Jim

You're not in the loop on this one. It's okay though, neither is Moran. I can explain to you both at once. For him, it begins with asking why I had him stop at a small and very discreet bank on the way back here. Now, normally I hate when people ask questions they ought to already know the answers to? But I'm in a good mood today. Landing back in at his place, I show him what I picked up from safe-deposit. External hard-drive. Old records there was no room or use for, but I just didn't want to get rid of them.

"You and your goldfish memory," I say. "You drove me when I got the box."

"Mate, I'm your bloody chauffeur half the time. I don't remember every single run."

"That's the responsibility you chose for yourself when you opted to be a driver in a city where no sensible man with driving friends would drive." I'll admit, it's not the best constructed sentence ever. It confuses him, and he drifts off. Sticks the kettle on. Which is fine. He could only hinder me with what I actually need to do. Besides, he'll need the cuppa as the day wears on. It might turn into a long one.

Oh, well, that's one thing I could say to cheer him up, I suppose. "Not to rub a raw spot, but y'know how you're not killing Holmes unless it all goes balls-in-the-air?"

Through gritted teeth , "…Yeah?"

"Do you want to kill the Creep instead?"

Just like that, Christmas is back on the calendar, and I'm no longer the big bad wolf. And I'll have you know it is entirely necessary for me to mix my metaphors, in order to fully communicate the deoth of his joy. It lasts all of four seconds before plummeting back into the pit of perplexity. "Wait, did you not say we were handing him over alive?"

"Oh, we are. But he can't be allowed to get farther than his first interview. How would you like to do it…" I begin, bringing up something to show him on the laptop. Floor plans I did some evil haggling for years and years ago, scans and references of stolen identification, just the usual odds-and-sods, y'know? The how-to kit for assassination, "…at the cop shop?"

"What, like, inside?" he grins. Quiet, for now, tentative, in case I pull it all out from under him again. "Not from across the street or anything."

"No. Interview rooms, holding cells, they don't have windows you could use. We'll get you a uniform and everything. You can do a couple of cops, if you have to. And the answer, by the way, is no."

"Answer to what?"

"You were about to ask if you could hug me. You didn't know it yet, but you were. And the answer is no."

Moran can readily accept both my mind-reading and my reaction. He's sort of loving it… Don't get me wrong, I've seen this before, him enjoying the facts-before-the-fact. Going about with that big stupid grin on his face, eyes like light bulbs about to blow. That's not new to me.

But this morning, on the boat, I saw the other side of it. Saw him with, as promised, his tongue stuck out the corner of his mouth, and I did not find it funny. Not the intent, silent way he picked out, like a finger-snap, the right man from all those dozens of feet away, and followed him, coolly. Without even a trace of tension, I was telling him what Danielle was saying, cueing him in, and he took the shot without being told, sharp and perfect, and his withdrawal was instant. He dropped down to cover thoughtlessly, only just touching his mouth where, on the recoil, he'd bitten his tongue. I've never watched him before, that's all.

So now, although I've always known he gets on like this when he's excited about something, I can't roll my eyes about him anymore. I just let him revel in it. Until he's made himself tea, that is, and seemingly forgotten he has a guest. Then I can roll my eyes. And I can do it again, the way he just sort of bounces off his chair to correct himself, and the way he sort of bounces again halfway across the kitchen, turning back to me with his mouth open to ask. I cut him off, "Milk, two sugars."

"No, not that, I know that."

I'm trying to sort him out with a uniform and get this ID printed somewhere safe, before proceeding to talk a deeply unbalanced, borderline-genocidal maniac (if, indeed, Lions and Unicorns might be considered races, he's genocidal) into walking into a trap set by me, who he likes and trusts, Moran, who he has nothing against, and a woman whose head he was ready to squeeze off at the neck not so long ago. I'm not sure which of those is really worse. The only way I'm likely to find out is if he survives custody and gets to talk. Which is why I'm looking for a uniform and ID for Moran. And as the whole argument comes full circle, he's got a question relating to something other than tea. "…Yes?"

"We've got everything we needed from Dani's contact, don't we?"

"Yes."

"And… and he was the only one that really cared about the Creep so… "

"So why are we still doing this?" A couple of reasons. I've said before, I've said loads of times, I dislike dishonesty in business. So, first things first, we're handing the big fella over because we said we would. Second, we're finished with him. Only would have been killing him anyway. Might as well give somebody else the use of him for a couple of hours, seeing they want him so badly. And last but not least, Moran, my dear friend, I wouldn't be doing this for any reason if it wasn't in the plan.

The big, gorgeous plan, remember? This is how genius ought to be defined; taking two very disparate and very pressing problems, and turning them into one satisfying overall conclusion. It's all accounted for already, in the plan.

Sherlock

"It wasn't my call." That's Mycroft's story and he's sticking to it. He claims that the promises he made me last night, as regards this morning's meeting, were hijacked by powers greater than his own. The man on the towpath, he says, wasn't his. "I'm glad," he muses, "Losing two in forty-eight hours would be quite the black mark to have against my name."

"Well, that's what's really important, in the end of it all. It's a tragedy he's dead, of course, but thank God it doesn't impact on your reputation. This is a coup for you, isn't it? You can go back to them now and say, if it had been done your way, they'd have Mies by now and none of them would be in any danger of getting stitched into their mattress by night."

We are, by the way, at his offices, where Mycroft is pouring himself a scotch. A large one. Actually, as he continues, a very large one. It's hard to tell if he really is congratulating himself or if I have succeeded in finding his last nerve. I do hope so. The file is ready to work right through it.

"That high horse hardly suits you," he tells me, with such utter disdain it almost penetrates mine. "You're not exactly white as snow in all this."

"Haven't you been paying attention, Mycroft? Nobody's come through this clean. Pardon the pun. So the person with the least blood on them probably does get to throw a stone or two."

The first sip of the scotch did nothing. The second seems to mellow him somewhat. There is what may have been, in another life, the edge of a smile on his face. "We're mixing our metaphors, aren't we?" And with that I realize I'm just not in the mood for a mellow Mycroft, or possibly for any Mycroft, and start to stand out of my chair. "Sit down."

"We're not kids at home anymore, you can't-"

"My superiors still have a man posted on the door." He nods across his desk. "Look out. No points for guessing which is the car he arrived in." Since I'm already on my feet, I get up and look. Black Jaguar, tinted windows. Issue so standard it's as if they have a mould somewhere, being shot full of the same material to turn out the same man in the same suit with the same car and the same gun. I'm bored. I don't even work for these people, haven't done very much for them until lately, and I'm already bored. "They don't know you like I know you, Sherlock. They're so very sure you're in league with Mies. You have to see it from their angle; she does tend to keep escaping you-"

"I never set out to catch her."

"Quite."

"Not to mention I'm no spy. You haven't even spoken to them." I don't mean to snap, but I do. It's the way he speaks to me, it's what he's telling me, and it's the fact that I can see clearly how these conclusions were reached. Anyway, he's not even going to dignify that with an answer, I don't think. I wouldn't anyway. He understands better than I do how the minds of his superiors work, and even I've come to terms with it all…

Mycroft continues as though I had never interrupted. "Of course, I know better than that. You're too intelligent to let another human being hang you out to dry."

"Nice of you not to rule yourself out there."

"Whatever the cause of your reticence, I know it's nothing to do with cheap sentimentality. What did you ever do for someone who couldn't make it worth your while?"

That stops me. Completely, mind body and soul, everything simply ceases. Still leaning by the window, it all just stops. Outside, the world turns. People walk up and down the street. A pregnant woman with a pushchair cuts out around the parked cars and curbs and walks down the road. An elderly man in a suit unlike the ones I keep seeing lately stops and helps her back up to the pavement at the corner. A younger man in a messenger's fluorescent stripes comes round too fast and runs into them. Stops, apologizing profusely, but there's no harm done. They don't even know. They can't watch themselves all colliding. No harm done. The world is still turning, somehow. I can do nothing but look until Mycroft prompts me, just my name, as if I hadn't heard him…

"Is that what you think?"

"Am I wrong?"

"No. Maybe not." Perhaps he gets the feeling his broken something, that there's a hole in the conversation that wasn't there before. "Oh, don't stop now. Come on. You were leading up to something. Get to it."

"Once she'd drowned the microphone, what went on at that table?"

"I told you," I say, but I can't remember just what exactly it was I told him, just now, so I stop there.

"I know you told me. Now tell me something I can believe."

The woman outside has stopped to give a carton of juice to the child in the pushchair. She really shouldn't be leaning over like that, looks like she might just roll away down the street. The next young man who comes around the corner too quickly is not like the last. He's on his phone. Knocks her sprawling and does no more than turn and wave his apology. Elderly lady shakes her head at him, but doesn't help the woman up. I don't understand that. Do you?

"She asked me to switch sides." It's not even a lie, if you really think about it. "I declined. Then convinced her the information on the memory stick was genuine; you never expected her to leave, so nobody was too careful about what I was handing her. She disappeared in the chaos when the paramedic RRV arrived. I didn't see her go." I'm just finishing telling him something he can believe (note, if you will, he never asked for the truth) when my phone vibrates. A message. I scan it, briefly. On the one hand, I'm delighted with its contents. On the other, Mycroft is still deciding whether or not he believes me, and I'm about to undercut absolutely everything I just said. "Alright, so Donovan and Lestrade are both still in hospital. Who do I tell where to pick up the maniac?"