CHAPTER 26: CONVICTION

MONDAY, MARCH 2, 2015

IT WASN'T HIM

Little girl held hostage by alleged kidnapper Sherlock Holmes speaks out for the first time in more than three-and-a-half years

Special Report, by Michaela Warner

Croydon – It was a story just waiting to break.

In June 2011, 7-year-old Claudette Bruhl and her 9-year-old brother, Max, children of Rufus Bruhl, British ambassador to the United States, were kidnapped from St Aldate's, a boarding school in Surrey. Within hours of their abduction, the children were recovered from a disused sweets factory, dehydrated and suffering from mild cases of mercury poisoning.

Their saviour? Sherlock Holmes. Their abductor? Also believed to be Sherlock Holmes.

'He wanted to question the little girl,' said Sgt Sally Donovan of the MET in an interview to The Guardian given back in July 2011. 'But when he came into the room, she pointed a finger at him and started screaming. She was terrified.'

It was this incident that first aroused Sgt Donovan's suspicions about Mr Holmes.

'I thought there could be only one explanation,' Sgt Donovan tells The Guardian today. 'So I pursued it.'

That pursuit led, as many have long believed, to the suicide of the self-described consulting detective, a suicide which the world now knows never actually took place. Today, with Mr Holmes' return, police officials and reporters alike are forced to reconsider what it is they thought they knew about the events leading up to a death that never happened. The famous Brook–Holmes murder-suicide is a false narrative being refashioned in light of new evidence that strips away everything that the moniker implies, and a new narrative is emerging: There was no murder, Holmes didn't commit suicide, and Brook . . . might not have been Brook at all.

While the world waits for a DNA analysis of the recently exhumed body of a man long-presumed to belong to Richard Brook, an actor from Southwater, Sgt Donovan is pursuing answers to a different but related question. 'Holmes didn't kidnap those children,' she says. 'So we need to discover the truth behind why we all believed he did.'

The trouble is, Claudette and Max Bruhl have been silent on the matter for more than three years. Traumatised by the event, the Bruhl children have been kept out of the public eye and under the watchful care of mental health professionals and their parents. According a family spokesperson, Max, only 9 at the time of his abduction, had gotten very ill from mercury poisoning and dehydration and spent several days in and out of consciousness in intensive care, leaving him with very few memories of what really happened. His sister, Claudette, however, remembers it very well.

'For so long, it upset her so much to talk about, so we never pressed it,' says her mother, Emmeline Bruhl. 'The doctors told us not to press it. But end of last year, we started seeing these stories coming out about Sherlock Holmes, that he was really alive. I was shocked. At first, I tried to keep her and Max away from the telly and the papers, but it was impossible to stop them learning he was back. But she came to me one day, and she said, "Mum, I need to talk to someone about this." So I called Dr Reynolds.'

And it was just yesterday that Claudette, now 11, sat down in her living room with her mother, her therapist Dr Reynolds, Sgt Donovan of the MET, and a journalist from The Guardian. There, she told the story of what really happened.

At midnight on June 13, 2011, Max and Claudette were forced from their beds at gunpoint and dragged outside to where a car was waiting to steal them away. The man with the gun, Claudette remembers, wore a suit and tie and a black mask. He told them that if they made any noise, he would shoot them.

Then he put them in the back of the car where two other men, also wearing black masks, detained them.

'Max was crying,' Claudette said, 'and holding my hand. I was too scared to do anything but squeeze his hand back.'

The car took the children to a disused chocolates factory in Addlestone. There, they were placed in an upper room, given sweets, and encouraged to eat as many as they liked, not knowing that the aluminium wrappers had been treated with mercury. They were warned to stay put and keep quiet, and if they did, someone would come and find them, and they would be safe. But before the men left, they made one more threat.

'He showed us a photograph of a man, someone I'd never seen before,' Claudette tells Sgt Donovan. 'He said that this man wanted to kill me and my brother. He said this man would put bullets in our brains. He said I should be very afraid of him. I was.'

The photograph, of course, was of Sherlock Holmes.

'Showing the little girl the photograph was all part of the campaign to cast Holmes as supervillain,' says Sgt Donovan. 'It worked. Claudette identified Holmes as the perp, and before he could be properly arrested, he was dead. Suicide. We all believed it. The case was closed.'

But although Claudette's reaction to coming face to face with Holmes was taken as verification of his orchestration of the kidnapping plot, she never told anyone about the photograph. 'No one asked,' she says. 'And then he was dead. Mum said he jumped, all on his own, because he was guilty and had been found out. But no one asked about the other men, and I didn't know what to say about the photograph anymore because people were, you know, happy he was gone. I thought I shouldn't say anything.' In her own defence, the 11-year-old girl adds, 'I was still very young. I didn't know what to do.'

As the years passed, Claudette silently began to question what had happened to her and her brother. She even began to doubt the validity of what the men had told her about the man in the photograph. What if they had lied? What if Holmes had been innocent? The thought tormented young Claudette, who believed that it might have been her fearful reaction that had led to a man taking his own life.

'Warranted or not, guilt of that magnitude is a heavy burden for a little girl to carry,' says Dr Reynolds. 'Afraid of the consequences, she never gave voice to her doubts. But the stress of it was affecting her schoolwork, her moods, and her appetite.'

With Holmes' return, Claudette's anxiety symptoms worsened. Her parents and therapist believed she lived in fear that he might come after her again. 'It was a very stressful couple of months,' says Mrs Bruhl. 'She couldn't eat, couldn't sleep, and sometimes just burst into tears in the middle of the day with no reason. I couldn't stand that my little girl was living in fear, and my heart broke for her. I had no idea she was reading everything she could about Sherlock Holmes online when I wasn't looking, including the old blog.'

'It seemed wrong, what they were saying about him,' says Claudette. 'I don't know how to explain it. It just seemed wrong. They said he kidnapped me, but he didn't. All I saw was the photograph. I talked to Max, but he didn't remember. So I told Mum. Sherlock Holmes never kidnapped me.'

'When she told me this, I knew we had to phone the police,' says Mrs Bruhl. 'My husband called them up, straight away.' She pauses and takes her daughter's hand. 'I wanted to believe her. To be honest, the story never did rest well with me, that Mr Holmes had been the one to abduct and poison my children, only to find them again. What sort of man would do that? But the police considered the matter closed, and I had my children home safe, so I didn't press it. All the same, the stories that came out at the time, and that are coming out again, they just don't make sense to me.'

And they don't make sense to Sgt Donovan. 'Every time we turn over an old piece of evidence, we find something to contradict the old story and support the new. Everyone wants the answer to one question: Is Sherlock Holmes a criminal? I think it is becoming very clear that no, he is not.'

One essential piece of that puzzle remains missing, the key to supporting the story Sherlock Holmes has been telling all along. Fortunately, for the Bruhls, for Mr Holmes, and for all of London, it has just been unearthed, and we will soon have an answer to the question we were all asking ourselves three years ago: Is James Moriarty real?

In the meantime, we can answer one equally important question: Did Sherlock Holmes abduct the Bruhl children?

'It wasn't him,' says Claudette Bruhl. 'It wasn't him.'

Larry Heinrich set the proofs flat on his desk, folded away his glasses, and lifted his age-spotted head. Across the desk from him, Michaela Warner gripped her crossed knee and held her breath.

'And this is the story you want me to print?'

'It's good, isn't it?' Michaela said. 'It's got that I-didn't-bullshit-this thing going for it.'

He laughed shortly. 'Is this just you going after Kitty Riley and The Sun?'

She put a hand to her chest and affected a look of offence. 'Moi? Do you really take me as so petty a reporter?'

'Junior reporter.'

Her smile hardened. 'This isn't about my ego, Mr Heinrich. Or my career. Unless, that is, I can claim an insistence on accurate news reporting as a career objective. Which I do. Kitty Riley needs to know that there are professionals here at The Guardian who won't tolerate the fiction she's passing off as journalism.'

Heinrich shrugged. 'Maybe she's run out of stories. She's not printed anything since your editorial came out.'

'Four days of silence doesn't mean anything. And I doubt she is desperate. She's probably revving up to print something else of equal parts false and awful. But I guarantee she doesn't have this story.'

'How did you get it?'

She smiled, but a little sadly this time. 'That editorial you so graciously allowed to go to print? People are reading it. The Bruhls read it. Their solicitor contacted me directly, said the family wanted the story to come out the right way.' She pointed at the pages on the desk. 'That's the story they told the police. I have every word of it on digital recorder, faithfully transcribed. I already have news stations bidding for sound bites. But I'd like to see it in print first.'

He drummed his fingers on the page, deliberating.

'This story will break, and break big. The Guardian can be the first paper in the city to stand behind Sherlock Holmes.'

'You really believe he's an innocent man, don't you?'

Michaela nodded soberly.

'Even though he assaulted a police officer?'

'Forensics analyst, technically. And I think there's more to that story than has been reported. Look. I know there are still plenty of holes in Sherlock Holmes' story. But what we've been given just doesn't add up, and I'm not buying the neat little package The Sun is selling. The Yard cleared Holmes' name weeks ago, and this Sally Donovan has done a complete one-eighty when it comes to her position on the matter of his guilt. I've met the woman—she's a hard woman—and she doesn't strike me as the type to be easily persuaded. She's changed her mind, and it's only a matter of time before the rest of England does, too.'

At last, he let out a long sigh. 'Then let's find ourselves on the right side of things.' He lifted a pen and signed off on her report.

Mollified, and not a little euphoric, Michaela arose and took the pages back, with his signature on the approval form to send to layout. 'Thank you, Mr Heinrich.'

'I've already sent O'Toole to cover the hearing, but I take it you'll want the story of the exhumation.'

She had been hoping he would ask, and she nodded, trying not to smile too broadly.

'It's yours.'

Chuffed, she turned to leave. But as her hand touched the door handle, she stopped, braced herself, and turned back.

'Mr Heinrich,' she said, 'I think you should know . . .'

He had been in the act of picking up his glasses to continue reading others' reports, but he set them back down again. 'What should I know?'

'I mean to be a thorough investigative journalist, to understand all aspects of people's stories, just to make sure I get it right.'

'Yes. That's why you'll be a good reporter.'

'The thing is, while I was doing that, I found out why you didn't want to print stories about Sherlock Holmes to start with.'

A small frown formed below his moustache, and he paled a little but said, 'What are you talking about?'

'I did some digging. In 2009, you tried to hire Holmes to investigate your son, who was then living at home but working as a petrol station attendant. Not much pay in that, but next you know, he's driving a new BMW, moving into his own flat, and taking his girlfriend to Rome. You were concerned about where the money was coming from, feared it might be drugs, and wanted Holmes to tail him. But he wasn't interested. He turned down the case.'

Fiddling absently with a paperclip on his desk, Heinrich kept his eyes from meeting hers. Deep frown lines canaled from the corners of his lips down either side of his chin. Seeing that she had embarrassed him, she opened her mouth to apologise. But he said, 'Not quite, Ms Warner. He did take the case. Came to the house and everything. Stepped into Alex's room, spent two seconds in there, that was all, and said, "Not drugs, Mr Heinrich. You're son is a porn star, and he has syphilis." Then he tossed me a bottle of penicillin G and walked straight back out again without another word.' He sniffed and shrugged, but he couldn't dispel the redness that had spread across his face. 'Tosser. I'd never met anyone so cold in all my life. But he was right. About Alex. He was right. What was it to him that Alex got syphilitic meningitis because that penicillin was rubbish? We nearly lost him, in the end, but what was that to Sherlock Holmes?'

'I don't blame you for feeling resentful,' she said, a little quietly. 'I would have done, too. I'm sorry.' Again, she turned to go, but this time, he forestalled her.

'Michaela.' She looked over her shoulder. 'You won't . . . let on, will you? About Alex? Young go-getter like you could use a story like that, I suppose.'

She smiled reassuringly. 'Not every story needs telling, Mr Heinrich. That one belongs to you.'

A warm, humming engine was the only sound in Lestrade's ears; the rest of the world was so muted in snow that even the tyres of his car rolled soundlessly as he eased it down the white road. Every now and again, he cast a wary glance at the rearview mirror to the man in the backseat, who sat boneless and stared out of the window, uttering not a word.

Unwillingly, Lestrade was recalled to the night they had left Mary's flat with the certain knowledge that she had been taken. Sherlock had been eerily quiet then, too. But his silence, that night, had been one of intensity, while, with superb energy of focus, he had sorted through new information, intent on deductions and solutions and a forward look at what needed to be done next. It had been cold, but Lestrade didn't remember the cold—he remembered Sherlock like a furnace being stoked, preparing for a long, bitter night.

Now, the fire seemed to have gone out. For the first time in the whole of their long acquaintance, Lestrade wondered whether Sherlock was thinking at all. His eyes had never seemed so grey, so non-reflective, like the brightness of the snow couldn't touch them.

In front and behind were two more officers' cars, part of Sherlock's police escort.

'I've been told there will be press,' Lestrade said, a little shy to speak into the heavy silence but feeling he had to say something. When Sherlock made no reply, he said, 'You don't need to say anything. Just try to ignore them.'

Sherlock didn't reply, and Lestrade wondered whether he was demonstrating just how accomplished he was at this ignoring lark, or whether he really hadn't heard Lestrade at all. It was just a hunch, but Lestrade suspected it to be the latter.

He wished this wasn't happening today, not so soon after . . . Well, the timing was rubbish.

It was Lestrade who had found them. After giving Sherlock the address of the Poor Sailor, he had waited anxiously, phone in hand, for any news. An hour passed before he attempted calling, texting, but receiving no answer, he set out for the Poor Sailor on his own.

By the time he pulled onto the right road, the snow was coming down steadily in wide, heavy flakes that fell like autumn ash, obscuring his view of the whitened street through the windscreen. He meant to drive slowly down the deserted road, but anxiety weighted his foot, pushing him on ahead at a precipitous speed. So what made him turn his head at that very moment, he didn't know, so intent was he on the road, but look he did, down a narrow alley as the car rolled by. All he would have seen was shadow, if it were not for the brightness of the snow and the two figures, like one, silhouetted against it.

His heart stuttered, and he eased the car to the side of the road, bringing it to a stop a short distance from the mouth of the alley. There, he parked, flung off his seatbelt, and hurried from the car without bothering to close the driver's door behind him.

But he halted when he came to the mouth of the alley, and held his breath. There stood Sherlock and John, like a single bronze statue, overlaid with winter. A crown of snow covered Sherlock's head and sloped down his neck and shoulders like a silk mantel. His arms wrapped like protective wings around John, who, so fully enfolded in the embrace, was almost invisible. They were utterly still, a frozen sculpture, and nothing about them, not a huff of breath or a curl of hair brushed by the wind, broke the illusion.

Lestrade felt like an intruder. And for a moment, he froze, too, afraid to advance and shatter whatever spell held them in this suspended, silent moment that seemed to exist outside of time. He thought to retreat, softly, but concern planted his feet. Something was deeply wrong. He could feel it. He took one more step and let the snow pat beneath his shoe.

Slowly, Sherlock lifted his head off of John's and looked up. Flakes stuck to the ends of his lashes as his eyes, dark with gloom, met Lestrade's. Then, slower still, he loosened his hold on John. But he didn't let go. Instead, one arm shifted further down John's back while the opposite hand moved to support the back of his head. Sherlock's own dipped a little, and Lestrade saw his lips move as he spoke soundless words to John, who nodded slowly, almost imperceptibly, his head hanging. A moment later, they started to turn together. They moved as if their joints were frozen—slow and painstaking—until Sherlock stood at his side, bearing John up with an arm around his shoulders and the other hand gripping an elbow, and they came forward. With each step, John's left leg trembled visibly, and he would have fallen, if not for Sherlock.

Snow continued to descend, heavier now, making it difficult to see, even at close proximity. As Sherlock and John drew nearer, Lestrade backed up toward the street, guiding them toward the car. He walked ahead of them, and once, he thought he heard John behind him stifle a moan, but it might have the wind. He opened the back door and waited. At last, they came on, and Sherlock helped John into the back. He closed the door.

Lestrade didn't need to say anything. Sherlock slowly turned to him, and without a word, he pulled a folded piece of paper from a pocket and handed it over. Then he walked around the car and climbed in the back on the other side.

Anxiously, Lestrade unfolded the page. Then he understood.

The journey to Baker Street had never been so long. Weather conditions were not helping matters. Lestrade drove with a white-knuckled grip, gently rolling to stops and easing forward again, but even so his tyres spun and slipped. In the backseat, there was absolute quiet. When he chanced to take his eyes off the road to glance in the rearview mirror, Lestrade noted that John looked both ill and battered. His eyes were bloodshot, his lip split, and dried blood filled the crack. Sherlock didn't look much better. The side of his face, just left of centre, was swelling like he'd been punched. The snow was melting in his hair and running down his face and neck, but he didn't wipe away the cold streams, like he couldn't even feel them.

Lestrade felt a desperate urge to scream, or to cry, or let something rip free. Why hadn't he said something? He had known as long as Sherlock, as long as Molly, but by unspoken agreement, none of them had told John. They should have known that, in time, John would go looking for answers on his own and discover the truth about Mary and the baby. It had been foolish to think it would never come to light. So the responsibility had been theirs, and in that, they had failed him.

As he drove, he tried to think of when the time had been most right to divulge it. While John was still in hospital, fresh from torture but still numb with grief? What was one more blow, on top of all that? But then, what might he have done, once the numbness had worn away? How much lower might he have felt? Or should they have told him been during that small respite, when John had moved back into Baker Street? He had still been poorly, but recuperating, still having nightmares but without the burden of knowing about the stolen evidence and a string of murders by his former tormentor. But who would have dared intrude such devastating news when he was for the first time beginning to feel stable, even if only just? And once those murders did start up, one after another . . . Well, no, how could they have told him even then? Molly had told Lestrade that John's nightmares were only getting worse. How could they have said a word?

But one thing was clear. Someone should have. A friend.

He parked the car on Baker Street, in front of the flat, and killed the engine. Lestrade moved ahead of them, taking the keys from Sherlock and opening doors, turning on lights, clearing the path. Sherlock followed, more slowly, bearing John up at his side. He watched them pass silently into the flat, through the kitchen, and back toward Sherlock's bedroom. And then, Lestrade waited. For several long, heavy minutes, he stood alone in the sitting room, not knowing what he might do but unable to leave. Once, he heard someone moving in the bathroom, turning on the tap, opening the cupboard, but other than that, all was quiet.

And even as he began to think that Sherlock had decided to stay back there, with John, Lestrade still didn't leave, didn't even move from his spot in the centre of the room. It seemed a heartless thing to do, leave. But then, at last, he heard soft footsteps and lifted his head to see Sherlock's languid return. He looked absolutely drained. The pale lamplight cast long shadows across his face; his eyes shone damp; his shoulders sagged. There was something skeletal about him, brittle and breaking, as if his body had given up the ghost but still moved about as though in old habit, not knowing where to lay his bones.

He stopped three paces from Lestrade. Unable to make eye contact, he spoke to the rug beneath his shoes. 'Sleeping,' he said. His voice was gruff, strained in a thick throat 'There will be nightmares tonight. I don't know if he'll . . . make it through this one. He—'

But the words caught; he couldn't continue.

Lestrade stepped forward, put a hand around the back of Sherlock's neck, and pulled him in. Sherlock leant line a wooden plank, arms stiff at his side and back rigid, but his head bowed at the neck, and he allowed Lestrade to bring him closer until his forehead met with Lestrade's shoulder and Lestrade wrapped an arm around him. There, he didn't breathe, didn't twitch, but he didn't push away. He allowed himself to be held, if only for that moment.

Now, as Lestrade pulled the car up to the City of Westminster Magistrate's Court on Queen Victoria Street, he wished he had been able to offer some greater comfort than a simple embrace.

The press were already swarming: reporters swaddled in parkas and ski hats and black furs, cameramen in balaclavas and fingerless gloves, and officers trying to keep the horde at bay as they crowded the pavement in front of the Underground Bank Station.

'Right,' Lestrade said tightly. 'We're going straight into the building.'

He hopped out of the car, put a hand out against the sudden flashes of bulbs, and pulled open Sherlock's door. Sherlock stepped out, adjusted his twill overcoat, and fell in line right behind Lestrade, who made a beeline for the front doors. The cameras and microphones impeded their way.

'Mr Holmes! Mr Holmes!'

'How will you be pleading, Mr Holmes?'

'Anything you want to say to Scott Anderson and his family, Mr Holmes?'

'Sherlock Holmes! What do you have to say to those who—'

Nearer the doors, Lestrade stopped, reached back to take hold of Sherlock's arm, and pulled him in front and away from all the vultures. 'Let's get this over with,' he said through gritted teeth.

Once inside, however, Sherlock and Lestrade parted ways. While Lestrade went to find a seat in the overcrowded courtroom, fearing he would be Sherlock's only support to be found in the public proceedings, Sherlock reported to the Court Officer, then met with his solicitor, who, seeing he was alone, said, 'Mr Holmes, where is your witness?'

'He couldn't come.'

The man looked uneasy. 'But you said—'

'Things change.'

'But . . . You know you cannot enter a plea of not guilty unless you have witnesses to give evidence in support of—'

'I know.'

Minutes later, before the bench of Magistrates, and with a room filled with now-silent press, public, and police officers present on behalf of the victim, the Chairman looked down from his lofty bench to the man standing alone behind the bar and asked him how he would answer the charge of assault. 'Guilty, Your Worships,' Sherlock Holmes said.

'Molly. Psst. Molly. Hooper!'

'Oh!' Molly started so badly she almost upset the tray of blood tubes at her elbow. She pulled back from the microscope and swivelled on her stool. Donna Ure, one of the lab technicians, was standing in the doorway, frantically waving at her to come over. She glanced around at the others, but they were all so busy pointing their noses at Petri dishes and slides and listening to whatever was piping through their ear buds that they didn't notice Donna's flailing. Trying to appear nonchalant, Molly left her work and sidled over to the door. Donna pulled her through and into the empty hallway.

'What is it?' Molly asked. She was still trying to pull her thoughts away from Baker Street, where John had been left alone, and from London Magistrate's Court, where Sherlock was at that very moment pleading his case.

'PCR analysis just came back,' said Donna, producing a folder from around her back. 'I know I'm not supposed to say, I know it's not absolutely conclusive yet, but—'

Molly gasped and snatched the folder out of Donna's hands. She flipped it open and found the electrophoresis, mDNA analysis, and cadaver forensics report. Her eyes raked quickly, her brain processing all she saw with lightning speed. She looked up at Donna, eyes wide as saucers.

'Not Richard Brook.'

Donna, failing to purse her lips into a straight line, shook her head no.

Molly flipped the folder closed and tucked it under her arm as she practically flew down the hallway.

'Molly!' Donna hissed after her. 'What are you doing?'

Stopping just long enough to signal Donna to follow, she continued on down the stairs, following the familiar path to the morgue where she hadn't set foot since her suspension. As they approached the double doors, Donna said, 'You're not allowed—'

'That's why you'—Molly shoved the report back into her arms—'are going to stand watch.'

Without waiting for a response, she let herself into the morgue.

It was dark, deserted. She hit the switch on the wall, and the room burst into white light. The sting of formaldehyde hit her nose, and she thought it almost sweet. The chill in the air was as familiar and welcome as a home hearth. She chided herself; it hadn't been that long, after all, and she had taken holidays before. She just didn't like to be forbidden from this space. There was something macabre and depressing about it, yes, and that was what most people saw. And true, she had had her fair share of dark, heartrending hours down there. But it was also a realm of revelation, where the dead gave up their secrets and, post-mortem, pointed their fingers to their killers. It was in that room she had first met the captivatingly bizarre Sherlock Holmes, whose first words to her had been spoken with a corpse between them: 'Don't talk. This body has more to tell me than you do.' It was also in that room that she had realised, to her own surprise and pleasure, that she was in love with the detective inspector from Scotland Yard. There had been a dead body between them on that occasion, too.

She supposed that there might be a little something wrong with her.

Knowing she wouldn't have long, she hurried across the room to the wall of silver doors. Taking a deep breath, she gripped the handle of the first stainless steel door, pulled the latch, and swung it open. But it was empty. Not this one. Nor the second, which contained the body of an old woman. It was the third one that held her quarry.

She seized the end of the rolling table and pulled. It came forward with a reluctant screech, and the body, encased in a black body bag, rolled out with it. Before she could go further, she grabbed a pair of latex gloves. Then she returned to the bag, unzipping it from head to toe where the body, further encased in clear plastic, lay waiting for her. Without a beat of hesitation, Molly unwrapped the plastic from around the head. Then she stepped back, glaring down at the hateful remains of James Moriarty.

Still wearing a rotting suit, white shirt, and tie, all once belonging to Richard Brook, the corpse was otherwise nothing more than skeleton dressed in the remnants of sunken, peeling tissue, a few black hairs still clinging to a scalp flaking across the bowl of the skull, the part not blasted apart by the force of a bullet fired at point-blank range. She could see that, too, the hole in the cracked bone. She saw it through other holes: eyes, nose, lips, all gone, leaving behind prominent white teeth and gaping black holes into a now empty head.

She stared at it in revulsion, not for the state of decomposition, but for the man he had once been. Her heart pumped madly with her hatred of him; she had not known it was possible to feel such loathing, especially for a man so long dead. She had not felt this the first time she had examined this very corpse. She had believed, then, that his power to harm had ended. He was defeated, and his work was over. But the evil hadn't died with the man. His hand continued to stretch out of the grave to take his turn at the chessboard. When she began to see little white stars of hate bursting in her vision, she stepped away, put her face in her gloved hands, and breathed.

At last, she straightened her back, and put a hand in her pocket for her phone. Then she snapped a photo of the decrepit skull from three angles. When it was finished, she put the phone away and took one last look at what was left of the man.

Molly Hooper glowered. 'Bastard,' she said. 'You absolute bastard. I truly hope there is a hell, and that you're rotting in the deepest pit of it.'

She flung the plastic back over the skull, zipped closed the bag, and shoved the rolling table back inside the refrigerated box of steel. Then, fingers trembling, she pulled off the gloves with a snap and tossed them in the bin.

'Are you okay?' Donna asked when she reappeared. Her voice was awed and a little frightened.

'Fine.'

They started walking back toward the stairwell.

'It's just . . . What were you doing in there?'

'Nothing, Donna. Don't worry about it.'

Donna was silent a moment as they climbed the stairs. But she couldn't seem to resist asking, 'Is it true that . . . um, that is, did you really, uh, date that man?'

Molly sighed, though she didn't have the energy for annoyance. 'Not really. I saw him a few times. But he was just using me to— It doesn't matter. He considered me of little consequence.' They reached the second landing, angling back toward the lab. But Molly couldn't go back just yet. She needed to call Greg and let him know what they had learnt. She took a sharp left down another hallway, leaving Donna behind. Her hand dove back into her pocket for her phone, and she said to herself, 'He miscalculated.'

A clock ticked on the wall, the only decoration in the room. He took a long drink of water. His fingers moved, slowly.

'I feel

He faltered.

Breathe. Start again.

'I feel hollow. Like I don't really exist, or I'm in some horrible dream that just won't end. It doesn't matter how hard I beg, or cry, or scream. I can't wake up. And this hell of a universe I'm trapped in is laughing at me, telling me at every turn that I was never meant to have her. Not even a piece of her. Not even a memory. It's like, whenever I think I catch of glimpse of her again, she vanishes. Over and over again, she keeps disappearing from me. Death isn't supposed to be like that. Not like that.'

What is it supposed to be like?

'It's supposed to be real. There should be a grave to visit. A photograph to hold. A dip on the empty side of the bed. I don't have any of those things. After Sherlock died

Don't stop. You're doing so well.

'After Sherlock died, I saw him everywhere. He wouldn't leave me alone. It was one of the reasons I had to leave the flat. I had to get away from him. But it didn't matter where I went, because I still saw him. Everywhere. I saw him just over my shoulder, reflected in every glass. He stood on every street corner, rode in the back of every cab, raced across every rooftop. He wore London like a shroud. But Mary. I can't see her anywhere. It's like I imagined her from the start.

'And yet I still find myself looking for her. When I wake up, before I remember where I really am, I reach for her. But she's not there. I still feel the impulse to make her tea—cream and two sugars—but there isn't even any cream in the house. Neither Sherlock nor I take it, so we don't keep it. I still get the urge to call her, or text her, but her number isn't even in my phone. My screen will never light up with her name. I'll never hear her text alert noise. Because that was programmed into the old phone, and I don't have that anymore. It was stolen from me, too.

'I kept pictures of her on that phone. Not many, but they were all I had, and they were mine. I should have taken more, sent them to my email, printed them out, because now I don't have even a photograph. I was dying in hospital, and her family took them all away. Every single one. And because of what I did to her, they won't send me even a copy. Then they took down her online social accounts. So I don't even know where I can go to see her face anymore, except the papers. But I can't bear to see her there, below a banner of bold-lettered reminders. Murdered. Dead at 37. I can't bear it. And yet, if I never see her face again, I'm afraid I'll forget it, the way I've forgotten the advice my father gave me before he died. I didn't write it down. Or the way I've forgotten the sound of my mother's voice. I know I liked it. But I can't remember why. You think you won't forget things like that, important things, but you do.

'Mary's family has erased me from her life, and her from mine. They hate me for what happened to her. And the thing is, I understand why they do. I understand completely. I feel the same, most days. They've told me that they never want to hear from me again. They've told me to move on, because they think I can. They don't know how I can't, because they don't know what she was to me.

What was she to you?

'She was

'She was my

'I can't do this. It's too hard.'

You can. Keep going. The words are right there.

'I can't. I don't deserve to feel like I do.'

How do you feel? Why don't you deserve to feel it?

'I feel like'—his fingers froze; he broke them to continue—'a widower. But I shouldn't. I was never a husband. Or a

He clenched his fingers into a tight ball and squeezed his eyes shut.

Breathe. Go on, John. You can say it.

He forced his fingers to uncurl and his eyes to open. He continued.

'Or a father. So how dare I feel what I feel. It shouldn't even be possible. How can you feel the loss of something you never had? How do you grieve for someone who never had a face, never had a name? How can you feel such ache over a child that never was? It shouldn't be possible. It isn't earned.

'And this, this, doesn't feel right, either.'

This what?

'This exercise. This therapy. Trying to sort through these things to be whole again. The mere desire for happiness feels wrong.'

Why?

'Because it isn't fair! Because she can never have that! She will never be okay, never. For me to want to feel whole, for me to have a happy life, is a betrayal. It would mean filling that emptiness in my heart, pushing her out of my head. But I love her. I can't stop loving her. I can't stop missing her. So I can't allow myself to want it. And I'm afraid that if I ever do feel it again, it will mean that I've given myself permission not to miss her anymore. Or that I've forgotten her. And I can't do that. I just can't.'

Have you done it before?

'. . .'

Were you happy with Mary?

'I was happy with Mary.'

Did you stop missing Sherlock?

'I never stopped

'No. Sorry. I need to stop here. I don't want to do this anymore. I don't want to write anymore today.'

John pulled his hands away from the keyboard, his eyes away from the screen. Only then did he become aware of the wetness of his cheeks, the tremor in his hands. His scars throbbed dully, and though he was terribly thirsty, he didn't trust himself to reach for the glass of water.

He didn't save the document. But he didn't delete either. For now, he would leave it on the open laptop and walk away. Shakily, he reached for the wooden cane leaning against the side of the desk, the one Sherlock had dug out of the back of his wardrobe for him to use, until he could replace the aluminium one. He shuffled the short distance to his mattress where he lay down on his side while it was still light. But though tired, he couldn't sleep. He lay there, trying to get Ella's voice out of his head, a voice that told him well done, but not enough, try again, say what it is you keep stopping yourself from saying, and thinking.

But in his anger, confusion, and despair, he struggled to confront that singular and enigmatic topic, Sherlock Holmes, a man he had once considered his best friend, but now . . . Now, he didn't know what he felt. He couldn't find the words.

BBC News. Sky News.
ITN. Take your pick.
GL

Donovan hopped up from her computer and hurried to the break room where a handful of Yarders were lounging, taking lunch or tea, or chatting mildly.

'Quiet, you lot!' she demanded, grabbing the remote control off the sofa and aiming it at the telly like she was firing a weapon.

'Always the model of highest breeding, you are,' someone muttered.

'Champion of common courtesy,' added another.

'Shut up, all of you,' said Dryers, and their collective attention turned to the telly where Donovan had switched to BBC News where a field reporter could be seen standing on Queen Victoria Street, just outside the Magistrate's Court, one finger holding in his earpiece, the other gripping the microphone into which he shouted over the noise.

'. . . gotten word that the spectacle—that's what they're calling it in there, a spectacle—is now over and sentence has been rendered. If you're just joining us, I repeat, Sherlock Holmes, infamous self-proclaimed detective, has pled guilty to the charge of assault against Mr Scott Anderson of New Scotland Yard and proffered no defence of his actions.'

Half of the officers in the room smiled and clapped each other on the shoulders. The other half frowned and did nothing.

'Now apparently, Rebecca, Holmes brought no witnesses or evidence to his court case. Cameras were not allowed inside the courtroom, but insider Matt Ottavio is telling me that New Scotland Yard provided documents to the prosecution, including records of Mr Anderson's medical treatment and a statement by witness Nakul Fazal. Mr Holmes did not deny striking Mr Anderson and reportedly displayed no remorse for having done so. And that, Rebecca, has largely contributed to the uproar over his sentencing, as many are already calling it too lenient.'

'Well, what the hell is it?' one of the officers said out loud; the rest waved their hands at him and shushed him so they could hear the continuing report.

The camera cut to Rebecca Fields in the newsroom. 'Ted, you said that Mr Holmes offered no defence. Did he not even speak?'

'Details are still sketchy, but what has been reported is that Holmes initiated the hearing by pleading guilty. Now, viewers at home may be confused as to why there was any sort of proffering of a defence in a case where the defendant has already admitted guilt, but it all had to do with the severity of the Magistrates' sentencing. They gave Holmes every opportunity to justify his actions and . . . Hold on. Rebecca, I'm getting clarification on this point. The chairman did ask Holmes why he did it.' There was a pause while he listened to his earpiece. 'Right, so Holmes was asked to explain why he attacked Anderson. He answered, quote, "I was caught in a moment of unforgiveable provocation, such that I felt compelled to answer it." When pressed to be specific'—again, he paused, listening—'he refused. He said, quote, "The nature of my provocation is personal, one which I will not disclose. Do with me as you deem just." Other than that, Rebecca, he said very little but to confirm that he had struck Anderson two times with a gloved fist.'

'Tell our viewers again, Ted, the sentence the magistrates passed down. Will Holmes serve any jail time?'

Ted looked a little put out and huffed quickly into the microphone, his way of indicating displeasure without sacrificing too much professionalism. 'No, Rebecca. Holmes has been fined in the amount of £5,000 and a 150-hour community sentence to be served over the next six months.'

The officers in the room reacted with shouts and curses, but Donovan only turned up the volume.

'What was the reaction of those in attendance?'

'Like I said, there was an uproar. It took several minutes to re-establish order, at which point the chairman defended the bench's ruling, saying that the papers and other news outlets'—Donovan snorted, and thought with wry disapproval, Other news outlets, eh?—'have greatly exaggerated both the incident and Mr Anderson's suffering, and that such a hearing as this does not deserve this kind of public attention. But—'

'Yes, we have copies of the medical records, which were made public this morning,' said Rebecca in the station. 'It does seem, wouldn't you agree, that a bit of a fuss has been made about Mr Anderson's condition, which seems to be no worse than what most short-tempered football fans sustain in pubs when Manchester United loses to Liverpool.'

Ted visibly riled now. 'They were missing Rooney. But that's hardly a fair comparison, Rebecca. Brawls between blokes is a different animal to assaulting an officer.'

'The Red Devils' offence might have woken up before the second half. But even a broken nose, surely, doesn't merit jail time, a punishment the magistrates' court does not even have the power to dole out.'

'Clearly, Rebecca, these magistrates are overlooking Holmes' problematic and disconcerting violent history in this ruling. It should have been passed up to the Crown Court for more appropriate ruling. You can be sure that many Londoners are concerned about letting this man back onto the streets with only a fine to pay. And shall we compare EPL titles?'

'Ted, can you tell us what reaction, if any, Holmes had to the sentencing?'

'I am told that he was removed from the courtroom directly following the pronouncement. We are out here now, waiting for him to come out, to see if we can get a statement. But to be honest, Rebecca, we may be waiting a very long time.'

'Thank you, Ted. We'll keep viewers informed of any updates as they develop. Go Reds. Turning now to Dublin, where reports of civil unrest—'

Donovan clipped off the telly, and while the arguments and whinging and general dismay started up, she arose to leave the room, ignoring someone (Dryers, she thought) calling her name. She walked briskly until she reached Lestrade's office, where she let herself in and closed the door behind her. Here, she knew she wouldn't be disturbed.

'News says it's a bit of a zoo down there,' she said the moment he picked up.

'Some accurate reporting, for once,' Lestrade rejoined; she could hear the hubbub in the background. 'We're staying put in a holding room until things calm down a bit out there. Sherlock's not happy, but he understands.'

'It was the best he could have hoped for, a fine. Twenty-five hundred a pop is the going rate, is it? Hell, maybe I'll have a go at Anderson myself. I've been saving up for something special.' There was a pause; Lestrade apparently didn't find her levity very amusing. 'Why didn't he tell them what Anderson said? At least, for the sympathy vote. Jostle a few people's understanding of what they think they know. I mean, I doubt the outcome would have been any different, but—'

'Would you have done, Sally? Neither the press nor the public really knows the full extent of what happened to John, do they? They don't even know he was at the scene that day, and that's the way we'd like to keep it. Telling them what Anderson said throws a spotlight on John that he doesn't need right now.'

'I understand that. But I thought John had agreed to be a witness. He wouldn't have been able to do that without repeating the provocation. What happened?'

Lestrade's answer came slowly. 'His testimony wasn't needed after all.'

'But—'

'Let's leave it at that, yeah? I should get going. I've got vultures to shoo away with a rolled newspaper. Oh, and Donovan.'

'Yeah?'

'Good work. With the little Bruhl girl.'

'Oh. Right. Another Aunt Sally knocked over, I suppose.'

'It was more than that. And I mean it—good work. The Bruhl case is what turned a lot of people against Sherlock. When this story breaks, it'll be big, and what you've done in getting the girl's full statement may be enough to turn some of that lot back.'

She stood at the window and uncomfortably adjusted the hem of her shirt. 'Just fixing a mistake,' she said simply, hoping he would pick up on her disinclination to rehash the past. He did.

'Any word yet on the identification of the corpse?' he asked.

'Still waiting for the call,' she said, but at that moment, the phone in Lestrade's office rang.

London newsrooms were abuzz with the news, and Kitty Riley sat at her station, stunned at the reports that were pouring in, the sound bites that were flooding her inbox and the buzz quotes from interviewed witnesses and pundits. A fine? A fine? Never mind that it was the highest fine the lowly magistrates' court could impose: it completely undermined the portrait of the madman she had been painting, if his horrendous and violent actions could be justified by his paying a mere five thousand pounds!

She would need to spin this. Corruption in the courts and Magistrates gone soft. No! Magistrates paid off. Yes, that was damning. And probably true. Such a supposition—in print—would at least launch an investigation into the questionable practices of these three magistrates. She need to get their names, highlight their most lenient sentences, the criminals they let off who went on to commit greater crimes. All judges had something sordid in their pasts. She would argue that the case should have gone to the Crown Court to start with, given the severity of the crime, or at least the dangerous nature of the offender.

Maybe—and she didn't want to do this—she would need to print Watson's story after all. She still saw the look of horror on his face whenever she closed her eyes, and it deeply unsettled her to the point where she was having trouble sleeping. But maybe that's what London needed, too, to be deeply unsettled. Don't let them get too comfortable, know Sherlock Holmes walked free. It was for the public good, really. And for Watson's good, ultimately. Besides, no one else had that story, no one, and it was too good to sit on for long. Holmes and Watson, pitted against one another, and with the deepest of sympathies on Watson's side . . .

But before she could take to typing again, her mobile sounded: a new email to her personal account. She checked the screen quickly. Ah! One of the Bart's insiders! She opened the email and scanned quickly. Then again, more slowly. The blood drained from her face and limbs and left her fingers numb.

'No,' she whispered. 'That's not possible.'

Some ten miles away, Michaela Warner was receiving the same message. She sprang to her feet, shouted for her photographer, and flew to the lift doors, juggling her bag and coat in her arms.

At the same moment, the Molly Hooper slipped into the crowd congregating outside of Bart's, awaiting the official statement.

But before the spokesman began, before the cameras started rolling, Sally Donovan knocked lightly on the door to number 339 at the Rookery Hotel. Inside, she could hear the news playing on the telly, but in the seconds following her knock, it snapped off, and then the door pulled open.

'Mr Brook, may I come in?' she asked.

Wordless, he stood aside and let her pass. Entering, she looked around the hotel room where they had been staying since the casket was pulled from the ground in Sussex and the body transported to London. The Brooks had certainly not settled in. Two large suitcases lay on their backs against the far wall, still packed, ready to leave at a moment's word.

She waited until they stood together. Mrs Brook held her husband's arm, squeezing it so hard her knuckles shone white. For his part, Mr Brook stood tall and proud, but his eyes were lined with fear. Then she produced a file from her attaché.

'On behalf of the Metropolitan Police,' she said, 'I thank you for your cooperation and patience at this difficult time. I've the official report here.' She extended it, but neither moved to claim it. Donovan took a deep breath and looked Mrs Brook in the eye; she deserved that much. 'I'm sorry. The body we exhumed—it's not Richard.'

Then she watched as Mrs Brook, the proud, stalwart woman of class and composure, crumbled. Her face broke and her knees collapsed beneath her sudden weight. Enfolded in her husband's arms, she began to sob. Mr Brook clasped her to his breast, and in his anguish he threw his head back and wailed, 'Where is my boy? What has happened to my son?'

It was nearly ten o'clock before Sherlock stood again in front of 221B, hit the buzzer (three dots, four dots), and slid his new key into the new lock they had gotten after his last set had been stolen. He waved a hand behind him to let Lestrade know it was fine, he could go home now, and listened as the car slowly pulled away.

The entryway was dark, cold. Mrs Hudson would have left a dim lamp lit near the staircase, but obviously, there was no one there, now, to turn it on. He stopped at the foot of the stairs while he tugged at the fingers of his second-best gloves and stared at her closed door. In his head, he felt the seconds ticking like a countdown. Nineteen more days before they were evicted. He needed solutions before then, satisfactory resolutions that would bring Mrs Hudson home. The injustice of her absence still riled him. What was worse, though, was that he had no way of contacting her, or of reassuring her that he would fix this. He wondered if she had followed the news today. He didn't care what the others thought (well, he didn't care much), but he cared that Mrs Hudson didn't see him as a convicted criminal.

And he wondered whether John had been following the news, too. After the hearing, while he had been bored to death in holding for hours at a stretch while waiting out the horde of reporters, to tuned out Lestrade's shouting at everyone who came within spitting distance and texted John.

It's over. Be back soon.
SH

He got no reply.

Throughout the day, he dropped the occasional update, just to make contact and explain his delay, in case John should, for whatever reason, grow anxious. He didn't mention the outcome because he figured John could find out just by turning on the telly or going online. And also, because John didn't ask. In all those hours, John replied only once, and succinctly, to a text about the exhumation.

Molly just texted Lestrade.
Results came back negative
for Richard Brook.
SH

I'm glad of it.
JW

It had been a long, quiet weekend between them, and a heaviness fell on Baker Street that Sherlock hadn't felt since John had first returned, still wearing bandages that needed daily changing. Friday night, John had slept for hours. Or, if not, he had at least stayed away, and Sherlock had kept to the sitting room, listening for any noises indicating a nightmare. There was nothing, which led Sherlock to believe that though John lay in bed, his bed, he did not sleep. All day Saturday and on into Sunday, they floated by like ghosts who couldn't see each other. And when, once, Sherlock tried to speak, to express how sorry he was, John made no show of having heard him and left for his bedroom upstairs. Sherlock had discouraged Lestrade from visiting, Molly from calling. Then, Sunday evening, John had reappeared long enough to say, 'I'm not going to hearing tomorrow. I'm sorry. I know I got you into this— I know I was going to be your— I'm sorry. I just can't.'

Sherlock didn't even try to argue it.

He half expected to find the sitting room empty when he reached the first storey. Instead, he found John in his armchair, watching The Culture Show on BBC Two, not the news. John's head turned a little to see him come in, but then returned to the telly without a word. Sherlock unwound the scarf from his throat and threw the twill overcoat onto the sofa as he looked around the room. John's laptop was missing from the table, but four mugs of tea were scattered around the room and three empty water glasses. No plates, though. Softly, he crossed the room and sank into his own chair to watch whatever cultural rubbish they were highlighting this week.

The moment he sat, however, John snapped off the telly and pushed himself up with the wooden cane. Sherlock tried to hide his surprise as he headed for the landing, but he was talking before he could shut himself up.

'John, I think there's something we need to—'

'I saw the reports,' said John, pausing by the coffee table, his back to Sherlock. 'A good outcome, all things considered.' His voice was level, but Sherlock could see the tautness in his back and neck, and in the twitching fingers of the fisted hand at his side.

'All things considered,' Sherlock agreed warily.

John's head turned a little bit, showing him in profile. There was a flash of a tight, false smile. 'Looks like you didn't need me there after all.'

Sherlock stared. What was he to say to that? That he didn't need John? That he wished he would have come? That it was best that he stayed away? Because none of it was true, nor untrue. He couldn't say yes, and he couldn't say no. The stretching silence, however, was worse, so Sherlock tried his hand instead at levity.

'Oh, I don't think I could ever say that and mean it.' The gravity in his voice belied his failed attempt at a grin.

John seemed not to know what to say to that, and for a moment, his body inclined forward, weight trusted to the cane, on the cusp of continuing out of the room. But his feet appeared fixed to the floor; something was keeping him rooted. Sherlock thought he must have said the wrong thing. He could sense something had changed, a charge like electricity hanging in the heavy air, and he feared a spark. So he didn't move, or speak, or breathe. Instead, he held his breath, until John spoke. And the words cut him to the quick.

'I mourned you,' he said.

He spoke so quietly, so unobtrusively, that Sherlock almost wondered if he were even talking to him, and not to the floor, where his gaze was fixed. With John's back still turned, Sherlock could read nothing of his expression. Nevertheless, he felt in his heart the magnitude of those carefully wrought, fearfully delivered, and unadorned words. He wanted to curl in on himself like burning paper.

'Not just for days and weeks,' John continued softly. 'I mourned you for years. I didn't know how to stop.' He turned slightly, but unable to face Sherlock head on, he kept his face pointed at the floor. 'I still don't. You're alive. You're right there, right in front of my eyes, every time I look for you, even when I don't, but I'm still . . . mourning you.'

'I know,' said Sherlock. He matched John's tone in softness and candour. The wind sweeping past the windows was louder than they. 'The way you look at me sometimes. I just know.'

At last, John turned to face him. When he did, he planted the cane and stood as straight as he knew how. There was a hardness to his face, one of resolution, determination. His fingers had stopped twitching, and he looked Sherlock straight in the eye.

'I hate you, you know.'

Sherlock didn't flinch. The bite had happened long ago. Now, it was just venom rushing to the heart.

'I hate you for leaving. For dying. For lying. And I hate you for coming back. There are still days I wish you hadn't, and that I had died down there. With Mary. There are days I wish you had died when you fell.'

Sherlock's eyes stung; he blinked. He nodded minutely, accepting. Toxic.

'And I hate that I find myself wishing for any of it. Because you did leave. It's done. But the thing is, you came back. For me. I . . . I don't understand it, Sherlock. Why you did all those things—for me. But I know that, if you hadn't, I'd be dead. One way or another. So for that, for the very reasons I hate you . . .' He paused. His lips contorted, and he dropped his gaze again. He took a long breath and made himself lift his eyes again to find Sherlock's. 'I love you. More than I can say. More than I can hate. You need to know that.'

At that, John nodded sharply. He had said what he needed to say, and rather than wait for an answer, he turned and started once more for the door.

But Sherlock couldn't let him go.

'I don't know how to fix this,' he said. He was appalled to hear the strain of desperation in his voice, the control slipping from his grip.

'Neither do I,' said John. The windows rattled with wind. 'Maybe it can't be fixed.'

'But you and I? Will we be . . . all right?'

John looked back at him, sadly. 'I don't know. I want to be. But I don't know. I just need . . . time.'

At last, he left, mounted the stairs to his room where he would stare at his laptop but not write, lie on his bed but not sleep, and wonder whether the hour was already too late. Sherlock remained in his chair, in stillness and in quiet, until midnight passed, listening to the soft ticking of a clock.