Sherlock opened his eyes and groaned. His body was heavy and sore, his eyelids felt rough and sandy and his tongue tasted like something had crawled into his mouth during the last few hours and died there.

“The sleeper wakes.”

The voice was definitely John’s but Sherlock kept very still, certain that if he moved anything at all, even his eyelids, he would shatter into a million tiny pieces. He whimpered softly at the pain in his stomach, his head, his muscles…

“You didn’t tell me you had a dependence,” John said in a curiously flat tone. Sherlock gathered up his courage and swallowed deliberately, readying his vocal chords for action.

“I don’t,” he croaked, “This will go away very soon; I just have, uh, a bit of a sensitivity for morphine, that’s all.”

“Through years of misuse?” John suggested. He gestured towards Sherlock’s pained and sweating body. “This,” he said, “looks to me like dependence – physical dependence.”

John ran a hand through his hair clean, Sherlock noted; he must have used the shower and gave an agitated sigh. “If I had known,” he said reprovingly, “I would never have given it to you, let alone the quantity it took to numb the pain.”

“I told you, I’m not dependent. Give me a moment.” Sherlock let out a long breath then slowly levered himself upright, trying to work through the malaise. The living compartment swam into view and he blinked hard, trying to focus. He noted the two pillows, clearly taken from the bedroom, and a heavy woolen blanket tucked around him which together made a bed of sorts. He swallowed painfully. “How long was I out?” he asked.

John shrugged. “Three hours,” he replied succinctly, “most of it spent delirious and sweating. You tried to throw up several times but you’ve clearly been pulling your old starvation trick; fortunate for me if not exactly healthy for you. Now, drink this and take these.”

John held out a glass of water, two white tablets and a colored capsule. “Painkill – don’t worry, it won’t make you drowsy,” he intoned, “and antibiotics. I shudder to think what could have got into that wound.” Sherlock downed all of it with unaccustomed meekness. He noted that John had managed to put a shirt on him, probably to try to mitigate some of the shivering.

John sat down on a hard wooden chair. “What is this place?” he asked.

“Didn’t Kristie tell you?” Sherlock replied, still gritting his teeth.

John’s lips thinned and he nodded. “Alright, I supposed I walked into that one,” he said.

Sherlock shrugged. “She was the only person you had met in the Basin and you could see that I clearly trusted her,” he replied. “It wasn’t a big leap to make. She watched over me while you showered?”

“And ate something, yes,” John replied. “Jonathan was here too, and someone called David – redhead – who seems to be the go to girl for any engine troubles. There are others too. Who are they? I asked Kristie what the connection was, but she just laughed and told me you go way back.”

Sherlock looked amused. “That is indeed the case,” he replied. He shifted into a more comfortable sitting position.

“Here,” John held out a dressing gown made of some warm woolen material. “Found this in the bedroom; thought you could do with it. The blanket belongs to Kristie; she wants it back when you’re done.”

Sherlock accepted the item gratefully and tugged it round his shoulders. He sipped at the water, already feeling some of his energy returning. He sat back, leaning on the gunwale behind him and looked at John.

“Kristie’s family have been living on narrow boats for generations,” he began. “They have always worked the Kingsland Basin but times being what they are, the family dwindled, went to live land-side, gave up the boating business for more profitable pursuits in the City, etc. etc. and Kristie’s father was the last survivor. When he died, he Willed the basin and all its mooring rights to Kristie but his Will was challenged by a property development company. They already owned all the derelict land on the shores of the Basin and they contested that Kristie’s family had never actually had title to the basin at all.”

Sherlock paused and winced as a spike of nausea reminded him it wasn’t over yet. “I was able to prove that the property company was not only attempting to defraud Kristie but was also guilty of deception in their purchase of the surrounding land; their methods of obtaining planning permission to develop the sites were also called into question. As a result, the company went into liquidation, title to the surrounding land is in dispute, the development plans have been put on hold and Kristie has sole title to the Kingsland Basin.”

John smiled. “A story with a happy ending,” he replied, “I like that; it doesn’t often happen, particularly with developers.”

Sherlock’s smile widened. “Ah, but it doesn’t end there,” he continued. “Kristie set up the Basin in trust for the benefit and education of the community here in Hackney. As a registered charity, it is on a much safer financial footing and provides an alternative lifestyle for those who want such things but also want to stay in London. In my opinion, they are a rather idealistic group but their principles appear to be sound.”

“And you get a narrow boat out of it, is that the deal?” John asked.

“In a way,” Sherlock pursed his lips and inhaled deeply. “I have had the use of the Madrigal for several years,” he continued. “It belonged to Kristie’s father and comes with a permanent mooring – do you know how rarely they become available in London? I lived here for a while after an explosion made my apartment at Montague Street uninhabitable.” Sherlock shot a sharp glance at John’s sudden frown and waved his free hand airily. “It was an accident and completely and utterly not my fault – well, almost completely anyway – but my landlord decided to be unreasonable and threw me out. He said he wouldn’t press charges if I waived the notice period.”

Sherlock’s generous mouth turned down at the corners; John tried not to laugh.

“Oh, you may well find it amusing,” Sherlock huffed, “For me it was damned inconvenient. Charming as this location undoubtedly is, the inconveniences far outweigh the advantages. I was living here until I met Mrs Hudson. I must say that after several months here, Baker Street and Mrs Hudson's offer was a blessed relief.”

Sherlock breathed in deeply, already feeling his strength returning. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, noting that that his right leg was bandaged below the knee; the wound throbbed dully but seemed to be quite small. Sherlock shifted his weight gingerly and tried to stand, more or less successfully.

“Woah!” said John, immediately coming to his aid, grasping his arm firmly, “I’m not sure you’re ready for this.”

“Nonsense,” Sherlock replied firmly. He tested the muscle; it held. “It was scarcely a major procedure,” he griped, “and I have to get back on my feet as soon as possible.” He straightened up, his breathing returning to normal; well, more or less.

John shook his head and his features morphed into a familiar stubborn expression.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t make that face,” he protested, “There’s a lot still to do. It’s not over yet, you know, not by a long shot.”

John scratched the back of his neck. “Yes,” he said thoughtfully, “about that.”

Sherlock frowned and looked around the living compartment, suddenly ravenously hungry. “Is there any food in this benighted establishment?” he demanded, “Or do I have to order in?” He flexed his leg gingerly; it hurt but it would hold up.

John stared at him then shrugged. “How would I know? It’s your place,” he replied, “at least, I’m assuming it is. What, has the morphine awoken your usual non-existent need for food or something?”

On cue, Sherlock’s stomach rumbled and he scowled. “Very funny,” he said without amusement, “I just need something to eat, that’s all. Is that too much for an invalid to ask?” He started to limp over to the companionway but John put a hand on his arm and held him back.

John’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Stop stalling,” he demanded flatly. “What the hell is going on here?”

Sherlock paused and sighed. “That, John,” he replied, “is a much more difficult and involved question than you imagine.”

John frowned. “I don’t imagine anything,” he replied, “I’m just asking for a bit of information, that’s all.”

Sherlock looked up directly at his friend and colleague and spread his hands. “Very well,” he said brightly, “what do you want to know?”

John threw his hands in the air. “Where do I start?” he said, walking around the tiny compartment as best he could. “How about the bugs in my clothes? Oh, and also in your leg, Sherlock; your leg!”

“That was hardly my fault,” Sherlock replied, “Come on, be fair! I scarcely asked for Molly’s colleague to sew a tracking device into me!”

Sherlock spread his hands out in a big dramatic gesture; his left hand dragged across the top of the counter next to the bench and knocked something onto the floor with a clatter. Sherlock picked it up absently, noting that it was the scanner they had used earlier. He turned it on to check for damage.

“I was kidnapped in broad daylight,” John ranted, “kept prisoner for days against my will, dragged around parts of London I didn’t even know existed, forced to give high amounts of Morphine to a drug addict, obliged to perform minor surgery with no anesthetic…”

John spun round, putting his hands through his hair in utter exasperation. Sherlock glanced at the reading on the scanner and did a double take.

“…and then given a series of documents to read that clearly contain top-secret information and details of things that, if I didn’t know better, I would assume came out of a spy novel,” John continued. He glared at Sherlock who slowly rose from the bench staring intently at the scanner.

“I mean, your brother’s department is certainly influential,” John went on, “and he obviously has considerable sway with the home office, but some of the stuff in that folder is just sheer fantasy; it has to be!”

Sherlock lifted his eyes from the scanner and fixed them on the overhead light fitment, squinting to make sure of what he had seen. His expression changed as he lifted the device and heard it beep.

“Sherlock, some of the material is absolutely bloody terrifying,” John continued, oblivious of his companion’s growing consternation, “and if I for one moment thought it were true, I’d be hiding under my bed waiting for the world to end. I mean, surely Mycroft just cannot have had the desire or the resources to have ord..." Sherlock turned, took two small steps, grabbed John’s face by his jaw and silenced the flow of words.

John froze suddenly in shock, then raised his hands to Sherlock’s shoulders and pushed hard. “Just a minute,” he growled. “What the hell is this? I asked you a question…”

“And I’m answering it,” Sherlock responded. Please, John, just go with it, he pleaded silently. He pushed John roughly up against the wall, wincing as the action stretched his sutures, and held him there tightly, one hand gripping under his jaw. John did not struggle. An ex-soldier knows the value of a well-executed choke-hold, and knows to bide his time until his opponent relaxed his vigilance sufficiently before striking.

“Sherlock,” John breathed warningly.

“Shut up,” Sherlock said.

There was the waited-for moment of inattention. John broke Sherlock’s hold with the ease of long practice and Sherlock found himself spun round, his arm twisted up between his shoulder blades, and slammed face first into the wall. John leaned hard on him until Sherlock grunted in pain.

“I don’t know what the hell is going on with you,” John ground out into Sherlock’s ear, “but it had better be good, do you hear?”

Sherlock fought to turn his head. “Bedroom,” he managed to gasp through the pain.

John’s eyebrows disappeared into his hairline. “Excuse me?” he said, involuntarily relaxing from sheer surprise.

“Now,” Sherlock amplified. He took his chance and twisted, breaking John’s suddenly nerveless hold and turning the tables. He pinned John with the same arm-lock, jerking hard and forcing the other man to walk in front of him.

“Was this your intention all along, Sherlock, or did you have some other purpose in dragging me into your bedroom?”

Sherlock turned his head at John’s amused tone, pleasantly surprised to note that despite the brutal ache from his calf, he felt really quite well. Dopamine, serotonin and adrenaline together with vasopressin, prolactin and oxytocin, little too early to be thinking of the last three in any meaningful sense seeing as vasopressin and oxytocin are more concerned with attachment than attraction…

“Sherlock!”

John’s tone was strident enough to indicate that this was not the first time he had tried to gain Sherlock’s attention.

Sherlock shook his head as if to clear it. “You called?” he replied, focusing on his companion.

John smiled and tried again. “I asked if you’d had anything else in mind when you…”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, I heard you the first time,” he replied, “but I couldn’t quite determine how to reply. Yes, I did have an ulterior motive; yes, I achieved my object anyway; and no, I don’t regret the rest of it in the least. Are you satisfied with that? Or shall we talk it to death?”

John shook his head and laughed, turning onto his back and flinging an elbow over his eyes.

“Okay,” John said, lowering his arm and turning his head on the pillow to look at Sherlock. “Okay, if you didn’t actually bring me in here in order to jump me, why did you?”

“Because the scanner detected a listening device in the living compartment,” Sherlock replied promptly.

John stared, eyes widening. “This boat was bugged too? But you said Kristie…”

“And so she did,” Sherlock replied, “However, this one appears to have got through the net.”

Sherlock moved over to the edge of the bed and groped for the device. Scooping it up, he activated it and ran it over the bed; the machine remained silent. He then moved carefully around the compartment, running the device over curtains and walls, light fitments and cupboards; nothing.

Sherlock let out a relieved breath and deactivated the scanner. He turned back to John who had sat up in the bed and was regarding him with every sign of renewed interest.

“Listening devices are cheap to produce but costly in time and expertise to install, especially when the other party is aware of the practice,” Sherlock began didactically. “Mycroft alone is aware of this particular bolthole of mine and he has tried several times to bug it, for his own peculiar nefarious or prurient reasons – who knows why he does what he does? Anyway, after the fourth set of devices ended up at the bottom of the Regent’s Canal, he seemed to give up. I am, after all, a resident on this boat only very occasionally so I imagine he simply lost interest. I will admit to being rather surprised when the scanner registered positive in the living compartment. I couldn’t be sure that the bedroom was clean, but I figured that if I forced you in here, the chances were good that you would stop talking – for one reason or another.” Sherlock raised an eyebrow; his eyes were alight with mischief. “We’ll give the rest of the boat another sweep shortly,” he said “Well, after you get up, anyway.”

John smiled. “And that’s your excuse for jumping me, is it?” he replied casually, “I mean, for the record?”

Sherlock shrugged. “You were about to relate everything you had read in Anthea’s files at high volume,” he said simply, “I couldn’t risk whoever is listening in having that sort of information – I had to do something.”

“Distraction is well and good, and under normal circumstances I’m all for it,” John said with a determined tilt to his chin, “but even though you’ve explained the reason, I’m still just as confused as ever about what’s actually going on.”

John’s eyes were almost black in the dim light of the bedroom but his face brooked no denial. Sherlock nodded slowly, made his way back over to the chair by the bed and folded his hands in his lap and prepared to ignore the clamor of his body so as to order his thoughts.

“Once upon a time,” he began, “there was a very clever boy, so clever that he was selling completed degree essay papers to wealthy Oxbridge undergraduates while his age was still in single figures. He amassed a small private income drawn from an offshore account which financed his boarding school sherbet habit and later, while at Oxford, his collection of rare Wodehouse first editions. Imagine what this boy could achieve once he became a man – and then double it.”

“Your brother?” John asked.

Sherlock nodded. “Yes,” he replied, “and therein hangs a cautionary tale about centralized government; take out or suborn a key figure, cut him off from his contacts and supply lines and you can paralyze the whole civilized world, particularly if you co-ordinate your efforts with others of like mind.”

John frowned. “Are you telling me that your brother is a spy?” he demanded.

Sherlock gave him an incredulous stare and snorted derisively. “Haven’t you been paying attention all this time?”

John made an irritated noise. “I have,” he replied impatiently, “but what you’re saying makes it sound as though he’s, well, a double agent; a mole.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agreed, “and that’s one of the things I was supposed to suspect, I think. My brother and I have not been on what you could call cordial terms for some years, as you well know. I think I was supposed to believe he had turned, impossible as that may seem.”

“That’s ridiculous!” John scoffed. “Mycroft work against England? That’s as unlikely as the Queen setting up her official residence in Germany."

“I have to confess, it could be true – but I don’t believe it is.”

“I should think not,” John replied stoutly. “Anyway, who are these people, Sherlock, and what are they trying to do?”

“It’s not what they’re trying to do,” Sherlock said soberly, “It’s what they have nearly succeeded in doing.”

The alarming material supplied by Anthea, Sherlock told him, was all completely genuine. Mycroft’s department was still functioning as normal, but not under his command. Certain other documents in the collection revealed the suspicion that Mycroft’s opposite number in the American Government had also been compromised. The material provided by Alfred Oakley only served to provide confirmation, and reports coming in from Sherlock’s own contacts abroad detailed frankly alarming developments with regard to diplomatic and political situations in sensitive places such as Russia, Germany – and Japan. John shifted uneasily.

Sherlock nodded. “They intend to escalate the war,” he said gently, “but that’s only a part of it; there’s much, much more at stake."

“So all Mycroft’s surveillance systems, his intelligence-gathering protocols, his diplomatic connections and leverage…” John began.

“Have, to a large degree, been hijacked, yes,” Sherlock finished for him.

John clenched his fists. “But who are they?” he demanded helplessly. “I mean, who is at the heart of it?”

“When I know that,” Sherlock replied gravely, “I will know how to stop them. You see, they thought they had covered all the bases but I’m certain there’s something amiss – they’ve been too confident.”

“You mean they’ve underestimated you?” John asked with a sly grin.

“I think that’s a fair assessment, yes,” Sherlock replied without rancor, “but they made an error. Understandable, to be sure, but nevertheless they were careless. I think they realized that with Mycroft taken out of the game, I was their next likeliest adversary. I think they knew that I could scupper their plans very quickly if I was allowed time to work through the data, so they tried to fix it so that I couldn’t. They were the reason I was summoned to an irresistible and intriguing case in Monte Carlo in the hope that Victor Trevor would distract me with me with good food, wine, luxury living and sex...”

“Sex?” John queried sharply.

“Possessive?” Sherlock grinned suddenly. “Actually, Victor’s very much past history – merely an adolescent fling. Pleasant at the time, I grant you, but not built for the long haul.”

“The long haul,” John said musingly with a small smile.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow interrogatively.

John gave him a long, level look. 

“I think that’s a conversation for another day, don’t you?” Sherlock said softly.

“Married to your work,” John intoned slyly.

"I regret telling you that," Sherlock said, voice low and rumbling.

Five hours later, Sherlock was getting the uneasy feeling he had underestimated the opposition. The various leads he had extrapolated from Mr Chan during his short visit with him and Alfred Oakley’s collection of knowledge had petered out one by one into dead ends and false alarms. The same problem had occurred when Sherlock made a quick and disguised visit with some members of his homeless network but he did manage to receive a few more photos and background from them.

“Damn it!” he ground out between his teeth, standing up and pacing around the bedroom agitatedly. The limited space in the compartment meant that this was a very short-lived exercise.

John looked up from where he was lying on the bed immersed in a novel found on the bookshelf in the living area; he assumed it was Kristie’s – it was hardly likely to be Sherlock’s. “Not so simple then?” he commented mildly.

Sherlock did not bother to answer. “There has to be something, some kind of loose end.”

“It would help if you had some idea what you were looking for,” John put in. “I mean, are you looking for an inconsistency, a person, something forged, some dodgy figures – what?”

“I’ve told you, I don’t know!” Sherlock huffed, almost tearing his hair out. “Mycroft is the very devil when it comes to detail; nothing escapes him and no triviality is insignificant. He vets his staff with almost boring thoroughness on a constant basis – anything new is ruthlessly chased down and dissected down to quantum level. Anthea alone has three researchers responsible for her security status; Oakley, a similar number.”

John frowned and put his book aside. “Oakley?” he queried.

Sherlock nodded. “Mycroft’s second,” he replied, “if you’ll pardon the term. I was never supposed to encounter him at all but circumstances changed that. He was the one who gave me… oh my god!” He swung back to face John.

“Alfred Oakley,” he muttered. “Three Oakley alumni – Peter, Charles and, ah yes! Alfred Oakley, went on to Caius College Cambridge. Related? No, Peter and Charles are brothers; Alfred is not part of the same family…”

Another furious burst of muttering; John repaired to the galley for a cup of tea. While he was there, he decided to make preparations for a meal of some kind. He opened the salad drawer – fresh vegetables, some of them clearly home grown, maybe from the community’s floating allotment. There was even some cold beer and meat.

When he returned ten minutes later with two plates of food, Sherlock was sitting with his back against the bulkhead, his fingers arranged in the usual steeple.

“Alfred Oakley was wearing an Eton tie when he waylaid me here,” Sherlock said quietly, “and at Eton he attended for the full seven years. He was clearly fairly bright because he went on to Cambridge, Caius College.”

Sherlock paused, stood up and returned back to his pacing. “Unremarkable student,” he added, “academically average, if anyone who attends Oxbridge can be described in such terms, achieving nothing at all to make him noticeable. He was so shy and retiring that he failed to appear in any photographs available either from Eton or from Cambridge.”

John reached out to grab Sherlock's wrist so he could peer at the photo Sherlock had in his hand.

“This is an informal picture of Clare College Choir.” Sherlock continued. John squinted at a poorly shot snap of a group of people in academic dress laughing and talking together on the banks of the River Cam with the College Backs behind them.

Sherlock continued in a flat tone of voice. “You can see that Alfred, or Freddie as he was known then, Oakley is the one talking to the girl with long wavy hair.”

John took a closer look, blinked and looked back at Sherlock.

“Now that is a bit odd,” he replied. “Seeing as you didn’t mention it, I’m guessing the Alfred Oakley you met down at the Kingsland Basin didn’t have that pigmentation on his face, yes?”

“You guess correctly,” Sherlock replied, “although Alfred Oakley’s Home Office file does record him as having suffered from vitiligo as an adolescent. He appears to have made a full recovery.”

“Hmm, yes,” John stoked his chin thoughtfully. “Otherwise known as leucoderma. Normal skin that for no good reason suddenly loses its brown pigmentation; often on the face but can be anywhere on the body. Sufferers have been known to recover spontaneously although there’s some decent therapy available now. It’s thought to be an autoimmune problem but no one really knows.”

Sherlock nodded then gestured once again at the photo. “Take a close look at his face; as close as you can,” he said.

John squinted hard. “Sherlock, that patch - that's not vitiligo. That’s a stain.”

Sherlock looked at John with raised eyebrows until he elaborated. “It’s a vascular disorder, harmless but disfiguring,” John continued. “According to dermatologists, it’s permanent; there’s no treatment.”

The two men looked at each other.

“Well,” said John softly, “that really rather begs the question, doesn’t it? If it wasn’t Freddie Oakley you met the other night, who was it?”

When John interrupted him some time later with a mug of tea, he was still relentlessly searching.

“The only thing we know for sure is that the man representing himself as Oakley is not the same man who attended Eton and Cambridge; the photograph is evidence of that.”

“Are you sure the photograph is correct?” John ventured. Sherlock nodded.

“Yes,” he replied.

There were five photographs in all; in one of them, evidently taken unawares, the man was wearing evening dress and sipping at a glass of champagne; the port wine stain was clearly visible.

“So where is the real Oakley now?” John asked, leaning over Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Who knows?” Sherlock sighed, “Probably hastily interred in a shallow grave somewhere as far away from Cambridge as possible. It wasn’t as if there was anyone to miss him. I looked into his background; he was orphaned as a child, you know – car crash – and in the absence of any close relatives prepared to step up to the crease, he was made a Ward of Court. His parents’ estate was put in Trust to pay for his education. He seems to have lived a fairly quiet life at Cambridge; no close friends, no hobbies or activities apart from the aforementioned singing.”

“God!” John exclaimed, honestly shocked. “What a start in life!”

“Indeed,” Sherlock rumbled.

John’s eyes suddenly widened. “Sherlock,” he said in a strained voice, “didn’t Oakley, or whoever he is, give you a key that would lead to a lock-box that had some information in it?”

“That is correct,” Sherlock replied.

“Well, don’t you think that might possibly be – a problem?” John ventured.

Sherlock paused and turned to face his companion. “John,” he began gently, “I am not an idiot and I have been Mycroft’s brother for long enough to have a highly developed nose for anything suspicious. Of course I swept it for any kind of transmitter as soon as I got it, then I ran it though a decryption I had specially modified to weed out any tiny things Mycroft might choose to send my way at any time. When nothing came up, I got really suspicious and put every single document through the wringer: absolutely nothing.” Sherlock looked positively angry about it.

“Well, that’s… good. Isn’t it?” John hazarded.

“To you, possibly,” Sherlock responded, without looking up, “but it was a total waste of my time; time I could have used more profitably. The contents were just as useless. Oh, the stuff was all genuine for sure, but there was no new information there and it was so heavily encrypted that it took me far longer than it would normally to analyse.”

Sherlock stood up and thrust a hand in his hair. “It’s all so much window dressing!” he said heatedly. “That’s why Oakley turned up out of the blue; he meant me to waste my time, it was another delaying tactic.”

“Why didn’t he just shop you to the police, then?” John demanded.

Sherlock shook his head. “If I were to make an educated guess, I would say that’s because he’s not totally sure I haven’t managed to suborn Lestrade in some way,” he replied, “and to be honest, that’s my contingency plan if the Yard manages to catch up with us at any time. I think Lestrade could be depended upon to at least listen, which might put a cat among the carefully preserved pigeons.”

Sherlock turned to John. “It’s quite difficult to get a senior police officer reassigned, even if you’re attached to the Home Office,” he said, “and that’s a very good reason to adjust your tactics.”

John frowned. “Have you taken a look at Oakley’s contemporaries at Cambridge?”

Sherlock turned to look at John. “What are you suggesting?” he said, his voice deepening.

John shrugged, refusing to be intimidated.

Sherlock snapped, “and of course I’ve looked into them along with the rest of your pedestrian suggestions.”

“Alright,” John continued with an air of digging himself in deeper, “Oakley stood in occasionally for a fellow undergraduate who was a choral scholar, so I’m guessing he must have been more than competent. Did he do any other singing while he was there? Did he deputize for anyone else in any other choir? Where did he sing when he wasn’t singing at Clare? Was he in a choral society? A voluntary College choir? An operatic society? Was he part of an a Capella group – are there any in Cambridge?”

Sherlock froze.

Sherlock worked on into the night, chasing leads into the ground and turning the life of Alfred Oakley upside down and inside out; he was stymied at every turn. He had taken apart every member of Clare College Choir, the organist and choirmaster, all Oakley’s fellow academic students, his tutor, the Dons of the college, those who had rooms on the same floor, the porters serving during Oakley’s time – nothing.

Sherlock let out an explosive breath and pursed his lips; time to call it a day, probably.

Sherlock sat upright with visible effort. What to do now? He gave a mental shrug. There was nothing else he could do but carry on; nothing else possible until this mess was cleared up. He swiped at his damp face with his fingers, then he closed his eyes and consciously put its contents in a mental file marked “Pending” and closed it carefully.

Scene: Baker Street, the living room of his flat. Reaching out for Debrett and opening it; folding the Pending file over and over again into a smaller and smaller shape then cramming it into the hollow space in the cut out pages; closing the book with difficulty and replacing it on the shelf.

Sherlock opened his eyes, turned once again to look at the man sleeping in his bed and knew without a shadow of a doubt that there was no question of a blessed unconsciousness of his own tonight.

“John!” It was a whisper but one that was designed to carry across three counties.

“Watson – wake up!”

“Nnnnn…” John buried his head in the pillow and tried to tune Sherlock out. Sherlock put his mouth close to John’s ear.

“I’ve solved it!” he said, totally failing to moderate the volume. “I’ve found him – Alfred Oakley. I know who he is!”

John raised his head and blinked blearily at Sherlock. “Really?” he said groggily, “Look – can this wait till morning?”

Sherlock blinked. “It is morning,” he said.

John struggled onto his back. “It’s…” he looked at his watch, “four am, Sherlock! Some of us mere mortals need at least a few hours of decent shuteye each night – can’t it keep till I’m functional?”

Sherlock frowned mightily. “No it can’t,” he protested, “I’ve been up all night trying to get the provenance on this and now you’re going to listen to me.”

John turned over and blinked through sleep-encrusted eyes. “Go on then,” he said, his voice rough with sleep.

Sherlock grinned wolfishly. “Alfred Oakley,” he announced with glee, “is in fact Ronald Adair.”

John waited for more but Sherlock merely looked at him expectantly. John sat up, running a hand over his face and sighed. “Sherlock,” he managed, “who in hell is Ronald Adair?”

Sherlock’s face assumed its familiar “you are too stupid to live” frown, but the strands of memory were already beginning to come together in John’s mind – radio and newspaper coverage of the return of Sherlock Holmes, multiple arrests in the small hours of the morning throughout Europe, arranged to coincide exactly, Colonel Sebastian Moran being dragged out of a penthouse suite in Paris for immediate deportation to England to face, amongst other prosecutions, several charges of murder including that of fellow criminal, Ronald Adair…

As Sherlock opened his mouth to express his impatience, John held up a quelling hand. “I remember now. But he’s dead,” he protested. “Moran’s doing time for it.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Sebastian Moran has been locked up for crimes much more serious than the murder of a fellow criminal,” he replied,“and at any rate, he went along with a plea bargain and admitted to everything they threw at him, except Adair’s murder. He always maintained he never touched the man or the brakes of his car.”

“And yet Adair turned up dead?” John queried.

Sherlock scratched his head. “Not exactly,” he replied. “If you remember, Adair died, rather boringly, in a road smash in Italy. The incident involved an HGV vehicle, an Audi 225 and a remote mountainous coastal road overlooking the Mediterranean; Adair was in the Audi. According to witness statements, the car swerved to avoid the lorry, broke through the barrier at well over 100mph and plunged five hundred feet into the ocean. It was salvaged several days later with no sign of Adair’s body. However, the car was registered to him and several witnesses reported him as driving it at the time. The statement of the HGV driver seemed to imply brake failure, however the Audi had been serviced the previous week and the Prosecution produced documents verifying its mechanical health. Several witnesses testified to having heard Moran threaten to kill Adair by fixing his car. The two had a disagreement over the proceeds of an insider trading scam that Moriarty pulled, I don’t know if you recall…”

“I remember it,” John put in quickly. “I don’t remember that Moriarty was ever blamed for it, though.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Mycroft saw to it that he wasn’t,” he said, “for various reasons of his own that he saw as good at the time.”

“Okay,” John massaged his temples with the finger and thumb of his left hand. “So you think that Moran wasn’t guilty of Adair’s murder because Adair wasn’t actually in the car when it went up, yes?”

“That’s right,” said Sherlock.

John nodded. “So Adair allowed his old identity to go up with the Audi and simply slipped into Oakley’s shoes, landing a top civil service job working for Mycroft… Sherlock, I’m sorry but this just doesn’t add up. Mycroft doesn’t employ people off the street, for god’s sake!”

“Actually, that’s just what he does do on occasion,” Sherlock replied with dry humor, “but, however, not in this case. John, Adair didn’t pick up the Oakley persona, he was Oakley all along; he was running his real identity alongside. As Adair, he was very careful to avoid being photographed and always made strenuous efforts to do everything remotely. To all intents and purposes, Oakley was his real persona and Adair was the false one.”

“So how are you going to pin it on him?” John demanded. “Come to think of it, how can you be sure you’re right?”

“I am always right,” Sherlock said loftily, "Oakley’s singing career in Cambridge. It was his habit of singing Evensong with the choir of Trinity Hall College and eating dinner with them in the Refectory afterwards that struck a chord, if you’ll pardon the expression. I did a little digging on his fellow choristers at Trinity Hall and discovered that one Ronald Adair studied history as an undergraduate at that college and is listed as singing bass in the College Choir for two years.”

John scratched his head. “It’s not conclusive, is it?” he replied.

Sherlock huffed. “Well, no,” he admitted, “but it’s too much of a coincidence otherwise.”

“I agree,” John replied, “but, unless you can produce evidence such as a photograph of Ronald Adair at the time he was reckoned to have been part of Moriarty’s network and match it up to Oakley, I’m afraid you’re not going to convince anyone at Whitehall, especially not your brother.”

“I’m not even going to try,” Sherlock said. “So it’s time to weigh anchor, old boy,” he said.

Despite appearances, narrow boats are really very easy to manoeuvre, even through narrow channels and between other, larger boats. Sherlock gave a small, private smile as he remembered Kristie’s merciless tutelage in the past, largely centered around narrow boat etiquette with regard to other craft and canal users. Sherlock was, of course, supremely uninterested in this latter study – on the water, as in life, other people existed merely to serve – but at mid-morning in the Kingsland Basin as he started the Madrigal’s diesel engine running and listened to the smoothness of a recent overhaul, he reflected that courtesy might just gain them precious time before they were noticed and stopped.

The hatch on Kristie’s boat opened at the sound and she came aboard Madrigal frowning.

“What’s up?” she demanded, “Progress?”

“Of a sort,” Sherlock replied; he turned his head. “John!” he shouted into the cabin.

“We’re about to take a little trip,” Sherlock informed Kristie, returning the throttle to tickover. He turned the revs down and faced her.

“This will take a little while,” Sherlock said, “Maybe two or three days, but Madrigal will return here so keep the mooring free for us.”

Kristie looked into his face and frowned. “What about you?” she said quietly. “Will you be returning?”

Sherlock’s eyes slid away from her face.

At that moment, John’s head appeared in the hatch. He climbed up, grinning and bearing two steaming mugs. “What?” he demanded looking between the two serious faces. He passed one mug to Sherlock and took a sip from the other, nodding as he did so at Kristie. “Cuppa?” he asked. She shook her head without smiling.

Sherlock tried out the tiller. “The electronics?” he asked, looking at John over his shoulder.

John smiled and opened his hand. In it nestled three devices about the size and shape of a 10p coin along with a fourth much smaller item resembling a button battery. “In the drink?” he asked.

Sherlock shook his head. “I want them to keep broadcasting for a while,” he said. He took the bugs from John and picked up Kristie’s slack hand, dropping the four tiny devices onto her palm and closing her fingers around them.

“I’m sure you’ll find somewhere, ah, entertaining to stow these,” Sherlock told her with a grin and turned back to the tiller.

John smiled in agreement, rested his mug on the deck and turned to Kristie, taking her hand. "Thanks," he said sincerely, "For everything. For looking out for Sherlock. You're a lifesaver."

Kristie gripped John’s hand; her eyes were shining. “Take care,” she said in a low voice, “of him." She nodded in Sherlock's direction.

John nodded seriously. Sherlock gave no sign he had heard but his cheeks flushed slightly in the wind. Kristie stepped away from him, gave a wave that turned into a salute and jumped off the deck back onto the waterside, her pace fast and deliberate. Sherlock watched her go and his face was grave.

John reached into his pocket and offered an opened packet of Rich Tea. Sherlock shook his head and nodded towards the stern benches. “It’s probably going to rain,” he said, “so dig out something water-resistant; there’s some gear stowed under there. Oh, and help me cast off, will you? Stern rope first.”

John rummaged through the benches for a waterproof, thrust a similar one at Sherlock and jumped onto the waterside to loosen the ropes. Once John was back on board, Sherlock took the tiller and carefully moved the stern of the Madrigal away from the bank, pivoted to bring the bow round then engaged the throttle and carefully threaded his way past the other moored boats until he left the basin, sailing out into the Regent’s Canal. Kristie’s boat remained still and dark; Sherlock’s eyes lingered on its bright paint disappearing into the distance as he turned the corner.

The journey was not a long one, Sherlock thought, but with only John as crew, the seven locks they would have to negotiate could slow them down.

John came onto the stern deck and passed Sherlock a coffee, smile wide enough to split his face. He sighed contentedly and sipped his coffee. “This,” he announced, “I like; it’s years since I’ve been on a narrow boat. We used to holiday on the Norfolk Broads as kids; Harry whinged the whole time, but I loved it.”

And it was hard not to relax just that little bit, to pretend for a moment that they were indeed on a holiday together, particularly when John leaped ashore, windlass in hand, at the first lock and grinned fiercely at Sherlock, clearly enjoying himself hugely.

It was almost impossible to believe that by the end of the day, they could both be dead.

The Madrigal proceeded along the Regent’s Canal at a brisk pace, taking bridges and locks in her stride, until she arrived at the busy Limehouse Basin.

“What now?” asked John, standing behind Sherlock on the stern deck as they glided their way between vessels much larger and more expensive than their own, some moored, some making their way into the Grand Union Canal. Sherlock, however, made for the Thames.

“Are you really going to do what I think you’re going to do?” John demanded, trepidation oozing out of him.

At that moment, Sherlock raised the harbor authorities on the radio and barked an incomprehensible string of numbers and letters into the microphone. There was an acknowledgement through a tinny little speaker that sounded rather like a police walkie-talkie.

“There we go,” announced Sherlock, adjusting the tiller. “Westminster, here we come.”

“Are we actually allowed to do that?” John queried.

Sherlock shrugged. No,” he replied, “so make sure you have breath enough to run once we get there.”

John looked slightly alarmed so Sherlock leaned over to bump his shoulder. They shared a grin and John waved at a passing launch full of schoolchildren.

Mooring at Westminster Millennium Pier was at once far simpler and far more complicated than Sherlock had anticipated. True, there was a berth waiting for them, almost as if to order, and the Madrigal slid into it like a hand into a glove.

There was also a welcoming party which boarded immediately by way of the bow doors and advanced through the companionway with a silenced pistol at the ready; a welcoming party of one.

“I guessed you might choose to try to throw me off the scent this way,” he said. His smile over the barrel of the gun was unpleasant.

“Sherlock,” John said uneasily, “I recognize him from the pictures…”

“That is unsurprising, John,” Sherlock interrupted staring at the gun. His eyes flicked to the man’s face.

“John, meet the man responsible for your kidnapping and my witch hunt,” Sherlock said, “Mr Ronald Adair, Whitehall mandarin and my brother’s right hand man.”

Sherlock’s tone was ironic but the man in front of him didn’t even flinch at the use of the name; the gun remained steady.

“Congratulations,” Adair replied with a thin smile, “I knew it wouldn’t take you long once you’d realized the direction you had to take.”

“You should never have set foot on the Madrigal the first time,” Sherlock told him. “If I hadn’t seen you then, it would have taken me much longer to work it out.”

Adair shook his head. “There was no other option,” he replied. “After all, it wasn’t exactly a mission I could entrust to someone else; I needed to be there in person to install the listening devices. A pity you arrived so promptly, but it hardly matters; you may have found the transmitter in the living compartment but you still missed the one on the hull.”

Sherlock and John looked at each other; Adair laughed. “So it was all for nothing,” he said. “All the subterfuge, the pretending you hadn’t found my bug, the surgery on your leg, Mr Holmes.” Adair shook his head. “All in vain – such a shame, particularly as we knew where you were all along.”

“Another delaying tactic, I suppose?” Sherlock replied sourly.

Adair smiled. “Of course,” he replied, “and how well they worked! You had to call in favors just to stay afloat – it was most entertaining to watch. And the abduction of Doctor Watson was the absolute coup de grace. Clearly his health and well-being come very high in your list of priorities; never once did you consider that his kidnapping might be a red herring.”

"I couldn’t afford the possibility,” Sherlock replied dispassionately, “and I can easily divide my attention between several different problems concurrently.”

"Indeed you can; my compliments.” Adair leveled the gun. “And now, I think you need to come with me."

"And if I refuse?” Sherlock demanded coldly.

The other man shrugged. “I would rather keep you alive,” he said, “but make no mistake, I will kill you if you put so much as a toe out of line. Your future hangs in the balance, Mr Holmes. Your usefulness as a bargaining counter currently outweighs your potential as a threat, but that situation could change very quickly.”

Sherlock felt something raw and savage stir deep in his chest. He was too surprised at its intensity to maintain his habitual sang froid and Adair noticed, smiling ironically. He shook his head.

“No,” he said, eyebrows raised in polite amusement. “Despite what you are thinking, we truly weren’t responsible for that, Mr Holmes, I assure you.”

“Oh, really!” Sherlock sneered, curling his lip in disgust.

“No,” Adair said firmly, gravely.

"So just collateral damage then?” Sherlock spat. He shook his head. “Don’t bother to think up an answer; it’s not worth the trouble for me to listen to it.”

“Take care, Mr Holmes,” Adair’s eyes glittered dangerously; he gestured with the pistol. “If you make yourself annoying enough, we may decide that we can live with your death.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned away, folding his arms. John was frowning, flicking his eyes between the two men in confusion.

“About this one, however,” Adair continued, jerking the pistol towards where John stood uncertainly, “I have no doubts. Regretfully, he has outlived his usefulness; unfortunate but inevitable, really.”

Adair shifted the barrel of the gun and fired once, hitting John squarely in the chest at point-blank range. The dull thud of the retort sounded no more threatening than a fist to a punchbag, but John was thrown backwards, twisting in mid-air to fall on his side in the middle of the floor. He lay unmoving, his face turned away.

“John!” shouted Sherlock, springing toward him and falling to his knees.

“Back!” Adair snapped, whipping the barrel of the gun round and pointing it at Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock froze and held up his hands. “At least let me see how bad it is!” he spat.

Adair shook his head. “No point,” he replied indifferently, “You have to understand, Mr Holmes, I don’t want you to give him emergency first aid or try to keep his heart going, useless though both of these activities would be, I assure you; after all, I trained at Bisley. No, I want him to die; it is necessary that he does.”

Adair allowed himself a smile. “I know what he meant to you,” he continued, “Oh, believe me I do! Even though I didn’t manage to bug the bedroom on the Madrigal, I would have to be completely blind not to realize the strength of your attachment. That’s why we had him kidnapped in the first place, of course. I admit, I hadn’t realized your friendship had taken that particular turn, but it only makes this situation that much more advantageous to us – and your current plight that much more pitiable.”

Adair laughed in a strangely genial manner. “Things have progressed far enough that I now no longer have to worry too much about keeping you alive,” he said, “Personally, I’m not fussy whether you live through this or not, but I want you taken out of the game one way or another, and your grief over John Watson’s death will achieve what the endless hounding of the past few weeks could not. Get back!”

Adair brought the gun up sharply as Sherlock made a low noise in his throat and stood his fists clenched at his sides as if ready to go for Adair’s neck.

“Down, now!” Adair ordered, gesturing with the pistol. Sherlock mastered his rage barely and raised his hands in surrender.

“Better,” said Adair. “Now, come with me, nice and easy. Just get onto the quayside and stay there without moving, hands nice and relaxed at your sides where I can see them. Be very sure that if you so much as twitch in the wrong direction, it will be the last thing you do. I have never been much for idle threats,”

There really was no choice, so Sherlock did as he was told, even though every step away from the Madrigal and John’s lifeless body tore at his entrails. He believed without question that if he refused to obey, Adair would shoot him where he stood, even in broad daylight. Sherlock had no illusions about his status as a wanted criminal and how Adair, or Oakley, would be hailed as a hero if he was obliged to shoot. Explaining away the gun might be a touch more difficult but…

John, his brain supplied helplessly, are you already dead, or is your life still seeping away on the Madrigal’s deck? Sherlock gritted his teeth at the rawness of it.

Sherlock grunted in abrupt physical pain as his thoughts were rudely interrupted; Adair jammed the barrel of the gun hard into his kidney. “Get in the car,” he snapped.

Sherlock groaned quietly and reached for the door handle of a discreet-looking vehicle parked almost on the wharf.

“Slide across into the passenger seat,” Adair instructed. Sherlock obeyed, maneuvering his long legs awkwardly over the gear lever and handbrake. Adair maneuvered himself into the driver’s seat, the gun still trained on Sherlock, and for the first time Sherlock realized that the man was in fact acting alone.

Adair spotted the moment Sherlock came to this conclusion and gave a wry smile. “Don’t make the mistake of thinking that this gives you some kind of an edge,” he said, “We’re not going very far – a mile or so. I can keep my eye on you and on the traffic for that long at least, but just to make sure I think I’ll take out a little insurance. Here!”

Adair reached under the dash without moving his eyes and brought out a pair of handcuffs. He tossed them at Sherlock.

“Fasten one cuff round your left wrist,” he told him, still holding the gun steady. Sherlock obeyed, clicking the lock.

“Now thread the cuff… What are you doing?” Adair’s voice betrayed its first hint of uncertainty.

“Handcuffing myself,” Sherlock replied, “just as you asked.” There was a sharp snap as the second lock closed. He looked up with guileless eyes.

A trace of irritation rippled across Adair’s face, gone in a flash.

“I would have been happier with the chain through the grab handle,” he said.

Sherlock shrugged mutely and offered his wrists. Adair’s eyes shifted then he evidently decided to make the best of it. He gestured with the gun.

“Hold onto the handle – with both hands,” he commanded. “Need I tell you not to move them? Do I have to spell out what I will do if you don’t obey?”

“Certainly not,” Sherlock replied, obediently grasping the handle. “I wouldn’t dream of being uncooperative.”

Sherlock did not move for the whole of the short journey. Having come to the conclusion that to take any kind of action while Adair was driving in the morass that was Central London traffic would be tantamount to suicide, Sherlock elected to wait it out.

John was beyond his help now, Sherlock realized; all he could do was endeavor to stay alive long enough to wreak vengeance in whatever manner seemed most fitting. Getting himself heroically slaughtered would achieve none of this. Sherlock gathered up his shock, paralysis, numbness and incipient sorrow and forced them into a small, dense bundle. He composed himself as best he could under the circumstances and sent his thoughts downward, inward, into his Mind Palace.

Scene: Bare tiled floor, mud-stained; dirt-encrusted rugby boots and crumpled blue and white socks littering the floor; painted walls; faint sounds of adolescent boys shouting at one another through the hiss of shower spray; row upon row of lockers; reach for one and push the bundle into it; it is slippery – force it in, never mind how much it hurts. Turn the key, ignore the way it screams, cries for release.

Scene: Walk away, out of the door into a corridor that quickly becomes an aisle of trees. The air is warm and balmy although it is clearly late in the evening. Dark, dark… somewhere leafy, summery, (not winter, the ground has to be soft, not spring there needs to be foliage for cover). A much younger Adair stands thigh deep in a trench, throws the spade up and onto the ground, vaults out of it. Rolls a heavy, canvas-covered bundle carefully until it falls over the side – no, Oakley would have been killed in situ, no cover necessary – stands and regards the trench for a moment before seizing the spade and filling it in. Murderer, murderer, double murderer…

…John falling, twisting, all in slow-motion – cutcutcut, paste it back later, don’t want to lose anything of John, nothing, but can’t deal with this now.

Push the bundle back into the locker, its sobbing cuts deep.

Scene: traditional-style office, massive oak desk with a blotter, Adair leaning close into Mycroft as they peruse a document. The two heads turn at the same time and their hair brushes together. They share a smile. Adair standing up to take handwritten notes in a small book – Mycroft would approve, would approve more if Adair used his cuff; the perfect assistant.

Scene: Adair driving the car, eyes shifting towards his breast pocket; cuff keys.

Scene: The silenced pistol circling, jabbing, one round spent, into John… cutcutcut

Scene: Oakley, port wine stained face, smiling shyly at Adair, of course I will, I’d do anything, you know that.

Scene: Firing range at Bisley, Adair in ear defenders firing off perfect score after perfect score. Don’t mess with me, I know what I’m doing, only one round spent, spent into John – no, cutcutcut.

Scene: John bleeding out onto the Madrigal’s deck – cutcutcut, don’t want to think of this, not now, not ever.

Sherlock’s eyes snapped open as the car drew into an underground car park. He kept his hands and arms still as Adair cruised the car into a space and parked it.

Adair turned towards him and gestured, still with the pistol.

“Out,” he said succinctly. Sherlock paused and narrowed his eyes as if concentrating.

Adair frowned. “I said…” he began.

“I heard what you said,” Sherlock interrupted; he leaned back in the seat and regarded his adversary. “You’re very calm.”

Adair blinked. “I'm sorry?” he replied.

Sherlock smiled mirthlessly. “I said you’re calm,” he repeated, “in control; composed. For someone who has just killed a man for no good reason, you are remarkably unruffled.”

Adair jerked the pistol once again. “Just get out of the car,” he reiterated.

Sherlock took his cuffed hands carefully down from the grab-handle and settled them on his lap. He didn’t move.

“Was it like this the first time, I wonder?” Sherlock said, musingly, “Or was Oakley not your first time? Perhaps you managed a bit of life-taking while you were at school, Ronald? Oakley went to Eton, but you were at Winchester, weren’t you? I confess, my online research turned up nothing much untoward during your years at the school, but we all know how things get hushed up, don’t we? Say all you want about newspapers, attendance records and school magazines, nothing replaces talking to an eye-witness, even if it’s only by email. My sibling and I both went to Harrow, but some of our mutual acquaintances are Old Wykehamists.”

Adair narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about?” he demanded.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. “Surely you can’t have forgotten?” he said in surprise. “Why, it was the talk of the school for the whole year. The Hon Bertie Leveson-Gibb, poor little thing; thirteen years old, found floating face down in the pool with no one any the wiser how he got there. Coroner’s report said it was a tragic accident, but everyone knew that Bertie was an ace swimmer; he was slated for the next Olympic trials.”

Adair’s face remained motionless but his hand tightened on the gun.

Sherlock ignored the unconscious movement and continued. “Annoyed you, did he?” he asked, “Or were you simply jealous? History has it that you were less than gracious when he wiped the floor with you in House Sports.”

Adair stared. “How do you…?” he began, then shook his head with a rueful laugh. “You’re good,” he said, “Really; just not good enough. Now, get out of the car!” This time the pistol was menacing.

Sherlock seemed not to notice. “We could talk about Oakley,” he went on blithely, “No? A pity because I always feel that confession is good for the soul and also because, interestingly, there are some parallels between the two cases.”

Sherlock looked straight into the barrel of Adair’s gun and beamed. “It’s always good when a deduction falls into place,” he said, “and this one became as clear as a bell once I realized that Oakley was a far better singer than you, Ronald."

“Oakley was curiously unambitious,” Sherlock continued, as though they were discussing the cricket score over tea at Fortnums. “His unfortunate facial pigmentation and his tragic early bereavements affected his confidence. You met as fellow basses in Trinity Hall Chapel Choir and rapidly became friends, dining together, studying and researching together, attending functions together.”

Sherlock met Adair’s furious eyes with a speculative look. “Shy and retiring by nature, Oakley had never had a close friend before,” he said mildly enough. “You were his first lover, weren’t you, Ronald? He was completely untouched and innocent, his natural reticence and his facial disfigurement having put off members of both sexes equally. He fell for you hook, line and sinker – he couldn’t believe his luck. Same sex relationships had always been rife at Cambridge, but they weren’t yet universally accepted or even tolerated. You were both very discreet but his clandestine relationship with you gave him the self-confidence to explore his performing abilities. Oakley was a very competent choral singer but he started to audition for leading roles in opera and operetta – and getting some of them.”

Sherlock paused to gather his thoughts.

Adair gestured with the pistol. “Go on then,” he said roughly, “I must admit, I’m dying to hear the end of this little fairy-tale.”

Sherlock bowed his head gravely. “You should have been glad for him, but of course that would presuppose that this was a normal relationship and that you were a normal man. Neither is the case. I think that, without the resentment you clearly felt for his musical success, Oakley would not have met the ignominious fate he did quite so soon. But a psychopath is born not made and it is clear, at least to me, that there was no likely scenario in which Oakley could have survived once he had taken up with you. You were his death sentence, Adair.

“You decided to murder him when you realized he had been approached by MI5,” Sherlock continued. “The musical success was one thing, but for you yourself to have been passed over while staid, boring old Oakley was going to swan straight into a lucrative research post… Well, it was the last straw; you decided to act.”

Sherlock locked eyes with Adair once again. “You had to time it right,” he said, “It had to be after Graduation, but also before MI5 called him for interview, anything else would have been too risky. As it happened, he got the call before the actual Graduation Ceremony, but you managed to convince him to cry off. What did you do to make him fail to turn up at his own Graduation, Ronald? Offer to take him on a romantic weekend in Paris? He would have done anything at all for you, wouldn’t he?”

The question was rhetorical but Adair was nodding, his eyes hooded and far away.

“Yes,” he replied, “Freddie was one of the world’s innocents, someone who life would always leave untouched; unstained. He followed me without question that night. I’d told him some rot about making love in the forest under the stars; he fell for it immediately. I hired a car…” He stopped talking.

“You took him to some woods on the outskirts of Cambridge,” Sherlock continued into the silence, “You hit him over the back of his neck with a spade with which you then dug a trench, rolled him into it as he had fallen, and filled it in again. Did you take the trouble to ascertain whether he was actually dead when you buried him?”

Adair flinched and his eyes widened. Sherlock brought his cuffed hands up under the pistol and jerked sharply. Adair fired, the shot going wide and into the dash. Sherlock brought his knee up under Adair’s jaw, aware that the move would unbalance him, but banking on stunning his opponent first. Adair screamed as his teeth were driven through his tongue. Sherlock knocked the gun out of the man’s suddenly nerveless hands and caught it, fumbling slightly with two hands. He rammed it against Adair’s ribs and gestured with his head.

“Cuff keys,” he barked. Adair moaned and reached for his jacket pocket.

Sherlock leaned hard on the gun and shook his head. “Breast pocket,” he grated, “don’t try to trick me. You know who I am; it doesn’t work.”

Adair hissed through his teeth and brought his arm up preparatory for a heavy blow to the side of Sherlock’s head.

Sherlock blocked the move and trained the gun on Adair once again. “I said cuff keys,” he told him in a low voice.

Adair gave a roar of rage and launched himself out of the driver seat. Sherlock was ready with a booted foot at his chest, shoving him back hard against the driver door and holding him there. Adair was breathing heavily.

Sherlock observed the man over the barrel of the gun. “You are a murderer,” he said conversationally. “Your victims were innocent people who had done you no harm. I am certain that the two about whom I have some information are only the tip of a very large iceberg. To have pulled the wool over my brother’s eyes was no mean feat – I congratulate you. You are very clever, cunning and extremely dangerous. Too dangerous, I’m afraid.”

“And I killed your friend, let’s not forget that,” Adair wheezed under the pressure of Sherlock’s boot.

Sherlock nodded; his expression did not change. “Yes,” he replied evenly, “let’s not.”

Sherlock carefully fired the pistol three times in succession into Adair’s upper body, watching without discernible reaction as the man jerked convulsively and the light ebbed slowly from his eyes. Sherlock checked Adair’s carotid for a pulse and, finding none, lowered the pistol and engaged the safety. He let out a sudden out-breath which he abruptly sucked in again when he observed blood from Adair’s wounds flowing rather too near to the sleeve of his jacket; no sense in unnecessary cleaning bills.

Sherlock fished the cuff keys from the pocket just above Adair’s shattered chest and quickly dispensed with his shackles. He made a thorough check of the car, its contents and its late occupant before pocketing the pistol and getting out. He left the keys in the ignition and Adair where he had died. There was little point in worrying about either, but the tire iron in the boot might prove an effective tool; he hefted it thoughtfully and decided to keep it.

The parking garage was clean, bare and spotless with a door to some service stairs in the corner. Sherlock knew only too well where they led and wondered what fresh horrors this day had to offer. He was dimly aware that he was possibly in shock. He also knew that he was certainly well past his earlier unquenchable, berserk rage but he suspected that he was now in a rare place indeed; a strange, indifferent no-mans-land, a very long way past the boundaries of insanity.

For as Sherlock Holmes stood in an empty basement, alone and unaided with a dead man behind him and a nightmare ahead, he realized that for the first time in his living memory, his mind was quiet. The inner voices had gone, Sherlock realized, their endless clamor stilled, and in return a glorious silence was fast settling in, a fluidity of thought and action combined that was reminiscent of far off cocaine highs but without the distractions.

This state of mind was a powerful weapon, Sherlock thought; he could use it. Already he could feel adrenaline pumping, energy being forced back into weary muscles, pain receptors cutting out. He no longer knew the meaning of concepts such as hurt, grief, fear and fatigue, or rather he knew their significance but in a cerebral, intellectual manner with nothing visceral to cloud his thinking.

Sherlock glanced towards the service stairs and a floor plan of the house appeared in his mind like a pop-up window, weak spots, likely ambush points and defensible areas outlined in red. He knew he would pay heavily later for this startling lucidity but he was strangely certain that whatever its source, it would carry him through. A picture of John as Sherlock had last seen him, broken and motionless on the deck of the Madrigal, slid into his mind but the inner mentor currently keeping watch over his thoughts only allowed him to ponder long enough to fuel his implacability, spurring him on to action before he could give way to grief.

Sherlock checked the pistol, noting the two rounds left in the magazine, felt in his pocket for the spare he had lifted from Adair’s body and changed them over. He engaged the safety and pocketed the gun again, gripping the tyre iron in one hand; he would kill again if it helped achieve his goal, but wasting ammunition was foolish. He started towards the service stairs.

There really was only one place in the world to hold Mycroft Holmes incommunicado without alerting the whole of the British Secret Service, Sherlock reflected. He had long cautioned his brother about becoming too set in his ways; here was living proof of the dangers. It was all very well creating an impregnable fortress against the world but change a very few variables and your fortress became your prison.

As he set foot inside the service door, Sherlock caught sight of a discreet keypad. His mind ticked over at double speed, reviewing every detail of his recent contacts with Mycroft and, more latterly, with Anthea. He went back over the authorization code for the radio license and picked out the last four numbers. Entering them on the keypad was the work of a moment and a low-level electrical hum he had been almost unaware of suddenly stopped. Sherlock took the stairs at speed, keeping a careful eye on the skirting for booby traps, finding none, stopped at a heavy fire door leading onto the ground floor of Mycroft’s house.

Mycroft’s home was deceptive. On the surface, it was a modest four bedroom Georgian town house in a quiet cul-de-sac off Pall Mall worth, at today’s prices, around £6,000,000. It looked like any other overpriced, exclusive family home, but the basement-level parking with its approach from the Bellairs Club in the next street gave it away as something rather less ordinary. The place was so secure it was almost hermetically sealed; locked up tighter than a drum. The extremely sophisticated security had eyes everywhere. There was a small enclosed garden terrace at the rear with six foot high fences angled in to prevent overlooking and a mild electric current running through them to dissuade the curious. This looked like overkill, but the mews behind was a weak spot as it housed the amenities for the Bellairs Club and two other houses in the row.

Sherlock was already on a winning streak; he had managed to penetrate the parking garage, at Ronald Adair's expense. He flexed the arm holding the tire iron and listened to his inner mentor.

The service stairs terminated suddenly at a blank wall. Sherlock took out his skeleton keys and shone the pencil torch over its surface. After a moment or two, he pressed down on two slightly discolored areas in the wood and a dull click heralded the give of a narrow door opening. Sherlock stood unmoving for a while, listening for any sign of life beyond the door. On hearing nothing, he cautiously pushed it open a few inches, slid through the gap and closed it silently behind him.

He was in a hallway decorated in traditional style with parquet flooring and Oriental rugs. A couple of exquisite hall tables bore vases of fresh flowers, artfully placed mirrors increased the light coming in through the stained glass above the door and Sherlock froze as he took in the man standing silently with his back to Sherlock, ear glued to a phone.

As Sherlock stared, the man started to speak. “Mmm, mmm,” he said nodding involuntarily. “I know, I know. But Adair was pretty sure he hadn’t worked it out yet.”

Sherlock listened very carefully.

“No, he hasn’t returned – he should have done, he’s running late,” the man continued. “Alright, I’ll go check. I’ll call you if there’s anything to report.” The man hung up and Sherlock brought his tire iron down with precision.

It was easier than Sherlock had anticipated, bludgeoning a man into unconsciousness. Just two blows, one across the shoulder to paralyze the arm and one to the back of the neck to make sure he stayed down.

John smiling. “Just make sure he’s comfortable, Sherlock. There’s no reason to be callous about it – if he’s unconscious he’s no more threat to you than if he’s dead.”

Obediently, Sherlock moved his unconscious adversary into the recovery position and made sure his airways were clear. “He could always wake up, John,” he murmured, cuffing the man with Adair’s handcuffs for good measure.

Sherlock frisked him efficiently, finding and pocketing a set of keys and relieving him of a wicked-looking Smith and Wesson revolver. He broke open the action, removed the bullets, dropped it into a handy draw and replaced the gun.

One down, how many to go?

And that was the real problem, Sherlock reflected as he moved along the hallway as quietly as he could. He was going in blind and his quarry might not even be here. Might not even still be alive…

John was frowning. “That kind of talk won’t help you. There’s no point in resisting the inevitable, I’ll grant you, but you’re a long way away from that.”

“You’re dead,” Sherlock muttered soundlessly.

John shrugged. “Been facing up to that one for far too long. Death gets to be not quite a friend but certainly something of an ally in a war zone. To people who are too far gone to be saved, death’s less of a curse, more of a mercy. Makes you sad you couldn’t save them but the alternative could have been far worse.”

“John, what do you want?” Sherlock asked silently. “Why are you here?”

John was grinning. “Buggered if I know,” Sherlock could see him very clearly. “After all, it’s your Mind Palace. Maybe it’s just decided to give me more room to move around, who knows? Now, get down to the end of that corridor and check out the kitchen.”

“Fine” muttered Sherlock between his teeth and made for the far end of the hallway.

The kitchen was lit but appeared to be empty until Sherlock noticed the door ajar at the far end; a larder.

“That you, Vince?” came a voice from inside it. Sherlock grunted in a non-committal manner and withdrew his pistol, padding over to the door to push it open with the barrel.

“Want some cold cuts?” the voice said.

Sherlock screwed the revolver into the man’s neck and leaned his mouth close to his ear.

“Not especially,” he replied quietly, “and although I’m not usually the violent type, I’ve been through enough over the past several days to have had more than a sea change. Please do me the courtesy of believing me and don’t make me demonstrate.”

The man froze, sandwich halfway to his mouth. Sherlock slipped on the safety, reversed the pistol and hit him hard over the back of the neck with the butt. He supported the man as he slumped, unconscious to the floor.

John was peering over his shoulder. “Check his vitals.”

“Shut up,” Sherlock muttered just to see John smile and shifted the man roughly into the recovery position before locating the larder key and turning it in the lock from the outside.

Two.

The two remaining reception rooms on the ground floor were empty. Sherlock took a deep, silent breath; there were three more floors. He hoped to find what he was looking for on the first floor but he could not be certain.

The stairs were heavily, deeply carpeted and made no noise as Sherlock stole up them, this time pistol at the ready. He crept around the turn and emerged on the landing, carefully covering both ends before advancing. The place seemed deserted, but he could not be certain he was safe yet. He listened.

The faint sound of some music drifted down the corridor: Sherlock frowned; Mycroft had played the cello as a child before giving it up in favor of world domination. Was this some kind of message?

Sherlock made his way down the landing towards the sound of the music, established the room from which it was issuing and tried the door handle; it opened noiselessly.

Mycroft Holmes was sitting in a leather upholstered armchair in front of an open fire, to all intents and purposes listening carefully to the music. The curtains were open, exposing wide, stained glass windows of exquisite quality. Sherlock knew for a fact that they had been lovingly crafted from bulletproof glass. The room was furnished in traditional style with much polished oak and mahogany and some comfortable upholstered sofas and armchairs. The lighting was subtle and adjusted itself automatically as the natural light faded into evening.

Sherlock lowered his pistol and engaged the safety catch. Mycroft’s head jerked upwards at the click and he shot to his feet, his eyes wide.

“Sherlock!” he exclaimed, and Sherlock had the brief satisfaction of knowing that this was one of the very few times he had genuinely surprised his brother. However, his triumph was short-lived; Mycroft’s face reflected a mixture of murderous anger and real regret.

“You fool!” he thundered. “What in God’s name do you think you’re doing here?”

“Rescuing you, I imagine,” Sherlock replied . “Are you seriously trying to tell me, brother mine that you are free to leave here? Or that you have been in any way answerable for your own or this country’s affairs for the past fortnight?”

Mycroft was shaking his head; his normally pale complexion was almost white. “Where are the two imbeciles charged with my so-called protection?” he demanded.

“One is out cold on the floor of the hallway,” Sherlock responded, “the other in the pantry. Oh, don’t worry; the first is handcuffed, the other locked in, but it will be some time before either of them wakes.”

“And Adair?” Mycroft stared straight into Sherlock’s eyes.

Try as he might, Sherlock found he could not hold the gaze. “Dead,” he replied, looking away, suddenly feeling like the little child that Mycroft frequently intimidated and berated him for his stupidity.

“Accident?” Mycroft asked.

Sherlock still couldn't meet his brother's gaze. “No,” he replied shortly in the direction of the floor.

There was a horribly pregnant silence.

“How could you be so stupid?” Mycroft’s voice was quiet but tore through Sherlock like a bullet.

Sherlock frowned and slowly met Mycroft's gaze; he had clearly missed something here. “Just a moment,” he began, “I know that Adair, or Oakley as you knew him, was…”

Mycroft ignored him. “Do you realize what you have done?” he exclaimed; he started to pace the room. “Adair was the center of this particular web; everything sprang from him, everything returned to him. Without Adair, the whole set up will fracture and become fragmented. We will lose it all only to have it spring up again anew in a few years’ time.”

Sherlock nodded. “So you knew?” he demanded, “About Oakley, I mean?”

“Of course I knew!” Mycroft returned scornfully. “What other possible reason could there be for me to… brother mine, in my wildest dreams I never imagined that you of all people would allow sentiment to cloud your judgment. This action of yours is not rational; it is reckless in the extreme.”

Sherlock frowned. “Do you mean to tell me you have no plan for this particular contingency, brother?” he asked.

“Of course I do!” Mycroft spat, leaning his hands on his desk, “but that’s not all of it.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. “Adair killed John,” he said deadly quiet.

Mycroft stopped pacing and turned to stare at his brother. “I see,” he replied in a level tone.

Sherlock maintained a steady gaze for a moment or two. “I don’t regret it,” he said. “He forced me to leave John bleeding out over the deck of the Madrigal. I hope the bastard’s burning in hell.”

Mycroft’s mouth twisted in a moue of distaste. “I thought you didn’t believe in a higher power, little brother,” he replied.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “It would be worth it just for that,” he replied. He rummaged in his pockets and threw a crumpled piece of paper on the desk. “That’s Adair’s,” he said. “It might just contain something useful – that is, if you can actually get someone to decrypt it for you. How much contact with the outside world do you have here, Mycroft?”

“Oh, some,” his brother said vaguely.

“Yes, but how much?” Sherlock demanded.

“However much I need to fulfill their plans,” Mycroft returned. “Sherlock,” he said gently, “they have a hold over me far greater than men with guns. Those two were only there to prevent ill-advised rescue attempts, such as you yourself have just pulled off. I’m glad you didn’t kill them; they’re just doing a job and they’ve been decent company if a little, ah, limited in conversation.”

Mycroft sighed again and his face fell into worry lines Sherlock had never seen before; they made him look older. “They have mother,” he said simply.

Sherlock felt an ice-cold hand clench his stomach.

Sherlock sipped delicately at the Remy Martin Louis XIII cognac Mycroft had sloshed almost carelessly into a Waterford brandy balloon. He sat on the overstuffed sofa, elbows on his knees, deep in thought, John by his side.

John was whispering. “Careful, if you relax now, you’ll never get out of that chair.”

“What do you know about it?” Sherlock replied, his lips smothering the words into the brandy.

John shrugged. “I’m part of this, remember? You can’t let go now, you have to keep focused. Otherwise you’ll have left me to die for nothing. Come on! Get that genius brain of yours into gear!”

“Shut up,” Sherlock murmured.

“Am I thinking too loudly for you, brother?” Mycroft replied nastily. “It might behoove you to imitate my example.”

Sherlock shifted his body wearily, dimly aware of his myriad aches and pains. He thought he might have sustained a wound or two over the night’s adventures but John had whispered in his ear, his own personal guardian angel, and it was all fine.

“You said they have mother,” Sherlock prompted.

Mycroft flashed a look of pure dislike at his brother. “Yes,” he replied, sipping at his own drink, “and before you ask – no, I have no idea where. That was one of the provisos of keeping her alive.”

“What were the terms?” Sherlock said quietly.

“Pathetically simple,” Mycroft replied bitterly. “Take a sabbatical or she dies. What else could I do?”

“Where was she?” Sherlock asked.

Sherrinford,” Mycroft replied, his voice dripping with contempt. 

Sherlock took a sip of his drink, his silence eloquent.

“What was I supposed to do?” Mycroft said quietly. He stared until Sherlock raised his eyes.

“Could I really justify abandoning her?” Mycroft continued in the same tone. “Thrust her into a world of violence and intimidation? Would that have been a human response, I wonder?”

“And you didn’t think to contact me?” Sherlock replied in a level tone.

Mycroft breathed out through his nose; it was barely a laugh. “You made your position crystal clear the last time we met,” he said in a hard, brittle tone. “Any and all duties you may have had in that direction had long been discharged, you said.”

Sherlock lowered his eyes and his head, bringing his cognac to his lips to hide the gesture.

“And besides,” Mycroft continued after a pause, “it was pretty much a fait accompli; I was isolated and assured of my impotence first. Only when I started to protest was I informed of the likely consequences of my failure to co-operate.”

Mycroft gave a half-smile. “Over the years,” he said, “Oakley discovered enough about me to know that mother, without father around, was a far better hostage than you, little brother.”

Sherlock raised one eyebrow. “Which is, I deduce, one reason why I am still alive,” he replied cryptically. He pursed his lips. “I assume, therefore, that once Tweedledum and Tweedledee fail to check in at the appointed time, you will have another visitor – one of a higher status, yes?”

“Yes,” confirmed Mycroft, “and I believe that event will occur just about…”

There was a discreet knock on the door.

“…now,” Mycroft finished, rising to his feet. “Come!” he called and the door opened noiselessly.

The man who entered seemed at first to be no more than twenty-five or so. However, at a closer inspection, the crow’s feet around his eyes and the sprinkling of grey in his hair spoke of another decade at least. His body language was so graceful as to be almost hypnotic and his hands were elegant with the long, nimble fingers of a pickpocket. Sherlock caught sight of a white scar on the newcomer’s forehead and rose to his feet, his eyes narrowing.

“Mr Holmes, good evening,” the stranger said, advancing into the room. He turned his head and bowed slightly.

“And Mr Sherlock Holmes, an honor if not exactly a surprise,” he said ironically.

Sherlock bowed in a slow, slightly exaggerated fashion. “Now, this is something of a revelation,” he admitted. “I have looked forward to making your acquaintance for quite some time, preferably with the bars of a prison cell between us. However, this will do for now. I am delighted to meet you at last, Mr Jackson Clay.”

The man’s smile broadened. “You have heard of me?” he replied without waiting for an answer. “Good, that saves me a great deal of time. However, for the sake of completeness, I should declare that my mentor, the late lamented James Moriarty, bequeathed me two files of detailed information concerning each of you. Files so complete that I really feel I already know both of you; intimately.” He smiled unpleasantly.

“Indeed,” Sherlock replied with interest, “MI5?”

Clay shook his head. “No,” he replied, “You would be surprised how effective some independent contractors can be these days.”

Sherlock smiled politely and inclined his head. “I assume that you take the credit for masterminding this so-called coup?” he inquired.

“I played my part,” Clay responded carefully.

“With what aim?” Sherlock asked.

Clay shrugged. “General mayhem,” he replied, “continuation of Professor Moriarty’s legacy; my own personal amusement – take your pick. Of course money is also a powerful motive, as is revenge, don’t you think? But only if you have a heart to break in the first place, of course.”

“One of the strongest,” Mycroft agreed, indicating the square brandy decanter. “Cognac, Mr Clay?”

The other man shook his head. “Regretfully, no,” he replied, “despite the fact that this is indeed a legendary bottling.” He shook his head sadly.“My Greek studies at Oxford taught me many useful things but among the most practical was never to consume anything given freely by an enemy. Of course, if you defer to Machiavelli, actually identifying your enemy is often more difficult than avoiding assassination, but the advice still stands nevertheless.”

“As you wish,” Mycroft replaced the stopper.

Clay fixed an eye on Sherlock. “I see you dispatched my right hand man,” he said without preamble.

Sherlock returned the look. “It was necessary,” he replied flatly, “after all, he murdered mine.”

“Ah, yes,” Clay replied, walking languidly around the room, “the redoubtable Doctor Watson. A soldier and a gentleman, I believe, with tastes not entirely dissimilar to your own. A sad loss, don’t you agree?”

Sherlock clenched his fist behind his back hard enough for the nails to draw blood; his face did not move a muscle.

John leaned carefully over his shoulder. “He’s just trying to rattle you. Pay no attention.”

“As, of course, was Ronald Adair,” Clay continued.

Sherlock gave a disbelieving snort; Mycroft aimed a look at his brother that said “don’t poke the tiger”.

“You disagree?” Clay’s eyebrows were politely raised.

Sherlock twitched an eyebrow. “I think the comparison is not exactly apt, yes,” he replied in a level tone.

John frowned. “Take care, Sherlock – remember what you deduced about Oakley/Adair’s private life? About your brother? It’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that Adair was involved with Clay too.”

Sherlock frowned, running a finger over his lower lip.

“Indeed,” Clay continued. “Your moral standards appear to be flexible, Sherlock Holmes. John Watson and Ronald Adair were killers both by nature and by inclination. The fact that John Watson’s homicidal urges were, until he recently met you, contained within a strict state sanctioned system is neither here nor there.”

“John Watson was a doctor before he was a soldier,” Sherlock returned stiffly. “His aim was always to preserve life, never to take it unless there was no other option.”

“And the murder of the cab driver, Jeff Hope, was one such instance?” Clay replied, “Even though Hope’s crime was no worse than encouraging you to make a bet? Even though the only person threatening your life in that instance was your good self? All because you needed to prove how smart you are?”

John was leaning into Sherlock’s shoulder. “I wasn’t a murderer and you weren’t responsible for the death of a serial killer, merely his identification.”

“I would love to continue this discussion but time, as always, moves on,” Clay said smoothly. He turned to Mycroft. “Mr Holmes, your opposite number in America has been very unwise, I’m afraid. As a consequence, he is in hospital suffering from severe angina – at least, that’s what has been given out to the world’s press.”

Mycroft closed his eyes briefly. “May I take it that he is no longer alive?” he said in a level tone.

Clay inclined his head. “You may indeed,” he replied. “As a matter of fact, he committed suicide in a very imaginative and ingenious manner. His timing was also rather good.”

“Yes,” Mycroft nodded, “Julian was always something of a hero-type. I imagine you were intending to remove him at a later date, when you had managed to suborn enough members of his department to ensure that his successor would be under your command, yes?”

“Quite so,” Clay nodded, “However, needs must when the Devil drives. Mycroft we require your services. We know who we want to replace him and we need you to engineer the appointment.”

Sherlock watched his brother digest this, could almost see the cogs whirring in his mind.

“And if I refuse?” Mycroft said in a quiet voice.

Clay sighed. “Do we have to go through this again?” he said, a touch of petulance in his tone.

“Humor me,” Mycroft responded implacably.

“Very well,” Clay shifted his feet. “Violet Holmes was detained under Section 3 of the Mental Health Act and was cared for at Sherrinford, a very exclusive and expensive facility, until a little over a month ago. She suffers from schizophrenia. As a result, although her heart is strong, her general health is frail. Earlier this year, her medical attorneys elected to remove her from Sherrinford and install her in another facility. Currently, she is receiving good care and is healthy and happy. Of course, as is often the case with very elderly people, she could suddenly deteriorate for no apparent reason.”

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft and watched, fascinated, at a pulse in his brother’s forehead.

“I believe that I am one of her medical attorneys,” Sherlock replied when he could drag his eyes away. “I recall no such action.”

“Do you not?” Clay responded with mock surprise.

“No,” Sherlock confirmed. “Presumably you have notarized copies of the Orders to hand?”

“Indeed,” Clay did not look too pleased at the question.

“Then I would trouble you to look them out for me,” Sherlock continued. “I would be most interested to view them.”

Clay made no answer.

“You understand, Sherlock, why I have done what I have done,” Mycroft said into the silence.

Sherlock nodded. “Indeed, brother, I do,” he replied. “Despite all your political acumen, you are lamentably unused to uncertainty.”

“Whereas you work with it every day, is that so?” Mycroft returned, stung and, unusually for him showing it. He passed a hand through his hair.

Sherlock shook his head. “That is not my meaning,” he replied. “What Mr Clay has done is certainly cunning and well-executed, but it is not logical.”

“Go on, brother,” Mycroft said after a beat or two.

“He claims to have removed our mother from the place she has called home for the past several years,” Sherlock began, “however, he gives you no details of the removal process as proof, nor does he produce documentation to verify that it was even possible.”

Sherlock paused and looked his brother in the eyes. “You always tell me that caring is not an advantage, Mycroft,” he said in a quieter tone, “and I would fully concur with that sentiment. However, once Pandora’s box has been opened, mythology has it that nothing can ever be the same again.”

Sherlock stopped speaking and waited as though marshaling his thoughts. “I have rather more knowledge about our mother than you think,” he began again. “I have been receiving regular medical reports from Sherrinford under an assumed name, of course, ever since she arrived there.”

“Impossible!” protested Clay.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft said uncertainly.

“It is the truth,” Sherlock continued, “and I can confirm that everything Mr Clay has said about her is true, except from the part about actually physically moving her. He fully intended for her to be moved to a private facility under his own control – but she never arrived there.”

“How come?” Mycroft demanded urgently above Clay’s furious protests.

“According to Sherrinford, she never left,” Sherlock replied composedly.

There was a brief silence for a couple of beats, then Clay stepped menacingly into Sherlock’s personal space. “I don’t know what you think you’re trying to prove,” he snarled, “but the consequences are likely to be far more serious than you imagine, I promise you that.”

“I very much doubt that,” Sherlock replied coldly, “at least, not now.”

“Enough!”

Mycroft drew himself up to his full height and glared down at the two men until they fell silent. He gave a curt nod of acknowledgement and then turned to his brother.

“Sherlock,” he began, “I would prefer cast-iron proof but we don’t have time. Give me your word that mother is safe.”

Sherlock paused only for a beat. “She is safe, Mycroft,” he said, “Believe me, it’s the truth.” The brothers locked eyes for a long moment, and then Mycroft nodded and reached for his phone.

“Hey!” Clay protested. “What do you think you are doing?”

“I have no reason to take orders from you now, Mr Clay,” Mycroft said.

“There’s nothing you can do to stop us now – nothing!” Clay shouted.

“Perhaps,” Mycroft replied without looking up, “but I think a published list of names – in Whitehall and in both Houses – should have a slowing-down effect, at least in England, don’t you think?”

“Stop – right now!” Clay said. Sherlock gave a startled exclamation as he watched Clay grind the muzzle of a derringer into Mycroft’s ear; Mycroft froze and obediently raised his hands from the desk.

“Just stand up and move away from the desk,” Clay instructed. Mycroft rose from his chair, hands still in the air, and started to back away very slowly. Clay’s gun circled gently in the air, running between the two Holmes brothers.

“You! Get down on the floor,” Clay snapped at Sherlock, “Now!”

Sherlock paused for a beat then sank to his knees and spread himself out on one of the priceless Chinese rugs, face down.

“Mr Holmes Senior, do the same,” Clay said, regaining some of his composure, “on the other side.”

Mycroft obeyed with a slight shrug.

As Clay slid behind Mycroft’s desk and reached out a hand for the phone, a gunshot rang out through the room, quickly followed by a cry of pain. Clay raised a disbelieving hand to his smashed and bleeding shoulder; the momentum of the shot had slammed him against the far wall. Sherlock lifted his head gingerly and watched in complete bewilderment as a figure he had thought never to see again walked through the door and into the room, holding the revolver Sherlock had captured from the guard in the hallway.

John Watson was disheveled, tired, torn and dirty with smears of blood over his shirt, face and neck, but he was in all other respects very much alive. Behind him, Kristie peeped nervously around the door jamb.

John trained his revolver on the moaning Jackson Clay and grinned openly at Sherlock. “Thanks for taking the guards out,” he said cheerfully. “No marks for hiding the bullets in the hall table though; took me ages to find.”

“…and that brings us up to date, Inspector,” Sherlock said calmly, leaning back in his chair.

The ashtray in front of him was full to overflowing and Wainright had already sent a PC to the corner shop for another packet. Sherlock smoked in silence for another minute or so before Wainright stirred.

The inspector shifted in his chair and rubbed a hand over his hairline. “That,” he said, “was the most preposterous story I have ever heard in my life.”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes,” he replied equably, “and once my brother can spare the time to remember that I am here, you can be certain that it will remain simply a preposterous story.” He sat back in his chair. “You will have to sign the Official Secrets Act, Inspector,” he continued in an amused tone, “and if any of this should ever leak out, you will find yourself swiftly the subject of a Gagging Order and an early retirement plan.”

“Don’t worry,” the Inspector sighed and put his head in his hands, “I won’t rock the boat. I’m too near the end of my time here to bother.”

“I know,” Sherlock replied, stubbing out his cigarette, “that’s why I told you.” He shrugged. “It passed the time.”

Sherlock’s eyes snapped upwards as footsteps were head in the corridor. “My carriage awaits, I believe,” he remarked, rising from his chair as the door opened.

Mycroft Holmes stood in the corridor, furled umbrella and immaculate pinstripe as always.

“Sherlock,” he said with raised eyebrows. He looked pointedly at the overflowing ashtray. “I see you’ve succumbed again.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock replied, taking his jacket from the back of his chair and shrugging into it. “I think that’s probably the least of it, don’t you?”

Mycroft nodded soberly. “Probably,” he replied, “Ready to go?”

Sherlock gave Mycroft a level stare. “John?” he asked.

Mycroft nodded. “Will follow on once the paperwork on him has been, ah, processed,” he replied, standing aside from the door and gesturing for Sherlock to precede him.

Sherlock strode from the interview room without a backward glance. Mycroft turned to Wainwright with a slight smile.

“Thank you, Inspector,” he said. “You will shortly be returning to your usual scheduled position. Detective Inspector Lestrade has been released from suspension and should be back on duty within a day or so.”

Mycroft nodded to the bewildered man and followed his brother to the front desk.

221B Baker Street was a complete shambles. The combined interference of the Met and MI5’s hazmat team had reduced what had been simply chaotic to almost total ruin. Sherlock stood in the open doorway and surveyed the wreckage expressionlessly. Mycroft came up behind him and peered over his shoulder. He shook his head.

“Dear, dear,” he murmured. “It looks like you’re going to be needing a new place. That’ll be the fourth one in as many years. Seeing as I owe you, little brother, perhaps you would like me to…”

“No,” snapped Sherlock. He strode into the living room, righted the sofa with effort and replaced the cushions. He sat down, fingers curled in the familiar steeple.

Mycroft paused for a moment then picked up a kitchen chair, set it upright and sat on it. “Sherlock,” he began rather more quietly, “why didn’t you tell me?”

Sherlock turned his head slowly. “Tell you?” he said emptily, “tell you that our mother died in the process of being abducted? That her last moments were agitated and confused, surrounded by strangers who were determined to use her as a lever against you and didn’t care what they had to do to achieve that end? That would have helped the situation, would it?”

Sherlock rested his head in his hands and gave a deep sigh. "She suffered a severe stroke during the attempt to relocate her and never regained consciousness. I had to reach out to my homeless network to receive the news - apparently the Senior Manager was at her wits' end trying to track one or other of us down. I suppose the redoubtable Adair was carefully filtering your mail the whole time, was he not?"

Mycroft ignored this. “You led me to believe she was still at Sherrinford,” he protested.

“I said she had never left,” Sherlock returned tartly, “So I was telling the truth.”

“And you said she was safe.”

There was a long, uncomfortable pause. Sherlock shifted in his seat.

“I trust the civilized world has returned to what passes as normal in your opinion, Mycroft?” he said dispassionately. “Clay’s machinations were not so far advanced as to be unstoppable?”

“Fortunately not,” Mycroft replied, “There is still a great deal of work yet to do, of course; Clay was only one cog in the machine, albeit a fairly important one in this country. Anthea is a very capable officer and a good stateswoman in her own right but I’m afraid this will have to be a flying visit, Sherlock; I really must return at once. However, I can tell you that the CIA were most interested in the contents of Adair’s lock box, as were our own Secret Service of course. There will be a number of high profile arrests both here and across the pond tomorrow morning as a result – keep an eye on the news.”

Sherlock leaned back against the sofa and tried to compose his thoughts sufficiently to enter his Mind Palace. Ingress seemed difficult and sticky – Sherlock pushed at it but could make no headway. He tried to order his thoughts in a more usual manner but they resisted, skittering away and laughing at him. He kept trying to hold on to the elephant in the room, but every time Sherlock approached John, his sudden reappearance and Sherlock’s own feelings when he believed the other man to be dead, his thoughts slid away sideways, aquaplaning on standing water – or was it John’s blood? Mycroft’s? Mother's...

Sherlock shook his head and tried again. The light slowing dying in Adair’s eyes as he slumped over the steering wheel… No. The trajectory of John’s small body as he absorbed the impact of Adair’s shot and was flung backwards in a heap like a collapsed puppet… NO. Clay’s shriek of pain as his shoulder exploded in a mass of tissue and bone shards…

Sherlock buried his head in his hands. Clearly, he would have to wait.

Mycroft sighed and pushed himself up from his chair. “The funeral is on Thursday,” he told his brother. "I trust you will be there?”

Sherlock made no sign of having heard his brother.

“Sherlock,” The furrow between Mycroft’s eyebrows deepened. He moved nearer to the sofa, peering curiously into his brother’s face. “Sherlock!”

Irritation suddenly dropping from his face like snow off a roof, Mycroft reached out a hand to grab his brother and watched as Sherlock tipped over sideways like a felled tree, his body stiff as though in rigor, his eyes expressionless. Mycroft knelt on the floor and gently put his hands to Sherlock’s face, noting the hugely dilated pupils and the shallow tide of his breath. He gave the fold of skin at Sherlock’s neck a brutal twist, observed the lack of reaction and stood, reaching for Sherlock's phone.

“Anthea,” he said in his usual cool, deadpan tone, “ambulance to 221B Baker Street immediately, please. Yes, I’m afraid so,” he continued in answer to a question, “Total collapse, unresponsive to stimuli, tachypnoea, rapid pulse. Make it quick, my dear, won’t you?”

Sherlock woke in stages, groggy, irritable and in considerable pain, to hear angry voices some little distance away.

“No, it is not alright, Mycroft! I can’t believe you took him back to Baker Street, knowing the destruction your people had wreaked on it, and you didn’t even recognize that he was injured! Wouldn’t it have been better to take him to a hotel, or possibly – a mad and crazy idea, I know – even to a hospital? Of course, I realize you had bigger, more important concerns such as the security of the Western World on your mind, but I can’t believe you didn’t even notice…”

“My brother was battered, disheveled, blood-spattered, talking to himself and waving a gun,” protested a second voice, that of his brother. “He admitted to killing Adair and incapacitating two other men, he was in control and moving freely – what was I supposed to think?”

“He had a broken rib – it punctured his lung!”

“I didn’t know that, John!”

There was a pause, and then the second voice continued at a quieter volume.

“The broken rib was courtesy, I surmise, of Adair’s booted foot during their struggle to the death in his car. The adrenaline rush was probably the reason that Sherlock didn’t notice it at the time. But the wound hasn’t been the problem; actually, the broken rib didn’t puncture his lung, John, and there’s been no sign of pneumonial infection…”

“I know most of this – I’ve been sitting in that chair ever since you had me sprung from Scotland Yard, except for the times I’ve been badgering the medical staff for updates.” John was clearly very peeved.

“John, the major problem seems to be total exhaustion and a certain amount of mental withdrawal,” Mycroft continued, unperturbed. “He’s sleeping very deeply at present and the doctors don’t seem to be able to wake him. He’s exhibiting a rather higher number of REM cycles than is to be expected during a normal sleep pattern, even none as erratic as his. There is something of a concern about Locked-In Syndrome – a state where the patient is fully conscious but…”

“Yes, Mycroft, I am a doctor; I have come across the condition once or twice before.”

“Apologies, I was just trying to bring you up to date.”

I think an accurate description of what I have just been through might be “coma” or even perhaps “fugue”, Sherlock wanted to say. In fact, he opened his mouth to do so but all that emerged was a hoarse croak.

“What was that?” John said. Footsteps sounded and a face swam into view.

“Juh…” Sherlock rasped.

John’s face sharpened in focus and he smiled worriedly. “Welcome back!” he said.

Sherlock tried to sit up and a stifled groan forced itself between his lips.

“Steady,” John said, holding a palm gently against his chest.

“How long was I out?” Sherlock managed.

“This is day two,” Mycroft said, stepping into view.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I might have known I wouldn’t be allowed to suffer peacefully without your gloating over me,” he said with some of his usual asperity.

Mycroft smiled wearily. “Balance has been restored to the world, little brother,” he said, “and I believe I should extend my most sincere gratitude for all that you did to contribute to that.”

Sherlock coughed painfully. “Yes, well,” he replied awkwardly.

Mycroft nodded. “It’s not often someone gets the better of me,” he said; his expression hardened. “It won’t happen again.”

“Good thing too,” Sherlock grumbled. “I’m not partial to hospitals – next time you can do your own dirty work. Now go away. Haven’t you got an election to rig or a dictator to topple?”

Mycroft smiled, genuinely this time, and patted his brother on the shoulder. “Dinner at my club for you and Doctor Watson, 8pm next Tuesday,” he said, his glance including John too. “I’ll send a car.” It wasn’t a request.

“Ah, yes, thank you; very nice,” John replied, smiling in return, “Looking forward to it.”

Mycroft left the room swinging his umbrella as he went.

“I’m not going to die just to please you, you know,” Sherlock shouted as best he could. The effort set him to coughing painfully again.

“Of course you’re not going to die!” John exclaimed, shaking his head.

Sherlock grimaced. “I know,” he replied, “but ‘over my dead body’ is an overused phrase where my brother is concerned.”

John sighed.

Sherlock fixed him with a glare. “You, on the other hand,” he grumbled, “are a positive deus ex machina.”