A/N: The Sherlock Holmes series belongs to ACD. The programme Sherlock belongs to Gatiss and Moffat.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

Greg and I are now standing outside the Crimson Lantern, waiting for Mycroft to show back up with the limo. Did I mention it's cold and starting to rain? Yeah, it's raining. Bit of a cruel irony, seeing as how Sherlock kind of left us in the cold. And here I thought things would be a bit different, but no. Arrogant sod's still rushing off without telling anyone where the hell he's going or what the hell he's planned or thought up. Dammit, it's freezing. Okay, technically it's about 8 or 9 degrees Celsius, not actually freezing, but whatever. I'm cold. Wouldn't be surprised if I wake up with a cold. How long is Mycroft gonna take getting here? I make a small audible snort of frustration, clutching my jacket that isn't even mine closer to me so I can try to warm up.

Lovely night this turned out to be, huh?

The Viewpoint of DI Greg Lestrade

I guess old habits die hard, eh, Sherlock? Figures the guy'd take off like he did. But looks like John's taking it a bit to heart again, given that short snort of his. He really shouldn't. Besides, the man was in disguise. He was being someone else. I hope John can understand that. Sure, he's worried. I'm worried myself. But, he's a grown man. Impulsive, yes, but grown. And he's been at this for a long time. He knows what he's doing...

I hope.

I hear a car driving up. It's the limo from earlier this evening. The door opens up and we're greeted by the pop of an umbrella. Out steps a rather tall man in a rather prim suit with rather nice shoes. He holds up the umbrella for us and gestures for us to go in first. John barrels past him and near catapults into the car. I nod my thanks to the man and slide into my seat. Then he gets in and closes his brolly and shuts the door. Then we're off, presumably back to 221b.

"Now, John, you mustn't be so upset. You should know by now how my brother operates," the man tells John with a soothing tone.

"He could at least text," John curtly says.

"Not when he's disguised. He must keep up appearances in order to accomplish his goal. I highly doubt he meant anything against either of you by leaving without you."

John says nothing in reply. Just sulks and stares out the window. The other man sighs and shakes his head slightly, like he's given up trying to convince John.

"Well, then, I don't believe we've met. I'm Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock's elder brother. It's good to meet you, Detective Inspector Lestrade," Mycroft says, holding his hand out. I take it and we shake. I'm a little taken aback, and I'm about to tell him so, when he lets out a small chuckle. "Sherlock told me all about you during his year-long dependence on me."

Year-long? It takes me a second, but I then remember that Sherlock had disappeared for one year. He must have relied on his brother to support him during that time.

"Well, I'm afraid the knowledge isn't mutual. He's barely told me anything about you. I didn't even know your name until now. Sure, he's mentioned you offhand, unfortunately not in a kind way, but he doesn't talk about you."

"As to be expected. We haven't really gotten along all too well. We still aren't all that close, but I have regained some of his trust. I call that a bit of a victory, wouldn't you?"

I nod in agreement. All the way back to 221b, we chat. He tells me he's seven years older than Sherlock, has a bit of a lazy streak, but is a mean chess player. He finds out from me that I used to play football and rugby when I was in school, but I sprained my knee when I was 19, so I hardly ever play either anymore. I'm also two years older than him, making me nine years older than Sherlock.

All the while, John's still sulking and still staring out the window.

We finally reach Baker street, and we get out of the car. The rain's gotten worse, so Mycroft walks us to the door under his umbrella. John fumbles around in his jeans pockets and manages to fish out his key. We all head inside; John first, me second, Mycroft third. Once we're all in the sitting room, the landlady comes in with some fresh towels. God bless her. While I'm drying off, John heads upstairs, presumably to change clothes. I then see a young lady walk down. The babysitter, if I recall. Can't remember her name, though. Never was good with names. She says good night and leaves.

Mycroft and I sit in the kitchen waiting for the kettle and for John to come down. It's a bit quiet. I absentmindedly look up towards where John's room is. The worry must be plastered on my face, since Mycroft notices.

"He'll be alright. Though, I doubt Sherlock will be back until morning. I'll stay here overnight so you can go home, if you'd like," he offers. I look to him and smile.

"Thanks. Tell John I said 'bye' for me, will you?"

"Of course. Good night, Lestrade."

"G'night." Nice guy, that Mycroft. Can't imagine why he and Sherlock don't get on.

The Viewpoint of Dr. John Watson

Little Sherlock's been fed, changed and put down for a nap. I remembered to pay Rebecca. I've dried off and changed clothes. I hear the front door open and shut. From the inside, must be Greg going home. I hear the kettle starting to whistle. I head downstairs. The kettle stops. I look over and see that Mycroft has picked it up and is pouring two cups of tea.

"Figured you could use one, John."

I sigh heavily and run my hand over my face.

"Yeah. I'd like something a bit stronger, but tea is probably better." Mycroft then throws me the sharpest look I've ever seen. It surprises me to say the least.

"Doctor Watson. Given your personal history involving alcohol, I'm shocked that you would say such a thing. Besides, you need to stop beating yourself up about something that is not. Your. Fault. In the least. Now sit down and have your cuppa," he finishes with a tone more akin to something Mrs. Hudson would say. I'm about to ask what he knows about my 'personal history' but Sherlock probably told him about Harry, or he figured it out himself, so asking is pretty useless at this point. I shut up, sit down in my armchair, and drink my tea. He sits in the opposite one and drinks his.

"He's not coming home tonight," Mycroft informs me. That phrase should not bother me as much as it does.

"And how do you know that?"

"No, he did not contact me in any way shape or form. And, no, leaving with a girl is not normal for him. But, I know what he's like when he's on a case. If that girl knows anything, he'll want to know all." I sink into my chair. "But that's not all. I know that he wouldn't want to bother you." I raise an eyebrow at this.

"And how is staying out the entire night 'not bothering me'?"

"He wouldn't want to wake you. He knows that you value your sleep. He also probably knows that you've asked me to take you home, and either I or Lestrade are here with you. You're fine."

He's right. But I'm still worried. I can't help it. I'm worried and upset. Don't understand why I'm upset, but I am. I guess just because he bolted, but I should be a bit more used to that idea. He doesn't need me tagging along everywhere. Even though it's fun following him every which way. And I'm sure he appreciates my assistance when I can give it. But, I know there are things only he can figure out.

So, why am I sitting up late at night worried sick like some mother hen?

"Go to bed, John. I'll keep watch. And if I end up tired, I'll just kip on the couch. Go on and sleep. It's fine."

I finish my cup, nod my thanks to Mycroft, set it in the sink, and head on upstairs.

I don't think I'll be getting much sleep, though.

The Viewpoint of Mr. Sherlock Holmes (In the guise of Michael Cabin)

Maria and I had taken a taxi back to her flat. It's about the size of Baker Street, but it doesn't look as... Victorian as ours does.

Simple furnishings, key lime pie green walls, beige carpet. No evidence of another person living here. No signs of having constant visitors, given the welcome mat being in near pristine condition. Only one set of footprints on it repeatedly - hers. She keeps a clean house, everything is hoovered. She's a music lover, given the rather expensive stereo in the back corner. Small telly, doesn't watch it much, but she still keeps it dusted. Her kitchen is very clean, just as clean as the sitting room. She was raised to keep a clean house, or she grew up in a not so clean place and thus has strove to keep her place clean. More likely the latter than the former.

She has few photographs of family out, but a couple stuck to her refrigerator. There's one of a young girl - presumably Maria - with a blonde woman out in the countryside. Must be her mother, and possibly near where she grew up. The other is again of her mother, but she's older now. Her mother looks ill, pale yellowed skin, not because of the quality of the photograph. Hepatitis. Died from it, most likely. No evidence of a father figure.

Conclusion: Raised by single mother, mother died in recent years, moved to London to not only get a job, but possibly to find who her father was.

"Would you like something to drink?" she asks me. I have to snap back to Michael.

"Oh, no I'm alright. What about you? You okay?" I ask her. She then gets that worried look that she had back at the club. She pours herself a glass of water and we both sit on her sofa. "Is it about those men?"

"Yes. You have no idea what you've gotten into. Those people are monsters. Devils. They've done atrocious things to the other waitresses and other patrons. They're horrid. I think the only reason I've been able to go unscathed is because of my hair. I'm not a full redhead, but I am at least strawberry blonde. Though, I don't think that'll shield me for long..." she trails off. She's worried about someone.

"Why's that?"

"They've attacked a red-haired man. I saw it in the paper. They never attack one of their own. But now..." She then looks me square in the eyes. "You need to watch yourself, Mike. You seem like such a sweet man. I don't want to see you end up in a hospital, too." I put on a reassuring smile.

"Don't worry. I'll be alright," I tell her. But she's not convinced. She stands right up.

"Don't you get it? You're going to be working with a mob of murderers. If you don't watch yourself, you may end up murdered too!"

...Someone she knows has been hurt by them. Someone close to her. Previous suitor? No, this is more like family. But her mother died of natural causes. Sibling? No sign of one in the photographs, but if her father were out there, he could have fathered other children with other women. Did she meet one of these children? Or did she find out who her father was? Although... this emotion doesn't seem like one she's held for a long time. Seems almost... recent.

"Of course..." I mutter to myself. "The man from the paper. Is he your father?"

She looks at me, shocked. She sits back down, mouth open agape. I may have given up my disguise, but I at least know she's not one of them. They're the ones I have to convince.

"Who the hell are you? Private detective?" she asks. I return to my normal facial expression. I switch to my normal vocal tone. I keep my gaze.

"Consulting Detective, thank you,"