Archive of Our Own

The Narrow Ridge

For my friend SilverGirl, derider of the so-called ‘bold behaviour’ of bears, no lover of hiking in scree, and who knows to stop and look at the mushrooms and wildflowers.

John has just complained of the heat for the third time since breakfast when the door opens downstairs and Mycroft’s all-too-familiar, three-footed step starts up the stairs.

Sherlock looks over at John, who recognises it instantly and rolls his eyes. “For God’s sake,” he says crossly. “Why is he here?”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says, fixing his eyes on the top of the stairs, waiting for his brother’s odious, balding head to appear. “But I’m unpleasantly certain that we’re about to find out.”

He is correct. Mycroft hoves into view a moment later, attired in his customary three-piece suit and carrying his omnipresent umbrella despite the clear blue skies and nailing heat. Perspiration is gleaming on his forehead and within two minutes Sherlock predicts that he will be obliged to withdraw a handkerchief and wipe it away to his own annoyance. He arrives and seems almost irritated to find them waiting for him, as though it could have been anyone else. He looks back and forth between them, trying to disguise the fact that the mere seventeen steps caused him to be short on breath. “Good morning,” he says, solicitously enough. Ah: then he wants something, Sherlock deduces.

He allows his eyes to narrow. “What.”

Mycroft’s eyebrows lift. “Abrupt, but hardly unusual. Well: your uncivilised ways should suit the situation for once. If we’re coming directly to the point, as it seems we are.”

“What situation?” John asks.

Mycroft, right on cue, withdraws a capacious handkerchief from his breast pocket and mops diffidently at his gleaming scalp and forehead. “Could I possibly trouble you for a glass of water?” he asks, directing this to John.

Sherlock always dislikes when Mycroft treats John like a servant of some sort, a creature beneath their class and therefore his respect. “Get it yourself,” he says rudely.

John glances at him. “It’s all right,” he says. “It’s horribly hot out.” He gets up from his chair and goes over to the kitchen, getting a glass from the cupboard and filling it from the glass water pitcher in the fridge. “What situation?” he repeats.

Mycroft hesitates, possibly chastened by John’s civility in the face of his own rudeness. John hands him the glass and nods him toward one of the desk chairs, so Mycroft sits down. “There may have been a murder,” he says. “Possibly even two.”

Sherlock bores his eyes into Mycroft’s face. “There are murders all the time. Why can’t the Yard handle it?”

“Because it’s in Canada,” Mycroft informs him.

This catches them both off guard. John leans forward. “I’m sorry, what? Canada?”

“Yes.” Mycroft takes a sip of his water. “Hence, it’s rather out of any of our jurisdictions. This is coming as a request for a favour. From the two of you, specifically.”

“From whom?” Sherlock stares at his brother. “Who in Canada wants a favour from us? And via you?”

“Where in Canada, precisely?” John adds. “It’s a big country!”

Mycroft acknowledges John first. “Quite,” he allows. “And this is a particularly large and somewhat inaccessible region. The request is coming from a federal entity called Parks Canada. Their national park governance, in other words. It seems they’ve had two recent disappearances of hikers, death currently unconfirmed, but no bodies have yet been recovered. And despite the terrain, this type of thing is apparently fairly rare. They would rather avoid starting a criminal investigation as they haven’t got any evidence, so I was asked through mutual acquaintances, to see if the two of you would be willing to quietly go and have a look first.”

Sherlock snorts. “I assume ‘mutual acquaintances’ have to do with CSIS and the MI6 or something along those lines.”

John ignores this. “What do you mean about the terrain?” he asks. “Is it in the Arctic or something? I’m not sure either of us has the skills to navigate terrain like that, Mycroft.”

Mycroft makes an impatient sound. “No, it’s not in the Arctic,” he says acerbically. “Much of Canada is as hot as London right now or even hotter. And as it happens, your particular skill set would be a major asset for once. It was mentioned by my contact rather specifically.”

Sherlock glares at the ‘for once’, but leaves it. “What skill set?” he demands. “Come on, Mycroft. If you want to send us off someplace, start giving details and stop taking all day about it.”

“Fine,” Mycroft says, glaring back at him. “It’s in Banff National Park. Two hikers may have died on hikes in the region. There is no evidence of animal interference. The most likely possibility, if the two hikers died while hiking, is that they fell from high places. The Park has not sent out search and rescue teams, as no one has specifically asked for it. There is no evidence to suspect foul play, yet someone does. Evidently.”

“What sort of high places?” John asks. “Like, how high? Are we talking about mountains here?”

Mycroft nods. Sherlock shoots a surreptitious look at John, who has mentioned having had to spend time in the Pamir range in Afghanistan in occasional reference. John’s face is neutral, though, betraying nothing. “The Rockies,” Mycroft says. “Both falls would have likely occurred in places difficult to access, one entirely without cellular coverage. You would need to hike in to gather evidence. It is not the sort of terrain one can fly a helicopter into for a casual ‘spin’; only a medical airlift would be permitted in protected ecological systems such as these. Hence: you two.”

Sherlock feels blank. “I don’t hike,” he says.

John glances at him, but before he can say anything, Mycroft cuts him off.

“Oh, come off it,” he scoffs. “The two of you are constantly running every which way about the city, leaping from automobiles and buildings with abandon. Surely you can handle an unpaved trail for once, Sherlock.”

This is patently unfair; he knows perfectly well the sorts of places Sherlock was forced traverse during his time away especially, but it’s equally true that none of that would qualify for anything remotely resembling what most would term ‘hiking’. He scowls. “Why can’t the Parks Canada people go?”

“Because they want it off the books, obviously,” Mycroft tells him, with the heavy patience of explaining something very simple to a very stupid child. “And they’re not an investigative body. If it was foul play, a full-out SAR response would likely erase any criminal evidence. You were requested: will you go or not?”

John looks at Sherlock again. Their eyes meet for a moment, then John nods first. “Yeah. We’ll go. When are we leaving?”

Mycroft gets to his feet and deposits his empty water glass on the table beside John’s chair. “As soon as you’re adequately equipped. Preferably within a day or two, before the trail goes cold. As it were. If there is a trail. You’ll let me know if you need anything. I will arrange your travel as soon as you’re ready.”

“What do you mean by ‘adequately equipped’?” Sherlock wants to know. “Do we need sherpas or some such thing?”

“I’ll look after it,” John says, firmly enough to satisfy Mycroft, who nods approvingly and takes himself off without further ado, his umbrella making an asymmetrical third clunk along with his descent. John waits until the door has closed, then looks across at Sherlock. “Well,” he says. “It looks like we’re going hiking.”

Sherlock hesitates. “I have no idea what that entails,” he admits.

John, surprisingly, smiles. “That’s all right,” he says. “I do.”

***

Sherlock stares at the collection of gear they’ve acquired, heaped on the coffee table and spilling over onto the sofa and feels blank. “Do we really need all this?” he asks again.

John nods. “Yup. Especially since we’ll be camping.”

Sherlock sighs heavily, not for the first time. “I can’t believe Mycroft – Mycroft – was unable to secure a hotel. There must be thousands of hotel rooms in and near the town!”

“It’s July, Sherlock,” John says mildly, refusing to be irritated by him. He is surveying their pile of equipment. “We’re probably lucky there was even a campsite in the same park. Now: have you ever used a hydration pack before?”

“A what?” Sherlock scowls.

John points. “That,” he says. He looks at Sherlock. “I’ll take that as a no,” he says, with a snicker that doesn’t help Sherlock’s mood in the slightest.

“You needn’t be so smug about all of this,” Sherlock says, though part of him does wonder why he’s behaving in such a particularly tetchy manner. Then again, it could be the entire cumulative effect of having this trip imposed on top of… well, the rest of it. He refuses to let his mind parse out the details, but it has something vaguely to do with all their general lack of real communication in the six months it’s been since Eurus did what she did to them. It’s not that they’ve argued or anything like that. Rosie spends the majority of her time with Harry and her wife Cindy, John moved back in, and an unbreakable sort of amicability seems to have crystallised around them: perfectly civil, but impossible to break through. John interacts with him as though Sherlock is a flatmate, nothing more. No shared history of some genuinely devastating events, no unresolved… anything to discuss – or really, anything of importance to discuss at all. He seems to have retreated into a shell of unbreakable politeness that he might use on any flatmate, and Sherlock has received the message with abundant clarity that he is not to breach this. So, he dutifully plays the role of good flatmate, emptying out the bins and washing the dishes and buying groceries with dullness and regularity. Cases have been thin on the ground of late and he’s been bored to death, but simultaneously unwilling to rock the boat with John. His irritation with the entire situation therefore finds outlet in Mycroft and other such safe harbours for it. As to camping itself, he’s never done it voluntarily, but he’s certainly done things adjacent to it, albeit involuntarily and in decidedly less civilised settings than what he imagines may be involved in a Canadian national park.

John ignores his gripe again and crouches to examine the label on one of the sleeping bags. “I think you should take the three-season sleeping bag and I’ll take the summer one. You tend to want more blankets than I do when you sleep.”

“I thought it was supposed to be hot in Alberta right now.” Sherlock crosses his arms.

“It is,” John says, still unbothered. “But we’ll be in the mountains. It could get quite cool at night.”

Sherlock glances at him, wondering if he should bring up Afghanistan. John has only mentioned his time in the mountains there in brief passing, nearly always changing the subject immediately after, and Sherlock has never pursued it. Then again, he’s had his own experiences in mountainous terrain that he’d rather forget, too. (He thinks of Serbia, then very deliberately does not think of it.) “Fine,” he says. He pauses. “Well, you seem to have this in hand,” he says, feeling the constraint that is somehow, nonetheless ever-present between them. “Perhaps I’ll start on supper.”

John makes a neutral sound that might be vaguely affirmative, still studying their newly accumulated belongings. “What time should we get a taxi, do you think?”

Sherlock thinks of the flight time and calculates. “No later than half-past seven, I should think.”

John makes no objection to this, despite Sherlock knowing full well that he doesn’t care for early wake-ups. “Okay.”

(Sherlock wants to shout or something, but it would be utterly pointless.) He turns in defeat toward the kitchen without the faintest idea of what to cook.

***

“So, two hikers might have fallen down mountains,” John says in the car.

Sherlock is concentrating particularly on driving on the right side of the motorway. He’s done it before, which John hasn’t, which means that the driving bit naturally fell to him. It’s been years, however, and does require concentration. “Yes. Possibly.”

“Which mountains?”

“Does it matter?” Sherlock glances in the rearview mirror, then moves into the left lane to pass a slow lorry whose cargo is giving off a particularly unpleasant odour.

“I suppose not. Did the Parks Canada people give Mycroft any reason to think that the hikers in question disappeared for other reasons? Or if they did fall, that it wasn’t just accidents?” John wants to know. “I mean, even if accidents like these are rare, it doesn’t seem hugely unbelievable.”

“Whatever their reasons, Mycroft hasn’t seen fit to divulge them,” Sherlock says, taking care on a sharpish curve. “That, or they didn’t tell him. I suppose we’ll find out the hard way, per usual. There’s some information in the file about why their families haven’t raised any particular alarm that would have triggered search and rescue operations. I’ve forgotten the details, but one is an influencer and the other is a photographer. The influencer is thought by her family to possibly be with friends, having gone off-agenda, but they’ve become worried. The photographer is a loner and doesn’t have many close acquaintances, so it was someone who follows his blog who raised the alarm.”

“God forbid Mycroft do anything remotely involving real ‘legwork’,” John says, rolling his eyes. “Especially in this case, where it will be quite literal legwork. Speaking of, I meant to check the trekking poles for length before we left, but I forgot. I’ll just have to do it once we’ve arrived.”

“Do we really need those?” Sherlock looks at the sign and spots their turn-off, Tunnel Mountain Road. “I know I’m not precisely an expert hiker, but I’m not geriatric just yet.”

John snorts a laugh. “From what I’ve read, they’re highly recommended. Stop grousing.”

Sherlock makes the turn-off and ignores this. “I think we’re nearly there.”

“Tunnel Mountain Village I,” John says again, as though reminding him. This is somewhat irritating, but Sherlock manages to refrain from reacting, slowing to the posted speed limit and watching for the campground sign.

“Here we are,” he says, turning right. “Have you got the reservation there?”

“And the Park pass,” John assures him. “In fact, I’ll just go ahead and hang the pass on the mirror here. I think that’s where it’s supposed to go.”

Sherlock pulls into the drive. The vehicle in front of them, a minivan with stick figures of two adult-sized people and three stick figure children, is exchanging through the open window with the staff person inside the kiosk. Papers are passed into the minivan and it pulls away. Sherlock advances and lowers his window. “Yes, hello,” he says. “I believe we have a campsite reserved.”

“Do you know which one?” The young woman inside is dressed precisely as Sherlock might have imagined a park ranger to be dressed, had he given it any active thought. He gives the number and she checks her screens. “Five nights? Perfect. Now, we do have an active bear alert on right now. Are you familiar with bear safety protocols?”

Sherlock hesitates a moment too long. The ranger opens her mouth, but John leans over and speaks before she can.

“Yes, keep a clean campsite, no food or scented items left out at any point,” he says. “Is that about it?”

This was the correct response, evidently, and the ranger beams. “Yes, very good! Because of the alert, you’ll see us passing through each night just to make sure. This is just to keep everyone safe. The firewood is free and you can see where to find it on the map. Fires need to be out by eleven. You can read everything else in the booklet. Have a great stay!”

She passes Sherlock the same thing she probably gave the last vehicle. He manages a nod and closes the window, handing the materials to John without looking at him. “Find the G loop, would you?”

John makes no reference to his sudden knowledge of bear safety. Instead, he busies himself with his phone. “I actually looked it up already. It’s a big campground. Go straight here. And it’s only 20.”

Sherlock suppresses the urge to sigh and reduces his speed accordingly. The campground is surprisingly large, he admits to himself. They spot the firewood area and what appears to be a bus loop. “The bus comes here?” he asks before he can help it.

John nods. “Yeah. Mycroft said something about that. Keep going straight. It’s just a little further on. Okay, here. I’m not sure if it’s left or – oh, I see. Turn right here.”

Sherlock drives slowly down the gravel road, taking in the number markers beside the various sites and glancing at the array of tents and campers. He has never fathomed camping on purpose and entirely fails to see the apparent draw of it. John squints at his phone and out the window, then points. “This one?” Sherlock says, but sees for himself the marker announcing G28. It looks rather small, but then all the sites do. That said, the site is nestled into the back corner of the outer loop, encircled with a number of strikingly beautiful conifers of some sort, stately and austere against the backdrop of the mountains he can just see through their branches. He parks the car at the edge of the site and feels slightly apprehensive about the entire situation all over again. (Never mind. He will simply have to adapt as the information becomes available.) He switches off the engine and gets out of the car, stretching his cramped legs. He has no idea how or where to begin setting up a campsite. It surely can’t be overly difficult to erect a tent, but he suspects that there are protocols and orders to be followed. He decides to open the boot and begin unloading and wait for John to take the lead on this, as they both know that this would be for the best.

He was correct: a subtle glance over his shoulder shows that John is unfolding a large tarp and surveying the ground. However, his brow is furrowed. “Oh,” he says.

Sherlock frowns at him. “What?”

“This ground sheet is huge,” John says, shaking it out to its full size. “It’s way too big for one tent.”

Sherlock isn’t following. “What does it matter?”

John shakes his head, still looking around at the site, presumably trying to locate the optimal tent positioning or some such thing. “If it’s too big, you can’t put the stakes in. You want it to be about the same size as the base of the tent. This would almost fit both tents.”

“Can’t we just fold it or something?” Sherlock asks, not quite understanding the issue.

“We could, yeah, but the other thing I’ve also just realised is that I think I forgot to pack one of them. We definitely bought two, but I only saw this one in the bag. So now I’m wondering if we should just put both tents on this one and just stake the outer corners.”

Sherlock’s opinion on the matter likely isn’t needed, but a response seems to be requisite at this point. “That sounds good,” he says automatically. “Do we also stake the sheet thing?”

“Ground sheet,” John corrects. “Yeah, we line up the outer corners of the tents with the outer edge of the ground sheet. I’ll lash the inner poles of the tents together, just in case it’s windy. Have you got the stakes there?”

Sherlock nods obediently. “Yes, right here on the table.”

“Okay.” John scans the area one last time, then makes a decision. “I think just back here, into the trees a little. It’s a bit more private.”

Sherlock follows John’s directions as they jointly spread out the ground sheet and then set about constructing their tents on top of it, John throwing him an instruction or correction here or there.

“No, make sure that the poles are all the way through the sleeves before you try to put the ends in, or else you’ll never get the other side,” John is saying, frowning at the tent pole in his own hands. “Hang on a second and I’ll help you.”

“Okay,” Sherlock says, surrendering his attempt. He puts the pole he was attempting to wrestle into its holding pocket-thing and abandons it, standing up. The sun is very warm and he notes that John has rolled up his sleeves, forearm tendons working as he fits two segments of pole together, the fine golden hairs on his skin glinting in the sunlight. (Stop it, he tells himself crossly. This line of observation has never been helpful. To make a gross understatement.)

John comes over. “All right, you’ve got it the right way round. That’s a good start. I’ll come to this end and then we just sort of go at the same time. It helps to use your foot to brace it while we’re getting it upright. Ready? Let’s go.”

Sherlock picks up his end of the pole and finds that it’s rather intuitive, after all. They wrestle one pole into place, and then the second is easier. “That was actually rather simple,” he says, stepping back to study the nylon structure. “Shall we do yours now?”

John looks momentarily surprised. “Oh. All right,” he says. “But first, let’s get yours as close to the edge as possible so that we can stake it.”

Sherlock helps him shift the nearly-weightless thing over as directed, and doesn’t bother trying to offer help as John kneels with a small mallet and a fistful of metal stakes; he clearly doesn’t need help. Why the surprise? It comes to him a moment later: John is, or at least was at one point, very accustomed to setting up his own tents without assistance. Accepting Sherlock’s help is just kindness on his part; he is allowing Sherlock to feel necessary. Or if not that, included, perhaps. Somehow the thought makes Sherlock feel even more like a useless appendage.

He dutifully goes through the motions of pretending to be helpful with John’s tent, then goes to sort out the belongings and equipment that are his in attempt to determine which of them should go into the tent with him. John tells him to set up his bed, so he deals with that. He gets the bag containing his clothing and smaller accessory items and puts them inside the tent. John has disappeared into his, so Sherlock hesitates, then removes his shoes and crawls gingerly into his own.

The nylon is blue and he finds himself immediately encased in a world of the same colour. He isn’t claustrophobic per se, but he has also never been inside a tent and the experience is oddly novel. It’s far too short for him to stand, so sitting or crouching or lying down are the only options. The structure was billed as a three-person shelter, but Sherlock can barely imagine a second adult inside with him, let alone a third. He sits in the center, on the sleeping mat and sleeping bag he’s laid out, and just sits for a moment, taking in his surroundings and the sounds of the campground. It’s rather peaceful, he reflects. He can hear ravens calling above the varied sounds of humanity scattered around the other campsites. He examines the tent itself and discovers that it has windows, and unzips them. A cool cross-breeze appears and this is refreshing. He is still hot, though, so after a moment, Sherlock pulls over his small bag of clothing and finds a t-shirt. There is enough clearance overhead that he can raise his arms without bashing the ceiling. That reminds him: significantly more comfortable now, he digs about in the other bag that contains various things that either John or Mycroft informed him would be useful, and finds a small light that clips onto a convenient hook in the ceiling by one of the ubiquitous carabiners that seem to sustain the entire camping/hiking industry. On second thought, he also pre-locates the bulky battery pack they each bought for their phones. Without wifi or plugs, phones will be all that they have for the duration of the case, except in restaurants, Mycroft warned (at which point Sherlock said something terse along the lines of how much more useful a hotel room would have been, which Mycroft took no notice of whatsoever).

He is just arranging the rest of his things into a layout he thinks he could find by touch in the dark, and pulls the spare blanket they each packed and lays it on the little camp pillow. It must be over 30 degrees right now, but John warned that it could get quite cold at night. His expanse of knowledge of the mountains makes Sherlock realise how little he still knows about John’s military days.

Speaking of: John’s tent door unzips and then rezips. “Sherlock?” he asks. “Are you just about done in there?”

“Yes.” Sherlock crawls forward and unzips his own tent door. It’s a bit of an ungainly scramble to get out of the thing with any dignity, but he manages it. Just. “I was just getting organised. What are we doing now?” He crouches to zip the tent door shut. The last thing he would particularly care for would be to discover some heretofore unknown species of large, Canadian insectoid in the middle of the night at the foot of his sleeping bag. He gets himself upright and straightens his t-shirt, hoping that John won’t comment on it, for reasons he can’t quite explain to himself.

John glances at his shirt, but thankfully doesn’t say anything about it. He has also changed into a t-shirt, Sherlock notices instantly. “I thought we could go into town, find ourselves some bear spray, and maybe some dinner?” he suggests. “Get the lay of the land, see if we can nose out any leads on the case at all? We might as well leave the car; supposedly public parking is pretty limited in the town. I know it’s just mid-afternoon, but we don’t know when the buses come or anything, and we’re not going to find anything by staying here.”

“Quite right. So: to the bus stop, then?” Sherlock looks around. “I suppose we should just lock anything else in the car?”

“Right, yeah.” They stow their remaining things in the boot of the car and Sherlock locks it. “I think the bus stop was right in the middle,” John says. “We passed it on the way in.”

“I’m sure we’ll find it.” Sherlock falls into step beside John, his very new hiking boots making him feel strangely (ridiculously and undeservedly) rugged and outdoors-ish. There are wildflowers that he does not recognise blooming everywhere and the scent of pine is almost strong enough to be intoxicating, both of which are secondary to the glimpses of the mountains surrounding the campground on all sides, glimpsed between the trees and then coming into full, truly awe-inspiring glory once they reach the main road. For a moment, Sherlock finds himself so unexpectedly dazed by the beauty of it that he nearly reaches blindly for John before he catches the foolish urge. John doesn’t notice, too busy exclaiming at the sight, himself.

“This is really not a bad place to be sent to investigate!” he says, sounding breathless, and Sherlock steals a sidelong look at him. So: not entirely a repeat of Afghanistan, then.

“No,” he agrees, some part of him wishing that he could say quite a good deal more than that. But he cannot; whatever idiotic words would come swimming up to the surface were he even to be so foolish as to allow them to, would never do. Instead he will resign himself to pragmatic discussions of bear safety and other gear that he knows nothing of, and quietly savour the rest of it to himself. Being here in this beautiful place with John is, in its own way, more than enough.

***

The townsite is ridiculously charming and ridiculously overcrowded. Somehow, neither factor is able to compete with the splendour of the mountains surrounding it, though. They pick their way through the crowded pedestrian-zoned streets, collect bear spray, maps, and find somewhere to eat that isn’t visibly bulging with tourists and not an apparent chain – an upstairs Indian restaurant which proves to have delicious food. Once they’ve finished, Sherlock pushes the dishes aside and opens the file Mycroft sent to review the basic facts of the case again.

“So, we have two possible victims,” he says, keeping his voice down.

John nods. He’s also dutifully read the file again. “Right. Becca Bailey and – what was the photographer’s name? Jonathan something?”

“Jonathan Landry,” Sherlock confirms. “She’s the influencer; he’s the photographer.”

“And all we know is that they definitely signalled intent to hike, and were never heard from again?” John wipes the corner of his mouth with a serviette, then pushes his own dishes toward the edge of the table.

Sherlock nods. “Yes. Bailey posted an Instagram Live from the Lake Louise shore, promising to do another once she had reached ‘the ridge’, which she indicates behind her, sort of, but never posted another and has not been seen since. Landry had a similar promise on his photography blog share photos from a hike he intended to complete, this one starting from Moraine Lake, but he never made another post. A follower on his blog emailed the park staff roughly seventy-two hours after his latest post, and Bailey’s parents posted something on social media about forty-eight hours after her disappearance. Her online fans noticed her absence sooner.”

“And no one has seen any bodies?” John asks. “Surely someone would have noticed that. This place has to be one of the most visited and photographed in the world.”

“It is,” Sherlock says. “However, it’s quite possible that either or both hikers could have travelled some distance, if they fell down scree, for instance. The file doesn’t give us any hint on where they think the hikers might have fallen respectively – if they did. That said, the ridge Bailey referred to seems to indicate a singular option: a hike called The Plain of Six Glaciers. Look.” He taps a still from Bailey’s video captured by Mycroft’s people and turns his phone to show John. “This ridge here seems to be what she was pointing at. In this case, this particular hike is the only option. It’s 11.6 kilometres, so plenty of ground to cover.”

John makes a somewhat negative sound. “That is a lot. And the photographer?”

“That’s a little more difficult,” Sherlock says. “The Parks staff only linked a blog post where he says that he’s at something called the Rockpile at Moraine Lake, which seems to be a very popular photography spot, and that he was going to attempt ‘the pass’ the next day. There are several trailheads at this lake, and although several of them start the same way, there are multiple possibilities once the trail reaches the treeline. He does specifically refer to finding a particular type of rock, promising to bring back a sample.”

John frowns. “Right, I remember that. What type of rock? Would that tell us which trail to try, at least? With the length and potential difficulty of these hikes, I’m not sure how many we’ll be physically capable of, to be honest with you. We’re both in good shape, but our legs aren’t used to this sort of thing.”

Sherlock waves this off. “I’m sure we’ll be fine,” he says. He opens the blog post and scans a bit, then finds it. “All right: the day before his planned hike – now seven days ago – he wrote, ‘I want to find where the striation turns from reddish to grey on the sentinels. I’ll bring a chunk back with me, promise!’” He looks up at John. “We’ve no idea whether this type of striation is common to the entire area around Moraine Lake or if he only could have found it in one particular place.”

“The sentinels,” John repeats, not acknowledging this. “What are those? A range of mountains? A type of formation?”

“Not sure. I’ll look it up. Could you check your app and see which of the trail options indicates a mountain pass?” Sherlock types into his phone, searching. “Yes: it’s a type of rock formation. I can’t see a particular difference between a sentinel and your garden variety mountain.”

“Hmm. Well, we have two passes to choose from,” John says musingly. “Not sure if I’ll say this right, but – Wenkchemna? And another, very popular one called Sentinel Pass. That seems like a fairly obvious choice, if he was looking for rock from the sentinels.”

Sherlock pulls up a trail map and studies it. “And they both start the same way, from the side of the lake here.” He thinks for a moment. “Should we start with the other one, then? The Plain of Six Glaciers?”

“Sure.” John shrugs. “It might be the more obvious one. What about clues as to why they were murdered, if they were? Was there anything on Bailey’s blog to suggest any reasoning?”

“No. Nothing,” Sherlock says. “Not in the file Mycroft’s minions pulled together for us, at least. I mean, she was an influencer.”

John gives him a startled look and a disbelieving laugh. “Are you suggesting that’s why she was murdered?”

Sherlock makes a broad, vague gesture. “Possibly? People hate influencers, John.”

“You hate influencers, you mean,” John says, shaking his head but smiling despite himself.

“I think it’s a fairly common opinion.” Sherlock looks over his shoulder and catches the eye of the server, beckoning. “So: Lake Louise tomorrow. Mycroft purchased tickets to the shuttle that goes to both lakes for every day of our stay, just in case. He managed that much, if not a hotel.”

John just smiles as Sherlock pays for their dinner. “Camping is not that bad,” he says firmly. “Come on: let’s find a bus to get back there.”

***

Hi everyone, it’s Becca! The young woman waves, nearly teetering on the rock she’s standing on, about a metre from the shore. The turquoise expanse of Lake Louise is behind her, snow-capped mountains looming on either side. As you can see, I made it to Lake Louise and it’s GORGEOUS! Like, oh my God! Look at it, y’all! Take that beast IN! And here I am, trying not to fall into this very pretty lake, which I’m betting is pretty cold! But don’t I look cute in this pink hat? Thanks to my sponsors at Mountain Equipment Coop! Click the link to get 20% off and don’t forget to say that Becca’s Beats sent you! Anyway, this is just a quick hi from the famous shoreline of Lake Louise. I’m going to be hiking up there – whoops! Almost fell in there, haha! Anyway, up there, behind me, and I’ll send another live from up there, so stay tuned! Don’t forget to like and subscribe, and send your cute friends! Mwah! The young woman’s blond ponytail flashes into view as she exuberantly air kisses her online audience and the video stops again.

Seated on a packed coach with his hiking poles held between his knees, Sherlock closes the video page, archived by Mycroft’s staff. It is still accruing views and likes on the woman’s Instagram page. No news about her death has yet been publicly announced, but many of the comments have expressed concern ranging from queries about the promised post from the pass to anxious questions about the lack of updates.

Behind him, John is sipping coffee and taking in the view, seemingly, occasionally leaning forward to comment to him. The shuttle has several individual seats halfway down the aisle. John claimed one of these, so Sherlock silently accepted it and chose the seat ahead of him. He is dressed for the hike but truthfully isn’t sure what to expect of the day. His shoulders are a little stiff, but he slept surprisingly well, waking only once just before dawn. He had quietly unzipped his tent and crawled out into the chilly air to step into the slides John had suggested he leave handy, and walked quietly to the toilets in the centre of their loop. The darkness was not unfamiliar, but he was wary of the referenced bear and unsure as to how much of a risk it might actually pose. The walk back was worse, his eyes blinded from the lights inside the surprisingly civilised bathroom, but he’d made it back and slept soundly until his alarm went off three hours later. John emerged from his tent moments after, clad in plaid flannel from the waist up and little else, mumbling something about a shower, so Sherlock collected his own things and did the same. Then it was a short walk to the bus loop, even more beautiful in the morning light, then a lengthy queue for the lake shuttle, and now they’re speeding down a motorway, mountains lining both sides of the road.

The car park is a zoo which Sherlock chooses to ignore. There are people swarming absolutely everywhere and he counts at least twelve separate languages in the brief walk from the bus to the lakeshore, which is so stunningly beautiful that it puts all thought of tourists wholly out of his mind. It’s almost difficult to believe it’s even real. John’s got his phone out and is taking photos.

“It’s so crowded,” he complains.

Sherlock glances at him, not mentioning that John is doing precisely what everyone else present is: gazing at or photographing the lake in front of them. “One can certainly see the lake’s appeal,” he says instead, aware that it’s a massive understatement.

“If that’s your way of saying that this is the most phenomenally beautiful thing you’ve ever, then I agree,” John says, taking photos. He lowers his phone and stares with incredulity at the lake. “Like, holy shit.”

Sherlock has to agree. Lake Louise is an almost unbelievable shade of turquoise, instantly recognisable from Becca Bailey’s Instagram video. A towering mountain looms above to the left, a graceful triangle of scree spilling into the waters on the same side. Gentler slopes on the right make a perfect frame to the glaciers inset neatly in the centre. The green of the conifers growing on the slopes, the brilliant blue of the water, the sober grey stone, and the white streaks of the glaciers make for an arresting collage. Tiny crescents of red and yellow rental canoes only serve to enhance the natural beauty – perfectly chosen by the park’s curators, Sherlock reflects. “It’s quite something,” he agrees. Not far off, a young woman in her mid-twenties teeters on a rock near the water’s edge and shrieks, her companions hooting in laughter and shouting at her in what may be Korean; Sherlock isn’t close enough to tell. It makes him think of Becca Bailey.

“There must be more selfie sticks here than I’ve ever seen in one place,” John comments. He looks at Sherlock, cocking an eyebrow. “Well: should we get started, then?”

Sherlock nods, tearing his eyes from the tourists and influencers and reminding himself that they have a long hike ahead. “Certainly. It’s to the right, yes?”

“According to the map, yeah.” John turns to inspect Sherlock, adjusting the hose for his hydration pack and checking the tightness of his trekking poles. “All right, you look set. Shoes nice and tight?”

“I think so.” Sherlock nods, so John leads the way.

The path curves around the nearer edge of the long, narrow lake, winding past an impressive structure which they’ve determined must be a rather posh hotel. The crowds thin almost the instant they’re not standing directly in front of the lake and Sherlock wonders how many of the lake’s visitors even bother coming any further than that. The path is flat and easy, the water to their immediate left, the views renewing themselves with every shift of angle. More unfamiliar wildflowers are blooming on the right along the base of a steep rise to the mountain above. The air smells just as strongly of pine and moss and rock here as it did in the campground and it’s intoxicating.

It’s also hot. John checks his phone and announces that it’s already 29 C, and it’s not yet ten in the morning. He strips off a shirt and Sherlock decides to do the same, taking the opportunity to try drinking from the hose strapped to the shoulder of his pack. It’s not bad. There’s a bit of a rubber taste, but it’s certainly easier than retrieving a bottle from the pack’s side pocket every few minutes. John really does know his way around a trek like this, he thinks again, but does not say.

The path begins to climb upward as they reach the back of the lake, a sandy delta with visible glacial inflow feeding the turquoise waters. Larger rocks begin to appear in the path at regular intervals. It’s hot enough that Sherlock is sweating through his t-shirt, a damp patch on his chest.

John stops and points at a sign. “I guess this is the official trailhead. Suppose the first three kilometres there were just a warm-up.”

“Or part of the shoreline trail,” Sherlock agrees. The official beginning of the Plain of Six Glaciers trail starts with a boardwalk over the shallow glacial influx, dipping and shifting as they cross it. They leave the water behind and begin to move more steadily upward. Sherlock unclips his poles from the strap of his backpack and begins to use them. It’s easier than he’d thought, quite instinctive. They help identify steady footing as well as help him pull his own weight up the unrelenting incline. The stream filling the lake is hidden from view, but very much audible off to the left somewhere. The rocks in the trail grow larger and Sherlock finds himself needing the poles just to keep from tripping in places. They’re getting John, too, causing him to curse.

After a particularly steep set of switchbacks, John stops, panting and mopping at his forehead. “I’m out of shape,” he says ruefully, taking a long sip of water. The strap across his chest from the pack he’s wearing makes Sherlock want to take it and pull John closer by it – an obtrusive thought that almost shocks him in its audacity.

“You’re doing fine,” he says, aware that he’s breathing harder than he’d like to be, himself. “We must be in a higher altitude than we’re accustomed to. Aren’t we?”

John makes a thinking sound at this. “Actually, I think you’re right. I think I read that this terrain is sub-alpine, which is certainly higher up than London. I think we’re doing fine, considering. Listen – there’s a teahouse on this path, toward the end of the hike. I was thinking we could ask the staff if they saw Bailey come this way? Surely she’d have been filming if she’d made it up this far, and the teahouse would be an obvious place for her to have stopped for a break.”

“I’d had the same thought,” Sherlock agrees. “There are so few other would-be witnesses that would still be here, too, which makes the staff about our only option.”

John nods, but points at Sherlock’s left shoe with one of his poles. “Your lace is going to come undone. You want your shoes nice and tight for this, remember. If they’re loose, you’ll get blisters.”

Sherlock looks down at his unfamiliar hiking boots. “Oh,” he says, feeling off-balance again. “All right.” He leans his poles against a large rock and kneels to correct his lacing, re-tying both shoes. “Better?” he asks, straightening up.

John gives him a cursory once-over and nods. “Yeah. Ready to carry on?”

Sherlock points toward the distant glacier walls with his chin. He’s hotter than he prefers to be, and sweating. He wipes his forehead with the back of his hand and nods. “Lead the way.”

If John notices his discomfort, he tactfully doesn’t say so. The next stretch is steep enough as to put John’s rear on par with Sherlock’s eye level, which is quite distracting. He stumbles slightly and curses himself internally, redirecting his gaze to his footing. John has just assumed the lead and Sherlock also assumed it of him. His only real time in mountainous terrain was in Serbia. He was only moving at night then, armed not with bear spray, but a revolver, and he didn’t even know what the local predators were. Here, they’re encountering other groups on occasion, passing them as they labour uphill or stepping aside to let a family with complaining children descend. He doesn’t recall any of the specifics in Serbia. There was a lot of stumbling, bloodied palms and knees, blisters that glowed with heat and then bursting and bleating with pain, hair sticking damply to his neck and face. It was long then, much longer than it is now. He’d needed that for disguise alone, but it was always in the way. He does not know how much time John spent in the mountains or what it was like for him. He wants to ask, but it doesn’t seem like the time.

After a bit, they come to a narrow ledge along a cliff wall to their right. It’s wide enough to feel quite safe, and when they come to the end of it, John points back the way they came. “Look,” he says. “We’re already so much higher than the lake.”

Sherlock turns and sees that this is true: Lake Louise is a distant, turquoise oval behind them. They’ve climbed further than he realised – though, he thinks a split second after, he can certainly feel it. “How far do you think we’ve come?”

John purses his lips. “Hmm. I would say we’re a little over halfway.”

Halfway! Sherlock tries not to look dismayed. “All right,” he says.

John nods toward his face. “You should reapply your sunscreen,” he says. “And maybe put on a hat. I’m going to, though it’s windy enough that it might blow off.”

“I don’t mind the wind,” Sherlock says, truthfully enough. It’s the only thing cooling him at all. He slips his backpack off and kneels to rummage for his sunscreen, feeling the breeze on the wet back of his t-shirt.

“It’s hot,” John comments. “I wasn’t expecting it to be this hot. I saw the forecast, but I still thought that the altitude would keep us cooler.” He looks at his phone, which still seems to have a signal. “Oh. It’s now 34 C now. That’s probably why I’m sweating this much.”

Sherlock rubs sunscreen onto his face and arms. “I am, too.”

“Showers later are going to feel so good.” John tugs a plain blue cap onto his head and suddenly looks like he’s in his mid-twenties.

Sherlock ducks his face and zips his pack shut, deciding against a hat of his own. He loathes hats. “I can’t wait. All right, let’s go.”

They toil on upward, and then come to a choice of ways: they can keep on next to the cliff wall, or else there’s a ridge running parallel to it. Sherlock feels somewhat drawn to the ridge. Besides, Bailey mentioned a ridge. John examines the signs and says he doesn’t think it matters which path they take, so Sherlock chooses the ridge. The path is wider than it looked from a distance, about a metre, with scree slopes on either side. He follows John carefully, not wanting to come to an untimely demise by skittering to a bloodied end at the bottom of the scree. The wind is much brisker out on the exposed ridge and it feels oddly exhilarating. He turns back to snap a photo at one point when John has stopped to retie a shoelace, the distant lake even smaller, and the strength of the wind nearly steals the breath from his very lungs. Even so, his internal heat is combating it nicely, though it’s raised gooseflesh on his arms.

“It’s rather incredible,” John comments, pulling out his own phone to take a photo.

Sherlock nods, turning back to him. “I suppose one can understand the lure for influencers.”

“I have to say, I’ve got a lot more respect for the ones who’ve made it up this far,” John allows. “As opposed to the ones who only go as far as the main outlook at the head of the lake, there. Listen: do you think this is Becca Bailey’s ridge? Or was she pointing at another one further up?”

“I’ve no idea,” Sherlock admits. “It’s too hard to see which ridge she might have specifically meant in the video. I suppose we’ll just have to see if there’s another likely ridge between here and the end of the hike, and if there isn’t, come back to this one.”

The ridge eventually rejoins the main trail, which turns a number of switchbacks that leave Sherlock with a slight stitch in his side, hotter than ever now that they’re in a more sheltered stretch again. He takes long pulls from the hydration pack and gamely trudges after John, letting his eyes rest on the supremely satisfying firmness of John’s arse more often than not, now. It’s a good distraction from the slight burn in his muscles and lungs.

Eventually they reach the teahouse, a charming, log-style building with two storeys festooned by brightly-coloured flags and more people than they encountered on the entire trail. John suggests that they go through the queue, speak to the staff, then find a quiet rock to eat the sandwiches they bought at the café across from the bus queue earlier. Sherlock agrees to this, realising that he feels absolutely famished. That’s unusual for him while on a case, but then again, he doesn’t normally scale mountains during cases, either. The queue is long and dull: the chatter around them is of tourists reporting to one another about the menu options, complaining about the cash-only policy, or about the length of the queues for the outhouses. Sherlock watches the faces of the overwhelmed staff and begins to doubt how much they’ll be willing to take any time to speak to them. Nothing for it but to try, he supposes. He doesn’t have any cash, either, so he can’t even buy something to appease them.

It’s finally their turn. John surprises him, pulling out his wallet and asking for two hot teas with a smile that tends to broker good will in people, and the young woman at the till smiles back. “Listen,” John says, lowering his voice. “We’re actually investigating a possible missing persons case and need to speak with any of the staff who were working six days ago. Would you be able to tell us who that might include, of the staff who are here right now?”

“Oh!” The cashier looks confused. “Um, I think so… let me get my manager, hang on.” She disappears into a back area, then returns with a man who beckons them aside after they’ve collected their cups of not-very-hot tea.

“Hi, I’m Keith,” he says. “How can I help you?”

John introduces them both and explains again. “So if you could possibly spare the other employees who were working that day, we would really like to speak with them. Not all at once,” he adds quickly, seeing the look on Keith’s face. “We can see how busy you are. We’ll be very quick.”

Keith hesitates. “Okay,” he says. “I assume the Parks people know about this and have approved?”

“They’re the ones who called for us,” Sherlock confirms, speaking for the first time.

Keith glances at him, then gives in. “All right,” he says. “You might as well start with me, then. I was working that day. I’m here most days, honestly.”

Sherlock pulls up a still of Becca Bailey and turns his phone toward him. “Do you recognise this woman?” he asks, not beating around the bush. “She’s an influencer, may have been creating content while here.”

Keith studies the photo for a long moment, but shakes his head. “No. She doesn’t look familiar at all, sorry.”

John glances at Sherlock, then asks, “What about other visitors? Was there anyone who stood out to you? Anything out of the usual?”

“The usual being complaints about the lines for the outhouses, the lack of refrigeration for the beverages, the cash-only policy, and having to hike out their own trash?” Keith quips. “I mean, that’s stuff we hear every day. Let me think.” He ponders for a long moment. “Nothing stands out, honestly. Sorry, guys.”

Sherlock puts his phone away. “Not a problem,” he says briskly. “Can we speak to your other staff?”

Keith nods. “I’ll just check who was working that day and who among them is working now. Most of the staff are full-time, so there should be some overlap. I’ll be right back.”

He goes off. “That’s odd,” John says. “I mean, I suppose she could have made her reel or whatever out here, but you’d think that someone like that would want to be filming her snack and all that.”

Sherlock makes a negative sound. “Perhaps not, if the teahouse wasn’t a sponsor.” He rolls his eyes. “But the possibility of filming anywhere on the premises is very strong, I agree.”

Keith returns with a young woman who he introduces Elizabeth, instructing her to send Max out when she’s done.

Elizabeth does not recognise Becca Bailey. Nor does Max, nor does Judith, who follows him. Their last interview, Katie, also doesn’t recognise Bailey, but offers something else. “Honestly, the only visitor who stands out is this one grumpy guy. I think he’s American but he comes every summer. I remember him from last summer, too.”

“What stands out about him?” Sherlock asks.

“Oh, he’s just a complainer, but he complains a lot,” Katie responds. “He complains about influencers and tourists, people hiking without adequate equipment. He complains about kids. He especially hates people who don’t respect Leave No Trace. He complains about the last stretch of the hike not being groomed. He complains about the teahouse. Everything, basically.”

“What about the other hikers does he not like?” John asks.

“Well, I’d say his particular beef is with people who don’t stay on marked trails and damage the ecology. I’m with him on that, honestly,” Katie says. “There are a lot of places in the Park where the trails are very clearly marked, with signs saying not to cut through the switchbacks, or trails that have been closed for rehabilitation, or where there’s delicate plant life. He was ranting about that last week when he was here – apparently some family had kids that they were letting pick wildflowers and he was asking about fines when he was here. He’d gotten pics and everything.”

“Do you know his name?” Sherlock asks.

She thinks for a long moment. “Actually, I think he did say… I wasn’t on the till, but I was the one who made his tea and overheard it. I didn’t write it down or anything. I feel like it was something a bit weird, like Elmer or Elmdale or something along those lines. He’s probably in his fifties, pretty fit, dressed like any other hiker, really. He had one of those floppy-brimmed hats with a strap under the chin to keep it on. I want to say it was beige? That’s about all I’ve got.”

“That’s very helpful,” John assures her. “Thank you so much.”

Katie was the last, so Sherlock makes a thoughtful sound and looks around. “Shall we find a rock or a bench or something?” he suggests.

John agrees and starts scanning. “Sun or shade?” he asks.

“Shade, if possible,” Sherlock requests, not mentioning his sweaty clothing.

John locates them a bench turned outward from the teahouse to face the walls of the glaciers all around. “How’s this?”

“Perfect.” Sherlock drains his lukewarm tea, pulls off his backpack with a sigh of relief, and pulls out his lunch. They collected sandwiches and pastries from the café across the street from the shuttle before joining the queue, and Sherlock thinks that he’s possibly never looked forward to a sandwich as much in his life. He made his selection without much thought, something that seemed to have a lot of protein. The sandwich proves to be delicious, some sort of Italian deli-themed thing on ciabatta chewy enough to give his jaw a workout.

John apparently got the same thing. “This is fantastic,” he says through a mouthful. He chews through it as Sherlock makes an incoherent sound of agreement. “Between the hike and the mountain air, I can’t think when anything tasted so good.”

Sherlock swallows and nods. “Quite,” he says, meaning it. He devours his sandwich, washes it down with a long pull from the hydration pack, and pulls out the separate bag of pastries that they each bought. His choices were a cheese twist of some sort, and a ginger cookie. John chose a chocolate version of the same twist, and a lemon cookie.

“Trade bites?” John asks at one point, and Sherlock agrees readily. All four items are delicious, though they agree that the pungent spice in the ginger cookie makes it a standout. “I’m getting that one for the next hike,” John says. He takes a deep breath, then slaps his knees. “All right. Last leg?”

Sherlock reaches for his pack and stows the detritus of his lunch safely inside, along with his paper tea cup, and gets everything strapped back into place, then reaches for his poles and gets to his feet. “Last leg,” he concurs.

The trail becomes rapidly rougher and rockier after they pass the sign referenced by the grumpy hiker about the trail not being maintained any further. Sherlock stumbles and nearly falls several times, saved by his poles. Soon enough, the trees fall away and they’re back out on another exposed ridge, a long line that ends only at the glacier walls straight ahead. This, he thinks, could just as easily be the ridge that Becca Bailey was referring to. Only now he wonders if she ever came this way at all.

The view is breathtaking. They are now fully within what John described earlier as the amphitheatre of the six glaciers. Out on the ridge, the wind is now brisk and breathtaking. John stops to take a 360 degree video, Sherlock holding his poles and watching him carefully. John puts down his phone. “I think I got it. Listen,” he says, stowing it away and taking back his poles. “We’re basically finished the hike. Do you want to go all the way to the wall just to say we’ve done it?”

Sherlock thinks about it. They could absolutely just turn around now, yet it feels a bit disappointing, almost. “Let’s just finish it,” he says.

John gives him a fleeting look that might have been admiring. “All right,” he says, turning away before Sherlock can really analyse it, and begins plodding along the ridge again.

They complete the hike ten minutes later. John nods toward Sherlock. “You can lead the way back, if you want.”

“Oh. All right.” Sherlock duly turns around and begins the long way back.

They stop several times on the way back down, applying and reapplying sunscreen, mopping their sweaty faces and keeping themselves hydrated. John nearly loses his hat in the wind, which makes Sherlock smirk. They keep to the path that hugs the cliff wall this time. The descent is harder than Sherlock thought it would be. Instead of feeling the burn in his lungs, his feet and legs seem to feel it more coming down. He tightens his shoelaces (again) on one stop, yet his toes still seem to slide forward and bash themselves against the toe box of his hiking boots. His quads and knees are jointly groaning as the trail winds back down toward the ever-growing oval of Lake Louise.

Finally, they hear the rushing water again, then emerge from the forest out onto the boardwalk and find themselves winding around the delta end of the lake. The path flattens and leads them back around the side of the lake. It’s still hot, the wind much less noticeable now. They’re almost back at the lookout when Sherlock stops beside an open spot of shoreline, making up his mind about something. “Hang on,” he says to John. He takes off his pack and sets it down on a flattish rock and leans his poles up against it, then bends to untie his shoelaces.

“Oh, I see,” John says, watching him, then following suit. “Great idea, Sherlock. My feet are hotter than anything.”

Sherlock smiles grimly and sits down, pulling up the legs of his hiking trousers and gingerly lowering his feet into the icy waters. He inhales sharply. “That’s quite cold,” he says, but doesn’t remove his feet.

John sits down quite close to him, as necessitated by the small opening to the water, and gasps at the shock of the cold, himself. “You weren’t kidding! Jesus!”

Sherlock can feel his toes freezing but can’t bring himself to mind. “It’s refreshing,” he comments.

“That it is.” John gives a long sigh of contentment and leans back on his hands, turning his face up to the sky, his eyes closed. “I’m going to be ravenous by supper time.”

“Mmm,” Sherlock agrees, thinking about how pale his feet look in the clear water.

After a moment, John removes his feet. “All right, I think my feet are frozen,” he says lightly. He rummages in his backpack and finds a small flannel, drying his feet before putting his socks and shoes back on. “Want this?”

“Sure. Thank you.” Sherlock dries his own feet, then wearily pulls his pack back onto his sweaty body. They plod back around to the front of the lake and then the car park, locating the queue for the shuttle back to Banff. The bus comes right on time, ten minutes after they arrived in the queue. Sherlock, having boarded first, thinks for a moment and then chooses a two-seater bench. John joins him without commenting on it, setting his pack down on the seat and bending to check something.

“We’ve got plugs,” he announces. “Under the seats. I’m going to charge my phone.”

“Oh, good idea,” Sherlock says. He bends and finds his own charger in his bag, then hands the latter to John to stow in the bin above.

John does this and then sits. “So: we’ve walked nearly seventeen kilometres, all told,” he says. “We’re going to feel it tomorrow for sure.”

“I can already feel it,” Sherlock admits. He stretches his legs out as far as the space will permit as the shuttle begins moving toward the motorway. “I suppose we didn’t learn much for all that effort. Not one trace of Bailey.”

“Just a report of a grumpy American,” John agrees. “Who knows, maybe it’ll become relevant.”

It’s doubtful, but Sherlock keeps this thought to himself. “Once we’ve got a source of wifi, let’s do some looking into the photographer and his blog.”

“And his rock striations,” John agrees, but yawns after. “I might drift off. If I do, don’t wake me.”

“I would never.” Sherlock settles himself as comfortably as he can and prepares for the hour-long ride back to Banff.

***

The shuttle lumbers through the village and pulls up exactly where they embarked many hours earlier. John wakes on his own and they collect their things and make their way off, Sherlock’s legs protesting to an alarming degree, particularly on the stairs. He winces on the last step onto the pavement and spares a thought to wonder if John packed muscle relaxants. (No hope of anything stronger, obviously.) John pulls him out of the stream of people so that they can get their bearings.

He yawns, then says, “Dinner? I can already feel that when the hunger hits, I’m going to be famished.”

Sherlock checks the time. It’s past six, and this feels more than reasonable. “Absolutely. What do you feel like?”

“Anything, frankly,” John tells him. “Maybe a burger? Pasta? I don’t know, something substantial.”

The notion of a burger immediately appeals: something heavy, greasy, salty, meaty. With beer or something. Not Sherlock’s usual beverage of choice, but the pairing is everything. “Yes. A burger,” he says. “Do you recall anything promising from yesterday?”

“I think so, actually. If I can find it again. Come on.” John sets out with a look of determination. “Incidentally, my thighs are killing me,” he says conversationally as they join the throng of tourist travel in the pedestrianized street.

“Mine, too. I don’t suppose you packed anything that could help…?” Sherlock asks, as diffidently as possible.

“I think I’ve got muscle relaxants, but only back at the campsite. For now, we’ll just have to go the old-fashioned route and do our best to walk it off.” John grins, and Sherlock hides a smile.

They find the place, or at least a place that John thinks was the one he was thinking of. It’s on the second storey, however, and Sherlock grimaces openly at the stairs, but gamely uses the handrail to haul his stiff legs upwards. “To think I thought I was in adequate shape for a hike like that,” he complains toward the top.

John laughs, but he’s grunting with the effort of making his own legs cooperate. “You are. We are. It’s just the incline part we’re not used to. And the elevation. And maybe the length.”

“So, most of it.” The restaurant host intercepts them, so Sherlock puts on a socially-acceptable smile. “For two, please.”

“In the window, if possible,” John adds over his shoulder.

“I’ve got a window table,” the host confirms, and leads them over to it, leaving menus and saying something about beers on tap which Sherlock doesn’t take in whatsoever.

He stacks his things against the wall behind him and drops into his chair like a sack of rocks and pulls a menu toward himself. The burger list has multiple options. A burger would not normally be a go-to foodstuff for him, but in this case, it’s perfect. He makes his choice instantly, then rifles through the pages to locate alcohol.

“I’m going to assume you weren’t listening when he gave the beers on tap,” John says, still pondering his choice.

“You assume correctly.” Sherlock looks over toward the bar in hopes that it might be posted visually. It isn’t. Never mind: they’ll have to ask when someone comes back. Meanwhile, the view out the window John requested is quite lovely. Last night’s restaurant was also on an upper storey, but didn’t have exterior views like this. The town of Banff has been created in faux-Alpine style, with wooden beams and A-frame rooflines wherever one can be crammed in. In the distance he can just make out the brightly-coloured cable cars ascending and descending one of the more popular mountains in the area. The median of the street below is bedecked with flowers spilling out of large pots every few metres and it’s all quite, quite lovely, even if there are far too many people. Many of the restaurants have patios spilling out onto the street. Perhaps another evening, they’ll eat outdoors. Yes: that would be nice.

“What are you having?” John asks, startling him out of his reverie.

Sherlock turns away from the scene below and focuses on the question. He can’t remember the name of his selection, but describes it. John laughs and says he’s made the same choice, then asks what he’s planning to drink. “A beer, I thought,” Sherlock says, shrugging. “It just seems like the thing to have with a burger.”

“I quite agree.” John raises a finger, and a server magically appears. They often do, when it’s John, Sherlock thinks. John gives a charming smile and gives his order, then asks about the beers on tap. The server lists them off, all locally-made products, and John makes a choice which is approved of warmly.

Sherlock gives his own order, and asks for a different beer, something with blueberry which sounds interesting. The server leaves and Sherlock spots his glass of water and downs half of it, not even realising how thirsty he was. “Do you see the cable cars?” he asks. They could be talking about the case, but there’s little to go on at the moment. Never mind. Tomorrow.

“Where?” John peers out the window, following Sherlock’s point. “Oh, there! That must be the Sulphur Mountain Gondola. It’s the big attraction out here, from what I’ve read. Or one of the big ones, at least. I think there are others, too.”

“Have you ever been on something like that?” Sherlock asks, still thinking privately about John’s very different mountain-related experiences.

John shakes his head. “Never. You?”

“I think once as a small child in Switzerland somewhere, but the memory is quite vague,” Sherlock says. “Well. Perhaps when the case is over, we should try it.”

John looks at him with something like astonishment. “All right,” he says, sounding as surprised as he looks. He shakes his head, opening his mouth to say something else, but it’s interrupted by the arrival of their drinks.

The food comes shortly after, and they eat ravenously. If anything, the food tastes even better than their picnic lunch looking at the glaciers. Sherlock’s blueberry ale or whatever it was is also good, though John’s choice was equally good, as he found when John offered their standard trade of sips. Once they’ve finished, Sherlock pushes his plate aside and pulls out his phone. “I suppose we should look into the photographer’s blog,” he says, trying not to sound reluctant.

John doesn’t protest, digging for his own phone. “I’m glad I got to charge this on the bus,” he says. “I thought I’d look at Bailey’s socials first. But what do you think of this, Sherlock: given that we only have our phones and that our juice is limited, why don’t we find somewhere quiet that has outlets and really dig into this tomorrow? We won’t be up for another hike that big right away tomorrow, and the campground has very limited coverage, I noticed. We might as well devote the day to it tomorrow. I know that two people may be missing, but this might just not be the spot for it.”

Sherlock is surprised to find himself as relieved as he is by this and doesn’t even feel like putting up an argument. Of course it would make more sense to do this somewhere with both wifi and electricity on hand. Besides, he’s so tired. The beer – refilled halfway through his burger – has gone directly into his brain tissues, too. “Yes. Excellent plan. I agree.”

“You do! Wow.” John finishes his beer and sets down the glass. “You must be feeling as bushed as I do. Honestly, all I really want is a shower and bed at this point.”

“Same,” Sherlock admits. “Let’s get our bill and see about a bus back to the campground, then.” He manages to catch their server’s eye and the man obligingly makes a sign that he’s on his way.

“I’ll see about the bus,” John says, also catching this.

Sherlock pays and they collect their many things and stagger back down to the street. John has claimed that a bus to the campground is coming in ten minutes, so they find a stop across the street and join a small crowd of others waiting.

The bus winds its way around two corners in the town and then is back on the road which their campground is located on. After a stop near several hotels, most of the vehicle has emptied. Dark is just falling, and the bus stops suddenly. A German-speaking tourist asks a loud question, possibly just to his wife, but the driver answers. “Elk on the road,” he says.

Elk! Sherlock has never seen such a creature in real life. He has not admitted as much to John, but the notion of a bear in the campground is quite unsettling, particularly if it’s a grizzly. Elk are another matter. The bus rolls cautiously forward, the driver gesturing off to the right and explaining, so he leans past John to see. “There,” John says, pointing.

They’re like large deer, only with much more impressive antlers. Sherlock watches them in wonder until the bus starts up again, moving past them. He sits back. “Goodness,” he says, almost lost for words.

John smiles at him. “Beautiful,” he says simply. “I’d love to see them in better light sometime, but I suppose this was just a one-off.”

By the time the bus reaches the campground loop, it’s only them and two other small parties. They get their stiff legs off the bus and start the walk to the G loop and their tents. John unlocks the rental car and says he’s going to shower.

“I’ll join you,” Sherlock says, collecting his own things. The micro-fibre towels John insisted they buy and used that morning are already dry where they were left, draped over the front seats of the car. Convenient, that. John knows his way around this equipment, after all. Sherlock changes out of his hiking boots and steps into his slides at John’s suggestion, and then they set off for the bathroom in the middle of the loop.

The showers are remarkably clean for what Sherlock had imagined might be the case for a national park, but then, it is Canada, after all. The water is hot and Sherlock wants to stand in it forever. He washes the sweat off his skin and out of his hair, then reluctantly shuts off the water, dries himself as best he can, and puts on pyjama pants and a t-shirt, rolling his hiking clothes into a ball. John is finished ahead of him, already brushing his teeth at the sinks. His hair is wet and sticking up and it’s incongruously endearing. Sherlock joins him silently, finding his own toothbrush. John spits and rinses his mouth, then disappears into one of the stalls as Sherlock cleans his teeth. It feels good to be clean again. He relieves himself, then washes his hands, John waiting for him at the door, and they walk back together, slides slapping against their feet in an odd sort of rhythm.

John is wearing his long-sleeved plaid flannel shirt over a t-shirt. “Are you going to be warm enough in that?” he asks, glancing at Sherlock’s t-shirt.

It’s still quite warm, over twenty degrees, and Sherlock thinks that he would be hot in John’s shirt. “I think so, yes,” he says. “It was all right last night.”

“Could get cooler tonight,” John warns. “I’m going to wear socks to bed, just in case. It’s the best thing, when you’re cold at night.”

“Noted. Thank you. Perhaps I’ll leave a pair at the ready.”

John approves of this. They stow away their things in the car, then retire to their own tents.

Sherlock switches on the overhead light in his small, blue shelter, and thinks about the day ahead. He chooses his clothing and puts it in a small stack in one corner. The phone gets plugged into its battery pack. What else? He finds a pair of thick socks (also new) and leaves them beside his phone. That seems to be sufficient. This done, Sherlock unzips his sleeping bag, gets his legs inside it, and zips it most of the way up. It’s still warm, and despite the temperate reset of the shower, it’s as though his tissues haven’t entirely forgotten the heat of the day. He twists himself around so that the opening is at his back, and the cool air feels nice against it. He is asleep within minutes.

***

He wakes with a start some time later. He is shivering violently, his teeth chattering. The cold almost makes him want to panic. The windows of his tent are open, so he zips them shut, shivering even harder with his arms and upper body out of the sleeping bag. What did John say? Socks? Sherlock feels for the woollen ball and shoves his feet into them as quickly as his half-frozen fingers can manage. It’s not enough. He reaches into his bag, searching for anything long-sleeved. He finds a base layer garment, a long-sleeved cotton shirt, and pulls it on, then zips himself as tightly into his sleeping bag as he can.

The shivers will not subside. The socks are helping immensely, but Sherlock is chilled to the bone. He pulls the material of the sleeping bag up to his chin from within, trying to shut out every tiny gap. The shivering won’t stop.

He hears the sound of the zipper of John’s tent, then footsteps. “Sherlock?” John is there, right outside.

“Yes?”

“Are you cold? I could hear your teeth chattering from my tent.”

“I’m half-frozen, yes.”

John hesitates. “Can I come in?”

Sherlock opens his eyes and for a moment the shivering stops in pure shock. “Okay,” he says uncertainly.

John crouches and unzips the door to Sherlock’s tent, cold, mountain air rushing in as he does so. He gets with obvious haste, closing the door again, encumbered with an armful of something which Sherlock realises is his sleeping bag a moment later. “Me too,” he says. “Even with my extra shirt. The temperature really dropped.” He’s speaking quickly and moving as he does, unzipping his sleeping bag. “So I thought – this is practical. Unzip your sleeping bag.”

Everything in Sherlock wants to protest this, teeth still chattering, but he trusts John. “Okay,” he says again, just as uncertainly. “Do you want the light…?”

“No. It’s fine.” John rummages about in the dark, fumbling with zips and such as Sherlock finds himself exposed as his sleeping bag becomes a flat square beneath him. John directs and he finds the zip and pulls it around until John takes it back from him, and the next thing he knows, their two sleeping bags have become one larger one, John inside it with him. “This okay?” John asks, keeping his voice brisk. “We’ll both be warmer.”

Sherlock is too cold to protest, not that he wants to, particularly. He nods, then realises John can’t see it. “Yes. Fine.”

“Turn that way,” John orders, with a small push to Sherlock’s shoulder to indicate, so Sherlock turns to face away from him. John scoots up behind him and puts an arm around him. Warmth immediately pools between them and the relief is instant. “Better?”

Sherlock nods again, his voice making a low sound of agreement, even as his feet scrabble to find material to wind around them. He wants to burrow into John, absorb as much of his body heat as he can, but he makes himself lie still once his feet are buried. That’s not the only reason, but at the moment it’s the primary one.

John pulls the sleeping bag tight around their shoulders to keep the cold air around, his breath warm on the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Good. Good night.”

It could be at least partly because of the cold, but the feeling of having John’s arm around him is beyond anything Sherlock has even imagined. He doesn’t have adequate internal vocabulary for it. Warm. Shiveringly nice. Comforting. More intimate than he could have imagined. “Good night,” he says, endeavouring to keep the tremor from his voice. He wants to lie awake and revel in it, but the easing of the cold and the long day catch up with him almost immediately. He is asleep again within moments.

***

He wakes up hours later, warm and comfortable, the awareness of John’s arm around him making his eyes fly open, remembering. John is pressed up against his back, breathing slowly and deeply, his arm around Sherlock within the joint sleeping bag he created in the middle of the night. Sherlock exhales deeply. He has never woken up with someone else this way and isn’t sure of any part of it. The protocols. Whether he’s meant to lie still until John wakes up, too. Whether he should verbally acknowledge that they did this, spent the night together. Not like – that, but – still.

Some part of John’s subconscious must have realised the change of his consciousness, though: his breathing shifts, clearly waking. He makes a long, deep sound of contentedness, then turns onto his back and stretches enormously. “Morning,” he says, his voice scratchy.

Sherlock takes his as his cue that he’s allowed to move now and does the same, shifting onto his back to stretch and yawn. “Hello.”

John is still touching him, just side-to-side now. “How’re you feeling? Your legs, I mean.”

Sherlock tests them, and is surprised to find that it’s not as bad as he’d feared it might be, come morning. “Not awful. Better than last night, in fact.”

“Same, actually,” John says. He yawns. “I don’t want to get up. It’s so warm and comfortable.”

Sherlock doesn’t even want to extract his arms from the sleeping bag, but reluctantly does so, anyway, reaching for his phone. “It’s not quite nine. I suppose we should get up and work on the case.”

“Hmm. Fair,” John says. He doesn’t move, though, his breathing still slow.

(It’s exquisite, this: getting to be with John this way.) Sherlock lets himself revel in it for a few more moments, then makes himself move. “I’m going to go freshen up. Shave and that,” he says. He feels about for a zip join on his side of the sleeping bag and finds it. “Stay here, if you like. There’s no particular rush.”

John makes a sleepy sound. “Okay. I’ll get up soon.”

“Take your time.” Sherlock extricates his long legs. “Are the car keys in your tent?”

“Yeah. I figured they’d be fine.”

“I’m sure they are.” Sherlock takes great care to not step on John as he unzips the tent door and gets himself out of the thing. The air is decidedly cooler, but it’s not bad at all. Refreshing, really. He steps into his pre-placed slides and pads over to John’s tent to find the car keys and retrieve his kit and prepared stack of clothing from the boot of the rental, then takes himself off to the bathroom.

John is up when he gets back, dressed and moving about. He makes friendly sounds in Sherlock’s direction, then takes the keys and heads off for his own ablutions. Ten minutes later, they’re on the road to the bus loop. It’s already warmer by at least ten degrees, the heat of the day promising an arrival, even as the crispness of the morning air lingers. The mountains look sharp enough to cut the clear blue sky and the scent of pine fills Sherlock’s lungs. It’s invigorating.

At the loop, there is a new sign attached to the bulletin board, the dark shape on it drawing Sherlock’s attention. He wanders over to look at it as John checks the bus times. The sign reads:

WHAT: Special caution is recommended when travelling in this area due to the following bear related situation.
WHERE: Tunnel Mountain Campgrounds and perimeter
WHY: Bear displaying bold behaviour and frequenting area
Be prepared to encounter a bear at any time in this area:
· All food, garbage, and anything with odours must be closely attended at all times.
· Fire pits should not be used to dispose of garbage or liquids.
· All food and garbage must be disposed of in a proper receptacle.
· Pay attention for bears when travelling in this area.
· Make noise when hiking and cycling.
· Keep pets on leash and a close eye on children.
· Carry bear spray and know how to use it.
· Report all bear sightings immediately to the Visitor Centre or Banff Dispatch at 403-762-1470

Sherlock clears his throat. This is decidedly uncomfortable. His eyes travel to the words bear displaying bold behaviour and wonders if this is Canadian for mind the ravaging death machine.

John hears him and comes over. “What’s this?” He reads the sign for himself and begins to chuckle. “‘Bold behaviour’, is it? Makes one wonder whether that means alarming levels of aggression or if it’s just that the bear has been bold enough to be hanging about the campground at all.”

Sherlock doesn’t look at him. “It doesn’t mention the species.”

John shrugs. “I’m sure the bear spray works on a grizzly just as well as a black or brown bear.” He moves off again to sit down on one of the carved log benches. “Bus should be here in about five minutes. We timed it well.”

Sherlock glances through the cautions again, then goes to join him. “What sort of noise are we supposed to make while hiking? I thought you said that bear bells are actually frowned on.”

“They are. Or so I read. It means make organic, human-sounding noise. Talking. Bells can apparently attract their curiosity.” John is looking at his phone, seemingly unconcerned about the bear and its bold behaviour.

Sherlock glances around the trees lining the bus loop, but all seems peaceful. He is unconvinced, but lets it go.

The bus comes shortly thereafter, filling rapidly at the next two stops with families and lone hikers, the groups speaking to one another in French, German, Mandarin, and possibly Ukrainian. It’s an impressive array. He and John get out in front of the big hotel connected to the café where they purchased their sandwiches yesterday, on John’s theory that there would be both plugs and wifi available.

He is correct: they find a quiet area deeper into the ground storey with large sofas and very little foot traffic, with both wifi and plugs. They make themselves comfortable and dig in, John starting with Becca Bailey’s social media pages and Sherlock settling in with Jonathan Landry’s blog.

There have been no updates since his last post, taken from the Moraine Lake Rockpile. This appears to be – well, a rock pile, but one with steps built in, winding around the structure. Landry has posted photos showing a lake of stunningly intense blue, deeper than the colour of Lake Louise, with captions such as First glimpse of the blue: breathtaking! and Nabbed this shot despite all the humanity. The photographs themselves are beautiful, different angles showing various conifers bracketing the lake itself. Jagged, white-topped peaks stab into the sky on all sides, and Landry comments on aspects such as the so-called rock flour that seems to give the lake its colour and the glacial inflow at the back of the lake. Like Louise, then, Sherlock thinks. Perhaps all of the lakes in this area are glacial lakes. He scrolls through and finds another photograph without the standard arrangement of tasteful conifers in sight. There is a comment from Anonymous67 which reads How did you get this shot while staying on the marked paths? Landry has responded very briefly, just an emoji making a winky face. There is no response to this.

Curious. Sherlock re-reads the paragraph which makes up the main body of text for the post. It reads:

Hi all, Jon here. Moraine Lake is officially the most beautiful lake in the world, or at least that I’ve seen so far. The colour is hard to believe even when you’re looking right at it! For today, I’m focused on taking the classic shots from the Rockpile, where most of these are taken. I’ll hike around to the back of the lake to see where the glacier empties into the water. I’ve heard it’s a nice little waterfalls or rapids situation. If I felt rich, I'd rent a canoe, but they’re sickeningly expensive! I’m going to come back tomorrow and attempt the pass. The stone of the mountains alternates in stripes of reddish to dark grey and I’m told that it’s possible to walk right after those stripes. I want to find where the striation turns from reddish to grey on the sentinels. I’ll bring a chunk back with me, promise! This place is insanely beautiful and I need to bring a piece of it back with me!

There are several admiring comments and then Anonymous67 again. The comments reads If you find it so beautiful, why don’t you leave it the way you found it? Ever heard of the Leave No Trace protocol? Maybe you should look it up.

Landry responded: Lol, lighten up, man! We’re talking about a chunk of rock, not an entire mountain!

Anonymous67 responded in turn: Every piece counts. Learn some respect, FFS.

To this, Landry wrote: I bet it would really piss in your cornflakes to know that I also cut through switchbacks when I’m in a hurry, lol.

This is the end of the exchange. Sherlock sits back and thinks for a moment. The comments are hardly anything worth much consideration; they are very standard internet comments, after all. He wonders how long Anonymous67 has been following Landry’s blog and scrolls back through several previous posts. He is six months back, following Landry’s progress through a hike in the Pacific Northwest region when he finds another comment from Anonymous67. The post has concluded by asking for hiking recommendations in either the American or Canadian Rockies, and Anonymous67 commented, saying The Canadian Rockies are definitely superior. Any of the hikes off Lake Louise or better still, Moraine Lake and you can’t go wrong.

Landry answered: Thanks, that’s helpful! If you had to choose one hike to do from either lake, which would you choose? Getting overwhelmed by all the choices on AllTrails here!

Anonymous67 wrote back: For my money, Larch Valley. If you’re in decent shape, add on Sentinel Pass. The trailhead is at Moraine Lake. Needs a shuttle reservation, as they don’t allow private vehicle access anymore.

Landry thanks the commenter enthusiastically. Sherlock checks AllTrails to remind himself of the hikes with “pass” in their titles, and comes up with Wenkchemna Pass and Sentinel Pass. That’s it, then: confirmation that this was the last hike Landry was documented to have tried. He reads through the rest of Landry’s blog just in case it contains anything interesting, but it only goes back three years. It does, Sherlock notices, also contain multiple shots of Landry holding rock samples, along with selfies of him on various peaks or shorelines. There is discussion of his new camera on one blog, comparative photos from the previous camera, and in every shot containing his face, a bright blue tilly-style hat, evidently named “Tilly”. The hat is phenomenally stupid and Sherlock rolls his eyes at the man’s apparent attachment to it.

“Getting anywhere?” John asks, scattering his thoughts.

Sherlock stirs himself. “I think so,” he says, and summarises his findings.

John updates him on what he’s seen on Bailey’s socials, which is very little. “Though her parents still haven’t put out a missing persons report, according to local law enforcement. Odd that they haven’t, considering the concern they apparently expressed several days ago.”

“Who knows? Perhaps she’s been in touch and just kept it quiet?” Sherlock posits, but hears the doubt in his own voice.

“Surely they must have, or why not go to the police?” John asks. “It’s a bit weird.”

“True.” Sherlock doesn’t have much to counter this with. “So, Sentinel Pass tomorrow, then?”

John shrugs. “Sounds like that’s what we’re doing, isn’t it?”

Sherlock makes a neutral sound, thinking. “Have you heard of the ‘Leave No Trace’ protocol?”

“Vaguely, yeah.” John starts typing into his phone. “It’s the general principle of leaving an environment the way you found it. Leave nothing behind, take nothing out, something like that. Here, I’ve got it. It’s seven principles that go: Plan and prepare, travel and camp on durable surfaces, dispose of waste properly, leave what you find, minimize campfire impacts, respect wildlife, and be considerate of others.”

“Hmm. So taking out a rock sample violates the ‘leave what you find’ one. I see.” Sherlock thinks about this. “Are we camping on durable surfaces?”

John waves this off. “Yes. We’re camping in what’s called a front country campground, meaning that it was built on purpose for camping. It’s legit. They mean, don’t walk on delicate plants and wreck the ecosystem, or park your tent on top of an endangered alpine wildflower patch or whatever.”

“I see.” Sherlock turns this over in his mind. “What does it mean to cut through switchbacks?”

John looks surprised. “I’m not sure. I would assume it means not following the trail and going straight up to save time, even if it’s steeper. Again, wrecking the plant life, possibly.”

“Ah. So Landry, for his admiration, seems to not be entirely respectful of the terrain,” Sherlock posits, and John agrees.

“Sounds like a bit of a jerk, honestly.”

“I don’t like his hat.”

John laughs, as he was intended to. “I don’t like anyone who names his hat,” he counters mildly. He puts his phone down. “Honestly, I don’t know that there’s much else we can even do without a police report or search and rescue teams. We don’t even know whether Landry did the hike. Maybe he’s still processing his photos. Who knows.”

“Possibly. Though his sister commented on the blog asking for an update, and he didn’t reply.”

“We’ll go take a look,” John promises. “Not today – that’s a long hike, same length as yesterday but with more elevation gain if we go all the way to the pass. What should we do with the rest of today?”

“Possibly learn how to actually use our bear spray?” Sherlock suggests, very dryly. “I’ve become aware that there is actual technique to be learned.”

John pats his thigh and gets to his feet. “Tell you what: lunch first, then we can go to an outdoors store or something and ask for a lesson. How’s that?”

He still seems utterly unconcerned. Sherlock suppresses a sigh and gathers his things together, winding up the cord of his charger. “All right.”

“There were a bunch of nice patios one street over that I noticed yesterday,” John says. “Let’s go find a pizza or something. And maybe a drink. I don’t want to waste a minute here, if there’s nothing for us to do for the case.”

He has a point, Sherlock thinks. Besides, the cosiness of their sleeping arrangement hasn’t left his general awareness yet. Spending time with John in this lovely place is special. He stands up. “Lead the way.”

***

In the end, they end up doing precisely that: finding a patio and ordering pizzas with iced cocktails, which Sherlock protests only mildly, given that they’re on a case, but they’ve also run out of things to do for the case for the moment. This particular restaurant serves its pizza with a side of hot honey for dipping and it’s quite good. The sun is warm, but they’ve got partial shade from the umbrella and it’s all rather nice. Painfully nice, almost, Sherlock thinks, looking out over the pedestrians ambling down the centre of the pedestrianized road. If he and John were different, it would be an inescapably romantic situation, the case notwithstanding. But it isn’t that. They will never be that.

The spend the afternoon getting a thorough demonstration on the use of bear spray from an Australian who has indubitably hiked thousands of the local peaks and seems equally unfazed by grizzlies. Though, to be fair, he does recount multiple encounters when John asks, and in none of the stories does he sound like he did not care rather significantly in the moment, which Sherlock both does and does not find reassuring. Sherlock remembers the shuttle bus and phones Mycroft to have their tickets magically adjusted to an earlier time to allow for the early start they’ll need for the hike. Mycroft snarks and grumps about it (“What’s wrong with the 8:20am bus? You’ve already got tickets for that one!”) but gives in and makes the switch happen to a bus an hour earlier. They explore the town after, avoiding the tourist trap shops on the main drag, with one exception to allow John to buy a Banff t-shirt for Rosie. The brilliantly blue Bow River has well-paved paths on either side, so they walk along the far side until they reach a set of rapids, then turn and walk back. It’s all strikingly lovely.

When the supper hour rolls around, Sherlock says that he’s still full from the pizza and John agrees, so they purchase berries, cheese, and crackers from a grocery store to take back to the campsite. John adds a bar of chocolate at the check-out on an impulse, and Sherlock manages not to say that they had better eat all of the berries and chocolate. He’d rather not have the rental car ravaged for the leftovers overnight. This done, they queue for the bus that will take them back to the campground, talking about the early night they’ll need to have, given the early start they’ve planned on. John checks the schedule for the bus that will return them to town in time for the 7:20am Lake Louise bus and determines that they will need to be at the bus stop by 6:15am.

Sherlock manages not to grimace too hard at this. “I was thinking I would shower in the morning. Given that, however, perhaps I’ll take a shower this evening.”

“I was thinking the same,” John agrees. “Should we have a fire, do you think? The woodpile is pretty far from our site, but I could take the car and go get a bit.”

Sherlock considers this. “I suppose, why not?”

This was the correct answer; John looks pleased. “I should be able to handle that short a drive at 20 kilometres an hour,” he says. “I’ll go as soon as we get back.”

Sherlock peers down the street. “I think that’s our bus.”

It is. When they get back to the site, Sherlock surreptitiously checks for the bear warning sign, which is still there. Perfect. They walk back to their site, John waiting for Sherlock to collect his shower things from the boot of the rental car before getting in the driver’s seat. Sherlock watches him drive cautiously off out of the loop, then takes himself off to the shower in his slides. After, he dresses himself in his sleepwear, but adds the same long-sleeved shirt he wore last night. John has said nothing about deconstructing their joint sleeping bag, so Sherlock decides to not address it, either.

John is already back when he returns, a modest four pieces of wood already arranged in the metal fire pit. He’s collecting smaller bits and pieces of wood and bark from around the site. He deposits these in the centre, then takes himself off to shower. Left alone, Sherlock gets himself organised for the morning, then looks at their snack and wonders if anything needs to be done with it. The cheese is already sliced and they can just break the pieces apart to fit onto the much smaller crackers. Perhaps the berries could use a wash, though. Sherlock carries these, along with his nearly empty water bottle, and rinses the fruit at the sink behind the bathroom, then refills his water at the tap. Back at the site, he finds paper towels that John packed (he never would have thought of this) and a box of matches. The only place to sit seems to be the bench of the picnic table, which is attached very securely to the ground, or he would move it closer to the firepit. No matter; this is fine. Suddenly Sherlock recalls that they did purchase and bring extra blankets. These would surely be handy overnight, but possibly also nice here by the fire, he thinks, and goes back to the car to find them. He arranges the food on the table top and stacks the two blankets beside them. This done, he wonders if he should light the fire or whether John particularly wanted to do this. Perhaps John’s set-up was his contribution to the fire effort, along with the wood retrieval. Yes, Sherlock decides: he should light the fire. John’s prepared materials are very good. The kindling catches instantly, and with a bit of careful bending and blowing, the larger logs catch quickly.

Satisfied, Sherlock puts the matches away and sits down on the bench of the table to wait for John, who appears in under a minute. (It’s so perfect, he thinks: their rhythm, the way they weave around one another. Never mind.)

John is gratifyingly pleased to see the fire lit and says so, stowing his belongings. “And you brought out the spare blankets! Brilliant! I’d forgotten we packed those.” He picks one up and wraps it around himself, reminding Sherlock sharply of the night they pulled John from the well.

He takes a careful breath and releases it. Never mind that now. John is safe. They are leagues away from Eurus. Moriarty is dead. He reaches for the other blanket and puts it around his own shoulders. “I washed the blueberries,” he says.

“That’s great,” John says. “I’m not hungry enough for a proper meal, just a bit snacky.”

Sherlock agrees. They sit there, at an angle from the fire chosen by the placement of the table, and eat seedy crackers with marble cheddar, torn into smaller squares, and eat all of the blueberries, Sherlock holding them for them both. John opens the bar of chocolate that he bought and breaks off a row, giving it to him without asking if he wants it. Sherlock accepts it obediently and they finish this jointly, too. A companionable quiet has settled over them, the sky only just beginning to darken for the night. The sounds of the campground are peaceful – the occasional sounds of children’s voices, birds calling, and the unfading scent of pine, detectable even over the woodfire smoke. Sherlock wants to ask about John’s time in the mountains, but doesn’t. It’s easier to let it lie, to not disturb these easy, comfortable feeling between them.

It grows dark. The fire is reduced to glowing embers, all four logs burnt through. John dowses it with water from his bottle, then says that he’ll take the food wrappings to the bins by the bathroom and brush his teeth while he’s at it.

“I’ll come with you,” Sherlock says. “I need to brush mine, too.” They do this together, then walk back the short distance to their site. Sherlock glances at John, then unzips the door to his tent and crawls inside, holding the nylon flap open. “Coming?” he asks obliquely, and John, who seemed to be hesitating, nods.

Nothing much is said as they get themselves into the expanded sleeping bag, Sherlock pulling on his woollen socks before getting his long legs into it. John has brought the extra blankets, spreading them over the two of them. They arrange themselves comfortably, plugging their plugs into battery packs. It’s now dark outside. “Did you set an alarm?” John asks.

“Yes. 5:45am. Unless you prefer earlier?”

“No, that’s perfect. Thanks.”

Sherlock hesitates, then turns on his side facing away from John.

There is an equivalent hesitation on John’s part, then he carefully turns to face the same direction. He doesn’t put his arm around Sherlock, but he is very close – close enough for Sherlock to feel his body heat tangibly within the layers of bedding, and it’s rather wonderful. “Good night,” he says.

“Good night.”

***

Sherlock wakes with a start to the sound of his alarm. His secondary realisation is of John’s presence, warm behind him, his arm tucked around Sherlock’s middle again. He must turn off the alarm for John’s sake. He sticks out a hand to feel for his phone and shuts off the sound. His hand is cold and he withdraws it into the sleeping bag, shivering.

John makes a sleepy sound. “’Zit time to get up?” he slurs.

“I’m afraid so.” Sherlock rubs his eyes. “It’s cold.”

“It’s the mountains,” John says in response, already sounding more awake. He yawns, then turns on his back and stretches like yesterday morning, only this time he shivers, too. “It is cold. I guess we layer up even more today. Come on. Let’s get up and get ready.”

Sherlock wants to turn over to face John, press up against him, entangle their legs and wrap his arms around John for warmth. (No.) He sighs, then yawns again. “I suppose.”

“That’s the spirit,” John says dryly. “Come on. I’m going to get my things from the car. We can walk to the loos together, unless you’d rather attempt to get dressed in here.”

“No, I’ll come with you.” Sherlock reluctantly unzips his side of the sleeping bag and reaches for one of the blankets, which had slithered off to the side. He drapes it around his shoulders, picks up his phone, and follows John out of the tent.

It’s ten degrees colder outside. John’s breath is frosting in the air as he digs through the boot of the car. Sherlock shivers again, his teeth chattering, and zips the tent closed, stepping into his slides in his socks. He collects his stack of prepared things from the car and falls into step beside John. “Lots of layers,” John reiterates, quietly since the campground is still very much asleep. The light has only just broken, still dim in their loop.

They each change in a stall, then brush their teeth at the sinks. Sherlock shaves. John rubs his cheeks, then sighs and follows suit. “You don’t have to,” Sherlock says, as John wets his razor. “No need to stand on ceremony out here.”

“I know, but it’ll be itchy by the afternoon if I don’t,” John says, his eyes on Sherlock’s through the mirror.

“Suit yourself, then.” Sherlock makes a quick, clean job of it, then rinses his razor and puts everything back into his small kit, patting his face dry with a smaller microfibre towel that packs into the size of a golf ball. (The things scientists have put their minds to, he thinks with something between wonder and disbelief.)

Back at the site, John pulls on his flannel shirt on top of the t-shirt and long-sleeved shirt he’s wearing. “I almost wish I’d packed mittens,” he says.

Sherlock watches him, and adds a fleece vest to his own ensemble, zipping it up to his chin. “Should I bring the rain jacket? Or will we get quite warm again once we’re moving, do you suppose?”

“I think we’ll warm up, yeah,” John decides. “But you’ve got your emergency poncho in your pack, right?”

“I have. Yes.” Sherlock previously pointed out the ridiculousness of the name of this item and doesn’t raise it again now. He supposes the small square is lighter and more compact than packing a jacket, which is likely the point of the thing, so it could be a useful item after all.

“Then let’s fill the hydration packs and be off.” John locks the car and they make their way back to the tap at the bathroom, then to the bus stop.

The only other person waiting is dressed for serious hiking, at least going by his outfit and gear. He seems like he doesn’t want to make conversation, so neither of them attempt it. It’s so early that the birds are chirping, but little else is stirring. Sherlock yawns again as the bus is pulling into view, even though he slept soundly – better than he has for a long time, he thinks. They were in the tent before 9:30pm, and he thinks he fell asleep quite soon after that, making roughly nine hours of uninterrupted sleep. Not even the bone-chilling cold woke him, thanks to John’s body heat. (Or perhaps he just sleeps better with John, full stop.)

The café across from the bus stop has only just opened when they arrive, making sandwich and accompaniment selections. John chooses the ginger molasses cookie this time, but goes for a crumbly-looking energy bar in place of the chocolate twist. Sherlock chooses the same sandwich as last time, another ginger cookie, and after waffling for a moment, another cheddar twist. The exact same thing as last time. Oh, well. The barista will hardly remember him, and the meal worked perfectly well for him on the last hike. He’d like to get a coffee, too, but is unsure of the wisdom of this. But then John asks for one, so Sherlock changes his mind and adds a drip grind coffee to his own order.

Thus equipped, they board the shuttle and are soon chuntering down the motorway toward Lake Louise once again, only this time they’ll be transferring to another bus that will take them to Moraine Lake. Based on the description and photos in Landry’s blog, Sherlock is actually quite looking forward to seeing what many have apparently described as the ‘most beautiful lake in the world’. He’s in the window seat, John sipping his coffee next to him, their poles and packs stowed safely above their heads. At one point, John looks at him and grins, apparently feeling some of the same anticipation about the day ahead. Sherlock smiles back, warmed by it. Being out of the cold helps, too, but he knows that the heating on the bus has little to do with just how much John’s smile overrides the weather in any case.

“Apparently this hike gets us out of the ‘moderate’ ranking and into the ‘challenging’ ranking,” John tells him.

“The Plain of Six Glaciers was only moderate?” Sherlock tries not to sound dismayed.

“Apparently, yes. We’re really going to earn our supper today.” John is still grinning.

“So, expect even more leg stiffness by the end of the day. Understood.” Sherlock isn’t actually all that concerned; it’s just his nature to be contrarian.

“We’ll be fine. But yeah, probably sore.” John peers out the window, leaning over him a little. “Yesterday when I ran out of stuff to look at for Bailey, I read a bit about this hike. The pass brings us right up against one of the highest peaks in the area, Mt. Temple. I wonder if maybe that’s it?”

He points and Sherlock looks out the window, gauging the peak John is pointing at. It looks imposing, but then, so do all the other peaks near it. “I’ve no idea,” he says. “Are we close enough for that to be a possibility?”

John hmms. “Possibly not,” he admits. “Oh, here’s the turn-off to Lake Louise. Maybe, then. I don’t even know how much further it is to Moraine Lake.”

“Me neither. I’m sure we’ll find out.”

The shuttle is well-marked and easy to find. They climb aboard it, John going first. “Anywhere?” he asks.

“Perhaps near the front,” Sherlock responds. He ushers John into the window seat. “Give me your things and I’ll put them up top.”

The ride is only thirty minutes, but it’s even more stunning than anything else they’ve yet seen. The peaks seem higher, more jagged, snowier. He also did some reading about the hike and read that they will be experiencing an area known as the Valley of the Ten Peaks. It sounds phenomenal. That is, if he can physically manage it. They get out in a carpark and get themselves oriented.

“I suppose that’s the Rockpile,” John says, pointing at a large land mass that can only be that. “The hike starts off the side of the lake – that way, I think – but the views from the Rockpile are supposed to be legendary. Do you think we have time to take a look, or should we just get to business?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to opt for the latter, then realises that John plainly wants to see the view, and changes his mind. “No, by all means, let’s go and have a look,” he says, and John gives him a look of pure gratitude.

The first glimpse of the lake from the ground is already stunning, but John steers him toward the steps winding around the back side of the Rockpile, saying things about seeing the view “properly”. The steps are surely human-made, Sherlock thinks, balancing himself with his poles on the uneven reddish stone steps.

John stops abruptly, inhaling hard. Sherlock nearly walks into him. “Oh my God,” John says, sounding stunned.

“What is it?” Sherlock comes up beside him and the answer presents itself: the blue of the lake is unlike anything his eyes have ever beheld, and he feels himself reacting in wonder of his own, his lips parting involuntarily. “Oh,” he says, and it’s entirely inadequate.

“‘Oh’ is right,” John says, with feeling. “That colour. Damn!”

He starts walking again, Sherlock following. The colour only seems to get more intense as they go. The Rockpile is swarming with visitors. Sherlock ignores them, bringing out his phone to take photos. It’s compulsive: the beauty of the lake almost seems to command it. John is taking photos of his own. It’s a photo perfect scene: the oblong turquoise lake, a darker hue than the blue of Lake Louise, surrounded by jagged, ice-capped peaks. There is scree sliding down into the waters, and jutting into the view are dark green pines. The sun is out, making the air significantly warmer than it was back at the campground. Sherlock takes another photo from a slightly different angle and notices that he’s got no coverage. This is slightly concerning, but he’s not entirely surprised.

They pick their way down the Rockpile after a few moments of gazing and find their way to the trailhead, just past the canoe rentals. The angle of the path is steep even here at the outset. A sign added to the trail map board warns that there is an active grizzly alert and that groups of four are recommended. The other option is “mandated”, but this is not checked off. Sherlock feels a stab of uneasiness. He points. “What do you think of that?” he asks. “Do we wait and join another group?”

John makes a thinking sound, considering it. “It’s only ‘recommended’,” he points out. “We’ve got our spray. We know how to use it now. I think we’ll be okay.”

“All right, then.” Sherlock doesn’t argue, though the unease does not subside.

They start the hike. The path is steep even at the bottom, with the rental chalets still in view. The forest is incredibly beautiful, though, like something out of a legend or a fairy tale. They cross wooden bridges over icy mountain streams which John opines are likely all glacial run-off. The trees are all conifers, towering above their heads, dark and forbidding. To the left, the stunning blue of the lake twinkles through the trunks at regular intervals. The forest smells of pine, moss, rock, wildflowers. Sherlock sees tiny mushrooms sprouting among the moss, pale clusters of bell-shaped flowers, small purple daisy-type blooms too large to be asters. It’s almost painfully lovely.

It’s also painfully steep. They stop at regular intervals, both panting. Sherlock gets the fleece vest off at the first stop, then the long-sleeved shirt by the fourth. He is sweating already, despite a few clouds scudding across the sun here and there.

He startles at a rustling to his left, coming from uphill. All he sees is black and movement and his first thought is of a bear. “John – ”

A large-ish bird emerges onto the trail just ahead of John and scuttles across the path. “Ooo, what are you?” John asks, grabbing for his phone to take a photo. They watch it disappear into the underbrush across the way. “I think I got it,” John says, turning to show Sherlock, whose heart is pounding.

“What was it?” he asks, privately resolving to never, ever let on that he thought the chicken-sized bird was potentially a grizzly.

“No idea. I’ll have to do some googling of Rocky Mountain birds,” John says. He pulls out his tiny microfibre towel and pats the sweat off his forehead, then takes a long sip of water. “Shall we?”

They set off again. After a little, Sherlock looks up. “Is it just me, or are we actually running out of trees?”

John looks up, too. “I think you’re right. We must be almost above the treeline. I suppose we must have started out at a fairly high altitude already. The trail is supposed to flatten out considerably through the valley, and then it’s just the big pass at the end.”

“‘Just’,” Sherlock repeats. “And a lot of walking in between. The site I looked at said that the switchbacks were only two kilometres of the trail, though it feels like quite a bit more.”

“Yes, but the whole distance is just under twelve kilometres in and out,” John points out, huffing as he clambers up a set of rocks. “That means it’s about a third of the total distance, both ways. I think I saw that the pass is just under two, which means that the valley is a little over two. That’s not too bad.”

Sherlock picks his own way up the rocks and pauses to take another long sip of water. “If you say so.”

“I do,” John says firmly. “Look, that’s definitely open sky up ahead.”

It is. They reach a bench and a trail sign indicating the options ahead, multiple other hikers milling around it. Sherlock drops onto the bench, bending forward to stretch the small of his back, while also endeavouring to ignore the irritating child clambering over the other end of the bench while shouting for no discernible reason. John goes over to examine the trail sign. After a moment, Sherlock stands up, stretches, and goes over to join him. He studies the icons beside each option. Two show what is clearly meant to be water and their destinations have “lake” in the title, so this seems perfectly logical. Two show people striding purposefully forward with backpacks on. The third option depicts a figure clambering directly up a cliff, also wearing a backpack.

Sherlock points to this one. “So this is the one we’re doing,” he says. “The one where the hiker is moving directly upward.”

John snickers. “Yeah, that’s ours. I don’t think it’s meant to be that drastic, though. No hands needed. Otherwise it would be classified as a ‘scramble’, I believe.”

“Yeah, it only becomes a scramble if you carry on up Mount Temple,” a young man in his twenties with a New Zealand accent chips in from behind them.

Sherlock glances at him. “Is that so,” he says neutrally.

The other seems unfazed by his somewhat unengaged response. “Yup. Need grappling hooks, spikes, a helmet, the works. And a good bit of experience scrambling, too. I wouldn’t advise it.”

He’s got, Sherlock notices, several of the items he just listed attached to his backpack with carabiners. This is highly irritating. He opens his mouth to say something quite probably rather short, only John gets there first.

“We’ve no intention of going any further than the pass, but thanks all the same,” John says coolly, though red spots have appeared in both cheeks.

The hiker hears it and backs off. “All right, well, cheers to you both.” He picks up his poles and sets off at a brisk pace.

“What a cock,” John mutters. “Like we were even about to try anything like it. We were just laughing at the symbol.”

Sherlock throws him a half-smile. “At least you got that,” he says. “Let’s give him a slice of lead time, shall we? Though I’m certain he’ll be halfway to the pass within moments.”

John chuckles, his shoulders easing. “Sure. I’m going to re-tie my laces and have a handful of almonds.”

Sherlock assents to this, and takes off his pack to reapply his sunscreen again. Sunburns are for people like Molly Hooper. And Mycroft would never let him hear the end of it if he went and got sunburnt, of all things. This done, he takes another long sip of water, blows his nose, and feels significantly more human. “All right. Ready?”

John is crunching his almonds, but nods and zips his pack closed. “Let’s go,” he says, swallowing his mouthful. “Why don’t you go first? You get better views that way, and we’re supposed to be getting some good ones coming up.”

“You just want the grizzlies to leap out at me first,” Sherlock says, but it’s meant to be a joke, and thankfully, John does laugh.

The slope of the trail has decreased significantly, though it’s still climbing gradually upward. The trees around them are a bright, young-looking green – conifers with soft, almost feathery fronds for branches. Sherlock reaches up to touch one of them and finds the needles as soft as they look. “Are these the famous larches?” he asks curiously.

John makes a thoughtful sound behind him. “Could be. Strong possibility, given that they’re all around us and we’re in something called Larch Valley and all.”

“They’re pretty,” Sherlock says without thinking, but John agrees.

“It would be nice to see them when they’re golden. Maybe we’ll have to come back and hike for the fun of it one of these times, in the autumn.”

Sherlock makes a derisive sound, but adds, “Perhaps.”

The valley around them levels out, the sky opening above them. Perhaps it’s only because they’re more in the open, but the wind has picked up a bit, and the clouds are still gathering. These elements are wholly secondary, however, because they have emerged into an open plain surrounded by towering, jagged peaks on all sides: the Valley of the Ten Peaks. It’s genuinely breathtaking. They pass a set of benches where a number of other hikers have stopped to eat or relax, but keep going. The terrain is rocky, large boulders scattered about the valley among lower conifers. The wind increases steadily, making it difficult to speak when they’re single file, but on occasion the trail widens out enough to walk side-by-side. A lake appears to the right, one of two jointly named the Minnestimma Lakes. John wonders aloud why they haven’t been given individual names. Sherlock wonders back whether it might be because they’re not always both there, depending on rainfall/glacial infill, or whether it’s because they’re both relatively small and so close together. John says he still thinks they could warrant individual names and Sherlock has no comeback to this. The Ten Peaks are awe-inspiring. Most of the mountains among the range are of the same, dark-grey stone, but the two bracketing what must be the pass ahead are reddish.

Meanwhile, the sky has definitely darkened, the wind stronger still. Sherlock’s bare arms break out into gooseflesh. “It’s looking a lot like rain,” he says over his shoulder, raising his voice to be heard over the wind.

“It does, rather,” John says. “Well – that’s mountains for you. Weather systems change quickly in them.”

The trail has narrowed again, so Sherlock ahead of him once more. He glances around and can’t help but thinking that they’re rather exposed should the rain bring lightning with it. He picks up his pace a little, coming to the back edge of the first of the lakes. The sky darkens noticeably and Sherlock feels a drop on his face, then three more.

He has just opened his mouth to ask John whether they should attempt to find shelter or put on their emergency ponchos or both when two things happen almost simultaneously. First, the sky opens, dumping down sheets of cold rain. Sherlock hurries over a patch of loosely-piled rocks and catches the point of one hiking pole in a crack. He stumbles hard, staggers forward, and falls heavily onto his right knee.

“Sherlock!” John’s footsteps are crunching on the trail, catching up to him rapidly. “Are you all right?”

The wind has been somewhat knocked out of his lungs and his right knee is smarting fiercely. “I – think so,” Sherlock tries.

John is there, dragging him to his feet. “Jesus,” he says. “You’re bleeding. And it’s pouring. Come on.” He throws Sherlock’s arm over his shoulders and half-pulls, half-drags him off the trail and through the wildflowers and scrub, toward a tall pine. Not a larch, but something sturdier.

“My – pole,” Sherlock gets out, but John just shakes his head.

“Later,” he says. “Come on, get under here. You’re getting soaked.”

He’s pointing at the base of the tree, so Sherlock crawls gingerly into the shelter of the branches, which gives them nearly a metre of clearance. He turns himself over to sit with his back to the trunks, endeavouring to ignore the small rocks and wealth of pine needles beneath him, the shorter branches of the trunk poking into his back. He’s wet and cold, shivering.

John is just as wet, but strips off his pack, dumps it next to Sherlock, then jogs back to the trail to retrieve Sherlock’s stuck pole. He’s back in seconds, chucking the pole toward Sherlock and going for his pack, his hands moving rapidly. Kneeling beneath the tree, he pulls out something that Sherlock doesn’t have in his own back – a large, shiny square of something that unfolds into a much larger shape. An emergency blanket, Sherlock realises a moment later. This, John spreads out over the first layer of branches above them, then takes his own trekking poles, drives them both into the ground at the outer corners of the blanket and secures the blanket around them with elastic bands. Then he’s busy at the trunk of the tree, somehow fastening the other two corners of the blanket together behind the trunk. He’s effectively created a rain shelter out of pine branches, foil blanket, and two trekking poles, and in under three minutes.

Sherlock watches him in silent awe, his knee forgotten as questions gather unasked on his tongue. John has not forgotten his knee, however. The next thing he pulls out is a small first aid kit.

“You’ve torn your trousers,” he says. “Pull the leg up past the knee, please.”

The please is cursory and not a request. Sherlock complies without a word, his eyes on John.

John examines the wound and fusses at it. “You’ve really done a number on yourself here.”

“It’s just a scraped knee,” Sherlock tries, but John isn’t having it.

“It’s a laceration and it’s full of grit. I’m going to have to sterilise it and pluck the gravel bits out.”

Sherlock accepts this. “Okay,” he says meekly.

John does not look at him. His fingers efficiently strip the packaging from a single alcohol wipe. He unfolds it and lays this gently enough over the entire scrape, pressing it to the skin and ignoring Sherlock’s escaped hiss of pain from the sting. A pair of tweezers appear in his hand and he begins to painstakingly locate and remove the bits of rock and dirt from Sherlock’s skin.

“Thank you,” Sherlock says quietly as he works, almost lost to the noise of the wind whipping through the subalpine valley around them.

John shakes his head. “I should be used to patching you up by now, but – ” He stops.

Sherlock rather wants to hear what he isn’t saying. He waits, but John does not continue. So he presses, gently. “But what?”

A muscle in John’s cheek works. “Well, it’s not like you’ve ever given much thought to me when you go hurting yourself, whether it’s just something like this, or throwing yourself off buildings, or – ” He stops again and swallows.

Sherlock feels rather like he’s been punched in the face. It sounds rather as though John didn’t quite mean to say the second bit aloud, but he has. Despite the rainstorm raging around them, the silence between them grows both loaded and poignant. “I’m… sorry,” Sherlock says again. “Truly, John.”

John takes out another alcohol wipe and sterilises the tweezers, then goes back in to pick out a little more rubble. “I don’t know why I can’t just let it go, but… well, I guess when you commit suicide in front of someone, it’s going to leave some damage. Some of which is the very fact that you didn’t even seem to think about that part at all.”

He puts the tweezers down and dabs at the wound, possibly wiping the smaller particles out. He brings out a tube of Polysporin and applies it generously. Sherlock is struggling internally, searching for the right words to say here. “It wasn’t that,” he says, hoping that John will even believe him. “It wasn’t that I wasn’t thinking of you, John. If anything… you were foremost on my mind.”

John unpeels a large bandage and lays it over the scrape, then pulls Sherlock’s trouser leg down. “Oh yeah?” he asks, his voice carefully uninflected. “How’s that, then? I’m going to stitch this up. I think I’ve got thread.”

Sherlock ignores this, though he shifts to stretch his leg out flat so that John can gather the material more easily. The shelter extends just far enough out that he can do this without getting his hiking boot rained on. “It’s quite possible that I should have told you this a long time ago,” he says slowly. “Only I was never quite sure how to bring it up, or… whether it would make things better or worse for you to know.”

John’s eyes flick up to his sharply from threading a needle with beige thread. “To know what?”

Sherlock swallows. “That day, at Barts…” He registers John’s wince, but goes on. “Moriarty had hired snipers. At least one for each of you – Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, and you. It could have been more. At the time, we didn’t know. The deal was, as he told me on the roof, that they had to see me kill myself or else the three of you were to be killed. I couldn’t let that happen. I meant to force Moriarty to call them off, but then he shot himself before I could.”

He knows he sounds bitter. He still is. Those two and a half long years of living on the run and pursuit at the same time were – unthinkable. Unbearable. John’s hands still. “What?” He sounds and looks shocked. “Sherlock – ”

Sherlock can’t quite bring himself to meet John’s eyes. “I – that’s why I had to jump, John. He left me no choice. I didn’t mean for you to be there, to see it. I never intended you to witness it. You were meant to be with Mrs Hudson, to protect her. Her sniper was there with her, in the flat. But you came back, and everything was in motion by that point. And I needed you to believe it, believe I was dead until I had finally confirmed that no one was after you anymore. That’s why I couldn’t tell you. I wasn’t leaving you out because you weren’t important to me, because you didn’t matter to me. I had to leave you in the dark to keep you alive. Because of how important you were to me.”

John’s mouth is open. “God,” he says, sounding stunned. “Sherlock – I – I don’t even know what to say. I wish I had known that. Why didn’t you tell me?”

Sherlock feels his lip twist. “I didn’t know whether it would be better for you to have known how close you came to Moriarty’s snipers or not.”

“But it would have changed how I felt about your entire disappearance!” John knots the end of the thread and begins to stitch up the jagged tear over Sherlock’s knee, bending forward in what may be a convenient way of hiding his face a bit, as his voice isn’t entirely steady.

“Would it?” It’s largely rhetorical. Sherlock knows better than to ask if it would have changed anything. “If it helps… then I can tell you that it’s good that I didn’t let on that I was still alive before I came back, because there were more than three snipers. I pursued them halfway around the world before I finally found them all, took down all of Moriarty’s ring.”

John exhales deeply. “Jesus,” he says shakily. He makes three more stitches, then says, “Thank you for telling me now.”

Sherlock decides to change the subject, since they’re talking about dangerous things, anyway. “Can I ask you something?”

John sews away steadily. “Okay.”

Sherlock hesitates, then asks, “Would you tell me about… Afghanistan? Specifically… your previous experience in the mountains?” When John doesn’t answer immediately, he adds, “I mean, it’s obvious you’ve got a lot of it. You’ve more or less said, plus your knowledge of the equipment, the speed at which you threw up this shelter… and the fact that you never talk about it has just made me… wonder.”

John pulls out a pocket knife, unfolds the shortest blade, and cuts the thread. Occupied with putting his things away, he says, “Of course you did. Of course you would.”

Sherlock pauses. “You don’t have to…” He trails off.

“No, you’re allowed to ask,” John says. He zips his pack shut and sits back, his back to the trunk of the tree. Sherlock turns himself so that he’s leaning back again, too, shoulder-to-shoulder but without any direct eye contact, thinking that this may be easier for John. A long quiet forms wherein John is clearly gathering his thoughts, choosing his words. Eventually, he says, “We were on assignment in the mountains. Just my unit and I. We were supposed to be gathering intel, but somehow they knew we were coming. There was a thunderstorm one night and suddenly they were all around us. Three of my men were hit. Two died instantly. The third… he was shot in the chest, punctured lung, the air leaking out. I dragged him under a tree and built a shelter almost exactly like this one. I was trying to keep him dry enough to do sutures and he died right there, in my arms. A soldier I’d trained myself. It… it hit me hard. It felt like a personal failure. A medical failure. A failure of leadership. All of it. I checked my protocols as soon as we were back, and as far as there was any guidance to follow, I’d done everything right, but I couldn’t help but wonder for years whether he’d have lived if I hadn’t wasted time on the shelter and just done the stitches in the rain. It’s – well, yeah, I’ve seen therapists. You know that. I’ve talked about it. I know it makes me especially tetchy about the subject of failing people, of things being my fault, especially when someone dies who shouldn’t have. I believed for almost three years that you committed suicide because you thought I didn’t believe in you. Because I thought you were a fraud, and I hadn’t said enough that I absolutely didn’t believe any of it, that I would always stand by you no matter what the tabloids said.”

Sherlock has been listening to this with growing understanding and no small amount of internal pain, but this is shocking. “John! You – didn’t!”

“I did,” John says doggedly. “I absolutely believed that it was at least partly my fault for making you think you had no one, no other choice than that. I shouldn’t have said what I said about your trip just now. But the combination – I haven’t been in mountains since Afghanistan, and then the rain and someone getting injured – the situations aren’t even similar, but – ”

“No, of course it would have called up that particular, awful memory,” Sherlock says. Without thinking, he reaches over and puts a hand on John’s wrist. “I’m sorry, John,” he says, meaning it with all his being. “I’m sorry you suffered that way, thinking that you’d failed me, for all that time. You’ve never failed me. I’m sorry I never told you about the snipers. And I’m sorry for the men you lost, especially that one.”

John turns his head and looks at him, and the eye contact is intense. He turns his hand over and finds Sherlock’s and squeezes once, hard, his throat bobbing as he swallows. “Thank you,” he says, his face and voice intense. He lets go, swallowing again. “That… that means a lot, Sherlock. It means everything.”

Something large is expanding in Sherlock’s chest. He doesn’t know what to say. He’s never experienced this feeling: of absolution. Of receiving John’s forgiveness in a way he never expected to. He cannot speak.

John hesitates, then speaks again. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry for everything you’ve gone through on my behalf. To keep me alive. I think I did fail you when I went back to Mary, which maybe you’d – I don’t know. I felt like I had to, but I didn’t want to. I’m sorry for that, though. And I’m sorry for what a dick I’ve been about it to you ever since. You didn’t deserve that.”

“You didn’t know,” Sherlock points out, turning what John said about Mary over in his head. It seems like he possibly shouldn’t even touch that one. The apology for this does mean something. It means everything, particularly with the admission that John didn’t want to go back.

“No, but still.” John is firm. “Some day, maybe with more alcohol present, tell me all of it, would you?”

Sherlock looks at him for a long moment, then nods. “Okay. When we’re back in London, then.”

John looks back at him, holding his gaze, then nods, too. “Okay.”

The rain is slowing. “Does it seem like it’s tapering off?” Sherlock asks, bending a little to peer out at the sky.

“Could be,” John says. “Meanwhile, we’re both wet and cold. Put another layer back on, all right? I’m going to.”

“Yes, doctor,” Sherlock quips, and John actually laughs. Sherlock digs his long-sleeved shirt out and wrestles it on without tangling with the pine boughs above him too much.

“I also just might eat my cookie,” John says.

“You rebel. Before your sandwich!” The mood has lightened suddenly, and John laughs again.

“Call the Park rangers on me. I don’t care.”

They eat their cookies and watch the rainstorm die off. A warmth has formed between them under the foil awning of John’s shelter, and Sherlock almost doesn’t want to start walking again. But the case awaits, and so does the pass. By the time John has reclaimed his poles and folded the emergency blanket away, there is blue sky showing again and the wind has settled back into a breeze. They crawl out from under the tree and get to their feet. Sherlock’s legs have already started to ache after the short respite.

He shoulders his backpack and looks back at the tree, silently thanking it, which feels ridiculous, but it feels like a very important moment that just happened within its sheltering branches, and he is grateful. “Ready to go?” he asks John, and John smiles at him.

“Lead the way,” he says.

They set out once more, picking their way across the valley. They come to the second of the Minnestimma Lakes, on their left. The second lake is larger than the first and indubitably extremely cold. The path curves around to the right, with two massive, almost foreboding mountains looming ahead. Pinnacle Mountain to the left and Mount Temple to the right, if Sherlock’s reading was correct. And between them, an almost easy-looking dip. “Is that the pass?” Sherlock asks.

John comes up beside him. “Yup,” he confirms. “Sentinel Pass.”

“It doesn’t look that bad,” Sherlock says, aware that this may sound stupid.

“It’s absolutely higher than it looks,” John promises. “I would venture that it will take us close to an hour to make it up there.”

“An hour! It doesn’t look that far at all!”

“It is, though,” John says. “It’s the scale: we can’t even quite grasp how distant it still is. You’ll see when we get closer – there might be a few people on the trail.”

“I can’t see any,” Sherlock says.

“Precisely,” John says dryly. “Wait until we’re closer.”

The pass doesn’t seem to get any larger or more intimidating as they approach. Eventually they cross a stream by walking on larger rocks and, in Sherlock’s case, being vocally grateful that John insisted on waterproof hiking boots. The trail to the pass is on the right, skirting the base of Mt. Temple. It looks like nothing, just a scratch in the rock. When they get to the start of it, Sherlock drops back. “I think you had best lead,” he says firmly. “You’re the one with proper experience with this terrain.”

John shrugs but accepts this with a smile. “If you say so,” he says mildly, and steps ahead. He hefts his backpack firmly onto his shoulders, takes a sip of water, then says, “All right. Let’s tackle this thing.”

Sherlock walks, watching his step, but also looks ahead to the top of the pass. The tiniest specks of colour separate themselves from the iron grey of the rock. “Are those people up there?” he asks in disbelief. They seem far too small.

John makes a sound of agreement. “You see? It’s way further than it looks.”

Sherlock swallows down his disbelief and chooses instead to think again of how fortunate he is to be doing this hike, this entire investigation, with someone of John’s particular skill set.

The trail is steep and narrow, only wide enough for one person – and barely that, at times. They toil away upwards, occasionally stopping to catch their breath or to let another hiker pass. About halfway up, John stops, breathing hard. “Look at this,” he says, pointing with a hiking pole.

Sherlock looks where he’s indicating. “What am I – oh! The rock striations,” he says, seeing it. The reddish rock of Mt. Temple is striped with layers of the grey stone of the other peaks in neat, clear, geological lines. “So this must be precisely where Landry was talking about taking a sample from.”

“Has to be, hasn’t it?” John taps a bit of the red rock and drags the spike of his pole across a row of red/grey/red/grey striping. “It’s fascinating, honestly. I can see why he’d have wanted to bring a piece out with him.”

They keep going. The trail rises steeply above a long slide of scree below them to the left even as the path curves round to begin zigzagging across the front face of the face. The drop-off is a little too close for comfort, almost dizzying. This only increases when they reach the switchbacks across the face of the pass. At one point, they stop to catch their breath and have a sip of water, and Sherlock has a momentary spot of wondering if he will lose his balance and go sliding down the scree to a bloodied death. (Ideally not.) A distraction makes itself known in the tiny, alpine wildflowers persevering to grow on the rock face above them: anemones and short, sturdy green plants with miniscule leaves curling around the rock for grip. It’s very beautiful.

“Careful ahead here,” John warns, raising his voice over the wind. “It’s very narrow. Lean into the upper face of the wall here.”

“I hope I don’t fall off this ledge,” Sherlock says anxiously, following John’s advice.

John looks back over his shoulder and smiles encouragingly. “You won’t. You have excellent balance. Use your poles to steady yourself. Two more switchbacks and we’re there. You can do it, Sherlock!”

Reaching the top feels momentous. Breathless but exhilarated, Sherlock steps onto the flat ground of the pass. The wind nearly steals what breath he’s got left, but as he turns to look back at the view of the valley they just came through, all he can think is breathing is boring. It’s incredible. The jagged peaks of the mountains, the two small lakes, the variegated green of the larch-covered valley, makes for a more than adequate compensation for the climb. Besides which, they’ve also got the ridge to themselves. Miraculously, every other hiker seems to have already started on the descent, or else not made it up this far yet.

John turns to him, grinning, but Sherlock sees the same marvel behind his eyes. “Now that’s a view!”

“It really is.” Sherlock can’t even pretend to be blasé about this.

John points. “There’s a bit of wall or something there. I’m going to put my things down and really take this in properly.”

Sherlock nods and follows suit, dropping his pack and leaning his poles up against the stone wall in relief. “I think I need a photo or two.”

“Or ten,” John agrees. They walk back out onto the ridge, wide enough as to not feel anything near as terrifying as a few stretches of the switchbacks below them. They gaze out at the view together, and Sherlock has a sense of a curious oneness come over them. John seems to feel it, too. He clears his throat after a few moments. “Do you see those purple wildflowers down there?”

Sherlock glances at him, but nods. “I do. Yes. They’re rather lovely.”

“Do you know what it’s called?” John asks, somewhat ignoring this.

It feels like perhaps he’s leading somewhere. Sherlock shakes his head. “I don’t, no.”

“It’s called fireweed. I read about it,” John says. “Not because they particularly resemble fire, but because after there’s been a forest fire, it’s the first plant that grows back.”

“I see,” Sherlock says, politely enough but privately wondering where this is going. It does feel as though it’s going somewhere specific. He waits.

John takes a deep breath. “You’ll probably think this sounds corny as hell – I mean, I know what you used to think of my old attempts at poetry, but – I feel a bit like I’ve got fireweed blooming in me right now.”

Sherlock’s throat grows tight. “How so, if I can ask…?”

John clears his throat, then quietly reaches out and takes his hand. “I mean that I think I needed to hear all that. What you said under the tree, there. About how important I was to you, and why you did – what you did. I know it’s only been a little more than an hour, but – it’s changed everything for me.”

Sherlock wants to look down at the marvel of their joint hands, but almost doesn’t dare to. “H-has it?” he manages.

John looks at him then, his face very sober. “Yeah,” he says. “It has.”

He steps closer, lets go of Sherlock’s hand, and puts both of his on Sherlock’s face. The next thing Sherlock knows, John is kissing him. It’s a shock, and for a nanosecond or three, Sherlock is too stunned to react, but then his body responds before his brain has even come back online, reaching for John in turn and leaning into the kiss, his lips tightening against John’s. It feels like nothing he’s ever experienced before, his heart pounding for a new reason altogether now, the kiss washing over him like something magical. It’s wonderful.

John releases him after a few incredible minutes of this, but doesn’t move away, smiling into Sherlock’s eyes. “So you – you, too?” he asks, searching Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock nods. “Always,” he says, his voice low. “Always, John.”

He’s not sure which of them moves first this time, but it doesn’t matter. They’re kissing again, John putting his arms around Sherlock’s middle, which allows Sherlock to wrap his around John’s shoulders. They kiss and kiss, the wind sweeping around them, alone on top of the world, and it’s so right that it nearly hurts. It finally tapers off and John squeezes him into a tight hug. “God, Sherlock,” he says, his voice unsteady. “If I had only known – ”

Now Sherlock can ask. “Would it have changed things?” He half fears the answers, but needs to ask all the same.

But John doesn’t prevaricate or disappoint him. “It would have changed everything,” he says simply. “I’ve loved you for a very long time, Sherlock. I just thought – you know what I thought. And you – ?”

Sherlock nods, still holding John tightly. “Yes. I love you, too.”

John pulls away just far enough to kiss him again, over and over again, on his face, his throat, his mouth again. They break apart, hearing footsteps crunching in the pebbles, only it’s coming from above them. They look up in no small amount of wonder, and see two young men coming down from above and to the right, the direction of the peak of Mt. Temple.

They stop on the ridge, putting down their things and stopping to take long drinks of water, mopping their foreheads. They’re equipped with axes, hooks, and helmets, which they both take off now, clipping them to their packs. They exchange a few words, then come over, bent for the switchbacks downward. “Heading for the peak?” One of them asks in an unmistakeably Australian accent.

John shakes his head. “Absolutely not. Out of our league, I should think.”

The other’s eyes skate over their equipment, sitting just behind them. “Good idea. We got the rain up there and it was harsh!”

“Got some hail, too,” his friend offers, in the same accent. “Was glad I had a helmet on. Made for slippery scrambling, though!”

“You heading over into Paradise Valley?” the first asks.

Sherlock looks at John. “Where is that?” he asks.

The second Aussie points to the view on the other side of the ridge. “This gorgeous bit right here. It’s a bit of a slog through the scree, but nice views down in the valley. Then you can go up and over Saddleback Pass to Lake Louise, if you want. It’s not bad, little over twenty kilometres.”

This sounds, in a word, exhausting. John exchanges a look with him that says he thinks the same thing. “This is actually our turn-around for the day, but thanks,” he says politely. “We’ll just, er, get out of your way. Safe travels.”

“Cheers, mate!” The two practically bound off down the pass, leaving them alone once again.

“We didn’t even look this way,” John says.

Sherlock clears his throat. “Something else came up,” he says.

John smiles at him, a lovely, warm, open smile, and reaches for his hand again. “That it did,” he says. “Come on. Let’s see what’s beyond this bit.”

They look down into the valley beyond the pass. ‘A bit of a slog’ is how the one hiker described it, which seems like something of an understatement: the entire descent into the valley is scree, punctuated by sharp spires of stone thrusting up into the sky from Pinnacle Mountain on the left. “Are those the sentinels?” Sherlock asks, pointing with his free hand.

“I believe so, yeah,” John says. “This is also a phenomenal view. God, what a place!”

Sherlock agrees wholeheartedly. He scans the sweep of rock rubble falling away and thinks of what a dreadful place it would be to fall. His eyes catch a spot of colour. The distance is difficult to gauge – as John so correctly proved – but he estimates it to be roughly forty metres from where they’re standing. “John… do you see that? The spot of blue?”

“Where?” John lets go of his hand and puts an arm around Sherlock’s waist instead, pressing closely into him. (It feels phenomenal.) “Oh, that? Huh. What is that?”

“Not sure,” Sherlock says slowly. “Only… hang on.” He pulls out his phone again and opens the photo gallery, scrolling back to yesterday from where he took screenshots from Jonathan Landry’s blog. He finds the photo he’s looking for and turns it to John. “Is that the same colour as ‘Tilly’?” he asks. “Landry’s beloved hat?”

John’s intake of breath is sharp. “I mean, lots of things might be that colour, but it’s exactly the same. I was going to suggest we have lunch up here, but I think we need to forget that and start looking for clues.”

“On it. I’ll start at the far end, there.” Sherlock goes as far as one can without beginning the ascent to Mt. Temple and hunts, prodding at loose rocks with a toe and checking all around any of the places where someone might have sat down. He closes the distance back toward the far rock outcropping that they’ve left their own things behind, checking everything he can think to check, when John speaks.

“Sherlock.” His voice sounds odd. “Look at this.”

Sherlock straightens up and goes over, foregoing the last two metres. “What is it?”

John holds it up. “The cap of a long-range camera,” he says. “I’ve definitely got my own prints on it, but I’ve got a ziplock in my pack that we can use as an evidence bag. What brand of camera does Landry use?”

“A Canon,” Sherlock says. Landry certainly mentioned it enough, affiliate links ‘helpfully’ embedded every time.

John’s face says enough. “This is for a Canon,” he says, confirming it. “I wonder if maybe he fell off the ridge taking photos and got buried in the scree. Only how did no one spot the body? Even just the hat is bright enough.”

The answer – or the possibility, at least, occurs to Sherlock immediately. “Because the rain was hard enough to wash at least enough of the scree away to reveal the hat again,” he says heavily. “That’s got to be it, John.”

“Jesus.” John looks appraisingly down at the blue spot of the hat. “If we were more experienced hikers, I might suggest we go down there and – you know, see if there’s a body with the hat, but – ”

“But absolutely not,” Sherlock says firmly. “I’m not having either of us getting buried in scree, ourselves. Let’s hike down, alert Parks Canada, and they can organise a proper search and rescue. Meanwhile, the local police should be involved at this point, given the somewhat hostile comments on Landry’s blog. It may have just been an accident, and it may not. If the search and rescue team can recover Landry’s camera, that could be the evidence we need.”

John nods, wholly in step with him. He moves closer. “You’re brilliant. As ever. Yes: we leave it to the SAR team, then.” He kisses Sherlock once, then another time, as though once just wasn’t quite enough. “In that case… should we have our lunches now? Or – ?”

The kisses make Sherlock light-headed in a way that has nothing to do with the altitude. “Let’s get off this pass and get these switchbacks behind us first,” he says. “We can eat by one of the lakes.” Some part of him meant to say I’ll eat anywhere with you, John, go anywhere with you, whenever you want, always, but these prosaic words come out instead.

John seems to hear them anyway, smiling as though this is the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to him. “Okay,” he says. “Then I guess we’d better get going.”

***

The hike down seems to take far less time than the hike upward. They find a large, flattish rock to sit on to consume their sandwiches, John sitting close beside him. The sun comes out all the way as they eat, prompting Sherlock to pull his long-sleeved shirt off to let his still-damp t-shirt dry the rest of the way, and John does the same, commenting on the sudden return of the warmth. Once they’ve packed in their wrappers and such, they end up kissing a bit more, too, which is rather wonderful. However, they both know that they’ve got to get back to the lake to find a Parks staff person as soon as they can. The switchbacks through the forest are steep and Sherlock’s toes get bashed up on the front of his hiking boots no matter how tightly he re-ties the laces. The poles prove themselves quite helpful, but it’s nonetheless a relief when they finally emerge onto the lake-level path again. By this time, Sherlock’s t-shirt is wet again, this time with sweat, particularly between his pack and his back.

His legs are trembling, but he leads their way over to the Parks Canada hut and ask the young man there to call his supervisor. This leads to a phone call held on a landline inside the lodge. Once they see the choppers flying overhead (to the consternation of the tourists gaping from below), Sherlock looks at John and says, “All right. Let’s go. They know to call us.”

John holds his hand on the shuttle back to Lake Louise, then falls asleep on his shoulder on the bus back to Banff. Sherlock watches him, barely registering the mountains zipping by out the windows, so absorbed is he in the utter wonder of seeing them this way.

John wakes as the shuttle lumbers its way through the town, yawning and stretching. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to fall asleep.”

Sherlock smiles at him. “Not a problem.”

“I suppose they haven’t called yet?” John asks, meaning the SAR team.

“Not a word. I would imagine it will take some time. That said, the RCMP officers should be expecting us by now. Let’s go find them,” Sherlock says, and then set out, weaving around the tourists, Sherlock attempting not to limp.

They meet the officers at the information centre, as arranged by the Parks staff, shown into an unused office. Sherlock lays out the case briefly, not mentioning Becca Bailey, as they have nothing to go on there. Sherlock brings up Jonathan Landry’s blog, the photo of the blue speck that they think to be his beloved hat, and John hands over the lens cap of the camera.

“There’s another thing,” John adds, glancing at Sherlock. “The staff at the teahouse at the Plain of Six Glaciers mentioned a particularly onerous individual who is a repeat visitor to the Park. He complains about tourists, children, influencers, and people who don’t respect the Leave No Trace principles. It’s a pretty low chance that this is the same individual who’s been leaving anonymous comments on Landry’s blog, but on the off, off chance, you might want to see if you can find anything there. We’ll keep digging on our end, too. The staff person at the teahouse, a Katie, no last name given, said that he had a slightly odd name possibly starting with ‘El’. An American in his mid-fifties, by her estimation.”

The officers promise to keep this in mind, but it seems clear that they consider this addition rather far-fetched. They exchange contact information and Sherlock and John are dismissed. “I’ll text Mycroft the gist of it,” Sherlock says, as they make their way back into the street. He stops, types rapidly on his phone for a moment, then studies John. “Are you hungry yet? Those sandwiches were only about three hours ago…”

“Believe it or not, I’m starving,” John says ruefully. “That hike took a lot out of me. I could eat. You?”

Sherlock consults inwardly, then agrees. “Yes, I suppose I could, too. What do you feel like?”

“Let’s wander around and see what appeals,” John suggests, so Sherlock agrees, despite the fact that his legs are already seizing up.

“Perhaps a ground-level restaurant,” he says, and John laughs at him, nicely enough.

“More muscle relaxants tonight,” he says, squeezing Sherlock’s leg lightly, which has a far great impact on him than John is likely aware of. “Come on. Let’s see what the options are.”

They make their way, Sherlock actively trying not to limp, down the main street of the town, avoiding the pavement in favour of the roomier street itself, cleared of vehicular traffic for the summer. They stop to read a few menus, then decide on a place billing itself as an Irish pub. It’s on a side street and there is seating outside where a gentle breeze is providing relief from the heat, and Sherlock is sold the instant John suggests it.

They are seated quickly and offered drinks, which they both agree to. Brimming glasses of beer and water are brought to them as they study the menu and make their choices. Sherlock orders a steak and Guinness pie. John orders some sort of whiskey chicken. “I should eat a salad or something one of these days, but today is not that day,” he says, putting his menu down and pulling his beer closer.

Sherlock laughs. Now that it’s just the two of them, back among other people and in the real world, or as close as this charming little tourist town could possibly come to the real world, he feels almost tongue-tied. Perhaps he should just say that. “I don’t know what to say,” he admits.

Their table is in a back corner of the patio, people passing by on the pavement but separated by a railing. John smiles and puts a hand on Sherlock’s wrist. “I know,” he says. “Same, a bit. It feels… similar, but definitely different. If it helps, I don’t really know what I’m doing, either.”

This is a relief to hear. “All right, good then,” Sherlock says. “I’m… very glad that all that got said, up there. And that you made this happen for us.”

John’s eyes grow intense, bracketed with obvious feeling, and his fingers squeeze around Sherlock’s wrist. “Me too,” he says. “So glad. And… it feels oddly right that it happened up there, away from everything else. In a way, it feels like everything unimportant just got stripped away. It was just you and me and the elements. It made it possible to just say what needed to be said, at last.”

Sherlock glances around, then lowers his voice. “I really do love you, you know. I meant it when I said that.”

John smiles in a way that makes his heart clench. “So did I. I really do love you, too.”

Sherlock fights it, but a smile takes over his face before he can stop it, so he drops his face toward the table, swallowing hard. “This is unbelievable,” he mumbles. “I – John – ”

John shifts his hand to take Sherlock’s now, adding his other hand with it. “Yeah,” he says, his voice a little rough. “All of that. Me too.”

Sherlock reaches over with his other hand and squeezes hard, words failing him entirely. “So… what do we do now?” he asks unsteadily.

“I think we eat dinner,” John says. “And then I think we go back to that hotel lobby with the wifi and plugs and work on the case a bit more.”

Sherlock wants to ask what happens after these, obvious pieces, but he is prevented (spared, really) by the arrival of their meals. He picks up his utensils instead and cuts into his pie, the hunger and butterflies combining bizarrely in his gut.

***

It’s nearly eight when John finds it. He was the one to suggest checking social media accounts where people don’t necessarily use their own names, such as Reddit. He finds a user named elwoodkinton, an American from Maine who regularly comes to the Canadian Rockies to hike. He posts in groups with names including Hiking, Hiking Alberta, Banff, and Jasper. He also, as it turns out, takes photos and shares them.

“Look at this,” John says, having already read months’ worth of comments and posts from elwoodkinton. “‘If you see a dude in a blue tilly hat, who may or may not be bringing out chunks of rock, do me a solid and push him off a narrow ridge somewhere, would you?’ He posted that eight days ago, Sherlock!”

They’re sitting side-by-side, close enough to be touching, on the sofa in the back of the hotel lobby. Sherlock peers at John’s screen. “Is that the same day as the last comment from Anonymous67 on Landry’s blog? Let me check.” He pulls it up and confirms it. “It is! Is there a time stamp on that comment? Anonymous67’s comment was left at 4:16pm, with Landry’s response to him three minutes after.”

“This comment was left at 4:37pm. It’s got to be him, Sherlock!” John scrolls rapidly. “I’m looking for a photo of him anywhere. He’s not one to take selfies for the most part, but let’s just see here…”

Sherlock watches him for a moment. “That’s Reddit?” he asks. “I’ll see if there’s a matching name on the other social media sites. He checks Facebook and comes up with several options. Only one is in Maine. He taps the profile. “John. Look at this.”

He turns his phone so that John can see it. John’s jaw drops. “That’s an exact match to Katie’s description! What are the odds – that the grump she was talking about might actually be our man!”

In the photo, Elwood Kinton is posed on a peak somewhere that certainly looks like this area of the world. He is dressed in zip-off hiking pants, has a rather nice camera around his neck, and is wearing a beige hat with a floppy brim which ties under the chin. He is not smiling. The birth date on his profile would put him at fifty-seven years of age. “See if you can find this photo,” Sherlock says. “If we find that, it’s him. Or at least, he made a credible threat. Then all we need is a fingerprint match from the lens cap.”

John makes a sound to acknowledge this. After a few moments, he says, “Bingo. Look, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looks. It’s the identical photograph, posted on another, smaller Reddit sub titled Solo Hikers. “Elwood Kinton,” he says. “Got you.” His phone rings, startling both of them. It’s not Mycroft. Sherlock picks it up. “Sherlock Holmes,” he says.

“Mr Holmes. This is Officer Sinclair with Parks Canada. I’m here with the RCMP. I’m afraid to tell you that the SAR team has recovered the body of Jonathan Landry from the area you identified. They also recovered a camera. I was instructed that you would like to see this, though we have assumed jurisdiction. As our office was the one to ask Mr Holmes Senior for your assistance, we have every intent to share information, however. Would you and your partner be able to come to our office in town? Dr Watson is also welcome to examine the remains, if he wishes, though cause of death seems pretty clear.”

Sherlock looks at John. “Yes,” he says. “We’ll be there in ten minutes.”

***

Their hiking equipment is in one corner of the room. They examine the body first and Sherlock has a vivid moment of thinking of the sharp drop-off on the face of Sentinel Pass and that this is precisely what he would look like, had he fallen from the trail. Jonathan Landry’s body is battered and bloodied, gravel in every wound, his face pulverized. The time of death aligns with the day he planned to tackle the pass. The under-chin string of his beloved hat has cut into his wind pipe and his clothes are torn.

They look at the camera next. Landry made it all the way to the pass, though there are multiple photos of him holding several different pieces of striped red-and-grey rocks. The last image he took, however, is from the pass, and it is unmistakeably Elwood Kinton.

“This is the killer,” Sherlock tells them. “We know nothing of his home address or whether he may still be in the Park, but we know that he hiked the Plain of Six Glaciers eight days ago.”

“We’ll find him,” Officer Sinclair promises. “You’ve done your part in this. Even if Kinton didn’t touch the lens cap, with a warrant we can search his web activity and get enough to get a confession. We can’t thank you enough for all the help.”

John hesitates, then says, “We were also asked to look into the disappearance of Becca Bailey, too. We haven’t been able to find anything so far. Have you found anything that would more definitively suggest that she’s actually gone missing?”

The officers exchange looks. “No, as a matter of fact,” Sinclair tells them. “We initially wondered if the two seeming disappearances were related. We’ll check on her again and let you know. Since her parents haven’t checked back, my gut says that she’s fine, but when it was both at once, we couldn’t be so sure. We’ll have another look and give you two an update.”

That seems to conclude things. One of the Parks employees offers them a ride to their hotel. Sherlock throws John a look and declines. “We’re fine,” he says. “We’ll make our own way.”

They leave the station, which is on the edge of the town, and find the nearest stop for the bus back to the campground. Sherlock’s legs have stiffened to a point of barely being able to walk, grimacing. Once they’re back onto the main drag, John reaches for his hand again. Sherlock looks at him in surprise, but John just shrugs and smiles, so Sherlock doesn’t say anything, hiding his own smile. It feels exceptional, in a word, to have people say that John Watson, of all people, has chosen him. It doesn’t matter that no one knows who they are. He feels claimed. Wanted. It’s extraordinary.

The bus comes not long after they arrive at the stop and takes them back up Tunnel Mountain Road. Alighting at the bus loop twenty minutes later, Sherlock’s legs protest enormously, and John helps him off the bus. “Aren’t your legs sore?” Sherlock wants to know.

John doesn’t let go of his hand. “Oh yeah, they’re killing me,” he says easily. “Once, I would have been able to pull off a hike like that without feeling it so much – well, I’ve never done a hike like that before, but you know what I mean. I think we did well today, though. That wasn’t an easy hike.”

Sherlock hesitates, then shifts their hands so that their fingers are interlocked as they make their way back to the G loop. “Okay?” he asks obliquely.

John smiles, looking straight ahead. “Yeah. Very okay.”

Back at the campsite, they open the boot of the rental car and stow away their hiking things. John rummages until he’s found his supply of muscle relaxants and hands Sherlock two of them before swallowing a couple, himself. Sherlock pulls out his shower kit and the strange, light towel that they bought. “I need a shower rather desperately,” he says. “Would you mind if I…?” This is awkward. It’s strange, new ground – he has little idea what to expect going ahead, or what John might expect of him.

John looks surprised. “Yeah, of course,” he says. “I’m grimy and sweaty, myself. Let me just get my things and I’ll come with you.”

“All right.” Sherlock collects his sleeping wear and changes his hiking boots for his shower slides, his feet aching.

John putters about, putting things in (Sherlock’s) tent and so forth, then announces himself ready. The shower is one of the best Sherlock has ever had, the hot water soaking into his sore muscles, his shower gel washing the grime from his skin. He washes his hair and scrubs himself thoroughly and feels brand new when he finally shuts off the water. He dries himself and puts his pyjamas pants and t-shirt on, then finds John brushing his teeth at the sinks and joins him.

They walk back to the site making light small talk, but Sherlock senses that they’re both thinking about what comes next.

“Do you want a fire?” John asks. “It’s only ten. There’s still time, if you do. Or – do you just want to go to bed?”

“I’m exhausted,” Sherlock admits. “I’m okay without a fire, unless you want one.”

“No, I’m fine,” John says. “I’m exhausted, too. Not necessarily sleepy, but very ready to lie down.”

Sherlock hesitates, then makes himself say it. “I’m very ready to lie down with you.”

John looks at him in astonishment, then smiles in something akin to wonder. He shifts his things into his right arm and takes Sherlock’s hand with his left, squeezing hard. “You will never stop surprising me,” he says, his voice not quite steady. “And – yeah. I want that so much.”

This isn’t particularly specific, but Sherlock imagines that clarity will come sooner rather than later, about what it is that John wants so much. (He must mean more than just lying in the same sleeping bag, mustn’t he?) He settles for squeezing John’s hand back in lieu of asking. They get back to the site and put their things away, then Sherlock goes to the tent and toes off his slides. He glances over his shoulder at John, who closes the boot, locks the car, and says, “Yes, I’m coming.”

Reassured, Sherlock unzips the tent door and crawls inside. It’s still warm, so he doesn’t want his socks or the long-sleeved shirt yet. He feels as though he’s buzzing with anticipation. He unzips his side of the joint sleeping bag, but isn’t sure whether he’s supposed to get in or what. John is there, though, brushing the grit off his feet before coming in, then turning to zip the door shut behind him. It’s fully dark out now. “Do we – want the overhead light?” Sherlock asks jerkily.

John demurs. “I don’t think we need it. Unless you want it?”

He’s being so polite. It’s almost agonising. “No,” Sherlock says. He hesitates, then says, “So… do we… get in?” He means the sleeping bag, though it was idiotically vague.

John gives him a quick look, then says, “Yeah, let’s do that.” They wriggle into the thing, fiddle with the zips and whatnot, and then John turns to him. “My legs are killing me,” he begins.

Sherlock jumps instantly to what seems the obvious conclusion. “Oh – I didn’t – ” God, what an idiot he is! Assuming that just because they’ve kissed now that John will want – whatever else Sherlock was imagining might happen now. He grimaces internally, wanting to kick himself. “We don’t have to do – anything like – ” He is so embarrassed, his face flaming.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” John scoots over and puts a hand on Sherlock’s side. “I was just going to say that I’m glad to be lying down!” He searches Sherlock’s face. “I mean, I was also going to say something about what a good thing it is that some things can be done lying down. I – I also didn’t mean to – to assume anything. I’m not – I haven’t got a clue what I’m doing with this, either, if you want to know. But – if you were thinking, or hoping that – I don’t know, something was going happen, I would be very enthusiastic about that idea. For the record.”

The humiliation fades noticeably. “Would you?” Sherlock manages, trying not to wince.

John just smiles, though. “Oh yeah,” he says. “No doubt on that score, Sherlock. I’ve been lusting after those long legs of yours since the day we met, you know. Not to mention the rest of you. There’s no rush, but – the instant you want that, I’m here for it. For you.”

The words wash over Sherlock like a wave of warmth. “I – want that,” he makes himself say. “So much, John.”

John smiles again, his eyes framed with more emotion that Sherlock has ever seen on his face. “Come here,” he says gently, and pulls Sherlock into his arms and kisses him slowly, deeply, wonderfully.

Sherlock puts his arm around John’s back and holds him to himself, letting himself fall into the kiss in a way he never thought to. He has wanted this for years and never once imagined getting to have it for real. It’s like living something out of a farfetched fantasy. (It’s incredible.) John pushes a knee between his and Sherlock wraps his upper leg around John’s thigh. He can feel his body responding to John’s very proximity, a magnetic dizziness washing over him, wanting nothing more than to be as close to John as he can get.

John pulls back a little, after a bit. “I love kissing you,” he says, his voice very low, his eyes starry in the dim of the tent. “It’s everything I’ve dreamed of.”

Sherlock blinks at him, touching his tongue to his lower lip. “Is it? It is for me, too.”

“You dreamed of it?” John asks, reaching up to cup his face.

Sherlock nods. “I never thought I’d experience it, though.”

In response, John leans forward and kisses him again, and this time it’s hungrier, faster, needier. He rubs his hand down Sherlock’s back, then pulls up his t-shirt to touch him, skin-to-skin. He puts his mouth to Sherlock’s throat and Sherlock lets his head fall back, his mouth open, exhaling vocally.

He is aroused and almost embarrassed about it, but – would it be just as embarrassing not to be aroused just now? He wishes he knew what the correct trajectory were, but – nothing to be done about it now, he supposes. John sucks at a particularly sensitive spot on his neck and reaches down to squeeze his arse at the same time and Sherlock makes a sound he cannot prevent, his erection filling out even more. “John – ” He doesn’t even know what he’s asking, or asking for.

John has a notion, though. “I want to touch you so badly,” he says, his lips on Sherlock’s throat. “Can I – ?”

Sherlock makes a sound of affirmation, breathy and a little aghast at himself, but wanting it too badly to even try refusing. He clutches at the back of John’s t-shirt as John slips his hand past the waistband of Sherlock’s pyjama pants and wraps his fingers around the hard protrusion of Sherlock’s erection. This produces another guttural sound that can’t be prevented, his breath stuttering in his throat.

John breathes out warm encouragements into his neck. “God, you feel amazing. Fuck. You’re so hard. I love it. Is this – okay?”

“Mm-hm.” It’s all Sherlock can manage, his eyes squeezed tightly closed, the grip and motion of John’s hand beyond exquisite. He is fisting John’s t-shirt hard enough to rip it but John isn’t protesting. A sudden thought occurs with alarm. “Should I be – ”

John makes a sound of negation, though. “After,” he says. “Just – let me, okay? I want to make you feel good. I want this so much. Okay?”

Sherlock hesitates for a split second, then nods. “Okay.”

John makes a satisfied sound and claims Sherlock’s mouth again, kissing him hard and beginning to stroke him in earnest, finding a rhythm and settling into it. Sherlock is awash with sensation, gasping into John’s mouth and trying not to suck air directly from his lungs. He breaks off the kiss to press his cheekbone into John’s, breathing hard. “Oh – hold on a sec,” John says, and – to Sherlock’s brief dismay, stops touching him. “This will help,” he says, reaching behind him. He scrabbles about, then finds what he wanted: a small tube of hand lotion. “Okay – where were we?”

Sherlock can only watch as John’s hand slides down into his pants again, now slick with lotion. A sound that could charitably called a moan escapes him – the sensation is immediately better, and he wasn’t complaining before. It’s so good that it’s all he can do to keep from making a whole lot more sound. It’s escaping from between his clenched teeth and nose in gusts of air, his eyes closed again. It’s rising through him, curling up tightly from the depths, spreading through his body like molten gold. He’s never felt so good in his life. The pleasure is gripping him, John’s hand jerking him hard, hard – his mouth is on Sherlock’s throat again and that does it. He lets out a shout that won’t be held in and comes profusely all over his own stomach and t-shirt and quite probably John’s hand and arm.

When the orgasm releases him, he is weak and trembling, gasping, sweat on his forehead, and John is holding him close. “You all right?” John murmurs.

Sherlock nods, still breathing hard, and opens his eyes. “Thank you.”

John surges into him and kisses him hard, holding his face again. “Thank you,” he returns, kissing Sherlock’s face, his cheeks and chin and then his mouth again, then again. “I’ve wanted to do that for so long. It was all right? You – liked it?”

Sherlock feels his lips twitch. “I think the evidence would more than suggest I did,” he says. “I’m – sorry. I – made a mess.”

John grins. “I made a mess, I think. You did like it, though?”

There’s a touch of real worry there, so Sherlock makes himself stop evading it. “I… loved it,” he confesses, his voice low. “It’s… that was the first time anyone has ever done anything like that for me. It was – incredible. I’ve never felt so good.”

John kisses him again at this. “God, Sherlock, if you only knew how much I’d wanted to!” he says after, still holding Sherlock’s face. “I love you. I love you so much. All I wanted was to make you feel good.”

“You did,” Sherlock says, stating it clearly. But more importantly… “You said that I could, after. So – may I?”

“Only if you really want to,” John begins, but Sherlock waves this away.

“I want to,” he interrupts. “I might need you to – to guide me, a bit, though that was quite a good demonstration. But I really want to.”

John leans in and kisses him again for a long moment, then pulls back just enough to nod. “Okay,” he whispers. They kiss again, and John reaches down to push his own pyjama pants down. Sherlock lets his hand travel the length of John’s well-muscled back, then down onto the curve of his arse, fingertips collecting and storing information, then drifting somewhat hesitantly (yet his curiosity is immense) around his hip to settle over his arousal like a net, touching tentatively at first, then with growing familiarity.

His fingers take in the soft hairiness of John’s testicles, twitching at his touch, the contrast of the hard length of him, the wetness gathered at the tip. Without even seeing it with his eyes, Sherlock already knows that he wants to have this in his mouth sooner rather than later, to collect the taste of that wetness, feel the velvet skin there on his tongue. For now, he wraps his hand around John and begins to stroke the way John was doing.

John seems to be responding well. He is breathing hard, his forehead contracted, his exhalations shaky. “Oh my God, fuck Sherlock, that – ahhh!”

Pleased, Sherlock keeps going. “Should I – use the lotion?” he asks. “Is this – ?”

“You could,” John says, panting. “It’s already really good, though!”

This is inconclusive. Sherlock makes a decision based strictly on how it felt for him. “Where it is?”

“Here – ” John uncaps the tube with one hand and puts some into Sherlock’s, which he returns swiftly to John’s erection. John groans, curling forward to put his forehead on Sherlock’s shoulder as Sherlock rubs and squeezes the length of him. “A bit – if you could – ” John starts, but Sherlock immediately understands.

“Faster?” he asks, already increasing his speed, and John responds with a stream of profanity exhaled into the material of Sherlock’s t-shirt. He reaches down to grip at Sherlock’s arse, curling a leg over Sherlock’s thigh and then comes hard, his breath choking out of him, the hot spray of it warm where it lands on Sherlock. He keeps touching John until a shiver of oversensitivity runs through him, then stops, putting his arm around John’s back again, conscious of his sticky hand and trying not to touch John with it.

John’s back is heaving, his breath hot on Sherlock’s shoulder and neck. Sherlock eases his thigh between John’s to better support his upper leg and John presses his mostly-spent genitals into his clothed thigh, as though finding comfort in the touch. “God,” he breathes. “You’re phenomenal, Sherlock. Absolutely incredible.”

Sherlock can feel himself brighten. “It was all right?”

“So much more than all right!” John is still panting. “That was incredible! Hang on, I’ve got wipes somewhere.” He pats around behind him, not pulling his legs out of the tangle they’ve made, then returns with a packet of wet wipes. “I probably got you pretty good.”

“As I did you,” Sherlock responds, still a bit self-conscious about it.

John chuckles. “Sex is messy. God, that was hot, though, seeing you come that hard!”

Sherlock feels his face heat, accepting a wipe and cleaning off his sticky hand. “Same, with you,” he says modestly. They clean each other’s t-shirts and skin and the sleeping bag where it was soiled, then throw the wipes into a corner of the tent and John inserts himself back into Sherlock’s arms properly, making a long, deeply-contented sound. Sherlock’s arms seem to fold themselves around John instinctively, his face bending to John’s hair, pressing there. “Do your legs still hurt?”

John gives a muffled laugh against his shoulder. “Only now that you’ve reminded me. You distracted me pretty thoroughly there.”

This pleases Sherlock. “Good,” he says. An enormous yawn steals over him. “Is it – are we sleeping now?” he asks.

John catches the yawn and nods during it. “Yeah. I think so. Don’t go anywhere, though.”

Sherlock has no intention of going anywhere. “Do I need to set an alarm?”

This makes John pause. “I don’t think so,” he says after a bit. “I mean, they said our part of the case is done, right? I guess if they want to phone us, they can. We’ll just get ourselves back into town so that we’re in range, but I think we’re off the hook, don’t you?”

“Good. That’s what I was hoping you would say.” Sherlock lets his body relax fully now, shifting even closer to John. He yawns again.

John turns his face inward, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s pulse point. “Night,” he says, his breathing noticeably slower already.

Sherlock kisses the top of his head. “Good night.”

They sleep.

***

Sherlock wakes sometime in the night, simultaneously shivering, yet unmistakeably aroused. John is half on top of him, the hard shape of his erection pressed into Sherlock’s thigh, Sherlock’s boring into John’s hip. He reaches awkwardly, trying to find the zip to pull his side of the sleeping bag all the way closed to keep the cold mountain air out around their shoulders.

John wakes, blurry and soft. “Sherlock?”

“Sorry. Just trying to zip us in all the way,” Sherlock says, keeping his voice down.

“Time is it?”

“I don’t know. Late. Or early.”

John shivers then and finds the zip on his side. “God, I’m hard,” he says, as though just noticing it. “Mmm.” He shifts closer again and slides a hand up Sherlock’s t-shirt, rubbing against his peaked (cold) nipple. He makes another appreciative sound at the hiss of Sherlock’s inhalation, then gets properly on top of him. “You’re hard, too,” he murmurs, mouth half an inch from Sherlock’s.

Sherlock can only nod, his mouth dropping open at the feel of John against him.

John drops his face and claims his mouth, his tongue strong against Sherlock’s, and it goes straight to his erection. One hand reaches down to push down both sets of pyjama pants and the first touch of them, skin-to-skin, is electrifying.

Sherlock gasps and can’t seem to exhale, shivery shocks of pleasure darting through his frame like shooting stars. He puts out a hand and grasps blindly, stumbling on the tube of John’s hand lotion. He presses it into John’s hand and John makes a satisfied sound and gets it open, balancing his weight on one elbow. Then the tube is tossed away and John’s hand is slicing the ice-cold lotion over them both, making Sherlock gasp for a wholly different reason, but it warms soon enough.

John is moving over him, their erections sliding together, and it feels so good that Sherlock almost can’t breathe. He pulls John closer by both cheeks and grasps hard, silently giving him permission, breath gusting over his lips, and John – brilliant, clever John – gets it and goes faster, rocking and thrusting against him.

They’re straining together, heat building between them, pleasure collecting deliciously between their bodies. John bends and kisses him hungrily, his mouth demanding, and all Sherlock wants is to give him everything. John’s hips move even faster, and then he reaches beneath Sherlock to dig his fingers into the meat of his arse and that does it – Sherlock is sailing, a loud sound escaping his throat, the wet heat gushing between them, pleasure flooding his neurons. John follows a split second later, hips juddering forward as his body jets out his release.

John’s head drops down, mouth opens as he pants, his back heaving. “Holy fuck,” he breathes.

Sherlock pulls him down, collapsing the tight frame of John’s arms to bring the full weight of him onto his body, wrapping his arms around his back and savouring it hard. He’s not cold anymore, save possibly his fingertips, and that doesn’t matter. There’s wet warmth between them but it doesn’t matter. He can feel John’s erection softening next to his, still touching, and it’s the most profoundly intimate thing he’s ever experienced. “I love you.” He didn’t mean to say it; it just said itself.

John makes a loud sound in his ear, then lifts his head. “I love you, too,” he says, and kisses Sherlock for a long time.

Sherlock isn’t even conscious of when sleep steals over them both again.

***

He wakes up in the blue world of his tent, and it feels like a brand new world. John is still sleeping peacefully, his breathing deep and slow. It’s warm in the tent now – almost too warm. Sherlock reaches as far as he can without jostling John too much and manages to unzip one of the crescent windows in the tent, and that lets some cooler air in immediately. It feels nice. Sherlock turns so that his bare back is to the tent window and puts his arm around John again. He drifts back into the shallow levels of sleep, listening to the birds singing, soft sounds coming from the rest of the campground. It must still be early, then. It’s fine. They can lie in a bit.

John wakes awhile later, stirring and stretching. “Hello,” he says sleepily, but he’s smiling, evidently pleased enough to find himself there, naked and rather sticky, in Sherlock’s tent with him.

“Good morning,” Sherlock says. He’s uncertain about the protocols, but bends forward to put his lips to John’s forehead.

John responds by pulling his face down to kiss him on the mouth, a long press, and then another, deeper kiss that involves a lot of tongue. He pulls back, smiling. “I felt your heart rate accelerating during that.”

Sherlock’s mouth twitches. “That’s going to happen if you kiss me that way.”

“Oh, so I should do that again? Is that what I’m hearing?” John murmurs, going for Sherlock’s throat this time. He seems to have already deduced that this is a particularly sensitive place for Sherlock.

He responds with difficulty, tipping his head back to allow John better access. “I didn’t think I was – implying that, as such, but – ah – ”

He feels John’s chuckle through his skin, vibrating. “But not a terrible extrapolation, perhaps,” John says, somehow managing to make the word ‘extrapolation’ sensual. He surges up to claim Sherlock’s mouth again before he can attempt a response, another kiss that involves their tongues curling around each other’s and tangling, John’s lips strong on his, and it’s entirely too arousing.

“I didn’t – realise you were – ah – such a morning person,” Sherlock gets out as John goes back to his throat.

“I’m not. But waking up next to you will make me one, any day.” John smiles up at him, a heart-stopping smile, then returns to kissing his way across Sherlock’s chest, his clever tongue exploring Sherlock’s nipples, the planes of his torso, his belly.

“I must be – rather disgusting,” Sherlock says, breathing shallowly. “All that, last night – ”

“It’s fine,” John interrupts

“I don’t want it to be – ”

“It’s not.” John shifts lower now, unzipping the sleeping bag to give them both more room. When he reaches Sherlock’s erection, he takes a moment to look at it with evident satisfaction. “God, you have a nice cock. Of course you do. It matches the rest of you.”

Sherlock feels heat come into his face. He’s not sure how to respond to a compliment on this part of his anatomy. “Yours is nice, too,” he says, not quite managing eye contact. “From what it feels like, at least.”

John promptly sits back on his heels on Sherlock’s thighs, displaying his own very hard, flushed-dark erection. “Is it okay?” he asks. He seems light, but there’s a vulnerability there that Sherlock can just deduce.

He pushes himself up onto one elbow to get a better look, trying to disguise how greedy he is to see this part of John. He nods and swallows, looking up into John’s face. “It’s – perfect,” he says, reaching with his free hand to caress John’s thigh. “Just as I thought.”

John bends forward and kisses him hard. It lasts for several, rather wonderful moments, then he sits up again. “Pass me the packet of wipes?” He points at it, and Sherlock pats around until his hand lands on it. “We are both a bit crusty from last night – both rounds,” he says. “And I don’t want you to feel self-conscious about it for what I’m about to do.”

Sherlock wants to ask, but also wants to let John do whatever he wants, so waits, lips pressed together a bit as John cleans his chest, his belly, his pelvic bone, his thighs, and finally, his penis. He can hardly breathe. It feels extremely vulnerable, and yet he’s harder than ever when John tosses the packet away again, their eyes locked together.

John shifts down again begins to press kisses into the skin around the base of Sherlock’s erection, onto his testicles and inner thighs. It feels like being actively, tangibly loved. He drops back onto his pillow and closes his eyes, the feeling washing over him. When John’s mouth surrounds the head of his erection, he gasps in sharply, his fingers curling into the material of the sleeping bag. John lifts off. “Okay?” he asks, checking in.

Sherlock nods convulsively, his eyes still closed. “Very okay!”

“Mm. Good. I love this.” John’s mouth is back, sucking him gently, his tongue pressing up underneath, sliding his head down over Sherlock’s length over and over again.

It is, without doubt, the best thing that Sherlock has ever felt in his life. He is panting, his hips fighting to push upward into the suck of John’s lips, but he makes himself stay still. His legs are trembling, his breath shaky. John’s hand is there, too, jerking him hard as his mouth works over the head and it feels so good – it’s too good – “John – stop! I’m going to – ”

John doesn’t stop, and when Sherlock’s entire body convulses and comes, John is still there, waiting for it, swallowing it down, still touching him with his hand and mouth and tongue until it’s done and Sherlock’s body has gone slack, his mouth open. John crawls up beside him and curls himself around Sherlock’s heaving body, kissing his face and shoulder. “Okay?” he asks again, and Sherlock can only make a hoarse, very affirmative sound. “Good,” John says, sounding pleased. “I loved doing that. I love you.”

Sherlock’s heart attempts to do something physiologically impossible. He puts his arms around John and holds him as tightly as his very relaxed body will permit. “I love you, too.” He closes his eyes and puts his face into John’s hair, aware of John’s erection pushing into his hip. “Now let me,” he says, and musters himself into turning them over, surprising John vocally. “Can I try that?” Sherlock asks, very directly, from above John.

John nods so quickly it would almost be comical, but the desire on his face is unmistakeable. “Yeah. If you – yeah. Please.”

Sherlock is internally glad that John didn’t try to dissuade him or even suggest that him might not want to. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but he’s just had a very thorough demonstration that he’s not about to forget any time soon, and John is already breathing hard, the tip of his erection wet. Sherlock decides not to give himself time to hesitate. He positions himself between John’s thighs, grasps his penis, and puts it into his mouth. John’s response is immediate and very loud, his entire body spasming wonderfully. Pleased, Sherlock carries on, sucking, trying to keep his teeth out of the way, and remembering to use his hands and tongue the way John did. He finds a rhythm and locks into it, and John is clutching his hair with both hands, writhing under him, obviously trying to keep quiet but exhaling in moans. Sherlock catches the changes in his taste, the muscle spasm, right before it happens, and pulls back just in time to catch John’s release in his mouth and not choking on it. This is fascinating – gauging the entire process from start to finish, and having succeeded in bringing out John’s orgasm this way.

John’s fingers are soft now, combing almost obsessively through his hair. “Oh my God,” he breathes. “Oh, my God. That was incredible. How are you so good at this for your – ” He stops. “Sorry, I’m making assumptions.”

Sherlock pulls himself back up to lie beside John again. “No, you’re assuming correctly,” he says, trying not to feel self-conscious about it. “That – was my first attempt at that. As was all the rest of it.”

John searches his face for a second, then says, “Yeah?” Sherlock nods, and John smiles. “I really like that, Sherlock. I’m – I’m glad it was me.”

“So am I,” Sherlock tells him quietly, meaning it. “There was never anyone else, John.”

“Okay, come here,” John says, pulling Sherlock into his arms again and kissing him for a very long, very good time.

***

They take showers, dress, and ride the bus into town, eating croissants and lattes on a Sunday morning patio that’s somehow fairly quiet. The sun is out, beautifully warm but not yet blazing, and Sherlock is comfortable in his t-shirt and jeans.

They’re just discussing riding the gondola when Sherlock’s phone rings. It’s Mycroft. “My brother,” he says to John, then answers, putting it on speaker. “Mycroft.”

“Becca Bailey did not complete her hike and has been lying low, possibly hoping that her audience would forget about it,” Mycroft says without preamble. “She has been back at her parents’ house in Saskatoon ever since.”

“Ah. Well, that’s good,” Sherlock says. “Any progress from the RCMP on locating Elwood Kinton?”

“Yes, that’s primarily why I phoned,” Mycroft informs him. “He had returned to Maine two days ago, and is currently on a plane. He’s expected at the RCMP station in Banff by four o’clock this afternoon, and the two of you are welcome to attend his interrogation, should you wish.”

“We might just do that,” Sherlock says, looking at John, who nods. “I assume this means they got a print match?”

“No, his prints weren’t in any system. He does not possess a criminal record. The fact that his face is the last thing on Jonathan Landry’s camera is evidence enough. They’ll take his prints before the interrogation starts.” Mycroft pauses. “You two have done well. I’m given to understand that the second hike in particular was difficult.”

“It was all right,” Sherlock says. “We managed.”

“As I knew you would. How’s camping?”

Mycroft is clearly sniggering on his end. Sherlock refuses to be baited. “Lovely, in fact,” he says smoothly. “We may just camp again sometime.”

John gives him an astonished but pleased look, smiling, and Sherlock smiles back. Mycroft sounds less delighted. “I see,” he says flatly.

“Don’t sound so pleased,” Sherlock chides him, inwardly tickled. “Your ineptitude at securing accommodation actually worked out in our favour in the end. We haven’t even been attacked by grizzlies. Hate to disappoint you.”

“No you don’t. Let me know how the interrogation goes.” Mycroft hangs up.

They both laugh. “That was fantastic,” John declares. “I’ve never heard Mycroft so squelched. I love it.” He checks the time. “All right, it’s just after noon now. Do you want to go to the gondola now so that we’re back in good time for the interrogation?”

“I would love to.” Sherlock smiles at him. “Let’s go.”

***

The gondola ride is fun. They share a small capsule that they share with two other people as they’re whisked up the mountain. The views are stunning. The little car swings in a stomach-swooping manner passing over a support pole and John involuntarily reaches over and grabs for his hand. Sherlock takes it and squeezes, not caring if the couple opposite them care in the slightest. John’s reaction makes him feel better about his own nerves.

At the top, they forego the indoor interpretive centre in favour of gazing out at the sweeping view of the mountain ranges on all sides, a brisk wind keeping them from getting too hot in the sun. John points out the long series of stairs leading to the official summit of the mountain and asks if Sherlock wants to explore them. “Or are your legs too sore?” he asks.

“They’re actually not bad,” Sherlock says. “Perhaps the – overnight activity helped.”

He can feel the corner of his mouth attempting to smirk as he says this, and John leans over and kisses him, right there in the middle of all the tourists. “I’m glad,” he says after, smiling. “In that case, let’s go and see.”

The stairs are a bit of a pain, but the views more than make up for it. Sherlock is also entranced by the beauty of the pines much closer to hand, crimson pinecones among the rather lovely branches. “Is this actually the most beautiful place in the world?” he asks, reaching out to touch a branch.

“Yeah, it might be,” John says, not poking fun at the sentimental question. “It really might be. I think it always will be, at least for me.”

He twines their fingers together as he says this, and Sherlock smiles at him, understanding. He squeezes, then says, “Next set of stairs?”

“Let’s go.”

They reach the summit and take selfies, as well as ridiculous numbers of photos of everything else. “We’re being just as insufferable as everyone else,” Sherlock points out, agreeing to a silly pose with John standing in front of him, Sherlock smiling over his shoulder.

“We’ve earned some insufferability. We solved a murder,” John says, obviously not caring.

“I don’t think that’s a word.” Sherlock presses a kiss under John’s ear.

“‘Murder’ is definitely a word.” John captures this, too, then looks at the photo. “Oh, that turned out! Look: I love the way we look together.”

Sherlock looks obligingly. John is smiling, looking happier than Sherlock has ever seen him, directly into the camera. His own head is tipped to the side, cheekbones prominent owing to his pursed lips, just visible at John’s ear, his arms wrapped possessively around John’s middle. He feels a sense of wonder, almost as though he’s looking at someone else. “So do I,” he says. He means to say more with this, but the words don’t quite come. He hugs John harder instead, trying to communicate it.

John gets it. He leans his head back, turning his face, and Sherlock understands and kisses him, right there on top of the world, just a few metres from the busy summit. The kiss grows, their tongues getting involved, and Sherlock thinks that he himself has never looked or been so happy, either.

***

Elwood Kinton looks as grumpy as his anonymous comments sounded. His prints match the prints taken from Jonathan Landry’s camera lens, yet the full confession is difficult to prise out of him.

“Why were you handling the camera?” John asks him.

Kinton hesitates. “I’d thought about throwing it after him, but changed my mind, I guess.”

“Did you really think that the body wouldn’t be seen or found?”

Kinton shrugs. “He could have just fallen. I mean – it was an accident. It was just something that happened in the heat of the moment. We were arguing and I just lost my temper. It’s not like it was premeditated.”

Sherlock knits his fingers together. “You followed him,” he says. “You planned that. You knew that he was hiking Sentinel Pass and you went after him. Deliberately. Do you deny this?”

Kinton glares. “You have no proof of that.”

“It’s a simple enough connection,” Sherlock says coolly. “Your last comment on Landry’s blog was the day before he stated his intention to bring back a piece of the striated rock. And to cut through the switchbacks.”

Kinton’s face darkens. “People like him don’t deserve to be hiking in places like this, no respect for the land, no respect for Leave No Trace.”

“But he deserved to die, by your estimation?” John counters.

Kinton looks away. “It just happened, okay?”

“Not okay, actually,” one of the RCMP officers puts in. “That’s murder. You know who else doesn’t deserve to hiking in a place like this? Murderers.”

“I just wanted to confront him in person!” Kinton retorts, as though he still thinks he has the upper hand in the argument.

“Then why didn’t you propose that?” Sherlock asks. “You could have let him know that you were going to be here at the same time. You could have proposed a meeting in the town. You could have tried to convince him to hike more responsibly.”

“But you didn’t,” John says, stacking this on what Sherlock has said. “Instead, you stalked him like prey and confronted him at the most vulnerable point of the hike. That sounds pretty premeditated to me.”

Kinton’s face turns red. “The most vulnerable – that could have been any point on the way up to the pass! Even on the lower switchbacks in the forest! I could have pushed him anywhere!”

“But you did, in fact, push him off the pass,” Sherlock says. “Which you had previously encouraged others on Reddit to do.”

“So what if I did!” Kinton explodes. “He was taking selfies with his stupid hat and the rock sample and blocking the trail on top of it, right at the top of the switchbacks, like he was the only person on the planet. No consideration for anyone else.”

John looks at Sherlock, then back at Elwood. “So you lost your temper and pushed him very soon after that. Is that what you’re saying?”

Kinton opens his mouth and seems to realise that he’s all but said it. “I – didn’t say that,” he says uneasily. “You’re putting words in my mouth.”

“Come on,” Sherlock says impatiently. “We know you pushed him. You said ‘so what if I did’. That’s hardly a denial. Are you trying to deny that you pushed Landry off the pass to his death?”

“You’re on the record,” an RCMP officer reminds him.

Kinton looks around the room and deflates. “I don’t deny it,” he says heavily.

“Is that an admission?” The officer is on his feet.

Elwood Kinton rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms. “Yeah. I guess so. I did push him. I didn’t mean to, but I did.”

“You did follow him,” Sherlock reminds him. “You intended the confrontation. You chose the setting.”

Kinton’s shoulders slump and he does not deny this. Sherlock looks at John, then gets to his feet. “I believe you can take it from here,” he says to the officers. “Come on, John.”

They leave, walking the short distance back toward the centre of the town. “The thing is,” John says, “apart from the premeditated murder bit, it’s hard not to sympathise a little. The tourists and influencers and content creators are incredibly irritating. And they do damage the fragile landscape.”

“It’s true,” Sherlock says. “I thought you said it’s only me who detests influencers.”

“Nah, it’s everyone,” John says, taking his hand as they walk. “You just don’t murder them.”

“Not so far,” Sherlock agrees, smirking.

John leans into his shoulder. “Let’s keep it that way, yeah? I like having you around.”

“I suppose,” Sherlock says, but squeezes John’s hand. “Should we find ourselves some supper?”

“Exactly what I was going to suggest. What do you feel like?”

“Anything,” Sherlock says recklessly, and means it. As long as John it there, anything will be perfect.

***

Sherlock wakes in the chill dawn, John’s arms under his neck and over his chest, warm against the much cooler air around them in the tent. What has woken him? He listens. There is light outside the tent, but he thinks that it’s still pre-dawn.

There: he hears the rustling of something very large and quite close by and he freezes. Did they leave anything out? He doesn’t think so. If it’s the bear that’s been lurking around the campground, can it have scented anything in the rental car? Or – can it smell them? (Do grizzlies stalk humans in extreme hunger? He thinks they may.) The rustling comes again and Sherlock breaks out in a cold sweat, aware of the very thin walls of nylon separating them several tonnes of muscle, fur, claws, and teeth that can outrun them, outclimb them, and outswim them. The rustling is closer to the tent than the rental car is. They would never make it.

He reaches up to squeeze John’s arm where it’s lying across his chest. “John.” It’s a whisper. “John. Wake up.”

“Hmm?” John’s voice is very sleepy.

“Shh! Wake up. I think there’s a bear outside the tent.”

John comes fully awake at that, jolting. “Are you sure?” Now he’s whispering, too.

“No, but there’s something outside. Something quite large.” Sherlock can’t contain his anxiety.

They separate, turning themselves over to get more upright. “It’s only just getting light out,” John whispers. “I’m going to take a peek, if I can.”

Sherlock grabs at his arm. “Are you sure? What if the sound of the zip alarms or enrages it? Or draws its attention to us?”

“If it’s a bear, it will already know we’re here,” John says. “It will have smelt us from much further away. And I suspect that if it was hunting, we’d already be dead.”

“That’s not as reassuring as I suspect you think it is,” Sherlock says, but it does actually help a bit.

John leans over and kisses him on the cheek. “I’ll just take a very quiet look here.” He gets down on his front and unzip the door of the tent about five centimetres, very slowly and cautiously, and peers out through the gap. After a moment, he says, “Oh!” in quite a different tone .

Sherlock is tense. “What is it?” he asks, his voice low and intense.

In response, John unzips the tent door the rest of the way. “Look,” he says. He sits up and reaches back for the two spare blankets and drapes one over their nude laps and the other around their shoulders against the cold.

Outside their tent, feeding on the wildflowers and grasses at the edge of the site, are three large, stately, graceful elk. They are majestic: larger than deer, but no less beautiful. “Oh,” Sherlock says, hearing the wonder in his own voice. “Is it – safe to be this close to them?”

“The Park’s materials said forty metres, but they’re the ones who have come near us,” John points out. “And they’re just eating. I don’t think we’ll bother them in the slightest. Aren’t they lovely?”

Sherlock nods, wordless.

John puts an arm around his waist and finds Sherlock’s hand with the other, his head leaning on Sherlock’s. “What a lovely way to wake up on our last morning here. It almost feels like a gift from the universe.”

Someday, Sherlock thinks, he’ll be able to say things like this as freely as John can. He would like to be able to do that, for John’s sake. “It does,” he agrees.

John turns his head to press a kiss to Sherlock’s curls as they sit there, nude beneath the blankets, the rest of the campground still asleep, watching the animals feed just steps away. “I know you’ve been worried about bears this whole trip. I was never going to let you get eaten, you know.”

Sherlock pauses. “It was that obvious?”

“Bit, yeah.” John kisses him again. “It’s kind of endearing, if you want to know. You, who have no fear of the worst criminals and terrorists in the world, afraid of bears!”

“Grizzlies are ruthless,” Sherlock says, only a little bit defensive.

“Yup. Ruthless killing machines,” John says easily, his arm tightening. “Good thing you’re not a blueberry or you’d be done for.”

“That was uncalled-for,” Sherlock complains.

John chuckles, the vibration of it buzzing through Sherlock’s frame. “Yeah,” he says. “But I love you, so there’s that.”

Sherlock considers this. “I suppose I have to accept that.”

John turns properly and kisses him on the mouth now. “Yeah,” he says after. “I suppose you do.”

Sherlock leans in for another and John doesn’t deny him, nor after that, either. The elk move off sometime as they kiss, wandering over into the neighbouring site to feast on their columbines and paintbrushes. Sherlock watches them go, then turns back to John with a gleam in his eye. “Close the door,” he says.

And John does.

*