Disclaimer: Sherlock was created by Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss based on the words of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I do not own the rights to Sherlock. This is a work of fanfiction, taking elements from S2, Ep 3 of Sherlock written by Mark Gatiss as well as The Sign of Four by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Thus, if you know it, I do not own it.

A/N: I'm kind of on the fence post if the first part of this chapter is vital or not (rehashes a lot of stuff Mary's covered all ready), but I wrote it and I think seeing Lastrade and Donovan's reactions are important, so here it is. Once again, thanks for the reviews, follows and favorites.

In Plain Sight…

After helping Lestrade out another case Sherlock had all ready solved for them, Lestrade asked Mary the question she'd been waiting for since she had run into him in front of the candy display at Marks and Spencer.

"You said you caught Mycroft's attention because of your investigation into Sherlock Holmes and you had a theory about something. You never said what," Lestrade said casually after they'd finished. He didn't meet her eye, busying himself with a pile of folders.

Mary froze in the process of struggling into her jacket. Sherlock had advised her (well, more like ordered her) to tell Lestrade of her so-called-theory. Sitting back down in the chair, she watched Lestrade shuffle around the folders on his desk. He seemed to have an abnormal amount of manilla folders littering his desk suddenly. Glancing over her shoulder, she noted the door was open and right across from them was the officer who was actually a sniper. He was eyeing them with a strange look on his face.

She still hadn't figured out how to tell Lestrade about the faux-officer in place to kill him should Sherlock fail to be dead.

Sherlock failed to be dead and Mary wasn't interested in the faux officer hearing her thoughts on the topic.

Lestrade finally stopped shuffling folders and looked at her in question. Mary stood up and shut the door. Leaning against it, she met Lestrade's gaze.

"You'll think I'm mental," she began, biting her lower lip for a moment. "But, I don't think Sherlock's really dead."

She whispered the last part, wondering if the office was bugged.

Great. Sherlock Holmes was making her paranoid. Mary had never been paranoid before she gotten mixed up with Holmes. Now she as worried about CCTV camera spying on her every move, snipers shooting silver haired DIs and microphones hidden to listen into private conversations.

Tragically, CCTV was spying on her (how else did Sherlock KNOW when she needed help?) and there was a sniper outside poised to shoot Lestrade if he got the right signal. Oh, and there were more likely hidden listening devices all over the place.

Her life was a bad spy movie.

"You don't think he's dead? You think he fell off a building, smashed his head in, got up and walked off?" Lestrade asked, wrinkling his forehead. His confusion was plain, but he didn't think she was mental. Too many years of Sherlock Holmes spouting off impossible things had taught Lestrade to keep his ears and mind open to the improbable.

Mary looked at his face for a long drawn out moment, honestly surprised he hadn't laughed at her. He picked up on her own confusion. He gave her a look that told her to get on with it and she knew perfectly well why he didn't think she needed to be sectioned ASAP.

"So, gimme. How'd Sherlock walk off after he met the pavement head first?"

"I…I don't know," Mary admitted.

Sherlock had never told her how he did it because she wasn't interested in the how, but the why. She said so much to the DI in front of her.

"So, basically, you were curious?"

"Uh, pretty much."

"Curiosity killed the cat."

"And I'm a very dead cat," Mary joked. She heaved a sigh and sat down in the chair across from Lestrade. "I cannot resist a good mystery and my curiosity…well, I found one big huge quandary. At first all I wanted to know was who the hell Sherlock Holmes was. I admit I read, er, Doctor Watson's texts whilst trying to figure out who to phone for him. While they were odd, I didn't think much of it till after you were surprised I didn't know who Sherlock was. I went home that evening, looked him up online."

Lestrade nodded, folding his arms across his chest.

"Well, there was quite a bit of information. I sorted through all of it in one night. It's easy to deduce Sherlock's personality from what's out there. Doctor Watson's blog, his own blog, and then the fan sites."

"Fan sites?"

"Yes. You weren't aware of the fan sites?" Mary asked, surprised coloring her features. "I'm pretty sure they are the only non-entertainment, non-couple shipped on fan fiction sites across the web."

From the look on Lestrade's face, fan fiction was something beyond his comprehension.

"Anyways," she said loudly as the door opened behind her.

"Sir?"

"Donovan?" Lestrade asked, only sounding slightly annoyed. "Is it pressing?"

"No, but sir?" Donovan said in such a manner that it meant, What is she doing here again? Why are you doing this again? Didn't you learn the first time not to consult with freaks?

"We've finished our work and we're discussing something non work related. Theories and such," Lestrade announced. He shifted his eyes to Mary, the corners crinkling in amusement. "I think some kid is dreaming and we're all just stuck in his nightmare. She thinks Sherlock's alive."

Donovan made a choking noise from behind Mary.

"What do you think?" Lestrade inquired, looking back up at Donovan.

Mary turned around to find Donovan opening and closing her mouth, eyes wide and whatever she had been holding on the ground at her feet. Looking past Donovan, Mary noted the faux officer wasn't at his desk and let out a small sigh of relief.

"I believe she thinks it is the fish faced mute with the manilla folder in the study," Mary sardonically offered, turning back to face Lestrade.

"Fish faced mute…" Lestrade chuckled, shaking his head. He ran both hands through his short silver hair before looking back up at Donovan. "Sit, Donovan."

Donovan looked for a moment like she was going to bolt out of the office, but she shut the door and sat down heavily in the chair next to Mary.

"Where was I?" Mary asked, ignoring the glare from Donovan.

Donovan still was acting like she had a stick shoved up her butt, but Mary did not expect any less from the woman. Mary was technically encroaching on her territory as a detective. And if one things about Donovan anyone could see it was she was rather territorial.

"I think you're a dead cat because you started researching Sherlock," Lestrade reminded her.

"Ah, yes. I'm a dead cat. Well, I finally stopped my mad researching around four in the morning drawing only one conclusion: it made no sense."

"What made no sense?" Donovan demanded.

Mary gave the other woman a fleeting glance before saying, "That Sherlock committed suicide. It made absolutely no sense whatsoever."

"He's a fake," Donovan stated.

"Ah, but is he?" Mary challenged.

"He is. He made it all up. He paid—"

"Ah, but did he? There are videos on YouTube that people have taken of him at crime scenes, twirling around, flapping about deducing up a storm. There were times he went off and away from the Yard, had people come to him with cases and he solved those. From watching and reading all these things posted online you can easily figure out the man's personality. He is an arrogant, self important asshole. You can also see he's a genius. He is clever and one cannot fake that on the fly. The knowledge he stored in that massive, overinflated head was real. And the cases he took and solved were way too wide spread for him to orchestrate and pay people off, even with his massive brain."

"What about Richard Brook? Who is he?"

"Richard Brook," Mary replied, an unsaid duh in her tone. Donovan rolled her eyes, crossing her arms tightly across her chest. "He's real. But, so is Moriarty. Here."

Mary opened up her bag, pulling out the envelope of clippings she kept in it since Sherlock had told her to tell Lestrade about her theory. The envelope contained only the vital things Mary thought she might need to prove her point. She dumped the envelope onto Lestrade's desk. After sifting through the pile, she pulled out the CV of Richard Brook.

"I know a little about acting," she offered, smoothing out the piece of paper. "And, see…he works rather sporadically after the ending of this award winning show. The only steady work he's had the past two years has been this storytelling gig for kid's TV. And, since Sherlock's fall, he hasn't worked at all. You'd think now that the evil mastermind behind Moriarty is dead and gone, he'd go back to working. He was a brilliant actor. He pulled off the role of Moriarty wonderfully. While the industry might be weary of the man for a while, it's been long enough in Hollywood time for him to go back to work. But, he hasn't."

"Where'd he go?" Donovan asked, frowning suddenly. The hostility the woman had had earlier was slowly melting off as she allowed herself to be wrapped into the story Mary was weaving.

"Richard Brook is James Moriarty. They are the same person. The paper has all ready showed the before and after. The entire nation did a DUH loudly after they saw the photos," Mary said, pulling the article out showing Brook and Moriarty together.

"I couldn't believe that," Donovan admitted, picking up the article. "I was there when he as arrested for…wearing the Crown Jewels. He didn't look anything thing like this actor, but…"

"He is," Mary said.

"So, they are the same," Lestrade stated, folding his arms across his chest and leaning back in his chair. "Which ones is the real idenity? Moriarty or Brook?"

Mary grinned. "They are the same and both real. Moriarty was the name Brook used to do his criminal consulting work. Remember? No one knows what Moriarty looked like till he showed up wearing the Crown Jewels."

Lestrade frowned. "But, how…Sherlock only met Moriarty for like five minutes. In that five minutes, how on earth did he learn all that stuff?"

Lestrade waved his hand at the news article. Mary allowed a small grin to form on her lips. Here was her new research she'd been working on since meeting Sherlock.

"Remember that case Sherlock worked with the bomber?"

Donovan frowned deeply, glaring once more at Mary. Lestrade nodded grimly. Mary searched through the pile of clipping till she pulled out the one she'd dug up on Carl Powers.

"The kid with the shoes?" Lestrade asked. "The boy who died when Sherlock was just a kid?"

"Yeah. Anyways, I decided to search Richard Brook against Carl Powers." Mary paused for a moment before pulling out a school roster she'd gotten her hands on. She pointed at the two names. "They went to school together."

"Carl Powers and Richard Brook?" Donovan asked.

Mary nodded.

"Which then made me wonder how the hell Richard Brook knew all that personal stuff about Sherlock that was in that blasted article," Mary said, pulling out the information she'd gathered on both Sherlock and Brook. "Brook went to school with Powers, Sherlock went to a fancy public school. They did not cross paths at that point. Uni? Brook went to drama school. Sherlock went to Cambridge. So, they didn't go to uni together. When did they cross paths that Sherlock would grow close enough to him to tell him all that personal stuff? In the five minutes they chatted when Brook strapped a bomb to John? During the courtroom hearing after the break-ins?"

Donovan opened her mouth, but oddly nothing came out.

"Sherlock would never tell anyone anything in that article," Lestrade said evenly, looking at Donovan. There was ice in his eyes as he looked at her. "There is only one person alive who would have known anything like that."

"John?" Donovan asked, looking at Lestrade, too bewildered to notice Lestrade's glare.

"No," Mary and Lestrade said together. "His older brother."

Donovan looked very confused.

"Anyways, I have no theory on how Brook got the information, but since he was in fact Moriarty it isn't that far fetched he might have happened to be picked up by the government… might have done something to get Mr Holmes to spill the beans on his annoying younger sibling."

Lestrade frowned deeply.

"Or, he was fed false information. No one's ever fact checked what Brook told the reporter," Mary offered. "BUT, since I figured this out, and I'm a moron, I'm sure that Sherlock knew this before he fell off the roof. So, the question remains: why did he jump off the roof?"

"Because he's a fake," Donovan insisted.

Mary really wanted to stomp on her foot. With five inch stiletto heels.

"Er, no. Brook was playing a game with Sherlock. Can't you see that? Brook was clever, just as Sherlock is clever. I'm sure he saw Sherlock as the ultimate playmate. The bombs and the trail of puzzles? That was a game to introduce himself to Sherlock properly. But, Sherlock didn't want to play the game properly. Sherlock went off and got friends."

She looked up and met the eyes of Gregory Lestrade. His mind was whirling. Mary was sure he knew a lot more about the bomber case than what Mary had been able to glean online. Lestrade also knew Sherlock better than Mary did.

Donovan snorted. "The Freak didn't have any friends. He was a psychopath."

"Eh," Mary offered. "I don't think he is, but if you'd like to entertain that idea, go right ahead. Sherlock has friends. If you read John's blog, it's clear Sherlock valued John's life over his own, hence why he didn't book it when John grabbed Moriarty when they were at the pool. So, if Brook/Moriarty threatened his friends…would Sherlock fall to save them?"

"Yes," Lestrade answered quickly, looking almost surprised he'd said it.

"Yeah. So, this is where my whole theory gets a bit wobbly, because I came up with the reasoning behind his jump after I found the headstone."

"You went to his grave?" Donovan asked, looking like she thought Mary was mental.

"No. I stumbled upon it," Mary snapped. "I happen to enjoy the calmness and quiet of graveyards and cemeteries. I don't know why, but I do. So, I visit them. I just happened to visit the one Sherlock's headstone sits in and the moment I saw it, I knew there was something wrong with it."

Donovan made a face.

"You're right," Lestrade breathed.

"What?" Donovan asked.

"It just says his name!" Lestrade exclaimed, slapping his palms on the desk. "Nothing else."

Mary smiled a small smile and nodded.

"So?" Donovan asked.

"So?" Mary challenged. "Mr Holmes is a very traditional person. At this point, I'd only met him for maybe three minutes, but I knew he worked for the government, always wore a three piece suit, drank tea on a daily basis, and carried an umbrella all the time. Give him a bowler hat, and he'd be the picture, perfect British gentleman. He is British to the core, and us British enjoy tradition."

"And Sherlock's headstone lacks dates, his middle name…" Lestrade said in an awed voice. "So…"

"It also lacks a vase for flowers— which almost all modern graves have— and is sitting all by its lonesome under a tree," Mary stated. "There are no graves for meters in a crowded graveyard in London. And, it is not normal to burry people in the areas that are meant to be clear, either, like under that tree. So, I did some digging till I found the actual graveyard where the Holmes family buries themselves and went there."

"And that's how you got Mycroft's attention," Lestrade guessed correctly. "What did he think of your theory?"

"He informed me I was rather clever, but wrong, and said he'd be in touch," Mary lied through her teeth. "Then, a few days later I ran into you."

Donovan looked like someone had whacked her over the head with a two by four.

"So, he's alive," Lestrade breathed.

"He's alive," Mary confirmed.

"No! Why did he kill himself?! Why would he do that? He made John watch! How cold hearted is that!" Donovan ranted, leaping to her feet. "He's a bloody psychopath!"

"Donovan, sit down," Lestrade snapped.

She sat down.

"I think Brook had him pushed up against the wall. Just think, what if someone told you that there were snipers or something was in place ready to kill the most important people in your life if you didn't jump off the building? What would you do?"

Donovan paled. "That didn't happen."

"What if it did?" Mary challenged. "That if Brook's people did not see you fall to your death from the roof of St. Bart's someone important to you got a bullet to his head? All your friends? Would you jump to save them?"

Donovan did not answer.

"He would," Lestrade said. "Sherlock would jump."

"But…but…but…he doesn't care! All he cares about is getting off on strange cases! He doesn't care about people! He doesn't have friends!" Donovan shouted. It honestly looked like her head was about to explode.

"He did," Lestrade replied sternly. "I was his friend. John was his friend. And…"

Lestrade trailed off, staring at his desk for a long drawn out moment. In her head Mary chanted for him to guess the right person.

"Mrs Hudson. Molly," he said, looking up at Mary, meeting her eyes. Mary gave him a very, very small smile and winked. Suddenly, it was like someone had lifted a five ton weight off Lestrade's shoulders. He sat up straighter, looked lighter and there was a spark in his eye that had been absent before. "Myself, John, Molly and Mrs Hudson. The four people threatened."

Well, Mary didn't know who Molly was, but she wasn't going to step on such a happy looking man's feet for an additional person.

"What about his brother?" Donovan asked.

"Have you met Mycroft Holmes?" Lestrade asked, leveling Donovan a look.

"No."

"Think of Sherlock, only with more power and some manners," Lestrade offered. Donovan made a face again. "Now put them in a room together." Donovan blanched. "Exactly."

Mary quietly giggled.

"So, he faked his own death to protect us….and is now?"

"Taking out Brook?" Mary offered with a small shrug. "I didn't get that far. I got distracted around the time I figured out Sherlock was alive. Then I started to tutor two kids, one who has it out for my entire wardrobe— and coming here to stare at people and tell you random things that make sense to you."

"I was wondering why you had splattered your shirt with green and yellow paint," Lestrade commented, a wry smile on his face.

Mary had seen Lestrade smile many time before, but she had never realized how tight and bland those smiles were till now. Now, Lestrade looked ten year younger and bright. Mary felt heat rising up in her cheeks and quickly looked down at her stained shirt.

"I need a new jacket," Mary moaned, trying to close her coat over her shirt. "She seriously doesn't want to learn French. Nor does her brother. I did get the goop out of my hair, right?"

"No," Donovan offered, pulling out some dried cheesy goop from Mary's hair.

"Bloody hell," Mary muttered. "I swore I got it all out before I left."

"Sounds like you could use a new job," Lestrade suggested.

"Eh," Mary said.

The three sat in silence for a moment. Mary knew Donovan was bursting with questions, rebuttals and arguments on everything Mary had told her, but was keeping silent for some unknown reason. Donovan's hands were twitching up a storm, but she refused to allow them to move from where she'd placed them flat on her thigh.

"Well, since I am a hot mess, I think it best if I check on out," Mary said, gathering her belongings.

Lestrade thanked her and offered to show her out. Mary declined, eyeing Donovan. Lestrade nodded, accepting the envelope Mary slipped him before she headed on out the door. It might be easier to deduce the mole in the office now that Lestrade knew her theory. He might even figure it out on his own since her sniper theory was in the envelope she'd handed him with all her evidence so he could look it over on his own. She didn't have much proof as she'd been told about the snipers, but she'd written down where the supposed victims were located the moment Sherlock fell down and went boom. That might give Lestrade the push in the right direction.

Mary's phone beeped as she walked out of the building. Pulling it out, she checked the message.

Next time. Duduce mole.

Mary eyed the message for a moment, then glanced around. She didn't see anyone who resembled Sherlock, but the area was filled with CCTV cameras.

Eyes watching her. Mycroft's more than likely.

The phone beeped again.

No. It's me. He doesn't text, remember?

Mary pocketed the phone, looked right at one of the cameras and mouthed, "Stop reading my mind, you bloody wanker."

Turning, she stomped off to the Tube station.

John had been out of London for almost seven months. He could not handle it after the funeral and fled to the country. Henry Knight was kind enough to allow him to stay at his home for the past seven months. While it was odd being in a town that reminded him of Sherlock, he found it easier to be in Dartmoor than London. Henry was kind and understanding throughout John's morning period. Henry's therapist even saw John and was able to help John out getting a part time job being a GP in town.

John could have stayed in Dartmoor forever.

But then, he saw something and knew he had to come back London. Harry had sent it to him, thinking it would cheer him up.

It did. Until he noticed the odd, out of place posters mixed in with the I Believe In Sherlock Holmes posters. Harry hadn't mentioned those posters. John assumed she had not noticed them when she'd gone around London photographing the places where the Sherlock posters were popping up.

A quick search online showed John that the posters were asking for Kelia Kensington to contact a law office. There were theories all over the internet about what the posters meant and why they'd popped up now of all times and why they were almost always with the Sherlock posters, but nothing was all that believable.

John had not thought about Kelia Kensington in years, not since she had gone missing after her husband died.

A few days passed before John was able to talk himself into taking the train into London. He honestly was not sure why he'd come. He didn't think he'd magically find Kelia Kensington, but if she was in London, or if she was indeed still alive, John wanted to know. And to start anything, he had to go to London. He did not understand why, but his gut said he had to go to London.

John had no clue what he was looking for and spent most of his day simply walking around London, looking at the posters and attempting to figure out a pattern.

There was none.

Since he was in London for the day, John decided to stop by the Yard to see if Greg was in before catching the overnight train back to Dartmoor. While John was angry at the Yard for arresting Sherlock on his last night alive, John did not blame Greg. Greg had shown up begging Sherlock to go for questioning on his own free will, then called to warn John they were coming to arrest Sherlock. John knew Lestrade did not believe Sherlock had anything to do with the kidnapping and wanted Sherlock to vanish into the night.

Sherlock didn't, of course.

John arrived at the Yard around six in the evening.

And that was when he saw the strangest thing.

A very pretty girl with a dark bob came out of the building, clutching her jacket closed. The moment she was outside, her phone went off. She read the text and looked around, a bewildered expression on her face.

And John stopped breathing.

He blinked several times.

The phone must have beeped again, as she looked down at it, scowling. She looked up, found a CCTV camera and mouthed something at it slowly before turning and stomping off in the opposite direction.

John watched her go, feeling like he'd just gotten the wind knocked out of him.

That had been Kelia Kensington. She had just walked out of Scotland Yard and mouthed off at a CCTV camera.

What was she doing here?

John remained standing outside the Yard for an unknown length of time till someone shook his shoulder. He startled a bit to find Greg standing in front of him.

"John? What are you doing here?"

"I, er, I, uh, I came to see you, mate," John said, shifting uneasily. "I…"

"We'll I'm off. Do you have time for a pint. I haven't heard or seen you in months," Greg said.

Greg looked abnormally cheerful.

"Are you back?"

"No. Yes. No. I don't know," John managed. "Do you know Kelia Kensington?"

"That actress that vanished a few years back?"

John nodded.

"I know of her, but I don't know her," Greg said, steering John towards a taxi that had pulled up. "Why?"

Greg and John got into the taxi. Greg gave the address for a pub near Baker Street.

"Oh, well, I swear I saw her."

"What? Where? Have you seen those posters all over town asking her to contact a law firm?"

"Yeah, I did. Harry's been sending me photos of the Sherlock ones," John admitted. "I noticed the Kelia Kensington ones mixed in."

"I know. I don't get that at all. Weird, yeah?" Greg asked. John nodded. "Where did you see her?"

"Coming out of the Yard," John said. "She came out, got a text, frowned at her phone, then found a CCTV camera and mouthed something at it. I mean, I didn't…it couldn't have been her."

"Why did you think it was her?" Greg asked. "I mean, there's been lots of sightings all over town. It's like every blue eyed blonde is her."

"She didn't have blue eyes," John realized. "Though, I don't know. She had dark hair. Short. She was dressed kind of…odd. She was clutching her coat closed. And I think her shirt was stained. Maybe someone attacked her?"

"Wait. Short, dark hair? Was her shirt stained with green and yellow?"

"I think so."

"That's not Kelia Kensington," Greg laughed, looking at John like he was mad. "Oh, John…"

"You know her?"

"Of course. So do you. Well, you might not remember her," Greg said, laughter dying in his face suddenly. John gave the older man a confused look. Greg rubbed the back of his neck. "That was Mary Morstan. She, uh, picked up your cell phone the day Sherlock…"

"Oh. No, I don't remember much of that day," John lied. He remembered more than he cared to remember. He vaguely remembered a woman, but not much about her.

"Yeah. I think…well, you said she didn't look anything like Kelia Kensington, as Mycroft kept calling her Ms Kensington that day. That was really…weird. Not like Mycroft to confuse people," Greg admitted, looking confused now. "But…I guess I can see it a bit. I mean, Mary's lost a bit of weight since…then, but she doesn't really look too much like her. No blonde hair, or blue eyes. Though, I guess…"

Greg made a few vague hand motions at his face. John frowned.

"I swore that was her," John whispered, shaking his head.

"How do you even know her? I mean, Kelia Kensington, not Mary."

"Oh, she was in a play Harry was in when she was little. Kelia, not Harry," John said. "She was brilliant. Kelia, not Harry. Then, a few years later after Kelia had moved to London, I ran into her at a coffee shop. I can honestly say Kelia Kensington gave me her number and I lost it."

"Seriously?!"

John nodded. "I didn't even realize how buggered I was till she hit it big after I graduated med school and I was like, I could have dated her!"

It felt good to laugh, to remember positives times that had nothing to do with Sherlock with Greg.

John shared the USO story with Greg as well before they reached the pub. They both went in, grabbed a bite, a pint and caught up with one another for another hour before the topic of Mary Morstan came up.

"So, she's helping out on cases?" John asked, bewildered. "After all the trouble with…"

Greg nodded. "Yeah. She's a godsend, honestly. While she's…well, not as good as him— no where close— she can see things in people that I don't think the average person could see. She'd dead helpful, too. And nice."

"And you just stumbled across her?"

"Kind of," Greg said, twisting the glass in his hands and not looking at John.

John had missed his train by this point, so he was in no rush. He gave Greg the time to get his thoughts in order.

"I think Mycroft pushed her on me," Greg admitted. "He picked me up after I closed a case and then dumped me off in Kensington. On the high street near a Marks and Spencer. Since it was so strange, I went into the store. I spotted Mary staring blankly at the chocolates and knew she was why he'd dumped me there."

"Honestly?"

Greg nodded, still staring at the pint in his hands. "We got to talking, I had her do the trick she did with Mycroft at the morgue. She was dead on."

"What trick?"

"Oh, right," Greg said, glancing up. "She, uh, deduced me. And Mycroft."

"She what?"

"She looked at me and told me personal facts about myself," Greg clarified. "She did the same to Mycroft at the hospital by guessing he was with MI5."

John had a cloudy memory of this.

"Anyways, she comes in and stares at suspects for me," Greg explained. "She's helped solve two cases using what limited evidence I can show her, but she's more useful with suspects we're questioning. I wish I could hire her. The family she's working for as a French tutor…the kids are monsters. She makes almost no money and they ruin her clothes constantly. She had dried cheesy goop in her hair today and her shirt was covered in nail polish. And her coat's been broken since I met her."

John frowned.

"Another reason she can't be Kelia Kensington," Greg laughed, picking up his glass and draining it. "She'd have the money to buy a new coat."

"And not work for devil children," John finished.

"Here, here."

John parted ways with Greg a half hour later and checked himself into a cheap hotel for the night near the train station. He knew he could have gone back to Baker Street and asked Mrs Hudson to kip in the flat, but he still could not bare to go to the flat. It wasn't his flat, even if Mycroft had told him he was free to live there.

John wanted nothing to do with 221B Baker Street if Sherlock wasn't around. So, instead of sleeping in a comfortable bed pondering the mysterious Mary Morstan, he was in a crappy hotel bed pondering. He didn't come up with anything before he fell into an uneasy sleep.

It was only after he'd returned to Dartmoor and was looking through old photos of Kelia Kensington did he come across one from the last movie she had made. She played Consuelo Vanderbilt, a woman with dark hair and dark eyes.

The pieces fell into place.

That was why he thought Mary Morstan looked like Kelia Kensington. He'd watched the movie with Henry before he'd gone to London, so that image of Kelia Kensington was fresh in his head.

Looking at the photo of Kelia Kensington as Vanderbilt, John was positive Mary Morstan was in fact Kelia Kensington, with a few extra pounds on her frame.