CHAPTER 14: SHE LIKES TO WATCH HIM DANCE

TUESDAY, APRIL 17, 2015

Not long ago, John had believed she was dead.

The last time he had seen her—it seemed a lifetime had passed—they had been standing together in the sitting room of 221B. Sherlock was there too, though not really: he was lost in his mind palace, seated in his leather armchair by the fire, as still as a statue, as inscrutable as Sanskrit, and as insentient as his laptop. In other words, his normal state, when he was working on a problem. John had no patience for it. Or rather, he had no patience for her. Sherlock may have fallen admirer, but John felt like his skin was crawling with cockroaches every time she opened her mouth to deliver a half-snide, half-simpering remark as she tried to best Sherlock at his own game. He couldn't explain his distaste of her, even to himself, and he thought, begrudgingly, though with little repentance, that perhaps he was being unfair. She was a provocateur, mostly. Not evil. Not the kind of evil that would grab you off the street, strap five pounds of Semtex to your chest and treat you like a marionette doll to torment your friend. Nevertheless, he had no desire to spend any solitary time with the woman. And because she was evidently intent on sticking around, he did not. It seemed harmless. She seemed harmless.

When he returned much later that night, neither she nor Sherlock was at home. The next morning, Sherlock announced in a monotone that she had been arrested. Then he retired to his room for the rest of the day. John believed him to be, at best, sulking at the loss of a playmate. At worst, he was heartsick. It had been Mycroft Holmes, some weeks later, who told John she was dead. Executed. For the first time, John felt sorry for her. Despite his unspecified dislike of her, he had not wished her dead.

But that was then. Much had changed.

'The chair, Dr Watson.'

She had not come alone. There were six men in the room with her. Two flanked either side of the door, at John's shoulders, and carried Monadnock batons. Two more stood on either side of Irene Adler and Dr Thompson, and John could tell by the way their jackets hung that each carried a firearm in shoulder holsters. A fifth stood by the desk, and the last by a chair placed in the very centre of the room, empty. A chair that had been set there especially for him.

Oh, and a seventh. He understood now. The man with Naomi was holding her hostage. He was their alarm bell.

Irene stood imperious. She wore a dress of severest black, a high collar juxtaposing a sharply dipped neckline, a tapered waist, a hem at the knee, and shiny stilettos. A long chain hung around her neck and disappeared into her cleavage. Not exactly a day look. At the cottage, Moran had appeared dishevelled and manic, a devolution from the self-possessed and calculating man who had first greeted John when they had dragged him into a basement kitchen and wrangled him into a folding metal chair. Irene, on the other hand, was as dignified and domineering as a queen. She held a gold pistol as comfortably as if it were a hand fan. But it was pointing at Ella.

By all measures, Ella appeared composed—knees together, hands folded in her lap, chin level. But the backlighting from the large window and her own dark skin made it difficult for John to make out her true expression.

John felt paralysed. Last time, he had been set upon, dragged away, forced into the dungeon. This time, he had just strolled right in. Fluorescent lights flickered above his head. He twitched. Tried to breathe. No, no. There were no fluorescents in here. Ella used standing lamps only, and they were all providing steady illumination. A trick of the mind, just like the sudden odour of stale standing water and the chill that crept up the skin of his back. In your head. In your head. How much of it? Just some, or all? He shook his head to clear it and focused on what he knew to be true: he was not yet detained. Still, his feet were as though stuck to the floor.

He had the power to do only one thing: check the faces of each man for Sebastian Moran. But he wasn't there.

'You can run, of course.' His eyes snapped back to Irene Adler, who cocked an eyebrow at him. 'I won't stop you. Run back to Sherlock, tell him I'm back in London, warn him. But you won't do that, will you?'

Irene ran a hand down one of Ella's braids, pushed it behind her ear. A slow smile spread across her lips.

'Don't touch her,' John said, finding his voice.

'Then sit.' Irene withdrew her hand. 'I'm not here to hurt you, John.' She spoke his name like it was sour on her tongue. 'But if you don't cooperate, I will hurt her. I'm the one holding the cards. Remember the last woman who suffered because you couldn't cooperate? Do we get to travel that road again?'

His thudding heart now sank a little deeper. Just like that, he'd been trapped. Was his defeat so easily accomplished? After all he'd suffered and survived, was it all so easily undone? Was he so easily undone? But what choice was there? He couldn't run. He couldn't fight. He couldn't call for help or warn Sherlock or do anything useful at all. One wrong move on his part, just one, and Ella was as good as dead. That couldn't happen. He couldn't let that happen. So he stepped further into the room. Behind him, one of the men moved to close the door. John glanced over his shoulder and saw Naomi a short distance away, watching him, a tear sliding down her cheek. The door closed.

He halted when he saw a bundle of zip ties in one man's fist.

'Don't tie me down.' He lifted a hand to ward them off as a surge of panic rose in him.

'Tell him not to fight me,' Irene said to Ella, continuing to stroke her hair.

Ella said nothing. Closer now, eyes adjusting to the dim, John could see the blood trickling down her chin from a split lip, the drops staining her lap.

John's rage began to uncoil. It was almost an act of defiance, now, sitting in that chair, simply so Irene didn't have the satisfaction of forcing Ella to tell him to do anything. He sat, and with no resistance but a hard expression, he let the men zip tie his elbows and wrists to the arms of the chair, and his ankles to the legs. He waited for one of them to punch him, for the chair to tip and for the crash to the ground to ring in every bone. But no one touched him, only to reach inside the pocket of his jacket and steal his phone. Irene held out her hand for it.

'Shall we call him?' she said teasingly.

John glared straight ahead, only once chancing a glimpse at Ella, wherein he tried to convey his remorse.

'What do you say, John?'

'Fuck you.'

Irene smiled coquettishly, but her eyes were black as night. Then she passed his phone to her nearest henchman, who dropped it into his pocket.

'John Watson, John Watson. John, John, John.' She stepped forward menacingly, leaving the gun and Ella to the grip of another stooge. 'That's all I hear anymore, it seems. You're quite the puzzle. So many people are simply obsessed with you. Sherlock, of course, but that's old news. And it's not just him, is it?'

She lifted a finger to trail down the side of his face; he leant his head away, just out of her reach.

'I've watched the footage, of course. Some of my people, they can't stop watching it. Everyone wants a piece of you. But I just don't see it. God knows I've tried. Of all the kinks and fantasies I've indulged in my line of work, you'd think nothing could shock or perplex me. But you.' She tossed her head and laughed. 'Give me the freaks, the sadists, something I can understand! But you! You're just so plainly pedestrian, the most ordinary man I've ever known. And I've known so, so many.'

She reached again for his face; this time, her nails latched onto the side of his neck. A thumb grazed the scars of two puncture wounds. She grinned.

'Despite appearances, you must make for a bloody good shag.' Her fingers flattened against his skin, almost caressing. 'Or are you the gentle lover? That's it, isn't it? People do get so awfully sentimental about their first. Sherlock is no exception.'

'Don't touch me,' he said, breathless with anger.

'Don't spoil you, is that what you mean? Sweetie, after the way Daz took you? Over, and over, and over again. You're already thoroughly wrecked, inside and out.' She dragged her fingers away and held out her hand, palm up, toward one of her men without taking her eyes off John. Her man placed a handkerchief there, and she began cleaning her hands. 'They call you the Spanner. Did you know?'

He didn't care. He wanted her to stop talking. He couldn't think when she was talking, and he needed to think. The terror was rising in his him. Images of the convent flashed before his waking eyes, thoughts of Moran and Daz and whistling and peppermint, and he couldn't think. He looked to Ella for help, for some sign or cue to help him remember how to keep his mind, but his vision was clouding over, and he couldn't see her properly.

'The Spanner in the Works, that's what Jim called you, back in the good old days. It's caught on. They all call you that now. Know why?'

She curled her fingers into his hair and pulled his head back, forcing him to look up.

'Because you always seem to spoil the best-made plans. Don't you? Jim tried to murder Sherlock via a cabbie driver, just to prove he could. Then John Watson comes along, waltzing in unexpectedly like a cat off the street, and he takes out the cabbie. Maybe the police never knew who fired that shot, but Jim knew. It was always hard, fooling Jim. But you. You surprised him. He didn't expect you to try to sacrifice yourself for Sherlock, that night at the pool. It excited him. I could tell, the way he talked about it. He thought he could destroy Sherlock by dismantling his mind. You proved that the surest way was by destroying his heart. It's the best way, isn't it? The only way.'

Without slackening her grip on the short hairs of his head, she inclined her face closer, too close—he could smell her breath. 'You stood in my way, too, back then. I admit it. I so dearly wanted Sherlock's attention, but I couldn't have it, not all of it, because he was so busy trying to impress you. A spanner in the works indeed. You distracted Seb from his primary mission, and even took out his favourite foot soldier. And today, you're at it again!'

He swallowed, but it was hard, given the stretch of his neck. 'What do you want?'

'What do I want?' She simpered. 'Do you really have to ask? What I don't want is you, but here you are. Now with Big Brother out of the way, Sherlock is finally exposed. I came today for Sherlock, and I got you. Today, I was going to win the game, ahead of schedule, and I. Got. You.'

She squeezed his hair forcefully and threw his head back as she finally let go.

He closed his eyes, afraid to open them, afraid that somehow she would read the truth in them, that Mycroft was alive.

'But I'll make it work. I'm adaptable. I've always been adaptable. What do we use spanners for, John Watson? To fix leaky pipes? To bash men's heads in? Or just'—she grasped both of his pinned forearms, dug her nails into his skin, and wrenched the arms in opposite directions—'to tighten the screws?'

He gritted his teeth together, determined not to make a sound. She's not Moran, he thought. Not Moran, not Moran.

'You're going to help me, John.'

'I won't.'

'You don't have a choice.'

'I won't help you hurt him.'

She sneered. 'Is this what you were like with Seb, that first day? He still talks about it. You were so defiant, he says. So brave in the face of the inevitable. So stupid, thinking you knew which way was up. How long was it, before you lost that look? Was it when they cut her throat?'

'John.'

It was Ella. He didn't realise it until her voice cut through the haze, but he was breathing rapid, shallow breaths in a dry mouth. His heart felt like it was pushing out of his chest, and his forehead was pearled with sweat. He had slipped into a panic attack, and Ella needed him to calm down.

'Shut her up,' said Irene mildly, and John squeezed his eyes shut just before the crack.

'They think Sherlock Holmes is alive. They don't believe me when I tell them he died three years— No!'

Moran strode up to Mary, and struck her in the face. Her head snapped back and she cried aloud in pain. Moran spun and faced John again, his eyes dark and terrible.

Count to five, Watson, he coached himself, though his body trembled. Breathe. Breathe.

'She's good, isn't she? Your therapist.'

John opened his eyes. Ella's head was inclined to the side, but to her credit, she hadn't cried out. He wanted to say he was sorry, so goddamn sorry that he had ever returned to her, that he had told her anything of the horror that was his life. This was his fault, all his fault. But he couldn't say any of that. Instead, he silently continued to count. Inhale: one, two, three, four, five.

'You didn't give her much warning that you'd be making an appearance today, so she was a little unprepared. We had to go rummaging for her notes in her little cabinet. They make for fascinating reading. Marks, hand me Dr Thompson's file on John Watson.'

Her man, Marks, who stood by the desk, lifted a file and passed it to her.

Exhale: one, two, three, four, five. Ella shook her head in miniscule measurement, as though to say she, too, was sorry.

Irene flipped the file open and riffled among the pages with a casual air, as if it were a pop magazine, and not someone's life. 'PTSD, we knew about that one. Sexual trauma, no surprises there. Ah, here's one. Pervasive distrust and suspiciousness of others' motives and actions. So, so many issues, John. My, you are a mess. How do you even manage to get out of his bed in the morning?' She put on a look of mock surprise. 'You'll have to tell me how that works with him, being so afflicted as you are with your, quote, aversion to touch. That's what this means, doesn't it? Dr Thompson's latest notes: possible haphephobia, on the lower scale; treatment to discuss with client: touch therapy.'

She set aside the file and began to circle him. Her hand rested against his upper arm and trailed around his back. He had no willpower to forestall the shiver that coursed through every inch of skin.

'They say touch is healing. I think I read that somewhere. That humans need to be touched to be whole. Is that what you need, too, John? Is that what you crave? Warm hands, strong arms? Does Sherlock do that for you?' She paused behind him, and while one arm clamped to his shoulder, the opposite hand travelled down his chest and stomach. 'Does he'—she placed her hand against his crotch and groped him—'touch you?'

John's vision turned black as an unearthly chill spread from stomach to digits, and she continued to fondle him, searching for a reaction. A well of nausea swirled in his stomach. He flung himself back as though burned, and if she hadn't moved aside quickly enough, he was sure his head would have collided with hers. Something inside of him screamed, but he kept his teeth clenched and lips closed. No, that wasn't just his teeth. He'd bit down on his tongue, hard. He tasted blood.

She came back around, laughing. 'Oh, so dramatic! Relax, John, I'm not here to hurt you. Didn't you hear me? I have no interest in you.'

'Then leave.' He hoped it sounded demanding, but there was a note of pleading in his voice, and he despised himself.

'Allow me to amend: I have no interest in you as anything other than a carrier pigeon.'

'I've seen how you deliver messages,' he spat.

'Not with you. I've made Seb a promise.'

'Then why did he send you?'

She stared at him as though he had said something scandalous. Then she threw her head back in laughter. 'Send me! Oh pet, you really do have things the wrong way around, don't you? Seb is a foot soldier. Nothing more.'

She walked over to her man by the door, out of John's sight, and when she returned, she was carrying a small brown envelope, which she folded in half. Then she reached for the hem of John's jumper and lifted it up. John turned his head aside, held his breath, but all she did was slide the envelope into the breast pocket of his collared shirt. Then she tugged the jumper back into place.

'There. Done. That wasn't so hard, now, was it? I can see you don't do hard anymore.'

But John was shaking. Go, he thought. You've delivered your message. Now just go. Go.

'Just see to it that it ends up in our dear Sherlock's hands, yes?' She hummed a little to herself, as though thinking fondly of an old flame. Then she clapped her hands together. 'Boys, let's not overstay our welcome.' She made as though to leave. But then she stopped and turned back. 'Oh! But just one more thing! I wanted you to know that your gift found a good home.'

John blinked, confused. Was this a trick? 'My what?'

'I'm sure you would be remiss if you thought your efforts were entirely wasted.' She tugged on the chain around her neck, lifting it out of the dress. 'What can I say but thank you, John? After all, diamonds really are a girl's best friend.'

A gold band with a round-cut solitaire diamond swung on the end of the chain.

John's eyes instantly began to burn. 'But that's— you—'

'The jeweller was just relieved to be rid of. You wouldn't think it to look at the guy, but he's a superstitious one, he is. Didn't think anyone would want it, already sized and engraved with some other woman's name, and a dead woman at that. I offered him a fair price, all things considered. Then I had the Mary bit scratched out, and my, what a pretty thing.'

She yanked on the chain, and it broke off from around her neck. Then she dropped the ring so it slid off the chain and into her palm. With flair, she slipped it onto her own ring finger and held her hand at a distance, admiring.

'A bit plain for my tastes, but there's just something about it, you know?'

The shivering that had beset his skin now sank deeper, churning his insides. To see that ring, his Mary's ring, on the hand of this woman, was almost too much to bear. His fists clenched and strained, but the zip ties pressed against old wounds and held him in the chair.

'I hope . . .' he began, in a whisper.

'Say again, John?' She stepped closer and folded her arms. Her hand lay atop, displaying prominently the solitaire diamond.

'I hope he kills you.'

'Oh pet,' she simpered, reaching for his face again. He turned his head sharply and leant away. 'He won't. Not if he wants to keep you alive. And that's exactly why I will keep you alive. That's a promise. Marks.' She glanced at her man. 'I want to leave Dr Watson with a reminder of my promise. I have his.' She waggled her fingers. 'Give him mine.'

From his pocket, Marks pulled a switchblade, and with the push of a button, it sprang to life. Blinking rapidly to stave off the tears, John strained once more against the binds. But he accomplished nothing but to pinch his own skin and cut off the circulation to his balled fists.

'I've told you, I'm not like Sebastian Moran,' said Irene. 'But I confess to just a teensy bit of jealousy. Seb left his mark on you. He left nine of them. It would be fair if I didn't claim just a slice of you for myself. Don't squirm, and this will barely hurt.'

At her signal, Marks stepped forward and grabbed John's hand, trying to straighten out the fingers, but John resisted.

'Relax, John. Don't fight. Or I'll have my man scoop out one of her eyes.'

Ella whimpered in horror.

Endure, Watson. For her sake, for Sherlock, for Mary. You've survived this far. Endure a little longer.

He uncurled his fingers.

John knew he couldn't watch. Nor could he bear to look at Ella. Instead, he looked at Irene, directly into her eyes, as Marks spread his fingers, and with the tip of the blade began to slice. He felt the initial prick, but after that, it was like he could feel nothing at all. He continued to stare at Irene Adler, and she stared back, meeting his challenge, until finally, Marks stood back. From the corner of his eyes, John saw a bead or two of his own blood dripping from the silver blade before Marks fold it away and returned it to his pocket.

'Give Dr Watson back his phone,' Irene instructed lithely. 'And give the therapist the syringe.'

The man guarding Ella reached into a satchel and produced a full syringe, its long needle not even covered in plastic.

'No, please!' said John. 'Whatever it is, don't—!'

But his pleas were in vain. Ella gasped as the needle plunged into the side of her neck, and her whole body went rigid until it was removed. Then she groaned, and as her head began to loll, her eyes rolled up in their sockets, and she slumped back and nearly out of the chair. They laid her on the ground.

'Afternoon, John Hamish Watson,' said Irene Adler.

Suddenly, he was alone.

Hudfield House was an Approved Premises in Mitcham of South London. On the side of the building was a purple sign bearing the logo of the National Probation Service.

'Feels funny coming to one of these in jeans,' Dryers commented.

Donovan didn't reply, just readied her ID.

They let themselves in and up to the first floor, where the number 4 on the door hung upside down on a single loose screw. She knocked loudly, but needn't have done, because the object of her visit had watched her arrival from the window and was ready to let her in.

'Sorry, sorry, bit untidy. I borrowed you a chair from down the hall, but didn't think to grab two.'

'He can stand,' Donovan said, waving a dismissive hand at Dryers.

Henry Thurgood was a twitchy fellow. Not yet fifty, he had lost most of the hair on the top of his head, and large sacks of skin hung under his eyes. He wore a v-neck white t-shirt and holey jeans, and hunched a little when he stood. His bedsit was cramped, the kitchenette cluttered, the bed unmade and piled with laundry and food wrappers. Life had not been good to Mr Thurgood, there was no mistake.

'This to do with my probation, what?' he asked, once he and Donovan had sat. Dryers stood slightly behind her, looking for a place to rest his elbow.

'In a manner of speaking,' she said. 'I wanted to ask you a few questions about your legal activities while imprisoned in Belmarsh. You've been out on licence for two years now, is that right?'

''S'right, love, and I've been good. Ain't given nobody a moment's complaint.' His eyebrows pinched with worry. 'Is there summat 'at's been complainin' of me?'

'Not at all. Mr Thurgood—'

'Harry's a'right.'

'Harry then. In 1996, you were arrested for the murder of a man name Tomasz Jankowski and sentenced to seventeen years.' She consulted her notes. 'During that time, you submitted nine different requests to repeal the Crown Court verdict. Without success, obviously.'

Thurgood nodded subtly, if not nervously, his eyes darting between Donovan and Dryers. 'No one would give me the time of day. No one.'

'You wanted a new trial?' asked Dryers. 'What for?'

'Like I told my solicitor. I wanted to take it back.' He sniffed and rubbed his nose vigorously. Donovan suspected cocaine. Not a good plan for a convict.

'Take what back?'

'My confession.'

'You wanted to retract the murder confession,' Donovan restated. 'What are you saying, Harry? That you're innocent?'

Of course that's what he was saying. But she was getting excited and wanted to hear those words come from his own lips.

'I never killed no one me whole life. Hand to God, I never.'

Donovan sat forward but tried not to appear too eager. 'Why, then, did you ever say you had?'

Thurgood closed his eyes and shook his head morosely. 'I been tricked.'

'What?'

'He lied to me.'

'Who?'

With that, Harry Thurgood told his story.

He was twenty-nine, a child of the streets, and a homeless sod going on eleven years. When he was tired, he found a spot of earth or a cement slab and fell asleep. When he was hungry, he ate from a skip or stole from a corner shop. Sometimes, his number came up, and for a small string of nights he would have a bed in a shelter and food in a canteen. But one way or another, it wasn't a life. He didn't want it. That's how he found himself, one cold night in October, standing on the Waterloo Bridge.

'Not a pleasant way to go, friend. Falling is just like flying, but I don't think you'll like how it ends.'

He didn't know where the man had come from. Suddenly, he was just there. An unexpected saviour.

'Good bloke, I thought,' said Thurgood to Sgt Donovan. 'Talked me down. Took me to a pub, fed me up. Best meal I'd had in ages. But I was out of sorts, you know? And I told him, I was tired. And he said, what if I could have a regular bed every night, and three square a day, and never have to worry 'bout nothing at all?'

The stranger leant across the table and laid a warm hand on his arm. 'Ever thought about prison?'

Could it be so simple? He didn't really have to be a criminal, just take the fall for one. He'd be taken care of for a few years, no skin off his nose, and when he got out, there would be a reward: a fat bank account with his name on, no less than a hundred grand. 'Just say yes,' said the man, 'play along, and I'll do the rest.'

He said yes.

He never saw the man again. A fortnight passed before anything happened. He was sleeping in a nightshelter when the police came. They found a pair of shoes beneath his bed, shoes he'd never seen before in his life, along with the wallet of a man he'd never even heard of. They arrested him. Just like that, he confessed. But he was in shock. He hadn't known it would be like this. He hadn't known it would be murder. Someone was dead, and it was like he was standing outside of his own body, watching himself take responsibility for it. He wanted to tell himself to shut up, and if not that, then deny it until he was raw in the throat. But he didn't. He was promised rest and food and a grand reward. He did what he'd promised and played along.

But Belmarsh was no respite. It was not kind. From his first day there, his first hour, Harry knew he had made a terrible mistake. He'd given away his life, and for what? A place where he was too terrified to fall asleep, eating the same horrid meals day after day, week after week, getting screamed at by prison guards and bullied by other inmates. It was hell. He'd made a deal with the devil!

'This man,' said Donovan. 'What did he look like?'

'Been a long time,' said Thurgood. 'I don't remember no more.'

'Anything you can remember, anything at all. How did he dress, maybe the colour of his hair, how tall he was—'

'There was one thing I ain't forgot.' He screwed his eyes shut, remembering. 'Sound of his voice. It was . . . soft. Nice. I think he had an accent.'

'An accent?'

'Irish.'

Dryer's elbow slipped down the wall, and his shoulder crashed into it. 'Wait, are you saying—?'

'Just cottoning on, are you?' Donovan said. 'Do you think you'd recognise the man in a photograph?'

Thurgood looked stunned. 'You mean, you believe me?'

'Maybe.'

He started flapping his hand against his chest in excitement. 'Because it weren't just me! There was loads of us at Belmarsh.'

Donovan blinked, not expecting this turn in the narrative. 'What do you mean? Loads of you?'

'I didn't tell nobody what I'd done. Taking the fall, I mean. Not for years. But then I did, couldn't keep it inside me no more, and in a place like that, word gets around. Turns out, it weren't just me. There were others. On the outside, homeless sods, like what I'd been, confessing to murders we'd never done. Tricked into it, see. Like me.'

But Donovan wasn't so sure. In a place like that, it was more likely, wasn't it, that others just repeated his story. No matter the stories on telly and in film, prisons were filled with the guilty, not the innocent. Other murderers simply heard his story and liked it, and so made it their own. Of course they did.

But Thurgood continued.

'So I tried to appeal. If it weren't just me, if others did it, too, maybe someone would listen. But then . . .'

'Then what?' Donovan urged.

'They started getting picked off. One by one. Thought it a fluke, you know? You cross the wrong blokes in the jug, they get it out for you. But something were fishy about it. Us innocent ones, the ones who'd been scammed—we was dying. I ain't no dummy. I know when to shut up. So I shut up.'

'How many others?'

'Enough.'

'How many died?'

'Of men like me? 'Crost seventeen years? A dozen at least. But most of us knew to keep our mouths shut.'

'And the last one you knew of?'

'2009. I remember. Friend of mine, you know. That's when I decided it weren't worth it no more. I'd serve the rest my time and cause no fuss. Got out four years later, if you could call this ramshack hostel getting out, and I ain't talked to no one about it since. Not till you come knocking at my door. And I can tell you true, now that I know. There weren't no hundred grand waiting for me. Lies, all of it. Someone else died, but it were my life lost, just the same.'

Donovan pulled out her phone and began scrolling until she found what she was looking for. The she turned the screen around to show him.

'Is this the man who talked you off the bridge?'

Thurgood took the phone and squinted. He studied the screen with a grim expression and tight mouth. Then he lifted his eyes. 'I remember now. That's him a'right.'

She stood abruptly. 'Mr Thurgood, I'd like you to come with me straight away. We're moving you to a safe house.'

He blanched, and Dryers choked on his own spittle. 'Why? What'd I do?'

'It's a precautionary measure, nothing more,' she assured him. 'Take a moment to gather your things.'

While Thurgood turned madly in circles, grabbing unfolded shirts and socks and stuffing them into an old backpack, Donovan turned confidentially to Dryers, who, before she had a chance to say a word, whispered tightly, 'What's going on, I'm not following.' His eyes dropped to her phone. 'He's dead.'

'Doesn't mean he's not still dangerous,' she whispered back. 'Ready for round two of To Posthumously Catch a Killer?'

'You bet I am,' he said, grinning down at her. 'Though I'm still not quite clear on what it is we're trying to prove.'

'Me neither,' she confessed. 'But one thing seems certain. Tony Pitts wasn't just Moran's man.' She looked down at the picture on her phone one more time, before clicking it black. 'First, he was Moriarty's.'

'Ella.'

John looked on helplessly at her unmoving form. He had already tried calling for Naomi, but she wasn't answering. Unconscious? Worse? They needed help, his help, but here he was, strapped down and not strong enough to bust himself free. He had no leverage to move his arms.

His left hand dripped blood onto the floor from where Irene's man had carved a line of red around his ring finger. Stitches, probably, he thought, and if he could just get himself out of that chair in good time he wouldn't lose that finger entirely. His phone rested on his thigh, frustratingly right there and yet wholly unreachable.

'Ella, wake up.'

He didn't know what they had given her, or how much, but whatever the case, she needed urgent medical attention. Was she even still breathing? Was there still time? Was someone else coming? Someone . . . worse?

He grunted and groaned and fought the binds, and in his jostling, the phone slipped from his lap and landed face down on the floor. 'Dammit,' he muttered, sweating.

As he struggled to free himself, he repeated his mantra. I know he's not here. I know I'm not mad. But he was on the edge. The hairs on the back of his neck were raised, and he believed that if he turned his head, he would see someone who wasn't even there. I know he's not here. I know this will pass. The chair rocked against his efforts, and he stilled himself, and breathed. It would not do to topple himself and the chair both. One limb at a time, Watson, he thought. Slowly. Patiently. Fight.

He twisted his right leg at the ankle, the torque straining the binds. And even though it pinched and scraped and every effort grew more painful, he didn't stop. He grunted and shouted, and gritted and groaned, until at last, the tie snapped. He let out a whoosh of air and short laugh of relief. 'Yes! Yes. Okay, okay. Keep going. Keep going. You're okay. Not here, not coming, you're okay.'

With the success of the first, he felt bolstered, and he set to work on the left leg. In short order, that tie too snapped, and his legs were free. He allowed himself ten seconds—to breathe, to rest, and to think. He needed help. Ella needed help. Irene Adler wanted him to call for Sherlock. So that was precisely who he couldn't call. But calling 999 would invite a police presence he didn't trust. That left just one person he could still rely on.

He pushed off his shoes and with the toes of his left foot pulled off his right sock. Then he flipped the phone over so the screen side was up, and with his right foot tapped his in own password. Then he made a call.

'John, any updates?'

'Greg,' he spoke to the floor, going for composed.

But his voice caught momentarily in his throat. Ten minutes ago, he more than half believed he was done for. Now, and with startling force, he remembered the moment during in his first captivity, when he'd learnt that Lestrade was searching for him. Even though John had cut him out of his life, Lestrade had not forsaken their friendship. What he would have given just to hear Lestrade's voice on the other end of the phone that day. Hearing it now almost overwhelmed him.

John roughly cleared his throat.

'Everything all right?'

'I need your help.'

There was an anxious pause. 'What is it?'

'Ella, Dr Thompson, my therapist, she . . . she's been attacked in her office. She'll be okay, but . . . Can you come?'

'Of course! Yes, I'm just finishing . . . yes, I'm on my way. What happened?'

'Not over the phone.'

'Oh. Okay. What's the address?'

John gave it to him. 'How long, do you reckon?' He hoped he sounded calm, but he couldn't disguise the strain of worry colouring his tone, and he knew Lestrade heard it.

'Ten, fifteen minutes. John. Does she need an ambulance?'

'No! No police, no ambulance. Just please. Hurry.'

'I'm on my way.'

By the time he heard Lestrade force his way in through the front door, his hands were swollen with blood, and Ella still had not stirred. He was about to call out when he heard not one set of footsteps in the foyer, but two, and then a voice that was not Lestrade's.

'The receptionist. Check on her.'

John's heart stuttered and his eyes welled. He twisted his head sharply just as Sherlock threw the door open and strode into the room, eyes wild with concern and mouth set in a severe line that meant he was angry. But he stopped short at the sight of John, restrained.

'Ella,' John said. He felt choked. He had steeled himself for when Lestrade showed up and knew he could handle it. But he'd not been counting on Sherlock. He should have been with Mycroft. 'She needs help.' John directed, needing time to collect himself.

But Sherlock didn't give him any. 'Lestrade!' he bellowed, and Lestrade ran in, gun pointed to the floor but ready to engage; his mouth fell open when he saw John. 'Her too.' Sherlock pointed to Ella's unconscious form, but he himself went straight to John.

Not for the first time, John found himself under Sherlock's scrutinising eyes, which took him in part by part, from his tousled hair, to bound wrists and bleeding finger, to his bare right foot beside the phone on the floor. The detective read the story there, at least enough of the story, and his eyes went wide with rage. He leant down and touched John's face, as though to assess his state of mind, then dropped to his knees and began tugging uselessly at the zip ties. 'Moran,' he said. 'Was it Moran? Was he here?'

'Scissors,' said John thickly. He cleared his throat. 'In the cup on the desk.'

Sherlock ran for the scissors. John wanted to tell him to slow down, not to panic. It wasn't like the convent. He wasn't hurt. Not like before. But before he could utter a conciliatory word, Lestrade, who was crouched over Ella, searching for vital signs, announced, 'She's breathing. Strong pulse. What happened, John?'

'They stuck her,' he said. 'Sodium pentothal is my guess.'

Lestrade looked up sharply. 'That's what they used on Anthea.'

Sherlock whirled, scissors in hand. 'Correction: That's what she used on Anthea.' He flew back to John and lifted his chin, his eyes fixated on John's mouth, looking for the evidence he feared to see. 'Did she kiss you?'

John pulled his head away. 'No. Just get me out of this chair.' He knew he sounded fearful and tried to quell the quaver in his throat. 'Please.'

While Sherlock cut away the zip ties, John told them succinctly what had happened: and how Irene Adler had been waiting, not for John, but for Sherlock. But he couldn't relay it all. Not the things she had said, not the way she had put her hand on him.

The last zip tie at John's left elbow snapped away. Instantly, he covered his face with both hands and tried to breathe. But his cut finger smeared blood across his cheek. Sherlock took his wrists and pulled them away. John tensed.

Is that what you need, John? Does he . . . touch you?

'I should have kept my appointment,' Sherlock murmured.

'Let's call it serendipity that you did not,' John responded tersely, pulling his hands away.

On his knees, Sherlock looked up into John's face, his own troubled.

'I need to see to Ella,' said John. He pushed abruptly to his feet, but his legs were shakier than he expected, and he most certainly would have fallen over, if Sherlock had not risen swiftly to steady him. Reflexively, John pushed him away, shouting, 'Don't!'

Sherlock fell back, stunned.

'Sorry, just— Just don't.'

Unable to face him just then, John stumbled over to Ella. His vision darkened momentarily, and when it cleared again he was on his knees at her side.

'Your finger, John,' said Lestrade. Then, to Sherlock, 'The tissues.'

With his unwounded, non-dominant hand, John checked her pulse. Behind him, he could practically feel Lestrade and Sherlock exchanging worried looks. But it was fine. He was fine. Nothing had happened.

'What did she want, John?' Sherlock ventured, passing him a tissue.

'I told you. She wanted you. She got me instead.' He knew it wasn't an answer. Not a useful one. But he was upset. He couldn't think straight. Her hands were still on his skin, and he wanted to tear it off to rid himself of the feel of her. He balled his fist around the tissue, what little good it did, and with his other hand lightly patted Ella's cheek. 'Come on, Ella, wake up.'

'She needs an ambulance, John,' said Lestrade. 'I'm calling it in.'

'No!' He twisted sharply to Lestrade. 'No, she'll be okay. She'll come out of it on her own. Greg, lift her feet. Keep the blood flowing to her brain. Where's Naomi?'

'On the ground. Unconscious, just the same. Look, you've had a bit of a shock, you're not thinking clearly. They need help.' He pulled out his phone. Instinctively, John snatched it out of his hand and tossed it clear across the room, where it clattered against the wall before hitting the rug.

'John!'

But John was backing away, holding a hand out in front of him to keep him at a distance. 'No police. No police, I just . . . No, no, they can't be here.' There was a rushing sound in his head, and nothing in the room would stay in focus. He turned in circles, looking for something that might serve as an anchor, but everything was sliding across the floor. He was sliding. 'Don't bring them here, send them to Sherlock, make sure he's safe. She's back, and he'sin danger.'

'John, I'm here.'

Startled by the voice, John turned, and his eyes fell upon Ella on the floor. 'Is she dead? She wasn't supposed to die! I'm sorry, I'm so sorry. It's all my fault. He promised he'd go after my friends and loved ones. He promised, and I knew it, I knew it all along, so it's my f—!'

He jumped and whirled. Was that whistling at the door?

There was an awful silence in the room, and the fluorescent lights shivered overhead. John looked down at his blood-smeared hands, cut by wires.

'Is he—?'

'Intrusive memories. He's not slept in two days.'

'What do we—?'

'Stand back, don't say anything. I've got this.'

There were voices, familiar voices, but they sounded so far away, like they were in another room, like there was a steel door between them, like they were phantoms merely replicating the voices of men he had once known. He needed to get out of the basement. No, that wasn't right. He had got out. He remembered now. But when? How? Had he walked out? No, that wasn't it. He couldn't walk anymore, not with his feet all cut up. John looked down at his feet. No shoes, one sock, the other bare. How—?

Someone stepped into his field of vision, several paces away. Startled, he fell back a couple of steps and hid his face with his bloody hands.

'John, it's me, Sherlock. Look at me, please.'

Sherlock? Was it a trick? Slowly, he lowered his hands and lifted his head. There stood Sherlock. Not a memory, not an apparition. Flesh and blood. And John remembered the freezer, and in the same instant the cupboard behind the louvre doors, and he realised, as the fog began to lift from his mind, that here again stood his friend, just as ready as he ever was, to throw him a lifeline and drag him from the sea.

'Jesus,' he moaned into his hands.

Sherlock stepped closer. He placed a hand on John's shoulder, and when John didn't push him away this time, Sherlock pulled him in, and suddenly both arms encircled him. 'It's okay,' Sherlock breathed. 'She's gone. We're getting out of here, okay?'

John shook his head against Sherlock's chest. 'Ella.'

'Lestrade's taking care of her.'

Lestrade? He opened his eyes and peered over Sherlock's shoulder to where Greg Lestrade stood as witness to this moment, looking half worried, half terrified. John felt the heat of embarrassment rush to his cheeks. People weren't supposed to see him this way, disoriented, out of his own skull, acting like a child with a bogeyman under the bed. With Sherlock it was one thing: he'd been there from the start, he understood, he suffered his own nightmares. With Lestrade, it was mortifying.

'Any chance I can take your car?' Sherlock murmured.

'Yeah, go for it,' said Lestrade, reaching into his pocket. 'I'll get a ride with one of the boys.'

John wanted to push Sherlock away and stand on his own two feet. But he didn't. He felt like he couldn't do anything. Then Sherlock let him go and collected the keys from Lestrade, but John, downcast, hadn't moved, not even to turn himself aside, and when Sherlock asked if he was ready, he couldn't reply, not even to open his mouth. Next moment, Sherlock took his bloody hand and pulled him toward the door.

'Where will I find you?' Lestrade called after them. 'Mycroft's?'

'Baker Street,' Sherlock answered, and guided John home.