"I can't." The terror in Holmes's eyes broke Lestrade's heart, but he wasn't going to tell his colleague what he very obviously already knew, deep down. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, I really am... but you need to solve this last problem yourself."

"Please!" Holmes clutched one-handed at Lestrade's arm, his earlier hostility forgotten."You have to tell me why my violin is here! And why I fit every piece of clothing in the wardrobe!" He let go and gestured wildly at the ceiling. "And that book upstairs!"

"...What about the book?" Come on, Holmes, come on, work it out...

"It's more tattered than it should be, but that's mine, too! A-At least, it was... I gave it to... to..."

"Who, Sherlock?"

"I don't... I don't remember!" Holmes folded back onto the settee, head in his hands, the violin sliding the floor. "Why c-can't I...?"

Damn. "Sherlock... I know this is hard..." Lestrade retrieved the Stradivarius and sat back down beside Holmes. "But right now, you're on the point of understanding something very important... and very wonderful. You don't have to be scared." When the detective didn't move or reply, Lestrade took a chance, and gently strummed one of the violin strings, just once. "Nobody told you that you were drugged, did they? You worked it out, all on your own!" Pretending to sound awe-struck went right against the grain, but this was for a good cause. "How did you do that?"

Holmes gave him a scornful sideways glance without lifting his head. "There was a white, powdery residue at the bottom of my cup, which I must have originally assumed was undissolved sugar. Potassium bromide, most likely, it tastes sweet in smaller concentrations. The hot chocolate wouldn't have been enough to conceal the bitter taste of chloral hydrate."

Lestrade didn't even bother to hide a genuinely appreciative grin. "I'm impressed! You should come work at the Yard, Holmes, we could use someone like you!" Don't overdo it... "Have you ever done that before?" Another pluck, a different string. "Picked up on things that nobody else would notice?"

"Oh... well, yes, actually. One of the other students at St. Barts was accused of stealing barbiturates. Fortunately, most people are entirely ignorant of Bertillon's studies on the individuality of fingerprints." The light in Holmes's eyes was making Lestrade's chest hurt, surely it was too much to hope... "I was able to demonstrate that the real thief was one of the cleaning staff, whom we caught in the act soon afterwards. Well, we had to, as his fingerprints alone wouldn't have convicted him, they still aren't considered admissable evidence in a court of law. But you already knew that, I'm sure."

The Inspector nodded, quietly plucking yet another string. "Doesn't it get frustrating sometimes? So many people walking around with blinkers on..."

"Yes!" Holmes exclaimed, clearly pleased to have a sympathetic ear. "Good Lord, yes! I must have told him a hundred times: 'You see, but you don't observe!' "

Lestrade almost forgot to breathe. "Who, Mycroft?"

"No, Watson!"

"Ah." The Inspector had to make a concerted effort to keep his voice low and level. "I always thought the doctor was more observant than most."

"Hm!" Holmes snorted, then he suddenly chuckled. "You should've been there when Stamford first introduced us in the lab – his face when I deduced he'd been in Afghanistan! It was simply... er, simply..." The detective's brow furrowed. "He... he looked..."

"Well, it was a while back, Holmes," Lestrade said lightly, belying his racing pulse. "I'm sure he was amazed, anyhow!"

"Y-Yes, quite..." Still frowning, Holmes stood and walked slowly over to the writing desk by the window. He ran his fingers over the smooth leather top, randomly shuffled a few scraps of paper, picked up a brass paperweight, turning it over in his hands... then dropped it with a 'tchah!' of exasperation. He moved to the bookshelf next, peering eagerly at all the titles, then sprang over to the mantle. Whatever he'd hoped to find of Watson's – cigarettes? tobacco? – he was equally disappointed there, too, turning away with a silent snarl.

Lestrade sat immobile on the settee. Holmes seemed to have forgotten he was even here for the moment. Watson would have to have erased his presence so thoroughly from the flat, dammit! Maybe he should suggest going down to the kitchen, brew some coffee, the smell of a thousand shared breakfasts might work... but just then, Holmes brightened, hurrying out of the sitting room and up the stairs.

Of course, the book Holmes had given Watson! Surely... Even if the doctor had left it behind... And then the most terrible cry of rage and sorrow Lestrade had ever heard had him vaulting over the back of the settee and running for the door. God in heaven, what had Holmes remembered now?!

As he raced upstairs, however, Lestrade could see plainly that the detective hadn't even entered the bedroom, he was on his knees in front of the closed door, staring upwards... A second chill traveled down the Inspector's spine to keep the first one company as he saw what Holmes was looking at. That hadn't been there before!

On the upper half of the door, fixed to the wood by what appeared to be Holmes's jackknife, was a handwritten sheet of paper. Lestrade managed to move past the rigid detective, though his own legs felt unusually leaden, and read the note.

My dear Holmes,

Your presence is required at the request of your family.

Kindest regards,

James Moriarty