It was strange being back at Baker Street. I was more than tense and nervous the whole trip, getting glares from Sherlock for my tapping fingers and bouncing knees. I was panicked, really, expecting Sherlock to have lied to me and myself being driven to Scotland Yard to be locked away with an 'Oops, we lied. We only said that to see if you'd tell us everything'. So when we were back up in 221B, I immediately felt my shoulders relax and a shaky sigh of relief escape my lips as I looked over the familiar skull on the mantle and the Union Jack pillow on John's chair. The two chairs themselves made me feel significantly better at the fact that I wouldn't be expected to sit in a kitchen chair before them and interrogated, I could just lie down on the couch and sleep. Of course, Sherlock must have read my mind, because he strolled into the kitchen with his bag of thumbs and called out to me over his shoulder.

"Sam, get in here. I need someone to take notes for me."

I glanced at John, but he shrugged and headed out somewhere. Dublin, I think he said. So I trailed after Sherlock and hesitantly accepted the notepad and pen he shoved my way, scribbling down in my shorthand what he was rattling off. This went on for hours; me writing down temperatures and Sherlock's observations as he went about conducting whatever experiments with the severed digits he was doing. I soon began to feel drowsy, but resisted the urged to sleep for more than one reason. For one thing, I didn't want to upset Sherlock by getting up and saying I was tired, so I was done helping him. A part of me was interested in what he was doing with the thumbs as well, but a majority of me didn't want to sleep due to the frequent nightmares I'd been suffering through since I'd been with Moriarty; much less have Sherlock or John play witness to them.

"That should be enough for today." Sherlock said suddenly, making my head snap up in slight fear as he tossed the bag into the fridge. "I'll have you take their temperatures tomorrow morning after being in the fridge."

"A-Ah. Alright." I stuttered out, setting the notepad aside begrudgingly before returning to the main room with him.

I wasn't sure what to do, settling down on the couch as Sherlock took up his chair and pulled out his violin and plucked quietly at the strings. I went to reach for my laptop in the hopes that I had some homework to do, but Sherlock interrupted me.

"I've already called your instructor. He has been kind enough to allow you a few weeks off on your assignment after I explained that you'd been slightly injured during our last escapade. You won't have any homework until next week or the week afterwards." He rattled off, not opening his eyes or stopping his soft playing.

"O-Oh…" I said, wondering if I should write something instead, but I knew I wouldn't be able to focus and would end up just staring blankly at the pages for hours; alerting Sherlock to something being wrong.

I could tell he already thought as much though, and struggled to find something other than sleeping to do. I got up and went over to the bookshelf in search of a good book to read, eventually settling on some research book Sherlock owned on criminal law. Sherlock made no outward sign of caring as I carefully pulled the book from its place, memorized where it went on the shelf, and settled back down on the couch to read. It was really quite a fascinating book—what with me studying criminology in the first place—but after a few hours of reading, I could feel my eyelids drooping again. I rubbed at my eyes tiredly, holding back the yawn that wanted to start up, only to open my eyes and see a cup of tea being held out to me. I frowned, puzzled, before looking up the arm that held it to Sherlock, who was frowning at me with his own mug.

"Take it." He demanded and I did so, enjoying the warmth of the cup, but watching Sherlock sit back in his chair cautiously.

Sherlock doesn't make tea. I knew that. Hell, John knew that and said—or will say—as much at Baskerville when Sherlock drugged his tea for an experiment. The thought sent a chill up my spine as I looked down at the seemingly innocent liquid. Was he drugging me now? Because I wasn't sleeping? But why? Because he was annoyed? Or was this his way of saying he cared? I looked at the man who watched me himself over the rim of his own cup, making me wonder, when did I lose my faith in Sherlock Holmes? Did I still trust him? Everything before Moriarty said yes, but everything after said no, I didn't. And the way he watched me now, was a challenge. A question. Did I trust him enough to drink the tea that may or may not be drugged? Because he knew that I was suspicious. I didn't drink it right away like most people would. I questioned it. I questioned him and still was. And now, it was my choice. Put down the cup and show I didn't trust him, thus probably being kicked out of his inner circle of people he cared for. Or drink it—drugged or not—and trust that no matter what happened afterwards, Sherlock would be there and I would be fine.

And when I looked at this simple situation like that, I knew what I needed to do. What I wanted to do. Moriarty or not, a simple cup of drugged tea or not, I wanted to trust Sherlock Holmes. So I closed my eyes with a soft sigh and raised the drink to my lips, drinking it and setting it back down on its saucer once I'd finished and turned back to the book. I didn't look at Sherlock, didn't want to see his reaction to my decision, but sure enough, not five minutes later, I could feel the heavy cloud of sleep start to weigh down on my mind. And before I could potentially topple over into the coffee table with the book, Sherlock was right there lightly pulling it from my hands and helping me lay back onto the couch.

"Mm, sorry." I murmured, voice slurred slightly as he grabbed the blanket from off the back of the couch and draped it over me. "Fur doubtin' ou."

"In a world where you can trust no one, I'm not surprised you did." He replied easily. "Now sleep, Sam. I'll be right here when you wake up."

And with those words, I allowed myself to slip into unconsciousness, feeling safe for the first time since before I'd been taken by the black snake known as Moriarty.

"You realize this is a tiny bit humiliating?" John's voice called out from the speaker of Sherlock's laptop as Sherlock yawned and exited the kitchen with his mug of hot coffee.

"It's okay. I'm fine and Sam's still sleeping." Sherlock said, picking up his laptop with his free hand and being sure his sheet didn't fall off. "Now, show me to the stream."

"I didn't really mean for you. And Sam's still sleeping?"

"Look, this is a six." Sherlock said in exasperation as he moved to the living room. "There's no point in my leaving the flat for anything less than a seven. We agreed. And Sam had trouble sleeping last night, so I offered her an alternative."

"You drugged her?!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, glancing at the still sleeping Sam on the couch, who's brows were slightly furrowed. The drug was wearing off.

"She willingly took them, might I add. Now, go back. Show me the grass."

"When did we agree to you not leaving for less than a seven? And might I recommend you not drugging her after she's just come from the hospital?"

"You've seen the bags under her eyes, John. You would have recommended the same. She would have been up all night anyway." Sherlock drawled. "And we agreed to it yesterday. Stop!... Closer."

John swung his own laptop away from the mud and towards himself with a frown. "I wasn't even home yesterday. I was in Dublin."

"Well, it's hardly my fault you weren't listening." Sherlock responded, not really listening himself when the doorbell rang and he turned briefly to see if it'd woken up Sam before shouting downstairs. "Shut up!"

"Do you just carry on talking while I'm away?"

"I don't know. How often are you away?" Sherlock questioned. "And Sam was here. Now, show me the car that backfired."

John aimed the camera up to show the road yards away. "It's there."

There was a gasp from the couch and Sherlock turned towards Sam, who looked more than frazzled at whatever nightmare she'd been having. Knowing she would be ashamed, he turned away and spoke to her from over his shoulder.

"Go ahead and shower, Sam. You can borrow some of my shirts and trousers until Bobby drops by with your things later."

"R-R-Right." She stuttered out, making Sherlock briefly glance at her with a frown as she stumbled into the restroom.

Must have been a fairly bad one then. He mused, before turning his attention back to the laptop as the shower began running.

"That's the one that made the noise, yes?"

John swung the camera back to him. "Yeah. And if you're thinking gunshot, there wasn't one. He wasn't shot; he was killed by a single blow to the back of the head from a blunt instrument which then magically disappeared along with the killer. That's gotta be an eight at least… And how's Sam doing? That was her, wasn't it?"

"Nightmare." Sherlock grumbled. "She's shaken, but I sent her to shower and change, so that should… assist in relaxing her enough to be competent."

John sighed. "And you still claim not to care for her even though you've already made her tea and seem to know how to comfort her."

"Please." Sherlock drawled, annoyed. "It is scientifically proven that hot water eases tension in the muscles and gives your body the chance to release chemicals known to—"

The detective on scene cut in then, speaking to Sherlock from over John's shoulder. "Look, you two can talk about your girlfriend later. You've got two more minutes, then I want to know more about the driver."

Sherlock scowled. "She's not my girlfriend. She's a college student assisting us with cases to further her education on criminology. And forget about the driver. He's an idiot. Why else would he think himself a suspect?"

"I think he's a suspect!" The detective shouted angrily.

Sherlock leaned forward angrily as he snarled to John. "Pass me over."

"Alright, but there's a 'mute' button and I will use it."

John passed the laptop over, irritating Sherlock with the angle before shoving the device into the detective's hands and walking away as Sherlock went off in one of his rapid-fire rants.

"Having driven to an isolated location and successfully committed a crime without a single witness, why would he then call the police and consult a detective? Fair play?" Sherlock scoffed.

"He's trying to be clever. It's over-confidence."

"Did you see him? Morbidly obese, the undisguised halitosis of a single man living on his own, the right sleeve of an internet porn addict and the breathing pattern of an untreated heart condition. Low self-esteem, tiny IQ and a limited life expectancy—and you think he's an audacious criminal mastermind?!" Sherlock turned then, to the man he'd nearly forgotten about in John's chair behind him. "Don't worry. This is just stupid."

"What did you say? Heart what?" The man squeaked out, pale as a ghost as Sherlock ignored him.

"Go to the stream."

"What's in the stream?"

"Go and see."

"Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson scolded, entering the room with two suited men standing behind her. "You weren't answering your doorbell!"

One of the men tossed a thumb over his shoulder. "His room's in the back, get him some clothes."

"Who the hell are you?" Sherlock scowled.

"Sorry, Mr. Holmes, you're coming with us." The man closed Sherlock's laptop, cutting off John's shout just as there was another one from upstairs and the other suited man came tumbling down them with a groan of pain and a rather large bruise forming on his face.

Sherlock hadn't noticed when the shower had stopped going, nor when Sam had stepped out and into his bedroom for some clothes. Though, he couldn't help but smile as Sam hurried down the stairs with her eyes wide in panic and bruised knuckles; wearing nothing more than one of his shirts.

"S-Sherlock? What's going on?"

"Well, I was hoping you could tell me." He grinned and Sam looked between the man on the floor she'd just hit and the other standing there in barely subdued shock as realization dawned on her.

"Oh, dear God. I'm going to kill him."

Sherlock chuckled as the other man went over and began handcuffing Sam to prevent any more injuries to his staff. "He'll surely be amused when you tell him that."

Sam glared at him as she was shoved into a chair and the man roused his partner before getting him to retrieve some clothes for Sherlock and Sam's dirty pants.

"Please, Mr. Holmes... Miss Foxe. Where you're going, you'll want to be dressed."

Sherlock easily deduced the man as Sam had moments before and smiled smugly. "Oh, I know exactly where we're going." He got up and tugged Sam up as well with a smile. "Shall we?"

I couldn't believe him. Hell, I couldn't believe myself! I'd punched one of Mycroft's men, knocked him down the stairs, and now sat in only one of Sherlock's shirts, clean boxer shorts, and handcuffs in the Buckingham Palace—not my decision, mind you, but I couldn't exactly go without anything underneath until I got my pants and they'd yet to deem me unthreatening enough to remove the cuffs. It was bad enough that I'd woken up from a nightmare in front of Sherlock and some stranger that I idly connected to the beginning of Sherlock's dealing with Irene Adler, but I had meant it when I said I was going to kill Mycroft for putting me in this position. And if I wasn't significantly embarrassed before, John stopping in the doorway and giving us both disbelieving looks, surely turned me about as red as I could get. John held his hands out and Sherlock shrugged as I ducked my head even lower and John headed over to join us on the couch.

We were all silent, John looking around curiously before laying his eyes on Sherlock in his sheet and raising a brow, up until he spotted me and turned a small shade of pink himself.

"Ah, are either of you wearing pants?"

"No." Sherlock replied as I fidgeted, only for Sherlock to frown at me and make me stop.

"Okay." John said, before leaning forward a bit to look at me. "Are you, um… Are you wearing Sherlock's shirt?"

"H-He told me to borrow some until Bobby could stop by with my clothes." I answered with a stutter that Sherlock rolled his eyes at. "Never mind the handcuffs. I punched one of the guys."

"She's also wearing a clean set of my… pants, which I don't remember giving you permission to wear." Sherlock lightly scolded and I turned a vibrant shade of red.

"Y-Y-You said anything I might need! I wasn't going to just walk around with nothing on underneath until I could come back downstairs a-and grab my own things." I argued, only to see a small smile on his face that quickly turned into a grin as John snorted and begun to laugh.

Sherlock soon joined in with the giggles and I couldn't help a small chuckle myself, feeling relieved that we could still banter like this as though I'd never been taken by Moriarty. Which was a great deal of weight off my shoulders.

"At Buckingham Palace." John said, trying to stifle his laughter. "Oh, I'm seriously fighting an impulse to steal an ashtray."

We all chuckled.

"What are we doing here, Sherlock? Seriously, what?" John finally managed to ask, the lot of us still smiling.

"I don't know."

"Here to see the Queen?" John offered, just as Mycroft walked in and Sherlock grinned.

"Oh, apparently, yes."

That threw us all back into our little fit of giggles as Mycroft looked at us like he was the annoyed mother dealing with three frustrating, irresponsible school children.

"Just once, can you three behave like grown-ups?"

"We solve crimes. I blog about it. He forgets his pants, and Sam is a college student wearing Sherlock's clothes. So I wouldn't hold out too much hope."

Sherlock was all seriousness again though and frowned at his brother. "I was in the middle of a case, Mycroft."

"What? The hiker and the backfire? I glanced at the police report. Bit obvious, surely?" Mycroft commented.

"Transparent."

John looked surprised and glanced at me, but I shrugged innocently, until Mycroft's gaze landed on me and made my blood run cold.

"Or are we speaking about Sam's little case here?"

Sherlock frowned as I shrank back in my seat, wondering how much Mycroft knew about what happened down at the pool and if he didn't trust me either.

"Hardly a case. He tried to trick us into thinking she was an asset of his, and she's not. Case closed." Sherlock defended me, making me look up in a bit of surprise. "Though, you knew that, otherwise she wouldn't be here with us."

With us in this room? Or with us as in… I didn't wish to think about that, and pushed the thought aside as Mycroft hummed.

"Yes, well, I still do not appreciate her damages to my employee."

I frowned at that, annoyed. "And I don't appreciate him walking in on me as I was changing, thanks."

John sputtered in shock whereas Sherlock simply grinned smugly at his brother and I rubbed my bruised knuckles with a small grimace as Mycroft smiled tensely.

"I will surely have to educate them on knocking first then. Apologies."

His apology made me angry as well—him gesturing for a guard to remove the cuffs—and I folded my arms over my chest with a scowl once I was freed.

"You're worse than Sherlock."

"Excuse me?"

"If you're going to apologize like a half-hearted jerk, then you might as well not even apologize in the first place."

He stared at me for a while, eyes narrowed, before he finally shrugged and closed his eyes. "Very well. I retract my apology. Now, if that is all, I think it's about time to move on." Mycroft said, reaching over to pick up the clothing on the table and hold it out to us both. "We are in Buckingham Palace. The very heart of the British nation. Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on. You as well, Sam."

Sherlock shrugged smugly. "What for?"

"Your client."

Sherlock stood. "And my client is?"

"Illustrious..." A new voice spoke as a man wandered into the room. "…in the extreme."

John stood up as well, in respect more than anything I guessed, though I remained seated and looked between everyone to see how this would turn out. Though perhaps I should stand and move around to the back of the couch. As embarrassing as it is to admit, a momentary glimpse of one Sherlock Holmes's backside would be something I can hold over his head for a while. Purely for enjoyment's sake, of course. God, does that make me a perv?... Probably. I blinked, noticing that the man had already shaken Mycroft's hand and had moved over to shake John's.

"And this must be Doctor John Watson, formerly of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers."

"Hello, yes." John said, smiling a bit and making me smile as well.

Oh, John. Always likes his old army title being tossed out there.

"My employer is a tremendous fan of your blog."

"Your employer?" John said, looking surprised and vaguely curious.

"Particularly enjoyed the one about the aluminum crutch."

"Thank you." John said eagerly, even he able to tell that whoever this mysterious—not so much to me—employer was, their praise was noteworthy.

"And Mr. Holmes the younger. You look taller in your photographs." The man mused, though Sherlock paid it no mind.

"I take the precaution of a good coat and a short friend." Sherlock teased, before eyes were trained on my person, making me tense; though Sherlock's calm gaze on me helped relax my muscles slightly.

"Though I'm not quite sure who you are, miss?"

"Foxe." I muttered, clearing my throat and gaining a bit of confidence as I forced my shaky legs to help me stand and held out a hand to shake the man's. "Sam Foxe. I'm just assisting."

"I see." The man said, eyes narrowing at me briefly, though the annoyance I felt at the demeaning gaze made me try to appear bigger than I was; much like a bird with ruffled feathers.

He glanced at Mycroft, who took some sort of amusement in the look as he responded.

"She's trustworthy, Harry. She's the one I told you about."

"Ah, with the rather hard right hook." The man smiled, looking at me cautiously. "Apologies."

I felt a little pride in knowing that I'd gained some form of respect from the man, though Sherlock was quick to change the topic.

"Mycroft, I don't do anonymous clients. I'm used to mystery at one end of my cases. Both ends is too much work." He rattled on, moving past John and I to leave, before looking back once at Harry. "Good morning."

Before he could fully leave though, Mycroft stepped on his sheet and I grinned a bit at having leaned back and caught sight of something I'd not had the chance of seeing in the show; Sherlock barely catching the sheet and the tips of his ears going red from just below his curls.

"This is a matter of national importance. Grow up." Mycroft snapped.

"Get off my sheet!" Sherlock bit out through grit teeth.

"Or what?"

"Or I'll just walk away."

"I'll let you." Mycroft pressed. "I'm sure Sam would much enjoy the view."

"H-Hey." I complained meekly, face turning a nice pink.

"Boys, please. Not here." John chided lightly, though Sherlock was still furious.

"Who. Is. My. Client?"

"Take a look at where you're standing and make a deduction. You are to be engaged by the highest in the land. Even Sam has figured that out! Now, for God's sake…" Mycroft paused, trying to keep some sense of dignity and reign in his temper. "…put your clothes on."

I sighed softly and grabbed my clothes and Sherlock's, walking over and passing him his things; holding them out and whispering quietly.

"I've snuck in a pack, if you want one later, but best do as he says."

"And why should I listen to you?" He snipped, making me wince though I knew it was just him lashing out.

"Because I know what we're going to be asked, and I know that you'll enjoy it." At least, for a while, anyway. "It'll be fun?"

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, before suddenly snatching the clothes from me and storming off. I fidgeted in place for a moment, before leaving the room as well, allowing a guard to show me where I could change and hoping that Sherlock's mood improved later. It's hard to deal with him like this. Especially in light of things. I can't help but think that he's still angry with me.

"I'll be mother." Mycroft said with a terse smile, pouring the tea now that Sam and Sherlock had returned in some form of dress.

"And there is a whole childhood in a nutshell." Sherlock quipped, making Mycroft scowl at him before he returned to his seat and the representative of the employer spoke.

"My employer has a problem."

Sam muttered a small 'duh' under her breath, earning an amused glance from Sherlock and less of one from Mycroft.

"A matter has come to light of an extremely delicate and potentially criminal nature, and in this hour of need, dear brother, your name has arisen."

"Why?" Sherlock questioned bluntly. "You have a police force of sorts, even a marginally Secret Service. Why come to me?"

"People do come to you for help, don't they, Mr. Holmes?" The man beside Mycroft replied.

"Not to date, anyone with a Navy."

"This is a matter of the highest security, and therefore, of trust." Mycroft implored.

"You don't trust your own Secret Service?" John questioned.

"Naturally not. They all spy on people for money."

John bit back a smile at that, but Sam hesitantly raised her hand.

"T-Then why me?"

John's smile slipped into a sad and concerned one at her question, and Sherlock frowned as Mycroft smirked slightly.

"Because if you so much as move an inch out of line and bring harm to my brother or this country, then you can be sure that the appropriate action will be taken to deal with the issue and the person responsible for it."

Sam sunk back in the couch a bit as Sherlock bristled, and Mycroft's eyes moved to him.

"Though I do marginally trust in my brother's judgement of those he chooses to bring into his inner circle. However, any actions you may take will also reflect on him, so do take care." Mycroft smiled innocently, though that did little to ease the obvious tension in the room.

"I do think we have a timetable." The client interrupted then and Mycroft nodded.

"Yes, of course." He said, pulling out a briefcase and passing a photo to Sherlock.

"What do you know about this woman?"

"Nothing whatsoever."

"Then you should be paying more attention." Mycroft quipped. "She's been at the center of two political scandals in the last year, and recently ended the marriage of a prominent novelist by having an affair with both participants separately."

"You know I don't concern myself with trivia. Who is she?" Sherlock pressed.

"Sam?" Mycroft lightly questioned, turning to the young woman who now held the photograph.

"Irene Adler." She supplied, making John turn to her in surprise.

Neither him not Sherlock expected her to give in and just hand out information after what had happened in the hospital.

"She's known as 'The Woman' and she's a… dominatrix."

"Dominatrix." Sherlock mused thoughtfully as Sam set the photo down on the table between them.

"Don't be alarmed. It's to do with sex." Mycroft teased and Sherlock gave him an annoyed look.

"Sex doesn't alarm me."

"How would you know?" Mycroft scoffed, though he didn't miss the concerned look Sam shot Sherlock as he continued. "She provides—shall we say—recreational scolding for those who enjoy that sort of thing and are prepared to pay for it. These are all from her website."

He handed out more photos that Sherlock briefly skimmed through.

"And I assume this Adler woman has some compromising photographs."

"You are very quick, Mr. Holmes."

"Not a hard leap." Sam muttered, earning an annoyed look from Mycroft, though Sherlock was quick to come to her defense.

"She's right. Hardly a difficult deduction. Photographs of whom?"

"A person of significance to my employer. We'd prefer not to say any more at this time."

"You can't tell us anything?" John questioned in disbelief and Mycroft indulged him.

"I can tell you it's a young person. A young female person."

John nearly choked on his tea as Mycroft narrowed his eyes at Sam.

"And if you know anything, then I expect you will remain silent to any and all inquirers of this information."

"Yes…" Sam replied softly and Sherlock drew attention to himself once more.

"How many photographs?"

"A considerable number, apparently."

"Do Miss Adler and this young female person appear in these photographs together?" He pressed, more to annoy his brother and make the client squirm now, than for actual information.

"Yes, they do."

"And I assume in a number of compromising scenarios."

"An imaginative range, we are assured."

Sam lightly reached over and pushed John's hand down, lowering his cup and saucer until the man got ahold of himself enough to set it down himself, before he spilled it.

"Can you help us, Mr. Holmes?" The client asked.

"How?"

"Will you take the case?"

"What case? Pay her, now and in full. As Miss Adler remarks in her masthead, 'Know when you are beaten.'" Sherlock announced, grabbing his coat. "Come on, Sam."

But Sam didn't move; instead speaking up.

"She doesn't want anything."

Sherlock stopped, turning back towards her as Mycroft explained.

"She got in touch, she informed us that the photographs existed, she indicated that she had no intention to use them to extort either money or favor."

"Oh, a power play." Sherlock smirked, interested now. "A power play with the most powerful family in Britain. Now that is a dominatrix. Ooh, you were right Sam. This is getting rather fun."

"Sherlock." John chided as the client gapped at his openness and Mycroft dragged a hand down his face.

"Where is she?" Sherlock asked, grabbing his coat once more and getting up; tugging Sam along with him.

"In London currently. She is staying—"

"Text me the details. I'll be in touch by the end of the day."

"Do you really think you'll have the news by then?" The client asked, but Sherlock turned back to him with a grin.

"No, I think I'll have the photographs."

"One can only hope you're as good as you seem to think." The client quipped and Sam tugged at Sherlock's sleeve, attempting to get him to leave, but Sherlock wasn't about to have this man get away with doubting him so easily.

"I'll need some equipment, of course." He said to Mycroft, having already made multiple deductions about the man before them and their true client.

"Anything you require. I'll have it sent to—"

"Can I have a box of matches?" Sherlock interrupted, looking back at the man in front of them.

"I'm sorry?"

"Or your cigarette lighter. Either will do." Sherlock said, holding out his hand.

"I don't smoke."

"No, I know you don't, but your employer does."

A tense beat passed, before the man handed him the lighter from his pocket.

"We have kept a lot of people successfully in the dark about this little fact, Mr. Holmes." The man said tightly.

"I'm not the commonwealth." Sherlock snipped sharply, turning round and storming out. "Sam!" He called out after him and Sam sighed, gesturing to the man's pants.

"You might want to invest in a lint roller. You've got white little dog hairs all up your trousers and personally, you stink of cigarette smoke despite the cologne trying to overpower it, but don't show any of the usual signs a regular smoker does. In case you wanted to know how he figured it out." She said, before wincing as Sherlock called out her name again, and she dashed off; leaving John in the awkward situation of saying some sort of apology to the men.

"And that's as modest as they get. Pleasure to meet you."

He hurried off to catch up with Sam and Sherlock, ducking into the cab and questioning them.

"Is that really how you knew about the smoking? The smell and the lack of whatever signs of a typical smoker?"

Sherlock turned to Sam, who fidgeted in embarrassment. "Ah, so you figured it out."

"Wasn't hard. He stank. I've been in school long enough to know the smell of cigarette smoke miles away. And it's a pain to get the yellow tobacco stains off fingers." She muttered, rubbing at her slightly yellow digits from her own bad habit.

Sherlock smiled a bit though, and dug through his coat as he spoke to John. "The evidence was right under your nose, John. As ever, you see, but do not observe."

"Observe what?"

"The ashtray." Sherlock pulled out a crystal ashtray, tossing it in the air and catching it as the group of them laughed.

They hit a red light though and Sam paled, staring out of Sherlock's window at a man in the cab beside them; him grinning and bringing a finger up to his lips as the light turned green and he disappeared.

"Sam? You alright?" John asked, having noticed her go quiet and freeze up beside him.

"Y-Y-Yeah. Fine. I-I'm… I'm fine." She lied, turning her gaze down to her hands that were now wringing themselves together nervously.

Sherlock caught the move, furrowing his brows and glancing out the window where she'd been looking, but he didn't see anything odd. After all, the cab had already pulled off to the side and let out its passenger. Jim Moriarty smirking away as he looked at the back of Sherlock's head disappearing around the next bend.

"Oh, fun indeed."