EPILOGUE

SATURDAY, MARCH 21, 2015

They took two trains and the whole of the morning to get there, and it would be well past dark before they returned to London, but neither minded at all. The carriages were mostly empty, and the hillsides rolled with a kind of sea-like serenity. When they wished to, they talked, and at one point Sherlock produced the playing cards again to continue their ongoing game of gin rummy, but otherwise he slept, and John sat back and watched the greening English countryside slip past the window on a breeze.

When they arrived in Norfolk, they hired a car and driver and drove from Norwich to the tiny village of Little Melton. The car rolled to a stop in front of a little brick house with a hedged-in garden and a long, cobbled path. They got out of the backseat of the car just as the front door of the cottage home cracked open.

Leaving his crutches in the front seat, Sherlock balanced on the open car door as he watched John march up the path and push straight into the house. Four seconds later, he was back, squeezing a floral holdall under his right armpit and hefting a suitcase in his hand. With his left, he grasped tight to Mrs Hudson as he all but dragged her out of the house. Already shoed, coated, and hatted, she was ready for travel. She came along with little but hurried steps, clutching a handbag and trying to keep steady pace with John. Behind them, a middle-aged woman stepped out onto the porch but came no further, watching them go with arms crossed beneath her breasts and a jaw let like a bulldog's. Sherlock saw another set of more cowardly eyes peering through parted curtains. From the first storey, a pair of children watched sadly through an open window.

When they reached the car again, John released Mrs Hudson into Sherlock's arms while he loaded her luggage into the boot. Sherlock tucked her head beneath his chin and wrapped her body close to his, glaring over the top of her head at the man and woman scrutinizing them in powerless silence. The boot slammed closed. John came back around, and now it was his turn to give Mrs Hudson a proper hello. By this time, Sherlock saw, she was crying. She stroked a light hand over John's fading bruises on one side of his face and kissed the other. No one looked back at the Woodhouses while they loaded into the backseat, Mrs Hudson between them.

As they drove away from Little Melton, Mrs Hudson kept one hand in Sherlock's, the other in John's, and wept all the way back to Norwich.

For someone who lived by an adage beginning if you can't say anything nice, Mrs Hudson had very few kind words regarding her niece and niece's husband, and she used them with abandon. 'I should never think to speak ill of family,' she often began her sentences, and finishing them with something like, 'but the way Gillian feeds those boys up with fats and sweets is criminal' or 'but Sherlock has sneezed out more brains in a day than Robert has in that whole plum-fool head of his.'

Hearing her speak like this made them both endlessly happy.

The way she described it—and Mrs Hudson was not one for fanciful embellishments, though she did have a knack for storytelling all her own—she had been living as a veritable prisoner, and her niece served as warden. The Woodhouses had been attentive to all her needs but none of her wants. She had a warm bed to sleep in at night, full kitchen access, and her favourite teas and biscuits; but they monitored her telly programmes, restricted her internet access, and confiscated her phone. First, it was 'misplaced'; then Roger claimed to have found it, lied that he had dropped it, and on the pretence of guilt had taken it to the shop where the tech specialists were supposedly 'taking longer than expected'. They changed the channel on the telly if ever a reporter began speaking the name Sherlock Holmes, were wary of all news of London, and stopped taking the Daily Mail altogether. To keep her aunt distracted, Gillian planned long outings, bribed the twins into 'playing with auntie', and asked her to tell long stories of when she and her sister (Gillian's late mother) were girls and the mischief they would get up to, because she knew her aunt was fond of those early years and loved to reminisce.

In response to her niece's tactics, Mrs Hudson requested outings to shopping centres and cafes where she knew she would be within earshot of a news programme or within arms' distance of a stray paper to nab and shove into her handbag for later perusal when she popped off to the loo. She taught the children the game 'What Did Sherlock Holmes Do Today?', one of her own design, that encouraged them to learn as much information as they could on the man and receive a reward when they reported back. Gillian found out only when she discovered that the twins had not kept the game to themselves, but that all the children of the neighbourhood were now playing and had come up with an elaborate points system independent of external rewards. So she forbade her children from playing the atrocious game and disallowed even the mention of Sherlock Holmes in the house. But on solitary evening walks, the children of the village sought out Mrs Hudson. She was Granny Hudson to them, and after they had reported their news, she shared with them stories. 'Did I tell you the one about the aluminium crutch?' she would ask, or 'There was the time Sherlock saved me from the Americans,' and before long, they were requesting their favourites and playing 'detectives' in the park.

Gillian and Robert believed her brainwashed and obsessive. They believed the stories in the papers and on the telly, that Holmes was dangerous and manipulative, a master charlatan. But the first two doctors they took her to declared her both healthy and hearty, of sound mind in no need of turning power of attorney over to anyone. They had to work hard to find one who agreed with their assessment of her fragile and incompetent mental state, then took that statement to an officiate who named them executors of her estate. In an effort to sever all ties to London, they listed her property for sale, assuring her that she could live out the rest of her days in comfort on the proceeds of the sale, omitting, however, the little detail that they were to be her sole inheritors.

Then Mycroft Holmes, who had been monitoring her wellbeing all along, took matters into his own hands.

'I should tell you,' said Sherlock while they sat tea in her flat, after two hours tutoring her in the finer details of not locking herself in the panic room unnecessarily, 'the deed has been signed over to me. Just to get it out of their hands. I will, of course, return 221 to its rightful owner.'

She patted his arm. 'You were going to come into it anyway, Sherlock, love. You and John. When you both came back, I named you successors to the property. Thought I mentioned it?'

Both Sherlock and John shook their heads no, a little astounded.

'Must be old age,' she said with a wink and sipped her tea contentedly. 'May as well let things lie, Mr Holmes.'

Wednesday, March 25, 2015

Greg Lestrade was on his fifth interview and missing Sally Donovan immensely. That was unexpected.

'And how long have you been on staff?' he asked Edward Stallman across from him.

The man's hands were joined between his knees and his head bowed in shame. Good. Lestrade was in no mood to contend with one of the defiant ones. Heidi Ringwald had been the same, but Mitch Jenkins had been the put-upon sort, and George Yarrow adamantly denied any involvement for three solid hours, despite being the only caretaker without a corroborated alibi who fitted the hole in the plot. That one had been tiring.

'Fifteen years,' said Stallman to his knees.

'Long time.'

'Yes, sir.'

'Long enough to know better than to take bribes from strangers and mess with Yard property, eh?'

Stallman shrugged, not in cheekiness but gesturing more toward ignominy.

'How much was it, again?'

His mouth barely moved. 'Ten thousand.'

Lestrade whistled. 'Ten thousand quid. Damn. Just for turning a key. Hard to say no to that, innit?'

'I had problems. Money problems. Couldn't say no.'

'And the dosh just showed up like magic.'

Stallman nodded. 'Day after New Year's, it was just sitting there. In my account.'

'We know. We checked. Tell me again what this man looked like.'

He blushed as he said it. 'Father Christmas.'

'That's right,' he laughed, a finger ticking the air. 'Father Christmas. Fluffy white beard, rosy red cheeks, and belly like a bowl full of jelly. On Christmas Eve.'

'I know how it sounds . . .'

'Sounds like a Christmas miracle,' Lestrade said sarcastically.

'I'm sorry. I told you everything I know. Everything. I've lost my job. Maybe my freedom. Soon enough I'll lose the money, too, then the car, then my wife will leave, and the kids with her . . .'

'What do you mean, you'll lose the money?'

'They'll take it back.'

'Come again?'

'That's what he said, the old man.'

'What did he say?'

'That if I told anyone, the money would disappear. And then some, he said. They're gonna wipe me clean, I just know it.'

Lestrade drummed his fingers on the table thoughtfully, and after a spell of silence, he said, 'A moment, Mr Stallman. Just you keep stewing.'

He left Edward Stallman in the interrogation chair and stepped into the observation room. 'You hear that?' he said to Gregson. 'They find out Eddie squealed, they'll retrieve the money from his account.'

'Not if we freeze the account,' said the chief superintendent. 'That's evidence. Probably blood money to start with. We'll freeze all the accounts.'

Lestrade shook his head. 'I think we should let it happen.'

'What? Why?'

'We've already tried to trace the origin of the money and failed. They've covered their tracks too well. But we may be able to track where it goes.'

'Tag it.'

'Precisely.'

'Good thinking, detective inspector. I'll get Hodgson on it right away.'

They turned to regard Stallman. Even through the glass and at some distance, they could see how badly he was sweating. 'Poor bastards, the lot of them,' said Lestrade. 'They had no idea what they were making happen. Easy money, that's all that mattered. And we've caught only a handful of what are surely dozens more.'

'These people—Moran's people—they sure know what the hell kind of game they're playing, don't they?'

'Yeah,' said Lestrade, but perhaps for the first time since the start, he didn't feel shrouded in impossibility. 'But they've slipped up just enough: they've left cracks. And the cracks are splitting wide.'

Thursday, April 2, 2015

John scratched a line through the sixth name on the list and proceeded to the next. 'Terrence Gentry,' he read aloud.

'No, definitely not,' said Sherlock. He was reclined into his armchair, legs stretched long, head thrown back, staring at the ceiling. He displayed a deportment of displeasure, but he was participating all the same. 'Self-described cognitivist, but really of the Freudian persuasion. You should read his case studies. Next.'

'Alan Langlais . . .'

'Next.'

'Ursula Zane—substance abuse, compulsions, and addictions . . .'

Sherlock tapped his fingers together thoughtfully. 'Put her on the "maybe" list.'

John complied, but even as he did so, he said, 'Not really you, though, is it?'

'Isn't it?'

'You're not an addict. Your cravings are merely symptomatic. And maybe you're a bit compulsive about some things, but that's not really the issue here.'

Sherlock sighed.

'You're only saying yes to that one because it's easier to talk about needing a cigarette than anything you really need to talk about.'

'Now who's the psychoanalyst?'

'Here's one. Adam Giles, practitioner of humanistic psychotherapy, with special focus on anxiety disorders . . .'

'. . . and recently appeared in the papers for insurance fraud.'

'Did he?'

'Yes. Next.'

John smirked. 'Trusting the papers on that one, are we?'

Sherlock groaned and pressed his palms into his eyes. 'Is this over yet?'

'Sherlock.' He turned in the chair to speak more directly to the top of Sherlock's bed head. 'Please. This is important. You're the one who made me go—'

'As I recall, that decision was all yours.'

'—and I was glad for it. Ultimately. And before you say this is any different, I'm not making you go. You said yourself it maybe wasn't such a bad idea. You've been through some pretty horrific traumas, Sherlock. Years of it.'

'I wouldn't say trauma—'

'Believe me, that's exactly what it's been. Harsh and unrelenting. I know I've said it already, and I know you've dismissed it, but Ella's terrific. Having dealt enough with me, she's already got more insight than anyone into exactly what we're up agai—'

The buzzer sounded, and their heads turned as one toward the nearest monitor. Standing on the pavement just outside the door were a man and a woman, not old but of some greater years, side by side with a bearing of resolve—his hands clasped behind, hers in front, and both standing as erect as soldiers.

In recent weeks, they had had few visitors not already known to them. There had been the occasional reporter hoping to get his or her own scoop on Michaela Warner's latest Sherlock Holmes spin, but not the sort of attention they'd received when it was first announced that Sherlock was alive, despite the resurgence in the popularity of John's blog. He continued to collect and post testimonials, but he had not enabled comments—he was interested in neither debates nor insipid remarks of either defamation or support—but that hadn't stopped the hosts of online spectators from reposting his defence of Sherlock, quoting him in and out of context, and spreading the article from Britain to Japan in both directions. By now, John's blog had received more than half a million hits, and Sherlock's was experiencing renewed interest itself. Signs had appeared around London in the form of graffiti and posted in bedroom windows reading I believe in Sherlock Holmes. There were still the trolls, the doubters, and the unqualified pundits voicing their loud, angry, and contrary opinions. But theirs were no longer the only voices shouting.

John arose and crossed the room, putting his thumb to the call button below the monitor. 'Yes, can I help you?' he asked.

He watched the man and woman look at each other before answering, as if reaffirming something between them, and the man replied. 'We have come to see Mr Holmes.'

'Do you know them, Sherlock?' John asked over his shoulder. Sherlock was now sitting upright on the edge of his chair, his expression of petulance evaporated. 'Let them in,' he said.

John hit the button again. 'First storey. Please close the door behind you,' he said, and he remotely opened the front door and watched the street until it was firmly shut behind them. Then he heard them ascending the stairs.

By the time they appeared in the flat, Sherlock had risen to his feet, standing to receive them but not moving forward to greet them properly. John noted an air of both expectancy and guardedness in him now. The plaster cast on his ankle was visible below the hem of his pyjama trouser leg, his dark hair was unkempt, and he wore a t-shirt and dressing gown—and yet he stood there with a kind of unquantifiable dignity that compelled the older man, upon entering, to ignore John entirely, face Sherlock, and say, 'Sir.' The woman cast her eyes to the floor.

'Have a seat,' he said, nodding to the sofa.

John sat, too, on a wooden chair between Sherlock and the couple.

'Mr Holmes,' said the husband, 'we've never met before, but—'

'I know who you are,' said Sherlock. 'My condolences for the loss of your son. Your grief must be immense. It bears saying, however, that I never met him myself.'

'No, I suppose you never did.'

'He was a good man,' said the wife, 'a kind soul. He didn't deserve . . .'

'None of us did. Richard had the misfortune, however, of sharing his face with a madman.' John at last understood, but before he could make his surprise at their coming to Baker Street known, Sherlock had pressed onward. 'Now. How may I be of assistance?'

The woman reached over to where the man's hands hung between his knees and gripped him hard at the wrist.

'We were hoping, Mr Holmes,' he said, 'that you could find our son.'

'The greatest likelihood, Mr Brook, is that Richard is dead.'

Mrs Brook's eyes closed as she nodded, holding onto her composure, but her nails were latched onto her husband's arm. He placed a hand over hers and rubbed gently to soften her hold.

'We expect that is true,' he said. 'But it is a terrible thing, sir, not getting to say a final goodbye and lay him to rest. It is unbearable not even knowing how it is Richard left this world.'

'The truth may be worse.'

'Mr Holmes,' said Mrs Brook, 'for three years, we believed we knew the truth, and it was an ugly one. But we knew it, and we eventually learnt to sleep again. I have barely slept a night since discovering it was not my son in that grave. I must know what happened to my child.'

John watched Sherlock closely. He hadn't moved an inch from where he stood since the Brooks' arrival. His weight was trusted to his sturdier leg, the other used merely for the sake of balance. But now, the strain of standing so still was getting to him. He shifted, and stretched out a hand for John's shoulder; in one hop, he was nearer, and he leant on John like a crutch.

'Why have you come to me?' he asked.

'The police,' said Mr Brook. 'They named him a missing person back in January. He has since been declared dead. But they're not looking for his body. They say, there's no trail to follow, no evidence of any kind to warrant an active search. They won't help us.'

'Why have you come to me?' Sherlock asked again.

'Because you're the Detective,' Mrs Brook explained. 'You're a genius. All those people's stories, all those lives you saved. They're true, aren't they?'

Sherlock didn't move, but John nodded assertively.

'You're the only hope we have left.'

'We'll compensate you for your time and resources,' said Mr Brook. 'You name a sum, and whatever it is, we'll pay it.'

'No,' said Sherlock. 'I don't work like that.' He leant further, putting more pressure on John's shoulder as he relieved the weight entirely from his casted leg, but John bore him up.

'Please, Mr Holmes—'

'I'll take the case, Mrs Brook. But not for money. You need to understand two things right now. First, this one will take time. Maybe a long time.'

'We understand.'

'And second, your son was murdered. He's nearly four-years dead, so his remains, if any remains are to be found, will tell a tale only of horror. I cannot have you entertain even the slightest hope that he will be found alive, or that his end was soft.'

'Of course,' said Mrs Brook, breathless.

Sherlock nodded. 'But I will discover what happened to him.'

There was nothing more to be said. The Brooks stood, thanked Sherlock from their place by the sofa, and exited the flat. Sherlock released John's shoulder and settled back into his chair, drawing his hands up beneath his chin. John waited until he heard the door downstairs lock behind them. Then he arose and went to the window, watching them leave. They walked arm in arm down the street. At a glance, they seemed a normal couple; then Mrs Brook's face turned into her husband's shoulder, and his arm came up quickly to support her, and John knew she was crying.

'You took the case,' he said.

For a moment, Sherlock said nothing. He was as still as a statue. 'Yes.'

'For the man who tried to put a bullet in you. At the very least, the one who destroyed your violin.'

'Yes.'

'Why?'

'People make mistakes, John. They have regrets. I have to believe they are not condemned to live with them the rest of their lives.' He turned his head and quirked an eyebrow. 'Have I disappointed you?'

John shook his head and answered gravely, 'Not in the least.'

Friday, April 3, 2015

'I took a shower this morning,' said John. Then, to clarify, 'A proper one, I mean. I had Sherlock standing by, just in case, but it was fine. It was all fine.'

'How did it feel?'

'Wonderful.' He had been anxious, certainly. Having gone to bed with the determination to do it come morning, he had awoken with the sun, his anxiety level at about a three, bordering on a four; but when he came down the stairs, Mrs Hudson was already busying about in the kitchen making breakfast and Sherlock was tinkering away on his violin, a cheery exercise of scales and arpeggios; he flashed John a quick smile, and his fingers kept right on dancing. A feeling of contentment arose in him, an old warmth nestled deep in his stomach that he had not felt in a long time, and his anxiety level returned to a two. They all breakfasted together on hardboiled eggs, toast, and tea, and then John excused himself to shower.

Once alone, he stood before the sink and coached himself softly: 'Do it. Just do it. Go.' Then he twisted the tap and let water run hot until steam filled the air. He focused on the sound of rushing water filling his ears to block out his own breaths that might suggest he was breathing too hard. Then he began to undress. And when he did, he did so quickly and averted his eyes from both himself and from the new mirror, which had begun to fog. Then he stepped into the stream.

'Any feelings of discomfort and exposure?'

'Not while in the shower,' he said. Behind the curtain, and with the hot water flowing down his skin and enveloping him in warmth, he'd felt calm and in control. He had lathered soap into his hands and washed quickly—still conscious of the uneven surfaces where scars marred his skin, especially the deeply pockmarked thighs. He didn't look, he didn't have to look, but he scrubbed arms, chest, and legs thoroughly and all at once, for the first time in many months. 'It was a short one,' he admitted, 'like an Army shower. I dried and dressed as quickly as I could.'

'This is excellent progress, John,' said Ella. 'I think you know that. It will only get easier.'

He nodded, restraining a smile of satisfaction.

'And you're sleeping well? In the bedroom?'

'In the bedroom, yes.'

'And well?' she said, noting he'd skipped that question.

'Better than before.'

'The dreams?'

'Well. I'll always have the dreams. Won't I.'

'Are your dreams the same as before?'

He continued to smile, though it was a little overwrought now, and gave a noncommittal sort of shrug.

'John.'

'Sure. Same dreams.' He scraped his fingernails against the insides of his palms. 'Sometimes.'

'Any new ones?'

'What do you mean?'

'You know what I mean. Nightmares inspired by the attack in your flat.'

'Ahh,' he said, shifting in his seat, rubbing his nose. 'I'm sure some are bound to spring up, now and again.'

'And have they?' She was not letting him sidestep anything.

He nodded and glanced at the clock.

'Let's talk about that. What do you dream, and how do the dreams make you feel?'

He licked his lips. 'You know, I woke up from a nightma— dream, just this morning. No, yesterday, I mean. I was . . . upset. Nothing new there. But I calmed myself to a three in mere seconds. My mind was my own.' He nodded sharply.

'That's excellent, but what I'm asking about—'

'Got my appetite back, too. Mostly.' He chuckled a little forcibly. 'Found out Sherlock can guess my weight within two pounds based on a creak in the stair. Can you believe that?'

'John—'

'Oh, and I meant to say, he's agreed to see someone. Well, he's agreed to sit through a single session with someone, see how it goes, but that's progress, yeah? A step in the right direction?'

'John, why don't you want to talk about it?'

He worried his tongue between his teeth, debating. Then, deciding it was futile pretending not to know what she meant, he said, 'We did talk. When I was in hospital.'

'Yes, to an extent.'

'Good. Right. So . . .' He shrugged again. 'And you told me, then, that I was coping very well. Nothing has changed on that count. I'm doing very well.'

'You are. Very well indeed. Although, the way we handle things, or think and feel about things, in the immediate aftermath is one thing. The long term is quite another. And yes, you managed that trauma better than anyone expected.'

'Great.'

'But there are aspects we have not yet discussed, things I don't know whether you've fully confronted with respect to what happened.'

John spoke through an impatient smile. 'Ella, I know what happened. Exactly what happened. I told you all of it. And I'm fine.'

'You killed someone.'

'Yes, I did,' he said curtly. The fake smile was not gone completely. 'It's not the first time.'

'John—'

'What was I supposed to do? Just lie there and take it?'

'I'm not suggesting you were wrong to do what you did. But the distress over ending a man's life, even an evil man—'

'Not a man. A beast. Carnal and wild and dangerous.' He could feel his temperature rising. A bead of sweat slipped down his neck and past his collar.

'Just the same, the act of taking a life—'

'I had the opportunity to defend myself and end this, and I took it. I don't regret it. I would do it again.'

'Just the same?'

'I said, I'd do it again. I know the cost of ending a life. I've paid it before.'

'What is the cost, John?'

'Nothing I can't afford.' He shook his head roughly. 'You seem to think I ought to be bothered by this. I'm not. I removed a threat—to others, to myself, to Sherlock even. In war, that's what you do. And I did it in the most efficient way possible.'

'Is that what you were thinking about? Efficiency?'

He blinked. Licked his lips. 'What do you mean?'

'How did you kill him?'

'With a combat knife. You know that.'

'But how?'

He clenched his jaw and looked toward the window. 'Blade to the gut,' he said. Then, more clinically, 'Penetrating abdominal trauma.'

'Was that enough to do the job?'

'He wasn't coming back from it.'

'Then why, John, did you also cut his throat?'

'I . . .' His fingers curled around the armrest, as though he might fall out of the chair if not properly anchored. '. . . had to . . . finish it.'

'What do you mean?'

He said nothing.

'He was dying already. Wasn't he? The police report—'

'He killed Mary,' said John, barely above a whisper. 'He sliced her throat wide open. Her blood spilt out like water from a jar.'

Ella controlled a wince. 'I thought Sebastian Moran—'

'He killed Mary.' His voice was suddenly bold, and his eyes flashed angrily. 'Don't you get it? Daz was there, too! He held me down, trapped me in that chair, so there was nothing, nothing I could do, and I would have done anything! Everything, to stop the blood or hold her while she . . . Yes, it was Moran's hand, Moran's scalpel, but if I couldn't get to him, then Daz, his pup of a lackey, would have to serve. One for the other. Don't you see? It's called a vicarious atone—'

Something cold rose up and spread through him, rushing from his stomach to the ends of his fingers and toes. He tried to make it stop—he clamped a hand across his mouth and arrested his breath—but the words were already spoken. The coldness set his skin on fire and churned in his gut; he thought he would throw up. Someone whispered in his ear: There you are.

'John.' Ella's voice travelled toward him slowly, distorted and undefined. 'John, you're all right. You need to breathe.'

He shook his head and rocked forward.

'I want you to go to your safety zone. Close your eyes, take your hand away from your mouth, and go there, now.'

With trembling arms, he gripped the armrests once again, squeezed tight his eyes, and pictured 221B.

'Inhale. One, two . . .'

Morning sunlight filtered through the flat's open windows, catching the swirling dust. On the desk lay Sherlock's books and his own laptop, open to his blog where he knew he'd been typing. Mrs Hudson had set out biscuits and tea. 'Three, four . . .' He heard the log snap in the hearth (something about pine and rapid oxidation and where had that come from?), and the vision shimmered. He looked around for Sherlock, or evidence that he was there, too. Instead, he saw Sebastian Moran, sitting in John's armchair.

'No!' he cried, and he shot to his feet. One leg nearly gave out, but he caught himself and moved at once for the door.

'John, you need to calm down before you can leave. Regain control.'

'I'm sorry,' he gasped. 'I'm fine, I'll be fine, I just . . . I have to go. I have to . . . I have to go.'

And he threw open the door and disappeared.

Wednesday, April 15, 2015

Molly was waiting for him when he pulled to the kerb outside of St Bart's. Once inside the car, they leant for each other and shared a lingering kiss-hello.

'Good news and bad,' he said, once the car was rolling again. He shifted quickly into third gear.

'Mm,' she groaned. 'Bad first, then.'

'We lost the Granger house.'

'Oh no, really? The one with the dumb waiter and the bookshelves built into the staircase?'

'That'd be the one. Someone else was offering ten grand over what we did, and they nabbed it.'

She sighed. 'It even had that westward-facing nook for watching the sun go down.'

'We'll find something just as nice. Better. It's prime buying season, so we just have to be quick on our feet. It's why my old place sold as quickly as it did, despite the . . .'

'Bloodstain.'

'Yes, well, didn't seem to bother them, did it? I figured it'd be a sticking point.'

'But you priced it so low, no one cared, really.'

'I mean, you'd think they'd insist it be replaced first.'

'And chance losing the sale? Or maybe they're the kind of people who like to have a story to tell their guests.'

'Hell of a story.'

'Let's have the good news, then, shall we?'

Lestrade reached an arm into the backseat and brought back that morning's edition of The Guardian.

'Is it the one with the two members of the jury?' she asked, taking the paper from him. The story had broken just that morning—it had been all over the news. Two jurors from Moriarty's trial had jointly come forward with the admission that they and their families had been threatened: return of a verdict of not guilty, or else. Fear had sealed the verdict, and shame had bought their silence for four years.

'It's all unravelling, isn't it?' he remarked, barely restraining a smile. 'But no, this is something better. Page 3. Another report by the lovely Ms Warner.'

She flipped the paper open, preparing to skim, but the photograph of Kitty Riley was front and centre. Molly read the headline aloud: 'Senior reporter for The Sun pleads guilty to perverting the course of justice.' She gasped and spun her head around so quickly she cricked her neck. 'Really?'

'Read it.'

Her eyes dragged down the page, and her lips moved rapidly, and silently for the most part, except when she couldn't help but voice the words aloud. 'Two counts of concealing evidence, and one count of maliciously targeting an innocent person.' She frowned. 'Only one?'

'Part of the plea deal. We had stronger evidence of criminal actions against John—evidence of stalking, illegally acquiring that coroner's report, and so forth—and only fancy footwork when it comes to her slandering Sherlock and provoking the attacks against him.'

'Pity,' said Molly, shaking her head. She kept reading. 'Sentencing will take place Thursday next . . .' Leaving the paper open to glare at the face in her lap, she asked, 'So what can she expect? More than a fine, I hope.'

'Each count has a minimum sentence of four months' incarceration—'

'Is that all!'

'—but maximums of up to eighteen for concealing, and twenty-four for targeting John. As a first-time offender, she may be allowed to serve sentences concurrently. I don't know what her solicitors have bargained. But if I were a betting man, I'd wager she'll spend twenty-four to thirty-six months in an open prison.'

Molly nodded, disappointed. 'Not what I'd give her.'

Lestrade let go of the gear lever and squeezed her knee instead.

'I see she quoted you,' said Molly, then read, 'Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade says that Ms Riley's irresponsible and in some cases destructive reporting has severely hampered the police's investigations into the Moriarty Mayhem of these last few months. He says, "Not only has Ms Riley been publishing false information and vilifying innocent citizens, but she has also misled the public into believing harmless persons were dangerous and dangerous persons harmless. This is a matter of public safety, and Ms Riley has tossed it aside in the interest of selling newspapers and furthering her career."' She looked over at him admiringly. 'Well said, detective inspector.'

He grinned modestly and deflected the compliment. 'Some responsible reporting, for once.'

'Mm,' she agreed, slipping her hand atop his and running a thumb across his knuckles.

'You'll notice Ms Warner never once mentioned Sherlock by name.'

'No, she didn't,' said Molly, a little surprised. 'Why not?'

'I asked her not to. Take him out of the spotlight for half a moment at least. Give him and John both a bit of privacy for a change. I'm kind of surprised she respected that request. Not used to that.'

'Other papers won't be so kind.'

'Yes, but I'm not giving interviews to those papers. Whatever Ms Warner's game is, she's playing it well, because I'm falling for that girl.'

Molly slapped his arm in a playful, scolding way, and he chuckled.

They arrived just as the sun was setting and the air was chilling. Lestrade parked, reached into the backseat again, this time for a flat, square object wrapped in blue paper. 'You think this is a good idea, right?' he asked.

'I do.'

'Like this?'

'I think he'll appreciate it. Really.'

They walked arm in arm to the front door, and Lestrade rang the bell, saying to Molly as he gestured to the thumb pad and tiny camera lens, 'Welcome to Fort Baker Street.'

Seconds later, the door opened to them, and they carried on upstairs to where dinner was being set out. Mrs Hudson proceeded to make a fuss over how lovely Molly looked that evening; her hair was growing out again, but she styled it well enough to hide where it had been shaved. The flat was cleared of clutter (at least, the clutter was neatly stacked in the corners), and the wall behind the sofa was for the first time in several weeks cleared of all those little notecards, newspapers clippings, and photographs. Lestrade knew they had merely been relocated to the basement flat.

When they all sat to eat, the conversation fixated on house hunting and funny news stories and tales from the mortuary, and when Sherlock seemed on the cusp of making a request of Molly for some samples, John announced dessert.

Afterwards, as Sherlock and Mrs Hudson saw to the washing-up, John stoked the fire. Then, as he settled into his chair, angled out toward the room, Lestrade, feeling a little wary but egged on by Molly's significant looks, approached him, saying, 'We brought something for you, John.'

Such a gesture was clearly unexpected, and John took a moment to recover from his surprise. 'Oh?' That's when Molly came forward, carrying something about the size of a thin book, wrapped.

'To be fair,' said Lestrade, 'it was yours to start with.' As Molly handed John the parcel, he continued, 'We were keeping it in the evidence lockers, but we don't have any need of it any longer, and you should have it back, you really should . . .'

He held his breath and felt Molly take his arm as they watched John peeled back the paper. Then John froze, finding himself holding a picture frame measuring five by seven; staring out at him from behind the glass were himself and his Mary as they sat together in a dimly lit pub. John's right arm wrapped around her back, and her hand was laid atop his left where they were joined on the table between their drinks. Their heads rested together, and they smiled, Mary brightly, John warmly. The photograph, Lestrade knew, was less than a year old.

'It's a little crumpled,' he said, needing to explain, 'and slightly torn around the edges. The frame hides the tears, and the glass flattens out the wrinkles a bit.'

'It's perfect,' said John softly. He brushed a thumb across Mary's face. When he spoke again, his voice had thickened. 'Thank you.'

'You should know, the Yard did make copies. For the official report, that is, and because it holds proof that you were being watched. But I know a guy, and we can airbrush Stubbins out of the background, if you'd like. It can be like he was never . . . there.'

Again, he felt the wrongness of providing John with a photo, the only one he had left of Mary, that also contained the image of a man who had played a part in the events that led to her loss. How could he ever look at it and not see the spectre of death just over their shoulders, watching the happy couple, plotting their destruction? It was the first place Lestrade's own eyes now always went, and he hated it. But John—he nodded, like he wasn't really listening. He didn't look up from the photograph, but his thumb kept stroking the glass over Mary's face.

'Sure,' he said distractedly. 'I'll think about—'

Then his body stiffened, and he sat forward on the edge of his chair, still clasping the frame with both hands, but now bringing the photo closer to his face.

'Something wrong?' Lestrade queried anxiously, certain he'd made a mistake.

John shook his head, a little bemused, but he said, 'I . . . know that man.'

'Stubbins?' Lestrade said with great surprise. He had shown John a photograph of Everett Stubbins back in October. He said he'd never seen the man before in his life.

'No.' John rose to his feet to move to better light. He angled the photograph to catch the glow of a standing lamp. 'Murray. That's Corporal William Murray.'

'Who?' Lestrade came closer to look at the man seated beside Stubbins at the bar, behind John and Mary, the man Stubbins had refused to identify. His face was just visible over Stubbins' shoulder.

'Bill Murray.'

Sherlock, overhearing the conversation, hobbled in from the kitchen, still drying a dish with a tea towel. 'The man who used to comment on your blog?'

John at last looked up to nod at Sherlock. 'He's out of focus, but that's him. I'm sure of it. I . . . never noticed him . . . before. Mary put all those pictures up on the wall after she had them printed, but I never reallylooked . . .'

'Wait, who is he?' Lestrade pressed. 'How do you know him?'

'He was a CMT in my unit. Combat medical technician. A nurse, basically. This man'—he tapped the glass over his shadowed visage—'saved my life. In Afghanistan. I got shot, and if it hadn't been for Murray . . .'

Sherlock came around the chair as quickly as his leg permitted, and the three men looked at the photograph together. Molly had dropped Lestrade's arm and stepped back, but Lestrade could practically feel her holding her breath.

'So what is he doing in a photograph with Everett Stubbins?' Lestrade wondered aloud.

'John,' said Sherlock, 'do you remember seeing him that night? In the pub? Do you remember talking to him?'

John shook his head. 'I haven't heard from Bill in years. Not since . . . the fall.' He laughed without humour. 'Why wouldn't he have come up to me? Said hello? We're old friends. I mean, we've known each other for years, years, even before we were deployed, and here he is, he's looking right at me!'

'Surveillance,' said Sherlock, the word hissing out of him.

'What? No.' John shook his head roughly. 'Not Bill. He's just a nurse.'

'People take bribes all the time.'

'And he wouldn't be the first Army vet Moran recruited,' Lestrade put in.

'Not Bill.' John stepped away from them, taking the photograph out of their sight. Then he passed a hand across his eyes and groaned.

'It may be nothing,' said Lestrade, seized by a sudden need to salvage the night. 'A coincidence, or a misunderstanding.' He caught Sherlock looking at him with a highly dubious raised eyebrow, and he sighed, relenting. 'But in any case, we'll need to find him. Interview him. Find out why he was in the pub that night, and what connection he has to Everett Stubbins.'

'Jesus,' John said with laboured breath.

'And question Stubbins again,' said Sherlock, 'now we have a name.'

'He pulled me out of the line of fire,' said John, as though to himself. 'He saved my life. We're friends.'

'But you say he hasn't been in touch?' asked Lestrade. 'Even once? Your name's been all over the papers since October, after all. Why not send a text or email, something just to see how you've been?'

John shrugged, staring at the photo in his hands. 'What does one say to a bloke when all you know of his recent life is that he's been used only as some sadistic maniac's favourite punchbag?'

'Oh John,' said Mrs Hudson from the doorway to the kitchen

'Something,' Sherlock growled. 'A friend says something.'

Lestrade nodded sharply to Sherlock, the friend who had done everything. John turned away.

'I'm going to get on this,' he said, glancing at Molly, who, though holding her hands across her stomach as an indication of nervousness, nodded firmly. 'Don't worry about a thing. Not tonight. Do you . . . do you want to keep . . . ?'

'Yes,' said John sharply, his grip tightening on the photograph. Then, he seemed to catch himself, and he softened. 'Thank you, Greg.'

And just like that, the evening was over.

It was midnight, and the flat was quiet. The fire was burning low, and a light had been left on in the hallway, but other than that, it was dark, and the sitting room was cast in a dark orange glow. When Sherlock returned from Mrs Hudson's, slowly and with the assistance of the aluminium cane rather than the crutches, he found John seated on the sofa. The framed photo still rested in his lap, between his hands, and for a moment Sherlock thought he had fallen asleep like that. But then he saw John blink in silhouette, the dim from the windows outlining his profile. Though the light had mostly faded from the room, he was still looking at her.

'May I?' Sherlock asked, indicating the vacant seat beside him.

John nodded. So he leant the cane against the arm rest, grabbed the back of the sofa, and lowered himself beside John. His bones melted a little, and he knew he was tired, but he had no inclination to retire yet to his bedroom. He glanced over. From his vantage point, the light glared off the glass of the photograph and obscured the faces. So he inclined himself a little closer and peered at it from John's shoulder. John subtly angled the frame, the better for Sherlock to see.

'What do you make of it?' he asked softly, and Sherlock knew he expected a string of deductions, the most minor of details hitherto unnoticed by the slower minds surrounding him illuminated, deconstructed, and strung back together again in a narrative that gave insight into the machinations that had long been at work behind the scenes. But Sherlock did not oblige this expectation.

'I see two people,' said Sherlock, his focus for once aligning with the stranger behind the camera, 'who love each other very much. That's what I see. She was beautiful, John.'

John turned his head to look at him. He was close enough that, despite the dark, Sherlock could see the surprise shining in his eyes, as if he had expected anything else but that. Then he smiled softly, eyes returning to the photograph. 'Yes. She was.'

'I'm sorry I never met her.'

John nodded. 'I am too.'

Sherlock knew, he could see it all over their faces as they left the flat, that Lestrade and Molly were second guessing giving John this photo as a gift. It had too much history, and heavy history at that. Not only had it sat as evidence in an abduction and murder case for six months, but within its borders it held forever the images of two men watching John and Mary like crows, presaging the death that would soon follow. Even Mrs Hudson had seemed unsure of it, and when Sherlock had seen her to her own flat—for she had indicated to him that she wished to speak to him privately—she had said, 'We can find other pictures, surely. He should have others.'

He agreed. John deserved more. But seeing John now, staring tenderly at Mary's smiling face as if she were the only one the camera had captured, Sherlock knew Lestrade and Molly had been right to bring it.

'You know,' said John, 'we almost didn't go out that night.'

'No?' He was a little taken aback; he had expected, rather, that John would prefer to sit in silent company.

'It was raining out.'

This, Sherlock had already deduced. A woman in the background wore a jacket dotted with droplets, and the clock on the wall gave the hour as half seven, well before a June sundown, but the lights of the pub were bright, indicating a darker world outside, the kind of dark of a storm. John continued:

'Mary had been under the weather for a few days but was finally feeling better. She was restless from too many summer days spent cooped up in the bedroom with a box of tissues, so I said we should go out. She got so excited, she practically flew out the door without shoes on.' He smiled fondly, remembering. Then the smile faded. 'God, I miss her.'

Sherlock didn't know what to say. He was afraid to speak at all, as if inserting his voice might break this spell, for John never talked about Mary. Not to him, not while awake. And out of respect, or maybe shyness, Sherlock never asked. But the photograph, knotty as it was, had been like a key to a forbidden door, and at the midnight hour, John wanted to talk.

'I wonder if she knew . . . I mean, really knew what she meant to me. I never told her. Not the way a person should be told. I keep thinking about those things—the things I never said, or never said quite right. I told her I loved her. She knew that much. But I think about how she gave me everything, and I held back. In some ways. Important ways. She didn't deserve that.'

Sherlock frowned, and when the silence drew longer, he ventured to speak, though softly. 'I don't think you realise, John, how much you give of yourself. To everyone. But to those you love most of all.'

'She shared with me her whole self,' John replied. 'And why wouldn't she? There was nothing for her to hide, and she was the most gracious person I ever met. After only six months, I felt like I knew her completely. After a year, I knew I never wanted to be parted from her. And I wanted to show her everything, everything I was. But I couldn't. I was afraid I'd lose her if she saw the demons I carry with me, the monster . . . that I think I am, deep down.'

'John—'

'I couldn't talk to her about Afghanistan. She knew about Harry and the drinking, but not about how much animosity there was between us. I don't think I even mentioned Mike. He was part of a past I wanted to forget. I figured, why bring up the dead friends she could never meet? What would be the point? But I know—I was just hiding myself from her, pretending to be someone else, someone who wasn't in pain. And that why . . . why I couldn't even show her you. You were an important part of me. Of who I was. She knew who you were, of course. She knew you had meant a great deal to me, you and that life we had once . . .'

He sighed and lifted his head, looking around the sitting room. 'This place. You know something, Sherlock? I don't think I was ever truly happy before I came here. To Baker Street, I mean. Not as an adult, at least. It's like I didn't even know myself in the world. After Dad died, when I could finally leave, I was always running off, trying to find something that would make me feel like I was worth something to people, like I had something to offer. Did I ever tell you why I became a doctor?'

'No,' said Sherlock, his voice barely more than a whisper.

'Something was wrong with me. I could feel it, for years I could feel it, but I couldn't tell you what it was. I guess I figured, if I could fix other people, I could fix myself. It's the same reason I joined Her Majesty's Royal Army. Happy people don't join the army, Sherlock. I was searching for something. I wanted, that is, I needed to feel useful to something greater than myself. I was trying to, I don't know, make sense of myself. I'm not explaining this very well. But it wasn't until . . . this'—he indicated the two of them—'that I finally felt like I fitted inside my own skin. I felt real. Things made . . . sense. In a way they never had before.'

'And you were . . . happy here?'

'Yeah. I was. This life, it was . . . special to me. Mary knew it. But then, she didn't. I never told her. I couldn't find the words. And I didn't want her to think she meant anything less, because she didn't. She meant everything. This meant everything. I kept thinking, someday. Someday, when it was easier, I would tell her what those days meant to me. Someday, I would tell her about knowing how to spot good Chinese restaurants and fake Vermeers, and what the inside of Buckingham Palace looked like, and what it was like coming home to a severed head in the fridge. I would tell her about the last time I ever took sugar with my coffee or pulled rank to investigate a glow-in-the-dark rabbit. I would tell her what it felt like, being a conductor of light. I thought we had forever for those things. I thought I had forever to tell her about them. But time ran out. Suddenly, it was too late.'

'You've lived two lives,' said Sherlock, 'that are special. Not just one.'

'Yes. And maybe I have the chance for one more. I just don't want to make those mistakes again.'

'What mistakes?'

'Things left unsaid.' He turned his head again, and half his face was cast in shadow, the other dimly lit by the dying fire. 'I'm glad you came back, Sherlock. No matter what else happens, I'll always be glad of it.'

'Tell me about Mary, John,' he said. 'I want to know her.'

John parted his lips, but hesitated. 'It's late,' he said, meaning the hour.

'But not too late.'

'I dare say, you've laid out your case rather neatly, Mr Holmes.'

They shuffled papers, sipped from snifters, and readjusted spectacles on the ends of Their prominent noses.

'It's the most logical of solutions to our little . . . quandary,' said Mycroft. His own glass remained untouched, barely noticed. He was a moderate drinker, and little effected by it, but he needed every mental faculty as sharp as a razor, and he was taking no chances. One sip, at the start, to demonstrate his ease and camaraderie, but not a drop since. 'As long as he remains Moriarty's prime target, the damage will be concentrated and therefore contained. Take away that focus and it becomes widespread and uncontrollable. Instead of a laser, a firestorm. For that reason alone, you need him alive and free.'

'As bait.'

'As insurance. As long as Sherlock Holmes is free, we know their plans. Moran and Adler are singularly focused on designs for revenge. Take him out of the equation, and we cannot begin to imagine what they will do next with the network Moriarty left behind.'

'As long as Sherlock Holmes is free, the people of London are a target. Let us not forget that many have died on his behalf.'

'The already dispossessed,' said Mycroft with a wave of his hand. 'No one of great consequence.'

'We do not trust these people to stay their hand from greater acts of annihilation. We need their eye to shift away from London altogether.'

Mycroft laughed shortly. 'Let us not be so near-sighted. Moran is a national traitor and bitter enemy of the state. He'll not simply ignore the rest of us once he's finished off Sherlock. No, we need to keep him focused—on Sherlock—for as long as we can while we make designs of our own to remove the greater threat to the city: Moriarty.'

'There is no way to predict how long until they kill him.'

'No. There isn't.'

'And it doesn't bother you? Setting your brother up for destruction?'

Mycroft practised the art of nonchalance. Reclined in his chair with his fingers interlocked over his belly, he frowned in a way that suggested disinterest. 'Sherlock is bound for destruction. He always has been. His demise may as well be in the interest of the nation.'

'And if he should fail to tease Moran into daylight?'

'They will come after him. It is a certainty. Moran has sworn vengeance against him, and Adler will not accept defeat at any cost. Our best course is to use him to our advantage.'

'And what of his . . . companion? John Watson?'

'Where one goes, the other is sure to follow. It is unfortunate, the cost, but it's the price that must be paid.'

The conclave was over before midnight, but Mycroft Holmes did not go home straight away. The others filed out one by one, each to his or her respective residences where they resumed their public lives, but he stayed behind, in his private office, to work. He checked in with operatives in Kuala Lumpur, Manila, and Hong Kong, who were just waking up; and with agents in Santiago, Havana, and Washington, who were just readying for sleep. He revised reports from the field and evaluated threat levels flagged by three different governments. He deployed agents on tactical missions in four different countries. He triple checked the accounts, verified the funds, and moved money around to where it would be most useful. And last of all, he checked the CCTV monitor displaying the front door of 221B Baker Street. All appeared quiet.

Rising for his coat, he rang Anthea, who had been awaiting his call.

'Two minutes. Have the car ready,' he told her. 'I'll have your briefing.'

The lift travelled silently from the highest floor to the ground. He bid the doorman goodnight by name and received a 'Goodnight, Mr Holmes' in return. Then he tugged on his Crombie overcoat and stepped outside where the town car idled in front of the building, waiting to take him home. The doorman followed him, pulling open the rear door of the car.

'Thank you, Geoffrey,' said Mycroft tiredly, and he ducked his head and slipped inside to where Anthea was waiting for him on the opposite side of the facing seat within the spacious car.

Only it wasn't Anthea. The moment the door closed, it locked, and the car revved and rolled. Mycroft Holmes found himself seated across from Irene Adler.

He was not a man who startled easily, nor was he often caught off his guard. But he was a man of supreme control; and so, even adrenaline flooded his stomach and the blood drained from his face at the sight of her and the gold-plated precision small arms .25-calibur semi-automatic she levelled at him, he comported himself with dignity, and with all the coolness in the world he said by way of greeting and in an unshaken tone, 'Intelligence placed you in Paris as of fifteen hundred hours just today.'

The woman raised an imperious eyebrow and answered with an equal degree of calm. 'Intelligence, you say?'

'You're looking well.'

'I am well rested.'

'Is the grieving period over? Or are you finally bored of hiding in shadows and behind nursery rhymes.'

'Plans change, Mr Holmes.'

'When they are thwarted.'

'I'm endlessly adaptable.'

He rolled his eyes and noted the stranger behind the wheel. 'Where is Davenport?'

'Oh, you must mean the driver.'

To an unknowing observer, both Mycroft and she appeared perfectly at ease, conversational even, if not for the semi-automatic charging the atmosphere with destructive possibilities. She sat with the coy but comfortable posture of her sex—knees together and angled toward him, head turned and tilted to emphasise the length of her neck and narrowness of her jaw. Her hair was pulled back and coiled into a low bun on the side of her head at the nape of her neck. She wore a black dress softly draped at the neckline, rippling all the way down to an asymmetrically cut hemline. Her bare arms were draped in a dark-blue silken shawl, and soft-leather gloves stretched inches above her wrist, complementing the mid-calf, high-heeled boots. She looked as though she had just come from a gala.

He waited for an answer.

'He's not dead,' she answered. 'Not yet. But I cannot vouch for his comfort. Two bodies in a boot is rather a tight fit.'

'Anthea,' he surmised, his heart sinking.

'Is that what you call her? Pet names are so revealing, aren't they?'

He was displeased. Very displeased. But he wasn't the one holding the gun.

'Are they conscious?'

She frowned, as though disappointed in him. 'I don't hear thumping. Do you?'

At present, there was nothing he could do for Davenport or Anthea. But to ensure their future safety, he had to secure his own. He was reasonably sure that she had no intention of pulling the trigger. Not just yet, in any case. Had she wanted him dead, she would have fired already, or had a sniper pawn take the shot. No, she wanted something, and it was one of two things: information, or favour. Mycroft prepared himself to respond to either.

'We're headed to Baker Street,' Mycroft next deduced from the route. 'I can assure you, Sherlock will not open the door to you, not even if you hold me as hostage with a gun pointed at my head. You overestimate our fondness for one another.'

'I don't think I do,' she responded, simpering, 'but I'm not using you as a hostage, Mr Holmes. I need you to deliver a message to my virgin sweetheart.'

So favour it was.

'And in return? I trust you will release my personnel.'

'You may retrieve them at your leisure. Though you may need a crane and diver.'

He couldn't let her see how she was stirring him to anger. In any case, allowing her to excite any emotion in him was wholly counterproductive, and he needed to shut it down. For now, it was simply a matter of collecting information and data, as much as possible, so that he might decide the most prudent course of action.

'And the nature of this message?' he prompted.

'I thought you'd never ask.'

Still levelling the gun at the centre of his chest, she bit the tip of the glove on her left hand and pulled it off, setting it aside and revealing long nails polished blood red. Then she reached for a small purse at her side, clicked it open, and extracted a tube of lipstick. She unsheathed it, twisted the bottom, and applied a shade to match the polish, performing each action with only her left hand. Given her profession, this dexterity did not surprise him.

Then she moved. She left her seat angled across from him to join him on the back bench. She placed the cold tip of the gun against his throat to pin him. Then, weapon anchored, she climbed on top of him. Fixing one knee between his thighs, she grasped the back of his neck above the collar with her free hand and pressed her lips against his own. He felt repulsed but, at her mercy, he did not flinch. Long fingernails dug into the meat of his neck and dragged painfully along the skin, and he thought she must have drawn blood. Suddenly, she kicked a knee toward his groin, and he gasped reflexively at the sharpness of the pain. The gun rose up from chest to cheek, and she caressed the side of his face with it. Finally, she slipped a hand inside the inner pocket of his coat and extracted his mobile phone. Grinning, she returned to her seat, setting the phone in her lap. She picked up the glove and redressed herself in it.

'I won't ask whether you enjoyed that,' she said blithely. 'The Holmes brothers seem to share an enthusiasm for kissing beautiful women.'

His lips felt like they were burning. Unwilling to hide his disgust any longer, he wiped away the lipstick she had left there with the back of his hand; the burning seemed to transfer to the skin of his hand.

'I will say, kissing you boys is terribly unsatisfying. Jim wasn't overstating the moniker he gave you. Are you so cold with all your former mistresses? I shouldn't expect such treatment.'

He wouldn't rise to the bait and gave her no reaction. 'What exactly is the message, Ms Adler?' he asked with a sneer, liking his prickly bottom lip; there was a sharpness, now, on the tip of his tongue.

'Darling,' she said with a disappointed gaze, 'you are.'

She went again for her purse and pulled out a small plastic bag. Then, with deft fingers beneath those gloves, she scraped gently at the corner of her mouth. Mycroft watched with bated breath as she peeled off a thin, gossamer layer from her lips and dropped it into the plastic bag. She pulled out a cleansing wipe, rubbed it across her mouth, and deposited it the same.

The tingling on his mouth was beginning to numb both lips and tongue; the back of his neck, though, was on fire, and all over, wherever the blood coursed through his body, his skin crawled as though he were covered with spiders.

'What have you done?' His heart had begun to race. His skin felt cold and his palms were clammy, but he wasn't sure if such physiological reactions were the result of heightened fear or something far more deleterious. Then a wave of nausea struck, spread through him, and his stomach clenched in epigastric pain; his whole body shuddered, and he curled over his knees, knowing he would be sick.

'Watch the shoes, love,' she said disinterestedly, moving her boots away from where he might throw up. She casually picked up the mobile from her lap and began to type.

At half three in the morning, Sherlock awoke to the sound of a ding in the pocket of his dressing gown. His eyes opened slowly. In half a second, he remembered where he was—he had fallen asleep sitting upright on the sofa. John was still beside him, breathing deeply.

Carefully, he extracted himself from where John leant against him, but before he moved away completely, and he held John's upper arms just until he was sure his friend would remain upright and not collapse sideways and awake. Then he limped toward the hearth, now cold, and used his body to shield the light from the mobile as he opened his inbox. A text from Mycroft? At such an hour, it was not to be ignored. He opened it and read the single script.

C34H47NO11

His eyes narrowed in momentary confusion. A puzzle? Was Mycroft honestly sending him a little brainteaser in the middle of the night? His initial irritation gave way under the stronger reality that such a game was not at all Mycroft's style. Whatever this was, it must be significant.

He recognised the pattern at once as a chemical formula, but he was less confident as to what it delineated. Carbon, hydrogen, nitrogen, and oxygen were among the most common elements on the planet, so whatever this meant, it was characteristically biological. Some formulas he could read at a glance (ethanol and propanol and sodium hypochlorite, for instance), but this one recalled nothing to him. Checking that John still slept, he sank down into his chair and began to search his online sources.

Aconitine, he discovered, and a chord in his memory was plucked. Aconitum was a plant, one he had researched after John had been gifted the ill-fated bouquet. Also called monkshood or devil's helmet. He tapped and typed and scrolled through images of the delicate purple flower. Every part of it was highly poisonous, from pistil to root. Women's bane, he read, and queen of poisons. The flower contained alkaloids that depressed the nervous system, instigated cardiac arrhythmia, and led to death. Ingested or absorbed through the skin, it was fast-acting and among the deadlier poisons on the planet, for which there was no antidote.

Suddenly, out on the street and right below the flat, three loud honks from a car horn blared through the window and shattered the night-time quiet. Sherlock flinched, and John started awake with a jolt. The photograph in his lap slipped to the floor, and the glass shattered. Three more honks, long this time, someone laying on the horn. Sherlock was on his feet, hobbling to the window. And finally, three more, abrupt, then silent. John twisted to look at the monitor, but Sherlock saw it through the glass. A black town car was driving away, and left behind on the pavement below was a body. He recognised it at once.

'Mycroft,' he whispered.

End of Book II: The Slash Man

To be continued . . .