Foreword:

This story takes place after the last episode of Series 3 and before the first episode of Series 4 in the BBC series "Sherlock." As a huge fan of both the original Sir Arthur Conan Doyle canon, and the BBC TV series, I crafted a story that would pay homage to both—written with a similar feel to the stories and episodes we love—with a few twists on the classics. In keeping with that flavor, there are numerous references woven throughout the story to the original canon, the show, and to the actors themselves. Have fun finding them all!

At the end of Series 3, and TAB, we left Sherlock in a difficult spot. Steve Moffat has said that Sherlock will have to face his past deeds in Series 4, and you will see that theme woven throughout this story.

This story is based on Conan Doyle's "The Adventure of the Speckled Band"—one of my favorite Sherlock Holmes mysteries; and, I believe, one of the favorites of the BBC series writers too. But, even though it is a story we all know-not everything is as it seems! Please enjoy!

**Note: I have also added an Appendix at the end of Chapter 7 that will be updated with a list of all the references made, chapter by chapter, so that you can compare notes and see if you caught them all!

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"The Spotted Snake":

From the Blog of John H. Watson:

Wherever you are, whoever you are, as you have read this blog, you've come to know my friend. But, quite frankly, you still know nothing about him. When I first met Sherlock Holmes, someone told me that when you walk with him, you see the battlefield. And I have.

All of you only see your own lives—only the things that haunt you. You bring him your problems—you lay them at his feet—and yet, when he needs help, where are you? Your mysteries aren't clean and neat—so his methods aren't clean and neat—but has that ever bothered you before? Must you throw him aside—or worse—sit there and do nothing? You go about your lives—your lives that were made whole by him. And yet, you turn a blind eye when he needs help.

Perhaps he's not the most likeable person—not the most polite and polished—yet you come to him when you have nowhere else to turn. But whom does he go to when he has no one else? I'm only one man. I ask you—I beg you—do not turn a blind eye to Sherlock Holmes, someone who remains my dear, dear friend.

He may be unconventional—he might speak his mind too quickly—but he is more real of a person than anyone else I've met. If this blog has helped you at all—tracing our journeys and adventures—and, moreover, if Sherlock has solved your mysteries, then wherever you are, he needs your help. The world needs to know how important Sherlock Holmes is to it. If the world values the act of finding out the truth at all, then it needs Sherlock Holmes in it. We can't let him fall.

And so, I write for you one more story. Let it show you the man that Sherlock Holmes is: the man that needs saving, so that he can save you.

- John H. Watson

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Some time before:

Mycroft put down the newspaper he was holding to look at his brother who was sitting on the other side of the office desk. "So the transmission," he said, "the one that filled every screen in the country with Moriarty's face, seems to have just been some pranksters loyal to him, wanting to revive the persona – using it to further their own social agenda. Just a bunch of hacktivists."

"Hacktivists?" Sherlock asked incredulously.

"Yes," Mycroft mused with a smirk, "Hacker activists…"

"Is that even a real word?" Sherlock interrupted.

"Apparently," Mycroft answered.

"That can't be a real word," Sherlock countered.

"Well, it is," Mycroft pushed.

"Well," Sherlock ignored his brother, "Moriarty is dead." Sherlock rested his arms on the sides of the chair as he studied his brother.

"Is that so?" Mycroft asked cryptically.

Sherlock sighed. "Wouldn't your people know if he was still alive? His network is gone. I spent two years working through every criminal offshoot. Moriarty is dead. He took a gun to his own head."

"Or did he?" Mycroft prodded.

Sherlock was growing more irritated with his brother. "A gun in the mouth would be difficult to come back from," he said flatly.

"You were the only one on that roof," Mycroft continued. "The only one to see him die."

"You think I'm lying?" Sherlock posed the question, unamused and unshaken. "It's true, I was alone on that roof. There was very little help from you, brother mine."

"Oh? What about that version of events you gave to that policeman, Anderson? Apparently, I was involved a great deal," Mycroft said with a sly smile.

Sherlock chuckled inwardly, and looked straight back at his brother. "I'm surprised people believed that. If I had the entirety of the resources of the British government behind me, then why would I seek help from Molly Hooper and a few vagrants?"

Mycroft chuckled and smiled at this.

"Occam's Razor, dear brother: the simplest answer is usually the right one," Sherlock said.

"So?"

"So I didn't lie," Sherlock said, "nor would I mistake what real blood and brain-matter look like." He paused for a moment, then spoke with conviction, "Moriarty is dead. Whatever remains of him are computer tricks. Hacktivists… or whatever you call them."

Mycroft sighed. "Of course Moriarty is dead," he said simply, not showing remorse for his probing and prodding. "But if the idea of him remains alive, then that is the same as if he were to still draw breath. You know that."

"Stop talking in riddles," Sherlock said defensively, and he got up to leave. "Now I have to get back to more important things."

"Oh yes, of course," Mycroft remarked with a sardonic smile, "solving crimes with John Watson; like that one about the computer engineer's thumb… I saw that one on the blog last month."

Sherlock nodded as he met Mycroft's gaze. "You should be proud," he said sarcastically, "I successfully saved an Enigma machine from being stolen from the museum… again."

"I'd hardly call a fire at Bletchley Park a success," Mycroft said.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Mr. Hatherley came to us too late. Shouldn't you call for tea or something?" he asked. "How long do I have to stay and chat?"

Mycroft continued as if he hadn't heard his brother's last remark. "It's such a terrible waste of a second chance when I could use your help."

"Thank you for the pardon, Mycroft," Sherlock retorted, losing his tone of playful banter. "But we both know that Magnussen had to be stopped. You should be thanking me. Now, you can go on saving people from government conspiracies, and I'll go on saving people from each other." Sherlock got up from where he was sitting, put on his coat, turned the collar up, and turned to walk out.

"But things aren't that simple, brother dear," Mycroft said with a haunting tone. Sherlock turned around halfway to look back at his brother. "There are consequences for these kinds of things. Ones even I can't save you from."

Sherlock's gaze was distant, though he tried to appear unshaken by the remark. "You'll work it out," he said, sounding less confident than he had intended. "Keep me informed."

"Of what?" Mycroft asked.

"I have absolutely no idea," Sherlock replied.

Then Sherlock turned and left; and Mycroft picked up his newspaper and continued to read about the war in a foreign land.

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Sherlock sat in 221B Baker Street. It was late. He raised his violin once more, and that's when he heard the street level door open. He deduced who had entered by the individual's gait and sound of the footsteps on the stairs, which assured him that there was no cause for alarm. Sherlock lowered his violin and the figure of his friend, John Watson, came through the door and into the room.

John looked at Sherlock and started to open his mouth to explain, but before he could, Sherlock had already looked over his friend and discovered what had happened.

When John realized this, he dispensed with the explanation, and said instead, "I just need to give Mary a bit of space."

"The room upstairs is yours," Sherlock said, without hesitation.

John turned, heading for the stairs, but then felt compelled to turn back around. "We're going to be just fine," he said a little too forcefully. "It was just a little disagreement." John edgily shifted his weight from one foot to the other and waited for Sherlock to respond.

Sherlock took in a breath to speak, but John suddenly continued, a hint of defensiveness in his voice, "I know you don't think very highly of marriage, but..." He hesitated, then added, "We'll be just fine."

Sherlock simply said, "I know." He looked over John once more and said, "I can see by your right hand that it will all work out."

John laughed slightly, without humor, but still amazed at Sherlock's methods. "My right… my right hand?" He shook his head with a tense smile.

Sherlock then continued, his voice softening a little, "You and Mary will make it… You have to." There was silence for a moment, then Sherlock said, "How's Violet?"

John smiled. "She's great," he said. "She's doing a bit of walking now."

Sherlock and John both smiled. "Good night Sherlock," John said, and he went upstairs to try and sleep.

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The rain came down in sheets as the figure made its way down Baker Street. The air was cold, and a clouded, black-grey sky clung to the City as the night waned and hinted at a bleak sunrise. A bundled figure moved at a brisk pace, but froze as a lone cab approached. The vehicle's headlights shown on the figure's face briefly to reveal a young woman, blinking at the pelting rain. Once the cab passed, the woman crossed the street, and stopped in front of the door to 221B. She seemed to hesitate for a moment, until a noise further down the street caused her to whip her head around, searching through the darkness for the source of the sound. Without further pause, she rang the bell. There was no answer. She rang again.

Inside, Mrs. Hudson emerged from her flat, irritated that Sherlock wasn't answering the early caller. She tied her robe around her nightgown and made for the door. The bell was ringing with more intensity and frequency now. "What on earth?" she queried. Upstairs, a door opened and Sherlock came out into the second-floor hall, dressed in his robe. Mrs. Hudson glanced up at him. "One of yours calling at this hour, no doubt," she said. "It isn't at all decent."

When she reached the door, she opened it to see the young woman standing there, rain-soaked. "Is this the residence of Mr. Sherlock Holmes?" the woman asked in a shaky voice.

Immediately, the irritation left Mrs. Hudson's face as she took in the scene. "Oh my dear," she exclaimed. "Come… come in. You're positively sopping." The young woman entered and Mrs. Hudson shut the door against the cold.

The young woman looked up at Sherlock, who gave her a brief glance, and then he stepped back inside his flat.

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John Watson stirred in his bed and turned over onto his other side. His eyes were half open and he suddenly gasped, having been startled by the shape standing at his bedside. With the aid of the light, coming in through the open doorway, John could see it was Sherlock. "Bloody hell," John remarked groggily, as he relaxed a little and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes. Thinking for a moment, he then asked, "What are you doing?"

"We have a client," Sherlock replied simply.

John grabbed for the bedside clock, looked at it, and then squinted back at his friend. "It's six in the morning," he said. "Why are they here at this hour?"

"Crime still doesn't keep nice hours, my domesticated friend," Sherlock said. "Come out and see if you'd like." Sherlock turned towards the door. He stopped short, and turned back halfway to look at John again, "It's sure to be interesting, I imagine."

"Alright, alright, I'm coming," John said, exasperated, as he began to get out of bed. Sherlock then walked out abruptly, leaving John alone once more.

John sighed and got out of bed, curious. His sleep had been fitful anyway. He might as well see this client that was so 'sure to be interesting.'

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John entered the living room. A young woman in damp clothes was sitting on the couch. Her soaked-through trench coat and scarf hung on the coat rack. Mrs. Hudson entered with a small towel in hand—having probably been the only one she could find quickly. She gave it to the visitor, and the woman dabbed her wet face and hair with it. For a moment, the woman seemed lost, staring blankly across the room. Sherlock stood, facing her, his hands clasped behind his back. John noticed Sherlock scanning her over, taking in all the information that he could about this water-logged client. Sherlock sighed loudly, obviously impatient with the delay.

Mrs. Hudson shot a glance at him, but realizing it would do no good to reprimand, she took the towel that was no longer being used by the young woman. The act appeared to break the woman from her reverie, and she gave a weak, yet grateful smile to Mrs. Hudson.

"I'll make you a nice, hot cup of tea, shall I?" Mrs. Hudson queried, with a gentle, returned smile. "That should warm you up straight away."

"Thank you," the visitor said, attempting to keep the shakiness from her voice. Mrs. Hudson went into the kitchen.

All at once, the woman seemed to remember where she was, and looked straight at Sherlock. He gave her a brief, curt smile, as if to say, 'So, now will you tell me why you brought me out of bed for this?' But he remained silent for a moment.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, for coming to you at this hour," the woman said, as she rose from the couch and walked to him. She was thin, with a soft and feminine prettiness, and stood a few centimeters shorter than him.

Sherlock suddenly gave a quick, closed-lipped smile and said, "It's no imposition." This seemed to put the woman at some ease. John knew Sherlock better, and realized that he was feigning cordiality in order to coax her to speak her piece quickly. The woman said nothing in response, and John could tell that Sherlock was becoming increasingly impatient with each pause.

Sherlock examined her carefully. "Would you mind telling us who you are?" he suddenly asked in a conversational tone.

He quickly put the spurious smile back in place on his face when she looked back up at him. "Oh yes, of course," she said, "I'm so sorry." She paused. "My name is Helen Stoner, Mr. Holmes." She held out her hand.

Sherlock took her hand in his. "You're shaking," he remarked, with a slight intensity in his gaze.

"It is rather miserable out there," John finally spoke, indicating the weather outside.

Helen didn't look away from Sherlock, as she addressed the comment. "It is not the cold that makes me shiver, Mr. Holmes," she said, as her eyes appeared to dampen. "It is fear… it is terror."

Sherlock gestured to the chair across from his, near the fireplace. "Please, have a seat. And tell me why you're here." Helen sat on the edge of the chair. John crossed the room and pulled out a wooden chair from under the table, near the window, and sat. "This is my associate, John Watson," Sherlock indicated to Helen. "You can speak freely in front of him."

"Yes," Helen said, "I have read about you both in the papers. And I've seen the website. This is why I've come to you, specifically." She paused, shaking her head slightly. "Honestly, I don't have anyone else to turn to," she said with slight despair in her voice. "But I should tell you why I'm here."

Sherlock sat down quickly, visibly grateful that he would finally get the information that he craved from her. He sat back, steepled his hands, and rested them on his lips. His eyes were fixed on this strange, new client, as if to invite her to go on.

She sighed before beginning, attempting to gather her thoughts. Her blonde hair was matted to her head from the rain, and she continued to look deeply frightened.

Helen drew in a breath to finally speak. At that moment, Mrs. Hudson came in with a cup of tea. She came up to Helen and handed her the drink. "There you are, my love," she said. "Drink that now."

"Missus Hudson!" Sherlock exclaimed in frustration at the interruption. It made Helen jump. Sherlock then softened his voice, but the exasperation was still in his face. "Please, Mrs. Hudson."

Mrs. Hudson took the hint. "Well, I'll leave you to it then," she said to all of them. Shaking her head, she left the room and went back to her own flat.

Sherlock retuned his attention to Helen. "Please," he said.

Helen drew breath once more, and started. "Stoner Capital Group," she began, "is a financial services firm in the City." She spoke steadily now, attempting to put her fear aside in order to get the story out.

"They handle very large accounts," she continued, "things like sizable investments, funds, trusts, and retirements are common. My parents founded Stoner Capital, so it's a family business, as you might have gathered from my name."

John quietly searched the desk for a pad of paper, ready to take notes, and Sherlock remained fixed and listened. Helen went on. "We were a family—my father, mother, my older sister Julia, and me. Then, my father died in a car accident when I was relatively young. The business fell to my mother, who ran it well. She remarried some years later, and she brought my stepfather in on the firm, giving him equal partnership with her." Helen paused to take a sip of the tea that was in her hand and glanced in the direction of John, but appeared to look through him.

Her eyes then fluttered quickly back to Sherlock. "My mother battled cancer for a number of years," Helen told him. "About three years ago, she finally succumbed." There was a hint of pain in her voice as she said this. Her next words, however, seemed laced with malice. She placed the cup of tea on the table next to her chair, and sat further forward. "My stepfather, Grimesby Roylott, then became sole owner of Stoner Capital. He has always had a problem with gambling, and, although the clients are unaware, I fear that he's used the money in those accounts to fund his gambling habits."

"He's embezzling funds," John remarked in surprise.

Helen nodded. "I don't have proof, but I imagine it will come out eventually. Legal action will most certainly destroy the firm." She paused. "Roylott's proved to be good at finance, if only to hide his dealings, but his background is in medicine. He was the subject of a malpractice suit some years ago. A patient, in his care, died. Though the suit didn't stick. Even so, no one in the field would hire him after that." Helen swallowed hard. "So, he has taken possession of my family's business and good name. He charmed my mother, but Julia and I never liked him," she concluded.

Helen glanced back at Sherlock, who was still looking at her intensely. "I am sorry to take your time Mr. Holmes," she said, "But I feel that it would make things clearer if you knew the entire story."

"Please continue," Sherlock encouraged simply.

Helen nodded and resumed. "Before either of my parents died, they made provisions for my sister Julia and me," she said. "At age 32, both of us were to receive very sizable cash inheritances."

"But don't you think Roylott has probably spent it already?" John asked.

"No," Helen replied. "The trust was set up in such a way as to be separate from all other family and company assets. Roylott would have no access to it. And I also believe that these sums would be protected against any legal action or effort to collect claims directed at Stoner Capital; although, I'm checking with a solicitor on that point," she added.

"All very interesting," Sherlock said dismissively, with a wave of his hands, growing more impatient.

Helen continued quickly. "My thirty-second birthday is in one week. My sister, 11 months older than me, never got her inheritance."

John shifted in his chair and stopped taking notes. "Sorry," he said, "Is all this about you and your sister's inheritances?"

Sherlock suddenly dropped his hands and stood up, and walked to the middle of the room. Helen's face turned desperate again as she feared that he would not help. "Please," she said to his turned back, "that's not what this is about! I'm so afraid …" her voice dropped off.

Sherlock spun around to face her once more, after this dramatic outburst. He then crossed the room, peered out the window briefly, and returned his gaze to her. "That is abundantly clear," he said simply.

"It.. it is?" Helen asked incredulously.

"Of course it is," he said, once again flaunting his abilities.

"I…," Helen began, confused.

But Sherlock spoke over her. "It's unlikely that you walk in the pouring rain as a habit. Would anyone if they didn't have to? You must have a hired company car to drive you around, but you didn't have it bring you here. Obviously, you didn't want to alert anyone at the company—most likely your stepfather—that you were coming here. You took the tube. At least part of the way. The ticket is visible in your coat pocket. Then you walked the rest of the way here—that was made apparent by the state of you when you arrived. Most likely, you were worried that someone was following you, and you were trying to evade them."

"How would you know that?" Helen asked, astonished.

"You've been glancing at the window ever since you arrived," Sherlock responded without hesitation. "No doubt wondering if you would spot him if you looked out and down to the street below. In fact, someone did follow you. I saw him briefly just now, but he moved into shadow when he saw me in the light of the window."

Helen gasped, and the fear fully returned to her face. "Sherlock?" John queried in a worried tone, "Is there really someone down there?" John rose from his chair quickly and exchanged a look with his friend. Sherlock didn't seem fazed. Worry turned to acceptance on John's face. "Right then," John said uncomfortably, and turned back around to Helen. "Who would be following you?" he asked her.

"I don't really know," Helen said, with an anxious look. "As you can imagine, my stepfather, with his gambling habits, is in debt with some serious people. The kind of people that harm family members to prompt swift payment." She paused to swallow hard. "I've noticed strange people following me before, and I've even been attacked on the street once, but the police of course have no leads. In fact, they think I'm crazy. Everything I've told them for the past year, they haven't believed."

"And why is that?" John asked, still showing a bit of uneasiness at the prospect of some unknown person stalking 221B.

"Because I told them that I believed my stepfather is trying to kill me," Helen said evenly. "I'm positive that he killed my sister – that's why I'm here. You see, if my sister or I die before our thirty-second birthdays, then Roylott inherits."

"Your sister is dead," Sherlock said with a quick inward breath, and his eyes lit up, as if things were beginning to take shape in his mind. There was a painful look on Helen's face at this moment.

"I was there when she died," Helen confirmed, while staring at Sherlock. He moved fast and sat back down in his chair across from her. John dropped slowly back into his seat.

Sherlock leaned forward, enthralled at this murderous revelation. He rested his hands on his lips once more, not breaking his gaze with the woman before him.

"Please be precise with the details," he entreated her.

"That will be no problem, Mr. Holmes," Helen said, "The events of that night are burned into my mind, and will forever remain there." She sighed heavily, ready to lay her burden at his feet. Then she began. "This was about a month before my sister's thirty-second birthday. Julia lived in a flat paid for by our stepfather. That night, I decided to go see her. But I'm getting ahead of myself." She paused for a moment and then continued after she had regrouped her thoughts. "My sister had told me that afternoon that she needed to talk to me in person the next day. It was something about Roylott and about the family company, she had said to me. You see, Julia worked as a financial consultant at Stoner Capital. She had quite the talent for that sort of thing, like our parents," Helen said with a reminiscing look.

Then her tone suddenly became very sober and even. "What bothered me, Mr. Holmes, was the urgency that was in her voice when she said she needed to see me. So, instead of waiting until the following day, I went to see her that night after I knew she would be home from work. And what happened after that, I can't make sense of, but…"

"Let me worry about that part," Sherlock commanded. "Tell me what happened when you got to her flat."

Helen nodded and continued to speak slowly, as if she were reliving that night. "The building has an interior hallway. So, I made my way down that hallway to the front door of her flat. I rang the bell, but there was no answer. This didn't concern me, because the flat is rather large, and I guessed that she might be coming from the back. I knew she had to be home, but had probably gone to bed by that point. After a time, I knocked. When there was still no response from inside, I began to worry. Maybe it was some connection between us that caused the sinking feeling that overtook me. We were very close." Helen swallowed and blinked back the moisture that came to her eyes.

"At that moment, the door to her flat opened. And in almost the same moment, I heard a high-pitched whistling sound coming from inside. But my attention immediately shifted to my sister," Helen swallowed hard. "My dear Julia!" Now, the tears broke free from Helen's eyes, her head bowed, and she shook gently with silent sobs.

"Just take a moment," John said. "It's alright."

Sherlock remained silent for only a few seconds and then pressed, "Please continue Miss Stoner. What happened next?" John shot him a disapproving look.

Helen looked back at Sherlock, steeling herself to continue, and she seemed determined to finish her tale. "As my sister's figure came to the doorway, out of the darkened flat, and into the lit hallway, I could see her face was pale and taut with fear. It looked like she was in incredible pain. Then, all of the sudden her body went rigid, and I caught her in my arms as she fell to the floor. She was gasping, like she couldn't breathe. And it all happened so quickly. My sister's eyes suddenly locked onto mine, and she said, 'It's the spotted snake.' I told her not to speak, but she repeated: 'It's the spotted snake.' And then she was gone," Helen looked from Sherlock to John and back again. "I felt the breath go out of my sister in that moment, and she was gone."

"It's the spotted snake," John repeated each word.

"You're quite sure that's what she said?" Sherlock asked. Helen nodded.

"The medical examiner said it was sudden cardiac arrest," Helen said, with a hint of distain, "But Julia was healthy. She had never been diagnosed with any heart problems."

John spoke, "A person doesn't necessarily have to be diagnosed with a heart condition to suffer from sudden cardiac arrest."

"I know it was Roylott," Helen interrupted.

"Because your sister was going to tell you something about him," Sherlock remarked. Helen nodded again.

"And because her birthday was fast approaching when she was to inherit," Helen added with distain. "I insisted that they do a toxicological screen on her," she continued, "because I just couldn't accept that her death was a natural one."

"But they didn't find any poison, did they?" Sherlock inquired.

"No traces of anything," Helen confirmed. "And there were no marks of violence on her either. Not a bruise or any disturbed or punctured skin… Wait, how did you know that they didn't find any poison?"

"You wouldn't be here if they did," Sherlock said simply, and Helen nodded at the obviousness of it. "And there was no one else in the flat?" Sherlock asked, almost to himself. "Was there any sign of forced entry?"

"No, there was no one," Helen answered, "and no one could have gotten in. Julia had been threatened also by the people our stepfather was in debt to. Both of us had state-of-the-art security systems put in, and we always kept all windows and doors locked."

Sherlock placed his arms on either side of his chair. A smile formed on his mouth. "A locked flat. No sign of entry or violence, and yet your sister died."

"I'm not crazy Mr. Holmes," Helen began.

"No, I don't believe you are Miss Stoner," Sherlock stopped her. "This is fascinating to be sure." He tapped his fingers on the arm of the chair with vigor.

"Sherlock," John reproved, clearly a bit offended at his friend's callous attitude. But he knew it would do no good.

"I'll take the case," Sherlock said finally. "Thank you Miss Stoner."

Another worried glance passed over Helen's face, and she said, "I don't have the money to compensate you, Mr. Holmes. The amount of my small monthly allowance is controlled by my stepfather. But I will have discretion over my own finances when I come into my inheritance, and then I'll repay you."

"No matter," Sherlock said with a wave of his hands. "My work is its own reward." John looked at him and started to speak. Sherlock then gave a quick smile to Helen and spoke over his friend. "But you can defray any costs that you feel you must."

Helen nodded and then started to get up from where she was sitting, seeming like she didn't know what to do next.

"I don't suppose we'll be able to look at your sister's flat," Sherlock said off-handedly, still sitting. "Someone else probably occupies it by now."

"Actually, I'm living there now," Helen said.

Sherlock looked up at her quickly. "Then I'll want to look over the flat later today," he said. "Yes, of course," Helen said quickly. She stole another glance at the window.

"Let me put you in a cab Ms. Stoner," John said, realizing that she was worried about the person below who was watching 221B. "If they already know you're here, you might as well travel back more comfortably… and safely."

"Please, call me Helen," she said absently. "You should both call me Helen."

Sherlock stood long enough to walk over to his laptop on the desk. He sat, flipped open the computer, and began to type vigorously, researching.

John walked Helen downstairs and waited with her outside. There was no sign of the shadowy figure. It had stopped raining and they didn't wait long for a cab to pull up to the curb. John opened the cab door for the young woman.

"Oh," she said, "my address, I forgot to give it to you." She took the slightly dampened underground ticket from her pocket and wrote the address of her flat on it.

John took the ticket when she held it out to him. "Don't worry Helen," he said. "If anyone can solve your mystery, it's Sherlock."

Helen nodded, with a hint of a smile, and got into the cab.