"Then she threw behind her a looking-glass which formed a hill of mirrors, and was so slippery that it was impossible for anyone to cross it."
- The Water-Nixie

After apologizing profusely to Mary over dinner, John returned to 221B Baker Street so he could sift through the folder of information provided by Lawrence Creevey.

Sherlock had already begun. He covered the old alien abduction news items with information related to the double homicide at the hotel and the mysterious American whose phone he pilfered. The wall that once hosted a series of missing person cases (attributed to spontaneous combustion) had been stripped down to make room for a handful of medical reports.

Sherlock had his violin.

"What're you on about? We have a case," John said. "Two, actually."

"One case. The other is no more than a byproduct of tedious denial."

"Sorry, what? Whose denial?"

"Creevey's. Obviously."

"Sherlock, you nearly got me killed dragging me into this case because of this poisoning. All of a sudden you're saying it's nothing? And do you really think someone like Creevey is going to all this trouble to, what, keep his job?"

"Job? Weren't you playing attention? He referred to his employer as Elizabeth, not Mrs. Pound. Likewise with her brother. First name is quite intimate for your sister's personal assistant, isn't it? Conclusion: Lawrence Creevey is more than an employee."

"Hang on, if that's the case, why didn't he just marry her?" John asked. "Then all this is solved. He becomes her legal guardian and has power over her estate."

"I imagine if she can't so much as allocate funds, then it's safe to say that she doesn't have the legal capacity to sign a marriage license."

John didn't feel like arguing. "Fine. Then he stuck around as her employee to stay close to her. What's that got to do with this?"

"What do his motives for hiring us have to do with this? Well, as you know John, when two people love each other very much, they become idiots. And an idiot does things, like hiring detectives to investigate a nonexistent poisoning, which apparently has been going on for two years but didn't warrant inquiry until yesterday. And why should that matter? Because it just so happens that yesterday incurred a double homicide involving an international political consultant and a woman yet to be identified. It's the kind of case that investigators from across the world pour into London for. But you and I, John? We ignore it. Why? Because our client finds a medical diagnosis inconvenient to his climb up the social latter."

"What is he going on about?" Mrs. Hudson asked as she brought up a tea tray. She whispered to John, "It's worse when you're not around."

"Not now, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock said.

He rushed into his bedroom with his violin.

"Ever since you moved out, he's not been quite right."

"Was he ever?" John asked.

"Good to have you again," Mrs. Hudson said. "Mind you keep it down."

She left.

John started to unpack the rest of the medical folder. Since Creevey didn't have proper access to Pound's medical files, he resorted to making copies of anything he could. It made for a hot screaming mess.

And, of course, Sherlock hadn't helped. For some reason he had pulled out every blood panel done and arranged them on the wall, chronologically.

A high pitch screeching emanated from Sherlock's room.

John was in for a rough night.

It was past midnight before Sherlock re-emerged.

"She was forty-one," John said.

"Who?"

"Elizabeth Pound. Fatigue, irritability, chronic colds, brittle hair and nails. Increasing frequency of headaches, general weakness. Unexplainable tooth decay."

"Mycroft has that. I believe it's called middle age."

"She had consistent care under Dr. Amulya Shastri, but then she was transferred to Dr. Homer Salyer. There's no mention as to why."

"Maybe she got bored with first doctor," Sherlock said. Then he sat up straight. "Could I trade you in for a less boring MD?"

"Funny, funny," John said. "Sherlock. When she was transferred to Salyer, she had completely different set of symptoms, but he decided that they were part of a progressive process."

"Oh, a sick person getting sicker. Forgive me John, this is highly interesting."

"Bradykinesia, fatigue, problems speaking, memory loss and confusion, and of course, tremor," John said to himself. "Certainly sounds like Parkinson's."

"Because it is!"

"No sleep disturbance," John said. "And no mention of anosmia until the most recent reports. And the weird thing is all these blood panels."

"Oh, goody, blood panels."

"Normally with this kind of case, you check for things like nutrient imbalance. The first doctor ran a full panel and corrected the imbalances, but the second doctor only ran limited panels."

John waited for Sherlock to make a snide remark. When it didn't come, he decided to pull a Sherlock.

He mimicked the consulting detective, "Why is that weird, John?" He continued, "Well, Sherlock, you see, the second doctor didn't bother checking minerals or other nutrients. It's like he identified marginally low dopamine levels and decided on Parkinson's."

Sherlock seemed less than amused.

John continued mimicking Sherlock. "The only way I'll find this the least bit interest is if you tell me this could be caused my poisoning. Otherwise I'll repeat that I'm bored."

"Oh, do shut up!" Sherlock said.

"Fine. But since you let that guy grab the only led we had on the double homicide, would it kill you to take a look at this? We've got an appointment to see Mrs. Pound tomorrow."

"Fine."

Sherlock pulled out his magnifying glass and went over the text posted on the wall.

"Boring," Sherlock said.

"Stop saying that."

"If she was being poisoned, why isn't she dead?" Sherlock asked. "What kind of poison leaves a person in such good health? It must be the worst poison in the world!"

Someone rang the bell.

"Who's coming around after midnight?" John asked.

"You're door's open," Molly Hooper said as she came up the stairs. "Did you know?"

"Yes, yes, niceties. Banalities. Did you bring it?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, but it's not complete," Molly said. She handed over a manila envelop. "I got copies of everything that was there."

Sherlock opened it gleefully.

"You all right?" John asked.

Molly smiled. "Yeah. Thanks."

"Crime scene photos, John!" Sherlock said loudly as he began to affix new items to the wall.

"These from the double homicide at the hotel?" John asked.

Molly nodded. "The lab got backed up. Apparently there's a bad flu and the lab techs are out in droves. Had to stay this late just to get the preliminary report."

"You didn't have to do that," John said.

"Of course she did!" Sherlock interrupted. "Otherwise, there would be no autopsy results until tomorrow, and tomorrow is too late."

"You're a bit peaky," John said to Molly.

"Long day."

"Yes, John, get alcohol and sandwiches and do shut up," Sherlock said.

Molly and John settled for whatever was in the cupboard and the only viable drink in the refrigerator: orange juice.

Sherlock sat upright in his chair with his elbows on the armrests and the tips of his fingers touching one another.

"You think he's breathing?" Molly whispered to John. "He's not blinked for a long time."

"It's half past one," John said. "You should stay. You can take my bed, I'll kip on the couch."

"I didn't realize I'd be here so late... thank you."

Molly went up to John's room for the night. John stretched out in his armchair and stared at Elizabeth Pound's medical reports.

The doorbell rang. Incessantly.

John opened his eyes.

His neck and hip cricked as he stood up. Apparently he'd fallen asleep in his armchair. Sherlock was still seated and staring at the walls.

"Someone's at the door!" Mrs. Hudson yelled. "And it's too ruddy early!"

She was right. It was five o'clock.

John went down to answer it.

It was a young woman and a bearded man.

"You have any idea what time it is?" he asked as he opened the door.

"Sorry to disturb you," the woman said. "We're looking for a friend."

Oddly, the man leaned in and took a deep breath.

"Did you just sniff me?" John asked.

"Standard procedure," the man replied.

"Americans," John said under his breath.

"We're looking for another American. Is he here?" the woman asked.

"Look, whoever you are, I promise you that we are not harboring any Americans. Please go away."

John shut the door, locked it, and went back up to the kitchen for a cup of tea.

Someone was on the stairs. Maybe the annoying Americans woke Molly, too. It was just as well; he might as well brew a full pot.

Then the yelling started.

John abandoned the teapot and grabbed a heavy metal pot as he raced into the living room.

Sherlock was standing on his armchair, threatening two people – a white woman and a black man - with his harpoon.

"Who the hell are you?" John asked.

The yelling died down as the two strangers realized that they were in danger of being harpooned on one side and beaten with a pot on the other.

"We're looking for Nick," the woman said. "That's all we're here for."

"Who the hell is Nick?" John asked.

"You can drop it," the man spoke up. "We know he's here."

"You are presently in the home of Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. I assure you, there is no one here named Nick."

"Hang on, you're American," John said.

"Well spotted," Sherlock said sarcastically.

"No, there were two other Americans at the door just now."

"They're with us," the woman said. "My name is Juliette Silverton. This is Hank Griffin."

"How did you get in?" Sherlock demanded.

"Our friends rang the door to distract anyone who was awake. We got in through the basement apartment."

"Flat," Sherlock corrected.

"Why do you think this Nick person is here?" John asked. "Clearly you're pretty certain, with breaking in and all."

"We're tracking his phone," Juliette said. "See?"

She held up her own phone, which had a tracker app loaded up. "We need to find him."

Sherlock lowered the harpoon and stepped onto the floor. "The man you're seeking introduced himself as Sebastian Cane. And at the moment, yes, his phone is here. But he is not. We've no time for burglar Americans, so if you like, or even if you won't, get out!"

Hank asked, "Why do you have his phone? Where is he?"

Sherlock said, "John and I were attacked by a man with considerable acrobatic skill. Your friend intervened. There was no time for formalities, so I lifted his phone before he chased after our assailant."

"You stole his phone?" Hank asked. "Which means we can't track him. Damn."

But Juliette wasn't listening. She was staring, transfixed, at the double homicide wall.

She said, "That's her."

"You know hre?" John asked.

"Hell yeah we know this woman," Hank said. "Please tell me she's really this dead."

"Shot with a high-powered sniper riffle. Three times," Sherlock said. "Who is she?"

"The name she used in America was Susan Gamble," Hank replied. "But people call her the Tally Maker."

"Uhm, is there a reason you've got a harpoon and a frying pan?" Molly asked as she came down the stairs.

Sherlock said, "Molly, these are our American trespassers, Hank and Juliette. American trespassers, this is Molly. Quickly now."

"Hi," Molly said. "I'm... a pathologist. Nice to meet you."

"I'm a vet," Juliette replied.

John wasn't sure what to make of Molly getting on with the woman who just broke into the flat, but Sherlock seemed positively ecstatic.

"Oh, this is brilliant," Sherlock said. "Not only is she involved in illicit activities... she's a serial killer!"

"We should go," Hank said. "If Nick's not here, we've got to figure out another way to find him."

Sherlock replied, "Fine! Fine! I'll assist you. First, tell me about this woman."

"You can find him?" Hank asked. "How?"

"I assume he bested the attacker. Not hard to do after a skull fracture. If that's true, then he likely has the thumb drive," Sherlock said quickly. "You can use that to track this friend of yours. All you need is its companion device, which is synchronized with its GPS code and keeps constant tabs on the device's current location, much like your tracking app. I will give it to you once you tell me about this woman."

"Just tell him," John said. "He won't let up."

Juliette spoke quickly. "Fine. This is the Tally Maker. She's not actually a serial killer. She just pretends to be one. She's actually an assassin. Not a very good one. Because two weeks ago, she kidnapped me so I could ventilate the targets that she just, I dunno, didn't want to kill I guess. They were all comatose at the time. That's all we know. And we need to find Nick."

Molly whispered to John, "She's got Sherlock's number, now doesn't she?"

Sherlock handed them the burner phone that tracked the thumb drive. "Now go away."

Hank and Juliette took it and swiftly left the flat.

"Seriously?" John asked. "The last Americans to break in here didn't fare so well. I remember you throwing one of them out a window."

"This has been, well, interesting. But it's nearly six. I've got to go," Molly said as she walked down the stairs.

"Cheers," John said.

Sherlock stood, engrossed in the evidence wall. He glanced at the medical history of Elizabeth Pound, then returned to his obsessive staring at the double homicide.

"We've a meeting at half past nine. Will your current revelation be resolved by then?" John asked.

"Shut up, John! I'm thinking," Sherlock barked. Immediately after, he added, "John! Do you have Molly's mobile?"

"Yeah, of course."

"Ring her. Now!"

As Elizabeth's personal assistant, Lawrence Creevey took over more and more of her day-to-day activities as her abilities declined. Technically, this was his office now, but he still thought of it as hers.

Creevey paced.

It was nine twenty-seven. Three more minutes.

He stopped and straightened his clothing. In there more minutes, the consulting detectives would be in to see Elizabeth. For the first time in a year, Creevey had hope.

Two more minutes.

He casually walked over to the balcony overlooking the main hallway.

The primary hallway was an impressive feat, full of enormous paintings and ornate architectural elements. It also was the only public entry into Elizabeth's den, where she entertained guests. It used to act as her reading room, though some called it her private library, but now it served as her seated sick room, just as her bedroom was her lying-down sick room.

Steven Moss, the security man on in the mornings, led two gentlemen down the hall. Creevey didn't recognize either of them. One was a black man with a light mustache dressed to the nines. The other was a white guy with a full beard, dressed in a long black coat and ridiculous hat. Creevey guessed they must be the new financial officers hired to deal with Alvin's will.

Creevey checked his watch. Nine thirty-three. Holmes and Watson should've been escorted in, and Creevey handled the schedule. So who the hell were these men? And who authorized their entry?

Perhaps something came up and Watson and Sherlock had to wait downstairs. He decided to check with Steven before storming off to whoever modified the schedule with his approval.

So he went to the nearest staircase and made his way to Steven, who was waiting outside the door to the den.

"Mr. Creevey, is there something wrong?"

"Who changed the schedule?" Creevey demanded.

"Why should I know?" Steven replied.

"Who did you just escort in? Lawyers? Accountants?"

"Sherlock Holmes and his new assistant, Nicholas Lestrade."

"What?"

"Mr. Holmes insisted he'd cleared the new guy with you, so I brought them back. Didn't think there was anything to bother you about."

"That man was not Sherlock Holmes!"

Steven shook his head. "'Course it's him. I recognized the name from the papers soon as you told me about him the other day. So I cut this out so I could compare."

Steven held up a newspaper photo of Sherlock Holmes; he had his collar rolled up high enough to hide his eyes.

"See? Same coat, and that's definitely the hat," Steven said.

"Did it occur to you to check their ids?"

"Their credentials and identifications were verified at the front gate," Steven said. "By both the guards and the computers. It's them."

Creevey glanced at the time. Nine thirty-five. "We've no time for this. Whoever they are, they can't mean well."

He pulled the door open and entered with Steven on his heels.

"Elizabeth? Mrs. Pound?" Creevey called.

"Mr. Holmes? Mr. Watson?" Steven yelled.

"Where the hell are they?"

"I dunno. I brought them in, and you were there, they didn't come back out. This is the only door to this room," Steven said. "So they must be in here."

"You think they're playing hide and seek?"

Steven put his hand on Creevey's shoulder. "How's about you calm down, then? I'll search this room. You stand outside the door, so if they try to leave, you'll spot them. All right? Just calm down. If something has happened, we'll call security."

Creevey stepped outside as Steven instructed, but it wasn't to calm down. If he spent another minute with that idiot, he might strangle him.

His mobile rang.

"Lawrence Creevey," he answered.

"Ah, Mr. Creevey. This is John Watson," John said. "I need a favor."

"Favor? First you fail to show, now you're asking a favor?"

"I promise you, no," John said. "Don't call the police."

Creevey straightened up. "What would I be calling them for?"

"Listen. You were concerned someone was poisoning Mrs. Pound, and we believe you're right. We've also reason to believe that whoever's doing this might try to kill her. Soon."

"What are you talking about? Why would anyone do that?"

"Yes, right. We don't know exactly. But, we do believe it will happen soon. So to protect her, we arranged for her to be... relocated. Just until we identify the culprit."

"That was you?" Creevey hissed into his phone. "How dare you!"

"You came to us because you love her," John said. When there was no reply, he continued, "Well, don't you?"

"Yes."

"Then you'd do anything to keep her alive," John said.

"I would. Of course, I would."

"Look, we don't need much time. A day or two at most. Do you think you could find a way to keep her disappearance quiet? Just for now."

"I can try, but if her doctor or lawyers come by, I don't think I can."

"I promise you, Mr. Creevey, we will figure this out."

"I'll call if something comes up, but... please hurry."

Creevey hung up. He needed to invent some rather creative lies and quickly. Part of him hoped desperately that Steven was, in fact, that much of an idiot.

John pocketed his mobile just as Sherlock pulled the town car up to the guard's booth and rolled the window down.

"You leaving all ready?" the guard on duty, Emma, asked.

"What else could we be doing?" Sherlock asked.

"He means, yes, we've leaving. Mrs. Pound, well, she didn't have much to say," John replied.

Emma nodded. "Sometimes that happens. It's too bad. Worked here for years. She was always nice to me. You're both good to go. Have a nice day."

She activated the front gate to let them out.

As soon as the window closed, John said, "Creevey is pissed. I told you we should've asked for his help."

"No need."

Once they were out the front gate and passed the estate's cameras, John lowered the divider separating the driver's compartment of the town car from the passenger seats.

"We're clear," John said to the passengers. "You all right?"

"It's nice," Pound answered vacantly. She had a wide smile.

"Oh, fine," Monroe replied. "Not like I just abducted what looks like one of the richest people in the world with a hat, a coat, and a car with blacked-out windows or anything."

Hank replied, "It went well, which isn't a surprise. Smart plan. How did you know about that ambulance bay?"

"It was obvious. Rich woman becomes suddenly sick but refuses to live at hospital, so she converts her old library into a medical facility. Odd, given her bedroom would be a better candidate, unless you consider that the items in her library were, until recently, apart of WorldShare, an international interlibrary loan movement. Owing to the size and rarity of her collection, she required an expedient mechanism for moving books, especially when dozens of them were returned to her at a time. The easiest way to do that was to ensure her den had an industrial loading facility. Automobiles can pull right up to the loading bay. Now her choice of sickroom makes perfect sense. Her bedroom is on the second floor, completely inaccessible to any car or truck. Her den, on the other hand, is perfect for a new ambulance bay, should any life-threatening ill befall her."

"You could've just said that last part," Hank said.

"Are you kidding?" Monroe asked. "Then we would've missed out. I mean, come on, Hank. This woman put her entire personal library on WorldShare. That convinces me that she's one of the coolest people on the planet," Monroe replied.

"Oh, this is going to be a hella long day," Hank muttered.

John commiserated, but he said nothing.