The words of his mouth were smoother than butter, but war was in his heart: his words were softer than oil, yet were they drawn swords.

Psalms 55:21

John worked steadily throughout the rest of the night—a busy one, but not crazily so—trying to placate his itching fingers by reading the file Molly had given him in dribs and drabs where he could. By six, he had a general idea of the contents of Sherlock's post-mortem report. As he and Dr. Dhaval Verma clocked off for the morning, he drew the older doctor aside.

"I'm sorry to do this to you after the shift we just had," he muttered apologetically, "But I was wondering if you could take a quick look at some PM notes for me, let me know what you think?"

Dhaval raised one eyebrow. "Post-mortem notes?"

"It's a long story." John handed over the manila folder. "You don't need to read the whole thing, just the fourth and fifth pages. I… I just need you to tell me what you think the likely cause of these injuries would be."

Dhaval looked tired, but he took the folder and looked over the notes for a few minutes in silence. John waited, curling his left hand nervously.

"This is a transcript?" Dhaval finally asked him. "Word for word?"

"Yes."

"In that case, I'd say almost definitely a car accident." He looked over the few photographs available to him. "Perhaps something a little more obscure... amusement park ride accident? But yes. Car accident."

"What would you say if I told you 'trauma from a four-storey fall'?"

Dhaval looked puzzled. "I'd say 'rubbish'," he replied without hesitation. "I'd also ask you how a body can sustain whiplash like that from a fall of that type. And these contusions described here, as well as the fractures to the sternum and ribcage, they would definitely be from a seat belt…"

John nodded. "Yes. Exactly what I thought." Both he and Dhaval had seen their fair share of car accident injuries over the past six months of working shifts together.

"And here..." Dhaval pointed. "It also mentions significant grazing and contusions to the lower left quadrant. But the photograph—" he flipped to it—"shows no grazing there at all."

"I noticed that too."

"And then, it mentions some skull and vertebrae trauma, yes, but in all, I'd expect much greater damage to someone who… fell four storeys, you said?"

"Yes."

"And hit a hard surface?"

"Concrete."

John's words were as pragmatic as any doctor's on the subject. Emotional doctors quickly either learned to block their personal responses to violence and illness out, or they dropped out of practice, and John generally managed the former. But now Dhaval realised that he had heard this story before, more than once. It was well known among the staff at Hammersmith that John was a talented and likeable doctor who could, for all anyone knew, suddenly go to pieces at the drop of a hat. Past war trauma, and a friend who had committed suicide. By jumping off a roof. Onto concrete.

"Who does this report belong to, John?" he asked him.

John took a deep breath and took the folder back in his shaking hands. "I thought it belonged to Sherlock Holmes," he said. "But now I have absolutely no idea."

It had been ten past three when Sherlock arrived at Southwark Cathedral. The communal dinner was long over; he was given a sandwich and a cup of tea instead, and wolfed them down gratefully, in between rationalising to those there to help that he wasn't mentally ill, he wasn't a drinker, he wasn't an addict. He didn't need counselling. He didn't need long-term help. He didn't need medical care. He was, he explained, en route to his brother in Bristol and was simply waiting for said brother to send money across so he could complete his journey.

And no, he absolutely did not want to be prayed with. He didn't want to be prayed for, either, but he knew that he couldn't avoid that. They left him alone after that, and he slept uneasily on a camp bed, alongside seven others until woken up at nine.

No breakfast: Sherlock wasn't used to eating two meals in such quick succession, and taxing his digestive system was definitely going to slow him down, just when he needed to speed things up. He had some enquiries to make among some very old friends.

The Homeless Network had disintegrated after Sherlock Holmes had disappeared from London. Nevertheless, he made some discreet enquiries that day, particularly north of the river, but nobody could tell him anything. Or rather, he suspected, nobody would tell him anything. Fourteen months on, they could not quickly forget Liam Newell, who had done Sherlock Holmes a favour and ended up severing an artery in the lockup.

That he had no ready access to cash meant that even bribery was now off the cards for him. And for every person he asked, Sherlock knew he was coming one step closer to being discovered. London's homeless now knew that Sherlock Holmes was back in town and in full pursuit of his enemy.

The question was, did that enemy know it, too?

Molly's evening of rest and Glee reruns had done her well, John decided, when he finally woke her up at half past eight in the morning. It was a Saturday; lazy day and no reason to rush anywhere, at least for Mrs Watson. Her husband, on the other hand, seemed pale and agitated. For one thing, he was still clutching his precious file on Sherlock in both hands.

"Is something wrong?" she asked him, trying to swallow the sinking feeling in her heart.

"Yes, um…" John hesitated. "I… I'm so sorry that I have to ask you this..."

"You know you can ask me anything, John."

"Are you absolutely sure that, to the best of your knowledge, this file belongs to Sherlock's case?"

She looked him over, anxiety twitching in her chest. She hadn't had a chance to really look through the case itself, but it was certainly… yes. She could tell him this much in perfect honesty. "It was filed in our morgue records under his name," she said. "There wasn't anything else. It has all the inquest notes. And all the right information…"

John shook his head. "No."

"No?"

"No. Wrong physical description, wrong injuries. Right photographs... I think. But they don't match the written notes... and there should be a tape recording as well, that seems to either have gone missing or never have been made at all."

By this time, Molly's heart was beating so hard against her ribcage that it hurt her. Warm nausea was rising, and she suspected that this was not pregnancy-related, for once. She looked into John's eyes, searching. But she saw nothing there but trust. "So… what are you saying?"

John took a deep breath, and seemed to hold it while he thought. "I don't know," he finally said. "I don't know… except… that this autopsy wasn't done on the man I saw… lying there…"

"Oh, John—"

"I have to talk to Greg this morning." He kissed her cheek, a little absently. "I'm sorry. I hope I won't be too long about it."

"You seem deep in thought over there."

A clergyman, clearly, even without the dog collar. Obvious from his shoes. Sherlock had been tucked up in a corner of the vestry, reading the Good Book; he put it down, almost embarrassed, though why a clergyman should object to his reading a Bible was beyond him.

The elderly, bespectacled, kindly man put his hand out for a quick shake. "Phillip Avery. I'm the head of the God Squad in these parts."

Sherlock grudgingly thought that he might like Phillip Avery, however much he disapproved of his chosen profession. Clever, placid, accepting. He reminded him of Mike Stamford—plus twenty years, minus twenty pounds.

"I was just reading," Sherlock muttered. "About Lazarus."

"Ah, yes. Gospel of John?" At hearing the name John, Sherlock flinched. "What did you think?" Avery asked him.

Sherlock fell silent, thinking. "I was wondering... how Lazarus felt about the whole thing," he said, picking his words carefully to match his feigned accent. "I reckon it must have been quite a shock for him to discover he wasn't dead after all. Hard to readjust."

Avery sat down and thought about this a while. "Yes, I believe you're right," he said at last. "I never thought of it that way before."

"I wonder if he ever really recovered, you know. Got back to things the way they were."

The elderly clergyman smiled. "Well, we can only speculate. But I'd say both yes and no. We humans like being alive, Mr. Yearsley. We're remarkably resilient in that respect. The will to live overpowers all others, and sometimes I wonder if that's right." He paused thoughtfully again. "But having something like that happen to you… no, I expect you'd never really be the same man again. And I don't think Lazarus's friends and sisters would have remained the same either. Not after the things they'd heard and seen. And felt. Resurrection is a game-changer, all right."

Sherlock seemed about to speak again when the verger, a rabbity, nervous man named Tait, suddenly popped his head through the vestry door. Sherlock liked him less than he liked Avery. "Sorry to interrupt," he said, in a way that reminded Sherlock unmistakably of Mrs Hudson. "But there's a call for you come through to the office, Mr Yearsley. Your brother, I expect."

If Mycroft was on that line… Mycroft would never be on that line. Sherlock had no idea where his brother was, but he knew that he would never do something that stupid. He rose and followed Tait into the little church office on the other side of the main hall. He picked up the phone, but let his withering gaze fall on Tait until he got the hint and left the room, shutting the door behind him.

"Yes," he growled into the receiver.

"Hello, Sherlock," said a thick, placid voice. "Just thought I'd drop you a line welcoming you back to London. How was the flight?"

"Long and arduous," Sherlock replied. "Congratulations, you've found me. Though you could have simply called my mobile instead of using the landline. Where do I meet you?"

"Meet me?"

"You've summoned me from halfway across the world with your quaint little letters. Very clever. And you know exactly where I am. Where do we meet?"

"I haven't decided that yet." A pause. "But when we do meet, do remind me that I've got something of yours you'll probably want back. Can you guess what it is?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes."

"Oh, and while you're there in Southwark taking refuge with the Holy Rollers, you may want to ask them about the Wedding in Cana. Just to help you get up to speed on what's been happening since you've been dead, Lazarus."

"Why would I want to ask them about the Wedding in Cana?"

"Exile's turned you into a bit of an idiot, hasn't it?"

Sherlock refused to bite the bait, so there was a very long pause. The two men listened to each other's breathing; one calm and measured, the other hitched and anxious.

"Went for a long, romantic walk with your friend Mrs Hudson, last night," the voice said. "Of course, I was the only one between us who knew it…"

"Now you listen to me you miserable f—"

There was a low chuckling down the line.

"Mrs Hudson has nothing to do with this," Sherlock seethed. "Haven't you heard I get a little put out when people threaten her?"

"Oh yes, I did hear about that." He was still chuckling. "And that was only when they hurt her..."

Sherlock drew a sharp breath. "I'm going to find you, Moran. And when I do, the state of Mrs Hudson—and the others—will determine whether I hand you over to the authorities or whether I kill you. And if you give me reason to kill you, I can promise you now that I will do so slowly and painfully, and with more satisfaction than you can ever imagine."

He slammed the phone down onto its cradle.

Stalking out, he found Avery sitting in the front pew, head bowed in prayer. He stopped short in confusion, and something approaching embarrassment, as if the idea that a clergyman might pray in a cathedral had never before entered his head. Finally, Avery lifted his head. "Mr Yearsley," he said serenely. "I was just praying for you." Sherlock suppressed the urge to protest. "Is everything all right?"

Sherlock exhaled. Avery would probably be a better source than his phone for this. "I need to ask you," he said slowly, "what you can tell me about the Wedding in Cana. What is it, a Bible story, I suppose?"

"Yes. A wedding that Jesus and his mother went to, early in his ministry. They ran out of wine for the guests, so Jesus's mother asked him for help, and he turned water into wine."

Sherlock had a feeling this was not what Moran had meant when he'd referred to the story. "Is there anything else... important about it...? Can you tell me anything about it, beyond what the Bible says?"

Avery looked puzzled. "Beyond? Well, we don't really know anything about it beyond what the Bible says, Mr Yearsley." He thought for a few moments in silence. "Ah, yes."

"Ah, yes, what?"

"One thing that might help you, perhaps. According to legend, that wedding was between John the Evangelist and Mary Magdalene."