A short while later, Sherlock returned fully clothed, the white sheet discarded and his wonderfully muscular body hidden once again. Elizabeth silently scolded herself for thinking that again. She would not get involved with him like that. She couldn't. He was a - it occurred to her that she didn't know what he was to her. Was he a babysitter? Was he a friend? Or perhaps still just an acquaintance? What was she to them? Still an inconvenience? The worries hit her at a terrifying velocity.

Trying her best to dismiss them, the thief moved to the middle of the sofa so Sherlock could sit on the end. She was also clothed now and a little more comfortable in the black leggings and red blouse they had fetched for her once again, especially considering her last pile of clothes were somewhere on the streets of London.

"I'll be mother." Mycroft forced a smile as he began pouring tea for everyone.

"And there is a whole childhood in a nutshell." Stated Sherlock bluntly, the expressive features on his face unmoving.

"My employer has a problem." The equerry interjected to avoid another sibling quarrel.

Mycroft continued for him, "A matter has come to light of an extremely delicate and potentially criminal nature, and in this hour of need, dear brother, your name has arisen."

"Why? You have a police force of sorts and even a marginally secret service. Why come to me?"

"People do come to you for help, don't they, Mr Holmes?" The equerry questioned.

"Not, to date, anyone with a navy." Came the sassy response.

"This is a matter of the highest security, and therefore of trust." Mycroft's gaze narrowed at his brother.

"You don't trust your own secret service?" John questioned, his brow hooded over his eyes which burned with concern for the monarchy.

"Naturally not, they all spy on people for money."

Harry disliked how off-track they were getting and verbally prompted Mycroft to continue, "I do think we have a timetable."

"Yes of course um..."

The older Holmes opened the briefcase by his feet and pulled out shiny, A4-sized photos of a woman and handed them to Sherlock.

"What do you know about this woman?"

"Nothing whatsoever."

"Then you should be paying more attention." Mycroft seemed to scald the detective, "She's been at the centre of two politicial scandals in the last year and recently ended the marriage of a prominent novelist by having an affair with both participants separately."

"You know I don't concern myself with trivia. Who is she?"

"Irene Adler. Professionally known as The Woman."

Elizabeth's heart stopped. Wasn't that the woman Jim had told her about once and she had referred to before this whole mess? Was this his chance to try and get back at Elizabeth through someone else? It would make sense. He was one for dramatics and to get to her through the Royal Family? It did seem like something he would do.

"Professionally?" John asked.

"There are many names for what she does. She prefers Dominatrix."

"Dominatrix." Sherlock muttered this without looking away from the photograph.

"Don't be alarmed. It's to do with sex." Came Mycroft's snide remark.

Sherlock looked up at his brother immediately, "Sex doesn't alarm me."

"How would you know?"

"Sorry, can I go to the loo?" Elizabeth interrupted their conversation.

All four men promptly looked at her with questionable gazes.

"What? Did I say the wrong word?"

"No. But why leave when the story is just getting interesting? Sherlock has informed me about your excursions with him and Mr Watson because you too are supposedly equally as bored at the flat as when Sherlock doesn't have a case. Surely, you'd understand it's only natural to be curious about your... intentions." Mycroft said this pointedly, his eyebrows falling ever so slightly.

Her eyes narrowed, "Well, maybe, I'm just getting a bit sick of all the testosterone in here," She paused, "Or maybe there are other *monthly* matters one must attend to, Mycroft."

The elder's face went pinkish in the cheeks as she said this but he said nothing back. There was a smug look on Sherlock's face, amused at seeing Mycroft's immature response to something that was simply a natural biological occurrence for a woman.

"Mycroft, timetable." Harry stated both  urgently and bluntly before looking to Elizabeth, "Apologies, Miss Parrish, of course you can go. I'll take you."

"Thank you. At least someone is gentlemanly around here." Elizabeth sarcastically smiled at Mycroft before leaving to follow the equerry.

Stopping outside the door to the bathroom, Harry nodded for her to go in, "You can remember the way back?"

"Yes. You can trust me to come back alone?"

Harry smiled, "I trust that you won't disappoint your friends."

Elizabeth frowned thoughtfully at this but nodded, "Thank you."

There was the word again: friends. But were they all really friends? She certainly wouldn't mind it if they were. After all, they were the only people who (somewhat) willingly took her in  without wanting to kill her after what had happened. Clearly Mycroft viewed her as an employee. She still didn't understand for what purpose. But John and Sherlock's opinion of her was harder to discern.

She entered the rather grand bathroom. Lord knew you didn't need a room so big for a sink and a toilet. Impressed by the scale, she headed over to the far side of the room to the sink. Obviously (to herself anyway) it wasn't really that time of the month. She'd be writhing in pain on the couch at 221B if it was but they didn't need to know that. She just needed to get away for a moment.

She looked at her weary eyes in the mirror and dishevelled hair and somewhat clear skin. Of course, they hadn't brought her brush but she would make do. Couldn't spend too long in here though. Her phone buzzed. She pulled it from the breast pocket in her shirt. What did Sherlock want? Or John. Or Mycroft even. They were the only three contacts in her phone but she hadn't been gone that long.

The lock screen simply read: you have a 1 new message.

Unlocking it, she saw that it wasn't any of the men she knew at all. Instead, a message from an unidentified number saying:

<Answer, don't speak.>

"Answer what?" She questioned quietly aloud.

But then her phone rang with the same unidentified number. Was it Jim? It was probably Jim. But why? And why now? Nervously, she answered the phone and held it up to her ear.

A male Scottish voice spoke at her, slightly shaky, "Don't - don't let on you know her. Don't let on - that you've had a call. The Woman will give - give you a message from - from me. Lo - love Jim."

With the panic that overwhelmed her logic, she couldn't help but wonder if this man was okay, "Are - "

Before she could finish the question, the man screamed on the other end of a phone and there were several loud gunshots. Then the line went dead. Elizabeth held the phone away from her, staring at the device as though it was a monster itself.

"Oh God..."

If she hadn't spoken, the man would still be alive. She killed him? He told her not to speak. Why didn't she listen? She cared and she shouldn't have cared. He really was serious about not speaking. God knows, it would have been the type of cruel trick Jim would pull. But oh God. She just heard someone die. Throwing up was all that she thought about for a moment. Putting the phone back in her breast pocket, she stared at her now traumatised eyes in the mirror.

No. She couldn't stay here for long. And she still had to delete it. But she didn't want to let them down. Turning on the tap, she splashed some water in her face before heading out. Nausea plagued her.

But then she saw an ashtray.

What easy it John has said? He was fighting the urge to steal an ashtray? Well, now she was too. But...

A simple, little, transparent ashtray on the counter at the side of the hallway.

A distraction.

No one would know. Her top was loose enough and leggings tight enough for her to be able to put it in the side of her leggings. And as long as she walked with her arms by her sides then it might look inconspicuous enough. She just wanted to think about anything other than what she had just heard. So that's exactly what she did. She took the ashtray, and continued walking back.

Then, she saw another.

A challenge.

Could she get away with two? A smile teased her lips. She really did miss the stealing. It gave her an adrenalin rush and it was just fun. And now she was stealing from bloody Buckingham Palace!

Enough of the stalling though, she had to get back. Back before they got suspicious. Sorry Harry, she thought quietly to herself, but sometimes a girl just has to have a little fun to forget the horror.

Elizabeth walked back into the room, seeing all four men stood up and her two flatmates (or cellmates? Should 'mate' have even been included?) looking about ready to depart. Although, Sherlock was going Harry a rather analytical look. She neared the small group a bit more, hanging a little bit behind so as to not distract.

"I'll need equipment, of course." The detective said hurriedly.

"Of course - "

Yet, wasn't going to let his brother interrupt his cocky moment in the spotlight, "Can I have a box of matches?"

"I'm sorry?" The equerry looked notably irked.

"Or your cigarette lighter, either will do." Sherlock held out his hand expectantly.

"I don't smoke."

"No. I know you don't, but your employer does."

John frowned at this revelation.

Feeling threatened now, the equerry neared the detective, "We have kept a lot of people successfully in the dark about this little fact, Mr Holmes." He handed over the lighter.

"I'm not the commonwealth." Sherlock said, pocketing the lighter before heading out of the room.

John promptly followed after he said, "And that's as modest as he gets. Pleasure to meet you."

"Laters." Sherlock sassily waved as he left.

Elizabeth ducked past Mycroft and the equerry now to hurry after the two but she didn't make it far.

"Miss Parrish." Mycroft called after her.

She stopped dead in the doorway. Before looking over her shoulder to the other men left in the room.

"I should go. They'll leave without me."

"They won't. They still have to wait for a taxi." He said, taking two strides over to her before dropping his tone, "Ashtray, now."

The way he said it made the hairs on the back of her neck stand up. And the cold glower in his eyes. She knew this was a situation she would not win. Without a word of protest, she removed the one from the right side of her leggings and handed it over to him.

"Thin ice, Miss Parrish. Thin. Ice."

"Yeah. I know. I heard you before." She paused, "What's this about me working for you?"

"I'm still going to put you to some use, after all."

"I'm already helping them track down Moriarty, what more can I possibly do?"

"Moriarty's best thief is bound to have skills that will be useful for some...operations, let's say."

"I'm not working for the government. Over my dead body."

"It can be if you so wish." He hissed, "You are in debt, Miss Parrish, and this is how you are going to pay it off."

Elizabeth gulped as Mycroft continued to stare her down. Neither spoke for a moment. Who knew almost stealing files that could have caused WWIII would make Mycroft this cold. Colder than she ever thought somebody could humanely be.

"Your taxi should be here in approximately one minute. I suggest you hurry along to Sherlock and John. They'll be wondering where you are."

Inhaling sharply, she turned on the spot and hurried away. Somehow, Mycroft Holmes had scared her more than Moriarty ever could in that moment. But no. She still had one victory. One ashtray.

Mycroft Holmes had underestimated her.

Perhaps he had underestimated Moriarty also, she too.

All she could do now was await her meeting with Irene Adler. And for that, she wouldn't have to wait long at all.