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When the black car pulled up at the traffic lights next to the Gardens, Merlin was still trying to explain the situation to Lestrade. He felt like he had spent half an hour talking to a brick wall. The detective inspector's face seemed permanently moulded to a moderately surprised, mostly disbelieving expression; those around them had given up on the conversation a long while ago, and wandered off to other parts of the Gardens. The body had been carted into the van a while back. The arrival of the car was, therefore, something of a welcome distraction.

'I'm sorry; I've left your bicycle at the Diogenes Club,' Sherlock called to one of the police officers, as he clambered out of the sleek vehicle that Mycroft had had on hand. He was closely followed by his brother.

'Mr Holmes,' Lestrade called out in greeting, disentangling himself from his increasingly more awkward conversation. Merlin ran over to Sherlock, studying the new arrival with curiosity.

'Your brother?' he asked after a moment. When they tried, but failed dismally, to deny it, he grinned. 'I thought you looked similar.'

The Holmes brothers exchanged scathing glances.

Mycroft coughed. 'I presume you are Merlin Ealdor. I would appreciate it if you would describe to me all that you know about this incident, and all of the other incidents that Sherlock has associated with it.'

Therefore Merlin gave a fairly short, but thorough, narration of what he had already said in snippets.

Mycroft fingered the handle of his umbrella. Like everyone else, he was extremely reluctant to believe him, but for the moment saw no other alternative.

'Assuming your hypothesis to be correct,' he said, 'what would be the best thing to do next?'

Merlin furrowed his brow. 'It's no hypothesis, if you don't mind me saying. – But when this last happened, we were given a couple of weeks, I think, to prepare. We didn't really know what for. We ended up meeting Morgana's army in battle on a plain – the plain of Camlann –'

Sherlock recalled the mention of Camlann from a while ago, when a mysterious note addressed to Merlin had brought the student into this matter. There seemed to be a clear sequence of events and references, which was uncommon when it came to complete lies.

'And the target was –?'

Merlin shrugged. 'The king... the kingdom.' His eyes suddenly turned to the ground, and he fell silent.

'How do you suggest we locate the source of these threats?'

'I can help you,' said Merlin at last, 'and I shall help you. I don't know quite what I'm looking for, but I probably have a better idea than anyone else.'

Sherlock, Mycroft and Lestrade exchanged glances.

'Very well,' said Mycroft. 'Follow me, Mr Ealdor.'

And, swinging his umbrella on his arm, he led the way back to the car. The two got in, and swept away. Sherlock watched them until they had rounded the corner out of sight; then he said:

'This is madness. I fear I shall not be needed any longer in this case.'

'Well, that's something I never thought I'd hear, at any rate,' murmured Lestrade, and left Sherlock to head off towards the Westminster tube station. He couldn't help but notice that the detective had a dismal, almost detached air about him. To be perfectly honest, he couldn't blame him.

'I'd like a print-out of the official details of these three cases,' Mycroft called as he strode into his office.

Anthea looked up and raised one eyebrow. 'I'm not your secretary,' she called back, not in bad humour, swinging her legs down from the desk and walking off. She didn't even notice Merlin's presence.

Merlin stopped a few paces into the room, and noticed with regret that his shoes had been scuffing mud into this immaculate carpet. The entire office was completely unruffled, and he almost feared to breathe. He had never seen anywhere so tidy and organised. It was, certainly, a stark contrast to the mess of any room that Sherlock had anything to do with: the brothers were less similar than they looked.

'I presume that I can trust you with the location of this office,' Mycroft said curtly. 'It must not be revealed under any circumstances. – Anyway: to the point of this journey. I need to know precisely what to prepare for, and when.'

'I...' stammered Merlin, 'I'm not sure I can be of too much help in that regard.'

Mycroft shrugged off this comment. 'No matter... Tell me what you know. Anything is better than nothing.'

'Forgive me for asking,' said Merlin, 'but should I have heard of you? Are you someone important?'

'I am the British government,' replied Mycroft, 'and no, it is good that you have not heard of me. But come: we're wasting time. Tell me everything you know. And quickly.'

Sherlock felt hopeless again, and he didn't like it. He felt so hopeless that he had stooped to using the Tube, instead of hailing a taxi as usual. Fortunately it was fairly quiet at this time of day, giving him some precious thinking time before he had to get off at Baker Street.

He was greeted by Mrs Hudson the moment he entered 221 Baker Street. She emerged from her flat, distractedly running a tea-towel over a wet plate, and said: 'There was a client came when you were gone. I said that I didn't know when you would be back, but he said he was willing to wait. I've left him on the landing, with a cup of tea. He looked as if he needed it. You weren't wanting any tea, were you?'

'Black,' Sherlock muttered, 'two sugars.'

'Are you all right, Sherlock?' she said, fawning over him a little. 'You're very pale.'

'It's my normal colour, I think,' said Sherlock.

'No, paler than usual. You look... haunted.'

'It's this damned case,' Sherlock said at last. 'It got too much, so I've disentangled myself.'

'Oh,' said Mrs Hudson. 'Oh, dear. Well, at least you might have a lovely new one waiting for you upstairs,' she added, nodding as a creaking floorboard indicated the presence of someone above them.

Sherlock just smiled wanly, hung up his coat and headed off up to his flat.

There was indeed a client on the landing. As Sherlock clambered upstairs, a young man stood from where he had been sitting on the second flight, an empty cup of tea in his hand.

'Sherlock Holmes,' he said, with only the slightest hint of a question in his voice.

'Indeed,' said Sherlock, trying to look more confident and imposing than he felt. He thrust his key into the lock and fell more than walked into his flat. 'Come in.'

The man followed him, and sat in the armchair that Sherlock indicated.

'What can I help you with?' asked Sherlock, after the man had spent rather too long studying the furniture. 'And what is your name?'

'My name is Arthur Pendragon,' he replied, 'and I need help with pretty much everything.'