The relief at returning to Baker Street was palpable. Any remaining tension dissipated as they slipped into the bath, John resting against Sherlock's chest. Mycroft had established police check points at either end of the street; any vehicles lingering too long outside the house were dispatched, and any news vans were summarily refused entry. The press of reporters eager to speak to them had been denied. They'd lose interest soon; Sherlock knew his brother well enough to know that some new distraction was currently in the offing.

Tedious to be back in the public eye. Gratifying to be back home with John, drowsing gently in the hot water, vaguely aware of the rhythmic motion of John's fingers stroking the back of his hand. Sherlock hummed, felt the shift in muscles in John's cheek as he smiled. For the time being, he was content not to move, letting the heat seep into his muscles, superimposing this reality over the one of the past few days, where there had been no real warmth, no real security.

When the water cooled enough to lose its appeal, Sherlock roused them. The pyjamas John tried to don were plucked from his hands and left to puddle on the floor; Sherlock led John to the bedroom, lowering him onto the clean sheets and downy duvet.

He took his time, any urgent need satisfied by their encounter in Wales and doused by the long, hot bath. At some point, John understood the unspoken question, answering it with a faint hum and a hand tightening briefly in Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock started slow, coating his fingers carefully, filling the room with the scent of cinnamon. A few murmured words directed Sherlock to what he was seeking, and he raised his head to watch the euphoric expression on John's face as he crooked the tips of his fingers and stroked gently. He focussed there until John's breathing came apart, until his lower lip was caught between white teeth against a plea.

He was even more careful when he pushed in; John's short fingernails digging into Sherlock's back nearly undid him, but he reined himself in, wanting to draw it out as much as possible, wanting it to be over for John first so he could watch as the doctor broke down completely beneath him, face flushed and dampened hair clinging to his temples, whimpering with each thrust and stroke, shuddering, fingertips small, sharp points of pressure.

Sherlock let himself go when John blinked his eyes open, darkened and languid. Surgeon's hands roamed his back, meaningless words murmured against his ear.

He perhaps should have found it appalling how easily he slipped back toward sleep, but there was no sense protesting. John would rightly cite medical precedent for rest, and Sherlock had no genuine inclination to fight it – not now, when resisting was no longer necessary, when the company and location were what he'd been yearning for. John murmured something ridiculously emotional; Sherlock returned it, cheek pressed against John's chest, the steady sound of a heartbeat lulling him to sleep.

The one visitor they permitted came under the guise official police business, bearing the Chinese takeaway that John had ordered and fresh news about Lestrade. Mycroft had been sending updates via text message, but Sherlock was far more disposed to trust Hassard's assessment – not only was she a close friend of Lestrade's, but whatever inclinations toward political machinations she might have, they didn't involve controlling Sherlock.

John dished the two of them small plates; the faintly hollow feeling of hunger was somewhat offset by the rich, heavy smell, and neither of them ate much.

"I've got something," Hassard said, pulling a file from the bag that had also hidden their food. "Sorry to spring this one you," her eyes directed the apology at John, "but I thought you'd want to know. We found the locksmith last night, but someone got to him before we did."

A series of photographs of the crime scene, a body left unceremoniously in an alley – right in front of a bin no less. Single bullet wound to the forehead. The position of the limbs indicated he'd quite literally been dumped; no careful arranging here. Eyes still open, expression faintly shocked.

"Tell me what you're thinking," Sherlock said to Hassard. She raised her eyes, meeting his across the coffee table.

"This wasn't revenge," she said. "One bullet, no other marks, the body wasn't on display for anyone to see. It wasn't incidental, because he was moved – no blood on the scene, no splatter, no brain matter. He wasn't even dumped in the bin. He was just killed and discarded. I think someone used him to murder Bhasin and to get to you, then just got rid of him when they didn't need him anymore."

"Yes," Sherlock murmured, picking up a photograph, considering it carefully, "I think so, too."

Hassard left them copies of the photographs and reports; Sherlock spread a map of the city on the coffee table, marking the alley where the body had been found, along with the pertinent locations in Bhasin's investigation: her flat, the organization for which she volunteered, the alley in which they'd attacked and abducted.

There weren't enough data points to form a pattern, but it scarcely mattered. If the locksmith had been a decoy, then it was probable that Bhasin had been, too. An extraordinarily unfortunate one – but whoever had enough resources to remove three grown men, unnoticed, to northern Wales, was an expert in games. Bhasin had been a target, but unlikely the target.

Sherlock didn't delude himself that he had been, either. If so, he would be dead.

But who? Sherlock asked himself, And why?

He studied the map, tips of his index fingers resting against his lips, awareness of John moving around the flat growing until consideration for the locksmith's murder had faded, and he was no longer seeing the information spread out in front of him. When John came into the living room to rescue Sherlock's cup of tea – long since gone cold – the detective folded the work away carefully.

"I need to update my map," he said.

"What, of the city?" John asked, expression registering surprise – tinged with reluctance at the idea of leaving the flat.

Sherlock stood, reclaiming the mug and setting in on the coffee table, freeing John's fingers to be interlaced with his own.

"No, John."

Eyes closed, he rested his forehead against John's, each exhalation a soft brush against his lips. Sherlock let his fingers work, mapping and remapping, gathering data about the curve and shape of muscles, the lines and ridges of bone. The change in texture from healthy skin to scars – not just the bullet scars, but other, older ones, marks left by life from before they'd known each other – and some since. The soft places where John's muscles jumped, ticklish. The small spots that made him relax again, shifting minutely – unconsciously – for more contact.

He wondered what John was taking away from him, what surgeon's fingers deemed worth committing to memory, what he'd be able to recall at will. Sherlock made sure he could summon all of it at a moment's notice, imprinting each detail as finely as he did the city. Like London, this map would change with time, and the prospect of updating it on a regular basis made him smile, ignoring John's question as to what was funny, touching lips to lips in reply instead.

The knock on the door came later than she'd been expecting, and the woman who sagged onto the sofa wore a look of distaste, dark eyes meeting hers across the short space that separated them.

"Mon Dieu," Brigitte said. "You might have warned me."

"I'm afraid there's no warning for Mycroft Holmes," Mary replied. "Besides, if I had, he would have seen it and been suspicious."

Brigitte made a faintly dismissive noise, foregoing comment when the door was opened again following a deferential knock. The smell of freshly ground and brewed coffee was a welcome one; Mary saw her visitor perk up at the promise, and felt the relief mirrored. She'd grown accustomed to the mad obsession with tea, but it had never become a preference. A murmured thanks from her was acknowledged by a short nod from the server, who left them to settle in the brief silence.

"Excellent work," Mary commented, sitting back in her chair, legs crossed. Brigitte's lips quirked into a smile – the comment could have gone without saying, but it had been excellent, particularly with the added necessity of dealing with – and deceiving – Mycroft Holmes.

But Brigitte waved a hand lazily, relaxed against the white leather cushions and – as always – Mary admired the ability to transition so easily and completely from the practical, efficient movements necessitated by her profession to the languid, lounging grace. A natural talent she'd herself never been able to cultivate, let alone imitate.

"Do you know why yet?" Brigitte asked. "Or who?"

"No," Mary sighed. It was the source of some consternation for her; it should not have been this difficult to track down the person behind the murders and the abductions. Very few people ought to have had the resources to do so, and if she didn't control them outright, she should at least know their names.

Mycroft Holmes had been the first to be vetted, of course. Mary didn't doubt his love for his brother – nor his ability to manipulate events to suit his needs. Clearing him had been something of a relief; he might have done this, under the right circumstances, but the possibility had sat ill with her. It would require some extraordinary events to put his newly-returned brother into that situation.

She had no illusions about how much real danger they'd been in. A bad fall – worse than the tumble Lestrade had suffered – a storm, getting turned around and heading in the wrong direction… So many possibilities for a terrible and definitive end.

Someone was playing a dangerous – and stupid – game, and it irked her. It smacked of Jim Moriarty, and she'd let him seal his own fate for a reason. Unpredictable people were a problem.

It was why she appreciated Brigitte so much, and why she was not at all surprised when her companion asked:

"Why not have done it yourself? Why not get them out of the way?"

"Because," Mary replied, setting her cup down on the marble coaster with a faint clink, "they are not in my way." A shake her head forestalled the protest on Brigitte's lips. "You think they are – and they might even think they are, but they are not in my way, Brigitte. They stand in the way of others getting to me. As such, they are extremely valuable."

"Someone got to them," Brigitte pointed out.

"Yes," Mary agreed. "They did. And I will find out who."

"Do you think I might be permitted a cigarette?"

John looked up, lips quirking in the way they did when he was fondly amused and trying not to show it. Palms slid over one another; Sherlock kept his gaze on John's eyes, refusing to be distracted by the unconscious motion, remembering precisely how it felt to have those same hands moving over his own skin.

"Yeah," John said. "Yeah, I think you might have earned it."

"I'll go out onto the stairs, of course."

"Give me a minute," John replied. "I'll come with you."

The kettle was put on, left to boil while John dislodged the cigarettes from their (not very original) hiding place inside the skull.

"Here," he said, handing Sherlock the ashtray stolen from the palace, smile answering Sherlock's knowing smirk. "I don't want you getting ash all over my staircase. Tea?"

"Something stronger?" Sherlock suggested. John grimaced, giving his head a quick shake.

"If you want, but I don't think I could stomach it yet."

"Nothing for me then," Sherlock replied.

"Suit yourself."

"I think I will."

John rolled his eyes, but the smile tempered the response, and something settled in Sherlock that he hadn't known was unsettled until that moment. John followed him down to the first landing, a faint curl of steam trailing from the RAMC mug. Sherlock sat lower down, able to rest his head against John's knee, lighting the cigarette with a practiced motion, inhaling until the spark caught. The acrid tang burned delightfully; he closed his eyes to better savour the sensation.

It was the first one he'd had since his hurried return to London five weeks ago. Certainly not the first one he'd wanted, but waiting made the experience better – and John's presence would make it easier to ignore future cravings.

Sherlock opened his eyes as he exhaled, watching the smoke dissipate thoughtfully. He couldn't remember the last time he'd enjoyed this. While he'd been away, it had been a means of dealing with the stress – and a way of offsetting the effects of the nightmares. Before that… a constant red flag for John, Mycroft and Lestrade. A warning to pay close attention, to search the flat for the more destructive habit.

Sherlock's lips curled as he inhaled and exhaled again. At least this time, he wouldn't have to worry about John upsetting his sock index.

A faint twitch tightened the corners of his eyes, memory nudging him. The instinct to dodge it was deliberately circumvented; as much as he disliked thinking about that particular day – and all the unnecessary emotional complications it involved – some tiny bit of detail was vying for his attention. He circled his own mind, distantly aware of John's fingers combing slowly through his hair, a stable connection he could hold while turning his focus inward into memory.

Mycroft had given him the cigarette then; it was always his brother's litmus test, as though it had never occurred to him that Sherlock might accept it simply to irritate him. It hadn't been the case then. An inadequate measure of comfort against the one human certainty.

There was death here, too – Sherlock could feel the emptiness of Mrs. Hudson's flat, her absence made more noticeable by their presence on the stairs. Had she been here, there would be good-natured chiding hiding the iron underneath; John might tolerate smoking in his stairwell, but she never would have.

Her death, so deep, so final, still sometimes caught him unawares, knocking him into breathless moments when he least expected it. But it wasn't this demanding his attention; here in Baker Street, he was always aware of it on some level, the more present grief fading to an acceptance that let them keep living, allowed them to stay.

Something about that day, the cigarette he'd smoked in a hospital, accompanied by the grief of strangers – and he'd been mourning one, too, without knowing it. Caught in a lie, the way John had been, but designed to protect no one but herself.

A death, yes, but not the one they'd all assumed. A feint. A diversion.

Like the locksmith.

And Sanjana Bhasin.

Sherlock felt muscles relax in realization, but distantly, as though he were listening to a description of another's reaction. Memory unwound, propelling him back across his trek through Wales, reverse-ordered, until he collided with the night he'd arrived. Disoriented. Uncoordinated. Unfocused.

Three days trying to chase down the answers. Who had done this? Why? Nearly thirty-six hours of pushing for an answer he'd been giving himself the entire time. He'd thought himself weak each moment in which memory had snuck past his defences. Not weak, no. Stupid. A mind reeling from the effects of the drugs, from hunger and dehydration, from exhaustion, trying to get him to think. To understand.

He had, even in the beginning. Lestrade, staggering to legs that were unjustly more coordinated than Sherlock's had been. How much had they each been given? Not irrelevant.

Because he had a tolerance of sorts. His mind accustomed to repressing physical demands. A body with a long dormant but never forgotten habituation to drugs.

Helicopter. Safe bet. No tire tracks. No airfield.

Not only deduction. Some hint from memory. He'd been given more, because he'd fought it better.

It's perfectly safe. I've used it on loads of my friends.

Used it again – or something like it. More of it. Something stronger. It scarcely mattered.

Christmas music. The smells of pine, baking, Mrs. Hudson's perfume. All hearts are broken. Even the memory of John's fingertips skimming across the sensitive skin of his wrist – another memory overlain by one with John, because it had been the one that had made sense, because it was so much more immediate. But it had been the wrong one.

Not Moran, long dead in the desert. Not Moriarty, a lingering, fading after-image of madness. Not Mary Morstan, who disdained the chaos, who did not play games.

"Who does that leave us with?"

"Someone new."

Stupid, stupid! he told himself. Had the prospect been appealing on some level, below the exhaustion and the uncertainty? A new game, a new opponent, but there was a flare of anger because this game had severed him from the person who mattered most and–

Of course.

Distraction.

Bhasin's murder. The locksmith as their lead suspect. A trap that had ensnared him so neatly, had left him stranded in the Welsh wilderness.

Separated from John.

His distraction. And it had worked – oh yes, it had worked. Every memory judged as frivolous clamped down upon, refused consideration, preventing him from getting at the truth he would have seen had John been with them.

But why? Surely there must have been other ways to delay them, thwart them?

Mycroft. Of course. Mycroft. His brother had been looking at the first suggestion of trouble – which meant his gaze had been diverted.

More distraction.

It hadn't been about him.

It had been about incapacitating him to incapacitate Mycroft.

She had her sights on something, but whatever it was, his brother didn't realize it was missing. Meant it wasn't missing – not something taken, but perhaps copied. Information, surely; some physical theft would hardly go unnoticed. Something that hadn't been acted upon, not yet.

Beautiful. So brilliantly executed that the admiration lasted longer than it should have before being swallowed by a sudden, bright rage, by the memory searching the vast darkness for someone who wasn't there, of convincing himself the figure in the distance wasn't John.

"Sherlock."

His name came to him as through across a great expanse, a fragile thread that connected his mind to his body, growing stronger as the sensation of a thumb smoothing across his brow reached him.

"Sherlock." John's expression shadowed as he bent over, serious, searching. The cigarette had burned down almost to his fingers, a crumbling trail of ash; Sherlock flicked it into the ashtray without looking, focussed on John's eyes. "Welcome back."

"I know who took us, John, and why." The doctor started, lips parting in shock.

"What– you mean you figured it out just now?"

"Yes," Sherlock replied, straightening and turning to meet John's gaze squarely. "It will require some explanation – and you'll rather dislike it, I'm afraid."