"Forty five, perfectly healthy, all of the tags on his clothing removed. Found dead at five in the morning near Hyde Park with a bullet through his head from a L96 sniper rifle, almost probably from the building across the street. And, before you ask," said Lestrade, cutting off the detective (oh, sorry, CONSULTING detective), "he was completely bomb-vest free."

"Good," I said, finishing a text and sending it. I turned my full attention to the DI. Sherlock was flipping through the file with an utterly bored expression on his face.

"Well?" said Lestrade, looking hopeful.

"The rifle is certainly…unusual."

"Fairly screams Moriarty, no?" I put in.

A flash of apprehension crossed Sherlock's face. Lestrade looked briefly uneasy. Even the mention of the name made me feel a little nervous myself.

"Okay," I said quickly, "Maybe, maybe not, but the point is that this was obviously a hit. Right? I mean…" I took a photo from the file. "Bloke was wearing a suit."

"Nice. Dolce & Gabbana," murmured Sherlock.

"Rich people don't go missing for very long," I said.

"So…" Lestrade looked tired; more so than usual, I mean. He had dark circles under his eyes.

We looked at Sherlock. He hadn't looked up from the file the entire time.

"How many pockets?" he said abruptly, still not looking up.

"I-what?"

"This says he was wearing a coat. How many pockets?"

"It says in the report," replied the DI impatiently.

"This says there were four, containing a pocket knife, a few scraps of paper, and some loose change."

"I know what the report says."

"Did you write it?" He had put down the file and was now playing with my mobile. I snatched it back.

"No…Look, is this going anywhere?"

"How many pockets?"

"Five." Lestrade stopped, mystified. "And..."

"And you didn't check them because you continue to put more faith in…" He checked the label. "…Donovan than yourself. Typical. There's a reason they're your subordinates, Lestrade."

"There is a reason I haven't fired them, yes."

"I don't see it."

"They're competent."

"Competent doesn't cut it. Anderson's competent, but if your family knows where to put their money…"

"I do not take bribes," said Lestrade quietly. I stepped on Sherlock's foot discreetly.

"Ow-I wasn't suggesting you took bribes," he said, throwing me a dirty look, "but those above you…"

"Well," I said, rising from my seat, "this shows no sign of ending soon. I have to get to the clinic-I've got a patient whose ALT just got back."

"Not good?"

"Lead poisoning."

"Ah. I'll call you if I need anything." Lestrade mouthed help me desperately. I smiled. You'll be fine. If everything went according to plan, he wouldn't have to deal with Sherlock for afew hours, at the least.

"Right." I strode out of the room, then ducked around the corner. Right on cue, Sherlock's phone beeped.

"What?" I heard Lestrade say, his gravelly voice muffled slightly by the glass windowpanes. He had drawn the blinds; it was an unusually sunny day for the dead of winter. They couldn't see me.

"Got a text," said Sherlock, his baritone muffled as well. "From John. It says…"

"Phineas Gage? What the hell does that mean-hey, where are you going? We're not done yet!"

"He wouldn't," growled Sherlock, and he strode out of the office, muttering obscenities under his breath.

I hid a smile, waited until I was sure he was gone, and then went outside, shielding my eyes from the blinding glare of the snow, because I really did have a patient to see. I was quite impressed he grasped the reference so quickly. But of course Sherlock Holmes would know about the most famous case study in history. The only question had been whether he would understand what I was getting at.

From some of the things he said (I can't put them in print, unfortunately, but they were very colorful), he had. In the cab, I took out my mobile to return Sarah's call from earlier. It wouldn't make the call. I swore under my breath.

He had taken my SIM card.

Well, I thought, smiling in spite of myself, he would get his comeuppance soon enough.