Sherlock had been practically ready to climb out of his own skin with anxiety by the time John had returned from the crime scene. While he had brought the requested shingle, photographs, and tobacco from Timothy Sholto's desk, it had taken him dreadfully long to do so. It had given Sherlock some time to gather more information on the four UN peacekeeper prisoners; but he'd hardly needed as long as John had taken. Practically the instant John opened the door, Sherlock spun him the other direction to head down to the road and catch a cab to St. Bart's. Mary tagged along, of course. A bit superfluous, but Sherlock didn't want to spare the time to point this out. He flagged down a cab and hopped in, with John and Mary sitting next to him.

While Mary and John engaged in forced casual conversation about mundane topics like the weather and some election or other, Sherlock concentrated on the items John had brought back. He turned the shingle and tobacco case both over in his hands, letting all their details pour into his brain. "Let me see the photographs of the side of the house again," Sherlock told John without looking up from the items.

John gave a sigh. Why he still did that, Sherlock didn't know. He was fully aware that John found his straightforward manner impolite. What was the point in repeating that sentiment every time Sherlock said anything? It seemed a horrible waste of time and energy. The end result was still going to be that John would do what Sherlock had said anyhow, which was exactly what happened as John handed his mobile to Sherlock. The detective tapped to open the photo album and started flicking through the photos. Most were useless, but John and Lestrade had managed to take a few useful (if slightly blurry) photos of the side of the house. A series of deep scratches in the stately brick had stood out even to John.

"What are those from?" John asked, noticing the photo Sherlock was stopped on.

Sherlock looked up from the phone, and held the shingle John had brought back from the Sholto mansion rooftop. "The same thing these are," Sherlock said, indicating the distinct series of parallel puncture marks a few inches apart.

"Which is..?" John asked.

"Crampons," Sherlock said. "Really the only thing that could both make these distinct marks, leave scratches even in brick, allow someone to climb up a sheer brick face, but also grip onto the asphalt tiles of the roof. Especially a steep one like the Sholto Mansion has."

John blinked. "What the hell are crampons?"

"They're those metal spike things you attach to your shoes for ice climbing, aren't they?" Mary offered.

Sherlock was somewhat impressed. It wasn't incredibly obscure knowledge, but from John's reaction Sherlock gathered it wasn't entirely common either. It was always fascinating to learn what normal people did and didn't know about. "Exactly," he replied, "And who should happen to be a climbing expert but our friend Alain Giroux. You said there wasn't any more climbing equipment left behind," Sherlock directed at John, who shook his head in confirmation. "Of course he would have been careful. But it's just as well. This gives us what we need to go on anyway. Then there's the tobacco." John had indeed found a tin of Germain's Special Latakia Flake tobacco in Timothy Sholto's desk, as Sherlock had suspected he would.

"Yeah, the Germain's Special Latakia Flake," John affirmed. "I'm not even going to ask for an explanation about telling types of tobacco ash apart, so I'll take your word that's the right kind. But what's it spiked with?"

"I have my suspicions, but we won't know for sure until it's tested," Sherlock replied nonchalantly, which seemed to satisfy both Mary and John. In truth, he was almost certain about the source of the stalks of plant matter he'd found in Michael Morstan's pipe. And if he turned out to be right, it would also add to the evidence supporting his belief as to where all that extra Sholto family money came from. But Sherlock wanted to play that close to the chest, in the phraseology of card players like the four. It wouldn't do to make such a declaration publicly then be proven wrong. This case was his chance to show everyone he was fine and more than ready to jump back into the work. Thus far, he felt he'd done a terrific job and didn't want to muck that up.

As the cab turned down Gitspur street, an odd stillness came over the car. Even before the outline of St. Bart's came into view on the right-hand side of the street, John had tensed. That in turn made Sherlock feel uncomfortable. He could certainly understand why John had grown silent. Their phone conversation and his leap from the roof of St. Bart's was one thing Sherlock had specifically tried not to delete. Horrible as it had been to live through and sometimes almost worse to re-live and analyse for Sherlock, he knew John must have had a much harder time of it. After all, he was at the disadvantage of not having all the facts. No, it was more than that: Sherlock had intentionally misled and deceived John. He'd felt it necessary, and still believed it was. But he wouldn't delete the memory. If John had to live with that in his mind, Sherlock had reasoned that it was only fair he should as well.

When the cab pulled over to the side of the road, Sherlock paid the driver without a word and was very glad to step out of the stiflingly tense environment of the car. Unfortunately he was then presented with a familiar sight, though Sherlock was aware that he was seeing it from the opposite perspective than the last time he'd been here. They passed the low brick ambulance station Sherlock had used to obscure John's view when he'd jumped. Neither man said anything or looked directly at the other. John had his eyes fixed on the street, intentionally not looking up as they hurried across the road. Sherlock noticed Mary taking John's hand and giving it a squeeze as they entered the hospital.

Sherlock followed behind John and Mary, whose hands were still intertwined as they headed up the staircase that led to the lab. When they arrived at the catwalk to the lab on the third floor, John stopped and turned around to face Sherlock. He was giving Sherlock a reproachful look already, which didn't seem a good start to whatever conversation they were about to have. "Sherlock, are you sure this is a good idea? Isn't there any way to test these things out back at home?"

"You vastly overestimate my lab," Sherlock replied. "Besides, we may need autopsy records as well and Molly will have access to those." That seemed obvious enough, but John and Mary were still exchanging nervous looks for some reason. "What?" Sherlock demanded impatiently.

It was Mary who seemed to have the bravery to voice the essence of the silent conversation she'd evidently been having with John. "It's just, well, Molly thinks you're dead. And you've done a lot of surprising those of us who thought you were dead, I know. But it's a bit different with Molly."

Sherlock gave her a puzzled look. "I don't see how. Anyway," he continued as he turned and strode across the catwalk and into the hallway, "I'm sure it will be fine." John and Mary struggled to keep up with his long strides, which gave him the chance to stroll casually through the wooden door to the lab before they were able to stop him with any more boring chatter.

As the door swung open loudly, Molly Hooper practically fell off the stool she was sitting on. And she knocked the case of slides she'd been arranging off the island, and scattering glass everywhere as she saw who had barged so confidently into her quiet lab. Sherlock gave a curt nod and said, "Molly."

Behind him, Sherlock heard John and Mary enter and come to a stop, paralysed with indecision most likely. He was just thinking how quaint that reaction was when Molly suddenly closed the distance between them and wrapped her arms around Sherlock, throwing him into a surprising paralysis himself. For a moment, no one said or did anything. Then Molly seemed to realise what she was doing and let go, taking a few awkward steps back. "It's really good to see you. I didn't know... no one told me how you were or..." she seemed to notice John and Mary for the first time and went even whiter than her normally pale complexion. She covered her mouth with one hand, looking horrified. "Bollocks," Molly exclaimed fearfully. "I probably wasn't supposed to say anything."

"It's fine," Sherlock replied awkwardly, realising his feet were still stuck to the floor in shock.

There was a pregnant pause. Then John took a step toward Molly. "Hang on," he said, the light of realisation clearly dawning in his eyes. "You knew," he whispered. "You knew all along that he was alive, didn't you?"

Molly looked helplessly to Sherlock, though he had no idea why. The only explanation was the truth, really. She might as well tell it. He simply shrugged at her in response. Swallowing and looking back at John and Mary, who looked just as shocked, Molly said, "Yes. Sorry. I wasn't supposed to tell anyone. But Sherlock needed me... well, he needed someone who could provide fake autopsy and death certificate forms for him..."

Mary and John exchanged flabbergasted looks. Sherlock really wished they'd push past the inevitable shocked stage and just get right into accepting it. But Mary was looking at Molly with astonishment and something else Sherlock couldn't quite place. He'd almost call it pity, though that made little sense. "All this time, you knew and couldn't say anything. All those dinners we've had, double dates with you and Amir, and you could never say anything. That must have been awful."

"Oh God, it was. So, so awful," Molly affirmed vehemently. "I wanted to say something so badly. To you, especially," she said to John, who was looking gravely conflicted by this new information. Molly gave him a pleading look. "I saw how hard it all was on you. Even when you didn't say so, I knew. I could only imagine what I'd feel like in your place, if I didn't actually know Sherlock was alive..." John looked up and met her excessively pleading expression. "I wanted to tell you so badly. But I couldn't tell anyone, not even Amir. You have to believe me!"

Molly was getting awfully worked up about this, Sherlock thought. Yes, keeping a secret could be difficult. He knew that well enough himself. He'd wished for the ability to pick up a phone and call John many times in the last year and a half. But not being able to was a practical reality he'd forced himself to accept. What was the use bawling about it now, as Molly was practically doing? John had to put a reassuring hand on her shoulder to get her to calm down. "Hey, it's fine," John said gently. "I'm sure you didn't have a choice. And I can hardly fault you for being a great friend to Sherlock when he needed it, can I? I'm sure he wouldn't have asked for your help unless he really needed it. For whatever he was up to." John gave Sherlock a quick look that served as a reminder that Sherlock had yet to explain why he'd faked his death. Well, he'd have to keep waiting on that account.

Sniffing, Molly shook her head. "I'm just glad that's finally over. It'll be so much nicer going out with you and John and Amir without a big lie hanging over my head." She looked quickly up at Sherlock, nervously explaining, "Amir's my boyfriend."

Sherlock looked at her blankly for a second. Was he supposed to have a response to that? He didn't. Instead, he said, "Molly, I need you to test something for me. Tobacco ash that I believe could be contaminated."

Seemingly grateful for the change of topic, Molly gave a nervous smile. "Sure, anything specifically you're looking for?"

Sherlock took out the bag and handed it to her. "Let's see what you come up with first, shall we? I wouldn't want my hunches to bias the test. And here's a sample of what I believe to be the same type of tobacco, unsmoked." He handed her both the bag of ashes and Sholto's tin. "I'd like to make sure they're actually the same tobacco, though I'm within the margin of error of being completely certain of it."

"All right," Molly said, taking the items and turning back towards the island. Finally they all seemed able to move from where they'd been frozen. Mary took a chair next to Molly while John stood next to them and Sherlock started pacing. "Can I ask what case this is for?" Molly inquired.

"The murder of Bart Sholto, for one," Sherlock said. "Though that's hardly the whole of it."

Molly paused, looking up from the counter where she'd just started opening the plastic bag of tobacco ash. "Sholto?" she asked. "Was he related to a Timothy Sholto?"

Sherlock paused his pacing and exchanged a look with John and Mary, who were just as surprised at Molly's question. "Yeah," John answered. "This was his son. Shot in the back of the head in his own bedroom. Why, do you know something about Timothy?"

Molly fidgeted. "It's probably nothing..."

"Any information might help," Mary insisted.

Sherlock took a few paces toward Molly, his attention fully focused on her and whatever she clearly wanted to say. The nervous woman looked up at him and seemed to lose all resolve instantly. "Well, he died here in St. Bart's. Had been doing chemo for a while. Didn't work out, obviously." She winced in self-recrimination for the comment. "Anyway, he came through here for his autopsy. Something seemed off. He had cancer, so he obviously wasn't well. But he'd died suddenly in his room when his vitals and labs had been good. It didn't make sense to me."

Now Sherlock was intently focused on her. For once, Molly seemed to actually have something to say that piqued his interest. And of course now she was faltering. "Go on," Sherlock prompted, his gaze intense and anticipatory.

Molly stared at him for a few long moments before looking away to address John and Mary instead. "I'd been reading some stories in medical journals lately about some nurses in different hospitals who'd turned out to be killing elderly patients with succinylcholine - sux, for short."

Sherlock's brow furrowed as he tried to call up the relevant bit of information in his mind. But John stepped in instantly, "That's a paralytic. We use it to restrain a patient chemically for intubation. Relaxes all your muscles instantly, including ones normally used for breathing."

"Right," Molly said with a nod. "So if you give someone a lot of it and they don't have a breathing machine, they'll die pretty quickly. That's what these nurses I'd read about did."

"And did you test Sholto's blood for this drug?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, that's the thing," Molly replied, still seeming nervous even though she should have been confident in having all the knowledge for the moment. "You can't test for it. It metabolises too fast. But in this journal it said they'd been able to look for its metabolites instead. The sort of bi-products of it being broken down. Like you would for a long term drug test."

Sherlock wasn't certain, but he thought he saw John shift uncomfortably. For his part, Sherlock was a bit too shocked to hear Molly Hooper of all people describing a rather clever process of tracking down a murder. "And I take it you found these metabolites?" Sherlock asked, riveted.

Molly nodded. "Yes. Someone had definitely given him a large shot of sux. That's what killed him. I've been working on bringing this up to superiors for a couple weeks. No one really wants to think their staff are killing patients, though."

"Oh, they needn't worry about that," Sherlock said, starting to become energised. "The killer wasn't a staff member. In fact, I'd bet it was Jonathan Small."

"Why him in particular?" Mary asked.

"Because," Sherlock replied, gesticulating angrily, "he had been in the Peacekeepers medical corps. He'd have known what sort of medicine in a hospital might be able to kill without leaving a trace. Didn't you take any of the hour we spent waiting for John to look up more about the men who might be trying to kill you?"

"No," Mary drawled sarcastically, "You were on my computer that whole time."

Sherlock waved the comment off. "Never mind that." He turned to Molly. "Do you have a list of Timothy Sholto's effects? Everything that was found with him in his room when he died?"

"I can bring one up," Molly said, moving down a ways to a computer. The other three followed her, looking over her shoulder as she searched for the right file. In a few minutes, she had opened the report on Major Sholto's death. "Here's a list of everything he had."

The other three all scanned the list, with Sherlock finishing his read first and pounding the counter suddenly in frustration. John looked at him. "No playing cards," John noted.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "But it had to be Small. There's far too much coincidence otherwise. Two members of the same family murdered within a month's time but by different people? Highly unlikely. Especially considering these four had more reason to seek revenge on Timothy Sholto than on anyone else." Sherlock pulled his hair anxiously, staring off into the air as he thought aloud. "So they didn't leave a calling card as with Bart. But this was the original... the night they told Sholto and Morstan about the rubies, they were playing cards. The four of diamonds went missing from Morstan's deck. He didn't have it. But maybe, maybe..." Sherlock trailed off, realisation hitting him. "Ah, that could be it."

"What could?" Mary asked, even more invested now.

"Maybe they didn't leave a card with Sholto; maybe they took one from him instead," Sherlock said, steepling his hands together against his mouth. "But there's no way to know for certain unless we find them."

"Why would he have a single playing card on him?" John asked incredulously.

"Sentiment, perhaps," Sherlock replied. "In any case, their attack against the Sholto family looks to be something they've thought out. Not very well, I'm afraid. But it does point to a large degree of premeditation. Which, given that they've had twenty years to think about it, makes sense." He shook his head, musing to himself. "Metabolites... That took some careful attention to detail to catch. Your observations have improved. I'm impressed."

Molly's cheeks turned red. "Thanks," she said, avoiding looking up at him.

Sherlock noticed John staring at him in open astonishment, as if he thought his friend incapable of paying a compliment. Which was ridiculous. Of course Sherlock gave compliments, but only when they were truly warranted. Otherwise it just became meaningless. With a smirk, he added, "Hopefully this applies to your scrutiny of boyfriends. You haven't got much experience in that area, which puts you at a bit of a disadvantage in judgment. I hope this Amir fellow turns out better than dear Jim."

The room grew tense with silence, and he wondered what he'd done wrong this time. He glanced at the pained looks on both John and Mary's faces, then at Molly's cheeks, which had gone from red to deep scarlet. All right, that was evidently a not good thing to say, he noted mentally.

"You know, Sherlock," John began slowly. "Maybe we should let Molly do that test while you and I take a closer look at that shingle you have."

"It's hardly necessary," Sherlock scoffed. "We know they were made by crampons, almost certainly worn by Alain Giroux."

"Yeah," John coaxed, "but it can't hurt to take a closer look. Run some tests. See if there's some sort of, I dunno, special dirt on it or something."

John was behaving very oddly, but Sherlock did suppose it couldn't hurt to be through. "Fine," he replied absently. John led the way down to the far end of the lab from Molly. Sherlock noted Mary staying by Molly's side, even giving her friend a pat on the arm that seemed entirely unnecessary.

Sherlock set the shingle on the counter and grabbed a scalpel to excise a small bit of it. They were out of earshot of the women, and as Sherlock set about working, John remarked quietly, "You shouldn't say things like that."

"Like what?" Sherlock asked, his attention focused on trying to pry loose a bit of the tough asphalt.

"What you said about Molly's boyfriends," John hissed, and Sherlock was surprised at his apparent anger.

Sherlock's brow furrowed as he looked at John in confusion. "What did I say that was so wrong? She hasn't had many boyfriends and the last one she had was simply using her to get to me. I was merely suggesting that I think her improved observation might help her avoid that in the future. I was simply stating the facts."

John closed his eyes and rubbed them as he said, "I know, but this is Molly. You have to be more delicate."

Sherlock was still staring at him in puzzlement. "Why?"

John opened his eyes and let out a sigh as he looked up at his friend. "She's a sensitive person. A really nice person. And because, Sherlock," his voice lowered slightly, "she fancies you. I'm sure that's a big part of why she kept this massive secret for you, too."

"Oh, that," Sherlock replied in relief. He went back to working on the shingle. "Yes, I'd worked that out actually. One of the reasons I chose her." He glanced back at John, asking, "...and?"

"And," John replied, his voice turning stern, "you shouldn't insult and pick at the love life of a poor woman who happened to have the misfortune to fall in love with you, of all people."

Sherlock froze for a moment, still staring down at the asphalt shingle he'd just managed to slice a small piece off of. He kept his eyes on it as he slowly moved the sample to a microscope slide. "What's that supposed to mean?" Sherlock asked, surprised at the tremor of anger in his voice.

"I just mean," John replied, back-peddling, "You're not exactly the most emotionally available bloke."

"Machine," Sherlock replied tersely. When John said nothing, Sherlock drew back just far enough from the eyepiece of the microscope to turn his gaze in John's direction. His friend looked like he'd been smacked. "That's how you put it the last time we were here, wasn't it?" Sherlock asked with an acidic note of false casualness. He knew his memory was accurate; he'd thought about the last words John had said to him in person many times in the months he'd been trying to delete. John had nothing to say, so Sherlock went back to the microscope.

After a long moment, John continued, "Well that's irrelevant. You don't like her anyway. Haven't you put her down enough?"

"When have I done that?" Sherlock scoffed, looking fully round at John now, offended.

John looked completely shocked at Sherlock's reaction. "Are you mad?" he asked. "When haven't you? The last time we were here to see her, I distinctly remember you telling her that she should give up dating entirely because the last man she'd gone out with turned out to be Moriarty."

Sherlock blinked, truly confused and wanting to understand what John meant. "I was making a joke. Isn't that what friends do with one another? I was showing her I consider her a friend," he stated plainly. He couldn't help if sometimes he were misinterpreted.

John just shook his head and scratched the back of his neck before replying, "Look, just never mind all that. All I'm saying is try to be careful what you say to Molly, okay?"

But Sherlock wasn't going to let this go that easily. "No, I want to understand this," he countered sincerely. "I find these lessons of yours interesting. Sometimes they're useful."

Looking skyward, John exhaled in exasperation. "I can't do this," he said, looking back to Sherlock. A vein at his temple popped slightly as he ground his teeth together, trying to hold back anger. "Look, Sherlock, just so we're clear," he stated, "I'm here on this case to help Mary. That's it. But I can't do this all the time anymore. Interesting as this might be for you, I can't spend all my time being a seeing eye dog for the socially blind."

It was Sherlock's turn to stare at his friend in surprise. Well, surprise at first, which quickly turned into something more akin to deep offence. Perhaps even pain. "I'm not handicapped," he replied, his voice turning quiet seemingly of its own will.

John winced. "I didn't mean it like that." He looked as though he wanted to add something else in apology, but the moment had passed and Sherlock was back at his microscope.

His voice now more normal, Sherlock remarked, "This all seems moot. I simply don't see why someone would mind someone making statements of fact about them."

Carefully choosing his words now, John replied, "Because not all facts are things you'd like everyone to know. I'd think you of all people would understand that, after what Kitty Riley wrote about you." Sherlock slowed his turning of the microscope's focus ring for a moment, but otherwise gave no response to that. The last thing in the world he wanted to talk about right now was that article. If he did, he feared he might get half a mind to drive over to Mycroft's and punch him again.

Fortunately, Molly's voice cut in. "You were right," she said, and Sherlock looked up to see her and Mary standing across the counter from him and John now. "Same chemical makeup, same tobacco from the tin and burned in the pipe. Plus," Molly continued, "those little bits of stalk tested positive for ephedrines."

Sherlock smirked, "Well, that would make sense, wouldn't it? Considering they're the stalks of the ephedra plant."

Molly blinked in confusion. "If... you knew that already, why'd you have me test it?"

"I told you, my certainty was within the margin of error," Sherlock replied. "I wanted to be positive." And what a good piece of news it was, too. He'd thought the stalks pictured next to the Alba Gem & Mining Company sign had looked like ephedra. Evidently Timothy Sholto had noticed them, too. And that was a very nasty thing to mix with Michael Morstan's digoxin prescription...

"I was wondering about something," Mary started, breaking annoyingly into Sherlock's thoughts. "It seems like the only two of these four showing up here now are Small and Giroux. What about the others? What's their role in this?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Possibly support, possibly nothing. In any case, they're convicted criminals with Indian and Cambodian citizenship; they're not likely to be able to get into the UK so easily as an Englishman and Frenchman."

"So we shouldn't worry about them coming after Mary?" John asked.

"I don't know that we have to worry about anyone coming after Mary," Sherlock said. "How long do you think Small and Giroux will want to stay in the country?"

"Ted Sholto's still alive," Mary pointed out. "They're revenge isn't quite complete, is it? Not to mention they failed to get much money out of this after all." She paused thoughtfully. "They'd said they were going to sell the company for ten million and that it would be split evenly. So shouldn't Ted Sholto be coming into a lot of money pretty soon?"

"Ten million pounds?" Molly asked. "That's a lot. I'd think someone would want to stick around for that amount of money." She turned sheepish. "Not that I really know much about the... motives side of things. I just stick to the science."

John shifted uncomfortably, chewing his lip as he looked at Mary. "Yeah, the thing is, Ted wasn't going to keep quite all of that. The plan had been to split it three ways, so he'd be keeping 3.3 million and giving Bart's 3.3 million to Bart's daughter now."

It took a second for that to register. Sherlock's brow furrowed in interest. "And where did he say the last third of that sale was going to go?"

"Well," John looked anxiously at Mary, and Sherlock instantly knew. His friend continued to hem and haw and evidently Mary was unawares, but Sherlock already realised what John was going to say. Brilliant. A good way to cover your tracks from the one person who might be suspicious. Ah Ted, you are quite clever. Mary was getting uneasy herself from the look of things, so John finally explained, "Since they'd found out your dad was going to be in on the company originally, the Sholto brothers planned to give the last third of the sale to you."

Mary blinked. And then again. And then rapidly, in time with her suddenly shocked breathing. John put a hand on her side to steady her. "To me?" She asked, incredulous. "3.3 million?"

John swallowed. "Yeah. Sorry I didn't mention it before it's just... well, not the sort of thing you want to say over the phone. Wanted to be there in case you passed out," he attempted a small joke. Then, more seriously, "You okay?"

"Evidently I'm going to be," Mary said with a shaky laugh. She was sweating and a bit pale but otherwise seemed to be holding up fairly well.

"Oh my God," Molly said. "That's... I think I need to sit down." And she did, perching on a lab stool.

"Don't worry, I know the feeling," John murmured.

Sherlock didn't quite understand what all the fuss was about. Yes, that was a lot of money. But they were totally missing the most important part: that was still not nearly enough money. Not for the kind of wealth the Sholto family evidenced. And yet as they all took a few minutes to collect their breath, none of them seemed to think of this. Sherlock shook his head.

After a few minutes, Mary had managed to calm herself enough to at least ask a somewhat decent question. "But there's something I still don't quite understand," she started. "Why would Timothy Sholto frame these four men, have them sent to a prison, but kill my father? What was so unique about him that required that?" Her voice was tight.

Sherlock had a pretty good idea about that, actually. Since he'd first looked at the satellite map images of the mining company's land this morning, he'd felt something was off. There was a large amount of grassland on the property, which might seem normal, except that half of it had been harvested. There was even a tractor visible at work in the satellite shot. Not to mention the silos and large warehouses he'd noticed. Those wasn't incidental grasslands: they were fields. The ephedra Timothy Sholto had no doubt instantly recognised easily given his work in counter-narcotics with the UN mission could potentially be exported as the key component in producing methamphetamine. Or, depending on what was in those warehouses, they could have even been producing it onsite. Meth had become a growing problem in the region over the last several decades and therefore was a very profitable business. Certainly much more lucrative than whatever scant ruby deposits might still exist after centuries of exploration and use. Then there was the glaring hole in Ted's story: why would Small and Giroux think the brothers suddenly had made this sale before it had actually happened? Unless they were being deliberately misled...

Sherlock was now completely certain of these facts that had been congealing in his brain all day. Normally when he had arrived at such a point, he was inclined to share his summations. But as he looked from Mary to John, Sherlock thought better of it. Look at how overwhelmed they were just at the notion of some money flying their way. Would they really want to try to prove it was really drug money? Besides, hadn't John expressly stated that he had no interest in getting involved in Sherlock's cases any more? Well, best to get back in the practice of working alone, Sherlock reasoned, somewhat bitterly, somewhat sadly. He'd done it for years, and he'd done it for the last 18 months. He hardly needed John's help.

Making his decision, Sherlock replied, "I have no idea. But I think the more important thing for now is to try to track down Jonathan Small and Alain Giroux before they're able to leave the country. John," he turned to his friend, "we'll have to split up I'm afraid. We don't have the time to afford not to."

"What, you mean right now?" John asked, looking at the clock on the wall. It was 7pm.

"Well, if you'd prefer we wait until tomorrow when they've most likely already gone, you may," Sherlock countered sarcastically.

John seemed to take the point. "Okay, where should I look?"

Sherlock picked up the shingle and continued, "There's a particular type of tar on these asphalt tiles that's extremely unique. Giroux would have gotten it on his shoes, his pants when he climbed over the edge, everywhere. I need you," he grabbed a pen and paper and scribbled an address down, then handed it to John, "to go here. Ask the owner of this home if you can borrow Lord Bombadil."

"I'm meant to borrow a Lord?" John asked, looking at the paper in confusion.

"Lord Bombadil is a dog. A bloodhound, one of the best methods of tracking in all of London," Sherlock explained. "Take this shingle with you and take the dog to Sholto Mansion. If you let him scent it, he'll be able to take you to wherever Giroux went."

"A bloodhound. Is this a wind up?" John asked.

"This is science," Sherlock replied, sounding offended.

"Right, okay. I don't always get your methods, but I trust them," John acquiesced. He looked to Mary. "You coming with me?"

"Actually," Mary said, noting the clock, "I'm running a bit late. Didn't realise the time. I've got a night shift back at King's College Psych Unit... which I may or may not be doing once I'm a millionaire," she joked with a laugh. But John only looked uncomfortable. "I should run along." Mary gave John a long hug, then gave Molly a shorter one before dashing out the door.

"Right. So," John said, "what are you doing while I'm out there being Dr. Doolittle?"

"Checking in with the homeless network," Sherlock replied, already heading towards the door, with John falling in stride next to him. "They most likely won't be traveling by plane or train through the Chunnel because of the extra security and scrutiny. Not even Lestrade would have neglected to alert the proper channels about them by now. That leaves boat. Most likely something small, chartered. The homeless network will be able to find out much more quickly than the police."

Sherlock paused at the door just long enough to turn back to face Molly. "Thank you for all your help, Molly." He stopped for a moment, considering the woman before him who had done so much to keep his secret. He really did owe her quite a lot. And despite whatever John might think, Sherlock had grown to think of her as a friend. "It's been good to see you again," he added honestly, getting a pleased look from John, which he supposed meant this time he'd gotten it right.

Molly nodded sincerely, "You, too, Sherlock."

With that, Sherlock and John turned and pushed their way out the door. With any luck, Sherlock thought as he hustled toward the stairwell and downward at this quick pace, John would soon be off on a wild goose chase. And Sherlock would be free to get to the bottom of what was really going on here without having to go through John or Lestrade. It was about time he looked into Ted Sholto personally.