Author's Note: This story is set post-Fall, post-return, after all the loose ends are tied up (mostly) and Sherlock is back to being bored out of his mind again.

Who Are You?

By Navigatio

Summary: The case was only a three. Sherlock should never have taken it. But he didn't know. How could he have known that it would end up hitting so close to home? Ingredients: stubborn John, a heaping helping of bittersweet bromance, a dash of Sherlock/Molly, and a pinch of John/Mary, definitely shaken not stirred. You're in luck, because things are starting to get interesting in chapter four!

Chapter 4: Lost in Wales

Molly was closing a Y-incision when her mobile buzzed on her desk: two short buzzes, so a text. That could wait. It would have to wait. She had a pretty good idea who it was anyway. John had to work today, so Sherlock was home alone, which meant he was bored out of his mind, which meant he texted Molly several dozen times a day. Hence the reason Molly now had an unlimited texting package added to her mobile plan.

The phone buzzed four more times before she got to a point where she could take a break. Each time was like having a mosquito in her ear. A very persistent mosquito. At least he didn't bite as much as he used to. That had been one change from his fall that she had come to appreciate. True, he was still arrogant, irrepressible Sherlock, but he now occasionally said "Thank you," and rarely, if ever, made flippant comments about her hair or makeup anymore. He even, occasionally, asked for her opinion and listened to her answers.

Molly stripped off her gloves and tossed them into the trash on her way to her desk. She picked up her mobile and thumbed through the texts. The first three were from Sherlock, as she had expected.

Busy today? Want to take a drive?

And the next, three minutes later,

Come help me on a case and see the lovely Welsh shore at the same time! It's a two-fer!

Less than two minutes after that,

Molly? Are you coming or not?

Molly sighed. Sherlock knew her work schedule. He should have known she was working. She returned her phone to the home screen and checked the time. Oh, she was supposed to have gotten off work nearly thirty minutes ago, which coincidentally was the exact time the first text arrived.

The fourth text was from John.

Just to warn you, Sherlock might want you to go to Wales with him today.

And the fifth, also from John, arriving on the heels of the fourth:

I think he's lonely. He won't admit it, of course.

Molly sighed. Of course Sherlock was lonely, she knew that already. It was obvious by the way he had followed her around like a puppy for the first month of his self-imposed exile, and then again every time he had come back to visit. If they were in the sitting room and she left to go into the kitchen, within two minutes he would find some reason to be in the kitchen too. And if she went back into the sitting room, he would soon do the same. It became a private game she played, moving from room to room and then seeing how long it took for him to join her. Fortunately he had never followed her into the loo, although several times he had stood just outside and carried on talking to her through the door.

She didn't have any illusions about it. She knew it was just him being lonely, missing John. It didn't mean that he missed HER, particularly. He just needed someone around to tell him how amazing he was on a regular basis.

Well, not today; as appealing as it sounded to be stuck in a car with Sherlock for over three hours, she had a dentist appointment and it wouldn't do to cancel. It had taken her forever to get the appointment, and if she canceled she would have to wait another month to get that crown replaced.

She texted John first.

I know he's lonely, but I can't today. I'll set something up with him another day.

And then Sherlock.

Sorry, can't today. I'm busy.

His answer was immediate.

It's for a case. Tracking down evidence.

I have an appointment.

Cancel it. I'll take you out to dinner after.

Oh, that was tempting, but her tooth was really hurting. There was no way she was going to wait another month to get it fixed.

Sorry, I can't today, but I will take a rain check on dinner. I'm sure you can handle this on your own. I have faith in you. :-)

There were no more texts from him that day.

Sherlock got lost on the way to Abersoch. He wasn't sure exactly how that had happened. One minute he was on the A497 headed west, and the next, he was passing a sign that said "Efailnewydd", and he knew that was too far north. He had missed a turn somewhere, but damned if he knew where. Bloody hell.

He blamed John, really. If John had been sitting in the passenger seat of the rented Bentley with a map-or better yet, driving while Sherlock took a kip-this never would have happened. He also blamed John because it was all his fault Sherlock hadn't been paying attention while he was driving. It was John's fault Sherlock had been thinking about Mary and trying to figure out if she was really good for them. She cooked, so that was a point in her favor. She didn't mind Sherlock tagging along on their dates, another good thing. But she took up a lot of John's time, which was distracting to say the least.

Sighing deeply, Sherlock took the exit to Efailnewydd. He pulled off the road and consulted the map on his phone. How humiliating, having to consult a map app like a mere mortal. It took a few minutes for him to figure out, on the tiny screen, that he had missed the exit for the A499. Backtracking was annoying, but after a few minutes he was on the right road again, and this time his thoughts drifted to the problem of Molly. She always seemed irritated with him lately and he didn't understand why. He did the same things he always had done, so why was her reaction different now? Most importantly, why did she now feel the need to say no to him so often? He didn't feel his requests were unreasonable. The odd body part now and then. A peek at a corpse who had died in an interesting way. An offer to accompany him on a case—Molly should have jumped at the chance, but instead she had turned him down. It was a change in her usual pattern, which was confusing and frustrating. Previously, before he had been dead, she would have been eager to do anything he asked, and if she balked, then a well-placed compliment would bring her around. Now, flattery got him nowhere. It didn't make sense.

Before Sherlock knew it, he had missed the next turn and was headed the wrong way again. Cursing himself for all kinds of a fool, he made an illegal u-turn and found the right street to take him to the tiny Abersoch police station.

On the way up the front steps of the building, he consulted the text John had sent earlier.

Ask for Inspector Carew. He's been on the force there for 45 years. And BE NICE! They won't help you if you're rude!

He made a face at the phone and tucked it in his pocket. He already knew to ask nicely; he didn't need John to tell him that.

The young constable at the front desk looked up as he entered. Sherlock deduced him automatically: married young, father of two judging by the spit-up and biscuit crumbs on his sleeve, loyal but not overly bright.

The constable grinned at him, revealing a mouthful of perfectly straight teeth. The younger generation didn't know how good they had it, Sherlock thought, then followed it up immediately with Damnit, I'm old. When did that happen?

"Ah, you must be Sherlock Holmes. Heard you were coming."

Sherlock's estimation of the man's intelligence racheted up a notch. "Ah, yes, you must have spoken with my . . ." What, my John? My partner? ". . . associate."

"He called this morning, Sir. You'll want to speak with Inspector Carew. He's just in the back. I'll call him in, shall I? If you'll have a seat, Sir. . ."

"Please do." Sherlock declined to sit, but he did unwind his scarf and remove his gloves, and tuck them into his coat pockets. He wasn't quite ready to remove his coat yet, even though the room was warm. While London had been enjoying a fine spring day, Abersoch was apparently still in the throes of winter, with an icy, soaking mist permeating the air. The arse end of nowhere indeed.

It wasn't long before Inspector Carew entered: a short, stout man with a round face and an impressive moustache. His uniform was worn but tidy, a bit snug about the midsection. He looked to be in his mid-sixties, so he must be near retirement age, but still had a spring in his step. One of those old codgers who keep going and going, then. Been in the same place, same job for forty-five years, so he was steady and stable, dependable. Or stodgy, depending on how one looked at it. His smile looked genuine if a bit forced. Oh, family trouble?

"Mr Holmes, I'm Inspector Rhys Carew. Pleased to meet you."

"Likewise," Sherlock replied. Don't mention his wayward daughter, he reminded himself. Be NICE. Don't disappoint John.

"Your secretary mentioned you were looking into the disappearance of the Paddington boy?" Secretary? Is that what John was calling himself now? That was a bit of a demotion, wasn't it? "Haven't heard from the Paddingtons in a couple of years now. Thought perhaps they had given up the search finally." Inspector Carew led the way through a half-door into the back section of the station.

"Apparently not," Sherlock murmured, still contemplating the mystery of why John would consider himself Sherlock's secretary, of all things. He wasn't a secretary. Why not just say Friend? "Do you hear from them frequently?"

"Oh, they call every couple of years. Asking questions, following up on ideas they've come up with."

"They both call, or just the wife?"

"Mostly the wife. She's the talker. Although one time the husband did call. Gave me rats, he did. Said I wasn't doing my bit to find his boy. I think he was a bit wedi meddwi, if you catch my meaning." The inspector made a drinking motion with his thumb to his lip. Ah. "Not there's any job to do, mind. No new leads since the boy disappeared. Determination was drowning, despite not finding the body. Poor little chap. Our local doc issued a death certificate about a month after the disappearance."

"So I gather. May I see the file?"

"Certainly. It's considered cold case, so it's kept in the basement. This way, Sir. Mind your head."

The inspector led the way to a door in the back that opened onto a set of stairs leading down. Even after he had flicked the light on, it looked gloomy and damp. Probably spider-infested as well. Ugh. Low beams crossed just at Sherlock's head-height. The inspector easily passed under them, but Sherlock had to duck his head uncomfortably to avoid a concussion.

"Tough luck for the town the same thing happening two years in a row," Inspector Carew called over his shoulder on the way down the stairs.

Sherlock lost concentration for a second and nearly bashed his head on a beam. "Oh?" Finally, something interesting. "What do you mean?"

"Well, the previous year another little boy disappeared. The Watson boy. Same weekend, same circumstances."

This time Sherlock did hit his head and nearly fell. Catching himself on the railing, he put a hand to his forehead but encountered no blood. "Who?" he demanded.

"The Watson boy. Johnny. Two years old. Two cases in a row—of course there was rampant speculation 'round town, Sir, as you can imagine. Quite a blow to our little town, dependent as we are on tourism." The inspector reached the bottom landing and flicked on another light, then looked back curiously at Sherlock, who had stopped on the stairs with his hand to his head.

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