Lestrade peered over the edge of the roof at St. James's Square below, swallowing hard. It was one thing to practice floating around with something to hold onto, or a few inches off a solid surface, but quite another to launch himself over a potential drop of several dozen feet!

He felt Holmes come up beside him and give him a friendly nudge. "Don't worry, just keep hold of your happy thought and you'll be fine!" The detective held out his hand. "We'll go together, all right?"

Lestrade grasped the offered hand tightly, devoutly thankful that none of his professional colleagues could see him just now.

"On three, then. One..."

Something whizzed past Lestrade's face and hit a chimney stack, gouging a large hole in the brickwork.

"Christ!" Lestrade yelped.

"Pirates! Let's go!" Holmes leapt forward, dragging the Inspector with him.

"Aargh!" Lestrade automatically flailed and clutched at Holmes's arm, then realised he wasn't actually weighing his companion down. Holmes was mercifully heading straight across the square without any fancy acrobatics, though at a speed that made Lestrade's eyes water in the wind. Happy thoughts, happy thoughts, happy thoughts! Picture that lovely village in the distance... With every moment of steady gliding, his pounding heart gradually slowed and settled back into his chest. Hell, if birds could do this without magic... He still wasn't planning on letting go, though! "Do you have any idea where you're going?" he called over the rush of the air.

"Not really!" Holmes called back, sounding far too cheerful about the whole situation. "Any suggestions?"

"Yes! Baker Street!" He didn't actually want to go there, Moriarty would almost certainly be expecting it, but... "Wiggins was supposed to deliver a message to Mrs... a lady friend of mine, but I don't know if she got it!" The news that her lodger was unwell would certainly bring the concerned woman straight round to Mycroft's rooms, but Lestrade had no way of knowing if Wiggins had even left before the attack.

"All right, then. Which way's Baker Street? I don't know London very well!"

"Oh Lord, you really don't, do you? Look, stop for a second and go a bit higher, slowly? I need to see the Thames." The river came into view on Lestrade's left, the setting sun turning the water golden. "Perfect, stop here! All right, we need to head... northwest." Lestrade pointed. "Keep a lookout for a large park with a lake, that's Regent's Park. Baker Street is at the southwest corner."

"Right!" Holmes took off again without warning, at about twice his earlier speed.

Lestrade only just kept his hold on the detective's arm, heart leaping into his mouth yet again. He wasn't going to transfer after this case, he was going to retire! "By the way," he shouted, "it is still Sherlock Holmes of Devonshire, right?"

Holmes gave him an odd look. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well, you did say pirates were after us just now."

The detective shrugged. "Slip of the tongue, I suppose. I don't normally get any other types of grown-ups shooting at me!"

"You'd be amazed."


"How can you tell which house 221B is, if you can't see the number?" Holmes half-whispered, gliding along the Baker Street rooftops behind Lestrade.

"Mrs. Hudson keeps a herb garden at the back – ah, there it is! Then we just drop down to Wats... the second floor window."

"Is the catch broken?"

"I doubt it. We'll probably have to break the glass." Lestrade spotted a loose half brick in the gutter that had fallen from a neighbouring chimney, and scooped it up. "Mrs. Hudson won't mind, trust me." The landlady would have slightly more pressing matters to deal with!

"Can I do it?" Holmes said hopefully.

"No. Just stay where you... Wait, we should...!"

But Holmes had already slipped over the edge to hover in front of the bedroom window, looking puzzled. "I thought you said it would be closed!" he called up softly.

"It's open?" Lestrade floated down beside Holmes, frowning at the offending aperture. "That's odd."

"She could have been airing the room, and forgot? Our maids do that sometimes."

"I'm sure," Lestrade said dryly. If only he could be certain it was that simple... Well, they wouldn't find any answers out here, and it was high time to get under cover. He was suddenly very glad for the weight of the half brick in his hand, as his revolver had long since vanished, probably somewhere over Pall Mall. "All right, we're going in, but... be very careful, all right? We keep off the floor until we know there's no one here who shouldn't be, and stay away from the windows. You don't so much as twitch the curtains, got that? Let's go."

Lestrade had never actually visited the second floor before, so he had no idea what kind of an impression Watson might have left up here when he moved out. But the room looked as clean and neat as it must have been before the doctor had taken up residence, thanks to Mrs. Hudson. The only thing that looked at all out of place was a book on the bedside table, a leather bookmark sticking out of the pages.

Holmes flew over and squinted at the faded title. "The... Death Ship, Part Three. Ugh, why's this up here?"

"You've read it?" Lestrade whispered back, intrigued. He'd known Watson liked William Russell...

"Myke gave me a copy for my birthday, he knew I liked pirate stories. I hated that one, though, the ending was awful."

Lestrade glided to the door and opened it with care, listening hard. No sound came from below, and he dared to put his head out; no one on the landing or stairs. He flew down and found the sitting room equally deserted. Turning to beckon Holmes down, he saw that the detective had hopped up on the bannister and was sliding down, cross-legged, with a grin of pure mischief. Lestrade rolled his eyes, but said nothing. He'd probably wanted to do that for years.

"Stay up here, I'll check the ground floor," the Inspector murmured. "If Mrs. Hudson is home, you'll frighten the life out of her, looking like that! There's clean clothes in that bedroom there, see if you can find something that fits." Don't start, he grumpily told his pricking conscience as he headed downstairs again. Night was falling, and Holmes needed a change of clothes, whatever else happened! He just prayed that whatever did happen next would not be a complete disaster...

Reaching the ground floor, Lestrade cautiously tried the front door handle. The door was locked, but from the inside or the outside? Mrs. Hudson's hat, coat and shopping bag were all on their usual hooks... but that might not mean much, if the woman had left in enough of a hurry, or been sufficiently distracted by an alarming message. He strained his ears as he passed along the gloomy front hall, pausing at the kitchen door to land, but could hear nothing through it.

He hefted the half brick and pushed gently at the green baize, slowly, slowly... Damn, the kitchen was just as dark, cold and empty... too cold and empty, now he came to think of it. Wasn't Saturday Mrs. Hudson's baking day? Normally, the air in here would still be warm from the oven, and thronged with delicious smells, especially in the pantry. Even if Wiggins had reached Baker Street this afternoon without any delays, there should have been signs of interrupted activity: dirty dishes, an unscrubbed sink, traces of ingredients on the floor or table... but instead, the place was immaculate, upstairs and down. Mrs. Hudson was houseproud, certainly, but she wouldn't bother about any of that with Holmes in trouble!

It could all be explained so easily, however, if Mrs. Hudson had had a good reason not to follow her usual routine this morning. These were certainly interesting times, after all... and, unfortunately, the only person who could have shed light on exactly what the woman knew was currently upstairs, discovering that his 'borrowed' clothing fit him perfectly.

"Let's just hope he isn't tempted to play around with his chemicals," Lestrade muttered as he turned back, then jumped considerably higher than usual at a thump from the floor above.

The Inspector took the stairs two at a time. "Sherlock? Everything all right?" Stupid, he should have known better than to leave his colleague alone up there, even for a minute! He had known better, dammit! "Sherlock, answer me!"

"In here..." The voice sounded dazed, but not in pain, and Lestrade exhaled in relief as he entered the sitting room to find Holmes standing in the middle of the floor. It was a lot darker in here now, too, but he could clearly see a small round table lying on its side, which must have held the chess board and pieces that were now scattered on the rug.

"Oh, that's nothing," Lestrade began heartily, then realised that Holmes wasn't looking at the mess; he was staring fixedly across the room. "Well, I see you found something to wear," he said brightly, pretending he hadn't noticed. Tweed trousers, a white shirt, a plain black waistcoat, and a pair of elastic-sided boots made a practical, if Spartan, ensemble, and Holmes looked much better with his face washed and hair combed, though still nothing like the fastidiously attired and groomed gentleman whom Lestrade had met for a council of war only... good God, only yesterday...

"That's... not all I found..."

Lestrade blinked, chiding himself. This was hardly the moment to indulge in self-pity when Holmes had much bigger problems! "What did you find, son?"

"Don't call me that!" Holmes whipped around, eyes full of fury... and anguish. "I'm not your son! I'm not anyone's son!"

Oh dear... "But you were telling me about your father," Lestrade answered carefully. "On the roof, remember? His concerns about you at Oxford?"

"That was years ago!" Holmes cried impatiently, as if wondering how Lestrade could be so forgetful! He turned and strode over to the sideboard, where his violin case lay open, and pulled out the Stradivarius, none too gently in his agitation. "See this? It's mine! Father gave it to me as a reward when I passed my first lot of exams! Why is it here?!"

"Ah." If there was a better response, Lestrade couldn't think of one. Drat the man, why had he told Watson he'd bought it himself?

"And he never even got to see... see me graduate..."

Lestrade hastily picked his way through the chess pieces, and supported the sagging, trembling detective to the settee, still clutching his Stradivarius by the neck. So close, and yet so far... Holmes must now be at St. Barts in his mind, or lodging in Montague Street. Either way, back then he had just begun to explore how forensic science could assist the law. Perhaps... Perhaps that was the best way forward here, as Mrs. Hudson was certainly in no position to jog her lodger's memory, wherever she was.

First things first, though... Fortunately, there was no need to leave the room again to find food. A bowl of fruit and an uncut loaf stood on the sideboard, as well as the normal decanters. Lestrade tore some large chunks off the loaf, peeled a couple of oranges and poured two glasses of water from the carafe, then coaxed Holmes into letting his violin go, just for a minute, so that he could eat and drink. The detective accepted the water readily enough, gulping thirstily, but wouldn't touch the food. Lestrade wished he knew if that was a sign of returning memory, or because the man simply felt like being difficult! Oh well, waste not, want not – he was pretty ravenous himself.

"Ohh, that's better," he sighed at last, leaning back. "Feels like a long time since those biscuits!" He only realised he might have said something wrong when Holmes's hands tightened on the empty glass. "Sherlock? What's the matter?" Besides everything...

"John drugged me, didn't he?" But the question was a flat statement of fact, the voice equally flat and cold. "The hot chocolate. And you knew."

Lestrade felt a chill. Damn, damn, damn... Of all Watson's errors in judgement, he hadn't even considered having to deal with the consequences of this one!

"I should have woken up when the gang were trying to break in. Shouldn't I?"

"Yes," Lestrade answered gruffly. "It was a stupid mistake on your brother's part, Sherlock, I'm not denying that!" he added hastily as Holmes sprang up off the settee, hugging his violin to his chest, the Inspector's heart sinking at the detective's expression. It had only taken a moment to shatter the trust he had tried so hard to rebuild...

"He's not my brother! And you're not my friend!" Good Lord, and Lestrade had thought Holmes was too mentally old now for tantrums! "How could you?!"

"I don't know!" Lestrade shouted back, also rising to his feet. "You're right! You're absolutely right, I shouldn't have let him do it! It was stupid! He should have trusted you, we all should, but we didn't! Is that what you wanted to hear?"

"No! Tell me whose house this is!"

"I can't." The terror in Holmes's eyes broke Lestrade's heart, but he wasn't going to tell his colleague what he very obviously already knew, deep down. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, I really am... but you need to solve this last problem yourself."

"Please!" Holmes clutched one-handed at Lestrade's arm, his earlier hostility forgotten."You have to tell me why my violin is here! And why I fit every piece of clothing in the wardrobe!" He let go and gestured wildly at the ceiling. "And that book upstairs!"

"...What about the book?" Come on, Holmes, come on, work it out...

"It's more tattered than it should be, but that's mine, too! A-At least, it was... I gave it to... to..."

"Who, Sherlock?"

"I don't... I don't remember!" Holmes folded back onto the settee, head in his hands, the violin sliding the floor. "Why c-can't I...?"

Damn. "Sherlock... I know this is hard..." Lestrade retrieved the Stradivarius and sat back down beside Holmes. "But right now, you're on the point of understanding something very important... and very wonderful. You don't have to be scared." When the detective didn't move or reply, Lestrade took a chance, and gently strummed one of the violin strings, just once. "Nobody told you that you were drugged, did they? You worked it out, all on your own!" Pretending to sound awe-struck went right against the grain, but this was in a good cause. "How did you do that?"

Holmes gave him a scornful sideways glance without lifting his head. "There was a white, powdery residue at the bottom of my cup, which I must have originally assumed was undissolved sugar. Potassium bromide, most likely, it tastes sweet in smaller concentrations. The hot chocolate wouldn't have been enough to conceal the bitter taste of chloral hydrate."

Lestrade didn't even bother to hide a genuinely appreciative grin. "I'm impressed! You should come work at the Yard, Holmes, we could use someone like you!" Don't overdo it... "Have you ever done that before?" Another pluck, a different note. "Picked up on things that nobody else would notice?"

"Oh... well, yes, actually. One of the other students at St. Barts was accused of stealing barbiturates. Fortunately, most people are entirely ignorant of Bertillon's studies on the individuality of fingerprints." The light in Holmes's eyes was making Lestrade's chest hurt, surely it was too much to hope... "I was able to demonstrate that the real thief was one of the cleaning staff, whom we caught in the act soon afterwards. Well, we had to, as his fingerprints alone wouldn't have convicted him, they still aren't considered admissable evidence in a court of law. But you already knew that, I'm sure."

The Inspector nodded, quietly plucking yet another string. "Doesn't it get frustrating sometimes? So many people walking around with blinkers on..."

"Yes!" Holmes exclaimed, clearly pleased to have a sympathetic ear. "Good Lord, yes! I must have told him a hundred times: 'You see, but you don't observe!' "

Lestrade almost forgot to breathe. "Who, Mycroft?"

"No, Watson!"

"Ah." The Inspector had to make a concerted effort to keep his voice low and level. "I always thought the doctor was more observant than most."

"Hm!" Holmes snorted, then he suddenly chuckled. "You should've been there when Stamford first introduced us in the lab – his face when I deduced he'd been in Afghanistan! It was simply... er, simply..." The detective's brow furrowed. "He... he looked..."

"Well, it was a while ago, Holmes," Lestrade said lightly, belying his racing pulse. "I'm sure he was amazed, anyhow!"

"Y-Yes, quite..." Still frowning, Holmes stood and walked slowly over to the writing desk by the window. He ran his fingers over the smooth leather top, randomly shuffled a few scraps of paper, picked up a brass paperweight, turning it over in his hands... then dropped it with a 'tchah!' of exasperation. He moved to the bookshelf next, peering eagerly at all the titles, then sprang over to the mantle. Whatever he'd hoped to find of Watson's – cigarettes? tobacco? – he was equally disappointed there, too, turning away with a silent snarl.

Lestrade sat immobile on the settee. Holmes seemed to have forgotten he was even here for the moment. Watson would have to have erased his presence so thoroughly from the flat, dammit! Maybe he should suggest going down to the kitchen, brew some coffee, the smell of a thousand shared breakfasts might work... but just then, Holmes brightened, hurrying out of the sitting room and up the stairs.

Of course, the book Holmes had given Watson! Surely... Even if the doctor had left it behind... And then the most terrible cry of rage and sorrow Lestrade had ever heard sent him vaulting over the back of the settee and running to the door. God in heaven, what had Holmes remembered now?!

As he raced upstairs, however, Lestrade could see plainly that the detective hadn't even entered the bedroom, he was on his knees in front of the closed door, staring upwards... A second chill traveled down the Inspector's spine to keep the first one company as he saw what Holmes was looking at. That hadn't been there before!

On the upper half of the door, fixed to the wood with what appeared to be Holmes's jackknife from the mantle, was a handwritten sheet of paper. Lestrade managed to move past the rigid detective, though his own legs felt unusually leaden, and read the note.

My dear Holmes,

Your presence is required at the request of your family.

Kindest regards,

James Moriarty