CHAPTER 11: MY FAIR LADY

Please take heed of the archive warnings. This chapter depicts graphic violence. Discretion is advised.

FRIDAY, JANUARY 16, 2015

She found Anderson in the Yard's refectory where he was halfway through a microwaved Salisbury steak and instant mashed potatoes.

'Snowing again, if you can believe it,' she said, dropping into the vacant chair across from him. He gave a start, which she ignored. Instead, she plucked the fork from his hand, scooped up some mashed potato, and ate it. 'Ugh,' she said, pulling a face and passing the fork back to him. 'Disgusting. I don't know how you can stand this cafeteria food.'

His face screwed up like she'd spit it in it. 'It's cheap,' he said. 'And if I'm on the verge of losing my job, I'd best start saving every penny. Kind of you to care, Sally.'

'Don't be so dramatic.' She kicked his leg teasingly under the table. 'You're not sacked yet.' She smiled tightly, if not affectedly, cocking her head to the side and examining him with dark, incisive eyes. 'Looking a little tense for someone with the luxury of running labs indoors all the livelong day while the rest of us brave the cold and wet.'

Refreshing his scowl, he retorted, 'You'd be sore, too, if you had to be hunched over a microscope for hours on end. And that's before the paperwork.'

'You should get up and move around more. Walk. Stretch. Do star jumps.'

'Thanks for the advice,' he said with a snort. 'I want back in the field.'

'Yeah, well,' she shrugged and took a sip from his water, 'I'm not here to talk about that. That is a matter entirely out of my hands.'

'Don't be stupid, you have Lestrade's ear. He likes you.' She laughed, but he pressed on. 'Tell him it was an honest mistake! Tell him I didn't mean anything by it. It was really late. Or bloody early. Look, I was tired, a little out of sorts—'

'How's the family, Anderson?' she cut in. She commandeered the fork again and began pushing peas into the potatoes.

'What? My family?'

'Yeah. Sweet Mum, good old Dad, everyone doing all right?'

'You want to talk about my family?'

'Just being friendly. You went for a visit last weekend. How'd that go?'

She saw the confusion, the suspicion, in his eyes, the failure to size her up with any degree of success. 'Fine, they're all fine. Mum's due for another optometry appointment, what with her eyesight not being what it used to . . . Hang on. How did you know I went to Reading?'

'I could hear you chewing Jelly Babies from the other side of the office, that's how. Your mum always sends you back to London with a sack full of them.'

'Well, aren't you a right little Sherlock Holmes,' Anderson seethed. Donovan's smile slipped off entirely. No more games. Setting aside the fork, she placed her elbows on the table and tended forward.

'Your dad,' she said, 'Falklands veteran, isn't he?'

'Yeah. So?'

'And your granddad? World War Two vet, yeah?'

'Yeah.'

'Ah. And great-granddad? World War One?'

'Look, I come from a long line of military careers. So what? So I'm a ruddy coward for not enlisting, is that it?'

She wasn't deterred. 'And great-great granddad? What are we talking, the Afghan War?'

'Jesus, I don't know. Why are you asking me this?'

'Got any memorabilia? Any heirlooms from the old pops?'

He frowned. She watched him lick his lips, watched his eyebrows lower in consternation. He began to twiddle his fork unnecessarily. 'Some things, I guess. I mean, I don't have anything, but—'

'But Papa Anderson has, hasn't he? Things like old medals? Photographs?'

'Sure . . .'

'An Enfield revolver?'

'Now hang on.' He looked around the refectory to see if anyone happened to be listening in. 'Just what exactly are you asking me?'

'I'm asking where you were last Friday.'

'You know that. I was in Reading.'

'Maybe during the day. But you wouldn't stay the night. I mean, really, love, not with your flat only a thirty-minute train ride away. When was the last time you actually slept in your parents' house? I know you better than that, Anderson. So what I'm asking is this: Where were you Friday night? Say, around nine o'clock? Back in London, were you?'

He squirmed. 'I know where you're going with this. I know exactly where.'

'Just covering all my bases. Can't rule out anyone, especially not someone with a score to settle. That would be irresponsible. So just a refresher course. Here's how detective work works, in case you'd forgotten, being off the team and all. It's a game of joining the dots: suspect, opportunity, motive.'

'Stop. Stop it. I had nothing to do with what happened on Baker Street.'

'Then I'll ask again: Where were you?'

'At home. In my flat, watching telly.'

'What did you watch?'

'BBC Four. It was, um, a documentary. About military aircraft.'

'Learn anything interesting?'

'I didn't realise there'd be a quiz.'

'You in all night?'

'Yes.'

'Can anyone corroborate that?'

'No, I was alone, because, as you seem to have forgotten, I'm a friendless tosser.'

If he had been hoping for some pity, Sally Donovan wasn't doling it out. 'So no one came to the door. No one rung you up. Not a soul to vouch for you. And you just had a night in.'

'I'd been suspended for three days, I didn't exactly feel like going out and celebrating.'

'There are other reasons to leave the flat. Look.' She interlaced her fingers under her chin and stared him down. 'This is how I can see it going down. You're furious. Maybe a little pissed. Of course you are. He embarrassed you in front of the whole team. Hard to blame him. I mean, really, Anderson, hemlock poisoning? But when you lashed out, fought back, gave him the what-for, you got punished. What next? You go crying to mummy, and while you're home having a good whinge, you notice granddaddy's antique revolver behind glass on the mantelpiece . . .'

'Sally—'

'Next thing you know, you're back in London, but the injustice still has you rankled, and one niggling little thought just won't go away. A drink or two later, and it's beginning to sound like a very sensible thought indeed. Am I warm, or am I hot?'

'I can't believe you! I am not a suspect! You honestly think I'd do something like that? Me? What kind of person do you take me for?'

If Donovan had been a hound, he would have seen her ears flatten against the side of her head and her hackles rise. Her palms fell to the table top. 'What kind of person do I take you for? Let me think. How about the kind of person who taunts rape victims just to stick it to a personal foe?'

His jaw fell open. 'That's not why I did it.'

'Oh, okay. So you're the kind of person who taunts rape victims for the hell of it. You know, you're lucky all Lestrade did was suspend you for three days. If it had been up to me, I would have sacked your sorry arse on the spot.'

'Watson shouldn't have been there in the first place!'

'That's your defence?' she cried. They really were drawing attention now, but her volume had spiked beyond her willingness to control it. 'He shouldn't have been there, so he had it coming? You're sick. Sick. I should drag you down to interrogation right now.'

He paled. 'Sally,' he said beseechingly, speaking barely loud enough to be heard; she watched him try to melt into the table, despairing of the plethora of eyes pointed in their direction. 'Sally, this whole thing . . . It's absurd. You know me. You know me. I would never— I could never— I'm not capable!'

She snorted. That could very well be true. Anderson was too much of a coward to do even something as pusillanimous as a shoot and run. The truth was, she was bluffing. Beyond her own suspicions—coloured by her disgust over what had happened at the crime scene—she had no true evidence linking him to the shooting on Baker Street. Just speculation. Forensics had been able to lift only a partial print off of one bullet, not enough to match any records. There had been no eyewitnesses—none that had come forward, anyway—and of course the revolver itself hadn't been recovered, despite the ongoing search in the most likely of places for panicking assailants to dispose of weapons: skips and sewers and postboxes. The Thames. So when it came down to the bare bones of it all, Donovan didn't really believe Anderson had the stones for attempted murder, no matter how thoroughly his fragile ego was whipped. His revenge was more petulant, childish, cowardly. Like being a nasty, hateful git under his breath.

But her own doubts weren't stopping her from sending officers to Reading to question his mother, which is exactly what they were doing at this very moment. She had timed their knock on the front door with her entrance into the cafeteria. She'd work on getting the search warrant for his flat, next.

All that aside, there was something off about him. It was in the way he blinked, like there was an eyelash caught under the lid, in the way he couldn't focus on any one object for more than two seconds together. It was how his shoulders rounded forward and his chest caved inward. It was in the way he swallowed and licked his lips and kept shifting the tray, as though to re-establish the barrier between them, afraid she might leap over the table and throttle him and the tray would be his only defence. And it wasn't just today. His behaviour had been askew for days, maybe weeks. She just couldn't quite place her finger on why.

'What are you not telling me?' she hissed at him.

He spluttered. 'What? I don't, I mean, I, I, what are you—?'

'Something's not right. I can smell it. And it stinks.'

He glowered, and his closed mouth twisted about like he was forming words but not uttering them. At last, his body stilled and a shadow passed over his face. He said, 'Then maybe a hot shower would do you some good, Donovan.'

'Excuse me?'

'The stench of Sherlock Holmes. It's all over you.'

She smirked. 'Oh no. I know that ploy. You're not turning this back on me.' She raised her chin in defiance. 'My conscience is clear.'

'As clear as it was when you arrested him three-and-a-half years ago? You knew then he was a psychopath, and guilty as a modern-day Judas. You were convinced of it.'

'I was following the evidence. That was my job. Just because I didn't like where it led didn't stop me from—'

'Oh, you liked it all right. What was it you said to me, when we'd heard he'd jumped? You looked at me and you said, It's over. Thank God. I knew what you meant, exactly what you meant. He was over, done, dead, and the world was free of one more criminal.'

'We all believed it. That he had lied, I mean. We couldn't see the whole picture.'

'No, no, Sally! No! You can't see it now! He's painted you a new picture over the real one, to justify what he did and to fool you, all of you. You're blinder now than you've ever been. That man's got Lestrade eating out of his hand and you on a leash, and the people out there'—he stabbed a finger at the windows—'they know it, they can feel how dangerous he is, more dangerous than ever, and they're scared shitless and wondering what's the matter with the Metropolitan Police who still invite him to crime scenes and let him handle and manipulate and probably plant or destroy real evidence!'

'I'm not having this conversation again. You know how I feel about Holmes being at crime scenes. You know how I feel about him personally. But how many times do I have to say this? He's not a criminal!'

'Not a convicted one,' said Anderson peevishly, if not with a dash of self-righteous coolness. 'Not anymore. The man should have gone to trial, if not straight to a jail cell. We all know it. But he wormed his way out of it with some cock-and-bull story about two Richard Brooks. Yeah, well, show me two bodies, give me some hard proof I can run labs on. But he can't, can he? No one can. Sherlock Holmes is nothing more than a clever storyteller. But the truth will out, Sally. Watch him, you'll see. You'll see how I'm right about him. You'll see just how dangerous a man he really is.'

Before she could retort, her mobile sounded. It was a text from Lestrade:

My office, now.
GL

At once, she placed both hands on the table and pushed herself to her feet, leaning closer over the table, and watched him shrink back. 'I'm watching you, Anderson. You take any missteps, I'll know. Got it?'

It was Friday. Sherlock Holmes was waiting anxiously for something to happen. Then, at half five in the afternoon, something did.

His phone rang.

The caller ID showed Lestrade's name against a lit screen. He eyed John across the room where he was watching the BBC News at Five. Though John didn't stir at the sound of the phone, Sherlock saw him reach for the remote to turn down the volume by increments, inclining his head slightly toward Sherlock, the better to hear.

He put the phone to his ear and sighed dramatically. 'What is it this time, Mycroft?'

'Sherlock. It's me,' came Lestrade's voice. Sherlock could practically see the look of bewilderment in what he was sure were currently pinched eyebrows.

'Let me guess—just a kindly, fraternal chat, is it? Make it quick.'

'. . . Oh. Is John with you?'

'Of course. I might inquire into your diet again, but we both know how well that's going.'

John's head turned back, giving his fuller attention to the telly.

'Right. Okay, don't say anything. Just listen. There's something I need to show you. It's probably best—no, I know it's best that John doesn't see. It's . . . it's not good. Can you come down to the Yard? I'm giving a full briefing in twenty minutes.'

'Your timing is impeccable. As is your indolence. Is your army of minions on holiday? Can't be bothered to do a bit of legwork yourself?'

'This had better be for show, dear brother,' said Lestrade testily. 'Will John be all right if you leave for a short while? What's he at today?'

'Two. That's how I like to keep it, and I'll trust you not to meddle with that.'

'A unit is on its way to keep an eye on things. Officers will be watching the front door from a discreet location. And I'll try to get you back as quickly as I can. How long can you—?'

'One hour. Then I'm done. I can't be expected to miss The One Show at seven. They're featuring Keely Hawes.'

'Then move your arse, Holmes, and get down here. I wouldn't want to keep you from your celebrity gossip.'

'You're a pain in the arse, Mycroft. You owe me.'

He ended the call and stood up from the couch with a huff. He opened his mouth, but John pre-empted him. 'Mycroft, was it?'

'I'm going down to the Diogenes Club,' said Sherlock. He knew John had no fondness for the place, so what he said next would present no temptation. 'He wants me to review some transcriptions of a telephone conversation from Belarus that he thinks might be coded. Of course, if he would bother to string two beads together he could figure this out on his own, but that's Mycroft for you. Do you want to come?'

'No,' said John to the television.

'Shan't be long,' he said as he pulled on his coat and fitted his gloves and scarf. 'And it's Mrs Hudson's bridge night, so she'll be out. I'll bring something home, then, shall I? Thai?'

'Yes, all right.'

He felt his coat pocket for phone, keys, and wallet, took one last look at John to assure himself that he was indeed of sound mind today, and set his brain's alarm clock, beginning the countdown. One hour. He would keep to it.

The last time John had set foot inside the Diogenes Club had been on the night before Sherlock died, at which point Mycroft had near enough admitted that he'd been the one to tempt Moriarty with his brother's scent before setting him on the trail. In the days that followed, Mycroft had failed to claim the body, attend the funeral, or even watch the casket lower into a hole in the earth. John. It was John who had done all those things. Days later, Mycroft would accuse him of failing to protect Sherlock, a thing for which John already accused himself.

John Watson had no love for the man. He saw Mycroft's sins more clearly than anyone, he believed, more clearly than even Sherlock. Here was a man with untold resources and manpower at his fingertips, and he had sat by while Moriarty was acquitted of crimes the whole world knew him to be guilty of. Then he had watched him walk free. He had known, before anyone, that Sherlock had been in danger, yet he had done nothing. So though John knew what Mycroft had done in helping Lestrade find him in his own torture chamber, that night, and though he knew that Mycroft had been trying to make amends ever since, in his own, minimal, man-behind-the-curtain kind of way, John would never be able to forgive what Mycroft had done to his own brother.

He made concerted efforts to avoid any direct contact with Mycroft Holmes. If he knew Mycroft was on his way to the flat, he kept to his room; and if he turned up unannounced, he found a reason to excuse himself from the sitting room. Not that he happened by very often at all, and John faulted him for that, too. So it was only after much chewing of the lips and clenching of the fists that he finally picked up his phone, found Mycroft's number among the short list of names in his address book, and called.

'Evening, Doctor Watson,' said Mycroft on the other end, failing to disguise his surprise at being contacted. 'To what do I owe the pleasure?'

John skipped over the niceties. 'Is Sherlock with you?'

There was a slight pause while Mycroft seemed to consider this question. He answered slowly. 'No. Have you misplaced him?'

'Are you at the Diogenes Club?' he asked next.

'I'm not even in London. John, is something the matter?'

'Nothing,' John said. And he ended the call.

His suspicion, then, had been correct. Sherlock, though with all his snideness intact, had agreed all too readily to assist the brother he never readily assisted. Even had he been interested—and when had cracking codes ever been interesting?—he surely would have made Mycroft beg a little longer. Clever of him to play it so cool, inviting him along somewhere he knew John wouldn't care to go. But he had miscalculated. For as well as Sherlock knew John, he had forgotten to account for one little detail: John knew Sherlock.

But if not Mycroft, then who had called? And where had Sherlock hurried off to? What had he not wanted John to know?

John planted his cane to push himself to his feet, but he let it fall against the chair again once he was upright and hobbled unaided to his laptop, which lay open on the table by the boarded windows. He woke the monitor and sat. He located the site for Sherlock's smartphone, typed in Sherlock's email address, and entered the password. John knew this trick. He would use GPS to find him.

In less than half a minute, a map of London appeared, along with a moving, blinking dot. John watched it roll south on Park Lane, then to Grosvenor, and by the time it turned onto Victoria Street, he knew exactly where Sherlock was headed, and he felt the sizzling disquiet burst into flame. It was a case! It was his case! It had to be! Any other case and Sherlock would have said, he would asked him to come along. But now, he was being shunted to the side, kept in the dark, like a child, a helpless little child.

With a loud screech of the chair, he pushed back from the desk and shot to his feet, but he'd taken only two steps when a sudden pain burst from the site of the gunshot wound and, like electricity, reverberated up and down the bone, from ankle to knee to hip. He gasped, gripped the table to keep his balance, and squeezed his eyes shut and jaw tight, waiting for the pain to ebb. When he could open his eyes again, his sight was cloudy, but he used his anger to fuel him. Cane in hand, he staggered around the flat, collecting shoes and gloves and coat and hat, and by the time he was dressed for the winter air, Sherlock—he saw by the dot on the screen—had arrived at New Scotland Yard.

There was one problem. He believed (and had for a while) that someone—Lestrade's people? Mycroft's people?—were watching the flat. If they hadn't been before the shooting, certainly they were now. He had no proof of this beyond the suspicion that something had been set up even after John had expressed (heatedly) his dislike of the thought of being watched. Bollocks the claim of security. What if they were turncoats, like the others? Double agents? What if they were given keys to the flat? What if they were tracking his movements? And all in the name of his protection? Sherlock hadn't liked the thought either, but Mycroft couldn't be trusted to respect his brother's wishes.

So he couldn't use the front door. Not if they were watching, not if they would try to stop him leaving. Fortunately, for him, Mrs Hudson was out, and she had a back door to the alley. He would use that.

He stepped outside and pulled the door closed securely behind him. The chill wind stung his hot face, carrying with it flurries of snow that didn't seem to be landing. Before stepping away from the back door, he checked up and down the alley, then high and low, assessing the threat level. When he was satisfied, he made for the Jubilee Line.

The tube was crowded with the usual commuters returning home and eager for the weekend. Normally, the crowds would make him anxious, but John convinced himself that he was too angry to care. With the seats all occupied, he stood. He grabbed hold of a metal pole and rested his weight against it, just to take some of the pressure off his bad leg while he balanced with the cane. At the next stop, Bond Street, more people got on the train than got off, and again at Green Park. His anger slipped from his hold as the press of bodies began to overwhelm him, and he kept shifting, skirting around the pole to find his own unconfined space, but there was nowhere to go. His coat began to feel too warm, the air too thin, and Bridge Street too far. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead and into his eye. He struggled to concentrate on something else, anything else: his anger—which he could no longer find—or the exit—which he could no longer see—or counting, one, two, three, forty-two steps down, eighteen steps straight ahead, and then through a doorway, twenty-seven . . .

People shifted and jostled, and a body pressed itself firmly against his backside.

John let out a strangled, half-swallowed sort of yelp and thrust himself forward and into the crowd, making directly for the doors. He jolted through the mass of bodies and was shoved hither and thither himself, but his eyes were fixed on the closed doors with half a plan to wrench them open whether or not the train was still moving. To the people he shoved past he made no apology, which he wouldn't have been able to voice even if he had the wits enough to think the words, and when he at last reached the exit, he placed a hand on the cold glass and gasped, trying to breathe.

'Sir, are you okay?'

He heard the question, but he didn't register it.

'I think this one's gonna be sick.'

'Oh god, let him out first.'

'Stay back, honey. Don't touch him.'

At last, the doors opened at Westminster, and he hurried out, almost losing his footing but unable stop his feet from moving until he'd passed through the crowd awaiting to board, then down the platform and into another crowd pushing into their next train.

When the press of bodies thinned out, John found himself leaning a shoulder against a wall while the people continue to flow by him like a raging river. He closed his eyes, and with every breath, he thought one, two, three, four, five, and hold. Breathe in. Breathe out.

He still had to take the District Line to St James's Park.

When he at last emerged onto the street again, he was so stiff he could barely walk, but the cold air rushed into his lungs, and the oxygen loosened his tense muscles and revived him enough to press onward. It was a two-minute walk more to the Yard, and his shaky legs steadied as he went. He took another bracing breath before he pulled open the Yard doors and entered.

Though he had not been inside this building for many years, not much about it had changed. He still had to pass through a metal detector, present identification, take a visitor's badge, and sign his name in a log book. Glancing up the list of guests, he did not see Sherlock's name, but that wasn't entirely surprising. It was doubtful he had come in through the visitor's entrance to begin with.

John walked up to reception. The young man behind the counter didn't recognise him at a glance, which John thought just as well.

'I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade,' he said, infusing his voice with as much of the old military confidence he could muster.

'Are you expected?'

'Damn right I am.'

'Oh. Okay.' The young man typed something into his keyboard. 'It appears that DI Lestrade is currently conducting a briefing.'

'Yes, I know. That's exactly where I'm meant to be.'

The young man took John in, scarred temple to lame leg, and said, 'I believe it's for officers only . . .' But seeing the hard look on John's face, he trailed off.

John pulled out his wallet, opened it, and withdrew a plastic card. 'And for all the members of his team. I'm a consultant.' He threw the card down in front of the receptionist and waited, almost daring the young man to show him to a waiting room or invite him back tomorrow.

'It's, erm, room 422,' he said instead. 'Lifts are just around the—'

'I know where they are,' said John, reclaiming his card.

Alone in a lift, he tore the visitor's badge off the front of his coat and stuffed it into a pocket.

Due to a conflicting meeting and a few hiccups in technology, the briefing was slow to get underway. While the officers were still assembling in the room—everyone from junior detectives to forensics specialists to situation analysts—Sherlock sat in the front row, impatiently drumming fingers on his crossed knee. Lestrade stood at the front of the room, hands akimbo, speaking crossly with the IT guy who was trying to figure out why the projector wasn't working, while Sgt Donovan stood to the side, arms folded and looking just about as irked as Sherlock felt. Sherlock caught Lestrade's eye, tapped his watch, and gave him his most dour of expressions, meaning, Get this started, or I'm taking over.

Apparently, his very presence carried with it a kind of force field, for though there was limited seating and two rows of bodies were standing in the back of the small room, no one occupied the seats directly behind or on either side of him. He heard whispered jokes about 'the assistant going rogue' and that he was sure to be 'disciplined' when he returned home. He pretended not to notice, or to care. But he was Sherlock Holmes—he noticed everything.

'Aha!' Lestrade cried as the projector snapped to life, and a square of blue light illuminated the screen behind him. He gave the IT guy a sharp jerk of the head indicating that he leave the room. 'All right everyone, quiet down! Quiet. Let's get this underway. McLeod, the door. Thank you. Now, just to be clear, this briefing is primarily for officers involved in the manhunt for Sebastian Moran, but I've also requisitioned those of you chiefly working the Slash Man killings, as we believe these crimes are closely related.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, silently urging Lestrade to cut the preamble. Whether Lestrade could sense the telepathic cattle prod to get to the point, Sherlock could only speculate, but with the next words out of his mouth, he did just that and got straight to it.

'This morning,' he said, 'I received, to my mobile, a'—here he seemed to struggle for the word; Sherlock supplied it in his own mind: threat—'message,' he settled on, 'from John Watson's old phone, which we believe still to be in Moran's possession. It is still untraceable, and the phone company can't seem to recover its billing records or cut its service. We're still working on that one. This is the . . . sixth communication from Moran that I have received to my personal mobile.'

Seventh, thought Sherlock, though he supposed that Lestrade was purposefully omitting the video from his count. He had deleted it, after all, after forwarding it to Arthur Doyle's phone, which had ultimately been destroyed. No evidence of the video now existed, except for the perfect copy in Sherlock's eidetic memory.

'The nature of each of these communications has been on the level of threat and intimidation. Now, the images I'm about to show you, some of you have seen before, though many of you have not, as they have been deemed highly sensitive and classified. Let me repeat: this information is confidential and is not to be shared with anyone not on this task force. The only reason you are all permitted to view them is in the interest of . . . internal transparency. And you need to know the sort of creature we're dealing with. Lights please.' Someone killed the lights. 'Thank you. Exhibit 23-A.'

Sherlock saw Lestrade steel himself. Then he clicked a button on the hand-held remote, and the first photo Sherlock had seen, that day in the morgue at Bart's, was projected onto the screen. The image had already seared itself into his memory, but seeing it again—enlarged, the only thing illuminated in a darkened room—twisted something deep inside him. For a moment, it was like it was happening all over again. As he stared at the image of John's beaten face, the bright blood in his mouth, the smears of dark red and black and blue on his cheeks and jaw and neck, he was besought once again with that feeling of helplessness and desperation, and he had to remind himself that John was safe, back at home. Nevertheless, without being aware of it, he began scratching the back of his hand with his fingernails.

'This photo was taken with a mobile phone on Tuesday, October 21, of last year,' Lestrade continued, 'on the seventh day of John Watson's captivity. It was received to my mobile the next day, Wednesday, October 22, at approximately 1830 hours, some seven hours after the body of Mary Morstan was recovered from Baker Street.'

He clicked the remote again.

'It was immediately followed by two more photographs. Exhibit 23-B'—the second photo flashed up on the screen, a close shot of John's bloody wrists, joined by wire; he clicked again—'and Exhibit 23-C.' As he continued to talk, Lestrade left on the screen the image of John lying prostrate on a bloody tiled floor, his back a mess of lacerations in the form of writing. His measured tone was something Sherlock didn't understand. If it had been him, he would have been shouting his wrath at all of them, demanding that they get off their arses and find the son of a bitch who had inflicted this cruelty upon an innocent man.

'Along with Ms Morstan's body, these photos were our first pieces of hard evidence that indicated not only the severity of Watson's predicament, but also that he was still alive and that the brutal treatment was ongoing. This series of photographs was accompanied by a single text message promising the further torture—specifically, the dismemberment—of the victim if we—that is, if I—did not turn over Sherlock Holmes, who was, at the time, believed to be dead by all but a few.'

At that, Sherlock heard a few people behind him murmuring something to a neighbour, but Lestrade's voice overrode them.

'Now, that text message referred to John Watson as Johnny boy, what our psychoanalysts refer to as a debasing moniker intended to diminish his status as an independent agent and turn him into a sort of pet. This nickname was used in conjunction with the possessive pronoun our, that is our Johnny boy, further implying a sentiment of ownership over Dr Watson that the perps, specifically Moran, had developed. This theory is furthered by the inscriptions Moran made in the victim's skin, as you see here. Though intended as a message for Holmes, Moran was also, in effect, marking what he considered to be his own property, thereby claiming Dr Watson as his. Our psychoanalysts, specialising in criminal psychology and profiling, believe that by this stage—and correct me if I'm wrong here, Hinckley—Moran and his men had reduced Dr Watson, in their own minds, to little more than an object, a toy and a tool, but also that they had formed a kind of possessiveness over him to such an extreme that we might call it, what was it?'

'An intense psychological attachment,' said Hinckley. 'Extreme possessiveness disorder.'

'That's right. A psychological, possessive attachment, which we believe was only intensified with the later sexual violation.' He clicked the remote again, and the screen went to blue. Sherlock released the tension in his muscles, which he hadn't realised until then had been seized up, and at that point noticed how the skin on the back of his hand was raw and red from his scratching. He cursed under his breath and flattened his offending hand over the sore to hide it.

'The next message I received from Watson's old phone came a couple of weeks later . . .'

As Lestrade continued to relate the psychology behind the single-worded text Bang and Pitts' demise, Sherlock's phone sounded with a text message. He felt eyes turn in his direction. Instantly, he silenced the alert noise and checked the screen. There was a momentary flutter of uncertainty somewhere in the region of his stomach when he saw it was from Mycroft, and that uncertainty morphed into alarm upon reading the text:

Next time you intend to use
me as an alibi, a little
forewarning would not
go amiss.

He gasped through his nose. Immediately, he hit reply and let his fingers fly across the keyboard.

What did you tell him?

A moment later came the reply:

I was not aware that discretion
was necessary. I told him that
I am not currently in London.
He hung up on me.

Sherlock quelled the impulse to shoot to his feet and run out of the room, to hail a cab or at the very least to call John with an explanation . . . and to make sure he hadn't done anything rash. But what was the most likely consequence? In all probability, John was still sitting at home, seething, no doubt, and waiting to see whether Sherlock would keep to his word about one hour. He checked the time. Forty-two minutes had passed. He would need to leave very soon.

'Moran's only purpose in sending that text,' Lestrade continued, 'was to show me that he was in control. He feared no reprisal. He wanted to boast—'

'Get to it, Lestrade,' Sherlock spoke out.

At his intrusion, the murmur swelled again, but Sherlock was beyond caring. Lestrade looked for a moment as though he were biting his tongue, but he nodded curtly.

'Threat and intimidation,' he repeated, 'is his game. And it is exactly what he's doing now. A reminder about the confidential nature of these images. No one is permitted to discuss them with anyone outside of this room.' Lestrade caught Sherlock's eye again, and they shared a look of chagrin, before clicking the remote again and bringing up the newest screen.

It was a video, and the moment it began playing, Sherlock's fingers sank back into his skin, this time at the wrist, and latched on.

It was his third time viewing it since arriving at the Yard twenty-five minutes ago, but it was no easier now, not when these people who didn't really care about John's personal suffering were being made privy to it. Yelling at Lestrade, arguing against the senseless dissemination of sensitive materials, had done nothing to dissuade him, for he was under direct orders from Chief Superintendent Gregson, who insisted on employing transparency with the entire team working the case. There had been too much cloak-and-dagger detective work to this point, Gregson had said, unfazed by Sherlock's rant. It was time to bring things into the light. Every member of this task force, Gregson had said in his plain-speaking, authoritative, no-room-for-discussion manner, has been individually reviewed and judged trustworthy. They are professionals with a job to do; I will not treat them like children.

So there was John, laid out naked on the blood-spattered orange tiles like a spectacle for every viewing Tom, Dick, and Harry with an officer's title before his name. He wore only the metal cilice on his right leg, and his hands, still bound to the drain, were crushed beneath his body where Daz had left him.

'Day eight, is it?'

The gritty voice of Sebastian Moran himself. And the camera shook. The image became a mess of streaking colour and flickering lights. When it settled again, Moran was in front of the camera, straddling John's backside with his knees on the tiles and bearing a silver scalpel like a sceptre. He motioned to the camera, inviting it closer.

'Watch how I work, boys,' he said with a smirk.

And the camera watched—as did the full room of Yarders. They watched as Moran found a stretch of unbroken skin on John's back, in the depression along the outer edge of the erector spinae where the tissue was soft and deep. Moran turned to the camera and gave a wink. Then he pressed the tip of the scalpel deep into the flesh. As the blade sank, bright-red blood rushed to the surface, easy as breaking an egg yolk, and as Moran dragged the scalpel down toward the waist in one, long, straight stroke, the blood spilled down John's side in a solid sheet. The instrument retreated, dark and dripping, and Moran wiped the skin free of blood to find a new home for blade.

'His face,' Moran said.

The camera pulled up, repositioning in front of John's face, which filled the screen. One cheek pressed against the basement floor; the other was swollen and darkly bruised. Blood stained his patchy eight-day beard. Broken skin peppered the side of his face as though he'd been in an explosion. He might as well have been: he looked to be in shock. His eyes—pale and bloodshot from exhaustion and shining with tears—stared straight ahead, unfocused and unaware of the camera. His nose was clearly broken and curved to the left side of his face. His lips, cracked, scabbed, were parted so he could breathe. But he seemed hardly aware that a camera was being held in front of his face. Every few seconds, he winced and his head trembled against the tiles; it was the most reaction he gave to being carved. It was the eighth IOU.

After forty-one excruciating seconds of watching John's face as he endured this torture, Moran's own came into the frame as his body curved over John's. His head tilted to the side, and he spoke, softly, into John's ear. His voice was too low for the camera's microphone to pick up, but John's eyebrows twitched, then his eyes closed, and a tear slipped from each eye, one striking the floor, the other puddling on the flat of his broken nose. Moran laughed, dark, hideous laughter, and kissed John at the temple, lips and tongue, a single lick of blood.

The camera pulled down once again, and the last shot was the completed IOU bleeding freely down John's back. The video ended.

Heavy silence hung in the room as the screen went dark and the room lost all illumination, but Sherlock could hear the smothered glottal stops as Lestrade repeatedly trying to clear his throat without making any noise. At last, he managed to say, gruffly, 'Lights,' and someone flipped the switch. Lestrade cleared his throat again.

'We figure that this event took place near midnight on Wednesday, October 22,' he said, but his voice had lost its boom. 'This video was accompanied by a text message. It read, simply'—he was looking down at the remote as though the words were written there for him to read, avoiding eye contact with anyone in the room, 'One of a kind: The one that got away.'

He sighed and put the remote down on a table. His hands went into his pockets. 'Since recovering Dr Watson from St Mary's, we see this as the first open threat that has been made against him, and we are taking it seriously. A unit has been sent to Baker Street to monitor 221 and to keep an eye out for any suspicious characters. After this meeting, I'll be going over there myself, with Holmes, to apprise John—that is, Dr Watson—of this latest development.

'Intelligence, however, does not put Moran in London. He was last spotted in Belarus, a week ago, and MI6 believes he is still on the Continent. And to be frank, we are not confident that Moran sent us this video and text himself. He has many operatives, confirmed to us by Everett Stubbins, who described himself as a member of a legion of people working for Moran, interested in both Holmes and Watson.

'The point,' he said, and for the first time, his voice shook a little in anger, 'is that this'—he stabbed a finger at the blank screen—'cannot be allowed to continue. Enough people have already suffered or died because of this man, and he sends us this to make us squirm and to laugh at our ineptitude. But we are not a weak force against him. He lost twelve of his own last October and November. We did that. And we're not done. But he's still laughing at us. We need to show him in no uncertain terms that we are not playing this game, his game. So we find him, we stop this, we—'

His voice cut out, because all at once, the room rang with the sound of a dozen mobiles. People jumped, checked their pockets, but as it happened, the sounding phones belonged only to those seated or standing on the right-hand side of the room.

Including Sherlock.

Eyebrows knitted together, Sherlock opened the text from Unknown Caller.

London Bridge is
falling down.

Behind him, someone read the text aloud—it matched Sherlock's perfectly.

'That's what mine says, too!' one of the women said in alarm. 'What is this—?'

But like Lestrade's, her words were cut off because her phone suddenly chimed again, and those all around her, but this time, the phones belonging to the people seated in the middle section of the room joined in.

'The hell?' said Lestrade, stepping forward, eyes jumping from mobile to mobile.

'London Bridge is falling down,' a man seated in the centre read aloud.

'Falling down,' read someone else on the right-hand side; again, it matched the newest text in Sherlock's hand. A murmur of disquiet swelled in the room.

'Okay, everyone, remain calm,' said Lestrade.

But it happened again: every mobile in the room sounded its text alert. And this time, it was the section of phones on the left-hand side of the room that read London Bridge is falling down. And in the centre and on the right: falling down, falling down.

Sherlock was on his feet, staring at his phone in wonder and dread as yet another text message appeared on his phone, reading the same as the first. It was starting over. He whirled and watched as the texts kept coming in waves, repeating the rhyme, though never finishing it. He watched the terror growing on the men's and women's faces with each new text, as they looked to each other, to Lestrade, to him, wondering what was happening, what it meant, how to stop it.

'It's a round,' he said. 'A musical round. Perfectly timed.'

He could feel it like a metronome in his head. Tick. Tick. Tick.

'But why?' asked Lestrade.

'We need to trace this,' said Donovan.

'You won't be able to,' Sherlock said, waiting for the second refrain of falling down to appear on his phone. A second later, it did. 'It's from them. It's a message, another message . . .' He waited for the song to begin again, but his phone was silent. He looked up. The phones at the centre of the room had fallen silent, too. And at last, the phones on the left received their last falling down.

Silence descended again, and the officers all stared at Sherlock with bated breath, waiting for an explanation. But he had none. It was a rhyme, a children's rhyme, a children's game, and it had been left incomplete—

And then, from the back of the room, a single mobile sounded. And Sherlock felt his heart clench: he recognised the distinctive text alert sound, different from all the others.

Startled, the officers standing in the back of the room turned their heads, looking for the source of the sound. When they discovered it, they stepped aside. And there was John. Small and unobtrusive, he been standing hidden in the back the whole time, invisible to even those standing with him, and—

The whole time. Oh god, thought Sherlock. He'd seen it all, heard it all, every ghastly image, every menacing word. He'd been unprepared, completely unprepared, for what Lestrade had presented to a room full of strangers, and it showed in his visage and posture. His face was wan, this skin of his forehead shiny with sweat, his eyes wet and lined with red. He looked lost, stunned. As John stared at Sherlock from the opposite side of the room, phone in a trembling hand, he licked his lips as though wanting to speak, but he couldn't. Instead, he blinked and looked down to read the text he'd just received. A long pause followed. Then he gripped the cane and planted it in the cleared path in front of him. He moved forward.

All eyes tracked him as he limped down the aisle that ran the length of the room until he reached Sherlock. Without a word, he shoved his mobile into the centre of Sherlock's chest, turned, and headed for the exit. Sherlock caught the mobile before it could crash to the ground, but his attention was on John's retreating back. When it disappeared beyond the door, Sherlock's eyes dropped quickly to the open text. Then he threw the mobile to Lestrade and followed after John, the glowing letters still burning in his retinas:

My fair lady.