Lestrade pounded on the door of Andrew Parker's flat with a team poised behind him. But there was no answer.

"He is not home, Lestrade!" Sherlock shouted again from where he and John stood watching at the railing. It had been obvious to him Parker hadn't been home in a day, even before he and John had gotten out of the taxi.

With a grunt of aggravation, Greg answered his ringing mobile. "Lestrade. Yes. Got it."

Hanging up he turned to his officers. "O'Brien has found an address of a local underground poker game Parker frequents. Let's go."

As the police rushed down the stairs, Sherlock held back. "Let them chase whatever lead the 'genius' came up with," he said snidely. "Parker won't be there."

"So what do we do now?" John asked.

"Look." Sherlock nodded to the flat across the way. The elderly woman who lived there was walking up with an armload of shopping bags and was not too subtly watching the pair. Before John knew what was happening, Sherlock threw his arms around his neck.

"Oh, John, what am I going to do?" Sherlock cried with a tear-filled voice.

Confused, John played along. "There, there," he said, awkwardly patting Sherlock's back.

Sherlock unattached himself from John and wiped his eyes with the back of his hands. "Sorry," he said loudly. "I'm just so upset!"

John watched his friend in admiration. For a man who had disconnected himself from his feelings, Sherlock was able to mimic real emotions when he needed to at the drop of a hat.

Sherlock ruefully caught the woman's eye as she unlocked her front door. "Sorry, ma'am. I didn't mean to disturb."

"You're quite all right," she said, peering at him curiously. "Are you all right?"

"I'll...be fine," Sherlock said like a true martyr.

"Can we help you with those?" John asked, gesturing to her bags.

She smiled gratefully. "Yes, thank you."

Sherlock and John each took a bag from her.

"Do you know Andrew Parker?" she asked Sherlock as they walked through her blue-themed living room to the kitchen.

Sherlock sniffled. "I leant him some money."

The woman clicked her tongue. "Say no more, son. You won't see that money again."

"Wh-what?" Sherlock gaped at her.

She nodded knowingly, setting her purse down on the small kitchen table. "Andrew is a gambler, didn't you know that? Oh dear, did he give you that nasty bruise?"

She ran her hand across Sherlock's cheek in a motherly way. He bit his lip and pretended to fight back tears. "I told Andrew last night that I had to get the money back—my dad is having a surgery—and he hit me."

"That's a shame. First, he lost The Hot Spot, then Sofia left him. Now he's driving away friends like you."

"I haven't seen Sofia in ages," Sherlock said, leaning in toward the woman with his most endearing smile. "Do you happen to have her current address?"

~s~s~s~s~

The crowded flat was too small to hold a baby grand piano, but one dominated the main sitting room. Sherlock gazed at it for a moment, then turned his attention to the short blonde woman who had let them into her home. Wearing a pink floral dressing gown and heels, Sofia Ivansky stood with her hands in her pockets.

"What do you want?" she asked in a croaky voice.

"Where's your husband?" John asked.

Sofia regarded him coldly. "He isn't my husband. I haven't seen or talked to him in a month."

"That is a lie," Sherlock stated, surveying the framed pictures on the piano. "You spoke with him yesterday."

Startled by the certainty in his voice, Sofia swayed slightly. John reached forward and steadied her arm. "That isn't true," she coughed.

"Tell me," Sherlock said haughtily, "did you become an alcoholic before or after Moran strangled you and broke your hand?"

Sofia didn't answer but instead blinked slowly and sank down to the sofa. "Who told you?"

"You did."

"How?" she whispered hoarsely.

"Shall I tell you what I know about you?" he asked archly.

"Yes." Sofia's watery blue eyes watched him suspiciously.

Sherlock began. "You were born in Russia but immigrated when you were young. You are an alcoholic and have been for two years, maybe three. Music is both a passion and a source of grief for you. It also is why you resent your boyfriend. He, on the other hand, will do anything for you."

Sofia sat quietly for a minute. "How do you know?"

"Your English is impeccable, but you still have a trace of an accent. You are, as they say, currently three sheets to the wind, as indicated by your erratic gait and the distinct odor of whiskey on your breath. To be drunk this early in the day can only mean a chronic drinking problem, one that started after you lost your music career.

"Your love of music is obvious: your email address, the baby grand, the photo of you singing on stage." He picked up a framed picture of Sofia at a microphone wearing a bright red dress. "It is a grief for you because your right hand and fingers were obviously broken in such a way that they never healed correctly. You can no longer play. I also know you no longer play because your piano is covered in dust, the result of not having been touched in a long time. But it is something you still value highly and feel sentimental about, so you keep it.

"Your raspy voice and persistent cough indicate damaged vocal chords that resulted from strangling. This condition keeps you from singing. The only person who would have had a reason to harm you is Moran. Why? To give Parker an extra 'incentive' to join his crime ring, in addition to the gambling debt. You blame and resent him for the loss of your musical career. That's why you left him. He, however, loves you and continues to do whatever Moran wants in order to keep you safe."

Sofia pulled her disfigured hand from the pocket of her robe and held it up for them to see. "Andrew took me to the very best surgeons. But there was nothing to be done. I knew it from the start. But he always held out hope."

She stood and walked unsteadily over to the piano. "I was barely out of school when Andrew hired me to play and sing at the martini bar he owned." She smiled wistfully. "Those were great days. Music meant everything to me, and Andrew wanted to give me the world. He even converted the offices above the bar into a recording studio, just for me. Then everything fell apart."

"His gambling?" John asked.

She snorted in contempt. "Andrew couldn't stop. Three years ago he met Moran online. We lost the house first. Then he had to close the bar. He owed Moran so much money. He tried to get out; that's when Moran attacked me. He wrapped a wire around my throat until I passed out. When I woke up, my hand was smashed. After that, Andrew obeyed Moran. Never questioned him, never stepped outside the lines. Only did what he was told."

"Including kidnapping Molly Hooper?" Sherlock asked sharply.

Sofia looked away.

"Where is she?" he demanded.

Sofia stubbornly shook her head. "I don't know what you're talking about. I have never been involved."

Sherlock sat and rubbed his temples. "Moran tried to reach Parker, but Parker didn't pick up. Moran knew Parker would always answer your call, so he contacted you. You made Parker return Moran's call and he got his marching orders: kidnap Molly Hooper. So where did he take her? Somewhere no one would see or hear her. Somewhere he had easy access to." Sherlock jumped to his feet. "I know where she is!"

"Where are we going?" John asked as they ran from the flat, leaving the door open behind them.

"Music!" Sherlock shouted.

~s~s~s~s~

A minute after they left her, Sofia reached a decision. She swallowed hard and reached for the phone.