The black car pulled up outside our new flat. I waited for John to get out of the backseat; when it was clear that there was no immediate danger from the mysterious tall man or his companions, I'd been stuck in the middle again. We'd gone by John's old room where my brother had grabbed a pistol he'd had waiting in a drawer. I'd taken an abrupt step back, impressed.

"What d'you need that for?" I asked, my voice tight.

"Sherlock said there might be danger," John reminded me.

"So you need a gun?"

"Think of it as insurance—especially since my little sister is involved with this."

I waved him off. "I don't know how many times I need to tell you that I can take care of myself." I opened my bag and pulled out a small dagger.

"Why do you have that?" John demanded.

"A Japanese man made it for me in exchange for some autographs," I murmured. "He engraved my name in Katakana in the blade—see?" I showed off the weapon with a light smile.

John sighed and shook his head. "I don't know why I'm surprised."

I slipped it into my boot and pulled my pant leg over the hilt before we brought our things back to the car.

When we returned to Baker Street, John opened the door to get out, but hesitated.

"Johnny, my ass is getting numb, please get out," I told him.

"Just wait," John said. He fixed his eyes on Anthea. "Listen, your boss... any chance you could not tell him where we went?"

"Sure," Anthea shrugged.

"You've already texted him, haven't you?" John sighed.

Anthea shot him a smile. "Yeah."

John nodded in defeat, started to get out, but then once again stopped.

"John." I pushed at him.

"Can you just—okay?" John snapped at me. Looking to Anthea, he asked, "Hey, um... do you ever get any free time?"

I leaned back in my chair and loosed an irritated exhale from my nostrils. I didn't like being stuck with strangers and my brother knew it, yet here he was trying to spark something with someone who helped kidnap us.

"Oh, yeah, lots," Anthea said, half laughing at my turmoil.

John waited expectantly, but Anthea had turned back to her mobile.

When she realized neither of us were moving, she looked up and pointedly stated, "Bye!"

"Okay," John chimed and finally got out.

I gave a sigh of relief as I got to my feet and stretched.

"I don't think you understand when it's proper to flirt," I said.

John shot me a glare. "You're one to talk. Have you ever even had a boyfriend?"

"No one has yet to peek my interest," I replied with a shrug.

John shook his head and went to the door as the car pulled away.

Sherlock was upstairs in the living room. He laid stretched out on the couch with his head angled toward the window. His shirt sleeves were pushed up above his elbows and his eyes were closed. I could not help but admire how his long, dark lashes looked like small fallen bird wings on his cheeks. The detective was pressing the palm of his right hand up against the underside of his left arm.

I cleared my throat pointedly and Sherlock's eyes snapped open to gaze at the ceiling for a long moment. It wasn't the stare of someone who'd just woken up or someone in a daze—his eyes were bright and focused. The detective then let out a long breath from his lips and his entire body seemed to relax. John came through the door at that point; he'd been slow on the stairs again.

"What are you doing?" John asked.

"Nicotine patch," Sherlock replied calmly. "Helps me think." He lifted his arm and pulled away his right hand to show three patches on his tricep.

"I'm not sure that's healthy," I said with raised eyebrows.

"Healthier than other methods that could prove more beneficial," Sherlock said. He clenched and unclenched his left wrist. "Not to mention, it's impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work."

"It's good news for not breathing," John said.

"Oh breathing," Sherlock scoffed. "Breathing's boring."

"Is that three patches?" John asked.

"It's a three-patch problem," Sherlock retorted. He pressed his hands together under his chin as if in prayer and closed his eyes.

John glanced around the room, clearly looking for something. I shrugged at him when he raised his brows at me. He was searching for why we'd been summoned and I still had no idea.

"Well?" John then prompted Sherlock.

The detective didn't respond. He kept his hands together, his breath coming in even and strong.

"You asked us to come," John pressed. "I'm assuming it's important."

Sherlock took another moment of silence. Then, his eyes slowly opened, their pale green color glistening in the light of the lamp nearby. "Oh yeah," he murmured. "Of course. Can I borrow either of your phones?"

"Our phones?" I repeated flatly.

"Don't wanna use mine. Always a chance that the number will be recognized; it's on the website." Sherlock's green eyes glanced toward us expectantly.

"Mrs. Hudson has a phone," John said, clearly exasperated.

"Yeah, she's downstairs. I tried shouting, but she didn't hear." Sherlock's tone was steady and matter-of-fact. He was completely unfazed by either of our disbelieving expressions.

"We were on the other side of London," John said, his tone becoming strained.

"There was no hurry," Sherlock shrugged.

John breathed out a long sigh and shook his head. I dug into my pocket for my mobile and tossed it to him, not bothering to call out a warning.

Sherlock caught it expertly and gave me a brief smile and nod. "Thank you, Max."

"Why did you text both of us?" John asked as Sherlock slid my phone open and began to type away.

"Wasn't sure which of you would be closer," Sherlock admitted. "Turns out, you were together."

"Is this about the case?" I probed.

"Her case," Sherlock replied.

"Her case?" John echoed.

"Her suitcase, yes, obviously," Sherlock said. "The murderer took her suitcase. First big mistake."

"I remember you mentioning a mistake back at the crime scene," I said. "You said 'pink.'"

"It's no use, there's no other way. We'll have to risk it," Sherlock murmured to himself as he paused the typing on my mobile. More loudly, he said. "On my desk, there's a number. I want you to send a text." He slid my mobile shut and tossed it back to me.

I caught it, blinking. "I thought you were doing that just now." I said.

"No, no," Sherlock said. "I just wanted to see your mobile. You can tell a lot about people from their phones." Sherlock waved me off. I wasn't sure I was keen about Sherlock prying deeper into my personal life.

"You brought us all the way here to send a text?" John asked as I headed toward the desk while shaking my head.

"Text, yes. The number on my desk," Sherlock said.

I paused for a moment. I was baffled that Sherlock had the audacity to summon people he's known for a day for such a simple task and with such urgency. I could tell that Sherlock shared the same disconnect from other people I did, the man in the warehouse pointed that out too. It had taken me a long time to figure out what sort of things bothered people and what was considered polite. John had helped, of course. He understood me better than anyone, even our parents.

However, Sherlock struck me as someone far too intelligent and aware of people and their behavior to not know what would be rude or inappropriate. He quite simply didn't care. It was either that, or he was able to read other people well enough to tell how much he could get away with.

Part of me was fascinated. Perhaps the reason I had grown somewhat of a conscious about how I affected other people's feelings because I had grown up with John. My brother had always cared about me and took care of me, so in turn, he became one of the few people I cared about- perhaps the only person I truly cared about. I wanted John to be content, so I kept up appearances for him.

Sherlock might not have had such a supportive sibling. In fact, he might have had a sibling just as adverse to common curtesy as he was.

"We just met someone you know," I said abruptly as I turned back toward the detective.

"Someone I know?" Sherlock lifted his head slightly off the cushion it was resting on.

"A friend of yours," John clarified.

"A friend?" Sherlock repeated, one brow rising as he sat up even more.

"An enemy," I corrected my brother.

"Oh." Sherlock seemed to instantly calm and laid back on the sofa. "Which one?"

John and I looked at one another disbelievingly for a moment, but then I shrugged.

"Shouldn't be surprised, really," I said to John.

He sighed and turned back to Sherlock. "Your arch-enemy, according to him," he said. "Do people have arch-enemies?"

Sherlocks eyes snapped open and he darted them between the two of us. Quietly, he asked, "Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yeah," I said with a small nod.

"Did you take it?" Sherlock said.

"No," John replied, appearing almost insulted.

"Pity." Sherlock once again sank back into the couch. "We could have split the fee. Think it through next time."

"Why didn't I think of that?" I muttered under my breath.

"Who is he?" John demanded.

"The most dangerous man you've ever met, and not my problem right now," Sherlock mumbled, clearly annoyed. "On my desk, Max. The number."

"Hold on," John said. "Dangerous? He practically kidnapped Maddie and me because of you. Do I need to be concerned he might hurt her?"

Sherlock scoffed. "You both came tearing back here after I said there could be danger and after being 'practically' kidnapped by him and him offering you money to spy on me." He shot us a small glance. "You can't seriously be hung up about risks now."

"He wouldn't physically hurt us, Johnny," I assured my brother as I turned back toward the desk.

"How do you know?" John said incredulously.

I ignored him as I picked up the paper from Sherlock's desk. "Jennifer Wilson—that's the woman from the crime scene, the fourth suicide." I turned back toward Sherlock. "Why—?"

"It's not important," Sherlock told me. "Just enter the number."

I loosed a tight exhale then did as he asked.

"Are you doing it?" Sherlock said as I typed in the number.

"Yeah," I replied.

"Have you done it?" Sherlock's voice was quick and forceful.

"Patient one, aren't we?" I grumbled.

"These words exactly: 'What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out.'" Sherlock waited for me to put in those sentences before continuing. "'Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come.'"

"You blacked out?" John asked, clearly confused.

"What?" Sherlock stared at him for a moment before shaking his head. "No, no."

"He's not typing this message as himself, John," I told my brother.

"What do you mean?" John demanded.

Sherlock got to his feet in one, smooth motion. He then came to my side, putting his foot on the coffee table to walk over it rather than around. It was as if he had no desire to waste time on anything he found trivial. He looked down at my message and nodded his approval. "Send it, quickly."

"Right," I said and hit the button.

"I don't get it," John pressed, looking between the two of us.

"Sherlock thinks that the victim left her mobile with the killer, or he took it," I explained. "He's sending the text under the premise that he is Jennifer to see if someone responds—if the killer responds."

"Oh." John's confused face relaxed a touch.

Sherlock left us and headed into the kitchen. He ducked out of view for a moment beyond the wall, and then reappeared with a small pink suitcase. With it securely in hand, he walked back into the living room and set it down in front of one of the two armchairs near the fireplace.

"Did it send?" Sherlock asked.

"As far as I can tell," I said. "Sherlock... that case..."

John turned and noticed it for the first time. "That's... that's Jennifer Wilson's case," he breathed.

"Yes, obviously," Sherlock responded curtly as he plopped down in one of the chairs.

John and I kept on staring, neither of us sure what to do or say. I blinked a few times as I tried to process a few things.

"Oh, perhaps I should mention: I didn't kill her," Sherlock added.

"We never said you did," John said swiftly.

"Why not?" Sherlock looked up at us. "Given the text I just had Max send and the fact that I have her case; it's perfectly logical assumption."

"Do people typically assume that you're the killer?" I queried.

"Now and then, yes," Sherlock admitted with a small smirk. He placed his palms on the arms of the chair and lifted his legs up to plant his feet beneath him. He then leaned back and clasped his hands beneath his chin.

"Okay..." John said with a small shake of his head. He limped around and collapsed into the other chair. "How did you get this?" He gestured to the case with his cane.

I walked over next, sliding my mobile shut as I went. The pink case was the exact shade as the woman's coat and shoes had been, if I wasn't mistaken (and when it came to colors, I usually wasn't). I squatted down beside it and frowned. There were a number of clothing items and makeup, a few accessories for hair; it was just like Sherlock thought. It made sense how some people would assume he was the killer. I remembered Donovan warning us that at one point we would come across a crime scene with a body Sherlock put there.

Of course, Donovan was also the type of woman to fool around with a married man. I didn't think that her opinion on Sherlock was going to amount to much, at least, not in my book.

"By looking," Sherlock told my brother.

"Where?" John said.

I glanced over at Sherlock as he gazed down at the pink case in question. His green eyes were fixated on it as if he were trying to pry answers from its seams.

"The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens," the detective explained. "He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention- particularly a man, which is statistically more likely- so obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it the moment he noticed he still had it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realize his mistake. I checked every back street wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens, and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip."

"Pink..." I breathed, looking back at the case with new understanding.

"You got all that because you realized the case would be pink?" John asked incredulously.

"Well, it had to be pink, obviously," Sherlock replied.

"Why didn't I think of that?" John muttered to himself.

"Because you're an idiot," Sherlock said simply.

John's head snapped up to gape at the detective.

Sherlock waved him off. "No, no, no, don't get all worked up. Practically everyone is. You're sister too, though to a slightly lesser degree."

Seems I was right about him not worried about hurting people's feelings. I bit my tongue as my core began to itch with several different sensations. Part of me envied Sherlock's lack of empathy—he was able to say exactly what he thought whenever he liked without any shame or remorse; I would adore that kind of freedom. However, at the same time, I pitied the detective. While worrying about keeping myself in line all the time, it wasn't all bad. I had John, and I did feel a little bit of something when I helped someone else or made them happy.

"Now look, do you see what's missing?" Sherlock's attention went back to the case and his words pulled me back to reality.

"From the case?" John said. "How could we?"

"Her phone?" I guessed.

Sherlock pointed at me. "See? Lesser degree idiot."

"How did you know that?" John demanded of me. Then he shook his head. "Right, the text message."

"Couldn't she have possibly left it at home?" I asked Sherlock.

"She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it," Sherlock retorted. "She never leaves her phone at home." He held out his hand to me suddenly.

I didn't understand what he wanted. Was he asking for my hand? I slowly began to reach forward to grab it, but Sherlock pulled back before we could touch.

"The paper with her number," the detective said, his voice tight.

I passed it to him and he slipped it back into the luggage label. That must have been where he found it.

"Hang on, hang on," John said suddenly. "So you think the phone is with the murderer- and you had my sister text him on her mobile?! For one: that's terribly risky, and two: what good will that do?"

It was like my phone was waiting for him to question our new flatmate. It began to buzz away on the floor next to my foot. I swiped it up and frowned at the caller ID before showing it off to Sherlock and John.

(WITHHELD)

Calling...

"A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her," Sherlock said breathlessly, his eyes sparkling with delight. "If somebody had just found that phone, the'd ignore a text like that... but the murderer..." He paused for a brief moment, and the frantic buzz of my phone cut out as the call went to my voicemail. "...would panic."

Sherlock reached down to flip the lid of the case closed and stood up to stride across the room. I practically had to scramble out of his way to not get toppled over from my crouched position on the floor. He snatched his jacket and began to pull it on. John was too busy staring down at my mobile.

"What if my sister's name was on her voicemail?" John demanded, looking over at the detective. "He'd instantly know who she was! He could look her up and try to find her!"

"I knew it wouldn't be," Sherlock responded calmly. "Girl like Max? One who rushes off on any whim that takes her and keeps her hair short? No makeup and no done-up nails? Max doesn't have the patience to set up a voicemail. All he's going to hear is that lovely robotic voice reading off her number to him."

He was right, of course. I hopped to my feet and shrugged at my brother. "Even if he did have my name, all we'd have to do was flaunt me around some and catch him when he tries to swoop in."

"You're suggesting you would be okay with being used as bait?" John's brows were furrowed and pulled low, his lower lip curling in a touch. He was angry with me, that was easy to see.

"One small risk is worth catching a murderer, don't you agree?" I said. "Besides, it would probably be fun."

"I'm sorry, I suppose I'm just still getting used to this side of you," John muttered.

"Please, you always knew it was there," Sherlock scoffed. "You just didn't want to see it; to see how you both share the same guilty pleasure."

John shook his head and elected to change the subject. "Have you talked to the police?"

"Four people are dead," Sherlock said. "There isn't time to talk to the police."

"So what are you talking to us?" John demanded.

Sherlock reached behind the door and grabbed his overcoat. He looked back toward us and frowned a bit- not at us, but at the mantle over the fireplace. "Mrs. Hudson took my skull."

"So we're filling in for your skull?" John was clearly bewildered and a bit insulted.

"Relax, you're both doing fine," Sherlock assured us as he pulled on his coat.

There was a brief pause in which my brother and I merely stared at him. I couldn't help but look back at the mantle and wonder how in the world Mrs. Hudson disposed of a human skull.

"Well?" Sherlock prompted.

"Well what?" John asked.

"Well, you could just sit there and watch telly," Sherlock shrugged.

"You want us to come?" I whirled and my whole body began to tingle with excitement.

Sherlock grinned a bit. "I like company when I go out, and I think better when I talk aloud. The skull just attracts attention so..."

John smiled tightly.

"Problem?" Sherlock tilted his head.

"Yeah, Sergeant Donovan," John said.

"What about her?" Sherlock sighed as he took his gaze elsewhere, clearly annoyed.

"She said... you get off on this. You enjoy it," John told him.

Sherlock's eyes darted between the two of us. I couldn't help but raise my brows curiously.

"And I said 'dangerous' and here you both are," the detective replied and turned to whisk out the door.

He'd said the same thing earlier. John and I looked at one another.

"This is stupid," my brother said.

"Stupid fun," I corrected him. My smile returned, and this time I knew it had a wicked edge to it.

John stared at me for a moment longer before angrily pushing on his cane to get to his feet. "Damn it!"