Chapter 15

"I take it the note you showed me was a ruse." Lestrade had left them in the trailer and gone to ensure that the scene was processed properly. Mycroft's tone was matter-of-fact, but John felt the accusation.

"I'm sorry. Sherlock worked out that Moriarty's last follower worked for you, and..." he trailed off. He didn't need to explain matters to Mycroft, and the two brothers were now engaged in one of their bouts of tense, silent communication.

"Of course I didn't want anything to happen to you," Sherlock finally burst out. "Nothing fatal, anyway."

"All's well that ends well," Mycroft said. He spoke lightly, but John wondered what emotions might be smoldering under the smooth facade. Mycroft turned to gaze at John for a long moment.

"Excellent shooting," he commented. John thought that at such close range he should've been able to kill, and Mycroft read his expression and clarified. "Under the circumstances. I appreciate it very much."

"Anytime," John said lamely.

Mycroft smiled thinly and then moved close to Sherlock, grasping his arm so that he could lean in and speak into his brother's ear. Sherlock scowled. "No," he said.

"Think it over," Mycroft counseled. "The offer stands. Now I must confer with my assistant so that we may begin setting things in order. This incident has revealed a very serious weak spot in our organization." He shook hands with John and departed.

"She didn't even rough him up," Sherlock said sadly. John sighed. There was no point in trying to force Sherlock to admit that he cared, even a little. Or in trying to discover what offer Mycroft had tried to tempt him with. If Sherlock wanted to share, he would, and if not, he would just become irritated or tell a lie or both. "Don't you want to know what he said?" Sherlock invited. John nodded for him to continue. "He wants to give you an OBE."

"And you turned it down for me? Thanks ever so." Sherlock scanned him, trying to determine whether he was serious. John took pity on him. "It's fine. I'm happy with the titles I already have. Doctor, Captain."

"Confirmed bachelor?"

"OK, that one I might be willing to let go of. Someday."

"In the meantime—" Sherlock sounded hesitant, and again John leapt to give him the answer he was looking for before he had to ask.

"You are moving back in, aren't you?"

"Naturally."

"And you are going to tell me how you knew what to say in there?"

Sherlock frowned at him. "You didn't notice his calluses?"

"What about them?"

"He didn't have any!"

John laughed. Sherlock's eyes were already unfocussed, and John knew he was visualizing the unconscious body in the hotel room with every bright detail picked out as if by a spotlight. His words tumbled out in a rush. "He had a union tattoo on his forearm indicating that he is a laborer at the docks, but he had no fresh calluses. He's been out of work for at least four months. I already told you that his dental work was unmistakably Australian. In his pocket, a matchbook from the Scorpion and Frog. Toby Adams, the bartender at that pub, is a fixer. Moriarty used him from time to time when he needed some low-level punters to round out a crew. This is the connection between our man and X. The sum of money promised for abducting you was mentioned in the text messages they exchanged. Cat hair all over his clothing means he lives with a cat. But red eyes and the reddened scratch mark on the back of his hand means he's allergic. Perhaps he puts up with the animal for the sake of a girlfriend. He washed his hair with Seneca coconut lime shampoo, a brand available only from salons. Why would a dockworker use such a luxury product? His girlfriend was a hairdresser. But his hair was shaggy, hadn't been trimmed in over six weeks. They had broken up. Who does the cat belong to, then? He was carrying a prescription for Vicodin made out to Natalie Campbell. That's just pain medicine, you say. Could be for anything. But there was a note attached, asking him to fill the prescription on his way home. The handwriting is that of an older woman with arthritis. He lives with his disabled mother."

"That's fantastic."

"So I've been told." Sherlock was trying for an offhanded tone, but John saw a genuine smile.

Suddenly Lestrade was back. "Are you sure you're OK?" he asked John.

"Yes, fine."

"Paramedics don't think she's going to survive," he informed them. "Too much blood loss. But it'll come in as lawful. Can you come over to the Yard for official statements this afternoon?"

"Of course."

"Thanks." He turned to Sherlock. "Now, you."

"Can we not skip this?" he grumbled.

Lestrade glared at Sherlock's defiant expression. "If I thought that anything that came out of my mouth— lecturing, yelling, hell, even begging— if I thought it had the slightest chance of making an impression, I would do it. But I know it doesn't."

Sherlock's gaze dropped to his shoes. Apparently being informed that he was considered a lost cause, not worth the effort of trying to guide and reform, was worse than being scolded.

"You put John through hell."

"Greg," John protested.

Lestrade waved his hand to signal his disregard of John's attempt to intervene. "There is a cost to your behaviour, Sherlock, and it generally falls on other people. You may not know, you may not care, but…" He slowed his speech to emphasize each word separately. "You have been told. That's all I have to say. I'm glad you're back. I have some files that might interest you when you two come by later."

A glance at his friend told John that Sherlock wasn't going to reply. "He'd love to." Lestrade heaved a sigh and left them alone again.

"I didn't want to do it," Sherlock said quietly, eyes still downcast.

"I know." Sherlock finally lifted his head to meet John's gaze, looking remarkably open and vulnerable, as he sometimes did. John searched for the words to reassure his friend. "Sometimes on the battlefield there are no good choices." Sherlock nodded, and John could see sadness, apology and gratitude in his eyes.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Well, we won this round, didn't we? Shall we head back to Baker Street? You've barely slept in the past 24 hours."

"Let's get something to eat first," John suggested. "I'm starving."

"If you like."

"Are you sure? You've been away forever. You must be ready for the end of the road."

"I don't mind. I know a great place for breakfast on Mare Street."

"Two Boots? Sherlock, you have been gone for months. That place closed down right after New Year's." Sherlock seemed quite cross that his encyclopaediac knowledge of London had not automatically updated itself. "Don't worry. We can go to Railroad on Morning Lane. I've heard good things about their sausage sandwiches."

They walked out into the morning.

"Just tea for me."

Author's Note: I hope you liked it! Writing this story was a very absorbing and enjoyable challenge. I had never written for Sherlock or written anything with so much plot and action to be worked out. I really can't express how much I appreciate everyone who has read this far, and especially those who have taken a moment to review.

This is the end, but I've been toying with a bonus epilogue to the story, which would be John's blog entries for these events. Do you think I should write it? I'm not sure when it would be finished so if you're interested, please put the story (or me as author) on alert so that you'll be notified.