Sherlock was met outside Security by a representative of his airline who was effusive in his apologies. Sherlock’s plane, he was told, had long since departed but he had been checked onto another flight which was leaving within the hour. His hold luggage would be repacked and transferred onto the new flight, all Sherlock had to do was accompany the airline rep through boarding. Sherlock endured the man’s contrition for as long as he could then put a hand on his arm, halting the flow.

“This is very kind,” Sherlock said, managing a small smile, “but I really have to visit the facilities before I get on the plane. After – after what I have been through, you must understand…” he trailed off, looking realistically pained. The rep nodded, quickly suppressing a fleeting look of horror.

“Of course,” he said, “you have plenty of time before the flight leaves. I’m very happy to wait for you…” Sherlock strode off towards the Gents without a backward glance.

Once there, he locked himself inside a cubicle, sat on the closed toilet lid and hefted his cabin case onto his lap. He carefully unpacked it, noting that most of his toiletries had been interfered with, placing the items inside the lid of the case. He ran his fingers around the bottom seam, encountering an inconsistency in the stitching. Gripping it between finger and thumb, he pulled releasing a very thin, very sharp scalpel. Within seconds, Sherlock had ripped into the base of the case and pulled away the lining. Behind it was a passport, a credit card and a thin wedge of English banknotes. Sherlock pocketed them, shoveled the remaining contents back into his case and fished out his sponge bag. He rummaged through its contents, setting aside one or two objects, finally frowning thoughtfully at a small canister of talcum powder.

Fifteen minutes later, the airline rep, anxiously watching the door of the Gents, noticed an elderly gentleman shuffle slowly out of the facility. His hair was greying, dull with scurf and hung in a matted curtain over one side of his face, his non-descriptive trousers and jacket were creased and a bit on the grubby side and he walked with a stoop, blinking through black-rimmed spectacles. He lifted his cabin case onto a trolley and walked slowly away, head down, towards Inquiries.

Sherlock handed over his passport and credit card, purchasing a single ticket, no luggage, to Heathrow on a plane departing within the next hour. It would have been safer by far, he knew, to have traveled to Birmingham or to one of the other provincial airports and taken the train to London, but a nagging feeling of urgency in the back of his mind made him decide to take the quicker, riskier route. He spent the intervening time in the bar nursing a tonic water with ice and lemon for local color, trying to ignore the overpowering smell of Baby Powder on his clothes and hair.

Boarding was uneventful, as was Security; in fact, a young steward with a twinkle in his eye took a shine to Sherlock’s elderly gentleman and gave him an aisle seat and a free coffee. Age is a horrible disadvantage, Sherlock thought with some amusement, except when you need to be underestimated.

Several hours later, an eighteen year-old Filipino, employed on a casual basis as part of the night cleaning crew at Nice airport, was listlessly pushing a mop into an inaccessible corner in one of the Departure Lounge toilets when his eye was caught by something unusual in a litter bin. Tentatively, he reached in and removed a polythene bag filled with a quantity of white powder.

By this time, Sherlock was, of course, long gone.

Sherlock spent the flight trying to mentally block out the screaming children, the laughter of the holidaymakers and the endless chimes summoning the cabin crew. As the plane banked preparatory to landing at Heathrow, the friendly steward leaned over Sherlock to re position his seat for landing and found his wrist gripped tightly and suddenly.

Sherlock pushed away the mask, fixed the man with a careful stare then nodded and released him. The steward walked away giving Sherlock a scared look as he rubbed his wrist. Sherlock sat back in his seat and let his eyes wander around the cabin. He detected nothing unusual and hoped against hope that it would stay that way.

Taking five inches off his height was an exhausting business, Sherlock concluded as he moved slowly and painfully through Immigration. His passport was apparently scrutinized minutely then promptly forgotten and M’sieur Alexandre Vernet, French citizen aged 73, shuffled carefully and patiently away to disappear into the throngs of dispersing travelers.

Once outside the terminal building, Sherlock tried to brush away the talcum from his jacket and hair; it proved remarkably stubborn.

Sherlock took a taxi directly to Baker Street and, taking the steps at a run, cabin case in hand, ploughed straight into Mrs Hudson.

“Oh, Sherlock!” she exclaimed, standing on tiptoe to hug him round the neck. “You’re back early – I wasn’t expecting you till next week! Goodness, you are a mess, love. What have you done to your hair?”

“Change of plan, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock replied, returning the hug briefly. “I urgently need to establish John’s whereabouts.”

Mrs Hudson gave him a mysterious smile and put her head on one side.

“I don’t know that I should tell you,” she said mischievously. Sherlock tightened his jaw and forced his impatience back down.

“Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock said seriously.

But Mrs Hudson was shaking her head and laughing. “Oh, no,” she told him firmly, “you won’t get round me like that. The doctor said he’d take the opportunity to get away for a few days while you were abroad. He didn’t actually mention anyone was involved, but I can read between the lines as well as anyone.”

“He said that?” Sherlock asked. Mrs Hudson looked less sure.

“Well, no,” she replied, “I didn’t actually see him, but it’s what he put in his note – here.” She disappeared into her flat for a moment and returned with a folded sheet of white A4. Sherlock opened it and read:

Dear Mrs Hudson,

Just so as you won’t worry, Sherlock is likely to be away on business for around a fortnight and now my week on double shifts is over, I have some leave booked. I’ve decided to take a few days away from it all to get some rest and relaxation. Just in case Sherlock reads this, I won’t tell you where I’m going – it would be just my luck if he came home early and decided he couldn’t live without me.

- John

Sherlock squinted at the print and identified it as from his own inkwell. He read the note again, more for something to do than anything else, and bit his bottom lip.

“Do you have any idea at all…?” he compressed his mouth briefly at Mrs Hudson’s regretful head-shake.

“Very well,” Sherlock straightened his shoulders and moved over to the stairs. “Mrs Hudson, I’ll be in and out for the next few days. It’s likely to be a bit of a rough ride, unfortunately.”

Mrs Hudson looked anxious and Sherlock reached out to touch her shoulder.

“I’m very sorry,” he said, uncharacteristically serious, “Life is about to get extremely complicated for me and for anyone associated with me and I’m afraid that for the moment, there’s absolutely nothing I can do about it. I would consider it a personal favor if you could see your way to getting out of London for a week or so. Perhaps you could stay with your sister?”

“Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson stared at him in shock then narrowed her eyes suspiciously. “What have you done?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I wish I knew,” he replied; the words burned like acid.

Detective Inspector Lestrade’s head jerked up from the mountain of reports he was reading as his office door was flung open with such force that it crashed back on its hinges. The whirlwind that was Sherlock Holmes suddenly filled all the empty space, sucking all the oxygen out of the room. Lestrade swallowed and tried to glare.

Sherlock ignored him. “Lestrade,” he said urgently, “I need you to tell me exactly; when was the last time you saw or heard from John?”

Lestrade laid down his pen. “And welcome home, Sherlock, nice to see you. How was Monte?” he said with politely raised eyebrows.

Sherlock made an impatient noise. “Don’t mess about,” he protested, “this is serious.”

Lestrade smirked. “Sherlock,” he said, “John has gone on a holiday. I don’t know where he’s gone and even if I did, I wouldn’t tell you. He deserves a break and if you decided to cut your case in Monte short, that’s your problem not his.”

“Don’t be obtuse,” Sherlock snapped, “I need to know his whereabouts – it’s important!”

“So is John’s holiday,” Lestrade replied. He placed his hands on the desk, gripping the edge. “Sherlock, the man follows you around like a bloodhound, he’s at your beck and call even when he’s trying to take girl's out on dates, the same very dates you end up sabotaging! Just leave him in peace for once.” Lestrade spread his hands wide. “It’s only a couple of days, for gods sake.”

Sherlock ground his teeth. “Lestrade, you don’t understand…” he tried.

"Good lord, you really need to work on your obsessive and possessiveness.” Lestrade insisted. “Go home.”

Sherlock’s shoulder slumped. He turned as if to exit the room then whirled quickly to face Lestrade once more. He snapped his fingers.

“Incident reports!” he exclaimed. “Get me all the incident reports from the past seven days from around the Baker Street area. Also the area served by the surgery where John works.”

“Wha…?” Lestrade gaped. “This isn’t a public library and I am not your PA!”

“And for the sake of completeness, I need information on any unidentified bodies that have come in over the same period,” Sherlock continued expressionlessly.

“I can’t…” Lestrade began.

Sherlock waved a hand. “Oh, don’t worry, just the incident reports will do for now,” he said, “Molly will have the necessary information for me by the time I’ve finished here.”

Lestrade clearly could not resist a smirk. He pointed an index finger at Sherlock. “That’s where you’re wrong, sunshine,” he told him. “You’re going to find it tough going at Bart's for quite a while: Molly’s had a temporary transfer to Manchester – they’ve got a backlog needs clearing. I doubt her replacement will be as accommodating.”

Sherlock frowned, clearly puzzled. “And this happened, when?” he demanded.

Lestrade shrugged. “A day or so ago,” he replied, “Last time I called they told me.”

Sherlock nodded. “Get me the necessary permissions,” he demanded flatly.

Lestrade’s face darkened. “Sherlock,” he grated, “you can’t just swan in here and expect me to…”

Sherlock slammed his hand down on Lestrade’s desk, his face an inch away from the Inspector’s.

“Can’t you get it through your tiny little brain?” he shouted, “This is important!”

“It always is with you!” Lestrade roared back. The two squared off, each as furious as the other.

“Er, excuse me, sir?” There was a polite tap on the door and Sherlock whirled round to see Donovan leaning against the frame clutching a file, his lips twitching.

Lestrade gave Sherlock one final glare then sank back into his chair and breathed out heavily. “Yes, Donovan,” he said resignedly, “what is it?”

“It’s Mr Sinclair to see you, sir,” he replied. “You said to let you know when he arrived.”

“Yes, Donovan, thank you,” Lestrade replied, still glaring at Sherlock. When he didn’t leave immediately, he turned the glare on him.

“He’s, well, a bit impatient,” Donovan continued, almost apologetically. “After all, he’s here voluntarily, sir. He’s doing us a big favor on the Penrose case.”

“I know, I know,” Lestrade replied resignedly. He rose from his desk; Sherlock caught his sleeve.

“Just let me see the logs,” Sherlock insisted.

“Are you kidding?” Lestrade spluttered, “I wouldn’t let you loose without an armed guard.”

“Supervise me if you must."

Lestrade hesitated and Sherlock rode over him before he could overthink it.

“Get Donovan in here,” Sherlock suggested, “he’s more effective than any Rottweiler.” He sighed and drew a hand through his hair. “Look,” he said, his tone oozing reasonableness, “surely it’s better to have someone choose what kind of access I get? The only reason I want to go in via the front door is because I’m in a hurry.”

Lestrade glared one final time then Sherlock turned his face away to hide his smirk as he registered the minuscule defeated slump of the policeman’s shoulders.

“Alright then,” Lestrade said waving then beckoning to Donovan, “You will not move from here and will only do so whenever Donovan or myself tells you. Understood?"

Sherlock’s triumph was short-lived. The volume of incidents reported was really quite high for the time of year. It didn’t help that Donovan seemed to take great delight in breathing down his neck, nor was it in any way useful that he really had no idea what he was looking for.

After two hours, Sherlock flung himself back in Lestrade’s chair with a muttered curse. Donovan looked up from Lestrade’s in-tray and smirked. “Found something too difficult for you, freak?” he demanded callously.

Sherlock glared. “That would be impossible in this establishment,” he retorted loftily. Donovan moved behind him to peer over Sherlock’s shoulder making him shift uneasily. Sherlock detested being tailgated by anyone; that it was Donovan made his situation even less bearable.

Donovan gave a bark of laughter. “God, that one?” he leaned over Sherlock’s shoulder to point at the desk. “Why have you earmarked that? Wasted an hour of DC Michaels’ time – complete nutter.”

“Really,” muttered Sherlock absently.

“Yeah,” Donovan nodded. “Elderly sisters, one in her eighties and losing her mind, the other – the sole carer mind, bloody Social Services – in her seventies.” He scratched his head. “At least, that’s what the surgery said he said at any rate; we didn’t get to speak to him in person.”

“Oh?” Sherlock murmured.

“Yeah,” Donovan replied, “he was on holiday; which is funny actually, when you consider what the substance of the incident was.”

Sherlock froze. He swung his chair around slowly until he was glaring straight into Donovan’s face. “What,” he growled, “did you just say?”

“She was very agitated, kept changing her story.” DC Michaels was a young, fresh-faced officer, clearly still clinging to the idea of policing as a vocation. He took a long pull at his tea and sat back in his chair. Sherlock perched on the table next to him and nodded encouragingly. Around them the Yard staff milled with all the noise and bustle of the teatime rush.

“Go on,” Sherlock said. “What was the story?”

DC Michaels frowned in concentration. “Well,” he replied, “it’s pretty much like I said in my report. She called us in ‘cause she said she needed her GP. We told her to call the surgery but she insisted that something dreadful had happened. She was very distressed and worried so they sent me round to calm her down, if nothing else, and see what needed to be done. It turned out that she had already seen her GP that morning, although she didn’t seem to think she had.”

“How could you be sure of that?” Sherlock asked.

Michaels blinked. “The sister suffers from memory loss and blackouts – she was asleep or as good as all the time we was there,” he replied. “The box of medication was new; it had today’s date on it.”

“How do you know that it hadn’t just been delivered by the pharmacy?” Sherlock persisted.

Michaels shook his head. “The chemist’s only delivers on Mondays,” he replied. “According to the surgery, their GPs always check for outstanding prescriptions before doing their house calls. Saves time and worry.”

Sherlock turned in his chair and leaned over the table, looming over the young policeman. “I’d like you to think very carefully,” he said quietly. “What exactly did Miss Marsh say had happened to her when you arrived? The first version, I mean.”

DC Michaels gave a helpless smile and shook his head. “She said she was worried ‘cause there’d been a lot of traffic in the street,” he replied. “There’d been a motorbike and a car and they’d made quite a lot of noise.”

“Was that all?” Sherlock prompted.

“In the confusion,” Michaels continued, “her GP finished his visit and, apparently, vanished.”

“Into thin air?”

“Not what she said but, yeah, I guess.”

“What did she say? Exactly, now.”

“She said he had gone.”

“Just that?”

“Gone completely, she said, with the car and the motorbike.”

DC Michaels drained off his now cold tea and stood up.

“Sorry, Mr Holmes,” he said apologetically, “That’s all I can tell you. I’m back on duty now. Hope I was of some help.”

Sherlock nodded slowly, rubbing his thumb over his bottom lip. “Yes,” he replied, “I expect you do.”

The door man at the Diogenes Club glared at Sherlock disapprovingly but allowed him through the door with reluctance. Sherlock glanced around the dimly lit vestibule, taking in the smell of furniture wax, the gleam of polished brass and the discreet swish of staff moving at a slow pace on noiseless rubber soles.

He was shown into a gracious although well-worn room with rather better lighting than the foyer. He sat by a window in a leather armchair for exactly ten minutes before a waiter invited him to follow, all in total silence.

The office he was shown into was the antithesis of everything else in the club, being furnished in a practical, modern style, heated by radiators and, more importantly, lit by strong, natural light. Sherlock took the visitor’s chair, sat back and stared at the occupant of the desk. Mycroft Holmes’ senior assistant, whom Sherlock knew as Anthea, stared back, inscrutable and composed.

“How can I be of assistance to you, Mr Holmes?” she inquired politely.

“You can’t,” Sherlock responded bluntly. “I wish to see my brother. Kindly inform him of the fact.”

Anthea’s beautiful features hardly twitched. “I’m sorry but Mr Holmes Senior is unavailable at present,” she replied smoothly.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Sherlock scoffed. “He can’t still be sulking, surely.”

Anthea made no reply.

“Look,” Sherlock continued, gritting his teeth, “after many years of fraternal rivalry, I regret to say that for the first time I find myself in a situation that seems to necessitate my brother’s assistance. Will you be good enough to tell him that?”

Anthea smiled. She really was very beautiful, Sherlock decided, in a detached, icy sort of way.

“Mr Holmes rarely gives me details,” Anthea began in a measured tone, “particularly where events do not directly concern me, but in your case he decided to break that particular caveat. The circumstances of your last meeting with your brother make your appearance here rather a surprise, Mr Holmes. To cover every eventuality, I was given a set of responses to make should this moment ever arise. I will now fulfill them.”

Anthea folded her hands together on the blotter in front of her. “Mr Mycroft Holmes desires that you cease and desist forthwith any attempt to contact him in the near or distant future,” she said, her voice and face completely expressionless. “He considers that in view of your very divergent lifestyles and your differing opinions on national politics, further discourse between you would be counterproductive. He also would like to point out the glaring errors and incompetence you displayed in your handling of the Trevor case and would respectfully inquire if you are possibly losing your touch.”

It was uncanny the way Anthea’s voice molded itself to his brother’s mannerisms and phrasing, Sherlock mused as she continued to speak. His brain leaped down several different pathways then abruptly snapped to attention at something she said. He shook his head and frowned.

“Would – you mind repeating that?” he asked. Anthea blinked slowly.

“I said that in view of the number of highly dubious and dangerous situations to which your putative career has subjected your partner and flatmate,” she repeated calmly, “it would be completely understandable to any and all who have contact with you if he decided the two of you needed to part company.”

Sherlock leaned his chin in his hands, narrowing his eyes. He ran the knuckle of his index finger over his bottom lip.

“My brother does not anticipate being accessible to me in the near future?” he said at last. He examined her expressionless face intently.

Anthea shook her head. “Not at the current time,” she replied.

“And you yourself?”

A muscular twitch at her temple, so tiny as to be missed by anyone not actually looking for it, caught Sherlock’s attention.

“I regret to inform you that I also will not be available to you for the foreseeable future,” she returned.

Sherlock nodded slowly several times and rose to his feet without breaking eye contact; Anthea mirrored the action.

“Then I will take my leave of you,” Sherlock said politely. Anthea paused for a moment then carefully offered her hand to be shaken. Sherlock frowned but her expression did not change. Slowly, he wrapped his long fingers around her tiny ones and was immediately impressed by the strength of her grip. On his release, Sherlock surreptitiously kneaded his mashed fingers behind his back and tried not to wince. He bowed slightly in valediction before turning on his heel; Anthea’s face did not move a muscle.

The sun was high in the sky when a resounding hammering against the door of 221 Baker Street brought Mrs Hudson hurrying to open it. A serious-sounding muttering, too indistinct to make out, floated up the stairs, rapidly followed by several pairs of booted feet. The hammering resumed on the door of 221B.

“Come,” Sherlock said absently, unfolding his hands and standing up. He was freshly showered with no trace of baby powder on his clothes. Abruptly, four men, who by their demeanor could only be police officers, tramped into Sherlock’s living room, leaving the door open and tailed pitifully by a distraught Mrs Hudson. Sherlock gave them the once-over and turned away, curling his lip.

“Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock announced, not at all fazed by her hand-wringing. He raised a bag. “I would be very grateful indeed if you could get these dry-cleaned; talcum powder is the very devil to get out. I doubt they’ll ever be the same again.”

Sherlock made as if to pass the bag to Mrs Hudson but found his gesture blocked.

“I think we’ll just take a look in that bag first, sir.” The man who spoke was clearly, by his demeanor, the head honcho. He glanced inside the bag then passed it to one of his officers.

Sherlock glared. “And you would be?” he demanded. The officer looked vaguely familiar and Sherlock recalled him having been on duty to mop up the debacle over the Chinese circus.

“I’m Detective Inspector Kirtley,” he said, “Sherlock Holmes, you are being placed under arrest on suspicion of possessing and supplying a controlled substance in contravention of the Misuse of Drugs Act. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something which you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given in evidence.”

Kirtley removed a document from his inner pocket.

“This is a warrant to search these premises,” he said, signalling his colleagues to begin their work. He pointed to Sherlock’s desk and gestured to one of them.

“Start there." he said, “Then try the bedroom.”

“Clothes in this are covered in white powder, sir.” Pushing his nose into the bag, the officer’s face assumed a puzzled expression. “Smells like – talcum powder, sir.”

Kirtley gestured impatiently and the officer closed the bag, putting it aside for further investigation.

“Make sure you get them cleaned before you return them,” Sherlock told him mildly enough. He stood up and leaned down obligingly to allow the smallest, youngest and slightly intimidated officer to cuff his hands. He accompanied them from Baker Street without complaint through the crowd that had gathered in the street in response to the squad cars and flashing lights.

Several hours later found Sherlock in a police holding cell sitting on the floor, his back to the door with his eyes closed. He was minus his jacket and was still wearing his own shirt and trousers only because the Yard had run out of spare clothing. A drunk was singing wildly out of tune in the cell next to him and further along an elderly woman was having a detailed conversation with her hand.

Sherlock’s eyes flickered open at the sound of footsteps. A uniformed officer approached his cell and he heard the characteristic rattle of the door being unlocked. Levering himself to his feet he responded to the brusque movement of the officer’s head and left the cell, his bare feet making no sound on the tiled floor.

He was shown into an interview room bereft of all niceties except for a table and four chairs. Sherlock looked up at the one-way mirror which ran along one side of the room and gave it an ironic salute. On the table were his belt, shoes and socks, his jacket and his various other possessions. He was just buckling on his watch for the fourth time in thirty-six hours when the door opened again and DI Kirtley entered together with a uniformed PC.

“Sit down, Mr Holmes,” the DI said wearily. Sherlock obeyed and Kirtley took the seat opposite.

Sherlock opened the conversation. “I assume you have decided to return my property because you found nothing incriminating at Baker Street, am I correct?” he said mildly.

The DI fixed him with a stern stare. “You are correct,” Kirtley admitted grudgingly, “although we certainly found some interesting hiding places. The hollowed-out pile of newspapers, for example – an inspired idea. However, the loose floorboard under your bed was rather Enid Blyton.”

Sherlock made no reply. In actual fact, the loose floorboard was under John’s bed.

“The rose of the light fitment was also very neat as was the skull on your mantle,” the DI continued.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “My goodness,” he said politely, “you were thorough, weren’t you? And imaginative too.”

Kirtley skewered him with a look of dislike. Sherlock merely maintained his expression of polite disinterest and looked away but was unable to hide a smirk.

The DI leaned over the table. “We didn’t find anything,” he continued. “You wouldn’t like to comment on that, would you?”

Sherlock pretended to consider.

Kirtley glared.

Sherlock smiled.

DI Kirtley stood. “Right, that’s it,” he said, “I’ve had enough. You’re free to go – get out of here before I arrest you for wasting police time.”

Sherlock went. He departed the Yard as quickly as possible without waiting to find out why Lestrade had not been there to question him, why he and his flat had been targeted or how they knew he was at home. He left by a side entrance normally only used by the support staff and strictly off-limits to members of the public. However, before leaving he ducked into an empty staff toilet and made some quick adjustments to his appearance which included turning his jacket inside out and rolling up the sleeves. He produced a flat cap from one of his pockets into which he tucked his curls then donned his ubiquitous pair of black-rimmed glasses. On leaving the building, he made for the Underground, not at all surprised to hear an APB taken out on him within twenty minutes of his departure.

The small crowd in Baker Street that morning had expanded by a factor of ten. Number 221 had been cordoned off by the police, yellow tape and all. Joining them from the small mews at the back of the property, Sherlock cautiously edged his way to the front where Mrs Hudson was arguing with a policeman, tears of frustration trickling down her cheeks.

“If you’d just let me fetch my jewel case,” she pleaded with the uniformed PC.

“I’m sorry, madam,” he said, “I can’t let you in there. The place has been declared off limits – something to do with hazardous waste.”

“Hazardous waste?” Mrs Hudson repeated indignantly. “I’ve never heard so much rubbish in my life!”

The PC had had enough. “Move along now, please,” he said, ushering the crowd back from the tape. Mrs Hudson backed off, stumbling over Sherlock’s feet. He gripped her shoulders to steady her.

“Don’t look round,” he rumbled in her ear. She stiffened but obeyed.

“What have you done?” she hissed quietly below the noise of the crowd.

“I don’t know yet,” he replied, “but I think I’m beginning to find out. Put this in your handbag.”

He passed her a long, flat case covered with faded red velvet. Without looking at it, she gasped with recognition.

“My jewelcase – oh, thank you, love!” Mrs Hudson tucked the item away quickly.

“Don’t lose it,” Sherlock whispered, “I went to some considerable trouble to get it for you – I’d hate to think that I had wasted my time.”

“You broke in? Oh, Sherlock!” Mrs Hudson nearly made the mistake of turning round but checked herself at the last minute.

“Seeing as I live there,” Sherlock said in an amused tone, “I don’t think that breaking and entering quite covers it, do you? Anyway, must dash; I’m being targeted by the Met for some reason and I’d like to stay at large for long enough to suss it out, as John would say.”

Sherlock gave her cheek a quick peck then slipped away through the crowd to make his way as unobtrusively as possible to Baker Street Underground station.

Alighting at Leicester Square, Sherlock set off at first towards the Northern Line but doubled back on himself, aiming towards the surface until, after waiting for the revolving security to move away, he ducked through a conveniently unlocked door into a link between two corridors. It was dark and fairly dusty in this area and it was clearly not in general use but Sherlock walked confidently towards the only door, pulling out a very strange set of keys from the depths of one of his pockets.

The keys were lock picks of course but Sherlock did not employ them, choosing instead to activate something that looked like a tiny torch. There was a metallic clunk as the door unlocked itself and Sherlock wrenched at it until, with a shriek of rusty hinges, it slowly gave ground. Behind it appeared to be nothing more than a broom cupboard, but Sherlock rummaged for a torch (a real one this time) and darted inside, pulling the door to behind him.

A very short time later the door opened again but the person who exited was someone entirely different. Gone was the close-fitting suit, the fitted shirt, the exquisite shoes and in their place were creased grey trousers and a stretched, baggy brown cardigan under a worn tweed jacket. Dragging a down-at-heel bag, the man waited for the security in the corridor to move before scuttling inelegantly away, shoulders hunched, lined face unhappily set under a battered Trilby hat. Tailoring his body language to say “ignore me”, Sherlock made for the surface by the quickest possible route and set off on foot for Gerrard Street.

The shop was dinghy with peeling paintwork and windows that had evidently not seen a chamois leather since the Clean Air Act. Inside, the shop was dark and dusty with an old-fashioned counter. Sherlock entered by the door, causing the bell above it to ring. Presently, a very elderly Chinese man shuffled into the shop, took one look at Sherlock through rheumy eyes and beckoned him behind the counter. As Sherlock obeyed, the man turned the dogeared sign on the door to “CLOSED” and followed him.

The room at the back of the shop was just as old-fashioned but possibly a little cleaner. Sherlock sat at a small kitchen table while the Chinese man puttered about with a kettle and some tea. When he had provided for both of them to his satisfaction, he sat down and looked Sherlock in the face.

“Take off that stupid hat,” he said in perfect, idiomatic public school English. “It’s even worse than the one they’re calling the Sherlock.”

Sherlock obeyed looking slightly sheepish. “It was all I could find at the time,” he replied acidly.

The Chinese man chuckled and drank some of his tea. “You have caused quite a stir,” he remarked. “The word on the street is that you’re wanted by almost everyone for almost everything. I haven’t seen anything like this since the theft of the Irish Crown Jewels!"

“Yes; your brother was involved in that, wasn’t he?” Sherlock replied. The old man placed an index finger over his lips but his eyes were twinkling.

"I have spent the past several hours in a holding cell at Scotland Yard while my flat was being searched for illegal substances.”

“Did they find anything?” Chan asked with interest.

Sherlock shook his head. “Not a chance,” he replied. He nodded towards the tiny piece of paper with a code written on it and he handed Chan. “I think that’s what they were really looking for. Fortunately, Mrs Hudson’s jewel case was as safe a place as any to park it overnight.”

Chan turned very bright, sharp eyes on Sherlock. “You and Mycroft are still at daggers drawn?” he said. Sherlock shrugged but did not reply.

“Ah,” Chan sighed, “sibling quarrels! There’s nothing like a dispute over inheritance to turn a family feud into a war, believe me I’ve been there.”

Sherlock huffed slightly.

“I see,” Chan said nodding, “you’re on the run, I take it. Is it something you know or someone you’ve offended?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock replied thoughtfully, “Someone is trying to run me into the ground. They want to keep me so focused on sheer survival that I won’t have time to think, to analyse. They’ve taken away my tools – my police connections, Molly at Bart's, my contacts, my partner…”

“Your partner is involved in this?” Chan interrupted.

Sherlock sighed. “He has disappeared,” he replied, “and I’m very suspicious.”

“You think he is somehow implicated?”

Sherlock shook his head. “There aren’t many things in this world that I trust, Mr Chan,” he said, “but John Watson’s loyalty is certsinly one of them."

Chan nodded slowly. “He has been abducted then?”

“I’m certain of it. Now all I have to do is find him.”

Sherlock threw off the baggy cardigan and rummaged in his bag. He took out his suit jacket, magically uncreased, and put it on, unfastening an extra shirt button. He thrust the cardigan in his bag, stood and picked up his hat, adjusting it back on his head. Instantly, he became the non-descriptive, harmless every-man except now, oddly, he seemed to resemble a shop worker on his lunch break.

“Good day, Mr Chan. Please keep that code and my appearance here a secret,” Sherlock said preparing to leave.

Chan saluted him gently. “Good luck, Mr Holmes,” he replied.

Outside, Sherlock walked briskly along Gerrard Street and into Newport Place, striding along until he could disappear down the steps into Leicester Square Underground Station. He made off in the general direction of the Northern Line but seemed not entirely sure of his exact destination and ended up doubling back on himself. Finally, he passed a disheveled-looking homeless man. Unsurprisingly, the hat on the floor in front of him contained only a few pence in change.

Sherlock passed by the man and discreetly slid a twenty and a folded piece of paper into his pocket. “Get that to Shiney,” he said quietly without making eye-contact, “He’ll know what to do.” He threw some change into the hat; the man nodded his thanks.

Sherlock snorted, took off at speed onto the next platform and boarded the waiting Southbound train.

It took a while for anyone to respond to Sherlock’s knocking and he was reduced to hammering with his fists and shouting, not that anyone in this particular neck of the woods would find his behaviour unusual or in any way problematic.

The mews was unkempt and neglected, strewn with litter and redolent with the fragrance of overflowing refuse bins. The entrance that Sherlock was currently abusing was officially a fire door, although it was scratched, rusty and dented in places and showed signs of frequent use.

“Alright, alright – hold your horses!"

The door swung open a crack to reveal a sharp, shrewish face framed by platinum blond hair with a good inch of dark regrowth. The blue eyes widened in recognition and the door quickly jerked closed. Sherlock shoved his foot between the door and the jamb. “Nikki!” he exclaimed, smiling nastily, “How delightful to make your acquaintance again after all this time. What, not pleased to see me?” His foot held the door solidly ajar.

Nikki glared at him. “Get out of here – you’re bad news!” she hissed, heaving uselessly on the handle.

Sherlock shook his head admonishingly. “Really,” he drawled, “that’s no way to greet an old friend.” His hand clamped down on her wrist forcefully enough to make her wince.

“And I would be obliged if you would cease your efforts to eject me,” he continued in a lower, more menacing tone, “These shoes are one of a kind, and I’m rather fond of them.”

Sherlock leaned against the door and Nikki reluctantly gave ground. Full length, she was a blowsy-looking girl, more-or-less dressed in a short skirt and a filmy shirt which could have been described as revealing on a less ample figure.

“Thank you,” Sherlock said to her, smile barely reaching his eyes. “Would you be so good as to tell Danny I want to see him – now.”

Nikki narrowed her eyes. “He told me I wasn’t to disturb him,” she said sullenly.

Sherlock did not pause. “Very well,” he said pushing past her and taking the stairs two at a time, “I’ll disturb him then.”

Nikki’s outraged shriek followed Sherlock across a carpeted landing towards a white painted office door. He grasped the handle but the door was apparently locked.

“I told you!” Nikki spat, running up behind him. She grabbed his sleeve. Sherlock froze and glared at her until she withdrew her hand, lowered her eyes and fidgeted under his gaze. Face expressionless, Sherlock kicked back hard with his right foot; the door exploded into the room, swinging on its hinges, the lock in splinters.

Sherlock nodded at the hapless Nikki, putting a finger under her chin to close her mouth, and turned to enter.

The room was clearly an office – the large desk, bank of telephones and array of filing cabinets attested to that – but it was also a living room of sorts in that it boasted a couple of leather armchairs and a huge, squashy leather sofa in front of a nice cast-iron fireplace with a bright coal fire burning in the grate. Two figures were currently putting the sofa to the kind of use that inspires gratitude in near neighbours for the invention of curtains.

“Ah, Danny!” Sherlock said heartily, striding over to the sofa, sitting down in an armchair and crossing his legs, “Good to see you keeping busy. How’s business?”

There followed the kind of disbelieving silence that usually only accompanies the reading of any British Political Party Manifesto. One of the figures leaped suddenly bolt upright in apparent shock, scrabbled among the pile of discarded clothing draped around the sofa and, modesty more-or-less adequately preserved, made a bolt for an adjoining room. The slam of the door had a ring of finality to it.

Sherlock watched the proceedings with an air of benevolent patience then turned back to the sofa.

“Daniel,” he said again, nodding in greeting.

“I’m sorry, sir,” the miserable Nikki whined, wringing her hands in horror on the threshold, “I told him you weren't to be disturbed but he took no notice.”

“I can see that,” Danny replied testily. He sighed and gestured dismissively over his shoulder without looking at her.

“Piss off, Nikki,” he said, “and try not to let the rest of the bleedin’ world up here, will you?”

Nikki tried in vain to close the door as she left but Sherlock had clearly demolished it beyond even a temporary repair.

Danny sat back on the sofa and reached for a packet of cigarettes and a lighter that lay on a small occasional table. He was a grey-haired, middle-aged man with a noticeable paunch and a scar down one shoulder, both of which were clearly visible as his sole attire appeared to be a pair of creased suit trousers. Sherlock amused himself poking through the articles of clothing still on the office floor with the toe of one shoe and a quizzically raised eyebrow.

“So,” Sherlock said lightly, “how’s business in provenance these days?”

Danny struck his lighter and took a heavy drag on a cigarette before settling back into the sofa with a sigh.

“What you doing here, Sherlock?” he demanded, mildly enough for a man who had just been interrupted in flagrante.

“I need your assistance,” Sherlock replied and deliberately leaned forward to inhale the second-hand smoke. Danny noticed and gave a short, dry laugh.

“Thought you’d given up,” he retorted dryly, removing the packet from Sherlock’s orbit.

Sherlock gave him a sour look. “I have,” he replied testily. “You ought to consider a similar exercise.”

Danny laughed throatily, the sound morphing into a deep cough. “Too late,” he said carelessly. “’Sides, you got to die of something, don’t you?”

Sherlock merely twitched an eyebrow without bothering to respond. Danny drew on his cigarette again then gestured with it.

“Don’t bother making like this is a social call,” he rasped. “Sooner you get to the point, sooner you sling your hook. What do you want?”

Sherlock sat forward in his chair. “I need a diversion,” he continued, “a distraction. I’ll give you the details in a moment, but I have a pressing need to be in several different places at once tonight.”

Danny shook his head, letting the smoke dribble out of his nose. “Not this time,” he said, “Too many favors to call in; I can’t afford it.” He frowned as Sherlock held up a pair of lace panties between the finger and thumb of his right hand.

“How’s Francine keeping these days?” Sherlock asked mildly. “Still holding the financial reins, is she?” He shook his head reproachfully. “You really should have read that pre-nuptial thoroughly – or at least got your lawyers onto it.” He waved the scrap of lace in the other man’s face. “As I understand it, Francine's a stickler for the letter of the law, isn’t she? I doubt she’d look too kindly on this sort of thing.”

“Frannie and I have – an understanding,” Danny grated out between his teeth.

“Really?” Sherlock fished a white stiletto-heeled shoe in a size eleven out from under his chair and held it out. “So she’s happy that you do boys who are girls, is she? Because in case you don’t already know, that one in the bathroom there is a professional – aren’t you, Kevin?”

Sherlock raised his voice for the last three words and after a moment or two the lock clicked and the door opened. The young man who exited was slender and lean with a shock of dyed blond hair and a face smudged with make-up. He had managed to wriggle into a pair of skin-tight trousers which left nothing to the imagination, but his feet and chest were bare. Danny glanced at Kevin wearily and gestured with his head.

“Find your stuff,” he said, “and piss off. You breathe a word of this and you’re dead, you hear?”

Kevin made no reply, merely fished various items of clothing from the floor, including the panties and the stiletto shoe, and scuttled out through the broken front door.

Sherlock smiled pleasantly. “Now,” he said, “as I was saying about the distraction.”

Danny nodded. “Yeah,” he replied, “I heard the police had an APB out on you. What is it this time, Sherlock? Coke again?”

Sherlock shook his head. “Nothing like that,” he replied and sighed irritably, “Always the most pedestrian assumptions. No, I’m not using again, nor am I branching out into dealing, nor have I been done for possession. At least, not in the way you mean."

Sherlock paused and sighed heavily. "I have to get the Met off my tail," he admitted. "Baker Street's completely out of bounds now and all my usual boltholes are too well-known. I've been on the move since this morning trying to shake them; they haven't found me yet but it's only a matter of time and I'm running out of steam, damn it!"

Danny pursed his lips and frowned. "Sounds like you're in big trouble this time, Sherlock," he said gravely.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You have no idea," he replied. "Look, I have one more place of safety open to me - just one. And I can't afford to be tailed, recognized, caught on the streets - nothing, or I'm finished, trust me."

“I’ve never been able to trust you as far as I could kick you, and my drop-kick was always pathetic,” Danny replied acidly. He sighed. “Alright, Sherlock; gimme the gen; I’ll run with it as far as I can.”

“I knew I could rely on you,” Sherlock said with a smile and proceeded to pull another coded piece of paper from his trouser pocket.

Danny did not return the smile. “And Kevin?” he asked.

Sherlock gave him an old fashioned look. “Kevin who?” he asked politely, rising to his feet. “Details are on this piece of paper. Try to keep it on the right side of the law, won’t you?”

Danny gave a throaty chuckle. "You got some bleedin' nerve, I'll give you that."

Next to the door was an old-fashioned hat stand housing a long, good quality trench-coat in a dull taupe. Sherlock hooked it deftly from its peg without breaking stride and threw it round his shoulders; from the sounds outside, it had begun to rain heavily.

Several hours later, dusk was beginning to sink into full dark and the rain had settled into a drizzle. The crowds of rush hour commuters pouring out of Hackney’s Haggerston Station had thinned down to a steady stream, most out now on their evening business. A tall man in paint-stained overalls and a working-man’s cap slouched purposefully along Kingsland Road, a battered bag slung across his body by a broad leather strap. After a few minutes, the man moved into the shadows, did something dexterous with the lock on an iron gate and slipped into a tiny mews between two offices. It was no more than a couple of yards wide and clearly existed to house the bins, but on gaining the rear of the area, Sherlock was brought up short.

It had been some time since he had last visited this area of London. Nevertheless, he usually kept abreast of developments, fitting them into his mental map as they occurred. This, however, had slipped past the radar: a ten-foot high chain-link fence with no gate. Clearly, the commercial interests in the area had grown fed up with public curiosity and had finally taken action to prevent trespass. Sherlock laid hands on the wire and peered through like a child in a school playground. He could smell the water, hear the sounds of the boats and the occasional lilt of laughter. He sighed, removed his shoes and hung them round his neck by their laces.

A few minutes later, Sherlock landed lightly barefoot on the ground the other side of the fence. He had been relieved to find nothing sharp or pointed on the top of the fence. This would have been illegal, of course, but in his experience that was rarely a disincentive.

Sherlock replaced his socks and shoes and stood for a moment to get his bearings. The narrow-boats were moored tidily together mostly along one side of the marina, for the Kingsland Basin was not large. The much disputed development of the abandoned factory and workshops on either side of the water seemed to be quiescent for now, he noted. Sherlock was under no illusion that this situation would continue indefinitely, and once the work resumed it would likely threaten the security and lifestyle of the boat owners. But for now, the basin was a quiet and peaceful haven amidst the havoc of the world’s most diverse city. Sherlock slipped into the shadows and made his way carefully down to the water.

The first boat Sherlock came to was a sixty footer and painted red and blue. It had a traditional look to it and had clearly seen hard use throughout its life, but it was the customary six feet wide and so was a modern build. It was well cared for and sported home comforts such as window boxes full of vegetables, herbs and flowers, declaring it to be a permanent dwelling rather than a holiday home or a method of transport.

Sherlock sprang onto the deck and rapped smartly on the window. Presently, the hatch swung slowly open and a head poked out.

“Kristie,” Sherlock said quietly. There was a short pause then the head disappeared leaving behind a beckoning hand. Sherlock needed no second bidding.

She closed the hatch behind him and darted around the cabin pulling the blinds. Then she switched on a wall lamp to add extra light to the room and studied him, shaking her head and pressing her lips together.

“You look bloody ridiculous,” she said in a low, gravelly voice that spoke both of an outdoor life and too many cigarettes. “No one would believe you had ever touched a paintbrush in your life.”

Kristie was in her early forties, brunette with streaks of grey and a mobile, shrewd face.

Sherlock studied her expression and nodded faintly. “You’ve heard,” he said. It was not a question.

“Yes,” Kristie replied in a droll tone. “You don’t do anything by halves, do you?”

Sherlock shrugged and stepped fully into the cabin. The boat was as well-worn inside as out but all the same, it was cosy and welcoming. Kristie filled the kettle from her water supply and set it to boil while she dug out the teabags.

“How long will you be staying?” she asked over her shoulder.

Sherlock considered. “I need to keep my head below the parapet for a while,” he replied, “but probably no more than a few days. I’m afraid you might receive a certain amount of, shall we say, interest after I leave.”

Kristie gave him a look then continued to make the tea. “Why am I not surprised?” she replied indifferently. “Trouble follows you around like a magnet, Holmes.”

Sherlock gave a dry chuckle. “This time it’s personal,” he told her. “At least, I think it is.”

Kristie passed him a steaming mug with an amused smirk. “The great Sherlock Holmes can’t be sure?” she commented. “I better mark the calendar.” She sipped her drink and eyed him thoughtfully.

Sherlock took a pull of his own tea and kept his silence.

“She’s berthed in number 2,” Kristie told him after a few moments. “David overhauled the engine last month and I ran it for a few hours today to charge up the battery. But you’ll need to use the shore supply if you’re going to be berthed more than a couple of days. Will you be taking her out?”

Sherlock shook his head. “I’m not planning to,” he said. “It might come to that but not until I understand things a little better.”

Kristie gave him a level look. “You really are in deep this time, aren’t you?” she said softly.

Sherlock breathed out softly. “You have no idea, I found something I shouldn't have,” he replied.

They exchanged a long look then Kristie nodded faintly. “I’ll put it about that I’m looking to give Madrigal a makeover,” she said. “That’ll give me a reason to be in and out and for the power to be connected. Try to keep your head down, won’t you? This place might seem like a little oasis but those chain-link fences don’t do much to keep the ungodly out, I can tell you.”

Sherlock shook his head. “It’s not so much the ungodly that concern me,” he replied. “How effective is the security around the Basin?”

Kristie shrugged. “It’s god enough when it’s working,” she replied, “but it’s really not a great place for electronics round here. Despite the fact that this is a freshwater environment, the things keep corroding and taking in rainwater. The developers installed them to protect their contractors’ machinery but they couldn’t seem to find a design that worked properly for long. Now, of course, there’s nothing to protect for the time being, so they’ve given up.” Her eyes were wide and guileless.

Sherlock smiled and finished his tea. “Kristie, you are a gem among women,” he told her graciously. “What would I do without you?” He took her hand and grazed her knuckles with his lips, bright eyes mocking her all the time.

“Don’t push it, sunshine,” Kristie replied taking back her hand composedly, although a faint flush appeared on her pale cheeks, “Now get out of here before I change my mind.”

Sherlock grinned and opened the stern doors. Once there, he turned back. “Oh, and it’s possible I’ll be having a visitor at some stage over the next few days,” he told her. “At least, I hope so.”

Kristie raised her eyebrows and returned his grin. “Looking forward to it,” she replied.

Outside, Sherlock fished out his cap once again, more to annoy Kristie than for any real purpose, and donned it, sinking into his former slouching body language. He walked further along the waterside and located berth 2, pulling a ring of keys and a pencil torch from an inner pocket as he did so. He shone the torch over the vessel swaying gently in the water before him and the beam revealed the name “Madrigal” picked out in plain white letters against a dark painted hull. He leaped lightly onto the stern deck and pushed open the cockpit doors, aiming for the cabin beyond.

The padlock was business-like and well-oiled and Sherlock’s key opened it noiselessly. The hinges on the stern hatch moaned softly as he entered, and the steps creaked under his feet. He closed the hatch behind him and leaned against the bulkhead in the dark with a sigh, allowing his head to droop. He was currently twenty-six hours without sleep and thirteen without food.

A voice spoke suddenly out of the darkness making Sherlock spin round quickly enough to give him whiplash.

“You’re late,” it said.

“I expected you half an hour ago.”

Sherlock’s first instinct was to grope blindly for a weapon; he found the reaction amusing, as if he could do anything to prevail against an unseen, unknown enemy who had the advantage of surprise. Sherlock flinched, suddenly dazzled as a powerful torch beam shone in his eyes. His searching fingers closed around a switchblade concealed in his pocket for just such emergencies and he started to raise his hands in the universal gesture of surrender, carefully concealing the small blade. He could make out a back-lit shadow, no more.

“Please, don’t,” the voice spoke again. “I’m unarmed.”

The shadow reached for a nearby lamp and switched it on, dipping the torch beam. Sherlock slowly lowered his hands and frowned as his eyes adjusted.

“Sit down,” the man said quietly, “you look as though you would benefit from it.”

Sherlock thought that was understating the case. He was known for his erratic eating and sleeping habits, but the endless hours of adrenaline-fueled activity were beginning to take their toll. He sank gratefully into a well-worn upholstered chair, careless for once of his image.

As Sherlock took a moment to regain his breath, he watched the stranger brush gingerly at the seat of a bench very good suit, smooth line (no concealed weapon), not bespoke but still expensive (salary around 90 to 100k), Eton school tie (oh, please!) then shrugged and sat down, crossing his legs slight scuffing/scratching on heel of right shoe (Cheney Oxford – cat owner). He settled his hands in his lap no ring mark, hair on fourth finger of left hand not worn away (not married) and adjusted the cuff of his right sleeve machine pressed, not ironed by hand, uses a laundry service (lives alone).

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and took in a few more details; writing callous on index finger (left handed, fluent in Mandarin); faint timbre to accent (has progressed above origins); hairstyle, brand of product, color of eyelashes and particular type of face cream…

“Have you come to any firm conclusions?” The stranger spoke without raising his eyes, interrupting Sherlock’s train of thought. He looked up and raised his eyebrows interrogatively, his lips curving in a slight smile.

Sherlock subtly but deliberately altered his body language, relaxing into an elegant sprawl, and raked his eyes slowly over the stranger’s body. The other man shook his head.

“I don’t think so,” the man said obliquely, “I’ve seen your file – it makes interesting reading. You’re certainly no lightweight, Mr Sherlock Holmes, and I’m not susceptible so please, cease your playacting.”

Sherlock resisted the temptation to pout. He sat upright, leaned his elbows on his knees and frowned, deep in thought.

“Interesting,” he said conversationally, “as we speak, Sherlock Holmes is currently taking a train from Knightsbridge tube station, is involved in a fistfight in a nightclub in Piccadilly, is enjoying a pint of Newcastle Brown in a pub in Camden Town and is also sitting in the front seat of the stalls at the National. And that’s only the London sightings.”

Sherlock winced. “All except for the beer,” he muttered, “Nuclear Brown? I’d sooner drink strychnine.”

“Nevertheless, the police are baffled,” the man remarked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “And this is news?” he asked rhetorically.

“Introductions are tedious, I realize,” he began.

“Then let me help you,” Sherlock interrupted smoothly. “You are my brother’s Number Two – in all senses of the phrase.”

The man’s eyes narrowed but he held his peace.

“Forgive me for not recognizing you immediately,” Sherlock said without a trace of contrition, “but I am sadly not at my best when accosted on a darkened narrow boat, the existence of which should be a closely guarded secret."

“You and I were never meant to meet,” Sherlock continued, “but circumstances have forced your hand. You are here because my brother is currently incommunicado and you are missing one of the vital safety codes set up between you to verify the authenticity of his instructions. Presently, you can’t be sure of anything at all, even whether or not he remains alive. How am I doing so far?”

The man's face could have been graven from stone; he gestured for Sherlock to continue.

“You are still receiving communications purportedly from my brother,” Sherlock said calmly, “and also carrying out his instructions with every appearance of confidence in his identity, but your gut instinct tells you that he is not issuing them. You have very little to go on and you are paralyzed from pursuing any alternative course of action by your knowledge that any deviation from the accustomed norm will likely result in your being swiftly taken out of the game, possibly permanently. You do not deceive yourself as to the potential seriousness of the situation – you are only too aware that this could bring down not only the British government but also most of Europe too. Oh, and incidentally your on-off partner is completely innocent, so you can stop worrying if your extreme care with pronouns when referring to your current recreational liaison has any bearing on the present crisis: you can rest assured my brother will have established with certainty that it does not.”

The stranger blinked but otherwise gave no visible reaction. “Mr Holmes wasn’t exaggerating when he talked about you,” he remarked quietly.

Sherlock smirked. “People rarely do,” he replied. “What more can you tell me?”

“There has been a coup,” the man said without preamble. “A small group of extremely influential Whitehall civil servants, who have been waiting some years for just such an opportunity, has joined forces with a number of key MPs, including at least one member of the cabinet, who are extremely dissatisfied with the current administration. Waiting for the Prime Minister to act is like waiting for Armageddon so one of them has been reported as saying in an unguarded moment. I fear, however, that this coup involves more than mere impatience with the current political situation and could result in a far graver outcome than these misguided MPs think.”

Sherlock paused to consider. “Who and what is at the heart of it?” he asked.

The man shook his head. “I’m afraid I’m not high enough up the food chain to know,” he replied. “My security clearance is second only to your brother’s. However…” He tailed off with a helpless shrug.

Sherlock nodded. “You may find yourself very grateful for that,” he replied, “It may have meant the difference between your presence here today and your rapid interment in concrete beneath one of England’s numerous motorways.”

“Indeed,” the stranger replied gravely.

Sherlock rubbed his index finger over his lower lip and watched the other man's eyes slide away. “Names,” he demanded flatly.

The other man shook his head. “Those are few and far between,” he replied, “and such as I have were very hard to come by. I will give you what little information I have; I hope you will be able to make more use of it than I.”

“Undoubtedly I shall,” Sherlock responded loftily, “but even I cannot make gold from base metal. Not yet at any rate.”

The other man smiled without humor but refrained from comment.

Sherlock levered himself wearily to his feet. “Very well,” he said. “I think it better if you leave now. You’ve said what you came to say – not that I hadn’t already worked most of it out, but it’s nice to have confirmation. Anything else you learn, I assume you’ll find some ingenious means to pass on to me. There’s nothing more you can do here and, pedestrian though they certainly are at Scotland Yard, your continued presence puts me at increased risk of discovery by the police, so please don’t hang about once you leave.”

The stranger bowed his head in acknowledgement and rose to his feet. He reached in his pocket and withdrew a key-ring with a handmade child's toy.

He met Sherlock’s mildly incredulous look with a slightly shamefaced smile. Tossing the small object at Sherlock gently.

“I know what it is,” Sherlock replied, fielding the small object deftly and pocketing it.

“My niece gave it to me for Christmas when she was five,” the other man continued. He produced a set of keys which sported a similar object.

“This one is, of course, exactly what it appears to be,” he continued, “but my colleagues are all accustomed to its presence, therefore security didn’t turn a hair when I left the office with it in full view. The key attached will lead you to a locked box which contains everything of relevance concerning your brother over the past several weeks plus all I have on the identities of those in Whitehall and the House who are or could be implicated. A very few documents I deemed too sensitive even for your eyes, have been omitted.”

“Of course,” murmured Sherlock.

The other man gave him a hard look and stretched out a hand to the door latch. “If there is anything further,” he replied, “I will contact you. You can trust me both to know where you are and also to be discreet.”

“I’m certain I can,” Sherlock replied blandly.

“Goodbye and good luck,” the stranger said with an odd little bow, “Mister Sherlock Holmes.”

“My thanks,” Sherlock returned the bow, “Mister Alfred Oakley.”

Oakley’s chin jerked up and his eyes flashed.

Sherlock smiled, pleased to have caught him out. “I’ve known your name for several years,” he said, unable to resist boasting.

“Indeed,” the other man replied, his tone considerably more steely, “and I trust you can be depended upon to forget it?”

“Oh, undoubtedly,” Sherlock returned, matching the steel, “once I am convinced that I need to. Goodnight, Mr Oakley.”

Oakley had opened the doors and was about to step through on to the deck when Sherlock turned suddenly. “Oh, just one more thing – how did you know about this place?” he asked casually.

Oakley inclined his head. “Your brother told me about it,” he replied, “in fact, it was almost the last thing he told me before he, ah, went into seclusion.”

“I see,” Sherlock replied then made shooing motions with his hands. “Very well, now go about your business before someone notices you’re not where you should be.”

Oakley gave him a thin smile. “Don’t worry,” he replied, “Your brother is not the only one who knows how to manipulate people.”

Sherlock fastened the aft doors behind Oakley, doused the lights and listened as the other man’s footsteps faded gradually into silence. For the next half hour he remained still, the only movement being the restless darting of his eyes. Eventually, Sherlock stretched his stiff muscles, rose to his feet and walked almost drunkenly forward into the master bedroom where he face-planted on the clean, slightly damp bedding and was asleep almost immediately.

Kristie knocked on the stern doors some considerable time later. Sherlock sat up in his chair, blinking against the bad light before he realized that it actually was dusk. He got up to let her in, walking like an old man on muscles seized over the hours.

Kristie had brought a man with her, blond and rangy with a lined, brown face.

“Sherlock,” he said, nodding politely, “good to see you back on the Madrigal.”

“Jonathan,” Sherlock responded with a genuine smile. “I didn’t notice Jabberwocky when I arrived?”

“That’s because I only came in this afternoon,” Jonathan responded. “I’ve been in Wales, visiting the family.”

“And my betting is you haven’t eaten properly for the entire time you’ve been away,” Kristie scolded, deftly moving Sherlock’s equipment and papers into neat piles and laying out three place settings. She nodded to the door. “Bring that dish in would you, Jonathan? And the bowl with it?”

Kristie rooted around in Sherlock’s cupboards, bringing out plates, cutlery and glasses while Jonathan returned from the deck bearing a large casserole fragrant with the aroma of fish pie.

Kristie glared at Sherlock and pointed at a chair. “Sit,” she commanded.

Sherlock shook his head. “I’ve already eaten,” he told her, making as if to go aft into the bedroom.

Kristie pushed on his shoulders, rounded on him and got so far into his face that even Sherlock with his obliviousness to personal space issues had to blink in surprise. “You may have had breakfast,” she told him, “but it’s evening now and if I’m not mistaken, you’ve eaten nothing for the previous two days.”

As Sherlock stared Kristie pointed insistently at the chair, her gaze implacable. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sat down reluctantly; Jonathan sniggered and managed to turn it into a cough after being skewered by Sherlock’s indignant glare.

The fish pie rivaled even that produced by the restaurant at the Diogenes Club, Sherlock reflected as he ate; he had forgotten how hungry a thinking marathon sometimes made him. Jonathan was making similar obeisance to his own portion and Kristie allowed herself a grin of sheer pleasure at their obvious appreciation.

Pudding was a spicy apple crumble with real custard; Jonathan smiled warmly at Kristie as he upended nearly half the jug into his dish. She gave him an old-fashioned look.

“No point in using Bird’s when there’s fresh eggs to be had from Adrian’s allotment, is there?” she said crisply but her eyes were affectionate. Sherlock glanced between the two of them but his mind was mostly still buried in his decrypting.

After Jonathan had scraped the last of the crumble from the bowl, he produced a crumpled carrier bag containing three mismatched bottles with handwritten labels and requested a corkscrew. Kristie seemed to know where most things lived on board the Madrigal and hunted down a Swiss army knife and three wine glasses from the galley.

Sherlock snapped out of his brooding at the scrape of chairs and looked up as Jonathan jerked a thumb towards the stern deck. “It’s a dry night,” he said, “I’m for a smoke with my drink.” Sherlock weighed up his options then abandoned his thinking to fall in with the majority.

Jonathan’s assessment was correct; the afternoon’s rain had dried up and the wind had died down to leave a still, fairly warm evening for the time of year. The pop of a cork and the splash of liquid into glasses mingled with the gentle gurgle of the river. The wine looked ink-black in the grey moonlight and Sherlock inhaled an unfamiliar scent as he sipped cautiously. Jonathan grinned, a flash of white teeth in the light leaking from the Madrigal’s windows.

“That one’s never seen a grape,” he said conversationally, quaffing half his glass in one go. He drew heavily on his cigarette and smiled, not without malice, at Sherlock’s attempt to inhale the residual smoke.

“Elderberry?” Sherlock turned his attention to the wine and raised his eyebrows at Jonathan’s mildly surprised affirmation. “What? When I was young, the gardener at home used to make it and trade it to the rest of the staff,” Sherlock explained. “The alcohol content had to be experienced to be believed; I remember Nanny was particularly fond of it. The year Mycroft decided to exercise his lock-picking technique on the potting shed was a very interesting one for all concerned. I ended up in A&E with alcohol poisoning.”

“How old were you?” Kristie asked, wide-eyed.

Sherlock shrugged. “Probably about three,” he replied. “Mycroft was thirteen and miserably behind hand; I was safe-cracking when I was six. Locks are easy.”

A shout from the darkness of the shore interrupted the conversation. Kristie peered into the gloom then grinned and beckoned. “Alex!” she called. “Come aboard – J’s brought some of his dad’s brew.”

“Lethal stuff!” said a woman’s voice as two figures came into the light.

Kristie grinned in delight. “Thought you’d be down the Drum and Monkey this evening, you and David,” she said. “Quiz night, isn’t it?”

“Saw that Madrigal was occupied,” Alex replied easily, stepping onto the stern. “That always means a get together of some kind.”

Alex was a natural blond with corn-colored waves, blue eyes and a pale ivory complexion. In contrast, her male companion was very dark-skinned with crimson hair and brilliant white teeth. His worn denim overalls were stained with black grease and he grinned broadly at Sherlock.

“Engine’s running smoothly,” he remarked, accepting a full wineglass from Jonathan.

Sherlock nodded amiably. “Good to see you, David,” he replied, “and thank you.”

“Have you met Alex?” David slid a casual arm around the blond woman’s waist. “We’re bunking down together on the Uncle George now – Alex is a lawyer in the city.”

“A useful woman to know,” Sherlock remarked, shaking her hand.

Alex smiled. “I’ve followed your exploits for years, Mr Holmes,” she told him. “I’m surprised your partner, Doctor Watson, isn’t with you.”

It wasn’t a question, but her eyebrows were raised interrogatively.

Sherlock shook his head. “So am I,” he replied shortly. Alex took a sip from her glass and, when Sherlock said no more, turned to exchange a greeting with Jonathan.

Sherlock leaned on the railing and stared out over the water. The noise of urban life drifted across from the surrounding streets – youths shouting, the revving of motorbike engines, motor horns roaring, the slamming of doors both to cars and buildings. The life of the great city was muted by the twin barriers of the water and the derelict areas either side of the basin. He sighed; someday someone would force through a genuine planning application and make a killing building luxury apartments around this little city oasis, and then everything that made this community special would hang in the balance. Life here was a throwback to a bygone age, Sherlock mused; it was unique and irreplaceable and once gone, it could never be restored.

Just as Jonathan was pouring the last of the second bottle, one of Sherlock's homeless network called out to him before something suddenly found itself launched over the very same fence he had climbed. Abandoning his glass, Sherlock took off in the direction and picked up the bottle which had a messaged inside it. His face broke into a triumphant grin as he made his way back to the boat. Kristie and Jonathan peered at him from the deck.

Sherlock turned his face up with a brilliant smile. “Yes!” he exclaimed, “They’ve found him – their efficiency has improved 100 per cent!”

Kristie opened her mouth but Sherlock held up a quelling hand as he studied the message once more. His smile lost its brightness and began to fade. He took a deep, quelling breath and frown lines appeared between his eyebrows.

“This,” he muttered under his breath, “is just insulting.”

It couldn’t be this easy, Sherlock thought bitterly as he approached the empty office block. It wasn’t the basement of a derelict house in a run-down area of East London. It wasn’t even a warehouse on a deserted industrial estate. No, it was a premium suite of offices, temporarily vacant due to relocation, situated in Leadenhall Street, smack bang in the center of the City.

He shook his head in disbelief when he realized the site was on the first floor of a small terrace – not even high up in a tower block to make the access problematic – with, of all things, a mews at the rear just to over-egg the pudding. And to add insult to injury, the doorman was a former client – a former client who just happened to owe Sherlock a favor.

“This is simply demeaning,” Sherlock muttered as he sent the lift to the first floor as a decoy and took the stairs. Nothing was ever this straightforward, he told himself as he cautiously pushed open the door from the stairwell and checked the landing; empty, of course. He sighed heavily. No one could be this stupid about a kidnapping, he thought as he threw open the door to the second of the three offices, took out one man with a paralyzing kick to the kneecap and floored another with a blast of foam from a handy fire extinguisher before socking him in the face with the same. The office was empty apart from a closed door at the rear, through which Sherlock marched and found himself face to face with a handcuffed but totally unharmed John Watson.

And no one leaves a kidnap victim in the care of two imbeciles who don’t have a viable weapon between them.

It was a total anti-climax; Sherlock was livid.

“You didn’t have to kneecap him,” John complained as Sherlock secured the two miserable erstwhile guards with their own belts and rifled through their pockets for keys to John’s handcuffs.

“Mmm?” Sherlock replied, not really paying attention.

“I mean,” John continued, “they aren’t exactly professionals, you know, and they treated me pretty well for a kidnapping; no threats, no violence or humiliation, adequate food and water, decent facilities – they were careful not to get blasé about it, but I’d put money on their being very small-time, if they’re even criminals at all.”

The larger of the two guards glared at John.

“That doesn’t excuse them,” Sherlock said between his teeth. He had found the key and was in the process of releasing John from his cuffs.

John rubbed at his wrists and made a wry face. “Maybe not by your standards, no,” he replied with some faint amusement.

Sherlock bit down hard but failed to suppress his anger. With a wordless exclamation, he flung the cuffs into a corner and stalked over to the door. He looked back irritably over his shoulder.

“Well, come on then,” he said impatiently, “or do you actually like it here?”

John frowned and gestured towards the two men. “Aren’t you going to, well, talk to them?” he asked quizzically.

“Talk to them?” Sherlock replied with withering contempt. “I might as well take a trip to the monkey house at Whipsnade. No, I do not intend to talk to them; I intend to leave.”

“But surely we need to question them?” John argued, “I mean, to find out why I was here?”

“I know precisely why you were here,” Sherlock replied, irritatingly deadpan, “and I am quite certain that I could interrogate these two until the cows come home and be none the wiser at the end of it. Now will you please get moving? We’ve got a lot to do and no time to waste.”

Sherlock led the way down the service stairs to the back of the property and threaded his way between bins and over gates until he finally emerged close to Tower Hill Underground Station and disappeared purposefully into the depths of the District Line, dragging John by the sleeve.

He was very angry.

Sherlock was silent for the entire journey. John fidgeted as the train rattled and clattered its way to Whitechapel where Sherlock pushed him into the Gents, locked the door and rummaged in his ubiquitous carpet bag. He brought out the paint-stained overalls he had used earlier in the week and thrust them impatiently at John. The overalls were far too long in the leg but John did his best to roll them up neatly. Sherlock examined him critically; teamed with the flat cap, if he kept his head down John should pass muster on the security at least for a while. Sherlock himself donned his retired bookseller’s garb, including the spectacles and stuffed their original clothing into the bag before instructing John to wait ten minutes before leaving the premises.

They met up (on Sherlock’s orders) on the Northbound platform of the Highbury and Islington line. John’s sole attempt to ask where they were headed was greeted with a contemptuous snort and a stony indifference. Further attempts to attract Sherlock’s attention were met with a complete lack of reaction.

Dusk was drawing in by the time Sherlock and John reached the Kingsland Basin. Sherlock was distantly amused to note that he had no need to climb the chain link fence this time; Kristie had clearly been watching out for them.

“And you must be Sherlock’s partner, Doctor Watson,” she said, eyeing John shrewdly as she opened the gate to let them into the basin.

“His friend,” John corrected, risking a glance at Sherlock’s stony profile.

“Is there a difference?” Kristie asked, genuinely interested. John just smiled.

Sherlock strode onto the boat, pointedly closing the doors in Kristie’s face, and collapsed in a sprawl on a padded bench. John divested himself of his overalls and prowled around the boat, poking into the galley, familiarizing himself with the layout.

It didn’t take long. The area they had entered was clearly an eating/living area with an L-shaped padded bench around a table designed to be converted into an extra berth if needed. The adjoining compartment was evidently the galley, sparsely furnished and rather cramped but containing all the basics as far as John could tell at a glance. A bathroom followed containing a sink, WC and a shower and finally, deep in the bow, was the main bedroom containing a full width bed, lights and cupboards above it and precious little else.

John wandered back into the living compartment and stood surveying the scene with his hands on his hips.

“You can take the bed,” Sherlock murmured “I probably won’t sleep tonight.” He looked up at John.

“Cheers,” John responded, not without sarcasm. Sherlock closed his eyes then hurriedly opened them again to escape the miasma of red rage searing into his retinas. He looked up, puzzled at John’s flat tone and lack of co-operation.

“Why won’t you talk to me?” John demanded.

Sherlock clenched his fists and took a deep, unsteady breath then let it out in a rush. To hell with it, he thought and rose abruptly from the sofa.

“I don’t want to talk to you,” Sherlock began, “because if I do, I’m likely to start and not stop.”

John shook his head in puzzlement. “What do you mean?” he asked.

Sherlock’s jaw worked. “I’m angry,” he admitted, “in point of fact, I’m bloody furious.”

“Why?” John sounded completely mystified. “Look, Sherlock, I’m safe – they didn’t harm me…”

Sherlock shook his head violently. “Of course they didn’t harm you; don’t be obtuse!” he growled.

“Then why was I…?”

“Because you belong to me, that’s why!”

Sherlock jammed a hand in his hair and paced up and down the tiny cabin; it didn’t take long. He turned back to John.

“I have been hoodwinked,” he ground out between his teeth as though the admission physically hurt him. “I have been headed off, pushed and dragged in all directions, distracted and pulled away from what should have been the main issue. I have been herded, (how bloody dare they?), treated like some common, ordinary person without the ability to reason, kept off-balance and forced to divert my attention to solving distractions instead of getting close to the main event. Even now, it may be too late.”

“What are you talking about?” John planted his hands on his hips and glared. “Are you saying my kidnapping was – a distraction? An unimportant little diversion to put the great Sherlock Holmes off the scent?”

Sherlock brushed this away irritably. “Oh, don’t take on like that,” he scoffed, “I thought you realized…”

“That I’m about as unimportant as your knowledge of the solar system – yes, I had kind of worked that one out!”

John turned on his heel and stomped over to the window. “Sherlock, I was abducted from a house call, in broad daylight in a Transit van,” he said, his voice rising. “I was kept for days in an office block, existing on pre-packed sandwiches – I never want to see another tuna mayo again – and back issues of newspapers. I think I have a right to know what the hell is going on!”

“You were lucky!” roared Sherlock in reply.

The two men glared at each other through the impasse.

“It was unfortunate you had to be involved in this,” Sherlock continued in a more conciliatory tone. “Of course, I am in no way claiming responsibility, but the fact remains that were you not associated with me, this would not be happening.”

John sighed. “If I weren’t associated with you,” he muttered resignedly, “a lot of things wouldn’t be happening.”

Sherlock had the grace to look at little shamefaced at this. He suddenly got up from the table and opened a drawer in the built-in cupboard against one side of the deck. He withdrew what looked like a sophisticated carpenter’s spirit level.

John eyed it and frowned. He nodded at it. “What are you up to now?” he asked warily.

Sherlock gave John a quick grin. “This is something I developed as a defense against Mycroft’s infernal snooping,” he continued, brandishing the device. “He’s aware of its existence, of course, but he hasn’t managed to find a way of counteracting it yet.”

“Snooping? Counteracting…” John spluttered, “Wait a minute. Are you telling me this place is bugged? For heaven’s sake, why? What the hell have you got yourself into now? Get off me!”

John pushed away Sherlock’s hand as he began to run the spirit level over John’s shoulders and arms.

Sherlock rested down on his haunches, withdrew his arm and looked up at John. “Not the boat,” he said, “Kristie swept this place for listening devices when she stocked the fridge two days ago.” He continued running the device over John’s clothes.

“So you’re checking me for bugs?” John managed. Sherlock maneuvered him around like a marionette without answering.

“Just lift your right leg out of the way, will you?” he said then looked up and smiled grimly as the device let out a beep. “That’ll probably be your belt,” he said conversationally. “Take it off, there’s a good chap and I’ll check it. Take the rest of it off while you’re about it, will you? Now we’ve established that you’ve been got at, I doubt they stopped at one.”

John gaped. “You want me down to my skin?” he managed.

“Just your underwear,” Sherlock replied, still concentrating on the scanner, “unless you’re still broadcasting by that time, of course.” He flashed John a tight grin that made the other man drop his eyes.

John fumbled hurriedly with his clothing to cover his confusion, discarding each item in turn to be seized and scanned by Sherlock before being cast aside. The scanner beeped twice more as Sherlock ran it over John’s shoes.

Sherlock shook his head derisively. “Pathetic lack of imagination,” he scoffed, “Stowed in the heel cavity – both of them. What sort of training are these people receiving these days? Government cutbacks always cause absolute chaos for the security services.”

“The security services?”

Sherlock turned at John’s exclamation. His flatmate stood in nothing but his boxers and an expression of deep shock; Hmm, Sherlock thought. He threw John his clothes minus the belt and the shoes; they landed on the floor as John made no attempt to catch them.

“Who else?” Sherlock asked sounding bored. “You weren’t ever under the impression that we were up against independent contractors, were you?”

John started to pick up his trousers, moving mechanically his expression very worried. Sherlock prowled around the boat until he found a toolbox, located and removed the bug in John’s belt and started in on the shoes. He tossed the scanner to John. “Here,” he said, “you may as well do me – for the sake of completeness.”

John ran the device over Sherlock, starting at his head and working gradually downwards. The device beeped once and their eyes met. Sherlock thinned his lips. He began to unbutton his shirt and trousers.

“If the scanner says I’m live, then I’m live,” Sherlock remarked conversationally. “It’s almost fool proof.”

John stared. “Is this the first time you’ve used this gizmo on yourself since you’ve been here?” he demanded.

Sherlock looked slightly nonplussed. “I had no reason to assume…”

“You always tell me never to assume anything,” John shot back. For once, Sherlock kept silence.

John swept all of Sherlock’s clothes several times over as he removed them with no result.

“You’re still broadcasting,” John said, frowning as he ran the scanner once more over Sherlock’s body.

“Oh, for god’s sake!” Sherlock breathed, trying to stay still, impatience zinging through him.

“Just a moment,” John paused and doubled back over Sherlock’s right calf. He made two passes over it and the machine beeped each time. John looked up and met Sherlock’s eye.

“There’s a scar here,” John said reluctantly, “Quite a deep wound.”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes,” he replied in an unusually subdued tone. “I sustained that particular injury falling from a great height into a – into a refuse vehicle.”

The silence was thick. John cleared his throat self-consciously. “When you jumped off the roof of Bart's Hospital, you mean?” he asked unnecessarily; his voice was harsh.

Sherlock nodded without speaking.

“And the wound was stitched up later by – Molly?” John continued.

Sherlock closed his eyes. “John,” he began, “I know we never really discussed what happened in detail, but…”

John shook his head. “I’m not trying to re-open old wounds,” he said. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “At least, not metaphorically,” John amended, the ghost of a smile chasing itself across his face, “I’m just asking whether it was Molly who sewed you up afterwards.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No,” he replied, “she sent another doctor – something about having to be there to sign off Moriarty’s body. No one else could do that apparently, but her colleague could and did repair the damage I sustained in the fall.”

“How much damage?” John asked quietly.

Sherlock shrugged. “Broken radius and ulna, right arm;” he began, “broken collarbone; broken tib and fib, right leg; concussion; two broken ribs; dislocated shoulder; skull fracture…”

“My god!” John turned away, jamming his hands on his hips and ducking his head.

“The injuries took some time to fully heal,” Sherlock said softly, “but the scarring was minimal and my recovery was complete. The calf wound was one of the worst, actually; it was the only injury that required sutures.”

John nodded. “Yes,” he replied, his voice rough, “and whoever stitched you up really did stitch you up, didn’t they? Were they, whoever they are, after you even then? How did they even know?”

Sherlock shook his head slowly then abruptly seemed to wake up. “We can’t waste any more time,” he said, springing into action and rummaging in a cupboard under the bench, oblivious to the fact that he was still naked.

John’s mouth set in a hard line. “What are you looking for?” he asked.

“This,” announced Sherlock, emerging from the cupboard clutching a doctor’s bag.

John went very still. “You’re asking me to perform surgery to take out something buried in the muscle of your leg?” he said.

Sherlock shrugged. “Well, that seems to be the only real answer to the problem, doesn’t it?” he replied. “You said it yourself – I’m still broadcasting, so the bug must have healed into the muscle. Here – see what you can find.”

Sherlock gestured to his calf, sitting down on the bench as he did so.

John didn’t move. “See what I can…” he repeated incredulously. “Sherlock, this is surgery, it’s not some random game of hide and seek!”

“I’m aware of that,” Sherlock snapped back, “It’s my leg after all. Look John, just examine the muscle in my calf; see if you can feel anything unusual. If it’s there at all, it’ll be pretty small...”

Sherlock stretched out his lower leg and looked expectantly towards John. The other man sank slowly to his knees, his eyes fixed solidly at ground level, and reached out a hand. He gave an impatient sigh, withdrew and placed both hands behind his back.

“Sherlock,” John said between clenched teeth, his eyes darting around the room.

Professional mask now firmly in place, John turned to examine the healed wound, gently palpating the muscle around the scar.

“There’s definitely something here,” he declared at length. “It’s pretty small, but it’s quite deeply buried in the muscle. I can’t get at it without proper anesthetics.”

“I’m afraid you’re going to have to,” Sherlock responded with adamant composure. “We don’t have theater facilities here and that transmitter has to come out.”

John glared at him then immediately started rummaging through the bag, muttering to himself as he did so. After a few moments, he threw it aside with a sound of disgust.

“It’s out of the question,” John said. “There’s no surgical kit, just a scalpel and some forceps; there’s no local anesthetic, no decent oral painkillers…

“There are sutures, alcohol rubs and latex gloves,” Sherlock interrupted, “and the scalpel is new, not even out of its plastic. As for analgesia, I know there’s no lidocaine, but there’s morphine…”

“If you think I’m giving morphine to an addict, you can think again,” John shot back before he had clearly thought it out. He winced as Sherlock’s face went carefully blank.

“Nevertheless,” Sherlock responded after a beat or two, “you may have to do exactly that – unless you want to give me a towel to bite on in time-honored fashion, of course.”

“That’s what you deserve, you contrary bastard,” John muttered, going back to his rummaging. He looked up at Sherlock.

“You’re asking me to cut into perfectly healthy, healed flesh and it’s going to hurt,” John said bluntly. “I’ve got no x-ray facilities to help me narrow down the site and no adequate tools to minimize the potential damage. You’re expecting me to rummage around in your leg muscles blind!”

Sherlock nodded gravely. “Yes,” he said, “I am, and you’d better get on with it because time’s very much against us."

John used the base of the bench as his operating table, cleared of the cushions and opened out into a berth with a clean cotton sheet spread over it. He sterilized the scalpel and forceps as best he could with boiling water and checked that the bag contained sufficient antibiotics to take care of the infection he feared would set in after such rudimentary care. With fingers as steady as a rock, John reached for the syringe and he tried to ignore the scarred flesh of Sherlock's right arm from the very activity he was about to perform.

The morphine slipped easily into Sherlock’s bloodstream. He felt his facial muscles relax as the drug took effect and stared blankly at the bulkhead opposite, fascinated by the faint brushstrokes still visible in the paint. The pain of John’s first incision was sharp enough to make him flinch and bite off a curse. The sting of a further injection had him opening his mouth to protest, finding the idea amusing as images of stable doors and horses coursed through his mind. He smiled. Some little part of him was not sanguine about the potential post-operative period, but the rest was too high to worry overmuch.

“Got you!” A small exclamation from John pulled Sherlock momentarily away from his navel-gazing to regard a tiny, blood-covered black object held fast in the forceps. Sherlock reached for John’s wrist and grasped bare skin.

“Don’t – damage it!” he managed. John frowned.

“Why not?” he demanded, looking for all the world as though all he wanted was to beat hell out of the tiny object in payment for what its existence had obliged him to do.

“Just keep it safe – and the others.” Sherlock sank back onto the bed. There was something he had to say before he passed out; he just had to remember…

“My bag,” he managed. “Read the files in the folder named “Anthea”"

Sherlock relaxed onto the hard surface, luxuriating in the feeling of total well-being that suffused his body. He transferred his attention to his fingers still wrapped round John’s wrist and was transfixed by the smoothness of John’s skin. He stroked gently with one hand and smiled.

“Sherlock,” John said carefully, not turning away or attempting to dislodge the grasping hand.

“Soft,” Sherlock said quietly. He slid his hand up John’s arm until he reached his bicep. “Extraordinary,” he whispered. He could feel every single crease in John’s skin, every hair, even the play of the tendons and bones beneath the surface. He looked up into John’s worried face saw the face of an angel limned with gold from the overhead light. A frowning angel, perhaps, but nevertheless…

“Sherlock,” John said again, more urgently this time.

“Don’t frown,” Sherlock said so quietly that John had to lean closer again, “It’s all fine.”

Sherlock suppressed a laugh at his own unconscious mimicry. He leaned into John until he could feel the tide of the other man’s breath, breathe it into his own lungs. He ran his free hand over John’s face, smoothing out the worry lines with his fingertips. He pushed his fingers into John’s hair, running them through the coarse strands, amazed at the texture.

“Steady,” John said, gently capturing the questing fingers and returning them to bed level. He smiled tightly. “You really don’t want to do that, trust me,” he said. “I haven’t showered since I was snatched – barely managed to grab a quick wash now and then. My hair is absolutely disgusting so I really wouldn’t handle it too much if I were you.”

“Don’t care,” Sherlock whispered, but the morphine was stronger and oblivion was welcome.