Maxine

My forearm suffered two fractures and had to be placed in a yellow cast. I couldn't help but be thankful that I was ambidextrous; I was able to draw, write, and wield my dagger just as effectively with my left hand as my right. The doctors provided some pain medication and said I would be out of the cast in two months.

When we returned to the flat, John called it an early night which gave me some time to explain to Sherlock about how I'd finally told my brother about Miyako.

"Took your sweet time," he had said dryly while browsing the web for information regarding painting. "He didn't seem too cross, which speaks well."

"John is a surprisingly understanding man," I replied, looking over my cast with a frown.

Sherlockpaused in his typing and looked at my injured arm. "I'm sorry you got hurt," he said softly.

I blinked and looked at him in confusion. "Isn't this part of the job? Risking life and limb—" I jokingly shook my casted arm, "—for solving the case? John and I both knew what we were getting into, Sherlock."

"I should have been faster," Sherlock murmured, glaring back at his laptop's screen.

He didn't say much else for the rest of the evening. Eventually, I retired to my room, too exhausted from the throb in my arm and our ordeal with the Golem. When morning came, Sherlock took us to the Hickman Gallery first thing. I was eager to see this Vermeer painting up close now that Lestrade had gotten us access to it. The Detective Inspector met us there and we spent about fifteen minutes staring at the damned thing with Miss Wenceslas awkwardly watching.

"It's a fake," Sherlock insisted as he typed away on his phone. "It has to be."

"That painting has been subjected to every test known to science," Miss Wenceslas retorted.

"It's a very good fake, then," Sherlock corrected distastefully.

I stepped closer to the painting and frowned. It was elegant, to be certain. The starry sky was fetching and the buildings had been painted to sharply contrast with the horizon. It gave off an air of peacefulness; a cozy sort of calm. But Sherlock had to be right: the painting must be fake, otherwise Alex Woodbridge's death made very little sense—not to mention the Golem showing up to kill Professor Cairns as well.

"Alex wasn't interested in art," I said under my breath. "From where we found Professor Cairns, she wasn't either. She was in the planetarium, watching footage on stars and..."

Sherlock had spun to face Miss Wenceslas. "You know about this, don't you? This is you, isn't it?"

Miss Wenceslas turned to Lestrade, clearly exasperated. "Inspector, my time is being wasted. Would you mind showing yourself and your friends out?"

"It's painfully obvious, isn't it?" I continued to murmur to the painting. "I just can't put it together yet. Stars. They preferred stars..." My eyes went to the sky in the artwork, examining the dotted speckles of white and gold. "Then that means this is where the answer is. It has to be."

Behind me, I heard a mobile phone ringing. It was the familiar tone of the pink phone the bomber sent. Turning, I saw Sherlock pull it from his pocket and switch it on speaker.

"The painting is a fake," he said immediately.

All that responded was the sound of faint breathing. My gut tightened as I wondered who the bomber had taken now.

"It's a fake," Sherlock pressed. "That's why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed."

Once again, all that came from the other line was breathing.

"Oh, come on," Sherlock groaned. "Proving it's just the detail. The painting is a fake. I've solved it. I've figured it out. It's a fake! That's the answer. That's why they were killed."

When the phone remained silent, Sherlock took a deep breath to calm himself.

"Okay, I'll prove it," he said tightly. "Give me time. Will you give me time?"

There was a pause. Sherlock cast John and me a look and I saw how irritated and slightly panicked his expression was. I glanced back at the painting, realizing I might have the answer. However, before I could speak, on the phone came the trembling voice of a young boy.

"Ten..." he said shakily.

Lestrade's face fell as Sherlock whirled to face the painting. He pushed me firmly out of the way so he could examine it, but not roughly enough to send me to the ground.

"It's a kid," Lestrade lamented. "Oh, God, it's a kid!"

"What did he say?" John asked, his eyes wide with horror.

"Nine..." the boy's voice said.

"It's a countdown," Sherlock said as he squinted at every inch of the paining. "He's giving me time."

"Jesus!" Lestrade exclaimed.

"The painting is a fake, but how can I prove it?" Sherlock breathed. "How? How?"

"Eight..." the boy went on.

Sherlock turned and glared at Miss Wenceslas. "The kid will die. Tell me why the painting is a fake. Tell me!" he barked.

The woman flinched and opened her mouth, but Sherlock held up his hand to stop her.

"Seven..." the boy murmured.

"No, shut up," Sherlock said to Miss Wenceslas. "Don't say anything. It only works if I figure it out."

He turned back to the painting again as John began to pace quickly around. I stepped toward Sherlock, my heart beginning to pound in my chest.

"You think he'll kill the boy if you have help?" I asked him softly.

"Yes," Sherlock responded instantly. He glanced toward me with one brow raised as if he was surprised I might have the answer. Then he looked back at the painting. "Must be possible. Must be staring me in the face."

It is, I wanted to tell him but instead pursed my lips. Oddly, the threat of a child's life hit me a lot harder than any of the others. He was just a boy—he had his whole life ahead of him to experience and learn who he was. Yet the bomber was willing to steal that, all to play a game. This was the line, I realized. The line between the bomber and Sherlock.

The bomber and me.

"Six..." The boy sniffled between the numbers.

"Come on," John urged under his breath.

"Woodbridge knew, but how?" Sherlock said.

"Five..." the boy said, this time sooner than the last number.

"It's speeding up!" Lestrade cried.

"Sherlock." John took a few steps toward the detective, his expression desperate.

The stars! I wanted to scream. The bloody stars!

Sherlock's eyes, which had been flickering all over the painting, suddenly stopped and fixated on a specific spot. His jaw went slack and his eyes widened.

"Oh!"

"Four..." the boy's voice said.

Sherlock turned and came to my side. He gripped my casted arm and lifted it as if it was the answer to everything.

"In the planetarium!" he exclaimed. "You heard it too." He glanced toward John and released me. "Both of you did. Oh, that is brilliant! That is gorgeous!"

The detective put the phone in John's hands and walked away from the painting. There was a grin plastered across his face as he pulled out his own phone from his pocket and began typing away.

"Three..." The boy was clearly getting more panicked.

"What's brilliant?" John demanded. "What is?"

"This is beautiful," Sherlock went on cheerfully. "I love this!" He continued to rapidly work at his phone.

"Two..." the boy whimpered.

"Sherlock!" John bellowed furiously.

Finding what he needed, Sherlock strode back to John and snatched the pink phone. With a triumphant gleam in his eyes, he yelled into it, "The Van Buren Supernova!"

There was a short pause. Then, the boy's voice said, "Please. Is somebody there?"

Sherlock loosed a breath of relief. I trotted to his side, pleased he'd put the pieces together. It had to be connected to the stars—it was the only thing that made sense for both Woodbridge and Cairns to know about—and that exact video was playing at the planetarium when Cairns was killed.

"Somebody help me!" the boy begged.

Sherlock turned and handed the phone to Lestrade. "There you go," he said. "Go find out where he is and pick him up."

John, looking both thoroughly relieved and a touch cross, let his shoulders fall. Sherlock looked between John and me before pointing to the painting.

"The Van Buren Supernova, so-called," he said. He held up his phone over his shoulder so that Miss Wenceslas could see the screen. "Exploding star, only appeared in the sky in eighteen fifty-eight." He turned, grinning victoriously.

"So how could it have been painted in the sixteen forties?" John asked, now smiling smugly at well at the woman behind us. Then, his phone gave off a trill. "Oh."

He frowned and pulled it out. Whatever my brother saw on his screen made his growl slightly under his breath. I frowned at him, but he waved me off. Sherlock was already heading out of the room, his stride holding a triumphant swagger.

"Oh, Sherlock," John called after him and hurrying along.

I was willing to bet my scarf that Mycroft had been the one to text John. I wondered why the older Holmes brother hadn't texted me this time as well. I quickly followed the boys out of the building, leaving Lestrade with a stunned-looking Miss Wenceslas.

At the New Scotland Yard, I sat on the edge of Lestrade's desk facing Sherlock and Miss Wenceslas, who were seated side-by-side across from Lestrade himself. The Inspector clearly wasn't too keen on me sitting on his desk, but he didn't bother telling me to get off and until he did I wasn't going to move. John has split off from us, claiming he had an errand to run before the next call from the bomber. I figured it was more work on Mycroft's case. When I offered to go with him, he refused and told me to stay with Sherlock in case the bomber called back sooner this time.

"You know, it's interesting," Sherlock said, his hands set in the prayer position under his chin. "Bohemian stationary, an assassin named after a Prague legend, and you, Miss Wenceslas. This whole case has a distinctly Czech feeling about it. Is that where this leads?"

Miss Wenceslas looked down and didn't respond. I exhaled sharply through my nose and glanced at Lestrade.

"What exactly could she be sentenced for, Inspector?" I asked him.

Lestrade's brows bounced once with thought. "Well, um, criminal conspiracy, fraud, accessory after the fact at the very least. The murder of the old woman, all the people in the flats..."

"I didn't know anything about that!" Miss Wenceslas insisted in a panicked voice, her head snapping up to look at Lestrade. "All those things! Please believe me!"

Sherlock cast me a small impressed look. To be honest, I had learned quite a bit from him when it came to investigating. Sometimes, fear was the best tool to use in order to get information.

As Miss Wenceslas continued to stare desperately at Lestrade, Sherlock gave the Inspector a tiny nod to indicate the woman was telling the truth. I had to agree with that; when the boy's voice came on the phone, her expression was far too traumatized for someone who knew the whole picture.

"I just wanted my share—the thirty million," Miss Wenceslas insisted. She glanced toward me, then Sherlock, then bowed her head again. "I found a little old man in Argentina. Genius. I mean, really: brushwork immaculate, could fool anyone."

"Hm!" Sherlock cut in sarcastically.

Miss Wenceslas looked at him briefly. "Well, nearly anyone," she amended. "But I didn't know how to go about convincing the world the picture was genuine. It was just an idea—a spark which he blew into flame."

"Who?" Sherlock said sharply.

Miss Wenceslas shook her head. "I don't know."

Lestrade gave a disbelieving laugh.

"It's true!" Miss Wenceslas pressed. "I mean, it took a long time, but eventually I was put in touch with people... his people. Well, there was never any real contact; just messages... whispers."

"And did those whispers have a name?" Sherlock demanded.

Both of us were staring intently at the woman as she took a deep breath. She nodded, as if telling herself this was the best option, then she turned her head to Sherlock again.

"Moriarty," Miss Wenceslas breathed.

Slowly, Sherlock sinks back in his chair. He and I locked eyes for a long moment, understanding shooting through our gazes. Our suspicions had been proven true: Moriarty was the bomber. Now it was just a matter of finding him and putting a stop to this madness.

In unison, Sherlock and I grinned at each other.

John

I strode alongside the railway lines at Battersea, tugging at the high-vis jacket that was pulled over my coat. Next to me was the Tube guard that had found Andrew West's body. I'd managed to get away from Sherlock and Maxine after Mycroft's latest text. It had read: My patience is running thin. Mycroft Holmes. That man truly loved to be subtly terrifying. I supposed Sherlock did as well, but since I knew my flatmate far better than I knew Mycroft, that was manageable. Besides, Sherlock didn't like to beat around the bush when he was irate. No, he shot holes in the wall.

"So this is where West was found?" I asked the Tube guard.

He was a heavyset man with a face drawn with exhaustion. "Yeah," he replied.

"Uh-huh." I stared down at the rails as we came to a halt.

"You gonna be long?" the guard asked.

"I might be," I said honestly. I didn't really know what I was looking for. Usually Sherlock was with me and he had an uncanny ability to see every minute detail.

"You with the police, then?" the Tube guard queried.

"Sort of." Once again, I was honest. I didn't exactly have a badge or anything, so there was no point in saying yes in case someone demanded proof.

"I hate 'em," the guard grunted, glaring down at the rails.

My brows raised. "The police?"

"No. Jumpers," the man clarified. "People who chuck themselves in front of trains. Selfish bastards."

"Well, that's one way of looking at it," I murmured. I squatted down to look more closely at the railway track.

"I mean it. It's all right for them. It's over in a split second—strawberry jam all over the lines. What about the drivers, hmm?" The Tube guard shook his head. "The've gotta live with it, haven't they?"

I supposed that the guard had a point, but I wasn't about to start a debate on it when I had plenty of other things on my plate at the moment. I carefully ran my fingers along the track before looking at them. The rail was clean save some dirt and rust.

"Yeah, speaking of strawberry jam, there's no blood on the line," I noted as I stood up. "Has it been cleaned off?"

"No, there wasn't that much," the guard said.

I frowned. "You said his head was smashed in."

"Well, it was, but there wasn't much blood." The Tube guard shrugged.

"Okay..." I turned to look along the line, wondering if perhaps there was blood further up the track where West actually collided with the train.

"Well, I'll leave you to it then," the Tube guard said. "Just give us a shout when you're off."

"Right," I replied as I walked a few paces down the line before squatting down again.

As the guard walked away, I hopped to my feet and glared at the railing. Sherlock always said talking out loud helped him think. Perhaps a go at it would help me as well.

"Right: so, uh, Andrew West got on the train somewhere—or did he?" I said, feeling only slightly silly. "There's no ticket on the body. Then how did he end up here?"

Beside me, the points changed and a set of the tracks slid sideways into a new layout. I crouched down beside it, peering at the rails thoughtfully. If there was no blood on the tracks—or rather, not that much blood—the only logical answer was that West wasn't killed here at all.

"Points."

Sherlock's voice sounded from behind me and at first I didn't see anything amiss with that. I was so used to examining scenes of deaths with him that his presence was perfectly natural.

"Yes!" I replied, getting to my feet again and turning to face him. Then I blinked, wondering what the hell he was doing here.

Sherlock was standing nearby with Maxine at his side. They were both bundled up in their coats, hands in their pockets. Oddly, both of them shared the same spark in their expression—the same hint of rising excitement. I wondered how the questioning with Miss Wenceslas had gone and what she said that could have made them both so gleeful.

"Knew you'd get there eventually," Sherlock said. "West wasn't killed here; that's why there was so little blood."

"How long have you been following me?" I asked, furrowing my brow.

"Since the start," Maxine answered for him with a small shrug. "When he asked for a cab here, I asked him that same question."

"You don't think I'd give up on a case like this just to spite my brother, do you?" Sherlock said with a small smirk.

"Yes, actually," Maxine said.

He shot her a small glare before turning and walking away. "Come on. Got a bit of burglary to do."

As Maxine and I fell into step behind him, she elbowed me lightly.

"Why didn't you have me come along?" she murmured.

I pursed my lips and shrugged. Truth was, I didn't have her come along because I wasn't sure what Mycroft was trying to do with her and Sherlock, and I didn't want to escalate it. If it truly was sibling rivalry, it could be that Mycroft was trying to imply he had interest in my sister in order to vex Sherlock. But the only way that would vex Sherlock was if he had interest in Maxine.

I wasn't certain why that didn't sit well with me. Of course, I could always chalk it up to old-fashioned brotherly protectiveness; the big brother not wanting his kid sister to date because it might lead to her getting hurt. However, I had been asking Maxine about her dating life since she was twenty. Part of me was always concerned she was just too... strange to get a lover of any kind.

Yet imagining her with Sherlock...

Was it that I didn't want to her to be with anyone or was it just him? Was it because some part of me had been concerned since we'd moved in with the detective that Maxine was getting deeper and deeper into the side of her that I didn't understand? Was it because when I saw her so comfortable and open with Sherlock it made me feel like I was losing my little sister? Or that I'd never truly known my little sister to begin with?

All of it was far too complex for my tastes—especially right now. So I wasn't about to let Mycroft play his little game with Maxine.

"I figured, you'd... uh... rather be with Sherlock when he questioned Miss Wenceslas," I lied. "I would've sat in too, but..." I took out my mobile and showed her Mycroft's latest text.

"He really is a child, isn't he?" Maxine muttered.

"Don't let him hear you say that," Sherlock called over his shoulder. Evidently we weren't talking quietly enough for the detective's sharp ears to pick up.

"Then you can tell him for me," Maxine said with a playful smile. "You can get away with it."

Sherlock grunted in amusement.

I adverted my gaze. I'd never seen Maxine be so open and humorous with anyone besides myself. Part of me was pleased that she was able to find someone else to relate to, but another part recoiled from the idea. It wasn't a sense of jealousy or possessiveness, it was more... fear. Sherlock was dangerous—it was part of the reason we moved in with him. But after Maxine getting her arm hurt by the Golem... after seeing how easy it would be for her to get seriously hurt or even killed...

"You're lagging behind, Johnny," Maxine said.

I looked up. She and Sherlock were a good few paces ahead of me now. I swallowed and hastened my pace.

"Sorry," I muttered.

Maxine smiled at me and I awkwardly smiled back. One thing I knew for certain: her and Sherlock being so cheerful probably didn't mean anything good.

Maxine

Walking along a street not far from Battersea, John and I strode on either side of Sherlock. The air was a perfect level of chilly to me. I delighted in the overcast and the warmth of my scarf. The cast on my arm made putting on and taking off anything with long sleeves a little annoying, but I had already enjoyed doodling a small picture of Kazros on it in a black Sharpie. I planned on adding much more to it before the two months had passed for it to come off.

"The missile defense plans haven't left the country, otherwise Mycroft's people would have heard about it," Sherlock said as we walked. "Despite what people think, we do still have a Secret Service."

"Yeah, I know," John said. "Maddie and I met them."

I nodded in confirmation.

"Which means whoever stole the memory stick can't sell it or doesn't know what to do with it," Sherlock went on, ignoring us. "My money's on the latter. We're here."

"Where?" John asked.

Sherlock turned into the drive of a maisonette and trotted up the steps at the side of the building. It lead to the front door of flat 21A on the first floor. John and I hurried after him as he began to rummage in his pocket.

"Sherlock!" John said urgently. "What if there's someone in?"

"There isn't," Sherlock assured.

With swift and impressive efficiency, Sherlock jimmied the lock with the pick he'd pulled from his coat pocket. Without hesitation, he slipped inside.

"Jesus!" John breathed.

I shrugged at him as the two of us went in after the detective. My brother hastily shut the door behind us and the two of us followed Sherlock up a set of stairs and into a clean living room.

"So, uh, where are we?" I asked.

"Oh, sorry, didn't I say?" Sherlock said. "Joe Harrison's flat."

"Joe...?" John began.

"The brother?" I queried as Sherlock strode to the window and pulled back the curtal.

"Brother?" John echoed.

"Brother of West's fiancee," Sherlock clarified.

"We met him, briefly," I told John.

"Ah." John nodded.

I went to Sherlock's side, navigating around the coffee table. Outside the window was a one-story extension, the roof of which could be easily climbed onto from the window. The extension reached all the way to the bottom of the garden that ended in a wall, and directly on the other side of the wall was the railway line.

"He stole the memory card; killed his prospective brother-in-law," Sherlock said.

Gently pushing me aside by the shoulder, he then dropped to his knees and pulled out his magnifier. He prudently examined the edge of the window sill, pale green eyes sharp. John strode over and peered over his shoulder curiously.

"Then why'd he do it?" my brother asked.

The sound of someone unlocking the front door came from behind us. Sherlock stood and the three of us turned.

"Let's ask him," Sherlock suggested.

Reaching around the back of his jeans, John stalked over to the door with the swift and careful steps of a soldier. I started to go after him, realizing that if Sherlock was right—and he rarely wasn't—that my brother was about to confront a killer; I wanted to make certain John didn't get hurt.

However before I could take a full step, Sherlock gripped my shoulder and pulled mer back into his chest. I didn't think he meant to pull me so hard and he looked a bit embarrassed when I glanced back at him. He simply shook his head and put a finger to his lips. I understood well enough: he was telling me John would be fine.

John reached the top of the landing and aimed his pistol down the stairs. I could hear the footsteps of Joe coming up, and they faltered for a moment.

"Don't," John said sternly, his aim steady and firm.

There was another step, and I saw the top of a bike peeking over the landing from the stairs as if Joe was getting ready to throw it.

"Don't," John repeated, this time even harsher.

The bike lowered.

"Put it down," John ordered. "Then come up."

There were the sounds of a bike falling a few steps down and then John backed up into the living room, training his gun on Joe as he came up the stairs. He held his hands up and his expression was a mixture of frustration and fear. His eyes found me and he pursed his lips. He had to recognize John and me from when we'd come to question Lucy.

"I think you know why we're here," Sherlock said dryly. "Take a seat." He nodded toward the sofa.

Joe glanced warily among the three of us, then when John gestured with his gun for the man to comply, he went and sat down.

John positioned himself between Joe and the door while I stayed by the window. Glancing at the window sill, I saw small pinpricks of red. I guessed they were blood and that's what Sherlock had been looking at earlier. It would be all the proof we needed.

"It wasn't meant to..." Joe began, his voice tight and shaky.

Sherlock looked away, clearly exasperated. I guessed the detective wasn't eager to waste his time on interrogating someone so emotional when we knew Moriarty was so close.

"God." Joe rubbed his face with his hand. "What's Lucy gonna say? Jesus." He sinked back into the sofa, distraught.

"Why did you kill him?" John asked.

"It was an accident," Joe insisted.

Sherlock snorted.

"I swear it was," Joe pressed.

"But stealing the plans for the missile defense program wasn't an accident, was it?" Sherlock asked, fixating his unyielding gaze on the man.

"I started dealing drugs," Joe admitted. "I mean, the bike thing's a great cover, right? I dunno—I dunno how it started; I just got out of my depth. I owed people thousands—serious people. Then at Westie's engagement do, he starts talking about his job."

Joe squirmed in his seat, clearly uncomfortable under Sherlock's stare. I pursed my lips and exhaled through me nostrils.

"Had a bit too much to drink, did he?" I guessed.

Joe nodded. "I mean, usually he's so careful; but that night after a few pints he really opened up," he said. "He told me about these missile plans—beyond top secret. He showed me the memory stick; he waved it in front of me. You hear about these things getting lost, ending up on rubbish tips and what-not. And there it was, and I thought... well, I thought it could be worth a fortune."

Joe put his head in his hands for a moment, most likely remembering the night. I glanced at the window sill I was leaning on. When I looked back, I saw Joe looking at me. His eyes shimmered slightly.

"It was pretty easy to get the thing off him, he was so plastered," Joe said. "Next time I saw him, I could tell by the look on his face that he knew." He looked guiltily toward John now.

"What happened?" John prompted.

Joe gestured weakly toward the landing. "We got... we got in a row. Turned to a scuffle and I... I pushed him too hard. He fell down the steps."

"Ah," I said with a small sigh. "And you didn't call anyone? Didn't think to blame it on a stumble?"

"I was gonna call an ambulance," Joe insisted with a short glance at me, "but it was too late." He shook his head. "I just didn't have a clue what to do, so I dragged him in 'ere, and I just sat in the dark, thinking."

"When a neat little idea popped into your head," Sherlock said, tilting his head.

He turned and came over to where I leaned by the window. Leaned over me, he pulled aside the curtain to look out toward the tracks. Our height difference allowed him to peer over my head without any trouble, but I was a bit startled with how close his chest was to my face. He smelled like parchment and chemicals that I guessed hung on his clothes from all his time at Bart's lab.

"Carrying Andrew West way away from here," Sherlock went on. "His body would have gone on for ages if the train hadn't met a stretch of track that curved."

I abruptly understood. In an attempt to get rid of the body, Joe had rolled West off the roof outside his window and onto a passing train. However, when the train reached the curve, it threw the corpse off.

"And points," John added.

"Exactly," Sherlock agreed.

I cleared my throat and Sherlock suddenly seemed to realize how he was basically trapping me on where I sat on the sill. Pressing his lips together apologetically, he took a step back and turned to face Joe again.

"D'you still have it, then?" John asked after glancing warily at us. "The memory stick?"

Joe nodded stiffly.

"Fetch it for me—if you wouldn't mind," Sherlock said.

Joe let out a long sigh and got to his feet to walk out of the room. Sherlock stepped over to John with me just behind.

"Distraction over, the game continues," the detective said quietly.

"Well, maybe that's over, too," John suggested. "We've heard nothing from the bomber."

"Five pips, remember, John?" Sherlock pointed out. "It's a countdown. We've only had four."

"I'm going to guess the last one is going to be a bit trickier," I murmured.

Sherlock nodded, but I could see the eagerness in his eyes. "Best be prepared then, shouldn't we?"

Sherlock

"No, no, no!" I lifted my arms indignantly at the TV from where I sat in my armchair. "Of course he's not the boy's father. Look at the turn-ups on his jeans!"

The show on the screen blared the booing of a large audience. Across from me, sitting in John's usual chair, Maxine was drawing on her cast. She glanced at me with raised brows before looking over at where he brother sat at the dining table.

"Why did you do this, again?" she asked dryly.

"Get him into crap telly?" John guessed. "Mm, dunno. Knew it was dangerous though."

"Hmm. Not a patch on Connie Prince," I replied.

Night had fallen outside and the chilly air was wafting in through the yet-to-be-repaired windows. I was sitting almost sideways in my chair, legs kicked up on one of the armrests. John was typing away at his laptop, most likely documenting our day for a later blog post about this case.

"Have you given Mycroft the memory stick yet?" he asked.

"Yep. He was over the moon," I said. "Threatened me with a knighthood—again."

"You know, I'm still waiting," John said.

"Hmm?" I looked round curiously at him.

"For you to admit a little knowledge on the solar system and you'd have cleared up the fake painting a lot quicker." John grinned.

"Didn't do either of you any good, did it?" I replied sourly.

Maxine opened her mouth, then seemed to think better of it and clamped it shut again. I gazed at her with a frown but before I could pester her, John spoke.

"No, but neither of us are the world's only consulting detective," John said.

A smile found my lips. "True."

John closed the lid of his laptop and got to his feet. "I won't be in for tea. I'm going to Sarah's. There's still some of that risotto left in the fridge."

I returned my attention to the TV. "Mm!"

"I'll probably get some takeaway," Maxine said, going back to sketching on her cast. About a sixth of it was now covered in elaborate patterns with characters drawn in the eastern style of hers among them. "Er, tell Sarah I said hello."

"Uh, milk," John added, pausing at the door and looking back at us. "We need milk."

"I'll get some," I said.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw John turn back with a look of disbelief. "Really?!" he exclaimed.

"Really," I assured.

"And some beans, then?" John asked hopefully.

"Mm," I agreed without looking away from the TV.

John hesitated a moment longer. Maxine let out a small chuckle.

"I'll make sure he's not an imposter, don't worry," she said.

John grunted in amusement before heading out. When I heard the front door close behind him, I glanced toward Maxine.

"I am capable of doing some shopping," I said. "I did get on without the two of you for a good while before we met, you know."

"Yeah, I still don't know how you didn't starve," Maxine replied casually, still focused on her doodling.

"There's that snark again," I muttered, shaking my head at her. "Are you certain that you're just getting comfortable with me, or is it that the game we're in is putting you in a good mood?"

"Could be a bit of both," Maxine admitted. After a moment, she paused in her sketching and her eyes flicked up to meet mine. "Did you really give the plans to Mycroft?"

I raised my brows at her. "Why would you think otherwise?"

Maxine's mouth quirked into a half-smirk. "Because usually after you've spent time around him you're in a downright rotten mood for at least an hour or two. But when you came back, you seemed perfectly normal."

I blinked a few times. Did Maxine really know me that well? She had been able to tell that Mycroft was my brother from the moment she'd met him; she'd also known about the painting's flaw before I did. At least part of it. The majority of the time, I was still able to figure things out and pick apart cases before her, but on occasion she managed to surprise me.

"Is there any point in me trying to lie my way out?" I asked dryly.

"Not really, but thanks for asking." Maxine smiled.

I flipped to sit upright in my chair while grabbing my computer notebook that was resting against the side of it on the floor. Flipping it open, I cast a slightly irritated look toward her.

"I was hoping to get this last part over with alone," I admitted.

"Last part?" Maxine put her pen away and raised her brows at me. "You mean the last pip?"

I nodded as I brought up my website on the screen.

Maxine sat back in the chair with a dejected expression. "Why? John and I have been with you on this so far."

"Yes, but..." I trailed off as I typed into my message box: Found: The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect. "I believe this is when our bomber will reveal himself."

"Moriarty," Maxine said.

I nodded and Maxine gave a huff of irritation.

"So why can't we be with you for that?" she demanded.

"Well..." I stared at my hands hovering over the keyboard as I racked my brain for a decent location. "He's proven to be a bit dangerous."

"Obviously," Maxine said tightly. "So having back-up would be wise, don't you think?"

"Mm..." was all I responded with.

I bit my lip for a moment before typing: The Pool. Midnight. Clicking send, I waiting for the confirmation before closing the computer's lid. Maxine was glaring at me; I'd never seen her so irritated—not at me at least. Not even when I snapped at her and John the day the bomb went off on Baker Street.

"What?" I asked.

Maxine let out an exasperated breath. "Sherlock. That's not fair. We've put just as much effort into this as you have—we should get to meet him too."

"John would never be okay with me keeping the plans," I said. "He'd insist on giving them to Mycroft. But I need something to bring him out."

"And you think the plans... ah." Maxine's face lit with sudden understanding. "The plans. That's what he's been after? He knew Mycroft would come to you with that case so he set off a bomb outside our front door to distract you. He wants the plans for himself—to sell or... something."

I grinned. "You always catch on quick," I said. "Yes. I don't know what his last pip was going to be, but I'm not waiting for it now that we've got the memory stick."

Maxine sighed. "You're right, John would never let you go off to meet this guy with the memory stick in hand. Too risky."

"But you...?" I raised my brows at her quizzically.

Maxine met my eyes for a long moment. "But I like risky," she said. "When do we meet him?"

I let out a small grunt of amusement, but it died quickly in my throat. To be honest, the reason I didn't tell either Maxine or John about keeping the plans wasn't just about John not liking my tactics. Bringing them right to the bomber—to Moriarty—proved to be a great liability. If anything happened to either of them... I wasn't used to having weaknesses to exploit. The bomber had been using hostages this entire time; one of them even died. But I didn't feel much about that failure other than frustration that it had happened. There wasn't grief or pain. Just annoyance.

But if it had been John... if it had been Maxine...

"Perhaps you could just go get the milk and beans..." I began weakly.

"Sherlock." Maxine gazed unflinchingly at me. "I'm going with you. You can't stop me."

I glanced warily at her cast. Maxine followed my gaze and her expression fell into a mixture of disbelief and annoyance.

"Oh come on, it was pure luck that he got me," she said.

"Luck?" I repeated, raising my brows.

"The lighting was awful and I had to move around you and John." Maxine folded her arms.

"Well, this bomber doesn't use hand-to-hand combat, he uses bombs." I got to my feet and rubbed the back of my neck.

"To be honest, I'm a bit moved that you're worried," Maxine said. "Doesn't seem like you."

I pursed my lips for a moment. "We're friends, aren't we?"

Maxine stood out of her chair and snatched her yellow scarf from the back of it. As she twined it around her neck, she smiled at me.

"So, where are we going?" she asked.

I wanted to groan. There really was no way out of this. Even if I tried to leave Maxine behind, she was clever enough to find a way to follow me. I supposed that I should just be grateful that I'd at least gotten John out of the way for this one. Besides, it might prove useful to have backup.

"Hope you don't mind the smell of chlorine," I told her before heading toward the door, snagging my coat as I went.