Disclaimer: I own nothing

Rated: T

"And now we wait."

Kagome watched as Sherlock paced back and forth, peering impatiently out the window every few seconds for the taxi to arrive.

"Do you really think the cabbie will show up all on his own?" John asked from his chair, "We don't have the taxi number, so it could have been any of them!"

"He'll show," Sherlock said, "He will want to gloat. There is only a five percent that he won't show." He tapped his fingers against his leg in an agitated manner.

"If he doesn't, I can just get Big Brother to find out who that cabbie was anyways," Kagome shrugged, "Big Brother is very good at finding people, even when they don't want to be found." Her proceeding smile served to put John on edge and he could only guess what her brother did to the people who didn't want to be found.

The trio all looked up when the door opened, revealing a familiar grey-haired officer and few others behind him.

"Lestrade! What are you doing here?" Sherlock immediately stopped pacing and threw a glare at the man, "You can't just break into my flat!"

"Drugs bust," Lestrade said flatly, causing both Kagome and John to look at him incredulously, "Besides that, I knew you would find the suitcase. You're withholding evidence from me."

"Sherlock can be a bit... manic at times," Kagome stepped forward in defence, "But I don't think he is taking drugs of all things!"

Lestrade raised his brow at her, "You haven't known him as long as I have," He simply said in response, "Who knows what a 'high functioning sociopath' can get up to in his spare time."

"But a junkie?" John shook his head in disbelief, ignoring the hard look from Sherlock, "I'm sure you can look the flat from top to bottom and you won't find anything."

"Shut up," Sherlock huffed, giving an impressive glare to the both of his flatmates, "Both of you."

Kagome blinked and looked back at him with wide eyes, "Are you serious?" She asked, but didn't receive any answers in return, "Drugs are bad for you, Sherlock." She stated the obvious.

"This is childish!" Sherlock snapped, looking even more irritated now that he noticed both Anderson and Donovan were both searching around his flat and were ruining his many experiments – especially the one with human eyeballs in the microwave.

"Well, I'm dealing with a child," Lestrade crossed his arms, "Sherlock, this is my case! I'm letting you in, but you can't go off on your own!"

"Are there any new leads?" Kagome butted in before things could get worse, "About Jennifer Wilson, that is."

"We found Rachel," Lestrade sighed, catching Sherlock's attention, "She is Jennifer Wilson's only daughter."

"Why would she scratch her own daughter's name in the floor?" John asked, "Did you question her?"

"She's dead," Lestrade answered, "She's been dead for fourteen years. Technically, she wasn't ever even alive. Rachel was Wilson's stillborn daughter."

"The killer makes them take the poison themselves," John noted, "How would he do that? Does he talk to them? Maybe he used the death of her daughter somehow?"

"The stillborn was ages ago!" Sherlock huffed, "Why would she still be upset about that?" The following silence clued him in quickly, "Not good?"

Kagome rolled her eyes and gave Sherlock a light smack on the back of his head, ignored his irritated look, and went to the window so she could lean against it. She blinked before furrowing her brows and then glanced back at Sherlock, "I... think I'm going to get a bit of fresh air."

"If you were dying, what would you write in your last moments!?" Sherlock began to pace again, seemingly not hearing her as she quietly moved to the stairs leading to the front door of the flat, "Well, John?!"

"Err– God, please let me live?" John answered, gaining an annoyed sigh from the Consulting Detective and he started to pace even faster.

Kagome moved quietly, not bothering to stop even as she heard Sherlock shout something about Wilson being 'very clever' and Rachel being some sort of 'password', 'I suppose he is over thinking again,' She thought with some amusement, 'Too distracted with all that to even notice the cabbie is here.'

She silently shut the door behind her, stepping out into the brisk air of London as a taxi cab idled in front of their flat. Her expression molded into something impassive as an older man stood waiting in front of the car.

"Taxi for 221B Baker Street?" The man acknowledged her and she shoved her hands into her pockets and moved closer, "You may not have ordered for the taxi, but it doesn't mean you don't need one." With that, he opened the back door to the cab and gestured her to get in with his head.

'I'll finish this myself!'