A loud frantic knocking echoed through the house, jolting John awake. He threw on his dressing gown and rushed to the front door.

"I know it's early," said the tearful woman on the doorstep. "Really, I'm sorry."

Mary appeared behind him, closing her dressing gown around her and peering down the hallway. "Is that Kate?" she called to John.

"Yeah, it's Kate," John replied as he continued to stare blankly at the snivelling woman.

"Invite her in?"

"Er, sorry yes. Do you want to come in, Kate?" He said before stepping aside and allowing her to walk into the house.

Mary smiled sympathetically as she walked to towards her, rubbing her arm kindly.

They showed her to the living room where she took a seat on the couch and continued to cry into a piece of crumpled tissue.

"There you go," said John as he placed two mugs of coffee on the table.

"It's Isaac," Mary informed him.

"Ah, your husband."

"Son."

"Son, yeah."

"He's gone missing again," Kate sobbed. "Didn't come home last night."

"The usual," said Mary.

"He's the drugs one, yeah?" he replied as he paced the floor.

Kate blubbered.

"Er, yeah, nicely put, John."

"Look, is it Sherlock Holmes you want? Because I've not seen him in ages," he said.

"About a month."

"Who's Sherlock Holmes?" asked Kate.

"See, that does happen," said Mary sarcastically.

"There's a… a place they all go to," Kate continued. "him and his… friends. They all do whatever they do. 'Shoot up', whatever you call it."
"Where is he?"

"It's a house. It's a dump. I mean, it's practically falling down."

"Where, exactly?"

III

The small high street café was busy in the crisp summer morning. The scent of coffee and freshly baked bread seeped out of the open doors and lingered in the air outside. Margaux ordered herself a coffee and a cold juice for Vaughan who sat comfortably on her hip. The gleaming sun had attracted most of the customers to the tables outside, leaving a free table in the corner of the café. She sat down, placed Vaughan next to her and handed him his juice. She watched as he settled into his chair, gazing out of the nearby window to watch the bustling of people outside. He hadn't slept well that night, he was tired. She ran her hand over his head gently and smiled.

She took a sip of her coffee, burning her tongue, and tapped her fingernails on the screen of her phone which sat on the table in front of her. She looked around the café before finally picking it up and dialling a number.

"Yes?" Answered a deep, bored voice.

"I'm listening…" She said.

"Listening to what?"

"Don't make me say it, Mycroft."

There was a long pause on the phone before he finally replied.

"What changed your mind?" He asked plainly.

"Nothing. I just changed it."

"Well then–"

"But there are conditions," she interrupted with a nervous enthusiasm.

"Go on."

"You will pay me what I currently earn at the University."

"How about we double it?"

She cleared her throat, checking around her again before continuing.

"And I won't let you relocate me. I stay in London. In my flat."

Mycroft sighed. "Fine."

"And no contract. I want to be able to walk away whenever I want."

"Okay."

"And… You tell no one I work for you. Not Sherlock, not John Watson, not even your parents."

There was another silence. She waited patiently, gripping the phone tightly to her ear.

"Well I'm glad to have you on board, Dr Cave," he finally said.

"Don't screw me over, Mycroft."

"Would I ever?"

She hung up and placed her phone on the table, exhaling heavily through pursed lips. She couldn't help but feel like she'd made a mistake. The reason for changing her mind sat heavy in her gut, muffled and buried deep; all she could do was follow where it drew her.

..

She swirled the remnants of coffee around the bottom of her cup as she noticed Vaughan growing more irritable with every yawn.

"Let's get you home for a nap, hey?" She said.

"Excuse me, do you mind if I sit here?" asked a soft, wispy voice.

She looked up to see a tired-looking woman pointing to the seat opposite her. She looked heavily pregnant; seemingly out of breath as she rested a hand on her large, round stomach which protruded under her blouse. Margaux nodded with a smile, gesturing for her to sit.

"Cheers." The woman sighed.

She had pale skin and high cheekbones, with frizzy auburn hair cut into a choppy fringe which fell into her eyes. They were blue. Bright blue.

"I just can't get comfortable," she laughed, rubbing her stomach.

"I remember that feeling," Margaux smiled.

The woman glanced at Vaughan, watching him carefully for a moment. "He's very like you."

"Do you think so? All I see is his father. They're like twins."

"You always see what you love the most."

Margaux smiled awkwardly. The woman's eyes flashed up to hers, like she sensed the discomfort.

"I'm sorry, was my comment misplaced?"

"Er, no…" Margaux shook her head. "No of course not. It's just funny… His father is the only one who looks at our son and sees me." She let out a small laugh.

"Hm, how interesting," the woman replied softly.

Margaux shifted in her chair before looking down at Vaughan who was drifting into sleep.

"Vaughan, love, come on; let's go home so you can sleep properly," she lifted him onto her knee as she spoke.

"Vaughan? What an unusual name."

Margaux smiled and nodded as she stood up. "Nice speaking to you. And congratulations," she said as she left the café with Vaughan in her arms.

The woman's hands dropped from her bump, her smile fading slowly as she looked out of the window and watched them walk away down the street.

III

John stopped the car outside the abandoned house. He jumped out quickly and opened the boot.

"What is that!?" Mary laughed, pointing at the bar tucked inside his top.

"It's a tyre lever."

"Why?"

"'Cause there are loads of smack heads in there, and one of them might need help with a tyre," he said sarcastically. "If there's any trouble, just go. I'll be fine."

He began walking towards the house, his palms sweating, his breath heavy.

"Er, John!" Mary called out.

He stopped and turned to look at her.

"It is a tiny bit sexy."

"Yeah I know."

..

Inside, the house was derelict. Littered with empty pill bottles and dirty syringes. Graffiti and questionable stains over every wall. John squinted through the dimly lit halls.

"Isaac? Isaac Whitney?" He called out.

He walked slowly into a room occupied by catatonic bodies on dirty mattresses.

"Isaac?" He whispered.

One of the bodies raised their hand slowly, as if his arm weighed a ton and it took all his strength to lift it. His eyes were glassy, his voice barely audible.

"Hello, mate," said John as he knelt beside him, before placing a hand behind his back and attempting to lift him. "Sit up for me. Sit up."

Isaac sat up slowly, swaying as John leaned in to take a better look. He lifted one of the boy's eyelids, watching as they rolled back in his head.

"Doctor Watson?" Isaac mumbled.

"Yep."

"Where am I?"

"The arse-end of the universe with the scum of the Earth. Look at me."

"Have you come for me?"

"Do you think I know a lot of people here?"

Isaac let out a distorted laugh. Suddenly, the person lying next to him rolled over, propping himself up on one elbow and focusing his red-eyed gaze on John.

"Ah, hello John. Didn't expect to see you here," he took his hood down and squinted. "Did you come for me too?"

The vein in John's neck began to pulsate, he gritted his teeth and huffed, grabbing his friend by the scruff of his neck and dragging them both out of the room.

..

Mary sat in the driver's seat, tapping her fingers against the steering wheel anxiously. She looked across to the house to see Isaac walking towards the car.

"Hello Isaac," she said as he approached the window.

"Mrs Watson, can I… can I get in please?"

"Yes, of course, get in. Where's John?"

"They're having a fight," he replied as he crawled into the backseat.

"Who is?"

At the house, a door crashed open, breaking off its hinges.

"For God's sake John, I'm on a case!" Sherlock shouted.

"A month! That's all it took. One," John replied as he followed him down the fire escape.

Sherlock vaulted over the bannister. "I'm working," he said as he jumped from wall to wheelie bin, eventually landing on the ground.

"Sherlock Holmes in a drug den! How's that going to look?"

"I'm undercover."

"No you're not!"

"Well I'm not now!"

The car squealed to halt in front of the two men.

"In. Both of you. Quickly," said Mary.

III

"Bloody hell, so are you going to be like… killing people?"

"No?" said Margaux through a mouthful of food, a confused look on her face.

She sat at her kitchen counter, digging into the Tupperware of breakfast that Rose had brought to her. She would bring Margaux food a lot. Mostly pasta, because she would almost make too much.

"So… you're helping people get away with murder?" Rose pressed.

"Who mentioned killing anyone?"

"No one! It's just weird. Like top secret government stuff; what else would they need a forensics expert for besides bodies and crime scenes and all the rest of it?"

"You're making me wish I never told you."

"You're making me wish you never told me."

Margaux laughed. She put down her fork and tucked her hair behind her ears before leaning over the counter towards her friend.

"In all seriousness, Rose. If anything ever happens to me in this job, they will cover it up and make it seem like I never existed. So, I wanted you to know the truth about what I'm doing, because if there ever comes a day when I stop answering the door for your leftover food, I wanted you to know why. The real reason why."

Rose gulped. "Alright, James Bond."

"No, I'm being serious."

They kept eye contact quietly, assessing each other. After a few moments, the silence was interrupted by Margaux's phone ringing. She ran to it quickly, worried the noise would wake Vaughan from his nap.

"Hello?" she answered breathlessly.

"Margaux, did you know about Sherlock?" said Mary frantically on the other end of the phone.

"Did I know about–"

"John's only just gone and dragged him out of a bloody drug den!"

"What!?"

"Did you know? He can barely open his eyes. Looks like he hasn't showered in weeks!"

"No I didn't… Well I didn't know he was so bad. Where is he now?"

"We're at St Bart's, Molly's testing his urine now. I think you should come."

Margaux rubbed her eyes and took a deep breath. He was an idiot. An idiot. The biggest idiot she'd ever met.

"Mary, I can't. I don't have anyone to watch Vaughan…"

Rose began to point to herself, silently offering to babysit. Margaux shook her head and placed a finger over her lips.

"And I won't bring him there. Not when Sherlock's in that state."

Mary sighed down the phone. "Okay. Okay, you're right."

"I'm sorry. But do me a favour, though?"

"Yep…"

"Tell him he's an idiot."

"Will do."

III

Molly removed her rubber gloves with a snap. Her face was moody like a thunderstorm, creasing and twisting in anger.

"Well? Is he clean?" asked John.

"Clean?" she scoffed, throwing her gloves down.

She walked up to Sherlock, bringing them face to face, before slapping him suddenly. A hard, stinging slap. She slapped him again. Harder. He blinked, trying to make the stars in his vison disappear.

"How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with," she began furiously. "And how dare you betray the love of your friends. Say you're sorry."

"Sorry your engagement's over," he replied smugly, cradling his cheek. "Though I'm fairly grateful for the lack of a ring."

"Stop it. Just stop it." She walked away from him. Stopping after a few steps and turning around. "You have a son. You irresponsible, selfish man."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

John stormed towards him. "If you were anywhere near this kind of thing again, you could have called. You could have talked to me."

"Please do relax. This is all for a case," he replied matter-of-factly.

"A ca– What kind of case would need you doing this?"

..

They sat in the back of a black cab. Sherlock's scruffy clothes filling the car with the musty smell of cigarettes and damp. John grimaced.

"You've heard of Charles Augustus Magnussen, of course," said Sherlock.

"Yeah. Owns some newspapers. Ones I don't read."

Sherlock frowned, looking around the cab. "Hang on, weren't there other people?"

"Mary's taking the boy home; I'm taking you. We did discuss it."

"People were talking, none of them me. I must have filtered."

"I noticed."

"I have to filter out a lot of witless babble. I've got Mrs Hudson on semi-permanent mute."

He got out of the cab and focused his attention on the front door of 221B Baker street, letting out a sigh. "What is my brother doing here?" He made his way up the steps.

"So I'll just pay then, shall I?" John called out sarcastically from the cab.

"He's straightened the knocker," said Sherlock as he came face to face with the door. "He always corrects it, he's OCD. Doesn't even know he's doing it."

He tilted the knocker to one side before letting himself in.

"Why do you do that?" asked John as he followed inside.

"Do what?"

"Nothing."

Inside, Mycroft sat on the stairs.

"Well then, Sherlock," he began. "Back on the sauce?"

"What are you doing here?"

"I phoned him," said John.

"The siren call of old habits. How very like Uncle Rudy. Though, in many ways, cross-dressing would have been a wiser path for you."

"You phoned him," said Sherlock, folding his arms.

"'Course I bloody phoned him."

"'Course he bloody did," Mycroft added. "Now, save me a little time. Where should we be looking?"

"We?"

"Mr Holmes?" A familiar voice called out from upstairs.

He knew immediately who the voice belonged to, immediately filling with rage at the thought of him snooping around his flat.

"For God's sake!" he shouted, running up the stairs and into his flat. He turned into the kitchen and glared at him. "Anderson."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. It's for your own good," he replied.

Sherlock put his hood up and threw himself into his armchair.

"Some members of your little fan club," said Mycroft. "Do be polite. They're entirely trustworthy, and even willing to search through the toxic waste dump that you are pleased to call a flat. You're a celebrity these days, Sherlock. You can't afford a drug habit."

"I do not have a drug habit. This is not what you think. This is for a case."

"What case could possibly justify this?"

"Magnussen. Charles Augustus Magnussen."

Mycroft took a deep breath before turning to Anderson and his colleagues in the kitchen. "That name you think you may have just heard – you were mistaken. If you ever mention hearing that name in this room, in this context, I guarantee you – on behalf of the British security services – that materials will be found on your computer hard drives resulting in your immediate incarceration. Don't reply – just look frightened and scuttle."
They fled the flat with haste. Leaving Mycroft to turn to John.

"I hope I won't have to threaten you as well," he said.

"Well I think we'd both find that embarrassing," replied John.

Sherlock let out a snort of laughter. Mycroft snapped his head to look at him.

"Magnussen is not your business."

"Oh you mean he's yours," Sherlock taunted.

"If you go against Magnussen, then you will find yourself going against me."

"Okay, I'll let you know if I notice." He climbed out of his chair and walked towards the door. "Er, what was I going to say? Oh yeah." He opened the door. "Bye bye."

"Unwise, brother mine," Mycroft replied as he stepped past him.

Sherlock grabbed his arm, twisting it up behind his back and slamming him into the wall.

"Brother mine, don't appal me when I'm high," he growled.

"Don't say another word, just go," said John. "He could snap you in two, and right now I'm slightly worried that he might."

Mycroft wriggled free from his brother's grip, turning towards him as if about to speak.

"Don't speak, just leave."

The flat fell into silence as Mycroft left. An uncomfortable, muggy silence that lingered thick in the air.

"Er, Magnussen?" John asked.

"What time is it?" Sherlock asked dismissively.

"About eight."

"I'm meeting him in three hours. I need a bath."

"It's for a case, you said?"

"Yep."

"What sort of case?"

"too big and dangerous for any sane individual to get involved in."

"You trying to put me off?"

"God no. Trying to recruit you," Sherlock smiled as he walked into the bathroom. "And stay out of my bedroom!" he called out.

John waited a moment before crossing the kitchen towards the hallway that lead to Sherlock's bedroom. He stopped suddenly when the bedroom door opened, revealing a woman wearing nothing but a shirt.

"Oh, John, hi. How are you?" She tugged at the bottom of the shirt.

"Janine?"

"Sorry, not dressed." She made her way to the kitchen. "Has everybody gone? I heard shouting."

"Yes, they're gone."

"God, look at the time. I'll be late. Sounded like an argument. Was it Mike?"

"Mike?"

"Mike, yeah. His brother… Mike? They're always fighting."

"Mycroft."

"Do people actually call him that!?"

"Yeah."

She gave a surprised laugh. "Huh! The Holmes' just love weird names don't they! Sherlock, Mycroft, Vay-hawn."

"Vaughan…"

"That's the one," she said dismissively, like she didn't really care. "Could you be a love and put some coffee on?"

"Sure, right, yeah."

"Thanks. Where's Sherl?"

"Sherl," he repeated under his breath. "He's just having a bath. I'm sure he'll be out in a minute."

"Oh like he ever is."

He watched, bewildered, as Janine walked to the bathroom and knocked on the door, opening it almost immediately.

"Morning! Room for a little one?" She stepped inside, closing the door behind her.

John stood in shock as the sound of giggling and splashing water seeped from under the bathroom door.

..

Sherlock put on his jacket. His hair was washed and combed, his eyes seeming brighter than before. His clean scent once again surrounded him like an aura as he walked across the living room.

"So, it's just a guess but you've probably got some questions."

"Yeah, one or two, pretty much," replied John as he sat on the edge of the coffee table, still in shock.

"Naturally."

"You have a girlfriend?"

"Yes, I have."

Now, Magnussen. Magnussen is like a shark – it's the only way I can describe him. Have you ever been to the shark tank at the London Aquarium, John – stood up close to the glass? Those floating flat faces, those dead eyes ... That's what he is. I've dealt with murderers, psychopaths, terrorists, serial killers. None of them can turn my stomach like Charles Augustus Magnussen."

"Yes, you have."

"Sorry, what?"

"You have a girlfriend. Janine is… your girlfriend?"

"What? Yes! Yes, I'm going out with Janine. I thought that was fairly obvious."

"Yes. Well… Yes. But I mean you, you, you are in a relationship?"

"Yes, I am."

"But… Margaux."

"I don't see the correlation."

"Margaux. You and Margaux, you're so… And now suddenly… Janine?"

"Yes. Janine."

"But why?"

He watched them smile and cuddle on the armchair, he nodded as she suggested a double date, he witnessed an intense, passionate kiss at the front door before she left for work. His hand itched as he used all his willpower not to take his phone out and call Mary, tell her everything. Instead he waited until Sherlock waved her off, noticing the kind, loving smile drop instantly once she was out of sight.

"You know Magnussen as a newspaper owner, but he's so much more than that. He uses his power and wealth to gain information. The more he acquires, the greater his wealth and power. I'm not exaggerating when I say that he knows the critical pressure point on every person of note or influence in the whole of the Western world and probably beyond. He is the Napoleon of blackmail and he has created an unassailable architecture of forbidden knowledge. Its name… is Appledore."

"Dinner," John said blankly.

"Sorry, what, dinner?"

"Me and Mary, coming for dinner… with… wine and… sitting."

Sherlock turned to him, blinking rapidly. "Seriously? I've just told you that the Western world is run from this house and you want to talk about dinner?"
"Fine, talk about the house."

"It is the greatest repository of sensitive and dangerous information anywhere in the world… the Alexandrian Library of secrets and scandals – and none of it is on a computer. He's smart – computers can be hacked. It's all on hard copy in vaults underneath that house; and as long as it is, the personal freedom of anyone you've ever met is a fantasy."

They were interrupted by a knock on the living room door. Mrs Hudson opened it, dithering as she stepped inside.

"Oh, that was the doorbell. Couldn't you hear it?" She asked.

"It's in the fridge. It kept ringing."

"Oh, that's not a fault, Sherlock!"

"Who is it?"