*Flashback*

I thought when Mary said we would be bonding that she meant having some one-on-one time together. Having her and Dad over at 221B, having a crucial area of the apartment laid out with wedding things to be looked over wasn't what I'd imagined. Since Dad, Mary, and even Sherlock got in on the planning, I had no choice but to be roped in too.

Dad sat in his chair, looking through things on his phone. Mary was at the dining table, with a 3D model of the reception venue near her. That was the least crazy thing about this setup. Sherlock had a bulletin board above my makeshift bed, covered in papers. They ranged in different areas: transport, catering, rehearsal, and wine, just to name a few.

Sherlock was occupied with his organized chaos on the wall while I lounged in his chair. He'd made no comments, being too preoccupied with other things. Then again, he was no Sheldon Cooper, who wouldn't let anyone sit in his spot.

"Need to work on your half of the church, Mary," Sherlock told her. "Looking a bit thin."

"Ah, orphan's lot," Mary responded. A smile was on her face. "Friends—that's all I have. Lots of friends."

"Schedule the organ music to begin precisely at eleven forty-eight."

I shook my head. "But the rehearsal's not for another two weeks. Just calm down."

"Calm? I am calm. I'm extremely calm."

"Really?"

"Rachel, don't mess with him," Mary scolded me. "Let's get back to the reception, come on." Sherlock joined Mary over at the table. She handed in an RVSP card. "John's cousin. Top table?"

Sherlock looked over the card. "Hmm. Hates you. Can't even bear to think about you."

"Seriously?" Mary looked up at him.

"Second class post, cheap card," he sniffed, scowling, "bought it at a petrol station. Look at the stamp: three attempts at licking. She's obviously unconsciously retaining saliva."

"Ah. Let's stick her by the bogs," Mary threw over her shoulder to my dad.

"Oh yes," Sherlock agreed.

My brows came together. "Do I want to know what those are?"

"They're toilets." Sherlock sat down with Mary.

I wrinkled my nose. "Sorry I said anything."

"Who else hates me?" Mary whispered. Sherlock handed her a piece of paper. "Oh, great—thanks."

"Priceless painting nicked. Looks interesting," Dad muttered. I started giggling to myself. "What's so funny?"

"Oh, I don't know, the fact that your middle name is Hamish," I sang. I remembered Mary and my dad having a brief argument about it being on the wedding invitation. "I learn this now? We've known each other for two years."

"Don't feel bad, Rachel. It took me a while to hear it," Sherlock told me.

"You stole my birth certificate," Dad retorted.

"Huh, I should have done that," I mused.

"All you would have had to do was ask, I would have told you."

"No, you wouldn't have," Sherlock and I said in unison.

"I would tell you mine if you asked," I told Dad.

"What is it, then?"

I smiled. "Avril. It's unique, like yours, but mine sounds a lot better." Dad rolled his eyes. "On another related note, does your family—sorry, our family—know about me?" I asked. "You've had more than enough time to tell them."

"It's slipped my mind. I don't really reach out much."

"I guess not. You're not embarrassed by me, are you?"

Dad picked his brown eyes off the phone to look at me in astonishment. "God, no. Why would I be?"

"Well, why wouldn't you tell them about me? I'm your daughter."

"Table four," Mary shot off.

"Done," Sherlock told her.

"Can you at least tell me about any immediate family?" I probed.

"Well, there's your aunt Harry," Dad said. He went back to his phone, laughing. "My husband is three people."

"Way to blow me off, Dad."

"Table five," Mary listed.

"Major James Sholto," Sherlock read. "Who's he?"

"Oh, John's old commanding officer. I don't think he's coming."

"He'll be there," Dad cut in.

"Well, he needs to RSVP, then."

"He'll be there."

"Mmm..."

"My husband is three people," Dad repeated. "It's interesting. Says he has three distinct patterns of moles on his skin."

Sherlock sprung from his chair. "Identical triplets—one in half a million births. Solved it without leaving the flat. Now, serviettes." He went over to the coffee table, squatting down in front of it. Sherlock pulled a tray out from under it, revealing two napkin creations. "Swan, or Sydney Opera House?"

"Where'd you learn to do that?" Mary gasped.

Sherlock looked down. "Many unexpected skills required in the field of criminal investigation—"

"Fibbing, Sherlock."

"I once broke an alibi by demonstrating the exact severity of—"

"I'm not John. I can tell when you're fibbing."

"Okay—I learned it on Youtube."

I smiled, remembering. I'd tried to join him, but I gave up very quickly. Napkin shaping wasn't my thing, but apparently it was Sherlock's. What could that man not do?

"Opera House, please," Mary requested. She reached into a pocket. "Ooh, hang on. I'm buzzing." She pulled out her phone, ready to answer. "Hello?" She stood up for a second, listening. "Oh, hi, Beth!" Mary headed for the kitchen. "Yeah, yeah, don't see why not."

"Actually, if that's Beth, it's probably for me too," Dad decided. "Hang on." He abandoned the room, leaving me to watch Sherlock.

I observed Sherlock quietly as he continued to transform napkins into the Opera House style Mary decided to go along with. He was making them like he was being paid millions to do so. While Dad and Mary were still in the kitchen, Sherlock managed to conjure up at least twenty Opera House shapes. There were plenty more, I just didn't feel like counting the grand total.

"You're a man of many talents," I said lightly, lurching out of Sherlock's chair to hover over his work. I shook my head in awe as I saw, though some were smaller than others, they all looked very identical. Sherlock sat cross-legged in front of me, having his head propped up by one hand.

He briefly whipped his head around, long enough to notice me, and Dad—who'd slipped away from Mary, it seemed—before gesturing to his handiwork.

"That just sort of...happened," he said.

Dad scowled briefly before smiling. His brown eyes flew to the kitchen for the smallest second before he walked to Sherlock.

"Sherlock, um," he began. In the meantime, the napkin transformer got to his feet. "...mate...I-I've..." He gravitated towards the table where the 3D venue model was. Sherlock's eyes glanced towards the kitchen.

I figured since this was just a Dad-and-Sherlock conversation, I would join Mary. I didn't want to be awkwardly standing around while they talked. When I got to the kitchen, Mary wasn't on the phone anymore.

"Who's Beth again?" I whispered.

Mary smiled at me. "Nobody."

I raised an eyebrow. "Are you scheming something?"

"Your dad needs to run Sherlock, really badly."

"You think? He's been caught up in helping with the planning. God, I hope he doesn't do this at my wedding."

"He's trying to rope him into a case now."

"Are they going to be able to do that once you're married?" I threw a glance over my shoulder towards the living room.

"Probably not as often as they did before I came into the picture." Mary hesitated. "You're okay with this, aren't you?"

I blinked at her. "Of course I am. Why wouldn't I be?"

"Well, I'm not your mother. It must bother you on some level, Rachel."

I let out a breath. "It does, but I'm not letting that get to me. This isn't about me; it's about my dad marrying someone he loves."

"Speaking of the wedding, is Bayley coming?"

"Unless he gets sick." I beamed.

"I'm glad. I'll finally get to meet him too! I think he's a keeper." She nudged me playfully. I blushed. "You better get back out there."

Nodding, I sauntered back out to the living room to catch the tail end of the conversation.

"Let's go and investigate. Please?" Dad begged.

"Elite Guard."

"Forty enlisted men and officers."

"Why this particular Grenadier? Curious."

"Now you're talking."

Dad and Sherlock rose from their chairs, heading to the doors while Mary came back, pretending to talk with "Beth."

"'Bye," she murmured into the phone.

"Er, we're just going to..." Dad stammered. "I need, um, Sherlock to help me choose some, er socks."

I kept my hand over my mouth so I wouldn't laugh. Sherlock had said "ties" around the same time Dad claimed they were choosing socks.

"Why don't we go with socks?" Mary suggested.

"Yeah."

"I mean, you've got to get the right ones."

"Exactly—to go with my—" Once again, Dad uttered "outfit" the moment Sherlock blurted out "tie." They really need to work on that.

"That'll take a while, right?" Mary looked to my dad.

"My coat in there?" Dad gestured to the kitchen.

"Yes!"

While Dad went to fetch his coat, Sherlock approached Mary. "Just going to take him out for a bit—run him," he said.

"I know." Sherlock smiled at her. "You said you'd find him a case!"

"Come on, Sherlock," Dad called.

"Coming," he replied.

I watched this unfold with curious eyes. Sherlock was in one doorway, my dad in the other. Both of them gave Mary double thumbs-up. As they both left, Mary noticed the stare I was giving her.

"You, my friend, are an evil genius," I admitted. "Teach me how to play sides like that someday, will you?"

"Will you use it for good and not evil?"

"It'll depend on the occasion." I shrugged. "So no promises."

"You aren't going with them?"

"Oh no, I'm not going to bother."

"Why not? Weren't you involved in one?"

"Yes, but I had my reasons. I know Dad told you about it."

Mary looked away. "Right. Sorry, I forgot."

I shook my head dismissively. "That's the only case I've ever been on. Solving cases isn't a father-daughter thing; it's a Sherlock-Dad thing."

~*~

Present Day

I snapped out of the memory, recalling what I'd learned after Dad and Sherlock had returned from that case. The man believed he was stalked, having pictures taken of him. I was sure there were other details I was forgetting. At least I could pull myself into that memory while Sherlock told the boring aspect of that case.

"Private Bainbridge had just come off guard duty." Sherlock's voice brought me back into reality. "He'd stood there for hours, plenty of people watching, nothing apparently wrong. He came off duty and within minutes was nearly dead from a wound in his stomach, but there was no weapon." Ah, right. How could I forget that part of the case? "Where did it go?

"Ladies and gentlemen, I invite you to consider this: a murderer who can walk through walls, a weapon that can vanish—but in all of this there is only one element which can be said to be truly remarkable. Would anyone like to make a guess?" Some of the guests looked at each other. "Come on, come on, there is actually an element of Q and A to all of this." Sherlock cleared his throat. "Scotland Yard." At this, Greg picked his head up. "Have you got a theory?" Greg just stared at him. "Yeah, you. You're a detective—broadly speaking. Got a theory?"

It took Greg a moment to gather his thoughts. "Er, um, if the, uh, if the, if-if, if the blade was, er, propelled through the, um...grating in the air vent...maybe a-a ballista or a—or a—or a catapult. Erm, somebody tiny could crawl in there." He inhaled hugely. "So, yeah, we're loo...we're looking for a-a dwarf."

"Brilliant."

"Really?"

"No. Next!" There was temporary silence "Hello? Who was that?" My brows came together. How could Sherlock hear somebody whisper? This room didn't echo. "Tom." Molly's fiancé slowly got to his feet. "Got a theory?"

"Um...attempted suicide, with a blade made of compacted blood and bone; broke after piercing his abdomen...like a meat...dagger."

Molly looked mortified by her boyfriend's—sorry, no, fiancé's—theory.

"A meat dagger," Sherlock repeated precisely. Like others here, he knew the idea was ridiculous.

"Yes."

Molly hissed something to Tom, because he sat back down very quickly.

"There was one feature, and only one feature, of interest in the whole of this baffling case, and quietly frankly it was the usual. John Watson—who, while I was trying to solve the murder, instead saved a life."

I grinned.

"There are mysteries worth solving and stories worth telling. The best and bravest man I know—and on top of that he actually knows how to do stuff...except wedding planning and serviettes—he's rubbish at those."

We guests laughed.

"The case itself remains the most ingenious and brilliantly-planned murder—or attempted murder—I've ever had the pleasure to encounter; the most perfect locked-room mystery of which I am aware. However, I'm not just here to praise John—I'm also here to embarrass him, so let's move on to some—"

"No, wait," Greg cut Sherlock off. "So how was it...how was it done?"

"How was what done?"

"The stabbing."

Sherlock looked down for a few seconds before looking up again. "I'm afraid I don't know. I didn't solve that one. That's...It can happen sometimes. It's very...very disappointing." I heard him take a breath. "Embarrassment leads me on to the stag night." Inwardly, I groaned. "Of course there's hours of material here, but I've cut it down to the really good bits."

I was the one who took a huge breath now. Though I wasn't around for most of that night, parts of it I remembered.