"Lestrade, this is murder," Sherlock said plainly. "I can see that. You can see that. There's nothing interesting about this woman's death at all… ow!" Evie had joined the conversation by now and found it fit to stand on her tiptoes and smack Sherlock on the back of the head.

"Someone's wife isn't coming home tonight, Uncle," she told him. "Try to remember that, show some respect." Sherlock glared at her slightly, but said nothing. "I think, Inspector, what Uncle is trying to say in that special way of his is 'what aren't you telling us'?"

"This isn't the first victim," Lestrade said slowly. "There have been four others, all red-heads… but this one's different."

"How?" asked Sherlock, a hint of excitement in his voice. He looked over at Evie, half expecting her to be ready to slap him again. Her arms were crossed in front of her, a small grin on her face; she was excited too.

"The other four were beaten to death. It looked like they were mugged, but as far as we can tell, nothing was taken. None of them had any defensive wounds either…"

"Does anything else link the victims?" John asked. "Did they go to school together, work together, anything?"

"A card." Lestrade's eyes widened as everyone looked at Evie. "A white post card with a male and female silhouette on one the front, both with red hair. The back reads 'The Red-Headed League: At the request of the late Ezekiah Hopkins, of Lebanon, Pennsylvania, U.S.A., there are now ten vacancies open which entitle members of the League to a salary of one hundred pounds a week for purely nominal services. All red-headed men and women are eligible. You will be contacted at a later date to discuss membership'."

"Evie," Sherlock said slowly. "How do you know that?" She reached into a completely pocket and pulled out the card she just described.

"Because I got this one just before I left school." She handed the card over to Sherlock, her hand shaking slightly.

"Did they contact you about membership?"

"No, they never did… I planned on saying no, it seemed too good to be true. Like one of those pyramid schemes…" John took her gently by the arm.

"Sherlock, I'm taking her home." The detective nodded, watching as the doctor took Evie to the nearest cab and helped her inside.

"This one didn't have a card," Sherlock said. "She was a replacement."

"A replacement for what?" asked Anderson.

"The victim that got away."

"But who is that?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock shot him a loot. "…you don't mean Evie?"

"She was has the card and was mugged this morning… but she fought back, she got away… Lestrade, I'm going to need to see the rest of the victims." The inspector nodded.

"They're in the morgue."

Sherlock returned to Baker Street a few hours later, unnerved slightly by how quiet the place was. He ascended the stairs quickly, wondering if one of his other cases had come back to haunt him.

"John, Evera!" he called, throwing the door open. John was on the sofa, reading a magazine. Evie was nowhere in sight. "John, where's Evie?"

"Evie has locked herself up in my room," John replied, turning a page in his magazine. Sherlock stared at him, blinking a few times.

"Why did she do that?"

"She was probably too afraid of what might be in your room."

"No, I mean why is she locking herself in anywhere?"

"Your brother was here when we got back from the crime scene. He and Evie got into a bit of a row."

"My brother had a row with a thirteen-year-old girl?"

"Yup."

"Better than having one with a pin machine, I guess." John rolled his eyes.

"Funny, very funny. Did you know she dropped out of school?"

"No, but it doesn't surprise me."

"It doesn't?" asked John. "Why not?"

"Evie's been wanting to attend a school here in London for some time."

"I see… well, as you can guess, Mycroft wasn't too thrilled with the situation. They got into a shouting match; Mycroft told her she was going back, Evie said she wasn't… it all ended with Evie reminding Mycroft that he's not her father and her storming up to my room and locking the door." He turned the page in his magazine. "Mycroft wanted me to let you know that she's now officially 'your problem'." Sherlock rolled his eyes, sitting down in his favorite chair.

"Damned fool," he muttered. "Upsetting her like that after what happened." Before John could ask what he was talking about, Sherlock continued. "We've got more important things to worry about right now; I went to see the other victims… ran into Molly."

"Oh? How's she doing?"

"In hysterics. She hasn't seen Jim since that day at the hospital and blames me for it of course."

"Of course. What did you learn from the other victims?"

"That they were drugged." John finally looked up from his magazine. "All of them, jabbed in the neck with a syringe of Propofol. That's how why there were no defensive wounds."

"What about Evie?" John asked. "She couldn't have been drugged, otherwise she'd not have been able to fight back." Sherlock shrugged his shoulders.

"Maybe the mugger underestimated her; more likely, she was meant to escape him."

"Why is that more likely?"

"How better to draw me into a case than attack the one family member I actually like having around?"

"You like having her around?" John asked, surprised. Sherlock nodded absently.

"I haven't thrown her out yet have I?"

"No, but you haven't thrown me out either."

"And for good reason." He never stated what that that reason was, but it didn't stop a smile from curling the doctor's lips. "What's this then?" Sherlock asked, picking up the floral parcel from Charring Cross.

"Evie got that for you at the hospital. Haven't the slightest what's in it." Sherlock opened the bag and looked inside. After a moment, he began to chuckle. "What?"

"Apparently, my dear niece feels that I need a doctor." He pulled the object out of the parcel; a brown teddy bear dressed in a white lab coat, wearing a stethoscope. John chuckled as well, picking his own bear up off the floor.

"And that I need a detective."

"More like you two need each other." The two men looked towards the kitchen, where Evie was standing. Her eyes were red and she was wiping tears from them. "Is that other uncle of mine gone yet, or will I be attempting to flee out John's window to my hotel?"

"He's gone," John said. "How's your hand?"

"I didn't think it was possible to make it hurt more than it did this morning," Evie replied. "I thought wrong."

"What did you do?" Sherlock asked, looking at her. Evie sat down next to John, raising an eyebrow at him.

"You didn't tell him?" John shook his head.

"Tell me what?"

"That I foolishly struck uncle Mycroft with my hurt hand." Sherlock considered this for a moment before replying.

"What was so foolish about striking him?"

"That I did it with my hurt hand; were you not paying attention?" Sherlock shook his head.

"Why did you hit him?" he asked. Evie didn't answer; she was looking down at the floor. "Evie?" She got up from the couch.

"I'm heading back to my hotel," she said softly. "I'm at the Northumberland, room 316." She walked out without another word.

"What did he do, John?" Sherlock asked. "Why did she hit him?" John drew a deep breath, letting it out slowly.

"I told you she reminded Mycroft he wasn't her father?" he asked, to which Sherlock nodded in reply. "He said that if he was, she wouldn't be the disrespectful urchin Sherringford raised her to be."

"I see," Sherlock growled.

"That's when Evie hit him, knocked him flat. She then told him not to talk about her dad like that and stormed up to my room." The pair was silent for a moment. "We just let her walk out of here when there may be a serial killer after her." John was certain he'd never seen Sherlock move so fast.