Lighting Fires

Slightly shorter chapter here – I was going to include another important scene at the end, but it got a bit long and I felt it deserved a separate chapter anyway…which will follow shortly.

Again, I should say that I know very little about spray painting! And probably not a lot more about crime procedures either, so bear with me.

Inspired by the song Fires by Ronan Keating

Disclaimer : not mine, no money

So…John has a long-overdue awkward encounter…


It doesn't take John more than a couple of days to discover that all his surviving messages have been decorated the same way. Just a single identical sign, right next to his. He always paints his messages in red, and the matching symbol is blue. It's even on the latest message at Barts, when he goes back to it just two days after painting it.

John fingers the symbol, frowning. Who would do this? His mysterious shadow? And why? Does the painter understand what the symbol means?

If the person meant merely to deface John's message, there's much easier ways of doing that. He tries to push a certain notion away, but it haunts him.

He eventually catches up with Raz at the skateboard park under the South Bank Centre, two days after the UCL murder. The weather has taken a turn for the better, and it's a calm, warm Thursday morning, enlivened by just the mildest of breezes. The Thames sparkles in the bright sunshine, and John takes a moment to lean on the rail, lifting his face to the sun's rays and closing his eyes against the glare. It's a rare perfect summer day in London and as the sun shines pink behind his lashes, he gets a sudden searing vision of Sherlock.

They'd been up all night and had finally run their criminal down – he'd been grappling with Sherlock on the precipice of Millennium Bridge while John tried to shout the man down. The two men had nearly gone over into the Thames before backup in the guise of Lestrade arrived just in the nick of time. John remembers standing between the river and the Tate Modern and watching Sherlock, pristine as ever in his suit and with the inevitable shock blanket loosely arranged across his shoulders, conversing with Greg. And then the detective had walked back towards John, along the promenade. As Lestrade had continued barking orders to his officers, Sherlock had leant on the rail next to his friend, giving John his usual wide, post-case grin. He then raised his pale face to the sun for a few moments, clearly enjoying its warmth.

John had found himself staring. Partly, it was delayed shock from the fight and his desperate fear that his friend would disappear into the Thames any minute; partly, it was surprise to see Sherlock so still. He'd only known the man for six months at that point, and he rarely saw Sherlock stop to appreciate the glories of nature. But also, the early morning sun had lit his features, and John had been fascinated by the way that the light gold drew out the faintest impression of freckles across the bridge of the detective's nose and the curve of his cheekbones…something he'd never seen before. But then he didn't often see Sherlock out of doors during the day; if he did, they were usually dashing to some crime scene.

John remembers standing at that rail, staring at Sherlock and considering all the aspects of his flatmate that he still didn't know – perhaps might never know. How had he grown up? Where? Was there some stately home somewhere in the bucolic Sussex countryside that had spawned the Holmes brothers, raised them, nurtured them? He'd had a sudden, rather wild, vision of a freckled curly-haired child scowling at his older brother during an altercation over an experiment - probably involving ants, a magnifying glass and something that Mycroft treasured – and had had to turn his head away to hide his smirk.

He'd never asked Sherlock about his childhood – Sherlock would have scoffed or made some off-hand comment about dull, but there's no doubt that it would have been fascinating. More fascinating than John's own, somewhat suburban childhood, which consisted mainly of fighting with Harry when she nicked his Action Mans (which happened on a startlingly regular basis) and resuming the on-going controversial debate over who had broken the horse from Buckeroo (the only board game that John had regularly won).

And then Sherlock had stretched his spine and murmured something about breakfast and how to identify the best greasy spoon café south of the river by the bottom third of the door, and John had been shaken out of his reverie.

The memory reminds him that there's still so much he doesn't know about Sherlock Holmes.

He turns towards the skateboard park and grins at the sight of the teenage boys practising their stunts. John wonders how many of them should be in school – but, to be frank, it's not his problem.

"Yeah, I seen it," Raz responds before John can even voice his question. His eyes are on the skateboarding lads – John gets the impression that he might be teaching them some skills. "Just recent, though. Whoever it is, they only just started doing it."

"Are you sure?"

Raz shrugs. "I always notice yours cos I showed you how to do 'em. I would've noticed earlier if the bloke had always been adding the symbol. It's new – he's only been doing 'em the last week, ten days. I meant to tell you when I saw you next."

"Any idea who?" John asks.

Raz gives him a strange look. He seems to be about to say something, and then stops and shrugs. "Dunno for certain. Definitely amateur but good. Good at imitation. There's no hesitation and the lines always match yours exact. Can't tell nothing about style cos he's just imitating yours."

John accepts this. He's learnt by now that the young man knows everything there is to know about street art. He pulls out the photos. Lestrade has cropped them carefully so they don't show the body or give much away about the crime scene itself.

Raz looks through them with interest. He hesitates for a moment at the last one – the one taken at UCL.

"Any ideas?"

He shakes his head. "No, I don't know who did this. Not much to go on. Not a pro. Not artistic – just trying to make a point. Think it's a bloke. Very firm lines. Someone who likes giving orders."

"Someone military, maybe?"

Raz glances at him. "Yeah, maybe. There's one thing, though. I think they're all the same bloke except this last one." He indicates the UCL photo. "This is someone else."

John peers closely. "How can you be sure? None of them is exactly the same."

Raz points out some of the similarities in the earlier photos. "The sloping L. Each S is a bit bigger than the rest of the letters. And the horizontal line on the H overlaps. Yeah, these were all definitely done by the same person, but that one's someone else. He's tried to imitate the style, but he's not that good at it. Don't recognise it either…"

He frowns intently at the photo. John keeps quiet.

"It looks like… like the bloke can't write well…or perhaps he's foreign. Yeah, that's right," he nods, more confidently, "like he's not English."

"Not English," John repeats, staring at the photo. "But the others are?"

"Well he knows what he's writing anyway. This last one – he's copying something. Like he's copying a picture he don't understand, if you know what I mean."

Both men, one military, one not English. It's something.

John slides the photos back into their envelope. "Thanks, Raz, you've helped a lot."

"Yeah…um, Doc?" Raz is looking down at his shoes. He seems uncomfortable.

"What is it, mate?"

The young graffiti artist raises his head and looks John in the eye. "See…I heard rumours. About him – you know? Mister Holmes."

"Yes?" John tries to look sympathetic and helpful, but his heart is beating wildly.

"I know – I know he died – I mean I saw it on the news and you were there an' all. An' I never seen him since, so he must be – right? No way he could disappear for years. Not him."

"Yes. I mean, yes, I saw him fall." John manages to croak out the words.

"Yeah, I know. It's just…" Raz looks at his feet again. "Only…if I didn't know better, I'd say that them symbols – the ones on your messages, I mean – 'ad been painted by him."

John is silent for a moment. His heart is thumping so loudly, he's sure the other man must be able to hear it.

"What – what makes you think that?"

Raz pauses for a long moment before replying. "Well… it's the accuracy. He's amateur, cos the outline's a bit blurry, but he's gotta eye for the detail. You don't see that in amateurs – not normally. Never seen it in no one but him."

John notes the constant emphasis on him and wonders, not for the first time, whether Sherlock is truly aware of the impact he has on the people he comes into contact with.

He eyes John again, steadily. "I ain't seen nothin', and no one's told me nothin'. An' I can see by your face that you won't neither. But I know what I saw."

John lets out a shuddering breath that he wasn't aware he was holding. He tucks the folder under his arm and, very aware of Raz's intent gaze, he gives him a nod and starts to step out of the shadow of the skateboarding area.

To this day, he can't say what exactly made him hesitate. Perhaps some remnant of his military training remains; all he knows is that he hears a scraping sound and freezes for just a second before a large slab of concrete crashes down onto the ground right in front of him. Right where he would have been standing if he hadn't hesitated.

Part of him is frozen, staring at the cracked slab. The other part is aware of a woman's startled scream and the sound of running footsteps…and a repetitive thrumming sound. It takes him what feels like hours but can only be a few seconds to realise that he's listening to his own heartbeat, thumping loud in his ear.

Thump…thump…thump… This tangible evidence of his own continuing existence seems to bring him back to his senses.

"Jeez, Doc, you OK? Lucky you wasn't standing there, eh?" Raz's voice sounds far away, despite the hand on his shoulder. "Doc? You sure you're OK?"

"Yes…I'm OK," he mutters, very conscious of the curious group of adolescent boys gathering around him and the equally concerned faces of the passers-by who have stopped to look. He draws a shuddering breath and makes a conscious effort to calm down his pulse.

He steps out cautiously and looks up at the terrace of the South Bank Centre above the underground park. There's a stack of concrete slabs up there, quite close to the edge, in a section cordoned off by builder's signs and a hazard tape. No one to be seen, of course.

A member of the British transport police hurries over. John recognises him vaguely from some past adventure involving Sherlock jumping into the Thames and requiring rescue. He doesn't think the man recognises him, though. He's too busy, looking around, scanning the crowd for injuries.

"Everyone OK in here? Anyone hurt?"

"No, we're all fine," John mutters, looking around; some of the kids are still lingering, while others have beat a sensible retreat at the sight of a uniform. "But I think you'd better clear this area. Just in case another slab should happen to fall down."

The officer gives him a sharp look, and John wonders whether he does recognise him after all. More likely he's confused by John's rather dry comment. It should be obvious to anyone that the slabs are far too heavy to fall without being moved.


Well, he's here at last.

He hasn't been back to the Yard since the immediate aftermath of the Fall. Occasionally, Lestrade has tried to coax him back, but he's never seen the point. He never came here without Sherlock, and even now he's not sure if he can face it alone.

He stands rather awkwardly in the reception, having asked for DI Lestrade. A couple of junior officers that he vaguely recognises pass through, and their conversation falters at the sight of him. Another young constable stares openly, then blushes and averts her face as he catches her eye.

"John! This is a surprise." Lestrade strides over, shaking his hand warmly – almost frantically. He's trying just a little too hard, John thinks. "Come on up."

They pass through reception and get into the lift, emerging on the sixth floor. The DI sweeps through the open-plan area that makes up the serious crime unit. John, hurrying behind, sees DI Dimmock in the distance – the young detective starts slightly and then gives John a cautious nod. The woman he is talking to turns her head quickly, and he gets a brief glimpse of Sally Donovan's shocked face as he follows Lestrade.

It does nothing to settle his nerves.

"So, I heard about this morning – saw the report," Lestrade comments, opening the door to his office and ushering John in.

"How come? I thought the police just assumed it was an accident."

Lestrade gives him a wry smile. "They might've given that impression to you, but they're not stupid. That building site was closed today and you know as well as I do that the slab wouldn't have come down without help." His face turns serious. "It was aimed at you, John – and it was a bit more than a warning. You wouldn't have walked away from that 'accident'."

The DI isn't telling John anything he didn't already know, but he's steadfastly trying not to think of the ramifications.

He shrugs and tries deflection. "What's with all the hard looks out there? I thought you'd cleared Sherlock's name at last."

"Well, yeah, but…" Greg sounds a little awkward. "You know how it is."

"No, I don't," John replies, quietly.

Greg pushes his hand through his greying hair. "Look, John, you got to understand. We know now that we made a mistake…but it caused a lot of trouble here. Lots of overtime going through the files, lots of people tearing out their hair. And what do we find? That he's absolutely clean. Nothing sticks. But… he could've done it – y'know? All that strutting around, making us look like idiots. And he never seemed to care much about the victims. People don't forgive that kind of thing."

"So let me get this right." John's voice is dangerously level. "You're blaming Sherlock for being innocent of the crimes that you blamed him for?"

"I wouldn't put it quite like that." Greg sits down behind his desk, straightening some files to avoid looking up at the doctor.

John gives a disbelieving laugh. "Why am I even here?" he mutters, turning back towards the door.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, just sit down!" Greg snaps.

John turns back, strides across the room and leans close to Greg's face, his own red with anger. "Why the hell should I? I'm only here because you asked me to help. I didn't ask to get involved. You don't see me 'strutting around', do you? And even if he did have a bit of an attitude, don't you think he had a right to? All those crimes you accused him of committing – how many would you have solved if he hadn't been around?"

"Yeah, yeah, OK," Greg puts his hand up. "We already had this conversation, John. You're preaching to the converted. It's just that…don't expect the rest of them to be all that friendly right now. Yeah, look, I know…but try to see it from their point of view for a change, why don't you? David Anderson's a highly-trained forensic pathologist – do you think he actually enjoyed being described as a moron every time Sherlock turned up at a scene? Sherlock accused him of being a waste of space because he wasn't at his level, but who was? When he wasn't around, Dave was – and still is – pretty good at his job. If Sherlock hadn't been too busy slagging him off, he might have seen that. The really stupid thing is, they could've worked together OK if they'd only tried to compromise."

John opens his mouth, but Lestrade doesn't give him a chance to speak. "And what about Sally Donovan? Yeah, I know she can be difficult, but what he said to her sometimes was unforgiveable. We Yarders, we're not angels, but we've always been a team, and there's a code here - we'd never dream of talking about each other's private lives at a scene. We work long hours, we don't spend enough time with our wives and families…and things happen between people. But the point is, it's off-topic, y'know? Then along comes Mister Smartarse and suddenly a hard-working, very professional police officer has to stand there and take it while she's described as a marriage-wrecking slut."

"But, the other night, you said you kept inviting him back, you said –"

"Yeah, I did, and I meant it." Greg gives a short, bitter laugh. "But even I didn't need to have my private life discussed at a party in front of strangers. You think I didn't know what my wife was up to? We were trying to get through it, but he has to go and stick his nose in and go on and on about the bloke she's been sleeping with...and that was the final straw for me. Look, I liked Sherlock, but that's just me – and I was never even sure he liked me back. To everyone else here, he was a trouble-maker – rude to the point of offensiveness, impatient, impossible to understand. He got results but he never bothered to explain himself in a way that anyone could understand. It seemed like…well, magic. They never saw the hard work that went on behind it – all they saw was a smug, upper-class bastard who got lucky with his guesses."

He leans back, giving John a hard look. "I know it's tough for you to come back here. Tough for you – and tough for them too, believe it or not. They never had anything against you personally, and they feel guilty. But, my point is, if you want to carry on being all pissed off and superior and up your own arse about what we did, because you were right and we were wrong… then you might as well just bugger off now. But if you really want to help us catch a vicious killer – and you'd have my gratitude at the very least, if you did – then sit down, and show me what you got."

There is a moment's tense silence as John stares at him in disbelief. He's aware that his mouth is opening and closing in an unattractive manner.

Then, much to his own amazement, he laughs out loud…and keeps on laughing, with an edge of slight hysteria.

More than anything, it's the language that gets him. In three years, no one's had the nerve to describe him as 'being up his own arse' – and, in a bizarre way, John finds he rather likes it. People have been tiptoeing around him, afraid of upsetting him, for far too long. He's missed Sherlock's dismissive put-downs too much.

Lestrade leans forward, looking a little concerned at John's hysteria and clearly wondering if he's gone too far. John waves a hand at him dismissively as he struggles to get himself under control, wiping the tears from his eyes.

"Yeah, OK then." Finally calm, he sits down and throws the photos across the desk. "My source says he doesn't recognise the work, but he's pretty sure the last one was done by someone else. And they're both men and both amateurs. One possibly military and the other – the last one – probably not English-speaking."

Greg frowns. "Not much to go on, but… is he sure about the last one?"

John nods. "He knows his stuff. So…where does that leave you? Any chance the last one could be a copy-cat killer? If we assume that the messenger and the killer are one and the same? If they're not the same person, and if this is some weirdo who's just turning up at the scene right after the killing to write the message, it's hardly likely that there's more than one of them – is it?"

"Yeah, well we got a profile of the killer now." Lestrade hands him a file. "Interpol came up with it – and a suspect. Serbian –" he shares a meaningful glance with John, " – ex-army, a mercenary. Interpol have been after him for years. The style matches him. He's a big bloke and knows how to kill with his bare hands - and he does it quickly too, no messing around. No particular affiliation – he'll work for whoever'll pay him."

John opens the file and sees a photo and a few pages of information. Ratko Jovanovic. Fairly common name in Serbia. The details are sketchy, but his military service isn't particularly controversial. It looks as if he served his time without any particular distinction but with no misconduct either, and was discharged after 14 years. Almost certainly another of the many discharged soldiers who wasn't able to adjust to civilian life with his particular skillset and, as a result, drifted into the crime world.

Moriarty likes men like Jovanovic – they will just get on with killing whoever he wants them to. He doesn't use bare-handed killers very often though – too messy and intimate. He tends to rely on explosives and highly-skilled snipers - the big, noticeable gestures. Could he be involved here? He's been far too quiet over the last three years. Not for the first time, John wonders if the self-styled consulting criminal is still alive.

"OK, well that might fit in with the last message. Maybe the other messages were done by whoever's hiring him. I take it there's no links between him and the victims? Definitely a paid hitman?" When Greg nods, he goes on, "And can I see their files?"

"Sure." Greg pushes a pile towards him. "You can't take them away though." He frowns. "I'm not sure that Jovanovic, if this is him, would be likely to write that message. As far as we can tell, he wouldn't be likely to know anything about Sherlock Holmes."

"But he might be hired to do it, though? By someone like Moriarty?" John frowns, thinking. "Perhaps he was told to write it – but why this time and not before? Because the usual writer couldn't be there for some reason?"

"Maybe, but why write it at all? If this is Moriarty, who's he aiming the message at? He must know Sherlock's dead."

Does he know that Sherlock isn't dead? John wonders, fearing the possible answer to that question. And if not him, then who?

Greg gives him a sharp look. "Do you think he's aiming it at you? Trying to get at you in some way? Maybe some connection to that 'message' you got this morning?"

To that, there's no answer.

John sighs, placing his hand over the first of the files. He hesitates, avoiding Lestrade's eyes. "Um, Greg?"

"Mmm?" Lestrade sounds distracted; he's already moved onto another of the many reports scattered across his desk.

"What you said… I mean… he – Sherlock - he did. Like you, I mean. He – he never showed it very well, but he did like you."

There's a momentary silence, while John keeps looking down at the fingers of his left hand. And then Lestrade stands up and walks out of the room without a word.


Four hours later, John's rubbing his neck as he wearily lays aside the last file and closes his notebook. He's no researcher, and he doesn't really know if he's even looking at the right things. He's relying purely on memories of helping Sherlock out in similar cases.

He knows the victims were members of gangs running drugs into the UK from South America, the Caribbean and Thailand, women and children from African countries and Eastern Europe, men from the Far East, and guns and explosives from pretty much anywhere. He can't find links between any of the individual gangs. The only common denominator is that New Scotland Yard had been onto them, and trying to get hard evidence to make arrests…and that the murdered men had been identified as potential informants.

He can't find any links back to Moriarty, but that doesn't surprise him much. The criminal mastermind would have been far too clever to allow his name to be linked to such lowlifes. Once more, he feels the need for Sherlock's clever brain – if there was even the slightest trace back to his arch-nemesis, he'd find it.

Sherlock wouldn't need to spend hours poring laboriously over files, copying anything that looks vaguely useful. As it is, John can't spend any more time on this – he's taken time off from work, but he's got his regular slot at the homeless clinic tonight.

He pushes his chair back and stands up slowly, rolling his shoulders to try to reduce the stiffness. It's late afternoon, he's just got time to grab a coffee and sandwich on the way to the clinic –.

Lestrade's door opens, and he looks round, fully expecting to see the DI, who's been in a meeting all afternoon. However, it's someone far less welcome, and he feels his smile evaporate.

Sally Donovan shuts the door behind her and leans against it, arms folded. John recognises this as a defensive gesture rather than a hostile one, but it still makes the hair on the back of his neck prickle.

"Sally." He pushes the pile of files back across to Lestrade's side of the desk and grabs his jacket.

"Why are you back – now?"

"Why do you care – now?" He pulls on his jacket and zips it up, eyeing her the entire time. His usual male reaction kicks in automatically, as his eyes flicker down her slim body and back up to her clever pretty face.

It's ironic, really. She's an attractive young woman. Certainly the most beautiful cop he's ever encountered, and possibly one of the most beautiful women – on three continents. And she's intelligent and quite witty when she chooses to be. Certainly wasted on a married man. If they'd met at a pub, he'd have tried to chat her up. They might've got to know each other, maybe had dinner, gone to the cinema. It might have worked…except for Sherlock. Maybe Sally would've ended up tied to that chair in front of a loaded bow, instead of poor Sarah. His lips twitch at the thought.

But, Sherlock. Always Sherlock. Even if he had met Sally in other circumstances, it wouldn't have worked out. Even if she hadn't already known Sherlock, she'd have been put off by the detective's rude, unsociable and, at times, frankly offensive behaviour, just as his other girlfriends had been. The detective hadn't done much for John's sex life during the time they'd lived together…which made it all the stranger that John hadn't bothered to indulge since he'd had Baker Street to himself.

But, in any case, she had known Sherlock and his earliest and most vivid memory of Sally Donovan was the sulky bad-tempered policewoman at the police tape who had thrown Sherlock a look of pure hatred as she hissed the word 'freak' at him. The image had stuck and John had found it hard to be civil to Donovan in all their future interactions.

He approaches her slowly. "Care to get out of my way?"

He's speaking lightly, but the unspoken threat is there, not least in the way his hands fist automatically at his sides. She narrows her eyes and shifts slightly, as if to ward off a blow.

He grins, but there's no humour in it. "Oh, relax, Sally. I don't go in for hitting women."

"So you would if I was a man?"

He's standing right in front of her now, close enough to feel her hot breath on his face. Neither of them is prepared to back down.

"Wouldn't you? If I had accused your friend of numerous crimes that he didn't commit on the flimsiest of evidence, simply because I didn't like him? Accusations that led directly to him throwing himself off a very high building?" The last sentence is pretty cruel of him, since he now knows that Sally's empty accusations had nothing to do with it, but he enjoys watching her flinch nonetheless.

"At the time it seemed –" she begins, but he holds up a hand to stop her.

"Don't. Just don't."

She looks at him, her eyes wide. He waits, with a patience that surprises him. Sally has always been easy to predict. And, sure enough…

"It was never about you, John," she bursts out, suddenly.

He puts his face very close to her and hisses, "Yes. It was. When you set out to destroy Sherlock, you made it personal for me too."

She shakes her head. "Don't you understand? It did look odd. What kind of police officer would I be if I just let it go? You were there – you saw how that little girl reacted to him. What would you have done?"

He shakes his head, slowly. "That's not quite the whole truth, is it? If it had been me that the girl reacted to, you'd have given me the benefit of the doubt – or you'd at least have considered all the evidence before coming to a decision. But because it was him, it gave you the ammunition you'd been after for years." His voice drips contempt. "Call yourself a professional police officer? How dare you."

The side of her mouth is twitching slightly. "He should have let himself be taken," she mutters, turning her face away. "At least he'd have been safe, and we could have sorted this out -"

He sighs, relenting slightly. She's really not worth this. "Oh, just listen to yourself, Sally! Don't you get it yet? His death was nothing to do with you, or Lestrade, or the press. It was Moriarty who pushed him off that building."

She grimaces. "If you hadn't hit the Commissioner –"

"Oh, is that what this is about? It's my fault that he ran away to his death? Is that what you're now saying?" He looks at her intently, letting her see the amused pity in his eyes. "Do you think that was an accident - do you really think I'd just stand by and let you arrest him?"

He watches her eyes widen before he goes on, slowly and very deliberately. "The Commissioner was just an excuse – hitting him gave me my opportunity. I was never going to just sit in that flat and let it happen. Remember, I was a soldier once. And soldiers never abandon their comrades...unlike ambitious detective sergeants hoping to make the grade by bringing down their superior officers."

He sees the anger flare in her eyes – anger and something else…hurt? "What kind of person do you think I am?"

"I don't know, Sally – what kind of person are you?"

She's silent, watching him with wide eyes as he looks her up and down, deliberately slowly.

"You know the biggest irony? A few hours ago, Greg sat here at this desk and defended you. Defended your reputation against Sherlock's jibes, defended your decisions, defended your professionalism – even your loyalty to the team. You – you, Detective Sergeant Sally Donovan, who must have known that drawing attention to Sherlock's work with your team would put his career at risk. He trusts you."

She slumps back against the door, unshed tears sparkling in her angry dark eyes. She looks defeated, diminished in some way. "I didn't… this wasn't… I would never betray the guv."

"Wouldn't you?" he's watching her carefully, noting the single tear that drips silently down her cheek. "Well, perhaps you wouldn't, as it goes. Perhaps your hatred of Sherlock Holmes has skewered your motivations. Ever thought of that?"

She looks up at him, and he sees the agony in her eyes. "I think about it every night, John. Believe me."

And for a moment, he does. Her confessed whisper hangs in the silence before them and, once more, grief chokes his throat. Then his heart hardens again.

"As far as I'm concerned, Greg's far better off with you taken out of his team. He may view it as a punishment, in lieu of actual demotion. I see it as a reward."

He notes the pain in her face as she stares at him. Job done, Watson.

"Now, I really recommend that you get out of my way."


And there's another uneasy encounter next time…