As John Watson’s anguished cry of “Sherlock!” rings in the air, John himself approaches Sherlock Holmes’ headstone. We see brief flashback clips of Sherlock and Jim Moriarty on the rooftop of Bart’s Hospital, then of John arriving by taxi at the hospital and Sherlock standing on the roof’s edge talking to him by phone.

SHERLOCK: It’s a trick. Just a magic trick.

JOHN: No. All right, stop it now.

(He starts to walk towards the hospital.)

SHERLOCK: No, stay exactly where you are.

(John backs up.)

SHERLOCK: Don’t move.

JOHN: All right.

(They seem to hold out their hands towards each other.)

SHERLOCK: Keep your eyes fixed on me. Please, will you do this for me?

JOHN: Do what?

SHERLOCK: This phone call – it’s ... it’s my note.

(But now we’re seeing new footage. Behind Sherlock, two men are dragging the body of Jim Moriarty across the roof towards the door. Sherlock takes no notice as he continues to concentrate on John.)

SHERLOCK: It’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note?

JOHN: Leave a note when?

SHERLOCK: Goodbye, John.

JOHN: No. Don’t.

(The men drag Jim’s body into a service elevator somewhere in the hospital, and lay it on the floor. As Sherlock continues to look down towards John, one of the men opens a case. Inside is a latex mask which is a perfect replica of Sherlock’s face. The other man closes the lift doors, while the first man takes a small bottle from the case and, using tweezers, carefully extracts a blue soft contact lens.

On the roof, Sherlock drops his phone behind him and stares intensely ahead of himself as John screams, “Sherlock!” up at him.

In the elevator, Jim’s dead open eyes are now blue instead of brown. The man takes the mask out of the case and lays it over Jim’s face, then picks up a scalpel and reaches forward to start lifting the closed eyes on the mask. The second man starts to apply a dark curly wig to Jim’s slicked-down hair.

On the roof, Sherlock spreads his arms and falls forward. John stares in horror, and a man on a pushbike slams into him from behind, sending him crashing to the ground. Sherlock plummets towards the ground, but now it’s clear that he is attached to a bungee cord. While John lies on the ground still trying to catch his breath, Molly Hooper watches from a window of Bart’s as Sherlock plunges past, the bungee cord trailing behind him. He heads towards the pavement but the cord stops his fall as it reaches its full extension. Sherlock’s breath whooshes out of him ... then the elastic begins to contract and Sherlock is yanked skywards. Molly gasps as he shoots back into view, flailing to change his direction and, before she can react, he wraps his arms around his head and kicks his way through the window in front of her. She cringes back from the breaking glass and Sherlock lands on his feet and unclips the bungee cord from his waist. It is whipped out of the window and disappears from view and Sherlock straightens his coat, ruffles his hands through his hair and marches over to Molly, taking her head in his hands and kissing her deeply for a couple of seconds. She reaches up to hold his head but he pulls away, giving her a long last look and then leaving the room. She watches him go with a girly smile on her face.

Downstairs, the two men are dragging Jim’s body – now perfectly disguised as Sherlock’s – out onto the street, and nearby a man wearing a fur-lined hooded jacket is approaching John. The men put the body into position on the pavement and one of them squirts fake blood onto the paving stones around the head. Other people – various fake medical staff and passers-by – are running into position around the body. The jacket-wearing man walks over to John as more people run towards the scene. John gets up onto his knees, seeing the passers-by running over to the body and pointing upwards as they appear to discuss what they just saw. John gets to his feet, and the man steps into his way.)

DERREN: John.

(It’s none other than Derren Brown, the famous illusionist and hypnotist!

[Click here for more information.]

He puts his hand onto John’s shoulder.)

DERREN: John. Look at me. Look at me.

(John drags his eyes away from the scene of Sherlock’s fall and looks at Derren, whose face is a little fuzzy so close-up. Derren puts his fingers over John’s face.)

DERREN: And sleep!

(John collapses forward, his eyes closing. Derren supports him and gently lowers him to the ground.)

DERREN: Right the way down, right the way deep, right the way sound asleep. That’s right. That’s good – keeping my voice just there in the centre of your head and floating all the way around you.

(While he’s speaking, he reaches down to John’s wrist and adjusts his watch, turning it back a few minutes. He straightens up and looks down at John.)

DERREN: And you will awaken in three, two, one ...

(John starts to move on the ground.)

DERREN: ... zero.

(Flipping his hood up, he walks away. John rolls over onto his side, grimacing with pain. The crowd continues to gather around the body and John – unaware of the passage of time since he first was knocked over by the bike – clambers to his feet and stumbles towards the pavement.

Inside the hospital, Sherlock walks towards a set of double doors.

John hurries over to the crowd and tries to push his way through them, while they do all they can to hold him back.)

JOHN (anguished): Let me come through, please. He’s my friend.

(Sherlock half-turns as he walks, taking one last look behind him.

Outside, John’s knees give out and he half-collapses, supported by some of the bystanders. Sherlock’s wrist falls limply out of John’s grasp. Paramedics arrive with a stretcher and load the body onto it as John watches in anguish. The stretcher is wheeled away; and Sherlock pushes his way through the doors and walks around the corner, disappearing from view.)

LESTRADE (offscreen): Bollocks!

(The dramatic action-movie music which has played all through the previous scene stops, and suddenly we’re in a different part of London. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade and Doctor Anderson – the latter sporting a scruffy beard and with unwashed hair – are standing at a mobile coffee stall.)

ANDERSON: No-no-no-no! It’s obvious! That’s how he did it! It’s obvious!

LESTRADE: Derren Brown?! Let it go. Sherlock’s dead.

ANDERSON: Is he?

LESTRADE: There was a body. It was him. It was definitely him. Molly Hooper laid him out.

ANDERSON: No, she’s lying. It was Jim Moriarty’s body with a mask on!

LESTRADE: A mask?!

(Anderson nods eagerly.)

LESTRADE: A bungee rope, a mask, Derren Brown. Two years, and the theories keep getting more stupid. How many more’ve you got for me today?

ANDERSON: Well, you know the paving slabs in that whole area – even the exact ones that he landed on – you know they were all ...

LESTRADE (interrupting): Guilt. (He looks sternly at Anderson.) That’s all this is. You pushed us all into thinking that Sherlock was a fraud, you and Donovan.

(Anderson looks down sadly.)

LESTRADE: You did this, and it killed him, and he’s staying dead. Do you honestly believe that if you have enough stupid theories, it’s gonna change what really happened?

(Taking his cup of coffee with him, he starts to walk away.)

ANDERSON: I believe in Sherlock Holmes.

(Greg turns around.)

LESTRADE: Yeah, well that won’t bring him back.

(He continues on towards where several camera crews are filming reporters.)

REPORTER 1 (into his crew’s camera): ... that after extensive police investigations, Richard Brook did indeed prove to be the creation of James Moriarty ...

REPORTER 2 (into a different camera): ... amidst unprecedented scenes, there was uproar in court as Sherlock Holmes was vindicated and cleared of all suspicion ...

REPORTER 3: ... but sadly, all this comes too late for the detective who became something of a celebrity two years ago ...

REPORTER 1: ... Questions are now being asked as to why police let matters get so far.

(Greg and Anderson are now standing side by side, each holding a coffee cup and watching the reporters.)

REPORTER 2: Sherlock Holmes fell to his death from the top of London’s Bart’s Hospital. Although he left no note, friends say it’s unlikely he was able to cope with ...

(Greg turns to Anderson.)

LESTRADE: Well then. (He raises his cup.) Absent friends. Sherlock.

ANDERSON (sadly raising his own cup): Sherlock.

(They tap their mugs together.)

LESTRADE: And may God rest his soul.

(They drink.)

At Sherlock’s grave, John gazes down at the headstone, his eyes haunted with memories and loss. Since we last saw him he has grown a moustache. As he continues to look at the grave, which has several bunches of flowers – some of them fading with age – at the base of the headstone, a woman steps to John’s side and takes his hand. He clasps it tightly.

SERBIA. NIGHT TIME. A man with long straggly hair is running through a forest. Above him, a helicopter is circling around, shining a searchlight into the trees while the crew watch their infrared camera, radioing instructions in Serbian to the ground crew. There is much shouting and running which your transcriber can’t be bothered to relate second by second but eventually the soldiers surround the man and aim their rifles at him. He slumps to the ground, exhausted.

Some time later, in what may be a bunker or an interrogation centre, a soldier is guarding the entrance to a room. He has earphones in his ears playing loud music. Behind the closed door, the prisoner cries out as he is struck for the umpteenth time. Hearing the noise, the soldier takes one of his ear buds out just as the prisoner is struck again and groans. The soldier puts his ear bud back in and turns away. Inside the room, the torturer shouts repeatedly at the prisoner, who is naked from the waist up and whose arms are chained to opposite walls of the small room, forcing him to stay upright. The man is slumped forward as far as he can, exhausted by the repeated blows. In a dark corner of the room another soldier, well wrapped against the cold and with a furry hat on his head, sits with his feet up on a small table and watches as the torturer paces across the room. He speaks in Serbian at all times.

TORTURER (in Serbian): You broke in here for a reason.

(He picks up a large metal pipe and walks towards the prisoner again, whose face we cannot see through the long straggly hair which is falling across it.)

TORTURER (in Serbian): Just tell us why and you can sleep. Remember sleep?

(He draws back the pipe over his shoulder and prepares to strike the prisoner but the man whispers something quietly. The torturer stops, lowering the pipe and leaning forward.)

TORTURER (in Serbian): What?

(He reaches down and pulls the man’s head back by the hair, leaning closer as the prisoner continues to whisper. The soldier in the corner speaks ... in a voice which sounds a little familiar, although it is currently speaking with a heavy accent.)

SOLDIER (in Serbian): Well? What did he say?

(Straightening up and releasing the prisoner’s head, the torturer looks down at him in puzzlement.)

TORTURER (in Serbian): He said that I used to work in the navy, where I had an unhappy love affair.

SOLDIER (in Serbian): What?

(The prisoner continues to whisper and the torturer relays his words to the other man.)

TORTURER (in Serbian): ... that the electricity isn’t working in my bathroom; and that my wife is sleeping with our next door neighbour!

(He reaches down and pulls the prisoner’s head up by the hair again, asking a one-word question. The prisoner replies briefly and the man releases his head.)

TORTURER (in Serbian): The coffin maker!

(Once again he bends to the prisoner, demanding more. The prisoner responds in a whisper.)

TORTURER (in Serbian): And?

(The prisoner continues whispering, then the torturer drops his head and relays the words to the soldier.)

TORTURER (in Serbian): If I go home now, I’ll catch them at it! I knew it! I knew there was something going on!

(He storms out of the room, leaving the prisoner slumped in his chains.)

SOLDIER (in Serbian): So, my friend. Now it’s just you and me.

(He takes his feet off the table and stands up.)

SOLDIER (in Serbian): You have no idea the trouble it took to find you.

(He walks across the room to the prisoner, whose back is covered in blood and wounds from his beating. The soldier grabs a handful of the prisoner’s hair and pulls his head up a little. Leaning close to the man’s ear, he speaks in English and now we know that the familiar voice is none other than that of Mycroft Holmes.)

MYCROFT: Now listen to me. There’s an underground terrorist network active in London and a massive attack is imminent. Sorry, but the holiday is over, brother dear.

(He releases the prisoner’s head and straightens up.)

MYCROFT: Back to Baker Street, Sherlock Holmes.

(Under the long hair draped across his face, Sherlock smiles.)

OPENING CREDITS

In an Underground station, the doors of a Tube train close and the train moves off. John sits inside.

Above ground, a black car with tinted rear windows heads through the streets.

The two journeys continue, while Mycroft sits in a dark-walled windowless office (although there might be a skylight letting a little daylight in) looking through paperwork. The car pulls up outside the Diogenes Club, which presumably contains this office.

BAKER STREET. John walks across the road towards 221. Two young boys come around the corner, one of them pushing a pushchair in front of him in which is a home-made Guy Fawkes ‘guy’ with an orange balloon for a head, with a face drawn on with marker pen. One of them calls out the traditional plea to a passer-by.

BOY: Penny for the guy?

[See more about Guy Fawkes traditions here.]

(The woman shakes her head as she walks past and the boys continue on, reaching John just before he gets to the front door.)

BOY: Oi, mate! Penny for the guy?

(John rolls his eyes.)

SECOND BOY: Penny for the guy, mate?

FIRST BOY: Penny for the guy?

(John looks round at them quizzically as they continue onwards, calling out their plea to everyone they see. He unlocks the front door and goes inside. Partway down the hall, he stops, staring at Mrs Hudson’s front door and breathing out an anxious breath. In his head he starts to hear Sherlock’s violin playing Irene’s lament, and his head snaps up and he looks up the stairs as a snippet of an old conversation sounds inside his mind.)

JOHN: That was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.

SHERLOCK: And you invaded Afghanistan!

(John blinks, his face sad as the violin fades from his mind. Just then, Mrs Hudson opens her door and comes out, staring at John in surprise. He raises a hand in greeting, clearing his throat before walking towards her after a final glance up the stairs.)

In Mycroft’s office, someone is reading the front page headline of a newspaper which reads, “SKELETON MYSTERY”. The strapline, which we can only see the beginning of, says, “Remains found in the wall of a ...” The reader folds the newspaper down to reveal Mycroft sitting behind his desk a short distance away, reading a file.

MYCROFT: You have been busy, haven’t you?

(We now see that it’s Sherlock who’s holding the newspaper. He is reclined flat on his back in a barber’s chair while a man is shaving his face with a cut-throat razor. Sherlock’s hair has been cut back to its normal length and is currently wet and straight. He tosses the paper onto a nearby trolley.)

MYCROFT: Quite the busy little bee. (He chuckles.)

SHERLOCK: Moriarty’s network – took me two years to dismantle it.

MYCROFT: And you’re confident you have?

SHERLOCK: The Serbian side was the last piece of the puzzle.

MYCROFT: Yes. You got yourself in deep there ... (he checks his report) ... with Baron Maupertuis. Quite a scheme.

SHERLOCK: Colossal.

MYCROFT (shutting the file): Anyway, you’re safe now.

SHERLOCK: Hmm.

MYCROFT: A small ‘thank you’ wouldn’t go amiss.

SHERLOCK: What for?

MYCROFT: For wading in.

(Sherlock raises a hand to the barber to make him stop shaving him. The man steps back a little.)

MYCROFT: In case you’d forgotten, fieldwork is not my natural milieu.

(Grunting in pain, Sherlock sits up and looks at his brother angrily.)

SHERLOCK: “Wading in”? You sat there and watched me being beaten to a pulp.

MYCROFT (frowning indignantly): I got you out.

SHERLOCK: No – I got me out. Why didn’t you intervene sooner?

MYCROFT: Well, I couldn’t risk giving myself away, could I? It would have ruined everything.

SHERLOCK: You were enjoying it.

MYCROFT: Nonsense.

SHERLOCK: Definitely enjoying it.

MYCROFT (leaning forward): Listen: do you have any idea what it was like, Sherlock, going ‘under cover’, smuggling my way into their ranks like that? The noise; the people?

(He sits back. Sherlock painfully sinks back to lie down in the chair again. The barber resumes his work.)

SHERLOCK: I didn’t know you spoke Serbian.

MYCROFT: I didn’t, but the language has a Slavic root, frequent Turkish and German loan words. (He shrugs.) Took me a couple of hours.

SHERLOCK: Hmm – you’re slipping.

MYCROFT (smiling tightly): Middle age, brother mine. Comes to us all.

(The door opens and Anthea – or not-Anthea, who we last saw in “A Study in Pink” – holds up a dark suit and white shirt on a hanger to show to Sherlock.)

221A BAKER STREET. John is sitting at Mrs Hudson’s kitchen table. She loudly slams down a small tray containing a cup and saucer and a jug of milk, then goes across the room to pick up a plate of biscuits, which she equally loudly slams down onto the table. John watches her silently while she picks up a sugar bowl and thumps that onto the table. She hesitates, then points at the sugar bowl.

MRS HUDSON: Oh no – you don’t take it, do you?

JOHN: No.

MRS HUDSON: You forget a little thing like that.

JOHN: Yes.

MRS HUDSON (pointedly): You forget lots of little things, it seems.

JOHN: Uh-huh.

(Mrs H pointedly runs her finger between her nose and her upper lip while looking at John.)

MRS HUDSON: Not sure about that.

(John reaches up to touch his moustache.)

MRS HUDSON: Ages you.

JOHN: Just trying it out.

MRS HUDSON: Well, it ages you.

(John looks awkwardly at her.)

JOHN: Look ...

MRS HUDSON: I’m not your mother. I’ve no right to expect it ...

JOHN: No ...

MRS HUDSON: ... but just one phone call, John.

(Her anger dissipates and she looks upset.)

MRS HUDSON: Just one phone call would have done.

JOHN: I know.

(He looks down.)

MRS HUDSON: After all we went through.

JOHN (looking her in the eye): Yes. I am sorry.

MRS HUDSON (sitting down at the table): Look, I understand how difficult it was for you after ... after ...

(She stops, shaking her head sadly.)

JOHN: I just let it slide, Mrs Hudson. I let it all slide. And it just got harder and harder to pick up the phone somehow.

(Sighing, he looks away for a moment, then turns his eyes back to hers.)

JOHN: D’you know what I mean?

(After a moment, Mrs Hudson sighs too and reaches out to put her hand on his arm. He immediately puts his hand over hers.)

MYCROFT’S OFFICE. Sherlock’s hair is now dry and curly, and he is on his feet and almost dressed. He tucks his shirt into his trousers while he looks at himself in a large mirror on the wall. Mycroft and not-Anthea stand nearby.

MYCROFT: I need you to give this matter your full attention, Sherlock. Is that quite clear?

SHERLOCK: What do you think of this shirt?

MYCROFT (exasperated): Sherlock!

SHERLOCK: I will find your underground terror cell, Mycroft.

(He briefly looks at his brother.)

SHERLOCK: Just put me back in London. I need to get to know the place again, breathe it in – feel every quiver of its beating heart.

NOT-ANTHEA: One of our men died getting this information. All the chatter, all the traffic, concurs there’s going to be a terror strike on London – a big one.

SHERLOCK (putting his jacket on): And what about John Watson?

(Anthea throws an exasperated glance towards Mycroft.)

MYCROFT: John?

SHERLOCK: Mmm. Have you seen him?

MYCROFT: Oh, yes – we meet up every Friday for fish and chips(!)

(He gestures to Anthea, who hands Sherlock a folder.)

MYCROFT: I’ve kept a weather eye on him, of course.

(Sherlock opens the file. There are two black and white surveillance photos of John and a report.)

MYCROFT: You haven’t been in touch at all, to prepare him?

SHERLOCK (distractedly): No.

(He looks at the picture of John with his new moustache.)

SHERLOCK: Well, we’ll have to get rid of that.

MYCROFT: “We”?

SHERLOCK: He looks ancient. I can’t be seen to be wandering around with an old man.

(He closes the file and drops it onto the desk.)

221B. John has gone upstairs and opens the door to the living room. He stands in the doorway, looking into the room. It’s quite dark because the curtains are closed, but lots of dust is floating around, illuminated by the few shafts of light coming into the room. John continues to stand still, looking towards Sherlock’s chair by the fireside. Mrs Hudson comes in and switches the lights on.

MRS HUDSON: I couldn’t face letting it out.

(She walks across to the right-hand window and pulls the curtains back, coughing at the dust.)

MRS HUDSON: He never liked me dusting.

JOHN (turning to look into the kitchen): No, I know.

(Mrs Hudson goes across the room to open the other curtains.)

MRS HUDSON: So, why now? What changed your mind?

(Drawing in a deep breath, John turns back to face her.)

JOHN: Well, I’ve got some news.

(Mrs H turns to him and her face fills with horror.)

MRS HUDSON: Oh, God. Is it serious?

JOHN: What? No – no, I’m not ill. I’ve, er, well, I’m ... moving on.

MRS HUDSON (sadly): You’re emigrating.

JOHN: Nope. Er, no – I’ve, er ... I’ve met someone.

(Mrs Hudson giggles with delight. Clapping her hands, she walks towards him smiling happily.)

MRS HUDSON: Oh, lovely!

JOHN (smiling): Yeah. We’re getting married ... well, I’m gonna ask, anyway.

MRS HUDSON (looking more doubtful): So soon after Sherlock?

JOHN: Well, yes.

(Mrs H looks away thoughtfully for a moment, then smiles at John.)

MRS HUDSON: What’s his name?

JOHN (letting out a huge exasperated sigh): It’s a woman.

MRS HUDSON: A woman?!

JOHN: Yes, of course it’s a woman.

(Mrs H laughs in surprise.)

MRS HUDSON: You really have moved on, haven’t you?

JOHN: Mrs Hudson! How many times ...? Sherlock was not my boyfriend.

MRS HUDSON (smiling affectionately): Live and let live – that’s my motto.

JOHN (slowly getting louder): Listen to me: I am not gay!

MYCROFT’S OFFICE.

SHERLOCK: I think I’ll surprise John. He’ll be delighted!

MYCROFT (smiling cynically): You think so?

SHERLOCK: Hmm. I’ll pop into Baker Street. Who knows – jump out of a cake.

MYCROFT (frowning): Baker Street? He isn’t there any more.

(Sherlock looks surprised.)

MYCROFT: Why would he be? It’s been two years. He’s got on with his life.

SHERLOCK: What life? I’ve been away.

(Mycroft pretty much rolls his eyes without actually rolling them.)

SHERLOCK: Where’s he going to be tonight?

MYCROFT: How would I know?

SHERLOCK: You always know.

MYCROFT: He has a dinner reservation in the Marylebone Road. Nice little spot. They have a few bottles of the 2000 Saint-Emilion ... though I prefer the 2001.

SHERLOCK: I think maybe I’ll just drop by.

MYCROFT: You know, it is just possible that you won’t be welcome.

SHERLOCK: No it isn’t. Now, where is it?

MYCROFT: Where’s what?

SHERLOCK: You know what.

(Anthea also knows what, because she immediately appears in the open doorway holding Sherlock’s Belstaff coat. Sherlock smiles with delight, and slides his arms into the sleeves as Anthea lifts it into position. She has even already popped the collar for him.)

ANTHEA: Welcome back, Mr Holmes.

SHERLOCK (pulling the collar tips into a better position): Thank you ...

(He turns to face his brother.)

SHERLOCK (sarcastically): ... blud.

[See urban dictionary definition of ‘blud’ here. Also see some of the Comments below (here) for an alternative possibility.]

Later, Sherlock stands on a rooftop or a balcony of a tall building and gazes over his favourite city.

EVENING. THE LANDMARK HOTEL, MARYLEBONE ROAD. Sherlock approaches the door to the restaurant, handing his Belstaff to a member of staff. Waiters open the doors for him and he walks in. The maître d’ steps forward.

MAITRE D’: Sir, may I help you?

(Having only glanced briefly at him, Sherlock has gone into full-blown deduction mode, seeming to hear a woman crying out in pain:

Expectant Father

The man’s phone beeps a text alert.)

SHERLOCK: Your wife just texted you. Possibly her contractions have started.

(The man fishes his phone out of his pocket, looks at the screen and hurries away. Sherlock smiles smugly to himself.

Nearby, John is sitting alone at a table, checking the inside pocket of his jacket before taking a drink from a glass of water. Sherlock looks across the room at him, then hesitates. A waitress picks up some menus from the bar and walks across in front of him.)

WAITRESS: ’Scuse me, sir.

(Sherlock’s attention is drawn to the bowtie she is wearing as part of her uniform. He looks to a nearby table where a couple are sitting. There is a glass of red wine and a glass of water to the man’s left. The man has his back to the door but Sherlock can see him reflected in the water glass. As John picks up the wine list and starts looking at it, Sherlock smiles to himself again and walks over to the side of the other couple’s table where he picks up the glass of water and pours it down the man’s front. The man – wearing a white shirt, black jacket and a bowtie – recoils and cries out in shock.)

SHERLOCK: Sorry! I’m so, so sorry!

(The man lifts his napkin from his lap and starts mopping himself with it. Sherlock steps behind him, pulling the napkin higher up the man’s chest.)

SHERLOCK: Please, let me just go to the kitchen and, er, dry that off for you.

(With one smooth tug, he pulls off the man’s bowtie and walks away, tying the bowtie around his own neck. Continuing across the restaurant, he sees a man at another table taking off his glasses and putting them down on top of the menu he has just been reading. Sherlock walks to his side.)

SHERLOCK: Finished with that, sir? Allow me to take it for you.

(Not paying much attention, the man waves him away. Sherlock picks up the menu and the glasses and walks away, putting on the glasses as he goes. At a nearby table, a woman’s small handbag is open beside her. Sherlock sees that there is an eyeliner on the top. He steps close behind her, offering her the menu he’s holding with his right hand while simultaneously taking the menu she is holding with his left hand.)

SHERLOCK: Madam, can I suggest you look at this menu? It’s, er, completely identical.

(She automatically takes the menu from his right hand and he instantly pinches the eyeliner from her bag and steps away, turning his back to the bulk of the restaurant and lifting the eyeliner towards his face. When he turns back, he has drawn a small pencil moustache on his top lip. He steps over to John’s table, standing to his left and one step behind him. He addresses John in a French accent.)

SHERLOCK: Can I ’elp you with anything, sir?

JOHN (not looking round at him): Hi, yeah. I’m looking for a bottle of champagne – a good one.

SHERLOCK (leaning closer): Mmm! Well, these are all excellent vintages.

JOHN: Er, it’s not really my area. What do you suggest?

SHERLOCK (his French accent becoming a little Captain du Creff-esque): Well, you cannot possibly go wrong, but, erm, if you’d like my personal recommendation ...

JOHN: Mm-hmm.

SHERLOCK (French accent) (gesturing at the list with his eyeliner pencil): ... this last one on the list is a favourite of mine.

(John nods, still not looking up at him.)

SHERLOCK (French accent) (straightening up): It is – you might, in fact, say – like a face from ze past.

(He takes off his glasses and waits expectantly. John still doesn’t look round.)

JOHN: Great. I’ll have that one, please.

(He finishes his glass of red wine. Sherlock looks startled that John hasn’t recognised him yet.)

SHERLOCK (French accent): It is familiar, but, er, with the quality of surprise!

(He almost lapses into his own voice on the final word and he gestures grandly. John grimaces at the taste of his wine, then – still without looking round – hands the wine list to the man he thinks is the wine waiter.)

JOHN: Well, er, surprise me.

SHERLOCK (tetchily, in pretty much his own voice): Certainly endeavouring to, sir.

(He walks away. John reaches into his inside jacket pocket and pulls out a small red velvet box. Opening it, he looks at the three-stone diamond ring inside, then closes the box and puts it on the table in front of him. Nearby, a woman walks down the stairs. John fidgets with the box, turning it this way and that in an attempt to make it look perfectly placed. He blows out a nervous breath as his dinner date, Mary Morstan, rejoins him, patting his shoulder before walking round to her own seat.)

MARY: Sorry that took so long.

(John snatches the box off the table and shoves it back into his pocket. She sits down and smiles at him.)

MARY: You okay?

JOHN: Yeah, yeah. Me? Fine. I am fine.

(She smiles sweetly. John chuckles and gazes at her with a delighted look on his face.)

MARY: Now then, what did you want to ask me?

(John’s smile fades and he looks nervous.)

JOHN: More wine?

MARY: No, I’m good with water, thanks.

JOHN: Right. (He briefly looks away.)

MARY: So ...

JOHN: Er, so ... Mary. Listen, erm ... I know it hasn’t been long ... I mean, I know we haven’t known each other for a long time ...

(He looks down, clearly struggling.)

MARY (encouragingly): Go on.

JOHN: Yes, I will. As you know, these last couple of years haven’t been easy for me; and meeting you ...

(He looks at her for a moment, then nods.)

JOHN: Yeah, meeting you has been the best thing that could have possibly happened.

MARY: I agree.

JOHN: What?

MARY (smiling): I agree I’m the best thing that could have happened to you.

(John laughs. Mary screws up her nose apologetically.)

MARY: Sorry.

JOHN: Well, no. That’s, um ...

(He pauses, then looks at her.)

JOHN: So ... if you’ll have me, Mary, could you see your way, um ...

(She giggles. He clears his throat.)

JOHN: ... if you could see your way to ...

(Just as he’s about to go for it, Sherlock glides over to the table, still with the glasses, the ridiculous fake moustache and the ridiculous fake accent, but now with the added bonus of a bottle of champagne which he shows to John.)

SHERLOCK (French accent): Sir, I think you’ll find this vintage exceptionally to your liking.

(Mary shields her face with her hand so that the ‘waiter’ can’t see her as she giggles silently at John.)

SHERLOCK (French accent): It has all the qualities of the old, with some of the colour of the new.

JOHN (his eyes locked on Mary’s): No, sorry, not now, please.

SHERLOCK (French accent): Like a gaze from a crowd of strangers ...

(Mary pulls a face at John.)

SHERLOCK (French accent): ... suddenly one is aware of staring into ze face of an old friend.

(He takes off his glasses.)

JOHN: No, look, seriously ... (he finally lifts his gaze to meet the waiter’s eyes) ... could you just ...

(His face drops. His entire body jolts and he stares with an expression of utter disbelief.)

SHERLOCK (in his normal accent): Interesting thing, a tuxedo. Lends distinction to friends, and anonymity to waiters.

(John turns his head towards Mary, then his eyes fill with tears as he ducks his head momentarily before he stumbles clumsily to his feet.)

MARY (concerned): John?

(As John straightens up, Sherlock begins to move his right hand forward as if expecting John to shake it. John looks down at the table breathing heavily before lifting his head and briefly locking eyes with him.)

MARY (worried): John, what is it? What?

(John looks down again, clearly still in shock.)

SHERLOCK (a little awkwardly): Well, short version ...

(John raises his eyes to him again.)

SHERLOCK: ... Not Dead.

(John stares at him, his face full of pain, shock and growing anger. Sherlock finally seems to catch on and looks a little guilty.)

SHERLOCK: Bit mean, springing it on you like that, I know. Could have given you a heart attack, probably still will. But in my defence, it was very funny.

(He laughs nervously, not meeting John’s eyes, which is probably for the best because John’s gaze is slowly turning murderous.)

SHERLOCK: Okay, it’s not a great defence.

MARY: Oh no! You’re ...

SHERLOCK (glancing towards her): Oh yes.

MARY (shocked): Oh, my God.

SHERLOCK: Not quite.

MARY: You died. You jumped off a roof.

SHERLOCK: No.

MARY (appalled): You’re dead!

SHERLOCK: No. I’m quite sure. I checked. Excuse me.

(Picking up a napkin from the table, he dips it into Mary’s glass of water and then starts to rub off his moustache.)

SHERLOCK (trying to sound nonchalant as he meets John’s furious gaze): Does, er, does yours rub off, too?

(The tight smile which John directs at him bears absolutely no humour at all. Mary’s anger is clear in her voice as she speaks.)

MARY: Oh my God, oh my God. Do you have any idea what you’ve done to him?

SHERLOCK (looking down nervously): Okay, John, I’m suddenly realising I probably owe you some sort of an apology.

(Clenching his left fist, John slams it down onto the table. It’s a credit to the manufacturers of the table that he doesn’t shatter it. He hunches over his fist.)

MARY: All right, just ... John? Just keep ...

(John pulls in a deep shaky breath before looking up at Sherlock.)

JOHN (in a whisper): Two years.

(He shakes his head, dragging in another long breath and blowing it out again before starting to straighten up.)

JOHN (still in a tight whisper): Two years.

(He moans and slumps down over his hands again. Sherlock has the decency to look awkward. John glances up at him momentarily.)

JOHN: I thought ...

(He groans, unable to continue and gesturing helplessly. Mary stares at him in sympathy. John finally straightens and turns to Sherlock.)

JOHN: I thought ... you were dead. (His face begins to fill with anger again.) Hmm?

(He breathes rapidly and shallowly.)

JOHN: Now, you let me grieve, hmm? How could you do that?

(Sherlock looks down, biting his lip.)

JOHN (softly but furiously): How?

SHERLOCK (as John’s breathing becomes more intense): Wait – before you do anything that you might regret ...

(John half-groans again.)

SHERLOCK: ... um, one question. Just let me ask one question. Um ...

(John looks at him, his eyes still full of fury.)

SHERLOCK (almost giggling as he gestures towards his own top lip): Are you really gonna keep that?!

(He grins as he turns his head to look at Mary. She laughs in disbelief. John draws in one more long breath, then hurls himself at Sherlock, grabbing his lapels and bundling him back across the floor until Sherlock loses his footing and they both fall to the floor, John on top of Sherlock and trying to throttle him. Mary and various waiters run to pull John off.)

LATER. The three of them have presumably been thrown out of the restaurant and have relocated to a café. Sherlock sits on one side of a table wearing his coat, his fingers steepled in front of him. John and Mary sit side by side opposite him, their arms folded.

SHERLOCK: I calculated that there were thirteen possibilities once I’d invited Moriarty onto the roof.

(Flashbacks of Sherlock on the rooftop of Bart’s intersperse the following dialogue.)

SHERLOCK (voiceover): I wanted to avoid dying if at all possible.

(Sherlock rapidly looks around the roof and all the surrounding buildings, calculating trajectories, angles and even the possibility of a ladder being lowered from a helicopter.)

SHERLOCK (voiceover): The first scenario involved hurling myself into a parked hospital van filled with washing bags. Impossible. The angle was too steep. Secondly, a system of Japanese wrestling ...

JOHN (interrupting): You know, for a genius you can be remarkably thick.

SHERLOCK: What?

JOHN (tightly): I don’t care how you faked it, Sherlock. I wanna know why.

SHERLOCK (bewildered): Why? Because Moriarty had to be stopped.

(He looks at John’s expression.)

SHERLOCK: Oh. ‘Why’ as in ...

(He lifts a finger, pointing it in John’s direction. John nods.)

SHERLOCK: I see. Yes. ‘Why?’ That’s a little more difficult to explain.

JOHN (darkly): I’ve got all night.

SHERLOCK (clearing his throat and looking down): Actually, um, that was mostly Mycroft’s idea.

JOHN: Oh, so it’s your brother’s plan?

MARY (pointing towards Sherlock): Oh, he would have needed a confidant ...

SHERLOCK: Mm-hm.

(Mary trails off at John’s look.)

MARY: Sorry.

(She refolds her arms and looks down. John turns back to Sherlock.)

JOHN: But he was the only one? The only one who knew?

(Sherlock closes his eyes briefly and seems to force the next sentence out.)

SHERLOCK: Couple of others.

(John lowers his head. Sherlock talks quickly.)

SHERLOCK: It was a very elaborate plan – it had to be. The next of the thirteen possibilities ...

JOHN (in a despairing whisper): Who else?

(He looks up to Sherlock.)

JOHN: Who else knew?

(Sherlock hesitates.)

JOHN: Who?

SHERLOCK: Molly.

JOHN (angrily): Molly?

MARY (softly): John.

SHERLOCK: Molly Hooper – and some of my homeless network, and that’s all.

JOHN: Okay. (He sits up a little and glances round at Mary, who gives him a sympathetic smile. He turns to Sherlock again.) Okay. So just your brother, and Molly Hooper, and a hundred tramps.

(Sherlock chuckles.)

SHERLOCK: No! Twenty-five at most.

(John hurls himself across the table and attempts to throttle his old friend again.)

LATER. The three of them have presumably been thrown out of the café and have relocated to a kebab shop. John and Mary stand leaning with their backs against the counter. John apparently managed more than just an attempted throttling, because Sherlock has taken his coat off and is holding a paper napkin to a cut on his lower lip. He looks at the blood on the napkin, wincing, then presses it to his lip again. He looks at John as he raises his head, avoiding Sherlock’s gaze.

SHERLOCK: Seriously, it’s not a joke? (He gestures to his own top lip.) You’re-you’re really keeping this?

(John clears his throat and meets Sherlock’s eyes.)

JOHN: Yeah.

SHERLOCK: You’re sure?

JOHN: Mary likes it.

SHERLOCK: Mmmmmm, no she doesn’t.

JOHN: She does.

SHERLOCK: She doesn’t.

(John glances briefly round at Mary, then does a double-take. She makes incoherent apologetic noises.)

JOHN: Oh! (He tries to cover his moustache with his hand.) Brilliant.

MARY: I’m sorry. Oh, I’m sorry – I didn’t know how to tell you.

JOHN: No, no, this is charming(!)

(He points angrily at Sherlock, clearly referring to his talent of instant deduction.)

JOHN: I’ve really missed this(!)

(He looks down, then takes an aggressive step towards Sherlock and gets into his face.)

JOHN: One Word, Sherlock. That is all I would have needed. One word to let me know that you were alive.

(He steps back, breathing heavily.)

SHERLOCK (quietly): I’ve nearly been in contact so many times, but ...

(John laughs disbelievingly.)

SHERLOCK: ... I worried that, you know, you might say something indiscreet.

JOHN: What?

SHERLOCK: Well, you know, let the cat out of the bag.

JOHN (stepping closer again): Oh, so this is my fault?!

(Mary laughs with disbelief.)

MARY: Oh, God!

JOHN (shouting angrily): Why am I the only one who thinks that this is wrong – the only one reacting like a human being?!

SHERLOCK: Over-reacting.

JOHN (furiously): “Over-reacting”?!

MARY: John!

JOHN (still shouting): “Over-reacting.” So you fake your own death ...

SHERLOCK: Shh!

JOHN: ... and you waltz in ’ere large as bloody life ...

SHERLOCK: Shh!

JOHN (initially more quietly): ... but I’m not supposed to have a problem with that, no, because Sherlock Holmes thinks it’s a perfectly OKAY THING TO DO!

SHERLOCK (shouting): Shut up, John! I don’t want everyone knowing I’m still alive!

JOHN (shouting): Oh, so it’s still a secret, is it?

SHERLOCK (loudly): Yes! It’s still a secret.

(He looks round at the other customers in the shop.)

SHERLOCK (casually): Promise you won’t tell anyone.

JOHN (angrily, sarcastically): Swear to God!

(Finally he looks round at the other customers and backs down a little, blowing out a long breath. Sherlock steps closer to him and speaks quietly.)

SHERLOCK: London is in danger, John. There’s an imminent terrorist attack and I need your help.

(John stares at him in amazement, then turns to throw a quirky ‘can you believe this guy?!’ look at Mary. He turns back to Sherlock.)

JOHN: My help?

(Sherlock’s eyes narrow as he deduces John’s genuine reaction to his request, then he smiles.)

SHERLOCK: You have missed this. Admit it. The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins, just the two of us against the rest of the world ...

(John grabs his lapels, rears his head back and then moves in for the kill.)

LATER. The three of them have presumably been thrown out of the kebab shop. Sherlock stands just outside the door with his head tilted back a little. Blood is running from his nose.

SHERLOCK: I don’t understand.

(He pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand and holds a paper napkin underneath.)

SHERLOCK: I said I’m sorry. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?

(Mary is standing beside him, while John is a few yards up the road hailing a taxi.)

MARY: Gosh. You don’t know anything about human nature, do you?

(Sherlock lowers his head and looks at her.)

SHERLOCK: Mmm, nature? No. Human? ... No.

MARY: I’ll talk him round.

(Sherlock takes the napkin from under his nose and looks at her curiously.)

SHERLOCK: You will?

MARY (smiling confidently): Oh yeah.

(Sherlock looks at her closely and goes into deduction mode. Many, many words appear in his mind, some of them repeated several times. They include, in no particular order:

only child linguist Clever part time nurse Shortsighted Guardian Bakes Own Bread Disillusioned Cat Lover Romantic Appendix Scar Lib Dem Secret Tattoo Size 12 Liar

She smiles at him, then looks round as John calls to her.)

JOHN: Mary.

(She turns to give Sherlock a last smile, then walks over to John. They get into the taxi and drive away. Sherlock watches them go.

In the taxi John indignantly turns to Mary.)

JOHN: Can you believe his nerve?

(Smiling, Mary turns to him.)

MARY: I like him.

JOHN: What?

MARY (shrugging and still smiling): I like him.

(She turns away and looks out of the window. John narrows his eyes, looking completely bewildered.

Back at the kebab shop, Sherlock looks down thoughtfully, then turns and walks away.)

ST BARTHOLOMEW’S HOSPITAL. Molly Hooper walks into a locker room, takes out her keys and opens her locker. As the door swings open, the mirror on the inside reveals Sherlock standing behind her. She gasps and turns to look at him.

In an underground car park, Greg Lestrade walks across the area searching his pockets as he goes. Behind him, Sherlock walks past. Unaware of this, Greg continues rummaging in various pockets. Something metallic clinks noisily a little way away. Greg looks around but can see nothing and resumes his search until he finally finds what he was looking for. Tipping a cigarette out of the pack, he sticks it into his mouth, puts the rest of the pack back into his pocket and then flicks his lighter and raises it towards the end of the cigarette.

SHERLOCK’s VOICE (in the darkness): Those things’ll kill you.

(Greg freezes, the flame not quite reaching the end of his cigarette as he stares into the distance while his brain catches up with what – and who – he just heard. Finally he lowers his lighter and takes his fag out of his mouth.)

LESTRADE: Ooh, you bastard!

SHERLOCK (walking towards him out of the darkness): It’s time to come back. You’ve been letting things slide, Graham.

LESTRADE: Greg!

SHERLOCK: Greg.

(Greg stares at him for a long moment, his lips slowly lifting to reveal his teeth. Grimacing, he lunges towards Sherlock ... and wraps his arms around his neck and pulls him into a tight hug. Sherlock groans – quite possibly because the hug, while adorable for us to look at, is doing no good to his recent injuries acquired in Serbia – but he tolerates Greg’s affection.)

John and Mary are in bed. Mary is asleep, but John stares up at the ceiling, lost in thought.

221A BAKER STREET. Mrs Hudson is in the kitchen washing up a pan. The radio is on.

RADIO: ... with an anti-terrorism bill this important, the government feels duty-bound to push through the legislation with all due expe...

(Hearing the main front door being opened, she turns down the volume and goes to her front door and opens it, brandishing the pan in front of her. The front door closes, and a familiar silhouette appears behind the frosted window of the internal door. Mrs Hudson stares at it in disbelief – and then Sherlock pushes the door open and looks at her. She screams hysterically.)

FLASHBACK to the end of “The Reichenbach Fall”. John gets out of the taxi and heads towards the hospital. Cut to partway through his phone conversation with Sherlock when John tries again to go towards the hospital.

SHERLOCK (over phone): No, stay exactly where you are.

JOHN (into phone): Where are you?

SHERLOCK: Don’t move. Keep your eyes fixed on me.

(On the rooftop’s edge, a dummy has been dressed in replicas of Sherlock’s coat and scarf. It’s wearing a curly dark wig and a life-sized photo of Sherlock’s face has been stuck on the front of the head. One hand is raised to hold a phone.)

JOHN’s VOICE (over phone): What-what’s happening? What’s going on?

(A few feet behind the dummy, Sherlock is sitting on the roof with his back against a low chimney. Jim Moriarty is sitting beside him. Sherlock is holding a rope to keep the dummy upright. He speaks tearfully into another phone.)

SHERLOCK: Please, will you do this for me? Please.

JOHN: Do what?

SHERLOCK: This phone call – it’s my note. That’s what people do, don’t they? Leave a note.

(Beside him, Jim lowers his head and giggles quietly. Sherlock takes the phone away from his mouth and angrily but silently shushes him.)

JOHN’s VOICE (over phone): Leave a note when?

SHERLOCK (raising the phone to his mouth again): Goodbye, John.

JOHN’s VOICE (over phone): No ...

(Switching the phone off, Sherlock flicks the rope and the dummy topples over the edge of the roof. Jim chuckles, and John’s horrified voice can be heard screaming from ground level.)

JOHN: Sherlock!

JIM: Oh-ho!

(He and Sherlock both laugh as if delighted that their plan has worked. They turn and look at each other, and their smiles slowly fade. Sherlock frowns a little, looking puzzled, but Jim waits patiently for him to catch up. After a moment they begin to lean towards each other. Their mouths are just about to touch when ...

ANDERSON (horrified): What?! Are you out of your mind?!

(He is standing and staring down at a dark-haired young woman sitting in his living room. She shrugs.)

LAURA: I don’t see why not. It’s just as plausible as some of your theories.

(Behind her, the walls of the room are absolutely covered with notes, photographs and Post It notes. Pieces of red string link some of the paperwork together, some of the strings even crossing the room. Laura is not the only person in the room with Anderson – six or seven others are squeezed onto the furniture. At least three of them are wearing deerstalker hats, and one is wearing a Sherlock-like coat and scarf.)

ANDERSON: Look, if you’re not going to take it seriously, Laura, you can ... (He makes a ‘get out’ gesture.)

LAURA (angrily): I do take it seriously. (She looks disapprovingly around at the others.) I don’t think we should wear hats.

ANDERSON: I founded ‘The Empty Hearse’ so like-minded people could meet, discuss theories ...

(He chokes on his words and steps closer to Laura, looking down at her angrily.)

ANDERSON: Sherlock’s still out there.

(Laura rolls her eyes.)

ANDERSON: I’m convinced of it.

(Behind him, the TV’s sound is muted but a reporter talking live from somewhere in London is bringing some breaking news. The rolling headline announces, “HAT DETECTIVE ALIVE”. Underneath, a separate headline states, “Magnussen summoned before parliamentary ...” and presumably the next word is “commission” but nobody is paying attention to that news.)

LAURA: Oh my God.

(Instantly everyone’s phones begin to signal text alerts. Everybody scrabbles in their pockets. Laura holds up her own phone to show Anderson, her face alight with excitement.)

LAURA: Oh. My. God!

(On the phones, Twitter is alive with hashtags like #SherlockHolmesAlive! and #SherlockIsNotDead, and #SherlockLives, and more messages stream in by the second.)

Sitting up in bed, Mary is holding an iPad and reading aloud from one of John’s old blog entries.

MARY (narrating dramatically): “His movements were so silent. So furtive, he reminded me of a trained bloodhound picking out a scent.”

JOHN (offscreen a short distance away): You what?

MARY: “I couldn’t help thinking what an amazing criminal he’d make if he turned his talents against the law.”

(John comes out of the small ensuite bathroom, his lower face and upper lip covered in shaving foam.)

JOHN: Don’t read that.

MARY (still looking at the screen): The famous blog, finally!

JOHN: Come on – that’s ...

MARY: ... ancient history, yes, I know. But it’s not, though, is it, because he’s ...

(She raises her eyes from the iPad and stops as she sees John.)

MARY (smiling): What are you doing?!

JOHN: Having a wash.

MARY (grinning): You’re shaving it off.

JOHN: Well, you hate it.

MARY: Sherlock hates it.

JOHN: Apparently everyone hates it.

(Mary giggles.)

MARY: Are you gonna see him again?

JOHN: No – I’m going to work.

MARY: Oh. And after work, are you gonna see him again?

(Rolling his eyes, John walks back into the bathroom.)

MARY: Cor, I dunno – six months of bristly kisses for me, and then His Nibs turns up ...

JOHN (looking into the mirror as he applies more shaving foam): I don’t shave for Sherlock Holmes.

MARY: Oh! You should put that on a T-shirt!

JOHN: Shut up.

MARY (cheekily): Or what?

JOHN: Or I’ll marry you.

(He turns to look at her. She grins. Rinsing off his hands, John picks up his razor, looks into the mirror, sighs, and lifts the razor towards his upper lip.)

SHERLOCK (voiceover): London. It’s like a great cesspool into which all kinds of criminals, agents and drifters are irresistibly drained.

(In the living room of 221B, Sherlock – wearing a red dressing gown over his clothes – has been peering at the wall behind the sofa, and now he steps onto the sofa and begins to stick up maps, notes and paperwork.)

SHERLOCK (voiceover): Sometimes it’s not a question of ‘Who?’; it’s a question of ‘Who Knows?’

(Somewhere in London a man in his twenties or thirties with a shaved head is sitting on a park bench eating a sandwich.)

SHERLOCK (voiceover): If this man cancels his papers ...

(Near the bench, a woman – presumably one of Sherlock’s Homeless Network – takes photos of the man on her phone.)

SHERLOCK (voiceover): ... I need to know.

(Keeping a wary eye on the man, the homeless woman sends her photos to Sherlock, and he pins one of them onto the wall.

Elsewhere, a woman with a dog on a lead walks through a street market.)

SHERLOCK (voiceover): If this woman leaves London without putting her dog into kennels, I need to know.

(Another homeless woman photographs the dog owner and texts it to Sherlock, who again pins the photo onto the wall. He continues sticking up pictures of people and adding crosses and other marks to the pictures and the map underneath it.)

SHERLOCK (voiceover): There are certain people – they are markers. If they start to move, I’ll know something’s up – like rats deserting a sinking ship.

John, now moustache-free, approaches and goes into the surgery in which he works.

221B. LIVING ROOM.

MYCROFT: All very interesting, Sherlock, but the terror alert has been raised to Critical.

(The brothers are sitting opposite each other in front of the unlit fire, Sherlock still in his dressing gown. We can see a chess set between them. Sherlock sits back from making a move, his eyes locked onto Mycroft’s.)

SHERLOCK: Boring. Your move.

MYCROFT: We have solid information. An attack is coming.

(He glances down to make his move.)

SHERLOCK: “Solid information.” A secret terrorist organisation’s planning an attack – that’s what secret terrorist organisations do, isn’t it? It’s their version of golf.

MYCROFT: An agent gave his life to tell us that.

SHERLOCK: Oh, well, perhaps he shouldn’t have done. He was obviously just trying to show off.

(Mycroft appears to hold back a sigh.)

MYCROFT: None of these markers of yours is behaving in any way suspiciously? (He glances down again and makes a move.) Your move.

SHERLOCK: No, Mycroft, but you have to trust me. I’ll find the answer. It’ll be in an odd phrase in an online blog, or an unexpected trip to the countryside, or a misplaced Lonely Hearts ad.

(He had only glanced down briefly before speaking, but out of view there’s a slight click as he moves his piece.)

SHERLOCK: Your move.

(Mycroft glances down briefly before raising his eyes to Sherlock’s again.)

MYCROFT: I’ve given the Prime Minister my personal assurance you’re on the case.

SHERLOCK: I am on the case. We’re both on the case. Look at us right now.

(On the table in between them, there’s a loud buzzing and a red light flashes.)

MYCROFT: Oh, bugger!

(He angrily drops the small tweezers he was using in their game of “Operation”. [More details about the game here if you need them.] We realise that a clever perspective shot had lured us into believing they were playing chess, but the chess set is actually on the coffee table in front of the sofa.)

SHERLOCK: Oopsie!

(Mycroft returns the piece to the board.)

SHERLOCK (looking at which piece Mycroft had failed to remove successfully): Can’t handle a broken heart – how very telling.

(Looking smug, he sits back in his chair and crosses his legs.)

MYCROFT: Don’t be smart.

SHERLOCK: That takes me back. (In a little boy’s voice) “Don’t be smart, Sherlock. I’m the smart one.”

MYCROFT (glowering at him): I am the smart one.

(Sherlock looks off to the side reflectively.)

SHERLOCK: I used to think I was an idiot.

MYCROFT: Both of us thought you were an idiot, Sherlock. We had nothing else to go on ’til we met other children.

SHERLOCK: Oh, yes. That was a mistake.

MYCROFT: Ghastly. What were they thinking of?

SHERLOCK: Probably something about trying to make friends.

MYCROFT: Oh yes. Friends. Of course, you go in for that sort of thing now.

SHERLOCK (looking at him closely): And you don’t? Ever?

MYCROFT: If you seem slow to me, Sherlock, can you imagine what real people are like? I’m living in a world of goldfish.

(Sherlock steeples his fingers in front of him and looks at his brother.)

SHERLOCK: Yes, but I’ve been away for two years.

MYCROFT: So?

SHERLOCK (shrugging): Oh, I don’t know. I thought perhaps you might have found yourself a ... goldfish.

MYCROFT (looking appalled): Change the subject – now!

(He stands up and walks over to the fireplace.)

SHERLOCK: Rest assured, Mycroft – whatever this underground network of yours is up to, the secret will reside in something seemingly insignificant or bizarre.

(Mrs Hudson, carrying a tray of tea things, walks into the room with her traditional “Ooh-hoo!”)

MYCROFT: Speaking of which ...

(Sherlock smiles.)

MRS HUDSON (happily, putting the tray on the dining table): I can’t believe it. I just can’t believe it! Him – sitting in his chair again!

(She looks at Mycroft.)

MRS HUDSON: Oh, isn’t it wonderful, Mr Holmes?

MYCROFT: I can barely contain myself(!)

SHERLOCK: Oh, he really can, you know.

MRS HUDSON: He’s secretly pleased to see you underneath all that ... (she pulls a sour face).

MYCROFT: Sorry – which of us?

MRS HUDSON: Both of you.

(She leaves the room.)

SHERLOCK: Let’s play something different.

MYCROFT (with an exasperated sigh): Why are we playing games?

SHERLOCK: Well, London’s terror alert has been raised to Critical. (He flails his legs over the table in front of him and stands up.) I’m just passing the time. Let’s do deductions.

(He walks over to the dining table and picks up a woollen bobble hat with earflaps [It’s an ear hat, John!] and dangly pom poms hanging from each flap.)

SHERLOCK: Client left this while I was out. What d’you reckon?

(He tosses it to his brother.)

MYCROFT (catching it): I’m busy.

SHERLOCK: Oh, go on. It’s been an age.

(Mycroft lifts the hat to his nose and sniffs, then looks across to Sherlock.)

MYCROFT: I always win.

SHERLOCK: Which is why you can’t resist.

MYCROFT (quick-fire): I find nothing irresistible in the hat of a well-travelled anxious sentimental unfit creature of habit with appalling halitosis ...

(He stops as he notices Sherlock’s widening smile.)

MYCROFT: Damn.

(He throws the hat back to Sherlock.)

SHERLOCK: Isolated, too, don’t you think?

MYCROFT: Why would he be isolated?

SHERLOCK: “He”?

MYCROFT: Obviously.

SHERLOCK: Why? Size of the hat?

MYCROFT: Don’t be silly. Some women have large heads too.

(Sherlock flinches slightly, possibly at Mycroft’s insult to his intelligence.)

MYCROFT: No – he’s recently had his hair cut. You can see the little hairs adhering to the perspiration stains on the inside.

(Sherlock looks down at the hat, pouting slightly.)

SHERLOCK: Some women have short hair, too.

MYCROFT: Balance of probability.

SHERLOCK: Not that you’ve ever spoken to a woman with short hair – or, you know, a woman.

MYCROFT: Stains show he’s out of condition, and he’s sentimental because the hat has been repaired three, four ...

SHERLOCK: Five times. (He throws the hat back to his brother.) Very neatly. (Quick-fire) The cost of the repairs exceeds the cost of the hat, so he's mawkishly attached to it, but it’s more than that. One, perhaps two, patches would indicate sentimentality, but five? Five’s excessive behaviour. Obsessive compulsive.

MYCROFT: Hardly. Your client left it behind. What sort of an obsessive compulsive would do that?

(He throws the hat back to Sherlock, who grabs it with an exasperated grimace.)

MYCROFT: The earlier patches are extensively sun-bleached, so he’s worn it abroad – in Peru.

SHERLOCK: Peru?

MYCROFT: This is a chullo – the classic headgear of the Andes. It’s made of alpaca.

SHERLOCK (smirking): No.

MYCROFT: No?

SHERLOCK: Icelandic sheep wool. Similar, but very distinctive if you know what you’re looking for. I’ve written a blog on the varying tensile strengths of different natural fibres.

MRS HUDSON (coming back into the room with a teapot): I’m sure there’s a crying need for that.

(Sherlock pauses for a moment, then turns back to his brother.)

SHERLOCK: You said he was anxious.

MYCROFT: The bobble on the left side has been badly chewed, which shows he’s a man of a nervous disposition but ...

SHERLOCK (talking over him): ... but also a creature of habit because he hasn’t chewed the bobble on the right.

MYCROFT: Precisely.

(Sherlock lifts the hat and sniffs it before lowering it again, grimacing.)

SHERLOCK: Brief sniff of the offending bobble tells us everything we need to know about the state of his breath.

(He turns away.)

SHERLOCK (sarcastically): Brilliant(!)

MYCROFT: Elementary.

SHERLOCK: But you’ve missed his isolation.

MYCROFT: I don’t see it.

SHERLOCK: Plain as day.

MYCROFT: Where?

SHERLOCK: There for all to see.

MYCROFT: Tell me.

SHERLOCK: Plain as the nose on your ...

MYCROFT: Tell me.

SHERLOCK (turning back to him): Well, anybody who wears a hat as stupid as this isn’t in the habit of hanging around other people, is he?

MYCROFT: Not at all. Maybe he just doesn’t mind being different. He doesn’t necessarily have to be isolated.

SHERLOCK: Exactly.

(He looks down at the hat again. Mycroft blinks several times, apparently confused.)

MYCROFT: I’m sorry?

SHERLOCK (looking at him): He’s different – so what? Why would he mind? You’re quite right.

(He lifts the hat and perches it on the top of his head, then looks pointedly at his brother.)

SHERLOCK: Why would anyone mind?

(Mycroft opens his mouth but seems to struggle to speak for a moment.)

MYCROFT: ... I’m not lonely, Sherlock.

(Sherlock tilts his head down and looks closely at him, then steps nearer with an intense expression on his face.)

SHERLOCK: How would you know?

(Taking the hat off, he turns away. Mrs Hudson, who has been pottering in the kitchen, comes to the doorway and smiles.)

MYCROFT: Yes. Back to work if you don’t mind. Good morning.

(Looking a little wide-eyed as a result of the recent conversation, he heads for the door. Behind him, Sherlock winks at Mrs Hudson, who giggles happily.)

SHERLOCK (turning to face the wall of information behind the sofa): Right. Back to work.

JOHN’S SURGERY. Mary knocks on the door and looks in.

MARY: Mr Summerson.

JOHN: Right.

MARY: Undescended testicle.

JOHN: ... Right.

(Mary leaves again. The clock shows 10 past 10.)

221B. Sherlock holds up his phone and looks at the latest photos of one of his ‘markers’. Mrs Hudson comes to the door of the living room and watches as Sherlock draws a cross over the photo of the man which is pinned to the wall.

MRS HUDSON: Sherlock.

SHERLOCK (absently): Mm?

MRS HUDSON: Talk to John.

SHERLOCK: I tried talking to him. He made his position quite clear.

In his surgery, John has his middle finger raised in front of him. With his other hand he pulls the medical glove tighter down onto his fingers. Mr Summerson is standing in front of him, naked from the waist down and looking awkward.

JOHN: Just relax, Mr Summerson.

(He walks towards him.)

MRS HUDSON: What did he say?

SHERLOCK: F...

JOHN: Cough.

(He is cradling Mr Summerson’s testicles with his gloved hand.)

MRS HUDSON: Ooh dear!

(She turns away.)

Later, John sits looking at his computer in his surgery. The intercom beeps and he switches it on.

JOHN: Hi.

MARY (over intercom): Er, Mrs Reeves. Thrush.

(John lowers his head momentarily.)

JOHN: Right.

(The clock shows 4 minutes past 1.)

At 221B, Sherlock is standing at the window. Molly walks into the room behind him.

MOLLY: You wanted to see me?

SHERLOCK (turning to face her): Yes.

(He starts to walk towards her.)

SHERLOCK: Molly?

MOLLY: Yes?

SHERLOCK: Would you ...

(He stops, looking down, then slowly starts to walk closer.)

SHERLOCK: Would you like to ...

MOLLY: ... have dinner?

SHERLOCK (simultaneously): ... solve crimes?

MOLLY (awkwardly): Ooh.

John writes out a prescription as he talks to the woman sitting behind him.

JOHN: Absolutely nothing to be ashamed of, Mrs Reeves. It’s very common ... (he turns and hands the prescription to her) ... but I’m recommending a course of ...

SHERLOCK: ... monkey glands.

(He is looking at the wall, while Molly sits on a dining chair beside Sherlock’s armchair. She bites back a smile as Sherlock turns towards the two clients in the room. A woman is sitting in what was John’s chair and a man stands beside her.)

SHERLOCK: But enough about Professor Presbury. Tell us more about your case, Mr Harcourt.

(Molly speaks quietly to him as he walks past her.)

MOLLY: Are you sure about this?

SHERLOCK: Absolutely.

MOLLY: Should I be making notes?

SHERLOCK: If it makes you feel better.

MOLLY: It’s just that that’s what John says he does, so if I’m being John ...

SHERLOCK (sitting down in his chair): You’re not being John – you’re being yourself.

(Molly smiles proudly.)

MR HARCOURT: Well, absolutely no one should have been able to empty that bank account other than myself and Helen.

(Sherlock looks closely at him, zooming in on his jacket, then his hairline and then the skin above his eyes. He stands and walks closer to him.)

SHERLOCK: Why didn’t you assume it was your wife?

MR HARCOURT: Because I’ve always had total faith in her.

SHERLOCK: No – it’s because you emptied it. (He points at the three areas on the man at which he had just looked and speaks quick-fire.) Weight loss, hair dye, Botox; affair. (Whipping out a business card, he holds it out to Mrs Harcourt.) Lawyer. Next!

Mary shows the next patient into the room and looks at John.

MARY: This is Mr Blake. (Whispering) Piles.

(John nods politely. The clock shows half past 3. John turns and smiles at his patient.)

JOHN: Mr Blake, hi.

Sherlock is sitting on a stool close to a woman who is sitting on the sofa. He is clasping her hands and patting them sympathetically while he talks softly to her.

SHERLOCK: And your pen pal’s emails just stopped, did they?

(The woman nods, whimpering as she cries. Molly looks across to her but then continues writing notes at the dining table. An older man is sitting beside the woman.)

SHERLOCK (softly): And you really thought he was the one, didn’t you? The love of your life?

(As the woman takes off her glasses and cries harder, Sherlock turns and looks at Molly for a moment, then stands and walks across to her. Keeping his back to the clients, he speaks quietly.)

SHERLOCK: Stepfather posing as online boyfriend.

MOLLY (shocked): What?!

SHERLOCK: Breaks it off, breaks her heart. She swears off relationships, stays at home – he still has her wage coming in.

(He turns to the man and addresses him sternly.)

SHERLOCK: Mr Windibank, you have been a complete and utter ...

JOHN: ... piss pot.

(He is holding up a small plastic cylinder used for collecting urine samples. He hands it to his latest patient who is sitting facing him.)

JOHN: It’s nothing to worry about. Just a small infection by the sound of it. Er, Doctor Verner is your usual GP, yes?

(The man speaks in a rough voice with a thick accent.)

MR SZIKORA: Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah.

(John looks startled. The man appears to be in his sixties, has long white hair and a white beard and is wearing very dark glasses and a black knitted hat.)

MR SZIKORA: He looked after me, man and boy.

(He beckons John closer and talks confidentially.)

MR SZIKORA: I run a little shop, just on the corner of Church Street.

JOHN: Oh, right.

MR SZIKORA (picking up a plastic bag from the floor): Er, magazines, DVDs. Brought along a few little beauties that might interest you.

(Taking a DVD from the bag, he shows it to John.)

MR SZIKORA: “Tree Worshippers.” Oh, that’s a corker. It’s very saucy.

(John nods in a bemused way, looking closely at the man as if he is beginning to suspect something. The man gets out a magazine and holds it up.)

MR SZIKORA: “British Birds.” Same sort of thing.

(The magazine cover shows two glamorous women in skimpy clothing, and some of the captions around the photograph read, “We’re a real handful,” “Hot British Birds! XXX” and “Knocker Glory”.)

JOHN: I’m fine, thanks.

MR SZIKORA (holding up another DVD and translating its foreign title): “The Holy War.” Sounds a bit dry, I know, but there’s a nun with all these holes in her habit.

JOHN: Jesus. Sherlock ...

MR SZIKORA: Huh?

JOHN: ... what do you want?

MR SZIKORA: Huh?

JOHN: Have you come to torment me?

MR SZIKORA: What are you talking about?

JOHN (impersonating his accent): “What are you talking ...” (He stands up and walks closer.) What, d’you think I’m gonna be fooled by this bloody beard?

(He tugs at it while the man flails in panic.)

MR SZIKORA: Are you crazy?!

(John straightens a little and imitates his flaily hands, mockingly saying, “No, no, no, no!” in the man’s accent, then leans into his face.)

JOHN: It’s not as good as your French. Not as good as your French. It’s not even a good disguise, Sherlock!

(He rips off the man’s hat and glasses. The man stares up at him with a terrified look on his face.)

JOHN: Where’d you get it from? A bloody joke ... sh-shop ...?

(Staring at the man with dawning horror, he reaches out and pulls his head forward to confirm that he genuinely is bald on top.)

JOHN: Oh my God.

(The man whimpers as John gently puts his glasses back onto his face.)

JOHN: I am so sorry. Oh my God.

(Mary comes in, having presumably heard the noise. John puts the man’s hat back onto his head.)

JOHN: Please for... (He looks across to Mary, speaking a little plaintively.) It’s fine.

(Clearing his throat, he sits down again. Mary goes out and closes the door.)

Greg Lestrade tears down the police tape sealing a door inside a building.

LESTRADE: This one’s got us all baffled.

SHERLOCK: Mmm. I don’t doubt it.

(Greg opens the door and leads Sherlock and Molly down the stairs into the basement. At the foot of the stairs, a large hole has been knocked through the brickwork of one wall. They go through the hole and Greg switches on the mobile lighting which has been set up in the room. As he switches more lights on, the “skeleton mystery” which Sherlock had been reading earlier is revealed. A white-painted wooden table is at the far end of the room and seated on a chair behind it is a skeleton dressed in an old-fashioned suit. There is a carafe and a glass and what looks like a writing set on the table in front of it. The corpse is holding a syringe in one skeletal hand. Frowning, Sherlock is already zooming in on details of the scene before he walks across the room, lays his pouch of tools on the table and gets to work, examining the corpse in minute detail. Molly stands nearby, her notebook open and pen poised. Sherlock sniffs at the body and tries to decide what he is picking up:

PINE?

SPRUCE?

CEDAR

NEW MOTHBALLS

Moving on, he sniffs again:

Carbon particulate

He sniffs more deeply:

Fire Damage

He straightens up and shuts his magnifier.)

MOLLY: What is it?

(Sherlock gets his phone out and holds it up high to try and get a signal.)

MOLLY: You’re on to something, aren’t you?

SHERLOCK: Mm, maybe.

(John’s voice sounds in his head and the words he speaks appear in Sherlock’s mind.

SHOW OFF

SHERLOCK (in a whisper): Shut up, John.

(Greg’s eyes flicker across to him.)

MOLLY: What?

SHERLOCK: Hmm? Nothing.

(He walks around to the other side of the table and continues his investigations.)

At the surgery, Mary walks into John’s office wearing her coat and scarf. She goes across to where he is sitting at his desk.

MARY (smiling): Hello.

JOHN: Mmm.

MARY: You sure?

JOHN: I’m sure.

MARY: Okay. I’m late for Cath. I’ll see you later.

(She bends down and kisses him, then turns and leaves.)

JOHN: ’Bye.

MARY: ’Bye.

CRIME SCENE. As Sherlock carefully uses tweezers to lift the lapel of the skeleton’s jacket, Molly still stands some distance away waiting to write anything down. Greg leans close to Sherlock and speaks softly.

LESTRADE (glancing towards Molly): This gonna be your new arrangement, is it?

SHERLOCK: Just giving it a go.

LESTRADE: Right. So, John?

SHERLOCK: Not really in the picture any more.

(He moves away from the table and turns back to look at the whole picture. Cement dust drifts down from the ceiling as a distant rumbling can be heard.)

MOLLY: Trains?

SHERLOCK: Trains.

(He drops into a squat and calls up a mental compass showing the orientation of the room. Steepling his fingers in front of his mouth he zooms in on the corpse. Molly walks across to the body and looks at the bones in its neck. Sherlock stands up and walks over to join her.)

MOLLY: Male, forty to fifty.

(She looks round at Sherlock.)

MOLLY: Ooh, sorry, did you want to be ...?

SHERLOCK: Er, no, please. Be my guest.

(John’s voice sounds in his mind again:

JEALOUS?

SHERLOCK (angrily, through gritted teeth): Shut up!

(Molly glances nervously at Greg. Sherlock takes out his magnifier to look more closely at the hand holding the syringe while Molly continues investigating the skeleton.)

MOLLY: Doesn’t make sense.

LESTRADE: What doesn’t?

(Sherlock gently blows away the dust around the hand and continues blowing towards the edge of the table.)

MOLLY: This skeleton – it’s ... it can’t be any more than ...

SHERLOCK and MOLLY (simultaneously): ... six months old.

(Sherlock has found a hidden compartment in the side of the table and he opens it and slides out a book from inside it. He blows the dust from the cover, gives it a sarcastic glance and shows it to Molly. Scrawled across the cover are the words:

How I Did It

By

Jack the Ripper

MOLLY: Wow!

SHERLOCK: Hmm.

(He flamboyantly drops the book onto the table. Greg leans forward to peer at the cover.)

LESTRADE: “How I Did It” by Jack the Ripper?!

SHERLOCK: Mm-hm.

MOLLY: It’s impossible!

SHERLOCK: Welcome to my world.

(Greg grins with delight. As Sherlock leans down to repack his pouch of tools, John’s voice sounds in his head.

SMART ARSE

Sherlock grimaces, flailing towards his own head.)

SHERLOCK (quietly, through clenched teeth): Get out.

(Continuing to repack his pouch, he talks more loudly to Molly and a grinning Greg.)

SHERLOCK: I won’t insult your intelligence by explaining it to you.

LESTRADE: No, please – insult away!

(Sherlock has already picked up his pouch and is heading for the door but he stops when his internal John throws in another comment:

You forgot to put your collar up

Appearing confused and disoriented by this internal commentary, Sherlock turns back to the others.)

SHERLOCK: The-the-the corpse is-is six months old; it’s dressed in a shoddy Victorian outfit from a museum. It’s been displayed on a dummy for many years in a case facing south-east judging from the fading of the fabric. It was sold off in a fire-damage sale ... (he gets his phone out and shows the screen to Greg) ... a week ago.

LESTRADE: So the whole thing was a fake.

SHERLOCK: Yes.

(He turns and heads out of the room.)

LESTRADE: Looked so promising.

SHERLOCK (already out of sight): Facile.

MOLLY: Why would someone go to all that trouble?

SHERLOCK (offscreen): Why indeed, John?

(Molly looks awkwardly at Greg.)

LATER. Sherlock – with Molly at his side – pushes the doorbell to a flat. Instead of the bell ringing or buzzing, it plays a recording of an Underground announcement of a male voice saying, “Mind the gap. Mind the gap.” Molly giggles quietly as a young man answers the door. Sherlock immediately holds out the bobble hat towards him.

HOWARD: Oh. Thanks for hanging on to it.

SHERLOCK: No problem.

(Taking the hat, Howard leads them inside.)

SHERLOCK: So, what’s this all about, Mr Shilcott?

(They go into a room which is mostly taken up by a train set with Tube trains running round it. On the wall is a photo of Howard, wearing his bobble hat, grinning happily and doing a thumbs-up to the camera while he stands in front of a train which doesn’t seem to be in Britain. The rest of the room is full of all sorts of different train memorabilia.)

HOWARD: My girlfriend’s a big fan of yours.

SHERLOCK (chuckling sarcastically): Girlfriend?!

(Howard looks round indignantly and Molly throws Sherlock a look.)

SHERLOCK: Sorry. Do go on.

HOWARD: I like trains.

SHERLOCK: Yyyes.

HOWARD: I work on the Tube, on the District Line, and part of my job is to wipe the security footage after it’s been cleared.

(He sits down at his computer.)

HOWARD: I was just whizzing through and, er, I found something a bit bizarre.

(He turns towards the computer and Sherlock throws a silent and quirky “Ooh!” at Molly, who smiles. Howard pulls up the relevant footage and the others walk to either side of him to look at the screen, which shows the platform of a station. A train is stationary and its doors are open. There is only one man on the platform. He looks like a business man and is carrying a briefcase.)

HOWARD: Now, this was a week ago. The last train on the Friday night, Westminster station, and this man gets into the last car.

MOLLY: “Car”?

HOWARD: They’re cars, not carriages. It’s a legacy of the early American involvement in the Tube system.

(Molly turns and throws a look at Sherlock.)

SHERLOCK: He said he liked trains.

MOLLY: Hmm!

HOWARD: And the next stop ... (he shows the appropriate footage) ... St James’s Park station ... and ...

(The footage shows the doors of the last car opening – and nobody gets out. Suddenly Sherlock is more interested. The doors close again.)

HOWARD: I thought you’d like it.

(He replays the earlier footage.)

HOWARD: He gets into the last car at Westminster, the only passenger ...

(He switches to the later footage.)

HOWARD: ... and the car is empty at St James’s Park station. Explain that, Mr Holmes.

MOLLY: Couldn’t he have just jumped off?

(Sherlock shakes his head.)

HOWARD: There’s a safety mechanism that prevents the doors from opening in transit. But there’s something else. The driver of that train hasn’t been to work since. According to his flatmate, he’s on holiday. Came into some money.

SHERLOCK (turning to look at Molly): Bought off?

(Molly has been gazing at him for the last few seconds and now looks startled by his question.)

MOLLY (blankly): Hmm?

(Sherlock looks disapprovingly at her for a moment, then turns to Howard. Molly looks embarrassed.)

SHERLOCK: So if the driver of the train was in on it, then the passenger did get off.

HOWARD: There’s nowhere he could go. It’s a straight run on the District Line between the two stations. There’s no side tunnels, no maintenance tunnels – nothing on any map. Nothing. The train never stops, and the man vanishes. Good, innit?!

(Sherlock closes his eyes, replaying a close-up of the passenger on the platform as his head turns towards the camera.)

SHERLOCK: I know that face.

(His eyes snap open, but now he’s in his Mind Palace, calling up footage of trains travelling along Tube lines, racing along the various lines on the Tube map, and generally recalling everything he can about the London Underground. Some time during the process he physically relocates to the stairs outside the flat, presumably so that he can concentrate better, but he frowns when he realises where he is, as if he doesn’t remember moving. Shutting his eyes to get back into the zone, he continues his search, walking down a long flight of stairs into an Underground station. Briefly the face of the disappearing man appears in his mind before more images from the Tube network and maps flash though his brain, and then the man’s face appears again.)