Oh, what a lot of time I have lost!" said the little girl. "I set out to find Kay. Do you know where he is?" she asked the roses. "Do you think he is dead and gone?"

"No, he is not dead," said the roses. "We have been in the earth where the dead are, but Kay was not there."

She ran to the edge of the garden. The gate was locked, but she twisted the rusty fastening until it came away; the gate flew open, and little Gerda ran barefooted into the wide world. Three times she looked back, but nobody was following her.

December 18th

1:00pm

Sherlock ignored Sebastian's glare as he entered the room. "Half the employees in this company are about to be made redundant, aren't they? Once Christmas is over?"

His eyes widened. "I'll call you back," he murmured into his phone, hanging up rather violently. "Will you keep your voice down?"

Lestrade shut the door to Sebastian's office, whilst Sherlock cocked his head to the side. "I'll need to see the respective files, and your security clearance."

He smirked back at him. "What if I refuse?"

Sherlock paused, fixing him with his most venomous of looks. "Well, you'll be responsible for the death of one of your members of staff. That'll wipe that shit eating grin off your face, won't it?"

Sebastian rose from his seat, as if to challenge him, but John interposed himself between them. "Your computer, please…"

He stood back from his desk to let Sherlock through. Sherlock began typing very quickly, knowing exactly what he was looking for. "Right, then… There are hundreds of people on this list, but we can quickly narrow it down to the office that you work in… There we go."

"How many?" asked Lestrade.

"Twenty four," Sebastian interrupted, lighting a cigarette. "I could have told you that. I'm sorry, but that's just how it has to work. The bank's up shit creek, and we're all suffering."

"I don't see you on this list, Sebastian," John said dryly.

Sherlock wasn't listening. "Twenty four… Twenty four… Number of hours in a day, highly composite, atomic number of chromium, number of cycles in Chinese solar year, number of frames per second in film…" He stared straight ahead at the screen. "Sixpence."

"Sixpence?"

"Sing a song of sixpence, John. Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye, four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie."

"You think this is the connection?"

"Quite possibly." Sherlock took out his phone and began to search. "One interpretation of the traditional children's nursery rhyme is that it represents the Dissolution of the Monasteries…"

Sebastian frowned. "What?"

He rolled his eyes. "No wonder you got a third. The Dissolution of the Monasteries was when Henry VIII made himself Supreme Head of the Church, and disbanded the monasteries."

Lestrade smiled, pleased with the new lead. "You don't think it represents the bank? And the fact it's going under?"

"You didn't hear that from me," Sebastian said, clearly uncomfortable. "I suppose it could…"

Sherlock continued to scroll down the page. "… I think I may just have this, you know."

"Then for God's sake, tell us!"

"Shut up, Sebastian. I need to meet all of these employees."

"B-You can't tell them that they're about to be fired!"

Sherlock looked at him blankly. "Why not?"

"Well- Because! Just because!"

"Don't worry. I'm not about to tell them all. I still need to see them, though…"

"Fine."

Sherlock began to pace again, thinking to himself. "When the pie was opened, the birds began to sing, wasn't that a dainty dish to set before the king?"

"Sorry, what?" John couldn't keep up with the flow of words, each spoken so quickly that he could barely hear them.

"The king was in his counting house, counting out his money, the queen was in the parlor, eating bread and honey. The king and queen. The king would represent Sebastian, however misguided the comparison might be." Sebastian opened his mouth to protest, but Lestrade silenced him with a frown. "The queen… your wife? The maid was in the garden, hanging out the clothes, when down came a blackbird and pecked off her nose…"

"I don't see what this has to do with my wife, frankly," Sebastian said coolly. "Just solve the damn case, Holmes."

He chuckled to himself. "Oh, but in a few moments, I will have. Show me your employees. Now."

Sebastian quickly printed a list of the names, which Sherlock swiftly stole from his hands before he charged out into the main office. He hammered his hand on the desk nearest to him very loudly, gathering the full attention of the busy office. "You see this list? Check it for your name. If you see yourself in it, I want you to come to the empty boardroom in ten minutes. Do you understand?"

There was a sea of small nods. Sherlock had always had the ability to command the attention of the whole room. He turned back to Lestrade and John, who'd been watching bewildered from the sidelines. "Do you know who it is?" Lestrade asked him thoughtfully.

"I will in a few moments. But I think there's further investigation to do once we've found it out. I just have to make a quick phone call…"

1:15pm

The twenty four employees stood nervously in the boardroom, all looking concerned at the presence of Sherlock Holmes. They remembered him from last time, and what he'd uncovered.

Sherlock arrived with a flourish, as he always did, with Lestrade and John trailing just a little behind him. "Good morning," he said, with forced kindness. "Now, I must ask all the males to leave the room."

They exchanged confused glances with each other, and Sherlock's companions also looked slightly perplexed. The men left, murmuring quietly and suspiciously. It left around six women, all stood together, as though to protect each other.

"Sherlock, what's this about?" John whispered.

"Sebastian is many things, but he is not gay."

"You think he's having an affair with one of these women?"

"I know so. Now, we'll just have to see what he does when he sees them all."

As if on cue, Sebastian pushed open the door, perhaps a little more forcefully than necessary. He watched Sebastian's eyes pass from Sherlock to the women across the room. "What's going on?"

"Can you name these women?"

"What?"

"Can you name them?"

"Well, yes… Lucy, Gemma, Tiffany, Beth, Delilah and Sybil. See?"

"Good." Sherlock walked slowly towards the women, circling them in an almost predatory fashion. "Are you particularly close to any of these women?"

"No."

"Are you certain of that?"

"Yes, of course."

Sherlock hovered behind the group. "Would any of you say that you are particularly close to Mr Wilkes?" They shook their heads. All seemed nervous, not knowing what the situation was about, but a shorter girl had her hands tightly clasped behind her back.

"Look, Sherlock," Sebastian seemed furious now. "I've had just about enough of this. What do you expect them to say?"

"I expect them to sing."

"Don't be absurd!"

"I will ask you all to leave now, thank you…" They breathed sighs of relief, and headed towards the door. Sebastian shot Sherlock a look of contempt and left.

"Well. That was productive."

"How so?" Lestrade was massaging his temples, the stress getting to him a little. "We've got nothing to go on."

Sherlock smirked upwards at him, reclining in his chair. "Au contraire. Once Sebastian's out of the way, I need you to take Gemma to one side and explain to her that she is in grave danger... But we need to go on a little trip later…"

5:00pm

The house was as he'd expected- a large, stony building right on the edge of a little village in Sussex , probably a converted barn. Two relatively new cars sat on the drive, more of a statement than a means of transport. There was a leafless silver birch tree swaying gently in the mild breeze.

"So it could be Gemma, or it could be Sebastian's wife?" John asked, stepping out of the police car with Sherlock.

Sherlock did not answer him. "Dear God. Sebastian's never even here, why does he need a Land Rover? To get over the leaves in his drive way? Good lord."

They approached the door with Lestrade, who was having a hard time understanding Sherlock's motivations. "I wish you'd explain the reasoning for your plans to me beforehand, you know. I'm not sure we should really be doing this…" He saw Sherlock take a case from his coat, opening it to reveal a few long pieces of metal.

"Believe me; she'll thank us in the long run." Within a few moments, he'd picked the lock of the door and opened it. "You'd think with the money Sebastian earns, he'd install a decent alarm system." He walked over towards the alarm system. "1 9 7 7. The year he was born, the arrogant sod." The alarm system gave a little bleep of approval, and Sherlock grinned. "We're in."

5:30pm

Sherlock was sat on the sofa drinking a cup of tea when Clarisse Wilkes walked into her home. She had a small brass statue raised above her head. "Get out of my home or I'm calling the police."

Sherlock smiled, without looking her in the eye. "Ah, Clarisse. Good to see you're prepared in case of burglaries."

"How do you know my name?" she demanded, not lowering her weapon.

"I'm with the police. This is DI Lestrade," Lestrade smiled sheepishly, holding out his badge for her to see, "Dr John Watson," John shook her hand, "and I am Sherlock Holmes. I went to Cambridge with your husband."

"Oh." She placed the statue down on the ground, looking a lot less intimidating. She was pale and slim, with icy blue eyes and blonde hair. "I still want to know how you got in."

Sherlock ignored her. "You are Clarisse Wilkes, then?"

"Yes, I am." She perched on the edge of an armchair next to where the three of them sat. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

They shook their heads in unison, though Sherlock thought uncomfortably of his own addiction problems. She took a little blue lighter and lit her cigarette. "Is something wrong?" She thought for a moment. "Of course there is. How stupid of me." Her eyes widened in fright. "Is it Seb? Is he alright?"

"He's perfectly fine," he reassured her, "but you are our concern."

"Oh."

Lestrade held out a photo fit image of Jim Moriarty (no one who'd seen him had ever taken a photo). "Have you ever had dealings with a man resembling this?"

She shook her head. "No, I can't say I have."

Sherlock stood up, taking a look around the room. He crossed over to the mantelpiece. "Is this you at University?"

She looked up, a little confused. "Um, yes. That was a few weeks before I graduated- me and my friends took a trip out to the seaside."

"Ah. Still in touch with these friends, are you?"

"I'm afraid not," she replied sadly. "You know how it is…"

"I really don't. So you enjoyed Uni, then?"

"Very much so." Her response was fond, and her tone was much brighter for the topic.

"What did you study?"

"… Economics."

"Fascinating. Do you work in that field now?"

"… No, I don't work. Can I ask what this is about?"

Sherlock turned to look out of the window. He felt his phone vibrate in his pocket, and gave it a cursory glance. Mycroft. Well, now was not the time. He switched his phone off. "Oh nothing. I was just learning a few things about you."

Clarisse frowned, not unkindly but out of confusion. "Are you the one Seb told me about? The one who had those tricks?"

"They're not tricks," he replied flatly.

"Sorry. But you are?"

"Yes. And I've learned an awful lot about you."

She crossed her arms, as if feeling violated. "I would prefer it if you didn't…"

"I'm afraid I notice everything. Even the things I don't want to know." Sherlock span around on his heel. "Like you for example. I know that you're a naturally trusting person, perhaps to your folly. I know that you're aware of your own flaws, for example your forgetfulness. I know you were ambitious, and that you were- are- very gifted at Economics. I know you relished university, and the challenge it brought to you. I know that you're bored, so very bored. I know that your relationship with your husband is strained, perhaps because of your husband's distance from you, perhaps because of the strain on the bank that he doesn't think you've noticed. But you have, haven't you? And you've started to prepare, you're not living in denial. You're smarter than that, and it pains me to see wasted talent even in fields I am uninterested in."

Clarisse looked at him, a little stunned. "That's not true."

"But it is. You didn't question the fact that my colleague here," he gestured to Lestrade, "was a police officer. Fair enough, you saw his ID, but you're clever enough to realize that it could have easily been fake. Three strange men in your house and you'll believe anything they tell you… That's telling. And your cigarette lighter shows me a lot, too. It's plastic, and cheap. That brand is sold in bulk. They'll break very easily. So why does the wife of a well off banker use a cheap cigarette lighter? Because she knows that she forgets things, loses them easily. Why have an expensive lighter that you're just going to lose? You're practical and I like that. And those photos are revealing, you know. Those smiles with your friends, they're genuine. You can tell because of the muscles you use. Usually in photographs people force a smile, and the muscles below their eyes aren't prominent- but with you, there are. That's a true smile. I saw the diploma hung on the wall- you're proud of that first, it's not meaningless to you. You worked for it. If University had been unpleasant for you, you wouldn't have hung it up. You've got little else to do, I can see. You've taken up various hobbies, I can tell- a few flecks of paint by your wrists, sports bag by the door, well thumbed cookbooks. You can't fill your days; you're not doing what you enjoy. I can't think why you wouldn't go back to work if you wanted, but I imagine it has something to do with Sebastian. You're not a naturally timid person, I saw that from the way you wielded that statue, so why? Ah…" Sherlock paused, and smiled a little bitterly. "You love him too much, don't you? At least, you think you do. He wants you to stay at home so you do… And that's what started the strain, and the lack of communication. He doesn't understand you, or your needs. He stays away in London for weeks without seeing you, without coming home. You know what's coming for the bank, you read the financial section. You're worried for Seb and his job, you know it could all end and the lifestyle you're accustomed to could change. So you've started cutting back- saving on expensive things like hair dye by doing it yourself. You've dyed it recently; I can see traces of it around your hairline and the slight discolouration of your hand. The dye isn't particularly high quality, and the faintness of the stain indicates it's been present for a few days. No one's been around to tell you where the stains are visible; you haven't seen anyone for days. You're lonely, aren't you? And so, so bored…"

Clarisse's mouth hung open, clearly dazed at his words. "I…"

Sherlock ignored her, turning to Lestrade and John. "Do you see now? Do you see who she represents?"

They both looked incredulously back at him. "Just explain it to us…" John answered.

He sighed. "The rhyme, the nursery rhyme. If Sebastian is Henry VIII in this analogy, then who does she represent?"

Lestrade answered hesitantly, his historical knowledge not the best. "Catherine of Aragon?"

"Precisely. She is 'the queen'. So who is 'the maid'?"

"… Anne Boleyn. You mean, it's Gemma?"

Clarisse looked very confused. "Gemma? Who's Gemma?"

Sherlock grabbed her shoulders, giving her a little shake. "I seldom feel compelled to reveal information to anyone, so be grateful. Just think about it for a moment. You're clever, cleverer than you think, so just think about who Anne Boleyn was to Henry VIII."

She paused, and a slow, painful realization seemed to dawn on her face. "His mistress…"

"You aren't in any danger," he replied softly. "It's Gemma. That's the name of your husband's mistress. Who, incidentally, I believe you would have gotten on with under different circumstances. Still, this is the way the world works."

"I still don't understand why Gemma is the victim and not Clarisse," John asked.

"'The maid was in the garden, hanging out the clothes, when down came a blackbird and pecked off her nose.' That image of violence proves it to me."

Clarisse began to shake, shock coursing through her body. "I don't believe this…"

"You're too trusting, I've told you that already. And I'm not the best at this, but," Sherlock searched for words, "I believe that recently I have begun to understand emotions of the heart a lot more easily. And I recognize that your feelings of betrayal will feel incapacitating for a while, but they will end."

His words didn't seem to give her much comfort, but Lestrade and John were looking at him like a different person had walked into the room - particularly John. The doctor's face vacillated between curiosity, fear and desperation- and that expression was one that made his stomach flip.

7:15pm

Sherlock leaned against a wall of the house, allowing himself to become lost in thought. He barely knew himself anymore. Telling Clarisse about her husband's affair had been most out of character of him. Sherlock had never intended to reveal Sebastian's previous affair to his girlfriend during their time at Cambridge , he had simply told her the truth when she'd asked. This time, he'd travelled to bloody Kent to tell her about his infidelity. Was this a sign that he was getting soft? And should he have told her in the first place? Perhaps it would have been better to leave her ignorant; perhaps she would have been happier. He knew from experience that knowledge rarely meant happiness. And since when did he care about what it would be kinder to do?

"Hiding, are we?"

He jumped at John's voice. "Don't announce yourself then," he snapped.

John walked over to lean beside him. "Nice place this, isn't it?"

"If you like that sort of thing."

He watched John check his phone, seemingly choosing to ignore the caller. "You look sad."

Sherlock laughed harshly. "I'm fine."

John hesitated. "I realize that being with Sebastian brings back bad memories…"

"As if an idiot such as Sebastian could affect me in any way," he replied quickly, too quickly to be seen as genuine.

"All I'm saying is, you shouldn't let him get to you. He's quite clearly an arse."

"I won't. I'm not."

"Good."

There was a brief moment of silence. He could hear the bustle of police officers within the house's walls from here, John having left the front door slightly ajar. "She's still crying," he said absentmindedly.

"She loved him, it's understandable."

"But why?" he cried, genuinely confused.

John shrugged. "The heart wants what it wants."

He turned to look at John, his dear sweet John. "Do you think I should have told her?"

"Yes. In the long run, it's better."

"I just feel like it's not been appreciated by her- Not that I'm looking for some sort of gratitude," Sherlock attempted to explain. "It's just that I may have done her more harm than good."

"She wasn't happy, you saw that. And she would have remained that way without you telling her about Sebastian. It hurts now, of course, but she'll be happier for it in the long run. Clarisse will finally be able to be a person again."

Sherlock nodded, before he remembered the words of a song he had listened to just yesterday. "'Blackbird, singing in the dead of night, take these broken wings and learn to fly.'"

John smiled at Sherlock's recollection. "'All your life, you were only waiting for this moment to arrive.'"

Sherlock looked at John, down into his eyes. Perhaps it was the right moment? He bent his head towards John, and saw John rise to meet him, before-

There was a crash from inside the house, and the pair jolted apart. "What was that?" John asked hurriedly.

Two police officers who had been waiting outside ran through the front door.

"Let's go see."

Sherlock had expected to see Clarisse collapsed in tears, but that was not the case. It was Lestrade. He'd knocked over a table and was currently kneeling on the floor, sobbing and tearing at his own hair.

"Jesus, Greg!" John cried. "What's happened?"

Sherlock noticed his discarded phone, and whilst John attempted to help Lestrade to his feet, the detective bent down pick it up. He could hear a voice coming from it faintly. He answered. "Hello?"

"Sherlock?" It was his brother's voice, and he sounded urgent. "Why the hell haven't you been answering my calls?"

"I'm on a case," he said bluntly. "What the hell have you done to Lestrade?"

"Sherlock- It's the safe house, the one I put his children in…"

Sherlock froze; horror and revulsion making him shiver. "You don't mean…"

"It's been broken into. You all need to come now - and quickly."

"At last she could run no further, so she sat down on a big stone. As she gazed around her, she realized that summer was over; it was late autumn.

"Oh, I have lingered here too long," said little Gerda. She got up from the stone and started off once more.

How tired and sore her feet were! How cold and damp was the country side! Oh, how mournful and bleak it was in the wide world!