The Lying Detective, Part 1

Amelia Wilson was exhausted, to be fair, she had probably been pushing herself a little too much the last five weeks, but the only thing she could really hang onto right now that had any sort of blessing familiarity to her right now was her work, so no matter how tired she was, how much she just wished she could curl up in a ball in her bed and sleep all day, no matter how much she just felt like crying for the state that Sherlock and John currently were in...She simply couldn't. Oh, it was tempting, but she knew that the second that she did do that, she would simply crumble under the weight of the past seven weeks that had passed since that horrible, horrible day that Mary was taken from them. But that didn't mean that it wasn't costing her, perhaps not as much as Sherlock or John right now, but she was still barely keeping it all together, even if on the outside, under the makeup and her typical, polished clothing, it might look like she was, inside she was just anything but okay.

Her eyes felt as if they were filled with sand as she pushed the white, Victorian style door shut behind her, briefly pausing to brace herself against the smooth wood to kick her heels off and over to the side, where a hall table sat just within the large foyer of the Belgravia Square home that had been in her family for the last three generations. She caught a glimpse of herself in the large, circular mirror that hung over the table and grimaced. Even under the slightly thicker makeup, she could see how pale her skin was, how dark the bruising circles under her eyes were and there was little that could be done to even attempt to conceal how bloodshot her eyes were, nothing but a decent night's sleep, something she hadn't experienced in weeks. Worry tended to do that.

She dropped her tired eyes from the mirror and straightened herself from the door, her bare feet instantly growing chilled from the white and black veined marble floor. If she was going to stay here for much longer, she probably should consider dragging out some of the old Turkish rugs that she had placed in storage. She probably had one from the Irish estate that would suit the foyer nicely enough...but she hoped that she wouldn't have to become that comfortable living in Belgravia, she still held out hope that Sherlock would finally come to his senses...Just thinking about it made her eyes water and she hastily sucked in a deep breath, willing away the threat of tears. It had come as such a massive shock to her when she had discovered that he had began using drugs again, less than a week after Mary's funeral, though when she looked back on it, she supposed it wasn't that shocking. Sherlock was an addict, she knew that, and everything that they were going through, the blame and guilt and the possibility of losing John's friendship...it had simply been too much for him, evidently, and he had resorted to attempting to escape from reality, or at least that's what she assumed.

Amelia had tried to get him to explain, but even when Sherlock was somewhat aware enough to form sentences or lucid enough to seem somewhat logical, he still managed to avoid the subject and Amelia, in her frustration and hurt, had to confess that she had given up. It was one thing piling onto another horrible thing and she just couldn't deal with it, she had reached her limit, and if Sherlock wasn't willing to simply tell her the truth or even explain himself to her...what else could she do? Still, she had stayed with him, for as long as she could...but it simply became too much for her to remain at Baker Street with him, not when he would have moments where he had no idea who she even was or began hallucinating that someone was coming to hunt them down and she was in danger and that he had to protect her, even attempting to lock her in the bedroom to keep her safe. That had been the final straw for her and by the time she had unpicked the lock, something he had seemingly forgotten in his high state, she had well and truly decided that it simply wasn't safe for her to remain in the flat with him any longer. Of course, she had no doubt that he wouldn't hurt her, but locking her in a room for her protection? It was ridiculous; no one should have to deal with that, she certainly wasn't going to, not from anyone. That, and the fact that her kitchen had been turned into a drug dealers lab didn't exactly scream cosy and safe to her, so she grabbed as much as she could of her clothing and her jewellery and left that night. It was just chance that Belgravia happened to be between part-time tenants.

Amelia walked through the foyer, passing by the open doorway of the living room, the very same space that they had made Irene Adler's introduction in all those years ago, back when they had been friends still and everything had seemed so simple. It wasn't, of course, but it was far simpler then it was now, how funny to think that she actually longed for those days, even if her brother had been alive and attempting to destroy all of their lives, at least the three of them had still been a united team. Now days, she couldn't even get John to return a text or answer a single phone call, in fact, she hadn't spoken to him since a week after Mary's funeral, when he began shutting out practically everyone. She hadn't been surprised by his ghosting of her, she knew it was coming, but it hadn't made it any easier on her. Not only had she seemingly lost Sherlock to drugs, but also John to his grief...she couldn't help wondering what she must have been lost to, misery? She was pretty miserable most of the time these days, even if she tried not to show it when she was out in public.

She shook her head and continued on passed the living room and through into the large, grand and rather formal dining room, before slipping through into the kitchen, flicking the light on as she stepped inside. She had updated the kitchen since Adler had left, she had to admit, she didn't think she could eat inside it again after knowing the possible things Adler might have gotten up to on her counter tops, trading out the once light grey granite countertops for white marble and slightly grey toned cabinets, all styled in a cross between modern and classic, with a massive island in the very heart of the room. It was a bit of a show kitchen, or at least it would be, if Amelia was into that sort of thing, given that there was a slightly smaller kitchen set off to the side for where a private chief might cook, if you were into hosting that sort of dinner, but Amelia preferred this kitchen. It was a little large for just one person, though, only highlighting just how used to Sherlock's company she had become in these last few years. God, she missed him, the real Sherlock, not the drug addled one.

She paused by the edge of the thick, cold island and lightly drummed her red painted nails against the marble, frowning faintly to herself as she looked around the room. It was just so...silent, perhaps that was the thing she found herself struggling with the most, she missed the noise of Sherlock's violin playing, his tinkering with glass wear when he'd sit at the kitchen table while she cooked, doing his little experiments or his loud complaints about whatever TV show she had on, even though they both knew that, secretly, he was getting a little to invested in the show. She also kind of hated how neat everything was, Amelia had always been quite a neat person and when she was stressed or upset, she tended to kick that into hyper drive, it used to drive Sherlock up the wall when she'd attempt to organise paperwork and books or whatever other clutter he had about the place, so she tended to try and stick to simply keeping the bedroom and bathroom as neat as possible...the kitchen was far neater then it had ever been when John had lived with Sherlock, but Sherlock still insisted on keeping his mini laboratory set up and Amelia had reluctantly conceded to allow it, if only for the sake of their work, much as she agreed to let Sherlock keep his random bits of clutter and paperwork about...it did, however, get tided up once the case was over, something she had very firmly insisted upon. But here...everything was exactly how she had placed it; the few knick knacks that she had pulled from storage just to make the place a little less bare still helped little. She just felt like she needed someone to come in and just...throw random bits of clutter around, chuck mail onto the mantelpiece or mess up the cushions on the couch that she had arranged, leave books stacked in messy piles on the floor by the already filled bookshelves. She just missed Sherlock's presence, because even when he wasn't at Baker Street with her, he had still seemed to surround her and she missed it. It had been her home, he had been her home.

"God," she groaned aloud to herself, briefly lowering her head and reaching up to rub her forehead. The silence was oppressive, if she stayed her for much longer, she was really going to have to consider getting a radio set up or something, maybe have a TV playing softly in the corner, especially when she got back to cooking...she hadn't really bothered with cooking that much lately, stress had reduced her appetite somewhat and she was fairly queasy lately when she even thought about most foods, so she had stuck to ordering in most of the time.

She crossed the room and pulled the double door fridge open, peering unenthusiastically inside at the limited selection that she even had to offer her...milk, thankfully in date, a few basic sauces, breed and eggs, green and red apples, and some left over grilled chicken breasts and a pasta bake that, ordinarily she would never have touched, but Molly had very sweetly cooked it for her, when she had caught a glimpse of the interior of her fridge. Yeah, none of that was all that appealing, but she was hungry and she knew she'd only feel sickly if she skipped food, which was just a terrible habit to be getting into, so she grabbed a jug of cold water she had sitting in the door and shut the door, placing the jug on the counter as she moved about to grab a glass and a small Tupperware container filled with dry, savoury biscuits and butter from the larder. The biscuits and butter were hardly an ideal meal, let alone a dinner, but it helped a little bit, and the cold water was refreshing. How exactly had her life gotten to this point? Here she was, her boyfriend was probably high as a kite right now, while John was possibly slowly drinking himself into a miserable stupor, if Molly's worries were to be believed, which Amelia thought was highly likely, and then there was her, standing alone in an utterly silent, far too large and empty house, eating biscuits that tasted only slightly more appealing then cardboard probably would be, bare foot and sleep deprived. But hey, at least she'd solved her case, so...silver linings, right?

Amelia very nearly scoffed at herself, how desperate did she sound right now? Even in her own head here there was no one to judge, but herself. It was just all too much, really, her entire world was falling apart around her and there was literally nothing she could do to fix it. She popped another buttered biscuit into her mouth, chewing it and trying not to cringe at the taste. This was really just rubbish, maybe that pasta bake would be a hell of a lot nicer, just a little bit of comfort food, plus, it would delight Molly if she knew that she'd eaten it and liked it, which Amelia was sure she would. She was just about to completely push her box of dry biscuits away completely and head back over to the fridge, when her phone began trilling loudly. The chorus of Umbrella by Rihanna. She almost groaned aloud.

Still, she fished her phone out of her handbag, which had been dumped on the counter, barely sparing Mycroft's name across the glowing screen much care as she hit the green phone icon, lifting it up to her ear.

"Mycroft," she said warily over the line. A phone call from Mycroft meant little good to hear these days, mind you, when was it good to hear from Mycroft? It wasn't as if they met up for coffee every week. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, bracing herself, "Is Sherlock okay?"

"Define 'Okay,'" Mycroft told her in a slightly drawling tone, "He isn't in hospital or presently overdosing..." it was as if a weight was lifted from her shoulders, but it was only short lived, because Mycroft wouldn't have phoned for a simple chat. His next words proved that, "However, if your definition of 'Okay' is that my little brother has suddenly decided to leave his flat for the first time in four weeks and is currently strolling the streets of London, then you would be quite right to be concerned..."

"Sherlock left the flat?" her eyes widened slightly, confusion and shock washing over her. Sherlock had no reason to leave the flat these days, she had been taking any clients that might have come calling at Baker Street, having put up on Sherlock's website that they wound be seeing clients for the time being at Belgravia, making up a lie about the flat requiring urgent repairs. It had worked thus far and she made sure he had plenty of food. On top of all of that, Sherlock simply hadn't shown any interest in the outside world, half the time he could barely find his way into his own bedroom, let alone the front door. She shook her head slowly in wonder, "I mean...was it on fire? Did he finally blow up the kitchen?"

Mycroft cleared his throat on the other head, "I was rather hoping that you might have an idea of where he might be going," he replied pointedly.

She instantly understood what he meant and it brought a frown to her face, "Sherlock isn't coming here, Mycroft," she said flatly, "I sincerely doubt he even knows where I'm staying, but even if he did, there's no reason for him to come to me. Besides, I saw him this afternoon and he was practically unconscious, then".

"I see".

"Mycroft," she sighed, briefly closing her eyes, curling her other hand around the smooth edge of her kitchen island, "You're watching him, right? Making sure he doesn't get hurt or anything?"

"Naturally".

She nodded to herself, feeling a tiny sense of relief flow through her at that thought, because she knew that Mycroft wouldn't see Sherlock harmed in anyway. He probably had half a dozen drones and a helicopter trailing after his little brother right now, even right over the middle of central London, Mycroft wouldn't care. What was the point of being the British Government and an over protective big brother if you couldn't bend the rules to suit yourself, right?

"Amelia," Mycroft broke through her thoughts, his tone delicate, for him, "Perhaps if you were to attempt to speak with him..."

"I can't, Mycroft," she cut across him, her voice soft, but firm, while her body felt suddenly a hundred years old. It took everything inside of her not to simply sag against the counter, "It's...no use, it's not me that Sherlock needs to speak to. Believe me..." she swallowed, tears right on the edge of overwhelming her, but she wouldn't cry over the phone to Mycroft, of all people, even if she imagined his reaction would be hilarious, if she wasn't, you know, dealing with everything right now, "I've tried and it's just...not enough".

There was a long pause and she waited, bowing her head she sucked in a deep breath. God, she hoped he couldn't hear that on his end, but she supposed it didn't matter. She wanted to scream, she wanted to cry, and just wanted to curl up in a tight ball in bed, but none of that would help anything.

"He does...care for you," Mycroft said slowly, his voice dropping, and she realised that he must be somewhere with other people around him. Perhaps he had stepped away, regardless, he sounded horribly uncomfortable right now.

Amelia couldn't even bring herself to smile, "I don't doubt he does," she said softly, lifting her head to look grimly at the darkened, French garden doors at the end of the room, "But there's always a point of..." she broke off sharply and cleared her throat, dragging in a deep, shuddering breathe, "I'm afraid I can't help you, Mycroft," she went on, slightly more briskly then she meant, but it was all she could do not to cry, "I wish I could, really, but I just can't. You will phone when you know more?"

"Of course".

"Goodnight, Mycroft. Just...make sure he's safe".

She ended the call before he could speak, not being able to stomach hearing what he might have to say. Why on Earth was Sherlock out on the loose in London? The man was lucky to know his own name half the time, what would possible lure him out? She glanced at the kitchen door; debating with herself...perhaps it wouldn't hurt. No, no, no! She quickly shook her head, she had stepped away because she couldn't handle this behaviour, Mycroft was dealing with it, he'd be okay...but God was she worried for him. She grabbed her phone again and unlocked it, a picture of herself and Sherlock grinned back up at her, Sherlock mock scowling with that deerstalker hat forced over his curls, while she leaned against his side, smiling cheekily with a deerstalker of her own perched more neatly on her head. It wasn't the best picture of them, the angles slightly off and awkward, it wasn't even the best selfie, but she loved it. She cleared her throat and quickly brought up her contacts list, scrawling down until she found Billy Wiggins name.

We had a deal, Billy. You look after Sherlock in my absence and I'd pay you for your time. What the hell happened?-Amelia.

She sent off the ext and waited, glaring down at the phone, until it pinged less than a minute later:

I dunno what happened, one sec he was here, just chatting to himself, and the next he was just gone. I swear-Wiggins.

She sighed heavily and shook her head. Okay, so maybe she couldn't blame Wiggins completely, Sherlock was good at vanishing when he was sober; she doubted it was a skill he had lost. It worried her, though, who did he think he was talking to? She had to resist the urge to question why Wiggins hadn't questioned Sherlock more, urged him to try and explain what he was hallucinating, but she doubted if Sherlock would have told him. Her phone dinged again and she checked it:

Does this mean I'm not getting that Rolex anymore?-Wiggins.

Amelia rolled her eyes, though it did make her lips lift very slightly, even though she decided to ignore the text for a bit. Let him stew. To be fair, she hadn't exactly said she would buy him a Rolex, more that he'd be able to afford one himself with how much she was paying him, but she'd break that news to him later. She found herself looking down at John's name, then, and she hesitated. She doubted it would help, but...

John, I know things are...difficult right now and I want nothing more than for us to just talk. Please, that's all.-Amelia.

She never got a response.

...

Three weeks passed by and Sherlock showed little sign of improvement, in fact, he only seemed to spiral more, much to Amelia's distress. He was found eventually after his little night time wonder through the streets of London, alone and confused, and returned to Baker Street after he had been found walking through the middle of the streets, almost hit by cars, by a few of Mycroft's men. Amelia couldn't say she was overly impressed that Mycroft had managed to lose sight of Sherlock for a few hours during that little adventure, but she kept it to herself. She kept almost everything to herself these days. Oh, she still checked in on Sherlock, tried to talk to him, tried to get him to seek help, but she rarely stayed longer than five minutes these days, in fact, this past week she hadn't even got up the stairs, greeted by Wiggins with a bag of laundry and a shopping list. Amelia had very nearly told him where he could stuff it, or rather told him to tell Sherlock, but she had kept that to herself, too. It wasn't her job to do this, but no one else would do it, save for Mrs Hudson, and Amelia couldn't let a seventy old woman with a bad hip run around after Sherlock like that, not when she had to deal with the stress of living below him every day. So she did it, still while working on her own cases, still while dealing with her own issues and stresses, still while her own breaking point grew closer.

"I'm afraid it was just a ploy, Mrs Bennet," Amelia sighed grimly, looking across from the emerald green, velvet armchair she sat in, to the older woman perched on the edge of a matching couch. The woman frowned instantly, dressed in an expensive pair of black trousers and white blouse with a yellow cardigan, a string of pearls around her neck.

"Excuse me?"

"The missing painting wasn't the true crime," she went on, trying to be as delicate as possible, even though she simply wished to finish up with this client already. She broke a piece of dry savoury biscuit up from the plate she had sitting on the marble top table by her armchair, popping it into her mouth. She couldn't bring herself to mind much if it wasn't overly professional.

"I...don't understand, Miss Wilson," the sixty five year old said slowly, eyeing her blankly.

"Mrs Bennet," she sighed, and placed the biscuit back down on the plate, shifting slightly so that she was leaning slightly towards her, her bare legs crossed, one flesh coloured Louboutin heel sat against the white, fluffy rug that covered the dark wood stained floorboards. She kept her expression as neutral as possible, though she wished inwardly that she could speak as bluntly as Sherlock normally would during a case like this...but that wasn't her style of working, but she was tired and experience told her that Mrs Bennet was going to be possibly difficult client, "I am very sorry, but for me to fully explain this to you, we're going to have to go further back in time from the theft of your late husband's painting," she took a deep breath, her gaze moving to linger on the wooden walking stick that sat by Mrs Bennet, "And it all begins with the start of your illness".

"My illness? But I don't..."

"You started to notice a slight weakness about a year ago, didn't you?" she cut across her smoothly, lifting a pointed eyebrow at her, though she already knew the answer. The woman paused and blinked in surprise, but she continued swiftly, "You went to different doctors and specialists, undertook test after test to try and determine the cause, but nothing seemed to come from any of it, and as the months went by your symptoms grew more progressive. Numbness within your fingers and toes became weakness in your very limbs, some days to the point that even leaving your bed was difficult, but still no one could determine what was causing it. You tried multiple treatments in the hopes of recovery, everything from holistic medicine to even immunosuppressant's, with little sign of improvement still".

Mrs Bennet shifted slightly uncomfortably, subconsciously reaching out to touch the silver handle of her walking stick, "Well...yes," she nodded, frowning at Amelia with a vaguely affronted expression, "My health concerns are hardly a secret, Miss Wilson, but I still fail to see what they have to do with my case. I came to you for the safe recovery of my husband's painting..."

"The painting has already been sold on, Mrs Bennet," Amelia gave her an apologetic look as her eyes widened slightly, "I am sorry, but attempting to recover it is made slightly difficult by the fact that, technically, it was sold on by perfectly legal means".

"Excuse me?"

She sighed faintly, barely holding back to the urge to roll her eyes in exasperation, "The sale of it isn't a crime, so my hands are rather tied in regards to acquiring the painting, unless you wish to attempt to negotiate a price with the new owner in order to obtain the painting once more".

"That's..." Mrs Bennet opened and closed her mouth slowly, her slightly too dark red lipstick making her already pale skin look sickly, "That's not possible..." she shook her head slowly, staring at Amelia in utter confusion and bafflement, "I never...I would never have sold that painting. My late husband had treasured it, I would never..."

"I didn't say that it was you that had sold it," Amelia said quietly, watching her with a sympathetic look, one that she truly did mean, even if she might have wished to simply wrap up this whole case quickly...she did feel for the woman before her. She might not have lost someone to murder, but she had still been victimised. Mrs Bennet stopped short and gaped at her faintly, making her sigh heavily, "Mrs Bennet, it was your daughter who sold the painting".

She froze at that, her features creasing, "Angelia?"

She nodded in confirmation, "Five years ago Angelia almost lost everything to gambling debts, didn't she?" she eyed her closely, watching carefully as Mrs Bennet paled very slightly, her lips pressing into a sharp, thin line at the memory. She didn't wait for her to agree or disagree, knowing it was the truth, "You stepped in back then, helped her on the agreement, I expect, that she clean up her act and seek help for her addiction, and she did...for a time. But somewhere in the past two years she slipped again, fell back onto old habits, began racking up debts again..." she lightly shrugged one shoulder, "She couldn't come to you for help, perhaps she didn't want to disappoint you? Maybe she feared you would retract your support and kick her out of the house you share? Regardless...she suddenly found herself rather stuck and facing a large pit of debts, desperate for a means of saving herself before those that she owed began calling in the loans she had taken out, loans that rather often come from some less then pleasant individuals".

God, this was striking a little close to home. Perhaps if she had realised just what a turn this case would have taken, she would have considered turning it down when Mrs Bennet had emailed her a week ago, but she had taken it, because it had seemed like a relatively decent distraction. Lestrade hadn't come calling with any curious murders lately and she had been rather sick of sitting around, watching rubbish reality TV shows and half expecting the phone to ring for some sort of Sherlock emergency. But a part of her was also pleased that she had taken on the case...it had proven far more interesting than your average painting robbery or fraud case, as she had intentionally assumed it would be...she just felt bad for Mrs Bennet and her daughter, Angelia.

"That was when she came up with a plan," Amelia continued grimly, while Mrs Bennet could only stare at her in increasing shock and disbelief, "Going to you, as I said, wasn't likely an option in her mind, not directly, but you were still her only hope. So she began slipping something into your food or drink, after all, she lives with you, naturally you would trust her to cook for you, so it would have only have been too easy..." she paused, then, and met her eyes, her gaze growing gentler, "I don't believe she intended to hurt you, Mrs Bennet, just...distract you enough for you not to notice sums of money disappearing from your bank accounts, here and there, expensive trinkets disappearing from the house..."

"This is...outrageous," Mrs Bennet breathed weakly, looking rather faint as she sat back against the couch, suddenly looking far more frail and older then her sixty years would lead one to believe she was. She shook her head slowly, looking utterly lost, as if her entire world had just been turned upside down...and it had been, "You're wrong...Angelia would never...it...it can't be...no..."

Amelia sighed heavily and nodded sadly, "I can't imagine how difficult this must be, Mrs Bennet," she told her softly, truly feeling for her, "But I'm afraid that I'm not wrong, I wish I was. If you want proof then you could always take a sample of food and drink taken for testing, I have a few contacts that I could reach out to for you, if you would like," she lightly shrugged, "Given your extensive medical testing, I think it's possible that whatever drug your daughter has been slipping you seems to be undetectable by most blood tests, but it may just have been missed because no one was looking for it or perhaps another means of testing could uncover it. Hair samples, for instance, could prove useful...though, I must confess that I'm not a chemist. My experience with poisons is relatively limited".

"I simply don't...believe it..." she shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper, "I...I can't...she's my daughter".

She winced at that, nodding slowly as she considered her. She felt for Mrs Bennet, she truly did, what a horrible thing to have to consider that your own flesh and blood might have been intentionally causing your sickness, making your possibly fear that you are even dying, for months and months, all because of an addiction. She also felt sorry for Angelia. She was a victim too, a victim of her own disease, and she needed help.

"I really couldn't be more sorry, Mrs Bennet," Amelia said, her tone heavy, "And while I may not be able to return your painting, I do have some resources I can get you in contact with".

"You mean the police?" she looked up sharply, suddenly looking angry.

Amelia paused, "If that's the path you decide to take," she replied carefully, regarding her calmly, "But I think you should take some time first...think it over..." her phone dinged in her inner breast pocket of her light green blazer and she frowned vaguely, her eye immediately dropping down to her front, where her blazer was open, revealing the V-neck, sleeveless cream blouse she had tucked into a pair of matching green shorts. She quickly brought her gaze back up to Mrs Bennet, who looked horribly lost and torn now, some of the anger sizzling out, "Mrs Bennet, I really do think you should take a moment to consider what you wish to do, as you said, this is your daughter and you should make sure that you are one-hundred percent positive about the situation before acting. I'll give you some contacts..."

Her phone dinged again and she hesitated as she reached for a pad and pen that she had sitting on the table by her chair, having been ready just for this. She had barely dismissed the ding, before another went off and she hastily glanced at Mrs Bennet.

"I apologise for my phone," she said quickly, hurriedly scribbling down the names and numbers of a few of her contacts. She had reconnected with a few of her old contacts that she had used years ago, after all, she didn't have a personal chemist in Sherlock or doctor in John to be able to consult with for cases any more, and she would rather not send Mrs Bennet to Molly. She finished and rose from the armchair to stand, holding the slip of paper out to Mrs Bennet, giving her a sympathetic look as the older woman slowly stood, too, though she looked just...shattered, "Are you going to be alright, Mrs Bennet?"

"I just...I don't know what to do..."

Amelia sighed...yeah, she knew that feeling pretty damn well, "Just...think on it," she told her instead, her phone dinging again. Bloody hell, was London falling or something? She hate to feel as if she was rushing Mrs Bennet out into the streets after dropping such a horrible bombshell on her, but the conversation was over and aside from Amelia suggesting, slightly uncharacteristically, that perhaps they ought to sit down and have a cup of tea, what more could she do? So she gently guided Mrs Bennet from the room and into the entrance, saying her goodbyes to the older woman and insisting that she should call her, should she have any further needs or concerns, attempting to stress, again, that she ought to think about her options before settling on doing anything that she may come to regret, before Mrs Bennet was gone.

The moment the door was closed, she was fishing her phone from her blazer and, just in time for it to start ringing. She almost dropped it in surprise as Mrs Hudson's name flashed across the screen, showing a picture of the land lady smiling widely up at the camera. She frowned deeply, a wave of dread washing over her as she stared at the screen for a moment, just letting it ring because...there was no reason for Mrs Hudson to be calling her right now, no reason for someone else to be blowing up her phone with texts, because Amelia knew for certain those messages had been from someone else. If Mrs Hudson was calling her, then she could only imagine that it was Billy who had been texting her, which could only mean one thing: Something big had happened with Sherlock. Still...her finger hovered over the little green phone icon, her heart in her throat, until she forced herself to touch the screen at the fourth ring.

"Mrs Hudson," Amelia said in answering, her voice sounding far more calm then her heart pounding furiously in her chest made her feel, "What's happened?"

"Oh, it's Sherlock, Amelia," Mrs Hudson cried, sounding rather anxious, "He's...Oh, he's really lost it this time, Amelia! I don't know what to do, he just keeps shouting and shooting at things, and the neighbours..."

The muffled noise of gunfire going off from the other end of the line thundered and she broke off with a small gasp. Amelia's eyes widened in horror.

"Mrs Hudson," she cut in as calmly as she possibly could, taking a deep breath, "I'll be there as soon as possible, just...let him go, you know what he's like. I'm leaving right now".

She ended the call, before Mrs Hudson could say anything else, knowing that she would likely just fret and fuss, and dashed upstairs to grab her flesh tone handbag, forgoing a coat. She had no idea what she was about to walk in on at Baker Street, but she could guess that it wasn't going to be pretty or easy to deal with, if even Mrs Hudson was worried enough to call her in. On top of that it also sounded like Sherlock had a bloody gun, how the hell he managed to get that, she had no idea, considering that she had got rid of his weeks ago...what the hell was going on?

And so it begins! I've waited ages to get to this point, but I do feel pretty bad about what a big shift that there has been between Sherlock and Amelia, for real, this time. This is either going to make or break them, quite honestly, anything could happen...

Next chapter, Amelia and Mrs Hudson team up, Amelia comes to a horrible home truth about her possible future with Sherlock, and the game is on! Like always, Amelia's outfit will be up on my Tumblr, if you're interested at all. Tell me what you thought, please review :)