Donovan recognized Morgan easily enough and it seemed the other inspector had been doing her homework, because her eyes found Donovan through the crowds at Gatwick. She was shorter than Donovan had expected, but her auburn hair and dark eyes were familiar from the file photos the DI had accessed.

"Inspector Morgan," Donovan said, stepping forward and extending her hand, which the other woman shook firmly.

"Inspector Donovan," she replied. "Thank you for meeting me."

"Sally, please. And I'm glad you're here – we've been at our wit's end trying to get any information on him."

Morgan sighed, nodding.

"I didn't even know he was missing," she said. "We haven't had him in Dublin in years. And it's been a month since I've spoken to him myself."

At this, Donovan raised an eyebrow but Morgan shook her head.

"I'll fill you in on the rest of the details on the way."

"Hospital or hotel first?" the DI asked.

"Hospital, please," Morgan replied. "I need to see him with my own eyes."

John checked the address and the name of the sandwich shop against the information he'd stored in his phone. It was a bit out of place in a neighbourhood dominated by more upscale shops and art galleries, but when he stepped inside, the incongruity vanished in the smell of fried food and freshly baked bread.

The other patrons of the tiny restaurant – a handful of men, mostly sitting alone – glanced up at John in mild disinterest before returning to their meals. He ignored them, weaving his way through the tightly spaced tables toward the untended counter. A middle aged woman bustled out from the backroom a moment later, carrying a small stack of porcelain mugs.

"Good morning, dear," she said. "What can I get for you?"

"I'm actually looking for a bit of information," he said, passing her his phone with the sketch of Doe displayed on the tiny screen. "Follow up questions about this man."

"Oh, the one the police were here about, I remember. I don't know what I can tell you I haven't already told your constables, though. I really don't know much about him."

John nodded, not bothering to correct the assumption as he pulled out his notebook. He told himself he wasn't actually impersonating a police officer because at no point had he identified himself as such.

He hoped if Donovan ever caught wind of this, she'd share his point of view.

"Sometimes telling it to a fresh pair of ears helps," John said. "You don't mind, do you?"

"No," she said, smiling. "It's easy enough, love. He'd come in here once in awhile – I guess every other week – for breakfast. He paid with cash so there's no credit card receipts. The police yesterday asked about that."

John nodded, jotting it down although he didn't really need to. It was in the information Mycroft had provided.

"When did he come in?" he asked. "I mean, was there a specific day? Different days?"

"Saturdays. Always sat by the window, just watching the world go by. Always had his work gear with him – you know, hard hat, reflective vest."

"Did he ever say where he was working?"

"No, but it's pretty normal for the kind we get in here. It's a good place to stop for breakfast or pop in for lunch. Doing that kind of work, you need more than just tea and scones."

"What did he order?"

"Always the same thing. Whatever I had on special that day. He wasn't picky, said he just liked not to have decide or cook for himself. Always left with a cup of coffee, too."

"What kind of coffee?"

"I only serve two kinds, love. Regular and decaf. Most of the boys don't drink the decaf – he wasn't any different."

"And he never got anything else?"

"Not from here."

John nodded and glanced around the store again.

"How long do you keep the security footage?" he asked, pointing at the camera behind the register. The woman smiled, the corners of her eyes crinkling.

"The constables asked about that, too, but no more than a week. Sorry. And I haven't seen him in about a month. Figured whatever he was working on had finished up."

John shut his notebook, then glanced toward the front of the store and frowned. He was silent for a moment, thinking, then asked:

"This is a strange question, but when he came in, did you ever notice what direction he was coming from?"

"Hmm," the woman murmured, eyes growing distant for a moment, then she gave a quick nod. "From the right. So that's south."

"And when he left? Did he go back in the same direction?"

"No, north. That's why I thought we were on his way to work."

John pulled out his notebook again.

"Which tube stations are closest to here if you're coming from the south? Do you know?"

"Green Park and Piccadilly Circus are about the same distance. Green Park may be a little closer, I think. Usually a bit less crowded than Piccadilly, too."

"And how would I get there on foot?"

"Oh, I think I have one of those tourists maps, just give me a moment…"

She shuffled around for a moment then came up with a creased and well-worn map of London which she spread on the counter between them. She drew the path for John, talking through the instructions, then folded it up and handed it over. John took it with thanks, eyeing the highlighted route.

"I hope this helps," she said. "Can't see how it would, but I'd hate to find out something happened to him. He seemed nice. Good customer, you know. Knew what he wanted, never complained about the price or if he had to wait, anything like that. Polite. But then, all my regular boys are polite," she added and John thought he could feel the faint smiles around him in response.

Quiet, keeping to himself, he thought, then sighed. It was hardly a suspicious activity not to cause a fuss in a shop – or at least, it shouldn't be. He chuckled wryly to himself.

"I'll take one of those coffees to go please. Same kind he got."

"Of course, dear."

John left the shop, heading south and wondered if the constables had done this – but he thought not, given the way the woman had needed to search for the map. He kept a slow pace, checking the map every so often. The walk was simple and he estimated it would only take him a little over ten minutes at his current rate. He looked at the other shops and galleries, at the little flats above them, at the pedestrians, but nothing jumped out at him.

John stopped when he rounded a corner and stared at the other side of the street. For a moment, he wondered if maybe he were imagining it, then he chastised himself for reading too much into it.

It doesn't mean anything, he told himself with an inward sigh. It didn't look open yet, and there was certainly no indication that someone had died there twelve years ago, but the path the shopkeeper had given him to Green Park station took him past the Gossard Gallery all the same.

The phone rang quietly on the other end of the line; once, twice, three times. He was about to hang up on the fourth ring when a click made him reconsider quickly and he pulled the phone back to his ear.

"Yeah?" The quiet, lilting voice was familiar, even after all this time. It almost made him smile, but not quite.

Not today.

"I have news," he said and heard a quiet answering murmur, an invitation to continue. "He's alive."

There was a stunned pause, then a sharp question.

"What? Are you sure?"

"He's in London," he replied firmly.

John Watson was explaining to him about the sandwich shop in Mayfair and Liam was listening carefully, trying to pick up some hint of familiarity in the photos on the doctor's phone, in his description of the store and the woman who worked there. He'd even brought coffee, which Liam apparently bought there on a regular basis. He examined the label on the take away cup but it didn't strike him as something he knew.

"Try smelling it," John suggested. He worked the cap off and passed the cup back. Liam raised it hesitantly to his nose, avoiding touching his skin because of the bruises, and sniffed. He frowned, closed his eye, and inhaled deeply.

The world spun and he heard the clatter of the cup on the small wheeling table and felt John's hand close over it to keep it from spilling.

"Liam," the doctor said sharply, but the injured man ignored him, keeping his good eye closed, and focused hard.

He could taste it, hot and bitter, tempered by sugar and just a bit of milk, the perfect balance in the morning. He flexed his left fingers against the cup; it wasn't that he felt but metal, smoother, warmer. A travel mug, chipped black paint with – something on it. An image, an insignia, he couldn't tell. He could feel himself drinking it, standing up, looking down at a newspaper. The location faded into the background, not because it was unfamiliar because he knew it too well.

Home.

"I drank coffee every morning reading the newspaper in my – flat," he said, opening his eye again, meeting John's gaze. The doctor was grinning and nodding, encouraging him to continue. "I had this old travel mug, it was black with something on it, I can't remember what. I must have had it for years. I was going to replace it – for Christmas. Little gift for myself. I didn't– I don't need much, but it was just one of those things. Never got around to doing it before."

"Good," John said.

"How did you know?"

"Smell is the strongest sense associated with memory. Even just a hint can trigger long buried memories. I've seen it happen before. Tell me about the flat."

Liam closed his eye again, trying to see it, then shook his head.

"I can't."

"Start with the newspaper. What was it?"

"I don't know. But it was on the table."

"Tell me about the table."

"Um– dark wood, some scuff marks. There was nothing– wait, there was a bowl on it. In the middle. I can't– sorry– I'm not sure what it looked like."

"Do you remember what was it in?"

He tried to, but shook his head with a sigh.

"No."

"Anything else on the table? How about chairs?"

"There were – four chairs. But I always read the paper standing up. There was something else on the table. Um, a small black round thing. Plastic." He snapped his eye open. "The lid for the mug. I never used it unless I was running late."

"Do you remember anything about the newspaper? The title? Any stories?"

It danced in his mind, just out of reach.

"No. Sorry."

"Don't be sorry," John said with a grin. "This is amazing. You just told me something definite about yourself – you remembered a daily habit. And it isn't an old one – you knew you were going to replace your mug within the next few weeks."

Liam felt his own lips twitch but repressed it because it hurt too much to let himself smile fully. He felt a wave of relief and leaned back against his pillows, a chuckle escaping his lips. It turned into a coughing fit and he tried to double over, one of John's hands on his shoulder lightly to keep him upright, the other passing him a glass of water. He sipped it, coughed some more, then leaned back again with a groan.

"You all right?" John asked.

"Yeah," Liam replied. "Dammit." He tried to shift against the discomfort in his ribs and felt a familiar dull flash of panic at the realization that they were broken. Instinctively, his gaze sought the figure of the constable outside of his room and he relaxed a bit. It helped to know that someone was watching him day and night because he couldn't shake the knowledge that whoever had done this to him was still out there.

Inspector Donovan had told him they hadn't released his location on the news, or even that they had him. Only that they were looking for anyone with information on him.

It helped to have John Watson there as well – the doctor was better than any of the doctors he had, who didn't seem keen on explaining much. The nurses were pretty good; a few of them talked to him more than the others. But John took the time to explain things and didn't seem bothered when he realized he was assuming Liam could remember something that he actually couldn't.

And it was nice to have a conversation that wasn't rushed or edgy.

"Here, have more," John said, refilling the glass. "Take it easy, deep breaths, as deep as you can manage with those ribs. Good."

Liam set the glass aside and nodded his thanks. John seemed about to say something when there was a brief knock at the door and Inspector Donovan came in with a woman he hadn't seen before. She was short, auburn haired, with dark eyes and a serious, almost critical expression.

"Hello, John," she said, meeting his gaze. "How you feeling?"

John Watson started at the sound of his name and frowned at the unfamiliar woman accompanying Donovan – but she wasn't looking at him.

"Sorry," he said and her dark eyes shifted to him, slightly puzzled as though she were trying to place him. "How did you know my name?"

She held his gaze for a moment longer before replying:

"I don't."

John's eyes flickered to Donovan, who sighed, looking as if she wished John weren't there. He repressed a sigh of his own; she still wasn't happy with him visiting – probably less so after he'd told her constable about finding Liam's name from the waitress at the Yellow Rose. She hadn't chewed him out yet, but he suspected it was only because she hadn't caught him alone yet.

"This is Doctor John Watson. He's a–"

"A friend," John said firmly.

"And this," Donovan continued, shooting him a sharp glare. "Is Inspector Charlotte Morgan with the Garda Síochána in Dublin. That would be the Irish National Police Service, for those of you who may not know."

"What?" John asked, glancing at Liam, who was watching the two women with a confused expression. "Anyway, his name isn't John, it's Liam."

"His assumed name is Liam Walker, yes," Morgan confirmed, giving John a smooth nod. "His real name is John Aidan Riley, although he hasn't gone by that in about eight years."

"His assumed name?" John repeated, looking back at the Irish inspector. "He's an undercover cop?"

"No," Morgan replied. "He's a terrorist."