Love at Five

[frostian]

Title: Love at Five, Part Two
Rating: R for language and violence
Characters/Pairings: None
Summary: By sheer luck, Sherlock and John stumble over one of Moriarty's schemes. In order to unravel the madman's plans Lestrade all but orders them to go undercover. Unfortunately, for the consulting detective and his blogger, the ruse takes place in a speed dating event. This might not be one of Lestrade's best ideas, but Donovan hadn't laughed so hard in years.
Disclaimer: Seriously, does anyone NOT know Sir Arthur Conan Doyle?
Notes: Gen, but can be read with slash goggles. Also posted on AO3


John critically examined his reflection. Mercifully, the constant running after the nutter that was Sherlock kept him in good form. In fact, the muscle tone he’d lost during his rehabilitation had returned. Not that John was a big man to begin with, but what he had was carved out of years of physical fitness and bursts of superhuman effort to keep himself and others alive. So, he was proud of his physique up until a bullet had drilled its way into his body and life.

He tugged on the blue v-neck jumper, the best in his vast collection, and one he would usually wear on first dates. However, instead of pairing it with a collared shirt, John chose a white round-necked long-sleeved shirt. And the jeans were new, courtesy of Sherlock, so he hadn’t had a chance to hem it. Instead, the cuffs were rolled up, making him feel like a complete prat.

At least the bloody boots were his. Sherlock had tried to unload a pair of expensive Austrian loafers but John stood his ground. Odds were they would end up chasing whomever Winter was meeting, and if John wanted a fighting chance to catch the bastard, he needed his boots.

“There’s nothing more to do,” he muttered and thumped down the stairs.

John was making tea when Sherlock entered the kitchen. They stared at each other, much like two gunmen in the middle of an American Western standoff.

“Your idea of a disguise is to avoid a respectable shirt?” Sherlock asked.

“And your idea is to use half a kiloton of hair product?” John sniped back.

Sherlock had managed to gel his hair until it was a slick-backed mess, with a part on the side. John thought Sherlock looked sinister but attractive: like Sean Bean.

“I’m wearing a tie,” Sherlock said, flapping the offensive material looped around his neck. “I hate this. It could be used against me in a fight.”

“So, get one of those clip-on things,” John said, fully knowing what Sherlock thought of such horrors.

Sherlock curled his lip in distaste and reached for his Belstaff. Then froze when he heard John make a tsking noise.

The detective turned and saw John shake his head. “Damn!” Sherlock hissed and stomped back into his room. He returned with a classic Burberry that had neither the drama nor the respectability the Belstaff possessed.

“You look like a minor government official,” John said with a smile in his voice.

“I look like one of Mycroft’s people,” Sherlock stated darkly. “I might never forgive Lestrade for this.”

“Look, if he isn’t comfortable pretending to be a gay man, then odds are everyone in the bar is going to pick up on it. And our suspect is going to bolt. And you have to admit: Lestrade pretty much sweats ‘copper’ no matter what the situation is.”

Sherlock looked at John. “But you’re not uncomfortable? Especially considering your numerous declarations of heterosexuality?”

“Sherlock, if you’ve seen the places I’ve had to peel my men off of during leave, you’d know better than to ask such a question.”

That earned a grin from the detective. “You are certainly a brave soul, Dr. Watson.”

“I’m gullible,” John said. “Can’t help it, so why fight it. Ready?”

Lestrade looked at Donovan who gleefully cackled as Sherlock and John took their assigned seats in the trendy bar weirdly named ‘Tusk and Weather’.

“You know, Dr. Watson isn’t hard on the eyes,” Donovan said as she examined him. “From the looks of it, you couldn’t tell he’s a veteran.”

“I think that’s on purpose,” Greg said. “He reminds me of a school teacher I had. Right up to the moment his temper explodes and fists start appearing.”

“He really thinks he got away with Hope’s murder?”

Greg smiled a little. “They both do, Donovan. And they’re right. We have no evidence.”

“Wonder where the bastard got the gun,” Donovan said. “I can’t imagine anyone desperate enough to sell weapons to Sherlock, especially firearms.”

“Not Sherlock: John. I’d bet you a year’s pay the gun was his.”

Donovan looked at him with wide eyes. “You think he smuggled it in? From Afghanistan?”

“I can’t see how. The man was severely injured when he was pulled out. He might not even have been conscious. So, how in hell he could have taken the gun with him and not get caught is a mystery to me.”

“Someone gave it to him, then,” Donovan said without hesitation.

“But why?”

“A crippled man, his size, wandering around London? Prime target for certain types.”

“But a gun? Isn’t that a bit much?”

Donovan shook her head. “You know the bedsit he lived in before he moved to Baker Street? Terrible neighborhood. Can’t believe they’d stick veterans in such shitholes.”

Lestrade sat down and examined the bar’s clientele. “Glad I’m not there. I’d look awkward and nervous.”

Donovan sniggered. “Exactly what did you say to them? I can’t imagine Holmes agreeing to speed dating, even for a serial killer.”

Lestrade shrugged. “I might have panicked and yelled a bit. Could you imagine me sitting in one of those chairs? I’d be laughed out of the place in under a minute.”

“So it’s your ego and not your bigotry that made you decline?”

Lestrade grunted and rolled his eyes. “Look at Sherlock and John. At least they got a chance at blending in. Anyone would take one look at me and guess I’m a Yarder. If they don’t, the moment I open my mouth, they’ll figure it out.”

“You never did any undercover work?”

Lestrade shook his head. “No, I was always in violent crimes. I did some work with narcotics, but nobody sane ever chose me for undercover.”

Donovan chuckled. Lestrade was right. The man had many good qualities, but like his favorite consulting detective, the DI had little in the way of finesse. Of course, he was also one of the most respected members in the force, as his clearance rate was the highest in all the divisions.

The tinny sound emanating from the hidden microphones told the two that the show was about to start.

Donovan wordlessly handed over coffee to Greg and sat back, both avidly watching the screens.

John had to admit he was nervous. After all, he was trying to convince a bar full of gay men that he was interested. And he felt badly for it, too. He didn’t like lying, especially to people who had no clue what was going on around them.

John also fervently hoped none of his former girlfriends suddenly showed up, because this particular setup would be extraordinarily difficult to explain. Especially when one considered who he had for a roommate: Cockblock Extraordinaire, Sherlock Holmes.

No less than two lovers, not Sarah (bless her), all blamed Sherlock for the failure of their relationship. The sad truth was that John was clearly at fault.

He always chose Sherlock, Sherlock’s safety, and their work, over John’s relationship with his girlfriends. So, John resigned himself to either single night trysts or a casual relationship with very little expectation.

Unfortunately, those were just as rare since Sherlock had the bloody nerve to appear unannounced on those nights, too. He usually had a brilliant excuse, but John had to wonder if Sherlock was testing him.

Can one commit murder due to sexual frustration? John wondered with a small smile.

“Can’t help but wonder if it’s my new suit that’s making you smile like that.”

John glanced up at the man who took the chair across from him. He noted the haircut, the tan, and the angular lines not only on the face but neck and shoulders. John also spotted the familiar scars on the hands and wrists.

He smiled and softly asked, “Afghanistan or Iraq?”

“So, you love music?” Henry asked after perusing over the information sheet that Sherlock had filled out earlier.

Sherlock’s smile was just as friendly and vapid. “I adore classical music.”

“Oh, bloody good,” Henry said with a small sigh of relief. “Call me a snob but I can’t stand what passes for music nowadays.”

“Which is why I don’t listen to radio,” Sherlock said, surprised to find a likeminded soul.

“Which of the two gods do you worship, then?”

Sherlock blinked, “Which what?”

“Led Zeppelin or The Who?”

Lestrade had to use his shirt cuffs to wipe the coffee from his chin while Donovan laughed and laughed.

John leaned forward a little. “Are you serious?”

Marcus nodded. “Couldn’t believe it. The pilot had to have a solid pair to have done that.”

“He actually got out of the copter? And fired his gun?”

“It was a bloody small thing,” Marcus explained. He pointed to his palm and said, “Couldn’t have been bigger than that. Damn good shot, too.”

“They have terrific vision. It’s a requirement to do what they do, but I never heard of one abandoning his bird. Still, he helped you and the hostages get out, so bloody good for him.”

“It gets better. The pilot was a woman.”

John sank back in his chair, incredulous. “A woman?”

“Supply runner. Got called in because her flight path just happened to be nearby. Went by the name Godfrey of all things and she had a very deep voice. No one back on base had a fucking clue until we landed and she got out.”

John threw back his head and laughed, slowly clapping his hands.

Marcus’ smile broadened. “My God, the look on those bastards’ faces. I’ll treasure that moment until the day I die.”

“I’ll bet you a pint she probably treasured it a bit more.”

“I don’t doubt it.” Marcus took a sip of his drink. “If I wasn’t gay, I would’ve asked her to marry me right then and there.”

“Must have been hard for you,” John said. “Some of my men were gay or bi, though they never said it. I tried to make sure they were treated equally, but I’m sure I didn’t do good enough job.”

Marcus looked at him sharply. “You were at war. The fact that you were worried about that along with the bullets and the bombs … trust me, they knew and they appreciated that you cared.

“So, tell me … when did you realize you were gay?”

“Bi, actually,” John answered readily. “Much easier to pay attention to the ladies when I joined the Army.”

“I can understand…”

The shout of outrage behind John told him someone’s date wasn’t progressing as nicely. And he didn’t have to think for long whose it was, either.

Marcus tipped to the left and watched as a blond roared out of the bar on full steam. His date, a striking looking brunet, quietly and gracefully wiped liquid off his face before signaling for another drink.

“Let me guess, a tall, pale gentlemen, dressed like a government official?” John asked, not bothering to turn around to look.

“How’d you know?”

“Just an educated guess.” John took a sip of his tonic. “I walked by him earlier. He seemed … very opinionated.”

“Do you like Ysaye?” The next unfortunate candidate asked.

Sherlock looked at Joseph and bitingly asked, “Why are you starting the conversation in this manner?”

“Because I heard your previous interaction with Mr. Number Five. I almost laughed when I saw your face. Led Zeppelin or The Who. I’m not a betting man, but I can safely assume that you were talking about classical music as in Bach or Ysaye and not the Rolling Stones.”

Sherlock canted his head elegantly. “I will admit to that, yes.”

“Let me guess, you are an amateur violinist?”

Sherlock looked harder at the man. “But you’re not a musician.”

“No, I’m not,” the man confessed. “My parents were enthusiasts, and they managed to pass on their love of classical music to their children.”

“Well done for them, then,” Sherlock said. He wanted to act as if he was interested, as Joseph Caville seemed to fit the bill as the middleman between Moriarty and Winter.

“I can tell you are a violinist by the pads of your left fingers. The calluses are distinctive. And there is still some rosin on the sleeve. Your bow hand has a noticeable arch between the thumb and forefinger, as does your wrist. It is unconscious, of course, but speaks of hours upon hours of practice, as you are at rest now.”

“Maybe I masturbate often.”

As soon as he saw the shocked look on Joseph’ face, Sherlock knew he’d gone too far. Not completely ‘bit not good’ as John would’ve pointed out. Still, the awkward silence that followed made Sherlock realize he shouldn’t have pointed out that particularly salient practice of humanity.

“Want some company?” Joseph leered.

“Masturbation, by its definition, is a solitary practice,” Sherlock retorted.

If Joseph was fancying a positive answer, Sherlock’s reply had completely killed it. The interview came to a close soon thereafter.

Lestrade scratched his eyebrows and shook his head. “Could’ve gone on living without knowing that bit.”

“Do you really think that’s true?” Donovan asked curiously. “About the hands?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask Sherlock when this is all over?”

Donovan snorted and took a sip of her soda. “John is doing well.”

“Really?” Lestrade peeked over her shoulder to watch John palm yet another phone number from a prospective suitor.

“Every single bloke he’s talked to gave him their number. I’ve never seen a pull like this before.”

“Jealous?”

“I would be, but then if it means I have to live with Holmes, I’ll pass.”

Lestrade imagined Donovan and Holmes living together: Sherlock playing some discordant violin music while the DS sat in John’s armchair, sipping her morning tea and reading the papers. He then envisioned Donovan calmly pull out an axe from under the coffee table and take a swing at Sherlock after listening to the torturous sounds for full five minutes.

Lestrade was grateful Donovan couldn’t see the grimace that crossed his tired face.

A solid two hours later, Sherlock and John convened in the empty office across the street from the bar.

John sighed and took a long drink of bottled water. “I am never doing that again.”

Donovan grinned. “Really? After all the numbers you got?”

Sherlock looked at John. “They gave you their private numbers? That’s not abiding by the rules.”

“What rules?” Donovan asked curiously.

“Love at Five plays middleman, including the first date,” Sherlock explained, his gaze never leaving John. “It’s how they actually make revenue. They arrange the meeting at a chosen restaurant or bar. And get a percentage off of the proceeds.”

“That actually sounds mildly dodgy,” Lestrade commented as he’d never gotten that far during his single foray into the speed dating scene.

John shrugged. “Not going to call them.”

“Even the soldier boy?” Donovan asked. “He sounded like he really fancied you.”

John’s immediate non-response told everyone in the room what he didn’t want to say.

“John?” Sherlock asked, shocked.

“Not as a prospective lover,” John said with a sigh. “He’s having a hard time adjusting to civilian life. And God knows I’ve been there. And unlike me, he doesn’t have a maniac of a friend to pull him out of isolation.”

Sherlock blinked at that. “Oh, I see.”

“Those community things the military signs you up for? Usually complete shite, to tell you the truth.” John binned the empty bottle and opened another. “Not that the people’s hearts not in the right place, but the last thing any soldier needs is pity.”

Even Sherlock heard the finality of the discussion in John’s tone and wisely steered the conversation away to safer waters.

“I believe it’s Joseph Caville. The man has both the education and the background to be a useful pawn for Moriarty.”

“Why do you say that?” Donovan asked, reading what had to be the dossier on the said man.

“He is well educated, comes from a wealthy background, and bored out of his wits,” Sherlock stated. “He is clever but nowhere clever enough to run with the likes of Moriarty, which would make him easy to manipulate. He also craves danger, and believes himself to be some type of spy, not unlike those atrocious movies you force me to watch.”

John snickered but remained silent.

Sherlock took a deep breath and kept going. “He acts like a sexual predator because that’s how he perceives himself. But from the state of his buttons and the cufflinks, I sincerely doubt he sees as much action as he pretends.”

“And you got that how?” Donovan asked.

Her genuine interest threw Sherlock and he had to gather himself before continuing.

“The cufflinks are dull - have hardly been handled, as the state of his suit. It is from this spring’s Tom Ford line, but has seen little wear, which tells me he rarely needed to handle it. If he were a sexual hedonist, his clothing from his tie to his shirt will reveal shall we say some wear and tear, even if they were meticulously handled by a dry cleaning service.”

Sherlock mentally smirked when he spotted John surreptitiously pull down the sleeve of his sweater over his shirt. “He probably has a record, trivial stuff, really, but one of them will inevitably be about drugs. Tedious, but that is where his life intersected with Moriarty’s.”

“Busted for possession of cocaine,” Donovan announced.

“And Moriarty’s interest in him will be two-fold,” Sherlock continued. “Caville will inevitably bring in his equally bored and stupid friends into this little game of his, allowing Moriarty to infiltrate the upper echelon even further. Then, when they are compromised beyond redemption, he will make them dance to his tune.”

Lestrade shook his head and quietly said, “They might be pretentious brats but they don’t deserve to have Moriarty in their lives.”

“Agreed,” John said.

“Unfortunately, Caville is an exception to the rule,” Sherlock said darkly. “He is discovering he likes working for a man like Moriarty. He showed no signs of stress during the entire charade. He was confident, and enjoyed himself thoroughly. I believe it was he who suggested Love at Five as a place for meeting. And since he was successful in getting information to and from Winter I posit that he has used Love at Five for other illegal activities.

“It would serve you well, Lestrade, to take a closer look at the matchmaking services. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were doing other, more illegal and profitable, businesses under the table.”

“We monitored their five minutes. They spoke about Thai restaurants in London, and both had their hands on the table the entire time,” Lestrade said.

“Yes, but they both also went to the loo,” John added. “Didn’t they?”

Sherlock smiled. “Oh, yes, they did. Caville went first, and then Winter three minutes after Caville returned to his table.”

“So, whatever transaction occurred outside the cameras,” Donovan said.

Lestrade caught her look of frustration. “Damn near impossible to wire the loo, you know that. Even harder to use any evidence gathered in a trial because of how squeamish everyone is.”

“Again, it doesn’t matter,” Sherlock said. “We now know that Winter and Caville are working together, and that Caville is the middleman.”

“So, we follow both and hope for the best?”

“No, I fear we don’t have much time left,” Sherlock said. “Winter showed no confidence, unlike his counterpart. In fact, he left twenty minutes before the interviews were to end. From the way he was fiddling with his phone and the frequent glances, I posit that he was mentally composing a text message, one to our client regarding the Garrideb farce.”

“He’s running out of time,” John whispered.

“Which means Nathaniel Garrideb is also running out of time,” Sherlock said.

Two hours later, as Sherlock waited for news on John’s chances of survival, he would bitterly realize they were also running out of time.

Sherlock had barely changed his outfit when his phone rang. The conversation was expected if also a bit rushed.

“I see,” he said somberly. “Of course. Go to the hospital. We’ll be at your house shortly.”

John sipped his tea and waited patiently. The tonic waters he’d drank in the bar had managed to upset his stomach.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Winter contacted Garrideb to say he needed to be hospitalized immediately, and he wanted Garrideb to accompany him because he wasn’t as yet comfortable with the British health system.”

John paused and thought. “Damn, he wants Nathan out of the house.”

“Perfect time to plan the heist,” Sherlock stated. “His conversation with Caville must have been more dire than I thought.”

“Call Lestrade?” John offered.

“Not yet, we need to catch Winter in the handoff with Caville,” Sherlock argued.

“No, wait…”

“Listen, we cannot allow any mistakes,” Sherlock said hurriedly, eyes wide with fear. “We need to catch both Caville and Winter. That is the only way we can get to Moriarty. If what I suspect is correct, then Moriarty has someone at the Met, and the chance of a tipoff is too great a risk.”

John was stunned to see his friend’s cool façade crack and found him suffering from what was obviously a toxic mixture of anxiety and fear.

“All right then,” John agreed. “But the moment anything goes sideways, we call Lestrade.”

“Of course.”

The two shared a look, and both burst out into uncontrollable laughter.

“We’re right pair of idiots,” John said.

“Yes, but what other pair of idiots have fun like we do?”

“True, very true,” John said while checking his gun.

“Ready?” Sherlock asked, bright eyed and feeling so very alive.

“Always.”

Sherlock smiled. Here was Soldier John, so rarely seen by others. And made more precious because of it. Now he understood what all those greats had said about leaders needing not an army but a single worthy believer to win the war.

It was pathetic how predictable the criminal class could be, Sherlock groused as Winter came into view.

He heard John’s indelicate but soft snort and knew his friend was commiserating. They watched as Winter entered the kitchen and pulled down a shadow box from the wall festooned with them.

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow as Winter opened it and pulled out the missing engraving from its ingenious hiding place.

“We’ll take that, please,” Sherlock said as he stepped out of the breakfast alcove. He didn’t notice anything was wrong, not until Winter dropped the engraving, his back still to them.

“Mr. Winter?” Sherlock asked.

The man took a deep breath and turned. It happened so fast, Sherlock had no time to react. However, John with his training and near-superhuman sense of danger, shoved him out of harm’s way.

But that single act put John in direct path of the bullet.

John’s soft ‘oh’ as the bullet neatly sliced into his chest seemed like a hellish scream to Sherlock.

There was another blast as Winter fired his gun but Sherlock managed to duck behind the butcher block. He shot back and hit Winter right in the shooting arm.

The man dropped his gun and fell to his knees, cradling his injured arm. Sherlock didn’t hesitate to zip tie his hands behind his back, even with the injuries. And then the ankles because he’d rather immobilize Winter than waste time beating him until he was unconscious.

He found John next to the breakfast table, motionless. Sherlock discovered the bullet wound to be a neat hole that drilled right between John’s eight and ninth rib.

John woke up and looked at Sherlock. “It’s all right.”

Sherlock snarled. “No, it’s not. I’ll kill him. I’ll kill him.”

“Did you call Lestrade?”

Sherlock held up the phone in his left hand. Even without looking he had managed to fire off a text.

“Good, that’s good,” John said with a weak smile. “It’ll be fine, Sherlock. Don’t worry. It doesn’t even hurt, really.”

And with that comforting smile still on his face, John closed his eyes.

Sherlock checked for pulse and found it, though threadbare. He gently pressed his scarf on the bleeding wound, knowing that the blood will now probably fill the thoracic cavity instead of spilling out, and maybe even pressure the heart into stopping. But he had to do something, anything. He gingerly checked John’s back and found no exit wounds, which made his panic that much harder to control.

Sherlock leaned down and heard John breathing, though the left lung was near silent. The heart was still beating but there was an aberration in the sound.

Bullet entered, hit rib and bounced into the lung, tearing it. It didn’t exit so still in the chest. Probability of it near or in the heart: greater than forty percent.

The emergency personnel arrived first and found Sherlock curled around John; his head pressed against his friend’s chest, listening to John wage a war against death once more. His face was near angelic in its calm but the blood that had drenched his cheek and hair told them peace was nowhere to be found.

It was Lestrade who ordered them to take both in the same ambulance, regulations be damned. And after taking a look at the traumatized victim and the grip he had on his wounded friend, neither worker was willing to part them. Both had experience with separating loved ones during crucial times and end up losing both before they arrived at the hospital.

So, Sherlock was strapped onto a chair next to the gurney, uncharacteristically docile as the medic kept John alive. Once John opened his eyes and immediately began speaking, though the mask on his face made his words a mumble.

Sherlock didn’t hesitate. He stood up and loomed over his friend who calmed down. The medic decided to work around Sherlock who remained standing and whose gaze never left John’s face even as the injured man slowly sank back into oblivion.

Lestrade sighed and shook his head. “It was a trap.”

Donovan paled considerably. “Are you sure? Really sure?”

“Yeah, Winter confessed. He had a call while he was getting ready to burgle the house. Caville told him everything, and that the only way he could get out was to shoot.

“Winter was too scared to refuse.”

“Bloody hell,” Donovan hissed. “Caville drove him to murder? How is that possible? The idiot was supposed to just steal the engraving.”

“I think Caville told him something,” Lestrade answered. “Something that forced Winter into committing murder.”

“Hold on,” Donovan said. “Who was Winter supposed to kill? Holmes and Watson?”

“Now that’s the queer thing,” Lestrade said. “He was told to shoot John.”

“I don’t like it,” Donovan said. “I don’t like it at all.”

“We all know, especially John, how dangerous it is working with Sherlock…”

“That’s not what I meant,” Donovan interrupted harshly. “If Moriarty is such a nutter, why didn’t he target Holmes instead? He’s the bigger threat, yeah?”

“Because he is a nutter. He likes playing games…”

“As much as Holmes,” Donovan finished her boss’ sentence. “I hate to say it, but what do you think is going to happen to London while these two lunatics play their version of peekaboo?”

Lestrade couldn’t answer, as all he could see was John’s pale face, seemingly floating in the gurney’s nest.

Mycroft sat next to Sherlock, graceful and mercifully silent.

“The hateful staff here won’t let me see what is happening,” Sherlock complains, but his words are hollow as there wasn’t a drop of truculence in them.

“The bullet entered the left lung, and instead of exiting careened off the seventh rib before lodging itself next to his heart.

“Mercifully, Dr. Watson’s heart though … shocked, remains undamaged.”

Sherlock covered his face with his hand. “I hate this.”

“So do I,” Mycroft said softly. “But John is in best hands. And he is a strong man with even stronger will. He’ll pull through.”

Sherlock took a deep breath before choking out a laugh. “Did you know I actually enjoyed myself, playing Moriarty’s game? That I finally found a criminal mastermind to match my intellect, my drive?”

“This isn’t your fault.”

Sherlock shook his head. “But it is, Mycroft. I invited that lunatic into Baker Street and into John’s life.”

“Sooner or later, you and Moriarty would have come to blows,” Mycroft reasoned. “You two were destined to meet if only because of what you are.

“And do you think Dr. Watson would’ve chosen to be anywhere else? He may not be of your intellectual level, Sherlock, but the man’s sense of justice and of right and wrong - those qualities would have been enough to set him on the path against the likes of Moriarty and his cohorts. It’s fortunate for Dr. Watson that you were by his side.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened a little at his brother’s observation.

“Moriarty and his enterprise are not to be trivialized, but the man has made many, many enemies besides yourself.”

Sherlock looked at Mycroft, his eyes sharpening. “You know of him, then.”

“I am getting to know him,” Mycroft amended. “And it’s only matter of time before others do. And when that happens … actions will be taken.”

The words were nebulous, but Sherlock took comfort in them. And when the surgeon finally appeared, his eyes were kind but hopeful, and the smile on his face was genuine.

Part I * Epilogue