Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter One: "We sat and made a list…"

What happened to Sherlock while John and Mary were away on honeymoon? How did Sherlock tackle the mystery of who put John into a bonfire? And why? Why did Lady Smallwood take her problem to Sherlock? And what did he do about it? And why - finally - did Sherlock have no alternative other than to kill Magnussen?

This is not so much casefic as backstory study. I have always been fascinated by the tone of His Last Vow, the sense that Sherlock knows more about Magnussen than he ever gives away, and that somehow he and Magnussen know each other better and in more ways than we see depicted on screen.

Sherlock Series Three Special Edition and YouTube carry a seriously creepy deleted filmed scene when Magnussen visits Sherlock in hospital after the shooting, and his behaviour shows he is mesmerised by Sherlock Holmes; and takes predatory advantage of Sherlock's condition.

The Sherlock Chronicles book also has a deleted scene where Magnussen admits to being fascinated by Sherlock because "I have never had a detective before" and Moffatt and Gatiss describe a deleted scene from script whereby Magnussen ignores John and Sherlock to strip and swim at Appledore despite their presence.

This background is contribution and grist to the mill of this story. If anyone needs explanation and justification for Sherlock being seen as a killer, this is it.

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Things We Lost In The Flames

Chapter 1: "We sat and made a list….."

Greg Lestrade has always appreciated beautiful women, and the poised young woman in the black and white Alexander McQueen evening dress with her striking red hair in an elegant and old fashioned double bun was certainly easy on the eye.

Looking out into the room and watching the crowd at the police ball over Sherlock Holmes' shoulder while the consulting detective blocked out the rest of the world and faced the wall was normal behaviour if the two were ever in a social gathering like this.

Sherlock did not like social situations of any sort ("nothing more irrelevant than small talk and over sophisticated food, Lestrade.) but this was a police widows and orphans fund raiser, and - having been leant on by Greg to do a favour - he had been a last minute stand in for one of the guest speakers, so it was a rare social outing, but also a situation impossible to avoid in the circumstances.

Sherlock being Sherlock, the anticipated talk did not happen. After being introduced he stood up and adjusted his microphone, told the audience without preamble:

"The police often deal with murder. But murderers and their victims are not who -or what - you would always anticipate." and with that stooped to draw his Guarneri violin and it's bow from beneath the table where he sat, retuned briefly, ignored gasps of surprise from the audience, and began to play a dancing, lyrical Baroque tune that charmed and silenced the room within seconds, however surprised they were to see the consulting detective play.

Very few people knew Sherlock Holmes was a musician, and even fewer had ever seen him perform. Lestrade knew, and had, and he now grinned, watched his friend with quiet pleasure, and surreptitiously recorded the event on his telephone.

It was indicative of the contradictory nature of the man that although he had refused to give a speech ("immodest self promotion"), he had instead offered to Lestrade "a brief musical turn - no chat, and definitely no Q&A!" instead.

Stunned into silence by the very idea, Lestrade had hesitated to point out that to see and hear him play would be more powerful and revealing to a roomful

of policemen, judges, parliamentarians and influential celebrities than to hear him speak on criminal justice. Lestrade could imagine the reply - the crinkled nose the petulant scowl: 'Nonsense, Lestrade. Music is nothing to do with the work, thus irrelevant." Lestrade appreciated the viewpoint, but knew no-one else would share it.

Watching Sherlock now - totally concentrated on the music, bending and weaving around the sound he was making, dark curls flying, the formal tuxedo emphasising his long lean frame and the soft lighting flattering his high cheekbones and Byronic look - Lestrade realised with a pang that this performance would only fascinate onlookers even more; deepen the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes and, contradict the image the young man carefully cultivated for himself as an unemotional thinking machine when music pouring out of him like this displayed such heart.

Twelve minutes of astonishing musical virtuosity later he stopped as abruptly as he started. Put up a hand to kill the applause before it began and said simply:

"That was Jean Marie Le Clair's Violin Sonata in D Major Opus 9 Number 3. Le Clair was one of the greatest French Baroque violinists and composers and was murdered - stabbed in the back three times outside his house in France.

"Suspects aplenty, but the murder was never solved. One that was - the murder of a New York Metropolitan Opera Orchestra violinist pushed off the roof in the intermission of a performance by a covetous stagehand she refused to date. Classical musicians are not always victims however. Sometimes they are indeed the murderer.

"In 1912 Albert deBrahms killed his wife in a fit of jealousy then tried to dissolve her with acid in the bath of their New York apartment. Then shot himself sitting in his armchair in the parlour.

"And one murderous musician to remember is Jack Rowland Murphy. Champion surfer, jewellery thief, tennis pro, movie stunt man and circus diver, he was also a violinist for Pittsburg Symphony Orchestra then was convicted for murder- and of course found religion in jail. And no, I haven't made him up, he was real.

"A life lesson for all in the search for justice and truth. Never make assumptions, never take anything for granted."

With that he gave the audience a brief nod and left the dais to loud applause, frowning and hurrying to the cloakroom to reclaim his violin case. Lestrade turned off his phone, saw the flashing cameras of the press, the unblinking red light of the television camera, and realised Sherlock had just unwittingly created a media sensation.

Police PR officer Pony Patel would be rubbing her hands with glee, and the CAM News team recording the event would have a quirky scoop to peddle to the world's press for the following day. Lestrade sighed. Told himself Sherlock couldn't help it; he attracted such attention - and was born to trouble - as sparks rise upwards.

At his own request Sherlock had been tucked out of the way of most people that evening, safe on a corner of the top table for the meal he did not eat and barely conversed through.

After the musical interlude Lestrade saw that now the self proclaimed sociopath had done his bit he was keen to escape: he was scanning the edges of the crowd with his peripheral vision like a security camera for something vaguely interesting to concentrate on, and, finding nothing, had turned to face the wall in boredom. Any minute now he would mutter some apology and disappear. Or just not bother to make an apology and disappear anyway.

Talking shop was the only conversational topic Sherlock could tolerate at most times, and he had already pushed aside many congratulations on his performance, and declined to enter any conversation on the topic.

Now he was deep into a one sided discussion - or it might have been a lecture - on DNA testing advances that was going way over Lestrade's head but which he knew was really both fascinating and educational if he could properly concentrate on it. But it had already been a long day, and Lestrade was finding it hard to filter out the jazz combo playing in the background and it's sultry contralto singer.

And then the red haired girl caught his eye as she approached. She was heading straight for them with a distinct sense of purpose. And he could tell she had her eyes firmly fixed on Sherlock.

Lestrade ducked his head, coughed to catch Sherlock's attention, and muttered half under his breath:

"Female fan heaving to on your starboard side."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, grimaced and then laughed at Lestrade's jaded expression, and, still laughing, half turned to see who was approaching.

Lestrade watched the eyes of the consulting detective narrow and darken, his whole mood change in an instant, body language snapping closed even more intensely than normal to make the spine straighter, the tilt of the head haughtier, the expression empty and impassive.

So Lestrade found himself suddenly on the alert too. What had Sherlock just seen that had turned his good humour glacial? What had switched him into frigid full-on work mode?

Surely it could not be the approaching girl? For she looked nice enough, and was smiling pleasantly at them now, looking relaxed and walking easily, her clutch bag tucked under one arm, a hand outstretched in what gave every appearance of being a good natured greeting.

Sherlock, typically, turned his head away from her approach and ignored her. So Lestrade politely took and shook the proffered hand instead.

"DI Greg Lestrade," he said genially. "Hello."

"Hello," she said.

The girl smiled at him. Smiled properly, with an open face and warm, humorous eyes. A pretty if unremarkable face, with a scattering of freckles, dancing blue eyes it was hard not to smile back into, an air of being calm, sociable and intelligent. Lestrade found it no hardship to smile back at her even though he knew he was not the attraction and that the smile was not really for him, and he wondered yet again at his friend's ability to attract men and women to him without the aid of charm or even good manners.

He had long ago given up wondering how Sherlock Holmes did it, just accepted that it was so.

"And this is my friend Sherlock Holmes."

Greg put out an arm to Sherlock to draw the detective in. Sherlock declined to be drawn. In fact he put his hands firmly into the pockets of his tuxedo jacket and then became more deeply frozen and non reactive than before.

"Good evening, Sherlock Holmes," said the girl, smiling directly into his eyes and presenting her hand. "That was a wonderful performance."

Sherlock ignored both the smile and the hand and refused to meet her eyes.

"Good evening, Mr Holmes," repeated the girl, keeping her hand out, still smiling up into his eyes, relaxed, yet also clearly determined to make him respond to her.

Lestrade watched with a creeping sense of unease. Sherlock was not sociable at the best of times, but this was something else. He held his breath, watched, and was suddenly, somehow, poised and ready to react.

"No," Sherlock repeated.

"My name is Katherine Haig, Mr Holmes, and I…."

"No," he said again. Then smiled his coldest and most excoriating smile and blazed his eyes finally into hers. "Haig was an infamous murderer How very appropriate in the circumstances. Alone here tonight, I see. Despite your marriage. Kitty Riley." He bit the name out like a curse.

Lestrade's head jolted up. He recognised that name! Now, where did he recognise that name from?

"I have not been Kitty Riley for a long time," she said gravely. Waited, eyes still on his, but received neither reply nor acknowledgement. Having made his comment Sherlock looked up and away, not so much avoiding eye contact now as declining to recognise she was still there in front of him. And Lestrade saw that she realised this too.

"But I have been hoping to meet you again for a very long time."

There was something softer, something like a plea in her voice now, and although Sherlock's expression did not change, Lestrade could tell from a finite shift of his shoulders that the younger man had heard and recognised that.

He still did not reply or react further. Shifted his body weight as if about to walk away. So she took a step closer to block him.

"Do you always behave like an autistic child?" she asked without heat, only quiet curiosity. "Doesn't it hurt to always be so nasty? You are no fool. You know you are being bloody rude and how that hurts people."

Lestrade sucked in a breath. Was that a lucky guess about the autism, intended as an insult - or was it knowledge? Either way it could be seen as a low blow. He looked at the girl again, and realised alarm bells were jangling somewhere in the back of his mind.

"Being rude also gets you nowhere, don't you know that?"

"You know nothing. You never have," Sherlock finally spoke again, six words in a tone that could freeze blood.

She ducked her head then, and bit her lip. Gasped a breath as the taunt hit home, but still refused to be deflected.

"Sherlock…." Lestrade hissed a warning, but the girl put a hand lightly on his arm to stop him.

"No, Mr Lestrade. Please. Whatever he says to hurt me, I deserve it. I only hope it makes him feel better. After what I did to him."

"Better!" hissed Sherlock with savage scorn and began to turn away again, then half turned back. "Why are you even here?" Just as bitingly.

She lifted her head, and there was a glint of pride in her eyes: Lestrade spotted it, and knew Sherlock would have too.

"I am a celebrity guest, if you must know."

"No you're not." Sherlock said it with such speed and certainty the girl backed down immediately.

"As good as," she defended with spirit. "I am here as the direct representative of my boss. Who just happens to be a serious media magnate, I'll have you know. And he chose me to represent him here this evening, at this glittering do."

Sherlock's top lip curled in something between a snarl and a sneer.

"You mean he manoeuvred good PR in the old boy network by accepting his invite, paid a king's ransom for his ticket, then got out of the boring bit by sending a minion. Clever man. Shame the best he could find was you."

"Sherlock….." Lestrade muttered a warning his friend may have heard but did not heed.

"Please, Mr Holmes!" she appealed, and put a hand on Sherlock's arm. Lestrade flinched for her; did she not know, could she not tell, that he loathed being touched?

He shook her off with a brief convulsive jerk and arched away from her and started walking without a backward look.

"Kitty Riley!" exclaimed Lestrade suddenly as he watched her face fall and look almost desperate now as she watched him stride away, violin case on his back. "Now I know you! It was you who wrote that expose of Sherlock! You who believed Moriarty! You who labelled Sherlock a fraud!"

He caught her wrist now and looked her in the eyes, dragging her concentration from Sherlock. And he found himself unexpectedly and unusually angry.

"You were the idiot who sat in judgement - the person who made him kill himself!"

"But he didn't, did he? Kill himself?" she turned to him then, and for a second Lestrade could have sworn she was on the edge of tears.

"As good as," Lestrade snarled.

"Don't I know it?" she snapped back at him. "I spent two years blaming myself for his death….."

She dashed a hand across her eyes, and now seemed unable to say any more.

"Yeah - but he was just another story to you then, wasn't he?. Not a person. Not a soul. Not a force for good," Lestrade could hear the bitterness in his voice, but he didn't care. He had spent too long resenting the publicity storm that had ruined the reputation and career and the entire life of Sherlock Holmes. "You believed the lies about him." He paused and then added with a slow and untypical ferocity: " And you spread them."

Katherine Haig - Kitty Riley. Now he recognised her and he could not believe the cold fury in him. He was a copper. Like all coppers he had never liked or trusted the press. But what had happened to Sherlock because of Kitty Riley's red top expose of him - as a fraud, a fake genius, a criminal - had angered Lestrade at the time, and still, he discovered with a jolt, angered him now.

"You can't blame me for everything that happened! Not everything was my fault" she cried, struggling free of his grasp. "Let go of me! I must talk to him! Catch him up and talk to him!"

"He doesn't want to talk to you. Why should he?" Lestrade demanded, not loosening his grip.

"I must, it's vital!"

She was bucking under his hand now, all pretence at calm sophistication gone.

"Please let me go!"

She put her other hand on top of his and tugged her wrist free, and Lestrade stood back as if stung, marvelling at the sudden strength and desperation in her.

"Do not do that to him again. Don't!" he hissed, leaning close into her as she wrenched away.

He stood and watched as she followed Sherlock out of the exit doors and into the corridor. Ran after him, as if her life depended upon it. The swing doors rattled back hard against the wall as she flung herself through them, and Lestrade watched until she had gone, then tried to talk himself back into his usual amiable calm, smiling placatingly towards the few people who had witnessed the scene..

But the encounter had unexpectedly disturbed him. He hoped it had not disturbed Sherlock. The consulting detective had not looked disturbed, but no-one ever knew his feelings, not really. He hoped….no. Shook his head. Sherlock was an adult, he could cope with this. And it wasn't his affair.

Lestrade made a mental note to call him in the morning to make sure he was OK and walked slowly back into the party. But there was a nasty taste in his mouth now.

o0o0o0o

Katherine Haig had entered The Four Seasons Hotel, cool, confident and collected. But Kitty Riley - shocked, shaking, panic stricken - was the girl who left.

Dragging her coat onto her shoulders, her handbag stuffed into her pocket, her hair tumbling, she exploded out of the glass main doors onto Hamilton Place, and looking around wildly for Sherlock Holmes.

Where had he gone? Which way? Left heading for Piccadilly? Right towards Park Lane? She was sure he had come out of the main entrance in front of her, but scanning wildly up and down the road she could not see his tall distinguished figure anywhere on the dark pavements. Yet no taxi had pulled up or away. So where was he?

A sob escaped her throat and she swore softly under her breath. Where was he? Where? She had so much needed to speak to him, and he showed up in neutral public places like this so rarely, she might never get a chance again, a chance to corner him and speak to him in public where his response to her would hopefully be moderated by the social situation, the presence of other people.

She was, she now finally admitted to herself after almost three years, haunted by his memory and his fate, terrified to encounter the man in private now he had risen from the dead. And yet she had no choice.

The last time they had met had been in her own flat. She had taken pleasure in proving him wrong, humiliating him, filling the last words she had said to him - "You. Repel. Me." - with as much venom and distaste as she could muster into the words.

He had not replied but he had looked her square in the eyes with unspeakable disgust, his own eyes black with anger, and his lip had curled back in distaste before he had rushed out into the night. The fact that he had not spoken to her and released the pain she could see in him despite himself always haunted her, afterwards.

At the time she had felt a thrill of both personal and professional victory within her for having bested a genius and discovered the truth about him, despite all.

The fact that he had died the following day, driven to it by her journalistic expose revelations about him, had haunted her mind and interrupted her sleep for months. She had been so proud of herself then, so confident in her powers, so convinced by the testimony and paperwork Richard Brook had provided that showed Sherlock Holmes was a fraud, that her story was written, the exposure made, the scandal rolled forward.

For twenty four hours she was the new star, the investigative young reporter whose name was on everyone's lips and who had proved her worth. Being on top of the world was a fabulous place to be. The delight lasted such a brief time….before Sherlock flung himself from a rooftop, his reputation in tatters. Because of her.

Her pride crashed down and died on the pavement, just as Sherlock Holmes had, and as quickly So she became haunted by that final meeting between them, his silent response to her power over him. Why had he not shouted at her? Hit her, even? Just defended himself against her words and her news story? If he had done that, she would have felt better - justified, excused, ordained to reveal his truth. But he had not done that.

And she spent months - years - having the conversation with him in her head that they should have had then. When she could and would have justified herself and explained it all to him. How the story had come about and been hers.

So when the facts emerged that meant he was right and she was wrong, when he was finally vindicated, proved right in every single thing he had said and done, and that she - she - had been proved to be wrong in everything she had believed and written, duped by Richard Brook who was really master criminal James Moriarty, she was shattered. That was a humiliating truth and a life lesson which were something she would never, ever, get over.

Because there was no way she could ever make things right with Sherlock Holmes. He was dead and had gone. And that haunted her.

She had stood numb and grieving, watched his funeral service from beyond the cemetery gates and yet still not quite believed it was all really happening. It felt surreal, like having stepped into a horror movie. She felt guilty and responsible. And she had no-one to apologise to, no way to ease her guilt.

He had been so strong and young and vital. So handsome. So confident and self possessed. Not the type of person she would have thought would ever consider killing himself rather than be beaten into the ground by something as tenuous and unimportant as the loss of his reputation.

So then, finally, she realised just how important reputation was as she lost hers. To understand how little she really knew about people, and how shallow the veneer of professional cynicism she had assumed. When she now felt young and stupid and inadequate, and as if Sherlock Holmes' fate had all somehow been her fault. Because it had.

The deeply personal new understanding of herself and the inadequacies of her capabilities depressed her thoughts. Whilst remaining to appear bright and confident and secure in her new status as a top investigative reporter Kitty was damaged and confused: for Sherlock Holmes' death had somehow served only to increase her reputation with everyone - apart from herself.

Especially when, belatedly and unbelievably, a judicial investigation proved Sherlock Holmes to have been right. In everything he had said, every case he had worked, every testimony he had made. And then miraculously the man himself was back - back here in London! The reappearance and resurrection from the dead caused a sensation. As did the way he had then saved London from a bomb in a modern day Guy Fawkes plot to blow up Parliament.

Kitty had been relieved, impressed, appalled. She had expected him to return and chase her down, set on revenge. She had problems with all the other news outlets asking for her formal reactions to his return, how she could deal with having been so wrong in her career making expose. How things were for her now.

So she smiled, made trite professional replies, tried to marshal her thoughts and her fears and handle them all. She had not dared to be present at his impromptu press briefing outside his old home after foiling the bomb plot. But she watched it on television, replayed the recording she had made over and over again.

He seemed exactly the same Sherlock Holmes, two years on. Tall and slim as ever, poised and assured, with the same confident stance, the same collected baritone voice. She watched and searched for signs of weakness, of the damage that should surely be his after two years waging some lonely and top secret war. But she saw nothing of the sort, and marvelled at how he had achieved and maintained that equilibrium.

So now: so unexpectedly - here he was, a late addition to an important charity event, the last minute stand in to replace a nondescript television presenter whose only claim to fame in attending that particular dinner as a speaker had been six months as a police cadet fifteen years earlier and whose broken leg skiing the day before kept him away and in a Davos hospital.

Katherine Haig had been catapulted into the event that morning. She had been expecting a quiet day scheduling her diary and organising interviews for the coming week, but had been summoned by her boss to his 32nd floor office and tossed a gilt edged invitation card.

"I have too much in hand to attend this," he had told her in his clipped measured tones. "Go in my place. Watch everything that happens and find me a good story, some interesting background An in depth interview with someone special for the weekend edition perhaps?"

It was not normal to be given an off diary job like this at such short notice, but his look and tone denied any possibility of contradiction. Even before she opened her mouth to protest he smiled a very small smile in her direction and said: "Take the morning off, Katherine. Get your hair done and go find a new dress. On expenses. It will be cleared by me. OK?"

She was just leaving, confidence bolstered by his confidence in her, and had her hand on the door, when he called her back, his voice with an edge she had never heard before.

" Now it is time to start to really earn your not inconsiderable salary, Katherine. Find your mark and hit the best target. For me. You will know what that target is when you see it."

Was that a threat? He held her pinned with those flat pale blue eyes she could not read, and did not smile at her now; but then, he rarely did. Just a brief nod that said…..something she could not understand.

So she smiled at him, met those eyes, chose to take his words at face value. Swallowed anything she might have said, nodded and left. Killed her foolish fears for a while and enjoyed a luxurious time shopping for a new dress and being cosseted.

It was only after she had arrived at the hotel she learnt there would be a late replacement speaker and who it was. Katherine Haig had smiled and nodded, and Kitty Riley had quailed inside.

For she suddenly had the creeping feeling that she had been given a mission - a mission to contact Sherlock Holmes. That her new boss knew of the past connection between Holmes and herself, knew Holmes would be there tonight - and had sent her specifically; to get her reaction, to see what would happen. Frightening, cold blooded, confrontational journalism. Well, she would try to do her best to deliver what he wanted - she would show him!

And although she was daunted by the prospect, she also knew that aside from her work, she herself needed to talk to the consulting detective again. To make her peace with him and receive some sort of forgiveness or absolution before she could move on and begin to forgive herself.

This opening had appeared out of thin air, and before she was properly prepared - if she could ever be properly prepared for this. So she had to just jump in. Had to.

She trusted that the company of a respected policeman like Lestrade had tempered Holmes's response to her, and because of that she felt she had narrowly avoided being knocked down by one angry blow from Sherlock Holmes, an act of vengeance she had been anticipating for years.

Something she now thought only appropriate in response to her expose about him; an expose that led directly to ….what, exactly?. Kitty was a good enough journalist to be able to imagine what the two intervening years must have been like for him - torment, danger and isolation, death of the soul if not an actual physical death. And it was all her fault.

For a moment she paused, out there in the dark and on her own with no-one to see her, and her shoulders slumped in defeat. She had to find him and talk to him! She might not have - or dare to take - another chance!

And as this thought formed a smooth baritone voice behind her quietly said:

"Well? Speak. And quickly."

She spun round to see the tall figure in the Belstaff coat step silently from the shadows behind one of the white concrete support pillars of the hotel's front entrance. After all that had gone before….had he actually been waiting for her?

"I….I….." she heard herself stuttering in surprise and fear. He took a step closer, all concentration upon her now. And she stepped hurriedly backwards.

"I don't hit women," he stated flatly, interpreting her movement. "Yet you clearly expect me to. Your guilty conscience is ….interesting."

"I'm sorry….." she began, and the words stalled in her throat.

He tilted his head and studied her.

"What for? Particularly?"

Didn't he know? Didn't he see? Could he not remember after all that had happened to him in the interim? She swallowed hard, assuming he was being sarcastic. But she looked again and heard nothing in his voice, saw nothing in him at all except a calm, disinterested detachment in the way he was looking at her.

"For the expose I wrote about you. For destroying your career. Your life."

There She had said it. And instantly felt purged and drained and exposed and light headed.

"You have an inflated sense of your own importance."

"But I….I was responsible" She reeled back from his insulting indifference as if struck. Whatever she had thought his reaction might be, it was not such coolness, such lack of engagement. "You must hate me. Surely?"

He tilted his head and looked at her and this time it was she who avoided meeting his eyes, afraid of what she would see there.

" Immaterial. You were never that important. If not you, it would have been some other red top hack. You were just a cog in a process planned by cleverer people than you. I have never given you a thought."

She staggered back a little then, astounded at his cool dismissal. Was he superhuman - or acting tough? Was he just as strange as people said - or truly mad?

"None of those things," he said drily, as if he had read her thoughts. "I just do not care. Except to ask why you so urgency need to talk to me?" He paused, tilted his head, deduced her. "Ah. You want something from me. Bit of a cheek, but do tell."

Kitty Riley felt she had plunged through an entire gamut of human emotion in the past two minutes. And now felt small and rather grubby. But she pulled herself up to her full height, raised her chin and said:

"I want to interview you."

The instant harsh shout of laughter, and the naked disdain in those opal eyes, made her feel as if her skin was being flayed.

"Why?"

"Because you are a celebrity. Because you are a hero. Because people want to know about you. Because you are unique. Because it will be good publicity for you. Because it will allow people to understand…."

"Those reasons are of no interest to me. Try again with the truth."

She caught her breath and sought the right words, knowing only honesty would do now.

"Because I want the chance to write something proper about you. For you. This time. To put things right. I owe it to you."

He looked at her silently for so long she squirmed and had to look away.

"That is mere sentiment. You have neither the wit nor the courage to come up with this idea yourself. Did your editor suggest this to you? Because I have no intention of being sullied by that rag…."

"I don't work for the Sun any more! I was head hunted for something better…!"

"You could hardly do worse…"

"I work for the Daily Briefing now!"

"Never heard of it."

"It's new. Since you….left. New, popular, intelligent, trending."

"Sounds hateful."

"No! It is good. Popular."

She realised she was losing him, saw him move forward to walk straight past and dismiss her.

"You're right, Sherlock! All of it!" He was still walking away and she could hear her voice rising in something like fear and inadequacy as she tried to hold him to her. "I want to do this, of course I do….but not my idea! Or my editor's! Our owner…!"

He did pause and half turned then, and with some strange thrill within her she did not want to identify, saw something move behind his eyes at last.

"And why would a newspaper owner be interested in me?"

Afterwards, she realised that she, too, should have considered this question. And might have if her life and her career had not depended upon it. So instead she had smiled at him. Smiled as if he was an idiot. Underestimated once more the man and the importance of the question he asked her.

That finally got your attention, Mr Sherlock Holmes!

"Don't try and be modest!" she challenged. "You know you are unique. Special. Back from the dead to save the British constitution and hundreds of lives - and you did, you did it!. You are a real hero, not a thick football player or a TV nonentity, and truly not a fraud. Why can't you see that for yourself?"

She watched him watching her, so unmoved by her appeals, and still could not understand his blindness about himself, his effect on other people. "And whether you understand it, or are interested in it, the bottom line is simple - people are truly fascinated by you," she replied.

Honestly, but also with a sense of superiority, because she could not understand why he even needed to ask the question, why he appeared to neither rate himself nor show any need to be rated by others..

He lifted one shoulder in a bored shrug.

"None of that means anything to me "

"False modesty?" she asked with confidence growing a little before his blindness.

"No. Total disinterest," he responded drily. "No interview. Are we done?" Began to walk away again.

"Sherlock, please!"

She thought she was going to cry. She could hear the plea and the rising hysteria in her voice. She had tried her best and did not know what would happen now she had failed. All she could do was throw herself at his feet, sob, and hope he would be a chivalrous male and just take pity on her. So she didn't care any more if he heard the pain and desperation in her. And he did.

He half turned, catlike, still walking softly backwards.

"So you are more afraid of him than of me. How telling. Has he threatened you with dismissal if you don't snare me?"

He stopped and came back, just as she had wanted. To pace slowly all round her, making her feel naked, despairing, indescribably vulnerable. He stalked slowly, hands in coat pockets, assessing her, she realised, and to Kitty it appeared he saw everything through the laser vision of those strange grey eyes, emitting the power and arrogance of an emperor - a grand vizier - or even, she thought fancifully, a Thoroughbred stallion.

This man had so much incorruptible strength and power in him…how had she ever dared take him on two years ago?

"Who is your owner?"

She sniffed back what might be tears.

"Magnussen. Charles Augustus Magnussen. Have you heard of him?"

"Of course. A reptile. Get a new job elsewhere. Now - while you can. My advice, for what it's worth." The words rapped out, a staccato drumbeat.

"As if it's that easy!" she protested, stung.

"Not my problem."

This time he walked away and kept going.

"Let me send you some of my cuttings! See what I can and will do for you! Think about it, at least! Please, Sherlock!"

He continued walking, a unique silhouette; tall and lean with strong shoulders firmly set. A tangle of overlong dark hair, dark skirted coat with collar flipped up high and hands fisted in pockets, the stride long and confident, the violin case incongruous on his back.

However hard she willed it, he did not turn or wave a hand, gave no sign at all of having even heard her.

She stood and hoped and looked, listened to his footsteps receding and tried to quieten the rapid hammer of her heart, to swallow the fear that had risen like bile in her throat. Watched him round the corner and disappear from her view without looking back.

She realised she had put both fists into her mouth to stop herself crying out. She was frightened of Magnussen, she finally realised. Defeated. Despairing. But there was nothing she could do now but pull herself together and go home. Then stare into the darkness and try and decide what to do next.

TO BE CONTINUED…..

Author's note: All the murder cases involving violinists mentioned by Sherlock are real. Le Clair's murder has never been solved. Almost forgotten now, in his time he was considered the first modern violin maestro, as player, teacher and composer. The Le Clair piece Sherlock plays can be found - played only by others, sadly - on YouTube.

This story needs to be dedicated to my grandfather. Always known as Gus, his name really was Charles Augustus. Not Magnussen, happily. But Priestnall. His other claim to crime writing fame - having been a choirboy in Dorothy L Sayers's grandfather's parish as a child.