On the other side of the chessboard, Moriarty was laughing. He wiped tears of mirth and nearly slid out of his chair.

Sherlock shot to his feet and spun away.

'Oh, come on, Sherlock!' tittered the madman. 'Don't stop playing now! We're finally having fun!

Fisting two hands in his hair, Sherlock doubled over and pulled at his curls until he felt them ripping from his scalp. He wanted to scream.

'What's wrong, poppet? Come here. Sit on Daddy's knee and tell him what's wrong.'

'Get out, get out!' Sherlock cried, beating his own head with the heel of his hands.

'Oh, well that's no use.' Moriarty heaved a great, over-dramatic sigh. 'I can't leave because I have nowhere to go. This is my home now.'

Sherlock couldn't stand it. He started running. He flew across the floor so white it was invisible, and into a distance with no horizon. But there was nothing to run to, only something to run from. Still, he had to get away. His feet pounded silently, but his harsh breaths were loud in his ears his throbbing heart painful in his chest. He ran until it was near to bursting. Then he stopped, bent over hands to knees, and fought to regain control.

'That's the problem with sentiment,' Moriarty continued dully.

Sherlock spun around. Moriarty was sitting at the chess table, chin propped in his hand. He'd run so far but gone nowhere.

'It's the chemical defect found on the losing side.'

'Shut up.'

'Your words, Sherly. Not mine. I'm just the little voice in your head reminding you that you used to be good at this. A real contender. My, how the mighty have fallen. You and me both, old boy. Oh Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. You were right. You were right! Look at you now. A little sprinkling of sentiment, and you're out of control. You're losing. Lo-o-ooosing.' His eyes dropped to the table and up again, to draw Sherlock's attention to the board. 'Your knight is definitely in danger.'

Sherlock marched over, seized his knight, and moved it decisively forward on the board.

Moriarty's eyebrows rose in surprise.

'Bold move. Endanger yourself to spare the knight? That's not how to win at chess.'

'It's how I win at chess!'

'Testy, testy.'

'You've changed the rules of the game, Jim. I'm adapting.'

'Have I done?' The light of madness lit Moriarty's eyes, and his lips were spread in the sadistic grin of a child who was eager to be caught.

Sherlock continued. 'But not in your favour. I'm curious. How do you hope to hold one kingdom'—he motioned toward Moriarty's side of the board—'with two kings?'

The queen had promoted herself. New rules indeed.

Rolling his neck, Moriarty regarded him silently. The teasing had ebbed out of him; he was dead serious. 'Well,' he said, 'I think that's more your problem than mine. Innit?'

SATURDAY, APRIL 25, 2015

John lifted Sherlock's chin to turn his face to the light. With a wet flannel, he gently wiped away the blood drip-dried down his cheek from where the skin lay flayed. The bullet had grazed just above his right cheekbone, nearly at eye level. The flannel was cool, but the wound burned.

John took his time, and moved slowly. But while evaluating the severity of the abrasion, he froze, the flannel forgotten in his hand. Sherlock didn't need to ask what he was thinking. He was thinking it too: Half an inch to the right, a quarter inch, and it would have been over entirely. For him, anyway. Not for John. Overcome at the thought, John wordlessly wrapped his arms around Sherlock's head and pulled it tight against his chest where Sherlock could hear his throbbing heart. He didn't move. Neither man did.

Although only an hour from London, they did not return. Sherlock had wanted to. He wanted to get John to Baker Street, behind secure doors and encased in familiar walls, where they could both calm down, take stock of themselves, and make sense of what had happened tonight. But it seemed unwise to delay medical treatment. John was coming down from a panic attack and was still short of breath; Sherlock was bleeding from a head wound; both had smoke in their lungs. A trip to A&E wouldn't do—too many questions, too much exposure.

They had already booked a room in Aylesbury, expecting to retire there once their examination of Bill Murray's now burned-down cottage was complete, and from there plan their next move. So it was to the hotel they returned. The blood left on the seats and floor of the rental car was something they would just have to worry about tomorrow. Once in the room, they bolted the door, drew closed the curtains, and deposited their bloody clothes in the tub. After looking at each other, and knowing they were in a state, they called reception to request an emergency kit, and a very basic kit it was—a variety of plasters, dressings, sterile wipes, scissors, safety pins, and disposable gloves. John had met the runner at the door in a white undershirt, murmured thank you, and shut the door quickly.

Now, John sniffed loudly and unwound his arms from Sherlock's neck and stood back, turning to the kit. From the white box he pulled out an envelope of sterile wipes and a couple plasters. His eyes were shining in the poor lamplight.

'Are you okay?' Sherlock asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

'Nope.' John forced a tight smile that disappeared quickly.

He was fixating. They both were. Tonight might have gone so wrong, so horribly wrong. They had learnt more than they were ready to learn, seen more than they were prepared to see. Inadvertently, they had found Karim's prison, the same place Moran had intended to take John on the night he was rescued from the basement of the convent. The cottage had served as a rendezvous of sorts for Moran and his people, and there seemed to be no more denying it—Bill Murray was at the heart of it all. He had betrayed his friend.

Even as they sat there, the cottage was burning to rubble, but the truth of the location had almost cost them their lives. Sherlock had nearly taken a bullet in the brain. As for John . . . Sherlock could see bruises beginning to form around his mouth and along his throat, forceful impressions of Sherlock's own fingers as he smothered him, choked him, nearly killed him. God, what might he have done? Every time he looked at them, he thought he was going to be sick.

He's alive, he's alive. He kept it on replay in his head.

Sherlock's grazed skin was too broken and widely split to stitch, even if John had had the proper materials. But it was shallow, and the bleeding wasn't bad. John dressed it with Brulidine cream, plastered it, and gave him paracetamol, which he carried with him in his overnight bag, along with his own daily stock of pills. Sherlock wondered if tonight he would take something to help himself sleep. As for Sherlock, he wasn't sure he wanted to sleep at all.

John finished administering to him. Then he took a few steps back until his legs hit the edge of the bed, and he sat, his head falling into his hands.

'What do we do now?' he asked softly.

Sherlock gingerly touched the bandage, adding pressure until he felt the gentle sting. 'I don't know.'

'The police will investigate.'

'Yes.'

'They'll find the bodies.'

'Yes.'

'And the dog dish. If the fire doesn't destroy it.'

'It won't. Nothing in that room burns.'

'They'll know we were there.'

'Maybe not.'

'They will, Sherlock. We left a blood trail from the house into the field. They'll follow it.'

Yes, and they would find where John had thrown up, and if they had tracker dogs they might even follow them to where they had parked the Jetta. But there the path would go cold. There was no CCTV out here, and there had been no witnesses. They'd clean the car, return it in a day or two, and the police would be none the wiser. If they tested the blood, they might find a match for one of the victims, if he was in the system. But if they tested the vomit, it would lead them to John.

'We should tell Lestrade,' he said. 'Get ahead of it.'

John's head came up sharply. 'No.'

'Moran is back on British soil. Lestrade needs to know what we know.'

'If he knows we were there, in the house—'

'We've done nothing wrong, John. We were witnesses, that's all. If Lestrade has a problem with that—'

'I don't mean Lestrade.'

Sherlock closed his mouth. Oh, he thought. Idiot. John's paranoia was currently serving them better than Sherlock's brain. If they told Lestrade they had been in the cottage, along with all they had seen and heard, he would tell his team, and though Lestrade had reassured them time and time again that there were no more moles at the Yard, neither Sherlock nor John—especially not John—had much confidence in that assertion. It wouldn't do if, by any means, word got back to Moran.

'We don't say anything,' said John. 'We just keep doing what we're doing. We find Bill.'

Sherlock nodded slowly. A DNA test would take time. They would need to solve this before the police discovered they had been anywhere near the house. 'And then what?'

John wouldn't meet his eyes. 'We deal with him.' He sniffed again, coughed into his fist. 'Right. On the bed. Let me take a look at your ankle.'

SUNDAY, APRIL 26, 2015

He hadn't meant to fall asleep. Later, he would realise that John had slipped him one of his own benzodiazepine pills, mixed with water. He dreamt of fire, and John—John screaming, shouting his name, and there was no way to reach him. Meanwhile, the fire raged.

Sherlock!

His eyes flew open.

'Sherlock,' John whispered again, removing his hand from Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock blinked, then winced. He turned his face from the glow of a mobile.

'Wake up, it's Anthea.' John clicked the lamp between their beds. A moment later, John's words registered. As he rose swiftly to sitting, he grabbed the phone from John.

'Anthea?' He glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand: 03.29. He braced for her words. John looked ready steady him.

She got straight to the point. 'He's awake.'

Head snapping up to meet John's eyes, he asked, 'When?'

'He's been in and out for the last hour or so. Doctor's on his way.'

'How is he? Is he talking? Can you tell if—'

'No. It's too early. But how soon can you get here?'

'We can leave right now,' John said; he was standing close enough to hear.

'Within the hour,' Sherlock promised.

He ended the call, shot to his feet, and threw his arms around John, joyfully. He couldn't tell if he was laughing or crying.

Coming out of a coma wasn't like simply waking up, John said. It took time, it happened in stages, he knew that. Logically, Sherlock knew it. Nevertheless, the disappointment lanced him when he arrived to find Mycroft with eyes sealed shut and an intubation tube still running down his windpipe, as if nothing had changed.

'We'll remove it,' said the doctor, 'once his conscious state has stabilised. Then we'll be able to more accurately assess how well he can breathe without it.'

'How long?' Sherlock knew the question had no answer, but he couldn't stop himself from asking.

'We're optimistic,' the doctor answered vaguely. 'We need him to stay awake for longer than two minutes first. Small steps, Mr Holmes. These things can't be rushed.'

The already long night was about to grow longer, but there was no sense in them all standing around waiting. So Sherlock sent Anthea to sleep in a proper bed, and the nurse, too. As for John—he talked with the doctor in the corner of the room while Sherlock paced around the bed, examining the machines and watching Mycroft out of the corner of his eye for the slightest twinge of life. When the doctor retired to an adjacent room, ready to be summoned at a moment's notice, John remained and looked over the charts, but it was mostly pretence for staying nearby.

'Sleep,' Sherlock said, relieving him of the duty.

'I can stay.'

'I've rested. You haven't. Really, John.'

'If you need me . . .'

'Thank you.'

Now, alone with Mycroft and his machines, Sherlock drew nearer, bent at the waist until his face was alongside his brother's, and said what he had not been able to in the presence of the others. 'Mycroft. It's me. Open your eyes. Please.'

He felt the childlike hope fizzle. There was no change. Mycroft was still pale, still gaunt. The nurse shaved his face daily, for the sake of hygiene and the use of medical tape, but his nose hairs were beginning to poke out of his nostrils. It was a thing Sherlock might have teased him for in the past, but realising Mycroft habitually trimmed those hairs, and no longer could, made Sherlock unaccountably sad. His brother had never looked more vulnerable.

Angry at his reaction—a thick throat and burning eyes—Sherlock straightened abruptly and forced himself in a mode of derision. 'I almost died tonight,' he said, conversationally. 'If you wake up, you can yell at me for being so careless.' He quirked an eyebrow, as if Mycroft's silence was its own snide response. 'No? Passing on the pleasure?'

But the farce couldn't hold. He was too tired. He sat on the edge of a nearby armchair and scraped his clawed fingers through his listless curls, back and forth, rapidly, until the massage turned painful. He stopped.

'What's worse,' he continued, more softly now, 'is that I very nearly deposited John on Moran's doorstep and rang the bell.'

Sherlock expelled a long breath, and suddenly he was relaying the entire night, step by step, part by part. Not, perhaps, with the same narrative savvy John would have used in working up a blog post, and certainly including more of the trivial and superfluous details a true storyteller would edit out. But it was a full account of everything he had seen and heard and felt—not only as sensory perception but also—and perhaps more often—as related to his emotional states, passing through anxiety and fear and panic that he had walked them into a trap about to spring.

'Am I doing this all wrong, Mycroft?' he asked. 'Have I been doing it all wrong from the start?' He sank back in his chair and slouched down. In his exhaustion, he ran a hand across his face and shielded his eyes, as though he could hide from reality. 'From the very start?'

But he may has well have been talking to himself, for all the answer Mycroft gave.

It happened at just after five o'clock that morning. Sherlock was on his phone, reading aloud the news briefs as they appeared in his feed.

'Yup, there it is,' he remarked. 'House fire in Buckinghamshire, local police report. Don't worry, Mycroft, the old Holmes estate is still standing. Though, between you and me, I'd be little moved if the house were bombed from above.' He hummed through the report, saying, 'Apparently, a passing motorist called 999 when he saw the house ablaze. Deaths suspected but not confirmed. Clearly, they don't know much yet. And they won't, not until—'

He stopped short, for he thought he had just seen Mycroft's finger curl.

A few seconds longer, he waited, watched, until the finger uncurled and became still. Slowly, Sherlock rose to his feet. He dropped the phone to the chair and stepped closer to Mycroft's bedside. There, he put his hand on his brother's shoulder while leaning over him. 'Mycroft,' he said softly, his breath lodged painfully in his chest like a stone. He gave Mycroft a gentle shake. 'Mycroft, it's me. It's Sherlock.'

Again, the curl of a finger. With his other hand, he reached for Mycroft's, and after Sherlock nearly passed out from holding his breath, he felt the slightest of twitches on the inside of his palm, a lifted finger. He exhaled, and squeezed. 'Come on, Mycroft, you can do it. Wake up. Wake up. It's Sherlock, I'm here.'

Mycroft's chin rose, just slightly, and his eyelashes began to flutter. Sherlock almost cried. 'Yes! God, yes, come on, wake up. Wake up!' He continued to speak his brother's name and words of encouragement, all the while squeezing his hand.

Ages passed before Mycroft's eyelids parted. Then fell shut again. Then opened. The irises roved sluggishly, seeking out the owner of the voice that continuously called to him. When they found him, they stilled, and Sherlock knew there was recognition in those eyes.

'That's right, stay with me now,' said Sherlock, quickly wiping tears on the backside of his free hand. 'Stay awake. I need you to stay awake, okay? Mycroft, do you understand?'

Mycroft blinked, but it wasn't clear whether he understood anything at all.

'You're okay. You're going to be just fine. Just stay with me, okay? Stay, stay.'

He hit the call button.

The doctor was in the room first, followed swiftly by the nurse and Anthea, who looked distinctly human in pyjamas and bare feet, her unkempt hair full and free around her face. John, who may or may not have been asleep, was the last to arrive. He hovered in the background while the doctor and nurse worked, testing visual and audio responses while speaking low, calming voices. But when Sherlock looked over and smiled at him, John smiled back, sharing his relief.

Mycroft maintained consciousness for only about ten minutes this time and gave few signs of understanding much at all of what was going on around him. He made eye contact with whoever was speaking, but he couldn't maintain that contact for long. He blinked and followed pen lights and traveling fingers, but he couldn't answer questions with any sort of signal that he understood them. And he wasn't cognizant enough to even be bothered by the tube traveling down his trachea. Still, the doctor was encouraged, and so was Sherlock. Consciousness of any degree was a positive sign, and he would take it.

He settled back into the chair in anticipation of the next awakening.

MONDAY, APRIL 27, 2015

Sally Donovan checked her watch. She had been waiting for seven interminable minutes, and in those seven minutes, she had read every certificate on the walls, taken note of every medal and commendation, and scanned the titles of every law book, every procedural binder, and every historical volume of every British war since the Anglo-Aro War of 1901. At last, the door opened, admitting Willard Huxley, who was darker than Donovan and had risen to the rank of Police and Crime Commissioner for the Merseyside Police. Aspirations. Donovan immediately put out her hand.

'Morning, sir, Sgt Donovan, Metropolitan Police.'

'Morning, yes,' said PCC Huxley. He pumped her hand once and let go. 'Have a seat.' He walked behind to his desk and pulled out his chair. 'Have you been here long?'

'Only just arrived.'

'Did you fly?'

'Drove.'

'Drove? Bit of a morning jaunt.'

'I was keen.'

'And how are you finding Liverpool?'

'Tolerable.'

He smiled wryly. 'Not quite London, is it?'

'No. But it's close to home. I'm originally from the North, near Leeds. My family are still there.'

'And yet you went to London.'

'And you left it.'

His accent was decidedly Southern.

PCC Huxley made no direct response to that. Informalities expended, he cut to the chase. Donovan approved of the business-like approach.

'I'm happy to give you the time you requested, Sgt Donovan, though I'm curious as to why this isn't a conversation we could have over the phone.' She opened her mouth to explain, but he cut her off. 'I was sorry to hear about Tony's death. Terrible thing, no matter what he'd done. But like I told you yesterday, I really didn't follow his career. Not since we stopped working together. So I don't know how much help I can be.'

'It's the time you did work together that I'm interested in,' Donovan said.

'Oh?'

'Tony Pitts died a crooked copper. I want to know if he'd always been one.'

His lips tightened, and Donovan regretted that she hadn't used softer words. Law enforcement, no matter their rank, tended to dislike even the suggestion of corruption in the police force. The higher the rank, the more prickly the reaction. But Donovan had never been very good with soft words.

'Looks to me like there's a lot of shady business going on in Scotland Yard these days,' said Huxley.

She nodded sharply. 'I'm on clean-up duty, as it were.'

'Self-assigned?'

She said nothing, but neither did she look abashed.

PCC Huxley smirked. 'You didn't want to talk on the phone, and you arrived in haste and all alone. I know a rogue officer when I see one.'

'I prefer self-starter.'

'Your chief superintendent may disagree. Luke Gregson, is it? We're from the same neighbourhood, you know. Used to be close mates. Good man.'

'Yes, he is.'

'I don't know your DI personally, though he's been in the paper a fair bit over the years. Not very good with the press, is he?'

'Greg Lestrade's a sight better detective than he is a politician,' she said.

'And I suppose you've had your fair share of dealings with that Sherlock Holmes then, too, eh? What a fiasco. The Moriarty Mayhem, is that what you're calling it down there? We just call it a mess.' Huxley grinned tightly. 'Are the rumours about him true?'

'Which rumours would those be, sir?'

'Is Sherlock Holmes as good as they say he is?'

She didn't even blink. 'In my experience, rumours are always somewhat off the mark. In this case, way off.'

'That's what I th—'

'He's far, far better.'

Huxley's eyebrows arose. 'Is that so?'

'A few questions, sir, and I'll be out of your hair.' She didn't want to talk about Sherlock, let alone defend him, which is something she'd be doing an awful lot lately.

With a conceding nod, he said, 'Let's hear them, then.'

'I want to ask you about a case you worked when you were still with the Met, back in '96. You were a detective sergeant working on Pitts' murder investigation team. It involved a strangulation, a bloke behind a pub called—'

'The Hammersmith Ram.' PCC Huxley closed his eyes and gave a long sigh.

She quirked an eyebrow. 'You remember it, then.'

'Last case Tony and I worked together. Oh, what was the perp's name . . . Thurgood, I believe. That's right. Harry Thurgood.'

'Yes,' said Donovan eagerly. 'He served seventeen years for the murder of Tomasz Jankowski.'

Huxley grunted, but whether it was mere acknowledgement or irritation, Donovan couldn't discern.

'Did he do it?' Donovan asked with sudden assertiveness.

The commissioner chewed his tongue, then gave a shrug. 'He pled guilty, didn't he?'

'That's not what I asked.'

'In law—'

'I know. But that's not what I asked.'

Huxley picked up a pen from his desk and started fidgeting with it as he leant back in his squeaky chair. 'I really would like to know why you are asking me about such an old case.'

'I can't say, sir,' she said simply.

With a long sigh, he twirled the pen in his fingers, seeming to be thinking things over. Donovan waited patiently. Finally, he slapped the pen back to the desk and said abruptly, 'Of course he didn't do it. I knew it. Pitts knew it. It was cut and dry. To me, at least.'

'What do you mean, Pitts knew it? He put Thurgood away.'

'Something must have changed his mind. But the night we interrogated him, Thurgood couldn't keep his story straight. He'd confessed, sure, but no one who actually murders someone is so sloppy with the details. Pitts spotted that straightaway. A master interrogator, really. He would ask questions from every angle imaginable and just let the contradictions float to the surface. Didn't take him too long, either. What other detectives could discover in eight hours, he managed in four. Maybe two. I learnt a lot from him. A hell of a lot.'

'So what happened?'

With a shrug, Huxley said, with a tinge of bitterness, 'Search me. I went home, and figured Thurgood would be released by morning. But.'

'But?'

Huxley started forward in his seat, picked the pen back up, and pointed it at her. 'It's the damndest thing, sergeant. When I returned to the Yard next morning, I was told that I had been reassigned. Just like that, I'd been dropped from the team. I went to Pitts, asked what happened, and he tried to shake me off. Didn't want to answer my questions. I only found out later that Thurgood was being convicted of the murder, and . . .' He trailed off, like he'd just realised something. 'Well, damn.'

'What?' Donovan asked.

He shook his head. 'Before I knew which way was up, I was being transferred. Not just to another division, but up here. A transfer I didn't even put in for, like they were trying to get rid of me without outright sacking me, but I hadn't done anything wrong. I was told that it was Liverpool or bust. Just like that. I thought, well, I thought it was racial, but didn't have any real evidence for bigotry, and I was afraid to rock the boat too much, you know? So here I am. Did well enough, I suppose.'

Donovan backed up a little. 'Who signed the transfer order?'

'My chief super. Back then, man named Poole.'

'On whose recommendation?'

'I never found out.'

'Did Pitts—?'

'I never spoke to him again. I was out of there before we ever had the chance to cross paths. I called once or twice. Tried to tie up some loose ends, resolve some things in my own mind. But he never took a call. I never spoke with him directly. And frankly, I built up some sore feelings about it that lasted a good few years, until I got on with my work and didn't think much about London or Tony Pitts at all. So when I heard he'd been taken out by a sniper . . . What can I say? I didn't know what to think. I had lost my fondness for him, but that's a hell of a way to go.'

Donovan nodded mutely. It had been a hell of a thing to witness. Minutes earlier, she had endured a hateful and derogatory tongue lashing from Pitts—having been called a traitor and worse—and she was more than happy to see him arrested. But when they marched him outside of the Yard to put him into a car, Lestrade slowed, pulling out his mobile. She felt a flare of annoyance that he would even bother to answer his phone at such a time as this, but just as she chanced to glance at him, it happened. Without warning, with barely a sound, Pitts' skull erupted. And Donovan thought it was Lestrade who had been killed, for how closely their heads were aligned, how they fell to the pavement together. The shock and horror of it wouldn't register until later, and when it did, the images would haunt her for weeks, every time she closed her eyes. If that son of a bitch had killed Lestrade . . . She didn't like thinking about it, even now.

'How goes the hunt for those bastards?' Huxley asked, interrupting her thoughts.

'I wish there was more to say,' she said, hoping he gleaned from that the double meaning she intended.

He nodded and didn't press her for more.

'So one day, Pitts is doing his job and it's business as usual,' she summarised, 'and the next, Thurgood is being charged for a crime didn't commit, and you're being transferred.'

'That's the long and short of it.'

'Something's not adding up,' she murmured, mostly to herself. 'What happened to make him change his mind?'

They spent the next forty-five minutes reviewing together the facts of the murder. Donovan had brought with her the case file, and she pointed out the inconsistencies she had identified in Thurgood's testimony. She wanted to make absolutely certain of two things: one, that Harry Thurgood was indeed innocent; and two, that Pitts was, for whatever reason, trying to cover up that fact. The question that remained, in the end, was why?

'Can I ask you a question, Sgt Donovan?'

She waited.

Huxley shook his head and said, 'I'm all for letting the truth come out. But why this case? Why now? And why you?' He shrugged, indicating that he didn't actually expect her to answer. 'You're on Greg Lestrade's team. Is this somehow connected to Sebastian Moran?'

'It couldn't be,' she said, for she had already considered that. 'Moran would have been only twenty-three at the time, he hadn't even been deployed yet, let alone met . . .'

It was like someone had hit the fast-forward button in her brain, jolting her forward down inevitable paths of reasoning and unexpected leaps of logic. It happened so fast that she almost couldn't keep up with herself, and it simultaneously stole her breath and lodged it in her throat, cutting off what she had just been about to state.

'Yes?' Huxley prompted.

She shook her head sharply, bringing herself back to the present. 'Nothing, never mind. Er, thank you, sir, for your help. I . . . I ought to get going.'

They rose together and shook hands across the desk. Hurriedly, Donovan scraped the papers up off the desk and began shoving them inside her attaché case.

'Everything all right?' he asked, because he could see plainly it was not.

'Thank you, commissioner,' she said, shaking his hand again, because she had quite forgotten she had already done so. Then she headed for the door.

'A word of advice, sergeant,' Huxley called after her, and she halted in the doorway, trying not to appear too desperate to flee so she could scribble down her thoughts before they slipped away, like a dream. 'Whatever it is you're doing,' he said, 'don't do it alone. The more people that know the truth, the harder it is kill. You get me?'

It occurred to her, then, that PCC Huxley saw more than he let on.

'Yes, sir, I do.' They exchanged curt nods, one last, time, and Donovan left Liverpool.

Unemployment didn't suit Thomas Dryers, as his indefinite suspension was proving.

He was lying on his sofa, one leg thrown up on backrest, the other fallen to the floor. On his chest lay the TV remote and scattered crumbs from Walkers cheese-and-onions crisps. A few more were caught on the chin of his two-day beard, and grease lined his lips and fingertips. He didn't care. He was in the middle of yet another episode of Corrie, a little too invested in the Steve-and-Michelle storyline, and fuck anyone who told him they weren't meant to be together.

His phone sounded above his head. He didn't care. It was too much work, reaching for it. But as 'Starman' kept playing as his ringtone, he groaned and pawed around until he found it on the accent table. It was to his great surprise that Sally's number lit up the screen.

'Hello?' he asked timidly.

'I need you.'

'Sally, this is all so . . . so sudden.'

'Shut up and listen. I'm on the road, be there in about an hour. You're coming with me to interview an ex-convict.'

Dryers sat up swiftly, and crisp crumbs scattered onto the rug. 'Come again?'

'Plain clothes, no uniform.'

'Wait, am I off suspension?'

'No.'

'So . . . ?'

'You said you wanted to help me, didn't you?'

'I do! Yes, of course.'

'And you know what I'm doing is top secret.'

'Yeah, no, I get it.' He was on his feet now, licking his fingers and brushing a greasy hand across his vest. 'I'm your man.'

'Then put on some trousers and be ready to go. One hour, Dryers.'

He looked down at his wrinkly boxer shorts and straightened the waistband. Then he couldn't help but beam. 'How did you know?'

But she had already hung up.

TUESDAY, APRIL 28, 2015

For three days, Sherlock slept very little. Since Sunday, Mycroft had been swimming in and out of consciousness at irregular intervals, never staying awake for long, but his brother did not fail to be present for each surfacing.

Nor had John left the penthouse. He'd phoned Mrs Hudson, letting her know they would be away for a few days but that they were all right and to call if she needed anything. He'd been in contact with Lestrade too, who wanted to come, but John discouraged him. Too much traffic in and out of the building was unwise, especially if they wanted to keep the truth of Mycroft's survival secret. 'He's coming out of it,' said John, 'but slowly. Not even aware enough to do much more than respond to his name.'

'Is there, you know . . . ?'

Lestrade was unwilling to give it voice, but John understood what he couldn't say: brain damage.

'Too early to tell,' said John. 'But there are positive signs. Last time he woke up, they took him off intubation, and he's breathing on his own just fine.'

'Thank God.'

'Yeah.'

'How's Sherlock holding up?'

'Impatiently. But good, all things considered.'

'All things considered.'

'Yeah.

'Yeah.'

'And you?'

John hesitated. He hadn't been sleeping much himself. He had his meds, but wasn't taking them. He had a bed but couldn't lie still. He couldn't talk to Sherlock about what was troubling him, not with Anthea and the doctor and nurse in such constant proximity. And in any case, Sherlock had enough to be going on with. John had spent too much time serving as Sherlock's paramount concern. This was something he needed to deal with on his own. So yes, he wished he could talk to Lestrade, and tell him about the fire in Wingrave, the men who had been murdered there, and the reappearance of Sebastian Moran. Was Lestrade even aware of the fire? Or was it too far outside his jurisdiction? When would Bill Murray's name arise? At the very least, he supposed, they should tell Donovan. After all, it was her assignment that they had taken responsibility for.

'Fine. Good. Yeah.' It was all he could manage as a response. 'Just keeping an eye on things. Anything new on your end?'

'Not much, just . . . erm . . .'

'What?'

Lestrade laughed a little, though without humour. 'Just a spat with the ex.'

'Angela?'

'Yeah. Can't seem to shake her. Hag.'

John brightened a little, which he supposed was not an entirely good response. But there was something alleviating in having such an ordinary problem as an ex-wife. At least not every problem was tangled up in Moriarty.

'Sorry to hear it,' he said. 'You need to blow off some steam? I don't drink much anymore, these days, but we can swap stories of misery.'

This time, Lestrade's laughter was appreciative. 'Someday soon, hopefully. At the moment . . .'

'Yeah, I know.'

'Yeah.'

After that, there wasn't much more to say.

'Take care, John. And see that Sherlock gets some sleep, eh?'

'You too, Greg.'

'And you'll keep me informed. About Mycroft. If he starts, you know, talking. And if there's anything I can do to help.'

'Thank you. Good luck with Angela.'

'Please don't say her name.'

The next time Mycroft awoke, he seemed a little more alert than before. From the corner, John watched as the doctor tested his pupil dilation and asked him questions, while Sherlock fidgeted restlessly on the other side of the bed. They had already established that Mycroft knew his own name and remembered who Sherlock was, and where he was, so the questions, this time, got a little further along.

'Do you remember what happened, Mr Holmes?'

A pause. The doctor was blocking John's view.

'He nodded,' Sherlock announced excitedly. 'Did you see that? That was a nod.' He cast a quick smile in John's direction, but returned eagerly to the moment at hand, like watching a child's first steps. 'Mycroft, do you know who did this to you? Do you remember that?'

'Slowly, Mr Holmes,' the doctor coached. 'Don't press him. The details will come slowly.'

'But he remembers, he just nodded.'

'Let's not distress him.' Returning his attention to the patient, the doctor continued, 'Are you in any pain?'

For the first time, Mycroft Holmes attempted to talk. Edging closer, John heard only a sighing breath, but no sound at all. The doctor felt his throat (for oedema, John surmised). It was likely, after intubation, that the tracheal tissue was swollen, and the vocal chords, so long relaxed, could not vibrate together to produce sound.

'Try not to talk,' said the doctor. 'Here now. Tap your finger once for no, twice for yes. Do you feel pain?'

John watched Sherlock, whose eyes were glued on his brother's right hand. He shifted his weight, the better to see while maintaining his distance.

A single finger lifted and fell.

'He says no! No pain!' The elation in Sherlock's voice pained John, for how long it had been since he'd heard it.

But the finger lifted again. And fell. And lifted. And fell. Sherlock's face fell with it, and it was as though John could read his thoughts. The response to the doctor's question was random, meaningless. He could understand the direction to lift his finger, but failed to comprehend the question or generate a meaningful response. Except . . .

'Sherlock,' said John, 'it's Morse.'

The tapping finger paused, as if to reset, then started up again: three dashes, pause, dash-dot-dash. Mycroft had tapped out O-K.

'Okay?' Sherlock repeated. 'Oh. You feel okay? No pain?'

O-K-U.

Sherlock's eyebrows pinched, confused.

'You, Sherlock,' said John. 'He's asking after you.'

Sherlock's mouth formed an oh as he slowly looked back at Mycroft's face. 'Me?' His voice choked. 'I'm fine, don't be an idiot. You're the one who's laid up in hospital.' With a forced laugh, he added. 'Can't even spell properly.'

They continued to talk to him and reassure him, not only of his own wellbeing, but of others'. He didn't seem to believe that Sherlock was all right because he kept asking. Or maybe, and John suspected this was more likely the case, he forgot the answer.

John slipped away, to let the doctor work and to give Sherlock time with his brother. He passed Anthea's door, which was still closed, and made his way to the kitchen where he pulled down a mug and set about to make tea. When it was prepared, he sat on a stool at the counter, the mug between his hands, still too hot to drink. And minutes later, when it wasn't, he did nothing. Though still holding the mug, he had forgotten all about it. He stared straight ahead without seeing, lost in his own troubled mind, and when Sherlock came into the kitchen, he didn't hear him, didn't notice anything, not until Sherlock pulled the mug out of his hand and audaciously dipped his finger in it.

John jumped, startled.

Sherlock sucked the cool tea off his finger. 'Shall I make you another? Maybe go for something hot this time?'

'Sorry, I was just . . .' He cleared his throat. 'Mycroft?'

'Sleeping again.' He was in good spirits as he moved to the sink to toss the spoilt tea. 'Which is something you should give a go.'

'Yeah . . .'

'All right there, John?'

He shook his head and forced a smile. 'You, erm, you've an appointment scheduled this morning with Ella, right?'

Sherlock pulled a face as he flipped on the kettle. 'I know I said I'd go back. And I will. But just today . . .'

'No no,' John hastened to say. 'This is where you should be right now. What I mean is, if you're not going . . . Well, maybe I'll take your spot.'

The flint in Sherlock's eyes began to flake with sudden comprehension. 'Oh. Right.' He licked his lips, trying to find his way forward. 'Are you—?'

John spared him. 'Fine, I'm fine.' He'd been using that word an awful lot lately. Such a meaningless descriptor.

'We haven't really talked about it. Moran.' A little clumsily, Sherlock sympathised, 'Seeing him again was, I mean, after all this time, not that it's been that long, not really, but with all that's happened since then, knowing all he's done, to you especially—'

Scrubbing his weary face with a hand, John stopped him. He could barely think about what had happened in that cupboard right now, let alone talk about it. 'I just need a bit of a top up, that's all,' he said. 'I'm fine now, but I figure, today might be a good day to go.'

Sherlock gave a sombre, unconvinced nod. He wasn't buying that John was at all fine.

But John needed him to pretend. He slid off the stool. 'Might as well head out. I'll call her on my way.'

'John,' Sherlock called after him, but he just didn't have it in him to turn back.

Since the fire, John's imagination had been running rampant. He felt like some weaker, terrified version of himself was still trapped in a small room, scraping at the walls, screaming to get out, while at the edges of his vision, a shadow chased after him.

That's not how things were supposed to be, not anymore. In killing Daz, he had believed that he had also slain that weaker, terrified man. Someone else had emerged. In his latest dreams, he was angry, always angry. He watched Mary die and felt only rage. He twisted a knife in the gut of a dragon and felt a sadistic sort of relief. He saw the taunting face of James Moriarty and knew only all-encompassing hatred. He felt like a monster. But he was relying on that monster. It was the monster that would kill Sebastian Moran.

But at the moment of truth, the monster was nowhere to be seen. The small, quivering man was back. John had thought him fled. Instead, he'd only been pushed down into hiding. Not gone, never gone. Would he ever be gone? God, he just wanted to be free of the cage.

He'd called ahead, so he was a little surprised by the expression on Naomi's face when she saw him walk through the door. She was with another patient, who was leaning over the desk to point to a date on her desk calendar.

'Dr Thompson is expecting you, John,' she said. Then her eyes fell to her keyboard. 'Go right in.'

'Thank you, Naomi.'

He would tell her about the new dreams. Already he had prepared the words. But he didn't know how he would tell her about the failure in the cupboard, not without explaining about Moran, and the fire, and Bill Murray. He didn't know how to explain that he had wanted Sherlock to kill him, just so Moran wouldn't get the pleasure. Whatever he said, he needed her help. To regain stability, to see things more clearly, whatever it took, whatever she told him to do, he would do it.

John pushed open the door, and froze. Ella was waiting for him. But she wasn't alone.

'Welcome, Dr Watson.'

Irene Adler smiled at him even as she levelled a gold-plated revolver at Ella Thompson's head.

'I didn't even have to abduct you, this time. Come in. I have a chair waiting for you.'