Mycroft Holmes is - quite pleased - with his brother. The contents of the memory stick have ensured that Moriarty`s new Colombian Cartel never happened. Special Forces stormed in and many valuable arrests were made. Months; perhaps years of work were destroyed and many lives were, doubtless, saved. There was, of course, no sign of Professor Moriarty, `the Hollow Man` (as Mycroft likes to call him). All links and threads ended in nothing. Sherlock was right – it would be years before he would hazard such a daring risk of exposure again. It was truly incredible he had shown himself at all. Clearly, reflects Mycroft, Sherlock is Moriarty`s pressure point. He is quite sure their time will come again. In addition, the Professor had also lost his second in command; a very valuable asset. Moran was a man who could have been invaluable to them, with the right persuasion. He wasn't quite sure how much of Sherlock`s `maze intruder` story he believes, but he has allowed his brother a little leeway. After all, he is still in receipt of a, seemingly, endless amount of grief from their mother for `letting` Sherlock catch the measles. Families. An exasperated sigh escapes Mycroft`s lips. Dogs were infinitely more reliable. He pats Diogenes on his little Chihuahuan head as he reads a text. From Sherlock. How unusual.

"B.M.? SH" It read. Really, Sherlock, how do you expect me to know that? Of course he knew. Mycroft put down Diogenes and texted back.

"A place of healing. MH" Mycroft smiles. Sherlock hates riddles.

But, almost instantly, a text pings back.

"Bartholomew." It said.

x0x0x0x0x0x00x

Three months later…

Due to the renovations at Bart`s taking longer than expected, John Watson finds himself in Skylab`s subterranean tranquility several times a week to complete collation of his research data. He is quite happy pootling about in Sherlock`s A-list lab so long as any toxins are given a wide berth. He`s had enough of poisons for one – millennia.

Waiting for a centrifuge cycle to finish, John flips open his laptop to put a few finishing touches to his latest blog - `The Case of The Devil`s Flower`. He feels it has a suitably arresting ring to it and typing it has kept him busy, since he was avoiding Facebook these days. He`d just keep it under wraps until the last possible minute in case Sherlock kicks off about his flair for the `dramatic`. Couldn't avoid it being `flowery` this time, though. John smiles to himself at his own joke.

"Self-congratulation is no advertisement, John."

Oh, he`s up then. Early – only 11.30 a.m. John spins around and is – amazed – to see Sherlock Holmes, not only up, but dressed, in his outdoor jacket and holding – a deerstalker. It looks new and – possibly – has something embroidered on one of the peaks. John cranes his neck to see.

"Sherlock, what is written on your lovely hat?"

Sherlock Holmes sulkily casts the offending item onto the granite bench where John is thrilled to read the legend:

`Sherlock`s Hat`, beautifully sewn in blue.

"Oh – goodness…" words temporarily fail him. "Lovely. Blue for a – boy…"

"More excited tourists impeding my progress along Baker Street. Hoping I`ll wear it, `next time your`re on Crimewatch`."

John Watson is openly laughing.

"I blame you, John. Your blog, which you are no doubt adding to at this very moment, has done this. I have had pictures taken with four groups of tourists; signed sixteen autographs and had to hold – a baby."

John wipes some tears away and tries to get a grip. "What? But you like babies now."

Sherlock catches sight of John`s new blog entry and slams down his laptop lid in disgust.

"I like my baby – and yours is fairly tolerable, but as a species – "

"A species – Sherlock, you have to see that this is the fun part of `being Sherlock Holmes`. The fans; the blogs; the baby holding. It brings in the clients too, and the more clients mean a bigger caseload to choose from."

Apparently, unable to stand the sight of it a moment longer, Sherlock pushed the customised headgear into a drawer, where he searches around for a nicotine patch.

"Ah, yes. A rather over excited elderly lady accosted me on the Strand today, insisting her new lodger was contemplating suicide, since she was horribly disfigured and had been heard groaning in the night."

"Sounds promising."

"Perhaps, until I realise that the lady in question is a fairly famous actress and has had a brow lift and nose job. She is merely recovering from plastic surgery at a secret location, to avoid being discovered by the newspapers and gossip magazines. Tawdry, John."

John opens up his lid and decides to change the subject.

"What were you doing in the Strand, anyway? I thought you were in bed." Sherlock had acquired a lab coat and goggles and was adjusting a blowtorch nozzle. Worrying?

"I met Mycroft at Simpson`s for breakfast. An appalling assault on the senses so early in the morning, but he had updated information on Bartholomew Moriarty. It seems the Professor`s handiwork has been identified by local forces in Barcelona. I may have to take a look."

John looks hard at his friend. He contemplates carefully before speaking.

"He WILL kill you next time, if you interfere. You know that."

"He will try." Adjusting the flame further, and reaching into the drawer again.

"Look – I know you don't remember much – "

"I remember enough."

John sighs.

"It`s not just about you now, Sherlock."

Within a second, Sherlock Holmes has whipped out the offending deerstalker, thrown it into the lab sink and incinerated it with a serpentine blast of flame. After a soaking from the tap, it sits, a sad pile of charred, tweedy ashes, smoking slightly.

A moment passes.

"Feel better now?"

"Not really." And the man who cares, stomps laboriously up the stairs to 221B.

x0x0x0x0x0x0x0x

Two days later, John and Mary are sitting on the sofa in Baker Street to watch the final episode of `Leo`s Lions`. Since the suicide of Brenda Mortimer and disappearance of the famed TV doctor, his programme has virtually reached cult status. It hit almost 18 million viewers last Saturday, not including iplayer watches. John hopes that, wherever he is now, Dr. Sterndale has found some peace.

Molly has made tea and Mrs. Hudson has left a very promising looking chocolate ganache. John suspects that, since his measles, she is still trying to `feed up` Sherlock. Sherlock lies across the other armchair, apparently half asleep, which doesn't seem easy, due to the discomfort of the chair and the consistently resonant roar of countless lions.

Through the powerful backdrop of the African savannah and all its photogenic glory, they all hear the doorbell and Mrs. Hudson`s familiar footfall on the stairs. She knocks and peeps in through a crack in the door. She has a smiling, yet conspiratorial expression as she beckons over to Molly.

"What`s the mystery, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock is roused from his stupor. There is a rustling of – what sounds like – cellophane behind the door and the Landlady continues to look pleased, yet furtive.

"Oh, Sherlock, don`t pretend you don`t know. Molly, dear, didn't I tell you he has a poetic soul – a romantic in disguise."

And as she brings her right hand forward and opens the door, a sweet, cloying and sickeningly familiar scent pervades the room. Molly finds herself in receipt of an extravagantly beautiful arrangement of white, trumpet-shaped flowers, wrapped in black and gold cellophane and tied with a white ribbon. A small card can be seen nestling amongst the intricate folds; a card sealed with the image of a bird. A magpie.

Instantly, Sherlock leaps up and John Watson snatches the bouquet of Colombian Devil`s Breath (brugmansia) from the hands of the startled landlady, throwing it out of the room and halfway down the stairs. Both men half fall, half jump across them and out of the front door, hoping for a glimpse of the deliverer. As could have been predicted, however; even after running three streets without stopping, they find no-one. London has swallowed up another lead to the Professor. As they return, sweating and empty handed, Mary and Molly meet them on the stairs. They can all hear Mrs. Hudson`s shower running.

Molly holds out the card. Sherlock notes she is wearing gloves. It simply says:

"hasta la próxima vez. B.M."

Until the next time.

EPILOGUE

John is passing brightly coloured bricks to his son, who is laboriously licking them before posting them, with infinite care, into an empty saucepan. John doesn't question Sholto`s choice of activity, since he is barely ten months old, but he has to admit that babies can be distinctly – odd. Since the game has been going on for a good ten minutes, he is glad to be distracted by his mobile.

Blimey.

"Er – hello Sherlock…so, erm…we`re doing phone calls now?" Sherlock Holmes texts. End of.

"John. I am incredibly bored. What are you doing?"

John looks at the saucepan of saliva-drenched cuboids and just can`t find the words.

"Sorry Sherlock, I`m looking after Sholto – any criminal activity will just have to wait until – ooh, 6pm tonight."

He can hear a faint sound in the background – sort of music – cheerful music. Much too cheerful.

"Are you listening to Katy Perry, Sherlock? Or One Direction, maybe?"

A groan escapes from the mobile. "God, I am dying. You have no idea." Considering the events over the past few months, John feels himself extremely qualified to know about Sherlock Holmes dying. It`s definitely more common than … this phone call.

"No case, then?"

A sigh. "No, if only that were true. I am watching a film. With Benedict."

Oh, goodness.

"So, he`s tired of the periodic table flash cards then? Fancy." John fancies he can hear Sherlock roll his eyes. He knows for a fact that Molly has actually hidden them.

Sherlock continues.

"It`s about a father…"

"Ok."

"Who`s wife is brutally murdered…"

What?

"…by a serial killer; and his son is left physically disabled."

"Sherlock, I do – "

"In a twisted turn of events, his son is kidnapped and the father has to track and chase the kidnapper for thousands of miles, with only the help of a mentally disabled friend."

All sorts of horrendous scenarios are running through the mind palace of John Watson – as if showing case photographs to young Archie hadn`t been bad enough…

"What the hell - you just can`t – what is it called?"

With a thudding heart, he hears rustling whilst Sherlock finds the DVD case.

"Finding Nemo," he reports.

THE END