A.N Thank you to all of the guests and Anon's who reviewed, and thanks as well to acrossdimensions, ShadowEnderfury, Me, and moriartayyy - Ya'll need to take your PM off private so I can reply to you!

Here weeee goooo :

Christmas was a dismal affair. After Sherlock had raced from the flat (at nearly 2 am mind you) to identify Ms Adler's corpse, I had a distinct feeling things would go downhill from there on. Or at least, until he finds out the truth about Irene.

But God only knows when that might be.

It put a slight dampener on the whole situation, to say the least.

Oh what situation, you ask? Just the small trivial matter of SHERLOCK WILLINGLY TOUCHING HIS LIPS AGAINST MINE FOR OVER 5 SECONDS. AND WITH FERVOUR, MIGHT I ADD. PLENTY OF FERVOUR.

So when His Lordship arrived home a couple of hours later with a face like a slapped arse, whatever flickering spark of hope I had of us possibly discussing the details of the previous few hours fizzled back down to the bottom of my heart and faded away.

I couldn't help feeling quite alone, despite having just shooed out a very cuddly and very drunk Greg and Molly, who insisted on professing their love for me at the top of their lungs. But alone was a feeling I was all too familiar with – it and its side effects. After Camille died, it was like a whole chunk of my being had been ripped out and smashed into a million pieces. She was my twin; my other half. We came into this world together, and we should have left it side by side.

'No.' I say aloud. 'Snivelling over the past isn't going to do you any good, Audrey.' I quickly dismiss the growing feeling of nausea that usually accompanied the sadness. Pressing a green and red striped handkerchief to my eyes and dabbing the tears away, I rise from the armchair and make my way to kitchen, pausing when my phone dings a text alert. I reluctantly pull the phone out from my pocket, already knowing who the sender is before I even glance at the screen.

Merry Christmas, Audrey Darling.

-M

Ps. Check the post-box.

Now, I take pride in my stubbornness, don't get me wrong. But curiosity always gets the better of me, and I'm racing down the stairs before you can say Vivienne Westwood. Reaching inside the square, wooden box, I pull out a brown-paper covered parcel. It's bound together with a dark red ribbon, and "Audrey" is written on the top right-hand corner in swirling cursive. Sitting down on the bottom step, I gently pull on the ribbon and fold the paper down at each side, revealing its contents. Inside are two gifts. The first is a beautiful bronze pocket watch, the kind that tells the time and the date. The front is decorated with intricate silver filigree, joining to form a lock-shape in the centre. I turn the watch around in my hand and stroke the handiwork with one finger, admiring it.

'Too bad it's broken.' I sigh to myself. And quite broken, at that. There is no gently ticking sound to indicate that time is passing, and the hands of the clock have stopped at 5.00pm, on the seventh of March; two months from now.

Tucking the cold, round object into my pocket, I move onto the second gift, which is a cornflower-blue, hard-back copy of Lewis Carroll's "Alice in Wonderland". Opening the cover, I find a small note written at the top in the same neat handwriting.

"Little Alice fell

d

o

w

n

the hOle,

bumped her head

and bruised her soul."

It's a quote from the book, nothing more, though I can't help but feel threatened by it. Moriarty's ever-present warning lingers at the back of my mind, a constant reminder of the dangerous game I've been forced to play. Suddenly overcome with a debilitating sense of despair, I place my head in my hands and rest them against my knees, one thought echoing inside my head again, and again.

I want to go home. I just want to go home.

'What has gotten into you two?' John snaps the newspaper down and peers over the top of it. Sherlock is staring out the window while I cradle Catsby, the same sullen expression plastered across both of our faces. It has been three weeks since Sherlock learned of Irene's death (and when I say death…), and ever since he has been practically sleeping with his violin. Dreaming up more funeral marches, no doubt. And in that time he has become incredibly distant towards John and myself - almost depressed.

You'd think he was in love with her. It's the only explanation to justify his cold behaviour.

'Nothing.' We both mumble at the same time. Sherlock abruptly stands from the kitchen table and strides towards the door. 'I'm going for a walk.' He calls back to us before slamming the door shut. Sighing, John folds the newspaper and turns towards me. 'You know, he hasn't been this moody since that time you changed his ringtone to Baby Got Back.' I crack a smile at this, giggling a bit. 'It went off in the middle of Scotland Yard and everything.' John joins in, chuckling and shaking his head.

His expression turns serious again, once he stops laughing. 'Audrey…Is everything okay?' He asks, his face creasing slightly with worry. 'You've not been yourself these past few weeks either.' I feel my face fall at this – I hate confrontation.

'…I dunno.' I shrug my shoulders, unsure of what to say next. I don't think he'd react well to: 'Oh yeah, everything's fine! Except for the fact that Moriarty is probably going to feed me to Hannibal Lecter if I don't do what he says but, apart from that…'

John softly pats my hand, signalling me to continue. I choose one of the many concerns threatening to spill out of my mouth in a verbal avalanche of hysteria.

'I've been thinking about Dad a lot, recently, and how worried he must be.' I frown and look up at John. 'I mean, I haven't even stopped to think about what my disappearance may have done to him. What if there's a whole police force out there, searching day and night for me? What if I've made the national news?' My voice rises a few octaves at this, and I begin to panic. 'I'm a terrible human being, John! All this time I've been cavorting around London city with a fictional detective – an ungrateful fictional detective – when I should have been looking for a way back home!' Feeling my chin start to wobble, I quickly stand from the table and turn away from John. I stay like that for a few seconds, until I feel his hand on my elbow, tugging me around to face him. He says nothing, only pulling me close in a soft embrace, patting the back of my head.

And then I just lose it.

The tighter John's hug gets, the louder my sobs become.

'If you want to cry, you just go ahead and cry.' John mumbles, tucking my head to rest under his chin. 'I know how it feels to be alone, Audrey. It's the worst bloody feeling in the world.'

Once my sobs become muted hiccups, I step back and wipe the few remaining tears from my eyes. Looking back to John, I begin to say something meaningful, but stop and grimace at his chest instead. 'Gross, I got boogers all over your sweater-vest.' John chuckles and squeezes the end of my chin affectionately. 'There's the Audrey I know.'

We just stand there and smile goofily for a moment, until John checks his watch and –

'Fucking hell! I was supposed to be at the clinic forty minutes ago!' He dashes around the flat, grabbing his medical paraphernalia at lightning speed. I, on the other hand, watch from the kitchen table whilst leisurely sipping from a cup of tea. 'Take a nice break today, Aud.' He presses a kiss to the top of my head before sprinting from the apartment at a speed I would have thought impossible judging by the length of his legs. Taking my cup of tea to the sitting room, I throw on Sherlock's blue silk dressing gown and decide to take a nap on the sofa.

BANG. The door flies open, hitting the wall loudly. I shoot up into a sitting position, my head still fuzzy with sleep.

'Well, well, well.' A voice sneers from the right. I twist around and find myself face to face with the same blonde American who broke into Irene Adler's house. 'If it isn't the pretty little missy who got away.' He motions to the two burly henchmen standing behind him. 'Grab her.'

They're beside me in a flash, yanking me up from the sofa and twisting my hands behind my back. The blonde man walks calmly towards me, ignoring my attempts to struggle free. 'Where is the phone?' I stare up at him, dazed and slightly out of breath. 'I've no idea!' I gasp.

He grins wickedly, and shakes his head. 'Well unfortunately for you, Miss … ?'

'Dubois.' I say, trying to keep my voice steady.

'Yes well, unfortunately for you, Miss Dubois, I am in no mood to play Mr Nice Guy. One way or another I am leaving this room with that phone, and believe me when I say I am a man of my word.' He takes a step closer, until the tops of our feet are touching. 'Now, I'm going to ask you again; where is the phone?'

I glance desperately out the window, willing Sherlock to appear. 'I told you, I don't know I -'The man suddenly lunges towards me, grabbing me tightly around the neck. 'Do not lie to me!' I pull my shoulders foward, desperately trying to free myself. He slowly loosen his hold, enough for me to speak. 'I...I'm telling the...truth..' I choke, eyes brimming with tears.

He releases me and sighs, rubbing his jaw. 'Is the flat above still vacant?' He asks one of his sidekicks, who nods once. 'Bring her upstairs.'

I stand frozen to the spot with panic. 'Wh – why do you need to take me up there?' The men ignore me; even when my voice rises to a shout. One of them just clamps a hand firmly over my mouth, and continues dragging me up the stairs. I claw at the wallpaper in an attempt to slow them down, digging deep furrows into the floral pattern until my fingertips bleed. But to no avail. They haul me through the door of 221C as the blonde man nosily drags a chair into the middle of the room.

'Tie her to it.' He orders one particularly simple looking henchman. He complies at once, roughly pushing me down and binding my hands together with rope. I keep my eyes trained to the floorboards, trying to control my erratic heartbeat.

'So…' The blonde man circles me. 'We can do this two ways. One – You be a good girl and give us the phone.' He comes to a halt in front of me and bends down until we're at eye level. 'Or two – Which will only prove to be very painful for you and…' He places both hands on my legs, just above the kneecap. '…But very satisfactory for us.' His hands continue to travel up my thigh, slowly. Panic-stricken, I begin to squirm in protest. 'No – please stop…'

'Get your hands off her.'

The sudden low and menacing voice threatens from the doorway, and I almost pass out in relief when Sherlock steps across the threshold. The blonde-haired man holds up both arms in mock surrender, while the two henchmen click their pistols, ready and aimed at Sherlock.

'I believe you have something that we want, Mr Holmes.'

'Then why don't you ask for it?' Sherlock walks closer, and holds his right hand out towards mine. I grasp onto it tightly as he gently turns back the sleeve of the dressing gown and examines the dark purple marks on my wrist.

'I've been asking this one.' The blonde man nods his head towards me. 'She doesn't seem to know anything.'

Sherlock ignores him, instead making a quite tutting noise and blowing softly on my ripped fingertips.

'But you know what I'm asking for, don't you, Mr Holmes?' The man continues, grinning as he produces a pistol of his own.

Sherlock raises his head and looks directly at him, eyes dark with fury. But he isn't deducing the man - In very rapid succession he is picking out target points on his body: Carotid artery, skull, eyes. His gaze drops to the man's arm and chest: Artery, lungs, ribs. He raises his eyes to the American again. 'I believe I do.'

'Sherlock…' I whimper, staring at the two loaded guns pointed directly at his head.

'Shh, shh.' He strokes my cheek lightly with the back of his hand. 'It's okay.' He turns to the blonde man and points at the gunmen. 'First, get rid of your boys. I dislike being outnumbered. It makes for too much stupid in the room.'

The American hesitates for a moment, then glances at his partners. 'You two, go to the car.' Grawp 1 and Grawp 2 blink stupidly for a second before noisily leaving the room.

'Next, you can stop pointing that gun at me.'

The blonde man scoffs at this. 'So you can point a gun at me?'

Sherlock takes a step back and spreads both arms out at each side. 'I'm unarmed.'

'Mind if I check?'

Sherlock smiles sarcastically. 'Oh, I insist.'

The American walks over to Sherlock and flicks his coat open, finding nothing. Walking around behind him, the man starts patting for any weapon hidden behind his back. Sherlock rolls his eyes dramatically, and faster than humanly possible he whips out an air freshener, twists around and sprays the contents directly into the American's eyes. As he shouts in agony, Sherlock rears back and then savagely head-butts him in the face. The man falls back over the coffee table, unconscious.

'Moron.' Sherlock triumphantly flips the can into the air and slams it onto the table beside him. Hurrying back towards me, he bends down and starts loosening the rope wrapped tightly around my hands.

'Well cover me in butter and dip me in a saucepan.' I sigh breathlessly. (It's more of a swoon, really.)

'Come again?' he murmers. I don't reply, replaying Sherlock's manly head-butt-of-sex over and over in my head. 'Now, let's have a look at these.' He carefully takes my fingers and rests them on the tips of his own. 'We'll need to disinfect them first, then bandage them up. John should have all the equipment required.' He looks at me and begins to smile. 'I know it may be difficult for you to hear this, Audrey...but you are not a cat.' I throw him a withering look, but laugh all the same. 'Unfortunately, your claws just aren't strong enough.' Rubbing his thumbs softly against my knuckles, he starts to smirk. 'And it should be illegal to have hands this small – they are ridiculously impractical.'

Ah, there's the charming Sherlock we all know and love.

A low groaning noise brings our attention to the semi-conscious American man lying on the floor. Sherlock rises to his feet and makes his way over to him. Stooping down, he grabs the man underneath his arms and hauls him onto a chair similar to mine. Using the rope that bound my hands together, he secures the man's arms. Reaching into his coat pocket, Sherlock pulls out a roll of grey-coloured duct tape and proceeds to wrap the sticky band around the man's face, covering his mouth.

'Only you would have emergency duct-tape.' I mumble. Sherlock winks in response. I try not to melt into a pile of goo.

As the man begins to regain consciousness, I nervously shift in my seat, pulling the hem of my nightdress down. Sherlock notices this, his eyes widening as he puts two and two together.

'Oh no-no-no, he didn't anything like that he just…' I trail off, too embarrassed to continue. Relief floods Sherlock's face, which is swiftly followed by anger. In one fluid movement, he draws back his fist and punches the American straight in the nose with a sickening crunch. Shaking his hand out, Sherlock looks rather pleased as blood begins to stream from the man's (now crooked) nose.

'Sorry, but he was asking for it.' Sherlock explains apologetically, but I seem to have zoned out, too in awe of the God-like man standing before me.

We both jump slightly when the door is flung open, revealing a panic-stricken John. In his hand he is clutching a scrunched up piece of paper. 'Ah, excellent, you got my note.' Sherlock points to the scrap of paper, looking rather pleased with himself.

'CRIME IN PROGRESS. PLEASE DISTURB.' John reads the note aloud. 'Have you called the police?'

'Just about to.' Sherlock replies calmly, pressing his phone against his ear. John looks from the bleeding, bound – up man to Sherlock and then to me, apprehension dawning.

'Audrey, what happened?' He rushes towards me in full mother hen mode. 'Did they hurt you? Where did these bruises come fro – your fingers! Look at them!' He places a hand at either side of my face, looking me straight in the eye. 'Audrey, did they touch you in any way?' I wince slightly at this, feeing my face heat up. 'No, John, they didn't! I swear.' John's face relaxes a fraction, before he releases my head and re-examines my injuries. He turns to face Sherlock, who has his eyes fixed to the American. 'So are you gonna tell me what's going on?'

'I expect so.' Sherlock replies without breaking eye contact. 'Take Audrey upstairs and tend to her. I'll be up shortly.'

He gets through to Scotland Yard as John wraps his arm around my shoulders and leads me from the room. 'Lestrade. We've had a break-in at Baker Street. Send your least irritating officers and an ambulance.' He walks across to the table and lays the pistol down on it. Oh, no-no-no, we're fine. No, it's the, uh, it's the burglar. He's got himself rather badly injured.'

I look nervously from Sherlock to the American.

'Oh, a few broken ribs, fractured skull ... suspected punctured lung.' Sherlock continues conversationally. 'How did it happen? He glances over his shoulder at the blonde man, his eyes glinting dangerously.

'He fell out a window.'

'Exactly how many times did he fall out the window, Sherlock?' Lestrade asks Sherlock sceptically. We're all sitting around the kitchen table, updating Lestrade on the situation.

'It's all a bit of a blur, Detective Inspector.' He shrugs innocently. 'I lost count.' Lestrade sighs loudly, not bothering to reply. He reaches over and squeezes one of my now bandaged hands. 'You take care of yourself, Audrey.' He glares at Sherlock accusingly. 'And you take care of her as well.' Sherlock, to my utter astonishment, nods ashamedly. 'I know, I know. I take full responsibility.' Lestrade hmphs in reply before grabbing his scarf and heading out the door.

The three of us sit in silence for a moment, sipping our tea. 'All this for a bloody camera phone.' John sighs exasperatedly. 'Where is it, anyway?'

'Yes, actually, where is it?' I join in. Sherlock smirks and motions for me to stand up. I stare at him, confused, but comply nonetheless. He steps forward until he's only a few inches away from me, and reaches down into the pocket of his dressing gown which I am currently still wearing. My stomach flutters – yes flutters – when I feel his fingers brush against my side through the thin layer of silk. Pulling his hand back out from the pocket, he grins triumphantly as he waves the phone in front of us. John chuckles gently, shaking his head.

'Safest place I know.'

A.N So I mananged to get this chapter out much sooner than excpected, which is great! Thank you so, so much for all the wonderful reviews for the previous chapter, and for not abandoning me or my story!

This chapter is a little bit more serious than the others, so please let me know what you thought of it!

I'll update when I can. :)