Introducing the lion. Part III is important as Sherlock makes a few more connections; an old foe comes back into play; Sherlock comes to a realisation after speaking with Giles (one of my fav scenes between the two); you finally get an introduction to the mystery man behind it all and the brothers have a good chat. You also get to see a bit more between Giles and Mycroft and Mycroft receives a very visual warning to stop his investigations into Oliver.

Part III: Chapter 9

October

Mycroft looked up as the door to his private study at Diogenes opened. Murray stood in the doorway, for a moment he seemed uncertain of the welcome he'd receive. He hovered and then he seemed to gather courage for he entered the room and softly closed the door behind him.

"Yes?" Mycroft asked. Murray put the Sun down on his side table. It was a few weeks old, the familiar diatribe of Kitty Reilly headlined on the front page. He raised an eyebrow; the other man had turned his back and had made his way to the side trolley. He poured himself a generous measure of the whiskey that was there and took a gulp. Mycroft winched. It was certainly not the way to appreciate the fine smooth texture of the expensive Macallan. Murray indicated with the glass to the paper. "That is becoming a problem. We've had quite a few inquiries from the general public about you."

"Nothing but drabble," Mycroft stated. Picked up the newspaper and gave the article another quick read. "She's obviously looking for a reaction. One she can't get from Sherlock and now she's moved her focus to me."

"Yes, but with the inquiry that has been finalised around Oliver, the others are asking questions again. And then there's the memory stick…"

"I trust that is still just between us?" Mycroft started with a hint of annoyance in his voice. "It was sent to you by mistake. It was never meant for your eyes."

"About that…I just…Mycroft, granted your brother had his problems at uni and now with Oliver…how do you know that he isn't using again?"

Mycroft glared at Murray. The man ignored him, instead sat down in the chair opposite his and crossing his legs, leaned back and took another big sip. The whiskey dropped to half of the measure he had poured. He seemed to gather some more courage. "I'm just saying that it isn't easy what Oliver did. If it was me…I'll be using some form of oblivion. The video on that memory stick looks recent. This is going to bite you if you keep it secret from the group much longer. And if Kitty gets hold of it…You understand?"

"Perfectly."

Murray downed the rest of the drink and placed the empty glass on the side table by his chair. "We have a securities meeting tomorrow. The others will be there, they still want to have another discussion on Moriarty and the others that are currently at Sherrinford. There is concern that if the public gets the idea that Jim Moriarty is in fact Richard Brook – which according to Kitty's little piece the public see as an innocent who is a nice neighbour – then there will be a public inquiry into your actions and this office. As it is currently, we've had three investigative journalists that have emailed questions on your relationship with Sherlock and the resources you've used to save your brother. One had questions on the four men who died last year and had their titles stripped from them. He wants to know why. I've sent him the press release we've prepared earlier stating the secrecy act. But it won't hold them off for long."

Murray ran a finger around the rim of his glass. Seemed to wait for a response and when Mycroft said nothing he continued, "Mycroft, that video is damning."

"I'm aware."

Murray gave a small sigh. "You're not going to bring it tomorrow."

"There is something bigger at play here than what is on that video." Mycroft said. "Some remnants of Oliver have survived and have kept themselves well hidden. They are quite comfortable in the shadows, keeping in the background. That memory stick has shown their hand. I feel that it would be prudent for us to keep quiet on what we know." Mycroft chose not to mention the second memory stick. Decided to keep that one close to his chest.

Murray narrowed his eyes, leaned forward. "What exactly is it that you know, Mycroft?"

Mycroft gave him a half smile. A hint of steel in his voice, when he answered the man that sat across from him. "You will do well to remember my position, Murray and what I'm allowed."

The blood seemed to drain from the other man's face. Murray seemed to realise for the first time the position he had put himself in. Suddenly seemed to understand why Mycroft had the reputation he had. He swallowed, rising unsteadily.

"Uhm, fine. I won't say a word. But heed my warning, Mycroft. You're playing with fire by keeping this from the others."

"Thank you for your concern. If that is all…"

Mycroft watched the other man leave. Stood and locked the door. He made his way over to the library wall and reaching out, he moved a book on economic policy of eastern Europe. A part of the bookcase swung open to reveal a hidden safe that he had installed long ago. His fingers were quick as he entered the combination. Nestled inside were a few files that were of highly sensitive nature. One of them contains information on Jim Moriarty. The other one on Alex and the third on Oliver. A small handgun nestled there as well as a stack of letters. The envelopes were old, dating back to when Sherlock was at uni. His hand hovered over the envelopes. The hurt contained in them when Sherlock had written them strung out on cocaine and a variety of other drugs he had tried. He still remembers the nauseating smell of the flop house he had found his brother passed out and as close to dying as he'd ever been.

He swallowed the memories down and then moved his hand away from those envelopes and towards the file that he kept that contained Alex's notes. He pulled it out, careful of the video stills that sat loose inside.

He read the transcript again where Oliver had extracted Sherlock's drug history. He especially took note of the language that the other man had used and the questions he had asked Sherlock. When he felt comfortable that he had a feel of the flow of the words, did he turn to the photo stills that were taken from the video of the first memory stick.

He scrutinised them more closely. Noting the text set in the bottom right-hand corner that donated the date and time. As before, he couldn't determine where the video had been taken. It was too generic and never showed more than a mattress on a cement floor. The focus of the forty-minute video is always on his brother. His brother's fingers were deft as he prepared the solution, there was no hesitation at all in the video. No indication that he was being coerced. For all intents and purposes, it showed his brother, having full knowledge of what he was doing, getting high.

He knew that it was entirely probable that the video was taken during his brother's time at the bothy. Early on before he had lost too much weight. He knew it wasn't too hard to alter a video and clean it up. To change appearances, to alter a few things to make a believable scene. Even if the date showed Sherlock getting high less than 3 months ago.

He read the transcript again. The one he had painstakingly copied down word for word. It is twenty minutes into the video that had been silent up to that point. A voice spoke, one he didn't recognise asking Sherlock questions.

It was in a similar vein as Oliver's. He finally could see the cadence of it clearly. The words and grammar used. He switched photos, this one is where the cameraman had zoomed in on his brother's face. His pupils were fully dilated, his face flushed. He refocused and finally saw the underlying fear in the micro expressions around Sherlock's eyes. A tightness that wasn't imagined.

He picked up his phone and dialled a number he knew well.

"It's me." He said when the person answered.

"I want voice prints of Philip Martins and Gary Saunders."

"Oliver's men that were at the bothy? Anything particular you want them to say?"

He paused. Thought it through. In the end decided against sending a copy of some of the transcript. It wouldn't do to show his hand now. "No. Let them read a paragraph – at least ten minutes worth."

"Ok. I'll courier it over when I'm done."

He closed the call, sat back. His finger lingered over one particular part of the conversation and it drew his eye unconsciously.

"Why weren't you sentenced?"

"My brother expunged my record. Deleted my misdeeds, as it were."

"He used his influence to make sure that you never saw the inside of a jail cell. Why?"

"Because of guilt. Because of what I know."

"And what is that Mr Holmes?"

"The secret that will bring him to his knees."

"And what is the big secret?"

"Ask him about Redbeard, Victor Trevor and what happened at the well."

The familiar feeling of guilt at what he'd done flooded his system. Unwelcome and unwanted. Even though it had been ages and he and Sherlock had worked through that mistake after a particularly bad stretch of Sherlock bingeing from one high to the next that nearly led to his death at uni. He squashed the sentiment down with vehemence.

Caring in this case isn't an advantage. Caring isn't going to find the man behind the videos that was sent to him. Caring is going to get them killed.

"It's the weirdest sound, you know. Like a chuff. Sometimes a purr. It's uncanny."

"Dull. Now go away." Sherlock turned from the client. John lifted his eyebrows and he huffed. Gave a false fleeting smile. "Fine, do go on."

"I think my neighbour has some kind of exotic animal in his yard. I'd like proof before I go to the SPCA."

Sherlock sighed. Gave John a look. Rolled his eyes and turned to the small man. Glasses sitting high on an Italian nose, eyes large behind the lenses. Wispy hairs barely covering a bald spot that was evident. Fingers nervously plucking away at a button, already frayed from the nervous habitat. Obviously a whiskey drinker. Well to do citizen with a wife and a cat and doing his civic duty to report on the comings and goings of his neighbours.

"We don't need this, John." He implied with his eyebrow.

John smirked. "Yes we do. Bored, remember."

He gave another small sigh. "How many times have you now phoned the SPCA?"

"It's not my fault the noise is gone by the time they pitch up."

"How many?"

"Four." The man said reluctantly. "Can you help?"

"John…" he complained. "Really?"

John gave the man an encouraging smile. "Sure. Sherlock would love to help. Won't you."

He gave a long-suffering sigh. The third one in a row but it definitely didn't move his friend to reconsider. When he'd agreed to take the first case that came through the door as a means to placate both John and Molly, he had not envisioned the little man with his funny noises.

"Molly has her appointment today," he said to John, ignoring the little man. "I couldn't possibly…"

"There's enough time, Sherlock. Right, Mr Bradshaw?"

"Oh sure. Should be quick. Property is not that big. 2 Hectares at most."

"Did you hear that, John? Almost five acres. Really not that big." His sarcasm flew right over the little man's head who beamed back at them.

"Come on. Would be fun to find out. You're curious. I can tell."

He pursed his lips. Glared at his friend. Rose and buttoned his jacket. "Come on then. Let's get this farce over with."

The drive took just over thirty minutes to reach Totteridge Village. Stopped in front of the suspect property and Mr Bradshaw made his way out the car. "That house is where I suspect the animal is being housed."

"Fine." Sherlock said. Rolled his shoulders and stepped across the road, John following in his wake. Sherlock's coat billowing behind him like an avenging angel of old, collar turned up. Eyes scrutinising the closed gate and the driveway to the main house. Pressed the button and then again when there was no response.

"Right. Let's go, John." He said. Walked the length of the property wall and then finding a spot, turned his side against the wall, hands held out together.

"What?"

"Oh for heaven's sake. Up and over. Come on. Before we look suspicious and a neighbour phones us in."

"Are you serious?" John asked. Look back down the road. They couldn't see the car and the agents. The road had curved, putting them in a quiet stretch. Sherlock straightened. "Of course, we can always drive back to Baker Street. Let Mr Bradshaw know his neighbour has a really big cat."

"Fine." Sherlock hunched down again and John stepped onto the hands, hands scrambling for the top of the wall. Somehow he managed to make it to the top, to find Sherlock next to him. Sherlock slipped down the wall on the other side and strode his way to the house that was just visible through the scrub and trees that dotted the landscape around them.

"Sherlock…"

He turns his head, his long legs striding across the lawn. "What?"

"What if the owner is home?"

"Obviously, they're not, John. The bell we rang brought no movement. There are no cars in the driveway parked anywhere nor is the garage open. They're gone for the day. Any 'exotic' animals would be kept in a cage at the back of the house, out of sight of the road. Now, come along."

They rounded the house, out of sight of the driveway and Mr Bradshaw's scrutiny. There was a porch at the back of the house, a three season's room built and closed in. The doorway to the back door was open and clear and Sherlock after a quick scrutiny of any lack of cages at the back of the house, moved onto the deck to inspect the backdoor. His hand was on the doorknob when the hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

A breath, hot and stinking of rotten meat was suddenly there. And then a single huff, deep throated, sounded less than a metre away. It spoke of terror. Half remembered documentaries that Sherlock recalled John had watched of Africa and the savagery of a hunt. His eyes met John's, who was wide with fear. A soft patter of pad on wood. The clink of nails.

"Run?" John whispered. Swallowed visible.

"Run."

They exploded from the porch. Run straight over the lawn to the closest tree. Scrambled up as a lazy swipe of a leg nearly took Sherlock's retreating foot off. They were high enough but still Sherlock eyed the prowling animal below them.

"When you said really big cat…did you know?" John asked, fear adding a quiver to his voice that Sherlock had only ever noticed once – at the pool with Moriarty – so long ago.

"Do you think we'd be in this tree if I did." He said. Ignored his own heart that still seemed to be racing. Shifted on the branch he was on.

"There's a lion on his porch, Sherlock! Why would any sane person have a lion on their porch!" John said. Gesturing to the animal below them. Anger is starting to replace fear.

"How am I supposed to answer that?" he said. The lion stretched out, nails casually ripping bark from the tree, leaving grooves behind in a long strip.

"How do you propose we get out of the tree? Okay, scratch that. Can lions climb trees?" John asked, looking upwards for another sturdy branch.

"I don't know. You're the one that watches documentaries. This isn't important information. Why would I retain it? Lions in the UK just aren't important." Sherlock retaliated.

"Well, it would've been nice if you had something in your mind palace." John snarled. The lion made another loop around the tree, golden eyes focused on them. Another huff exploded out of the mouth.

"Not how it works." Sherlock stated harshly.

"Is he climbing?" John asked breathlessly as the lion stretched out again, feet less than a metre from the branch Sherlock was on.

"No, just stretching. And look at those nails…" he said, looking down and despite himself, the fascination of being this close to a real-life lion was not something he could suppress.

"Sherlock, scootch up." John said. Shifted on his perch.

Sherlock frowned, attention diverting away from the lion who made another loop around the tree. "Why?"

"I'm joining you. At least this way he gets a choice. You're bigger." John said.

"I'm not bigger. Stay on your own branch."

"Taller then. Definitely taller. More meat for the kitty down there." John's foot slipped and swore. Fingers frantically grabbing on to the branch above him until he got a hold on his perch, feet secure again.

"No. Your maths is wrong, John."

"Really. How do you reckon then?"

"You're smaller. Easier to take down. Easier prey."

"Oh, thank you very much. Bloody hell. What are we going to do?" John glanced at his watch. Barely 15 minutes had gone by and it felt like a lifetime. "You know that Molly is due for her scan, oh , in the next few hours."

Sherlock gave John a look. "And that is supposed to inspire me to do what exactly?"

"Come up with a plan. You always do," John stated. The lion turned, stalking around the tree in the opposite direction.

Sherlock shifted. Hand in his Belstaff and pulling his phone out. He moved again and a foot slipped and abruptly he was sitting on the branch, his feet dangling down and the lion gave another huff. Jumped upwards against the trunk of the tree, one claw managed to embed itself in Sherlock's left shoe, casually pulling the shoe off as Sherlock scrambled to get back on top of the branch. Both watched his phone tumble down and hit the ground. The lion shifted and smelled the phone. A foot the size of a plate extended and batted it away.

"Okay. That's that, then." John said.

"You're phone?" Sherlock looked at him.

"In the car. I didn't think I'd need it, did I. A little house breaking wasn't on the agenda when we arrived."

"Okay. This complicates matters a little." Sherlock said. His eyes were scrutinising their position. Working on angles, he noticed the pool and another branch from a second tree and the wall that separated the property from the neighbour.

"You think?"

"John. I might have a plan."

"Good. What is it?"

"You distract the lion and I'll make it over the wall. Call for help." He indicated with his head to the branches interlocking. To the neighbouring wall on the other side of the tree he was aiming for.

"Why me?" John asked.

"For one. I'm taller. More reach. Second, a doctor appointment in a few hours with Molly. John, between the lion and Molly…who'd you rather face?"

"Oh…right. Distract how?"

Sherlock pointed. "I see a pool over there."

John followed his finger. Eyes wide. "Sherlock! Just no! This is insanity… Oh, look. He's eating your shoe."

"It shouldn't be too bad. You're a good swimmer right?" Sherlock said with a small smirk. "All will be perfectly fine."

John gave him a look. Sniffled. Glanced at the lion and then the pool.

"I'm going to be eaten, aren't I. This is all your fault." John shifted, moved a branch on the other side of the tree. Closest to the pool. "This is insanity," he mumbled. "I can't believe I'm doing this…of all the insane things we've ever done…"

Sherlock removed his other shoe, toeing it off and watched it tumble down.

"I'll call Lestrade the moment I'm over the wall. Promise." Sherlock said as he shuffled forward. The branch creaked ominously, bending beneath his weight. He did the maths again in his head. Looked back at John and met his gaze.

"Sherlock?" John asked determinedly. "Are you sure?"

"For heaven's sake." Sherlock sighed. Glanced down where the lion was mauling his second shoe. "The lion has a collar with a name tag that says Simba. Surely not a man eater."

"Why don't you distract it then?" John asked, carefully levering his body down another branch.

"Again John. Height advantage. Molly."

"Oh. Right. Right then…." John breathes heavily. Sherlock could see the effort his friend was making to psych himself up. John glanced down at the lion who had finished demolishing the shoe. Was making another turn around the tree. "No. Don't think I can do this… Hey, what are you doing? "

"Getting desperate." Sherlock said. Scooted a little more towards the edge of the branch that bent downwards.

"You?" John asked incredulously.

"Yes. I think I can make it to the wall by climbing up and then sideways. Jumping to that branch. I recalculated. The branch I was aiming for won't hold my weight."

"You're going to break your neck."

"No. Molly will if I don't make it. I'll be fine." Sherlock shuffled another step forward. He wobbled a bit but managed to keep upright.

"You're an idiot. You know that." John said, readying himself as stepped on another lower branch.

"Still smarter than you." Sherlock grunted. Swung a hand to a parallel branch. Bounced on his feet and then stepped across. The branch he had been on, whiplashed back. Vibrated as it reached for equilibrium.

"Fine. Just…stop. How are we going to distract the lion so I can make a run for the pool?"

"Easy." Sherlock said. Shifted forward until his arms surrounded the main trunk of the tree he had climbed onto. He slid down lower and dangled his foot down. "Here kitty kitty. Come on Simba. Who wants a big juicy leg bone? Yes you do." The lion swung his head between where John was perched to Sherlock. Seemed to take his measure and with a loud purr, incongruent in an animal so loud, lunged for Sherlock.

"John…run!" Sherlock screamed as he pulled his leg up at the last second. Managed to pull himself onto a higher branch as the lion made another lunge, nails scraping long strips of bark off the tree when he missed. The lion gave another huff and out of the corner of his eyes, Sherlock watched as John ran and cleared the fence around the pool. He didn't pause and it was a clean dive, his head coming up and sputtering. Swimming to the middle of the pool. The lion turned, jogging casually over to the pool and let go of another deep throated huff. Sherlock was already on the other side of the main trunk, shuffling along the main branch until he reached the wall and then he dropped down.

It took him less than a minute to reach the corner of the property and another scramble over the wall and he found himself a hundred metres from the main gate and the car with the agents and Mr Bradshaw.

He jogged over. "You were right, Mr Bradshaw. Really big cat…"He bent over. Breathed. "Phone," he asked. "Mine's over there somewhere," he indicated with a loose hand towards the house. A roar sounded from the back of the house. Joe blinked. "What the hell is that?"

Sherlock had already pressed the numbers for Lestrade.

"Send whoever oversees animal control. John's in a pool being hunted by a lion."

"A…what?"

"Do keep up. A lion that is on the premises. Probably stalking John in the pool."

"You're pulling my leg." Lestrade said disbelievingly.

"No. And do hurry up. With the temperature of the pool and John's attire, hypothermia is highly probable in the next 30 minutes. Unless the pool is heated? Then it doesn't matter unless the lion wants to go for a swim."

"Did you just leave your flat mate hanging with a lion stalking him?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake. He's not in any danger. The lion has a collar and is named Simba. Obviously someone's pet. I'm more scared of what Molly would do to me if I'm late than John. He'll be fine. John said it's okay."

He ended the call after giving Lestrade the address. Turned to Joe. "Do you mind taking me? Peter can stay, try and see if he can get the lion to the gate…"

"A lion…" the funny little man mumbled in awe. Sherlock barely glanced his way. Backdoor open and already seating himself. Peter looked his way, gun out and already making for the gate.

"Don't shoot the lion," Sherlock shouted, opening the car door briefly. "Might get angry. And I want to talk to the owner when I get back." Peter nodded. "In fact, it would be better if you wait for the zoo wrangler…it's a really big lion."

He closed the door and nodded to Joe, who smoothly pulled away. "Barts please. My appointment is in 40 minutes. Molly won't like it if we're late."

Joe pushed his foot down on the pedal and the car surged forward. Twenty minutes into the trip, Joe passed his phone to Sherlock. A text was waiting and an image attached. John wrapped in an orange shock blanket, scowling at the phone, middle finger up. Sherlock grinned. Oh, this case had turned out so much better than he'd imagined.

"Glad to see you're alive," he texted back.

John's reply was short and to the point. Sherlock laughed. His phone buzzed again. "I want to know and you better text me the moment the scans tell you."

He hovered. Thought and then texted back. "Fine."

They made it with ten minutes to spare. Molly was waiting for him in the café.

"Where's John?"

"Busy," he said. "You ready?"

Molly seemed to read him better than he thought. Looked down at his feet. "Where's your shoes?"

"A lion ate it." He stated matter of fact. "John stayed behind. Lestrade is there. Everyone's safe."

"Okay. Good. A lion?"

He sighed. "Yes. A lion."

Molly got him slip-ons hospital footwear. It would've to do for now. It was better than his socks, in any case. When they finally settled for their appointment, he was amazed again to count toes and fingers. To see the development of the heart and brain and lungs on the video screen while the technician scanned.

"Do you want to know?" she asked and both nodded. She turned and proceeded to tilt the probe. Mumbled to herself and then finally she captured the screen. Turn it in such a way that they could see.

"Congratulations. Say hi to your baby girl."

John was in much better mood when he made it back to Totteridge Village. Sherlock had taken the time to go back to Baker Street, drop Molly off and grab clean socks and another pair of shoes. He got John another pair of trousers and shirt and pants. Socks and shoes all into a duffle bag and then he and Joe were on their way again.

It was after five by the time the car stopped in front of the Lion house – as it was now dubbed by the police and surrounding neighbours – who all seem to have congregated in the street. "Here," he had indicated to John, passing him the bag. John disappeared into a police van, closing the door behind him.

"Is the owner home yet?" he asked Lestrade. The zoo van was still there, the lion now safely ensconced in a big crate. Happily munching on what looked like a leg of lamb.

"Should be here in the next twenty minutes or so. Was very upset that you went onto the property unannounced. Has threatened to bring charges."

"Bollocks. He's got a lion on his property. Surely that is classified as a dangerous and deadly weapon…"

"Say what now? Sherlock," Lestrade said, turning to him. "The owner actually has a permit. Granted he didn't exactly follow the letter of the law by making sure the lion was enclosed inside a compound that wasn't scalable and was secure. But you went onto the property without his permission. Correct."

"Technicalities. Thought I heard suspicious behaviour."

"You know that only works on American TV shows, right?"

"Oh, come on Lestrade. It's a bloody lion. In London."

"Yes, well. I can honestly say that this is now at the top of my list of weird and wonderful things people do." He dragged a hand through his short hair. "Why do you want to see the owner?"

Sherlock gave a fleeting smile. "Remember your hunter case?"

"Oh. Really?" Lestrade said, frowning. Turned to look at the lion. Looked back at Sherlock. "You can't be serious."

"I think you will find, detective inspector, that the claws will be a match. I'm guessing that that is your blueprint. The owner is involved."

"Oh…"

Sherlock looked towards the van when the door opened, John exiting and looking a lot warmer and less scruffy. A Duffle bag slung over his shoulder that now contained his partially dried clothes he had worn earlier.

"Anyone want to tell me what the hell is going on?" he said as he stopped by the two men. "Because that surely wasn't fun."

"The owner knows Michael Weston." Sherlock stated. "They created the claws from the pet lion. I'm guessing we'll find the tool somewhere inside the house or shed."

"What?" John looked between Lestrade and Sherlock. "You're serious."

"Sometimes, John," Sherlock said, turning to his friend, "…luck plays for those that least seek it."

"That doesn't even make sense."

Sherlock laughed. Turned and over his shoulder said, "If it wasn't for the fact that you forced my hand in taking the first case that came through the door, this," he indicated to the lion, "would still be snoring away on the porch of the owner of this house. And we'll still be clueless as to the killer."

"You don't know it's him." John said, stepping up to Sherlock and joining him as they walked to the car where Joe and Peter were lounging.

"If not the killer, then definitely someone who is involved." Sherlock stated confidently. Opened the door and sat down sideways on the seat, his feet outside on the pavement. "A lion is not an easy thing to smuggle. I wonder how he did it." Sherlock said pensively. "This house in this area…not cheap. He's definitely involved, don't you see, John."

"Fine." John opened the boot, chucked his bag in there. Leaned against the back of the car besides Sherlock after he closed the boot.

"So, a girl…" he said, changing tact.

Sherlock frowned. Looked up at him and then it dawned. A look of content flirted across his face. "Yes. A girl."

John gave a secret smile. "She's already got you wrapped around her little finger."

"No, that's not possible John. She's not even born yet. It's physically impossible…oh. Oh. Yes, I see," he glanced up at John. "She's perfect," he said. "18 weeks and she's got little toes and fingers. Her brain is growing. Her heart is beating."

"I know mate," John said softly. "It's okay. And good. Well done."

Sherlock met John's gaze and gave a quick nod. Both of them understood. Words weren't needed.

"Have you given any thought to a name yet?" John asked casually.

"No. Molly wants to think. Whatever she decides, will be good."

"You know you can throw in a name in the pot, Sherlock. Fathers can choose as well."

Sherlock nodded. "I'm aware, John." He stared at his shoes. Ran a hand through his hair. "This is good, isn't it John?" A question mark but not expecting an answer. Reflection more than anything else. John reached out, squeezed Sherlock's shoulder and let go. They waited, comfortable in their silence until finally the owner arrived. The gate swung open and a Mercedes SL series entered the driveway. Stopped and the man exited. Sherlock was on his feet. Already moving forward before Lestrade got close.

"Bradshaw," he said, extending his hand to the man. "Right ho. Was very shocked; I say when I saw the lion. Wasn't expecting that beast at all. Why would you ever keep a lion in our neighbourhood? There're children," he said, gesturing and eyes wide. Continued to play the aggrieved neighbour. "Head of neighbourhood watch and I have to say, just shocked. So very shocked…" he continued to harrumph, shoving the man towards his own door. John walked silently behind them. Sherlock followed the man inside without missing a beat. Eyed the front foyer. There was a distinct lack of family photos. It was austere and dark, with peeling wallpaper. He sniffed, the faint smell of mould underlying another smell. One that seemed familiar with undertones of decay and death. He took two steps inside, glimpsed the sitting room where hunting trophies hung on the wall before the man finally realised what he'd done.

"You're him, aren't you." The man started, face turning a slight shade or red as he turned on him. Sherlock took a step back, conveniently entering the sitting room as the man followed him. "Sherlock Holmes. The man who entered my property without cause. You …." He proceeded to insult Sherlock's lineage, his parentage and anyone associated with him. Pushed a finger against the consulting detective's chest.

"Oi," John said. Stepped up, his own fist balled. "No need for that."

'Oh, don't interrupt him, John." Sherlock snarled, "he was getting rather inventive."

"Right, Mr Oxley, DI Lestrade," Lestrade said, having entered the house. The four of them are standing in the main sitting room. Surrounded by death on the walls. It was an eery, silent place and not at all inviting.

"What the hell do you want?" Oxley said. Turned to the policeman. "You know this isn't right. You can't just come in here. I didn't invite you in."

"You have to sign the papers regarding the lion so that the zoo can take him away." Lestrade said calmly, holding the papers out. "The police have some questions for you regarding an earlier case."

"Oh. What?"

"Mr Oxley, did you know Michael Weston?" Sherlock asked casually.

"What is this?" the man almost exploded. "Get out of my house!"

"So, you did know him. Interesting," Sherlock mused. Stepped further into the sitting room. Eyed the mounted head of a snarling bear on the far wall. Hands behind his back, his collar turned high, he turned. Lifted a hunting and fishing magazine from a table by one of the chairs. He took note of the sender. Placed it back down and then Oxley stood in front of him.

"You have no right…" he spluttered.

"What exactly are you hiding, Mr Oxley." He asked. Drifted eyes deliberately over the man. "A small timer like you can never afford a place like this. Whose lackey are you?"

"You…f…"

Sherlock leaned back, the fist the other man had thrown drifted past his nose. His arm deflected another attempt and then Lestrade was there, wrestling the imploding man to the ground. "Really?" he stated, looking up at Sherlock. "All it took was a minute before the man tried to assault you. Think this is a new record for you Sherlock."

"Can't help if they're stupid, Detective Inspector," Sherlock said, waving a dismissive hand at the spluttering man, lying on the floor with his hands cuffed behind his back. "If he kept his cool, he would've realised that we had no right to be here. Instead, he assaulted a member of the public…"

"He didn't touch you." John said.

"Attempted assault then." Sherlock smirked. "Besides," he picked up the magazine and showed it to John. "We have our link."

John looked at the sender address. Looked up at Sherlock.

"Brad?"

"Brad."