Odd got the address. She was back before twelve, so I can't say it gave her too much trouble. It wouldn't have given me much trouble either. If I'd decided to find out where John Watson's hiding himself these days it wouldn't have taken me any time at all. Christ, silly bastard's probably listed. No, no, I know how I would have found him. I know exactly how I would have done it. No Sherlock, right? After all those months and months of Sherlock on tap and now no Sherlock; that poor, lost gentleman, he's having trouble filling the hours. Sleeping a lot. Not getting out much. Eating a lot of cornflakes. Sad heap of shite that he is, he's sitting about wondering what he used to do before Sherlock. Thick bastard, sitting about pining, playing the fucking Guinevere. John Watson, ladies and gents, is looking for a job. Get his address off any given hospital from here to Dublin.

That's how I would have done it, if I'd done it.

I didn't have to do it, though.

"Odbody?"

"Yes?"

"I thought your stated intention was to get me off my arse and doing things again?"

"Yes."

"So why did you do it for me? I know how I would have done it. I would have done it."

"Because you were hungover. And you said the police were coming. And you needed to talk to Colonel Moran. Anyway, it was only grunt work. Why should you do grunt work?"

I was hungover. I am, if I'm honest, still a little bit hungover. And the police did come, but only to ask if I saw anything strange last night. Preliminary stuff. And yes, I called and spoke to Moran.

That was… It was interesting. We'll say 'interesting' because that's what people say when they're trying to avoid the term 'fucking harrowing', which is what it was. In short, he doesn't want to be friends anymore. That's about the size of the pissy, childish behaviour I had to put up with down the phone. He doesn't agree with me that it doesn't matter if somebody called you a name if they don't actually remember doing it. They're not denying that they did it, only stating that for them it never really happened.

He told me to tell the cops that when they come about Downstairs.

Where was I?

Oh, yes. Odbody was justifying herself.

"So are you the one going to do my grunt work, then, precious?"

She's watching me, wondering if I'm taking the piss. So I hold back any outright laughter. She looks down and moves away, "You have plenty of grunts. I'm just filling in."

"Grunt temping."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Depends how stupid it is."

"Why do you keep giving me exits?" I don't keep giving her exits. Unless you count imminent death. That's an exit, I suppose. But no, she's wrong. I'm completely barring the door against her leaving in any other way. Odd might be seeing exits, but if she were actually to test any of those doors she would find them very much locked. I am shaking my head and she sees it. "You do. Last night you told me you'd let me live. This morning you let me go running off to Baker Street on my own. Now you're asking if I want to be one of your grunts."

"No, I asked if that's what you thought you were doing. It's a different thing altogether."

"Would you rather I lived, Jim?"

"Why would I be plotting your horrible-yet-deservingly-clever murder if I'd rather you lived?"

"Admit it, you don't hate me."

"I hate you with the fire of a thousand suns, darling."

"You quite like having me around."

"I will powerhose the whole flat with bleach when you live."

"You think I'm actually not bad, actually, as live-in-ones go."

"Give me that bloody address over here."

She hands it over and, without so much as a by-your-leave, starts making tea in my kitchen. Deal with that later. For now, I have a slip of paper in my hand and I'm trying to get my brain going again. Used to be, before that marathon session as Rich Brooke, I could have looked at the letters on the page and known what was going to happen. This afternoon, it's taking just a little bit longer.

And y'know, I really don't like the fact that she went and got it for me. I wish I'd got myself off the sofa and at least gone with her.

What do I want? I want Sherlock back in the game. What do I have? I have John Watson's address. How does this help me? This helps me because Watson is my most likely remaining candidate on the list of people who might know where Sherlock is.

It's not much, really, is it? Lots of ifs-buts-and-maybes. But it's all I have. Now. How do I use what I have and how it helps me to get what I want?

"You go over there," says Odd, putting down a coffee at my elbow, "And in your own inimitable way, you make the doughy fucker tell you what he knows."

"Lovely. Very precise. Good planning."

"Don't be sarcastic. Why wouldn't you?"

Because of fucking Molly Hooper, that's why, but damned if I'm going to say that out loud to the demon child across the table. Because she treated me like I was useless. And I didn't do anything about it, which means I'm useless. And Odd had to fecking save me, which means I'm worse than useless. Because what if I can't do it. What if, when it's not Sherlock, when I'm bored and not properly engaged, what if I've lost my touch? What if I'm no good at it anymore?

I just want to stress, I haven't said any of this out loud.

So why is Odd looking at me like I'm a puppy about to kick it in front of her?

"Come on. Good suit and a stiff drink, what can't you do?"

"I don't need a stiff drink."

"Of course you don't. Come on. Break out the Westwood, we'll get him this afternoon. You could be back in the game by the weekend."

Oh, she shouldn't have said that. Oh, Jesus she shouldn't have said that. I know she thinks she's helping but she really, really shouldn't have said that. My stomach turns over on itself, my heart starts doing four-to-the-floor. The hangover covers for the shaking, but that's just an excuse. The weekend. That's really close. I'm not even properly awake yet. I can't be back in the game, Sherlock can't be drawn back by the weekend, it's not right, it's not fair, I'm not ready, I need a week in the bloody gym to start with, never mind the rest, I can't be-

"I've panicked you. What's the matter? What did I say?"

"No, no, no, there's no panicking to be done. It's just…Well, it's a bit boring. Intimidating a doctor. Can do that any time. It's grunt work- and no, before you even ask, I don't want you to go. I don't want you anywhere near it."

"He knows me anyway. So what do you intend to do?"

"We need a double agent. Somebody who can get in, get him to tell all, and get out again unscathed. Somebody with irresistible personal allure, blinding personality. The kind of person you wouldn't, couldn't kick out of your flat once they were in. The kind of agent you find yourself opening up to, whether you're aware of it or not, and enjoying it. Thinking it's all to the good."

"You're talking about the perfect spy, Uncle Jim."

"I know."

"But I thought you said you didn't want me anywhere near this?" She's not funny. I make sure she knows it's not funny. "So who do you have in mind? Cleo deKate?"

"Stop that!" She keeps saying the names of my contacts. And they're usually appropriate too. I'm really, really not used to the fact that she even knows them , though. Last night when we were pissed she was talking about a poison chemist from Syria like she knew the fucker. It's alright when we're pissed, but I need her to stop it now. "Anyway, Cleo's in San Francisco, Diego, some kind of saint-"

"Oh, that's right, she's doing a play-"

"I'm warning you now, honey; I have to kill you, that's a necessity, but eating your heart would be a delicious extraneous desecration.-"

"Understood."

"-No, anyway, the true candidate is much, much closer to home."

Twining her sweet, fuzzy way around my legs, just at this moment.

Sherly and I have plans, you see. Even in the depths of my stupid stupor the last few weeks, Sherly and I were making plans. Whether I was aware of her or not, she was in by the bed, nuzzling my hand, making me think of her even after I thought I'd kicked her out. Even then, she was sticking by me. This one simple task, she'll take on gladly.

"I'm a well-off, educated gentleman, so I'm going to stay here and play with listening devices and veterinary surgery. You're a horrible street ruffian, so go and catch me an urban fox. Nastier the better. With scars and big claws. And loads of teeth."

"…Excuse me?"

[A/N - The darkly endearing tale of Sherly's mission is told by John Watson in the story 'Cat and Mouse' by the same author. Said story runs side-by-side with these last few chapters of this. It's not necessary to read it, I just don't want you thinking Sherly just disappears. Sherly has the time of her nine lives. Hearts, Sal.]