Did you miss me?

I know there isn't much Sherlock/Emily interaction here, but please stay with me.

Sorry for any spelling/punctuation mistakes I have probably made and failed to correct. I don't own only Emily and the OC's.

Thank you to everyone who had clicked on the follow/favourite button. But a BIG thank you to: bored411, shadowboxing, MaidMarian17, Gwilwillith, suzii3499, Slyork1991, Kam74, LadyShadows410, PassingStranger, Domino2, Dawn, lostineternity256, SimplyKelly for the reviews. I loved them all. Please keep them coming, they inspire me to continue.

Why it had been absolutely necessary for Emily to go to Scotland Yard with her flatmates was beyond her.

After a while longer of sitting and observing the wall whilst John and Emily had discussed John's new job in the kitchen, Sherlock had jumped from his seat and informed John of where they were going. Obviously Emily hadn't bothered to get up herself, believing Sherlock had only been speaking to the Doctor, who had also jumped out of his seat. Instead she had picked up the packet of Wotsits sitting on the kitchen table and had been about to place one in her mouth when Sherlock had grabbed her wrist and dragged her outside into the first cab that had pulled up alongside them. Thankfully John had had the foresight to pick up her coat. Apparently this was getting to be a routine.

Much to Sherlock's annoyance however, Emily had not had the foresight to realise that by the time they were halfway to their destination, she would be desperate for the loo. As soon as they had entered the building she had asked for directions to the nearest toilets and practically sprinted like a mad woman in the opposite direction to the one Sherlock and John were going in.

She would have found the situation utterly hilarious if she had only remembered to ask which way to the D.I.-in-charge-of-their-current-case desk. Though she realised it probably would have helped to actually remember his name in the first place.

It was only as she was walking along a brightly lit corridor, (completely un-necessary considering the time of day), that she spotted her flatmates and the D.I. from the day before walking back towards her.

"Bladder finally empty is it Emily?" Sherlock asked as he took a gentle hold of her elbow, causing her to walk alongside him. "About time."

"I got lost." She informed him, not in the slightest embarrassed about it either.

"Of course you did." Sherlock mumbled more to himself than anyone else.

"What is she doing here?" The D.I. questioned, not exactly sounding pleased.

"She has a name." Emily hissed over her shoulder. "And honestly I have no idea." She added as if in after thought. "Where are we going?" She looked up at Sherlock.

"Lukis' flat."

"Why?"

"We're taking his word as gospel." The D.I. mumbled, but Emily heard.

"What?" John barely suppressed a smirk at her confusion, she felt as if she was missing out on some joke.

"Don't worry." John told her as they left the building and Sherlock once again hailed a cab.

"Why aren't we going in a Police car?" Emily whispered to John beside her. As soon as they had got comfortable, or as comfortable as they possibly could given the fact that the D.I. was sitting opposite them and had his knees pressed firmly against Emily's, Sherlock had ordered complete silence in order for him to think. She would remember to bring him ear plugs in future so they could take the awkwardness away and actually have a conversation.

"Apparently they aren't big enough." John whispered back. But they had been heard and Sherlock was sending the pair threatening looks. They could hardly contain their giggles as Sherlock turned back to face the front. Emily would have felt sorry for the D.I. if it wasn't for the fact that she was sure her knees would get bruises from the man opposite her. She blushed when she remembered when Sherlock had pointed out Donovan's knees, and the implication that had come with it. She would have to remember to cover her knees for the next few weeks.

It, thankfully, didn't take them much longer to arrive at the flat and the four of them ducked under the tape at the bottom of the stairs. The three males continued into the room, but Emily had spotted the rather messy array of books that decorated the stairs and took a seat half way up so she could take a look through them.

She hesitated before touching them. This was after all a crime scene, and everything in this flat could be potential evidence. She didn't want to risk getting her DNA everywhere so that forensics could find it and trace a match to back to her. But she figured, Sherlock was in the next room, probably touching things, with gloves on yes, but still moving things around. Looking for something everyone else had missed. Before the rational part of her brain could speak up, she delved into the selection, running her fingers along the spines that were facing her, opening the others at random pages, taking in the authors and titles of them. There really was a lot to choose from. But the man had been a journalist. Apparently being a journalist involved lots of books.

She stopped dead in her tracks when she spotted one particular book a few stairs up from her. The Author's surname terribly familiar. She knew this book off by heart. She owned it, but hadn't read it in years. Had finally got to a point in her life where the thoughts that surname bought to the front of her mind no longer bothered her so much. Without even really thinking, she picked it up and turned to the middle page. In the centre, were ten full pages of photographs. Again, she knew each of them off by heart. The very first photo was of a small baby being held closely to his mothers chest. The last, was the last one to ever be taken of the boy. A cheeky smile forever on his somehow smooth and spot free face. Emily had never understood how he could have been so spot free, they had been teenagers for heavens sake. You had to be one hell of a lucky git to get no spots whatsoever during puberty. But she didn't turn the pages to find this photo and glare at it in anger or jealousy. Instead, she let her eyes roam the photograph that covered the whole two pages, showing a year eight class standing or sitting in neat rows. Along the bottom of the page were the names of everyone staring, or in some cases blinking at the camera.

It didn't take her long to find her name and face. She was sat, cross legged on the floor next to a girl who had had terrible acne and on her other side, a boy who from an early age had had many medical problems. She remembered that day so clearly. Her bottom had quickly become cold as the photographer had tried to organise everyone. She had not been surprised to hear the laughter of Timothy Pecker and his friends upon noticing that she was almost at the end of the queue to sit down; the place where all the shortest people had been stood. She had been tired and angry and hadn't wanted her picture taken. She had opted to go home instead of having her individual photo taken. After all, no one would have wanted it.

She scanned the familiar faces she had spent so long being around until they landed on the spot free one of Timothy Pecker. One of the last photos to be taken of him and also one of the only photos to show his true nature. The camera had caught him sneering at the boy next to him, another easy target for him. His Mother insisted that it was a smile, but Emily knew better.

For fear that memories would return, she closed the book and studied the front cover. The same photo that was inside, the last one, was on the front cover. The cheeky smile that felt mocking and fake when Emily tried to pull it. She traced her fingers along the Authors name: Vivian Pecker. The book she had written about her only child when he had gone missing years ago and was never found. She still believed, to this day, that her son was still out there somewhere in the world. Had been kidnapped as he was not the type to want to runaway. He had been too spoiled to even consider that thought.

She shook her head and returned the book to the mess, letting her eyes once more scan the other titles. Another book caught her eye almost instantly. A red hardback that looked completely out of place in the sea of books.

"And of course that's how he got into the bank. He ran along the window ledge and onto the terrace." She heard Sherlock explaining as she flicked through a few pages "We have to find out what connects these two men."

Sherlock looked down at the Blonde on the stairs. He moved down a few steps and looked over her shoulder to see what she was reading. She had returned to the very front page as he crouched down in front of her so he was at eye level with her. When she looked up from under her lashes at him, he raised his hand out to her. Without question, she spun the book round and placed it in his hand, his eyes instantly falling on the logo of West Kensington Library.

Emily was watching him uncertainly as he lifted his gaze to meet hers. A small smile found its way to his lips and they showed a hint of- was that pride? Emily wasn't sure, but she returned the smile all the same.

Slamming the book shut, he grabbed her hand in his free one and took off with her down the stairs. If he hadn't been holding onto her she would surely have fallen.

West Kensington Library was a maze of bookshelves that Emily would enjoy exploring. If only it wasn't for the two men at her side. She was sure they were thinking the same thing. Something along the lines of: If they kept her stuck between them she wouldn't be able to escape and therefore get lost in a building where they would likely never find her.

After having the book scanned, the trio found themselves in an aisle where the book currently being held by Sherlock had apparently come from.

"Date stamped on the book is the same day that he died." Sherlock muttered though wether he was actually talking to himself or not Emily wasn't sure.

Coming to a stop next to John, Emily turned and again, ran her finger along the spines of the books.

"Em, hold these for me would you?" She turned to look at John who was holding out three books to her, but seemed to be transfixed by the gap left behind by the books. She took them from him and waited patiently as he piled a few more into her arms.

"Sherlock." She didn't need to ask what he had spotted. She could see the yellow from where she was standing. The same tint of yellow that she had seen in the photos on the wall of Baker Street.

When the trio had returned to Baker Street, Sherlock had instantly made his way over to the printer, John into the kitchen and Emily up to her room. She hadn't even bothered to take her coat or her shoes off. John could tell that something was wrong but had let it go for the moment, something Emily was more than grateful for as she knelt on the floor and reached her hand underneath her bed, hoping there were no spiders waiting there.

When her fingers met what she was looking for, she pulled it towards her. Apparently dust could collect quickly. She gently blew away what had collected on top of the shoebox and opened it. Inside, notes and drawings that consisted of nasty comments, that had been given to her in her youth by the boy she despised most in the world lay untouched for many years, where she had left them. She pulled out newspaper clippings and articles about Timothy. She was fairly certain that if she began to read one, she would still know every sentence. As she rummaged, her fingers glided over the book she had held back at Lukis' flat. She didn't bring it out of the box however, she had already seen enough of it for one day. Even if she had wanted to, she was interrupted by a knock at the door.

She quickly replaced the lid and kicked it back under the bed, heard it knock into the other shoebox and jumped up from the floor just as John opened the door.

"Were you sitting on the floor?" He asked her.

"Yes." There really was no point in lying. Especially if he had seen her getting up.

"Right." He took a moment to study her. She looked uncomfortable at having been caught and thought better about asking why. "We need to go out again. Do you want to come?" Sherlock had insisted John go and retrieve Emily from wherever she had gone, but John didn't want to drag her around on her day off. "You don't have to if you don't want to. I can...make something up?"

"Do I have a choice?" There was the Emily he recognised. Her small smirk appeared as she rolled her eyes at the obvious question.

"Well." He thought of something he could say, a plan they could put together that would allow her to remain here. But nothing sprang to mind. Nothing that Sherlock would believe anyway. "Actually no. No not really." Her smile grew as she took a step towards him.

"Where are we going now?" She enquired as she left her room and shut the door firmly behind her.

"He didn't actually tell me." But Emily didn't hear his words. Instead she mentally crossed her fingers that Sherlock wouldn't suddenly decide to ransack her room at the next opportunity.

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