Family Deductions

John's heart bubbled with great satisfaction if Sherlock praised his blog but he wondered if sometimes he didn't still go too far overboard on florid description for his partner's liking. Sherlock had never, ever, though stopped him from writing up cases as he saw them. John felt he had the best husband in the whole world, a wonderful man, whom he loved with every fibre of his being because he was loved, by Sherlock for who he was, despite all his shortcomings.

“Yes, it was a thick book I just didn't see the significance of that.” John readily owned up. “He was keen to get you off his back too.”

Surprise registered on John's face to hear that his thoughts about the betting scam were sound, although they had just popped into his head from nowhere, then he felt warm and happy at garnering such a nice compliment from that great logical mind.

It was good news that at least Eddie Jackson's phone number was real as he saw Sherlock buzzing with excitement and dashing a text off to Hopkins. “Be hopes he's alive, our Eddie Jackson but even if he has come a cropper that's never stopped you from making progress.” John exclaimed with confidence.

John checked his watch. He knew that Hamish would be bearing up under his ordeal as well as could be expected but, even with knowing that his parents would be out there making every effort to find him quickly, it would be gut-wrenchingly frightening for him at his age. John looked out of the window thinking about that. With his job in jeopardy too he wondered if it might not be better to move out of London to a safer place.

The doctor had always imagined that they would have to carry him out in a coffin to persuade him to ever leave Baker Street and he couldn't see Sherlock wanting to leave there at all. It'd be too quiet for Sherlock, he would get bored and they would inevitably argue about something trivial like case titles on the blog. They rarely argued any more.

As the taxi pulled into the kerb outside their flat John fondly remembered the first time he had seen the door and as he pulled his keys out of his pocket he glanced up at the windows where Sherlock so often stood playing his violin. He got the door open and looked back to make sure Sherlock had enough cash on him for the taxi fare and seeing that was fine went straight to the kitchen.

By the time Sherlock had finished texting, he looked out the window and realised they were almost back at Baker Street. He still held the. Post it note with the two numbers on and the next logical step when they got back home was to attempt to call Moran.

That would be an interesting one, Sherlock thought, seeing as they were fairly certain the Colonel would be mixed up in Hamish's kidnap somehow. With Moriarty still in the mental institute there was little he could physically do except give the orders, and someone had to do the dirty work. Given their past history with Moran, Sherlock was sure the sniper would only be too happy to act on Moriarty's instruction.

He glanced briefly at John as the cab pulled up outside the familiar black door, and wondered what his partner had been thinking throughout the journey. No doubt running the events of the past 24 hours through his mind, trying to apply his own logic and rational to figure things out. Sherlock smiled to himself. He loved John. He didn't think he could ever love anyone, he thought love was stupid, but John changed all that, changed everything.

He took out his wallet and handed the driver a crisp twenty pound note. "Keep the change," he mumbled, clambering out after John. The driver looked pleased, it was quite a big tip. He jogged up the steps to their flat and found John already in the kitchen. "Coffee," he called through before sitting down on the sofa and taking out his phone. He added a quick, "please", something else he'd learnt from John, although Sherlock still preferred to say 'thank you' when he'd received something rather than 'please' to ask for something.

Whilst waiting for his coffee he quickly dialled Moran's number. It was just as he'd suspected. "It's a fake," he shouted, standing up and walking through to the kitchen so he could talk to John face to face. "Moran's number, it's a fake" Sherlock explained, speaking a little quieter now they were in close proximity. "So what does that tell us?" He already knew what it told them, he just wanted to see if his partner was thinking along the same lines.

((Aaagh the feels ))


“Coffee's on it's way” John already had the kettle on when Sherlock bounced through the door of their flat. John was making one for himself to stay awake and chuckled at the 'please' that Sherlock had tacked on to his request or order. He could imagine Sherlock saying to him 'John, shoot Moran, please' Not. Well, maybe on the count of three as a threat to get information out of him.

So Moran's number was bogus. “You predicted that.” John called back as he stirred the sugar into Sherlock's coffee he stopped for a moment as his partner came to speak to him. Sherlock sometimes displayed the patience of a saint in keeping him on the same page as himself.

Lack of sleep was beginning to take it's toll on John. “Milverton is covering for Moran, I think” John put a hand to his face and played with his lip in thought “But he gave you Eddie's number so he doesn't think Eddie will um, can tell you...anything useful?”

John took the coffee mugs through to the living room where Sherlock could pace if he needed to. He sat down and yawned before taking a drink.

((They're just too sweet XD))


Sherlock smiled to himself, watching the concentration etched on John's face and listening to the deductions and conclusions he had made based on the evidence they had been presented with. His partner had got much better over the years. His mind had grown quicker, his observation keener and his instinct sharper. It was satisfying to Sherlock to know that he had managed to have such an effect on his best friend and husband.

"Spot on!" he cried, with a grin, wandering back through to the living room and beginning to pace up and down as he spoke. "The fact that he is protecting Moran is plain as day, John, which tells us he knows Moran is up to no good, and not only does he not care, he is actively seeking to prevent any investigations, implying he is almost certainly involved in some way, or at least compliant in the other's criminality..."

"And as you so cleverly pointed out my dear, wonderful John, our friend Milverton was perfectly happy to give us Eddie Jackson's actual phone number, supporting our natural belief that Mr Jackson was an innocent party caught up in whatever it all is, and that Mr Milverton believes the man is not a threat, he has no fear of him revealing whatever it is he doesn't want us to find out. Yet we also know Jackson was mixed up with Moran. So the question is...why doesn't Milverton think he's a threat?"

"The possibilities are numerous and each one darker and more deadly than the other. We can believe that Jackson knows nothing. We can believe that Jackson is working in cahoots with Moran and Milverton and they trust him to say nothing, although personally I refute this theory. We can believe that Milverton happily gave us Jackson's number because he knows some terrible fate as befallen the man and he would therefore be unable to tell any tales anyhow...but then surely he wouldn't give us the number, knowing we would investigate the case and be instantly suspicious...if something had happened to Jackson we would of course be right back to question Mr Milverton..."

"But then surely, is it not possible, that Milverton could have known exactly what he was doing? In giving us a false phone number for Moran and a real one for Eddie, he has not only protected Moran, but created a perfect alibi for himself. It would be easy for him to make the excuse that Moran had changed his phone number, or that he'd written one of the digits wrong when he'd copied it out, but the other number was fine, in perfect working order, so why would he give one fake number and not the other. To an outside eye it would be a perfectly believable mistake on his part..."

"It was only a risk giving us Jackson's real number, if he was around to be able to tell him something. Milverton was entirely confident that when we rang Eddie Jackson's number, we would get no answer. Yes John, I still fear something untoward may have occurred to Mr Jackson. But we'll soon see."

And with that, Sherlock stopped speaking, picked up his violin and bow and, positioning himself in the window, began to play.

As Sherlock brightly announced that John had come up with the right answer to his question. John somewhat taken aback moved a fraction on his feet. Sherlock was pleased. Good he thought to himself scratching his head and blinking. Perhaps blinking was not such a great idea after all as his eyes seemed to want to stay closed and to glue themselves shut.

He had still no idea how Sherlock could possibly stay awake all night, and had in the past done it for more than any one single night, and yet remain so lively and needle sharp. He hoped his coffee would buck him up a bit and watched his husband striding frenetically up and down the now well worn, old, maroon and blue rug in the living room.

Sherlock was speaking exceptionally fast, faster than John could think when at his best, and apart from my dear wonderful before his name John caught only snatches as his amazing talented partner scrolled through the case thinking out loud, posing and answering his own questions.

John sat nursing his coffee and tried to follow his partner's line of thinking but yawning again admitted defeat at took a bleary eyed peek at his watch, which Sherlock had bought him for his last birthday. It was nearly 10 to 5 when Sherlock snatched up his violin and began playing. 5 hours left.

His heart thumped as he turned the gas fire on in case Sherlock got cold from standing in front of the window and knowing that there was nothing else he could do John sat down again to wait for Sherlock to be Sherlock and think of something stunning and brilliant to get Hamish home.

Sherlock closed his eyes and began to play, everything else in the room melting into the background as he was left alone with just the music and his thoughts, running through everything in his mind again and again.

He was only interupted by the sensation of something vibrating in his pocket. His phone. He put the violin and bow down, whipping out the mobile. "It's Hopkins," he announced to John excitedly as he opened up the message.

"We've got Eddie Jackson's address. Let's go." Sherlock grabbed his coat and started throwing it on over his shoulders, the sparkle back in his eyes as they had more work to do, another lead to follow. This was what he lived for. And John of course. John who looked rather sleepy right now.

"Are you all right?" he asked his partner, concerned, glutting back the coffee John had made him, which was rather cold due to him having left it for so long whilst playing. He glanced out of the window and noticed it was starting to get light. Not much time left now, he thought to himself, but he was also convinced the key lay with Eddie Jackson.

John sat with closed his eyes but wanting to keep an eye on the time he didn't dare to allow himself to doze off. He enjoyed Sherlock's violin playing and despite being worried about Hamish it was soothing to listen to. When the sound of the music ceased John unstuck his eyelids and looked blearily but expectantly at his partner.

It was good news from Hopkins and John hauled himself out from his chair to turn the fire off as Sherlock put his coat on.

John smiled wanly when Sherlock asked him how he was “Yeah, tired, love, that's all.” he reassured his husband and shuffled to the sofa where he had flung down his jacket on the way in. It had ended up sliding onto the floor and he had overlooked retrieving it. He yawned again and struggled into his jacket and, closing the flat door behind them to keep the heat in, followed Sherlock outside.

Once outside John yawned again and zipping his jacket up to the collar inhaled a deep draught of the cold early morning air. He felt more awake after the chilly air hit him. It was relatively quiet for a Saturday so the two men had to go to the end of the street to look for a taxi.

John stood with his shoulders hunched and his hands deep in his pockets as his effervescing partner hailed a taxi with an aplomb that was bordering on the dramatic. Endearingly so. John clambered in as Sherlock gave the driver the address.

Sherlock led the way downstairs and out onto the street where, much to the detective's annoyance, they had to do a bit of walking before they could find a cab. He glanced frequently at his husband just to check he was holding up OK. He could tell John was tired, and this was quite late for him. He rarely stayed up all night, even when they had cases on Sherlock would always send John to bed eventually, knowing how he needed his sleep. But this was, of course, different. The stakes were high and they had a vested interest.

"Once we get Hamish back I promise we can stay in bed all day," he smiled at John and grabbed his hand to give it a squeeze, making sure he sounded sure and confident. It wasn't 'if' they found Hamish, it was 'when'. "And Hamish will never be allowed to leave the flat ever again," he joked, although there would definitely have to be certain issues addressed.

Finally they managed to find a cab and Sherlock jumped in, jogging his leg up and down, anxious to get to Eddie Jackson's house, his mind running through a potential list of questions he would ask if he was home, and if he wasn't home, what the next plan of action would be. The detective remained quiet for the rest of the journey, deep in thought and staring out of the window.

"Here we are," the cabbie spoke and broke him out of his daydream as the taxi slowed to a halt outside a block of apartments. Sherlock got his wallet out and shoved the driver some money before getting out and approaching the door, where there was a long column of buzzers belonging to different flats. He pressed the one that said 'Jackson' and waited. There was no answer. He pressed it again. Still nothing.

John appreciated that Sherlock was caringly checking he was ok. He hadn't been sleeping soundly for a fortnight or so which wasn't his usual style. He had slept as well as anyone could in tense and sometimes quite atrocious conditions in his service days. But he had been a younger man who could, when necessary, get by on snatched and broken sleep and still function well as a Captain then.

“I think I'll need 12 hours solid sleep when we get kiddo back.” John replied. He hadn't thought of Hamish in such a way since he was a child. He would say to Hamish 'come on kiddo, time for bed' when he was dropping asleep on the sofa and carry him upstairs.

There wasn't an 'if' about it. They were going to get their boy back. And someone was going to be sorry for even thinking of taking him.

The taxi driver deposited them at a less than well kept block of flats and Sherlock found Jackson's door bell. John looked around as they waited but the detective's repeated summons wasn't answered.

“Could wait for Hopkins but time's not on our side.” John piped up, “Break in” he suggested succinctly with a cheerful smile.

After several frustrating minutes without any response from Jackson's flat, John suggested they should break in, and Sherlock responded with a delighted grin. "You read my mind," he muttered, darting a few steps backward so he could get a good look at the apartment block from a bit of distance.

"Flat 36, so safe to assume it's on the third floor," he muttered almost to himself, analysing whether he could climb up. The corridors leading to each flat were open plan making it fairly easy for a taller man to take a running jump and latch onto the edge. Once he'd got onto the first floor he'd be able to take he stairs to the third. It was slightly more physical exertion but quieter and less conspicuous than smashing the window on the front door and climbing through the broken glass, and the lock was electronic, there was no option to pick it.

Sherlock grabbed John by the arm and dragged him back to where he was standing, pointing at the first floor balcony corridor. "I'm going to jump up there," he explained. "Might need you to give my feet a shove." And before John could answer, he set off running, then leapt into the air with his arms outstretched, managing to grab the ledge with the tips of his fingers and scrambling up slightly so his forearms were on, just about managing to keep steady, his legs dangling in the air fairly uselessly. "Feet, John," he spluttered, straining with the effort of holding on.

It was not difficult for John to suggest a spot of breaking in to Jackson's flat because it was an option that Sherlock had resorted to whenever faced with such a situation in the past. Only the method of entry differed, according to circumstances.

Pulling him to the vantage point where Sherlock wanted to show John his chosen method of gaining entry to the building John began assessing the difficulty of Sherlock jumping up to grab the ledge of the first floor balcony. As John was still looking at the situation he was completely unprepared for Sherlock suddenly propelling himself forward to make a spectacular, energetic bound into the air.

John was slow in responding to the athletic leap that Sherlock made to latch onto the edge of the first floor balcony and chided himself for it. He immediately rushed forward though to give Sherlock a leg up when called.

Although short in stature compared to the detective his sturdy frame was tall enough to get under Sherlock's dangling feet and with outstretched arms provide an inch or so of lift. John, concentrating, looking down at the floor, pushed upwards grunting with the effort “Hup” and almost instantly his hands were relieved of weight as his partner made it over the edge of the balcony. John then automatically looked up to the balcony and, as all was well, allowed himself a little grin of satisfaction.

Sherlock felt like he was dangling in the air for quite some time, his fingers slowly starting to lose their grasp on the edge of the balcony. But finally he felt the pressure taken off him, with his husband's steady hands underneath, pushing him upwards.

With the extra help and added feeling of security knowing John had his back, he was able to let go with his right hand and reach for a higher part of the railings, grabbing on, the releasing his left hand and using both to lift himself up, throwing over his legs, twisting round and vaulting his body over the balcony railings, landing in a slightly ungraceful heap on the other side, but successfully up on the first floor.

Sherlock quickly got to his feet and leant over the balcony to give a cheeky thumbs up and a grin to John, before turning swiftly and dashing away towards the staircase, the tails of his coat making a satisfying swishing sound as he moved. He took the stairs two at a time to get to the third floor. The detective prided himself on his superb physical fitness and energy despite being in his senior years. He was sure it was the job that kept him young. If he didn't have the cases he'd most likely sit around getting fat like Mycroft.

Sherlock reached flat 34 and rattled the door handle. Locked. He knocked on a couple of times. No answer. Then he turned his attention to the lock, taking out his picking tools from the inner right pocket of his coat. It was a relatively simple process and within a couple of minutes he was inside Eddie Jackson's flat.

As John looked up to the balcony checking that Sherlock was safe and able to get over the edge now he saw his husband give him a cheerful thumbs up and a rewarding grin. He chuckled and grinned back, all in a day's work my love. Then the detective was away to get into Eddie Jackson's third floor flat. John hoped that Sherlock would be ok and not in need of him while he was stuck outside.

It didn't look particularly good for Jackson but one never knew the man could be a sound sleeper, a nightshift worker or even out clubbing on a Saturday night. John picked up a few empty beer cans that were strewn about and sat down on the pavement ready to pretend to be a drunk while he kept watch. He had learned a lot about hiding in plain sight from his husband, who was a complete master of disguise, over the years. Sherlock could come down and let him in if need be but he thought he probably wouldn't appear again until he was done in the building.

The first thing Sherlock noticed when he closed the door behind him was the cold. It was actually colder inside than it was outside which meant the heating wasn't on, and he doubted any sane person would sit inside on a cold night without the heating on.

He wandered through the dark hallway to the room directly ahead. An open plan living room and kitchenette. He flicked on the light switch. It was a pretty dark and dingy flat, even with the light on. The coffee table in front of the sofa was strewn with bills and letters. The detective picked up a handful and scanned through.

"So it wasn't just gambling debt..." He spoke aloud quietly to himself, before folding a couple of the bills and stuffing them into his pocket.

Sherlock quickly walked through the other rooms - the bedroom and bathroom, just to confirm there was definitely no one in the house, then returned to the living room and grabbed Jackson's laptop up off the floor, opening the lid.

Suddenly he remembered he'd left John outside. He'd got better at this through the years, and hoped it hadn't been too long. He darted out to the hallway and pushed the buzzer to let his partner in. "Come on up John," he spoke through the intercom. He could use John's help with searching the flat.

The doctor huddled with his hands in his jacket pockets in the lee of the entrance of the building watching the sky starting to turn to a pallid dawn pink-grey wishing he had remembered to bring a pair of gloves with him. Poor Hamish would no doubt be frozen too.

John started at the buzzer sounding and jumped up as he heard Sherlock's warm baritone. “Be with you in a mo” he replied. He let himself in and ran up the stairs, but paused at the end of the corridor to clip the magazine into his Sauer then walked quietly along the corridor until he found Jackson's flat.

“It's me.” John announced slowly pushing the door of the flat open. The depressingly dismal, little flat looked like a no frills bachelor pad with Eddie's belongings untidily strewn haphazardly in the living room. He moved to the coffee table and glanced down at the red reminder letters and then looked questioningly back at Sherlock.

By the time John had made his way up to the flat, Sherlock had already managed to work out Eddie Jackson's password to break into his laptop, using his usual method of looking round the flat at the man's possessions, deducing what was important to him, significant. In this instance, the two framed posters on his wall had been the biggest clue. The man was clearly a big Elvis fan, and in a flat where most things were untidy and slovenly, these took pride of place, clearly regularly polished and dusted. It wasn't a big leap to discover 'theking' was Eddie's password.

Sherlock indicated with his arm to the rest of the flat. "Have a good look round," he instructed. "Look through these papers and letters. Anything at all that might indicate they'd arranged a meeting with this mystery buyer for the necklace. I'll check his e-mails, there's bound to be something."

The detective tapped away on Eddie's laptop, using the same password to get into the man's email account and search through.

While Sherlock was busy sifting through Eddie Jackson's laptop John removed the magazine from his Sauer and stowed it away again.

He gingerly plonked himself on the sofa and set to scouring the litter of paperwork for anything useful. He put it into piles on the coffee table, unpaid bills and reminders, bank statement, junk mail. Nothing useful. Then John picked up a copy of the local free newspaper from the floor and thumbed through it quickly looking for the advertising section but there were no ads circled or otherwise marked.

Casting further afield John spotted a grey plastic waste paper bin had a root through it. “Nothing but empty envelopes and junk mail.” he reported and went through to the kitchen.

Sherlock was reading through Eddie's useless e-mails one by one, quickly discarding anything not of importance. Most of them were spam, adverts, an arrangement to meet at the pub with one of his friends. He could hear John wasn't having much luck either and the detective's low stores of patience were already wearing thin.

Then, just as his partner was moving through to the kitchen to continue the search, Sherlock spotted something. "John," he called excitedly, gesticulating with his arm. "John, come and look at this." He shifted around on the sofa and turned the laptop screen so John could see it.

"This e-mail was received by Eddie three days ago, sent from this weird e-mail address, look." He pointed it out on the screen '5822957139@mephone.com'. Then he clicked open the message to show John the contents.

5am Friday. TQ2628777054.

"What do you make of it, John?" Sherlock asked, his eyes alight with excitement.

John was wondering if Jackson had a telephone note pad, but it was plain that even if Jackson had ever had a landline in the flat it would have been disconnected long ago for non-payment of the bill.

He was on his way to the kitchen to continue the search when Sherlock's excited voice rang out and he was beckoning him to go and see what he had found on Jackson's laptop. Hope started in John's heart as he almost ran back into the living room as his partner swivelled the laptop screen around for him to look at the e-mails.

The doctor bent over and rested a hand on the sofa as, open mouthed, he peered at the screen. He frowned, staring at the e-mail address, “hoo, all I know of mephone is Jennifer Wilson, Study in Pink, had an account with them and I tracked her phone...numbers instead of letters, a code or just made up?”

John straightened up with his hands on his hips and, tight-lipped, shook his head sadly at not being able to help “Sorry, I've no idea what the TQ thing is.”

Sherlock's heart was fluttering madly in his chest, the adrenalin racing through every muscle and filling them full of energy. He felt they were close, that they were hot upon the heels of something even if he couldn't quite say what.

"The e-mail address is most likely meaningless," he explained quickly. "A made up one invented purely to send the message. But the message itself. TQ. It's a grid reference, John. It's telling them where to go."

The detective grinned excitedly and pulled up the browser on Eddie's laptop, typing into the address bar - gridreferencefinder.com. Once the website came up, he copied and pasted the code into the search section, hitting enter. A moment later, and a map was coming up on the screen.

"Here it is...TQ2628777054," Sherlock pointed at the screen, then frowned trying to recognise the location. "Ahh. I know what it is. There's a disused power station on Lots Road. Look, you can see it in the picture. That's where they were meeting."

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(( WOW that is fantastic. I had a wonderful surprise. ))

John's grin could have lit up the room when Sherlock showed him what he had found on Jackson's laptop. “Fantastic...” he breathed in admiration for Sherlock's brilliance. He was so caught up by his husband's excitement that he felt a surge of adrenalin course through his veins and immediately forgot his tiredness.

“You are, mmm, bloody marvellous,” John put his arm around Sherlock's shoulders and gave him an enthusiastic hug and kiss on the cheek which sounded very loud in the quiet flat. He kicked himself for not realising that the TQ was pointing to a map reference but it didn't detract from the optimism that he felt that the detective had found the vital next clue to getting Hamish back.

John was looking at the flat door next raring to go to Lots Road power station and have a look. Sherlock had surely only found the next link in the chain.. “ Brilliant, and it's telling us where to go, isn't it?!” it was rhetorical question.

((Awww thanks. I had fun doing that actually! XD))


Sherlock was already quite pleased with himself for having unravelled another part of the mystery, and he had to admit, the big hug and kiss from John lifted his heart and made him quite proud.

"Elementary, John," he chuckled lightly as he was knocked sideways by the force of his husband's embrace. He enjoyed the praise, but somehow it always baffled him slightly. He wasn't intending to be modest, he just didn't see that he'd done anything particularly remarkable. "Nothing special, just a simple map reference. Easy if you know where to look."

He turned back to the laptop a moment, and quickly forwarded the original e-mail on to his own address. They might be able to trace the source of the address at some point. Then he clicked off all the screens, closed the laptop lid and laid it down on the sofa before standing up.

"That's right," Sherlock grinned, already heading towards the door. "We know where to go next. We're right on their trail, John, the game is on." With two long strides he was out of Eddie's apartment and racing down the corridor, breaking into a jog in his eagerness to get downstairs and get a cab.

John snuffled with pleasure, charmed, when he heard his husband claimed that it was 'elementary' and 'nothing special' a matter of knowing where to look. He would have too great a difficulty in explaining that his joy wasn't simply about Sherlock knowing where to look and just grinned.

In seconds Sherlock had dealt with Jackson's laptop, set it down on the sofa and had almost leaped for the door. John was right behind him in springing forward filled with a feeling of sharpness, of being fully alive, a feeling that he guessed was age old, as old as humankind itself, when people began hunting or venturing into the unknown.

Clattering with quick steps down the corridor and down the stairs to the ground floor John burst out of the building behind Sherlock into the cold dawn light and earnestly searched the street for a taxi. A short jog brought them to a busier street where John easily flagged a cab down and they both piled in enthusiastically.

Once outside they headed straight back to the main road, and Sherlock was pleased to see John manage to hail a cab almost immediately, his partner significantly livened by the sudden turn of events.

The detective clambered eagerly into the back of the taxi and gave the driver the address, before sitting back and allowing himself the time to turn and give John a warm smile, capturing the other's hand in his for a small comforting squeeze, before staring out of the window and mulling things over.

Fifteen minutes later and they were pulling up on Lots Road outside the old power station and Sherlock glanced at his watch before getting out, allowing John to pay for the fare. The place was deathly quiet, dark and deserted, not a soul in sight.

"So this is where they met, John," he explained in an excited whisper. "It was Eddie that arranged the meeting, then he forwarded the e-mail on to Sylvia, the one in possession of the necklace. Sylvia had intended to go alone, but when she'd told her brother he'd insisted she take Eddie and Carole - safety in numbers. They must have known it was dodgy. Weird e-mail address, meeting at a place like this in the middle of the night. Question is, who were they meeting and what happened when they got here?"

John made himself comfortable in the taxi and, turning his head smiled warmly back as Sherlock took his hand giving it a reassuring little squeeze. He spent the remainder of the journey towards the disused Thames-side power station leaving Sherlock to think and looked out of the window at the early morning city streets and only moved to pay the driver as he disembarked.

It all looked very quiet as they stood on the pavement in hushed conversation.


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“Common sense should have told them it was dodgy to meet someone here, of all places, at 5 in the morning.” John agreed nodding. “Wasn't Sylvia found on the riverside, do you think she ran, from here?” he asked trying to piece together the information that they had to form a picture of the events.

“After you, then.” John added with a tight, humourless smile indicating the power station with his head.