A/N - I will finish this before 100 chapters, I will finish this before 100 chapters...

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Nurses came and went from her room and a police officer had been stationed outside the door to her private recovery room. Not that she would be going anywhere for a while without assistance. She didn't say anything, eat anything or ask for anything because she wanted it to be over. Without Sherlock giving her the chance to explain and having seen that look in his eyes, she knew he wouldn't talk to her again.

Elizabeth shut her swollen eyes as she felt the tears dare to fall again.

And the doctors said she had been lucky to get to the hospital when she did. She would laugh if she knew it wouldn't hurt. Lucky? What a joke because this wasn't lucky. No, what would have been lucky would have been being given the chance to explain. That was all she wanted because had she done it sooner, perhaps she wouldn't be in this mess. Perhaps Sherlock wouldn't hate her and perhaps others wouldn't think her a liar.

She began to wonder if John did understand that she was trying to save him.

There was a knock at the door and to her slight shock, she saw Rita coming into her room.

She was dressed in black and white checkered trousers and wearing a long sleeved top, only daring to show the now healed scars on her face, neck and hands from the acid attack. It wasn't horrific but different, not vastly noticeable but the texture was disturbed enough that, if someone were closer to her, they would be able to tell that it was a scar from a burn. The bottom half of her face simply had more of a red and white tint to it.

"Elizabeth." She greeted quietly.

The thief had no words though. She watched the ex-surgeon approach her bed. Inhaling, Rita gazed around the room, taking in the drip, the beeping monitor, the ghastly drain, the bloodstained bandages and the look of numbness on Elizabeth's face.

"I owe you an apology - " She corrected herself, "Apologies."

She still said nothing, just looked away, looked at the plain, uninteresting ceiling.

"The last time we were here, I wasn't fair to you. I asked you to do something that I shouldn't have asked you to do. I'm sorry." Rita spoke gently, "And for faking my death, that I apologise for too though Cleo said she told you in which case I thank you for keeping quiet."

Elizabeth still didn't respond.

"Which then brings me to my last apology," She took a breath, "You - and Sherlock, of course - helped us to realise that we liked each other. And I wanted Mycroft back." Rita paused, trying to gauge how she would react, "I told Mycroft about you joining the gang."

This time Elizabeth turned her head to look at Rita, anguish raging in her stormy eyes.

"I told Mycroft that they planned to initiate you. I told him that that would be when there would be the most amount of thieves from the gang in one spot. I told him about the stashes." Rita spoke honestly, "Because I love him and because I wanted to earn his trust again."

Elizabeth wanted to yell.

"What I didn't tell him though, was that it was Moriarty's plan to kill you during the initiation. At least that was what Cleo told me. But I didn't tell him that because I didn't believe that was Moriarty's true intention."

"Get out."

"Elizabeth, I'm not done - "

"Get. Out."

"Elizabeth, please just let me - "

"NO!" She yelled, sitting up furiously and feeling something seem to pop but she paid little attention to the feeling, "Nothing will change this. Nothing! I don't care what you have to say, I don't care about your apologies, I don't care so  - " She groaned holding her stomach.

"Elizabeth?"

"Le - leave! Go!"

Rita got closer, trying to see if she could look at the wound, "Let me see your stomach - "

"NOT YOU!" She shrieked out of agony and fury, "Get ou - out - God, just go! Ah!" She lay back on the bed, still clutching her stomach.

When Rita saw the blood coming through her hospital gown, she pressed the call button on the wall by her bed, "I'll get you help."

"Leave!" She sobbed.

And so Rita did, hurrying out of the room, her expression one of emotional pain for a young woman (who she acknowledged had experienced so much trauma and pain in her life to the point that this was unbearable) she had once called a friend and had now betrayed herself.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

John had been on his way to draw money from an ATM.

Just to draw money - for food, for flowers, for the cabs - simply minding his own business when, once again, a mysterious message from the ATM screen told him that Mycroft wished to see him. Sighing, he had gotten into the car that had pulled up behind him.

Despite having a skirmish with the men there who tried to blatantly ignore him, he had soon been taken to Mycroft (albeit by force), who then regrettably informed him that there were now several assassins living on the same street as he and Sherlock. Presumably, Moriarty had placed them there. And then Mycroft had the cheek to ask John if he wouldn't mind looking out for his brother because of some sibling quarrel that had meant Sherlock wouldn't listen to him. Though, in all honesty, John thought that Mycroft may actually have been asking John to be there for Sherlock as a friend during this...emotionally tumultuous time. Yes, there were assassins but the army doctor had no doubt Mycroft was continuing to keep a watchful eye on them.

Before he headed back to the flat though, he got the item he had first intended to get after he had drawn money: flowers.

There were no blue orchids but there were red and white orchids. It was very English of him, he thought, but orchids should brighten her up a bit even if only a small bit.

But why did he care to cheer up the woman who had planned to watch him die?

Simply because he believed that trying to kill him hadn't been her intention at all. Elizabeth had saved him, he knew that much. John found this wasn't enough though, he had to find out more and not just for himself but for Sherlock too. If the detective wouldn't speak to her to get closure, then John would.

He knocked on her hospital door, walking in with a sympathetic smile on his face and the bouquet of orchids in hand.

Elizabeth looked at him weakly, silent seeing as her last visitor had left her requiring another round of surgery. She didn't really know why he was even here.

"Hi." John greeted with a little nod, "How are you feeling? They said you had to go for surgery again last night."

The thief didn't respond just looked at him, waiting for a snap.

"I brought you these." John held up the flowers shyly, "Orchids. I did look for blue but they only had these - "

"Why are you here?" She croaked.

John frowned, "Because...you're my friend."

"I don't remember hitting you in the head."

He laughed through his nose, "You didn't but..." John noticed she wasn't finding the humour in this.

"But?"

"But you are a crap shot." He smiled, "That was arguably lucky for me."

There was some light that sparked in her eyes at this statement. Yet she still didn't understand why he was here.

"You think I should hate you - why?"

"Because I'm a good-for-nothing liar and a fickle thief. And Sherlock certainly hates me for it so why wouldn't you?"

"No, you're not. Well, you are but you're not good for nothing and I don't think you really are fickle."

"John just go."

"No."

"Please."

"No." The army doctor shook his head, "I want to hear your side of the story because Elizabeth, you saved me."

The thief tilted her head, a little more hopeful now that he had admitted he had understood why she had to shoot him. She shuffled in her bed, groaning a bit from both being sat in the same position for too long and from the healing wound in her stomach.

"I know you did what you did to save me but now I want to understand the whole story from your perspective." John added, urging her to explain.

She looked at him, hopeful that she hadn't lost everyone and saw that genuine gleam in his expression, "Just - what happened to you? Because you went missing and Sherlock and I searched but we couldn't find anything and Crystal - we were beginning to think that you might have..."

"What? No, no." John shook his head, woe reaching his eyes at the thought of the late receptionist, "I went back to her house and just as we were going to leave, Moriarty and one of his goons - Sebastian, I think he called him - forced us to stay in the house."

"So Jim was involved?"

John nodded, "They kept us quiet in the house for hours until we had a chance to get out but when we tried to leave, Cleo and Amber were at the front door and then..." John looked at the floor, "Sebastian strangled Crystal. I couldn't help her..."

"I'm sorry...you know it isn't your fault though?" Elizabeth asked.

He nodded, "It...it is what it is...but go on, your turn."

"I was going to tell you and Sherlock. I could just never find the right time. There was always a case or another issue or a baby...I wanted to tell you." She paused, "I met Cleo at Greg's Halloween party. She offered me a job. I refused at first but I kept her number but I wasn't going to do anything with it. Thieve's code. She hadn't done anything wrong to me so it seemed unfair to just hand her in."

"So then why did you contact her?"

"I was angry. It was after Sherlock had condemned Irene and I just needed a distraction. But I had no intention of turning on you all - the distraction was that I would try to stupidly take down an entire gang from the inside."

"But why? Why alone? Why not tell me even?"

"Because I knew it would be dangerous and I would rather risk only my life until I knew enough to take them down. I still felt like I needed to prove - ironically - my loyalty to Mycroft. I thought delivering an entire gang network on my own would be enough to do that."

"You never needed to prove yourself any more to Sherlock and I though."

"I felt like I did. I felt like Mycroft's opinion mattered most seeing as he had the power to lock me away and wasn't ever phased about bringing it up as often as he could."

"I just wish you told us sooner."

Elizabeth nodded, "Cleo said I would meet a contact of hers on the cruise which happened to be Rita who asked if I truly wished to join. Matters then got worse when Rita had chemicals thrown over her by one of Jim's goons. In hospital, she explained that Moriarty had approached Cleo to get her to coax me back into crime and away from you, away from Sherlock. He succeeded in that."

John set the orchids down on the table as he listened.

"Then, Cleo's goons kidnapped me. And while I was away, Sherlock and Mycroft started to blame Rita. Cleo essentially accepted that situation but then to draw any potential attention away from me, she beat me, made it look like the Elephants wouldn't want anything to do with me. I should have told Sherlock then."

"I'm sorry you went through that."

She shrugged, "I was stubborn. I should have asked for help. But I kept on. When we went to Devon and Sherlock had his break down, when I got back, I needed a distraction then too. And what better way to distract myself than to assist with a heist at the Bank of England?"

The cogs turned, "Elizabeth, there was CCTV footage that Sherlock and I saw. Did you...?"

She shook her head, "I don't kill. I made that promise to myself. I might have raised my gun but I couldn't take a life - Amber shot the guard." She sighed, moving on quickly, "After that there were the odd jobs. Stealing from shops, from other gangs, sometimes in groups or alone. There was one job I hated most - an ambush, an organised beating. It wasn't me, it felt like I wasn't in control of my own actions, but...you should have seen the state we - I - left him in. I still hate myself for it and you," Her eyes watered again, "John, I'm so sorry for hurting you, I didn't want to, I never wanted to. The stealing I couldn't help but enjoy but the violence, the beatings, the killings, that's not me. It was never me. But now Sherlock thinks that it is and he hates me for it, and don't say he doesn't because he does." She sniffled.

John reached his hand out to hold hers, "I believe you, Elizabeth, I do."

"Thank you. I'm sorry."

"It's okay," He reassured the joked again, "Like I said, you're a crap shot. Just a flesh wound, no lasting damage."

She smiled a bit at hearing this again.

"But thank God you're a stellar actress." John smirked a little at this, "You chilled me with the psycho speech."

A little laugh left her lips, "Well, what else do you learn when you're raised with a bloody psychopath?"

John smiled, "Thank you for saving me and thank you for finally telling me."

Elizabeth nodded sincerely. Better late than never, she thought.

"I'll talk to Sherlock."

"He won't listen to you." She shook her head hopelessly, "You didn't see the way he looked me."

"I'll still talk to him."

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

John arrived back at Baker Street a while later, his intentions clear in his head: he would talk to Sherlock about Elizabeth's true intentions behind joining the gang. The challenge was getting him to listen.

He paused by the open door to the flat, noticing a beige envelope with a red wax seal leaning against the wall. His brow hooded over his eyes as he looked at it, picking it up to look for any writing but found none. Opening it, he felt fluffy white bread crumbs fall out into his hand. How bizarre.

"'Scuse, mate." One of the renovators who held a ladder edged past John into the flat.

He pocketed the odd envelope and headed inside, straight up the stairs, "Sherlock, there's something weird - " He paused as he saw Donovan and Lestrade in the flat too, "What’s going on?"

"Kidnapping." Sherlock answered, heading over to the table chair to use the laptop.

"Rufus Bruhl," Greg elaborated, "The ambassador to the U.S."

"He's in Washington, isn't he?"

"Not him – his children," The inspector answered John, "Max and Claudette, age seven and nine. They’re at St Aldate’s."

"Posh boarding place down in Surrey." Sally added, showing John the pictures before letting Greg continue.

"The school broke up. All the other boarders went home - just a few kids remained, including those two."

"The kids have vanished." Donovan stated.

"The ambassador’s asked for you personally." Lestrade directed this at Sherlock as he stood and walked past them.

And Donovan couldn't help but make a snarky comment, "The Reichenbach Hero..."

Sherlock barely paused in the doorway at hearing her comment. John didn't really approve of Sally's comments but there was no point in protesting - she just kept on anyway. In this situation, John was a little glad that Elizabeth wasn't here otherwise he sensed there may have been a bit of a cat fight.

"Isn’t it great to be working with a celebrity..." Lestrade muttered sarcastically as he followed after Sherlock, Donovan and John trailing behind him.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

They were at St Aldate's within half an hour. Police officers littered the grounds, all forming search lines across the open grass in search of any evidence. A handful of police cars remained by the entrance to the building and by one car was a kindly-looking, upset, little old woman.

"Miss Mackenzie, House Mistress." Lestrade explained and seeing a hint of harshness in the detective's eyes, quickly said, "Go easy."

"Miss Mackenzie, you're in charge of pupil welfare, yet you left this place wide open last night!" Sherlock started to raise his voice, "What are you: an idiot, a drunk or a criminal?" He ripped off her shock blanket as he yelled, "Now quickly, tell me!"

"All the doors and windows were properly bolted." Came her frail, snivelling voice, "No-one - not even me - went into their room last night. You have to believe me!"

"I do. I just wanted you to speak quickly." He gave her a softer look before he turned away, "Miss Mackenzie will need to breathe into a bag now."

John just stood in awe of the harshness of his friend. Would he have acted up this way if it wasn't for discovering his girlfriend was a liar? If he wouldn't, then John knew he needed to have his conversation with him quickly before he spiralled more.

Inside, they looked at the girls dormitory first. Sherlock analysed the area around and under Claudette's bed, picking up a hobby horse, swinging it around as he wondered if she had tried to defend herself. He came to the conclusion that it simply must have fallen though.

"Six grand a term, you’d expect them to keep the kids safe for you." John said to the inspector, "You said the other kids had all left on their holidays?

"They were the only two sleeping on this floor. Absolutely no sign of a break-in. The intruder must have been hidden inside some place."

Donovan, Lestrade and John watched as Sherlock paced over to the toy box, opening it to find a thick beige envelope with a red wax seal. He opened it, pulling out a book of Grimm's Fairy Tales. Jim's words echoed in his head:

Every fairy tale needs a good old-fashioned villain.

And then with Jim's words, came the words from mind palace version of Elizabeth, the liar and thief:

I know who did this and over my dead body will he get away with it.

"Show me where the brother slept." Sherlock commanded, not wishing to think about her.

In the boys dormitory, Sherlock marched down the corridor to the room, pushing the door open slowly, a shrill whine coming from the hinges. As everyone followed, he took a moment to gather his thoughts and pointed to the bed.

Go on then. Show off to them.

The detective shook his head before speaking, "The boy sleeps there every night, gazing at the only light source outside in the corridor. He’d recognise every shape, every outline, the silhouette of everyone who came to the door."

The inspector prompted him, "Okay, so?"

"So someone approaches the door who he doesn’t recognise, an intruder." He paced over, closing the door so they could see his own blurred silhouette behind the glass, "Maybe he can even see the outline of a weapon." Coming back into the room, he paced over to the bed again, "What would he do in the precious few seconds before they came into the room? How would he use them if not to cry out?" He crouched down, looking at the books in his bed side table, "This little boy, this particular little boy - who reads all of those spy books. What would he do?"

"He’d leave a sign?" John suggested.

And then the scent hit him - something subtly nutty, fishy even. He turned, picking up the boy's cricket bat and smelling that - which had the same smell. He got to searching under the bed and pulled out an almost empty glass bottle.

"Get Anderson!"

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

The light from the windows was blocked out with black sheets and a few people now held UV lights. Sherlock waved his light over the wall, reading the words 'help us'.

"Linseed oil." Sherlock said.

"Not much use." Anderson criticised, "Doesn’t lead us to the kidnapper."

"Brilliant, Anderson."

"Really?"

"Yes. Brilliant impression of an idiot." Sherlock rolled his eyes as he shone the light down, "The floor."

John was shocked when he saw the footprints, "He made a trail for us!"

"The boy was made to walk ahead of them."

"On, what, tiptoe?" John questioned.

"Indicates anxiety, a gun held to his head." Sherlock explained as they followed the trail out of the room, "The girl was pulled beside him, dragged sideways. He had his left arm cradled about her neck."

"That’s the end of it." Anderson announced when the footsteps stopped, "We don’t know where they went from here. Tells us nothing after all."

"You’re right, Anderson. Nothing." Sherlock sighed, almost feeling sorry for Anderson because his stupidity couldn't let him see the obvious, "Except his shoe size, his height, his gait, his walking pace."

Anderson rolled his eyes as he watched Sherlock turn off his light and then rip the black sheet off the window he was stood near. Sherlock crouched on the floor, taking out his own little CSI kit from inside his coat and John crouched next him as he took out a scalpel.

"Having fun?"

"Starting to."

"Maybe don’t do the smiling." John suggested, at least getting Sherlock's attention then, "Kidnapped children?"

The detective gave a little grumble as he started to chip away at the pieces of wood that possessed the footprint of the kidnapper.

You never answered my question: did you want children, Sherlock?

He waved her voice away. Did she have to be this much of a nuisance when she wasn't even here?

*   *   *   *   *   *

John and Sherlock sat in a taxi now.

"But how did he get past the CCTV? If all the doors were locked - "

Sherlock answered quickly, "He walked in when they weren’t locked."

"But a stranger can’t just walk into a school like that?"

"Anyone can walk in anywhere if they pick the right moment. Yesterday – end of term, parents milling around, chauffeurs, staff. What’s one more stranger among that lot?" He paused as he thought about it, "He was waiting for them. All he had to do was find a place to hide."

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Inside Bart's now, as Molly was headed out, she ran into the two friends, one of which greeted her with exaggerated cheer.

"Molly!"

"Oh, hello - I’m just going out."

"No, you’re not." Sherlock turned her around.

"I’ve got a lunch date."

"Cancel it." The detective instructed, pulling two packets of Quavers out of his pockets to show her, "You’re having lunch with me."

"What?"

"Need your help. It's one of your old boyfriends – we're trying to track him down. He's been a bit naughty!"

But this was news to John, "It's Moriarty?"

"Of course it's Moriarty."

"Er, Jim actually wasn’t even my boyfriend." Molly felt the need to explain, especially after what he had done, "We went out three times. I ended it."

And quick fire, Sherlock replied, "Yes, and then he stole the Crown Jewels, broke into the Bank of England and organised a prison break at Pentonville. For the sake of law and order, I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly." He showed her the Quavers again before leaving for the lab.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Molly assisted by bringing them books and files by the dozen, as well as helping with smaller experiments.

"Oil, John." Sherlock explained, "The oil in the kidnapper's footprint – it'll lead us to Moriarty. All the chemical traces on his shoe have been preserved. The sole of the shoe is like a passport. If we're lucky we can see everything that he’s been up to."

John nodded in understanding.

Hours of experiments passed, hours of Molly's help that he had mistaken for John's and by the end of it he had found five substances in the oil: chalk, asphalt, brick dust, vegetation and a mystery surgery substance.

"I...owe...you..." He muttered absentmindedly as he looked from his microscope to the side, looking at a book for reference, "Glycerol molecule...what are you?" Sherlock looked back at the microscope again only to be interrupted by Molly.

"What did you mean, 'I owe you'?"

At hearing her say this, he looked up at John, waiting for him to stroll past.

"You said, 'I owe you'. You were muttering it while you were working."

"Nothing. Mental note."

"I heard about El - "

"Everyone has." He stopped her.

But Molly wouldn't stop there, "You’re a bit like my dad. He’s dead." She paused, shaking her head, "No, sorry."

"Molly, please don’t feel the need to make conversation. It’s really not your area."

But she kept on, needing to say what was on her mind, "When he was dying, he was always cheerful, he was lovely. Except when he thought no-one could see. I saw him once. He looked...sad."

Sherlock warned her, "Molly..."

Just because I did something wrong doesn't mean you should treat everyone else like crap.

"You look sad. When you think he can't see you."

Again, his eyes looked at John instead of down the microscope. Then he pulled his head away from the equipment, finally looking at the registrar. All he saw in her eyes was concern for him.

"Are you okay? And don’t just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no-one can see you."

"But you can see me."

"I don’t count."

Sherlock could see that she felt this honestly and he was stunned. Why would she ever think she never counted? Of course she did.

Maybe because you've been an arsehole to her an awful lot of the time.

"What I’m trying to say is that, if there’s anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all, you can have me." She took a moment, knowing her words came out wrong, "No, I just mean - I mean if there’s anything you need." She sighed, giving up on her brain and looking away, "It’s fine."

"What - but what could I need from you?"

"Nothing. I dunno." She looked at him sympathetically, "You could probably say thank you, actually."

He didn't know why but he said it, "Thank you."

She's being kind. A thank you is the least you can do.

"I’m just gonna go and get some crisps. Do you want anything?" She had a second thought, "It’s okay, I know you don’t."

"Well, actually, maybe I’ll - "

She turned to leave, "I know you don’t."

The detective watched her go, small and quiet and anxious but full of kindness all the same. Why did she think she didn't count? As he turned his head away from the door, he imagined Elizabeth stood in the corner, still in her black cat suit, softly smiling at him. He scowled at her, blinking her away.

"Sherlock." John called to the detective, walking over to him with a photo in hand.

"Hm?"

He paused, changing the subject away from the case for a moment, "I went to see El - "

"Don't say her name."

John frowned at the detective, "Sherlock you can't pretend she doesn't exist."

"Can't I?"

"Listen, I went to see her - "

"I don't care." He paused, "And why? She shot you. You do remember, don't you?She didn't hit you in the head, did she? Let me remind you anyway: she carelessly jeopardised your life. And if it wasn't you, it might have been Mrs Hudson or Lestrade. John, she has always been a liar I was just - too blind to see it. But not again."

"If you can just let me explain - "

"I said I don't want to hear it." He snapped, "Have you ever thought that whatever she said to you was a lie, John? Because she is a liar."

John sighed, moving the conversation along, "This envelope that was in her trunk. There’s another one."

"What?"

John approached his coat and pulled out the other envelope, "On our doorstep. Found it today. Yes, and look at that." He looked at his envelope and the photograph as he brought them over, "Look at that. Exactly the same seal."

Sherlock opened it, feeling a crumbling substance, "Breadcrumbs."

"Uh-huh. It was there when I got back."

"A little trace of breadcrumbs, hardback copy of fairy tales: two children led into the forest by a wicked father follow a little trail of breadcrumbs."

"That’s 'Hansel and Gretel'. What sort of kidnapper leaves clues?"

"The sort that likes to boast, the sort that thinks it’s all a game. He sat in our flat and he said these exact words to me: all fairytales need a good old-fashioned villain." He thought for a moment, "The fifth substance, it’s part of the tale...the witch’s house."

"What?"

"The glycerol molecule." And then it hit him, "PGPR!"

"What’s that?"

Sherlock stood, hurriedly heading out of the lab, "It’s used in making chocolate."

*  *  *  *  *  *

At Scotland Yard, Sherlock, John and Lestrade quick-marched down the corridor. The inspector handed him a note that read 'hurry up, they're dying!'

"This fax arrived an hour ago. What have you got for us?"

The detective answered quickly, handing Lestrade a piece of paper, "Need to find a place in the city where all five of these things intersect."

"Chalk, asphalt, brick dust, vegetation...what the hell is this? Chocolate?"

"I think we’re looking for a disused sweet factory."

"We need to narrow that down. A sweet factory with asphalt?"

"No. No-no. Too general. Need something more specific. Chalk - chalky clay - that’s a far thinner band of geology." Sherlock took a moment to mentally disappear into his mind palace, looking at his maps there.

"Brick dust?"

"Building site. Bricks from the nineteen-fifties."

"There’s thousands of building sites in London." Lestrade ran his hand over his face in despair.

Sherlock sighed, it was too loud to focus, "I’ve got people out looking."

"So have I!"

"Homeless network - faster than the police. Far more relaxed about taking bribes."

And right on queue, his phone began buzzing with pictures of different locations and vegetation. Most of them were wrong or a little off but then he struck gold - a small flower that could tell them everything.

"John." He showed the picture of the purple bloom to him, "Rhododendron ponticum. It matches." And again Sherlock tried his hardest to focus on the maps in his head as he searched for a location, "Addlestone!"

"What?" Lestrade couldn't believe how quick Sherlock had worked it out.

"There’s a mile of disused factories between the river and the park. It matches everything."

"Right, come on." Lestrade said to Sally, grabbing his badge off the desk, yelling to get people moving, "Come on!"

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

The four of them had piled into Lestrade's car, opening the doors before he had even stopped to race inside the factory. As more police ran in, Sally and Lestrade directed them to different areas to search. Sherlock and John raced off together and came across a candle by a pile of sweet wrappers. The detective reached down to feel the candle string.

"This was alight moments ago. They’re still here!" He yelled into the factory before hushing his voice again, "Sweet wrappers. What’s he been feeding you? Hansel and Gretel..." He picked up a wrapper, shining his light over it, sniffing it and then licked it, gagging at the taste, "Mercury."

Lestrade joined them, "What?"

"The papers: they’re painted with mercury. Lethal. The more of the stuff they ate..."

"It was killing them." John said, worry in his tone.

"But it’s not enough to kill them on its own. Taken in large enough quantities, eventually it would kill them. He didn’t need to be there for the execution. Murder by remote control. He could be a thousand miles away. The hungrier they got, the more they ate...the faster they died." A little smirk crossed his lips, "Neat."

John sent him a disapproving look, "Sherlock."

They heard a yell from Donovan, "Over here!"

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

Hours passed as Claudette was assessed but they were finally waiting outside the interview room. John sat patiently while Sherlock walked back and forth in the same line. Sherlock kept trying to ignore Elizabeth who kept appearing in various corners of the room while he had nothing to do. But then the door opened and he stood quickly.

"Right, then." Donovan said, "The professionals have finished. If the amateurs wanna go in and have their turn."

Lestrade spoke slowly to Sherlock, "Now, remember, she’s in shock and she’s just seven years old, so anything you can do to..."

"Not be myself?"

"Yeah." He nodded, "Might be helpful."

Sherlock wasn't obtuse (at least not all of the time), he understood that the girl would be in a frail state and so he would do his best to be gentle. Claudette was older and thus theoretically easier to deal with than a baby. They opened the door to the room to see the girl with a carer beside her.

He spoke softly, "Claudette, I - "

But the second the girl looked up at the consulting detective, she screamed in terror at seeing him.

"No-no," Sherlock tried to reassure her, "I know it’s been hard for you, Claudette - listen to me - "

But the girl wouldn't cease her shrill cry, now pointing at him, wide-eyed, so Lestrade grabbed Sherlock by the arm and flung him out the door.

"Out! Get out!"

*  *  *  *  *  *

The four met in Lestrade's office but Sherlock remained by the window, staring out of the blinds. He merely listened to the conversation the other three were having. Claudette's reaction had unnerved him.

"Makes no sense." John shook his head.

"The kid’s traumatised." Greg said with a sigh, "Something about Sherlock reminds her of the kidnapper."

"So what’s she said?"

Donovan answered, "Hasn’t uttered another syllable."

"And the boy?"

"No, he’s unconscious," Lestrade explained, "Still in intensive care."

But as Sherlock stared out of the thin gap in the blinds, the opposite building's lights flickered randomly, eventually lighting up three windows, each with a red letter upon it, spelling out 'I-O-U'. Normally, Sherlock would shrug it off but this did unsettle him. The lights flashed off again.

"Well, don’t let it get to you." Lestrade said to Sherlock, noticing he was in his own little world, "I always feel like screaming when you walk into a room! In fact, so do most people." He paused, "Come on."

As they walked out, Donovan looked at Sherlock, an air of fakeness about her, "Brilliant work you did, finding those kids from just a footprint. It’s really amazing."

"Thank you."

"Unbelievable."

He paused by the door but didn't look back. Unbelievable. For them maybe but not for him. They could have worked it out if they were quicker, smarter.

Outside, John waited on the pavement and joined Sherlock by his side as he continued walking, hailing a cab that was just coming down the street. The doctor looked at his friend, worry woven into his expression.

"You okay?"

"Thinking." As the cab pulled up, Sherlock spoke again, "This is my cab. You get the next one."

"Why?"

"You might talk."

Sherlock opened the door, sliding in and shut the door behind him. The cabbie wasted no time in taking off without John, who was left on the pavement staring after the cab.