Let justice run down like waters, and righteousness as a mighty stream.

- Amos 5:24

It wasn't Sherlock.

The news had hit Sally Donovan like an express train. Lestrade told her that morning, not without a certain tone of told-you-so triumph. Sherlock was innocent. The kidnapping case was being reopened, even though the real perpetrator was thought to be dead. The Yard had buggered up the case once, and they weren't going to risk pinning blame on the wrong man again.

Sally Donovan had had absolutely no love for "Freak". But she had at least… she really had thought…

"Greg," was her first coherent sentence after receiving the news, "the suicide case."

"Sherlock's?"

"Yeah."

"What about it?"

"Are they re-examining it?"

Lestrade had come to Donovan's desk to tell her the news, rather than his usual practice of dragging her out to his office; she suspected he wanted everyone else in the open-plan office to hear how wrong she'd been. "Not that I know of," he said, folding his arms. "Why would they?"

"Because if Sherlock Holmes didn't kidnap those kids, why would he commit suicide?"

"Any number of reasons," Lestrade said. "The pressure of being framed for something he didn't do, perhaps. Does it make him any less dead?"

"Greg, with respect—"

He gave a brief, unamused chuckle.

"Sir," she tried again, fighting her temper, "with respect, you're seeing this as a friend, not as a detective. It does matter. He may not have… done it himself."

"He did," Lestrade said, trying for a dismissive shrug and completely failing. "John watched him do it, and I had all the fun of writing out his statement to the effect. Or are you now going to accuse John Watson of murdering him?"

"No." Even at her most suspicious and cynical, this was one thing she wasn't even prepared to consider. There was simply no way John Watson would have, or could have, faked the nervous breakdown he'd had after Sherlock's death. "No, I didn't mean that. But whichever way you're looking at it, this is now a suspicious death—"

"The coroner disagrees with you."

"I don't give a monkey's what the coroner said two years ago, he's wrong now. I need to see the police files into Sherlock's death. And the autopsy files, if they're available. If I could just have a look…"

Lestrade shook his head in a way that Donovan had come to learn was final. "I can't do it, Donovan. I like my job and I want to keep it. Anyway, I don't have access to anything related to Sherlock. You know I don't."

This part, at least, was true, and Donovan knew it. Lestrade had come so close to losing his job over the revelation of just how much he'd relied on Sherlock Holmes professionally. Every single case Lestrade had ever worked on—even before he'd met Sherlock—had been examined from top to bottom, looking for any evidence that he was on the take or unethical in some other way. While none was found, Lestrade was being watched even yet; and he certainly had no professional access to any of the files concerning Sherlock's suicide.

She nodded, reasoning all this out in her head. "Okay," she said. "Okay, so you don't have access to those files. Who does?"

Lestrade was by now looking at her with a combination of chilliness and sheer confusion. "Just why are you so obsessed with this case? Sherlock's dead."

"And he might be dead because I accused him of something he didn't do," she said, in such matter-of-fact tones that Lestrade flinched. "I became a police officer because I believe in justice for everyone, Greg. Even Sherlock Holmes. I didn't like him, but he didn't kidnap and poison those kids. Now I'm getting bored with asking you, is there anyone else who can show me those files?"

Lestrade sighed. "All right. My office, now."

She followed him into his office and shut the door behind her while he rummaged through the second drawer of his desk after official notepaper. He had a lifelong habit of shoving various things into whatever drawer was most handy at the time—or the glove compartment, if he was in his car—and it was half a minute of searching through everything from accident reports to Chinese menus before he located what he wanted, pulled it out, and then repeated the process looking for a pen that worked.

"Gregson owes me a favour," he said as he finally was able to start scribbling away. "He's in the office around two this afternoon, or he should be, according to his schedule. Take this to him." He tore the paper off the pad, folded it twice, and handed it over to her. "And if he says no, then let that be the end of this, okay?"

"Thank you."

"Shut up and go back to your desk before I change my mind and take that off you."

Toby was indifferent toward the unnamed female kitten—John and Molly were occasionally referring to her as Smudge, though her official name would be Mrs Hudson's choice. But Toby seemed to understand that Casper was different. Casper was staying.

John had just released Casper onto the living room floor to wander around and get his bearings for the first time. Toby's reaction was as profound as it was eloquent. He turned his back on the newcomer with scorn and washed his face with one paw, as if the white kitten didn't exist.

"No, Molly."

"But—"

"Let them sort it out between them."

Casper, seeing a new cat he didn't recognise, stopped dead. The fur on his back stood on end, and he hissed softly; Molly had gone to pick him up before John had gently intervened. Toby, meanwhile, was still washing his face. Kitten? What kitten? He didn't notice any kitten.

Three seconds later, Casper sprang.

It was a well-executed launch, but Toby was prepared for it. He side-stepped Casper, who landed on the floor; then he cuffed the kitten soundly across the ear with one paw, sending him sprawling toward the fireplace.

"John—"

"He's fine. Let them sort it out."

Casper got up, shaking his head and clearly wondering what on earth had just happened. Evidently, he'd never met with protest when he'd bullied his brothers and sisters. Toby was looking at him calmly.

A brief pause, then Casper dropped his ears and flopped over onto his back. Toby cast him a look of utter contempt, then turned his back on him and wandered out to the kitchen. Only then did Molly rush over to scoop up the kitten.

"Aww, Casper, Toby was mean to you…"

"He wasn't mean," John protested. "How would you feel if someone wandered into your house and started pushing you about? I think Casper might have learned an important lesson this afternoon about the family pecking order. No harm done, and… don't look at me like that. I'm not going to let Toby do that to our baby."

Molly seemed about to respond when the doorbell rang. John, coffee in hand, went to answer it; he expected to see Harry and was more than a bit bewildered when he opened the door to a man he'd never seen before.

Though… had he seen him before?

"Hello," he said confusedly, wondering whether to greet him as if he were a friend or a hawker. The man smiled. Fortyish, tall, bearded... he held his arms by his side in a way that John immediately recognised as awkward and unnatural, as if the result of some injury or deformity…

"Dr Watson?"

Of course.

"Captain Moran," he responded instantly, relieved that he at least recognised him now. "Sorry, I wasn't expecting to see you, that's all."

"No, well, I- I suppose you didn't. It's been a while." He smiled sheepishly. "I'm in London at the moment, visiting my sister. I thought I'd look you up, seeing as how it's the season for it."

How Moran had "looked him up" was a mystery. John's number and address were both unlisted—he was a private person these days, and given his history of being targeted by guns and bombs and maniacs, he had every reason for it. The house number was listed, but under Molly's maiden name, and John was certain he'd never mentioned Molly to Moran before. They'd only had a couple of brief conversations before Moran had left the hospital and wandered out of John's life, and that had been well over a year ago.

"Yes," John said automatically. "Yes, I suppose it is. Sorry, how did you—"

"I asked around at the hospital." Moran suddenly looked awkward. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to intrude on you. Should I go…?"

John tried to suppress a sigh and put a smile on, and was only half-successful at each. "No, no. Come in—it's nice to see you back on your feet. I don't think you've met my wife…"

"Tell Lestrade that if anything ever comes of this—like Dawson on the warpath, or an investigation into privacy procedures—I'm throwing him under the bus."

"Yes, sir."

Donovan was more than a little surprised that Gregson had agreed to take her down to the filing room in the basement, where cold case notes were kept as hard copies. But he was in a good mood for once: clipped and gruff, and Donovan wondered what would happen to his face if he smiled, hut he was speaking in full sentences. Whatever favour he owed Lestrade, it was obviously something big.

In the eight years that Donovan had worked with Lestrade, she'd always known him to be a master at the art of the called-in favour. He spent a lot of time doing favours for other people, from Gregson to the cleaners, so that he could call one in when needed. She'd more than once wondered if she shouldn't get on that and do the same thing, for the sake of her career if nothing else, but getting along with people had never been one of her strengths.

Gregson unlocked a filing cabinet and searched through it briefly before hauling out a manila file. "Right," he said, businesslike. "Police report into the suicide. And this one…" bringing out a much larger file… "is a copy of the post-mortem report and the coroner's findings. Classified. They stay in this room. You never saw 'em, and God help you if this goes any further."

Donovan thought to herself that if Gregson hung Lestrade out to dry over this, Lestrade was going to do the same to her. Shit rolls downhill.

"Yes, sir," was all she said.

"Half an hour, Donovan. That's it."

Gregson left, with the promise to return and escort her out when her half hour was over; she went through the post-mortem report first.

Page one. Page one made her heart skip a beat.

"Come on, Sally. I'm asking you a favour. As a… a friend."

Sherlock was so near to her in the darkness of the car that she could smell the cigarette smoke on his clothes. On top of that, and the faint spice of his aftershave, there was another smell that she couldn't identify. Neither sweet nor bitter; a smell like sea water on warm skin, like damp earth after a sun shower.

"You know I can't," she protested. "I'll catch hell if anyone knows we were ever here."

'Here' was a country lane in the village of Little Waring, Dorset. Moira Silcock had been beaten to death in her house there four days before, and the Yard were all over the case. So was a young man named Sherlock Holmes, who had contacted the Yard, eager to help, and managed to convince DC Donovan to take him out to the crime scene to take a look about.

Their go-over of the crime scene was done now and they were back in the car. Donovan was ready to leave, her hand on the gearstick, even though the car was stationary and Sherlock seemed in no hurry at all. She suddenly felt the warm pressure of his hand on hers.

"Sally," he said, in those rich tones that made her a little weak at the knees, "I'm not asking for very much. All I want to know is if there was a bucket by the back door of the house on the day Silcock's body was found. It's very important. I can solve the crime if you tell me."

"And what exactly do I get out of this?" she asked him.

His hand left hers and brushed a tendril of hair from her shoulder. "Well," he murmured, so close that she felt his hot breath on her face, "that would depend on what you want out of it, doesn't it?"

Green light. It was a green light…

She leaned forward and kissed him hard, feeling the gearstick digging into her side and not much caring. He was a bad kisser—seemed to have absolutely no idea what to do—but was happy for her to guide him along. Didn't seem to know what to do with his hands, either, though Donovan knew what she wanted to do with hers; she was fumbling at his belt.

A sudden little gasp of protest, one she'd never heard from a man before. She felt him stiffen, but not just the part of him currently in her hand; she looked up at his face, and had never seen him, or anyone else, look so afraid of her.

"What?" she demanded, withdrawing her hand.

Sherlock lunged for the car door and scrambled out onto the road.

Sighing, she got out of her side and slammed the door shut. " What the hell is wrong with you?" she demanded, her voice echoing into the night. "I wasn't doing anything you didn't ask for, so you can stop acting like… that…!"

Sherlock hurriedly put his trousers to rights, then plunged his hands in his coat pockets and started to walk away. She quickened her step to catch him up, grasping for his sleeve; he flinched and held his hand away, whirling around to face her without stopping or even slowing down. His eyes were still alight with… fear? What the hell was that all about?

"Are you seriously walking home?" she demanded.

"I'm seriously walking to the nearest train station, yes."

"Sherlock, in case you haven't noticed, we're in the middle of nowhere, and it's eleven o'clock at night. The nearest train station is nine miles away, and you won't get a train till morning."

"No, I suppose I won't."

"Are you stupid or are you crazy? Get in the car."

"No."

"I'll drive you home—"

"I'll walk."

"What is wrong with you? Why are you acting like such a… such a freak?"

"Leave me alone."

"Get in the bloody car!"

"I said, leave me alone!"

All this, and a lifelong mutual grudge, too, because she'd put her hand down his pants.

But she'd had time to notice one thing that night, nine years ago. The facts-and-figures page of the post-mortem report claimed that the man on the slab that afternoon, the man identified and named and buried as Sherlock Holmes, was uncircumcised.

The post-mortem report was wrong.