As Lestrade's men escorted the captured man out of the room, Watson finally had a good look at him — a gaunt figure with sharp, nervous features. His eyes darted between them, filled with fear and confusion more than malice. He looked oddly small for a man that was sneaking around at night and threatening old ladies in their bed. Holmes stepped closer to address the man.

“Your reign of terror ends here, knave!” Sherlock informed him, “Now tell us: how did you gain access to these hidden passages? Why are you threatening the Duchess?”

The man remained silent; his lips pressed tightly together in defiance.

“Very well,” Sherlock said coolly. “You may remain silent for now, but we shall find the answers one way or another.”

It was at this moment when Lestrade stepped in and took over.

“We'll get him to Scotland Yard and sort out the rest,” Lestrade told the detective, “You've done your part, Holmes. Great work as usual.”

“Elementary,” Sherlock replied, doing his best not to appear too cocky.

“Let’s get out of here!” Lestrade called out to his men as he clearly had enough of Holmes and his antics for one night.

With the intruder in custody and the immediate danger passed, the air in the room seemed to lighten. Watson exhaled, feeling the weight of the long night lift from his shoulders. The Duchess lay back in her bed, still processing the events, but there was a clear sense of relief on her face. Holmes approached Watson with a satisfied smile upon his face. He wasn’t the kind to gloat, but given how flawlessly his plan worked, it was difficult for the detective to resist.

“The game is still afoot, my dear Watson.” Sherlock said, which was the last thing Watson expected him to say.

“We’re not done?” Watson asked.

“Hardly,” Sherlock confirmed, “Yes, we have caught our man, but now it is up to us to unravel the deeper motives that lie behind this man’s odd actions.”

“Do you have any theories?” Watson inquired, as his curiosity was also piqued.

“Oh, several,” Sherlock replied, his eyes alight with intrigue. “"But as always, the final pieces shall reveal themselves in time.”

And with that, the mystery shifted from the darkness of the Duchess's chambers to the broader question that still hung in the air — why had this man so methodically threatened her? What lay behind the countdown to her death, and who, if anyone, had set this sinister plot in motion? Those were questions that would have to wait as Holmes could see that his friend was yawning quite loudly, and with the Duchess safe from being threatened again by this crook it seemed obvious that their next move was to return home.

The familiar comforts of 221B Baker Street greeted Watson as he let out a deep groan as he climbed the massive staircase to get back to their apartment. He was quite relieved to be home and away from the oppressive tension of the massive estate they just departed. After fetching a light smack that had been left there for them to eat, Watson retired to his room hoping for a night of uninterrupted rest. Yet even his deep sleep brought on by the tension of the days even provided no solace for the young doctor. His dreams came back again — as vivid and very chaotic memories of the battlefield returned to him in slumber. Strong battlefield explosions shattered his peace, and the cries of wounded soldiers that needed his help continued to echo in his mind. When Watson finally awoke, his heart was pounding hard, and a fine sheen of sweat clung to his skin. Pulling himself out of bed, Watson splashed some cold water on his face to snap him back into the real world. As the pale light of dawn crept through his curtains, Watson started to dress as he was fully aware that he wouldn’t be able to find any more rest that night.

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Watson had ventured into the sitting room expecting to find it quiet and still, but he couldn’t be more wrong. Instead, he found Holmes, hunched over his worktable, surrounded by a sea of scattered notes and diagrams. Holmes looked a little jittery and his eyes were bloodshot, and there was a pot of coffee and two dishes that were used to hold milk and sugar, all of which were empty. This led Watson to draw the most obvious conclusion.

“Holmes!” Watson called out, his voice breaking the silence. “Have you been up all night?”

Holmes didn’t look up, as his eyes glued to a piece of paper in his hand.

“Sleep, my dear Watson,” Sherlock replied, “Is a luxury one cannot afford when the mind is ablaze with possibility. There is a mystery that stands before me unresolved, and we must find the answers!”

As Watson moved closer, he took note of the telltale signs of Holmes’s manic focus: his slightly disheveled hair, the smoldering remains of his pipe, and the plates that used to hold leftovers set aside with absentminded care.

“Have you made progress on the matter of our mysterious intruder?” Watson asked.

Holmes responded by standing up from where he was sitting and turning his head to look back at Watson with a gaze that was sharp and electric.

“No,” he simply answered, “I’ve been working on this all night, and I’m not closer to the answer than I was when you retired to your chamber.”

“Perhaps you require sleep,” Watson suggested, showing a little concern, “You can’t keep running like this without resting. The mystery will still be here when you awake and attack with a fresh set of eyes.”

“No!” Sherlock roared, as his frustration was apparent. “I cannot close my eyes with something this large hanging over my head!”

“You’re exhausted!” Watson reminded him, “If anything, this fatigue with prevent you from finding any answers. So, get some rest and try again later!”

“I cannot,” Sherlock said again, his stubbornness in full swing.

“I’m warning you, Holmes,” Watson said, pointing a finger at his face. “You need rest!”

After making that statement, Holmes’ face became one of absolute shock. It was as if something his colleague had said had just pulled back the curtain, revealing everything the young detective. Watson could tell what that look meant. Holmes as starting to figure something out.

“What is it?” Watson demanded, eager to know what was going through his mind.

“I can’t believe it!” Sherlock cried out as he started to pace the room, his mind racing all ove the place as he did so. “It was right there in front of us!”

“What was?” Watson asked.

“I heard the man say it myself,” Sherlock recalled, as he was thinking about his encounter with the intruder that night. “Your grace, he said, you will die in five days.”

“Alright,” Watson replied, “That sounds exactly like what he whispered to the Duchess every other night with the number going down each night.”

“Think about it, Watson,” Sherlock challenged him, “Don’t concentrate on what is there, but instead think about what is not there.”

“What is not there?” Watson repeated, as he thought about it.

“The lack of detail,” Sherlock explained, “He didn’t elaborate about it. He didn’t say I will shoot you, or I will drown you, or I will smother you with that pillow. Hell, he didn’t even say that her was going to kill her.”

“No, he said she would die.” Watson said, trying to get onto the same page. “Why would he say it that way?”

“That’s because he doesn’t know how it’s going to happen,” Sherlock answered, “The only detail that was in the message was when, because that’s the only detail he knew.”

“What does that mean?” Watson asked, still very confused.

“This man wasn’t threatening the Duchess, Watson,” Sherlock concluded, “He was warning her!”