BBC Sherlock: LIFE AFTER DEATH

Chapter 1: Poisoned Thoughts

February 2017

John Watson hugged Rosie and gently kissed her soft cheek, "Good-bye, my lamb."

Rubbing morning sleep from her eyes, his honey-haired baby made exaggerated smacking sounds with her lips—air kisses. She switched to clutching her daddy's nose, a skill she had mastered months earlier and from which she never seemed to tire for it produced desirable results. With each of her squeezes she was rewarded by John's playful honking.

Reciprocally John was rewarded by a cascade of jubilant giggles from his eleven-month-old. He loved seeing how her vivid bluish-green eyes crinkled in delight. It made his heart ache in a good way.

This had become John's morning good-bye ritual on his way to the surgery. Whether he stood on the stairs outside his home or stayed just behind closed doors, he was unconcerned with what others thought about this display of affection. He had experienced life's fragility and uncertainty and would never again be caught failing to appreciate what he had when he had it.

On any day, ordinary can become extraordinary without warning, the result of an accident, a coincidence, or an unforeseen challenge. For most people, having their lives turned around could be traumatic, but for John the unexpected was a constant in his enduring friendship with Sherlock Holmes—as long as he associated with the detective, John's life would always be extraordinary. He would have it no other way.

But he could indulge only as long as Rosie remained safe.

Despite the pleasure of it all, John was torn. Had he the right to continuously risk his own life in this balancing act when there was now a little girl depending on him?

"Look after Rosie…. Promise me….Promise me."

Every morning since her death, he awoke hearing Mary imploring him. To his credit, John began each day intending to fulfill Mary's final request. It had taken months for him to accept her death and his friend's unwitting part in it. Strangling grief had delayed him from being proactive, so only recently John had taken the first steps toward normalizing what would always feel like an abnormal life to him. He had hired a childminder.

To his surprise, in Mary's will there was a substantial estate bequeathed to him that would more than adequately provide for their daughter until her majority at eighteen; even for a university education, if she wished it. As his own needs had always been simple, the money meant he could give Rosie the life he and Mary had wanted for her. Money was only a part of it. Security was paramount. Ensuring his daughter was safe and well-cared for meant he needed to be cautious in all his decisions. He no longer had a "back-up parent" to care for her. What would happen to Rosie if something happened to him? Mary's absence in their lives had made his presence more valuable in Rosie's. Still, it was not just finances and stability; it was also about love.

No one can replace a mother's love—Mary was irreplaceable—but what about a father's love? Can I be the loving parent Rosie deserves?

In the aftermath of his close-call at the bottom of a flooding well, John had a great deal to consider. His commitments to the most important people in his life tended to be polarizing. When sorting his priorities to his daughter, to his friend, even to himself, he had discovered that from one moment to the next his priorities might reshuffle, confusing him with contradictions.

Does wanting more from life make me a bad parent? But more could mean trouble, and trouble was at the very center of Sherlock's life and work. John's involvement with the man would continue to put him in harm's way.

Even if one took every precaution, risks were inherent in just being alive. A wrong step in front of a bus, a small cut becoming a fatal infection, an unexpected terminal diagnosis, a slip on the ice…. Any of these things could happen to anyone on the most ordinary of days.

John recognized he was rationalizing with thin excuses. The excitement of saving lives and the rewards of camaraderie that had once satisfied him as an army surgeon and more than fulfilled him at Sherlock's side were also helping him cope with Mary's death now. Except fighting crime with Sherlock Holmes was not choosing a safer course; and this was where John recognized his selfishness—he wanted and needed to continue with Sherlock and The Work.

Yet, in his heart, he knew whatever choices he had to make in life, Rosie must come first. Not only had he promised this to his dying wife, he had realized it months before—the first moment he had held his infant daughter in his arms. The fierce pull of paternal protectiveness from that moment would only grow; John would die for his daughter, but if he did, he would leave her an orphan.

I can't desert my friend; I can't orphan my child.

Standing on the threshold, John gave Rosie a final kiss on her forehead and reluctantly but confidently handed her over to the welcoming arms of Erika Linna.

The twenty-six-year-old childminder from Finland had been documented and registered to John's satisfaction. That, however, was not enough for Sherlock who had enlisted Mycroft's formidable resources to vet assorted candidates before allowing anyone so much as an opportunity to interview for a place within the Watson household. The Holmes brothers had seen it as a strategic placement that could make John and Rosie vulnerable if the wrong person were appointed. Their combined thoroughness yielded the dependable, compassionate, well-educated, au-pair trained, child-centered, natural brunette with a bob cut, standing at 160 cm, with an ideal weight of 57.2 kg, who passed muster to everyone's satisfaction.

Amazed that the Holmes brothers could ever reach a consensus on anything, John was most pleased that Rosie took readily to Erika and Erika seemed thoroughly delighted by her new charge.

Trust issues be damned. Leaving my daughter in the care of another every morning is the greatest test, no?

"Say bye-bye, Daddy!" The childminder leant her fawn-colored cheek against Rosie's porcelain one and waved with her free hand. Rosie raised both hands to mirror Erika's gesture. "Be be dada." Her little smile threatened to crumple as if she would miss him.

"…Evidence of separation anxiety appropriate for her developmental age…." John could hear that approving voice as if Sherlock were standing next to him. And just as clearly he heard Mary's giggling tease. "Look at him, the posh detective, a baby expert all of a sudden!"

John coaxed his pained grin into a weak smile. He was touched by his daughter's age-appropriateness. Pride shone in his eyes. Just as quickly he turned away, hoping the sudden tears went unnoticed. He had cautioned himself about regretting that Mary would miss each of Rosie's milestones. All too often his rawest emotions were just beneath the surface—the slightest scratch would draw blood.

Tears, not blood. Stop exaggerating. With his back still turned, John feigned a nose-scratch to smudge any trace of his weak moment and opened the front door.

"Right! Later." He shouted over his shoulder as he ascended the stone steps to street level. "Ring if you need me."

**88**

Within his first hour at the surgery John had seen three patients and addressed or treated their seasonal winter ailments. However, without the gift of foresight, John had no way of knowing that his day was about to take a bad turn when the next patient walked into the examination room.

The chart indicated that Mr. Jay Kumar was in his mid thirties, but he looked quite feeble and much older. His dark, thinning hair seemed dull, his bronze complexion was ashen; dark circles appeared under his eyes and their whites were jaundiced. His lips were crusty and parched, and his face gaunt. He seemed tremendously burdened by the shoulder bag slung across his chest. On first impressions, John would have preferred this man had gone directly to an A&E, not a local surgery. Even a layman could easily discern that man did not appear well, not by a long chalk.

"Well, Mr. Kumar…" After introducing himself, John reviewed the chart as the patient lowered his bag to the floor and eased himself into the nearby chair. "You complain of nausea, vomiting, diarrhea, inability to keep food down, weakness, pain, and general fatigue. It says here you are non-smoker and are currently not taking any medications." John looked again at his patient. "Where is the pain?"

Kumar grimaced and struggled to elaborate. "A dull ache here." He pointed to his stomach, "but it hurts to cough and up here…" he indicated his upper abdomen, "...it feels like a knife."

"Let's examine you, shall we?" John gestured to the exam table as he pulled on a fresh pair of gloves.

Kumar said nothing. He glanced at the table with reluctance.

John immediately understood. For his less spry patients, the table height was often a problem. John would offer to help them step up and get settled as he did in this case for Kumar. Feeling the patient's forearm, John mentally noted how unexpected the level of muscle loss was in a man who was years younger than John himself.

"When did your symptoms first appear?"

"…'bout a week ago." Kumar looked toward the ceiling and cleared his throat like someone who had not spoken aloud for a long time.

"Any health problems before this?"

Kumar shook his head.

"Have you seen a doctor since your symptoms began?"

"No." Kumar's lids fluttered closed as he mumbled. "You're it. I waited… I thought it'd go away."

Attaching the blood pressure cuff, John placed the stethoscope over the brachial artery in the antecubital fossa. He did not like what he heard. The man's blood pressure was dangerously lower than normal.

"Open your mouth and stick out your tongue." With the tongue depressor and torchlight, John examined the man's tongue, mouth, and throat, observing signs of dehydration and angular stomatitis possibly caused by iron deficiency. Further exam revealed no masses between the patient's cheeks and gums or on the palate. "Are you having trouble swallowing?"

Kumar nodded weakly. "…and speaking."

Directing Kumar to unbutton his shirt, John noted the hand tremors and the lack of coordination as the patient fumbled with the buttons. John palpated the man's lymph nodes behind the ears, in the neck, in the armpits, feeling for masses, and checked for rashes on the man's face and chest. The skin was jaundiced with several spider angiomas forming on his torso, but there were no overt dermatological eruptions. He listened to Kumar's lungs which were clear and heart rhythms finding them tachycardic. Kumar was unaccountably hot to the touch, more than expected from merely being dehydrated and malnourished.

"Was the onset of symptoms gradual…?" John's internal alarms now clanged despite his external calm.

"Mmm…all at once." Kumar nodded his head slowly and winced as if the tiny movement caused pain. "I just woke up feeling miserable…I didn't think it could get any worse. But it has…" Kumar trailed off.

Acute onset.

John helped the ill man recline for the abdominal exam. Despite John's care in touching his patient, Kumar moaned in extreme pain when John palpated his liver and pancreas. No lymphatic masses were felt in the groin, but his liver was swollen, as was his spleen. "You say it's a sharp pain, not burning?"

"…stabbing," Kumar gasped.

"Ah-hmm," John assisted Kumar back to a sitting position, doing his best to conceal his opinions about the man's serious ill health.

"Do you recall eating or drinking anything out of the ordinary before your symptoms began?"

"Well before this, I've never had a problem with sushi, but I had thought it might have been the raw fish I had eaten at the Japanese restaurant the night before." Kumar coughed softly and winced again. "I only went because the email told me where to meet. After what happened to me, I wouldn't recommend the place—posh as it is—except, I can't remember the name. It's in Soho, a stone's throw from Carnaby Street."

"Sushi?" From Kumar's description, John thought he knew the place. If it were the one he was thinking, it had a respectable reputation.

The patient took a deep breath to continue. "Hell! I don't get out of my flat much. I work in IT…with a virtual team—my team. We only communicate on the network. We had just completed a security-test project and management wanted to talk…. They wanted us all together in real time in a real place. This was a first. It was strange to meet them all in person."

Wading through the patient's superfluous details, John remained focused on the possible causes. "Allergies to shellfish, perhaps?"

"No, no food allergies." Kumar seemed disappointed with John's question and briefly closed his eyes as if to recall the event from a week ago. His voice grew hoarse; the volume reduced to a low whisper. "'To celebrate the end of an assignment…' they had said, but I was suspicious before I walked in; I thought we'd be getting a reprimand. At least my pen test uncovered something that should've been reported to the system owner…."

"Pen test?" John remarked absent-mindedly as he wrote his comments in Kumar's chart. The file was new. A quick glance at the relationships status told him that Jay Kumar lived alone and listed no family members. In fact, there were no contacts at all. Having a baseline comparison made diagnosing a patient easier, but Kumar had never visited this surgery and John did not have a way to check through NHS records to determine if he had had any prior serious health concerns. Even so, John feared that Kumar may now be seeking care beyond the critical threshold where anything other than extreme intervention could save his life. Calling the A&E and transferring Kumar to the hospital for immediate attention was the best plan.

"Yeah, pen test." Kumar mumbled as if he needed to explain. "A penetration test …. on a computer system …checking for security weaknesses…"

"Did any colleagues with you that night get sick, too?" John remained on topic to complete the thorough medical history in the patient's chart.

"Dunno…" Kumar turned peaky and John grabbed a bin. Kumar juddered with nausea, heaving as though his body was about to reject his stomach's contents, but he produced nothing, not even bile.

Rubbing the man's back in gentle, soothing circles, John waited until Kumar's shoulders relaxed.

"Well, there was one bloke, Mitchell, who came by my flat two days later…" Kumar offered, as if the memory had been shaken loose by the violent spasms. "I was surprised to see him, actually. We usually don't know where the other colleagues live. Our work is all remote, as I said. He seemed worried when he saw how sick I was. He helped me make tea. Haven't seen him since."

"Tea?" John's hackles rose at this. A switch had been thrown in his mind and he became opened to nuances in Kumar's narrative that he had been missing up until that moment. "You also drank tea in the restaurant?"

Kumar nodded slowly and drawled with exaggerated nonchalance to emphasize the subtext. "Lots of tea."

Everything seemed suddenly quite clear to John. Not just Kumar's innuendo, but the rapid onset and intensity of Kumar's condition were highly suspicious. There was no mistaking the tell-tale manifestations of the patient's illness which strongly suggested the radioactive sickness linked to a string of unsolved murders involving Russian expatriates. The most prominent case of assassination was that of Alexander Litvinenko who drank tea poisoned with radioactive polonium while meeting former Russian colleagues at the Millennium hotel in central London. Although this crime occurred in 2006, the inquiry into the murder took almost a full decade; In January, Sir Robert Owen, the Inquiry Chairman, finally published his final report into the death of Alexander Litvinenko declaring the case closed. Meantime, other stories of political murders by poison continued to horrify the public and fascinate Sherlock, of course.

Is Kumar another victim? Sherlock's influence had rubbed off on John, enough to make him skeptical about coincidence.

"It could be coincidence," Kumar struggled to control his ragged voice. "But I haven't been able to log on to the Internet…my access's been denied now. Maybe Mitchell told our employer…about how sick I was..." He massaged his head. A few wiry black strands had come away. "Oh, yeah. This is strange. My hair. I've been losing it. More than normal."

John felt the idiot for not realizing that Kumar had been speaking all this time like someone fearing a listening device had bugged the exam room. Mentally shaking off his speculation despite the shivers up his spine, John returned his attention to the patient's immediate needs. He hated when his instincts—humming like angry bees—intruded on his professional sensibilities.

"Mr. Kumar. I am glad you've come in today. I'd like to admit you to hospital where they can initiate treatment for dehydration, loss of appetite, headache. They'll perform tests to determine what's causing your symptoms.…" John would not say aloud what he suspected.

Sherlock's warning: "It's a capital mistake to theorize before you have all the evidence..." was replaying in his head. Not knowing the patient's history of exposure, John did not have all the evidence. He could merely assert that Kumar's presenting features coincided with a diagnosis he suspected. It was possible the symptoms might also be attributed to much more common conditions, such as GI infections and bone marrow failure caused, for example, by drugs, other toxins, or infections.

"Now, if you'll just wait here while I make the arrangements…" Before leaving the room, John glanced once more at his patient's chart. Jay Kumar had no traces of Hindi, Bengali, or any other accent, but John felt it important to verify his patient's country of origin on the outside chance there was a Russian connection. "I see you've lived in the UK for nearly twenty-five years. It says here you are of Indian descent. Any family you might want us to call to tell them where we are sending you?"

Abrupt alarm took over Kumar's features as his expression moved through pain to regret before hardening behind a dour mask. "Just me. No one else." He shook his head and hissed. "Please, keep them out of it." For the first time, Kumar looked John straight in the eye.

In that brief contact John noticed more than the deep brown irises floating in their yellowed sclerae. He saw willful defiance and rage.

Defying whom? Enraged… that he has been poisoned?

Jolted by this new awareness that passed between them, John perceived that Kumar knew what was happening to him and that he had not come to seek medical intervention at this stage—as it was obviously futile—especially at a local GP surgery. He had another agenda, then. What it was, John could not even guess. Where was the sense in seeking medical attention and then not benefitting from it? Was Kumar contaminating others as a walking dirty bomb? John hoped this was not the case. Maybe it was something simpler: the man didn't want to die alone. Given Kumar's self-described social isolation, had he died it would have been days—maybe weeks over the winter months—before anyone would notice.

No longer in doubt that he might be raising a false alarm—proof would be definitive once they had obtained urine or fecal samples and tested for the presence of a radioactive poison—John needed to get his patient the proper medical attention. If what he suspected proved true, there were protocols to follow, chief among them, alerting the authorities. Since the Litvinenko incident, a hierarchy of emergency-response agencies had been established to address the possibilities of new occurrences. Kumar's condition fit the pattern of suspicious poisonings. While he was basing his decision on a preliminary medical assessment, John believed it likely his patient had ingested a radioactive poison by drinking tea in the restaurant and needed to be tested, functions his surgery was not equipped to perform.

To ensure none of the patients in the waiting room might hear, John sought the privacy of a GP office and shut the door before dialing the emergency number for the Department of Health to begin the process.

"It's just a suspicion," he told Dr. Sandra Robson of the Health Protection Agency in Colindale. "But the patient is presenting with unexplained emesis and hair loss. His liver is swollen, there's evidence that other organs might be affected, and I wouldn't be surprised if you found evidence of bone marrow failure. Yes, I am aware these can be caused by other pathologies, but his symptoms are consistent with acute radiation sickness. It would be prudent to determine if his internal contamination is a result of polonium poisoning."

He wondered how the agency might respond to such an unusual and speculative diagnosis by a GP from a local surgery.

Yet, Dr. Robson took him seriously, dead seriously, and assured him that the authorities would address his suspicions. Confirming the location of his surgery, she asked for his patience while she put him on hold. When she returned to the line, her voice had an undertone of urgency. "A team will be there shortly. Tell me, Dr. Watson, what safeguards have you made to ensure the contamination has not spread?"

"My understanding from reports I've read is that a person internally contaminated by polonium poisoning poses no threat to those treating him, as long as normal hygiene precautions and practices for microbial contamination are followed—which I did." John sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "For all our sakes, I would love to be proven wrong."

"So would we all," Dr. Robson agreed. "Do not allow any of your patients who are present to leave and please ask those who have left to return at once. Otherwise we will need their addresses."

Within twenty minutes, faster than John would have expected, teams of agents and medical personnel representing an alphabet soup of governmental agencies descended upon the modest surgery alarming the other patients despite all assurances that everything was fine. By the time they had secured Kumar and his belongings for transport, he was disoriented slipping in and out of consciousness, scarcely able to speak coherently. After they had whisked the sick man by special ambulance to a classified destination within University College London Hospital, John did not hold false hope that Kumar would ever leave on his own two feet.

For the remainder of his day at the surgery, John side-stepped the multi-agencies teams as they Geiger-countered the rooms for trace contamination, comforted each of his patients and staff who were agitated by the incident, took urine samples from everyone present at the time of Kumar's visit—including himself—and in between exams, tried to quash his own rampant thoughts.

Why Kumar?

John wished he had Sherlock's analytical insight to help him answer this question. Although the poisoning death of Alexander Litvinenko in 2006 had been years before they met, Sherlock and John often shared theories and discussions with each new bit of information that resurfaced in the news. Sherlock's radar had seemed particularly attuned to every development in the ongoing MI6 investigations that had begun nearly a decade ago and continued into the present. So far as John knew, Sherlock was not working any case linked to the alleged assassinations. It appeared that the detective had merely remained on the periphery—as a distant onlooker—while the multi-agency task force gathered and managed new information. John never doubted, however, that Sherlock had stored all the data from his years of observations securely in his Mind Palace.

With critics of the Kremlin dying unexpectedly in recent years and with some of these killings occurring outside Russian territory on British soil, John did not want to tempt fate by getting any further involved in Kumar's case other than required by his medical ethics. This was for one very important reason: Rosie. There could be dangerous repercussions—personal ones—by getting tangled in these deadly incidents of deliberate retaliations carried out by a world power.

John's concerns arose from the troubling headlines several days ago reporting that the radiation expert who had investigated and verified the "political assassination" of Alexander Litvinenko had 'committed suicide'. The D. C. on that case had considered the suicide of the scientist irregular and suspicious: what else could be said about extensive, self-inflicted stab wounds caused by two different knives? It was not credible that anyone could have inflicted such injuries without losing consciousness before morbidity ensued. What had driven the otherwise "good family man, a loving father" into swift depression and suicide was a mystery still, but the psychological autopsy revealed that his behavior had changed immediately after he returned from a business trip to Moscow.

Nor was this the first case of intimidation tactics used against officials and investigators accusing the Russian government of crimes. The sudden deaths or suicides associated with Russia's political opponents—including the whistle-blowers in Russia's sports-doping scandal—were aimed at silencing critics not just in Russian, but abroad. In each of these cases, the Russian government typically asserted plausible deniability. What's more, the perpetrators of the attacks could not be traced to any individuals despite the discovery that the victims were sickened by the poisons-of-choice favored by Russian assassins.

000

"It's both an art and a science that has been perfected for over five centuries in Russia." Sherlock had begun his lecture—not unlike a professor in a Uni hall before chemistry students—but instead he was expounding in Lestrade's office.

John recalled that night quite vividly. It had been mere days before Mary had gone into hiding in an attempt to flee her destiny. They had been following the Thatcher busts mystery, but Sherlock—still manic since his liberation from exile and waiting for Moriarty's next move—had chosen to interrupt his investigation to enlighten Lestrade about a separate issue.

John had been standing beside a fidgety Sherlock while Lestrade had remained seated behind his desk. The less-receptive DI, knackered after a hard day, had not looked happy. He had been kind enough to let them invade his office at such a late hour. Sherlock, however, had not seemed to register the courtesy that had been extended to them when he had launched into his exposé about the disturbing number of Kremlin opponents turning up dead over the years.

"There's nothing novel about assassination by poison. Chickened laced with arsenic killed the Grand Duke of Moscow in 1453. Enemies of the tsars were poisoned for centuries. Even Lenin nearly died from an attempt on his life when he was shot with poisoned bullets. He survived, and not unexpectedly, developed a keen interest in poison, establishing a secret lab to test new poisons on Soviet prisoners. Soon it had become the weapon of choice against enemies of the state. There is an intriguing possibility both Lenin and Stalin had died by poison. Fast forward to modern times, it's still an ideal weapon in assassinations because it is hard to trace, unless you know what to look for and you can acquire samples quickly."

"Cut the history lesson." Greg had sighed with impatience. "What's this really about?"

"I'm sure this could have waited until morning, Greg," John had pulled a face at Sherlock to remind him to be civil to their friend. "But he's talking about the breaking news announced on the telly tonight. It seems the death of that Surrey resident was ruled 'unsuspicious.'"

"That Surrey resident, which John is trivializing…," Sherlock had protested "… has been identified as a former Russian banker!" There had been an excited gleam in the detective's eyes and a fire of excitement in his voice, the distinct manifestations of Holmes on a scent. "He had fled the country after implicating both the Mafia and the Russian state in fraudulent practices. The autopsy revealed traces of a rare, poisonous flowering plant found in his stomach, and just so we're clear, Gelsemium elegans is a lethal plant favored by Chinese and Russian assassins. How is that not suspicious?"

"Oh, for God's sake!" Lestrade had snapped; his gravelly voice was tight with frustration. "Don't pin this on me, Sherlock. The Surrey Police made that call…" The DI leant back in his chair and gestured toward the piles of paperwork on his desk. "I've got too many pressing investigations right here in London. I can't go around questioning every borough's decision. From what I understand, an inquest into the causes and circumstances of a death had ruled out homicide; the case is closed."

"Idiots! Even if the man had been given to grazing in his neighbor's flower beds, his death could not have been ruled from natural causes!" Vexation raised the pitch of Sherlock's voice. "Plant poison killed him. I doubt he ingested it voluntarily, he must have been tricked. How else would you explain a 41-year-old man in robust health, an avid jogger, dropping dead—"

"—from a heart attack, Sherlock!" Standing and slamming his hands on the desktop, Lestrade had leant forward, his lips pursed in an angry scowl. When his brown eyes met Sherlock's laser stare, both had studied the other in stony silence.

Breaking away first Lestrade had wagged his head. "Listen, you two. You're barking up the wrong tree. I don't have authority to reopen the case in another district even if you suspect a miscarriage of justice. And as much as I know you won't leave this alone, I'm not suggesting you go take up your fight with the Surrey district. Sometimes, we have to pick our battles… " Giving a resigned shrug, Lestrade had slumped back into his chair.

Acknowledging the Detective Inspector's fatigue Sherlock had allowed his voice to soften. "After five hundred years, these elite Russian assassins are quite skilled at it, Lestrade. Of course they will be able to hide traces of their handiwork. It mimics a sudden heart attack, a stroke, a brain embolism, assorted organ failure and while these might be ruled as the actual causes of death, the catalysts were likely poison. If everyone continues to look away, they will keep getting away with it."

Greg had looked too forlorn to respond and John had taken pity on the man.

"We'll talk about this later, right, Sherlock?" John had tugged on Sherlock's coat sleeve, indicating they should go. "See you, Greg." By persuading Sherlock to leave on cue, John had successfully rescued Lestrade from the encyclopedic knowledge of assorted poisons which Sherlock had been on the verge to impart; but John had not been so lucky. During their taxi ride, the art and science of poisons had been the sole topic. By the time John had boarded the late train home, he had endured an earful of the most efficacious methodologies used throughout the ages and the symptoms they were known to produce.

000

The devastation of Mary's death and all the sorrow they endured in the aftermath had prevented Sherlock from pursuing the Surrey poisoning case. However the details of Sherlock's discourse from six months ago had seeped like doses of poison in John's ear, contaminating his thoughts in the present.

John worried. Would there be retribution for merely diagnosing Jay Kumar and alerting the authorities that the patient's radiation sickness had been caused by polonium poisoning? Had John put a target on his own back? Trained assassins had silenced not only political enemies but those who aided the investigators as well. Remembering the scientist who had verified the poison used to kill Litvinenko had been driven to commit suicide, John could not help but wonder: had the good family man been coerced? How far would they go?

John bit his lip. What have I stepped in now?

88**88

Thanks to my dear FF advisors (baillierj, englishtutor, and "youknowwho") who saw this story so long ago in its earliest drafts they may have forgotten it was a work in progress. Well, I hope it was worth the wait.

Also, special thanks to englishtutor's personal life-story that led to my using: "I can't desert my friend; I can't orphan my child."

All disclaimers apply. I claim no rights to the characters from the BBC show. I must again compliment the brilliant transcripts by Ariane DeVere aka Callie Sullivan to whom I am always greatly indebted.