If there was a speck of dust in Mrs. Ainsworth-King's sitting room, John was sure it would take one look around and run in terror.

Provided, of course, it had eyes and legs, Sherlock's sarcastic voice echoed in his brain.

John closed his eyes. He hoped Sherlock would recover and they could once again solve cases, if only to rid himself of faux Sherlock in his mind.

With terrifying precision, everything in the room was in its proper place, orderly and clean. It was as if he were in a movie that called for a set to look like an older woman's living room. He imagined Mr. Ainsworth-King, if there was one, was relegated to the garage with his television and crisps, never allowed to enter this room.

John shifted on the edge of the uncomfortable couch and watched as Mrs. Ainsworth-King carefully set the tray with the tea service on the table in front of him. With her wooly white hair and naturally pink cheeks, she could have been someone's kindly grandmother, but her steel gray eyes had the fierce look of a woman who was used to having her way—and considered it to be the right and only way.

"I presume you'd like sugar," she stated.

"No, thank you," he replied.

She flicked her eyes over him. "As you wish."

Sitting stiffly in the chair across from him, she flattened out her skirt. "I'm not sure how I can possibly help Scotland Yard, but I am happy to try."

"I'm going to record our conversation, if you don't mind." John showed her his mobile. "I'll also be taking notes."

"If you need to in order to help you remember." She sniffed.

"Tell me about what led to your leaving the Jilbert Foundation."

"I retired," she replied.

"How did you get on with Mr. Kincaid?"

She paused. "We didn't see eye to eye on things."

"Such as?"

"I hate to speak ill of the dead." Mrs. Ainsworth-King frowned severely.

"It's important," John said.

She relented. "I didn't mind running a few errands if they related to the foundation, but Mr. Kincaid wanted me to take care of personal matters for him. Taking packages and envelopes here and there, picking up packages and envelopes and bringing them back to the office." She shook her head. "And then there was the filing system."

"Filing system?"

"My files were perfectly organized." She sat up even straighter, if that were possible. "He wanted me to use a system he had come up with. It was strange, not even alphabetical! When I refused, we had words."

John tapped his pen on his chin. "That seems like a strange thing for him to insist on."

She wagged her head. "Exactly. It was soon after that I was told he wanted someone that 'meshed with him better.' That's the phrase they used. Did his bidding without question was more like it." Her voice trailed off.

John could tell she had taken pride in her work and still smarted from being let go. "You aren't the type of professional woman who would let someone bully her into doing something improper."

He thought he saw a ghost of a smile. "I certainly wouldn't be considered a push over," she agreed.

"Thank you for your time, Mrs. Ainsworth-King. If you think of anything else, would you let me know?"

She furrowed her brow. "Come to think of it, there was one other thing."

"Yes?" he encouraged her.

"I did pick up an envelope for him at the very beginning, before I understood it wasn't work related," she confided in him. "The young man I picked it up from was very suspicious looking. He wasn't a businessman."

"Where did you meet him?"

"In the car park by a restaurant called Alice's far away in Kimpton."

"What did he look like?"

"It was dark and he had the hood of his coat up, but he had very blue eyes."

s~s~s~s~s

Sherlock had never doubted the impressive influence his brother wielded in world politics. A phone call from his office could change an election. A personal visit could stop a war. What Sherlock hadn't realized, however, was how strongly Mycroft's well-manicured hands could pull puppet strings throughout Britain's legal system.

During his long hours in his cell, Sherlock came to the conclusion that unless his brother found a way to drop him into a dark hole, the detective's high profile would always keep the media interested. Soon there would be inquiries into why the detective hadn't been arraigned. No doubt Mycroft had learned that he had sobered up from Lestrade or John or both, because suddenly Sherlock's delayed court hearing appeared on the docket.

Mycroft did stick to his commitment not to fund Sherlock's defense. He couldn't confirm it, but he sensed Mycroft did have a hand in the appointment of Sabrina Boone to represent him. A levelheaded young woman of above average intelligence, her approach to the law was logical and tenacious. She clearly was brighter than most court-appointed counsels.

But it was when Sherlock stood before the judge that the full weight of Mycroft's involvement became clear: Bertie Quinn was presiding. He was balding with heavy jowls, but Sherlock still recognized him as the eager boy in the class below Mycroft's who was always hanging around. After Ms. Boone assured the court that a "high-placed individual" guaranteed Sherlock would not be a flight risk—a claim that never would have been allowed in another courtroom—Bertie granted bail (albeit a high one) and ordered Sherlock to hand over his passport.

If his last name were Smythe or McDougall or Neilson, the situation would be different. The circumstantial evidence would keep him in prison. But he was a Holmes. And it was clear that Mycroft wanted him out.

Something as minor as not having a passport wouldn't have stopped Sherlock if he chose to flee, but he decided to do his part and turn in his real passport, keeping two excellent forgeries in his strongbox. He did want to stay clean and regain his life. The worst of the withdrawal symptoms had ended, and although he still craved the drugs, at least for now he was sober.

The bail was paid anonymously the next day.

John had brought Sherlock a fresh change of clothes. Sherlock grimaced at the choice of suit, tie, and shirt. It wasn't a color combination he would have put together, but it was of the best quality straight from his closet at Baker Street. He sighed in pleasure as the 140-thread-count, two-ply cotton dress shirt glided seamlessly against his skin. Sherlock had always prided himself on impeccable grooming. Staying clean in his person was the first step to keeping clean.

Catching a glance of himself in the small mirror, he paused. No matter how tailored his suit was, it couldn't hide the fact it hung limply off his frame. His lean frame had always been long and muscular like a swimmer, but now it was thin and his face was hollowed out. He looked away quickly.

All he needed now was his Belstaff coat, but he assumed it was still at the cleaners. He had gotten quite a bit of Evan Kincaid's blood on it.

John had a cab waiting for him at the curb.

"I spoke to Mary," the doctor began haltingly as they headed into traffic.

"And you want me to stay with you. So you can keep an eye on me?" Sherlock squinted against the midday sun. It was warm for that time of year, and his senses were extra sensitive.

"No. We agreed I should move back in to Baker Street for a short time. But yes, so I can keep an eye on you."

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow. "I presume Baker Street has been thoroughly detoxed, too?"

John nodded. "The place has never been cleaner. Mrs. Hudson sprang for a new refrigerator rather than deal with what was growing in the old one."

"By thoroughly detoxed I meant all the paraphernalia removed," Sherlock clarified condescendingly.

"I know what you meant." John glanced at his friend sharply. "The place has never been cleaner."

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise. "Did you check under the floor board under the couch?"

John nodded. "And in the radio and in the horns on the wall and behind the brick in the back of the fireplace."

Sherlock didn't think anyone knew about the brick in the fireplace. "And Wiggins? He knows not to come around?"

When John didn't immediately answer, Sherlock's head swiveled sharply. "What's happened to him?"

"Some new dealers are moving into the flophouse area. They beat him up proper, broke a few of his ribs. He'll be released from hospital tomorrow. He says he will never go back to that life. I actually believe him." John sounded surprised. "He has no education, no training. I don't know where he will find a real job. Maybe St. Bart's has an opening for a custodian or someone to help in the morgue. I'll ask Molly."

The muscles in Sherlock's jaw involuntarily clenched. She hadn't visited him in prison, and he was glad. He never wanted to see that look of despair in her eyes again. But he couldn't think of her now.

"We're headed in the wrong direction."

John looked out the window at the passing street sign. "No we aren't."

"We need to go to Ruby Danley's place," Sherlock said firmly. "You said it was out of the city."

"I already went there, remember?" John mumbled as he typed a text. "And we need to talk about my visit with Mrs. Ainsworth-King."

"I haven't been to Ruby's home, and I am on the case now," Sherlock said with new determination. "Cabbie, we have a change of destination."

~s~s~s~s~s~

He's free.

Molly reread John's text several times before she looked across the table at her lab assistant, Lori Koetsier. The young woman's striking green eyes, lined with black kohl, lit up.

"Good news?"

Molly pocketed her mobile and forced a smile. "He's been released."

Lori let out a high-pitched squeal of delight, attracting the attention of the people seated near them in the hospital canteen. "Oh thank heavens! You must be so relieved."

"I must be," Molly echoed with a catch in her voice.

Lori was puzzled. "Aren't you happy?"

"I am. But I don't know what this means for us. Or if there even is an us." Molly toyed with her straw.

Lori brushed back a strand of her newly dyed lavender hair. "I know this is really hard on you. I've seen you go through so much this year. I don't know how you stick with him. I couldn't do it."

Molly shrugged. "I love him. God, that sounds so pathetic, doesn't it? But there it is."

"And now he's free," Lori said as if she were telling the end of a fairy tale.

"He's out on bail," Molly corrected her. "He still is facing a murder charge."

Lori leaned forward. "Don't look now, but your 'friend' is coming over here. Again."

Turning in her seat, Molly stared up at the pleasant grin of A. J. Fitzsimmons. "Sorry to disturb you again," he said, "but I forgot something earlier."

Inhaling deeply through her nose, Molly said, "Oh?"

"Here is the book I mentioned. I really think you'll enjoy it." He handed her a well-worn paperback.

Molly scanned the back cover. "Thank you. I'll get it back to you soon."

"No rush at all. Well, I'll be off!" With a courteous nod in Lori's direction, he walked out leaning on his elegant cane.

"Does he like you?" Lori wrinkled her nose. "He's old enough to be your dad."

"I was sure I made it clear I wasn't interested." Molly sighed. "And he said to think about him as an uncle."

"A pervy uncle," Lori muttered.

Molly slipped the book into her lab coat pocket. "I'll meet you back in the lab."

She was grateful that Lori took the hint and left. Molly's head was pounding and all she wanted was quiet. It was days like this she wanted to chuck it all and move to the country and teach the kitten she had just bought to paint and become an Internet sensation.

"You can only eat an elephant a bite at a time," her mother used to say.

Molly used to wonder why anyone would want to eat an elephant, but she knew her mom meant to take on something overwhelming one step at a time. Right now her entire life felt overwhelming, so she began to take an inventory of her life in a very logical way. Sherlock would be proud.

She winced. The mere thought of him caused her physical pain. He was free but hadn't contacted her. It could be the he didn't care about her, like he said, or that he was respecting her boundaries.

It hurt too much to think of him, so she turned her mind toward A. J. Fitzsimmons, who was paying too much attention to her. Since the board meeting, he had stopped by the lab to say hello and discuss the book that was now in her pocket, asked her to come to his office to learn about other possible grants, and now had stopped at her table twice in 15 minutes.

Molly was a normal woman. She noticed attractive men, like the one who passed her in the hallway on the way to A. J.'s office. That man had looked a little rough around the edges but still was tall and handsome. A. J. was handsome, in an older, distinguished fashion, but she didn't feel flattered by his attention. Actually, she felt more than a little uncomfortable. It wasn't right to let him think she might someday like him when the truth was she never would. She was in love with Sherlock and always would be.

I've had enough, she decided. The next time I see him, I'll make it extra clear I'm not interested.