I rested my head against the cool glass of the window. I wondered how far ahead Sherlock got in his taxi; we seemed to be going quite a ways. The ride was silent minus the purr of the taxi's engine going.

I held my phone in my hand. Amanda had to know everything: about the kidnapped children and about Moriarty's visit.

"I think I'll be middle-aged by the time Sherlock helps me find my dad," I muttered, throwing a weary look at John. "Maybe he was right. I could have found out by now."

"Why are you so insistent on finding him?"

"I've never known him." I shrugged. "I'm adopted. My mom died when I was three, but I was with my new family long before that. Ever since then, I've wanted to find him. But recently, I've really wanted to. As a kid, I wasn't that focused on it. I just hope he's not dead like my mom, or in jail."

"I'm sure you'll find him, whoever helps you in the end," John encouraged me.

I grinned. "I know this could be a bit personal, but has Sherlock ever...you know...dated?"

John scoffed. "I can't believe you just asked that. The answer is way too obvious, Rachel."

"Did he ever have anyone he had even a little crush on?"

John pursed his lips, deep in thought. "There was this one woman..." I pulled my head off the glass. "She was the closest thing Sherlock had to a crush."

"Tell me more."

"Why do you want to know, anyway?"

"To pass the time." I shrugged. "Who knows how long we'll have to wait until we catch up to him?"

"You're not...infatuated with him, are you?"

I blinked hugely. "Is that why you think I'm asking?" I chuckled. "Oh, John, it's like you've forgotten who I had stupidly fallen for. The last thing on my mind is dating, and the last person I would ever think of having a future with is Sherlock Holmes."

"I just want to make sure. You could be turning into one of his many fan girls he has worldwide."

I snorted a laugh. "If you want to see fan girls, you can meet Kendal and Madison. Well, Kendal is more of the fan girl." I shook my head, remembering my Sherlock-obsessed friend. She was in no way obsessed like Moriarty was; hers was more of an I-will-stalk-you-and-make-you-mine kind of obsession, not the I-want-to-kill-you kind. "Besides," I continued, "I think a lot of delusional girls out there would change their minds if they spent some time with him and got to see how he really is." My finger absently rubbed my phone.

"Expecting a call?"

"No." In fact, I shut my phone off. If Moriarty ever had intentions of calling again, it would go straight to voicemail. The thought of what he could possibly leave as a message made me uneasy.

"Is that your cab up there?" the woman asked us.

I peeked through the windshield to see it speeding off. It looked like Sherlock was out—he was on the sidewalk—but that was about all I could manage.

"Pull over here," John told her. There was something in his voice that made me worried.

John rushed out, helping me out quickly. As our taxi pulled away, I could see Sherlock more clearly now. There was a body lying near him.

"Sherlock!" John called, running ahead of me. I sprinted after him.

"You don't think he did that, do you?"

"What? The man on the ground? No, I don't believe so."

Once we crossed the street, we took in the sight. I covered my mouth, glaring at the still body on the ground. Yes, still body. The man was dead. It was hard to see what killed him; there was poor lighting where we were.

"Before you say anything, no, I didn't do it," Sherlock snapped.

"I wasn't going to say a word," I said behind my hand. "What got him?"

"Three bullets."

"Excuse me!" I darted a little down the way to puke on the sidewalk. Dead bodies and I didn't mix.

I should have expected to encounter something like this. I had been close to Moriarty's victims; I had almost been killed by him. To top it off, I was currently living with Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, whose fame had grown because of all the cases they solved together.

I dropped to my knees, heaving.

"Rachel?" I felt John put a calm hand on my back.

"I—I think I'm fine," I croaked. I squeezed my eyes shut.

"Can you stand? No—don't wipe your mouth with your sleeve. Here." He shoved a tissue into my hand. I wiped my mouth, thankful to be free of vomit. "Up you go."

Carefully, John got me on my feet. I looked to the skies, not wanting to focus on the dead body near Sherlock.

"I've called an ambulance, they'll be here any minute," John assured me.

"I wish I had your immunity when it comes to this sort of thing."

"I didn't get mine from being with Sherlock. I was an army doctor."

My brows came together. "You were?"

"I've seen a lot of things, Rachel, things that you can't even imagine."

"I don't want to imagine them."

"I'm surprised you didn't know."

"I never asked." I shrugged. "Besides, I don't think it's ever crossed my mind to ask personal things, what with everything that's gone on."

"True. You can stop looking at the sky now."

My neck started to cramp up, so I stopped looking straight up. I inhaled slowly and deeply. "What else is there that I don't know about you?" Maybe the questionnaire could settle my stomach.

"A lot. I'm shocked you don't know all of the cases Sherlock and I have been on. I write them on my blog."

"You have a blog?" I didn't hold back my surprise. "Sorry. I don't exactly go searching for them, I don't have that much free time." I giggled. "The consulting detective and his blogger."

By the time I was settled down, the familiar wailing sirens of an ambulance greeted my ears. John kept me away as the medics collected the dead body. Once they had him on the stretcher, John carefully led me back over to Sherlock, who looked to be having a finger fit—they were fidgeting.

"That...it's him," John realized aloud. "It's him. Sulejmani or something. Mycroft showed me his file. He's a big Albanian gangster, lives two doors down from us."

"Lived," I corrected him. "He won't be visiting us anytime soon."

"He died because I shook his hand," Sherlock whispered.

"What?" I looked to him oddly.

"What do you mean?" John added.

"He saved my life but he couldn't touch me. Why?" Sherlock stalked off. John and I exchanged looks. I wasn't sure why, but I kind of wanted to know how the Albanian gangster saved the consulting detective's life.

Wait. It was really simple: Sherlock must've got nearly hit by an oncoming car, and the assassin cleared him off the road before he could be struck.

This was strange. An assassin saved Sherlock and then died for his good deed. My eyes narrowed. More pieces of the puzzle were missing.

John and I tailed after Sherlock. I guess this meant we were going back to Baker Street.

* * *

"Four assassins living right on our doorstep," Sherlock muttered. He was at the laptop on the table, his coat and scarf off. I was sitting on my bed, the couch, feeling weary. I wanted this to end. I wanted to shower, eat, and curl up into a ball and pretend that this was all a dream. "They didn't come here to kill me; they have to keep me alive." Sherlock sat down.

John crossed my vision. I peered at him; he was glaring out into the London scenery through one of the windows. I ruffled my hair out of boredom.

"I've got something that all of them want," Sherlock kept rambling, "but if one of them approaches me..."

"...the others kill them before they can get it," John finished.

Sherlock grunted what I assumed to be an agreement. "All of the attention is focused on me. There's a surveillance web closing in on us right now."

I rubbed my eyes. "So what have you got that's so important?" I asked.

I watched Sherlock closely. He was in thinking mode, looking off somewhere. I could see the gears in that mind of his working at a fast pace. Absently, he ran a finger across the table. He examined it, like there was something fascinating about it.

"We need to ask about the dusting," he said. His eyes fell to me.

"Don't look at me; I've never dusted in my life."

"I know you haven't. Why don't you make yourself useful and fetch Mrs. Hudson, Rachel?" Sherlock didn't say this in a rude way, but I still took offense to it. "Either you get her, or I will shout at the top of my lungs for her."

At this I shuffled to my feet. "Lazy ass." Moodily I left the apartment, clomping down the stairs. I knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door.

"Oh, Rachel! How, er, nice to see you," she stammered. I noticed she was dressed for bed in a nightgown. "What can I do for you?"

"We need a little help with something."

"We?"

"Just follow me, Mrs. Hudson, please. I promise it won't take too long."

"Oh. Well, all right."

I smiled sadly at the old lady as she followed me up the stairs. Sherlock was up and about, bustling around the room. I was surprised nothing was turned upside down yet.

"So we're destroying the room now?" I asked.

"Precise details," Sherlock said, ignoring me, before anybody could say anything else, "in the last week, what's been cleaned?"

"Well, Tuesday I did your lino..." Mrs. Hudson began.

"No, in here, this room. This is where we'll find it—any break in the dust line. You can put back anything but dust." He pulled his hand away from the last thing of furniture and twirled a finger in the air dramatically. "Dust is eloquent."

"What's he on about?" Mrs. Hudson said quietly. John shook his head, I shrugged. It was hard to tell what went on in the mind of Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock was now climbing the furniture near the shelves in the room. If he falls, I'll laugh.

"Cameras," he said. "We're being watched."

"Cameras?" I blanched. "How can there be anything in this room? Nobody should be able to sneak in..." I gulped. People had snuck into here before. One man had visited twice. He was behind this so-called camera Sherlock was searching for, I was almost positive, but was he the one who put it in here? Did one of his minions slip in while everyone was away and install it?

Even if there was a camera present, where was it?

"Cameras? Here?" Mrs. Hudson squeaked. "I'm in my nightie!"

I jumped when the doorbell rang. Mrs. Hudson scuttled past me to head down to answer the door, John left after her. I continued to watch as Sherlock continued to search for this camera he seemed so keen on finding.

"What if there's no camera here?" I groaned.

"There is one, I can assure you." Sherlock sounded persistent. I pursed my lips.

Sherlock had checked almost everything, even the skull on the mantel of the fireplace. He was back at the shelves, investigating the very top shelf. He pushed one of the books deeper into the shelf. I raised an eyebrow.

My mouth dropped as Sherlock reached to dislodge something from the shelf. Well, I'll be damned.

Footsteps alerted me to company coming.

"No, Inspector," Sherlock said. I whirled around and stepped aside as Greg came in, followed by John.

"What?" he asked.

Sherlock stepped down, a tiny camera between his fingers. My eyes widened. "The answer's no."

"But you haven't heard the question!"

"You want to take me to the station. Just saving you the trouble of asking." Sherlock stalked closer to Greg.

"Sherlock..."

"The scream?" he interrupted.

"Yeah."

"Wait, back up a second," I intervened. "What is going on?"

"Who was it?" Sherlock directed the question at Greg. "Donovan? I bet it was Donovan. Am I somehow responsible for the kidnapping? Ah, Moriarty is smart. He planted that doubt in her head, that little nagging sensation." My heart plummeted into my feet. "You're going to have to be strong to resist. You can't kill an idea, can you? Not once it's made a home...there." He poked Greg's forehead, right between his eyes.

"Will you come?" Greg asked.

Sherlock turned away, heading back to the laptop. His long fingers began typing away. "One photograph—that's his next move. Moriarty's game: first the scream, then a photograph of me being taken in for questioning. He wants to destroy me inch by inch."

So, at last, his game was revealed. Of course. Moriarty had said he would "burn the heart" out of Sherlock if he didn't back off. Well, it looked like he was doing a good job of it so far.

I shook my head in disbelief. This was definitely up Moriarty's alley. I shivered, wondering what he had in store for me. Once I'm done with Sherlock, I'll come for you.

Sherlock held the tiny camera in his hand again, glaring at it. His eyes went up to Greg.

"It is a game, Lestrade," he said slowly, "and not one I'm willing to play." He looked away. "Give my regards to Sergeant Donovan."

Greg looked at John and me. I felt a brief surge of anger, not at Greg, but at Donovan. How could she have the audacity to believe that Sherlock Holmes would kidnap the children himself? How could she think that he would set this whole thing up? Moriarty, you're too clever for your own good.