Lestrade lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling. He'd been doing this on and off for the past seven hours. When he wasn't doing that, he was staring at the wall where there was an identical twin to his "Sherlock wall" from the Scotland Yard office. Occasionally he would take a break to pace frantically and try to convince himself that he wasn't insane, but then he'd realize he was talking aloud and therefore proving himself wrong, and then he'd go back to staring at various parts of his home. And now and then he'd stare at the impossible message on his mobile phone, and feel even more lost.

He'd left Andersen's forensics report untouched last night and gone straight home. He had thought about showing them the message, but he knew what they'd all say, and he didn't want to hear it—that he was crazy, paranoid, that he needed to let it go—because he knew they were probably right and he didn't want to be reminded. He'd rushed back to his flat and begun this chain of staring at the walls and the ceiling and his phone, all the while trying not to believe what every instinct was telling him.

Lestrade covered his face with his hands and exhaled deeply. He was just overstressed, he told himself. Or overworked, or overtired, or something; the point was that he was losing his mind. He looked back at his mobile again. The message, taunting him in so many ways, stared back at him. He'd thought about replying to it, many times, but he couldn't quite bring himself to do it. He wasn't even sure it was real; he was that seriously concerned for his sanity. But, now that he thought about it, there was one real number he could call…

"So, what exactly are we going to be so busy with?" John asked as they walked down a busy London street some time after being returned from Mycroft. Sherlock hesitated to reply.

"I'm not entirely sure yet," Sherlock admitted calmly. "I've come home, made a show of myself—more than I'd have liked to, in fact. Now it's time to see how my opponent responds." There was an eagerness in his voice that sparked a glint of irritation in John.

"So we're busy waiting, is that it?" he asked, letting it show.

"Oh, don't worry, it won't be for long." Sherlock looked over his shoulder with an artificial grin. "In the meantime, I thought perhaps we might..." he was cut off by the sound of John's phone ringing, and his fake smile faded into genuine irritation. They both stopped short.

"It's Lestrade," John said, surprised, having expected it to be Mary.

"Don't answer it," Sherlock commanded.

"It could be important," John began to argue, but the look on Sherlock's face told him there wasn't any point. He set the mobile to silent—he wouldn't get to take any calls for a while, anyway. "Never mind. You were saying something?"

Sherlock didn't answer. Something seemed to have caught his attention, and he was looking intently at whatever it was over John's shoulder. John turned to try and see what it was, but didn't notice anything unusual. He turned back to Sherlock. "You okay?" he asked. Sherlock shook his head slightly and seemed to remember he was there.

"Hm? Oh, yes, I'm fine, sorry. I just...thought I saw..." he looked suspiciously in the same direction one more time, then shrugged and turned to keep walking down the street.

After a pause, John remembered something he'd meant to do. "Well, if we're just passing the time, care for some breakfast?"

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock replied.

"Oh, shame. I am, let's go."

Lestrade gave serious thought to throwing the mobile at the wall. He managed to restrain himself only by remembering that if he did, he'd lose any proof that he'd ever received a message from a dead man. After three rapid-fire unanswered calls to John Watson's mobile he resorted to text messaging.

Have you gotten any strange messages?

A few moments later:

Anything weird at all, even?

He waited, accounting for John's slow typing speed, for a reply, but it never came, and so Lestrade gave up trying to be vague:

OK, don't have a fit or anything, but I think I just got a text from Sherlock.

He tried another approach and called Watson's home number. A tired-sounding woman answered.

"Hello?" Mary Morstan said groggily. He feared he may have just woken her up.

"Yes, hi," Lestrade began, trying to sound as politely conversational as possible. The last time he had spoken to the future Mrs. Watson had been under some fairly unpleasant circumstances. "It's uh, Greg Lestrade, can I speak to John, please?" It was a challenge sounding polite when he was this stressed, but he'd had practice from years of questioning grief-stricken witnesses.

"He's not here." Mary's voice had a hint of irritation in it.

"What?" Lestrade asked, confused.

"He's not here, he was out all night, I'm not sure where he is." She didn't sound worried, more like angry, which Lestrade thought was a bit strange.

"Do you have any idea what he might be up to?" he asked as delicately as he could manage. He didn't like where this was going at all.

"He said an old friend had just come back into town and needed his help. He wouldn't tell me anything more than that. He was acting really odd, like there was something he wanted to tell me but he couldn't. Do you have any idea what it might have been?"

I have an idea, all right. I have a very good idea, but it's not bloody possible, and if I told you, you'd know I'd gone completely insane. But I still want to believe I'm right…

"Greg? Are you still there?" Mary asked. Lestrade wasn't sure how long he'd been silent for. "I said do you have any idea what's going on?"

"Not a clue," Lestrade said numbly, "Nice talking to you." He hung up without waiting for a reply.

Fuck it, he thought, If I'm going crazy I may as well go all-out. He dialed the number.

"Will you please just eat something?"

"Why are you so concerned about this? I told you I wasn't hungry." Sherlock made a face and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. They were in the back of an inconspicuous little café, Sherlock pointedly facing away from the door and keeping his head down. "I'm all right with a few people knowing I'm here," he'd explained, "but I don't want to attract unnecessary attention." His eyes were darting around the room frantically. He was starting to look like some sort of paranoid junkie.

John crossed his arms in frustration. "Sherlock, I could feel your bones sticking out last night…" he paused for a moment; his ears turning red with the thought of his intimate moment with Sherlock, and he hoped nobody around him had heard him say that. "You're thin as a rail," he continued "and you've just had a serious drug withdrawal." He dropped his voice to a whisper now. "I am not going to have you come back to life just to watch you kill yourself all over again."

Sherlock looked down shamefully. "All right," he finally conceded. "Just…toast or something will be fine." He took a gulp of his coffee and was silent for a while, looking intently at something at the other end of the cafe, and John took the opportunity to check his mobile to see what Lestrade had wanted. His brow crinkled in surprise at what he found there.

"Huh," he muttered quietly.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, his mind returning to Earth.

"I've got six messages from Lestrade…" He opened the most recent and saw what the cause was. "Oh, that's just not fair," he said, feeling half pity for the poor detective inspector and half amusement at his misfortune.

"What isn't?" Sherlock replied, lost. John looked up at him with a smirk.

"You bastard," he laughed, "Why would you do that to the poor bloke?"

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock asked, genuinely confused. John's smile faded slightly, as he got the feeling something was wrong here.

"Well, he says he got a message from you. I mean, that's not very fair, you've talked to everyone else in person so far, but all he gets is a teasing little text, I mean, that's not…"

"I never sent Lestrade any message." Sherlock's tone was ominous. John nearly shivered. Something was wrong here…

"Then who…?"

"Sherlock?" Lestrade spoke uncertainly into the receiver, almost afraid to hear a dead man's voice. It was fortunate, then, that it was not Sherlock's voice he heard.

"Detective Inspector!" said an unfamiliar female voice with delight. "How nice of you to call! I've been waiting to hear from you!"

"Who the hell is this? Do you think you're funny?"

"Oh yes, Detective, I think I'm rather hilarious. But that's not the point."

"Then what is the point? Driving me out of my mind?"

The voice laughed, a musical laugh, but a twisted one, like a beautiful melody being played on an extremely badly tuned piano. "No, no, no, Mr. Lestrade. The point is that I have the means at my disposal to completely destroy your life if you don't do exactly what I say. Now, where shall we begin?"