I sat perched on a wooden stool in the kitchen, letting my mind wander carelessly.

'I wonder how many family members I have. Do I only have Charlotte? No, no. In that dream I had, that guy, whatever his name was, said something about me having a stepbrother. Stepbrother… so then what happened to my Mother? Or is it the other way around? Do I have a stepfather instead of a stepmother? Is Charlotte my biological sister or my stepsister? Was I ever married? Am I married now? Oh my goodness, what if the day I was attacked was the day before I was set to be married, and my Fiancé is at his wits end and has no idea of how to find me?

…

Alright, maybe that is a little extreme, but still, there are so many questions that I want answered… I wonder what Watson's doing. It must be nice having someone to go home to every night. I would like to meet this Mary person. He seems to really love her. Where is Holmes? I haven't seen much of him all day. He's probably working on that investigation with Watson… what happened to the Russian man's partner? I wonder if he told them about what was found… the bodies and the… I have to stop thinking about that. Jesus Christ, I hate this. I've never felt so terrible before in my entire life. Well maybe I have, but I can't even remember that far which only adds to the frustration that I feel. I can't think like that, though. I have to look at the positive. I'm healthy and alive, which is much more than I can say for some other people… right?

I picked up my head from the table as I felt something soft push against my elbow. I sat completely upright and pulled the tiny ball of fuss into my palms. "I'm sorry Patches, I didn't mean to ignore you. What it is? Do you want some milk?" I cooed. I smiled as it responded with an enthusiastic 'meow.'

~.~.~.~

"You're back… finally," Watson greeted without looking up from his work as Holmes returned to his home on Baker Street.

"Didn't know you were waiting for me, darling," Holmes joked.

"Very funny. Where were you?"

"Where's Rosemary?"

"She's over there on the chaise. I was finally able to get her to rest."

"You put her to sleep in the middle of the day?" Holmes asked. His eyes darted on the floor next to Rose, where he could see something small walking underneath her.

"Why is there a cat in my room?" he asked before Watson could answer his first question.

"She brought it back with her after she went for a walk."

"And you let her bring it in here?"

"You're lucky she's asleep. She'd be arguing with you by now just for calling him 'it.' I wasn't going to tell her no, and if you had seen her face, you wouldn't have said so either."

"Why? What's wrong with her?"

"Still the incident at Daniel's estate, I'm afraid. It seems to have taken a bigger toll on her than I had expected. I surely thought she would bounce back in a day or so. Physically, her back almost healed, and her ankle is already useable again. Mentally and emotionally, it's going to take a while. The first two nights, she said she suffered from horrible nightmares. So now she's just not sleeping at all. It's been almost two weeks, and she has only gotten about thirty hours of sleep. I managed to slip some hypnotics into her drink. She should be out for a while."

~.~.~.~

I walked over to the icebox and pulled out the bottle of milk. Grabbing a tiny dish, I poured some inside and placed it on the table for the kitten. I then walked to the oven and opened the door, checking on the bread that I had baking. Putting on the oven gloves, I pulled out the dish a bit to see if it was ready. After sticking the knife in the middle and seeing that it was well cooked, I pulled the bread out and placed it on the tabletop.

"Doesn't that smell good, Patches?" I smiled as I looked over my handiwork. I grabbed two other trays that were sitting on the counter and placed them in the oven. After closing the door, I took my seat back at the stool. Folding my arms on the table, I rested my head in the middle and watched as Patches drank his milk. I could feel my eyes slowly closing, giving in to the rest that my body desperately needed. I heard Patches 'meow,' and I quickly picked my head up from the table.

'Alright, what's going to keep me awake? A book, maybe?' I asked myself as I rubbed my eyes. My thoughts, however, were interrupted as I heard someone come in through the door. I turned in my seat to face the entrance of the kitchen. Staring at the door, I watched as Sherlock passed by the door. Seeing as how it was someone I knew, I turned back around in my seat and placed my chin in my palms. 'A book will probably just make me more tired, right?'

"Huh. It seems as though I have not returned to Baker Street, but instead I have stumbled upon an Italian bakery," I heard Holmes say as he entered the kitchen.

I turned around to face him and crossed my arms over my chest. "You know, be happy that I'm making these, alright? A lot of hard work and care went into making these things and I don't appreciate-"

"Whoa. Easy, alright? It was just a joke. I didn't mean to upset you or anything," he stated, holding his hands up in defense.

I watched him carefully before turning back around. "I'm sorry. It's just… nothing. Forget it. I apologize."

I heard him grunt in understanding. He slowly entered the kitchen and took the seat across from me. He took his hat off his head and placed it on the table next to Patches.

"So… how do you know these recipes? I'm quite certain that Mrs. Hudson has never made these before," he said as he looked around the room at the many dishes and plates that were filled with various baked goods.

"I , uh… I just remembered them today, actually. About five hours ago to be exact. I was afraid that I was going to forget them, so I just started mixing up all the batters and dough. Now I have to bake them all or else they're going to spoil."

"I see. So, these are things that you used to do before…"

"I'm not really sure. They most likely are."

"Ah. Mind if I try one?"

"You can try one of everything if you like. There'll still be plenty left over," I said. He nodded, then stood up and walked towards all the baked goods.

"Why aren't you asleep?"

"Why aren't you?" I retorted.

"I…" he began, grabbing one of the Pignoli cookies, "was out. Needed a bit of mind exercise."

"So where were you?"

"Boxing," he mumbled as he ate the cookie.

"You box?" I asked incredulously.

"Yes. Why is that such a surprise to you?" he asked defensively as he turned around to face me.

"I'm not surprised. You… just don't look like the type who would box, is all," I replied, petting Patches' head.

"Boxing is very stimulating for the mind. Just as much as it is for the body. By watching your opponent's movements and attacks, it works the mind and keeps the brain working and my mind on track."

"That's an interesting perspective. It's certainly one I've never heard before."

"I would think so. Many people are under the belief that boxing is a battle that is based solely on size and strength when it so happens to be based on the complete opposite: the mind."

"That may be true, but you still need some sort of muscles on your body. Not a lot, but you do need some meat on your bones."

"I disagree."

"I thought you would. Look at it this way… a stick and a rock are fighting, and even though the stick is very thin and can move around easily, the rock is stronger and heavier. All the rock has to do is sit on the stick and it'll break in half."

"That's not very rational. A rock and a twig are unable to move on their own, let alone fight each other-"

"Alright. Clearly, I didn't mean that literally. I know that a twig and a rock can't move," I replied, annoyed.

"Then why make up something so foolish in the first place? I mean-"

"So you were out boxing all day?" I interrupted him quickly, agitated my his smug demeanor.

"No, of course not."

"Then where were you? I haven't seen you all day today."

~.~.~.~

"You still haven't answered my question. Where were you?"

Holmes glanced at Rosemary, who was facing their direction. "Are you sure she's out cold?"

"Yes. Why? What's wrong?" Watson asked.

Holmes took a seat next to Watson on one of the armchair that was close by. "Today, I had a meeting with an anonymous person who said they needed my help finding someone who has been missing for a while. When I asked him for details on the person," he paused to reach into his inside coat pocket and pulled out a lavender leather bound book, "he gave me this," he finished, handing the book to Watson.

Watson furrowed his brow as he open the book, revealing the pictures that were inside. Upon careful examination, his eyes went wide as he realized who it was that were in the pictures.

"Rosemary?" he said in a hushed tone.

"Precisely."

"Who was it that gave these to you?"

"A man named James Sinclair. He said that he has known Rosemary since they were little. He's in that picture right there," Holmes said, pointing to the picture that contained both Rose and James.

"She looks happy in these. Much happier than I've ever seen her since she's been here."

"He said that he's been putting news about her disappearance in London ever since she went missing, and someone has paid off all the publishers so that her name can be kept out of the papers. Rose's father is the only one who knows of our meeting. He says that he thinks her stepmother is trying to do it so that she can gain Rose's father's inheritance, but that seems quite unlikely."

"Because if that was the case, Rose's father would have been dead already. She wouldn't have waited this long."

"Exactly. I think I underestimate you Watson. You have the workings of a great detective. Not as good as me of course."

"So you congratulate my intellect by insulting me at the same time? I'm so flattered."

"No problem at all old chap. Anyway, he gave me her journal, so maybe I could find some information from there."

"I don't understand. Why go through so much just to eliminate one woman?"

"That is what I hope to figure out. Maybe her last entries will reveal something important."

"I see. He said that they're childhood friends?"

"So he says. I'm not exactly sure if he could be trusted just yet."

"So you didn't tell him that she was with us?"

"No."

"You're going to tell her though, aren't you?"

"Of course not. Why would I do that?" Holmes asked incredulously.

"Oh, I don't know. Maybe because it involves her? And it will do some good for her to know that people actually care about her and are actually making an effort to find her? I mean, what do you hope to accomplish by keeping this from her?"

"Keep her protected and safe. Do my job. Find the culprit, then let her go back to the treasured life that she once lived. She'll find out when the time is right."

"She's going to find out on her own accord, and she's going to lash out at you for not telling her sooner. I'll have the satisfaction of saying 'I told you so' when it all blows up in your face."

"That won't happen because she won't find out."

~.~.~.~

"I had some business to attend to with Lestrade."

"Oh. About the case?"

"Yes."

I nodded my head, hoping that he wouldn't elaborate on the case too much. That was the very last thing I wanted to think about.

"Why aren't you asleep? People don't normally bake at a quarter to three in the night."

"I'm not tired. I had a really long nap today, and I won't be able to go back to sleep."

"Well have you tried?"

I swallowed and rubbed my eyes. "No… and I don't really want to," I said, muttering the last part quietly to myself.

"Why is that, Miss McClaire?"

"Because… I have to finish baking these first."

"I'm sure if you placed the mixtures into the icebox, they'll last till tomorrow."

I shrugged my shoulders. He was right. Obviously, I could have stored everything away and finish baking it all tomorrow, but I was afraid to shut my eyes. Because every time I did, those nightmares would come back. I didn't want to return to that place, and if I don't go to sleep, then I won't have to.

"Would you like something to drink?"

~.~.~.~

"I need to make sure she is getting the proper rest she needs. When I'm not here, I want you to put five drops of these in a drink and give it to her. Make sure you only put five and no more than that. I wouldn't want her to die from an accidental overdose," Watson explained as he handed Holmes the clear vial.

"Well what do I do if she doesn't drink anything? Pour it down her throat?" Holmes joked.

"Always ask if she wants anything to drink. If she says no, pour out something and just place it in front of her. She'll take a sip eventually. She'll slowly start to fall asleep within minutes, so if she isn't in her bedroom, make sure she gets to bed. Just talk to her while the hypnotics stark kicking in."

~.~.~.~

"Umm… some water, please," I replied as I watched Patches try to make his way on top of Sherlock's hat.

"I talked to Watson today…" he spoke as he grabbed two cups from behind me, "and he said that you've been able to recall a few of your memories."

"Yes. Most of them come in dreams, actually. It's like after I have the dreams, when I wake up, I remember my dreams and some of my memories come back while I'm awake. It only happens when I rest, though. Thank you," I said as he handed me my cup. I took a long gulp as he returned to his seat.

"Well, what have you remembered?"

"Umm… most of them are about people that I don't know too well, but I haven't had too many about my family, even though I really want to."

"Why is that?"

"Because I want to know if my Mother is alive. I hope she is, but I feel like she's not."

"Why do you say that?"

"Because so far, I've seen my dad, and I have a little step sister and a step brother, and a puppy. I haven't seen my Mom, or any mother figure for that matter. And then there was one dream where I walked into a room, and there was a large frame on the wall… and there was a painting of a woman… and she looks like me a bit. I think so, at least."

"Maybe it's… someone else."

"Or maybe my mom is dead," I smiled wryly. I heard him make a little noise, and I looked up to see him looking down into his cup. "I'm sorry. It's amazing how I can change the atmosphere in the room so quickly. A pessimist, that's what I'm being. I went from baking to boxing to death in a split second…" I sighed, feeling weak and worn. I placed my arms on the table, resting my head against it and closing my eyes.

"If that is the case…" Holmes started, causing me to look back at him, "you shouldn't worry too much. Death is a natural part of life. You mustn't dwell on the pain that you feel, but instead give thanks for the fact that you have other people in your life who care for you and love you… your family and friends."

"Are your parents alive? Do you have any brothers or sisters?" I asked as I took another sip of water.

"A brother. Mycroft is his name. He's a functionary."

"Older or younger?"

"He's my elder by seven years."

"Does that mean he's smarter than you?" I joked.

"Yes, his intellect surpasses my own quite a bit. He could have made a great detective. But he lacks the drive and determination I have, which makes it a complete waste. He would rather spend his days lounging around gentleman's clubs with the rest of London's ignorant, narcissist male population."

"But… you're a bit of a narcissist too," I replied groggily.

"How do you figure?"

"I mean… you're a special case. Other people are considered narcissist because they're rich and have a higher status than others. They're conceited and very vain. You… on the other hand," I paused to let out a yawn, "you're really smart. Smarter than most, and you assert your smartness when you need to, which is most of the time. And in the process, you make people feel inferior to your intellectual prowess."

I heard him chuckle, but I didn't have the energy to look back up.

~.~.~.~

"Well, Miss McClaire, all I can say to that is… your statement is quite accurate."

He waited for her to respond, but she said nothing in return. He looked back to her and found her fast asleep on the table.

"Never underestimate the great John Watson," he mumbled as he stood up. He took the two trays out of the oven and placed them next to the rest of the baked goods and he placed everything else in the icebox.

"Now there's just the task of getting you upstairs," he said as he crossed his arms, leaning against the countertop. He watched as her cat tried nudging her awake, but was unsuccessful. Letting out a quick sigh, he walked over to her and carefully lifted her off the stool, securing her in his arms before turning towards the stairs.

He stopped when he heard her cat meow. Turning back around, he watched as it lingered at the corner of the table, seemingly scared to hop off. Letting out a sigh, he walked back over and lowered his arms. He watched as it hopped on his arm then crawl into Rosemary's lap.

"You're just lucky she likes you," he said as he proceeded towards the staircase. He walked slowly and carefully, making sure not to make any sudden movements or noises that would cause her to wake up.

When he got to her bedroom, he waited for the cat to jump off her lap before quickly placing her on her bed. He pulled off her socks as well as the sweater she had over her shirt. He carefully positioned her upright and covered her with her blanket and comforter. Before laying her head on the pillow, he pulled out the few pins that were in her hair, letting her black tresses fall freely around her shoulders.

He placed her head on the pillow, watching as her white kitten tried to place himself securely under her arms. He was watching the cat, but his attention was mostly focused on her. He couldn't help but think about how complex she was. She's smart, that was certain. She's brash, impulsive, and irritating, to say the least. She selfless as well, he could already tell that much. And she was an immensely determined person. She's willing to starve herself of sleep in order to block away the terrifying memories she holds. That is one thing that he regrets happening to her. He wished that she didn't have to see what she saw that day. It was too much for her to take in all at once. She's not used to such things, and she shouldn't have had to experience any of that. She's too good.

Sherlock shook himself from his thoughts and made his way out of her room. "Pleasant dreams," he muttered before closing her bedroom door.

He began making his way towards his bedroom door when he heard footsteps running up the stairs. He turned around and saw the Constable panting heavily as he headed towards him.

"What's wrong now, Clarkey?" he asked.

"Sorry to disturb you at this hour, Mister Holmes, but Inspector Lestrade has asked for your assistance at once."

"Why? What's happened."

"We got a call in from Dagenham. Edgar Daniels is dead."

AN: Damn! I was working overtime to get this chapter out. Still haven't gotten to fixing my laptop, so had to do this on my PC. Anywho, thanks for the reviews and the messages, because despite what some of you may think, your words mean a lot and they are my inspiration to keeping this story alive.

I was kinda iffy about this one, but it grew on me and I liked how it turned out. Tell me what you think about it.

That's it for today. This is me… signing off at… 2:30 AM.

PoisonLipz