He did look like a shark, with his dead eyes hiding behind the glasses. The only similarity he had with Moriarty was that he was dressed in a suit. At least Moriarty never worried about protection, he'd never had his body guards tag along on visits.

All of Magnussen's guards stood to face their boss. Relax. He doesn't know who you are. He probably never will. Though, since I was here and unfamiliar, I wouldn't be surprised if I was questioned.

"I understood we were meeting at your office," Sherlock stated.

Magnussen looked around the apartment. "This is my office." His voice was soft and low, his accent was a bit different. He didn't sound intimidating, but that meant nothing. "Well, it is now." He picked up a newspaper from the coffee table before sitting on the couch.

"Mr. Magnussen, I have been asked to intercede with you by Lady Elizabeth Smallwood on the matter of her husband's letters."

Magnussen looked like he was focusing on more important things.

"Some time ago you...put pressure on her concerning those letters."

Magnussen finally looked up, leaning back.

"She would like those letters back. Obviously the letters no longer have any practical use to you, so with that in mind..."

Magnussen snuck out a quiet snort.

"Something I said?" Sherlock sounded a bit miffed.

"No, no. I-I was reading," Magnussen said quietly. "There's rather a lot. 'Redbeard.'" I saw Sherlock stiffen beside me. "Sorry." Magnussen shook his head. "S-sorry. You were probably talking?"

"I..." I stole a brief look at Sherlock, who looked like he was speechless. That couldn't happen often. He finally cleared his throat. "I was trying to explain that I've been asked to act on the behalf of—"

"Bathroom?" Magnussen turned his head to one of his guards.

"Along with the kitchen, sir," one replied.

"Okay."

"I've been asked to negotiate the return of those letters," Sherlock said more firmly. Magnussen removed his glasses, looking towards a window. "I'm aware you do not make copies of sensitive documents—"

"Is it like the rest of the flat?"

"Sir?" one guard asked.

"The bathroom?"

"Er, yes, sir."

"Maybe not, then."

"Am I acceptable to you as an intermediary?" Sherlock asked.

Magnussen met his gaze before looking out a window again. My skin prickled. Though he said little, Magnussen was bothering me.

"Lady Elizabeth Smallwood," he whispered. "I like her."

"Mr. Magnussen, am I acceptable to you as an intermediary?"

"She's English, with a spine." I kept my hands behind my back as Magnussen pushed the coffee table away from him with one foot.

As Magnussen stood up, one of the guards removed the fire guard away from the fireplace. I shifted closer to Dad, unsure of what was going on.

"Best thing about the English..." Magnussen strolled over to stare at us three. "...you're so domesticated." His gaze lingered on me, making me want to squirm where I stood. Does he know? No, he can't. He's only just met me. He can't know anything about me. "All standing around, apologizing..." He nudged his way between Sherlock and me. "...keeping your little heads down."

My lips parted in horror as I heard the familiar sound of a zipper being pulled.

"You can do what you like here," Magnussen said. "No one's ever going to stop you."

I gnawed on the inside of my lower lip at hearing him urinate. Urinating in the fireplace. What the hell is wrong with this man?

"A nation of herbivores. I've interests all over the world but, er, everything starts in England. If it works here," I was more than grateful for hearing the zipper again, "I'll try in a real country."

I shrunk away from Magnussen as he left the fireplace, going to one of his guards, who held out a wet wipe for him. Magnussen took one. I wanted to shove one—or a few—down his throat and hoped he choked.

"The United Kingdom, huh?" Magnussen wiped his fingers. "Petri dish to the Western world. Tell Lady Elizabeth I might need those letters, so I'm keeping them." He dropped the wipe, littering. "Goodbye. Anyway, they're funny." He flashed the band of letters from inside his jacket.

I nearly dropped to my knees once Magnussen and his goons left. I didn't know where to start on that man. He felt so high and mighty, reminding me eerily of Moriarty. The man barged in like he owned the damn place, like Moriarty had when he'd paid me a special visit.

These men shared traits, but they were two entirely different people.

"Unbelievable," I sputtered.

"Jesus!" Dad breathed.

"Did you notice the one extraordinary thing he did?" Sherlock asked.

"There was a moment that kind of stuck in the mind, yeah."

"Exactly—when he showed us the letters." I threw Sherlock a surprised look as he walked towards one of the windows. "So he's brought the letters to London—so no matter what he says, he's ready to make a deal. Now, Magnussen only makes a deal once he's established a person's weakness—the 'pressure point', he calls it." Sherlock grabbed his coat, pulling it on. "So, clearly he believes I'm a drug addict and no serious threat. And, of course, because he's in town tonight, the letters will be safe in his London office while he's out to dinner with the Marketing Group of Great Britain from seven 'til ten."

"How do you know his schedule?" I asked.

"Because I do. Right—I'll see you tonight, John."

I rolled my eyes. Typical.

"I've got some shopping to do." Sherlock headed for the door, down the stairs.

"What's tonight?" Dad called.

"I'll text instructions."

"Yeah, I'll text you if I'm available."

"You are! I checked!"

"You should have known he would do that," I told Dad once Sherlock was well out of earshot.

"I'm just glad he's not pulling you into this mess."

"I kind of am, considering I met Magnussen." I hugged myself. "I wasn't feeling up to tagging along anyway. I'd rather be back at your place and relax."

"You'd have to take the sofa."

"I'm no stranger to sleeping on one." I cocked my head towards the one in the apartment. "So you're going to end up going with him?"

"I'm still not sure."

"You will." I smiled. "Besides, I think the last time you did you were abducted and put under a bonfire."

"Let's not talk about that."

Without another word, we headed for the stairs. We hadn't been far behind Sherlock since he was on the sidewalk when we got out.

"Don't bring a gun," Sherlock murmured.

"Why would I bring a gun?" Dad asked.

"Or a knife, or a tire lever. Probably best not to do any arm-spraining, but we'll see how the night goes." He raised his arm for a taxi coming his way.

"You're just assuming I'm coming along?"

"Time you got out of the house, John. You've put on seven pounds since you got married, and the cycling isn't doing it." Sherlock got the door of the cab open and climbed in.

"It's actually four pounds."

"Mary and I think seven," he called from the window. "See you later."

"If Sherlock knows you're going, just go. Don't think about it," I told Dad once Sherlock's cab left. "If you're still iffy, I'll make sure you go with him."

"I thought you'd be against it." We started walking.

"Why?"

"I don't know. I just had a feeling you would."

* * *

"How long are you staying this time?" Bay asked me later that night.

I was dressed in comfortable attire: a tank top and sweatpants. I lounged across the loveseat, glaring at the ceiling. I had the place to myself, as Dad was with Sherlock and Mary was out. Both Watsons had been home briefly enough for us to have dinner together. Mary left before Dad had.

I felt the most relaxed I could have since coming back. Despite the events that happened earlier today, I felt content. Still, a part of me thought about Magnussen and his visit to 221B. I hoped to never cross paths with that man again. He clearly knew things about Sherlock, and possibly my dad. Hell, he probably knew things about Mrs. Hudson as well.

The big question was: how? How could Magnussen know things about a lot of people if they'd never met before? He can't be psychic.

"Should be a few more days," I considered. "I'll leave before I get roped into another case. Those times ended up making me stay for months."

"One of these days, I'll fly down with you."

"Well, that will have to wait, because after this time, I'm not coming back for a while."

"You always seem to gravitate back there."

"Blame my parentage on that." I shrugged. "If I hadn't found my dad, my life would be so much different."

"Not true. We would still be together."

I laughed. "That's probably true." I bounced my leg. My phone made a weird noise. I pulled away to see I had Dad calling me. My heart raced. "Hey, Bay, I'll try and call you back. My dad's trying to get a hold of me."

"Oh, okay. Love you, Rachel."

"Love you, too." I switched lines. "Dad, what's up?"

"We've got a slight problem." His voice was layered in worry.

I leapt off the loveseat. "Why?"

"Sherlock's been shot."

What the hell were those two doing that ended up with Sherlock with a bullet in him? I yanked at my hair before fiddling with the necklace on me. "When?"

"Not too long ago." There was a low humming in the background. "I'm in the ambulance with him right now on our way to the hospital."

"Is he—?"

"I don't know, Rachel."

"What happened?"

"Now isn't the time to really get into that."

"A-alright, I'll meet you at the hospital. If anything happens, let me know immediately. Dad, try to help him stay alive." As much as I hated him for what he'd put me through, I didn't want Sherlock to die.

I quickly snatched a sweatshirt and threw it on before I rushed out. My luck pulled through when a lone cab came down the street. I flagged them down, telling them in a hurry to take me to the hospital. The driver sensed my anxiety, because as soon as I pulled the door shut, the car lurched forward.

I didn't let go of the double heart pendant on my throat. I wouldn't until I knew Sherlock made it through this.