Since 1123, a hospital has existed on the site of St. Bartholomew's Hospital in Smithfield, North West London. How much must the city landscape have changed since then. Bart`s has survived the Great Fire of London and the Blitz; housed some of the most innovative medical minds the western world has known – not least Dr. John H. Watson – and is also quite a remarkable sun trap on one of the first sunny afternoons of the insipid London Spring.

Sherlock Holmes stretches out his long legs and flexes his bare toes, musing that a measles rash takes a ridiculously long time to disappear from the human skin. Glancing up; viewing wispy little clouds, drifting gently and aimlessly across a forget-me-not sky. London pigeons peck invisible grain with renewed vigour and the rumble of London`s interminable traffic seems muffled, distant and far, far away.

Sherlock leans back in his deckchair and closes his eyes behind Ray-bans. He still hasn`t quite de-sensitised his measle-infested eyeballs completely. John has mocked mercilessly about the damn sunglasses. No, he didn't think he was a rock star. No, he wasn't attempting to replace the iconic deer-bloody-stalker with a more attractive gimmick. He had a "gimmick" now? Hoo-bloody-ray.

Warmth steels across his pale face and seeps into his tired bones. Sherlock IS tired. He is knackered, truth be told. The virus has wiped him out in a way nothing had ever done before. Not even the butt of an Estonian guard`s rifle had floored him for this long. His brain attic is slow and dusty and needs – something - to bring it back to life.

"Ah, Sherlock – catching some rays, I see. Remarkable. First time in – what? Thirty five years?"

Internal sigh. Mycroft.

Sherlock keeps his eyes closed.

"You really need to return to Norton & sons, Mycroft. Your new tailor uses the most caustic brand of moth-balls."

"Oh, Sherlock, you know how I like my reversed side vents."

"And a raised waistline for a longer, leaner feel. Pastry is not your friend, Mycroft." Sherlock does, however, sit up and push his sunglasses atop his dark curls, surveying his immaculately dressed brother. Mycroft is as at home on the roof of a thirteenth century hospital (and suicide venue), as he is in the Queen`s drawing room at Buckingham Palace. Assured. Correct. Intensely irritating.

Mycroft – surveying Sherlock`s surf shorts – "I can only hope, Brother mine, that your current beach bum garb has something to do with your recent illness clouding the judgment."

Firmly pushing the thought of his brother using the phrase `beach bum` out of his Mind Palace; Sherlock Holmes feels - a distinct chill. A fear; that his mind, his most precious and rarified gift, has in some way dimmed and can never be reclaimed.

"Sherlock - " Mycroft sits, places his umbrella beside his brother`s deckchair, and speaks with a gentler tone. "You need a holiday."

"Hey, this two-headed parrot still manages to use his unicycle! Who knew?"

Mary Watson doesn't even look up at her husband as she re-nappies her son. "John, I`ve told you before, Facebook rots ya brain."

"Ho-ho… here`s one for Sherlock - `My people skills are fine; it`s just my tolerance of idiots that needs work`…hey – come here Sholto, let me see those tremendous gums."

John gets up from his lap-top and lifts up his son, dressed in a riotous pirate-themed baby-gro. "YOU are quite the swashbuckler, my friend. Actually, Mary, many of our – Sherlock`s - clients come via Facebook. You remember `The Adventure of the Crooked Teeth?`"

"Ohhh…the dentist plagued by odd, misshapen molars being posted to him every week?"

"Yes, a tawdry tale of betrayal and general wife-stealing skullduggery."

"Hmm – I`m beginning to think Sherlock has a point about your flowery flourishes in these blogs."

John affects to adopt his `wounded face`, but laughs out loud instead. Busted.

"Anyway, I think we`ve got another… bite. A bit of a celebrity actually…"

"Oooh. Tell me more."

Dr. Leo Sterndale is a mountain of a man. A huge body looms out of the "client`s chair" in 221B, like a gore-tex covered bouncy castle; rendering the piece of furniture ridiculously dolls house-worthy. His face is craggy and deeply lined, housing a strong, hawk-like nose and unshaven cheeks. Grizzled, wild hair springs riotously from his head and a shaggy beard tinged with golden flecks adds to the lion-esque quality of the man.

How appropriate then, considers Dr. John Watson, that Dr. Leo Sterndale is known, in media-land, as `The Lion Man`. He writes and hosts a hugely popular natural history show on BBC 2 called (unsurprisingly) `Leo`s Lions`. Beautifully shot and scored to perfection musically, the program is visual Viagra for the animal/nature lover. Leo will often be zoomed in on, via helicopter rig, standing atop a mountainous outcrop, king of all he surveys. Look Simba, everything the light touches is our kingdom.

Leo Sterndale has made his fame and fortune from tracking, taming, filming and generally, talking, about lions to anyone who will listen. His books and DVDs sell so well, due partly to the BBC cinematography and music, but mostly because his passion is real and his motives pure. And the public do so love a passionate environmentalist.

The new client, feeling the heat of either the stair climb or unusually bright April sunshine, removes his jacket and rolls up his shirt sleeves. He is clearly uncomfortable; on every level.

"So, Dr Sterndale, please tell myself and Dr Watson here, what could have caused you to turn back from your latest journey to Africa in such haste?"

Sterndale`s deep, bass voice booms out: "Ah, Mr Holmes, I had heard of your mind games and I now find myself their focus…tell me how you know this."

John shifts slightly in his chair and begins to see how lions start to become tamed. The man is – Alpha – in every way. Fortunately, perhaps, so is Sherlock Holmes.

"Great weather in London, yet I see you there, dressed in £350 worth of waterproof Gore-tex. It`s April and West Africa is undergoing a rather early and heavy onset to its rainy season. Also, I see from your inner left elbow, a small residue of grey gum, from a recently removed plaster. In such a placement, this is most likely to have been covering a puncture wound from a hypodermic needle. Perhaps 8 to 10 days old? I know from your biography that you have not visited Western Africa for over ten years and also know that Yellow Fever is a required inoculation for such a visit, and must be "boosted" every ten years if needed. Combined with the packet of malaria tablets in your inner pocket, this information leads me to believe you were outward bound to a possibly Western African destination."

"And the turning back?"

"British Airways pen sticking out of inner pocket. Exclusive to the First Class lounge. They change their design slightly every three months. You have the latest design. You were checking in and decided, for some reason, against it. Now, I am no mind game player – "

The tiniest cough escapes John Watson.

" – so I would like the honest truth as to the nature of your visit." Pause. "And DON`T be boring. I haven't been myself lately and could nod off."

So taken aback is Dr Leo Sterndale, that he sits back in his teeny-tiny chair and surveys Sherlock through heavy lids. Then booms out the loudest of laughs – much resembling the Queen Mary`s foghorn coming into port.

"I think you may be of help to me, after all, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock cracks a smile.

"Omne ignotum pro magnifico," he breathes. "Everything unknown seems grand – until I tell it."

Dr. Sterndale thus tells his tale.

"For the past fifteen years, I have loved the same woman, Brenda Mortimer. She has waited patiently for me as I travelled the world. Even working on my programmes, from time to time, just to be close to me. I have been such a nomad I didn't think it fair to start a life with her until I`d decided to settle. This was to be my last series of `Leo`s Lions` and I was ready to marry my Brenda."

Sherlock has his eyes closed and is leaning against one hand. John is fervently hoping he hasn't nodded off…

"Enchanting." He murmurs. Opening one grey(ish) eye, and looking directly at the Lion doctor. "Problem?"

Leo puts his leonine head in his giant hands and sighs (how else?) heavily. "Ah, Mr. Holmes, as I was about to board my flight to Senegal this morning, I received a text from my agent. Brenda Mortimer has been arrested – in connection with the murders of Lars Lamstraud; Jay Willoughby Smith and Eduardo Lucas." The mountainous man pauses to gather breath and rub his Neolithic face. "I need you to help me – to help US!"

Sherlock Holmes sits up straight and alert in his chair, and, instantly, one of the greatest minds in the western world is at the Lion doctor`s service.