Dad never questioned why I wanted his address when I landed in London.

Not heading for Baker Street was foreign to me. I guess I still hadn't adjusted to not seeing Dad in 221B. But I guess that's not true, considering a little over a month ago I'd gotten used to it quite quickly. I shoved that time frame from my head.

The cab got me pretty close to my destination. I paid her like the good person I was and hauled out all of my things. It didn't take me long to find Dad and Mary, I could see them up ahead. Dad looked to be dressed, Mary was still in pajamas. Are they arguing? They were talking, that was for sure.

Swallowing the lump in my throat, I walked towards the couple.

"Seriously?" Mary asked.

Dad spun around to her. "Why not? She's not going to the police. Someone's got to get him."

"Why you?" Mary stopped at a gate, Dad kept on moving.

"I'm being neighborly."

"Since when?"

Dad let out a laugh. "Since now. Since this exact minute."

"Why are you being so...?" Mary gestured wildly with her hands.

I hadn't realized they'd invested in a car until I saw Dad round to the driver's side door.

"What?"

"I dunno. What's the matter with you?"

"There is nothing the matter with me." I flinched as I picked up on Dad's tone. "Imagine I said that without shouting." He said that in a lower, calmer tone.

"I'm trying." Mary finally noticed me. "Oh, Rachel, you're here."

I threw a weak smile. "I'm guessing this is a bad time?"

"It isn't," Dad told me. "I was hoping you were coming a bit later."

"Why?"

"My friend's son has gone missing. Your father is apparently going to go find him," Mary murmured.

I tossed a strange look at my dad. "You're finding lost children now?"

"Mary, help Rachel put her things in the house. Stay with her," Dad commanded.

"Whoa, hey, you're going all by yourself? Just what kid are we dealing with?"

"He's into drugs," Mary explained.

"Oh yeah, you're not going by yourself."

"I can handle myself, Rachel," Dad insisted. "You know that as well as Mary."

"Still, you don't know what people do when they're on drugs. I'm going to go put these away, and then Mary and I are going with you."

Mary and I passed each other as she hustled towards the car whilst I made a beeline through the gate and to the house. I quickly dropped my things in, racing to the car as Mary was already in the passenger seat. I hopped in the back. Dad merely shook his head before starting the car.

Awkward silence fell in the car for almost fifteen minutes. During that time, I chewed on my nails and wondered where we were headed.

"We've got to say, Rachel, this is a bit unexpected," Mary said. "John had told me you asked for our address. What's the reason for coming back so soon?"

"I got ambushed by my friends and my boyfriend to return," I said a bit sourly. "They felt that our Skype conversation wasn't enough. They felt it important that I come back to strengthen the family bond."

"Isn't that a bit much?" asked Dad.

"Not to them. Believe me, I tried to make them see reason."

"We are happy to see you, Rachel. I just wish it wasn't like this," Mary said sincerely.

"I don't plan on staying long, just long enough to make them happy. Besides, I know you two have lives to live."

"You can stay as long as you want," Dad insisted. "I wish you'd stayed behind and waited for us to get this sorted out."

I snorted. "Oh, please. You know as well as I do that every time I come back here, I'm always dragged into something."

"Dragged, volunteered. Sounds all the same to you, eh?"

I rolled my eyes.

Our trio pulled up to a nasty, shady-looking place. Dad got out while Mary remained in the car. Dad went towards the trunk to get something, which sparked me getting out of the car. Mary and I exchanged a curious look. She burst out laughing as she saw Dad carry out a tire iron.

"What is that?" she snickered.

"It's a tire lever," Dad told her.

Even I had to snort a laugh. "Why?"

Dad gestured to the house. "'Cause there are loads of smackheads in there, and one of them might need help with a tire. If there's any trouble, just go. I'll be fine."

"Even with that I'm not letting you go alone," I stated boldly, walking to stand in front of the car. "Mary has a good reason to stay behind, I don't."

"The hell you don't. You're my daughter; I'm not letting you go in there with me."

"I appreciate your protection, Dad, but I've been in rooms with people much worse than druggies." Without another word, I headed for the shady place. I wasn't about to wait for my dad to catch up.

Once I got to the front door, I understood why druggies would come here. PRIVATE PROPERTY. KEEP OUT said the sign on the door. I was tempted to knock, but Dad came out of nowhere beside me, banging on it loudly. I cringed.

I refrained from gagging when a guy wearing a jacket, hood pulled up, answered the door. He definitely looked like he hadn't showered for a few days. I wasn't about to risk my nose with a whiff of his body odor.

"What d'you want?" he snapped.

"'Scuse me," Dad said, barging right past the guy. I followed right in tow, hoping the druggie didn't touch me.

The hall we entered was vast and vacant. There's got to be other levels to this house. Is this guy the guard or something? I looked back at our greeter. He didn't look like guard material. I bet none who were in Stoner Palace looked it.

"You can't come in 'ere!" he bellowed.

"We're looking for a friend," Dad stated, walking further ahead. I watched our door greeter warily. "A very specific friend—we're not just browsing." I heard Dad come back my way. I could breathe a little easier with him and a tire iron on my side.

"You've gotta go. No one's allowed 'ere."

"Isaac Whitney. You seen him?"

My eyes widened as our greeter whipped out a knife. He gestured towards the open door.

"He's asking you if you've seen Isaac Whitney, and now you're showing us a knife," I said flatly. "Is it a clue?"

"Are you doing a mime?" Dad added as our greeter pointed towards the door with the knife.

"Go. Or I'll cut you," the druggie threatened.

"Ooh, not from there. Let me help."

"Dad," I squeaked, now a little worried as he was tempting our greeter by getting within range of the knife. Even our greeter was surprised by my dad's bold move.

"Now, concentrate. Isaac Whitney."

"Okay, you asked for it," our greeter snarled.

Dad attacked first, seizing the druggie's right arm with his left hand, slamming his right hand down on the guy's arm. I cringed as the man cried out in pain. Dad wasn't finished with him yet; he got a hand around the guy's neck, slamming him into a wall, kicking the guy's feet out from under him in a swift sweep. The guy slid down the wall, moaning, while Dad took a step back, bending down to retrieve the knife.

I could only stare in amazement. He was one badass guy, and I was proud to call him my dad.

"Right." I crept closer as Dad squatted next to our defeated druggie. "Are you concentrating yet?"

"You broke my arm!" our greeter whined.

"No, I sprained it."

Holy shit. Dad looked around, which made me in turn do the same.

"It feels squishy! Is it supposed to feel squishy?" The druggie held his "broken" arm out for my dad. "Feel that!"

Dad squeezed the arm in question, which received a groan from its owner. "Yeah, it's a sprain. I'm a doctor—I know how to sprain people." He let go of the arm. "Now where is Isaac Whitney?"

"I don't know!"

Dad gave him a look.

"Maybe upstairs."

"There you go." Dad patted his leg. "Wasn't that easy?" He stood erect and brushed past me. I whirled around, trailing him.

"No. It's really sore. You're mental, you are."

"No. Just used to a better class of criminal."

As Dad and I made the climb up the stairs, I realized I'd found a whole new respect for him. He faced danger without a second thought. I guess he was used to that, considering he had been an army doctor.

"Can you teach me how to do that?" I half joked.

"I would rather not."

I pouted. "That was still pretty badass."

All talk stopped the moment we reached the top. I wanted to pity the people in here, but I couldn't find it in my heart to. How can people do this on a daily basis? I wouldn't even try this.

The stoners in here either laid on mattresses or were leaning against the walls. They all looked so spaced out, like they were in their own little world. I stuck close to Dad, as though any of these druggies would jump out and hurt us.

"Isaac?" Dad whispered. "Isaac Whitney?"

We must've found him, because Dad lumbered over to a mattress occupied by two people. Like the others, they were in another universe right now. Another druggie was on a mattress near us, their back towards us.

"Isaac?" Dad asked. One of the stoners raised their hand. Dad went to the guy, kneeling beside him. He probably would have looked cute if he wasn't on drugs. "Hello, mate. Sit up for me? Sit up."

With a hand on the guy's back, Dad helped the kid sit up. He inspected the guy's eyes next, which rolled ridiculously.

"Doctor Watson?" Isaac murmured. God, he sounded high on top of looking the part. "Where am I?"

"The arse-end of the universe with the scum of the Earth," Dad said.

"Nicely put," I said.

"Look at me."

"Have you come for me?" Isaac asked.

"D'you think I know a lot of people here? Hey, all right?"

Isaac's bleary eyes finally focused on me. "Who are you?"

"Rachel. I'm a friend of his." I smiled sweetly.

It looked like this was going to turn out great. Nobody was hurt—well, except for our greeter at the door—and Isaac would return home. We'd get out of this place and hopefully never have to come back again.

"Ah," said an all too familiar, low voice. "Hello, John. Hello again, Rachel."

Dad and I snapped our heads up, staring at each other with owl eyes.

"Didn't expect to see you here."

I wanted to believe that he wasn't here. I dared to look anyway.

He'd been the druggie who'd been facing the other way. Until now.

Dressed like a stoner, a total one-eighty from his normal getup. He looked like anything but the intelligent smartass consulting detective I'd come to know.

I was trying to wrap my head around it. Sherlock Holmes in Stoner Palace.

"Bloody hell," I hissed.

And to think I was going to get away with not seeing him.