Hi. I know right, it's been a while. I'm really, really sorry… I know I bang on about this all the time, but it truly has been a very hectic time at school recently. After 20th June, I will have no excuse not to update regularly. Seriously, if you even read this you're a star because I don't deserve any readers.

As some sort of way of atoning, I'm uploading two slightly longer chapters. I hope this makes up for my absence in some way! Oh God, I feel just awful… Ugh… I just hope you guys can forgive me! Regarding reviews, they've kind of piled up on me, but I'm gonna do my best to get through them all and reply! I've got about 1100 emails to get through over the next couple of days, which is going to be fun!

Oh, and also, congratulations to spocks-emoticons for being the 300th reviewer! 300 REVIEWS? Thanks so much!

On the table were the most delicious cherries, and Gerda was told that she might eat as many as she liked. While she was eating, the old woman combed her hair with a golden comb, and her hair curled fair and shining round her little face that was just like a rose.

"I've often thought I would fancy a nice little girl around, just like you," said the old woman. "We shall get on very well together, you shall see." And she combed away at Gerda's hair, and as she combed, the little girl was forgetting more and more her playmate Kay.

When morning came she went out again to play among the flowers in the radiant sunshine, and so many days were spent. Before long she knew every separate flower, and yet, although there were so many, she felt that one was missing- only she could not think which. Then one day, as she was sitting indoors, her eyes turned to the painted flowers in the old woman's sunhat; the loveliest of all was a rose.

December 17th

10:00pm

Record after record after record, spinning around in Sherlock's brain. How people had the time to fill their heads with these things was beyond him. It was all so unnecessary. John, on the other hand, was in a state of perpetual delight; the man kept shrieking hysterically every couple of moments at the sight of a new album. He had given John his most withering of looks when he saw the man clutching a Stevie Wonder- whoever that was- record to his chest, but he had to admit, the wide smile on the other man's face was hard to ignore.

Hours had passed without a hint of a lead. More and more songs vexed him with their lyrics, so open to interpretation that really they could apply to anything. The only reason Sherlock continued with the wretched task was because he was waiting for Lestrade's answer. And it did make John so very happy.

Darren had been helpful, too, once he'd seen John's enthusiasm. He'd helped organise the records for them, and even popped out to get them a Chinese before he'd left.

"Here you go," he said, handing them the bag. "Just don't leave too much of a mess, OK? Otherwise my boss will go spare, even if we are going bust."

"Of course," said John. "Thanks for your help."

Darren walked towards the door. "Er, I have to lock up. I can trust you guys with the key, right?"

"No," said Sherlock. "But you have no other choice, so…"

Darren looked less that reassured. "OK…"

"Oh, and Darren?"

"Yes?"

"Did you and Purity ever go to a fair?"

He frowned at the question. "Er, yes. Once. Why?"

"She has a picture of you both there by her bed."

His eyebrows raised a fraction. "Why did you ask if you already knew the answer?"

"Oh, no reason. Just think about it."

Darren blushed, mumbled a quick "goodbye" and shut the door. John laughed. "I can't tell whether that was cruel or kind, Sherlock."

He gave John a wry smile. "But the very fact that the ambiguity is there should mean something, surely?"

"Yes. I do believe I've humanised you, at least to a certain extent."

Sherlock smiled at John's amused expression but said darkly, "And was that cruel or kind of you?"

John thought for a moment. "Sherlock? There's something that's been confusing me."

"Yes?"

"Well," John began, "you know the rhyme? I thought it was 'colly birds', not all 'calling birds'. Shouldn't we just be looking for songs with Blackbird in the title?"

"There are different translations. Many people sing 'calling birds', and Moriarty may be one of them. We cannot afford to miss a trick. Besides, we're only doing this until Lestrade collects more data for me to analyse, or until we find a potential link. I wish I had more to go on…"

"About Lestrade," John paused in his search, "do you- I mean, I know he's very skilled, but do you think he should be involved so deeply in this case?"

Sherlock sighed. "No. He's compromised; he's very deeply involved with the case. Moriarty's done that deliberately, so that if he gets to court he can question Lestrade's motives. Well, frankly, I expected Lestrade to stay on; he's stubborn and won't give up easily. And-" Sherlock hesitated, and then stopped himself.

"What?"

"He believes in the law, I know that much. He wouldn't break it unless he had to- bend it a little, perhaps, but only to help his purpose. But when other people break the law, break it badly, he can get very personal. Especially when it involves children…"

John bit his lip, frozen in thought. "Mycroft's security should help, but I don't know…"

"There's nothing we can do, John."

They continued to search through the piles for a while, a companionable silence falling between them, broken occasionally by John's quiet humming. Sherlock only spoke when he remembered a very troubling fact.

"John?"

"Yes?"

"I thought your date with Sarah was this evening."

John paused, chewing the corner of his lip. "I cancelled it."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"I wanted to help."

He was touched by the gesture. "I would have been fine."

"No you wouldn't have. You have no idea about music."

Sherlock chuckled. "I suppose I don't."

John returned to his pile, still frowning. "Still, I can think of worse ways to spend an evening."

Sherlock snorted. "Hardly. I hate that I have to memorize this rubbish. And that I have to Google the lyrics to everything- my internet bill will be extortionate this month."

"Bills have never been too important to you before," John chuckled. "And I like this stuff. It's great. And Darren says he might be able to sell me the shop's record player on the cheap after they close…"

Sherlock stooped to look at the plastic bag by the door. "Roxy Music, David Bowie… Glam rock was a little early for you, surely?"

John looked surprised. "You're surprisingly knowledgeable about that, aren't you?"

"It's remarkable what you can learn through Wikipedia, though it's not helpful for anything specific. I was looking through some Culture Club stuff and it mentioned it in an article."

"There's Culture Club? Where?"

John's eagerness would have been irritating coming from anyone else. Sherlock sighed, exasperated. "Over there."

He crouched to search. "But yeah, I was a huge glam rocker in my youth. For one summer I dyed my hair red and started wearing eyeliner."

Sherlock laughed at the image. "I bet you got some stick for that."

"It was ill advised, yes. I attempted to create a revival of the movement in my peer group, but the rest of the kids all seemed to be into Michael Jackson and Madonna. Eventually I got into Siouxsie and the Banshees and started hanging out with the Goth kids instead."

"I can't imagine you with hair any other colour than- what is your hair? Brown? Blonde? Grey?"

"Thanks for that last one," John grumbled. "Brown, I think, I've never really been able to tell. But brown always looked so dull- I really wanted that androgynous look, Bowie looked so good with it and I assumed I could too. I don't really have the facial structure for androgyny." He looked at Sherlock contemplatively for a moment. "You do."

He shivered involuntarily. "I won't be dyeing my hair any time soon."

"You don't have to. Yours is an interesting brown. Mine is… dull."

"It's not dull. It's far from dull."
There was a moment's silence.

"Bathroom," John said quickly, and walked swiftly up the stairs. Sherlock gripped the wooden shelves a little tighter than he had intended to, lost in thought. They were skirting around something, he knew that John realised that. Could he have known what Sherlock had witnessed? No, impossible. He had been sound asleep; nothing could have distracted him from that dream. The very thought of that fact made Sherlock feel boiling in his thin clothes.

He picked up some of the empty Chinese boxes, carefully placing them in the bin next to where John was working. Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock caught a faintly blue glow coming from John's phone, which he had put down on the shelf next to him. He caught a glimpse of the message on the screen.

I just don't know what to do about him, Harry.

Sherlock stiffened slightly, knowing only too well who the "him" was. He couldn't look, could he? It would be wrong… But then again, his moral compass didn't exactly point due north.

Gingerly, he plucked the phone from the shelf, his finger hovering over the scroll button. Closing his eyes and taking a breath, he went back to the beginning of the conversation.

It happened again.

I told you it would.

Well thanks for rubbing that in.

My pleasure. Does he know?

Lord, I hope not. But then again, he probably deduced it from the way I made my tea this morning or something ridiculously impossible.

Well, if he does know then he probably doesn't want to bring it up.

You think so?

John, if I didn't know better I'd think you wanted him to know. You do, don't you?

I don't know. It's all so confusing.

Do you like him?

Of course I like him. He's my best friend.

You know exactly what I meant, John.

I just don't know what to do about him, Harry.

That was not a yes. But it was most emphatically not a no, either. Sherlock's heart hammered wildly in his chest. He attempted to remain calm, but he wasn't quite sure how to.

Deduction 1: John talked to his sister a lot. This was the last message of 200 or so, and seeing as this was a relatively new phone (Sherlock bought it him after dropping his last one in the Thames) these had occurred in a very small space of time.

Deduction 2: The messages began from a month and a half ago, and Sherlock had detected a distinct change of John's mood at that time. It would indicate that they were talking again, after a considerable breakthrough with Harry's alcoholism.

Deduction 3: John therefore trusted his sister, and valued her opinion enough to ask her for help in a sexual crisis.

Deduction 4: John thought that Sherlock did not reciprocate his feelings.

Deduction 5: John said Sherlock was his best friend.

Deduction 6: John might be in love with him.

Now that - that made his head spin.

He realised suddenly that John was coming downstairs, recognising the heavy, measured footsteps. Sherlock placed the phone hurriedly back on the side, his fingers fumbling over the plastic. But before he could catch it, the wretched thing slipped from his grasp and dropped to the floor.

"Sherlock?"came a voice from behind him. "Everything alright?"

Shit. He scrabbled on the floor, trying to find it. It seemed to have lodged itself under a radiator cover.

"Sherlock, what on earth are you doing?"

He rose to his feet, his face a mask of calm as he grabbed a nearby piece of paper. "I was looking for… this."

John looked at the paper. "A receipt for two light bulbs and some screws?"

"Yeeees…" he trailed off. "It may just be significant."

John rolled his eyes. "I don't want to know. I'll just play along as usual and act amazed when you link this hardware shop to Moriarty somehow."

He smirked. "You don't pretend to be impressed, you are. That's why I keep you around, to appeal to my massive ego."

"Aha, hilarious. Now get on with your work."

Sherlock walked across to the bin, mind still scattered and searching. He screwed up the paper in the palm of his hand and was about to throw it down, when he noticed something.

"John? Come look at this."

He pulled the letter out of the bin. A final notice. Torn, had clearly been shoved down the back of a… shelf? Perhaps. It had definitely snagged on a nail, judging by the length and width of the tear. There was a small coffee stain in upper right hand corner. The colour of stain indicated too much milk for anyone sane. It had either been made by someone who liked their tea pathetically weak or someone who hadn't been paying attention. The latter seemed more likely- nervous, stressed, overworked and tired; still trying to think of a way to escape financial ruin; hands shaking from the possibility of bankruptcy. It was most likely made at some time just after the post was received, with no customers in that day. That wasn't surprising. But that was not the most interesting detail- oh no. What was interesting was seeing the name on the top of the paper.

"What is it?"

"This shop, the owners had taken out a loan in order to keep it afloat."

"Yes, and?"
"The bank they took it out from was Shad Sanderson."

John's expression was caught between happiness at having a lead and unease. "Sebastian's bank?"

"The very same."

He frowned. "But why him? He doesn't seem to fit the pattern at all."

"Maybe we're not looking in the right way." Sherlock paused and thought for a few seconds longer. "If there was a link to someone I knew, I very much doubt that Moriarty would pass the chance up. That's how he works; he wants to make it personal."

John leant back against the wall and crossed his arms. "How can you know that?"

Sherlock paused again. "Because we're more alike than I care to admit."

December 18th

1:00am

"What the bloody hell is going on, Holmes?"

Sherlock, as was customary when dealing with people like Sebastian, gave him a look of contempt and walked straight into the flat. "Come on, John."

John too ignored the protests of the banker, and simply made himself comfortable in one of the armchairs. Sebastian's large flat was all open plan, except for a seemingly separate bedroom. Sherlock began to busy himself with the kitchen cupboards. "Got any Darjeeling, Sebastian?"

Sebastian looked as though he might hit him. "It's one in the damn morning!"

"Well observed," he replied dryly, taking out mugs.

"Holmes, get out of my flat. I'm calling the police!" He took out his phone and dialed 999.

Sherlock looked back at him, feigning offence. "That's not very polite. Now you're not getting any tea."

John gave Sherlock a concerned look. "I'm not going to get arrested, am I?"

He shook his head. "It's unlikely. Lestrade will stop that."

Sebastian seemed to have gotten through to someone. "Hello? There's a man- someone I went to Cambridge with-"

"He does love to drop Cambridge into sentences," Sherlock murmured to John, making him smirk. "It makes him feel clever and important."

"They won't get out of my home!"

"Your second home, to be precise," Sherlock said loudly. "You've got that big old house in the country where your wife lives, am I right?"

Sebastian became almost frantic. "They won't leave! Their names? Sherlock Holmes and his colleague, Dr John Watson."

"Friend," John said softly to himself. "His friend."

Sherlock couldn't dwell on quite how touching this was for long however, as Sebastian gave them his address and hung up. "You see!" he crowed triumphantly. "You'll never work with the police again!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I've been arrested many times before, Sebastian, and strangely, no one's ever pressed charges. That's one of the advantages of having a brother who can make people disappear." He grinned when Sebastian's expression of delight faltered. "You never met Mycroft, did you? Well, I dare say you will soon…"

"As entertaining as this is," John said, bemused, "we do have a job to do, Sherlock."

"Yes, yes we do."

Sebastian let out a whimper.

1:45am

"I've half a mind to arrest you."

Sherlock frowned when Lestrade arrived. He was ruining their fun. "But Greg…"

Lestrade sat down on the sofa next to a very nervous looking Sebastian, turning to him to speak. "So, I'm working late, about to go home, when Donovan walks into my office and tells me that someone's reported that 'that wanker Holmes' had broken into their flat."

"At least she's calling me Holmes now."

"Oh no. She was quoting the operator. Apparently they've had dealings with you before. You're quite famous down there."

John handed Lestrade a coffee, which he accepted gratefully. Sherlock paced from one end of the room to the other. "Childish."

"Yes, but true." Lestrade took a sip of his drink. "Now. I'm going to finish my coffee, and you three are going to tell me what you know. And once I'm done, we're going to leave Mr. Wilkes in peace-" Sebastian breathed a sigh of relief. "-until tomorrow morning, when we will visit him at his office. Understood?"

Both Sherlock and Sebastian looked as though they were going to protest, but Lestrade was not about to budge on this.

"Spoilsport."

10:00am

They were back in Sebastian's office, nearly 9 months after they'd last visited. Little had changed, and there were the same faces flitting around the place urgently. Sherlock barely noticed them, or the strange looks he received from people who recognized him.

"I've told you, I don't deal with small loans." Sebastian was in a particularly foul mood. "Everything I cover is on a large scale."

"Everything's linked. I don't believe there's any way that you're not involved."

Sebastian slammed his hand down on his desk. "I am not a criminal!"

There was a brief moment of silence, before John spoke. "Sherlock wasn't suggesting that you were. As we've previously mentioned, Moriarty's targeting seemingly unconnected individuals, people who are victims. Perhaps you should listen to what we're saying to you, Mr. Wilkes. Or is that a guilty conscience speaking?"

"John," said Lestrade, his voice a low warning not to make anything else of it. Sherlock shouldn't have enjoyed John's attack on Sebastian quite so much. "We need to take a look through your files."

Sebastian called downstairs for an assistant to take care of their needs. When he hung up the phone, he plastered a painfully fake smile on his face. "Someone will escort you to where you need to go. May I trust that this will all be quickly resolved?"

"You'd best hope so. Otherwise it could be very dangerous for you." There was little or no sympathy in Lestrade's tone.

Sebastian was left speechless by his words, but was saved from embarrassment by the arrival of a blonde haired assistant. "I'm to take these gentlemen to the records?"

"Yes," he replied urgently. "Do so."

"That wasn't very diplomatic of you," Sherlock murmured, as they walked back towards the lifts with the young woman.

"I've dealt with plenty of blokes like him, and I've never liked any of them. They think going to Cambridge means that they have God given superiority."

"I went to Cambridge ."

"Exactly. You've always acted superior. Since when have I liked you?"

Sherlock glared at them both following Lestrade's quip and John's sniggers. "Perhaps I cannot compare to your dear friend Mycroft."

Lestrade blushed. "Don't be absurd."

He ignored him with a smirk. "It's all coming together, I think."

They walked into the lift together, the doors shutting gently behind them. "So do you know what you're looking for?" John asked.

"Almost. I've been racking my brain for some form of illumination, something about Sebastian that Moriarty could use."

"And? Have you found anything?"

"In the last conversation we had, he discussed sin with me. About how my pride was deadly. He listed the sins but missed out greed. I assumed it was a mistake at the time, but now… It feels relevant. Like it was a clue. Greed is what drives men like Sebastian. They want it all. And they'll hurt others to protect that. We should be looking for a victim of Sebastian's greed."

"Well, that narrows the scope," John drawled. "Only half the country's been hurt by bankers."

The doors opened to a narrow corridor, which they began to walk along. Lestrade ran a hand through his hair, exasperated. "How on earth are we going to find out who it is?"

"Simple enough, once you know how." Sherlock opened a door at the end of the corridor, into a room full of filing cabinets. "In this economic climate- and whatever John may have you believe in that damn blog of his, I am aware of the relevant world affairs- people are victimized by the greed of others. We've seen it- people are being made redundant, losing their homes, etc. Now, I need to find out about any recent redundancies in his office."

The young woman who had shown them down here tapped on the door. "Can I help at all?"

He looked up at her. "You wish to help?"

"If I can." Her voice was low and flirtatious. She was giving him the kind of look he occasionally received; a more accomplished version of Molly's stammering attempts at seduction. It was most unwelcome.

"Then bring us coffee. Black, two sugars."

She looked a little put out at that, but didn't argue. John gave a small cough, as if to make her leave.

Sherlock clapped his hands together. "Right. Let's get to work."

"Oh!" cried Gerda. "Why have I never seen any roses in the garden?" And she ran in and out of the flower-beds, searching and searching, but not a rose was to be found. At last she sat down and cried; but her warm tears fell just where a rose tree had sunk down. At once the tree sprang up, as full of fresh flowers as when it disappeared. Gerda put her arms around it, and kissed the roses, and thought about those in the roof garden of her home- and then she remembered Kay.

Yeah, I got Sebastian's last name wrong in an earlier chapter, but it's just reverted back to Wilkes now… You didn't see ANYTHING…