Within hours the Angel Wings cartel is no more. The death of three, very public figures, due to tainted drugs, has deeply distressed a Medellin government, desperate to improve crime rates. Since 2002, Operation Orion has helped disband and demobilise many of the urban militias. Things had looked better as over 3,000 armed men gave up their weapons, but were only to be later re-organised into Aguilas Negras, criminal bands, dealing in social cleansing – murder on a grand scale. And, running through the veins of such criminality are the drugs that fund and fuel and fight. Such terrible PR was not to be tolerated and the brainchild of Jose Hermano; linking drugs; prostitution; arms trafficking and blackmail throughout the city was raised to the ground.

"An example had to be set," comments Mycroft Holmes, sitting across from John and Sherlock in Baker Street the next day. He is doing his best to remain dignified whilst balancing a china cup and saucer, a custard cream and a six month old nephew on his lap. A very wriggly nephew.

"So, dear brother, please explain, for the sake of Dr. Watson`s blog, how you found his whereabouts. Hermano has been in hiding for several long months. All our leads had run cold."

Sherlock tents his fingers, smiling internally at Uncle Mycroft. "Since I found the card on Mr. Lamstraud, I researched all things `angel`. My Mind Palace is full of iconography; stories; odd anecdotes – I really need to delete most of it. However, the moment Miss Mortimer spoke of the Angel with the Blue Eyes, I remembered a unique and particularly beautiful statue in the cathedral at Parque Barrio. An alabaster carving of an angel, with eyes made of lapis lazuli, giving it a different and memorable look. Copies were limited, due to a request from the sculptor. He decreed there could only be four made, and placed North, East, South and West of the cathedral. The Statue in the square behind Hermano`s `office` had to be one of these. Because of Miss Mortimer`s description of the position of the sun and shadow that afternoon, it had to be the Southern Statue. Hidey-hole located. Bad drugs man stopped."

Mycroft has elected to leave his tea and lift Benedict across, to his father.

"Kudos, dear brother. Congratulations. We really are quite…grateful."

"Apparently, in addition to having an angel in his garden, Hermano gave thousands to charity and was building a children`s home." Adds John, from his laptop.

"Hmmm," reflects Sherlock Holmes, as his son attempts to grab handfuls of his father`s dark curls. "It`s only ever bad people who really count their good deeds."

X0x0x0x0x0x0x

Molly Hooper and John Watson stand, whisper-arguing, outside the door of the Morgue. Sherlock is currently inside, collecting something quite unspeakable from beneath the fingernails of the late Mr. Jonathan Small.

"I`ll tell him – it`s best to do it straight away. He won`t forgive delaying it."

"He`s still not on top form, physically…"

"I should do it – he might go off on it with you – "

Molly puts a small, pale hand on John`s arm. She is strength itself. "I can handle him." And she opens the door.

X0x0x0x0x0x0x

The morning after Miss Brenda Mortimer`s body has been found, hanged, in her cell, Mrs. Hudson brings the post up to 221B.

She has promised Mycroft that she and Molly Hooper have made a thorough search of Sherlock`s rooms and had been confident any `danger` has been averted. Knocking cautiously, she can hear the thin strains of a melancholy melody, seeping through the door. Not good.

"Sherlock? A letter for you." Instantly, the playing stops and the door is wrenched open.

"Mrs Hudson, in the light of the nature of my most recent case, I can assure you, and my brother, that a seven percent solution is the furthest possible thing from my mind at present." And he snatches the envelope, closing the door.

From inside the expensive (locally posted, self-adhesive – no saliva) envelope falls a single business card.

Angel`s Wings

Trust. Confidence. Integrity.

Discreet Courier Service

For your every need.

Celestial discretion our speciality

And on the reverse:

`Aprendido la leccion*

B.M.`

X0x0x0x0x0x0x

For five mentally and physically exhausting hours, Lt. James M Dodd purposefully places himself in harm's way. His conduct is extraordinary, personifying his astonishing and exemplary level of gallantry. On his hands and knees, he has painstakingly searched a ditch, often with little more than his fingertips, for improvised explosive devices (IEDs). The deep ditch has provided insurgents with the perfect cover to creep along the side of the road and plant the explosives on it. The Royal Northumberland Fusiliers has already lost one soldier on the road, when a powerful IED had exploded as they passed along it a few weeks earlier. Dr John H Watson has ventured out to relieve the soldier, bringing him respite from the blistering heat of the Kandashar sun.

Dodd looks up from his task, towards John and shouts across the desert sands.

"John! Stop! STOP RIGHT WHERE YOU ARE!"

He leaps up from the ditch and takes something from his pocket, throwing it towards a patch of land somewhere between the two men. A sudden explosion sends out a blast of sand and sound, so loud, John`s eardrums ring for days afterwards. A land mine.

With an apple core from his pocket, James M Dodd had detonated the mine he suddenly spotted in the pathway of John H Watson. And so saved his life.

"I can`t bloody believe it – Mary – I`ve found James!"

John Watson looks up from Facebook. Mary looks up from Fifty Shades of Grey. "Hmmm?"

"Lt. James M. Dodd. I`ve been on here, searching for him for ages. He must have joined recently. This is great, Mary, really great. He saved my life in Afghanistan. Looks like he`s living in Cornwall now."

Mary has stepped over to her husband to see. A blurred, cropped image shows a sandy haired smiling man. Weather-beaten face and missing front tooth.

"That is brilliant – get in touch."

John presses the `post` button, satisfied. "Done."

X0x0x0x0x0x0x

On the Lizard Peninsula, South west of the town of Helston, there lies the charming Cornish fishing village of Tredannick Woollas; a dramatic and beautiful coastline of endless beaches, craggy outcrops and diverse terrain. Neolithic man once roamed this coastline, finding flint for his spears and arrows on the shingly beaches. A complex geology and wide range of wildlife habitats bring the keen nature lovers in their droves. And, it seems, the not-quite-so-keen ones.

Sherlock Holmes has spent the last seven hours from Paddington station, curled up in the corner of the (mercifully empty) railway carriage; wrapped tightly in his coat and incommunicado – bar answering the frequent texts that broke the silence.

In that same time, John Watson has read two newspapers (`Death of Leo`s Drug`s Mule – Mortimer Curse`; `Sherlock`s Last Case?`; `Leo Can`t Let Go`; `The Final Problem – has Sherlock lost it?`); updated his FB status (`John is: feeling optimistic about his holiday`); eaten a deeply questionable sandwich and stared out the window for a good hour, watching the increasingly charming fields and houses as they pass through Frome; Taunton; Exeter; Newton Abbot; Plymouth; St. Austell and Truro. It really is a huge journey to be undertaking with a less than functioning sociopath. He tries again.

"Well, those fields look fresh and – invigorating. Quaint little houses, dotted around…don't think you can beat our landscapes in this country."

It stirs.

"Urgh." It speaks. "There is something isolated and dangerous about houses in the middle of nowhere. They fill me with a certain – horror. The things that can go on; miles from any law enforcement or protection for the weak and vulnerable. Give me Brixton, any day of the week."

"Sherlock," sighs John Watson. "That is exactly the kind of place we are going to. Get away from some of the stress you – and me – have been under lately. It`s what we need. You said you were happy to come. When my friend, James, offered his hou – "

Sneer. "Your internet FACEBOOK friend James."

Deep breath, John.

" – his HOUSE in Tredannick Woollas, you agreed you needed to get – and I quote - `the stink of London` - out of your lungs."

Sherlock uncurls himself and looks curiously at his friend. "How well do you know this – friend?"

"Sherlock, I told you, he saved my – "

Rudely, waving his hand. " Your life. Yes, yes, but since the touching Facebook reunion – have you actually met him? At all?"

"Well, no."

"And here he is, lending you his Cornish bolt hole, for a whole week, while he`s away. Trusting."

"Friends you make in the Forces are different, Sherlock. There are bonds of life and death. Trust is everything when a man is responsible for the next breath you take."

Sherlock stands and stretches as the train begins to slow. He reaches for their bags from the overhead storage and then turns up his collar.

"Well then, here we are at Redruth. Time for a change, I think."