee shop before, but maybe that was better. Maybe Violet had chosen this coffee shop in particular because neither of them were regulars, and it was unlikely that they would be recognised.

They never did this – meeting in public. There was always the risk that he might see them, or that one of his friends, or their friends, might see them. Rumours spread like wildfire; there was every possibility that anything they did could get back to him. It was better to keep this a secret, to meet in Harry's apartment, or occasionally even Violet's home on the nights when he was away from home. Why Violet had sent this text, asking Harry to meet her here, didn't make sense, and a part of her had been reluctant to agree. Was this the right thing to do? That said, if they kept it casual – quiet conversations, hands kept to themselves – maybe no one would suspect a thing. Maybe even Violet's husband could see them, and think that they were just friends.

Violet had said that she had needed to see Harry. Harry wasn't going to say no to a text like that.

She pushed open the door to the coffee shop, and breathed in the pleasant smell of coffee as she stepped inside. Her eyes scanned the room, the small number of people there. It was not very busy. Maybe Violet had chosen a quieter place for that reason. There was no sign of Violet anywhere. Harry pulled out her phone to check the time – she was only a minute or so early, and Violet was usually more punctual than she was. Maybe Violet had just gotten used to Harry's tardiness. She chose an empty table in the corner and sat down, pulling out her phone to fiddle with while she waited.

After several minutes, movement caught her eye as someone slid into the seat across from her. She looked up, ready to greet Violet, before realising that the person sitting there wasn't Violet at all. They weren't even the same gender as Violet.

"Um, this seat's taken, sorry," she said.

"Yes," the man said calmly. "By me."

Harry blinked. She had heard some strange pick-up lines from guys in the past – some where she had wondered if maybe they only worked when the recipient actually liked men, and some where she was sure would never work on anyone, ever. This, she thought, was a new one. She leaned back in her chair.

"Listen," she said. "No offence, but you're not really my type, and I'm meeting with someone, so you should probably go find some other woman to chat up. Trust me, you'll have a lot more success with someone who likes men."

The man leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, body language saying 'I'm not going anywhere'. Harry wanted to groan. In movies, determination was supposed to be a good thing. The male protagonist kept pushing, pushing, pushing until he got the girl, and it was "so romantic". Surely straight women did not actually like that in real life. Surely it was infinitely preferable if a man took the word 'no' to mean no.

Harry could just vacate the table, find somewhere else to sit before Violet arrived. However, that would mean giving up, and Harry hated giving up. She was far more stubborn than that. She crossed her arms over her chest and mimicked his body language.

"Listen, buddy," she said, no longer putting any effort into making her tone polite. "That seat is taken. I'm waiting to meet my girlfriend."

"No," the man said, and Harry almost scoffed – God, how stupid could this man possibly be? – until the man continued, "You're waiting to meet my wife."

Something cold clenched around Harry's heart. Suddenly, she couldn't breathe.

The man continued, "I was so relieved when I reached the cafe today and found out that this 'Harry' she spent so much time texting was a woman. I was so sure she was having an affair, but then you were the one who arrived, and I thought, you were just a friend, I was wrong to jump to conclusions. Thank you for confirming my suspicions."

How could she have been so stupid? Harry wanted to hit herself. She had never met Violet's husband in person, but there were pictures of him in their house. She'd never looked at any of them for long, but she should have known, should have been able to recognise the man when he sat down. She shouldn't have spoken so carelessly. She could have just said one word different, and suddenly this would have been a casual encounter between friends, not a secret affair.

"She's not coming, is she," Harry said tightly, after a pause.

"No, she doesn't know you're here," he replied, and it wasn't hard to work out how Violet had apparently organised a meeting without knowing it existed.

"You stole her phone," she said. "You sent the text."

"I borrowed her phone," Violet's husband corrected.

"Must say something about your relationship, doesn't it? That you don't trust your wife, so you felt the need to check who she's in regular contact with."

She saw Violet's husband's hands clench a little on the table. The expression on his face was hard.

"Seems I was right to be distrustful, wasn't I," he said. He leaned his elbows on the table and leaned forward, in a way that made Harry unconsciously lean back. He was taller than her, even sitting down, and it was clear that he was using that to his advantage. He was trying to look intimidating, and it was working. If they weren't in such a public location, Harry might have feared getting hurt.

"Let me make something very, very clear," said Violet's husband, his tone low and dangerous. "You are to never speak to my wife again. You are never to contact her, meet with her, and definitely never to sleep with her."

"I think your wife can make her own decisions about who she spends time with," Harry spat.

"Not where you're involved," the man said, and his voice was almost a growl. God, men really were just like dogs. He continued, "You seduced her. You manipulated her, used her, and forced her to be with you."

Harry scoffed. "I didn't force her to do anything," she said. "If you heard the kind of things she said to me when we're together, you'd know full well that she wanted to spend time with me—"

Violet's husband slammed his hands down on the table, enough to make Harry – and a number of other customers – jump. It did not escape Harry's notice that he could have so easily hit her instead of the table. The thought alone made her heart race. It had never made sense to her, why Violet, who was so obviously unhappy with her husband, stayed with him. Now, she realised that maybe she had not had a choice.

Violet's husband reached across the table suddenly and grasped Harry's wrist, hard. She tried to pull out of his grip, but he was stronger than her. His nails dug into the fleshy skin on the underside of her arm. It hurt.

"If you ever speak to her again," he said, in a quiet tone that was even more terrifying than if he had been shouting, "I will kill you. Are we clear?"

"Is there a problem here?" said another voice, and both Harry and Violet's husband glanced over to the barista who had come to stand by their table. His voice was bright and casual in that typical customer service way, but there was something much less happy in his eyes, which flickered between Harry and the man across from her. Violet's husband released Harry's wrist.

"I was just leaving," he said, pushing the chair back from the table and standing. He looked at Harry once more, and he didn't speak, but he didn't need to – the threat was clear in his eyes. Then he turned, walking back out the door, the light jingle of the bell above it sounding him out.

"Are you all right?" the barista asked, his tone now much more gentle. Harry rubbed her wrist under the table. There were indents in her skin where his nails had dug into her skin.

"I'm fine," she said. "Everything's fine."

Today

The Jones family own a nice house in central London. They're lucky enough to have a front yard, which is something John finds himself envious of. Flowers blossom nearby the footpath. A small table and chairs sit in the yard – somewhere to sit on the days where the sun decides to show its face in the London sky.

John follows Holmes to the door, and Holmes knocks. Inside, he can hear movement, footsteps as someone approaches the door, and it's only then that he realises he has no idea what they're going to say. Will Holmes tell the person behind the door that he is a consulting detective, investigating death threats that a woman has been receiving? Will the person behind the door demand to see a warrant, or close the door in their face? Holmes isn't technically a policeman. John does not know what kind of things he can do, in situations like these.

The door opens. The woman behind it is quite clearly the same woman who had featured in Harry's photographs, though the soft, content expression in the photographs is gone. She does not look rude or unpleasant, but there is something harsher about her features, something that had melted away in the photographs. Her gaze flickers between the two men, and John thinks, for a second, that something like recognition flickered in her eyes when she looked at him, but the expression is gone before John can work out whether he imagined it or not.

"Mrs Jones?" Holmes asks, and he lifts up a police badge, flashing it at her briefly. John is fairly certain that consulting detectives don't have police badges. John is also fairly certain that Holmes intentionally presented the badge too briefly for Mrs Jones to have the opportunity to work out whether or not it was real. He finds himself wondering exactly how legitimate this consulting detective business is. Holmes continues, "My name is Sherlock Holmes, and this is my partner, John."

There is a fraction of a second of hesitation before Holmes introduces John as his partner, but even so, the introduction takes John by surprise. He does his best not to show it. Pretending to be the detective's partner makes a lot more sense than explaining that John is Holmes' client. He notices that Holmes only introduces John by his first name – perhaps he does not want Mrs Jones to make the link between John and Harry.

Holmes continues, "Is your husband home?"

Mrs Jones shakes her head. "No, he's at work," she says – there's nothing in her tone to indicate that she suspects that the men at her door might not be actual policeman, though there's a frown on her face, an expression of confusion and concern that would be expected on the face of anyone who is not guilty and does not know what the police are doing at their door. "He'll be home sometime after six. I can give you the address to his office if it's urg—"

"No need," Holmes says, cutting her off. "We actually came here to see you. Might we come in?"

Mrs Jones frowns, and she hesitates for a brief moment before she gestures to the little set of table and chairs in her garden. "Take a seat," she says. Maybe she doesn't trust them all that much, John thinks – she's co-operating, yes, but she's keeping them outside her house rather than letting them come in. John doesn't blame her. He would probably be reluctant to let any police into his house, too, if he did not know why they were there.

"Would you like a drink?" Mrs Jones offers as they move to the table.

Holmes shakes his head. "No," he replies, and he slides into one of the four seats there. John sits beside him, and Mrs Jones sits across the table. The expression on her face is one of forced calmness, but the tension in her shoulders as she takes a seat makes it clear that she's not as calm as she is trying to seem.

John realises as soon as they're seated that he has no idea what the plan is. How do they approach the matter at hand? Do they confront her about her affair? Do they tell her about the death threats that Harry has been receiving? Do they ask general questions about Mr Jones, to gauge whether or not he is the sort of person to send letters of that sort?

As it turns out, Holmes has a plan.

He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded slip of paper. John realises immediately that it is the note he had taken from Harry, the note he had given to Holmes as evidence that morning. "Do you recognise the handwriting?" Holmes asks.

Mrs Jones takes the note and unfolds it, and John watches as her expression shifts from bemused to horrified. Her face pales, and she looks almost nauseated. "What is this?" she asks softly.

Holmes ignores the question. "Do you recognise the handwriting?" he repeats. Mrs Jones doesn't even look up at him; she just stares at the letter in front of her.

"I—" she starts, but then she cuts herself off. It must mean that yes, she does recognise the handwriting. John doesn't believe she wrote the letter – her horrified expression is too genuine – but if she did not recognise the handwriting, she would have said so. The fact that she's not answering the question must mean that she is protecting the person who wrote it.

Holmes leans forward, elbows on the table. "We know about the affair," he says, without a hint of emotion in his tone.

Mrs Jones' eyes snap away from the note to look at Holmes. "I don't know what you're talking about," she says, almost automatically. Her response is too quick to be believable, even if they had not already had the evidence to show that it was a lie. Holmes lets out an exasperated sigh.

"Oh, please," he says. "This conversation will run a lot more smoothly if you don't waste my time by lying to me."

Mrs Jones gets to her feet. "I'd like you to leave," she says tightly, and John knows that this means trouble for them. They don't have an excuse to stay. They don't have a warrant, or any way to force her to speak. She's not a suspect, not really, and she is under no legal obligation to continue speaking to them if she does not want to. They need a different approach, now, before Mrs Jones calls the actual police.

"Violet," he says, his gentle tone a sharp contrast to the harsh way that Holmes had been speaking before. He sees her eyes flicker towards him, which he takes as a good sign – she's listening. However, her body is still tense, and her expression is still hard. John continues, "My name is John Watson. Harry is my sister."

It does not have the desired, calming effect that John had hoped it would. Her gaze flickers between the two men at the table. "What is this?" she says. "You said he was your partner."

"For the purpose of the investigation, he is," Holmes replies immediately.

John speaks before Holmes has the opportunity to anger the woman any more. He uses her given name, in hopes that the more familiar name might calm her. "Do you have siblings, Violet?"

Violet is still for a moment, but then she nods her head once. "A younger sister," she says.

"Good," John says. "Then you understand what I'm going through. How might you react if you found out that your sister was receiving letters like that?" He gestures to the letter that is still in Violet's hand, and she glances down at it briefly, but says nothing. John continues, "We're not here because of the affair. You're in no trouble, I promise. I'm just here to help my sister."

She stays silent. John gives her time to speak, but when it's clear that she won't, he tries one more time.

"Please, Violet," he says. "All I care about is Harry, and if I'm right, you wouldn't want her to get hurt either. All I want to know is who is sending those letters, so I can protect her from them."

The silence stretches out between them again, but John sees something in her expression shift. Some of the hardness fades away. She doesn't meet their eyes, instead staring down at the letter. John gives her as long as she needs, motioning under the table for Holmes to remain silent as well. Finally, she speaks. "It's Simon's handwriting."

"Your husband?" John prompts, and she nods her head.

"Yes." She closes her eyes, and after another pause, she says, "But I don't understand. I didn't think he knew. Harry ended the affair weeks ago – why would he be writing these letters now?"

"This is not the first," Holmes says. "We have reason to believe that Harry has been receiving these letters for weeks."

It clicks immediately. Violet's eyes squeeze shut tightly, as though she's in pain. "That's why she ended it, isn't it." She says. It's not a question.

"Did Harry give any explanation?" John asks, and Violet shakes her head.

"Not really. She just – she sent me a text and told me she didn't want to see me anymore. I thought she just got tired of being... of me going home to Simon in the end. I didn't realise..."

"Has Simon's behaviour towards you changed at all in the past weeks?" Holmes asks, and Violet shifts in apparent discomfort.

"Not really," she says slowly. "I mean, he's been more interested in my day, I guess. Asking me what I've been up to. He's away with work so much, I thought maybe he just missed me. I've had no reason to lie, so he's had no reason to be suspicious..." She tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, and there is silence for a moment before she speaks again. "I know you must think I'm a terrible person. That I wanted the best of both worlds, and I was stringing them both along for my own gain. But that's not true at all."

Holmes lets out a bored-sounding sigh. "Oh?" he says. "Please, explain."

Violet shifts in discomfort, absently rubbing her wrist with one hand. "Simon and I – I was just out of school when I married him. It was new and exciting and a little spontaneous, and we both rushed into it. It didn't feel rushed – we'd been dating for a couple of years, but we were both so young. We should have given it more time. I can see that now. Maybe if we had, I'd have seen the signs."

"The signs?" Holmes prompts, and Violet drops her gaze. The expression on her face is one of guilt, and immediately, John knows what's on her mind.

"Does he hurt you?" John asks gently. Violet doesn't respond verbally, but the tension in her body language makes it clear what the answer is.

"He's not a bad person," she says quickly, before either John or Holmes has the opportunity to say anything else. "I know he loves me. He's just always had a hot temper, you know? I almost left him once, before I met Harry, but..." She trails off, and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "I couldn't leave him for Harry. He'd blame her, and he'd hurt her. I wasn't ever going to do that to her."

"It seems he already blames her," Holmes says, gesturing to the letter held tightly in Violet's hands. "And you would know better than anyone if he is likely to go through with any of his threats."

Silence stretches between them for a moment. Violet looks down at the letter rather than meeting their eyes. After a moment, John speaks. "We can help you," he says softly. "We can get you out of here, and we can make sure that both you and Harry are safe. You just have to help us, too."

Violet takes a deep breath, and closes her eyes. "Okay," she says.

One Week Later

Domestic abuse cases are not typically Detective Inspector Lestrade's division. However, where Sherlock Holmes is involved, Lestrade tends to make exceptions – perhaps only because Sherlock Holmes does not often give Lestrade a choice. He had to bend the rules a bit to deal with the case at hand – some of the evidence in question was a threatening note directed to someone other than the abuser's wife, but the recipient had not come forward herself. Usually, that would put the investigation on hold. However, the fact that the abuser's wife was a victim, too – not of threatening notes but of a different sort of crime – was enough to make a start on the investigation. The wife's statement was enough to get the ball rolling, and after that, collecting evidence against Simon Jones was easy.

Violet, of course, still has a long road ahead, but a week after her visit from Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, she is already in a better place. The police were able to help her get out of the house, a restraining order put in place to keep her safe. She still finds herself awake at night at every tiny sound, a part of her mind – however illogical – fearing her husband has found her, but in time, she will begin to feel more safe.

For the moment, she is staying with her sister, until she can find her own place. She hopes to get in touch with Harry again, soon. Maybe Harry might even invite her to stay, if Harry can forgive her for everything. However, she will not try to get in touch with Harry until her divorce has been finalised. She doesn't want Harry to be the 'other woman' again. She doesn't want to be with Harry until she can be exclusive with her.

John catches up with Harry a few days after meeting Violet Jones, to ask her how she is doing. She tells him that the letters have stopped – they were daily, before, but now it has been several days without a word. She tells John that this is proof that he should not have worried. She was right in saying that there was no need to go to the police, because, just as she had thought, the letters stopped on their own. John doesn't tell her. She can believe whatever she wants to believe; the only thing that matters to John is that she is safe.

Exactly one week after the case, John finds himself walking up the front stairs to 221B Baker Street. He hadn't realised that he had made the decision to head there until he found himself at the door. He hesitates for a moment, before ringing the doorbell. This time, the man answers it much more quickly than before. He's holding the neck of a violin in one hand, and a bow in the other.

"John," he greets. He sounds almost a little bit surprised to see John there. John wonders if he had been expecting someone else.

"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" John asks, and Holmes shakes his head.

"Not at all. Please." He steps to the side to let John in, gesturing to the stairs with his bow. John steps inside, letting Holmes close the door before following him up the stairs. When they reach the flat, Holmes moves to the same chair he had sat on last time John was here. When he glances over and sees that John is still standing, he gestures to the chair across from him with his bow and John follows the unspoken request to take a seat.

"I trust your sister has not received any more letters?" Holmes asks after a beat.

John nods. "They've stopped now," he says. "She thinks that whoever was sending them simply gave up." He pauses for a moment, and then adds, "You saved her life, and she has no idea."

Holmes shrugs his shoulders dismissively. "That's something of an exaggeration. You are as much responsible for your sister's wellbeing. You were the one who convinced Violet to go to the police. I merely pointed you in the right direction."

"If it weren't for you, I would not have known that Violet existed at all. So, thank you. Really. You were brilliant."

Holmes blinks, and drops his gaze, and John gets the impression that Holmes does not get compliments like that very often. It strikes him as strange – surely a man who can do what Holmes did gets told as much frequently. From what John has seen, there is every reason for people to tell Holmes he is brilliant.

Silence stretches between them for a moment, and John is surprised to note that it doesn't feel awkward, even though he barely knows this man. It feels comfortable, in a strange sort of way. However, John does take it as an indication that their conversation is over, and it likely means that it is time to leave. He gets to his feet. "Thank you again, Mr Holmes," he says.

"Sherlock, please."

John smiles a little. "Thank you, Sherlock," he corrects.

John straightens his shirt, and Sherlock stands, perhaps to come and see him out. However, before John has the chance to leave, Sherlock speaks again. "You should know," he says, "I don't typically work with clients in this way."

"What do you mean?" John asks.

"In most circumstances, I'd have worked on the case alone. I'd not have taken a client to a suspect's house, let alone treated them as a partner."

"Oh," John says, though he had gotten this impression in the split second of hesitation when Holmes had introduced him as a partner. He pauses for a moment, and then asks, "So why did you let me come along?"

Sherlock holds John's gaze for a moment, and then looks away without a verbal response. Maybe, John thinks, that's because there was no real response to give. Maybe John had been allowed to tag along because it was practical. Maybe it was simply because John had made it clear that he was coming along whether Sherlock had wanted him to or not. Maybe there was no reason at all. Whatever the explanation, it had worked. They had convinced Violet to go to the police, they had managed to stop the person who was sending those letters to Harry. Harry is safe, now, and if John's involvement in the case was even in the slightest bit responsible for that, then John has no reason to question it.

"Well, thank you again," John says. "Harry might not know she should be grateful for you, but I am."

"You've thanked me three times in the past five minutes," Sherlock says. "I gather you're grateful."

"I am," John says with a smile. He glances at the door, and realises then that he doesn't want to leave. He knows that, unless something awful happens, he doesn't have a reason to come back to this flat, and it's disappointing. There's something fascinating and alluring about Sherlock, and this life Sherlock leads. Once John walks out the door, this chapter of his life will be closed. He'll go back to a much more boring life.

Yet, John does not have a reason to stay. He tries not to look too disappointed. "I'll see myself out," he says. "Thanks again, Sherlock."

"No need to make your appreciation redundant," Sherlock says, getting to his feet. "Goodbye, John. Perhaps I'll see you again, should you need a detective."

John half-smiles. "I'll keep that in mind."

He hesitates, and then turns, and walks down the stairs and out the door. He tries not to think of the finality of closing the door behind him.

He walks out to the end of the street, looking left and right for a cab. He raises his hand to signal one, and then he hears the door behind him. He glances over his shoulder, and finds Sherlock, leaning against the doorframe.

"On second thoughts," Sherlock says, "I could use a partner."