The Slash Man

by Engazed

Book 2 of 'The Fallen': After ten days of unspeakable torture at the hands of Sherlock's worst enemies, John Watson has returned to Baker Street to live with a man whose death, no matter how fake, still haunts him. But his recovery is not easy, his friendship with Sherlock is strained, and a dangerous but hidden menace continues to threaten them both. Violence/Horror/Rape

32. Only One Man

CHAPTER 32: ONLY ONE MAN

TUESDAY, MARCH 10, 2015

THE SLASH MAN SLAIN

Special Report by Michaela Warner

Central London – After countless weeks of living in fear of a man known on the streets only as the 'Slash Man', the homeless people of London, targets of a series of assaults and murders in recent months, will hopefully sleep a little easier tonight.

Darren Phillip Hirsch of Holloway, Islington, was found dead at the scene when police, responding to an emergency dispatch, arrived at 221 Baker Street, the private residence of Mr Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson. Hirsch died as a result of blood loss and other injuries sustained after breaking and entering the upstairs flat, apparently with the intent of harming the sole occupant, Dr Watson.

'It's a clear case of self-defence,' Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade of the Metropolitan Police told The Guardian. 'He attacked Dr Watson in his own private residence and tried to kill him, leaving Watson no choice but to protect himself by any means necessary.'

Hirsch has been directly tied to the violent deaths of six men and one woman occurring within the last nine weeks, as well as the brutal sexual assaults of at least a dozen others over the course of the last two years. Police have had a warrant out for his arrest and have been actively seeking him since last October when he was finally identified as one of Watson's abductors and torturers, as well as one of four men culpable in the murder of Watson's partner, Mary Morstan.

Of the four abductors, only one remains at large—Sebastian Moran, former colonel in the Royal Marines and known associate of criminal conspirator James Moriarty, who shot himself on the rooftop of St Bartholomew's Hospital in June of 2011 after framing Sherlock Holmes for the kidnapping of the Bruhl children and other crimes. Moran's whereabouts are currently unknown, and it is unclear whether he had any part to play in Hirsch's presence on Baker Street Sunday night.

'Moran continues to be our prime suspect,' Lestrade said. 'He should be considered extremely dangerous. Anyone with information as to his whereabouts or activities is urged to contact police immediately so that we can get this criminal off the streets and in a top security prison where he belongs.'

Meanwhile, Dr Watson remains in hospital recovering from injuries sustained during the attack. Neither he nor his partner Sherlock Holmes were available for comment.

---

When John awoke, he discovered Sherlock missing. Only five hours before, he had fallen asleep only after several long minutes staring at the man's back, one bed a chasm away from the other. They had talked only briefly, once Sherlock had finally returned, some hours after his abrupt departure. It was a tense conversation in which Sherlock tried his clumsy hand at an apology and John had tried to placate him in insisting that no decisions needed to be made, not yet, maybe no time soon. But when John tried to address some of the more troubling things Sherlock had said, he could practically feel physical walls rising between them, and he backed off until they had reached an uneasy, unspoken compromise that they needn't discuss things that had been said in a moment of emotional weakness. Then Sherlock had lain down with his back to John, and they didn't speak again the rest of the night.

But now, barely dawn, Sherlock was gone. Gravely unsettled at seeing the empty bed and finding himself alone, John called for the two officers standing guard at the door, who said that Mr Holmes had stepped out an hour before but couldn't answer where to. And John, suspecting it wasn't breakfast that had called him away, begged them to find him as soon as possible while trying ardently to get himself out of the bed before a nurse discouraged him. One leg bent to his will. The other refused.

Sherlock was discovered only ten minutes later in the closed pharmacy on the ground floor, having picked the locks of both doors and cupboards. His pockets were filled with oxycodone tablets, vials of Perfalgan, and three packaged syringes. When security grabbed him to pull him out of the cupboards and haul him away, he gasped in pain, shuddered, stumbled, and upon hitting his knees, one of the men thought they heard him mutter, 'Don't tell Mycroft.'

He was pale as a sheet, drenched in sweat, and shaking uncontrollably. A passing doctor just arriving for his shift took one look at him and sent him immediately to the emergency department. There, a team of doctors and nurses administered a gastric lavage at once—shoving a tube down his throat, pumping everything from his stomach, and leaving it dry—only then discovering that he'd not yet taken any of the pills, nor indeed had he ingested any food at all for at least twenty-four hours.

It wasn't until taking Sherlock's blood pressure, drawing blood samples, and fixing him with an IV that the emergency team at last removed the medical boot and found the source of his agony and near-septic state: the ankle was grossly swollen, the size of a grapefruit and the colour of a rotting aubergine. Upon closer examination, they discovered that the bad sprain had become a lateral malleolus fracture—all the running and pounding had placed continual pressure on the fibula until, finally, it had cracked and jarred out of place. Encased in a hard plastic shell, no one had noticed, not even Sherlock in his adrenaline-fuelled madness and subsequent numbness. Eventually, though, both had subsided, and the pain—of broken bone, of spreading infection—had been a blaze.

John didn't even see him before he was in surgery. Because of the rushed nature of the job—given the severity of the infection and danger of giving him full anaesthesia—they applied only a local anaesthetic to numb the skin, tissue, and nerves in the ankle and foot before making the first cut. What they didn't know was Sherlock's full medical history, nor his high tolerance for pain medications. The anaesthetic wasn't working. He felt everything down to the bone. But he was under conscious sedation and unable to speak or to move sufficiently to convey his suffering. They proceeded to reposition the broken jigsaw of his bones and apply an internal fixation of plate and screws to provide stability. Eventually, he passed out from the pain, and his elevated blood pressure returned to normal. The doctors figured the drugs were working.

---

Chief Superintendent Gregson unbuttoned his grey suit coat and settled himself at the table across from Molly in a private conference room of the hospital. He pulled out a digital recorder and laid it on the table.

'How are you today, Ms Hooper?' he asked, offering a reserved but kind smile.

'Better. Thank you.'

She subconsciously touched the tender lump on the side of her face where she had been struck. The pain was dulled by medication, and was nothing compared to the concussion the intruder had given her with the butt of the pistol. They had shaved a portion of her head just to stitch it, and now she wore a long strip of gauze as a halo to keep the padding in place. The worst of the bruising, though, was at her hips bones, and she was grateful he couldn't see that. Only, he had, in fact. They had taken photographs. For the report.

'They're treating you well, I hope.'

'Too well, I think. I know too many people here.'

He chuckled good-naturedly. 'Not a bad problem to have, friends. Have you been discharged?'

'Just this morning. But I'm staying here until . . . That is, Greg and I . . . we haven't really talked yet about what we'll do. He's been busy.'

'Police have cleared out of the house by now. And we can offer you a list of security options—'

'It's not that. I . . . don't think I can go back. I thought Greg and I could withstand anything, together, but— Sorry, could we not talk about this? You have questions.'

'Of course. I won't keep you long.' He reached for the recorder and clicked the on button. 'Chief Superintendent Luke Gregson of the Metropolitan Police, interviewing Molly Jane Hooper at St Bartholomew's on this the tenth of March, two-thousand fifteen, two days following an attack at her place of residence. The time is thirteen hundred hours.'

She had already given a statement that night, while events were still fresh in her mind, wrapped in a heavy blanket and holding Greg's hand. But it had had been brief and skeletal, and she knew she would have to give a more thorough accounting of it again, once she had had time to reflect and recall the details. So she commenced in the retelling, having spent the last thirty-six hours reliving it again and again in her mind. She tried not to think about how close she had come to being killed, or to watching Greg get murdered. But it was right there, at the forefront of her brain, just how bad things might have been.

'I know you said the intruder didn't say much,' said Gregson, 'but anything you can remember may help. Did he mention Sebastian Moran?'

'Not that I recall.'

'Did you get a sense of how much he knew, who he knew? For example, did he mention anyone from the Yard, like Lestrade?'

'He knew who he was, when he came home. But nothing before then.'

'Did he mention Sherlock Holmes?'

'Not by name. He told me to keep quiet until "our friend" arrived. I didn't realise until after that he meant Sherlock. I thought he might mean his own people.'

'And was there any other reference to his people, or to a plan? Any insights into their operation?'

'No. I'm sorry. He really didn't say much at all.'

'That's all right. That's not surprising.'

'Did you ever find out who he was?'

'Yes, in fact,' said Gregson, and he pulled from his attaché case a folder, which he slid across the table to her. 'He had a criminal record, even served time.'

She opened up the folder to find herself staring at her attacker's mugshot—he looked like a different man in the light, facing a camera, but the eyes were the same. She knew she would never forget those hardened eyes.

'Gerard Stephen Ashcroft. Served in the military until his discharge nine years ago. After that, he served as muscle for embezzlers in Dublin and Cardiff. Did six years of an eight-year sentence for beating a man into a coma. He was granted parole just last August. Moran's people must have recruited him pretty quickly, it would seem. To be honest, we were a little surprised to see him carrying that weapon, as the Army wasn't using that particular pistol at the time of his discharge. So he must have acquired it elsewhere. Moran is likely providing his people with firearms.'

At this, Molly felt the two-day constriction in her chest tighten even more, but she remained unreactive on the surface. Conflicted, she wondered if now was the time to confess. That man, Ashcroft, had not come to the house with the pistol—he had taken it off her. It was John's service pistol, and since giving it to her for protection, his words, delivered at the conclusion of her first and only lesson, had not left her: 'Keep the safety on,' he had said. 'But chances are, you'll never have to use it. So it may be best if no one knows you even have it. Technically, I'm not even supposed to have it anymore.'

She didn't know what kind of trouble he might find himself in, being in possession of a gun without authorisation, nor the sort of trouble she herself would be in for keeping it in the house. She had been nervous about it from the start and hadn't told even Greg, nor had she corrected the police when they had made the assumption that the intruder had brought it with him. They had missed the gun in their search of her last flat, but it was in their custody now. Surely there were identifying markers—fingerprints or serial markers or something of the sort—linking it to John. Unless he had somehow expunged them? What use was it, now, confessing the truth? The man was dead, and by Lestrade's pistol, not John's. But might the misinformation in any way effect their hunt for Moran? She couldn't imagine how, and with deep chagrin, she stayed silent. This wasn't the only secret she was keeping from Lestrade, and it grated on her. She desperately tried to put it out of mind.

After that, Gregson's questions were of the standard variety, and she answered them as though by rote. After half an hour, he finally turned off the recorder.

'Thank you, Ms Hooper. We'll let you know if there's anything else. And I wish you a speedy recovery.'

'I just want this all to be over.'

'We're doing everything we can.'

'I know.'

In desperate need of fresh air, she pulled on her coat and left the conference room.

---

Meanwhile, Sally Donovan was still laid up in bed, but not for much longer. Her discharge would happen that afternoon, following one final evaluation, at which point her father was coming to take her home to Bradford. She had been given two weeks' leave, something she had never taken in all her twelve years with the Met. In a way, it felt like failing.

The telly above her bed was droning on about the economy or the weather, two things she couldn't give a rat's arse about. Nobody was giving her much information, just the highlights, the stuff they would tell the news to make them think they had the whole story, the soft version given to victims and friends of victims to appease them in their distress. She knew that game, and she hated being on this side of it. Gregson kept telling her to take it easy, not to worry, things were being handled. Lestrade had been by twice and been frank about what he knew, but his primary concern was with Hooper, and so his stays had been brief.

Then there had been Sherlock, who seemed to know even less than she did, probably for the first time during the whole of their acquaintance. Yesterday's had been an unexpected and slightly uncomfortable visit, and not only because he was calling on her in hospital. He seemed . . . off, somehow, in a way she couldn't quite put her finger on. He had asked concernedly after her condition and wasn't satisfied until he had looked at her medical chart for himself. Then he had launched into a rapid and confusing array of statistics about everything from vehicular collisions to broken elbow recovery times and reasons most people didn't take whiplash seriously enough. It was like glancing at a page in the encyclopaedia and being expected to digest all of the information in a nanosecond. He then terminated with a rushed apology, rocking off his right heel as if he kept stepping on a tack and staring out the window as he expressed how he had been wrong to insist on speed in such treacherous conditions, and to take from her the stun gun, and to mock her hatless head.

Before she could tell him to shut up and not fret over any of it, he left as abruptly as he had come.

Now, as she lay crossly in the bed flipping channels, someone else showed up whom she wasn't expecting, announcing himself with a soft tap on the door before pulling the handle and letting the door swing in.

'Awake?'

John Watson peeked in from the hallway, halfway down the door frame to where he should have appeared, and when he saw that her eyes were open, he wheeled himself into the room.

'They weren't kidding about the legs then,' she said. She decided not to comment on the face, which looked beat to hell, or the neck; he wore bandages like a winter scarf. 'How bad is it?'

'Oh, they're fine,' said John with a small, unperturbed grin. 'Woke up this morning and I could do this.' As if it weighed a hundred pounds, he slowly lifted his right leg from the footrest of the wheelchair and flexed it at the ankle, wincing and gripping the armrests. 'Couldn't do it yesterday,' he said, breath tight, and he exhaled loudly as he rested it again. 'The real mess is right up here.' He tapped the side of his head. The smile seemed painted on now.

'More of the trick cyclist for you, then, is it?'

He took her candour in stride, almost seemed to appreciate it, in fact. 'Can't imagine a day when I won't need that anymore.'

'If it's working so well for you, you might want to recommend it to your pal Holmes. I would've done myself, had he let me get a word in edgewise. Motor-mouth, that one.'

'Has he been here?' asked John, a new light of interest in his eyes.

'Just the once. Yesterday. Wanted to see my chart.' She snorted but it dissolved into laughter, and she ended up shaking her head. 'That's just like him though, isn't it? Give him data or give him death. I shouldn't laugh. He . . . he's not doing so well, is he?'

'Had surgery this morning.'

'Did he? Why?'

'Ankle. He did a number on it, running about.'

She winced in unexpected sympathy. 'And the rest of him?'

John shook his head no, but his lips didn't even part. Clearly, this was a private matter, and Sally Donovan was not one to discuss it with. She respected that.

'I see you're not wearing the neck brace,' said John, moving the conversation away from Sherlock.

'It was mostly precautionary, they tell me.' She rubbed the back of her neck and shoulders with the hand of her good arm. 'Feels muscle-sore, but they have me on relaxants. And a cocktail of other things.'

'Do you mind?' He indicated the chart in the cubby at the foot of her bed.

'Have at it, doc.'

He pulled the clipboard and flipped the first page, his eyes scanning her medical history and current condition. Her x-rays were also in a folder clipped to the back, and he pulled those out, too, and held them to the light coming in through the window, resting the clipboard in his lap. Looking at her broken elbow, he asked, 'Pretty clean break. That's fortunate. No need for an arteriogram, I take it?'

'A what?'

'Test that helps doctors determine whether the break also severed the artery running right along the elbow.' He drew a finger up his own arm along the elbow, demonstrating. 'Needs surgery to repair it. But looks like you avoided that. Fingers cold or numb? Can you grip a pen?'

'Like a pro,' she said, flexing the fingers sticking out from the plaster.

'And how long did they say you would have to wear the plaster cast?'

'Six to eight weeks,' she said with a scowl.

'Any residual effects from the concussion?' he asked, looking at the second x-ray. 'Blurred vision, nausea, that sort of thing?'

'Right as rain. I have headaches, but they tell me that's probably the whiplash.'

'Then they're probably also telling you to note any dizziness or difficulty speaking, yeah, that would suggest otherwise? Or numbing or weakening in the limbs?'

She couldn't help but snigger, but she grew serious again almost at once. 'Why are you really here?'

He closed up the folder, replaced it under the clip, and slid it back in the cubby. 'To thank you.'

'For sliding my car into the front end of a moving bus and nearly killing us both? No gratitude required.'

John shook his head, and as she had always been so candid with him, so he was with her. 'For being an ally. We haven't had many of those since his return, but you've been one of them. We . . . weren't expecting that.'

She picked at a bit of fluff on her hospital blanket. 'I've only been doing my job, Dr Watson. No need to thank me for that.'

'Yeah, well. Your mates haven't exactly been doing theirs. So it's commendable. And it means something to us. Sherlock came to see you because he had to know you were all right. And while he may never have the grace enough to say a proper thank you, I wanted to make sure it was said. I also wanted to say, I'm sorry you got hurt.'

'Says the man in the wheelchair.' But her lips quirked up, and he nodded, understanding. 'Do you ever regret it? Taking up with him in the first place, I mean. After all that's happened . . .'

The look on his face was unreadable—not quite offended, not exactly upset, but she instantly wished she could recall the question all the same. 'Sorry,' she said. 'Over the line.'

'It's a fair question,' he murmured.

But at that moment, a crowd of loud voices and laughter from far down the hallway drew nearer, and the noise pressed through the open doorway. 'Shit,' said Donovan. 'That'll be the boys. Annoying buggers, the lot. Hey, you may not want—'

'I'll just roll myself out then, shall I?' John said, another close-lipped smile touching his otherwise battered face, but she could tell how little he fancied a run-in with even off-duty coppers.

'Yeah, you might want to. It's about to get stuffy in here.'

John gripped the wheels and manoeuvred himself toward the door as easily as if he'd been in the chair for weeks already. She supposed that spoke to his uncanny and well-practised adaptability to hard times and frequent setbacks.

'Watson.'

He looked back.

'Do you remember what I told you, early on—about finding yourself a hobby?'

With undisguised wariness, he nodded.

'Right. Well.' She sighed and leant her head back into the pillow. 'I don't think he'd take to fishing. Do you?'

He dropped his chin, a little chuckle finding its way out. 'No, I don't.'

'Best keep at it, then. The pair of you.'

He gave her a nod. 'Cheers, Sally.'

'John.'

---

Lestrade as near as bolted into the room, startling Molly from where she sat in a chair lacing her shoes.

'I'm selling the house,' he announced.

'What?'

'Consider it done. I've just talked to an estate agent, and it'll be on listings by tomorrow morning.'

'Greg, I—' She stood up, shoes still unlaced. 'What's this about?'

'I can get one of the boys to pack us a couple of bags, and I'll hire cleaners and a moving crew and sell off all the furniture. We'll start fresh, from the ground up. Just tell me where you want to go, and we'll go.'

'But . . .' She was flabbergasted. 'But it's your home. I can't ask you to leave your home.'

He bared his hands to her. 'I don't want it. I never wanted it. I bought it only because Angela wanted it. If I'd had my way, we would have lived closer to the Yard and save me the commute, but she always hated the inner city, said she wanted more space, even though she never wanted kids, so we moved, but that's not even the point, none of that matters, because I'm selling it.'

'For . . . me?'

'Molly—'

She frowned and said, 'What is it you want?'

'I just said—'

'That you moved to accommodate your wife. And you'll move again to accommodate me.'

'No.' He stepped closer, ran his hand down her arms, shoulder to elbow. 'To benefit us both. This.' He squeezed her arms. 'What we have together, what Angela and I never came close to having, never in all those pointless years. I'll tell you want I don't want. I don't want to lose you, Molly. I'll go where you go, if you'll let me. Nothing matters to me as much as this.'

She put a hand to his bruised cheek and he placed his hand over hers, holding it there. He'd not shaved in more than thirty-six hours, and the stiff bristles were rough against her hand, but she smoothed them down and looked into his tired eyes. She could see them grazing over her hurts with remorse.

'Let you?' she said. 'In what universe would I forbid you? I would sooner be on my knees, begging you to stay with me.'

His eyes fell closed, and he kissed the inside of her wrist. 'Oh Molly Hooper,' he sighed. 'You've no idea . . .'

'Of what?'

'Of how desperately I'm in love with you. Sometimes I can barely breathe.'

With both hands now, she pulled his face to hers, then flung arms around his neck as she kissed him fiercely. His hands dropped to her waist and wrapped her tightly against him. His body was warm and solid, and in that moment, she forgot all her pains, all her fears, and allowed herself to be comforted and in love.

'Promise me . . .' she began in a whisper, when their lips had parted and she had space enough to draw breath.

'Everything,' he said. He placed his cheek against hers and stroked her back.

'Promise me, Greg, that this is real. Promise me that no matter what happens'—her fingers curled around the back of his neck—'we'll make it through alive. We have to, we have to. If he had killed you—'

He pulled back gently and took her face in his hands. 'I failed you Sunday night. I shouldn't have let them get anywhere near you. But things are going to be different. We're going to get these people, Molly, and I will protect you. I promise.'

But she shook her head. 'That means nothing if you're not alive and well by my side.'

'Then I promise that too.' He grinned at her and kissed her on the brow, just below her bandages. 'You'll see. This will all be over soon, and then you and I can get on with being . . . you know. You and I.'

She smiled shyly back. 'I'll hold you to it, you know.'

'I'm counting on it.'

---

They had brought blue, black, and yellow balloons, a whole case of Jammie Dodgers (on the belief that they were her favourite because one of the boys had once seen her eat one . . . once), and a small, white, stuffed bear with a red cross painted across his belly. The card was signed by as many people down at the Yard as could fit a signature around the words Don't get down—Get well, and the front cover showcased a kitten crawling over the lip of a stone well. Donovan couldn't imagine a more revolting card.

For twenty minutes, her fellow officers arsed around her hospital bed. They played with her remote controls (telly and bed alike), teased her that she looked better with the ruff, mocked her two-days untamed hair by wondering how many plasters and pills and needles had disappeared into it, carried on about football and pub quizzes, and declared that the world must be coming to an end because Sally Donovan was on sick leave. Only Dryers, trying to remain inconspicuous in the back of the bunch, seemed uninterested in the horseplay, and he propped himself against the wall, staring out the window if not at his shoes. She bore it all as long as he could, until one of the officers said, 'And all for nothing, eh, Donovan? Watson didn't need Holmes to save him after all, and you're the one who winds up in hospital. Fuck that. Should be his sorry arse in the bed, am I right?'

'All right, you lot. Get out,' she said tiredly.

'Whoa, girl, it was a joke!'

'Not even in the mood, Rossi. Out. If I see your ugly mugs again before my two weeks are up, I might just punch them. Until then, out, you clods.'

'All right, boys, we've overstayed our welcome,' said Pratt, clapping two men on the shoulders and steering them to the door.

They bid her farewell, laughing as they went and landing two or three more verbal spars, and filed out one by one. At the end of the queue was Thomas Dryers.

'Oi,' she said as his toe scraped the threshold. 'Not you.'

He froze, his back to her, and when the last man was out of sight, he backed up and into the room, closing the door softly. When he turned around, his head was lowered demurely, a strand of hair falling into his eyes, and he looked up at her through long lashes. 'Sergeant,' he said.

She adjusted herself in the bed, a tricky feat given she had only one good arm. But she was determined to sit as tall as possible.

'The woman on dispatch,' she said. 'The one not putting my calls through. Gregson said she'd been arrested.'

Recognising this was a business meeting, of sorts, he nodded, with a casual flick of his head to toss the fringe from his eyes, then stood straighter. 'She's been officially charged with conspiracy and hindering police. If more comes out, there may be others.'

'Is she talking, then?'

He shrugged. 'I'm but a lowly constable, hardly a member of the super-secret inner ring. But rumour has it that she doesn't know much of anything. Paid off, apparently, to misdirect calls from either you or Lestrade. Somewhere in the neighbourhood of twenty thousand pounds.'

'Paid by who?'

'Claims she doesn't know.'

'Damn.'

'Yeah.'

Silence fell between them as Donovan racked her brain for more questions to ask. Just seconds before, she had had an entire list of them, she'd been absolutely craving information, but of a sudden she couldn't recall a single one. Must be the drugs, she reasoned.

'Is that really what you wanted to ask me?' said Dryers, quirking an eyebrow.

'Of course,' she snapped. 'What else?'

'Look, I get it. I do. You're miserable at this flirting lark'—her jaw dropped open in offence—'but the door's closed and it's just me and you. I won't poke fun.' He made a welcoming gesture. 'Have at it.'

'That is not what this is about.'

'Oh? Oh. So this is an apology. Okay, then, I'll have that, too.' And he held his hands behind his back and raised his chin, as if waiting to be socked in the jaw.

'You're a right berk, you know that?' she growled, an insult met only with a grin, and she sighed. 'Fine. Look. You want me to say it, I'll say it. I was wrong. I followed the evidence, and I made a false accusation. It's not the first time I've been wrong on something like that. Just consider yourself lucky that you got only half a week of house arrest and not three years of exile. Happy now?'

'Make it up to me?'

She narrowed her eyes at him, daring him to push her too far. 'How?'

'Nothing . . . disreputable. Nothing outside the realm of what you were angling for to start with. Let me take you out.'

'Excuse me?'

'Dinner. And none of this corner-fish-and-chips stuff. A real and proper meal. Fine dining, you know? You, me, and a bottle of red wine.'

Her stomach did something funny, and she felt her skin warm. Traitorous corpus.

'No.'

'Seriously, Donovan, what's a man got to do—!'

'That's not how this works, Tom. What kind of woman do you take me for? I accused you of subterfuge and duplicity, forced you to spend four days in an ankle monitor on fraudulent sick leave, and bullied you into lying to your superiors.'

'Well, shit, when you put it that way—'

'When I do that to a man, I take him to dinner. Friday next, seven o'clock, I'll meet you at the Murano. Wear a tie.' He'd gone slack-jawed and saucer-eyed. She relented a little. 'I'll let you choose the wine.'

To her astonishment, his eyes danced, and he seemed to be working very hard to restrain his smile. 'Now then. That wasn't so hard, was it?'

'Get out, constable.'

'Sergeant.'

He bowed himself out.

---

By end of day, Lestrade and Molly had relocated to an undisclosed hotel outside the city and Donovan was driving north with her father to her hometown of Bradford. Sherlock had been left in post-op: although his ankle surgery had been minimally invasive and had gone well, his blood tests had revealed signs of dehydration, high white blood cell count, increased cortisol, and other stress indicators, and the doctors agreed that he should be monitored closely overnight. He was accompanied, during those solemn hours, by Mycroft.

That night, John was left on his own, to consider all that had transpired and to fret over his uncooperative legs and Sherlock's disconcerting state. But he wasn't cut off completely. He and Sherlock were given regular updates on the other via a nurse named Heather, whom they employed as their personal messenger pigeon.

Next day, early in the morning, John was awoken by an email alert on his phone. He received so few emails, and none of them welcome, that the noise startled him into full consciousness, and as he reached for his mobile, he felt himself tensing with anticipated dread. But upon opening his inbox, he saw that the sender was neither S. Hillock nor K. Riley, but H. Knight. And the subject line read 'To Dr Watson, from an old friend'.

Less than an hour later, Sherlock returned to his room to find John upright in the wheelchair, seated beside the window and tapping away on his phone. He put it aside as Sherlock hobbled nearer on crutches he was clearly ill adept at utilising. His right leg was casted from foot to mid-calf, and he crooked his knee to keep it from dragging on the floor.

'Suppose I shouldn't have balked at the cane,' he said.

John grinned up at him, a gesture restraining the ache he felt. Mask to mask, then. 'Should get yourself a nice set of wheels,' he said, running a hand along the curved rubber as if it were part of a luxury car. 'Go on then. Get off your feet. Stay a while.'

Sherlock set aside one of the crutches, dragged a chair, and plopped into it. Then, before John could initiate any particular threads of conversation, he pulled from his hospital-issued pyjama trousers a deck of playing cards and tossed them to John. 'Shuffle and deal,' he said.

In total, they spent five days in hospital, whiling away the hours playing gin and rummy, and when they tired of that, John taught Sherlock Texas Hold'em (using ice lolly sticks and plastic spoons as chips) and Sherlock taught John All Fours. Midday, Sherlock usually fell asleep while John watched daytime telly; and morning and afternoon, John disappeared for two hours at a time to meet with his therapists—Dr Thompson or Dr Harper—to straighten out both mind and legs. When they were together, though, they didn't talk about Darren Hirsch or Sebastian Moran; they avoided the matter of 221B; they ignored the news and the papers and the world transpiring outside of Bart's; and the two times John gently tried to initiate discussion about things that had been said, Sherlock deftly sidestepped and distracted, and so they didn't talk about that either. Nothing, neither past mistakes nor future concerns had place in the hospital room they shared. It was a sanctuary, of sorts, in which their only cares were for their immediate hurts and the things that couldn't wait for tomorrow. It would come to an end—they both knew it. But for now, they would exist quietly while the outside world carried on without them.

Friday, March 13, 2015

Following three full days of intensive therapy and fuelled by sheer willpower, John was walking as well as he had before the attack, the minor limp from the months-old bullet wound now a familiar feature to his gait. The hospital provided him with a new aluminium cane, which he resignedly accepted.

They were jointly discharged Friday morning, but they didn't return to 221B. According to Mycroft, who was sceptical but silent about their decision to remain in residence in London, it was still being 'cleaned and repaired', and it would be another few days before it was ready for them. They were invited, instead, into Mycroft's penthouse, a high-rise in the city to which John had never been before. Though its location was logically situated on the stretch between Hyde Park and Home Office, he couldn't help but be surprised by just how accessible it was from Baker Street; he even though he could see his patch of roof from one of Mycroft's large windows, a mile and a half away. For some reason, he had always imagined Mycroft's place—not that he ever really imagined it—as being so much farther away, remote and mysterious, not in the heart of London where he and Sherlock, too, existed.

The top floor of an affluent high-rise, Mycroft's flat could hardly be called a flat. It was spacious and expansive, comprising two storeys and nine rooms, each immaculately furnished with Mycroft's minimalistic but expensive tastes, a contemporary blend of modern man and turn-of-the-century politician that spoke both utility and extravagance in sterile blacks and whites, woods and silvers, and unspoken sovereignty in a palace of onyx and alabaster, chrome and glass. But despite their welcome to make themselves at home, John could scarcely sit on a wooden stool without feeling like he was violating the boundaries imposed by an invisible velvet rope. It was all the things 221B wasn't: tidy and uncluttered, spacious and untouched.

By the time they arrived, Mycroft had already dismissed the cook for a five-day leave, and the housekeeper for the same, and he cancelled his sessions with his personal trainer until April. But he kept his chauffeur, now fully recovered from his October injuries, on call, and he brought in his private barber for one night; and for the first time in many weeks, Sherlock and John both received haircuts, as well as a good shave. Clothing and toiletries had been brought from Baker Street, and Sherlock and John were each given their own bedrooms, which were en suite and as lavishly furnished as the rest of the penthouse. To these they retired early that first night, shortly after sundown, and the quiet that already occupied the vast apartments settled into perfect stillness.

But Mycroft could not sleep. Sherlock was under his roof again, for the first time in nearly thirteen years, and as ever, it was because he was in trouble. There had never been such trouble as this, however. Mind whirring and whistling with schemes and all the pieces of his increasing complex puzzle, Mycroft knew he was not one for sleep anytime soon. He arose, slipped into his dressing gown and slippers, and left his bedroom for the library, where he would pour himself a brandy, sit, and think until morning.

A soft light coming from the front lounge deterred him, however, and that's when he found John, reclined on the sofa, hands laced together across his middle as he stared up at the ceiling.

'Trouble sleeping, Dr Watson?' he inquired.

John started and shot up from the couch, wincing at his pains from a not-quite-healed body, and Mycroft regretted not announcing himself with heavier footfalls. 'Apologies,' he said.

'No, I just . . .' John moved his legs off the sofa and sat on its edge. His eyes marked the front door, and then Mycroft realised how John, in a strange environment, one he didn't entirely trust, had deliberately left the comfort of his private bedroom to position himself as close to the most obvious point of entry as possible. First line of defence. Ever the soldier. Mycroft also noticed the boning knife resting on the side table nearest John's head, evidently nicked from his kitchen.

'Accommodations aren't what you're used to,' Mycroft said, sparing him from lying about why he was really there.

'I'm just . . . accustomed to sofas, I guess.'

Not a lie, just an excuse. John's arms braced him on either side, and he looked awkwardly to the side, his face turned from the single lamp he had illuminated.

'I'll not disturb you further,' said Mycroft. He turned about, intending to continue on to the library, when John spoke up behind him.

'Mycroft.'

He paused and turned back.

'Sherlock.' A long pause. 'Something he said, a few days ago. It's been bothering me. I thought you might know . . .'

It was the first time in a very long time that John had voluntarily begun a conversation with him. Mycroft stepped further into the room and settled himself into a leather armchair, waiting for John to continue.

'He said he killed his mother.' John looked at him directly now, sadness on his face. Mycroft wished he wouldn't. He was not well equipped at managing sad people, especially when their mood seemed but a reflection of his own. 'Why would he say that?'

Mycroft closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He rubbed a spot at his temple, worrying away what felt like an ancient throbbing headache.

'How did she die?'

'That depends on who you ask, I suppose,' he said wearily, recalling with sharpness the day, so many years ago now, when he'd received the phone call that his mother was dead and Sherlock had been arrested. 'A coroner's answer: drug overdose. Zolpidem, to be exact, mixed with red wine. The psychologist's answer: depression—it's what drove her to it. And the causal philosopher would say: Sherlock.'

John frowned deeply.

'I did tell you he had the mind of a philosopher,' said Mycroft softly.

'But—'

'The short story is, Sherlock was not an easy child. I doubt very much he has reminisced fondly on life and growing up in the Holmes household.'

'He doesn't reminisce at all.'

'No, he wouldn't.' He sighed. 'Like I said, he was an unusual sort. Brilliant, even as a young boy, but odd. A challenge, we'll say. Mummy, she never learnt to handle him. Father never tried. And as you know, I was the rubbish big brother. Until you came along, Dr Watson, there wasn't a single individual who really tolerated him, or cared for him as he deserved.'

John shook his head, and his shoulders sagged.

'It's my fault, I'm afraid, that Sherlock even had cause to accept the blame for her death. It wasn't getting arrested and interrogated by suspicious policemen who assumed he had poisoned his own mother for the insurance money. It wasn't a misguided conviction that he could have stopped her. No. It was me, sending my unwell brother to an unwell mother, both depressed, both chemically dependent, and thinking they would sort each other out. He thinks she died simply because he was there, that he was a poison worse than zolpidem. And he's never forgiven himself for being . . . the person he is.'

'He said—' John's voice caught, and he cleared his throat so he could continue. 'He said he carries it with him.'

'Carries what?'

'Death.'

Mycroft, whose eidetic memory was just as sharp as his little brother's, remembered the four-year-old child, asleep in the coffin. He wished he had gone straight for the brandy.

'I need to know one thing, Mycroft,' said John. 'Just one.'

'Ask.'

'Do you care for him? As he deserves?'

Mycroft regarded the good doctor carefully before speaking. He slowly lowered his arm to rest against the cool leather. 'If Sherlock took after anyone in the family, it was Mummy. They both had a hard edge, but the softer features were always there, the parts that wound. I had the greater misfortune of replicating our father. Like he was, I am cold, distant, and prefer quiet and solitude to almost all forms of company. I know this about myself. But in one regard, Father and I are on complete opposite ends of a spectrum.'

'In what respect?'

'From the time Sherlock was a very young child, that man was ashamed of him. He didn't love him. He didn't give fig for him. And he never once lifted a finger to save him. In that respect, Dr Watson.'

He rose to his feet, bid John goodnight, and retreated at last to the sanctuary of his library.

Monday, March 16, 2015

The town car idled on the kerb behind them, the engine still running. The pavement was cleared of snow, and what had not been shovelled was melting fast. Sherlock stood in front of 221B, his weight resting on the crutches and knee bent. At his side, John seemed barely to have need of his cane, but he carried it with him all the same.

'A few updates, as it were,' said Mycroft, stepping to the door. 'The first being this.' He indicated the new buzzer. 'The camera has a 150-degree range of sight standing still and can be operated to shift and show you 180 degrees, giving you optimal view of both ends of the street from the comfort of your flat. Night-vision is automatically triggered at sunset or when registering dark daytime conditions. A display is set up in five locations—sitting room, kitchen, both bedrooms, and even the bathroom—so you can monitor street activity from any room in the flat. This camera is tamper-proof and set behind plate-glass so it can't be broken or cracked. If darkened in any way—black paint, a thumb pressed to the lens, whatever—an alert sounds after five seconds.'

'Sounds pricey,' said John.

'Is it?' Mycroft asked without concern. 'Now. Your entry into the flat is now keyless.' He indicated a pad at the side of the door. 'Three modes of entry: first, thumb print. This will register only the thumbprints of you two and your landlady. Others may be added, but I do not recommend it. Once you have swiped your thumb, you speak the password, which you will determine between yourselves. As long as you are within one metre of the door, your voice will register; it will recognise the password you have chosen and verify your identity through voice recognition, the latest in biometrics software. I recommend, however, that you change the password regularly. You may also teach the software to recognise an alert or decoy password or stress indicators in your voice that automatically notify police or each other. Shall we enter? Dr Watson, if you would do the honours? The temporary password is Beresford. It will expire by end of day.'

Sherlock watched with reserved interest as John stepped up to the door, slid his thumb over the reader, and said aloud, 'Beresford.' Then he heard a soft hum and two distinct clicks as locks were disabled, and they walked inside.

'221A has all the same security features as your own flat,' Mycroft said, following them inside and closing the door behind him; it locked itself automatically. 'And 221C has been converted into a weapons bunker and veritable war room.'

'What's that?' said John.

'First things first, Dr Watson. Shall we go upstairs?'

As they ascended, Mycroft took Sherlock's crutches from him while his little brother hopped up the stairs on his one good leg, bracing himself on the walls and bannisters. Between hops, he said to Mycroft, 'Who did you—?'

'All private contractors, none of them working on the same projects, and all under my direct supervision. Blueprints, too, are in my possession, which I will happily turn over to you, should you require them.'

'Right.'

They entered the flat, and Mycroft showed them the lock features on the door, which he assured them could be found on all doors. He showed them, too, how to operate the display screens revealing the view of the street, and how to buzz someone up. Then he walked over to the large windows, the boards now gone and curtains parted, and light streamed through to brighten the whole room. Mycroft rapped roughly on the glass. 'Bulletproof and grenade resistant. With the added feature of one-way reflective transparency. You can see out, but no one can see in. In summer or as needed, they can be opened, shut, and locked by voice command.'

John snorted, but he was clearly impressed. 'Do they play music, too?'

'No, but they will tell you the current weather at a glance.'

John smiled wryly.

'One more thing. Dr Watson, if you would lead the way to your bedroom.'

They ascended once again, and Sherlock held his breath as they drew nearer the room where Darren Hirsch had eight days ago met his bloody end. John, he saw, entered the room straight backed and chin raised. But his feet stilled, and Sherlock heard him utter an awed, 'Oh.'

Coming up behind him, Sherlock saw what had given John pause. The room was virtually unrecognisable. The floorboards were new, of oak, it appeared, and orientated in the opposite direction to what they were before. The walls were painted and one was papered, casting the room in slate-greens and greys and a rich dark brown. A new fixture hung from the ceiling, and two shaded lamps stood on either side of a new bed, his single mattress having been replaced with a king. In fact, all the furniture—what few and simple items they had been—were replaced and rearranged. The space was small but comfortable.

'I believe this was one of Dr Thompson's recommendations,' said Mycroft, 'that your bedroom resemble the last one as little as possible.'

Nonplussed, John merely nodded. He stepped further into the room and pressed a flat hand into his new duvet, testing the firmness of the bed.

'The room has three features that should serve you well, for peace of mind. The first, your window, you'll see, has been replaced by a full-size sliding door onto a balcony leading to the fire escape. Its locking features are as secure as any of the updates in the flat. Second, weaponry.'

Beside the wardrobe, built into the wall, was a safe, but without dial, just a flat square of steel, easily covered by hanging a painting or photograph. It measured, Sherlock estimated, forty-five centimetres in both width and height.

'Also thumbprint enabled and voice activated,' said Mycroft, instructing John to open it.

Inside, they found two pistols and eight boxes of ammunition. Hanging on the walls, five combat knives. Mycroft referred to it as a 'starter kit'.

'This bedroom will also serve as a panic room,' said Mycroft without waiting for questions as to why and how such weaponry could be found in the wall. He indicated a panel by the door, right beneath the display monitor for outside. 'Exterior-grade solid core door with a deadbolt, hinge screws, and strike plate screws to resist battering. Walls are reinforced with Kevlar, and a generator ensures electricity to power all built-in communications devices. Your room, too, Sherlock, has been equipped with these exact features, though I did take fewer liberties with the redesign. I know you can be particular.'

'Mycroft, this is—' John began, shaking his head in wonder. 'Incredible. Just incredible.'

'And Mrs Hudson?' Sherlock asked.

'Upon her return, you will, of course, have to instruct her in the use of all of these things. We wouldn't want her locking herself into her bedroom without knowing how to call for help, after all.'

'We've not heard from her . . .' said John.

'Not to worry, Dr Watson. That's all in order, too. All in good time.'

They returned to the sitting room. Mycroft had not removed his coat, and he made no move to do so now. Instead, Sherlock could see him preparing to take his leave.

'Thank you, Mycroft,' John said. 'For all of it. We weren't expecting . . .'

'Think nothing of it. Now, I'll leave you to get reacquainted. Welcome home, Sherlock. John.'

Sherlock wasn't quite sure where it came from, but suddenly he felt the compulsion, the need, to make a gesture of some sort. What it meant, even he couldn't say, but before Mycroft turned away, he extended to him his hand. He had no words; he couldn't even look his older brother in the eye. He just stood there, hand outstretched, and as the seconds passed, he felt more and more the fool. Just as he was about to withdraw, Mycroft seized his hand, clasping it firmly. Their eyes met. Mycroft nodded, understanding what Sherlock could not. Then, at last, without a word, he turned and left.

---

It wasn't until nightfall, after an unhurried day spent settling back into the flat and programming all their new gadgets, that Sherlock finally retreated to his own room, and John to his. Sherlock did wonder, though, whether it was a good idea, John's first night back—after the attack and after months of taking the sofa—to intend to sleep in his own bed. He anticipated spending the night listening for noises of distressed sleeping and nightmares, ignoring his own desires for rest, just to be ready, if need required it, to spring to John's aid.

He pushed open his bedroom door, expecting to find the furniture out of place here, too, or the colour on the walls altered or wattage in the lamps changed with brighter bulbs. But Mycroft had altered none of that. The only change, he saw, was a new mattress overlaid with a new duvet like enough to the one he had owned before. And one more thing. Atop the bed, resting in an open case lined with midnight blue velvet, was a new violin.

Thursday, March 19, 2015

The city had warmed to twelve degrees and the skies were a shade of blue that hadn't been seen since the previous summer. Late morning in 221B was quiet, but for the soft clicking of John on the keyboard and Sherlock turning pages in a chemistry magazine at the kitchen table. But he wasn't reading. John looked up from time to time to see that though his fingers flipped pages approximately every fifteen seconds, he was staring at the opposite wall without seeing anything at all. John had hoped that returning to the flat would help pull Sherlock out of his despondency, but to no avail. This was neither the sulky nor sullen Sherlock he had once been accustomed to. He seemed fatigued in a way that a long night's sleep couldn't shake. He said he was glad for the new violin, sat with it in his chair, and polished it fondly, but John had yet to hear him play it, not even to tune it. And when Lestrade and Molly called on them, he had sat rigidly, unable to look at Molly, and barely uttered two words beyond hello and goodbye.

John's efforts to talk to him were met with false smiles and repeated assurances that there was no problem, nothing to talk about, and my, how the weather's turned. But John could see it in Sherlock's eyes: he was troubled, distant, with one foot in his mind palace day and night, and whatever memories he stood among, they were caustic.

Not a genius, he had said.

Not a hero.

Barely a living man.

He continued to type, Sherlock's odious words still stinging his ears. He kept one eye on the clock, the other on Sherlock, turning the pages of his magazine.

. . . Did you think I could change the world?

Yes. He had.

At half ten, Sherlock arose and lifted his suit coat off the back of the chair, pulling it on over a white collared shirt. Despite all that had transpired, his community sentence had neither been expunged nor deferred; but owing to the ankle injury, he had been assigned to indoor work in the form of data entry at The London Library. As punishments went, this one was not at all bothersome, in John's eyes (though terribly dull work for a man of such brainpower). The-powers-that-be had even granted him special permission to take taxis rather than more crowded forms of public transportation (John suspected Mycroft's hand in that one, too).

Grabbing the crutches, Sherlock swung himself over to the window and looked down to the street. 'Smalls is here,' he said.

'Could have seen that on the monitor,' John said, pointing, though without taking his eyes off the screen of the computer. 'Give me . . . two . . . ticks . . .' He finished typing, clicked the mouse a couple of times, and closed the computer. 'Right.' John got to his feet. He was already wearing a jumper and wouldn't need anything like a jacket with the temperate conditions. He grabbed the cane and followed Sherlock out the door.

While Sherlock expended his community hours in the library, John had physical therapy at St Bart's, followed by another session with Ella, who strongly suggested that they meet every day for the foreseeable future. John didn't think he needed it, so much, but he didn't argue. Meanwhile, in the latter part of his afternoon, Sherlock was expected at the Yard. Julian Smalls knew the itinerary—the preferred routes and scheduled drop-offs—and he was being paid handsomely for his services, as well as his punctuality. So after dropping Sherlock off at the Library, he knew to take John straight to Bart's, and he was free to conduct his own business until John needed him again, but to be on call for whenever Sherlock was ready to head home. The man didn't complain. In fact, he felt rather honoured to be found worthy—after some rather intensive grilling from a man in a three-piece suit—to play the part of a hired car to Sherlock Holmes.

---

When he walked into the Yard—or rather, swung in on his crutches—Sherlock could feel the eyes of the men and women like mosquitos landing on his exposed skin. When riding the lift, he got the distinct impression that the woman at his side was holding her breath and trying not to turn her head and stare. And as the lift doors dinged open and he crossed the familiar, spacious room on his way to Lestrade's office, he watched as conversations died and heads turned and desk monkeys arose from their swivel chairs to watch him over the top of the cubicle walls. He knew people watched him—his whole life people had watched him—but he rarely allowed himself to be perturbed by it. Now, however, he wanted nothing more than to march straight back to the lifts and out the front door, exactly the way a lame man could not.

Lestrade greeted him with a wide grin and spread arms, but he didn't go for the embrace. Instead, teased Sherlock about his mastery of the double crutch, called it his truest form of genius, and then guided him down the hall—more eyes turned to watch—and into a secured conference room that had been set up with all the evidence gathered from both crime scenes and what was now being referred to as the Tunnel Lair. It was all spread across four long tables, all of it, including items taken from St Mary's Convent. The only things they hadn't displayed, to Sherlock's relief, were the photographs or videos; they were there, but in a short stack of closed manila envelopes secured with string.

'This is the whole of it,' said Lestrade. 'Everything we have on the Moriarty Mayhem—we've already adopted the term, you see, to account for all these crimes—every scrap of evidence, old and new, and one item recovered.' Sherlock's eyes found the pair of grey underpants, sealed in a plastic bag, on the first table. 'Still missing those last two, I'm afraid.'

The Moriarty Mayhem. Of course they had renamed it. The St Mary's Abductions was only a small part of a much larger scheme of devastating affairs. Leave it to coppers to find something catchy and alliterative. But it was . . . strangely accurate. The crimes were only rightly attributed to the mastermind who had begun it all, and the word mayhem was surprisingly fitting. Commonly, it was understood as chaos, disorder, anarchy. But in the context of the law and the state, mayhem referred to a crime that wilfully inflicted bodily injury with the intent of crippling, or mutilating, and otherwise rendering the victim powerless to fight back or defend himself. That's exactly what this had all been. Mayhem.

Lestrade stood aside and let Sherlock take his time examining the contents all laid out before him. They spoke little, only to ask and answer questions, one of another. Sherlock took care to inspect everything and mentally catalogue every detail.

But when he picked up the BK&T combat knife, its blade and grip both crusted over with dried blood inside the plastic bag marked H/8.3.14-S2, Lestrade stepped forward, saying, 'Now, we're trying to get the story straight on this item, actually, to match all weapons with attackers, track down their origins, that sort of thing. Initially, we just assumed Hirsch had brought it to the house with him, but John said—'

'It's mine,' said Sherlock.

'Yours. Huh. That's not the kind of knife you can buy in the shops,' said Lestrade. 'It's not even British Army issue. Where did it come from?'

'It's American,' said Sherlock, setting it down again. 'I acquired it off a dead Libyan drug-and-weapons runner in 2014.'

'Was this before or after you spent time in prison down there?'

Sherlock looked at him in surprise. 'How do you know about—?'

'John. He mentioned in passing. Wouldn't've done, but he assumed you had told me. I'm not saying you should have told me, maybe it's not my business, but . . . Jesus, Sherlock, whatever happened to you, whatever you went through during those three years . . . What I'm trying to say is—'

'It was after, to answer your question, while I was making my way to Malta. I thought it might be useful for me to keep it. Turns out, it was pretty damn useful. Any more questions?'

Lestrade looked chagrined. 'How did you get it into the country? Airport security—'

'Can be fooled easily enough. But I didn't travel with it. When I left Egypt, I left everything beside my mobile. Only after John and I had settled into Baker Street did I send for it. I gave instructions and paid the landlord to mail me whatever meagre possessions I'd left there. Easy. With the right packaging, at the right price, you can send anything through the mail . . .'

A floodlight had suddenly exploded in his mind; it was enough to stop him in mid-speech.

'Sherlock?'

'What screening precautions does the Yard take with its post?'

'Pardon? The Yard? Uh,' he rubbed the back of his neck, a little disoriented by the sudden jolt in the conversation; he never seemed to get used to them. 'Everything coming in is x-rayed and screened for dangerous chemicals. Why?'

'And everything going out?'

'Well, anything marked confidential goes through certain secure channels to ensure it's not intercepted.'

'But ordinary post. Letters, small parcels. Do you x-ray everything leaving the Yard?'

'No . . . No, we don't.'

'Brilliant,' he whispered to himself.

'Sorry? What's brilliant?'

'That's it. Don't you see it, Lestrade? Even you can see it now, can't you? That's how they did it! That's how they got the evidence from the convent out of the building—through the post!'

'But that's—' Lestrade shook his head strongly. 'That's impossible. The evidence lockers are under lock and guard. One needs clearance to access them.'

Sherlock laughed shortly. 'All things that can be easily bypassed, inspector.' He stepped to the table containing the evidence from the Tunnel Lair to lift the jar of what had turned out to be twenty-two identical keys to Lestrade's house. 'How many ways are there to make a copy of a key? One only needs the original.'

'Are you saying—oh god, it's another mole, isn't it? Someone we haven't ferretted out yet!'

'Not necessarily. It could have been nicked.'

'Without someone noticing their keys have gone missing?'

Sherlock contemplated. 'If one had but the imprint of the key, a copy could be fashioned. It wouldn't take a Yarder to do that. It may have been your own keys, or Gregson's, or Donovan's, quietly pilfered from your pocket while you stood in line for coffee or sat in a noisy pub. They push the key into a plate of putty or plaster, and return the keys with you none the wiser.'

'But the guard . . .'

'Pay him off! Pay them all off! Your dispatch operator—she confessed to being bribed, twenty thousand pounds to perform one simple task, and why wouldn't she? A daughter with a congenital heart defect and a brother with gambling debts. She's desperate for the money. And she's just one player, one insignificant little cog in a machine, turning with all the other little cogs, and she doesn't even know the effects of her turning. Who else, and how many, and how small are they? Moran and Adler don't need to plant spies among the coppers if they can get ordinary people to perform ordinary tasks and remain silent. They may have employed ten or a hundred. So they get into the evidence lockers, probably at night, when the place is quiet, but they can't just walk those items out the door. Even the night guards are bound to notice a metal cilice jangling in someone's pocket. No, they'd send it through the post. It's the simplest task with the least amount of risk. To your mail rooms, Lestrade. We've lowly postal workers to interrogate.'

He grabbed his crutches and, with Lestrade hurrying after him, made at once for the lifts. Again, the eyes followed him, burning into the back of his head, and he hated it. He couldn't shut down the feelings of discomfiture and shame he had once been able to master. He didn't care what people thought of him, he never had, he had convinced himself of it a thousand times over thousands of days! What did they matter? What do any of them matter? Let them think me a criminal, a fraud, and a freak. They aren't quite right, of course, but they aren't wholly wrong.

Ignore them. Ignore them all. Inconsequential. Idiotic. Stupid, stupid!

'Are you all right?' Lestrade asked.

Only then did Sherlock realise he'd be speaking aloud, muttering to himself just under his breath. His jaw snapped shut. He stopped dead in the middle of the room. Then something broke loose. 'What is wrong with your people, Lestrade?' he shouted. 'Have they never seen a man on crutches before?' He turned his face to the room and loudly berated them all: 'Haven't you all got work to do?'

Lestrade waved a hand, indicating that his people should sit down, turn their heads away, get back to work. 'Don't mind them,' he said. 'Come on.'

They made it into the lifts. Sherlock was breathing loudly through his nose, teeth set on edge but jaw locked. The excitement from just two minutes before had vanished, leaving behind a pang of hollow victory. 'You're not bothered, are you?' asked Lestrade.

'What? Of course not,' he lied.

'They can't help it.'

'Like children,' he scowled.

'They're just, you know. Processing. It just shows up out of nowhere, and you can't say it's not just a little moving. They can't help but be impressed, I reckon.'

The lift doors opened, and Lestrade stepped out, but Sherlock didn't move. 'What are you talking about?'

'Oh come on, Sherlock, you know what this is about.' When Sherlock didn't confess his ignorance, Lestrade clarified: 'The blog.'

'What blog?'

'John's blog!'

'What about John's blog?'

Lestrade half-laughed, shaking his head. 'Don't you know? He updated it. Just a few hours ago.'

Sherlock blinked, not sure what to think or to say.

'I . . . take it you haven't read it.'

He shook his head. 'Wh . . . what did he write?'

But Lestrade had sobered and now shook his head. 'I think you should just read it.'

Their plans were aborted as Sherlock went in search of a computer. At a free desk, he rapidly typed in the web address he knew so well, but his fingers were so agitated that it took him three goes to get it right. But when he hit enter, an error message:

Error 500 – Internal Error
Please Try Again Later

'Damn, it's been doing that for hours,' said Lestrade. 'Tech guy said it's probably due to heavy traffic on a site not built to accommodate this kind of attention.'

'What attention? You said he's only just posted it,' said Sherlock, typing the address again but getting the same error message. He slammed his fists on the keyboard.

'Sure, but it's sort of gone viral. That's why I was sure you'd seen it. Didn't he tell you he was writing—?'

'No.' Internal Error. Please Try Again Later.

'Well, you know how he's got that counter in the panel on the right? Last I saw, it was at thirteen thousand hits. That was two hours ago. Tech guy traced the URL and did some other fancy computer stuff, and he reckons it's got well over twenty-five thousand by now, if people can get through. Comments are disabled, but people are talking about it onli—'

'What does he say!'

Lestrade clapped a hand on his shoulder. 'Go home, Sherlock. Keep trying the site. I'll look into the mail room myself, get that ball rolling. See how far I can get on my own, eh? Go home.'

---

All the way home, sitting in the back of Julian Smalls' taxi, Sherlock loaded and reloaded the blog on his phone, but the error message kept repeating. With his good foot, he bounced his left leg restlessly. He had a plan. If the blog wouldn't load, surely John had kept a draft of whatever he had posted somewhere on his computer. He would simply need to find it, and it wouldn't take a hacker to track it down.

The car slowed, stopped. 'Here you are, Mr Holmes,' said Smalls.

'Thank you,' Sherlock muttered. He didn't have to bother with the fare—Small had been paid a handsome advance to see him through any provided services that month, and the rest as a very generous tip. Sherlock hopped to the front door, slid his thumb across the reader, spoke aloud the password (akrab, John's choice), and hobbled inside. There, he threw the crutches aside and bounded up the stairs as quickly and as easily as one leg could bound. He was sweating by the time he reached the landing, and he rubbed his moist hands against his trousers before falling into the chair at the table where John's closed laptop lay. He flipped it open, entered the password (Sadie), and saw, as if it were waiting for him, the homepage of John's blog. He'd not closed it out.

At the top, the familiar green banner and the words The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson, and just below, 19 March, and just below that, the title: 'Who Is Sherlock Holmes?'

But the first words beyond that were not John's:

A Foreword, by Henry R Knight

I met the news of Sherlock Holmes' return from the dead with credulity. It was a story fitted for Halloween stories of the season, and to be honest, the suggestion upset me. You see, the thing is, I knew Mr Holmes. That is, I was acquainted with him. In March of 2011, I hired him as a private detective to discover the truth of my father's murder. It was a twenty-year-old case, and he wasn't much inclined, initially, but with a little persuasion, he accepted with startling enthusiasm.

He was a marvel. In less than forty-eight hours, he had solved a case neither police nor conspiracy theorists had been able to crack in the course of twenty years. It was a testament to me of the sheer genius of the man. The details of the case I won't go into (though you can read about it yourself on this very blog), but I know that if it weren't for Mr Holmes, my father's killer and the true nature of his death would never have been known.

It was for this reason that I was so appalled by the treatment Mr Holmes received in the weeks following his supposed death, and why I was loathe to see all the malicious libel resurrected with the man. The papers and news broadcasts painted him as a fraud and a villain, and I knew neither were true. I had seen his genius in action—a twenty-year old case! That was no con. I had been privy to his brilliance and the wonders that followed, and it broke my heart to think that he would never know just how much good had come from his solving that one case. He would never know how the truth of my father's death had liberated me. My physical and mental health improved steadily over the weeks and months that followed. I found pleasure again in working, in socialising, in all the aspects of my life I had neglected while tormented by my restless father's ghost. Because I had been freed, I was able to move on. I fell in love. I married. I have a son. I even have a dog (an irony I expect Mr Holmes would appreciate). I believe my father is at peace, and I am too. And I attribute all of this to Sherlock Holmes.

Though rumours and negativity about him continue to pervade the media, I am not alone in my favourable estimation of the man. He helped me, just as he has helped so many others over the years, and chances are, he never knew just how much. Certainly, the general public does not. Below are the voices you have not heard, the people, real men and women, who have benefited from their acquaintance with Mr Holmes, much as I have. John Watson, Mr Holmes' friend and partner, and creator of this blog, has kindly agreed to host what can only be described as a tribute to the only man worthy of being called London's only consulting detective. Here is the true story of Sherlock Holmes that John Watson has been telling all along.

Iain Wilson, Cardiff
I never met him myself, and I regret that. I knew only what he had done: he solved my wife's murder and, in the same night, the murders of four other victims of the same serial killing. Losing Jennifer broke my heart, but if not for Sherlock Holmes, her death would have been written off as suicide, and others would surely have died. It's my belief that he saved lives that night he didn't even know about.

Charity Marimot, Whitechapel
It was incredible. I'd only just met the man, and I'd said barely ten words before Mr Holmes alerted me to my husband's infidelity. If it hadn't been for him, I might still be married to that worthless [deleted by administrator] hole. Thank you, Mr Holmes!

Lauren Schaffer, Cornwall
I had never been so frightened in all my life. This kind of thing wasn't supposed to happen to ordinary people like me. My husband had already left for work, and I was in the kitchen making toast when two men wearing dark masks broke into the flat. The forced me into my car and held a gun to my head while I drove. I was directed to a car park in the centre of the city. There the men strapped a bomb to my chest, and they told me I had twelve hours to live. I was terrified and distraught, and I believed I was going to die. If not for Sherlock Holmes, I would have done. Because of him, I was rescued within nine hours. I had been given a second chance at life, and I wasn't going to waste it. I left my husband, quit my job, and began an organisation dedicated to bettering the lives of battered women from Plymouth to Bristol. Five years later, we're ready for expansion. It wasn't only my life that was saved that day.

Michael West, Twickenham
The police thought my son was a terrorist, a traitor to his own country. He worked for the government, was involved in some top-secret projects, and when he was murdered and some confidential files went missing, it was the first assumption they jumped to: traitor. It took Sherlock Holmes to prove otherwise and clear my son's name, pinning the blame for his death and missing files where it really belonged. I'll never forget that.

Amanda Holland, London
I suppose he didn't have to tell me what the hairpin was worth. To be honest, I wasn't terribly attached to it. He could even have told me it wasn't legally mine and to turn it over to the police. I was naïve enough, I would have just handed it to him right then and there and been none the wiser. He could have walked away a millionaire. Instead, he told me its worth, and then just smiled. I'll never forget that smile. I was a loon, absolutely ecstatic, and I remember almost nothing else that happened that day. But for that smile.

The names and stories went on and on.

He found my daughter . . .

He proved my innocence . . .

Mr Holmes saved me a fortune in legal fees . . .

Name after name, and Sherlock scrolled faster and faster down the page. Testimony after testimony flashed by on the screen, dozens and dozens of them, some only a few sentences, others lengthy paragraphs. Though he moved with speed, he took in every word, every name, and his brain jarred with the memories and intricate details of each case. He'd not deleted a single one. But he couldn't dwell on these testimonials, not now, not yet. He didn't understand them, couldn't make sense of their gratitude and praise. In that moment, the wrenching in his heart could not be abated; there was only one man's story that made any difference to him at all. And it came at the very end.

His heart stilled when he came to it, and he read slowly.

John Watson, Baker Street

The world has decided that Sherlock Holmes is a villain. You may believe this yourself. You believe this because of what you have heard from his enemies, from people who do not know him, and from reporters who have twisted the words of those of us who do.

This is my first entry on this blog in nearly four years. As with every word I have left here in the past, I craft these with my own two hands. No one has asked me to write this; no one has told me what to say. And as I have always done, I will strive to be as honest as I know how and leave a true accounting. So I will begin where I left off.

I believe in Sherlock Holmes.

I believe that when he came into my life, five years ago, he saved me. Only two months earlier, I had been invalided home from Afghanistan, having been wounded during a sudden and hostile siege on our base. Due to my injuries, I was deemed unfit to continue active duty, and I was discharged too soon back into civilian life. Returning to London, however, proved almost fatal. I felt useless, worthless and depressed. I had only an estranged sister, few acquaintances, and no friends. When I slept, I slept badly, but most nights I just lay awake and thought of how unfortunate I was that the bullet that had incapacitated me from the start had not done worse. Looking back, I believe I was only days away from either becoming entirely dispossessed, like too many of our veterans are, or taking more drastic measures.

I met Sherlock at what I would now describe as the most critical juncture of my life. Almost overnight, I went from having barely a bed where I could rest my head to having a place to call home and someone to talk to, worry over, laugh with, and assist on mad adventures. For the first time since being torn out of my previous life, I felt useful, like my life had purpose again. Sherlock was strange in the most glorious way, brilliant and amusing and exciting, and I looked forward to waking each morning just to see what his day would bring us. I wished to be his friend, if only for the privilege of accompanying him on cases and seeing his brain in action. What amazed me most, though, was that he deigned to befriend me in return—a tremendous rarity and so a great honour. He did not know it at the time (or maybe he did), but our meeting saved my life.

Over the course of our acquaintance—the most intense but gratifying eighteen months I'd ever experienced—he saved that sorry life again and again, in so many ways that I cannot begin to number them. In moments when it mattered most, in times of highest danger, he was there to pull me through. I like to think I returned the favour a time or two. He relied on me, to an extent, as one does an appendage. But I've always known the greater debt is mine.

The day he disappeared, he saved me again. At the time, though, I didn't understand. None of us, in all of England, understood that he had chosen to fall as ransom—his life for others', including mine. He did not in reality die, but I do not count his sacrifice as any less meaningful, for what is a life, but home, family, friends, work, passions, and reputation? And he gave it up, all of it. He let the world believe him a murderer and a fraud, and he fell away into obscurity with no expectation of ever returning.

I have lost many people over the long years of my life. I am the last of my family. Fellow soldiers—compatriots I had been charged to save—fell to my right and to my left in the heat of battle and on the operating table. The love of my life was killed right before my eyes. But of all the people I have loved and lost, Sherlock alone came back. And when he did, it was only to save me again.

What you have heard about his return, from the press and through the grapevine, has been categorically untrue. Suggestions that he was behind the plot of the St Mary's Abductions, as they are popularly called, or that he has in any way been controlling or silencing me since, are unfounded, vicious, and in all other ways fallacious. Yes, I was abducted by his enemies, held captive for ten days, and tortured beyond reason. My partner, a woman I loved dearly, was killed. Others have since lost their lives. All of us, Sherlock included, have been victims of the ongoing mayhem Moriarty raised up when he was alive. But there's been one man fighting against it all along, both during his long absence and since his astonishing return, and on the whole, he's been fighting alone.

London, you have ridiculed him, demonised him, and called for his blood. In return, he has found your missing treasures, tracked down your criminals, jailed your murderers, rescued your children, and saved your lives. He is not without personal fault, and he has made mistakes, but he never stops fighting for the safety and happiness of those he loves. I do not ask you to laud him, or admire him, or hell, even thank him, though he deserves every last shred of gratitude you can offer. But you can, at the very least, learn the truth about the man, and it is this: that he is a good man.

I owe him everything. My life, my purpose, and my happiness. Though he scoffs at even the slightest display of sentiment, I cannot refrain from stating boldly and with unreserved conviction that no man can ask for a more loyal and loving friend, and he is mine.

Sherlock finished reading. The blood had drained from his hands, and the pounding in his veins was no longer a result of his rush up the stairs. He felt caught in dream, like he wasn't sitting in that chair, like the words burning in the screen in front of his eyes were an illusion. To make them more real, he read John's entry again. Then a third time, engraving each letter of each word so deeply into his memory that the imprint appeared on the inner chambers of his heart. When he felt he couldn't take much more of the burning in his chest, he snapped shut the lid on John's laptop, joined his hands together so that the tips pressed against his lips, and closed his eyes in thought.

---

When he opened them again, he was seated in his chair, one leg crossed over. He scarcely remembered having moved, but he wasn't surprised. That happened, sometimes, when he lost himself in the recesses of his own mind and memory.

It was a noise that had drawn him out—the closing of the front door, a foot on the stair, the slow creak of a wooden F-sharp. And John appeared in the open doorway, leaning on his own cane but bearing in his other hand Sherlock's crutches, which had been left tossed aside in the entry hall. John gave him an inquisitive look, eyebrows raised, eyes round, and indicated the crutches in his hand. 'All right?' he asked.

Sherlock found his mouth too dry and his teeth too glued and his neck too stiff to give any sort of appropriate response. Instead, he glanced to John's chair, indicating he should sit.

John nodded, set aside the crutches, and took but two steps before he tossed the cane to the sofa as well. He crossed the room and sank easily into his chair where he waited patiently for Sherlock to continue.

It took him a moment.

'I looked you up on the internet today,' he said at last, voice husky, words carefully measured.

John's face was at once impassive and wide open, ready for whatever Sherlock had to say next. 'Anything interesting?' he asked.

'Found your blog.' Sherlock felt an odd sort of tingling in his head, somewhere behind his nose. He sniffed. 'You've updated.'

John nodded slowly. 'And what did you think?'

His breath hitched, but only a little, and he forced himself to shrug, anxious to move this conversation into the territory of the casual and inconsequential. As such, he pulled his eyes away from where John watched him so carefully. It was easier to focus on a bare patch of rug. 'As ever, John,' he said with every attempt to infuse his voice with flippancy, 'you have greatly romanticized the truth of things. I've always said you have a flair for sensational narratives. And exaggeration.'

A long pause. He still couldn't bring himself to look at John.

Then John spoke: 'I've never lied on that blog. Not once. I've only ever . . .' He trailed off, and as the silence dragged on to the point of unbearableness, Sherlock lifted his eyes and found John waiting for him. '. . . held back.'

For a long moment, they held one another's eyes, and slowly John's words penetrated his defences. They sank past the protective layers of skin and overcame all bodily resistances to infuse every particle of his being, becoming a part of his very makeup. And at last, he understood what John was telling him, what he had been telling him all along but which he had seemed incapable of comprehending, no matter how bald the declaration. Three times, John had said it already, and Sherlock hadn't understood. But it was this last, the most delicate of them all, that spoke most clearly.

He was fast losing control. His jaw began to tremble, the fingers of one hand latched fiercely to the back of the other, and his vision blurred. He turned his head away quickly, toward the hearth, wishing for escape. John shouldn't have to see him like this, so overcome with gratitude, so overwhelmed with the warmth of a friendship he had never trusted he would ever know, that he was on the verge of losing himself entirely. A tear tracked down his face. He brushed at it hastily. He bit down so hard on his own tongue he tasted blood.

Across from him, John stood, and Sherlock was indebted—he would be left alone in the room, given some privacy, and time, to pull himself together again. But instead, John stepped closer, positioning himself alongside Sherlock's chair, and John's left hand rested lightly on his unyielding shoulder. Then he brought his left leg up and sat himself on the armrest. He tenderly turned Sherlock's head around and pulled him into his chest to embrace him. Within the strength of that secure hold, Sherlock found release—it came like a wave crashing through him, and he was powerless to hold it back. He choked, then with the tears came the sobs, and he cried openly into John's shirt. He felt arms tighten around him, felt John's head rest atop his own, and with both hands he grasped the front of John's shirt, giving into the need to hold and be held, for what felt like the first time. In all his life, he could recall no other time he had been so embraced.

'I'm sorry!' he said. His voice was strained and pitched, and wracked with tears. 'For all the hurt, for what you've lost, I'm so sorry!'

But John hushed him gently. 'I know, Sherlock. I know,' he said. The sound of his voice was all around him, and as certain as his embrace. Fingers dug into his back in an effort to draw him closer still. 'And I forgive you. You never have to say it again.'

John's arms never slackened, and even as the minutes passed and Sherlock calmed, neither sought to break their hold of one another.

'We're okay,' John whispered. 'You and me.' He kissed the top of Sherlock's head, rubbed his cheek into the curls. 'We're going to be okay.'

'I'm so tired, John,' said Sherlock.

'I know. And it's time to rest.'