Molly closed her eyes with a sharp intake of breath as the plane jolted around them. She felt worse this day than she had the day before when he had flung herself from a second story flat. Every muscle and joint in her body ached. She hurt in places she didn't know existed. It was odd to be flying off to some tropical destination in a private jet as if she were going on vacation. She opened her eyes when she thought she heard Mycroft make a sound. He stared back with a slight squint.

"You say you . . . played games?"

Molly nodded.

Mycroft tugged at his light grey blazer and regarded her pensively. "What kind of games?"

She moved in her seat trying to make herself comfortable. "Monopoly. A few hands of poker. Chess."

Mycroft pursed his lips. "Hmm . . ."

He glanced sideways at Anthea. As ever, she was deeply engrossed by something on her phone.

Molly drew her brows together. "Is that a new mobile?"

Anthea gazed up and smiled tightly. She dipped her head once and then returned to her phone.

"I believe I know why he made you play those games," Mycroft muttered. "He was trying to analyse your decisions. It's a process he uses to sort things out."

Molly snorted. "Pfft, yeah, I gathered as much. I don't know what he expected but it's not like I played straight. That's why he got so angry, I think."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I acted dumb most of the time but every now and then I'd make a move that appeared brilliant. Then I'd cheat or throw the game. I didn't play at all the way I'd normally do so until we got to Chess."

"And what happened then?"

A smile tugged at her lips. "I beat him."

Anthea laughed across the aisle of the small jet. "Did you really?"

Molly shrugged. "He was just so full of himself . . ."

Mycroft uncrossed his legs and sat forward. "You mean to tell me that my brother Sherrinford, a man with an IQ over 200, was defeated at Chess . . . by you?"

She bristled. "Yes. Oh, that's the problem with all you Holmes! You think somehow being ridiculously shrewd means you're infallible or makes up for your complete lack of emotional intelligence. Well, you're clueless, all of you. If there were an IQ for feelings, you'd all three be below 70."

"Mmf, ha!" Anthea burst out before covering her mouth with her hand.

Mycroft raised his brows. "My, my. Sherlock is making a hash of things, isn't he?"

Molly looked away out the small window next to her and clumsily tried to cross her arms. Her cast, as small as they had tried to make it, did not enable her to be gracefully indignant. She unfolded her arms again and clunked it back down on her armrest with a wince.

"You're not wrong, Dr. Hooper." Mycroft murmured. "Sherlock and myself, we do not deal well with emotions . . . but we do have them. However, Sherrinford is different. While we younger siblings suppress our sentimental side, he almost completely lacks one. So, despite my initial skepticism, I do believe you when you say you beat him. It's interesting, though, that you were able to gauge him so successfully. Very interesting."

Molly wiggled uncomfortably in her seat. "It was nothing really, I'm boasting and I shouldn't. If I were all that clever, I'd never have gotten into the car with him. How d-did he manage that?"

"He had a young associate of his hack your mobile carrier to intercept your messages as well as track you using GPS. The new phone and number we provided should avoid that in future."

She scanned the inside of the 6-seat jet. She knew she was safe, at least for the time being, but could not get rid of her anxiousness. It was as if she expected Sherrinford to pop out of one of the stow-away compartments at any second.

"Why does he bother with me?" Her voice was small. " I still don't understand."

Mycroft leaned back against the supple leather of his backrest. "Hmm, funny, I'm beginning to think I do."

"Lestrade, I'm sorry, I do not have time for your petty concerns."

Greg glared at Sherlock. "Petty concerns? They're trying to pin a murder on an innocent woman!"

Sherlock pushed himself up from his chair and began pacing the same well-worn path over his living room rug. "Well, they're idiots then. I told you before that Dr. Leeds died during a sexual misadventure by huffing too much laughing gas . . . really, this is wasting my time. Mrs. Leeds is the author of her own misfortune and I hardly feel sorry for her. She should never have moved his body . . ."

Greg drew in a steadying breath. "Ack, you're not listening, you prat! His autopsy showed he died from acute kidney failure. They think she poisoned him somehow."

Sherlock furrowed his brows. "Kidney failure? Odd, but then, how do you know she didn't poison the duplicitous dentist? She was rather incensed."

"I know because his twin brother died a week later from the same problem and he lives on the other side of the country. Mrs. Leeds hasn't been anywhere near him in over a year so she couldn't have poisoned him too."

Sherlock stopped in his tracks. The mystery pulled at him irresistibly. He couldn't recall anything he'd solved that was even remotely compelling recently. He'd been chasing his brother for months and gotten nowhere. He itched to reactivate his mind. He'd thought that putting some distance between himself and Molly would be a good thing but his brain had turned to mush in the week since Mycroft had taken her off. When she was around, his senses were heightened and he felt on high alert. Without her, he spent far too much time wallowing and when he wasn't doing that, fondling himself. He may as well start wearing sweat pants and eating processed cheese puffs like some secondary school drop-out on social assistance. He looked down at his robe and pajamas. There were crumbs from his breakfast still clinging to his lapels.

He gave his head a shake and straightened his neck. "Right then, give me a moment to get dressed and I'll see how I can assist you."

"Paromomycin."

"Oy? What's that?"

Sherlock let out a noisy breath. As much as he appreciated Lestrade as a person, he was a useless assistant. He stretched his neck side to side and looked around. He glanced up. Bart's lab seemed dark even with all the lights returned to their working state. It was lacking brightness, lacking - Molly. He sorely missed her . . . erm, medical expertise, he told himself.

"It's an antibiotic. Apparently Mr. Leeds had been recently diagnosed with Cryptosporidiosis, a parasitic infection of the intestinal track. He was prescribed paromomycin to treat it."

Greg Lestrade had a completely blank look on his face. "And . . .?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "That's probably what caused his renal failure. Many antibiotics can be toxic to the kidneys. Of course, this is a very rare occurrence . . ."

Sherlock jumped from his chair and started speaking rapidly. "Very rare. Both brothers were afflicted with the same parasite and thus given the same medication, a standard treatment for this thing. Both brothers died. What is this? What am I missing?"

He balled up a fist and tapped his forehead a couple of times. "What is this? It's a needle in a haystack . . ."

Like Mary.

Those two words inexplicably popped into his head but once in, they refused to leave. Sherlock felt his blood run cold. Each twin would have sought council and treatment for a malady. Each would have had tests done through the NHS. Sherrinford had access to the results of those tests but why these two? Why would he bother killing an inept dentist and a humble sheep farmer?

"Well, what's the verdict?"

"I need more information. I need help with this, real help."

Greg coughed. "What was that now?"

Sherlock turned back to him with his chin in the air. "Get the other brother. I don't care if you have to steal him away from their morgue in the middle of the night and pack him down here."

"He's already buried, Holmes!"

Sherlock grabbed his jacket from a hook on the wall and donned it with a flourish. He wrapped his scarf around his neck.

"Then exhume him," He bit out. "There is much more to this. The fate of the nation is at hand."

Greg's eyes were wide as saucers. "But . . .don't you need to . . . I mean, where are you off to, then?"

He snorted. "Well, I'm hardly in the hearse driving business. Like I said, I need help . . . I need Molly."