A Cold Case

by O'Donnell

A haunted Sherlock Holmes, weakened by his descent into drugs to save John Watson, and fighting his way back to health after taking down Culverton Smith, is plunged back into the past thanks to Lestrade's cold case offerings. Back to his very first case. Never solved, but also never forgotten. The death of Carl Powers.

7. Chapter 7

A Cold Case Chapter 7

A wise man can always be found alone. A weak man can always be found in a crowd.

(Bruce Lee)

"Please, John. Come home."

And he deliberately brought his fevered forehead down onto the cool forehead of John Watson. And with that same careful deliberation the next five words came out hushed, spoken so close to the other man they were barely a whisper.

"Come home to me. Please."

There was a sudden stillness between them, and a silence that lasted too long. Sherlock Holmes' did not move. Just waited; his brain was trapped between breaths; there was nothing else he could do that would not be too much, And he was aware he was risking a punch in the face as it was.

As always, when trying to save. To protect. To keep the vow he had made at a wedding that now seemed so innocent, so alien, and so long ago now.

John Watson drew slowly back a little until meeting the resistance of the hands that had not let him go, breaking the contact between their heads as his hands came up, equally slowly, to cover those lean hands cupping his face so gently, and prise them away.

In that moment his reaction brought their bodies even closer together, gave the impression of two people holding hands, entwining, almost sharing a caress.

But his words belied that intimation of intimacy.

"What are you up to now, Sherlock? What's this about?"

"Up to nothing but good intent." He refused to respond in kind, release his usual acid tongue, his harsh objective assessment. His hands dropped naturally to John Watson's shoulders. "I only mean what I say. Don't I always?"

John Watson huffed out a short cynical laugh.

"Only when you feel like it. Only when it gets you what you want. So what do you want, Sherlock?"

There was a deep exhalation that was almost a shudder.

"I want you to come home. Be safe. Be happy again. Back home, here with me."

"Safe? Happy? What the fuck is 'happy' when it's at home?" He shook his head in something between disbelief and horror. Thought for a moment. Tried to reject the thought. Spoke the unspeakable anyway. "Are you….propositioning me?"

Their eyes met, azure blue, sea storm grey. And each were unreadable to the other.

"I don't know. Is that what a friend should do? When trying to help? Prove good intent? Is that really what I am doing?" He took a deep, slow breath.

"Is that what you want, John? If that's what you want, then that's what it can be."

There was an earnestness there, a simple and sincere intent, that threw the doctor into confusion and something like panic.

"Sherlock! Stop this!"

He reared back, and flung Sherlock Holmes' hands away from him, stepping back two paces, undecided about whether to be puzzled or angry, or just disturbed.

"Stop what? And why? If that helps you, John. Makes things right. Brings you and Rosie home. You did it before, when Mary ran away. Came back here. So why not ow?"

"I can't."

"Yes, you can! It makes sense, doesn't it?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Isn't it obvious? My wife is killed, my life goes to pot, I have a small child I can't cope with. So I should run back to Baker Street to be looked after by….what? Who? The only real adults in my life? An old lady and a drug addict? How pathetic is that?"

"The old lady is very special. And I'm not a drug addict. It's not pathetic, it's logical."

"Only to you. To anyone else it would look like an admission of defeat. Running back here ...and back to what? What would I be running back to, Sherlock?"

"Back to whatever you want and whatever you need. Because it makes sense. Why are you looking at the very idea as something shameful, like some admittance of defeat?"

"My God, you still don't see it, do you?"

"See what? A man who is too bloody uptight to admit he needs help from his friend? If I am still your friend. I…." he paused, and dipped his head. "Don't know if I am. Oh. Is that what this is about? Not about you admitting that life has dealt you a bad deal? But because you are too frightened to have people think the damaged doctor-soldier cannot live without his mad detective?

"That coming home will let everyone, every single nobody I couldn't give a fuck about, think we are back together after your attempt at being normal? That you are back here, shagging the freak? Just as they always thought!"

"Sherlock!"

"Deny it, then. Deny you daren't return to your only safe haven – yours and Rosie's – because you are terrified all those boring nonentities out there will assume you are gay. Desperate. Hopeless at trying to exist without me."

"I…." John Watson stepped back from the bitter onslaught, no less hurtful for being spoken so quietly by a stilled force of nature that was usually a whirlwind of thought and action. "Don't goad me."

Sherlock Holmes put his hands on his hips, gathered himself. He was too intent to be angry, to be hurt by attitudes other people would consider slurs.

"Goad you? How? People have been thinking you and I have been at it like rabbits for years. Why should that bother you now? Now you are older and allegedly wiser? Or is coming home like admitting defeat? Showing there is no-one else in your pathetic little life? That you can't cope? Something less than capable, less than adult?

"Tell me, John. Then I can fix whatever is bothering you."

"You can't….I can't…let you. Why should you? I've been horrible to you. Half kicked you to death, insulted you, ignored you. Even now, I…"

"Stop it. None of that matters. That ais the past. This is about now."

"Is it? What's brought this on, Sherlock? Why all this concern? I certainly don't deserve it."

Sherlock Holmes slumped before his eyes. Retreated into his mind palace. But John Watson was used to this. So he stood still in that cold damp basement. And he waited.

Meanwhile Sherlock Holmes fought an internal battle with himself. To explain – or not.

To be doubted – or believed. To be trusted – or scorned. To make himself vulnerable. Even more than he felt himself to be already.

He could tell John Watson his deductions about Rosie's new shoes. But how would that be received? With fear? Horror? Disbelief? Panic? Or scorn? Any one of those reactions could be enough to make the doctor walk away – finally remove himself from their friendship, from his protection.

Or to keep secret everything he knew, and everything he feared? Which would keep John Watson innocent and confident and unburdened - but unprepared; his guard down. Waiting for something to happen and his soldier's instinct to cut in; wait until it might be too late. Leave himself and his daughter deeply in danger.

And that would be his fault, and his fault alone. John and Rosie treated as something disposable, pawns in the game of a maniac. And John Watson had suffered that once before…..and he had seen the fear and closeness to death that had touched them both in a dark deserted swimming pool.

No. He would have to tell him. Take the risk of being treated like a pariah, an addict and obsessive, an idiot.

He dragged in a deep breath and lifted his head.

John Watson saw the light of battle, and of courage, in Sherlock Holmes' eyes then. And was instantly, instinctively on high alert.

"Go on. Tell me."

Sherlock Holmes had not expected that, fell back a pace. Was committed now.

"It's….it's " he stuttered. Started again, cursing his weakness. This was so not-not-not like him.

Get a grip, Holmes! Act like a reasonable adult, for once.

"Rosie's new shoes," he said.

They both looked at the tiny bright white trainers in the centre of the dull and dirty floor.

"What about them?"

"How they got here. You…you didn't leave them here yesterday, John. I would have seen them. Of course I would! This is me! So I…." He faltered.

"What are you trying to say? Get on with it."

"Don't shout at me, John. Please. This is hard enough….."

"What the hell is wrong with you? This isn't like you. Not at all."

"I know. But I said….I said at the start of the Culverton Smith thing; I told you. I can't do it. Not now. Not alone. I need…." He tossed his head, stamped a foot in frustration.

"You took those little shoes home with you yesterday, along with all the other shopping. Then somehow those shoes got here. Without any help from me or from you. The only answer to that is you were targeted. Burgled. The shoes removed from your home and brought here."

"What? Why would anyone do that?"

"To warn me, of course. Of their threat to you. To Rosie. And of course to me. Because of me."

"But who…?"

"Who do you think, you bloody idiot? Moriarty!"

John Watson turned away, dragged a hand through his hair, shook his head in denial.

"Sherlock! For crying out loud! Moriarty is dead! He has been dead for years! For God's sake, get a grip of yourself! You are scaring me!"

"Good! That will at least put you on your guard. Ready for more break-in attempts. Ready for him when he comes calling. Because he will come calling, John. He wants me dead. And he knows the best way to do that is to get to me - to weaken and taunt me – is through you and Rosie."

"You're mad. Those drugs have addled…."

"No they haven't! That's why I want you back here, you fool. So we can look after Rosie, you, and me, and Mrs Hudson, and Faithful. Because you must know by now Faithful is more than just a child minder.

"I will keep you both safe. If you are here. With me. So that at least I know….where you are and …."

"Stop it. Just stop it."

John Watson moved swiftly, bent and picked up the shoes. Stuffed a tiny trainer in each jacket pocket.

"I don't believe you, Sherlock. Oh, I don't doubt you believe every word, every thought, every bit of fevered logic running round your head. But no. This ain't happening."

He walked away.

For a moment Sherlock Holme could not gather his wits.

"John!"

Two stairs up from the bottom John Watson, despite himself, stopped, turned, waited once more.

"Believe me, John. I'm not wrong, I swear. And I made a vow, John. To keep you and Mary and Rosie safe."

"Yeah. I remember. And look what happened with that." He could not keep the bitterness out of his voice, or his face. And Sherlock Holmes looked, saw, and knew he had lost. Yet he ploughed on.

"So it is even more important I protect you both now. I am your friend, and Rosie is my goddaughter. I have an obligation…."

"Shut up. Just shut up." He shook his head as sadness and chagrin vied for priority. "Medication, Sherlock. Not drugs. See a doctor. Sort yourself out. You're getting embarrassing now."

"John, stop! You want to come home, you know you do. But you suffer from behavioural dysregulation. Self sabotage. You want to come home, but you don't think you deserve to come home because you blame yourself for wanting to kick me to death because it was my fault Mary died. I understand that. But I don't care; so it doesn't matter. Not to me. Just come home."

"You really are sick, Sherlock. God help you."

And he was gone.

"I'll sort out a builder, then!" The promise was a shout. "I'll get this flat habitable. Cosy. Beautiful, even! You'll see!"

The only reply was the outside door slammed shut with considerable force.

Only then did Sherlock Holmes allow himself to unbend, stagger four steps, put a hand to the wall in front of him and wait for the giddiness of effort and exposure to pass.

He had said it. He had had no alternative, in the end. He could not let the doctor continue in ignorance, let himself and Rosie be at risk without at least some warning. But he had just watched John Watson denounce him, step away from him towards inevitable danger and darkness, out from their friendship and their affinity.

But instead of being sad he was – he realised – illogically angry.

o0o0o

The fourth post mortem of the day had been long and detailed; as always when dealing with a young person who had apparently succumbed to Adult Sudden Death Syndrome. Her back was protesting and her shoulders hurt.

But she was suddenly aware of a presence in the viewing gallery, watching her intently.

She looked up, and was surprised to see Sherlock Holmes there, leaning hard into the safety rail, concentrating hard. Normally he simply invaded the morgue itself, appeared without apology at her elbow, peered at her work and bombarded her with questions. Learning, seeking, engaged.

To be doing the formal thing, remaining upstairs away from direct contact, the smells and the sounds of her trade, was unlike him.

She caught his eye, beckoned with one arm for him to come down, and smiled. He did not smile back, but pushed obediently away from the window and moved out of sight, appearing down in her clinical workspace two minutes later.

"I'm just finishing here. Meal break. Join me?"

He looked at her and nodded silently. Followed her to her office. Sat, uninvited, on the old office chair. Hands deep in pockets. As if patient, waiting.

"You look better than you did the other day," she offered neutrally. For something to say.

"You mean I have showered, shaved and washed my hair." He paused, thought, added: "I was not nice to you the other day. In the tea shop. Sorry."

"Nothing to apologise for," she said.

He watched her sit at her desk, open a drawer, take out a small hessian lunch bag, remove three paper bags. Open one - a BLT baguette. Which she cut in half with a scalpel.

"Not a used one," she said, reading his mind. "Well, not used on a body. Kept here for dissecting sarnies only."

"Well, that's good to know."

A tiny smile escaped from the gaunt face. And she sat back and looked at him properly now, pushing half the baguette, wrapped in a paper napkin, towards him.

"Eat," she commanded. And he did, without argument.

Surprised at his quiet compliance, she sat and watched him, not needing conversation.

He was avoiding her eyes, she could tell. Was too thin, even for him, with dark shadows under his eyes and something bent and beaten in his posture, usually so erect. His hands, she noted, were liable to tremble, and his lips kept tightening. He was not as elegant, nor as neat, as usual, looking uneasy and on edge to her, although would look as cool and in control as usual to anyone who knew him less well.

She took a Chelsea bun from another paper bag, ripped it in half, and again pushed one half towards him.

"When did you last eat?"

"Don't know. Not important."

"It is. You are still convalescent and have lost weight. Weight you can't afford to lose. I'll ask Martha to make sure you eat something nutritious."

There was a long pause.

"I don't deserve your friendship, Molly Hooper." The words were a whisper, and had cost him an effort to say.

"You'll just have to make do with it, then."

Her voice was calm, and quiet, and she kept looking at him until he lifted his eyes to look back at her. And then she smiled at him. It made him flinch.

"I didn't come here for your kindness."

"And yet."

"I came here to ask you about Jim Moriarty."

She froze, half a bun half way to her mouth.

"Oh, God. Is he back?"

He smiled at her then; the transformative little boy smile that appeared so rarely, and always melted her heart.

"Oh, Molly. You are supposed to shout at me in disbelief. Tell me I'm mad. Tell me he's dead." His face crumpled under her gaze, and his voice was soft, and odd, and a little distant. "That's what everyone else does."

"I would. But…." She shrugged. "You both died on the same day. Suicide. Tragic. Utterly convincing. But you weren't really dead. So why shouldn't Jim not really be dead too? It never made sense, him killing himself. With his mania? His ego? His competitiveness? No. I never quite bought it."

She suddenly wanted to cry for him, to move round the desk, drop to her knees, hug him better. But that would never help. Would make things worse. So she kept talking.

"And where's the body? Not until I cut him open…I have always thought… not until then…I won't believe he is dead. Because he can't be slippery under my scalpel." She put a cautious hand to her mouth, as if aghast at her own words. "There. I've said it."

"As always, you are a breath of fresh air. And I really don't deserve you."

"Stop repeating yourself. Just ask what you want to know."

"You went out with him three times, visits to pubs. Drinks and conversation. What did you talk about? What did he tell you about himself? I need…to know more about him. So I can find him."

"You expect me to remember that? After all this time?" It was a proper question, not an admonishment, and he understood that.

"You liked him, Molly. Were charmed by him. Introduced him to me because you wanted me to be charmed by him too."

"Did I do that? Yes, I suppose I did." She chewed pastry thoughtfully. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I put you in his sights. If I hadn't….everything could have been so different."

He leant forward, captured her eyes and her psyche with his intense gaze.

"No, Molly. You did no such thing, and I will not have you believe that. Jim Moriarty had had me in his sights for a long time before that; for years. I am only just beginning to understand how many. How long since he first targeted me. Getting his kicks playing his long game - getting Sherlock.

"But I assure you, with total certainty, he only came to work at Bart's, made friends with you and indicated romantic interest, as his way to get to me. Under my guard. Close.

"In the lab, that day you introduced him to me, he secretly slipped me his telephone number. Do you remember that? He played the downtrodden genius, geek to the freak, thinking he would be attractive to me. He wanted me to call him and make some assignation. He misread me. Misread who and what I am.

And how did he make that mistake? Why did he? An untypical misstep. So what did he know? Or thought he knew? He shook his head, to clear it of that dangerous line of thought.

Keep going!

"To get me alone. On his terms. To kill me at some point, certainly. To seduce me, definately. You were just his….." he hesitated to find the right word. "Camouflage? Decoy? Stooge? Feint left? Whatever."

"Yes," she said simply. "I see."

She was not offended, she was examining the problem.

"He was kind, attentive. Gentle. I was flattered. He was…" she grinned at him. "…a bit gorgeous. Like you in many ways. But you don't want to her that."

"Hmn. What did he tell you about himself?"

"Not a lot, really. He was - well, of course he was, with hindsight – really interested to find I knew you, worked with you. His interest in us both seemed flattering." She looked up at him, shrugged, quirked an ironic smile. "I was younger then."

"He said he had brothers. Lived north of the river. Talked about his work, how he had always been good at maths, computers. Just general chat, really. Looking back... I'm not sure now what was true, or was just him acting his role. Of Jim in I.T."

"So, what made you doubt he was dead? When everyone else believed?"

"No body," she replied immediately. "Who moves a dead body? Why was there no trace of blood after someone had shot himself in the head? Because someone cleaned up the blood in a hurry, and rendered any traces beyond testing by washing it away with caustic chemicals. Thorough. Knowledgeable. Premeditated, surely? Not just minions spiriting a corpse away.

"That takes planning. And then there was the fact the hospital's head of security, Peter Flynn, left his post that very day. He had resigned weeks before. The timing seemed far too coincidental to be coincidental. And he's never been seen again, either.

"No such thing as coincidence, Sherlock."

"Clearly not. I would have followed that up. But I was dead at the time."

"Yes. That is a bit of an impediment."

She grinned at him. And he grinned back. It seemed like a huge release of tension.

"Did you mention that to anyone?"

"What would have been the point? Investigation seemed ongoing by people who knew more than me. And I would be considered a biased hysterical female with a crush. On both of you, probably! And my opinion dismissed. But actually, all that only came together in my head as time went on."

"Yes. I understand."

"But?"

"I think - feel - Moriarty has decided to finally defeat me. He has laid low for years, building his new criminal organisation, I suspect. With a new identity. His fresh start. But while I am still alive I will always be the thorn in his side, his obsession.

"And now he's decided to finish it."

So he told her about the old mobile phone. The apple, the shoes, the strange reaction of Moriarty's mother and her veiled threats. And how no-one else believed any of it, that any of this had actually happened. Told her how he had been trying to check up on the victims Moriarty had used along the way; to find facts, make connections, dig out any clues. To find Moriarty.

"You have won out against shorter odds," she observed, encouraging and intent. Said finally: "I understand your approach. I don't know if he is dead or alive. But I agree – there must be someone who has the key so you can unlock the door. Either find him, or find the truth. But what has been happening to you is nebulous; lacks hard proof, and narrative.

"Do you have anything real, from that time, to focus on? His note, that phone number? Something concrete? He was trying to reach you, then. Get into your life. So there may be something he left behind. Some clue…"

He looked at her, eyes blank with concentration.

"There might be. I'm not sure….." He suddenly clapped his hands together, as if inspired.

"The body! The body you slung out of the window as me. The body that looked like me. What if that body being available was not simply a coincidence? We know the kidnap of the Bruhl children was part of a plan to slur and undermine me. That the children were terrified of me, even after I had rescued them.

"Lestrade had a theory the Bruhl children had been terrorised by someone who looked like me. So I would frighten them into silence just by being. What if the body we used was that person? Killed by Moriarty when his utility was over? What if that poor dead body ended up impersonating me twice?"

She looked at him incredulously. Leapt from her chair, crossed over to a grey filing cabinet. Drew out the bottom drawer, lifted it, peeled an anonymous brown envelope taped onto the underside, and answered the silent question he asked her.

"Those records got buried in the archives. But I took a copy. In case I ever needed it."

She opened the envelope. Read, reminded herself of details she already knew. Showed him the photograph of the young man so like Sherlock Hiolmes it had been his death warrant.

"The body was found in Addlestone the day you found the children, about a mile from the industrial estate where they were kept. At the time there was nothing to link the two events. Some would say there still isn't.

"So when we needed a body with a particular look – there he was. At the time….at the time you jumped… we had no identification. No wallet or personal papers on him, clothes with foreign labels. He looked like a hit and run victim. It was only after he had…..been your double… did we identify him through an Interpol missing person report.

"His name was Paul Gaston. French maths student, aged twenty six. Studying at the University of Paris-Saclay, but taking a short course at the linked Institute of Advanced Scientific Studies at Bures-sur-Yvette. So no-one missed him in either place for ages, thinking he was at the other. When he was actually in England."

"Maths. Again."

"Sorry, what?"

"Nothing. Carry on."

"Body eventually claimed by his parents. No-one knew what he was doing in England."

"Being a disposable Moriarty stooge."

"Yes, afraid so. Does knowing that help?"

"Not exactly. But makes things slot into place."

He crumpled his paper napkin, pitched it into the office bin, stood.

"I must go. Have an appointment out of town. But if anything else comes to mind….you will tell me?"

"Of course. I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"Not your fault. Nothing is your fault." He sighed, as if exhausted, pulled his shoulders back and forced himself erect. "This is all about me. About Fate catching up with me, if you like."

"No. It is about a maniac with an obsession. But you are not that maniac."

"No? Just mad, bad and dangerous to know." He crossed the room to the door, and she did not attempt to reply or to detain him. But he turned back anyway, nodded and smiled. "Thank you. For lunch. For moral support. Not much of that about at the moment…"

He sketched a small wave, and she lifted a hand and waggled her fingers at him.

"Always here. As and when needed," she replied simply.

And bent over her paperwork, suddenly too upset to watch him leave

o0o0o

"I needed to see you. Face to face. Because it all sounds too silly to try and explain on the telephone…." Elspeth McKenzie had been standing at her sitting room window, waiting for him to arrive. So by the time the old Land Rover had drawn to a halt by her gate, she was standing at the open front door, looking worried, wringing her hands.

"That's OK. Don't worry. I trust your instincts." He was talking even as he strode up the path towards her, reassuring. Patted her shoulder, instilling confidence. And he felt all the tension within her immediately evaporate.

"I'm not an instinctive detective, like you," she admitted. "It's jolly hard work, isn't it?"

He laughed then, grinned at her despite himself.

"You have no idea," he said wryly; and that made her laugh as she took his hands in hers.

"Hello," she replied, remembering her manners. "Thank you for coming."

"No. Thank you for helping."

He allowed himself to be ushered into the little gatehouse. The cosy sitting room was just as he remembered it, old fashioned dusky pink carpet, overflowing bookshelves, a collection of sulphur pressed glass. Except there was a roaring fire this time, and a pile of dusty archive boxes in one corner.

"You look as if you have been busy."

Yes, indeed." She ushered him politely into an armchair by the fire and sat down opposite him.

There was a tea tray on the side table, a hand knitted cosy on the teapot. She poured Darjeeling into porcelain cups without asking and told him to help himself to milk and sugar, to home made Grantham gingerbread biscuits.

Once they had both settled, she began talking without being bidden.

"I needed to see you, to explain…." She began. And he nodded. He understood.

I had my list of surnames and subjects. So the first thing I did was check the school records for pupils of those names. Everything is on computer now, of course. I thought it would be simple.

"But however long I looked, however far back I went, I could not find any pupil – or even staff member – with any of those names you gave me. That threw me. But you had been so convinced, so adamant….I applied some thought to the problem.

"I realised an expert computer hacker can get into any website, any file. So what if the important name had been removed? If someone, already proved devious, intent on being naughty, was covering their tracks? I thought about the problem, and I became a detective, Mr Holmes. I raided the basement storeroom for back copies of the school magazine. And I trawled."

"So sorry, Miss McKenzie. That was a lot of work."

"Yes, indeed." She smiled down into her teacup. "But such fun, despite the very serious purpose. So much to read, to prompt the memory of times past. It was a total delight, actually. Although perhaps I should not admit that?"

She twinkled a conspiratorial little grin towards him, put her cup and saucer aside, picked up a bundle of magazines by her chair.

"A very limited publication, you see. Just for pupils and staff, three times a year. School news, gossip, events, prizewinners, sport scores, internal chatter. And a handy little column of comings and goings. So, as I had no real idea of timeframe, I worked backwards. Box after box. Then I found this…."

She leant forward, offered a magazine to him, a page marked with a pink slip. Read where she pointed.

Under the heading 'Comings And Goings' he read about two teachers leaving, a gardener retiring, a school cook's wedding anniversary, and then: "We also said goodbye to Joanna Moriarty. Although only a year with us, Joanna made a strong impression, representing the school in three chess competitions, engaging strongly with guest lecturers, especially Mr Kelly and Mrs Holmes. Joanna will continue her studies in Europe, at her uncle's alma mater."

He read the little paragraph three times before he believed it; saw the magazine was the Easter edition, a term when there was usually little pupil interchange at private schools.

"Miss McKenzie, you are a genius," he said. "I never expected you to find anything….."

She blushed daintily at the compliment.

"In plain English, what do you read between the lines from that?"

"Pupils never usually stay here for such a short period; they love it here. I would normally say this indicated she did not settle. But she was old enough, and clever enough, to hold her own. Certainly talented to make such an impression in such a short time, represent the school. And clearly self confident enough to argue with guest speakers. I suspect she was not liked." She paused, tried a delicate enquiry of the exhausted looking man before her.

"I don't suppose…wouldn't think…that speaker – Mrs Holmes - could have been any relation?"

"I…think…." He sounded distant, punch drunk. Face blank, brain working. "I think that speaker would have to have been my mother."

"Oh!"

"She has always campaigned for women having careers in mathematics, like she did. Always undertaken lecture tours, encouraging young people."

"Oh, I see. So you know this Joanna Moriarty person?"

"Not exactly. But I know her son." He hesitated; he could see her face clear into understanding, about to say 'oh, that's nice.' But he stopped her before she could. "Because he was the person responsible for the kidnap of the Bruhl children."

"Oh, my goodness," she said. Put her hand delicately to her lips. Thought rapidly.

"So you think….he chose St Aldate's to find his victims as some weird revenge on his mother's behalf? Because she did not like it here?"

"An interesting and plausible theory."

"Oh, my goodness," she repeated.

"There was no trace of her son ever being here?"

"No pupil with any of the names you listed. But if he had removed his mother's name from school records, then he would have removed his own as well. One would assume?"

"Hmn. And you have no idea of the identity of this European uncle mentioned?"

"I'm sorry…"

She watched him slump physically back into the chair. Lost in thought.

"All this….." she ventured hesitantly. "It's important, isn't it? Not just chasing some theory, tying up loose ends?"

He looked up at her. Silent and assessing. And she looked back without apology, recognising that behind the handsome and haughty man sitting at her fireside there remained within a lonely, haunted child with an intelligence that drove his psyche and exhausted his soul.

"No."

"Thought so. You look – if I may say so – tired and….rather troubled." The probe was delicate, and it made him laugh.

"Could say that, yes."

"Anything more I can do? To help?"

"You have already been more than generous."

"Perhaps. But I don't like puzzles either. Especially when they upset people. Good people," she said emphatically.

"Hmn." Nodded; present, but miles away from her.

"No chance of being able to find a classmate? Who may remember her? Any tiny detail might help…..to define the connections."

"I can find no trace of what year she was in. That's not the sort of detail one sees in school magazines." She watched his mouth tighten, in exhaustion and defeat. "But I will give the problem some thought. And if I come up with anything, I will let you know."

"Thank you."

"I can see it is desperately important to you….but don't despair. I will do my best."

"I don't doubt it. Miss McKenzie, you are a marvel. But I am running out of places to look."

o0o0o

There was someone in the kitchen. Making tea. For a moment he dared hope it was John, back to apologise, back here to change his mind, to come home. But the self indulgence of such wishful thinking was extinguished in microseconds.

Quiet, economical movement as opposed to John Watson's clatter, no soft murmuring between father and baby daughter, snug in her sling on his chest as he worked. Just the clean bergamot aroma of Valentino V cologne.

Mycroft.

"What are you doing here?" Peeved interrogation before he had even closed the door behind him. Result of a busy day, exhausting, distracting, full of possibilities or probabilities, hope and hazard. "Could you stop wandering in and out of my accommodation as if you have a right to be here? You were not invited."

"If I waited for an invitation I would wait forever."

The imperturbable reply was followed moments later by the entrance of an elegant older brother carrying two mugs of tea. One of which he placed by the grey Bauhaus chair before sitting in the overstuffed Victorian armchair still usually identified as John Watson's.

"Yes? And?"

His brother's silent censure was more irritating than usual today, and they both knew it.

"It seemed prudent to check you remain alive and functional."

"Oh? Does that mean you acknowledge Moriarty's threat is real? Not a figment of my imagination?"

"I didn't say that."

"In which case there is no point in you being here."

Mycroft Holmes sighed, sipped tea.

"There is an east wind coming, Sherlock."

"And east winds always bring destruction. Your point?"

"I worry about you. This Moriarty obsession."

"Not my obsession. I just know him better than anyone else."

"He's dead."

"So you say. I, on the other hand, am not so gullible."

They glared at each other. Mycroft Holmes broke first.

"Moriarty was the most dangerous and destructive criminal I have ever encountered. Would you agree?"

"Of course. Why else would I spent two years destroying his network?" He paused to drink tea. "And my life. I should not need to remind you of that."

"What disturbed me then was his obsession with you. He pursued you, plotted against you, for years. The artwork scam alone cost him, by his own admission, thirteen million pounds. He wrote your name obsessively in graffiti – from the Tower of London display case to any cell which held him."

"Your point being?"

"When he shot himself all that stopped. Does that not speak for itself?"

"He plays a long game. Delights in the game for it's own sake."

"No." That long, drawn out single syllable, that indicated irritation at humouring a child with a smaller brain. "The question is this: why is – was – he so obsessed with you?"

"I don't know."

Mycroft Holmes relaxed infinitesimally, lifted an eyebrow.

"How did he know you in the first place?"

"The Carl Powers case….."

"Perhaps. But how did he know that pushy child William, who annoyingly did not believe Carl' Powers' death was an accident, was in fact the same person as the detective called Sherlock, who he latched onto almost twenty years later?"

"I….I don't know."

"Imperfect answers, brother mine. Don't you know? Or don't you remember?"

"I…..I don't…" His voice stuttered to a halt. He tried again. "Or if… there is….anything…to remember?"

He put the tea down to stop his shaking, and it sloshed onto the side table. They both ignored the mess.

"If there is anything to remember – you should remember - if anyone does." Mycroft's voice was remorseless.

"Yes, I…." He tried to pull himself together. Needed something to occupy his hands. Stop them shaking. Regretted having put the tea down. "Why are you doing this? Undermining me? Doubting?"

"Because I need to know. Not only where you think this quixotic mission of yours to find a dead man is going, the damage it may be causing, but what the hell you think you are doing? Where did all this all come from, Sherlock? Is any of it is true? Or real?"

"Oh, God. Not this again! I've told you; the phone, the apple…."

"Not hard proof, however. Why should I believe this isn't all in your head? Hallucinations from all the drugs you ingested to get Culverton Smith, to save John Watson? Fever dreams? Stress displacement delusions? Schizophrenia, even."

"Because I know it's not!"

Mycroft talked on, ignoring his brother's protestations.

"You have even dragged Mummy into your crazed world. How could you do that? This isn't her problem…"

"She told you? That she was backtracking her past contacts for me?"

"Not in the way you mean. Unlike you, I speak to her regularly. When we spoke last night she told me simply because she assumed I would know. That you would have shared such information with your brother."

"And why would I do that? When you do nothing but decry and demean me?" He drew a hard breath, put into words the thoughts that haunted him. "But what if all this does involve her, Mycroft? Professional mathematics seems a constant in this thing. So what if I'm right? I need to know….the truth. Someone has to protect her…."

"Stop it! Just stop now! Can you hear yourself? Manic ramblings, mad ideas!"

They were both standing, suddenly. Facing each other across the hearth rug, shouting.

"You want me to be mad! You want me back in rehab, don't you? So I can't embarrass you? Or get under your feet! You've done that before! This putting me away thing!"

"Calm down. You had dropped out of Cambridge. Were living on the streets, doing drugs and God only knows what else I prefer not to think about. You were at death's door when I found you in that drugs den. Do you remember that? Any details?"

"I. Don't. Remember…."

He swallowed swiftly rising panic. Clutched his head. Stepped away from the hearth to the window. Buried a fist in the heavy damask curtain.

"You don't know much at all, then. Do you?"

The scathing voice followed him, relentless.

"Leave me alone, Mycroft!"

"I would if I could! But look at you! Sweating and dishevelled, clearly at the end of your tether. In fact you look almost as bad now as you did then. And God only knows where your brain's gone."

"Solving a problem. Meeting a threat." He stared out into the street, watching real life through the glass, moving on Baker Street below. It seemed unreal. "I don't care about me, but I can't let this touch our mother. And your constant nagging and bleating just undermines me!" He refused to turn back into the room, upset and frustrated. " Can't you see that? You want me to be wrong. And mad. Why do you want me to be mad?"

"I don't want you to be mad! Or wrong! I want you to be right! Whatever right is. But I fear…..you are delusional….and don't know the difference any more."

"Oh, please!" The scorn in his voice had his older brother step forward, grasp him by the arm, shake it, spin him so they faced each other. It was hard to tell which of the two was most upset.

"Don't touch me, Mycroft!" He wrenched his arm away. "You always have to be the one that's right, don't you?"

"Oh, if it was as simple as that, you idiot." Mycroft Holmes stepped back a single pace. "I don't want you dead! Don't want you killing yourself seeking dangers that aren't there. And I'd rather see you alive in hospital in a strait jacket than dead and in a coffin."

His brother was breathing heavily, fighting to control anger and despair and tears. But his face was controlled, his voice distilled ice.

"Cremation, Mycroft, cremation. I've done the graveyard bit, remember?"

"Oh, yes." The older brother hid his shock and hurt behind the sharpest barb. "And if Moriarty really is back…what a waste of time all that was."

The sudden stillness and silence was untenable.

"God, I hate you."

"Perhaps. But it's my job as your brother to keep you real. And to tell you this: do not involve Mummy."

"But what if she is involved anyway? In danger for reasons we don't know yet? Or understand? There is a common thread in this, and it is mathematics. And she…."

He had been going to explain about Miss McKenzie and St Aldate's. But was too angry, too hurt; and realised now was not the time. Not to have any chance of being believed

"Oh, just shut up for once. And do all three of us a favour. Park this for now. Just for a week or so. Until you are feeling and looking better, being more rational."

"But what if I haven't got a week? What if there really is the threat I think there is? Not just to me, but to our mother, as well? I didn't expect…."

"Stop it, Sherlock. This isn't funny any more."

"Damnation! It never was, Myc."

Unable to battle his brother any longer, he strode quickly across the room. Ripped the scarf and Belstaff from their hook.

"Where are you going now?"

"Out. I have proof to find. And you're obviously never going to help me. Nobody is."

"Sherlock….."

"Except our mother. She might. But then, I'm told that's what mothers do." He donned the coat, hard sharp motion, buttoned it tight up to his throat. "Still not sure what brothers are supposed to do."

He smiled, that hard, artificial smile that put Molly Hooper's teeth on edge. Slammed out of the door, ignoring the way his name was ripped from his brother's throat in protest.

O0o0o

The familiar solid Victorian front door opened to his knock. And he instinctively took a step back.

"You again. Can't you stay away? So what is it this time?"

Yet she did not seem angry at him, not this time – oddly amused if anything.

She stood on her front doorstep, hair loose around her shoulders, indigo denims and espadrilles, burgundy canvas Cornish fisherman's smock. She leant against the door jamb, and although she seemed relaxed, her hands worked softly together in the large pouch pocket of the oversized top.

Neurosis? Nerves? Absent minded tic? Habitual twitch? Hmn.

"I want you to give a message to your son."

"I should ask you which one. Except they are all dead, of course."

She was calm, composed, considered herself in control, and superior. That realisation almost gave him a moment of doubt; until he decided that was the normal Moriarty mindset. So, like mother, like son. Of course it was.

"So you say." His voice was implacable disbelieving.

She smiled at him.

"I really should be annoyed with you, Sherlock Holmes. But you are amusing, and I'm starting to pity you. You're mad."

"Hmn….." he played up to her mood, "You may think so. But I still know a hawk from a handsaw. And I know about being dead. Been there, done that myself. Death can be a bit…" he waggled a hand, beamed at her. "…mutable."

This time she frowned. It felt like a rush of victory to have achieved that.

"You are mad."

He ignored her this time.

"Tell your son…tell Jim….that if he wants to attack me, to just come out and do it. Tell him to stand up, man up, stop playing childish games and face me."

She shrugged. Smiled at him again, smiled as if at a simpleton. "Hard to do. When you are dead."

"That's not what you said before. So here is the news, just in case you have a direct line to any of your dead boys. Psychic. Or not." He looked her in the eye, unblinking. "Especially Jim, of course."

"No games. No more little messages. No gifts or meaningful trinkets."

"Haven't a clue what you are talking about."

"Really? You have no time for their little keepsakes? Carl's swimming trophies? Ricky's showreel? Jim's naughty little penknife? Not even old school magazines?"

"School magazines?"

"Yes. You know, a record of all those vivid memories of your schooldays. Hockey matches, special assemblies. Gossip, chatter, visiting speakers you didn't like, that sort of stuff."

"You are mad."

"Nope. But I have been reading old copies of St Aldate's School magazine. Surely you remember that? St Aldate's School?"

She took a beat too long in replying. And he realised that had surprised her, and that had hit home.

Bless you, Miss McKenzie!

"But you didn't like that school did you? Only stayed a year. No-one understood you, did they? An old fashioned faith school like that, it wouldn't have time for ego, self entitlement, a child more argumentative than appreciated, and in the end just not as gifted as she thought she was."

"So when dear Jamie was planning his great game and was looking for a couple of kids to kidnap, the first place he looked to find his victims was your old school. A spiteful bit of delayed revenge for his mummy."

She did not strike back at his goading with a retort, reveal anything he so wanted to know. Her mouth remained a tight firm line, but her hands continued to turn slowly – clearly some sort of nervous or angry tell - within the smock's pouch pocket.

"Wherever do you get these wild ideas from?

"Not a wild idea at all. Research. Oh, I am sure Jamie felt he had covered your tracks and his little path of revenge against your old school by hacking into school records and making you disappear, but the devil is always in the detail."

He lifted his head. His belief in his theory had grown as he spoke; and her silence seemed in itself evidence of the truth of it.

"Even the school magazine recorded your arrogance, how you challenged all the guest speakers, whether their subject matter was God, games or geometry."

"Rubbish. You have a wild imagination."

"Do I, though? When I was here before you made a strange comment about my mother. Could have been the sort of general sarcastic jibe anyone might make when sniping wildly, of course.

"But it didn't feel like that. And lawks-a-mercy; it turned out my mother came to St Aldate's as a guest speaker. A renowned maths specialist, a genuine child genius who held the line as an adult, rose to awards and even greater acclaim. Just like you wanted for yourself, was it?"

He smiled at her and she watched him. Silently, that small fixed smile still on her face.

"Jealous, were you? Confronted by someone who had actually achieved everything you wanted to become? And who happened to be beautiful and charming with it. So you just had to try to score a point over her, didn't you, to prove you were better?" He laughed then, shook his head and looked away in amusement. "Many people have resented my mother for her ability and her beauty. But no-one has ever wiped the floor with her. She…"

He was deep into his analysis, knowing suddenly he was completely, indisputably right. When he suddenly stopped short, as if struck over the head by a blow. He reeled back, stunned. His head whipped round.

"What? No!" A denial spoken low. And then a single cry of denial.

"What's wrong with you now?"

"Didn't you hear it?"

"Hear what?"

"Him. Jim. It was Jim!"

"You are mad. Jim's dead."

"No. No, he's not. I just heard…"

"Heard what?"

"He said…he said…"

Sherlock Holmes whirled round again, but there was still nothing to see but a quiet residential Highgate street without so much as a cat prowling past. No manic hanging from a window, laughing and pointing.

He turned back to Joanna Lake, tense, fists clenched by his sides, drawn up to his full height.

"Jim said - he just said: " Ah, Sir Boast-A-Lot. How brave you are. But I am your weakness. Your virus in the data. " And then he laughed and he said: "Come and play." It was him. I know it was him."

"Your imagination is quite extraordinary, you know that?" she said. "Hearing voices, now? Quite mad. You are quite mad."

And she laughed then. It was not a good laugh, but cynical and superior, mocking, without humour.

"I heard it, I tell you! And you must have heard it!"

He stepped forward, peering past her and into the house, looking along the tiled hall down into the kitchen.

"He's in there! Tell me he's in there!"

"How many times do I have to tell you, you basket case? He's dead!"

With a roar of something like anger but might have been pain, he stepped over the threshold into the house, and would have brushed her aside if she had not stepped back against the wall, giving way to him.

"Go and look then!" A mocking challenge, full of confidence and bravado. "See for yourself if you won't believe me."

And so he did. He would have anyway.

He rushed into the house, almost running along the hall through to the kitchen, turned the key in the back door to prevent anyone's escape, clutched the key in his hand, but only after he had flung the door wide and looked outside. But the small plain garden was empty, without shed or arbors or hiding places. He slammed and secured the door.

Ran back, deep into the house, through the sitting room like a whirlwind, into the dining room and study, to only find all the ground floor rooms neat and empty, with no hidden spaces large enough for Jim Moriarty to hide.

He went up the stairs like a whirlwind, two stairs at a time, feeling sweat on his face, calling out: "Jim! Come out, Jim and face me! I dare you! Jim!"

He paced the landing, calling and calling, unable to stop, flung open bedroom doors – the elegant master bedroom, three untouched boy's rooms that still looked like the individual refuges of very different teenagers; a guest bedroom, lumber room, another study cum workroom – peering under beds, inside wardrobes, behind curtains and armchairs, looking for an adversary and secret doors.

Reluctant to admit defeat, panting with reaction, he lingered to catch his breath and wait for inspiration in the small back bedroom that contained nothing but suitcases, boxes of discarded books and a battered coffee table, looking out of the window onto the patio and strip of grass below.

He heard her climb the stairs slowly behind him, felt her pause in the doorway, and the small shudder against the wall as she leant against the door jamb.

"Satisfied?" she asked. Arch, amused, smug.

"Where is he?"

She shrugged, "Six foot under for all I know. Where you should be."

"He's alive. After me. Persecuting me."

"And yet. Nowhere to be seen."

"No, Nowhere to be seen." He rounded on her, head high. "Do tell him I called. When you see him. At the gates of Hell if not sooner."

"Where you will be waiting for him, no doubt."

She extended a hand and patted his arm in a mockery of empathy.

"I think you have outstayed your welcome, Mr Holmes. Go home now, and take your medication."

There was no answer to that.

So he walked past her without so much as a glance to the side. Down the stairs and out of the front door. He did not bother with the politeness of closing it behind him.

He paused, half turned, flicked the back door key from his hand towards the house, where it skittered along the hard hall floor.

And then he heard her laughter, which followed him down the garden path.

Heard it as he turned onto the street, head spinning, unable to feel his feet although he could hear them slapping down onto the pavement. Totally and utterly humiliated….and yet with that unforgettable lilting Irish voice echoing mockery in his head….. I am your weakness….I am your weakness…..

By the time he reached Highgate tube station at the top of the hill he was walking fast, then somehow running as he headed right, downhill along Archway, under the elegant curve of Suicide Bridge, stumble running down the steep hill, sometimes almost falling, sweating yet cold, breath and heart burning.

Mad….mad…mad….mad.

I am mad….mad…mad….mad.

The words beat an endless rhythm in his head – louder and faster - with every step he took.

By the time he reached the Angel he was labouring for breath, weak and giddy with effort. But at the entrance to the tube station he could go no further. The lining cardboard of a tomato box, blown along the street from the market, slid under his feet, and he automatically bent and clutched it, placed it against one of the station columns, hesitated and stopped and simply faded. Slid down onto it to sit on the ground, folding his legs tight into his body.

The street was busy, and perhaps because of that no-one took any notice of him, as was the way in London. He put his feet close together, drew his knees up, pulling the Belstaff automatically tight around him, wrapped his arms around his legs, dropped his throbbing head down onto his knees. Shut his eyes against the sparkling stars behind his vision and against the whole world.

It took a long time for his breathing to slow. And it was only when he registered that the knees of his trousers were damp did he realise he had been crying for some time.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Author's Notes:

Sulphur Glass: a form of cheap pressed glass made in England in the early years of the C20th, and bright yellow in colour. Now highly collectable.

Faithful: The Maggie Driscoll security operative who gave child care to Rosie Watson in the earlier story, Meet Me In Samarra.

"Mad, bad and dangerous to know." Lady Caroline Lamb's assessment of her sometime lover, poet Lord Byron.

"I still know a hawk from a handsaw." Hamlet, of course. Who also dealt in madness, and the perception of it..

Suicide Bridge: Is the local name for the Hornsey Lane Bridge over Archway Road where Highgate Hill rises steeply, after three suicides in close order, although there have been many over the years. Controversial anti suicide fencing was recently installed.

The Angel, Islington is a famous landmark, tube station and area of north London named after a long time coaching inn. If the name seems familiar, Benedict Cumberbatch played s character, The Angel Islington, in the BBC audio recording of Neil Gaiman's fantasy drama Neverwhere.