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The tail end of Sherlock Holmes’ finely cut Belstaff swished through the air with a decisive and pleasing sound as he swiftly turned the corner and strode down the corridors of St Bartholomew’s Hospital towards the morgue. He walked with purpose and determination, with a deep set frown on his forehead as if he was deep in thought.

He wasn’t.

He was just glowering.

An entire two weeks without even a sniff of a half decent case and Sherlock was beginning to get incredibly angsty, so much so that John had actually encouraged his little trip to the morgue that day to secure himself some body parts. Perhaps if he had his mind occupied with experiments, he would be less likely to berate his flatmate and cause the minor bickerings and ‘domestics’ that had been taking place at 221B Baker Street over the past few days. Mrs Hudson too, would no doubt be glad to be rid of him for a few hours, just to be free of his incessant pacing of the floors.

“Molly,” he practically shouted the poor morgue attendant’s name as he burst through the doors dramatically, his eyes scanning the room to make sure she was alone.

In the middle of writing up some notes on the latest cadaver that had been entrusted into her care, Molly Hooper jumped slightly and dropped her pen onto the floor with a clatter.

Sherlock strode into the room and bent to pick it up, handing it back to her. “Body parts,” he said. “What can you offer me?”

“Oh uh…good afternoon to you too,” Molly giggled, attempting some humour.

It went unnoticed. “Body parts.”

“Right yes. Um…well…you’ve actually come at a good time. We had a – “

“You’re wearing a ring, you weren’t wearing a ring last week.” He interrupted her, his index finger pointing at the shimmering silver band on the ring finger of her left hand.

She smiled broadly and held it up, her cheeks flushing a pinkish red. “I got engaged!” She squeaked, nearly bouncing up and down in her sudden excitement at the reminder of her new relationship status.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed. “Since when were you dating someone?”

“Since last month!”

“You got engaged within a month? Even for you, Molly, that’s…sudden.”

“I know! It all happened so fast! But I really think he might be the one.”

Sherlock scoffed and turned his head away in mild disgust. “Don’t be ridiculous, Molly. Remember what happened when you said that last time? And the time before that? And most probably the time before that.”

“But Aiden’s different,” she insisted dreamily.

“Alright, whatever Molly, I’m really not interested…just…let’s stick to business, shall we?”

“Right. Uh, yes. It was the uh…body parts, wasn’t it? Any in particular you needed? What’s it for?”

“To ease my boredom,” Sherlock sighed heavily. “I don’t particularly care what they are, just give me something I can cut up, dissect, dissolve or discolour. I want to play with my chemistry set.”

The corners of Molly’s lips twitched up in a small smile. “Boys and their toys.”

“’Scuse me?”

She ignored him and made her way over to one of the drawers where the bodies were kept. “As I was saying before you uh…noticed the ring…you’re in luck this week. This poor chap donated his body to science.”

“Perfect.”

“I’m sure they wouldn’t notice a missing lung.”

“Was he a smoker?”

“I believe he was.”

“Even better.” Sherlock’s eyes sparkled with delight.

He stood patiently and waited, and, soon enough, he was returning back to Baker Street with a slightly blackened lung tucked under his left arm.

It kept him occupied for the next twenty four hours, which John Watson, for one, was incredibly thankful for.

The ex army doctor turned part time GP, part time consulting detective babysitter was relieved to get some down time from the recent rantings of the curly haired man child. He used the opportunity to catch up on his book and managed to finish reading the Hobbit curled up on his armchair whilst Sherlock messed about in the kitchen causing some dreadful smells to emanate throughout the whole house. Still, he didn’t complain about that. John knew when to pick his battles, and by the second day, when Sherlock was starting to get bored again, John was at the surgery for eight hours anyway.

When he left at 6 o’clock, he was pleasantly surprised to check his phone and discover he had a text off Lestrade.

He and the Detective Inspector had, in the past year or so, become pretty close, to the point where they occasionally met up to go for a pint with one another, or watch the match. Greg had supported him after Sherlock’s ‘death’ and had remained loyal to the detective even after his profession had forced him to be the one who made the arrest in the hours that led up to the St Bart’s incident. When the truth finally emerged about Moriarty and Sherlock was exonerated, it was Lestrade who had held face and kept on to his position at Scotland Yard, even receiving an apology from the Chief Super, whereas others – namely Donovan and Anderson – had moved on with their tails between their legs. John didn’t really know what had happened to either of them or what they were doing now career wise, and he didn’t really care. Scotland Yard these days was a much pleasanter place to work and the team all appreciated his friend’s special knowledge and expertise without feeling the need to mock him.

This particular text, however, was different from others he might normally receive from Greg, namely in the fact that he wasn’t inviting John out for a drink but rather, inviting himself round.

‘Was wondering if I could pop round tonight for a quick chat with you guys? I’ll bring beers. GL.’

John tried his best to make some cursory deductions of his own.

1. Greg obviously wanted to see Sherlock, as well as him. Sherlock was rarely invited to their occasional social drinks, not because he wasn’t wanted there, but because he didn’t want to be there. Sherlock didn’t do socialising if he could help it, and everyone who knew and loved him had come to accept that as part of his personality.
2. He was bringing beers, so it was obviously not entirely an official visit so…not a case….but not wholly social either.

John was intrigued.

He of course text back immediately, letting Lestrade know that tonight would be fine and that he’d be home within half an hour.

When he got back to Baker Street, he found Sherlock in one of his usual positions, stretched out on the sofa facing inwards to the wall. He couldn’t see his face so it was impossible to tell whether he was asleep, in his ‘mind palace’ or indeed, dead. He opted to leave him for five minutes and make some tea before attempting to rouse him.

In the end, it was Sherlock who managed to rouse himself without assistance and join John in the kitchen, his hair all dishevelled and his mouse coloured dressing gown half hanging off his left shoulder.

“I’ll have one,” he croaked, fluffing up his curls.

“Please,” John prompted. “Magic word, Sherlock.”

“Abracadabra,” muttered Sherlock sarcastically.

“And you might want to pull some clothes on while you’re at it, we’re expecting visitors.”

“Who?” Sherlock scrunched up his nose distastefully. “One of your latest floozies?”

John scoffed. “What kind of word is that? And no, it’s not a girlfriend, it’s Lestrade.”

“Close enough. Is it a case?” He looked hopeful.

“I…well…I don’t know. I don’t think so. He’s bringing beers.”

“Don’t you two normally go out?”

“Yeah, we do. That’s why it’s slightly odd that he’s coming round but, we’ll see.”

“Not just odd, John. Suspicious. I’ll get changed.” With a swish of his dressing gown, he had turned on his heels and headed off to his bedroom.

John smirked to himself as he finished off making the tea. He could tell that the news of the visit had piqued the detective’s interest, regardless of what it was about.

***

An hour and a half later, after they’d both eaten the leftovers from last night’s takeaway, they found themselves joined in the living room of 221B by an anxious looking Lestrade, still in his open collared shirt and overcoat straight from work at the Yard and carrying a plastic bag of beers from Tesco. He immediately got one out and cracked it open as he sat in the simple hard backed chair the crime busting duo always set up in between the two armchairs whenever they had a single visitor or a client.

“Glad you could be here too,” he smiled at Sherlock.

The detective remained impassive, a slight twitch in the corner of his left eye the only indication of his impatience as he picked a stray piece of cloth off his perfectly ironed and crisp light green shirt, another variety of his that John couldn’t help but notice seemed incredibly tight on him.

“Want a beer?” Lestrade offered one out to Sherlock, who shook his head.

“Why are you here?” He asked instead, suspicious as always, finally speaking for the first time since the Detective Inspector arrived.

“I’ll have a beer,” said John cheerfully, reaching for the bag and taking one of the cans out. He cracked it open and took a swig.

“Well actually, it’s about Molly,” Greg began.

“Molly…?” Sherlock extended the ‘y’ of Molly’s name as part of the question, making it clear he didn’t have the faintest idea who Greg was talking about.

“Molly Hooper?” John ventured an educated guess, seeing as that was the only Molly any of them knew.

“Yeah,” Greg sipped his beer and nodded. “She’s got this new boyfriend.”

Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes. “So, what, you’ve come to drink a few beers and commiserate because you missed your chance with her, is that it? Well sorry to break it to you, Gordon, but you hair’s not dark and curly enough and you’re not smart enough to align with her highly specific tastes.”

John fixed Sherlock with his ‘you did not just say that’ look, and Greg gave a scoff to equal the detective’s and started chuckling and shaking his head at the same time, although there was a faint blush on his cheeks that suggested Sherlock’s deduction might not have been entirely off kilter.

“It’s a Friday night and it’s been a tough week and I just thought I’d double up a social call with a uh…well…more serious visit, that’s all,” Lestrade shrugged, a little defensively. “And yeah, I’m worried about her cause I care about her. I know you lot do too so there’s nothing…weird, about it, okay? And it’s Greg! Not bloody Gordon!”

Sherlock sat up, suddenly interested. “Wait a minute, why are you ‘worried’ about her?”

“Because of this guy she’s dating.”

“Aaron or something.”

“Aiden,” Lestrade corrected him.

“Mm.”

“Aiden Gruner.”

Sherlock looked as though he’d been slapped across the face. John saw the change in him instantly, even from his position in the opposite armchair, it was obvious. If he didn’t know better, he would have said that Sherlock was worried too, but as he looked at him again, it seemed as though he was more excited than anything.

“The Austrian murderer.”

“Ah, so you do know him!” Lestrade slapped his knee and laughed. “I told them you would! I bloody said you would! They didn’t believe me. Sherlock Holmes knows everyone, I said.”

“Who is he then?” John asked, intrigued. He wasn’t particularly surprised in the slightest that Sherlock had heard of this guy if he was a murderer.

“Well, he certainly fits Molly’s type. Tall, dark, handsome…curly hair not dissimilar to my own, stunningly good looking, and dangerously intelligent.”

“Did…you just describe yourself as stunningly good looking?” John smirked.

“No,” Sherlock frowned. “I was describing him.”

“Yeah, but…never mind. Uh, carry on.”

“He also happened to murder his last wife, and got away with it too, although of course I know he’s guilty.”

“Of course you do.”

“Lestrade knows too, otherwise he wouldn’t have come here.”

The two of them turned to look at the Detective Inspector who had been watching their conversation back and forth like a tennis match. “Well, I think most of the Austrian police believed he’d done it too, they just couldn’t prove it. He was…too clever.”

“He moved to London three years ago to get away from the scandal,” Sherlock filled in the blanks. “I’m honestly quite surprised this is the first time he’s entered our lives, although it wouldn’t surprise me if he had killed without our knowing it.”

“You think he’s a serial killer?” John looked at him in surprise. “You think Molly might be dating a serial killer?”

“He’s a charmer,” Lestrade mumbled. “He wins people over then does what he wants with them. We should definitely try to uh…discourage her…from dating him.”

“Most definitely,” Sherlock agreed with a nod. “But how? She’s hardly going to listen to us, is she?”

“Well, it’s worth a try. If we explain his history to her. What he’s done. The type of guy he is, you know,” shrugged John.

“No, no, he’s clever than that. He will have already warned her about this. Told her his side of the story.”

“What, and she’ll just believe it?”

“You believe what you want to believe when you’re in love.”

“What would you know about being in love, Sherlock?”

“I’ve had lots of experience. Not personally, obviously, but professionally. I’ve seen what it does to people. I understand it better than you do, John, otherwise you wouldn’t have such a hard time keeping a girlfriend, would you?”

“Now hang on a minute, I – “

“Girls, girls!” Lestrade raised his hands. “Have your domestic later, will you, we’ve got work to do.” He drained back his can of beer and stood up. “Shall we go see her now? She’ll be at home relaxing, might be the perfect opportunity.”

Sherlock nodded in agreement and jumped up, grabbing his coat from the back of the chair.

“Hang on a minute,” mumbled John, still finishing off his beer as he stood up and shoved his shoes on. “Shouldn’t we uh, you know, give her a ring first?”

“He’s already given her one.”

“You know what I mean,” he rolled his eyes. “To make sure she’s in.”

“Yeah, might be a good idea actually,” Lestrade agreed, taking out his phone. “For all we know, she could be out on a date with that slimeball right now.”

“Check up on his history, Lestrade,” Sherlock demanded in his usual authoritative manner. “I want to know everything about him. Where he lives, how he earns his money and, more importantly, who else he’s been dating, where they are now and how and why the relationship ended.”

“I’ll do my best. Let me just…” He indicated his phone.

Sherlock raised up his own phone and waggled it in the air in front of Lestrade’s face. “We’ll take care of that, and go round and see her. You…” He placed his hands firmly on the Detective Inspector’s shoulders and guided him towards the door. “You’re going back to Scotland Yard. You’re more useful to us there.”

“Ugh fine,” Lestrade huffed. “I was hoping for another couple of beers not more work.”

“Drink those afterwards. Right now, we have a case and the game is on.”

And that was that.

Complete inactivity and mind numbing boredom to racing around London surged full of adrenalin. And all on the back of one name – Aiden Gruner.

***

As usual though, Sherlock Holmes was right, which no doubt pleased him much more than the words they heard coming out of Molly Hooper’s mouth when they found themselves sat in her flat later that very evening.

“Oh, Aiden’s told me all of that stuff already. About the court case and the accusations. They’re just malicious.”

“Malicious?” John spat, eyes wide. “His wife is dead. Like uh, you know, she actually died. It wasn’t just some malicious rumour.”

“Oh, I know that, but it was a tragic accident. She fell down the stairs. I mean, there was never any proof, and Aiden was just absolutely devastated over the whole thing.”

“The neighbours hear shouting. She begged for her life.” Sherlock pointed out another fact from the case.

Molly rolled her eyes. “He warned me this might happen at some point,” she sighed. “When we first started dating. He said that people might come and try to pollute my mind with their lies.”

“I think it’s your mind that’s been polluted, Molly,” John scoffed, and was about to continue when Sherlock raised his hand for silence.

“What else did he say?” he asked, intrigued. “Carry on. Tell me his version of the story.”

“Well, basically, his neighbours spread the rumour about him, talked to the police, to try and get him into trouble.”

“Why would they want to do something like that?” Sherlock asked. “Why would they hate him so much as to lie to the police, claiming that he murdered his wife?”

“Because Aiden had a relationship with the woman next door. Well, less of a relationship, more like a one off sort of thing, more like a…uh…”

“They had sex?” John prompted.

Molly blushed a deep shade of red. “I…believe so, yes. Only once. She thought it was something more but it wasn’t, and when Aiden wouldn’t confess his love for her she got mad at him.”

“And decided to take her revenge,” said Sherlock.

“Exactly,” Molly nodded.

“It wouldn’t be the first time something like that had happened, of course, although in this case the allegations made against him are rather more serious than the usual.”

“Yeah, significantly more serious,” said John. “You’re dating a murderer, Molly. And it wouldn’t be the first time for that either, would it? You don’t exactly have a very good track record.”

“That’s what I told her,” said Sherlock.

“Look, you might as well just leave now if you’ve only come here to talk about Aiden,” Molly said firmly. “We’re in love, and we’re going to get married. That’s just the way it is and you’ll have to get used to it.”

As much as John continued to protest and reason with her, Sherlock could tell they were working with a lost cause. They would have to approach this from a completely different angle – just as he expected.

He grabbed John’s arm and practically dragged him from the room. The ex-army doctor could get pretty aggressive when he had a point to get across, particularly after he’d had a beer or two. “Come on John, just leave it.”

“No, I will not just leave it!” he snapped. “This is ridiculous! She’s being completely stupid! I know about these things, okay? I know relationships!” He waved his arm at Molly, wagging his finger like he was an angry dad telling her off.

“Yes, yes, of course you do,” Sherlock sighed, giving him one final tug to get him out of the room.

Once they were in the corridor, John pulled himself away from the detective’s grasp and huffed, readjusting his jacket as they walked outside, still shaking his head and muttering to himself.

“It’s alright, John,” Sherlock assured him. “We’re not going to allow the marriage to go ahead.”

“Good. What’s the plan then?”

“I don’t know yet. Let’s see what Lestrade has offered us.” He swiped open an e-mail on his phone as they walked off down the street, John checking the road for any passing taxis to hail, although one always seemed to come riding round the corner whenever Sherlock was around. John had become convinced at one point that Sherlock had some kind of taxi magnet hidden inside those oversized coat pockets of his.

“What does it say?” John asked of the e-mail.

“He’s managed to get Gruner’s home and work addresses. I propose we try and catch up with him at work tomorrow, but have the taxi ride past his home address right now so we can suss it out.”

Gruner’s place was impressive. A large, three storey, detached white house in electronically gated grounds with a perfectly sculpted lawn and healthy looking trees lining the front, and a gravel path leading to the black front door.

“Wow, is he rich?” John asked with a whistle as he pressed his face to the glass of the taxi window.

“Mm, probably.”

“Maybe that’s how he attracts them. Buying them things, treating them like royalty, spoiling them.”

“That might work for some of them but not all. Molly, for example, she’s more interested in romance than things of any kind of monetary value. He must be a smooth talker too. Suave, sophisticated, good looking, a beautiful smile, always knowing what to say and the right moment to say it.”

“Watch yourself there, Sherlock, any more analysis and you’re going to sound like you’re jealous…” John glanced at him with a teasing smirk.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, then nodded to the driver. “Alright, we’re good, carry on.”

It was difficult for Sherlock to remain idle when there was something much more exciting they could be doing with their time, so that evening was particularly difficult for him, but he spent his time on the internet, looking up everything he could from Gruner’s court case back in Austria, and researching relentlessly, deleting ‘useless’ facts from his mind palace in order to make room for these newer and more relevant ones.

John left him to it, knowing that he needed space, peace and quiet when he was doing this kind of stuff. He went downstairs for a good natter, a cup of tea and a few biscuits with Mrs Hudson, who was glad of his company for a couple of hours.

The next day, he’d expected Sherlock to be up and out of the house as early as possible. Instead, he was allowed to sleep in until he awoke naturally at around ten, and came downstairs in his dressing gown yawning and in search of a good cup of tea. He found Sherlock sat at the dining table dressed and apparently ready to go, with an incredibly anxious expression on his face.

“You didn’t wake me.”

“Very observant of you, John. Scintillating. You astound me.”

“Yeah, yeah, alright. Coffee?”

“I’ve already had six.”

“Geez, no wonder you’re looking all…wired. Why haven’t we left yet anyway?”

“Because we’re waiting until it’s nearly lunchtime. We’ll go in around 11. It’s a good time to catch him off guard,” Sherlock quickly explained. “A full morning at work. He’ll be tired and hungry and hopefully not expecting any visitors.”

“You’re going to speak to him today then?”

“With a bit of luck, yes.” The detective drummed his fingers on the table and checked his watch again while John made himself some coffee and breakfast and got dressed in a fairly leisurely manner.

At one minute to eleven, Sherlock stood up, grabbed his coat and demanded that they leave immediately. Thankfully, John was ready to go by that time too, and the pair of them thundered down the steps to the front door.

“Don’t forget your gloves!” Mrs Hudson picked them up off the floor where they had apparently fell out of Sherlock’s pocket. “It’s getting cold out again!”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson,” said Sherlock politely, collecting them from her and leaning in to give her a kiss on the cheek before turning and rushing out again. Even in the madness that surrounded a case, he always managed to make time for their beloved landlady, a fact that continued to impress and astonish John, who followed him outside with a little smile on his face and a warm sensation in his chest.

Wiggling his fingers into the tight leather gloves, Sherlock’s hands were too busy to be able to flag down the passing taxi that magically appeared on the corner of Baker Street as soon as they got outside, but John was perfectly capable of doing the job himself, despite his slightly smaller stature, and soon enough they were clambering into the back of the cab together.

"Leadenhall Street, please...Bartlett & Co,” instructed Sherlock, leaning forwards to give the address to the driver before sitting back again and staring out of the window. He sat back again and grinned. "I want to introduce myself to him," he said thoughtfully, and quietly to the point where John wasn’t quite sure whether he was addressing him or simply talking aloud to himself. "Give him my card, explain who I am, just in case he hasn't already heard of me...and let him know that we're investigating him. It would be more than interesting to gauge his reaction and it could well push him into doing something rash."

“Mm, when criminals act rashly they make mistakes, and then they’re easier to catch.”

“Precisely,” Sherlock smiled, quietly pleased that John had learnt so much about ‘the game’ over the many years they’d been working together. They were so in tune with one another now, it was a continual pleasure.

Soon enough, they arrived in the very heart of the business district of their great city. Young men and women in suits were busily walking up and down the street, disappearing in and out of buildings, supping from plastic coffee cups and cradling their briefcases and newspapers under their arms, mostly ignoring each other and everyone else who happened to be passing by, including them. The tall, imposing buildings of the various businesses - mostly insurance companies and banks - lined either side of the road.

Sherlock glanced up at the one they were now outside of as he paid for the taxi, telling the driver to keep the change. He was in a good mood. "Let's go," he smiled at John and led the way through the revolving doors and into the smart looking reception, with a gigantic fish tank lining one wall. He approached the reception desk.

"Excuse me," he smiled at the woman on the desk. "We'd like a meeting with Aiden Gruner, please."

"Do you have an appointment?" The woman asked, looking a bit confused.

"Er no," Sherlock played innocent, and a bit stupid. "Could we make one right now? With you? I mean, with him? You know what I mean." He flashed her a grin.

"Er well," she hesitated. "I'll have to call up and see what his schedule's like."

"That would be wonderful," smiled Sherlock.

The receptionist picked up her phone and rang through to Gruner's office. She was on for a moment or two, speaking in hushed tones and occasionally glancing up at the two strangers standing in front of her desk. Then she hung up and turned to them again with an apologetic smile. "I'm afraid he'll be leaving for lunch in ten minutes, but you're welcome to come back in an hour and a half and I'll try and fit you in for a consultation then."

"Ah..." Sherlock gave his best disappointed face, then glanced at his watch. "Well, it's not to be helped. We'll come back later. Thank you very much."

"No problem," the girl smiled.

Sherlock quickly turned on his heels and began to walk out again, expecting John to follow, back through the revolving doors and onto the street. "See? Now we've found out when his lunch break is. We know he's still in the office and will be leaving in ten minutes. All we have to do is wait...somewhere inconspicuous..." There was a Cafe Nero just across the road. He tugged John's arm and began to walk over to it.

John was glad of the small rest after all the running around, and ordered them both coffees and a sandwich for himself. Sherlock, of course, didn’t want anything to eat, but John happily sat there filling up his stomach while they waited. And waited. And waited.

Half an hour came and went and Gruner had still not left the office building.

John could tell Sherlock was growing frustrated, and angry at himself. “There’s probably a back exit or something,” he shrugged. “Or an underground car park. It’s no big deal. We weren’t to know he wouldn’t come out the front.”

Sherlock let out a soft growl under his breath and stood up, scraping back the chair legs noisily. “Back to Baker Street.”

The next four hours were spent in an anxious state, with Sherlock pacing up and down the wooden floor of the flat while John tried his best to calm him down, until they finally went out again at 6, when the detective estimated that Gruner would have returned from work.

Sherlock remained silent and focused the entire taxi journey. He would be home at this time, he expected. He didn't know the man's schedule, not yet...but he soon would do, after a few days and nights of trailing him around, which was what he was planning.

As soon as the taxi pulled to a halt, Sherlock jumped out without paying, a feat that John was, by now, used to. He sighed and tossed the driver some money before getting out himself and running to catch up with the long strides of the detective as they approached the automatic gates of the large detached house and pressed the buzzer.

It didn't take long to get an answer. There was a crackle of static and then a smooth, sophisticated voice with a very slight hint of a European accent came over the intercom system. "Who is it?"

"An interested party," Sherlock gave a typically vague response.

"Interested in what?" Gruner snapped. "I don't accept cold calls."

"I think you'll be interested in this one, Aiden Gruner. My name's Sherlock Holmes. You may have heard of me."

There was a pause.

Sherlock heard a crackle, then a buzz as the gates were unlocked.

John raised an eyebrow. “I think he has. Probably read the blog, of course. That’s how most people hear of you.” He chuckled to himself as he caught sight of Sherlock’s grumpy face out the corner of his eye.

The gates swung open slowly, and the two of them walked on through, but before they could walk along the small gravel pathway towards the front door, Sherlock had spun round and grabbed John’s arm.

“John, go round the corner and wait for me there.”

“What? No. Why?”

“Because there’s no need for him to know your face as well as mine. After this little chat I intend to have with him, he’ll be on the look out for me. If he thinks it’s just me on his case, he won’t be expecting you, now go, quick!”

John huffed but nevertheless did as he was told, jogging off and running round the corner just as the door was opened up by the owner of the house, a tall dark haired man with thick unruly curls that were slightly wilder than Sherlock’s and intense, piercing green eyes, as well as wearing a dark green silk dressing gown that Sherlock couldn't help but admire as he cast his eyes up and down it.

"Derek Rose," he noted with a smile. "Man after my own heart."

"What are you doing here?" Gruner sneered, stepping back to allow him inside.

"Would you like to see my card? Just to prove that I am who I say I am?" He got one out of his pocket and handed it over.

"I don't need to see it. I recognise you anyway," snapped Gruner.

The two of them still stood uncomfortably in the hallway with the door still wide open. "You're letting all the cold in." Sherlock muttered.

"What are you doing here?" He demanded again, slamming the door dramatically.

"Oh, just wanted to pay you a quick visit," Sherlock shrugged. "Size you up, get the measure of you, so to speak, and to let you know that I've taken up your case."

"What case?" he snarled. "I don't have a case."

"I can see you're not in the mood to invite me in for a cup of tea so..." He opened the only recently closed door. "I might as well go. I've said my bit."

Gruner put his hand on the door and slammed it shut once more. "Do you know what happened to the last man who 'took up my case', Mr Holmes?" He looked at Sherlock with a cold, glaring eyes.

"No. Do enlighten me."

"He met with a very unfortunate accident. People tend to do that...when they pry into my affairs."

"Thanks for the warning," said Sherlock casually. "I am rather accident prone now you come to mention it." He showed Gruner his left thumb. "Did this on the bunsen burner two nights ago."

"Get out."

"I'd love to...but you've got your hand on the door."

With an angry snarl, Gruner stepped back and flung the door open. "Get out!"

"Oh, don't worry, I'm going. But don't expect this little problem to go away, Mr Gruner. I'm onto you. I know what you are, and that poor girl you've got your clutches into will soon know too." With that, Sherlock happily jogged out of the house and back down the driveway, ending his short visit. He smirked to himself, pleased with how it had gone. He'd definitely ruffled the man's feathers, which is all he'd really intended, and it had confirmed his suspicions that he most definitely had something to hide. He was a positive devil.

“Well?” asked John, emerging from his hiding place.

“Well indeed,” muttered Sherlock cryptically, already deep in thought. “Well indeed.”

***

John had a date that night.

It didn’t happen very often these days, and it was typical for it to happen right when he least expected it, in the middle of a very interesting case.

Sherlock was his usual sarcastic self about the whole thing, making derogatory comments the whole time John was getting ready and then gruffly wishing him luck as he walked out the door, even though he most definitely didn’t mean it.

It wasn’t that Sherlock didn’t want to see John happy. Of course he did. He just wished John’s happiness could be more in tune with his own. He was happiest when they were hot on the trail of some abominable criminal mastermind threatening to kill or maim or terrorise. John, on the other hand, seemed to require something more. He needed soft words and touches, romance. Sherlock despised the very idea, shuddered at it, and occasionally even felt sick to his stomach over it. And he was always relieved and glad when relationship after relationship failed and John remained subsequently single. If he was ever dating someone long term, or God forbid, if he ever married someone, Sherlock was afraid that things would change between them. John wouldn’t belong to him anymore, he’d belong to someone else, and he’d have to share him, share his time. He wouldn’t be as available to come on cases, perhaps he might not even want to anymore if he found someone better to spend his life with. Sherlock Holmes would never admit to any of these thoughts or emotions out loud, of course, but in reality, he was insecure. He didn’t want to lose his best friend to some woman.

John Watson was acutely aware of this fact. He wasn’t as closed minded and idiotic as the detective sometimes made him out to be. He understood human emotions just as well as Sherlock did, the majority of times even better. He knew Sherlock was worried, deep down, and he knew that he’d never admit it out loud. He also knew that him finding a long term girlfriend or even a wife, would not change things between him and Sherlock. Whoever it was would have to be very special, because they’d have to accept Sherlock as an essential and constant part of his life. She would have to understand that occasionally, he’d disappear off at three in the morning to run round London with the lanky detective and that sometimes Sherlock would need him more than she did.

That night’s date, however, had come as something of a surprise.

He’d got an e-mail out of the blue, from the blog. She’d attached a photograph. She was very pretty, and what’s more, she was a fan. Of him, of Sherlock Holmes. She followed all the cases with interest, and thought John was ‘incredibly handsome’.

‘I know this is very forward of me,’ she went on to say. ‘But perhaps, if you weren’t doing anything this evening, we could meet for a drink. No pressure to take things further, just a drink and a chat.’

How could he resist?

She was a fan of Sherlock, but fancied him. It was perfect. That meant she wouldn’t mind if he went off doing cases. They already seemed like an excellent match for one another. It was almost too good to be true.

And it was, in fact, too good to be true, because as soon as John arrived at the agreed meet up place on the corner of the street, a car whizzed up, tyres screeching, back door already flinging open.

The scene was all too familiar and immediately John realised what was happening. He spun on his heel and turned to run in the opposite direction, but there was a small popping sound and a sharp pain in his neck as something hit him there, followed almost instantaneously by the darkness closing over his eyelids and clouding his brain as he blacked out, his limp body hitting the ground.

***

On that particular occasion, however, Sherlock Holmes was actually rather glad that John was going out for the night, as it would give him the chance to get on with what he needed to do without the good doctor telling him it was a bad idea.

He waited until midnight then headed out to Aiden Gruner’s residence, with the intention of burglarising his way inside and having a snoop around. He was especially interested in the office area. A man like Gruner had many secrets, and he was bound to have some kind of evidence of those secrets, whether they were locked up in a safe or in the drawer of a well-secured desk. They would be somewhere. He would have something. And whatever it was, Sherlock would find it.

With his toolkit stuffed into his pocket, he would first need to do a full recky of the house and suss out where the weaknesses were, as well as whether there were any security cameras watching him.

Everything was quiet when he arrived at the house, which was exactly how he wanted it to be. He was hoping Aiden Gruner was asleep in bed. Sherlock could be a very quiet burglar when he wanted to be. He was convinced he wouldn’t wake him or indeed anyone else in the neighbourhood.

He approached the front window and peered into the living room. Empty. Then, he began to walk round the side of the house, staring up at the top corners of the windows and the eaves, looking for cameras. A man like Gruner was bound to have them somewhere. He didn't even mind if he was spotted on them. Gruner knew he was investigating anyway, and he wasn't going to be scared by his threats.

He heard a branch crack underfoot behind him and spun round, stilling himself for a moment to listen, his ears pricked up like a bloodhound.

No one was there.

Still, he'd heard it none the less. He hadn’t imagined it. Perhaps someone was round the corner. Frowning, Sherlock crept back towards the front of the house just to make sure his mind wasn’t playing tricks on him. Probably just a fox at this time of night, he thought to himself.

Suddenly though, two men appeared, bearing round the corner.

Two tall, heavily built men, one of them carrying a baseball bat and the other some kind of iron crowbar. He might have thought they were burglars if they hadn't been dressed in suits. They looked more like Mycroft's men, except Sherlock knew better. They were obviously Gruner's men.

That deduction was most definitely confirmed when one of them took a swing at him and whacked him in the arm and side of his body with the iron bar.

He grunted and staggered sideways, but recovered fairly quickly and decided to try and take them both on. He went for the baseball bat first, grabbing hold of it with both hands and yanking it towards him before kicking the man in the stomach and propelling him backwards, managing to take control of the bat as the man released his grasp.

Sadly, the advantage didn't last for long, as the crowbar man came in again and this time landed one right on his shoulder. It hurt like hell and Sherlock dropped to one knee, trying his best to remain standing. He might have been able to do it too, had not a third man come round the corner from the back of the house and whacked him across the head with a plank of wood.

At that point, he fell flat on his face and the beating well and truly began, all three of them laying into him with their respective weapons, with baseball bat man rejoining the group now that he'd got to his feet and retrieved the bat again. Sherlock didn't stand a chance.

The last thing he remembered before he blacked out was the constant and agonising pain from every section of his body as they battered and bruised him all over, the blood starting to gush from the now open wounds and staining the grass red.

***

‘MURDEROUS ATTACK ON SHERLOCK HOLMES’ ran the headline in the papers the following day.

A slim, white muslim girl, her facial features and hair mostly hidden by her headscarf, picked up a copy of the newspaper at a stand by the entrance of Charing Cross station. Her stunning blue eyes scanned over the words on the front page, widening as she read them.

“You gonna pay for that, miss?” asked the newspaper seller gruffly.

“No thank you,” she replied in a perfect British accent, well spoken and well educated. She tossed the newspaper back onto the stand and walked away, a frown creasing her neatly trimmed eyebrows.

She approached the taxi rank and took the first one, ordering the driver to take her to the hospital mentioned in the article. She stopped on the way to get some flowers.

“Can I help you, ma’am?” asked the lady on the reception desk, looking up from her computer.

“What room is Sherlock Holmes in?”

“Are you a relative? I’m afraid he’s not accepting visitors at the moment.”

“Just tell him it’s the Woman. He’ll accept.”

***

John woke up with a groan, groggily opening up his eyes and attempting to look around him. He had a splitting headache and could taste blood in his mouth. It was dark, cold, and he could smell mould and damp. He tried looking left and right, but soon discovered there were ropes tight pretty tightly around his arms, chest and shoulders, restricting his movement massively.

He tried to recall the last moments he remembered before he blacked out.

He’d been heading out on a date. Except it hadn’t been a date at all. Whoever it was who’d sent that e-mail had set him up on purpose, to get him out of the house and away from Sherlock. To kidnap him. It was all so blindingly obvious now that he felt like an idiot for not having seen it coming.

He’d seen it coming far too late. They must have used some kind of tranquiliser to knock him out, he reasoned. Shot him down with it like animal handlers shot wild, rabid dogs. He grimaced, wondering who had gone to the trouble and what they wanted. It could have been a whole number of people. He and Sherlock had pissed off a hell of a lot of criminals over the years.

“Hello…?” He called out, his voice sounding hoarse and rough. Might as well attempt to meet his captor and reason with him, or her.

Someone came up behind him and slapped him across the back of the head.

He grunted and tried to twist round to see his assailant, but the guy walked round the front anyway and stood there, his arms folded across his chest.

He was tall and muscular, with a neat crew cut, wearing a suit. He looked like he could be one of Mycroft’s men, but John knew better.

“Well?” He asked. “Why am I here?”

“Not my job to ask questions, mate,” the man responded with an East London accent. “I just do as I’m told.”

“By who?”

“Whoever hires me.”

“So…someone hired you to kidnap me?”

“Yep.”

“And do what with me?”

“Keep you here.”

“Until when?”

“Until someone comes to rescue you. Or not.”

“You mean Sherlock?”

“I don’t bloody know.”

“And what are you supposed to do when I get rescued?”

“Shoot whoever it is in the head. And you too. And if no one comes within two days, I just shoot you.” He took out a gun from the inside pocket of his jacket and showed it to John with a shrug. “No hard feelings, mate. It’s just a job to me, y’know?”

“Right, yeah, course,” John sighed and rolled his eyes a little. “Well, good luck with that. Sherlock Holmes is notoriously difficult to kill.”

“You can’t survive a bullet to the head.”

John glanced the guy up and down. “You ex-army?”

“Yeah. How can you tell?”

“Easy to spot a fellow squaddie.” He smiled slightly. “The way you stand, the way you hold yourself when you walk…”

The guy looked pretty impressed. “Where d’you serve?”

“Iraq. Afghanistan. I’d probably still be doing it now if I hadn’t been shot.”

“Me too! Right here.” He raised up the trouser on his left leg and showed John the bullet scar.

“So then you got into killing people for money? Nice.” John muttered sarcastically.

The ex-soldier shrugged. “It pays well, and it gives me a bit of a thrill, y’know? That’s what I missed the most. The thrill. The danger.”

“Yeah. I know,” John sighed. He knew it all too well. That’s why he’d been so lucky to find Sherlock when he did, although he liked to think that his own moral compass would have stopped him from going down that same road as the man currently stood in front of him. “So uh…are you really gonna do it then? Shoot an ex-reg like yourself? For no reason?”

“I’m sorry, mate,” he mumbled. “No hard feelings, yeah? It’s just a job. You know how it is.”

John sighed and fell silent. He’d have to think of some kind of way to talk his way out of the situation. Either that or wait for Sherlock to get here and hope he was smart enough to not end up getting a bullet through the head.

Little did John know, however, that Sherlock was not coming to rescue him, and Aiden Gruner had never intended him to. He had dealt with Sherlock in an altogether different way, and it was the detective’s best friend he now wanted to rid from the planet, in order to punish Holmes for meddling in his affairs. He knew that no one would come to rescue John Watson and, at the end of the two days, he would be dispatched with a bullet and his body dumped in the Thames.

But Aiden Gruner hadn’t accounted for Irene Adler.

***

Aiden Gruner had always been an arrogant, self-centred man, and Ms Adler had no time for those. Well, aside from the possible exception of Sherlock Holmes but then, he was everyone’s exception.

She had first encountered him in her work life. He had experimented with BDSM and decided it was not to his liking after all, but then she had given him the whipping of his life. Afterwards he’d attempted to woo her with his charms. It didn’t work. She saw something in him from the very second he walked through the door. Something dark. Something not right. She’d always had a good sensor for it and in the majority of circumstances found herself drawn to the ‘bad boys’, knowing they were wrong and taking enjoyment in it. But not Gruner. Gruner gave her the creeps.

She’d forgotten all about him until she heard about the court case, and the death of his wife. She liked to keep up with the news and, in her business, she heard a lot of whispers, rumours, news stories before they’d even hit the press. It wasn’t difficult at all for her to believe that Gruner had murdered the unfortunate woman, so when she received an e-mail from the man asking her advice with regards to Sherlock Holmes, she began to get both suspicious and worried.

Although Mr Holmes and her hadn’t exactly been the best of friends, they had shared a special kind of relationship that no one else could fathom or comprehend and a few secrets that only the two of them were party to, certainly not Aiden Gruner, who, judging from his e-mail, still believed the two of them were enemies.

Irene.

Long time no see, or speak. How are you, my dear? I still have fond memories of our all too brief encounter.

On this occasion, however, it’s a man named Sherlock Holmes I wish to confer with you about. My sources tell me that you and he came head to head a few years ago and now the pest is dogging my heels as he once dogged yours.

How did you manage to shake him? What are his weaknesses and failings? Any information you can give me would be most valuable and rewarded highly with whatever you desire. I remember you being a woman with most expensive tastes. Those dresses of yours do not come cheap.

I look forward to hearing from you soon.

Kind regards,

Bn. Aiden Gruner.

Her old e-mail address was still up and running despite the fact that her website and Twitter account had long since been left to rot after her ‘death’. People still occasionally contacted her on it. She never replied, of course. That would blow her cover. And in this instance, she didn’t reply either. She couldn’t even risk sending an e-mail to Holmes. Instead, she packed up a small bag and made her way back to the UK, travelling under a fake passport and name like she always did whenever she needed to go anywhere.

Now, she found herself stood over Sherlock Holmes’ bedside, after he had given word to the nurses that she was most certainly allowed to come in and see him.

“You didn’t have to bring flowers,” he croaked, his voice a hoarse whisper.

“Well, what kind of date would it be if I didn’t?”

“A less…smelly one?” He scrunched up his nose at the overly pongy roses.

“Oh, so you admit it’s a date then?” She smirked, pushing back her shawl off her hair and shaking it out.

“Now’s hardly the time for flirting, Ms Adler. What are you doing here? You know, if anyone saw you…”

“Relax,” she rolled her eyes. “No one saw me, Sherly. And I think you’re probably big and clever enough to work out why I’m here…”

“Aiden Gruner?” Sherlock took an educated guess, reaching out with one hand to turn up the levels of morphine with a soft groan.

Irene nodded.

“How did you know I was here?”

“All over the newspapers.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed.

“Although naturally I called round to Baker Street first. But you weren’t there.”

“Surprised John didn’t come with you.”

“Well, that’s just the thing…John wasn’t there either. And according to Mrs Hudson, he didn’t come home last night.”

“Must have struck it lucky with that girl then,” Sherlock mumbled.

“So, naturally, I tried your phone,” she continued relaying her story. “No answer.”

“Mm.”

“Then I tried John’s phone. No answer there either.”

“Mm, so what was your next course of action? Do share, I’m fascinated,” murmured Sherlock sarcastically, his left eye still half closed from the vicious beating, but his right one looking at her keenly.

“Well, I tried to think what the great Sherlock Holmes might do, of course.”

“Of course.”

“I hacked into John’s laptop.”

There was a small flicker of a smirk across the detective’s lips.

“His password wasn’t hard to guess.”

“Never is,” muttered Sherlock.

“He really needs to be more security conscious.”

“I’ve tried.”

“Anyway, I found the e-mail off this mystery woman he was supposed to be meeting. It was the IP address attached that interested me the most.”

“Really? How so?”

“I recognised it. John wasn’t going on a date. He was going to meet Aiden Gruner.”

The smirk vanished from Sherlock’s face. He reached out again and turned down the morphine. “He was set up.”

“Precisely.”

“What did you do next?” he asked eagerly.

“I made my way over to the address where ‘she’ had told him to meet her. Somewhere near Charing Cross. Didn’t see anything of interest but then, I wasn’t exactly sure what I was expecting. That was where I saw the newspaper headline about you. After that I made my way straight over here. Called big brother on the way.”

“Mycroft,” Sherlock spat out the name with disdain and attempted to roll his eyes, failing miserably. “Why d’you have to involve him?” Although really, Sherlock already knew the answer and deep down, he had to reluctantly admit it was most probably the best move with regards to finding John as quickly as possible. He was certainly in no fit state to rescue him in his current condition, and with Mycroft’s access to CCTV cameras all over the city, they could easily track down where John was taken and mount a successful rescue operation, which was exactly what was being planned right at that very moment.

Naturally, Mycroft Holmes had been somewhat surprised to learn of the continued existence of Miss Irene Adler, but right now it was a case of ‘ask questions later.’ John Watson needed him, and his little brother needed John Watson. He had heard of Sherlock’s unfortunate accident at the hands of Gruner’s men. He wouldn’t bother paying a visit to the hospital. Despite his numerous injuries, he knew the detective would pull through perfectly fine, and that he would want him to be focused on John and John alone, which was exactly what he did.

First of all, the CCTV cameras on that quiet corner round the back of Charing Cross were checked, in lieu of Ms Adler’s information. Sure enough, John Watson could be seen approaching with his hands in his pockets, soon to be met by a black car screeching round the corner, the back door flying open. As he turned to run, he was shot by an outstretched hand and knocked unconscious, falling flat on his face and no doubt injuring himself somewhat in the process. Once he was out cold, that same man leapt from the vehicle and dragged him into the back seat before the car was driven away.

Mycroft paused on the video and had it zoomed in on his face, ordering snapshots to be taken and background checks made, to try and identify the suspect from his photograph. Of course, the next move was to get a clear shot of the licence plate on the vehicle, trace the owner, and find out as much as possible about that. In the end, it was hardly needed, and the mystery of where John had been taken was a very simple one to solve. So simple that Mycroft began to get suspicious that whoever was behind it actually wanted John to be found. The vehicle made no attempt to disguise itself, stuck to all the main roads through the city, and was, as a result, easily traced on CCTV cameras to its final location at an abandoned factory near Greenwich.

“I want a full team over there,” Mycroft demanded, frowning as the growing suspicions swirled round his overly large brain. “No expense or man power spared.” If there was someone waiting for them ready to attack, they would be in for a bit of a shock.

***

John’s negotiations with his captor had been going fairly well.

The two of them had bonded over their joint experiences in the army and he was beginning to suspect he might be able to talk him down from his job if he’d been given another couple of hours with him.

In the end, it didn’t get that far.

The door to the warehouse was kicked open, sending sunlight streaming in, followed by eight men with guns all pointing at Harris, the ex-army man whose name John had managed to learn during their time together.

Faced with such impossible odds, he immediately raised his hands into the air and dropped to his knees.

“Don’t shoot him!” John cried out. “Don’t shoot!”

Mycroft’s team came rushing over and surrounded Harris, pushing him to the ground on his face and dragging his hands behind his back to be cuffed.

It was over within seconds and John was soon getting untied and seen to by a medical man.

“Where’s Sherlock?” was his first question, slightly confused as to why all these government guys were here instead of his friend.

***

“Jesus Christ, what happened?” John Watson stormed into the hospital room in a panic, his face still grazed and a little cut up from his kidnap but otherwise in a fairly good condition, unlike the detective, who looked as though he’d done several rounds with a professional boxer.

“I’m fine,” Sherlock rolled his eyes. Or tried to. “I see Mycroft’s rescue went according to plan.”

“He’s an efficient man, your brother, I’ll give him that,” smiled Irene. “Could be quite a turn on if he wasn’t…well…you know…”

John did an immediate double take.

In his haste and eagerness to see Sherlock, the curly haired detective was the only person he’d focused on upon his arrival into the room. Now, however, he turned to Irene Adler with an expression of shock and surprise.

“But you’re…Jesus…” He spluttered.

“Not quite.”

“Dead!”

“Definitely not.”

“Again?!”

“It would appear so.”

“How the hell d’you keep doing this?!”

She laughed and glanced at Sherlock. “Shall we tell him, Mr Holmes?”

“Mm, not really important, is it? Don’t want to blow your cover.”

“Oh, I think it’s a little late for that.”

“Ugh, you two, this again,” John grumbled under his breath. “Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone.”

“Good. Now we can get down to business about how we’re going to stop this guy,” said Sherlock, pushing the electronic device on the side of his bed to get himself into a sitting position.

“Gruner? Was it Gruner who had me kidnapped?”

“Of course it was Gruner. And it was Gruner who had me beat up while I was trying to break into his house.”

“You were trying to what?!”

“Oh relax, John. It’s not like we haven’t done it before.”

“Yeah, but now look at you.”

“He would have done this anyway. He’s trying to put us off investigating him.”

“It’s bloody working,” John grumbled, stuffing his hands into his pockets and pacing up and down the small hospital room before finally settling at the left side of Sherlock’s bed, with Irene stood directly opposite him on the right side. He loved to complain, but deep down he knew that neither of them were prepared to give up on this guy.

“My plan to use you as a distraction isn’t going to work anymore, John,” continued Sherlock. “He obviously already knows who you are so we’ll have to think of something else.”

“Wait, what? What?” snapped the small, angry army doctor. “You were going to use me as a distraction? Oh, thanks very much. How?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Get you to go round and knock on his door and try to sell him something. Chinese pottery or something, I hadn’t worked out the finer details.”

“Whilst you did what?”

“Had a snoop round his house and found some evidence.”

“What kind of evidence?”

“Won’t know until I see it.”

“Wow, this is a really solid plan, Sherlock, Jesus…”

“Well, it doesn’t matter now anyway because, like I said, he already knows who you are so we’ll have to think of something else.”

“He’s right though,” Irene spoke up. “There is evidence in there. I’ve seen it.”

Sherlock turned his head to look from John to Irene. “Expand.”

“Well, as I briefly explained, Gruner and I have a sort of…history. I was at his house once and he showed me this…book.”

“Book?”

“Mmhm. He trusted me. It’s a mistake a lot of guys make after I beat them.”

John grimaced slightly. “So what’s in this book?”

“It’s basically a book of all the women he’s slept with, screwed over, taken advantage of. It’s got their names…dates…and what he managed to get out of them. Little notes by each name. ‘Declared her love for me after one night in the bedroom’ or ‘lent me 10k. I never paid it back’. Things like that.”

“Sounds charming,” muttered John.

“Oh, he was proud of it too. That’s the kind of guy he is. I don’t know any woman in their right minds who’d want to associate with a low down piece of scum like that.”

“That’s pretty damning coming from yourself. You’re not exactly Miss Moralistic.”

“Mm, this is good news though,” said Sherlock. “All we need to do is get our hands on that book and show it to Molly. She may be smitten and in love but she isn’t stupid.”

John shot Sherlock a quick look of surprise, mingled with admiration and respect. The detective had been mean to Molly over the years; chastised her, made fun of her, deduced her in public and mocked her, but bubbling underneath the surface there was a respect and love for the bubbly, innocent morgue attendant he rarely allowed anyone to witness.

“That just might work,” he nodded.

“It has to work. She obviously doesn’t believe that he murdered his wife,” sighed Sherlock. “Unless we can get some hard evidence to prove otherwise. I don’t suppose he wrote about that in his little book?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t see all of it. Just one page,” replied Irene. “He keeps it in the library in his house. Hidden behind some kind of weird secret panel behind the Bible.”

“I’ll find it. All I need is some time. Can you do it?” He looked directly at Irene.

“Me?”

“Her?” John scoffed.

“Yes,” snapped the impatient detective. “I’ve already explained that I can’t use you anymore, whereas Irene already has an established relationship with him. He apparently trust her. It would be easy for her to arrange a visit to his house on false pretences. Would it not?” He looked from John to Irene for approval.

“Actually, yes. He wants to know as much as possible about you.”

“Perfect. Tell him anything you like. Just keep him talking. Now I just need to check out this damn hospital.”

“Sherlock, you got a severe beating, you need to rest up for a while,” John protested.

“I’ll be fine,” Sherlock insisted. “Get me some morphine to go and sign me out. I’ll have my personal doctor take care of me.”

“Who’s that?”

“You, you idiot.”

***

Despite Sherlock’s childish obstinacy that seemed to disregard his own health in favour of action, John still successfully managed to keep him at home for the next two days, persuading him that it would be a good idea to allow Gruner to think that they had given up. Eventually though, he could stand it no longer, and despite still being fairly badly bruised, the arrangements were made between Irene and Gruner, and Sherlock tagged along for a meeting at the criminal’s expansive residence.

John was once again dispatched to wait around the corner, grumbling and complaining under his breath as he wrapped his hand around the butt of his gun, safely tucked away in his inside pocket and ready for action. He was close enough to the house to be able to tell if something was going wrong, and available to rush in at any minute. He was kind of hoping something would go wrong. It had been ages since he’d got to use the gun.

Sherlock ducked down, unseen on the outside of the gate, obscured by one of the perfectly trimmed hedges, as Irene pressed the buzzer and announced her arrival. Soon, the electronic gates were opening and she was strolling on in. Once he’d ensured she was inside and happily chatting to Gruner, distracting him, Sherlock jumped up and scrambled over the gates, albeit not as athletically as he had done the first time, due to his many injuries. He winced and grimaced and struggled his way through, not allowing himself to be beaten down by the pain. This was more important and he would rise above it.

“Are you alright?” John hissed from round the corner, hearing the awkward landing.

“Yes, I’m fine,” Sherlock hissed back. “Stop worrying.”

“Somebody bloody has to…”

The determined detective picked himself up again and carried on, sneaking round the corner of the building to the back door, which he decided would be easier to gain entry seeing as the living room next to the front door was currently occupied by Irene and Gruner, having their nice pleasant chat.

He glanced up at the security camera warily, then quietly got out his tool kit and began to pick the lock.

Sherlock Holmes could be modest when he wanted to be. There were plenty of people who were much better at picking locks than he was, but nevertheless, he was still rather good, and found himself safely inside within two minutes and thirty seven seconds, which disappointingly didn’t beat his record.

He silently looked around the room he was standing in. Some kind of open plan dining area with a conservatory and view of the garden. He could hear the voices of the other two occupants a few rooms away. The hallway was directly in front of him, with two rooms on the right hand side and one room on the left, built underneath the staircase.

He crept on his tip toes and tried the room on the right first.

The office.

Although it was tempting to have a nose around in the desk drawers, he’d already been told where to find Gruner’s precious book, so he needed to find the library as quickly as possible and get out before he was discovered.

It was the room to the left that he tried next then, turning the handle slowly and pushing it inwards. He saw a glimpse of books in the darkness and his heart gave an excited flutter, realising he’d struck gold. He reached his hand in and fumbled for a light switch on the wall, finding it and flicking it on. The ceiling spotlights gleamed into life and revealed the library in all its glory – four walls of bookshelves stacked from floor to ceiling. It was an impressive collection, and one which Sherlock would have enjoyed perusing at his leisure if he’d had the time. Instead, he walked from row to row, shelf to shelf, scanning his eyes over the title of every book looking for the Bible. Gruner was helpful enough to have kept the books in some kind of order. Political biographies and journals were all in the same section, as was History, Science, Fiction, and of course, Religion.

There were four copies of the Bible, but Sherlock went for the biggest and the fattest, removing it carefully from the shelf. He didn’t bother flicking through the pages or even looking at the front cover, because he saw what he was after immediately on the shelf behind where the book had been kept.

A square panel, about one foot by one foot, built into the wood of the book shelf. He removed his gloves and prized it open with his fingernails. It gave way with a little popping noise to reveal a hidden compartment, with a leatherbound black book resting inside.

He swiftly removed it, then glanced over his shoulder instinctively as he heard movement in the living room.

He didn’t have time to check whether this was the right book, or read any of the contents. Everything Irene had told him had been correct so far. He hurriedly slammed the panel shut, put the Bible back, turned off the light and left the room and quickly and as silently as humanely possible, headed back the way he had come in, through the conservatory and out of the back door, just as he heard:

“Well, it’s been very nice to see you again, Ms Adler.”

He raced round the corner at full speed, the little black book tucked under his arm, wanting to clamber over the fence again before the front door opened.

He took a running jump and scaled it, landing with a painful thud on the hard pavement beyond and ripping open a couple of his stitches in the process. The adrenalin had kept him going throughout it all but now, everything came back in a wave of agony, his vision blurring out and turning red and white at the edges.

John, waiting patiently round the corner, had witnessed Sherlock’s hasty escape and came rushing round, pulling his friend into his arms and dragging him out of sight away from the gates as Gruner opened the door to show Irene out.

“Jesus, Sherlock…can you hear me?” He cradled the detective in his lap and looked down at him worriedly.

“Mmm…” Sherlock murmured in response, his eyes half closed. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah, that’s what you always say, whether you’re fine or not. I’m calling us a cab, I need to redo your stitches.” He could see the blood starting to seep through Sherlock’s pristine white shirt.

High heels click clacked on the concrete as Irene joined them. “He’ll be fine,” she said with an air of authority. “I’m sure he’s been through worse.”

“Excuse me, I’m the doctor around here,” John muttered impatiently. “I’ll be the one to decide whether he’s fine or not. Call a cab.”

“Is that an order, Captain?” she teased, smirking as she took out her phone and ordered a private chauffer.

John rolled his eyes slightly. He was in no mood for jokes. “Yeah, it bloody well is.”

Irene Adler still obviously pulled some authority round London, however, because five minutes later they were sat on comfortable white leather seats being driven in a Mercedes with blacked out windows back to Baker Street.

“Try not to get blood on the seats, Mr Holmes,” Irene popped her handbag and took out a mirror to inspect her make up. “I get billed for it every time that happens.”

“Endeavouring not to,” Sherlock muttered, clutching his stomach.

“Does it happen often?” John asked, getting only a smirk from Irene in response.

Once they got back to the flat, John did a quick patch up job on Sherlock’s stitches whilst the detective perused through their find from Gruner’s library, his eyes widening in delight. “This is perfect,” he announced. “If this doesn’t change her mind about the guy, nothing will.”

“I told you,” Irene smirked, leaning over Sherlock’s shoulder and pecking him on the cheek.

Sherlock didn’t bat an eyelid, barely even noticed the show of affection he was so engrossed. John glared at the two of them protectively. He didn’t want Irene messing around with his friend’s emotions again, if that was even what she did last time. He still wasn’t entirely sure.

“Shall I give her a ring?” He offered, wanting to get himself more involved in an effort to push Irene out. She’d done her bit; she could leave the rest to them now. “Tell he we’ve got something she ought to see.”

But before Sherlock could answer, the laptop beeped loudly from its position on the desk they were sat next to, alerting them to a message having come through from the website.

That meant clients.

John grabbed it and dragged it onto his lap, eagerly opening up the e-mail and giving a quiet gasp of surprise, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead. “It’s him. It’s…off Gruner.”

Sherlock snatched the laptop from him without saying a word and flipped it round so he could read it.

I’ve seen the CCTV footage. I know all about your little deception earlier this evening. Meet me tonight at Aldwych. 11pm. I have a proposition for you.

“Aldwych?” Irene asked.

“The abandoned tube station next to Charing Cross,” answered Sherlock.

“How do we get access?” asked John. “Isn’t it like…closed down? Grade II listed or something?”

“My brother can let us in.”

John rolled his eyes slightly. “Of course he can.” He glanced at his watch. “Well, I’d better get ready, I suppose.”

“No, you’re not coming.”

“What?”

“This could be dangerous, John.”

“And?”

“You’re not coming.”

“Then you’re not going.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’m not being ridiculous, Sherlock, I’m being deadly serious. I’m not letting you go out on your own, not in your condition and not to meet this psychopath. Besides, you might need a gun, and you can’t shoot straight.”

Sherlock looked mildly insulted at that. “Yes I can.”

“Of course you can,” said John sarcastically before wandering off to make himself a quick cup of tea. Sherlock could argue with him all he wanted; he was still going.

***

The Aldwych section of the London Underground was closed during World War II and used for an air raid shelter, and although one of the platforms afterwards, the other still remained closed. It was never a particularly popular station and TFL couldn’t justify spending the millions that would have to be shelled out on refurbishment so, after running limited and peak time only services for many years, the second platform was finally closed down permanently in 1994.

Everything about the place felt dated and old fashioned, and John felt a slightly odd eerie atmosphere as the two of them trapsed through the deathly quiet and echoey corridors of the station. Now and again, there came a sudden gust of wind and a breeze as if from nowhere, followed by the distant rumblings of the nearby Piccadilly Line and gave him the creeps.

“Where abouts are we meeting him?” he whispered to Sherlock, as if not wanting to interrupt the silence of the place.

“I don’t know. Platform, probably.”

“You know how to get there?”

“Yep.”

“Why does that not surprise me,” John muttered, jogging for a couple of seconds to fall back into step with Sherlock’s long strides, the two of them walking side by side down the corridor and finally turning the corner to emerge onto one of the platforms.

Amazingly, there was still a train sat there on the far side, half sticking out of the tunnel and looking rather sad and forlorn and sorry for itself, falling to pieces and turning rusty. A few mice scattered away at the sound of their footsteps on the tiled floor and soon, there was another set of footsteps echoing from the other side of the platform, up near where the train carriage was.

Aiden Gruner emerged from the shadows, walking towards them with a small smile and looking left and right and up and down, as if he was taking the everything in and admiring his surroundings.

“Lovely place this, isn’t it? Fascinating. So quiet, isolated.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes slightly and let out a small sigh, wishing Gruner would just get to the point.

“Perfect place to kill someone, don’t you think? I wonder how many murders have happened down here…One or two, I should imagine.”

At that, he withdrew a gun from his pocket and pointed it at Sherlock, stopping his idle stroll and standing his ground some five metres away.

John immediately withdrew his own and pointed it back at Gruner.

“I could kill you both right now and no one would ever know.”

“Mmmm…” Sherlock pretended he was thinking about it for a second. “Nope.” He popped the ‘p’. “Actually, my brother would know. He knows we’re down here so…when we didn’t come back he’d invariably come searching for us. Or at least, he’d send someone to search for us. Never does anything himself.”

“And you wouldn’t be able to kill us without me killing you,” John added, removing the safety catch.

Gruner chuckled, his shoulders shaking with the laughter as if really enjoying some hilarious joke that neither John nor Sherlock could understand the punch line to. “I’m not here to kill anyway, I’m here to make a deal,” he said, lowering his gun arm to by his side and taking two steps forward. “I want that book back.”

“Not happening,” said Sherlock.

“Name your price. Any amount of money. It’s yours.”

“Still not happening.”

“We can’t be bought out, Gruner,” added John. “Our friend’s welfare is more important to us than money. Sherlock doesn’t give a shit about money anyway so you’re trying to bribe the wrong guy here.”

“Mm, true, if I wanted money I’d just pinch some off Mycroft. We’re keeping the book, Gruner, and that’s the end of it, so if that’s all we’re here for, I suggest you turn around and walk away before my small, angry doctor here puts a bullet in you.”

“Small?” John shot him an objecting glance.

Sherlock shrugged, unapologetic.

Gruner gave an angry and frustrated cry before raising the gun one more time and firing off a shot.

The noise reverberated round the circular and hollow chambers of the tube station, deafening them all momentarily and John felt a sudden, familiar searing hotness in his left arm as the bullet made contact.

He gave a yelp of pain and his legs buckled slightly, firing off a couple of shots from his own gun back in the direction of Gruner before staggering into Sherlock’s arms who was immediately there for him, grabbing him and getting him to the floor.

“John…John, are you alright?”

He heard his friend’s panicked voice through the blur and mayhem of what had just happened, scrunching up his eyes tight then forcing them open again and wincing.

“John…”

Sherlock was ripping at his clothes in a frenzy, tugging at his jacket and jumper and shirt, as some blood began to seep through.

“Sh…Sherlock…I’m fine,” John muttered, everything coming back into focus again as he told himself to concentrate on the situation, the adrenalin kicking in and taking over, analysing his own wound. “Pretty sure it just sliced through.”

As Sherlock fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, John helped him by shrugging his injured arm out, cursing loudly as he did so with the pain.

“Take it easy, John, don’t move it so much,” Sherlock chastised him with a gentleness of tone that John never saw, genuine concern and worry in his bright multicoloured eyes. “Just…tell me it’s going to be OK.”

“Of course it’s going to be OK, Sherlock, it’s just…” He turned his head to actually look at his arm now it was out. There was a decent chunk of skin missing and plenty of blood gushing out, but the bullet had passed straight through and wasn’t lodged in him, and it had missed any major veins, arteries or organs. “Just a flesh wound. I’ll honestly be fine, just…leave me here and get after Gruner, OK? You’ll be faster on your own. Did I get him?”

They both stopped what they were doing and looked over at where Gruner had been standing previously. He was gone.

“I think you missed,” smirked Sherlock, relieved that John’s injury was only minor. “And you said I was a bad shot.”

“Excuse me, I was injured,” John objected, laughing slightly.

The two of them chuckled quietly as Sherlock stood up and, leaving John sat with his back up against the wall clutching his arm and resting, set off after Gruner armed with the gun and ready for action.

Sadly, he didn’t find any.

Despite trawling through the tube station for another twenty minutes, there was no sign of the sly Austrian. He was long gone.

***

Sherlock and John felt like they were becoming regulars at the hospital, especially when one of the nurses who had helped patch Sherlock up did the same for John some three days later, but thankfully they didn’t need to spend too long there. Several stitches later and he was insisting that he be allowed to go home.

“What about rest?” Sherlock asked, the roles completely reversed from last time. “Shouldn’t you…I don’t know…stay here so they can keep an eye on you?”

“Sherlock, really, I’ll be fine. I hate hospitals just as much as you do.”

“You work in them.” Sherlock gave him a perplexed look.

“Yes, and everyone knows doctors make the worst patients, now let’s just go home.”

“We’re not going home, we’re going round to Molly’s.” Sherlock opened up his coat and showed John the black book which was still safely tucked away in his inside pocket. “Let’s give her this and get this thing over with. She’ll break it off with Gruner then we can get him arrested for shooting you. Attempted murder, possession of a firearm etc. I’m sure Lestrade will be able to slap on the charges.”

“Right yeah, fine, good idea,” John agreed with a nod, signing his own release form and scribbling his phone number at the bottom for the pretty nurse before following Sherlock down the corridors towards the exit.

Outside, they jumped in a taxi and headed straight for Molly’s small flat, west of Central.

Sherlock could tell something was wrong from the moment they arrived.

“He’s been here,” he remarked, frowning as he ran a gloved finger over the doorframe then pressed the buzzer for Molly’s flat.

“How d’you mean?”

“I can smell him.”

“Geez, Sherlock…exactly how good is your nose?”

“He has a distinct brand of aftershave, it’s not difficult.” He pressed the bell again. Still no response.

“Mm, the light’s are on,” John remarked, gazing up at the window of her first floor residence before cupping one hand near his mouth (from his uninjured arm) and yelling up. “MOLLY!”

“Shh!” Sherlock nudged him.

John gave him a look. “Why do we have to be quiet?”

“In case he’s still around.” He pressed the buzzer on one of the other flats and waited.

A couple of minutes later, a man in his early twenties answered. “Can I – “

Before he’d had chance to finish his question, however, Sherlock had barged right past him and into the hallway of the house.

“Sorry,” John mumbled an apology and stepped in after him.

“Excuse me?” The man turned and looked at them both in shock. “Who are you? What are you doing?”

“Uh, we’re friends of Molly,” John explained. “Flat 3? She’s not answering her buzzer.”

“Oh right, Molly, yeah,” the poor chap seemed a little relieved at that, obviously having thought originally that the two of them were burglars or murderers or something. “She was definitely in earlier, then her boyfriend came round.”

Sherlock was already on the stairs heading up, but he stopped at that and turned round to look at the Flat 1 resident. “Is he still here or has he left?”

“I heard someone come down the stairs and then slam the door about half an hour ago so yeah, I think he left.”

Sherlock nodded and hurried on up, followed by John.

They knocked directly on her door.

No answer.

“Molly?” Sherlock crouched down and spoke through the keyhole. “Molly, it’s us. Open up.”

Still no answer.

“Maybe that guy downstairs has a spare key?” John suggested. “Neighbours sometimes do that.”

Sherlock ignored him and stepped back before aiming a kick directly at the door frame, near where the handle and lock was.

“Orrrr…you could just break it down….” John sighed, moving to one side and allowing Sherlock to do what he wanted.

A second kick came flying in.

“You know…we could have just called her. On her phone.”

Third kick.

“That’s what most normal people do…”

Fourth kick. A few splinters of wood came flying off, the lock beginning to shatter and weaken.

“But then, I suppose you’ve never been normal…”

Fifth kick.

“Maybe that’s why I like you…”

Sixth kick and the door flew open, swinging back off the hinges, clattering against the wall behind it and revealing the small, homely flat beyond.

Somewhere inside, a cat meowed and then darted across their path into one of the other rooms, obviously frightened by the disturbance.

Sherlock, slightly out of breath from the exercise, reflipped his collar and stepped smoothly into the flat, leading the way through to the main living room on the left hand side just behind the door.

The sight that greeted them there was one that neither of them would ever forget, and one that would haunt both their dreams for many nights to come.

A small tabby cat was sat on the floor, mewing and purring and rubbing it’s head against a pair of feet; a pair of feet that were suspended and dangling in the air about two inches off the ground, swinging slightly back and forth along with the rest of Molly’s body. Her neck was at a crooked, awkward angle, her eyes were half open and rolled to the back of their sockets, her skin was a pale yellowish white, already beginning to discolour in the aftermath of death.

John was the first to act, rushing towards her and grabbing at her legs, pushing her body upwards in an attempt to remove some of the pressure of the tight rope that was placed around her neck but inside, logically, medically, he already knew it was too late. Far too late.

Sherlock jumped up on the sofa and stretched out his long arms to remove the rope from the small iron hook which had been drilled into the ceiling, silently helping to get Molly’s stiff body down and rest it on the sofa. Her two cats came round and leapt on top of her, meowing and pawing at her clothes while John performed some cursory checks for her non-existent pulse.

Sherlock immersed himself in his work, choosing to cut off the emotions he was so obviously feeling and concentrate entirely on finding out what had happened and why. It was too late to help Molly now, he argued inside his head. No sense getting upset about it. Stay focused.

“Well, I think we can both agree it wasn’t suicide,” he murmured.

“Mm?” John looked back at him over his shoulder, still crouched down by Molly’s lifeless body on the sofa.

The detective stooped low to the floor and ran his finger across the carpet before showing it to John. “Dust. Fresh too. That hook,” he pointed up to the ceiling. “Was fitted for the purpose, so that it would take her weight.”

“Right…” John was finding it pretty difficult to concentrate. This wasn’t just some random victim they had no emotional connection with. This was Molly. Their friend.

“John,” Sherlock said quietly, walking over and placing a hand on his shoulder. “Stand up.”

“But…”

“There’s nothing you can do for her now, and I need your help.”

There was a pause. John looked back between Molly and Sherlock.

“The only thing we can do now is catch Gruner. Please. John. Focus.” He offered him out a hand.

“Right uh…yeah. Focus. Yeah.” John clasped it and hauled himself up off the floor, brushing the knees of his jeans down a little. “What do you need me to do?”

“Look around.”

“Look around. Right.” He nodded stiffly and left the cats to mourn for their owner as the pair of them perused round the flat for any evidence.

In the end, it didn’t take long for John to find something of importance and inadvertently prove his worth to Sherlock.

“You might want to take a look at this…”

“What is it?” Sherlock was on the other side of the room by the bookcase, but came stalking over in an instant to where John was standing by the small two person dining room table.

“This was just sat here on the table. I think he uh…probably wanted us to find it.”

It was a note on an A4 sheet of paper, typed. In big bold letters in the centre of the page it read:

THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU PUSH ME.

THE WOMAN’S NEXT.

“Typed it so we wouldn’t see the difference in handwriting between his and Molly’s,” Sherlock murmured, snatching the piece of paper from John’s hands and turning it over, examining it from every angle but at the same time being careful not to touch too much of it and corrupt it with his own fingerprints. “This would still pass as a sort of encrypted suicide note for any idiot at the Yard. Pushed to suicide by the breakup of her relationship, alternating between referring to herself in first person and third person, deluded and not in her right mind, etc etc.”

“The woman? Do you think he means…”

“The Woman woman, yes.”

“We’d better warn her.” John took out his phone and began to locate her number.

“Tell her we’re coming over right now.”

“We are? What shall we do about?” He glanced over at Molly.

“She’s not going anywhere. Come on.” He grabbed John’s wrist and yanked him towards the door.

“I didn’t mean that!”

“I don’t know, John,” snapped Sherlock, losing his temper slightly for the first time since this whole thing began. “Call an ambulance on the way over to Irene’s or something. Call Lestrade. Call my brother, call whoever you want. There’s no sense fussing over one dead person when we could have a second on our hands if we don’t get a move on. Now let’s go!”

***

Irene Adler was surprisingly angry and sympathetic at hearing the news of what had happened to Molly. John had always imagined her to be more of the uncaring, unfeeling type, but she displayed a sudden passion and fire he hadn’t particularly expected, her perfect unblemished skin crinkling up in a frown and an expression of distaste, shaking her head with sadness.

“She didn’t deserve that. I didn’t know her very well but…she seemed like a good person.”

“She was,” mumbled Sherlock quietly. “Kind. Sensitive. Always made time for people.”

John reached out and gave Sherlock’s arm a small squeeze as the three of them sat side by side on Irene’s sofa, waiting in semi darkness for Gruner to arrive, which he invariably would. John knew Sherlock wouldn’t take Molly’s death all that well, no matter how much he tried to cover it. He’d need to support him however he could, if the detective allowed him to.

“We’ll get justice for her,” he mumbled.

“Gruner’s a piece of shit,” sighed Irene. “He deserves all he gets. You know, he once thought he could try and control me…own me…”

“Mm, would have like to see him try that,” muttered Sherlock.

“He didn’t get very far.” She stood up and walked over to her desk, retrieving a small vial of clear liquid. “If he tries anything this time, I’m going to throw this in his face.”

“What is it?” John asked.

“Acid.”

“Probably won’t be necessary. There’s three of us and we’ve got a gun.”

“You’ve got my gun, Sherlock.”

“I have?” He frowned then felt around in his pockets. “Oh yes. So I have.” He took it out and handed it back to John, who checked the bullets and got it ready for action, just as there was a loud and determined knock at the door.

“That’ll be him,” said Sherlock.

The three of them tensed slightly.

“Do you think he’ll try to kill me immediately, or come in and sweet talk me a little first?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock answered in a whisper. “Let’s all go to the door together and see. You answer it on your own, we’ll stay out of the way, hidden but close.”

They all got up off the sofa and crept out into the hall, with John and Sherlock standing with their backs against the wall so that they would be behind the door when Irene opened it.

“Good evening, Ms Adler,” said Gruner smoothly, obviously going for the ‘talking first’ approach. “Sorry to drop in on you unexpectedly like this. Mind if I come in for a quick chat?”

“You’ve got five minutes,” Irene replied tersely. “I’m expecting a client.”

She swung the door open a little wider and Gruner stepped in.

Almost immediately, he spotted Sherlock and John lingering against the wall.

He gave a small cry of surprise then quickly turned and attempted to retreat back out onto the street to run away, but Irene’s arm twitched and in one movement she had flung the entire vial of acid at the back of his head.

The scream that followed was so loud and earsplitting that it was difficult to believe the entire street hadn’t heard it.

Gruner’s legs buckled and he dropped to his knees on Irene’s front door step, clutching at his neck and hair and howling and yelling in pain.

Sherlock and John were on him in an instant, grabbing his hands and yanking them downwards, John holding him still so that Sherlock could slap a pair of cuffs on.

They hauled him to his feet and dragged him back inside the house where John did his best to treat the acid burning whilst they waited for the police to arrive. Sherlock roughly searched their new prisoner’s pockets and found him to be in possession of the gun he had used to shoot John, as well as a small bottle of poison which he was obviously planning to use to murder Irene, no doubt setting up another fake suicide in an effort to get away with it.

And then, almost as quickly as it had began, it was over.

It had been one of those cases that John was loathe to document and Sherlock wanted to forget. Although the culprit at the heart of it had been caught (and given a lengthy sentence), it had been at great personal cost to the detective and those he cared about. Lestrade too, took Molly’s death particularly badly, and the funeral was a difficult day for all involved.

***

“Life rarely gives happy endings, John,” Sherlock offered up an unexpected philosophical musing round the breakfast table the following day, having remained mostly silent and introverted throughout the funeral and all of the previous evening, opting not to attend the wake following the ceremony and using his lack of social skills as an excuse to get out of mingling. John had been slightly worried, but Lestrade had persuaded him to stay with the others at the pub and drink to the memory of their lost friend and colleague. Sherlock just needed space, time to think and reflect. He’d be OK. He always was. He had to be.

John stared at him over the brim of his coffee cup. “Mm. No, I suppose it doesn’t.”

“I wonder who’s going to give me body parts now.”

And that was the last that was said about it. For a long, long time.

Life went on, the world continued turning, and clients from all over the UK and the world continued needing the advice and help of Sherlock Holmes, and the sour, bitter memory of Molly Hooper’s last boyfriend gradually began to fade.