Medium Dark

by owlcroft

Sherlock Holmes doesn't hold with the supernatural, so why does he take a case brought to him by a client who does? As usual, he sees past the smoke and mirrors to detect deceit, murder, and the twisted motive behind both-but the one thing he doesn't expect is the threat to John's life.

4. Chapter 4

Friday

"John," Sherlock whispered in the pre-dawn darkness. "It's time to go."

John startled awake at once. Sherlock stood over him, fully dressed. "What's wrong?"

"It's time to go," Sherlock repeated.

"The hell? Go where?" He reached for the light.

"No," Sherlock said. "No light."

"Where are we going?" John asked again.

"We're breaking into the Reading Room."

As he dressed John wondered idly whether Sherlock had even been to sleep. From his crisp appearance and bright expression, John doubted it. He'd been sitting at the window when John climbed into bed six hours ago, his hands steepled under his chin, miles away from Dover. Maybe deep in thoughts of the case. Maybe sleeping. It was always hard for John to tell.

John was many years from the army now, but life with Sherlock meant that he still retained the ability-if nothing like the desire-to wake instantly and get out the door quickly. All the same he was older now and the fog of sleep still clung to him, so he was lacing his shoes before he remembered that the Reading Room was on the first floor. "The Reading Room's on the first floor," he said. "It's locked this time of night."

"That's why I got the key," Sherlock said, and held up Felicity's ID card.

"That's what the public display of gratitude was about. You stole her pass card."

Wry look. "You didn't think I was really moved by that rot."

The keycard worked flawlessly and they slipped onto the first floor and then into the darkened conference room unopposed. They left the lights off and used their torches. Sherlock checked the eavesdropping equipment, but it was turned off at that time of night.

"What would you do if that stuff was hard-wired?" John asked, because until now Sherlock had been jamming the equipment electronically.

"Pliers," Sherlock said simply.

Once inside the Reading Room Sherlock made another surveillance sweep, then took a cast around. To John the room looked no different than it had during the seance.

Sherlock stopped at the cabinet with the bell, still backed against the wall behind the chair. "John," he said, and John joined him. He pointed to the black felt pads on the cabinet's feet. "That's how they slide the cabinet back without anyone hearing," he explained. "Look at the floor. It's more obvious at an angle."

John took his meaning. He lowered himself to his hands and knees and peered at the floor in front of the cabinet from an oblique angle while shining his torch across it. It was anything but obvious, but he could just make out the wear on the floorboards from the repeated sliding of the cabinet back and forth between Felicity's chair and the wall. Not scraped or scratched, just buffed very slightly smoother than the surrounding wood. It would be very difficult to make out even with the overhead lights on, and there was virtually no risk of a sitter detecting the marks.

John closed his eyes and drew his fingers lightly over the worn part of the floor, then the surrounding wood, trying to distinguish between the two by feel. Nothing. He tried again, this time by putting one finger on the track and the other on the unworn part of the floor. Maybe.

Sherlock watched him with approval, then led the way to the wall from which the ghost illusions had seemed to emanate, the exterior wall to the left of the doorway. "Same sort of marks here," he said, pointing to the floor.

Now the worn places were evident to John. "From another cabinet?" he asked. "Where is it?"

Sherlock indicated the wall with a nod. "In there. Look." He pointed with the torch beam and John realized that the marks disappeared into the wall under the baseboard.

Sherlock knelt and ran his long, sensitive fingers along the underside of the trim molding that defined the wall panels. On a horizontal top piece of half round, about three feet up from the floor, he found what he was looking for. He lifted the piece of molding, which pivoted up to reveal a piano hinge. The molding itself had a channel carved along its length to accommodate the hinge. He glanced significantly at John, let go of the molding, and dropped to his knees to examine the parallel section of half round nearer the floor. He ran his fingers along the lower edge of it until he found the carve-out.

"Here," he said. He hooked it with his fore and middle fingers and lifted, and the entire four-foot by three-foot section of panel swung up silently and smoothly until it was parallel to the floor, revealing-nothing.

John aimed his torch into the darkness and they peered into an alcove about four feet deep, five wide, and perhaps another five in height. Standing in the center of it was a small black-painted wood box about the size of a nightstand. Sherlock turned it toward them-it moved easily on its felt gliders-to reveal that it was a three-sided cabinet containing a small projector screen and a folding panel of the invisible foil, ready to be deployed.

"Unbelievable," John said. "How'd you know this was here?"

Sherlock was full-on grinning with delight now. "This is the northwest exterior wall, yes?"

"Yes."

"As is the bookshelf wall in the conference room. But the dimensions of the rooms don't match up. This wall-" patting the panelling "-is at least two feet deeper than the one out there. The bookshelves help obscure the fact, but they don't completely conceal it."

"Brilliant."

"Self-evident," Sherlock said, pleased all the same. "It had to be here. They haven't got all day to muck about during the seance. Based on where the ghost appeared, this wall makes the most sense from a convenience standpoint. Once the lights are full dark the accomplice pushes the cabinet out, places the screen, and stretches the foil. Even if the room weren't completely dark, everyone's focused on the ghost, so they never look down and see the cabinet. Painting it black helps, too."

"But how do they access this space?" John asked. "This is the end of the building. The other side of this wall is just...outdoors. This doesn't have any other way in or out, does it? If the accomplice isn't coming in through the conference room door, how does he get in? Does he wait here the whole time?"

"Let's find out," Sherlock said. A thorough inspection of the projector compartment convinced him that it could only be accessed from the Reading Room. "Didn't think so," he muttered.

"Why not?"

Sherlock pointed to the table. "John, sit there. Don't move. Don't speak."

John did as he was directed-in resigned silence, because he'd learned long ago that Sherlock wouldn't answer questions anyway until it suited him-and watched as Sherlock retrieved a smudge stick from the supply cabinet, lit it, and carried it to the far corner of the wall behind Felicity's chair, where he stood perfectly motionless until the smoke rose vertically from the stick. Then, starting in the far corner, he slowly-very slowly-worked his way along the wall, holding the stick near the horizontal molding pieces and pausing every few feet until the air currents created by his movement subsided. Only when the smoke rose vertically from the stick did he move on.

John watched, bemused, as he covered the entire length of the wall in this fashion. When he reached the far corner he turned away and dropped still-smoking stick into its brass dish, then circled the table and examined the section of wall that the Reading Room shared with the conference room. Here he worked much more quickly, and within fifteen seconds he found and raised another panel, identical to the one behind which they'd found the projector. Unlike that panel, however, this one concealed not a compartment, because the wall there was less than a foot thick, but a small passage through to the conference room. The cabinet on which the sitters left their keys and phones blocked and helped to conceal the corresponding door on the conference room side.

"So," John said, "Felicity throws the chain on the door from the inside. The accomplice enters the conference room, locks it, turns off the lights, moves the cabinet, and comes in through the access panel. Leaves the same way afterward, puts the cabinet back, turns the conference room lights back on, and no one in here ever suspects. Well, almost no one."

Sherlock wasn't attending. "John," he said, and made a beck with his head. "Hold this up."

John joined him and held the panel so that it was more or less horizontal. Sherlock returned to the smudge stick and repeated the process of moving it along the far wall. The smoke rose vertically until just before the cabinet and Felicity's chair, where it eddied toward John.

"Hah," Sherlock said with satisfaction. He tamped out the smudge stick and applied himself to finding a way into the wall.

After a few minutes of watching him search unsuccessfully John said, "How much longer do I have to hold this panel?"

"Hm?"

"I said, 'How much longer do I have to hold this up?'" No answer. "Sherlock."

"Not now, John." Suddenly he stopped and looked up as though he'd just remembered that John was in the room. "What are you doing?"

"You told me to hold the panel up."

"That was ages ago. Come on."

Sherlock stepped back and considered the wall, frowning with concentration, then took out his glass and examined not the horizontal half-round this time but the surface of the wood on either side of the vertical molding pieces. Watching him close-to, John couldn't make out what he was looking at, but Sherlock gave a grunt of satisfaction and dropped the glass back into his pocket, then hooked the fingers of both hands around the inside edge of the molding and pulled, applying steady pressure. Nothing happened. He reset his hands and pulled harder, and at last the entire vertical piece of molding slid an inch to the left, revealing what looked to John like a thin cord stuffed into a slot in the wall.

"The hell is that?" he asked.

"Riser cord," Sherlock said, still holding the molding piece out of the way. "Give it a try."

John found the free end of the cord and gave it a gentle experimental tug. When he felt resistance he increased the pressure and the entire section of panel shifted upward from the baseboard, while the baseboard itself remained in place. Once started the panel moved smoothly, and when he shone the torch into the little space revealed by its opening he saw the clever counterweight mechanism that not only did all the work of lifting it but held it open when he let go of the cord.

This compartment was more cramped than the first, with not quite four feet of headroom, although it was also longer at about six feet. It was not quite three wide. John had the impression that it was much older than the projector alcove and probably as old as the house itself.

"It's a priest hole," Sherlock explained, confirming his suspicion. "De rigeur in homes of this era. When the conference room panel is open it creates a cross draft through this space toward the conference room."

John played the torch over the far wall of the little compartment, revealing an obvious piano hinge and a worn wood knob. "Does that connect to...?"

"If you're going to say 'the lawyer's office,' yes. It does."

Sherlock ran his own torch over the compartment interior and they both saw the blood at the same time.

There wasn't much. Just a tiny pool about the size and shape of a £1 coin and a drag mark leading toward the office.

"The blood pooled here," Sherlock said, pointing. "Started to dry-you see the outline of the original stain."

John nodded: It was quite clear to him.

"Then whoever was in here was moved. Dragged toward the office. That's where the smear came from. Partial shoe print. Considerate of them."

Sherlock handed his glass to John, who knelt over the little puddle. "Well," he said, "You know what the margin for error is here. Not knowing the humidity level or the injury site, but considering the clotting, serum separation, and the rest, I'd say at least twenty-four hours old? But less than two days." He looked up at Sherlock and handed back the glass. "You think someone was murdered and stashed in here, don't you?"

Sherlock's eyes were alight: Dover wasn't such a bad place after all. "I think so, yes."

"And when you said the grove was dug to conceal a murder, this is what you meant."

"Too early to say," Sherlock replied. "But I can tell you that we need to see what's on the other side of that wall."

Taking care not to disturb the blood, Sherlock crouched beside the panel leading to the lawyer's office. It was meant to open in the direction of the office so he put his weight against it and pushed steadily. Nothing. He tried again, more forcefully, but the panel was obviously blocked by something heavy on the other side. With a growl of frustration he backed out of the compartment. "We need to see that office," he said again.

"Yeah," John agreed, and glanced at his watch. He was surprised to see that they'd been in the Reading Room almost an hour. "It's after six. If we get caught in there..."

"We won't. We'll get them to let us in."

"How?"

"By appointment."

"Okay," John said in a low voice as they let themselves out of the conference room and headed for the stairs. "That raised more questions than it answered, didn't it? Whose blood is that? If someone was killed...hell, anywhere on this floor twenty-four hours ago it would implicate one of the people with the restricted access cards, right? The Stokes or the Kickhams. So whose blood is it, and where's the body now? In the meditation grove? But we were just there."

"All excellent questions, John," Sherlock said. "It will take DNA testing to confirm whose blood that is, of course."

"Yeah, duh," John said. "But you have a theory, don't you?"

"Two," Sherlock agreed.

It was clear to John that Sherlock had hit upon a new scent and he was as eager as his friend to pursue it, but there was little they could do until business hours, so they returned to John's room, where John's last coherent thought before he fell asleep in the armchair was that he was far too wired to go back to sleep. He awoke when the TV remote slipped from his hand and clattered to the floor.

It was a quarter of eight. John was starving, and with nothing better to do for the moment, Sherlock accompanied him to breakfast.

Fog hugged the Wellspring grounds and dew hung like silver sequins from the new-mown grass. It was too cool and damp to eat outside on the terrace, where the dew dripped even from the furniture, creating table- and chair-shaped outlines on the flagstones, but inside the cafeteria was warm and bright. John had made his way to the toast when Abigail Soranzo approached their table and joined them at his invitation.

"Mr. Holmes," she said, clutching her coffee cup in both hands, "I'm glad you're here. I wanted to tell you right away that-"

"You saw red lights in the grove again last night," Sherlock said, sounding bored.

"How did you know?" she asked, surprised.

Knowing that Sherlock didn't much care for Abigail and that he had no intention of speaking freely in any case considering the level of surveillance in the place, John didn't wait for the moment to get awkward before he answered for his friend. "Just a theory," he told her. "Things are starting to come together a bit."

Abruptly Sherlock got up and walked off, leaving Abigail staring after him. "Dammit," John said. "I'm sorry. I have to..."

"No, it's okay."

"I can't let him wander unsupervised. Sorry." And he hurried off after Sherlock, catching up to him just outside the cafeteria doors.

"The hell are you going?" he asked. "I thought you couldn't do anything until 'business hours.'"

Sherlock nodded toward the lift, where Terence Stokes stood talking to a slim, fair-haired woman. "The boss is here. Looks like business hours just started."

"That's the lawyer I met with Wednesday," John said of the woman. "Amanda Kickham."

"Is it?" Sherlock said. "How very convenient."

Stokes completed a text and hit the send button just as Sherlock and John stopped before him, then pocketed the phone. "Ah, Mr. Holmes. Mr. Wilson," he said cheerfully. "How are you this morning? You've met Mrs. Kickham, of course?"

John opened his mouth to say yes, but Sherlock got there ahead of him. He seized Amanda's hand and shook it vigorously. "Yes," he said, "we met Wednesday afternoon. So lovely to see you again, Mrs. Kickham."

"Uh-Yes, thank you," she said, a little overwhelmed by his enthusiasm. "Mr. Holmes. Mr. Wilson. A pleasure to see you again, as well."

"I'm so happy we caught you," Sherlock went on, "because we'd be very grateful for an appointment this afternoon."

"I'm sorry," she said at once, "I've just got so much scheduled already that I-"

Sherlock rode straight over her, managing to infuse his tone with both ingratiation and insistence as he pattered on. "John and I talked it over last night, and I know I was reluctant about the money thing when we met the other day, but between John and that amazing seance experience yesterday-have you seen Felicity's seance? What am I saying, of course you have, she's your sister-and John's already feeling better, too, even though he's only been on the Protocol for two days, and to make a long story short Wellspring has made a believer out of me and while we were discussing it last night I said I'd like to add my name to the documents John signed, so we're both contributing to his Wellspring account and I was thinking of starting with £75,000." Finally paused for breath.

Amanda blinked, then glanced at Stokes before she said, "It's hard to resist your enthusiasm, Mr. Holmes. I'll have Patricia make some time for you at two o'clock. Would that suit?"

"Oh, admirably," Sherlock said, looking pleased. "Thank you so much. See you this afternoon."

The lift arrived, Amanda boarded it, and Stokes walked away toward his office. John waited until the doors closed behind Amanda, then turned to Sherlock. "What the hell was that about?" he asked. "You didn't meet with her. Why does she think you did? Why did you say that?"

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "Probably didn't want to seem rude."

"Yeah, people are weird that way."

"Did you happen to notice her perfume just now?"

John frowned. "No. Why?"

"Neither did I."

John was already eager to break his Wellness Centre appointment; their encounter with Stokes and Amanda Kickham made it perfectly obvious to him that Sherlock was rapidly closing in on a resolution to the case; and he met Sherlock's subsequent proposal that they separate with considerable resistance. Yet when Sherlock swore that he was still in the information-gathering phase of the case there was little John could do but take his word for it. Their best strategy, Sherlock told him, was to carry on as planned, with John keeping the clinic appointment.

John settled for extracting a promise (on pain of an arse-kicking) that Sherlock would do nothing risky until John was available to help him. Ten years ago such a promise would have been worthless, but while Sherlock remained every bit the loose cannon he'd always been, he was also deeply attached to John. He'd caused his friend a great deal of pain over the years and he was reluctant to be the cause of more, so these days when he agreed not to hare off solo on a dangerous enterprise his intent was sincere, even if his follow-through didn't always align with it. Today, however, he was confident that he'd be able to meet John back at the clinic in two hours, as agreed.

Wellspring called the clinic's procedure rooms 'wellness modules,' and the module to which John was led was about the size of the usual hospital exam room. Unlike the usual hospital exam room, however, it contained not an exam table but a deeply padded leather massage chair. It was also unlike the usual hospital exam room in that it included a micro-fridge stocked with organic juices and bottled water, a plate of organic biscuits under a clear glass cake cover, an array of magazines, a scattering of aromatherapy candles-John was offered a choice between sage, rainforest, English garden, and seacoast-and a little countertop fountain which produced a not-unpleasant musical note as the water pattered onto clear blue marbles in the basin. The walls were painted a soothing aqua, and a lush Boston fern hung in a macrame sling in the back corner. Indirect halogen lights controlled by a rheostat replaced the more usual harsh florescent fixtures, and even John conceded that the overall effect was restful.

Tracy, the PA he met on Wednesday, showed him how to operate the massage chair's incline function using the integral control panel in the armrest, but he utterly rejected the massage feature and kept the chair upright: Reclining in the circumstances would make him more rather than less tense. Tracy offered him a beverage, bringing the total offers of 'something to drink' to six, by four different people, since he stepped into the clinic.

It came as a great relief to John, who had spent the morning rehearsing excuses for declining the hydrogen peroxide drop, when Tracy announced that the procedure had been rescheduled. Instead he would be receiving an IV infusion of what she called 'magnesium sulphuricum' to treat the hypomagnesemia revealed by his wellness inventory.

"Hypomagnesemia," he repeated, a little skeptically: He happened to know not only that he was not magnesium-deficient but that none of his answers on the inventory could be interpreted to suggest that he was.

"It sounds complicated," she admitted, "but the treatment is pretty simple. It takes about the same amount of time as the peroxide, though, so it won't take up any more of your day."

"What about the peroxide? Why aren't we doing that?"

"It looks like that's scheduled for Monday now," she said, checking the notes in his file, "when Dr. Kickham will be back in the office. He has to supervise those."

"Oh? He's not in today?"

She shook her head. "He had to take some personal time this morning. But I'm qualified to give you the magnesium sulphuricum infusion, so no worries."

The process would take about two hours, she explained, at the slow drip rate required to be safest and most effective. That at least was medically valid, John knew: Her magnesium sulphuricum, more prosaically known as magnesium sulphate, and even more prosaically known as Epsom salts, had to be administered slowly to avoid the risk of kidney damage, not to mention hypotension, shock, and death. As she suspended the bag of dextrose injection from the rack he eyed it carefully, but at the dilution indicated on the label an infusion at twice the rate she cited wouldn't do him any harm, so although he remained unhappy about being in the Wellness Centre at all, and although the procedure was entirely pointless from a clinical standpoint, he did not judge it to be unsafe.

Tracy managed the IV needle insertion adequately, using a vein in the back of his left hand, then secured it with a scrap of paper tape, started the drip, and departed with the promise to check on him in half an hour.

When the door closed he pulled the wheeled IV rack from its spot behind the chair to just forward of the arm rest, easily within his field of view, and reclined the massage chair slightly, but he didn't want to fall asleep here: He was wary of the whole place and reluctant to get too comfortable.

Nothing she had offered from the magazine supply-alternative remedy 'journals,' Woman's Weekly, New, Chat-appealed to him, and while he could no doubt find something on his phone, he determined to spend the time thinking about the case. Not that he hadn't been pondering it, mostly fruitlessly, since they arrived.

Sherlock hadn't been very clear on too many points, although John had no doubt that his friend had everything sorted in his own mind. The fact that he wouldn't share it was standard operating procedure. John was fully acquainted with Sherlock's love of the dramatic, his unique talent for creating drama where none previously existed, and his simple delight in John's delight over his deductions. An endearing quality, really, in a man to whom the terms 'endearing' and 'simple' did not otherwise apply.

Did they even have a crime? John wondered. The whole pretext for this excursion was to investigate Abigail Soranzo's 'ghost,' and there was nothing self-evidently criminal about that. On the other hand, there was nothing self-evidently interesting about it either, at least not to John, but Sherlock wouldn't have taken the case otherwise. This morning's discovery of blood in the priest hole pointed to him being right-not that John ever doubted that. How many times had he wished for direct insight into the workings of Sherlock's mind? How many times each hour? How many hours were there in ten years?

For his part he didn't need a murder to know that something criminal was going on at Wellspring. Maybe not as the courts would define it, but by his own standards, certainly. He thought about Abigail and her friends, all apparently decent, pleasant people who probably didn't rob greengrocers or kick puppies in their spare time. They raised their families, loved their kids, navigated most of life's problems more or less successfully, and yet they were susceptible to the worst sort of fraud, fraud that preyed on their trust, gullibility, and wishful thinking.

Sherlock insisted that honest men couldn't be cheated, but John didn't believe that Wellspring's clients were liars themselves. He wanted to give the benefit of the doubt to the scam victims, and Western medicine was complicated, intimidating, and sometimes painfully impersonal. Much like John's best friend. One thing Wellspring offered its customers was the assurance that someone cared. What they cared about was separate question, but the clients didn't doubt that the comfort, personalized attention, and solicitude were genuine.

Abruptly he realized that he should have taken at least one person up on the offer of something to drink: His mouth had gone quite dry. There was the micro-fridge in the corner behind him, but it was far too much trouble to get up now. Besides, Tracy would be back in twenty minutes; she could hand him a drink then.

You can't cheat an honest man. John returned to the idea. He'd always taken the maxim to apply to people who were honest in their dealings with others, but maybe...maybe it referred to whether people were honest with themselves. That would explain Sherlock's contempt for the victims. He'd lie without a twinge of guilt to gain the confidence of a suspect or advance a case or even to circumvent the police if his extra-legal judgement required it, but Sherlock never-not ever-lied to himself. He'd been mistaken and he'd been fooled, but he'd never been anything other than ruthlessly committed to seeing reality as it was, whatever the emotional cost to himself. But then, he would reject the idea of truth coming with a cost. People paid for self-deception, not the truth, he would say, and there was no place in his world for self-betrayal.

Sherlock was adamant about the importance of keeping an active mind, as opposed to a merely open one into which every passing charlatan and opportunist could tip bins of rubbish, as he put it. Good advice, John thought. Maybe he should take another look at just what Wellspring was doing. Have an active mind about it. They weren't actually hurting anyone, were they? Like, really harming them? Where was the crime? That little bit of blood in the priest hole? Anyone could bleed a bit. John had done some bleeding himself a few times over the years, and here he was: perfectly fine. Better than fine. Incredible. Hell, years ago doctors thought that bleeding their patients was a good thing. That barista in the coffee shop who flirted with him Wednesday...that was a good thing. Good to know that he wasn't too old to appeal to a pretty girl. Not like that woman on the train with the ridiculous green hair...Green was bad. Very wrong. Not like this velvety, floating warmth...Christ, this was pleasant. Itchy, a bit, but that was nothing to this delightful weightless feeling. If he'd known Epsom salts were so much fun he might have...might have...done something...might have tried them sooner. Yeah. This stuff was totally worth it. Epsom salts...salts of Epsom...

Wait. Hang on. Think, John. Sherlock's voice in his head. He always said that the same way, urgently, as though they were boys climbing a big rock and he was exhorting John to join him at the top so they could be king of the world together. Hurry, John. Think, John.

Salts...Epsom...Harmless as hell...Couldn't hurt him. Couldn't make him feel this good, either, and he was so relaxed. Narcotic, he thought suddenly, and his smile vanished. In sudden alarm he sat up. Or tried to, but he couldn't even raise his head. Weird that he felt so weightless, too, because he was sinking into the chair like it was pudding. Not good. Wrong. Jesus, this was wrong. Epsom salts were not in that bag.

He heard a voice repeating no, no, no, and realized it was his own. Fought again to raise his head but his whole body was impossibly heavy and the attempt produced a sudden, violent wave of nausea. Oh, brilliant: Puke on this shirt, he thought, closing his eyes and swallowing. When the danger passed he carefully opened his eyes and with an effort turned his head to stare at his left hand, at the IV needle, but now his eyes weren't working properly, either.

There was something he was supposed to be doing. Magnesium...atomic number...He couldn't remember. Old Sherl would know. Guy knew everything. No, not magnesium...Focus, dammit. He switched to staring at his right hand. Do something, he thought, but it just sat there. It was so damned far away from his left hand. When did that happen? With a supreme effort he raised it. Swung it over. Dropped it onto his left hand. Picked ineffectually at the tape securing the needle.

Come on, John. Forget the tape. His fingers closed around the IV line and it took all his remaining strength and concentration to pull the needle out.

Shallow breaths. Shallow breaths...It didn't help. He was going to vomit, and the longer he stayed sitting upright the sicker he felt. Freed from the IV drip he wasn't getting any weaker, though, and he dragged first his left and then his right leg off the chair and fought hard to sit up. Hard, but not successfully. The bloody arm rest was in his way. Groaning with the effort, his teeth bared, he tried again, and that time got himself more or less upright. He pushed off but slid to his knees on the floor. Screw it, he thought, and crawled to the waste bin in the corner.

When, twenty minutes later, Sherlock knocked confidently on the door and strode in without waiting for an invitation, John was sitting upright, his back against the wall and his legs straight out in front of him, in very little doubt about what was in that IV bag.

"John, I know what they're-" Sherlock announced, and then in an instant he was crouched before John. "John, what the hell?" he began, but even as he spoke John's pink face, constricted pupils, and slightly dreamy expression gave him the answer. "You're high," he said in disbelief.

His candid astonishment made John laugh. "Yeah," he said. "Gotta say I kinda see the appeal."

But Sherlock did not laugh. The still-dripping IV bag and the speck of dried blood on the back of John's hand left him in no doubt about what had happened. His voice and eyes were cold when he said, "Just so I'm clear: Did you get high before or after you decided to let these butchers near you with a needle?"

That stung. John came in for his share of Sherlock's constitutional impatience and pettishness, but the detective was not easily angered except by incompetence. "It's not-" John began.

"Not what, as bad as it looks? Because it looks like you put your life in the hands of-"

"I didn't," John insisted.

"-criminally incompetent-"

"Dammit, Sherlock," John cried. "It was Epsom salts, if you'd let me explain for two seconds. It's legitimate for low magnesium."

Sherlock scowled at him. "You don't have low magnesium."

"Yes, thank you, Doctor. I know that. The solution they're using wouldn't do anything if I were. It's diluted by at least half what it should be. It's benign."

"And yet here you are on the floor. The only time that ever happened to me was when I put an active ingredient in my arm."

"Well, I didn't know there was something else in there, did I? With the data I had there was no reason not to go along with it. I realized what happened and I fixed it. I don't know why you're so worked up about it, anyway," he added sulkily.

As a lie this was one of John's more transparent efforts, but they understood each other perfectly and Sherlock let it go. He was well-acquainted with the effects of narcotics, salubrious and otherwise, so he retrieved a bottle of water from the refrigerator and unscrewed the cap. "Can you keep it down?" he asked, and when John nodded he passed the bottle to him.

The effects of the poison had eased somewhat, but John's thirst had not. When he'd drained half the bottle he peered at Sherlock. "How do I look?"

Sherlock knew he didn't mean cosmetically. "Pupils constricted but not pinpoint. You're a little flushed, but not badly."

John nodded. "Didn't get a ton of it," he said. "Knew it wasn't salts."

"Obviously not. Narcotic of some sort. Any ideas?"

"MSO4," John said at once.

Sherlock frowned. Nothing on the periodic table was denoted by the symbol M; 'MSO4' was chemical gibberish to him.

"It's not a chemical formula," John explained. "Medical shorthand-slang, sort of-for morphine sulfate. Epsom salts is MgSO4. Morphine's MSO4. It's an easy mistake to make, which is why you're not supposed to write morphine out that way, but people still do it and it still gets swapped."

"Or it was deliberate."

"Maybe," John said doubtfully. "How would you prove it, though? It's a common mistake even in a...a reputable setting."

Sherlock had been crouched before John but now he stood and shut off the IV line, which had been dripping the preparation onto the floor since John pulled out the needle. He capped it and unhooked the bag from the rack.

"If you wanna take the leftovers home," John said, "take the needle off and pitch it."

"John, if you can't share a needle with your best friend, who can you share it with? Besides, we have to retain it for the DNA evidence." He was coiling the line around the bag when Tracy appeared in the doorway and gasped at the sight of John on the floor.

Sherlock covered the distance to her in a single stride. "You," he snarled, and she scrambled away from him, hit the door jamb with a little squeal of terror, and raised her hands to fend him off. He never touched her, but he held the bag up to her face and gave her the full sociopath treatment. John did not interfere. "You did this," he said, his voice dark with menace. "What did you put in this bag?"

When she hesitated, looking appalled, he shouted, "Tell me!" and she burst into tears.

"Nothing!" she cried.

"Liar," Sherlock hissed.

"I don't prep the bags," she sobbed.

"Who does?"

"Dr. Kickham."

"Who else?"

"No one!" He was so close to her and so fraught with latent violence that she could formulate no other goal than to appease his anger. "Everything's kept locked up," she added quickly. "Dr. Kickham's the only one who can open the dispensary. He has to use his keycard."

Watching him, John saw that with her words another piece of the puzzle clicked into place, but it represented less than a second's delay before Sherlock said to her, still in that menacing baritone, "You will show me where the drugs and supplies are kept and unless you fancy spending the next twenty years of your life in prison as an accessory to attempted murder you will keep your mouth shut about it. Do you understand?"

She nodded silently, then stood frozen against the jamb, her hand over her mouth and her eyes wide and red-rimmed, as Sherlock left her and returned to John.

Back on his feet, John dusted himself, and while the headache he'd developed stabbed his brain now that he was standing, on balance he felt better by far than he had just twenty minutes ago.

"You should wait here," Sherlock said, peering into his face, but as he expected, John declined to apply his common sense.

"No way," he said, with a stubborn shake of his head. "I'm good." To prove it he let go of Sherlock's arm and stood up straighter; Sherlock decided he was well enough to walk, so he returned his attention to Tracy, who flinched from his minatory glare. "Show me the dispensary," he snapped.

The dispensary was simply a locked cabinet kept in a small room-not much bigger than a supply closet-behind the main desk, off limits to clients. John leant against the door frame for support and looked around, and he didn't like what he saw. A full-sized refrigerator took up most of the rest of the little room, but he didn't have to look inside to know that it was as likely to contain staff lunches as medication.

"What do you think?" Sherlock asked him.

"No CCTV, no lock to speak of on the door," John said with considerable disapprobation. "The cabinet requires keycard access, but there's no ADC-but then, they're not open after hours anyway, so I'll give them that one, and it's not like they're dispensing actual medications."

"They just dispensed one," Sherlock said pointedly.

John addressed Tracy. "Show him your list of available substances," he said.

She stared at him. "The...what?"

"No list of available substances," John said disgustedly. "Perfect."

"Don't need it," Sherlock said. He produced Felicity's keycard and used it to access the dispensary. "See anything you like?"

John pushed away from the door and peered into the cabinet. "I don't believe this," he said. "I take back what I said about dispensing actual meds."

"Why?"

"Because half this stuff's legitimate. Look." He pointed to each glass vial and pill bottle in turn as he read off the names. "Simvastatin...infliximab...furosemid...dexlansoprazole...isoproterenol...It's what you'd expect to see in any medical office. Of course, no one with half a brain would arrange things this way. It's just about guaranteed to create a swap at some point. And yeah: I knew it. Look: Magnesium sulphate right next to the morphine."

"Those aren't in the right place," Tracy offered, and they turned to look at her.

"Explain," Sherlock said.

"I don't know what that one is," she said, pointing to the morphine, "but the other one is supposed to be up there." She indicated a spot higher up on the shelves. "By the epigea repens. It's really Epsom salts, so it should be by the stuff that starts with 'E'."

John didn't bother to tell her that magnesium sulphate and Epsom salts were the same damned thing. "Then why is it stored next to the morphine?" he demanded.

"Morphine?" she said, puzzled. "We don't have any morphine. That's, like, illegal, or something."

"For God's sake," John growled.

"Besides," she added, "Dr. Kickham doesn't use allopathic preparations. Only natural, non-toxic substances."

John snorted. "That'll come as a surprise to the lab that manufactures the linezolid. It's a synthetic antibiotic." He turned to Sherlock. "You know what he's doing."

"Supplementing the supplements."

"Yeah. With real drugs. That's the only reason he gets any positive results at all, besides sheer chance."

Sherlock shrugged. "Unsurprising," he said, "but also not criminal. What would they charge him with? Failure to defraud?"

"He's administering this stuff without disclosing to the patients what it is," John replied. "That's unethical as hell. If the lawyers don't care the BMA will."

Tracy had been glancing back and forth between them as they spoke, and she'd followed enough to realize that they were disparaging her boss and, by extension, the clinic. "I don't know what you're talking about," she said defensively, "but you're wrong."

They stared at her. "Thank you," Sherlock said icily, "for that trenchant summation of the problem."

"Dr. Kickham wouldn't cheat anyone," she insisted. "That's why he quit doing for-profit medicine. Because it's so materialistic."

If she believed that of the two men standing before her Sherlock was the more formidable, she merely joined a long line of others who had so blundered. In another circumstance-if he weren't high and if he hadn't nearly died-John would very likely have maintained his social filter and his equanimity, but he was high and he had nearly died, so when he turned his anger on Tracy she took a step back as though he'd slapped her.

"'For-profit'?" he ground out. "Do you even know where you're working? Wellspring's raking in millions by bootstrapping real medicine onto snake oil!" He jabbed his finger at the dispensary. "It's the only reason anyone gets any measurable benefit at all. If Kickham weren't giving people real drugs on the sly his success rate would be no better than chance. The same as leaving people untreated. So why don't you explain to me why everyone around here gets the vapours when a real doctor curing real illnesses makes 5p, but Kickham can make a mint feeding people antlers and you act like he's a national hero."

"He's not in it for the money," she declared.

"You're an idiot," he snapped, but Sherlock touched his arm-reminding him to focus on business-so he dropped it. Instead he took a deep breath, calmed himself, and asked her, "Did Kickham reorganize this cabinet?"

She had no idea. "I-I don't know. I mean, I guess so. He's the only one here with a keycard."

Sherlock said, "A better question is, 'Why was it reorganized?'"

"I can think of one reason," John said. "Do you think they know...?" and he left 'who we are?' unstated.

"That's one theory."

"Well?"

"Someone wanted to kill you and make it look like a medical mistake. You did just sign over control of your entire estate to them on Wednesday."

John didn't like that one. "And two days later I croak? Isn't that a little obvious?"

"It's a motive," Sherlock said. "I didn't say it was a subtle one. We need to talk to Kickham." He addressed Tracy again. "Where's Kickham now?"

She was still sniffling, but now that he seemed less inclined to murder her she was feeling a bit better about things. "I don't know. He didn't come in this morning," she said, rubbing her nose. "He cancelled this morning's appointments. The only clients we've had in are the ones I'm qualified to treat."

"You're not qualified to treat roadkill," Sherlock snapped. "What reason did he give?"

"For what?"

"For the cancellations. Why did he cancel the appointments?"

Tracy sniffled again. "He said he had some personal issues to work out. Some issues he had to meditate on. He meditates a lot. He's a very spiritual person." And when Sherlock shifted impatiently she added, "That's all he said. I mean, I know he thinks Amanda's cheating on him so maybe it was about that, but he wouldn't say that in a memo, would he?"

"A memo?"

"An email."

"So you didn't actually hear from him first-hand."

"No," she said.

"When did you personally see him last?"

"Yesterday afternoon, when we closed up after work."

"And of course I know when that happened via ESP," Sherlock snapped.

She stared at him, and John said, "What time did you close up?"

"About 4:30."

"Show me the memo," Sherlock ordered.

She pulled it up on the computer. Dated last night at 7:12 p.m.

"How did you get in here this morning?" Sherlock asked.

"Terence let us in."

"Call Kickham now."

"It went straight to voicemail," Tracy told him, when she'd tried it.

Sherlock locked the IV bag in the cabinet-the police would need it for evidence-and carefully considered John: He'd been nearly killed, but that had happened a time or two before and the effect was to increase his focus. Now his self-contained, determined expression told Sherlock that psychologically, at least, John was himself. Physically... Narcotics were particular favorites of Sherlock's, and he knew that in a healthy person the half-life of intravenous morphine sulphate was ninety minutes to two hours. After some thirty minutes off the stuff John's colour was better than it had been in the exam room and his pupils were more nearly normal, but-

"I'm fine," John insisted, tired of being appraised, and to forestall a debate he turned and led the way out of the Wellness Centre.

As they pushed through the double doors into the hall Sherlock clucked. "Such a broad intolerant streak, John. Wherever did you pick that up?

John let that one slide. "How'd you get back into that treatment room, anyway?" he asked.

Sherlock frowned: The answer was so obvious that it wasn't possible for that to be John's real question, so he waited for clarification.

"I mean why did they let you in?"

"Oh." A shrug. "Well, it's not as though it's a real hospital, but even if it were, how would they keep me out? I'm your next of kin."

John sighed. "I don't know how. I don't know when. But this is going to get back to Lestrade and the Met and there will never be an end to it. We got married-"

"You got high."

"That's one thing I'm not worried about."

"Why?"

"Because I allegedly married you. Taking up drugs in that case is one thing they will understand."

Sherlock led John out of the house and back to the meditation grove, where they again sat facing the ocean. By now John was very willing to hear Sherlock's thoughts on just what was going on at Wellspring, but before he could frame his first question Sherlock said, "Notice anything different about this place?"

"Not in the mood, Sherlock," John growled. "Just tell me what the hell is going on here."

"Take a look at that trench," Sherlock said instead.

With resignation John stood and made his way around the cliffside birch tree-and stopped in surprise: The trench was gone. Not just filled in, but gone as though it had never been. The spot was filled in and covered with the same native dune grasses that surrounded the rest of the grove. John glanced up into the tree: The projector, too, had been removed. He looked back at Sherlock, who was smiling. He gave the bench a pat and John returned. "Okay. Explain."

Sherlock didn't even try to temper his delight. "You remember when I said that the whole point of the grove was to conceal a murder."

"Yeah."

Sherlock waited expectantly.

"Oh, what-you-There's a body in there now?"

"Yes."

"How do you know?"

"When I said I was going to London for supplies Wednesday night I didn't mean toothpaste. I borrowed a GPR device. A ground-penetrating radar. Ideal for revealing buried things without disturbing the ground above. At the time I wasn't certain that it would be useful, but I suspected it. It's an easy fit in the boot of the car. While you were bogarting the opiates this morning I ran it over that section of the grove."

"Just like that? And no one noticed?"

"A GPR looks very much like a push mower," Sherlock said simply, "except for the monitor between the handles. No one watching casually would notice the odds."

"And is there a body in the trench?"

Sherlock was far too pedantic to phrase it quite like that. "The signature of the returned image is consistent with that conclusion, yes."

John thought it through out loud. "All right," he said. "Let me get this straight. You said that the whole point of putting the grove here was to make it easy to dig a trench big enough to contain a body. Then the whole point of the ghost was to keep people away from the grove long enough to get the body in there. So if the projection equipment's gone it means mission accomplished, right? There's no need to keep people out of here now if the murder's been done and the body's in the grave, and the radar backs that up."

"Exactly."

John frowned. "Great. So whoever was in the priest hole is buried here, now? But who is it? We've only been here two days, but as far as I know Kickham's the only one who's done anything outside his normal pattern. Terence and Amanda-we just saw both of them this morning. Felicity? Haven't seen her since the seance yesterday."

"No, but...?" Sherlock said.

John considered. "But assuming the blood we found in the priest hole is from whoever's in the trench, it can't be her. We're agreed that the blood's at least 24 hours old, yeah?"

"Yes. What else?"

"What else?" John repeated, thinking back. Finally he said, "The red lights? Abigail saw the red lights again last night. That's when the body was being buried?"

"And the projector dismantled and the grove repaired."

"So...The blood evidence rules out Felicity. We saw Terence and Amanda two hours ago. The only person unaccounted for since-what was the time on that clinic memo?"

"Twelve past seven."

"-since seven last night is Brian Kickham. But Tracy said she saw him last night, and besides: the age of the blood in the priest hole rules him out, too. So who's dead? And who's the murderer, and what's the motive?"

"You have a genius for asking all the right questions, John, although your priorities are sadly out of whack."

"What does that mean?"

"Whoever's in the trench is somewhat past helping, wouldn't you say?"

"What's your suggestion, then?"

"Kickham's the golden goose around here and he's planning to leave Wellspring. When he goes, the product endorsement goes. Ninety percent of Wellspring's business is selling his vials of tap water. Financially Felicity's seances are neither here nor there. If Kickham dies instead of leaving, he not only won't siphon away clients, but his name can remain on the products. There's no financial downside for Wellspring."

"So...motive to Terence, Felicity, and Amanda," John said a little doubtfully. "Okay. But if they kill him and bury him in the back garden they have to conceal his death, which means they're no farther ahead when it comes to cashing in on his name. That only works if he dies from something they can acknowledge. Like an accident or natural causes."

"Or suicide," Sherlock said with a smile.

"You mean a faked suicide."

"I mean a faked suicide."

"So you're saying he's not the one buried here, but you still think his life's in danger? That the other three are planning to kill him to keep him from leaving?"

"Interesting, isn't it?"

"That's not the word I would have used."

"Well, it's an interesting moral dilemma, wouldn't you say?"

"How?"

"Conceding that it's almost certainly an academic exercise by now, what if I told you that we could guarantee that Brian Kickham never sets up practice anywhere again? Never scams another patient. Never directly or indirectly 'supports' the death of another trusting idiot."

"By doing what?"

"Absolutely nothing. Just go back to Baker Street. Now."

"Wait. Hang on. You think he's at risk of being murdered and you want to go home?"

"Well, think of the lives it would save. If he's dead then the number of people who will be harmed by him in the future automatically becomes a very self-evident and unambiguous zero. We tell the client that we found the source of her red lights, let Kent PD know that there's a corpse in the grove, and we'll be back in Baker Street by suppertime. Working out where Kickham spends eternity becomes Kent's problem."

Perhaps it took John longer than usual because he was still coming down, but as he stared at his friend he finally recognized that Sherlock, with his chase in view, was winding him up: He was in exceptionally high spirits and this was his idea of adding to his fun.

Watching him, Sherlock knew the instant John figured it out, and he grinned in spite of himself. "Come on," he said.

He crossed the terrace to the right side edge where the flagstones transitioned to the asphalt walking path. Between the point where the path ended at the grove and the former trench, the earth was of course still disturbed, with dirt-both loam and chalk-scattered liberally about, and the lawn thoroughly trampled. The loam and chalk mixture easily held footprints and tyre tracks, and John, his attention drawn to the area now that Sherlock was focused on it, distinguished not only his own tracks from a moment ago but Sherlock's prints from earlier in the day. Sherlock, however, pointed to the tyre marks criss-crossing the space.

"There's a notch out of these treads," he said. "Did you see it?"

"Not until just now," John replied.

"Recognize the tyres?"

"No."

Sherlock sighed. "You're wasted, so I'll make an allowance," he said. "They're from one of those electric utility carts. I know you've seen them about. They're ubiquitous. The groundskeeping staff all use them."

"Of course," John said, with a scowl of self-recrimination. "Saw one just Wednesday, when Abigail and I talked after dinner. You think that's what the killer used to transport the body here?"

"Well, the tracks are certainly suggestive. I imagine that when we find the cart that made these tracks it will provide forensic trace evidence not only from the victim but the murderer."

"So now we look for the cart?"

"Now we look for the cart."

"We're the prince with the glass slipper," John mused as they headed toward the house.

"Sorry?"

"Cinderella. The fairy tale." Blank stupidity. "Never mind."

"Just to be clear," John said as they walked, "you do know that logically your standard of pre-emption would justify locking up everyone on earth to stop them so much as sneezing on another person?"

Sherlock sniffed. "Obviously."

"And that would be wrong."

"Of course."

"Okay."

A few more strides in silence, and then: "When you say 'wrong' you mean 'boring,' right?"

As they approached the front steps of the house they spied Stokes hurrying toward them along the path, from the direction of the owners' private residence. He noticed them at about the same time, and while clearly in a hurry and somewhat elevated, he waved and greeted them cheerfully.

"Mr. Wilson," he called out as they drew near. "Mr. Holmes. Out for a morning constitutional, I see. Very good. Sorry, can't talk. Left my phone at home-age, I'm afraid; ha-ha-and I'm already late for an appointment." He hurried up the steps and disappeared into the house.

John stopped with a frown: Stokes was texting someone when they saw him at the lift earlier. Why would he claim to have left his phone at home? "That's weird," he began. "Sherlock? Sher-" Glancing around he just had time to see the detective jogging along the path toward the residence before he faded into the fog. John swore and hurried after him.

When he resolved Sherlock's form again he was still trotting along the path, watching the ground on either side, and suddenly he veered left, off the path and toward the west side of the residence. John followed him to the back of the building, which faced, more or less, the maintenance buildings, although they were nearly 100 metres away and quite out of view, screened both by the fog and a berm planted with tall photinias.

"The hell are you going?" John demanded. Sherlock shushed him and John dropped his voice to a fierce whisper. "Sherlock!"

Sherlock didn't answer until he found what he was looking for, and that didn't take him long: At the back of the shared owners' residence a common exit led down to a big flagstone terrace. He skirted the terrace and stopped at the far edge of it. "Knew it," he said to himself with satisfaction, and then to John, "Look."

Clearly visible in the dewy grass were two sets of footprints leading away from the terrace and a single set returning. "Yeah?" John said.

"Stokes made those tracks just now."

"How-?"

"Look at your feet," Sherlock said impatiently, and John glanced down: Besides the damp, his shoes were coated with a liberal scattering of grass clippings. "Grass all over his shoes," Sherlock continued. "The fastest way between the manor house and his residence is the path. He said he was running late. He had no reason to be on the grass unless he was lying about what he was doing, which he was. He wasn't fetching his phone."

"Yeah, he was texting someone with it when we saw him by the lift earlier," John agreed, glad to have his observation confirmed.

"Exactly. The phone excuse was an obvious lie. Then there's his shirt."

Grass. Shirt. John would be having a hard time keeping pace with this if he were stone sober. "What about it?"

"He changed it since we saw him at the lift."

John had to think about that one. "No, he-No. He was wearing a white shirt just now. It was white earlier, too, wasn't it?"

Sherlock grinned. "White, but with tortoiseshell buttons. The shirt he's wearing now has white plastic buttons. It's just after ten a.m., so he just dressed a few hours ago. Why change his shirt?"

"Maybe he got coffee on it."

"He got something on it," Sherlock agreed, "but it wasn't coffee." He pulled out his phone and took a snap of the grass.

"What are you doing?"

Sherlock pointed again at the ground. "Look at the tracks."

John stared. "Two sets leading from the residence...one returning. Adult males from the size of the prints...Stokes..." He glanced questioningly at Sherlock.

"And Brian Kickham," Sherlock said.

"But they're fresh. This morning. The dew proves that."

"I know," Sherlock said with relish. "We might not be too late after all. Come on." He bolted for the maintenance buildings.

Their approach brought them to the back of the maintenance shed, which was a dark green metal pole barn affair and quite large, as befitted an extensive estate like Wellspring. Some twenty metres deep and twice that long, it paralleled and backed up against the photinia berm. A few personal vehicles belonging to the groundskeeping staff stood parked on the far side of the lot, near the gate to the main driveway.

Sherlock and John reached the asphalt pad on which the barn stood and edged around the side of the building to the nearby man door. "What about the workers?" John asked. The question was intended to cover a range of topics: Weren't they inside? Were they in on the plan to kill Brian Kickham? Why did Sherlock think Terence was able to kill Brian in a shed with workers around?

But Sherlock dismissed the staff with a wave of his hand. "Not here. As I was putting the GPR back in the boot they all drove out in a flatbed lorry. I imagine Stokes sent them on an extended errand." All the same, he paused long enough at the man door to peer through the window and confirm it. "Besides," he added, "if Stokes was back here murdering Kickham he'd hardly do it with an audience."

They slipped inside and paused in the gloom. All four overhead doors were closed, so Sherlock flicked the lights on. They'd entered on the far left side of the building, in the shop area where equipment repairs and maintenance functions were carried out. The place smelt of petrol, cut grass, and lithium bearing grease. Vehicle parts and supplies-drive belts, chains, mower blades, oil filters-were stacked on shelves over the two greasy workbenches. Six cases of motor oil stood near the door through which they'd entered, and a riding mower lay half-disassembled in the middle of the floor. To the right of this shop area, the next bay over contained three big orange riding mowers, a couple of push mowers, trimmers, and leaf blowers. A fairly greasy, fingerprint-smudged refrigerator stood beside a bank of employee lockers at the back of the bay. In the third bay were four electric utility carts, charging, and on the far right side of the building in the fourth bay, parked bumper to bumper, were two big flatbed F-650 lorries with high-sided wood board boxes. There was no sign of Brian Kickham.

Sherlock drew his torch from his pocket-even with the overhead lights on the barn interior was not bright-and began methodically inspecting the floor, working his way from the maintenance shop section toward the lorries.

John's contribution to the inspection would be worthless, so he focused instead on the utility cart tyres, looking for a match with the track in the grove. As it happened, he found it on the first cart he approached. "This is the cart that was used at the grove," he announced. "Brake light switch disconnected at the brake pedal, too." He stood silently, thinking. "Makes sense," he decided. "Otherwise Abigail would have seen brake lights along with the torches."

Sherlock didn't answer. He straightened from his examination of the floor and looked about. There was neither blood evidence nor fresh marks on the greasy floor to suggest a recent struggle of any kind. He'd gone over the whole place and John had glanced into the lockers and the shop rag hamper. No Brian Kickham.

"What's that brilliant observation people always make, John?" he asked.

"Uh...A little context?"

"When they find something they've looked everywhere for. 'I found it in the last place I looked.' Isn't that it?"

He put one foot on the rear tyre of the lorry nearest the overhead door, hooked his fingers around the top edge of the box, and boosted himself up until he stood with both feet on the tyre, then shone the torch down into the box. Almost at once he gave a delighted cry. "Come have a look, John."

John hurried over. "What?" He dropped the lift gate and clambered onto it. Sherlock shone the light onto the scarred and rusty metal bed, empty except for a tow chain, some heavy duty ratchet tie-downs, and a big, battered diamond plate cargo box that spanned the width of the bed. The box was pushed full forward, against the cab.

Sherlock waved the torch beam over the spot he wanted John to inspect, but John saw no obvious blood or other evidence of a murder or assault. "What am I looking at?" he asked.

"That box has been tipped forward: here, onto its side," Sherlock said. "You can see the fresh scrapes on the metal bed, and look: corresponding scrapes here." He directed the light onto the front edge of the box lid.

John admitted the scrapes on the bed, distinguishable by being shinier than the older, rusted marks, but he didn't see the rest of it. "If you say so. What about it?"

Sherlock hopped down off the tyre and sprang into the bed via the lift gate. "Ready for this?" he asked.

"For what?"

Sherlock leant over the crate and swiftly picked the little padlock securing the latch, then flipped the lid up with a flourish and pointed. "For that."

John glanced in: He saw gardening tools lying on a tarp. Rakes, shovels; the usual. He shrugged. "Yeah?"

Sherlock's face fell and he glanced into the box. "Oh, obvious!" he cried. He caught up the tools, flung them carelessly into the bed, then whipped the tarp aside, and they both peered down into the crate.

Inside it, on his side, lay a bearded man with his hands bound behind his back. Sherlock looked up at John. "Brian Kickham?" he asked.

"Brian Kickham," John said grimly.

Getting an early start to his lunch hour, Terence Stokes jogged down the steps of the Wellspring mansion and along the path toward the owners' residence, where he circled around to the back of the building. Having placed the residence between himself and the mansion he hurried across the grass toward the maintenance building. There he dropped the lift gate of the first lorry in the far bay, saw to his satisfaction that the padlock on the cargo box was still intact-not that he expected any different-and closed the gate. He climbed up into the cab and fired up the truck.

His route took him out of St. Margarets Bay, through Dover, and up to the village of Whitfield, where he turned left on the A256, then continued on to Temple Ewell. Just abeam Stonehall Road, on the southeast edge of Lydden, he made a left onto an unpaved, nameless lane that meandered southwest for almost a mile before making a nearly ninety-degree turn back north and then, and within thirty feet, abruptly turning again to the west. At this V-shaped switchback, with a 200-acre tract of woods to the south and tree-lined farm fields in every other direction rendering him wholly invisible to anyone on the mile-distant paved roads, he eased the lorry off the path and into the trees, where he stopped between two massive oaks and killed the engine.

Ahead of him, thirty feet farther into the wood, was a disused well. It was visible from the truck to someone who knew it was there, but not otherwise, being almost completely concealed by the thick undergrowth. Stokes, however, did know that it was there. He'd picked this very spot because of that knowledge. He grew up in Dover and he was intimately familiar with the local geography. Besides, in his high school days he'd once pursued a girl who lived on a nearby farm, and they discovered the well on one of their rambles.

He swung down from the cab but did not go at once to the cargo box. Instead he stood listening for about five minutes, and only when he was certain that no vehicles or pedestrians were approaching did he drop the gate and climb up into the bed. After removing the padlock from the cargo box and the landscapers' tools from inside it, Stokes flung back the tarp-and started back with a shocked gasp when the man he knew as John Wilson sat up in the box.

The contrast between the lightless crate and the relatively bright wood made Wilson blink, but he had no trouble focusing on Stokes. "Please don't tell me you're surprised," he said coolly. "You being so keen on the afterlife."

The police didn't use their sirens, but the sound of their car engines and the tyres' crunch on the gravel lane reached John long before he saw them. Two marked police cars, led by Sherlock in the hired Ford, stopped in the lane. A plainclothes officer emerged from the first vehicle and two uniformed patrol officers exited the second.

John stood, relaxed but alert, about five feet away from Stokes, who sat on the ground with his back against one of the rear tyres of the lorry, the ground being where John had put him when Stokes attacked him with a knife. John was currently in control of the utensil and, by implication, Stokes.

Sherlock waded through undergrowth crushed by the truck tyres and approached John with a pleased expression. John grinned in reply and said, "You took your time." He reached into his pocket and withdrew a little GPS tracking device, which he underhanded to Sherlock.

"There's no rushing Mr. Plod," Sherlock replied in a discontented tone, slipping the device into his pocket. He indicated Stokes with a nod. "I don't suppose he confessed?"

John shook his head. "No, but he's up to two counts of attempted murder." He held up the knife.

Sherlock eyed Stokes. "Even without a confession the note will be conclusive."

"The note?"

"Where is it?" Sherlock asked Stokes.

Stokes glared coldly at him. "I have no idea what you're talking about," he snapped. "Who the hell are you people?"

The plainclothes cop arrived, trailed by the two uniformed officers, and as they approached Stokes scrambled to his feet.

"Ah, detective," Sherlock said suavely. "Good of you to join us. John, this is..." Vague gesture in the cop's direction. "...somebody from the Kent police."

"Lieutenant Ryerson," the man snapped. He was a thick, muscular guy with short black hair shot through with grey, dark brown eyes, and a grim, no-nonsense manner. "What the hell is going on here?" he asked Sherlock. "We were called about an attempted murder. "Who are these people? Who are you?"

"Never let it be said that the police can't ask the right questions, John," Sherlock said coolly. "It's the answers they wrestle with."

Stokes waded in then. "Arrest these men, Lieutenant," he cried, pointing a trembling hand at John. "This one assaulted me-he's got a knife-and tried to kill me. Kidnapped me...brought me here-"

John laughed and Sherlock said, "Sorry, Stokes, it won't do. It really won't. Even the police won't overlook the note."

"What?" Ryerson's confusion was growing and it was not a condition he handled well. "What note? About what? Who are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock said, with an arrogant lift of his head, although he put out his hand.

Ryerson stared. "Holmes. What, the private detective? From London?"

"Consulting detective," Sherlock replied, positively icy now that his civil overture had been spurned. "And yes, from London. That a problem?"

"It's starting to be. I'm not going to ask you again who these people are," Ryerson growled, gesturing to John and Stokes.

"My friend and colleague, Doctor John Watson," Sherlock said. "And your attempted murderer: Terence Stokes."

Ryerson stared at John, who appeared perfectly fine to him, if disheveled. "He tried to kill you? Then why are you the one with the knife?"

John remembered the knife in his hand. "Oh, right," he said, and handed it over politely, hilt first, to the cop.

"Well?" Ryerson said.

John shrugged. "He sucks at knife fighting."

Ryerson turned to Stokes. "Terence Stokes? Of the Institute? Are you all right, sir?"

"I certainly am not all right," Stokes cried, putting as much offended dignity and outrage into it as he could manage. "I have no idea what these men are talking about, but I want them both arrested for trespassing and this one," he added, pointing at John, "carjacked me and forced me to drive here."

"After which we called the police and led them to the scene of the abduction?" Sherlock said. "No, Lieutenant. Prominent Dover citizen Stokes here has been scheming to murder his brother-in-law, the esteemed Dr. Brian Kickham, and make it look like a suicide."

"That's outrageous," Stokes snapped.

"Last night he wrote a memo in Kickham's name telling his staff that Kickham would be taking today off to 'meditate' on personal matters. Some time between nine and ten a.m. this morning he sent the maintenance staff away on an errand, lured Kickham to the estate's maintenance building, drugged him, and locked him in the crate in the back of this lorry. His intention was to drive Kickham to this site, kill him, and stage it as a suicide."

John added helpfully, "There's a disused well just there. It's probably not a coincidence that he parked in this spot."

Sherlock looked pleased. "Yes, very suggestive," he said. "But before he could carry all that out, we discovered Kickham, John took his place in the crate, and that's how John happened to arrive at the intended crime scene even before the police."

Stokes laughed. "That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard in my-"

"Mr. Stokes, sir," Ryerson interrupted, holding up his hand. "You'll have your chance in a minute, but I suggest you think twice about speaking without your lawyer present." He looked at Sherlock. "Prove it."

"Stokes will have written a suicide note that will appear to be from Kickham," Sherlock said. "If it's not on him it will be in the cab of the lorry." When no one moved he glanced impatiently at the two uniformed cops. "That's your cue," he said acerbically. "Fetch it."

"Stay here," Ryerson ordered them, and went to the cab himself. He returned with a plastic zip-seal bag containing a white business envelope. He held the bag up to the light and it was obvious that the envelope contained a sheet of paper.

"I've never seen that before in my life," Stokes cried, and pointed at John. "How do you know he didn't plant it?"

"Good question," Ryerson said, looking at John.

"Stupid question," Sherlock snapped.

"Sherlock."

"Forensic examination of the ink will match it to a printer belonging to Stokes," Sherlock said. "If you're quite lucky and if he was quite stupid the paper will have his fingerprints on it, and unless you found gloves in the cab just now the plastic bag will have them, too. Then of course there's the intended victim: Kickham," Sherlock added. "I'm sure he'll be delighted to testify that Stokes here texted him with some pretext to get him into the maintenance building and that John and I found him in the crate an hour later."

Ryerson was still lost. "But why? What's the motive?"

"The old standby," Sherlock said simply. "Money. Kickham was planning to leave Wellspring next month."

"That makes no sense," Ryerson said. "If Kickham died-"

"There'd be no need to change anything at all," Sherlock finished. "Kickham's usefulness for product endorsement would remain intact if he died whether accidentally or by suicide, but not if he left the company. They'd replace him with a new Dr. Fraudpants and it would be business as usual."

"So where's Kickham now?"

"Buckland Hospital," John said. "Our client and a couple of her friends took him in. Stokes drugged him, but he was starting to come round by the time we got him into the car."

"Then why are you here?" Ryerson asked John.

Because my friend's a melodramatic wanker, John thought. "Because we needed Stokes to think that he still had Kickham in the box," he said. "Otherwise he'd just deny everything-which he's already doing, you notice-and we could never have proven his intent. Best case, you'd have him on the assault of his brother-in-law."

"I see," Ryerson said with considerable disapproval: This was irregular in the extreme and he automatically disliked it. He also automatically disliked Sherlock, whose reputation as a brilliant, abrasive prick preceded him, and who had done nothing yet to alter Ryerson's preconception. "You know I got friends who work at that place," he said, meaning Wellspring.

"Ah," Sherlock said contemptuously, "I see. You only pursue crimes that don't inconvenience casual acquaintances. Well, I'm afraid I didn't get that memo, Lieutenant. Yet another advantage of not working for the police."

Ryerson glared at him. "Don't get smart with me, Big City," he snapped. "You come poncing down here, stirring things up, making false police reports-"

"False?" John cried, startled out of all his diplomacy.

"You reported an attempted murder in progress," Ryerson said. "According to your story it happened over three hours ago, at nine a.m. So either the 'in progress' part was a lie to get us out here just now or you sat on a very serious crime for hours before you bothered to call the police."

"And if we had called you earlier there would be no forged suicide note and no possible way to prove that Stokes intended to murder Kickham," Sherlock replied hotly. "At best you'd have him for aggravated assault. As for the crime being 'in progress,' I suggest you pull the 999 tapes, Lieutenant. I never used the words 'in progress.'" He paused, regarding Ryerson insolently. "Off you go. I'll wait." Ryerson just glared at him, and when Sherlock was certain that he'd made his point he said, "No? Then I suggest that instead of caviling about how I phoned in the report of an attempted murder, you actually arrest the man who committed it. Terence Stokes is guilty of the attempted murder of Dr. Brian Kickham."

John cleared his throat deliberately.

"And the attempted murder of Dr. John Watson," Sherlock added. "Twice."

"Twice?" John said.

"Stokes adulterated the IV bag," Sherlock explained, "although I suspect that was just on general principles, not because he was targeting you specifically. If a rich Wellspring patient dies now and again while Wellspring controls their money, so much the better."

In spite of Ryerson's advice Stokes couldn't keep silent any longer. "Lieutenant, I have a business to run and I'd very much like to be on my way. Just exactly how much longer do you expect me to stand here and endure this slander?"

"Technically it's not slander if it's true," Sherlock said. "But I'm done for now. John and I have some unfinished business at Wellspring." He turned away.

"The hell you're going to Wellspring," Ryerson cried. "No one's going anywhere except with us. All three of you are going to the station and we're going to get official statements-"

"I've just given you my statement," Sherlock snapped. "Pay attention."

"-and you're not going back to Wellspring alone any gate. If everything you're claiming is true then Wellspring is a crime scene as well and we'll need to secure it and start interviewing people."

"I can't allow that." Sherlock was verging on outraged at the mere prospect of restraint. "You'll ruin everything if you go there now."

"You can't allow it?" Ryerson cried. "Bloody hell! You presumptuous bastard. Where do you get off-"

John stepped between them with his hands up in a conciliatory gesture. "Lieutenant," he said in a low voice. "Can I speak with you alone? Just for a second? Please." He made an 'over here' motion, and after a lengthy glare at Sherlock, who returned it unblinkingly, Ryerson followed John a discreet distance away.

John didn't actually know what Sherlock intended back at the estate, although he assumed it involved wrapping up the question of the corpse in the grove. Telling Ryerson about that, however, would guarantee an invasion by the police. So he drew the lieutenant aside and said, with real sincerity, "Listen, Lieutenant. I'm sorry about how Sherlock sprang this on you. It's unorthodox, I know. He's unorthodox-but he does get results. I can imagine the things you've heard about him, but what you might not know is that he's here working for the client, and that's it. Everything we have on these Wellspring people is yours. You get all the credit. No one will even know that we were here. All he wants in exchange is a little more time."

"Why?" Ryerson asked belligerently.

"Well, to finish the case. Finish his investigation."

"But why? What's he going to do?"

John hesitated. "I don't know."

"I see," the lieutenant said skeptically. "So you two come barging into my jurisdiction, accuse a prominent citizen of a violent felony, then tell me that part of an active crime scene is off limits to me and my people, and you think that's going to fly? You think I'm just going to have faith in your friend?"

"No," John said at once. "Not faith. I'm not asking you to do something I wouldn't do myself, Lieutenant, and I don't take him on faith. I take him on evidence. Now: You've heard that he's a right bastard, and it's true. But you've also heard that he's brilliant, and that's true, too. All I'm asking is that you give him a little more time to put the rest of his case together."

Ryerson glared at him stonily, unconvinced.

"In return-in return, Lieutenant," John went on, "he will hand you an airtight case gift-wrapped and tied in a bow with your name on it, and then we will go back to London and no one will ever even know we were here."

Ryerson scowled, not liking Sherlock but liking the idea of a finished case that was bound to generate a lot of publicity for him personally. He said, "And what am I supposed to do while your genius PI is running loose around Wellspring?"

"Well, Brian Kickham's probably feeling pretty talkative right about now, and he was the intended victim here," John said, and then he stopped talking. This was where Sherlock would keep pressing his case, but John let the lieutenant work it out on his own time-although he could see Sherlock pacing in an agony of impatience over by the car.

The lieutenant stared heavily at John for a moment, thinking. "Four o'clock," he said finally. "I want to hear from you by four o'clock. I want a progress report at a bare minimum, and if I don't get it I swear to God I will write arrest warrants for the pair of you and take you both down personally."

As a threat this sounded more impressive than it really was. John very much doubted that a judge would sign off on the warrants, for a start, and he was surprised that Ryerson resorted to such an unsophisticated tactic. Still, he'd take what he could get. "Four o'clock," he agreed.

Because two days earlier John took particular (but ultimately pointless) care to notice everything he could about Amanda Kickham's office, he was in a position, when her secretary showed them in, to comment on the new furniture arrangement: The desk and massive bookcase had been switched around and there was a new area rug under the client chairs. "Oh, wow," he said ingenuously, glancing about. "You...you redecorated."

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Obvious, from the marks on the carpet."

"It's to take better advantage of the morning sun," Amanda explained with a smile, gesturing to the big plate-glass window behind her.

"Well, Mrs. Kickham," Sherlock said briskly, getting straight down to business, "when John and I ran Spotlight Productions we kept him as far away from the financial end of things as possible. What I'd like to do is direct my financial institution to distribute £75,000 into an account that will let Wellspring draw on the funds whenever it's necessary to pay for John's treatment, his stay here, and any incidentals that he might need, so that he doesn't have to be involved with it. So I was thinking that if we both signed a guarantor's assignment of rights and a testator's declaration, that would be an ironclad way to make sure the money comes in without interruption. Wouldn't you agree?"

Amanda did agree, wholeheartedly, but she regretted very much that she couldn't find the forms among her desk drawers or in any of the heavy oak four-drawer file cabinets that lined the back wall of the office. "My secretary re-organized the filing system last week," she explained apologetically. "I still can't find anything. Will you excuse me while I ask her where she hid the forms?"

"Of course," Sherlock said.

As the door closed behind her Sherlock sprang from his chair and dragged it off the area rug, then threw himself to the floor on his hands and knees, flinging back each corner of the area rug in turn.

"The hell are you doing?" John asked.

"Hah," Sherlock said triumphantly, and pointed, although it wasn't necessary: The turned-back corner of the area rug revealed a bloodstain the size of a moderate dinner plate.

"The hell?" John breathed.

"'Stylish area rug' always makes the list of top five ways to make unsightly bloodstains disappear," Sherlock noted. As he spoke he closely examined the surrounding carpet with his glass and came up with something between his forefinger and thumb that John couldn't quite make out. He dropped it into a little evidence bag.

"What is that?" John asked.

Sherlock showed him the bag. Inside was a tiny sliver of pale blue glass. John frowned. "Part of the murder weapon, you think?"

"I imagine so, although it may have just broken during the struggle. The ME will have the last word on that."

He stood and crossed to the heavy bookcase standing against the wall behind their chairs-the wall shared by the Reading Room. "Quickly, John," he said, and braced himself to push against it. Even their combined efforts were barely adequate to slide the heavy case three feet to the right along the wall; it was no wonder Sherlock couldn't open the panel from the other side.

Sherlock replaced both the rug and the chair and they resumed their seats. John, still a bit at sea, said, "Are you going to catch me up any time soon?"

Sherlock was on his phone, texting, his thumbs flying. "Very soon."

The door opened just as he hit the 'send' button. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Holmes," Amanda said, sitting down at her desk. "I'm afraid my secretary wasn't able to locate the documents, either. Perhaps we can reschedule for next week?"

"How very disappointing," Sherlock said. He dropped the phone into his pocket, stood, and strolled behind her desk, where he stood with his hands clasped behind his back, gazing out the window. "Yes, very disappointing. But unsurprising. There's no such thing as a 'testator's declaration,' or a 'guarantor's assignment of rights,'" he added, turning to look at her. "It's legal gibberish. Which you'd know if you were really a lawyer."

Her jaw dropped. "What? Well, of course I'm a lawyer, for Heaven's sake." She made a vague gesture toward the framed diploma on the wall. "I told you, my secretary-"

"Rearranged the files. Yes. More thoroughly than you rearranged this office, I hope. But then, just sliding the desk across the room didn't do anything to get your sister's blood out of the carpet, did it?"

So saying, he shocked John, to say nothing of Amanda, by suddenly grabbing a fistful of her hair. She screeched and frantically clapped both hands to her head, but it was far too late: He'd plucked the wig from her head and flicked it to John in one casual motion.

"John, you remember Felicity Stokes," Sherlock said airily. He gestured toward 'Amanda' and added disdainfully, "Psychic, eh? Bet you wish you'd seen that coming."

John stared at him, gobsmacked. "Sorry. What?"

"Felicity Stokes. Amanda Kickham's sister. And her killer."

Felicity went white with rage. "I don't know who the hell you think you are, but I'm calling the police and having you both arrested," she cried, reaching for the phone on the desk.

"Don't bother," Sherlock said. "I've just texted them. As for who I am: Sherlock Holmes. My friend, Dr. John Watson."

Felicity glared at him. "So you called the police," she said. "I'm certain it's not a crime to cover for my sister while she's in Cornwall. She asked me to step in while she made an emergency trip there yesterday: Our mother fell and broke her arm."

"And Amanda's vase fell and broke her head," Sherlock replied. "No. Let me save you the embarrassment of trying to concoct a plausible lie, because frankly I don't have that kind of time. You followed your husband to your sister's office, discovered them together, and fought with her. You smashed her head in with the vase on her desk, then threatened Terence with the ruin of Wellspring if he refused to help conceal the murder, and the two of you stashed Amanda's body in the priest hole until late last night, when you buried it in the meditation grove."

"That's insane," she cried, having recovered some of her composure as he spoke. "It's rubbish, all of it, and I've never heard of any priest hole. I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

Sherlock stepped to the wall behind the client chairs and easily lifted the panel to reveal the recess. "Priest hole."

"I've never seen that before in my life."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "The blood evidence on the rug, in the priest hole, and on the utility cart used to transport her body will establish Amanda's presence in all three places. Forensic fibre evidence on her body and in the utility cart will point to you and Terence. Then there's Terence's partial footprint in blood in the priest hole, and, I expect, fingerprints and DNA evidence from both of you on shovels in the maintenance shed. Juries love DNA, you know. These days they expect you to trot it out for purse snatching cases."

"How did you know she wasn't Amanda?" John asked. He realized he was still holding the wig and dropped it.

"Oh, loads of things," Sherlock said. "For a start there was the perfume."

"She's not wearing perfume," John said.

"I know. But Amanda did. Remember? Jardin du Nuit. I smelled it on you when you returned from your appointment with her. I smelled it again during the seance, but not until Terence Stokes opened the conference room panel and created a cross draft. Almost immediately after that I picked up Terence's deodorant, so I knew Amanda wasn't the one helping. Terence was. Then when we saw 'Amanda' in the lobby by the lift this morning: No perfume."

"Hang on. Amanda was dead in the priest hole during the seance?"

"Yes."

"Ugh." John considered. "Then Terence Stokes was the accomplice yesterday. While his dead lover was...?"

"Yep."

John turned to glare at Felicity, but Sherlock hadn't quite reached the end of his list of the clever things he'd done. "Then there was the watch," he said. "Felicity was wearing a TAG Heuer yesterday. You said that Amanda wore a Rolex-so you see? You shouldn't be so self-critical, John: You did observe something useful after all."

"I'mnot-"

"This morning at the lift 'Amanda' was wearing Felicity's TAG Heuer. And of course there were the bruises on her wrist. She dabbed a bit of concealer on there this morning, but they're still evident if you look closely. Jury's still out on whether the bruising occurred during the fight between the sisters or whether Felicity really does just like it rough. Either way, they're identical to the ones you observed on her wrist before the seance. Because 'Amanda' was Felicity. Because Felicity killed her sister."

"It was an accident!" Felicity screamed, then clapped her hand over her mouth and stared at them in horror.

"The police will be the judge of that, I imagine," Sherlock replied. "They'll be arriving once a judge approves their warrants to search the maintenance building, the residence...well, the whole property, really. Including the meditation grove where you and Terence buried Amanda. Oh-and the company servers, which will contain records of all the keycard activity for the last few days. They'll show that after I stole your card on Thursday, Amanda's was still quite active. Bit strange for a dead woman, wouldn't you say?"

"Because she was using it," John said, with a nod at Felicity.

"Exactly."

John said, "If she killed Amanda on...what, Wednesday night?"

"Mm..." Sherlock began doubtfully.

John corrected himself. "No: Twenty-four hours before we found the blood, so early yesterday morning, then, right?"

"Yes. Amanda wouldn't have been dead more than a few hours when the seance was conducted."

"But if she killed Amanda Thursday morning, what about the meditation grove? All that advance preparation wasn't for a heat-of-passion moment."

"No, that was for Brian," Sherlock said. "Amanda might even have been in on the plan to keep him from breaking out on his own. In fact, I expect she was."

"But," John said, "what's the point of the masquerade? Why go to so much trouble? And how dense is Brian? Could he seriously not tell his own wife from Felicity?"

"Well," Sherlock said, "draw you own conclusions about his specific gravity, but the sisters are remarkably alike physically, although not twins. Amanda very likely used a wig herself on occasion, so Brian would have been used to that, and in any case I imagine Felicity gave some excuse about working late at the office to minimize her contact with him. She only had to carry on the deception for about twenty-four hours, after all. The Kickhams were known to have marital issues, Terence and Felicity were already committed to staging Brian's suicide, and it would have been easy to concoct a story to account for Amanda's disappearance, too. As for the point of it all...that's just boring old greed."

They both turned to look at Felicity, who had gone from white to red. "So," Sherlock said to her, "in summary we're looking at the attempted murder of Brian Kickham, conspiracy to commit murder, and of course the murder of your sister-"

"I told you," Felicity cried, not conceding yet, "it was an accident. Yes, we fought. She fell and hit her head on the desk. I tried to revive her, but...then I panicked. It's not a crime to be afraid, is it? Please. You have to believe me."

"Of course I don't have to," Sherlock said contemptuously. "But the ME will be able to determine from the angle of the blow and the damage to her skull whether she fell onto a stationary object or whether something was raised over her head and smashed down onto it. It's all very sciency, so you don't have to worry your empathic little head about it, but I assure you the doctors are rarely as thick as the police when it comes to these things."

He reached into his pocket and held up the little packet containing the glass shard. "Then there's this," he added. "Part of the vase you used to bludgeon your sister to death. I found it in the carpet just now. What do you think the chances are of the ME finding a similar bit of glass embedded in your sister's skull? Would you like to speculate on the damage that will do to your falling-on-a-table story?"

"Yes!" she shouted, quite red in the face now. "I killed Amanda, that goddamned bitch. I confronted her about the affair and she attacked me. She went insane: screaming and trying to kill me. I grabbed the first thing I could reach to try to make her stop. That makes it self-defense, doesn't it? It was self-Get out!" This last in a screech to the secretary, who had stuck her head in the door to see what was going on.

Sherlock shrugged. "You might talk a jury into believing that," he agreed. "How likely that is will depend on what the investigator testifies. That would be me," he added.

Felicity glared furiously at him, breathing hard. "What do you want?" she asked, rigid with anger. "Money?"

Sherlock glanced at John: What did he want?

"Abigail Soranzo," John said.

"Who?"

"The client."

"Oh, right."

"Fix her financial records," John said to Felicity. "Sign her money back over to her. Better yet, destroy everything related to her in your computer system and shred the paper copies."

Sherlock liked the idea. "You will sit in that chair," he said to her, "and while we watch you will tap into your little computer system and you will reverse every financial transaction that drew money from Abigail Soranzo's accounts. You will replace every pound taken from her. Then you will remove Wellspring from those accounts and return sole control of them to her."

Felicity hesitated, but finally she said sullenly, "I can do that."

"That's the spirit," Sherlock said brightly. "And when you're done with that you will do the same for every Wellspring client still living."

Total shock. "But-"

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said. "Did I not make myself clear? If you want me to say a single word in your defense you will do as we say. Otherwise, Mrs. Stokes, I will see to it that instead of getting out of prison with a few good years left, you will not leave until they find you cold in your cell."

Sherlock and John headed for their hired car, threading their way around the fountain and past the Kent police cars, now numbering seven and crowding the turnabout in front of the manor house.

"That thing you did for the other clients," John said as they walked, and Sherlock glanced at him. "Making sure Felicity returned all their money."

"Mm?"

"That was Good."

Sherlock crooked a smile: John's approval meant more to him now than ever, but he shrugged and said, "Draining Wellspring's bank accounts will compromise their efforts to mount a successful defense."

"Oh, I know why you did it," John assured him. "It's still Good."

Over the years John had, by necessity, become intimately acquainted with Sherlock's limitations, just as Sherlock had learned John's. While conversant on a wide range of subjects and deeply knowledgeable about the few which really interested him, Sherlock was not one of those people who enjoyed conversation for its own sake. That might have surprised the police, so familiar with his volubility when highlighting their shortcomings or snapping out his observations about a crime scene, but, as he warned John the very first time they met, he could contentedly go for days without speaking. John himself could not be described as especially prolix, but occasions sometimes arose when he liked and needed, for his own peace of mind, to air his thoughts, even if what resulted was a monologue.

So sometimes he would just talk, to say what he needed to say, whether Sherlock paid attention or not. Sometimes Sherlock did listen; sometimes he answered and contributed his own observations; and sometimes he didn't hear or retain a word John said. But John spoke his piece all the same, and he said these things to his friend without hesitation because in many ways speaking to Sherlock was like speaking to himself: He could do it without constraint, without self-editing, without doubt.

Now, as their train left Dover behind and gathered speed, he had something on his mind. Sherlock sat in the aft-facing seat, staring out the window, and he gave no sign of even knowing that John was speaking. Sometimes, John found, that made things easier. The intimacy of their private train compartment, cut off as it was from the outside world, made it easier still.

"You know," he began, "the stuff going on in this place-Wellspring, I mean, not Dover-made me think of something that I haven't had to think about for a while." He paused, but he wasn't waiting for Sherlock to respond. He was ordering his thoughts. Sherlock was still gazing out the window, impassive, and, as was often the case, John couldn't tell whether he was listening to him or not. Nor was he overly worried about it. There were things he wanted to say and Sherlock was adept at "filtering" what he didn't care to hear, so John didn't fear being a bore.

John continued. "My parents tried with Harry and me to put us on the right path-C of E every weekend, Sunday school. You know: The usual. It didn't take, obviously. Harry had no use for it from the start, and really I just felt sorry for my parents because she was such a screw-up. I never had the heart to add to their troubles. But at that age it was in one side and out the other anyway, you know. Sport, beer, and girls: That's what I worshipped at the time. Not necessarily in that order. They say your college years are when people really think the most about Important Ideas, but I guess I was a late bloomer on that count, because I never thought about life or death or the meaning of it all...at all.

"Then in med school...well, you'd think they'd cover the death part, at least, but they don't really have the time for it. They're pretty well focused on teaching you how to save lives. To be honest I didn't even notice; I was far more worried about not having enough information to help patients live than about not having enough compassion for them when they died. I didn't think I needed a class in it.

"For your first term they give you a cadaver, of course, but it was more like a mummy than recognizable as a human being. It wasn't hard to have emotional distance about it. Most of us were interns the first time we saw a person die, and everyone handled that differently. I was sorry for it, but I didn't cry. Maybe I should have. Maybe then I wouldn't have had dreams about it afterward.

"Then eventually you go from watching to causing. The first time that happened I was a surgical resident. We tried everything for this woman: surgery-brilliant surgery, mechanically. To this day one of the best I've ever seen. Completely pointless, though: She had maybe six months of misery and crap to look forward to even if she did recover from it, and in fact she never did. It would have been a tough road for a strong, healthy man, an athlete, to recover from surgery like that, and a fortnight later her children told us to stop on her. The ventilator was the only thing keeping her alive by then. I dialed up her morphine so she wouldn't feel any stress, took the breathing tube out, and listened to her heart stop.

"It made me realize a lot of things about how medicine fails people with end-of-life decisions, but the one thing it didn't make me think about was my own mortality. None of it did: the church, medical school, the deaths I saw in hospital-none of it. It's stupid, isn't it? I don't mean I avoided the subject. I mean it just never really crossed my mind. Back then, when medical intervention didn't work it was like dropping a rock and watching it go up instead of down. I just didn't expect it. Death was the opposing team and I was on the side that kicked its arse."

Sherlock wasn't looking out the window any more. He was watching John.

John himself was looking down at his hands. "You'd think knowing that the difference between life and death depends on your skill-or lack of it-would change your personal approach to life, wouldn't you? It didn't. The army did, though. Surgery in the field's even more in-your-face than surgery in a trauma centre. You get instant results, or damned close. The satisfaction you get from being good at your job: It's right there, right away. But so is dying, and you never know how it's going to happen, where it's going to come from, or when, or who it's going to get next. That tends to focus your priorities quite a bit. We were all like that-from the grunts to the generals. IEDs don't care how many stars are on your coat.

"Everyone dealt with losing mates in their own way, obviously, but...I used to wish...I envied the other guys. The ones who could tell themselves that their friends were in a better place and that they'd see them again some day, and that when they prayed..." John met Sherlock's eyes for the first time since he started speaking. "I know what you think about wishing," he said. "You don't have to go there. But I wished that I believed the way they did. Sometimes I still wish that, that I was sure I'd see people I loved again. I'm not sure of it, but I understand why it makes people feel better. I understand why they tell themselves that death's not, you know: death. I can't do it, but I understand it."

Sherlock was often a little shy about mentioning anything to do with the war, because while John regarded his stint in the army as one of the high points of his life, it also represented a fair amount of trauma: the loss of friends, the premature end of his career. But Sherlock had to say something, John had introduced the topic, and there was this half-formed desire to share with John an idea he'd had for a long time, so he said carefully, "You almost died. In the war."

This was so obviously not worth mentioning that John realized it was meant to be a prelude to something else, and he said, "Yeah. Of course."

"Well," Sherlock said, and stopped.

John wasn't sure what he was getting at, but he wondered whether Sherlock was asking him a question, so he tested that theory. "Did I have a 'come to the light' moment, you mean?"

"Mm."

"No. Not that I remember, anyway. I do remember that once the shock and adrenaline wore off it hurt like a...well. It hurt, and I wanted it all to stop. All the noise from the battle. The pain. But it wasn't like people say, where your grandfather is standing in the light at the end of a tunnel calling you toward him. There was just noise and dust and blood-and then the next thing I knew people were trying to wake me up in post-op and if I'd been able to lift my arm I'd have punched the next person who came near me. But there was no 'light,' none of the stuff people say they remember from near-death experiences." He looked at Sherlock and smiled. "Maybe I wasn't nearly dead enough."

Sherlock didn't smile back. He'd been looking at John and listening to him, but now he went out of focus again. He didn't respond to John's little joke.

John waited for a bit for a response, but Sherlock was obviously miles away. John had said what he wanted to say, though, so he settled back into his seat and watched the autumn countryside race past the window.

Sherlock was somewhere a very long way from the train compartment when suddenly a voice said, "I had to get out," and when John glanced at him in surprise Sherlock realized with a shock that it was his own voice speaking.

"Out of...where?" John asked carefully when Sherlock said nothing else, and when it became clear that he wasn't going to.

Sherlock looked down, brushed some invisible lint from the knee of his jeans. "I don't know," he admitted. "I remember standing in the office with-" He stopped. Didn't pronounce the names. "And then I woke up."

He said it with finality, like he was done with his part of the conversation, but somehow John knew better. He didn't say that it was usual for trauma victims to be unable to remember anything about their experience. Instead he waited, not looking directly at Sherlock but past him, at the window frame behind his shoulder.

As little as Sherlock cared for people and as contemptuous as he was of so many, he was still, at root, made uneasy by them. He didn't know how to behave around them, how to gain a sense of them so that he said the correct things. Had no real interest in saying the correct things. With John it was different. There was no strain, no defensiveness, no need to guard himself. Sherlock protected himself just like anyone else and more so than most, but he wasn't at risk with John and he knew it. John was as safe as solitude. So now when he hesitated it wasn't because he was concerned about how John would react, it was because he lacked the emotional breadth to articulate what he wanted to say even to his own satisfaction.

Even if he'd possessed the emotional tools, the experience itself was so ephemeral that the only remaining trace of it was that memory of his frantic, desperate conviction that he had to get out. From where, he didn't know. All he had then and all he retained now was that conviction that the most important thing in his world was at risk and that he had to defend it. Although he couldn't explain what made him so certain of that, it was real to him then and somehow was still real to him all these years later. Casting it into a form that he could communicate to John, though, was nearly impossible-and he was surprised and dismayed by the intensity of his need to try.

"It felt-" he began, and stopped again with a grimace of disgust. He despised that word: Felt. He was Sherlock Holmes. He thought, he knew, he acted. He didn't feel. And yet he couldn't be more definitive than that now, because he really didn't know. He didn't know where he'd been or what happened except as a dying echo reflected in the intensity of his emotion upon waking.

He started over. "I don't remember thinking, 'I have to get out,'" he said. "I don't remember anything, actually. But when I woke up...I knew that I had been thinking it. Not in words, but in...knowing it. I felt as though I'd been fighting for the most important thing in the world, and that I'd won."

"You fought for your life," John said simply. "What's more important than that?"

You are, Sherlock thought. "Nothing," he said. Then he shrugged indifferently, back to himself. "I shouldn't have brought it up. It's proof of nothing, of course, other than the working of my subconscious."

"Well," John said, matching his offhanded tone, "something helped you beat the odds, and it wasn't medical intervention. Subconscious bloody-mindedness is as good an explanation as any. They called you on the OR table, you know."

"Yes," Sherlock said dryly. "Mycroft mentioned it while he was upbraiding me afterward. It was on his list of things I'd done to piss him off that day. If I recall, the items in descending order of priority were defying his wishes, being the proximate cause of his presence in a hospital, proposing marriage, committing criminal trespass, and getting shot. After that was Number Six: Dying."