John rapped three times at Evie's door then waited patiently to be granted permission to enter.

'Come in,' Evie's voice came, and John heeded. He pushed open the door to find his friend sprawled across her couch with a bowl of popcorn resting on her stomach. Some movie was playing on the TV and she mindlessly shovelled the snack into her mouth as she gazed at the telly screen.

She pulled up her legs as John approached so that he could sit down, and offered him the popcorn. He took a handful and chucked a few kernels into his mouth as he relaxed into the lounge.

'So,' he said, casting a look at the woman out of the corner of his eye. 'A barrister, eh?'

'Yep,' she said through a mouthful of the snack.

'Solicitor too?'

She shrugged.

'Why didn't you tell me?' He asked, trying not to appear slightly wounded. They'd known each other for over a year now. He thought he knew all about her. But he guessed this was his fault; he never really cared to ask.

She sat up, leaning against the arm of the couch, the popcorn bowl cradled in her lap. 'I dunno,' she answered, tucking a stray strand of hair behind her ear. 'I guess because it's a part of my life that's over now. You know, boxed up, put away. Didn't really make sense to bring it up again.'

He studied her carefully, trying to gouge her emotional state. She didn't seem irritated like she had been before, and she didn't seem sad like she usually did when thinking about her past. She just seemed tired, like she had a child who was throwing a tantrum.

'Why'd you stop?' He questioned, reaching for another handful of popcorn. 'I mean, it was something your father did, your brother too. Was it because your brother, uh, you know...'

'Killed himself? Maybe that's a part.' She let her head fall back and stared up at the ceiling. 'I quit because I looked at my life and realised that I hadn't helped a single person who deserved it.'

'What do you mean?'

She sighed. 'My father was a great man,' she explained, 'but he wasn't exactly a good one.' A smile ghosted across John's face, but he remained silent. 'Maybe, way back, at the beginning, he had morals. He defended the innocent and he always, always won. But along the way, money did what money does – it corrupted him. And he didn't care about doing the right thing anymore, just for the highest bidder, and the most challenging case.' She sighed. 'Him, and my brother, and me, we put a lot of trash back out on the streets, John. Bailed out a lot of bad people.'

She picked mindlessly at the popcorn, not meeting John's eye. 'After my father and Logan died, mum and I were trying desperately to salvage the company, and this guy rings me up in the middle of the night. His name was Aaron Johnson. A couple of years ago he'd been charged with the murder of his wife and the man who she was having an affair with. He did it, too – he said as much to me, but I didn't care. He was rich. So I got him cleared. Anyway, so this night he rings me up and he says he's in some hot water because the police thought he'd murdered some kids. And I asked him, did you? And,' she swallowed hard, 'I remember, he said "Yeah. I did. But it's not like the truth matters, right?" And he laughed.'

'Jesus,' John breathed.

'I know, right? It was just...' She shook her head. 'And it was my fault, too. If it wasn't for me, those kids wouldn't have died.' She ran her hand through her hair, messing it further. 'Jace Wallace, nine, and Leah Algeron, twelve. They'd been playing in his lawn, trampling his flowers and he just... snapped. And it was all my fault he was there and not in gaol like he deserved.'

'Evie,' Joh reached out and lay a hand on her leg. 'I'm sorry. But it-'

The words jammed up in his throat. Saying it wasn't your fault to her seemed pointless, because they both knew that she was, at least, partly to blame. So he just patted her leg comfortingly.

'So I told my mum that I didn't want to do that anymore,' she finished, 'and she disowned me.' She laughed, wiping her hand across her face tiredly. 'Well, that's more exposition then I've ever done.'

He smiled. 'It's fine, Evie.'

They sat in silence, returning their attention to the move and watching the remainder without speaking. When it was done, Evie got up, stretched out the kinks in her back and flicked off the telly, putting the now empty bowl of popcorn on her coffee table to wash tomorrow.

But John couldn't resist. Just as he got to the door, he turned back.

'But you know Sherlock isn't a... murderer or anything,' John reasoned. 'He's a good person, who's doing good things. He's not like your old clients.'

'I know he's not,' Evie agreed.

'He'd really appreciate your help,' John said.

'It's not just him,' she raised a brow at him. 'You're in there, too.'

He blinked. 'Me?'

'In some charges you're an accessory, in others a perpetrator. Looking at possible gaol time and a hefty fine.'

John turned pale. He flapped his mouth open and shut a few times. 'Me?' He repeated.

'Yeah.'

'I've never broken a law in my life!'

Her eyebrows shot up.

'Well, I hadn't until...'

'Sherlock,' she finished for him.

'I don't want to be pushy, but... I would really appreciate it if you helped us out.'

She gave a sad smile, and he could see that she was deliberating over the decision. 'The thing is,' she said slowly, 'that I don't want to be that person again, and I'm afraid that I won't be able to stop myself if I start.'

John reached over and squeezed her arm. 'I'm sure you weren't that bad. You were still you, right?'

She snorted. 'You'd be surprised.'

She had a lot of work to do; she hadn't worked a case in years, and so she was transported back to her days at Oxford as she stayed up until the wee hours studying texts and old case files. And once she felt sufficiently reminded of all she had once known, she started in on the charges against Sherlock and John, writing up her defence. Some took her only an hour or two to build a solid, fool proof argument. Others took more time, took more research, took her pouring over statements and exhibits for hours on end, and sucking limes to stay awake, but she could always, always talk her clients out of a tricky situation.

Sherlock noticed the changes before even Evie did. He noticed how she slept less, and took her coffee black now. His keen eyes picked up on her manicured nails, the increase in and care put into her cosmetics, the new perfume she wore. He observed how her manner slowly, over weeks, grew colder, grew efficient and professional. She walked with elegance and with the stature of a woman who had the world beneath her thumb. Her tone became clipped and to the point, and he could very easily believe that she had never once lost a case in her career. She stopped making them dinner, stopped making herself dinner, often eating out. On the rare occasions she was home and John went to talk to her, she would tell him she was busy and he would leave without having said what he'd gone to say.

When they arrived back one day, they found Evie waiting for them, sitting on a kitchen chair, file open before her, flicking through mechanically. Sherlock studied her, cataloguing the changes. She had been out of the flat a lot recently, doing God knows what, and the flatmates hadn't seen her in a few days. She was wearing an expensive purple blouse tucked into a black high waisted skirt that followed the curve of her hip to her knee, a far cry from jeans and comfy shirts, and her perfume coloured the apartment. She was wearing lipstick and didn't seem to mind, had received a haircut, and she seemed more aware of her own sexual influence then Evie ever had. Sherlock heard John swallow.

'Hello, boys,' she greeted, putting down her files.

'Evie,' John said. 'Wow. You look, ah, great, you look great.'

'You're such a sweetheart,' she smiled, and her eyes glinted. 'But unfortunately, I'm not here for a social call. I'm here to talk business.'

Sherlock removed his overcoat and took as seat on his arm chair. 'Of course,' he said. 'Business. How is the defence going?'

'Well. The court dates have been set.' She held up a slip of paper. 'They're here. You will attend each and every one, both of you, at least an hour before the court comes into session, so I may brief you on the days cases. I've researched the prosecutors, the jury and the judge. I've done my part so far.'

'Excellent,' Sherlock drawled. He couldn't help the irritation niggling in the back of his mind. He did not like this woman, and he was starting to regret letting John talk her into this. 'What are you expecting now? A pat on the back?'

She ignored him. 'What troubles me, however, is the amount of trouble you two still seem to be finding, despite the fact that you are under a very watchful eye. You're on thin ice, boys, and need to step carefully.'

'Are you suggesting we stop cases?' John asked.

'Impossible,' Sherlock said bluntly.

'I realise that it's impossible. I also realise that stopping business altogether would be an act of cowardice and guilt in the eye of the press. Because of this, from now on until you are no longer my client, all possible cases will be first run by me. I will select which puzzle you may solve based on the likelihood of the destruction to your public image during the case solving process, and you will be allowed to undertake the chosen, and only the chosen, problem. When that one is solved, I will select the next and the process will begin anew. Do we have an understanding?'

'I refuse.'

Her expression didn't change.

'Look, Evie,' John tried, 'I know you're trying to help us and everything, but the clients are important and Sherl- we both choose which case to do based on priority.'

She levelled him with a cold look. Any traces of the woman who had cooked him dinners and hugged him hard was gone, and a stranger was in her place; a stranger with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue. I don't want to be that person again, and I'm afraid that I won't be able to stop myself if I start. He was starting to get what she meant.

'I'm afraid I have to insist,' she said.

Sherlock scowled. 'I am your employer. You don't tell me what to do.'

She picked up her files and tucked them beneath her arms, raising her chin.

'I'm afraid that Mycroft is my employer,' she corrected haughtily, 'and I am operating under one single instruction; do what it takes.' Her heels clicked against the floor as the exited the room. She walked right past Sherlock, but she didn't reach out to touch him before she left, and Sherlock found himself oddly disappointed, and this disappointment irritated him, so he glared at her as she walked out. 'I'll email you your next case,' she called, without looking back.