"Sherlock?!" Molly Hooper could barely keep the bubbly excitement out of her voice as the tall figure strode into the morgue like he owned it.

Sherlock graced her with half a smile. He was pleased to see her, despite the way he had treated her in the past that might suggest otherwise. To his surprise, Molly threw her arms around him in a quick hug, pulling away almost instantly.

"I'm…glad you're alright." She said.

"And I'm glad you're well, Molly." Sherlock glanced down at the pink glittery collar—it would be a pink glittery collar. "Who owns you?" He asked bluntly. Molly dropped her gaze, looking a little lost and embarrassed at the direct question. He blinked, his face softening, and glanced over at John, who was looking at him less than impressed. Rude,Sherlock could imagine him saying. A bit not good, Sherlock. "Hey." He said, his voice quieter. He tilted his head back and pointed to the charcoal collar on his throat, standing out in sharp contrast to his pale skin.

"Oh-oh," she stuttered, "you're…you're owned too?" She looked at John.

"John Watson." He extended his hand and they shook. "Sherlock and I are flatmates."

"He's my owner." Sherlock told her. "Got me at an auction house."

"They were horrible and Mike was being wishy-washy." John ground out, annoyed that Sherlock seemed pleased to have gotten a rise out of him. "I didn't know what they were going to do to you!"

"So you rescued me, brave soldier that you are."

"Would you rather I left you?"

"You made me miss out on pasta night. My favorite."

John snorted. "You're such an arse!"

They stared at each other, then each grinned and looked away.

Molly glanced between, looking a little confused. "Oh. Yes of course." She said after a moment. "Um, well, my owner's very nice—I think you know him. That handsome chap at Scotland Yard? Greg Lestrade?"

"He owns a slave—he owns you?" Sherlock's voice was sharp with astonishment.

"Yes!" Molly grinned. "We met right around The Fall and he mentioned trying to get you too, but…"

"He failed miserably." Sherlock said in a dull voice.

"…so then he asked if I was going to be alright, and well, my parents were busy and my brother…well, he wasn't going to be able to help me out, so Greg offered to b-buy me." She was quiet for a moment, then plastered on a smile. "It was really nice of him! There's plenty of space and he's very nice. I'm lucky." She said in a more somber tone. "I got a good one, like you did." She glanced again at John. "I can do just about everything I could do before The Republic came along."

Sherlock took an impatient breath. "A body was brought in recently." He interrupted. "Younger woman. Julia Roylott?"

Molly cleared her throat and went to her desk where she retrieved a clipboard. A fuzzy-capped aqua pen was stuck under the clip. "Let's see…oh yeah—here we go—"

"Were there any items that came in with her?" Sherlock asked.

"Um…" Molly flipped a page, revealing lots of neatly printed loopy handwriting in charts. "Yeah, she had her clothes—black flats, an ivory blouse—"

"Anything that wasn't clothing?"

"There was a pack of gum, five quid and a ring."

Sherlock smiled. "May I see Ms. Roylott's items?"

"Nothing was touched in here after The Fall." Molly brought them to the storage area where the hospital kept all the bagged items that came in with the bodies until they could be claimed by family members. "Though I suppose, why would it be touched? No one wants what belonged to the dead."

"Unless it's money" Sherlock muttered. Molly brought them down one aisle of shelves laden with detritus clothing, shoes, wallets, jewelry, and whatnot. "Here we go—"

She stopped by Julia's clothes and Sherlock grabbed the plastic bag containing the ring. He held the bagged gold band up, watching the diamond glitter in the florescent light.

"Nice ring." Molly chirped. "Her fiancé must be well off…poor man. To lose someone like that after everything that's happened."

"Molly, may I use some of the equipment here?"

"Of course. Just like old times, huh?" She sounded pleased. "Either of you want coffee?"

"Oh, no thanks."

"Black, two sugars." He gave her a grin and strode back out into the main lab area. Sherlock put the ring in the machine and ran it.

"Oh, the officers already did that..." Molly said.

"Which is why I'm doing it again." Sherlock told her. The machine started to whir. Sherlock stared at it. John checked his watch.

"It takes a while sometimes." Molly called from the other room. "I can text you when it's done?"

"Thank you, Molly." Sherlock got up.

"Can you just put that back with her effects?" Molly yelled. Something fell as she spoke and it sounded like she might have her hands full. John went to help and Sherlock got up and, replacing the ring in the bag, went to return it to the labeled shelves of items.

He put the ring with the gum and cash and as he was leaving, his eyes caught the rounded edge of a very familiar black shape on the shelf directly below Julia's. He squatted to get a better look and his face softened at the sight of the oblong black violin case. He tugged it out and flipped the clasps on the case, his lips suddenly very dry and his heart thumping. A golden violin was nestled in the blue crushed velvet lining. Sherlock swallowed. A matching golden bow was clipped into the lid of the case. The violin was missing the D and the A strings, and the E string fine tuner was tarnished almost black, but the wood itself was shining, undulled by rosin. Molly bustled in after a moment. "Everything okay?" She asked.

"Molly..." Sherlock said, his voice croaking. Molly leaned over him and read the tag attached to the case.

"It's from a John Doe that came in six years ago. Probably homeless. A busker."

They were silent for a moment. Sherlock plucked the E string. It was horribly out of tune.

"Take it, if you want it." Molly said.

Sherlock stared at her. His phone chirped again and Sherlock ignored it.

"I know you play." She said, shrugging. "It's not doing anyone any good sitting down here. And after six years, I doubt anyone is going to come claim it."

Sherlock snapped the lid closed and stood, hoisting it over his shoulder by the strap.

"Thank you, Molly." He said sincerely. His fingers itched already.

"No problem!" She said, beaming. "You'll have to come and play for me sometime. I'm sure Greg would love it too…"

Sherlock would play whenever she wanted.

Sherlock walked back to the flat, a bounce in his step. A violin! Just handed to him. What a stroke of good fortune. "Didn't know you played." John said, amused by his bounciness.

"Since I was a child." He said.

"Has it been very long since you played?"

Moran had destroyed his other violin, the one he'd had since he was twenty. It was part of his breaking process. Moran systematically destroyed some of Sherlock's belongings (he wasn't sure what had hurt more, the violin or the microscope) before declaring the violin to be a 'girly' instrument anyway. He didn't say any of this though.

"Not since The Fall." He said.

They stopped by a music shop on the way home, getting the violin restrung and buying some rosin and a shoulder rest. He knew he still had his old music stand and compositions in one of the delivered boxes. By the time he got home, he was nearly giddy to play and he didn't even care that John was smiling at his enthusiasm as he went to make tea for the both of them.

Sherlock rosined the golden bow and attached the black shoulder rest snugly to the body of the instrument. He placed the bow on the A string and pulled…and stepped into another world. The sweet, clear note filled the room and Sherlock closed his eyes as he pressed fingertips into the strings, his hands and arms remembering exactly what to do. Bits and pieces of scores long abandoned started fluttering out of the music room in his palace. He held the compositions in his head, mentally scanning from one measure to the next. He may have accidentally hit another string now and then, and perhaps his intonation as just a little off, but he didn't care. There would be time to remember it properly later. Now he was playing again and he was able to go to that place that The Republic or any of his owners could never touch.

When Sherlock opened his eyes again, the sun was setting. He was certain it had been fully light out when he started. He blinked a few times, then swung the instrument down from his shoulder. He winced as his left shoulder blade twinged, the muscles unused to being in that position for so long. John was sitting at the desk, typing quietly. A stone cold cup of tea was on the mantle, clearly meant for him to have. He must have been playing for ages. He put the violin away in the case, feeling refreshed and light. He crouched to stow it under his chair and something in his pocket crinkled. He pulled the paper out‒Alex's list of family. He dropped it on the desk beside John and checked his phone. No messages from Molly or otherwise. With a huff, he went into his room to change into something more comfortable.

He returned to the sitting room, having changed into a dressing gown and PJ bottoms, and was texting Helen when John spoke up. "What's this?"

"That's Alex Bailey's kin." Sherlock said distractedly. "I agreed to help her contact her family in America."

"That's nice of you." John said, moved by Sherlock's compassion.

"Mm. I told her I'd put my best man on it."

"Really? Who's that?"

Sherlock sent the text: What is the annuity agreement regarding your sister's marriage? –SH

"I'd recommend Google." He put his phone aside and steepled his hands under his chin, falling silent.

"For what?" John asked, perusing the sheet.

"To find Alex's family." Sherlock said slowly. "Google, or Facebook."

"Wait—I'm your best man?"

Sherlock let out a sigh worthy of a sulky teenager. "Don't act stupider than you are."

"Hey!"

"That's not what I meant—" Sherlock swung up to a sitting position. "You can focus on finding her family while I do the important things."

"Your empathy astounds me." John said dryly.

Sherlock's phone buzzed. He snatched it up. I'm in the area, Mr. Holmes, could I just come by your flat to tell you about the annuity? ‒Helen

Come at once. ‒SH

Sherlock's eyes widened as an idea popped into his head. "John!"

"What?" John said warily. "No more shooting the wall." He decided to get that out of the way right off the bat.

"Alex said Roylott was at a medical conference in Vilnius."

"Yeah?"

"Would you be able to find out if this conference did indeed occur?"

John shrugged. "I guess. I could call Stamford, see what he knows."

"Excellent."

"Do you still think Dr. Roylott did it?"

"Everyone is a suspect." Sherlock answered. The doorbell buzzed and Sherlock bolted out of the flat.

"We're having company!?" John hollered as Sherlock dashed down the stairs. He glanced around painfully at the state of the sitting room. Piles of papers, clothes, dishes covered in leftovers that were starting to crust. John yanked one of Sherlock's unwashed shirts off the black bison head, throwing it into the detective's room. He threw a dish and a knife into the sink with a clatter and was shoving a mess behind a chair when Sherlock appeared again in the room, escorting a primly coifed Helen Roylott. She had the sleepless, worried look of someone who had spent many recent hours pacing, and she clutched her ivory handbag tightly as she stepped into the flat.

"Hello, Ms. Roylott." John said, wishing he had thought to crack open the window or—dammit, Mrs. Hudson had put that sweetly-scented candle on the mantle last time she was here. A polite yet pointed way of saying the flat stunk.

"Hello, Doctor." She said. Sherlock closed the door behind and John noted that his flatmate was still in pajama bottoms and bare feet. He imagined his mother tutting at the flat and Sherlock's state of dress in the presence of a young woman in their home and he sent a mental 'sorry, mum.' The young woman in question didn't seem to notice or care about her surroundings.

"Please, call me Helen." She said. John gestured to the sofa and she perched on the edge, ankles crossed, and tucked some stray hair behind her ear.

"Can I get you something to drin—"

Sherlock appeared with a cup of tea in a saucer for Helen. She took it with a grateful "thank you."

Sherlock grabbed his armchair and tugged it towards the sofa, aiming it so it was facing Helen. He jumped into it with his knees to his chest and settled.

"So about the annuity agreement…?" He prompted her.

Helen put the cup down in the saucer and licked her lips, raising her head to meet John's and Sherlock's eyes.

"Our mother married Paul Roylott when I was ten and Julia was seven. He was…distant towards us. I don't think he much liked children. Our mother was a fragile creature in our youth, often sick, trusting to the point of naiveté. I'm not sure what she ever saw in Paul. He was handsome when they married. Movie star handsome, even, but his disposition was volatile. He liked to drink—he still does, and I always got the impression Julia and I were just in his way."

John glanced at Sherlock, wondering if the detective was going to prompt her to continue or roll his eyes pointedly, but Sherlock was sitting statue still and expressionless, watching Helen speak.

"Julia and I grew up comfortably. Our mother inherited monetary wealth from her parents when they died, and we spent our summers at the inherited chateau in France, or travelling."

Sherlock shifted in his chair.

"Right now, Paul Roylott gets a sum of money from our mother's estate every year. Those were the terms of the will—no doubt orchestrated by Paul. He will continue to get this money until both Julia and I get engaged. Or," she took a breath, "if one of us dies, he'll get a large lump sum of money upon the death—enough to kill for. No doubt Julia's…payment, has already gone through."

Sherlock put his feet on the floor and leaned forward, his steepled fingers covering his lips.

Helen stuck out her left hand, revealing a shiny silver ring on her third finger.

"My boyfriend came down from Cambridge and proposed yesterday." She said, her voice trembling. "If I get married, Roylott will stop getting his money. My death, though, will ensure a large monetary sum from my mother's estate."