The lights were down when John entered 221a, and both bedroom doors were open only a crack. He checked in on Charlie, finding her sleeping diagonally in her cot, and shifted her without waking her before going softly into his own bedroom. Molly lay bundled up under the covers and seemed to be asleep, but as he fumbled with his shoes and jeans in the darkness, he felt, rather than saw, her watching him.

"What happened?" she finally asked. "Between Sherlock and Christabel, I mean."

"Don't know. I left them to it." John sat down on the mattress, checking first that there wasn't a cat in his way. "What's she like?"

Molly sat up, brushing her hair out of her eyes as she thought about this until she finally came up with, "She's nice. No, I mean, she's not… I… I don't know, really..."

"That doesn't sound like she's 'nice', Lolly."

"Everything she said and did was really nice," Molly insisted. "Charlie likes her. She was awfully embarrassed about just showing up—I'm not sure she knew that we live here, too. Then Mycroft came and took her out. Harry was listening at the door. She said he tried to pay Christabel go back to Germany, but that she'd said no, she'd leave that up to Sherlock."

"Told Mycroft where to get off. I like her already."

They could both still hear voices from the front passage of the flat; Sherlock's baritone, slower than usual, and Christabel's tart American vowels interjecting every now and again. As for the details of what they were saying, no words were distinct enough, and both Sherlock and his half-sister sounded conversational. Not a row, in any case.

"Maybe," Molly ventured, "if I got up to the kitchen to get a drink, and I went near the door… not leaning on it, like Harry did…"

"Mrs. Watson," John admonished her. "If I didn't know any better, I'd think you were suggesting going out there to eavesdrop."

"You aren't even a little bit curious?"

"Dying," he confessed. "But I think it's pretty serious this time. I wouldn't try Sherlock on it, and if there's anyone who'd know he was being spied on, it's him. He's off to Cornwall for this case, so I'm assuming he's going to send her packing."

"Sherlock's going on his own…?"

"Well, with Greg, I think. I've got work tomorrow, haven't I." Before Molly had a chance to respond he went on, "I said we could probably go down there tomorrow night—I'm sure Forensics down there could do with help from you, too. I mean, if you want to go. Otherwise we-"

"It sounds nice," she said, though John wasn't sure whether she was referring to Cornwall or the case. "And Charlie might have fun, too, even if it's raining. She's never seen the ocean."

At this, John stopped. "What do you mean, she's never seen the ocean?"

"Well, she hasn't." Molly made a movement in the darkness that was the equivalent of a shrug.

"We just had a weekend in Brighton," he pointed out.

"For our anniversary," she said, "six weeks ago—and we didn't take Charlie."

John silently conceded the point. They'd left Charlie with Bill and Laura, though Molly had suggested asking Sherlock if he'd mind babysitting overnight. John had firmly overruled that idea. No point in a romantic weekend away if you spent it worried that your firstborn was going to become the science experiment of a mad genius and you'd come home to find her with no eyebrows. "Well," he said, "we took her to Norfolk that time, didn't we?"

"No," she said. "You went for a case. We stayed here."

He looked at her properly this time. "Okay," he said. "I'm sensing some criticism from the gallery. You know we were all set for that fortnight away, until a pair of psychopaths broke into our house."

"Yes," she agreed readily. "I didn't mean it was your fault. Just that… it'd be nice to take Charlie somewhere before the weather really sets in, that's all."

She didn't finish where her mind had surely just gone: And before we've got newborn twins to deal with. He decided to leave things with the Cornish weather and drew her closer to him, snaking one hand under the covers and running it up her thigh. Her warm skin gave off a light, floral scent.

"I like that," he said, kissing her neck and breathing it in. "What is it?"

"Just shower gel."

"… You've been wearing it for weeks, haven't you."

"Since Saturday."

"Okay." He slid one hand under her head, weaving heavy locks of her hair between his fingers, and took a deep breath. "I'll put in for some time off tomorrow," he said, running his finger gently down the bridge of her nose. "When we've solved this case, we're going to Paris for a week…" He stopped before he could spoil the moment by declaring that even three psychopaths weren't going to interrupt his plans this time.

Her eyes started smiling before her lips could get there. "Paris is so beautiful," she said. "We haven't been there since our honeymoon."

"You can't tell me we didn't take Charlie that time," John teased her, planting another kiss on her neck. "Even if we didn't know she was there."

They lay in companionable silence for a time, listening to the familiar sound of Charlie snuffling in her sleep in the room next door, and it was then that John realised that the voices in the front hall had stopped. Before he could remark on it, he heard the front door snick shut— not a slam— and Sherlock's heavy tread on the stairs above.

"John?" Molly murmured.

"Mmm?"

"Do you like being a doctor?"

The question was so unexpected that he spent a few seconds collecting an answer. "Yeah," he said. "I do. I didn't study something I don't like for eight years. I just… prefer stabbings to getting ballpoint pens out of kids' noses."

Lestrade choked down a handful of aspirin and chased it with water from the cooler in the hospital corridor. The water was room temperature and bitter as sin, but he wasn't sure if that was the aftertaste from the aspirin or something else. It didn't matter. At some point that evening, endless cups of coffee had simply stopped working. Or rather, they'd brought on a racing heartbeat, a throbbing headache and a need to piss every ten minutes, but hadn't done anything for his energy levels at all.

He had just over an hour to kill before he was due to meet Sherlock at Baker Street. They'd arranged to drive down to Cornwall together that night, since every minute that passed could be a minute that Sadie and her child were in desperate need of help. Impossible to reread witness statements with his head the way it was, so he'd returned to the hospital to ask the officers posted at Siobhan Frost's hospital room whether there'd been any change in her condition.

No such luck. The only thing, PC Dianne Walsh had told him, was that every hour she didn't die meant she was less likely to.

Great.

He dipped his fingers into the Styrofoam cup he held and flicked the tepid water onto his face, swiping it up toward his hairline. The relative coolness helped a little. Then, leaving the cup sitting on the edge of the water cooler, he wandered back down the corridor to the waiting area. Almost deserted—he could see only a young man flanked by two sleepy, flannel-clad kids of about six and eight, and Beryl Holland seated in the corner, as far away from Siobhan's room as she could be without actually leaving the area. She was dressed in what was clearly her Sunday best—black slacks, white blouse, red coat, gaudy diamente brooch—and clutched a black leather handbag on her lap. There was no way to legally interview her under the circumstances, but Lestrade sat down beside her anyway. Neither of them spoke for a few minutes.

"Do you have children, Inspector Lestrade?" she asked dully.

"Yeah," he said. "Two."

"And how do you think you might feel if one of them was murdered and the other was in a coma?"

Lestrade tried to imagine it—then immediately backed out. He already spent enough time worrying about those two. And now Hayley was moving in with Jake—Sherlock had said it was a dead-sure thing. Neither had said anything about it to him yet, but Sherlock's clues, at least, were obvious. Hayley'd gone all… domestic. She'd even offered to make dinner the other night. The pasta she'd come up with had been on the ordinary side, but neither he nor Melissa knew much more about an oven than how to turn it on, so there wasn't room for too much criticism.

He'd worry about Hayley and Jake at a more convenient time.

And he'd definitely not spend any more time trying to imagine what he'd feel like if Matthew was dead and Hayley was unconscious after a suicide attempt.

"Yeah," he finally mumbled. Ridiculously vague, but Beryl seemed not to notice.

"And then," she went on, "how might you feel, do you think, if someone came along and accused you of murdering one and causing the other one to hang herself?"

"I wouldn't be happy," he agreed mildly. "But I'd also be keen to tell the police what actually happened. Is your husband here, Mrs. Holland?"

"Chris?" she enquired, as if she had several husbands. "He went home to bed… oh, don't give me that look. He's an old man, Inspector, and these chairs give his back misery. Besides, it gave us an excuse to try to get Adrian to go home and sleep, too."

"He seems very devoted to Siobhan," Lestrade said carefully.

"He is. One of his few virtues."

Lestrade, battling his pounding brain, scrambled for something to say next. The last thing they needed was Beryl offended and being difficult. "I can see why you wouldn't be so keen on him," he said. Adrian Frost seemed a nice enough guy to him, but he wasn't around to be offended. "Much less have to share a bathroom with him. So what happened, that you and Chris had to move in with Siobhan and Adrian?"

Beryl hesitated.

"I'm going to find out, Beryl. And I'm going to be more than a bit pissed off if we have to waste time and resources finding out when you could just tell me right now."

"We loaned the Monashes fifty thousand pounds," she said. "And a bit. All we had."

"What for?"

"They were establishing their school in Kenya and needed the outlay."

Lestrade frowned. "Well, that was nice of you," he said.

"Most stupid thing we've ever done," she said bitterly. "They said they'd repay us in a year. That was before Maisie was born, Inspector, and we still haven't seen a penny of that money. Jimmy Monash keeps sending us letters telling us all the good they've done with it, but that they haven't had the financial returns they expected and could we wait a little longer? We're in our sixties. We could be dead before we get that money back… assuming Jackie and Jimmy even intend to pay it back. I'm starting to doubt it."

The Monashes were due to touch down at Heathrow in the early hours of the following morning. Lestrade made a mental note to make sure they had a police escort from the airport. No telling what Beryl or Chris might do if they felt like the Monashes had stolen their life savings. Perhaps they had. Another lead to chase up.

"But if Sadie's grandmother left her all this money," he said, "why didn't they just ask their own daughter for a loan?"

Beryl scoffed. "They did," she said. "Sadie's as mean as cat shit. There was something to do with the will… Sadie's grandmother didn't like Jimmy, didn't want Jackie to marry him, and didn't want Jimmy to get a penny of her money. I'd like to think Sadie was just trying to do what her grandmother would have wanted by saying no to the loan, but…" She shrugged. "They bought the yacht soon after. I suppose they were trying to spend the money so that they could say no to lending it with a clear conscience. At first I just assumed it was just a little one-sail thing, but when we were down at Christmas… I told Brett then."

"What did you tell him?"

"We had a row," she said. "I can tell you, I wasn't happy - and I'm telling you, Inspector, because you seem nice. I wasn't happy. I'd just lent Jackie Monash my retirement savings and those two bought a yacht so they didn't have to fork any of Sadie's money over. We'd earned our money - worked hard for nearly a hundred years between us for it. Brett didn't even inherit his money, he married it!"

By the time Sherlock came back downstairs, bringing a suitcase with him, all was quiet and still. He'd heard Christabel leaving as he'd reached the top of the stairs earlier, though he had no idea where she'd gone and was even less sure if he cared. The light in the hall was dimmed and there was darkness and silence from behind the door of 221a. A different kind of darkness and silence, though, from that which had practically oozed out from under the door for three months after Mrs. Hudson had died.

Lestrade was waiting for him, parked illegally on the kerb. Sherlock threw the suitcase into the boot, slammed it shut, then got in the passenger side door. It wasn't raining, though the street was slick and shining under the streetlights. Lestrade gave a vague sort of grunt by way of greeting, but he looked more absent than usual, and neither of them spoke until they were on the M4 and leaving London behind them.

"Okay," Lestrade finally said. "Take things from the top. And treat me like I'm stupid—that should be pretty easy for you."

Sherlock stirred. "It begins with the death of Sadie's grandmother," he said, unaware of any sarcasm on Lestrade's part.

"Okay," he said. "So the grandmother dies, Sadie gets the money. Then?"

"Then Sadie has trouble conceiving, and she and Brett begin IVF treatment. Their allocation from the NHS runs out, and then they begin to pay for rounds of IVF privately. Sadie eventually conceives, they move to Cornwall, and then when their daughter is just over a year old, they buy a yacht."

"After Jackie Monash has already asked Sadie for a loan," Lestrade said. "I checked with Beryl. So her mum asks her for a loan, she says no, and then she and Brett go and buy a whacking great yacht that sends them broke and from what we can tell, they ended up living on it—or living somewhere that wasn't the house they were renting, anyway. Meanwhile, Sadie's in-laws spot her parents the money, they don't get it back, they go broke and end up living in a flat with Brett's sister and her husband, who's got a criminal record for setting his brother on fire during a botched insurance job."

"Summed up admirably."

"Am I just not getting it again, or is there something really weird about all of this?"

"Those two things aren't mutually exclusive."

"I love you, too. Speaking of, where's your handler?"

"At home asleep, is my best deduction." Sherlock looked out onto the dark fields beyond the motorway, but all he could see in the darkness was a ridge of lit houses on the horizon and the reflection of the dashboard lights on the window pane. "He's working tomorrow and Friday, but he and Molly are meeting us at the hotel tomorrow night."

"Oh, no, bugger that," Lestrade said. "A ten-hour round trip over two days, in between twelve-hour shifts? Forget it. I'll get in touch with Barts and Hammersmith, tell them John and Molly are needed on a case. That should give them both a week off, at least, unless Molly's a shift away from curing cancer or something."

"And everyone will agree to that?"

"Can't see why they wouldn't. Time-sensitive case involving a missing kid."

"Lestrade," Sherlock said abruptly. "Answer me this. Don't hesitate. What's the missing kid's name?"

When Lestrade had paused for two seconds, Sherlock said, "Pull over."

"What?"

"You heard me perfectly, and I'm not saying it again."

Lestrade slowed the car, looking for a level spot on the side of the motorway where it would be safe to stop. As soon as he'd brought the car to a halt Sherlock released his seat belt and got out, crossing the headlights and opening the driver's side door. He held his hand out expectantly.

"What?"

"I'm driving."

"What? Why?"

"Because you're sleep-deprived to the point where you can't even remember one of the victim's names. Give me the keys."

"I-"

"I'm not arguing with you about this; my brain is far too important for it to be splattered over your windshield after you fall asleep at the wheel and hit a truck head-on. You can sleep in the back seat."

A shoulder of gravel on the M4 was no place to have an argument with Sherlock Holmes, and Lestrade wasn't even sure he wanted to. The back seat of the car wasn't the most appealing bed he'd ever seen, but it was looking pretty good under the circumstances. He got out and opened the back door, shifting a pile of paperwork on the back seat onto the floor and moving the seats back as far as possible. Sherlock got into the driver's seat and waited as he took off his jacket and shoes and finally climbed in.

"You know this is illegal," Lestrade mumbled, curling up on the seat as Sherlock started the engine.

"I have a licence," Sherlock reminded him snippily.

"No, I mean I think I'm pushing the idea of a seatbelt a bit far, here."

"I'm sure you'll be able to talk your way out of a ticket." Sherlock adjusted the rear-vision mirror and changed lanes at the same time. "I'll wake you when we get to Penzance."