CHAPTER 12: SOME THINGS END IN FIRE

This chapter contains graphic violence. Discretion is advised.

SATURDAY, APRIL 25, 2015

'Don't ask,' said Sherlock. 'Tell. Not could I please see, but rather,I need you to. Brief eye contact, subtle but confident nod, a posture of relaxation but authority. One hand in the pocket, weight rested on one leg, shoulders back. Body language is everything.'

John didn't need the coaching. Being in the Army had already taught him a thing or two about the bearing of authority. But Sherlock, who would not be coming in, needed to feel a measure of control, and John granted him that.

'And if they say no?' They were parked in a half-empty car park in front of a strip mall. The occasional passer-by caught both their attentions, but so far no one suspicious. Still, John kept an eye on the side mirror; Sherlock was watching the rear.

'They won't. Not if you make it clear you have every right to the information. If you believe it, they'll believe it.'

'Right.'

'They won't fuss. Also, I still think you should go Essex.'

'For the last time, I'm not doing an accent.'

'It's a noteworthy feature. You'll make yourself harder to identify if they think they're looking for someone from Essex.'

'I'm not doing the accent.' John unbuckled his belt. Right. Easy in, easy out. 'Be back in five.'

The sign for Andre's General Repair & Renovation Assistance was green with white lettering, and otherwise entirely unremarkable. It was sandwiched between an internet café and a used bookstore in Aylesbury, with a white van parked just out front bearing the same logo, but with the addition of the cartoon silhouettes of a hammer, paintbrush, and feather duster. Written on both the van and the windows to the storefront were the words: For all your repair, renovation, cleaning, and restorative needs.

John entered through the single glass door.

From behind a receiving desk, a young woman looked up from the magazine spread open in front of her and smiled around her chewing gum. 'Hiya. Are you here for a consultation?'

'No—' John started.

'Because Mr Tollman won't be in 'til four.'

His eyes did a quick scan of the room. It looked like an ordinary shop, staffed by an ordinary receptionist. There was a wall of specialty cleaning products, a dozen how-to brochures, and a shampooer for hire in the corner. A door at the back led, presumably, to the storage, tools, and other equipment fit for the business. Perfectly ordinary. 'That's fine. I'm sure you can help me. Won't take a second.' He smiled briefly, and before she could ask any questions he pulled out the carbon copy of the invoice. 'My company hired you on for cleaning services in March. Our records got all messed up, so it wasn't clear which property that was for. I need you to verify an address.'

'Sure,' she said. No hassle, no follow-ups. She took the invoice, noted the exact date, and swivelled in her chair toward the computer at her elbow. He heard her repeating to herself, 'March 7, March 7,' as she typed and scrolled, until: 'Aha! Here it is.' Her eyes squinted. 'Property on Bishop's Street in Wingrave, Buckinghamshire.' She looked up from the screen, smiling again and smacking her gum. 'Sound right?'

'Does it have a list of services rendered?' He nodded to the invoice still in her hand. 'Itemised?'

'Yes, all the details are here.'

'Print that off for me, thank you,' he said.

She clicked two keys, and the printer behind her hummed to life. 'Looks like you've used our services with this property once before. Do you need that itemised invoice, too?'

John licked his lips. 'What date was that?'

'Looks like November 9 of last year.'

Casting his mind back, he tried to remember whether there was anything significant about that date. But his memories of being hospital were fuzzy; anything happening in the outside world was a mystery. He'd need to ask Sherlock. 'Print that one, too,' he said.

With the papers still warm from the printer in hand, John thanked her and turned to leave. But he paused at the door.

'Just out of curiosity, how long have you been here?'

'Me? Oh, just about six months.'

'I mean, the business. Been around long?'

She laughed at her misunderstanding. 'Oh! Well, let me think. Not long, really. A little over a year? Mr Tollman had a van service, he and a partner, but they were saving up money for a permanent location and larger staff.' She waved a hand. 'And here we are!'

John smiled tightly at the poor, vapid creature behind the desk, who hadn't even asked his name. 'Here you are.'

They found a sandwich shop and ordered soups. Neither was particularly hungry.

'November's renovation services included door and carpet replacements, lino installation, and some paint work,' Sherlock said, eyes jumping all over the page. Meanwhile, his butter bean soup remained untouched. 'Four hundred twenty-seven pounds ninety pence. March services were exclusively cleaning jobs. Not just hoovering, either. Deep cleaning. Seven different cleaning chemicals are listed here, four workers, a total of seventeen man hours. From the looks of it, they worked the entire building, all 1,700 square feet of it.'

John dipped his bread into the soup de jour (carrot), which was still too hot to eat with a spoon. At the side of the bowl rested his phone, open to maps. 'Looks like a house, country road. Only six miles from here. Jesus.'

'What?'

'I mean . . . do you think he's there? Right now?'

'I guess we'll find out.' Sherlock set the pages down. 'What are you thinking?'

'What am I thinking?'

'Yes.'

John dropped his spoon in the bowl and sat back. 'I don't know. I mean, it can't be Bill's house.'

'Can't it?'

'Place like that? He wasn't exactly a rich man. And besides, he already has a house. And anyway,' he continued, grabbing the pile of invoices and receipts Anita Heslehurst had provided, 'if he'd had a country cottage to disappear to, he wouldn't have had all these hotel bills.'

They'd spent the morning piecing together the timeline, based on the dates listed on all the receipts, but it didn't paint a very clear picture. The hotels were scattered from as far west as Plymouth and as far north as Manchester, the earliest dating in January, the latest in March, and lining up those dates with what had been going on in London at the time revealed nothing of obvious significance.

'Unless he's hiding,' said Sherlock. 'Which would suggest that whoever he's hiding from knows he has the cottage.'

John thought about that, but returned to his initial objection. 'He couldn't afford it.'

'You have Mrs Murray's number on hand?'

'It's in my phone. Why, you think I should call?'

'If her husband owns a cottage, chances are she knows.'

Picking up the phone, he shook his head, still dubious. He scrolled until he found her number. 'You'd think she'd mention that to the police then, wouldn't you?' He tapped her name and brought the phone to his ear, giving Sherlock a meaningful look. Sherlock returned a cocked eyebrow.

'Hello? John?' Mrs Murray's voice was both surprised and hopeful.

'Afternoon, Fran,' John replied. 'How are you?'

Sherlock made a circling gesture with this finger, meaning Get on with it.

'Fine, fine, have you, erm, that is, have you found him?'

He winced. 'Not quite. But we're making good progress. I'm calling because I have a question I'm hoping you can answer.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes and John's adherence to polite custom. John angled away in his chair.

'I'll try my best.'

'Do you know if Bill ever owned property in Wingrave?'

There was a pause on the other end. Then: 'On Bishop's Street?'

John's head snapped back around to look at Sherlock, who, seeing this, sat straighter in his chair.

'That's right,' he said, a little unevenly, 'on Bishop's.'

'That was his father's. Bill inherited the property when he passed.'

'Then—?'

'He sold it when we moved house in Edgware.'

'Oh, he sold it,' John repeated, for Sherlock's sake, and Sherlock's eyebrows pinched together. 'When was this?'

'Couple years now. End of 2012. I was pregnant with our second child, and we needed the space. John, why are you asking about the Wingrave cottage?'

He scrambled for an answer that didn't involve evidence acquired from a former mistress. 'Just some references in old emails,' he said vaguely. 'Any idea who he sold it to? Friend, maybe? An acquaintance?'

'Never did say, I don't think,' she answered. 'No one I knew. Just sold it.'

'Right. Um. Thanks, Fran. We'll be in touch.' He ended the call.

'Interesting,' said Sherlock mildly. At last, he seemed to notice his soup and began to eat.

'He sold it,' John said, rather adamantly. 'Nearly three years ago. Long before . . . Anyway, he soldit.'

'And yet,' Sherlock said between spoonfuls, 'he's cleaning it.' He smacked his lips. 'What might we make of that?'

John had forgotten his food entirely. He watched Sherlock, who seemed intent on nonchalance, while taking large and frequent bites, as though to keep his mouth occupied. Probably to keep himself from giving voice to exactly what he himself had already made of it, John thought.

'He's guilty as all sin,' John said in a small voice. 'Isn't he.'

It wasn't a question.

'Why do you say that?' Sherlock asked, addressing his nearly empty bowl of soup.

'Because he's a liar.'

Sherlock's eyes raised, though he kept his head inclined over his soup.

'He lies to his wife,' John continued morosely. 'He steals from his girlfriend. Maybe, all this time, he's been lying to me, too. This man we're chasing. He's not the man I knew. Or thought I knew.'

'As far as I'm concerned,' said Sherlock, 'none of this yet adds up. Moran, Murray, A.G.R.A., it doesn't make sense. That doesn't mean it won't. It only means, there are too many pieces missing. And until we uncover more evidence, hasty conclusions are unwarranted.'

It was Sherlock's way of trying to make him feel better. The words themselves did not. All the same, John appreciated the gesture.

Michaela Warner wished she were anywhere but here, doing anything but this. For the first time in a very, very long time, she doubted her choice of career.

The front door to 221B Baker Street cracked open; she ran a sweaty palm across the hip of her skirt and licked her lips. You're a professional, Michaela, she coached herself. This is what professionals do. But as the elderly woman stepped out onto the stoop, she couldn't stop herself from moving backward, not forward. She had little practise in accosting women old enough to be her grandmother.

Be bold. Be assertive. Be the sapling of a future journalism-award-winning giant oak tree.

She stepped forward. 'Hello, Mrs Hudson? Are you Martha Hudson?'

The woman had her hand on the knocker to pull the door closed. 'Yes?'

'You're Sherlock Holmes' landlady?' Ugh, stop hedging, get in there!

Adjusting the strap of her purse on a shoulder, Mrs Hudson smiled, but warily. 'Yes, are you a client? I'm afraid Mr Holmes isn't in.'

Assertive! 'I'm Michaela Warner, special reporter for The Guardian. Would you mind if I asked you just a few questions about your tenant John Watson?'

But she hadn't even reached the end of her sentence before Mrs Hudson started shaking her head, wagged a finger in her direction, and pushed the door so it swung inward as if making for a hasty retreat.

'Just a few minutes of your time, that's all I ask.'

'Please go away, Ms Warner.' Mrs Hudson stepped a foot back inside the house.

Michaela started forward, hoping she didn't appear too desperate but wanting to convey a sense of importance all the same. 'I only want to give the people of London an accurate depiction of Dr Watson, and tell his story right.' She knew she was speaking too quickly, and her words sounded too rehearsed, but she had to get them out because the door was closing, and Mrs Hudson had disappeared inside.

She was a fool to have thought this might work. Because she couldn't bring herself to approach John Watson directly, she designed a different and more cowardly angle of attack, to go through his close friends. Of course it hadn't worked. That woman had every right to slam the door on her. And so, conceding defeat, she allowed herself a long sigh, shoved the pad of paper back into the pocket of her trench coat, and started away.

But she hadn't gone far before she heard, to her perfect surprise, the very same Mrs Hudson suddenly calling her name and summoning her back.

In utter amazement, she returned, hand hovering over her pocket.

'Yes?' she asked, cautiously hoping.

Mrs Hudson hadn't left the stoop, and left the door standing open behind her, but she was smiling, hands clasped together in front of her, and when she spoke, it was kindly, if not just a little berating.

'I wonder,' she said, 'are you at all familiar with John's blog?'

Of course she was. Recently, since she'd begun work on the Sherlock Holmes story, she'd been reading it every night before bed, and in bits and pieces throughout the day. In its entirety, she must have read it at least twenty times by now. 'Yes,' she nodded eagerly, 'I am.'

'Then you'll know that John doesn't need help telling his story right.'

Yes, she was indeed being chastened. Having no retort (at its most recent count, John's blog had almost as many hits as The Guardian had subscribers), she merely smiled and nodded to show she understood. She had no teeth.

'So what you should be doing, I think you'll agree, is telling the story of those who no longer can.' Mrs Hudson took one step down, coming closer to her. 'The press keep hounding and going on about Sherlock and John. But I've heard hardly a word on Mary Morstan. Her name has become a footnote in all of this. Where's the outrage on her behalf? Where's the compassion for a woman whose life and future were taken from her so cruelly? You tell that story, Ms Warner. Don't tell the people what they want to hear. Tell them what they need to.'

They waited until dark.

Bishop's Street was a long country road that skirted the village of Wingrave to the east. Along its route lay scattered cottages and stretches of overgrown fields that had once been farmland but now served as untamed greenery and buffers between neighbours. Not far from their destination, Sherlock found a patch of earth just off the shoulder, surrounded by brush, to serve as a lay-by, and there, he hid the car.

'What are we doing?' John asked as Sherlock killed the engine and turned off the lights, casting them in darkness made all the deeper by the thick boscage and bramble surrounding them.

'From here, we proceed on foot.' He unbuckled his belt and glanced toward John in the darkened car. 'An unannounced approach may be deemed most prudent, wouldn't you agree?'

The overt plan was to follow Donovan's directive: to survey and report. The unspoken but mutually understood plan B was to corner and interrogate. If Murray was there, that is. There was no reason to believe he would be, not if he was on the lam, hiding from everyone from his wife to his mistress to the Yard's special surveillance team. But the cottage was ostensibly invisible: no one knew about it. So, as they both reasoned, it might be the perfect hideaway. The chances of his actually being there were looking pretty good.

That said, John was feeling slightly ill. On the one hand, he prayed that Bill would not be there, and they could continue the hunt. To hunt was to keep moving, keep striving forward with purpose, but certain distance. Because when they found their quarry, the game would change. Whatever Bill had to tell them, for good or ill, it meant the next hunt would be for Moran. And he wasn't ready for that one. God, he wanted to be. But he knew he wasn't. In a way, he wanted to chase Bill forever.

But on the other hand, he thought he might implode if he didn't learn the truth of his erstwhile friend, and soon.

'Phones on silent,' Sherlock advised, and they set off together down the dark road.

For a quarter of a mile they walked in silence, each man absorbed in his own thoughts, until they came to a bend in the road, and as Bishop's Street curved to the east, a narrow drive branched to the west, leading to the cottage and secret home of Bill Murray. They paused, shared a glance, and took the westbound road.

At the end of the long drive stood a two-storey cottage wreathed by white gravel. In the style of a French Provence farmhouse, its front door wasn't immediately apparent, as all along the front side of the cottage stood four double-door windows framed with open shutters against pale yellow stone. Behind the house, following the path of the gravel drive, stood a detached garage, or maybe a garden house. Every window was dark. No porch light or lamppost was lit. By all observable evidence, no one was home.

Still, they approached the dark house as if armed men were standing as sentinels and staring at them from the rooftop, watching them come.

They circled the whole perimeter, glancing into every window from the front to the back and both sides, but they didn't see so much as a digital clock on a microwave. Not a single dot of light. They returned to the front door.

'I dare say it's abandoned,' said Sherlock, voice deep and soft.

John frowned. Was that disappointment he felt? Or relief?

'How do you feel about a bit of housebreaking?'

Maybe it was anger. 'Just show me which window to break.'

'My dear John, you insult me.' Sherlock tutted. 'I broke out of a high-security Libyan dungeon. You think I can't manage breaking into a middle-class country cottage?'

He couldn't help himself. John laughed, light and contained laughter, and caught Sherlock smiling at him, despite the dark. 'Off you go, then. And let's hope they don't have security alarms.'

'They don't. I checked.'

Leaving the front door, Sherlock pulled his wallet from the pocket of his jacket and extracted a credit card. He stopped in front of one of the French windows.

'You're not serious,' said John.

'Tried and true,' returned Sherlock. 'Observe the expert. I've been doing this since I was thirteen.'

John couldn't help but smirk as he watched Sherlock wedge a card between the two casements. At the foot of the windows, he placed the toe of his shoe (on the unbooted foot) and added pressure. 'Single-point guardian lock,' he said, as he began to jimmy the card up and down. 'Most windows like these have them, especially the older models. These locks look mid-century. So all you have to do is press the card down between the upturned hook and plate, and . . .'

John heard a soft slide and a crisp click. The window swung open.

'Brilliant,' said John.

'I knew I could still impress you,' Sherlock said, holding the window open for John to pass through.

They slipped inside the dark cottage, and Sherlock closed the door behind them. There, in the middle of the room, they paused to get their bearings. Then John spotted the light switch plate on the wall. He moved toward it.

'Stop,' said Sherlock. He pulled out his phone and turned on the torch app. The intense white light made John wince, and Sherlock angled the beam to the floor. 'If the house has been empty for a while, we don't want to arouse the neighbours' suspicions.'

'Oh. Right.' John pulled out his phone and lit it up as well, holding the light downward. 'What are we looking for?'

'Anything that might tell us when Murray was here last, and maybe where to find him.'

'Okay. So. Split up to cover more ground?'

'Quick walk-through the house, first,' said Sherlock. 'Make sure we really arealone.'

The ground floor was a large, open space, both rustic and modern in design. Standing in the centre on the wool rug beside the sofa, one could see as easily out the large front windows as out the back wide panes. In full daylight, the space would be well illuminated, with very little need for strategic lighting. On the south end of the room stood a fireplace, on the north end, a renovated American kitchen, and a floating wooden staircase in the centre, which twisted and led to the upper level.

They climbed the stairs to the master bedroom, two smaller guest rooms, and a bath. As they had suspected, the house was unoccupied.

'I'll start up here,' said Sherlock. The house might have been empty, but he spoke quietly. 'You take the ground floor. Look for anything that confirms Murray has been here. Check the bins, the fridge, all cupboards, everything.'

'Got it.'

'Shout if you find something.'

'You, too.'

'And keep an eye on the drive. Just in case. We can slip out the back.'

John returned to the ground level. At the foot of the stairs, he made a slow revolution, letting the light fall into every corner of the spacious room. It felt . . . sparse. Empty spaces where furniture might once have been placed, an absence of the clutter of daily living, but for some cursory items on consoles or coffee tables. No photos, no personal affects. It might be a place to sleep, but not to live. John knew the look of a place like that. But the air smelt a little sharp in his nose, like disinfectant, but not potent, like the doors and windows had remained shuttered for a long time and the air had been trapped, unable to circulate properly. A memory stirred, his stomach clenched, and for a sliver of a moment he felt something sour stinging his throat. But he forced it away, and next moment, it was gone.

He set to work, beginning in the living room, but there was little to find. The books on the shelves were old and dusty and what John imagined had once belonged to Bill's father. Nevertheless, because they were relatively few, he pushed them apart to see if anything was caught in between. Nothing. The drawers below the telly were stuffed with DVDs, all older titles, and on the coffee table was nothing but a box of tissues. There seemed to be little of interest in the living room, so he moved to the kitchen.

As Sherlock had recommended, he started with the fridge. When he opened the door, the light came on, proving that someone was still paying for electricity, but the inside, like much of the house, was mostly empty, but for two bottles of Old Speckled Hens shoved near the back. That was all. There was no way to tell how long they'd been there. John wondered if Bill was in the habit of stocking the fridge with beers. They had once enjoyed drinking together. But some men returned from war and developed a particular kind of dependence. Alcohol, he'd heard more than one former soldier say, chased away the demons. For his part, for better or for worse, John had given them a place to stay.

The freezer was empty. The cupboards held plates and cups; cutlery and tea towels filled the drawers. The bin was empty—it wasn't even lined with a bag. Along one wall, facing the living room, stood a pair of folding louvre doors, and when folded, revealed a small storage space. In the corner, a vacuum cleaner, and hanging from hooks on the walls, a feather duster and fly swatter.

Between the sink and the fridge was a small walkway leading to a door, and behind the door was a sizeable walk-in pantry lined with nearly bare wooden shelves. It seemed older than the rest of the house, as this space alone had been left untouched by renovations. Some empty jars and small cardboard boxes. No food in the fridge, none in the pantry, and yet someone kept up on the utility bills? John made a mental note to check for post in the slot or a box on the porch.

He was about to leave the pantry when, by the light from his phone, he notice a rectangular outline in the floor. Upon closer inspection, he realised it was a door, a trap door, with a metal ring sunk into an impression in the wood. Curious, he bent over and he grabbed it, pulled, but it didn't open. That's when he noticed the key hole. Standing straight again, he cast the light around, and on the wall near the door where he had come in, he saw a small silver key hanging on a string.

The key fitted the lock and turned with well-used ease, a satisfying clink. Setting the key on one of the shelves, John grasped the lock again. This time, when he pulled, the trap door squeaked on its hinges and swung upwards, falling against the nearest wall. In the revealed hole were a set of old, narrow, wooden stairs, leading down.

There, he paused. He shone his light into the hole but could see no further than a few stairs. Was it at all needful, he wondered, to go down there? A musty smell was rising. Likely, it was nothing. Just an old cellar, unused for months, maybe even years, as empty and pointless as the rest of this house. But he didn't close the door, and he didn't move away.

It's irrational to be afraid of the dark. Sherlock's voice was inside his head.

You have a light, he reminded himself.

It had been six months since Dr Peabody had diagnosed him as nyctophobic. But that had been in the immediate aftermath of the convent. And though he still slept with a night light always plugged in, that was only because he needed it when he awoke from nightmares and needed to quickly orient himself to his real-life surroundings. Now, he was fully awake, and in charge of his own mind.

Don't be a coward.

Clenching his jaw, holding his breath, he started down the steep, narrow stairs, his light held out in front of him like a shield.

The cellar below the house opened up to his left and stretched back, back, perhaps half the length of the ground floor itself. His light didn't quite reach the end. But one of the first things he saw, to his relief, was a cord hanging from a bare bulb. He tugged, and the bulb buzzed; gradually, its light swelled, allowing him to turn off his torch and return the phone to his pocket.

With the light on in the cellar and now a clear view into even the corners, John felt his heartrate begin to slow; he hadn't realised just how fast it had been racing, and he laughed shortly and called himself an idiot. It was perfectly fine. It was a cellar like any other: cool and dry, smelling of earth. Packed dirt beneath his shoes muffled his footsteps. The walls, too, were unfinished and made of earth, with narrow but deep holes where one might cheaply store wine bottles, rather than build a buy an expensive wine rack. But there were no bottles left to keep cool.

Advancing a little further, as the room opened up just a little more, he noticed, to his left, a door made of metal and painted red. It was shiny, the way new things were shiny, and had a silver handle at the side, and a silver flap at the bottom, like what someone would push the post through, only a little larger. But what was it doing here? What was it blocking off? John grasped the handle, pushed, and with a groan, the door swung in. He followed it.

He could tell the space was small, but the light from the solitary bulb didn't reach here, and he wasn't sure exactly what he was looking at. He took another step and reached again for his phone, not realising that the door was slowly falling closed behind him.

John's screen lit up; he swiped for the torch app. And just as the door banged closed, his torchlight fell to the floor. In the centre of the small room was a red dog dish.

With the shock of being dunked in freezing water, John was slammed into a full-blown panic.

'Sherlock!'

He whipped around and threw himself at the steel door, but his fingers scraped only metal. There was no handle on this side, nothing to pull, no escape.

'Sherlock!'

From behind came a dark chuckle. He gasped and spun around, pressing his back to the cold metal and raising the torch with a trembling hand. The shadow of a man stood in the corner, tall and broad, and his arm jerked to aim the torch. But when it was illuminated and the corner proved bare, he saw only that the shadow had moved to the other end of the room. With a shout, he again refocused the light, but the figure again disappeared.

John couldn't breathe. He couldn't think. It was cold, and he was naked, and he was trapped in a basement. And thirsty, he was so thirsty.

Drink up, pet.

'No!'

He started forward and kicked the dog dish with all his might; it rebounded off the wall and circled the floor like a disk. Laughter sounded again at his side. He flung himself away from the voice in his ear, landed on his knees, and scrambled upright again. Again, he shouted for Sherlock, with the futility of screaming for a dead man. But not even the living could hear him down here, a thousand steps below the earth.

He couldn't find the door. Had there been a door? He circled, circled, around the perimeter, keeping as far from the dog dish as possible. His fingers clawed the earthen walls, desperate for air. He gasped, sobbed, screamed. His back was burning with the sting of a thousand cuts. Mary, where was Mary? What were they doing to her?

He'd been tricked. Snared. Trapped in a house of horror, the house of Bill Murray, the house of Sebastian Moran, they were one in the same.

Me and you. Me in you.

His phone fell to the dirt floor, on its face. The light went out. He screamed.

The master bedroom was basically aseptic. Sherlock could think of no better word. It hadn't just been cleaned. It had been sanitised down to the rug fibres. Not a single hair in the en suite, not a smudge on the mirror. Only a fine layer of the natural dust that settled in any room left unoccupied for weeks at a stretch. Even New Scotland Yard's most painstaking and proficient forensics teams would be hard-pressed to find any evidence to suggest a human being had set foot in this room. And, he had begun to conclude, that seemed very much the point.

But he wasn't satisfied, and so he methodically opened every drawer and overturned every rug and shone his light into every corner and unscrewed every light fixture and power point, just to see if there was something hidden behind the plate. When he was finished there, he moved to the first guest bedroom.

He was leafing through some magazines left on a bedside table when he heard it. John, calling for him. Not just calling. Screaming.

Sherlock had never heard his named screamed with such terror before, and his reaction was visceral. He tore out of the room. Wildly, he flew down the floating stairs. But when he reached the ground floor he spun, eyes searching the dark. But John was nowhere to be seen.

'Sherlock!'

The cry came from below. But where! What was happening! Was he hurt, was he in pain, was he being attacked? 'John!' he called, but there was no response.

Then he saw the light: pale and distant, somewhere beyond the kitchen. He ran toward it, into a pantry, where he saw a hole in the floor, and down the hole, a light. He didn't think twice before flinging himself down the rickety wooden stairs and into the cellar where, again, he heard a shout, muffled, but there was no mistaking its desperation. 'No!'

Several things registered in his mind at once, almost paralysing him. No windows. A dirt floor. Pipes running above his head, a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, and walls of earth with holes for wine. He knew where he was, exactly where: For five days, this wine cellar had been the prison of Karim Omid Niazi, the last victim of the Slash Man. Here, in Bill Murray's basement. But that meant . . .

'John!' he cried, as he heard his friend scream again. He ran to a red, steel door, from where he had heard the cry, grasped the handle, and with his whole body shoved inward. Light spilt across the threshold. Not much. Just enough to see John doubled over with his hands over his head, crying. At his feet was a red dog dish, and his dropped phone. Other than that, there was no one else, and nothing else, in the tiny room.

Bracing the door open with a hand, he called to John. 'Let's go, let's go,' he urged.

John seemed not to hear him. He moaned and sobbed and shook where he stood. This wasn't the first time Sherlock had seen his friend in such straits. Far from it. This was a panic attack. His mind was fogged—trapped in the memories of past fears and unimaginable pain—and too far gone for Sherlock's words alone to penetrate the intrusive images. In fact, it would be nearly impossible to restore him here, in a prison too reminiscent of the prison he had once known, with the red dog dish to remind him of his torment.

'It's me, John. I'm getting you out of here,' Sherlock warned, then stepped forward, releasing the door, which began to fall. He caught it with his foot. Then he scooped up the phone and dropped it in his pocket. 'Take my hand.'

Without waiting a moment longer, he grasped John's hand and pulled him out of the small room. John came with no resistance.

He moved quickly. The air above was freer, the surroundings safer. There, calming John would be easier. I should have taken the ground level, he thought, cursing himself. Then, We shouldn't have separated at all.At the stairs, Sherlock positioned John in front of him so he would be the first to rise. 'Up, up!' he directed, and John, stumbling a little, took hold of an unstable railing and ran up the stairs. Sherlock waited until his head had cleared the ceiling before turning out the cellar light.

Back in the centre of the house, John was clearly trying to get his breath back. A hand splayed on his chest and he was gasping, pacing and turning restlessly like he was caught between needing to flee and not knowing where to go.

'Hey,' said Sherlock gently. He took a cautious step forward. 'Hey, John. Look at me.'

John hit himself in the right ear, three times, like trying to dislodge or shake loose something that had crawled inside.

'John.' Slowly, giving John a chance to retreat, he reached for his arm. Held it. Stepped closer. John stopped and didn't try to pull away. But even in the darkened room, Sherlock could tell his eyes were darting, searching for something sinister lurking in the shadows. So Sherlock put his hands on both sides of John's head to anchor him. 'Look at me.'

For a few seconds, John seemed lost. Then Sherlock turned them, slowly, until the moonlight coming in through the window was just enough to illuminate his face so John could see him. When he did, his eyes stilled. Recognition dawned, and John returned to himself. A shuddering breath passed through him, and he gasped, 'I'm okay.' He reached up and grabbed Sherlock's forearm, as though to keep himself balanced. 'I'm . . .'

But again, he froze. He was staring beyond Sherlock's shoulder now, and it was as if a sheen of fear fell over him again. At that moment, an artificial light struck his face, and slid across it. Sherlock turned sharply. Through the large front windows, he saw headlights coming down the drive. Fast.

For half a second, under the brightness of the light, Sherlock's brain whited out. Then, like an engine thrown into overdrive, the variables, hypotheses, and deductions raced through his brain at record speed.

No one knew they were here. That is, no one friendly. So it wasn't Donovan. It wasn't Lestrade. And Mycroft, who may have had such powers of tracking at his disposal once upon a time, was still lying insentient, his life supported by machines and his brain on leave. It was possible that it was the police. If a neighbour had spied them breaking into the house . . . But the nearest houses were far out of view and in any case blocked by trees. And in his gut, Sherlock knew it wasn't the police.

And not just one car, but two.

'Oh God,' John was saying. 'Oh God, oh God.'

'Out the back,' Sherlock directed hastily, ignoring his own rising fear as he grabbed John's hand once again and pulled him toward the back of the house.

But the second car was coming around the drive that ringed the house, cutting off any escape. 'God,' John moaned, his voiced pitched. 'Oh God.'

Sherlock calculated their chances. They could run upstairs and hide in a cupboard or bathroom; but the lights streaming through the windows would highlight their silhouettes crossing the room and fleeing up the floating stairs.

Doors banged shut in the front: driver and passenger sides. Then came the sound of male voices, their words indistinguishable.

Sherlock started for the cellar. John's hand tightened in his, terrified, and he dug in his heels, refusing to return.

The engines died, and the headlights with them. Voices in the back now, laughing, drawing nearer.

'Sherlock!' John said in a hoarse whisper.

'Trust me.'

They had mere seconds. They wouldn't make it to the cellar in time, in any case. So Sherlock dragged John to a pair of folding, white louvre doors, folded one side, kicked a bucket out of his way, and pulled John inside after him. It was just as he slid the door closed again that the front door of the cottage opened.

A second later, the house lights snapped on.

John flinched violently beside him. He moaned in his throat, a high-pitched quaver.

There was nothing for it. Maybe John couldn't help it, but if he moved, if he made any noise whatsoever, he would give away their hiding place. Discovery was not an option. So Sherlock slid his arm around John and pulled him in, clamping one hand across his mouth, holding the other arm around his middle. 'Shhh,' he breathed into his ear. John gasped through his nose and tightened his fingers into Sherlock's bracing arm. He was holding his breath; his body made tiny jerks, arms twitching, stomach muscles spasming. 'Breathe,' Sherlock whispered.

The back door opened and fell closed with a bang. John recoiled. Sherlock held him tighter.

'Hey hey hey!' said one of the men. 'Galdano, you mother-fucker, I thought for sure you'da been arrested by now!'

There was laughter as the four men greeted one another, but only one was met by name. Sherlock lowered his head to peer through the slats in the door. Three white men, one black, and when the black man, the tallest of the lot, turned at just the right angle, a tiny piece of the jigsaw clunked into place. Sherlock knew that figure, those dimensions. This was the man he had chased on the railroad tracks, when he had believed he was running after the Slash Man.

There was no question. These were Moran's men. He and John were definitely in danger.

'He coming then?' asked one.

'That's what the message said, innit?'

'What's this about, eh?'

'Dunno. Just following orders. Meet at the old rendezvous. So here we are.'

One of them had wandered into the kitchen. Sherlock heard him pull a glass from the cupboard and fill it with water from the tap, as though he'd done it a dozen times before. Then he opened the fridge. 'Shit, lookee here! We got ourselves some beer! That Bill. What a guy!'

'Where is that old son of a bitch?'

'Toss me a beer.'

'Last I heard, he's gone underground.'

'On the run, that's what I heard.'

'Ain't but two beers.'

'Fucker, gimme the second.'

John's breaths were rapid and shallow; he was going to make himself dizzy and likely to faint if he kept breathing like that, Sherlock thought, wishing there was something he could do to calm him. But at the mention of Bill Murray, John stopped breathing entirely.

'Didja hear about old Everett?'

There was laughter all around.

'Was that one of yours then, Paul?'

'Weren't none of mine. I thought it was one of yours!'

More guffaws, and the hiss of a beer being cracked open.

One of them was in the living room, punching buttons on the television. 'Too bad the damn telly don't work no more.'

His vantage point was far from optimal, but Sherlock was cataloguing everything: what little he could see of their faces, what jackets they wore, what shoes; he attached names to voices and who said what; he noticed the guns weighing down pockets and tucked into belts and trousers. Each man was armed. Sherlock and John had left Baker Street without so much as a knife.

Stupid, stupid.

John was shivering, proof that his panic was escalating. If the men didn't leave soon, if he couldn't get John out of the cupboard and into open air, far away from here, he feared what might happen. But he dared not slacken his grip on John's mouth or waist, not even a little. Instead, he laid his head against John's and rubbed subtly, the only comforting gesture he could think to offer. He didn't even dare another shushing sound, no matter how soft.

'Ah, here he comes,' said the one called Paul. 'Man of the hour.'

'Time to see what the fuck he wants.'

'Whatever it is, you're gonna give it to him, Holton,' said the black man, whose name had not yet been spoken. The men were moving toward the front of the house as beyond, in the drive, a third vehicle had arrived. Its engine grew louder as it drew nearer, and then stopped.

Sherlock's own trepidation was climbing, climbing. He tried to think, think! What was he to do? How long could they remain hidden? If there was an opportunity to slip away, would they dare take it? And what would they do if they were caught? But more importantly . . . Who had just arrived? Was it Bill? God, please, please be Bill Murray, he thought desperately.

Agonising seconds dragged by. His palm was damp from John's hot, rapid breaths, and when the front door opened, John gave a small whimper and squirmed in Sherlock's arms. Impossibly, he tightened them even more.

But two unknown men came into the house and then into view. Through the thin gap between the slats, Sherlock memorised their faces. They were carrying large black duffels, two apiece, heavy laden, but with what, Sherlock couldn't immediately discern. And for a moment, he was so distracted by his curiosity over these two men and their baggage that he was unprepared to see Sebastian Moran following behind.

A jolt of fear passed through John's whole body, so violent that Sherlock's grip over his mouth slipped. As John's head flung back, it knocked painfully into Sherlock's mouth; they both stifled cries in their throats. Sherlock himself was beginning to panic. If they were found, Sherlock was a dead man, and John . . . He would be worse than dead. He had to keep John quiet, at any cost. So he clapped a hand once again across John's mouth and with bruising strength, held it there. He hooked a leg around the front of John's weaker leg and planted his foot between John's to prevent him from unwittingly kicking out. He squeezed John's body with his own, and all the while, he tried to send his thoughts to John: Breathe. Just breathe. I've got you, John, but you have to breathe. But hot tears were sliding over his knuckles, and John's stomach was stuttering with rapid sobs.

Six months had passed since Sherlock had last seen him. In the basement of the convent, while John lay dying at their feet, they had stood face to face. Much had changed. Sherlock knew he himself was a changed man, but Moran . . . He appeared somehow darker. Before, his black hair had been cut close to his head in military fashion; he had worn a white collared shirt and dark suit; there had been something business-like and proper in him, but with a sort of madness crackling below the surface, which Sherlock had himself witnessed erupt into violence.

Now, the madness was laid bare. Sebastian Moran's hair hung shaggy over his ears, loose and unwashed. He wore a full beard, at least one month's growth. If he wore a suit, it was hidden beneath a long, dark trench coat. But if his appearance had gone to seed, his manner was still that of a commanding officer. With slow, menacing steps, he entered the circle of his men, and with sharp, scrutinising eyes, he took in the measure of them. When he turned to face the louvre doors, a streak of scar tissue ran from cheek to cheek, slashing across his nose.

At the sight of him, John drew in a ragged breath, and Sherlock knew he was microseconds away from an unstoppable scream. Quickly, he dropped his hand from John's mouth and grabbed his throat instead, choking the cry before it began. I'm so, so sorry, John!

You're going to have to kill him.

Sherlock flinched against the thought. John jerked under his grip, a sharp elbow to the ribs.

I told you it was a mistake, Sherlock. He's not ready.

Shut up! Shut up!

If they find you, you're dead anyway. Both of you. And it'll be worse for him than it was before. Go on then. A quick, merciful death for the John you love so well. Squeeze his throat. Snap his neck. He won't even know it's happening.

Out of my head! Out!

John scratched desperately at Sherlock's sleeves.

It's the obvious solution. Logical, even. Kill John Watson.

Having locked John in place with his leg, he dropped the arm wrapped around John's torso and stroked his hair and the side of his face. He stroked until John stopped scratching, stopped struggling. Then slowly, he released John's neck. Something had stabilised. Now, John covered his mouth with his own two hands, and Sherlock encircled him once again, this time with both arms.

When Moran spoke, his voice rumbled deep, and John's pulse throbbed so furiously Sherlock felt it in his own chest. 'In the Bible,' he said, continuing to pace the circle as he addressed his men, 'Jesus tells his disciples, if your right eye offends you, pluck it out. If your right hand irritates you, cut it off.' He came to a stop, toe to toe with the man standing just before the louvre doors. The man's head blocked Sherlock's view of Moran's face, but his words were unimpeded. 'Wisdom? Or foolishness?'

For a long, stuttering moment, the man, Galdano, fumbled. 'Erm, I, uh, I should say, sir, that is, colonel . . . Being that it's Jesus and all . . . wisdom?'

But Moran didn't reply straightaway, nor move so much as a finger. He stared down his man, and to his credit, Galdano had stopped squirming.

At last, he continued. 'I agree.' He took again to pacing. 'But he was exaggerating, wasn't he? Speaking in metaphors. Isn't that right?'

'I should hope so, sir.'

There was nervous laughter around the circle.

'But what if it's not your eye that offends you, or your hand? Hm?' Slowly, he extracted from an inner pocket of his coat an object Sherlock first mistook for a pen. Then he saw the gleaming tip, slightly rounded, but with an edge like a razor. A silver scalpel. John pitched forward suddenly, involuntarily, but he was kept in place only by Sherlock's relentless hold.

Moran stopped again in the centre of the circle and rotated slowly.

'What if . . . it were a man? An apostate? A Judas? What is it the Lord Himself should have done to good ol' Judas?'

No one spoke. It was quiet enough in the house to hear a pin drop. John and Sherlock both were holding their breaths.

Moran glared hard at them all. Then he stalked to the edge of the circle toward one man, who couldn't help but fall back a step. Moran reached around his back, it seemed, but Sherlock's view was still impeded by Galdano. Then Moran whipped around, and Sherlock caught the glare off a black pistol just before the bang.

Galdano's skull erupted—wooden slats on the doors exploded—the wall behind Sherlock's head sprayed dust and mortar—blood spurted into the gap in the door—Sherlock flung himself back into the corner—his head struck the wall and rebounded—he and John dropped to the floor beside the vacuum cleaner, and John's flailing leg kicked the door hard. Less than half a second after the explosion, Galdano's body slammed into the louvre doors and crumpled to the floor.

It had all happened so fast. Sherlock's mind was screaming. Had they been heard, or had the blast and Galdano's collapse shielded them? Had the bullet hit John? On the floor now, he cradled John awkwardly in his arms, and began patting every bit of him he could reach, checking for injury in the dark. His adrenaline was flowing so fast he wondered, too, if he himself might have been struck and hadn't yet begun to feel it. Warm blood slid down his face—was it his own?

A wide pool of blood spreading from Galdano's body was seeping under the door where they sat, soaking through their trousers.

Moran whirled to face his men, who all jumped in their skin and stepped back. 'I'm trying to build a kingdom!' he cried, flailing the pistol in their faces. 'A fucking kingdom! And I will not be undermined! I will not suffer defectors! Am I understood? Am I fucking understood?'

'We're with you, colonel, all of us, we're with you,' said Paul, his voice trembling and weak.

John grabbed Sherlock's hands to stop them from searching. Instead, he balled it in his, and pressed it against his chest like holding onto a stress toy.

Moran shook his head, and tapped the pistol to his temple. 'Am I stupid, Paul?'

'No, sir.'

'No, sir, is goddamn right.' And without a second thought, he aimed the Glock again, and fired off a second round, right between Paul's eyes. His skull split in two and fell with him to the floor.

The other two men turned to run. But Moran was a marksman, his hand was cold and steady, and there was murder in his eyes.

He felled one by the stairs, a clean shot to the base of the skull; then he whipped around and shot the fourth man just as he reached the back door. With each bang, John flinched violently, but he was as silent as the grave.

The last shell casing hit the hardwood floor like a tap dancer. Then all was quiet. Neither of the two men still standing, the two Moran had brought with him, had moved an inch.

'And you two?' asked Moran. 'Where do you stand?'

The answers came swiftly, and without fear.

'With you, Colonel.'

'We are your men.'

'It'll be you, sir. You'll get to Holmes first, and we'll be at your side when you do.'

'Good.'

Moran rolled his neck. He twirled the scalpel around in his fingers, flipped it up into the air, and caught it by the handle.

'Keys should be on the bodies. You, take the Beamer. And you, the Mazda. Do what I brought you to do, then disappear. We'll be in contact.'

'And Murray?'

'Don't you worry about Murray.' Moran strode toward the front door. Just as he was leaving, he said, 'He's mine. And he knows it.'

Sherlock's legs were growing numb under John's weight, but he could feel Galdano's warm blood soaking all the way through his trousers and socks. His own grip on John was bloodless. As for John, his stomach kept contracting violently, a diaphragm spasming with hiccough-like pulses. Sherlock could hear his laboured breaths, but though they were loud in his own ears, he doubted they could be heard beyond the door. Sherlock's arm muscles were wearying and threatening to seize up. He repositioned them to offer his arms some relief without daring to let go.

His angle of vision from the floor was poor. Instead, he listened intently as the men worked, moving from one dead body to another. He heard the brushing of cloth and the light jangle of car keys. Then, the long, drawn-out hum of zips. They were opening the black duffels.

'Guess this is it for the old rendezvous,' one quipped drily.

The other ignored the comment. 'Do the beds. I'll do the sofas.'

'And curtains.'

There was a crunchy sound of paper. Newspaper? Sherlock bent his neck for a better angle, but it was no use. What were they doing? Then, heard a wet, slopping sound, like water in a jug.

Not water! The pieces clicked together all at once. And sure enough, just as he realised what they were about to do, the faintest whiff of petrol reached his nose.

He inclined his lips to John's ear and whispered so softly he could barely hear himself: 'They're setting the house on fire.'

John didn't answers, didn't move, unless it was to blink. And for a moment, Sherlock wondered whether he had heard, or if he was too lost to hear anything at all. Then came a slow nod.

'We have to wait.'

Again, the slow nod. Sherlock squeezed his hand, the only reassurance he could think to offer. John squeezed back.

There was nothing to do but to wait. Wait and listen. While one of the men ascended the stairs, the other crumpled newspaper and littered the room, sprinkling petrol here and there. Oh God, it would burn fast. Fast and hot. What if they sprang out of the cupboard now and attacked? Downstairs, it was just one man. They could take one man. But if he had a gun, and if he was as deadly with it as Moran . . . And if it went wrong, and the second man, drawn by the sound of shouts and gunfire, returned . . . No, it was too risky. Besides, Galdano's body, pressing up against the door, would hinder a surprise attack.

But then, if they struck the match while Sherlock and John were still hidden, they would be trapped by more than a corpse.

While he thought, Sherlock felt a something stinging on the side of his face, about eye level. It had taken a while for him to notice, but it seemed that the bullet had come a bit too close after all.

Right now, it was the least of his worries.

Hard steps hurried down the stairs.

'Mattresses are on fire, let's go,' said the second man, urgently.

'Mazda's out back. Get out quick. I'm making a trail out the front.'

This was it. This would be their only window of opportunity. The back door opened and fell closed, and footsteps moved toward the front. The black duffels were left behind.

'Now, John,' said Sherlock. 'Stand and be ready.'

In that cramped space it was hard to move at all, but John managed to plant his feet under himself, grab the wall, and with a little shove from Sherlock, rise to standing. Then he turned, grasped Sherlock's arm, and pulled him to his feet. With numb, buzzing legs, wet with blood, his stance was wobbly, and he leant against the wall for support. John set a hand on the door to push the central hinge that would fold it outward and let them escape.

'Wait.' Sherlock put a hand on John's shoulder. They weren't cleared yet to open the door. Not until the Mazda rolled away. The back way was their only feasible escape.

John put out a hand on the wall and bowed his head; Sherlock could tell he was still trying to breathe. He transferred his hand from shoulder to back. 'We're almost out of here, I promise.'

All John could do was nod.

In the distance, the Mazda's engine roared to life. Then, with the spinning of tyres on the crunchy gravel, they heard it pull away.

'Out the back, go, go!' Sherlock whispered.

John pushed the door, but it didn't fold. Galdano's body was blocking its path. Two handed now, he pushed with greater force, grunting in panic and frustration. The body moved a few inches, but not enough to free them.

'Hard, on three,' said Sherlock, shaking the feeling into one leg as he joined John to push. 'One, two, three.'

They pushed together, and just as the door shoved the body out of their path, there was a flash of light from the front of the house. The fire chased the trail of petrol like a roaring tiger racing across the floor. Heat and devouring light suddenly filled the room. With a shout, Sherlock pulled John back inside the cupboard, a temporary haven, as the wool rugs and sofas and curtains erupted into flame.

The smoke alarms began to howl. The heat was intense. Already, black smoke was rising, roiling on the ceiling like storm clouds.

'Now! Now!' cried Sherlock. He grabbed John's hand again, threw an arm across his own nose, and jumped over Galdano's body, pulling John along behind him. He assessed quickly. The front half of the house was a standing wall of fire. So he turned right, toward the French windows at the back. The curtains on either side were crackling. The sofa was engulfed. At his side, John was doubled over, coughing, but his hand held true.

Sherlock felt like his skin was burning. The scar tissue from his ordeal on the tracks, when his arm had caught fire, flared in protest of the heat, and his face felt like he'd suffered a bad sunburn. His eyes were stinging with the smoke. He felt his chest constricted with the lack of oxygen.

There was no clear path through the maze of fire. There was no obvious exit. He would have to make one.

Tugging John toward the tall windows, framed in fire, he lifted his leg, and kicked as hard as he could at the lock. It held fast. He kicked again. It rattled loudly, but it wouldn't budge. Suddenly, John dropped his hand. He looked back in panic, but saw that John had grabbed a heavy wooden chair, its legs smoking. Then he swung it with all his might. The glass shattered. John dropped the chair and stuck out his hand again for Sherlock to take and lead him on. Together, they leaped through the broken window and into open air like blackbirds from a tree aflame.

They ran. They ran past the garden house and into the field, illuminated by moonlight and a blazing country cottage. They pushed on with sore limbs and strained tendons, but their chests ached with the lack of oxygen, and as the April grasses grew taller and the bramble thicker, they collapsed. Sherlock released John's hand and twisted his neck to look back at the ball of fire. Someone would come. Soon. Even now, Fire and Rescue Services were probably on their way. They would come, and if they couldn't put the fire out, they would wait until it died out, and then they would find the remains of four murdered men. Whatever other evidence was destroyed, those charred skeletons would tell the story of execution. An investigation would be launched. Bill Murray, as either the current or former deed owner, would become a person of interest. Sherlock and John had to get to him first.

On the ground beside him, John had pushed himself to hands and knees to crawl away, but he didn't get far before he began to retch. Cough, and sob, and retch.

'John—'

John shook his head, gasping. 'I'm okay. I'm okay. He's gone, and we're okay.'

The fit continued for a short while, working its way out of John's system. Sherlock gently laid a hand between John's shoulder blades until it passed. When it did, John covered his eyes, tried to breathe. Coughed. A long stretch of quiet in the dark. Then—

'Was it real?' John asked. 'Was he . . . real?'

Sherlock felt John's muscles quivering, shivering, beneath his fingertips. 'Yes,' he said. 'It was all real.'

John's shoulders sagged with relief; but in contrast, his face twisted with pain. He leant toward Sherlock, and Sherlock grabbed his quaking shoulders and pulled him in for a close embrace. 'Oh God!' John gasped.

'It's okay, we're okay. We're alive.'

'If he'd found us . . . God, Sherlock!'

'Shh, shh, don't think about it. Don't think.'

The wind blew softly across field. It was far from sufficient to temper the raging fire in the distance, but just enough to cool the sweat on their brows. After a short time, it reminded them that the night air had chilled, and they couldn't stay. They pulled apart.

'Ready?' Sherlock asked, holding John's head and searching for his eyes in the dark.

John just nodded. Then they helped each other to their feet, and keeping to shadows of the treeline, slipped away into the night.

'I'm off for the night, miss.'

Anthea looked up from her book, blinking. Her eyes were tired and burning dully from trying to stay awake. Her bare feet slipped off the sofa and onto the plush rug.

'Thank you, Joan.'

'Catheter bag is fresh and IV drip is changed. Vitals are stable. Nurse Wyand will be here within the hour, and Dr Nash is on call. I'll see you tomorrow, miss.'

'Tomorrow.'

The front door closed, and Anthea curled over her knees to stretch her back, then, book in hand, she rose to her feet. She walked down the hallway and into Mr Holmes' room. Even if it was just for an hour, she never wanted him to be alone.

'No new updates in the last twelve hours,' she said aloud, as though to an empty room. But it was important to her that she report the day's activities. She walked around and began to tidy things up. 'Lestrade is being cagey, and your brother has left London. He's in Buckinghamshire, but I don't know why. I shouldn't think he has any sentimental attachments there, based on what you've told me. But Watson is with him. That should make you feel a little more at ease.'

She turned on the telly in the corner and brought up a channel for classical music. Violin concertos had always been his favourite. She turned the volume up a couple of ticks but kept it low and soothing.

'No word from your people. I'm keeping operations running as usual, but I don't know how much longer I can do it before they realise it's me and not you at the wheel.' She slid the book back onto the shelf where she had left a gap. 'Then again, they might know already.'

She came up to the bedside, and, as what had become a perfunctory measure, started squeezing his legs, ankle to thigh and thigh to ankle, just as a nurse had showed her, to massage the muscles and keep the blood flowing as normal. Her own hand was still in plaster, but she made it work.

'Davenport was buried yesterday. I paid all the funeral expenses from your account. I figured you would have wanted it that way.'

Then she moved on to the arms, wrist to shoulder and shoulder to wrist.

When she finished, she sat in the chair beside the bed and sighed deeply, exhausted. Briefly, she squeezed his hand, then let her own fall to her lap. Slowly, she rested her head on the mattress beside his shoulder, and allowed herself respite. She closed her eyes.

It was just about then that Mycroft Holmes' eyelashes began to flutter.

End of Part 1