Author's note:

Hi all!

I am in full script-writing mode for work, but I am getting on with the story, little by little, I promise. Life just gets in the way.

There are now over 200 reviews for this fic, wow! Thanks everyone!

Just as with the 100 mark, review 200 gets a little prize: a little oneshot inspired by the reviewer's prompt. And the winner is...Atlasina7! Should the winner not be interested, the prize will go to the next reviewer.

It is so kind of you to take the time to write comments, follow and favourite, that I have decided to offer other little rewards. I'm just waiting for the end of the fic to announce them.

Warm thanks to: writer's legend, Bucky5, mariahobolord, 8XiongMao8, Shopgirl2718, Wholock2 , Renaissancebooklover108, NiceNipps, 16magnolias, Rocking the Redhead , lavanyalabelle, Atlasina7, lovebirds413, mrspencil, miischall, wordgirl75.

I am so grateful for all the lovely comments and support, it's been a huge motivation (and it was also what prompted me to write this sequel in the first place!) Thank you so very much.

Ok, enough of that sappy stuff.

On to the story!

Many buildings in Milan are traditionally painted a soft shade of yellow and, as the sun sets or rises, they become tinted with a warm pink hue. Ascanio Rigamonti walked out of the hospital, tilting his face to welcome the last rays of sunlight as they kissed his unshaven cheeks. The two of his officers who had stayed up all night with him were now in that hyper elation that comes with lack of sleep and adrenaline, they were practically skipping, those idiots! A smile tugged at his lips, although he maintained his composure.

"Ben fatto, ragazzi." He allowed himself the rare praise: good job, guys.

They grinned and walked with their backs a little straighter as they reached the car. They would have to drive to Piazza sant'Ambrogio, take care of the paperwork and finally get some well-earned rest. Ascanio, on the other hand, planned to sleep on the train on his way home to his family. He wasn't going to keep his son waiting for his Papà!

Rigamonti''s phone started to beep and casually he pulled it out, believing the call to be from his wife. Sometimes she got anxious when he was working, and needed to be reassured her husband was alive and well. Bless her, Ascanio smiled.

He answered.

He started to run.

The smile was gone.

Sherlock looked at the clock on the wall.

John must have left about two hours ago, no earlier. He was sure the doctor would be able to make Molly laugh.

The consulting detective stood very still in the quiet waiting room. He breathed when he heard familiar steps and the doctor walked in. He didn't turn around.

"I asked if you wanted to get some dinner, John."

"I wasn't even in the...Oh, nevermind. All right, let's go."

Sherlock turned around.

Talk about the case, John. "After that are we going to talk to Stefano, Sherlock? He might know where Michael Carthy is..."

The door flew open and Rigamonti ran in.

"It's Stefano and Bonlieu, Mr. Holmes. They're dead."

What happened to them?" John asked Ascanio, getting into the car. Rigamonti shrugged. "I still know little. Bonlieu was being taken into custody, but was killed by a motorcycle in a hit-and-run just as he got out of the car. There was no license plate..."

You didn't need to be Sherlock Holmes to know that was no accident.

The Italian officer continued after an unsure cough. "As for Stefano, he was taken to the penitential hospital for the gunshot to his hand, and he was found dead just now." He shook his head. "Someone is cleaning up their tracks."

Rigamonti hesitated. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, I know you planned on...Speaking to Stefano."

John looked at Sherlock, not needing to wonder too much about how that encounter might have gone.

His friend just looked out of the window and said nothing.

A few minutes later, Sherlock stood looming over the corpse, covered as it was with a white sheet.

The staff of the penitential hospital had been fairly reluctant to let them in, mainly because they feared accusations of malpractice, probably.

"He was left alone only for an hour." An insignificant little man on kept repeating in broken English to John and Ascanio, who towered ominously over the person's small, quivering frame. "We don't know what...How..."

Sherlock wasn't listening.

The consulting detective lifted the sheet, impassive as he looked at what was left of Stefano.

"Was he given an IV?" He asked coldly.

The man nodded "And mended hand that they have gunshot. It was good..."

Sherlock's barely glanced at the bandaged palm, focusing on the knuckles of the other hand...A big, strong hand.

His fingers tightened their grip on the white sheet.

"Sherlock?" John called softly.

His friend blinked.

"Succinylcholine poisoning, given intravenously. His muscles became unresponsive and after a few seconds he stopped breathing, but he remained perfectly conscious, he knew he was dying. It would have taken a few minutes."

"What a horrible death..." Rigamonti breathed somberly. "Who killed him, Mr. Holmes? With your help whoever did it will pay for the crime."

The consulting detective looked up. "Someone changed the IV after the nurse left the room, you can see it was put in place by someone who has never done it before. As this is a penitential hospital, there is a restricted number of people who could enter unchallenged, someone who would be able to keep Stefano at bay should he try to resist..."

Sherlock's eyes widened.

Rigamonti stood still, expecting Sherlock to continue with his deductions. "Please continue." He asked when the consulting detective hesitated.

"That's it. That's all. It's Michael Carthy."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I am." He met the Italian officer's searching eyes. "It was him. He killed Stefano."

The consulting detective turned away, tossing the fabric aside in apparent carelessness. "Don't worry about Carthy, he will come to us soon enough."

Sherlock paused at the door. "It's all right, Rigamonti. Go home. Your son will be waiting for you."

The white sheet, whose top half had been thrown over the side of the bed, weighing it down, slowly slid off the body, exposing the corpse's nakedness.

It fell to the floor, unheeded, and there it stayed as Sherlock walked out of the room.

The phone rang once.

"Done?"

"Yes. Now please, let me speak to him."

"Papà?"

"Hey, Tiger!, are you all right? Are you ok?"

"Yeah! They gave me ice cream! Is it ok if I had some before dinner?"

"It's ok, Jacopo. It's fine." His voice shook. "Your daddy loves you, you know."

"I love you, too. Daddy, are you crying? Why are you crying?"

"I just...I'm sorry, Jacopo. Daddy did something bad today and I...I..."

"It's ok, daddy. All you need to do is say you're sorry and everything will be ok."

"Ah, if it were all so simple." A cold voice spoke in English. "But we know better."

"I did what you asked..."

"Don't worry, your son will be home for dinner. You have a lovely home."

The phone went dead.

Ascanio Rigamonti rested his head against the steering wheel and wept.