Author's note: Here it is: the last chapter! It's been fun. School started this week, so I've finished just in time. Time to trade writing fanfiction for grading. Thanks for reading and reviewing and listing my stories!

–Goodbye GoatHill

Chapter 12: The One-Legged Man Explains All

Lestrade steadied himself with the familiar rituals of the suspect interview: making the formal warnings and statements, setting up the recording equipment, arranging the suspect in alignment with the camera. Sherlock paced, impatient with the official apparatus; John sat down and looked steadily at the One-Legged Man. He hadn't really gotten a good look at him before. He was an older man, with a scraggly beard; his skin was dark and wrinkled from a lifetime of exposure to the sun, and John couldn't help feel a little bit of sympathy when the man grunted as he arranged his injured leg beneath the table.

Lestrade cleared his throat, to indicate that the interview was beginning in earnest, and addressed himself to the One-Legged Man: "Will you please state your name for the record?"

Sherlock, bursting to speak, interrupted: "Lestrade, this is Jonathan Small. He's been hunting these diamonds for many years now. Just what have you done with the diamonds you devoted your life to finding? Clearly, you, Morstan, and Sholto were in cahoots to smuggle them out of, what, Angola? They double-crossed you, so you killed Morstan; that much is obvious. Why didn't you kill Sholto too?"

Small seemed to take all this in stride. "He died before I had the chance. And I would have done it, too. He deserved it. They both did. I'm sorry about his son; I had no grudge against him. But Sholto … I wish I'd gotten Sholto." John recognized his accent; he'd met a few South Africans in Afghanistan, and tended to think of them as a bit mercenary – handy and courageous enough, but alarmingly comfortable with a great deal of violence and even cruelty.

"I guess I'd better back it up a bit," Small said, looking at the men who comprised his audience. He didn't expect the cop to understand, but he hoped the soldier might. The other one – he already seemed to know everything, and that made it easier. "I got myself into a bit of trouble when I was a boy. Nothing much, mind you – just high spirits. Dad said I should go to the Army; they'd sort me out. I figured that I might as well go, and the old man was right. Army suited me, even if I didn't always see the grand plan. I didn't see how killing a lot of Natives made the world safe for democracy," he explained, "Seemed to me they could all go to hell in a handbasket without my help."

Lestrade's gaze flickered from Small's face to Sherlock's. He was trying to figure out how much of this was news to the Consulting Detective. Sherlock knew the One-Legged Man's name; Lestrade figured he must know more. He was worried about John, too; John was edgy, agitated. He figured John would make a decent bad cop if it came to that, but Small seemed inclined to keep talking, as long as John didn't interrupt him.

"Anyway, I was at Huambo, and a bloody great mess that was." John leaned back and lifted his eyebrows. He'd heard stories about Huambo, and he knew what this meant. "So, while I was there, I was guardin'… something. We'd set up in a church, and I was standing outside when these Natives – not UNITA either, just civilians, I guess, if there were any civilians left anymore – come up to me and start talking. I know a little Portuguese, they know a little English. They've got a deal for me. I hide this box, safe in the church like, and after things quiet down, we split it between us, four ways. I asked how we'd find each other again, and they say they'll find me. "

"You believed them?" prompted Lestrade.

"I believed their machetes," said Small. "And sure enough, I saw them every day. They found some way or the other to turn up at the church each and every day. But things got bad and worse in Huambo. One day, it was only two of them that come. Then just one, then nobody. I was going to wait a week. After all, a deal's a deal, and these guys might've been Natives, but they were always straight with me. But before the week was up…" he gestured to his leg.

John's leg stiffened in sympathy. "IED?" he asked.

Smalls chuckled. "Nah. Not that lucky. Army would've paid then. Besides, we had landmines 'stead of IEDs. I went in swimming. It seemed like a good idea at the time. Guess the alligators thought so too."

Sherlock's curiosity was piqued. "An alligator ate your leg?" He moved around the table and bent over a little, trying to get a better look at the leg. "How did you..." He gestured.

"Officer pulled me out, medic wrapped me up. Had to cut it off right there on the side of the river. Did a good job, I guess, but that was the end of my soldier days, and I still needed work. That's when I fell in with Morstan and Sholto. They was working security for DeBeers, y'know" – Sherlock nodded – "And they liked having a white African 'round to help out." He shifted his leg, but John wasn't sure if he was uncomfortable with his leg or with the direction of his story. Lestrade maintained an impassive gaze, a policeman's poker face, waiting patiently for him to continue.

"Well, it wasn't Sierra Leone or the Congo, but there was a fair amount of diamonds circulating in Angola in those days, and people were pretty desperate to keep hold of them. DeBeers folks bought up all the mines, just about, and them UNITA boys paid for their end of the war with the money. So me 'n Morstan and Sholto was all together in some backwater that doesn't even have a name, just us and a bunch of Natives. The Natives would dig out the stones, Morstan and Sholto ran the show, and I did whatever they needed doing. I cooked, I cleaned, I did some paperwork. Once a month, some company men would come around for a few days to distribute pay packets and collect diamonds, and they'd all sit around drinking and playing cards. I'd just watch, and I noticed that Morstan and Sholto both were losing a lot of money, every month. So finally, one day I asked Morstan about it, real casual-like, and he told me some sob story about his dead wife and his lost baby daughter in America and how he was tryin' to get enough money to find her. I didn't believe him, of course. Man like that has no business with a baby daughter."

John had to interrupt. "It was true, actually. We've met her. We know her. She's a good person, and you've taken her..." Lestrade put a calming hand on John's arm and shook his head, but it was the pressure of Sherlock's hand on his shoulder that quieted John.

"Well, I'm sure she is," replied Small, glancing between the men, a little confused by John's agitation. "Must take after her mother, then. Or maybe I misjudged Morstan. Hope not. You'd hate to have misjudged a man you killed, y'know?"

Lestrade cleared his throat, and Small took this as a cue to return to his narrative. "So, anyways, I figured he would have a chance to go off to Huambro and get the box, and I thought I'd bring him in on the deal. He told it all to Sholto. We talked it over, worked it out. I drew them a little map of the city, sketched how I hid the box in the church. Morstan and Sholto were supposed to go off on some company business or something, then come back for me. We'd divide things up, and retire rich men."

Lestrade prompted him, "But they double-crossed you."

"Sure they did. Off they went, and never came back. Worse'n that, they set up the paperwork so's the company men would think I'd been skimming, when it was them that was, trying to cover their bets. So I got sent back to South Africa and did a little time. Couldn't fight it. No point. It was in lockup that I met Kumsa." He gestured at John. "That's my mate you dropped in the river. Little man could be mean, but we trusted each other. After we got out, he and I worked ships, here and there, trying to get to England so I could get my treasure."

Sherlock filled in for him: "You found Morstan and killed him because he didn't have the diamonds."

Small nodded. "That I did. I figured he'd come to England to get with Sholto, and divide up my diamonds between them. I told him I'd go with him to Sholto and we could split it all, nice and even, just like we planned. But he wouldn't do it. I gathered that Sholto had crossed him, too, and he meant to get his bit and didn't care 'bout mine. Man wouldn't keep his word. Me 'n Kumsa did what needed doing, and put the man in the river. I kept looking for Sholto. I found him, too, but couldn't get to him in time. Died in bed, his boys around him." Small shook his head, regretful.

"We laid low and watched the place. Saw them dig all them holes, figured they didn't know what Sholto did with the box. Seeing as I didn't either, I just let them keep searchin'. Wouldn't do me no good to break in if there weren't no diamonds to be had. After they stopped digging, I watched closer. But it was Kumsa that figured it out, and we made our move on Friday. Kumsa didn't much like white people – can't say as I blame him – and he always was inclined to shoot first and ask questions later. He killed Sholto's boy before I had a chance to get in a word. We came to blows over it, actually; I just wanted to get the stones and get out, but Kumsa, he never missed a chance to kill a white man. I expect you lot know the rest, as you've been followin' me the last three days." He looked at Sherlock, who indeed had been following him the last three days, in one guise or another.

Lestrade reached a calming hand towards John before speaking. "The diamonds, then?"

"In the river, same as Kumsa, same as Morstan, same as the key. Figure it's not right, me having them, when those three what brought them to me can't have them either. Probably nobody should have them. No telling where they came from, or who was killed in the getting. River's the best place for them." Small was content with his story, and with his part in it; he crossed his arms across his chest and leaned back in his chair.

John tilted his head, pursed his lips. He'd wanted to get Mary her diamonds, give her what he thought she needed, but Small's story changed his mind. Sherlock sat down at last, satisfied; all his observations and surmises had been borne out by the story. Lestrade was the only man of them who moved. He stood up, went to the door, and called for an officer, who came in and read the formal charges to Small, who placidly allowed himself to be led from the room. Lestrade leaned over to the recorder and spoke, "The interview is ended at—" he checked his watch, blinking at it "—3:32." He switched off the machine, murmured somberly to Sherlock and John, then went down the hall.

John looked at Sherlock. "Some story. I wonder what … Mary!" He'd forgotten about her, forgotten that she was watching them this whole time, forgotten that she'd heard that her father had deserved the death he'd received. Sherlock followed him out the door and down the hall, where they found Lestrade leaning in the doorway of the small observation room.

It was empty, except for the small jewelry box containing five loose diamonds.