Sherlock spent most of the next day on the sofa, so motionless that Jared dropped a book at one point to see if he would react to the bang. It earned him a weary sigh, but not a twitch of movement.

The soft ping of a text notification moments later had an entirely different outcome. Sherlock picked up the phone, glanced at the screen and was on his feet, in motion toward the kitchen. "We have a case." And with that, he disappeared into the bedroom.

As was becoming routine, Sherlock shared nothing of where they were going or what they expected to find. Lestrade had a case. That was apparently all he needed to know.

It was nearly dark when the cab pulled into a large car park in front of a warehouse that backed up to the river. There was a cluster of police vehicles down near the water's edge, and Sherlock headed off in that direction leaving Bahnsen to pay the cab fare and chase after him, which was also becoming routine. He found Sherlock crouched over the body of a man who was dressed in an overcoat and an expensive three-piece suit. The body was unsullied from the shoulders down. From the neck up, it was hard even to tell his race.

Lestrade was standing back a few paces, arms crossed. He glanced up and nodded at Jared. Jared walked over and joined him. "What have we got?"

"A bad feeling," Lestrade said distractedly, eyes on Sherlock.

Sherlock moved to the opposite side of the body to push up the cuff and pull down the top of the leather glove on the body's right hand. It revealed pale white skin ringed with vivid red welts. It made sense that the man would have been restrained. He could hardly have submitted willingly to what was done to his face.

Sherlock continued his examination without comment. He tugged the glove from the stiff fingers and revealed a bloody pulp where the nails should be. Jared winced with the empathy of one who knew exactly what that felt like, though luckily his own torturer had been interrupted before he'd done more than one finger. The right index, which was currently throbbing at the memory.

Sherlock moved to the mutilated face and pried the jaw open. He looked up at DI Lestrade who was now leaning over his shoulder, observing. "His tongue is missing," Sherlock commented with clinical detachment. "He was beaten with bare fists, and his nails were pulled out." Sherlock stood up and his gaze fell on Bahnsen. "Would you like to have a closer look? I believe this is in your area of experience."

"From the receiving end, unfortunately," Jared commented, and crouched next to the body. The man's face was covered with deep cuts so close together that the skin looked as if it had been rubbed with a cheese grater, an image that made his stomach twist. The tip of the nose seemed to have been sliced off. The eyelids weren't spared, each having a horizontal slice that all but severed them. He didn't repeat Sherlock's prying open the jaws. He would take his word for the missing tongue. He stood up and found Sherlock and the detective watching him with identical crossed arms. "They wanted to inflict maximum pain without killing him."

"Until they got what they were after," Lestrade added. He held out a plastic evidence bag to Sherlock. "That's all he had on him."

Sherlock took the bag and frowned at the contents, a single slip of paper that had been torn from a larger sheet. He glanced back at the body. "I don't know this man."

Lestrade shrugged. "He seems to have known you."

Jared took the bag from Sherlock's hand and read the slip. All it contained was Sherlock's name, printed in pencil. He looked questioningly at Lestrade.

"That's the bad feeling I was talking about."

"We will see you at Barts," Sherlock said, and strode for the main road.

Jared gave Lestrade a weary look, and chased after the swirling coat.

Sherlock started talking as soon as Jared joined him in the taxi, but he seemed to be talking more to himself. It was an unbroken monologue summarizing his findings, and speculating that the level of damage inflicted suggested that the victim had professional training in holding up under torture, which further suggested that he was not the businessman he appeared to be.

Jared agreed, and Sherlock shot him a look that said he hadn't been expecting a response, nor asking for one.

This was Jared's first trip to Barts morgue. Not, sadly, his first trip to morgues in general. The quality of facilities he had seen all over the world ranged from squalid to cutting-edge (gallows humour intended), and he was mildly surprised to find that Barts fell near the top of that scale. The building itself had him expecting something more Victorian.

The young woman who greeted them seemed very surprised to see Jared, but she recovered quickly and introduced herself as Molly Hooper. She shot a glance at Sherlock who was ignoring them both. "If you wait for him to introduce you, you'll never know who anyone is." She said it with a teasing fondness that was followed by another glance in Sherlock's direction. This time, Sherlock was looking back, and Molly's gaze immediately darted back to Jared.

The blush made her look even younger, Jared thought. Smitten. And Sherlock has no clue. "I'll keep that in mind."

The body arrived a few minutes later, and Jared stood back to watch Dr Hooper work. She was professional and efficient, but not unaffected by the horrific wounds inflicted on the man on her table. Not squeamish in the slightest. Just one human feeling the pain of another. It must be a difficult thing to handle in her line of work, but she would be the type of person who would be more effective because of it.

Removing the victim's clothing exposed more deep cuts on the skin of his back and thighs, soaked with blood that was hidden by the dark fabric. Sherlock was right about the level of conditioning it would have taken to resist so much methodical savagery. "Fingerprints won't help," he said as he noticed Molly beginning to print the body's left hand. "If he's what I think, his prints won't be on file anywhere you have access to."

Sherlock's smile was barely a twitch. "You underestimate my level of access."

Of course Mycroft Holmes provided the information within thirty minutes. The victim was Michael Valentino, an American born in New York in 1975. He had indeed been with the CIA, but for the past six years only as a contractor. His mission in London was being disavowed by the Americans, who may or may not be telling the truth. When and how he had arrived in the UK was being investigated. His lodgings were also currently unknown.

Molly Hooper completed the autopsy and ruled the cause of death to be shock and blood loss. The manner of death, obviously, was homicide. By the time she had finished closing up the body, Sherlock received a call from his brother with an address. Valentino had taken a room at a bed and breakfast in Westminster near Regents Park.

Molly Hooper's eyes widened when he gave them the house number. The victim had been staying at 216 Baker Street. "Sherlock, that's practically next door to you."

"Across the street, actually." Sherlock's response was vaguely directed at her, but his unfocused gaze was not.

"You need to tell Greg right away. It can't be a coincidence." She had come over to stand directly in front of Sherlock.

"Tell me what?" DI Lestrade chose that moment to join them.

"Molly is alarmed by the decedent's London address," Sherlock answered him, but he was looking down at Molly Hooper. He gave her a small, private smile before he turned to Greg. "My brother has turned up some background information," he said, filled Greg in on the rest. "His choice of lodging may be significant."

"I would say so," Lestrade agreed. He pulled out his phone and walked a few paces away.

"Sherlock, you need to take this seriously," Molly said quietly.

Sherlock ignored her. He was openly listening to Lestrade's side of the phone conversation, which had just included instructions to the party on the other end to send forensics to the victim's address. "Not until I see it first," he raised his voice to get Lestrade's attention.

Greg lowered the phone. "I do know the drill, Sherlock. They won't go in until we get there." The emphasis on 'we' was clear.

Sherlock grudgingly accepted Lestrade's offer to drive them to the scene. It would have been a ridiculous waste of money to take a taxi given that the building was only two houses down from 221 on the opposite side of the street. As Lestrade had promised, the forensics team was waiting in their van out front.

The victim's rooms were upstairs on the first floor facing the street, with an unobstructed view of 221's front door. Jared stood at the window, mentally gauging the suitability of this location for a sniper. "Not a coincidence," he said under his breath.

Sherlock was standing directly behind him, apparently following his train of thought as well as his gaze. "Are you referring to his choice of location, or the fact that he arrived in London on the same day as you?"

Jared turned to face him. "You're not suggesting he was with me."

Sherlock smirked. "Not at all. I was simply wondering which of us was his target."

Their search turned up nothing of value. Aside from toiletries in the bathroom, there wasn't so much as a suitcase. No clothes. No laptop. Nothing to indicate why he was here.

Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "I assume you're checking taxi records from this location. Contact me as soon as you have the results." He started for the door, then turned back to give Lestrade a narrow look. "Before you act on that impulse I see chugging its way to the surface, I do not need protection."

Lestrade glanced back at the forensics team working the scene, and lowered his voice. "You'll have to convince me because from what I can see, a man who had your name in his pocket and was watching your flat has been tortured for information that he seems to have given up. You don't think there's a good chance that whoever has that information will be coming for you next?"

"I'm hardly difficult to find, Lestrade. The address is on the website. And they obviously weren't concerned about leaving my name on the body." He quirked a very brief smile. "Perhaps they wanted to make certain that you would call me in on the case."

Lestrade sighed at Sherlock's departing back and gave Jared a pointed look. "Watch him."

"On it," Jared replied and headed after him.

Sherlock was putting his phone back in his pocket when Jared caught up to him halfway down the block. "Do I need to point out that we're heading in the wrong direction?"

Sherlock raised his arm at an approaching cab.

"Where are we going?"

"We aren't going anywhere. You're going back to the flat."

"Not a chance."

Sherlock shot him a vile look.

"You've obviously just figured something out. Who were you talking to on the phone?"

The cab pulled up to the kerb, and Sherlock got in. Jared slid in behind him before he could close the door. "Look, I don't mind working in the dark, but I'll be a lot more useful if you tell me what's going on."

Put-upon sigh. "We have an address from the taxi that took him there last night."

Jared stared at him. "How did you get that?"

"A phone call."

"Shouldn't you tell Lestrade?"

"When there's something to tell him, yes."

"We're going in without backup."

Silence.

Jared gave up, mentally kicking himself in the arse for leaving his gun behind.

London's convoluted layout was the product of millennia, and largely incomprehensible to even its lifelong residents. Jared was hopelessly lost by the time the cabbie pulled to the kerb at the address Sherlock had provided. The area appeared to be a mix of residential and light industrial, not well maintained, and almost totally devoid of functioning street lights.

Sherlock got out and stood in front of a two-story brick building that looked like it had not been used for decades. The windows were boarded up, and the front lawn was strewn with rubbish. A faded estate agent's sign in the front yard was nearly obscured by weeds.

"Are we going in?" He kept his voice low.

"Through the back," Sherlock replied and headed off into the side yard with Jared close on his heels.

The darkness back here was nearly total, and Sherlock quickly drew ahead of him, moving with the grace of an alley cat on familiar ground. Jared made an effort to catch up, and immediately felt something sharp jab into his right thigh. He swore softly and felt the warmth of blood on his fingers when he touched the spot. "Wait," he hissed in Sherlock's direction.

The shadows ahead shifted, and he managed to make out Sherlock's silhouette as it vanished around the corner of the building.

Seconds later, he heard scuffling, a muffled groan, and the sound of a body falling. He broke into a blind run, turned the corner, and was instantly blinded by a brilliant light aimed directly into his face. His hands came up involuntarily, just before something slammed into his skull and everything went black.

The murmur of voices. Male, American accents. Two of them. The dizzying sensation of the hard surface beneath him tilting and spinning, followed by the inevitable roll of nausea. Sherlock tried to hide his return to consciousness, such as it was, by keeping his breathing level and slow, but his heart was thudding painfully, begging for huge gulps of air. He fought the urge as long as he could.

The voices went silent when he finally gave in to his body's craving for oxygen. The audible intake brought footsteps rushing in his direction from some distance away. There was no point in pretending any longer, and he opened his eyes. The world took a vicious spin, and the nausea made him groan miserably in spite of himself. An instant later, he was gagging at the rush of bile that filled his mouth.

"Take it easy. That's it. Just let it out." A figure crouched next to him and hands turned him on his side. Denim clad knees avoiding the growing puddle of sick under his chin. The heaving slowed, and finally stopped. He was pulled upright, sitting on his butt, hands cuffed behind him, and his vision blurred with tears from the wrenching spasms in his gut.

"Get him some water." The speaker in his line of sight came gradually into focus. Military haircut. Dark eyes. Mid-thirties. Broad shoulders. large biceps. Black shirt. Smiling.

A plastic bottle pressed to his lips, tipped up. Sherlock turned his head away.

"It's water. Nothing in it. If you want to work the drugs out of your system, you need to drink."

His head was forced back to the front and the rim of the bottle was pushed against his mouth. The water poured across his parched lips, and they opened involuntarily to drink it in. He drained the bottle and coughed. "What do you want?"

The man tossed the empty bottle on the floor and chuckled. "Not 'where am I' or 'who are you'?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, but it still felt raw. "What do you want?"

The man motioned to someone and a chair was dragged over. The man lifted him into it, pressing his bound hands painfully against the metal back. The man stood and crossed his arms. "You're the master of deduction. Dazzle me."

Dazzling was not on the menu at the moment. He could barely focus on the man's face.

"No guesses? Okay, I'll give you a hint. I'm looking for someone, and you're going to help me find her."

Sherlock blinked to clear his vision. "You assume that I can."

"Oh, I know you can."

"But you don't believe that I will do so willingly."

The man seemed to consider that for a moment. "You know, that's a good point." He looked back to the right. "Maybe we should try asking him. What do you think?" He turned back to Sherlock. "My colleague doesn't think that's likely to work, but hell. Let's give it a try. Her true name is Allison Ahrens. American, five foot five. Fortyish, blonde the last time I saw her. Oh, and a hell of a good shot. She makes her living with it. Ring any bells?"

Sherlock managed to keep his face utterly still. "Sorry, no."

"That's disappointing, Sherlock. See, I know you're not telling me the truth. We've been watching Allison's former friends and colleagues for quite some time. A couple of weeks ago, one of them did something so noteworthy that we just had to find out what it was about. He engineered a national broadcast across the UK, a seemingly pointless little video. We convinced him to tell us why. He didn't have all the pieces, but he did lead us to you. And now you're going to lead us to her."

Pieces of a puzzle Sherlock didn't even know existed clicked abruptly into place. "I can't help you."

The punch was unexpected. Sherlock's head snapped sharply to the right and his mouth filled instantly with the sweet metallic taste of blood. The momentum tipped over the chair, and his head smacked the floor with stunning force.

The man crouched next to him. "You'll have to do better than that, my friend." He patted Sherlock's shoulder, then stood. "Rest up while you can. The longest it's ever taken me to break a man is 16 hours, but I've got a feeling you're going to make me work for this one."

A/N - Chapter 11 will be posted on Friday.

end of chapter 10