Disclaimer: Anything you recognize - be it character, location, idea or line - isn't mine and I'm just having fun with it!

Thankfully, where Sherlock was, turned out to be where John needed to go, too: the nearest hospital.

Donovan had been charged with taking Brittany down to the Yard, where she would be interrogated again, only officially this time, and where they would hopefully find out just why she wasn't with Social Services as she was supposed to.

Meanwhile John had resigned himself to be the one who took little Melanie to the hospital, because the girl had screamed her lungs out at the mere suggestion of his leaving her alone with the policemen.

Lestrade elected to accompany them in the hope of catching up with Sherlock, and more importantly, with the answers the consulting detective was bound to have.

Much to the D.I.'s relief, John had handled the little angel with impressive lungs the whole way there. Much to John's relief, Sherlock had been there harassing the harried relatives when he got to hand the girl over to her distraught father and move on to handle his spoilt brat. Err… best friend.

There was a lot of hassle around the newly retrieved child, from concerned nurses, curious orderlies, the frantic father's friends and a number of other snooping policemen, patients and various relatives. John, still nursing a headache and grumbling against his so-called friend under his breath, did his best not to snap at anyone, but his patience was sorely tried.

The confusion was made much worse by the loud and insistent presence of the press: journalists had jumped on the kidnappings in a very predictable way right from the start and, now, they were visibly salivating at Sherlock's presence on top of their scoop. Lestrade, too, was recognized and pounced upon quickly and he tried his best not to answer the raining questions, repeating his 'no comment' line through gritted teeth.

At least the two girls seemed to be perfectly fine – which was more than they'd hoped for that morning.

As John moved past the worst of the commotion, he shared a smiling glance with Mrs. Johnson and made a detour to where she was crying in relief and adrenaline crash on the other side of the room; she had a tight grip on her baby girl and John very much doubted she'd let go. She tried to thank him over and over, despite his protests that he really hadn't done much of anything.

Mr. Johnson was standing by her side, pale and winded: he looked as if he was going to faint any minute. Mrs. Johnson's sister was comforting him to the best of her abilities, which wasn't saying much in John's opinion, but he wisely didn't comment on her quietly berating manners. Maneerat herself was sniffling quietly, held securely in her mother's arms; her grandmother smiled gently through her tears, gently stroking her hair. The elderly woman still looked elegant and refined even though she was clearly distressed, rather disheveled and still in that morning's clothes and jewels. That was class, thought John.

The family picture made a stark contrast to the side of the corridor where the little terror's father, Mr. Hornton, was hysterical, unable to stop sobbing loudly and blabbing on about irrelevant things. Lestrade was eyeing him with distaste. John eyed with distaste Melanie weaseling a promise of 'ice-cream every day' from her crying father. Nurses and journalists alike kept cooing over her chestnut-golden curls and sweet, sweet smile, chattering among themselves as if no-one else was present and fussing without much apparent aim.

All in all, it was a corner of confusion and John was faintly relieved that Sherlock's attention had moved on and was now pinned on a side corridor further away, instead.

John went to stand by his friend's side and looked over as well, briefly considering whether the glossy steel elevator might be what was keeping Sherlock's focused stare, before concluding that no, there was nothing of interest there. It was more likely that the consulting detective was simply intent on ignoring the press with supreme determination; or perhaps he was sorting something in his mind palace and wasn't even seeing the above mentioned elevator.

Patiently, John waited for his friend to be ready to talk, giving bland smiles to the couple of reporters who tried to ask him something and just letting his gaze wander. He idly mused that the aquamarine walls and light wooden doors made the corridor less off-putting than most hospitals he'd been in.

Lestrade came up to the two friends looking thunderous and drew a breath to say something, but was cut off by Sherlock, who didn't even glance at him before rattling off commandingly: "Arrest that girl's, Brittany's, abusive father. He's the kidnapper. Him and someone else, the woman who has taken part in the actual kidnappings – the mother or stepmother or something along those lines, I'd wager. Brittany wouldn't have been trusted, I don't think, she's a decent liar but too erratic for that kind of acting and in any case, she was with John at the time of the first kidnapping."

He clasped his hands behind his back and went on rapidly: "So, the father and a female accomplice. Find them and you'll have the case solved. Mind you, that would be easier if you'd found their car, like I told you to do, but I've given up expecting any kind of efficiency from London's finest. Perhaps, if you're lucky, you might get a confession from Brittany herself, and find them thus. I wouldn't hold my breath for it, though. Abused since childhood, you understand: John can confirm it, he's the one who spotted it. I don't expect she'll go against her father, no matter what – she didn't when we interrogated her. You're better off focusing on the car – which you should really have already found, by this point."

Visibly deflating and blinking owlishly, the poor D.I. tried to catch up with Sherlock's abrupt info dump. "Father. Female accomplice. Car. Got that," he muttered, swallowing his irate comments.

A new bunch of relatives and friends arrived in a hurry and swarmed over to the Johnsons, animating the area around the family with questions and exclamations, shoulder-pats and hugs. The journalists followed in their wake like sharks scenting blood.

Mechanically, the three men moved a few steps over to make room for the new arrivals.

Lestrade shook his head to clear it and started again, half-pleading half-warning: "Sherlock…"

The consulting detective rolled his eyes and gave the D.I. a most put-upon glare, obviously on the brink of delivering one of his typical, scathing comments; however, his mind suddenly changed tracks and he turned abruptly to address Mrs. Johnsons: "Wait. What did you just say?"

Sherlock's barging into the conversation without a shred of concern for politeness seemed to shock the gaggle of relieved and babbling relatives into an uncertain silence. The most quick-on-the-uptake reporters hushed and turned eagerly to the famous detective.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes: "You said you didn't call your mother-in-law."

"N-no…" admitted the confused mother, blinking at him.

"Then who did?" he demanded sharply.

John noticed a few notepads being furiously scribbled upon and fought down a grin.

"She's here now – evidently she's been informed of her granddaughter's rescue and of where to find her," insisted Sherlock impatiently. "The hospital wouldn't have called: they contacted the parents, obviously, and you just said you were both at the police station at the time."

"Yes…"

"It would have been up to you to call her," he jerked his head towards the grandmother, who started and frowned, displeased. Sherlock's eyes were lit with grim excitement as he went on: "You didn't, though. So… who did?"

Baffled glances were exchanged all around; nobody could answer him, however.

The consulting detective wasn't put out: clearly, he had a good idea of the answer himself.

John turned to look questioningly at Sherlock, who spared him one of his not-really-a-smile: "We've been played, John."

The blogger cocked his head to the side, trying to figure out what the detective meant. "Huh?"

Ignoring the number of questions being pelted at him from everybody present, Sherlock marched quickly away, leaving John, as usual, to follow. Lestrade, bless his soul, ran interference for them, engaging the journalists and distracting the relatives, for which John felt deeply grateful. He made a mental note to force Sherlock into doing their paperwork for the case for once, as a thank you.

A young constable, on Lestrade's signal, attempted to follow them, but unlike John, he wasn't used to keep up with Sherlock's fast pace while weaving through a crowded space; he was quickly distanced as they moved speedily towards the nearest exit.

The consulting detective spoke rapidly, without looking at John: "Why select these particular girls in the first place? These kidnappings weren't random, that much is obvious. And why release them like this? No doubt the one we found was supposed to be left somewhere the same way, in a little while. But what's the point of it all? It looks like a trap, but the location is all wrong for that."

"I know, you said," commented John, deftly sidestepping a nurse and his trolley. "They were luring us away from somewhere."

"No, no. Not us! Them!"

"What?" John felt genuinely baffled and didn't even stop to throw his usual hurried apology to the elderly couple Sherlock's whirlwind passage had nearly unbalanced.

"Don't you see? Someone told the grandmother that the child had been found. But who, John? Who?" Sherlock's smile was as sharp as a razor. "Why, the kidnappers, themselves!

John could only mutter intelligently: "Huh?"

He hurried out after his friend, who had dramatically pushed the double doors open, meeting the blast of cold that had come in head on, and was now adjusting his coat lapels and scarf without breaking his fast stride.

John hissed a grumble, huddling in his own jacket, but Sherlock went on without sparing him a glance: "Of course, the woman runs here in a flash – why wouldn't she? Sentiment. And they get what they wanted from the start."

"Which... is?" asked the blogger, rubbing his hands in an effort to stave off the chill.

"The house, John! For some reason, they needed the house empty."

John stared for a long moment, feeling his mouth open on a myriad questions and closing it quickly on the mouthful of icy air he inadvertently gulped; Sherlock, eager and triumphant, was already hailing a cab. "Come on!" he shouted over his shoulder.

The former army doctor cursed, correctly guessing that Sherlock was determined to storm the house in question on his own. Typical. He tried very hard not to break into a wide grin, but couldn't help himself. This, this was what he loved the most of their life. The exhilaration of the chase, the thrill of the risk...!

As soon as he drew the cab's door shut, the car was speeding away, a twenty pounds note from Sherlock insuring the cabbie's dedication to getting them to their destination in record time.

"Oh, they're clever," muttered Sherlock with a touch of glee. "They thought of everything, calibrated their actions for maximum effect. Timing, it's all in the timing!"

He was gazing out of the cab window, but John would bet he wasn't really seeing any of the colourful lights and hurried people.

"Of course, we have a chance to disrupt their plans now. The second girl wasn't supposed to be found so soon, clearly: they would have used her exactly like the first, leaving her somewhere and calling the tip to send the police on a merry chase, gaining themselves more time. I wonder if they know already that their plan isn't going smoothly anymore? Still, we haven't gained much on them..."

He trailed off, happily thoughtful.

"But what do they want?" asked John, filled with excitement and confusion.

"Ah!" Sherlock paused. "That, I have no idea about."

John gave him an incredulous look.

Since no reaction was forthcoming, he ventured: "Could it be that they needed a particular location for something?" It sounded far fetched even to him, however.

Sherlock made a dismissive noise. "There are more easily obtained places of all kinds which are more secure. Unless there's something peculiar about the house? But that wouldn't explain the other girl. No. How about something in the house, then? Something they must have in common... no, that the girls must have in common. You!" he shouted suddenly.

"What?" jumped John.

"Think, John. Think! The police has spent quite some time looking for any similarity between the two girls and what did they find? Nothing. But they both came to the clinic. You visited them. That's the only thing they have in common: it's the key, it has to be."

"...That's ridiculous."

"Maybe," allowed Sherlock, disgruntled. "Or maybe I'm still missing something. No matter." He narrowed his eyes at the back of the driver's seat. "I will find out."

The house was dark when they arrived, despite the bright street-lamps and the magnificent Christmas tree in the small garden next door, whose elegant decorations cast a cheery glow of golds and reds onto the façade.

The door, when Sherlock touched it, very conveniently swung open without a sound, prompting a glance from Sherlock that was lost in the darkness, but was probably smug, and an invisible grimace from John.

A cursory glance was enough for Sherlock to dismiss the ground floor and move determinedly towards the stairs, quite clearly in no need of a light to navigate the dark room, but John wasn't comfortable with such a cavalier attitude, his training screaming at him to secure the area before moving on; and that was the only reason their quarries didn't slip through their fingers after all.

The former army doctor caught the flicker of shadows dancing against other shadows and recognized the movement for what it was – two figures making their way silently but frantically in the darkness.

He didn't hesitate, he didn't think; yelling for Sherlock, he pounced on the closer figure, intent on stopping it – he got a punch to the chin for his trouble, but ignored it with practised ease and twisted to unbalance his opponent; both of them crumpled to the floor, the stockier weight of his adversary dragging John down on top of him.

Mindful of the other presence, John threw himself to the side in the hope of catching it as it bolted for the door and through more luck than skill managed to make it stumble.

A female voice let out a suffocated curse and the shadow it belonged to staggered, catching herself on the wall; but John had no attention to spare for her, because his first opponent had recovered enough to engage him again – and obviously fancied himself a boxer. Luckily, the darkness made him overreach his fists and he only grazed John a couple times; the former soldier had little trouble subduing him.

Running steps somewhere above proved that Sherlock had heard the scuffle and suddenly the room was inundated with light; John blinked rapidly to recover his vision but only tightened his grip on the man he'd forced to the floor, shifting a knee to push between his shoulderblades.

The female voice cursed again, louder this time; turning towards the entrance door, John caught a confused sight of a young woman hitting a tall man in a dark coat with her fists.

She had Brittany's same dark hair and eyes, but in her, they were combined with daintier features and a taller, willowy frame: where her sister could have been pretty if she had scowled less, she was truly beautiful. She was struggling ineffectively against someone that John abruptly recognized as Lestrade, who had obviously caught her just as she made her escape, halting her right on the doorstep.

"None of that, missy!" the D.I. barked. "Bloody hell, John! And Sherlock... of course you're here already!"

John realized he'd been vaguely registering the noises from outside even as he wrenched his struggling captive to the floor again: the police had, somehow, arrived almost on their heels.

"Lestrade!" exclaimed Sherlock, who'd stopped on the stairs.

"You could have told me where you were going!" complained the D.I., while promptly stopping the young woman's aborted escape attempt by very firmly grasping her arm and pushing her inside the room.

"How did you get here?" asked Sherlock, for once looking honestly surprised.

"We're not completely useless, you know!" grumbled Lestrade, ignoring Sherlock's derisive huff. Then, a little more reluctantly, he admitted: "We tracked the car."

"Ha!"

"What car?" asked John wearily – and then metaphorically hit himself on the forehead, because what car could Lestrade possibly mean, if not the one Sherlock had been so adamant – and biting – about?

Indeed, the consulting detective shouted a very hearty: "Finally!" in clear triumph.

"Yeah, yeah," the D.I. grumbled halfheartedly. "Now, then. I presume these are the kidnappers?" he glared at the young woman that was still feebly struggling in his firm grasp.

She drew herself up with a glare, but the man John was still holding down renewed his struggles and ground out a furious order: "Don't tell them anything, Cathy!"

While Sherlock started making his way down the last steps of the stairs in a dramatically regal manner, John commented offhandedly, almost to himself: "Huh. Another Cathy, eh? It sure seems like the world is full of them as of late."

Sherlock froze.

John gazed up at him in slight concern: he looked thunderstruck.

"John," he whispered. "Oh, John!... You fantastic conductor of light!"

"Huh?"

Lestrade, oblivious in his irritation, went on with directing the arrest of the two - "...for breaking and entering, to start with; and then we'll see about the kidnappings..." - but his voice seemed to fade into the background.

"It's connected," breathed Sherlock, sounding awed. "It's all connected."

"What?" asked Lestrade, perplexed. "What are you on about now?"

Sherlock threw his head back and laughed, loud and delighted: "Beautiful! Brilliant! John, it's all connected!"

"What is connected?" muttered John, feeling lost.

"The case – our case. It's all part of that!"

The D.I. was honestly confused: "Wait. What? What case?"

"Don't be tiresome, Lestrade. We told you about the case this morning," said Sherlock scornfully.

John's jaw threatened to fall to the floor. "You mean..." he muttered, throwing an amazed glance at the man under him. "No way," he blurted out.

Frustrated, Lestrade half-yelled: "One of you better explain right now!"

Dazed, the doctor shook his head in wonder: "The theft of the blue carbuncle," he explained. "I think you were distracted when we mentioned it, but we've been working on it."

"What carbuncle? John- Sherlock. What are you on about? Why wasn't this theft reported?"

"Wrong question!" shouted the consulting detective.

Lestrade made a groan that was almost a moan of exasperation.

Sherlock spun in place and pointed dramatically to the young woman, saying with great relish: "You!...You're Catherine Cusak!"

"I thought she didn't exist?" blurted out John, covering Lestrade's exasperated "Who?!"

The young woman had frozen for the briefest instant, but instantly recovered and smirked: "That's not my name," she stated confidently.

"Oh, I know very well it's not," said Sherlock with relished nonchalance. "Nevertheless, it is a name you've used as of late."

"You can't prove anything!" yelled the man on the floor, trying once more to buck John off him. The doctor renewed his grip on the man's arm and twisted it a little more painfully up his back, cutting off his struggles.

"A little help here!" he grumbled pointedly to Donovan, who was shadowing Lestrade and sneering haughtily at the scene.

She started and blinked, then hurried forward with a pair of shackles, looking embarrassed. Fortunately, Sherlock was too busy showing off to bother insulting her this time. John rolled his eyes, but moved back to let her do her job.

"True, true, I can't prove anything," the consulting detective proclaimed with his usual confidence. "I rather think, however, that Mr. Baker shall."

John had to hand it to Miss Cathy: she was extremely self-possessed. She controlled her expression almost at once, but she couldn't help muttering something that, quite clearly, contained the word 'idiot'.

"Yes, quite," agreed Sherlock carelessly. "And rather dull, to boot; but a rather convenient idiot, was he not? So easily manipulated."

Lestrade facepalmed, but didn't comment and even made a slight effort to smooth down his frown. He signalled to a pair of his men to come and handle the two suspects and crossed his arms, evidently resigned to let Sherlock have his show.

"It must have been so very easy for someone of your skill to seduce the poor fool," Sherlock commented almost admiringly.

Cathy hissed in outrage that looked genuine and the man yelled, incensed: "Leave my daughter alone!"

Momentarily derailed, Sherlock shot him a slightly surprised look. "Daughter!" he muttered in a disgusted aside. "There's always something."

John and Lestrade couldn't help smirking.

A moment later, though, the consulting detective was shrugging off the detail as inconsequential. He turned to the young woman, eyes narrowed above his smug smirk: "How long until Baker was putty in your hands, Cathy? A day? Two? He is so proud of you, you know – absolutely delighted to have such a girlfriend. I expect he didn't even notice when you palmed the key, did he? Nor when you let it fall into your father's waiting hands – for you were both too... distracted, to close the window immediately, despite it being winter, weren't you? You certainly made good use of that tree – and of how close to the window Baker kept the key." He smirked even more widely.

She was as pale as a china doll, now, and regarding Sherlock with undisguised hostility.

"Returning it to its place wasn't as easy, though, was it? For it had to be that very night, you couldn't risk him noticing its absence. Quite the problem indeed. But you were daring enough to try and make it part of your alibi. Oh, you are clever. You kept him well distracted while your father made a copy, then you both played your part perfectly, the enraged father and the naughty daughter..."

"Enough!" she burst out. "I don't have to listen to this nonsense, this, this...! This is slander. You have not the slightest proof of what you're saying!"

But Lestrade, who knew Sherlock well, glared her into silence and gave the consulting detective a measured nod: "Go on."

"It was easy to deduce what had happened, looking at Baker's room. The traces of the struggle were as clear as day. Baker himself remembers finding the key among the debris of its broken container, fallen to the floor; he took it to mean it could not possibly have been moved – he was quite vehement in defending you – but we know better, don't we? Even John figured it out on his own."

"Oh, ta ever so," muttered the doctor, irritation at Sherlock's dismissive attitude warring with the admiration his deductions always arose in him.

"Once you had the copy of the key and had successfully staved off suspicions with your ruse, you were set. The second key is easily stolen, since Mrs. Ravensdale is less than careful with it most of the time, and the security system is quickly fooled if you have both."

"What does this all have to do with the kidnappings?" interjected Lestrade.

"It's a load of bullshit," exploded Cathy's father at the same time. "Why, he's making it all up."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed: "I am most certainly not."

Cathy snorted elegantly: "By your reckoning, we are then in possession of this... was it a carbuncle, you said?" She shrugged dismissively. "Do feel free to search for it-"

She was interrupted by Sherlock barking a laugh: "Of course you don't have it anymore! That's the entire point of the kidnappings!"

She paled, if possible, even more and shared a darting, worried glance with her father, whose complexion was also turning slightly green.

John smiled the look of smug glee on Sherlock's face – an expression he knew well: the case was drawing to a close and his friend was relishing the high of solving it.

"As I told John," said the consulting detective to Lestrade, "the place and manner in which you found the child was a ruse. They were using her as a distraction, keeping the police occupied and the family out of the way while they searched the house. I already checked upstairs and there are unmistakable traces of a burglary… in the child's room." Sherlock smiled with satisfaction. "They were obviously rummaging through her things, particularly her toys. Check their pockets, they likely have LED penlights..."

"The child's room?" repeated the D.I., sounding bewildered.

"You were right, then," commented John, unsurprised.

Sherlock waved him off briskly and started pacing. "Of course I was right. But the question remained. What did they want? What? What could they possibly want in a child's room?"

Cathy was glaring at him with such icy fury John felt a shiver of cold; her father spat at Sherlock's feet, earning himself a rough shove from one of the policemen.

"Well? What did they want?" asked Lestrade, plainly short on patience.

"Isn't it obvious? It's all connected!"

And suddenly it was obvious for John as well. "The blue carbuncle!" he exclaimed, in utter amazement. "Of course – you proved they're the thieves, but you said they don't have it anymore... and they were looking for it here!"

"Precisely!"

"In a child's room?" asked Lestrade, in obvious scepticism. "How would it even have ended up there?"

A suspicion was forming inside John's mind, but he wavered before voicing it – because wasn't it absurd?

Sherlock was outright beaming now: "Ah, that is the best part of it!" he gloated. "John, didn't I tell you this would be another case of picking the wrong goose?"

Lestrade was lost: "Goose? What goose? Sherlock, could you please try and make sense?"

But John was starting to think that maybe his friend was, indeed making sense. Only... well, surely not?...

"They took advantage of Brittany's job at the stand," went on Sherlock, still pacing.

"Stand?" tried to ask Lestrade.

"At the clinic," hurriedly explained John. He waved the D.I. silent, his attention avidly on Sherlock.

"Extremely clever," his friend was commenting with all the appearance of pleasure. "Who would look for something valuable among all those trinkets? It's rather an excellent hiding spot. But the silly girl managed to get it sold-"

Here the father couldn't keep quiet anymore and burst out in a string of abuse for his youngest daughter. Lestrade waved at his men to take him away; Sherlock didn't even seem to notice the interruption – he was far too caught up in his own tirade.

"She was smart enough to track down the possibilities however and so they upgraded their plan to include the kidnappings. The children were never in danger, their target was always the trinket that's disguising their loot."

John rooted around his pocket, fished out the little battered toy ring he'd gained from Melanie that afternoon and tried to wrap his mind around the new and absurd light it might have to be seen under.

His suspicions growing, he delicately peeled off the ill-fitting transparent plastic film. Beneath it, the blue surface gleamed, rather too smooth and lustre for plastic...

He closed his eyes, torn between berating himself for idiocy and laughing hysterically. How could he have missed something like this?

"All we have to do is find the right fake toy..." was saying Sherlock.

John smirked ruefully. "Oh, you mean… this?" he asked, producing the blue, not-so-fake-after-all gem with faked nonchalance.

It was worth it, to see their stunned faces – and to finally draw a shriek of utter fury from the coldly collected Cathy.

A little while later, John stood on the pavement, his back to the flurry of activities Lestrade was directing inside the house and, most importantly, to the line of reporters attempting to push their way onto the crime scene. It was snowing again, just a light powdering of white over everything, and John felt the joy of Christmas build in him once more.

Sherlock's satisfied voice sounded right by his side: "Well. That is that." He turned the lapels of his coat up and made to leave.

"Hold on. Sherlock, stop!" Lestrade, knowing them rather too well, had burst out of the door to intercept them, a scowling Donovan at his side, shivering in the biting cold. "You need to come down to the Yard, we'll need your and John's depositions and..."

The consulting detective blithely ignored the D.I.'s demands and continued stalking away, a tall shadow in the wintry darkness.

"Sherlock!" yelled Lestrade, almost whining – but the consulting detective merely called back briskly: "Let's go, John. I have some biscuits to bake!"

Donovan's and Lestrade's shocked faces threw John into a fit of laughter.

The End