Blackbird, Fly

by Engazed

It's been six months since John Watson's kidnapping and brutal treatment at the hands of Sherlock's enemies. It's been six weeks since the demise of the notorious killer the Slash Man. Now Sherlock and John must work together to defeat Moriarty once and for all, in the greatest fight of their lives.

11. They Call It the Pit

CHAPTER 11: THEY CALL IT THE PIT

This chapter contains intense and vulgar language. Discretion is advised.

Friday, April 24, 2015

They had decided not to return to London. The trail had left the city, so they left with it. Tonight, they were somewhere off the A120 outside of Colchester, having booked a room under John's name.

Sherlock reclined in the hotel armchair and brought his steepled fingers to his chin. 'I want to see those envelopes,' he said.

'Police have them,' said John. 'The NFIB, that is. Mary and I turned everything over.'

The hotel lobby was small and its décor a little too 1990s mauve and country blue, but it was clean and well kept. More importantly, it was quiet. They were sat in two chairs tucked into a corner facing each other and a tiny coffee table between their knees. Here, no one was likely to spot or disturb them.

'And the raids were national news?'

'For a few days, yeah. What connected them, though, was not released to the public.'

'So as not to alert the scammers before a raid.'

'That's what I assumed. But it looks like they may have missed one.'

'Mm.'

John knew that expression: Sherlock was working through a problem, and if John didn't say something to keep the conversation going, he was likely to slip into his mind palace for an unforeseen stretch of time.

'Then again, it could be entirely unrelated. Andre's General Repair & Renovation Assistance might only coincidentally share those initials.'

Sherlock lowered his hands to the armrests. 'You don't really think that, do you?'

'I don't know what to think,' said John, sighing sullenly.

Because really, it didn't make a lot of sense. Though Sherlock had said it twice already that night—he didn't believe in coincidence—was there really a connection? What did the scam from three years ago have to do with Bill Murray today? Then again, the misfortune that had beset Mary had beset dozens, if not hundreds, of other Britons. So, logically, it was not a stretch to think that maybe, coincidentally, they had caused problems for Bill, too.

That is, if A.G.R.A. was even still in operation. John wasn't ready to concede that.

'What do you know about Mary's father?' Sherlock asked suddenly.

The question startled John from his thoughts; it seemed Sherlock wasn't the only one capable of quickly sliding into a private thought bubble. He knew it was not an illogical question. He just didn't think it a fruitful one.

'He was a teacher,' said John. 'Maths. Died in 2008, I believe it was.' He had visited the grave with Mary. 'July, it would've been.'

'How?'

John cleared his throat. He couldn't quite make eye contact but endeavoured to answer with as much nonchalance as possible. 'They say he stepped out in front of a bus.'

Lowering his hands to the armrests, Sherlock looked taken aback. 'On purpose?'

'Maybe. Mary said he was depressed. He'd struggled with it for years, and for a time had stopped seeking treatment. Guess it all just became too much. She said she could see he was getting worse, but it still came as a terrible shock. It was officially ruled a suicide, but Mary, she. . .' John sighed. 'She made herself believe it was an accident.'

'Was she there when . . . ?' Sherlock treaded carefully.

'No, thank God,' said John, a little too quickly. He rushed to cover up any implied accusations. 'But there were dozens of witnesses. Most seemed to believe it was deliberate.'

He had held Mary's hand during the bus ride to the cemetery in Teddington, and she told him about receiving the phone call. She said she had been very calm. Her voice hadn't wavered, her knees hadn't buckled, her eyes hadn't even burned. She had been at home before leaving for work, coffee percolating and still in her nightdress. She thanked the officer for calling and said goodbye. Then she called Samantha, and it wasn't until she spoke the words herself that the reality crashed down upon her. 'Dad's dead.' Then she broke down and sobbed.

'Any cause of his depression? Was it primarily genetic? A side-effect of medications for a different condition?'

'Debts,' said John. 'Financial stress.'

'What did he go into debt for?'

'I couldn't tell you. I don't know that Mary knew.'

'Did the sister?'

'Samantha?'

'Yes.'

'I don't know.'

'The question is, why did she oppose Mary going to the police with the matter? Irrational, given it was a clear case of fraud. You made the right call.'

'Well, it seems clear now, and sure, you would have spotted it sooner, but—'

'As legal professionals, the Hillocks should have as well.'

'Well, they didn't. They seemed to think it would invite trouble. But I think we're getting off track here. So what if Arthur Morstan was in debt? He's dead. His debts followed him to the grave, and Mary was conned by people who didn't even know he had died.'

'Nothing is irrelevant, John.'

'In this case, I think it might be.'

Sherlock grunted, and his train of thought suddenly jumped tracks. 'Setting A.G.R.A. aside, then. For now. There are other matters of greater urgency, I perceive.'

'You mean . . .'

'Moran, yes. But first.' He cleared his throat, adopted a look of sincerity that was a little put-on, and continued, 'A much-needed apology. I doubted you, and I was wrong.'

But John didn't want to hear it. Sherlock had not acted maliciously. He had just been being Sherlock, and of all people, it wouldn't be John who held that against him.

'You know,' said John, cutting him off, 'there may have been a time when those words would have amused me. You, admitting you were wrong.' Sherlock smiled wryly. 'These days, though, I'd just rather you were always right. So in future, just let me carry on with my crazy tales, and we'll deal with them from there, eh?'

'Deal.'

'Good.' He grinned, feeling their easy camaraderie restored, as he liked it. He would rely on that to get him through this next bit.

'Will you tell me, then, what he said?' John opened his mouth, but before he could utter a syllable, Sherlock eagerly dictated to him how it ought to be done: 'Every word you can remember, every inflection. What he said, what you said, everything, John, it may be important. Take your time. But I'm quite ready.'

It would not be hard, remembering. Since the phone call, John had spent hours and days replaying it over and over in his mind, to the point of obsession. It had distracted him from sleep and coloured his moods in greys and blacks. So saying it out loud, he thought, might actually be quite helpful. If he had learnt nothing else from Ella, he had learnt this: talking helped.

'I'll do my best.' But he looked surreptitiously around the lobby, from the man at the counter checking in a new guest to the woman in the corner on her laptop, eating a sandwich. A flutter of discomfort in his stomach made him push to his feet. 'But not here.'

---

The day was over. Donovan was back in her flat. But her evening was just beginning. She had work to do.

She was sat at her kitchen table. Spread from edge to edge were the contents from a case box labelled 4.10.96/Pitts. She'd read the whole case, front to back, twice now, and she was still puzzled. The case was pretty cut and dry, and solved at that. What was it she was meant to understand?

The story went like this:

On October 4, 1996, a kitchen worker discovered a body behind the Hammersmith Ram when he left the kitchen to take a cigarette break. The pub's manager placed the 999 call at 23.27 hrs. ETM responded to the call and were on the scene at 23.39 hrs, and at 23.45, the first officers showed up, among them, Detective Inspector Anthony Pitts. The victim was later identified by family (who reported him missing the next day) as Tomasz Jankowski, a Polish immigrant who had been living in London for twelve years. An autopsy determined the cause of death to be asphyxiation by strangulation.

The police believed it was a robbery gone bad, and based their investigation on this assumption. For one, Mr Jankowski's wallet was missing, as were his shoes. Witnesses at the pub remembered seeing Mr Jankowski drinking alone at the bar, and the barkeeper remembered serving him a vodka and beer, but he hadn't been one for conversation. No one remembered him talking to anyone, let alone an altercation. The barkeeper saw him get up and head to the back, presumably toward the gents. It was the last time anyone saw him alive.

DI Pitts reported interviews with family and friends, but unearthed no domestic problems or enemies, no threats or debts, no motives of any sort among his acquaintances. He had been a hard worker, it not a little sullen, and single, having split with his girlfriend of nine years about six months before. His death had been a random hit, apparently. A lone man targeted by a thief. So Pitts searched police records for released criminals with a history of robbery, or assaults with a similar MO. Still, he was turning up nothing.

The case was in danger of going cold. Then, a lucky break. On October 11, someone attempted to use Mr Jankowski's credit card. The bright, forward thinking store clerk took special notice of the man whose card had been declined, so when the police showed up later, she gave a very thorough description, down to the mole on an upper lip and the stench of body odour. Apparently, she believed he was homeless, and she told the police what she thought. It was enough to put Pitts on the right trail.

They arrested Henry Thurgood on October 12, 1996, in a nightshelter, where he'd been paying two pounds a night for a shared dormitory. Along with Mr Jankowski's wallet, empty of cash, they found the missing shoes, tucked far beneath the bed. Mr Thurgood, age twenty-nine, was charged with murder and robbery. He confessed and pled guilty, so there was no trial. He received the mandatory life sentence and a minimum prison term of seventeen years.

Seventeen years. That meant, thought Donovan, that Henry Thurgood, now forty-eight, could very well have been released two years ago and was now serving his sentence on licence.

So?

It all seemed pretty clear cut to her. Textbook. Unresolved? Hardly. The killer had been caught and convicted, and justice had been served for Tomasz Jankowski. The system worked, just as it was supposed to. Then why was she sitting here, going over the straight-forward case, wasting her time? Had she grabbed the wrong file? Had Dryers got it wrong? Was this all some strange joke? It didn't make sense.

Unless there was something in these files she wasn't seeing.

She returned to the interrogation transcript.

AP [Anthony Pitts]: Tell me about the shoes, Harry. You prefer Harry, isn't that right?
HT [Henry Thurgood]: I liked them. So I took them.
AP: No, tell me about how you took them. Did you take them off of Tomasz before or after he was dead?
HT: It were after.
AP: How did you do it?
HT: Just, you know, pulled them off.
AP: What about the laces? Did you untie the laces?
HT: I don't remember. No. I just pulled them off.
AP: And the wallet?
HT: Took that, too.
AP: From where?
HT: Pocket.
AP: Which pocket?
HT: Jacket pocket.
AP: Which jacket pocket?
HT: I don't know. The right one.
AP: Inside or outside?
HT: Inside. Outside, I mean outside.
AP: What colour was his jacket?
HT: I don't know. It were dark.
AP: They have a flood light out back of the pub. Motion-sensor sensitive. I would think it was pretty bright back there, Henry.
HT: His jacket, I mean. Dark in colour. Black, maybe dark blue. That's what I mean.
AP: How much money was in the wallet?
HT: Twenty quid, thereabouts.
AP: What cards?
HT: Some credit cards, I guess.
AP: So after you stole his wallet, you zipped the pocket back up, took the shoes, and fled, is that right?
HT: That's right. That's all I done.
AP: Plus you murdered him.
HT: Yeah. I murdered him. I needed money. Bloke wouldn't help me out, see? Got me angry, yeah? What do they calls it, a red mist? Yeah, I seen it. And then he put up a fight.

Donovan picked up the stack of photographs from the crime scene. From several angles, shots of Tomasz Jankowski on his back, bright green-and-black jacket zipped to the chin and eyes staring sightlessly skyward. She studied it for a time, but it was hard to see the details properly. So she got up, grabbed a magnifying glass, and placed it over the jacket pockets. She could see no evidence of a zip in either one.

Why had Pitts cited a zip if there was no zip? Why hadn't Thurgood mentioned the bright green blocks on the jacket? The pattern and colours were rather distinctive.

The interrogation continued for page and pages more, Pitts pressing Thurgood for details, Thurgood giving short, agreeable answers, and then, six pages later, twenty-nine minutes according to the time stamp recorded in the margins:

AP: How did you strangle him, Henry? With your bare hands? Or did you use something else, like a belt?
HT: It were my hands. Just my hands. Jesus, I've already said that. I've already confessed. What more do you want?
AP: Just making sure we understand exactly what happened, Harry. Tell it to me again. You strangled him. With your bare hands. How long?
HT: I don't know. Like, a minute, two minutes, I don't know. Until he stopped moving.
AP: Show me. Show me how you placed your hands. Sergeant Huxley, you don't mind, do you? Being our dummy? He won't hurt you. Go on then, Harry. Show me how you choked him.
[SUSPECT demonstrates a two-handed strangling action on Sergeant Darius HUXLEY.]
HT: Like this.
AP: Just like that?
HT: It were like this, yeah.
AP: For how long, did you say?
HT: It were, like, two or three minutes. Until he weren't moving no more.
AP: Then what did you do?
HT: I had to get out of there. Didn't want nobody seeing me. I took his wallet and ran.
AP: Show me, Harry. Sergeant Huxley, would you oblige?
[Sergeant HUXLEY lies down on his back on the floor to represent the victim.]
AP: Just like you did with Mr Jankowski. Go on, Harry, let me see.
[SUSPECT mimes taking a wallet from HUXLEY's _ pocket.]
HT: There.
AP: Then what?
HT: Ran to the street. Had to get away.
AP: What about the shoes?
HT: That's right. And I took the shoes, too.

The transcript ended there. For a few seconds, Donovan stared at the strange gap in the text between the word Huxley's and pocket. Surely, had she been preparing this case file to present to the chief superintendent, she would have caught it and made the typist redo it. Otherwise, one might think that a word was missing.

But something else struck an unhappy chord with her. Where was the rest of the transcript? No interrogation ended with the suspect having the final word. It was Yard policy to end each recorded interrogation with a recitation of the suspect's name, the date, and time. In all her years on at the Yard and all the interrogations she'd read and sat through, she had never encountered a printed transcript that didn't end properly, at least not with some explanation (like the suspect suddenly attacking the officer or having a heart attack). Such an explanation was always in the notes. Here, it was like the end of the interrogation was missing.

Missing.

'My God,' she said to herself. She reached across the table to the rest of the photographs of the crime scene and the victim. From every conceivable angle, the corpse of Tomasz Jankowski's was captured to offer a full account. More photos from the autopsy were also included: contusions on the torso from a struggle, abrasions on the knuckles, everything from the toes to the top of his head. Everything but a close-up of the neck. There was a distance shot, and profile shots, but nothing to give clear detail of the bruising patterns on the neck.

Show me, Harry.

Not missing. Removed.

'Oh my God!' She launched herself at a pad of paper and began to write out her questions, observations, and hypotheses with furious speed, lest she forget something.

What word is missing from the white space before the word pocket? (line 729)
-Whited out after-the-fact, photocopied page? (poss.)
-By whom? Typist? (no) Pitts? (why?)
-Where's the original recording?

Why is the photo of the bruises on the neck missing from the case file?
-Bruising patterns typically reveals hand-size, finger placement, extent of pressure/possibly duration
-Cause of death conclusive in autopsy report
-Suspect admits to strangling the victim (barehands, 1-3 min. discrepancy—sustainable? No hand cramps?)
-Demonstration confirms
-Demonstration contradicts bruising pattern!

CONTRADICTIONS
-jacket colour
-zips on jacket pockets don't exist
-which pocket was wallet taken from (suspect said 'left'; transcript maybe redacted 'right')
-method of strangulation (hands or tool?)
-at what point were the shoes removed from the body?

Who changed the file, when/how, and WHY?
-Pitts?
-Other? (find Huxley)

Summation—evidence inconsistent with testimony

Conclusion—Henry Thurgood didn't kill Tomasz Jankowski

Donovan dropped the pen and sat back, making quick revision of her work. Her notes presented more questions than answers, but it seemed undeniable: the wrong man had been convicted of murder.

But three unwritten questions still lingered: Why would Thurgood confess to a murder he didn't commit? Who was the real killer? And why the hell had she been tasked to find out, nineteen years after the case had been closed?

---

They returned to the room for privacy. The first thing Sherlock did was remove the damn boot. He had cancelled his PT appointment for this case, and insisted to John that he could doctor him well enough. So John, grumpily, had recommended less time in the boot and to opt instead for an ankle brace, which would relieve the pressure but restore some greater mobility. They had picked one up from a sporting goods shop on the road. 'Just don't sue me for malpractice if something goes wrong,' he said.

Once comfortable, Sherlock sat on the bed by the window and stretched his legs out, and John dragged the chair from the desk and angled it toward him.

'Like I told you,' he began as preamble, 'Moran sent text messages to your phone. Seven of them. And I don't know how, but they disappeared.'

'I should have worked it out from the start,' said Sherlock. 'Moran has tech wizards in his circuit. Peter Caldwell was one, a communications specialist in the British Army. He knew how to make your phone untraceable. It is reasonable to assume he has others who can insert an expiry code, or self-destruct mechanism, into text messages. After a certain period of time has elapsed, or a certain number of views, they simply eliminate themselves.'

'Well, there you have it.'

'What did they say?'

'Taunts, mostly. Like before.' John tried his best to recount them for Sherlock: the allusion to Mycroft, the invitation to come out and play, calling John a pet. Sherlock frowned as he explained all this. 'He was goading you to call him directly. You know my number, he said.'

'And you called.'

John nodded.

'My God, John, why? Why didn't you call Lestrade?'

'Would you have done?'

'No, but you're most sensible than I.'

'Since when? Besides, after what had just happened to Mycroft? I was angry.'

'And reckless.'

'Yeah, a little of that, too.'

'But you called.' Sherlock nodded sharply, never one to belabour the point. 'Go on, then.'

John took a deep breath. 'I called. I heard him say your name. He . . . he thought I was you, of course. He had been meaning to reach you. Until he heard my voice . . .'

And he began to relate the conversation, as accurately as he knew how.

Moran's voice was a dark timbre, and when he spoke, John had the sensation—felt but unseen—of fluorescent lights flickering above his head.

'Johnny boy.'

The moniker, perverted and demeaning, was nearly enough to get John to hang up the phone right then and there. Or hurl it at the wall. Mistake, this was a mistake! He was alone, he was exhausted, he wasn't ready for this! At the same time, his well of rage was boiling over. He wanted to rail, threaten, and damn Moran to the hell's deepest pit. So where it came from, he would neither now nor later be able to discern, but an ice-cold sensation took root in his stomach, calming him, keeping his body still and his mind clear.

'How's the nose?' he asked gruffly.

There was a long stretch of silence. Then suddenly, Moran laughed. He laughed like he had laughed down there, in the prison-basement of the convent. But there was a strange bitterness to it, a sharp bite John hadn't heard before. 'John! Shit, I don't believe it. My dear, sweet John! What a treat. You're a real . . . treat.'

'Where are you?' John spat. 'Done playing hide and seek?'

'Ah, that's my lad. So angry and sarcastic. You sound just like my Johnny of the second day. Do you remember? We had just finished another game of sixty-seconds in the strap to get you to spill the beans on your precious detective, and you said to me—when you got your voice back, that is—"Crush my larynx, you son of a bitch, and I won't even be able to tell you who's queen of England." What a day, day two! Such spirit. How long, do you think?'

'How long?' John repeated, stupidly. He knew he should just shut up, proving that a clear mind was not a rational one. Any rational human being would have hung up by now. Any sane man never would have made the call to begin with. And with every word Moran spoke, John's memories of his time in captivity became sharper and sharper. So long, since he had heard that voice. And yet, at the same time, he had heard it every day for the last six months, and no time had passed at all.

'How long do you think it will take for me to get you whimpering like a pup again? Will you have more stamina, this time around, or less? I do intend to find out.'

'You're sweating,' said Sherlock, reaching for the air-con unit in the wall and twisting the knob.

'I'm fine,' said John, though he wasn't, entirely. Still, after a second or two, the light breeze reached the damp skin of his face, providing relief he didn't know he needed.

'There are waters in the mini fridge,' Sherlock pointed out.

He made to get up, but John forestalled him to get the waters himself. It was good stand and move. He tossed Sherlock one of the bottles and twisted the cap off his own. Sherlock continued to look concerned, however, and was on the cusp of saying something, so John continued on before he had the chance. He had to get this over with as quickly as possible. 'He asked if you were with me. I said yes.'

'You're lying. I know you, John. I. Know. You. I spent ten days with you. Ten days in deep, tight spaces. Oh, I know you so well.'

John's hands clenched around the phone so tightly he could hear it creak, its metal inner workings under stress.

'Still there, Johnny, lad? Let me hear your voice.'

'What do you want?' John choked out, but his teeth were gritted, giving his question a rough, almost challenging quality.

'Just to ask: Did you get my present?'

'What?'

'I left it on your doorstep.'

'You son of a bitch.'

'Was it still moving, when you found it? Or had it gone cold?'

Sherlock sat spine-straight, hands falling to his knees. 'He believed Mycroft was dead?'

'As far as I know, he still believes it. Unless . . .'

'What?'

'Well, there's the old man you saw at St Mary's. The bug he planted. That was real, wasn't it? He would have told Moran that Mycroft was still alive.'

Sherlock looked pensive. 'The man I saw planted that bug around the same time as Moran's phone call.'

'But if Moran believed Mycroft dead, why send an agent to plant a bug? Unless . . .'

'Unless he wasn't an agent of Moran's.'

John furrowed his brow. 'If not Moran's, whose?'

Sherlock drew up his legs and reclined into the pillow. 'A puzzle for another day. The point is, Moran believed he had been successful in murdering my brother.'

'I wasn't sure, at first, what Moran believed. And I didn't know if it was better for him to know the truth. So I didn't say anything. I couldn't. My throat was so tight, and I . . . Anyway, he knows when I'm lying.'

Sherlock shook his head emphatically. 'I don't believe that. It's a terror tactic, nothing more.'

'Maybe,' said John, doubtful.

'Trust me. Spotting a liar isn't as easy or fool-proof as film and telly would have you believe.'

'You spotted it,' said John. 'You knew I was lying about Stubbins.'

'I know you. And I'm clever. I heard an aeroplane.'

John was taken aback but what felt like quite the non sequitur. 'A plane?'

'When I called to tell you they had moved Mycroft. I heard an aeroplane in the background. Now, one can't hear an aeroplane in Central London. Any air traffic is too high above the city, not to mention the noise pollution it would have to contend with, so that meant you had left Central London, confirmed by the fact it took you over an hour to reach me, and your excuse about being at the chemist's was an obvious lie. Too many details. That's your problem, John. When you try to be convincing, you add too many particulars to make it sound credible, but really, only lies have detail. So where were you? Heathrow, possibly. Stansted or Luton less likely. Too far away. Or, possibly, London City Airport. Just a stone's throw from Belmarsh. But I didn't put that together until dear Sally paid us a visit. Your reaction when she announced that Stubbins was dead. Then I knew you'd been to see him.'

John couldn't help but shake his head. 'You brilliant bastard.'

Sherlock smiled. 'It's what I do. Moran may be trained as an interrogator; he may be adept at picking up on signals of deceit in the person right across from him in a closed environment. But over the phone? I doubt it. Anyway, one can learn to lie convincingly. If you're worried about it.'

Taking a long drink from the water bottle, John wondered if he was being paranoid. The man was too much in his head.

'Don't be shy. Talk to me, John.'

He transformed his fear into anger, his trembling hand into a clenched fist. But it was still but a mask of bravery he wore as hissed out, 'You won't get away with this.' His eyes were watering, thinking of Mycroft lying in hospital, and Sherlock helplessly pacing the halls. At least, he supposed, Moran couldn't see the weakness in his eyes.

There was a still a chance to hang up. He should call Lestrade. He should rush to St Mary's and find Sherlock, make sure he was safe. Instead, he waited for a reply.

'Don't blame me,' said Moran. 'It's your fault he's dead. Yours, John.'

'Wh—?'

'You take one of mine. I take one of yours. See how this works?'

'That's not—'

Then Moran was suddenly shouting, vicious and wild. 'You slaughtered my man! You fucking butchered him, you rotten cunt!'

'He lost control,' said John, a little breathless in the retelling. For a moment, he could almost feel Moran's voice ringing in his ears, like the bone-rattling reverberations of a large bell. Back in 221B, for just a flash, quick as lightning that left behind a jagged streak across one's vision, he believed with all his soul that he was back there, a prisoner who would never leave. He had almost dropped the phone.

'It was just like when I insulted Moriarty,' John continued. 'He completely lost control.'

'You incited his rage.' Sherlock sat with rapt with attention, perfectly still but for his moving lips and occasional blinks.

'Like pulling a trigger.'

'It's psychosis,' Sherlock murmured, almost under his breath. 'Extreme possessiveness disorder. That's what they called it. He feels intense psychological attachments toward particular individuals. Perhaps it even started with Moriarty and underlies his obsession for the man and his ferocious need to avenge him. But Moran's feelings of possessiveness are not uniquely linked to Moriarty. He feels it for . . . others, too.'

'You can say it, Sherlock. I was in the room, after all.'

So Sherlock said it. 'His obsessions and attachment have shifted to you. That much is obvious. The reasons are different, perhaps. He does not idolise you, as he did Moriarty. He does not see you as a brilliant or masterful. But he admires you.'

'Admires me?'

'Impossible not to, John. For your—forgive me—endurance. And now, recovery. I doubt he'd ever seen anything of its like before. For a man equally obsessed with torture, he couldn't help but be fascinated by your strength to endure. So yes, he admires you, maybe even reluctantly. Thus, the attachment and possessiveness. We cannot forget he is a sadist. So for the tortured who endures, the indefatigable torturer cannot help fall admirer. And then, you robbed him of one of his greatest weapons.'

'Like I had gone out and shot his beloved pit bull,' John murmured.

'Exactly. Not that you had a choice.'

'I'm not apologising for it.'

'I wouldn't wish you to. But I would be hard-pressed to believe that your actions didn't ignite something in Moran even more savage than before. I don't know. Who would wish to enter the mind of such a madman?'

When next Moran spoke, it was like the outburst hadn't happened at all. The pendulum swung back, and he had returned to his cool, conniving self.

'Have you forgotten, John, how this all began? Are you stupid enough to think I have forgotten? Sherlock killed my master. For this, Sherlock will die. You killed Daz, and for that, Mycroft Holmes had to die. The driver for Pete. The assistant for Lex. I'm a calculating man, John. I believe in balancing the scales.'

John's throat was so constricted, he could barely whisper his next words. 'And Mary?'

A deep, pleasurable sigh hissed through the phone. 'Ah, Mary, Mary, quite contrary. For her, I'll give you Pitts.' Then he chuckled darkly. 'I hope he was worth it to you.' The laughter came louder, harsher in his ears, and John felt himself swaying. He reached a hand out for the table, but found himself on his knees instead. One hand wrapped around the back of his head; the other gripped the shaking phone still to his ear. He was slipping. His grip on reality couldn't hold for much longer.

Moran sighed, deeply, fondly. 'Poor Johnny boy. This is what you master has made of you. A ruin of a man. Mine made me a king.'

'Moriarty was a spider,' John said through halted breath. 'That's all.'

'We're all spiders, John. Spiders on a grand master web. But I am at the centre of it. Do you see how this works? Now, I control the web. Me. If anyone tries to tear it down, I'll destroy them, part by part. You know what that's like. You know exactly what that's like. But unlike your precious detective, I do not suffer the weak. All my people know it. They know. Cross me, betray me, and down come the rains.'

Hang up, John, hang up! But he couldn't. Instead, he found himself replying. 'You're deluded. You control nothing, no one.'

'Fuck you, John Watson. I'm the storm in your life that will never stop bringing hell to your front doorstep. Not until I get what I want. And what I want—what I am going to take—is Sherlock Holmes. I want Sherlock so I can put a pistol between his eyes and watch as a bullet shatters his skull and pulverises that big brain of his. And then I want you, the way I had you before, for as long as you can last. And I'm going to get what I want, John. If you come after me, or after any more of my people, I'll go after yours. I'll take the cop, and then the pathologist, and then the old woman, and then the woman who smiled at you when you were buying milk, and the man who served you your coffee, anyone and everyone you so much as glance at or think about or who gives a damn about you. Do you hear me, John? Do. You. Get it? You can hide from me all you like. You can hole up on Baker Street, you can send out your sniffer dogs in search of me, but this ends only when Sherlock is dead and you're splayed out on a cold floor, waiting for me.'

'Jesus Christ,' said Sherlock. He scrubbed a hand down his face, much like Lestrade did when he was overwhelmed—John recognised the gesture.

'We have to kill him, Sherlock,' said John. He could feel his heartrate pounding a four, bordering a five, but he was determined to keep himself in the range of sanity. 'Anything less isn't enough. The cops can arrest him, the system can try him, even put him in jail for the rest of his life. But it won't be enough. As long as he's alive, you're in danger. Our friends are in danger. Everyone.'

'We have to kill him,' Sherlock agreed. 'But we don't stand a chance if we wait for him like sitting ducks. He's back in England, but he's still hiding in the shadows, and the shadows protect him. Our only hope is to pull him into the light.'

'We're trying, though,' said John. 'Aren't we?'

'When he spoke to you, did he give you any sense, any indication at all, as to where he's hiding?'

'If he did, I wasn't clever enough to detect it.'

'Never mind clever. Could you tell if anyone was with him? Did his voice seem at all to echo? Did you hear any background noises?'

John tried to return there in his memory and listen, pushing beyond the horrible voice to anything else that might have coloured his location. But he came up with nothing. 'I'm sorry, Sherlock. No. I wasn't in the right frame of mind.'

'It's fine,' said Sherlock, rolling his neck to release some of the strain. 'Not a likely avenue of investigation anyway. What will be more fruitful, I think, is why he sent you to Belmarsh. How did he know we had identified Murray?'

John cocked his head, surprised Sherlock had misunderstood. Then: 'He doesn't know.'

'What?'

'How can he? I never told him.'

'Then . . . ?'

'I never said a word about it, Sherlock. He never sent me anywhere. You think I would take orders? From Sebastian Moran? No. That was all me. After the phone call, when it occurred to me I had imagined the whole thing—'

'Again, sorry.'

'—again, don't mention it—I had to know for sure. About Bill, yes, but also about Moran. I had to know if I was crazy. I expected Lestrade to question Stubbins again. I just wanted to get there first. So yes, I stole the ID. I impersonated Lestrade. I lied. And to get Stubbins to talk to me, I lied again, and threatened him with just the idea that Moran had a message for him.'

'But he didn't.' Sherlock was looking at him in awe.

'Of course not. I just . . . borrowed his language. Stubbins recognised it. And I dare say it scared the hell out of him.'

'Clever.' Sherlock nodded once, approvingly.

'I didn't know he would end up dead. I just wanted to scare him.'

'That's the question though, isn't it? If your threat was a fake, why did he end up dead?'

John shook his head. 'Maybe he offed himself before Moran could do it for him.'

'I hacked the Yard and read the coroner's report,' said Sherlock. 'The stab wound came from behind. He couldn't have done that to himself.'

'Then maybe he really did just get unlucky. Belmarsh isn't exactly Kitty Riley's open prison. He was an ex-cop among the most violent of criminals. Maybe he'd put away a few of them himself.' With a crooked eyebrow, Sherlock expressed his scepticism. John sighed. 'Right,' he said. 'Coincidence.'

'What did Stubbins tell you about Murray?'

John didn't know how to say it. He had been in denial about what he had heard since leaving the prison, and Donovan's visit had upset him only further. But why should he think Stubbins trustworthy? Why shouldn't Mrs Murray have the wrong end of things? He saved my life, John said, a reminder, a mantra, his touchstone to what he had always known to be true.

'John?'

'Stubbins claims Bill was involved from the start,' John said in a rush, but he closed his eyes and inclined his head away, like he suggested to his patients when administering a painful shot. 'And that he provided them with intelligence.'

'Did he say why?'

John frowned. He knew Sherlock was just gathering information, but he didn't like the way he took it as given that Bill was culpable. 'Why?'

'Yes. Why Bill Murray, who knew you and served with you, would betray you?'

Fingers tightening around the plastic bottle, John thought to answer, He didn't say. But that was a lie, and he couldn't lie to Sherlock. Not anymore. But before he could answer, Sherlock continued with his own conjectures.

'What about this man Sholto? Did he have something to do with you and Bill?'

Annoyed, John waved away the very suggestion. 'Irrelevant.'

'Is it?'

'Yes. Sholto was a casualty of war. Like so many others. Stubbins didn't know him, didn't even mention him. He said . . .' God, it wasn't fair. His whole life wasn't fair. 'Stubbins said Bill regretted saving my life to begin with.'

It was some measure of relief to see that such an answer perplexed Sherlock as well. 'What?'

'I don't believe it, Sherlock. I don't. Stubbins is a liar, just trying to upset me. Whatever Bill's reasons . . . It's just not true, okay? I can't believe it's true. If it were, Moran would have used it against me in the Pit.'

'The Pit?'

'That's what Stubbins called it. The basement of the convent.' John scrubbed a hand down his face. 'You know, it makes more sense in my head, calling it that. It was never a convent to me. The whole time I was there, I didn't really know where I was, did I? Blinded on the way in, unconscious on the way out, and all I ever saw was that kitchen, and the black inside of that goddamn freezer.'

He swallowed, not sure why he was saying any of this. It had nothing to do with Stubbins, or Bill. He barely talked about this kind of thing with Ella. And Sherlock wasn't asking for any of it. But he'd begun, and now it was like he couldn't stop.

'I tried to make sense of it all. Where I was. Within London, or how far from London, I had no idea. It felt like miles away. But I wasn't too concerned at first. I thought— Well. I thought it was to do with Mycroft. So was angry, not afraid. But I knew in my gut something wasn't right. I remember trying to memorise the details. Trying to pay attention, to see and observe, so I could put everything together, like you always did. You with your damn aeroplanes.' He smiled, but sadly, and Sherlock returned the look. 'I thought I could figure out exactly where I was. I even remember . . .' He laughed at his idiocy. 'I remember counting my footsteps, from the car to the basement. Every time I turned a corner, every step on the stairs, I counted them.' He huffed another humourless laugh. 'Useless, wasn't it? Waste of brainpower. Though, I suppose, there was nothing else I could have done. The moment they had me, they had me.'

'Not useless, John.' Sherlock's legs were folded again, and his elbows rested on knees, fingers laced together. He was regarding John with all seriousness of expression.

'Of course it was. What good did it do me? What good could it have done, memorising steps?'

'Just because you didn't get to use the information doesn't make it useless. You couldn't see, but you were still creating a map in your head. Imagine if you'd had an opportunity. I know you didn't, but imagine if you had. You would have had a fairly good estimate of how far it was from point A to point B, how long it would take you to cover the distance, and whether a mad dash was wisdom or folly.'

John smirked, a little bitterly. 'See? You weren't even there, and six months later, you're still more useful than I am.'

Sherlock didn't smile back. 'It took me too long to find you, John. That's not very useful at all.'

They held each other's eyes for a long and silent moment, Sherlock's filled with regret. But in John, there was only love. 'But you did find me,' he said.

'If only I'd—'

'Sherlock. You found me. That's the story.' He nodded assertively. 'That's the only story that matters.'

Sherlock sniffed, rubbed his nose. Unable to maintain their gaze, his burning eyes fell to the ugly print on the duvet. 'Did Moran say anything else?' His voice had thickened, but he didn't reach for his water. John spared him.

'Just one more thing.'

The floor beneath John's knees was unyielding; he would discover fresh bruises by next morning. For a while, the world swam. John clamped his hand tightly across his own mouth. If he removed it, he might throw up, or worse, sob, and Moran would hear.

'Do. You. Hear me?' Moran's voice was impatient, like he had repeated himself, but John didn't remember. Then suddenly, 'Answer me, you dog!'

'Yes!' John gasped, despising himself.

'Good boy. Good boy, Johnny. It took some work, but you became compliant in the end. Didn't you?' There was a long pause. John didn't trust himself to answer. 'Say yes, John.'

'Go to hell.'

Moran laughed. 'Oh, this will be rather fun, won't it? I do look forward to our reunion. Very much. I had wanted to talk to Sherlock, but I'm so glad you answered instead. Sherlock would just get in the way of this. This. Me and you. I'm so damn glad, John, that he never did trust you with his secret. If he had, what then would have become of you? How quickly would you have given him up for abandoning you? Or would you have sacrificed yourself in the name of a charlatan?' John didn't answer. 'Ah well. I doubt it would have made any difference at all, in the end.'

John pulled his hand away from his mouth. 'You're wrong.'

'Eh? What's that, Johnny, my sweet?'

'It would have made all the difference in the world.'

'Is that so? Well, I hope you don't—'

But John wasn't done. 'Because at the start, I would have kept his secret. To protect him, I would absolutely have kept his secret to the grave. But to protect Mary, I would have given him up in a heartbeat. It wouldn't have mattered, though, would it? You would have killed her anyway. Then me. Then Sherlock.' His hand tightened, trembled, but from fury, not fear. 'If he had not lied to me from the start, we would all at this moment be dead. Because of what I didn't know then, but know now, I survived. Sherlock is alive. And you . . . you better run.'

'I didn't say another word. I hung up. But I couldn't move. I should have returned to the hospital straightaway, but it's like . . . I don't know. It's like I'd been punched in the gut and had the wind knocked out of me. I was numb, disbelieving. I've known all along that he's still out there, that he hasn't just disappeared. I keep seeing him out of the corners of my eyes, after all, because I'm half crazy. But hearing him again . . . It suddenly became real. The threat wasn't just in my head anymore. It was more than an hour before I could get up off that floor.'

His retelling now finished, John sighed and leant back into the chair. He held the water bottle between his knees, but he was okay. He could drink, or he could not, and he'd still be okay. When he next lifted his eyes, he found Sherlock looking at him again, like he'd just said something repugnant.

'Is that what you believe?'

John quirked his head. 'What about?'

'About Mary?'

Nodding sombrely, John said, 'She was dead one way or the other, wasn't she? But she died because of me. Not you.'

'That's not true, John.'

'It is, Sherlock,' John said as rejoinder. 'I've thought about it a lot. I have. I was what they had against you; she's what they had against me. Whether you had told me the truth or not, her end was the same because I had already made her a part of my life. That's on me.'

'You told me before, that I should have taken you with me when I left. Right?'

'Yeah . . .'

'If I had . . . Things would have been different. That, as you say, is on me.'

John frowned. Had he gone with Sherlock, everything would have been different. For one, he never would have met Mary to begin with. The thought pained him, for all she had meant to him. But for her sake, perhaps it would have been better, had she never met John. Even as far as the scamming was concerned. Financial ruination was preferable to having your throat slit by a sadist.

'I think,' he said slowly, 'that the only thing we can say for certain is that it's on him. All of it.'

'Quite so,' Sherlock said softly.

Having reach the end of his recounting, John drained the last of his water and left the bottle on the dresser. As much relief as he felt at having shared the burden of that conversation with Sherlock at last, it left him feeling exhausted. At the same time, he was nervous about falling asleep. At least he had had the foresight to bring his pills. Before dropping them into his luggage, he had doubted whether he'd take anything. They made him sluggish, difficult to arouse, and being away from Baker Street felt risky enough. But tomorrow, he sensed, would be a long day. He needed sleep. He would have to take his medicine.

'Tomorrow,' said Sherlock, 'we'll start with this repair and renovation shop. See if we can't figure out exactly what kind of services they provide.'

They settled in for the night. Sherlock showered, but John thought it best he not, not in a strange place. So he just changed, took his pills, and got into bed. When they were both settled and Sherlock turned out the lights—having left the bathroom light on and the door ajar—John faced the wall and burrowed his head into this pillow. He tried to clear his mind and sink into sleep. But he couldn't help but wonder. At that very moment, did Bill Murray sleep deeply, and dream? Or did he spend his nights like John—in fitful unrest, or trapped inside nightmares echoing with the laughter of a madman?