Jim

Approaching chucking-out time, we're all pissed enough to finally, properly laugh about it. In the voice of a small Scottish child, Dani tips her head to me and says, "Did I do it right?"

And in my best attempt at a Christopher Lee, I answer, "You did it beautifully."

"That's not how you do Christopher Lee," Moran corrects, and starts clutching his belly like he's about to break into La donna e mobile, which I wouldn't put past him, if I'm honest. But all he does is start in, "His voice has to come from right down in here. 'Think RADA,' that's what I always say."

"When? When do you say that, Moran, that I've never heard it before? You're not in RADA yourself, are you? Would explain a lot, that."

Dani makes her first attempt to sit up straight in over half an hour. "He left. Got tired of playing Othello. It wasn't the racial slur he resented, it was always having to fall prey to a pale, skinny Machiavelli type. I'd watch yourself, James."

Bristling, as if he's the one who got insulted there, and so poleaxed he really, genuinely believes that, Moran sits forward. "Neither of you," he spits, indicating us with the tip of a pool cue (he's cradling it the way he holds a long rifle. Don't know why I feel the need to mention that, but I do), "Neither of you have voices you have to reach so deep for. You," and this is meaning me, "everything comes out of the back of the throat, all drawling and dead lazy. That's how you can tell you were never posh, not for a half-second." Jesus, when he gets started he gets vicious, doesn't he? I was going to tell him he clearly has a very great talent he's hiding away, but I don't think I'll bother, now. He starts in on Dani then, saying how she's just the opposite, how he can't even mimic her because he doesn't have a long enough nose to talk out of.

"That's not true," she balks. A gain, it's the drink, but she's far enough gone to be offended. "I speak from the diaphragm. Mum taught me."

"I know your Mum, love. Only thing moves her diaphragm is-"

And I can see where he's going with that so before we get stuck into 'your mum' jokes, "I didn't know you had family left, Dani."

Give me a break, it's the only thing I could think of. I'm not good at small talk. Not enough nights off, I've lost the knack of it. Anyway, whatever I may have said, it doesn't matter; it is quickly and expertly dodged. "Me? What about John-Boy Walton here?"

"Yeah, but his family all think he's dead; it hardly counts." Her eyes slide sideways to Sebastian, lashes fluttering. That laugh is definitely coming from somewhere below the nose. She's way down in Christopher Lee territory there, and it's terrifying. "Wait, wait… Moran, is she implying, by this awful sniggering, that Mr Jonathan Darcy's family still have a brave, strong son?" He stammers, some. In trying to cover up, he ends up telling me everything. Like yes, he still has family who know he exists, no they don't know his new name. They also think he's still in the army, and that he's as straight as any good working class lad could ever hope to be.

Forgive me if I'm only reporting the facts and offering no commentary. I haven't the breath to offer commentary. Does it really need any? I haven't laughed this hard in weeks. He spent Christmas with them. That's where he went. He told me he was having it off every which way on Santorini, but he went home and ate dry turkey and lied through his teeth for days on end. I wondered why he hadn't darkened at all…

Alright, now I can't breathe, this is getting serious now. I slip a little in my seat, and find myself fallen right against Dani. Yeah, that sobers things a bit. Just enough for me to shift away, enough oxygen to mumble an apology. But then, what am I apologizing for? "You're sitting a bit close there, love…"

"Sorry. Didn't think you'd notice. I'm trying to put Blondie off the chase." She nods back over her right shoulder. My eyes follow the line and see him. One of the scammers in the booth keeps looking over at her, searching for eye contact. Blonde, like she said. Angular. Big soft eyes.

Which begs the question, "Why?"

She shrugs. "Not in the mood."

And now I'm not laughing anymore. Now I'm up from that seat next to her and pulling up a chair nearer Moran, where he can protect me if the need arises. He, thankfully, justifies my fear with his own. "Who are you," he mutters, changing his grip on the pool cue (two hands, more secure, ready to use it), "and what have you done with Danielle?"

"It's an imposter," I say.

He says, "It's a pod person."

"It's Mycroft's lot. All the talk and messing about, that's just been stalling, while they had a spook surgically altered to look like our Dani. They taught the poor girl to talk out of her nose-"

"I do not speak out of my-"

"And they sent her to infiltrate us. It's the only thing that makes sense. Quick, mate, check her for op scars."

He starts towards her. Dani rolls her eyes, fishes the hem of her blouse out of her trousers, and turns to show the hard, dark scar on her side. "Do you need to stick your hand in the wound? I'm just not in the mood, that's all. It does happen."

"It does not," I tell her. And that's 'tell'. 'Telling' is a thing you do when you know, when you're sure. "Not unless you were worried about something, and there is nothing still to be worried about. I mean… not unless you know something I don't."

She shakes her head too hard. "Me, dear? Know more than you? Inconceivable." Smiles down into the dregs of her god-knows-whath martini. "One for the road, anybody?"

Just the thought turns my head a little bit. "No more," I groan. "I'm paranoid and doing Christopher Lee impressions."

"That wasn't an impression, mate, it was an insult."

"Shut up, Moran. Give me that cue." So that I can lean on it standing up. Once I'm vertical I'll be fine as far as a cab, but you're never so vulnerable as when you're halfway between sitting and standing. Dani gives it a go, but I hold the cue out to her to help. We counter-balance through the worst of it and manage to get straight together.

"Pair of fucking featherweights," Moran is mumbling.

With her shoes off, Dani goes on ahead, ignoring the blonde fella, saying she'll get a cab of her own and just go home. Well, it's been a long day, and a long drinking session followed. Nothing wrong with wanting her own bed, I suppose. It's the drink, that's all. I'm just paranoid.

Sherlock

Don't ask me how I ended up back here. I don't know. Psychologically, something to do with where I was left behind before, perhaps. Been a while since I shot up on a park bench, but you have to embrace your clichés, don't you… Anyway, with Primrose Hill, once it's locked up for the night, if you can get over the fence you'll be okay. It's not as if I'm staying the night. I just needed to think and this felt like the place to do it.

Maybe, I said to myself, if I think about it, I'll see something I missed before, and it will make sense. That will happen, and I will happily call Mycroft to apologize.

I haven't had to call him yet. It doesn't make sense. He talked all night and told me nothing that fitted with anything else. And I just kept telling him and telling him, Underwood can't have been any sort of a mastermind. He couldn't have been involved. There are so many reasons why he couldn't have been involved.

For instance, if he himself was the villain of the piece, why did he make such a production number out of stealing the coup from under Mycroft?

"To cover his tracks," Mycroft replied. "Isn't it the age-old dream of the turncoat to be put on his own case?"

If it had been going on for years, how come no one had noticed?

"Smoke and mirrors," Mycroft replied. "He'd been using a civilian computer as a relay for years. That was the man we originally suspected. But all the payments and contracts bear it out."

And if Underwood was so incredibly smart, why wouldn't that have been destroyed?

"Nothing is a threat until somebody is looking for it. Nobody was looking."

So if this is all true and Underwood was what you say he was, who killed him?

"Disgruntled employee?"

That was a bit flippant, no? That was when I knew I wouldn't get anywhere with Mycroft, that he wasn't going to tell me anything. If I hadn't reached that point, I would have gone on to ask how come that disgruntled employee just happened to be the same one who killed Hedegaard and all those people at the police station, and the man by the river who tried to kidnap Mies, and others… Possibly quite a number of others.

He would have asked me how I knew that. There was no proof of that. But there is. I was there for two of those events. I saw those shots fired. Cold and clean, brutally efficient. And while I don't doubt there is more than one such shooter in the world, I can only live in hope that there is only one currently living and working in London. I don't know, maybe that's too much to ask. I know it's not exactly proof, but I saw, I saw it twice, and I can only hope.

Anyway, I just waited for Mycroft to leave, after that. What else was there? I needed him to leave. Needed to score, so I wanted him clear of the area. He was almost out the door when I had to speak, when I had to tell him one last thing. Just so he'd know, whatever the reason he was lying to me, I knew there was a truth to be found. "If Underwood had been involved, you would be dead. I would be dead. You know that."

It was, I believe, Mycroft's last reply that led me here. He said, "We yet might be. But other than that, Sherlock, I'm afraid this is all just paranoia talking."

And now here I sit. Simple logical steps, really. Just because the world is full of nonsense doesn't mean I can't try and be logical in the middle of it.

Footsteps approach. This time, they're unexpected, and I don't recognize them. Nor do they sound like some old tramp shambling towards me. They're soft and in control, these steps. It's too dark to see, so I look in their direction until the person resolves out of the shadow.

"Sally. What are you doing here?"

"Lestrade was on call. Said he saw you sneaking in."

"No. In a city of almost eight million people, it's barely even possible, and besides, Lestrade isn't back on active duty yet. He told me so. No, what really happened is, my brother told him where I was. He himself is bored of babysitting, and so sent you. That's what happened."

She's reached me. Even so close, with the park closed and the lights off, all I can see clearly is her pale jumper catching whatever light there is. Settling herself by my side, "Alright, clever-dick. Hardly matters."

Oh, it does. True things matter. They're getting rarer and rarer. "How did you even get in here?"

"You forgetting what's on my ID? Told them it was missing persons."

"That's only half a lie. Maybe you will make a decent copper someday…"

She doesn't laugh. I meant it as a joke. Maybe not in the best taste, but she's laughed at the same before. Maybe I'm getting it wrong. Maybe I'm paranoid. She just sits there for the longest time. It's not entirely unpleasant.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

"What's the matter?"

Nothing. Except, everything. "If you felt like every other living being was wrong about something, and you were right, would you question yourself?"

"Of course. But only until I knew I was sure." I think I've helped her since we first met. I hope that's not a vain thing to say. I just don't believe she would have said that before. But then I hate the idea of her learning something from me that I can't keep up anymore. I don't want this to happen to her. I hate it and I don't want it to happen to her. "Why? What's making you question yourself?"

"My brother. I don't know if he really is a slimy, spiteful bastard or if that's just all in my head."

Very quickly, "You shouldn't talk about a brother like that."

She's not looking at me anymore. She's looking straight ahead of herself, like she can't look at me. I've done something so distasteful to her she feels sick, feels she has to limit contact. Now a lot of facts I already knew about her click together to give a full and detailed picture of her life. It's such a wonderful feeling, truly lovely, to have this back again. Absolute truth, no disinformation, no deceit, minimal guesswork.

"Brother," I murmur aloud. "Oh, thank God, brother. I've been leaning towards parents, but only because you never mention them. They were already gone, weren't they?"

When she looks back, I can see her eyes. They're wide enough to show the white most of the way round, alert enough to make the pupil a huge, glinting mirror, wet enough to glitter. "What are you talking about?"

"The fire. Your parents were already dead by that point. Which left you, brother and little sister with grandmother." Remember? They couldn't visit her in hospital. She told me all this, one way or another. "You and your grandmother escaped first, but you went back. Got your sister out but she was burned, that's why she's in and out of burns wards, why you get so bloody sick of hospitals. But it was your brother, wasn't it? He died and you…"

True things matter. In the dark, I reach toward her. Her hand comes up and slaps my arm away. "You shut up."

"Don't try to save the world because of that. You did enough. No one could ever blame y-"

"You shut up!" she shouts, sudden, standing, with her fist pulled back by her face. The angle of her arm hitches back her sleeve. The hardness of the old burning shines.

Heaving for breath, panicking, distraught. Then Sally notices her own blow waiting to fall and shakes her fingers loose again, drops her hand. Stands glaring at me.

She starts to sink, then, rage turning inward, turning into something else. I start to say her name and all I get, again, softer now, "You shut up…"

She backs the first few steps away from me. Before she turns, "Freak."