Reaching the ground floor, Lestrade cautiously tried the front door handle. The door was locked, but from the inside or the outside? Mrs. Hudson's hat, coat and shopping bag were all on their usual hooks... but that might not mean much, if the woman had left in enough of a hurry, or been sufficiently distracted by an alarming message. He strained his ears as he passed along the gloomy front hall, pausing at the kitchen door to land, but could hear nothing through it.

Hefting the half brick, he pushed gently at the green baize, slowly, slowly... Damn, the kitchen was just as dark, cold and empty... too cold and empty, now he came to think of it. Wasn't Saturday Mrs. Hudson's baking day? Normally, the air in here would still be warm from the oven, and thronged with delicious smells, especially in the pantry. Even if Wiggins had reached Baker Street this afternoon without any delays, there should have been signs of interrupted activity: dirty dishes, an unscrubbed sink, traces of ingredients on the floor or table... but instead, the place was immaculate, upstairs and down. Mrs. Hudson was houseproud, certainly, but she wouldn't bother about any of that with Holmes in trouble!

It could all be explained so easily, however, if Mrs. Hudson had had a good reason not to follow her usual routine this morning. These were certainly interesting times, after all... and, unfortunately, the only person who could have shed light on exactly what the woman knew was currently upstairs, discovering that his 'borrowed' clothing fit him perfectly.

"Let's just hope he isn't tempted to play around with his chemicals," Lestrade muttered as he turned back, then jumped considerably higher than usual at a thump from the floor above.

The Inspector took the stairs two at a time. "Sherlock? Everything all right?" Stupid, he should have known better than to leave his colleague alone up there, even for a minute! He had known better, dammit! "Sherlock, answer me!"

"In here..." The voice sounded dazed, but not in pain, and Lestrade exhaled in relief as he entered the sitting room to find Holmes standing in the middle of the floor. It was a lot darker in here now, too, but he could clearly see a small round table lying on its side, which must have held the chess board and pieces that were now scattered on the rug.

"Oh, that's nothing," Lestrade began heartily, then realised that Holmes wasn't looking at the mess; he was staring fixedly across the room. "Well, I see you found something to wear," he said brightly, pretending he hadn't noticed. Tweed trousers, a white shirt, a plain black waistcoat, and a pair of elastic sided boots made a practical, if Spartan, ensemble, and Holmes looked much better with his face washed and hair combed, though still nothing like the fastidiously attired and groomed gentleman whom Lestrade had met for a council of war only... good God, only yesterday...

"That's... not all I found..."

Lestrade blinked, chiding himself. This was hardly the moment to indulge in self-pity when Holmes had much bigger problems! "What did you find, son?"

"Don't call me that!" Holmes whipped around, eyes full of fury... and anguish. "I'm not your son! I'm not anyone's son!"

Oh dear... "But you were telling me about your father," Lestrade answered carefully. "On the roof, remember? His concerns about you at Oxford?"

"That was years ago!" Holmes cried impatiently, as if wondering how Lestrade could be so forgetful! He turned and strode over to the sideboard, where his violin case lay open, and pulled out the Stradivarius, none too gently in his agitation. "See this? It's mine! Father gave it to me as a reward when I passed the entrance exam! Why is it here?!"

"Ah." If there was a better response, Lestrade couldn't think of one. Drat the man, why had he told Watson he'd bought it himself?

"And he never even got to see... see me graduate..."

Lestrade hastily picked his way through the chess pieces, and supported the sagging, trembling detective to the settee, still clutching his Stradivarius by the neck. So close, and yet so far... Holmes must now be at St. Barts in his mind, or lodging in Montague Street. Either way, back then he had just begun to explore how forensic science could assist the law. Perhaps... Perhaps that was the best way forward here, as Mrs. Hudson was certainly in no position to jog her lodger's memory, wherever she was.

First things first, though... Fortunately, there was no need to leave the room again to find food. A bowl of fruit and an uncut loaf stood on the sideboard, as well as the normal decanters. Lestrade tore some large chunks off the loaf, peeled a couple of oranges and poured two glasses of water from the carafe, then coaxed Holmes into letting his violin go, just for a minute, so that he could eat and drink. The detective accepted the water readily enough, gulping thirstily, but wouldn't touch the food. Lestrade wished he knew if that was a sign of returning memory, or because the man simply felt like being difficult! Oh well, waste not, want not – he was pretty ravenous himself.

"Ohh, that's better," he sighed at last, leaning back. "Feels like a long time since those biscuits!" He only realised he might have said something wrong when Holmes's hands tightened on the empty glass. "Sherlock? What's the matter?" Besides everything...

"John drugged me, didn't he?" But the question was a flat statement of fact, the voice equally flat and cold. "The hot chocolate. And you knew."

Lestrade felt a chill. Damn, damn, damn... Of all Watson's errors in judgement, he hadn't even considered having to deal with the consequences of this one!

"I should have woken up when the gang were trying to break in. Shouldn't I?"

"Yes," Lestrade answered gruffly. "It was a stupid mistake on your brother's part, Sherlock, I'm not denying that!" he added hastily as Holmes sprang up off the settee, hugging his violin to his chest, the Inspector's heart sinking at the detective's expression. It had only taken a moment to shatter the trust he had tried so hard to rebuild...

"He's not my brother! And you're not my friend!" Good Lord, and Lestrade had thought Holmes was too mentally old now for tantrums! "How could you?!"

"I don't know!" Lestrade shouted back, also rising to his feet. "You're right! You're absolutely right, I shouldn't have let him do it! It was stupid! He should have trusted you, we all should, but we didn't! Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"No! Tell me whose house this is!"