I'd never been afraid of my dad until tonight. He was a ticking time bomb, ready to explode at any given second. I couldn't blame him, considering I would do the same exact thing. Like father like daughter, I guess you could say.

The arena of choice for this confrontation: 221B Baker Street. Dad led the procession upstairs, with Mary slowly in tow behind him. I kept back with Sherlock, acting like his nurse, making sure he didn't collapse and fall down the stairs. The times Mary looked back over her shoulder, she tried to make eye contact with me. I never met her eyes. I couldn't. It would only fuel the betrayal and pain in my heart.

Dad was the first to get inside, Mary followed suit. I went slightly ahead of Sherlock, worrying over him. Mary went towards the fireplace while Dad took off his coat, tossing it onto the table in the room. Sherlock leaned against the door frame, looking even worse than he had back at Leinster Gardens.

"Oh, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson's voice rang out. I looked to see her joining us. "Oh, good gracious, you look terrible."

"Get me some morphine from your kitchen," Sherlock said lowly. "I've run out."

"I don't have any morphine!"

"Then what exactly is the point of you?" His voice rose.

"What is going on?"

"Bloody good question," Dad snarled.

"The Watsons are about to have a domestic," Sherlock explained heavily, "and fairly quickly, I hope, because we've got work to do."

"Oh, I have a better question." Dad spun around, marching up to Mary. My muscles tensed. "Is everyone I've ever met a psychopath?"

"Yes."

"Umm, no," I countered. "Last I checked I'm not."

"You're close enough, you were involved with one. Good that we've settled that. Anyway, we—"

"SHUT UP!" Dad bellowed, whirling around to Sherlock. I cringed. This was the loudest and angriest I'd never seen him. "And stay shut up, because this is not funny." There was no humor in his smile. "Not this time."

"I didn't say it was funny," Sherlock said.

"You." Dad faced Mary again. "What have I ever done...hmm?...my whole life...to deserve you?"

"Everything."

"Sherlock, I've told you..." Dad stalked towards Sherlock. "...shut up."

"Oh, I mean it, seriously. Everything—everything you've ever done is what you did."

"Sherlock, one more word and you will not need morphine."

"You were a doctor who went to war. You're a man who couldn't stay in the suburbs for more than a month without storming a crack den and beating up a junkie. Your daughter went out with a psychopath. Your best friend is a sociopath who solves crimes as an alternative to getting high. That's me, by the way. Hello." Sherlock jabbed a finger towards Mrs. Hudson. "Even the landlady used to run a drug cartel."

Mrs. Hudson did what?

"It was my husband's cartel," Mrs. H corrected him. "I was just typing."

"And exotic dancing."

"Sherlock Holmes, if you've been Youtube-ing..."

Mrs. Hudson's exotic dancing was on Youtube? And here I thought Mrs. H was this cute, nice landlady.

"John, you are addicted to a certain lifestyle," Sherlock told my dad flat-out. "You're abnormally attracted to dangerous situations and people, so is it truly such a surprise that the woman you've fallen in love with conforms to that pattern?"

"But she wasn't supposed to be like that," Dad whispered. "Why is she like that?"

"Because you chose her."

Sherlock was right. Dad did choose Mary.

Dad turned away. "Why is everything always MY FAULT?" He snapped, taking his rage out on one of the chairs.

"Oh, the neighbors!" Mrs. H squealed, scampering off. I wished I could follow her, but my feet were planted on the ground, unmovable.

Dad's focus went to Mary, who didn't look as though she even flinched.

"John, listen," Sherlock continued in his soft, tired voice. "Be calm and answer me. What is she?" He asked this slowly and precisely.

"My lying wife?"

"No. What is she?"

"The woman who's carrying my child who has lied to me and my daughter since the day I met her?"

"No. Not in this flat, not in this room. Right here, right now, what is she?"

I had no idea what this question game had anything to do with this right now. I was afraid of what Dad was going to do next. His body was tensed to spring, like he would actually hurt Mary and risk the baby's life. I wondered if Dad was taking that into consideration right now.

"Okay." Dad threw a look over his shoulder at Sherlock before looking back at Mary. "Your way. Always your way." Dad grabbed a spare chair, plotting it right in between Sherlock's chair and his. This was the first time I'd realized the chair had been back since it had been removed. "Sit," Dad commanded.

"Why?" Mary asked.

"Because that's where they sit, the people who come in here with their stories. Th-the clients—that's all you are now, Mary. You're a client. This is where you sit and talk," he gestured at the empty chair, "and this is where we sit and listen, then we decide if we want you or not." The bluntness in his voice sent a chill down my spine. Dad wasn't screwing around.

Dad sat in his chair, clearing his throat. A moment later, Sherlock crossed the room to sit in his respective spot. Dad's eyes went to me; I took a quick step back.

"You can go, Rachel. This doesn't concern you," he said softly.

"Like hell it doesn't," I retorted. With shaky legs, I slipped behind Dad's chair. "Whatever you're involved with, I am too." To emphasize my point, I sat on the arm of Dad's chair closest to the fireplace.

I shrunk away from Mary as she passed the chairs to sit in the client seat. I pulled my eyes to her when I saw a flash drive in her hand. She put it on the table near Dad's chair. I was very tempted to reach over him and take it.

"'A.G.R.A.'," Sherlock read. "What's that?"

"My initials," Mary said quietly. I wanted to ask her about her real name, but the pain of her betrayal still stung. "Everything about who I was is on there. If you love me, don't read it in front of me."

"Why?" Dad asked.

"Because you won't love me when you're finished, and I don't want to see that happen."

Dad took the flash drive, storing it away before I could even ask to see it. He threw a look my way that said Don't bother asking, I'm not giving it to you. With the mood my dad was in, I definitely wasn't going to cross him.

Mary looked to Sherlock. "How much do you know already?"

"By your skill set, you are—or were—an intelligence agent. Your accent is currently English, but I suspect you are not. You're on the run from something; you've used your skills to disappear. Magnussen knows your secret, which is why you were going to kill him, and I assume you befriended Janine in order to get close to him."

Hmm, so I guess Janine had been played by two people.

"Oh—you can talk!"

"Oh. Look at you two," Dad muttered. "You should have gotten married."

"The stuff Magnussen has on me, I would go to prison for the rest of my life."

"So you were just going to kill him," I deadpanned.

"People like Magnussen should be killed. That's why there are people like me."

"Perfect!" Dad exclaimed. "So that's what you were? An assassin? How could I not see that?"

"You did see that, and you married me. Because he's right." Mary tilted her head to Sherlock. "It's what you like."

"So..." Sherlock interjected. "Mary...any documents that Magnussen has concerning yourself, you want...extracted and returned." I watched Sherlock. As soon as this was done with, I was hauling him back to the hospital whether he wanted me to or not, though, at this point, I doubted he would object.

"Why would you help me?" she asked.

"Because...you saved my life."

"Sorry, what?" Dad and I asked.

Sherlock looked at Mary as he spoke. "When I happened on you and Magnussen, you had a problem. More specifically, you had a witness. The solution, of course, was simple. Kill us both and leave. However, sentiment got the better of you. One precisely-calculated shot to incapacitate me in the hope that it would bide you more time to negotiate my silence.

"Of course, you couldn't shoot Magnussen." Sherlock looked at my dad. "On the night that both of us broke into the building, your own husband would become a suspect, so you calculated...that Magnussen...would use the fact of your involvement rather than sharing the information with the police...as is his M.O. And then you left the way you came. Have I missed anything?"

"Sherlock—" I tried to cut in.

"Don't, Rachel. I'm fine."

"But—"

"I'm fine." But even after he said that, he inhaled a sharp, pained breath.

"How did she save your life?" Dad asked. The question was on my mind too.

"She phoned the ambulance."

"I phoned the ambulance."

"She phoned first. You didn't find me for another five minutes. Left to you, I would have died. The average arrival time for a London ambulance is—"

"Did somebody call an ambulance?" an unfamiliar voice asked. Out of nowhere, two paramedics came rushing in. I shook my head at Sherlock.

"...eight minutes." Sherlock looked to the paramedics. "Did you bring any morphine? I asked on the phone."

"We were told there was a shooting." One of the paramedics sounded confused.

"There was, last week, but I believe I'm bleeding internally and my pulse is very erratic." He attempted to push himself out of the chair. "You may need to re-start my heart on the way." His knees buckled.

We all reacted at the same time, but Dad and I got to Sherlock first. We grabbed him on each of his upper arms.

"Come on, Sherlock," I grunted. "Come on."

"John?" Sherlock sputtered as the paramedics came to assist us. "John—Magnussen is all that matters now. You can trust Mary. She saved my life."

"She shot you," I reminded him coldly.

"Mixed messages, I grant you."

I nearly dropped him when he cried out in pain. With the paramedics' help, we slowly lowered Sherlock to the floor.

"Sherlock?" Dad panicked. "Sherlock. Alright, take him." Dad had to pry me away from Sherlock so the medics could tend to him.

I refused to cry seeing Sherlock in pain. As the paramedics took him away, my phone buzzed. Bayley was asking for an update and when I was coming back. I sighed, replying quickly that I was coming and that he give me the address.

Once I got the address, I left, leaving Mary and my dad in the silence of 221B.

* * *

"Are you going to do this all the time now, run off when Sherlock comes calling?" Bay growled at me. I sat in the bed while he paced madly back and forth in front of me. "This is twice you've done this, Rachel. You might as well live with him."

"Hey," I snapped, "I thought you were over being jealous? Clearly somebody stuffed that bug back up your ass."

"You didn't have to lie to me." He stopped, glaring at me.

"He told me to." My voice became tiny. "I had to trust him, Bay. I had to trust that he wanted me to lie for a good reason."

"And was it?"

"Yes."

"Do you mind telling me?"

"Not tonight. I'm exhausted."

"Let me guess, he told you not to tell anyone."

"No, I'm just worn out." I rubbed my face. "If I had any energy left in me, I'd be back at the hospital checking in on him."

"Haven't you spent enough time around him?"

"I can't help it if my dad is Sherlock's best friend, Bayley. Look, I'm done for the night. Pester me tomorrow." Grumpily, I sunk into the sheets, not meeting his eye. I was extremely irritable and exhausted. Maybe sleep could help me.

As if that miracle would ever come true.