A/N: So here's the next chapter! Hope you guys enjoy it! Thanks for all the lovely reviews, favourites and new follows!

Disclaimer: I don't own BBC Sherlock.

Sherlock ordered a chicken pie and two cups of coffee, choosing a seat outside the café where he could have a proper view of the block of flats opposite. He was halfway through his coffee when he felt a small poke on his left shoulder.

"Spare change, mister?" a sweet voice asked softly.

"None," he replied. "But I have a chicken pie if you want one."

The girl's eyes brightened considerably and her face lit up. She was just about to accept his offer when a sullen-looking waiter came out of the café.

"No street kids here! Beg somewhere else," he snapped, towering over the girl. She shrank back slightly, her dark eyes darting toward Sherlock.

"She's with me," Sherlock said curtly, fixing the idiot with a cold glare. The waiter glared back before shuffling into the café again, muttering something that sounded like "bastard" under his breath. If Sherlock was allowed to be his old self, he would've publicly deduced the waiter till he shook in his shoes. It was obvious that he was a porn addict with a kink for ropes. Instead, he forced himself to calm down.

"Thank you!" the child smiled. She sat down beside him before tucking heartily into the pie. He noted two more marks on her arms compared to yesterday. She took a few bites and eyed the other cup of coffee hungrily.

"Tell me what you observed yesterday," Sherlock said. "Then you can have the coffee."

The girl launched into describing everyone she saw going into and leaving the block of flats with unnerving enthusiasm.

Her name was Annie (about nine years old – she refused to tell him her age; ridiculous, as all children were), and Sherlock had met her on his second day in Dublin. She had continually pestered him for some spare change, and he'd been about to deduce something cruel to stop her when he realised that she was living in the alley right beside the block of flats he needed to keep watch on. It was the perfect location for a stake-out, and he had since employed her help, trading food for information.

He had asked about the marks on her arms during the third day of their acquaintance, briskly deducing that it was her father. It turned out to be her perpetually drunk mother – it was the reason she preferred staying out on the streets and sleeping outdoors rather than at home. It had been three weeks since then.

She finished her narrative happily (unfortunately nothing note-worthy) and dived back into devouring her pie, crumbs all over her tiny mouth. Sherlock cringed inwardly but didn't look away – he was never very fond of children (well, people in general), but this one was at least tolerable despite her many faults. He found that she had above-average intelligence and a rather admirable memory for someone so young. It helped that she was a spitting image of how he had pictured Molly as a child. Not that he'd pictured her often, but after spending more time with her, he found himself speculating about her childhood out of pure curiosity. He pushed the cup of coffee towards Annie and she muttered a thanks.

"Why won't you tell me your name?" she asked, wiping her lips with the back of her hands. He frowned disapprovingly, gesturing to some napkins at the side of the table.

"I suggest you mind your own business."

She giggled, "You're so rude sometimes."

He rolled his eyes, drawing another giggle from her. He had no idea why she needed to laugh at everything. It was unsettling, how happy she seemed despite her living conditions. She reminded him of some of the people from his homeless network back in London. They were always the ones with the brightest smiles. The thought of bright smiles brought his mind back to Molly.

"If you're done, you may leave. I need to concentrate," he said, his voice sharper than he'd intended.

"Oh." Her face fell and she absently rubbed her arms. Sherlock dug into his pockets.

"Here," he said, his voice softening slightly. "You push this, and it'll open up."

Annie frowned, but took the object from him anyway. She held it up to inspect it. "Most people don't give children weapons."

"I'm not most people."

"It's a crime to hurt someone with an army-knife."

"It's not a crime if it's administered in self-defence," he countered.

Annie gave this some thought. "I like you," she smiled, slipping her small hand in his. He jerked back, pulling his hand away. Instead of looking upset, Annie merely giggled and poked him in his stomach, like she was expecting this.

"Leave now," he ordered, getting irritated. "I need to work."

Annie chuckled, "Alright, grumpy pants." She gave him another poke before running off into the streets, slipping the knife into her pockets.

It wasn't after three cups of coffee later that he finally spotted the man he was supposed to find. Adam Ahern stepped out of a dark blue sedan, casting surreptitious glances around before making his way into the building.

A triumphant smile crept onto Sherlock's face. Patience was indeed a virtue then. He'd been so close to calling Mycroft a few times to snap at him, frustrated that he'd sent him on an assignment that seemed useless. But here was the man – a supposed trusted acquaintance of Moran who specialised in chemical and biological weapons for the crime syndicate. Moriarty must have supplied thousands of these weapons to terrorists during his years in charge.

Sherlock hastily gulped down the last of his bitter coffee before standing up to leave, tightening his grey scarf around his neck. It was one of the things he was thankful for – he could don clothes he usually preferred since it was mid-spring. No Belstaff of course, but at least he could still wear a coat and scarf without drawing any unwanted attention. The only annoying thing was that the cool air often dried his brown contact lenses up. He hated those things with a vengeance.

He was across the street in a flash. Making sure that his light brown moustache was still in its proper place, he entered the building. He'd gotten the inspiration from the pictures that John had sent Molly. Facial hair somehow made him look older, and he needed to add a few years to his face so that people would respect him more easily. His usual boyish features were not an advantage right now.

His heart was thudding heavily as he ascended the flight of stairs to the flat that Mycroft had described to him.

He rapped sharply on the door, taking a deep breath to soothe his nerves. If The Woman had done her job in Ukraine well, then the man would be expecting him.

The door opened slightly and a pair of light green eyes studied him suspiciously from behind the crack.

"Bromide," he recited the password Mycroft's man had discovered. He laughed inwardly at the drama of the situation – it was as if he were in a James Bond movie that John had forced him to watch once. He reminded himself to delete that awful memory later.

The door closed and he heard the rattling of a chain. It opened again and the man ushered him in, locking the door behind him.

"Evening," Ahern greeted as Sherlock took in his surroundings. The flat was greatly under-furnished. It was obvious that this was not Ahern's home, but a place for him to engage in his dirty side business. There was a study desk in the living room, a couple of armchairs, and a floor lamp. Unopened boxes lined the sides of the flat, leading into the rooms.

"Evening."

"You're the one Diane Larsson recommended?"

Sherlock nodded, sticking out his right hand. "Jeremy Baker."

"She's a very charming lady," Ahern continued, ignoring his outstretched arm. Sherlock smiled tightly, letting his hand drop.

"She is," he agreed. "I trust she knew what you liked?"

Ahern smiled. "Let's sit, shall we?" He gestured to the armchairs. Sherlock sat on the one nearer to the study table – it was hard and largely unused.

"Drink?" Ahern asked, moving over to the desk to pour a glass of whiskey for himself.

"No, thank you," Sherlock said. He disliked alcohol, and only turned to it whenever he was undergoing a large amount of stress, which was rarely.

Ahern shrugged and took a seat opposite Sherlock, taking a noisy sip of his whiskey, swirling the golden liquid in his glass as he studied him. After a pause, the ends of his lips curved upwards. It was a fake smile, trained over the years to look genuine – it took a skilled pair of eyes to detect the insincerity.

"So you're looking to work for me?"

Of course, you idiot. "Yes," Sherlock nodded. "I was beginning to think that you weren't returning from Eastern Europe."

Ahern smirked and ran his fingers through his blond hair. "I got a little…distracted. Sorry to keep you waiting."

"No trouble at all."

"Diane has told me a lot about your knowledge on chemistry, and I'm interested to see it…but you do know that there is an initiation process before you can join the network?"

Sherlock grinned, "I don't think we'll need an initiation process, Mr Ahern."

"Oh? Why is that?"

Sherlock dug into his coat and brought out a thin file that his brother had handed him. His secrets, Mycroft had said. Apparently, it had taken years for the British intelligence to gather them, and they could finally be put to use.

Ahern's eyebrows furrowed deeply as he read. He closed the file after a minute, staring hard at Sherlock. "Where did you get this information?"

"I have my sources. And I'm feeling generous today, so let me warn you that this is merely the tip of an iceberg."

He saw Ahern stiffen and felt a small surge of satisfaction.

"You're not really here to work for the syndicate, are you?" Ahern finally asked.

"No."

"Then what is it you seek?"

"Information," Sherlock replied, sitting straighter. "I need intelligence on Moran, and you're going to give it to me, or you'll find that those secrets in the file will cease being confidential."

"How do I know if I can trust you to keep them confidential?"

"You don't," Sherlock smirked, enjoying the displeasure on his face.

Ahern rubbed his face with his hands, knowing that he was beaten. He sighed and walked towards his desk, placing his drink on the table.

"Well, if that's the case," he said quietly. "I'll just have to tell you what I know then, don't I?"

"That would be a smart decision."

"Alright." Ahern turned towards him with an odd smile. It took Sherlock a split second to see the flash of something bright in the air. He tried to leap out of the armchair, but felt a short, piercing pain in his neck. Panic flooded his body.

Sherlock slumped back onto the chair as Ahern pulled a needle out of his skin. His vision was starting to get blurry, his brain cloudy. His feet could not move; he felt like a stone statue.

"It's something new that I came up with," Ahern whispered, his breath hot against Sherlock's cheek. "It'll help you relax. Great stuff." He lifted his glass towards his lips and took another sip.

"It's nice to finally meet you, Sherlock Holmes."

Ok, so shit is really about to happen. That is all I can say for now. :p

Please leave a review!