From In the Fields of Verdun: Old Friends to the Rescue: With Holmes and Watson bedridden and ill, it's up to Inspector Lestrade, Inspector Hopkins, and a cadre of their old clients to finish solving a case.

I sighed as I walked up the steps to 221B Baker Street. Despite what some at Scotland Yard might say, I have always been fully aware of Holmes' contributions to our cases. This was hardly the first time I had sought his help in a particularly difficult case. However, I never enjoyed the experience.

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Hudson," I said, tipping my hat to her politely when she answered the door. "I'm afraid I need to see Mr. Holmes."

The venerable landlady hustled me in, then lowered her voice. "I'm afraid you can't, Inspector Lestrade. He and the doctor are very ill."

Looking at her again, I noticed the worry lines at the corner of her mouth and the dark circles beneath her eyes. I felt my stomach clench. "Ill? When did this happen?"

Her mouth tightened. "Last night. They were on a case as usual, then suddenly they came home struggling to breathe, and Mr. Holmes saying something about poison. Dr. Watson assured me they'd be alright, but that they'd both be very sick for the next few days. Since then, they've both been feverish and confined to their beds."

My stomach sank into my boots. It would take more than an average rogue to successfully poison Holmes; he had dealt with his fair share of enemies over the years. I also had a horrible feeling that Holmes' incapacitation was linked with the case I'd come to ask about.

"Lestrade?" a croaky voice called my name from the upstairs landing. Dr. Watson stood there, looking very pale and weak. I took an involuntary step forward, half afraid he would tumble down the stairs at any moment.

"Are you sure you should be up?" I asked dubiously.

He smiled wryly. "Quite sure...I should not," he said. The smile became a groan and he clutched at the bannister for support. "But we...stocked up on the antidote... last time someone tried. Holmes had...the worst of it, as usual...but even he...will be alright...in a few days." His mouth tightened in grim determination. "But Johnson will escape...before that."

So it was the same case. Helpless rage crowded out my concern for Watson and Holmes. After everything Johnson had done, he was just going to be able to walk away…

"We...we can't...let that happen." Watson said, echoing my thoughts. "Take...this." Collecting himself, he held out a piece of paper in a shaking hand. I quickly climbed the stairs to take it; this close, I saw the glaze in his eyes that bespoke of heavy fever. I had no idea how he was coherent, let alone standing on his own. I had no time to read the paper, however, before Mrs. Hudson came bustling up the stairs to hustle the good doctor back to bed and shoo me unceremoniously out.

Out in the street, I stopped to examine it. The paper only had two lines written on it, almost illegible and no doubt penned by a shaking hand.

Mycroft Holmes

Pall Mall

"I must say, gentlemen, that I find the arrival of two police officers at my home to be nothing short of scandalous, and you are proving quite disruptive to my routine. Had you not mentioned Sherlock's name to my housekeeper, you would not be here now."

He spoke with the utter confidence that I had only seen in Mr. Holmes, as though he really had the power through his minor government post to bar two officers from carrying out their lawful duty. Before I could answer, however, Hopkins spoke up earnestly.

"We apologize for the disruption, Mr. Holmes," he said. "But Dr. Watson advised us urgently to come and see you."

Mycroft's eyebrow rose. "Dr. Watson? Well, that is an unusual lack of circumspection on his part, but I suppose he feels that situation is particularly urgent. Very well. Tell me what has happened."

Together, we laid out the case. When we finished, Mycroft shook his head.

"A simple enough problem," he said, "hardly worth all this bother. If only Sherlock had had the good sense to avoid being poisoned." He sighed. "Still, on the understanding that you forbear from coming here in the future, I will connect you with someone in the Foreign Office who can give you more information about Johnson."

Mr. Phillip Phelps, clerk in the Foreign Office, handed across the letter. "Ordinarily, I would not be authorized to show you documents, of course, but Lord Holdhurst seems to believe you should be provided access at once. I'm afraid I haven't had a chance to have it translated," he added. "It's rather difficult to find anyone who can read Greek on such short notice."

I took the letter and turned to Hodgkins. "Hodgkins, you read Dr. Watson's stories," I said bluntly. "What is the name of that interpreter who owes Holmes a favor?"

With Mr. Melas' help, the letter from Johnson's foreign suppliers was translated and we intercepted Johnson just before he could leave London with his illegally acquired cargo. Seeing the relief on those frightened children's faces was all the thanks I needed.

A/N: The clients mentioned here are Mycroft, Mr. Phelps from The Naval Treaty, and Mr. Melas from The Greek Interpreter. I've decided to assume that Watson never actually published the story which mentions that Mycroft is more than a minor government official, which explains why Lestrade is so put out!