I sighed and tried to lift my arm to soothe the oncoming headache from the ever-constant shouting from the doctors treating me.

"Book an OR. We need to remove his kidney, his stomach, his liver-" The woman furiously scribbled on a chart.

"I don't need my internal organs removed, idiot." I cut off the woman.

"I'll let that slide because you're delirious. You've been poisoned, and that poison is going to kill you soon unless we get these organs removed." The woman declared.

"Let the poisons kill me, then. I want it clear I did this of my own volition." I said, neglecting to mention the fact that my body has an unnaturally high tolerance to poison. "If you'd be so kind as to discharge me?" I asked, getting up from the bed. I carefully removed the IV, the medications, and the life-support monitor.

"Sir, please."

With the last of the tubes pulled out, I walked away from my now abandoned bed, groaning each time my aching feet came into contact with the cool stone floor. I stretched and turned away to reclaim my things. "I don't need to be hospitalised, and I most certainly, above everything else, don't need anyone's help." I said, not bothering to spare a glance back at the now gaping woman. I groaned as I stepped through the open double-doors. "Oh, and there's been an explosion near a college. More than two hundred people are injured, at least one quarter of those people quite severely. You might want to prepare your hospital to the best of your ability." I suggested, now going out of the building.

"Taxi!" I called, going to the location of the explosion until another bomb went off, announced on the miniature TV screen in the front.

Located in Baker street.

Adrenaline raced through my mind as I called the taxi driver away in the opposite direction.

I threw a fifty of the front seat then left the taxi to stare at the charred and half-destroyed street.

"No..." I gasped running into 221B.

It was relatively unharmed. Only the grand piano and the ukulele in the corner were completely beyond repair, aside from a lamp I really hated, so it wasn't that much of a loss.

My eyes ran over every inch of the room. Charred debris lay everywhere. Of particular note, my laptop was completely destroyed, my skull had an insane amount of dust in it, and John's chair was a shade darker.

Thankfully, only one or two of my experiments out of twenty were completely destroyed.

However, what bothered me most of all was my older brother sitting in the middle of the room. "Mycroft. So, when are your 'superiors' going to let me take back my original form?" I asked him condescendingly.

"Sherlock, I've already told you that I do in fact have superiors and that they will decide when you can go back to being female." Mycroft told me.

I sighed and buried my forehead in my hands, then chuckled and straightened myself. "Did you know someone tried to poison me?" I asked, laughing.

Mycroft let out a huge guffaw. "Who? Voldemort?" he asked, still laughing.

My face hardened. "You know we try not to bring up what happened there ever again, especially since you abandoned me for the ministry." I chuckled gravelly. "But you're right about one thing: the perpetrator did have magic, and he is likely a parselmouth."

"There are very few known parselmouths left. Are you trying to suggest-"

"That Harry's responsible? Don't be ridiculous. He knows very well about my extreme tolerance to poisons. Sure, parselmouths are rare, but not nearly extinct. In addition, just like Animagi, not all parselmouths are known." I said, crossing my arms.

"Get some rest. You might have a high tolerance to poisons because of your inner 'fire demon', but you still feel the pain when you drink it."

I scoffed. "Like I myself am allergic to something that my inner demon needs to survive."

Mycroft ruffled my curls and left the room for his feet to thump down the steps. Faintly, I heard the door opening, then closing soon after. However, that's not the approximate time Mycroft would take to close a door after leaving a room.

Someone came in, someone who lives in the apartment. Either one of my dear neighbours, Mrs Hudson, or John. After listening closer, the footsteps pattern indicated it was John.

I settled into the cushions on the armchair, and like a child avoiding their mother when she taunted and prodded them to get up in the morning, I pretended to be asleep.

I heard the door leading from the living room into the hallway opening, then closing afterwards. John took of his coat as per usual, then sat down in his own chair. I could hear his thoughts almost too clearly.

'What are you hiding from me, Sherlock?' he seemed to ask me non-verbally over and over in different ways, only to get no response.

He seemed to go over his own memories of me and everything that had anything to do with me, such as my favourite restaurants, the first case we went on together, the way I deduced 'Afghanistan or Iraq', anything he picked up from Cerise, etc.

His memory wasn't half bad.

I snuggled into the cushions in the armchair with a soft sigh.

I don't know how long the one-sided non-verbal communication was, but I eventually retreated to my mind palace and drudged up all the information I could find about anything to occupy me.

Eventually, my eyes snapped open, I jolted off the chair, and decided to compose a song on the violin.

John came walking out of his room around thirty minutes later with a wince on his face each time the music spiked. He was tired and angry at me for waking him up.

"Sherlock," John sighed in exhaustion and anger (mostly exhaustion), "Go to sleep. Please, please go to sleep." John pleaded.

"John, I am a chronic insomniac. I couldn't go to sleep even if I wanted to." I reasoned, then went back to playing the carefully crafted instrument.

"I swear some day I'll burn that blasted thing."

"That'll be the day I start memorising your girlfriend's names." I tossed back.

John stopped in his stride to get back to bed to glare at me. "Sherlock, if you actually did memorise the names of my girlfriends, I would be very scared."

"As you should be, because that would mean I would have to play the guitar instead of the violin." I retorted after John slammed the door to his room, then continued to let melodies flow from me to the instrument into the air.

The music seemed to be visible. Beautiful colours surrounded me and my hair was ruffled. I turned around with the violin still playing to check if the window was open to find it bolted shut. There was no explanation for the colours since I didn't take any drugs or any poison.

Speaking of poison, the poisons from earlier had settled in my stomach. There was the occasional lapse of pain, but it was otherwise fine. I had bandaged the snakebite to hide it from anyone who could possibly see myself without my clothes, such as my flatmate or my landlady. Both would be completely circumstantial and accidental. However, there would likely be more questions if they see the bandages, so I'll have to be careful about that.

I stalked into the kitchen and made myself a cup of tea, chasing those thoughts away.

While the kettle boiled, I continued to compose.

"Strange. It feels like I've heard this before." I muttered to myself, still playing the violin.

It's like there are small lyrics in the back of my head accompanying the music.

"I that am lost, oh, who will find me? Deep down below the old beech tree..." A small girl's voice sang.

I picked up my phone and texted Mycroft. ''I that am lost, oh, who will find me? Deep down below the old beech tree.' What is this from? -SH'

Mycroft didn't respond.

Strange, though, the song didn't fade. Ever. Always in the back of my mind.

"I that am lost, oh who will find me? Deep down below the old beech tree." I muttered to myself continually under my breath.

"What's that from?" John asked me.

My head snapped up to look at him. "I have absolutely no clue." I informed him, holding my hands and resting them under my chin.

"Then how do you know it? I know you don't come up with lyrics for your songs."

"It's been floating around my head since composing that song." I told him. "And no, thank you, but I don't need a psychiatrist." I bolted off my seat, phone in hand, then retrieved my jacket and went out the door. "Come, John, there's a new case! Leslie wants us to meet him at Scotland yard!"

John chuckled at 'Leslie', then retrieved his coat and followed me.


Lestrade met us outside the yellow and black-striped police tape. I adjusted the black fabric of my coat collar.

"What do we have?" I asked Leslie, taking long strides, making John struggle to keep up with me.

"Ruptured gas main. Problem is, though, that there are bodies in the boiler room."

I scoffed. "You've got to be kidding me. Scotland Yard has reached a new low, which I didn't think was possible. Can you truly not solve a simple mystery like this before running to me?" I asked.

Lestrade's facial expression didn't change. Instead, he took my wrist and brought me down to the boiler room.

The boiler was completely destroyed. All that remained was a pile of twisted metal over a skeleton.

A man, in his early forties. Obese. Came from Russia.

"I don't see what's so important about this." I told Lestrade, crossing my arms with a huff.

Lestrade pointed to the corner. A bomb.

"Really, I expected you to notice this." Lestrade told me.

"If you must know, someone poisoned me. The bomb would be enough to rupture the gas lines. Then again, any explosive would." I dropped to my knees, which made everyone spring into action or tense. Instead of slouching over in pain as they expected, I ran a gloved finger across the ground. My tongue snaked out of my mouth to connect with the same gloved finger I had just wiped the floor with. "Gasoline. The fuel line ruptured before the bomb went off, or the dead man brought a container of gasoline, which would explain the melted plastic over in that corner." I pointed to the white smoking puddle in the corner. "The bomb then ignited and lit the room aflame." I dumbed down.

A knock to the door brought all of our attention to a redhead with black glasses.

'Shortsighted. New tattoo. Armed with a knife - homemade. On her menstrual cycle.' My mind raced through the information.

"Phone for Mr Sherlock Holmes." the redhead declared.

'Her name is Lucy Robyn.'

I walked over to the woman, taking the smartphone from her as I walked towards the hallway. "My thanks, Lucille." I put the phone up to my ear when I was in the hallway. "Sherlock." I introduced myself, taking deep strides down the hallway to another distant room that had already been searched.

"There will be a phone in a pink case. Instructions will be given." was all that was said on the other side before the connections was dropped. When I brought the phone back down to call the number back, the previous number had already been erased.

A week, seven cases, eight bombs, the acquiring of secret missile plans, and one arrangement with Moriarty later

I stepped out from behind the double-doors leading to a poll glittering in the moonlight. I took the flash drive out of my pocket with wariness, appreciating the feel of the gun on the other side of my chest. I held up the flash drive containing the missile plans. "I've got the missile plans!" I declared, still holding up the flash drive for anyone who came in to see. "See, that's what this has all been about, isn't it? The final problem."

I heard a door opening behind me "Evening." A familiar voice greeted and I froze from shock, then whipped my head around to confirm my suspicions. I froze when they turned out to be correct. I turned to see John coming out dressed in a winter jacket (Not unreasonable considering it's the middle of January). "John? Wha..."

John said evenly, his hands still in his pockets. "This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock? I'll bet you didn't expect this."

I fought the urge to stutter. I know it's going to make me look like a goddamn fool. Instead, with a look of complete and utter shock written all over my features, I advanced one step, then another, then another.

John pulled at the zipper of the jacket, revealing wires and circuitry. I froze when he pulled apart the two flaps of fabric, revealing a bomb. It had no timer. Remote-control. However, this person wouldn't dare risk being caught with the release code for a bomb on the day a bomb goes off. Pressure-activated.

I nearly dropped the hard drive when a small red dot indicating that he was tagged by a bomb graced his chest. John sighed and gritted out through clenched teeth: "What... Would you like for me... To have him... Say next?"

I turned around and saw the man on the roof with the gun. "Gottle o' gear," John declared, drawing my attention back to him. My head snapped around, looking for Moriarty. I know he's not the sharpshooter, he's far too careful for that. "Gottle o' gear, Gottle o' gear."

"Where are you?" I asked Moriarty.

Another door opened on my other side. My head snapped around and my magic felt around and sensed another presence entering the room.

"I gave you my number." A sing-song-y voice declared. My blood ran cold. Jim from IT. The man Molly is dating. I pity Molly. "I thought you might call." A head peeked out from the other side to reveal Jim. He stepped out in the luxurious suit and stepped along the side of the pool towards us, only slightly away from the door, though. He's facing me. John won't dare turn around.

"Is that," Moriarty continued, "A British army brand-name L9A1 in your pocket," I slowly pulled the gun from my pocket as he continued. "Or are you just pleased to see me?"

I pointed the gun at him. "Both."

"Jim Moriarty." The man introduced himself. "Hi." He continued to step closer to me. "Jim?" he asked rhetorically. "Jim from IT at the hospital?"

I set my other hand underneath the gun's edge where the bullets were stored to steady the gun as my hand shook. "Oh," he wondered. "Did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then I suppose that was rather the point."

He's now standing parallel to me.

I looked at John, then back at him. "I don't like getting my hands dirty." Moriarty explained simply. "I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teeny-tiny glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see." his eyes darted down to the ground before looking back up at me again. "Like you." he explained, and suddenly everything became clear to me.

"'Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to get rid of my lover's nasty sister? Dear Jim, please will you fix it for me to disappear to South America?"

"Just so." Moriarty declared in a mock British accent.

He was a- "Consulting criminal." I acknowledged. "Brilliant."

"Isn't it?" Moriarty responded rhetorically. "No one ever gets to me, and no one ever will."

I loaded the gun. "I did."

"You've come the closest," he granted, "but now you're in my way."

"Thank you."

"I didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Yes, you did." I responded. It was clear because of his eyebrows.

"Yeah, okay, I did." Moriarty shrugged. "But, the flirting's over, Sherlock. "Daddy's had enough now~. I've cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid, just for you to come out and play, so take this as a friendly warning, my dear. Back off." Moriarty got closer still. I fought to keep my breathing even. "Although," he continued, "I have loved this. This little game of ours. Playing Jim from IT, playing gay. Did you like the trick with the underwear?"

"People have died." I declared remorselessly. My arms shook, though noticeably.

"That's what people DO!" Jim exclaimed. That statement sent shivers up my spine. His words echoed around the pool's walls.

"I will stop you." I promised the consulting criminal.

"No, you won't." Jim replied, shaking his head.

I turned to John. "Are you alright?"

Moriarty leaned over John's ears and spoke in a low, seductive voice. It made me jealous of both men. "You can talk, Johnny-boy. Go ahead."

Nope, all infatuation for Moriarty just fizzled out.

John nodded at me. I turned my attention back to Moriarty, holding out the flash drive. "Take it."

Moriarty's face lit up like a child seeing their Christmas presents. "Oh. The missile plans." He took the small black flash drive, looked it over, then tossed it into the pool, claiming they were boring and he could have gotten them anywhere.


'Staying Alive' played over the speakers of a phone. I looked around to try and find the source of the music, but all I could turn up with was Moriarty or a phone inside the jacket, judging by the direction.

Then again, echoes can be tricky.

Moriarty sighed, exasperated, the took out his phone. He spoke on it for a few seconds before:

"SAY THAT AGAIN!" Jim exclaimed, then calmed. "Say that again and know that if you're lying to me I will find you and I will skiiiiiiiin you."

After about thirty more seconds, he left the pool area, declaring to the person that if they were speaking falsehoods he would turn them into shoes.

Better offer, then. Not our day to die.

In any case, we owe that person our lives.

Whelp, back to solving cases that likely shouldn't need my attention because Scotland Yard is supposed to be at least moderately intelligent.

Ha ha ha. Regular people are goldfish.

Has not been proofread. Please leave a review.