Chapter 16

Some can gaze and not be sick,

But I could never learn the trick.

There's this to say for blood and breath.

It gives a man a taste for death.

(AE Housman)

Head down. Eyes closed tight shut. Finger pressed to his temples. To his own temples this time. It didn't feel any better.

He had had fingers pressed to her temples. And to his temples before that. He didn't want to remember either instance although both remained fresh and vivid in his mind. One ending in rejection, one ending in violence. Neither good. He knew that. Neither had been good.

But now, with his fingers pressed to his own temples, he was simply trying to block out the world. Everything he could see and hear. Everything he did not want to see or hear,

It was childish to do this, he knew. Too exposing of his soul. If Mycroft could see him now….he would be mocked as if still a child. As an idiot, as all types of a fool. As an eavesdropper, an interloper, the odd one out, the spare wheel, the voyeur.

He wasn't any of those things, he knew. It was just that,,,,just that….when the conversation had started, the conversation that was really an argument, he had not realised what was happening Not just then. If he had realised, perhaps he could have intervened, have stopped it, kept everything on an even keel. Restrained.

But he had been in his memory palace and deep in his mindscape, intent and internalised. It was only the way the rhythms of their speech faltered then sharpened, the way the tone changed, and the body language he could see in his peripheral vision tightened and suddenly became too taut, too controlled, that alerted him.

So by the time he realised what was happening, it was too late. For he was in the corner of the room furthest from the door and could not pass them to escape. Not without drawing attention to himself. Not without getting involved. And he didn't want to get involved. He never had.

He had been scanning what passed for local CCTV on his laptop, hacking into the local police systems, searching for the man who carried the passport and the identity of a journalist called Eshan Mohindra.

And because of that he had been remiss. The pain and the pressure had begun before he had realised what was happening. John Watson and his wife, together for the first time in months. Back where they belonged, yes? But whatever this was, or what it should be, it was no loving and tearful reunion.

This was a battle without blows. A civilised emotional battle between civilised adults. Not shouting or screaming or scoring points off each other.

This was words widely spaced and quietly spoken, simple words revealing wells of deep hurt and betrayal, of misunderstanding and misery. And by the time he realised that….it was simply too late to remove himself from the room, from their battlefield that was not his.. ..but he had become part of.

So intent they had forgotten he was there. Stilled, in his dark corner. Barely breathing, not moving. And to move, to draw attention to himself now, would be a damaging distraction. Would change the focus of the conversation. And would most probably cast him as the villain of the piece, and what he was. The odd one out. The broken side of the triangle.

So he slowly and quietly brought his hands down from his face, clasped them in front of himself, elbows on knees, tried not to look or listen. Looked with determination at the carpet, to physically separate from the quiet but vehement disagreement, too mentally close to either to intercede, without appearing to take sides.

It was the sort of argument that happened in couples whose long and special history meant the argument - any argument - should never happen. But this one did, had been festering long and slow, borne of limits finally reached. Reached and broached. Voices low, body language controlled, a civilised front but with pain seeping out around the words.

"How could you do it? How could you leave us?"

The words were torn out of John Watson despite himself. He had told Sherlock Holmes he was not going to carp or criticise, that he understood what his wife has done and why she had done it. Understood and admired her courage and commitment, her readiness to sacrifice, her determination to protect.

But suddenly, when seeing his wife again for the first time in months, the impulse was not to sweep her into hugs and loving declarations, but to be assured and grounded beyond a hurt that had gone too deep for stoic silence.

That fear, and loneliness, his sense of emasculation - emotionally and physically crucifying to a doctor, a soldier, a fighter, a saviour - was too much to suppress any longer.

Sherlock Holmes - witness, referee, penitent, or am I meant to be a mix of all three? Is this my punishment too? - looked up very briefly to see John Watson, almost close enough to touch, sitting on the corner of the low table where just moments earlier he had been playing at playing Happy Families with Karim. A lifetime ago, now.

Mary Watson - or was she still scourge and avenger Mary Morstan? Hard to tell, he thought; for her body was tense and fiercely controlled despite the appearance of being relaxed and open, stood very still and watchful in front of her husband. Minus the dark wig, her blonde hair tousled, damp with sweat from wearing the disguise, her face pale with a different sort of tension to the one that had fuelled her progress around the world, she was now concentrated onto more personal specifics here in this impersonal hotel room of shadows and tension.

"I had to do what I thought was right." Voice so quiet both men could barely hear her. Quiet. But not apologetic.

"That's not what bothers me. What bothers me is the way you went off on your own. Just like that, and without a word. Like Joan of bloody Arc. Calamity Jane. Mary Morstan. Or do I mean Ro Adams? Or whoever you really are? Good question, that. Who in hell are you, woman?"

She shook her head slightly, but made no reply. When an answer, any answer, would have been a gesture of love and trust and sharing of self. Would have soothed his fears, proved her love. But that silence spoke of reserve and isolation and independence, an aloof silence that was a turning point none of them registered at that moment.

"AGRA," John Watson said, finally.

"Yes."

"You said it was your initials." A controlled accusation.

"In a way that was true." Her voice was soft, almost pitying, understanding of his hurt. An understanding that made him more angry, not less.

"In a way?" Her husband shook his head, unable to find words suddenly, and looked away. Sherlock Holmes averted his eyes too; his friend looked as if about to give way to bitter tears.

"So many lies," was all he said finally. Sherlock Holmes caught the edge behind the words; accusing her of something. Of what? Of choosing profession over passion? The kick of murder rather than the quietness of marriage? Of being too much - or not enough?

Or was he accusing himself of something too? A breakdown in love? Of wanting to fill the void she had left behind for all those weeks? Of a new and distancing perspective, perhaps? So had he tried to fill that physical and emotional loneliness? And was that from need, or from disillusion?

Had John Watson been flirting with other women, or been flirted with? Had he looked and been tempted? Had he….Sherlock Holmes closed down that line of thought. That suspicion had risen before, but he had closed his mind to that possibility then. He did that again now.

But he could not help but remember…

o0o0o

Remember how John Watson had stood on the doorstep of 221B, Baker Street, and watched the tall young woman walk away with her friendly smile, with the pushchair containing another baby, a different baby, being wheeled away before her.

They had formally shaken hands in the doorway.

"You are the answer to a prayer," John Watson had said And then he had leant forward and kissed her on the cheek.

"Oh! You charmer!" she had said, surprised by the gesture. Her eyes met those of Sherlock Holmes behind John Watson, seeing his frown, his little head shake. "Don't tell your wife you kissed your new child minder the first time you met her!" she added lightly.

"Oh, she wouldn't mind. She's a grown up," John Watson replied.

The loneliness, the sense of floundering he carried with him without her, was there again. In the smile missing in the sound of his words, in the serious expression. In the hands that lingered too long around hers. In the brittle bravery of the conditional praise.

"I'm looking forward to meeting her," Faithful Debebe Hamilton replied. It sounded honest, sincere.

John Watson did not actually say 'me too,' but the ironic words hung in the air between the three of them all the same.

Sherlock Holmes had broken the habit of a lifetime and had invited the young woman upstairs into the flat. Waited while she drew the pushchair into the hallway and lifted out her baby, a bright eyed, dark skinned boy.

Made tea while his friend and Maggie Driscoll's contact bounced babies on their knees and compared notes over English Breakfast and Mrs Hudson's raisin and lemon scones about raising children, sleepless nights, colic and the price of nappies and nutrition.

And Sherlock Holmes - with nothing to contribute to the conversation - sat quietly and observed. Watched John Watson relax and smile the way he used to, cradle Rosie in his arms without effort, and blossom under the skilful attention of Faithful Debebe Hamilton.

She's good, he thought. Friendly, relaxed, attentive, missing nothing. Made it sound merely sociable to explain she was a nurse, taking a career break to bring up her boy, actively thinking about child minding; a little career on the side that would give her days more focus, provide a little pin money and extra interest, give her firstborn companionship.

Yes, a nurse, she explained. With her husband working at the Royal Free Hospital specialising in hepatology: infectious African diseases was a hospital speciality, and they had met working on the major Ebola outbreak some years previously.

She shot a look at Sherlock Holmes as she said this; wondering, he could tell, if the links between her own situation and that of the Watsons were too obvious. That her arrival on the scene looked too contrived. If Maggie Driscoll's complicity was too pointed to be acceptable. But the man who knew all this was not John Watson. If anything John Watson was far from suspicious, seemed intrigued and reassured by the similarities and the reassurance and lifeline they offered.

So when he asked - sounding curious and kind rather than desperate, unaware how he had been manoeuvred - about whether she would consider taking on a sweet baby girl who wore socks with ducklings on, Faithful Debebe Hamilton made a well timed show of polite indecision before nodding and smiling, and saying that yes she would. And wasn't it a reassuring coincidence for Rosie, that her second home, her home from home, would also have a nurse and a doctor within it?

"Are you really sure?" John Watson had asked then; realising the enormity of what he was asking. Not aware the answer had been made even before she had stolen Rosie Watson's sock in the supermarket queue. But she bolstered his confidence and her own innocent credibility by reaching out and stroking Rosie's cheek.

"But of course!" she answered, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. "She's a darling. We only live ten minutes away. And having her whenever necessary rather than being tied to routine just adds spice to life. If there's ever a problem with that I'll let you know. Don't worry."

"We can have…a bit of a crazy life," he admitted, almost as if he was having second thoughts.

And that was when she beamed at him. Said almost gaily: "Don't you worry, John. I'll just get my gun and protect her with my life!"

The laughter in her words and the confident body language were for him alone. Words he read as light hearted reassurance Not as total truth, the way Sherlock Holmes saw it, not as if she had actually meant it. But she had looked at Sherlock Holmes as she said the words. Knowing he would understand she meant every word.

It was only after she had gone and Rosie was settled safely between cushions on the leather sofa with a rusk to gnaw on that John Watson looked at his daughter reflectively and said:

"It feels like cheating. Getting someone else to look after Rosie sometimes."

"No. It feels like someone learning the art of delegation. And recognising not even Superman could look after a baby all alone 24/7. And still have time to save the world, of course."

"Sometimes your logic is actually helpful and even reassuring. Did you know that?"

Sherlock Holmes did not say any number of things he might have sneered out in the past in reply to such open sentiment - terse mocking words decrying trust and commitment - but instead risked a small smile that his friend caught and lobbed back to him.

"Don't tell anyone. That would ruin my reputation."

"God forbid!"

And for a moment the old camaraderie was back. Not to be analysed or questioned. Just remembered and relished, he thought. Even down to the twist in the space where the heart should be.

o0o0o

"I'm so sorry."

It was the low, earnest tone of her words that brought him out of his reverie. Lifting his head slightly. Whatever private conversation had gone on between them without him, he was listening again now.

"So many lies," her husband repeated, almost absently. Then seemed to realise what he had said. "I don't just mean you," he clarified, eyes slip sliding away, but voice brisk again.

"What?" she fumbled, not following his train of thought, not understanding his meaning. But he was not going to continue with that line of thought.

"AGRA. So that's Alex, Gabriel, Ajay - and you. You are 'R.'"

She nodded - hardly an admission, nor even a confirmation - as he looked up to meet her eyes properly for the first time.

"Rosamund," he said with sudden startled certainty as a large piece of the jigsaw before him fell into place.

"Rosamund Mary," she corrected mildly. "I always liked Mary."

"Yeah. Me too." For a second they seemed in accord again, husband and wife. But John Watson's smile dropped quickly, and he looked away from the searching look his wife levelled at him; half smiling in apology, yet unblinking,

"Yeah. Me too," he repeated with slow deliberation, standing and walking softly away a pace, breaking eye contact. "I used to," he added; sadly and without heat.

And it was the quietness and finality of that rejection that broke her heart and her reserve.

"I ju…." she began. Failed, started again. "I didn't know what else to do."

"You could have stayed. You could have talked to me, That's what couples are supposed to do. Work thing through." The anger and sense of betrayal threatened to break through god manners and natural reserve.

"Yes of course," His withdrawal hurt her. She agreed with him.. At that moment she would agree to anything if it would bring him back to her side. Shrugged, and nodded. Compliant, An untypical meekness which irked him afresh.

"Mary, I may not be a very good man but I think I'm a bit better than you give me credit for. Most of the time."

"All of the time." She was eager to speak truth, have him listen to her heart. "You're always a good man, John. I've never doubted that. You never judge, you never complain. I don't deserve you. I…." her voice faded away as she felt she had said to much, been to honest, too effusive. Was on the verge of tears, now. "Please try and understand. All I ever wanted to do was keep you and Rosie safe. That's all…."

Despite all his regret he reached out and put one hand resolutely over hers clasped tight together.

"I will keep you safe."

Into their silence came five firm and honest words. But John Watson did not say them. That was Sherlock Holmes, unable to stop himself.

John Watson had missed his chance to reassure. He removed the hand enclosing hers. Withdrew physically and mentally. Sherlock Holmes did not see this, he deduced it with sad regret. And, still without looking up at them, added with supreme logic: "But it has to be in London. It's my city. I know the turf."

Mary Morstan looked over at him briefly, but then Mary Watson returned her gaze towards her husband. Who again looked away as if he could not bear the sight of her. Yet did so with too much slow calm, devoid of emotion.

"Come home and everything will be all right, I promise you." Sherlock Holmes spoke, making another vow of care. Needing to. Having to. Intent on rescue…

Before more speech, or even breath, the unmistakeable telltale red dot of a laser gunsight appeared without warning on the wall behind the Watsons. From where they stood only Sherlock Holmes could see it, and his reaction was instantaneous.

"Get down!" he cried, the urgency of his tone and the speed of his physical reaction galvanising both Watsons into action before the words themselves even registered.

Mary instantly reached for her husband, grasped his shoulder in a fierce grip and hauled him roughly to the ground as Sherlock Holmes grabbed the edge of the low table between them and flipped it over.

It would not stop a bullet, but would still be a blind and a barrier, perhaps a deterrent.

John Watson half rose to his hands and knees as Mary Morstan lunged across the room, thrust her hand into her shoulder bag and produced the handgun she had been carrying when she had first entered the Hotel Cecil.

Several shots shattered their way through the latticed door between room and hallway and echoed around the room as Ajay burst in, rifle raised and ready to fire. Dressed in fatigues, backpack on shoulder, eyes hot and intent.

The woman with the gun fired off three rapid shots - professional; what should have been two body mass stoppers and a final headshot - without hesitation as Ajay, with remarkable reactive speed, ducked back round the corner.

Mary Morstan had dropped into a crouch, facing where Ajay would and should be, pressed tightly into the wall. Taking cover behind, and half hidden by, an antique Ottoman bureau.

Sherlock Holmes was half kneeling between the other side of the bureau and a cupboard, John Watson crouched down with unseeing eyes behind the flipped table.

"Hello again," said the voice from the hallway. Confident now, the man with the gun and the upper hand.

"Ajay?" she ventured into the sudden, ringing silence.

Oh, you remember me. I'm touched." The irony was too obvious, if understandable.

"Look. I thought you were dead," she said. No excuse in her tone, merely a statement of fact.." Believe me I did."

"I've been looking forward to this for longer than you can imagine," he stated, as if she had not spoken.

"I swear to you I thought you were dead," she repeated.. "I thought I was the only one who got out."

Keep him talking, classic methodology. Let him calm himself, let his blood cool. Thinking time, assessment…..Sherlock Holmes waited and listened.

Ajay must have realised the same thing at the same time, because he moved out from his cover, fired a warning single shot of intent at the table which John Watson was braced against. His only possible target, for Sherlock Holmes and Mary Morstan were obscured from his line of sight.

In a better position, with a clear line of sight, Sherlock Holmes silently reached low across the front of the bureau, put out his hand for the handgun which she passed to him without hesitation.

"How did you find us?" The consulting detective asked, settling the gun comfortably in his grip. Distracting the concentration and the murderous intent from her and onto himself.

"By following you, Sherlock Holmes." The words were tinged with self satisfaction, a promise of victory. "I mean, you're clever- you found her - but I found you. So perhaps not so clever. And now here we are, at last."

He looked dangerous in dark fatigues, older and stronger, body taut and intent, eyes glittering black pits. He dropped the pack off his shoulder with a shrug, and there was a dull clatter of metal as the bag hit the floor; unmistakably another firearm of some sort, back up firepower.

Admitting the other man's advantage, Sherlock Holmes looked around him, assessed the danger, lifted the gun and shots out the light. The only concealment he could offer. In the sudden disorientating darkness, Ajay Moopanar chuckled without humour and said: "Touche."

For he had done the very same thing back in England, in a darkened pool.

"Listen." John Watson spoke the voice of reason.: "Whatever you think you know, we can talk about this. We can work it out."

"She thought I was dead," was the firm reply. "I might as well have been." He paused. Then began to talk. "It was just the four of us. Always. Remember?

"Oh, yeah." Agreement, a slight pause, and then the big question: "So why do you want to kill me?"

His answer came indirectly. With years of suffering behind it.

"Do you know how long they kept me prisoner? What they did to me? They tortured me. They tortured Alex to death. I can still hear the sound of his back breaking. But you. You. Where were you?"

"Not with you." The words started firm. But she sucked in a breath then. Could not keep hold of any air of indifference, "That day at the embassy: I escaped."

"Oh yeah."

"I looked for you, for you all. But I lost sight of you, too. So you explain. Where were you?"

"Oh, I got out of the embassy. Just for a while. Long enough to hide my memory stick. I didn't want that to fall into their hands. I was loyal, you see. Loyal to my friends."

"Of course you were!" Her words were vehement, themselves showing loyalty over the years, to the memory of the boy she had known. "What happened? How did they get you? And who were 'they'?"

"They? I dunno. Georgian revolutionaries with Russian supporters, I suppose. Some underground guerilla group. Terrorists, even. Mad. Obsessed. Possessed. Needing power of some sort, if only over prisoners as they played their mental games lurching towards what they thought would be power.

"Under gunfire I got out of the embassy and thought I would be free then, but those maniacs followed me and hunted me down. They wanted a trophy, any trophy. And I would do. I got cornered in a pottery workshop nearby, of all places. I had lost my gun. Outnumbered. And all of them bigger than me. I shouldn't have been any use to them…."

His voice trailed away into memory, but the others did not interrupt him. His retreat into memory gave them time and space and perhaps a little room for manoeuvre.

"But they took me anyway. I came round in some dark underground den. Dank and dirty and so cold. I knew in that instant I was lost. Then they tortured me. Again and again. Not for information. Not any more. Not for anything except fun."

There was a small noise that might have been a sob. A hesitation.

"Do you know what it is like when your worst nightmare endures through daylight and wakefulness? Do you?"

Into a silence that lasted a beat too long Sherlock Holmes breathed a harsh: "Yes. Now get on with your story."

And he did. Without rancour.

"Being sat into a torture chair and tied down. A man with tattoos and a rough country voice, screeching and growling the same questions. Armed with a hammer and pliers A burly man with a sophisticated deep baritone who wielded golden scissors and had a face full of gold teeth that reflected any light in the room. Endless pain, endless questions….questions I had no answers to. But they didn't believe me. They thought I was just being brave and unbreakable. What a joke." He put his head back and laughed. It was not a good sound. "Endless days and nights of solitary boredom and fear, coldness and concrete. On and on.

"And Alex had it worse than me Alex had to be broken. Because, I suppose, he was older, and cleverer and more of a victim to enjoy breaking rather than breaking me.

"You don't want to hear this any more than I want to remember it. But I need to remember where my life and my heart went. Six years, Rosamund Adams. Six years while you ate and slept and lived, walked free and fucked. How nice for you! How very bloody nice!"

And so they listened to him remember all he had endured. John Watson was the first to crack under the weight of memory and imagination. He sank back down to the ground, small, hunched, on hands and knees. Not quite PTSD, but something akin to it, A response that registered with his best friend who had no time to to be distracted by it.

Mary Morstan watched Ajay as he talked, transfixed. But Sherlock Holmes watched John Watson travel back through the years and the memory miles to Afghanistan. Listened to Ajay Moopanar go back in time in Tblisi.

Listened to his words. And remembered something else, something Ajay's words had triggered…

o0o0o

"Seduce me, Sherlock Holmes."

She was smiling at him, so there was humour in her voice, pitched unusually low now, and focussed totally on him. Compelling him to concentrate on her, to do her will But he could see there was something else too: desperation, was it? He looked deep into her eyes, large and beautiful and molasses brown. Saw conflict there, tightness around her mouth.

She rocked her body deeply into his, tall enough to push into him groin to groin. Unmistakable invitation and something more than flirtation. She had tried to get close to him before, and he had repulsed her.

But this was something else. Not flirtatious nor lighthearted. Not her normal behaviour either. Certainly not her normal behaviour in public, even if that public place was a cheap bar with music playing and couples swaying too close together on the tiny dance floor.

He could feel the heat of her body, smell her perfume, her hair; waves of her hair fell onto his hands as he covered hers with his, her smaller hands that looked as if they were resting on his shoulders, but he could feel her fingertips dig into his collar bones with palpable tension.

"Ssshh," he breathed into her skin. "It's OK."

Such human reassurance from him was so unusual she lifted her head to look searchingly into his face for several suspended seconds, then she deliberately shook her hair back and smiled at him; a combination of deep gestures he had thought only radiant lovers shared. He could not tell if they were assumed or instinctive, or if they were really meant for him at all.

"Please….." A sound of entreaty forced itself from her throat, little more than a murmur.

He gave the fingers beneath his a little squeeze of reassurance before lifting his hands away to rake his fingers through her hair with feigned fierceness, draw her head to his with slow deliberation as he stooped to do her bidding, and to kiss her.

When she gasped up into his mouth, surprised at his response, he drew back a little and laughed down into her face. And such was the sweetness of that rare smile, the strength of the kiss and of his personality, she laughed too, despite herself, and clung to him. A girl who never clung to anyone.

"Silly girl," he said. Which made her laugh again, and wind her arms around him, tension replaced by her confidence in him, hands relaxed now, moving and curling sinuously into his shoulders hooking upwards from behind.

"I can trust you," she said. Statement, not question. Words he felt drawn from her despite herself. Unexpected certainty.

"Not necessarily," he answered. Rolled his eyes and lifted an ironic eyebrow. "I wouldn't trust me. But then, I know me too well."

So that this time her throaty laugh was pure and genuine and unforced, catching the attention of the people closest to them. Feeling her relax against him, he turned away a little to put one arm around her waist, draw her close to him and begin to walk her through the maze of congested tables towards the door.

Neither of them glanced towards the table at which she had been delayed, although both were aware of eyes on them from that direction. Dato Geladze, with his friends in their corner booth close to the entrance, gave them a friendly wave, and a pleasant farewell. Nia swayed to one side and placed a kiss on his cheek as they passed, and he gave Sherlock Holmes a firm, brief handshake.

He said something - Sherlock Holmes did not understand the words, but the tone was as humorous and suggestive as his act had been convincing - so he grinned broadly and winked; which made all the men at Dato's table laugh, an easy masculine camaraderie that did the role he was playing no harm at all.

They left the club entwined, and with tacit agreement began to walk back towards Nico's house. In the cool relative quiet of the street he drew her close to his side. Kissed her hair and murmured into the waves:

"Cosier tight up close to me. Safer too, in fact."

She laughed out loud then, misread his meaning of that word 'safer.' Stopped walking. Put her hands to his face and pulled him down into a kiss.

"You are extraordinary!" she exclaimed, her voice lighter, more girlish, than he had ever heard it. Some tension had left her now they were outside the club, but something had disturbed her, something only he could assuage, apparently.

Standing under the halo of yellow light from an elderly lamp post, her hand caressed his cheek, and moving close, she tucked her head trustingly under his chin. Warm and relaxed and yielding in his arms.

Trust, gentleness. Softness and invitation. Touch and heat and danger. Dangerous. Vulnerable. Loving. Sex. Emotional pressure, A person, any person, hanging off my gun arm…..Oh. Far too dangerous.

"No, I'm not," he contradicted without heat. "But you've tried to do this to me before."

"Can't blame a girl for trying," she murmured.

"Persistence pays?" he asked, putting his arms around her and carrying her bodily for a few paces.

She laughed down into his face then; arms braced against his, thrilled by the wiry and effortless strength of him, by the heat of his body, the clean tang of his cologne, the smooth feel under her hands of expensive clothing and the promise of lean musculature beneath.

Transfixed by those arresting, unusual features, the unreadable eyes. The fascination of the mystery and intelligence that emanated from the man and the feminine thrill of being so close to him, caressing him at will and taking his mouth with hers.

"Hmmn, I would say so," she said. "Look at you. Handsome, clever, charismatic. Look at me. In your arms."

"Your brother might kill me," he suggested, and she could not tell if he was joking or serious.

"I doubt it. And I don't need Nico to protect me. Not when I have you." Something moved in his face; and she caught the expression, puzzled by it.

"Protection? Who do you need protecting from, Nia?"

"No-one. Ignore me. Just getting carried away." She laughed down at him then, even though the mood was broken, laughed from her position of safety high in his arms, until he gently lowered her back to the ground.

He would ask her that question again, he thought. It was a question she had avoided rather than dismissed; perhaps he had missed something? So he would ask again. When they were safely inside the house. When they could not be observed or overheard.

So he deliberately took her hand in his and they walked quietly and in what seemed like accord back to the ancient timber town house. And on the doorstep, as she reached in her bag for the front door key, he kissed the back of her neck. Pulled her mood back to what it had been before and endured her turning tightly into him and wrapping her free hand around the nape of his neck and into the dark curls there.

He turned her and himself, making the movement look natural, looking out into the darkness across the street and the pavement, across the river gorge. But he could see nothing but shadows, hear nothing but silence. The hairs on the back of his neck still rose in anticipation of danger.

Eventually she opened the heavy ancient door and drew him inside, her lips to his and her arms about his neck again.

Lifting and holding her close, he closed the door firmly shut behind them with his foot and they were surrounded now by the light and warmth and privacy of the hall.

Taking a steadying breath, he put his arms up and onto hers, pushing back gently, drawing himself slowly from her embrace

"You are home now. And safe. And you have had a long stressful day," he said, carefully without inflexion. "Go to bed."

"Don't you mean - 'come to bed?' she asked, eyes dancing.

"No."

He gave a small formal nod that was almost a bow, avoiding her eyes, stepping back from her embrace. But she took two steps and followed him, reaching for his hands even though he tucked them away in his coat pockets.

"Sherlock….."

"Something disturbed you in the club," he declared collectedly. "Frightened you. I was your shelter from the storm of emotion. Your distraction. That's fine. I owed you that."

"Sherlock…"

She sensed how absolute was his withdrawal, his return to cool containment, and was puzzled by it; disappointed and thwarted in her intent.

"Go and put the light on in your bedroom, Nia. The one by your bed."

The authoritative voice from the half landing surprised her and spun her away from Sherlock Holmes' arms.

Nico Sologashvili leant over the banister rail and looked down at them. Quiet, calmly vigilant, more detached than she might have expected.

"Whatever do…?" she began, but the Englishman interrupted her. Turning away to concentrate on her older brother.

"He wants anyone who may be looking to think your bedroom was our destination. He wants to provoke a reaction. "

"Is that true? Is he right?"

She threw Sherlock Holmes a disbelieving look, then one that was almost confused at her brother as he came slowly down the stairs towards them.

"Of course I'm right." The reply brooked no argument, and she watched the two tall, dark handsome men either side of her exchange an unreadable look that excluded her totally.

"You men who think you know so much," she complained at them both with a hint of bitterness. Neither replied. She had not expected them to. "What sort of provocation?" she asked. "And from whom?"

"From the same person who frightened you tonight. Which was not me."

Sherlock Holmes stepped further away from her, his withdrawal complete. As if she was no longer in the building. She could see nothing of the affectionate and almost playful, flirtatious man of moments ago, the man who had called her a silly girl and kissed the back of her neck when she had least expected it.

"No. Not you," she confirmed. "How disappointing of you."

Her light barb was wasted on him, she could tell. Whilst her brother made a dismissive motion of his head in her direction.

"Light," he repeated, still giving an order. Then smiled to soften the effect. "If you please, Nia. And anyway; I want a word with Sherlock. Alone."

She bit back a hard reply, turned and went upstairs without saying anything more; a dignified withdrawal fully aware that now, right now, the two men were totally excluding her.

Neither spoke until they heard the door of her room open and close behind her, leaving them alone in the hall.

"Why get rid of your sister?"

"To talk to you on your own." He paused. Unbent a little. "But it's good to see you again. You are always welcome here. And the same guest room is ready for you."

"I'm not here to stay. In any room."

Curt, even for him. But he was embarrassed to see Sirius again, of his memories from the last time they had met - when Nico's drunken advances had been repulsed by sudden shocking violence of self defence - and also embarrassed by the sexual game playing of Nico's sister.

"Pity. You are always the most stimulating house guest. But no matter. What are you doing back here, Sherlock? Returning the Black Pearl of the Borgias?"

The tone was arch banter, hope hidden behind haughtiness. But the guest did not reply in kind.

"Not yet. Not quite." Words slow and measured.

"Are you joking?" The query was as sharp as it was doubtful. "Are you telling me you have a lead?"

"Possibly." A characteristic quirk of the head. "Probably."

His reply was truth, not reassurance. But he did not expect Nico Sologashvili's response to that.

"You must be joking. I've been trying to find the Black Pearl - and Tamora's killer- for six years. And yet now you just waltz in …."

"I never waltz," was the humourless interruption. "I look. I observe. I am the consulting detective. You resent my role? Resent me for being that? Yet you knew my reputation before I came here. That I will solve this."

"Yes, but…."

"'But' nothing. You doubt me when you should help me." The words were hard, the analysis more so. The Georgian all but flinched. The analysis continued. "I understand your shame in failure. How your wife and this unique artefact are both important to you. Cloud your judgement. I do not have that disadvantage. Neither mean anything to me."

"Do you try to be offensive?"

"Sometimes. If it achieves the right result."

The air between them was suddenly charged with danger. Sirius was very much Nico at that moment, drawn forward by a sort of passion, stepping too close into Sherlock Holmes' personal space. Who was leaning back and away; tall and impassive. But still shorter and slighter and younger than the man he was facing down. Except that Nico Sologashvili refused to be faced down.

"The right result? What's that? The way you left me the last time you were here?"

Dark eyes flashed challenge, visceral, complex.

"I don't know. How did I leave you?"

"You left me unconscious. And with a headache."

"You were celebrating. You drank too much brandy. Got pissed and passed out."

"Is that all?"

"Yes. You were drunk. I left."

Nico Sologashvili hesitated for the first time. Stuttered and put out a hand that hovered over Sherlock Holmes' hand, but did not touch.

"That's….that's not how I remember it."

"Really? How do you remember it?"

"I….I'm not sure. Confused. I thought …I thought I remembered…I did something stupid. I thought - don't laugh …I thought I made a pass at you. Argued with you and kissed you."

"And why would you do that?"

"I was on a high. And drinking. You were being provocative. Got past my defences, I suppose."

"Wishful thinking, Sirius. Sexual frustration. Really? You? Move on, man. Get a new inner life and a new wife. Remember the old cliché? How your wife would want you to live again without her…."

"You are impudent."

"Honest. Not my problem you and your sister are alone, marriages behind you both."

"My wife died. Nia's husband was a fool."

"But Nia is not a fool. Emotions corrupt judgement, however. Which is why I do not engage in them."

His head lifted higher. Intellects clashed behind unreadable eyes. The Georgian's next words could have been sentimental, but were a calculated mis-step.

"Engage now. She is attracted to you. It is a long time since she has been attracted to anyone. Davit's betrayal hurt her deeply."

Sherlock Holmes did not reaact..

"I am not a bandage. Nor a therapist. And certainly not a gigolo. Your assessment of me is strange. You pimp your sister yet expect me to be like Mycroft."

"I do not pimp my sister. And you are not at all like your brother."

"Oh? Should I thank you for that?. Be flattered?"

"But you're not."

"Of course not.. Why you are both still involved in this old mystery?"

"My wife….."

"Yes, yes. Emotional entanglement." He made a dismissive gesture with one hand. "Boring. But Mycroft? Why is Mycroft involved?"

Sirius looked and calculated. And confessed.

"Because he fears to know - yet has to know - who was responsible for the Tblisi betrayal. Because time has not solved the crime. He fears the answer lies deep in the British establishment. That there is something - someone - rotten at the heart of government. Who betrayed and is still betraying. "

"He did not say…."

"To you? Of course not. He has his pride. He may offer you a challenge. But he will never beg for your help."

"Oh, please!"

Sherlock Holmes whirled away. Exasperated and appalled. Nico Sologashvili watched him, perplexed. Not sure what else to say, how to respond.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. I thought you knew. That he would have told you."

"Of course."

Tone of voice and face were dismissive. The Georgian felt he had betrayed one or other of the Holmes brothers, but not sure which one. Rather than pursue the subject he heard himself say:

"Go to Nia."

"Yes."

And the man who had said he would not stay walked away And climbed the stairs with a slow careful tread.

o0o0o

He knocked softly on her door and opened it in the same action. To see her standing by the window, carefully lifting a corner of velvet curtain with one hand, looking out. Without turning her head she said:

"I don't see anyone out there."

"Doesn't mean there isn't anyone," he replied, treading silently to her side. "Just because he was your husband doesn't mean you have some extra sensory awareness."

"You knew…that the man in the bar was Davit?"

"Educated guess. High level of probability. You are too mature to be upset by just anyone, or by a casual pass from a stranger, however crude."

"That is a compliment?"

She twisted to look up at him. Hoping he was making a personal, human connection with her, relaxing into companionship at the very least. He was, she realised, standing closer to her than she had thought, not looking down at her, but out into the darkness.

"Of sorts."

He did look down at her then, and smiled a little, softening his words.

She sighed, disappointed.

"You are a strange man, Sherlock Holmes. But still a very attractive one.".

He frowned then. That perplexed little frown between the eyes that made him look young and vulnerable..

"I …No. No. I've not come to you…for that. Not…for….what you are thinking of."

She laughed softly, put a hand on his arm and leant into him.

"Oh, Sherlock. You are indeed a strange one. So hard to compliment. So easy to tease."

"Then don't please. Tease. Juvenile behaviour. I don't understand…."

"Were you never young, chemo dzvirpaso?"

"I am not your darling," he said firmly.

"You could be."

"I really couldn't."

She smiled sadly at him then, stroked the arm under her hand lightly.

"Look at us both. Damaged goods. I have been unlucky in love. But your pain goes deeper. So who, or what, hurt you?"

"I have no idea what you are talking about. Do not attempt empathy. I need your intelligence."

She knew she should have been offended, rebuffed, but his calmness was contagious.

"That I can give you."

He nodded accord and turned away, took his mobile phone from his pocket.

"I need to send items to your laptop…" he said as she moved to turn on the computer on her dressing table. "To show you."

The inbox on the laptop pinged, and he pulled the machine towards him without permission or apology, began to manipulate the screen with it's larger images.

"Whichever way you look at it," he began, concentrating now, "the siege is a case impossible to close. No answers or conclusions. Too many dead ends. Too many dead people.

"I need to find those answers. Draw conclusions. Close the case. So I began with the most eminent victim, the ambassador herself.

"Intelligent, strong willed, respected more than liked. Driven, ambitious. Was that the woman you knew?"

"Yes. She had a ruthlessness that took time to reveal itself. She used charm, a woman in a man's world. And Georgia is a hard posting for a woman. But she learnt about my country at Oxford through the Wardrop legacy. And flattered my people by speaking our language."

"Did she, indeed?

The glance he gave her was sharply assessing.

"So. She charmed with intent Women as well as men? Charmed Tamora? Charmed you?"

"Looking back….I think so. Looking back….I am not sure her friendship and camaraderie was genuine."

"Interesting Personal ambition before anything?"

"I think so…to insinuate herself on her own terms. For her own ends."

He nodded. Absorbed.

"Anything to say in her favour?"

"She truly believed in the exhibition, our joint art and culture."

"Sure?"

"Yes. We had many conversations with her. She had knowledge, was fascinated by Nico's work with ArtAime; enjoyed many meetings with Tamora. They got on."

"Yes; about those meetings….."

On screen appeared a number of similar images: they looked very ordinary. Sections of pages from diaries, she realised. From two different diaries: a large office diary, two different handwritings, formal entries. The other was a more informal diary: different coloured inks, a single scrawling hand, doodles of boxes and daisies and swirls.

"These are Julia Tregarron's diaries from the year of the siege," he explained, pointing with the cursor. "Her office diary - entries made by herself and her secretary - and her own, personal diary."

"Where did you get them?"

"Embassy archives."

For a moment he grinned, remembering leaning on Hilary Weatherstone, leaning on his brother, to get them.

"No-one had checked them.. Yet the little things are infinitely the most important. So I looked for the little things to tell her story; the devil is always in the detail, Nia."

"Why her diaries? What did you expect to find?"

"Julia," he explained. "Her routine, then breaks in her pattern, the official line. Tamora was happy to curate the exhibition with Julia. But I knew she became irritated the way Julia kept changing appointment times and days, often at the last minute, Tamora thought it was unprofessional, that her good nature as being abused. Because it was."

"Yes. But how did you know that?"

He considered telling her he had broken into her brother's personal laptop while he was unconscious and stolen a copy of the intimate file that was memorial and tribute to his late wife, but immediately dismissed the thought: he could imagine her indignant reaction and had no time for it.

"I am Sherlock Holmes," he deflected archly. Then unbent a little and smiled, applying his own charm. "Sometimes a whisper of gossip that seems unconnected is the key that opens a door," he added. Knowing she had no idea what he was talking about; but would pretend she did. To keep him talking.

"So I checked and cross checked every appointment and detail. Compared entries in both diaries.

"Over their final six months, Julia changed or cancelled seventeen meetings with Tamora. Often at the last minute. That may not seem many. But it averages at almost one a week. Yet she had always been scrupulous before. Utterly reliable."

"Ye. I remember Tamora getting very cross about it. Felt Julia was risking the whole exhibition."

"Really? Did she have any idea why this was happening?"

"She joked Julia behaved as if she had a secret boyfriend."

"Seriously?"

"Yes. Not sure. But suspicious."

He nodded, manipulated keys, zoomed into various diary entries.

"See here? This doodle. What does it look like to you?"

She leant into the screen to see, a balancing hand on his shoulder. Felt his warmth, his intelligence.

"A line of 'w's, all looped together. How odd."

"See the word she has written beneath? In Georgian, I assume? What does that mean?"

"Okri? Gold, in English."

"And this? k'bilebi?"

"Teeth. Gold teeth. What an extraordinary thing to put in a diary. Julia didn't have gold teeth, or even fillings. Never complained about toothache…"

"Look again at that doodle. A line of repeated letter 'w's? Or….."

"Oh, goodness. A line of…doodles of teeth?"

Several diary pages with the same doodle appeared before her on screen at her prompt..

"Every time Julia changed her appointments with Tamora…see? This doodle appears on the page." He turned to her; face grave, eyes dancing.

" There is no such thing as coincidence. So what did gold teeth mean?"

Something nagged at the edge of his memory…something someone had said in passing…part of a narrative, an almost flippant detail…

"Julia's husband? Where was he? Did you meet him?"

"In England, with their children. A university lecturer in London, I think. The family arrived in Tblisi two days before the exhibition was due to begin. School holidays. Colin. I met him just once. A nice man."

"Hmn." Keys tapped again.

"Julia's personal diary was a pretty history of art one. Entries stopped when she died, of course. But here's an interesting thing: the diary illustration for November amid the blank pages. Recognise it?"

A girl looked out from the screen at them. A simple head and shoulders image before a plain background. A calm face, a knowing look.

"Of course, Dr Nia Ingorkva replied immediately. "A famous oil painting from the Dutch Golden Age. A portrait painting of an unknown girl more correctly known as a tronie. It is thought to be a study of Vermeer's daughter, Julia, and was once known as Girl In A Turban.

"But in more recent years, book, film and all, it has become more famous as The Girl With The Pearl Earring. What about it?"

"You see but you do not observe. Look more closely."

"Oh!" She gripped his shoulder. "Julia has coloured in the earring. With black ink; more doodling. Well, there is a theory that earring was actually tin…..but…."

"Exactly. A black pearl. It appears black pearls were very much in Julia Tregarron's mind. I wonder why?"

o0o0o

On the doorstep she took his face in her hands and kissed him.

It was more peaceful and more polite to let her. To rest his hand at her waist as he said goodbye.

"Call me if you remember anything else. However slight or silly it might seem."

"Of course. Stay safe, Englishman. And come back to me?"

He did not reply, abruptly turned away and walked into the darkness of the silent street.

And he did not see or hear the man who came up so silently behind him, only felt the blow that swiped hard across his head and felled him with hard efficiency.

The cobbled pavement was cold beneath his back, and the fall had winded him. Reflex had him roll fast and turn, but his attacker was faster, dropping fiercely down onto his body, deliberately straddling his torso while grabbing one shoulder, pushing him back down.

It was a tall and heavy body; solid and determined. Knees clad in elegant suit trousers clenched remorselessly into his sides, weight used as a weapon to hold him in place and restrict his breathing.

Struggling for air and escape, but powerless to shift his attacker, Sherlock Holmes fought to get some purchase for his feet, create leverage and buck the man sitting on him off and away.

The other man simply laughed. A face he had seen earlier.

A man who leant forward and crouched low, grabbing a handful of dark curls and pulling, intent on causing pain. Face dangerously too close, so Sherlock Holmes could taste his breath: local wine and whisky mingled.

"Do you think my wife felt crushed like this while you fucked her?" said the face too close to his. Georgian; cultured, accented but effortless English. "Hurt and pressured and humiliated? Enjoy doing that, did you? Because I did."

The face was the face of the man in the club. The man at the table who had caught Nia's hand. A face darkly handsome and somehow smug; entitled. Davit Ingorkva.

"Don't do it again."

"She is not yours to dictate."

Hand still firmly clenched in Sherlock Holmes' hair, he frowned, leant to one side…..so a bearlike form behind him came into view. The man who had delivered the original blow.

A fist rose; a huge fist with manicured nails and chipped knuckles; not the first exchange of blows by him that evening then, Sherlock Holmes could not help registering with something like resignation.

A square face with pale blue eyes and a large wide lipped mouth was wreathed in wild red hair and beard, all topped with an incongruous black beret. An amused intent gaze met his; enjoying the power of focussed cruelty.

He would know that face if he saw it again, Sherlock Holmes thought.

As the powerful hand headed at full speed and power towards his jaw, Sherlock Holmes saw his attacker smile. Saw the glint of streetlights on gold teeth.

Apart from the fist, that was the last thing he saw for some time.

o0o0o

Oh!

A jolt back to reality from memory. Yes. Still listening. Ajay still talking.

"Oh, they thought I'd give in. Die. But I didn't. I lived and eventually they sort of forgot about me. Left me rotting in a cell. Six years they kept me there, until finally I had a chance to escape. I had vowed I would make them pay. I could not kill them, but I could listen and learn, find a lever. For later, for revenge

"You know, all the time I was there I just kept picking up things. Little whispers, Laughter, gossip, how the clever gents and the politicians had been betrayed by the siege. "

"Brought down by you. Or will be. Eventually."

"Me?"

Light from a passing train sudden illuminated the room in a flash of clarity.

Ajay automatically looked to his target; Mary, knowing the target was herself, instinctively broke cover, reaching for the gun Sherlock Holmes had handed back to her.

John Watson the spell of his memory broken, scrambled for the hand gun in the bag Ajay had dropped earlier.

.As Ajay came forward and rounded the corner Mary was already there to meet him.

A Mexican stand off; the two AGRA colleagues, professional killers, inches apart, guns levelled at each other's head. Neither flinching or giving ground. Impasse.

John Watson dropped to the tile floor, the alien gun braced against his arm, aiming at Ajay's head. The implacable soldier restored. Ajay raised his head and sighed at the sight of them in their obscene eternal triangle.

"You know I'll kill you too. You know I will, Ajay." Mary's voice was slightly higher pitched than normal, but the resolve within her was without doubt.

"What? You think I care if I die?"

He lifted one hand from his gun and stepped forward a pace. The only person in the room now without a gun in hand rose onto his toes, ready to pounce.

"I've dreamed of killing you every night for six years," the youngest member of AGRA told his elder.

Slowly he leant forward, and carefully put his forehead onto the cool maw of Mary Morstan's pistol. Daring her to pull the trigger.

"Of squeezing the life out of your treacherous lying throat….." he continued.

"I swear to you, Ajay…"

John Watson rose a little; teeth bared…then sank back. Ready to kill and protect his wife if necessary. Yet excluded from the battle of wills going on before him.

Sherlock Holmes interrupted that battle; very self possessed., voice unusually gentle and quiet, speaking without command or pressure. Knowing what he needed to hear, what Ajay needed to say.

"What did you hear, Ajay? When you were a prisoner, what exactly did you hear?"

"What did I hear?" He hesitated Remembering. Miles and many months from the room in which he now stood.

"Ammo. Every day as they tore into me. Ammo. Ammo." His voice began to tremble. "Ammo. Ammo!"

Lost in his own head. In danger of losing control, His voice changed.

"We were betrayed! AGRA. We were betrayed!"

"And they said it was her? Mary? They actually said it was Mary who betrayed you?" Sherlock Holmes's voice remained soft, very gently probing.

Ajay took half a step closer, all his concentration back on Mary.

"You betrayed us!" Accusation, not answer.

She stood very still, unable to move before his vehemence, not daring to interrupt.

"They said her name?" Sherlock Holmes persisted.

"Yeah. They said it was the Englishwoman."

"But that doesn't…"

Without noise or any word of warning, a uniformed Moroccan policeman stepped forward into the room, and without hesitation shot Ajay twice in the back.

The boy fell silently forward, eyes shocked wide with surprise and pain, into and through Mary Morstan's arms, spread wide to avoid triggering either his pistol or hers, his expression looking beyond her, fixed in life and then death onto Sherlock Holmes as he fell. Instantly boneless, instantly dead.

"No! No!"

Mary Morstan became Mary Watson, pulled back her gun arm as Ajay Moopanar's head hit her feet and she screamed. And screamed again.

Her gun joined his, both clattering onto the floor as both weapons dropped from spasming hands. In horror, she bent down to him, her husband joining her; nurse and doctor assuming their natural instinctive roles, reactive to giving aid despite everything.

The policeman remained poised, silent and concentrated, his weapon still directed down at his victim.

"No need for that inspector. The boy is dead."

Sherlock Holmes stated the obvious as the servant Karim entered with the ordered tea tray -and promptly dropped it in horror, shattering cups and spraying the floor with hot green tea. Onto the floor, onto feet, onto the body.

"You have some explaining to do inspector. That young man was a friend of ours."

He did not waste concentration on the policeman, but stood and looked down at Mary, now cradling Ajay's head and sobbing. At John Watson, looking on with horror; his right leg giving out from under him as he clutched the arm of the sofa with his right hand for support, his left hand - holding another gun, Ajay's other gun - trembling at his side.

A part of him, the part of him that was not feeling angry, and cheated, and thwarted, felt he should offer comfort. But he could not decide which of the two people he knew so well might need comfort the most; and which one would resent him most for comforting the other. So he stood tall and silent, and said nothing.

But that was fine. No-one would ever expect him to empathise, to comfort, to regret or to avenge.

So he drew himself up to his full height and stepped away from the carnage at his feet.

Thought about ammo. And an Englishwoman. And gold teeth.

TO BE CONTINUED….

Author's Notes:

Sorry to have taken so long to bring this chapter to you. Real life interfered on a major scale. Selling and buying houses and moving home. A month without internet through no fault of my own. A road traffic accident, a quirky new house to be woken from slumber - broken central heating to sort, and then two catastrophic storms which devastated the garden fences and shed at my new house that had to be dealt with asap.

And now coronavirus, to keep me in social distancing and writing instead. I left Sherlock bleeding on a Tblisi street for far too long, and need to apologise, to him and to you.

But we're back on track now. And Chapter 17 will be with you shortly!

Stay warm, stay safe, stay well!