The decorated Christmas tree next to the nurses' station bothers him, and he wonders why it's there. Surely, he can't be the only visitor who finds it painfully inappropriate, like a clown at a funeral

When he reaches his wife's room, he finds her doctor standing next to her bed. There are few reasons he would be here on Christmas morning instead of home with his family, none of them good.

"Please have a seat, Mr. Anderson," he begins in a voice that James knows well. He's used it himself more times than he cares to remember. Professional distance, sympathy on hold. Definitely bad news.

James walks to the chair next to Miranda's bed where he's spent 18 out of every 24 hours since she was admitted five weeks ago, comatose but stubbornly clinging to life. He lowers himself into the seat and automatically takes her hand.

The doctor slides the other chair over and places it facing James. He sits down and leans forward, elbows on his knees and hands clasped together. He takes a breath and lets it out slowly. "Mr. Anderson, I know you understand the medical implications of your wife's cardiac arrest last night. Being a medical professional, you know that there is always a risk of neurological damage in such an extended resuscitation. This was her third such episode in less than a week, and I'm afraid we're very close to the end of our options."

James nods. He had watched them pull her back from the brink, knowing that it was wrong. Knowing she would want him to let her go because this isn't the way it was supposed to be. But knowing and accepting are two very different things. "Are you trying to tell me there's no hope?"

The doctor looks down at his hands for a moment, then back at James. "The EEG shows no brain activity at all now. I'm very sorry."

James nods again. "The next crisis will be the last." If she were on a respirator, he could let them disconnect that support, and it would be over in minutes. "I don't want the feeding discontinued," he says firmly. She won't live long enough to suffer, but he has this irrational fear of her being hungry in her final hours when he knows that she no longer feels anything at all.

"Of course." The doctor hesitates. "You agree then that we should not attempt resuscitation the next time?"

His voice is nearly gone. "Yes."

"Is there someone we can call for you? Someone to be with you now?"

"I have a brother. We're not close." He frowns, shaking his head slightly. "He doesn't even know I'm married."

"There are grief counselors here at the hospital. You shouldn't be alone." The doctor stands up. "There are some papers you will need to sign. I'll send someone in to speak with you in a bit." He places a hand on James's shoulder. "I'm very sorry, Mr. Anderson." He heads for the door.

"Merry Christmas," James whispers.

The doctor stops and turns, lips pressed tightly. He nods, then closes the door softly behind him.

This isn't what was supposed to happen to them. They were meant to spend their lives together, and he had known it from the moment they met. They were practically finishing each other's sentences by the end of their first date. He's never known anyone like her, and he never will again. To have this happen to someone like Miranda is beyond injustice. To think that the man who did this to her will never be punished is unbearable.

His brother was his last hope, but he no longer works with Scotland Yard, a fact he had discovered last night when he'd tried to reach him there. He knew he had a mobile number written down somewhere, but he'd searched the flat for hours last night without running across it. He had finally found it scribbled on the back of a business card buried in his wallet just before he left home to see Miranda this morning.

He slips the card from his pocket and taps the number into his phone. Before he presses the call button, he looks up at Miranda and smiles. "Philip would have loved you, too."

He squeezes her hand and presses 'call'.

Christmas is for children and the parents of children still young enough to believe in Santa Claus, or Father Christmas, or whatever local name is applied to the specter who rewards the worthy and denies gifts to the unworthy, as if reward naturally follows good, and punishment inevitably befalls evil. Not, he has learned, without intervention, and not always then. Especially if the intervention doesn't come from him.

But he had loved it once, briefly and with an intensity that made the disappointment all the more bitter when he learned the truth.

John had brought Christmas back.

"Not everything is a puzzle for you to solve, Sherlock. Sometimes getting together with friends is just that. Lestrade doesn't need to bring a murder case with him every time he comes by. It's an excuse to be together. Don't analyze it."

Right now, Sherlock is standing with his back to the window, watching his friends. Not the avatars that helped keep him sane for the past two years. The real, living people who care about him and each other. The people he cares about. He still doesn't feel comfortable participating in the idle chit chat, but he's come to appreciate that it has its place, and it can be interesting to observe.

They've gathered into a half circle facing the crackling fire. All but Mrs. Hudson, who seems happiest when she's fussing with the food she spent all day preparing, and handing out heaping plates of it to her guests. John has assigned himself the task of keeping glasses filled, but he spends most of his time in the chair that will always be his. Mary is perched on the arm of it, one hand resting lightly on his shoulder.

Molly and her boyfriend have brought chairs from the kitchen and sit side by side at the center of the half circle. She is shy and coy by turns, glancing in Sherlock's direction when she's said something that gets the others laughing. He knows that she still cares about him more than she should, and wonders if that might be about to change. The boyfriend is clearly smitten with her, and he should be encouraged by the way she touches him at every opportunity. Going by the looks he's been giving her since they arrived, there was a very satisfying sexual encounter between them sometime in the past few hours. Satisfying on his side, at least. Sherlock studies Molly for a moment until she looks his way and catches him at it. She looks away, but not before he notes that her level of satisfaction was probably not equal to her partner's. Maybe she realizes that's what Sherlock was wondering. It would explain the furious blush.

Lestrade seems to have adjusted well to his unmarried status, although he's come as a single to the party again. Before, it was because his wife refused to come spend time with his odd friends. Now, it's because she's run off with her current love. They've finalized the divorce, John tells him. No girlfriend on the horizon, but Lestrade is nearly as devoted to The Work as Sherlock, so that's probably for the best. He wonders idly if Lestrade is looking for a flatshare, and immediately deletes the notion. Lestrade is not John. No one is.

Mrs. Hudson loves to mother him, and he doesn't mind. Not really. She does the same to everyone she cares about, and that includes the entire group here tonight, but she has a special fondness for John and Sherlock, her pseudo-sons. Her steadfast belief that he and John are secretly a couple, in spite of her obvious fondness for Mary, still irritates John. It's not as if she's the only person to have made that assumption. Sherlock has never cared about the rumors. The only opinion that matters to him is John's.

His view of Mary is colored by the way John seems to see her, and he's aware of the potential danger in this. Sherlock has seen her gauge John's reaction to what she is saying, and change course before he can disagree. Sherlock chooses to believe that her malleable behavior is a reflection of her desire to please the man she loves. He had deduced deception in her that first night, but after having seen it in practice, he has classified it as benign. It's clear that John is happy being with her, and that is enough to keep Sherlock on her side for now.

Just as his interest in people-watching begins to fade, Mrs. Hudson and Molly start tidying up the debris of plates and glasses strewn on every flat surface, and the party begins to break up.

Greg is first to put on his coat. He accepts a bag of leftovers from Mrs. Hudson, and returns her hug. He claps Sherlock lightly on the shoulder as he passes, as casually as if they've always been this comfortable with each other.

John and Mary are the last to leave. Mary wants to stop downstairs to see if she can help Mrs. Hudson with the dishes she's hauled down to her flat. John lags behind to talk to Sherlock.

"You know, you could take a day off once in a while." John is smiling, but he means what he's saying. "You're a bit more subtle about it now, but you're still deducing everyone instead of joining in."

It seems John's observational skills are improving. "Watching, John. Not deducing."

John rolls his eyes. "I know the difference. So does Molly, going by the way you were making her blush." He leans in and whispers theatrically, "Some things are best left un-deduced."

Definitely improving. "At least I didn't comment out loud."

"This time," John adds. "And thank God for small favors." He touches Sherlock's arm as he turns to catch up with Mary. "Merry Christmas, Sherlock."

"And a happy new year," Sherlock responds, and unaccountably thinks of Mycroft.

Watching John walk away puts a hollow ache in his chest that is becoming uncomfortably familiar. He wonders if this is the sensation that had made John unable to remain in the flat after he thought Sherlock was dead. But John isn't dead. The response is out of proportion to the trigger.

Maybe he needs to address it the same way John did. He could find a smaller flat in a less central location without having to tap into his trust fund. But he's not likely to find another landlady willing to take rent so far below market. And the thought of leaving 221B seems to intensify the ache rather than alleviate it.

He definitely needs Work, and the sooner the better.

Lestrade calls him the next morning with some cases he describes as 'possibly interesting', but which Sherlock suspects have been dug out of a desk drawer because the DI is as bored as Sherlock. As he's stepping outside to hail a cab for Scotland Yard, Sherlock's phone rings again. He pulls it out without glancing at the caller ID, assuming it's Lestrade making sure he's on his way. He comes to a full stop, arm raised at an approaching cab, when he recognizes the voice.

"Anderson?"

"Sherlock, I need to see you." There is an audible wince in his voice that says he is braced for a less than positive response.

The cab stops, and he signals the driver to wait. "What for?"

Deep breath. "It's, um, personal. I'm next door at Speedy's."

Sherlock turns to his left and sees Philip Anderson standing at the front window next to the counter. He lowers his phone, and Anderson comes out of Speedy's with his still against his ear. "Can I come up and talk to you? It will only take a few minutes."

To risk the humiliation he so richly deserves by coming to Sherlock, Anderson has to be at the end of his rope. Curiosity trumps history. He signals the cabbie to move on. "Five minutes," he tells Anderson, then pockets his phone and waits for him to catch up. He opens the front door and sprints up the stairs, taking a left into the kitchen where he leans against the counter while Anderson trudges up the stairs like a man climbing the gallows.

Anderson stops just inside the door. His gaze flits around the room, looking at everything but Sherlock. Then he clears his throat. "I know you have no reason to help me, but this isn't about me." He takes a breath. "It's my brother. His wife just died from injuries she received in a brutal rape five weeks ago. The police had her attacker in custody, but they had to let him go. My brother asked me if I knew of anyone who could help him get justice. I told him I would ask." He finally meets Sherlock's eyes. "Would you take a look at the case and forget that he's my brother?"

It's somehow incongruous to think of Anderson having a family. It's never crossed his mind to wonder about the man's personal life, aside from the entertainment value of deducing his affair with Donovan. "Why did the police let him go?"

Anderson shrugs. "I don't have access to any of the details. James- that's my brother- said that the evidence was tainted and couldn't be used. The attacker was arrested a few blocks from the scene, and his DNA was on her body. Something happened to make it unusable. She never regained consciousness to identify him."

"Is it Lestrade's case?"

"No. DI Dimmock handled it." Anderson snorts. "Badly, I'm sure." His eyes fix on Sherlock's. "Will you help?"

Sherlock studies him for a long moment. "What was the victim's name?"

"Miranda Anderson." Anderson's voice drops, and he looks away. "I-I never even got to meet her."

The injustice of allowing a murderer to walk free on what was no doubt a legal technicality overrides everything else, including his opinion of the man standing before him. "Tell your brother that I'll look into the case. I can't promise that there's anything I can do, but I will get in touch with you later today. I'm meeting with Lestrade this morning."

Anderson exhales with relief. "I was afraid you'd just tell me to piss off."

"I nearly did."

Anderson's smile is tight and brief. "I appreciate whatever you can do. It's more than I had any right to expect."

Sherlock decides this is a true statement, and lets it stand. "I'll be in touch." He pushes away from the counter, and Anderson takes his cue to leave.

Sherlock waits long enough to ensure that they won't be waiting side by side for a taxi, then heads down the stairs.

"I didn't even know he had a brother." Lestrade closes the folder and hands it across his desk to Sherlock, then leans back in his chair. "Miranda Anderson, 32. Nurse at Royal London Hospital, married to James Anderson, 35, also a nurse." He gestures at the folder Sherlock is flipping through. "Crime scene photos look like something out of a horror film. Most brutal rape I've ever seen, and that's saying a lot. He slammed her head against the concrete floor so many times that he crushed the back of her skull."

"DNA evidence was thrown out. Why?" Sherlock looks up from the folder.

"The Crown prosecutor found that the chain of custody had been broken. The evidence kit was left in the SOCO's car when she stopped to pick up her daughter from the sitter's, of all things. Some kids broke the car window and stole her laptop and the box with all the evidence. They dumped the box in a skip around the corner. The evidence bags were compromised."

"None of it can be used?"

Lestrade grimaces. "Correct."

"Anderson implied it was Dimmock's fault. Where did he get that impression?"

"He's worked with the man. So have you. It's not a big leap. The SOCO told Dimmock that she had to pick up her daughter, and she needed him to take the evidence to the lab himself. He refused."

Sherlock flips through the crime scene images, and Lestrade is right. The savagery of the attack is shocking and far beyond what was needed to subdue the victim. He looks up at Lestrade. "The brutality itself is a signature. Have there been similar attacks?"

Lestrade shakes his head. "Nothing even close to this."

Sherlock picks up the arrest sheet that includes the suspect's photos, full front and profile. Michael Hartman looks more like an altar boy than a rapist. Blond, blue eyes, and an angelic smile that is obscene in this context. "He could approach any woman and not alarm her. You're sure this is the man?"

"DNA doesn't lie. Unless he has an identical twin, he's the only possibility."

"Where did you get his DNA to run the comparison?"

Lestrade smiles. "We let him have a smoke in the interrogation room. DNA match came from the butt."

"Very resourceful." Sherlock suspects that was Lestrade's idea, going by the smile. "What made you bring him in?"

"Officers spotted him running down an alley two streets over. His hair was dripping wet, he was barefoot, and he was dressed in trousers so big that he had to hold them up with both hands. Looked like he showered and grabbed someone else's clothes."

"No sign of his discarded clothing? It had to be covered with her blood."

"Not so far. He somehow managed to ditch the clothes and shower off the blood in the twenty minutes that elapsed between the attack being reported and the arrest. If he broke into a nearby flat to do it, he would have left a mess. There wasn't time to do anything else. No one's reported anything. If he's got a friend in the neighborhood who's protecting him, we haven't turned 'em up."

"He offered no reason for being in the neighborhood at the time of the rape?"

"He refused. Said as far as he knows, there's no law against going barefoot in the snow. He's not as naive as he looks."

Sherlock reads the rest of the file, studies the images once more, then places the folder on Lestrade's desk and sits back. "I'm not a magician. There's no evidence. No witness. There's nothing I can suggest that you haven't already tried."

Lestrade chuckles. "Well, if that's not the most humble thing I've ever heard you say..." At Sherlock's narrow look, he adds, "I was hoping there was something we missed."

"You didn't miss it, you invalidated it. I can't undo that."

"Fair enough. You'll tell Anderson, then?"

"Yes." He wishes he'd told Anderson to contact Lestrade for the results. "What else do you have for me?"

Lestrade hands a stack of folders across the desk, and Sherlock flips through the contents, his frown deepening with each folder he drops on Lestrade's desk. He sits back. "This is the best you can do?"

Greg crosses his arms, but his eyes are more amused than irritated. "You're the one who's been after me to get you out of that flat. Well, you're out. Be thankful for small favors."

Sherlock gets to his feet. "Do let me know if anything worthwhile comes up." He starts for the door, then hesitates. "I will have another look at the Anderson file." He holds out his hand, and Greg complies. And then he's gone in a swirl of coattails, leaving the DI shaking his head.

Sherlock calls Anderson from the taxi on his way home to give him the bad news. The man sounds disappointed but not surprised.

"I knew it was a long shot. I'll tell James there's nothing that can be done. Thank you for looking into it, Sherlock. If there's anything I can do for you , just-"

Sherlock cuts him off. "I didn't do anything. You don't owe me."

"Yes, you did. My brother will know that he did his best. That's a lot."

"I have another call," Sherlock lies. He ends the call before Anderson can thank him again.

The images of the murdered woman stay with him, as does the nagging certainty that, while Michael Hartman may not have done this before, he will do it again. It's just a matter of time. Through a combination of luck and circumstance, he has gotten away with a rape that became a murder in slow motion.

Although he told Anderson that there's nothing more anyone can do, Sherlock boots up his laptop as soon as he gets home. Three hours later, he knows little more than he did when he started aside from the schools Hartman attended, and a social media presence that paints the picture of a typical twenty-year-old with a propensity for pub crawls and half-naked uni girls who clearly find him irresistible, going by the content of their comments on his Facebook page. The only thing Sherlock knows with certainty is that any one of them could be his next victim.

That belief holds for a full twenty-four hours. Sherlock is sitting at his kitchen table immersing eyeballs in various corrosives to gauge how long each takes to dissolve when his phone begins to ring. The display says it's Lestrade, and Sherlock taps the speaker button.

"Karma's a bitch," the DI says without preamble.

"Not often enough. And?"

"Michael Hartman is dead."

Sherlock sits up straight. "How?"

"One of the tenants in his building found him in the underground garage about an hour ago with his trousers down to his ankles and his belt around his neck."

"Has the body been moved?"

"The scene's taped off and waiting for you. I'll be there in ten minutes to pick you up."

End of Chapter One