A.N.: Here is chapter 25, and it's been less than four months since the last update! Hurray! :D ...right, I'll just be quiet and hide in shame. Again, sorry for the wait, and sorry I can't promise weekly updated or even monthly updates even now. And as always, all my thanks to my anonymous reviewers, whom I may not thank via PM! Hope you guys enjoy.

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221B PAW STORIES

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

Chapter 25

If there be none, never mind it

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"Hello, Mr. Holmes."

"Where is John?" Sherlock asked immediately.

Irene sighed.

"Of course you'd ask about him first." She sat up on the bed. Sherlock scowled. "Aren't you even a bit surprised to see me?"

"Where is John?" he repeated, refusing to let himself be distracted. Irene's presence was doing enough of that already; he wouldn't let her words get to him too.

"Single-minded, aren't you?" she said as she moved over to the mini bar and helped herself to the brandy. "Would you like a drink, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock put his hand on her wrist and stopped her gesture. She looked up at him, and in her eyes he saw the embers of her old weakness. He smirked. Two could play that game.

"I don't want a drink, Miss Adler," he murmured, not stepping back out of her personal space. "I want you to tell me what you did to remove my flatmate from these rooms."

She seemed to mellow at his choice of words, which was why he'd decided on those in the first place. Clearly referring to John as his flatmate and making his disappearance sound like some professional issue was the right move. She smiled charmingly, which, on her face, looked rather like the grin of a shark, and took a sip of her drink. She did not move back either. Sherlock swallowed and refused to let his breath hitch.

"I asked him to follow me," she said simply, letting herself fall into an armchair. "He was quite... astonished. I'm surprised you didn't tell him about me. Don't couples share everything?"

"I don't know. You tell me." He gave her ring a pointed look. She laughed.

"Oh dear, this little thing? I'm talking about real relationships, Mr Holmes. This here was just a safety measure."

"Yes, I remember how much you value your safety."

She arched an elegant eyebrow.

"Is that a threat?"

Sherlock grinned slowly.

"Of course not. Why should I need to use threats against you?"

She almost winced, but didn't. Sherlock felt his old admiration for her rekindle at such mastery of her expressions. If only she had as much control on her emotions...

"I suppose you don't think I can do anything against you, now that I'm not working for Moriarty."

Sherlock shrugged.

"I only meant that there is no need to use threats against old friends." He gave her a shark smile of his own, and wasn't entirely surprised to see hunger in her eyes, instead of fear. He snorted. Trust the Woman to be aroused by something feral.

He finally allowed his gaze to slide over her, taking in all the details. It might have still been hard to read her, had she not been pretending to be someone else. But she was, and reading that fake identity was enough for Sherlock to deduce what she was doing here.

"So you're married to one of the regular clients here, and you're Victor Trevor's mistress."

She smiled, ecstatic.

"Tell me more," she said, finishing her drink in one gulp, her gaze never leaving him. Sherlock started to pace.

"The way you're dressed and the size of the diamond on your ring make it obvious that you're not just working here. Also, you just told me this was a safety measure. And I can imagine you needed a name, and money. You wouldn't have wanted to just keep what I had given you."

She moved closer to him, hovering like a predator.

"Go on."

"You're the reason I'm here. You learned that Victor knew me once, and you convinced him to bring me here. Now, the only way he would have told you about me is if you were in an intimate relationship." He turned to look her in the eye, judging her for the first time. "And the only way you could have convinced him to see me again is if he loved you."

Irene's eyes widened slightly at that, but she quickly recovered and looked as composed as ever. Sherlock could tell, though, that she was troubled. This left him with no small amount of satisfaction.

"Bravo," she whispered. "You haven't changed a bit. You're still so... sharp." There was an edge of bitterness, perhaps even pain, in her tone, under the ostentatious playfulness. She smiled. "This calls for some celebration, don't you think?" She took the phone and composed a number. "This is room 212. Please bring us a bottle of Champagne and two glasses. Thank you."

She hung up, and looked at Sherlock. He was still observing her, and she was apparently relishing the attention.

"As... flattered as I am that you went through such lengths to see me again, you must know that this isn't safe for you. Wherever I go, Mycroft knows. I can't imagine you'd want him to be aware you're still alive."

"Is that why you didn't tell John?" she said casually. "Because you thought Mycroft could read him too easily? Did you do it to protect me?" She looked at him then, seductive and vulnerable and tempting. But something was off, and Sherlock was frustrated because he couldn't pinpoint it. "Or is it because you didn't want him to be jealous?"

This snapped Sherlock out of it and he looked at her as if she'd grown a second head.

"Why would he be jealous of you?" he asked, genuine.

Irene let out a self-deprecating little laugh, just as somebody knocked on the door. Sherlock glanced at her sideways as he went to open the door.

"Your Champagne, sir," said the maid. She did not hand him the tray, so he let her in. She walked into the room and set down the bottle and the two glasses. "Would you like me to open it for you?"

"It's fine," Irene said from her seat.

The maid bowed. She was polite in every way, but Sherlock found she looked tired. He wondered if Victor was in such financial need that he was forced to exploit his staff. It just didn't sound like him, but then again, what did Sherlock know?

"How is he?" he asked suddenly. The maid retreated and he thanked her with a nod.

"Oh I'm sure he's fine. I wouldn't actually hurt him, you know that, don't you?" She moved closer to him and put her hand on the Champagne. "Still traumatized that Jim could get to him so easily last time he tried?"

Sherlock stared, and wondered why she would assume he was talking about John when he had just said "he".

"You make it so obvious," she went on, glancing at the name on the bottle. Then she looked up into his eyes. "Everyone who cares to look would know he's your Achilles' heel."

Sherlock watched her fingers slide along the bottle of Champagne, and thought. "Not many care," he said at last. Then he arched an eyebrow. "'Jim'?"

She rolled her eyes.

"Just open the bottle, will you? I need a drink. Oh, and don't give me that look. No, I haven't been in touch with Moriarty. And no, we weren't on a first name basis. I was simply trying to rile you, but in fact I'm now quite sure you couldn't care less who I'm on a first name basis with."

Sherlock popped the cork of the bottle and filled the glasses.

"You're wrong."

He handed her one of the glasses, and tilted his to make a tinkling sound. He caught her gaze, and held it. "I do care if you have or will hurt Victor Trevor on a whim to see me."

Her gaze turned cold, and she put down her glass without having drunk one sip from it.

"I see. That's who you were asking about, then? Interesting. Should John worry more about him than about me, then?"

Sherlock put down his glass as well and gave her a level stare.

"John doesn't have to worry about anyone."

"How sweet."

She didn't try to hide the scorn from her voice.

"Well, then, I guess you should go and get him. I wouldn't hurt him, but there is a murderer roaming around after all. We wouldn't want poor John to come to any harm, would we?"

Sherlock moved before he fully registered what he was doing, and pressed Irene against the nearest wall, holding her wrists securely.

"You will tell me where he is."

Sherlock thought her gaze had been cold before. He was wrong.

"Don't you know the saying, Mr Holmes? Hell has no fury..." She trailed off, voice icy.

"You can't possibly have thought..." he started, then shook his head and got a hold of himself. "What aren't you telling me?" he asked, searching her gaze. He found nothing. Repressing a sigh, he stepped back and let her go.

She stopped at the door and turned back towards him with a lovely smile.

"I'll tell Victor you gave me the 'If you hurt him, I'll hurt you' speech."

"I didn't—"

"I'm sure he'll be... touched. I wouldn't let John find out if I were you, though. That is, if you can find him first."

And with a final smirk, she left.

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

Victor was on the phone when Sherlock barged into his office.

"Where do you usually meet her?" he demanded.

Victor blinked at him. There was surprise there, of course, but also a trace of the old pain. Every time he looked at Sherlock, he seemed... hurt. Regretful, perhaps, or melancholy. Sherlock hoped he did not wear his feelings on his sleeve like that for everyone to see.

"I'm sorry, something came up at the hotel, may I call you back? Thank you."

He hung up, and faced Sherlock.

"Have a seat," he said regally. "Where do I meet whom?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, then thought better of it. What a fool he'd been. Who knew what she called herself these days?

"Your mistress," he said curtly.

Victor paled abruptly.

"Is she in danger?" he asked, and stood up at once. Sherlock observed him closely. No denial. Just sheer panic. Had he looked like that when he'd asked Irene where John was? But no. He hadn't be so scared as angry at that time. Victor, on the other hand, looked terrified.

"We need to talk, you and I," Sherlock said sternly. "But for now, just take me to the room."

In retrospect, it might have been a bit cruel to hide from Victor the fact that Irene was in no immediate danger. But Sherlock wanted to get to the room, and he wanted to get to the room now. Victor fumbled as he opened a drawer and grabbed a card-key.

"Come," he said uselessly, but his voice was so shaky Sherlock forgave him.

He ignored the lift and led Sherlock to the emergency staircase. The moment he left the corridor and stepped into the stairs, he started running. Sherlock calculated that taking the lift probably would've been ultimately quicker, and concluded that Victor did not want anyone to see him like this. Or perhaps his brain was more foggy from the worry than Sherlock first thought.

When they reached the fourth floor and went into the corridor, Victor started walking once more, greeting each client they met with a smile. Sherlock knew people were stupid, but he was still stunned that no one seemed to see the dullness in Victor's eyes as he spoke to them. He was about to reach out and tell him his mistress wasn't actually in any danger when Victor suddenly stopped in front of a door and shakily put the card in it. He pushed it open and they walked in, first into a small hall, then into the bedroom.

The room was similar to theirs, and, Sherlock imagined, to all the other rooms in the building: lavish and not even remotely to Sherlock's taste. But he couldn't have cared at this moment if the room had been covered in pink feathers and glitter. On a chest of drawers near the farthest wall, there was a manul, vainly trying to reach out to open one of the windows. Sherlock sighed in relief, and Victor fell into an armchair, his legs finally giving out.

Sherlock ignored him and walked up to John, who had frozen in place when he'd noticed Sherlock and Victor in the room. Sherlock picked him up and buried his face in the crook of his fluffy neck for a moment. John squealed, but didn't give too much of a fight.

"Care to tell me what this is all about?"

Sherlock turned towards Victor, and saw the beginning of anger in his eyes, hardly hidden behind his confusion. He eyed the bed, then decided it would be too distasteful to sit on it, not knowing exactly what had been going on in it, and sat in an armchair close to Victor's, with John on his lap.

"What's a manul doing here?" Victor asked.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. Victor shrugged.

"I'm not entirely ignorant, you know," he said promptly, waving his hand as if urging him to move on. "So?"

Sherlock considered playing a bit with Victor to make him pay for his lies, but John put his paw on his hand, and when Sherlock looked down into his eyes, read his disapproval. He glared, but muttered "Fine" under his breath and turned to his client once more.

"Why didn't you tell me about her?"

"I didn't think it was relevant to the case," Victor retorted rather coolly.

Sherlock huffed.

"Please. Let's not waste our time, shall we?"

"Then why don't you tell me what we're doing here?"

"Getting the manul back."

"Whose is it?"

"Mine."

John's fur bristled at once and he became a ball of fluff on Sherlock's lap. Sherlock stared at him, puzzled, then remembered that was how John blushed in manul form. By this standard, this was equivalent to him turning crimson. Sherlock couldn't help smirking.

Victor cleared his throat.

"Right. You have a manul. Great. You do know it's not legal to keep one as a pet, don't you?"

Sherlock glowered at him.

"Oh, you want to talk about "legal"?"

"Having a mistress isn't illegal. In this country," he added as an after thought.

Sherlock, feeling no thread of pity left in him, snorted. Suddenly he was reminded of how much Victor had hurt him, how much he'd made him pay for telling the truth the last time they'd seen each other. Who did he think he was, barging into his life after fifteen years, without a word of apology, and lying to his face?

"Having her is," he said, ruthless. He ignored John's whimpered protest.

"What do you mean?" Victor asked, looking worried now, but still angry. If he wanted anger, he'd get anger.

"Why don't you ask her? I have a case to solve, and I don't want you to throw me out this time as well just because I tell you the truth."

Victor flinched.

"Sherlock..."

"Don't."

"Please, I—"

"Don't!"

Sherlock didn't recognise his own voice, loud and breaking at the end. He took a deep breath, and tried to calm down. This was ridiculous. He should be treating Victor just like any other client.

But he isn't, a small voice sounding suspiciously like John's murmured in the back of his mind. He isn't just a client.

Sherlock noticed he had clenched his hands into fists, and relaxed them deliberately. He looked up and saw Victor, his complexion ashen. Images of a boy who'd just lost his father and everything he held dear in life flashed before Sherlock, and he tried to blink them away.

"I knew we should have talked about it from the beginning," he said quietly.

"If you're talking about the fact that your mistress put you up to call me, yes."

"That's not what I'm talking about," Victor said, tired, and did not add and you know it. Sherlock heard it nonetheless.

He picked up John and stood up stiffly.

"Then there's no reason we should talk about it."

"Sherlock."

When Victor grabbed his arm, Sherlock felt himself break. But instead of understanding, the crack gave way to a rush of rage. This gesture was so much like Victor, so familiar it ached, and he could feel the ghost of similar touches echoing this one on the same spot on his arm just as he caught Victor's gaze and saw that he had realised his mistake. He let go, as if burned.

"I know who she is," he whispered.

Sherlock blinked, and barely stopped himself from saying What?

Victor sighed and fell back into the armchair, his head resting in his hands.

"I know who she is, all right?"

"She told you?" Sherlock asked, exceedingly miffed that he hadn't deduced that.

"Mycroft did."

Sherlock froze. Sensing that things were going to get worse, or perhaps simply wanting to give them a semblance of privacy, John hopped off his arms and ran to hide into the small hall near the front door.

Victor had not moved. Sherlock just stared at him, feeling like his blood had been replaced with ice.

"Mycroft?" he repeated, not even trying to keep the cold fury out of his voice.

Victor had the decency to look at him, and held his gaze.

"I knew you wouldn't like it. That's why I didn't tell you."

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly. "What else didn't you tell me?"

Victor swallowed. He stood up and walked towards the window, as if he needed to get closer to the light.

"I could tell," he murmured. "I... Maybe I don't truly know her, but I know her better than she thinks." He swallowed again, and crossed his arms tightly in front of him. When they were young and he did that, Sherlock would put a hand on his left elbow, and he would relax instantly. "I... I could tell she knew you when I first mentioned you. She is a wonderful actress, and I actually admire that about her."

Sherlock supposed, grudgingly, that it made two of them. Victor turned back towards him.

"But I can recognise old love anywhere, most of all in a woman's eyes."

He turned away again, and when he spoke, Sherlock admired how steady his voice sounded, and how much he managed to hide his vulnerability.

"Were you ever together?"

"No."

"Did you ever want to?"

Sherlock truly thought about it. Had he desired Irene Adler? Yes, he couldn't deny it. Had he been intrigued, fascinated? Yes. Would he have acted on it? He wasn't sure. Would he have pursued a relationship with her, such as they would consider themselves to be "together"? He couldn't imagine it. It would never have worked. They were too attached to their lifestyles, and those were too different. Sherlock wouldn't leave the Work for anyone, and Irene would never changer herself for him. If she had, he probably wouldn't have been interested anymore.

"No," he said at last.

"That was a long pause."

"I was seriously considering it. I thought you deserved as much."

"Thank you," Victor said so quietly Sherlock almost didn't hear it. "So I... I knew. I also knew what field you worked in, of course. Or I could guess. I have to say, I... After... God, why is this so difficult? Only you make me so... inarticulate."

"Knowing the Woman, I'm sure that's a lie," Sherlock muttered, and Victor smiled.

"Yes, but saying "you're the only person I'm not shagging that makes me so inarticulate" wouldn't sound as elegant, would it?"

Sherlock snorted. "If you're well enough to still think about elegance, just get to the point."

Surprisingly, Victor nodded, and did just that.

"After the last time we saw each other, once I had got a grip and given my life a better shape, I still didn't find it in me to look you up. I fled England, because I knew that sooner or later, I'd start hearing about you, one way or another. And I thought, if I'm going to be wearing a mask for the rest of my life, at least I should never let it slip. I knew that if someone spoke your name casually to my face, it wouldn't just slip. It would shatter."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Always the dramatics."

Victor smiled thinly, and the sight of it was so painful Sherlock almost regretted his comment. Almost.

"So I didn't look you up, and I left as far away as possible. I traveled. And then I met Anastasia, and I thought, maybe, I wouldn't have to spend my life alone."

Victor looked out the window. Sherlock kept looking at Victor.

"She wasn't... as clever as you, not remotely, but she didn't have to be. Around her, I wanted to drop the mask, so I didn't need her to see through me. I didn't expect to meet anyone like that again. I..." He swallowed. "I didn't think I deserved to."

He fell silent, and Sherlock uncharacteristically gave him time. It didn't even surprise him. He probably needed to hear this, as much as Victor needed to say it.

"She died two years after our wedding," he said flatly. The lack of emotion in his voice made Sherlock wince. He imagined losing John now, and found his brain shying away from the thought. "I... It took me time, to recover. I inherited this empire, all this money, all those hotels. So much money, Sherlock. So much responsibility. But I had lost her, and I had lost you, and I just couldn't... I picked up the masks again," he finished.

He seemed lost in thought for a moment. Then he smiled, still far away. "Mycroft... Well, you know your brother. I knew him too. I was surprised he hadn't exacted his revenge yet."

Sherlock frowned, and couldn't stop himself from asking, "His revenge on what?"

Victor laughed, and it was the saddest sound Sherlock had ever heard.

"On you, you big idiot! Sometimes you can be such a fool, Sherlock. Your brother loves you. You have no idea how much he loves you."

"He wants to control me."

Victor nodded. "Yes, that, too. Often a side-effect of love. Also, Mycroft is a power freak, so that's part of his package."

Sherlock snorted. There was a familiar prickle of warmth traveling down his spine, one he hadn't felt for fifteen year, and he didn't find it as disquieting as he thought he would. In fact, he found some comfort in it, despite the bittersweetness of it.

"Why are we talking about Mycroft, again?" Sherlock asked wryly.

"Because I knew he was watching me. He had to keep track of me, if he wanted to make me pay for having hurt his baby brother. And after having lost Ana, I just... I was just tired of it all and I decided to face him."

Sherlock blinked. "You thought my brother wanted to kill you and you used him as a means to your suicide?" he rephrased, disbelieving. Victor rolled his eyes.

"Yes, right, because that would really have satisfied him as far as revenge was concerned. No, I knew he wanted to hurt me, and I just thought, to hell with it, I'm already black and blue, let's get this over with now. If Ana hadn't died of cancer, I would've blamed her death on him. After what I had made you go through, I knew he would want to hurt me in the worst possible way, and trust me, her death had hurt even more than that."

He sat down on the bed, and for an insane second, Sherlock was tempted to join him, like they had done so many times when they had been roommates. Sitting on each others' beds, talking or reading in silence for hours.

"So I looked you up. I knew that would be like a ringing bell for Mycroft, and I was right. I took a flight to London and waited for him to abduct me. Well, I didn't really wait. A lovely lady was waiting for me at the airport."

He smirked, and Sherlock sat down next to him almost automatically. Right now, he could have strangled Mycroft.

"He met me in some deserted farmhouse — I know, weird, even for him — and just watched me. Didn't say a word, just... stared."

"What did you do?"

"I stared back."

Sherlock smiled. He wished he could have seen that. Then he remembered Victor had just lost his wife then, and again, everything that he held dear, and he was glad he hadn't been there to witness it, this time.

"We had a talk. He wanted to know if now that I had lost everything again, I would blame you. It was insulting, really, having Mycroft think I might have turned into a psychopath. I laughed in his face, and told him I hadn't come to England to see you, but him. He's Mycroft. He caught on quickly."

Victor played with one of his curls, and Sherlock wondered if he'd just naturally resumed the habit in his presence as he talked, or if he had never dropped it.

"He told me about you. And... drugs."

Sherlock stiffened. He would kill Mycroft.

"I was so full of it, going to him like that. The truth is, I was so broken at the time, I assumed there was nothing he could do that would hurt me." He looked up into Sherlock's eyes. "I was wrong."

"You had nothing to do with it."

Victor snorted.

"Right. You just became a drug addict after I had thrown that money at you and thrown you out of my life because you thought it would be nice."

"I thought it would help me focus on cases. It did. It—"

"Helped you focus. Yes."

They fell silent. Finally, Sherlock said in a low voice, "He had no right."

"I don't know," Victor replied thoughtfully. "I was responsible. He wanted to make me pay."

"You weren't responsible, Victor," Sherlock told him, and for the first time since his old friend had showed up at 221B Baker Street, his voice was completely soft, devoid of any undertone. Victor looked him in the eye, defiantly.

"Of course I was."

Sherlock shook his head.

"Before I told you what I had found about your father, I knew. I knew how you'd react. I told you anyway."

A dark, heavy silence fell over them. Sherlock didn't know if it was because he had mentioned Victor's father, or if it was because he had spoken so plainly, so openly, about feelings, which was so unlike him. He thought of John, and do you even care about them? Will caring help me save them? Nope. Not at all. Then I will continue not to make that mistake and of how John would've reacted in his place, had he found out the truth, or even if he hadn't, and just been there.

"I'm sorry I had nothing else to offer but the truth," he murmured, and wondered what it was he had to offer John. Thrill, for sure. Adventure. And what else?

"Don't do this, Sherlock," Victor murmured. He seemed on the verge of tears. "You were not to blame. I destroyed our friendship."

"I think we did," he said, and forced Victor to meet his gaze.

Victor closed his eyes, but did not seem convinced. It was most likely an attempt to hold back the tears, rather than a sign of assent and defeat. He turned away.

"So after he'd delivered the last blow, Mycroft told me if I ever hurt you again, he would ensure I never recovered. At the time, it didn't feel like I would recover at that point anyway, but... Well, I did. When I met Irene, I began to feel happy again. Of course I should've known that there would be a canker in the rose." He smiled self-deprecatingly. "When I thought she might know you, I contacted Mycroft. I had the immense pleasure of seeing him surprised, maybe for the first time in his life, and he cut the connection right away. He probably checked that I wasn't lying about Irene being here. I knew then that you'd been involved, somehow. You're the only one who could fool Mycroft, and trust me, he was fooled."

"Until you contacted him," Sherlock pointed out, somewhat bitterly.

"Well, I couldn't have known, could I? And Sherlock, do you seriously think Mycroft would let any harm come to someone you cared about?"

"He hurt you," Sherlock said quietly. Victor froze. The look he gave Sherlock was so vulnerable it almost made the consulting detective wince, but he didn't, and Victor quickly looked away to regain his composure.

"He told me everything about Irene Adler, except what your relationship with her had been like, exactly."

"When I thought she was dead, he offered me a cigarette," Sherlock deadpanned.

Victor stared, then shook his head. His hand was shaking slightly.

"That bad, huh?"

Sherlock remained silent. There was no use adding oil to the fire. Suddenly he felt something soft push against his leg, and he looked down to see John, face buried in his calf. He smiled.

"I have to go," he said.

Victor gave him a wan smile.

"Because of the manul?" he asked in the tone of a man used to being baffled by Sherlock's behaviour, and somehow accepting it.

Sherlock nodded. They stood up from the bed, and only then did Sherlock realise that he'd sat down with Victor. He looked at his old friend seriously.

"If I prove that Irene Adler is behind the murder of Harry Pinner..." He watched Victor hold his breath, his eyes widening. "...will you want to destroy me?" he finished, realising for the first time that he had given Victor everything he needed to know to be able to destroy him, completely.

He had let him meet John.

But Victor smiled painfully, and shook his head. "If life has taught me something, it's that I should think twice before lashing out at someone. You... Sometimes I feel you're the only person on the surface of the Earth who knows me. I've learned long ago that any attempt to destroy you is more likely to destroy me. I... I might blame myself for calling you, but I wouldn't blame you. You weren't to blame last time either," he said, and repeated, more strongly, "you were not to blame." Then, in a soft, childlike voice so familiar it made Sherlock ache, "I'm sorry."

Sherlock did not say a word, but he moved towards Victor and put a hand on his left elbow.

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

Sherlock had tried to pick up John and hold him as they left the room and walked down the corridor, but the manul had scorned his touch and turned away. Sherlock was trying to decide whether he should tell John that the snotty look just looked adorably silly on him when he caught sight of a pair of glasses on the floor. He frowned, and stopped.

"What—" Victor began.

"Mrs Leverton's glasses," Sherlock said. The manul blinked at him, and the consulting detective could almost hear John voice asking, How could you possibly know that?

"Yes, that's her room. She must have dropped them as she was going out."

"In," Sherlock corrected, and knocked on the door.

"In?" Victor echoed, in an uncharacteristic display of stupidity.

"Yes, in," Sherlock said, annoyed, and now worried because no one was answering the door. "She never wears them in public."

"Even if she was going in, it meant she was carrying the glasses with her outside," Victor retorted, sounding somewhat affronted. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Yes, of course. She was wearing them, and must have realised as she came out, so she turned around to go back in and..."

Sherlock froze.

"What is it?" Victor asked with obvious concern.

Sherlock knocked again, more loudly. "Mrs Leverton? Are you in?" he called. There was no reply. "We need the copy of the key that's at the reception," Sherlock told Victor, and noticed that his friend was already calling reception on his mobile phone. Perhaps there was still hope for him after all.

"Yes, this is Victor Trevor, can you please send someone on the fourth floor with the keys to room 401? Thank you." He turned towards Sherlock. "What do you think happened to her?"

"Maybe nothing," Sherlock said.

They waited in silence until the same maid who had brought him Champagne arrived with the keys. She gave him a puzzled and somewhat wary look, and handed the card to Victor. He put it in at once, and pushed the door open. Sherlock couldn't fail to notice that he did not show the same urgency as he had when he'd thought Irene was in danger.

They found Mrs Leverton unconscious in her bathtub, holding a chloroformed handkerchief to her nose. Her wrists were slit.

The maid let out a cry. Sherlock moved into the bathroom to take a pulse. Victor gave the maid his mobile phone and followed him.

"Call an ambulance," Victor ordered. And as the maid was still standing there, horrified, he bellowed "Now!" She complied shakily.

"She's alive," Sherlock said.

"Barely," Victor murmured, white as a sheet.

"We must stop the haemorrhage," Sherlock said, grabbing one of the towels. "Do you have a first aid kit?"

"Can't John help?" Victor asked.

"Not right now," Sherlock mumbled. "I sent him away on an errand."

"Oh."

They worked together to stop the bleeding and did what they could until the ambulance arrived. Before Mrs Leverton was taken to the nearest hospital, Victor retrieved her room key, with was in the front pocket of her jacket. "She always keeps it there," he shrugged, "and she won't be needing it for now." They watched the ambulance drive away from the porch of the hotel. Victor ran a shaky hand through his hair.

"Well, so much for my clients being safe."

Sherlock glanced at him.

"It looked like a suicide," he pointed out.

Victor snorted, but there was no humour in the sound.

"You don't seriously believe this was a suicide attempt, do you?"

"No," Sherlock said. Of course Victor would notice too. He wasn't John. "Where's John?" Sherlock asked aloud before he could think about it.

Victor frowned.

"You said you sent him on an errand."

Oh. Right. "Yes, but he should have been back by now," he said, hoping that would suffice. Apparently, Victor had other worries, so it did. He simply nodded and said, "Maybe he's gone back to your bedroom before all this commotion. Just go and check on him. I have to give a speech to reassure everyone, and it'd probably help if you weren't there to hear my bullshit."

Sherlock put a hand on Victor's shoulder, squeezed a little, and left. Where could have John possibly gone? He couldn't open the bedroom door alone, that was for sure. Perhaps he hadn't wanted to be around when the ambulance arrived, so as to avoid drawing attention. It was true it was illegal to keep a manul as a pet, and people were more sensitive about protected felids in this region.

In any case, the bedroom was still the best bet. Sherlock looked in the corridor where room 212 was, but saw no trace of John. Just in case he could have somehow managed to enter the bedroom, Sherlock took out his card and opened the door. All was quiet inside, but that didn't mean much. He went into the bedroom, then the bathroom, but saw no trace of John. Dread settled in the pit of his stomach.

What if the culprit hadn't left and was still in the rooms when they'd entered? They hadn't even checked. He swallowed, cursing his carelessness. John would be proud, of course. He'd thought of saving the life of the victim first, but the truth was, Victor could have managed alone. Sherlock had only done a cursory search of the premise. He hadn't looked in the wardrobe or the cupboards.

Of course, it was unlikely that someone who had just attempted murder, and in such a fashion, would bother risking his cover to capture a manul. But if this whole mess was about what Sherlock thought it was about, then maybe...

His eye caught something near the abandoned bottle of Champagne and the two glasses. Slowly, he approached and took the piece of paper that had been left between the bottle and the glass. There were only five words on it.

THE GIANT RAT OF SUMATRA

«(o.o)» . «(o.o)»

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tbc