"Murder! Murder! I'm being threatened!" Sherlock shouts, sounding unconcerned — because he is. Despite the fact that Mr. Cunningham is holding him with surprising strength for a man his age and that his son, Henry, is pointing the gun used to kill Will Kirwan at him, he's unconcerned.

Mr. Cunningham continues to attempt to cover his mouth, but by that time, the door knob is shaking as if someone's frantically trying to open it. The person then turns to banging on the door as if trying to push it in. It's certainly not John, as he can't run very fast right now, so it must be Lestrade.

But then Lestrade shouts, "Out of the way!" It must've been Lily then.

Lestrade kicks the door in, sending it flying back on its hinges to hit the wall, which definitely has a hole in it now. Sherlock doesn't have time to dwell on this though, as Lily pushes into the room, and Henry turns the gun onto her.

Sherlock's concern heightens immediately, especially seeing her terrified face, her shaking hands raising, her eyes pleading with Henry not to shoot her.

"Drop the gun, now!" Sherlock shouts, feeling his panic rising. "You're outnumbered!" Lestrade's gun is pointed at Henry, while John's is pointed at Mr. Cunningham.

"Anyone fires off of a shot, I'll shoot her, I don't care!" Henry shouts, obviously not knowing what he's doing.

"You're a rat backed into a corner," Sherlock says, almost laughing. They've got him; he's just panicking — but a panicked man might shoot. "The cat's pounced, Henry. It's too late. Do you really want two murder charges?"

"Drop your weapon!" Lestrade orders, his voice tense. "I'll shoot much faster than you, I guarantee it."

Henry looks at them, then at Lily, who hasn't moved except for shaking. Her eyes are wide, locked on Henry, who finally drops the gun.

Lestrade quickly arrests the Cunninghams and calls for back up. Lily's still standing there, shaking, and Sherlock feels an apologetic tug in his chest and walks over to her.

"You're alright now," he says softly, trying to calm her with a voice he sometimes uses on panicked clients to get them to give him details. "Come sit down; we don't want you to really faint this time." He leads her to a chair in the corner of the room, then turns to Lestrade. "Get her a blanket. And take the laptop in the office for evidence. They might have been smart enough to delete that note, but then again..." He shrugs.

"Note?" Henry says, surprised — and obviously worried. "What note?"

"You know what note," Lestrade replies dryly, finding a heavy blanket in a trunk in the corner of the room and giving it to Lily. She wraps it around herself as she shakes.

"So, why did you do it?" John asks. "Why kill your own gardener?"

"They definitely wanted to meet him at 4:45 in the morning," Sherlock says. "Under what pretense, however, isn't completely certain as of yet. What happened to rest of that note, anyway?" He's looking at Henry, but Mr. Cunningham answers lowly.

"Burned."

Sherlock turns to him. "Ah, so you're smart enough to do that."

Mr. Cunningham looks up at him. "It wasn't my idea to try and kill you, Mr. Holmes."

"It was your idea to kill Kirwan," Henry pipes up.

"What, did he have blackmail on you?" John asks with a hint of dry amusement in his voice. Henry just looks at him, while Mr. Cunningham looks at the floor.

Lily, despite her shock, seems to have been listening. "The robbery," she says quietly, her voice unsteady.

Sherlock turns to her, wanting to smile but waiting for her to finish her thought. "Which one?" he asks.

"The second one never happened," Lily answers, looking back at him. "They're responsible for the first one. William Kirwan knew."

"Excellent," Sherlock commends, now allowing the smile.

"Why would we want to rob the Hayters?" Henry says. "This is ridiculous."

"Well, they're richer than you," Lestrade replies.

"And they own half your property," John adds. "You've been fighting over this for years. Lawyers couldn't do anything, so you took matters into your own hands, didn't you? You went looking for the files. The official papers. Right?"

"We don't have any legal papers of the Hayters'."

"But you looked for them," Sherlock argues. "You couldn't get into the office, so you searched for the key. You checked other rooms. One was full of dust, and it irritated your asthma — perhaps you forgot your inhaler, and I'd wager that's a habit. You had to open the window, and you let a bat in. When that happened, you ran out and created a lot of noise. You had to hurriedly grab random things on your way out, trying to make it look like a common robbery. Am I wrong?"

"Entirely-"

"No," Mr. Cunningham says. Henry looks at him incredulously, and his father says, "We've been had, Henry. It's no use trying to lie; the man obviously already knows. The robbery was your idea. And so was opening that window; it might've turned out just fine if you hadn't."

"I couldn't breathe!"

"So where does Kirwan fall into this?" Sherlock interrupts, needing the full story, not the familial bickering. "Was he an accomplice? Or did he just see you?"

Mr. Cunningham answers. "He saw us when we came back. He didn't directly say anything, but he saw us, and he hinted heavily at it when he came in to discuss his pay. We slipped the note into his bag. Henry was going to pay him, but I decided to take care of it differently; I knew the payments would never end, and he could talk at any time. If we were found out, we'd never get our property back. Kirwan brought the note with him, and I took it from his hand after he was gone, but he had a tighter hold on it than I thought apparently. We did what we could to hide it all. And when we knew you were onto us, Henry said we might as well take you out, too. Make it look like an accident."

"More masterful men than you have tried to kill me," Sherlock replies wryly. "It didn't take."

By the time back up arrives, Lily has stopped shaking. As Lestrade directs the officers and has the Cunninghams taken away, Sherlock goes over to her. "Are you alright?" he asks, looking her over, checking for any signs of something serious, though he isn't the doctor in the room.

"Better now," she replies. "That was... terrifying."

"I'm... sorry," he says; it's his fault she's here. That that happened to her, something she clearly isn't used to.

She shakes her head. "Not your fault. It's the Cunninghams'. That gun pointed at me, though, was all on Henry, I guess."

"I'm honestly surprised he aimed it at you and all," John pipes up. "He's been giving you heart eyes the entire time we've been here — up until that point, at least."

"He thinks she's pretty; he doesn't like her as a person," Sherlock retorts. He hadn't noticed Henry 'making heart eyes' at her, but if he was, there was no way that was anything that mattered considering recent events. "A sense of humanity wouldn't come from that."

John shrugs. "I suppose not."

Lestrade takes them home soon after, and Lily stays at 221B for a few hours before she feels okay to go to her apartment by herself. Sherlock, to his surprise, ends up offering to make her tea. John's ankle is hurting and Mrs. Hudson is cleaning, in any case, so no one else could do it.

She thanks him when she takes the mug in both hands, and they all talk — mostly about past cases — while Lily periodically blows on her tea to cool it. When she drinks it, Sherlock notices an expression on her face that she quickly masks, and then the next time she drinks it, some time later, he catches it again — an involuntary response.

"You don't like your tea," he says suddenly, cutting John off.

Lily looks at him with a bit of surprise. "What?"

"You don't like your tea," he repeats.

She shakes her head. "Oh, no, it's fine-"

But Sherlock knows it's not, and he stands to make her a new cup. "I'll make you a new one. How did I muck that one up?"

"You didn't muck up anything," Lily insists, though she allows him to take the mug. "It's just that I usually drink my tea with... well, a lot more sugar than that. It's not your fault."

"I'll add more sugar, then," Sherlock replies with a chuckle. He's just glad he didn't completely ruin it from the start. "How much?" he asks.

She shrugs. "Oh, not too much more. I don't want to use up your sugar."

"I'll dump the entire carton in if I don't have an exact measurement," Sherlock threatens.

She laughs, the first time she's really laughed since they got back. "Four tablespoons — including what you already put in there."

John's eyes widen. "Four tablespoons?"

Lily shrugs.

Sherlock fixes her tea, and she seems to enjoy it much more then. They continue to talk, and then she and Sherlock play with Rosie, who seems to help her to feel more normal. Rosie lines up her dolls on the floor, coming up with names for them with Lily. They each get two dolls to play, leaving John to take the extra one. Rosie instructs them in their parts of her play for at least half an hour.

After that, they talk a little more, and Lily declares she's ready to go home.

"Just call if you need anything," John tells her. "We'll be there. Or you could stay up here, if you like."

Lily shakes her head. "Thank you, but I'll be alright. I'm just shaken up, that's all."

"Remember that he's in custody," Sherlock says, thinking the information will ease her mind, "so he can't hurt you."

She nods. "Right. I'll... keep that in mind."

He offers her a small smile; the guilt still lingers. "You were great today. I... I couldn't have completed that ruse so seamlessly without you."

She smiles a bit more widely than him, genuinely and thankfully. "Thank you for asking me to come with you. Despite the getting threatened with a gun part, I had a lot of fun."

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Later that day, after getting a text from Lestrade, Sherlock heads down to 221C. Lily, in comfortable clothing, her hair in a headband, answers the door with a smile. "Hello."

"Hello," he replies. "Lestrade just sent me the rest of the note; the Cunninghams deleted the file, but they were able to recover it. I figured you'd like to see it." He hands her his phone, which has a photo of the note on it, reading:

'If you will come at a quarter to five
to the side door, you will learn what
might just surprise you and may be
of help to you and your mother. But
say nothing to anyone else about it.'

"Lestrade told me his mother is rather poor," Sherlock explains, "and Kirwan was giving her some of his salary. Now that he's gone, she's been paid a bit of money for it — which I know is probably no consolation." He sighs. "But the Hayters have promised to give her a good sum monthly, since they've learned what's happened."

Her expression is sad, but a bit less so when she mentions the Hayters. He expects her to say something, but instead her brows furrow in thought for a moment before she looks back at him. "Do you have Lestrade's number?"

Sherlock, confused, answers, "Yes. What for?"

"I think..." she starts, his phone still in her hands "... I think I want to give a batch of cookies to his mother — Kirwan's mother, not Lestrade's. I want to ask Lestrade about it, see what he says and if he can help me get them to her. I don't know if it's exactly a good idea — you know, if she'd even want them. But... it's the least I can do."

Sherlock almost wonders at the thought — at her kindness in considering to do that — but he isn't surprised that she has had this idea. Despite not knowing her long, he knows it's something characteristic of her. He gives her Lestrade's number once he's got his phone back, then goes back upstairs.

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The next morning, John invites Lily up to tell him what happened when he was gone so he can put it on the blog. Sherlock told him some things, but he wanted Lily's perspective. Sherlock is always much more interesting — and the cases are much more mysterious — when he's viewed from someone else's eyes.

In the middle of this interview, at about noon, Sherlock walks in in his dressing gown, having been asleep. His hair is a mess, and he blinks sleep out of his eyes when he sees Lily. "Hello."

Lily chuckles. "Good morning."

He hums in response, then spies the cookies on the table between her and John and hurries over, grabbing one. "Are these the famous brown sugar ones again?"

"Yes, they are. Overflow from the batch I made for Mrs. Kirwan," Lily replies. "Lestrade picked them up this morning." Sherlock grabs a second cookie before he's finished the first, and Lily chides him. "That's no breakfast. Or lunch. Go have an egg or something."

Sherlock mumbles something she can't hear, taking his cookies into the kitchen to make some tea.

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John is sending Sherlock to the shops.

"Rosie needs Cheerios, and we're almost out of milk, among a dozen other things. I'd go, but my ankle hurts even worse this morning — probably from trying to run and save your life for the umpteenth time."

Sherlock frowns. "That was not the umpteenth time."

"Certainly not the first, though."

"Lestrade and Lily saved me that time, anyway," Sherlock grumbles, but he takes the list that John writes and goes, and he abhors every minute of it. It's all confusing, and there are so many people around, walking slowly, in his way. He finally gets what they need, though, and, not in the mood for human interaction, goes to self checkout to pay for his items there instead. Finally, he's able to return home and, hopefully, retreat to his room for a few hours of solitude.

But the knocker on the door says otherwise.

When he reaches the door of 221B, the knocker is, in fact, straightened. Did Lily do it? She hasn't anymore when he's been with her, though he forgot to ask her not to. Maybe Mrs. Hudson or John mentioned something. This could be the real thing. This could be Mycroft.

Sherlock groans, then enters the apartment, his bags in tow. When he opens the door to the sitting room, there's Mycroft, standing there, talking with John and Rosie. He turns when Sherlock enters. "Hello, brother mine. How are you?"

Sherlock looks at him dubiously. "Do you actually want me to answer that?"

Mycroft shrugs. "Not really."

"I thought not," Sherlock replies, turning and heading to the kitchen to put up the groceries, wanting something to do. "What do you want?"

"Can I not stop in to say hi to my younger brother?" Mycroft says, and Sherlock only looks at him with a glare of mild disdain and skepticism. He sighs. "I need you to-"

Wonderfully, there's a knock on the door.

Sherlock goes and answers it, happy to find Lily on the other side, and even happier to see a plate of cupcakes in her hands. "Hello. I got bored and made some cupcakes; I was wondering if you'd want some."

"Of course we do," Sherlock replies, ushering her in, having her face his older brother. "Lily, this is my brother Mycroft. Mycroft, this is Lily Marlow — would you like a cupcake?"

Lily, with her natural, generous nature and an ignorance of how mean Sherlock is being right now, holds out the plate of cupcakes to offer Mycroft one. "They're chocolate," she says with her friendly smile, this time tainted with confusion, likely at Sherlock's behavior.

Mycroft looks as if he really wants to take one — they're chocolate, as Lily said, in pink papers and decorated with neat white icing and rainbow sprinkles placed to form smiley faces — but he has enough will to politely decline. "I'm afraid I must decline, Miss Marlow, but thank you."

"I know they don't look the best," Lily says, even as Sherlock takes two, handing one to Rosie. "I was going to put better decorations on them, but I didn't have fondant, so I went with what I had. But some of the icing got messed up when I was putting the sprinkles on." She moves over to John, lowering the plate so he can take one. She then places the plate in the kitchen, clearing a space on the counter for it. Then, she comes back. "Well, seeing as you have company, I'll just get out of your hair-"

"No, stay," Sherlock says, looking at his brother. "I believe Mycroft was about to ask a favor of me."

"Isn't giving you a case a favor to you?" Mycroft replies.

"I've just solved a case."

"And now you won't have to wait for another one."

Sherlock is quiet for a moment, then he pulls the paper off his cupcake, sighs, and sits down in his chair. "What is it?"

Mycroft glances at Lily. "It involves certain important people, and circumstances which preferably aren't being made public."

"And?" Sherlock asks blatantly, mouth half full. Mycroft scrutinizes him for a moment, and Sherlock's eyes flash with a challenge. Will he say it outright? Will he try to make her leave? Sherlock won't have it, partly to bother his brother, partly because he likes taking Lily on cases.

She's intelligent, particularly when dealing with people, but she's also squeamish and sensitive. And, strangely, the last two things don't annoy him. He and John are so used to it all — the death, the horrific acts — that it's nice to have her around for those very reasons. To remind them of what they're really doing, and who it helps (besides Sherlock himself). To remind them of their humanity — that thing he feels he lost as a child, when Eurus... happened.

Mycroft raises a brow, but he backs down, particularly after John says, "Ro, why don't you go color at the kitchen table?"

She grumbles, but she goes, reaching for another cupcake on the way. Lily, with a glance at John, provides her with one before she goes on her way. When she's gone, Mycroft, seeming a bit reluctant, begins. "You are aware of the existence of the Beryl Cornet?" he says.

"No," Sherlock replies, as John and Lily answer, "Yes."

"It's one of the most expensive public items in all of England," Mycroft explains, "and... a certain person which I will not name, gave it to Mr. Alexander Holder as collateral for an over five million pound loan."

"So, he's lost it and we need to find it?" John asks, sounding a tad bored.

"No, he's lost a corner of it, which includes three of its jewels."

Lily's brows furrow. "How?"

Mycroft turns to her. "His own son stole them, Miss Marlow. And he refuses to say where he put them." He looks back at Sherlock. "If you don't find them, the whole of England faces scandal. Mr. Holder is a prominent man in society."

Sherlock sighs. "Then I'll go see this Holder fellow tomorrow. What's his address?"

Mycroft gives it to him with a hint of irritation, then looks at each of them in turn. "Nothing I've just said can leave this room unless you are speaking to each other quietly and when no one else is around, or to persons involved in the case."

Lily and John nod, and Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Alright, alright, whatever."

Mycroft rolls his eyes, too, before taking his leave. "Goodbye, brother mine. John. Miss Marlow." Lily nods at him and says goodbye politely, but as soon as he's gone, she bursts out laughing.

Sherlock smiles at this, beginning to laugh with her. She doesn't laugh for too long, but it leaves a rather bright look on her face. "I'm sorry. There's nothing wrong with your brother, truly. I just- he called me 'Miss Marlow,' and only my students call me that. They were all I could think of."

"Some would say Mycroft is a child," Sherlock replies.

John scoffs, though he's laughing, too. "Some could say that about you," he retorts.

"There's one little boy I had last year," Lily continues, "that he's just like. Matthew was the primmest child I've ever seen. I sometimes wondered why his parents didn't send him to some high-end private school, but I'm rather glad they didn't. He was so polite, and his work was exemplary. Always coloured inside the lines." She's reflecting now, hardly in Baker Street anymore. "He brought me little presents sometimes, and on the last day of school, he came in with this wonderful necklace for me. His parents wrote a note with it, saying they wanted to thank me for being such a good teacher to their child, but he picked it out himself. He was so proud when he gave it to me that I couldn't tell him no. It's still probably the most expensive thing I own..." She thinks for a moment more, then her gaze drifts to Sherlock, and she starts as if remembering where she is. She looks embarrassed. "I'm so sorry — I just went on and on, I was hardly thinking- I'm sorry."

John smiles. "No need to apologize. It was an interesting story."

Lily sighs, her smile now more serene. "Teaching can be such a rewarding profession."

"I still don't envy you," John says with a laugh.

"Oh, most people don't. I suppose you have to be able to get enjoyment out of it from the get go, anyhow. As stressful as it can be at times, there's almost nothing else that I would like to do with life."

Sherlock notices her wording, and he looks at up at her. "But there is something?"

She shrugs, looking more towards the floor as she answers. "Well, writing children's books is rewarding, but mostly when I actually get to see the kids who've read my book." She takes a breath. "I guess the only thing I would really like more is baking. That way, I can spread a little joy not only to kids, but adults, too. Most children are joyful, anyway, but a lot of adults lose that sense of joy when they get older. They need more of it in their lives, I think."

Sherlock can't help but smile at her. "Well, Miss Marlow, I don't think you're one of those adults at all. And it's... very kind of you to be so generous with your own joy."

She smiles back at him, and he can't help but think of a window opening, letting in a long-waited-for burst of sunlight, and the thought at once warms and confuses him. "Oh, my joy overflows; it doesn't cost me anything," she says. "Except maybe some flour, sugar, and eggs."

"Don't forget the brown sugar," John adds. "For the cookies."

She laughs. "And, yes, sometimes brown sugar." She shakes her head, still half-laughing. "I gain far more than I give, believe me. It's like I get back the joy I gave but doubled. Sometimes I even think I'm selfish, for giving so much."

"You're the farthest thing from selfish," John says instantly, just as Sherlock was thinking it. She's probably the most unselfish person he's ever met — so much so that it transcends all normalcy, as far as he knows it. And seeing as John is struck by her generosity and light personality, too, he knows she can't be normal.

"Thank you, John," she says, then sighing. "Well, I really better go this time. I need to work on my book. I'll see you later."

"See you later," John replies.

As she starts to go, Sherlock, pulled out of his state of just watching, observing her, thinking, asks, "Are you coming tomorrow?"

She turns. "Coming where? To see Mr. Holder?"

"Yes."

She smiles. "If you want me there, I'll be there. Just come knock on my door. I'll be home." She bids them a final goodbye and heads out, flying to the stairs and, by the sound, skipping down them like a child. Sherlock smiles a little, then gets up to get another cupcake.

"Hey, don't eat them all!" John protests.