Chapter 16

November

"Don't be boring," Sherlock said as the client sat down on the chair. It had been two days since he and John's little adventure, touring the pubs of London. Both of them now relatively recovered. John was back at work today, leaving Sherlock to look at the email inbox. He had deleted no fewer than a dozen before he had come upon one that had looked vaguely interesting. Lestrade had come back to him this morning with a cold case, the file was lying on the writing table. The DI had been cautioned on the cases he was allowed to pass on to Sherlock. It was still a look-see approach by the upper management and the cold case would be dipping their toes back in using his services.

He had looked at the file and had solved the case within the first hour. Hence, the inbox and now a possible client.

"I think my neighbour is a smuggler."

"Okay. Why?"

The woman looked like she was in her mid-fifties. She was dressed neatly in jeans and a merino jersey. Comfortable boots on her feet and auburn hair neatly cut. Brown eyes looked at him intelligently, her hands calm on her lap. She didn't look nervous at all, which piqued Sherlock's interest even more.

"I live in Whitstable. I've got a small cottage there that I brought a few years back. My neighbour is a fisherman – or so he says. But he sometimes comes back from a trip and there are more than fish. I once saw a chest – it looked old. Like a pirate's chest, you know. I tried to talk to our local police but they didn't think much of it. Said that he's a local and well known. That it wouldn't be anything more than my imagination."

"I fail to see a crime…"

"He's smuggling something, I tell you. I uhm…once looked through his window when he wasn't there and there were boxes with spiders. Big ones too."

Sherlock tilted his head. "What kind of spiders?"

"I had a look on the internet. I think they're tarantulas."

"Hold on, you want us to spend the weekend at Whitstable?" John asked.

"Problem?" Sherlock asked. He looked up from his laptop where he had been doing some research on the town.

"I do have a life, Sherlock. You realise that, right?"

He leaned back in his chair. "You're not currently seeing anyone, John. Mike is away for the weekend and Lestrade has planned Saturday evening to rekindle his love connection with his wife."

John huffed. "Bloody hell…"

He smirked. "Besides, there might be danger."

John sighed. Plopped down in his chair and picked up the newspaper. "What about Molly?"

"I'm going to my mom's." Molly piped up from the kitchen. "She wants to go shopping for the baby."

John dipped the newspaper and glanced at Sherlock who had refocused back on whatever he'd been doing on the laptop.

"Who's the client?" He asked.

"Unimportant." Sherlock said. "What's more important is what her neighbour does."

"Okay, I'll bite. Let's see. Whitstable. That's by the coast right. So, smuggler?"

Sherlock nodded. "More importantly. It's what he's smuggling."

John placed the paper on his lap. He narrowed his eyes. Sherlock was all together too smug for his liking. "Drugs?" he hazarded a guess.

"No…think, John."

John sniffed. If not drugs then what else would drag Sherlock from London all the way to Whitstable. Sherlock clicked through another tab while he had a good think. His friend was almost through the page when John's eyes widened slightly.

"It has to be small, doesn't it? It can't be big or he wouldn't keep it at his house for his neighbour to see."

"Good." Sherlock murmured and closed the tab with a click. Opened a new google page and typed something in the search bar.

"And it has to do with one of our cases?" he hazarded a guess. Sherlock made no response. John shifted in his seat. Molly entered the living area and sat down on Sherlock's chair. She brought her feet up and tucked it next to her. She gave him a quick smile and opened her book.

"You know, don't you?" he accused her. She placed a finger in the book to hold her place. "Of course. Sherlock did discuss it with me."

"He asked for permission," John smirked. Sherlock glared at him.

"What is he smuggling, Sherlock?" he demanded in the end.

Sherlock turned the laptop so he could see the photo of a spider that filled the screen.

"No way…" he said. Sat up straighter. "You mean to tell me that this client's neighbour smuggles…"

"Tarantulas." Sherlock finished his sentence. "Brilliant, isn't it."

"What about Mycroft?" John asked.

"He's busy." Sherlock said dismissively. "Besides, this could be fun."

"Uh huh. You would say that."

"Understand now why I'm going to my mum's." Molly stated. "Just don't bring any of them home. I mean it, Sherlock."

Sherlock traced a hand along her arm while she cuddled into his side. "Mycroft's been quiet." She said softly. "…ever since his house invasion."

"He's fine." Sherlock said. He shifted and when she looked up from her position on his shoulder, she met his gaze.

"Is he?" she asked.

"Yes. He's on his way back from Russia. Government dealings…" Sherlock waved a hand. "He'll be home in a few hours."

She nodded. "He hasn't come round since it happened."

"He's …embarrassed." Sherlock said softly. "My brother doesn't like to think that he is fallible."

"What happened to him…surely he doesn't think…" Molly's voice trailed off. She pushed off Sherlock and sat up. Her eyes were serious when she met Sherlock's gaze. "You and I both know exactly what it feels like to be helpless. At the mercy of someone else."

Sherlock pushed upwards. They sat facing each other on the bed. He reached out a hand and pulled her right hand in his, he brought it up to his lips. His thumb calmly traced small circles over her skin. He sighed. "Yes. I'm aware."

She gently pulled her hand from his. Stretching out and cupping his cheek, brown eyes met blue. "Why would it be any different for your brother?"

"Mycroft…" he swallowed. Leaned into her hand. "My brother has always …cared." He sighed. "Even when I made his position hard with my drug habits. Over the years he has learned to compartmentalise. To push sentiment away to deal with a problem."

"This is different…" Molly started.

He reached up and then her hand was captured again in his. "Molly, you need to understand. What happened to him…to Irene…the man behind this made a mistake. My brother isn't like …me. He doesn't get emotional. He's planning the utter annihilation of the people behind this. The last remnant of Oliver."

Her eyes widened in surprise. "Oh."

"Do you understand now?"

She nodded. "Good."

"Things might get ….unpleasant."

"Sherlock," Molly said, leaning forward. "We lived together at the bothy for almost five months with nothing more than the bare necessities that Oliver deemed fit to give us. I can deal with …unpleasant."

Sherlock didn't reply.

"When you were with Alex," Molly said softly, "I saw Mycroft in action. He's really good at what he does, isn't he?"

"Yes."

Molly pulled back. "Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock?"

"What?"

"Usually there is some token resistance to acknowledging your brother's skills?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Not in this." He paused and then gave her a grin. "I'm better at 'legwork' than he is. He never liked getting physical. Even as a child he would sit with books while I was outside pretending to be a pirate. He wouldn't have lasted a week at the bothy."

"I trust when you and Mycroft are ready, you'll include me and John into your plans."

"Molly…" Sherlock sobered. Touched her stomach. Spread his hand wide. "It's different. I can't take a chance that will end up with both of you hurt."

"Have you met me?" she asked. "Also, I don't think these men are going to care that I'm pregnant. Do you?"

He hung his head. "No."

"Then the best way to protect me and our daughter is to have us as part of your planning, don't you think?"

He smiled. "You are something else, you know that right."

She shifted onto her knees in front of him. He looked up at her as she ran her fingers through his curls. She leaned down and captured his mouth. His lips parted and the kiss deepened. His hands settled on her hips, keeping her steady as they kissed. He pulled her closer and gently laid her down on the bed. He settled next to her as he kissed a pathway down her neck.

He stopped and she groaned. "What are you doing?"

He pushed her hair behind her ear. "Do you know when I realised I love you?"

Molly stilled. He gave her a gentle, chaste kiss on her lips. His hand drifted lower. Settled on her hip. "That first week at the bothy when I was sick. Before we met Oliver for the first time. You did everything for me…more than I think John would've ever tolerated. I realised even then that I needed you to be strong. So I could be strong."

"You're not the best patient, Sherlock." Molly stated.

Sherlock chuckled. "Looking back…no. I'm not. But I learned something during that time."

She raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

He leaned in closer. "That you, Molly just got on with it. It didn't matter what the circumstances were, you dealt with it. I admire that in you."

She smiled. "It's the first time I got a good look at your bum." She winked.

Sherlock grinned. "You took advantage of the fact that my pants were wet. Your fault by the way dumping the water over me."

She pulled him closer. "It was a miscalculation on my part but one I didn't regret." She pushed against his shirt, got her hands underneath. He closed the distance and there was a tenderness to their kiss and soon two became one.

Sherlock was excited. He felt that this could be the first tangible proof of the channels that he was certain that Moriarty and Oliver had set up during their partnership. This could have the potential to provide a lead that he and Mycroft could utilise in flushing out the hidden man behind it all.

As ever, when he and John travelled together, they were silent on the trip. It was just over an hour and half, when they entered the fishing town. Peter and Joe were the agents on rotation today. Joe was driving, comfortable behind the wheel. The client lived just outside the town on a small plot. The plan was to get together just after lunch. The weather was rubbish when they finally found the inn they were staying at. Pub lunch followed. Sherlock took the car keys from Joe, who wasn't too happy that he and John were going at it alone but he had argued his case. Both agents got comfortable in the shared common room when they left.

The drive wasn't long, the wipers working overtime as the rain kept coming down. The clouds were low and grey and the town was empty.

"Who'd want to live here," John said, as they passed the last few houses. The road they finally turned into was little more than a country lane, the wheels of their car struggling to find traction in the mud.

"The town is famous for its native oysters." Sherlock said, switching the lights on in the waning daylight. "They've been collecting oysters here since Roman times."

"Wikipedia?" John asked, reaching out an arm to grab the dashboard as the car slid. Sherlock turned the wheel, working with the slide until the car was righted.

"I did some research." Sherlock was focused and they both sighed with relief when the post box for Debbie's place came into view. Her cottage wasn't big but it was warm and inviting when she opened the door. A fire was going in the hearth and a tea set was already set out.

They talked in general terms. Drank the tea which was a welcome warmth from the cold and rainy weather outside. Sherlock asked some pointed questions about her neighbour. A local man named Dylan Masters. He'd been a fisherman for the last 20 years. A bachelor that mostly kept to himself. Debby told them about the sea forts which were about 14 km off the coast. She seemed knowledgeable about the local areas of interest.

Sherlock found that he wanted to have a look at the neighbours' place but after a brief debate he decided that it would be better the next day, when Dylan was away. Debbie gave them directions and after a brief discussion with John they left to return to the town and their inn.

Sherlock left John in the common room. He needed time to think and work on the strategies he could see open before him now that he'd seen the lay of the land.

What he wasn't prepared for was the men waiting for him in his room.

Even with all his intellect, even with Mycroft's planning they hadn't really anticipated this. He stared at Smith and the men who were standing in his room at the inn.

"Don't make any more of a fuss than need be, Sherlock." Smith said. "Now be a good boy and take a seat."

He did another quick calculation.

"I don't think so." He said as he took a step back. His groping hand behind him found the doorknob.

Open door. Four steps to the top of the stairs. One shout and John would come bringing Mycroft's agents.

Smith sighed.

"Don't you think we'd have anticipated any of the different escape scenarios you are desperately trying to come up with."

He heard a scuffle of feet behind the door. Scratch going out that way, he thought. He glanced towards the window. Calculated the throw trajectory of the lamp besides the small table.

"Should we begin again, Mr Holmes." Smith said softly.

He almost laughed. "Not going to work." He said. Shuffled sideways a step. Watched the man closest to him stand his ground. Smith sighed. "Every time…why do we have to do this every time. You never win, Sherlock. For once just accept that this is going to happen and do as you're told."

"Do you practise that little speech in front of the mirror?" Sherlock asked as he took another tentative step towards the lamp. "Besides, I've never been very good at doing as I'm told."

"Oliver would disagree."

Sherlock did another calculation. Enough noise could draw attention. "Oliver's dead."

"His work isn't."

"Who's your boss?" Sherlock asked as he took another step closer to the man beside the small table that held the lamp. Closer to the window.

"Who says it isn't me?" Smith said.

"Oh please."

Smith signalled with his hand and then three men moved as one. He managed to bypass one. Got his hand on the lamp and turned as a hand gripped the back of his jacket, pulling him off centre. He went with the momentum, the lamp glancing off the man's shoulder. The bulb broke into shards, shattering onto the carpet. The hand on his jacket lost its grip and he whirled and hit Smith on the mouth with a left hook. The older man went down and he was dancing his way back to the window when he was tackled to the ground by the two other men.

He grunted as the air left him. He wiggled as he tried to slide his way from under their grip but they knew what they were doing. One lay across his shoulders and back and the other had a hold of his legs.

"Enough."

Smith's voice rang with authority.

"No." He bucked again, pushing against the floor, trying to unseat the man across his shoulders. Harsh breathing filled the air and Sherlock thumped his head on the floor in frustration when he failed to budge either of the men that were on top of him.

"You bring John Watson up here and he dies." Smith warned. "Now submit."

The fight left his body and he deflated underneath the men holding him. The ringing phone broke through the sudden silence, bringing Sherlock's head up from the floor. Smith reached for the phone.

"Hello…oh, yes. Apologies." Smith made eye contact with him. His voice was repentant. "Yeah. We'll keep it down. Just a bit of high spirits after the game."

Disconnecting the call, Smith nodded to the men that had a hold of Sherlock. The consulting detective felt them move off him and he rose and stood facing the older man.

"Please take off your jacket." Smith said, dabbing at his lip with a white handkerchief.

Sherlock looked him up and down deliberately. "I know what you're doing." He said instead.

Smith smiled. "Really. Do tell."

"As I've said…you're not Oliver."

Smith chuckled. "I'm well aware of that."

Sherlock watched as a fourth man entered the room, bringing a black equipment bag with him. He didn't even look at him as he started to set up a tripod and then a camera. He frowned. This was an all too familiar scenario he had experienced with Oliver.

"Aren't you worried." He asked Smith. The older man frowned. He indicated the room "A bit public, don't you think? What happens if someone knocks on the door while you're in the middle of your session with me? Can't exactly get me to open the door while I'm drugged out of my mind, can you?"

"You'll be amazed what we've managed to get you to do while you're …high." Smith said, smiling darkly. "Moriarty has been particularly inventive with this brew. It makes you pliable and open to suggestions while deleting your short-term memory."

"What's the point? If you're trying to force a regression – shouldn't I be at least somewhat aware to retain my training."

"Who said we're trying for a regression?" Smith said smugly. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Smith. "Besides, John knows better than to interrupt you while you're thinking."

"It's happened before…" Sherlock stated.

"One of my …associates can make sure he doesn't interrupt us. Unfortunately, John might not survive the encounter…let's see. A mugging gone wrong. Could work." Smith placed the bloodied handkerchief inside his pocket. "The two agents have already gone to their room. It won't be hard to lure John out of the common room…" Smith trailed off, raising his eyebrows in question. Sherlock took a deep breath. Relaxed his body as much as was possible.

"That won't be necessary."

"You're sure?"

Sherlock looked away from the older man. The man with the camera was done with the physical setup and was fiddling with some of the buttons, aiming the camera on a spot on the bed.

"Good. Now that we have reached an understanding, please remove your jacket." Smith said. He stood to the side and waited. Sherlock looked at the three men and Smith and then removed his jacket. Flinging it over the chair, he turned to Smith.

"You want me to roll up my sleeve too?" he asked with raised eyebrows.

"If you don't mind," Smith said smoothly. One of the men put a bag on the bed and opened it. Sherlock watched as he pulled out a small satchel and began to unroll it. Inside an unopened syringe lay with a tourniquet and a vial.

"This is pointless." Sherlock heard himself say. "What exactly do you hope to achieve?"

Smith took the syringe and expertly drew a dosage. "On the bed." He demanded. Threw the tourniquet at Sherlock. He fumbled the catch but still managed to hold on to the rubber band. Sherlock had no choice. He sat down and tied himself off. Pumped his fist until an artery plumped up and then watched as Smith stepped up and injected him.

"Night night, Sherlock." Smith said as he felt himself drift off. His body relaxed and then there was no awareness anymore.

"He was more combative this time." Smith said to Byron over the phone, eyeing Sherlock who was passed out on the bed. He wiped at his lip. It still stung where the other man had managed to hit him.

"Were you successful?"

"Yes. He should sleep off the drug and by the time he wakes tomorrow, he'll be symptom free. I'll get one of the men to drive through after we're done here and you'll have the video for Mycroft within the next two hours."

Byron rang off and Smith dropped the phone in his pocket. He watched as one of the men finished packing up the camera equipment. They brushed at the indentations in the carpet the camera tripod had left, leaving nothing to chance. Two of his men had finished dressing Sherlock, folding his clothes over a chair. The suitcase was left open the way they had found it earlier. One of the men tucked the duvet around the unconscious man and they left shortly after.

It had been that easy despite Sherlock's attempt to fight them. Another session done and one step closer to their goal.

John knocked on Sherlock's door after 8 the next morning. Frankly, he was surprised that his friend was still sleeping. He'd thought that Sherlock would've been knocking on his door at five, unable to contain his excitement. But it had not been the case. The door was flung open shortly after. Sherlock was still in his pyjamas, eyes bloodshot as he glared at John.

"Did you sleep at all last night?" John asked. Sighed. "Come on then. We're going to miss breakfast."

"I'm on a case, remember." Sherlock seemed to be in a bad mood. He wiped at the stubble on his face, his hand trembling slightly.

"Sherlock, what's going on?" John asked, glancing around the room behind Sherlock.

"I'm perfectly fine," Sherlock turned and walked towards his suitcase. Pulled out trousers and a shirt.

"Bad night?" John asked softly as he closed the door. Putting his hands in his pockets, he leaned against the door while watching his friend move between his suitcase and his bed. Sherlock stiffened. Glanced at John and then abruptly sat down on the bed and ran a hand through his hair, ruffling his curls.

"John," he said tiredly, "What happened last night?"

John frowned. "What do you mean?"

Sherlock rose just as quickly as he had sat down. Hands behind his back, he started pacing. "I left you in the common room…"

"Yes. You said that you needed to think. The agents went to bed shortly after and I stayed until probably 11ish. Watching a game on the telly."

"You didn't hear anything or see anyone?" Sherlock asked, facing John.

"Nope. Why?"

Sherlock wiped his face. He turned and walked to the small table that sat beside the window. Picked up the lamp and inspected it. "I remember this being broken," he said to John. "Yet the bulb is perfectly fine and there are no shards of glass on the carpet."

"Okay."

Sherlock knelt down on the carpet and took out his magnifying glass. John watched his friend inspect the carpet and then sit back on his heels. "Someone was in my room."

John tilted his head. "What makes you say that?"

Sherlock rose effortlessly. "I don't know." He swept his arms wide. "Everything's in its place. As I left it yet…" He stepped to the table and picked up the house phone, dialled the number for the front desk.

"Hello, yes. Just wondering if there were any more complaints about last night?"

Sherlock listened; the words undecipherable to John.

"What time was that?" He glanced at John; his face grim. Thanking the person on the other end of the phone, Sherlock replaced the phone on its cradle.

"Apparently someone complained of a ruckus in my room last night just after I came up."

John shook his head. "I didn't hear anything."

"Dammit." Sherlock took off his pyjama top and inspected his arms.

"Sherlock?" John stepped away from the door towards his friend. Sherlock gave a small yell of triumph and pushed one arm towards John.

"I knew it wasn't a nightmare." He said. "Look."

John took his arm and inspected the crook of his elbow. Both of them could see the injection site. What was more concerning for John was the bruise he finally noticed on Sherlock's back when he turned away from John. He rummaged in his suitcase and finally held up a small black toiletry bag.

"Care to do the honours?" he asked John.

"Okay, but how are you going to keep this fresh and get it Barts?" John asked. "Molly is at her mom's and I don't see a cooler bag." He looked through the bag. Sherlock had a full phlebotomy kit.

"Joe can take it. Molly has left instructions with one of the technicians in case she wasn't on duty. It's all taken care of, John." Sherlock said.

John pulled on the gloves and prepared a syringe while Sherlock tightened the tourniquet on the other arm. Finding a usable site was a bit harder. He could see good arteries on the other arm but was loath to use the same arm that he had so clearly been used the previous night.

Sherlock phoned reception again while John was labelling the tube. Shortly a knock on the door came and Sherlock opened the door and took a small cooler bag. He opened it and showed the two ice packs to John who put the tube inside. John waited while Sherlock dressed and they both went downstairs to the common room. Both Peter and Joe were already seated with empty plates in front of them. Sherlock plopped the cooler bag in front of Joe and John listened with half an ear as Sherlock gave the agent his instructions. He turned to the reception and ordered a full English for himself and toast for Sherlock.

When he got back to the table, Joe had left already and Peter was handing the car keys to Sherlock.

"Uh no…breakfast first, Sherlock." John stated, sitting down at the now vacant table.

"John…"

"Uh huh. Don't look at me like that. You were drugged. You want to pass out halfway to the smuggler's house, be my guest. I ordered you some toast."

Sherlock grumbled but in the end sat down beside John.

"Do you remember anything more than the broken lamp?" John asked while they waited. "Last time your symptoms were similar to a migraine. Do you have any of those now?"

Sherlock shook his head. "No. A slight headache but none of the more obvious symptoms."

John waited when their food arrived. Took up his knife and fork and cut into a sausage while he waited for Sherlock to take a bite of his toast.

"Okay. Let's keep an eye on it then."

They finished their breakfast and it was just after 9 when they finally left Whitstable behind and made their way to Debbie's cottage.

There wasn't a lot of coverage in the land between the two owners. It wasn't too boggy either and it took less than thirty minutes before they stood on the back porch of Dylan's house. It wasn't much bigger than Debbie's, the style similar. Sherlock made short work of the lock and they left their shoes at the back door so they wouldn't trek in mud. Dylan wasn't even trying to hide. The spiders were stacked in the living room, two rows high. There were at least 50 of them and Sherlock was explaining to John the different species he could observe. Apparently his friend could do sums in his head for when he explained how much they were worth, John gave a low whistle.

A quick search and they found a package slip in one of the drawers at a small desk that contained Tony Oxley's Totteridge address.

After that little find, Sherlock phoned Mycroft.

"You can't do this. I have rights." Dylan pulled at the handcuffs that were tethered to the table.

"Explain again what you're doing with the spiders." Lestrade asked patiently. His notepad was on the table, his pen poised over it in anticipation. He didn't look at the fuming man in front of him. Just waited the man out.

"They're pets." He was petulant. His hands curled into fists. Lestrade had no doubt that this man across from him was dangerous. Would use the opportunity to hurt him if he was ever presented with it.

"Last count was 63."

"They don't take up a lot of space."

"Mmmh." Greg made a note. Wrote some more while Dylan fidgeted.

"I want some water."

He looked up. "That could be arranged. How did you get the spiders."

"Water."

He tilted his head. Leaned back in his chair and glanced back at the two-way mirror, where he knew Sherlock, John and Mycroft stood to watch the interview. They were at MI-6, not the Met. Which was obvious as he knew that this was where Tony Oxley was currently being held. Why Mycroft decided to use him as interrogator was still a mystery but he wasn't going to question it too much. What he hoped for though was to finish the interview before he met with his wife tonight. He didn't want to think about what would happen if he was late.

Ask him about Michael Weston.

Sherlock's voice grated across the earbud. He wished he could tell the consulting detective to let him do his job. Despite the other man's brilliance, he was usually the one who had to do the interviews. Sort out statements. Get the confessions. He knew what he was doing. He wasn't an idiot.

Again, he wondered what Mycroft was playing at in pulling him in to do the interview. Surely one of his agents could do the job just as well or even better.

He got up and went to the water cooler that stood in the corner. Pulled a cup from the stack and filled it to the brim. Took it to the table and placed it by the man's hands. Dylan drank awkwardly and finished the lot.

He knew what would come shortly. He wasn't disappointed when the man asked to use the facilities. He opened the door, shook his head slightly at the agent who stood there waiting and turned his head to the other man, said, "Apologies, looks like I need to find someone to take you. Don't have the keys for the handcuffs."

He left, closing the door, smirking. Made his way over next door to find Sherlock glaring at him. John seemed amused, seated in a chair while Mycroft was busy on a laptop.

"What are you doing?"

"Sherlock…" He paused, glanced at the man that was still shackled in the other room. He seemed a little uncomfortable, shifting in the chair. "…let me do my job. That bugger in there isn't going to give you what you need just because you ask. He's a professional. He knows the system. Done this dance before."

Sherlock huffed. "He's an idiot. He kept the spiders. He had Tony Oxley's number on his desk. He hasn't fished in the last five years. The scars on his hands are old. The jersey he has on is brand new. His boots are expensive. He has been using his boat to pick up the spiders from a ship out at sea. Bringing them here and then on selling them to Michael, using Tony Oxley as intermediary. They're part of the same network."

"Yes Sherlock. But there is something called 'burden of proof'."

"Oh for heaven's sake, Lestrade. If that was a consideration, he'd be at the police station and not here."

"Sherlock, enough." Mycroft's voice was soft but the command was clear. Sherlock glared at his brother and turned his back on him. "You're suspect is getting very uncomfortable." Mycroft indicated with his head and the DI looked to see Dylan shift again, a grimace on his face.

"Right." He left and entered, pulling out the handcuff keys. Unlocked the cuffs and watched the man leave with the agent. When he came back, he sat down willingly, allowing them to cuff him again to the table.

"Feeling better?" Greg asked amicably. Dylan nodded and gave a begrudged thanks.

"Ok, how did you get the spiders?"

Dylan rolled his eyes. "I brought them online."

"Okay. Where?" He wrote ONLINE in his notepad. Drew a line under the word and waited.

"Why?"

"We just need to establish that there's a legal trail. We can let you go when we did that."

Dylan narrowed his eyes. Seemed to contemplate his options. Lestrade waited patiently. It was easy, really. Having worked with Sherlock for so long now, he had learned the art of patience. He almost smirked. Sherlock wouldn't be impressed to know that he'd been a training ground for the DI in how to handle obstinate suspects. He just applied some of the techniques he'd learned over the years in dealing with Sherlock and it tended to work. Dylan gave him the URL of a website. He wrote it down. Got the spelling wrong deliberately, letting the man guide him and huffing in frustration when he repeated the lengthy address letter by letter.

He knew that Sherlock would've already commandeered Mycroft's laptop. Would be logging on and searching.

"Ok. Thanks for that. I'll get my people to have a look." He rose as if to walk out and was halfway to the door before he stopped and turned back. Sat down again by the table.

"Uh…yeah. Sorry. Do you ever on-sell the spiders?"

"Nothing illegal in that." Dylan said.

He raised an eyebrow. Flipped pages in his notebook back. Read something he wrote, making sure to move his lips. Barely a whisper. Enough to pull Dylan in to lean forward, head tilted to catch what he was reading.

He flipped the pages back to where he wrote the URL.

"Mmm. Do you have any receipts?"

"What?" Dylan seemed surprised.

"Receipts. You do keep records of transactions, don't you? For accounting purposes of course."

Sherlock chuckled in his ear. A low, pleasant laugh and he knew he was impressing the consulting detective. He might not be a deductive expert and slow in Sherlock's eyes – but this dance in the interview room – this dance he was good at.

"Uh…no. Why would I?" Dylan asked exasperated.

"If you buy spiders and then sell them, doesn't that mean you're running a business?"

"What?"

"A business, Mr Masters. That is generally how things go. You buy things. You sell things. You make a profit."

"I don't have a business."

He flipped a page. Read slowly again, lips moving. Watching the man's reaction of consternation out of the corner of his eye. He sat back. "Surely you do."

"No, I don't."

He tilted his head. "So, you haven't registered any of the profit you've been making to inland revenue?"

"What profit?"

He frowned. "That is what happens when you sell products – in this case spiders."

"No. You've got it wrong. I wasn't doing that. Just keeping them as pets."

"But you just said…"

"Just stop it. You…shit. Don't be an idiot. I don't have a registered business. I buy spiders. Sometimes I give them away and I might get some monetary thank you for it…"

Lestrade flipped a few pages again. Squinted at his notes and leaned forward. "It says here that you have fifty thousand pounds in your bank account?"

"So?"

"Well, it seems that your 'monetary' thank you is a bit substantial."

"So sue me."

"Can't do that, Mr Masters. If you can provide me with a list of the people you've given the spiders too, I'm sure we can clear up this misunderstanding."

"What the hell…"

Greg sat back. Waited. Dylan pursed his lips. His leg was doing a staccato. Clearly not sure how to proceed.

"I don't have a list." He said in the end. "I want my lawyer."

"Okay. I'll get the guys then to do a full audit. Trace all incoming transactions on your account."

"You can't do that."

"You'll find there's a lot of things I can do. What about this? Give me one name. Just one so I can collaborate on what you said here to clear up this misunderstanding." Again, the silence stretched. Dylan sniffed in the end, looked away. Pulled on his handcuffs and then his shoulders dropped a little. But it was enough.

"Michael." He said surely.

"Does Michael have a surname?" Greg asked.

"Weston. Michael Weston okay. You can ask him."

He gave a deep sigh. Put the pen down. Met the eyes of the other man. "That would be a hard task, Mr Masters."

"Why?"

Bloody brilliant.

Sherlock's praise was rare. Lestrade didn't let it distract him from the task.

"Michael Weston is dead. Since July."

"Shit."

That was the moment he knew that he had him. It wasn't long after that Dylan Masters finally explained how he got the spiders. Where he'd drop them off. Tony Oxley had indeed been the middleman. He had sold a few spiders to Michael Weston on the side to make some extra money but when he hadn't heard back from the man, had assumed that it wasn't a viable option. He had been waiting for Oxley to contact him to pick up the shipment.

It was late in the evening when they sat down for supper. They were at Mycroft's house, around the dining room table. Molly was only due back the next day and the success of the afternoon with Dylan and then Oxley afterwards, had brought a sense of achievement. Lestrade had promised to take his wife to lunch tomorrow after Mycroft had phoned in a favour at one of the high-end restaurants. She didn't seem to broken up over the fact that he was going to be back late tonight.

"It seems that Oxley had confronted Michael Weston and the man hadn't backed off. He had killed him when he had threatened to expose him. He'd thought to set the scene in the hopes that we'd be distracted away from the real reason the man had been killed."

"For an idiot, he didn't do too badly," Sherlock stated as he took a bite of his food.

"You were stumped." Greg said. Chuckled. "If it wasn't for a noisy neighbour, you would still be in the dark."

"Not true." Sherlock pouted.

"Now what?" John asked.

"We know, John, that Dylan was a smuggler. I had a look at the URL he provided. Nothing more than a front. He picked up the spiders from a ship out at sea, messaged Tony when he had them and dropped them off at the Totteridge estate. Tony paid him. He went his merry way until the next shipment. Michael was …an unfortunate mistake that Tony corrected by killing the man. If he'd been less elaborate – he might've gotten away with it."

"What about Brad?" John asked, taking a bite of his steak. Gesturing with his fork at Sherlock. "I thought you said he's a fence. Spiders don't seem to count as non-perishables do they?"

"Brad is his boss. Apparently the man liked to diversify. Smuggling and selling living goods like the spiders was one aspect. The other is high-end stolen goods. He also had a store in Derby that sold antiques. He used the store to launder the money he made from his illegal activities. He's disappeared. I do believe he's currently in Russia." Mycroft said.

"How do you know?" Sherlock asked, scrutinising his brother.

"Really?" Mycroft raised an eyebrow. Sherlock wasn't pleased but didn't say anything further. "I can have him picked up but I'm more inclined to let him be. He's being watched. He might lead us to whoever is in charge."

"What about Moriarty? Sherlock said you were going to pay him a visit?"

Mycroft glanced at his brother and then at John. "It's been deferred."

"Okay."

"What do you boys have planned?" Lestrade asked. "I'm assuming I've been invited for a reason."

Mycroft gave a small, secret smile. Stood up and went and fetched a file that Lestrade had noticed on a writing table that was snug against one corner or the room. Greg took it from him and placed it on the table beside his plate. It was thick, bulging.

"Today's performance has finally convinced my brother that you'll be a valuable asset to breaking apart the last vestiges of Oliver's organisation. Welcome to the club."

"He's ready," Smith said, indicating the video they were watching of the last session with Sherlock. The man was responding appropriately. His anger was clearly visible.

"Okay." Byron turned to Jason. "You can let Moriarty loose. He knows what to do."

If you find yourself coming back every week to read this story, please let the author know. ? Just as most of us reread favourite chapters – I reread comments. They are a source of inspiration and do provide a motivation factor. And sometimes because of something that the commenter made a note of I'll add a scene to my next chapter. Or if I know any of my regular commentators likes certain scenes I'll try my best to weave those into the story. See…inspiration.

It does get harder a bit when you see a high read count but no responses. At that I wonder if I'm missing the boat a bit with this story. (hey, I'm forever learning and this is my first story that I've written that weaves a case and life events together, trying to draw / reach a conclusion on Oliver and finish/tie off everything in this realm.) I've already written the big finish – it's just not broken into chapters yet. So, this story will continue to be posted weekly (LIFE is busy at the moment and I've got another story I'm also publishing at the same time and I don't want to put undue pressure on myself for bi-weekly updates and rushing editing.) If you gave this a read – let me know that I'm doing okay with telling the story or positive feedback to let me know if I need to work on anything. English is my second language so I'm very aware that I miss some of the grammar nuances – my daughter and hubby keep pointing them out to me lol. Thanks