John hesitated on the steps of his home that he shared with Mary. He'd have to face her. He had reacted too rashly, or had he? Their car was on the street, which was to be expected. Today was one of Mary's days off. After their daughter Violet was born, Mary had decided to be at home more, to be with her. John was agreeable with whatever Mary decided to do—although, he could tell that she was restless. As much as she loved spending time with Violet, Mary was not the type to enjoy running between playgroup meetings and shopping outings, for long. And with all of her unused energy, John thought, she passed the time with getting involved in things that were better left alone.

John opened and entered the front door, prepared, and making an effort to be penitent, yet still running through the words of their argument from the previous evening in his mind. Mary walked over to him and John began to speak.

"Wait," Mary said, interrupting him. "Before you say anything; I didn't realize you'd get upset. I thought I was helping."

John sighed. He could tell Mary was trying to make some sort of apology, though he had a nagging feeling that she was still holding onto some sense that she was right. His assumptions may have been wrong, but that didn't make a lot of difference to his offended ego that was now edging towards the same brink of defensiveness he had nursed last evening.

John sat down on the couch, and Mary sat down near him. Violet was happily occupying herself with some toys on a blanket.

"It's been years since I really talked with my sister. She didn't even come to our wedding, and I didn't realize how much it bothered me." John continued, "So, when you told me that Harry had called, that you spoke to her and invited her over for dinner… Why does she call now? After all this time? And why would you invite her over when we have Violet to think about?" He paused. "My relationship with my sister is my own."

"That's fine, John," Mary said, with her own hint of defensiveness.

"Mary, look…" John began.

"How about lunch?" Mary interrupted.

"Lunch would be great," John said with no real enthusiasm. "Why don't you let me make it," he remarked as he rose from the couch.

"I've got it, John," Mary said. She got up from where she was sitting and was already halfway to the kitchen.

John followed, carrying Violet, and placed her in a high chair near them. As Mary gathered ingredients, John said, "I have to meet Sherlock later."

"You've got a case?" Mary asked as she laid the table.

"Yes," John said simply.

"Well," Mary remarked, with a hint of resentment, "I'll be here."

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After seeing a few patients, John headed over to Bart's to meet Sherlock. John found him in the lab, pouring over a file of papers. Sherlock was staring at the documents on the lab bench in front of him with as much frustration in his face as John had ever seen him display. "Sherlock, what's that you're looking at?" John asked.

"Post-mortem report for Julia Stoner," Sherlock said quickly, as if the time taken to speak was an immense burden.

John was about to reply, but suddenly Sherlock shouted in frustration. "How can this be? It doesn't make any sense!"

"Well," John said flatly, "if it doesn't make any sense to you, then what hope is there for the rest of us?" he said with a hint of mirth. He continued, now serious, "What are you on about?"

At that moment, the door to the lab opened and Molly came in. "Have you found what you were looking for?" she asked Sherlock.

"You pulled the file for him?" John asked Molly, by way of making conversation. "The post-mortem for the murdered woman?"

"Murdered?" Molly asked, a bit bewildered. "I read through it a little before giving it to Sherlock," Molly told John, "and it said the death was from cardiac arrest." She then turned back to Sherlock. "But you think it's murder."

"I'm entirely certain that it was murder," Sherlock said with conviction. There was silence in the room for a moment as Sherlock continued to puzzle while his friends looked on. Sherlock took out his mobile phone and sent a short text: personal computer? Then he put the phone on the lab bench next to him.

John broke the silence, "I might have something that could help."

"Yes, how did your research into snakes go?" Sherlock asked, sounding unconvinced, and still not looking up.

"Well," John began, seeming pleased with himself, "There's a snake usually found in India called the Dab… Daboia," he looked at his notes, "sometimes called the Russell's Viper…"

"The Lurker," Sherlock muttered.

"What?" John asked.

"Nothing. Go on," Sherlock coaxed as he continued his search through the documents in front of him.

Sherlock's phone chimed. He looked at the reply: in the office.

"Well, a lot of it fits," John went on.

"What fits?" Sherlock asked. He sent another text: need access.

"The symptoms and circumstances of Julia's death," John continued, despite having to compete with his friend's divided attentions. "A bite from the viper can cause respiratory failure and hypotension, which can lead to sudden cardiac arrest. That was the official cause of death as Helen said."

"Really? A snake?" Molly remarked with a puzzled look.

Sherlock ignored the outburst and spoke in an exasperated tone, "But there would have been swelling and bleeding at the sight of the bite. There was no physical trauma noted in the post-mortem."

"What if it was injected intravenously? With a needle," John suggested.

"You're reaching," Sherlock said, "And there's no mention of needle marks in this report either."

"Well, aren't we reaching with this whole case?" John asked, a little frustrated.

"How do you mean?" Sherlock asked.

"I mean, isn't this whole case bordering on the impossible?" John proposed. Sherlock gave him a long, hard look. "Do we really know that this poor girl Julia was murdered?" John continued.

"You believed Helen's story," Sherlock responded.

"Yes, I did," John admitted, "But now we've had a chance to look at the facts. There's nothing to indicate foul play in the post-mortem report, as you said. And you, yourself said that you didn't see any way for an attacker to get into the flat when we visited Helen." John sighed. "Maybe there's no mystery here mate. Maybe everything is as it seems. That Roylott fellow is very unpleasant, that's not disputed… but perhaps he's all talk."

"What's the matter with you?" Sherlock asked, genuinely surprised at his friend's reaction to the case.

John looked defensively at the detective. "Nothing is the matter with me," he said, unconvincingly. Molly looked rapidly back and forth between the pair. Sherlock's intense stare moved vertically—from John's expression, downward. "Don't look at my hand," John said evenly, as he pointed a finger at his friend, trying, but failing, to show conviction.

Sherlock sighed and shook his head, returning his gaze to his work. "There is something here!" he raised his voice. He took the file in front of him and slammed it closed. "But why can't I see it?"

"Why is this one so important to you?" John queried quietly, with genuine interest.

Sherlock didn't answer.

His phone chimed again. Molly glanced at the phone that was within her view on the lab bench. The reply said: early dinner? 1 lombard.

"You're going to dinner with someone?" Molly couldn't help the words that came out of her mouth.

Sherlock picked up his phone, and glanced at it. "Yes," he said dismissively.

John sighed and went on. "Well, the Daboia viper also emits a high-pitched sort of whistle before it attacks," he pointed out absently. "Helen did say she heard a high-pitched whistle of some kind when her sister opened the door."

"Yes, the whistle," Sherlock said in an even tone as he stared blankly, past his friend. "The whistle is very interesting."

"No doubt," John said. He paused, and drew in a long breath. "So, where do we go from here?"

Sherlock looked at his friend now. John gave a brief smile, and they exchanged a look—John had been through many adventures with his friend before, and he would have his friend's back on this one too, no matter how unbelievable it got—as he always would.

A smile began to form on Sherlock's lips. "The game, John, is on."

Sherlock picked up his coat from the worktable, put it on with the usual flair, and walked towards the door. "Perhaps dinner will help this along."

Molly watched as they left.

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On the street, Sherlock hailed a cab, and he and John got inside. Sherlock gave the cabbie the address of 1 Lombard. 1 Lombard Street Brasserie was housed in an old building across from the Bank of England and in the heart of the financial district of London. Sherlock and John exited their cab minutes later and entered the restaurant. A well-dressed man seated the two friends at a crisply laid table near the wall and presented them with menus.

"Nice place," John remarked, referring to the elegant décor around them, and the prices displayed on the menu. "Are we meeting someone?" he asked, indicating the empty spot and place setting across from them.

Sherlock didn't answer.

The place was bustling with activity as smartly-dressed people and financial types ordered food and drink. A few were seated around the grand, circular bar in the middle of the room. The expansive dome-windowed ceiling, directly above, gave a view of the sky. Business men and women chatted with clients and colleagues. Whether it was work or pleasure, all seemed to be enjoying themselves, which lent itself to the stimulating atmosphere.

At that moment, Helen arrived and was ushered to the table. She sat down opposite of the detective and the doctor. "I'm sorry for being late Sherlock, John," she said by way of greeting. "The tube took longer to get here than I expected."

She began to look over her menu and then noticed that John was hesitantly looking over his. "Please," she told them both pleasantly, "order what you'd like. The bill will be taken care of." She smiled. John returned the smile and Sherlock simply finished studying their host before turning his attention to his menu.

John cleared his throat. "This is quite a place," he remarked to Helen, by way of conversation. "Do you come here often?"

Helen didn't look up from her menu as she said, "This was one of Julia's favorite places. Our family's offices are very close to here. For that reason, it will also make it easier for him to slip away for a moment."

John's look turned puzzled. Sherlock looked up at Helen briefly, and then shifted his gaze back down when she looked up at him.

"Sorry, who's going to slip away?" John asked.

Helen turned her gaze to John. "The man who will get us access to the Stoner Capital offices," she said simply.

A sharp-looking waiter approached their tableside and politely requested their food choices. Helen ordered first and asked for a glass of wine to go with her meal. Once Sherlock and John had ordered, the waiter gathered their menus and retreated to the kitchen.

As if on cue, a good-looking man walked into the restaurant and walked over to the bar. He fit in well in the environment; his suit was appropriate for the high-end venue and he had a clean-cut appearance. He ran a hand absently through his reddish-brown hair and flashed a friendly smile—at the man tending to the bar—that touched his blue-green eyes. The man in the suit would often come here for a drink in the evening. He lifted the drink that was set on the counter for him a minute later, and took a long sip. For his polished appearance, he still had a soft and trustworthy look about him.

He walked over to the table when he spotted Helen, and was initially focused on her as he approached; but then his gaze immediately locked onto Sherlock when he reached the edge of the table, and he drew in a sharp breath.

"You hired Sherlock Holmes," the man said, seemingly unable to control the outburst.

Helen appeared unfazed, but Sherlock recognized that she was suppressing a reaction. "Sherlock, John," Helen said, unconvincingly even-toned, and looking at the two of them, "This is Percy Armitage. He's a consultant at Stoner Capital. He works for my stepfather."

John's eyes narrowed in confusion and he shifted in his chair. "He can be trusted," Helen assured her dinner companions.

"Of course it's alright," Sherlock said, to no one in particular, as he looked from Percy to Helen and back. "After all, they were romantically involved at one point."

"What?" Helen asked incredulously with breath behind her voice.

"It's plain to see," Sherlock barreled forward in his usual matter-of-fact way. "You were in a relationship, but you broke it off," he said, indicating Helen.

"How…?" she couldn't finish.

"Did you know that the pupils of one's eyes dilate when one sees something they want, which can, in fact, indicate attraction," Sherlock continued with his usual aloofness. "His pupils dilated as he approached and saw you. Clearly, you broke it off, but he's still hopeful."

Percy sighed loudly in irritation, but Helen just stared blankly at the detective.

"Coupled with your impersonal greeting, and the strong drink he got before coming over here—there's still pain there obviously. You're the one that ended it," Sherlock deduced. He pressed on. "And, if he works closely with your stepfather and you still trust him, there had to be a strong connection to make that trust reasonable." He finished, sounding pleased with himself.

Helen stood swiftly from her chair, almost knocking it over. Now, even her slight frame looked very assuming. There was a millisecond of silence as John's jaw dropped involuntarily, and Percy, with what seemed to be humorless smirk of incredulity forming at the corners of his mouth, stared at Sherlock. Sherlock, in this moment, was uncharacteristically silent, and was looking up at Helen with what seemed like penitence.

"You," Helen addressed the detective directly across from her. She opened her mouth to say something more, but instead, she said nothing else, other than "Percy," as she indicated that she wanted him to follow her away from the table.

They stood in another corner of the room.

"You hired Sherlock Holmes," Percy repeated himself, attempting to speak in a hushed tone so the other diners could not overhear.

"Yes, I did," Helen said quickly, cutting him off.

"You know," Percy said softly, "when you called me, and asked me to meet you here, I thought it was just going to be you and me. I haven't heard from you in ages."

"And you were still hopeful," Helen used Sherlock's words sardonically.

"That's not fair," Percy said firmly. "Sherlock Holmes is an egotistical sod, and he's known for it. Not to mention all that stuff about Richard Brook and the Met not even trusting him…"

"He was cleared of all that," Helen defended.

But Percy went on, "Did you know that that newspaper owner, Charles Milver-whatever died, in his home, under unusual circumstances, and that's it been suggested that Holmes was somehow involved?"

"I didn't hire him for his bedside manner," Helen said curtly, "And I don't care about rumors." Helen's voice rose as she continued, drawing the attention of some of the people seated nearby to where they were standing. "I needed someone who would trust me—who would take me seriously," she said, "And Sherlock at least believes me. Someone murdered Julia. And where were you after she died, Percy, hum? Why didn't you take my side after the post-mortem report came out? Instead, you agreed with the cops and the doctors. And that's why it ended between us, remember?"

Helen shifted her stance and continued to stare straight at Percy, as she continued, "Sherlock knows something isn't right about all of it, else he wouldn't have agreed to help me. At least Sherlock is here to help when I need it."

Percy looked at her incredulously, his eyes showing hurt, and flashing with a bit of anger that disappeared as quickly as it had appeared. His own voice rose as he spoke. "Sherlock? Was Sherlock there right after your sister died? Was Sherlock there when you couldn't get up out of bed for a month after it happened? Was he the one to stay with you—to try and piece you back together? Was he the one by your side that whole time?" Percy paused for a moment. "Julia was my friend—we worked together. She's the one who introduced us. I was devastated too when she died."

Helen brought her voice low, but her words carried resentment. "I just needed you to believe me."

"I did, if you remember correctly," Percy said with a sigh. "I was right there with you." He paused a moment to look at Helen, his eyes held care and love. Helen shifted her gaze downward. "And then everyone said it was cardiac arrest," he said, sounding resigned. "And, no matter how hard we looked, there was no evidence to suggest anything else. And I thought that maybe…" his words dropped off.

"You thought what?" Helen coaxed with frustrated tone. "You thought they were right?"

Percy sighed again, a deep breath out that filled the emptiness between them. "I thought… even if Julia was murdered, and even if it was by Roylott, I thought that it would be better for you, so that you could heal, if we just put it behind us."

"I can't just leave it be," Helen shot. "That won't help me or anyone."

"And has obsessing over it helped you?" Percy interjected matter-of-factly. Helen opened her mouth to say something, but then didn't. "You haven't worked since she died," Percy said. "And you love acting. You stay in that apartment all the time, hoping to find something that convicts Roylott," he told her. And though his words were bluntly honest, his tone held affectionate concern.

"That's not true. I do other things," Helen rebutted with frustration. "I just went for an audition."

"Yes, I heard about that. Our friend—the director in the West End—she told me you auditioned for a production there," Percy said. He proceeded hesitantly, "So, after hearing that… and then you called me… I thought maybe things were... on the mend."

Helen looked up at Percy and spoke with renewed firmness and resolve. "I'm not giving up until I find out what happened to Julia," she said, as her voice elevated, "And until I prevent it from happening to me too."

"If you feel like you're in danger, I'm here," Percy said resolutely. "Let me help. You haven't called. I thought you wanted me to give you space…"

"You can help," Helen cut him off, impatiently. "I need your key card to the office."

"My key card?" Percy inquired, confused.

"I need to look at some things," Helen said.

"You know you can always come by. It is your family's business after all," Percy said. "You always used to stop by… when Julia was there." He paused, hesitant to continue. "I wish we could go back to those times…" He looked like he wanted to reach out to touch Helen, but he held back.

"I need to see what I can find there," Helen said, ignoring his last comment. "And Roylott can't be there, and it needs to be tonight."

Percy took in a breath as he finally understood what Helen's intent was.

Helen said, "You know as well as I do that Roylott's doing bad business."

"I'm almost certain he is," Percy agreed. "But he's good at it. I've never seen any proof." He paused as the realization hit him, "You think Julia found proof?"

"Didn't she say anything to you?" Helen asked.

"No, she didn't mention anything to me," Percy offered. They both looked at each other for a beat. "You know I stay there because of you, right?" Percy told her with pain behind his voice. "Grimesby Roylott is a bastard if I ever knew one. But I stay because no one else is left. No one else is left that gives a damn about what your parents built."

"I know," Helen said, the first touch of softness coming to her voice. "You usually work late," Helen continued, the business back in her tone, though her frustration was gone. "So, no one will suspect anything if your key card is used later tonight. Take the evening off. And, come to think of it, I'll need your key to the lobby door too."

"I'm coming with you," Percy said.

"Sherlock needs to look through my family's office, and he doesn't need anyone to encumber the process," she responded simply. "I'll find a way to get your key card back to you by morning. You still take the tube to the Bank station to get here in the morning, right?" she asked matter-of-factly, but didn't wait for a reply. "So, we'll do a quick hand-off at the station."

"Alright," Percy resigned. He reached into his jacket pocket, retrieved the key card and lobby key, and handed them to Helen. "Smithson and Witherspoon sometimes work late too now. You'll have to be sure they're not there either," he said. Helen turned and started to walk away. "Helen," Percy called. She turned back to face him once more. "Whatever you need, just let me know," he said. "I'm always here."

Helen nodded once and turned away, resuming her course back to the table, where her food now sat, getting cold.

Percy walked back over to the bar and placed some cash in front of one of the bartenders—a lot more cash than was necessary to cover the price of his drink. He pointed to Helen's table and the bartender nodded, taking the money. Percy left the restaurant and didn't look back.

Helen stood at the table's edge for a moment. Sherlock sat there, by himself, looking up at her inquisitively. She picked up the remainder of Percy's drink, that he had left on the table, and downed the rest of it in one gulp. She kept hold of the glass when she sat down, once again across from the detective.

"Where's John?" she asked, absently.

"The washroom," Sherlock responded. He paused for a moment, and then said, "He said I should apologize."

"What?" Helen asked inattentively, glass still in hand.

"He said I should apologize," Sherlock told her.

"No need," Helen said simply. "It was true. What you said was all true," she said with a humorless smirk, and she gave Sherlock a long look, as he watched her expression.

Helen shifted her gaze downward at the table. "Sometimes, Mr. Holmes, the world needs people who are willing to do what others can't," she said.

She finally set the glass cup down and, looking pained, she said, "Do you believe my stepfather killed Julia? Because there are some days that I'm not so sure anymore." Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off. "It ages you. Finding out what the world is like—what people are really capable of… Julia always knew what to do in difficult situations. She wasn't much older than me, but somehow it seemed like the difference between us was more like 11 years than 11 months... Promise me that you will find out what happened to her."

They sat there for a long moment, and then Sherlock said with conviction, "I will solve your mystery Helen. I will find out what happened to your sister."

Helen smiled hesitantly, and Sherlock gave a reassuring smile back. This woman, he thought; she showed up at Baker Street, terrified, just this morning. And yet, he was starting to discover that there was more to her than that shivering young woman. He was beginning to see; she was also willing to do what other people couldn't, in order to find out the truth. And for that, he was beginning to understand her.

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Sherlock, John and Helen exited the restaurant and stood on the pavement. Helen scanned the street, almost involuntarily. Sherlock noticed. Then she turned to look up at him. "The offices are at 41 Lothbury," she said. "Just on the other side of the Bank." She looked from Sherlock to John and back now as she continued, "Come at ten and find a place across the street where you won't be seen. Then watch for a light in the upper floor window to turn on. That will be your cue to come in and join me…"

"It's best if John and I go alone," Sherlock cut her off.

"I'm coming with you," Helen insisted, as her expression conveyed that she would not be convinced to do otherwise. "That office belongs to my family," she said. "And, you'll also need me to make sure that none of the other consultants decided to work late. If they see me, I can make some kind of excuse. But there would be no explanation for why you two would be there."

Sherlock sighed loudly, obviously put out by the thought of having someone else along.

"Alright," John said agreeably, attempting to move the conversation past the issue. "We'll be there at midnight."

Helen nodded once, turned, and started to walk across the street to the Underground station. "Oh, and Helen," John called. Helen turned back around to face the two. "Thanks for dinner," he said with an appreciative smile. Helen smiled back and then resumed her course. Moments later, she disappeared beneath the street into Bank station.

"Well, what do we do now?" John asked Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at his friend and said, "We come back, tonight."