I was more than happy to escort Isaac out of Stoner Palace. Dad could deal with Sherlock; I wanted nothing to do with him at the moment.

We passed the greeter at the door, who was slowly getting himself up off the floor. Once Isaac and I hit fresh air, I guided him to the car. I noticed Mary had taken command, as she was now in the driver's side.

"Hallo, Isaac," she called.

"Mrs. Watson, can I—can I get in, please?"

"Yes, of course, get in. Where's John?"

"They're having a fight," I said bluntly.

"Who is?"

I spun around as I heard—and saw—a door knocked clean apart, followed by an angry Sherlock. I climbed into the back before I helped Isaac in.

"What's Sherlock doing here?" Mary demanded.

"God only knows," I sighed.

We three—well, two most likely, as Isaac was probably still in his own world—watched Sherlock crawl down a fire escape, all while Dad trailed angrily after him. I crossed my arms, my green eyes narrowing. I hadn't seen Sherlock that long ago, and this was what happened? I can't be the reason he turned to drugs. There's no way. There was nothing real there.

I jumped as Mary punched the gas, flying towards the two. She slammed on the brakes, nearly jostling me and Isaac.

"In," she barked sternly. "Both of you, quickly."

They both obliged, Dad hopping into the passenger side while Sherlock made himself sit next to me. I scowled.

"You've got to be kidding me," I moaned as our greeter at the door came trotting to the car, carrying his limp arm. Mary wasn't happy either, as she sighed in exasperation.

"Please," he begged. "Can I come? I think I've got a broken arm."

"No. Go away," I voiced.

"No, let him," Dad said.

"Why?" Mary asked.

"Yeah, just get in. It's a sprain."

"Whoa, hey, wait a second! This guy tried to stab you, and you're turning around and letting him in? And how are four people going to fit in here?" I protested. Three was a crowd, four was just obnoxious.

"Looks like you'll have to sit on the roof, or on someone's lap," the door greeter snickered as he climbed in. I was thankful to not be claustrophobic.

"I may not know how to sprain something, but I can still hurt you," I threatened.

"Oh please, what could you do?"

"Don't push it, stoner. It's not too late to push you out of the car."

"Anyone else? I mean, we're taking everybody home, are we?" Mary asked, clearly agitated.

"Alright, Shezza?" the door greeter asked.

"'Shezza'?" I asked the same time Dad did.

"I was undercover," Sherlock growled.

"Seriously—'Shezza', though?" Mary piped. Sherlock sighed.

"We're not going home. We're going to Bart's. I'm calling Molly," Dad decided.

"Why?" I shifted uncomfortably in the back.

"Because Sherlock Holmes needs to pee in a jar."

* * *

I was hoping to see Molly Hooper again in better circumstances. She was surprised to see me, as well as Isaac and the other stoner when we all came to find her.

Mary was currently wrapping the stoner's right "broken" arm, Isaac sitting near the two. Sherlock was somewhere else, sulking. Molly was finishing up the samples. I could feel anger flare up in me staring at Sherlock.

Why did I have a weird feeling that that hadn't been his first time in a stoner house?

My attention was diverted from him when Molly yanked off her gloves with loud snaps.

"Well?" Dad asked. "Is he clean?"

"Clean?" she retorted calmly. She marched over to Sherlock, facing him.

My mouth dropped as Molly slapped Sherlock clean across the face.

I flinched as she repeated it once more with her right hand. I was tempted to butt in and score a strike on my own, but after Molly hit Sherlock a third time, I figured it was better to not.

"How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with?" she said in a deadly whisper. "And how dare you betray the love of your friends? Say you're sorry."

Sherlock held his face, still recovering. "Sorry your engagement's over—though I'm fairly grateful for the lack of a ring."

"Stop it. Just stop it."

I hadn't taken the time to notice Molly was ring-less. I barely remembered her wearing a ring when we'd reunited at 221B. Of course, at the time, I'd felt the need to punch Sherlock's face in for pulling the wool over my eyes and many others' for two years.

My heart broke for Molly. She seemed like a sweet woman who deserved something nice. Apparently that nice thing wasn't her fiancé—Tom, I think his name was.

As Dad stalked to Sherlock, I went to Molly timidly. I threw her a pitiful smile.

"Don't worry, he's gets to all of us," I whispered.

"If you were anywhere near this kind of thing again, you could have called. You could have talked to me," Dad said to Sherlock.

"Please do relax," Sherlock snapped. "This is all for a case."

"A case," I deadpanned. "What kind of case would need you doing this?"

"I might as well ask your father why he's started cycling to work."

"No." Dad shook his head. "We're not playing this game." He turned on his heel, walking away.

"Quite recently, I'd say. You're very determined about it."

"Not interested."

"I am," piped our stoner. "Ow."

"Oh, sorry," Mary whimpered. "You moved. But it is just a sprain."

"Yeah. Somebody 'it me."

"Huh?"

"Eh, just some guy."

"Yeah, probably just an addict in need of a fix," I said quickly.

Sherlock threw a pointed look at Dad. "Yes. I think, in a way, it was."

"Is it his shirt?" the stoner asked.

Sherlock turned his attention to the stoner. "I'm sorry?"

"Well, it's the creases, innit? The two creases down the front. It's been recently folded but it's not new." He looked to my dad. "Must have dressed in a hurry this morning so all your shirts must be kept like that. But why? Maybe 'cause you cycle to work every morning, shower when you get there an' then dress in the clothes you brought with you.

"You keep your shirts folded, ready to pack."

"Not bad," Sherlock noted.

I groaned inwardly. Not another one.

"An' I further deduce," I rolled my eyes, "you've only started recently, because you've got a bit of chafing."

I cleared my throat awkwardly.

"No—he's always walked like that," Sherlock said. "Remind me—what's your name again?"

"They call me The Wig."

"No they don't."

"Well, they—they call me Wiggy."

"Nope."

The stoner hesitated. "Bill. Bill Wiggins."

"Nice observational skills, Billy."

Billy looked right at me. "Do you want me to see what I can get from you, love?"

"Having my life figured out by him," I nodded towards Sherlock, "is enough. I don't need an amateur to do it too."

"Aw, come on. Just a little. For fun?"

"Not a chance, Wiggy."

Someone's phone went off. It was Sherlock's. "Ah! Finally."

"'Finally' what?" I dared to ask.

"Good news?" Wiggy added.

"Oh, excellent news—the best," Sherlock said. He headed for the door, working on his phone. "There's every chance that my drug habit might hit the newspapers. The game is on." He put the phone to his ear, reaching for the door. He looked back at us all. "Excuse me for a second." He left.

"You should have kept him here for me, Molly," I joked bitterly. "I could have given him a few more good slaps. I might've even punched him."

"You still haven't gotten over the fake suicide?" Mary asked me.

"No," I lied. "So...what are we doing about everyone's ride home? We all can't fit into your car."

"I'll take Bill and Isaac back; John can get Sherlock back to Baker Street. You can decide who you want to go with, Rachel."

"I think I'll go with my dad," I said, throwing an uneasy look at Wiggy. "As much as I'd love to return home with you, I think Dad may need a hand."

"Sherlock isn't drunk, Rach," Dad reminded me.

"Still, I would rather be with you than him." I narrowed my eyes at Wiggy.

"You just won't admit that you wouldn't take your eyes off me." Wiggy smiled.

"I'm taken, so stop trying."

* * *

There was peaceful silence in the cab as we were driven back to 221B. Thankfully, Dad decided to sandwich himself between me and Sherlock. If I'd been stuck in the middle, it would have taken all the restraint in the world to keep me from giving him a good few slaps to the face. On top of that, I wasn't going to touch someone who looked like he hadn't showered for a while.

Sherlock broke the silence. "You've heard of Charles Augustus Magnussen, of course."

"Yeah," Dad agreed. Though I was looking out the window, I kept my ears locked on the chatter. "Owns some newspapers—ones I don't read."

"Hang on—weren't there other people?"

"Mary's taking the boys home, Rachel and I are taking you."

"When did she get here?"

I rolled my eyes.

"We did discuss it."

"People were talking, none of them me. I must have filtered."

"We noticed," I mumbled.

"I have to filter out a lot of witless babble. I've got Mrs. Hudson on semi-permanent mute."

I tuned out Sherlock's low-hum voice until the cab stopped outside the familiar 221B door.

Sherlock let out an irritated sigh. "What is my brother doing here?" He stormed out, leaving Dad and I to look at each other.

"So I'll just pay, then, shall I?" Dad retorted.

"You should be used to it by now," I said, shrugging.

I got out, walking around back as Dad paid the driver. Sherlock was examining the door.

"Are you expecting to see a camera in the numbers or something?" I asked.

"He's straightened the knocker." From the corner of my eye, Dad joined me. "He always corrects it. He's OCD. Doesn't even know he's doing it." Sherlock put the knocker back—supposedly—where it had been before.

"Why'd you do that?" Dad asked as we followed him in.

"Do what?"

"Nothing."

We followed Sherlock until we found his elder brother, Mycroft Holmes, sitting on the stairs. My heart thumped anxiously in my chest. I'd had only two encounters in my life with this intimidating man. The most recent had made me afraid of him. This visit scared me just as much, if not more. He could easily tell Dad of the faux affair. But I ended it thanks to Sherlock, so Mycroft won't have a reason to tell my dad, unless I really piss him off somehow.

"Well, then, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "Back on the sauce?"

"What are you doing here?" Sherlock growled.

"I phoned him," Dad piped.

Ah, so that's who he'd been talking to earlier. It surprised me how Mycroft had to learn from Dad about Sherlock's current status. How come he hadn't found out about it sooner?

"The siren call of old habits. How very like Uncle Rudy—though, in many ways, cross-dressing would have been a wiser path for you."

"You phoned him." Sherlock threw daggers at Dad.

"'Course I bloody phoned him," Dad retorted.

"'Course he bloody did," Mycroft agreed. "Now, save me a little time. Where should we be looking?"

"'We'?"

"Mr. Holmes?" came a new voice from upstairs.

"For God's sake!" Sherlock bellowed, thundering up the stairs. I tailed right after him, curious as to whom else Mycroft brought on this visit.

I burst into the kitchen only to see a bearded man and a woman who almost reminded me of Tessa, the client who claimed she had had dinner with a ghost.

"Anderson," Sherlock snarled.

Anderson put up his gloved hands. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. It's for your own good."

Sherlock stalked, throwing keys onto the kitchen table.

"Oh, that's him, isn't it?" the woman whispered. I watched Sherlock storm into the living room. "You said he'd be taller."

"And who are you?" Anderson probed me.

It took me a minute to recover from the question. "I'm Rachel. That's all you need to know."

"Some members of your little fan club," Mycroft droned as he stepped into the kitchen.

I walked deeper in so I could peek into the living room. Like the last time I'd stayed here, Dad's chair was gone.

"Do be polite. They're entirely trustworthy and even willing to search through the toxic waste dump that you are pleased to call a flat."

Sherlock somehow managed to curl himself into his chair, laying sideways in it, facing the kitchen.

"You're a celebrity these days, Sherlock," Mycroft continued. "You can't afford a drug habit."

"I do not have a drug habit," Sherlock retorted groggily.

Dad came into focus, finally noticing his chair's absence. "Hey, what happened to my chair?"

"It was blocking my view of the kitchen."

Dad looked to Mycroft. "Well, it's good to be missed."

"Well, you were gone. I saw an opportunity."

"No, you saw the kitchen."

Mycroft focused on Anderson. "What have you found so far? Clearly nothing."

"There's nothing to find," Sherlock voiced.

Mycroft nodded towards the hall. "Your bedroom door is shut." I heard Sherlock sigh. Mycroft, being the nosy man he was, started down the hall. His voice was loud enough to travel. "You haven't been home all night. So, why would a man who has never knowingly closed the door without the direct orders of his mother bother to do so on occasion?"

"Okay, stop!" Sherlock exclaimed. I looked to see was in a sitting position in the chair. "Just stop. Point made."

"Jesus, Sherlock," Dad whispered. I could only shake my head as I sauntered into the living room with Dad.

Mycroft came back down from the hall. "Have to phone our parents, of course, in Oklahoma. Won't be the first time that your substance abuse has wreaked havoc on their line dancing."

"This is not what you think. This is for a case," Sherlock insisted. He was now out of the chair.

"What case could possibly justify this?"

"Magnussen." That name brought Mycroft into a serious mode. "Charles Augustus Magnussen."

I vaguely remembered the name. Sherlock had looked him up once on his laptop. I'd asked about him once and got nothing. I'd been told to not ask about Magnussen ever again. I'd never gotten the chance to.

Mycroft looked at me before looking back at Anderson and his lady friend, who were still in the kitchen. "That name you think you may have just heard—you were mistaken. If you ever mention hearing that name in this room, in this context, I guarantee you—on behalf of the British security services—that materials will be found on your computer hard drives resulting in your immediate incarceration. Don't reply—just look frightened and scuttle."

The pair did so quickly, shutting the kitchen door behind them. Mycroft brought his eyes to me.

"You too, Miss Watson," he murmured.

I shook my head furtively. "Sorry, not a chance."

"I hope I won't have to threaten you as well." This was directed at my dad.

"Well, I think we'd both find that embarrassing," Dad replied

"Magnussen is not your business," Mycroft told Sherlock.

"Oh, you mean he's yours." Sherlock was really being testy.

"You may consider him under my protection."

"I consider you under his thumb."

"If you go against Magnussen, then you will find yourself against me."

"Okay. I'll let you know if I notice. Er, what was I going to say? Oh, yeah." Sherlock headed back to the door in the kitchen, opening it. "Bye-bye."

Mycroft walked to Sherlock. "Unwise, brother mine."

I jumped back as Sherlock snatched Mycroft's arm, twisting it behind his back. He shoved his brother into the door, pinning him there. Dad and I exchanged a wary look.

"Brother mine." A venomous tone had to run in the Holmes bloodline, because Sherlock had a nasty one too. "Don't appall me when I'm high."

"Mycroft, don't say another word," Dad whispered as he joined the tense situation. I lingered in the back, watching. "Just go. He could snap you in two, and right now I am slightly worried that he might."

Mycroft got himself free of Sherlock. Sherlock passed me as Mycroft looked from me to my dad.

"Don't speak," I murmured. "Just leave."

I paced in the living room as Dad saw Mycroft leave before Sherlock could "snap him in two." A high Sherlock was a very dangerous Sherlock.

"Magnussen?" I timidly asked Sherlock. He was currently stretching.

"What time is it?" he asked.

"About eight," Dad replied, coming to rejoin us.

Sherlock sniffed. "I'm meeting him in three hours. I need a bath." He walked right past us towards the hallway.

"It's for a case, you said?"

"Yep."

"What sort of case?"

"Too big and dangerous for any sane individual to get involved in."

"You trying to put me off?"

"God, no. Trying to recruit you. And stay out of my bedroom." I heard a door shut.

"About time he showered," I muttered. "God, he looks mangy." I stretched to peek down the hall. I threw my dad a look. "What do you think is in there? His stash?"

"Only one way to find out," Dad whispered.

Very curious, the two of us crept towards the hall. We were about ready to continue our investigation further, but the bedroom door suddenly opened. Dad and I stopped in our tracks.

What was Janine doing coming out of Sherlock's bedroom with a shirt that looked like it could only fit him?