Dusk was settling over London by the time I got to Scotland Yard.

I paid the driver and stood before the building. There looked to be many floors. How the hell was I going to find John and Sherlock when I got in there?

Actually, it turned out I wouldn't need to go direction hunting, because after I took in the building, my eyes found John approaching me.

"You have a lot of explaining to do," I told him as I met him. We started heading for the doors. "Tell me everything, from the very beginning."

John dived right in without hesitation: "We got to the boarding school. Apparently, the children were the only two sleeping on a certain floor. We checked out both rooms. The brother's room is where we found a lot. Well, Sherlock did at least."

"Which was...?"

"The door to the boy's room had a window, so he would recognize any shape on the other side of the door. He must've realized a stranger was coming for him." John got the door for me, we both slipped inside. Noises of office life flew into my ears. "Before he was kidnapped, the boy used linseed oil to help us. He'd written 'help us' on his bedroom wall, and he dowsed his feet in the oil—we found prints in the dark.

"Sherlock concluded that the boy was ushered out at gunpoint." My stomach roiled. "His sister was pulled alongside him; their kidnapper had an arm around her neck." I exhaled shakily. "Should I keep going?"

"Please do."

"I won't if it makes you uneasy, Rachel."

"I can handle it, John." I said this a bit too sharply, and quickly. "Sorry."

"Sherlock scraped some samples of the oil and floor wax in the school, and then we headed to St. Bart's."

"What's that?"

"A hospital."

"Why go there?"

"We have a friend there who could help us, Molly Hooper."

"Never heard of her."

"Now you have. You two should meet sometime, I'm sure you'd get along well."

"Let's get back on track, John," I told him.

"Right. The oil in the kidnapper's footprint had chemical traces in it. We'd be able to find out every place he'd been. Sherlock had found four substances in the footprint, but he was having trouble with a fifth. Then I realized something. Back at the school, in the sister's room, there was an envelope left in her trunk. In it was a book of Grimm Fairytales."

"I don't know where you're going with this."

"Well, earlier, before I found you at the stairs, I found an envelope similar at our doorstep. It was full of bread crumbs."

"I still don't get where this is going."

"Think about it, Rachel. What story involves children and bread crumbs?"

I swallowed. "Hansel and Gretel." I exhaled deeply. "He really goes to great lengths to make things interesting, doesn't he?"

"So the fifth substance was PGPR, something used to make chocolate. We came back here. In the meantime, Moriarty was graciously letting us know that the children were dying." John scowled. "We were trying to find a place that had all the substances in one area: brick dust, PGPR, chalk, asphalt, and vegetation. Our main thinking was an abandoned chocolate factory."

"Where else would you find chocolate?" I agreed.

"Sherlock found a bunch of disused factories in Addlestone that had everything in it."

"I hate to interrupt the tale, but how close are we to where you want to take me?"

"We're getting there," John assured me. "We came across empty wrappers and a candle. Sherlock noted it was just put out by the time we got there, so the children were still in the factory."

"Wait a minute, I don't understand something. How was Moriarty killing the children?"

"It turned out that the wrappers were painted with Mercury."

I blanched, but didn't stop walking alongside John. Leave it to Moriarty to make something so sweet as chocolate become deadly.

"Donovan was the one who found the children in the end. They both looked shaken. Never have I seen such a pitiful sight."

"So how are they now?"

"The boy's currently unconscious, his sister is awake though. Before I came out to meet you outside, Donovan and Lestrade were talking to the girl."

I shook my head. I didn't want to believe that two innocent children had slowly been killing themselves by fattening up on Mercury-laced chocolate. Moriarty never got his hands dirty, that's the one thing I learned about him. He never physically murdered anybody; he had others do it for him. He had blood on his hands despite not directly killing anybody.

"I don't know how much help they'll be, John. They're only children," I said softly. "I think talking about who took them is the last thing they'd want to do."

John opened another door for me. The first thing I saw was Sherlock, who was—naturally—pacing in front of another door. Most likely Donovan, Lestrade, and the girl were on the other side. My heart ached. I wanted to interrupt the questioning going on and hug that poor little girl. I wanted to hold her and tell her that it was all over, that no bad men would ever come for her again.

"You told her to come here?" Sherlock groaned.

"What else was I supposed to do?" John retorted.

"Keep her informed."

"He did," I piped. "He told me the full story while we were walking here. I may not be in the investigation business like you both, but I'm a part of this. We've got a common enemy."

I yelped when my phone went off in my pocket. I looked down at it. Amanda was calling me. I bit my lip. I ignored her call but quickly texted that now wasn't a good time. She texted back saying she understood and that she hoped everything was all right.

If only.

"Scared of your phone?" Sherlock asked.

"Wouldn't you be if it suddenly vibrated?" My eyes met his. We held gazes. I had a feeling he was deducting my strange reaction. It wouldn't be strange to John probably, but to Sherlock, he knew it meant something. My heart hammered in my ribcage. Would he find out that I had been visited by the Devil, like the Devil promised?

The door in front of me opening interrupted the awkward gaze between Sherlock and me. Donovan and Lestrade came out. Neither looked surprised that I was here.

"Right, then," Lestrade said. I could hear the sarcasm in his voice. He was addressing Sherlock. "The professionals have finished. If the amateurs want to go in and have their turn..." Lestrade's eyes hardened at Sherlock. "Now, remember, she's in shock and she's just seven years old, so anything you can do to be..."

"...not be myself," Sherlock finished.

"Yeah. Might be helpful."

"Are you staying out here, Rachel?" John asked me.

"I'm going in," I said firmly.

Sherlock flattened the collar of his coat before leading me and John into the room. I peeked past Sherlock to see the little girl who was accompanied by an officer. The poor thing, she looked so shaken up. Who could blame her?

"Claudette, I—" Sherlock began. I flinched when Claudette lifted her head and began to scream. "No-no, I know it's been hard for you." The girl continued to scream. She threw a small finger at Sherlock. "Claudette, listen to me..."

She didn't seem like she wanted to be in the same room as him.

"Out," Lestrade ordered him. "Get out!" I was nearly pushed into the wall as Lestrade grabbed a hold of the consulting detective and pulled him out of the room. The officer beside the girl held her and was crooning words to her. I could only watch. "Rachel." I looked out the door to see Lestrade peek his head in. "You too."

"But—"

"I will haul you out like I did him."

Reluctantly, I left Claudette, who was still being calmed down by the female officer.

Lestrade closed the door the moment I was out of the room. I shook my head, wondering why she screamed the moment Sherlock walked into the room. Moriarty must've traumatized her. He had to have done something to her. Lestrade motioned for me to follow him as he led me to another room.

"So, you have a past with trouble?" he asked quietly.

I threw him a glance. That was totally unexpected. "Let me guess, Sherlock told you."

"Actually, no, he didn't tell me. John did."

"Seriously?"

Lestrade nodded. "I asked him when he let you know about the children being safe. He didn't tell me your life story, just the things he thought you wouldn't mind me hearing."

"Like what?"

"You know what kind of a man we're dealing with. You've been with him before."

"Define 'been with'."

"You were a hostage to him, weren't you?"

Oh. Good. I thought John mentioned my relationship with the Jim Moriarty I had thought I had known at the time. I nodded to Lestrade. "I just hope the man is caught and put away this time. He can't keep avoiding time forever."

"Do you believe that?"

"What?"

"That he'll be put away. He got off free at his trial."

"I know. I was there." I frowned. "I want to believe it, really, I do. But a man like him can get away with anything, Lestrade."

"Please, call me Greg," he insisted. I smiled.

When we found the others again, this room was slightly different. Blinds were pulled over the windows. Sherlock seemed to be staring through the slits between the blinds. I didn't know what he was hoping to see.

"Makes no sense," John muttered.

"What doesn't?" I asked.

"The girl screaming."

"She's traumatized!"

"Something about Sherlock reminds her of the kidnapper," Lestrade—Greg—mused.

"So what's she said?" John pressed.

"Hasn't uttered another syllable," Donovan reported.

"And the boy?"

"No, he's unconscious, still in intensive care," Greg explained. The breath was almost knocked out of me at the words intensive care.

I chewed on my tongue, deep in thought. What did Claudette's kidnapper and Sherlock have in common that would make her react to him being close to her so badly? I couldn't understand it. I felt like there was a piece we were all missing to this puzzle.

"Well, don't let it get to you," Greg said, aiming the comment at Sherlock. He was still staring through the blinds. "I always feel like screaming when you walk into a room! In fact, so do most people." Greg eyed Donovan, John, and me. "Come on."

John and I followed Greg out of the office. I looked at my phone, wondering when I should call Amanda back.

"John," I said, "you think we should head back to the apartment?"

"We will, don't worry. I have a feeling we'll be waiting a little bit, though, considering I don't think Sherlock is following us."

I sighed. Of course Sherlock would slow things down a bit.

We both bid our goodbyes to Lestrade—Greg, I was going to have to get used to that—and exited Scotland Yard. The night London air was crispy, lightly attacking our bodies. John and I stood on the sidewalk, waiting for Sherlock to come out so we could all get a taxi and get back home together.

It was weird to say it, that 221B was home to me now. I felt like I was forgetting my home back in Maryland, with Amanda. My other home, with my adoptive parents. I felt like I had three homes: the one I grew up in, the one I lived in for the past few years, and the one I had in London.

John and I hadn't waited as long as I thought for Sherlock to join us. We walked towards the curb of the street, John called the taxi. Sherlock was mute, a concentrated look in his eyes.

"You okay?" I asked him.

"Thinking," he mumbled. Soon enough, our taxi pulled up. "This is my cab. You two get the next one."

Okay, so not our taxi. "Hold on, what?" I asked.

"Why?" John demanded.

"You two might talk," Sherlock said.

John and I watched Sherlock clamber in. We both watched it speed off.

"Does this happen often?" I dared to ask.

"What? Him pull stunts like this? You shouldn't be surprised by the things he does."

I snorted. "I shouldn't," I agreed, "but I doubt that he'll stop surprising me." I shook my head as John got us another taxi. We both climbed in.

"Where to, lovebirds?" the driver joked. She must've gotten a lot of couples in her taxi, because she sounded like she asked the question often.

"We're not dating," I retorted lightly. God, I hated when people assumed those kinds of things. "Just follow that taxi." I pointed to the one that Sherlock just got in.