The necklace sat inside a drawer in Margaux's nightstand, tucked away waiting for the sender's next message. But nothing ever came. As the summer months passed by, the strange gift slowly faded to the back of everyone's mind, and as autumn crept in, they had almost forgotten about it completely.

The cemetery was always quiet at 8am. A still, frosty fog settled close to the ground, skimming the tops of gravestones as the cold October morning lay dew across the grass and fallen leaves. Sherlock and John stood together beside Mary's plot as the children's giggles echoed eerily across the cemetery. Vaughan played amongst the graves as Rosie chased him on her wobbly, 1-year-old legs, her pearl blonde hair peeking out from under a woolly hat too big for her head.

Sherlock looked over as his son knelt behind a headstone to hide. "Vaughan, get up off the ground! You'll get your uniform dirty."

Vaughan was 4-years-old, a month into his reception year of primary school and excelling quickly. But of course, Sherlock expected nothing less.

"Come on mate," John called to the little boy. "You know she'll only copy you."

Just as he finished speaking, Rosie plonked herself down in a patch of mud. John pressed his lips together, sighed and turned back to Mary's headstone.

Sherlock put his hands in his pockets. "Do you want me to walk away? So you can... I don't know, talk to her or whatever it is you do."

"S'alright. I just wanted to stop past. I feel like I- I feel like I've been neglecting her."

"You come here every week."

"No, neglecting her... emotionally."

Sherlock looked down at him and raised an eyebrow. "Because you've been breakfasting another woman?"

"I don't know. I just feel guilty. Like I'm putting Victoria before her." John sighed. "Also, I've already told you, breakfast is a perfectly acceptable date, you dick."

Sherlock smiled, a small laugh shaking his shoulders. John crouched down, neatening the decorations around the plot before using his sleeve to buff away a smudge on the engraving.

"I just..." he bowed his head. "I feel like something might be missing with Vic. I'm wondering if there's even a point in carrying it on."

"Is that because something's missing with Victoria? Or because you're missing Mary?"

John stood up. "Look, I don't know. But I- By this point with Mary, I knew I loved her; I'd already bought an engagement ring by now. Me and Victoria–"

"Victoria and I."

"We're just not there. I don't think we're... anywhere."

Sherlock gazed off across the cemetery, at the blend of grey and green behind the smoky fog. "No one will ever be Mary," he finally said. "You're not replacing her. You're simply... making room beside her."

John thought for a moment, before dropping his head and breathing out a laugh. "I can't believe you're making sense. Sherlock Holmes is giving me love advice and emotional support. What the f–"

"Don't swear in a place of 'god', John. The imaginary man might smite you with his imaginary superpowers."

"Ah, there's the Sherlock I know."

Vaughan walked up to them hand in hand with Rosie. "She said she's tired."

"Aw well she's only a baby," John replied, scooping her up in his arms.

"No she's not, she's a toddler."

"And there's the Vaughan I know. You're cut from the same cloth, you two." He looked down at him. "Ever heard that expression?"

Vaughan shook his head. "No but it sounds like it means we're the same."

John blinked slowly.

Sherlock checked his watch. "Right, school time. Come on." He ushered them towards the path. "Daddy's got gifts to wrap because he forgot to do it yesterday."

"You forgot? I texted you to remind you to do it!"

"I delete your texts, John."

The four of them walked the winding path out of the cemetery. Rosie and John waved to Mary's headstone as Sherlock tried to fix Vaughan's tie.

"So, what are you doing tonight then?" John asked as they stood at the school gates.

"Dinner. In a restaurant." Sherlock grimaced.

"Well it's better than her last birthday. Remember? You turned up late covered in dirt, holding a shovel."

"Yes–"

"Thought you'd do a spot of grave digging on your girlfriend's birthday."

"Alright, alright–"

"The way the lightning struck just as you burst through the door. It was like a scene from a horror movie."

"Okay, John, yes you've made your point."

*

Margaux sat at her desk surrounded by files and folders of evidence. She picked up a crime scene photograph, looking at the graphic image so calmly it was as if she were reading a magazine.

A mug of coffee appeared beside her. She looked up at the young man who had placed it there and smiled.

"Thanks... erm..."

"William."

"William! Sorry. Thank you."

"No problem."

He was handsome; strong-jawed with full lips and striking hazel eyes. He was tall and slim, his chin-length hair tucked behind his ears in an attempt to look professional. He hovered beside her desk playing with the access card that hung on a lanyard around his neck.

"Pull up a chair," said Margaux. "Sorry about the chaos, just put your mug on top of it all, they're just photocopies."

He nodded and sat down beside her.

She noticed him wince slightly at the sight of the crime scene photos, averting his gaze and taking a sip of coffee.

"Still not desensitised?"

"No," he laughed. "I don't think I ever will be." 

"You'll get there. It's never easy, but you eventually learn to look at it all without feeling sick."

She thought back to when she first became a forensic investigator; fresh off her PhD and convinced it would be glamourous and exciting, just like the crime dramas she watched on television. But it wasn't long before reality set in – a realisation she was now recognising on William's face too.

She tried to change the subject. "When did you graduate?"

"January."

"Forensic Psychology?"

He nodded, swallowing his mouthful of coffee.  "I wanted to be a CSI straight away, but for some reason I decided to train as a police officer instead. Five months of chasing shoplifters and arresting drunk people for pissing in public – I decided it was time to finally get that CSI certification."

Margaux laughed.

Her phone buzzed on the table. She picked it up and let out a groan as she read the text.

'I won't be there when you get home – A case came up. Will meet you at the restaurant instead. S'

"Everything okay?" asked William.

"Hm? Oh, yeah don't worry it's nothing to do with this. Just my boyfriend being his usual difficult self; apparently, he can't help but solve crimes, even on my birthday."

"Oh, is he also on the force?"

"Kind of. Let's just say... he's an asset and a curse. Both here and at home."

William laughed.

"Anyway," she sighed and returned to the work on her desk. "I need to prep for this expert witness testimony. Do you want to shadow me?"

"Really? You wouldn't mind?"

"How else are you going to learn?"

*

Margaux stood under the shelter around the back of the police station as rain drizzled and pattered against the clear Perspex roof. She took a drag of her cigarette and leaned against the wall as she watched the sky growing darker and gloomier with every second that passed.

The heavy door opened. William stepped outside and walked towards her.

"Sorry," he said as he rushed for the cover of the shelter. "I was eavesdropping on the guys working on that bank robbery. It's mad; they've had to scrap their whole investigation and start again. All because some random guy called and told them they're all stupid." He laughed. "He had such a weird name. I didn't even realise they were talking about a person at first. Sher-lock." He laughed again before noticing Margaux's straight face. "That's the difficult boyfriend, isn't it..."

"Yep."

"I- I'm sorry, I..."

"It's okay." She smiled. "You'll probably meet him at some point. Then you'll understand why he drives them all mad."

She went back inside where a group of officers stood around ranting about Sherlock. She tugged on Greg's arm and pulled him aside.

"I'll write everything up tomorrow. Right now, I think I want to go."

"Not slacking because it's your birthday, are you?" he teased.

"Not at all. But now that you mention it, I do have a man waiting for me in a restaurant. And he's proven to not be the most patient."

Greg laughed. "Go on. Happy Birthday, by the way."

*

Sherlock's back was naturally straight. His posture was always perfect, even when he wasn't thinking about it. A candle sat in the centre of the table. He brushed his fingers quickly across the open flame, watching it skip and flicker for a moment. He glanced up as Margaux walked into the restaurant, watching as she weaved towards him.

"Hello," she sang as she reached their table.

She took off her coat and leaned down to kiss him, running her thumb across his lips to wipe away the lipstick she left behind. She looked beautiful, he thought, as she sat down and flicked her hair off her shoulders.

"Happy Birthday," he said.

"Thank you, love."

She picked up the glass of gin that had been waiting for her, holding it up to him like she was making a toast.

She took a generous gulp. "Ah, I've been looking forward to that all day."

"Just the gin?"

"Mm, maybe you too." She took a moment to look at him as he sat across the table in his crisp shirt, the top button undone exposing the base of his throat. "You look delicious," she said.

"Delicious?" he laughed.

She laughed too. "I don't know. You just look... you're very handsome."

The corners of his mouth curled upwards, so subtle that no one else would have detected it. "I wore your favourite shirt."

"I noticed." She smiled. "I wore your favourite dress."

Sherlock's eyes wandered for a moment. He cleared his throat and brought his gaze back up to her face. "Open your present."

She picked up the gift sitting next to her on the table and tore away the paper that had been meticulously wrapped around it. Her face brightened when she looked inside the box, peering up at him with an excited grin.

"Sherlock!" She pulled out two tickets for a west end play – The Woman in Black – her favourite book. "You remembered."

"Of course I remembered. It's not for a few months–"

"I can't believe you're willing to come and watch a play with me."

"Well... There's no rule that states you have to take me."

"I'm taking you."

He rolled his eyes. "Alright."

They talked as they ate dinner, their conversation so relaxed it was hard to believe she was sitting opposite Sherlock Holmes. He was joking and flirting, charisma pouring from the smile lines in his face. Margaux loved it – this was the Sherlock that no one else got to see. He was hers completely.

The waiter left dessert menus on the edge of the table. Margaux smiled proudly when Sherlock thanked him. Every day she saw a fleck of improvement – whether it was a thoughtful gift, or a thank you to a waiter – it was all progress.

"Shan't be a minute," he said as he stood up, making his way towards the restroom on the other side of the restaurant.

Margaux watched him walk away, catching herself eyeing him up and down. She giggled to herself and took a sip of her drink, picking up the tickets and reading over them excitedly. She reached into her bag and took out her lipstick – every time she held the heavy gold tube in her hand, she thought of Mary. She ran it across her lips, checking in the reflection of her phone to make sure it looked okay. Even after a year and a half of being Sherlock's girlfriend, she still got nervous.

A noise flashed from across the table. She narrowed her eyes and looked over at Sherlock's coat hanging over the back of his chair. Did she imagine it? Another noise sent her heart plummeting to her stomach. It was a text tone. A tone that belonged to one person.

Sherlock grimaced as he opened the bathroom door, wondering how many germ-ridden hands had touched the handle before him. Then he remembered he had spent many nights on the dirty floor of a drug den, and suddenly, the restaurant bathroom didn't seem so bad.

He sauntered back to their table, smiling as he sat down.

"So, are you getting a dessert?" he asked before glancing up at her. "Margaux... What's wrong?"

"You got a text while you were gone. Don't worry, I didn't look. Wouldn't want to intrude on your intimate conversations."

"Hm?"

"I didn't want to believe it."

"I fear I am entirely missing your point."

"Irene Adler." She took a deep breath. "The Woman. That's what you called her, wasn't it? She wasn't just a woman. She was the woman."

He furrowed his brow and reached into his coat pocket, taking out his phone and reading the texts.

"I hear them," she continued. "Every time she sends you a message my skin crawls."

"Yes, well she does have a habit of pestering."

She scoffed. "Pestering."

He regarded her serious expression. "Margaux, I don't answer her messages. I never have."  He leaned forward as he spoke. "She's a fugitive. I saved her from execution. Having record of her texts means I have a way of tracing her should I ever need to."

She stared at him, her hands resting in her lap. "I don't believe you."

"Wh–? Hold on, what are you insinuating?"

"You don't think I've noticed you've been disappearing? Giving me bogus excuses about where you're going–" 

"Margaux. Listen to yourself. It's me. Do you really think I have the capacity for an affair?"

"Well if you're not having an affair then where have you been going?"

"I..." He stopped. The tension was visible in his face; sharpening every bone and darkening his eyes.

"Right." She nodded, her eyes beginning to water. "You know I really thought– I thought you really, honestly loved me." She pushed her seat back and began to stand up.

"I do!"

"Then tell me the truth, Sherlock."

He closed his eyes in frustration, almost growling as he blew out air between pursed lips. "I am not meeting with Irene Adler."

"That's not what I asked you."

"I... Margaux."

She turned around to walk away. He grabbed her by the hem of her dress and pulled her back.

"Sit down," he demanded through gritted teeth.

She glanced around at the busy restaurant, at all the people who were completely oblivious to their argument. She sat down, swallowing the lump forming in her throat.

"I have been..." he struggled through each word, forcing them out like it hurt. "I have been visiting my sister."

She stopped breathing.

He rubbed his face. He had hoped this moment would never come. "Mycroft has been facilitating my visits to Sherrinford for over a year now."

She remained still. Her eyes glazed over. She couldn't speak; even her thoughts were incoherent. 

They sat in silence as the candle flickered on the table between them. Finally, it was Sherlock who spoke first.

"Maybe we should just get the bill." 

*

They decided to walk. At least for a while. Sherlock and Margaux often had spats; disagreements where they would compete to wind each other up, settling it with a kiss and a laugh as quickly as it had begun. But they never fought. He had never raised his voice in anger, and she had never threatened to walk away. Until now.

Neither knew what to say as they walked beside each other. He noticed she was struggling in her heels and held out his arm. She linked it, holding onto him tightly as they turned onto a quiet street.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she asked quietly.

"Because I didn't understand why I was doing it, so how could I expect you to?" He stopped walking. "I know what she did; I think about what she did every time I look at her. And I want to hate her." He put his hand on her neck, running his thumb across her scar. "She did this to you – she almost took you away from me and she wouldn't have even cared. I want to hate her for that. But she's my sister. And she's sick."

Margaux could feel tears forming. She swallowed hard, forcing them back down as Sherlock continued to speak.

"The night I found her in that room, I saw a glimpse of my sister trapped beneath the poison, and I promised her I would bring her home." He sighed. "The poison did all of those things. But my sister sits alone behind glass, wondering why I didn't keep my promise."

She continued to walk, pulling her coat closed and folding her arms across her chest. "It kills me that you didn't trust me to be understanding of that."

"It wasn't that I didn't think you would understand. It's that I knew you would understand. That was the problem. I couldn't watch you bury your own feelings to support me."

"I get it," she said. "I get why you visit her. And I know it's not what you want to hear, but I would have supported you."

"I know."

She slipped her arm through his again, pulling herself closer to him as they walked together.

"What do you do? When you're there... Has she improved at all? Has she explained... why?"

He shook his head. "I just sit with her. Play the violin for her. She's catatonic most of the time – sometimes she doesn't even turn around to look at me. But sometimes... sometimes she plays too."

"I'm sorry."

They took a shortcut through a park. It was dark and quiet, almost completely empty in the drizzly autumn night. Sherlock stopped them, turning her around to face him.

"Margaux, I would never cheat on you." He grabbed her face. "Though I know the truth isn't any less hurtful, I just can't bear the thought of you believing I could feel this way for someone else."

She rose up on her tip toes and rested her forehead against his. "I know that. I do. I just..." she let out a small laugh. "God, look what you've done to me. I love you so much I've turned into a crazy lady."

"Not completely crazy; I wasn't exactly innocent. But that. I would never do that. Margaux, you are... the only..."

She cupped his cheek and smiled, kissing him gently as the rain grew heavier.