Sherlock rose from the chair to stretch stiffened muscles, noting with mild shock that the clock above the mantle read 6.15am. He rolled his shoulders carefully and returned to the chair; three nights without sleep was not unusual for Sherlock, but he would have to give in soon or the effects would begin to impair his efficiency.

On a whim, he picked up the framed photograph he had noticed that first morning, the laughing John Watson of Afghanistan, obviously celebrating his recent promotion, unaffected and natural, his eyes brimming over with happiness.

“Murray was in love with John when he took that one.”

Sherlock was too weary and his reactions too slow to give a proper start. Instead he turned his head slowly and glanced towards the living room door.

“Come in, Mr Phelps,” he said simply, “What brings you to this neck of the woods at such an hour, may I ask?”

David Phelps stepped over the threshold and into the dim light. He was immaculate as before in a Cashmere overcoat this time over a tailored suit and expensive black Oxfords. He carried a briefcase.

“I could just as soon ask you the same question,” he returned, “and probably with more reason, but I can easily see why you are here. How you gained entry, however, is another question.”

“Keys,” lied Sherlock easily, “from Inspector Lestrade.”

Phelps chuckled. “Oh, I find that most unlikely, don’t you?” he replied. “The police only solicit aid from professionals, Mr Holmes; they don’t allow the hoi polloi into crime scenes unescorted.”

“Nevertheless, that is my answer,” Sherlock replied gravely, “but as for your own presence, that remains unaccounted for.”

“On the contrary,” was the mild reply, “I have nothing to hide. My office is in Highgate. It’s a little too far to walk from my house – which is a couple of streets away – so I go for a short distance on foot by the Heath and when I get tired I hail a cab for the rest of the way. This morning, I was rather surprised to notice a light in the window of the living room when this flat was supposed to be empty so I used my spare key to let myself in. And who did I find rifling through his belongings but the eminent Sherlock Holmes – and at the crack of dawn, no less.”

Phelps smiled, shaking his head. “You really must be royally stumped, Mr Holmes, to still be puzzling after your third sleepless night.”

Sherlock made no response but merely lowered his eyes back to the photograph. Phelps drew nearer and smoothed a finger over the glass surface.

“A stunning piece of work,” he declared, “and with such personal involvement! Frankly, if I hadn’t already known how he felt about John, it would have been obvious just from that one picture.”

“You said they were in love?” Sherlock prompted.

Phelps pursed his lips. “I said Murray was in love with John, not that it was reciprocated,” he replied. “For all intents and purposes, John loved Mary – as much as he loved anybody.”

“Oh?” Sherlock’s brain had suddenly woken up.

“Yes,” Phelps confirmed. “John had never been married or even in a long-term relationship until Mary came along. Oh, he’d had affairs on three continents – a long string of them, I understand, although he kept the details very private.” Phelps allowed himself an indulgent smile. “The armed forces do rather frown on that sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing?” demanded Sherlock. “Womanizing? I very much doubt that seeing as the military prides itself on its testosterone. The only relationships the armed forces have any reservations about are homosexual ones. Are you telling me John Watson was homosexual, Mr Phelps?”

A ripple of something not at all pleasant wiped the smirk from Phelps’ face, gone in an instant to be replaced by his customary blandness.

“John was not homosexual or even bisexual; he was straight,” Phelps corrected. “He was also a gentleman and resisted the urge to kiss and tell. He developed a habit of intense privacy early on in life; a result of having a closet lesbian for a sister and all that entailed for family peace and harmony. Even I know very little about his past social life, so if you’re looking for copy I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong place.”

“You sound as though you knew him for a long time,” Sherlock prompted.

Phelps shrugged. “Long enough,” he replied.

“And you met exactly how?”

Phelps gave Sherlock a bland look. “One or two of my colleagues started to recommend Alex Murray for portfolio shots,” he explained. “I didn’t know him but I knew about his pictures from the front, of course – an absolute artist – so I called on him. I wanted to see some of his current work, ascertain for myself whether the quality was in any way comparable to his war work. At first, I was not convinced but when I saw the very photograph of John which seems to be obsessing you at present, Mr Holmes, I began to realize that not only was Murray still on top form, his subject was a potential small-screen star. I asked to see more of Alex’s work with John Watson which only confirmed my first impressions. I made a few return visits to Alex’s studio and eventually my persistence was rewarded. I met Doctor John Watson and the rest, as they say, is history.”

“Except that you still haven’t explained about Watson and Murray.”

“Oh, do you want the prurient details?” Phelps made a disgusted face. “Yes, of course you do. How could I have imagined otherwise? Well, I have no intention of giving them to you. I suggest you speak to Murray – if you dare.”

Phelps gave a nod in farewell and started for the door, but before crossing into the hall, he turned back with a soft laugh.

“I do believe, Mr Holmes, that you are letting your emotions get the better of you,” he said quietly.

Sherlock lifted his chin. “I have been reliably informed that I don’t possess any,” he replied stonily.

Phelps shook his head slowly, still chuckling. “Still,” he admonished, “sitting in a darkened room for hours at a time mooning over photographs of a dead man, a man who if he were alive wouldn’t give you the time of day.”

Phelps broke off, tut-tutting gravely. “If one didn’t know better,” he said lightly, “one might think that you were developing an unhealthy attachment. Perhaps you need to avail yourself of what the medical profession laughingly calls psychiatry, Mr Holmes. You could make the medical journals, you know; I don’t suppose they’ve ever had a patient who fell in love with a corpse before.”

Sherlock lowered his eyes but said nothing.

Phelps laughed; an unpleasant sound. “Good morning, Mr Holmes,” he said. “Please remember to lock up when you leave; I should hate for the neighbourhood ungodly to ransack the place, particularly after I spent so much time and trouble decorating.”

Phelps left the living room then, his shoes making no sound on the bare hall floor. Shortly after, Sherlock heard the click of the latch and then silence.

Sherlock tried to motivate himself to move but a lethargy owing more to lack of food than sleep sank down around him like thick fog.

Five minutes, then I will get up and leave this place. Five more minutes and I will go back to Baker Street, lie down and recharge. Sleep is a waste of time, but I can’t put it off any more. Just five minutes in this chair…

A sound like an explosion propelled Sherlock into an upright position. He was breathing hard and the room was filled with bright daylight. The slam of the front door; Phelps must have returned for some reason. He wiped a hand over his mouth as swift, no-nonsense footsteps approached from the hallway. Disorientated, Sherlock rose from his chair to be confronted by a complete stranger.

The man was short with broad shoulders and dusty blond hair with a sprinkling of grey. His tanned face and upright bearing screamed military and the cool manner his blue eyes swept over the room said marksman. He fixed that disconcertingly direct stare on Sherlock and narrowed his eyes.

“Who are you,” demanded the newcomer, “and what the bloody hell have you done to my flat?”

Sherlock stared blankly, and then to the other man’s complete perplexity he began to laugh.

John Watson had been away from home for five days finding himself, so he said.

This was what he told Lestrade in an interview room at The Yard exactly thirty-four minutes and twenty seconds after Sherlock had placed the call.

For once, Sherlock elected to play things by the book. Sherlock’s motives for this uncharacteristically co-operative behaviour were unclear at the time and made little sense to him on further reflection, so he took the line of least resistance and ignored them. He accompanied a furiously protesting John Watson in the back of Lestrade’s unmarked police car in total silence for the entire journey in case someone decided he had no business being there.

It turned out that Watson had not been visiting his sister or his mother, or indeed any other relative or friend, he said. No, he had been down to the Sussex coast to Chichester where he stayed at a small guesthouse and walked the beach. Sherlock continued with his uncharacteristically co-operative behaviour and remained silent.

“I needed some space,” Watson explained. “There’s a lot going on in my life at the moment. I really had to get away to think it through and try to work out my priorities.”

On learning of Watson’s snap decision, he said, Mike Stamford had then owned up to his own change of plans and asked if Watson minded him staying for a few extra days.

“Did he say why he wanted to stay for longer?” Lestrade asked.

Watson’s eyes shifted, he looked down at the table and shook his head. “Just that he had some unfinished business,” he replied. “We hadn’t seen each other for a while – years, actually – and we hadn’t completely caught up. Hadn’t had the time, really. You’d be better off asking him yourself. Why don’t you?”

“And yet you chose to leave him days after his arrival on a whim to visit a coastal town in the off-season?” Lestrade persisted.

“It wasn’t a whim,” Watson protested, shaking his head. “I had a break after New Year – I came back this morning because I’ve got a meeting at three this afternoon with a client."

“Do you have any idea what, or who, the ‘unfinished business’ might have been?” Lestrade asked.

Watson blinked then shrugged, shaking his head.

He really is a terrible liar.

“Knowing Mike, it probably had something to do with a woman,” he replied, “but I couldn’t swear to it – we weren’t close like that.”

“You didn’t object?” asked Lestrade.

Watson shook his head. “It suited me,” he replied. “Good for security to have someone around while you’re away and if he wanted to bring someone back here, I was hardly going to complain. Look, do you mind telling me what this is all about? Where is Mike, and why are you asking me all these questions about him?”

Lestrade ignored that and frowned at Watson.

“Didn’t you think to let anyone else know where you were while you were having your existential crisis?” Lestrade bit out. “You know – your neighbour, Mrs Russell? Mr Phelps?” It was far too early in the day to be dealing with resurrected celebrity doctors on an empty stomach.

Watson shook his head. “Well, no,” he replied rather diffidently. “Mary knew, of course, and so did Mike but I didn’t see any reason to tell anyone else. I wasn’t on call; I was free to come and go as I wanted. Mary knew how to get in touch with me in an emergency. I just needed time to think. I didn’t want anyone contacting me.”

Watson’s expression hardened and he leaned his elbows on the table, fists clenched.

“Now,” he said in a firmer tone, “Will somebody please just tell me just what the bloody hell is going on here?”

So Lestrade told him. Sherlock watched the color drain out of Watson’s face leaving it grey and suddenly middle-aged.

“Oh god,” he said quietly then lapsed into silence. After a minute or two, he raised his head.

“Mike is dead?” he asked.

Lestrade nodded sympathetically. “At least, that is what we surmise,” he replied. “Once the MOD comes through with the samples we requested, we can confirm his identity, but there’s precious little doubt about it really.”

Watson scrubbed his face with the palms of his hands for a moment then looked up. “But why?” he asked shaking his head. “Mike didn’t have any enemies; he was an army medic like me, a Major and a really skilled surgeon. He saved people, Inspector; there’s any number of young soldiers who owe their lives, not to mention their continued mobility, to Mike’s amazing expertise.”

Lestrade cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable. Watson gave him a puzzled look.

“Er, we don’t think the blast was meant for Major Stamford,” Lestrade said gently.

“You mean…” Watson swallowed uncomfortably. “Oh, come on! No one would want to kill me either.”

“Except that they clearly did, Doctor,” Sherlock broke his unaccustomed silence. He straightened from his habitual sprawl and drew his legs under his chair. Watson narrowed his eyes.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “You’re not police, but they let you sit in anyway. Now the Inspector’s letting you join in this party. You were in my flat earlier when I arrived back from Chichester,” Lestrade’s glare promised some comeback from that at a later date, “and beyond your name, which sounds as improbable as your presence here, I know absolutely nothing about you.”

Sherlock shook his head impatiently. “Who I am is unimportant at this juncture,” he replied.

“Can I have that in writing?” muttered Lestrade.

Sherlock ignored him. He leaned forward over the table, almost into Watson’s space.

“We need to solve this quickly,” he said urgently. “You had an extremely lucky escape for which the unfortunate Major Stamford paid the price.”

Watson lowered his eyes in grief; Lestrade frowned.

“Doctor Watson, we must find whoever is responsible for Major Stamford’s death,” Sherlock continued more gently, “and we must find them now, before they can regroup to try again.”

Watson stared. “Try again?” he said faintly, “but – but why?”

Sherlock shook his head. “We can discuss motives till the cows come home,” he replied, “but we haven’t got enough data yet to come to any firm conclusion. What we do know is that the murderer got the wrong man and whatever his reasons for attempting to kill you, those reasons haven’t gone away just because another man is dead.”

A silence greeted Sherlock’s chilly little speech and, satisfied, he leaned back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head and thrusting his long legs out in front.

“Now that we’ve established the urgency of this matter,” he said in a lower tone, “please do me the courtesy of telling me about your relationship with Mary Morstan, in particular her propensity for dating and having sex with other men while maintaining the fiction of an engagement with you. I also need to know as much as you do about her relationship with Mike Stamford, although I suspect that there isn’t really very much to tell – I think that one probably fell into the category of one- or two-night stands, am I right?”

“Jesus, Sherlock! God you really need an edit function!” Lestrade groaned.

Clenches jaw, eyes narrowing slightly – he’s angry but he’s used to impulse control. I admire his sang-froid but I don’t think it’ll last the course.

“I could be wrong here,” Watson said in a deceptively mild voice, “but I think that’s none of your business.”

Touché.

“You are wrong,” Sherlock returned. “Everything about this case is my business.”

Watson’s eyes snapped up. “Your business?” he replied with an edge to his voice. “As I recall, no one has yet explained to me who you are, let alone why you’re here.”

“I vouch for him, Doctor Watson,” Lestrade admitted heavily, “even though he missed his calling to the diplomatic service.”

“Oh, very good, Inspector,” Sherlock mocked sourly. He folded his arms but remained silent.

“And I’m sorry, but he’s right,” Lestrade continued, ignoring Sherlock. “Your private life is only private where it doesn’t impact on a murder case.”

“Will you take my word for it that it doesn’t?” Watson asked.

Lestrade shook his head. “No, Captain, I’m very sorry but I can’t,” he replied gravely.

Watson shook his head irritably. “It’s ‘Doctor’, Inspector Lestrade,” he explained. “I’m no longer in active service.”

Lestrade bowed his head in apology; Sherlock’s left eyebrow twitched.

Sensitive about his military career. A touch of PTSD, perhaps? Flashbacks, panic attacks? Is this what caused him to run? It would certainly affect his ability to function in his current capacity, but that doesn’t appear to have been an issue. His work ethic is good, according to the network records, and he seems happy enough with the job.

“Mary and I have – an understanding,” Watson began carefully.

Sherlock snorted derisively.

Which involves her shagging another man under your roof, in your bed while you are off communing with your inner self.

“There are other, less charitable descriptions,” he said drily.

A vein pulsed in Watson’s temple.

“I won’t warn you again!” Lestrade’s icy tone cut the tension.

Watson nodded and let his breath out in a gusty sigh. “I haven’t been in contact with Mary since– since I left for Chichester,” he said quietly, “but I can’t imagine it’s been any picnic for her either. She met Mike for the first time about ten days ago, so she didn’t know him very well…”

“I don’t imagine that’s a claim she can continue to make now,” Sherlock put in, ignoring Lestrade’s furious frown.

“Anyway,” continued Watson with an extra-deep breath, “she’s a gently brought up girl and…”

“Oh for goodness sake!” Sherlock passed a hand over his eyes.

“...and I completely understand her distress and panic on being faced with such a horrible situation.” Watson leaned forward and locked eyes with Sherlock. “It doesn’t surprise me at all that she cut and run,” he continued deliberately. “I think most people would have done the same thing faced with such a ghastly event. She was also afraid for her life, Mr Holmes; there was a murderer out there with a shotgun.”

“Who could have waited for her in the street and picked her off as she left the building!” Sherlock shot back.

“In the street? Directly in the public eye?” Watson demanded. “What self-respecting assassin would lay himself so open to discovery?”

“A desperate one,” Sherlock replied coldly. “Miss Morstan would have been far better to have sat tight and phoned the police, despite their frankly appalling call out time.”

“Hey!” protested Lestrade weakly.

Watson brushed him irritably aside without breaking eye-contact with Sherlock. “I don’t imagine that sequence of events would be the first thing to occur to a panicking twenty-something girl who had just seen someone’s head explode in front of them,” he countered in a deceptively mild tone.

Sherlock gaped at the man in outraged disbelief; Watson stared back impassively. Sherlock opened his mouth to flay Watson raw with invective but was forestalled by a sharp rap of knuckles on the interview room door. To Lestrade’s puzzlement, Sherlock propelled himself precipitately out of his chair with a swift ‘don’t worry, I’ll get it!’ The PC who was halfway into the room found himself pushed back into the corridor before he could give his message.

“Mr Holmes, your visitor…”

“Yes, yes, thank you so much.” Sherlock’s voice trailed away down the corridor.

“You’re absolutely certain Mike Stamford had no enemies?” Lestrade continued after flashing a confused look at Sherlock’s departing back.

Watson nodded sadly. “Mike was well-liked, very popular, especially with women,” he said. “He was an all-round good bloke, would help you with anything. He had been one of my closest friends at university, and then later at Barts. I was looking forward to getting to know him again.”

“Yet he was sleeping with your fiancé, Doctor Watson,” Lestrade responded acidly. “Perhaps Stamford really was the victim – perhaps it was you who took a shotgun to him. After all, one thing you know plenty about in your business is how to use a weapon. Do you have witnesses that you were where you say you were for the past five days?”

Watson sighed. “Of course I do – I was staying at a guesthouse,” he replied, “And I’ve told you already; Mary and me – it’s not like that.”

“Oh? So what exactly is it like then, Doctor Watson?”

Voices floated in from the hall.

“So you see, in reality things may not be quite as they seem…”

Sherlock was talking non-stop as he guided the caller through into the interview room, propelling him the final few feet with a hand to the lower back. The man stopped, looked at John Watson with a totally blank face, then blinked and brought a hand to his head.

“John,” said David Phelps faintly. That was all he managed to get out before he pitched forward in a most alarming collapse, going down like a tree on the interview room floor.

“Well,” said Sherlock to Lestrade with satisfaction, “I think that answers at least a couple of questions, don’t you?”

He was less pleased with the look of dislike John Watson shot his way as he dropped to his knees and scrambled to administer first aid to his friend and mentor.

David Phelps, it transpired, had a low blood-pressure condition. Most of the Yard was privy to the subsequent conversation between Lestrade and Sherlock after Phelps’ collapse as it was conducted at a volume which likely contravened European legislation on noise pollution.

“You had no business – no business at all – playing tricks on a man of that age!” Lestrade shouted, veins in his forehead throbbing, “If his heart had given out, the brass would have had my arse! And make no mistake, Sherlock, I’d have taken you down with me.”

“Oh, don’t be such a maiden aunt, Lestrade!” Sherlock’s tone dripped with contempt. “He’s only in his fifties; that’s scarcely old enough to count!”

“People in their fifties die all the time; they don’t need any help from you. And neither will I if you continue to flout my authority!” Lestrade raised a hand to his forehead wincing at the onset of a headache.

“I got a result, didn’t I?” Sherlock whirled around Lestrade’s office gesturing dramatically. “I established that Phelps knew nothing about the mistaken identity. No one could have faked that.”

“I had been intending to discover that one by means that didn’t involve an ambulance, two paramedics and a doctor who is also a suspect in a murder case!”

“I got there quicker. And he’s not a suspect.”

“Both those are still up for debate!”

Lestrade glared then let out a gusty sigh and tugged at his hair. “Just – go away, Sherlock,” he said tiredly. “Go away, find me a murderer and for god’s sake try not to frighten anyone to death in the process.”

Sherlock flashed him a quick grin. “Good day, Lestrade,” he said cheerfully. “You must excuse me – I have to see a lady about a lover.”

Lestrade raised his head sharply. “Sherlock!” he yelled at the man’s departing back.

Mrs Russell was in her eighties but hale and hearty and with an insatiable curiosity. Sherlock loved that type of nosy neighbour; they were always a fount of knowledge and so ready to share it. Sadly, the interpretation of information was generally lacking, but in this case he felt more than equal to the task of unraveling it.

“Major Stamford stayed for two weeks before it all happened,” Mrs Russell told him over a steaming cup of tea. “He told me he was going to visit his sister in Leeds on the following Monday, but I ran into him later that week and he said his plans had been delayed. He looked quite happy about it though.”

Of course he would – it’s not often a top model throws herself at you.

Sherlock drank his tea and made gentle conversation. Contrary to Lestrade’s professed opinion, Sherlock knew how to underplay a situation if he felt the necessity and besides, he actually liked Mrs Russell; she reminded him of his own Mrs Hudson.

No, she had never seen Miss Morstan on a Saturday or Sunday morning. Mrs Russell shook her head emphatically at Sherlock’s question; she had always assumed that the couple conducted their courtship at Mary’s establishment.

“So you never saw Doctor Watson at home at the weekend?” Sherlock asked.

Mrs Russell considered. “Well, that would have been the case six months ago,” she replied, “but recently he’s been at home much more often on a weekend. I was rather surprised, to tell the truth.”

This was new.

“Why was that, Mrs Russell?” Sherlock asked.

She giggled girlishly. “I thought all engaged couples lived together openly these days,” she said coyly, “or, at least, did so but didn’t tell anyone. Oh, that poor girl!”

Her smile wobbled slightly as she replaced her cup on its saucer.

“He was a nice man,” she said softly, shaking her head. “It’s a terrible thing to happen.” She blinked away a tear before refreshing Sherlock’s tea from the pot with a steady hand.

For a split second, Sherlock wondered if he should enlighten Mrs Russell about the victim’s true identity but his logic centers negated the impulse before it had a chance to fully flower. Lestrade would have Sherlock’s head if he leaked the news, of course, but the real reason had more to do with the sheer amount of tedious explanation it would involve.

Leave it to the police – they have to be good at something.

“They didn’t sleep together.”

Lestrade looked up from his paperwork and blinked.

“Beg pardon?” he said.

Sherlock entered his office like a whirlwind. “Watson and Morstan – I knew it!” he crowed. “If those two are genuinely attached, I’ll go and shake Anderson and Donovan's hands right now."

Lestrade laid down his pen and leaned back in his chair.

“What are you talking about?” he demanded. Sherlock sighed dramatically and sat down with a flourish.

“For the benefit of those several miles behind me, which is everyone of course,” he began, “the engagement between Watson and Morstan is total fiction.”

“So what’s the story then?” Lestrade looked less than convinced.

“The story is that Morstan likes to play the field,” Sherlock said with a nasty smile, “and whilst she’s been pretty discreet so far, a public engagement makes things very much more respectable for her parents. That would explain the Honorary Sebastian's defensive attitude towards his darling daughter. Have you checked his alibi, by the way?”

Lestrade nodded. “It’s iffy – attending a function in town; lots of gaps in the timeline.”

“Hmm,” murmured Sherlock thoughtfully, “I wonder if anyone spotted him leaving?”

“Why would he want to kill Watson?” argued Lestrade. “To all intents and purposes, he was keeping his daughter’s reputation intact, publicly at least.”

Sherlock nodded. “That’s very true,” he replied. “The engagement to Watson would have kept the Sebastian quiet and put Mary in a safer position. I wonder if Morstan engineered it herself?” Sherlock shook his head. “No. She’s suitably manipulative but she doesn’t have the brainpower for that.”

“Someone must have done some serious legwork to persuade a society family to accept a match between their heiress daughter and a retired army doctor who doesn’t have two pennies to rub together,” Lestrade rumbled.

Sherlock frowned and ignored that. “You’re missing the point,” he complained. “Morstan’s personal life is not important – she could sleep with the entirety of the England cricket team and I would be neither surprised nor interested.”

Sherlock sat down and leaned his elbows on Lestrade’s desk. “And you forget,” he said silkily, “if Morstan was indeed playing away from home, what and/or who was Watson doing?”

Lestrade reached for his pen which Sherlock had picked up and was tapping impatiently on the Inspector's desk.

“Now that is interesting,” he murmured.

At her interview the following morning, Mary Morstan’s face was white and strained with tear tracks on her cheeks, but her spine was stiff and she stared Lestrade directly in the eyes with a steady gaze.

“The last time we met, you lied to me,” Lestrade accused bluntly.

“Yes,” Mary said in a small voice. Beneath the desk, she clutched at a handkerchief with her right hand; her left was held firmly by a grim-faced and silent John Watson.

“We could charge you with any number of things, including wasting police time and possibly even conspiracy to pervert the course of justice!”

Mary swallowed. “Yes, I know you could, but you won’t,” she said, her voice quavering.

“Why won’t I?”

“Because you need me to co-operate, Inspector,” she replied. She took a shaky breath and looked Lestrade directly in the eyes.

“Your bosses won’t wait forever,” she told him, fidgeting against the hard chair, “They’re already being destroyed by the media – I’ve read the papers this morning and so far you’ve got nothing. Go on this way for the next 24 hours and you’ll be taken off the case, Inspector. The fact that you’ve got me to talk might keep the hounds at bay for the present, but I won’t even give you that much if you’re going to put me in a cell.”

She pouted prettily but her hands were still shaking. From behind the one-way glass, still seething over his banishment from the interview room, Sherlock was reluctantly impressed with her composure.

“I could add a charge of withholding evidence now you’ve said that,” Lestrade hissed.

Mary nodded. “But you won’t,” she replied. A faint sheen of perspiration appeared on her forehead.

“You won’t,” she repeated, “Because your bosses don’t want me, they want the murderer. And they’ll sacrifice you if they have to.”

Mary exchanged a glance with Watson and he stroked her white-knuckled hand lightly. Behind the mirror Sherlock made a disgusted noise. He shook his head and then sniggered at Donovan who frowned back but without any real animosity.

“She’s quite right you know,” Sherlock told the Sergeant, ignoring his scowl. “It just goes to show the truth of the old saying about judging a book by its cover; her brand of blond is clearly not all dumb. Watson must have coached her.”

“She’s still in trouble,” Donovan snapped.

“Oh, undoubtedly,” Sherlock replied, “Still, I think she’ll ride this one out. She’s not the murderer of course, but she knows the victim and she’ll tell us the truth now about what happened that night.”

Mary’s knowledge turned out to be depressingly unhelpful. She had been in John’s bed with Mike Stamford when the killer rang the doorbell.

“Mike double-locked the door earlier, just in case John turned up unexp..." Mary swallowed and regained her composure. "He said that he didn't recognize the caller, but whoever it was sounded pretty desperate,” she told them carefully. “He put on John’s bathrobe – I’d laughed at him earlier because it was so short in the sleeve he looked ridiculous.” She bit her lip hard.

“Mike asked who it was, but I didn’t hear the reply,” she said. “He came back into the bedroom and told me to stay put with the lights off. He said it was someone with an urgent message for John – something about his sister. Mike said he thought he ought to let them in even though he hadn’t yet explained that John wasn’t at home. I knew I couldn’t let anyone know I was there – the scandal – I couldn’t afford something like that to threaten my career at this stage. Mike told me to keep quiet and he’d deal with the man. He said he thought he might be able to help...”

Mary broke off and brought her handkerchief to her mouth.

“The caller was male?” Lestrade asked.

Mary nodded. “The next thing I knew was this tremendous bang, two of them,” she continued unsteadily, “then an awful bloody silence.”

Mary looked down at the table and bit her lip. Watson still remained silent.

“Why did you run?” asked Lestrade gently.

Tears welled up in Mary’s beautiful eyes. “I panicked,” she said in a high, tense voice. “I saw there was nothing anyone could do – so much blood! – so I got dressed and got out of as quickly as I could. I must have managed to find a taxi – I don’t remember very much in between the shots and getting home.”

She swallowed and bit down on the knuckle of her index finger.

“So you really saw nothing?” Lestrade persisted.

Mary Morstan shook her head. Reflexively, she wiped her free hand against the skirt of her dress. Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

“Nothing at all, Inspector,” she told Lestrade holding his gaze steadily with pleading eyes.

“She’s still lying!” growled Sherlock, pacing around Lestrade’s office. He was still furious at having been excluded from the interview.

“Now, come on, Sherlock,” Lestrade spread his hands. “What’s she got to lie about?”

“How long have you got?” Sherlock rumbled, “Look, Lestrade, no woman in the grip of total panic thinks to put on her stockings. Underwear yes; handbag, keys – all of this is automatic, second-nature, but hosiery? And they weren’t even tights, for god’s sake!” he shook his head. “She didn’t panic; she knew what she was doing.”

“It was very cold,” Lestrade ventured.

“Don’t be more of an idiot than you can help.”

“So what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that she was trying, in her own muddled and stupid manner, to eradicate any evidence that she had been there,” Sherlock replied,“Think, Lestrade! If you were about to be caught out shagging someone else in your fiancé’s bed, who would you be most concerned to keep in ignorance?”

Lestrade shrugged. “My fiancé, of course,” he replied.

Sherlock snapped his fingers.“Exactly!” he replied, starting to pace again, “But John Watson turned out to be unnaturally accommodating…"

“Yeah,” Lestrade growled, “and what’s that all about, then?”

“…and from all indications, she knew that he would be. She didn’t care about John Watson finding out she was with Mike Stamford because he already knew.”

“What?” protested Lestrade.

Sherlock waved him away. “He already knew,” he repeated. He jammed his fingers into his hair hissing in frustration, “So who else would Mary Morstan fear finding out about her appetites? Her parents? Her agent, Phelps? I’d be willing to bet she’s a trust fund baby, but the potential social disgrace might have given her considerable pause, her parents too. Daddy took a swing at you when you got too close to the truth, didn’t he? Maybe he blamed Watson for his daughter’s addiction problems? Hmm, it might be worth putting the Hon Seb through the wringer once or twice and see what shakes loose. I don’t suppose Mama is involved, but I’d guess that Phelps would be less than impressed although if it got out, at least it wouldn’t do the Chanel job any harm – she’s scarcely sweet and innocent there, after all.”

Lestrade stirred impatiently.

“Sherlock, does this have any relevance to the case?” he demanded grumpily, “or are you just dissecting someone else's private life again just for your own amusement?” Sherlock smirked.

“I assure you, Inspector, I have no interest in Mary Morstan beyond her involvement in this murder,” he said. “I am however, extremely interested in John Watson.”

“Yeah,” Lestrade replied heavily, “and that’s the next question, isn’t it? What’s in it for Watson? He should be jumping up and down protesting his outraged honor not sitting holding her hand and making soothing noises.”

Sherlock frowned thoughtfully. “Would that help?” he asked.

“Well, no,” Lestrade replied diffidently, “it’s just probably what I would do in his shoes.”

“Even if you were shagging someone else too?” Sherlock replied, “A bit hypocritical, don’t you think?”

Lestrade nodded. “You said something along those lines earlier,” he said. “How did you work that one out?”

Sherlock bared all his teeth in a rictus grin. “Mrs Russell is extremely informative,” he said briefly, “Watson slept every weekend away from his flat until recent months. Unfortunately, she has no idea as to where. Seeing as Mary Morstan lives at Holland Park and we have her parents’ testimony that Watson never stayed over, it rather begs the question, don’t you think?”

“Any clue as to the identity of the girl he was with?”

Sherlock gave Lestrade a long look, then he shrugged.

“Not as yet,” he replied, “but I have a couple of ideas I’ll be following up.”

Lestrade gave him a look. “No scare tactics, okay?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Watson’s also insisting on keeping on with the engagement, despite the scandal,” Lestrade remarked then sighed heavily.

"We’re no further on,” he said, “even though we’ve identified the victim. And the press are baying for blood; my boss is really not happy.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t say we’re no further on,” Sherlock replied. He fastened his coat.

“Right,” he said making for the door and flinging it wide. “See you later, Lestrade. I think it’s time to throw a scare into Alex Murray.”

Lestrade gave a sigh. “Just – keep it down, Sherlock, please? For my sake and yours.” he growled, “The man’s an artist and a hero. Harass him and you’ll have the press down on you like a ton of bricks.”

Sherlock’s ironic laughter floated back from the corridor.

Alex Murray was a man of secrets, Sherlock mused as he walked briskly down Grosvenor Street. The short biography he had been able to garner from an internet search revealed very little in the way of facts and much more in what it failed to cover. He’s had to go to other sources for the rest.

Sherlock set his jaw: he had a little more information and a lot more deduction this time. Murray would break eventually, that was a given, but what would result was not certain.

As he rounded the corner and walked past the huge old-fashioned window of Alex Murray’s studio, Sherlock happened upon the first piece of genuine luck this case had dealt him.

About time too.

Through the glass, he sighted Murray standing by his desk, framing materials spread over the surface, deep in conversation with none other than John Watson. The intensity of their exchange was such that they completely failed to see Sherlock press his nose against the glass, unable to suppress a grin of triumph.

Bingo!

Sherlock was itching to know the substance of their conversation – it would save him so much time and trouble if he could hear them talking unreservedly. He moved as near to the outer door as he could without disturbing it; he was uncertain as to how much pressure would move it or how sensitive the bell suspended over the top could be. He leaned against the jamb and pushed the door gently, opening it a fraction and bringing his ear as close to the gap as he could manage. He considered rooting out his stethoscope, but he could hear their conversation tolerably well as it stood and he was reluctant to miss anything; it was all he could do not to rub his hands with glee.

“I had to bring it back,” John Watson was saying urgently. “I told you to keep the stuff here. Sending it to me like that was the worst thing you could have done. Anyone could have found it – Mary, Mike – even David. You know he has a key – it’s his own place.”

So Phelps actually used to live in the Hampstead flat? Why did he give it up to Watson, then?

Murray had his back to Sherlock, his head was lowered and his speech was rushed and murmured; Sherlock strained but he could not hear more than the occasional word. Fortunately, Watson’s delivery was clear enough to compensate.

“Yes, I know what I said, but it’s really not the right time, not with all that’s been happening,” Watson said urgently, “Come on, Alex! We’ve been through this already. Things have changed.”

Watson ran an exasperated hand through his hair while the tone of Murray’s murmuring became more agitated.

“Yes, I know exactly what you think about what I do!” Watson replied angrily, “Let me just remind you that what I do saved your miserable skin, no question of that. Look, Alex, I’m sorry but this is England, not Afghanistan and I’m no longer fit for active service any more than you are. I have to make a living somehow and there are limits to what…”

Murray had raised his head and was already moving towards Watson, a peculiar expression on his face. He grabbed two fistfuls of the smaller man’s thick Arran jersey and slammed him up against the wall, getting right into his face. Sherlock tensed for intervention, but something made him pause.

“You’ve changed, Watson,” Murray growled. “I thought you were man enough to cope with life as a civilian without losing all your principles, but it seems I was wrong. This so-called career of yours has destroyed…”

“That’s enough!” Watson’s protest cut through Murray’s invective like the crack of a whip. After a beat or two, Murray released Watson’s jersey but grabbed his wrists instead, pinning them above his head. Watson did not resist but his expression was stony.

“Last name terms again, then Alex?” Watson said.

Sherlock tensed to intervene but Watson did not seem to be afraid. Murray towered over him, but Sherlock was suddenly certain that Watson was allowing this; that he could break the hold as and when he wanted to.

“Alex, think,” Watson insisted, “use your brain. Someone tried to kill me with a shotgun to the face. That’s really nasty – it’s also personal.” Sherlock nodded in silent agreement.

“The last thing I need at the moment is any kind of complication,” Watson continued. “I can’t afford to muddy the waters. I need to keep my head down and hope the police come up with the right answer. Right now, I tell you I’m not comfortable with anyone. Not even you.”

Murray snarled into Watson’s face but let him go slowly and reluctantly. Watson lowered his arms pulling down his jersey reflexively. He gave a half-hearted chuckle as he massaged his wrists.

“Strong hands, Alex,” he remarked with a small smile.

“So have you.” Murray turned back to his work without looking at Watson.

Sherlock chose that moment to push on the door. As the bell above announced his presence the two men spun to face him, fight or flight reactions clearly in good order. Sherlock planted his feet firmly on the tiled floor.

“My apologies for the intrusion, gentlemen,” Sherlock announced in a level tone, “but in view of your extremely interesting conversation just now, I rather think some explanation might be in order.”

Murray’s face was grey; he stared at the floor. Watson turned away from him and advanced on Sherlock, his chin raised mutinously.

“You again!” he spat, “Who are you and where the hell do you get off stalking me like this?” Sherlock stared back impassively.

Does he really not know how much his body language is letting slip?

“You give yourself entirely too much credit,” Sherlock responded calmly, “I came here to see Mr Murray, this being his studio. I don’t think you are on my list until later in the afternoon but I’m a flexible man; if you are free I would be happy to speak to you now. Otherwise I will probably ‘stalk’ you again at a later date.”

I was looking for something on the drugs, but this is much more interesting.

Watson seemed to hesitate but to Sherlock’s satisfaction he nodded briefly, squaring his shoulders. He placed a hand lightly on Sherlock’s upper arm, guiding him, turning him towards the door. Sherlock glanced down at the hand.

He doesn’t want Murray involved.

“Catch you later, Alex,” Watson said over his shoulder to no reply. Still with the restraining hand on Sherlock, he opened the door and ushered them both out into the street.

Once out of Murray’s studio Watson released Sherlock and paused for a moment in apparent indecision before setting off down Grosvenor Street at a fast pace, clearly not bothered whether his companion could keep up or not. Sherlock followed obediently, lengthening his stride to compensate, and drew abreast of the other man. Watson threw the occasional sidelong glance at his companion as they walked but said nothing; Sherlock merely drew his coat around himself against the cold and hunched down behind his collar.

Several hundred yards further on, Watson turned abruptly into a coffee shop and strode over to a vacant corner table in the bay window which afforded a modicum of privacy. He sat with his back to the wall and signaled to the waiter while Sherlock was still shrugging out of his outerwear.

“Coffee please,” Sherlock ordered in response to Watson’s raised eyebrows, “Two sugars, no milk.”

“Tea with milk,” Watson added, “Assam please."

The waiter departed with their order and Watson unbent sufficiently to loosen the buttons of his jacket. The two men sized each other up in silence until Watson gave a sigh and clasped his hands together on the table top.

“Well?” he said interrogatively. Sherlock shrugged.

“You tell me,” he replied. Watson narrowed his eyes.

“You were the one who issued the invitation,” he pointed out.

Sherlock inclined his head in assent. “Indeed,” he replied, “but you accepted it merely to prevent me from talking to the excitable Mr Murray rather than any great desire to speak to me yourself which, in view of the extremely interesting conversation the two of you were exchanging before I entered the studio, was probably something of an exercise in damage limitation. Now that you are here, you are wondering whether it would have been better to leave me with Murray.”

Watson had the grace to look slightly embarrassed but his expression soon hardened again.

“Alright,” Watson began quietly but was interrupted by the arrival of their drinks. He sat in barely concealed impatience while the waiter served them then withdrew. Watson ignored his tea, leaning forward into Sherlock’s space.

“Who are you?” he demanded in a fierce whisper, “Since I got back from Chichester, I don’t seem to be able to move without tripping over you. You’re obviously not police and you’re not a private detective either. You claim you’re some kind of consultant, but the police don’t consult amateurs.” Sherlock’s eyelids flickered but he said nothing.

“I’m trying to help the police in the best way I know how,” Watson continued, “I’ve lost a close friend in an absolutely horrible way; I am being led to believe that he was gunned down in error and that his killer was actually aiming for me; my fiancé is terrified to set foot outside her own front door; and my flat looks like a minor war has been fought in the hallway. I think that’s enough to be going on with without a maverick investigator hounding my movements, don’t you?”

“Who says I’m a maverick?” Sherlock shot back.

“Well, you’re scarcely official, are you?” Watson replied.

“I have Lestrade’s backing,” Sherlock protested.

“Yes, but does he know you’re stalking me?” Watson argued.

Sherlock lowered his eyes and Watson smiled faintly.

“My name is Sherlock Holmes,” Sherlock said quietly, “I am a consulting detective and it is my business to know what other people do not know. The police don’t consult amateurs but they consult me when they are out of their depth, which is all the time. They‘re definitely out of their depth with you, Doctor Watson, and that’s exactly why I am pursuing or as you call it, stalking you. And I will continue to do such until one of two things happens: either you will tell me the truth or the murderer will try again. Can you honestly take the risk that he may be successful this time?”

The smile dribbled away from Watson’s face leaving his expression bleak. He stirred his tea pensively. “Alright,” he said in a low voice, “Let’s see how this works out, shall we? What exactly do you want me to tell you?”

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, his coffee forgotten. “Murray,” he began, “I take it that, as a doctor, you are aware he is a junkie?”

Watson flinched and tightened his grip on his cup. “Don’t call him that,” he replied, “Alex is in recovery; it’s just – difficult for him sometimes.”

Sherlock nodded. “And this is one of the difficult times, I take it?” Without waiting for a response, he barreled on. “Are you supplying him with drugs?”

Watson’s head jerked upright and he glared at Sherlock in anger. He swallowed several time then took a sip of tea. Sherlock was interested to note that Watson’s hand was as steady as a rock despite his fury.

“A word to the wise, Mr Consulting Detective;” Watson said in low, angry tones, “never, ever accuse a practicing medical doctor of drug pushing. It’s one of the worst insults you can dish out and it’s unlikely to afford you any cooperation. In fact, it’s more likely to get you a broken nose.”

Watson shoved his chair back, scraping over the tiled floor with unnecessary noise.

“Do all of us a favor,” he said, reaching into his inside pocket for his wallet, “Stay away from me. And stay away from Alex and Mary too. You’re just making things worse.”

He threw some money on the table and strode out of the coffee shop without looking back. Sherlock swallowed down his cooling coffee and signaled to the waiter.

That went well.

“It just doesn’t hold up; there have to be some missing pieces. Data! Data! Data!”

Sherlock stamped around his living room pausing by the mantelpiece to jam his hands on his narrow hips in frustration. The firelight flickered and cast dancing shadows around the walls.

“Well, I’m not getting anything out of any one of our witnesses,” Lestrade complained from the armchair. “They might as well be Trappist monks for all the leads they’ve given me.”

Lestrade took a sip from the tumbler in his right hand and held it up to the light, examining it critically.

“This is good Scotch, Sherlock,” he said, raising the glass to his colleague in a salute.

Sherlock frowned at it and narrowed his eyes. “Where did you find that?” he demanded accusingly.

Lestrade shrugged, faux-innocent. “In the kitchen cupboard where you keep the tea things,” he replied easily. “I thought it might aid the thinking process.”

Lestrade held out the bottle. Sherlock picked it up, studied the label and sneered in disgust. “Laphroaig,” he muttered, “sixteen years old, cask strength. Mycroft!”

“Your brother put whisky in your kitchen?” Lestrade said in disbelief.

Sherlock grunted. “He’s always poking his nose where it isn’t wanted,” he muttered.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. “I wish my brother would poke his nose around my flat with whisky of this quality,” he replied wryly. Sherlock ignored him.

“Alright,” Lestrade said leaning forward, elbows on his knees, “What have we got? A dead army doctor, an unknown assailant, a suspected case of mistaken identity, a second army doctor, a top model, an over-protective banker father, a very wealthy entrepreneur and, you tell me, a war photographer with PTSD and a drug habit. There’s also no proof that any of them is involved in this affair at all, except of course for Watson, and we can only conjecture that he was the intended victim.”

“Of course he was!” scoffed Sherlock. “Look, we’ve been through all this at least twice; someone wanted Watson dead. Their first attempt to kill him failed. We have to find out why and, more importantly, who before they take it into their head to try again.”

“And Stamford just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, poor sod,” Lestrade replied, waving a hand airily.

“Exactly!”

Lestrade sighed and shook his head. He took another fragrant sip and closed his eyes.

“Got the full post-mortem results on Stamford today,” he said, leaning his head back against the sofa to ease sore neck muscles.

“Anything interesting?” Sherlock asked without much hope.

Lestrade shrugged. “Only confirmation of everything we’ve conjectured so far,” he replied, “nothing new.”

“Alibi for the Honorary Sebastian?”

Lestrade shrugged. “Debatable,” he said. “He could have done it – he’s got opportunity and he’s a member of his local shooting club. He’s got no form, although he’s not the most even-tempered bloke, but where’s the motive?”

Sherlock shook his head. “What about the background check on Murray?” he demanded. “Anything unexpected?”

Lestrade gave a negative. “Nothing we didn’t already know,” he replied, “and nothing that you haven’t already turned up on your own, I’m sure.” Sherlock smirked and looked away.

Lestrade frowned. “What makes you so sure Murray is involved in this sordid little case anyway?” he said.

Sherlock shook his head irritably. “He is involved, it’s as clear as day!” he protested. He paced the room a little more.

“Look,” he began again, “his connection with Watson and Morstan changes hourly – firstly he’s a war colleague of Watson’s, then he’s a friend, then he’s a professional employee of Morstan’s, then he works for Watson too; he’s been bloody helpful to him ever since they met, well over and above the call of duty as it were. Phelps says he’s carrying a torch for the man but I can’t believe it’s that simple.”

“Why not?”

“Unrequited love - it just doesn’t ring true,” Sherlock protested. “It would be far more believable if Murray was the one sleeping with Morstan.”

Sherlock sighed. He rose abruptly from his seat, snatched up his scarf from the back of the chair and threw on his coat.

“Sherlock?” Lestrade looked up questioningly.

“Time for a different approach,” Sherlock said, a determined light in his eye.

“You’re not trying to tell me that Morstan wasn’t shagging Stamford after all, are you?” Lestrade protested in confusion.

“No, I’m not – the evidence is too strong,” Sherlock replied. “Now, I need to know where John Watson is likely to be tomorrow. I can find out myself if I want to, but I’d rather not have the bother if you are able to help me out.”

Sherlock looked up over and smiled expectantly.

Lestrade sighed. “As it happens, I do know,” he said, looking up, “unofficially.”

Strictly speaking, Sherlock did not need to follow John Watson to Bisley. He could have waited until the man returned to London in the evening, staked out his flat until he returned, visited the studios where he worked. However, it was a Saturday and he had precious little else to go on so he took a train out from Waterloo to Brookwood and a taxi to the National Shooting Center and he didn’t particularly care if it was a waste of time.

Men who had witnessed the kind of action Watson had to have seen didn’t come out of it unscathed, Sherlock mused. Watson’s easy manner belied a casual deadliness, a lethal self-control Sherlock found interesting and strangely unnerving. The fact that the man could expound a totally unconvincing tissue of lies and then stick to it unflinchingly was baffling and intriguing.

The range was indoor and around 25 meters long with the usual targets. Watson had so far emptied a Browning hand pistol and a Winchester Model 70 into the targets and was now busy with a M1917 Enfield rifle. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at the efficiency of the man; he was a crack shot no matter what he used.

As he watched, Watson lowered the gun from his shoulder. The automatic system delivered his target and he examined it critically. Sherlock opened the outer door and entered the room, noting that Watson still wore his ear protection.

Sherlock could see immediately the point at which Watson became aware of his presence. Perhaps it was the change in air pressure or maybe he was sensitive to the vibration of Sherlock’s footfalls; whatever it was, his head tilted upwards a fraction and his fingers closed carefully on the weapon in his hands. Sherlock’s brow creased in interested puzzlement; Watson must have seen some serious trouble to be quite so preternaturally vigilant.

As Sherlock stood, hands at his sides, still and unmoving, Watson spun slowly on one heel and brought the weapon to bear loosely held in his hands.

“Mr Holmes,” he said with a tight smile of recognition, reaching for the ear protection. “I’m sorry not to notice you until now. I can’t hear a blessed thing with these on.”

Like hell you can’t.

“Doctor Watson,” Sherlock said in formal greeting, “I’m sorry to disturb you but I wondered, if you are not busy, whether you would care to join me for lunch?”

Watson’s expression was almost comical in its bafflement. Sherlock allowed himself a private smile at having wrong-footed the man. However, Watson rallied pretty quickly.

“Why?” he asked directly.

Sherlock smiled and spread his hands. “Because I still want to talk to you,” he replied, “and yesterday was, ah, unfortunate. I would also rather it were in more comfortable surroundings than these.” He looked around the huge shed and back to its only other occupant.

Watson narrowed his eyes. “Officially or otherwise?” he asked.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Unofficially, of course,” he replied. “Currently, there’s no way Lestrade would sanction me approaching you without an armed guard.”

Watson gave a smile that was half a grimace and turned his head away. He looked back with the light of challenge in his eyes.

“Alright. You’re paying,” he announced over his shoulder as he strode off to check in his weapon. Sherlock bowed his head in agreement and gave a half smile.

The restaurant Watson chose for lunch was an undiscovered gem, Sherlock decided halfway through a truly excellent Boeuf Bourgignon with garlic mash and steamed seasonal vegetables, accompanied by a Chateauneuf du Pape. It was made all the more memorable by the fact that it was his first proper meal in more than three days.

“Dessert?” Watson suggested after they finished their main courses. The quiet, restful atmosphere and the tasteful, understated décor had relaxed Watson’s extreme vigilance.

Sherlock shook his head, sipping from his glass. “Overload,” he confided, “my system probably wouldn’t accept it.” Surprised at himself, he looked at the glass in his hand.

Watson cocked his head. “When did you last eat then?” he asked. Sherlock brushed away the query with a wave of the hand.

Watson frowned. “Are you in the habit of missing meals, Mr Holmes?” he asked in consulting room style.

“Only when necessary, Doctor Watson,” Sherlock replied in identical tones.

Watson’s mouth twitched. “John,” he said with a deprecating smile at Sherlock’s surprised blink, “What? You’ve been through my dirty laundry and you can’t call me by my Christian name?”

Focus, Holmes, focus!

This never happened. Sherlock gave a small frown and stared at the man across the table. John met his gaze levelly.

“John, then,” Sherlock returned gently. “I suppose you’d better call me Sherlock. ‘Mr Holmes’ makes me sound like my brother.”

“I take it he’s not much like you, then?” John returned, draining his wineglass. Sherlock signaled for the waiter and ordered coffee.

“No,” he said, “Mycroft is very different; much more establishment.”

Enough is enough. Get back in the driving seat, Holmes.

“Now,” Sherlock said as the coffee arrived. “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

John paused to add some cream to his cup.

“I tell you what,” he said conversationally. “For every question you ask me, you have to answer one back. Deal?”

Sherlock shook his head. “That’s not how this works,” he replied.

John raised his eyebrows. “It’s not?” he said. “Alright then, how does it work?”

Sherlock gave a wry smile. “I ask you out to lunch,” he said, “ply you with good food and plenty of wine, then I get you to confess to the murder, cuff you and take you back to The Yard – hey, presto: case closed.”

John nodded. “That should work,” he replied easily, “except that you know as well as I do that I didn’t kill Mike.”

“You could have, though,” Sherlock observed. “You had means, motive and opportunity. In fact, if anyone else but Lestrade were running this investigation, you’d be in custody by now helping the police with their enquiries.”

“Until they talked to the owner of the guesthouse in Chichester,” John returned calmly, “and also my cousin who fixed up the booking for me and with whom I had dinner twice while I was there. A cast-iron alibi is such a nuisance, don’t you think?”

Sherlock smiled. “You’re a crack shot,” he said apropos of nothing.

John nodded. “Pretty much,” he replied without a trace of false modesty.

“Seen much action? Some trouble too, I’ll bet?”

“Enough to last a lifetime – far too much.”

“Yet you’re here keeping your skills honed, your reactions fast.”

John made no reply and he kept his eyes firmly on the tablecloth. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

“Were you aware that Stamford was shagging Mary?” Sherlock asked baldly.

John’s head swept up with a sudden flash of anger, quickly suppressed. “God,” he said feelingly, “tactless much, Sherlock?”

The other man shrugged. “I find diplomacy tedious,” he replied, “It wastes time.”

“Clearly,” muttered John reaching for the coffee pot. He poured himself a refill which Sherlock would have laid bets he did not want to drink.

“I didn’t know about Stamford and Mary, no,” John replied, “but I wasn’t exactly surprised. Mike’s always been partial to blondes and Mary goes for military men,” he spread his hands, “obviously.”

“And this didn’t bother you?”

John gave him a keen look. “That’s two questions,” he pointed out then he shrugged. “Honestly? It would have made very little difference if it had.”

John looked down at the table for a moment then pressed his lips together in a firm line.

“Look, Sherlock,” he said, “it was just a bit of fun, Mary and Mike. Of course, I had no idea they were going to use my bed and I’d have been a bit put out about that if I’d known, but I can understand why seeing as Mike’s room is a single. All I hope is that they’d planned to change the sheets afterwards.”

“So you did know about it?”

“Not precisely, no. I’ve just told you that.”

Sherlock steepled his fingers. “You see, while I’m not exactly the poster boy for sensitivity and empathy,” he began, “I’m sure I’m not the only one who feels they’re missing something here. You and Miss Morstan are still engaged, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” replied John firmly.

“Despite the fact that she slept with your friend and then lied about it?”

“People do stupid things,” John replied. “I’ve done things I’m not proud of, things Mary knows about. She’s forgiven me; I figure it’s my turn now.”

“What things?”

“I could be wrong, but I don’t think I agreed to bare my soul, Sherlock.”

“True enough, but anything you can tell me about this matter could have a bearing on whether or not the killer is apprehended. Think very hard, John; very little in this matter is irrelevant.”

John appeared to reflect on that. He stretched out his legs and folded his hands behind his head, stretching his body in an unconscious arc.

“I could see she was attracted to him,” he said finally, “and Mike – well, Mike had never been known to turn a woman down. He and I got up to some tricks…” John’s face softened in reminiscence then twisted wryly.

“I shall miss him very much,” he said. He looked up at Sherlock. “Find his killer.”

“That's why I'm here,” he replied.

John signaled to the waiter for the bill and left Sherlock to pay.

Outside the restaurant, John glanced at his watch and raised his eyebrows.

“It’s three-thirty,” he announced with a grin. “Time flies when you’re enjoying yourself.”

Sherlock smirked. “It was a good meal,” he agreed.

“The company was alright too,” John added. They shared a guarded smile and Sherlock saw a sudden shiver ripple through the other man’s body. The freezing mist was making coronas around the streetlights, dripping down the windows in grey rivulets. Sherlock thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his woolen coat, turned up his collar against the drizzle and started to walk. John followed, unconsciously matching his step.

“So,” he said, “you didn’t play the game.”

“Game?” Sherlock slanted a sidelong glance at him.

John quirked an eyebrow. “Yeah,” he replied. “You know – I answer one of your questions, you answer one of mine. You never answered any of mine.”

I certainly did.

“I’ll answer them now,” Sherlock replied. “Fire away.

“Okay, umm,” John considered. “Where did you go to school?”

“Eton – really, John, is that the best you can do?”

“Doesn’t surprise me in the least. Uni?”

“Cambridge and Oxford – do we have to discuss things that are matters of public record?”

“What do your parents do?”

“Exist, at least the last time I checked – I’m rapidly losing enthusiasm for this game.”

Sherlock hunched his shoulders and lengthened his stride.

John struggled to keep pace. “Well, what do you want me to ask?” he demanded. “What will you answer?”

“Surely you can think up questions that are slightly less mundane?”

“I’m a mundane sort of person."

Sherlock’s face reflected polite incomprehension.

John scrubbed a hand through his hair. “Oh, Lord, this is an uphill climb,” he replied. “Look, what sort of questions will you answer?”

Sherlock pursed his lips. “Just – try a bit harder, that’s all,” he ventured.

John drew a long breath. “Okay, then,” he said, “Are you rich or poor?”

Sherlock considered. “I daresay you can consider my background to be rich,” he replied “but I myself am not particularly well-heeled. For reasons I cannot divulge at this moment, I cannot be trusted with money.”

“Consulting Detective not a particularly well-paid job, eh?”

“It’s not paid at all.”

“Really?”

Sherlock sniffed. “Payment for my genius?” he said with a moue of distaste, “Beneath me.”

John looked interested. “So how do you survive?”

“Barely,” Sherlock sighed. “I shall have to give up my flat soon – or find a flatmate.” He shuddered theatrically.

John turned his face away to hide a smile. “Alright, so you’re poor,” he continued. “Okay then – art or science?”

Sherlock made a sound of disgust. “Really?” he said, “Do you need me to answer that one?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” John smiled. “I’ve a feeling I might be surprised.”

Sherlock opened his mouth to speak then appeared to think better of it. He bit his lip. “Alright,” he said eventually, “I play the violin, happy now?”

“Really?” John’s eyebrows shot into his hairline, “Any good?”

“Very good.”

As if I would do anything by half measures.

“So, do you play in an orchestra or with a pianist?” John pursued. Sherlock tried to imagine himself in the back desk of the firsts and barely suppressed a shiver of revulsion.

“I consider myself married to my work,” Sherlock’s lips twitched despite himself. “I find things go rather more easily that way.”

John shook his head. “I don’t understand you,” he complained.

“People rarely do,” Sherlock replied. “John, I believe you are attracted to me. I also believe you didn’t expect this and you are torn between pursuing me and treating me like an enemy. I know this because the same thoughts and motivations are governing my own actions at the moment and, I have to confess, this state of affairs is wholly alien to me. It makes me question my entire involvement in this case and I believe that was one of the reasons you initiated this so called game.”

John’s jaw dropped. “Well,” he said, visibly pushing back his surprise and indignation, “I’ve had performance evaluations from the army that were more charitable!”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Sherlock snapped. John glared but Sherlock just shook his head in dismissal.

“I don’t think your actions were calculated, John,” he replied composedly, “however, I can’t afford to be compromised. I’m sorry, but no matter how badly I want this – and believe me, I do want it very much – I can go no further until you tell me what you know, and by that I mean the truth about Mike Stamford, Mary Morstan and particularly Alex Murray.”

“Alex?” John said, eyes wide in alarm, “Who have you been talking to? Never mind.” He ran his tongue nervously over his bottom lip.

“I depend merely upon my own deductions,” Sherlock replied with more composure than he felt, “and I rarely believe anything based on unqualified assurance.”

“I have never lied to you!” John protested angrily. Sherlock shook his head; John’s ears reddened at the edges.

“Not deliberately, no,” Sherlock conceded, “but there is such a thing as lying by omission. You have been economical with the truth, Doctor, and until you tell me what you know – well, you know the rest.”

John swallowed, looked away and sighed, then visibly got a grip on himself. He looked back at Sherlock and pressed his lips together firmly.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “No?” he asked gently betraying no surprise. John looked away. Sherlock nodded to himself and tucked his scarf more firmly around his throat against the cold.

“Then I will bid you good day,” he said, “until the next time our paths cross. My thanks for your company over lunch; it was – illuminating.”

With a shallow, formal bow Sherlock turned on his heel to stride off down the road. John stood and watched him disappear around a corner before turning and walking in the opposite direction.

Sherlock woke gradually and painfully. Daylight splintered in through the gap in the curtains, glancing off his eyes, cutting through his forehead with all the precision of a chainsaw. He peeled his face off his living room floor with a groan and rubbed his eyes slowly; it didn’t help.

What woke me? God, my head hurts. What happened last night?

Fragments of memory pushed past the pain: the lonely journey back from Bisley; walking back from the tube station in the rain to find a very damp, cold Lestrade waiting for him in the unheated living room; the disappointment and humiliation of having to admit to no further progress coupled with the misery of realizing just how impaired his judgment had become. When Lestrade reached for Mycroft’s whisky, Sherlock had followed suit.

The bottle was empty. Sherlock picked it up and swilled the dregs around before putting down in disgust. It had been so easy just to carry on after Lestrade left, he remembered. He had done this once or twice before – purchased a modicum of silence, of stillness in that ever-active brain of his at the price of a monumental hangover – and the cost was always more than the reward; although he knew intellectually that he had achieved the silence, he could never remember it viscerally.

The phone on the table next to where Sherlock was laying on the floor ripped through the silence and his head like a gunshot. Reaching blindly to stop the agony, he picked up what he hoped was the receiver.

“About bloody time!” was the greeting, “Get your head out of your arse, Sherlock. We’ve got a crisis on our hands.”

“What’s happened?” Sherlock demanded, trying not to wince as he sat up.

“Murray,” Lestrade replied grimly, “Tried to top himself last night; OD’d on morphine. Watson found him – saved his life, I gather. Murray’s in intensive care; he’s stable but it’s been touch and go.”

Sherlock was silent, brain racing ahead.

Something about Watson? No, this is a panic response – if Watson were responsible, Murray would have done it the previous night. Something’s happened, something new, but what? Not enough data.

“I need to talk to him as soon as possible,” Sherlock said. Lestrade made a noise of disgust.

“Didn’t you hear me?” he replied. “He’s unconscious and likely to remain so for some considerable time. The medics are still not certain he won’t be brain damaged if and when he finally wakes up. And while we’re about it, you’re in deep, my son. I told you to go easy, didn’t I?”

“Are you saying that Watson’s blaming me for his friend’s suicide attempt?” Sherlock demanded in amazement.

“Not Watson,” Lestrade replied gloomily, “Phelps. He’s made an official complaint, which is going down like a lead balloon with my superiors, I can tell you.”

“Why Phelps?” Sherlock mused to himself, “Why would he want to stop me investigating? What’s in it for him?”

“He might just be concerned about the havoc you’re causing amongst his clients!” Lestrade replied heatedly. “I warned you not to make waves, now I’m sorry but you’re off the case. My hands are tied and I’ve got enough to do to keep the press out of it without fielding your wild shots in the dark. I’m sorry, but I warned you of the consequences. Stay away!"

Sherlock replaced the phone gently on the coffee table and sat thoughtfully for a moment. Coming to a decision, he sprang to his feet and grabbed his coat and scarf, clattering down the stairs.

Watson’s face looked grey and old. He sat in the intensive care ward next to the hospital bed containing a very pale Alex Murray who was wired up to every conceivable drip, monitor and tube imaginable. Watson held Murray’s hand and every so often he would run his fingers over the unresponsive skin. Sherlock observed the scene through the window and brought a gloved hand up to the glass.

Sometime later, Sherlock turned his head and drew his feet up preparatory to rising from his chair in the hospital waiting room as John Watson left the room. Watson seemed unsurprised to see Sherlock and simply sighed with weariness.

“He’s stable, thank god,” he said, his voice ragged with relief. “I wasn’t sure whether I’d got there in time and it was touch and go for a while, but he hung on and we think he’s going to make it.”

“I gather you saved his life,” Sherlock said.

Watson shrugged. “I’m a doctor,” he replied, “that’s what we do.”

Sherlock nodded faintly and looked away.

Watson gave him a keen glance and drew in a quick, short breath. “Alright then, Mr Consulting Detective,” he said with a pale smile, “I’m dry as a bone; my turn to buy you coffee, I think. Let’s get out of here and find somewhere that doesn’t smell of rubbing alcohol.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“What?” Watson shot back with a puzzled look.

Sherlock twisted his mouth. “I gather, then, that you do not share the opinions so forcefully expressed by your agent, Mr Phelps?” he replied.

Watson frowned. “David?” he said, and then shrugged. “He says a lot of things. Some of them even make sense.”

Watson gave a tired chuckle. “Look, Sherlock,” he said, “I don’t believe you drove Alex to try to kill himself, alright? He is perfectly capable of working himself up to it all on his own without help from anyone else. I’ve known him a long time and although he’s never tried it before, I’ve always wondered if he might.” He patted Sherlock gently on the shoulder. “You’re in the clear,” he said with a faint smile. He jerked his head towards the door.

“Come on,” he said, “Don’t hang about.”

Seeing few other more interesting options, Sherlock did as he was bid and followed John Watson.

As they left the Royal Free, Watson immediately hailed a taxi. Sherlock heard him give the cabby the address of an independent coffee house in Camden Town.

“The caffeine content of their regular brew is far too high for human consumption,” Watson confided to Sherlock as they slid into the leather seats. “Their dark roast is even worse – strips the enamel off your teeth – but I really need something to take away the taste of today. That is, if you’re not feeling too health conscious?”

Sherlock glanced out of the window to conceal a contemptuous smirk.

The coffee was indeed strong and black and had the consistency of sump oil, but it tasted like a little piece of heaven on earth. Sherlock could feel the stuff infusing his veins, chivying his sluggish brain into motion; rallying his body into wakefulness.

“Aaah!” sighed Watson at the first sip. He closed his eyes blissfully.

Sherlock imagined that look under different circumstances and was amused to realize that he was probably meant to. “Alright,” he said, “the coffee’s everything you promised, the venue is comfortable and appealing – what do you want of me?”

Watson took another pull of his drink. “Does there have to be an ulterior motive?” he asked, his eyes wide and guileless, “Can’t we just have coffee together?”

“No,” Sherlock said baldly, “Now can we just get back to the real reason I’m here?”

Watson turned his head to try to hide a smile but failed and started to laugh. After a moment, Sherlock joined him.

“I really am that obvious, aren’t I?” Watson said.

Sherlock nodded, amused. “Transparent,” he replied, “Now, if you find it hard to make a beginning, allow me to assist: are we here to discuss Alex Murray’s drug dependency or Mary Morstan’s?”

There was a very pregnant pause which served to drain the good humor from John Watson’s face and replace it with an uneasy grimace.

“There’s no hiding anything from you, is there?” he muttered.

“No,” replied Sherlock with a certain amount of smug satisfaction; he had never claimed to be a nice man. He sat back in his chair and gave Watson the floor.

“How did you guess?” Watson asked.

Sherlock shook his head. “I never guess,” he replied.

“Yeah, you do,” Watson countered easily.

Sherlock gave a faint smile. “Her behavior was always unpredictable,” he replied, “The first time I saw her she was unnaturally calm, her reactions were slow and her movements very languid. She was clearly under the influence of some kind of downer. The next time I saw her, she was very agitated, sweating, dilated pupils, unable to keep still. Given the proximity of another user, I deduced that she was similarly addicted.”

Watson shook his head. “Alex has nothing to do with Mary,” he said seriously. “Her problems come directly from the job.”

He sighed and drained his cup. Sherlock signaled for a refill.

“It started with the champagne they serve before every catwalk show,” Watson continued. “Pretty soon, that wasn’t enough and someone, god knows who, gave her something else. She’s a mess, Sherlock, with multiple addictions and problems. She really should be in rehab somewhere, but her parents won’t hear of it; they think she can just snap out of it on her own. David solved the problem to his own satisfaction by bringing me in, but there’s a limit to what I can do.”

He spread his hands helplessly. “I’m an army medic,” he said, “not an addiction specialist.”

“And yet you treated Alex Murray?” Sherlock responded.

Watson looked away. “Alex was an entirely different case,” he replied and closed his mouth. Sherlock waited a few moments for their coffee to be served, and then he leaned forward into Watson’s space.

“Alexander Andrew Murray,” Sherlock began, “Thirty-four years of age, Australian national, studied journalism and photography at Griffith University, Queensland. Emigrated to England on graduation, worked as a chauffeur for a few years while launching his career. His big break came when he was sent to war to cover the invasion. He was kidnapped and tortured along with several colleagues, all foreign nationals. He was the only one who made it out of there alive. He made things public by condemning his captors and he named and described them as well as he could, all of which put his life on the line. The bad guys were identified and neutralized by allied forces and Murray was put on several people’s death-lists. He was airlifted out and warned to stay away.”

Watson nodded reluctantly. “You’ve done your homework, that’s clear,” he replied, taking a drink.

Sherlock smile faintly. “There’s more,” he continued, “Murray had a few lean years after the hue and cry died down. People thought he’d lost his nerve, but out of the blue he accepted a low-key assignment on a documentary which just happened to be in Afghanistan, and that’s where he met you.”

Watson sighed. “I guess there’s no reason to assume you don’t know the rest,” he replied. “Alex had, well, some PTSD after they got him out. Not surprising really, but he felt like he was suffocating back in jolly old England,” he gave a humorless laugh, “I know the feeling. Unfortunately, he had been branded a casualty and, despite his ‘war hero’ image, potential employers gave him a very wide berth. He finally got the job in Kandahar, but by that time he’d found his own solution to the jitters and the nightmares, and being in Afghanistan only made the stuff easier to get hold of.”

Watson stopped talking and clenched his jaw, the muscles of his face working.

“You met him, realized the extent of the problem and got involved,” Sherlock continued quietly. “You knew you should have left well alone, but you are a good doctor and a decent human being and your compassionate nature wouldn’t let him suffer.”

Watson’s eyes slid away and down to the tabletop.

Sherlock’s lips thinned. “It was difficult,” he continued, “well-nigh impossible, I imagine, but you got Murray’s morphine addiction under control. You worried about how he would cope without you when he returned to England so you kept in touch. When you were invalided out, Murray was there to repay his debt of honor. He found you a flat, a job, a mentor and, as an unexpected bonus, a girlfriend. You were amazed, grateful – until you realized that there is no such thing as a free lunch.”

Watson was nodding slowly. “And this situation had more strings attached to it than a piano,” he replied bitterly, “David must have thought it was Christmas when I turned up.”

Sherlock nodded. “You were gift-wrapped for him,” he agreed, “A new client, talented and popular, a practicing doctor to boot; just the thing to look after his star client junkie. When did you find out?”

“About Mary or Alex?” Watson asked.

“Both, I suppose,” Sherlock replied.

Watson shook his head ruefully. “Far too late,” he said. “I should have realized Alex could never go the distance back in England and without my help. With Mary, the doctor in me should have spotted it immediately but in my defense, I wasn’t expecting it. And I was too busy being a hotshot personality; I’d put medicine behind me.”

Watson’s tone was bitter. He took a pull of his coffee and looked at Sherlock over the rim of his mug. His face relaxed into a smile and his eyes grew unfocused.

“I remember the first time I met her,” he said, “She was so fragile and innocent, but intelligent and charming too. Far too young for me, of course, but somehow that didn’t seem to matter.”

Watson came back to the present with a sharp glance at Sherlock. “I never slept with her,” he said firmly.

“I never asked,” Sherlock replied.

“I know,” Watson said, “but that’s the only redeeming thing I can think of in this situation. By the time I admitted the truth to myself, I was half way to being in love with her.”

“And just as you couldn’t leave Alex Murray to rot, you found yourself bound to help Mary Morstan,” Sherlock murmured, “Just the same.”

“Just the same,” echoed Watson. Sherlock gave him a keen glance but Watson merely smiled ironically.

“So,” he said, “as an encore to my less-than-illustrious career, I found myself presenting an insipid, pointless image, living in a mausoleum I couldn’t breathe in, playing nursemaid to two addicts, and in a very public, very fictional engagement.”

“And you’ve never forgiven Murray his part, have you?” Sherlock asked.

Watson paused then shook his head. “No,” he replied flatly, “and I never will. I’ve had to prescribe things I really didn’t want to without reasonable justification in a court of law, merely because I couldn’t bear to see either of them suffer and David refused to have Mary treated in a rehab center. The media fallout would have ruined him, he said.”

“Didn’t her parents object?” Sherlock asked.

Watson gave a huff of laughter. “That’s the funniest thing you’ve said all morning,” he replied. “Mary’s parents are in favor of anything that will preserve the status quo, including keeping their darling daughter’s condition a secret. That’s the only reason they sanctioned her engagement to me.”

Watson laughed. “Me!” he exclaimed, “a retired army doctor with no money, no rank and a minimal pension. They must have been desperate – and I must have been completely off my head.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No,” he replied, quietly, “just in love.”

Watson was silent for a while and when he finally replied his tone was cautious. “That was a test, wasn’t it?” he said. Sherlock said nothing.

“Alright,” Watson said. “I never loved her; I was dazzled, seduced if you like, but it wasn’t love. I know the difference.”

Watson drained the rest of his drink and rose from his chair, signalling the waiter. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to get back to the hospital,” he said, fishing a couple of notes out of his wallet and tossing them on the table. “Thanks for that – it’ll keep me awake for a couple of hours now.”

Sherlock said nothing but signaled for another refill which he drank at speed before leaving in the direction of Scotland Yard.

The moment he spotted Sherlock approaching from the corridor, Lestrade stood up and walked quickly over to the door of his office, pushing the taller man away from the threshold by sheer body mass.

“Sherlock! I told you to keep away from this case!” he hissed urgently. “Look, you can’t just take off on your own. I’ve got people breathing down my neck over this – important people. The last thing I need is some kind of vigilante who…”

“This is the man,” David Phelps said, elbowing Lestrade to one side. “This is the one who harassed poor Alex Murray until he tried to take his own life!”

“Mr Phelps, please try to calm down,” Lestrade was saying. Phelps shook off his restraining hand and stepped into Sherlock’s space.

“He has been hounding my people, Inspector,” he said, “accusing us of involvement in the murder of Michael Stamford…”

“I have never hounded you,” Sherlock responded coolly, “and you clearly are involved with this crime, Mr Phelps; you own the premises and it doesn’t get more involved than that.”

“Mary Morstan has suffered an emotional breakdown due to this man,” Phelps continued, “and John Watson is a nervous wreck.”

Sherlock actually laughed. “Mary Morstan belongs in rehab,” he replied, “And John Watson is very far from a nervous anything – the man thrives on danger. He gets off on it.”

“What do you know about John Watson?” Phelps practically shouted into Sherlock’s face.

“Enough,” Sherlock admitted, "to know he’s fairly calm considering the circumstances – I’ve just had coffee with him.”

“Just had…” Phelps seemed to run out of steam. Lestrade laid a heavy hand on his shoulder.

“Come along, Mr Phelps,” he said, “My Sergeant’ll see you out and don’t worry: I’ll be having a word with this gentleman just as soon as you’re gone, I assure you. Donovan!”

The sergeant popped his head round the door far too promptly, scowling at Sherlock as he did so.

“Escort Mr Phelps out of the building, will you?” Lestrade said in deceptively mild tones. “He’s leaving now.”

Donovan nodded and took charge of the suddenly quiet Phelps who left without protest. Lestrade glared at Sherlock.

“I've warned you countless times,” he spat, “you and your ‘methods’. You've overstepped again. Now you’re responsible for a suicide and a collapse. I can’t protect you if you keep this up, and I can’t use you either. You’re on the verge of an official warning and arrest.”

Lestrade sighed and ran his fingers through his greying hair. “So I'm ordering you. Please go away, Sherlock,” he said tiredly, “Go away before you do any more damage.”

To Lestrade’s surprise, Sherlock did so without protest and left the building shortly after.

“Sherlock, dear.”

Sherlock paused in his manic ascent of the stairs to lean over the Bannister at Mrs Hudson’s summons. She lifted her face to look up at him, smiling affectionately.

“You’ve got a visitor,” she said in hushed tones. “I’ve sent him up already – I hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock replied, wondering why she seemed so animated by the situation. “I needed to see Lestrade anyway.”

“Oh no, Sherlock,” Mrs Hudson gave a tiny, rather smug giggle. “It isn’t the Inspector. This gentleman’s quite the stranger to me and a very good looking one but he seems ever so nice.”

She bustled back into her own flat leaving Sherlock to frown curiously and continue his way up to the first floor flat with a rather more measured tread.

John Watson stood up immediately Sherlock entered the living room. He smiled vaguely at Sherlock then looked away, unconsciously rubbing the palms of his hands against his thighs. Sherlock regarded him for a moment in thoughtful silence then smiled faintly.

“Good evening, Doctor Watson,” he said formally, “I trust you are well. How fares Mr Murray?”

“Alex is awake and off the danger list now,” Watson told him, his relief obvious, “He’s got a way to go before he’s back to normal but at least there are no physical ramifications, thank god. He should make a full recovery.”

Watson chewed his lip. “Sergeant Donovan told me what happened earlier at the Yard, I mean, with David,” he said, uneasily. “Look, Sherlock, as soon as I heard, I made him withdraw the complaint, alright? I’m quite sure he knows that Alex’s problems have their beginning and end in Alex himself. I’m sorry David was such a prize idiot; he’s been under quite a lot of strain recently. He’s had some financial difficulties, lost a few clients and he’s working himself into the ground to make up the slack.”

Watson looked gloomy. “And things aren’t going to get much better any time soon,” he continued sadly, “not with Mary in full-time rehab now. I’m just waiting for the storm to break; the media fallout is going to be lovely.”

“What happened?” Sherlock demanded.

Watson lowered his eyes. “She went hysterical last night when she heard about Alex,” he replied. “I had no choice but to call paramedics and check her into a clinic I know and trust. She’s there voluntarily – I didn’t want to get her Sectioned – and with any luck she’ll stay long enough at least to get some perspective. She may just as well grasp the nettle and get clean now because there’s no way we can sweep this under the carpet. Lord knows, the clinic’s used to keeping the lid on famous clients, but honestly there’s little point in secrecy now, not after her involvement in Mike’s… in his murder. I’m afraid the jig is well and truly up for Mary.”

Watson smiled ruefully and sighed. “I’m just so sorry for her,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. “Underneath all the neuroses and compensatory behavior, she’s just a frightened kid. She’s terrified of David, you know; he threw such a scare into her over the paps getting dirt on her that she’s almost paranoid about discretion.”

Phelps is quite a hard-liner when it comes to his” investments”.

Sherlock kept silent.

Watson shuffled his feet then raised his head. “I was wondering if you’d be up for dinner,” he said diffidently, “It’s the least I can do in light of what my agent did to you.”

Sherlock blinked once, slightly wrong-footed, then recovered. He inclined his head regally.

“That sounds acceptable,” he replied, eyes twinkling.

Watson – John – smiled in relief. His body visibly relaxed as he moved towards the door. “There’s a little Italian bistro a couple of streets away…” he began, but Sherlock was nodding.

“Angelo’s? Yes, I know the proprietor there…”