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Donovan was waiting by the police car with handcuffs.

"Lestrade..." said Sherlock, pausing.

Lestrade put a hand on his arm and Sherlock flinched. "It's just procedure, Sherlock. The Superintendent has his eye on us, we have to go by the book. You've been signed off by the hospital, so now you have to give an official statement. Then we can release you."

"Or set a court date," Sergeant Donovan said.

"I gave you a statement last night."

"Yes, and it was ridiculous," said Donovan.

"It needs to be by the book," said Lestrade. "Not a barely legible scrawl written while you were concussed and drugged."

"This is a waste of time," Sherlock complained. "You'll never solve this case before your holiday. Your wife will be livid."

"As I said, it's procedure. What can you do?"

What could he do?

Option one: escape. Outcome: capture and arrest, this time with a real charge for resisting the first arrest. Alternative outcome: a life on the run (boring).

Option two: go along with this ridiculous charade. Outcome: get it over and done with as quickly as possible and get back on the case. Alternative outcome: jail (unlikely).

Sherlock offered his wrists to Sergeant Donovan. "Broken in four places. Try to be careful this time," he sneered.

She snapped the cuffs on gently and opened the police car door for him, guarding his head with a hand as he lowered himself inside. She and Lestrade got in the front and drove to the station in stony silence.

Sherlock forced his expression from angry to impassive. It wasn't the first time he had been in handcuffs in the back of a police car. The first time had been for possession and he had promised himself that it would not happen again. It felt humiliating and degrading, and then he made matters worse by despising himself for indulging in such illogical, ridiculous emotions. He shouldn't care what people thought - at the most, he should be annoyed at the inconvenience.

It was more than that, though. It wasn't that he could be mistaken for a criminal by any observers. It was that if he was a criminal, he would not be so stupid as to get caught by the police. If he was a criminal, he would be unstoppable. Lucky for London that he had chosen the other side of the law.

At least his current arrest would, retrospectively, prove the police's stupidity. In the meantime, he would have to suffer walking through the police station, covered in cuts and bruises, clothes filthy and half wrecked and to top it all off, in handcuffs, lead meekly by Sergeant Donovan.

They all hated him. How they would love it, whether they believed he was guilty or not. Either he was guilty and they had been right about him all along, or he wasn't guilty, and it was hilarious. Sherlock Holmes, brought down a peg or two.

Well, he refused to care what those idiots thought. Sod them.

His resolve not to care was wavering by the time they reached Scotland Yard. He put on a wooden expression and promised himself that his face would stay that way. He would not betray his discomfort, he would not cause a fuss. He would do this with as much dignity as he could muster by remaining silent and impassive.

Donovan opened the door, and he stepped out, heart racing.

They hadn't even reached the building before someone spotted them. Sergeant Cole whistled. "About time we put you in a pair of those," he chuckled, holding the door open for them. "What's he done?"

"He's a suspect in a shooting," Donovan said.

"Shame on you, Holmes."

"That's enough, Cole," Lestrade said. "Get back to work."

With great effort, Sherlock remained silent. He stood still as Donovan signed him into the building.

As they walked into the bullpen, he hardened his mask and cursed his bloody racing pulse. But dammit, he was attached to his image as an infallible genius. And right now, he didn't look like an infallible genius at all. He looked like somebody who'd been outsmarted, beaten up and arrested.

He avoided eye contact as they walked past the desks of gaping police officers, but kept his head upright. A few of the officers started talking to each other, a couple made comments like Cole had done.

"About time, Holmes."

"Knew you had it in you, ya weirdo."

"Oy!" Lestrade shouted. "Not another word from any of you."

"I can fight my own battles, Lestrade," muttered Sherlock ungratefully.

Then they saw Anderson. Dammit. Why did they have to run into Anderson?

Anderson, on the other hand, was obviously happy about seeing him, for a change.

"What the hell happened to your face?" he said.

"Steel toe-capped boots," said Sherlock, shortly. He was so on-edge and exhausted that he couldn't even think of a witty response. He settled for thinking childishly to himself: 'What the hell happened to yours?'

"I can sympathise. Five minutes of conversation with you and that's what we all want to do."

Sherlock smiled sarcastically. It hurt his jaw.

"Why the cuffs?" he asked Donovan.

"He's a suspect in a shooting," repeated Donovan.

"I knew it. You bloody psychopath, Holmes. About time you got what you deserve."

Sherlock just stared at him, defiantly.

"Leave it, Anderson," Lestrade said, tugging at his arm. "Come on, let's get this over with."

They finally reached the door of the interview room. Sherlock sighed with relief, letting out the breath he didn't realise he'd been holding.

"Inspector!" Cole was shouting from across the office. "Donovan! They've found the Jules guys. Anderson, get Gomez. Tell her it's a double."

Sherlock pursed his lips. "I need to see that crime scene."

"What?" spat Donovan. "You're delusional!"

Lestrade looked from Sherlock to Cole and back again, and with a sinking feeling Sherlock realised what was about to happen.

"I'll be back as quickly as I can," Lestrade said, apologetically

Cole jogged over, enthusiastic. "I'll look after your prisoner till you get back."

Lestrade nodded and shot out of the office, shouting instructions to various people about protective custody for Myra Jules, and who was to go where and get what.

"I can give my statement to..." Sherlock started.

"He waits for me," Donovan told Cole, before she jogged after Lestrade.

Cole put a hand on Sherlock's back. "Now, where shall we put you?" he said with a grin.

The cell wasn't so bad. It was twenty-first century Britain after all, and a combination of human rights laws and compensation culture meant that prisoners were treated fairly well and weren't left to starve or wet themselves.

But it was still a cell. And there was a crime scene out there, and a case to solve, and people who wanted him dead, and bloody hell, his jaw and his hand and his stomach hurt like hell. The stabbing sensations in his hand were bad enough, but the sharp, sickening ache in his face was something else and his whole head felt enormous.

He could probably persuade somebody to go and collect his painkiller prescription, but he was feeling vulnerable enough without lowering himself to asking a police officer for help.

Mycroft no doubt knew where he was, but would rather Sherlock was temporarily out of the picture and unable to discover who his colleague, the mysterious 'Boss' was, until the trail ran cold.

Why was Mycroft determined to thwart The Boss's plan but protect his identity? A power play? Show The Boss who was really boss?

Or was The Boss a friend of his? Perhaps Mycroft really had been after Damian and had only later realized that his friend was involved in the plot, after which he tried to backtrack. And by 'friend', of course, Sherlock meant an acquaintance for whom Mycroft had further use.

Either scenario was as likely as the other. Only a few things were certain:

One: The Boss worked for the government and was known to both Mycroft and Jules.

Two: The Boss had ordered Damian and Leonard Jules dead.

Three: He and Myra were probably next.

No doubt The Boss, with the same insider knowledge as Mycroft, knew that Sherlock was in the cells of Scotland Yard. But if he hadn't attempted anything at the hospital, he probably wouldn't attempt anything here. It wasn't the best place to tie up your loose ends.

He would be ready.

The flat was the most obvious place to get to him. It would be easy to climb up to the balcony, break in through the window, and wait for him to return. It could be weeks before anyone found his body, he reflected morbidly. By that time, the killers would be long gone.

On the other hand, they might assume he would be under surveillance at home. If The Boss was clever, which was fairly likely considering his success so far, then he would have him tailed and jumped or poisoned when he least expected it.

Well, he would be disappointed, because Sherlock would always be expecting it. Until the killers were all caught, he would eat and drink only from sealed packets he'd bought from shops he'd never shopped in before. He would be watching everyone around him, waiting for someone to strike and he would be ready to defend himself.

If only he could figure out where to get his next clue from.

He could tell where Conscience and Gruff had been, but that didn't necessarily tell him where they would go next. They would change their routines to avoid his detection.

Suddenly, he realised something. Gruff had wiped his fingerprints from the gun. A sensible precaution of course. But was it worth delaying his escape? Possibly. Possibly. More so, of course, if he had a record.

"Excuse me!" he shouted for the guard. "Can you get me some mug shots to look through? It's to help with Lestrade's double-murder case."

"I'll ask," the guard conceded. He came back ten minutes later with a pile of photo albums.

"Isn't it about time this went electronic?" Sherlock asked.

The guard shrugged.

It was a mind-numbingly tedious task, but it was as close as he could get to investigation at this point. He sat down, sighed, and opened the first book.

He was almost relieved when he was interrupted by Donovan several hours later: "Time for your statement, freak."

Shame he hadn't passed out, he thought darkly, it would have been embarrassing for Donovan to have to call 999 because she'd left her concussed prisoner unsupervised in a cell and let him fall into a coma.

He glanced at the pile of books. Useless.

She opened the door and put the cuffs back on him.

"Enjoy it Sergeant, it will be the last time you do it."

"I doubt that," she said.

They walked the rest of the way in silence. Lestrade was waiting in the interview room.

"Sorry about that, Sherlock," he said.

"What happened?"

"Later," he said. "First let's get this statement done."

Donovan switched on the digital recorder and recited the date, time, and the names and ranks of herself and Lestrade. She followed with: "Interview with Sherlock Holmes, arrested on suspicion of assault with a deadly weapon. Tell us what happened Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock explained that he had discovered the time and place of the Jules' meeting with the kidnappers.

"How?" asked Donovan.

"A... tip-off," he said, only half lying.

"From who?"

"Irrelevant to the charge. The important thing is that I arrived at the school and waited. Shortly afterwards, at about 7pm, two men, one of them armed, arrived with Leonard Jules. The boy was bound and gagged. One of the men was texting, then he said to his partner: 'The Boss reckons the cops don't know shit about it all.'"

Donovan and Lestrade shared a concerned look.

"Can you describe the men?"

He did so.

"Next, Damian and Myra Jules arrived with a holdall, presumably containing the ransom money. I revealed myself and showed them the video of the school's CCTV footage on my phone. I told them I had emailed it to Detective Inspector Lestrade and the game was over. One of the men took my phone after that."

"What's on the CCTV footage?" asked Donovan.

"You haven't watched it?" he asked them.

"The file was huge," Lestrade explained, sounding embarrassed. "I was out of the office and my phone wouldn't download it. I saw the name of it: and decided to drop by with Sergeant Donovan."

"Perhaps you should invest in a new phone, Inspector," Sherlock said. "The video contains CCTV footage showing Samuel Rowland and Leonard Jules raping Megan Kellar in the school yard on New Year's Eve."

"There was no file," said Donovan.

"Damian used his position to make it disappear. He and Myra wanted to punish Leonard and teach him a lesson, but they didn't want him to go to prison, so they had him kidnapped to scare him and had Samuel and Megan murdered to keep them quiet."

"That's insane," said Donovan.

"Their motives were to protect Leonard and teach him right from wrong. The same as any other parents. But yes, their methods were extreme, perhaps insane," Sherlock said.

Donovan bit her lip, clearly to stop herself from responding with an obvious insult about sanity. Not on the record.

"As I suspected, Leonard Jules had his week's supply of insulin on him, given to the hired kidnappers by his parents. However, it soon became apparent that the kidnappers had turned the tables on Damian and Myra Jules, and were now genuinely holding the boy for a ransom.

To cut a long story short, now that I had exposed them, the kidnappers began discussing exactly which of us they would need to kill to keep themselves out of prison. Myra handed them the bag of money and I took the moment of distraction to tackle the man with the gun. He was startled and a shot fired.

I managed to wrestle the gun from him, but I dropped it when his partner grabbed me from behind in a choke hold. He held me while the first man punched me in the stomach. I almost lost consciousness from the lack of oxygen and they took that as an opportunity to regain the gun that had been dropped, kick me in the jaw several times and crush my hand.

I tried to observe what happened next, but I... I blacked out and when I woke up Damian and Leonard Jules and one of the kidnappers had left. I assume that..."

"Just the facts," Donovan reminded him.

"Myra was lying on the ground, bleeding from her leg. I realised she must have caught the stray bullet that had been fired. The other kidnapper still had a gun on us, but then he heard something, wiped it down with his shirt and then ran.

I couldn't hear anything myself, my ears were ringing. I went over to the gun and picked it up, then moved over to Myra. She was hysterical, saying that "they" had left her. She was barely applying pressure to the wound and it was bleeding profusely.

I thought her scarf would make a good tourniquet and tried to remove it from her person. She started screaming at me and struggling. I was unable to explain my intentions, because of my dislocated jaw, and so I decided to point the gun at her to encourage her cooperation.

At that moment, I heard Sergeant Donovan shouting for me to put down the gun. I did so and she arrested me."

"Is that everything?" Donovan asked.

"Yes."

She announced that the interview had concluded and switched off the tape.

"That was unbelievable," Donovan said, "Literally."

"Oh come on, Sergeant." Lestrade said.

"I can't believe this."

"You know that the powder test came back negative, Sergeant," Lestrade said.

"So he found a way to avoid the residue," she said. "I wouldn't put it past him, he's so clever after all."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Sergeant, if I really wanted to kill somebody, do you really think I would be so obvious?"

"Sherlock..." Lestrade warned.

Donovan was livid. "A woman bullies you at school. She makes a complaint about you. You have an obvious motive. We find her shot, bleeding and screaming for help, while you hold her at gunpoint. An unregistered gun that has only your fingerprints on it. Yet, you are going to get away with it.

Yes, I think that sounds like you. What better way to prove how clever you are than by making it just obvious enough that we know you did it, but with a story good enough that you get away with it?"

"Then who did this?" He indicated his injuries.

"I believe the rest of it, I'm not an idiot. I know Myra Jules didn't do that to you, and that whoever did has now killed Damian and Leonard. We found the insulin at the scene. I just know that in the confusion, you took an opportunity to shoot her and when it didn't kill her, you tried to finish the job. I mean, why didn't you just use your own scarf as a tourniquet?"

"It's my favourite," deadpanned Sherlock.

"Enough," said Lestrade. "This isn't getting us anywhere. Sherlock, you're free to go. The police won't be pressing charges, so it will only go to court if Myra Jules does, in which case I will be happy to back you in court."

Donovan huffed and stormed out, leaving them to it. Lestrade leaned over and removed Sherlock's handcuffs.

"Cigarette?" Sherlock asked.

"You look ready to drop."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "With three killers on the loose?"

Lestrade grinned despite himself and they walked out to the shelter. Thankfully, it was empty and quiet, aside from the rain drumming against the plastic roof.

"Guess what I'm going to say?" Lestrade asked.

Sherlock shrugged. "I'm a genius, not a mind reader."

"Why the hell didn't you tell me about the changed meeting time?"

"And have you slowing me down?"

Lestrade snorted, looking him up and down dubiously.

"Ok, fine." Sherlock took a deep breath. "I thought you already knew."

"But I told you the meeting was the next day. Today. Tonight."

"I knew you and Donovan didn't want me to show up. I thought you were lying about the time to put me off."

Lestrade took this in, and then chuckled.

"Yes, very funny, Lestrade. I admit that even I am fallible. Occasionally - very occasionally - I do make a slight miscalculation."

"Slight miscalculation?"

"Yes, slight. The consequences were dramatic, but the error was slight. Drop it."

Lestrade sighed, deeply.

"Oh, what now?" Sherlock complained.

"What? I haven't said anything."

"Yes, but you're about to say something extremely irritating and dull."

"Yes, I suppose I am." Another sigh. "Sherlock, you can't keep doing this. You can't keep going off on your own. Look what's happened..."

"I'm fine."

"Not just the injuries. Getting arrested. Having a complaint made against you. And yes, the injuries too. This is why I asked you not to go with Donovan to interrogate the Jules family, and why I didn't want you at the meeting with the kidnappers."

"You need me, Lestrade."

"I know I do, I don't deny it."

"Well, I won't point you in the right direction and then sit on the sidelines while your people bumble along messing everything up. How could that possibly retain my interest?"

"Then join the bloody force yourself..."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"...Because if you don't stop this, we'll both be sitting on the sidelines. If you don't stop Sherlock, I... I won't be able to consult you any more. It's getting too risky, for both of us. You could get killed, and I could lose my job."

"I left you out of my statement," Sherlock said, curtly.

"I know. Thank you. But too many people know that I invited you to the initial crime scene, and that lead to... if I hadn't had my internet on, you'd be dead right now."

Sherlock didn't respond. They smoked in silence for a full minute.

"Sergeant Donovan..." Lestrade started.

"I was pointing a gun at a screaming woman with a gun-shot wound in her leg. One that I have reason to dislike. I understand Donovan's initial action, just not her idiotic perseverance."

"I know she aggravated your injuries..."

"It was dark. She's not very observant. I doubt she knew I'd broken my hand, and I couldn't talk to tell her. When I fell on her, she thought I was attacking, so she reacted. It's... fine."

"You left that out of your statement, too," Lestrade commented.

"The statement's purpose is to exonerate me and provide evidence against the criminals. If I had wanted to point out all the police's mistakes, I would have been stuck in that room all day."

Lestrade smiled.

"I'm angrier about her wasting time investigating Myra Jules's complaint against me. Had she looked into Megan Kellar's rape instead like I'd asked, the girl could still be alive."

Lestrade looked surprised.

"And if she wasn't so convinced I tried to strangle a woman with a scarf, I could have been at the scene today and the case could have already been solved."

That and her rubbing his face in it all. The woman seemed determined to convince the entire Yard that he was a freak and a psychopath.

"Any luck with the mug shots?"

"No." He took in the last few drags and stubbed his cigarette out on the floor. "I will see this through till the end Lestrade."

"Sherlock..."

"Think of your holiday. By one am we could have the kidnappers in custody."

"How do you know what time... never mind. Ok, I'll take you to the crime scene. But first you're going home to get showered and changed, I am not walking round with you dressed and smelling like that."

Sherlock sniffed and looked down at himself. "Agreed."