Maxine

We arrived back at 221B Baker Street out of breath once again. In the hall, we hung our coats; John and mine on the proper hooks on the wall and Sherlock draping his over the stair banister. John leaned against the wall while I shrank to a crouch to rest my legs. They were going to be screaming at me tomorrow. Seems if I was going to get used to this, I would have to start doing more cardio.

"That was the most ridiculous thing I've ever done," John rasped.

"And you invaded Afghanistan," Sherlock said.

John began to giggle again, his high-pitched giggle he got when something really got him. Sherlock and I couldn't help but start to laugh too- it was always infectious.

"That wasn't just me," John pointed out when he recovered.

Sherlock chuckled again, shaking his head.

"Is that—is this a normal day for you?" I asked Sherlock from my spot on the floor. I was hugging my knees to my chest and resting my chin on top of them.

Sherlock considered for a moment. "I wouldn't say a normal day, it's not like I go chasing cabs for exercise."

I laughed. "Well, obviously. I'm saying the case—running after murderers... accidentally coming across the wrong guy?"

"Mistakes happen on occasion," Sherlock admitted.

"But the chasing murderers is normal?" I tilted my head.

"Murderers, thieves, any criminal that's clever enough to not only stump the police, but to make me think," Sherlock replied.

I smiled and buried my head in my knees, letting my curly hair spill over my shoulders and around them. "This is insane!" I said to my stomach.

"Maddie, are you okay?" John asked.

"Of course, she's okay—she's better than okay," Sherlock said.

I lifted my head to see he was smiling at me.

"She's finally not bored," he said.

I grinned and hopped to my feet. "So what's next?"

John examined me warily for a moment before looking to Sherlock. "Yeah, why didn't we go back to the restaurant?"

Sherlock's face grew serious as he waved John off. "Oh, they can keep an eye out. It was a long shot anyway."

"So what were we doing there?" John queried.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "Oh, passing the time..." His eyes locked onto John's. "And proving a point."

"What point?" John blinked.

"You." Sherlock smirked and called toward the door to Mrs. Hudson's ground flat. "Mrs. Hudson! Doctor Watson and his sister will take the rooms upstairs!"

"Says who?" John demanded.

"Says the man at the door," Sherlock replied coolly.

Just then, there was a knock. I grinned wickedly at my brother as he past me a questioning glance.

"You mean you really haven't noticed?" I asked him.

Rather than answering, John headed for the door. Sherlock leaned on the wall and loosed a breath through his lips. I couldn't help but wonder if making that mistake with the cab was weighing on the detective. He seemed to get defensive when I asked if it happened often. Clearly, he wasn't used to it. I returned my attention to John as he opened the door.

Angelo, the waiter from the restaurant, was on the threshold, and he held out John's walking cane.

"Sherlock texted me," he explained. "He said you forgot this." He smiled.

"Ah." Clearly surprised, John took the cane and looked back at us.

We both grinned.

"Er, thank you," John said to Angelo. "Thank you."

Anglo beamed and nodded. He spotted me and waved. I waved back with an awkward smile of my own, and the waiter turned to leave. John closed the door and came back into the hall, staring at the cane.

I had noticed the moment we'd started running. I might have only been with John a short time since he'd returned from war, but he could hardly keep up with my normal walking stride, let alone run. Sherlock had been right. Even as I glanced toward the detective, he smiled at both of us with those green eyes practically screaming, "I told you so."

However, our moment of warmth regarding that John had gotten past his limp was short-lived. From the stairs came Mrs. Hudson, and there was a distinct look of distraught on the woman's face.

"Sherlock, what have you done?" she asked mournfully.

"Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock's smile fell and he peered at our landlady curiously.

"Upstairs," Mrs. Hudson said, gesturing weakly back the way she came.

Sherlock instantly hurried up the steps. John and I exchanged a startled and confused glance before following him. Once up the stairs, the three of us entered the living room to find Detective Inspector Lestrade sitting in one of the armchairs facing us. He wasn't the only person in the flat either; there were about five other officers rifling through Sherlocks possessions.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock demanded.

"Well, I knew you'd find the case," Lestrade said with a small shake of his head. "I'm not stupid."

"You can't just break into my flat," Sherlock snapped.

"Yeah, pretty sure even the police need a warrant," I muttered. "Or legitimate probable cause."

"See, Detective Inspector?" Sherlock gestured to me. "Max knows more about your job than you do, and all she has to go on is fictional mystery novels."

I blinked rapidly, trying to discern how the hell he figured out what I liked to read.

"Good for her, does she also know that you can't withhold evidence?" Lestrade countered. "And I didn't break into your flat."

"Well, what do you call this then?" Sherlock waved around at all the people.

Lestrade glanced around them before locking his gaze back on Sherlock. "It's a drugs bust," he said simply.

"Seriously?" John blurted with his brows shooting up. "This guy, a junkie? Have you met him?"

Sherlock turned and took a few steps toward my brother, biting his lip nervously "John..." he breathed.

John was still looking at Lestrade. "I'm pretty sure you could search this flat all day, you wouldn't find anything you could call recreational," he declared boldly.

I saw the rising discomfort in Sherlock's eyes and posture. One thing about being an artist, I always carefully observed body language so that I could translate it into my work. The detective's shoulders were tensing and he brows lowered while his eyes refused to blink.

"Johnny." I went to my brother's side and gripped his shoulder. "Read the room."

It was what he usually had to tell me when I was being insensitive or rude with my comments. I didn't have many occasions to use it on him, but it certainly got his attention when I did.

"Huh?" John looked at me, clearly confused as he blinked blankly.

"John, you probably want to shut up now," Sherlock murmured tightly.

"Yeah, but come on." John looked between me and Sherlock. He paused when he saw the grim expression on the detective. He took a step back and my hand fell off his shoulder. "No," he said disbelievingly.

"What?" Sherlock retorted.

"You?" John breathed.

Sherlock's face pinched in anger. "Shut up!" He whirled to face Lestrade once more. "I'm not your sniffer dog."

"No, Anderson's my sniffer dog," Lestrade corrected him and nodded toward the kitchen.

"What—An—" Sherlock turned to see the kitchen doors slide open to reveal not only Anderson, but several other officers rooting through the cabinets and fridge. Anderson smirked victoriously at Sherlock and waved.

"Anderson," Sherlock snarled, "what are you doing here on a drugs bust?"

"Oh, I volunteered," Anderson replied venomously.

Sherlock turned his back on him and faced us again. He was biting his lip so hard I was worried it was going to start bleeding.

"They all did," Lestrade told him. "They're not strictly speaking on the drugs squad, but they're very keen."

"Really?" I blurted as I stared at all of them. "This guy helps you put killers behind bars and you all happily go out of your way to screw him over?"

"You've known Sherlock for a day," Anderson snarled at me. "We've known him for nearly five years."

"Are these human eyes?" Donovan walked into view holding a jar with what very much appeared to be human eyes inside.

"Put those back!" Sherlock ordered, pointing angrily.

"They were in the microwave!" Donovan exclaimed.

"It's an experiment," Sherlock replied, voice clipped with irritation.

"Keep looking, guys," Lestrade called. He set his gaze on me. "Listen—it's Maxine, right?"

I nodded while still keeping my arms crossed.

"All of this could have been avoided if Sherlock just told us about the case," Lestrade said as he got to his feet. "We all know he's brilliant; but there is a procedure to things."

"Procedure, please!" Sherlock began to pace.

"You could just help us properly and I'll tell them to stand down," Lestrade said.

"This is childish!" Sherlock spat.

"Well, I'm dealing with a child. Sherlock; this is our case. I'm letting you in, but you do not go off on your own. Clear?"

Sherlock came to a halt and locked the Detective Inspector in a infuriated glare. "Oh, what, so-so-so you set up a pretend drugs bust to bully me?"

"It stops being pretend if they find anything," Lestrade pointed out.

"I am clean!" Sherlock barked.

"Is your flat?" Lestrade tilted his head. "All of it?"

"I don't even smoke." Sherlock angrily unbuttoned his cuff and pushed the sleeve up to reveal his nicotine patch.

"Neither do I." Lestrade strode up to Sherlock and pulled up the right sleeve of his jacket to reveal a similar patch on his arm.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned away again as he yanked his sleeve back down.

"So let's work together," Lestrade pleaded as he tugged his own sleeve down. "We've found Rachel."

Sherlock twisted back around to face him again. "Who is she?" he demanded.

"Jennifer Wilson's only daughter," Lestrade answered.

"Her daughter?" Sherlock frowned. "Why would she write her daughter's name? Why?"

"Never mind that," Anderson called. "We found the case." He pointed to where the pink case sat in the corner of the living room. "According to someone, the murderer has the case, and we found it in the hands of our favorite psychopath."

Sherlock's head snapped around to look at him. "I'm not a psychopath, Anderson. I'm a high-functioning sociopath. Do your research." He refocused on Lestrade. "You need to bring Rachel in. You need to question her. I need to question her."

"She's dead," Lestrade said.

"Excellent!" Sherlock exclaimed, causing John and I to exchange a startled look. "How, when, and why? Is there a connection? There has to be." His expression was lit with thrill; a kid on Christmas Eve eagerly waiting for Saint Nick to break and enter.

"Well, I doubt it," Lestrade admitted, "since she's been dead for fourteen years. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was Jennifer Wilson's stillborn child, fourteen years ago."

John grimaced and turned away. However, Sherlock carried an expression that mirrored all that I was feeling—confusion.

"Why?" I wondered aloud before I realized it.

"Hm?" Lestrade looked to me.

"Why would she scratch that in the floor—of all things—while she was dying?" I asked.

"My thoughts exactly, Max," Sherlock murmured. "It can't be right. Why would she do that? Why?"

"Why would she think of her daughter in her last moments?" Anderson scoffed. "Yup—sociopath; I'm seeing it now. And you might not be the only one here." Anderson glanced at me.

Sherlock whirled to face him. "She didn't think about her daughter. She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort. It would have hurt."

The detective began to pace again. I clasped my hands against the back of my neck. I had poor circulation, so my hands were almost always cold, but I didn't mind. In fact, it was nice to put something icy against my skin to help focus my thoughts. Most would jump to sentiment being the cause of Jennifer to carve her stillborn daughter's name; but Sherlock was right. It would have hurt like hell. Why not just speak her daughter's name?

"You said that the victims all took the poison themselves, that he makes them take it," John said. "Well, maybe he... I don't know, talks to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow."

Sherlock shook his head dismissively. "Yeah, but that was ages ago. Why would she still be upset?"

The room fell silent as all the officers stopped what they were doing and stared at the detective. It took him a moment to realize and he hesitated as he lifted his head and looked around. He then glanced at my brother and me.

"Not good?" he guessed.

"Bit not good, yeah," John answered while I shook my head with a grimace. Even I knew death of loved ones was never a subject to tread on without care.

Sherlock paused for a moment longer, staring at his shoes as if weighing something. He then stepped toward us, looking between John and me intently. "Yeah, but if you were dying... if you'd been murdered: in your very last few seconds what would you say?"

"'Please, God, let me live,'" John answered without hesitation.

"Use your imagination," Sherlock insisted.

"I don't have to," John reminded him curtly.

Sherlock's face fell as he realized the weight of John's words. My brother had nearly died in Afghanistan, so naturally he knew what it was like to be on the brink.

"Well..." I spoke up to try and break the tension. "You said she had a string of lovers."

Sherlock nodded at me.

"So, she's clever, right?" I said. "Really clever if she's still married and never got caught. It can't be sentiment. It doesn't make sense. She has to be trying to tell us something."

Sherlock's brows raised and he nodded again, this time slower as if he were tasting my words.

"Yes," he finally said. "Yes, I think so too. But what is her message?"

"Isn't the doorbell working?" Mrs. Hudson's voice chimed from behind us and I turned to see her walking in. "Your taxi's here, Sherlock." She glanced around the flat and her expression was consumed with shock and dismay. "Oh dear, they're making such a mess. What are they looking for?"

"It's a drugs bust, Mrs. Hudson," John explained.

Mrs. Hudson's face fell. "But they're just for my hip," she insisted. "They're herbal soothers."

"It's not for you, Mrs. Hudson," I assured her.

"Shut up, everybody, shut up!" Sherlock barked suddenly. "Don't move, don't speak, don't breathe. I'm trying to think. Anderson, face the other way. You're putting me off."

I snorted in amusement as Anderson grunted indignantly. "What?" he snapped. "My face is?!"

"Everybody, quiet and still," Lestrade ordered. "Anderson, turn your back."

"Oh, for God's sake!" Anderson argued.

"Your back, now! Please!" Lestrade shouted.

Anderson sighed heavily and turned around.

"Come on, think! Quick!" Sherlock had his fingers pressed to his temples and his green eyes were darting around the room as if searching for inspiration.

"What about your taxi?" Mrs. Hudson probed.

Sherlock whirled, his eyes wide and the cords springing out in his neck. "MRS. HUDSON!" he bellowed.

The elderly woman flinched and turned away to leave out the door, but not before I saw the crushed expression she carried.

"I'll deal with the taxi," I murmured with a small shake of my head. "You lot figure out Rachel."

"Make sure to tell him he got it wrong and I didn't order one," Sherlock snapped after me as I followed after Mrs. Hudson.

I found our new landlady at the bottom of the steps. Her face was flushed, but her eyes were dry. When she heard me coming down the stairs, she turned and smiled sheepishly.

"I didn't mean to be a bother..."

"Of course not," I assured her. I wasn't sure what else to say. I shuffled my feet awkwardly. Perhaps she'd want a hug? I really wasn't good at this sort of thing.

"This cabbie's just being very insistent," Mrs. Hudson told me, saving my from saying any more. "Triple checked that he had the right name and address."

"I'll tell him he's got it wrong," I said. "I can usually convince people to... leave."

It was true. Whether I intended to or not, I was skilled at making people walk out of rooms, buildings, and often times my life as a whole.

"Thank you, Maxine, you're such a darling," Mrs. Hudson gestured to the door. "He's parked out front."

As Mrs. Hudson headed back toward her own flat, I went to the main door and exited out onto the street. Overcast shrouded the night sky, though I doubted that I'd be able to see any stars without it, being in the heart of London. I regretted not grabbing my coat as the chill air nipped at my exposed skin. I still had my scarf around my neck, so I gripped it with my hands in an effort to warm my fingers.

"Mr. Holmes didn't order a cab," I began as I approached the black taxi parked before our flat. However, when I spotted who it was leaning against the car, I froze in place.

It was the cabbie from before—the one that was driving the taxi we were chasing not but a half hour ago. My heart felt like it was going to buckle and sink to the bottom of my stomach. Of course—of course. It hadn't been the passenger of the taxi that we should have been looking at.

"Who do we trust, even though we don't know them?" I murmured Sherlock's words under my breath. "Who passes unnoticed wherever they go? Who hunts in the middle of a crowd?"

The cabbie smiled at me. "So we meet again," he said. "Taxi's for Sherlock 'olmes."

"I told you, he didn't order one," I said. I was so aware of everything in that moment: the traffic lights down the road switching from a brilliant green to a startling crimson. The scent of moisture beginning to tinge the air, promising the possibility of rain tomorrow. The distant rumble of traffic as it crawled through the city of London. I could see the small liver spots on the man's face—the way his snowy hair carried split ends and appeared brittle.

Were these going to be the last images of my life? I knew, deep in my very bones, that this man was the killer Sherlock had been hunting. I was standing face to face with a murderer. Funny, I hadn't hardly even blinked seeing Jennifer Wilson's cold, dead body, nor did I panic when that mysterious man kidnapped my brother and me. But this... this was different. John wasn't at my side—no one was. It was just me and a killer.

Not like your adventure novels, John had warned me.

"Doesn't mean 'ee don't need one," the man pointed out.

I shook my head slowly. "Why didn't we see it?" I muttered to myself. "Why didn't I see it?"

The man perked a brow. "Well, you see, no one ever thinks about the cabbie," he said softly. "It's like you're invisible. Just the back of an 'ead. Proper advantage for a serial killer."

"Oh, good, just confess it, that helps." I pushed a hand to my forehead as I tried to think. I could scream—bring all the cops down here to take him down—but just as the thought crossed my mind, the cabbie reached back and casually pulled something to his hip.

The gleam of the street lamps reflected off of what I took to be the barrel of a gun.

"This is awkward," the cabbie admitted. "I'm here for Mr. 'olmes, y'see. The sweet old lady, she didn't put anything together, she didn't even ask questions. But you... you figured it out the second you saw me."

My heart was everywhere. It's beat pulsated the world. The feeling fled my legs, but miraculously I stayed standing. I blinked a few times as I tried to collect my voice. "I can't let you do that," I whispered. "If you're so keen on doing this to someone else, then I'm already in too deep anyway."

The man looked me over thoughtfully. "'oo are you to him? A friend? Somethin' more?"

"To be honest, I only met him on Wednesday," I said as I ran my fingers together like John did when he was trying to think of what to do next. "But that's all I needed to see to know that... that the world needs him to live more than it needs me."

The cabbie chuckled. "What are you trying to do, exactly? Play the 'ero?"

"The longer we stand here talking, the more likely someone is going to come down looking for me and see you here with a gun," I pointed out. "You can berate me for my choices on... on the drive." I swallowed—no, it was a full on gulp. Like I was in some shitty sitcom and just found out someone caught on to some stupid lie I told ten episodes ago.

"All righ'," the man said as he slowly replaced his gun. "Get in back."

He walked around the front of the hood to get behind the wheel. I took one last glance back toward the flat. I had my phone on me—I suppose a farewell text would have to do for John, as long as I didn't get caught. The cabbie was already closing his door, he didn't even check to see if I was coming or threaten me with the gun again. He knew I would come.

Too bad for him I had a dagger in my boot and was told I had a knack for wielding it; thought I wasn't exactly keen on going up against a gun.

With a tight sigh, I opened the passenger door and slid in.

John

If there was one thing I was certain about, it was that this was the most insane 24 hours of my life. I sat at the desk, staring at the monitor and waiting for the map to render. Sherlock Holmes was pacing behind me as we waited for the computer to work its magic. It was brilliant, really. Rachel hadn't just been Jennifer Wilson's lost daughter—it was the password to her email, which led us to the ability to track her phone's GPS signal.

"We're going to have to move fast," Sherlock told Detective Inspector Lestrade. "This phone battery won't last forever."

"We'll just have a map reference, not a name," Lestrade pointed out.

"It's a start!" Sherlock barked back.

The map now appeared and began to zoom in. I took a small glance over my shoulder to see if Maxine had come back. She'd be just as excited as I was about the prospect of finally catching this guy. However, it seemed she was still downstairs dealing with the taxi, or perhaps she was getting a cuppa with Mrs. Hudson. Though, that last part seemed unlikely—Maxine didn't socialize with anyone unless she had to or it was me.

Looking back at the laptop, I saw that the street names were now appearing around the small dot that indicated the phones general location. I blinked a few times, sure I was seeing things.

"Sherlock..." I called weakly, my brow furrowing.

"It narrows it down from just anyone in London," Sherlock said to Lestrade, appearing not to hear me at all. "It's the first proper lead that we've had."

"Sherlock," I repeated louder, still with my eyes glued to the screen as the map finished zooming in and clarified my suspicions.

"What is it?" Sherlock was suddenly at me shoulder. "Quickly—where?"

I nodded to the screen. "It's here. It's at two two one Baker Street..."

Sherlock straightened up and I looked up to see his expression twisted with confusion. "How can it be here? How?"

"Well, maybe it was in the case when you brought it back and it fell out somewhere," Lestrade suggested.

"What, and I didn't notice? Me? I didn't notice?" Sherlock scoffed.

"Anyway, we texted him and he called back," I told Lestrade.

Lestrade turned to the other officers. "Guys, we're looking for a mobile somewhere here, belonged to the victim."

Apparently, the Detective Inspector had selective hearing. I sighed and looked back at the screen, wondering if perhaps there was a fault in the website and it was just tracking the laptop's location. I turned to suggest this to Sherlock, but he was staring blankly at the floor, his mouth slightly agape and his green eyes wide.

"Sherlock, you okay?" I asked.

There was a small trill of a text alert and Sherlock hurriedly took out his phone. He stared at the screen for a long moment then darted to the window looking out at Baker Street. I got to my feet, concerned by his strange and abrupt actions.

"Sherlock," I pressed.

"Nothing," Sherlock pushed away from the window. "I'm going to go help Max with the cabbie. I completely forgot she was out there still arguing. I need air anyway."

With that, the detective snatched his coat and scarf before trotting down the steps. I sighed and shook my head. Could my sister and I really handle him as a flatmate? All of this was certainly exciting, but...

My phone suddenly chimed. I frowned and took it out to see a text: Max and I are going for food. Want anything? SH

I stared, stunned, before going to the window just in time to see Sherlock hopping in a cab.

"What?" I breathed. Why would he and Maxine just suddenly decide to go get a bite?

"What's wrong?" Lestrade prompted.

The taxi was now pulling away. "It-it's Sherlock," I said. "He just drove off in a cab. With my sister."

"Oh, he brought company this time, that's new," Donovan grumbled. I turned to see her shoot a glare at Lestrade. "He bloody left again." She whirled and stormed toward the kitchen. "We're wasting our time!"

I shook my head and decided not to reply to Sherlock's text just yet. Instead I dialed Jennifer Wilson's number and looked at Lestrade. "I'm calling the phone, it's ringing out," I said.

Lestrade sighed heavily as he looked around. "If it's ringing, it's not here," he muttered.

I lowered my mobile and went back to the computer. "I'll try the search again," I offered.

"Does it matter? Does any of it?" Donovan spat. She glared at Lestrade again. "You know, he's just a lunatic, and he'll always let you down, and you're wasting your time. All our time."

Lestrade held her gaze for a long moment before loosing a heavy sigh. "Okay, everyone. Done here."

The officers swiftly gathered their things and began filing out. None of them made any attempt to clean up the mess they made.

The only one to hesitate was Lestrade. He looked at me and shook his head.

"Why did he do that?" he asked, his voice sharp with irritation. "Why did he have to leave?"

I shrugged. "You know him better than I do."

"I've known him for five years, and no, I don't," Lestrade admitted.

"So why do you put up with him?" I queried.

"Because I'm desperate, that's why," Lestrade snapped. He started to walk toward the door, but paused once more. He turned back to face me, his expression surprisingly sincere. "And because Sherlock Holmes is a great man. And I think if we're very, very lucky, he might even be a good one."

Then the Detective Inspector headed down the stairs, leaving me alone in the flat that looked like a mini tornado passed through it. I sighed and shook my head before sitting at the desk again. I looked at my mobile and opened Sherlock's text. It still was just so abrupt and odd that he would not only disappear, but disappear with my sister. I couldn't help but feel a twinge of protectiveness. Sherlock said he was married to his work and wasn't after a relationship, but this behavior warranted a small—but stern—conversation.

I sent a reply text: Why leave right then and with my sister? And I suppose I could go for a small club sandwich, Maddie knows what I like on it.

I leaned back and waited for a reply, but none came. In fact, fifteen whole minutes went by, and I still had nothing. I even sent a text to Maxine stating: Why the hell did you just suddenly take off with Sherlock and where did you go? I'm starting to get worried.

Yet once again, I got no response.

I groaned and got to me feet. My hand instinctively reached for my cane when I did so and I blinked when I remembered I didn't need it anymore. I looked at my palm for a moment and smiled a bit. Sherlock might have pulled that whole thing to prove he was right, but it still helped me nonetheless. Lestrade was right, he was a great man. I decided I'd just head home, since all of Maxine's and my things were still there. I snatched up my cane and began to text Sherlock to just drop Maxine off there, but then the laptop behind me gave a chime.

Turning, I saw that the search had ran again, and now Jennifer Wilson's phone was in a completely different place. I went over and set my cane down to pick up the laptop. It moved—so that means that perhaps it had been here on Baker Street. Perhaps it had been with...

With a cabbie.

Everything clicked into place at once. My heart began to pound in my ears and I hurriedly closed the laptop before taking off down the stairs.

"Going to get food my ass!" I spat angrily as I went.