It was dawn when Sherlock woke, finding himself staring at the damp-stained ceiling and wondering, for far longer than he felt comfortable with, where he was. He sat up reluctantly, head spinning a moment, and looked around. John's bedroom door was now open. The bathroom door was closed, and from behind it, he could hear the shower running.

He got up, going over to the kitchenette and looking around for coffee. The only thing that seemed to come close to it was a cannister of decidedly dodgy-looking instant roast, but it would have to do. He filled the kettle from the tap, then set about searching around the cupboards for something resembling food. This search was not so successful. Apart from a variety of condiments, there was little more food in the house than half a loaf of bread, well on its way to becoming stale, and a few scraps of butter, still nestled in the waxed paper it had been bought in. Decidedly unappetising—he had his doubts as to whether even John, notoriously unpicky with what he ate, would try it. He had both cups of coffee prepared by the time John emerged from the bathroom, dressed and drying his hair with a towel.

"Sherlock," he said in a conversational way, "I apparently just slept for fourteen hours. What the hell did you give me last night?"

Sherlock found himself hesitating, which didn't happen often. "Well," he said, glancing over at the bedroom doorway, "What you need to understand about that is—"

"Jesus," John muttered. "Come on. What?"

"Valium…"

"Valium? Wh—"

"Your medical case was full of it. In the top shelf of your wardrobe."

John was staring at him in disbelief. "What the hell did you drug me for?"

Sherlock shrugged, as if it didn't matter. "Because I had to see Lestrade," he said, "and I had to see him alone."

John clenched his jaw, obviously struggling to keep hold of his temper. "What, and you couldn't just ask me to stay here and do a bit more digging while you did it?"

"No. I couldn't have you 'digging', as you so poetically put it, without me."

"Sherlock, you can't just switch me off when you're not around! A dose that knocked me out cold for fourteen hours—"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please," he said. "I think we've established that I have some expert experience when it comes to calculating safe drug dosages."

"Yeah, see, that's the difference between a drug addict and a doctor. Both of them might think they know the correct way to knock someone out with a tranquilliser, but the doctor's not stupid enough to do it. You could have killed me—"

"You seem alive and well enough to me."

"No thanks to you. This is why I can't even spend time in my own bloody flat—"

"And if it weren't for that," Sherlock said snippily, "You would probably have been sitting right in front of the windows at Baker Street when Moriarty's first bomb went off the other night—" He stopped.

After what felt like five minutes, and was probably five seconds, John ventured, "Sherlock? You okay?"

Sherlock swiped his hand over his mouth, thinking hard. If he hadn't left the flat in a huff, where would John have been when Moriarty's bomb went off across the street the other night?

"Sherlock?"

Where would he have been if he'd left the flat twenty seconds later?

"Sherlock, come on, don't do this."

Sherlock shook himself out of it. After all, imagining a scenario where John had been at the front door of Baker Street when the flat twenty feet away had exploded was not useful, because it had never happened. "Um, yes, fine," he said.

"You've just had a thought. What was it?"

"I can't tell you yet."

"Sherlock—"

"Let me develop it."

John paused for a long time, but seeing Sherlock was inexorable, he finally gave in. "I have work this morning," he said tiredly, running one hand over his face. "Not that I can think straight after all that. This'll be interesting: spending all day pretending I know my colleagues and long-term patients."

"You're a war veteran. Blame any lapses of concentration on PTSD."

"I'd prefer not to, if I can avoid it. I'll end up in a loony bin somewhere—they still had them in 1983. What are you doing today?"

"Lestrade and I are going to interview Peter and Jeff Noonan, two boys connected with the case you saw yesterday. Five teenage boys have disappeared. The corpse you found yesterday afternoon is one of them, probably that of a boy named Derek Metcalfe. Pick up a newspaper before you get to work."

"I'll try," John muttered. "Listen, Sherlock. I'm serious. You don't just drug me when you want me out of the way. You either tell me to stay out of it, or better yet, you let me in. Is any of this getting through?"

"I need some money," Sherlock said. "I need clothes."

With a sigh, John went to his wallet and looked through it. "Here's ten pounds," he said, handing a pair of notes over. "I need the rest for a cab to work, sorry. I'll have to get cash on my lunch break or something... assuming I still remember how to fill out a withdrawal slip."

After John left for work, Sherlock took a shower and arranged his clothes as best he could. Taking the money, the flat keys and some more of John's cigarettes, he made his way back to the Broad Street flat on foot. Lestrade met him at the door, wearing a V-necked grey jumper and pale brown tie over a white striped dress shirt and a pair of grey trousers, the ensemble giving him the look of an oversized schoolboy about to head onto a cricket pitch.

"Sorry," he said, by way of an opener, "But can you get me back here by twelve? I start work at one, and I really need to actually go. I can't get by without a paycheque."

By this time, Sherlock had noticed that Greg Lestrade was not the only person in his flat. A girl in her late teens was sitting on the bed, wearing high-waisted blue jeans and an oversized orange shirt that slipped off her shoulders. Her hair was blonde and fluffy, her eyes blue, her mouth hanging open slightly, which gave her the disarming look of a helpless ingenue. Even Sherlock now understood, in his disinterested way, why Greg Lestrade had married Julie Clarke. It hadn't been one of his wisest decisions. After two decades married to a man who was rarely physically home and even more rarely mentally home, she had embarked on a series of affairs and had, to date, kicked her husband out three times in the last twelve months. Lestrade was forever trying to 'patch things up', and Sherlock had honestly wondered, on more than one occasion, why on earth he bothered.

"Oh, sorry," Lestrade said. "Julie, this is Sherlock." Again, that wince at his name. "Sherlock, Julie."

Julie got up and shook Sherlock's hand, then gave a violent sob.

"We'll find him," Lestrade said, giving her shoulder a warm pat. "Maybe go back and see what the real police are up to this morning, right? Neil will give you a hand."

"Who's Neil?" Sherlock asked, in much less emotional tones.

"Neil Findlay," Lestrade explained over one shoulder, since Julie was now sniffling into the other one. "A mate of mine. One of the detectives working the…" He stopped himself before he could blurt out working the murder case.

Sherlock was least comfortable with female persons while they were crying, and was more than relieved when Lestrade finally put Julie in a cab back to her parents' and watched it off to the street corner. Only then did he attempt to bring up the subject of the Noonans. "I assume they know we're on our way," he said.

"Called them this morning." Lestrade was looking uncomfortable. "I might've told them a few lies about my status on the case, though. God help me if we get caught."

Lestrade was really in a difficult position, Sherlock thought. Without his uniform, as now, he was a nobody, and who would tell information to a nobody? In his uniform he represented the local police, something he had no authority to do on this case. He suddenly wished he'd brought John with him—John knew how having an official profession worked and he knew how to navigate difficult social interactions.

They left the flat in Lestrade's car and arrived at the Noonan house half an hour later, a detached house with a leafless willow in the front yard and a stained-glass panelled door. At Lestrade's knock, a frowsy, fortyish woman opened the door.

"Hello," she said, and her voice was warm and friendly. A large wet patch on her knitted peach shirt gave away that she'd just come from a full kitchen sink.

"Constable Lestrade," Greg said, reaching out to shake hands politely. "We spoke on the phone this morning?"

"Oh, yes," she said. She gave her frizzy, greying hair an ineffectual swipe, then glanced down in despair as she noticed the suds on her clothes. "Come in. Who's your…?"

"Colleague," Lestrade said, without skipping a beat, as they entered a front foyer cluttered with the detritus of teenage boys: bicycles, hockey stick, muddied trainers in a pile by the welcome mat. "Sherlock Holmes. He's a consulting detective for the Metropolitan Police. More of a freelancer in this case."

Sheila Noonan took all this philosophically. "Okay," she said, indicating an archway off the foyer. "Peter's just through here."

"And Jeff?"

"Outside, kicking a ball around. Do you want me to bring him in?"

Lestrade appeared to be considering it before he said, "Not yet. Maybe it's best if we talk to each on their own for now."

She led them through to the sitting room, where a young man was perched on the piano stool, though the upright piano it belonged to was closed and silent. Knowing in advance that Peter Noonan was seventeen, Sherlock had expected gangly awkwardness, but the boy could easily have passed for Lestrade's age. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with oddly soft, golden-brown hair that nearly reached his shoulders, and which had been cut into something bordering on a mullet at the front. Sherlock glanced down at the boy's hands. Slender and white. He was not used to manual labour… but then, of course, it was also the end of winter.

"Peter, hi," Lestrade said, shaking his hand. "I'm Greg Lestrade, from the CID. This is my colleague, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock, after a second's hesitation, shook Peter's hand also. Not out of politeness: you could tell a lot about a suspect, or a witness, or anybody, really, from their handshake. How firm? Hands warm or cold, clammy or dry? Judging from Peter Noonan's handshake, there was nothing on his conscience, but that didn't mean much. There was nothing much on the conscience of a psychopath at the best of times.

It should take one to know one, Sherlock thought bitterly, remembering again John's accusations over Moriarty's hostages. As much as he did not want to admit it, his thoughts kept returning to it. Perhaps it was important.

"Hi," Peter said, in a voice that was well past being broken. He was, however, soft-spoken, given his appearance. "Can Mum stay?"

"Yep." Lestrade started to look around for somewhere to sit, and Mrs Noonan directed him into an armchair. Peter sat in the opposite one, and Sherlock, not quite sure what to do, remained standing in the doorway, hands behind his back.

"Peter," Lestrade said, "Have you seen the papers today?"

After a pause, Peter nodded silently.

"Okay." Lestrade echoed his nod. "Not good news, I think we can say that. You're not in trouble, but we think maybe the same person who took Derek Metcalfe also took Scott Pigeon and the others. And we really think you and Jeff can help us find them."

"I already told the police," Peter said, a whine creeping into his voice. He made eye contact with his mother, who started, as if she was about to get up and call the interview to an end. "I told the police everything I knew..."

"Everything?" Lestrade was smiling, a slight tease in his voice. "Mate, if you can remember every single thing about the night you went out with Scott, they need your help at MI6, with a memory like that."

Peter looked at him sulkily. "What do you want to know?"

"Here, I'll make a bet with you." Lestrade pulled out his wallet, plucked a five-pound note from it, and put it back in his pocket. "Here's five quid. I'm going to ask you a question, and if you give me a truthful answer, I'll give it to you. If I ask you another one and you don't want to answer, if it makes you feel uncomfortable, no problem—just give it back to me and I'll try another question that might be easier to answer. Whoever's got the money by the end gets to keep it. Deal?"

Peter seemed to be giving this some thought. Finally, he nodded.

"What's your middle name, Peter?"

"Mark."

Lestrade cheerfully handed the money over. "And your favourite colour?"

"Red."

"What's your favourite football team?"

"Chelsea."

"Peter, do you know where Scott Pigeon is?"

A long pause. Then, finally, Peter handed the note back to Lestrade.