Chapter 25: Trading Card

It was cold again. Another winter in London was fast encroaching, but John was well outfitted for the cold. He had the black coat Mr Holmes had bought him last winter, and a new green one with a detachable hood for wetter weather, which was what he wore now, hood detached. He had a scarf and a hat and boots (though today he had opted for a pair of brown shoes), and gloves, too, though he had left them at home. He wouldn't be gone long, he reckoned, and he often found gloves cumbersome, what with the bracelets and all.

He had written up a short list of items they needed to stock up on—milk, bread, grapes, tea, honey, biskits, washing up liqwid—which he carried in his wallet, inside his pocket, next to his mobile. It was a little thing, maybe, but he took certain pleasure in writing up his list, rather than memorising it. He spent time writing out each letter with careful, straight lines, in case anyone else should see it, they would know he was good at penmanship, and maybe admire him for the neatness of his letters.

As yet, there had been no snowfall, but the boys who liked to throw the snowballs also liked to make wards trip by walking too close behind and stepping on the heels of his shoes. When he was alone, they made sport of walking close beside and crossing a leg in front so that he stumbled. So he crossed the street quickly and took the first left to get away from them, already planning to make a wide circle to avoid them when he returned.

The shop wasn't far, but he took his time anyway. The cool air helped him to think, a practice Mr Holmes actively approved. Thinking exercised the mind, he said. He encouraged John to write the things he thought, even if they didn't seem too important or clever. Sometimes, Mr Holmes said, if you had a problem that needed solving, writing was a very useful way to find an answer. But first, John reckoned, before he wrote a word, he had to think.

Lately, he'd been thinking about Harry. Mr Holmes said she was his sister, and even Harry talked about how incredible it was that after so long she had found her long-lost little brother. Sister, brother—they were beautiful words, ones he wished to take hold of, swallow, hold inside himself, making them a part of himself. But as much as he wanted it, he felt it was . . . wrong . . . to say he had a sister, to name himself a brother. Untrue, unearned, undeserved. So if he said it, he would be a liar, and liars were bad and needed to be punished. He once wrote the word sister, and was so afraid of it that he had to scratch it out, scratch-scratch-scratch, until the line was so black he couldn't make out the word at all. How could he claim her? For that matter, how could she honestly claim to love him? She didn't even know him. But then, was it love he felt for her? Love? What did that mean? The things he felt terrified him in a way he'd never been terrified before, because he wanted it, but at the same time feared to get what he wanted because what happened, then, when it was gone? When it was taken away or disappeared? What would be left of him? They were big thoughts, bigger and more complicated than he knew how to write about. But he couldn't stop thinking about them. And the more he thought about them, the more he hurt inside.

He was just nearing the grocer's when he felt a light buzzing around both wrists. Startled, he came to a stop and looked down. His bracelets were alight and flashing purple. For a moment, he just stared. Purple? What did that mean? What was he to do? His whole life, he'd never seen the bracelets, neither his own nor anyone else's, flash any colour other than green, blue, or red. He looked around and saw that other pedestrians were watching him with a funny look in their eyes. One man passing by muttered, 'What's that all about, then, eh, mate?', and continued on his way.

Moments later, he spotted the approach of a Ward Patrol officer, headed straight for him, and his stomach did a queer little flip. It's okay, he reassured himself. You've done nothing wrong. Just a spot check. But he couldn't help the pit of dread in his gut. Purple lights? Why purple lights?

'Bracelets, please,' said the officer, pulling out his pen-wand.

John presented his bracelets, and the lights deactivated. He breathed. The officer seemed little concerned, and so he should follow suit.

'Right. Tattoo, please.'

John turned to let him scan the tattoo. He permitted himself a question, and a simple one. 'Am I okay, sir?'

'Oh sure,' said the officer. 'What this is, is a host recall alert. Something's come up, and your host needs you returned to your residency without delay.'

'Is he all right? I just saw him,' John said. He'd never experienced a host recall before, didn't even know what one was for. Was Mr Holmes in trouble? Why didn't he call? 'I'll go home at once.'

'It is my duty to escort you. Come along then.' He steered John around and toward a patrol vehicle, walking him by the elbow. He could feel the eyes of Londoners watching his back, wondering what he had done.

'Really, sir, it isn't far at all. I can go on my own.'

'That's not how this works. Now, you're not going to give me any trouble, are you, Tiny? We follow protocol, and everyone's happy.'

John's feet stopped cold. The officer tugged him along, but he pulled back and held his ground. 'That's not my name,' he croaked.

'No funny business. Come along, I said.'

'But that's not my name. I'm not . . .'

'The summons is unequivocal. Mr Wilkes will have you home at once.'

A thrill of terror passed from John's feet through his stomach and to his heart, and he jerked back, yanking his arm from the officer's grip altogether. Shaking his head, he stepped back again, then again, and again.

'Hey now,' the officer said in a tone of warning. 'Don't make me drag you along, hear me?'

John turned and ran.

His feet barely touched the pavement. Wind whistled past his ears and stung his cheeks. He ran so fast and so straight that people ducked left and right to avoid his arrow-like flight.

'He's a runner! He's a runner!'

The officer was chasing him, but he couldn't risk looking back. He darted into the street. Cars slammed on their brakes, tyres squealed, horns blared. All he could think to do was run, fast and far. He needed to get home, back to Mr Holmes, back to where he was safe.

But he was going in the wrong direction. His ankle was already beginning to pain him. And then, the bracelets—they flashed red. They tightened automatically around his wrists, locking up. And then, the shock.

He gasped, stumbled, but kept on going. It was a tingle, really, little more than a tickle. But then it happened again, a spiking around his wrists that sent hot shivers up his arms. He cried out, and his pace slowed. He tried to pull the bracelets off, but they were so tight now that he couldn't claw even a finger beneath them. One final shock, and he felt like his arms were on fire.

Suddenly, with the force of a bull, the Patrol Officer tackled and drove him to the pavement. He landed with such force that the wind was knocked from his lungs and the skin of his chin flayed against the concrete. Pinning him by the neck, the Patrol Officer commanded him not to move. John didn't know where they came from, but presently he was surrounded by another two, three, maybe four more officers. His hands were bound behind him and he was being lifted to his feet and hauled away.

He found his breath and cried out any who would hear him: 'That's not my name! He's not my host! He's not my host!'

They ignored his protests. The back door of the patrol vehicle swung open, and they lifted him inside.

'He's not my host! Please, listen to me!' In his panic, he wrested his shoulders and kicked out with his feet. 'My name is John! I live on Baker Street! My host is—'

'Sedate him,' said one of the officers.

Next he knew, there was a sharp prick in the side of his neck, and uncomfortable burning, and the world began to swim out of focus until all became blackness.

Consciousness came slowly, like a softly glowing coal that needed more oxygen. That was something Mr Holmes had taught him. Oxygen could blow out a flame, or keep it burning. To John, this sounded like a paradox, but Mr Holmes explained it further.

Consider this glass of water, John. You need water to survive, true? Too little, you dehydrate. But too much water can drown you. It's about balance. It's about control. You are in control. Now try again, and start the fire.

He licked his lips. Dry. Throat, too. Water. He needed water. He swallowed. Blinked. Tried to clear his head. But he didn't move. Not at first. When he opened his eyes opened, he saw nothing.

Then he began to feel the pain. It pounded in his head, ached up and down his body. Slowly, he touched his fingertips to his face, and a sharp stinging pain spread across his cheek from raw, scraped skin and bruised bone. He hissed, wanting to fade back into black, but he was afraid. Where was he? Where was Mr Holmes?

Gingerly, he sat up on the cool floor, turning his head this way and that, but still, no light, not even a sliver enough to see his own hand in front of his face. He patted his trouser pockets, but his phone was missing, along with his wallet. For that matter, he realised his coat was gone, too. And . . . his shoes? Yes, he was wearing only socks. He felt the cold now, and shivered. Licking his parched lips again, he felt for his wristwatch and depressed a small button along the clockface to illuminate it. He read the time, 19.23, and frowned. Wincing again, he lowered his forehead into a hand and tried to breathe, tried to remember what had happened . . .

With a gasp sharp enough to hurt his ribs, his head came up, and he illuminated his watch again, and held it there. What little light it provided he used as a torch, and strained his eyes to take in his surroundings. It didn't take long. Through the green dim, he made out a bare cot set against the wall of a very small space, and an aeroplane blanket. His shiver became a tremor.

He scrambled to his feet, clasped a hand to his mouth, and backed away from the cot as if it were on fire, but he took only two steps before his back struck a wall. The room was thrown back into blackness, but he knew it now, its precise dimensions, every corner, every inch of the place. No no no! He couldn't be here, he couldn't! This wasn't real! He flung himself at the door, desperate to escape, to burst through and discover himself in 221B, where Mr Holmes would be waiting for him in the sitting room, playing his violin, ready to calm him and talk once again about the nature of nightmares and persuade him that it was all in his head and he was safe, safe and home. Home. But the door was locked.

No no no!

He kicked it, hard, again, again, hard enough to splinter the wood but not break through. That was when he heard footsteps on the other side, coming from down the hall. Terrified, cursing himself, he hurried away from the door and into a corner of the room, furthest from the door, but not far enough. The door crashed open and light spilt inward. Silhouetted against the light of the hall stood Mr Wilkes.

You want a hard and dirty buggering all night. Say it. Say you're a slag. Say it, little fucker.

'Little fucker,' Mr Wilkes said darkly.

John's head twitched violently, and a for a moment, he didn't know if he was here or there, then or now. There was no time to work through it. Suddenly, Mr Wilkes was advancing on him in the dark room, and he couldn't press himself back far enough, he couldn't melt himself into the wall or turn himself into stone or wake himself up at home.

'Please no! No!'

With a fist as hard as iron, Mr Wilkes cracked him across the face.

His head rebounded off the wall. He didn't cry out, only slumped, but nor did he fall to the floor. Mr Wilkes caught him at the throat and pinned him there.

'God, that felt good,' he said through gritted teeth, and he let out a great sigh, the way his guests used to, once they had finished. 'I've been wanting to do that for a long, long time. You were supposed to keep your mouth shut. Remember that? You rat. You shit-stain. You've crossed me for the last time, Tiny. Now let's shut you up for good.'

Something had gone terribly wrong. In his head. It had to be. Something he had seen on the street, or heard, or smelt, had triggered a bad memory. It had happened before, but usually it didn't stick. Now, he was stuck. This wasn't real. It couldn't be real. He's was in Tiny's world again, and he didn't know how to escape.

My name is John. My name is John.

He had been left in the dark. He was cold. He was hungry. And the longer he sat, huddled in the corner, shivering and crying and trying not to cry, he began to doubt whether any of it had been real to start with. Maybe he had gone mad. He had heard stories of wards losing their minds. What if that was him? Hadn't this been precisely what Mr Wilkes had said would happen to him?

There will be no more going out. Ever.

This room, this darkness, this coldness. Had he never left it? Had it all just carried on as before? Sometimes, when a guest was there and was trapped in the master bedroom, and while they claimed him, he did a little trick where he turned off his mind and imagined himself somewhere else, just until it was over. What if he'd done that again, and this time, it just took him longer to come back.

You'll stay locked until you're needed.

When would he be needed again? He sat with his knees to his chin, arms hugging his legs. He rocked. He hit himself in the side of the head. But he couldn't make a sound beyond that. Mr Wilkes had fitted his neck with a collar. He could cry, but without voice. He remembered being shot. But he had survived. And found a new home, a better home, with a better host. A host who was more than a host. A friend. His . . .

What were you thinking would happen next? Did you think you'd be put with a nice family? Get real. You're dirty . . . You've ruined yourself, Tiny.

No! No! His name was John! It was! He'd chosen it himself! Mr Holmes had let him. Mr Sherlock Holmes of 221B Baker Street, where he had lived for the last twelve months, his home. His family. It was real, it had all been real!

But his overwhelming fear made the conviction waver. What proof did he have? All truth was supported by evidence, that's what Mr Holmes said. And the fact that such a thought was in his head at all, that was evidence itself, wasn't it? Of course, it was.

And something else. My name is John, he thought. J-O-H-N. I live in London, he thought. L-O-N-D-O-N. Yes! Yes! He knew how to read, had learnt to write! His brain hadn't been able to do that before! All the things he knew now, about anatomy and astronomy and chemistry and physics were things Mr Holmes had taught him! He was learning maths and reciting the countries of the world and reading poetry! Because he was a man of letters. His host had made him so. My host is named Sherlock Holmes. S-H-E-R-L—

Was that the front door? Was he back? His heart began to race, that soft and tired muscle that had been working so hard for so long to keep him alive. Sometimes he thought it might burst. He strained to listen, but there was nothing else. No more sounds. A trick of his mind, maybe, or another door in another flat of the building where no one had ever questioned his comings and goings, or wondered what went on behind the closed door marked 1405.

He checked his watch. It had gone two in the morning. He was supposed to have been home many hours ago. Was Mr Holmes worried? Did he know what had happened? Did he understand that it was a mistake, and that it wasn't John's fault, and would he be able to make it right? Was he coming for him, to take him home? Oh, how he just wanted to go home!

Aha. There was one more thing. Someone had taken his coat and his shoes, but he still had the wristwatch Mr Holmes had given him for Christmas. Its glow was soft but real. When he felt like he was sliding, when panic began to resurge, when he struggled to recall his name, he pressed the button and the subtle green light was enough to recall him to the truth. His name was John. Mr Holmes was real. And he was out still out there.

Please find me, Mr Holmes, he whispered, his face softly illuminated by a dim green glow.

'On your feet, dog.'

John startled awake. Despite the fear and pain, the cold and hunger, his body had succumbed to exhaustion. He had slept fitfully, but he had slept.

Before his mind could properly dispel the haze of sleep, Mr Wilkes' hands were fisting the front of his shirt and dragging him upward before hauling him from the ward room. His feet scrambled for purchase as he was pulled down the hall and into the master bedroom, where Mr Wilkes dropped him to the floor. Alert and alarmed, John scrambled to his feet and backed away from his attacker, though the door was blocked and he had nowhere to run. In desperation, he looked around for something that could serve as a barrier—or a weapon—or only discover a room he no longer recognised.

It was bare. The sofa that had been set before the fireplace was gone, the rug was gone, the curtains were gone. The bed was still standing, but it had been stripped down to the mattress and all the blankets and sheets were missing. The chest that had stood at the end of the bed, gone. The mirrors, gone. The shelves where once had stood candles and incense, gone.

On the bed was a brown paper bag labelled Wolf and Badger.

Mr Wilkes paid no mind to his distress. 'Take off your clothes and put on these,' he said evenly, indicating the bag.

John didn't move. He stared at the unassuming bag, afraid of what might be inside.

'I won't tell you twice.'

'Why?' All he could manage was a whisper. The collar stole his voice with its every electrical pulse.

'Why? You don't get to ask questions. You just do as you're told.'

'You're not my host,' John said.

John's jaw clicked shut and he braced, disbelieving the gall of speaking to Mr Wilkes like that. Mr Wilkes' eyes darkened, piercing John with the most hateful a glare John had received in all his life. Without taking his eyes off John, he reached into the pocket of his trousers and withdrew what appeared to be something like a black handlebar. But a sudden flick of his wrist, and the expandable baton sprang into being. To his further dismay, Mr Wilkes' face suddenly cracked with a grin.

'Now you see, Tiny, that's where you're wrong. I am absolutely your host. It's my name on the registration. I'm the one who issued the host recall alert, and who did they bring you to? Me.' He tapped John on the forehead with the tip of the baton. Then he grinned, pleased with his intimidations. He returned the baton to its compact form, and pocketed it.

He walked to the bed and turned the paper bag over, its contents spilling out.

'I have no interest in hosting you, believe me,' said Mr Wilkes as he lifted the first item: a simple-cut, long-sleeve, pure white shirt with no collar and buttons halfway down. 'You were a nightmare. But you were lucrative. You made me rich.' He folded the shirt neatly and set it at the corner of the mattress. 'In fact, you made me millions.'

John blanched, not understanding. But . . . the debt . . . ? He had been close to paying it off, but not close enough. Right? That was what he had been told.

'And then along comes Sherlock Holmes, and he robs me blind. Did he tell you? When he realised just how profitable you had been, he wanted that money—money you had made for me—for himself. The utter bastard. He stole my money, Tiny. He fucking stole it. With the click of a button, he was five million pounds richer, the thief. Five-fucking-million pounds. Did he tell you that? And he leaves me destitute. Think I was going to stand for that?'

He lifted a pair of trousers next, equally white, equally plain, made of the same loose fabric which cinched at the waist with a drawstring. The fabric of both shirt and trousers was so thin John could clearly see the outline of Mr Wilkes' hand on the other side.

'I don't believe you,' John said weakly, his throat hoarse from the mild electrical pulse that rendered his vocal cords slack.

Mr Wilkes laughed without humour.

But he just couldn't believe it. Mr Holmes had promised. He said he wouldn't tell Mr Wilkes that he'd told what he'd been made to do, he wouldn't tell anyone. And besides, Mr Holmes was no thief. He'd once chastised John for stealing a plate. There was no way he would have stolen five million pounds! Not Mr Holmes.

And there couldn't be any five million pounds because of the debt! This was impossible! He was stupid and didn't know much about money, but none of this made sense!

'You think Sherlock was above greed? No one is. You see a cash cow, you milk it, plain and simple. But believe what you like, you simpleton, it makes no difference to me. I intend to be made whole. That's the only reason you're here right now. So stop gawping at me like a fish, and get dressed.'

'No, sir,' said John, trying valiantly to keep his whispering voice from quavering.

'Tiny. Don't defy me.'

'My name is John.'

Mr Wilkes' eyes darkened again, and he stepped forward menacingly. Startled, Tiny flinched. (Not Tiny. John. John.) His shoulders hunched, but he stood his ground. That was when Mr Wilkes' eyes fell to his hands: one was holding the other at the wrist, covering the watch.

'What's that?' He seized John's wrist and, with a harsh yank, extended his arm. 'A Tag Heuer? Are you kidding me? Sherlock bought you a Tag Heuer? You?' He twisted John's arm to get to the clasp. John tried to pull his arm back, but Mr Wilkes slapped his face. 'Hold still.'

John didn't know the value of the watch, not in numbers. But he knew what it was worth to him. It had been the first gift he had ever been given, as far as he recalled, and it was the last physical reminder of his life on Baker Street. Mr Holmes had given it to him. It was proof—tangible proof—that he was important to someone, that he mattered to someone. And he wasn't going to just let someone take it.

He pulled his arm away again, which drew Mr Wilkes into his circle. With barely a conscious thought, his feet pivoted, hips rotated, and he hooked his opposite fist square into Mr Wilkes' jaw.

Mr Wilkes let out a painful cry and staggered backward. There was no time to be stunned at what he had just done. He seized his opportunity, and bolted from the room.

He made it as far as the front door, only to find it locked. Panicked, he lifted the security plate, desperately trying to remember the passcode he had cracked so long ago. But he could hear Mr Wilkes hurrying after him, and there was no time, no time at all. So he took to pounding on the door, both fists pounding, hoping a neighbour would hear and call the police.

He was seized by the back of his shirt and tossed into the centre of the now bare room. Mr Wilkes fell on top of him. He felt hands around his throat over the collar, squeezing hard. He gripped Mr Wilkes' arms, trying to dislodge him, feeling his face turn purple as it swelled with blood. He let his arms go lax, flopping out to either side of his body. Then, in one swift movement, he cupped his hands, swung his arms upward, and smashed them against Mr Wilkes' head, one cup around each ear.

The man hollered in pain, and John suspected he'd accomplished exactly what Mr Holmes had once taught him during their boxing and defence lessons: he had created a sudden change in air pressure with his cupped hands, and burst one if not both of Mr Wilkes' eardrums.

With a roar of anger, Mr Wilkes flew into a torrent of blows. Pain rained down on him like hail, and though he tried to kick and flail and punch and scratch, he resorted, at the last, simply to trying to shield himself from the deluge.

At last, Mr Wilkes exhausted himself. Moaning and spitting, he sat back, lurched to his feet, and leant his back against the door.

'I could kill you,' he panted as John rolled onto his side, holding his ribs together as though they'd been splintered into a thousand pieces. 'I should have done, last year. But I need you alive, and whole. You're not worth anything to me dead. But just know it. I could kill you, Tiny.'

He pushed himself up to his knees and sat back on his heels. He could feel blood trickling down his face from his nose and a split lip. He spit blood onto the floor and glared at Mr Wilkes.

'John,' he said.

Mr Wilkes pulled out the baton, formed the weapon, and pulled back his arm. John never felt the blow. He was laid out cold on the ground.

He was starving.

Mr Wilkes provided him water, one bottle a day, and nothing else. By his reckoning, he'd been held for four days. Each time he came into the ward room to deliver it, he made sure John saw that he was wearing his wristwatch.

He had little to do with John, otherwise.

Mr Holmes had not come.

He'll come. He'll find you. Mr Holmes will take you back to Baker Street.

H-O-M-E.

He spelt it out on the floor with a finger, in the dark. It was like an invisible talisman, warding off the evil of madness. It was a reminder of who he really was. It was a promise to himself that this was not the end.

There was so much he wanted to do, so much he had yet to learn. And he had only found Harry. They had only just started getting to know each other again. The fear of never seeing her again, after having just found her, was enough to confirm what she really was to him.

S-I-S-T-E-R.

If he never made it back, he would never get to help Mrs Hudson repaper the kitchen. He would never get to play football again with Michael and Mr Lestrade. He would never get to see little Margaret Louise grow up. He would never get to have dinner again with Dr Stamford and his family. Worst of all, he would never . . . That is, he had such plans with . . . His life was meant to be with . . . He was most loved by . . .

S-H-E-R-L . . .

Someone was coming.

Mr Wilkes' footsteps stopped on the other side of the door. John waited, breath stuck in his chest, stomach clenching. He was conserving his water, trying to portion it out a little at a time. He had the good sense of how to make it last a day, and he still had half the bottle. If it had been morning when he received it—and he couldn't be sure that it was—that meant it was now evening.

The door opened. The baton expanded with a snap.

'No more funny business,' Mr Wilkes growled. 'On your feet. Move.'

John grabbed the wall and pulled himself to his feet. Wearily, he exited the room. Mr Wilkes shepherded him into the master bedroom where the white clothing was still laid out on the bare mattress beside a folded towel.

'You have five minutes to shower, ten to dress. Get to it.'

Too weak to fight, or argue, or question, John shuffled to the bathroom, but as he moved to close the door behind him, Mr Wilkes added, 'Door stays open.'

He trembled—from cold, from fear, from embarrassment—and pulled off his clothes. He stepped into the shower where he found a bar of soap. He washed his body and his hair with it. Each second that slipped by, he hoped he was only another second away from Mr Holmes crashing into the room to put a stop to this, and whatever was going to happen next. But his five minutes expired, and he was still alone with Mr Wilkes.

While he showered, Mr Wilkes had disposed of his clothes in a bin bag. All that was left for him to dress in were the thin white clothes. He was not given any undergarments.

Once he was clothed, Mr Wilkes surprised him by removing the collar.

'Last time I'll get to hear this canary sing,' he said. 'Ready to go home?'

John couldn't stop his gasp; its sharpness was like a knife in his chest.

'I've struck a deal. I'm getting paid today. That's all I wanted, Tiny. Restoration. We've come to an understanding, see, and as soon as I turn you over, I get what's owed to me. Well? Where's the smile? The thank you? Tiny, I'm sending you home.'

He stared, disbelieving, not daring to hope but unable to stopper the flow of emotion at the mere thought of seeing his Mr Holmes again.

Squeezing John's shoulder in a paternalistic manner, Mr Wilkes leant in close. 'What do we say?'

'Th-thank you, sir.'

Mr Wilkes patted John's swollen cheek in an almost affectionate manner, but the touch was a painful one nonetheless. 'He won't be too pleased by this, I reckon. But give it a few days. It'll fade.' He grinned. 'I told you before. I'm not a bad guy. I just don't like being taken advantage of. Come on. Let's go make the exchange.'

John was numb with shock. That was it then? He'd been held for ransom, and now that it was paid, he could go home? He was so happy he almost cried, but he wouldn't believe it for himself, not until he saw Mr Holmes with his own two eyes, not until he felt himself safe in Mr Holmes' arms.

He followed Mr Wilkes out of the flat. 'I'm selling this place, too,' said Mr Wilkes as he locked the door behind them. John dared a sidelong glance at him, noting the cotton wool ball stuffed into his right ear. His upper lip sported a bump and slight discoloration. 'Should bring in over half a million quid, I'm told. Better than what I paid for it. Terrific location. You just have to be sure prospective buyers don't know about the bloodstain in the ward room. You know I had to replace that floor altogether? Damn thing wouldn't clean up, not even with bleach. Fucking nightmare, that was.'

They entered the lift, and Mr Wilkes selected -1. John knew it was for the car park below the building, though he'd never been down there before but once, when Mr Wilkes had first brought him to the flat.

Mr Wilkes made a show of checking his new watch for the time. 'He should already be waiting for us, I reckon. Stand straight, Tiny, and try for a smile.'

The doors dinged open, and John felt a rush of cold air swirl inside the lift. He hunched his shoulders against the chill, the fabric flapping against his stomach and legs, but Mr Wilkes took him by the elbow and steered him forward into the underground car park. It was well lit though not well occupied, but for about a dozen cars parked between their lines. And one more, a shiny black town car, in the centre facing them, its headlights shining brightly and pointed directly in their direction.

John's heart skipped a beat. That was Mr Holmes's car, he recognised it. Not his Mr Holmes'; his brother's, Mycroft Holmes. He'd ridden in it himself, when Mr Holmes the Elder had picked him up off the street some weeks back.

The door opened, and two figures stepped out of either side. But the lights were so bright in his eyes that John couldn't quite make them out. Mr Wilkes walked him closer, and the two men, both tall and thin, came to meet them.

But something was off. He didn't realise it until that moment, but he knew his Mr Holmes' silhouette—the squareness of his shoulders, the litheness of his gait, the crown of curls around his head. These men . . . these were not his family. His heart began to sink, his blood pressure to rise, and as his tension grew, so did the grip around his elbow.

'Don't move,' Mr Wilkes rumbled under his breath.

At last, like a knife cutting through the high beams, Lord Magnussen strode into view.

A shudder of terror chased through John's whole body like an electric shock that continued to reverberate. 'No,' he whispered. As he began to fully understand what was happening, the panic took its stranglehold. 'No! No, please, sir, please!' He turned to Mr Wilkes. 'I'll do anything, I swear! Please don't sell me to him. Not him. Please, Mr Wilkes! Please—!'

Mr Wilkes seized the back of his neck with fingers as strong as the jaws of a wolf and shook him roughly. 'Shut up!' he hissed. 'Shut it!'

'Trouble, Sebastian?' asked Lord Magnussen.

'Not in the least,' replied Mr Wilkes. His fingernails sank so deeply into his skin, John knew he had drawn blood. 'I'll shut him up.'

'Oh, I don't mind them feisty. That's a side of this one I've not yet seen.'

John tried to retreat, his feet pushing him backward, but Mr Wilkes held him in place as Lord Magnussen slowly approached. He wore a well-tailored grey suit, a blue shirt and black tie, and shiny black shoes. His spectacles were rimmed with thin silver and rested lightly on his nose. He was not a man who smiled; he never smiled. But looking down at John now, he smiled. John froze, his brain short-wiring. He had learnt about this in a book. When threatened, animals had one of three responses: flight, fight, or freeze. To his horror, he froze.

'Let me take a good look at him.'

To keep him in place, Mr Wilkes gripped one arm, and the second man the other, holding him taut while Lord Magnussen walked around him and performed his inspection.

'He's changed a bit, hasn't he? Grown wiry. More flesh, but also . . . muscle.' He paused behind John, who felt him over his shoulder like a storm cloud about to break. Suddenly, hand covered his right buttock and squeezed. 'Firm, yet plush.'

John twisted. 'Don't touch me.'

'Ohh,' Lord Magnussen breathed with a chuckle, keeping his hand where it was and closing in behind, his head coming around over John's shoulder. 'I'll touch what's mine.' He snaked his hand around his thin trousers and gripped John in front. 'Mine.'

'I'm not!' John gasped. But slashing through his mind were visions of this man disrobing by the fireplace, of a steady advance, of a large figure looming over his naked and vulnerable body. Hands everywhere—covering his mouth, closing around his throat, digging between his legs, twisting him, wrenching his limbs, flipping him over, slapping his skin until his puffed red. It would last all night, he knew. And another night, and another. He felt small and powerless, tiny in a world of monsters.

'Mr Wilkes, please,' Tiny begged. 'Not him, anyone but him. Please! Mr Holmes will pay, I know he will. Please!'

'Tell you what,' said Lord Magnussen, circling back around and bending at the waist to bring his nose only inches from Tiny's. 'You want a different host? You want to go back to this, what is his name, Mr Holmes, is it?'

Tiny nodded tremulously and mouthed a pathetic please.

'I'll make you a deal. You and I, we're going to play an old game. I'm going to flick your face. And if you can keep still, little man, and not flinch, not even blink . . . then I promise, hand to God'—he lifted his right arm in solemn vow—'I will send you back to him.'

A hot tear slid down his cheek. As if he were nothing more than a puppet, as if someone else were controlling the movement of his head, he nodded. There was no choice but to concede. That was the only choice he had ever had.

Lord Magnussen raised his hand to Tiny's face, his middle finger poised to flick.

Be still. Be still. Be still!

'Here it comes,' said Lord Magnussen. 'Your one chance. Don't fuck up.'

Be still! Be still! Be—!

He flicked his finger. A sharp pain struck Tiny in the eye. He flinched.

The men around him threw back their heads and laughed.

'That settles it then!' declared Lord Magnussen. He pulled out his phone. 'Colonel, get the paperwork for Mr Wilkes, here. Let's make this official.'

The second man dropped his arm and returned to the car. Meanwhile, Lord Magnussen accessed his accounts on his phone. 'Quarter of a million quid, as agreed, and I dispose of our mutual . . . problem.'

'My sincerest thanks,' said Mr Wilkes.

'On paper, you understand, it will register as £2,500. Anything more than that would raise an eyebrow. So just between friends, let's call the remainder compensation for your troubles. Finder's fees, storage fees, that sort of thing. Move the money into an offshore account, and no one will go looking.'

The man he had called 'Colonel' returned with a leather notebook, which he opened to a page before handing Lord Magnussen a pen. With a flourish, he signed, and passed the pen to Mr Wilkes, who did the same.

'It's done!'

He turned back to Tiny and stroked him beneath the chin with a cold, damp finger, long and slow. 'Colonel, put our new pet in the car. Time to take him home. Mr Wilkes, pleasure doing business with you.'

They shook hands, and without so much as a backward glance, Mr Wilkes left. The Colonel grabbed the back of Tiny's white shirt and marched him forward toward the black car that would carry him away from one cruel master to another.

Do not despair. Mr Holmes will come.

No. He'd been left behind, discarded. He was a ward, nothing more. Wards were easily got rid of, replaced, forgotten. Used, abused, beaten, turned into nothing. He was nothing, nothing.

You are family. You are loved. Mr Holmes told you so himself. He loves you. He loves you. You are loved.

He shook his head, tears welling, the black car looming like a hearse. Unwanted. Unnoticed, unconsidered, unloved. Tiny knew it, as sure as he knew anything. He was unloved.

No! Your name is John! Remember it. You are John!