Sherlock watched the cigarette smoke as it spiraled above the hand resting carelessly over the edge of the table. He tracked the intertwining patterns absently, his mind racing through several branches of chaos theory, analyzing and then discarding the mathematics with irritated contempt, finally admitting to himself that he was going insane with boredom.

He mashed the cigarette half-smoked into his saucer alongside another half-dozen exactly like it and flung himself to his feet, beginning to pace the room steadily. The uniformed PC on duty at the doorway eyed him warily. He stopped short, jerking his chin to glare at the man, and started to speak in a low steady monotone without pausing for breath.

“I have already explained to you in detail several times over that keeping me here incommunicado is not only counterproductive but possibly illegal as I have committed no crime and am answerable to no one for my actions. However, I cannot be accountable for the scenario which has a seventy-three point five per cent chance of occurring if you do not get Detective Inspector Lestrade here within the next five minutes to debrief me, which will be the total destruction of this room and everything within it including, if you are not preternaturally fleet of foot, yourself!”

His voice rose sharply in pitch. He ran an exasperated hand through his hair. “At least at Baker Street, I had my violin. God help me, if this goes on much longer, I shall be reduced to singing.”

The door opened to admit a stocky, middle-aged man with a thick head of hair the color of polished pewter more than 50% grey, uses product every morning to hide the regrowth, minus a jacket, with creased shirtsleeves, wife currently away, has been on duty for more than 12 hours, pinstripe suit trousers slightly shiny at the knee, is considering retirement over the next two or three years.

“Mr Holmes?” he said in a quiet, affable voice. “Sorry to keep you waiting so long, sir. We’ve had a very busy night of it so far and no signs of it getting any quieter, I’m afraid.”

Sherlock stared without blinking. “Where is Detective Inspector Lestrade?” he demanded with no preamble.

The other man nodded slowly without taking his eyes off Sherlock. “Yes,” he said thoughtfully, “They did warn me in the briefing that you would be very direct. Fixated, they said; obsessive.”

Sherlock hooked his ankle around a tubular steel chair leg and dragged it towards him without moving his eyes. He sank back into it slowly and folded his arms.

“I prefer to call it focused,” he replied loftily, “but in any event and whatever epithet you choose to apply to me, if Lestrade considers any of his tiny, trivial cases to be more important than to listen to what I…”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade has been suspended,” the newcomer interrupted flatly, “and will remain so until this inquiry is concluded. His conduct has been, shall we say, unwise if not actually criminal when it comes to you.”

Sherlock made a dismissive noise and leaned his chin in his hands, elbows on the scuffed table top, angling his body away from the other man.

“I am Detective Inspector Wainright,” the man continued, sitting down opposite Sherlock rather more sedately. “I am here to ask you a few questions before we put you away for the night.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “In a police cell, I suppose?” he replied disdainfully. “Well, it’s not as if I’m a stranger to them. Very well, Inspector; ask away.”

Sherlock sprawled aggressively in his hard chair, his body language deliberately open and his face expressionless.

Wainright frowned, pinching his bottom lip between finger and thumb. “I’ll tell you what, Mr Holmes,” he said quietly. “How about you start at the beginning and tell me everything you know. Then I might have some idea what questions to ask you. This is a rum do, I don’t mind telling you.”

Sherlock glared. “If I did that,” he replied loftily, “we’d be here until eternity.”

Wainright blinked patiently.

“Oh, for god’s sake!” Sherlock sighed and leaned his elbows on his knees. “You’ll be signing the Official Secrets Act within the hour,” he said wearily, “and probably facing a disciplinary hearing for having detained me here at all.”

The Inspector looked less than impressed with Sherlock’s threats and merely activated a solid state recorder, noting their names, the date and the time.

“Very well, Mr Holmes,” he said finally, without a trace of irony, “the floor is yours.”

Sherlock sat up, drawing his feet under his chair. “It will make more sense to you if I tell it in chronological order,” he said, “so listen, don’t interrupt and don’t fidget.” He arranged his fingers under his chin in his customary steeple and frowned.

“I suppose the whole thing really began, as so many tragedies do, with inheritance…”

221B Baker Street was almost completely silent. The only sounds that could be heard in the living room were the faint hum of the traffic outside the windows and the quiet tones of a violin. Sherlock Holmes moved without pause, narrowed eyes taking in everything at a glance.

Footsteps on the stairs caused Sherlock’s eyelids to flicker slightly but did not falter nor did his eyes leave the room. Even when the door opened behind him, he showed no sign of distraction.

“What are you doing here, Mycroft?” he asked, hardly missing a beat.

There was a very small pause as his brother just possibly over-inhaled before answering. “Let’s observe the niceties for once shall we, Sherlock?”

The cultured, over-smooth tones never failed to set Sherlock’s teeth on edge. He clenched his jaw. “If there is indeed a place for politesse, it is not here,“ he said with icy control. “Once again, brother, what do you want?” Sherlock abandoned his playing and swung round to glare at the newcomer.

Mycroft smiled and flicked a scrap of paper from the rug with a jab of his umbrella. “Only what is in your best interests, little brother, as always,” he replied mildly.

Sherlock gave a snort of derision. “Oh, indeed,” he said, tone dripping with contempt, “I’ve made a careful record of the number of times you have tried to snare me with what you believe to be in my best interests; also the effort it has taken me to extricate myself each time. It gets old, Mycroft; kindly pack it in.”

Sherlock glared at his brother, unwillingly taking in a few salient points. Firstly, Mycroft Holmes was his usual immaculately dressed self; gorgeously tailored bespoke suit, handmade 170 yarn broadcloth shirt, and Chinese printed silk tie, not to mention the custom built Italian leather shoes (an odd eccentricity in Mycroft to eschew the London footwear companies). All this Sherlock had known in advance; could have predicted even. What made his left eyebrow twitch slightly in surprise was how drawn and tired the man looked. He had also gained several pounds in weight, if Sherlock was any judge.

“Burning the candle at both ends, are we?” he remarked coldly. Mycroft merely twitched an eyebrow. Silence fell between them until Sherlock sighed again, turning his chair.

“What are you doing here?” he asked in a different tone.

Mycroft inclined his head regally and finally moved into the room, standing over Sherlock. “I have come to offer you employment,” he said.

Sherlock stared, blinked twice then started to laugh helplessly. Mycroft waited for him to finish, his face impassive.

“Just when I think that life can’t possibly get any more ridiculous, you come along and prove me wrong.” Sherlock wiped an imaginary tear from his eye. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, chin in his hands. “Go home, brother,” he said quietly.

Mycroft shook his head, shifting his umbrella. “You could make something of yourself,” he protested. “Your brilliance alone could be used for the good of the country…”

“I think the country is perfectly well served with just one Holmes seeking to take over the world, don’t you?” Sherlock returned icily. “I’d sooner make a living teaching violin to pre-pubescent children.”

“That could be arranged!” Mycroft snapped back.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in mild surprise as he watched his brother visibly rein in his temper. He smiled nastily.

“In fact,” Sherlock continued, moving in for the kill, “your timing is even more woeful than usual, brother dear. I can’t imagine there is any arbitrariness in today’s visit coinciding with my birthday, mm?”

Mycroft shook his head. “No, indeed,” he replied quietly.

Sherlock grinned. “So I’m guessing this is a last-ditch attempt to get me to toe the line; an appeal to my better nature now that I have finally come into my inheritance, eh?” He shook his head, not bothering to wait for an answer. “Surely you must have realized by now that I don’t possess such a thing? My nature is and always has been entirely self-serving, Mycroft, you don’t need me to remind you of this. We grew up together, that should have given you what is colloquially called The Heads Up on me many years ago.”

“I know all of this, of course,” Mycroft returned patiently, “but I had hoped that over the last few months, your outlook on life might have changed somewhat.”

Sherlock frowned quizzically.

Mycroft sighed. “If I have to spell it out, Sherlock,” he continued, “the advent of Doctor Watson into your life seems to have had some civilizing effects on you. I had high hopes that his influence might, ah, persuade you to see reason.”

“I see,” Sherlock replied, “so the motivation behind your decision as Trustee over my inheritance from father’s estate to withhold the capital and a part of the interest until I reached the age of thirty was to make me “see reason”? You kept me in penury for a decade and more to force me to grow up? Mycroft, even as a child you were never adept at telling fairy stories and your skills have not improved with age.”

“Sherlock, you were incapable…”

“Don’t tell me how I was!”

Sherlock flung himself out of his chair and paced around the room. He turned back to his brother. “You may leave now,” he said.

“Sherlock…” Mycroft began.

Sherlock shook his head violently. “I don’t want to hear any more,” he said between his teeth. “Now that your duties as my Trustee are over and done with, I see no earthly reason for us to meet again.”

Mycroft raised his chin obstinately.

Sherlock stared at his sibling. “You made your bed, Mycroft,” he said ruthlessly, “now you will lie in it.”

His brother inclined his head regally. “Very well,” he replied gravely, “but that is not the only question needing an answer, Sherlock.” He smiled without humor. “You work fast, little brother. You had access to your inheritance from 0900 hours this morning. Since then, there has been considerable activity involving your affairs, both offshore and in this jurisdiction. You have made several requests for cash funding from your banks and some of the bank to bank transfers have landed in highly questionable areas.”

“None of your business,” Sherlock responded.

“That is where you are wrong,” Mycroft responded. Sherlock turned a furious face on his brother but Mycroft persisted. “When family funds are being used for purposes which are at best debatable, at worst possibly illegal, I am bound to intervene both by family honor and also by my position.”

Sherlock rose to his feet. “Now you’re being ridiculous,” he scoffed. “My activities barely involved more than …”

“It’s not the amounts, Sherlock, it’s the bloody principle,” Mycroft raised his voice. “I need to know for what purpose you have made multiple passport applications none of which are in your own name; to what end you have withdrawn sums of money, some in cash, some scattered far and wide; you are making phone calls so dubious both politically and legally that they regularly flag up warnings even in my own department. These things I need to know partly because I am your brother, but mostly because I am responsible for home security and I know what you are capable of.”

“How in hell did you manage to…?”

“I have my methods.”

“And the staff, I suppose.”

“No, Sherlock.” Mycroft shook his head decisively. “I didn’t involve my staff in this. I took the opportunity to exercise my own underused talent for crime. Oh, don’t worry – I covered my tracks very well, you would have been proud of me, that is if you remotely cared. However, I must warn you, little brother, that I have some idea what you intend and it won’t work. You will be putting yourself into considerable danger and for what? A modicum of independence? A childish act of defiance?”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock was visibly trembling with rage, “you will leave my flat now. You will not attempt to contact me again. You will keep your preternaturally sensitive ears and your abnormally large nose out of my business and you will summarily disappear from my life forthwith. Is that clear?”

Mycroft shook his head. “Sherlock, I will conduct my business entirely as I see fit,” he replied, “without reference to you or to anyone else so wholly unconnected with it. And I really must warn you against wasting your inheritance trying to slap a Restraining Order on me. No court in the land would do anything other than throw it out.”

“What will it take to get you to leave me alone?” Sherlock demanded throwing his hands in the air. Mycroft went terribly still.

“Your assistance,” he replied flatly. Sherlock blinked for a couple of beats then choked slightly, his mobile mouth tilting up at the corners.

“You’re truly asking for my help?” he asked incredulously, “Why?” Mycroft looked up; there were new wrinkles on his forehead. His mouth worked soundlessly and it took him several seconds to get the words out.

“Because I…” Mycroft choked off, gritting his teeth as though physically hurting. He expelled a breath. “Sherlock,” he said in a low voice, “I have pressing need of your particular skills. Also your – proximity is something I urgently require.”

Mycroft leveled a look at his brother and their gaze locked; Sherlock’s eyes widened in surprise.

“Are you serious?” he asked, then shook his head. “Belay that. Of course you are; you wouldn’t have climbed so far down from your high horse if you weren’t.” He was silent for a moment then shook his head. “No.”

Mycroft’s head jerked upwards. “But Sherlock…”

“Still no.”

“You haven’t even heard…”

“I don’t have to,” Sherlock said angrily. “It’s the thin end of the wedge, I’m afraid, and I can’t afford to risk dealing with you. And don’t try telling me that the security of the nation depends upon it; I’m afraid I’ve heard that one too many times. And besides, I already have a case I’m committed to. I can’t back out now.”

Mycroft’s shoulders sagged. “Very well,” he said dully. He gripped his umbrella and walked slowly towards the door.

“Mycroft,” Sherlock said very quietly. The other man turned.

Sherlock raised his eyes with a small smile. “Close the door after you,” he said.

The floor of the living room was covered in books, papers and the contents of a cupboard Sherlock was currently ransacking. Hearing the slam of the front door, Sherlock straightened slightly and surveyed the wreckage with a kind of resigned despair; I’m really in for it now.

“…virtually ran over my feet, he was so close. I mean it – his helmet visor practically grazed my nose! Some of these motorbike couriers think Baker Street is a… Sherlock, what the blazes is going on in here?” John appeared in the doorway, his expression almost comically mystified as he took in the devastation.

Sherlock muttered something, throwing yet more junk on the floor.

“Really?! You haven’t been in that cupboard for weeks!” John protested helplessly. "Now stop for a moment and use your words, yeah?"

Sherlock shook his head vigorously. “The one that has – ah, there it is!” Flinging himself flat, Sherlock dived into the floor-level cupboard, wriggling until most of his torso was actually inside the thing. He flailed around like a stranded fish, struggling to get into reverse.

“John!” Sherlock called, his voice muffled. He heard John give a short bark of laughter then both his ankles were seized and he was vigorously propelled backwards out of the cupboard with just enough warning to tuck his head in. He lay blinking on the carpet, holding onto his prize like grim death. Rolling over on his back, Sherlock grinned winningly up at John who sighed, gave him a patient smile and offered a hand up.

“Okay,” John said, grunting with the effort of hauling six foot plus of muscle to its feet. “Now, what’s going on? Why does the living room resemble a junk graveyard?”

“I’m packing,” Sherlock announced, dropping a locked box into a bag along with several other unnameable objects, “A case – flying out tonight.”

John’s face fell. “Look, we had this out two months ago when we started this damn thing,” he said, frown lines forming on his forehead. “I can’t just drop everything and follow you at a moment’s notice. I’m covering a maternity leave for Sarah – you know this, you’ve known it for ages! I’ve got less than a week to go; can’t this case, whatever it is, wait just a few more days?”

Sherlock was already shaking his head. “They want me there yesterday,” he said, rummaging through a nest of cables on the kitchen table.“It’s a nice little puzzle, really quite intriguing, and it’s scarcely my fault you can’t organise your life more flexibly."

John stared then shook his head, evidently deciding to swallow that one. “Well, how about I fly out and join you at the weekend, then?” he suggested.

“No,” Sherlock answered flatly without looking up. “I’ll have it sorted in no time at all, and I’ll be back in Baker Street by Saturday. Ah, here it is!” He untangled his prize with a satisfied smirk and looked up to meet John’s eyes. “You don’t have to worry, you know,” he said, stuffing several random pieces into his jacket pocket. “I’ll return when I say I will and I’ll keep in touch, I promise. I won’t vanish into thin air.”

John’s face darkened in anger. Sherlock watched with resignation as the other man clenched his jaw making muscles jump in the sides of his face. Oh, lord. Bit not good? What have I said now?

“Not disappearing on me is one thing,” John protested in a low voice, “but as regards my job, you said you were perfectly happy with the arrangement, not to mention the extra money.”

Sherlock shook his head. “You really don’t need to work there, I told you that,” he replied, leafing through a sheaf of papers on the table. He looked up again. “Useful as your wages are, they are scarcely necessary, especially now.” He grinned.

“Not necessary?” John had started to splutter already and he had only been in the flat five minutes. This was a record even by Sherlock’s standards.

John planted his hands on his hips and glared. “Look, you aren’t the only one around here who has a vocation,” he replied heatedly, “and my salary does pay half the rent, or had you forgotten?”

Sherlock shrugged, crammed half a dozen sheets of paper into his other jacket pocket and picked up the bag.

“I hadn’t forgotten,” he replied calmly, “but I’m not sure you were listening this morning when I told you it was my birthday.”

Sherlock watched that piece of information soak its way across John’s face. The interplay of John’s expressions was far more entertaining than packing and Sherlock stood contentedly staring at his flatmate’s face for several long moments.

“Ah, Happy Birthday?” John finally managed, “and this is important exactly why?”

Sherlock gave him an old-fashioned look. “Shame on you, John!” he chided with a smirk. “All birthdays are important – at least, that’s what you told me last month. You were quite firm about the subject, as I recall.”

“Because you never remember anyone’s birthday,” John replied. “Look, I’m not disputing its importance, just its relevance to the current discussion.”

“Exactly!” Sherlock exclaimed, darting out of the living room and into his bedroom.

Seeing no other option, John went with him. “I’m still not following you,” he complained, pausing on the threshold.

Sherlock jigsawed the pieces of equipment, including his newly-retrieved locked boxed into a medium-sized case already packed with clothing, lying open on his bed. He looked up from his task.

“You clearly are,” Sherlock quipped, “unless you make a habit of entering my bedroom.” He painstakingly refolded a purple shirt and placed it on the top.

John blinked and frowned, looking about him in perplexity; Sherlock rolled his eyes and straightened up with a disconcertingly cheerful grin.

“Today,” he announced, “I attained my majority and as a result, any difficulties over living expenses are now even more trivial.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong,” John replied slowly, “but you attained your majority a good nine years ago.”

“Not according to Mycroft I didn’t.” Sherlock zipped up his case and shrugged his way into his coat. “There’s my taxi now, back in a week or so – sooner if I can do it. Don’t wait up for me!”

Sherlock swept past, piling down the stairs without a backward glance.

John opened and closed his mouth soundlessly for a moment before belatedly taking off after his flatmate. “Hang on a mo!” he yelled, taking the stairs two at a time. “What the hell? Sherlock! Jesus, at least tell me where you’re going!”

John stood in the doorway of 221 and watched helplessly as his flatmate dived into a cab, throwing his suitcase onto the back seat. Sherlock wound down the window as the driver started to turn the vehicle.

“Monaco,” Sherlock shouted. He waved then swiveled around in his seat. The cab lumbered its way down Baker Street.

“Monaco?” John muttered in mystification. “Monaco! Hang on – Sherlock! You’re going to Monte Carlo aren’t you, you utter, utter cock? You can’t go to Monte without me. Come back, you bastard! Come back now!”

John leaped into the road, waving frantically at the disappearing taxi and doing a frustrated little dance in the gutter. A volley of motor horns made him jump swiftly back onto the pavement. Shaking his head, he trudged back into the hallway of number 221.

Mrs Hudson emerged from her flat and smiled brightly, clucking over John. “Exciting, isn’t it?” she said, closing the door. “He only got the call this afternoon – Monte Carlo! I’ve always wanted to go there. I like a bit of a flutter occasionally, not for serious money, you understand, just a bit of fun now and then.”

John smiled vaguely and climbed back upstairs, unreasonably annoyed to note that Sherlock had left his trademark coat on the peg by the door.

The plane journey to Nice was two interminable hours, most of which Sherlock appeared spend asleep. He declined all offers of food, drink, fashion items and duty free, although he did briefly wonder if John would appreciate a mouse in the shape of a fluffy pink, well, mouse. He decided against it, opting instead to complain about the lack of leg room.

He felt stiff and unpleasantly dry when the plane landed at Nice, eyes scratchy and ears ringing. By the time he emerged from Baggage Reclaim, it was full dark outside and the place was awash with tourists and holidaymakers. Threading his way through the milling crowds, Sherlock made for the taxi rank.

“Mr Holmes?” The voice was quite close to his right elbow. Sherlock stopped abruptly, causing a businessman walking hard on his heels to curse and veer quickly to one side. A be-suited man regarded him with raised eyebrows and a questioning look.

“Mr Sherlock Holmes?” the man repeated in respectful though carrying tones. Sherlock nodded tersely and the man gestured for him to walk ahead, smoothly taking possession of Sherlock’s luggage.

“A car has been sent for you, sir,” the man said more quietly, falling into step just slightly behind Sherlock, “and a suite has been reserved for you at the Hotel de Regina. I hope it is to your liking.”

“I’m sure it will be satisfactory,” Sherlock replied striding ahead, eyes alert.

The car turned out to be a deep blue limousine, extravagantly outfitted with matching leather upholstery and everything anyone could possibly want for a journey of any length, including a shoeshine kit, a cocktail cabinet and books. Sherlock ignored all of it.

There are many hotels in Monte Carlo that will send an unwary tourist home with a credit card bill as long as his arm. There are a few that will land him in serious financial straits and there are perhaps a half dozen that could put him in a debtor’s prison. The Hotel de Regina belongs firmly in the latter category and just in case you were in some doubt about that fact, the listed exterior and the opulent décor would put you right. Built in the 1860s as a benchmark of luxury accommodation for the rich and famous, the Regina was designed to strike visitors with the breathless awe and respect befitting its reputation as the most gorgeous hotel in the entirety of Monaco – and, of course, the most expensive. With its immense façade of gleaming white stucco decorated with frescoes, lavish terraces and gardens fed by intricately sculpted fountains, magnificent foyer with marble pillars, beautifully inlaid mosaic flooring and exquisite Louis 16th chandeliers, no visitor could remain unmoved by the Regina’s utter loveliness.

Glancing neither left nor right, Sherlock Holmes strode through the entrance to the Hotel de Regina, into the foyer and to the Front Desk texting furiously as he went. He glanced up briefly, peremptorily demanding his room key from the impassive Concierge, and swept away, leaving the porter to follow with his luggage. The lift ascended silently to the top floor, the province of those suites that had their own private terraces. Sherlock entered his living room, flung himself down on the sofa. After a moment, he looked up irritably.

“Are you still here?” he demanded of the hapless porter. “No, I don’t want to make a restaurant reservation; no, I don’t need room service; and no, I certainly don’t want a companion to escort me around the casinos. Now, kindly leave and let me work in peace.”

Sherlock was about to try his phone when there was a discreet knock at the door.

“Come,” he called out.

“Sherlock!” a smooth male voice preceded the entry of a slender, blond man wearing a warm smile and a very expensive suit. Sherlock looked towards the voice and suddenly stood up before he even realized it.

“Victor,” he responded as the blond man gripped his shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks in the Continental style. Sherlock responded in kind and breathed in freshly washed hair and the faint tendrils of an exclusive cologne.

“I’m so pleased you were able to come,” Victor said, still smiling. “Was your journey too tedious?”

Sherlock made a non-committal face. “No more tiresome than expected,” he replied. “The leg room in First Class is still unacceptably sparse.”

“Well, not many of us have quite your advantage, Sherlock,” Victor smiled easily, “A drink downstairs in the bar before dinner, perhaps?”

Sherlock nodded. “That would be most welcome,” he replied. “I have a few questions concerning the case.”

Victor laughed heartily and clapped Sherlock on the shoulder to the latter’s mild surprise. “All work and no play,” Victor said, smiling. “I see that little has changed over the years.”

Sherlock frowned in puzzlement.

Victor laughed again. “Take an evening to settle in, Sherlock,” he said expansively. “The restaurant at the de Regina is second to none. Enjoy your dinner; drink a glass of wine, or several, if you prefer; regale me with your exploits – I have read the articles of your colleague, Doctor Watson. They make most entertaining reading.”

Sherlock shrugged. “If you say so, Victor,” he replied, “but the clock is on.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Victor patted Sherlock’s shoulder once more. “There will be plenty of time to talk business in the morning. Here – I’ll let you unpack. We will meet in the Terrace Bar in, say, thirty minutes, yes?”

Sherlock nodded, turning to his luggage; clearly, he was expected to dress for dinner.

A small dry sherry at the bar preceded a late dinner at a quiet corner table consisting of a cuisine so nouvelle that even Sherlock managed to eat most of it, accompanied by a very fine Sancerre which slipped down smoothly and almost unnoticeable. Coffee followed on the terrace, with Armagnac for Victor, and a breathtakingly beautiful night vista of clear sky, stars and a nearby firework display.

Sherlock was wound so tightly he thought he might actually implode. He tugged at his perfectly tied bow tie and felt beads of sweat break out at his hairline.

A waiter walked past with a bottle of Evian and a frosted glass not a native, from Iraq although he claims to be Polish and deposited it in front of a middle-aged woman "not travelling alone, husband jet-lagged and asleep, hopes to be able to drink too much without him nagging her before taking an order from the next table couple on a make-or-break holiday, two children, one at university, his affair caused an estrangement with the older one…"

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock jumped at the unexpected touch and looked down to see two manicured fingers resting lightly on his wrist. As he stared Victor withdrew his hand, smiling ruefully.

“My apologies,” he said gravely, “I remember how seldom you tolerated casual contact from our Oxford and Cambridge days – I guess that hasn’t really changed, hmm?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “It doesn’t alarm me,” he replied evenly, “when I know the person reasonably well.”

Victor inclined his head in acceptance. “I was trying to gain your attention,” he said, “You were somewhere in your own head.” He smiled. “You used to do that all the time, I remember. Anyway, I was wondering whether it was too late to take you for a tour of the casinos – I imagine you haven’t visited Monte before, yes?”

“That is correct,” Sherlock replied.

Victor’s smile widened. “Then let me show you around,” he offered with a smile.

Sherlock shook his head, drawing his feet under his chair and shifting his weight in order to stand up. His head felt unpleasantly woolly.

“Thank you,” he said, “but it has been a long day and I have a few things to take care of before retiring.” He inclined his head. “Goodnight, Victor.”

Victor also rose from his chair and proffered his hand. “Goodnight, Sherlock,” he replied with a smile. “Thank you for your company over dinner. It was a pleasure to see you again after all this time.”

Victor’s grasp was firm and his hand was warm and dry. Sherlock nodded without smiling, turned on his heel and made for the lift with the intriguing discomfort of knowing that Victor’s eyes were fixed on him as he walked away.

Back in his sumptuous suite, Sherlock stood on the balcony looking out over the teeming city lights. He bit his lower lip, eyes narrowing and shook his head slightly, trying to clear his thoughts. He considered the phone, noting the late hour – too late to call John now without getting an earful of abuse. Sherlock sank into an armchair, elbows on knees, chin in hands and abruptly knew no more. His muscles were stiff and cold when he woke, full daylight sifting in through the curtained windows.

Victor was already in the dining room when Sherlock appeared, sitting at a small table tucked into a secluded corner against a picture window, a small espresso in front of him. On seeing him, Victor laid down the breakfast menu he was perusing and stood smiling in greeting. Sherlock approached, noting the perfect view from the window and the way the sun glanced off Victor’s bright hair. He shook his head sharply, trying to clear the fuzziness from his vision; Victor frowned.

“Headache?” he queried solicitously.

Sherlock nodded reluctantly. “A slight malaise,” he confessed, “The journey must have been even less bearable than I remember.”

“Maybe an effect of the change of climate,” Victor replied sympathetically. He stood while the waiter seated Sherlock in the other chair before resuming his own.

“And of course that would never have occurred to me,” replied Sherlock, burying his nose in the menu, “having never in my life set foot outside England before today.”

Sherlock’s voice dripped sarcasm. Victor gave him a level gaze. “Of course,” he said apologetically, “I was forgetting that you are half French. Does your family live in Southern or Northern France?” He raised his eyebrows interrogatively over the rim of his coffee cup. Sherlock gave him a disdainful glance and ignored the sarcastic fueled question.

Breakfast was usually a non-meal for Sherlock at 221B but in view of the fact that Victor was his client, Sherlock ordered some papaya which he pushed around his plate for a minute or two before abandoning, and a black coffee which he drank scalding hot with an overabundance of sugar and an almost physical gratitude when the caffeine kicked in. Victor eyed him over his omelette.

“Feeling better?” he asked, “Or do you need some pharmaceutical assistance?”

Sherlock gave his client a sharp look but Victor merely gazed back pleasantly, his face a mask of polite inquiry. Sherlock shook his head.

“Thank you, I am perfectly well,” he replied coolly. “Now, perhaps we can get down to business.”

Victor paused for a moment then laid down his fork. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll give you some of the details now, but I suggest we repair to somewhere more private for the rest.”

Sherlock smiled meanly. “Let me save you the trouble,” he said, steepling his fingers. “The Trevor family always had an entrepreneurial streak and a few of their ventures have proved very profitable indeed over the generations. One of these was the purchase and development of casinos in various cities throughout the fashionable world. Over the years, your family’s interests diversified and their holdings in this area dwindled, but you retain the Casino Belle Époque to this day, arguably the oldest and most prestigious casino in Monte Carlo, perhaps in mainland Europe. Your family has come to rely on its steady income so their consternation when the profits took a sharp dip was very real. The loss is minor to moderate but its effect on an established business is significant and despite your investigations, you cannot work out how or why it is happening. So you called me in to solve the mystery.”

Sherlock sat back in his chair and smirked. His expression resembled that of a cat with a couple of canary feathers sticking out of its mouth.

Victor’s cup paused in its trajectory between the saucer and his mouth. “Well,” he said finally, “nothing really changes, does it?”

Sherlock bowed his head in silent acknowledgement.

Victor drank his coffee thoughtfully. “You are absolutely correct on all fronts,” he admitted. “We are indeed experiencing an unexplained shortfall. Our analysts can make no sense of it; there are no unexplained pay-outs, nothing that could be traced to theft or embezzlement. Our clients are spending at the same level and there has been no drop-off in attendance, there is simply less profit at the end of each day.”

“And yours is the only casino in Monte which is suffering, am I correct?” Sherlock asked.

Victor nodded. “Again, you are right,” he replied. “Members of my security staff have made discreet inquiries – no other casino has been affected...”

“So why the Belle Epoque?” Sherlock interrupted.

Victor shook his head. “I have not the faintest idea why we are being targeted,” he replied.

Sherlock nodded faintly, his mind clearly working at a speed of knots. He rose swiftly to his feet. “I require access to your records from the past two months,” he said abruptly. “Also, I need to interview your croupiers and your front of house staff. And I would appreciate some kind of cover for the next two or three evenings.”

“Cover?” Victor queried, also rising from his chair.

Sherlock nodded. “Yes,” he replied, “A good reason for being present throughout to avoid being challenged by your security.”

Victor laughed. “Don’t worry,” he said, “I’ll brief them thoroughly; you won’t be bothered. Is there something wrong?”

The look Sherlock leveled at Victor was withering to say the least.

“How well do you trust your staff?” Sherlock asked mildly.

“Absolutely,” Victor replied without hesitation. “They are handpicked and most of them have been with us for many years.”

“Would you trust them with your life?”

“Some of them, yes.”

“But not all?”

Victor frowned. “What are you getting at?” he replied. “No, of course I wouldn’t trust every single one of them to that extent. You’d be astonished if I even…”

“Then in that case, I would be obliged if you expressly do not brief them as to my real identity,” Sherlock told him firmly.

Victor stared. “You mean invent a cover story?” His eyes widened. “That you are a visiting professor of mathematics conducting a study into probability, perhaps?”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Or a random sociologist looking into the science of addiction – don’t be ridiculous, Victor!”

Sherlock sighed. He leaned forward. “Look,” he said, “describe me simply as your personal guest. Play it up a little, tell them we met at university and lost touch. Give them some kind of sentimental nonsense about finding each other on the street, if you like, that should be sufficient.”

Victor raised his left eyebrow quizzically and one side of his mouth quirked in a mildly mocking manner; Sherlock felt his face flush.

“Give me an advance to spend on the tables,” Sherlock continued, looking everywhere but Victor’s face, “just enough to keep me from rousing suspicion – and I’ll deal with the rest.”

Victor nodded. “Very well,” he replied, suddenly all business, “I’ll set it up this afternoon. I’ll also make sure the bar staff know to keep you happy – not that the little amount you drink will affect the bar takings in any way.” He chuckled, regaining some of his good humor. “Your alcohol consumption was never high, but it appears to be almost non-existent now. Don’t think I didn’t notice you barely got through one glass of that excellent vintage we enjoyed with dinner last night.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Dulls the brain,” he responded. He nodded quickly. “Very well, Victor, if that’s all, then I’ll see you at the Belle Époque at around 2pm. I’ve a few inquiries to make this morning.”

“Why don’t we meet for lunch?” Victor suggested. “You could come to my house. I’ll send a driver for you at twelve.”

Sherlock shook his head firmly. “Too busy,” he replied, “After all, you want this thing settled, don’t you?”

Victor smiled. “Dinner later then?” he persisted. “I remember your habit of starving your body to hone your brain to maximum sharpness, but I absolutely insist you have dinner with me this evening; we can repair to the tables afterwards.”

Sherlock paused for an instant before inclining his head. “Okay,” he replied, “but I warn you, it will be a working dinner.”

Their eyes locked; Victor nodded faintly. “Have it your way.”

“Be sure that I will,” Sherlock replied maintaining his level stare. He nodded, turned on his heel and left the dining room.

Once in the lift, Sherlock checked the time on his watch and decided when he was back in his room he'd try to ring John but instead of getting John, Mrs Hudson picked up the phone in 221B and rather excitably informed Sherlock that John apparently had a date and wouldn't be home for the night. When asked how she knew, Mrs Hudson told him that John had written a note and slipped it under her door earlier in the day, seemingly not wanting to disturb her.

Sherlock frowned. John had a date? This was unexpected, particularly as he had shown no signs of a new love interest over recent weeks. It had to be an opportunist thing; someone new at the surgery, maybe? Sherlock was unaccountably disturbed and angry.

The Head of Security at the Belle Époque was an Englishman, quietly spoken, unobtrusively dressed with a deceptively mild manner. He rejoiced in the name of Hugh Ampney.

“Management’s certain it’s card counters, Mr Holmes,” Ampney said, “and I have to admit, it’s the only solution that makes any kind of sense, but my staff aren’t turning up any proof."

“Yes,” Sherlock ran a hand over his chin to feel his stubble rasp, “but reports indicate that the slot machines are also showing a deficit. Card counting wouldn’t affect that area of the business.”

Ampney nodded. “True enough,” he replied, “and there are ways as you probably know, even against state-of-the-art systems such as ours, but it is rare and pretty sophisticated. We haven’t had a whisper of anything on that scale for some years.”

Sherlock nodded. “Get me the records from the past three weeks,” he said, dragging a supportive-looking chair to where he could work at Ampney’s desktop.

The man nodded and leaned over to call up the files. "We keep around two months’ worth of data as a rule,” he told Sherlock as he worked.“However, currently we only have files from the past five days.”

“Oh?” Sherlock frowned up at him.

Ampney shrugged. “Human error,”

“How did it happen?” Sherlock asked.

Ampney sighed and spread his hands. “They said it was a mistake,” he explained.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “They said it was a mistake?” he repeated.

Hugh Ampney gave him a level stare. “That’s what I said,” he replied quietly. “I’m an old-fashioned man, Mr Holmes, and I believe in keeping things simple. I’ve been working at the Belle Époque for nearly twenty years now and I’m good at my job. I’ve seen the damage done by leaving things to run themselves and I’ve always made it my business to know as much as possible about everything that comes into my remit. So when something doesn’t work right and you know there’s no apparent reason for it – well, you start to look elsewhere for the cause, that’s all.”

“What,” said Sherlock slowly, “are you trying to tell me?”

The man shook his head. “I wish I knew, Mr Holmes,” he replied, “I really do.”

“That’s interesting,” Sherlock muttered, not taking his eyes away from the other man. “Alright, Mr Ampney, I’ll take it from here.” He swung back to face the desk.

“Good luck,” the other man said. “It took my people days to get through even that lot. Anything else you need?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes,” he said. He glanced up at the Head of Security, “Coffee – black with two sugars please – every hour or so. Good afternoon."

Dinner with Victor that evening was a sumptuous affair. Sherlock had expected to dine at the casino, but the discreet black car which came to collect him accelerated smoothly out of the city into the hills, swinging into a quiet road somewhere in the suburbs that terminated in the parking basement of a house.

As the chauffeur ushered him up an internal flight of steel and glass stairs, Sherlock reflected that whilst he and Mycroft would probably agree to call this a house, John would almost certainly call it a mansion if not a palace. Victor’s home was certainly striking and possibly beautiful too, if you liked modernist architecture with lots of glass and concrete. Victor clearly did.

Victor greeted Sherlock with a huge smile and an expansive, proprietorial air. He pressed a glass of vintage champagne on Sherlock and then insisted on giving him a full tour of his home before dinner, making sure to show him the Balinese-style rooftop pool, the private cinema, the air-conditioned gym and finally, the tastefully designed master bedroom suite.

“I argued bitterly with my decorator over so much white where I was intending to sleep,” he told Sherlock, his feet making no sound on the plush carpet, “but she persuaded me in the end and I must say that it really is extremely restful. You always suffered from insomnia, I recall; you should try it.”

“Are you referring to the color scheme or your bedroom, Victor?” Sherlock asked in a suspiciously mild tone; Victor merely smiled.

After Sherlock had viewed every inch of handmade glass, exquisite vista and minimalist décor, dinner was served on the terrace by a staff so discreet as to be almost invisible; a casual buffet of hot and cold dishes with some imaginative and colorful salads.

“I thought you would feel more comfortable if we dined informally,” Victor explained. “I realized that last night’s dinner was probably not the best idea for someone of your extremely erratic eating habits.”

Sherlock shrugged; whether anyone noticed his lack of appetite was supremely irrelevant to him. He took a glass of wine because it was given to him and he tumbled a slice of poached salmon and a few vegetables onto his plate largely for something to do, but he managed no more than a mouthful or two in the two hours he spent at Victor’s home.

After coffee, Victor led the way back into the house and through to the bedrooms. Sherlock allowed himself a tiny eyebrow twitch but followed obediently enough. Victor led the way into a guest room similar in style to the Master Bedroom. Laid out carefully on the ample double bed were dinner jacket and dress trousers, a simple white dinner shirt, black silk socks in ironed folds and other items including a shoeshine kit.

“Forgive me,” he purred, “I took the liberty of procuring you black tie. You have your own back at the hotel of course, but to dress here would be so much more comfortable and convenient, n’est ce pas?”

Sherlock, of course, had no such thing with him and even if he had, his budget would never have stretched to apparel of this quality. Good lord, there were even platinum cufflinks with Victor’s family crest discreetly picked out in gold. Sherlock expended so much energy keeping his face expressionless he thought he would crack a tooth.

“That was most – thoughtful of you, Victor,” he managed.

The other man smiled placidly and moved towards the door. “Let me know when you are ready,” he replied quietly, “and I’ll order the limousine.”

The air in the car seemed damp and close despite the windows being wound down a little and Sherlock had to fight the impulse to tug at his collar. Victor’s fingers on his tie earlier, making minute adjustments, had put Sherlock’s neck hairs on end; he was less than sanguine about doing anything to provoke a similar experience in closer proximity. He sank back into the plush leather and realized, to his surprise, that he was tired.

A mere moment later, Sherlock felt a gentle hand on his shoulder and realized that not only had they arrived at the Belle Époque but also that he had dozed off and slept for the entire journey. Victor was smiling that secret, knowing smile again.

“You have not yet recovered from your journey, mon ami,” he said. “I hope your nap has refreshed you a little. Now, this evening we must work; there will be time for play later, I assure you.”

Sherlock gave Victor what he hoped was a withering look. The sluggishness of his muscles made his exit from the limousine less than graceful.

Later, Sherlock would realize that his memories of the evening were unusually disjointed. Certainly nothing untoward happened, he was sure of that, but there were unaccountable gaps in the screenplay of his recollections, his eidetic memory and mind palace seemed to be suffering random outages. It was enough for him to wonder seriously if he was in need of a genuine holiday, a period of rest. This was extremely unnerving; typically, Sherlock did not rest until his body gave out on him. Perhaps that was what was finally happening. If John was here he could back him up or give his own diagnosis but he wasn't here and Sherlock found himself hating that fact. 

Sherlock prowled around the casino, allowing himself the occasional bet on the roulette wheel. He spent a little while playing blackjack just to establish himself as a punter, but the whole thing bored him out of his skull. Manipulating a game this simple was really not nuclear physics and for a mathematical savant such as himself, it was a strain to keep losing credibly.

On a temporary release in search of something that looked non-alcoholic to drink, Sherlock wandered into the bar area, scanning the crowd for familiar faces. One or two had his internal radar paying attention, but there was really nothing definite. He ordered a slim line tonic with ice and lemon, aware that no one would know its composition just by looking at it, and watched the room in the massive gilt mirror over the bar while he pondered. He became aware of a shadow by his side and turned his head minutely.

The woman was thin to the point of emaciation with jet black hair and a smooth olive complexion. Her strong, attractive features were southern European, possibly Spanish. Her simple black dress was neither demure nor provocative, merely extremely well-tailored and her manicure was expensive. She gave her order to the bartender and leaned against the bar, turning towards Sherlock as she waited.

“Not playing tonight?” she asked neutrally. Her accent was very slight, honed down by years of living in mainland Europe, but Sherlock could trace it to Barcelona. He tilted his head very slightly to regard her in the mirror.

“Boring,” he replied. She raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

“Indeed. So why come here at all?” she asked. She took a cigarette from her understated clutch bag and held it between thin fingers. Without taking his eyes from her, Sherlock reached for a matchbook and brought the flame up as she raised the cigarette to her lips. As she took the first drag, Sherlock moved imperceptibly nearer and inhaled quickly.

The woman laughed. Sherlock turned from the mirror to look at her. He raised his eyebrows.

“Once a smoker, always a smoker,” she told him. “You’ll never forget it no matter how many years go by.”

Slightly disconcerted, Sherlock covered himself with a sip from the drink that had appeared magically at his elbow. The woman copied his movement with something of her own. Margarita if the scent was anything to go by.

“My name is Olivia,” she told him, “Olivia Ramirez.”

Sherlock nodded silently. “And your name is?” she prompted.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he muttered, gulping at his drink. The woman nodded unsurprising.

“Ah. The consulting detective,” she murmured, moving closer.

Sherlock’s shoulders stiffened reflexively.

Ramirez put a gentle hand over his wrist and then the consulting detective found himself frozen to the spot.

“Don’t flinch,” she said quietly, “and try not to pull away. Smile if you can – the security will record a mild flirtation, nothing more.” She took another sip from her drink and leaned into him; her lips brushed the edge of his ear.

“What are you doing here?” she asked quietly; the half-lidded eyes and secret smile Sherlock could see in the mirror were strictly at odds with her serious tone.

“I’m a guest of Victor Trevor,” Sherlock replied equally quietly. Ramirez nodded, locks of her dark hair brushing gently over his shoulder.

“That too,” she said, “but what’s the other purpose, the main one? Mr Holmes, the Trevor family is a close-knit group. Problems in the business are dealt with quietly and efficiently and always kept in-house. I know Mr Trevor well and in all the time I’ve had dealings with him, he has never used outside contractors. And yet here you are.”

“And you want to know why,” Sherlock replied. He turned to face her. “Very well, let me ask you this: why should I talk to you – a business rival, a competitor and an unknown quantity, with no as yet stated reason to care one way or another about the health of either the Belle Époque or the Trevor family, hm?”

Ramirez did not move nor did her expression change, but Sherlock noticed a muscle twitch at her temple and allowed himself a small smile of satisfaction.

Ramirez drew on her cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray. “You reputation precedes you,” she told him. She pressed her lips together briefly. “To clarify, I am indeed the owner of the Meridian Casino, one of the direct competitors of the Belle Époque.”

Sherlock nodded. “I know,” he replied, “So, what is your interest here?”

“In the Belle Époque? None,” she replied, “other than professional curiosity. With Victor? The association between us goes back a long way.”

“You have had professional or personal dealings with Mr Trevor in the past?” Sherlock asked.

Ramirez frowned. “With Mr Trevor?” she replied with slight puzzlement, “Completely professional, of course.”

Sherlock nodded then changed his posture, leaning against the mahogany bar on one elbow.

“So, Miss Ramirez,” he drawled, “let me pose the same question you asked me – what are you doing here?”

Ramirez straightened, all trace of her former languid sultriness erased. “Believe it or not,” she said, “I’m trying to help you.”

Sherlock gave a bark of laughter. “When I need help from your kind,” he replied tersely, “I’ll throw myself off a balcony. You’ll have to do better than that.”

Irritation rippled fleetingly across her face. “Very well, Mr Holmes,” she said formally, “Let me simply say this: you are not the only one who can draw conclusions.”

Ramirez pushed herself away from the bar and stalked towards the exit. Halfway there, she hesitated and turned back.

“Take my advice, Mr Holmes,” she said flatly, “Don’t take anything here at face value; nothing at all.”

“Do you honestly think I need that advice?” Sherlock retorted scornfully.

She shrugged. “Just a friendly warning,” she replied. “Goodnight, Mr Holmes.”

As he watched her move into the crowd, he had to admire the way she could drop her attractive profile and merge with the crowd; he doubted that Victor or his security team would ever be aware of her presence that evening unless he, Sherlock, alerted them.

Sherlock was still staring pensively into his empty glass when Victor walked into the bar, apparently looking for him.

“You look weary, mon ami,” he said, putting a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder causing him to freeze once more. “Perhaps you should come back with me this evening; no offence to the Regina Hotel, but you would probably sleep better higher in the hills.”

Sherlock shook his head. “I’ll be very comfortable in my suite, Victor, thank you,” he replied, stretching his legs stiffly and clambering down from his bar stool.

Victor smiled and reached out a hand to pluck a single long black hair from Sherlock’s shoulder.

“It looks like you had company tonight,” he commented as they turned to leave the bar. “Were they pretty?”

“I didn’t notice,” Sherlock muttered, concentrating on keeping his center of gravity stable. Victor did not comment, merely steadied Sherlock with a discreet hand on his elbow until such time as he recovered.
 

Sherlock leaned his back to the closed door of his hotel suite and sighed gustily. It was 3AM. Victor had been characteristically persistent, still bright-eyed and alert despite the late hour, and Sherlock had found it difficult to shake him off. Wearily, Sherlock slumped into the bathroom and examined his face in the mirror. He looked drained and hollow-eyed even though he had slept, after a fashion, the previous night. He had shaved at Victor’s but his small amount of dark stubble stood out in livid contrast to his pallor. His body felt heavy and sluggish and his brain was refusing to come out of its kennel like a reluctant guard dog on a cold night and all the lights in his mind palace were flickering on and off.

Sherlock showered and shaved again to get the miasma of the casino out of his skin, pulled on his sleeping wear. He settled at the desk in his living room with the curtains open, the lights of the city filtered by the gauze drape.
 

Towards daybreak, Sherlock’s eyes refused to focus and he gave in, sliding between the cool sheets of the double bed. After some tossing and turning, he dropped into an uneasy doze dogged by anxious dreams, awaking just before eight, confused and fogged. A cool shower and a glass of water did little to help and as he took the stairs down to the dining room, he noticed a slight lag between his perception and his movement; his balance felt off somehow.

Victor was, of course, waiting for him at the usual table and jumped to his feet at once.

“You are unwell, Sherlock,” he said, concerned, “What is wrong?”

Sherlock refrained from shaking his head and sat down gingerly. “Just a headache, Victor, don’t fuss,” he replied.

Victor smiled sympathetically; Sherlock buried his head in his hands. The next time he looked up, there was a small silver pill box in front of him. He looked at Victor questioningly.

“Merely a proprietary painkiller,” Victor replied, unfolding his napkin and signalling to a waiter.

Sherlock opened the sprung catch and slipped two of the white tablets into his shirt pocket.

“Better take them now,” Victor said. “You’ll feel more able to eat breakfast if you do.”

“Frankly, I don’t think I can keep them down at the moment,” Sherlock replied honestly. “I’ll take them a bit later when my stomach’s settled.” He waved the waiter away. “Nothing for me, thank you.”

Victor ate some yogurt and fruit together with coffee and shook his head gravely over Sherlock’s lack of appetite.

To forestall any further attempts to make him consume something, Sherlock started to talk about the case. “It has to be some kind of card counting racket,” he said thoughtfully.

Victor nodded, spearing a slice of melon. “I thought as much,” he replied, “but the perpetrators are proving very elusive. Perhaps the next few days will throw some light on the situation.”

“Perhaps,” Sherlock replied thoughtfully. “How’s the lawsuit going?” Victor blinked at him and frowned. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “The lawsuit with your security firm, Victor,” he said impatiently, “You know – the disagreement about the mistake that wiped so much of your data?”

Victor momentarily stopped chewing then the puzzled expression left his face to be replaced with a smile. “Oh, that,” he replied. He shook his head, “Merely a misunderstanding. It caused much inconvenience, but no serious damage.”

“Hugh Ampney seems to think otherwise,” Sherlock commented.

Victor waved the notion away. “Ampney’s a – how do you Londoners put it? – an old woman,” he replied breezily, “Good at his job but worries over trifles. There is nothing wrong with our system.”

“Except that we’ve now got to wait around for the next few days for comparison rather than having information from the past few months at our fingertips,” Sherlock persisted. “It could take weeks, Victor. That’s time you really don’t have. Every day this goes on, your casino loses money and the people involved become more entrenched. This is the kind of problem I’m used to solving within a few hours, sometimes remotely. It’s intolerable to be hamstrung by this kind of inefficiency.”

Sherlock sighed aggressively. “This is a Six, Victor,” he said bitterly, “I don’t get out of bed for a Six; I rarely leave Baker Street for less than an Eight.”

Victor regarded him placidly over the rim of his coffee cup. “I understand,” he said gravely, “and now that you have seen first-hand how the Belle Époque operates, I have today arranged for you to interview key members of my staff to see if you can deduce any more than I or Ampney have been able to. These are trusted people who have been with us a long while and they know how to keep a confidence."

Sherlock nodded. “That’s – better,” he replied. He rose from the table and nodded to Victor.

“Enjoy your breakfast,” he said, “I’m going for some air – perhaps it might clear my head. I’ll see you at the Belle Époque in forty minutes to begin my interviews.”

“But Sherlock…” Victor rose from his seat, his napkin falling to the floor, but Sherlock had already taken off, his unnaturally long legs propelling through the dining room at speed to disappear into the foyer and out into the street.

Sherlock walked rapidly along the busy thoroughfare, taking in shops, banks and hotels before turning into a side street, crossing over the road and hailing a taxi. His stomach rumbled alarmingly as he addressed the driver in fluent, idiomatic French, leaped into the back of the car and sank back into the leather seats. Closing his eyes briefly, he realized how much he was missing John and still wouldn't shake him and that so called "date" from his mind. 

The taxi came to a halt before Sherlock give it anymore thought and he alighted, paying the man and taking off again on foot.

Sherlock found a newsagent on a street corner and purchased three bottles of Volvic with their seals intact, 16 caplets of paracetamol and two packs of assorted sandwiches, all of which he thrust into a plastic carrier bag, because despite all that John said to the contrary, Sherlock did indeed eat and sleep during cases; just not as much as he did between them.

Forty minutes later and feeling considerably more human, Sherlock arrived at the Belle Époque and strode into Victor’s office ready to begin his interviews. By midday, he wished fervently to be back in Baker Street, at Scotland Yard, Mycroft’s house – hell, even the airport.

It’s like beating my head against a brick wall.

He was thinking about John over his lunch – half a ham sandwich at 5.30pm accompanied by two more painkillers washed down with some of the Volvic. Victor had gone to the casino restaurant, clearly rather put out that Sherlock preferred to work. Sherlock had most unfairly pointed out that he was actually saving Victor money in the long run, but Victor was not convinced and had provided Sherlock with a flask of excellent coffee and an exquisite seafood salad. Sherlock knew the coffee was excellent – the aroma as he disposed of the liquid carefully in the en-suite washroom off Victor’s office had been positively mouthwatering. The salad was a little more difficult, but he managed to fit it all into the empty sandwich package and stow it in his carrier bag.

Nobody knows anything at all. I mean it, they honestly don’t. If I didn’t have the reports from the Finance department, I would be convinced that Victor dreamed it all.

Sherlock sat back. His headache had receded into the background and he was beginning to feel his energy returning.

I’m starting to get the idea that I’m being given what is commonly called the “runaround” by these people. The questions are by whom, and why?

Sherlock sat with his chin in his hands for a moment; John had another date – according to Mrs Hudson once more, with the same woman –Sherlock fidgeted, indecisive. He never evinced any interest in John’s girlfriends on principle. The last thing he wanted was to show the slightest curiosity about John’s love life. At the very least, interest of that kind could potentially result in the latest girlfriend having “a friend who is very pretty and is absolutely dying to meet you”. Sherlock shuddered reflexively. And that would not necessarily be the worst outcome he could imagine either, he reflected.

“Cold?” Victor’s voice broke through his reverie.

Sherlock stood up, hands on the desk. He sighed.

“Victor,” he began, “I’m getting absolutely nowhere with your staff. Either they’re very, very good at dissembling or there really isn’t anything to discover. To my dismay, I’m beginning to suspect the latter.”

Something rippled across Victor’s face, a momentary disruption of the smooth, urbane façade. It was gone in an instant and Victor leaned across the desk to lay a carefully proprietorial hand on Sherlock’s upper arm.

“You have been working for nine hours without a proper break,” he said, smiling gently. “Sherlock, it is time now to stop. Let me take you for an early dinner at my house. My chef has promised me fresh langoustines with aioli, tarte au citron and a really excellent white Burgundy…”

Sherlock breathed out in exasperation. “Victor, just stop it,” he said forcefully. The other man tripped over his words and fell silent, withdrawing his hand from Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock took a deep breath and thinned his lips. “This case,” he began, “It is smoke on the water, mist along the woodland path, Alice through the Looking Glass. Nothing is what it seems here, not even you, Victor.”

Victor paused as if uncertain, then relaxed into a chuckle and reached out for the other man’s arm again. “Sherlock, Sherlock,” he said trying to calm him down “You’re so intense all the time. It’s exciting, believe me, it always was, watching you focus, follow through and solve problems, all at breakneck speed. But here, in Europe, things are different. We take life at a slower pace; we are used to moving more leisurely in the heat, allowing our bodies to dictate the pace at which we function.”

Victor smiled. “Since we both went down from Oxford,” he continued, “I have often wondered what became of you. I tried to make contact on a number of occasions, but failed to find you. Several years went by and finally you resurfaced; I was overjoyed. Now you are here at last, would it not be good to take some time to renew our friendship? We were very close in Oxford; it was a time I treasure in my memory. Try to look on these setbacks you are experiencing as blessings in disguise. Monaco is a beautiful part of the world, Sherlock; perhaps you will let me show you some of it, in recompense for your time?”

Sherlock actually had to close his mouth before answering. “Are you…” he paused and frowned, “Are you actually trying to proposition me, Victor?”

His companion smiled serenely and edged his left hand across the desk to where Sherlock was gripping the wood white knuckled. His fingertips brushed gently against Sherlock’s wrist.

“And why not?” Victor replied softly with raised eyebrows, “Doesn’t the idea of reliving those heady days when we were young and carefree appeal to you? Living the student life; staying up all night listening to Wagner and debating Nietzsche, champagne breakfasts at Clare after the May Ball – oh, those were indeed the days!” Victor sighed nostalgically and his little finger stroked across Sherlock’s thumb.

Sherlock did not move and to the unwary observer it would appear that he remained completely expressionless. Had John been present, he would have seen the tell-tale signs immediately: the increased respiratory rate, the muscular twitch at the jaw hinge, the minute narrowing of the eyes.

Victor seemed to take Sherlock’s apparent lack of reaction as encouragement. His questing fingers slid gently over Sherlock’s hand and under his cuff, caressing the sensitive skin of his inner wrist. A slight tremor ran through Sherlock’s body at the contact. Still wearing his patient smile, Victor took a step closer into Sherlock’s personal space and raised a hand to caress his jaw, pushing the tips of his fingers gently into the other man’s hair.

“I have missed you,” Victor whispered, his lips almost grazing Sherlock’s mouth as he spoke. “The years have not changed you, Sherlock. You are still svelte and beautiful, still cool and disdainful, untouched and untouchable. You still publicly exhibit your customary derision, to paraphrase one of your famous English actresses, for the hurly burly of the chaise longue.”

Victor smiled and breathed out gently as he traced his lips fleetingly over Sherlock’s jaw.

“But you and I both know differently, don’t we?” Victor continued, the pitch of his voice dropping to a more intimate level. “We know the deep, deep peace of the double bed and the fires that burn beneath the ice, do we not? Once upon a time you let me fan the flames, Sherlock, and I have never, ever forgotten it.”

Victor turned his head to drag his mouth slowly across Sherlock’s cheek. He brought his right hand up to gently cup Sherlock’s jaw and slowly threaded the fingers of the other through Sherlock’s curls. He gasped in surprise as his wrist was caught and held hard as though in a vice.

“Your memories are neither accurate nor pleasant, Victor,” Sherlock finally spoke and his tone had all the shock of a bucket of iced water. Victor froze and frowned uncertainly, his hand still clutched in Sherlock’s hair.

“To begin with,” Sherlock began quietly as though they were still in a business meeting, “whilst at Oxford, I doubt I could ever have been described as carefree, considering that I was at least three years younger and several eons more knowledgeable and intelligent than any other undergraduate in the country. Neither of those things makes for a comfortable existence. Secondly, I haven’t an inkling who accompanied you when you were out and attending May Balls, but I was not present on any of these occasions. Neither did I listen to Wagner into the small hours – heaven forfend – and any debate on the writings of German philosophers would have had me gnawing off my own right arm in sheer self-defence.”

Sherlock removed Victor’s nerveless hand and pushed himself up off the desk. “So you see, Victor,” he replied, “you may have happy memories of your student days, but don’t expect me to figure very highly in them. Our association was almost entirely physical and it lasted precisely one term, after which we went our separate ways and never crossed each other’s paths again.”

Victor licked his lips. “It was not my doing,” he said defensively. “Sherlock, I would have…”

Sherlock shook his head violently. “Restitution for past sins is really not an issue I care to examine right now,” he interrupted, “I would be much more interested in learning why you think it a good idea to revisit those sins."

“Over the past three days, Victor, I have discovered a number of things,” Sherlock continued, starting to pace the room. “Firstly, the Belle Époque has no shareholders outside the Trevor family and has no debts or liabilities; secondly, Hugh Ampney is indeed Head of Security but overall control vests in the Sys Admin; that is you, Victor; and finally, the Mr V Trevor, CEO who appears on your letterhead and has a 51% controlling interest is not you but is, in fact, your father.”

Victor said nothing; the blood drained from his face leaving it the color of parchment.

Sherlock took no notice. “I suspected it before,” he continued blithely, “Hugh Ampney’s attitude was strangely ambivalent for such a well-entrenched employee, and your opinion of him was hardly respectful considering his service record. But it was not until I encountered Olivia Ramirez last night that things really fell into place.”

“Ramirez?” Victor frowned. “What was she doing in my casino?”

“Warning me against you, apparently,” Sherlock replied placidly, “although I didn’t pick it up until much later; a reprehensible lapse on my part, although understandable in light of later revelations. She talked about “Victor” and also about “Mr Trevor” – I should be shot for not having spotted immediately that she was referring to two different people.”

“Sherlock,” Victor began again, “it’s not what…”

“Oh, I’m sure it isn’t, Victor,” Sherlock continued. “You’re certainly responsible for the shortfall; that much is obvious. You’ve been siphoning off the profits, haven’t you? Very cleverly, I have to admit; actually at the tables rather than from the accounting system. You had the sense to omit the roulette wheel but you should have left the slot machines out of the equation too, that was the clincher for me. What is it, Victor? Gambling debts? How very ironic for someone in your business, but I understand it’s not uncommon.”

“Alright,” Victor was looking sick. “Alright, yes; what you say is true. I’m responsible for the losses, all of them.” His voice was hurried, hesitant.

“And you arranged for that so called mistake. Why was that?” Sherlock persisted in a hard voice.

“To put you off the scent,” Victor whispered.

Sherlock clicked his thumb and second finger. “Of course!” he hissed. “Misdirection – I knew it! You weren’t worried I’d spot something amiss; you were trying to hide what wasn’t there! You wanted me to hare off in pursuit of some phantom card-counting gang.”

Sherlock’s triumphant grin faded into a frown. “But why?” he asked rhetorically, suddenly quiet.

Sherlock rounded on Victor. “Whose idea was it to hire me for this case?” he demanded, “Yours or your father’s?”

Victor blinked. “Why, mine,” he replied uncertainly. “The Oxford connection, you know – plus the intrigue and the good fee. I was sure you would come.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Interesting,” he said softly. “If you’d said it was your father’s idea I might have had a little more belief in this charade at least for a while, but you, Victor – oh, you know much better than to pit your wits against mine. By the way, where exactly is your father? It’s still gambling season, if there is such a thing; he should be here in his beloved casino but no, he’s conspicuous by his absence. Why? Where is he?”

“He’s – on a business trip…” Victor was starting to sweat; Sherlock couldn’t help but notice that this was a very unattractive look on him.

“Stop it!” Sherlock thundered. Victor visibly flinched.

“Stop lying to me!” Sherlock continued at the same volume. “Is he still in Monte Carlo, Victor? Or has he gone on a long walk off a short pier? There’s plenty of convenient ocean around here to dispose of the body. Or perhaps you decided to go further afield? Maybe he’s actually hidden in the casino somewhere? Or even at your house? Talk to me, Victor: is your father still alive?”

“I – I don’t know,” Victor managed. His face was haggard and his hands trembled.

Sherlock stared at his erstwhile friend and colleague while the man visibly crumpled in front of him.

Victor sat down in the visitor’s chair and buried his head in his hands. “Father took a trip to Paris a fortnight ago,” he began in muffled tones. “He flew out from Nice; he often took a long weekend to go to the opera. It wasn’t a secret.”

Victor swallowed and began again. “When he didn’t come home as he usually did on the Monday morning, I made some inquiries, tried to get in touch with him. I was actually on the phone to the airport when my secretary showed a man into my office."

“He was a very nondescript kind of person,” Victor continued, “brown hair, brown eyes, light skin, medium-quality suit, etc. etc. He told me he knew where my father was and that he was in a lot of trouble. I demanded more information and as we talked I realized that this was a kidnap situation.”

“Why didn’t you contact the police?” Sherlock demanded.

Victor stared at him in disgust. “You’re so clever and you say something like that,” he retorted.

Sherlock frowned. “Wait a minute,” he said, starting to pace again. “You said this was a fortnight ago? And the implication is that you siphoned off the money to pay the ransom? But that doesn’t make sense – the dip in profits has been happening for months…”

Sherlock turned back to Victor. “You got into the system,” he breathed. “You got into the accounting and you planted the data; you made it seem as though the money had been disappearing bit by bit but in reality…” Sherlock pushed a frantic hand through his hair. “Victor, for the love of all that’s holy, why?”

The other man just sat white-faced, staring at the ground, shaking his head over and over again.

“This wasn’t ever about the Belle Époque, was it?” Sherlock said wonderingly, “It wasn’t about money and it wasn’t about the Trevor family either – you were just collateral damage. It was about me, wasn’t it Victor? Me! The question is why?”

Sherlock gripped Victor’s jaw and forced him to meet his eyes. “What was the price of your father’s life?” he demanded. The other man struggled but Sherlock gripped hard enough to bruise.

“Your – your presence here,” Victor managed to gasp out. “They wanted you to come here; that’s all, I swear it!”

“And you complied so beautifully, didn’t you?” Sherlock roughly released him and walked over to the desk. “You set up a puzzle that you knew I wouldn’t be able to resist. You offered me a generous fee, a sumptuous suite in a top class hotel, the opportunity to see Monte Carlo…”

Sherlock trailed off and turned back to the other man. “And the resumption of an association deemed to be unfinished, at least on my part,” he said coldly. “Did they tell you to seduce me, or was that just improvisation on your part?”

Victor flushed and lowered his eyes.

Sherlock smiled ironically. “Very well,” he continued, “Time to come clean, as Detective Inspector Lestrade would say. Who is responsible for this? What do you know?”

Victor shook his head. “Nothing, I swear it,” he protested. “My instructions were to get you out of England and set you up here with me…”

“Out of England?” Sherlock repeated, eyes wide. “Not in Monte specifically, just away from home. But why? And why you?” He stared at Victor who shook his head miserably.

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “Whoever they are, they did their research,” he murmured. “They knew about Oxford and they gambled that I just might still hold a torch for you. This case, this whole charade was designed to keep me occupied and off balance while you tried to stay ahead of me.”

Sherlock reached in his pocket and held out two white pills on the palm of his hand.

“And this helped,” he continued, “Yes, they look very much like normal painkillers, don’t they?” He gripped one of the pills between finger and thumb and pushed it millimeters from Victor’s haggard face. “If I’d taken them, I’d have gone out like a light and I’d have remembered nothing.”

Sherlock flung both pills violently away from him into a corner of the room. Victor’s head jerked up; he flushed deeply. “I would never…” he began in anguish.

“Oh, I’m quite sure you wouldn’t,” Sherlock interrupted breezily. “The amounts you introduced into my food and drink were insufficient for anything nefarious. They merely served to keep me confused, my mind muddled. If you could make certain that I was functioning on only two out of four cylinders, you thought that you might be able to stay one step ahead of me for a day or two longer, isn’t that so?”

Sherlock threw one more contemptuous look at his former friend then he sighed, thrust his hands in his pockets and made for the door.

“Where are you going?” Victor demanded, springing up from his chair in pursuit.

“Back to London,” Sherlock responded over his shoulder without pausing.

“But – but you can’t!” Victor protested, following Sherlock out of the door.

“I can and I will,” Sherlock strode down the short corridor and out into the Belle Époque’s main lounge area. The cleaners were still vacuuming and polishing in preparation for the evening’s gaming. Sherlock strode through, neatly avoiding trailing wires and out of place tables, followed closely by Victor who was almost running in his panic.

“Sherlock, please,” Victor panted. Sherlock ignored him, striding through the foyer and out of the revolving door into the street, Victor hard on his heels.

“Sherlock!” Victor grabbed Sherlock’s sleeve, forcing him to turn. “You can’t leave Monaco. If you do, they’ll kill my father!”

“Have they told you this?” Sherlock demanded.

Victor shook his head. “Not in so many words, no,” he replied, “but the threat is there. I’ve failed. Even with our history, I’ve only managed to keep you here for a mere two days – they said it had to be a week minimum. How do you think they’re going to react? For pity’s sake, Sherlock…”

“You have only one sensible course of action,” Sherlock replied in a low tone. “Paying off kidnappers with no bargaining counter of your own rarely brings a good result. Tell me who they are and what their business is with me and I will do my utmost to protect both you and your father.”

Victor’s face twisted in agony and he shook his head. “I’ve told you all I know,” he replied unconvincingly.

“Don’t lie to me,” Sherlock replied implacably and without rancour. “Tell me the truth.”

Sherlock and Victor made a tense tableau while pedestrians and cyclists milled around them. Victor’s face twisted in an agony of indecision. He stared pleadingly into Sherlock pitiless eyes but whatever he saw there caused him to shake his head; his shoulders slumped. Sherlock turned on his heel and made as if to walk away. In clear terror, Victor grabbed for Sherlock’s sleeve, missing his grasp as the other man jerked away. Victor rocked back on his heels in compensation, overbalanced and fell backwards off the curb into the stream of rush hour traffic.

Sherlock darted forward instantly, hand outstretched to grab for Victor. He was too late. There was a thud and a horrible squeal of brakes together with a collective cry of shock and dismay from Sherlock’s fellow pedestrians. Sherlock quickly turned away, his face settling into its customary expressionless mask, but his eyes were shadowed.

Twelve hours later found Sherlock in his hotel suite, packing at speed. He drew a hand through his hair and suppressed a yawn, this time of genuine rather than drug-induced weariness. At least Victor’s condition was now stable, despite the crushed leg, the skull fracture and the emergency surgery to stop the internal bleeding. The head injury had caused the most concern of course, but the scan results had been encouraging and although Victor was currently in a coma, the medics had full confidence that he would wake within a few days.

Sherlock urgently needed to check out and get back to London. The information he had managed to wring out of Victor, sparse as it was, only served to make him increasingly worried as time went on. He flung open the wardrobe door and started to throw his clothes into his suitcase, only pausing briefly to hang the borrowed evening suit and shirt neatly in the wardrobe. He slipped the cuff-links into an envelope addressed to Victor care of the Belle Époque and left it with the desk clerk before leaving for Nice in a taxi.

It was only after reaching the airport that things started to go seriously pear-shaped. Sherlock left his baggage at the Check-In desk and walked through security with his hand luggage. As he submitted to a body search and watched his valuables being searched, he was approached by a uniformed officer.

“Mr Holmes? Would you come with me, sir,” the man said in polite but uncompromising tones. Sherlock paused for an instant then swung on his heel as though to comply, arresting the motion halfway through in order to scoop up his wallet and valuables from the tray.

“No, sir,” the officer said, turning back, “we can return for those later.”

“No need,” Sherlock replied, strapping his watch back onto his wrist with a broad smile. “I have them here. Shall we go?” He swept off in the indicated direction, all his mental alarms blaring loud and clear.

There turned out to be a problem with his hotel bill and with some property of Victor Trevor’s that Sherlock had apparently not returned. Sherlock found himself hanging on to his temper by his fingernails as he explained, for the third time, where the monogrammed cuff-links were and also where the borrowed dinner suit had been left. This took upwards of thirty minutes to establish and by this time, Sherlock’s plane had already left.

Oddly, the airline couldn’t seem to find Sherlock another seat on a London-bound plane until the small hours of the following morning. By this time Sherlock was so wound up he even briefly considered calling Mycroft but the rising bile in his throat at the possible payback stayed his hand. 

Sherlock’s immediate response was to phone the surgery. After a vigorous argument with the Head Receptionist, Sherlock finally got himself put through to Sarah herself at home.

“Sherlock, I’d be grateful if you could refrain from terrorizing my staff,” she began. She sounded tired and harassed.

“I’m looking for John,” Sherlock interrupted tersely. “Can you tell me where he is?”

“John?” Sarah replied, puzzled. “He has a few days leave – he said he’d squared it with you.”

“Think carefully, Sarah,” Sherlock said seriously. “When did he arrange it?”

It turned out that John’s leave seemed to have been on the office record for a week or so. Sarah claimed to have spoken to John about his holiday originally some weeks ago, but when Sherlock pressed her, she reluctantly admitted that this discussion happened by phone while she was under the influence of drugs after giving birth so she wasn't entirely sure on actual details.

“And you have no idea who he is with?” Sherlock confirmed.

“Well, no,” Sarah admitted. “He didn’t mention a companion and apart from a couple of standalone dates, as far as I know he’s been single ever since that Christmas party due to your little stunt."

Sherlock bit his bottom lip. He thanked Sarah and hung up, already speed-dialing Mrs Hudson. He received the same story, only this time John had left a typed note through her letterbox.

Sherlock hung up, frowned for a moment. Something was definitely not right.

At around 3am, Sherlock’s eyes snapped suddenly opened to find a group of three Korean tourists standing in his personal space, talking and pointing excitedly. A steward politely asked if he would like to move to a less central area where there were bed-like structures especially provided for those travelers obliged to spend their sleeping hours in the Departure Lounge. Sherlock snapped that the airport resources would be better spent providing more flights rather than paying minions to harass perfectly harmless travelers, but the full-length lie-down and the three nicotine patches purchased at the airport pharmacy had done their work for him. He rose, looked about for his forgotten luggage and stalked off to check the progress of his flight.

Departure was apparently on time. Sherlock checked in his luggage once again and wheeled the trolley away with his cabin case still on it. He put his trolley back in the designated area and reached for the case, intending to go straight to Boarding. He frowned thoughtfully at a twisted strap which he didn't remember having twisted himself, and decided to pay a visit to the gents before getting on the plane.

To his total lack of surprise, Sherlock was stopped going through Security, and body searched. He glanced over to the counter to see his hold luggage and its contents spread out over a table, already being dissected by be-gloved security officers. Sherlock gave an inner sigh and braced himself for the worst.

He was quite right to be apprehensive. He was shown by a member of the airport police into a small room containing a chair, a desk and a counter. There was nothing else in the room except several securely locked cupboards. Sherlock knew they were locked because he picked them within moments, examining the contents and declaring them to be routine. Forty minutes later, he realized he was about to become intimately acquainted with certain of the routine contents as a middle-aged male in a white coat entered the room, snapped on a pair of latex gloves and brusquely instructed Sherlock to strip. He set his teeth and did so without comment or complaint. After all, he had nothing to be ashamed of.

Another twenty minutes went by wherein Sherlock was left completely alone and stark naked in the room while his clothes were minutely examined. After this, the white-coated man returned, presented Sherlock with identification which confirmed that he was a medical doctor and informed him that under the powers granted to the airline by British anti-terrorism legislation, Sherlock was obliged to undergo a cavity search.

“I take it you think I’m stupid enough to shove a grenade where the sun doesn’t shine, hmm?” Sherlock realized he was unconsciously channeling John. The thought made him smile; he spread his hands. “Be my guest; one more idiot is hardly going to make a great deal of difference.”

The procedure was quick and uncomfortable, if not exactly painful for someone of Sherlock’s experience. Afterwards, he was given what looked like a hospital gown to cover his modesty and left to twiddle his thumbs for another forty minutes.

All things considered, Sherlock kept his temper remarkably well, especially when none of the searches turned up anything of note (fortunately). He was summarily ushered back into his clothes and back into the Departure Lounge, his packing ruined and his backside aching, with little more than a faintly apologetic murmur from the airport police. Sherlock sighed. The look he had exchanged with the head honcho had confirmed what he already knew; this had nothing to do with terrorism. Someone had sicced them on to him; someone who knew about his history with substance abuse.