A Cold Case

Chapter 10

What the hell is wrong with you tonight?

(Joe Jackson)

Another singular, statement office block. Another international investment bank. Another eyrie overlooking the Thames. It felt like déjà vu, and he was bored by it all. Angst driven, and angry and aching, and so awfully bored by it all.

So he entered Andrew Lake's office exuding such a simmering sense of power in repose that the banker was sucked in immediately, rising from his desk in greeting, vaguely disturbed and extending a hand that was ignored.

He was exactly what Sherlock Holmes had been expecting. Very tall, broad shouldered, an overtly muscular frame not gone to seed when the sporting career had stopped, but a strong youthful frame he remained proud of, yet held well disguised in the office by superior tailoring; most likely Fielding and Nicholson of Savile Row, he registered absently.

A square, handsome face, baby blue eyes with long lashes, smooth red gold hair swept back, a ready smile; and as far from Moriarty as it was possible to be. The easy confidence of someone with too much ego, who had achieved in sport and business and had always been popular with the crowd, still with too much pride in his physical strength maintained, despite working behind a desk.

"Sherlock Holmes. Delighted to meet you at last. So what…?"

"Hardly 'at last.'" He stood tall and haughty in front of the desk, shoulders back, hands deep in pockets, patently observing. "We were in the same year at Cambridge. I'm sure we must have crossed each other's path at some time."

"Perhaps. I don't recall. Do you? I was a rowing blue. Sport specialists tend to have rather curtailed social lives."

"So you didn't mix with your cousin? With Jim? Whichever surname you knew him by?"

Andrew Lake frowned, unsettled by the consulting detective's brusque manner.

"Before his mother married my cousin, the family name was Powers."

"Yes, I know that."

"I am not sure the boys ever adopted Ian's name. So it was a long time before I realised that precocious mathematician Jim at uni was also the Jamie I knew. I assume it was Sebastian who told you we were cousins?"

"Yes. But there was no reason to hide the connection, surely?"

"No, no." He shook his head and settled back into his chair, waving a hand, offering a chair. Sherlock Holmes ignored that also. "I wasn't hiding it. I'm just trying to explain….." The smile came too often; a self deprecating pose, deliberately humble. "We were only cousins by marriage, you see. Not close. His mother married my uncle's son, Ian. Second marriage for them both."

"Complex relativities."

"Not especially, not in the modern world. Blended families, and all that."

He leant back in his chair and took a deep breath. Looked with cautious care at the consulting detective who was roaming the room like a cornered jaguar, frowning, concentrating, gloved hands in pockets.

"Have I done something to upset you?" he asked suddenly.

The pacing stopped momentarily, and unreadable storm grey eyes turned his way.

"What makes you think that?"

"You are being very….aggressive."

"Really?" There was a pause, and a silence, that went on for five seconds too long. "Dome something to upset me, you think? Hmn. Interesting."

o0o0o

Sebastian Wilkes had said exactly the same thing half an hour earlier as he hurried to the office. The best part of two bottles of Zinfandel to himself had made him oversleep. He was waiting to cross the road, bank entrance in sight, when a sudden voice – a looming physical presence far too close for personal comfort – growled deeply into his ear: "Who knew where you were going to be last night, Seb?"

Sebastian Wilkes clutched a hand to his heart in best melodramatic manner and hissed:

"Sherlock Holmes! I didn't see you! My God, you made me jump!"

"Oh, good." He turned to see a brihtly brilliant and totally terrifying smile. "That was the intention. Because I am not pleased, Sebastian."

"Really?" He found himself gabbling. "I thought last night went pretty well. Until your jealous boyfriend showed up."

"He isn't my boyfriend. You just bring out the worst in him."

"Doesn't seem to take much…"

"Quite so. And the older he gets, the less tolerant he becomes. So should I let my pet ex soldier loose on you? Or will you just answer me?"

Sebastian Wilkes froze, looked up into the stern face, swallowed hard.

"Have I done something to upset you?" Asking the question took more courage than he had expected. This cold, committed man was not the Sherlock Holmes he had been used to, nor had expected to see again after the quiet, quiescent man of the previous evening. And the impassive stare that answered his question sent a frisson of fear down his spine.

"You threatening me, buddy?"

"No. But he might be. I repeat: who knew where you were last night, Sebastian?"

The investment banker looked up into artic eyes, realised there was no empathy in the relentless voice and suddenly decided honesty was the best policy.

"Just Andrew. When I asked if he would talk to you. I mentioned I was meeting you for dinner, when and where. Just bonding type chat. Like you do. I didn't realise I was giving up state secrets. I was trying to help you, after all."

There was a pause. Then Sherlock Holmes smiled – that huge, manic surface smile that meant nothing at all, but was remarkably unsettling – and patted Sebastian Wilkes on the cheek.

"So you were. I'll remember that."

And he turned on his heel and was gone, lost in the sea of pedestrians, as quickly as he had appeared.

But the other man, frozen to the spot yet not knowing why, looked back, tried to spot him walking away, follow him with his eyes. But the tall man had somehow melted into the crowd, and Sebastian Wilkes shuddered.

He knew he was going to feel off balance for the rest of the day. He just did not understand why.

o0o0o

He smiled again at Andrew Lake, even though he did not feel like smiling. The smile was not a good smile, but disguised a strong impulse to punch the other man on instinct alone; two dislikeable bankers in one morning was two too many; both too rich, smug and dislikeable, too entitled, too devoid of the realities of life beyond their tiny universe. They were more or less his own age, and yet both as impervious to real life as each other, and as transparent as children.

If he had more humanity and less experience he might have pitied them their ignorance and privilege.

"Did you know Jim – Jamie – well?"

"Not especially. Family gatherings, mainly. Weddings, funerals, Christmas. And the fact the twins were so alike was always a bit confusing."

"In looks if not character."

"Jamie was always the leader. Sharp witted, funny, always clever. As if he knew everything about you with a look. Richard was friendly, uncomplicated. I never knew their brother Carl. No-one ever mentioned him."

"What about their mother?"

"Joanne? Do you know her? Very pretty, a lovely lady. Don't you think? Could see why Ian fell for her. Sweet how they found each other. Second marriages can be hard…..."

"'Hope over experience' is the phrase I think you are looking for."

"I suppose."

"Why did you think her lovely?"

"Why? Why not? She's very pleasant. Kind, welcoming. Good company. A great cook.."

"Really?"

"You sound as if…you don't agree."

"Do I?"

"Yes. Why is that?"

"Perhaps I know her better than you."

"I doubt it."

It was almost a challenge, almost a crack in the veneer of good manners.

"Then perhaps I know Jamie – Jim; whoever – better than you?"

"Do you?"

"Undoubtedly."

"So you knew him at uni? We're all about the same age."

The answer from the consulting detective was oblique. "Except Jamie was a few years ahead in his studies. Precocious, as I am sure you know, Genius, apparently. Maths."

"Yeah, I know."

He looked down at his feet under the desk. Looked up again.

"Look: you do know he's dead, don't you?"

That brilliant empty smile again.

"So they say."

"Don't you?"

"It's a matter of opinion, I suppose. Jim was always a law unto himself. I don't suppose anything has changed."

Andrew Lake felt a ripple of unease, could not tell if this whole conversation was interrogation, examination or a long joke played at his expense: but did not know how to ask.

"You sound…..obsessed."

"Me? No. That's him. Obsessed with me. For some reason known only to him."

"Oh. Is that what this is all about? Seb said….he said….you put the wind up everybody at uni. That they all hated you." He fought down a grin. "Bit of a spanner were you? Yeah. To everyone apart from Jamie."

"What does that mean?"

Andrew Lake tilted his head to one side and looked carefully at the tall lean man in front of him; calculating how much to say. How much he dared say. How much he would be expected to say.

"Apparently he followed you around at uni. Quite a bit. Don't you remember?"

The shrug was small, dismissive. "There was a lot going on at the time. I was never interested in making friends there. I had more to do, and I delete things that bore me."

"Lucky you. So you don't remember Jamie from those days? That's odd, because he remembered you OK: in fact he said he had known you since you were teenagers. Had always wanted a brother or a cousin – or something – just like you."

Sherlock Holmes' expression did not change, but he felt rocked back onto his heels. So it was true. James Moriarty had had him in his sights since Carl Powers' death, since he had tried to get police to realise Carl had been murdered.

Really had wanted to prove that family connection: but why? To hang onto the Holmes family coat tails? To use Siward's diplomatic connections as levers? To develop his mathematics career as an acolyte of Midge Holmes? To feed off Mycroft's contacts? To become close to the boy who knew and saw too much?

But Moriarty had held back, had not shown his hand until university. And why was that?.

He had not broken cover before, or revealed his interest, his intent on domination and death. Had tried to get close at uni (too close?) but had waited to make his move. Edged close with Jeff Hope, with Shan, with all the plethora of puzzles that were the great game; feeling his way, edging ever closer. Not showing his face and his plan until the pool. Or so he had thought until now.

But yes; apparently there had been that presence at Cambridge. Concentric circles touching. Only touching, despite Moriarty's best efforts for it to be more.

A two pronged attack, that had involved trying to draw in the entire Holmes family, overtures to Siward Holmes, intimations of intimacy; more than one kind of intimacy…..well, Moriarty had never been subtle in his purpose.

The flirting's over, Sherlock. Daddy's had enough now!

Moriarty had said it himself. At the pool. A single elderly Browning facing down a sniper or two. And it had all seemed so simple and so obvious then. The criminal mastermind versus the white knight set on winning his spurs. But the game was greater than he had expected, or had seen. Moriarty playing not just a great game, but a long game….

"I'm going to kill you anyway, someday. I don't want to rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special….."

So was this Moriarty's time – not that other time - for Moriarty's 'something special'? Death coming relentlessly from the shadows because leaping off a building had not worked: and despite the best laid plans, the two year absence, Moriarty had not believed in Sherlock Holmes' death any more than Sherlock Holmes had believed in Moriarty's. There was a beautiful symmetry to it, he had to concede.

'Death smiles at us all. All a man can do is smile back' he thought; quotations he could remember yet not ascribe. 'Everybody is going to be dead one day. Just give them time…..'

Stop mentally dribbling along! Concentrate!

"I don't remember him from those days. Can't have made much of an impression." He strove to appear disinterested, uninvolved. But the voice in his head was screaming; demanding information he could barely bring himself to even want to know.

"Yeah; he did say you were off your face most of the time you were at Cambridge, so that doesn't surprise me much." Andrew Lake grinned, hoping for a reaction, but Sherlock Holmes continued to prowl the office, hands fisted within black leather gloves, paying more attention to the view from the window, the legal tomes on the shelves, the cords on the blinds.

"I do remember him once saying, when we were chatting at an end of term party, that you were his; that you were fated to be together. Sounded a bit melodramatic to me."

"And me."

"So what's all this about? Telling Seb you wanted to talk to me? What do you want to know?"

"I think you've told me; don't you?"

"Have I? Oh, OK. That's good. So did you have a good evening with Seb yesterday?"

"You could say that."

o0o0o

Yes, you could say that. Except last night had been something else…..

Having turned to walk blindly in the opposite direction to John Watson, he found himself back at the door to Angelo's. And so he went back inside.

A very ordinary young couple was now seated at the table where he and Sebastian Wilkes had been sitting. The restaurant was busy: relaxed chatter, warm fug, the aroma of good food cooked well.

"He left just after you. Didn't offer to pay, though," Billy Grimaldi confided, drifting past with a bottle of chianti and garlic bread.

"Surprise, surprise. I'll settle up now."

He drifted across to the other end of the bar, and Angelo himself came out to deal with the bill for the meal. Took the debit card and payment, handed card and slip across. Talking quietly, almost absently, throughout.

"Not your usual type of guest." A neutral comment, but enough for Sherlock Holme to look sharply across the counter.

"Old university colleague. Source of information," he explained.

"Ah. A case?"

"You could say that."

"He fancies you. Power games stuff. Thinks you are malleable."

A snort in reply.

"Doesn't know me then, does he?"

"Slimey bastards like him are never any good. In the long run."

This time in response to such oblique advice, a grin that for a full second lightened up the gaunt face.

"Are you trying to protect me, Ciccio?"

"All you have to do is say."

"Yes." A thoughtful look, an urchin grin. Then, as if an unconnected thought:

"Any of your brothers away….on their holidays…. at the moment?"

Angelo lifted an eyebrow, but made no comment, simply answered the question.

"Renzo. In the Scrubs. Just a little tickle."

"That's handy. Any contact with Moran? Lord of that ilk."

"Could have. Want me to ask? "

"Need a chat with Moran. If Renzo has any wooden pews, or a dickie? Brass in it."

He had dropped effortlessly into street vernacular, and the restaurateur did not deign to even notice.

"Oh, please." Angelo Grimaldi nodded and waved him away.

Waved, and watched, concern now on his face, as the consulting detective turned away and went back onto the street.

For Sherlock Holmes never asked. Yet he was asking now.

So he would talk to Lorenzo, his youngest brother, the very next day. On an unscheduled prison visit.

o0o0o

The consulting detective stepped out into the darkness of the street, flipped up his coat collar against the damp and cold. A double decker bus had just passed, emptying the bus stop and the pavement. There was muttering as a group of people crossed the road and made for the nearest pub, the sound of rapid steps, a car engine starting up along the street.

All very normal, almost quiet. He stood still for a long moment. The footsteps that had been dogging him - seemed to have been dogging him – had disappeared.

Perhaps he had been wrong. Perhaps it was his imagination. The result of post drug paranoia. Stress. Exhaustion. The need to draw John Watson in for safety, push him away in defence against false intimacy. Perhaps the threatening telephone call had been no more than that – just threat. Empty threats and taunts. Devilment, not death. On par with his father's annoying unwanted meals, funeral directors and the like.

A voice in his head said he was believing that because he wanted to. Because his day had been unsettling and exhausting. And all that had been more than enough for one day.

So now he turned left, still heading away from Baker Street, too tired to walk far, but too agitated to go home and rest. It had been a strange day, and it had exhausted him, physically and mentally.

The scene with his father had been coming for years, and had been unsettling. Still was, even afterwards, even if not as emotional as he had feared it would be. He had control of the past and his memories, acceptance and resignation. They had formed who he had become, and he was at some sort of guarded peace with that now.

But he always remembered the people his parents had been before the events in Sri Lanka, how much they had been like Mycroft, all observation and objectivity, and how their humanity and perspective had changed so much after the terrorist attack that had almost killed them all.

How hard he had found the changes enforced upon them, and upon himself. How he had never felt equal to that, and how he had always felt responsible…and how hearing his father's words of gentle understanding and empathy had unnerved him so.

Their insight into earlier contact with Jim Moriarty was something he had never known about before, and that worried him. Jim's selection of his part of the Holmes family; was that accident or intent? And why had he sought contact, familiarity? Family ties? The whole thing was beyond coincidence or a practical joke. And not knowing how or why was more disturbing than he would ever admit.

Had that been because of his role in trying to solve Carl Powers' death? Because of what had happened in Sri Lanka? Because of his own looks, personality, intelligence, career? Because of something he had done to broker a connection, however unwitting?

And nothing solved the puzzle of Moriarty's obsession with him; whatever he discovered only served to make the connection and the obsession more of a mystery than before. And could all that really go back to Joanne Moriarty's schoolgirl reaction to M E Holmes' reputation and skill as a mathematician? And why was mathematics the recurring link? Not that that made any sense either.

He was deep in his head as he started to cross the road; later he would reproach himself for not paying enough attention, not concentrating on survival.

There was a car engine, and it was racing: and it was close. Alarm bells rang in his head.

Too late. Too absorbed in the wrong things. Too stupid.

As he half turned he saw it; a dark shape behind full beam headlights. But he was too slow trying to turn on his heel, the steps back to safety. Even so, he should have made it.

But the left front wing hit him. The sound of the impact was very soft, buffered by the thick Belstaff, but it took his breath, scooped him forwards and up – which was better than down and under the wheels, he thought fleetingly - as he attempted to twist, land on his shoulder, roll and save himself.

It didn't happen like that. He went straight up in the air and straight down again as the car passed below him. Landed instead on all fours, hands and knees skidding across the freshly laid tarmac and it's top coating of grit. The impact buckled his arms, his forehead hitting the ground. The level of shock and pain was….ridiculous.

The speed and impact of the car sucked all the air from his lungs and his surroundings, and for a dangerous second or so he blacked out. But he heard the car screech to a stop on the empty street, and survival instinct was rolling and wriggling him to refuge in the safest place nearby; beneath a Range Rover Discovery parked by the kerb to his left.

Four disorientating revolutions, or it may have been five, and he came to a stop in a dark safe place that smelled of mud and oil, poised on his stomach, elbows tucked in, hazy head on the wet ground and his skin and his brain roaring with dark, hot pain.

As if in some far off distance he heard a car door open, then quick, light steps approaching – Oh! Those quick light steps! The ones he had heard earlier; steps he had really heard, not imagined – come over to the Discovery.

He did not look, did not move. Held his breath as the steps halted beside the SUV. Played dead. Felt as good as dead. Expected any minute to become dead.

In the deep shadows under the car, with limited peripheral vision, all he could see were the toes of two boots shuffling. Chelsea boots. Black, Good quality….not a clear enough view to size, dammit.

He could tell by the voice that a head came down to the sill of the driver's door, but did not come down far enough for him to see clearly, and to recognise…..

"So - still not dead yet, my pet? Playing doggo?" There was a giggle, distorted. "Jolly good. Killing you now would ruin all the fun."

He was sick of the sound of that toy voice changer. Did not even try to reply.

The boots twisted, moved, scrunched on the fresh gravel. The sound of steps started and faded. The engine of the car, double parked in the road, had been running all the time.

In the centre of London, where were passers-by, policemen, cabbies, the homeless network and street traders when you needed them?

Th car door slammed, first gear engaged, then a snatched gear change up to second.

Needed a service, he thought vaguely. Bit of a mistime…

Tried to move and found he couldn't. Not yet. Swamped with too much adrenalin, too much pain, the transport was not cooperating with the brain. Shock? Physical slump feeling like exhaustion. Just reaction, he told himself sternly. He would be alright in a minute…..Get a grip.

Sucked in a panicky breath as a single car came down the street from the other direction. His attacker returning? Could not be sure. But the car did not stop. And neither did the five or six that went past him afterwards, still safe beneath the larger vehicle.

When he finally slithered out, on the pavement side from beneath the car– taking no chances of a repeat attack in the road – there was still no-one around to see or hear him.

He thought of returning to Baker Street. Which was too far away to reach in his current state, which might still have John Watson there, angry and in waiting….who would have no time for this adventure without him, would be angry and mistrustful.

Thought of taking refuge at the Diogenes or the Adventurers. Even at Mycroft's home. But finally decided there was no way he could make any of those destinations due to the state he was in; groggy – perhaps concussion? Not sure - wet and filthy from rolling around a rain soaked London street, shaking with cold and reaction, damaged skin surfaces hurting, hands and elbows cut and grazed, knees the same, and with holes through the trousers of his third best suit. The sharp debilitating pain of surface damage as if his limbs had been attacked with a cheese grater. The smell and feel and taste of blood, not just from where he had bit his lip.

Appearing at any of those places would cause scandal and draw unwanted attention; and Mycroft would never forgive him.

Think! Regroup.

By nothing but luck and fate he was almost opposite, across the width of the pavement, a narrow alley he knew well. Waited until a little more strength returned and having made sure the street was silent, he rolled across the gap, very fast, trying not to grunt with pain and effort, and came to his feet within the confined narrow space of brick walls, onto a blue Victorian brick passage to stagger-run a few paces and turn back left, to the fourth gate along. Through the gate into a small yard filled with commercial waste bins and an elderly vegetable store.

Looked longingly at the refuge that timber and corrugated iron shed represented; for he had lived there, once upon a time, when he was young and alone, a runaway hustling on the street to survive. Limped instead down the yard to the lights and smells and the kitchen chatter of the Italian restaurant. But then restrained the instinct for warmth and easy company and pulled back.

The restaurant was still full of customers at the front, and kitchen staff at the back. Angelo, red faced from the heat of the stove, with a frying pan in one hand and wild gestures in the other, was remonstrating with someone in ripe Italian.

If he knocked on the back door – the rap of operatic musical notes Angelo would recognise as his signal – there would be uproar and chaos and witnesses to his physical state, his distress.

So instead he stepped backwards. Lifted the sacking that covered the doorway to the vegetable store. Smelt again the distinct and unforgettable musty aroma of leeks and potatoes and onions. He knew the inside of that building without having to see it: nets and paper sacks of food neatly lined up, covered with a couple of old blankets to protect them from the January night chill.

He collapsed, loose limbed and uncaring, onto a sack of carrots and slid slowly sideways, tucking his feet and legs up onto paper potato sacks that rustled beneath him as he wriggled under the elderly blankets and pushed hollows into a string bag of cabbages to rest his head.

Lay and shook with cold and pain and reaction until he warmed and relaxed a little and sleep took him in mercy.

Which was exactly how Angelo Grimaldi found him four hours later.

A hand on his shoulder, a touch to his jaw, a torch light moving across his face.

"Buon Dio! Buon Dio, ragazzo." Good God, Boy!

A hand reaching into him in the dark fluttered across his face, his shoulders.

"Cosa ti e successo? Come si se arrivato?" What happened to you? How did you get here?"

"Car," he managed.

"You were knocked down by a car? After you left here? Ah." Angelo Grimaldi put a hand under a shoulder. "Can you move? Let's get you into the warm…..."

"Leave me." A hand flapped dismissively, gave a little push. "Be OK in a few minutes. Get out your way…."

"No, no, no….we don't do that."

Angelo Grimaldi put the torch between his teeth and hauled him to his feet. It hurt. He groaned but did not protest further.

"Scusi!"

Between them they staggered out of the shed, along the path, into the back of the restaurant.

Front of house was dark and silent, the kitchen warm, fragrant, but empty of staff: Angelo had been doing his final rounds before locking up and going to bed.

Now he dropped him into the office chair at the small table where he did his paperwork. Hissed through his teeth.

"You are covered in blood. A doctor….."

He was punching numbers into his phone as he spoke, ignoring the garbled protests.

"Don't get involved. It looks worse than it is. I'll….."

"Shut up. That is what you will do. You have no idea….." He turned away to bark words into the mobile Sherlock Holmes could not catch. Turned back to him with a pat on the arm and a reassuring smile. "A doctor will be here soon. What can I do? What do you want? Are you in pain?"

He was reaching into the first aid cabinet essential in any kitchen, sloshing antiseptic and warm water into a bowl at the hand washing sink.

"Ibuprofen. Brandy. A shot. Anything."

"No, no. No medicine until the doctor sees you."

He squatted down in front of the younger man, putting the bowl on the table in front of him, lifting the bloodied hands by the wrists and slowly lowering them into the comforting warmth. The shuddering gasp as the bloodied hands eased into the water made him frown.

"Relax, please," he commanded. "You are safe now."

"No doctor. No doctor, Angelo."

Their eyes met.

"Too late. Doctor on way. You need a doctor. You cannot see yourself, ragazzo."

He put a hand on a shoulder, realised he was holding Sherlock Holmes erect as the weight against his hand got heavier.

"Sorry…. To involve you. Sorry."

"Stop that. How did this happen?"

"Car," he repeated.

"Hit you?"

"Ran me down."

"How many times I tell you to be careful?"

"Sorry….."

They both ran out of words, remained poised in position, hands in warm water, hands supporting, until the back door opened without the nicety of knocking. And John Watson stood in the doorway, emergency bag in hand, looking both concerned and angry.

Sherlock Holmes looked up, frowned.

"Go away. You're not my doctor. I don't need a doctor. I told Angelo….."

"Yeah? Well, I'm here now."

"Where's Watson?"

"With Mrs Hudson. I went back to 221B and stayed. Waiting for you. Not like this, though."

Anglo Grimaldi levered himself to his feet, and the doctor took his place. Tea was made while the doctor removed his patient's coat and jacket, checked and examined, but the tense silence did not ease.

"Did you bang your head? Lose consciousness?" The glare and the lack of a reply was it's own answer. "You re a bit of a mess. Where did the car hit you?"

"Hmn. Hip. Left."

The doctor pulled the waistband of the trousers down a little.

"Hell of a bruise. Does it ache?"

"No. Leave me alone."

"Those trousers are never going to be the same again."

Angelo offered another bowl of water and antiseptic, a wad of cotton wool. John Watson wet and squeezed and dabbed as best he could, gently dried the mashed skin.

The needle was in an arm before the patient even realised.

"What was that?"

"Something for the pain. And that's all I'm telling you, or else you'll never stop arguing. So just remember I was an emergency field surgeon, and shut up before you start, Don't think you have concussion, but I'll need to keep an eye on you. Best get you home, I think."

Angelo was on the phone again, calling for a taxi, without being asked. And it seemed as if a taxi arrived in seconds.

Between them they got the consulting detective to his feet and back into his jacket and coat; the painkiller starting to make him drowsy and stumble footed. But standing had been an effort and painful, and walking, even supported, seemed no better.

And somehow in the midst of all that Angelo Grimaldi handed John Watson a bag of food as they manoeuvred the patient into the back seat. "You'll need to eat. Later today. Then tell me how he is."

"Yes. Later. Thank you, Angelo."

"Interfering fool….." muttered the patient. And the restaurateur kissed the sweaty curls.

"Prenditi cum di te stressa," was the reply: look after yourself.

"Non parlo Italiano," was the reply. And Angelo Grimaldi laughed, and slammed the cab door.

The journey was silent, neither man inclined to speak, lost in their own thoughts. At Baker Street John Watson opened the big black door with his own key, and manhandled the taller man up the stairs in front of him.

In truth, the quietness and lack of argument disturbed him more than the injuries; which were painful and bloody, but were surface damage that would soon heal. Sherlock Holmes did not appear to be suffering from concussion, but it was hard to be certain. He would wait and observe, and hope the dullness was due to medication, exhaustion and shock.

Rosie had been delighted to be with her Granny Hudson, and John Watson had no doubt his daughter would be safe and sound and sleep peacefully in 'her' little bedroom in 221A until morning.

After putting Sebastian Wilkes in his place John Watson had been angry, and disappointed to see how his friend had put himself at the mercy of the banker, to whom he had taken an immediate and, it appeared, continuing dislike.

The argument in the street had driven him to stride away in anger. Yet by the time he had returned to Baker Street he had cooled down, and realised the confrontation had been contrived by the detective purely to send him away and out of danger. Away from the footsteps.

So this time he was not going to walk away, he was going to have a conversation and try to get to the bottom of the evening's events.

He led the way into the sitting room, turned to face his patient, who shook his head, reading the intent.

"No. I have nothing to say you will listen to. Going to shower, get changed."

"Do you need….a hand?"

He could not help offering, however obliquely. Was unprepared for the bleak reply.

"You think I expect one any more?"

The detective turned on his heel and went into the bathroom. Shut the door. John Watson heard the water turn on. So, as was his habit, not knowing what else to do, went into the kitchen and made tea.

He had drunk one mug of tea and made another before Sherlock Holmes, in grey soft cotton pyjamas and his second best blue dressing gown, reappeared.

John Watson handed him a fresh tea.

"How's your head?"

"OK. And before you ask – I don't want dressings on the cuts and grazes, they would just get in the way. They are all clean, no sign of infection. The painkiller has worked wonders. Thank you."

"You look a lot better than you did."

"Yes."

"So are you going to tell me? What happened?"

He watched the patient, his patient, look at him. Impassive, thoughtful. Beyond exhausted.

"I don't think there is any point, do you?"

And turn away, shuffling, knees clearly hurting still, to his grey armchair in the sitting room.

John Watson followed, stood in the centre of the hearthrug, clutching his own mug of tea. And waited.

Eventually Sherlock Holmes looked up at him.

"Oh, for God's sake!"

And John Watson smiled.

"You manufactured an argument so I would walk off and leave you. You were trying to protect me, you arse. Not for the first time. And I still didn't get it. I am an idiot."

"Yes."

"I couldn't hear the footsteps. But you didn't think I would believe you."

"You didn't."

"That's not the point!"

"That is exactly the point. You think you believe me – about Moriarty. But you don't, not really. Sometimes you humour me."

"And?"

"And so there is no point even trying to tell you what happened next."

"Oh, go on. You humour me, for once."

Sherlock Holmes took a sip of tea, realised that this time the doctor was prepared to wait, and replied, eventually.

"I was sure the footsteps were Moriarty, following me; well – who else would want to? And I realised he knew where I would be. And I think I know how."

"Sebastian Bloody Wilkes."

"Hmn….almost. He was the mouthpiece, if not the catalyst. Anyway, having got rid of you it was the obvious thing to walk away in the opposite direction. I ended up back at Angelo's, and paid the bill.

"When I came out, Moriarty got into the car he had parked nearby earlier – because he knew where I would be - simply ran me down as I crossed the road. I wasn't paying enough attention."

"Moriarty? Oh, come on!"

"No. Really. It was. I lay in the road, unreachable under a parked car for safety, and he got out of his car, came back to see if I was dead. He seemed pleased I wasn't. Said: 'Killing you now would ruin all the fun.' And then he drove off. I staggered back to Angelo's, hid in his shed. Where he found me later, when he was locking up for the night. The rest you know."

"Sherlock….."

"I am not imagining this. I am not!"

He slammed his mug down onto the side table, slopping tea over the sides, clutched his head in frustration. Or pain.

John Watson stepped forward, put his own mug down on the mantelshelf, took his patient by the shoulders and looked deep into the storm coloured eyes glaring up at him. But could read nothing.

"I do not have concussion," he was told with cold deliberation. "I am not mad. I am not deluded. But Moriarty is very, very clever. As well as lucky. He targets me when there is no-one else around. No witnesses to see what I see, hear what I hear."

He paused, made a noise that might have been a sob of frustration. The hands on his shoulders gripped tighter.

"But he would be delighted if he drove me mad in the process of killing me. Because make no mistake, John: he will kill me. Unless I kill him first."

"You don't talk – don't ever talk – about killing people. Just saving or avenging them."

"Do I? Really? Well, you didn't see me while I was away, taking down Moriarty's criminal network. See what I am really capable of. And I now know that despite anything and everything, killing me is Moriarty's greatest plan. Not being the world's greatest criminal, which would satisfy any average psychopath, but just his single minded objective of killing me."

He shrugged off the hands holding him, intent.

"He thinks we are one, you see. Two sides of the same coin. He sees me as his nemesis, the only person he thinks worth challenging, defeating, destroying. The only person – God help me – he considers his equal. And he doesn't care how long it takes.

"It becomes ever more clear he does not just want to kill me. Nor does he care how long that takes. He wants to demean me, defeat me. Possess me body and soul before he ultimately destroys me. He sees himself as the virus in my data; in my head."

Those words came back to him as some sort of an echo; when had he heard Moriarty say those words before? And where? Some fevered dream, certainly; but somewhere else, in that foreign country that is the past. The memory choked him into silence for a moment.

"Can you hear yourself?"

"Of course I can. Even saying the words….makes me sound off my head. But it's true. Think, John!

"His campaign against me, his so called Great Game, that only ended with me jumping off the roof of Bart's, meant me to die with dishonour. But that very phrase, The Great Game, actually describes spying. So he has been targeting me –spying on me – for years. Ever since I was a stupid teenager and drew attention to myself trying to get the police to investigate Carl Powers' murder. His brother's murder."

He shook his head at the horror of it all.

"I should have known better. Even at thirteen I should have known better. But I had not long been back from Sri Lanka; the horrors of that. Pa was still in hospital, his life hanging by a thread, my mother absorbed by it. Mycroft was away carving out his future, and I was….very alone, The William I had been was no more, and Sherlock was still a work in progress; the horrors that had happened dominating my focus, my nightmares. Looking back…..I should have done things differently."

"You were thirteen."

"That is still no excuse." He lifted his head, dismissed all the things from the past he never usually talked about, and his vulnerability, with a blink. Fitted himself back into his carapace of invulnerability. John Watson watched it happen and was again rendered speechless for a moment that took his breath away. He would never cease being awed by Sherlock Holmes, he realised. The thought was some sort of epiphany.

"But he really will kill me this time. Make me suffer along the way while he shows everyone he is superior to me in every way. We've been here before, after all."

"I am not going to let him kill you."

The words were spoken so quietly and coldly, for a moment Sherlock Holmes thought he had misheard. And he looked at John Watson in undisguised disbelief.

"What?"

"You heard me." John Watson's eyes were clear, calm, committed.

"I thought I heard you."

"I am not going to let him kill you." He repeated the words, as calmly as before.

Sherlock Holmes leant back, could not totally disguise his surprise.

"Well, that's awfully kind of you to say, but do remember you tried to do that yourself not long ago, so don't be surprised if I don't quite believe you."

John Watson grimaced and shook his head. Looked away.

"I asked for that, didn't I? You bastard."

"Just being honest. We used to be honest with each other. Before you married Mary."

"Before you died for two years," he contradicted.

"Yes. Well. I will concede that point." There was the sudden flash of an urchin grin before those all seeing eyes cut away. "We need to get back to that, John. Trust. Ease. Having each other's back. Because at the end of the day we are all each other has."

"I have Rosie."

"True, But she's not of an age to save your life, load your gun or share a chicken vindaloo."

John Watson shook his head at such a simple truth, and tried not to snort with laughter.

"Point taken."

"Come home, John."

"You've said that before."

"Must mean it, then."

For one long moment their eyes met. But there was nothing between them of trust or capitulation; just mutual thoughtfulness and assessment.

"You need to go to bed," the doctor's words were professional judgement as much as personal deflection. "You look as if you are dropping. Exhaustion and reaction."

"Said the doctor." With sarcasm.

"Yes. Of course. Who else would say that? Dare to say it when you need to hear it? Who else would you listen to?"

"Quite so. See why I need you at hand?"

"You must be out of sorts. You never say 'need.' Didn't think it was a word in your vocabulary."

"Not often, no."

He put his hands to the chair arms to lever himself to his feet, flinched as his elbows gave way, swore under his breath at the pain in his hands. Without thinking John Watson stepped forward to help, to lift.

For a moment they teetered on the edge of a supportive hold that looked more like an embrace. And John Watson laughed; a nervous sound.

"Whatever I say to you now is going to sound like a come-on," he said lightly.

"Like what? 'Lean on me?' 'Shall we dance?'"

"I was thinking more on the lines of 'am I hurting you?' and 'Bed, then?'"

"Pragmatic, as ever. 'Bed, then' will do. I'm tired."

They moved slowly out of the room, down the corridor. The doctor helping the patient awkwardly, with impersonal care and deliberation. And the patient, untypically, let him. In the bedroom John Watson flicked back the duvet, helped his patient out of his dressing gown and into the bed. Flicked the covers back over.

Said: "Wait a moment," and returned five minutes later with a fresh hot water bottle, a glass of water, and two white tablets.

"Painkillers. If you need them in the night."

"Thank you."

The doctor nodded, left the room. But was back a few moments later clutching another duvet and pillow, and without explanation proceeded to settle down in the armchair in the corner.

"What are you doing?"

"Bedding down for what's left of the night. Far too late to disturb Mrs Hudson and Rosie. And you need someone here in case."

He punched the pillow into submission, took care positioning it against the wings of the chair back.

"In case of what?"

"Nightmare. Concussion. Reaction. You name it."

Sherlock Holmes exhaled noisily, with irritation. Which John Watson chose to ignore.

"Am I meant to say thank you?"

"Not your style, really." That knowing grin again. Which his patient noticed.

"No. But thank you anyway."

He sighed, wriggled down the bed and turned away.

John Watson said "Goodnight, Sherlock," but got no reply. But then, he hadn't really expected one.

He switched off the light, pulled the spare duvet up to his shoulders and listened to the quiet, even breathing from the man in the bed, who seemed to instantly sleep. And so he slept himself.

Somehow he was not surprised to find that when he awoke in the morning, sleeping lightly but without interruption, the bed was empty and remade.

Sherlock Holmes had gone.

Leaving behind, in the kitchen, a destroyed suit stuffed anyhow into the rubbish bin, a fresh mug with tea dregs on the draining board along with the empty blister pack of two 60mg codeine tablets, which were stronger than the painkillers he had been offered.

o0o0o

And now all the events of the previous evening rewound through his head. He remembered it all, and had imagined none of it. Which was, he thought, reassuring in itself. Physically and mentally.

He came back to focus on Andrew Lake.

No less angry after review, he realised. No less wanting to punch the politely amused overly handsome face before him.

So had he enjoyed a good evening with Sebastian Wilkes?

It had been strange, disconcerting, eventful. Nothing had been as he had expected. He reached back into the details of his memory; to the time before John Watson arrived, before Moriarty mowed him down, before Angelo came to his rescue, and before John Watson came to his aid.

He remembered Sebastian Wilkes being arrogant, pompous, superior. Flirting? Putting a hand upon his across the table. Propositioning? Or would have done if John Watson had not appeared like a small whirlwind.

"I think Seb was expecting more from the evening, to be honest. A smarter restaurant, perhaps. Or a…" he made a dramatic pause; shared a wilfully knowing look with Andrew Lake; two men of the world being sparing with words and exactitude, a deliberate provocation of calculated familiarity. "Longer evening elsewhere, perhaps?"

Bait cast. Flick the line. Wait for the bite…

"Seb? Really? But surely it was Jamie…" the banker flushed a little, did not complete the question.

"Jamie – what?"

"Well…." Sherlock Holmes watched Andrew Lake watching him, trying to decide what to say, how far to go. So the consulting detective tried a naïve look, a tilt of the head, a bemused little half smile.

"Jamie always said….you and he were meant to be together." A slightly embarrassed squirm of the shoulders, a look away before glancing back, more acute this time. "He made a joke of it, but he meant it. I was never quite sure what he meant by 'together.' I did ask him once; at a party. He laughed and said: 'partners in crime and more. Of course, more! Don't you think he is delightful?' And he laughed. You know that special laugh of his? The unreadable laugh you are never sure about."

"Which meant?"

"Everything. From the look on his face whenever he spoke of you, he meant ….well…everything. From taking on the world together ….to taking you to bed." He paused at the look of disbelief on Sherlock Holmes' face as he deliberately paced around the room.

"Look: can you stand still? Sit down or something? You're making me dizzy. And why don't you take off your coat and gloves? Aren't you hot?"

"No." The one word answered all the questions. He didn't want to stand still. To sit down. To have his scraped knees stilled and settle into discomfort. He was too agitated at what he was hearing. And he didn't want to take off his coat or gloves; delay his escape, reveal his bloodied hands.

"Anything else you want to tell me? Think I should know? Assuming I spent most of my time at Cambridge off my head and remember nothing."

"Really? Were you? I mean – there were lots of stories about you doing the rounds; and both Seb and Jamie sort of stoked them up, from their different perspectives, but…."

"But what? Oh, do tell, Andrew."

Only Mycroft Holmes or perhaps John Watson could have told that the cheeky grin and click wink was performed in front of gritted teeth.

"People said you had had all sorts of adventures. No just sex drugs and all that, like most students, but proper comic book stuff. Fighting foreign terrorists, hunting murderers, chasing lost causes, selling sex. Unbelievable stuff. Any of that true?"

"I had a complex childhood."

"And that your mum was a maths genius. Winner of all sorts of prizes, wrote some trailblazing books."

"She still is a maths genius. Retired now, sadly."

Andrew Lake shook his head, grinned ruefully.

I also heard tell that there are sex tapes of you on the dark web. When you were young and pretty."

The distracted prowling stopped, the self contained elegant man apparently absorbed in fiddling with the cord of the blind on the window between Andrew Lakes' office and that of his secretary as if he had not heard The slats of the Venetian blind turned, the room moving into shade, blocking off the bright winter sunshine and the view from the other room.

"Is that true? I mean – I know I shouldn't ask; but, still."

The smile was somewhere between pity, horror and fascination.

"So who told you that?"

"Jamie."

Sherlock Holmes continued to prowl, making his third or fourth pass behind the desk, behind the banker's leather executive armchair.

He moved so silently Andrew Lake did not realise he was directly behind him, standing so close, until Sherlock Holmes leant forward across his right shoulder and bent down, spoke softly into his ear.

"A confidence too far, Andrew. You really do need to watch your tongue."

The banker jerked upright in his seat; found a hand clamped to the back of his neck, long strong fingers hard around the tendons of his throat. The other hand gripping now from the other side, leaving Andrew Lake frozen and helpless and starting to sweat.

"Do you know that I could kill you now? Right now." The voice was a low, seductive baritone rumble. "Just tighten my hands around your throat. Not bother wasting time cutting off your air, going straight for the blood supply, the artery." The fingers tightened. "Blood stops circulating to the brain. The brain closes down through lack of oxygen. If I took it slow you could be unconscious in less than thirty seconds. If I kept pressing, brain dead in a couple of minutes. Properly dead in four.

"And I could just walk out of here, leaving you sitting up like you are now. And no-one would know until it was far too late. Not for ages. Unless you are the person I think you aren't, and actually work hard at your desk."

Andrew Lake tried to struggle, found he could not move.

"Know what? I don't believe a single word you have said. All total bullshit. However; I do believe what you haven't said.

"Especially who you told where I was going to be last night with dear Sebastian." Andrew Lake tried to speak, tried to wrench the hands away from his throat. The fingers tightened again without effort.

"No, no, don't try to help me kill you. I know only too well who you told where I would be. You were the only person Sebastian told. And just like the best gossip, like Chinse whispers or falling dominoes, you then told your favourite auntie, the lovely Joanna. And she told her brilliant son, Jamie."

"Jamie's dead." The two words were forced out as some guttural gurgle.

"As I said before; that is a matter of opinion."

He opened both his hands with a dramatic flourish, like a magician tossing away a spell; and Andrew Lake fell forward, trying not to choke.

"But you can do me a favour. When you talk to Auntie Joanna and tell her about meeting me today. Because you will, won't you? Probably as soon as you stop trembling quite so hard. So you can tell her I'm fine. Then tell her to tell dear Jamie I am fed up playing his games. Tell her - to tell him - to find the courage to come out of the shadows and just face me.

"And then we shall see who wins this time. He backed down at the pool. Walked out of my home after a lovely cuppa. Lost the game of chicken on the rooftop. Could not cope with knowing I know what really happened to Carl. James is not the genius he thinks he is; that you think he is. He is just a very naughty boy. As they say.

"And if he thinks he can beat me this time he is utterly deluded."

A breath of air pushed deliberately, intimately, down the back of Andrew Lake's neck, and he shuddered despite himself.

"Do you think you can remember all that? To tittle tattle to your dear Joanna?" There was a deep deliberate nod in response: Andrew Lake was not certain he could form words to reply.

"Good man! Make sure he knows it is time to come out and play. For the final time."

The consulting detective stood up straight, moved swiftly round the desk. Put both gloved hands down on the front, leant in. Frowned in a mockery of concern.

"Are you all right, Andrew? You look a little pale."

He strode away, not waiting for an answer. Turned back in the doorway.

"Have a cup of tea, dear. You need a little pick-me-up. But that's not me. Obviously."

And he left, so quiet and self effacing no-one in the outer office even noticed him pass them by.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Author's Notes:

Ciccio: Affectionate term that translate directly as 'chubby' but really is a way of saying friend, or mate, uncle or father figure.

"Any of your brothers away?" Meaning in prison. Angelo's reply says Lorenzo is in Wormwood Scrubs, one of London's best known prisons.

'If Renzo has any wooden pews? Or a dickie? Brass in it." Sherlock drops into street vernacular based on Cockney rhyming slang so any eavesdropper will not understand. Wooden pews is news; a dickie is dickie bird rhyming with word, as in information. Brass – among other definitions – in this instance means money.

The story "At Angelo's" provides backstory to the friendship between Sherlock Holmes and Angelo Grimaldi.