As the Starling Says Volume II

Chapter Four

"I'm certain I don't need to tell you how unwise it is to leave your possessions unattended on a public street," Sherlock watched Louisa twirl a small spoon through her cappuccino, separatin the foam on top of it into three equal sections.

"I wasn't overly concerned with the bike, you're right," she admitted, throwing the old, ugly contraption a regretful look. "That'll be twice in one night I've had to apologise."

"You mean to say you feel an apology is owed to the bicycle?"

She nodded her head morosely.

"You with the whole inanimate objects trope," he muttered irritably. "Is it that you believe the more quirks you possess, the more interesting you become?"

He was mildly disappointed when her response lacked her usual biting return of wit, as she said only in a small voice, "I wasn't aware I was so filled to the brim with quirks." She focused on her spoon, destroying the sections of foam now and stirring the whole thing together.

Her brow crinkled, and her mouth turned down. For the first time in all their acquaintance Sherlock was beyond certain that he'd wounded Daly. Ironically enough, he hadn't even meant to; but there was nothing to do for it now, so he settled for a change in subject.

"How did you know to go to the dry-cleaner?"

"I doubt I can give an answer that would satisfy you," Louisa replied with no marked hesitation, but her spirits had clearly yet to elevate to what they had been; she'd abandoned her coffee and was now staring at the remnants of her croissant, using her finger to nudge them around the plate, this way and that. "I remembered Kaleigh mentioning the approximate location, so I decided to search the entire area. I assumed the bar wouldn't be public, but cleverly hidden. Looking for the pseudo-business was simple once I narrowed down the possibilities of what would suit its true purpose."

Silence prevailed now, both parties fully expecting the other to speak further. Nearly a minute passed before Sherlock finally ventured for a prompt. "Well? Go on."

"That's…" Louisa blinked a few times. "That's about it, really."

"You've hardly explained your process."

She sighed harshly through her nostrils. "Well I don't think I should have to, considering you wound up with the same results as I did. If you want a detailed synopsis you might as well consult your own endeavours."

"I'd like to hear your-"

"I don't much care what you'd like at this very moment, Sherlock," she interrupted, pure annoyance burning over her expression. "I've not any inclination to check my work with you when there are more important things to discuss."

"When you signed on to this case you were signing on to work-checking, I'm sorry to tell you." Was the pitiless reply.

Louisa pushed a frustrated hand through her curls and several seconds lapsed as she – with visible effort – strove to inject some calm into her tone. "I never explicitly agreed to anything. I've humoured you before, and I will again in the future, but tonight I would greatly appreciate if you'd just accept the fact that I found the place using my own, authentic faculties. I knew to go there because I knew it."

"You realise," he began, brows raised. "That you might've finished your explanation by now if you'd just cooperated from the first."

"Well it's the principle of the matter now, isn't it?" she returned. "For the world, Sherlock, I cannot tell you that I know something without your determined nose following the trail, trying to sniff out a cheat. Is there really no part of you that trusts me?"

Holmes pursed his lips, clearly dissatisfied, but sans argument. In the end he said, "I'll ask at a better time."

He ignored the heavy way in which she rolled her eyes and fell to regarding her thoughtfully – regarding, in fact, the words she'd last spoken.

In truth, Sherlock felt more comfortable with Louisa's prowess for deduction than she would probably ever know; his desire for her explanations had ceased to boil down to disbelief, had actually morphed into nothing more than unbridled fascination for mapping her mind. He wanted to discover just how similar her brain really was to his own. There was no longer any doubt of her genius.

And, oddly enough, it had been a book of sketches, stolen from her during a choice moment of distracted attention, which wiped those doubts away.

Prior to the events of this Tuesday, which had thus far brought Louisa and Sherlock together at the same time to perform shaky – at best – reconnaissance on the side alley of Gamble & Peele, Sherlock spent the afternoon in the sitting room at Baker Street, rifling through the only possession of Louisa's he'd been able to get, and keep, his hands on.

John was there as well, and his soft noises could be just heard through the relaxed layer of Sherlock's mind-matter. But the detective had some time ago forgotten what he'd even commissioned Watson to do.

Impatient again – as ever the emotion this little volume, poised in his left palm, seemed to instil – Holmes flipped to the back and found the portrait of the Late, Great Iskandar Ervin, which lacked the finishing touches the artist's hand had yet to give. This was the last drawing, of course, leaving twelve pages of blank nothing before the book abruptly ended; and this last drawing was the only proof the book gave that it had ever belonged to Louisa.

There was no signature penned on any of the others (though there were a few dates plastered intermittently on the sketches she must have deemed important enough to receive them – the criteria for that seeming to Sherlock completely unpredictable) and Ervin's fleshy visage was the only thing Sherlock had personally witnessed her create. So, it seemed only natural that each time he perused the book – this instance marking the fourth viewing – that he should find the portrait, if only to make sure it was still there.

Any day Sherlock expected that Daly would turn up at his door, blazing with righteous indignation over her pilfered property, but she had apparently yet to realise its absence. The swap, performed the night Louisa had come to the flat to identify Ervin was one of the best Holmes had ever pulled off (handing her the Lionsgeld yearbook as she was preparing to leave), but all the same, the more time that passed, the more surprised he was.

It was that simple thing, more than the content of the sketchbook, which cemented in his opinion that the calibre of her mind was not to be trifled with. Time and time again, as he turned his eyes over the sketches he found, he heard a sentence she'd spoken to him, while ill at the Red Light, echo back to him through time.

I know floundering when I see it, Mr Holmes.

She was floundering too, then, and she didn't even know it. She was floundering, and her genius was suffocating, and that was why she'd attached herself to him. The only questions which remained were why she'd been put in his path at all, why this case resonated so strongly with her, and who she ultimately was. Was she really so human? But these ponderings always ended up filed away in his brain to bring up and re-examine on a later date.

Well, the drawings may have proved to be, as a whole, vastly uninteresting; and, like Ervin's portrait, a great deal of them went unfinished (various sketches of random, imagined mountain ranges and landscapes, sketches of people she'd captured during candid moments – like the surly old man reading the newspaper on a park bench or the couple sitting outside of a restaurant, both wholly engrossed by their mobiles as they ignored each other).

However, unfinished or completed, there was enthusiasm in every line drawn, a determination to catch all that she could see on paper that was almost felt as he analysed them. It was clear from all of this that Louisa had begun to practice her art from a young age. It was clear that she missed nothing, ever, in the things she saw. It was clear that detail was vital to her.

Beyond this little fact – and the epiphany which had only been half-formed on that afternoon, solidified in the evening once he discovered her outside of Gamble and Peele – there was only one small drop of substance to be found in the many sketches Louisa had pulled out of her brain… Only one drawing provided for him that burst of inspiration – another epiphany, even – which had already been lying dormant in his subconscious, waiting for the proper trigger.

It was a sketch of a woman, sitting behind a desk with one hand on her computer mouse, the other massaging an aggravated brow. This picture was as uninteresting in as the rest, in terms of context; he knew nothing of the woman, save for the vague inclination that she was a receptionist of sorts in an office of sorts, and the expression she wore was that of a regular citizen charged by her eccentric boss to crack into a foreign database; he cared even less for the woman, save for the fact that she reminded him of someone.

Yes, she resembled someone, this receptionist, with a slight cleft in her chin and a set of ears which rotated farther back on her head than an average person's. She looked like someone Sherlock hadn't thought of in some time – someone he shouldn't have forgotten about…

He'd first found this sketch the first time he looked through the book, on the night he'd taken it from her, but he hadn't truly noticed it until the Monday which preceded this afternoon. He'd gone to bed later that night and dreamt of the sketch, and all the next morning he'd wondered, with only a small percentage of his brain, who she was trying to call to mind. Which is, ultimately, what had made his crack the little black volume open for that fourth time, some minutes after Watson had arrived and been charged with his now forgotten job.

Sherlock sighed deeply now as he looked into the eyes of the sketched woman again.

"Who are you?"

"Sorry?"

Sherlock shut the book with a brusque snap. "Sorry?" he repeated at John, whose forehead crinkled as he looked up from Antoine Douglas' orphaned laptop.

"I missed what you said," John clarified.

"I don't follow." Mirroring, classic technique – always throwing off Watson and his like.

But, instead of shaking his head with a dull blink, as Sherlock fully expected him to do before returning to his assigned task, John's eyes narrowed. They seemed to zero in with a noise similar to that of the focusing lens of a security camera, onto the book in Sherlock's hands.

Holmes conjured a lie (not a very good one – but a detective does what he can when time is of the essence) as John spoke his sentence. "What've you got there?"

"Food diary – belonged to Douglas," he said quickly. "Constant narcissist, this one."

"Food diary," John repeated, and those two words expanded into a battalion of suspicious troops as they left his mouth.

Sherlock nodded patiently – such display of virtue serving only to fan the flames of Watson's dubiousness – but in the end John only shrugged and fell silent.

The quiet lasted only two minutes, however, before John then felt compelled to deliver a progress report. Leaning away from the computer with a frustrated sigh, he said, "Yeah, there's nothing here, mate. The only relatable emails I can find are those sent to Claressa Thomaston."

"Always be thorough, John," Sherlock reminded him, tone admonishing; if he'd said it once, he'd said it a thousand times. "We won't be at this much longer, anyway. Then it's off to Gamble and Peele."

"Where?"

"The dry-cleaner." Sherlock frowned deeply and stood. He took the sketchbook/food-diary to his desk and shut it safely in the top drawer. "I texted about it."

"I remember now," John ran a hand over the stubble growing across his lower cheeks (jowls which were becoming more defined every day, Sherlock noticed). "But all you sent was the name of the building. I thought you sent it to me by mistake. You do that a lot."

"Doesn't matter," Sherlock said, banishing the irrelevance with his decisive tone. "Just keep looking for another hour or so, then we'll go."

"Well, I can't," John replied, anxiety growing into visibility. It was clear he anticipated an argument. "I'm taking Mary to a show, then she's making dinner. But you never needed me for that sort of thing, anyway."

Sherlock had no reply for John. He stared for a moment at his hand, fingers curling to allow the examination of their nailbeds. Then he quickly decided to get back to work, pulling a plain beige storage bin from under his desk and rifling through the various folders kept inside it.

"You're upset," John observed, in what he probably fancied a keen tone.

"I'm not," Holmes insisted, neutrally enough, before selecting a folder. John watched with mounting tension as Sherlock shut the lid back onto the bin and retuned it under the desk.

Sherlock returned to a comfortable position in his armchair, flipping intently through the contents of his selected folder. Feeling the doctor's stare after nearly a minute, Sherlock looked up from his papers and said, "Emails, John."

"Alright then," John rolled his eyes and prepared to turn back to the screen… but his gaze was hooked back to Holmes as he noticed the abrupt change in the expression there. "What is it?" John demanded, perhaps too sharply; the slackened mouth and widened eyes of Sherlock's face was a nettling sight to one who'd grown as ready for dread as John.

"Your interview with Claressa Thomaston – you said it was pointless." Sherlock's eyes found Watson's, clear and yet far away. "Why was it pointless, John?"

"Well I thought… I'd told you already," John began, nonplussed but otherwise relieved. "She seemed to have an answer ready for every question before I could ask it. Either that, or she wouldn't answer a question at all."

"Right," Holmes nodded and said no more; something had fired off in his brain with the mention of Antoine's emails to Thomaston – that same something hammering more violently against his skull as he now gazed at a picture of the woman, clipped to the small note she'd left on Douglas' fridge; now held in the folder Sherlock had taken from the storage bin. At this moment, however, there was no telling what that something was.

No doubt in the world that Thomaston was sitting on a wealth of information regarding her beloved Tony, which few in his private circle could claim to be privy to; but Sherlock had an intuition that whatever she was hiding could be more easily gotten at through other channels – a few backroads to travel, as it were.

So, it wasn't necessarily Thomaston his brain was trying to emphasise for him, but she was certainly part of it. She was the end of it, perhaps… But there was a link still missing in the chain.

After several minutes spent in furious pontification, Holmes became aware that the left hand upon his knee was scratching anxiously against the fabric covering it, felt that gnawing restlessness once again seize up his limbs.

He sprang to his feet and burst into a pace fiery enough to attract John's attention a third time. Before John could form his questions, Sherlock motioned his hands in the doctor's direction to quiet him; the gesture was more of a miming of strangulation as he hissed to Watson, "Emails, John."

"Right away, your Highness," John mumbled, but Sherlock had no care for those hurt feelings; once John was looking elsewhere, he resumed his pacing.

For a long time, he fought against the resurgence of that incessant knocking which had troubled him since his initial return to London, tried to quell his intelligence back into a state which he could control. He began to long for those days (which had not been so very long ago, though the gap between Then and Now seemed a decade, at least) when he could focus his mind as easily as he could the lens of his personal microscope in the kitchen.

Then, the drawing Louisa had sketched of that receptionist swam back into his brackish channel of thought… But why? They didn't resemble each other at all.

"They're all connected," Sherlock muttered aloud (by this time Watson knew better than to so much as break eye-contact with the screen of the laptop in front of him. "How are they connected?"

He halted where he stood on the rug between Watson's chair and his own and planted both hands on either side of his cranium (merely an hour from now Louisa Daly would find herself in this exact pose – only seated – outside of the delicatessen). He clenched his eyes shut so forcefully that white blossoms grew behind the lids as though fed by richest sunlight.

Then, the moment the name popped up in his brain – simultaneously pouring from his lips in a pitch that was close to a shout – every other thought went cold, and still.

"Patricia Cartwright!"

He was looking right at John now, but the doctor never returned the gaze. Sherlock sighed and picked his mobile up from the end-table he'd left it on, searching the woman's name on the internet, pulling up images.

Patricia Cartwright – a heart-shaped face with a peak in her hairline which fell slightly more to the left of her forehead, upwards-sloping nose and catlike eyes, hair so blonde that it was almost silver… a subtle cleft in her chin, and what some would call quite wonky ears. Those final two features are what had screamed at him from the portrait of the receptionist, but in all of it together, Cartwright (or, Mullins, as she'd gone back to the use of her maiden name once the divorce from Robert Cartwright was finalised) was the picture of Claressa Thomaston; they might have been related.

Though, it was more apt to say Claressa resembled Patricia rather than the other way around, considering she was significantly older than Thomaston, and had at least a decade on Douglas.

"Well, he certainly loved you," Sherlock spoke to the photograph of Mullins displayed on his phone, before swiping to the left. This one featured the woman with her now ex-husband, a barrel of a man with hard eyes and a harder mouth; known for a smashing directorial debut twenty years ago with the release of Don't Fail Me Now.

"If you keep going on to yourself, I'll never be able to concentrate properly." John said now, sounding irate.

Sherlock strode over with a satisfied smirk and held the screen of the mobile in front of John's face, so he could see the epiphany.

"Who does she look like?" He asked.

John took the phone in his own hand, stretching it over a foot from his face and squinting in a manner which prompted Sherlock to advise, "You need a good pair of spectacles, Watson. Forget your pride and book an optometrist before your licence is seized."

John ignored the counsel, apparently engrossed with what he saw. "How could I miss it? I knew what Cartwright looks like."

"You should be asking why Cartwright never pursued a relationship with Douglas once her marriage ended," Sherlock said, speaking with renewed vigour. "There was a reason the affair died, and it wasn't Douglas's choice, as he had enough residual feelings to shack up with a younger model of her."

"So, we'll be talking to Thomaston again?"

Sherlock gestured vaguely. "Eventually. But I'll send myself on that errand, I think, when the time comes."

The implication of a job badly done was not lost on John. "I can't force people to tell me what they don't want."

"You can manipulate them… You can ask them questions in such a way they don't even know they're being questioned." Sherlock corrected immediately. "Which is all something you know, as I've seen you adopt these methods before."

This time John needed a beat to absorb the subtext – from disbelief rather than from a lack of understanding. "You're saying I didn't try very hard to make Claressa talk?"

Sherlock tilted his head, mouth turned in a way which seemed to silently speak his words for him: did you?

"She was as sealed shut as an occupied bomb-shelter," John cried. "I invite you to have a go, if you think you can do better."

"Well we've already established that I do plan to have a go…" Here Sherlock trailed off for several seconds, and John was fooled into believing the matter could be sulkily dropped between them now. But, as usual, Sherlock had to sneak in his final slight. "And I will do better, thank you."

"You're as pompous as a bloody prince, d'you know that?" John looked up at Sherlock with equal parts disdain and amazement.

"As it happens, I am descended on my paternal branch-"

"Shut up, Sherlock, before I finally decide to kill you in your sleep." John's mouth stretched into a heavy scowl as he grappled towards moving this odious conversation along. "If you're not planning to contact Thomaston any time soon, I assume your next target is Patricia Cartwright?"

"Yes, but she might actually prove herself to be an occupied bomb-shelter. It'll take some planning before I can root out a conversation with her."

"She'll not be easy to contact, either, unless you have Lestrade get involved; she's more than just a minor celebrity."

"I'll make it work." Sherlock said simply, and soon after this, the conversation died.

John made his excuses after another hour of fruitless searching, and departed the flat, leaving Sherlock to spend the remaining minutes until five o'clock learning everything he could about Cartwright/Mullins.

He digested every bit of information with special care, following trails which either led nowhere, or down a tunnel filled with dozens of directional choices. All this time he refused to allow his attention to be diverted, as it often wanted to be in these newer, detestable days. It was a challenging feat in the beginning, but at some point, he fell into an acceptable groove.

In fact, Sherlock discovered the time as nearly a quarter past five, when he finally resurfaced and registered the passing of it.

He kept the multiple web-browsers he'd been using up as he shut his computer and shed his dressing gown. In less than two minutes his Belstaff was donned and he was making his way to Gamble and Peele's dry-cleaning.

"So, when would be a good time for me to stop by?" Louisa asked now, blowing on her coffee with a sanguine expression, as the earlier argument had been avoided.

"Stop by?" Holmes repeated, after swallowing a fair bit of his own drink, which had scalded his tongue and throat on the way down.

"Yes, stop by your flat."

"I don't care, really. Whenever you want – though it depends on my mood whether I'll let you up, and we've already established that unpredictability. I do wonder," he tried another sip – too soon. "why you would stop by."

"Then you truly are thick," she smiled pleasantly as he sneered. "I want a look at all you have on Douglas. You're hoarding a cache of withheld information, no?"

"If any of it were good, don't you think I'd have used it by now?"

"I cast no aspersions on your discerning eye, Sherlock, have no fear." She replied with deep gravity. Then she raised a hand, reaching with all due decorum of a Shakespearian actor delivering a soliloquy; and with the limb raised her dramatic tenor. "Never would I dream of besmirching such beauteous art as thy brain – crafted by God himself – with words of discredit! Nay! Sir! May you not misinterpret my entreaty to serve as a blow to your great wit – your incandescent genius – your fierce intellect – your captivating noodle-"

"You're really not as funny as you think you are," Holmes intruded calmly, though still Louisa erupted into chortles of perfect mirth. "I mean that, Louisa – quite deeply."

She spoke between bouts of laughter that seemed almost painful to her. "I just… I kept expecting you to… stop me sooner," she was breathless, trying to subdue the spell of humour she'd flung herself under. "But you really held in there," Now she bit her lower lip to control her grin. The giggling ended soon after, and then she was adding with sincerity, "I'm quite proud of you, actually."

"Be serious," Sherlock snapped. "For a person who insists continuously on being included into complexities, you've spent a lot of time putting on various one-woman shows… and eating, of course." He inclined his head to the plate on the table between them.

"Not everyone can chug along on thirty calories a week, Sherlock," Louisa stated, with no intention of being shamed. "Moving along, though – tell me some of these complexities I don't already know… the more you talk, the less I will."

"First, you ought to know about Claressa Thomaston," Sherlock began, outlining the relationship she'd shared with Douglas, the ultimate knowledge she was likely to have of the goings-on at those ridiculous parties – which she'd refused to share with Watson – and her resemblance to Patricia Mullins.

"That name rings a bell," Louisa muttered, once Mullins was mentioned.

"I've just said she's a famous actress."

"No, I mean, her name rings a specific bell. I saw it, listed, somewhere odd…" she paused, tapping her index finger against her knee under the table.

It was uncommon for Louisa not to remember something she'd seen once she asked her brain, in direct terms, to display a snapshot back to her. The usual course for it was that the subject had been seen very quickly, or in her peripheral during a moment of relaxed attention, making the memory more likely to slither off into her subconscious.

And, unfortunately, when it came to dealing with her subconscious, Louisa was like a novice arctic fisher, throwing bait through a hole in obscuring ice; hoping to catch something while remaining completely ignorant as to the activities of the rushing waters below the frozen surface.

Sensing Sherlock's impatience, Louisa merely jotted a mental note to have a more thorough try later on and said, "If it's important, it'll come back to me. Why does it matter so much that Thomaston resembles her?"

"Douglas carried on a heavy affair with Mullins for five years. They were in love, and in the end – which came about two years ago – their relationship caused the divorce between Patricia and her husband. She returned to her maiden name with little public criticism, but still the affair with Antoine Douglas ended. I can only assume Patricia was the deciding vote in their separation, as he was sick enough over her loss to replace her with a look-alike."

"I don't see much significance in all this," Louisa confessed. "Douglas has had droves of public flings all over the city during the span of that affair, hasn't he? Can he really have been so in love with her, or is it more that he just likes a certain type of woman?"

"He liked all women, as you've pointed out; but he was only ever attached emotionally to these two. Besides," Sherlock smirked crookedly. "Men who fancy themselves in love can just as easily fancy meaningless sex as harmless to a relationship. Both concepts require a certain degree of stupidity to believe in, after all."

"I'm not ignorant as to the ways of fickle men," Louisa allowed. "But how can you suppose Mullins was at peace with the whims of her boyfriend? She had to have known about them all, considering photographs were constantly in the papers."

"She puts forward such a proper personality, you're right about that… She hardly seems the sort of woman who would ever remain with a man who couldn't be faithful to her, but – well, she was married, wasn't she? That alone puts a crack in her moral foundation. Looking into her younger, more personal life, before all the fame, she was – in terms she would likely use herself – a free-spirit.

"In fact, there was a blog I found which told an intricate tale of a polyamorous relationship held between Mullins, a woman named Kimberley, and the author of the blog who called himself Peter. The site hasn't been updated since 2002, and the entry was tallied at only twenty-three total views, so it took some searching to come across it."

"Well, the integrity of this faceless blog-author can hardly be relied upon, can it? Now that she's famous, this past decade has probably seen tens of thousands of people writing for nothing more than wish-fulfilment."

"I doubt that this is the case here; the blog describes in great detail the university courses the author shared with Mullins, insight to her character and background which can only be vaguely defined in public interviews, all along with photographs of the three of them together. Also, he went into equal detail about the second woman, which made my objective of finding and contacting Kimberly Mason nearly effortless. She proved herself quite willing to corroborate the information provided by Peter, the writer."

"Did you contact the writer as well? He might've had more to give than he'd already published in his blog."

"No answer, yet, bit I'm still anticipating some return to my many messages." Sherlock said. "Back to the original point, I learned that Patricia Mullins was raised in a family of more exuberance than wealth, and it would appear that her parents' knack for putting on airs was passed along the genetic line. In Patricia's case, her airs were to hide the orientation of her romantic inclinations, as well as her lifestyle of hallucinogenic drugs and shaky devotion to Buddhism.

"I do believe, however, she held affection for Robert Cartwright which those who judge such matters would deem genuine. She was also in love with Antoine Douglas. One man was content with an arrangement that would provide him with a stable partner, while allowing the continuance of sexual freedom. The other, older, more distinguished – a man of tradition, by all accounts – would never consent to be one of two suitors; such a thing would have made Cartwright a cuckold in his own eyes, no matter his wife's fluid views of love. Mullins must have understood this about her husband, as it took her half a decade to confess the whole affair to him."

"You think she told her husband willingly?"

"Yes, I believe she'd hoped he would accept her, hoped that his love for her would trump his pride. This scenario would explain the overall amicability of the divorce. A generous alimony was awarded to Mullins, she was allowed to keep their London home, and the matter was settled without a single negative comment from Cartwright, regarding his ex-wife. I've often found that divorces over irrevocable differences tend to be the quietest, most resigned of them all." With his drink now at a tolerable temperature, Sherlock sipped it, pausing only briefly before continuing. "They renounced each other; a bitter outcome, but still clean, without burning rage or jealousy. Patricia giving up the last name (despite it being the one under which she'd gained fame), speaks to a heartbroken goodbye."

"Then why end things with Douglas? One would think she'd rely on him even more; plus, she might've been cast in a more forgiving light if she'd stuck by the relationship."

"Well that's the big one, isn't it?" Sherlock returned. "Perhaps Antoine turned out to be less steadfast in his love than he professed – but his seeking a relationship with a woman who so closely resembles Mullins makes this unlikely; it's also unlikely that Mullins would end an affair with Douglas over anything trivial, when she'd confessed the business to her husband only a month prior – no doubt with that hope of finding a solution in which they all three might live happily."

"So he'd done something that she couldn't forgive," Louisa continued Sherlock's train of thought with her own. "And you think that whatever it was relates to the business which got him killed."

"Clearly," Holmes responded, his tone bored, and Louisa's expression soured.

She let it pass, saying, "D'you think she might've had anything to do with his death? Perhaps she told someone…"

"No, I would be shocked if either Cartwright or Mullins were directly involved at all."

"This case," Louisa said, blowing an amazed sigh from her lips. "It truly is one centimetre at a time, isn't it?"

"So it seems," Holmes said thoughtfully, and with a frown – but one which he was able to shake off with relative ease.

"You said john went to speak with Claressa Thomaston, didn't you?" Louisa changed the subject and Sherlock nodded. "Did he ever ask whether Douglas was faithful to her?"

"Watson inquired if the relationship was exclusive, yes; Thomaston's reply was that if Douglas dated other women, she was unaware of it."

"If Mullins knew, Thomaston must have; the flings were openly discussed until he died."

"She gave John to understand that reporters publishing those stories were simply out to make a profit and maintain viewership."

Louisa put her chin in her hand, looking pensive but speaking alertly. "She said that exactly?"

"Not exactly; the language she used – if Watson's account can be in any way counted on – was cleverly constructed, strategically ambiguous in areas where it would be best for her. Her exact phrasing was that she kept her relationship below the radar because Douglas was always in the papers for one reason or another; she wanted to avoid publicity. Here she subtly assumed ignorance of the truth in the papers, aided by flat-out distrust of the media."

"Well she was a theatre actress, and she writes now, yes?" Louisa said. "She's probably got a fair bit of practice in speaking through subtext."

"More than that, Claressa Thomaston is expecting more questions to be asked of her," Holmes added, grave lines forming at his downturned lips. "She's attempting to stay one step ahead."

Whatever he'd said to John in his moment of principled antagonising, Sherlock knew Thomaston was too smart – and too safe – to allow even a fraction of the information she had into the open air.

Almost to himself, he muttered, "She knows more than Mullins ever will, I'm certain of it."

"Then interview them both," Louisa suggested unhelpfully. "Or just bypass Mullins for now; if Thomaston has more intel, shouldn't you go to her first?"

"I need to speak with Mullins first… I have no ammunition to make Thomaston talk." Sherlock said quickly, irritably. "She won't say a thing until she's forced to."

"What exactly does that mean?" Louisa wondered, disliking his choice of words. "You're planning to threaten her, or something?"

Sherlock took a moment to weigh her manner, settling a hard look at her. "How would anyone ever get answers to really dangerous questions, if they haven't got an arsenal of manipulation tactics?" He gave Louisa less than a second to respond before plunging into a speech of sorts, growing slightly more heated as he went. "People who hide what they know they should share invite in the possibility of being made afraid. That's all they ever are, anyway – afraid, for their own skin. If I have to use that fear for the greater good, then so be it; Thomaston would be in no danger from me – real or fabricated – if she gave up obstructing the truth. So, yes, in answer to your question, a threat may be what it takes to disarm her, and take was we require to move on."

He gave a few rough breaths through his nostrils, but otherwise appeared finished. After a moment the tension melted from his shoulders and Louisa pressed her lips together, hiding her smile; clearly Holmes had tired long ago of people questioning his moral motivations.

"Alright," she said. "How do you plan to blackmail her?"

"Obviously I don't know yet. I haven't spoken with Mullins, have I?"

"I mean, what would be ideal? You must have some theories as to what Mullins could tell you – how it'll relate to Claressa."

"Perhaps I can lead Thomaston to believe I know more than I do – granting Mullins sheds some light on the business Douglas was involved in. Perhaps I can… make her think that Douglas himself willingly passed along this information, that he implicated Thomaston's involvement with whatever he'd done to break this… club-code. If that pans out, she may work rather hard to clear herself, but she won't be able to do that without genuine cooperation."

"And where do we stand on the missing tie-clip?" Louisa inquired, swinging right out of the Douglas and into the Ervin. "When are we going to look for that?"

"I've been waiting for Lestrade to make the time for a trip to Liverpool," Holmes replied. "I can't get inside the flat without his clearance, but he's geared to go tomorrow. And, I'm sure I don't need to make this clear, but-"

"If Lestrade is going, I won't be." Louisa nodded solemnly.

"Right," Sherlock nodded as well, without feeling in the least solemn about it. "I've also received confirmation of Ervin's having an unopened safety-deposit account in that county, Merseyside; I'm slowly rooting out possibilities for hiding-places, as I feel it's more likely the ornament cannot be found in his home. Despite a drop of second-guessing, I'm certain my inspection of the place was thorough."

"You might have seen it, and not recognised it for what it was."

"I would have," Holmes insisted, somewhat icily. "From the murder of Douglas, I thought it signifying that his watch and tie-clip were missing; naturally I kept this in mind while searching Ervin's things."

"I'm sure you did, I'm sorry." She held up her hands. "That wasn't intended as a dig, I'm just so excited."

"We've hardly made any progress," Sherlock replied, with all his wonted gloom. "What's there to be so excited about?"

Louisa fixed him with a critical stare. "This attitude of yours is awful, I want you to know that." She reached over, shaking him bracingly by the shoulder in the same manner she'd used countless times on Maggie to wake up the girl's mind. "You're missing it all! Just think how much more we know today than we did last week, Sherlock. I get I don't know you all that well, but I'd have reckoned a case like this is exactly what you live for; the puzzles that are leagues-at-a-time can hardly be all that stimulating."

She smiled at him, and he squinted back at her as though her expression were indicative of her mentally plotting his imminent demise.

And then, she was rolling her eyes as he asked, for the second time, "How did you find the dry-cleaner? Just tell me."

"No."

"But-"

"How did you know?" She interrupted. "Again, I'll tell you: reference your own process and you'll find a close twin to my own."

"Constant insolence – that's all you ever give me."

"You know, when you use such terms as 'insolence' when describing my treatment of you, you seem to be implying that I am somehow your subordinate… which is just insane, I know," she feigned a thoughtful, innocent expression. "considering I found the place before you."

Sherlock's mouth puckered, and his gaze dawdled to the lamppost at the edge of the pavement. "I knew since last night to go there."

She grinned and nodded slowly, indulgently. "Of course you did. Well, then, forget everything I've said."

"I asked a simple question."

"Anyway," Louisa said pointedly, breezing right over that topic and starting a new one. "What would I even begin to look for, once I get underneath to the cocktail bar?"

Sherlock appeared nonplussed. "I would take two trips inside: the first for reconnaissance, the second to act on the information gained from the first. I know to look for older men with young girls, but I suspect the majority of the bar's patronage comes from such a demographic; I'll need to see these men to know them."

"You'll never get inside."

"And you will?"

"Yes," Louisa turned her gaze over Sherlock's shoulder, remembering the moment she realised what the dry-cleaner truly was; if she could do that, she could do anything. "I will."

"You'll undoubtedly need a man to gain access."

"I can get a man much more easily than you can get a girl – which you would likewise need." Louisa pointed out, annoyance flaring dully.

Sherlock quirked a brow and tilted his head to the side, regarding her silently for a few beats. Then, he said, "Well, you're a girl. And you're quite young – could pass for younger."

"Astute observation, Sherlock, but one which I've already analysed; it'll be how I snag me a fella."

"I'm pointing out that we might as well work together." Holmes said matter-of-factly. "It would be most ideal in the sense we could each be certain that you don't end up in the company of a potential rapist, nor I in that of a drugged-up wallet-thief… Though, now that I reflect I do know a homeless woman who would carry on in silliness far less than you would."

Calmly she said, "Alright, Sherlock… How d'you suppose you'll get inside without immediately being recognised? Even if you weren't well-known by London in general, the sort of people who own the business you're planning to invade would smell you coming before you hit the entrance."

"Infiltrate is the word you're looking for, and I will do so through one simple solution," here he paused, no doubt for dramatic effect. "I won't look like myself."

Louisa chuckled. "You're telling me you've got a chest full of fake beards and eye-patches in that dingy flat of yours? Are you going to slap on a fat suit and go by the name Barney, by chance?"

"Not in that fashion, but incognito is the essential idea." Sherlock sniffed, shoulders held to haughty position. "I happen to consider myself a master of the art of disguise."

Louisa genuinely at a loss for anything else to say, mumbled "Apologies," with every effort to keep from laughing at him.

"Not at all," Sherlock inclined his head, the proper gentleman that he was. "To continue, I've already assumed access to this establishment will require membership, which will in turn require that the owner has an identity to verify which is not my own. But, sufficient records and a new name should be child's play for Mycroft to conjure."

"What's Mycroft?" Louisa asked, in her mind picturing some unheard-of computer software which could manufacture such things as Sherlock needed.

"Not what – who." He replied, back again to a state of perplexity. "Mycroft is my brother."

"I knew you had a brother," Louisa's fist became a gavel against the table-top to declare her genius. "He's older, isn't he? And smarter. You abhor him, I'd bet almost anything."

For the moment Sherlock ignored her teasing (though her remarks would ignite his prideful feelings much later on, when he finally remembered them) and, appearing as confused as she had yet to see him, he asked, "Have you truly never met him?"

Such was a question perfectly tailored to raise Louisa's level of confusion to quite match his own. "If you've never introduced me to him, how would we have met? Unless, of course, he's a fellow server at the Red Light I've managed to overlook these past four months."

"Don't be stupid," Sherlock snapped, but only half-heartedly. He was still primarily engrossed with his own track of mind (which wondered veraciously why Mycroft had avoided intercepting Louisa's attention this past month, when it took mere days for him to kidnap Watson). Scooting his chair closer to the table so that his diaphragm was nearly squeezed against it, he put his palms together and inclined his fingertips towards her, speaking with a pressing tone. "Perhaps you did not know him – has any strange man put himself into contact with you since we met? His express purpose would have been to compensate you for regular updates about me – my daily habits, how I spend my time… He would have offered you money?"

"You've seriously misjudged my character if you believe any such occurrence should pass without my immediately informing you of it." Louisa replied, a proud note to her voice that even she could hear. "Besides, I think I would know any brother of yours the moment I set eyes on him."

"Perhaps you would," Holmes allowed, but still the suspicion was evident in his expression. "Perhaps you would have also been moved to accept the bribe."

"Well, your brother's rich, isn't he?"

Sherlock inclined his head.

"Then obviously I would take the bribe. I'd split it with you, and we'd have a good laugh at his expense." She laughed now, in fact, and Sherlock smirked. "He'd deserve it, wouldn't he? What business is it of his how you live your life? Why does he even care so much?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Whichever force spurned Mycroft into existence alone knows what Mycroft wants."

"But to demand to know such detail as your daily habits… What compels him to keep such a watchful eye on you?"

Holmes shrugged again – this movement as noncommittal as the first – but Louisa's own eye took on that analytical quality.

Thoughtfully, she asked, "Are you a criminal or something?"

"Or something," Sherlock said darkly – an inflection calculated to warn off further pursuit of the subject.

He was saved from Louisa's wonted stubbornness by the shrill ringing of his mobile. He merely glanced at the screen to ascertain who was phoning, before snubbing the call and returning the device to the table.

"Why anyone who professes to know me well would still choose to call before texting is beyond me."

"Perhaps he knows you won't answer a text," Louisa supplied, citing her own suppositions from earlier in the evening. "It is John calling on your friendship, isn't it?"

"Calling on my friendship?" Holmes replied mockingly. "I sense that this phrasing is meant to mean more to me than it does."

"It's meant to be a hint: you're a bad friend if you don't call him back, considering you're not overpoweringly busy, and it may be important."

The phone began to ring again, and Louisa smiled mildly at the crying device. Holmes still silenced the call, same as before, but at least this time he hesitated for a solid beat.

"I'm sure if it were inconsequential, he would text," Louisa pointed out. "At least see what he wants."

"I already know what he wants."

"Oh, really? Well then, please, astound me with your skill of premonition."

"He wants to invite me over for dinner."

"That incorrigible ne'er-do-well," Louisa said vehemently. "What better way to punish him than to answer his call?"

"I will do no such thing."

The phone rang a third time, allowing Sherlock the chance to prove the substance of his declaration.

"He's not ceaselessly calling just to invite you to dinner," Louisa said, now verging on fretful. "Answer it, please."

Yet again Sherlock silenced the ringing, and once the noise level returned to that of general street-sounds the two stared at each other with equal amounts of agitation, until the phone rang a fourth time.

"Answer it."

"No."

Both sets of eyes flicked to the phone; Sherlock's right hand and Louisa's left both snatched for the thing. Louisa managed to be faster than Sherlock, however, and before she swiped her finger over the green dot that would answer the call, she smiled sweetly at Sherlock and said, "Shall I just do it, then?"

"Don't," Holmes made a desperate grab for the device, which Louisa held out of his reach. Backing her chair far enough away from the table that Sherlock would need to lunge over it to get at her, she answered the call.

"Good evening, John Watson," She greeted with a tone which bordered on jovial. "How are you?"

"Well, I'm fine," he sounded as surprised as Louisa expected. "You're with Sherlock, then?"

"I am, though it appears he is much too self-absorbed to answer your call himself. May I pass along a message?"

"Actually, you could put on the speaker."

"Ooh, trap him into the conversation – good plan, John." To Sherlock she said, "You can either sit here and listen to what your friend has to say, or you can walk away and leave me with your mobile – to which, I might point out- I recall the password perfectly."

"You don't-"

"436982," Louisa rattled off the numbers with pride. "I sincerely doubt you had the foresight to change it, considering how many times you've already underestimated my memory."

"So… the speaker?" John said meekly, reminding Louisa of his role as audience-member.

"Hang in there, Watson, we're under negotiation." Louisa spoke into the receiver with all the seriousness of a fighter-pilot communicating with her wingman.

Sherlock rose to his feet. "Keep the phone; you'll find countless things of interest, but nothing that can be used against me."

"Aside from the contact information of one Mycroft Holmes?" she lifted her voice to a pitch of perfect innocence. "If Big-Brother is half so uptight as you are, I imagine a message containing kinky sexual confessions would quite shock him… I think I could easily replicate your prose…"

Sherlock's complexion changed colour immediately; he looked into Louisa's eyes for any hint of the bluff, and found nothing but empty, pine-green pits.

Resisting the urge to tackle her, Sherlock sat down once more with a clenched jaw.

Louisa pressed the speaker on with a triumphant finger. "Alright, John, he's ready whenever you are."

"Listen, Sherlock," John began, stumbling through a sentence that had clearly been rehearsed. "Mary's been cooking this last hour, and as always she's made too much for two people…"

"I told you," Holmes hissed to Louisa as John carried on, not hearing.

"So, I thought you wouldn't mind coming round for dinner?"

"I'm busy John, but thank-you," was the terse reply. "I need to get in touch with Mycroft tonight, and you know what that does to my state of mind."

"You could always call him after dinner. I imagine he keeps late hours, like you." Louisa suggested, and Sherlock, who'd already been glaring at her with searing antipathy, could only tighten his frown; she pretended not to notice. "In fact, you'll probably have better odds of catching him while he's free, if you wait."

"I wonder why I keep hearing your input," Holmes said with poorly-constructed calmness. "When this situation could not involve you any less."

"She who holdeth the mobile, must guideth the sheep-" here she tilted the phone towards the detective, indicating him as the animal in this scenario. "To justifiable dinner-engagements."

John's chuckle created static on his end of the line. "Yeah, plus, she's invited."

Louisa pointed at her own chest with gleeful disbelief, as though Watson were there to witness it; and only when he refrained from answering did she convert the gesture into words. "I'm invited?"

"Sure, why not?" John said, as Sherlock shook his head miserably at the table. "It'll be great. Mary's always on me, anyway, about not having more friends to introduce her to."

"You don't think it would be rude for me to just show up?" Louisa asked.

She wouldn't, by any means, pass up the chance to meet Mary, find out what she looked like and what form her personality would take, unless, of course, taking that opportunity could be construed as impolite.

"It would be terribly ill-bred, best not to even consider it," Sherlock interjected, as curtly as a Jane Austen antagonist.

"Louisa, you're more than welcome here. You deserve a nice meal anyway, for all your help."

"She's not actually done much though, has she?" Holmes said.

"Anyway," John said, choosing wisely to let Sherlock's petulant dig slide, "You don't have to come, mate, do whatever you want; but Louisa, feel free to come alone, if you want. With or without Sherlock, your company would be appreciated."

"Thank-you, John… I'll think about it."

With only the exchange of goodbyes (in which Sherlock refused to take part) Louisa ended the call and held the phone out for the detective. She fully expected him to snatch it from her hand; and though he did not, it was clear he very much wanted to.

He pocketed the thing, looking at her sullenly. "Judas," He accused.

Louisa, following in John's sensible footsteps, ignored this. "Do you really intend to avoid him forever?"

"I'm not avoiding anyone, at the moment… aside from the press."

"Please, Sherlock, from that conversation alone I can see that John's asked you to meet Mary several times. I don't know why you're avoiding him, but we both know that's what's going on here."

Absolute silence was the only return Sherlock deemed fit to give. Louisa allowed him a full minute to change his mind, before charging forward, guns blazing.

"Alright, you got me, I do know why you're avoiding him: you're jealous." Holden snorted down at his crossed legs. "You're jealous of Mary, because you're afraid she's stealing away your only friend."

Still, silence.

"You know what? You're a hypocrite, Sherlock Holmes; all you ever say is how stubborn I am, and here you are, getting in your own way." When he refused to meet her eye she shook her head in frustration. "But, as I can't possibly be telling you things you don't already know, I'm letting it go. It'll just burn me up."

"Wise choice," Holmes found a response at last, his tone distant.

"For Heaven's sake, Sherlock – if nothing else, use your logic!"

"Got a second wind, have you?" He sneered, his gaze casting itself everywhere but right at her.

"You know I'm right. You would tell anyone else the same thing – in the unlikely even that you should ever advise someone on a subject unrelated to mental acuity." Now he did look at her, his expression full of haughty disdain she had no care for. "You would say that logic is King, wouldn't you? So where's the logic in prolonging the inevitable? Plus, I'll be there, and I make an excellent buffer; ask anyone."

"Don't say another word, for God's sake." Holmes commanded.

Yet, he was somewhat surprised when she actually complied. She was expectant, yes (which in itself was extremely irksome), but no farther sentence passed her lips.

For a time, the two sat in the silence Sherlock had so desperately craved, thinking vastly different thoughts on the same subject. Twice, Sherlock broke into movements so abrupt that Louisa was sure he was preparing to leave her there in his typical fashion – but they proved to be for nothing more than to shift into more suitable positions. After nearly ten minutes spent in this way, he was still there.

"What's the verdict, Sherlock?" Louisa asked, unwilling to allow the stasis he clearly aimed to perpetuate for the rest of the evening.

Now, he did stand. "I suppose I'll get it over with."

"Brilliant." Louisa resisted the urge to pump her fist in the air, instinctively knowing that to do so would push Holmes over the edge. She busied her hands by hurrying her mobile from her pocket. "I'll just phone John for the address…"

"I already know it."

"Oh, you've been there before?"

"Clearly not."

"Then… how do you know-" He slid a flat look straight into her eyes and she shook her head at herself. "Right, stupid question. Well, what is it, then?"

"You'll hear it when I tell the cabbie we're going to hail." He plucked his scarf from the back of his chair and wound it over his neck.

"I've got my bike, remember?"

"Ah, yes…" he trailed off, and Louisa read his expression the moment it changed.

"I'll be right behind you, Sherlock. Since you'll be in traffic I may even get there before you, and if I'm not, you'll spend no more than five minutes alone with them."

"That was the farthest thing from my mind," Holmes assured her. It was so horrid an attempt at a lie that he quickly segued into a recitation of the address before she could notice it, preferring to avoid one of her trademark knowing looks.

Then he was gone, without so much as a goodbye; Louisa watched him for a few moments as he travelled down the footpath beyond the gate of the delicatessen, feeling the sweet bloom of success… and, honestly, feeling quite proud of Sherlock's ability to be reasoned with.

He was growing more accustomed to her with every hour they spent in one another's company. And although she knew better than to think Sherlock would ever audibly call her his friend, Louisa started her journey with the warm conviction that he knew as well as she, that the mutual esteem did not need to be declared aloud to exist.

It took over twenty minutes for Louisa to arrive at Mary's home, which lay so deeply within an edge of the city Louisa had yet to visit, that she had to open her Maps application on her mobile to search the address Sherlock had given her.

However, the journey was pleasant. Though the night was cold enough to freeze the tip of her nose and lash her cheeks to a redness which felt as though it would be permanent in its urgency; though her legs grew exhausted less than halfway through the trip (as the result of the hour she'd spent circulating London in the quest for Gamble & Peele); as her face went numb and the ache in her muscles renewed, she grew to quite like it.

The sensations reminded her of days long passed… days she thought she would never miss.

Beyond that, the added physical pressure allowed her the cathartic illusion that she was pushing all the fury and self-beratement (that mutated mixture of emotion born from ignored wistfulness and acknowledged – yet unreturned – longing for the warmth Family had once given her) out of her body through her toes. With every rotation of the pedals she forced, she let a burst of air through her lips, until she was little more than a boiler, with a faithful attendant to turn the gauge and release the steam compressing inside her. She wasn't crying… she couldn't cry, not a second time – not ever again.

This was the next best thing.

It took over twenty minutes, yes, but when Louisa did finally pull in front of Mary's house, as she dismounted her bike she felt more stabilised than she had in ages.

Still, she took her time to dawdle up the paving stones which led to the front step, allowing more than a cursory glance at the state of Mary's garden.

The house was just what it ought to have been for a sensible physician in her thirties (John struck her as the sort of man who would settle down with a woman slightly younger than he) with beige sliding and burgundy shutters at the windows of both floors. There were splashed of Mary's personality to be found as well; a certain careless whimsy, for instance, could be seen in the manner in which Mary had tended to her rose bushes.

They were evenly dispersed on either side of the steps, but only the plants to the left were covered with burlap cloth, tied at the stamen to keep the cold from biting the roses. Apparently, the task of protecting the bushes Mary had painstakingly brought to bloom proved too ambitious for her. And, by the state of decay on the right-hand plants, the project had been abandoned weeks ago.

Traversing the steps and ringing the doorbell, Louisa smiled, reminded of her mother.

Briony Daly would never have left her roses to wither, and she would instantly have formed a negative opinion of Mary if she'd been greeted by the sight which so amused Louisa… But still, it was gardening Louisa thought of now, and gardening would always bring to mind that heavenly, nurturing facet her mother had sometimes worn.

After waiting an appropriate minute, Louisa rang the bell again, and then the silhouette unmistakable as John's began to take hazy form behind the smoky glass of the front door.

As he opened that door for Louisa, she noted he looked puzzled to see her there.

"I really didn't think you'd come."

"Oh, should I not have?" Louisa said hurriedly, realising then that she'd never bothered to call John, to inform him of the change of mind. "I'm sorry, I didn't even think-"

"No, no, I'm pleased." John, recovered now from his befuddlement, smiled. "You're timing is perfect, actually. Dinner should be ready soon."

He stepped aside to let her in the foyer.

It was tastefully decorated round the most prominent features: a cut-glass mirror framed in minimally-carved teak, a willow wood accent table supporting a bonsai tree pruned into a whirlwind, and a handsome staircase with a shelf built into it. Upon examination the books housed here ranged from photography and modern art, to anatomy and physiology.

It would stick in Louisa's memory as the foyer all foyers should strive to be.

John took Louisa's coat as she removed it, then her scarf. "Sorry I'm not well-dressed," She said. "I was just off work when I ran into Sherlock."

"You're not really worried that we'd care, are you?" John chuckled. "I greet the postman in my pants by accident I'd say… I dunno, twice every month?"

Louisa smiled, reminding herself not to judge this nice doctor.

A John led the way into the kitchen, Louisa said, "I suppose Sherlock hasn't made it yet."

John stopped at the counter, turned to face her slowly, as though stunned.

"Is he coming, then?"

"Yes, he said he was," Louisa craned her neck, looking past John into the sitting room that was just visible through a well-lit passage, wondering where Mary was. "I'm not sure what's taking him."

"He's not going to show," John assured her, his tone absolute.

At last Mary's voice was heard; the woman herself was revealed not long after, coming through the passage as she spoke. "We're out of the good soap… Oh, hello!"

With short and soft yellow curls, prominent eyes the shade of forget-me-nots, and a kindly sloping chin, Mary was all Louisa had pictured her as. She kissed Louisa's cheek as John, apparently feeling no need for formal introductions, launched a question to his girlfriend. "Did you know Sherlock said he was going to stop by?"

"How would I know that?" Mary responded, zipping to an overhead cabinet in the quest for more plates. "Did I miss one of his many texts again?"

"The question was meant to start conversation," John said, hurrying along to his next subtle complaint. "But as he hasn't actually shown up yet, I doubt he will."

The doctor's aloof countenance did nothing to aid him in his endeavour to disguise his bait; both women could easily see John wanted nothing more than to be refuted.

"Have you washed your hands?" Mary inquired instead, most likely holding out on John for her own entertainment.

"I have," his sulky response earned Mary's grin.

"Well good," she said. "Also, I wouldn't be at all surprised if Sherlock were outside now, as we speak."

"What d'you mean?"

"Well he can't have been very far behind Louisa."

"So, you're of the mind that he's out there taking in the stars?" John said, sarcasm strong.

"Perhaps looking for a gnome to kick over," Louisa added, smirking.

"Have a look for yourself." Mary suggested, nodding her head towards the foyer. "And while you're busy proving me a genius, I'll be getting through the finishing touches in here."

She turned for the oven as John turned for the foyer. Louisa followed the latter, more interested in finding out the truth than watching Mary garnish the salmon she pulled from the oven (which smelled vibrantly of rosemary and coriander).

John made it to the only window in the foyer which overlooked the front garden and Louisa found she had to wait quite a bit longer than she would have reckoned for her chance to look through; for forty-seven seconds (she timed him) he stood, peering through a slit in the blinds he created with his right index finger… And though she couldn't see his expression, the sentence he muttered just before stepping aside, was dumbfounded.

"He's coming up the steps."

Louisa took her turn now, and she smiled at the image of Holmes trudging slowly up the stairs, as though nine kilos of flour were strapped to his shoulders in a sack.

Up till then, Sherlock was unaware that he was being watched; but as his right foot hit the topmost step, his peripheral was jerked towards that window. Through the slit in the blinds Louisa's green eyes blinked at him in surprise, and as the lifted section fell to obscure them from view, he was just able to hear a small squeak of panic.

He sighed – an action that seemed to come from deep in his abdomen.

This, would be torture.