Baker Street at ten pm on a freezing winter’s night was much the same as it always was, that is to say, hectic. Crammed with people going about their business, bursting with life and activity, Baker Street was redolent with purpose and achievement.

From an open window in the modest flat above an unpretentious little sandwich shop, Mozart played on a rather good violin poured out into Baker Street like a flash flood. In the bedroom of the flat below, an elderly lady stirred and turned over in her sleep but did not wake.

Hours later, Mozart had morphed into Vivaldi, Mendelssohn and currently Bach. Sherlock Holmes played on, even though the street outside had quietened, the people now drifting home, tired and played out.

Sherlock played on, his body no longer the biological container for his brain but one complete, perfect resonator for the music, in this case, the Chaconne from the Partita in D. He played, the double-stopping jarring through his bones, arcing through his body, through the soles of his feet like so much lightning electricity. He was on the sixth consecutive rendition without so much as pausing for breath.

“Bravo! Well done indeed.”

The tone was mildly sardonic and the slow handclap perfectly timed, responding to the end of the work but forestalling a further repetition. Sherlock’s bow paused mid-arc, changing trajectory to sink limply at his side as he turned an expressionless mask on the intruder.

“Still able to tear the heartstrings of the unwary, I see, although a little variation to the programme at this late stage would be beneficial to the ears of your listeners.”

The newcomer bared his teeth in something that might have passed for a smile at another time or place and moved purposefully through the debris towards the open window.

“Getting a little chilly in here,” he remarked, closing the sash firmly and rubbing his hands together.

The temperature had dropped like a stone over the past hour. Sherlock had scarcely noticed, but it was hardly a surprise. He lowered the violin stiffly and climbed off the coffee table, his breath making white clouds in the frigid air. He stared at the intruder impassively.

“What are you doing here, Mycroft?” he demanded.

The other man’s smile did not falter in the slightest. “Visiting you in your new abode,” was the smooth reply. He turned around on his heel, taking in every detail of the living room.

Mycroft Holmes was immaculate as usual in Saville Row bespoke pinstripe tailored precisely to fit his (currently) slender physique. Sherlock knew that his brother owned an unspecified number of identical suits, all carefully tailored to fit whichever phase of his yo-yo dieting he happened to be in at any given time. Mycroft pointed the tip of his umbrella at a skull nestling innocently on the mantle between a Japanese folding knife and what looked like a Medieval manuscript.

“Still using him as a paperweight, I see,” he remarked. “I’ve always thought it rather disrespectful.”

“Yes, well, you never could mind your own business, could you?” Sherlock pushed the violin carefully into its case, fitting the bow into the lid and slamming it shut with elaborate negligence just to make the point.

“Why are you here?” Sherlock repeated. “Look, I did everything you wanted; I’m clean, I’m on the wagon, I’m over the age of majority. I have no further need of a nursemaid.”

“Of course not,” the other replied mildly, “I wouldn’t dream of suggesting it. I was merely curious about your new home,” he poked at something too close to his polished shoe with the tip of his furled umbrella, “and as I was passing I decided to drop in.”

“It’s two thirty am,” sneered Sherlock.

Mycroft nodded. “Indeed,” he replied. “Clearly Bach is apposite for all times of day. I hope your neighbours agree; not to mention your landlady. I brought you a present.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Go away,” he said tiredly.

“It’s in the kitchen,” his brother persisted. He glanced around the living room one more time. “Perfectly suitable,” he remarked, nodding faintly,“Now do try to avoid being evicted, brother mine, there’s a good chap. It causes no end of trouble for myself and my legal department.”

Mycroft nodded pleasantly and turned on his heel to exit the flat as silently as he had entered it. Sherlock scowled mightily at his brother’s departing back with little or no effect. Curiosity winning out over resentment, he stalked into the kitchen to find his jumble of experimental materials had been carefully moved to one side of the kitchen table and in their place was a small tray containing milk, sugar, a Chatsworth filter teapot, a packet of English Breakfast loose tea from the London Tea Company and two china mugs decorated with illustrations taken from the Bayeux tapestry. Sherlock made a sound of disgust but examined one of the mugs with a thoughtful expression. He shook his head and returned it to the tray.

The temperature had dropped another three degrees Celsius and ice was forming on the inside of the windows at 221B. Wrapped in his great coat, curled in on himself at one end of the sofa against the cold, Sherlock was reading a treatise on Baroque clarinets. His bare feet stuck out from over-long sweat pants. A clear fluid dripped from an array of glass tubes into two buckets situated in the hearth. Periodically, he would look up from his reading to check the liquid levels against the time on the clock.

“I thought you only moved in yesterday afternoon!” The visitor’s voice rasped with years of shouting over loud noises and shouting instructions. It also betrayed its origins in the Estuary region of Kent. “Did you know your front door was left on the latch?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes: interfering brothers. “Good morning to you too, Inspector,” he growled through the thick wool of his collar. “Do come in.”

Detective Inspector Lestrade knew his business. His expression did not even flicker as he crossed the threshold, carefully avoiding the unidentified piles of flotsam and jetsam. Peering gloomily at the empty grate, he beat his hands against his upper arms and shivered. Something caught on the leg of his trousers; he skipped reflexively away.

“Bloody hell, Sherlock,” he muttered, narrowly avoiding a skewering on a jagged glass edge. “Why didn’t you leave that stuff in the bins at your previous place?”

“The Council cleansing department won’t take radioactive waste – I asked them,” Sherlock relied waving an indifferent hand.

“Radioactive…?” Lestrade bit back on an expletive and shifted his feet, ignoring the way the carpet sucked at the soles of his shoes.

Sherlock looked at him without enthusiasm. “I assume,” he began, enunciating slowly and carefully after a moment of silence,” that you have some reason for calling at this ridiculous hour – other than to remark upon the décor, of course.”

Lestrade gave his surroundings a final once-over and shook his head. He took out his notebook.

“Murder, Hampstead, shotgun,” he said succinctly.

“Sounds boring,” Sherlock replied, returning to his book.

Lestrade sighed. “Will you come?” he asked doggedly.

“There’s something else, isn’t there?” he said. “Something you don’t like, am I right?”

Lestrade nodded. “It just – feels wrong,” he said reluctantly.

“Hunches are for amateurs,” Sherlock said.

Lestrade closed his eyes briefly. “I know it’s the middle of the night, Sherlock,” he persisted, “but will you come?”

“Who’s on forensics?” he asked.

Lestrade gave a faint grimace. “It’s Anderson,” he replied.

Sherlock made a brief sound of disgust. “He won’t work with me,” he said.

“Well, he won’t be your assistant,” Lestrade replied. “Will you come?”

Sherlock rose abruptly from the sofa.

“Not in a police car,” he said, moving rapidly out of the room and down the short corridor.

Lestrade took an involuntary step backwards as Sherlock whirled past. “I’ll take that as a yes, shall I?” he muttered, then shouted “and put some bloody clothes on!”

“I’ll be right behind you.”

The words floated back along the landing.

“You don’t know the address.”

“Who says I don’t?”

Tennyson Gardens was a leafy avenue with good street lighting damped down by freezing fog which reached cold, clammy tendrils around the moon, the car headlight and the exposed skin of the unwary; Lestrade shivered. Sherlock strode confidently ahead prowling like a sniffer dog. He stopped by a red brick Victorian pile, exquisitely converted and expensively decorated. Despite the late hour, it was lit up like a Christmas tree.

Lestrade nodded at the open front door. “That’s it,” he said unnecessarily.

Sherlock ignored him, sweeping up the neat path, the stone steps and into the marble-tiled vestibule. Immediately, he stopped, holding up a gloved hand to prevent Lestrade from following him.

A faint odor, almost imperceptible; Sherlock knew he could identify it given time.

Narrow, Victorian windowsills, newly painted; new timber on the windows, must have rotted away, too far gone to rescue – house was allowed to fall into ruin at some stage; stained glass, expertly restored, much of it replaced with modern materials; marble tiling original but treated for porosity – that’s the smell. Staircase completely replaced – Sherlock frowned. Another staircase added leading down to what used to be the cellar, now a luxury basement flat, no doubt; lights blazing on the first floor but only one on the ground, that in the room leading off to the left. No lights in the basement.

Sherlock took off up the staircase like a greyhound out of the gate.

“Oi!” Lestrade protested, “Sherlock! It’s a crime scene, get suited up or Forensics will have your arse in a sling!”

The heel of Sherlock’s Edward Green bespoke shoe disappeared around the turn of the stairs. Swearing under his breath, Lestrade threw on his own protective gear and marched up the stairs. Sherlock was on the threshold of the relevant apartment, pale eyes snapping like twin camera lenses as he rolled on a pair of latex gloves.

Now this is something else; stylish, expensive, newly restored like the rest of the house. Brass fittings on the front door; custom-made William Morris wallpaper, hand painted; that cupboard isn’t original but it’s made out of reclaimed timber to fool the unwary; china shade on the overhead lamp throws out a dim, diffused light – a tinted bulb, or just low wattage? Carpet, fitted, very dense weave, expensive; feels very close and cocooned in here, all the sound damped by the carpet and the woven hangings on the walls, Chinese work, if I’m not mistaken, and when am I ever? A very nice oil painting – old fashioned style but recent work with an antique gilt frame – should be able to clean off the blood spray without too much damage. Not so sure about the wall around it though.

Lestrade held himself perfectly still knowing that if he so much as twitched, Sherlock would snarl like a cat. His throat closed momentarily at the sight of the corpse – headless, missing most of one shoulder and upper arm, completely drained of blood – even though this was his second sighting of it. He watched the other man take in every detail of the crime scene with the precision of a camera.

Toweling bathrobe and not much else; ready for bed then, asleep? Killer must have been known to him- far too late to open the door to a stranger; a lover, perhaps? No nightclothes – was this habitual? How efficient is the heating system? An old building, but a very high quality conversion. No reliable data as yet, preliminary reports will tell. Faint floral/fruity odor – shampoo/soap/perfume? Not a man’s fragrance. Not much doubt about the cause of death; must have been point-blank range, two shots in quick succession, both slightly to the left and below the face – some serious animosity here, a desire to obliterate. Splatter pattern consistent with no 7 or 7½ shot, 28 gauge –

Sherlock snapped his fingers at Lestrade until the other produced a cheap plastic pen from an inner pocket, then he crouched to poke at a spent shell with its end.

Sherlock sat back on his haunches and frowned at the corpse. Lestrade watched as he methodically cataloged every detail, committing it carefully to memory, deliberately detaching himself from the horror of the coagulating lake of blood, the burst of gelatinous brain tissue and fragments of bone, the pathetic waste of something that until the last few hours had been a living, breathing person.

“Oh, Jesus!”

Lestrade more felt than heard the disgusted murmur from his chief forensics officer. Anderson glared at Sherlock’s back with intense dislike but the weariness round his eyes and the pallor of his skin told its own story: this had not been a pleasant experience for any of his team.

“It’s bad enough here without this freak gloating over the remains,” he spat at Lestrade.

“If you can’t stand the heat, Anderson, get out of the kitchen,” Sherlock intoned without missing a beat. He stared unblinkingly at a sticky patch of drying blood near the bedroom door.

“Oh, come on!” The man flailed, trying to gather the shreds of his dignity. “No one walks in on a body with its head blown off at close range only two hours ago without being briefly reminded of their last meal – it’s only natural.”

“It may well be natural for you,” Sherlock replied, examining the skirting board minutely, “but fortunately for the rest of us, my own mind is capable of holding on to more than one idea at a time. And it’s three hours.”

Sherlock’s tone was haughty and dismissive and Lestrade laid a heavy hand on Anderson’s shoulder as he watched the man ball his fists.

“That’s enough, Sherlock,” he said. “Now have you got anything or are you just passing the time down there?”

“What do you mean, three hours?” Anderson spat in outrage. “You can’t possibly know that.”

Sherlock glanced briefly up at Lestrade and rolled his eyes. He reached for what remained of the body’s left arm and rolled up the cuff, displaying an analogue watch.

“Stopped,” he said, “at twenty six minutes past midnight.”

“Battery could have run out,” protested Anderson, “Could have stopped at any time.” Sherlock nodded seriously.

“Yes, it could,” he replied, “but considering that this is a kinetic watch and doesn’t contain a battery, I think it rather unlikely, don’t you? The electrical generator was smashed by a stray pellet – that’s how I know the time of death.”

Sherlock glanced briefly at the right arm; the cuff of the bathrobe sat a good three inches above the man’s wrist. He tried to tug the cuff down, but the fabric sprang back to its original position as soon as he loosed his hold. Sherlock rose to his feet and turned to Lestrade.

“Alright, what have you got?” The older man stood, arms folded across his chest; Sherlock ran an absent finger across his bottom lip.

“Victim is male, late thirties, around 10 stone, good level of fitness,” he began in a low, intense monotone. “The calluses of a firearms user and his muscular development indicate current membership of the armed forces or very recently discharged. Tan lines at the wrists and neck but not chest or arms tell me recent service abroad not recreation. The opulent decoration of this apartment together with its exclusive location, however, suggest an independent income – the rent must be expensive, the value, if he owns it, immense. He may have been on leave of absence – not enough data yet. Rank is not clear from the body itself, but the doctor’s bag carefully stowed in the hall cupboard should give us a better lead. Any witnesses?"

“No,” Lestrade shook his head in frustration.

“Indeed,” Sherlock inclined his head as though this had been expected. “Of course, the rain,”

Anderson frowned. “Rain?” he queried.

Sherlock shook his head irritably. “Do you have nothing better to do?” he snapped. “Oh no, of course – you don’t. Rain, Anderson; you know, that wet stuff that falls from the sky and makes us cold, damp and uncomfortable. We try to avoid it so we wear raincoats and use umbrellas. When it’s cold as well as damp, we wear hoods and hats and turn our faces down, away from the rain."

Anderson shook his head. “I just didn’t remember it raining last night, that’s all,” he murmured shrugging.

“Now I’ve given it all to you,” he said with barely concealed impatience, “what have you got on him by more conventional means?”

“You’re right, of course,” replied Lestrade, “He was an army doctor invalided out of Afghanistan fourteen months ago – came under attack from enemy fire while administering trauma medicine in the field; honorable discharge. Apparently he landed a job with some pharmaceutical company and also had ties with a media company. He is survived by one sister, a solicitor with a central London practice dealing with marine and salvage, lives in Tooting with her civil partner.”

Sherlock just looked at him; Lestrade shrugged. “Downstairs neighbour,” he explained, “Donovan’s still talking to her, but we got the relevant facts.”

“Do we have a name for the victim?”

“Yes. According to the next door neighbour –  it's the owner. John Watson.”

In a matter of hours, Forensics would scour the apartment, Sherlock knew, taking away every last trace of the late Doctor John Hamish Watson from carpet to scraped paint flakes to his financial records, meticulously stored in labelled box files. He strode into the study without hesitation and stood in the centre.

I thought this might be where he lives, but no, it’s not. It’s more like a library than an office; book-lined walls; studded leather armchairs; cast-iron grate – regularly in use, by the looks of it. Over-large mahogany desk – not antique but good repro – with a blotter. Interesting; not many people have blotters, particularly such opulent ones. Mont Blanc pens, expensive vellum writing paper, letter tray with two bills marked “paid”, one to a medical supplier – he must have had need to replenish his medical bag for whatever reason - the other to a specialist wine merchant. In the same tray, a letter from someone who signs themselves “affectionately, Harry” –shortened form of Henry or Harriet?

“Friend, d’you reckon?” suggested Lestrade, still shadowing Sherlock, probably protecting the crime scene from contamination.

Absently, the other man shook his head. “Sister,” he said succinctly, then at Lestrade’s raised eyebrow, “Look at the tails on the “y”s and “g”s. Stronger loops than I would expect, I grant you, but not a man’s handwriting. And even in these socially advanced times, a woman is far more likely to sign herself “affectionately”. Contacted her yet?”

Lestrade grimaced. “Crikey, give us a chance,” he whined. “It’s four in the morning. It’s not like she can help him now.”

Sherlock made no reply but narrowed his eyes and sweeping out of the study into the living room.

Understated sofas, Persian rugs; more bookcases, this time with coffee-table art and photography books, an exquisite Italian gouache landscape over the fireplace.

Sherlock moved over to study the painting more closely.

“Somewhere warm?” demanded Lestrade, coming to stand next to him.

“Amalfi coast,” replied Sherlock still drinking it in. “See the smoke? That’s supposed to be Vesuvius – it’s a 19th Century piece. Unsigned but the quality is extraordinary.”

Sherlock moved away and frowned at several framed photographs, making a quiet noise of interest.

Lestrade peered over his shoulder. “Well, there we are,” the inspector said heavily as Sherlock picked up the central one for a closer look. “That’s our man, I guess. Captain John Watson MD; there’s no mistaking him now.”

Thoughtfully, Sherlock turned the photograph into the light, his face grave. John Watson was blue-eyed with sun-bleached hair, tanned, fair skin and an open, friendly manner. He was grinning joyfully into the camera, sporting obviously new Captain’s pips and making a half-aborted gesture at the photographer. The background was bright sunlight and parched desert. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed – there was something familiar about the composition and the spontaneity of the subject… He glanced down at the bottom of the frame. In tiny gold leaf, he read “Alexander Murray, Grosvenor Street Studios."

Hmmm.

“God, she’s right!” Sergeant Donovan suddenly jostled Sherlock’s elbow as he craned his neck to see. “It is him: I thought she was joking, sir!”

He snatched the photograph from Sherlock’s hands and thrust it at Lestrade who took a cursory look and shrugged.

“Am I supposed to recognize him, Donovan?” he said, “What is he – some kind of film star or other?” Lestrade’s tone was ironic and he scrubbed a hand wearily over his face.

“Well, not a star, sir,” Donovan amended, “and not in film. Mrs Russell, the neighbour, she told me all about it. Thought I would have recognized him, she said. I didn’t tell her why that wasn’t going to happen.”

A brief, awkward silence followed Donovan’s comment. Sherlock abruptly lost interest and turned his attention back to the shelves.

Nothing here of any further interest except – ah, what’s this? A small pot simply made of part-glazed clay. Looks like a child’s school art, but the clay isn’t local or even English; I can tell by the color. Asian? Something inside… hmm. Foreign currency – Euros; couple of Phillips screws, generic, could be from anything; small plastic model soldier complete with automatic weapon – out of a Christmas cracker, maybe? Aha, a bullet clearly fired from a rifle – the groove pattern is unmistakeable.

“Lestrade,” Sherlock called over his shoulder, “did Watson take a bullet when he came under fire?”

“Yeah, he did,” Lestrade came over. “What have you got there?”

Sherlock held the round between thumb and index figure and raised it to the light.

“Must have kept it as a souvenir,” Lestrade said, squinting at it. “Lot of squaddies do. Personally, I wouldn’t want to be reminded of how close I got.”

“Puts a value on your life,” Donovan commented, “at least, that’s what I’ve heard, sir.”

“What, like living on borrowed time, you mean?” Lestrade gave a bark of laughter and shook his head. “Not for me.”

“Where was he shot?”

“Beg pardon, Sherlock?”

“The wound, from Afghanistan,” Sherlock barked. “Where was it on his body?”

Lestrade shrugged. “We don’t know yet,” he replied. “MOD report’ll give us those details.”

Donovan pointed at a framed photograph in pride of place on the bookshelves, showing John Watson in a Hawaiian shirt sporting a lei around his neck, one arm around the shoulders of a pale, blonde girl with a slight gap between her front incisors. They were both smiling.

“That’s his fiancé, sir,” he said. “Mrs Russell – that’s the neighbour – described her; Mary Morstan. She’s a fashion model – done some work for Prada, I believe.”

“Does she live here?”

Donovan shook his head. “Lives with her parents in one of those big Georgian piles in Holland Park,” he replied. “You know – the ones that are mostly flats now. Well, theirs is still a private house.”

Lestrade made a grim face. “I hate to think what their heating bills must be like,” he said.

“Any reason to assume that she wasn’t the woman accompanying Watson yesterday evening?” Sherlock asked looking at Donovan.

He shrugged. “You mean was he a player? Neighbour doesn’t know,” he replied, “but these society types tend to get about, don’t they?” Sherlock fixed her with a glare.

“And you think the late Doctor Watson was a ‘society type’?” he sneered.

Donovan shook his head. “We haven’t got much to go on yet, have we?” he replied.

Sherlock smiled unpleasantly. “Oh, I think we’ve got quite a lot to go on, actually,” he replied, replacing the little pot.

Lestrade scooped up the photograph and thrust it at Donovan. “Confirm Morstan’s identity with the neighbour. I want it confirmed that she was the woman he was with before we interview her. Oh, and tell Anderson to get to the master bedroom next.”

“Not before I do!” Sherlock threw over his shoulder as his preternaturally long legs propelled him out of the living room.

Large room with bespoke built-in wardrobes and matching chests; large bay window overlooking front garden; upholstered window seat; dressing table; queen-size iron bedstead with blanket box at the foot; bedside table – someone’s already been through the drawers – tissues, proprietary painkillers, an assortment of pens and pencils, a small notebook, blank but with several torn out pages, phone; stripped pine flooring with rugs – again Persian, good quality – and currently strewn with white rough silk bedspread and assorted clothing, male.

Sherlock crouched to pick up a discarded tee-shirt, inhaling quickly.

Sweat; smoke from cigarettes – no ashtrays in the apartment; garlic and Italian herbs – there’s a Mediterranean-style bistro in the next street – exhaust fumes – they sat outside so they could smoke; same odor as on the bathrobe, stronger here. Perfume –Chanel No. 5 , I think; exhaust fumes, something chemical – a firework display? High street brand, flimsy fabric – absorbs everything. Generic trousers, socks and pants from a well-known chain, white button-down shirt, no jacket – hall cupboard? – shoes well-made but worn. Dressed down for the evening? Didn’t want to be spotted by roving photographers with a woman not his fiance?

Sherlock reached for a door handle and found himself in an ensuite bathroom.

Minimalist: obsessively tidy, like the study, but sparse. Unperfumed soap, wet shaving kit, hardly used but not new – did victim have a beard, designer stubble? – shower gel, electric toothbrush, generic paste, quality bath-sheets, recently used, still damp. Shower – generic shampoo, same brand of shower gel, squeegee for the glass – Sherlock sneered to himself. Bathroom cabinet next – mouthwash, inter-dental brushes, hair product (unisex), spare toothpaste… Sherlock frowned. Where is Mary Morstan’s stuff?

Sherlock went back into the hallway; Anderson was in the process of zipping what remained of the late Captain John Watson MD into a body bag. Without pausing for breath, Sherlock turned into the kitchen and glared silently at the WDC testing for fingerprints until she looked up.

“Have you dusted the living room?” he demanded.

She shook her head and looked back at her work. “Next on the list,” she answered composedly, “bathroom and spare bedroom so far.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Yes,” she returned and met his eyes. “He had a guest.”

Sherlock didn’t miss a beat. “Lestrade!” he yelled striding back out into the hall.

Michael Stamford had been living in Watson’s flat for a week or so, it seemed. Mrs Russell had not specifically been asked whether anyone else was living there so she did not volunteer the information. Once Donovan brought up the subject however, she was very willing to tell all.

“A very nice young man – Doctor Watson introduced us when he arrived so I wouldn’t worry about a stranger going in and out,” she said. “He said Doctor Stamford’s an army doctor too, only he’s been stationed in Iraq. He was staying with Doctor Watson for the first few days of his leave. Going to have some fun in London, he said, before visiting relatives.”

“She doesn’t know where he is at the moment,” Donovan continued, reading from his notes, “but he was certainly here yesterday morning. Forensics says it’s pretty clear he was using the spare bedroom and the family bathroom.”

“Description?” Sherlock demanded.

Donovan blinked. “Caucasian, tall, around five-ten/eleven, broad-shouldered, light brown hair a bit sun-beached,” he replied. Sherlock glared at her until she looked down at her notes again. He shrugged and shook his head.

“Mrs Russell liked him,” he continued. “Said he was friendly and polite, had a northern accent – just an everyday bloke. What, you think he suddenly went berserk and took a shotgun to his friend?”

Sherlock made a noise of extreme frustration and stood in the hall, his frown deepening by the moment.

“I don’t understand,” he said between his teeth; it hurt to say it. “Where did he live? It certainly wasn’t here, anywhere. Where is John Watson?”

“Out of your clutches at least,” returned Anderson as he gestured the ambulance men to take the stretcher. “The only place you’ll see him now is in the morgue.”

The stretcher rounded the corner and began its slow descent of the stairs.

Against Lestrade’s express instructions, Sherlock sat in on the interview with Mary Morstan later that morning. The young lady received them in the drawing room of her parents’ stunning Holland Park house in the presence of her father and the family solicitor. No one was quite sure who was responsible for Sherlock’s presence - there had been much shuffling of feet among Lestrade’s team after the event but no one stepped forward to shoulder the blame.

Mary Morstan looked pale and waiflike. Her hair was swept up in the deceptively simple messy chignon beloved by public schoolgirls all over the country and the dark shadows under her blue eyes gave her face a heart-breaking gravitas. Sherlock thought the all-black combo a bit over the top for a country where deep mourning was not regularly observed, even amongst the upper echelons.

Mary’s father, The Honorable Sebastian Wilkes, Executive Director of Shad Sanderson Investment Bankers Ltd., sat stiffly beside her on the brocade sofa. The family lawyer, one Shinwell Johnson, sat discreetly to one side with a leather-bound notebook perched on his knee.

Lestrade sat on another brocade sofa at right angles to Mary and tried to look grave and sympathetic; next to him Sherlock slouched, bundled up in his coat with his legs extended, bored. Lestrade prayed they would get away from this without a lawsuit.

Mary’s demeanor was calm although her voice shook occasionally. Despite her pallor, her body language was languid and she responded to questions in a measured tone with long pauses for consideration between answers.

“Of course Mummy and Daddy knew where I was,” she told him. “John and I are engaged; we spend most weekends together, but last night I had a prior engagement. He was rather cross with me, but I told him I’d make it up to him on Saturday.”

Her smile was demure; the Honorable Sebastian shifted uncomfortably.

“Are you certain you had no contact with John Watson last night, Miss Morstan?”

Mary blinked slowly. Lestrade registered peripherally that Sherlock had drawn his legs up and was sitting upright.

“I may have called him on his phone,” she replied, “I don’t remember.”

“Think, Miss Morstan,” Lestrade urged, “It could be important.”

Sherlock broke his silence by snorting; the Honorable Sebastian stared, affronted. Sherlock shook his head.

“Leave it, Lestrade,” he said dismissively, rising to his feet, “you’ll get nothing worthwhile out of her while she’s in this state.”

“Sherlock,” hissed Lestrade, stubbornly remaining seated. “What do you think you’re doing?”

Sherlock leaned down over Mary Morstan, dwarfing her with his great height. “You’re drugged up to your eyeballs aren’t you, my dear?” he said in a patronising tone. She stared back, uncomprehending; he nodded.

“Downers always have that effect,” Sherlock continued conversationally as he pulled on his gloves. “Talk to the family doctor, Lestrade; he’s probably been handing them out like sweeties for years. Oh, and give the stuff at least 24 hours to work its way out of her system before you talk to her again. I don’t know exactly what she’s on but some benzodiazepines have a half-life of 18 hours or more, 24 to be safe. Her statement won’t be worth the paper it’s written on if you take it now. Afternoon.”

He stalked out of the room with a swirl of coat, slamming the door before anyone could react let alone speak. The Honorable Sebastain drew breath, his face mottled with fury.

Lestrade raised a hand. “Don’t say it,” he said gloomily. “Sherlock is an elemental force of nature. He’s rude, childish and totally lacking in any semblance of social graces and queues, but he’s right; he’s always right. So before you open your mouth to blast me into my component pieces, sir, I think we’d better get your doctor to talk to ours, and then you and I are going to have a chat about why you didn’t tell me your daughter was on medication before we interviewed her.”

Ballistics report only what I expected: 28-gauge shotgun; shells loaded with ¾ oz. of No. 7 ½ shot; two shots point-blank range; no sign of the weapon.

Preliminary medical report: male, white, Caucasian, five-eleven, good muscle tone, dark blond hair cut short, gun calluses etc. etc., distinguishing features: small tattoo of a bird at base of spine, done within the past six months or so. Cause of death – two point-blank blasts took out all cranial tissue and the left part of the pectoral girdle, the left scapula and the left shoulder joint. Death was instantaneous and the body bled out very quickly.

Scene of Crime report observes a single footprint not traceable to any of the shoes in the flat, print definitely occurring after the fact due to its situation on the edge of the pool of coagulating blood. Item One – find the shoe…

“Sherlock!” Lestrade burst into the room. “Sherlock, I can’t believe you’re sitting there at my desk reading my reports as cool as you bloody please after the stunt you pulled this morning – I’ve only just escaped a reprimand by the skin of my teeth!”

“The skin of your teeth and my deductions about the girl,” Sherlock replied without looking up from the report. “What was it – hydrocodone? Oh, alright, don’t tell me, let me guess: the father had no idea she had them or what they were for, the family doctor prescribed a limited supply for back pain sustained during protracted modelling sessions, and little Mary found she worked much better with them than without. I suspect she has quite a collection of the things stashed in her handbag in a cute little itty bitty box masquerading as make up and is professing total ignorance as to their origin, am I correct?”

“Actually…”

“So I think we would be forgiven for drawing certain conclusions with regard to their provenance, seeing as she was engaged to a registered medical practitioner…”

“Sherlock, we have no evidence to support the supposition that Doctor John Watson…”

“No, agreed, but it would be a rather stunning coincidence if he wasn’t involved in some way, wouldn’t it?”

Lestrade perched on the edge of his desk and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “I’m not exactly happy with you at the moment,” he said reluctantly, “but I have to admit I think you’re probably right.”

“Now,” said Sherlock briskly rising from Lestrade’s chair and fastening his scarf around his neck, “if you take my advice, you’ll slap a search warrant on the premises in Holland Park and take away her shoes for testing.”

Lestrade watched Sherlock shrug his way into his coat and frowned. “Shoes?” he asked. “Look, have I missed a step here? You think she was lying about not being at the flat yesterday evening?”

“Of course she was lying,” Sherlock said, his hands stilling for a moment. “Come on, they’ve been engaged for three months and they don’t live together. They’d be spending every moment of privacy they can get engaged in some kind of sexual activity. She was there, Lestrade. I don’t know why she’s lying about it yet, but take it from me: she was there.”

“Is that what you think an engagement’s about, then?” Donovan stood in the doorway, chin thrust out, preventing Sherlock from exiting. “Wall-to-wall shagging? Have personal experience, do you?”

“Donovan,” cautioned Lestrade.

Sherlock smiled without humor. “I find myself without sufficient data to comment,” he replied composedly. Donovan snorted inelegantly.

“And why am I not surprised at that?” he said, his smile nasty. He was holding a thin folder in hand, evidently destined for Lestrade’s desk. Sherlock grabbed it.

“Preliminary report? Good, thank you,” he said, flipping open the cover and absorbing the salient points while Donovan and Lestrade gaped at him.

“Hey!” Donovan grabbed at the folder. Sherlock twitched it out of his grasp.

“Has it not occurred to you that the neighbour might have rather more to tell you about Morstan and Watson other than the fact that they were engaged?” Sherlock demanded, still scanning the text.

Donovan looked mutinous. “Mrs Russell was at her bridge club last night – you know this already,” he replied testily, “What else do you expect her to say?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sherlock began with wide, sarcastic eyes, “How about the number of times she is certain that Morstan stayed over with Watson since their relationship began; how long Michael Stamford was resident in the flat and his current whereabouts; whether Morstan and Stamford knew each other and how well; Watson’s relationship with Stamford – were they close, did he owe him money, etc. although I confess the last one might be reaching for a mere neighbour.”

“What makes you think Mrs Russell knows any of this?” Lestrade demanded.

Sherlock shrugged. “It’s worth a try seeing as we’re going to have to find the answers to all of those questions eventually,” he replied. "Anything useful from the sister?"

Lestrade shook his head. "Not yet. She's in Australia on an extended trip, according to the neighbours - won't be back till next month. We should probably wait for the formal id before we talk to her."

"Can't you call her? She could have useful information."

"Yes, Sherlock, we know but there are rules in a situation like this," Lestrade replied, "and besides, they weren't close. Hadn't been in contact for a while until just recently."

"Family feud?"

"Something like that."

"Interesting..."

"Now, don't start jumping to conclusions," Lestrade replied. "She could scarcely have shot him from Australia, now could she?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes then thrust the report back at Donovan with a brief, insincere smile.

“And you’ve misspelled ‘commitment’ on page 3,” he said, “A common error. Most people make it once; you seem to make it every time.”

He swept out of the doorway then leaned back in to fix Lestrade with a glare.

“The forensics report you are currently impatiently awaiting will tell you very little that we don’t already know,” he said, “except for one small thing. SOCOs picked up a shoe-print in the blood near the bedroom door; unusually efficient of them. A woman’s print – I recognized it last night at the scene. Forensics will confirm it.”

Sherlock drew himself upright. “Why waste time?” he said. “Put in for that warrant now and get her shoes to the lab before the drugs wear off and she starts to work it out for herself.”

Everything moves slowly, like treacle. I could watch a dust mote take days to travel its way from the ceiling to the floor. My senses are working at the speed of light but my mind is so calm, so clear and everything is so obvious, so simple.

Like the John Watson case, for example. I can see the solution; it’s elegant, tricky and hinges on one crucial misunderstanding. The whole thing is spread out for me to read, it’s just around the corner, so close to my grasping fingers, I can almost taste it...

“Sherlock.”

His eyes shot open then slitted closed again.

“Sherlock!”

Sherlock sighed and gave up trying to keep in the zone. “What is it, Lestrade?” he said in tones of utter boredom. Footsteps sounded in the room, stopping in front of the sofa where Sherlock Holmes lay, to all intents and purposes dead to the world.

“Look, genius,” Lestrade was not amused. “I call you to a fresh crime scene; you insult everyone, intimidate my staff and push Anderson’s blood pressure even higher than it already is. Then you invite yourself into a very delicate interview situation, against my express instructions I might add, and royally piss off the witness and her family – her father’s demanding to know by what right I allowed some Joe off the street to go prying into his daughter’s private life.”

Lestrade paced the rug. “You break into my office, read confidential police documents,” he continued, “you make baseless demands requiring me to harass innocent people; you humiliate my Sergeant and then simply take off into the sunset. You don’t answer your phone for the rest of the day, you force me to come in search of you and, to add insult to injury, I find you half way through a pack of twenty despite having taken the pledge in front of witnesses three weeks ago!”

Sherlock smiled as he knocked the long column of ash into a saucer and stubbed out the filter.

“Don’t worry about Donovan,” he replied. “We’re old friends and he’s tougher than he looks.”

“That’s not the point, and you know it!”

“And for your information,” Sherlock continued, ignoring the interruption, “this is the only cigarette I have smoked since I arrived home and it is the first since that ridiculous agreement.”

“It wasn’t ridiculous,” Lestrade protested, sitting down, loosening his scarf. “I’ll have you know, I’ve managed to keep my word, even if you haven’t.”

“I have indeed.” Sherlock swung his legs over the end of the sofa until he was upright.

“As it happens, I have never smoked regularly,” he said. “It impairs the sense of smell – so important for a detective. No,” he continued, “I only agreed to your proposal to see how long you would resist temptation. Once I saw that you had succumbed, I realized there was no need for me to pretend any longer. For brain-work, one cigarette is quite adequate, particularly if one hasn’t indulged for several months.”

“What do you mean, succumbed?” Lestrade glared. “Sherlock, just because you reckon you’re…”

“I mean,” Sherlock raised his voice over the other man’s, “that if you can find a packet of cigarettes in this flat, I will be civil to Anderson, even in the face of his most extreme stupidity, for three whole weeks.”

Lestrade paused. “So you pickpocketed that one?” he said at last. Sherlock nodded in satisfaction.

“From you,” he replied. Lestrade reflexively clutched at his pocket, narrowing his eyes at Sherlock’s smirk of satisfaction.

“Yes,” the other man continued, “I had intended to take the whole packet, but when I realized there were already three missing, I decided to let you incriminate yourself.”

“Alright, alright,” Lestrade stood to remove his coat and walked over to the unlit fire, rubbing his hands against the cold. “It’s a fair cop, as they say. Mind if I put a match to that?”

Sherlock shrugged. “Be my guest,” he murmured.

“Mrs Hudson made it up for you?” Lestrade asked; Sherlock shrugged again, uninterested. The two men observed a companionable silence while Lestrade coaxed the tinder into life with the aid of his cigarette lighter. Once the flame looked healthy enough to survive without constant attention, he sank into the nearest armchair with a bone-weary sigh and glanced at his watch.

“Not much of the evening left now, is there?” he said rhetorically; Sherlock did not deign to reply. Lestrade leaned forward, elbows on knees, and raised his chin.

“Alright then,” he said, “tell me now – what have you got?”

Sherlock took a breath and steepled his fingers.

“The fiancé was definitely present when Watson was killed,” he began. “Forensics have confirmed a woman’s shoe print in the hallway which definitely happened after the event. So, Watson and Morstan were in bed together, probably gearing up for round two when the killer called.”

Lestrade sat back in his chair. “How can you possibly know that?” he demanded. “Shoe-prints are one thing, but knowing when someone’s halfway through a shag? That’s just showing off, Sherlock; even you can’t know that.”

“Ah, but I can!” Sherlock propelled himself off the sofa and began to pace. “Strong odor of semen, stains on the bedding, just one used condom in the waste bin,” Sherlock reeled off facts as though they were in a list. “They weren’t yet asleep because both bedside lamps were still on – one might indicate insomnia from one partner, both indicates wakefulness for another reason.”

He turned to Lestrade and smirked. “I think it’s fairly clear they’d already had one go and were working on his refractory period, don’t you?”

Lestrade frowned. “For the sake of argument,” he said, “s’posing Watson was playing away from home?”

Sherlock shook his head. “The tee shirt on the bedroom floor,” he began, “Generic white, one size, men’s from a national chain popular. Smelt mainly of sweat and sex but I could detect traces of a very distinctive perfume. I could smell it faintly on the bathrobe he was wearing too and the bedding fairly reeked of it. It’s by Chanel, the newest fragrance for this year. It’s hasn’t officially been released. It was Morstan alright. She was definitely in his bed; this confirms it.”

“So how do you know so much about fashionable perfume, then?” Lestrade asked. Sherlock waved that away as not worth the bother. With an inward sigh, Lestrade tried again.

“So she makes a habit of wearing Chanel perfume?” he said slowly.

“Probably,” Sherlock responded dismissively. He frowned at Lestrade’s uncomprehending expression. “Don’t you get it?” he demanded, and then sighed irritably. “Look, Mary Morstan isn’t just an empty-headed socialite, she’s a famous model. She’s the face of the new Chanel fragrance – haven’t you seen the adverts? If anyone was likely to have an advance supply, she would.”

Lestrade nodded. “So, what you’re saying is…”

“I’m saying Mary Morstan is lying; she was there.”

“Are you telling me…?”

“No, no; she didn’t kill him,” Sherlock began pacing again. “At least, I don’t think she did, but she was there when it happened.”

Lestrade took a breath. “So if I’ve got this right,” he began, “the Gospel according to Sherlock says that the two of ‘em went to bed together after an evening out, got disturbed by someone at the door, he recognized the caller, answered it and was blown to kingdom come. Then, instead of calling the police like any normal girl would do who had just seen her fiance gunned down by a shotgun blast to the face, she got dressed, picked up her belongings and left the apartment cool as you like, returning home to her parents where she currently is now? It doesn’t add up.”

“Of course it does!” returned Sherlock impatiently, “and I don’t imagine for one moment that she saw the perpetrator. If she had, we’d be investigating two corpses rather than just the one. I think she heard the shot and didn’t dare move until the gunman was long gone. I think once she saw what had happened, she panicked and decided to limit her involvement. I must admit, it takes nerve to walk out on your fiance in that kind of situation. I take my hat off to her composure.”

“You would,” muttered Lestrade.

“I think when forensics gives you their findings on the hallway, you’ll see that I’m right,” Sherlock told him simply.

Lestrade sighed. “I’ve already applied for the Warrant,” he said heavily, “so I hope to God you are.” He straightened his stiffening legs, groaning at the effort.

“Cold’s got into my bones,” he complained, rising slowly from the chair. “Alright, Sherlock, we’ll do all you want, but I don’t want you at the interview – no arguments. You might get to talk to her at a later date, but after last time I’d rather not have a harassment charge flung at me at this early stage.”

Sherlock glowered. “You’d better get a handle on Michael Stamford,” he replied. “If he was in the flat yesterday morning, he might have some idea of Watson’s movements during the day. Do we have a photograph of him?”

Lestrade shook his head. “Not yet, we’re working on it,” he said. “You’ll have a copy when we get one.”

“And something on his background,” Sherlock continued, “not to mention Mary Morstan’s; there might be something there, you never know. I’d also like to talk to the neighbour, Mrs Russell, if you don’t mind. It’s not that I don’t trust Donovan…”

“It’s that you don’t trust Donovan, I know,” interrupted Lestrade. “I get it, Sherlock, but I can’t promise anything; she’s an old woman.”

Sherlock nodded impatiently. “Also, find out when John Watson got that tattoo done,” he said.

Lestrade frowned. “How am I supposed to do that?”

“I don’t know – ask his sister, look it up in his medical records, when the MOD sees fit to give them to you, use your imagination. The report says it’s some kind of bird. Make sure they’re more specific when they do the post mortem.”

Sherlock stretched his legs and put his hands behind his head. “Oh, and one more thing,” he gave Lestrade a beatific smile. “Put a few inquiries out on a certain Alexander Murray of studios in Grosvenor Street. I think you’ll find he and Watson knew each other – pretty well, I’d be prepared to bet. I’m guessing they met in Afghanistan – Murray used to be a war photographer. It’s possible he might have some idea where Michael Stamford has got to.”

“Do you seriously think Stamford killed Watson, then?” Lestrade demanded.

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t think anything, Lestrade; I deduce,” he announced with relish, “and so far I don’t have enough data to deduce anything about Major Michael Stamford MD apart from his rank.”

Lestrade stared expectantly.

Sherlock shrugged. “What?” he replied. “You think Watson would give up a spare room in an apartment this opulent to anyone who didn’t outrank him?”

After bidding a yawning Lestrade goodnight, Sherlock was left wide awake and motoring. It was far too soon in the scheme of things to sleep – he had at least another two nights without before his brain slowed down – and the lack of distraction always clarified his thought processes. He grabbed his coat and his keys in a pocket and strode out of 221B with a slam which shook the whole building.

A brief tussle about the lateness of the hour with the uniformed officer in charge of the crime scene merely served to prod Sherlock’s deductive brain cells into overdrive. As he slowly ascended the stairs and entered John Watson’s flat, he was gratified to note that his eagle eye had missed nothing the previous night, even with the poor light and less than ideal conditions.

Another officer was stationed outside the apartment door, but he had clearly been warned and stood aside obediently in response to Sherlock’s glare.

The hall was a mess of bare floorboards, amputated carpet and half-cleaned walls and skirting. The worst of the gore had been removed but any estate agent worth his salt would take one look and bring in a team of industrial cleaners swiftly followed by a painter and decorator. Sherlock moved slowly around the flat, uncertain as to why he had returned, ending up in the kitchen. He opened the ‘fridge: immaculately clean and tidy with milk, eggs, bread and olive-oil spread, nothing more.

The cupboards told the same story: convenience staples such as breakfast cereals, sunflower oil, salt and assorted cans. Sherlock sighed; John Watson’s death was unlikely to hang on whether he liked to eat eggs or toast for breakfast. The small freezer yielded slightly more information. It was about half-filled with frozen meat and two veg kind, supplied by a very up-market gourmet caterer and close to their use-by dates. Sherlock examined one or two of them. They claimed to be high in protein and vitamins, low in fat and calories but still leave you feeling full. He snorted quietly.

“Don’t you approve? Looking at you I’d say you have no need to watch your diet, but looks can be deceptive and without your outer wear you could be much thinner than you already appear.”

Sherlock whirled, for once totally wrong-footed. He narrowed his eyes at the intruder and replaced the food in the freezer, closing the door quietly.

The newcomer was an attractive man in his early to mid-fifties, casually dressed in well-cut casual trousers and an expensive-looking leather coat. His hair was abundant and silver-grey, swept back from a wide forehead above rich brown eyes with enviably dark lashes. His designer stubble was darker than his hair and his skin held the even tan of a man who spent much of the year abroad or regularly frequented sunbeds. He smiled politely but warily and Sherlock had a sudden vivid mental image of two powerful animals circling one another, deciding whether to be enemies or allies.

“You are Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective” the man stated. His understated delivery said public-school and red-brick university. Sherlock gave a slight formal bow of acknowledgement.

“You have the advantage of me, I’m afraid,” he replied quietly. The man paused for a beat then barked out a laugh.

“Not something that happens to you often, I’d say,” he replied, his eyes full of genuine amusement.

Sherlock fought to keep his annoyance from showing. “No,” he replied simply.

Still smiling, the man extended a hand. “The name is David Phelps,” he said. “I don’t suppose you’ve heard of me…”

“On the contrary,” Sherlock replied, regarding the man’s hand as though it were an offensive weapon, “I know precisely who you are and what you do.”

“Oh?” The tone was unmistakably one of invitation.

“Yes,” Sherlock was feeling more certain of his ground. “David Forestier Phelps, son of James Garland Phelps of Phelps Industries, a pharmaceuticals company. Your father was a self-made man who took some very prudent decisions in buying and marketing drugs for weight loss. As the only child and heir, you inherited a pharmaceutical empire but declined to become involved in the business, choosing instead to be a sleeping partner. You used your unearned wealth to set yourself up as a theatrical agent and have shown some considerable acumen so far, signing up a wealth of young talent as well as luring away from other agents, by methods some would describe as questionable, such formidable names as…”

“I see I was wrong; you certainly know your business,” Phelps’ ample smile had tightened. Sherlock grinned wolfishly.

“I do indeed,” he replied, “as do your lawyers. May I congratulate you on last month’s court appearance? I thought the prosecution had a watertight case; a pity for them their star witness suddenly moved out of the jurisdiction.”

Phelps’ eyes had gone steely.

“Indeed.” He inclined his head briefly, acknowledging a successful salvo.

“I take it you represented the late John Watson,” Sherlock announced, strolling purposefully into the living room.

Phelps followed him at a slower pace. “I did,” he replied.

“You’ll be sorry to lose a lucrative client.”

Phelps paused before speaking. “I have to admit that John was – special, but,” he shrugged, “I have bigger earners on my books.”

He sounded nonchalant enough, but beneath the surface self-control there was genuine regret and something perhaps a little deeper. Sherlock was silent.

“He was a complete outsider,” Phelps continued softly. “Almost immediately I met John I knew he would be an asset. I was working on a project for him – nothing huge, but a relevant topic for him to front.”

Phelps shook his head. “Well, that’s all down the drain now,” he said finally.

“Indeed it is,” Sherlock replied briskly, “but it’s my job to find his killer. Now, Mr Phelps, perhaps you can tell me the whereabouts of Michael Stamford?”

Phelps looked blankly back. “Mike Stamford?” he replied, “John’s army medic colleague? Visiting his family, I understand. I know he’s on leave and he’s been staying with John, but I thought he’d gone to Leeds to see his sister last week.”

“Do you have an address for her?”

Phelps shook his head. “We’re not close,” he replied. “I only met him last month. Doesn’t the MOD have it?”

Sherlock gave Phelps an old-fashioned look. “Blood out of a stone,” he said. “It’ll take weeks. What about Mary Morstan?”

“John’s fiancé? What about her?”

“What can you tell me?”

Phelps’ expression darkened. “Mary is one of my highest earning clients,” he replied, his tone now cautious with a hint of steel, “and I was delighted when she and John decided to get married.”

“Consolidate the assets, eh?” Sherlock sneered.

Phelps shrugged. “There is certainly no harm in it,” he replied mildly, “and a high-profile wedding of this kind is always good business.” His expression hardened.

“Mr Holmes,” Phelps said, “I appreciate that a man has been murdered, a friend and a client, and that his killer is a danger to the public and must be apprehended as soon as possible, but I am certain that Mary had nothing to do with the situation – nothing! And I won’t have her harassed; things are tough enough for her as they stand without your interference. If you try to make her life difficult, I will take action to stop you; legal action if necessary. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly clear, Mr Phelps,” Sherlock said, his neutral tone masking the grinding of his teeth.

The other man gave a brief bow. “Then I will take my leave of you,” he said, “and let you continue your deducing uninterrupted.” He turned on his heel and walked briskly toward the front door. With his hand on the latch, Phelps spoke again.

“I hope you won’t be too disappointed when you realize, Mr Holmes,” he said without turning round. Sherlock frowned.

“Realize what?” he demanded.

Phelps turned slowly. “That your little attempts to decipher the enigma of John Watson from the clues his home has to offer up are doomed to failure,” he said quietly.

“Oh?” Sherlock’s tone was genuinely puzzled.

“Yes,” Phelps nodded seriously. “I’m surprised Lestrade didn’t tell you – or perhaps he doesn’t know yet?”

“Know what?” Sherlock was becoming irritated.

“I was John’s landlord, didn’t you realize?” Phelps replied, an edge of amusement leaching into his tone. “This is my place – I designed, decorated and equipped it, so unfortunately whatever you deduce from its contents won’t reflect on John in any way. Such a shame!”

Sherlock’s face underwent an abrupt transformation. “Of course!” he hissed under his breath. “I assumed he either owned the place or had at least let it unfurnished. Why? Stupid, stupid! That was why I couldn’t find him, not anywhere. And that would be why you could gain entrance, even at this time of night, although it doesn’t explain why you would want to.”

“Excuse me?” Phelps’ expression was puzzled but serious.

“How did you get past the armed guard, Mr Phelps?” Sherlock demanded, “the constable on the door? He’s supposed to keep the hoi polloi out on the street where they belong.”

“Well, I don’t know that I’d accept that description,” Phelps replied mildly enough, “but how I got in is easily explained; I told him I was with you.”

“Of course you did,” Sherlock replied, shaking his head and smiling broadly. “Go, Mr Phelps,” he said, waving the other man away, “Leave me to my deductions. You have no idea how much easier this is going to be now.”

With his first real grin of the evening, Sherlock turned his back on Phelps and went back into the kitchen. The other man paused for a moment, frowning in indecision, and then he shook his head and turned to go about his business, nodding politely to the constable on the door.

Several hours later, Sherlock’s ebullient mood had evaporated together with what little patience he possessed. He had taken the kitchen apart, checked the cutlery drawer, the icebox, the cupboard under the sink. He had climbed on the work surfaces to peer over the tops of the built-in units, he had crawled under the sink and removed the u-bend to examine the trap.

He had lifted the carpet in the living room, taken the cabinet off the bathroom wall, taken every drawer out of Watson’s bedside cabinets, chest and fitted wardrobes and checked underneath. Not even the doormats or the cleaning materials escaped his attention.

“Nothing,” he murmured, “Absolutely nothing at all. Oh, come on, John Watson! There must be some trace of you here – speak to me, damn you!”

The clock struck six times. Sherlock stood in the study clutching the small clay pot containing the bullet that had ended John Watson’s army career. He shook his head in defeat and replaced it gently on the shelf; time to call it a night. He yawned and tightened his scarf, wrapping his coat firmly around his thin body preparatory to leaving. On impulse, he walked back into the living room and picked up the framed photograph of John Watson, giving it a long, appraising look.

“You’re going to have to give me some kind of a clue,” he muttered under his breath. “I’ve reached the end of the road here – I’ve got to know which way to turn.”

Sherlock’s eye shifted to the discreet gold writing at the base of the photograph then snapped up to John Watson’s face once again. He breathed out in a gusty sigh and replaced the photograph gently.

“Thank you,” he said softly, “Time to put the photographer in the frame.”
 

Alexander Murray was something of a surprise. It wasn’t that Sherlock was in the habit of pre-judging people by their work, but he had seen and admired his South Bank exhibition for its careful contrasts and sensitive treatment of sometimes controversial subject matter and he discovered that he had, to his horror, formed certain pre-conceived impressions of its creator. Whatever those notions had been, a first meeting quickly deflated them with a vengeance.

Murray could have played rugby for England just by standing still and blocking the opposition. A huge mountain of a man with massive hands and shoulders that barely cleared door frames, Murray made the largest stills cameras look like Dinky toys.

A shower and a shave had restored Sherlock to his former energy levels despite two nights without sleep and he felt his deductive faculties sharpening as he peered through the front window of Murray’s Grosvenor Street studio.

The big man was carefully cutting a mount for a large head and shoulders print of a young girl; he held the Stanley knife between his thumb and first two fingers like a pencil. He finished the cut and straightened with a business-like smile as Sherlock pushed open the glass door to the tinkle of an old-fashioned bell.

“Good morning,” Sherlock said heartily with a blinding smile, “Mr Murray?”

“In person,” the giant responded, offering a hand. Sherlock clasped it trying hard not to wince as Murray ground his knuckle-bones together.

“Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock grated out. A ripple of something passed over Murray’s face and he released Sherlock’s hand to his immense relief.

“The private detective,” Murray said nodding. “Inspector Lestrade warned me you might be calling.”

“That’s Consulting Detective,” Sherlock corrected, subtly flexing his hand to check for breakages. He reached into an inside pocket, “My card.”

Murray took the small oblong and read both sides, pursing his lips at the job title.

Ill at ease, wary of me – understandable, seeing as the police have already questioned him, ham-fisted fools! Undeniable talent. Creases round the eyes – not sleeping then.

“I take it I’m not what you expected, Mr Holmes,” Murray said, his tone diffident. His voice was an unexpectedly light tenor with a very slight Irish lilt.

“Not exactly, no.”

Sherlock ignored the implication and instead studied three framed photographs on the wall of the studio, clearly all drawn from a war zone under desert conditions. The first depicted soldiers deployed in a skirmish with unseen assailants, the focus on the young corporal in the foreground, sniper’s rifle to his shoulder, concentration written large upon his clear, unblemished features. The second picture must have put Murray at some considerable risk, as it was of an enemy camp at sunset, clearly taken with a powerful lens from a vantage point some considerable distance away, but nevertheless, Sherlock judged, within the ambit of the sentries should he have betrayed his presence. The detail of the clothing and the braziers lit against the cold of the desert night was remarkable. Sherlock wondered fleetingly if Murray and his camera had managed somehow to get ahead of the troops. The third shot showed nothing but miles and miles of white, bright desert sand with a burnt out army jeep in the foreground, on its side, its stark outlines a sharp contrast with the otherwise pristine landscape. An overdone, some would say hackneyed image, but in Murray’s hands it somehow managed to transcend the commonplace.

The work was meticulous, of a very high quality and strangely moving.

“These were part of the South Bank Exhibition,” Sherlock gestured with raised eyebrows.

Murray’s eyes widened and he nodded. “You’re familiar with my work?” he said in surprise.

Sherlock inclined his head. “Indeed,” he replied, “Your work from Afghanistan alone will ensure you a place in posterity.”

“Thank you,” Murray responded, clearly taken off guard.

“You knew John Watson in Afghanistan?” Sherlock continued quietly.

The big man nodded. “We met there,” he replied. “I was assigned to his unit to take stills for a documentary about trauma medicine in conflict zones, but as soon as I saw the landscape, I realized the potential. I took every opportunity that presented itself, and a good few that I had to manufacture myself.”

He flashed a quick grin which faded as he continued. “We became reasonably friendly, John and I – after all, we were expected to work together on the documentary. When he returned to London, we got in touch again. I introduced him to Percival Phelps and the rest is history. We’ve met up occasionally since – drinks, dinners, that kind of thing – but he’s pretty busy nowadays.”

He’s uncomfortable.

“How did you come to know Phelps?” Sherlock asked.

Murray turned away to make a careful cut in the cardboard.

Even more uneasy.

“He came to see the South Bank Exhibition,” Murray said, “He liked what he saw and he suggested that I try some commercial photography for him. He brought Mary Morstan to me. I was absolutely bowled over – a supermodel, posing for me; imagine that!”

Murray shook his head. “Anyway,” he continued, pausing in his cutting and leaning against the table, “I took some quite interesting pictures – I was proud of them. Mary used two for her portfolio and David took the rest away. The next thing I knew, he’d hawked them around."

Murray gave a self-deprecatory laugh and ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not a fashion photographer, Mr Holmes,” he said, “David was pitting me against really talented people who’ve done nothing else their entire working lives. However despite that, the right people were interested and they adopted Mary as the face of their new perfume. Of course, they used other people for the shooting work, but they hired me as a consultant to duplicate the look I’d achieved in Mary’s photos.”

Murray turned back to his work. “I’m not one of David’s clients,” he said, “He doesn’t represent photographers as a rule. However, he has quite a few clients who need my services; we have a mutually beneficial business arrangement.”

“Did you take photographs of John Watson?” Sherlock asked looking directly at Murray.

Interesting: he visibly flinched.

“Yes,” he said, “David sent him to me for portfolio pictures. He’d never done anything of the sort before and it was a steep learning curve for him.”

Murray’s hands stilled. “He found it difficult; he was very self-conscious, at first,” he said, a faint smile on his craggy features. “It took several weeks and a lot of effort, but we got there in the end.”

“What about Afghanistan?” Sherlock asked, “Did you take any of him there?”

The pause before answering is too long.

“No,” Murray answered shortly.

Why would he need to lie?

“What about the photograph he has framed in his living room?” Sherlock asked, “The one in uniform with the Captain’s pips?”

Murray laughed self-consciously. “Oh, that!” he replied, “That was just a joke. I happened to be there at the time, that’s all.”

Oh, there’s a lot more to it than that.

“What was your relationship with John Watson?” Sherlock asked bluntly, “Were you ever a patient? Did he ever treat you for illness, wounds, etc. while you were in Afghanistan? Did you socialise, have friends in common, girlfriends in common? How well did you know each other before you came home for good? Did you keep in touch after you left Afghanistan? Did you know in advance that he was being invalided out and did he come to London for your sake?”

Murray’s eyes widened in horror; Sherlock closed in. “Was he something more than just a friendly acquaintance, Alex?” he said in quieter tones.

Murray had gone very pale. “John and I were – friends,” he replied; his voice cracked, “good friends. Excuse my surprise, but it’s a slightly strange question.”

“Why?” demanded Sherlock, immediately jumping on his hesitation. “He was an acquaintance who became a business associate who became a friend. He then hired you to assist with his new career. That’s quite a lot for one relationship. Are you sure there was nothing else?”

“No!” protested Murray, now really frightened. “I – I really don’t know what you mean.”

Sherlock walked directly into the man’s personal space, grabbed hold of his wrist and swept the loose cuff of his shirt up above his elbow.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Murray flung out one meaty hand and pushed Sherlock away from him so hard that he lost his footing and landed on his backside. Murray’s angry expression morphed into almost comical alarm.

“Are you alright?” the big man asked, holding out a hand while hastily smoothing down his sleeve, but not before Sherlock had glimpsed the tell-tale track marks.

“Perfectly, Mr Murray,” Sherlock’s smile was nasty. He took the proffered hand and levered himself to his feet. Once upright, he maintained his grip on the other man’s hand and stood in his personal space, looking him directly in the face, pleased to note that his preternatural tallness brought them eye to eye despite the other man’s bulk.

“As one addict to another,” Sherlock continued in quiet tones, “I think you know exactly what I mean, and I think you regret John Watson’s death for more reasons than you’re currently acknowledging.”

Murray’s expression hardened into something more resolute. “And I think you’d better leave, Mr Holmes,” he said, refusing to back down, still holding the Stanley knife. Clearly, Murray had found a spine from somewhere; Sherlock wondered where. He shifted his hand so that he could block the other’s wrist if necessary. His cool gaze did not waver.

He’s not frightened any more. Why?

“Perhaps,” Sherlock conceded, “Very well, when you’re ready to talk to me, Mr Murray, you have my card.”

He turned on his heel and opened the door, jangling the bell.

“Don’t keep me waiting too long,” he said, looking back.

Sherlock left the studio with at least one more answer and several more questions than he had brought with him.

“MOD says Michael Stamford is on leave, expected back in two weeks. Address is listed as John Watson’s flat.” Lestrade’s voice was distorted over the phone.

“Does he have a home address?” Sherlock reached for a pencil.

“No,” came the reply, “his brother is his next of kin; lives in Scotland.”

“I presume you’ve already established that he’s not there?”

“Give me a chance, Sherlock; locals haven’t responded yet.” Lestrade was starting to whine.

Sherlock huffed in annoyance. “Then remind them!” he barked, “Do I have to do everything for you?”

Lestrade seemed to be holding two conversations at the same time.

“Hold on, Sherlock,” he said in between comments. “Donovan’s just brought in the report from forensics on Mary Morstan’s shoes.”

The whisper of pages being turned.

“Well, bugger me!” Lestrade spat, uncharacteristically crude. “Sorry – I’m sorry, Donovan. Sherlock, she was lying through her teeth!”

“I told you she was,” Sherlock replied with satisfaction. “Now, set up an interview at the Yard as soon as you can; I’ll be with you in half an hour, I need to phone Leeds. Don’t start without me!”

Sherlock was as good as his word. Exactly twenty-nine minutes and forty-three seconds later, he breezed into Scotland Yard only to be shown not into the interview room but to Lestrade’s office.

“Mary Morstan is not to be interviewed until her doctor gives the go-ahead,” he announced heavily as soon as Sherlock entered the room. “She refused to speak to us so we turned up at the house, faced her with the evidence and threatened to have her down at the Yard if she didn’t come clean. She pitched a fit of hysterics, passed out and they had to call the family doctor. His opinion – 24 hours before she’s compos mentis. Her father attempted to punch my lights out, we made our apologies and left.”

Sherlock smirked. “That was fortunate,” he commented.

Lestrade frowned. “What, her pitching a fit?” he demanded.

Sherlock shook his head. “No, the attempted assault on a police officer by her father,” he replied. “I imagine he wouldn’t want you to press charges, particularly with all those witnesses.”

Lestrade gave a weak smile. “That’s true,” he said ruefully, “and it may give us a bit of elbow room, but at the cost of whatever goodwill there might have been in the first place. We won’t get much out of her now.”

Sherlock lowered himself carefully into the visitor’s chair and laced his fingers, leaning his chin on them thoughtfully.

Lestrade sighed. “And just to make a bad day even worse,” he continued, “Michael Stamford is not in Leeds with his sister.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Oh?” he said questioningly.

Lestrade shook his head. “No,” he continued with his tale of woe, “Local coppers say the sister’s expecting him any day now and she’ll let us know when he gets in touch.”

“The sister’s name is Emma Whiteside and she is a data analyst, married with two small children,” Sherlock added calmly.

Lestrade stared. “I hacked into the MOD and got her phone number,” Sherlock explained offhandedly, “Oh, don’t worry – they’ll never trace it. I called her – used your name, I hope you don’t mind. She’s a nice woman, good sense of humor and the occasional spark of intelligence. She genuinely has no idea where her brother has got to.”

Sherlock steepled his fingers thoughtfully. “I thought it a bit odd, actually,” he admitted, “so I pressed her for details. Apparently, she’s been half-expecting Michael to arrive for the past couple of days. She had a letter arrive a week ago delaying his visit citing ‘unfinished business’.”

Sherlock gave a wry smile. “That sounded like subtext to me,” he said, “so I asked her. She was slightly embarrassed but eventually she told me. It dates from when he was first posted abroad, and ’unfinished business’ means precisely what you might think.”

Sherlock smirked at Lestrade’s raised eyebrows then held up a finger. “But that’s not all,” he continued, “He also signed the letter with a kiss which he almost never does.”

“Significant?” Lestrade asked.

Sherlock nodded, his eyes bright. “She says he sent it occasionally in emails from Afghanistan,” he explained. “It meant that things were getting exciting; very exciting. Emma said she put two and two together and concluded that the woman in the frame was someone he could neither turn down nor actively talk about. She was thrilled about it actually; said it had been a long time since he’d been involved with anyone.”

“Married woman, possibly?” Lestrade ventured.

Sherlock shrugged. “We won’t know until Stamford surfaces,” he replied, “and that could take a while.”

“Mm,” agreed Lestrade, “especially if it’s love’s young dream like the sister seems to think. He’s not answering his phone, so I guess that means he’s somewhere too remote, too busy shagging, or both. He could be anywhere.”

“I wonder,” mused Sherlock under his breath. His eyes sharpened.

“Okay,” he snapped back into focus, “the Mary Morstan situation. Irritating and annoying, but not critical: she’ll only confirm what we already know, at least for the present, so we can afford to wait.”

Lestrade broke off from re-reading Mrs Russell’s statement. “So why are we bothering with her at all?” he shot back, clearly still angry about the set back, “Tell you what, let’s just let her go, shall we? Forget all about John Watson and go off to the pub – what do you say? We could collect Donovan and Anderson on the way, make a party of it.”

Sherlock frowned, unamused, and fished the latest forensics report from under Lestrade’s nose. He leafed through it disdainfully shaking his head.

Lestrade ignored him, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve already told me she didn’t kill him and she wasn’t a witness,” he continued, spreading his hands. “Oh, come on, Sherlock! There must be more to it than that.”

“I didn’t say she wasn’t a witness, just that the murderer didn’t know she was there,” Sherlock replied irritably, making a note in the margin,“Honestly, Anderson’s grammar gets worse by the hour!”

Lestrade paused. “Why didn’t the murderer know she was there?” he asked in a different tone. He wrinkled his forehead in perplexity.

Sherlock’s head shot up like a dog scenting a rabbit. “At last – some faint intelligence!” he crowed. “Continue.”

“We’ve established that it’s likely the killer was known to John Watson,” Lestrade went on. “Watson must have confirmed that he knew the caller before he let them in – no one in their right mind would open the door blind at that time in the morning – but if the killer knew him that well, why did he assume that Watson was alone? It was Saturday night. According to Morstan, she and Watson were always together Friday and Saturday nights. Anyone who was in any way close to them would know this.”

Lestrade rose from his chair and walked over to the window, turning his back on Sherlock. “Mrs Russell didn’t see Watson or Morstan that evening because she was out at the theatre,” he continued. “She says she never saw very much of Morstan when she was with Watson, partly because Russell’s flat doesn’t have a vantage on Watson’s. It doesn’t have a direct view of the entrance-way either, but that’s conversions for you.”

“No other neighbours?”

Lestrade shook his head. “Two other flats, both empty,” he replied. “Times is hard – people don’t have the money to live like this.”

Lestrade paused, raked his hands through his hair and jammed them onto his hips. “So,” he said, “if the killer was well-known to Watson – so well known that he’d open the door to him in the small hours of Sunday morning – how come he was so sure that he would be alone? And if he wasn’t, why did he risk leaving a material witness behind?”

Sherlock smirked. “Now you’re asking the right questions,” he said with satisfaction.

Twenty-four hours before Mary Morstan could confirm or deny Sherlock’s deductions. Until then, Lestrade seemed to have dried up on leads. He wasted some more time on the phone trying to get information out of the MOD, he ran background checks on Phelps, Murray and Stamford, finding nothing they had not already covered and nothing useful.

Sherlock disappeared around lunchtime, presumably to Barts or back to Baker Street – he did have other cases to conduct alongside this one, he explained impatiently to Lestrade. By six o’clock, Lestrade was more than ready to call it a day but not ready to go home and sleep yet. He knew his mind would revolve endlessly around the case, refusing to rest, battering against the brick wall which was not enough evidence.

His feet found their own way to 221B Baker Street and he caught himself wondering if he could actually stand living there with Sherlock – he knew the man was considering taking a flatmate. As he stepped over the threshold, he was reminded in spades of why the fleeting thought remained fleeting.

The walls of Sherlock’s living room were covered with tacked up aerial photographs. Most of them appeared to be desert landscape viewed from a goodly height, some included distinguishing features such as vehicles or people; others were simply blank, featureless sand. On the coffee table rested a selection of crumpled maps annotated with bold lines and red scribble with comments such as “Nomadic trade route during October” and “Ashkunu?” Sherlock himself was curled up on the sofa gazing intently into ceiling, occasionally reaching to write on a piece of paper on the floor.

Lestrade occupied himself by studying the photographs while he waited for Sherlock to give him a fraction of his attention.

“Alexander Murray is a very brave man,” Sherlock said finally without looking up.

“Hm?” Lestrade grunted and turned his head. Sherlock nodded towards the photographs.

“I’ve been looking into his work in Afghanistan,” he replied. “He was supposed to be taking stills of field surgery on wounded servicemen, but he achieved rather more than that. Look.”

Sherlock held out a photograph for the Inspector. The photograph was of a young girl on her knees in the dust, turning over the body of a young man. He was clearly dead or gravely injured and the girl raised her haggard face to the camera, her hands red with the young man’s blood, and allowed Murray and his lens to rip into her soul. It was startlingly affecting and very powerful.

“God!” muttered Lestrade.

“I doubt He had anything to do with it,” responded Sherlock acidly, “Murray also managed to steal a march on the Taliban. He got closer than anyone thought possible to take photographs of their camps, their defenses and their ordnance. More than once, he eluded capture by sheer dumb luck and most of the time he was alone. He did something very similar later on but he wasn’t as lucky there.”

“His CO must have been off his rocker to allow it,” Lestrade growled.

Sherlock smiled. “My guess is that he knew nothing until Murray presented him with the evidence,” he said wryly. “Who’d turn down Intel that good? Anyway, I was just putting what he achieved in some logistical perspective; it’s impressive.”

Lestrade nodded at Sherlock's notes. “Distance calculations?” he asked. Sherlock stared at the piece of paper as though he had never seen it before, and then gave a huff of laughter.

“Lord, no,” he replied. “Mycroft’s making me do my own tax return this year. Says his staff have got better things to do than chase up my spending's and lie for me. He's teaching me responsibility.”

Lestrade grinned broadly. “Welcome to the real world,” he said warmly, “See how the other half lives and take comfort in the fact that when you’ve done this one, you’ve got a whole year until the next!”

Sherlock shook his head. “I’m sure that’s what Mycroft hopes,” he drawled, “but I promise you, he’s going to be sadly disappointed. This is quid pro quo for a favor; I’ve got him to run some background checks on a couple of people. Technically an abuse of his power but we all know how Mycroft judges such things.”

Lestrade sighed. “Sherlock,” he said heavily, “I need something – a lead, an anomaly – anything.”

He sat down opposite Sherlock. “We’ve been on the case three days,” he explained. “We’ve released the usual preliminary statement to the press and they’ve gone berserk. This is the biggest story out by a mile; nothing can touch it, it’s even got into the American press. John Watson was a rising personality engaged to a top model. The brass are on my back for a quick result and I’ve got nothing. So I'm begging you, please give me something.”

Sherlock leaned forward and placed his elbows on his knees.

“You’ve got a man who was well-known, well-liked, contented in his work, happily engaged, had no enemies, with no money problems and seemingly at the top of his game,” Sherlock began in a measured tone, “He ends up with his brains splattered over his own hallway by an unknown assailant with no apparent motive. We have nothing to go on as regards the perpetrator so we must concentrate on the victim.”

Sherlock paused. “His only near neighbour found him polite and friendly,” he continued, “and everything you’ve got from the studios, his agent, Mary Morstan’s parents, etc. substantiates the view that he was a thoroughly nice man; kind, patient, cheerful and thoughtful. But all those people are acquaintances or business associates; we haven’t found one genuine friend yet. His fiancé is beautiful, successful and an entirely appropriate match, yet far from assisting us to bring his murderer to justice, she tries to conceal her involvement – very ineptly, I might add – and refuses to cooperate. Captain Watson MD served in many of the world’s most dangerous trouble spots until he was seriously injured trying to save a colleague’s life on the battlefield, almost died and had to retire from his career, a huge blow I understand. Yet he went on to present a shallow, insipid health clinic and pharmaceutical job and possibly a film career, all which depended much more on his outward genial personality and good looks than his knowledge as a doctor or his skills as a soldier. Why? The man was clearly an adrenaline junkie, so why descend to this level? It’s all so – so vanilla!”

Lestrade stared. "And how do you know all this?” he asked. Sherlock made a dismissive gesture.

“The tours of duty, the pharmaceutical job or the possibility of a film career?” he demanded then shook his head. “Stamford’s file wasn’t the only one I found via the MOD. It seems that Watson completed exactly five tours of duty in different war-zones. As a result, he hadn’t lived in this country on a permanent basis for at least a decade."

Sherlock started to pace. “He wasn’t conspicuously wealthy but his salary from the network together with his pension and some dividends from inherited stocks and shares made him very comfortably off. His wardrobe contained several bespoke suits and jackets, some very good quality shirts and ties, shoes, cashmere, etc., yet if the clothes on the bedroom floor are a representative sample, when he wasn’t working he dressed in generic chain store stuff and borrowed his friend’s bathrobe. Why? And where is Watson’s own bathrobe? Was it disposed of because it was involved in some way?”

“Bathrobe? What are you…”

“Of course it wasn’t his bathrobe,” Sherlock spat, “it was far too short in the sleeves. And that’s not all!”

Sherlock stamped over to the window and perched on the sill. “The photographer, Alex Murray,” he continued, “The man’s cagey and unhappy talking about Watson, but he knows him much better than he’s letting on. He’s also a recovering junkie. Now, did he pick up that habit in Afghanistan, I wonder? Did Watson supply him with the drugs? Preliminary reports didn’t find any evidence of drug use, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t involved. That framed photo in Watson’s flat – that wasn’t a one-off, you know. Murray did some portfolio work for Watson, but we haven’t found anything in the apartment. Was he was looking elsewhere for work without the permission of his agents or the network? If so, he might have left the pictures with a third party. If so, who? And where are the others…” Sherlock trailed off deep in thought.

“What others?” Lestrade demanded, mystified.

Sherlock shook that off like a dog out of the rain. “And his agent – Phelps,” Sherlock shook his head. “There’s something odd there. He’s controlled, professional; very tamped down. He’s accustomed to playing his cards close to his chest; I doubt we’ll get him to tell us anything beyond what he thinks we should know. His grief over Watson was genuine enough though, and he’s been helpful to the man well beyond what is expected in a professional relationship. You knew he was Watson’s landlord?”

Lestrade nodded.

“What you may not know,” continued Sherlock “is that Phelps also decorated and furnished the place. There’s nothing of Watson there, Inspector; it wasn’t his home.”

“Are you telling me he’s got another address?” Lestrade was starting to get impatient. “You’re making no sense.”

“Alright then, tell me this;” Sherlock advanced on the policeman. “Have your people finished with the residence?”

Lestrade nodded. “They found nothing,” he replied heavily, “A few photos, nothing interesting or recent. Business letters, accounts on a specialist program all present and correct. Pretty utterly unremarkable.”

"See and observe, Inspector."

Sherlock glanced at his clock and made a face. Three-thirty am was too late even for Angelo to rustle him up a plate of spaghetti. He was accustomed to burning the candle at both ends and running on empty most of the time, but every few days even Sherlock Holmes needed to refuel.

Scowling, he lit another cigarette and breathed a plume of smoke out of the window into the frigid, pre-dawn air. Soon he was going to stop – again. It was foolhardy to dull his sense of smell, he knew that; full recovery would probably take months.

He stared and breathed, and breathed and stared. London was still awake and alive with lights, traffic and people going about their business regardless of the hour, the weather or the seasons. This was what Sherlock liked about this city that never slept; not that it was nocturnal, or that it held its sleeplessness as some kind of badge of honor like New York, but that it had always through the centuries had a blatant disregard for the strictures of the clock or the sun and refused to let either of them rule. It was this quality that kept him living here despite the noise and the disturbance, the dirt and the pollution. Battlefields keep their own time.

Abruptly coming to a decision, Sherlock threw his cigarette out into the street and slammed down the sash. Grabbing his coat and scarf, he clattered headlong down the stairs and out into Baker Street, setting off at a fast walk in the direction of Hampstead until he could flag a taxi.

The police cordon and crime scene tape had been taken away earlier in the day and the front door of the apartment was closed and locked. Sherlock reached into his breast pocket and removed a set of slim tools. Two minutes later, he stepped silently into the entrance hall closing the door behind him with a faint click. Feather-footed, he took the stairs at a brisk run, pausing outside the apartment to exercise his lock-picking skills once again.

Sherlock paced into the living room and paused, getting his bearings. He reached carefully to his right, switched on a standard lamp and crossed over to the window to draw the curtains. He then stood back and surveyed the room, eyes glancing over sofas, bookshelves and carpeting.

Presently, Sherlock approached the beautiful Italian gouache he had admired earlier and touched gloved hands to the frame. He smiled as he noted the shadow of a wall safe behind the painting and removed it from the picture hook, leaning it carefully against the wall. He flexed his fingers in preparation.

Ten minutes later, Sherlock had cracked the combination and was delving inside the small cavity. The spoils were disappointingly meagre.

Some legal documents – Will and Power of Attorney for one Emilia Watson (must be his mother). Medical records on Harriet Watson (I’ll be she doesn’t know he’s got these, no wonder they’re in the safe). A box containing some old-fashioned and rather valuable jewellery – his mother’s property, perhaps. And another combination locked box.

Sherlock closed the safe door and spun the dial, frustrated. He stood for a moment thinking furiously, and then his jaw dropped. He snapped his fingers, gritting his teeth in a grim smile, and made for the study at speed.

Once there, he made a grab for the tiny handmade clay pot containing the spent round and tipped the contents out over the desk. He sorted through it furiously, ignoring the bullet, the currency and everything else until he found the plastic toy soldier.

“Yes!” he hissed, holding it up as though it was the Holy Grail. “I knew we’d missed something!”

Sherlock took the little toy soldier and frowned, holding it up to the light, running the pads of his fingers over the surface. He gripped the torso between thumb and forefinger and pulled, smiling in satisfaction as the figure split into two revealing another combination.

“Well, well,” he murmured.

Sherlock did not deceive himself that he had happened upon anything earth-shattering with this find – although he had to admit that if Watson had any deadly secrets, this hiding in plain sight was an ingenious way of keeping them – but any further light he could shed on the elusive doctor was very welcome.

The lock box revealed several folders. Sherlock sat back in his chair to view the contents.

They were, at best, pretty mundane: a studio fashion shoot with Watson modelling smart-casual clothing, the poses natural and artless-seeming; a more casual setting, this time outside in a garden, autumn weather with clear skies and golden brown leaves; two close-up facial shots, examining an acorn, looking up at the sky. There were two sharp winter scenes with snow and clear, bright sunlight. Watson seemed to be enjoying himself here, swinging on a tree branch; closing his eyes in an outraged grimace as snow cascaded on his head from a branch above. Sherlock moved through quickly, his face impassive.

There were scans of tear-off sheets from a couple of the classier glossies, one concentrating on evening wear. The clothes were impeccable, Sherlock had to admit, but Watson himself seemed ill at ease for all his genial smiles and relaxed posture.

Bored, Sherlock went back to the index and picked on the second folder. His eyes flickered wider and he sat up, attention piqued. This was something different; a varied collection of photographs covering many different venues and evidently having taken place over some considerable time. There were outdoor scenes, country and town; shots on the bus, on the Underground; interiors, exteriors, rain, snow, sun. There were a number of shots, beautifully caught, clearly from Afghanistan, so Murray was evidently being economical with the truth there, and some in a different location which looked Mediterranean if Sherlock was any judge. From detailed monochrome close-ups to soft-focus profiles, pensive stills to madcap action shots, John Watson had been photographed in every conceivable setting, mood and light, on numerous different occasions over a period of several years. This was the result; this eclectic mix, chosen with meticulous care and kept together, the pick of the bunch, in one folder.

The first one is Watson’s portfolio, but this – this is something else. This is a labor of love, a collection drawn from a close association lasting several years. But what for? Too soon for a memorial – the timing’s wrong. A tribute to the living, then; a gift, something to celebrate – what? Afghanistan? No, not specific enough. Was it made as a gift? For his sister perhaps? Or his mother? Were these photos ever printed in an album?

Sherlock rubbed a hand over his eyes, exhaled forcefully and turned his attention back to the photographs. He moved onto the next folder: Murray really knew his stuff, he had to grudgingly admit. He sat up in his chair as Mary Morstan was suddenly revealed in all her glory.

Well, all her glory would be overstating it a bit. She wasn’t nude, but she might just as well have been. Sherlock recognized the style and the pose from the recent perfume ad, confirming Murray’s claim to have contributed materially to that publicity campaign. Mary’s face and body were perfect, flawless, smooth and beautiful, and totally without character, as was expected of a top model. She was a blank sheet of paper, ready to be written on, drawn on, scribbled on and made into something else, something other. Bored, Sherlock reached for the next picture. He paused; this one featured her with John Watson.

They certainly looked well together, he thought. His earthiness brought a sense of realism to her ethereal beauty; totally calculated of course, but effective. These were clearly promotional shots designed to be used by the press on the announcement of their engagement. As he scrolled through, Sherlock raised a speculative eyebrow – if Watson had been looking for an introduction to films, he could not have done better than to flaunt these pictures. The soft-focus, white-on-white quality; the seeming yards of skin the couple were displaying despite the decorous nature of their poses; the sexual undercurrents smoldering in Watson’s eyes and in the grip of his hands around her upper arms – all of this added up to something very powerful and compelling.

Hats off to Alex Murray.