Author's note: I'M TOTALLY NOT GOING TO BE COOL ABOUT THIS: I WAS JUST ON THE TUBE WITH MARK GATISS.

Out was to the Yard, with its perpetual hustle and bustle, and Sherlock had been rehearsing the entire operation in his head, planning for every contingency and measuring precisely what he could use against Lestrade – information ("blackmail", John would probably call it), wheedling, bribery, concessions.

He knew every turn, every potential protest, every counter move, by the time the lift doors slid shut behind them.

He had planned for every single change of circumstance – except for Lestrade not being on shift.

Sherlock felt circuits stalling, blinking rapidly as he tried to account for new information, plan around it, but he was too slow – even for him – and they were being ushered into Hassard's office by Hassard herself, the door click shut decisively behind them.

"You've been told to stay out of this," she said, putting her desk between them, fists resting on the dark wood like little barriers of their own, eyes fixed on Sherlock to exclude John from the warning – or the accusation.

"There's no–"

"Greg's told you, Sherlock," she snapped. "This isn't our case."

He drew a deep breath to retort, arguments already lining up, personal observations flickering through his thoughts without any effort – and those stopped him, made him pause, because there was some subtle shift in her stance without any real movement, some nearly hidden light in her eyes.

"But Greg isn't my boss, and you're not a Met officer," she continued. "What do you want?"

"To talk to the wife," Sherlock replied promptly. Now Hassard did look at John, a silent question that made Sherlock huff, because John wasn't responsible for speaking on his behalf – even if it did sometimes make it easier when dealing with idiots – but no one took his protestations seriously, as if John was somehow the arbiter of rationality.

Little did anyone know.

John made some small acquiescing gesture, as if to suggest that it might help, and Sherlock swallowed a disgusted snort.

Of course it would help.

"I'll see what I can do," Hassard said. "And you'll wait here. Both of you. Without touching any case files."

John made Sherlock behave – it was grating, to be unsupervised in a DI's office but unable to take advantage of it. And John was being disgustingly reasonable, disregarding Sherlock's caustic comments about loyalty to (or perhaps perceived threat from) his sister's girlfriend.

Any attempts to get up and make even a cursory examination were met with a suggestion that if Sherlock chose to do so, he might consider how long he'd like to be sleeping on his own. Deterred, Sherlock settled, not above glaring reproachfully at his obstinate partner (who, gallingly, was ignoring him without any apparent effort).

He fidgeted, tugging at his cuffs and trousers, actually twiddling his thumbs, vainly wondering how to make inane small talk with John if only to pass the time, but not succeeding in puzzling it out. Hassard's return was a relief, and John finally let Sherlock up when she beckoned them to join her.

"You're in luck," she said. "She wants to speak to you."

"Of course she does," Sherlock sniffed, not deigning to acknowledge John's derisive snort or Hassard's raised eyebrows.

"I remind you that her husband is missing," Hassard said, tone boarding on sharp. "Be nice."

"Nice won't find her husband," Sherlock said, letting his voice dip with chilly disdain.

"Nor will being an arsehole," Hassard replied.

"He can't help it," John said. "It's part of his charm."

Hassard rolled her eyes but led them to another office – obviously unassigned to any particular officer if the lack of personal touches was any indication. Hassard greeted Georges' wife – Juliette Arnaud, Sherlock knew from the files – in passable French, with only the briefest flicker of her eyes aiming a caution at Sherlock. He nodded, glancing at John who shrugged – Sherlock would, of course, be able to translate the entire conversation for the doctor's benefit after the fact.

"Remember, nice," Hassard muttered under her breath as Sherlock moved past her to sit in front of the monitor.

The woman on the other side was no surprise to him – he'd seen photographs, both online on their respective social media sites, and from the co-opted French files. More tired now, of course, with dark circles smudging the skin beneath her eyes, dark hair that was always elegantly swept up in the pictures now uncurling from the hasty bun.

"Can you find him?" she demanded before Sherlock could even draw a breath. "Mister Holmes, can you find my husband?"

Sherlock barely hesitated, aware that any delay might bring intervention from Hassard, who certainly hadn't been expecting this. But this was what he'd been waiting for, this chance, a real link to the case, someone on the inside who wanted – needed – him there.

"Yes," he said.

Arnaud's shoulders sagged, sudden relief filling her features, underlain by a haunted tension. It was one thing for him to say yes, another to actually do it, and nothing would change for her, not really, until Georges was safely back home.

And Sherlock intended to see that Georges was safely returned home. The entire situation was insulting enough as it was; he was hardly about to settle for anything less than complete victory.

"What do you need?" she asked.

"Everything," Sherlock replied. "Everything about that night, about the last five months–"

"Why five months?" she asked.

"He showed you the letter? The one that was faked and sent to me?"

"Yes, of course."

"That was five months ago. Everything around that time – anything unusual, and I mean anything, Ms Arnaud, even if he changed the colour of his socks or drank one more cup of coffee each day. Everything about the book, if there was anything strange about the story, anything deviation from how he'd written before, anything odd about his publisher or editor or unusual guests at book signings."

"You," she said bluntly. "You were unusual, Mister Holmes."

"I know," Sherlock said, unable to keep the curt tone from his voice.

"It was all he talked about," Arnaud said, expression softening. "He was like a kid at Christmas. He kept saying he wished he'd thought to ask for a photograph."

"Tell me who he told, about our visit. Everything you can remember, Ms Arnaud. Anything, no matter how insignificant it seems."

She did, and Sherlock listened, committing it all to memory, pulling it all apart – every word, every intonation, every meaning, fragmenting all of it down to its frustratingly meaningless components. Arnaud answered each of his interrupting questions, hanging onto patience with tight fists, and he could see John doing the same, curling and uncurling his fingers like he did when he wasn't sure what to do, couldn't do anything at all.

Sherlock wavered internally when the sensation of nothing struck a familiar chord – it was like meeting her, the Woman, when no information had registered, his mind suddenly a blank slate letting him down. He'd seen all of John's hints then – and still could now, and Hassard's, and even Arnaud's on the end of the Skype connection.

Georges hadn't been a mystery to him – confusing, yes, but Sherlock had been able to read all the author's signs, even if he hadn't known what to make of them.

But this…

He felt wind whisper over his skin, saw the spiral of stars above him – and locked down the memory fast before it could get a grip on his nerves, show on his face.

There was always something. Looking back, he could see it on the Woman's face (fineness of the lines around her eyes putting her in her mid-thirties, makeup expertly applied, right-handed, expensive brands, just a hint of professional – artificial – tanning, no more than a mere suggestion, deception in her eyes, on the surface and buried), and if he could see that now, he could find something in Arnaud's words.

He pressed her when she said she couldn't remember anymore, letting up only when it was apparent that it was really true.

"I need anything you can send me," he said. "Documents. Passport, travel schedules, flight itineraries, birth certificates, your marriage certificate, whatever you can think of. Emails, letters, texts he sent you. Anything. Everything."

Arnaud nodded, weary, the dark circles beneath her eyes even deeper than they had been when he'd sat down in front of her, two countries away.

"Yes, of course. Alex was– Alex is very organized that way." It wasn't the first time she'd caught herself. Sherlock had no intention she should have to change her vocabulary permanently. "Always keeps electronic versions of those things. Scans. I will send them."

"As soon as you can."

"Within the next hour."

It gave him time to dictate their entire conversation to his phone, and to John and Hassard, who were both making notes. Sherlock scanned each word as he spoke it, pulling it apart again, refusing to give into frustration. It wouldn't help. Would cloud his judgment. He needed that now, clear and focused, needed to keep himself open to any possibilities, to follow any path his mind led.

Dangerous.

In Wales it had kept leading him into the past, and he'd ignored it. To his detriment.

If it led him back to Wales now, he'd have to let it.

He wasn't sure if he could. Not with Hassard here. Not outside of Baker Street.

It was never safe but the only time it was barely tolerable was at home, alone, with John. Where no one could see the weakness but someone else who had lived it, where Sherlock could hold make a physical connection, hold onto John to prove that John was real.

But the rules had changed.

If he knew that now, he wouldn't be blind-sided if it came up.

He hoped.

The documents were enough of a distraction when they came through – Arnaud hadn't been overstating her husband's organizational skills. Were all writers this organized? Certainly John wasn't. Under different circumstances, it might have been baffling but wading through a sea of papers wasn't unfamiliar. Hassard made a pointed comment about printing at the taxpayer's expenses; John reminded her they both paid their taxes. She rolled her eyes, refusing the stack that was pushed her way, said she had work of her own she had to do. Duty. Responsibility.

Her absence was a relief and a burden – it was easier with just John, but one less person made more work for them. Some nameless constable was dispatched to provide them with coffee, which Sherlock ignored and John indulged in, the sound of papers rustling intermittently interrupted by the click of the mug on the desk.

Pieces slotted together, but all of the wrong ones – everything in front of him, spread out like a wave, bolstered what Arnaud had told them, painted a picture, but not the picture he needed. Nothing matched up – if Sherlock hadn't known better, he'd have guessed Georges had been mistakenly targeted, the wrong man in the wrong place. The whim of a random crime, but this wasn't random and it wasn't a whim.

Not if she had taken him.

She did nothing without a reason.

And he was back at the beginning again, unable to puzzle her out.

Until it changed, from one second to the next, with one faint inhalation and John said "Sherlock" in that tone, the one that said "this is odd" underneath the sound of Sherlock's name and John was passing a paper across the desk, expression befuddled, and the blank space on the birth certificate leapt out at him, screaming like a siren.

Mother: Marie Charlotte Russeau.

Father:

Nothing.

Sherlock let it speak to him, suspending the moment just long to keep John from interrupting, then scattered the papers in front of him again, pulling out another copy of George's birth certificate.

Mother: Marie Charlotte Russeau.

Father: Patrick Daniel Georges.

Marriage certificate for the parents dated when Alexandre Georges had been fourteen months old.

It wasn't unheard of. Perhaps more common now. Cold feet on the father's part? The mother giving him an out if he'd wanted it. He had decided not to take it.

There was no adoption certificate in their piles.

But things got lost. Slipped through the cracks. No scanners back then, and a fourteen month old baby would hardly insist on keeping accurate records.

"Get Amanda," he said to John, who obeyed without question. Hassard came back, managed to get him set up with Arnaud again. No time to hate the tenuous hope in her eyes, no time to play into it or reassure her.

"Alexandre's father," he said. "His real father. Tell me who he is."