"I didn't kill him."

Inspector Thompson leaned back in his chair. The wooden frame creaked beneath his bulk. "I see. You're still maintaining your innocence."

"Yes," Sherlock replied. "Just as I have the last seventeen times you've asked. I maintain it because it happens to be true."

They'd been at it for an hour and a half by Sherlock's reckoning. There was no clock. In the late afternoon he'd been brought to a cold room with no windows and a metal door which closed behind him with a dull thud. He and the inspector faced one another across a wooden table.

"Let's be sensible, Robbie."

Sherlock flinched every time Thompson used the name. Part of him wanted to scream in the man's face, "My name's not Robbie! It's Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes, and I have as much right to be addressed properly as you do," but he knew that losing his temper would simply give Thompson more reason to doubt anything he said.

Thompson was continuing in a calm voice, "We know that you did it. You're the only one with motive and opportunity—"

"And what is my motive, according to you?"

"To make sure that you kept your position, maybe for the promotion to first footman."

Sherlock dropped his chin to his chest and breathed out through his nose. He looked back up at Thompson, "And I just thought that no one would think it was a murder and life would continue as normal?"

"I'm thinking maybe you went to talk to Anderson, try and sort it out, and things got a bit out of hand."

"God! A minute ago you said that I'd planned it to rise in station; now you're saying I did it in a fit of passion! Which is it?"

"I don't know, Robbie. That's what we're here to find out."

"Did you look at the body at all? The way it was laid out? Let's go over it, shall we?" He was imprudently letting his emotions control him, and yet he couldn't stand Thompson's smug stupidity any longer.

"First, Anderson was still in his livery. He had only removed his jacket. This says that he was murdered very shortly after he went upstairs. Removing his jacket indicates that he was comfortable with the person coming to his room. It's possible that they had met there before, or this person let Anderson know that he would be visiting him that night. Anderson would never have allowed me into his room, and he would never have allowed me to see him with his shirtsleeves rolled up. He knew that I would report it to Gregson, just as he reported my taking walks on the grounds at night. We disliked one another, I admit that, but I wanted him to be dismissed. I didn't want to kill him.

Next, he was strangled with his own tie…," Sherlock trailed off. There was something about the tie, the way it was tied and the way it had been used to strangle Anderson so efficiently, but he hadn't figured out what it meant yet, so didn't mention it to Thompson.

"…his own tie with barely any signs of struggle. Surely if I marched into his room and started ranting at him he'd have been on his guard?"

Thompson tried to interject, "Yes, but—," but Sherlock went on rapidly as he examined the pieces in his mind.

"So again, this was someone he'd dealt with before. Someone he trusted and had a comfortable relationship with, so that he wasn't prepared for their attack and was easily overpowered.

"Then, there's the way the body was laid. It was arranged neatly in the bed with the sheet over the face. That shows respect for the dead, and believe me, I had no respect for Anderson."

Thompson jumped in, "You were horrified by what you'd done and needed to cover the face to hide it!"

"So I charged into Anderson's room, killed him quickly and methodically with a weapon I found at hand, but THEN was so horrified that I covered his face? No, I'm not sure if this murder was premeditated—using Anderson's own tie suggests no—but the person who did it had complete sang-froid. There was no hesitation and no remorse. I'm actually surprised that he covered the face once he'd dropped the body back on the bed." That was another point to consider when he was alone.

"Is that sang fwad some sort of weapon?" asked Thompson.

"It's French. It literally means cold blood."

Thompson smiled, "You seem to be a pretty cold one, Holmes."

"But I killed him in the heat of passion, do keep up."

Thompson's face darkened, "None of your insults! I'm letting you run with this story because I think you'll catch yourself out in the end, but I'm reaching the end of my patience Would that be a confession?"

Sherlock didn't answer, just charged on, "Finally, the killer searched the room for something and found it in Anderson's bureau. He might have gone there specifically to get it and Anderson refused. I believe it was letters—"

"Ah, yes, your letters again."

"Not my letters!" Sherlock waved his hands angrily. He shut his eyes and pulled himself back. "Look, there were three pale blue ribbons on the floor such as the kind one wraps around letters one is saving. Three bundles, seven to ten letters each. Someone wanted them, searched for them and took them away."

"They might have been love letters that Anderson was keeping."

"What, from me to Anderson? What possible motive could I have for taking Anderson's letters?"

"Blackmail," said Thompson, a greedy look coming over his face. "How's this for a story? Anderson was blackmailing you because of something you'd done. Maybe an illicit affair, maybe stealing or some other crime and you wanted those letters back because you were afraid he'd use them to get you dismissed. You offered to meet him in his room to pay him, but then you killed him instead. Is that how it was?" He grinned, gleefully, "Ah, I knew if I let you go on you'd trip up! The guilty always do."

Sherlock almost bit his lip, but managed to steel himself and control his face just in time. The mention of an illicit affair was much too close to the truth.

He sighed and slumped back in his chair. "I'm sure that you've searched my room. Did you find any letters?"

"Oh, I never said you weren't smart, Holmes. I'm sure those letters have long been burnt up in the stove or some fireplace in the house. No, I think we have what we need. Now, did you kill him?"

"No, I did not."

Thompson's florid face became even more red. "Fine, we'll do it the hard way and let the judge hear about your…your sungfwud in the face of the evidence. Mark my words, we will convict you. It's just a matter of time."

John rolled the cufflink around on his palm. It had come with the morning post. The police had included a short note:

Doctor Watson,

We found this item on the person of Mr. Robert Holmes. He admitted that it belonged to you. If you would like to press charges for theft, please contact us immediately.

He clutched the cufflink tightly, thinking of Sherlock's genuine delight in receiving it, and how happy they'd been that night, making plans. He rested his forehead in his other hand then brought the gold discs up to his mouth to kiss them.

Eyes shut, he tried to remember anything that could help Sherlock's case, but his mind was too distracted. All he could think of was the way Sherlock had looked that first moment, waiting on parade—regal, proud, beautiful. I didn't know it, he thought, but I was already lost.

Then, in the room, their instant attraction, their instant lust. But also, he mused, their instant companionship, an ease with one another beyond the passion.

And then that night, and the next. Those perfect nights of bliss. Beneath his nightshirt his prick hardened. He ran his palm over it, pushing it down, but it wouldn't be denied, not when he could practically taste Sherlock's skin, the way he smelled when they were both drenched in sweat. He gave in and pulled his nightshirt up so that he could stroke himself, already hard enough to have a drop of liquid at the tip. He remembered Sherlock thrusting inside him, pale eyes filled with such adoration. Their hands had joined on his own cock and when Sherlock's thrusts had turned harder, deeper and frantic, John had spilled over them both. With a deep moan he spent, alone in his kitchen.

The orgasm gave him no pleasure. Again he thought, God can't be this cruel. If nothing else, war teaches one that life and God are never fair, but their finding each other had been so miraculous, it seemed impossible that all of their plans would come to nothing. He looked about the kitchen and thought of how different it would be if he was having breakfast with Sherlock, laughing as they ate, all the joy and silliness of being completely with someone he loved. How many men of their type could ever have that?

And now, Sherlock was facing death. John made the deal with God that so many have tried to make before. "Please God, let him be found innocent. Let him go free. Even if it means that I can never have him, even if we can never be together, please just let him live."

Thinking of Sherlock alone and exposed in a cell, unable even to indulge in the release of memories, made him feel so empty he wanted to cry.

At last he gathered himself together and turned his attention to his other piece of mail, a letter from Lady Caroline.

My dear Doctor Watson,

It was such a pleasure meeting you at Lord and Lady Lestrade's this past weekend. I wanted you to know that, at your suggestion, I visited our mutual friend. He seems as well as can be expected given his situation. He was most insistent that you look after yourself. However, he did mention that knowing more about some of our other new friends would benefit us all greatly.

Some letters which have gone missing. They may have been found by someone else and the owners would have wanted them back most passionately. Perhaps you can make inquiries as to who wrote the letters using your considerable tact and charm.

Please let me how you are faring, and I hope that we can meet for tea when I come to London at the end of the week.

I remain, most cordially yours,

Caroline Westerley

Attempting to read between the lines as Lady Caroline obviously intended, John guessed that Sherlock wanted him to find out more about the other guests to see who might have had a motive for killing Anderson. Letters had gone missing and people might want them back. Did she mean that Anderson might have been blackmailing one of the guests?

John had no connection with any of the other guests beyond having met them over the weekend. He could hardly ask them if they had been blackmailed by the footman.

Well, he could try to get to know them better and see what he could find out. He went to his writing desk.

Dear Jane,

I do hope you don't mind my calling you Jane as you were so kind when we met at Lord and Lady Lestrade's this weekend…