I lied to Molly. Told her the mystery of the ersatz Adler had to be investigated. It doesn't. It makes almost perfect sense.

The name of the woman on the slab, a piece of information I have yet to share with anyone, is Danielle Mies. In the past, she and I have been acquainted. But of late we've lost touch, chiefly due to the fact that she is much better acquainted with one James Moriarty. The situation is what I believe the social media types refer to as 'complicated'.

Was. The situation was that way. Obviously it isn't anymore. Danielle's dead, after all, and all complexity died with her.

Anyway, the facts of the case are perfectly clear. Adler is operating under Moriarty's good auspices. When it became necessary that she die, a body was required. Being a viable physical match, by body form, skin tone, hair type, etcetera, the privilege was bestowed upon Danielle. I'm sure she's grateful.

The only question is why.

And I know what you're thinking; that I've already answered that. A body was required. Well done. I understand precisely where you're coming from. That's very reasonable of you, very logical, cold, scientifically minded. You are, however, forgetting that those are all the things Moriarty is not. Look at it in its proper context. A psychopath, utterly deranged, so removed from life as you know it. It's not sentiment exactly, nothing to do with human emotion, but it's not to be ignored either.

They were close. She was working alongside him before I ever found myself in this business. Long years, too much history, and then to have her so brutally dispatched… Perhaps the question isn't why, but what happened? What made all that time-more-good-than-bad disappear? It's not an important question. It helps nobody and explains nothing of any real worth or interest. There's no point giving any energy over to answering it, nor is there any real means to investigate it, with one party dead and one gone to ground.

So why, then, does it irritate me so? If everything about it is so impossible and unimportant, why won't it leave me alone? Danielle and I decided, a long time ago, that we owed each other nothing. It probably wasn't true at the time. Nevertheless, we wiped out each other's debts and walked away.

And yet I am standing at the door of her apartment with my Oyster card jammed in the lock. Now, this is not an unreasonable action. This was her private residence. If there should be any clue to the answer, I would find it here. More likely and more useful, this place could well contain everything I need to track down Moriarty himself. It would surprise me more, actually, if I found absolutely nothing of the sort.

John believes I've stopped looking. Mycroft too, though it's always hard to tell what he believes and doesn't. It's easier for them all to think I've walked away from that too, like any other case solved or unsolved, like any other thing which is over. Easier for my brother, who has his own battles to fight, and easier for John who still remembers the night of the pool in detail too vivid to be bearable. He believes, also, that I don't know this. I let him believe. I lie, essentially, the way I lied to Molly. None of them have even heard the name Danielle Mies. I always lie. And while I'm stuck forcing the door with nothing else to think about, I can't escape this strange new realization, how many lies I tell, and to who, and with what little merit sometimes…

Of course, the logic is always sound. Everything within its context, everything with a purpose. Take this little break-in, for instance. It is, as I have already expanded upon, perfectly reasonable. But the very act of forcing entry into the home of one of the world's most high-profile thieves… There is some small, sentimental satisfaction in that. It doesn't take anything away from the sense. As a matter of fact, it heightens it. Turns the simple act into something with a pleasing secondary meaning.

The latch pops just at the moment where harmless mawkishness pushes all that awkward business about lying to one side. I'm in a much more stable place as I step inside and shut the door behind me.

The flat is always the same. It's more than eight years since I was first here, more than one since I visited last. But nothing ever really changes. Little things. Different postcards around the mirror. Different notes on the fridge. Different clutter on the bookshelves. There are a few extra differences this time; the feeding bowl and litter tray for her succession of cats are both empty and clean, abandoned in the middle of the kitchen. The only things left in the fridge are vodka and chocolate.

But that's all. The absence of a cat or any food, these are the only testimony to her death. The smell of her perfume hasn't faded, or the smell of cigarette smoke. And there's no sign of any bloodstains that weren't here before; she must have been murdered elsewhere.

For a while, I only go from room to room. There's a curious disturbance. Unless you know well the feeling one gets at scenes of crime, in the private places of the late departed, I can't explain it. That's not here. That settled feeling, as when returning from holiday, that's not here. I pause for a moment at the base of the spiral staircase. Above there's a small mezzanine, which bears a queen-sized bed and no room for anything more. I had thought it unimportant. Wasn't going to go up there.

In a moment, I'll begin the investigation proper. In a moment. I'm not sure what it is I'm fighting against, as I stand there. Probably just the nicotine craving, as brought on by the scent of smoke. That's all, probably.

But there's something else, isn't there? A sensation like electricity. When a television is on mute, it makes a sound beyond true hearing, but we are still aware of it. It's coming from above me. So I turn onto the stairwell. Wasn't going to go up there. But I suppose I have no choice; it's where the sound is coming from, after all. There should be no sound in a dead woman's flat. I can't ignore it. I ascend, stopping every few steps to let the ring of my shoes on the metal stairs fade out. The higher I climb, it's not just a sensation any longer, but a sound. Metallic like a speaker, thumping like a heartbeat. It's familiar, but I can't place it; that's what stops me calling out. What makes me soften my steps. This last is ridiculous, of course; if anybody was here, they've had ample time to become aware of me and plan an attack. But I do it, nonetheless.

Then I crest the top of the stairs. Right away, I see it. Dumped in the mess of an unmade bed, a nest of sheets and blankets and embroidered throws, it is glowing. An MP3 player, still blaring out through the headphones. Metallic like speakers, and bass like a heartbeat. Still glowing. I lean over it, and the battery is still almost full. Mies has been dead for over a week, hasn't she?

You can still see the shape of her in the covers. That would settle, as they cooled and stiffened. They're still warm. Warm, and thrown conspicuously to one side. And where the base of the divan is slightly exposed, I can just make out the edge of a metal handle, glinting. There's a drawer, not quite closed. I will depend on your human hearts allowing you to imagine what it is to pull it out. Needless to say, it requires a moment's entirely necessary hesitation, calculating the risks. Screwing up the courage… And the strength, too; the drawer is heavy.

It's not four inches out when I see just why it's so heavy. There's only a mess of tangled black hair and the hint of a pale forehead, but that's enough. I half suspected, yes, but that doesn't keep me from stepping back, letting go of everything for just a moment. I stand against the balustrade, only looking, as long white fingers creep up on either side and hook over the edge of the mattress. The urge to kick the drawer back in and crush those fingers the way they deserve to be crushed is irrational, but no less powerful for that.

Then, a muffled voice from within; "Sherlock, it is rank in here. Please help."

I help. Crouch down and brace against the bed to ease the drawer out a little further. Inch by inch, a familiar face appears. One that was supposed to have been caved in with a blunt object, not two minutes ago… Danielle. Alive and at home. Before I came in, she was lying in bed listening to music. As soon as she can free her head, I stop pulling and she eases out, dressed as she slept in only an oversized t-shirt. Sits on the edge of the bed and she asks me, "The hell are you doing here?"

"Investigating your murder. And feeling a bit cheated."

Fine brow furrowing up in anger, one bare leg stretches out and kicks me at the knee. "I thought you were somebody else. You gave me a bloody heart attack."

It's really too stupid an idea to articulate, but she could always make me say ridiculous things; "That would be a new one, if I turned out to be the murderer." She looks away from me, laughing. Then, with obsessive little strokes, tries to rid herself of some mess at the back of her head, something she's sure she brought up from the drawer. I can readily believe that she herself has never curled in that stale box before. It's only ever lovers or inconveniences she's had to hide. Her shock, too, makes sense; it is foul in there. I sit down next to her, turn her head and check over the offending spot. "I thought you were dead, Danielle. That's what I'm doing here."

"If anybody asks, I'm deader than disco." I push her hair over her shoulder, so she'll know I'm done. She turns around again, looking at me with a face so lucid and innocent I could almost believe in it, if I didn't know her. "You're looking at me," she says, "like I owe you an explanation. I don't. I've already saved your pretty pelt, my love, I don't owe you bugger all…"

She says it all with such resignation, such an awful hard edge, pity swells in me before I even know what there is to pity. "Well, now I really am curious," and she knows from that that I'm not going anywhere until I get something from her.

Sighing, Danielle leans forward and hooks some underwear down off the balustrade. "Put the kettle on. I'll be right down when my skin stops creeping."

It does me no harm to go about it, to do as she asks. Except, the last time we saw each other, we talked about coffee. I can't help but remember that. It gets to me a little. We discussed the mutually exclusive paths we'd found ourselves on, agreed we wouldn't see each other again, unless she ended up on the other side of one of my cases and even then she would be treated like any other criminal. And Danielle said to me, "You'll miss the stupid jokes. Can't we just go for coffee, sometimes?"

I replied, "And just tell jokes and drink coffee?"

She said, "Take care of yourself," and walked away.

So while the kettle boils, rather than think about that, I lean back in the corner of the worktops and shout up to her, "So you're not dead and Irene Adler's not dead-"

"She's a nobody. Uninvolved. We put the tattoo on with an airbrush." That's easier to take. It's no different to any other possibility, but somehow I believe it. Maybe because she speaks it like a true murderer, one who did what had to be done and feels no remorse. From watching Danielle's back, I turn around when she lifts off the t-shirt. "I suppose you've got it all figured, but here it is. Adler needed to be dead. I was earmarked for corpse-duty. In order to protect myself, I provided a suitable alternative."

"And naturally you didn't tell Moriarty."

There's a pause. Too much of one. Putatively it's because she's bundled inside a new top as she wriggles into it. But when she answers, "You know I can't talk to you about him."

I know she believes that. I hate her for it. Part of the reason we can't just tell jokes and drink coffee sometimes. Since we were friends, the only time she ever really lied to me was when she said that was for my own good; there's only one person she protects and he's not in the room right now.

"I'll rephrase. Naturally you'd rather I didn't mention your resurrection to anybody."

She shrugs. Steps into a pair of furry slippers and leans over the rail before she descends. "You wouldn't anyway. It doesn't serve you or anyone you know. And it annoyed you when you thought I was dead, so you wouldn't want to see it happen for real, would you?" Not a plea, not emotional blackmail. She's just stating that. Then comes down to me and starts putting out the coffee.

"Are you determined to give no real answers, today?"

"Depends entirely on the questions, Sherlock." Smiling. These are old games. We've played as friends and played as enemies and the games are always the same. My challenge is to get a scrap of truth from her, of reality even. Hers is to manipulate me into forgetting mine.

"Try this one. What did you mean when you said you'd already 'saved my pelt'?"

"I said 'pretty pelt'. Don't do yourself down, gorgeous." She won't make eye contact. I dragged her out of a drawer when she was meant to be dead and she looked me in the eye. Kicked me and looked me in the eye. And now she can't. Flicks little glances my way and as she moves from kitchen to couch her walk is customized to match her flirting words, but she doesn't really look at me. I follow, thinking it over. She can't look at me. Can't answer, really.

Can't talk to me about that.

"You helped me, somehow, and it was for that that Moriarty had you killed… As it were."

Danielle is not surprised by my conclusion. But I do get her eyes back. They are tired and dull and sick of fighting. She stares at me for a long, long time. Then goes back to her coffee and says quickly, "Sherlock, leave the country."

"What? Why?"

"I can get you ID. Take Watson with you. How does Australia sound? The criminal scene is rich and thriving, really exciting place to be a detective. I have a place there. You can have it. Not forever, even, just for long enough. Call it a holiday. Research trip. Call it whatever makes you feel good."

"Danielle, what are you talking about?"

It's a huge commitment, a lot of trust, for her to answer me. She's steeling herself. I wait, without rushing or pushing her, only waiting. "I triggered Adler," she confesses. "Told her when to call. I don't know, maybe I missed something that was only for the geniuses in the room, but it looked a lot like you had no choice but to shoot the Semtex, am I right?"

"You got Moriarty to walk away," I say, just to have it out loud, to make the facts clear.

But Danielle can't hear me. Goes on, biting off every word in frustration, months of tension and buried emotion coming over on her voice, "Both of you swaggering on in there like bloody gladiators, both of you thinking you're the business, not going to need a plan B, no, no way, just wing it, I'm the smarter one, of course I'm going to win… Daft bastards. Somebody had to be prepared for the worst and it wasn't going to be either of you, that was damned bloody certain and-"

"Danielle-"

"Don't say 'thank you'. I'll kill you where you sit if you thank me for this. Don't thank me. Just piss off to Nicaragua or something." Something swells up in her. Something snaps. "What if I can't do it next time?!"

"Then he's still coming for me."

"Oh, darling," and this said with a certain bitter jealousy, "He thinks only of you." Danielle snatches up a pack of cigarettes from the coffee table. Like any good hostess, she offers it first to me. She knows I've quit. I think that's why she does it. Passing up is difficult, but I manage it. She lights one and drags deeply, steadying her shaking hands. "I'm not sure I've got any plays left. I'm asking you to protect yourself, in case I can't."

But it's as I already said; Danielle doesn't protect me. I know that. There was a time when she did, and things were very good. But that was a while ago now. "Don't pretend I come into this."

"Forgive me for caring."

"You don't care."

"Christ, you moron… But then, I shouldn't call names at somebody with such low self-esteem." Can't make sense of that one, or not right away. In fact, the only thing it calls to mind, the only reference I can find, is my conversation with Molly earlier on, about what was said at Christmas, and why I felt like I could say it all.

All I can manage in response, "Well, I'm not going to Nicaragua."

Danielle stands up and goes to the door. Not making eye contact again. Looking at her feet, she opens the door and waits for me to go out through it. I set down my coffee, hardly touched, because we can't just drink coffee and tell stupid jokes. I find myself struggling for something to say, something that will make it better, convince her that she's safe and needn't fight so hard. 'Stay dead', is what I'm about to tell her.

But as I open my mouth to speak she lifts her eyes to mine. They're hard this time, on fire. Because we can't just have coffee, tell jokes. "Then I'll see you for the closing number," she says.

It's a promise, and a threat.


[A/N - I expanded this in response to reader questions and queries. Still practicing my Sherlock voice so still, please, please, bear with me. He's my little challenge at the moment. Jim comes so naturally to me and Lanky Legs here just doesn't... As ever, apologies for any inconsistencies]