“So,” said Sherlock as they polished off a chilled bottle of Pinot Grigio at the window table, “do you eat here often?”

John stared at him then sniggered. Sherlock frowned quizzically.

“I didn’t think anybody still used that line,” John said then shook his head, “Never mind. Yes, I do visit here on occasion – it’s quiet, the food is fantastic and no one knows who I am.”

“Do people often recognize you then?” Sherlock asked.

John shrugged. “Sometimes,” he replied, “mostly in restaurants and the like. You know; where they’ve got time to look around and wonder about the other punters.”

John put down his glass and reached for his panna cotta. “You know,” he said, elaborately casual, “normal people don’t have skulls on their mantelpieces. Or smiley faces drawn on their wallpaper in neon yellow paint. Or bullet holes in the plaster-work, for that matter.”

“Don’t they?” Sherlock replied in bored tones, “Sounds a bit dull.”

John leaned his elbows on the table. “Sherlock, I’m a doctor not a dentist,” he said apropos of nothing. Sherlock frowned, puzzled.

“Don’t make me pull teeth,” John returned pleasantly but his follow up was cut short by a crash.

John was suddenly prone under the table, dazed and blinking stupidly, showered with glass shards and pinned to the floor by Sherlock’s not inconsiderable bulk. Sherlock immediately sprang to his feet, taking in the scene, identifying the cause of the crash. John’s eyes widened as he caught sight of the bottle, the bright trails of fire, and the flames just catching on the edges of the table linens.

“Molotov cocktail!” John shouted above the hubbub of screaming and panic. “It’s still in one piece for some reason. Quickly! Get the fire out before the bottle explodes!”

John crawled out from under the table, vaulted over the bar and grabbed for a fire extinguisher, putting out the main blaze before it could spread. He sprayed the nearby tables and the surrounding rugs for good measure, assisted by Angelo with the kitchen extinguisher.

“We were very lucky,” John panted once the flames were out and the emergency services were arriving with noise and bustle, “If that bottle had broken, the whole place would have gone up in one huge fireball. Not many of us would have got out alive.”

Sherlock was inspecting the debris, crouching down to examine the bottle.

“Rags,” he muttered. “but unusually dense weave; linen mix, or pure? Usual type of fuel – stupid, stupid. People just don’t think!”

Sherlock looked up intercepting a confused look on John’s face. He pointed to the bottle.

“Champagne,” he explained. “Thicker glass bottles to withstand the pressure of the carbon dioxide. That’s why you were able to put it out before it could explode.”

John shook his head. “Seems a bit, well, amateurish, doesn’t it?” he ventured, poking it gingerly with his foot, “And champagne! A strange choice for a terrorist weapon, don’t you think?” He looked up at Sherlock, eyebrows raised.

Sherlock smiled without humor. “Oh, he probably got it from a restaurant bin,” he replied airily. “Terrorists are notoriously inefficient when it comes to making their homemade weapons actually do what they are designed to do.”

John's eyes widened. "You think this is a terrorist attack?" he said.

"Possibly," Sherlock replied. "It seems rather too crude to be anything else." His eyes did not quite meet John’s.

The noise and hubbub of their fellow diners venting their anger and fright suddenly intruded. John straightened up and rubbed the back of his neck with the palm of one hand.

“I’d better go see if I can do anything to help this lot,” he said. Sherlock frowned up at him, still engrossed in the crime scene.

John smiled faintly. “Doctor here, you know,” he said, turning away.

Sherlock stood up to find Angelo at his elbow, worry painted all over his face.

“Sherlock, I swear, I’ve done nothing to make anyone want to torch my place,” he said seriously, “After you got me off that murder charge, I changed my ways; I’ve been a model citizen ever since.”

“Yes,” replied Sherlock crisply, “Receiving stolen goods is a far less dangerous profession than burglary, Angelo, but fortunately for you, I don’t believe this attempt at arson, incompetent as it was, had anything to do with you. It was personal, but neither you nor your restaurant were the target. Unfortunately for Doctor Watson, I think someone has just made another attempt to kill him.”

Lestrade was absolutely livid.

“How many times do I have to warn you off?” he snarled, “I tell you to keep your distance, throw you off the case, and threaten you with an official reprimand and arrest if you poke your nose in again. Next thing I know, I’m called out to a torched restaurant and what do I find?”

“You found me having dinner, Inspector,” Sherlock replied calmly, “with Doctor Watson here.” John smiled amiably.

Lestrade’s eyes flicked over him dismissively. He rounded on Sherlock.

"I also told you to stay away from him only yesterday!” he spat, trying to keep his voice at a reasonable level. “Sherlock, for the last time, people are beginning to ask questions, namely, my superiors!”

“Is there a problem, Inspector?” John asked, stepping up to Lestrade’s elbow. “I invited Mr Holmes for dinner this evening in order to try to apologize for David’s behavior in your office today. I’m sorry if I’ve crossed any lines here, but it really was as simple as that.”

“And as I wasn’t here on business,” Sherlock continued, “I believe that Doctor Watson and I are merely material witnesses and can pop in tomorrow morning to give our statements, may we not, Inspector?”

Lestrade looked between the two of them and glared hard at Sherlock but was unable to crack that impassive mask. He sighed heavily and jerked his head to one side.

“Alright, I’ll fit you in tomorrow – off you go,” he said narrowing his eyes at their departing backs.

“You just lied to the police,” John said accusingly as they walked away.

“Did you want to spend all night waiting to give a statement?” asked Sherlock, raising both eyebrows. John flushed slightly and shook his head,“Well, then.”

“Let’s get a cab,” John said, “It’s a bit far to walk.”

Without waiting for a reply, he flagged down a passing taxi and opened the door giving directions to Hampstead.

Sherlock prowled about John’s flat refreshing his memory while John made some totally unnecessary coffee. It was a strange feeling, returning to premises that only recently had been a crime scene; a very odd sensation to realize that the possessions he had rifled through and deciphered with such freedom were now, for the sake of decency, out of bounds.

“Sherlock,” John called from the kitchen, “could you bring in the spare coffee scoop? The one in the coffee jar seems to have gone AWOL. It’s in the middle drawer of the sideboard.”

“Incompetents!” muttered Sherlock pulling on the handle, “Call themselves SOCOs, they couldn’t find an elephant in a department store, even if it were…” His fingers brushed against a groove in the drawer face and with a quiet click, a tiny spring-loaded panel sprang out of the wood, totally invisible unless you knew where to look. Curiously, Sherlock slid his hand into the gap to touch something that crinkled quietly. He gripped it carefully between thumb and forefinger and drew it out. An old envelope, the paper yellowing and the glue no longer sticky but containing something stiffer than the paper itself. He turned it over, carefully easing open the flap, and withdrew a photograph.

It was a simple snapshot caught during a relaxed moment some years ago, that much was evident. The setting was a public park, Sherlock was unsure which one, evidently during late spring or early summer judging by the fresh green of the trees. One of the subjects was a man in his twenties, in the prime of his physical attractiveness and, heavens, was he a beauty! Tall and slender with glossy dark hair which swept over his face in a too-long fringe, smoky brown eyes and alabaster skin to die for, he reclined on a green painted park bench with his arm casually slung over the back and around the shoulders of a much younger man, a teenager. The boy was quite small in height but stocky with broad shoulders, dressed casually in trousers and a blue tee-shirt with old shoes. His hair was blond, his eyes were blue and his resemblance to John Watson was uncanny.

“Sherlock?” John called again from the kitchen, “Did you find it?”

Sherlock blinked and his brain returned to reality like lightning. He slipped the photograph and its envelope into an inside pocket and rummaged around purposefully in the drawer for cover before handing John the measure.

“Thought you’d got lost,” John grinned, taking the small item and returning to the kitchen. Sherlock smiled back but his eyes narrowed and he rubbed his chin absently, his mind racing ahead.

John brought in the coffee on a tray together with milk, sugar and something biscuit-like which claimed to be Italian.

“Black with sugar,” observed John when he had served the coffee to their liking, “Your teeth must be dissolving.”

Sherlock shrugged. “I clean them morning and evening,” he replied, “Besides, sugar is brain food; gives a reasonable high when I need it.”

“Does everything revolve around thinking for you, then?” John asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock responded, “I have always considered myself married to my work, although recently I have noticed that I am not averse to the idea of having an affair so to speak.”

It was a charmingly old-fashioned way of expressing the sentiment and John’s eyes crinkled in appreciation. He chuckled. “Come on, then,” he said, smiling, “tell me about yourself – you promised you would.”

“I said I would answer your questions,” Sherlock replied, “not give you a presentation.”

John shook his head. “I just want a quick resume,” he replied, “I can wait for the details.”

That sounded promising. Sherlock found himself smiling back. “Fire away with your questions,” he said, leaning back against the generous upholstery, “and I’ll try to answer as honestly as I know how.”

“Well, isn’t this precious?"

The voice was flat and sarcastic, edged with anger and something else less clean. John spun away from Sherlock, automatically stepping in front of the other man in a protective manner. The gesture prompted derisive laughter.

“Oh, John; John!” David Phelps moved out of the shadows in the doorway into the light. His lips were smiling but his face was stony.

“Always the protector,” he continued, “really, you can take the man out of the army, but you’ll never take the army out of the man.”

“David,” John said breathlessly, “what are you doing here?”

Phelps shrugged. “It’s my flat,” he replied carelessly, “I have a right to check up on maintenance issues.”

“But I don’t have any,” John protested, “except the damage to the carpet in the hall, and the police were responsible for that.”

“Yes, such a pity,” Phelps shook his head regretfully. “Top quality Persian silk – irreplaceable, unfortunately.”

“Oh, I doubt that very much,” Sherlock said.

Phelps turned a very dark gaze onto him.” I beg your pardon?” he replied in tones frosty enough for Moscow in January.

Sherlock’s expression did not change. “You are surely aware of the emporium on Dean Street in the London Borough of Hackney?” he asked coolly.

Phelps brushed the question aside. “I have never been there in my life,” he replied loftily. “I keep away from such places.”

“A pity,” Sherlock replied and fell silent when John cleared his throat.

“David, what are you doing here?” he repeated. Phelps seemed to recollect himself, blinking furiously.

“John,” he began in a conspiratorial fashion, “unfortunately, I’m afraid I have a tiny, tiny bone to pick with you.”

“And what’s that, then?”

“The little matter of your lying to me.”

John paused for a moment frowning then shook his head. “Offhand, I don’t recall any time I’ve lied to you,” he replied staring straight into the man’s face.

Phelps smiled indulgently. “Memory can be so selective, don’t you find?” he said, “For example, when we first met, John, you assured me that you were heterosexual. That little fact appears to have slipped your mind this evening, wouldn’t you agree?”

John frowned and cocked his head slightly. “I don’t remember…” he began, but Phelps interrupted.

“As has also the small matter of your engagement to Mary,” Phelps continued, “You seem to be subject to a convenient amount of selective amnesia this evening, wouldn’t you say?” He shook his head pityingly.

“John, you’re a thirty-six year old veteran with an injured shoulder and a psychosomatic limp,” Phelps told him. “When we met, you had no money, no prospects and no future. I gave you purpose, fame, a six-figure salary and a high-profile occupation, not to mention a rich, beautiful fiancé ten years your junior with family and connections to die for. Yet you choose to throw all this in my face for a cheap hook-up with a psychopathic junkie who has a very lengthy criminal record, a reputation for wanton destruction of property, lives and a collection of psychiatric evaluations that would certainly rival the Jack The Ripper if they ever caught him!”

“Now just hold on one minute!” John began furiously, but Phelps was clearly on a roll and carried on as though he had not spoken.

“And it’s not as though you were unaware until now of your tendencies, John,” he continued. “Suppose I were to ask you about your head nurse, Peterson, during your first tour of duty? Or Captain Chris Dean during firearms training on Dartmoor? Indeed, I could even go back as far as your lab partner during your third year at Edinburgh – Raymond, wasn’t it?”

John’s expression turned stony. “I don’t recall swearing on the Bible or any other icon of truth that I never had or never would play for the other team. In point of fact, I distinctly remember telling you to mind your own bloody business. You obviously ignored that – how the blazes did you find out, and where do you get off prying into my past life anyway?”

“Where and how I got my information is immaterial,” Phelps returned swiftly, “This is not about me or my methods, it’s about you. I’m rather disappointed our recollections of the same conversation are so disparate, John. You certainly led me to believe you weren’t even curious, even when faced with Alex Murray’s obvious fawning devotion. I trusted you, John, to tell me the truth.”

John’s eyes slid away. “I told you I wasn’t interested in Alex as a partner or boyfriend, significant other or whatever you want to call it,” he replied evenly. “That much is absolutely true. Anything else you chose to infer from that one brief conversation is entirely your own invention.”

“You told me you were in love with Mary,” Phelps countered contemptuously. “Clearly you were being economical with the truth there too.”

John glared. “That’s enough,” he replied, “For the record, I was besotted with Mary from the outset – they say there’s no fool like an old one – and even when I realized the truth about her, I still cared enough to stick with her, despite this media circus of yours. I thought we could make a go of it at least until she was clean. I wanted to do right by her, look after her. That should have been enough for you. After all, that was what you employed me for, wasn’t it?”

“So dramatic!” Phelps sighed. “Dear boy, I employed you because you are a natural for the biz. Your relationship with Mary was, well, extremely convenient, but also very good for the publicity machine, whereas this…” he sneered disdainfully in Sherlock’s direction, not deigning to complete the sentence. Sherlock stared at him impassively.

“And that’s another thing,” John raged back. “Just who do you think you are throwing baseless accusations like that around about someone you barely know? Psychopathic, criminal… Even if Sherlock did have to undergo psych evals, I can’t imagine how you’d ever know about it let alone have access to the documents.”

“Actually, I fear neither of your last statements is strictly true, John,” Sherlock interrupted, speaking for the first time, in clipped tones. “I do indeed have a string of the things to my name, and I’ve no doubt that Mr Phelps has read them in enthusiastic detail.”

John’s head jerked up; he stared at Sherlock. “How?” he asked.

Sherlock shrugged. “I would like to say my brother – he occupies a position in the British Government – but I fear my childhood doctors would have been a much easier nut to crack than Mycroft. Mr Phelps may hug himself; his methods are on a par with my own.”

Sherlock took a slow breath but his face did not move a muscle.

“He forgets to mention that I am a bona fide genius with an IQ off the scale,” he continued quietly. “Also that I have certain personality traits associated with so-called Asperger’s Syndrome – lack of empathy, extreme impatience, very low boredom threshold. I have heightened auditory and visual perception which often overloads my senses causing me great distress. I am prone to periods of extreme, almost catatonic inactivity and also acts which are interpreted as mindlessly violent because I will do anything to stop being bored. I'm also a drug addict, Cocaine to be exact, have been since I was a teenager. Again, Mr Phelps may accept congratulations.”

Sherlock turned back to Phelps. “You skimped on your research,” he told the other man. “I’m sure if you had dug just a little deeper, you could have uncovered the mysterious and unexplained death of my brother’s pet hamster when I was four because that was actually my doing.”

“Sherlock,” John began, placing a warning hand on his arm. Sherlock glanced at John's hand and froze. 

“Okay, okay,” he said. Sherlock stared at him, and then visibly pulled himself together.

“And if we’re raking over murky past history, Mr Phelps, what shall we say about yours?” Sherlock continued, regaining some of his balance.

Phelps frowned. “This isn’t about me,” he responded quickly.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows mockingly. “Isn’t it?” he replied. “On the contrary, I think it’s all about you, Mr Phelps. Would you like me to give you chapter and verse?”

“I would like you to go, Mr Holmes,” Phelps said, finally betraying some irritation. “You are irrelevant, you do not belong here. Please, just leave.”

Sherlock paused for a moment then inclined his head in a stiff little bow. “Very well,” he said quietly and made for the door.

“What the…?” John tried to head him off but Sherlock’s greater mass simply mowed him down and he was gone with a swirl of his coat and a slam of the door.

“Sherlock!” John shouted after him. He started to follow, was stopped in his tracks as Phelps gripped his arm with a gloved hand.

“Let him go,” he said gently. “It’s for the best.”

John rounded on him and wrenched his arm away. “Haven’t you done enough damage for one night?” he said between gritted teeth. Phelps raised a sardonic eyebrow.

“Oh, come on,” he said drily. “You’re not going to play the lovelorn hero now, are you? This man, Holmes, he’s not worth your notice. Frankly, I’m surprised you didn’t do a little checking yourself. He’s not the kind of person you want to associate with, certainly not in your profession; he would be very bad for business.”

“Oh, really,” John returned sarcastically.

“Yes, really,” Phelps replied, a harder edge to his voice. “You’re not thinking about this – well, at least not with what’s in your head. Sherlock Holmes has a certain – reputation.”

John glared at Phelps. “What do you mean?” he demanded.

Phelps gave a small sigh. “He’s a headcase who only escaped custodial sentences for multiple infractions, including drug offences, burglary and actual bodily harm by the skin of his teeth due to the fact that his brother has influence. He dropped out of Oxford half way through his PhD in criminology and chemistry because of that cocaine addiction he mentioned and increasingly aberrant and violent behaviors. Balliol College is not known for its tolerance, but even the most lenient of institutions would be obliged to take action over a roommate traumatized by discovering human body parts in the kitchen or the student that literally found him whipping a corpse in a morgue in the name of so called science.”

John stared. “How do you know all this?” he demanded, finding his voice.

Phelps smiled. “I have my contacts,” he replied. “I make it my business to protect my commercial ventures, and make no mistake, you represent some considerable investment on my part and I will not stand by and see all of that destroyed by an ill-considered liaison."

“John, listen,” he said more gently, “Mr Holmes wasn’t wrong about my knowing the contents of his past. He does indeed have psychopathic tendencies and criminal ones, why do you think he works with the police? They would rather him be with them rather than against them. The real source of my worry is you; your emotional involvement; your heart.”

John frowned. “What are you talking about?” he demanded.

“Don’t get defensive,” Phelps replied mildly, “I am merely trying to explain to you that your expectations when it comes to Sherlock Holmes are not only unwise, they are likely impossible. He is undeniably genius – his tutors at Eton and Oxford were hard-pressed to keep up with him – but his emotional development is stunted, almost non-existent. The psychiatrists and doctors who interviewed him as a child and as a teenager judged him incapable of sustaining any kind of healthy relationship, emotional or otherwise. He refused further evaluations in later years – rather forcibly, so we'll never truly know the depth."

John brushed this aside like an irritating insect. “That’s irrelevant,” he said. “Sherlock is older now; things change.”

“Not that much,” Phelps shook his head. “As for the young men he seduced, one of them, a brilliant physicist, disappeared a month before Finals. His parents found him in a squat in Bermondsey drugged up to the eyeballs and barely alive. He never did finish his degree – such a waste. One was from a very rich family. Straight A student until he met him. He had to have therapy for months afterwards and a year abroad to get his head back together and even then hes never been the same. One was a police officer who somehow found himself floating in the Thames with strangulation marks around his neck just hours after last being seen with Sherlock. His last known victim, and he was John, was found stabbed to death in Sherlock's own damn flat with Sherlock himself covered in blood, stoned out of his mind and holding a knife!”

“And you’re certain beyond all doubt that these things relate directly to Sherlock?” John countered. “I don’t see how you can be.”

Phelps shrugged. “Maybe not, but his involvement in a serious arson cases in North London only a few months ago is not an encouraging factor. He was arrested but never charged – not enough evidence apparently. His brother’s influence yet again.”

Phelps fell silent. John swallowed and breathed out gustily through his nose. He turned his head to one side and raked a hand agitatedly through his hair.

“John,” Phelps began but John held up a quelling hand.

“I think I’d like you to go now, David,” he said quietly.

Phelps looked at him with an expression of sympathy but contented himself with patting John lightly on the shoulder.

“Alright,” he said, “I’ll see you at the studio tomorrow. Don’t forget – early strategy meeting.”

John gave no sign of hearing him and with a final pat to his arm Phelps left the flat, his face fixed in a frown. The pattering of his footsteps on the stairway gradually faded and the muted thump of the outer door was succeeded by silence.

From the shadows on the first floor landing, a tall figure slowly emerged, tucking, of all things, a doctor’s stethoscope into the inner pocket of his voluminous coat. He paused for a moment by John Watson’s front door, then glided noiselessly past and descended the stairs rapidly.

During his unashamed eavesdropping, Sherlock had heard little that he did not already know, but the blinding flash of insight that hit him after Phelps had left propelled him out of the building, down Tennyson Gardens and on to Grosvenor Street at a run.

Alex Murray’s studio was deserted and locked up tightly. Sherlock sized up the access, concluding that a frontal assault with the lock picks was the only possible ingress and set about it with the confidence borne of the truly egotistical. Within a few minutes, the bell over the lintel announced his entry to anyone actually inside the studio but a few swift strokes of his long-nosed pliers put paid to the alarms. Sherlock stopped in the doorway and surveyed the interior.

Clearly Murray lived in the flat above, but Sherlock deduced that what he was looking for would be hidden in the studio. It only took him ten minutes to locate the loose floorboard under the rug – really, people are so predictable – and remove the carefully-wrapped package. Slipping it into a convenient carrier bag, Sherlock replaced the furnishings and took his leave, taking care to lock the door behind him. The alarms could wait until Murray was back in circulation; the external boxes alone would deter anyone less skilled.

Lestrade found him the following afternoon.

Prone upon his sofa, one arm over his eyes, boxes of paper and piles of books interspersed with glassware and rubber tubing which rightly belonged in an old-fashioned chemistry lab still fighting with the furniture for space in the cramped living room, Sherlock lay unmoving.

“For christ’s sake, have you done nothing since you moved in?” said Lestrade, poised disbelievingly on the edge of the hallway carpet, head poking gingerly around the doorway.

“I’ve been working on the Stamford Affair, Lestrade, just in case you hadn’t noticed,” Sherlock replied without moving.

“And you’ve been ignoring my phone calls,” Lestrade announced, stepping cautiously into the room.

“Someone else is getting the cold shoulder too I take it,” he commented, shaking his head. "What’s that about eh, Sherlock?”

“I’ll leave you to your deductions,” Sherlock replied, lying back and returning his arm to his eyes. Lestrade smiled.

“I’m not stupid, you know,” he commented.

“Where do you get that idea?” Sherlock shot back in a bored tone of voice.

Lestrade actually laughed. “Come on,” he said, taking a seat on the arm of the sofa, “If you weren’t at Angelo’s on business last night, then you must have been on a date. A date with the infamous John Watson, erstwhile murder victim suddenly risen from the dead and now a chief suspect.”

“John’s not the killer,” Sherlock returned quickly. He sat up and swung his legs to the floor.

Lestrade raised his eyebrows. “No, I don’t think he is,” he replied, “but he’s certainly involved. Just how involved is another question. My question for you, however, is what in God’s name do you think you were doing having a cosy little romantic dinner with him?”

“Clearly nothing, Inspector,” Sherlock replied, “as you yourself can verify by my consistent lack of response to phone calls you already suspect. Do try to keep up.”

“What, you mean you actually were on business? God, Sherlock, that’s low even for you,” Lestrade’s frown deepened.

Sherlock sighed in irritation. “Look, Lestrade,” he said, “who I see on my own time is my affair, and my affair only.”

“Unless it actually is an affair and with a chief suspect,” Lestrade threw back. “What’s happened to you? You’ve always considered normal things like, well, dating to be beneath your notice.”

“That is unchanged, Inspector,” Sherlock replied frostily.

“So it wasn’t a date,” Lestrade pressed, “but John Watson evidently thinks it was, yes?”

“I can’t help what he thinks.”

“But is he wrong?”

There was a long pause.

“I may have…” Sherlock paused in a most uncharacteristic manner. Anyone who did not know him well could perhaps have inferred that he was – regretful?

Sherlock cleared his throat self-consciously. “It is possible that certain actions of mine could have been, ah, misinterpreted,” he finally managed.

Lestrade snorted inelegantly. “Now, there’s a surprise!” he said sarcastically. “What did you do? Ask him to volunteer as an experimental subject?”

Sherlock shook his head irritably. “It’s not important,” he said.

“It clearly is,” argued Lestrade.

“Then I don’t want to talk about it, is that clear?” Sherlock stood up and went to the kitchen.

“Milk, two sugars,” Lestrade called after him, settling down in Sherlock’s recently vacated seat and perching his feet on the table: he was going to enjoy this.

“Sherlock, are you listening to me?” Lestrade asked for the umpteenth time, waving a hand under Sherlock’s nose. Sherlock blinked confusedly and, as his phone rang, answered it without really thinking.

“Thank God!” came John Watson’s voice over the ether, “I thought I was never going to get you to talk to me. Sherlock, whatever you do don’t hang up! Okay? Just keep on the line. If you wimp out on me now, I’m going to run out of minutes and I’ll be forced to break into your flat. See? I’m going about this in a civilized fashion at least – I could have already come to Baker Street and kicked your front door in.”

“It’s made of solid wood reinforced with MDF,” Sherlock intoned flatly. “You’d break your foot before you got in.”

“It speaks!” Watson’s voice was redolent with relief. “Listen, we have to talk. I’ve been in a meeting for the past two hours and I’m on a quick break now before the next bit. Meet me for dinner this evening, okay? I’ll be waiting outside Angelo’s at 7 and I’ll be there until 7.30. Call Angelo's if you’re going to be late, but if you don’t come – well, I’ll leave you alone. Okay?”

During this monologue, Sherlock frowned hard at Lestrade and made shooing motions with his hand. Lestrade grinned but glanced at his watch and got to his feet obediently. He left the room with a farewell gesture and his footsteps could be heard descending the stairs.

“Sherlock? Sherlock, are you there?” John’s voice held a trace of panic.

“Just getting rid of an uninvited guest,” Sherlock replied.

“Oh, Lestrade, I suppose,” John said, something faintly disapproving in his tone. “Has he gone yet?”

Sherlock craned his neck to the landing. “Just now,” he replied. “Why?”

“Never mind,” John sounded harried and impatient. “Look, will you be there? Angelo’s at 7?”

There was a long pause.

“Yes,” said Sherlock and hung up.

The distraction was intolerable. Sherlock paced up and down his living room; even his violin provided no respite. He was tempted to go down to Speedy’s for cigarettes, but he knew that if he did, Mr Chatten would grass him up to Mrs Hudson and he would never hear the end of it. He ran his hand feverishly over the three nicotine patches currently decorating his right forearm; they just weren’t cutting it today.

Sherlock stood by the window and peered out over the London skyline, watching the traffic endlessly streaming past; a never-ceasing flow of humanity going about its business.

I have it. I have it all; I just have to grasp it and force it out into the open. Most of the pieces are in play now and I have deduced the shape and size of the missing ones. It’s childs play. I know the solution and I’ve known it for days, I just – don’t know that I want to use it.

Sherlock opened the sash and leaned his elbows on the sill.

I’m lying to myself. I’ve never been one for self-delusion, but I’m doing it now. I can’t allow this-this aberration to derail me, I have to move past this distraction

Sherlock arrived at Angelo’s at 7.15 to find John Watson waiting for him as promised.

John’s face lit up on sighting Sherlock and he grinned, wide and genuine. “I’d almost persuaded myself you weren’t going to turn up,” he told him.

Sherlock smiled tightly and shrugged. “I nearly didn’t,” he replied. John’s smile wavered slightly but her recovered well.

“We can eat here if you’d like,” he said, “but there’s a little Turkish place a couple of streets away that’s just opened, if you’d like to try it?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Actually,” he said, “I’d prefer it if you would come back to Baker Street with me. If you wouldn’t mind, that is?”

John looked surprised. “Okay. What, do you fancy a quiet evening in with some talk, or something?”

“Definitely something,” Sherlock muttered quietly as he turned to lead the way.

John seemed rather surprised to find 221B in the same squalid state as it had been the last time he called. He stepped carefully around some unidentified electrical equipment, boxes, books, stacks of paper, and stood uncertainly in the middle of all of it. Sherlock gestured to the sofa.

“Sit down please,” he said quietly, “this won’t take long.”

John frowned in puzzlement but sat down where Sherlock indicated obediently and looked up at him enquiringly. The other man picked up a parcel wrapped in a brown bag from his desk and placed it on the coffee table.

“Go on,” Sherlock jerked his head towards the parcel. “Open it. I don’t imagine this will be the first time you’ve seen it.”

John stared at Sherlock for a moment then flicked his gaze down to the parcel. He did not touch it nor did he read the address, he just closed his eyes briefly and shook his head.

“Where did you get this?” he demanded quietly. He looked up. “Where, Sherlock?”

“Alex Murray’s studio,” Sherlock replied expressionlessly, “Hidden under a loose floorboard – pathetically easy to spot.”

John nodded. “I suppose you’ve examined the contents – in detail?”

Sherlock nodded mutely. John sighed; he rose to his feet and looked Sherlock in the face.

“You were right,” he said sadly, “it didn’t take long at all. I’ll find my own way out.”

He stepped around the coffee table and made his way to the door.

“You have no explanation?” Sherlock asked simply.

John stopped and looked back. His face was shuttered, closed in. “I’m not going to try to excuse this,” he replied diffidently.

“I’m not asking you to,” Sherlock responded; his gaze was steady. John nodded slowly. He returned to the sofa and sat down carefully, his expression thoughtful and serious. If he noticed Sherlock taking the seat opposite, he gave no sign.

John opened the parcel and gently ran the pads of his fingers over the leather cover of a large, book. It was square with a discreet gold border on the outside and a tracing of gold on the spine; a photograph album. He opened the cover and began to flip through the pages.

“So this is the reason for the radio silence today,” he said quietly, “not what happened last night?”

Sherlock said nothing.

John narrowed his eyes; he gestured to the album. "Did you like any of them in particular?” he continued, "there’s certainly a wide selection!”

John’s tone was edgy and his eyes were like flint. He slammed the album down onto the coffee table and leaned his chin against one palm.

Sherlock stirred, running his tongue over his bottom lip. “I always knew these pictures had to exist, John,” he said quietly.” It was blindingly obvious from your portfolio photographs – particularly the less formal pictures – that Murray knew your body very well; intimately, in fact. Phelps has the hard copy albums of your portfolio, for business reasons, yes?” John nodded, “which was why we didn’t find any photographs at all in your flat, not even professional ones. That was slightly odd but easily accounted for. Now, these pictures,” he nodded to the album, “they had to be somewhere.”

Sherlock rose from his seat and paced the carpet. “It was clear to me from the outset that there was or had been something between you and Murray,” he continued, “although the precise nature of your relationship remained inconclusive. However, I did deduce that if you were indeed more than friends, then Murray, being the consummate artist that he is, would have found it difficult to hold back in using you as a subject. The fact that nothing more intimate than the portfolio shots had yet been uncovered during the investigation was even more telling.”

John shook his head with a faint smile. “Nothing gets past you, does it?” he said bitterly.

Sherlock shook his head. “No,” he acknowledged with no modesty whatsoever.

Sherlock glanced down at the photograph currently in view. The setting was a rustic-looking room with bare floorboards, white paintwork and overlong muslin curtains which dragged the floor. In the foreground was an iron bedstead made up with blinding white sheets and pillows on which reclined John Watson. The light from the window glanced over the graceful line of his back, burnishing his skin and gilding the ends of his hair. His eyes were closed, the lashes smudges of brown on delicately flushed cheeks.

Sherlock reached out a steady hand and turned the page thoughtfully. In the next picture, John had turned over on his back, his arm over his eyes. The stretch outlined muscles and tendons over his torso, making a V over his abdomen.

“Phelps told me that Murray was in love with you,” Sherlock said quietly.

John’s head lifted sharply. “David said that?” he demanded, frowning.

Sherlock nodded. “I had already deduced that from the photograph in your living room,” he continued, “but these confirm it in spades; they’re absolutely beautiful. I gather you were asleep for some of them?”

John nodded, looking back to the picture currently on show. His cheeks flushed slightly. “Alex never really stopped working,” he said. “He took hundreds of photographs of me, literally hundreds. I got so relaxed with him that I just didn’t care. That’s when he started getting me to pose for him. Eventually I got so blasé about it that I let him do anything he wanted. I never dreamed he’d use it against me.”

John glanced up at Sherlock and tapped the album with an index finger. “He sent this to me, you know,” he said. “He made the prints, compiled it and left it on my doormat three weeks ago. Honestly, anyone could have come along and opened it.”

“You mean Phelps could have,” Sherlock corrected.

John looked rather shamefaced. “Well, yes,” he replied. “David – well, despite his amazing business acumen, he’s really rather naïve. He would think nothing of opening my post or sorting through my belongings. That’s why I don’t have much of my own here; most of my stuff is still in storage since before I joined up.”

“You began your sexual relationship with Alex Murray in Afghanistan,” Sherlock prompted, “but when you returned to England, you resisted his attempts to pick up where you left off, yes?”

“God, yes,” John replied. “It was dodgy enough in a war zone – I felt bad about that, Alex was my patient – but once we’d met up again and Percy was re-inventing me for the media, not to mention meeting Mary, it just wasn’t worth the risk.”

“So what made you change your mind?” Sherlock asked coolly.

John stared. “God, how do your friends cope with this?” he asked rhetorically then shrugged. “Mary,” he said succinctly without waiting for an answer; he folded his hands.

“Mary is…” John paused then chuckled, “quite a girl, if the truth were ever known. She seems so untouched and innocent – she certainly had me fooled.” He shook his head then focused back on Sherlock.

“Mary is what would be termed in my youth as a Good Time Girl,” John told him. “She always officially lived at home with her parents, but she had the use of one of David’s luxury flats for business reasons – not in the same premises as mine, of course – and boy, did she use it! By the time I realized the lie of the land, I was so deep into the situation in all respects that I couldn’t get out without the whole thing crashing down around me.”

“So you went along with a public engagement and allowed Mary to use you as an alibi,” Sherlock finished. John nodded seriously.

“And that’s when you rekindled your affair with Alex Murray?”

John nodded again. “On the rebound, I suppose,” he sighed. “It was totally the wrong thing to do. Alex was too unstable still, and he was using again.”

John leaned forward in his seat urgently. “I want you to believe me – it’s over between Alex and me,” he said, “I should never have got his hopes up, it was stupid and cruel and I’m not proud of it, but for what it’s worth, Sherlock, it’s over for good this time.”

John shook his head wonderingly and lowered his eyes. “I thought he was coping,” he said quietly. “Oh, he was angry with me occasionally for messing him about – quite rightly – but he was moving on, taking on new projects and he’d signed on at a clinic I recommended to deal with his addiction problems. He was due at his first appointment yesterday…” John trailed off miserably.

“Did you ever suspect that Phelps knew about you and Murray?” Sherlock ventured.

John gave a huff of laughter. “David would have gone ape if he’d known,” he said, “He was possessive enough over me when he introduced me to Mary. If he’d known I was bi and in a relationship with a male business associate, he’d have flipped.”

“And yet he suspected enough to dig up your past history in the army and at uni?” Sherlock argued. He shook his head. “That must have taken a considerable amount of effort. No, John, he had to have known. In fact, I think he made it his business to know as much about you as possible.”

“What do you mean?” John frowned. Sherlock reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out the photograph he had taken from the flat in Hampstead.

As John studied the picture, his eyes widened and the color drained out of his skin. He pointed to the blonde boy. “But – that’s…?” he began.

Sherlock nodded seriously. “The resemblance is really quite striking,” he replied.

John put the photograph down. “What is going on here, Sherlock” he asked helplessly, “seriously, what?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I don’t know,” he lied.

The taxi journey between Baker Street and John’s Hampstead flat was a ten minute ride. Sherlock claimed to have an errand in the general direction and insisted on sharing.

“Are you sure you’re not just being sentimental?” John asked him with a faint smile, “You know – seeing me home in a gentlemanly fashion after letting me down gently?”

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock replied stiffly. “’Letting you down’ implies I undertook to perform some kind of task for you which I failed to do. Offhand, I don’t recall any such occasion, do you, John? And certainly not gently. Besides, I am never sentimental.”

John gave him a very old-fashioned look which Sherlock returned steadily until the other man looked away.

“Well, I suppose this is it, then?” John sighed, his face tight and unhappy. He thrust his hands in the pockets of his jacket and hunched down into his collar even though the cab was warm.

Sherlock sat diagonally, unfolding his long legs as comfortably as he could over his side. “Certainly not,” he replied briskly. “Lestrade will keep you informed of our progress, just as soon as there’s anything to report.”

John turned his head to look out of the window for a beat or two, then drew a fast breath and turned back.

“Do you think that photograph you found has any link at all with Mike’s murder?” he asked.

“What put that idea into your head?” Sherlock asked.

John shrugged. “There’s just so much that doesn’t make any sense,” he replied slightly desperately. “I feel almost as though tying some of those loose ends together might suddenly produce a pattern…” He trailed off miserably.

“John,” Sherlock’s voice was unexpectedly gentle, “sometimes things just don’t work out, however much you want them to.”

Sherlock feared for a moment that he had said too much. John stared at him. He opened his mouth to answer and then closed it again, apparently thinking better of it.

“I just wish I could understand,” he said instead. “There must be some history to that photograph, some significance to that uncanny resemblance to me. Who are those two men and what connection do they have with David?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I‘m not convinced that it’s in any way relevant,” he said, “and we can’t be sure the picture actually belongs to Phelps at all, but even supposing it does, there has to be a logical explanation. I’d let it slide for now if I were you; there are more important things on the horizon. Oh, by the way, once I can return your photo album, I’ll get it back to you in the post. In the meantime, good luck, John. It was good to make your acquaintance.”

John nodded without smiling. “The pleasure was all mine,” he replied.

The taxi signaled to pull into Tennyson Avenue and drew up outside the flat. John reached for the door handle then turned back to Sherlock.

“I guess we probably won’t meet again,” he said unnecessarily.

“I don’t suppose we will,” Sherlock replied. He held out a hand. “Well, I must be off now. Good luck, John Watson.”

John stared at him for a moment then grasped the proffered hand and wrung it silently. He turned to go then paused and swung back before opening the door.

“Oh, by the way,” he said suddenly, “about the album.”

“Yes?” said Sherlock.

John shook his head. “Don’t bother sending it to this address – I won’t be here.”

“Oh?” Sherlock replied, eyebrows raised.

John nodded. ”Yes,” he confirmed, “You know I told you I went to Chichester to sort out my priorities? Well, I neglected to mention that I made some decisions while I was there; that’s what today’s meeting was about. I’ve quit, Sherlock; I’m out. I’m going back into real medicine, possibly abroad – I don’t know. It depends on what’s available and if I escape prosecution for my part in Mary’s problems.”

“What about Murray and the morphine?” Sherlock asked.

John’s mouth set in a line. “I’ve warned you once about that already, Sherlock,” he replied, “I give you my word, I never supplied Alex Murray with anything illegal and he never told me anything about his supplier; at least he granted me that much immunity from his problems.”

John looked away. “Mary is no longer my responsibility,” he said, “and beyond giving Alex the support he needs to make a full recovery, I don’t consider I owe him anything either.”

John gave a relieved sigh and a smile which didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Don’t bother returning the album,” he said, “I don’t want it. Give it back to Alex, or keep it yourself if you’d rather.” He grinned suddenly. “Think of it as a memento of something that might have been.”

John gave Sherlock a mocking salute, left the taxi and turned his back to walk up the path to his flat. Sherlock watched him with narrowed eyes then tapped on the window and gave the cabbie his instructions.

John closed the front door and leaned his back against it, closing his eyes momentarily in weariness. He inhaled preparatory to a deep sigh and his eyes shot open wide.

God, what’s that smell? Some kind of fuel oil – is there a leak somewhere? Hang on, nothing in this flat works on oil. Just a moment; that’s petrol. What the…?

He rushed into the living room and skidded to a halt in the middle of the floor.

“Good evening, John.”

David Phelps sat in the best armchair angled to look out of the front window at the view over London. He had his back to John and seemed, for all intents and purposes, to be perfectly relaxed.

“David!” John stuttered. “What’s going on?”

Phelps rose from the armchair and turned towards John. He was smiling genially but there was something odd about his eyes.

“Why, nothing, John,” he replied, “nothing unusual at all, just the logical conclusion to our little association.” He fumbled in his pocket and brought out a silver cigarette case. John’s brain slammed into gear.

“No, no!” he held his hands out. “For God’s sake, don’t even think of smoking in here – there’s a really strong smell of petrol…”

John’s voice trailed away as he glanced quickly around the apartment and took in the dark stains on the upholstery and curtains, the puddles of liquid on the floor and the empty jerrycan on its side under the table.

“David?” he repeated uncertainly.

Phelps nodded almost apologetically; his eyes were so dark they were almost black with only a thin rim of brown around the hugely dilated pupils.

“It’s the only way now, John,” he said earnestly, “you have to see that.”

Phelps withdrew a matching lighter from the other pocket and toyed with it. John’s hair almost literally stood on end at the sight.

Phelps shook his head. “I tried, John,” he said mournfully, “Oh, I really tried, but they took you away from me, you see. I would have kept you safe, but they wouldn’t let me see you.”

John frowned. “Who wouldn’t let you see me?” he asked puzzled. “You’re not making much sense. Is this about Mary?”

“Mary?” Phelps repeated blankly then his eyes sharpened. He made a dismissive gesture, “That little tart? Oh, I knew all about her, John; all the casual liaisons, all the one night stands. You could never have slept with her. God, no! I suppose I could have endured a marriage of convenience between you as camouflage, but it could never have been a long-term solution: for some unfathomable reason you always cared about her too much. You’re a very loyal person, John Watson; you don’t give up on people. Take Alex Murray, for example.”

“What about Alex?” John demanded. Phelps gave him a very old-fashioned look.

“Murray was your lover, John,” he said gently, “both in Afghanistan and later when you returned to England.”

John stared, nonplussed and then snapped his fingers. “The photographs!” he exclaimed. “You went through my post!”

“Of course I did!” Phelps betrayed his first signs of anger. “I’m sorry I had to look at those things; you must have been horrified to receive them. It wasn’t your fault, you couldn’t help yourself – he led you astray, the ingrate; those filthy, filthy things he made you do."

“Now just a minute!” John began.

Phelps steamrollered him. “He was bad for you,” he continued urgently, “rotten to the core. I told him so, I warned him to keep his distance. I told him he was dragging you down, that if there was any justice in the world, he should have died of his addiction in Afghanistan.”

“You did what?” John said slowly, uncomprehendingly.

“It’s a pity he didn’t do the job properly when he overdosed,” Phelps continued, blithely unaware of John’s horror. “The stuff I gave him was much stronger than his usual formulation; it should have stopped his heart. He must have cut down on the amount, perhaps out of some misguided attempt at damage limitation. Still, there’s always another time and besides, it’s not so urgent now. You finished with him, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” John nodded slowly, his brain racing ahead. “I told him it was over, that I didn’t want to see him again. It’s okay; you don’t need to worry about Alex anymore.”

“But it’s not just Murray, is it?” Phelps spread his hands in frustration, “it’s that Sherlock Holmes now. I never imagined you would be so sexually incontinent that I would be left picking up the pieces like this.”

John’s eyes were very wide. Phelps looked at him and his face crumpled.

“John, John,” he said mournfully, shaking his head, “I had it all worked out. Mary would have shielded us, you know; she needed the protection as much we did. She would have married you, given us the cover we needed, and you would never have had to go back to Murray or to Sherlock Holmes.”

“What,” said John carefully, “are you talking about? You’re really not making much sense, you know.”

“I’m talking about us!” Phelps shouted. He clutched at his hair with shaking hands. “You and me, John,” he continued in a quieter voice. “They took you away and I lost you for so long. I thought about you every day – oh, I missed you so much! – and then you came back. I couldn’t believe my good fortune; I didn’t realize how dead I had been for all those years until you brought me alive again. I knew we couldn’t risk anybody knowing about us, not this time, so I held back, kept you at a distance. I didn’t mean to drive you away, into someone else’s arms. You had to know how I felt, how I still feel. We could have been happy …”

“You need help,” John said, reaching for the landline, “you’re clearly not yourself.”

“Put that down,” Phelps ordered in a suddenly curt tone. John looked up, the receiver in his hand, into the barrel of a small pistol. He blinked in surprise and slowly replaced the phone, lifting his hands into the air.

“Alright,” he said quietly. “I’m just going to lower my hands to my sides now, okay?.”

It was possible that even if Phelps missed his shot, John would still die; one spark and the whole room could combust. He lowered his arms slowly.

“Don’t even think about it,” Phelps said softly. He pointed the nose of the pistol at John’s heart and held it there, unwavering. John bit his lip and moved his hand deliberately away from his pocket. He looked at the pistol and frowned as an unconnected thought crossed his mind.

“Where’s the shotgun?” he asked without thinking.

Phelps smiled. “I stashed it at Bisley,” he replied. “It’s untraceable, but in a very few minutes that’s not going to matter much to either of us.”

“And I suppose you were also responsible for the fire-raising at Angelo’s?” John continued steadily.

Phelps frowned. “How could you?” he hissed, his suppressed anger starting to boil. “How could you practically hold hands in public, in public!, with that – that creature!”

John shook his head. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” he said urgently. “You’re clearly ill; sick. I’ll vouch for you; there are people who can help. You won’t stand trial on this, believe me.”

Phelps shook his head. “No one can help me now,” he replied, brandishing the lighter.

“You are completely correct in this instance,” said a new voice, “but you are incorrect in believing that you will be taking John's life alongside your own."

Sherlock stepped out of the hall and moved confidently into the middle of the room. He had almost reached Phelps when the nonplussed man came to his senses and jerked the pistol to aim at Sherlock’s head.

“Stay where you are,” Phelps croaked, his eyes wide and mad.

Sherlock looked at the gun then slowly raised his hands. He sighed. “You’re going to make this difficult, I see,” he said calmly, “nevertheless, I’ll give it the old College try. Hand over the pistol now; this farce has gone on long enough.”

“Sherlock,” said John warningly.

“Yes, John, I’m perfectly aware of the presence of combustible fuels soaking into the carpets and soft furnishings,” Sherlock replied, not taking his eyes off Phelps, “However, I think we should at least try to resolve this sensibly. Give me the gun, Mr Phelps.”

Phelps stared at Sherlock and, amazingly, began to laugh. He lowered the pistol and dropped it onto the carpeted floor; John cringed reflexively, but the weapon did not discharge. Still laughing, Phelps backed away from the other two and opened the top of his cigarette lighter.

“NO!” shouted John, leaping forward with his hand outstretched. Still grinning, Phelps struck a spark and tossed the lighter onto the sofa which immediately burst into flame. John reeled back at the heat of the ignition and felt a scarf being forced into his face.

“Breathe through this!” Sherlock roared in his ear, tugging his coat collar over his own mouth. The flames leaped from sofa to carpet to chairs and coffee table. The wall hangings started to smolder.

Gasping through Sherlock’s scarf, scanning wildly around the room for something heavy, John snatched up a mahogany occasional table and swung it hard at the large plate glass panel in the bay window. The panel shattered into a thousand glittering pieces and oxygenated air flooded in from outside, feeding the fire into a roaring inferno. Just ahead of it burst Sherlock and John at a head on run, both yelling at the tops of their voices as they threw themselves bodily out of the shattered window into the night. They sailed through the frozen air to land heavily in the shrubbery beneath.

John gasped for breath, winded and wincing with pain from his left ankle. Sherlock forced himself onto his knees, shed his coat and smothered John with it until the smoldering embers on his clothes had died out. Their faces were both reddened by the heat and blackened with ash, their hair singed. The orange light of the fire flickered in John’s eyes as he stared back up at the first floor window.

“Oh, God!” he muttered, sucking absently at a scratch on the back of his hand. Sherlock followed John’s horrified gaze to see Phelps standing at the broken window. He was looking down into the garden at their upturned faces and as they stared transfixed, he stretched out a hand.

“Goodbye, John,” Phelps’ lips framed the words, then a sudden roar of flame from the flat engulfed him, setting fire to his hair and clothing and belching hot air and ash into the street. Phelps screamed once, an ugly, animal shriek of agony. Sherlock and John turned their faces from the wave of super-heated air and when they looked again, Phelps was gone.

Wide-eyed, John stared at Sherlock and shook his head in disbelief.

Sherlock shrugged but his manner was grave. “Totally insane, I’m afraid,” he said somberly. “Driven over the edge by a series of events he had no control over, but I expect we’ll find that he was always unstable.”

John shook his head. “I knew he was eccentric,” he said wonderingly, “but never unbalanced.” He shivered. “I had no idea he was so – fixated. It’s a sobering thought.”

Sherlock nodded then reached out a hand out to John. The other man looked up at him for a moment, then took the proffered support and rose slowly to his feet, wincing at the pain in his ankle.

John shifted to look up at the burning building and a harsh gasp of pain escaped him. “I’ll need to get my ankle looked at,” he said between clenched teeth. Sherlock stared back, puzzled.

“But surely you know enough first aid to sort it out yourself,” he said. “You’re a doctor, aren’t you?”

John turned his head away to hide a smile.

“Ever heard the saying ‘Physician, heal thyself’, Sherlock?” he asked leaning heavily on the other man’s arm as they limped away from the fire.

“Probably,” Sherlock replied dismissively, “Irrelevant, so I expect I deleted it.”

In the distance, the sound of sirens could be heard heralding the approach of the Emergency Services.

John Watson eyed the stairs at 221B Baker Street and sighed inaudibly.

Mrs Hudson clucked and fussed around him. “Oh, don’t worry about the crutches, dear,” she said, easily, “I’ll bring them up once we’ve got you safely upstairs, now up we go!”

She took his arm with surprising strength for a slightly-built woman of advancing years and supported him while he hopped inelegantly up to the first floor, keeping his weight firmly away from his broken ankle.

“I should be getting a walking cast later on this afternoon,” he told her between gritted teeth. “The leg won’t bear my weight unaided for another month at least, but my employers are keen to get me shipped back to Helmand asap. Experienced medical personnel not already in the armed forces are very thin on the ground over there and they want to get me reintegrated quickly.”

Mrs Hudson paused, a frown gathering over her eyes. “You do realize he’s not at home at the moment, don’t you?” she said anxiously. “I did explain…”

“Yes, Mrs Hudson,” John paused to catch his breath. “I’m prepared to wait.” He shrugged at her concerned expression.

“I know it could be a long time,” John continued, “but I’m leaving the country at the end of the week and I never got a chance to thank him for saving my life.” He gave a wry smile. “I know he set me up and it nearly killed both of us, but if he hadn’t risked his life to be there I’d never have survived.”

Mrs Hudson smiled sympathetically as she opened the door to the living room of 221B.

“I’ll get you a nice cup of tea, dear,” she said, guiding him over to an armchair by the fireplace.

The hours went by marked only by the ticking of the clock and the variation in traffic along Baker Street. Mrs Hudson brought John no less than three cups of tea together with biscuits, his crutches, a blanket for his knees which made him feel like an old man. He thanked her anyway, particularly when she knelt down on the hearthrug, protesting half-heartedly about her hip, and put a match to the fire in the grate.

Something startled John out of a nap he hadn’t meant to take. It was dark in the flat and the fire was nearly out; he leaned forward with difficulty and poked at the embers, looking around for the coal scuttle.

The front door slammed and footsteps ascended the stairs rapidly, not even pausing at Mrs Hudson’s shout. The door burst open and the room shrank visibly as the presence of Sherlock Holmes suddenly seemed to fill every available corner.

John smiled. “Hello, Sherlock,” he said quietly. He gestured to his injured leg. “Please excuse me if I don’t get up,” he continued. “I’ve been told to keep a low profile until I get my walking cast.” He shrugged, “Should have got it this afternoon, but some ignorant tosser decided to keep me waiting.”

Sherlock skewered John with a piercing gaze then abruptly turned into the kitchen. John heard him clattering around the detritus on the kitchen table.

“If you had informed me of your intention to visit,” Sherlock replied loftily, “I could have arranged to be here.”

John gave a half smile and shook his head. “Sherlock,” he said, “you knew I’d be here; don’t try to weasel out of this one. You knew that if you carried on avoiding me, sooner or later I’d turn up at Baker Street. My lawyer tells me I’m free to leave the jurisdiction and I’m being deployed in a couple of days – don’t try to tell me that’s news to you. This was likely the last chance I’d get to say goodbye. Of course I’d be here today.”

Sherlock came back into the living room at a slower pace. “I had a case,” he said defensively, “A drowning in Teddington Lock, suspected foul play.” He tossed a folder negligently in John’s direction.

John picked up the packet curiously and withdrew a number of photographs featuring the relatively intact body of a middle-aged man, fully clothed and clearly just removed from fresh water, soaked through and stained with weed and mud. He leafed through the pictures, focusing in on the close-ups of the head and neck area. He gave a huff of grim laughter and looked up to find Sherlock leaning across him to examine the photograph.

“Look,” John said, pointing, “I suppose Lestrade’s SOCOs thought that ligature mark meant the victim was partially strangled then dumped in the water and left to drown?” He indicated a horizontal stripe around the deceased’s neck.

Sherlock nodded, snorting derisively. “Anderson again,” he said with contempt.

John nodded. “Admittedly, it’s not completely obvious,” he continued, turning the photo ninety degrees to the right, “and, to be fair, I have seen something like this post mortem before, but this mark was clearly inflicted considerably prior to the victim’s death; possibly as much as two days prior and maybe even with the victim’s consent – look, there’s nothing here consistent with a struggle.” John displayed another photograph, this time of the victim’s hands.

John turned to smile crookedly at Sherlock. “We could possibly be looking at some kind of erotic asphyxiation here – was he a gasper, do you know? – although I might well be reaching with that one. Now, this, however,” he leafed through and selected another close-up, this time of a small contusion on the back of the head, “this is different. Above the hairline and really so tiny it could almost be missed. I’d be willing to bet he had a pre-existing fracture or a thin spot in his skull exactly there which gave way when he tripped and fell, striking his head on the edge of the towpath. He’d have been unconscious within moments and his momentum would have carried him into the water.”

John looked back up at Sherlock and handed him the photographs. “It wasn’t murder,” he said decisively.

“Of course, it wasn’t murder,” Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes thoughtfully at John, “Police can’t see further than their own noses.”

John smiled faintly. “And I suppose you told them exactly that?” he replied.

Sherlock muttered something indistinct.

John’s smile widened. “And Lestrade’s reaction was…?”

Sherlock flashed him a look of dislike. “He threw me off the case and banned me,” he admitted reluctantly. He shrugged. “He’ll come round. He always does, especially when something really puzzling comes up.”

John shook his head. “You’re hopeless,” he said half in censure, half admiring.

“You like it,” Sherlock said suddenly. He looked directly at John in challenge.

John nodded slowly. “Yes,” he replied thoughtfully, “I do like it.”

“And that’s why you’re here,” Sherlock said, “because you like me and because you’re going away, perhaps to an uncertain future.”

John winced. “I don’t have a death wish, Sherlock,” he protested, “and I have every intention of keeping my skin intact.”

Sherlock made a rude noise. “Nonsense,” he scoffed. “If you wanted to keep safe you’d stay here in London – although with the state of the traffic nowadays you’d probably be safer in Sanjin at that.”

John stared. “How did you know I’m being sent to Helmand Province?” he demanded, sitting forward in his chair. At Sherlock’s steady gaze he sighed and relaxed again. “Stupid,” he muttered to himself, “Mycroft, of course.”

“Actually Lestrade,” Sherlock levered himself into the other armchair and looked up over steepled fingers, “although I suspect Mycroft was at the bottom of it.”

John shook himself. Talking with Sherlock was like fencing with a bad-tempered cat; there were no rules of combat and one was likely to get badly scratched for no discernible reason whatsoever.

“Anyway,” John began again, “I’ve been waiting here for several hours now to say good bye to you and to thank you for saving my life – you ran off before I could even do that, you know.”

Sherlock’s face did not even twitch.

“We never even got to discuss what happened,” John tried again. “When my flat went up in smoke, I mean.”

“No, we didn’t.” Sherlock inclined his head but otherwise remained silent.

John let a beat or two go by then he pressed his lips together and gave Sherlock a hard look. “You’re making me pull teeth again,” he muttered,“Sherlock, would you please tell me about David. Lestrade gave me some total garbage about financial difficulties, over-extension and the tragic consequences of untreated psychological problems. It was all bollocks, he knew it and so did I.”

“David?” queried Sherlock, “Oh, Phelps you mean. Yes – barmy, mad as a hatter.”

“Look, I know I can’t keep up with you,” John began.

“No one can,” Sherlock interrupted.

“But I really think I need to know what happened,” John persisted doggedly. Sherlock sighed and reluctantly and turned towards John.

“When Phelps was in his twenties,” Sherlock began, “he made the acquaintance of another, much younger man. Hugh Kenmore was a schoolboy at the time, barely fifteen years old, but Phelps had a relationship of sorts with him for a year or so until Kenmore’s parents found out. Kenmore was by then of age, but that didn’t stop his parents shipping him off to boarding school and taking out an injunction against Phelps having any further contact with their son. They threatened Phelps with a police investigation if he didn’t comply. Phelps was all set to defy them and be damned but Kenmore junior beat him to it. He ran away from boarding school and tried to hitch-hike home. He was unlucky; he was found dead on the motorway hard shoulder, victim of a hit and run. The driver was doing 120mph, he was six times over the alcohol limit and he received a long custodial sentence for dangerous driving.”

John winced and looked away.

“I put two and two together after reading through old police reports and matching them up with Phelps’s career moves,” Sherlock explained, “but the real breakthrough came when I happened upon that photograph of Phelps with Kenmore. The panel in the sideboard was so well-hidden I suspect Phelps forgot about it. He has a criminal record, you know; an arrest and a fine for Affray during the time Kenmore’s parents found out about their relationship. It was that which made me certain who and what the photograph was about and why Phelps was obsessed with you.”

“But why did he want to kill me?” John asked, bewildered. “If he fixated on me because of my resemblance to Kenmore, why take a shotgun to my face?”

Sherlock sighed impatiently. “Try to keep up, John,” he said, “When you met, he immediately envisaged you as a resurrected Kenmore, reincarnated just for him. When he saw the photographs Murray had taken of you, he could no longer delude himself that you were truly the naïve schoolboy he had loved. The knowledge all but destroyed his fragile grip on reality and his obsession really started to bite. He was hoping to move in on you himself – as if you would ever… Never mind. No, the real problem was your pre-existing relationship with Murray; a relationship about which he had no idea until he happened upon that album.” Sherlock snorted. “Stupid! He looked but he didn’t observe. You were very poor at concealment, both of you; Murray is particularly bad at hiding his feelings and your body language was always a giveaway. You were so blindingly obvious.”

“Yet you still let me hit on you outside the restaurant in Bisley,” John said thoughtfully, “even though you believed me to be spoken for?”

Sherlock raised a sardonic eyebrow but a faint flush crept over his jawline. “That was merely in the interests of deduction,” he declared loftily.“Until then, it was all supposition. I was unsure not only of your status but also of your orientation; I had to have proof.”

“That’s bollocks,” John spluttered. He turned his face away not quite quickly enough to hide a laugh. Sherlock made no answer.

John turned back to him. “You are joking?” he said and on receiving no response, widened his eyes. “You’re not, are you? God, Sherlock, you could cut the tension between us with a knife from the very beginning. The sparring in Lestrade’s interview room? I was surprised they didn’t hose us down!”

There was a brief silence during which John swallowed and leaned forward.

“Sherlock,” he began awkwardly. Sherlock sighed irritably and turned back.

“What is it now?” he demanded. “Surely I’ve answered all your questions”

John nodded. “Pretty much, yeah,” he replied, “except the really important ones.”

“Oh, for the love of any deity you can think of, what is it now, John?”

John shook his head. “I won’t make excuses, Sherlock,” he began.

“Then pray don’t continue with what you were about to say,” Sherlock interrupted.

John’s eyes widened. “You have no idea…” he began.

Oh I have every idea, Doctor.

Sherlock made an angry noise, pushed himself up out of his armchair and began to pace the room. “I have every idea;” he shot back, “Your innate sense of decency won’t let you leave with a clear conscience until you have in some manner unburdened yourself to me. You deliberately deceived me and you lied to me systematically – me! – despite the fact that you knew a dangerous criminal was stalking you and possibly others as well. If you want Absolution, John, visit a priest; my skills in the Confessional are lamentable.”

John hung his head and made no answer.

Of course.

Sherlock showed his teeth in a smile without any real humor in it. “Nothing to say? No ham-fisted attempt to justify your actions? Shall I do it for you then? It’s quite simple really,” he continued. “My inexperience made me clumsy and distracted, and my attraction to you must have been flatteringly unequivocal. It suited your purposes to disrupt my thinking processes, to try to derail me. I was also potentially a pleasant source of distraction to cement your detachment from Mr Murray – I gather he is making good progress by the way, if you are at all interested – and when I found you out and refused to play your game, you became genuinely intrigued.”

So did I.

Sherlock stopped pacing and faced John. His face creased into an ironic smirk. “You came here today to say goodbye, certainly,” he said, “but I think there was a little more to it than that, wasn’t there Doctor Watson? A small part of you was up for the chance of something else; a first and last time with the great detective for whom intimate human contact has been an irrelevance for many years. Of course, you would think that I would jump at the chance.”

Sherlock leaned forward into John’s space. “And in addition to that, you were looking for some payback, weren’t you, John? You could scarcely miss the effect you had on me – your proximity was incredibly distracting and hugely destructive. When I came into your life, I upset the careful balance that kept your fragile house of cards upright. When it fell apart in your hands, you wanted to punish me. You were going to ensure that I could never, ever forget you; that I would be haunted by what might have been for the rest of my life.”

John had been shaking his head slowly and deliberately throughout, but at the last few words he paused and raised his eyes. “Just so,” he said, standing with difficulty to face Sherlock down. His expression was grim and he nodded. “Haunted by what might have been,” he repeated solemnly, “Yes, I think that’s about right.”

Sherlock nodded, running his teeth over his bottom lip, noting the way John’s eyes dipped to watch. “Just so long as we’re completely clear about it,” he murmured.

You want to play a game, Doctor? Well, then, the game is afoot!

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, just give it to me!” Sherlock snapped his fingers at Lestrade impatiently, “I’ll sign it, so help me, despite the fact that it’s the most inventive piece of fiction I’ve ever seen in my life. Look, I’ve got a pen – I’ll sign!”

Lestrade grinned all over his handsome face. “Good boy,” he said condescendingly; Donovan didn’t bother to hide his smirk. Sherlock glared but added his signature to the document with a pressure that threatened to eat through the paper.

“Now that I’ve abandoned what was left of my moral rectitude, will you let me out of here before Mycroft destroys my flat?” he demanded. Lestrade sat back in his chair and put his hands behind his head.

“Oh, come on, Sherlock!” he chided, grinning broadly. “You never had any moral rectitude in the first place, we all know that. And I’m sure your brother merely has the interests of the British nation at heart, along with all life, the universe and everything. Personally, I think he’s a very brave man – wild horses wouldn’t get me into your flat at the moment, even to conduct a drugs bust, although I suspect I might uncover some very interesting things if I did. You are about due another aren't you?”

“Very funny, Inspector,” Sherlock responded with a glare that could freeze nitrogen, no problem. “I must ask on what possible basis could he justify a sweep for hazardous radioactive waste?”

Lestrade shrugged in an exaggerated fashion.

“Sounds reasonable to me, sir,” Donovan commented smugly.

“For once I agree,” Lestrade replied, “Perhaps you’d better get back before he has it fumigated?”

“He wouldn’t dare,” Sherlock growled.

Both men turned at a discreet knock on Lestrade’s office door. It opened and Doctor John Watson limped into the room, still on crutches and looking highly disgruntled.

Sherlock stood up, took in Watson’s physical state and smirked nastily. “I thought you were supposed to have a walking cast on two days ago?” he sneered.

John glared venomously back. “I was,” he replied in a rather subdued fashion, “I put my recovery back a week or so by tackling a flight of stairs before I was ready.”

“Why didn’t you ask for help?” Sherlock demanded, taking John’s crutches and propping them against Lestrade’s desk.

John sat down heavily and scrubbed a hand over his face. “Because I couldn’t make myself heard above the sound of running water,” he replied, jaw clenched and Sherlock didn't miss the look and intake of breath from Lestrade that told Sherlock that he would be getting questioned further later on and he would have an answer or else.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Unless I am very much mistaken,” he continued in a low, dangerous tone, “and as we both know, I am never wrong – you should be half way around the globe by now being shot at by religious and political fanatics.”

“That is correct,” John responded; his chin jutted out challengingly.

“So, why aren’t you?” Sherlock demanded, eyebrows raised, equally uncompromising.

John’s face turned red. He opened his mouth to deliver what was likely a blistering comeback but was forestalled by Lestrade.

“Children,” he admonished, slightly wide-eyed at the exchange. He glared at both of them individually then opened a buff-colored file, snagging his glasses from atop a pile of books. He peered through them at Donovan who was still hovering, clearly enjoying the show.

“That will be all, Sergeant,” he said gravely. His lips twitched but he left the room readily enough.

“Okay,” John said, turning towards Sherlock, the light of battle in his eyes, “Who bolloxed this up big time for me, eh? One of you two, or that meddling brother of yours, Sherlock?”

Lestrade spread his hands wide and shook his head; Sherlock ignored the challenge, staring sightless at the wall with bored eyes.

Watson’s lips thinned. "I should be in transit to Lashkar Gah by now,” he protested, “and what happens? I’m stopped by military police – military police! – at Heathrow, taken aside and instructed to go home and report here today or risk – get this! – repatriation from Afghanistan to answer questions in a murder investigation!”

Watson sat back in his chair. “This had better be good, Lestrade,” he told him, folding his arms belligerently.

Lestrade smoothed down the pages in front of him and removed his glasses; his face was serious.

“Doctor Watson,” he began, “by leaving this jurisdiction, you would have forced the CPS to take action against you for certain drugs offences allegedly committed over the past three years in connection with the high-profile model Mary Morstan, who is now in rehab, and the award-winning war photographer, Alexander Murray. By preventing you from getting on that flight to Kabul, we did you a considerable favor.”

Lestrade folded his hands over the papers before him. “In other words, Doctor Watson,” he said seriously, “you’re not off the hook yet.”

Lestrade handed John a single sheet of A4 densely covered in typescript. John’s forehead creased in concern and he lowered his eyes to the copy.

Sherlock stirred in his chair. “What Lestrade means to say,” he said, “is that if you sign that miracle of fiction he has just presented to you loosely described as your Statement, any and all charges against you will be dropped, all your problems will magically be whisked away from under your very nose, your fairy godmother will grant your every wish and my brother will turn into a pumpkin.” He snorted derisively. “Well, we can but hope for the latter.”

John turned incredulous eyes on Lestrade. He pointed wildly at the paper. “You want me to sign this?” he demanded. “But – it’s nonsense!”

“Precisely,” Sherlock agreed. “I signed mine not five minutes ago.”

“But…” protested John.

Sherlock shook his head before the other man could continue. “Resistance is futile,” he intoned solemnly. “When faced with the insurmountable might of British governmental bureaucracy, the only sensible course of action is capitulation, just lay back and take it. Sign it, John.”

John Watson stared first at Lestrade then at Sherlock. He gave a small shrug and reached inside his jacket; Sherlock produced a black Mont Blanc fountain pen without seeming to move, like a conjuring trick.

Lestrade sighed with satisfaction as he blew the ink dry and tucked Doctor Watson’s statement into his buff-colored file with finality.

“The case of David Forestier Phelps is now closed,” he said, “Theatrical agent, entrepreneur and murderer, not to mention drug dealer, arsonist and suspected extortionist. Most of the details I guess we’ll never know.”

Sherlock raised expressionless eyes to the policeman. “Hasn’t this been wrapped up rather quickly, Lestrade?” he asked in apparently bored tones.

Lestrade fixed him with a hard look and stuck out his chin. “No sense in hanging around when it’s an open and shut case,” he replied, “particularly when the perp conveniently offed himself.”

“Yes, and in a particularly showy manner,” John added bitterly. “Mrs Russell is very upset at the damage, even though her flat was hardly touched and she wasn’t even home at the time.”

Lestrade had the grace to look a little shamefaced. “I’m sorry about your place, Doctor Watson,” he said ruefully.

Sherlock stirred. “Yes,” he added, “particularly as you’d only just replaced the carpet ruined in the last incident.”

Even Sherlock seemed to realize that wasn’t the most tactful comment to make under the circumstances. “Not good?” he asked John.

John blinked. “Bit not good, yeah,” he replied; Lestrade found something extremely interesting in his desk drawer.

Sherlock glanced between the two, mildly surprised, then cleared his throat and inhaled sharply once or twice with an air of intense concentration.

“What?” demanded Lestrade, slamming his desk shut looking slightly alarmed.

Sherlock smiled ironically. “Nothing at all, Inspector,” he replied, “unless perhaps the faint but unmistakable odor of my brother’s interference over the fallout from this case?”

Lestrade looked away. “I’m sure I haven’t the foggiest what you mean,” he replied, rearranging a pile of files. “Now hop it, you two, before I have you arrested for loitering.”

Sherlock slid his feet off Lestrade’s desk and stood up.

“I think that is our cue to exit.” John looked around him with a clueless air.

“What?” he said, baffled. “But I thought…”

“Yes, well,” Sherlock interrupted quickly, “you will persist in believing you can actually think. It’s a very bad habit – kindly leave it to those of us who are specialists. Lestrade, good afternoon; I’ve no doubt you’ll need me again the very next time you encounter something that you don't understand, which, let’s face it, will not take long.”

Sherlock grabbed John by the sleeve of his coat and hauled him to his feet.

“Wait, wait!” protested John, grabbing for his crutches.

Sherlock waited impatiently in the corridor. “I haven’t got all day,” he said testily.

John raised mutinous eyes as they drew level. “What makes you think I’m going anywhere with you?” he said.

Sherlock smiled. “Because you want to know the answers to too many questions to let me leave here without answering them, so we are going to play that game again,” he replied. He smirked at John’s furious glare but turned on his heel, confident that the other man would follow.