AN: I am terribly sorry that updating takes so long. It would have been up already, but we had technical difficulties. Thankfully, Thanksgiving break is coming up. I hope you're all doing fine. Ta and enjoy! (At least, I hope you enjoy reading as much as I like writing it.)

"What are you doing in here?"

Sherlock looked up, slightly startled, to find a very angry woman standing in the doorway. She was what most people-ordinary people-would call pretty. Her hair was dark, and her eyes were red from crying. Frequent crying. After noting several similar characteristics, the consulting detective surmised that she was a blood relative of Steven's, a sister by the striking resemblance. Judging by age, the younger one. She was dressed like a CEO in a sharp blue pantsuit that was clean but heavily wrinkled. A lot of moving and physical contact then. She was also engaged-the large diamond on her finger attested to that fact. And a very rich man, judging by the size.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

Sherlock didn't answer; he wanted to see what she would do. What she would give away.

"Answer my question, or I'll have so many guns on you that you'll be spitting up lead for a year," she warned coldly.

"I'd most likely be dead in that scenario, Ms Stafford," Sherlock said dryly. "So let's skip that bit, shall we?"

The woman looked shocked that he knew her name. "Who are you?" she repeated angrily.

He decided to show a few of his cards. "My name is Sherlock Holmes, and I am investigating the crimes recently committed by your brother."

"Y-you're Sherlock Holmes?" The woman looked so surprised; he had to suppress a smirk. After a moment, she straightened and composed herself. "We've been expecting you. Please follow me."

Suspicious of her behavior, Sherlock pocketed the gun he had found in Steven's desk drawer and followed cautiously.

The woman led him down to the main floor, shooing several children out of her way. The blond boy from before was stealthily following them; Sherlock could see him out of the corner of his eye. The trio went deep into the house, to the very back, to a sort of meeting room. From inside, many voices could be heard. Many more than Sherlock had anticipated. Taking a deep breath, Ms Stafford pushed open the heavy double doors and ushered the detective inside.

Twelve people, seven women and five men, were seated around a long table. Eighteen men hung around the outer edge of the room. Most of the later were dressed like bodyguards in dark suits and glasses.

Altogether, minus himself and the boy, thirty-one people.

The odds were not in his favour.

Sherlock's attention was drawn by the elderly woman at the head of the table who was looking at him knowingly. She had that air of ancient wisdom and dignity about her that can only be attained by certain old British ladies. "Come forward, Sherlock Holmes," she said sagely. Sherlock complied, stepping up to the opposite side of the table. Steven's sister followed.

"I found him in Steve's room, Great-Grandmother," she informed the lady. Her elder waved her to a seat. Sherlock was secretly impressed by her.

"I assume you are here because of the unfortunate...incident with Steven," she said delicately. "Tell me, did our boy live?"

The consulting detective felt no remorse when he told her no.

Several people in the room stifled sobs; the sister dropped her head and wept silently.

"I thought you knew."

"We had our suspicions," the lady admitted sadly.

"Then do you also know that your son murdered an innocent man just before he died?" he asked, tilted his head to the side. From the responses, he guessed not. "Then none of you are going to be of much use, are you? I am looking for the man Steven was with."

Several of them glanced unconsciously up at the ceiling. Now, that was quite helpful. "But since he obviously isn't here, I'll just be going."

"No-" one of the men protested, starting forward. Sherlock quickened his step and shut the double doors. There was nothing to block the door with-

Someone tugged on his jacket. Looking down, he found the little boy holding out a skeleton key. Taking it, Sherlock locked the doors and slipped the key in his pocket. "Do you know who I'm looking for?" he asked, trying to smile politely. It was a little hard; the people were pounding on the door behind him.

The little blond boy nodded. When he spoke, Sherlock had to crouch to hear his soft voice. "You're looking for Cousin Charles. He went out with my brother this morning."

"Yes," Sherlock told him. "I need to...speak to him."

The little boy nodded and took Sherlock's hand in his tiny one and led him to the stairs. The consulting detective had to bend a bit to walk. John would just love this. He was very good with children. Like that one case where they had to go to a primary school to-

Focus. There would be no more cases with John. Not ever, and it would be best to forget all about it.

Maybe he would delete it.

No. Absolutely not. There was no way he would ever delete John Watson from his mind.

But it was tempting to forget all about these feelings. Everything that John had ever said or did was saved in his Palace, and whenever he was reminded of one moment, all the others tried to call his attention. It was exhausting to hold them all back.

The little boy brought him back to reality. "He's in there," he said, pointing to a door. They were on the second floor; Sherlock had walked right past it on the way up.

"Thanks," he managed after clearing his throat. "Wh-what was your name?"

"Winston," the boy said quietly. "Um...I heard the adults talking earlier. About what happened. Did someone get hurt?" Sherlock nodded, hoping for some pertinent information. "I'm sorry. But at least he'll get better." Then, smiling, he turned and scurried away, leaving the consulting detective completely flummoxed. Children. So delusional and optimistic. John was never coming back, and he was going to have to accept that.

Why on earth had he ever gotten attached to that man?

Why had he ever left his side?

Shaking himself, Sherlock slammed the gates of his Palace and focused.

It was time to meet Charles Stafford.

The door was locked, but he had a skeleton key.

Wish he had one of those whenever John locked his door. That little man had such a big temper sometimes...

With a frustrated growl, he shoved those thoughts back and unlocked the door.

Charles stood up from the bed, but froze the second he saw Sherlock.

"Oh, God," he breathed. His hands started trembling. "It's you."