Lestrade was sitting in the privacy of his office, coffee at one elbow, engrossed in a copy of a written confession by one Marlow Henn, of all the names in the world. He was from a good family living in Finchley, and the night before, he'd stabbed guy to death on the dancefloor of a club in Soho. Lestrade was just getting to the good bits of the story when there was a knock on the door, and he looked up to see Sergeant Bob Thompson, unofficially known as Donovan's second-in-command.

"Guv," Thompson said. "Big Boss wants to see you in his office."

Lestrade felt his blood run cold. 'Big Boss' was Chief Superintendent Donald Dawson. 'Big Boss' was hardly a compliment—Dawson didn't have friends on the force. Lestrade had had to admit to himself that this had nothing to do with Dawson's work procedure. He was an arsehole, but he was strictly by-the-book. Which, in some estimations, was what made him an arsehole.

"Okay," he said, trying to sound confident as he got to his feet. "Did he tell you what it was about?"

Thompson shrugged. "No," he said, "but then he wouldn't, would he?"

Yep, Lestrade thought to himself. He was in deep shit again.

He obediently took himself down the corridor to the lifts—Dawson's office was one floor above the rest of the peons in the murder squad—hastily finger-combing his hair in the reflective back wall of the lift on his way up. He found Dawson sitting behind his desk, a pile of papers in front of him. Lestrade gave them a nervous glance, but couldn't make out whether they were his dismissal papers or a recommendation that he receive a CBE. Unlikely to be the latter. He'd been in to "see" Dawson couple of times following Sherlock's death, generally getting a bollocking. He'd started to notice, though, that no matter how pissed off Dawson was, he'd not made any veiled threats about demoting him for the past few months.

"Lestrade, I think you know what this is about," he said smilelessly, gesturing Lestrade into the chair opposite him.

Lestrade sat. "Yes, sir," he said, trying not to sound too contrite.

"We need to talk about your work performance—what there is of it. I'm getting a lot of shite from the press about the Parkside Gouger."

"Sorry, the what…?" Lestrade had never heard this one before.

"Gouges eyes, doesn't he?"

"He did once, sir."

Dawson looked over his papers, in no particular hurry to move on. "The body found in Hyde Park," he said. "The first one. When was that?"

"October, sir."

"And are you actually doing anything towards solving it?"

"Well, we never had a lot to go on," Lestrade said. He had, before Sherlock's death, been known as the DI with the greatest track record at the Yard. Now, he possibly had the worst. Serial Killers: 2, Greg Lestrade: 0. And while everyone skirted around it, the evidence suggested he'd been such a successful DI because he had been working in collusion with someone thought to be a kidnapper and a poisoner—maybe even a serial killer. Professionally speaking, Sherlock Holmes was the disaster that just kept on giving, even nine months after his death.

"How's that?"

Lestrade had been so deep in thought that it took him a couple of seconds to work out what "How's that?" referred to. "DNA recovery showed no matches on the database, and dental records weren't able to be retrieved. Nor were fingerprints." He started fiddling with his watch, a sure sign he was under pressure. "The witness only found the body, and that was well after he'd been killed. Our searches found nobody who saw the victim—alive or dead—nor anyone who could have been the killer. We ran a public campaign. Two re-enactments. Used CrimeWatch. Knocked on doors. Had a phone hotline set up - everything. And given that the case is now six months old, it's gone pretty cold by now, sir."

"No forensic evidence?"

Lestrade knew that Dawson had a very limited understanding of forensics. He used this to his advantage. "Philip Anderson was on forensics that day, and he reported a lack of usable evidence at the crime scene. I'm not an expert in that field, so I suggest you direct any feedback regarding the forensics of the case to him."

Dawson grunted. It was difficult to guess whether Anderson was shortly to be read the riot act, too. "And this new body," he continued. "Highgate. When?"

"Twenty-seventh of December, sir."

"Same killer?"

"The MO was the same—or very similar." Except for those gouged eyes. "So we're operating under the assumption that this is the same killer."

Dawson swung on his chair, contemplating the situation they were now in. Lestrade was performing badly. Coincidentally, it just was just after the death of Sherlock Holmes that this started happening. And there was nothing that Dawson could do about it, because Mycroft Holmes had discreetly informed him that if he didn't want the entire of the United Kingdom to see copies of those texts and emails he'd sent to a certain politician, he'd better be nice to Detective Inspector Lestrade. "So we have a serial killer," he said.

"We have someone who's killed two people. There needs to be three—"

"Yes, I know the terminology. But do you think the papers are going to wait for that third body before throwing serial killer at large around?"

"No, sir."

"No." Dawson could, and did, inflect enormous amounts of sarcasm into a single syllable. It flicked hard on Lestrade's nerves, even on the odd occasion when it wasn't directed at him. "It's a wonder we haven't got headlines screaming about it already. Public panic. Lots of newspapers sold. You know how this goes."

"Yes." More so than Dawson, even, who'd become the Chief Superintendent well after the Suicide Pill murders.

"Don't you think it'd be best if you hurried up and solved this before there are three?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then go and do it. I'm sick of the sight of you."

Coming into London was always a risk.

On the whole, though, both Sherlock and Newell had decided that it was easier for Sherlock to blend in in London than it was for Newell to be seen making trips to and from Linwood, a place nobody but Mycroft, his cleaning lady, and occasionally Anthea, ever had any reason to be. Sherlock wondered about that. He and Mycroft had already discussed the pros and cons of using Newell to help take down Moriarty's London-based network. But Mycroft had never asked his brother how exactly he was communicating with Newell.

Sherlock had once taken a case from a famous actor who, he had been surprised to learn, mostly used the Tube to travel around London. When asked if this was wise in terms of being recognised, he'd retorted that he'd never been accosted on the Tube because Londoners were far too snobby to ever acknowledge seeing someone famous in public.

Sherlock, despite media attention in years gone by, had not strictly been elevated to famous, and news interest stories about his tragic suicide had all but disappeared from the press by now. London was moving on, in much the same way as it had for over a thousand years. All the same, he'd been nervous the first time he'd got off the train at Waterloo, woollen cap pulled over his curls, leather jacket replacing his Belstaff coat and scarf. He'd developed the fine art of watching others without being observed; nobody had recognised him, or if they had, nobody had remembered that he was supposed to be dead.

Still, the Tube was always a risk.

Perhaps, he admitted to himself, that was why he did it.

This particular meeting had been brief and non-eventful, as they went: Newell was being strategic, and wanted Sherlock's input on which parts of Ropemaker's Field were currently covered by security cameras, and whether he had any preference for how he should circumvent them. Sherlock had curtly reminded him that he was outsourcing for a reason, and it wasn't because he was incapable of doing the work himself. He wanted Moriarty's network gone. He didn't particularly care how they got gone, and he didn't want to have to bother with the messy details of it all. That was now Newell's job.

The last train out was at twenty past nine, so Sherlock left Newell out the front of St. George's Cathedral on the hour and started walking up toward the station. Even incognito he wanted to avoid cameras and street lights wherever possible, so he took a convoluted course down side alleys and footpaths, until he was hurrying along the path through Waterloo Green. He kept his head down and himself to himself; all the same, halfway along that path was a bench seat where a dark, forlorn figure was hunched. He stood up as Sherlock passed, tapped him on the shoulder and croaked, "Mate, got some change?"

Sherlock stopped walking, but he scowled, shrugging himself into his coat. The night was freezing, and he didn't have enough money on him to give any away to someone who had no intention of working for him. He knew every member of the Homeless Network both by sight and by voice, and this wasn't one of them.

With this in mind, he did not even glance twice at the figure, let alone condescend to reply, and walked on. As he approached the gate back onto the road, though, another man loomed out of the darkness, so close that Sherlock could smell him. "Hey," he said. "I think my mate just asked you for change."

"Yes; amazingly enough, I noticed," Sherlock said, showing off before he could really help himself. Too late, he realised what he should have done was what every man in London with any common sense would do when faced with someone who reeked of beer and seemed aggressive - give him the contents of his wallet and get the hell out of there.

He was attacked from behind, a blow that snapped his head forward so hard he felt his brain bash against his skull. Struggling to stay upright, he lifted his chin just in time for the man in front to slam him an uppercut. With his right elbow, he jabbed out at the man behind him—catching him in the ribs, if he'd felt right, but it wasn't the right time or place to check—and whipped out at the man in front of him with what, in his University days, had once been a celebrated right hook. The blow landed true, splitting his knuckles; but he was struck again between the shoulders and thrown onto the ground face-first.

He rolled, then planted his feet into the concrete to get back up, scrabbling for purchase on the ground beneath him. All the same, enough was clear: he was in dire trouble. Through the blood seeping into his eyes, he could see both men looming over him.

"Wait," the second man suddenly said. He was looking at Sherlock's bloodstained face, not with triumph, but with a sort of raw curiosity.

Oh, hell, Sherlock groaned inwardly, lurching to his feet for a better look at him.

Sam Dobbins.

Homeless Network—or had been, until his smack addiction had made him too unreliable and angry to be trusted. After one particular incident involving a used syringe, Sherlock had been forced to cut him off entirely. He hadn't been informed of his former boss's miraculous escape from death.

"Sherlock Holmes?" he burst out in astonishment. "How the f—"

Sherlock did the only thing he could do now.

He turned and bolted.

Reading a paper by the fire in the Diogenes Club half an hour later, Mycroft was startled by his phone text alert buzzing. He drew it out: Security breach of his office downstairs.

Security breach?

Not a 'real' security breach, clearly. There was only one person able to physically breach his office. And he was supposed to be holed up at Linwood.

Mycroft got up, making his way down the service lift to a place known by those who knew where to find it as 'the vaults', which housed the office he used when the one at Whitehall was too dangerous. The door was ajar. Carefully opening it, he found Sherlock sitting in the armchair, holding a paper towel to his bleeding forehead.

"Sherlock!"

"Calm down." Sherlock sounded weary. "I'm not hurt."

"That is a two-hundred-year-old chair, Sherlock Holmes…"

Sherlock got up unsteadily and leaned against the three-hundred-year-old desk instead, still mopping up a large gash on his temple.

Mycroft felt his heart leap into his throat. Sherlock was legally dead, and he hadn't been issued with a new, false identity—not yet, at least. Which meant that even the British Government were going to be asked a few awkward questions if it proved necessary to take Sherlock to hospital. While he was almost certain this particular incident was Sherlock's fault—he was supposed, after all, to be back at Linwood in Hertfordshire—there was nothing to say he wouldn't slip over in the shower one day and crack his head open. And what were they going to do then?

"What on earth happened?" he demanded.

"I was mugged."

Mycroft stared at him, as though Sherlock had started speaking a language he was unfamiliar with. "I beg your pardon?"

"Nearly mugged," he corrected himself. "I imagine it's a mistake our friend won't be making again. As a result of his lack of judgment, we have a security breach."

"Oh dear God. Please don't tell me you were stupid enough to carry your wallet with your real ID in it."

"Hardly," said Sherlock, rightly offended. "He recognised me. I'm afraid I hit him, but not so badly that he's likely to have amnesia from the event."

"A member of your homeless network?"

"No. A member of the Network wouldn't have assaulted me, and would be easy to shut up."

Mycroft groaned inwardly. For God's sake. Sherlock was getting worse than ever at following simple instructions. After some effort to fake his own death, all he was required to do for the foreseeable was to keep himself at Linwood and not burn the place down, and even that seemed beyond him. "So what are you saying?"

"There's a rumour about to travel around England that I'm still alive. You need to be prepared for it and implement a plan to repair the damage."

Mycroft scoffed. "What damage?" he asked. "We ignore it. Or rather, I ignore it, since you're supposed to be decomposing under eight feet of soil."

Sherlock winced. "Do you have to put it quite so colourfully?"

"It's not uncommon for dead celebrities to be rumoured to be still alive," Mycroft went on, apparently not hearing Sherlock's protest. "Elvis, and so on."

"John—"

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I should have known that's what you meant," he said. "John Watson is appallingly suggestible, but that's in our favour. He's convinced he touched your corpse with his own hands. Further, you might have noticed that John thinks very little of hard recreational drugs and those who use them."

"I noticed."

"So you should have noticed that the word of a junkie isn't going to change his mind on anything. He despises them." Mycroft paused. "Are you quite sure you don't need medical attention?"

"Sure," Sherlock said shortly, though his temple was still bleeding. He draped himself over the sofa, head dangling near the floor, feet up on the backrest; and for a change, Mycroft did not do anything to stop him. "Anyway," he said, viewing the room upside down, "you can hardly check me into the nearest hospital, now, can you?"

Mycroft sighed. "Indeed," he said. "So kindly don't provoke me."