Chapter 14: The Two-Faced Banker

Morning came quietly, as though shod with slippers. Sherlock blinked sluggishly into consciousness. Sunlight peeked through the sliver of his curtains, but he had missed the before-dawn stirrings he had grown accustomed to: the light footsteps pacing the floor above him, the white noise of the shower, the flush of the toilet. Had John already risen? Or had he, for the first time since his arrival, allowed himself to sleep into daylight?

He reached for his phone: 09.49. Sherlock rubbed his eyes to clear them, sure he'd read the numbers wrong. Before John, he'd slept late all time. But since December, he had been awake by no later than eight o'clock. At first, it had been to get out of the flat as quickly as possible and not have to deal with . . . things. These days, there were reasons for staying in. Besides, John always had breakfast ready by a quarter past.

Clearly, they were both exhausted. Obviously, they both needed the sleep. And so, not wanting to disturb a still-slumbering John, Sherlock remained in bed and scrolled through the news on his phone, idly looking for something that might look like a case. But his eyes kept skipping the headlines about crime, landing instead on other matters of interest, which he had long been accustomed to glazing over:

Microchipping programme set to roll out in 2033: Will identifying bracelets become a thing of the past?

Auto-Warding, the new trend among 18-to-23-year-olds, reaches all-time high: Why are so many young people relinquishing independent status in favour of life-time care?

Following New Britain's lead, Australia becomes 13th country to launch ward pilot programme

No, he didn't want to read it, any of it. Not this morning. He rubbed his face and flexed his toes and pulled himself groggily out of bed. Yawning, he padded to the door, pulled on his midnight-blue dressing gown, and opened the door. There, he nearly crushed Billy the Skull underfoot.

For a stretch of uncounted seconds, he stared at the floor, perfectly bemused. Why was Billy sitting outside his door? How had he got there? John was the only other person at home, and since ol' Billy lacked in legs or autonomy, the only explanation was that John had moved him, which was perfectly bizarre. Why would John—?

'I know you find it . . . difficult. You find it difficult, talking about things. Things that happened. Before.'

Sherlock slowly reached down and picked the skull up with both hands.

'If it's too hard to get those first words out, let Billy help.'

Oh. Oh! It was a sign, a signal, John's own special brand of asking for something. When he moved the violin, he was asking for music. When he moved the skull . . .

So he was awake after all. He must have been up for hours already, and Sherlock, so dog-tired, had slept right through his morning ablutions. Now, with his understanding sharpened, any lingering haze of sleep vaporised in an instant. Skull in hand, Sherlock headed straight for the sitting room. This was . . . momentous. John wanted to talk. He was too shy to approach Sherlock directly, but to set Billy right outside Sherlock's door as a sign was a boldness he had never seen in John. Well. Besides jumping in front of an aiming pistol and threatening to take a poisonous pill to spare Sherlock from certain death. (The lab results had come back: John had been right.)

When he reached the sitting room, he found John standing in the centre of it, waiting for him. There was something curiously contradictory about his stance. He held his arms at his sides, fists squeezed tight, accompanied as ever by the slightly dipped head. Still, his feet were both planted and his back was straight, which suggested something more assertive, or at least determined.

But more than his stance recommended to Sherlock his purposefulness. He was fully dressed in his nicest shirt—a black button-up, tucked neatly in belted jeans—and seemed to have taken a little extra care in his presentation, including combing his hair flat with water. It was just long enough to have a little bit of style to it, and John had parted it neatly on the side. He had been more careful with the razor, too. Owing to the castration, John didn't have very heavy facial hair, but he did have to shave, and he habitually missed the curve just under his jaw on the left-hand side. Today, he'd shaved it smooth. He was a handsome man, Sherlock noted, and probably didn't even know it. What did he think when he faced a mirror?

'Morning, John.' Sherlock lifted the skull a little. 'I, erm, got your message.'

'Yes, sir,' said John. His voice, too, held a contradiction. He spoke with a manner that intended confidence, but the words came out weakly. He was scared, yet resolute.

Sherlock walked to the mantle and set the skull back in its place. 'Something on your mind?'

John must have rehearsed it in his head, because his words came swiftly and sounded well practised.

'If you please, Mr Holmes, you are my host, and there are things you need to know. About who I was before coming to Baker Street, and the things I have done.'

Sherlock frowned. 'Anything you have to tell me, I will hear,' he said. 'But I'll say it again: you don't have to tell me anything. Not if you don't want to.' But his heart had begun to beat in earnest, for all his wanting to know.

'Thank you, sir. But . . .' This part was evidently not rehearsed. His head dipped a little more to the side, and he licked his lips nervously. He looked sheepishly, but maintained eye contact, something Sherlock knew was hard for him to do. 'You said you would . . . help me?'

The words cut Sherlock to the quick. 'Of course.'

'To become a good ward?'

'John, you're too hard on yourself. You are a good ward. Man, I mean. There's nothing you've ever done—'

'Forgive me, sir. You do not know the things I have done.'

The interruption humbled him, and he closed his mouth. Whatever plagued John, he had to say it. Confession, compulsion, catharsis, whatever drove him, he had to say it. So who was Sherlock to stop him?

Sherlock gestured. 'Shall we sit?'

John nodded anxiously and moved at once to his chair. Sherlock was a little slower. He went instead to the sofa where he picked up a small pillow with the old Union Jack design from before the Great War.

As a young and mischievous child, Sherlock had often got in trouble. For back-talking and insulting adults, for getting into skirmishes with the other stupid children, for turning his room into a veritable disaster area. And when he did, his longsuffering mother sat him down, put a stuffed bunny in his lap, and made him tell her exactly what he had done, no lies. It was easier to talk about unpleasant things, she often said, if you had a bunny to hug.

Returning to the fireplace, he handed the pillow to John. 'If you need to hold something,' he said, simply, and sat.

At first, John looked surprised and confused. Then, without any fuss, he simply nodded and held the pillow against his stomach, two hands overlaid on top of it.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Sherlock thought John was trying to rally his thoughts, but as the unbearable silence dragged on and John, blinking rapidly, made two false starts before his voice caught, Sherlock knew he would have to help things along.

'Perhaps,' he said, 'I might ask questions. Would that help?'

John nodded. But he looked terrified.

All right, then. John wanted to talk, but he didn't know how, so he had ceded control to Sherlock. He would have to be careful, then, in what he asked.

So where to begin? From the beginning? He had so many questions, questions inside of and on top of and linking hands with questions, but otherwise he had come to this interview unprepared. Start with host number one and work all the way through to Sebastian Wilkes? Ask him about the tattoo, or the leg, or the tremor in his right hand? He decided, no. The most pressing matter at hand, what had upset John's progress, what had landed him on Baker Street in the first place, had been his last host, so that was where he would start: from the end.

'Your last host. Sebastian Wilkes.'

A shiver through John's whole body, and he nodded.

'The day you were shot . . .' Should he ask it outright? Did Wilkes shoot you, or did you try to take your own life? In that moment, he lost courage, and asked it a different way. 'Something bad happened that day. Do you want to tell me what?'

John's answer came haltingly. 'Mr Wilkes . . . was . . . angry.'

Sherlock already knew that much, and John wasn't elaborating. For a man who was ready to talk, he really didn't know how. This would be like pulling teeth.

'Why was he angry?'

John's fists were balled. As before, he was having difficulty looking at Sherlock directly. 'He caught me doing something bad.'

'What were you doing?'

John closed his eyes. Breathed. 'Sneaking out of the flat, sir.'

'Were you running?'

'No, sir.' Gravely, he shook his head, then opened his eyes to stare at his hands, folded over the pillow. 'Not running.'

Perhaps it had been past curfew, then. He asked, 'What time of day?'

'Around two o'clock. On a Sunday.'

'Were you—?'

'I wasn't to leave the flat on Sundays.'

Sherlock cocked his head, enquiring. 'Why not?'

'It wasn't a Monday.'

Eyes narrowing with displeasure, Sherlock scoffed. 'Are you saying you were given permission to leave the flat only once a week? On a Monday?'

'Yes, sir, from ten to two, to do the week's shopping.'

Sherlock controlled his reaction, but inside he was screaming: Four hours a week! He had been a veritable prisoner in his own home! 'You mean he kept you locked up? Why would he do that to you?'

For the first time, John squeezed the pillow into his stomach. 'As you learnt yourself, Mr Holmes. I'm a thief.'

The WSC officers dragged him into the building by the scruff his shirt, gripped his arms between them on the lift ride up to the fifteenth floor, and frog-marched him to the door reading 1405, where they pounded three times. Mr Wilkes answered, looking cross.

'Ward registration number JW6462-11, time served, seven days. Please sign here.'

Mr Wilkes pressed his thumb to the reader on the tablet, but he was glaring hard at his ward, who dropped his eyes in shame.

'Give him here,' Mr Wilkes said, yanking him across the threshold by the front of his jacket.

'That's three infractions now,' said one of them. 'Be advised: He is restricted to a half-mile radius for the next twenty-one days. And Mr Wilkes, you'll remember: the fines only get steeper from here.'

'That's what you said after the first one,' Mr Wilkes snipped. Then he slammed the door. He made an about face, grabbed his ward's arm, and pushed him down the hall. 'Kitchen. Now.'

'I'm sorry, Mr Wilkes!'

'Shut up.' When they reached the kitchen, Mr Wilkes stopped him and pushed him into the wall, his six feet towering over him, and he tried to make himself appear even smaller, like if he shrank any more he might just disappear.

Mr Wilkes slapped him across the face.

'Why'd you do it, eh?' Slapped him again. 'Thief. Why'd you do it?'

His fingers pressed flat against the wall behind him, a reminder not to lift his hands. 'Forgive me. I was h-hungry.'

Mr Wilkes balked. 'Hungry?' Slap. 'Do I not feed you?' Slap. 'Do I not take care of you?' Slap. 'Ungrateful, that's what you are.'

His face stung, but he knew better than to touch it or protect it. 'I am grateful, sir. Very grateful. It's just . . .'

'What? Come on, Tiny, tell me. You say you were hungry, so that must be my fault. Is that what you're saying? That your stealing is my fault?'

Tiny saw Mr Wilkes' hand begin to rise again in his periphery, and he hastened to placate his host. 'No, sir, no. You take very, very good care of me. You're a good host, the very best.'

Mr Wilkes' open hand turned into a pointing finger. 'I catch you lying to me, or stealing from me, or from anyone, just one more time, I will make you regret it for a year. Do I make myself clear?'

'Yes sir, yes.'

'One more biscuit under your pillow, a bag of crisps from an outdoor stand, anything at all.'

Tiny nodded compulsively.

'Because that ham sandwich you stole? Three pounds fifty, is that what it cost? No. It cost me hundreds in fines and hundreds more to have them lock you up and teach you a lesson, not to mention thousands in lost wages. You get me?'

'Yes sir.'

'You better. Now go. Clean up. Then keep to the ward room. I don't want to see your face again the rest of the night.'

Sherlock stared aghast. 'You stole a ham sandwich?' Sherlock said. 'That's all?'

Looking bashful, John shook his head. 'I stole a lot of things, Mr Holmes. I only got caught for the ham sandwich. Another time, an orange.'

'Always food?'

'Yes sir, mostly. And . . . pages from magazines, sometimes.'

'Dover.'

He nodded sadly. 'Yes sir. But it was mostly . . . just the food.'

Something twisted in Sherlock's gut, a sympathetic pain, as if he himself hadn't eaten in days. 'Why?' he prompted. 'Did Wilkes not feed you?'

'Yes sir, he did. Only.' John licked his lips, slowly, guiltily. He couldn't make eye contact at all anymore, but he did squeeze the pillow more tightly. 'I don't know. I was still always hungry.'

'Tell me.'

He picked at a loose thread sticking out of the pillow. 'I did the shopping for the week on a Monday. At a nearby Happy Mart. Mr Wilkes had a list of what I could buy, every week the same. A loaf of bread, a half dozen eggs, five hundred grammes of cheese, six apples, and six tins of whatever I chose. Maybe tuna, or pears, or beans. Whatever I chose.'

Sherlock waited for the list to continue. When it didn't, he said in a choked voice, 'Is that all?'

'Yes sir, that's what Mr Wilkes allowed me. Nothing more, not even tea or a stick of gum.'

'You said for the week.'

'Yes sir.'

Sherlock's heart was pounding in his ears. That wasn't enough. That wasn't nearly enough for a grown man, for a full week. Hell, it wasn't enough for a child! Six apples, six eggs, six tins. Bread and cheese. And seven days. Oh my God, he thought. He knew John had been underweight and malnourished when he got him, but the reality of his diet sharpened the horror of his state of body.

'How long?' he asked. 'How long did you live like that?'

'A long time, sir.'

'Five years?'

'Nearly, sir.'

'How could you possibly endure it?'

John shrugged, his face colouring like he was ashamed. 'I'm sorry to say, I didn't endure it very well at all.'

He didn't eat Monday morning; there wasn't a morsel left in the flat. Instead, he filled his belly with water from the tap and waited for the hour to turn ten o'clock, when the automatic security system on timer unlocked the door. Then he put on his second-hand trainers (split along the arch of the soles) and threadbare jacket with the broken zipper, checked his pocket for the transaction card, affixed the bracelets, and left the flat.

The Happy Mart nearest was too dangerous to return to: the manager was suspicious of him, and with good reason. In months past, he had popped grapes in his mouth while shopping and sneaked out of the store with peanut bars in his pockets. Though never caught, he felt the eyes on him. So these days, he walked half a mile further to a different Happy Mart, and bought his weekly rations there.

Back in the flat, with his stomach rumbling in pain, he tore into the bread first, an uncut, day-old French bread that would start to mould by day four, if he wasn't careful to toast it all first. But he did allow himself two swallows, to ease the ache just enough for him to plan out his week. That afternoon, he ate the first egg, the first apple, and green beans, cold and straight from the tin. He saved the cheese for later, storing it in an empty fridge.

On Tuesday, for breakfast, he ate a fried egg on toast. For lunch, an apple and some cubed cheese. For dinner, tuna from the tin.

On Wednesday, for breakfast, he ate an apple, slicing each wedge very thin to make it appear as if there were more than there were. For lunch, tinned tomatoes on toast. For dinner, a scrambled egg with cheese.

On Thursday, for breakfast, he ate a hard-boiled egg. For lunch, a cheese sandwich. For dinner, a tin of corn. And, as a special treat, a baked apple for dessert.

On Friday, he began to repeat his menu.

On Saturday, he ate the last egg, the last tin of beans, and the rest of the bread and cheese. He had only one apple left, and stored it away in the fridge—out of sight, out of mind. Only, it didn't work. By nine o'clock that night, he was so desperately hungry, he ate the whole apple, core and all, and drank water until he felt sick.

On Sunday, when he awoke and stood up from the cot in the ward room, he fainted. He woke again on his back, aching from the collapse, then crawled to the bathroom and drank water from the sink. An hour later, he left the flat, even though he knew he wasn't supposed to. He had cracked the security code weeks ago, after months and months of trying, in secret, various five-digit combinations on the number pad. The guilt was nearly overwhelming, but the hunger drove him to leave the flat and pray that Mr Wilkes didn't show up unexpectedly.

He went to the park, watched, and waited for someone to throw away the remains of a snack. Today, it was a half-eaten hot dog. The well-fed young man tossed it in a bin and walked away without a second thought, and he made his move. Double checking his left side and his right and determining it was safe, he made a bee-line for the bin, dug his hand down into the rubbish, and came up with the last of the hot dog. If someone spotted him, Ward Patrol, or even a disapproving free citizen, he would get in trouble. At every moment, he expected his bracelets to flash orange and announce his violation. So, hot dog in hand, he spun on his heel and walked away from the bin as quickly as his dodgy leg would allow, shoving the food in his face so fast he didn't even taste it, which was just as well. Bite, chew, swallow. Bite, chew, swallow. Then it was gone. He went in search of another bin.

Once he found a sleeve of saltine crackers and hid them strategically around the flat. Another time it was half a bag of popcorn. Another time still, it was a fistful of walnuts. It humiliated him, eating food that had been discarded among the rubbish. No one did that anymore. But hunger drove him on.

He nicked small items—chocolate bars, fruit pouches, marmite jars—from corner shops and ate them in dark corners of putrid alleyways. When he got bolder, and more desperate, he took to walking down streets lined with restaurants, pubs, and cafes, and stole food from the tables. He discovered that there was a small window of opportunity—between when a party left the table and the busboy came to clear it—that he could slip in, snatch uneaten chips or leftover bread, and be out again before anyone made a fuss. It took only seconds. And, he learnt, if he moved quickly enough and made no eye contact and pretended that he belonged (and hid the bracelets under his sleeves), even those who saw him wouldn't think twice about what he was doing there.

Then Monday rolled around, and the great game of eating began again.

'One week,' said John, 'I thought I'd try something new. On a Monday, I ate double portions of everything. And I thought, maybe if I'm full today, I won't need to eat tomorrow. So that's what I did. It wasn't easy, but it wasn't so bad because I still had water. Then I thought, that's it, I'll eat every other day. But it was a bad idea. I couldn't take it, and on a Friday I went a bit mad and ate everything up in the flat, absolutely everything. Come Saturday and Sunday, I had nothing at all.'

Sherlock wished he had known all of this in the beginning. With mounting guilt, he reviewed how John had come to him. He'd not been eating at the pound—pain and depression, presumably. Once at Baker Street, the first thing Sherlock should have done—the very first thing—was get some food in him. Instead, he'd been distracted by a case, and so John hadn't eaten that day either. Then with the mouth, it was porridge and yoghurts for days. And weeks on, it was food from the Happy Mart. Under his own roof, John hadn't been eating much better than he had under Wilkes'. And Sherlock had taken too long to notice.

'Where was Wilkes in all of this?' asked Sherlock, doing a fair job—he reckoned—of managing his distress at the sorry tale. 'Was he not witness to this slow starvation, or your sneaking away on a Sunday afternoon? What about his cupboards? When did he take his meals?'

'The cupboards were bare,' said John. 'I had a fork, a spoon, a knife, a bowl, a plate, a pan, and a pot. I could purchase Fairy liquid once a month, for cleaning up after myself. But I saw very little of Mr Wilkes. He did not live in the flat.'

It seemed John could say nothing that didn't surprise him. 'He didn't?'

'No sir. I don't know where his own flat was. I never saw it.'

That, perhaps, made sense. A rich, affluent man like Sebastian Wilkes was not likely to play host to a ward in any direct sense. Like him, he had an estate, and if pressed to assume, Sherlock would have supposed that he kept a ward there. But the way John was talking, he'd been kept in a flat in the city, not at a countryside manor.

'Were there others? Living with you, I mean. Other wards, maybe?'

'Just me.'

'Were you lonely?' Not long ago, Sherlock had lived alone, and liked it just fine. But something about John's existence in that flat seemed far from one of peace in solitude.

John seemed troubled by the question, uncertain how to answer. At last, he nodded, slowly.

'Did Wilkes not realise how little you had to eat? What if you had phoned him and said you were out of food?'

'I had no means of doing so, sir. There was no phone in the flat.'

'But had there been an emergency . . .'

'I managed all right,' John said in a small voice, because it was obvious he had not.

'Was there no one to help you?' For all the genius that he was, he was having difficulty imagining such an isolated life. That was a different kind of hunger. 'A housekeeper, or a landlord who popped round?' He thought of a Mrs Hudson.

'Just me.' It seemed an innocuous sort of statement, but upon speaking it, John's hand came up to cover his eyes, just for a few breaths, like he was struggling to maintain his composure. 'It was all right, at first. I thought it would be . . . good. Better. But I should have known, when he first brought me there. But I've never been a smart man.'

He followed Mr Wilkes into flat while he was still wearing the grey jumpsuit and identifying collar from the Sale. It was a modest flat on an affluent street in South London, and by far the nicest he had ever stepped into. Coming through the door, he was instantly struck by how clean it was, that is, the scent of a recent paint job and the disinfectants from a thorough scrubbing washed over him. From the front door was a long hall leading to a sitting room with large windows overlooking the city and in view of the Thames, and built-in but bare white shelves. Two wooden chairs and a metal folding table stood in the centre of the room, but otherwise it was empty space. On the other side was a door leading to the kitchen, where Mr Wilkes gave a quick tour of a nearly empty fridge, perfectly empty cupboards and drawers, and a washing machine. It seemed Mr Wilkes had just moved house; the place didn't appear to be lived in at all.

'We'll outfit the place soon enough,' he said, 'with dishes and towels, that sort of thing. You think it will suit you?'

He nodded.

'Oh right, you can't talk with this damn thing on, can you?' Mr Wilkes reached around his neck to release the catch and remove the collar. 'There you go. Better?'

He swallowed and tested voice with a little hum first. 'Yes sir, it's very nice, sir,' he answered meekly. His answer seemed to please his new host, who smiled at him with a neat row of very white teeth.

They continued down the hall. 'This is the master bedroom,' said Mr Wilkes, laying a hand on a closed door. 'You're not to go in there, not unless I say you can. There's an en suite, but you're not to use it, ever. It's the host toilet, understand? Not yours.'

'I understand.'

'Good. Your job is just to keep it clean. Now, there'—he pointed further down the hall to a door that stood ajar—'is the ward bath, which you will also keep clean. And in here is the ward room.'

Mr Wilkes opened the door to a small, square, windowless room. Pushed against one wall was a military-style fold-away cot, sans pillow or blanket. That was all.

'Like I said, not properly outfitted yet. I only recently acquired the flat. Give me a few days, and I'll get you a bed and wardrobe and so forth. Oh, and lamps. There's no overhead light in here, so it has to be lamps. But this will be okay for a couple of days, eh?'

'Of course, sir, I don't mind.' He'd slept on worse.

'Good. Well then. Make yourself at home, Tiny.'

It was the name Mr Wilkes had chosen for him at the Sale. He passed no judgement on that either. He'd known worse there, too.

A couple of days passed, and Mr Wilkes did not return. But he had left his new ward with instructions. First, he was free to come and go as he pleased (he taught him the key code for entering and exiting the flat securely), just as long as he was back before dark and never neglected the bracelets. As Tiny had already learnt his lessons with respect to Ward Patrol, he was not tempted. Second, he was given a transaction card and told to outfit himself from the Second-Hand Ward Emporium up to 100 pounds. It had been a very long while since he had bought his own clothes, and he was nervous. But a kind shop girl took pity on him, and he made out with jeans and t-shirts and a jacket, half a dozen socks and a pair of trainers. Though kind of worn and a little smelly—nothing a good wash wouldn't take care of—the clothes were good and made him feel a little more normal, which was something he'd not felt in a long while.

Given permission to roam, that was precisely what he did. The flat, empty as it was, offered nothing for him to do. So he passed the daylight hours quite contentedly on the streets, walking. If he walked very far, the ankle ached and he rested, but he walked on, exploring the streets around his building, then branching out further, enjoying the feel of the sun on his face and the wind in his hair. He didn't much fancy noise or crowds, and he actively avoided groups of children or gatherings of men, as well as officers of every sort. But he was doing nothing wrong, walking in daylight. When his bracelets lit up, he stopped, and he didn't fuss when inspected. He never made eye contact with other wards, and if ever one tried to talk to him, he mumbled his apologies and continued on. He'd never got on with other wards.

Slowly, daringly, he began to imagine a different sort of life. Maybe this was it, at last. A good host, a forever home. No more Ward Sport, no more drug dens, no more hard labour at the plant. This was his fresh start. Maybe he could learn things. Nothing special or intensive, like proper schooling, but things other people knew that he did not. Though he wasn't allowed in even the public museums without a host, he enjoyed the street performers—the guitarists and painters and magicians. He liked magic tricks. Maybe one of them would let him be an assistant. Not for money. Wards weren't allowed real money. And he would never ask, never put himself forward. But he enjoyed fantasising that one of them would spot him in a crowd and invite him forward and ask him to be the one to hold the hat while the magician pulled a ferret out of it. The crowd would applaud, and part of that applause would be for him. But that never happened. Strolling through a park, he fantasised that some of the footballers in the park would find themselves a man short and beg him to join, and even though he had a gimp leg and had never played before, he'd be good, and they'd be impressed, and they'd ask him back for the next day, and they wouldn't care that he wore bracelets because he could still score a lot of points. But no one ever called to him. And he fantasised that an old man sitting alone at a chess table would see him walking by and call him over and ask if he knew the game, and when he said no, the old man would teach him, and they'd play and talk, and it would be the thing that he did every day at noon, reliable as clockwork. But that never happened either.

After a week had gone by, Tiny returned to the flat one day to find Mr Wilkes waiting for him. Something was different. The sitting room had been furnished with a sofa and chairs, a flat-screen television, a row of books on the shelves, standing lamps, vases, and figurines. It was looking like a real home. Was this really his new life? It seemed too wonderful.

'I see you're settling in,' said Mr Wilkes. He held up his phone and gave it a little shake. 'I've been monitoring your expenditures.'

'Ex . . . spend-sures?'

'What you've been spending my money on. Sit.'

Tiny sat on the sofa. The cushions were deceptively harder than they looked.

'The clothes and things from the Emporium are fine. I told you to get them. And the food is not unreasonable. That is, you need to eat. Though we'll need to talk about how to budget more carefully, eh?'

Tiny felt the familiar trackings of shame beginning to rally in his stomach and spread to his fingertips. He didn't know what he had done wrong yet, but there was no mistaking the tone in Mr Wilkes' voice: he'd done wrong.

'I mean, seven bananas?' said Wilkes. 'You know how quickly those turn? You'll be tossing half of them before the week is out.'

Tiny said nothing. He liked bananas. He bought them green and ate one a day, and none of them spoilt. But he nodded. He could do with one every other day.

'I don't like waste,' continued his host. 'I didn't get to be the man I am today by abiding waste. So we'll figure out a better shopping plan, won't we?'

'Yes sir.'

'The thing is, Tiny, your past hosts may not have told you, but it is expensive, keeping a ward. Very expensive. Yes, we all have to do it, but we all have different circumstances, don't we? And the money they give us for your support? Let's just say it: it doesn't go very far.'

Sherlock shot up from the chair, startling John, but he had a point to prove. 'Bullshit, bullshit,' he muttered as he riffled through the papers on the desk, throwing the irrelevant pages aside, over his shoulder, to the floor, until he found the proper envelope. 'There!' he declared as he tore the contents out of the envelope and thrust the pay stub at John. 'The CFCA monthly stipend granted to every household in Britain for assisting in the care of a single ward. £65 a week for an adult male, which is £260 for the month and £3,640 for the year. I think he could have afforded you bananas.'

John swallowed. 'Perhaps, but—'

'And waste? He's never had to scrimp and save a day in his life. His family is rich! He has an estate! That cock and bull story he fed you is exactly that, cock and bull, the greedy little miser.'

'But sir—'

'If he was feeling so strapped, maybe he should have sold the flat he'd furnished for you and move you in with him. And care for you properly. Like a decent human being!'

John's mouth closed, his lips pinched. He looked away, brow furrowed in distress.

'What?' Sherlock asked, with an attempt to lower his volume. 'What did I say?'

'He wasn't a . . . decent human being.' Then he clamped his hand over his mouth, as if shocked by the words that had just come out of it.

Sherlock rushed to reassure him. 'It's fine, John. You can say it. Because you're right. You're absolutely right. He's a lousy human being.'

John's eyes squeezed shut. He breathed deeply behind his hand, self-calming.

'You all right? Do you want to take a break?' Perhaps he could use one, too. To go punch a wall.

John shook his head. Removed his hand. His look transformed into steely resolve. 'Please. Can we just . . .'

'Continue?'

'Yes sir. Please.'

'Of course.' Sherlock took a deep breath himself. He rather wished he, too, had something to squeeze. 'Let's go back to where we started, I think. We never did tackle that first question. Though I think I maybe understand a little better. The day you were caught sneaking out of the flat, you were driven out by hunger. You were escaping to get more food. Is that right?'

John winced. His expression had never looked more abashed. 'Not that time.'

Delicately, Sherlock pursued: 'But neither were you running?'

'No sir.'

'Then what?'

'It is very bad, sir.'

'You can tell me, John.'

'I was . . . I was . . .' His breath stuttered like a faltering engine. '. . . going to phone the police.'

Sombre, and with all delicacy of feeling, Sherlock asked, 'And what were you going to tell them? That he was starving you?'

'Please, Mr Holmes, I hope you understand. I keep my hosts' secrets. I've kept all of them, even after I've been got rid of. But I didn't know what else to do.'

'You can tell me. You won't get into trouble, I promise.'

'And you won't tell Mr Wilkes I told?'

He wanted to sneer. How a man such as Wilkes could inspire such fear, even from afar? The psychological hold he still had on John was incredible. 'I'll keep your secrets, too.'

It was a long moment before John spoke again. It appeared he was preparing himself. His head tipped backward a bit and his eyes raised to the ceiling, like he was thinking of what to say, and how to say it. Meanwhile, he worked to control his inhalations, and his balled fists hugged the pillow even tighter to his stomach.

'I had a card,' he began, 'with a phone number on. An officer gave it to me. Not from Ward Patrol. A regular police officer. To call if I ever needed help. I hid it in my shoe, beneath the padding. I knew I should throw it away, it would only get me into trouble. But I didn't. But I didn't do anything with it, either. Not until . . . that day.'

He stopped talking, beginning to lose courage.

'Why? What happened that day?'

'It just . . .' He shrugged helplessly. '. . . got to be too much.'

'What were you going to tell the police, John?' Sherlock asked patiently.

'I was going to . . . show them something.'

'Show them what?'

He licked his lips. 'Photographs.'

'Photographs of what?'

John seemed unable to answer. His mouth opened a couple of times, but silence followed. In the end, he pointed at himself.

Treading even more carefully now, dread blossoming in the pit of his stomach, Sherlock asked, 'Where did they come from?'

'I took them. Lots of them. Over time. And hid them. They were Polaroids.'

'Why did you take pictures of yourself?'

'I thought I would need proof.'

'What of?'

'The kinds of things they were doing to me.'

Sherlock's blood ran cold. 'They?'

John's hand began to quiver. 'Mr Wilkes' guests.'

'Guests.' Sherlock's mouth had run dry. 'Are you saying . . . ?'

'I wasn't Mr Wilkes' only ward, sir. I learnt as much, early on. He had another, at his estate, just as you say. One people knew of. But I . . . I was a secret.'

At that, Sherlock clenched his fist so hard his knuckles cracked. 'What kind of secret?' he asked, dangerously.

'Mr Wilkes, he wasn't as rich as you say. He made mistakes. He had'—John's breathing was getting shallow; he paused to take a large breath—'debts. That's why he needed me.'

'These last few years, I've fallen on hard financial times,' continued Mr Wilkes. 'I won't bore you with the details. It was hardly my fault. But sometimes Lady Luck turns her back on you and, well, rain falls on the just and the unjust alike, wouldn't you agree?'

With a measure of doubt, Tiny nodded. He looked around the new room with its lavish furnishings, trying to decipher what felt so wrong.

'I'm working hard, Tiny, very hard to get back on top. But I need your help. You can help me do that.' Mr Wilkes sat forward earnestly in the chair and smiled at him. 'You'd do that for me, wouldn't you? Help out your host?'

'Of course, Mr Wilkes.' What was it? Did the furniture not fit right? Were the books on the shelf the wrong colour? He couldn't put his finger on it.

'That's what I like to hear!' He slapped Tiny's knee, and with a short laugh, Mr Wilkes sat back and sighed. 'Good lad.'

'What can I do, sir?'

Mr Wilkes cricked his neck to the side, smiling through his very white teeth. He dug under his thumbnail, and his left leg began to bounce. 'Nothing taxing. Nothing like long division or digging ditches!'

He laughed again, a short, barking laugh, but even Tiny could see the joviality was false. Tiny didn't laugh. He didn't know how to do long division, but he knew about digging. The nervousness was contagious.

'Easiest thing in the world.' Mr Wilkes sniffed and rubbed a hand beneath his nose. 'You see, Tiny, there are certain . . . services . . . in this world one can purchase. Like, oh, shall we say, housecleaning, or dog walking. Or caretaking, yeah? For instance, a family might hire someone on to sit and talk with their elderly mother for a few hours during the day. Company, you know. One sometimes pays for company.'

Yes, Tiny did know. He'd done that, too.

'Company can be a valuable commodity, see. Well, there are some people who like a very particular kind of company. That is, a very particularly kind of companion. And in both temperament and, erm, physique, you, Tiny . . .' Mr Wilkes pursed his lips, hesitating, maybe trying to figure out exactly how to say what came next. 'You are a very rare and very prized sort of companion.'

It was then he noticed what was so wrong in the room. The light. There was no more natural light. The large, expansive windows looking out over the street were now covered by curtains that hung all the way to the floor, but behind them, the windows were boarded black. He knew it, then, as surely as he knew anything: another trick, another ruse, a false hope that proved him in the end to be a fool. All at once, his hopes for a new kind of existence turned to smoke, untouchable and vanishing, no more substantive than memory. It had happened again; he was back; he had never left. He was in a Downside.