Chapter 4

August

The shikar club exists but everything else around membership etc – well what's the point of fiction if you can't make things up. ? Interesting fact: My grandfather was very much into big game hunting and had some great stories to tell on his hunts in South Africa and Mozambique. This happened way back when in the 40's and 50's. There were some awesome adventures that he had. He once faced a storming buffalo while his guide climbed a tree in terror. He shot the beast of an animal and the buffalo's momentum carried him all the way to where he stood. He kept the horns as a memento. They were quite the trophy.

Lord Byron met them at the Diogenes club in a small informal meeting room. A few chairs were scattered around the room, a writing table against one wall and a tea trolley was setup against the opposite wall. It was a cosy setup and intimate. Sherlock wondered how many meetings had been held here by his brother that determined England's fate or other countries for that matter.

Lord Byron was a tall man, elegantly dressed. Clean shaven in his mid-forties with dark hair that was cut short. Blue eyes scrutinised Sherlock when he stretched out a hand in greeting.

"How do you do, Mr Holmes."

"Sherlock will do," he said flippantly. Aware of John's brief glance his way to see if he was okay at the trigger that sometimes still reared its head when his formal name was used. He gave a brief nod to indicate he was fine. Shook the other man's hand. The fingers of Lord Byron lingered for a second longer than should be deemed appropriate and he took another measure of the man.

Interesting.

"Mycroft said you were interested in our little club." Byron started, sitting down in the chair and indicating to the chair opposite. Sherlock sat down and John moved to chair beside the small writing table in the corner. An unobtrusive observer to their interaction. Lord Byron glanced John's way and Sherlock noticed the brief glimmer of a sneer on the man's face as he dismissed the doctor before he focused on Sherlock.

"Can you tell me more about what your club is about," he said. Crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair. Matched the other man's elegance and look.

"I didn't know you hunted." Byron stated. "Why the sudden interest."

"Oh, you know. Hobbies come and go. I thought I'll give this one a try. See if it would be something I'd like."

"Have you ever gone on a fox hunt?" Byron asked.

"No. But then fox hunt is not the same as hunting big game, is it? And illegal as far as I'm aware?"

Lord Byron gave a small secretive smile. "No, fox hunting is not the same. It can be a bit…expensive," he said, waving a hand.

Sherlock tried to get a read on it but for some reason the other man was a closed book. He frowned very briefly and glanced at John. He could read his friend. This had a very familiar feel and it reminded him of Irene and their first initial meeting.

Lord Byron seemed able to hide himself from Sherlock.

This wasn't boring anymore. It was intriguing.

"Money isn't really the issue." Sherlock said. "My brother owes me and I can spend my inheritance however I please."

"Oh. I wasn't aware that one of your parents passed."

"My parents are still alive. Dear old uncle Rudy decided to leave me a lump sum. Mycroft secreted it away into a trust fund and that has now come to maturity. Apparently he's satisfied I won't spend it all on drugs."

"Ah." Lord Byron studied him. "Well, we can discuss logistics when you register at the club. You'll have to pass a gun proficiency test and of course have gone on a local hunt with an accredited club member before membership will be bestowed."

"Where do you hunt?" Sherlock asked bluntly.

"Excuse me?"

"Not a hard question, Lord Byron. Where do you hunt big game?"

"Depends. Mostly Africa. There's a game farm in Kenya that is set up for this. Some in South Africa."

Sherlock nodded. Gave a small smile. "Nothing local?"

Lord Byron frowned. "If the right opportunity presents itself, yes."

"Anything good?"

Another secret smile. "Once or twice, it was a particularly satisfying hunt. The prey was wily and gave us a good run for the money spent. What is this really about, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock glanced at John. "Sherlock please. Do you know Michael Weston?"

"No. Can't say I do. Who is he?"

"Oh, just a local smuggler. Got murdered a month ago. He was dressed up as a big game hunter right out of Africa. Most intriguing."

"Sorry. Don't know the man. If he was a local smuggler, why the connection to our little club?"

"I did mention he was dressed up as a big game hunter, didn't I?"

"Ah. Bit of stretch, don't you think."

"Noooo," Sherlock said speculatively. "Not from where I'm standing."

Lord Byron stood. "I think this conversation is over. We'll send the papers over and you can apply if you're genuinely interested. Good day, Sherlock."

Sherlock stood. "Good day." Watched as the older man left the room. John had risen. Moved closer to him.

"Why did you lie?"

Sherlock turned to John. "Because John, our dear Lord Byron, has secrets and he knew Michael Weston. And I won't be surprised if he knew why he was murdered."

"Lord Byron?"

"Yes, Mycroft. What do you know about the man?"

"Well, good family stock. Generous and on the board of several charities. Flies under the radar mostly."

"Married?" Sherlock asked.

"Well, there are rumours." Mycroft said cryptically. "Even in this day and age some things are frowned upon in the higher echelons of society. Not to be spoken of if you get my drift."

"He was drooling."

Mycroft lifted both eyebrows. "Well, yes. Apparently he likes them younger. Apologies. I didn't think you'd be his type. Otherwise, I would've suggested someone else."

"How did you know?"

"About?" Mycroft asked, a hint of annoyance in his voice. He met Sherlock's gaze without a flinch.

"That he's hiding something."

"Everyone hides things, Sherlock. That's the very essence of being human."

Sherlock rose from his chair. Paced in front of Mycroft's desk. They were in his older brother's office. John had gone back home and he had made his way here. Deciding a confrontation now would be better while his meeting with Lord Byron was still very fresh in his mind.

"You suspect him?"

Mycroft leaned back. "I suspect a lot of people. Doesn't make them guilty."

"Mycroft." Sherlock said in exasperation. "Can we not do this?"

Mycroft closed the file he had been reading. Placed it on his desk. "There have been some questions on his hunting ethics."

Sherlock frowned. "I didn't know there were ethics in hunting. Or that you'd bother about it. International intrigue is more your cup of tea, isn't it?"

"Lord Byron is a special case." Mycroft said. "Canned hunting especially is frowned upon."

"Really? What's the point if the prey is going to lie down in front of you and wait to get executed."

"Exactly. Not seen as very sporting. It came out a few years ago and it cost him. He blamed it on ignorance and promised to never do it again."

Sherlock gave a short bark of laughter. "I'm assuming there were tears involved. A charitable donation or two?"

"Obviously."

"People are so predictable."

"Yes."

"So why are you steering him my way?"

"Thought you could use your deductive skills to see what else he's hiding."

"Is there anything specific I should be looking out for or are you just being generous?"

Mycroft wiggled his nose in distaste. "His name has come up in another matter entirely that has nothing to do with your case. I just wanted your opinion."

"Fine. He's arrogant. Likes hunting a bit too much, I'll say. Hides his cruelty behind a slim veneer of politeness. Did he know Oliver?" Sherlock asked abruptly.

"Not that I'm aware of," Mycroft stated.

"Oliver seems to have quite a few peers from his university days. They seem to pop up. Alex as a paid assassin could've had contact with Lord Byron."

"I'll get my people onto it but I don't think so. The matter I'm looking into has no bearing on Oliver or Alex. The file on those two men is now closed, Sherlock. With Moriarty at Sherrinford and his organisation now completely in tatters, there are not many left that are of any threat to you or Molly and John."

Sherlock sighed. "I know." He paused. "What are you looking into?"

"Nothing that concerns you at the moment. So do stay out of it."

"You want me to stay out of it but yet you sent Lord Byron my way?"

"You're the distraction, Sherlock."

"Bait, you mean."

"No. Not bait, brother dearest. Just a distraction while I look into his other activities."

"Fine. I'll play the part for now Mycroft." Sherlock stood up. Made his way to the door and turned and waved his fingers at Mycroft. "I'll be off. Laters."

"Someone will be coming around at 2."

"What?" Sherlock looked up from his microscope. He removed the slide and slid a new one into the slot.

"A client, Sherlock."

"We have a case," he said while he refocused the scope. Leaned in to have a look.

"It's a bit slow, isn't it?"

Sherlock frowned. Sat up straight and looked at John. "Did Molly put you up to this?" he asked.

John tried to look innocent. "No. Nothing like that."

"Oh, come on, John. That's what you discussed last night while I was out hunting mango and cheese curls. And that was mean, by the way. I know what you two did."

"You need to grow up a little, you big baby. Still can't believe you've never gone shopping before." John grumbled.

"Who?" Sherlock asked, not bothering to reciprocate.

"What?"

"The client, John. Who is it?"

"A rich one."

Sherlock sighed. "Money shouldn't be a factor in choosing clients. It's about the case, John. Not a monetary reward."

"Yes well, you've got a child on the way, Sherlock. Money does become important."

"Fine. Who is it?"

"Jason Crawford."

"Don't know him."

John chuckled. "You wouldn't, would you. He's a billionaire, Sherlock. With a b."

"What does he want me for then?"

"He's got a family heirloom missing that he wants us to find."

"There are cops for that. Or a private investigator. I'm not that desperate…"

"Molly did say to you to get something to do, didn't she? Anything but pregnancy books or articles."

Sherlock stared at John. Narrowed his eyes. "You did talk last night."

John smirked. "That's what friends do, Sherlock. They talk. They push. They help out."

"Fine." Sherlock turned back to his slide. Ignored John as he focused on his work.

"It's been in our family for generations. My great-great grandfather picked it up in Tahiti on the beach. It's the biggest and darkest black pearl still in existence. It's priceless."

"Boring."

"Sherlock!"

"Fine. Where did you keep this pearl?"

"We have it in a hidden vault on our estate."

"Well, if they got to it, it's obviously not hidden, is it?"

"Uhm…okay." Jason looked towards John. Wiggled on the seat. "You need a code to get in and a key. Without both, the vault is supposed to release an alarm to the police station and release a gas to render whoever is in the room unconscious."

"John, this isn't even a 2." Sherlock said, turning to his friend. "It's obvious, really."

"Not that obvious, Sherlock."

"Fine." He turned to Jason. "Who installed the hidden vault and set up your security measures?"

"A reputable company based here in London."

"Reputable. You will find that one of their employees has suddenly resigned. Moved to somewhere in Europe. Probably Spain. That's where most expats go to get away from the rain, isn't it? He duplicated the key. Got the code when he did a 'test' run on your system. The pearl had been missing probably the first week after installation and you only picked it up now – what – 6 months later?"

"2 Months" Jason mumbled.

"Yes. There are all kinds of black markets out there. Sorry. Long gone by now. Bye-bye." Sherlock rose. Ignored John and the client's shocked faces and made his way back to the kitchen to his microscope. Sat down in his seat and focused on the slide.

"Sherlock." John said in exasperation.

"Busy."

"Uhm. It wasn't an employee." Jason said from the doorway.

"Then a family member or friend. Either or but it's really not worth my time."

"The police came," Jason continued. "They did find fingerprints. But it didn't make sense so they let it go."

Sherlock sat back. Looked at the man standing in the doorway. "What is significant about the fingerprints?"

"They were of a dead man."

"Oh." Interest piqued. Sherlock focused his attention on the other man. Something wasn't quite right. The man's demeanour had changed. No longer a client comes to beg for his services. Something sinister, a hidden menace seems to have emerged. Sherlock didn't like it.

"Someone named Oliver Harbinger. But according to the police, he's been dead for 6 months."

"What is the meaning of this?" Sherlock asked. Scanned Jason fully for the first time.

Well dressed. Money isn't an issue. Small scars on knuckles, so not adverse to using physical force. Scars are faded so might've been an enforcer at least 10 years back. Skin well looked after; nails are groomed although the yellow stains of nicotine was visible – maybe a pack a day? - and shoes are tidy and clean although scuffed, so a nervous habit of rolling on his feet. Calluses on the ends of fingers so more sedentary work…something to do with computers? More than an enforcer now, maybe part of the higher management in whatever criminal enterprise he's part of. Moriarty or Oliver – although he's never met this man before and Oliver only ever showed his three goons off and then there was Alex. It wouldn't be inconceivable to think that he was hidden until now. But why now?

"You knew him very well, didn't you?" Jason asked quietly. "In fact, you shared your life story with him, didn't you? Now Redbeard, that was quite a little pivot point in your life, wasn't it?"

What the hell?

"Get out!" Sherlock rose. His hands were white knuckled where it was gripping the table, and he felt anger take hold.

Jason's mouth curled upward into a sneer. "Do you understand despair yet, Mr Holmes?"

John had moved. Stood between the man and Sherlock. His hands clenched into fists.

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked.

"No one. But there are those who are interested in you..." He took a step back. Hand on the lintel of the door that led downstairs and out to freedom. "…And what you have learned from Oliver."

"You're sick." John said. Took a step towards the man that was hovering on the brink of escape. Clearly his intent has been reached. John took another threatening step and then there was a gun in Jason's hand. Warning John to stop moving. His eyes didn't leave Sherlock's though. Had been intensely focused on him the whole time since it started.

"Oliver taught you a few rules, didn't he? I bet you still remember them. He knew how to handle you, Mr Holmes. Get you to do what he wanted." When Sherlock didn't reply, he gave a small nod as if he had come to some insight. "Till we meet again."

He moved and then he was gone. They heard the bottom door slam and then they were alone. John turned to Sherlock. Reached out a hand and touched his wrist. Sherlock refocused from the space that Jason had occupied back to John.

"Sherlock, are you okay?"

Sherlock didn't reply. Instead, he moved past John to the window. Moved the lace curtain and watched as Jason stepped into a car. The door closed and the car moved off down Baker Street. He was quick, grabbing his coat. Phone in hand as John followed him down the stairs.

"Where are you?"

"Sherlock. What?"

"Molly."

"At work. In the lab."

"I'll be there in 20 minutes. Don't go anywhere."

He made another phone call as they exited the building. Sherlock looked up and down the street. Entered the car that was now permanently parked in front of their door when one of them was home. "Barts," he said as he waited for the phone to be answered.

"Who is Jason Crawford?"

"Sherlock." His brother's voice sounded aggravated.

"He was just here at Baker Street. Pretended that it was about a stolen family heirloom. Pretended to want my services. John was duped."

"Oi." John piped up.

"He knew Oliver."

"His name has never come up in relation to Oliver, brother mine. He is a man who made some money on technology. His family is harmless. He doesn't even warrant a file."

"Who created the website Oliver ran?" Sherlock asked, making lightning-fast deductions.

Silence met the statement.

"I thought so. Your turn, brother."

"I'll increase security. What does he want?"

"He didn't say. It looked like a fishing expedition to gauge my reaction."

"I'll come by tonight. Around 7. I should have a full file on him then."

John turned to Sherlock when he'd rung off. "Why didn't you ask Mycroft to trace the car? Or we could've gotten the agents to pursue him."

"He's smarter than that, John. The car that picked him up was waiting for him. They would've swapped cars as soon as it was convenient. There's no point. He was sent in to do a job. He did it. I'm more interested in who it was that send him."

"What did he mean about Redbeard?" John asked softly.

"Nothing." Sherlock replied, not looking at John. He fisted a hand, pressed it against his lips as he thought about the words the man had used.

Now Redbeard, that was quite a little pivot point in your life, wasn't it?

"Sherlock?"

"Just let it go, John." He said in the end, not looking at his friend. "He obviously wanted a reaction. Let's leave it at that."

He felt John's scrutiny. Knew that his friend wasn't convinced but John knew him long enough now not to push when he didn't want him too.

Redbeard…

The feelings it invoked still felt raw, even with the passage of time. It was a physical hurt that he suppressed almost brutally. For the sake of John, he pretended everything was okay and watched the cars pass them by as they made their way to Barts.

"It is done."

"And?"

"Success."

"Good. Make sure you are not seen. I'll meet you at the estate later today."

"I'm fine, Sherlock. Really." Molly said, where they were seated in the little staff kitchen.

"No one has contacted you. Left you any emails or packages?" He asked. Scrutinised her.

"No. Just the usual stuff. What's this about?"

"There was a man this afternoon pretending to be a client. He brought up Oliver's name."

Molly took a deep breath. Her hand immediately went to her stomach splaying out over it. "Oh. I thought Mycroft had closed the file on Oliver?"

"He did," Sherlock said softly. "But Oliver knew a lot of influential people. It isn't inconceivable that his name would come up from time to time. We talked about this with Giles, remember. That the cases I work with can have traces or leftovers of Oliver or Moriarty in them."

"But the only investigation you're working on is that hunter case with Lestrade. And then some of the cold cases and a few clients here and there."

"Mycroft is coming around tonight. We'll have a discussion then. But there were no threats made. It came across as a fishing expedition to see my reaction."

"Okay."

Sherlock leaned in. Placed his hand over hers that was resting protectively on her stomach. "Mycroft is increasing security as a preventative measure. You'll be safe, Molly."

She sighed. Leaned into him. Placed her head on his shoulder. "I know. It's fine. I'm fine. I promise."

"You want to go home?" he asked softly.

"Yes. I'm finished for the day in any case. Can we pick up some more mango and cheese curls on the way." She said with a soft smile.

Sherlock chuckled. "Sure. I know where to look. Won't take me long."

Mycroft knew he was walking a very thin line. Even though the inquiry was still ongoing, he hadn't told his brother about it. The official file on Oliver wasn't closed, not until the investigation was done. And that seemed to be another few weeks before the saga would be finished. The whole thing seemed to drag out while the 6 members involved asked questions and probed his motivations. It was becoming irritating to say the least.

And now the fishing expedition that seemed centred on his brother. The fact that it came shortly after Sherlock's meeting with Lord Byron seemed highly suspect. He made a mental note to investigate a bit more with intent on the man's friendships especially around Oliver and the four other men. So far, with the preliminary investigations, there has been no link. He hadn't lied to Sherlock in that regard. Lord Byron had come to his eye due to some irregularities in some of the money given to two of the charities he supported.

"Do you have the footage?" he asked Anthea as the door to his office opened and she entered.

"No. He must've had a jammer activated somehow. We've got nothing but snow."

"Cameras outside?"

"Same. The car registration number had something painted over to reflect light back. We've got analysts busy tracking the car visually. It could take some time."

"Very well. Get me everything on Jason Crawford. I want a full autobiography with a summary by five."

Anthea nodded. "Murray is asking your plans on the private matter."

"I'll talk to him, thanks." He watched her leave, closing the door behind her before he reached for his own personal phone. Dialled a number by memory.

"Hi Mycroft."

"It's too early to do anything, Murray. I need you to be patient."

"You understand the implications if this gets out? It can hurt you, Mycroft. Maybe you should get ahead of the game and come clean. Don't let your brother's indiscretions hurt you…"

"No. Whoever has sent the memory stick, clearly wants something. Until they come with demands, this will be kept quiet. Do you understand?" He put menace behind his words. A quiet assurance to the other man on what would happen if he said anything.

"Uh…okay. I won't say anything, Mycroft. You can trust me."

He closed the connection. Pinched the top of his nose, felt a headache starting. He dropped his phone on his desk and he extracted a key from his top pocket and opened the locked drawer in his desk. Moving his fingers around, he pressed two indentations until the secret compartment opened. Inside was the number for A.G.R.A., a photo of him and Sherlock when they were little and at the beach with their parents and the memory stick that had been sent to Murray. He hesitated, his fingers hovering over the stick.

He analysed his own sentiment that was invoked by what he knew was on the stick. He didn't need to physically see it yet he found himself drawn to it again. He leaned back in his chair, pulling his hand away and he wiped his mouth.

Dammit. Why now?

He just didn't have an answer. A soft knock on the door and he closed the drawer with a snap. Pretended to be busy with a file when Anthea entered, typing on her phone one handed. Dropped a folder onto the desk.

"The analysts tracked the car as far as the Westfield Shopping Centre. Currently there are 14 cars of the same make and type parked in the carpark. Video surveillance in the shopping centre couldn't find any trace of the man. The consensus is that he got into another vehicle and probably left as soon as he entered the car park."

"It's to be expected," he said. "Oliver was never obvious, why would those associated with him be any less. My brother and his wife?"

"They and John Watson are safely back at Baker Street. Surveillance is now Active Grade Three. A rotational basis of four agents around the clock. Clients will be vetted. Sherlock has agreed, surprisingly."

This managed to raise both Mycroft's eyebrows in surprise. His brother had to have some concern if he'd agree to that level of scrutiny.

"Good. I trust you to keep an eye on it and let me know when and if there are any concerns. Thanks Anthea."

When the file about Jason Crawford finally landed on his desk at 5:15, he scanned it.

It made for an interesting read.

"That isn't Jason Crawford." Sherlock said, pointing to the photo of the man in the file his brother had given him.

"What did he look like?"

"Video surveillance?" Sherlock asked bluntly with a frown.

"He had a jammer. Nothing but snow, brother dear. As you are aware, the camera in here was removed per your request."

"When have you ever done what I wanted?" Sherlock asked.

"It's about trust, Sherlock. Check for yourself."

Sherlock sniffed. Ignored Molly and John's looks as he stood up and went to the corner. Rummaged behind the books that he knew the camera Mycroft had installed so long ago. It was indeed gone, the space empty.

"The one down in the front entrance and covering the stairs are still there. That hasn't been removed, as you're aware."

"He's in his early forties." Sherlock said after a short pause. "Short. Brown hair. Brown eyes. Unremarkable in every sense. Good clothing, high end. Fingers callused at fingertips, indicative of lots of keyboard work. Shoes scuffed. Probably either from standing or rolling onto the balls of his feet from a nervous disposition. A smoker; looked like a pack a day. He winched when he stood. Intelligent but not overly so. A lackey of someone more powerful that had sent him."

"Why bring the focus to the real Jason Crawford?" John asked.

"There was a black pearl stolen." Mycroft said. "Except the police still have an open case file on it. The company who installed the vault has not reported any missing employees. No one else seemed to be indicted in the theft. Police fraud division is investigating. They think that there might've been some money problems and that Jason has instigated the theft to claim the insurance money. A sizable sum of 4 million pounds."

"For a pearl?" John asked, surprised.

"A very rare pearl. And apparently exquisite in clarity and AAA grade quality."

"If he's a billionaire, four million won't really cut it, will it?" Sherlock stated.

"No. The insurance company is delaying pay out until the police have concluded their investigation. Jason is silent on his finances. Hid it behind the company's privacy act. My analysts did some digging. He was bleeding money until 5 months ago. Then he got into a sizable sum that he simply listed as investment money from a private donor. It brought him out of debt."

"Could you trace the money?" Sherlock asked.

"Not yet. It will take a little time, Sherlock. The way it has been setup, it's not as easy as tracing the trail from A to B."

"Fine."

"I'll get a sketch artist to come and see you. Hopefully we'll be able to build up a profile of the man that was here this afternoon."

"Are you looking into the origin of Oliver's betting site?" Sherlock asked. He didn't look at Molly or John. Chose to not dwell on his own reasons why, instead he focused all his attention on Mycroft.

"It wasn't him, Sherlock. I can say that much. The betting site was shut down shortly after you and Molly's rescue from the bothy. I know you don't like hearing this, but there just isn't any way to trace a site that has been deleted."

Sherlock's lips parted. He gave a half sneer in frustration but he knew his brother was right. He walked over to his music stand and picked up his violin. Felt the need to play. The day's events were catching up to him and he would be lying to himself if he wasn't at least a little concerned with the imposter's hidden threat. And to have brought up Redbeard…that took some calculation. A hidden agenda he wasn't sure he wanted to share with Mycroft until he was sure of intent.

"You have full surveillance, Sherlock." Mycroft said, interrupting his thoughts as he picked up his bow. "If he comes close to Baker Street, we'll take him into custody."

Sherlock turned, so that he faced his brother who was seated in John's chair. "He won't be back." He said with assurance.

"Logically, that would make sense," Mycroft said. "But when have the criminal enterprises of Moriarty's and Oliver's calibre ever followed the norm?"

"Speaking of which," Sherlock said, placing the violin under his chin. His fingers deftly placed on the strings. "How is Moriarty these days?"

"Still secure, Sherlock."

Sherlock gave a brief nod. Did a warmup exercise, the scales effortlessly flowing from his fingers. Turned his back on his brother and focused on the music. He wasn't in the mood for further conversation. He needed to think.

He heard his brother leave. Molly and John faded away as he lost himself in the notes and the mathematical precision of his playing.

He went into his mind palace. To the room he had set aside. Sat down in a comfortable chair and pulled open a file. The memory was watery, the images old and faded. His fingers lingered over the hazel brown coat of the dog that sat between two little boys, who had arms around each other and pirate hats on their heads. One had an eye patch over one eye and both held wooden swords in their hands.

Redbeard. It all started with Redbeard…

He played until his fingers were sore. Reminiscing on memories he had thought long buried. By the time he stopped, it was after midnight. Molly and John had gone to bed, the flat was quiet. He put his violin away and after a quick toilet, looked into his bedroom to find Molly fast asleep. He closed the door quietly and went to the front and sat down in his chair. A small squeak of one of the stairs that led to John's room and he looked up to find his friend entering the living room.

"Hey," John said softly. He had his pyjamas on and a robe with slippers on his feet. He sat down in his own chair. It was obvious he'd been asleep and had woken not so long ago. Sherlock didn't reply, just glanced at John in acknowledgement, fingers tented beneath his chin. He focused on the fireplace, on centering himself.

"What was that about?" John asked quietly.

"Mmmm?" Sherlock focused back on John.

"Sherlock, it's been a very long time since you've played your violin for so long. Before Alex, I would guess."

"I do play, John. I'm working on the composition for Giles, in case you forgot…"

"No…this isn't that. I know you, Sherlock. This is different. Whatever Jason has said this afternoon has affected you more than you're letting on. Why didn't you tell your brother about Redbeard?"

"It has nothing to do with Mycroft." Sherlock lied. "Just let it go."

John gave a half chuckle of disbelief. "Really. We're doing this again. When will you learn, Sherlock that alone doesn't protect. Friends do. I thought Alex would've cured you of this lone crusade of yours."

"Caring is not an advantage…"

"Bull. And you know it. What is Redbeard?"

Sherlock pouted, narrowed his eyes as he met John's determined gaze with one of his own. He thought about the last year and half. About his experiences and the furnace he had stepped through. About John and his brother and Molly. About what he'd lost but more important, what he'd gained. But Redbeard was a memory that was so very private and he just wasn't in a space to share. Not even with John. Or Molly. He had glossed over it with Giles. They hadn't gone into many details about the specifics of the couch. More about his own experience and ways to deal with the triggers. The words used by Oliver were in any case repeatable phrases he had used throughout and not just that third day.

Redbeard hurt. Even now. And Oliver…Oliver had pulled that memory apart until all he remembered of that particular session with clarity was the mental terror and pain involved. More than the physical discomfort he had been in at that stage. For Jason to know…

He didn't want to consider the implications.

"John," he said seriously, his voice lowered an octave. He dropped his hands to grip the arm rests. "If you value our friendship, you will not bring up Redbeard again." He stood up and walked out the living room. Ignored the look of shock and concern on John's face. Ignored the little ball of guilt that was centred in his stomach. He grabbed his coat, went down the stairs and went out the door to do the outer circuit of Regents Park.

The fact that it was after one in the morning didn't register at all.