Summary & Author's note:

A post-season 4 extra episode, inspired by the montage at the end of "The Final Problem".

The armchairs are in their old places by the fireside, the wallpaper is back up - smiley, bullet holes and all - and clients are once again welcome at 221B Baker Street. And maybe Sherlock and John really believe for a while that their detective work can continue as if nothing has changed, as long as they confine it to the opening hours of Rosie's nursery.

They're in for a rude awakening.

The case of the very strange behaviour of Mrs Warren's new lodger seems harmless enough to start with. But soon, sinister stick figures start dancing across the scenery. And before they know it, Sherlock and John are caught up in the web of a ruthless crime syndicate that is only waiting to turn their hunters into the hunted.

Rated M for mature themes and violence.
Gen; no pairings.

The story starts between the events of "The Six Thatchers" and "The Lying Detective", but the bulk of it takes place roughly six months later, after the main events of "The Final Problem".

CHAPTER 1

Night time. A street in Central London - not a busy thoroughfare, but a dark side street lined with nondescript modern buildings housing shops and offices. Occasional gaps in the facades serve as gateways into underground car parks. There's a dental clinic, a branch bank, a real estate agent's, and a ballet school named Kensington School of Dance, as proclaimed by the brightly lit red sign above the dark entrance. It has a sweeping rendition of the letter "D" in the word "Dance", circling all around itself like in the symbol. All these places are closed, with the doors locked and the shutters down, as if quietly recouping for another busy day.

On the opposite side of the street, on its corner, is the only building that's truly worth a second look. It's also the only place where there are any signs of human activity at this hour. At least a century older than its surroundings, it houses a traditional pub called The Bloodhound, with brightly lit lattice windows and vintage blackboards on either side of the entrance advertising fine ales and today's specials. The pub sign above the door depicts the eponymous dog chasing full tilt after a stag, tongue lolling.

The door bangs open, and for a moment, light and merry noise – snatches of conversation and boisterous laughter - stream out of the pub onto the street. The door emits a tangle of five people, men and women in the semi-formal dress of office workers, but all now a little worse for wear after clearly more than one after-work drink each. One of the men is Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade of Scotland Yard, distinctive by his silver-grey hair. Himself upright, Lestrade has another man clinging rather clumsily to his arm, who is giggling in a half-embarrassed, half irresistibly-amused way as he tries to find his feet: Detective Inspector Dimmock, his usually accurately parted mouse-brown hair now rather mussy, face flushed red, tie hanging loose, long past the point of a dignified departure from the scene of the evening's entertainment.

Dimmock is supported on his other side by yet another of Scotland Yard's brightest minds among the senior officers: Detective Inspector Stella Hopkins, teetering dangerously on high heels as Dimmock leans heavily on her. Bringing up the rear are two more officers, also in plain clothes: another grey-haired man and a brunette woman.

LESTRADE (talking over Dimmock's head to Stella Hopkins): Let's find him a cab, all right?

HOPKINS (with a long-suffering sigh): Oh yes, please. (To the lumbering Dimmock, nudging him along) Go on, let's get you home.

Dimmock tightens his hold on her arm, and gives her a - totally uncharacteristic - leering smile.

DIMMOCK: Your home or mine?

HOPKINS (resolutely): Don't be stupid!

LESTRADE (impatiently): Pull yourself together, Paul. Turning forty-six doesn't excuse everything.

The little group turns towards the end of the street, in the direction of the main road. But just then, behind their backs, there is the sudden noise of a car engine being revved up almost aggressively, followed a moment later by the ugly crashing sound of dented metal and splintering plastic. The five officers turn around, all of them – even Dimmock – immediately alert. A sleek black saloon car with tinted windows has just exited the underground car park beneath the Kensington School of Dance at high speed, and on turning into the road has hit the rear of another car parked at the kerb, smashing one of its lights. But instead of stopping, the driver immediately goes into reverse and then swerves around the parked vehicle, clearly intent on getting away undetected.

LESTRADE and HOPKINS (as one): Oh no you don't!

They dump their drunk colleague unceremoniously into the arms of their companions, and with a few steps they're out in the middle of the road, side by side, their warrant cards in their raised hands, facing down the approaching car with an air of authority that is impossible to ignore. The car comes to a sudden halt, tyres screeching, not three yards from where they're standing.

A little later, in the same street, the car that Greg Lestrade and Stella Hopkins have stopped is still stationary in the middle of the road. Right behind it, a marked police car has pulled up, and several uniformed officers have taken over the scene of the accident. One, with a camera, is documenting the damage on the parked vehicle, while another is at the open window of the saloon car, apparently talking to the driver inside. Now that the situation is under control, Greg and Stella have retreated to the pavement and are watching from the distance while their uniformed colleagues do their work. Dimmock, who seems to have passed from the giggling stage to that of quiet misery within the last few minutes, is sitting on the edge of the kerb, clutching his head with both hands and looking like he might be sick any moment. His other two colleagues are at his side, patting his shoulders in rather helpless gestures of comfort.

The constable who was at the car window now walks up to Greg and Stella, holding a passport emblazoned with the image of a golden double-headed imperial eagle. He looks rather uncomfortable.

CONSTABLE (to Lestrade): Not quite sure what to do, sir. Diplomatic passport.

LESTRADE (taking the document): Who, the driver?

CONSTABLE: No. The one who does the talking.

Lestrade glances towards the car, then at the constable, then at the car again. As he approaches it, with Stella behind him, the rear window on the driver's side is lowered. Inside sits a grey-haired, rather big man, dressed in an expensive suit and with a highly irritated expression on his face. Next to him is a teenage girl who seems completely absorbed in whatever is on the screen of her flashy phone. The man immediately addresses the two senior officers as they appear at his window.

MAN (with a slight Slavic accent, annoyed): I need to take my daughter home. What is it that is taking your men so long?

Back on the pavement, the other male detective at Dimmock's side has straightened up, and is looking across at the car now, too.

MALE DETECTIVE (under his breath): Bloody Russians. Strutting about like they own the place.

FEMALE DETECTIVE (sarcastically): Well, technically they do. All the pretty parts, at any rate.

Back at the car, Lestrade looks at the open passport in his hand, then up again at its owner, and then across to the teenage girl. Even though she looks no older than thirteen or fourteen, she's dressed like an adult for a night out, with heavy makeup, a miniskirt and a tight-fitting halter top made of some shiny material. Large earrings dangle from her ears, and a mane of long hair dyed blonde falls over her face. Her eyes remain glued to the screen of her phone.

LESTRADE (to the man, with a rather sceptical undertone): This is your daughter?

MAN: Yes, of course. As stated in the passport. (He turns to the girl, smiling rather unpleasantly.) Say hello to the police, Natalia.

The girl finally raises her eyes from her phone. They have a rather vacant look to them, and it takes her a moment to focus them on Lestrade's face. There is no fear nor anger nor embarrassment in them, not even a spark of recognition – no emotion at all.

GIRL (after a moment, in a completely toneless, almost robotic voice): Hello.

There is an uncomfortable silence. Then Lestrade sighs almost imperceptibly, hands the passport back to the man in the car, and takes a step backwards to indicate that they're free to go.

HOPKINS (at Lestrade's shoulder, under her breath): That doesn't feel right, does it?

LESTRADE (equally quietly): No.

The car drives past them, the windows up again. Lestrade stands looking after it, with a look of grim determination on his face.

LESTRADE: I'll set someone on it.