In some ways, the Mind Palace of Sherlock Holmes is an impregnable fortress – the full capabilities of his mind buttressed in, protected from all the minutiae that might otherwise distract him. The walls of the Mind Palace have withstood the roar of a train, the clacking of high heels on tile, his mother's irate tones and the shrill ringing of the doorbell. Those walls had never been breached. Until today.

Ask John Watson and he'd guess that something exciting, dangerous, would be the disrupter – gunfire, an explosion, sirens. Lestrade might suggest something different; a whiff of scent, a sliver of sound, something so intangible as to tease the senses.

No, neither man would be correct. The sound that tore Sherlock Holmes from his Mind Palace was a squeal so high pitched that the only creature also to hear it was likely the stray dog rummaging through Mrs. Hudson's bins. The squeal uttered by his three month old niece.

Against his will, his eyes snap open and his limbs flail about as the squeal shatters the quiet. Blinking rapidly, he looks up into crystalline blue eyes before a small hand slaps him on the cheek. She sits on his chest, his hands holding her steady. His gaze swivels to where Anthea sits, and he startles at what he sees.

Gone is the perfectly put together woman that graces his brother's side; in her place sits a woman who looks like she was rolled up and put away wet. Her hair is piled on top of her head in an erratic bun, stray hairs framing a face marred with red splotches and dark circles.

"What in hell happened to you?" he blurts out, shocked to see her in such a state of dishevelment.

Her hands scrub at her face and he notes clinically that her manicure is in a dreadful state. "Your brother was only supposed to be gone for two weeks. He promised. Quick meet and greet with the G7, minor fire to put out, nothing to worry about love, be back in a jiffy." At his look of confusion, she continues, "That was five weeks ago."

Sherlock straightens, lifting his niece gingerly as she shakes her chubby little hands. He keeps his tone calm, low, in an attempt not to scare the child. "Has there been word? Demands?"

Anthea rolls her eyes at him, annoyance and frustration evident as she sinks further into the cushions of John's chair. "He's not missing, the idiot. He's in Turkey. Turkey? Yes, no, I think he's in Turkey."

"Turkey? Wasn't the G7 held in Australia?"

Slumping bonelessly, her eyes close briefly before fluttering open. "Yes, then he was in Beijing, something about the IMF and after that he was at the Hague. I've simply lost track of him."

The moment of terror that Sherlock feels at the thought of Mycroft being abducted pales in comparison to the reality that Anthea presents. He settles his niece, Sophie, into the crook of his arm and studies her mother with concern. In all their dealings, he has always found Anthea to be focused, efficient and incredibly competent. To see her in this state doesn't bode well for anyone; not Sophie, not Anthea and certainly not Mycroft.

He studies the mother of his niece carefully. "There's no way to say this politely, Anthea, and I am the least able person to try. You look like death warmed over. When was the last time you took a shower?"

He expects her to get angry, however; she merely groans and sinks, if possible, further into the cushioned chair. "Two days, I think."

He suppresses a shudder. "Towels are in the cupboard in the bathroom. Go. I'll watch Sophie." The smile she gives him is scarily close to the open affection that lights up her face when she holds her daughter.

Watching Anthea as she walks into the bathroom, he reaches into his pocket and extracts his mobile.

Molly Hooper, I need you. It's urgent. – SH

After a moment, his mobile chirps. He glances down at the mobile and frowns as he sees her reply. - I have plans – MH

The fate of the free world hangs in the balance, cancel them. I'll explain at Baker St. – SH

There had better be an issue or you'll rue the day – MH

A swell of fury fuels Molly Hooper as she steps into 221B thirty minutes later and her mood does not improve when she feels a hand slip over her mouth and an arm sweep around her waist to pull her into the hall. A veritable catalogue of defensive moves go through her thoughts and each is discarded the instant she recognizes the hint of Sherlock's cologne. Her gaze flicks up to stare at him and he eases his grip though he keeps his hand over her mouth and gestures with his chin at the sofa where Sophie Tod-Holmes is buttressed in by pillows as she sleeps

When he releases Molly, she hisses, "The fate of the free world involves babysitting?"

His eyes rolled heavenward before he grips her arm and pulls her down the hallway to push the door of his bedroom open, ever so carefully. Gesturing grandly, he lets her see that Anthea is curled up on his bed sound asleep before closing the door and dragging her into the kitchen. "Babysitting, no," he says softly as he sweeps one hand through his curls, "that has been taken care of. What I require from you is far simpler." Reaching into his wallet, he extracts a credit card and hands it to her. "For reasons failing understanding, my idiot brother abandoned his child and her mother five weeks ago on government business. While I did not and do not understand why those two would decide that they needed a child, the fact remains that they have one. What I would like you to do is simple; take Anthea to the spa that I've contracted with and don't let her leave until she's relaxed and pampered. Mother will be arriving shortly to collect Sophie."

Blinking, Molly stares at him. "You want me to spend the day at a spa?"

Sherlock lets out his breath in a great gush of air. "No, I'd like you to spend a weekend at a spa. I focus on logic, Molly. It's obvious to anyone with eyes to see that Anthea is beyond exhausted. A single nap and a shower won't cure her ills, but a weekend at a spa may help begin the process. She is unlikely to stay there unless she is in the company of someone she considers a friend; in this case, you."

"And what will you be doing?"

The smile that Sherlock gives her has her take a step backwards. "After I acquire the services of someone far better equipped to deal with certain aspects of this situation, I shall go collect my wayward brother and remind him about the pros and cons of sentiment."