But, please, there's just one more thing, one more thing, one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't be... dead. Would you do that just for me? Just stop it. Stop this.

3:02 AM. Eddie McMullen had just come of his switch of the Thames River Watch when he decided to stop for a coffee in the bus station near his work. He slid the change into the coffee machine and placed the little paper cup under the spout, waiting for the warm liquid to fill it. As he waited, there was a slight noise from behind him. Eddie turned around. A young man in a long, black coat was sleeping on a bench behind him.

Eddie ignored the man and finished getting his coffee. It was now 3:09. His wife and kids would be getting up in a few hours to start their day. He begin to walk back out onto the street, and then stopped. He looked back at the man, and then took a step toward him.

He was tall and very thin. Painfully thin. He was clutching the collar of his black coat in both hands and his face was slightly turned out. There was something about his face that Eddie recognized. Switching the hot coffee from hand to hand so that his fingers didn't burn, he stared at the man. Was he a criminal? Maybe, Eddie thought, he should call the police. But no, he was just a homeless man in a bus station that bore some resemblance to a celebrity, or something like that.

More assured, Eddie stepped out through the doors into the dark night. The street was quiet and still. St. Bartholomew's hospital was darkened except for one window on a top floor. Eddie was about to turn and walk back to his apartment when a newspaper stand caught his eye. "One year after fake sleuth's death, mysteries still remain," Eddie read out loud in a whisper.

Fake sleuth. The coffee had spilled form Eddie's hand before he even put two and two together. For a moment he hesitated, a deer in the headlights, unsure whether to run or go back and check again. After a few moments of standing, petrified, in the middle of the sidewalk, and then the adventurous nature that he always stifled burst out in him, and he moved slowly back into the bus station.

He remembered the fuss from a year ago when the man had first died. There had been something about the man-Eddie couldn't quite remember his name-jumping off of St. Bart's roof because... Because he had been exposed as a fake. Eddie bent down back inside the bus station. The man's eyes were still closed. It occurred to Eddie that perhaps he should check and see whether the man was breathing. He watched the rise and fall of his chest for a moment, and then turned back to his face.

This could be the man. His cheekbones were shaper than in the pictures that had plastered the streets in a blanket of guilt. Eddie couldn't see his eyes, and even if he could have he didn't know what he'd be looking for. There was a red scarf hanging around the man's neck..

The man's lips moved slightly and Eddie jumped back. He looked at his watch again. It was 3:21. He should be getting home. He looked at the man again. On second look, maybe it wasn't the man. It had just been the dark of the station and the delusions of his tired brain.

The man's lips moved again and Eddie stayed a few metres away, watching silently. The man seemed to be stirring slightly. His fingers, long and thin, flexed a bit. He seemed to be trying to say something.

His face moved for a third time and this time Eddie could almost make out a mumbled word behind the exhaustion that shrouded his voice. Eddie begin to back away again. Detective or not, Eddie didn't want to be in the same place as a homeless man when he first woke up.

He had already turned around, when the man at last managed to speak.

"John," the man whispered in a low, husky voice.

At this point, Eddie McMullen abandoned all thoughts of adventure and simply turned and ran.