Chapter 26: Grey Clouds over London

DAYS ONWARD

When night passed, the dawn was imperceptible, hidden behind the grey gauze of Scotch mist and London fog. Alone in the morgue, Molly Hooper checked her watch and made some final notes on her clipboard regarding the draped body on the table. Finished, she checked her watch and noted the hour, her eyes flitting once again to the double doors.

She was used to being alone down here, just as she was used to handling corpses and running labs on her own. Years and years of working as a mortuary attendant had conditioned her to numbness at seeing disfigured faces, innards ravaged by disease, and skin broken by animal bites, human fists, and weapons of every sort. It didn't bother her, as a matter of course; that is, it didn't debilitate her. Not anymore. After those first couple of emotionally stressful years, she had become rather good at detaching herself from the horror of death without sacrificing her innate compassion.

Today, however, with what this particular body represented, she hated her job, every part. The lingering smell of formaldehyde, the 13-degree room temperature on her skin, the starkness of the walls and the glaring of the bright fluorescent bulbs. But especially, she hated being the only thing living among so many dead.

Then the door opened, and Greg Lestrade came into the room.

He had been out in the drizzle, and his gray hair was darkened with water, resting flat against his head. The sleeves of his coat were dampened and the front lightly spotted with raindrops. His slumped shoulders gave him the look of a man bearing a heavy burden, and his eyes were greyed with fatigue. But when he saw her, he smiled, and his entire countenance brightened in defiance of everything that tried to drag him down.

'Morning,' he said, sniffing from the wet and cold.

'Morning,' she returned, shyly tucking a loose strand of hair behind one ear. 'Still raining, is it?'

'Not letting up anytime soon,' he said. 'Forecast is all storms.'

He crossed the room and came to a stop on the opposite side of the table bearing the dead body. How many times had they stood like this, on either side, a corpse between them? It was familiar, but their respective positioning felt different today, as though something had . . . shifted. Looking at her from the abbreviated distance, he opened his mouth to say something, but he seemed to think better of it. His eyes dropped to the slab.

'Positive identification?' he asked.

She swallowed and turned to her clipboard. 'His name was Hugh Freemont,' she read. 'We put time of death around midnight Wednesday night, but we can't be too precise. The body spent several hours in the Thames, which was at near-freezing temperatures, before washing ashore. Bloating and low temperatures slow down decomposition, making it more difficult to pinpoint time of death.'

Lestrade was nodding and consulting his notes. 'Wednesday night fits my timeline. Mary's body was recovered earlier that day, and then the photos were sent. By then, Burch and Moore had already begun to fret over their involvement with John's disappearance, and those two events together made them realise the gravity of it all. They panicked.'

'So why kill Mr Freemont?'

'To end the Yard's search altogether. If we had a body positively identified as John Watson, we wouldn't need to look any further, and the real John would never be found. I'm guessing Mr Freemont is a physical near-match?'

Molly read from the clipboard. 'Height, 170.26 centimetres; weight, 65.8 kilograms; age, 39; hair colour, dark blond; eye colour, blue. All measurements are comparable with John's, down to his general physique.'

'Poor bugger,' said Lestrade. 'Murdered because of unfortunate similarities. If you were able to identify him, he must be in the system. Fingerprints?'

'The skin of his fingertips had been scorched or sliced off,' she said. 'And his mouth had been bashed in to destroy his teeth. But we matched his DNA. It's on file.'

'What for?'

'Sgt Donovan said he'd served two years for illegal narcotics possession and was released eight months ago. Since then, he'd been living on the streets.'

'Moore used to work narcotics.' Lestrade snorted and shook his head in derision. 'Probably put the guy away, knew he'd been released, and had him in mind the whole time. And who would know if some homeless man went missing? So just kill the lonely sod, name him John Watson, and create a false resolution to a kidnapping crime while simultaneously covering up the greater conspiracy.' He huffed and said with a sardonic bite, 'Clever.'

'Not so clever,' said Molly. 'The ruse couldn't last, even if the DNA results had been falsified positive for John.'

'Oh?' He looked at her, intrigued.

She reached for the blanket draped over the body, but her fingers paused on the edge of the cloth. 'Shall I show you?'

'Please.'

She lifted the cloth and folded it down at the cadaver's waist. 'Mr Freemont's killers went to great lengths to recreate a body as damaged as the one they had seen in the photographs, but it's hard to inflict exactly the same injuries. The bruising patterns don't match, either in placement or size.' She pointed with latex-gloved fingers to bruising around the neck. 'John was strangled with a leather belt, but this was done with a rope. You can see where the fibres have scratched the skin. We've determined this to be the most likely cause of death: asphyxiation by strangulation. In fact, this is probably one of the first things they did to him.'

'Why do you say that?'

'Because of all the lacerations. The replicated marks on his back, the puncture wounds in his neck, the cuts at the wrist—they were all made post-mortem. Additionally, the cuts on the wrist were made with a knife, not wire, and not a very sharp knife, either. And there are clear signs of hesitation in the cuts on his back, unlike what the photographs revealed. Furthermore, they were all made at once, not over the course of days. As a replication of a crime, it was sloppy work. Any medical examiner worth his salt would have spotted the differences between this body and the photographs of John alive.'

Lestrade couldn't help but smile at her admiringly over the dead body of the sorry victim. 'You're a right Sherlock Holmes, Ms Hooper.'

She blushed at the exaggeration. It was far from true, it was all in the training, but she liked the warmth in his voice as he praised her. There was no higher compliment, after all, and Molly wasn't used to those.

'Speaking of,' continued Lestrade, 'I don't suppose he's been down here? Does he know about . . . this?' He indicated the body with a nod.

She shook her head. 'He won't leave the third floor,' she replied. 'Not unless Mrs Hudson drags him away. He can't seem to resist her, like he does everyone else.'

'Then he's been back to see . . . ?'

But Molly was shaking her head even before he finished the question. 'No. John, he—he hasn't asked for him.'

'Ah.' Lestrade looked down at his feet where his coat was dripping water.

'To be fair, though,' continued Molly, 'he's heavily drugged and not often conscious, so . . .'

'Right. Of course. He needs the rest. Every minute he can get. And let's face it. Sherlock has never been one to inspire tranquillity.' He smiled tightly. 'I need to go find him. I've been putting it off, but he and I need to talk.'

'I'll send this report on to your office, shall I?'

'Yes, thank you.'

It was the moment in the conversation when he should have been taking steps toward the door, trailing an informal farewell with glances over his shoulder and a customary lift of the hand. But he didn't even rock back on his heels, his hands remained in his pockets, and his eyes didn't break away from hers. He was no longer smiling.

She felt the colour rise in her cheeks. But she said nothing. She had been wrong before.

'Listen, Molly,' he said. 'I don't know how to say this delicately, so I'll just come straight to it.' She felt her stomach turn a cartwheel and she stood a little straighter. Then he finished: 'I think you should move.'

'What?' she asked, startled.

'That little flat of yours, tucked away down that dark little street. I don't like it. I know the sorts of things that go on in dark little streets like that, and I don't like the thought of you being . . . being there on your own.'

'I've been there for six years,' she said. 'It's not much, but the price is right. Finding affordable flats in nicer parts of the city, well, it's not so easy—'

'That's why I've brought you this.' He withdrew from his pocket a slip of paper, on which he had written a name, phone number, and address. 'I know a guy. Owes me a favour. It's a quiet little place in Central London, halfway between Barts and Baker Street, right near the Circle and District Lines. Won't cost you even a pound over what you're spending now.' He passed her the slip. 'Let me take you by there sometime today. You can get a sense of it.'

She noted the address. 'Not too far from the Yard,' she commented.

'I could wrangle together some of the boys and have you moved in by the weekend.'

'Greg,' she said, almost at a loss for words, 'what's this about?'

At last, he slowly stepped around the body of Hugh Freemont and closed the distance between them. When he spoke next, his voice was low and tense. 'John wasn't keeping Sherlock's secret all those months. You were.'

Her eyes widened as she looked up at him. 'No one knows that,' she said in a near-whisper.

'Some of us do. I don't mean to frighten you, Molly, but the reality is, if they had known it, it might be you in that hospital bed. Maybe the danger is passed, maybe not, but I'm not taking any risks with the people Sherlock cares about, so the first step is moving you somewhere safer, well lit, and where I can get to you at a moment's notice.'

She exhaled slowly, looking at the slip pinched between her fingers.

'Then, we proof your new home against possible intruders. Double bolts on the doors, the windows, an alert system, all that. And no cabbies to and from work. Ride the Tube during the day, and if you need to get somewhere past peak hours, you just give me a call, and I'll be there in seconds flat. And if I can't, I'll send someone you know. If you hear something, or see something, even if you just feel that something isn't quite right—'

'Greg—' she protested.

'—I'm there. Day or night, or that golden line in between.'

'You'll turn me paranoid, jumping at my own shadows,' she said, trying to insert a laugh, and failing.

'Just until we get to the bottom of this. And I promise you, Molly, we will. I won't let anything happen to you.'

She grinned her thin-lipped grin and looked up at him again. 'And after all that? When it's all over, and I'm alone in my new flat, and something goes bump in the night?'

'I'm there.' The corner of his lip twitched. 'I mean, I'll be there. That is, when you call, whenever you call . . .'

'You may grow weary of me,' she quipped.

'I doubt it.'

When had he drawn so close? Molly was sure neither of them had moved since his coming around the table, but now they were almost toe to toe, and she had to tilt her head back to see him properly. And then, an insane urge to flatten his lapels and brush the droplets from his fringe.

'Then I'll call,' she said quietly, as there was no need to speak at normal volumes, not when they could hear one another's inhalations, exhalations. 'Thank you.'

He seemed just to realise their proximity, and the colour in his face darkened to match hers. Embarrassed, he took a step back. 'I should—' He laughed awkwardly, rubbing a hand on the back of his neck. 'I should go find Sherlock. Molly. All you've done, for Sherlock and for John, it's been . . . Without you, none of us would have ever . . . You're an amazing woman, Molly Hooper.'

His warm words left her nonplussed—her mouth fell open, but nothing came out.

He smiled and put his hand on the door.

'We should do coffee!' she burst. He started and turned back to her. 'I mean . . . Sorry, what I meant to say is . . .'

'Drinks,' he said. 'Tonight. First, your new flat, and then . . . Drinks?'

She nodded rapidly.

His smile was so large it crinkled his eyes. 'All right then. We'll start with that.'

Lestrade found Sherlock slowly pacing the third floor hallway with an eye to 319. He chided his fluttering heart and returned to that more familiar mode: that of detective inspector.

'That's enough, Sherlock,' he said. 'Follow me.'

To his surprise, Sherlock didn't protest but cast one more glance at the security officer before following Lestrade down the hallway and into a lift where Lestrade punched a button for the ground floor. When the lift doors closed, he asked, 'Anything new?'

'You saw him last,' said Sherlock tonelessly.

That was true, and that had been yesterday, John's fourth day in hospital. The visit had been brief and tense. All the incomprehensible energy that John had exuded to force himself from the bed and down the hallway on his own had drained him once again, and he could scarcely lift his head anymore. Lestrade himself didn't know how to start. He couldn't very well ask John how he was feeling or tell him how good it was to see him or offer to get him anything. He couldn't really tell, either, how John felt about his being there. John's eyes followed him, but they were empty of sentiment and otherwise unreadable. Maybe it was the glazed look brought on by the drugs. Maybe it was the look of the haunted. Whatever the expression, it did not invite pity or well wishes, so Lestrade got straight to the point.

'We found you in a condemned convent in the East End,' he said. John didn't so much as blink. 'Two of your abductors are dead, but we're still looking for the others. All I need from you right now, John, is to confirm the identity of those two men who fled. I'm going to show you two photographs. You just have to say yes or no. Can you do that?'

John nodded once.

Lestrade brought out the two photographs. The first was a military photo of Colonel Sebastian Moran, which Mycroft Holmes had provided. It was a few years old, but their more current shots had been taken from security cameras scattered around the globe, capturing poor-quality and badly angled stills of the rogue soldier. The older photo would serve for his purposes.

The second was of a man named Darren Hirsch, former corporal in the Royal Marines. After his dishonourable discharge, Hirsch had disappeared from any records, though rumour was he had returned to his native London. Keeping with the familiar profile of ex-military and dispossessed males, Lestrade and his team had narrowed possible suspects to three different Darrens; then Lestrade matched one of them by body type to the man he had seen in the video. Mycroft confirmed that Hirsch was on the same watch list as the others. Still, he couldn't be certain of the man, not without John's positive identification.

He showed the photograph of Moran first. 'Do you recognise this man?' he asked gently. 'Was he one of your abductors?'

John stared a long moment at the photograph held up to his face; then he closed his eyes and nodded.

'Sebastian Moran,' said Lestrade. 'Forty-two, ex-military, expatriate—' He didn't know why he was saying these things, so he stopped. John didn't need to know the man's biography. He pulled out the second photograph and held it up, watching John's face expectantly.

Again, John stared, but now his eyes smouldered. After a moment, he looked away.

The reaction seemed to be confirmation enough, but Lestrade had to ask. 'Was this one of the men who held you?'

John breathed. He parted his lips. 'Daz,' he said.

'Yes,' said Lestrade, putting the photograph away so John wouldn't have to see it anymore. 'His full name is Darren Phillip Hirsch. He's been wanted for some time.' Again, he stopped himself from saying more. Surely, John didn't want to hear it. And he wouldn't ask any more questions. Soon, but not today. He would let John rest. 'We'll get them, John,' he said, though he had never felt words were more hollow. He started for the door when he heard John speak again.

'Where is she?'

He turned back. 'Who?'

'Mary.'

For a heart-stopping moment, Lestrade feared that John didn't remember, that the painkillers were confusing his mind or the trauma had affected his memory. But a second later, John proved that he was suffering no delusion.

'You found her,' he said, a supposition and a question all at once. 'Her body.'

'Yes.' He prayed John wouldn't ask where. 'We found her, John.'

'Can I see her?'

Lestrade exhaled slowly. 'Mary's body was released to her sister this morning. She's taking her back to Calgary.' I'm sorry, John, I'm so sorry, Lestrade wanted to say, but he couldn't. Mary had been taken away from him again, across an ocean, to be buried in foreign soil. How could words make that right? From what the nurses had told him, Samantha Hillock had been by to see John, but he had been unconscious. She didn't stay long and kept apologising to anyone who would listen: I just want to leave. I have to put my sister in the ground.

John's fingers curled into the hospital blanket, and he turned his head to the faraway window. Lestrade stood frozen, feeling it would be insensitive to leave, feeling it was unkind to stay. At last, he willed his feet to turn him once again to the door.

'Is he still here?'

Lestrade didn't have to ask for clarification this time. 'Yes,' he said. 'Do you— Shall I go get him?'

Another long silence passed.

'No.'

Now he stood in a quiet lift with Sherlock. When he was finished with him, maybe he would try to convince him to leave Barts and go back to his place for a shower and a shave, and maybe a proper sleep. He looked worse for wear, with bloodshot eyes, unkempt hair, and wearing the same shirt for the third day in a row, not at all his usual put-together self. He was a man without a plan, waiting for the world to begin turning again but with no real hope that it would.

'Through here,' said Lestrade. He had led him to the other end of the hospital and into an small, unused conference room and indicated that they should both sit. When Sherlock had settled, Lestrade pulled out a digital voice recorder and laid it on the table. But he didn't turn it on.

'John positively ID'd Moran and Hirsch,' he said. 'I'll get his full testimony later, but in the meantime, we're not sitting on our hands. So Sherlock. I need to know.'

Sherlock waited for the question.

'Why did you leave John at the foot of the stair?'

'I have already told you, inspector.'

From Sherlock, those words would normally have been tinged with annoyance, but this time they lacked any venom.

'I knew you were just above me. You were sure to find him.'

'Sherlock, you left him unconscious and bleeding out. And it's not like you needed to hide from me.' He looked at him gravely. 'You were still protecting him, weren't you? What was the danger? Or rather, who was it? Moran or Hirsch?'

It appeared as though Sherlock wasn't going to answer. But then he seemed to realise that Lestrade wouldn't let this one go. 'I never saw Hirsch. It was Moran. He had his gun on us both. On me and John. I knew that if I could draw him away, John might stand a chance.'

Lestrade nodded stiffly. 'How did you do it?'

'I goaded him. Stoked his anger and directed it toward myself, where it belonged. And I ran. If he had shot me dead, there, in the corridor, John would follow. Or you. So I made him pursue me. I drew him away long enough for you to reach him, for the police to arrive, and an ambulance.'

'What happened with Moran?' Lestrade pressed. Any other man who didn't want to answer would look away; not Sherlock Holmes. His eyes bored into Lestrade's as if to say do not ask this; back away. But Lestrade did not back down. 'I need to know, Sherlock, whether I'm chasing after a dead man.'

Sherlock's eyes jumped to the recorder and its dark bulb, surely wondering why Lestrade hadn't hit the record button. 'No. He's alive. God help me.'

'Tell me.'

The gun exploded, and the rock in the wall flew like shrapnel, but Sherlock was already running. A cry of rage, the pounding of feet. Three seconds. He had three seconds to make it to the nearest stairwell before Moran rounded the corner, took aim, and fired again. Two things he had on his side: Moran was injured and losing blood, which would slow him, and Sherlock wasn't entirely unarmed—he had the knife. A blade against a bullet was like cat against a lion. But he also had a brain.

Sherlock rounded into the stairwell, taking the steps two and three at a time, until he emerged into a long corridor and into moonlight. A dark form lay at a distance, unmoving. Dead, most likely. Sherlock hesitated, but only for a fraction of a second. Continue up? Or try to run outside? He didn't know the layout of the upper floors, and Moran likely did, but surely there were more places to hide, more ways to evade the pursuer. But that wasn't really the point. The point was to draw him away from John, and remaining in the convent felt too near. He would race to the grounds, even though he knew they were flooded with moonlight, even though the gates were chained and the wall was not easily surmountable. He broke right and ran, listening to the echo of Moran's footsteps racing up the stairs.

But when he achieved the grounds, he saw the long stretch of dead lawn and knew he would never make it to the wall. Moran was, after all, a marksman, and a black figure against the moon-white grounds was as good a target as any, no matter how fast he ran. So he threw himself against the side of the building beside the exit, repositioned the knife in his right hand, and waited.

Three . . . two . . . one!

Moran burst from the open door, and Sherlock sprang at his back. His knife missed its target, that slot between the ribs, and struck Moran lower; he felt the tip of the knife glance off the hipbone.

Next he knew, Sherlock was on the ground. At the insertion of the knife, Moran had hollered in pain and fury, and before Sherlock could throw an arm around his neck and wrestle him to the ground, something solid collided with the side of his head, against his already bleeding gash. Now, Moran stood above him, panting hard, and pulled the knife slowly from his hip. Sherlock scrambled backward like a crab even as Moran tossed the knife away. He flipped himself over, to knees, to feet, and began to run again, futilely fleeing the maniac with the gun.

But Moran wasn't shooting. A bullet in the back was too good for Sherlock Holmes. He chased him, and when he had closed the distance, he drove him once again to the ground. Sherlock felt the punches land and his bones judder. His mouth filled with dirt and mixed with blood. Then, the jolt—fifty thousand volts from the taser. His muscles contracted erratically. Slowly, the spasms passed, but as he gained control over his body again and tried to roll, he felt the taser ram against his ribs and shock him again. His jaw snapped hard into his tongue and drew blood. At last, he was kicked onto his back, straddled, and something cold and metal was inserted into his mouth.

'Here, at last,' said Moran above him, trembling with delight as his finger curled around the trigger. 'I owe you. Dead man.'

'Enough, Seb.'

Everything froze. Sherlock, unable to turn his head to the sound of the voice because of the gun anchored between his teeth, stared at the sheen of blood pouring from the gash across Moran's nose and cheeks. It dripped off his chin and splashed against Sherlock's brow. Moran's finger rested against the trigger of the gun, his whole body was rigid, but he didn't fire.

The voice spoke again. 'That'll do, Seb, now get off him.'

Instead, Moran's free hand—the one not fisted around the handle of a gun—found purchase around Sherlock's throat. He pressed and squeezed, his eyes wild with murderous rage. 'Dead man,' he spluttered, blood spraying from his lips. 'You're a fucking dead man, Holmes.'

His wind passage felt like it would collapse beneath the pressure, and his lungs began to burn. He wrapped two hands around Moran's arm and tried to dislodge it from around his neck. But the man, despite his injuries, was too strong.

Then, the light click as the slide on a gun was drawn back. A warning.

The pistol withdrew from Sherlock's mouth; the pressure was removed from his throat, and the weight lifted.

'Get him up. On his knees will do.'

'I'm killing him,' said Moran. 'I'm fucking killing him.'

'On his knees. Now.' The voice was serene but uncompromising, and in the next moment it was obeyed. Sherlock was lifted by the front of his shirt and set on his knees. At last, he lifted his head and locked eyes with the woman, she who had lit the match and set it against the fuse.

'Mr Holmes,' she said. 'Welcome home.'

In a black trench-style coat with belted waist, long leather gloves, and hard leather boots to the knee that shone in the moonlight, she looked like she had never left London. Her lips were painted deep red, her eyes framed with darkened lashes. In her hands, she carried a precision small arms 25-caliber semiautomatic, gold-plated, which was levelled at Sherlock; her smile teased; but weapon or no weapon, everything about her threatened destruction.

Behind her, a car was rolling to a stop, headlights dark.

'Seb, dear, get in the car,' she said. 'You look dreadful.'

'Irene—' The edge of Moran's pistol brushed against Sherlock's temple where he waited on his knees for the execution.

She took a step forward. 'No worries, love. The game isn't over. Not tonight. I'm just evening the score.'

But still, he hesitated, unwilling to let her frustrate his purpose and undo all his work with a single command. 'He killed Jim Moriarty. Fucking killed him!'

'Yes. And he should suffer for it. And for other things, beside.'

Moran pressed the Browning into the wound in the side of Sherlock's head, digging the tip into the broken skin.

'Dead men don't suffer, Sebastian. That's not the way to wreck a man. You know that. Now put down the gun.'

Not a muscle in Moran's whole body twitched.

She lifted the gun and changed her aim, now directing it at Moran. 'Give me Sherlock,' she said, 'and I'll leave you John.'

Sherlock flinched so violently the gun kicked back in Moran's hands.

Her lips curled upward at this reaction, and she continued to Moran, 'I know how much you've enjoyed him.'

'Johnny boy,' said Moran with sudden relish. 'Forget it, Irene. Any way you slice it, he's already mine.' His moment of hesitation was over. His finger moved on the trigger.

For the second time in his life, Sherlock heard a gun explode in his ear, and he thought he was dead. But even as the dirt erupted near his knees, he heard Moran scream in fury. The man stumbled backward, arm suddenly slack, the gun dangling from a crooked finger. She had fired the semiautomatic, striking hot lead through Moran's upper arm like a spike.

'Another move like that, Sebastian, and I fire again, and you'll take the next one in the head.'

Moran squeezed his arm, blood seeping between his fingers.

'Now get into the car before you bleed out. And I promise you: Mr Holmes' misery is only just beginning.'

At last, Moran moved. He held the gun loosely at his side, took one step, but in the end he couldn't stand it. With his other hand, he whipped around and backhanded Sherlock across the face with a resounding crack. This time, the woman did nothing to stop him. Then Moran retreated to the car, but he remained outside of it, watching.

Tutting, she took another step closer to Sherlock. His vision clouded as his head swam in anger and hatred, every particle of her a target of loathing.

'There now,' she said, as unfussy as if they had happened into one another in a corner cafe. 'I've found you at last. I suspected Mr Moran would find a way to draw you out of your foxhole. All I wanted, really, was to bring you home. And here you are. Right where I know I can always find you. You won't run again, will you, Mr Holmes?'

He wanted to break her neck. Instead, he said,'Why John?'

Her eyebrows rose. 'Now don't give me that look, Sherlock. You made him a liability, not me.' She ran her gloved fingers into his hair, seized it in her fist, and tilted his head back. 'Oh, the lengths you'll go for him. I didn't realise it was so reciprocal. It's sweet, really. Did you expect to die for him tonight? Again?'

'Get on with it. Kill me and be done.' His eyes shot past her to Moran, whose loose finger twitched on the trigger.

'Sebby was mistaken. He doesn't get that privilege. You're mine, Sherlock Holmes. All mine.'

'So do it.'

She tsked. 'Not tonight. Tonight, I'm returning a favour.'

'What favour?'

'You saved my life, now I'm saving yours. You see it now, don't you? I want us matched in every way. No more debts. No more favours. Now, just passion. A love for the game. And I've never met a better player.'

Sherlock's ears suddenly perked up: in the distance, sirens. Irene Adler heard them, too. She released her grip on his head, and grinned. 'Once again, Sherlock Holmes, it's been a pleasure.'

Moran opened the car door. 'Until our anniversary, my dear,' she said. 'I'm planning you a big surprise.'

Then she disappeared inside.

Moran did not follow immediately. He glared at Sherlock, a face warped by abhorrence and gore, his arm and leg dripping blood. Then, unexpectedly, he smirked. 'We're not done, Holmes.' He looked back to the convent. 'He and I. We're nowhere near done. Tell him, won't you?'

'Then they were gone. I hid in the shadows by the wall as the police cars pulled into the drive,' said Sherlock, 'then I slipped away behind them, through the open gate. I was covered in Moran's blood, and bleeding myself. So I found a homeless man and traded my shoes and coat for a new shirt and the flat cap. Tried to clean myself up. Then I made my way to Barts.'

Lestrade sat back in his chair, stunned, and tried to turn everything over in his head. He had heard the name Irene Adler before, he thought, but in what capacity he couldn't remember. Apparently, she and Sherlock had some sort of history of which he wasn't aware.

'Moran will be badly scarred,' Sherlock continued. 'He'll keep in hiding, for a while, at least, and stay out of the public eye.'

'But he still wants John.'

'He still wants John.'

'Christ, Sherlock, why didn't you tell me all this sooner? We should have people out there looking for a scarred man!'

'Mycroft has,' said Sherlock. 'I told him everything. He's looking for them both.' He shook his head. 'But he won't find them. Ms Adler is well practiced in the art of disappearing.'

'What did she mean by "anniversary"? When do you suppose—?'

'I don't know. It could mean a lot of things. The day we first met, the day I found her in Karachi, maybe even Libya, I don't know. I attached no significance to any date, though, apparently, she did.'

'And this is all just some game to her?'

'Of Moriarty's design. He set the board, and placed her on one side and me on the other. He would have thought it a laugh.'

'My god.'

'Everyone else? Just chess pieces to move around the board. That's how she used Moran. That's how she sees John. Chess pieces.'

Lestrade scrubbed a hand across his eyes. 'So what do we do?'

'I play the game. What else can be done?'

'What does that even mean, "play the game"? This is no game, Sherlock. There are lives at stake.'

'Human lives,' said Sherlock softly. 'I know. That's what I'm playing for.' He tapped a finger on the digital voice recorder. 'Are you going to tell me why you brought this?'

With a sigh, Lestrade picked it up. He had believed, or at least suspected, that Sherlock had killed Moran, that his body was at the bottom of the Thames or stuffed into a crawlspace in the convent. With a twinge of guilt, he acknowledged to himself that, had such been the case, he didn't want the confession on record, and he was prepared to forget that he had ever heard it himself. But there was another matter for the recorder, which is why he had brought it.

'The official record,' he said, 'says that you shot and killed Richard Brook, made it look like a suicide, and then took your own life. Right now, the boys at the Yard are convinced that only one of those things is not true.' He clicked the button, and the bulb glowed red. 'I need your statement,' he said, 'of what really happened that day, on the roof of St Barts.'