Maxine

Alex Woodbridge's home was a quaint abode. A woman named Julie greeted us and luckily she'd already been informed of Alex's death. I always hated being the one to tell people of someone's passing. There was often a lot of tears and blubbering that I didn't know what to do with. Julie led us to Alex's room which was in the attic. It was messy with clothes scattered about and papers strewn on a nearby desk. The window in the canted ceiling looked up into the sky and standing below it was a large object covered with a sheet.

"We'd been sharing about a year," Julie said. "Just sharing."

"Mmm," John responded.

Julie paused and gestured around the room as if to present it to us. She seemed like she'd been crying recently—puffy eyes and blotched skin. John and I observed the room at that point, focusing on what we'd come here to do.

"May I?" John asked, pointing at the sheet-covered object.

"Yeah," Julie said.

John strode over to it and at first attempted to prudently take to sheet off the top to peer beneath but it slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor.

"Sorry," he said before looking at the revealed object.

It was a telescope on a tripod, a rather fancy one at that. I frowned and went to my brother's side to look at it.

"Stargazer, was he?" John asked.

"God, yeah," Julie said. "Mad bout it. It's all he ever did in his spare time." She glanced away, her expression becoming grieved. "He was a nice guy, Alex. I liked him. He was, er, never much of a one for hovering." She laughed nervously as she glanced around the messy room.

"What about art?" I asked, turning toward her. "Was he interested in that? Did he study it or...?"

Julie shook her head. "It was just a job, you know?"

"Hmm." John bent down and peered at the items scattered on the bedside table. "Has anyone else been round asking about Alex?"

"No," Julie said. "We had a break-in, though."

John straightened up. "Hmm? When?"

"Last night," Julie replied. "There was nothing taken. Oh—there was a message left for Alex on the landline."

"From who?" I queried.

"Well, I can play it for you if you like," Julie said. "I'll get the phone."

"Please," John said.

Julie left the room leaving my brother and I to examine it with frowns on our faces.

"If he wasn't into art, how'd he figure out that painting was a fake?" John asked.

I shook my head. "I'd have to see the painting itself to get a better idea, but..." My eyes went to the telescope.

Before I could go on, Julie came back into the room with the phone. She put it on speaker and played the message.

"Oh, should I speak now?" a woman's voice said. "Alex? Love, it's Professor Cairns. Listen, you were right. You were bloody right! Give us a call when..."

The message abruptly ended.

"Professor Cairns?" John asked.

"No, no idea, sorry," Julie said.

"Mm. Can I try and ring back?" John queried.

"Well, no good," Julie said apologetically. "I mean, I've had other calls since—sympathy ones, you know."

John nodded and Julie turned to step out of the room, presumably to give us more time to look around. Yet just as she stepped out of the door, our mobiles trilled text alerts at the same time. We exchanged a glance before pulling the phones out.

It was a text from Mycroft which read: RE: BRUCE-PARINGTON PLANS. Have you spoken to West's fiancee yet? Mycroft Holmes.

I looked over to see my brother grimacing as he put his phone away.

"Mycroft?" I guessed.

John nodded. Giving me a wary glance, he said, "Hey, listen, would you be willing to...?"

Now it was my turn to grimace. "You really want to work on this case, don't you?"

"Mycroft said it was important," John pressed.

"Yes, but Sherlock seems to be very irritated whenever we do anything with his brother," I pointed out. "Remember how cross he got about the 'hello' thing? Which I've been meaning to ask you..."

"Just help me out with talking to the fiancee," John interjected before I could finish my sentence. "You notice things, a lot like Sherlock sometimes."

"I'm nowhere near his level," I said.

"Well, all the same, I think it'll help. Besides, it'll be fast to just pop by on the way back to the flat," John said.

I sighed and nodded. "All right, fine. But if Sherlock finds out and gets peeved, you get to do the explaining."

Sherlock

Much to my annoyance, the Vermeer painting looked perfectly ordinary to me. It displayed some old buildings sitting near a lake. The water reflected them and the night sky above like a mirror. When I looked between the top half of the painting and the reflection, I didn't see a single difference between the two—not a single mistake.

I knew the basics when it came to art. I'd found it important to some of the cases I'd worked in the past to have slightly above average knowledge on the subject. However, it wasn't something I was an expert on or had gone through great efforts to study. I wasn't Maxine.

My lips pressed into a tight line at the thought of her. It would have been possible to have her come with me to look at the painting firsthand. Snagging a security guard's coat and hat wasn't difficult; surely I could have found another set for her as well. Admittedly, she would probably be able to glean more from the painting than I could.

But if I'd allowed her to come with, we'd be alone in each other's company again.

When Maxine had stood up for me against her brother earlier that day, I honestly didn't know what to think or how to respond. It wasn't like when she was sour toward Sebastian for being a prick—it was John she had yelled at. Well, scolded was a better word. I didn't think I'd ever heard Maxine yell at anyone.

After she did that, something strange had bubbled up in my gut. At first it was difficult to place, but after a few minutes I knew what it was: I was pleased. I had been flattered that she would do such a thing on my behalf, especially considering how much Maxine hated verbal conflict. I'd been... happy that she thought enough about me to do that.

It wasn't something I was used to—being so invested in what someone else thought of me. Usually I didn't give other people's opinion's a second thought. Yet with the Watsons, I was finding myself growing... attached to them. However, there was a distinct difference between how my mind reacted between John and Maxine. With John, things were a bit easier—still strange, but easier. If he got angry with me, I tended to get angry back, though not to the degree that I did with people I disliked such as Anderson and Donovan.

But with Maxine...

She'd only grown cross with me once, and it was just before the bomb had gone off on Baker Street. That moment had thrown some clarity at me. She hadn't been able to get all of her thoughts out before the explosion, but I still recalled her heated glare and her words.

"You frustrated me."

Maxine didn't stick around for arguments—not ever. Yet she had with me.

If I had let her come with me to the museum, she would probably ask why I'd been acting so strange the past few days. She might even ask why I'd gotten so angry about Mycroft saying hello to her. I had a case to solve—perhaps the biggest case of my life—and I couldn't afford to be so distracted. I couldn't afford to face whatever was growing inside of me: something planted there by Maxine Watson.

Refocusing on the painting, I once again ran my eyes along its surface and still found nothing strange. Before I could sigh in frustration, I heard footsteps walking toward me from behind. I didn't bother turning to greet whoever it was—a woman based on the sounds of her steps. She was wearing high heels.

"Don't you have something to do?" a female voice asked in an Eastern European accent.

"Just admiring the view," I replied calmly, glad for the distraction from Maxine.

"Yes. Lovely," the woman's voice said curtly. "Now get back to work. We open tonight."

I finally glanced over my shoulder at the woman. She wore an elegant black dress that left a wide birth around her neck and collarbone. Resting at the base of her neck was a silver pendant of some kind; large and gaudy. Her dark hair was wavy in all the right places, suggesting a barber had styled it recently. Her makeup was just as meticulous, shaded lips and lined eyes.

"Doesn't it bother you?" I asked her.

The woman perked a brow. "What?"

"That the painting's a fake," I said.

The woman's expression twisted in sudden anger. "What?" she repeated, this time with venom in her tone.

"It's a fake," I replied calmly. "It has to be. It's the only possible explanation."

I turned round and strode closer to her so I could peer at the I.D. badge on her chest.

"You're in charge, aren't you, Miss Wenceslas?" I prompted when I saw her name.

"Who are you?" Miss Wenceslas demanded.

I stepped closer, leaning down into her face and staring intently into her eyes. "Alex Woodbridge knew that the painting was a fake, so somebody sent the Golem to take care of him," I said softly. "Was it you?"

"Golem?" Miss Wenceslas echoed, seemingly bewildered. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Or are you working for someone else?" I went on. "Did you fake it for them?"

"It's not a fake," Miss Wenceslas insisted.

"It is a fake," I countered. "Don't know why, but there's something wrong with it. There has to be."

"What the hell are you on about?" Miss Wenceslas was growing redder in the face by the minute. "You know, I could have you sacked on the spot."

"Not a problem," I said with a shrug.

"No?" Miss Wenceslas's eyes gleamed as if she was getting prepared to show me she wasn't bluffing.

"No," I told her. "I don't work here, you see. Just popped in to give you a bit of friendly advice."

"How did you get in?" Miss Wenceslas suddenly looked more worried than angry. Her eyes darted between the two of mine and she took a small step back.

"Please," I scoffed.

"I want to know," Miss Wenceslas pressed.

"The art of disguise is knowing how to hide in plain sight," I said.

With that, I turned around and began to take off my borrowed cap.

"Who are you?" Miss Wenceslas demanded.

"Sherlock Holmes," I replied, dropping the cap onto the top of one of the railing posts in the room.

"Am I supposed to be impressed?" Miss Wenceslas spat.

I grinned a little. "You should be."

I then took off the jacket and let it fall to the floor. When I reached the doors, I shoved it open with a bit more flamboyancy than was needed and skipped out of the room.

"Have a nice day!" I called over my shoulder, hoping that that left Miss Wenceslas with a scowl.

John

I sat in Andrew West's flat on a sofa next to his fiancee, Lucy. The living room was quaint and decorated with the air of minimalism; it was far more my taste than Kenny Prince's home. Maxine stood near one of the windows with a mug of tea in her hands. She was busy staring into it so as to avoid looking at Lucy. Any time someone was overly emotional around Maxine, she tended to shy away from them and let me do the talking if I was available.

"He wouldn't," Lucy was saying. "He just wouldn't."

"Well, stranger things have happened," I said as gently as I could.

"Westie wasn't a traitor," Lucy insisted. "It's a horrible thing to say!"

"I'm sorry, but you must understand that's..." I began, unsure of how to phrase it.

"That's what they think, isn't it, his bosses?" Lucy demanded.

I nodded stiffly. "He was a young man, about to get married. He had debts..."

"Everyone's got debts; and Westie wouldn't wanna clear them by selling out his country." Lucy's hands balled into fists and she glared at her knees.

I glanced over at Maxine, wondering if she could help defuse the situation at all. I had taught her well. Sometimes, she was shockingly wise with calming people down, but it really depended on the situation. Recalling the night that Sarah had nearly been killed by the Black Lotus, I knew that consoling someone who had survived a life-threatening situation wasn't one of them, but perhaps she could understand the pain of a grieving individual.

However, my sister continued to stare into her tea with her lips pursed. I knew that look: she was trying not to say something that might come off as rude. Clearing my throat awkwardly, I set my attention back on Lucy.

"Can you, um, can you tell me exactly what happened that night?" I asked her softly.

"We were having a night in, just watching a DVD." Lucy smiled a bit at the memory. "He normally falls asleep, you know, but he sat through this one. He was quiet." Tears began to form in her eyes and her voice cracked when she spoke again. "Out of the blue, he said he just had to go see someone."

"And you've no idea who?" I said.

Lucy shook her head and began to cry. As she held her head in her hands and sobbed, I awkwardly patted her back in condolence. Maxine's head snapped up when the crying started and now she was staring at Lucy like she was some kind of wild animal that might attack at any second.

"I'm sorry..." Lucy finally managed to say after a few moments. Mercifully, her back was to Maxine and she didn't see my sister's expression of terror.

"It's all right," I assured. "You-you've every right to cry. You lost someone you loved."

Lucy started sobbing again and I grimaced. I thought that had been the right thing to say in order to calm her, but apparently it just opened the floodgates more. I gave Maxine an apologetic look over Lucy's shaking shoulders. My sister merely sipped her tea, but her entire body had gone rigid.

Then, there was the chime of a text alert from Maxine's pocket. It was enough to bring Lucy out of her stupor and she looked back toward my sister curiously.

"Er, sorry," Maxine muttered, fishing her mobile from her pocket. She looked at it then her eyes went to mine. "Sherlock's requesting us."

"Ah." I smiled tightly as if in regret, but in all honesty, even though the woman was hurting and it would do her good to have someone comforting her, I could tell Maxine was about to crack. "I'm sorry, Lucy, we best be off. If you, uh, if you think of anything else or hear anything or..." I fished out a card from my pocket and handed it to her. "Ring me, will you?"

"Yeah." Lucy wiped her eyes on her sleeve and sniffed. "Yeah, of course."

Maxine went over to her and pulled out a small packet of tissues that were in her pocket. She pulled a few free and offered them wordlessly to Lucy. The woman blinked in surprise; clearly she'd noticed how quiet and standoffish Maxine was and hadn't been expecting any kind gestures.

"Oh, thanks," she said, taking them and cleaning up her nose.

Maxine just nodded and took a step back to wait for me to get ready to leave. I gathered my jacket (Maxine had never taken hers off, nor her yellow scarf) and Lucy showed us out. When she opened the front door, a cycle courier was walking along the pavement toward the house. He was a handsome young man with dark hair. As he wheeled his pushbike toward us, his eyes locked on Lucy.

"Oh, hi, Luce," he said. "You okay, love?"

"Yeah," Lucy said.

"Who's this?" the man queried, looking between me and Maxine.

"John Watson. Hi," I introduced. "Er, this is my sister, Maxine."

Maxine gave the man a small nod.

"This is my brother, Joe," Lucy said. She turned toward the man. "John and Maxine are trying to find out what happened to Westie, Joe."

Joe looked me up and down before glancing at Maxine. "You two with the police?"

"Uh, sort of, yeah," I replied.

"Well, tell 'em to get off their arses, will you?" Joe snapped. "It's bloody ridiculous."

"I'll do my best," I said warily. It made sense that people would be grieving and grief often led to anger. All the same, though, the guy could show some gratitude.

Joe nodded at me and turned to put a comforting hand on his sister's shoulder for a moment before wheeling his bike inside the house. I cleared my throat and stepped a bit closer to Lucy.

"Well, er, thanks very much for your help; and again, I'm very, very sorry," I said.

I turned to leave, Maxine just behind me, but before we could get far, Lucy called after us.

"He didn't steal those things, Mr. Watson," she said.

I looked back at her curiously. Maxine did so as well, though she was reluctant. I could tell by my sister's expression that she just wanted out.

"I knew Westie," Lucy said. "He was a good mad." Tears began to fall down her face again. "He was my good man."

With that, she turned and hurried back indoors. Maxine, who had stiffened up at the sight of tears, immediately relaxed when the woman was out of sight. She shook her head and pursed her lips.

"I hate tears," she muttered.

"Let's try to make sure there aren't any more of those, then," I said.

Then, together, we walked down the street toward the main road to hail a cab. As we went, I cast my sister a glance.

"Did Sherlock really text you?" I asked. The detective usually texted both of us in our group text to summon us.

Maxine cleared her throat and avoided my gaze. "Y-yeah, 'course he did."

I narrowed my eyes suspiciously. "Might I see it?"

Maxine opened her mouth as if to argue, but when she saw the stern look on my face she sighed and took out her phone. Opening up her texts, she showed the screen to me.

There had indeed been a text from Sherlock. It read: If you need an escape, just tell John that I summoned you two.

"How... how would he know you needed an 'escape?'" I asked in bewilderment.

"How does Sherlock Holmes know half the things he knows?" Maxine replied with a shrug. "Mm, more than half now that I think on it."

I sighed and shook my head. "We might as well head back anyway."

Reaching the main road, I lifted my hand to hail a cab. Maxine was typing away on her mobile, replying to Sherlock I expected. I couldn't help but feel a small twinge in my gut. I'd always known that there was something off about my younger sister, but I never would have gone so far as to call her a sociopath. However, it seemed that's what it was. Of course, she'd still have to be properly diagnosed by a psychiatrist but...

But that wasn't what was bugging me the most, I realized. Maxine had always been strange and distant; quiet and reserved. Yet ever since we moved in with Sherlock Holmes, a new light had sparked within her. Perhaps it was just being around someone who understood her so well, who had so much in common with her. Then I thought about Mycroft and he strange actions regarding my sister and Sherlock's reactions.

For a split second, I considered typing into my mobile's internet search engine: Can sociopaths have romantic relationships? Then I shook my head. No, there was no way. Sherlock said he considered himself married to his work the first time we met him; granted that was when he thought I was interested in him. And I'd never seen Maxine give any interest in anyone, not even all the handsome actors on the telly.

So no, surely nothing like that could be going on.

Maxine's phone trilled with a text alert as a cab pulled over. I glanced at her to see her smiling at whatever Sherlock had replied with. I opened the door for her and she slid in first. For the brief moment my face was completely out of her view, I let a grimace consume it before getting in after her.

Maxine

As the cab pulled up to 221B Baker Street, I saw Sherlock coming out the front door. Impeccable timing, it seemed. Night had fallen and I tugged my yellow scarf tighter around my neck against the early Spring chill when John and I stepped out of the cab. Sherlock instantly approached us, his expression expectant.

"Alex Woodbridge didn't know anything special about art," John told him.

"And?" Sherlock prompted.

"He likes stars," I added with a small shrug.

Sherlock blinked at me in confusion, waiting for me to clarify.

John did it for me. "He was an amateur astronomer," he said.

Sherlock turned and started to walk towards the end of the street where a familiar homeless girl was begging for change. He pointed back toward the cab we'd just arrived in.

"Hold that cab," he ordered.

John, exasperated, turned and trotted back to the taxi to stop the driver from pulling away. I took a few steps after Sherlock, wondering what he'd had the girl do for him. When he approached her, instead of him passing her money, she gave him a small slip of paper. Sherlock smiled at it before turning and heading back toward us.

"Fortunately, I haven't been idle," he said. He opened the cab door and slid inside. "Come on."

With a small sigh, I went in after him, once again doomed to be in the middle seat.

Once Sherlock gave the cabbie our destination, I elbowed him.

"What's on the paper, then?" I asked.

Sherlock took it from his pocket and showed it to me. On it were the words VAUXHALL ARCHES written on it in hasty penmanship.

"And what's there?" I asked with a frown. Vauxhall wasn't known for anything particularly good. A lot of homeless would loiter there, using the bridge as a roof from the frequent London rain.

"Our next lead," Sherlock said.

"Oh, well, that's specific," John scoffed.

Sherlock smiled lightly. He really did love waiting to reveal his plans. Part of me wondered if he was giving us a chance to figure him out before he carried out his actions; a game of sorts—almost like the one the bomber was playing with him but far less deadly.

The cab dropped us off on the closest main road to the Arches. We walked down toward them at a swift pace, letting the light of the street lamps guide us. Sherlock buttoned up his coat against the chilly breeze as he glanced up at the sky.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he said.

John and I followed his gaze. The sky was astonishingly clear that night and I could see a dense star field glistening overhead. I didn't quite understand how so many of them were clearly in sight when we were in central London.

"I thought you didn't care about things like that," John noted.

I recalled the conversation a few days ago when I found out Sherlock didn't know the Earth revolved around the Sun. However, that isn't what first came to my mind when John said those words. Sherlock simply didn't seem the type to sit back and admire something of beauty or awe.

"Doesn't mean I can't appreciate it," the detective replied calmly.

I pursed my lips and gazes toward the glittering stars. Alex Woodbridge would stare up at the sky in that little attic bedroom of his, probably every night too. How did he get caught up in this scandal?

As we walked into the Arches, John looked over at Sherlock.

"Listen: Alex Woodbridge had a message on the answerphone at his flat—a Professor Cairns?" he said.

"This way," Sherlock said, ignoring him as he strode toward a large throng of homeless people set up in tents and bedrolls at the base of the Arches.

"Nice—nice part of town," John said sarcastically. "Er, any time you wanna explain."

"Homeless network—really is indispensable," Sherlock replied.

John pulled a small flashlight from his pocket and flicked it on as we left the majority of the city lights behind us. "Homeless network?" he echoed.

"My eyes and ears all over the city," Sherlock said.

"Oh, that's clever." John nodded. "So you scratch their backs and..."

"Yes, then I disinfect myself," Sherlock quipped.

I shook my head and couldn't fight the small smirk of amusement that came to my lips. It wasn't often I heard Sherlock joke, but when he did it was often quick and witty.

Sherlock pulled his own torch out and shined it around as we continued into the darkness of the Arches. His and John's beams picked out homeless people all around the place—most of them settling down for the night.

"So, they're your eyes and ears," I said to Sherlock, "What is it that they saw or heard?"

"You're a smart girl, Max," Sherlock said, "think it through. What would be wise for us to find next?"

"Well, ideally the..." I trailed off when I looked forward and saw John's beam of light catch a shockingly tall silhouette of a man as he began to stand up. I grabbed Sherlock's sleeve and pointed. "Golem!"

"Come on!" Sherlock said, grabbing my wrist and pulling me to the side of a wall.

John was just behind us, quickly taking his light away from the man to avoid attention. The man's shadow was still casted on the wall of the arch he was beneath—this guy had to be over seven feet tall.

"What's he doing sleeping rough?" John whispered as he huddled close to each other by the wall to stay hidden.

"Well, he has a very distinctive look," Sherlock explained as he peered around the corner. "He has to hide somewhere tongue won't wag—much."

John began to reach toward his hip, but then his eyes widened with horror. "Oh shi..." he began.

Sherlock swiftly produced my brother's pistol from his jacket pocket. "What?" he said casually.

"I wish I'd..." John went on then looked up to see Sherlock offering him the gun.

"Don't mention it," Sherlock said as John took it.

My heart began to accelerate in my chest. This man we were currently stalking was an assassin—one of the world's deadliest assassins. Sherlock made certain John had his gun with him, so that meant this was going to get quite dangerous. I tried not to smile at the prospect of such a challenge.

Abruptly, the tall man broke into a run down another tunnel. The three of us immediately gave chase, sprinting towards where he was. Skidding around the corner, we arrived in the tunnel just in time to see the Golem climbing into a waiting car at the far end. Before we could even take another step, the vehicle sped off.

"No, no, no, no!" Sherlock exclaimed, punching the air in frustration. "It'll take us weeks to find him again."

"Or not," John said. "I have an idea where he might be going."

I lifted my head in sudden realization. "Professor Cairns," I breathed, recalling the message she left for Alex Woodbridge.

John nodded. "Like I said, someone left Alex Woodbridge a message. There can't be that many Professor Cairns in the book. Come on."

The planetarium theatre was playing Gustav Holst's "Mars" and the audio spoke out over the sound system around us. Oddly, as we tiptoed in, the footage fast-forwarded and then continued playing. The light of the screen dimly illuminated the plush seats and aisles between them.

"Many are actually long-dead," the man's voice from the production said through the speakers, "exploded into supernovas. The Van Buren Supernova was an exploding star discovered by Urbain Le Verrier in 1846."

The door we entered was near the front of all the chairs and we had a decent view of the small room overlooking them. Inside was the mixing desk and standing behind it was a the shape of a woman who was currently being strangled by a tall, tall man.

"Golem!" Sherlock bellowed as John took careful aim at the massive man with his pistol.

The Golem looked up and I heard a small grunt of surprise echo across the room. Then, with astonishing efficiency, he snapped the woman's—Professor Cairn, presumably—neck and her body collapsed onto the mixing table. She must have hit something, for the footage on the screen began to fast-forward again and it plunged the theatre into darkness. The Golem's shadow ducked down and out of sight.

"John!" Sherlock pressed.

"I can't see him," John said. "I'll go round. I'll go! Keep Maddie close!"

"Max, with me," Sherlock ordered.

Before I could object, he gripped my arm and pulled me to his side as my brother scampered off, gun at the ready.

"We should be back-to-back," I said to Sherlock. "He's big, easy to spot, but he has to be a renowned assassin for a reason."

The footage on the screen continued to spool, stop, and spool again, causing light to come and go in the room. Visibility was an issue and we couldn't afford for there to be any mishaps here. The Golem had snapped that woman's neck so easily... My heart was racing.

Sherlock nodded to me and we turned, pressing out backs against each other. Oddly, the sensation of his body so close was comforting. It took the edge off of the manic that was beginning to build within me at the prospect of such danger. I reached over to my hip and drew my dagger to hold at the ready.

"Who are you working for this time, Dzundza?" Sherlock called loudly, goading him most likely, or trying to distract him for John.

The room fell into darkness again. Because the light kept coming back periodically, it was impossible for my eyes to adjust to the shadows. However, at the very last second, I saw a massive hand rushing toward my face. Giving a small squeak of surprise, I ducked down just in time to avoid it, however the Golem instead grabbed hold of Sherlock's hair. With a powerful yank, the assassin pulled Sherlock over me and we fell to the floor in a heap.

Forced to scramble for a moment, Sherlock and I detangled from one another but the Golem had vanished again. The room had only been lit when we fell and now it was pitch black once more. I gripped my blade tightly, eyes darting back and forth. Miyako had taught me how to deal with enemies bigger than me, but I didn't think she'd ever expect me to take on someone like the Golem.

I heard Sherlock give a sudden muffled yell. Whirling, I spotted the Golem had taken advantage of us no longer being back-to-back and snagged the detective. He had one hand clamped over Sherlock's mouth and nose while the other gripped his neck. Sherlock desperately grabbed at the hand and struggled to pull it free as he was slowly suffocated.

John raced over and stopped in front of them, pistol in both hands. I darted toward the Golem's side, dagger posed to stab into any vital spots I could find. It would be ideal to take the man in alive, but if it was the Golem's life versus Sherlock's? The answer was obvious to me.

"Let him go, or I will kill you," John ordered. His voice was calm and he aimed the gun at the Golem's face with steady hands.

Sherlock, whimpering in his efforts, continued to try and claw at the man's hand to get it off his face. Something inside me was twisting and cracking at the sound of the detective in so much pain. When it didn't look like the Golem was going to be swayed by John's threat, I darted in and swiped the blade toward the man's arm, hoping to get him to release Sherlock.

The Golem swung Sherlock around to the left before I could make my mark. Forced to dart backward, I watched as the tall man lashed out a ludicrously long leg at John in a moment of darkness and managed to kick the pistol out of my brother's hands. Dropping Sherlock to the ground, the Golem surged forward to attack John.

A staggering amount of rage filled me when I saw the assassin grab my brother. I gripped the dagger tightly in my hand and leapt forward. The Golem was just twisting around to throw John across the room when I reached him. My brother was sent crashing into Sherlock, who was just getting to his feet. However, I managed to avoid him and lashed my blade out at the giant.

There was the ripping sound of cloth and flesh and a spray of blood spurted out in the air, illuminated in a brief moment of light from the screen. My dagger had sliced open a deep cut on the Golem's bicep. He howled in pain and whirled to face me. His face was elongated and slightly disproportional. His eyes leered down at me and in that moment I felt like a mere child due to the contrast in our sizes.

I expertly flipped the dagger in my hand so that the blade was closer to my pinky instead of my thumb. I held my other hand out with the palm toward the tall man in a defensive pose. My breath came even and strong and a small grin tugged the corner of my lips as I hopped foot to foot.

The Golem swung out a hand intent on grabbing my dagger arm. I jolted to the side to avoid him and darted in with my blade held high. However, before I could bury it into his shoulder, the Golem's other hand came out and grabbed my free arm. He yanked it so hard, I thought for a moment that my shoulder had disconnected. It pulled me to the side and my dagger cut uselessly through thin air. I cried out in pain as his hand clenched tightly around my forearm.

"Max!"

Sherlock and John had detangled themselves and were on their feet again. The detective took up a boxing stance, holding up clenched fists and his knees bending a bit. I knew that Sherlock was decent at hand-to-hand combat, but I had a feeling punching this guy would be like punching a brick wall. Nevertheless, Sherlock moved forward and shot out a fist intent for the Golem's face. The giant grabbed Sherlock's fist, but now he didn't have a free hand.

With a grunt of effort, I twisted around and stabbed my dagger down into the bicep of the arm holding me. The Golem roared as I ripped the blade free and yet more blood came forth. I'd never actually stabbed a living thing before. It was different than the wood I'd practice on with Miyako. It felt... pliable yet strangely resistant at the same time, and pulling the dagger out was a lot harder than pushing it in.

The Golem's grip loosened on me and I rolled away, my arm throbbing from where he'd had hold of me. Now with more maneuvering room, I flipped my dagger in my hand again so the blade was near my thumb and searched for an opening in order to free Sherlock. The detective had some specks of blood on the side of his face from when I stabbed the Golem. His hand was still captured and the Golem recovered from his new wound astonishingly fast. He ran a knee up and into Sherlock's gut, sending the detective to the ground. The Golem then crouched over him and grabbed his face in both hands, squeezing with deadly force.

Sherlock let out muffled cries of pain.

Before I could move, John leapt on the Golem's back, gripping the collar of the man's shirt while wailing a fist on the side of his head. The Golem gave a shout of annoyance and fury and released Sherlock to reach back and claw at my brother. I darted forward and hopped from side to side, trying to find an opening to strike without hurting John. Sherlock, gasping for his stolen breath, managed to get to his feet and came to my side.

The Golem began to spin. John, despite his best efforts, couldn't cling on due to the growing momentum and was sent to the floor. Seeing our opportunity, Sherlock and I ran forward to take on the Golem at the same time. We seemed to have a silent communication between us as Sherlock moved toward the right as I went left to flank the large man.

I hunkered down low, trying to use my small size to my advantage. Sure enough, when the Golem tried to reach for me, he didn't reach down far enough. Aiming for the giant's legs, I pushed myself onto my side and slid across the floor to cut into his calf. Yet just as I began to slide, the Golem hiked up one foot and slammed it down on my arm—hard.

Screaming, I felt the dagger slide out of my hand as I heard something crack.

"Get off her!" John bellowed.

My brother sprinted toward the Golem with fresh vigor, but before he could get close, the Golem twisted and snatched Sherlock who had been trying to attack him from the side. The tall man tossed Sherlock like he was a mere rag doll and sent him skimming across the floor to trip John.

Mercifully, the moment that he threw the detective, the Golem lifted his foot from my arm and began to run toward the exit. As Sherlock slid across the floor, he managed to snatch John's pistol from the floor as he passed it. The detective twisted around and took careful aim before firing two shots. I turned to see neither had made their mark; the Golem was already disappearing through the exit.

Sherlock slammed his hand on the floor in front of him angrily. John, who managed to avoid being tripped by the detective sliding toward him, ran to my side.

"Are you all right, Maddie?" he asked urgently.

"Mmm..." I grimaced in pain and looked toward my right forearm. It was already bruising. "He might have fractured something."

"What were you thinking going at him like that?" John demanded, shaking his head. "He was twice your size! Literally!"

I gave my brother a weak smile. "Because it was fun."

John blinked at me in pure disbelief for a moment before letting out a long sigh and bowing his head. "You've got to be kidding me."

"She dealt more damage than either of us," Sherlock noted as he got to his feet. He strode toward us, picking up my dagger on the way. He handed the gun to my brother and then offered the dagger to me.

"Er, should I let you keep it for a small bit?" I asked the detective as John helped me sit up. "It has his blood on it, after all."

Sherlock shrugged and looked around the room. "Plenty of samples here. We need to tell Lestrade." He glanced toward me. "Let him think I did the stabbing bit."

"Why?" I asked, wincing a bit as John examined my arm.

"I tend to get special treatment from the Scotland Yard, in case you didn't notice." Sherlock was getting out his phone and texting. "You two are starting to get there, but not quite enough. Could be that Lestrade will want to have you make statements and go through all the delightful hoops of the law in order to determine this was self defense and all that... It would just be a waste of time."

He finished texting and crouched down beside us. He looked over me carefully, as if inspecting for more wounds. His expression was surprisingly distraught.

"John, her arm?" Sherlock prompted the Doctor.

"She needs to go to a hospital," John said, frowning worriedly at my still swelling arm. "Could be more than a fracture."

"Go on, then," Sherlock said. "I'll stay here and wait for Lestrade." He straightened up but offered a hand down to me.

"Honestly, it's just a broken arm," I grunted as I allowed the boys to help me stand.

"Just a... Maddie, you are a wonder," John said with a disbelieving laugh.

"Could've been far worse," I said with a shrug. "Though this shouldn't have happened—I underestimated him."

"He was a giant," John pressed. "What were you expecting?"

"Him to be slower?" I shrugged.

Sherlock grunted in amusement. "Go get patched up, Max. Then go back to the flat, I'll meet you both there."

Nodding, John and I headed out of the building. As he made our way toward the main road, I finally started noticing the pain. It had been there before, of course, but now it seemed to be increasing as my adrenaline wore off.

"Maddie," John said. His voice was oddly soft as he walked close to me, ready to catch me if I should stagger or fall.

"Yeah?" I said, trying not to let the pain show in my face.

"Where in the world did you learn to fight like that?" John looked over at me, his expression grim and suspicious. "That can't be standard for martial arts in Japan—especially Aikido. I researched it and it's supposed to be a peaceful combat, not lethal. But back there... how you wielded that dagger..."

The dagger was in my hand at my side, still covered in the Golem's blood. I didn't want to wipe if off on my clothes since I managed to only get a few speckles of it on them. Going into the hospital with another person's blood all over me plus a broken arm wouldn't look too good. I started down at the scarlet liquid slowly dripping off the blade's tip.

"Well..." I let out a long sigh. "My Sensei, Miyako, taught me more than Aikido."

"Obviously," John breathed. "Why?"

"Can we get to the hospital first?" I said. The pain in my arm was increasing to a level that made it difficult to think straight.

John exhaled sharply through his nose, but nodded.

The cab drive to the hospital was quiet and I wondered how in the hell I was going to tell John about my time in Japan—about what Miyako had truly trained me for and why I had to leave the country. Perhaps it wouldn't be as bad as I expected—after all, we just took on a notorious assassin together.

After getting to Bart's ER, we were able to be checked in rather quickly due to the time of night and John's connections. There was still going to be a wait before the X-Rays could be taken, so the doctor gave me some pain medication to help take the edge off and an ice pack for my arm which was now nearly black and swollen to a rather unsightly proportion.

Once we were left alone in the room, John turned toward me and merely stared at me expectantly. I let out a long sigh, glad that the painkillers were helping loosen up my axiety as well.

"So... I started taking Aikido lessons from a woman named Kaida Miyako," I said. "But... well, she said she saw potential in me. She began giving me private lessons for more... dangerous combat." I awkwardly adjusted the ice pack on my arm and grimaced in pain again.

"What do you mean?" John asked.

"Well, Aikido is—like you said—a peaceful combat intended to leave one's opponent alive and safe. It's mainly a self-defense thing. But Miyako convinced me that there were some people who couldn't be just pushed away and expected to never lash out again. That sometimes, the threat of death was the only way to deal with certain people."

John narrowed his eyes. "Why did she pick you?"

I swallowed. "Uh, looking back on it I think it's because I'm a... a sociopath. She noticed how distant I was, how strange and... uh..."

"Why would she want to train someone like that to fight?" John said, his voice hardly more than a whisper.

I shrugged sheepishly. "To assassinate members of the Yakuza."

John nearly fell out of his seat. Straightening up and gripping the sides of his chair, his gaped at me.

"The-the Yakuza?" he rasped in horror.

I nodded.

"Are you mad?" John demanded.

"I didn't know!" I defended. "I didn't know until my last day in Japan. See, Miyako used to be part of one of the clans, but she managed to buy herself out. She was one of the kids that they picked off the streets and force to work for them. Smuggling drugs and money mostly. But then she got good at fighting, so they used her as someone to uh... send messages."

"She was an assassin?" John asked.

"More like a hired brute?" I said the sentence like a question because I realized I wasn't sure if Miyako had ever killed anyone on orders before. "Anyway, she hates them for what they did to her. So... she started taking promising students from her Aikido class and training them on the side to become her own personal assassins and had been sending them to kill off major members of the Yakuza clan in Tokyo. I was supposed to be one of them, but she and I grew close and she didn't want to put me in that kind of danger. So she took another student, but when he went to kill one of the Yakuza, he got caught and he told them who had been sending all the assassins."

John's brows shot up. "Did they...? Is she...?"

"Miyako is alive as far as I know," I murmured. "But that student of hers that got caught... he told them that she and I were friends. Miyako made it a point not to grow close to anyone over the years, but somehow the two of us clicked. So on my last day in Japan, she came to me and told me all of this—the real reason for her training me, how she was involved with the Yakuza, and how they had sent her a message stating that they'd... they'd kill me if she didn't stop sending her assassins."

John's face was now turning into one of anger.

"Maxine!" he exclaimed. "This isn't something you can just keep from me! You're life was threatened by the Yakuza? The most notorious crime syndicate in the world?!"

"It wasn't like I got involved with them on purpose!" I argued. "Miyako told me to leave the country—that if I came back here that I'd be safe and I believe her. She didn't keep records of our actual names at her dojo; she had everyone use simple aliases. Said it was part of her training or something. There's nothing tying me to her that they can trace, so there was no point in telling you and making you worry."

"I'm your big brother, it's my job to worry about you!" John replied tightly. "We had that case with Soo Lin and her brother not long ago—Soo Lin was part of a crime syndicate in China and they still tracked her down here when she fled them. She was still killed."

"They don't know my name," I pressed. "All they know was that Miyako had a student she was fond of."

"A student that disappeared after she was threatened," John said. "Maxine, it won't be difficult for them to put two and two together—they're a crime syndicate! You're smarter than this!"

"I told you I didn't know!" I insisted. "Miyako... Miyako is the one who showed me how to... John, Miyako is the first one who saw me for who I am. She showed me what it is that makes me feel alive. I suppose I got... blinded by it. I was so wrapped up in her that..."

John's brows shot up. "'Wrapped up in her?'" he echoed.

I frowned at his expression, then it dawned on me what he was implying.

"No. No, John, nothing like that," I said. "I don't like women."

"So you like men then?" John queried.

"When did this become about my preferences?" I demanded. "I'm just not one for romance!"

John rubbed his forehead. "So... so this Miyako lady... she seriously trained you to be an assassin?"

"For the most part." I shrugged.

"And there's no way that the Yakuza could actually track you down?" John asked.

"Sherlock didn't seem worried," I said before thinking about my words.

John's face fell into sudden anger and I pursed my lips sheepishly.

"Sherlock knew?" John exclaimed.

"He figured it out!" I defended.

"When?!"

"Er... during the case involving Soo Lin."

"You are joking." John bowed his head in despair. "You told Sherlock before me?"

"I told you! He figured it out!" I said tightly. "I made him promise me that he wouldn't tell you before I got the chance. So..."

"So you wait until I obviously know too much for you to back out of any other explanation?" John faced me now, his jaw clenched.

"I didn't want you to worry about me," I said, adverting my gaze. "You've always looked out for me growing up, and I appreciate that, but I'm grown now. I'm nearly thirty! I can take care of myself."

"You don't understand, Maxine," John sighed. "I know you're older. I know you can handle yourself. But your idea of safety is so radically different than what is actually safe! This... this thing you have, where you feel exhilarated whenever you're in peril is not sane! You could seriously get yourself killed; you need someone rational to keep you... alive."

He gripped my arm and I finally met his gaze. John's anger had fallen away to desperation.

"You need to think about how your dying would affect those who care about you, Maxine," he said softly. "Please, at least for my sake, if something like this happens again, tell me!"

"I-I will," I stammered, unable to argue with my brother's pleading expression. "I promise."

John nodded and gave a long sigh before releasing me. He sat back in his chair and ran his hands over his face.

"Let's just get this bomber case situated, shall we?" he said.

I gave him a nod and glanced down at my injured arm. Admittedly, the conversation went a bit better than I anticipated. John was mad, but he wasn't to the point where he was disowning me as a sister or anything like that. Though, him worrying about me always made me anxious. I wished he could see that I had everything under control; that I wasn't going to do anything careless.

Yet even as I thought these things, I recalled how I'd purposely go to the dark alleys of Tokyo with the hopes of being attacked. (Not that that would have ever happened considering how ludicrously low the robbing was in Tokyo.) I remembered how eager I was for another case, just like Sherlock.

If something tantalizingly dangerous reared its head toward me again... could I really ignore it?