It's their last full day in California, and they have one task remaining. Thanks to Sherlock, U.C. Berkeley's records now have Anabelle down as a history major instead of a mathematics one. The only issue is that a diploma, declaring her true major, rests in her home in Berkeley. They need to find it, and dispose of it.

Anabelle rings her own doorbell while Sherlock looks around the front yard. He's surprised that she would own an house like this; its shingles are falling apart, the white paint chipping. Bikes litter the yellow-grassed front lawn. And when the door opens, the reeking scent of feline urine gushes from the house. Sherlock crinkles his nose.

"Yo, it's Madder!" A boy, no older than twenty-three, comes out of the house. He wraps a skinny arm around Anabelle and, even though he stinks,Anabelle hugs him back, laughing. From one quick glance Sherlock counts no less than a dozen piercings on the boy, including the eyebrow, and three tattoos. Also a small, disappointing Mohawk that makes Sherlock take a repulsed step back.

This is not going to work. He cannot possibly go inside this filthy, punk-ridden house.

No. No. He has to. Important for their mission. It's like working with the homeless network. He can disinfect himself afterward. And he's not Sherlock Holmes right now, anyway, he's Sigerson Bøler.

"Hello, Silver," Anabelle says pleasantly. "Do you mind if my friend and I stay here for a short while today?"

The boy named Silver (cognomen, obviously, likely based on the artificial color of his hair) takes a look at Sherlock. He sees Sigerson and says, "Duuuuude. Nice shoes." He gives a thumbs-up, seeming deeply impressed by hideous, balance-impairing platform heels, apparently. Sherlock scowls and looks away before receiving a punch to the arm by Anabelle.

"He's just in a bad mood because we're leaving Cali soon," she explains quickly. Sherlock remembers his persona and tries to wear a smile.

"I understand completely." Silver nods gravely. "Come in, come in."

To Sherlock's horror, they follow Silver into the house, down a hallway. The walls have been spray-painted with obscenities and political messages, and the smell of cat urine pervades ever more strongly.

"How many cats do you own?" Sherlock asks. He deduces at least six.

Silver turns around, gives him a weird look. "What do you mean? We don't own any cats."

Sherlock shivers, but doesn't press the topic. They enter a living room, and Sherlock pauses in the doorway. Three other punk rockers are all sitting on the floor. (They have a couch, but it looks like someone's gone through it with an axe, so that the poor thing is regurgitating stuffing and springs.) When they spot Anabelle, they all stand and start cheering, greeting her too loudly.

"MADDERRRR!" one shouts.

"No one's madder than the Madders!" sings another, like it's a phrase that's been said many times before, and he gives Anabelle a high-five.

"Except for you," she laughs. "You guys have completely destroyed my house!"

Three of the punks pause, and Silver looks away, whistling. Finally a green-haired man says, "You can keep our deposit."

She laughs. "Alright, then."

"You want some beer or something?" one asks, and Anabelle says, "That's alright, my friend and I have work to do." Then, she says lowly to Sherlock, "Eat nothing from their fridge."

Taking his hand, she leads him out of the living room and through the kitchen. Sherlock quickly sees what she meant: he can't imagine anything in their fridge being edible. John may have complained about Sherlock's kitchen experiments, but they look quite sterile and contained when he spots the mold in the sink, and the stacks of plates all over the counters. He's stepping on pizza boxes as well, and the floor is completely hidden.

"The diploma's in here somewhere," Anabelle says. "This shouldn't take too long. Sorry about my renters' mess."

"221B wasn't so much better," Sherlock admits. "It just smelled cleaner. And its occupants were always hygienic, of course."

Anabelle opens up a broken drawer, which collapses to the floor, making her jump. The drawer is filled with papers, coins, paperclips, and an assortment of junk. Sherlock frowns.

"Would you like assistance, Anabelle?" he offers. She freezes, and for a moment he doesn't understand why. Then she says, "'Anabelle'?"

"Yes," he says. "I thought that since..." Since you once called me Sherlock, I could reciprocate.

"Anabelle suits me. I hear it very little nowadays. And yes - assistance. That's why I brought you," she says, chirpily, and gestures to a second drawer. He begins to go through it.

It takes them the afternoon, during which Sherlock must cope with the punks coming in and out of the kitchen for beers and cold pizza, but eventually the diploma is found. And, underneath that, another one. Anabelle picks it up.

"It's my brother's," she says softly. The diploma was issued by the NYU. Luke Madder was, in fact, a history major.

"We should get rid of this, if we want your brother to look like the true cryptographer," Sherlock says. "Shall we burn them both at the stove, or…?"

"Yes," Anabelle says faintly. Sherlock reaches for her diploma, which she relinquishes, but Luke's won't budge from her grasp.

"Anabelle," Sherlock says sternly. Hard to sound stern when you're a Norwegian gay man.

She doesn't move, just keeps staring at her brother's diploma. Sherlock counts to ten, giving her time, and then he snatches it from her. Turns to the stove, lights the gas. Sets the papers to fire. The flames lick at them greedily, charring the papers to black. Anabelle stares at him and he curses his own impatient fingers, his lack of restraint, even as the papers continue to burn. He waits for retribution, angry with himself.

"I needed you to do that," Anabelle says finally, and slumps against the counter, looking exhausted. "Can't afford to hesitate. Have things to get done."

"Yes, precisely," Sherlock says, glad someone understands. It doesn't make her look any happier, though. She stares at the flaming papers.

"You are sad," Sherlock observes.

"Yes, I am. Very much so."

Sherlock frowns. She's not looking at him; too intent on the flames. He gives himself time to think. What is it people do in these situations? Friends comfort each other, yes? And they are friends, yes? Or something like it. He's comforted John before, but that was different. John is different, he needed different things. Sherlock reaches out to Anabelle, his hand hovering inches from her back, hesitant. Is this the sort of comfort women seek? Touching? Is this the sort of comfort Anabelle seeks? He tries it. He presses her hand against her back, lightly. Ready to snatch it away at a moment's notice.

Oh no.

Oh no – what has he done?

The moment Sherlock touches her back, Anabelle dissolves into tears. The sound is earsplitting. For an absurd millisecond Sherlock thinks he vastly underestimated his own strength, and broke her spine, because she collapses against the counter with her hands over her eyes, nearly screaming. Her shoulders shake and her entire body heaves and, if this can be considered crying, then it is the most violent form of the act Sherlock has ever witnessed. Anabelle's noises – wordless shouts, like something wounded and broken – echo throughout the house. He hears the punks in the living room become silent.

Sherlock pulls his hand back, but Anabelle turns around, revealing a tear-drenched face, and grabs his arm. Clings to it, too tightly, hurting him. He stumbles forward when she yanks the poor limb, simultaneously leaning into her while trying to move away. It's all very awkward and uncouth.

"I f-feel like s-s-something is c-clawing at my in-insides," she cries out, shaking her head. "T-this is r-r-ridiculous, but I never realized t-that someone c-could miss someone e-else so – so – so much. I'm breaking."

"You look whole to me," Sherlock offers unhelpfully, having no idea what else to say. She laughs, which he thinks might be a good sign.

"Looks aren't everything," she says, and she wipes her eyes, releasing his arm. He rubs it, as it's sore.

"Wow," she says, trembling, but regaining control. Tears are still falling, but she's just sniffing now. Not shouting. It's an improvement. "I guess I needed to do that… Release of ACTH stress hormones and all. Okay. Well. That's over with." She laughs. It's a weak, nervous sound.

"It's alright," he says. "Actually, no. It's fine. It's all fine."

The words are lost on her, of course, but she goes, "I know it is. No shame in emotion."

She's not embarrassed at all. He's bewildered by that. She should be, surely. She just experienced something raw and powerful in front of a man she's only known for a few weeks. Too soon to reveal your own humanity.

The punks come into the kitchen.

"Madder?" Silver says hesitantly.

"The gay guy messing with you?" another asks, giving Sherlock a look that makes him bristle indignantly.

"I am not gay!" he says in his best Norwegian accent. A moment goes by, during which the punk looks from Sherlock's dead serious face, to his platform shoes, and gapes at the discrepancy. Anabelle cracks up.

"I'm fine guys, completely," she says. "And sorry if we got ashes in your stove."

"Don't worry about it. The number one rule in this house is that we don't give a shit about cleaning!" Silver says. Anabelle raises her eyebrows.

"Don't ever say that to your landlady. Life lesson, Silver." She takes Sherlock's hand and steers him out of the kitchen. "Shall we return to hotel? Our work here is done."

"Yes," Sherlock says, and suddenly has to stifle a yawn. "I feel exhausted, actually."

"Really?" Anabelle tilts her head. "Aren't you used to running all over London?"

He shoots her a dirty look. "I haven't had to do that in a while."

"Alright, then," she says. "Goodbye, Silver, Paul, Scott, Chris. Sigerson here needs a nap."

And with that, they take off, back to San Francisco for the last time.