I didn't know what the boys were thinking, by letting me actually experiment with cooking in the small kitchen they had in the apartment. I was stunned that Sherlock even let me have the chance; he'd deduced that I didn't do much cooking. I could have told them that just as easily, but he wanted to act like his normal know-it-all self and figure it out in less than a minute.

John was currently out, which left me with Sherlock. I was waiting for his insults about my cooking to start. I wondered if he was going to wait until I burned the place to the ground.

I tried to make simple things, but even those didn't work out. I gave up on making anything and settled for cereal. That was about as far as my making-food skills went.

My phone buzzed on the table, scaring me. I peeked at the number. I scowled. It was that same damn, unrecognizable number again. For the past month now, that number had been tormenting my phone.

When it first called, it called for a few days and then stopped. It started the following week the same way: it'd ring for a few days and then stop pestering my phone. I thought I was in the clear after a solid week of not seeing the number, but that was shattered a few days ago, when the number decided to pop up again.

As I munched, I grudgingly thought about Moriarty. Where was the snake now? Lying low in the grass, waiting to strike again? I chewed on my lower lip, afraid of what he was going to do next. I knew what the man was capable of, Sherlock and John knew as well. Whatever Moriarty did next would probably not surprise us, only because if he did something extreme, it would be the kind of thing for him to do. He was a psychopath after all, not a sociopath. I had curiously looked up the differences not long ago.

I felt awful for calling Sherlock a psychopath. He was nothing like Moriarty. He was different from most people, yes, I'd give him that. He and Moriarty weren't ordinary people, but Sherlock didn't kidnap people or strap bombs to them. He didn't murder people.

At least, to my knowledge, Sherlock didn't do any of those things.

I dug through my clothes once I finished breakfast. Sherlock was sprawled in his chair; his head tilted back, eyes closed. That man was far from boring. I began to wonder how someone like John Watson became roommates with a man like Sherlock Holmes. I'd have to ask them how they ended up living together.

I figured a nice shower would do me some good. I let the hot water spill over me. I hadn't realized I was tense until I felt my shoulders relax under the water. Times like this were great. They made you temporarily forget the world you lived in, let you forget all your problems, let them wash away down the drain with the water...

Unfortunately, these moments didn't last very long. My mind was buzzing with thoughts. I needed to talk to Amanda, I hadn't since she found out about Moriarty walking free. She, like me, hadn't been happy when she found out. She was livid but nothing compared to the outrage I had felt on the day. I had witnessed it.

When I came out shower-fresh, I heard Sherlock's voice travel down the small hallway. He's got to be talking to himself. He does that every now and again. Really, it could be dead silent in the apartment, and Sherlock would start muttering things to himself. At first, I had thought he was talking to me or John, or whoever was near him. John told me that this happened often and that when it happened, I just ignore it. I couldn't though; it was kind of interesting to hear the consulting detective talk to himself like an insane person.

I entered the den room to see Sherlock pacing, holding a phone close to his ear. I went to the kitchen to retrieve my phone. Only it wasn't lying on the table where I had last left it. My eyes snapped back into the den room, on Sherlock.

"Sherlock!" I snapped, making a beeline into the den room. "Last I checked, that phone isn't yours."

"Someone kept calling, it was annoying me."

"So you answered it? You could have put it on silent!"

"If you had to begin with, I wouldn't have answered it."

"Who called?"

"Your friend, Amanda."

My eyes bulged. "Hand it over."

Without giving him the chance, I snatched my phone away. I shot him a dirty glare as I nestled my phone to my ear. "Sorry that happened, Mandy."

"Thank God you took your phone back." Mandy's voice was shaking.

"Let me guess, he was starting to freak you out."

I could picture Amanda nodding on the other end of the line. "You have no idea. He was making assumptions just by my voice. How can you still be living with him?"

"I wonder that myself."

"If this is going to go on for a while, take it somewhere else," Sherlock told me.

"Or you could move your butt someplace else." I put myself back in the kitchen. "So, what's going on?"

"I've got some bad news for you," Mandy whimpered. "Darien lost the baby."

The phone nearly slipped through my hand. I leaned against the table for support. "Oh my God..."

"She told me it happened two weeks ago. The poor thing, she nearly had a meltdown mentioning it."

"Don't tell me Max left her."

"He's still with her. Those two are inseparable, Rachel. You can't even get them apart with a crowbar if you tried." Amanda tried to laugh, but it didn't sound like she was putting in a lot of effort.

"I should probably call her myself. I don't think I have her number."

"I can give it to you. Hold on."

As I waited patiently for Mandy to deliver Darien's number to me, Sherlock started up his violin. I covered my other ear with my hand, hoping to muffle it. But the noise kept getting louder, penetrating whatever defense I had up.

Giving up, I sauntered towards the door. I looked back into the den room, seeing Sherlock playing away. Victory was in his blue-gray eyes. I shot him daggers.

"You win this time, Holmes," I growled before stomping out. To put more distance between myself and the music, I went down some of the creaky stairs. I scoffed as the noise level upstairs softened. I knew if I tried to go back up there, the noise would go back up.

Amanda gave me Darien's number. I made her repeat it in case I got a number or two wrong. Once that was sorted out, Amanda dived right in to other topics.

"Are you staying there permanently or something?" she quizzed me. "Seriously, Rachel, it's been a year since you've been home!"

"One, it has not been a year since I've been in Maryland. Two, I don't know when I'm coming back." I leaned against a wall. "Three...I don't know if I can ever come back."

"Hold on...Say that again."

I rubbed my face wearily. "With Moriarty out, I have a feeling he'll be coming after me." "But isn't his obsession Sherlock, not you?"

"Yeah, but, I tried to murder him. Don't you think that would give the man reason to come after me?"

"I think more than enough," Mandy stated carefully. She sighed heavily. "If you were afraid of anyone else, I would say you're being ridiculous and get your ass back home, but, this is no normal man."

"Exactly." I shifted my weight. "I would rather be close to the danger."

"That makes no sense, Rachel."

"It makes more sense than coming home, where he can have his minions spy on me and the people closest to me." I shuddered. "I'm doing this to keep you all safe back home."

"You always put people before you." Amanda's voice choked. "You've got a strong instinct like a mom. Oh, speaking of moms, your parents keep checking in, asking about you."

"They have my number if they need to reach me."

"They figure you won't pick up. They know you talk to me a lot. And I think they wouldn't risk it because of something to do with running up the phone bill if they overuse their minutes."

"They barely use them as it is!" I groaned. "You've kept them in the dark, like I know you have?"

"Of course. And I've assured them you haven't been abducted by any crazy people," she teased.

I pressed myself against the wall as two figures shuffled by me up the stairs. I caught the backs of the two people: a man and a woman. The woman's hair was very voluminous and curly, and the man was graying. New case? I wondered.

"I hope they know you were joking about that," I warned Amanda. "You know how my mom and dad are. Ever since my extended stay the last time I was here, they don't appreciate me being away for too long."

"They just don't like you being out of state," Mandy corrected me. I nodded, agreeing with her even though she couldn't see me.

"Rachel," a new voice interrupted my conversation. I looked down to see John trotting up. I held a finger out to him.

"Sorry, Mandy, I think I have to let you go," I told her. "We'll talk later, I promise." I ended the call just as John came up to meet me. "You were a bit longer than I expected." Something looked off about him. "What's wrong?" I asked. "Has Moriarty detonated another person in a building again?"

"No."

"Where were you?"

"I went to talk to Mycroft."

"Who?" I tilted my head.

"Oh. Right, you don't know him."

"He wouldn't happen to be a," I coughed, "friend of yours, would he?"

"What? No! We're not—Why would you think that?"

"Okay, he's obviously not your partner."

"I'm not gay, Rachel. I've had plenty of girlfriends before."

"Doesn't mean much. You can have girlfriends before you figure out they aren't for you."

"Rachel."

"So you're a player, then?"

"Do you really want to talk about relationships, or listen to what I have to tell you?"

I put my hands up. "Right, sorry. But hey, if you were gay, I wouldn't care. Just saying. Now, who's Mycroft?"

"He's Sherlock's older brother."

My eyes bugged. "Sherlock has a brother? How come I'm finding out now?"

"You never asked." John shrugged. "Anyway, we've got a little bit of a situation close to home."

I swallowed. "I'm afraid to ask, but I have to. What do you mean?"

"Mycroft has pointed out to me that we've got some new neighbors." My heart raced. "Apparently we've got four top international assassins living pretty close to us."

I paled; a frightened squeak escaped my throat. "Four assassins? Is Moriarty behind it?"

"Nobody's sure."

"Oh, that's such a comforting thought." I wheezed. "Sherlock's got to know about this."

With John on my tail, we hiked back up to the apartment. The moment we entered the living room, we realized Sherlock had visitors. I stopped in my tracks, vaguely recognizing the man from before. Detective Inspector Lestrade, if I remembered correctly. Wow, that was such a mouthful to say.

I still didn't recognize the woman with him. She had a beautiful olive complexion about her. She was probably someone from the police force here in London. Why else would she be with Lestrade?

"What's going on?" I asked. I sensed John beside me.

"Kidnapping," Sherlock said. He went to the table in the living room, hovering over a laptop, typing away. I groaned. This day, like this stay in London, was getting better with each passing minute.

"I'm sorry, but who are you?" the woman asked me.

"Rachel Simpson," I said politely.

"Sally Donovan," she introduced herself. "Are you a relative of someone here in one of the flats?"

"No, I've been living in here for a bit. It's kind of a long story."

"Not really, and it's not worth telling, so save us the trouble and don't tell it," Sherlock told me. I pursed my lips.

"So what's going on?" John pressed.

"Rufus Bruhl, the ambassador to the U.S.," Lestrade commented.

"He's in Washington, isn't he?"

"Not him—his children, Max and Claudette, ages seven and nine," Lestrade clarified as Donovan strolled over to John and me, showing us the pictures of the ambassador's children. They looked so innocent, so young. "They're at St. Aldate's."

"Posh boarding place down in Surrey," Donovan added.

Lestrade looked to Sherlock, who was still typing away on the laptop. "The school broke up, all the other boarders went home—just a few kids remained, including those two."

"The kids have vanished."

The wind felt like it was punched out of me. Two children, two children of an important person, vanished? More like kidnapped. I felt sick to my stomach. I knew only one man who was capable of pulling off a stunt like this somehow.

Moriarty.

This was the lowest the man had gone so far. If he so much as thought about killing the children, that would put him as the lowest, vilest man in the world.

"The ambassador's asked for you personally," Lestrade told Sherlock.

Wordlessly, Sherlock headed for the door, coat over his arm.

"The Reichenbach Hero," Donovan muttered sarcastically. I threw her a confused look. I figured Sherlock had a few titles to him—some probably negative more than positive. This was the first of hearing that one, one that didn't put the consulting detective in a bad light.

Sherlock already disappeared, his footsteps echoed to the living room.

"Isn't it great to be working with a celebrity?" Lestrade asked as he followed Sherlock out. For a few minutes, it was Donovan, John, and me until John gestured for Donovan to head out before him. As she left, I grabbed John by the arm.

"You better stay out of this, Rachel," he told me firmly.

"I could help," I protested weakly.

"We don't know what we'll be walking into. If it's something bad and you came along—"

"I get the picture." I looked away.

"I don't want you to be involved anymore than you already are."

I nodded reluctantly, pacing slowly. "God, if Moriarty does anything to those children..."

"We'll find them in time."

"You won't if you're still here talking to me."

"I'll let you know if anything major happens."

"I hope they're found alive."

"We all do."