A/N: Still need to write a whole mini case based on the bit where—

—Oooh. That would do nicely, actually.

-csf

5.

'The family mausoleum.'

No peonies harmed.

'Yes, rather ingenious, John. The old lair converted to the eternal resting place of the man himself. And the curses associated with disturbing a man's final resting place enough to keep superstitious locals away until the collective memory forgot the facts, consigned them to insignificances here and there. The pub's name, John? From this morning?'

'Hmm.' I can see the effort he puts into it. Bless. 'Oh, The Black Cat.'

'Named after Le Chat Noir Cabaret from the 1890s, Paris. Admittedly this is not as busy a location as Paris, but rural cabarets will have had their charms, namely a certain out-of-town anonymity for their patrons.'

The vicar shifts uncomfortably on the spot. 'I would rather know, as this is now the Church's land. Donated in the 1930s by the last surviving member of the family. I can write to the archbishop and request the key.'

'No need,' I state, getting my thin files out. 'This is a simple lock.'

John immediately distracts the poor vicar's attention with polite conversation, as I take care of the mausoleum lock. The ancient door is heavy oak and the iron lock is rusty, but yields to my touch.

I open the door to a rather large, dark chamber. Stone masonry angels guard the central piece in the room. The vicar hands us a couple of torches.

'That's not your typical angel,' John comments politely.

Yeah, a bit naked and suggestive, and certainly not innocently asexual. At the far end, the missing stained glass window now featuring an intricate trellis of geometrical patterns, allowing a little natural light inside, through the heavily cobwebbed lattice.

Suddenly the mausoleum door slams shut. A torch falls to the ground. The vicar claws at the heavy oak for purchase, but there's no inside handle, nothing. We're stuck inside.

Neat.

.

'Calm down, John. I can hear you hyperventilating all the way from over here.'

I know he's giving me the Watson evil eye, right now. I rather have an angry John than a panicking John.

I also know why he's not too keen on being trapped in small, dark spaces. It's not claustrophobia per se, but it does involve a roadside IED explosion in Kabul, an overturned military vehicle, and a number of honourable men not surviving despite John's best efforts.

'I'm fine. Just focus on getting us out of here, Sherlock.'

'In a minute, John...'

'What are you doing? What else can be equally important at this point?' his voice is hissed, a bit frantic. If I had a heart, it'd be wrenched by that voice.

'A small hidden fortune, John. I did call the business a brothel. Brothels make money. Why would the family accumulate debts?'

'What? Why do you care right now?'

'Can't stop myself from investigating, John. It's my nature.' I'm sorry.

'Fine, carry on. Call me when you can get us out of here.'

I stop. A less combative John Watson is not the right John.

I turn to look. The former soldier has quietly sat down on the floor, back against the oak door, arms wrapped around his knees.

'John.'

Before I know it, I kneeled by the brave soldier side, reaching out. Even in the darkness, I can see the invisible threads holding him together coming undone. I lay my hand on his shoulder in what I hope is a comforting yet not overbearing gesture. The vicar comes to second me and I unwillingly allow the intrusion. Then I get up and focus on getting us out of here.

'The golden carriage, John. Actual solid, untarnished gold? Not quite, but enough gold that it still glistens under the cobwebs today. It's today the bulk of the walls around us, John. The hidden fortune? Never to be heard of again, I'll bet you. But most of all, the women whose lives were ruined by this man, the faces that inspired these damaged angels, they were the only ones who knew the secret architecture of this building when it was first built. They were the ones who knew about...' a large clank precedes the rest of my rant '...the secret passage to safety, John.'

I come over and hold out a hand. He raises a shaky one but confidently takes mine, allows me to rescue him, as he so often rescues me.

.

The vicar was less than pleased – and perhaps a bit nauseated – that the secret passage ended up in the church's vestibule. I looked John over as he emerged with us, looking a bit pale, some cobwebs in his hair, but overall not worse for wear.

I wanted to persuade the vicar to drive us to where we left the van, but John insisted he'd rather walk, so we hit the road on foot little after.

The painting was left behind to cover the secret passage gap on the vestibule wall. It was a bother to carry anyway.

It started drizzling soon after we left the church, and John's face softened at that. Rain grounds John, with the certainty that he's back home from the desert sands of war.

.

Two parallel trails of footprints litter the wet sand as John and I walk along the coast side. You'd just never find them among all the other imprints, from hundreds of strangers, holidaymakers and service providers.

There's a lonely lighthouse at the end of a stretch of sand, and with the tide starting to turn, we can walk over to the impressive construction. Tall, tapering towards the lamp fitted top, horizontal stripes, thick concrete base over the sand.

'I'm sorry about the mausoleum, mate,' John is saying, I'm wilfully ignoring.

'No harm done.'

He brushes a nervous hand over his face. 'I stopped looking for the way out and left it all to you. Hardly fair on you.'

'Useful. You weren't in the way,' I add with a confidence impressing smile.

'Sherlock, the reason why—'

'I know. I also know it's okay now.'

He laughs without feel. 'How would you possibly know that?'

I stop and turn, forcing him to do the same. We are enveloped by crowds of noisy, blustering people wrapped up in themselves – true privacy. 'In the last 500 metres you have finally stopped leaning more heavily on your left leg.'

He tries to analyse his own footprints, already marred by the strangers own.

Finally he nods, and I recognise the same force of nature that is John Watson, the man who always rebuilds, always comes back.

This is my rebuild weekend, and John's strength guides my path as a beacon of light.

'And your pirates?' he says, at last.

Oh. I made that up. There are no pirates. I wanted to impress John.

I'm an idiot.

'The lighthouse, John!' I make it up on the spot. 'It is unused now, due to a man-made change in the coastline, but, once, it was the basis of the whole operation!'

'Oh. Tell me more about it. I could use the distraction.'

Dammit.

.

TBC