Holmes sank into his bath with a sigh of bliss, nostrils flaring at the scent of carbolic. Thermal springs the region might have in plenty, which had been a most welcome thing after a day of exercise – but soap... He would never take that humble article for granted again.

The sisters had taken one look at him and Lestrade on their return and escorted them straight to the bathhouse at arms' length, with strict instructions not to emerge until they were no longer at risk of offending 'Fraulein Marta's' senses, who was apparently in the middle of teaching a sewing class. Having experienced Mary's distaste for poor hygiene firsthand at the Schultz chalet, Holmes was only too happy to comply.

"Oh, the police force is a noble band that safely guard our streets..." The detective grimaced at Lestrade's strident voice echoing suddenly from the next stall. "Their valor is unquestion'd and they're monarchs on their beats..."

"I hope most of them sing better than you," Holmes responded dryly, resisting the temptation to plug his ears.

Lestrade blithely ignored him and continued on: "If anything you wish to know, they'll tell you with a grin; In fact, each one of them is a complete 'inquire within'..."

"Mm, how d'you think that inquiry's going back home?" The words were out of Holmes' mouth before he realised – and to his dismay, all singing and splashing from the neighbouring cubicle ceased abruptly. Damn... "Lestrade?"

No reply. Holmes blushed crimson, deeply thankful for the dividing wall. He hadn't imagined broaching so awkward a subject in such an undignified setting. "Lestrade, I... I do apologise, I hadn't considered..."

"Really."

Holmes bit his lip, the Inspector's voice was worryingly flat. "It wasn't your fault, Lestrade. You did the best you could..."

"And it wasn't good enough!" The detective started at the outburst. "If we hadn't let Moriarty escape...!"

"...I think that you had better return to England, Watson. You will find me a dangerous companion now..." Holmes stares into the grate at the burning telegram, waiting with held breath for Watson's answer.

"When haven't I, old friend?" the doctor chuckles lightly, his chin set at a very familiar angle...

Holmes found himself gripping the sides of the bath, knuckles white. He drew a long, shaky breath, trying to ignore his hammering pulse, then levered himself up out of the water and reached for the towel. Lestrade was already dressed and combing his hair when Holmes entered, a fresh shirt clinging damply to his torso beneath the waistcoat – had the Inspector even remembered to dry off at all?

"Lestrade..." Holmes trailed off with a sigh. What the devil was he supposed to say? Regardless of motive, whoever warned Moriarty had been one of Lestrade's comrades, and not even knowing who it was had to be all the more galling... or perhaps it was a relief.

The Inspector shook his head grimly. "Save your breath, sir." Lestrade sat and began pulling on his boots, his next words answering Holmes' unspoken question. "And no, given the choice, I'd rather not know which of my so-called colleagues tipped the bastard off..." stamping his heel down hard on the word 'colleagues', "but if we want Mary safe, then we don't really have one, do we?"

Holmes' answering smile was equally grim. "You don't suspect anyone in particular?"

Lestrade raised his head, finally meeting the detective's gaze, eyes still troubled. "If I did, sir, you'd be the first to know." The Inspector turned away to gather his old clothes. "I'll see you back at the cells." A sudden grin. "And don't forget to dress, that towel's really not your colour."

It only occurred to Holmes once he was alone, brow creased at the unsettling thought: for the first time in their long acquaintance, Lestrade hadn't actually given him a straight answer.


The midday bell had sounded by the time Holmes finished making himself presentable – well, as much as was possible without shaving. There didn't seem to be much point in getting rid of the beard yet, not until there was a definite call for it. He supposed he must still look like a vagabond, but that was all to the good, really.

As he approached the room which he and Lestrade had shared before their hasty departure, Holmes' heart gave a most illogical bound to hear Mary's voice coming from inside, her relief at their safe return plainly audible, even behind a closed door. Despite his own relief at hearing for himself that Mary was all right, the detective couldn't help a slight smirk; being the first to arrive back, Lestrade would no doubt have borne the brunt of the woman's wrath.

"Fools rush in, Inspector," Holmes murmured, knocking softly... then frowned as an unexpected set of footsteps approached the door, quick and light. Who...?

"Herr Holmes!" Holmes gaped at the sight of the blond youth standing in front of him, beaming – then Roland had pulled Holmes inside and flung his arms around the detective, crushing the breath out of him.

"Roland, please, mercy!" A laughing Holmes managed to free his own arms, returning the hug tightly. Thank God... "When did you get here?"

"Two days ago," Mary spoke up from her perch on the end of Lestrade's bed, smiling. "And spent most of that time sleeping, poor thing, he was exhausted."

Roland gave Holmes' frown a shrug. "I used to help the charcoal burner in Meiringen, mein herr – you learn to make the most of whatever sleep you get."

"But how did you find us, son?" Lestrade asked, brow furrowed in concentration. "Did Father Siegfried tell you...?"

"Mother Weibchen is still caring for Brigitte, Inspektor," Roland smiled. "It didn't take long to convince her I meant no harm." The youth sobered, turning back to Holmes. "There's a lot to tell you all, Herr Holmes... but... some of it is only for you..." Roland reached into his jacket, and drew out a sealed blank envelope, creased and battered – but the quality of the paper was still apparent to the trained observer, and Holmes felt his insides lurch. He knew only one person who used that heavy stationery, disdaining the cheap supplies issued at Whitehall.

"Sir? Is that...?"

Holmes nodded mutely, staring down at the envelope in his hands; he couldn't even remember taking it.

"All right, you two, the dinner bell rang ages ago." Holmes felt rather than saw Lestrade herding the others out of the door, who then paused to look back over his shoulder and added quietly, "We'll save you a seat, Mr. Holmes."

The detective could only nod again gratefully, a lump in his throat. He wouldn't be going anywhere for a while.


Dear brother,

Forgive me, I hardly know where to begin. I am, of course, glad to hear that you and your companions are safe and well at present. I deeply regret being unable to join you at this difficult time, but rest assured that I shall do my part to hasten your return. It seems probable, however, that your latest responsibilities may not be fulfilled as swiftly or easily as either of us hope. We live in interesting times, after all. I trust the instruments I have sent to you may be of some use in that regard.

It is a great pity that the one who could have best advised you is also absent...

Holmes took several calming breaths, smoothing the now crumpled paper back out. Mycroft's precise copperplate would have deceived almost anyone – but the detective could see plainly where his brother's hand had trembled as he wrote.

I feel quite certain, however, that more ill than good would be served by your reunion at this juncture. You were not to blame, brother mine...

"...Sherlock?" Holmes started at the gentle touch on his hand. Mary was sitting beside him, eyes full of concern. "Is Mycroft all right?"

The detective nodded, clearing his throat. "Er, yes, he... seems well enough..." He folded the letter back up and slipped it into the pocket of his waistcoat; the last thing the poor woman needed was to read what Mycroft had written about her husband. "He sends you his regards, of course – you and the Inspector."

Mary's smile didn't quite reach her eyes. "Most kind of him, I'm sure. Did he mention what else he's sending?" The woman tsked kindly as Holmes' mouth fell open. "You really are going to have to work on that mask of yours, Sherlock. Roland's had an air of mystery about him since he came back, and I sincerely doubt he read your brother's letter, given that he barely even speaks any English."

"Mycroft did make a reference to 'instruments' – I can only assume he meant the agent whom Roland went to intercept." Holmes frowned. "But then why did he arrive here alone?"

"Well, now that we're all together again, perhaps you could ask him." This time Mary's smile was quite genuine – one could almost say radiant... now he knew what he had missed about her the most... or perhaps it was her eyes... gazing into his with such warmth... and... growing fear...

"Mary...?" But she shrank back from the hand he offered as though it might burn her, pregnant belly seeming to be no hindrance this time as she hastily stood, Holmes rising with her.

"I'm s-sorry, Sherlock, I'm not... I-I don't feel very well..." Yet her face was flushed rather than pale, and her eyes would not meet his.

"Is there anything I can do?"

"No!" Mary cringed, perhaps taken aback by her own vehemence. "I'll be all right, I just... need to go and lie down." She sighed as the detective hesitated, finally looking him in the face. "Sherlock, if you don't stop fussing this minute, I'll run off and live in the forest myself for the next five months! I expect I just had too much lunch. Which reminds me, you really ought to go and have something as well. The last thing we need is you making yourself ill again." And then she was hurrying out of the door towards her own room, leaving the detective staring after her, completely bewildered.