**the song hits pretty well with the dream**

I thought I'd never see the day where I'd return to my birth country of England. I honestly didn't expect to until years down the road.

Bayley was more than happy to drive me to the airport, he'd made sure to have the day free so he could. It was on such short notice that I'd been asked, a few days ago actually. Dad had called, not by Skype, but by my phone. He told me that he and Mary really wanted to see me and would be more than happy if I came down as soon as possible. He'd sounded very cheerful on the phone, so I had a feeling Mary had agreed to marry him.

Dad and I had had a long discussion—more like debate—on whether or not it was smart for me to fly down. Dad had assured me he and Mary would take care of it. It was really sweet, and I assumed that they really wanted me down there if they were willing to pay for the expense.

I'd talked it over with Bayley once Dad and I had something figured out. He was on board with it under a few conditions: I made sure to talk to him every day so that he wouldn't be driven insane being alone, that I was to be careful if I was alone, and to be on my best behavior. Bay made me feel like he was talking to his child instead of his girlfriend. At least I hadn't gotten a lecture about how to resist temptation of other men who wanted to try and catch my attention. That wasn't going to be an issue.

Bay pulled alongside to where I was supposed to be let out. I met his eyes, smiling sadly.

"So you really don't know how long it'll be?" Bay asked, looking around.

"No," I said. "But I promise I'll let you know if a time frame happens to come up."

"You forgot something, Rach."

"I did?"

"Turn around."

I shifted so I could. I felt something cold wrap around my throat and something settle on the base of it. I looked down, grinning. I'd forgotten about this anniversary present. It was a simple, beautiful double heart pendant. The small heart had diamonds plastered on the bottom half.

"Just a little something to remember me by," he whispered in my ear.

"I can't forget you, Bay." I laughed, twisting around to look at him.

He kissed me deeply. "Now go on, you don't want to miss the flight."

"I'll make sure to let you know when I get in."

Bayley got out of the car to help me with my luggage. We shared a long kiss goodbye before I left, heading into the airport.

Like any airport, it was live and bustling. I kept to myself, doing a mental check of things in my head.

I thought it was a little too generous when Dad told me that he and Mary were planning on arranging where I would be staying. Still, who was I to turn down such an offer? As long as they didn't put me in Baker Street with Sherlock, I would be fine. As much as I loved Mrs. Hudson, I doubted I could stay with her, knowing that Sherlock was up the stairs from her.

I pursed my lips, wondering how much Sherlock I'd get this time when in London. I wanted no part of him while being there. I'd do everything possible to stay out of his way and avoid any contact with him. I didn't want to be in the same building as him.

Once I got through security and everything, it was only a matter of time before I had to sit and wait for the boarding announcement. I fiddled with my phone, sending Dad a text.

You'll tell me where I'm staying, right?

I didn't get an answer by the time the announcement was made.

I didn't know why I sent the text when it was obviously the middle of the night there. I clearly wasn't thinking. I shut my phone off as I boarded.

Once I found my seat, I pulled the blind down on the window. I'd rather not see the night sky while flying. The last thing I needed was for the dark to trick me into seeing things that weren't there.

Once the familiar sensation of taking off was over and things were settled down, I dozed off, figuring by the time I woke up, the plane would be in London.

***

I hated dim lighting. I hated creepy, abandoned warehouses. I hated hunting for someone who could easily kill me before I could catch a glimpse of their face. I hated everything about tagging along with Sherlock and Dad.

I didn't know much about this case or who we were looking for; all I knew was that we had to find someone before they found us. Dad and I fought hard for me to stay back at 221B, but Sherlock wouldn't let it happen. Honestly, we both thought he'd agree with me staying behind. Instead, apparently, I was useful in terms of being an extra set of eyes.

I was glad that was the only thing I was good for. I was glad I wasn't handed a weapon. Even though I knew how to handle one, ever since my mistake back at the pool, I never wanted to touch one ever again.

We had split up not long after arriving. We had beat Scotland Yard to the warehouse, so while they were hurrying over, the three of us were trying to catch this person, whoever it was.

Despite my dislike for guns, I kind of wished I had one right about now. Or a stun gun. Or a knife. Something to at least defend myself with. Hell, I didn't even have a flashlight to help me see. Talk about unprepared.

Creeping along, I felt vulnerable. Darkness made me feel small; each large crate I passed made me feel even smaller. Why did Sherlock have to be stubborn and force me to come along? I didn't do this for a living! Sure, I had been in dangerous situations before but not willingly!

Gunfire traveled through the vast area I was in. I yelped, diving for the floor. It was loud, but it didn't sound like it was anywhere near me. Trembling, I listened harder. It continued for a few long moments before it stopped. Breathing anxiously, I got on all fours, slowly getting to my feet.

A chill ran up my spine as I heard voices echoing, familiar voices. They sounded worried. This isn't good.

Using the echoes, now panicked, I ran towards the source. My heart beat in time with my feet. If our wanted person was lurking in the shadows, I didn't care if I alerted him/her to my presence. Someone was hurt, whether it was Dad, Sherlock, or someone else I knew that was on our side.

Lighting flickered above, letting the circles flicker on the ground. I turned a corner past crates only to skid to a halt. My heart dropped into my feet.

Two people had their backs to me, one I knew to be Sherlock's. One person was kneeling on the floor, hovering over another, who was lying on the floor. They covered the top half of the person, so I couldn't see who they were fussing over. I swallowed, afraid to get closer.

"What happened?" My voice sounded louder in the room.

Sherlock barely turned his head—he was the person hovering over the body on the floor. The other face that turned to me was Greg Lestrade.

I counted Sherlock and Greg, but Dad was nowhere in sight.

Even though I had my fair share of dead bodies, I approached the scene. I was about halfway before Greg met me, cutting me off. He looked surprised to see me.

"You shouldn't get any closer." His tone was way too gentle, a red flag.

"I've seen a dead body before," I snapped lightly, trying to move past him. "Why would this be any different?"

He had words, but he couldn't get them out. Instead of telling me anything, he grabbed my arm, hauling me back with him.

"Hey!" I protested. As he pulled me away, I tried to tug him forward. With a sharp jerk, I got away.

"Rachel!" Greg called after me.

I was nearly to the body before Sherlock now tried to stop me. As he rose, my eyes fell onto the identity of the body. I stopped in my tracks. Instead of going into a meltdown, my eyes fell on Sherlock.

"You!" I hissed, feeling the anger rise. "You did this to him!"

"You think that I would actually—"

"Shut up!" Sherlock's eyes widened. I had never used such rage in my voice. "This is your fault!"

"Rachel," Greg intervened. I knocked off his hand when it tried to grab a hold of my shoulder.

"You're the reason he's dead! You son of a bitch!" I lunged for Sherlock, but Greg grabbed my arms, pulling me back. I screeched, thrashing around. "He was the only family I had left! The ONLY FAMILY, and now because of you, I lost him!" Tears fell from my eyes. "And here you are, not even shedding a tear. I guess that proves that you really don't have a heart after all."

"Now listen—" Sherlock snarled.

"Stop it," Greg commanded. Sherlock's eyes and mine were locked on each other's. A battle was itching to get going, and I was more than ready to show how much I wanted Sherlock Holmes dead. "You better get out of here before she gets free."

"He's not going anywhere!" I bellowed. My figure quaked but not out of horror. "And let go of me already!"

"No. You're behaving like a child."

"What if I want to see him? I want to see what did it." I stopped my struggling; the shake in my voice was bad.

"If you want to so badly, I'll get you there. You're not being trusted alone."

Without another word, Greg guided me as far away from Sherlock as possible. All the while, I would not stop throwing him daggers. I wanted to throw a legitimate dagger at him right now.

At first, I almost didn't believe it was my dad. He didn't die by gunshot, so at least it wasn't long and painful. Still, the idea of a quick death didn't sound too great either. Though the weapon was gone, a knife had done the deed. It was no stab in the chest, but a quick, long slice into the throat. This alone brought me back to the top of St. Bart's, reminding me of Jim Moriarty, his still body and the pool of blood around and above his head.

My knees wobbled, threatening to take me down to the floor. I was thankful for Greg by my side right now. If I fell, he would be there to catch me.

I wondered if all people looked peaceful in death, no matter how horrific it was. Even though blood was everywhere and there was a slit in his throat, Dad looked like he was sleeping. Whoever the bastard was that did this, I wanted them found alive.

"Did you find who you were looking for?" I managed to get out. I was expecting vomit, not words, to come out.

"They got away," Greg reported gravely. "John tried to slow them down."

That explains the gunfire. "We should have stuck together."

"Then there would be two bodies here, not one." There was a long silence in the air. "Let's get you out of here."

"I'm not going back to Baker Street," I said tersely. "I'll go anywhere else but there."

"I'll see what I can do. I'm afraid you're going to have to find your way out yourself."

"She'd be here for weeks," Sherlock droned.

"You're still here?" My hands clenched into fists.

"Easy, Rachel," Greg said calmly. "Can you not murder him?"

"I can't make any promises."

"She can't try anything anyway, she's not resourceful," Sherlock added.

It felt like I was a trophy being passed to each member of the champion team. Sherlock pulled me away from Greg. I didn't have a stable mind to even think about getting closer to Dad. I knew it was better if I didn't. I didn't want another vomiting episode.

The urge to maul Sherlock settled down even though my target was the one leading me out of the warehouse. I couldn't look back at Dad's body. I need to remember him how he was, not how I just saw him. I knew he'd want it that way.

My anger and thoughts were all over the place. My rage was no longer at Sherlock but the person responsible. Though I knew I would blame every person I saw later down the road for Dad's death, right now, it was jumping from one person to the next.

"Sherlock?" My voice was stable and calm compared to my brain.

"We'll find them."

"You're actually letting me—?"

"I mean 'we' as in everyone else except for you."

"I should have expected that. I have every right to be on this. Once we find this person, I'm dealing with them."

Sherlock snorted a laugh. "Is that all you do? Dream up things that will never happen? My God, you're still a child."

I rolled my eyes, deciding to not move the conversation further. I knew it would only irritate me more and amuse Sherlock to no end. I kept my thoughts to myself.

I was going to join this. I was going to meet Dad's murderer, whether everyone was against it or not.

***

I pulled myself out of the nightmare before it went any further. My palms were clammy; I could feel light sweat break out on my forehead. I took even breaths to relax myself. It wasn't real. It wasn't real. In a sense, it was. It was a legitimate fear of mine. One of these days, if Dad continued going on cases with Sherlock, someone would end up dead. More than likely, it would be my father.

A small spark of anger ignited in me. I felt nothing but hatred for Sherlock currently. I felt it seep into my bones. I can't let it get the better of me. Dad and Mary don't deserve that. They're going to get married. I can't spoil their happy time.

As the plane landed, I realized this would be the first time I'd be meeting Mary face to face. Skype didn't count. I was sure she was as loveable in person as she was all the times I'd talked to her over the Internet. She seemed like a good match for my dad.

The passengers filed out patiently, waiting to retrieve their bags. Once I collected my things, I turned on my phone as I headed out of the airport. My phone vibrated in my hand a few times, indicating I'd gotten some messages while I slept on the flight.

I pulled myself aside so that I wouldn't hit traffic and opened the messages. All of them were from Dad.

I'll tell you once you get here. I promise.

Oh, don't bother to catch a cab, Rachel. We've already got someone on the way to come get you.

Let me know when you've found your chauffeur.

I smiled at the messages. Mary and Dad were really pulling out all their generosity to get me here. Keeping my phone at my side, I headed out into the brisk London air. Welcome back, it was screaming. Welcome home.

I awkwardly walked with my luggage, standing on my tiptoes to find my chauffeur. Dad never specified who it was, so for all I knew, it could be him or Mary, or someone I didn't know. Dad wouldn't send a stranger to come pick me up.

I made sure to keep out of people's way as they tried to find their rides. I stopped after looking unsuccessfully for five minutes. I looked down at my phone, ready to call my dad, but a familiar figure from the corner of my eye caught my attention. I turned my head and found my chauffeur. I'd only met him a few times since I was last here in London, but I considered him a good friend.

It was Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade.