CHAPTER 23: WHAT HE MAY NEVER HAVE KNOWN

SATURDAY, February 21, 2015

'This job is aging me,' said the chief superintendent, rubbing beneath his nose where his new reading glasses had perched too long that day. Lestrade couldn't help but feel sorry for the man; it was easier than feeling sorry for himself, at any rate. Pityingly, he observed the man now who occupied the chair he had once imagined himself assuming, once upon a time. Now, he wouldn't take that job if they begged him. Gregson hadn't begged for it himself, even though it came with a substantial pay rise. Rather, he had come into only because of the abrupt and violent removal of its last occupant. And since that day, he had been putting out fires left and right, ignited by, for, and in the name of Sherlock Holmes.

The glasses settled again on their perch as the man steeled himself. He picked up a ballpoint pen to take notes. 'All right, let me hear it. What do we know?'

Seated side by side, Lestrade and Donovan exchanged a glance. Lestrade nodded, and Donovan began.

'CCTV shows Orrin Tippet boarding the rear car of a train by himself at approximately 17.00 hours. He never got off at a station. We believe that he was forced out of the back of the train as it was slowing down and coming into Elephant and Castle, about hundred and fifty metres down the track from the station. The injuries his body sustained are consistent with a fall at the speed he was travelling.'

'No witnesses can confirm that he was pushed?' Gregson asked.

'On-board surveillance had been disabled in the rear car, and no witnesses have come forward. It's possible that the car had been emptied of all but Moran's operatives.'

'At that time of day?'

'We agree it is unlikely, and we're still scanning footage from the platform, trying to identify Moran's people. All we know for sure, though, right now, is that the emergency exit door was found to be open at the rear when it pulled into the station.'

Lestrade continued: 'CCTV hasn't captured Hirsch, or anyone of his stature, for that matter, boarding the train. That means the Slash Man was already in position, waiting for the drop. He raped Tippet quickly, right there, on the tracks.'

'It's like the son of a bitch couldn't help himself,' said Donovan icily. 'Another train might have been along at any second. He could have just beaten the poor sod into submission and left it at that, yeah? But he buggered him anyway.'

'Well, it's his MO, isn't it?' said Lestrade. 'There's a pattern, and he'll follow it, by god.'

'What else?' said Gregson.

Lestrade said, 'He was stabbed through the ribs with a lag bolt twenty-five centimetres long, flat on the end. It would have taken significant force to ram it into his body that way. He also suffered from fractured ribs, broken clavicle, head trauma—mostly likely from the fall—and significant bruising and internal bleeding.'

'Why was he stabbed? With all else that he'd suffered, what was the point of such a weapon being using against him?'

'Our theory,' said Lestrade with a weary sigh, 'is that it was to occupy Dr Watson. Leave him alive, but critical, beyond saving. It was a diversion, to get him alone, while Holmes pursued one of the assailants a further eighty metres down the line to discover the second victim.'

'And do we have ID on that victim?'

'The body was burnt pretty badly. A sort of remote detonation triggered sparks planted on the body, which had been doused in ethanol, mixed with sodium hypochlorite.'

I didn't smell it, Sherlock had stated, over and over again. The body was downwind from me. I didn't smell it.

'Ethanol is highly flammable by itself,' Donovan put in, 'but sodium hypochlorite is an oxidiser, making it react explosively. The body burned at high heat for fifteen minutes before firefighters could arrive to put it out.'

'Not much left,' said Lestrade. 'But fortunately, dental records have proven viable. His name was Colin Simpkins.' CS. Again, Lestrade and Donovan exchanged glances. Simpkins fit the name pattern. They just weren't expecting him. Not last night. They had been too short-sighted, and had been outwitted again. 'Like the others, he was homeless. All we know about him right now is that he has been cited for public disturbances in the past, nothing criminal. We're looking for his family.'

Gregson nodded slowly. 'So the fire spread, and that's why Holmes had to jump off the tracks?'

'The ethanol solution had been poured in a ring around the hanging body, and when it went up in flames, Sherlock was caught in the middle of it. He was forced to jump where the flames were lowest—to the edge of the tracks. But when he leapt over the ring and onto the roof below the tracks, he caught fire. His right arm had inadvertently come in contact with the ethanol when he reached for the phone. Frankly, he's lucky the damage wasn't any worse than it was. He's lucky to be alive at all.'

Pointing his pen at them both in a chastising manner, Gregson said, 'Those boys should never have been on that track to start with. You know this, don't you? I better not find out that you sent them on ahead—'

'These people knew just how to play them, sir,' said Donovan. 'They gave Holmes and Watson just the right information at just the right time to ensure that it was them, not us, on that track. If they hadn't gone, Orrin Tippet would have been smashed to pulp by the train that nearly killed them all.'

'Tippet died anyway.'

'Holmes and Watson weren't given those clues with the chance that Tippet might be saved. These people . . . they're in better control than we had feared.'

'So it was the Slash Man, was it? On that track. We're sure about that?'

'We don't know conclusively, sir,' said Lestrade, a little uncomfortably. 'Sherlock believed he was pursuing Hirsch. He was sure of it. But John also says that it was Darren Hirsch who attacked him at the exact same time. He couldn't have been in two places at once.'

'Yes, but Watson's been known to suffer hallucinations,' said Donovan. 'Intrusive images, isn't that what you've been calling them? He sometimes sees things differently to how they really are. It's possible that, in his panic, he only imagined that he saw Darren Hirsh in the man that attacked him.'

'And our reason for doubting this?' asked Gregson.

Lestrade shifted in his seat. 'I don't like to doubt him.'

Donovan countered, 'But it was very dark, and he was scared and disoriented and in a state of panic. And furthermore, Hinckley believes that the Slash Man has a heightened interest in reclaiming Watson, as it were. Why would he attack him the way he did, only to leave him otherwise untouched?'

'Timing,' said Lestrade. They'd had this debate already, but it looked like they were about to again. 'The police were on their way, so he didn't have time to violate John again. Besides, he'd just raped Tippet, only minutes before. It's doubtful he had the'—Lestrade coughed a little and Gregson, who had been fiddling with a pen, set it aside—'stamina.'

'He's a sex maniac,' said Donovan, unfazed. 'I'd be surprised if he didn't.'

Gregson cut in. 'So you're telling me that there's no way to verify who he was?'

Donovan sighed out loudly through her nose and looked at her hands in her lap, and Lestrade said, 'Whoever he was, he bit John. A few times. We meant to take samples, maybe pick up a bit of saliva, but before we could, John found a bathroom and locked himself in. He scrubbed himself so raw he would have taken off layers of skin if I hadn't found him and stopped him hurting himself.' He shook his head, remembering standing outside the single-occupant loo and listening to the water run, and run, and run, before finally forcing his way in. 'The best we could do was photograph the bite marks. Not that we have anything to compare them to. It's an anticipatory move at best, which is a rather pessimistic outlook.'

'Whoever he was, this man, why did he want Watson alone if not to seriously harm him?' asked Gregson.

'He needed to deliver a message,' said Lestrade, and he reached into an inside pocket of his suit coat a pulled out a plastic bag. He tossed it across the table.

Gregson picked it up to examine. Inside was a single slip of paper, crinkled, a little torn, but spread flat. It read: The summer's gone, and all the roses falling.

'He shoved that note into John's back pocket,' said Lestrade, 'while he had him pressed up against the wall.'

'What does it mean?'

'It's a variation on a line from O Danny Boy.'

'Yes, I recognise the lyrics.'

'John told us that while he was being held in that kitchen, Daz, that is, Darren Hirsch, would sometimes whistle that tune. Alexander Slough renamed it O Johnny Boy and began to put lyrics to it, nasty things, violent and sexual things. John never said what, exactly, but Sherlock himself heard one of the lines, when he was down there.'

'So it's a reminder?'

'Like all of it, a taunt. A threat. Plus, the paper had been treated with peppermint oil.'

Gregson looked puzzled.

'It's a scent meant to put him in mind of Moran. A trademark of sorts, like a signature, meant to frighten him. And I think that it's working. John was practically catatonic when we found him.'

'Is someone seeing to him? A shrink, I mean.'

'His therapist was contacted right away.'

'Good. That's good. And what about Holmes?'

'Other than the burn, he insists he's fine . . .'

'Anyone looking at him could tell otherwise,' Donovan put in.

'. . . but he won't talk about anything other than the stone-cold facts of what happened. I've called his brother, but so far . . . I haven't been able to get through.' He controlled a scowl from shading his expression, but he just didn't understand it: Sherlock attacks Anderson, and Mycroft swoops in to rebuke him like a child; but when Sherlock is threatened, attacked, and injured, he was nowhere to be found.

'Tell me straight, DI. Is Holmes dangerous?'

'To who, sir?'

Gregson frowned. 'I don't like that answer.'

Lestrade was unapologetic. 'He is not homicidal. He is not mad. But he will do whatever it takes to protect his friends.'

'You mean John Watson.'

'To start with. That's how this all began.'

Setting his elbows on the desk, Gregson leant his face into his hands and groaned. 'So what do I do?'

Donovan's phone rang. She checked the caller ID and excused herself to take it in the hallway. When the door was closed again, Lestrade said, 'K-O-N.'

'What's that?'

'There is one more victim to go, one more we can still save, and his initials are K-O-N. Already, we've got eyes and ears on it. But sir, we can't do it without Sherlock Holmes.'

'The man attacked one of our own,' Gregson said, shaking his head. 'He's yet to stand trial, but that doesn't stop us from laying sanctions against him. I have done, and I can't undo it.'

'Unless you lock him up, you can't stop him investigating. You can't. They're sending clues to him, after all. Not to us. And he's the one solving them. He's the only one quick enough. They've been two steps, ten steps, ahead of us the whole way, and we don't have a prayer in catching up without Sherlock's help. We never did.'

Gregson's eyes flicked to the glass door, and his face grew very serious. Then, in a low voice, lips hardly moving, he said, 'Use him.'

Lestrade said nothing, let him finish.

'You've no choice, Greg. We've no choice. But officially, officially, I'm not sanctioning this. Understand? This conversation is not taking place right now. You go rogue, you do what you have to do, and I don't know a thing about it.'

'I understand.'

'Only one snag.'

'What's that?'

'Donovan. You'll have to tell her, she's too close to all of this. No way around it. And you know she'll put up a fight.'

Managing to keep a straight face, Lestrade said, 'I'll reason with her.'

'Good luck with that. Now get out. Tell the boys I said no. And mind that you look like you're spitting tacks about it, too.'

She wound her way down the hall speedily, trying to find a place of privacy, even as she answered. 'Sgt Donovan,' she announced into the phone, expectantly. It was a Sussex number, which meant this could be only the Sussex Police or—

'Ms Donovan, this is JoAnna Brook.'

She rounded a corner and found herself alone. There, she steeled herself. 'How are you today, Mrs Brook?' she asked. This was a woman who insisted on formalities.

But there was no exchange of pleasantries. Instead, her question was followed by a long pause. When the woman spoke again, her voice quivered. 'I have spoken with my husband,' she said. 'And we have agreed . . .' She took a long, shuddering breath, struggling for composure. 'We have agreed to let you exhume Richard.' Then her voice suddenly became stronger: 'On one condition.'

'What condition is that?'

'No matter the results from your tests, Ms Donovan, no matter what you learn, my husband and I wish to be left alone.'

'You do not want to know the results?' she asked, astounded.

'I know the results. That's my Richard. No, what I'm saying is this: we want the police to withdraw all interest from us. After this is all settled, we don't want to see them ever again on our doorstep. We don't want them to call. We don't want to answer any more questions. We want it all over. Do you understand me?'

She did. She knew exactly what Mrs Brook was asking. Conflicted and unable to give answer, at least not in that moment, she stood with the phone hovering by her ear, lips parted but silent.

'I asked, Ms Donovan, whether you understood my terms. Under no other condition will I permit the exhumation. The Sussex police are on my side in this.'

'Mrs Brook, I understand you perfectly. Will you permit me to discuss your terms with my superiors?'

Another pause. 'That would be acceptable.'

She promised to call back, returned to the chief superintendent's office to wait for Lestrade, and then walked with him back to his own office, where she closed the door, let him sit, and cut straight to the heart of things.

'It was Roger Brook. Brook tried to shoot Holmes through the window back in January,' she said. 'It wasn't Moran or any of his men or a random civilian vigilante—it was Richard Brook's father.'

Lestrade regarded her with wide-eyed astonishment. 'How do you know this?'

'I know. Mrs Brook is at this very moment proffering me a deal to keep that information buried. She will give her permission to exhume her son—that is, Moriarty—only if I promise never to bring to light her husband's crime.'

'A bargaining chip. I see.' Lestrade leant back in his chair and brought his knee up to rest on the edge of the desk. 'But if you expose them, they would have no more say in the matter. So what are you going to do?'

She blinked, expecting that he would tell her what to do. 'We need that exhumation,' she said, which wasn't quite an answer. 'If Holmes' name is ever going to be cleared of the accusation the media is feeding to the public, we need to prove that Moriarty was real. Otherwise, those doubts will only fester and continue to prove dangerous to him. There's no surer way to convince anybody of that than with DNA evidence.'

Lestrade nodded noncommittally.

'Look, we don't just turn a blind eye to attempted murder. I know that. We don't just let would-be killers off the hook. But if I accuse Roger Brook, what good will come of it? We've no evidence to convict him. They'll never give a real confession, and that gun will be long gone by now. Without it, I can't prove anything. Look. Brook isn't a threat to Sherlock. Not anymore. He was a desperate, angry man thinking his son's killer would walk free. More than anything, he acted out of a broken heart.'

'So you excuse what he did? I never thought you to make a case for anyone based on compassion,' he said.

'Practicality. If he had succeeded in killing Holmes, or even wounding him, I would entertain no leniency. But when you cut straight to it, no one was hurt. And Brook wouldn't be so foolish as to attempt it again, especially not once he learns that Sherlock is innocent, which I will prove. The real threat is the public that continues to believe he murdered an innocent man. If we really mean to protect Sherlock, we'll accept the Brooks' terms.'

'And that's justice, is it?'

She raised an eyebrow. 'Isn't it?'

'Make the call, Sally. I'll put in the order for exhumation.'

They spent the night in hospital. Spreading from fingertip to elbow, the burn on Sherlock's arm had been auspiciously hampered by his selection of the leather blouson, which was slower to burn than most materials. Though he suffered some black patches of third-degree burns, the greater portion were not so severe. But they hurt like hell. He'd been treated, had his arm wrapped in gauze, and been left with a prescription for antimicrobial cream and a set of instructions for daily care. When Lestrade arrived, he gave a detailed account of what had happened, culminating with his entrapment in a circle of fire, his exigent need to leap, and the propitiousness of his clearing the gap between the elevated tracks and the lower, adjacent, slanted rooftop, which had been enough to break his fall, sprain his ankle, and assist him in rolling off and landing, hobbled, on the pavement below. A less graceful fall than his first, to be sure.

What had been less propitious was his arm catching fire. Once grounded, he hastened to shuck the coat, which became his primary tool in smothering the flames of his right arm. Above him, the hanging body still burnt brightly, though the flames crawling up the rope that held it would soon eat through, and by the time the police and firefighters arrived, it would be lying on the tracks, still cooking. His old Belstaff, or what was left of it, would be collected as evidence, along with his keys to the flat and an empty wallet, still in the pockets but scorched clean through. Cradling the tortured arm against a searing side and leaving his blouson coat behind (after retrieving John's mobile), he left the back road onto which he had fallen and made his way back to Elephant and Castle Station, his sprain, being a mild one, hindering his speed, but only just. He needed to get back to John. On his way, he phoned Lestrade.

For his part, John had been found lying on the tracks, divested of coat and jumper, battered and unresponsive. They thought, the police did, upon discovering that he was not gravely injured, that he was in a state of shock brought about from witnessing a man shot through the head at close range. As if it were the first time he'd ever seen such a thing. It wasn't until the ambulance that they discovered the bites, and not until he arrived at a busy A&E, after Sherlock had been taken away to be treated for his burn and was waiting to be seen, that he finally turned to Lestrade and announced that he needed to find a loo. Lestrade should not have let him go on his own. They called Ella Thompson.

They would have released Sherlock after an hour, but John was in what his therapist called a heightened state of mental distress, for which he needed to be sedated and monitored. Sherlock was not allowed to stay in the room with him, not this time, but he didn't leave the hospital until John was discharged the next morning.

They travelled back to Baker Street in a taxi, silent, and bearing a pall of failure. They'd solved the puzzle, just as they had been meant to, but it didn't matter. It had served his ends, not theirs. And now, two more men were dead.

They thought they could feel no more miserable. Then they stepped out of the cab and found someone waiting for them in front of 221.

'Mr Holmes, is it?'

Two men dressed in suits and long, dark coats stood shoulder to shoulder as sentinels before their door. They swept Sherlock and John with their eyes, then, seeing the state of them and deciding that they were not a physical threat, they came forward. John subtly planted himself a few inches ahead of Sherlock, his fists balling inside his coat pockets.

'And you are . . . ?' asked Sherlock. He'd never seen either of the men before in his life.

'We represent Robert and Gillian Woodhouse.'

'Who?'

'The new owners of number 221.'

John took an aggrieved step forward. 'What?'

One of the men reached into an inside pocket of his coat and produced a white envelope. 'This is an eviction notice,' he said. With his undamaged hand, Sherlock tore the envelope from the man's hands and ripped the seal, but the man kept on placidly. 'It gives you thirty days from today to vacate the premises.'

'Where is Mrs Hudson?' John demanded. He pushed past them and stepped up to the door. 'Mrs Hudson!' he shouted, pounding. He shoved a hand in a pocket for his key.

'She's not here, Mr Watson,' said the man. 'She's been taken into the care of her niece.'

'Into custody, more like,' Sherlock seethed. 'Tell me. How did you manage to wrest her property away from her? Hm?'

'There was no wresting involved. She signed the papers. That's good and legal, Mr Holmes.'

'I don't believe you. She would never sell. Never.'

'Believe what you'd like. It's done.'

'I want to talk to her. John, give me your phone.'

'Any harassment, Mr Holmes, and we'll slap you with a non-molestation order so severe you won't be able to think the name Hudson without winding up back in a jail cell where you belong.'

'She would never—!'

'You've already got one order against you. How hard to do you think it would be to convince a judge to issue another?'

The two men, having made their threats, now turned and walked swiftly up the street, leaving Sherlock and John staring dumbfounded after them, their eviction notice hanging loosely in Sherlock's hands.

The Curious Case of the Most Despised Detective in London

An opinion report, by Michaela Warner

Isn't it odd? When I first approached my editor about writing a story about Sherlock Holmes' return, I was told that it was a story the public didn't care to hear, or at best, 'soft news'. 'He's an attention-seeking git,' I was told (your words, Larry!), 'and we're not here to feed that ego.'

Some of us are forever determined to remain unimpressed by even the most remarkable of things. Like resurrection.

What I was really being told was that the story wasn't marketable. Just goes to show that even the most seasoned of editors lacks the gift of foresight. The Sherlock Holmes story is huge, like it was back in 2011 (you may remember becoming sick of hearing about it; we journalists couldn't seem to be able to let it die—ironic, looking back); it's been huge again ever since October; and, as far down the road as this junior reporter can see, it will continue to be huge for a while yet. Everyone wants a piece of it, everyone wants new and titillating information about this man's brilliance and villainy. It's as if the identity of Jack the Ripper were finally revealed. We all want to know!

So here's my problem. Why is it that every time there's something new to be had, it comes from the pen of Kitty Riley, senior reporter for a tabloid: The Sun. Am I the only person who finds this . . . curious?

And another thing. Why has nobody pointed out the contradictions in her stories, like the way she paints John Watson as a victim in one story, a co-conspirator in the next? Why is no one asking more questions about her anonymous sources and nameless insiders? Why does no one expect—nay, demand—that Ms Riley substantiate her claims with something a little more concrete that childish name calling, sensational adjectives, and extraordinary speculations? Is she engaging in journalism, or histrionics?

What am I talking about? I'll give you (Larry) an example.

Not two weeks ago, The Sun ran a story on the charge of assault against Mr Sherlock Holmes for his attack against Mr Scott Anderson of the Yard. (You will note, dear reader, that I refrain from inserting words like 'brutal' and 'ruthless' and 'erratic', words Ms Riley uses with abandon to colour [read: fictionalise] her stories. Most of us [read: real reporters] are trained to avoid using such judgemental language in the interest of maintaining at least some level of disinterest.) If you read that story, then you were probably under the impression that Holmes had held hostage his former girlfriend and terrorised her with the corpses of mutilated animals. For some reason.

Well yes, you say, I was indeed under such an impression. And why is that? Because Ms Riley told you so. Did you know, however, that said girlfriend, Ms Molly Hooper (who, by the way, has given me permission to use her name—a courtesy Ms Riley never sought) and Mr Holmes are not, nor have they ever been, lovers? Did you further know that Ms Hooper was quoted as having said, 'I'm just scared. I want this all to go away', which Kitty Riley attributed to her feelings about Holmes but which, in reality, were in reference to a break-in, in which Holmes had no part whatsoever?

And that claim about Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade being Holmes' 'long-time professional rival'? Utter twaddle.

'I can name no man I respect more,' says Lestrade.

And I promise you, that was a direct reference to Sherlock Holmes.

So if she lied about all that, what other lies has she committed to print?

Who is Sherlock Holmes, really?

Why does Ms Riley insist that James Moriarty was not real when the Yard reports that he was?

Where does her information come from? Or has she simply married journalism with fiction?

And why does The Sun continue to support such shoddy journalism? Have they given up completely on presenting even a half-credible paper? If the likes of Kitty Riley are allowed to continue pushing out questionable articles, the rest of the paper will go the way of The News of the World.

The Sun is not the lone offender here. You'll notice, of course, that this article is appearing and being treated, not as journalism, but as tabloid (with all its editorial tone in tact), as an 'opinion' that isn't worthy of being called 'newsworthy'. But there's something rotten in the city of London, and maybe it's not Sherlock Holmes. Maybe it's time a certain editor gave his most determined junior reporter a little more allowance to investigate news stories that matter.

(I'll name no names, but it starts with L and ends with –arry Heinrich.)

Kitty Riley was unhappy. Quite.

In just three days, Michaela Warner's belligerent and ill-conceived opinion article had received more comments, likes, and shares than Kitty's last professional article. Granted, an overwhelming majority of comments had lambasted Ms Warner (and rightly so!), not only for her juvenile take on expert reporting, but, more importantly, on her imprudent defence of Sherlock Holmes. It was laughable! Deplorable! How dare she try to smear Kitty's name! To throw into question her credibility, her honour as a journalist, her tireless labours to bring the truth to the people!

Kitty was halfway through drafting a scathing rebuttal when her editor stopped her, told her to ignore the junior journalist's sad attempts at counterpoint, and go find—in Ms Warner's very own words—a real news story that mattered. 'Prove to the world that you are the authority on this Holmes character,' he told her. 'Ms Warner can dig until her fingernails tear off, but she'll never be able to unearth a tenth of the gold you've uncovered on the man.'

He was right. She needed something new. Something fresh.

She needed something the public was hungry for, something they'd been denied for far too long.

Something damning.

What she needed, really, was the story of John Watson.

She had been tracking him. Not stalking. That was illegal. Just paying attention in public spaces.

Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays—not without fail, but with a certain degree of regularity—John Watson took a cab from Baker Street to Ashborn Road in Kilburn for what appeared to be a two o'clock appointment. Whenever he did, Sherlock—unfailingly—accompanied him. Once they arrived on Ashborn, however, they parted ways. Then, from her place on a park bench, under a hat and behind sunglasses, she would observe how John, cane still in hand, mounted the steps to what looked to be an unassuming flat. Sherlock, after seeing him inside, would continue on down the street to do godknowswhat for an hour before they reconvened, not in front of the flat but just slightly further up the street, in a quaint corner bistro, one waiting patiently for the other, which, given what appeared to be an established three o'clock rendezvous, meant that neither ever waited for the other very long. Sherlock's controlling behaviour was, in this regard, frightful.

After a bit of digging, she had learnt that this was the residence and office of Dr Ella Thompson, a psychiatrist noted for her work in adult trauma therapy. Interesting. Kitty would have to learn a little more about her. Where had she studied? Was she any good? Had she treated anyone else of interest or significance? Most importantly, was she open to . . . incentives? It was surprising to learn how many professionals sworn to protect the privacy of their clientele only needed a little grease to get the wheels of divulgence turning. Not a few 'anonymous sources' had been utilised in this way. Ella Thompson wouldn't have to say much, just a few tidbits here and there. Kitty could make do. She was good at filling in holes.

But she'd save a meeting with the therapist for another day. Today, her quarry was John Watson.

She had a plan: arrive early, intercept him between the therapist's and the bistro, and deliver her carefully crafted one-liner that she was positive would get him to stop and listen, if not go with her right then and there. Before the hour was out, John would spill. If all went to plan, he would give her the perfect ammunition to use against Sherlock Holmes.

So she arrived early, seated herself clandestinely on the bench across the way (under the hat, behind the sunglasses, behind a book), and watched them arrive, two minutes before two o'clock. Punctual as ever. She watched them stand together on the pavement in front of the flat, Sherlock talking, John nodding soberly while leaning on his cane and looking at his feet. After a moment, John turned and climbed the steps to ring the bell, and once the door was closed, Sherlock walked away. But he moved a little slower today, though for no reason she could discern at her distance.

So far, so good. She lifted her sunglasses (the world was really too dark today), set aside her book, hugged herself for warmth, and pulled out her Blackberry to read her competitors' news articles and to stay apprised of any breaking stories while she passed the time.

He was there because Ella had insisted, at the hospital. What little she knew about what had happened on the railroad tracks had come from the police, not John himself, and she had learnt from their previous sessions that the police were not entirely reliable as sources of information. But it was clear John had been attacked, and he was showing every sign of a setback. A setback, she had told him. Not regression. She couldn't allow him to think that all the work he had done, all the progress he had made, was for naught.

He wanted to rest, to stay away. Only for a short while, he said, but she wouldn't hear it. On Monday following Friday night's events, she made him come back. He did, and then sat an hour in silence, leaving her to do the talking. He came Wednesday, too, as promised, but made little effort to engage. He was depressed, she knew. Ashamed and discouraged and trying to withdraw inside himself again. Today, she would be less gentle. She needed him to talk.

'Why were you on that railroad track?' she asked. She'd already set him up with a large bottle of water, which now he drank from.

When she wouldn't let the question die, he answered. 'We were trying to save a life.'

'No,' she said, 'why were you on that track?'

He swallowed hard, stared at his knees, breathed. 'I needed to save a life.'

'Whose?'

'Orrin Tippet's.' His fingers worried the plastic of the bottle, denting its circumference near the lid. They shook a little. 'And Sherlock's, if I could. But . . .'

When the silence hung too long, she pressed him. 'Go on, John.'

'It was a mistake. I wasn't strong enough,' he said without breath. His voice pitched a little.

'But you were strong enough. You're here now, and that wouldn't be possible if—'

'I froze, Ella. I froze!'

'John—'

'He had me up against a wall, and I couldn't fight it. I couldn't fight him. It was him, and he had me, he had me!, because I let him. I did nothing, nothing, to stop him.'

'Let's step back, just a moment . . .'

'Sherlock, he didn't freeze. He was frightened too, or so he claims, but he ran after one of them. Me? I didn't move a muscle. I was too bloody scared. Too damned scared. I've been waiting for this for weeks, and when it finally happens, I'm frozen like a corpse, just the way he likes us—' He cut himself off, shook his head, covered his eyes. 'He could have done it. He could have. I don't know why he didn't, but he could have.'

'Done what, John?'

He glared at her from behind slotted fingers. She waited.

'You know what.'

'You need to say it.'

'No. I don't.'

'You do. Because you've never said it.'

'Of course I have. I've told you what he . . . I told you. You understand what I've said?'

Ella nodded, sensitive but unrelenting all at once. 'I do understand. But that's not the point. We've spoken in euphemisms and generalities, never the specifics. The point is, you have never said the word. I think it's time you do.'

'Why? What bloody good will it do?'

'It's a confrontation with reality. The reality is, something happened to you. You didn't make it happen or let it happen, but it did, and you need to be able to accept that.'

He was shaking his head. 'You can't even say it.'

Dr Thompson set aside her notebook and leant forward. 'John.' She waited for his eyes to raise and meet hers. 'You were raped.'

His hand was now covering his mouth, and he was holding his breath.

'Breathe in and count to five,' she directed. 'Just listen to me for a moment. I'm going to tell you again what you already know. Language is a very real thing. It affects human cognition and emotion. But we have control over it, if we use it. The memories that are difficult for you to bear will continue to be difficult until you put them into language. They will continue to manifest in cognitive distortion (fear and hallucinations) and maladaptive belief (shame and self blame) until you take away their power to do so. It's not easy. I know it's not. But the most effective way to truly surmount these things is to write the narrative of your rape in detail. And then do it again. And again. And read it aloud. The more you do, the more you reduce your fear of the memory, and the more you will feel in control. And not . . . freeze.'

She was watching his stomach move with his deep breaths; he was regaining his calm.

'Today, let's start small. Just three words, John. I need to hear you say them.'

His lips parted. He licked his lips, and his jaw dropped a little further. Silently, she willed him to say it, those three words, an admission that would give him the power he so desperately craved. But for fear of further hurt, he could not.

'I'm sorry,' he said. 'I can't. I can't.'

'You're not a failure, John. This is hard work. And sometimes, it hurts. But it has to, if you are to heal. When a broken bone doesn't set right, you know what you do? You break it again.'

To her surprise and compunction, he stood. 'I can't break that bone. Not today.'

'Please. Sit back down.'

He started for the door. 'Not today.'

She almost didn't see him leave the office, engrossed as she was in the ever-growing thread of comments in Michaela Warner's re-reblogged article, which was now getting attention in places like the United States, Canada, Iceland, and Denmark. Some of the comments made her laugh ('This is obviously a sad woman's desperate cry for a real job. Hey Larry Heinrich! I think you found your next humourist!' and 'Watch out, Sherlock Holmes! The Guardian has its very own Miss Marple. She's the real detective here!'), while others rankled her even further ('I think Michaela is bringing up some very interesting points. I've been suspicious of that Kitty Riley for weeks already', and 'It's about time someone started asking these questions! I'm pretty sure those photos of the copper's face were doctored up a bit. I took a class at uni where we learnt Photoshop, and I think I recognise the technique. That's reporting the facts, is it?').

It was only half two, but suddenly, there he was, on the street, half an hour early and heading straight for the corner bistro, his limp as pronounced as ever.

There was no time to consider why he might have finished early. She scrambled to gather her things (phone, check; manila folder, check; digital recorder, check) and hurried after him. Had Sherlock arrived early too? Had he passed her by without her notice? Approaching the bistro, her head swivelled around on her neck like an owl's, checking to and fro, in front and behind, then through the window of the bistro where John had sat himself, alone, in a back corner, peeling off his gloves, scarf, and hat and setting them on the empty seat beside him. His phone he set on the edge of the table.

She checked herself in the glass of the window, then turned her back, lest he see her there before she was ready. First, she brushed fingers through her fringe so that it lay just right against her forehead. She applied a new layer of gloss to her lips. Then she put her phone in one pocket for easy retrieval. Finally, she turned on the digital recorder, pressed the button, and slipped it into the other. After one last look-around for Sherlock, she swung her bag onto her shoulder, practised her smile, and pulled open the bistro door.

The bell dinged pleasantly, attracting the notice of one of the wait staff, but she smiled, waved her away, and nodded to the corner to indicate that she was already taken care of. John, who was by this time already sitting with a cuppa, didn't look up but stared blankly into the cup.

Oh, it would have made for a great photograph. He had chosen the most distant of tables. A low, orange lamp hung nearby, but he had managed to select the chair most in shadow. He still wore his coat, unzipped, but even with it on she could tell that he was a slight man. A least, slighter than when she had first met him. As she stepped closer, examining him, descriptors sprang to mind: a desolate corner, she thought, then a forlorn man. She could already see her words in print: I meet him in a desolate corner of a quiet bistro in Kilburn. It has been more than three years since he and I have spoken, and I am unprepared for what I see. The weeks spent in Sherlock Holmes' oppressive care have worn him ragged and thin, like a fern starved of both water and light. A forlorn man, he finds relief in even a short respite from the man who has brought him so low. It is not easy for him to speak, but like a flower finally set in the sun, he agrees to talk to me. Yes, it had a certain macabre brilliance to it.

Distracted by her own internal prose, she forgot her brilliantly crafted opener by the time she found herself standing at the table. Despite that, her lips parted, and she spoke anyway.

'Why, if it isn't John Watson,' she said.

He started almost imperceptibly, and when he raised his eyes, she watched them go wide with astonishment at the sight of her. Before he could say a word—though it didn't appear that he was about to—she slipped into the chair across from him. Smiling coyly and tilting her head to the side in what she believed was an affectionate, trustworthy gesture, she continued, infusing her voice with a teasing, flirting sort of friendliness. 'Aren't I the lucky girl. The way people are eager to catch even a glimpse of you, one would think you're London's most eligible bachelor.'

His jaw hardened and his eyes flashed. Without a word, he pushed back from the table, grabbed his cane, and started at once for the door.

If pressed, she would admit that she had not been expecting such a cold reaction. Edit: It is not easy for him to speak. The confines of the bistro put him too much in mind of past prisons of both body and mind. We remove ourselves to the open air where the softest flakes have just begun to fall. There, he can breathe again. She followed after him, ignoring the shout of 'Oi! You've not paid!' that John was no longer within earshot of. He was moving quickly, so quickly, in fact, that she wondered at the fact that he did not fall over—that leg seemed to be poor support.

'Dr Watson!' she shouted after him, rapidly tiptoeing her way closer, as she was in less-forgiving heels, which made them more or less evenly matched for speed. 'The people want to hear your voice!'

Not breaking stride, he turned his head and shouted over his shoulder, 'Piss off!'

The anger he has so long kindled against Sherlock now bursts forth in unpredictable eruptions. I know not to take offence—he means nothing personal.

She kept on, and those who passed them on the street gave them hardly a glance, for though a man fiercely pursuing a distraught woman would have given many cause to interfere, the reverse did not hold the same social imperative.

'John, you need to tell your story,' she said. 'I can help.'

He took the first street corner he came to, but she refused to be shaken off. She needed this story, his story, like a fish needed water: it was what would keep her alive, swimming, and she would do what she had to, to get it.

'You don't like what I've written, is that it? About you? About Sherlock? All right, then. Tell me straight. What did I get wrong? What should the people know? If the true story of Sherlock Holmes is still unknown, who better to tell it than you?'

He stepped out into the street, not to hail a cab but to cross to the other side where there were more pedestrians to lose her in. Dammit, this wasn't going at all as well as she'd hoped, as she'd planned. Now that he knew that she was in active pursuit of him, next time, his guard would be up even higher. She needed to shatter it.

'You've lost so much, Dr Watson,' she said, killing her feet in her desperation to close the distance between them, 'and all because of Sherlock. Why are you still with him? Have you forgiven him for his lies? His abandonment?' The questions she had wanted to ask him, one by one, so as to revel in each fully explicated answer, were now spilling out of her like bile with the hope that one, just one, would stop his feet. 'Do you not blame him for your kidnapping? The torture you suffered? The deaths of your girlfriend and unborn child?'

John stopped dead in the street. Kitty, suddenly and inexplicably wary, finally kept her distance, not knowing which fuse she had just laid a match to.

A car horn blasted as the driver slammed on his brakes, but John, frozen in place, seemed oblivious. The driver rolled down his window, cursed them both out, and edged his car around the statue that was John Watson.

'Dr Watson?' she said.

At last, he turned. 'What did you say to me?'

'Did you not . . . know? Did Sherlock not tell you?' she asked, one part excited, two parts terrified. Then she urged, 'Let's move out of the street, we can talk about it there—', and touched his arm.

He wrested himself away from her. 'What did you say to me!'

She jumped, and before she fully realised it, her hand was in her bag and she produced the manila folder, inside which she kept a single sheet of paper: a photocopy of an autopsy report for Mary S Morstan, signed by Molly Hooper. She handed it over.

His eyes fell down the page. The cane fell from his hand, and the hand covered his mouth.

She forgot about her story and was no longer crafting lines of poetry in her head. She forgot about Michaela Warner, her editor, and even Sherlock Holmes. Her moment of triumph was tainted by a strong and undeniable regret: She wished only that she had never given him that page.

Eyes glimmering with unspilt tears, John, still staring at the report, staggered backward. Another speeding car blared its horn and cut through the narrow gap between them, rushing over the aluminium bar. It rose into the air behind and landed with a cacophony of clangs as it rolled away. Someone grabbed Kitty's arm and pulled her back. 'You can't just stand in the road like that, miss!' But she barely heard the reprimand. She was looking for John Watson, but he had gone.