Note: Thanks as always to all of you enjoying the story who've taken the time to review. There is (sadly) almost nothing that brightens my day so much as hearing from you guys :)

For all you mystery fans: This chapter's heavy on the plotting and who-dun-it. Enjoy.

For all you angst fans: Hang in there, things will be headed sharply in your direction very soon.

Chapter 10

Your father was murdered. Sherlock's assertion kept running through Mary's brain. As soon as he'd said those words, she'd found herself sinking onto the wooden chair next to the writing desk her father's box was sitting on. She'd been too overwhelmed to ask Sherlock to explain that slap-to-the-face declaration right away. Unfortunately, after finding a plastic bag to seal the tobacco ash in, the detective had immediately thrown himself back in front of the computer, typing and clicking away furiously. Several minutes passed in which Mary could focus on nothing else but the words 'your father was murdered' and her own breathing.

Then, without looking up from the computer monitor, Sherlock spoke. "I need your phone."

Mary started to reach into her pocket for it, when she came to her senses a bit. "What for?" she asked suspiciously. It occurred to her that the last time she'd let Sherlock Holmes borrow an electronic device of hers, they'd wound up at a dodgy meet up that had led to a murder scene.

Sherlock didn't look back over his shoulder at her, but she could tell from his brusque tone that he now had a scowl of annoyance on his face. "I need to text John some questions for Ted Sholto."

"What sort of questions?" she asked, hesitant still.

"The time sensitive sort," Sherlock snarled in retort. "Phone," he demanded, stopping his furious typing long enough to turn slightly towards her and reach his hand out. He didn't make eye contact.

Everything in Mary's gut kept striving to analyse behaviours like this. But she recalled how sharply he'd seen through her attempts to make not entirely innocent conversation with him. He had been right, of course: she was used to treating everyone like a patient. She'd gotten him to open up and talk a little by showing interest in what he was doing, but he'd seen through it. And now that she genuinely interested to know what he had figured out about her father's death and what he was doing now, he was in no mood to share. Mary found herself feeling shamed by Sherlock's defensive response to her behaviour, and had her mobile out of her pocket and in her hand, ready to hand over, when she paused.

Sherlock didn't want to be treated like a patient or a child. Mary had been treating him as a bit of both, as he had so angrily pointed out. She was used to holding back in such situations, to reminding herself that it wasn't about her, no matter how angry or insulting her patient got. But this wasn't one of those situations. "You know," Mary said, her voice shaking slightly with the combination of anxiety and fury she only just realised she was feeling, "you really can be a heartless arsehole."

There was a beat in which both she and Sherlock sat frozen in shock at her blunt words and venomous tone. Then he slowly turned the rest of the way around and this time actually looked up at her for the first time since he'd made his declaration about her father's death. "Is that your professional opinion?" he asked in a blithe tone.

"Is this funny to you?" she spat back. Mary felt more surprised at her sudden boldness than Sherlock appeared to be. He seemed more annoyed and inconvenienced by it than anything.

"Of course it isn't," he countered sharply, while still seeming personally detached. "It's a matter requiring great alacrity. John might have left the interview with Ted Sholto already. And I'm not the one keeping John from asking Sholto some very important questions. Now, phone," Sherlock said, sticking his hand out further.

The combination of distress, worry, and annoyance seething within Mary was threatening to cause her to explode in a rare display of uncontrolled rage. The thought of slapping Sherlock in the face flitted through her mind, and that alarmed her. She was immediately repelled by that instinct. The professional part of her believed he truly couldn't understand the source of her distress. But it didn't stop his obtuseness from being maddening right now. It took all her natural patience plus a great deal of training for Mary to restrain herself to merely raising her voice as she retorted, "I'm not giving you the bloody phone until you explain what you mean about my father having been murdered!"

Now Sherlock looked surprised, finally. He seemed to only now realise she was serious and not just trying to annoy him. Although he still acted put out as he sighed then rapidly replied, "The tobacco in his pipe, the last tobacco he smoked, wasn't his. Which implies someone gave it to him. Not only that, but I believe it's been contaminated by another plant, one that could potentially have been dangerous. There's much more to it than that, but I won't know anything for sure until I'm able to obtain some more information from John and the crime scene. Now give me your phone." Sherlock glared at her fiercely, looking like he was about to lose it himself.

Mary had felt her anger swiftly give way to a sickening sense of understanding as Sherlock explained about the tobacco. It wasn't something she could ever have put together herself, yet when he said it, it seemed perfectly obvious. That is, if the different tobacco in her father's pipe did actually turn out to also be poisoned. Still, Mary's anger had burned out quickly. She knew it was only a mask for her deeper feeling of dread. There were only so many options as to who could have poisoned her father, and she was starting to realise Timothy Sholto was one of the only viable ones. At this realisation, all of Mary's strong front melted away, and she weakly dropped the mobile into Sherlock's hand before leaning back against the desk, feeling shaky.

As soon as he had the phone in hand, Sherlock fired off a rapid text, frowning as if the speed of his own fingers were annoyingly slow in his opinion. Then he promptly spun back toward the monitor, setting the phone down on the desk as he resumed typing. Mary vaguely noted what appeared to be various news sites popping up in different tabs on the screen as Sherlock searched around the internet for who knew what. At random intervals, he would pick up the phone and dash off a text message with a ferocity that suggested he was growing increasingly impatient. Mary, for her part, was trying not to get caught up in Sherlock's frenzied state. Though there were still a million questions flying around her mind, she confined herself to breathing deeply and waiting it out. Sherlock clearly wasn't in the mood to explain much more, and in any case, she realised, there was a lot he had no way of knowing. Hence his constant texts to John with what she presumed were questions for Ted Sholto.

After about twenty minutes of this, Sherlock spoke up. "Why hasn't he responded?" he complained, glaring at the mobile as if this situation were its fault. "Poor reception?"

"Maybe," Mary replied noncommittally, though she highly doubted it. John was in a position to ignore Sherlock's intense focus on the case for a moment and pay attention to the task in front of him instead. She couldn't say she blamed him.

Tossing the phone back onto the desk, Sherlock went back to typing several long strings of information into some website. Mary hadn't really been paying attention, to be honest. She was starting to realise it might be best if she didn't know the details sometimes. So she was just about to drift off back into her own ruminations on her father's death when Sherlock asked, "John still has his Visa card, yes? It doesn't expire until next year so I presume so..." He kept typing, opening what appeared to be a few pdf versions of newspaper articles.

It took Mary a moment to snap out of her own world. "Hang on, what's this about John's credit card?"

"Their archival articles were behind a pay wall," Sherlock replied, as if this explained everything.

"Whose articles?" Already knowing Sherlock would be uninterested in responding, Mary stood up, walking over to stand behind his chair so that she should see the monitor. Setting aside the casual manner in which Sherlock stole John's credit card information to pay for access to the site, Mary tried to study the page he now had up. It was indeed some sort of foreign newspaper. "Cambodge Soir," she read aloud. She dug into the rusty part of her brain that had once known some French but now chiefly felt self-satisfied on occasion at recognising the names of countries read in French during the Olympics. "French for 'Cambodia Night'?"

Sherlock hummed in vague acknowledgement as he clicked through the pages of different issues of the newspaper, evidently speed reading through the article titles. Evidently his French was sharper than Mary's. After a few minutes of rapid-fire clicking and scanning, Sherlock stopped abruptly on one page: an article beneath a grainy image of four men in what appeared to be some kind of prison visiting area. "Oh," Sherlock breathed, going perfectly still all of a sudden as his eyes scanned the article. "Oh, you were dedicated, weren't you Timothy?" he gave a crooked, dark grin in response to whatever had occurred to him.

Though she didn't know why, Mary realised she'd been holding her breath. She let it go, then asked cautiously, "You found something?"

"Everything," Sherlock replied, standing up slowly, his eyes wide as if forced that way by the rapidly expanding notions inside his head. He stared off into the distance for a few moments, then let out a deep, rumbling chuckle.

"What is it? Please?" Mary begged, forcing herself into the path of Sherlock's vision and hoping he didn't drift off entirely into his own universe again before explaining himself this time.

Fortunately, Sherlock did register Mary's presence quite fully. In fact, he seemed glad to have someone to zero in on as he began what she was starting to recognise as one of his famous self-satisfied explanations. "I looked all morning for anything pertaining to your father or Timothy Sholto. Anything at all that might give me some hint as to why either of these two men were connected to Bart Sholto's dodgy 'business' proposal to you and his murder. Bart bringing you into this meant it almost certainly had to do with your fathers. Yet there isn't anything connected to their names that would suggest anything contrary to the official story - that your father died of a tragic, accidental heart attack and that Timothy Sholto coincidentally also bought the land for his mining company soon thereafter."

"But," Mary ventured, "that can't be the whole story, can it? Not if Major Sholto murdered my father." Those words were difficult to get out, sticking in her throat. They had only the wildest speculations to go on, based merely on some unusual ash found in her father's pipe and a card missing from his deck... but somehow, Mary already knew that Sherlock's hunch was right.

"No," Sherlock replied vehemently, "it certainly isn't the whole story. But in a case like this, the immediate evidence is long gone. Even the parties involved are. Like your father. He's long gone, cremated, there isn't even a body." Sherlock gestured in the direction of his effects, and Mary tried to let his blunt words slide in lieu of focusing on whatever point he was making now. "Those items, they're not your father. They're shadows of your father. And those are what we should be looking for. Not news about him or Sholto; news about what Sholto left behind. That's the reason someone's knocking off his family now anyway."

Mary's eyes flicked to the page on the screen, specifically to the seemingly innocuous image of four men staring plaintively at the camera, wearing their plain Cambodian prison garb. "And you think you found them. The... things he left behind?"

Just as Sherlock opened his mouth to explain, Mary's phone rang loudly, causing her to jump back in surprise. She'd been trying so hard to decipher Sherlock's rambling explanation she'd almost forgotten entirely about John and Lestrade's interview with Ted Sholto. Sherlock himself seemed caught off-guard for a moment. Then he snatched up the phone eagerly and brought it to his ear. "Why haven't you answered my texts? Tell me you at least asked him the questions I sent you, John..." there was a pause, and Mary could hear John give some sort of reply. Sherlock scowled deeply. "You let a nurse impede our investigation? Really, Jo-"

Mary yanked the phone away from Sherlock's ear before he could say anything else. He was too surprised to stop her from turning it to speaker phone and setting it on the desk where they could both hear. "John, go on and tell us what you found out. What happened to Ted Sholto and what does he know?" Sherlock was staring at her as if she'd just slapped him, but frankly Mary didn't care if he felt slighted by her taking her own bloody phone back. Nor was she in the mood to brook another one of Sherlock's rambling explanations, which she was beginning to realise were more him reasoning out loud than him actually giving an already-formed explanation of his thoughts. She prayed to God John could shed some light on this mess.

"Er, hi," John replied, seeming to realise what had happened and that both Sherlock and Mary were listening now. "Well, yeah, so Ted. Seems a bit odd and out of sorts, but then that makes sense given everything going on."

Sherlock locked on instantly, demanding, "Odd? How exactly? Describe any unusual mannerisms, tones of voice, or statements in detail. Not just what he said, how he said it."

"I don't know, Sherlock," John replied, sounding unusually on edge. "He was spooked is all I mean. Someone just killed his brother and someone else tried to kill him at the same time. Anyone would be a little jumpy."

Before Sherlock could dissect this further, Mary took the opportunity to jump in with her most burning question for the present. "Did he tell you what his brother wanted to talk to me about? Did he know?"

There was a moment of hesitation on John's end. Then he replied, "He said that when his dad found the mine he wound up using for his business, the land he bought, that your dad was with him."

Sherlock gave Mary a significant glance, and for once she and the detective seemed to be thinking the same thing. Was that on the last night of her father's life? From what she knew of his death, he'd last been seen down at the pub early in the evening, playing cards with Sholto and some other acquaintances. The crowd had broken up as the night went on, in no notable fashion. The table had dwindled. Her father left hours before Sholto and had said he was heading back to his quarters. He'd been found dead of a massive heart attack the next morning, in the woods somewhere on the way back, alone. With his pipe. That was the story... but, she reasoned, looking away from Sherlock's knowing gaze, even if that weren't the full story, she had no reason to believe this incident John was talking about had anything to do with her father's death. Nothing but Sherlock's assumption that the four of diamonds card had disappeared from her father's deck the night he'd died, during his last game of cards. But she was just conflating the two nights in her head, that was all.

And yet, Sherlock had a look of growing satisfaction and certainty on his face as John continued talking. "Evidently they talked about going in together on the land, but then your dad passed away and Sholto continued on without him." Sherlock sat up straight at hearing that, a satisfied smirk now gracing his features. "Evidently, Ted and Bart just learned about this from their dad right before he died. They thought you ought to know," John finished, rather in a hurry.

Mary shifted her weight uncertainly. Clearly there had to be more to the meet-up than just informing her of a business venture he never lived to see (or, a part of her mind whispered, was never allowed to live to see). A 'business opportunity', Bart had called it. Mary was getting a crawling sensation all over her skin, like she knew everyone, including John, was holding back information. "So they just wanted me to know about this? That's all?"

There was a tense silence on the other end of the line. That wasn't helping. "Ah, there's a bit more," John admitted, "but can we talk about that in person?" Mary could tell he was stalling, but also knew he wouldn't do that if it were something truly important. Like if it were a matter of life and death, which strangely, she realised, was now a real possibility instead of just an expression. But she trusted John, so she replied, "All right, we'll get to that later."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, but said nothing more. Instead, he barged in, "Were you able to ask about his father's tobacco ash?"

"No," John replied slowly, "there wasn't exactly a natural opening to bring it up."

"Who needs natural openings," Sherlock grumbled. "If you want to know something, just ask. Never mind the social conventions unless manipulating them can work to your advantage." Mary considered that statement. It implied that Sherlock actually knew what all the social conventions were, and she was beginning to think that wasn't always true. But she was sure it was convenient for him to write off the ones he didn't get as simply unimportant. Sherlock continued, miffed, "I sent you at least twenty questions. Did you ask any of them?"

"Well I didn't see most of them until after we got out," John admitted. "Ah, remember, the nurse had my phone," he added sheepishly.

Sherlock glared at Mary's phone as if John could see him through it. Mary had to cover her mouth to stifle a laugh at the absurdity of it all. Just then, there was a beep on the line followed by Lestrade's voice coming through, sounding like he was on speaker phone too now. "It's not as though I need your advice in order to conduct an interview," the detective inspector said defensively. Sherlock merely made a scoffing noise that suggested he thought quite the opposite. "Look, we've just pulled up to the Sholto Mansion. You near a computer? It might be easier if we can all see each other."

Without replying, Sherlock opened up video chat on the computer and logged in. "Yes, I'm ready, now bring up the video chat," he said impatiently.

Mary recalled John mentioning once that they'd occasionally run a video chat so that Sherlock could see a crime scene without actually being there. She also recalled John mentioning how much he hated the arrangement. The very audible sigh on the other end confirmed that. "God, Sherlock, give us a minute," John replied, hanging up. Mary wondered if John was just generally on edge today or if it were something more specific. Either way, he certainly seemed more agitated than normal. She made a mental note to ask him about it as she pulled her wooden chair over next to Sherlock's in front of the computer.

A few seconds later, the call came through and Sherlock answered. The pixelated forms of John and Lestrade, sitting in a police car with the phone evidently on the dashboard, came into view.

"As I was going to say. Ted Sholto did used to work for the company, on the Cambodia end of things," Lestrade explained. "But says he wasn't any good at it, hated it, and now runs a graphic design shop out of his home."

"And now that their father is dead? He owns half the company, is that it?" Sherlock inquired.

"No, that was left to his brother. But," Lestrade continued, cutting off a suspicious glance from Sherlock, "they were planning to sell it and split what they got evenly. He figures whoever did this was after the money, hence asking for Ted's bank account information."

"But not his brother's," Sherlock pointed out.

"Yeah," John added, "but they did steal some rubies from the attic, he said. That's right, isn't it?" He looked to Lestrade, who nodded.

"Some rubies?" Sherlock's eyes narrowed in suspicion. "That wouldn't be as much as the sale of an entire mine. How much were they going to sell for?"

Again, Mary noticed John looking rather uncomfortable. It was little things in the ways his shoulders tensed that were his tell. I really need to find out what he's not telling me, she thought. She wondered if it were something he didn't want to say in front of Sherlock. She couldn't think of another reason for him to be so secretive and careful. Finally John replied, "£10 million."

"What?" Sherlock asked, his voice low and demanding. "And how much did he say it was bringing in a year?"

"Two million, think it was," Lestrade replied. "Why, is this the part where you tell me that's far too much for a little ruby mining operation and spout off facts and figures about the average net profit of companies mining various gems?" he asked sarcastically.

"I haven't the slightest idea how much most companies bring in," Sherlock replied. That shocked Mary. Not because one ought to know something like that off the top of his head, but simply because she had yet to hear Sherlock admit he didn't know something. Interesting. A lot of autistics took absolutely no interest in certain topics but managed to remember even the slightest details in other arenas. Speaking of being obsessively focused on a topic, she chastised herself. Sherlock continued, cutting into her thoughts, "No, what I was going to say is it seems incredibly low. Not given their output, which I haven't looked into yet. But just considering the expense of that home."

"The home? Why, how much is it worth?" John asked, his interest piqued.

Sherlock waved a hand. "You're sitting right outside it, just look at it! Look at the street you're on, the part of town. All that posh luxury and privacy, only a twenty minute drive from Hyde Park? Those houses are all 20 to 30 million a piece. A man whose company brings in a few million a year can't even get close to affording that." Sherlock leaned back in his chair, clapping his hands once in excitement. "See, John, this is why you ask the questions I want you to. If you'd asked the others I'd intended, we'd probably be done with this already."

John and Lestrade exchanged an annoyed look. Obviously neither wanted to give Sherlock the satisfaction of admitting he was right or of asking him to explain what he meant. But Mary had no such male ego, and decided to bite. "So if the mine wasn't making them that much, what do you think was?" Mary asked.

Sherlock gave her a sidelong look for a moment before leaning forward again in his chair and saying with an air of forced casualness, "No idea. Now, tell me what Ted Sholto told you about his attacker," he asked John and Lestrade.

The other three people in the conversation all exchanged looks that ranged from Mary's annoyance to John's complete resignation. If Sherlock didn't want to explain something, he couldn't be made to. Mary was realising that it was rather difficult to get him to do anything on someone else's timetable. If he was on to something new, he would bring it up eventually, wouldn't he? John shrugged in silent reply to all their questions, and soldiered on. "Not much. It was past 9, pitch dark, and the guy had a balaclava covering his face. He was white, tall and evidently fit, maybe from South London, and graciously stopped beating Ted to hell long enough to ask for his bank account information."

"Jonathan Small," Sherlock stated plainly.

"I'm sorry, did he just say a name?" John asked, clearly directed at Mary.

But Mary was just as confused as John was. It wasn't as if being present in the room with Sherlock Holmes as he puzzled through something actually meant you knew what he was talking about. But then her eyes were drawn back to the computer monitor and the article still filling the screen. No, not the article, which was unintelligible to her. The photo caption. From left to right, the men in the picture were named as: Alain Giroux (dark-haired, compact but muscular Frenchman), Murad Shah (an annoyed looking Indian bloke), Vithu Pheng (Cambodian, seemingly non-plussed by his imprisonment), and Jonathan Small (tall, fierce, and pale).

Mary's eyes had grown slowly wider as her gaze lingered on the name Sherlock had said and the picture of the man who fit at least the scant description John had relayed from Ted. She met Sherlock's steady gaze and practically whispered, "You're saying that's him, right there? The man who tried to kill Ted Sholto?"

"Yes, of course it is," Sherlock replied.

"Hang on," John replied, his voice rising with incredulity. "Have you two somehow solved this case without even hearing any testimony or leaving the flat?"

"Don't know yet," Sherlock said.

Mary could do nothing but stare and try to get her brain to catch up. Thankfully, she wasn't the only one who seemed completely lost. Lestrade rubbed his eyes ferociously before finally sayin, "Look, we're at the Sholto Mansion and we can't sit here in the car all day. Donovan might show up any time. But before we go in and look around, we're going to all of us get on the same page, all right?"

"That would be appreciated," Mary replied gratefully.

"Right, so," Lestrade began, "besides being obviously your guess for the man who attacked Bart Sholto, who the hell is Jonathan Small and how did you find out about him?"

"It's not a guess," Sherlock said, miffed. He charged headlong into an explanation, his tempo speeding up gradually as he spoke. "I'd searched unsuccessfully for anything on Sholto or Morstan. So I looked for their shadows instead. Any mentions of British UN officials, UN Majors, anything that might be linked but wouldn't mention specific names. And I came across an interesting editorial in a Cambodian French language newspaper from 1995. Four former UN Peacekeepers wound up as prisoners there back in 1993 as part of a sting operation performed by the UN brass in response to complaints of rampant gambling, drug use, and illegal pornography amongst Peacekeepers. Kept very quiet in the international news, no doubt. But here's the interesting bit," Sherlock said, just before Mary was ready to shake him out of his musings and shout get to the point! "They claimed an unnamed British officer with the UN had targeted them with the sting. They said the UN refused to reveal the officers who gave specific orders, but these four men insisted that they were arrested right after they showed this officer and a friend of his to a location containing valuable raw gems for mining. These four men all swear that the major swindled them out of their treasure."

Lestrade rubbed his forehead, looking as bowled over as Mary felt. It was John who seemed most able to follow Sherlock's rapid-fire speech and not entirely linear thinking. "But Sherlock," John said, sounding like he was trying to unconvince himself of the conclusions Sherlock was putting forth. "You said the article was from 1995. Mary's father died back in 1993."

"Yes, yes," Sherlock replied in annoyance, "and obviously the UN was no longer there in 1995 either. The article wasn't about their arrest, it was part of a series of coverage of their last appeals. They'd already been in this prison, trying to get their voices heard, for two years. There were virtually no local news outlets in 1993. And the UN certainly wouldn't have advertised a story about four convicts who were themselves a blight on the UN's already unstable mission. Nor would it be enough for a western outlet in the area. There were much more important things to cover. And they had no proof. They didn't even have the officer's name." At this point, Sherlock was talking so excitedly, he was hardly leaving spaces between words. Mary was doing her best to keep up, silently watching him lecture to the web camera. "It's no wonder it didn't get picked up by anyone else. It only seems to have been printed by Cambodge Soir because the Frenchman, Alain Giroux, was a very minor sort of celebrity in France for his mountain climbing in the Himalayas prior to his joining the UN. So a sort of interest story for the Francophone population. I'd wager if we look at the papers of his hometown back in France, we might find an article or two there as well. But nothing ever came of it." Sherlock was red in the face and out of breath by the end of his speech, but hadn't seemed to notice.

"Sherlock, just take a breath for a second," John said, elevating his voice to cut through his friend's rambling. Mary was a little concerned for Sherlock herself. They waited until Sherlock took a few breaths before John spoke slowly, emphasizing each words as if to force his friend's unruly mind to slow down. "How do you know this is talking about Major Sholto and Mary's father."

"Isn't it obvious? The dates," Sherlock said, turning to Mary as he realised she was the only one who could actually see the article on his screen. "Look at the date these four were arrested."

Mary followed his finger to the indicated line, and her heart nearly stopped. "What?" John asked, concerned. Clearly being able to actually see her made all the difference. She must have looked as faint as she felt.

"The 5th of September, 1993," Mary read quietly, preferring to stare at that side of the screen rather than the corner where John and Lestrade's video chat window was. "The day after my father died."

There was a palpable silence in which the only noise seemed to be the sound of Sherlock's head inflating to an unbearable size. A smug smile and raised eyebrow were focused in turn on each other them until, finally, he said, "Well, seeing as I've already identified the murderers, shall we get on to finding concrete proof for the sake of curiosity and the court case?"

"For the sake of the court case," Lestrade interjected, his voice rising in irritation, "you might want to actually explain how the hell you've even jumped to this conclusion."

Sherlock gave a long-suffering sigh. "It's so painfully obvious. The story those four imprisoned UN peacekeepers told Cambodge Soir was essentially true. They most likely stumbled across land that had potential to be mined for rubies. But not having the means to purchase Cambodian citizenship or the land, they decided to cut Sholto and Morstan in. Sholto got greedy, killed Morstan, then had the other men arrested as part of a sting." Mary flinched. She'd already pieced together that Sherlock must suspect Timothy Sholto for her father's apparent murder, but hearing him actually say it stung.

"So you're saying these four guys are out of this Cambodian prison now and want money and revenge?" Lestrade asked.

"Of course," Sherlock said, "it was clear from the beginning that this couldn't be a simple robbery."

"The four of diamonds left in Bart Sholto's ceiling," John noted slowly, as if working it out as he spoke. "That had to be some sort of message or symbol."

"Precisely," Sherlock replied. "It's something to do with their last card game at that pub, where the four of diamonds disappeared from Michael Morstan's deck. In the minds of these incredibly dense and unimaginative criminals, it's quite literally a calling card: the four of them and a red gemstone. They may as well have written 'the four of rubies' across the top; it would have been just as prosaic."

"But there are four of them," Mary pointed out, looking at the picture that was still up on the screen as she did. "How do you know which one of them killed Bart? And where are the others?"

"Working on it," Sherlock replied curtly. "I'll need to have a look around the scene again for a few key items first."

Lestrade held a warning index finger up. "No, I told you Sherlock, you aren't getting anywhere near this scene. It's bad enough me being here with John in the car. I told you I might might send some items back with him if you wanted to see them. But that's it, you're not coming here."

"You have a web camera in your phone!" Sherlock insisted.

"I am never doing that again," Lestrade asked. "And you won't come here, do you understand that? I told you I'd help you with this case on account of your involvement and Mary's, but if you put one foot out of line, I'm not giving you a case again. Hell, I still have to figure out some sort of official way to use you in the first place," the detective grumbled.

If Sherlock was deterred by what Mary would consider to be a fairly large and troubling bit of information, he didn't show it. Instead, he only seemed momentarily irritated by Lestrade's refusal. "Fine, but at least take some decent video and photos of the scene. Knowing what we do now, there are only two things I really need you to look for. Firstly, I need you to find a sample of Timothy Sholto's pipe tobacco. Most likely from a desk drawer. In its case if you can. Unlikely Bart or the housekeepers would have thrown it out. Secondly, when you go up on the roof-"

"Hang on," John interjected. "The roof?"

"Yes, of course. Obviously that's the way the killer came in. We've established it wasn't through a door or window but that he fired the gun straight from the attic. So, most likely he came in through the roof. I'll need you to take some good photos there. Once you've determined his point of entry, get me a shingle from around there. Also, look around for any vestiges of climbing equipment: rope, carabiners, descenders, cams. He most likely wouldn't have left those there, but it's worth a shot. But the shingle is the essential bit for confirming it. Also, be sure to look at where he might have climbed up from, photograph any marks on the side of the house that seem suspicious."

"You're saying one of these guys climbed onto the roof?" Lestrade replied, looking up from the paper he was scribbling away on.

"Do you have an alternate theory for how one gets on a roof?" Sherlock replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm. Then he explained impatiently, "Alain Giroux would have been the natural choice for the task, given his mountain climbing background."

"All right, what are the other things?" Lestrade asked, all business despite the fact that, in truth, he was being ordered around by a civilian. Mary would wager he'd long ago realised some things weren't worth arguing over. And Sherlock's tone toward authority figures seemed to be one of them.

But to Mary's surprise, Sherlock simply shrugged and stood up. "No, those are the most material things for the moment."

"You got a date or something?" Lestrade questioned sharply, clearly not happy about Sherlock Holmes looking very much like he was about to run out the door and go God knew where. It made Mary nervous as well; she certainly didn't want to stay at home alone at the moment, but also wasn't exactly jumping out of her seat to follow Sherlock on another "adventure".

Sherlock was looking about for his scarf, which turned out to be draped over the chair he'd been sitting in. As he picked it up he commented absently, "Best not to make that joke around Molly, I think."

There was a beat. Lestrade and Watson exchanged horrified looks. "Molly? You aren't going to St. Bart's, that's out of the question," Lestrade said sternly.

"We have to get some items tested. I don't have the capabilities to do so here. And it would be useful to speak with someone who has access to autopsy records," Sherlock said matter-of-factly, putting on his scarf. Mary gave John a pleading look, not quite knowing what she should do.

"Sherlock," John cut in flatly. "Listen, I'm all for that. But can you at least wait until I've brought the things you want back from the Sholto mansion. Please? Then we can go to St. Bart's together." Mary noticed the way John's voice wavered slightly on those words, how he swallowed reflexively. And it occurred to her, though of course it didn't to Sherlock, just how huge it was for John to offer to go to St. Bart's at all. He'd pathologically avoided the place for the last year and a half. They'd actually become quite good friends with Molly and, more recently, her boyfriend, but had never been to her place of work.

Oh God, Molly, Mary thought. From what John had told her, the poor woman had been hopelessly in love with Sherlock. In all the time Mary had known her, she'd carefully avoided mentioning his name. How on earth could they break it to her gently that he was alive?

But more importantly, Mary was back to wondering what John would think going to St. Bart's though Sherlock was alive and mostly well, the last thing she wanted was for John to have to go and meet them at St. Bart's by himself. There was still so much unresolved over what had happened that day on the rooftop. Both physically, in terms of how Sherlock had managed to fake his death, and emotionally. Because, though he never believed Sherlock's assertions that he was a fraud, John had still never quite come to terms with why his friend had supposedly killed himself. Mary had listened to John's long, guilt and anger-filled speculations, but for all her training, could do nothing more than admit that sometimes we didn't know why people did the things they did. Which even she knew was an utterly shit answer.

Unfortunately Sherlock's return thus far hadn't actually answered many of the questions Mary knew John had. Nor did it erase the fact that John had still believed, on balance, that Sherlock was capable of killing himself. And that there might be reasons he would want to (though John never would fully articulate them). The implications of that put Mary on edge for both Sherlock and John's sake. And if all of these things were occurring to her just at the mention of going to St. Bart's, she wondered how much more strongly it would affect John.

"Please, Sherlock," she found herself saying, giving him a pleading look. As if what she wanted factored into his decisions at all. "It's better if we wait so John can come to St. Bart's with us. It'll be more convenient." She's emphasized John's name just slightly, hoping that Sherlock might see her point without her having to spell it out.

Sherlock looked down at her, trying to size up what she meant. He appeared to be struggling with it more than his usual studies of objects or articles. Then he glanced over at John on the computer screen. Perhaps he had pieced together the concerns Mary had. Even if he had, she couldn't imagine he really understood them. Nevertheless, he seemed at least to comprehend that there was some measure of concern for John in all this. And that was evidently enough.

Sherlock gave a long sigh and sank heavily back into the desk chair. "Fine," he huffed, like an overgrown child. "But hurry up."

"You don't have to worry about that," Lestrade replied. "The last thing I want to do is linger around in that attic until DI Donovan shows up."

"Yeah, let's not have a repeat of that mistake," John said. "I quite like being not in prison." To Sherlock he said, "See you soon." Then to Mary, he added, haltingly, "And I promise I'll fill you in. On... other things. When I get back."

"All right. Hurry back," Mary replied with a small wave before shutting off the video call. Turning to Sherlock, she said quietly, "Thank you." She hesitated, unsure if she should further explain, then decided it might help Sherlock. "I just didn't want John to have to go meet us at St. Bart's by himself. Even though I know you don't understand why, I just worry it'll bring back a lot of bad memories for him."

Sherlock looked at her for a long moment. Not sizing her up, though. Not this time. He looked as if he were actually considering his words before speaking for once. Finally, he said quietly, "John doesn't have a monopoly on those." Without another word, he turned back to the computer.