They leave Molly at the side doors of Barts, Sherlock near-completely ignoring her in his singleminded mission to get to the street where he can hail a taxi. John makes a token attempt to thank her for her help, but the girl scarcely pays attention to him. Ah, well - her dad's in charge of the pathology lab, he's sure he'll see her again.

Sherlock and Enola are over by the kerb, conversing between the two of them while they wait for a cab. John comes up behind them and just eavesdrops for a moment or so. It's fascinating, really... two completely abnormal kids, talking to each other like it's the most ordinary thing in the world to be discussing someone's violent death.

"Sussex to London is about two hours, that's plenty of time for a poison to take effect," Enola says thoughtfully. Sherlock makes a dubious noise.

"Something the autopsy didn't detect? Unlikely."

"We don't know what's in the autopsy yet - you'll have to hack into a records database or something, get a copy of the official report. Then we can start making guesses."

"You're using the word 'we' at an alarming frequency."

"Well obviously I'm going to help!" Enola snaps, glaring. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Because you're nine?" Sherlock supplies blandly. He turns to glance back at John. "You still have enough for cab fare, right?"

"Er..." John quickly pulls out his billfold, checks to make sure he still has cash. About thirty quid, should be plenty. "Yep," he answers with a half-smile. Then frowns. "Where are we going, then? Back to Mycroft's?"

"For the time being, yes." Sherlock's voice has gotten steadily flatter, honestly beginning to sound a bit exhausted now. John raises a brow at him quizzically.

"You feeling alright?" he hedges. Sherlock scoffs and waves him off.

"I'm fine."

"He's not slept," Enola cuts in. "Nor eaten, probably. Usually takes a few days of that before he passes out, though, so it should be okay."

"I don't remember anyone asking you," Sherlock snaps with an acrid glare. His sister just shrugs. Before any of them can say anything else a taxi arrives, and they all pile into the back seat, Enola in the middle as she's the smallest.

"Have you really not slept, then?" John asks, growing a bit worried despite himself. Not necessarily for Sherlock, because lord knows the kid's made a habit of never taking care of himself, but their hostage really can't afford her only lifeline being half-starved and delirious.

Predictably Sherlock just makes an exasperated noise and rolls his eyes. "I'm fine, stop focussing on irrelevant nonsense."

Just then a chiming from Sherlock's pocket sounds. John glances over, but Sherlock's not making any move to check his phone. In fact he and Enola are busy staring off into space with near-identical pensive expressions.

"Were you going to get that?" John questions after a moment. Sherlock flips a hand in dismissal.

"It's Mycroft," he supplies, as if this should make it perfectly clear why he's not bothered to read the text. John blinks, but before he can say anything he finds his own pocket buzzing.

Kindly remind my siblings that theft is a crime. - MH

"He's texting me now," he remarks, bemused. Then furrows his brow in confusion. "How does he know my number?"

Enola's snapped out of her brief reverie to tug John's arm down so she can see his screen. For some reason she giggles at the message. Remembering how she and Sherlock had been grinning at each other over a set of keys, John abruptly realises what must have happened.

"You didn't," he remarks in disbelief. Enola smiles sweetly, and with a little flip of her wrist produces John's billfold from somewhere up her sleeve. John snatches it back - when had she-!?

"Enny, stop goofing around," Sherlock grumbles. He's still staring reflectively out the window, chin propped up on one hand. "We'll have to coordinate a plan of attack for this..." he continues, words practically a mumble. Frowning to himself, he huffs a tired sigh and flops back into the seat, bringing his hands up into that odd prayer-like gesture he seems so fond of. His gaze goes distant as if lost in thought.

It doesn't take long at all to arrive at Mycroft's, and with Enola smirking smugly to herself again they unlock the front door. Sherlock immediately disappears up a flight of stairs off the main sitting room. John follows as quickly as he can but the boy still escapes his line of sight well before the top landing.

Luckily it isn't too difficult to figure out which room he's gone into. For one, because he left the door ajar, and for another because it's got his name on it.

Well, more specifically there's a paper sign with his name on it. Along with a message. John pauses in the doorway to read it.

'SHERLOCK'S ROOM – Any persons under the age of ten who are named Enola are to keep out under penalty of death.'

He smirks, a little bewildered despite everything. Just the idea of the homeless kid he's been harbouring on his sofa for so long having had, all this time, a room in a house with his name on the door.

"Oh for god's sake, Microsoft," Sherlock groans suddenly. John turns his head to see his friend glaring at a sleek black laptop resting on a desk by the window. He shifts closer and realises it's busy cycling through a Windows update.

"Been awhile since you turned it on?" he asks. A completely unnecessary question, because of course it has – Sherlock's been using his phone to surf the internet and John's laptop to muck about with police reports for the past several months. Mildly irritating that he's being doing so whilst he had a computer of his own sitting a short taxi ride away.

"I suppose we're organising data, then," Sherlock grumbles. Something seems to occur to him, and as he digs through his bag he glances up to the door. "Where's Enola?"

"Oh, er... I don't know," John admits. "I hadn't been watching her."

Sherlock frowns, but shakes his head and returns to his task. "Probably off fetching her stupid rabbit."

"She seems pretty fond of it," John remarks. He isn't entirely sure what Sherlock meant by 'organising data' and so is forced to stand around idly waiting for further instructions. Glances around the rest of the room – nothing particularly interesting, no embarrassing posters or crayon drawings. Probably keeps all his childhood things at their parents' house. John wonders idly if he'll ever be invited there, and if so how ridiculously ostentatious it'll be. But before he can ponder much further on the topic an image of the bomber's hostage sitting alone and terrified somewhere floats to the forefront of his mind, and he frowns deeply.

"What are we doing, then? Can I help?" he asks, looking back to Sherlock.

"We're waiting for my bloody laptop to update so I can use the internet. Other than that..."

"Sherlock!" a little girl's voice screeches, and both of them look up just in time to see Enola skidding around the corner from the hall. She barrels straight into her brother, nearly hysterical, and Sherlock just manages to catch her before she can knock the both of them to the floor.

"What? What's wrong?" he barks in alarm. Enola shakes her head and seems to be trying not to cry.

"Bluebell's gone! Someone's snatched him!"

Instantly Sherlock's worried expression goes flatly irritated. John can't quite help a bemused smirk either – rabbit theft? What'd be the point of stealing a rabbit? Holmes children and their melodrama, honestly.

"I'm sure he just got loose," John tries, but Enola turns a furious, watery glare on him.

"He hasn't! The gate latch is in a different orientation to how I left it and the grass is indented! Someone took him!"

"Who'd want to nick a fat useless rodent?" Sherlock butts in, rolling his eyes. He proceeds to ignore his sister in favour of going back to whatever he was doing with his bag. Gathering up his various scribbled-on maps from earlier, looks like.

"He's not useless, he's my friend." Enola stamps her foot. "We have to rescue him!"

"We don't have to do anything," Sherlock retorts snidely. "Go whinge to Mycroft, I'm busy."

"You- ugh!" Enola sputters. She turns towards the hall in a huff. "You're the worst big brother in history, Sherlock! I'm going to ring Mummy and Daddy and tell them every awful thing you've done this year!"

Sherlock glances up at the sound of his door slamming, stares after his sister for a moment. He and John both blink in the subsequent silence. After a few seconds Sherlock grimaces to himself.

"That... would actually be really inconvenient," he mutters unhappily.

"What would?"

"Her telling Mum that I've-" he cuts off and frowns, looks to John with a bit of a calculating edge. John stares right back – oh, hell, what's the kid got in mind for him now?

Sure enough Sherlock brightens up with a look of obviously-false enthusiasm. "You said you wanted to help, John, didn't you?"

"Yeah..." John starts, wary. Sherlock's fake cheer kicks up a notch.

"Well, then, I've the perfect task for you!"

"Is it helping your sister find her rabbit?" John replies flatly. Sherlock gives him an idiotic thumbs-up, like it's the most exciting thing in the world to go on a bunny rescue mission.

"Putting my best man on the case!" he declares. John is not amused. A few beats pass before Sherlock mercifully drops his stupid upbeat façade in favour of a tired huff. He turns his back on John to frown deeply at his computer. "Alright, look, seriously... I've got to do a load of research. You'll just distract me with stupid questions-"

John opens his mouth to interrupt, offended, but Sherlock speaks over him.

"- and it's in both our best interests to keep my sister from ratting me out to Mum and Dad, considering their most probable reaction will be to have me shipped off to the French countryside. Whereupon your life would become very boring and mine would go to complete shit."

"I thought your parents didn't care what you did?" John retorts in a sour tone. Not quite willing to forgive the indignity of being sent on a wild bunny chase by a teenager, but he does begrudgingly have to admit the logic makes sense. Just like it always bloody does, the impossible git.

Sherlock flaps a hand. "They don't, I'm too asocial to be worth anything. Enola's not, though, and if she makes enough of a fuss over my recent activities they'll be forced to intervene. Maybe in a way I can duck out of, maybe not. In either case my attention gets divided and hostages explode. You did want to avoid that scenario, yes?"

John sighs angrily. "You'll have all the information ready by the time I get back?"

Of course he'd much rather be here where the action's going on, watching the timer tick down while Sherlock spins some clever solution. Not out in the bloody garden looking for a rabbit. But then Sherlock's right, as usual – there really isn't going to be much John can do to assist with just the one laptop here and an incomprehensible jumble of notes to work with. He'd be better off dealing with Enola.

"Absolutely," Sherlock confirms. Behind him his laptop makes a beeping sound, and he looks up with a brief flash of excitement. Almost immediately switches back to irritation upon seeing it's only a reset alert. "Oh for fuck's sake. What's it even updating, the bloody systems architecture? It shouldn't take this long to install a few security patches."

"Maybe someone's hacked it?" John suggests half-seriously. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"Har har, very funny." He waves John off as he re-focusses on the task of organising his notes. "Go help my sister."

"Yes sir, right away sir." Mockingly John flips a salute – all due deference to General Sherlock. He receives the expected unimpressed glower over the boy's shoulder for the childish joke, then drops his hand and turns to leave.

Well, seems he's off to rescue a bunny... most critical aspect of the whole case right here, clearly.

He shakes his head with a sigh and sets off to find Enola.