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Deducing Tragedy Part Two: Speak No Lies

Vemod

As I stood in front of Sherlock and he mentioned my sister- my twin, I felt the life drain out of me. Sherlock knew, of course he knew. At this point it was only a question of how much?

I found out about Emily when I was seventeen but by then she'd disappeared from her foster home. I never tried to track her down because I knew what she was: a killer. I'd read all about the incident with her foster dad and I just knew it was her. I didn't know why or how she came to this but I also knew she grew up very differently from me. I was adopted into a loving home with the most wonderful family I could ask for. Emily lived in the American foster system her whole life. I could never even begin to understand that.

John was still standing there with mix of emotions showing in his face. Shock, anger, fury, sorrow, fear, confusion, and heartbreak were all playing in time across his features. I knew this was my fault. John's torment was because I failed to put my sister behind bars when I had the chance and I had many chances.

I never really tried to find The Ripper. We were on the case for close to six months and I only really gave it around a third of my attention. It was dull, a former assassin going rogue and killing whenever the mood struck him, it was a typical cliché and held no interest for me. Now Mary was in danger because of my disinterest, that was on me and no one could change that.

"John you should go to bed," I said in a small voice after a moment of silence passed between the three of us. "Please," I stopped him as he tried to speak up. "I know you're worried, so am I, but we can't do anything; not tonight. So go, get some sleep. We'll work to think of something and get you in the morning."

His eyes were lifeless as he removed his coat and set it on the table before he turned and started down the hall. "Just-" he paused turning back to look at us, "just know that I'm only doing this because I want to believe the crazy notion that it wasn't you in that tomb." He said locking his gaze on me, "I want to believe that you do have a crazy evil twin like Sherlock said. That you aren't tricking us into getting- whatever it is you want. I want to believe that Hanna… but I just can't."

Sherlock moved to speak but I stopped him, pressing my palm flat against his bare chest without breaking eye contact with John, "I know," I said with a half-smile. "I don't deserve any more than that." He nodded once before continuing down the hall to his room. When he was out of sight I turned to Sherlock who gave me a curios look.

"Why was John in a tomb?" he asked.

"Sherlock," I whispered, "not now."

"His family wouldn't have a tomb of their own," he continued moving past me to look down the hall after his best friend. "Mary's family is more likely but why would they go out in the middle of the night?"

"Please focus," I said grabbing his arm. "Mary's been kidnapped-"

"And understanding the circumstances would shed much needed light on the problem at hand," he said without looking at me. "So, visiting a tomb with Mary but the tomb doesn't belong to either's family. A close friend then, but who?

"Lestrade's unlikely," he continued and I let go of his arm. I walked into the kitchen and grabbed the tea kettle from the cupboard. "So is Molly- does your family even have a tomb?" he asked glancing at me as I filled it with water.

I shook my head, "No, the Hooper's do not have a tomb."

"It would have to be someone they both have a connection too," he frowned, that brilliant brain of his working in overdrive. I turned on the stove top and put the kettle over the flame. "Someone they both cared for a great, someone they both wanted to visit- But why in the middle of the night? What was so urgent?"

I didn't look at him as my eyes stayed glued to the chipped red paint of the teapot in front of me. Please stop, I silently begged. Not yet, not now, please not now.

"Unless who they were visiting wasn't what was important," he said spinning around to look at me. "You spoke to him before he left did he say anything?" I paused a moment, opening my mouth to speak but the words burned in my throat.

"There's something in his coat pocket," he said turning to the jacket on the coffee table and picking it up. I couldn't see the kettle any more. My already poor vision now blurred with tears as he pulled out the large iron key to the Holmes family tomb. "My family's tomb?" he frowned looking over it. "Why would he go visit my family tomb?"

I didn't say anything as I reached for the cupboard on the left and opened it. I grabbed a mug and pulled it down. The mug that had been balancing on top of it and another fell down. I flinched, bracing myself for the inevitable crash that never came. I blinked, the tears that I had barely held back fell down my cheeks, as I turned to see Sherlock standing much closer to me than he had been a moment ago with the mug in his hand. I looked up into his silver eyes, so full of confusion and concern for me before I saw him start to piece it together.

"You were gone for three years," he began his eyes hardening as he deduced my last secret, "but you were only working with Mycroft's team for two. Though they are mostly faded you have faint stretch marks on your stomach. Also, your breasts grew by a full cup size since the last time we were intimate. After your comma you would stop and stare at surfaces in terror- not terror for yourself no… terror for someone you care very much about-"

"Sherlock," I whispered grabbing his hand, "Stop this-"

His voice was cold as he spoke, "I've nearly finished."

"That's just it," I said tilting my head to the side as my tears came more readily. "Don't finish this deduction. Please, not now."

It was a useless last effort to stop him, and I could see in his face that he wouldn't do anything I told him to anymore. "Your tattoo," he said and I bowed my head. "Your secret… you had a baby."

I closed my eyes, my tears splashing on the wood floor near our feet. I kept my eyes closed, unable to look at him as I choked out, "No."

"No?" he asked. His voice was perfectly calm which was so much worse than the anger I had braced myself for.

"I was pregnant," I said finally opening my eyes but my gaze remained focused on his collar bone. "But there was no baby."

"It died-"

"She," I cut him off. "She died… third trimester."

"Why is it-"

"She."

"-buried in my family tomb?"

I sucked in a breath, releasing his hand as I looked up into his eyes. Those eyes that had only a few minutes ago regarded me with such love and desire now held only disdain and ice. Sherlock Holmes, the man I would go to the ends of the earth for, was on the verge of truly hating me. They always say that the line between love and hate was a thin one but I never knew how thin until now.

"She's buried in your tomb," I whispered and he raised his head, looking down his nose at me, "because she was your daughter." The kettle went off and I turned back to the stove. Moving the pot off the fire I walked back into the living room. I felt his eyes follow my movement as I stepped into my dress and pulled it up.

"What are you doing?" he asked, his voice edged with ice as I grabbed my shoes of the floor and walked over to where my coat hung.

I paused in the doorway before I glanced back at him, "Vemod," I said meeting his eyes with a half-smile. "Goodbye, Sherlock." And then, before he could say anything else, I walked down the stairs and out the door into the freezing London night. Or morning, I suppose, it was nearly five and the sun would be rising soon.

"Stop," he shouted before I could start to walk away.

"Sherlock-"

He cut me off with an icy glance, "As much as I would like to see you get in a cab and drive away you can't. Mary has been kidnapped and we need to find her. Now get back in the flat and let's finish the case," he said turning away and quickly disappearing in the dark entryway of 221B.

"Vemod," I whispered before following him into the flat.

Vemod: noun; a tender sadness or pensive melancholy; the calm feeling that something emotionally significant is over and will never be back.
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And there you go! Sherlock knows about little Molly, was it everything you were hoping? let me know in the comments/reviews

ttfn

-Katy