Thank you for the reviews! Just one note on something mentioned towards the end of the chapter - Casualty is a medical soap shown on BBC on Saturday nights. I'm no fan, but know people who are seriously addicted, and I suspect Mrs. H might be one of them!

Usual disclaimers apply - all belongs to the great ACD and the modern setting to Moffitt/Gatiss. Talking of those geniuses, I recently saw An Adventure in Space and Time, written by Mark Gatiss about the early years of the making of Doctor Who, and it was a truly wonderful one-off drama, so do try to catch it if you can (especially if you're a Doctor Who fan...although, if you're not a fan...um, why on earth not?).

Chapter 14: Caring

For once, Sherlock didn't refuse to travel in a police car. He could tell by the set of John's jaw that there would have been serious words if he had, but in any case, he was too preoccupied to be bothered by the blue flashing light. And Lestrade blue-lighted them to the scene without compunction, urging his driver to speed past the stationery traffic, with Donovan's car following close behind.

The early evening crowds were milling about the gates surrounding the Globe Theatre when they arrived. There was the inevitable press of patrons with tickets for that evening's performance, waiting impatiently to be admitted. However, the chaos was increased by groups of tourists and Londoners being drawn to an obvious crime scene like moths to a light. The throng threatened to get out of hand, and Greg hissed his annoyance at the sight and jerked his head sharply at a couple of the uniforms guarding the theatre gates. They began the difficult task of moving on the curious passers-by politely but firmly.

"We need some more officers down here," he commented to Sally, who nodded and pulled out her phone. "They need to get rid of the ticket-holders too; make it clear that the performance won't be going ahead tonight."

Very little breeze disturbed the sluggish surface of the Thames, the air was still swelteringly hot at half past six, and Sherlock's shirt adhered uncomfortably to his back. But, for all that, there was just a whisper of change in the atmosphere; an extra humidity indicating that the inevitable thundery breakdown to this prolonged heatwave would soon arrive.

As if to confirm this, the late afternoon sun was eclipsed briefly by a fractured dark cloud, which dispersed the light, sending strong diagonal beams across the glittering Millennium Bridge. One of them struck John's face harshly, highlighting his thin lips and cut-off expression. Sherlock found himself resisting a strange instinct to reach over and touch his friend's stiff shoulder – an instinct borne, he assumed, from a need to judge the doctor's current mood. In truth, he hardly needed to touch; John's tension and restrained anger were emanating from him in waves that could almost be seen.

It was a mood that Sherlock was familiar with. John may have made an excellent soldier with his watchful protectiveness and disciplined aggression, but he was also, first and foremost, a healer. He could kill, and extremely efficiently when required, but it was never his first instinct and was only ever employed when all other possible options had failed. Untimely death distressed him intensely, although he had sufficient self-control to keep his feelings to himself on crime scenes. Sherlock had always noted John's facial expressions and silent reactions absently, even as he continued to carry out his deductions. It had fascinated him – this dichotomy between the soldier and the healer; the killer and the pacifist. And, in any case, John's full range of reactions from mild disgust to deep distress had often given him a useful insight into the emotional reactions of the 'ordinary' individual towards a specific crime.

Before the fall, it had never occurred to him to be concerned about the emotional impact of his profession on his friend. Interested, yes, actively concerned, not at all. He had always reasoned that John was a tough veteran who had seen more than his fair share of violence in Afghanistan and Belfast. There had been odd moments – in particular, he recalled the look of sick horror on John's face when he realised he'd left Soo Lin to die alone in the museum of antiquities – but Sherlock had never experienced a sense of guilt. If John had felt all that strongly, he needn't have got involved; Sherlock wasn't forcing him to.

Now, and with the benefit of hindsight, he could see that it might not have been quite that simple a choice for John. From the moment he'd aimed his gun at Jeff Hope and pulled the trigger, he'd followed the detective apparently without question or doubt. That didn't mean it didn't hurt from time to time, though, and the victims that distressed the doctor most were the younger ones, those who had had most of their lives still before them. Right now, John clearly knew perfectly well that the killer had struck again, and that it was more than likely that his victim was the young Italian student Lucio Diomato.

He pondered his options, wondering whether it would be wise to attempt some form of comfort…and feeling a little perplexed that it felt necessary for him to do so. Should he say something – make some banal comment to the effect that Lucio would have died quickly, that he wouldn't have suffered for long? Meaningless words that people seemed to find comforting, for some strange reason? Should he remind John that it wasn't his fault, that he couldn't have prevented Lucio's death, even though such truths must be entirely obvious to his friend?

His hand rose tentatively of its own accord and hovered briefly over John's forearm before he dropped it again, attempting to disguise the aborted gesture by fumbling his phone out of his jacket pocket. The doctor seemed to have anticipated it anyway, jerking his arm away, irritably.

"I haven't gone soft since you went away. There's no need to say or do anything to make me feel better. Not exactly your strong point, anyway." His voice was deliberately harsh, as if attempting to hide a deeper emotion.

"I just thought you might - ." Might what? Be reminded of something far better forgotten? Get an unpleasant flashback to the last time he had been leaning over a young man's lifeless body, feeling hopelessly for a pulse stilled by violent death? He wasn't actually sure how he had meant that sentence to continue.

"Well, don't." John took a deep breath, and went on in a softer, more conciliatory tone. "Just so I know…it is Lucio, right? We were too late."

Sherlock said nothing, but John sagged a little, taking his silence as confirmation of the mere fact. Sherlock was wary of initiating any further physical contact and it was clear that John didn't want to be patronised. However, as they were buffeted by the crowds, he contrived, rather timidly, to push his shoulder firmly against his friend's. He wasn't sure whether this minor act provided any reassurance, but John took another deep breath and relaxed his own shoulders very slightly as they reached the gate into the theatre courtyard.

Greg's keen young DS strode towards them at the gate. Sherlock tried to recall his name – something like Hadley, wasn't it? He didn't seem quite so enamoured of his boss and was perfectly civil towards Sally; evidently the fires in that quarter had been banked in the intervening months. He still threw Sherlock a less-than-pleasant look, though, and Sherlock reflected on the strange irony that none of Greg's sergeants ever seemed to like him. Was it an instinctive desire to protect their boss?

"Alright there, Rob?" Greg asked, just as Sherlock recalled the name: Rob Halliday.

Halliday nodded, glancing awkwardly at Sherlock and John.

"They're helping us," Greg told him without preamble and pushed the gate back, letting them through.

Halliday shrugged. "OK. Body's backstage. By which, I mean literally back of the stage. You got here faster than I thought." He paused and moved nearer to Greg, lowering his voice. "He's not been dead long, body's practically warm. Killer might still be here…?"

Greg glanced inquiringly at Sherlock, who considered for a moment before shaking his head. "It's possible, but it doesn't fit the profile. He doesn't gloat over his acts. I suspect he will have left as quickly as possible."

Halliday threw Sherlock an indecipherable look before leading them back into the open-roofed theatre, across the famous 'yard' where the Groundlings stood during performances, and up some steps onto the stage. They could see the familiar yellow tape, which had been put up hurriedly around the body lying just inside one of the arches by which actors would enter the main stage.

Sherlock didn't even need to look at the boy's face. He could tell by John's tired sigh exactly who was lying there.

"One of the backstage boys just found him," Halliday explained. "While checking the props were in position. Didn't see anyone else at the time – but then they've been flitting in and out all afternoon, so I doubt he'd think it was unusual if he had seen someone."

"Thanks, Rob. Do me a favour - ," Greg nodded towards the entrance. "- get over to the box office and make it clear that the performance won't go ahead, so we can get rid of the vultures out there. But no one on the staff is to leave, and that goes for the actors too. We want statements from anyone who was here this afternoon."

Ignoring the white-overalled forensics officers (thankfully, there was no sign of Anderson), Sherlock stepped over the tape and crouched by Lucio Diomato's body. He could see at a glance that the cause of death was identical to that of Kimmel and Hodder. Strangulation with a thin cord. Quick and efficient, with no signs of a struggle. The only differences this time were that the victim was fully dressed and that the death had occurred fairly recently.

He lifted his eyes to the young Italian student's face again. Lucio's blank open eyes looked up into the blue sky far above, his face frozen in an expression of panic.

He glanced towards John, who had snagged a couple of pairs of sterile gloves and now threw him a pair before snapping the others onto his own hands. The doctor stepped around the body, crouching on the other side of it.

John hesitated briefly before his examination, looking at Lucio's face with pity and apology; a momentary reverent pause that Sherlock recalled occasionally from previous cases. Sometimes, as now, it made the hairs prickle on the back of his neck: this gentle respect for the dead that came so naturally to John. How many bodies had he seen in his life? And yet, in the doctor's eyes, each life had a right, a dignity, no matter how violent or sordid their ending. Where Sherlock saw nothing but a cadaver and set of clues, John saw the person, their history and their thwarted potential.

Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us? Sherlock turned his head away quickly, and only looked back as John ran a gloved finger with professional precision over the deep gauges in the young man's neck, lifting the hair at the nape to peer underneath.

"It would have been very quick. The killer knows the best angle to use and how much strength to apply. No major signs of a struggle – assuming he was killed right here?" He looked around.

"He was killed here." Sherlock stood up, gesturing at the floor of the backstage area. It was dusty in places. "No signs of a body being dragged, or of very heavy footprints if he'd been carried. Look - ." He walked around the body and pointed. "Two sets of footprints over there, so he definitely walked here. And there -." Near the body were scuffed marks. Lucio had certainly put up as much of a fight as he possibly could. He'd been caught by surprise, knocked off balance and had kicked out desperately in an attempt to regain his footing and relieve the pressure around his neck.

Sherlock looked back at John, who was testing the heat of the body. He looked up. "Not long. Within the last two hours, I'd say, and possibly less. Maybe just over an hour ago. The DS is right, he couldn't have been discovered long after death."

Sherlock looked away from the body quickly, feeling an unaccustomed heaviness in his throat. When he'd looked at that angry young man in the photograph and asked Ellie about him, Lucio Diomato had still been alive – had still been in the process of making a fatally bad decision. Could he have acted sooner to prevent this? Logic suggested not, but if he had taken John's sound advice, made his peace with Greg a little sooner…

He cleared his throat and scanned the theatre, looking up towards the upper seating area and the sky beyond, before bringing his gaze back to the ground. There were some nervous-looking backstage workers clustering around the outside of the Pit, staying behind the lines. They would have been in here preparing the theatre for the performance, and the actors would have been in their own dressing rooms or flitting between each other's rooms. No one would have noticed another two men among the press of backstage staff, dressers, makeup artists and so on. The killer had taken a risk carrying out the murder right here, where anyone could have seen him, but perhaps the risk was the point.

He stepped through the archway, squinting in the dimness of the backstage area. There, propped by a wall, was the object he was looking for.

He reached down and picked up the bag by its strap, carrying it back onto the stage.

"Another clue?" Sally asked, looking at the shabby leather satchel in Sherlock's hands. "Why on earth a satchel?"

Sherlock glanced at the body and curled his lip slightly. "Fairly apt." He gazed off into the distance and excavated the ancient memory from his mind palace, murmuring:

"And then the whining schoolboy with his satchel,

And shining morning face, creeping like snail,

Unwillingly to school".

She gave him a blank look, but Greg gave a faint smile of recognition at the quotation and muttered. "All the world's a stage…"

At the incredulous looks on their faces, he sighed irritably. "Oh for f… Even I did bloody 'O'-levels. Hours and hours of memorising sodding Shakespeare to pass English, just so I had the qualifications to get into the Force. I know how that schoolboy bloody felt…" He looked around him at the scenery and the tiered rows of seats. "I wonder if he would have appreciated the irony. His mother probably wanted him to be on this stage one day. And he was obviously keen to come here."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. The DI was being unusually reflective. He opened the satchel's fastenings and upended it, catching the scrap of paper that fell out when he shook it. The bag was otherwise empty.

He unfolded it one-handed and rolled his eyes. "Another Shakespeare quote:

"Nor to be seen: my Crown is call'd Content,
A Crown it is, that seldom Kings enjoy."

John frowned. "What the hell's he getting at there? Lucio was hardly 'content'."

Sherlock sighed, wearily. "These little 'clues' are getting really tedious. It's from Henry VI Part 3 – tonight's play. He's a deposed king, basically saying that he is happier now than he was as king. I assume the intention is to suggest that Lucio would have been happier had he not been so busy trying to be more powerful or wealthy than he was. It's a clumsy analogy."

"Sounds like a comment on morality or something," John remarked. "Did you say that you thought our man was a church-goer?"

"Yes." Sherlock gazed at Lucio's body, thoughtfully. "He has a strong sense of justice – a warped moral code. It's not the reason why he killed Lucio, but it's what he wants us to think…and he may even believe it himself."

"What do you mean?"

"He killed Lucio because of the art theft, but he doesn't want to acknowledge that his action is that…crude. To justify his behaviour, he has to dress it up as some kind of moral crusade. Otherwise, he'd just be another 'common criminal'. There's another thing. These clues…" he waved the paper, "they're clever, very apt, and yet strangely shallow. He's intelligent and extremely well-read, but his knowledge is wide rather than deep." He wrinkled his nose and dropped the paper into Greg's waiting hand. "He probably has a quote for any occasion, but he has no particular specialty. He's not a scholar by any means."

"So, how did he get Lucio in here?" Greg wondered. "Even if he had a ticket – I assume you think he lured Lucio here with the promise of one - even then, they wouldn't have been allowed to come in before the performance. Would they?"

"He must work here, or be very familiar with the staff. Either someone let them in today without thinking much about it or he knows how to get in unseen. More likely the latter, although it's worth checking whether anyone on the staff does remember seeing Lucio in the company of someone they knew." Sherlock shrugged. "They may have, but it's unlikely. He probably picked the best time to do this, just a couple of hours before curtain up, with everyone fully occupied with their own tasks."

"But I thought you said it was someone at the University - ."

"Someone at the party – yes. Not necessarily someone working there. Maybe another student. Or somebody's partner," Sherlock mused. "We need to find out exactly who was there - and check the CCTV images. Did a man follow Hodder and Kimmel that night? How did he know where to find Kimmel a few nights later, and Hodder two weeks after that? Especially the first murder – you don't just spot someone by chance at a concert in an area as big as Kenwood. Which suggests…he may have been on friendly terms with them at the party. It's not impossible that he made arrangements to meet Kimmel that night. Does anyone remember her speaking to someone for a long time? … It would help to know exactly when and where Hodder was killed."

He looked around the theatre again and turned to Greg. "This location isn't significant; it was just an opportunity to get the victim alone. The art theft is the key. That crime affected the killer or someone he cares about enough to compel him to 'punish' the perpetrators. I need to know exactly which paintings were replaced by fakes – who painted them, who sold the originals to the gallery, and who bought paintings there since the theft, in case there are any fakes you haven't found out about. Track down Hodder's associate in Italy and find out which have been smuggled out on the Diomato boat."

He smirked. "You could try scaring the facts out of Eddie Carter by letting him know that he could be the next victim."

Greg stared at him. "So you don't think the bloke's finished yet? What's he gonna do, work his way through the entire gang, dispatching one every other Saturday?" He sighed, scratching his head. "I suppose that's something to be grateful for. If you're right about the pattern, we've got thirteen days to find him before the next one."

Sherlock frowned, feeling a vague sense of unease. It was true that the killer had probably been compelled by his working hours to restrict his crimes to a specific time period…and it was also highly likely that he had compartmentalised his life as a way of coping, but… "I wouldn't necessarily depend on that timespan. He's just as likely to strike before."

Lestrade snorted, without any humour. "I don't depend on anything these days."

221 Baker Street was quiet as Sherlock entered the building. He climbed the steps to flat B without his usual speed. It wasn't late, had only just turned nine, but he felt fatigue seeping through his bones. Getting mildly drunk with John in the early hours of that morning probably hadn't helped, and he hadn't eaten all day either.

He pulled off his damp suit jacket (if anything, the humidity was climbing even higher this evening), threw it on the floor and flung himself down on the sofa in his usual 'thinking' position. His crumpled shirt was sticking to his back again, and he idly wondered whether it was time to bow to the inevitable and dig out one of his rarely-worn summer t-shirts. On the other hand, he did have a certain image to maintain, and one of the things his three years of having to assume various disguises had done was to leave him with a strong distaste for 'dressing down'.

The witness statements at the theatre had been as uninformative as he had predicted. No one recalled seeing someone unusual on the premises, and certainly no one had given anyone access. Which meant the killer must have had insider knowledge in order to navigate the security systems, including door codes to the backstage area. Having worked out the likely route and indicated where forensics should look for evidence, he had left them to it, ordering a list of current and past staff to be e-mailed to him as quickly as possible.

He'd been tempted to go onto Bart's after that – as luck would have it, Molly was on duty. However, John had talked him out of it, pointing out that even she wouldn't be able to speed up an autopsy just for him. When Sally informed them that there'd been a major incident in the City and that the morgue would be busy dealing with the fatalities from that, Sherlock reluctantly conceded the point and agreed to go home to wait for the list.

As they'd exited the taxi at Baker Street, John had been approached by one of his regular charges – a skinny sixteen year old girl that he'd been trying to get into some Halfway House scheme – and had dashed off, muttering something about someone Sherlock had never heard of. Sherlock had frowned and turned towards the flat, telling himself firmly that he absolutely didn't care that John had a better handle on the finer workings of the Homeless Network than he did these days.

He wondered what the emergency was. He'd grown used to John hurrying off at random times, but he usually took his medical bag with him, and it would have been a matter of minutes to have retrieved that from the flat. So…not a medical emergency. Information, then? On what? A case, surely, to make John rush off like that. But the doctor wasn't involved in any other case but this, so why not take Sherlock along?

"John, are you in here, dear? I just wanted to let you know that – oh!"

Sherlock sat up as Mrs. Hudson peered around the corner of the door. "I saw the door was open, but I didn't realise it was you, Sherlock. I thought…well, you're not so often here these days…"

Her hands fluttered to her necklace in an achingly familiar gesture. He eyed her cautiously as she stepped slowly into the room.

Since his return, he hadn't had much occasion to speak to her. If they happened to meet on the stairs or outside her flat, she would hurry away on some pretext, and he didn't quite have the nerve to follow her and force a confrontation. She still wandered into the flat in her usual casual manner, but clearly only when she knew that John was around – he assumed she could tell by the sound of the doctor's steadier footsteps. Her comments were almost always addressed to John. If forced to speak to Sherlock, her voice sounded stilted, although she did seem to try to be cordial for John's sake if not Sherlock's.

Ironically, he suspected that she genuinely wanted to get back the easy relationship they had shared before the Fall, but didn't quite know how to. And since Sherlock had pretty much taken her lead when it came to their friendship, it was impossible for him to work out what to do. She appeared to have lost her fear of him, but still clearly distrusted him and didn't appear to know how to stop.

He expected her to retreat as usual having realised that John was not present, so it may have been surprise that prompted him to stand up as she approached. She looked up at him, for once seeming to gaze directly into his eyes rather than just somewhere in their vicinity. "Are you working on a case?"

He felt a dull pain in his chest at her brave attempt at small talk. "Yes. Well, trying to, anyway," he amended. "I'm not quite sure which elements to focus on."

She blinked at this unusual honesty. "Oh, so you'll be up all night then? On the case? I was looking for John…"

"He was called away," he explained, waving his hand vaguely towards the window. "One of his… clients."

Her face softened. "Well, it wasn't that important…" She made as if to turn away, but then seemed to steel herself. "Is it an interesting case?"

"It…" He hesitated. On the face of it, it really wasn't that interesting. No more than a five on his personal scale of interest. Forged paintings, extra-marital affairs, disenchanted young men, a literate killer with a penchant for clumsy metaphors – what a cliché.

Balanced against that was the look on John's face when he gazed at Lucio's body…

"People have died," he said, finally.

She gave him a bemused smile. "People usually do."

He felt his lips curving just a little, in acknowledgement. "That sounds like something I might have said once."

"Funnily enough," she replied, "it wasn't you. I mean, you might have said it to him once, but it was John that I heard it from."

"Did you?" Sherlock was genuinely interested. It didn't sound like something John would have said. "When was that?"

"Oh, it wasn't that long after he moved in. I think you were both working on a case and you must have worked it out because you suddenly dashed out of the door all keen, like you usually do, and John was telling you to wait for him. You said there was no time to wait – you said: "People have died". And he said - well, muttered it really: "People usually do…just not before their time." Just as he went out of the door after you, it was. I just remember the tone of his voice. He sounded all…bitter. I don't think you could have heard him."

"I certainly don't remember it, so you're probably right," he conceded. He turned and walked towards the window, wondering where John was now. "He was right, of course. Everyone dies."

"Just not before their time." Her voice sounded a little closer as she carried on. "Is that what's happened, Sherlock? A young man or woman has died?"

"Yes. A nineteen year old man." He thought of the sulky young face in the photograph and then of the glitter of fear in a dead man's eyes.

She sighed. "I'm sorry to hear it. Sorry for John, because he particularly hates the ones involving young people, doesn't he? And sorry for the young man and his family. Was he a nice man, do you think?"

He hesitated. "I'm…not sure. He wasn't liked much, but I think there's a chance that he might have been misunderstood."

She gave a little sigh. "That's even more of a shame. Not to be able to clear up the misunderstandings…" She joined him at the window; he could see her neat little grey-brown head out of the corner of his eye as she peered down at the street below. "That's what I would hate most about dying suddenly. Not being able to get things sorted out first. Make my peace with my loved ones."

Was that a note of regret in her voice?

"Can you clear his name?"

"Not really." So much was true. Lucio was an accessory to theft and fraud.

"But you can help, can't you?" she persisted. "Get him justice, give his parents some comfort by finding the killer? That's what you do, after all."

He spun away from the window, restless and angry all of a sudden. "Is that what you think? That I spend my time solving crimes out of an altruistic desire to be of use to the victims and their families?"

She turned towards him. "Well…you do – don't you? Whether you mean to or not - ."

"But that's not what I do," he burst out, pacing energetically. "Why don't people understand it? It's not the victims – it's the science. It's the ability to find out the why and how. The motivation and the method. That's what I do – and it's not out of compassion. You all expect me to care - but you wouldn't expect a microbiologist to care about his samples, would you? Or a pathologist about the disease she's studying? So why do you imagine that I should care about my cases?"

She watched him, wide-eyed, as he continued to pace. "Don't you see? That's why I disappoint you – and John and Greg. That's why I'll always disappoint you. You – you expect something that I can't give and I -."

"Sherlock!"

He stopped, shocked out of his rant by the fierce tone. She walked towards him, her hand raised slightly and held out in front of her as if in parlay. Her eyes were hard in her pale face, and for the first time in years, he caught a glimpse of the tough motherless urchin who survived the Blitz; the strong woman who had come through three marriages and far too much bereavement and had still been able to smile.

"In the first place -," her voice was firm but calm, "- I said 'whether you mean to or not'. I'm not stupid, Sherlock – none of us are. We know it's not your motivation for doing what you do. But, whether you like it or not, it's the impact you have. You have this – this amazing talent that I could never have, or John, or any of them at the Yard. Or even your brother, clever though he is. People believe in you, and not because you are nice to them, but because you are good at what you do. That gives them hope. Don't you see? It's the impact you have on people's lives. You can save lives; you can bring justice to those whose lives you can't save. That's why we have expectations."

"You expect me to care." His voice sounded sulky to his own ears.

"Oh, Sherlock." Her voice was gently fond; mother to errant son. "You do care. You just can't see it. That monstrous mother of yours, and all those stupid doctors, and even your clever brother… what did they do to you to make you believe that you're not capable of it?"

"I don't feel things the way you do. And John -."

"Is just John." She gave a little laugh. "I don't think anyone cares as much about people as John Watson. Friends, strangers. He's able to look past all their defences and see the need. You can't live up to his standards, however hard you try. No one expects you to, Sherlock."

"But - ."

"Do you feel absolutely nothing all the time? No fear, no confusion, no frustration? No satisfaction when you get it right? No anger, no amusement, no hatred?"

"Well, of course not..."

"Well, then. You do care. You do have emotions, even if you don't wear them on your sleeve, like I do, or go out and tackle things directly, like John does…"

She sighed, that little smile fading away. "I said…things that I shouldn't have said. I accused you of not caring because you didn't react the way I would have done." She shrugged her shoulders. "I was wrong. You can't be expected to care the way everyone else does. You've got your own ways, Sherlock. They're different, that's true enough, but who says they're worse than anyone else's?"

"Mrs. Hudson." His chest felt tight. "I am sorry…"

She gave him a bright smile and patted his arm, suddenly right back to her perky self. "I know you are, dear. Well, I must get on – I've already missed Casualty." She gave a little tinkling laugh. "Whatever did we all do before good old catch-up TV? Good luck with your case."

And she left the flat without a backwards glance.

He stared after her, wondering whether the last few minutes had actually happened or were a figment of his feverish imagination. Was he that tired or hungry, or had his erstwhile landlady really lectured him on his emotional abilities with a confidence that all those childhood psychiatrists had lacked? Since when had his diagnosis been that simple? Just a 'you're different, but that doesn't mean you don't feel'. Not for the first time in his life, he wondered what the world might be like if it were run by fierce, wise, little old ladies.

He shook his head and pulled out his phone as if, by staring fixedly at it, he could will the familiar beep of an incoming e-mail. They should have that staff list ready by now… As he waited impatiently, he opened his pictures and stared at the photograph once more. He ran his eyes over the faces, noting the little intricacies of their body language. The smiles, both genuine and forced. The relaxed poses and the stiff shoulders. The tension during what should be a happy occasion…

As he looked at the faces, he had a sudden premonition – a little shiver of understanding that slithered down his spine…an understanding that told him he had been completely and utterly wrong about this case. An understanding that told him exactly who the next victim would be.

And, all at once, he knew that Mrs. Hudson was absolutely right. Sherlock Holmes did care about some people. And he was not immune to the emotion of absolute terror…