The Disgrace

The Beasts of Bygones

The cab screeched to a halt in front of St. Bart's as Sherlock and Verity stumbled out, leaving John to pay as always.

"Hello, Molly," said Sherlock as they stepped into the morgue.

"Sherlock," said a woman, flinching and looking up from the brain she was so closely examining seconds ago. "Here for the case?" she asked sweetly. She had long honey colored hair the she kept in a low ponytail, and Verity doubted she wore makeup much, though she was considerably pretty without it.

"No. There's nothing to solve. It was Moriarty."

Her eyes widened at his name, as though Sherlock had said Voldemort's name.

"So he's back?"

"Yes," replied Sherlock calmly. "Now if you could please grant me the victim's eyes?" He looked at Molly expectantly.

"Why?" she asked defiantly, though she was turning to the body to collect what Sherlock demanded.

"An experiment," he answered promptly.

• • • • •

They once again reached the flat, Verity still dwelling on the uncomfortable encounter with the uniformed officer. She thought she'd gotten away from that when her parents put her on plane back to London to find her brothers. Mycroft had turned her down, claiming he already had far too much on his mind with the government without needing to take care of his baby sister, and he recommended Sherlock.

She'd spent at least a month trying to find him; Mycroft had a strange lack of direction when Verity asked him where to find Sherlock. Then again, she had mentioned his weight a few times. Probably not the best idea.

"I need some fresh air," she lied to Sherlock as she stepped back out the door. Verity needed to forget.

• • • • •

"Ten o'clock in the morning, Verity?!"

"I lost track of time," she muttered. It was late morning, and she had tried to sneak back into 221B, but Sherlock had stayed up long after both Verity and John left. She really had lost track of time, but that wasn't all she did. She would let him figure it out for himself; she was on no hurry for his realization.

He narrowed his eyes at her as he composed himself. "You must be hungry," he said as he moved toward the kitchen.

"No," she said quickly. Maybe a bit too quickly, she thought, a second too late.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Tired? You stayed out all night," he resumed calmly.

"No," she said again, slower this time.

"Have you been running? You're sweating, but it's quite cool."

"Um...yeah." He seemed satisfied, so Verity moved toward the door to leave again. Sherlock took her roughly by the wrist.

"Your fingers as well as your lips are burnt, you've been out all night, but you're not tired. Restless, you might say. No appetite, yet, I say again, you were out all night with no money. You couldn't have eaten. All the signs are there. You've been using again." She tried to wrench her arm out of his grasp, but he held tighter. "You shouldn't keep these things from me."

An uncontrollably seething anger rose in Verity. "Me? Me?! This is coming from the man who uses hard drugs for 'cases' and died for two years! Mum knew, Dad knew, Mycroft knew, but I had no idea! Honestly, I had to hear about it on the news! I remember exactly what it said, and exactly how I felt. I remember everything, Sherlock; including what a disgrace I am!" She stopped for breath, her chest steadily rising and falling, her eyes fierce.

Sherlock opened his mouth to shoot something back at her, but a knock at the door silenced him. "Yes?" he demanded harshly.

"It's Lestrade," said the voice. "I came by to ask you about the case. Did I hear something about 'hard drugs', Sherlock?"

He paused for a moment. He turned his gaze back to his sister. "Find John and stay with him and Mary until I take care of this." He relinquished her wrist.

"Anything to get away from you," she spat as she left, stepping around a confused but determined Lestrade.