Sherlock enters the living room first to see DI Lestrade lounging in the angular armchair, watching the police officers swarming the flat.

"What the hell is this?" Sherlock snaps as John and Hamish follow close behind.

Lestrade smirks, "well, we knew you'd find the case."

"Well, you can't just break into my flat," Sherlock frowns, "what the hell is this?"

Lestrade considers his answer for a moment, "it's a drugs bust!"

John laughs, "this guy? A junkie? I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all night and not find anything."

Sherlock steps into John's space, "you might want to shut up now, John."

A moment passes, "you?" John says finally, shifting uncomfortably, he may have just been swapping spit with the man, but the penetrating stare still makes him step backwards.

"Shut up." Sherlock turns back to Lestrade, "I'm not your sniffer dog, Lestrade."

"No," he points to the kitchen, "Anderson is my sniffer dog."

"Anderson? What are you doing here?"

Anderson steps around the corner and waves, "I volunteered."

Lestrade shuffles back into the chair, "they're not all strictly on the drug squad, but they're very keen. Now, you can take Hamish back downstairs and let us get back to work, or you can hand over the case, which would be marvellous."

Sally leans around the corner holding a jar, "are these human eyes?"

"Hey!" Hamish shouts, "those are an experiment, put them back!"

"Kid, they were in the microwave."

"So?" He says petulantly, throwing himself down onto the sofa and folding his arms.

Sherlock groans, "and now thanks to your incompetent officers I have to deal with a grumpy nine year old for the rest of the evening." Sherlock scoffs disbelievingly, "you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me into helping you?"

Lestrade stands, "it's not pretend if we find anything," he says quietly.

"I am clean."

"What about your flat?" He says a little louder.

"Hamish doesn't even let me smoke," Sherlock says, unbuttoning his sleeve and showing the nicotine patch, "last time I bought a box he flushed them. You think I could hide anything recreational from him? Think again, he'd rather not be in Mycroft's care like last time."

Lestrade unbuttons his own sleeve, revealing his nicotine patch, "I don't smoke either. Let's work together, alright?"

Sherlock grumbles under his breath and gracefully drops onto the sofa beside Hamish, mirroring his body language.

Lestrade sighs, "I'm dealing with a child. We found Rachel. She was Jennifer Wilson's only daughter."

"Never mind that," Anderson butts in, "you said the killer would have the case, and oh look, we just found it in the hands of our favourite psychopath."

"I'm not a psychopath, I'm a high functioning sociopath. Do your research," Sherlock bites, turning to Lestrade, "I need to question her, can you bring Rachel in?"

"She's dead," Lestrade says. The word excellent forms on Sherlock's lips as he leans forward, but Lestrade speaks again, "she's been dead for fourteen years. She was Wilson's still born daughter."

"Then why would she..?" Sherlock stands and begins pacing, "she thought of her daughter in her last moments, why would she still be upset?"

A cold silence falls over the room.

"Not good?" He asks, directed at Hamish and John, who slowly shake their heads. He grumbles and steps into John's space again, "but think. If you'd been murdered, in your very last few seconds what would you say?"

"Please God, let me live," John deadpans.

"Use your imagination."

John swallows thickly, "I don't have to."

Sherlock bites his lip and awkwardly dances from one foot to the other, "but if you were really clever. She was trying to tell us something." He begins pacing again and ruffling his hair in thought.

"Sherlock, your taxi's here. Is the doorbell not working?" Mrs Hudson appears at the door, "what's going on? Oh, they're making such a mess," she tuts, going to rest a hand on Hamish's shoulder.

Sherlock dismisses her with a wave of his hand, "I didn't order one, go away."

John throws a glare at Sherlock and leans over, "it's a drugs bust, Mrs Hudson."

She gasps, "but they're just herbal soothers for my hip."

"Shut up, everybody!" Sherlock suddenly bursts from the centre of the room, "nobody think, nobody move, nobody breathe. Anderson face the other way, you're putting me off."

Anderson begins to form an insult, but Lestrade cuts in, "your back, now, please."

Sherlock twirls, pulling at his hair in deep thought.

"Your taxi," Mrs Hudson tries again, stepping into the centre of the room.

"Mrs Hudson," Sherlock snaps. She scurries away down the stairs. Sherlock sighs a laugh, "oh, oh! She's clever than you lot and she's dead!"

"Dad," Hamish warns quietly.

Sherlock ignores him and laughs again, "she didn't lose her phone, she planted it on the killer." He's met with silence, "don't you see? Rachel!"

The room continues to stare at him until he sighs, "John, the label on the luggage. There should be an email address."

John frowns and leans over to read it as Sherlock opens his laptop, "jennie dot pink at me phone dot org dot uk," he says.

Sherlock's fingers fly over the laptop keyboard, "out her email in here and altogether now, the password is—" he dramatically clicks the Enter button on the laptop, and soon Jennifer Wilson's profile and email account have flashed up. Sherlock smiles triumphantly.

Anderson snorts, "so we can read her email, so what?"

"Don't talk out loud Anderson, you'll lower the IQ of the whole street," Sherlock snaps not taking his eyes from the screen, "it's a smart phone, it's got a GPS."

Lestrade begins to argue how unlikely it would be that the killer had kept the phone, but John turns and smiles, explaining the text and phone call they had received.

Mrs Hudson re-enters the room, "your taxi!"

Sherlock spins on the balls of his feet and swoops to the door, "isn't it time for your evening soother, Mrs Husdon?" He hisses.

John raises an eyebrow and turns back to the laptop, "Sherlock? The phone, it's here. On Baker Street."

"How?" Sherlock mumbles, looking at the floor.

Lestrade pulls a face, "maybe you dropped it when you brought the case here?"

Sherlock stands in the centre of the room, his mind rushing to every conclusion possible. The voices of police officers are reduced to a dull mumbling in his ears. He's pulled out of his thoughts by his phone vibrating in his pocket. Pulling it out he's met with the message, COME WITH ME, from an unknown number. He faces the door and sees the retreating back of a shadowed man.

He feels a light tug on his sleeve. Looking down, he's met with a concerned pair of silver eyes, "you okay?"

"Fine," Sherlock says, looking back at the door, "I'm just going to get some fresh air, back in a minute."

He mindlessly pats Hamish's head and starts down the stairs, shrugging his coat on.

John sighs, "fresh air? Now?" John frowns, "Hamish, why don't you go get ready for bed? Maybe read a book or something? They're going to be here a while, so you might as well."

"I can't go to bed until Lestrade's Yarders are gone," he huffs, throwing a dirty look towards Lestrade, "they make too much noise for me to be able to sleep, and I need to make sure they don't mess up any of our stuff." This time the glare is shot in Sally's direction.

"Alright, alright," John holds his hands up in a peace gesture, "go get Sherlock, would you? We need his help," he asks. Hamish nods sulkily and, in a way only mastered by the Holmes family, gracefully stomps down the stairs.

When he gets to the door he sees Sherlock having a discussion with a cab driver.

"Dad?"