Jim

"Well, that's him sorted," is Moran's considered opinion when he lands back. But Moran's a hired gun, who looked like a cop an hour ago, and now in his deconstructed cop's uniform looks like a barman. None of these three professionals he's been are quite qualified to decide whether or not Carl is 'sorted' right now.

"Not quite. We still need to find out what he told them before you got there."

You should've said. I could have lifted the tape."

Again, it's very sweet of him to say so, but there's so much wrong with that sentence I can't even tell you. For once, I shouldn't need to have said. That ought to have been pretty obvious. For another, the tape doesn't make that much of a difference. He didn't kill everybody from the observation room; there would still have been someone about who's been there, heard it. And the third point, the one that makes me actually quite proud of myself, I was looking out for him. If he'd had to actually go into that room, and actually concentrate on the tape rather than who was at the end of his gun, he stood a much better chance of being trapped, even captured. That would be no good at all.

There's one more reason, and the only one I wanted to admit to him. "Had to look like you were there purely for the Creep."

"Is this all part of your master-plan you swear I'll understand later?"

"When did I ever use the word 'understand'? I swore you'll see the favourable outcome for us and it'll set your mind at rest." He nods along with all this like it's exactly what he meant. God, he's so useful sometimes it hurts. If there's any implication whatsoever that he had any other motive than to murder the murderer, the 'master-plan' he mentioned could fall apart. But there is absolutely zero danger of that, because murdering the murderer was his only motive.

I need to surround myself with clueless, useful people, who trust me implicitly and are very good at their jobs. This is the solution to all of my troubles.

Speaking of troubles, "Moran, can you get through to Danielle?"

"Still engaged."

"When did you try last?"

"Like, two minutes ago?"

"Try again."

She had a job to do, remember? I sent it through to her? And I told her to be on-call so that when I found her an opportunity she could leap dynamically into action and get something done? And now, par for the course, bloody typical, what could I possibly have expected?, she can't be reached. But this time, finally, Moran calls my attention, throws the phone to me, "Ringing."

This had better be good. I wait, patiently, expecting her to answer to dear 'Seb', sounding like that little best-friends-forever smile on her face, and then drop into brutal, guilty bitching the second she hears my voice.

That's what I'm expected. What I get is, "That you exist, and I'm very sorry to tell you this, but your name."

Okay, I'll start with the easy part. I'll start with the part that doesn't scare me. I'll start at the start. "Good to see you're filling the hours, Dani."

"Keeps me amused. Anyway, you like me better when I'm busy."

That's true. Nice of her to be thinking of me. "Who were you on the phone with before?"

"Disappointed customer. I sold him a serial killer who went out of date mere hours later."

"What'd you tell him?"

"Caveat emptor."

"Very clever. Now, this other business -"

I had hoped Carl would have been a very good boy and said nothing of any interest. That way he could have gone to his end with a clear conscience. Except for, y'know, all those people he killed… But in terms of me, with a clear conscience. A murderer, yes, but not a traitor. Then again, what am I going to do to him? There's no punishment to mete out anymore.

That's a lesson for me. Carl; beyond punishment. Mycroft; alive and kicking…

Danielle, with all the passion of a good newsreader, reports. "I can't get hold of the tape, or a transcript, not yet. If you want, I could steal it when it gets stored to evidence. Currently, we have two corroborating accounts, telling us he spoke about you and your role in his work, and that he gave up your full name. Sorry to be the bearer of bad news."

Bad. Yeah. It sounds really, really bad. It does, it sounds bad… "It's not going to matter."

"I'm sorry, maybe you didn't hear me. Your name, Jim."

"It's not going to matter." There is nothing but dead, distant silence on her end of the line. "Oh, go on. Tell it all to me like I don't already know. Point out all the flaws I've already thought around in a loud and sarcastic voice. Go on. That's your thing, isn't it? Never trusting my judgement no matter how perpetually I prove you wrong?"

"Carl. Hedegaard."

"I'm getting away with that. You'll see."

Another long pause, and an even longer sigh. "Sir, yes, sir. However, since you show no regard for it whatsoever, might I request permission to protect your identity. A service, sir, absolutely free of charge, sir."

"Why not? You're going to do it anyway…"

Sneaks and secrets, little manipulations. I mean, that's a ballsy move right there. She's going to work to my benefit. For my protection, which apparently I'm not concerned with. But she isn't going to tell me what she's doing and if she does it right I'll never know it was done at all. That is a very ballsy, very brave move, that right there. Maybe not clever, but there's something to be said for brave.

"No, I won't actually. You made your feelings clear over the Hedegaard business. Tell me to stay home and I will."

A little, a very very little bit, of consideration. "Do what thou wilt."

Sherlock

Hedegaard is dead. Eight minutes and thirty-four seconds of interrogation before he was shot, along with the two interviewing officers, DCI Hazell and one of the local police who shouldn't even have been in the room. All dead. The psychiatrist went to pieces. That's not important. I just thought I'd mention it. Situations like this, any old irony will do. The gunman left his coat on the stairs. Then his hat, tie, epaulettes and identification were all found in the hall upstairs. The gun itself was under a parked Astra on the street outside, brave and bold and no doubt totally useless.

In my mind, I compile everything I remember from the interview room. Piecing it together, I make every attempt to get it verbatim. Two things keep stopping me. For one, the echo of the gunshots. This is nothing to worry about. It was a very small, contained, underground space, and a number of very loud bangs. It's the resultant tinnitus, that's all. That the psychiatrist's babble is mixed in with the noise is a memory trick, and because so little of it made any real sense.

Anyway, like it said, that's nothing to worry about.

The second thing, and the greatest irritation, is how little of it there is. So much time was wasted in threat, in entrapment, in discussion, before the real questions were even asked. As a result, while some interesting facts were revealed, there are no real answers.

'Why?' for instance, is a question that rarely comes up until the psychological evaluation, and is rarely ever answered truthfully until deep into the prison years. What do I tell Donovan when I speak to her next, and she asks me if the bastard gave them any reasons? What do I tell Lestrade when he asks why Hedegaard chose to target him specifically?

I know exactly how those conversations will feel. It'll the same as when Mycroft came for me. His ever-present cohort came to pick up the tape from the interview room, and Mycroft personally came for me. Now, don't get me wrong, he didn't look at me with the expectation and disappointment that Lestrade or Donovan will. Quite the opposite, in fact. No, Mycroft could hardly contain his glee long enough to ask how I'm feeling, watching all those people get slaughtered.

I just went with 'fine'. He accepted that, just as I knew he would.

You see, on that tape they confiscated, Hedegaard basically admitted to the existence of a mastermind. In his case, anyway, there was a helper. Somebody was behind the scenes. He answered Carl's questions. He watched over him. When Carl needed a rescue, that was all organized for him. Whether a mastermind or not, this person represents a dangerous, mercenary sort of intelligence.

Don't you find that terrifying? Because it might just be the massacre talking, but I do. I find it awful. Mycroft, though, Mycroft is over the moon. He is holding to the name, murmured reverently by Hedegaard in his raptures, as one might to some souvenir of a lost lover. That name is his next step. He has stopped even covering that fact up. Or he's just so damned happy he can't cover it anymore.

Actually, I find this more terrifying, now that I think about it… Between Mycroft and this new factor, this Moriarty, it's a bloody close call.

The one thing spoiling my brother's day? He wanted me to call Mies. For once, I didn't have any problem with helping him out.

My greeting to her was simply, "You said 'alive'."

"And he was. What's the matter?"

Containing painful levels of anger, "He is no longer."

"Oh, steady on! I handed him over in good condition, happy and with no chips or cracks. Barring the one through his brain, that is. What was done with him after he changed hands is not on me. What happened anyway?"

"Like you don't know."

"Not a clue, gorgeous. I'm assuming he's dead, but that's the size of it." It was lies. All of it. She didn't react to the name of the suspected mastermind, continued to insist she knew nothing about the new killings, talked and talked because clearly she had nothing to say. In the end, I made very sure she knew there was no protection anymore, that my brother and his crowd would be coming after her, and if she wouldn't answer me she'd answer them.

She laughed. Said sweet and dark, "When was there ever any protection? You don't have to threaten me."

I couldn't speak. Couldn't do anything. My hand was hanging next to me, with my phone still in it, disconnected from her end, and I was staring into the back of the passenger seat headrest, not even thinking. And next to me, just a voice, Mycroft said, "Oh, well. She'll be captured. Between that and the lead from Hedegaard-"

"God! You just don't care, do you? What about the killer? The victims, the families, Lestrade, Sally Donovan?"

"Who?"

"Christ." Couldn't breathe, by then. "Stop the car." He started talking again, something about reports and debriefing. I asked again for the car to be stopped, but nobody was listening. When I started to open the door anyway, they stopped the car.

I'm under no illusions. I'm being followed. Being given my space, yes, but only for now. He's not letting me go that easily. My initial instinct was to score, and I nearly went through it, just because I knew he was there, that he'd hear about it. I wanted him to know how I felt and it seemed to be the quickest, most efficient way of doing it. Not to mention I wanted it.

Sorry, I've gotten my tenses mixed up; want. I want it.

It was hell or the hospital. Ultimately, I chose the latter. Lestrade, when I got here, had already been sent home. Donovan's still here. Sleeping. The only sign of any visitor since I was last here is a thin, cheap Get Well card on the locker. It is signed from 'the lads at the station'. So I'm here, in the chair by her bed, just waiting, and not knowing what I'm going to tell her when she wakes.

[A/N – The author knows what you're thinking. She's 95% she can pull this off. It'll be brutal and epic and beautiful, or it'll collapse like a bad souffle and I'll slope away hanging my head... Bear with, folks.]